The Conan Compendium
Author: Richard Ford; Vincent Darlage; Jason Durall; Eric K. Rodriguez; Charles Rice; Bryan Steele; Ian Sturrock; Todd Tjersland
Date: 2006-11-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Games & Activities; General
Description: Penned by the hand of seven of Conan the Roleplaying Game's best authors, Conan: The Compendium reprints the best articles for Conan the Roleplaying Game from Signs & Portents, as well as two never-before published adventures from Vincent Darlage and Eric Rodriguez. Continuing the excitement begun by Robert E. Howard, players and Games Masters alike will find exciting options for their Hyborian Age campaigns. Prestige classes, codes of honour, scenarios, encounter tables, Hyborian Age cities and new rules are yours for the taking. Reprints of these articles have long been requested by the fans
Publisher: Mongoose Publishing

Cimmeria

'Written in Mission, Texas, February, 1932; suggested by the memory of the hill-country above Fredericksburg seen in a mist of winter rain.' - Robert E. Howard

I remember The dark woods, masking slopes of sombre hills; The grey clouds’ leaden everlasting arch; The dusky streams that flowed without a sound, And the lone winds that whispered down the passes.
Vista on vista marching, hills on hills, Slope beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees, Our gaunt land lay. So when a man climbed up A rugged peak and gazed, his shaded eye Saw but the endless vista – hill on hill, Slope beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers.
It was a gloomy land that seemed to hold All winds and clouds and dreams that shun the sun, With bare boughs rattling in the lonesome winds, And the dark woodlands brooding over all, Not even lightened by the rare dim sun Which made squat shadows out of men; they called it Cimmeria, land of Darkness and deep Night.
It was so long ago and far away I have forgot the very name men called me. The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream, And hunts and wars are shadows. I recall Only the stillness of that sombre land; The clouds that piled forever on the hills, The dimness of the everlasting woods. Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.
Oh, soul of mine, born out of shadowed hills, To clouds and winds and ghosts that shun the sun, How many deaths shall serve to break at last This heritage which wraps me in the grey Apparel of ghosts? I search my heart and find Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.

Chapter One

The Coming of the Aquilonians

Wagon wheels groaned. Horses' hooves drummed. Above and behind and through all the other sounds came the endless thump of heavy boots in the roadway. Lithe Bossonian archers and the broad-shouldered spearmen of Gunderland made up the bulk of Count Stercus' army. They eyed the small number of heavily caparisoned Aquilonian knights who rode with Stercus with the amused scorn freeborn foot soldiers often accorded their so-called social betters.

"What do they suppose they're going to do with those horses when we get up into Cimmeria?" asked Granth son of Biemur. The Gunderman coughed. He marched near the middle of the long column, and the road dust coated his broad, friendly face and left his teeth gritty.

His cousin Vulth snorted. "Same as they always do," he answered.

"And what's that?" demanded Granth. He and Vulth squabbled all the time, sometimes in a friendly way, sometimes in earnest. Vulth was older―he had to be close to thirty―and taller, but deep-chested, big-boned Granth owned a bull's
strength his cousin had trouble matching.

Here, though, Vulth was more interested in sniping at the Aquilonian aristocrats than in scoring points off Granth. "Why, they use 'em to flee, of course," he replied. "They can run from the wild men faster and farther than us poor foot sloggers."

Granth laughed. So did several other soldiers in their company. But their sergeant, a scarred, grizzled veteran named Nopel, growled, "Shut your fool's mouth, Vulth. If the count hears you talking like that, you'll be lucky if he just puts stripes on your back."

"I'm not afraid of him," said Vulth, but his wobbling voice gave the words the lie.

Count Stercus hated everyone in his own army with a fierce and rancorous passion. Granth had yet to hear what he had done down in Tarantia, the capital, to be relegated to the gloom of the northern frontier, but it must have been something dreadful.

But, however much Stercus despised his own men, he reserved his most savage loathing for the Cimmerians. How many times had he harangued the army about the barbarous savages they were going to face? More often than Granth could easily remember; that was certain. If Stercus had his way, he would wipe every Cimmerian off the face of the earth.

Peering through the dust as best he could, Granth looked north toward the hills of Cimmeria. Dark forests of pine and fir and spruce robed those hillsides, making them even more somber than if they were of bare rock. Mist clung to the hills, gray clouds scudded low above them.

"Mitra!" muttered Granth. "Why do we want that miserable country, anyway?

Why would anybody in his right mind want it?"

Nopel grunted. "Plain you didn't grow up on the border, the way I did. You ever had a pack of those wild wolves come howling down on your farm or village to steal and burn and kill, you wouldn't ask stupid questions like that." The sergeant spat in the roadway.

Abashed, Granth marched along in silence for a while. But his was not an easy spirit to quell, and before long he said, "You can't even see if anybody lives in those woods."

"Oh, no ―you can't see the Cimmerians there," said Nopel. "Don't you worry about it, though. Whether you see them or not, they see you."

More silence followed. More often than not, Gundermen and Bossonians, good-natured men close to the land, would sing as they marched: ferocious songs of what they intended to do to their foes and bawdy ballads about the wenches they'd left behind and the others they expected to find after they beat the enemy. No one in the whole long column seemed to feel like singing today.

Granth looked toward the huge Aquilonian flag a standard-bearer carried at the head of the column. The great gold lion on black heartened him. Aye, the Cimmerians were wolves, but when faced with a lion wolves slunk away.

Granth's hand tightened on the shaft of his pike. Let the wolves howl! When the fight came to close quarters, he would make them howl on a different note.

A stream no different from any of the others the army had forded wound down out of the darkly wooded hills and through a verdant meadow. Pioneers ran forward, seeking a ford, and soon found one. The standard-bearer splashed across, the water rising no deeper than his thighs. The Aquilonian knights forded the stream next. Most of them urged their horses forward to form a protective wall to shield the rest of the army against any possible onslaught from the north. Count Stercus and a few of his henchmen, however, reined in just on the far side of the stream.

"You see?" muttered Vulth. "He hasn't the stomach to advance himself."

"No, look," answered Granth. "He's speaking to the foot soldiers as they cross."

"Well, so he is," said Vulth. "Still, actions talk louder than words, or so our grandsire always used to say."

Sergeant Nopel cuffed him, hard enough to stagger him and make him swear. "I
don't care what your granddad used to maunder on about," snapped Nopel. "What I say is, you talk too cursed much."

By then, the company had almost reached the stream. Granth drew his sword and held it high so the blade would not get wet and rust. When he crossed, his boots crunched on gravel in the streambed. Cold water poured down over his boot tops and soaked his feet. He cursed resignedly; he had known that would happen. He would have to sit close by the fire tonight―and every other man in the company would have wet feet, too. There would be a lot of pushing and jostling before that got sorted out.

He squelched up onto the north bank of the stream. "Welcome to Cimmeria!"

Count Stercus called from horseback, not to Granth in particular but to all the men who were coming up onto dry land just then. "Welcome, I say, for we are going to take this land away from the barbarians and make it ours."

Stercus sounded very sure, though his voice was higher and thinner than Granth would have liked in a commander. He wanted a man who could bellow like a bull and make himself heard across a mile of battlefield. Stercus was young to have a command like this, too, for he could not have had more years than Vulth. His lean, hawk-nosed, pallid face would have been handsome but for dark eyes set too close together and a chin whose weakness the thin fringe of beard he wore could not disguise.

"The savages shall surely flee before us," declared Stercus.

"I hope he's right," said Granth.

"If the Cimmerians ran whenever somebody poked them, Aquilonia would have taken this country hundreds of years ago," said Vulth. "We'll have plenty of fighting to do yet. Don't you worry about that."

Granth looked to see if Sergeant Nopel would tell Vulth to shut up again. Nopel said not a word, from which Granth concluded the sergeant thought his cousin was right. The Aquilonians trudged north, deeper into Cimmeria.

Iron belled on iron. Sparks flew. Mordec struck again, harder than ever. The blacksmith grunted in satisfaction and, hammer still clenched in his great right hand, lifted the red-hot sword blade from the anvil with the tongs in his left.

Nodding, he watched the color slowly fade from the iron. "I'll not need to thrust it back into the fire, Conan," he said. "You can rest easy at the bellows."

"All right, Father." Conan was not sorry to step back from the forge. Sweat ran down his bare chest. Though the day was not warm ―few days in Cimmeria were warm ―hard work by the forge made a man or a boy forget the weather outside.

At twelve, the blacksmith's son stood on the border of manhood. He was already as tall as some of the men in the village of Duthil, and his own labor at Mordec's side had given him thews some of those men might envy.

Yet next to his father, Conan's beardless cheeks were not all that marked him as a stripling. For Mordec was a giant of a man, well over six feet, but so thick through the shoulders and chest that he did not seem so tall. A square-cut mane of thick black hair, now streaked with gray, almost covered the blacksmith's volcanic blue eyes. Mordec's close-trimmed beard was also beginning to go gray, and had one long white streak marking the continuation of a scar that showed on his cheek. His voice was a deep bass rumble, which made Conan's unbroken treble all the shriller by comparison.

From the back of the smithy, from the rooms where the blacksmith and his family lived, a woman called, "Mordec! Come here. I need you."

Mordec's face twisted with a pain he never would have shown if wounded by sword or spear or arrow. "Go tend to your mother, son," he said roughly. "It's really you Verina wants to see, anyhow. "

"But she called you," said Conan.

"Go, I said." Mordec set down the blacksmith's hammer and folded his hand into a fist. "Go, or you'll be sorry."

Conan hurried away. A buffet from his father might stretch him senseless on the rammed-earth floor of the smithy, for Mordec did not always know his own strength. And Conan dimly understood that his father did not want to see his
mother in her present state; Verina was slowly and lingeringly dying of some ailment of the lungs that neither healers nor wizards had been able to reverse. But Mordec, lost in his own torment, did not grasp how watching Conan's mother fail by inches flayed the boy.

As usual, Verina lay in bed, covered and warmed by the cured hides of panthers and wolves Mordec had slain on hunting trips. "Oh," she said. "Conan." She smiled, though her lips had a faint bluish cast that had been absent even a few weeks before.

"What do you need, Mother?" he asked.

"Some water, please," said Verina. "I didn't want to trouble you." Her voice held the last word an instant longer than it might have.

Conan did not notice, though Mordec surely would have. "I'll get it for you," he said, and hurried to the pitcher on the rough-hewn cedar table near the hearth. He poured an earthenware cup full and brought it back to the bedchamber.

"Thank you. You're a good― " Verina broke off to cough. The racking spasm went on and on. Her thin shoulders shook with it. A little pink-tinged froth appeared at the corner of her mouth. At last, she managed to whisper, "The water."

"Here." Conan wiped her mouth and helped her sit up. He held the cup to her lips.

She took a few swallows ― fewer than he would have wanted to see. But when she spoke again, her voice was stronger: "That is better. I wish I could― " She broke off again, this time in surprise. "What's that?"

Running feet pounded along the dirt track that served Duthil for a main street.

"The Aquilonians!" a hoarse voice bawled. "The Aquilonians have crossed into Cimmeria!"

"The Aquilonians!" Conan's voice, though still unbroken, crackled with ferocity and raw blood lust. "By Crom, they'll pay for this! We'll make them pay for this!"

He eased Verina down to the pillow once more. "I'm sorry, Mother. I have to go."

He dashed away to hear the news.

"Conan ― " she called after him, her voice fading. He did not hear her. Even if she had screamed, he would not have heard her. The electrifying news drew him as a lodestone draws iron.

Mordec had already hurried out of the smithy. Conan joined his father in the street. Other Cimmerians came spilling from their homes and shops: big men, most of them, dark-haired, with eyes of gray or blue that crackled like blazing ice at the news. As one, they rounded on the newcomer, crying, "Tell us more."

"I will," he said, "and gladly." He was older than Mordec, for his hair and beard were white. He must have run a long way, but was not breathing unduly hard. He carried a staff with a crook on the end, and wore a herder's sheepskin coat that reached halfway down his thighs. "I'm Fidach, of Aedan's clan. With my brother, I tend sheep on one of the valleys below the tree line."

Nods came from the men of Duthil. Aedan's clan dwelt hard by the border with Aquilonia―and, now and again, sneaked across it for sheep or cattle or the red joy of slaughtering men of foreign blood. "Go on," said Mordec. "You were tending your sheep, you say, and then ―"And then the snout end of the greatest army I've ever seen thrust itself into the valley," said Fidach. "Aquilonian knights, and archers from the Bossonian Marches, and those damned stubborn spearmen out of Gunderland who like retreat hardly better than we do. A whole great swarm of them, I tell you. This is no raid. They're come to stay, unless we drive them forth."

A low growl rose from the men of Duthil: the growl that might have come from a panther's throat when it sighted prey. "We'll drive them forth, all right," said someone, and in a heartbeat every man in the village had taken up the cry.

"Hold," said Mordec, and Conan saw with pride how his father needed only the one word to make every head turn his way. The blacksmith went on, "We will not drive out the invaders by ourselves, not if they have come with an army. We will need to gather men from several clans, from several villages." He looked around
at his comrades. "Eogannan! Glemmis! Can you leave your work here for a few days?"

"With Aquilonians loose in Cimmeria, we can," declared Glemmis. Eogannan, a man nearly of Mordec's size, was sparing of speech, but he nodded.

"Stout fellows," said Mordec. "Glemmis, go to Uist. Eogannan, you head for Nairn. Neither one of those places is more than a couple of days from here. Let the folk there know we've been invaded, if they've not already heard. Tell them to spread the word to other villages beyond them. When we strike the foe, we must strike him with all our strength."

Eogannan simply nodded again and strode off down the road toward Nairn, trusting to luck and to his own intimate knowledge of the countryside for food along the way. Glemmis briefly ducked back into his home before setting out. He left Duthil with a leather sack slung over one shoulder: Conan supposed it would hold oat cakes or a loaf of rye bread and smoked meat to sustain him on the journey.

"This is well done," said Fidach. "And if you have sent men to Uist and Nairn, I will go on to Lochnagar, off to the northwest. My wife's father's family springs from those parts. I will have no trouble finding kinsfolk to guest with when I get there. We shall meet again, and blood our swords in the Aquilonians' throats."

With that for a farewell, he trotted away, his feet pounding in a steady pace that would eat up the miles.

The men of Duthil stayed in the street. Some looked after Fidach, others toward the south, toward the border with Aquilonia, the border their southern neighbors had crossed. A sudden grim purpose informed the Cimmerians. Until the invaders were expelled from their land, none of them would rest easy.

"Bring your swords and spears and axes to the smithy," said Mordec. "I'll sharpen them for you, and I'll ask nothing for it. What we can do to drive out the Aquilonians, let each man do, and count not the cost. For whatever it may be, it is less than the cost of slavery."

"Mordec speaks like a clan chief." That was Balarg the weaver, whose home
stood only a few doors down from Mordec’s. The words were respectful; the tone was biting. Mordec and Balarg were the two leading men of Duthil, with neither willing to admit the other might be the leading man in the village.

"I speak like a man with a notion of what needs doing," rumbled Mordec. "And how I might speak otherwise ― " He broke off and shook his big head. "However that might be, I will not speak so now, not with the word the shepherd brought."

"Speak as you please," said Balarg. He was younger than Mordec, and handsomer, and surely smoother. "I will answer―you may rely on it."

"No." Mordec shook his head again. "The war needs both of us. Our own feuds can wait."

"Let it be so, then." Again, Balarg sounded agreeable. But even as he spoke, he turned away from the blacksmith.

Conan burned to avenge the insult to his father. He burned to, but made himself hold back. For one thing, Mordec only shrugged ―and, if the fight against the invaders meant his feud with Balarg could wait, it surely meant Conan's newly discovered feud with the weaver could wait as well. And, for another, Balarg's daughter, Tarla, was just about Conan's age ―and, the past few months, the blacksmith's son had begun to look at her in a way different from the way he had looked at any girl when he was smaller.

Men began going back into their houses. Women began exclaiming when their husbands and brothers gave them the news Fidach had brought. The exclamations were of rage, not of dismay; Cimmerian women, no strangers to war, loved freedom no less than their menfolk.

Mordec set a large hand on Conan's shoulder, saying, "Come back to the smithy, son. Until the warriors march against the Aquilonians, we will be busier than we ever have."

"Yes, Father." Conan nodded. "Swords and spears and axes, the way you said, and helms, and mailshirts ―

"Helms, aye," said Mordec. "A helm can be forged of two pieces of iron and riveted up the center. But a byrnie is a different business. Making any mail is slow, and making good mail is slower. Each ring must be shaped, and joined to its neighbors, and riveted so it cannot slip its place. In the time I would need to finish one coat of mail, I could do so many other things, making the armor would not be worth my while. Would it were otherwise, but― " The blacksmith shrugged.

When they walked into the smithy, they found Conan's mother standing by the forge. Conan exclaimed in surprise; she seldom left her bed these days. Mordec might have been rooted in the doorway. Conan started toward Verina to help her back to the bedchamber. She held up a bony hand. "Wait," she said. "Tell me more of the Aquilonians. I heard the shouting in the street, but I could not make out the words."

"They have come into our country," said Mordec.

Verina's mouth narrowed. So did her eyes. "You will fight them." It was no question; she might have been stating a law of nature.

"We will all fight them: everyone from Duthil, everyone from the surrounding villages, everyone who hears the news and can come against them with a weapon to hand," said Mordec. Conan nodded, but his father paid him no heed.

His mother's long illness might have stolen her bodily vigor, but not that of her spirit. Her eyes flamed hotter than the fire inside the forge. "Good," she said.

"Slay them all, save for one you let live to flee back over the border to bring his folk word of their kinsmen's ruin."

Conan smacked a fist into the callused palm of his other hand. "By Crom, we will!"

Mordec chuckled grimly. "The rooks and ravens will feast soon enough, Verina.

You would have watched them glut themselves on another field twelve years gone by, were you not busy birthing this one here." He pointed to Conan.

"Women fight their battles, too, though men know it not," said Verina. Then she
began to cough again; she had been fighting that battle for years, and would not win it. But she mastered the fit, even though, while it went on, she swayed on her feet.

"Here, Mother, go back and rest," said Conan. "The battle ahead is one for men."

He helped Verina to the bedchamber and helped her ease herself down into the bed. "Thank you, my son," she whispered. "You are a good boy."

Conan, just then, was not thinking of being a good boy. Visions of blood and slaughter filled his head, of clashing swords and cloven flesh and spouting blood, of foes in flight before him, of black birds fluttering down to feast on bloated bodies, of battles and of heroes, and of men uncounted crying out his name.

Granth son of Biemur swung an axe ―not at some foeman's neck but at the trunk of a spruce. The blade bit. A chunk of pale wood came free when he pulled out the axehead. He paused in the work for a moment, leaning on the long-handled axe and scowling down at his blistered palms. "If I'd wanted to be a carpenter, I could have gone to work for my uncle," he grumbled.

His cousin Vulth was attacking a pine not far away. "You go in for the soldier's trade, you learn a bit of all the others with it," he said. He gave the pine a couple of more strokes. It groaned and tottered and fell ―in the open space between Vulth and Granth, just where he had planned it. He walked along the length of the trunk, trimming off the big branches with the axe.

And Granth got to work again, too, for he had spied Sergeant Nopel coming their way. Looking busy when the sergeant was around was something all soldiers learned in a hurry―or, if they did not, they soon learned to be sorry. As Vulth's pine had a moment before, the spruce dropped neatly to the ground. Granth started trimming branches. The spicy scent of spruce sap filled his nostrils.

"Aye, keep at it, you dogs," said Nopel. "We'll be glad of a palisade one of these nights, and of wood for watchfires. Mitra, but I hate this gloomy forest."

"Where are the barbarians?" asked Vulth. "Since those herders by the stream a
few days ago, we've hardly seen a stinking Cimmerian."

"Maybe they've run away." Granth always liked to look on the bright side of things.

Nopel laughed in his face; sergeants got to be sergeants not least by forgetting there was or ever had been any such thing as a bright side. "They're around.

They're barbarians, but they're not cowards ―oh, no, they're not. I wish they were. They're waiting and watching and gathering. They'll strike when they're ready―and when they think we're not."

Granth grunted. "I still say building a little fort every time we camp for the night is more trouble than it's worth." He went back to the base of the trimmed trunk and began to shape it into a point.

"It's a craven's way of fighting," agreed Vulth, who was doing the same thing to the pine. The woods rang with the sound of axes. Vulth went on, "Count Stercus brought us up here to fight the Cimmerians. So why don't we fight them, instead of chopping lumber for them to use once we've moved on?"

"Count Stercus is no craven," said Nopel. "There are some who'd name him this or that or the other thing, sure enough, but no one's ever called him coward. And when we're in the middle of enemy country, with wild men skulking all about, a fortified camp is a handy thing to have, whether you gents care for the notion or not." He gave Granth and Vulth a mincing, mock-aristocratic bow, then growled, "So get on with it!" and stalked off to harry some other soldiers.

After the cousins had shaped the felled trunks into several stakes sharpened at both ends and a little taller than they were, they hauled them back to the encampment. Archers and pikemen guarded the warriors who had set aside their weapons for spades and were digging a ditch around the camp. Inside the ditch, a palisade of stakes was already going up. The ones Granth and Vulth brought were tipped upright and placed in waiting pestholes with the rest.

"I wouldn't want to attack a camp like this. I admit it," said Vulth. "You'd have to be crazy to try."

"Maybe you're right." Granth did not want to admit any more than that―or, indeed, even so much. But he could hardly deny that the campsite looked more formidable every minute. He could not deny that it was well placed, either: on a rise, with a spring bubbling out of the ground inside the palisade. The axemen had cleared the dark Cimmerian forest back far enough from the ditch and the wall of stakes that the wild men lurking in the woods could not hope to take the army by surprise.

But then a lanky Bossonian straightening the stakes of the palisade said, "I wouldn't want to attack a camp like this, either, but that doesn't mean the damned Cimmerians will leave us alone. The difference between them and us is, they really are crazy, and they'll do crazy things."

"They're barbarians, and we're coming into their land," said Granth. "They're liable to try to kill without counting the cost."

"That's what I just said, isn't it?" The Bossonian paused in his work long enough to set hands on hips. "If trying to kill without worrying about whether you fall yourself isn't crazy, Mitra smite me if I know what would be."

Another sergeant, also a Bossonian, set hands on hips, too. "If standing around talking without worrying about whether you work isn't lazy, Mitra smite me if I know what would be. So work, you good-for-nothing dog!" The lanky man hastily got back to it. The sergeant rounded on Granth and Vulth. "You lugs were just rattling your teeth, too. If you've got more stakes, bring 'em. If you don't, go cut 'em. Don't let me catch you standing around, though, or I'll make you sorry you were ever born. You hear me?" His voice rose to an irascible roar.

"Yes, Sergeant," chorused the two Gundermen. They hurried off to collect more of the stakes they had already prepared, only to discover that their comrades had already hauled those back to the encampment. Granth swore; cutting trees down was harder work than carrying stakes already cut. "Can't trust anyone," he complained, forgetting that only the day before he and Vulth had cheerfully absconded with three stakes someone else had trimmed.

As darkness began to fall ― impossible to say precisely when the sun set, for the clouds and mists of Cimmeria obscured both sunrise and sunset ―a long,
mournful note blown on the trumpet recalled the Aquilonian soldiers to the camp.

Savory steam rose from big iron pots bubbling over cookfires. Rubbing their bellies to show how hungry they were, men lined up to get their suppers.

"Mutton stew?" asked Granth, sniffing.

"Mutton stew," answered a Bossonian who had just had his tin panikin filled. He spoke with resignation. Mutton was what most of the army had eaten ever since crossing into Cimmeria. The forage here was not good enough to support many cattle. Even the sheep were small and scrawny.

A cook spooned stew into Granth's panikin. He stepped aside to let the cook feed the next soldier, then dug in with his horn spoon. The meat was tough and string)'

and gamy. The barley that went with it had come up from the Aquilonian side of the border in supply wagons. Cimmeria's scanty fields held mostly rye and oats; the short growing season did not always allow barley, let alone wheat, to ripen.

Had Granth got a supper like this at an inn down in Gunderland, he would have snarled at the innkeeper. On campaign, he was glad he had enough to fill his belly. Anything more than that was better than a bonus; it came near enough to being a miracle.

Someone asked, "What are we calling this camp?" Count Stercus had named each successive encampment after an estate that belonged to him or to one of his friends. Granth supposed it made as good a way as any other to remember which was which.

"Venarium," answered another soldier. "This one's Camp Venarium."

Mordec methodically set his iron cap on his head. He wore a long knife ―almost a shortsword―on his belt. A long-handled war axe and a round wooden shield faced with leather and bossed with iron leaned against the brickwork of the forge.

A leather wallet carried enough oatcakes and smoked meat to feed him for several days.

Conan was anything but methodical. He sprang into the air in frustration and fury.

"Take me with you!" he shouted, not for the first time. "Take me with you, Father!"

"No," growled Mordec.

But the one word, which would usually have silenced his son, had no effect here.

'Take me with you!" cried Conan once more. "I can fight. By Crom, I can! I'm bigger than a lot of the men in Duthil, and stronger, too!"

"No," said Mordec once again, deeper and more menacingly than before. Again, though, Conan shook his head, desperate to accompany his father against the invading Aquilonians. Mordec shook his head, too, as if bedeviled by gnats rather than by a boy who truly was bigger and stronger than many of the grown men in the village. Reluctantly, Mordec spoke further: "You were born on a battlefield, son. I don't care to see you die on one."

"I wouldn't die!" The idea did not seem real to Conan. "I'd make the southrons go down like grain before the scythe."

And so he might―for a while. Mordec knew it. But no untried boy would last long against a veteran who had practiced his bloody trade twice as long as his foe had lived. And no one, boy or veteran, was surely safe against flying arrows and javelins. "When I say no, I mean no. You're too young. You'll stay here in Duthil where you belong, and you'll take care of your mother."

That struck home; the blacksmith saw as much. But Conan was too wild to go to war to heed even such a potent command. "I won't!" he said shrilly. "I won't, and you can't make me. After you leave, I'll run off and join the army, too."

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground by the forge. His head spun.

His ears rang. His father stood over him, breathing hard, ready to hit him again if he had to. "You will do no such thing," declared Mordec. "You will do what I tell you, and nothing else. Do you hear me?"

Instead of answering in words, Conan sprang up and grabbed for his father's axe.

For the moment, he was ready to do murder for the sake of going to war. But even
as his hand closed on the axe handle, Mordec's larger, stronger hand closed on his wrist. Conan tried to twist free, tried and failed. Then he hit his father. He had told the truth ―he did have the strength of an ordinary man. The blacksmith, however, was no ordinary man. He took his son's buffet without changing expression.

"So you want to see what it's really like, do you?" asked Mordec. "All right, by Crom. I'll let you have a taste."

He had hit Conan before; as often as not, nothing but his hand would gain and hold the boy's attention. But he had never given him such a cold-blooded, thorough, methodical beating as he did now. Conan tried to fight back for as long as he could. Mordec kept hitting him until he had no more fight left in him. The blacksmith aimed to make the boy cry out for mercy, but Conan set his jaw and suffered in silence, plainly as intent on dying before he showed weakness as Mordec was on breaking him.

And Conan might have died then, for his father, afraid he would fall to an enemy's weapons, was not at all afraid to kill him for pride's sake. After the beating had gone on for some long and painful time, though, Verina came out of the bedchamber. "Hold!" she croaked. "Would you slay what's most like you?"

Mordec stared at her. Rage suddenly rivered out of him, pouring away like ale from a cracked cup. He knelt by his bruised and bloodied son. "You will stay here," he said, half commanding, half pleading.

Conan did not say no. Conan, then, could not have said anything, for his father had beaten him all but senseless. He saw the smithy through a red haze of anguish.

Taking his silence for acquiescence, Mordec filled a dipper with cold water and held it to his battered lips. Conan took a mouthful. He wanted to spit it in his father's face, but animal instinct made him swallow instead. Mordec did not take the dipper away. Conan drained it dry.

"You are as hard on your son as you are on everything else," said Verina with a bubbling sigh.

"Life is hard," answered Mordec. "Anyone who will not see that is a fool: no, worse than a fool ―a blind man."

"Life is hard, aye," agreed his wife. "I am not blind; I can see that, too. But I can also see that you are blind, blind to the way you make it harder than it need be."

With a grunt, the blacksmith got to his feet. He towered over Verina. Scowling, he replied, "I am not the only one in this home of whom that might be said."

"And if I fight you, will you beat me as you beat the boy?" asked Verina. "What point to that? All you have to do is wait; before long the sickness in my lungs will slay me and set you free."

"You twist everything I say, everything I do," muttered Mordec, at least as much to himself as to her. Fighting the Aquilonians would seem simple when set against the long, quiet (but no less deadly for being quiet) war he had waged with his wife.

"All you want to do is spill blood," said Verina. "You would be as happy slaying Cimmerians as you are going off to battle Aquilonians."

"Not so," said Mordec. "These are thieves who come into our land. You know that yourself. They would take what little we have and send it south to add to their own riches. They would, but they will not. I go to join the muster of the clans."

He strode forward, snatched up his axe and shield and wallet, and stormed forth from the smithy, a thunderstorm of fury on his face.

"No good will come of this!" called Verina, but the blacksmith paid no heed.

Conan heard his father and mother quarrel as if from very far away. The pain of the beating made everything else seem small and unimportant. He tried to get to his feet, but found he lacked the strength. He lay in the dirt, even his ardor to go forth to battle quelled for the moment.

Verina stooped beside him. His mother held a bowl full of water and a scrap of
cloth. She wet the cloth and gently scrubbed at his face. The rag, which had been the brownish gray of undyed wool, came away crimson. She soaked it in the bowl, wrung it nearly dry, and went back to what she was doing. "There," she said at last. "You're young―you'll heal."

With an effort, Conan managed to sit up. "I still want to go and fight, no matter what Father says," he mumbled through cut and swollen lips.

But his mother shook her head. "Mordec was right." She made a sour face. "Not words I often say, but true. However great you've grown, you are yet too young to go to war." And Conan, who would have and nearly had fought to the death against his father, accepted Verina's words without a murmur.

Chapter Two

The Fight by the Fort

Granth son of Biemur looked out toward the woods beyond Fort Venarium. A dirt track led farther north, but the Aquilonian army had not taken it. Instead, Count Stercus seemed content to linger here and let the Cimmerians hurl themselves against his men if they would.

Whatever Granth hoped to see escaped his eyes. One tall, dark-needled tree merged with another until he wished for color, wished for motion, wished for anything but the endless forest stretching out and out to infinity.

Vulth looked out toward the woods, too. Granth's cousin realized that what he was not seeing might be there nonetheless. He said, "Mitra smite 'em, the Cimmerians could be hiding an army amongst those trees, and we'd never be the wiser till they rushed out howling like maniacs."

That made Granth cast another worried glance in the direction of the forest. After a moment, he realized he was foolish to peer ever to the north. Although that was the direction in which the Aquilonians had been going, the barbarians who dwelt in gloomy Cimmeria might as readily come at them from east or west or south.

A harsh chattering came from the woods. Granth's hand leaped to the hilt of the shortsword on his belt. "What was that?" he said.

"A bird," said Vulth.

"What kind of bird?" asked Granth. "I've never heard a bird that sounded like that before."

"Who knows?" said his cousin. "They have funny birds here, birds that won't live where it's warmer and sunnier. One of those."

"They have other things, too," said Granth. Vulth waved impatiently, as if to say he could not bother to worry about the Cimmerians. That angered Granth, who snapped, "If this was going to be an easy conquest, Count Stercus wouldn't have needed to bring an army into the north. He could have come by himself, and the barbarians would have run away before him."

Vulth looked back toward the camp. Stercus' silk pavilion towered over the other officers' shelters, which in turn dwarfed the canvas tents in which ordinary soldiers slept. "Count Stercus thinks he could have driven the barbarians away all by himself," said Vulth.

Before answering, Granth looked around for Nopel. Not seeing the sergeant, he said, "We all think a lot of things that aren't so. Half the time, for instance, I think you make sense." Vulth stuck his tongue out at him. Before either of them could say anything more, that chattering bird call again resounded from the woods.

Granth peered in the direction from which the sound had come. Though he saw nothing untoward, he frowned. "And I don't think that's any natural bird."

"Where are the Cimmerians, then?" asked Vulth.

Granth shrugged. "I don't know, but we're liable to find out before very long."

Mordec slid forward through the forest with the speed and silence that marked the true barbarian. Not a single twig crackled under the soles of his boots; not a single branch swayed to mark his passage. He might have been a ghost in Crom's grim
underworld for all he impinged on the world of the living. Nor was he the only Cimmerian gliding toward the invaders' encampment; far from it. The Aquilonians seemed unaware the woods around them swarmed with warriors.

From in back of the trunk of a fat spruce, Mordec loosed a bird call to let his fellow know where he was. Another Cimmerian answered him a moment later.

He looked out from behind the trunk. Most of the soldiers who fought under the gold lion on black went about their business, oblivious to the calls. A handful of the enemy―mostly yellow-headed Gundermen who had some small store of woodscraft―looked up at the sounds, but even they seemed more curious than truly alarmed.

A soundless laugh passed Mordec's lips. Soon now, very soon, the Aquilonians would find reason to be alarmed. They had come into Cimmeria before, never yet learning the lesson of how unwelcome they were here. The blacksmith tightened his grip on the axe handle. They would have to find out once more, then.

More bird calls resounded, all around the encampment. Some of them said the Cimmerians were in position, others that the Aquilonian scouts and sentries were silenced. Mordec smiled grimly. The men in the clearing would get no warning before the attack.

Not far from Mordec, a clan chief raised a trumpet to his lips. The discordant blast he blew would have made any arrogant Aquilonian bugler double up with laughter. But the signal did not need to be beautiful. It only needed to be heard from one side of the clearing to the other, and heard it was.

Yelling like demons, the Cimmerians burst from concealment and thundered toward the enemy. Mordec swung up the axe. For most men, it would have been a two-handed weapon. The great-thewed blacksmithswung it effortlessly in one.

That let him carry the shield as well.

When the Cimmerians swarmed from the woods at them, the Gundermen and Bossonians yelled, too, in horrified dismay. But they did not break and flee, as Mordec hoped they might. Had they done so, their destruction would have been certain. Other Aquilonian hosts, taken by surprise in the ― seemingly―trackless forests of Cimmeria, had come to grief in just that way.

These men, though, however much Mordec despised them both as invaders and as willing subjects―willing slaves ―to a king, were warriors, too. The Bossonians might have cried out in alarm, but they began shooting even before their cries had fully faded. And the Gundermen snatched up their pikes and hurried to form lines to protect their archers and companies to protect themselves. True, sweet bugle notes resounded from within the palisade.

Before the Bossonians and Gundermen outside the encampment were fully formed to face the Cimmerian tidal wave, it swept onto them. A blond Gunderman thrust at Mordec. He knocked the spearhead aside with his shield as his axe came down on the shaft and cut it in two. Cursing, the Gunderman grabbed for his shortsword. Too late, for Mordec's next stroke clove his skull to the teeth. Blood sprayed and spurted; several hot drops splashed Mordec in the face. Roaring in triumph, the blacksmith pressed on.

He might have been hewing firewood in the forest rather than men on the battlefield. One after another, Aquilonians fell before him. They wore chainmail, aye, but it did them little good; his axe, propelled by the power of his mighty arm, hewed through the links as if they were made of linen.

When Mordec paused for a moment to snatch a breath and look down at himself, he was surprised to discover a cut on his forearm and another on his left leg. He had no memory of receiving the wounds, nor had he felt them until he knew he had them. He shrugged. They would not impede him. Even if they had impeded him, he would have gone on anyway. Resistless momentum was the Cimmerians'

friend; if ever they should falter, if ever the Aquilonians should rally, the superior discipline the men from the south knew could swing the fight their way.

Forward, then―ever forward. Mordec plunged back into the press. An arrow thudded into his shield and stood thrilling; had he not carried the target of wood and leather, the shaft might have found his heart.

He hewed a Bossonian's sword from his hand. "Mercy!" gasped the man, turning pale and falling to his knees. "Mercy, friend!"

"Mercy?" Mordec laughed. He knew some of the Aquilonian tongue, having
learned it from traders who now and again dared venture north after amber or wax or furs. But that word had scant meaning in Cimmeria, regardless of the language in which it was spoken. The axe fell. With a groan, the Bossonian crumpled.

Mordec kicked the corpse aside, saying, "I am no friend of yours, southern dog."

He hewed through the chaos toward one of the gateways in the palisade. If the Cimmerians could break in with their foes still in disorder, the day and the campaign were both theirs for the taking. They had no general, no single mind moving them hither and yon in accordance with his will, yet most of them sensed that same need. On they came, smiting and shouting.

The foemen in front of them gave ground. A few archers and pikemen ran for their lives, forgetting in their fear they would find no safety in flight. Most, though, put up the best fight they could. And, to take the place of the fled and fallen, more and more soldiers came forth from the camp.

In the red rage of battle, Mordec cared nothing for that. More enemies before him meant more men he could murder. He chopped down another Bossonian. Only a handful of stubborn blond pikemen from Gunderland stood between him and the gate. Countrymen at his side, he stormed against them.

Like any man who grew up among rough neighbors, Granth had done his share of brawling. He had also helped clear out a nest of bandits from hill country near his farmhouse. This mad encounter in southern Cimmeria, though, was his first taste of true battle. If he lived, he knew he would have its measure forevermore.

Whether he lived, though, seemed very much up in the air.

One moment, the encampment and its surroundings were as quiet and calm as if they were back in Gunderland and not in the midst of enemy country. The next, after a horrible blast from a horn, a horde of bellowing barbarians burst from the trees and rushed toward the Aquilonians, brandishing every sort of weapon under the sun: swords, axes, spears, sickles, scythes, maces, morningstars, simple bludgeons, eating knives, even a pitchfork. Cimmerian archers sent shafts arcing over the heads of their onrushing comrades.

"Mitra!" exclaimed Granth, and snatched up his pike from where he had laid it on the ground.

"Mitra, watch over us," echoed Vulth, grabbing his own weapon. "And the god had better, for we're in trouble if he doesn't."

"Form a line!" shouted Sergeant Nopel from somewhere not far away. "Form a line, protect your comrades, and fight hard. If they break us, we're ruined. If we stand fast, though, we've got a chance." He strode up to take his place among the men he led, using his example to buoy their courage.

A captain was shouting, too: "You pikemen, ward the archers as you can. They aren't worth so much at handstrokes."

Bossonians were already pouring shafts into the onrushing mob of barbarians.

Here and there, a dark-haired Cimmerian would clap his hands to his chest or his neck or his face and fall. Taking a handful of drops from the ocean, however, left plenty more than enough to drown a man. And now the barbarian storm crashed into―crashed over―the Aquilonians outside the palisade.

Any sensible man, Granth realized, would have been terrified. Maybe he was something less than sensible. More likely, he was so desperate, so busy fighting for his life, that he had no time for fear or any other distraction. Anything that took his attention away from simple survival would have meant him lying on the field, a hacked and gory corpse.

As things were, he might have died a dozen times in the first minute of collision.

A barbarian swinging a two-handed sword almost as tall as he was thundered toward him, shouting something in Cimmerian that Granth could not understand.

But even a two-handed sword had less reach than a Gunderman's pike. Granth spitted the foe before the Cimmerian could slash him.

To his horror, the barbarian, though bellowing in anguish, tried to run up the spear so he could strike with the sword, but slumped over dead before he could.

Granth had to clear the pike in a hurry; had he not, some other Cimmerian would have cut him down. At his right hand, Vulth speared an axe-wielding barbarian.

With the enemy still on the pike, Granth's cousin could not defend himself against another Cimmerian, this one swinging a wickedly spiked morningstar. Granth had no time to thrust, but used his pikestaff as if it were a cudgel, clouting the

Cimmerian in the side of the head.

The enemy warrior wore a leather cap strengthened with iron strips. That kept the shaft from smashing his skull like a melon. But, though the blow did not slay, it stunned, leaving the barbarian dazed and staggering and easy meat for Vulth's newly freed pike.

As the Cimmerian fell, Vulth bowed to Granth as if to an Aquilonian noble. "My thanks, cousin," he said.

"My pleasure, cousin," replied Granth, as if he were such a noble. He looked over the field: a mad, irregular excuse for a battle if ever there was one. Everywhere he saw Cimmerians surging forward, Bossonians and Gundermen giving ground.

Raising his voice above the din of the fight, he said, "Looks to me as if we're in trouble, cousin."

"Looks to me as if you're right," agreed Vulth. Granth and he had to fall back several paces or be left behind by their retreating countrymen, which would have left them cut off, assailed from all directions at once, and doomed to quick destruction. Vulth risked a glance back over his shoulder. "Having a fortified camp behind us doesn't seem so bad any more, docs it?"

"As a matter of fact, no," said Granth, doing his best to preserve the grand manner. "All those men inside the camp look pretty good, too―or the rogues would, if they'd only come out and fight."

There he was not being fair to his fellow soldiers. As fast as they could arm themselves, they were rushing forward into the fray. But to Granth, as to the other men who bore the brunt of the savage Cimmerian onslaught, their friends entered the fight at what seemed a glacial pace.

The barbarian who hurled himself at Granth had eyes that put the Gunderman in mind of flaming blue ice. He roared out a wordless bellow of hate and rage, his face contorted into a mask of fury that might have made any foe quail. His only weapon was a rusty scythe, but he swung it as if he had been reaping men for years. Granth jabbed with the pike to keep the warrior off him. The Cimmerian, who wore a wolfskin jacket over baggy woolen breeks, howled incomprehensible,
oddly musical curses at him.

That the Gunderman did not mind. When the barbarian reached out with his left hand to seize the pikestaff and shove it aside so he could close, however, Granth quickly jerked it back and then thrust forward again. He felt the soft, heavy resistance of flesh as the pike's point pierced the man who sought to slay him. The Cimmerian howled. Granth twisted the pike to make sure the stroke was a killing one, then jerked it free. The barbarian fell, blood and bowels bursting from his belly.

Again, though, he and Vulth had to retreat to keep from being surrounded and cut off.. "How many damned Cimmerians are there?" he shouted.

"By Mitra, they're all dammed," answered his cousin. "But there are too many of them on the field here."

That there were. They forced the Gundermen and Bossonians back and back, until the men from the south were fighting desperately to hold the barbarians out of the fortified encampment. If the Cimmerians forced themselves into the camp, Count Stercus' army was probably doomed. That seemed all too plain to Granth ― and to the howling savages who forced their way ever forward despite the reinforcements issuing from the camp.

A Gunderman to Granth's left slumped to his knees, bleeding from a dozen wounds that would long since have slain a less vital man. "What are we going to do?" cried Granth. "What can we do?"

"Fight," said Vulth. "This is where we'll win or lose, so we'd better win."

Granth fought, and fought hard. If the battle were to have a turning point, he and his comrades would have to make it here. If not― He shook his head. He would not think about that. It might befall him, but he would not think of it before it did.

Fight hard!" bellowed Mordec. "By Crom, wee can break them here. We can, and we must! Fight hard!"

Although he and his fellows had battled to the very gates of the Aquilonians'

camp, they could not force their way inside. For one thing, the pikemen and archers at the gates battled back with the careless fervor of men staring disaster in the face. For another, more men kept coming forth from the encampment to add their weight to the fray. And, for a third, archers galled the Cimmerians from behind the ditch and palisade surrounding the camp.

Mordec smashed at the tip of a pike seeking to drink his blood. The iron head flew off. He roared in triumph. But the Gunderman he faced defended himself so fiercely, first with the pikestaff and then with his shortsword, that Mordec could not slay him. At last, balked of his intended prey, the blacksmith sought and soon found an easier victim.

Inside the encampment, a bugler blew a long, complex call. The Aquilonians outside the gate that Mordec faced fell back into the camp. The foot soldiers who had been hurrying out to help defend the place parted to the left and to the right.

A great shout of victory rose from the Cimmerians, who loped forward, ready to taste at last the sweet fruit for which they had struggled so long and hard.

But they rejoiced too soon. The archers and pikemen had not given way from despair, but because they were clearing the path for their comrades. That sweet-voiced Aquilonian bugle cried out once more ―and the armored knights who up until then had not joined the battle thundered forth against the Cimmerians.

The horsemen had used the whole width of the encampment to go from walk to trot to gallop, and when they struck, they struck like an avalanche. Here in the hilly, heavily forested north, cavalry was not much used. Not only was there little room for horsemen to deploy, but most of the few horses in Cimmeria were mere ponies, ill-suited to carrying heavy men and their armor of iron.

Shouting out the name of King Numedides as if it were a thing to conjure with and not that of a slavemaster, the Aquilonian knights slammed into the oncoming Cimmerians. Lances and slashing swords and cleverly aimed iron-shod hooves and the surging power of armored men and horses took their toll. The Cimmerians fought back as best they could, but their swords and spears would not bite on the knights' thick plate, or on the iron scales the horses wore to protect their heads and breasts.

Mordec's axe was a different story. When he brought it down between a horse's eyes, the beast foundered as if it had run headlong into a stone wall. Agile even in his well-articulated armor, the rider tried to scramble free. The blacksmith's countrymen swarmed over him. Their blades probed for every chink and joint in his suit of iron. He screamed, but not for long.

Yet even as he died, his comrades spurred ahead, spearing and hacking, their great mounts whinnying fiercely and rising on command to their hind legs so they could lash out with their front hooves. Along with Numedides' name, the knights cried out that of Count Stercus, and, whenever they did, one of the foremost riders gaily waved. His visor was down, so Mordec could not see his face, but he fought like a man who had no regard for his own life. Again and again, he urged his charger into the thickest part of the press. Again and again, the other Aquilonians followed to save him from his own folly―if folly it was, for even as he risked himself he routed the Cimmerians.

Had they been used to facing armored horsemen, they surely would have acquitted themselves better. But the Aquilonian knights had, along with the advantages of armor and momentum, that of striking from above and, greatest of all, that of surprise. Never had any of their foes here, no matter how ferocious, tried to stand against such an onslaught.

With the mercurial nature that marked the barbarian, the horde of Cimmerians who had been rampaging forward now suddenly turned to panic-stricken flight.

Turning their backs to the knights who pressed them, they dashed for the safety of the woods.

"Stand! Hold fast, you fools!" shouted Mordec. "You but give yourselves into the enemy's hands if you run from him!" His was not the only voice raised trying to stem the rout, but all resounded in vain. Faster by far than they had advanced on the Aquilonians' camp, the Cimmerians fled from it.

And they paid the inevitable price for their folly. Laughing at the sport, the Aquilonian knights speared them down from behind, as if they were so many plump partridges. Bossonian archers sped the Cimmerians on their way with cleverly aimed shafts. More than a few bold warriors from those gloomy woodlands suffered the humiliation of taking their death wounds in the back.

Mordec had to run away with the rest. Had he stood at bay, alone, he would only have thrown his own life away― and for what? For nothing, not when his countrymen thought only of escape. And so, cursing fate and his fellow Cimmerians in equal measure, he ran. He was among the last to leave the field: a small" sop for his spirit, but the only one he could take from the sudden rout and disaster.

He had almost reached the safety of the trees when an arrow pierced his left calf.

He snarled one last curse at the Cimmerians who had given up the fight too soon, and limped on. Once hidden from the now rampaging foe, he paused and tried to pull out the arrow. The barbs on the point would not let him free it from his flesh.

Setting his teeth, Mordec pushed it forward instead. Out came the point. He broke off the fletching and pulled the shaft through the track it had made. Then he bandaged the bleeding wounds with cloth cut from his breeks. That done, he limped on toward Duthil.

When Mordec came upon a dead man who had fallen still holding on to his spear, he pried the other Cimmerian's hand, now pale from loss of blood, off the spearshaft and used the weapon as a makeshift stick to keep some of his weight off the injured leg. He would have gone on without the stick; he was determined enough to have gone on with only one leg. But having it made his progress easier.

"Home," he said, as if someone had claimed he might not go there. And so the Aquilonians had. They had done their best to stretch him out stiff and stark like the warrior from whom he had taken the spear. They had done their best, and they had failed: he still lived, while more than a few of them lay dead at his hands.

In the larger sense, his countrymen had lost their battle. Mordec, though, stubbornly reckoned his own fight a triumph of sorts.

A wounded Cimmerian, too proud and fierce to beg for his own life, glared up at Granth. The Gunderman hesitated before thrusting home with his pike. "Seems a shame to slaughter all these barbarians," he remarked. "The healers could keep a lot of them alive, and they'd fetch us a good price in the slave markets, eh?"

Vulth and Sergeant Nopel both guffawed. His cousin said, "You try to sell a slave
dealer Cimmerians, and he'll laugh in your face and spit in your eye. But he won't give you a counterfeit copper for 'em, let alone the silver lunas you're dreaming about."

"Why not?" Granth still did not slay the barbarian at his feet. "They're big and bold and strong. Mitra! We found out everything we wanted to know about how strong they are."

"And you should have noticed none of them surrendered," said Vulth. "They aren't known for yielding to another man's will"―he rolled his eyes at the understatement―"and what good is a slave who won't?"

Before Granth could answer, the Cimmerian on the ground hooked an arm around his ankle and tried to drag him off his feet. Only a hasty backward leap saved him from a grapple. His cousin speared the Cimmerian, who groaned, spat blood, and at last, long after a civilized man would have, died.

"You see?" said Vulth.

"Well, maybe I do at that," admitted Granth. "They're like serpents, aren't they?

You're never sure they're dead until the sun goes down."

"When the sun goes down, more of them come out," said Nopel. "Now get on about your business."

Granth obeyed, sending the Cimmerians he found still breathing on the field out of this world with such speed and mercy as he could give them: had they won the fight, as they had come so close to doing, he would have wanted a last gift of that sort from them. Vulth and Nopel and most of the Gundermen and Bossonians acted the same way. No one who had stood up against the barbarians rushing out of the woods could have reckoned them anything but worthy foes.

Count Stercus rode up as the foot soldiers continued their grisly work. Excitement reddened the commander's usually pale cheeks and made his eyes sparkle. "Well done, you men," he said. "Every barbarian you slay now is a barbarian who will not try to slay you later."

Granth and Vulth and Sergeant Nopel all nodded. "Aye, my lord," murmured Nopel. The sight of Stercus cheerful startled them all. The nobleman had despised his soldiers. Vic-ton', though, seemed to have changed his mind.

He said, "We shall seize this country, such as it is, and hold it for our own.

Farmers will come north from Aquilonia and take their places here, to prosper for generation upon generation. Fort Venarium will be their center, and one day will grow into a city that can stand beside Tarantia and the other great centers of the realm."

That sounded good to Granth. Only one question still troubled his mind. He was bold, or rash, enough to ask it: "What about the Cimmerians, my lord?"

Nopel hissed in alarm between his teeth, while Vulth made a horrible face and then tried to pretend he had done no such thing. But Count Stercus' good cheer was proof even against impertinent questions. "What about the Cimmerians, my good fellow?" he echoed. "We have smashed their barbarous horde." His wave encompassed the corpse-strewn field; that many of the corpses were those of his countrymen seemed not to have come to his notice. Grandly, he continued, "Now we subdue their haunts in these parts, and compel them to obedience. Surely every Cimmerian man and woman, every boy and every little girl" ―his voice lingered lovingly over the last few words―"shall bend the knee before the might of King Numedides."

From all that Granth had heard and seen, the fierce folk of the north bent the knee to no man. He started to say what he thought; he was as forthright as any other Gunderman. But the thought of what Vulth and Nopel had done a moment before gave him pause, and Count Stercus rode off before he could speak. He did not care enough about the argument to call the commander back.

"By Mitra, slaughter goes to his head like strong wine from Poitain," said Vulth in a low voice. "You'd hardly know he was the sour son of a whore who led us here."

"He didn't bite this fool's head off," agreed the sergeant, jerking a thumb toward Granth son of Biemur. "If that doesn't prove he's a happy man, curse me if I know
what would."

"Do you suppose holding the Cimmerians down will be as easy as he says?"

asked Granth.

Before answering, Nopel spat on the blood-soaked soil. "That for the Cimmerians," he said. "I'll tell you this much: we have a better chance now that we've smashed the manhood of three or four clans. What can they do but submit?"

Vulth stopped to search a dead man. He rose, muttering to himself and shaking his head. "I've not found any plunder worth keeping. The poorest, most hardscrabble Bossonian carries more in the way of loot than these dogs."

"What do we want with them, then?" wondered Granth. He had also searched corpses. He had found nothing worth holding on to but a curiously wrought copper amulet on a leather thong around the neck of a fallen enemy swordsman, and even that could not have been worth more than a couple of lunas at the outside. He had taken it more as a souvenir of the battle than in the hope of selling it later.

"They're here. They're on our doorstep. If we don't beat them, they'll come down into the Bossonian Marches, into Gunderland, maybe even into Aquilonia proper," said Nopel. "Better we should fight them, better we should whip them, in their own miserable country."

"Well, so it is," said Granth. The sergeant's words made good sense to him. He strode across the field, looking for more Cimmerians to finish. Carrion birds had already begun to settle on bodies indisputably dead.

Conan's bruises healed quickly, thanks to his youth and the iron constitution of the barbarian. He was not only up and about but busy in the smithy only a couple of days after his father beat him. But, though he might have been strong enough to go after Mordec, he chose to remain in Duthil instead. Belatedly, he had come to realize his father was right. If he went to fight the Aquilonians with his father and they both fell, who would tend to his mother? She had no other kin left alive in the village; she would have to rely on the kindness of those not tied to her by
blood, and such kindness was always in short supply in Cimmeria.

As well as he could, Conan tended to the forge and the rest of the smithy. No large jobs came his way while his father was gone, for most of the other men of Duthil had gone with Mordec into battle. But Reuda, who was married to Dolfnal the tanner, came to Conan asking for a cooking fork. "Must I wait until Mordec comes home?" she said.

He shook his head, pausing for a moment to brush his thick mane of black hair back from his forehead with a swipe of the hand. "Nay, no need," he told her.

"Come back tomorrow, just before the sun goes down. I'll have it for you then."

"And if I am not satisfied with your work?" asked Reuda. "If I see I would sooner have your father's?"

"Then save the fork and show it to him," replied Conan. "If you are sorry with what I give you, he will make me sorrier that I did not suit you."

Reuda rubbed her chin. After a moment's thought, she nodded. "Aye, let it be as you say. If you'll not work your best for fear of Mordec's heavy hand, nothing less will squeeze that best from you."

"I am not afraid of him," said Conan fiercely, but an ingrained regard for the truth compelled him to add, "Still, I would not feel his fist without good cause." Reuda laughed and nodded and went back to her husband's tannery, taking the stink of hides and sour tanbark with her.

Conan went to work straightaway, choosing an iron bar about as thick as his finger. He heated one end of it white-hot, then brought it back to the anvil and, with quick, cunning strokes of the hammer, shaped that end into a loop about two inches long. That done, he used a cold chisel to cut through the extremity of the loop, giving him the two tines he would need for the work. Some forks had three tines, but that was as yet beyond his skill. He did not think Reuda would complain if hers proved to be of the ordinary sort.

Heating the iron again, he bent the tines on the heel of the anvil until something
close to a right angle separated them. That way, he could work on each of them in turn more conveniently. Careful hammerstrokes flattened the tines. Conan heated the metal once more and brought the tines back to their proper position. He set the fork aside and let it cool.

When he could safely handle it without tongs, he used brass rivets to bind a wood handle to the iron shank. He looked the work over to see if Reuda could find any way to fault it. Seeing none, he took the fork to the tanner's wife fully a day earlier than he had promised.

She examined it, too, plainly with the same thing in mind. Seeing nothing about which she could complain, she gave the young smith a grudging nod, saying, "I think it may serve. When your father comes home, we'll settle on a price."

"All right." Conan nodded. Almost all business in Duthil was done that way. The Cimmerians minted no coins; the few that circulated here came up from the south.

Barter and haggling took the place of money and set costs.

When Conan left Reuda's kitchen, he saw Glemmis, who had taken word of the Aquilonian invasion from Duthil to the nearby village of Uist and then, no doubt, gone on to fight the men from the south. Glemmis limped up the street toward him; a filthy, blood-soaked rag covered most of a wound on the man's left arm.

Conan's heart leaped into his mouth. "The battle―!" he blurted.

Glemmis spoke a word Conan had never imagined he would hear: "Lost." He went on, "We hit the Aquilonians a hard blow, but they held us, and then ―Crom! ―their cursed horsemen cut us down like ripe rye at harvest time." He shuddered at the memory.

"What of my father?" asked Conan. "What of the other warriors who left our village?"

"Of Mordec I know naught. He may well be hale," answered Glemmis with a certain rough kindness. "But I can tell you truly that many fell. Eogannan, for instance, I saw go down, a Bossonian's arrow through his throat. We've not
known such a black day for many long years."

Had he got away safe by running first and fastest? Even so young, Conan saw the possibility and scorned him for it. But before long other men started coming home to Duthil, many of them wounded, all hollow-eyed and shocked with defeat. Even Balarg the weaver, who prided himself on never seeming at a loss, looked as if he had grappled with demons and come off second best. Women began to wail as some men did not come home again, and as survivors began bringing word of those who never would.

Several returning warriors had seen Conan's father where the fighting was hottest, but none could say whether Mordec lived or had fallen. "I will wait, then, and learn," said Conan, "and if need be avenge myself on the Aquilonians." When he told Verina what he had learned, his mother started keening, as for one dead.

But Mordec did come back to Duthil, limping in with a spearshaft clamped in his left fist to help bear his weight. His right arm briefly slipped around Conan in a rough embrace. "We'll fight them again," said Conan. "We'll fight them again, and we'll beat them."

"Not soon." Mordec wearily shook his head. "Not tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Not next year, all too likely. We lost too much in this round."

"What then?" asked Conan, aghast.

"What then?" echoed his father. "Why, the bitter beer of the beaten, for beaten we are."

Chapter Three

The Temple Out of Time

Conan saw his first Aquilonians a few days after his father came home to Duthil.

By then, the villagers had a good idea of who would never come home again.

Women's keening went on night and day. New mourning had broken out only the night before, when a Cimmerian died after taking a fever from his wound.

The invaders marched up the same track the village men had used in retreating from the lost battle. The archers advanced with arrows nocked and bows ready to draw. The pikemen with them were broad-shouldered fellows with hair the color of straw. They too were alert against any ambush that might burst upon them from the woods. Not least because they were alert, no ambush came.

All told, pikemen and archers numbered perhaps a hundred: more than three times the number of warriors Duthil had sent into the fight. Eyeing them as they approached, Conan said, "They don't look so tough."

Mordec stood beside him, still leaning on the spearshaft that did duty for a cane.

The blacksmith said, "One of us would likely beat one of them, despite the armor they wear. But they do not fight by ones, as we do. The pikemen fight together, in lines that support each other. The archers shoot volleys at an officer's command, aiming where he points. It makes them more dangerous foes than they would be otherwise."

"A coward's way of doing things," sneered Conan.

His father shrugged. "They fought well enough to win a battle. We in Duthil cannot stand against that whole company. We have not the men for it. They would slaughter us." That would have been true before the villagers went off to war. It was doubly true now that so many of them had not returned. Conan bit his lip at the humiliation of submitting to the men from the south, but even he could see Mordec was right: resistance would only lead to massacre.

As the Aquilonians drew ever nearer, more and more villagers came out into the main street―the continuation of the track the invaders used ―to eye them. None of the men held a weapon in his hand. None had anything more dangerous than an eating knife on his belt. Could looks have killed, though, their eyes ―and especially the eyes of the women who stood shoulder to shoulder with them ―would have mown down the archers and pikemen by the score.

At a shouted command, the pikemen shook themselves out into two lines in front of the archers. They made no fuss about the order. They did not argue about it or hash it over, as Cimmerians would have done. They simply obeyed, as if it was
something they heard every day―and so it plainly was. "Slaves," muttered Conan, mocking the first military discipline he had ever seen.

The man who had given the command strode out in front of his soldiers. A scarlet crest affixed to the top of his helm singled him out as an officer. Hand on the hilt of his sword ― the pommel was wrapped with gold wire, a sure sign of wealth ―he strutted into Duthil. He bawled out something in his own language.

"He says his name is Treviranus, and asks if any here can put his words into Cimmerian for him," said Mordec. He took a hitching step forward and spoke in Aquilonian. The officer answered him, then talked at some length. Mordec interrupted him once or twice. "I'm telling him to slow down," he whispered to Conan.

Although Treviranus scowled, he did speak more slowly after that. Despite Mordec's wound, his grim appearance and even grimmer manner would have given any man pause. The blacksmith translated for the folk of Duthil: 'This Aquilonian says we are now the subjects of King Numedides. He says this part of Cimmeria belongs to the Aquilonians by right of conquest."

He was careful not to take credit for Treviranus' words himself, but to attribute them to the officer who uttered them. Conan thought his father wise for that.

Anyone who declared Cimmerians subjects and a conquered people proved only that he knew nothing of the freedom-loving folk among whom he moved.

Through Mordec, Treviranus went on, "There will be a garrison in the village or near it, as this officer chooses. We will have to feed the garrison and provide for it. If we ambush any of the soldiers, the Aquilonians will take hostages ―ten for one ―and kill them." The officer added something else. So did Conan's father: "Kill them slowly."

A low mutter ran through the crowd. In Cimmeria, only the most abandoned, most desperate robbers used such tactics. "Now I speak for myself," said Mordec.

"I say we must do as the Aquilonians tell us for now, for they have shown themselves stronger than we are. And I say we must watch what words pass our lips, for they will surely have some man or other among them who understands Cimmerian."

Conan had not thought of that. He watched the soldiers. Sure enough, one of the pikemen walked up to Treviranus and casually spoke to him in their language.

The officer glanced at Mordec through narrowed eyes. He raised his hand as if about to give some order. Conan tensed, ready to hurl himself against the invaders. But, whatever Treviranus had been about to do, he seemed to think better of it. He spoke a single sentence, aimed at Mordec like an archer's arrow.

"He asks, do we understand?" said the blacksmith in Cimmerian.

Slowly, reluctantly, the men of Duthil nodded. They had fought these fair-haired men from the south, fought them and been defeated. Remembering the loss helped the men submit without too much more shame. Their womenfolk were even slower and more reluctant to acknowledge that the Aquilonians had the upper hand for the time being. One by one, however, most of them did nod at last.

Conan did not, would not. He could be beaten; the bruises he still had from his father's hard hands proved as much. But submission was not in him, nor would it ever be. He glared daggers at the Aquilonian officer.

Treviranus noticed that volcanic blue stare. He spoke to Mordec again: a question. The blacksmith set his free hand, the one not clenched on the spearshaft, on Conan's shoulder. That was as much to hold him back as to identify him.

Mordec answered in Aquilonian, then said, "He asked if you were my son. I told him aye," in Cimmerian.

"Tell him I hate him, too, and I'll kill him if I can," said Conan.

"No," said his father, and the hand on Conan's shoulder suddenly gripped like a vise. Despite the pain shooting through Conan's arm, not a sound came from him.

Quietly, Mordec went on, "Remember what I said about watching your tongue.

And remember what he said ― if he dies, so do ten of ours. There is no striking them." He added one more word, too low for the Cimmerian-speaking enemy soldier to catch: "Yet." That Conan understood. Now his head did move up and down.

Another stream of words meaningless to Conan came from the Aquilonian
officer. "He says their commander is called Count Stercus," said Mordec, pitching his words to carry not just to his son but to all the folk of Duthil. "He says this Stercus is a hard man and a harsh man, and warns us against angering him."

Treviranus hesitated, then said something else. Mordec frowned and translated that last sentence, too: "He says we would do better not to let Stercus' gaze fall on any of our women, especially the younger ones."

That made the Cimmerians standing in the street mutter more among themselves.

Several men put protective arms around the shoulders of wives or daughters.

Their sense of chivalry was rude, as befit their material setting, but no less real for that.

Conan's eyes went to Tarla, the daughter of Balarg the weaver. She was still a girl, no more a woman than Conan was a man, but it was on her, after his mother, that his protective instinct centered. Just for a moment, his gaze and hers met.

Then she looked modestly down to the ground.

The Aquilonian officer spoke once more. "He says his people have come here to stay, and we had better get used to it," said Mordec.

Liar! Conan did not shout the word, but he wanted to. Looking at the faces of his fellow villagers, he knew he was not the only one in whose heart rebellion flamed. Oh, no― far from it.

Granth and Vulth and a pair of Bossonian archers stood sentry outside the encampment the new garrison had made by the Cimmerian village. It was a little past noon, but Captain Treviranus had ordered sentries on alert at all hours of the day and night. Granth wasn't the least bit sorry Treviranus had given that order, either.

One of the Bossonians, a tall, rangy bowman named Benno, peered into the shadowed woods. "The captain said panthers lurk among those trees," He said.

"By Mitra, I should like to make a cape from the skin of a panther of my own killing."

Vulth pointed toward the village just above a bowshot away. "You want panthers, Benno, look that way first. Every house there holds 'em."

"That's the truth!" exclaimed Granth. "Did you fellows spy that one brat, the son of the wounded fellow who was doing the translating for Treviranus? By the look in his eye, he wanted to murder the lot of us."

"Oh, that one," said Benno. "Aye, I noted him ―a face like a clenched fist. He'll make a bigger man than his father, and his father's far from small. Did you see his hands and feet? Too big for the rest of him, like a wolfhound pup's before it gets its full growth."

"I saw the lad, too, and I tell you he is no wolfhound." Vulth spoke with great conviction. "He is a wolf."

"All these Cimmerians are wild wolves, and they bite hard." Granth thought back to the fight by Fort Venarium. Those roaring, bellowing barbarians who kept coming, kept killing, despite wounds that would have slain a civilized man on the instant were enough to chill the blood. And, absent the Aquilonian cavalry, they might have ― probably would have ―won.

And then, as if speaking of the boy were enough to conjure him up, he emerged from the woods only fifty yards or so from the sentries. A quiver of arrows was slung on his back. He had a bow in his right hand. In his left, he carried three long-beaked woodcocks by the feet. After a wary glance to make sure the Aquilonians were holding their place and not pursuing him, the young Cimmerian went on toward his village.

Benno stared after him, jaw dropping in astonishment. "Did you see his bag?"

whispered the Bossonian. "Did you see it?"

"Woodcock make mighty fine eating," said Granth. "Fry the breast in butter, do the legs the same way. If you feel like it, you can cook up the guts, too ―fry 'em along with everything else."

"Oh, yes. Every word true," said Benno nodding. "But they are easier to frighten into nets than to take with the bow. To bring home three like that―Mitra! I am glad the boy was not shooting at us in the battle."

"For all you know, he was," said Vulth.

Benno looked surprised in a different way. "It could be," he admitted, "though I saw no children amongst our foes ― or amongst the slain afterwards."

The other Bossonian bowman was a scarfaced veteran named Daverio. "Anyone who shoots like that is no child in my book―especially not if the dog is shooting at me," he said.

"True enough," said Vulth. "He'd put a worshiper of Asura on a pilgrim boat for his last journey, sure as sure."

"A fat lot you know about that," jeered Granth.

"I don't care to know anything about the people who worship Asura, and nobody who worships Mitra should," answered his cousin. "People say it's the same black slave who takes every one of those pilgrim boats down the river to the sea, or wherever they end up when all's said and done. That's not natural, you ask me."

Benno and Daverio both nodded. So did Granth. Benno turned to what was uppermost in his mind: "Mowing down woodcock like that isn't natural, either.

It's closer to supernatural than a good many things I've seen sorcerers do."

"If he shoots one of us, we burn him and nine of his neighbors," said Vulth. "Even barbarians understand that kind of arithmetic."

"I hope so," said Granth. "Sometimes barbarians will kill without counting the cost. That's what makes them barbarians."

Daverio shrugged cynically. "That will probably happen once or twice. Then we'll kill ten or twenty Cimmerians, or however many it takes. Before long, the ones we leave alive will say, "Don't do anything to King Numedides' men. It hurts us worse than it hurts them."

"And so it will―except for the poor Gunderman or Bossonian who gets it in the
neck," said Vulth.

The four sentries looked at one another. The same thought filled all their minds ―as long as it is not me.

Conan got used to the presence of the invaders with a boy's speed and ease. He soon came to take light-haired men walking through the village for granted, and learned to tell Bossonians from Gundermen by looks rather than by weapons of choice.

And he began learning Aquilonian. Before long, he had picked up almost as much of it as his father knew. That amused Mordec, in a grim way. "You've got a good ear, son," he said. "I don't suppose it will matter much, but it's there."

"Why do so many people here have trouble with the other language?" asked Conan in puzzled tones. "It's only more words."

"People seem to," said Mordec. "You don't notice the Gundermen learning Cimmerian, either, do you?"

"I've seen one man trying," answered Conan. "He was doing his best to talk with Derelei, the miller's wife."

"Aye, and I know what he was doing his best to ask for, too," said Mordec.

"Derelei is a very pretty woman, and she knows it a little too well. But aside from that, the invaders don't bother. Why should they? They beat us. We're the ones who have to fit ourselves to them, not the other way around."

Why should they? They beat us. The words tolled in Conan's mind like the mournful clangor of a brazen bell. "What can we do, Father?" he asked. "We have to do something. If we don't, we might as well be so many sheep."

"One day, the time will be ripe," said Mordec. "One day, but not yet. Patience, lad ―patience. For now, we mourn and we heal. The time will come, though. Sooner or later, it will. And when it does, we will know it, and we will seize it."

Patience came hard for the boy, even harder than it would have for a man. Days came when Conan dared not look at an Aquilonian, for fear he would hurl himself against the foeman to his folk and bring disaster down on Duthil. When such fits took him, he would flee the village as if it lay in the grip of a deadly pestilence, and would go alone to hunt in the forests and on the hillsides nearby.

Mordec said never a word to him about those jaunts. The blacksmith could have used his son's help in the day-to-day work of the smithy, but seemed to sense how Conan needed to escape that which had become intolerable for him. While the boy stalked woodcock and grouse, squirrel and rabbit, he imagined he went after bigger game: Gundermen and Bossonians and the fearsome armored Aquilonian knights he had heard of but not yet seen. And hunting for the pot, though he did not fully realize it, helped him gain some of the arts he would use in war.

Spring slowly moved into summer. In that northern land, days grew long and almost warm. The sun rose in the far northeast and set many hours later in the far northwest. Some of Cimmeria's perpetual mist burned away. The sky was a water)', grayish blue, but blue it was nonetheless. Even the conifer-filled forests seemed―less dour, at any rate. Ferns growing by the bases of the tree trunks added splashes of brighter green to the scenery.

Silent as the beasts he stalked, Conan slipped through the woods. When he came to the edge of a small clearing, he froze into immobility. His eyes scanned the open space ahead to make sure he disturbed nothing before he ventured out from the concealment a pair of pines gave him. Not even a savage Pict from the rugged country west of Cimmeria could have walked more lightly on the land.

Once out in the clearing, Conan froze again, watching, listening, waiting.

Something seemed to call him, but not in a way to which he could set words. He frowned, then went on. Whatever it was, he would find it.

He frowned again on the far side of the clearing. He had been through these woods many times, yet he did not recall this particular track. Shrugging, he silently strode along it. It took him in the direction he wanted to go. That it might also take him in the direction it wanted him to go never entered his mind.

Some little distance down the trail, he stopped, his head turning this way and that.

The frown that harshened and aged his features grew deeper. Birdsongs were scarcer now than they had been in springtime, when returning migrants vied for mates. Still, he had been able to hear the calls of doves and finches and the occasional distant, strident shriek of a hunting hawk.

Not here, not now. Silence had settled over him, soft as snowfall. His eyes flicked now to the left, now to the right, now up, now down. The forest looked no different from the way it had before he set foot on this treacherous track. It looked no different, but somehow it was. That muffling drift of silence lay thick upon the land. Even the buzz of flies and the hum of gnats were softly swallowed up and gone.

"Crom!" muttered Conan, as much to hear his own voice― to hear anything at all ―as for any other reason. The grim god's name seemed to reverberate through the trees, carrying farther than it had any business doing. But Crom would not help him if he came to grief. He knew that only too well. The god might have helped breathe life into him, but, now that he had it, keeping it was his own lookout.

He nocked an arrow before pressing on down the trail. He could not have said why, save that the unnatural silence oppressed him. Against silence, what could an arrow do? Nothing Conan could think of, yet having a weapon instantly ready to use heartened him.

On he went, his perplexity mounting at ever}' stride. These woods felt more ancient than the ones with which he was so intimately familiar, as if the trees had been brooding here since the dawn of time. He scratched his head, wondering why and how such certainty filled him. Again, he could not have said, but fill him it did, more so with each step he took.

That feeling of age immemorial soon began to oppress him worse than the silence, to raise in his breast a dread nothing natural could have caused. He needed a distinct effort of will to halt, and another, greater, one to turn around and seek to go back. When he did, ice walked along his spine. The track that had led him forward vanished behind him. It might never have been there at all. When he turned again, though, it still ran straight ahead of him.

"I'll go on, then," he said. This time, the tree trunks and branches might have
drunk up his words; he barely heard them himself. Crom might have held some power in this primordial wilderness, but Conan himself had none, or so it seemed.

That might have been the judgment of the wilderness, but it was not Conan's.

Defiantly, he pressed ahead. The path went past an enormous fir―easily the largest Conan had ever seen, and one he would surely have known well had it grown anywhere near Duthil ― before turning sharply to the left. The blacksmith's son followed it, but then stopped in his tracks in astonishment at the sight of what lay ahead.

The gray stone ruin might have sprung from the dawn of time. It was, without a doubt, a temple dedicated to some god, but which? Not Crom, surely; he had neither shrine nor priesthood. Perhaps some mystic convulsion has sent it spinning down the centuries from its own proper era to that in which Conan lived.

It might have been a temple from the great vanished island of Atlantis, from whose few scattered survivors the Cimmerians drew their descent. Of that, however, Conan knew next to nothing.

He warily approached the fane. The immense stones from which it was made, albeit only crudely carven, were fitted together with consummate skill; not even the blade of a knife could have slipped between one and another. What had been an entryway still offered ingress of sorts, though the lintel stone had fallen and partially blocked the way in.

With a boy's agility, Conan twisted past the fallen stone. No sooner had he done so than a strange, weird piping filled the air. He could not have said whether it came from a musical instrument or the throat of some curious bird. All he could have said was that it made the hair on his arms and at the nape of his neck rise with horror and dread at its intimations of ancient wickedness.

The entryway twisted left and then right before opening out on an immense courtyard paved with stones of the same dusky gray as the rest of the temple.

They were joined as cunningly as all the other masonry, with the result that only a few bushes and saplings had managed to take root between them. In the center of the courtyard stood an altar of white marble made all the more dazzling and brilliant by contrast to its surroundings.

Strange figures and glyphs had been carved onto the altar; the pedestal of a statue rose from it. Only the feet and legs of that image now survived. One quick glance at them was enough to make Conan look away, dizzy and sick. If those remains did that to him, he shuddered to imagine what he would have felt had the statue survived in its entirety. Some things were well lost in the mists of time.

Behind the altar, one of the paving stones suddenly swung down on a clever pivot whose workings had defied the eons. Conan, intent on trying to make sense of the antediluvian carvings on the altar stone, did not notice the silent operation until a curious, hungry hiss forcibly brought it to his attention.

That sound sent him springing back. Even more than the roar of a hungry lion or panther, a serpent's hiss screamed danger! to all around. And, as the great snake issued forth from the den where it had slept since some forgotten age of the world, Conan's eyes went wide with dread. Serpents in Cimmeria were most of them small, slinking creatures that fed on frogs or mice. Even a viper that might steal a man's life would be no longer than his forearm.

This snake, though, could have devoured the blacksmith's son and scarcely shown the bulge he made. It had to be forty feet long, and broad in proportion. When it opened its mouth to taste the air, poison dripped from fangs longer than an index finger. Its lidless golden eyes held old, old knowledge and even older evil.

Those terrible eyes fixed on Conan. The snake hissed again, this time as if glad the opportunity to break its age-long fast was so thoughtfully provided. A tongue a foot and a half long flicked out―in the direction of the young Cimmerian. The fearsome serpent glided straight toward him.

With a cry of horror and abhorrence, a cry springing from the instinctive revulsion of warm-blooded life for the scaly, slimy primeval reptile, Conan let fly. His shaft struck the snake just to one side of a nostril, and bounced away after scraping an all but harmless scratch in the creature's armored hide. The serpent hissed furiously and reared on high, as if to crush the life from the man-thing that had presumed to resent being devoured. Yet it was not primarily a constrictor.

Faster than a springing panther, it struck.

Conan, with the tigerish instincts of the barbarian, leaped back out of harm's way
in the very nick of time. He was already fitting another arrow to his bow, and loosed again. This arrow stuck behind the snake's head: a wound, yes, but one more likely to enrage than to cripple. The snake's mouth gaped wider than ever.

The sound that burst from it might have come from a bucket of water cast onto red-hot iron. It struck again, seeking to avenge itself with envenomed fangs.

Again, though, the stroke fell short. Conan had another arrow ready, too. This one pinned the serpent's tongue to its lower jaw, piercing the soft flesh that wide-spread maw had exposed. Now the snake's hiss came muffled, but its rage, if anything, redoubled. It slithered after the Cimmerian. If it could not strike him, it would smash him to jelly in its monstrous coils.

He drew back the bowstring to the ear and let fly once more ― and at last found a vital spot, for the shaft pierced the serpent's left eye and penetrated deep into its tiny, savage brain.

The serpent's death throes went on for the next quarter of an hour, and came closer to killing Conan than anything it had done while alive. In its tormented thrashing, it overturned and smashed the ancient altar and everything that remained of the dreadful statue atop it. Whatever the creature depicted might have been, it was only shards of marble now.

At long last, the serpent lay still. Conan approached the great corpse with a hunter's caution, for he knew that even a seemingly dead snake often had one final bite left to give. He tapped the snake's snout with the end of his bow, held out at arm's length before him. And sure enough, the serpent snapped convulsively, but only on empty air.

When he was sure it would in fact move no more, Conan drew his knife from his belt and used it to pry the snake's mouth open. Then, stoically ignoring the fetid reptilian musk that rose from the creature, he dipped the heads and upper shafts of the arrows remaining in his quiver in the greenish venom still dribbling from its fangs. That done, he cut out one of the fangs and, handling it with the greatest of care lest he be poisoned himself, dropped it into the quiver.

He peered down into the chamber whence the serpent had crawled, wondering whether another of its fearsome breed still lingered there. But of that there was no
sign; only the one, it appeared, had come through the ages with this ancient shrine. Shaking his head in wonder, Conan left by the twisting pathway he had used to enter.

Once outside the temple, he followed the track past the enormous fir. Then he stopped, suddenly wishing he had taken both fangs instead of the one. He turned around.

The fir was not there.

Conan took several steps back toward where it had stood. He still saw no sign of it, and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. A tree like that could not simply have vanished off the face of the earth ―except that it had. He rubbed his eyes again, which did nothing to make it reappear. Instead of leading back toward the temple from forgotten days, the track took him to a part of the woods he knew well.

He rubbed his eyes again and scratched his head, wondering whether he had somehow imagined the entire episode. But when he unslung his quiver and examined the arrows it held, he saw that their heads and the upper inches of their shafts were discolored by the venom of the titanic serpent's needlelike fang.

Whatever his experience had been, a dream it was not.

He decided to set those arrows aside, not to take them on ordinary hunting trips but to save them for panthers, wolves, bears, Aquilonians, and other dangerous game. Now he had no trouble retracing his steps to Duthil. His return journey took him past the encampment Count Stercus' Gundermen and Bossonians had set up near the village. As always, the invaders ―the occupiers, now―were alert, with sentries posted all around the palisade. Conan snarled a soft curse he had heard from his father. No one could hope to surprise them.

He had nearly reached his home village when he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"No one could hope to surprise them by day!" he exclaimed, as if someone had claimed otherwise. "But by night-"

From then on, he ran as if his heels had sprouted wings. "What is it, Conan?"

called Tarla as he dashed past Balarg's house. He did not stop―did not so much as slow―even for her, which proved if anything could how important he thought
his idea was.

"Father!" he panted, skidding to a stop in the smithy's doorway.

Mordec was giving a new axehead an edge with a foot-powered grinding wheel.

As he took his foot off the pedal, the shower of sparks from the axehead died away. "What is it?" he asked, unconsciously echoing Balarg's daughter.

"Whatever it is, it must be a thought of weight, to have you running through Duthil as if demons dogged your tracks."

That took Conan's mind back to the fane from out of time, but only for a moment.

The present and what might lie ahead were more important to him. "If we were to strike the Aquilonian camp at night, we could take the foe by surprise," he burst out, his voice cracking with excitement.

"We could, aye, but what would happen if we did?" asked Mordec.

"Why, we'd be free of them," answered Conan. How could his father not see that?

As he soon discovered, though, Mordec saw further than he did. "Duthil would be free of them ―for a little while," said the blacksmith. "Cimmeria would not. And when the rest of the Aquilonians learned what we had done, they would come back in force and work a fearful vengeance on us."

"Then we need to strike all their camps on the same night," declared Conan. "If we do, they would be gone forever."

"If we could, they would be gone forever," said Mordec. "How do you propose to bring it off?"

"Send men to all the villages," answered Conan. "Tell them to attack on such and such a night. When that night comes, the Aquilonians go." He made a fist to show exactly what he meant.

But Mordec shook his head, which made his square-cut mane of graying hair flip back and forth in front of his eyes. "The Aquilonians might go," he said. "But
some of the villagers would say they lost too many men in the first fight, and they will stay home. And some would promise the sun and moon and stars ―and then stay home, too. And some would attack, but in a halfhearted way, and be defeated. And King Numedides would send more soldiers, to punish us for our rebellion. And what's an uprising worth when all that's likely to lie at the other end of it?"

Such bitter cynicism took Conan's breath away. "Why did you fight the invaders in the first place, if you felt like that?" he asked. "Why not bend the knee straightaway?"

"If we could have beaten them at once, they likely would have given up the campaign as a bad job and gone home," said Mordec. "They've done that before.

Now they've won, though. Now they're settled on the land."

"All the more reason to drive them away," said Conan.

"All the more reason for them to stay," returned Mordec.

They eyed each other in perfect mutual incomprehension. "I never thought you'd turn coward," said Conan.

His father cuffed him, not as prelude to a beating like the one he'd had when he tried to go off to fight with the defeated Cimmerian host but simply as a warning to watch his tongue. "You have no call to use that word for me," said Mordec.

"After you have fought in war, you may say what you please, and I will bear it.

Until then, you are only bleating out things you do not understand."

"You would not let me fight in war," said Conan sulkily. "Now you blame me because I have not." He did not speak of his exploit with the serpent. He was not sure his father would believe him. He was not altogether sure he believed it himself, and that despite the sinister stains on the shafts in his quiver.

"I do not blame you," answered Mordec. "I say that you are a boy, and I say that war is not a sport for boys."

That dismissal felt like a slight to the younger Cimmerian. Conan decided he would speak of what he had done after all, if only to show his father he was someone to be reckoned with. He asked, "Do you know of an ancient temple lost in the woods not far from Duthil?"

Mordec, though, only shook his head. "No. There is none," he said positively. "If there were, someone would have found it." His eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?

Do the Aquilonians search for such a place?"

"Not that I know of," answered Conan.

"Well, what nonsense are you spouting, then?" demanded his father.

"Nothing. Never mind," said Conan. No, the blacksmith would not believe him.

Since that was so, no point to going on. Mordec would but thrash him for telling fables, and he had had enough of his father's hard hands on him.

When Conan kept silence, Mordec nodded in dour approval. "All right," he rumbled. "If you're going to settle down and be sensible, you can finish grinding this axehead. I have a great plenty of other work to do. Get busy!"

From the bedchamber came Verina's weak voice: "Are you nagging the boy again, Mordec? Can't you leave him in peace?"

Muttering under his breath, Mordec answered, "There is no peace in this land, nor will there be until the invaders are gone."

"That's not what you told me just now," exclaimed Conan.

"By Crom, it is," said his father. "I tell you it is useless to strike too soon, and it is. But we shall have a day of reckoning with the foe. Oh, yes―we shall have a day of reckoning indeed." None of the Gundermen or Bossonians in the camp near Duthil would have cared to hear Mordec's voice when the blacksmith made that vow. Conan's father went on, "Meanwhile, though, there's work to be done.

Get on with it."

"Don't carp endlessly at Conan," said Verina. "He's a good boy."

Such praise Conan could have done without. More than anything else, he wanted to be reckoned a man, a warrior, a hero. After his battle with the serpent in the temple from out of time, he thought he had earned the right to be so reckoned.

But his father would not even hear of the fight. And hearing his mother call him a good boy made him feel as if he peeked out from behind her skirts. He knew she loved him, but it was a love that simultaneously satisfied and suffocated.

He began pumping the foot pedal on the grinding wheel for all he was worth. A coruscating shower of sparks flew from the axehead as he held it to the rapidly spinning wheel. Mordec chuckled grimly as he fed the fire in the forge. Soon the axehead boasted an edge sharp enough for shaving. Conan tested it with his thumb, nodded, and thrust it at his father. "Here."

Not even Mordec could find anything to criticize.

Chapter Four

Enemies

When Granth went back to Fort Venarium with a message from Captain Treviranus, he was amazed to see how much the place had changed. A lot more of the forest around the encampment had gone down under the axes of the soldiers still stationed there. The tents had been replaced by barracks halls. A real keep, even if made of wood, was going up in the center of the encampment. A bridge of boats and boards linked Fort Venarium with the way south, the way down to Aquilonia.

Cimmeria was not so safe as to let Aquilonians travel alone with any confidence they would get where they were going. Along with Granth tramped Vulth and the two Bossonian archers, Daverio and Benno. Pointing to a string of wagons coming toward Venarium from the south, Vulth said, "Look. Some of the first settlers."

"Good to see 'em," said Granth. "They may not be soldiers, but the men will know
how to fight. Anybody who can draw a bow or swing a sword against these damned barbarians is welcome."

"Pot hunters," said Benno scornfully. "Half of those poor fools can't hit the side of a barn."

"Well, at least they'll be aiming at the Cimmerians," said Vulth. "I'm with my cousin on this." He clapped Granth on the back.

"And they'll be building houses and barns," added Granth. "If we're going to settle this land, we'll have to make it our own."

The horses and oxen that drew the settlers' wagons would soon plow fields in what had been forest. More cattle, along with sheep and goats, traveled behind the wains. They would graze in meadows and crop tender shoots. If the new arrivals also had dogs and cats and swine and hens and ducks, they carried them inside the wagons.

Daverio did not seem very happy to see the settlers coming up toward Fort Venarium. When Granth asked the Bossonian why, he answered, "Because the Cimmerians will want to murder them even more than they want to murder us.

We don't take the land itself away from them. These fellows do."

"Too bad," said Vulth. "This is why we came up into Cimmeria, after all: to make it a place where Aquilonians can live and to drive back the barbarians."

"Yes, that's why we came, all right," agreed Daverio. "Now we get to find out whether we've done it."

Sentries at the gate of the encampment gave Granth and his comrades a careful once-over before standing aside and letting them go in. That only irritated the Gundermen and Bossonians. Granth wondered if the gate guards feared they were Cimmerians in disguise. He laughed at the idea. Even with their hair dyed blond, the northern barbarians would have a hard time passing for men of Aquilonian blood.

He had to ask several times before finding out that Captain Nario, the officer to whom Captain Treviranus had written his letter, stayed in a barracks hall not far from what would soon be the keep. The hall had its own guards, which struck Granth as excessive. His disgust must have shown on his face, for one of the guardsmen said, "You'd better wipe off that frown, soldier. We're here on account of this is where Count Stercus makes his headquarters."

Another guard snickered. "That's not all he makes here."

"You shut your fool mouth, Torm," hissed the first guard. "The count heard you make a crack like that, there'd be hell to pay, and you know it."

"He wouldn't hear if you didn't have a big mouth," said Torm angrily. While the guards bickered. Granth and his comrades went inside.

After the daylight from which he had come, Granth blinked a few times to help his eyes adjust to the gloom within. This was plainly a hall for officers. They had more room than ordinary soldiers, and real beds rather than just blankets in which to roll themselves. Some of the officers had body servants, whose bedrolls rested beside their beds. Granth asked for Captain Nario.

"I am Nario," called a man sitting on a bed not far from a guarded door at the far end of the barracks hall. Granth would have bet Count Stercus lived in the chamber beyond that door. He had no time to dwell on that, though, for Nario asked, "What do you wish of me?"

"Sir, I have a letter for you from my commander, Captain Treviranus, up at the place called Duthil," answered Granth.

"Do you indeed?" Nario's smile showed even, very white teeth. "Give it to me, then. I shall be pleased to read it, and I shall write an answer on the spot."

"Yes, sir." Granth handed the officer the rolled-up parchment, meanwhile concealing his own annoyance. He had hoped to deliver the message and be on his way. Now he would have to wait around until Captain Nario not only read what his own commander had to say but came up with a reply.

And then, quite suddenly, he did not mind waiting any more. A very pretty Cimmerian girl carrying a pitcher of wine and two goblets on a tray came into the barracks. She could not have been above sixteen, and wore little enough that she would have had a hard time sneaking anything lethal into the room at the end of the hall. The guards there did not try to search her, but let her in unchallenged.

Granth had stared and stared. So had a good many of the soldiers in the barracks, though they seemed more used to her presence than he was. In a hoarse voice, he asked, "Who is she?"

"She's Count Stercus' plaything," answered Captain Nario, looking up from his writing. He noticed that Granth's eyes had not left the doorway through which the Cimmerian girl had passed: noticed and started to laugh. "Don't hope you'll see her again coming out, my good fellow. She won't come out of there for quite a while."

"Oh." Granth felt foolish. His ears got hot.

Nario laughed again, so Granth supposed his flush was only too visible. He felt more foolish yet. He had been ready to face roaring Cimmerian warriors. How could a nearly naked Cimmerian serving girl unman him so? He mumbled, "She's too young," and looked down at the ground between his boots.

"Our distinguished commander would disagree with you, and his is the only opinion that matters," said Nario in a silky voice. "And now I am going to do you a considerable favor: I am not going to ask you what your name is."

For a moment, Granth did not see what sort of favor that was. He was a young man, and inclined to be naive. But then he realized what Captain Nario was driving at, and flushed again. This time, he knew precisely the mistake he had made. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"You are welcome." The officer finished writing, melted some sealing wax at a brazier, and used it and a ribbon to close his letter. The seal on his signet ring was of a fire-breathing dragon, which showed in reverse when he pressed it into the wax. He said, "Now you should make yourself unwelcome, if you follow my
meaning, for others more zealous than I may have heard you and may be curious about your choice of words."

This time, Granth had no trouble taking the hint. He left the barracks in a hurry, with Vulth and Benno and Daverio trailing after him. For a wonder, none of his companions chaffed him until they were out of the encampment altogether. Then, leering, Benno asked, "Did you want to rescue the wench or just to keep her for yourself?"

"Mitra!" ejaculated Granth in an agony of embarrassment: was he as obvious as that? Evidently he was. Gathering himself, he said, "She was too young for such sport. She should be finding her first sweetheart, not―what Stercus is giving her."

All that won him was more teasing from the two Bossonians and his cousin. They kept it up just about the whole way back to Duthil. By the time he handed Nario's letter to Treviranus, he had decided he was never going to say another word to anyone else as long as he lived.

Men gathered in a little knot in the main ―and almost only ―street in Duthil.

They spoke in low voices, too low for Conan to make out most of what they were saying. He got only snatches: "Her name is Ugaine… from Rosinish, to the east of… a foul lecher, if ever there…"

When one of the men noticed Conan, they all fell silent. He walked up to them, asking, "What is it?"

No one answered right away. No one looked as if he wanted to answer at all. At last, a farmer called Nucator said, "Well, maybe you'd best hear it from your father, lad, and not from us."

Conan glowered, not least because he already stood taller than Nucator, who was a weedy little fellow. "Hear what?" he demanded.

"Nucator is right," said Balarg, his voice smooth as butter. "This is a business for men." The rest of the Cimmerians in the knot nodded, plainly agreeing with the
tailor.

That they agreed only made Conan angrier. He wanted to fight them all. That would show them who was a man. But the beating his father had given him before going off to war remained too painfully fresh in his memory for him to snarl out the challenge right away. None of these villagers was a match for Mordec ―but Conan had proved to be no match for the blacksmith, either.

When he hesitated, nerving himself, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder from behind. "Here, what's toward?" asked Mordec, who like his son had been drawn by the sight of that group of men with their heads together.

Nucator beckoned the blacksmith forward. "We'll gladly tell you," he said, "though we were not sure if you would want your boy to hear of this."

"Stay here," said Mordec to Conan. Fuming, Conan had to obey. His father joined the rest of the village men, towering over most of them by half a head or more.

Again, they spoke in low voices. Again, Conan heard bits of what they said, but not enough to tell him what he wanted to know. Along with trying to listen, he kept an eye on his father. Mordec's hard countenance soon darkened with anger.

"This is known to be true?" he asked ominously.

"It is," said Nucator. The others nodded.

"A foul business. A most foul business, without a doubt. And yes, my son may know. Better he should have some notion of what manner of men the occupiers are." Mordec's eyes speared Conan. "You remember the Aquilonian captain here warned us to ward our young women when his commander, Count Stercus, came to Duthil?"

"I do, Father, yes," said Conan.

"Well, it would seem he spoke no less than the truth." Mordec spat in disgust.

"This Stercus, if the reports be true―"As they are," interrupted Balarg.

"If these reports be true," repeated Mordec, slightly stressing the first word, "this Stercus has taken for his own a Cimmerian girl of good family, using her for his pleasure and threatening to turn his Aquilonian dogs loose against the countryside if she does not yield to his desires."

Rage ripped through Conan. "Do you not see? We must slay him! We must slay all the invaders!" He took a step forward, then another, and more than one of the grown men in Duthil gave back a pace before the blood lust blazing in his blue eyes, so like his father's.

"The day will come," said Mordec, stern certainty in his voice. "The day will come indeed. But it is not yet here."

Balarg nodded, as if in agreement. But he said, "If you had not been as hot as your forge to go to war when the Aquilonians first crossed our border, many men from this village now dead would yet walk under the light of the sun."

"By Crom, we had to have a go at driving the invaders out," said Mordec. "We came close to winning, too. If not for their damned knights, I think we would have. Will you say the fighting did not cost us dear? Will you say we have the strength for another battle so soon after we lost the first?"

"I have the stomach for it!" cried Conan, wishing a man's sword swung at his hip.

Neither Mordec nor Balarg paid any attention to him. Each seemed more interested in scoring points off the other than in anything else. Some of the men of Duthil ranged themselves behind the blacksmith, others behind the weaver. To them, the usual squabbles of village life seemed more immediate, more urgent, more important, than driving the men from the south out of Cimmeria.

"What if it were a girl from Duthil?" cried Conan. "What if she came from here, not from some other place? Would you do more than stand and mumble then?"

For all his fury, his voice remained a boy's treble, and the men from Duthil would not heed him. The small arguments, the familiar arguments, were meat and drink
to them. Those went on and on. Meanwhile, the camp full of Bossonians and Gundermen just out of bowshot of the village was becoming ever more familiar, too.

Conan stormed off. No one else cared, not even his father, who was wagging a callused, burn-scarred finger under Balarg's nose. Conan stomped back into the smithy. He snatched up his quiver and bow. Only one arrow in the quiver was poisoned; he had set the rest aside for need more desperate than game. For now, if he could not slaughter Aquilonians, he wanted to kill something ―indeed, almost anything―else.

Before he could make for the forest, his mother called, "Where are you going?"

"Out to the woods," he replied.

"Would you bring me some water first?" asked Verina. "And would you tell me what the men are arguing about this time?"

He took a mug of water into the bedchamber, helped support his mother with a strong arm, and held the mug to her lips. Then, in guarded terms, he told her of Count Stercus and the girl from Rosinish.

Verina drank again, then sighed. "She probably brought it on herself with forward ways," she said.

"That's not what the men say. They blame it on the Aquilonian count." Conan spoke hesitantly, for disagreeing with his mother made him uneasy.

In any case, she paid no more attention to him than had the men of Duthil. "Mark my words. It will turn out to be the way I said," she told him, and then began to cough. He eased her back down to the pillow. Slowly, the spasm ebbed. She sighed again, this time wearily. "You can go now. Just leave me be. I'll manage somehow," she said.

"Mother,!-"

"Go!" said Verina. Conan stood, irresolute: a posture into which no one but his mother could put him. Her gesture of dismissal might have come from a queen, not a sick woman lying in a bed behind a smithy. Biting his lip, Conan went.

He ran to the woods as if demons prowled his trail. He might have been glad to see demons, for they would have given him something he could oppose, something he could hope to defeat with arrows and knife and simple strength. But what chased him out of Duthil dwelt within him, and he could not bring it forth to slay it.

Melcer hacked at a pine with his axe as if the tree were a Cimmerian warrior. The farmer, newly come from Gunderland, struck again and again, with almost demoniac energy. The pine tottered, crackled, and began to fall. "Coming down!"

Melcer shouted, though no one but him stood anywhere close to the tree that crashed to earth. He grunted in satisfaction and spat on his hands. One more tree down, one more tree towards a cabin in the woods, one more bit of open space in what would become a farm.

"It'll be a farm if I make it one," said Melcer, and methodically trimmed branches from the pine and tossed them onto a sledge. He dragged it back to the small clearing in which his wagon sat. The oxen were cropping grass not far from the wagon. They looked up with incurious brown eyes as he returned.

His wife, Evlea, had cleared a square of grass with a hoe and was planting seeds for what would be a vegetable garden. Tarnus, his son, was only six, but big enough to shoo away the chickens and keep them from eating the seeds as fast as Evlea planted them. Unlike his father and mother, Tarnus enjoyed his job. "Get away!" he yelled, and waved his arms. When the chickens did not move fast enough to suit him, he ran at them making horrible noises. They fled in clucking confusion.

"Don't drive them into the woods," warned Melcer. "If you do, the foxes and weasels will thank you for their supper― and I'll warm your backside."

"Can I tame the foxes?" asked Tarnus eagerly.

"Not with chickens," answered his father. "Where will we get more if they eat
these? It's a long way back to Gunderland."

"A very long way," said Evlea, pausing in her labor to wipe her sweaty forehead with a sleeve. The endless work of setting up the farm left her and Melcer weary all the time. After a moment, she went on, "If I had known it was so very far, I don't know whether I would have wanted to come."

That made Melcer angry. "Here we have as much land as we can clear and hold,"

he said. "Down there, my father had six sons, so I was stuck on one sixth of the land he'd farmed. That made a miserable little plot, and you know it."

"It wasn't very big," admitted Evlea, "but it was safe. We're off the edge of nowhere here. If the barbarians rise up―"They won't," said Melcer. "And even if they do, we have soldiers ―and we have our own strong right arms." He took the axe off the sledge and flourished it. "And once we get the cabin built, we'll have a place we can defend, too."

In his mind's eye, he saw the farm he wanted to have, with plenty of room for grain and for grazing, with a barn full of cattle and sheep and horses near the cabin, with an apple orchard not too far away, and with the forest pushed back toward the horizon ―but not too far, for he would still need firewood. He saw plenty of neighbors, to help defend the place against the wild Cimmerians ― but none too near, for he wanted a big parcel of land for himself. He saw Evlea raising up not just Tarnus but three or four more sons, and all of them going on to take land for themselves, carving out homesteads from this gloomy wilderness.

He smiled, liking those visions better than any he might have got from an opium pipe.

In between what he saw and where he was now lay an endless ocean of labor.

Stolid as most Gundermen, he shrugged broad shoulders. Work had never fazed him. He said, "I'm going back to cut notches in that tree. It'll go into the cabin―the trunk's good and straight."

"All right. I have plenty to do here," said Evlea. "Keep your eyes open."

"And you," said Melcer. His wife nodded. He sharpened the blade of her hoe against a whetstone every few nights. It would make a wicked weapon in a pinch.

So far, the barbarians had stayed away from the settlements around Fort Venarium. Melcer hoped the beating they had had at the hands of Count Stercus'

Aquilonians would teach them to respect the power of King Numedides and those who followed him. If it did not―if it did not, he would fight as hard as he had to, and so would the rest of the settlers, men, women, and children.

Shouldering his axe as a soldier would shoulder a pike while on the march, Melcer followed the trail of the sledge back to the pine he had cut down. Once he had cut the notches in it, he would have the oxen drag it to the place where he intended to raise the cabin: not far from where the wagon stood now.

He set to work with skillful strokes. He was good with the axe. He could have been a lumberjack if he had not taken a love for the land and for growing things from his father. He had cut one notch and was walking down to the far end of the tree to do the other when a Cimmerian with a bow came out of the woods.

Like most Gundermen and Bossonians, Melcer made a good woodsman. Here, though, he knew he had met his match and more. He was a civilized man who had learned woodscraft as he had learned axework. The barbarian who eyed him from under a mop of hair black as midnight might have sprung from nowhere, so silently did he appear. He hadnot needed to learn woodscraft; he might have imbibed its lessons with his mother's milk.

Only little by little did Melcer realize the barbarian had drunk of his mother's milk not so very long before. He was man-tall, and handled his bow with the unconscious ease of an experienced archer, but his features, though promising harshness, were not yet fully molded into the form they would one day possess, and no beard darkened his cheeks.

Melcer did not raise his axe in any threatening way, but he did not take his hands off it, either. The young Cimmerian had an arrow nocked, but it pointed at the ground, not at Melcer. Three plump grouse hung by their feet from the barbarian's belt: he was out hunting game, not hunting men. With luck, this would not have to end in blood.

Taking his right hand from the handle of the axe, Melcer held it up, palm out, in a sign. "Do you speak my language?" he asked.

Somewhat to his surprise, the youngster nodded. "Little bit," he said, his accent foul but comprehensible. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Conan."

"I am Melcer," said the farmer. Now he held out his right hand. The Cimmerian hesitated, then strode forward and took it. When he did, Melcer got another surprise, for, though Conan was unquestionably a boy, his grip had a man's strength. When Melcer told him, "I have no quarrel with you," he sounded more sincere than he might have expected.

Conan said something in Cimmerian, then stopped and kicked at the dirt, realizing Melcer could not follow him. He dropped back into his fragmentary Aquilonian: "Why you here? What you do?"

"I have come here to make a farm and to raise my family," answered Melcer.

Another spate of Cimmerian. Again, Conan checked himself. Again, he spoke in what bits of Melcer's language he had: "Not your land. You go home."

"No." The Gunderman shook his head. "I will stay here. We have won this land with the sword. We will keep it."

He did not know how much the barbarian boy understood of that, though his shaken head left little room for doubt. Scowling, Conan repeated, "Not your land."

"I say it is." Melcer remembered that when he had said he had no quarrel with Conan, the Cimmerian had not told him anything of the sort. Yet Conan had taken his hand, and showed no sign of going to war on the instant. Melcer pointed straight at him. "Peace between us?"

Now Conan did not hesitate. "No," he said at once. "No peace. You go, then peace."

Melcer might have lacked money and high birth, but he did not lack for pride. "I will not go," he said. "I have come here to make my home. That is what I aim to do."

"You pay." The barbarian nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes. You pay."

"Anyone who tries to drive me off this land will pay," said Melcer.

He had to say it again before the barbarian followed. When Conan finally did, he studied Melcer, showing surprise of his own. Maybe he had not realized the Aquilonians had pride of their own. He undid the rawhide thong that held one of the grouse on his belt, then tossed the bird at Melcer's feet. He pointed first to himself, then to the Gunderman. "Enemies," he said, and loped off into the woods.

Slowly, Melcer stooped to pick up the grouse. He wondered whether the barbarian had meant to say he wanted them to be friends but had been undone by his imperfect knowledge of Aquilonian. A moment later, an arrow hissed through the air and buried itself in the soil less than a yard from Melcer's boot. He hopped back in alarm. If Conan wanted to kill him from ambush, he probably could.

But no more arrows flew from the forest. "Enemies," the Cimmerian called once more, and then everything was still.

After a couple of minutes of wary, watchful waiting, Melcer decided Conan had gone away. The Gunderman thoughtfully hefted the grouse. He would not have given an enemy a gift. Did Conan reckon it an insult, or was it a token of respect?

Melcer shrugged. However the Cimmerian had meant it, it would make a tasty supper.

Up went the axe. Melcer brought it down with all his strength. Regardless of whether the Cimmerian fancied the notion, he had a cabin to build, a farm to make, and he aimed to do just that.

Loarn was a wandering peddler and tinker who came to Duthil every year or two.

When he did, he guested with Mordec. The blacksmith did tinker's work now and
again, soldering patches onto saucepans and the like, but Loarn was a master at it.

He also repaired broken or cracked crockery, which Mordec did not attempt.

Loarn had a tiny drill and a set of lead rivets so fine, they were almost sutures. By the time he was done fixing a pot and had daubed his repairs with pitch, it would hold water or ale as well as it ever had. He also paid his way with gossip and news and songs and jokes.

Some of the news of southern Cimmeria had not reached him until just before he came into Duthil. When he led his donkey up the lane toward Mordec's smithy, he was fuming. "Aquilonian soldiers, by Crom!" he cried as he came in. "Aquilonian soldiers! What are they doing here? Why didn't you cast them out?" He sounded as if he blamed the blacksmith personally.

Mordec looked up from the nail ―almost a spike―whose point he was sharpening. "What are they doing here?" he echoed, his voice half an octave deeper than Loam's. "Whatever they please, worse luck. Why didn't we cast them forth? We tried. They beat us, which is why they can do as they please for now."

"Disgraceful business," said Loarn, a small, skinny man with a drooping gray mustache. "Disgraceful, I tell you. They stopped me and searched my goods as if I were a thief. They could have robbed me and murdered me, too, and who would have been the wiser? News of the invasion still hasn't spread up to the north, where my clan dwells."

"You can take it with you, then, when you travel that way again," said Mordec, and Loarn nodded his agreement. "Conan!" called the blacksmith, and then again, louder: "Conan! Where has the boy got to, anyhow? Oh, there you are. About time. Here's Loarn, just in off the road. Fetch him a mug of ale and something to eat."

"Aye, Father," said Conan. "Welcome, Loarn." He hurried into the back of the house.

Loam's eyes followed him. "He's as tall as I am already, and he has how many years behind him? Fifteen?"

"Twelve," answered Mordec.

"Crom!" said the peddler. "He'll have your inches before he's done, then, and maybe two or three more besides."

"I know." Mordec lowered his voice: "I had a demon of a time keeping him from joining the army that fought the invaders. He thinks he's a man now."

"I can understand why," said Loarn. "How did it fall out that they beat you? Such a thing hasn't happened in all the years of my life."

Mordec shrugged massive shoulders. "We didn't put enough men in the field to swamp them, and their knights hit us at just the right time―right for them, wrong for us. Not enough clans joined the fight on our side."

"And now all Cimmeria will suffer because they didn't," said Loarn.

"Take the news north," said Mordec, shrugging again. "If all the clans in the countryside joined against the invaders ― He broke off and laughed. "If that happened, it would be a miracle, and when was the last time Crom worked a miracle in these parts? He's not that sort of god. He wants his folk to work the miracles."

Loarn grunted. He did not quarrel with Mordec; no Cimmerian could have, not where their god was concerned. The blacksmith had spoken only the truth about the dour deity who watched over this tree-draped land and expected the people dwelling in it to solve their own problems without bothering him.

Conan came in just then, carrying a wooden tray with two mugs of ale, and with oatcakes and a slab of roasted pork ribs for the guest in the house. "Thank you, lad," said Loarn, and then, in surprise, "Mistress Verina! I know you're not well.

You did not need to trouble yourself for me."

From behind Conan, his mother said, "It is no trouble, Loarn." A moment later, she gave herself the lie, coughing till her face went a dusky purple and blood-flecked foam clung to her lower lip.

"Get into bed, Verina," growled Mordec. He snatched one of the mugs of ale from the tray in Conan's hands and drained it at a single long pull. "Loarn is right―you do yourself no good by being up and about when you shouldn't."

"I do the honor of the household good," said Verina with quiet pride.

The blacksmith ground his teeth in a curious mix of frustration and fury. Verina was willing ―was perhaps even eager―to give up, to throw away, her own life to prove a point. Mordec had seen that years before, when her illness first came upon her. He often thought she used it as a weapon, turning her weakness against him where strength would not have sufficed. That he kept to himself. Had he spoken of it, it would only have ignited more strife between them. But he spent as much time away from the smithy as he could.

His absences, of course, only tightened the bond between Verina and Conan.

When she began to cough again, the boy anxiously asked, "Are you all right, Mother?" and started to go to her.

She waved him away, saying, "Tend to the guest in the house, if you please. I will do well enough."

Conan grimaced but obeyed. He heeded her better than he had ever obeyed Mordec, against whose iron will his own, equally hard, clashed at every opportunity. The smith grimaced, too, but for different reasons. He did not care for Verina's use of their son to show off her illness, but she had been doing it for years, and he had never found a way to stop her. He wished the mug he had drained had held twice as much ale.

Loarn, tactfully, said only, "Tell me more of the coming of the cursed Aquilonians. When I do go into the north country again, I will need to answer many questions, and I will want to have the answers right."

Before Mordec could reply, Conan did: "Not only soldiers have come to Cimmeria, but also farmers, and their women and children with them. The men from the south aim to take this land away from us forever."

"He speaks the truth," said Mordec. He scowled at Verina, then got off the stool on which he had been sitting. "If you will not go back to bed, at least come over here and sit down. Conan, bring your mother a mug of ale. Maybe it will lend her some strength."

The prospect of helping his mother was enough to make Conan listen to his father. He dashed back to the kitchen to pour the ale. Verina reluctantly perched on the stool Mordec had vacated. Had she and her husband and son been alone in the house, the blacksmith doubted she would have. Instead, she would have stubbornly stayed on her feet until she fell in a faint, which might not have taken long. But with Loarn watching what went on, she did not care to quarrel too openly with her husband.

"Here you are, Mother." Conan hurried up with another mug of ale.

"Thank you, Conan." Verina was polite with him, where she had wasted no courteous words on Mordec.

Loarn tore into his food, as a man will when for a long time he has not eaten so much as he would have liked. After only bones and crumbs were left, he licked his fingers clean and wiped them dry on the checked wool of his breeks. That done, he bobbed his head to Mordec. "I thank you kindly," he said. "You've always made a prime host, that you have, but you've outdone yourself now, times being so hard for you. To the ravens with me if I know how I can pay you back."

"Your company is enough," said Verina, determined to make everything seem as smooth as it could.

But Mordec shook his head. "If you want to repay me, Loarn, spread the word of what's happened here in the south far and wide, so the rest of Cimmeria does learn of it."

"I'd do that anyhow, for my own honor's sake," said the tinker. "I'll gladly do it for yours as well."

At Mordec's direction, Conan brought Loarn blankets and a pillow, so the guest
could stretch out on the floor by the forge, whose banked fire and hot brickwork would help keep him warm through the night. Giving Loarn a pillow meant Conan himself would go without one, but he did not grudge the peddler the best the house had to offer. Hospitality toward friends was as important a duty as vengeance against enemies.

Thirst for that vengeance made Conan's blood boil as he waited for sleep in his narrow bed. He imagined Count Stercus abusing Tarla rather than the girl from Rosinish. He imagined himself slaughtering Stercus and all the Gundermen and Bossonians who followed him. Such gore-soaked images helped soothe the boy, as softer toys might have soothed children in softer lands.

For his part, Mordec was also a long time finding slumber.

What would the Cimmerians still free do when they learned some of their cousins had passed into Aquilonian dominion? The blacksmith hoped such news would inflame them to come to their countrymen's rescue. That was what he hoped, but how much truth mingled with hope? The rest of the Cimmerians might easily decide the men of the south had proved themselves weaklings who deserved whatever happened to them. Like its god, this country's people had scant forgiveness in them, scant tolerance for weakness.

But they did have the barbarian's innate love of freedom. Mordec pinned his hopes there. Surely the other Cimmerians would see that, if one part of their land fell under King Numedides' iron first, the rest could easily follow. Surely they would want to make sure such a disaster did not befall them. Surely they would ―would they not?

Grunting worriedly as sleep overtook him, Mordec at last began to snore.

Chapter Five

Wolves and Demon

Winter came early to Cimmeria, as it did more winters than not. Winds howled down from the north, from the ever-frozen lands of Vanaheim and Asgard. When
times got hard, red-haired and blond wolves who ran on two legs might swoop down on Cimmeria to carry off what they could. In a usual year, men from southern Cimmeria could fare north to help drive back the marauders, who even to them seemed savage. Now, though, with Count Stercus and the colonists carving out a toehold for King Numedides of Aquilonia here in the south, the clans near the northern borders would have to shift for themselves if danger came their way.

No word of rampaging AEsir or Vanir came down to Duthil: only one blizzard after another, blizzards that piled the snow in thick drifts and left trees so covered in white, their greenery all but disappeared. Hunting was hard. Even moving was often hard. Winter was the bleak time of the year, the time when folk lived on what they had brought in during the harvest and hoped they would not have to eat next year's seed grain to keep from starving.

For those who did not make their living directly from the fields, those like Conan and his family, winter was an even chancier season than for most others. If people had not the rye and oats to give Mordec for his labor, what were he and Conan and Verina to do? They had had hungry winters before. This looked like another one.

Despite the drifted snow, Conan went hunting whenever he could. Against the cold, he wore sheepskin trousers and a jacket made from the hides of wolves Mordec had slain. A wolfskin cap with earflaps warded his head against winter.

Felt boots worn too large and stuffed with wool kept his feet warm.

Even with all that cold-weather gear, he still shivered as he left the smithy. The icy weather outside seemed to bite all the harder after the heat that poured from Mordec's forge. Now, instead of the fire in that forge. Conan's breath smoked.

"Out hunting, Conan?" That was Tarla, the daughter of Balarg the weaver, scooping clean, fresh snow into buckets to bring it indoors to melt for drinking and cooking water.

He nodded. "Aye," he said, and even the one word seemed a great speech to him.

The girl's smile was like a moment of sunshine from some warmer country.

"Good fortune go with you, then," she said.

Awkwardly, Conan dipped his head. "Thanks," he said, and hurried away toward the woods.

Not far from Duthil stood the encampment full of Bossonians and Gundermen.

By now, it seemed as much a fixture on the landscape as the village itself.

Sentries stood guard beyond the palisade around the cabins that had replaced the soldiers' tents. One of them waved to Conan as he went off toward the forest. He pretended not to see. Waving back would have been confessing friendship for the invaders.

He had not been in the woods for long before he heard Aquilonian voices cursing.

He slipped silently through the trees toward the sound. A supply wagon on the way up from Fort Venarium to the smaller camp outside of Duthil had bogged down in deep snow.

"Don't do that!" said a guard as the driver raised his whip to try to lash the horses forward. "Can't you see we need to clear a path for them?"

"Mitra! Let them work. Why should I?" said the driver. "This weather's not fit for beasts and barbarians, let alone for honest men to be out and about in."

Conan did not follow all of that―his grasp of the invaders' tongue was far from what it might have been, though nonetheless surprising for one with but a few months of informal and sketchily acquired knowledge behind him. The gist, though, seemed plain enough. Snarling deep in his throat, he reached over his shoulder for an arrow. He could not have said whether he wished to shoot the driver more on account of his scorn for Cimmerians or his callousness toward the team.

In the end, he did not loose the shaft that would have drunk the soldier's life.

Driver and guard never knew their lives stood for a long moment on the razor's edge. They never knew one of the barbarians they despised had stood close enough to kill them, but had mastered his murderous rage and moved on. Silent as snowfall, Conan glided deeper into the forest. He had come forth to hunt game, not men.

Snow buntings chirped in the trees. They were some of the few birds that did not flee to warmer climes when winter came. Conan was fond of them because of that. Even as woodswise as he was, he had a hard time spying them. They were white and buff, almost invisible in the snow. Only when they flew did their black wingtips give them away. Those wingtips reminded him of an ermine's nose and tail tip, which stayed dark even after the rest of the creature went white to match the winter background.

If he got hungry enough, he supposed a stew of snow buntings would keep him from starving. But he would have wanted to frighten them into nets, not try to shoot them on the wing. They were swift and agile flyers, and no one bird had much in the way of meat. The arrows he lost were unlikely to repay the catch he made.

He did keep his eyes open not for ermine but for other creatures that went white when winter came: plump hares and the ptarmigan that feasted on pine and spruce needles through the cold weather. The hares' black eyes and noses and the black outer tail feathers of the ptarmigan sometimes betrayed them to the alert hunter.

Because of what they ate at this season, ptarmigan were less tasty in winter than in summer, but they were meat, tasty or not, and a hungry man could not be choosy.

No one and nothing hungry could be choosy in wintertime. Only little by little did Conan realize he had gone from hunter to hunted. He had heard wolves howl several times that day, but not so near as to be alarming. Hearing those howls in the distance lulled him for longer than it should have when he heard them closer.

Thus it was with a start of horror that he realized a pack had found his trail.

His first impulse, like that of any hunted wild creature, was to run like the wind in a desperate search for escape. He mastered it, as he had mastered the urge to murder. Both would have given momentary satisfaction, and both would have brought disaster in their wake. Wolves could outrun men. Any man who reckoned otherwise but doomed himself.

Instead of running wild and exhausting himself, Conan moved with grim purpose, seeking a spot where he might make a stand against the beasts to which he was
but so much meat. And, before long, he found one. Had he fled blindly, he might well have dashed past without realizing it was there.

Two boulders, each of them taller than a man, came together to leave a space between them shaped like a sword point, protecting him from either side. At the very tip, where there would have been an opening, stood the trunk of a tall spruce, against which he set his back. He had his bow, his arrows, and on his belt a long knife his father had forged. The wolves had their teeth and claws. They also had the innate ferocity of the wild. They had it, and so did he.

Their voices rose to high, excited howls when they realized they had brought him to bay. The first wolf loped toward him, snow flying up from under its feet, red tongue lolling out of its red mouth, slaver dripping from yellowish fangs, amber eyes gleaming with hate and hunger.

The pack leader leaped. Conan let fly. He shot it full in the chest with the one envenomed arrow he carried. He had to be sure, certain sure, of this kill. So potent was the poison that the wolf had time for but the bare beginning of a startled yip before it slammed down dead on the snow. Its blood steamed scarlet beneath it.

Conan's next shaft, driven by all the power in his smithy-trained arms, was in the air less than half a heartbeat later. It sank almost to the fletching in the eye of the wolf closest behind the leader. That beast, too, died in the instant of its wounding.

The third arrow, also quickly shot, sank deep into the flank of the next nearest wolf. That was not a mortal shot, but the wolf belled in pain and ran from the man-thing who had inflicted such torment on it.

Three more shafts saw another wolf dead, one wounded, and one arrow flying far but futilely. Some of the yet unhurt wolves began tearing at the carcasses of a fallen comrade. In this desperate time of year, meat was meat, come whence it might. Gore stained the snow. Conan shot another wolf, and yet another, even as they fed.

But more of them kept him in their bestial minds. One sprang over the corpse of the first wolf he had shot while he reached for a fresh arrow. A civilized man would have gone on with the motion, knowing he would complete it too late, or
else would have hesitated before throwing down the bow and snatching knife from scabbard ―and, hesitating, would have been undone.

No hesitation lived in Conan. With the quicksilver instincts of the barbarian, he abandoned bow for knife, stabbing deep into the wolfs side even as it overbore him. Its rank breath stank in his nostrils as it snapped, trying to tear out his throat.

He held its horrible head away from him as he drove the knife home again and again, until his right arm was red with blood to the elbow.

All at once, the wolf decided it wanted no part of him, and tried to break away rather than to slay. Too late, for its legs no longer cared to bear its weight. It sank down lifeless on top of Conan.

The blacksmith's son flung its weight aside and sprang to his feet ere others could assail him. He seized his bow again and nocked an arrow, ready ― as he had been ready in the fight with Mordec ―to go on even to the death. He might die, but if he did he would die striving.

But the wolves had had enough. Those that still lived and were yet unwounded trotted off in search of easier prey. Conan's shout of triumph filled the silent forest with fierce joy. He killed two wolves that were still writhing in the snow, then went about the grisly business of skinning the brutes ― all but the one its packmates had partially devoured. That done, he also cut slabs of meat from the carcasses. At this season of the year, in this harsh country, he would have eaten worse meat than wolf, and would have been glad to have it.

Burdened as he was, he found going back to Duthil harder than coming out from the village had been. He floundered deeper into snowdrifts, and broke through crust upon which he had been able to walk. Despite the cold, he was sweating under his furs and wool by the time he finally reached his home. The heat of his father's forge, which had been so welcome in wintertime, struck him like a blow.

Mordec was striking blows of his own, on an andiron he held against the anvil with a pair of black iron tongs. The smith looked up from his labor when Conan came through the door. "Are you hale, boy?" he demanded, startled anxiety suddenly filling his voice.

Conan looked down at himself. He had not realized he was so thoroughly drenched in gore. "It's not my blood, Father," he said proudly, and set the wolf names and the butchered meat on the ground in front of him.

Mordec eyed the hides for some little while before he spoke. When at last he did, he asked, "You slew all of these yourself?"

"No one else, by Crom!" answered Conan, and he told the story with nearly as much savage vigor as he had expended in the fight against the pack.

After Conan stopped, his father was again some time silent. This time, Mordec spoke more to himself than to Conan: "I may have been wrong." Conan's eyes opened very wide, for he did not think he had ever heard his father say such a thing before. Mordec turned to him and continued, "When next we go to war, son, I shall not try to hold you back. By the look of things, you are a host in yourself."

That made Conan want to cry out in triumph again, even louder and more joyfully than he had when the wolves ran off into the woods. He said, "I will slaughter the Aquilonians, and plunder them, too."

His father still stared at the rolled-up, uncured hides and at the gobbets of meat on the floor beside them. "Maybe you will," muttered Mordec. "I am not the one to say you won't." He shook his head in slow wonder, then bestirred himself. "For now, though, go put all that in the snow behind the house. It will keep the meat and the skins from going bad."

"All right, Father." Conan moved to obey. "Wolfs flesh is not of the best, I know―"But better than nothing," interrupted Mordec. "And if it stays in the stew pot long enough, it loses some of that rank and gamy taste. Oh, and Conan―when you come back in, wash. Your clothes aren't all that's bloody."

Though no more enamored of washing than any other boy his age, Conan only nodded: a telling measure of how exhilarated, and how blood-soaked, he was. As he carried the hides and the meat out to the snow, he heard a clank as Mordec
thrust the andiron into the forge to heat it again. Soon the smith's hammer rang once more on red-hot iron. The work always went on.

Melcer's hastily cleared farm had not brought in enough to feed him and his family through their first winter in Cimmeria. He had expected nothing different.

When he came north, he had brought with him all the silver lunas he had. Those that remained now rested in a stout iron box buried under the dirt floor of the snug, securely chinked cabin he had run up.

Some of those lunas jingled in his belt pouch as he led one of his oxen toward the rapidly growing town around Fort Venarium. He went armed, of course, with a pike that doubled as a staff in his hand and with a long knife that would do duty as a shortsword on his hip. The barbarians hereabouts seemed cowed, but a man would be a fool to trust them too far, and Melcer prided himself on being no one's fool. Some of the settlers might also try to take advantage of anything they saw as weakness; he intended to show them none.

It had not snowed for several days. Enough people had traveled the road since to have cleared it of drifts. With the ground frozen hard under the snow, the going was, if anything, easier than it had been during the fall, when the roadway turned into a bottomless morass of muck and ooze. Melcer slogged along, alert for wild beasts and wilder men.

A couple of riders trotted north toward him, their mailshirts jingling every time their horses' hooves came down. He held the pike a little tighter, in case they had trouble in mind. But one of them waved, while the other touched a hand to the edge of his conical helm and called, "Mitra keep you safe on the road, stranger."

"May the god guard you as well," replied Melcer. Both horsemen waved this time as they rode on. Hoofbeats and clinking chainmail faded behind the farmer. He plodded on. So did his ox, with slow, patient, uncomplaining strides.

Seeing Venarium ―the town seemed to have taken on the name of the fort―always made Melcer want to rub his eyes. Every time he came here, it was bigger and had a more finished look. By now, it was at least as large as the market town to which he had gone in Gunderland. New buildings, new businesses, sprang up like mushrooms after a rain.

As the farmer walked into town, he saw an Aquilonian knight carrying new horse tackle out of a saddlery that had not existed the last time he came into Venarium.

Next door, a farrier in an equally new establishment was shoeing the knight's charger. The horse snorted indignantly as the man drove nails into its hoof.

"Hush, my beauty―you know it doesn't hurt a bit," said the farrier, and went right on with what he was doing. After that one protest, the big chestnut let him do it.

In the same way that some men had a gift with women, others had a gift with horses.

A woman who looked too prosperous to be a farmer's wife was haggling with a cloth merchant over a length of brocade. Perhaps she was married to one of the other tradesmen in Venarium, perhaps to an officer who had brought her up from the south. A Cimmerian in a pantherskin coat that came down to his knees, a barbaric garment if ever there was one, came out of the cloth merchant's shop carrying a shirt of lustrous green silk, a shirt he might have worn if presented at the court of King Numedides. Civilization spread in strange ways.

When Melcer saw the Cimmerian, his grip on the pike tightened again. But the man of the north was in anything but a warlike mood. Pleased with his purchase, he beamed at Melcer as he walked by. The farmer, caught off guard, smiled back.

Out in the woods, he would not have trusted the barbarian for an instant―though the youngster called Conan had caused him no trouble in several visits to his farm. Here in Venarium, even a full-grown Cimmerian seemed safe enough.

So Melcer thought, at any rate, until he rounded a corner and espied a drunken Cimmerian sprawled, oblivious to the world around him, outside the door to one of the many taverns in the new town. A blond Gunderman, at least as sodden, lay beside him in the gutter. Venarium might bring barbarians to civilization, but it also dragged civilized men down to barbarism.

Melcer made his way to a miller's a few doors beyond the tavern. There he bought flour poured into sacks of coarse canvas. He lashed them onto the ox's back, then led it in the direction of the fort. It followed. What choice did it have? It was but a slave. Melcer prided himself on his freedom.

He had to pause at a corner while soldiers led manacled Cimmerian captives toward Fort Venarium. They too would be slaves, either here or down in the
mines of Aquilonia. A short life, that, but not a merry one. The difference between the ox and the barbarians was that they had known freedom's sweetness, and knew it was taken from them.

Melcer stopped at a shop that sold what it called notions: little things of the sort a farmer was ill-equipped to make for himself. Melcer bought some fine iron needles for Evlea; she was down to the last one fetched from Gunderland, and had talked about making more from bone. He also bought her a sachet of dried rose petals. Drying flowers in the cool damp of Cimmeria was a losing proposition.

And, to give their food a little extra savor, he bought some spices that had made the long journey from Iranistan to Aquilonia and then to the frontier.

How much the spices cost jolted him. The man who ran the shop only shrugged his shoulders. "What I have to sell is what bandits did not steal and what kings did not confiscate." he said. "You pay for all the hardships and robberies on the road."

"What did you pay for your goods?" asked Melcer.

"Less than I'm charging you," answered the merchant. "If you think I will tell you otherwise, you are wrong. I have not seen it written anywhere in the stars that I am not allowed to make a living."

He sent Melcer a challenging stare. Since he was so frank about what he was doing, Melcer saw no real way to quarrel with him. The farmer did ask, "How much would I have to give for pepper and cinnamon in some other shop here?"

"Go ahead and try, friend, and good luck to you," said the other man. "Good luck finding them at all, first. And if you find them for less, bring back what you bought from me and I will give back your money."

That convinced Melcer not to waste his time trying. He led the ox down the street to a tavern that had no drunks from any nation lying sozzled outside it. He tied the beast to a pillar supporting the entrance, then strode inside and ordered a mug of ale. He sat down where he could keep an eye on the ox. It had only the flour on its back; the smaller things he had bought he kept with him. But even an ox with nothing on its back might tempt a thief.

When the Gunderman finished that first mug of ale, he bought himself a second.

When he finished the second, the pretty barmaid who had brought it came back with a broad, inviting, expectant smile. Instead of ordering a third, he got up and walked out of the tavern. The smiling barmaid cursed him behind his back.

Pretending not to hear, Melcer kept walking. He untied the ox and started back to his farm.

He was inside the forest again and within a mile of his own land when an arrow hissed past his face and thudded into the bole of a fir to his right. He clutched his pike and stared in the direction from which the shaft had come. He saw nothing.

He heard nothing. A ghost might have drawn the bow. He pounded that way anyhow. If a brigand wanted him, he would go down fighting.

After a few strides through ever thicker snow, he did hear something: laughter.

Snowshoes on his feet, Conan emerged from behind a pine. "You jump!" he shouted in his bad Aquilonian. "You jump high!" He imitated Melcer's reaction, then laughed harder than ever.

"Of course I jumped, you cursed son of a dog!" shouted Melcer. "You could have killed me!"

Conan only nodded at that. "Could have killed, yes. Did not kill. Too easy. No-"

He said something in his own language, then frowned, looking for a way to put it into Melcer's. When he brightened, the farmer knew he had found it. "No sport. Is a word, sport?"

"Yes, sport's a word," growled Melcer. "Come down here and I'll warm your behind for you, you damned murderous savage. I'll teach you words, by Mitra!"

Only after he had spoken did he wonder how wise he was to revile a fiery young barbarian with a bow in his hands, especially when the boy had already shown a regrettable talent for archery. Conan studied him watchfully. "You not afraid?" he asked at last.

"Afraid? Hell, no!" said Melcer. "What I am is furious. You come down here and

I will wallop you. You deserve it, too."

To his surprise, Conan nodded to him, a nod that was almost a bow. "You brave man," said the Cimmerian. "I not play games with you no more." His voice remained a boy's treble, but it held a man's conviction. Melcer believed him without reservation. Then the barbarian added. "Not shoot at you till war time."

Before Melcer could find an answer to that, Conan ducked behind the pine once more. He did not come out. He said nothing further. The farmer did not see him move deeper into the woods, but at last decided that was what he must have done.

Melcer wished he could match the boy in woodcraft.

Shaking his head, the Gunderman went back to the placidly waiting ox. He broke off the arrow's shaft close to the tree trunk. Then he had another thought, and used his knife to dig out the iron arrowhead. How far it had penetrated surprised him anew; Conan might be a beardless boy, but he boasted a man's strength. Melcer put the arrowhead in his belt pouch. It was one, at least, that Conan would not shoot at him in war.

Melcer picked up the lead rope he had dropped. "Come on!" he told the ox. They walked on toward his farm.

Duthil had never boasted a tavern. No one could make a living selling ale there, not when so many families did their own brewing. When the villagers wanted to hash out the way things wagged in the world over a few mugs of amber ale, they gathered at the home of one man or another.

Mordec put down his hammer after finishing work on a stout iron hinge. He left the shop at the front of his own house, slogged through the snow between the door and the street, and walked along until he came to Balarg's home. No Aquilonian soldiers were anywhere in the village. Since the blizzards started rolling in every week or so, the men from the south had been content, even eager, to stay in their own encampment. To them, this was dreadful weather. Mordec chuckled grimly. To him, it was only another winter, worse than some but milder than a good many others.

He knocked at Balarg's door. The weaver opened it. "Come in, come in," he said.

"Don't let the heat from the hearth leak out."

"I thank you," answered Mordec. Balarg made haste to shut the door behind him.

The two men were careful around each other. Mordec, the stronger of the two, was clever enough to realize Balarg was more clever. And Balarg, for his part, was clever enough to understand not everything in Duthil yielded to cleverness; sometimes ― often ― straightforward smashing best solved a problem.

"Ale?" asked the weaver.

"Don't mind if I do," said Mordec. Balarg waved to the pitcher and mugs set up on a table by his loom. Mordec filled a mug, took a strip of smoked meat from a tray by the pitcher, and perched on a stool not far from the fireplace. Along with Balarg, four other men sat in the chamber: three villagers and a stranger, a rugged man whose checked breeks were woven in a pattern worn by a northern clan.

After a sip from the mug, the blacksmith asked. "Anyone else coming?"

"I invited Nectan," answered Balarg. "Whether he'll come ― He shrugged. So did Mordec. Nectan was a shepherd, and stayed out with his sheep in all weather unless he could find someone to watch them while he left the flock.

Mordec's gaze slipped to the man who did not come from the village. "And our friend is―?"

Before Balarg could answer, the stranger spoke for himself: "My name is Herth."

His voice was almost as deep as Mordec's. "I come from Garvard, up near the border with the AEsir."

Slowly, deliberately, Mordec took his measure. "You are a chieftain there, or I miss my guess," he said, and Herth did not deny it. After another pull at his ale, Mordec said, "It's a long way from Garvard to Duthil. What are you doing here?"

"Now, Mordec," said Balarg.

"It's all right," said Herth, but, before he could say anything more, another knock resounded.

Balarg opened the door. "Nectan!" he exclaimed. "I thought we'd have to do without you. Who's minding the flock?"

"Why, the blacksmith's son." Nectan pointed toward Mordec.

"Is he?" said Mordec. "Just as well, by Crom. Otherwise, Conan would insist on being here."

"Yes, so he would." Balarg's voice had an edge to it, though one so slight that Mordec thought he was the only man in the room who caught it. The weaver must have noticed the way Conan looked at his daughter. One of these days, he and Mordec would have to sit down and decide what would spring from that―if Conan didn't take matters into his own hands by running off with the girl.

Nectan poured himself some ale and started gnawing on a strip of mutton. When he pulled a stool close to the fire, Mordec slid aside to make room for him. He had been out in the cold and the wind for a long time, and had earned the warmth now.

Herth said, "A tinker named Loarn told me what had passed here. I decided to come down and see for myself, and I find it is so. Yellow-haired soldiers who spoke in grunts and trills put their hands on me not far north of here, and I had to bear the insult, for they were many and I but one. Yet though I had to bear it then, I shall not forget it."

"As you say, they are many," answered Mordec. "For now, we also have to bear it, though we shall not forget, either."

"But the longer we bear it, the stronger the Aquilonians become," said Balarg.

"Aye, that's so, curse them," said Nectan, and the other men of Duthil nodded.

The shepherd went on, "The fortress they build, the place they call Venarium"―he pronounced the foreign name with an odd kind of contemptuous care ―"has already grown harder to take than any hill fort of our folk." He sipped from his ale, then inclined his head to Herth. "Have you seen it?"

"Not yet," replied the northern chieftain. "No, not yet, though I intend to before I go back to my own country."

"Now that you have seen this much, what will you do up in the north?" asked Mordec.

"What needs doing," said Herth. "Loarn spoke somewhat of rousing the clans. By Crom, he roused me, but not everyone cares to hearken to a landless wanderer who makes his living, such as it is, by patching pans and fixing broken jugs."

"What he does, he does well," observed Mordec. "When you speak of a man, you could say worse."

Herth's gaze might have been a swordblade. The blacksmith's might have been another. When they clashed, sparks flew. From off to one side, Balarg said, "Here, friends, it is of no great importance."

Mordec did not reply. He kept his eyes on Herth. After a few heartbeats, the chieftain was the one who looked away, saying, "Well, perhaps it is not. But I say this, and say it true: when I travel through Cimmeria, men will hearken to me."

He had a clan chiefs pride, sure enough.

"Hearkening is one thing," said Nectan. "Moving is another. Once they have hearkened, will they move?"

"Oh, yes." Herth spoke softly, but with great certainty. "You may rely on that, friend shepherd. Once they have hearkened, they will move."

Conan stood on a hilltop, watching the sheep on the hillside pawing their way down through the snow to get at the grass beneath it. He also watched the woods not far away. If wolves came trotting forth, he had his bow and he had Nectan's stout staff with which to fight them. The staff was of some hard, dark wood with which Conan was unfamiliar. It was shod with silver. "Keep it safe, lad," the shepherd had said when he handed it to Conan. "You'd leave me a poorer man if you should lose it."

A small fire burned close by, sheltered from the north wind by several tall stones.

Conan stooped and tossed a few more branches onto the flames. The fire did not give a great deal of warmth, but Nectan had kept it going, and Conan wanted to maintain everything as the shepherd had had it. Nectan doubtless cooked over it and slept beside it. Having to start it afresh in this raw weather would be a nuisance for him.

For that matter, if Nectan did not come back from Duthil until the morrow, the blacksmith's son would have to cook on the fire and sleep by it himself. Nectan had said he would return before sundown, but Conan had seen that promises, however well meant when made, were not always to be relied upon.

Something flew past overhead. Conan did not pay much heed. The greatest eagle might perhaps carry off a newborn lamb, but lambing season was still months away, and no bird ever hatched could hope to seize a full-grown sheep and fly away with it. So Conan thought, at any rate, but the flying thing stooped like a falcon. A stout ewe let out a sudden bleat of agony.

Whatever the creature struggling to lift the sheep into the air was, it was no bird.

Its huge wings were black and membranous, while a pair of pointed ears pricked up above its fiercely glowing red eyes. When it snarled, it showed a mouth full of teeth like needles and razors and knives.

Bat? Demon? Conan could not have said, nor did he much care. All he knew was that the thing was harming one of Nectan's sheep. Stringing his bow was the matter of a moment. Letting fly took even less time. His arrow flew straight and true, and sank to the fletching in the flying thing's flank.

It sank to the fletching―but the creature, apparently unharmed, kept right on flapping, trying to take off with the ewe it had chosen. Conan shot again. The second shaft struck within a palm's breadth of the first, but had no more effect. No normal living thing could have withstood such wounds without woe.

"Demon! Filthy, cursed demon from the darkest pits of hell!" cried Conan. He threw down his bow, snatched up a blazing brand from the fire, and ran not away from the thing but towards it, shouting his defiance of anything from this plane or any other that tried to steal what he had vowed to protect. It screamed, let go of
the ewe, and flapped toward him.

The foul stench of it almost knocked him off his feet. Reeling, he lashed out with Nectan's staff. The silver at the base of that length of wood thudded against the creature's ribs. Iron-tipped arrows had done Conan no good, but the demon shrieked in anguish at the touch of silver.

"Ha!" cried Conan. He swung again, and again struck home. Suddenly, the demon wanted no more of this man-thing who dealt it such cruel blows. However hungry it might have been, no meal was worth the torment it took from silver. Screaming now in fright, it turned to flee.

But Conan struck again, this time with the burning branch he bore in his left hand.

He let out a great bull roar of triumph, for the demon caught fire and burned like a torch. It flew off, still screaming and still burning. Somewhere up above the woods, it could fly no more, and plunged to earth. Conan thought he heard a hiss arise when it slammed into the snow, a hiss like that when his father plunged hot iron into a tempering bath. He might have been wrong, but he believed as much until the end of his days.

Having driven off the demon, he hurried to the sheep it had tried to steal. He tended the cuts and bites as best he could, pouring ale from his drinking flask over them to try to keep the wounds from going bad. The ewe repaid his kindness by kicking him just below the knee. The sheep's thick coat of winter wool had likely gone a long way toward saving its life by shielding it from some of the damage the flying demon's teeth and talons might otherwise have worked.

When Nectan returned not long before sunset, he saw at once the blood on the ewe's flanks. "By Crom, Conan, did you fall asleep here?" he demanded angrily.

"I'll thump you with my staff if you did."

"By Babd, Morrigan, Macha, and Nemain, I did not!" exclaimed Conan, and told the tale of the fight with the demon.

Nectan listened without a word. Then he went to the ewe and stooped to examine its injuries. When he straightened, his face was troubled. "Those are not the marks of wolf or panther, nor yet of any eagle," he said slowly. "Perhaps you speak
truth, where I thought you lied."

"I do," said Conan. "It most misliked the silver at the end of your staff."

"Silver and fire are sovereign against demons, or so I've heard." Nectan shook his head in wonder. "I own I never thought to put it to the test."

Chapter Six

The Hunters

Spring came late to Cimmeria, especially to one used to the warmer clime of Aquilonia. Indeed, to Count Stercus what the calendar called spring hardly seemed worthy of the name. True, the sky was gray longer than it was black, where the opposite had held true through the seemingly unending winter. True also, the snow at last stopped falling and then, with even more reluctance, began to melt.

But there was no great burgeoning of life, as there would have been farther south.

The trees did not burst into bright green leaf. They were evergreens, and had kept such gloomy color as they originally owned all through the winter, though snow had hidden much of it. Little by little, fresh grass did begin to poke up through the dead and yellow growth of the previous year, but the process was so gradual that days went by without much perceptible change. And birdsongs other than owls'

hoots, hunting hawks' harsh cries, and the croaking and chirring calls of grouse and ptarmigan started to sweeten the air.

Birdsongs, however, left Stercus cold. Almost everything that had to do with Cimmeria left Stercus cold. He had written at least a score of letters to King Numedides and to everyone else in Tarantia who might have had influence with the King of Aquilonia, all of them requesting, pleading―begging―that he be recalled to a civilized country once more.

Even' one of those letters had fallen on deaf ears. Oh, through one of his secretaries Numedides had replied, but only to say that, as Stercus had done such a fine job in the north up to this time, who better to continue to oversee the
growth of the Aquilonian settlements there? Count Stercus would not soon see civilization again.

For a little while longer, his sport with Ugaine sufficed to amuse him, to distract him. But the Cimmerian girl was not exactly what he wanted, and for Stercus anything that was not exactly what he wanted soon became something he wanted not at all. When he tired of Ugaine, he sent her back to her home village, though she protested he did her no favors by returning her.

In that, she was mistaken. Fortunately for her, she did not know and never learned how mistaken she was. There were reasons, good reasons, why Stercus had been sent beyond the Aquilonian frontier, why he was unlikely ever to be welcome in Tarantia or even some provincial town of Aquilonia ever again. It was not least because he still so vividly recalled the reasons for his exile that the nobleman had sent Ugaine to Rosinish instead of adding further to his remarkable reputation.

Then, too, the girl was already too old to be altogether satisfying or satisfactory.

After he banished her from Venarium, he spent some little while brooding: even if she was not exactly what he had had in mind, had she not come close enough?

By the time he began to wonder, it was too late for such worries anyhow, since he had already sent her away-And, in any case, he decided he had been right all along. He wanted what he wanted, no less. Some imperfect substitute simply was not good enough.

Having sent Ugaine back to barbarism, Stercus tried throwing himself into the administration of the lands his soldiers had seized from the Cimmerians. For a few weeks, a stream of directives flew from his pen to the garrison commanders in the conquered territory and to the leaders of the colonists. Then that burst of activity also slackened. The colonists were busy turning their new farms and settlements into going concerns. The officers knew enough to keep their men alert and well fed and healthy without Stercus' telling them to do so. Some of them sent back letters saying as much in very blunt terms.

Count Stercus was no trained, professional soldier, though like any Aquilonian noble he was expected to know enough of the military art to help defend the kingdom in case of invasion. Trained or not, however, he was King Numedides'

chosen commander in this gods-forsaken part of the world, however little that
delighted him. If he chose to ride forth on an inspection tour to investigate whether the garrison commanders were doing all they said they were to keep the countryside safe, who could gainsay him? No one.

And if, on that tour, he chose to inspect and investigate certain other matters, certain more personal matters ― again, who could gainsay him? Again, no one.

No one at all.

Granth son of Biemur was taking his turn at sentry-go at the Aquilonian encampment outside of Duthil. Everything there was quiet, which suited him down to the ground. If the barbarians got used to the idea that they had been beaten, they were less likely to shoot a man from ambush or sneak up behind him and slit his throat.

Also, the weather was such that Granth found standing sentry no hardship, as he had during the long, hard winter. The sunshine that poured down on him was watery, but it was sunshine nonetheless: here in Cimmeria, something to be cherished. He tilted his helm back on his head to bask in it as best he could.

"You think you'll be handsome when you're tan?" said Vulth. "I'm here to tell you, forget about that. You'll just be ugly and tan."

Granth glowered at his cousin. "You mean, like you?"

After that, it was Vulth's turn to scowl. The two Bossonian bowmen with whom they shared the watch snickered. Benno said, "We haven't fought the Cimmerians for a while, so you two want to have a go at each other."

Before Granth could come up with something suitably crushing―with luck, something that insulted both Benno and Vulth, and maybe Daverio as well ―the sound of hoofbeats distracted him. A horseman emerged from the woods to the south and trotted toward the encampment. The horse was a big Aquilonian destrier, not one of the shaggy local ponies that often seemed too small for their big-boned Cimmerian riders.

Eyeing the charger made him slow to give heed to the man aboard it. When he
did, he frantically stiffened to attention. "Heads up, you dogs!" he hissed to his cousin and the Bossonians. "That's Count Stercus, or I'm a black Kushite!"

Vulth and the bowmen almost did themselves an injury by straightening up while at the same time pretending they had never slouched. Count Stercus' pale, nearly handsome face was unreadable as he reined in. But he did not call the pikemen and archers to account. Instead, pointing toward the Cimmerian village ahead, he asked, "That is the place called Duthil, is it not so?"

Vulth was the senior sentry. "Yes, your Grace, it is," he replied, looking as if he wished someone else could speak for him.

That Stercus' eyes were set too close together only made his stare the more piercing. Granth felt glad all the way down to his boots that that stare was not aimed at him. Vulth had done nothing wrong, and had spoken with all respect due Stercus' rank. Even so, Stercus seemed to be sharpening knives for Granth's cousin in his mind.

Yet the Aquilonian nobleman's words were mild enough: "Be so good as to let your commander know I am riding into that village. I aim to know in full the lands we have taken for King Numedides, and everyone in them." The way he said "everyone" made Granth want to hide. Stercus continued, "If by some mischance I do not ride out of Duthil, avenge me in full upon the barbarians." He urged his horse forward. Saddle trappings clinking and clattering, it trotted on toward the Cimmerian village.

"Mitra!" exploded Vulth once Stercus had ridden out of earshot. "He chills the marrow in your bones."

"As long as he chills the Cimmerians worse," said Granth.

"Ah, no." Daverio slyly shook his head. "He wants to warm the Cimmerians up.

Or do you forget the native wench he had for himself down at Fort Venarium?"

"I remember her," said Granth. "She was no wench, only a chit of a girl. And he did not let her wear enough in the way of clothes to stay warm."

The Bossonian shook his head again and laughed. "Are you really so young and innocent? There is warm, and then there is warm." He stuck his elbow in Granth's ribs and leered. "You know what I mean, eh?"

"I know what you mean," growled Granth. "And I know if you poke me again, I'll wrap your damned bowstring around your neck."

"I'm not afraid," said Daverio, bristling.

"Enough, both of you," said Vulth. "You don't want to quarrel while Stercus is around. If he catches you at it, he'll string you up by the thumbs and roast you over a slow fire ― and that's if he doesn't decide to do something really juicy instead."

Granth watched the Aquilonian commander ride into Duthil. He breathed a sigh of relief when the first Cimmerian huts hid Count Stercus from view. If he could not see Stercus, Stercus could not see him, either. He wished the commander were back in Fort Venarium, but simply having him out of sight would do for now.

Conan ran like the wind after the ball, his mane of coal-black hair streaming out behind him. The ball was stuffed with rags and covered with scraps of old leather begged or stolen from here and there and then erratically stitched together by the boys of Duthil. If they wanted to play games, they had to make their own arrangements. They had to ―and they did.

Another lad kicked the ball up the street just before Conan got to it. Conan lowered his shoulder and knocked the other boy sprawling in the mud. The boy was on his feet and running again a heartbeat later. If he could pay Conan back, he would. Conan's clothes were already muddy, but not so muddy as those of the other boys in the game. With his size and strength and speed, it usually took at least two of them to knock him down.

He effortlessly outsped the boy he had flattened. Girls and women and a few men stood in doorways, watching the sport. Sometimes the men would rush into the game, too. Then it would get very rough. Conan waved to Tarla as he sprinted
past Balarg's house. He thought she waved back―oh, how he hoped she waved back―but she blurred past before he could be sure.

Two boys between him and the ball. Instead of going after it himself, the closer boy tried to block Conan. Conan might have feinted one way and dodged the other. He might simply have slipped past. Instead, without breaking stride, he smashed into the other boy chest to chest. With a startled yelp of dismay, his foe went flying. Conan ran on.

"Oh, nicely done!" called someone from behind him. Was that Tarla's voice? He thought so. He hoped so. But he did not look back. Instead, he ran harder than ever.

He bore down on the ball with such ferocity that the last boy who was nearer to it dove out of the way to keep from being trampled. Conan guided the ball forward with the side of his foot. One more boy stood between him and the goal, which was no more than the space between two rocks plopped down in the mud of the street. The boy set himself, but his face said he had no hope of stopping the hurtling missile that would momentarily fly his way.

And yet the goal was never scored. In the same instant as Conan drew back his foot for the last kick, a rider on horseback trotted into Duthil: a rider on a horse so astonishing, the blacksmith's son skidded to a stop and simply stared, all but unable to believe his eyes.

Horses in Cimmeria were few and far between. This great snorting monster was almost man-high at the shoulder, which put its rider high as a god above the ground. That rider stared down at Conan from an elevation even his tall father had been unable to match since the boy was much younger.

The Aquilonian horseman had a long, pale, big-nosed face with a receding chin partly concealed by a thin fringe of beard and with eyes set too close together.

When he spoke, he startled Conan by using Cimmerian: "Get out of my way, boy."

He urged the horse forward. Oman's surprise and that huge beast bearing down on him made him jump aside. Had he not, the Aquilonian would have ridden him
down. He was as sure of that as of his own name. Even so, shame at giving way brought fire to his cheeks. He hurried after the rider― the knight, Aquilonians called such armored horsemen ―and spoke in the invaders' language: "Who are you? What you do here?"

Hearing Aquilonian made the man on horseback rein in. He gave Conan a second glance ―gave him, in fact, what was almost a first glance, for he had paid him little heed up until then. "I am Count Stercus, commander of all the Aquilonians in Cimmeria, and I have come to see how the village of Duthil prospers under the rule of the great and good King Numedides," he answered, and paused to find out whether Conan understood. Conan did―well enough, anyhow. Seeing as much, Stercus asked, "And who are you, and how did you learn this speech?"

"Conan, son of Mordec the blacksmith." To Conan, his father's trade was at least as important as Stercus' noble blood. With a shrug, he went on, "How I learn? I hear, I listen, I talk. How you learn Cimmerian?"

A civilized man, even a civilized boy, would have known better than to challenge thus the leader of the host that had subjected his folk, but Conan was familiar with only the rude frankness of the barbarian. And his candor seemed to amuse Count Stercus, whose smile illuminated every part of his face but those dark, fathomless eyes. "How do I learn?" he echoed in Cimmerian considerably more fluent than Conan's all but grammarless Aquilonian. "I also hear and listen and speak. And I have had most excellent, most lovely, most charming teachers. You may be sure of that."

Although Conan was anything but sure of precisely what Stercus meant, he did get the feeling hidden meanings lurked in the Aquilonian's words. That in itself was plenty to rouse his easily kindled temper: why could the man not come straight out and say whatever was in his mind? Roughly, Conan asked, "When are you people going to leave Cimmeria? This not your country."

Again, that was forthrightness no civilized man would have shown. Again, it but amused Stercus, who threw back his head and laughed uproariously. "Leave, boy?

We shall never leave. I told you, this is King Numedides' land now."

He rode down the street; his horse's hooves, almost as big as dinner plates,
clopped and squelched through the mud.

Conan spied a fist-sized stone near a house. He could take it and hurl it and perhaps lay even an armored man low with it―but what if he did? The soldiers in the encampment outside of Duthil would wreak a fearful vengeance, and his own people lacked the warriors to hope to withstand them. Hate smoldering in his heart, Conan followed Stercus.

The Aquilonian continued along the street at a slow walk, an expression of disdain on his face. None of the other boys who had been kicking the ball dared impede him, even for a moment. Conan stayed close to Stercus until the knight reined in once more, in front of the home of Balarg the weaver.

He bowed in the saddle there, something Conan had not only never seen but never imagined. "Hello, my pretty," he murmured in Cimmerian suddenly sweet as honey. "What is your name?"

"Tarla," answered the girl still standing in the doorway. She stared at the horse, too, and stared even more at the man atop it.

"Tarla," repeated Count Stercus. In his mouth, it might have been a caress. "What a lovely name."

Conan discovered he had only thought he hated the Aquilonian nobleman. Now, with jealousy tearing at him like acid venom, he would gladly have stuffed Stercus into his father's forge and worked the bellows for a hotter fire with a will he had never shown while helping Mordec to forge a sword or an andiron.

Tarla murmured in confusion and what was obviously pleasure. No one in the rude village of Duthil had ever paid her such a compliment before. Conan knew too well he had not, and wondered why. The answer was not hard to find: he had no more imagined such candied words than he had a bow from horseback. What the folk who had it called civilization knew wiles subtler and more clinging and perhaps more deadly than a spider's web.

With another seated bow, Stercus continued, "I had not looked for so fair a flower
in these parts, even in springtime. I must come back again soon, to see how you bloom."

Tarla murmured again, in even more confusion. Stercus urged his horse forward.

As he rode on through Duthil, he turned and waved to the weaver's daughter.

Tarla started to raise her hand to return the gesture. A panther might have sunk its fangs into Conan's vitals. Tarla let her hand fall without completing the gesture, but that she had so much as begun it was a lash of scorpions to the blacksmith's son. He watched Stercus leave the village. That the Aquilonian commander failed to fall over dead proved beyond any possible doubt that looks do not, cannot, kill.

One of the slightly younger boys, to whom the byplay between Stercus and Tarla had meant nothing, kicked the ball again. It spun straight past Conan, but he heeded it not. With Stercus gone, his gaze had returned to Tarla's. He had had his share ―perhaps more than his share―of a youth's half-formed longings for a maid, and had dared hope Tarla harbored half-formed longings for him as well.

But Count Stercus had crashed in upon his dreams like a stone crashing into an earthenware jug. Stercus' longings were anything but half-formed; the Aquilonian knew exactly what he wanted ― and, very plainly, how to go about getting it.

"That is a foreign dog," snarled Conan.

Had Tarla been truly ensnared by Stercus, that outburst against him would have cost Conan the game on the spot. As things were, she shook herself like someone coming out of deep water. She nodded, but said, "No doubt he is. Still, he speaks very gently, doesn't he?"

Conan had no answer to that, or none that would not have involved the vilest curses he knew. From across the street, though, a gray-haired woman called, "Why should he speak a young girl so fair, with him a man full grown?"

Another woman said, "You know why as well as I do, Gruoch." They both cackled ― there was no other word for it.

The shrill sound filled Conan with almost as much horror as Count Stercus'

irruption into Duthil had done. Tarla's cheeks went red as ripe apples. That horrified Conan, too. The weaver's daughter drew back into her house, closing the
door behind her. Her embarrassment only made the women cackle more. Conan had not fled from serpent or wolves or Aquilonian knight. The women of his own village were another matter. They went on laughing and clucking, hardly noticing his retreat.

His father was sharpening a knifeblade against the grinding wheel when Conan came into the smithy. Sparks flew from the edge of the blade. Without looking away from what he was doing, Mordec said, "I'm glad you're back, son. We've got some firewood behind the house that needs chopping."

Firewood was the furthest thing from Conan's mind. "We have to slay all the damned Aquilonians who've come into our land!" he burst out.

"I expect we'll do our best one of these days." Now Mordec did lift the blade away from the grinding wheel. He also stopped pumping the foot pedal, so the wheel groaned to a stop. Eyeing Conan, he asked, "And what has set you to eating raw meat and breathing fire like a dragon from out of the trackless north?"

"Didn't you see him, Father?" demanded Conan in angry amazement. "Didn't you see that cursed Count Stercus ride past our doorway?"

Mordec's gaze narrowed and sharpened. "I saw an Aquilonian knight go by, yes.

Do you mean to tell me that was their commander?"

Conan nodded. "I do. It was."

His father scowled. "I hope you did not make him notice you. Remember, even the Aquilonian captain at the camp nearby warned us against this man."

"He knows I speak a little of his language. Past that, no," said Conan.

"I do not suppose that will put you in any particular danger," said Mordec. "A few of use have learned some Aquilonian, and some of the invaders can speak a bit of Cimmerian now."

"This Stercus does ―more than a bit, in fact. He knows it well," said Conan.

"I am not sure this is good news," said his father. "Those people commonly use our tongue when they want to take something from us."

"He spoke― " The words did not want to come after that, but Conan forced them out one by one: "He spoke to the weaver's daughter." He did not wish to name Tarla. If he did not, he would not need to admit, either to himself or to his father, that he cared more about her than he might have about some other girl in Duthil.

"Did he, by Crom?" said his father, and his scowl got deeper. By the way he looked at Conan, what the boy felt was no secret to him. After a moment, Mordec went on, "If Stercus spoke to Tarla, I am going to have to speak to Balarg. That man has made a name for debauching young girls ― though despite what Captain Treviranus said I did not think his gaze would light on one so young as she. But who can know? Once a man goes into the swamp, is he not likely to mire himself ever deeper?"

Conan did not follow all of that. He had only the vaguest notion of what debauching meant. All he knew was that he had not liked the way the Aquilonian looked at Tarla, and had liked the way Stercus spoke to her even less. He said, "Do you think Balarg will make her stay away from him?"

"I hope so," answered Mordec. "I would, were she my daughter. Still, Balarg is a free man―or as free a man as any of us can be, living under Numedides' yoke.

He must choose for himself. To choose well, he must know the truth." He looked down at the knife blade he had laid on the frame of the wheel. It still needed more work. Even so, shrugging, he went down the street toward the weaver's house.

He came back in less than half an hour. To Conan, the wait had seemed like an eternity. "Well?" asked the boy eagerly.

"He says he will do what he can," answered Mordec. "I do not know just what this means. I do not think Balarg knows, either. He cannot keep Tarla inside his house all day and all night. She was work to do, like anyone else in Duthil."

Had Conan had his way, he would have had Balarg wrap Tarla in a blanket and
stick her in a storeroom so Stercus' eye could never fall on her again. Or would he? If she were hidden away like that, his own eye could never fall on her again, either. In murky, misty Cimmeria, he spied the sun seldom enough as things were.

Losing sight of Tarla would be like having it torn from the sky.

Mordec set a large, hard hand on his shoulder. "We may be fretting over nothing,"

the blacksmith said. "Tomorrow, Stercus may find another girl in a different village, or even some Aquilonian wench, and trouble us no more."

"If he troubles Tarla, I will kill him myself," said Conan fiercely.

"If he troubles Tarla, every man in the village will want to kill him," said Mordec.

"If you see clearly he has come for that―strike quick, or someone else will snatch the prize from you."

"If he comes for that," said Conan, "he is mine."

Whenever Conan went into the woods to hunt these days, whenever he loosed an arrow, he imagined he was aiming at Count Stercus' neatly bearded face.

Imagining the shaft going home in the narrow space between the Aquilonian's dark eyes made him send it with special care.

Songbirds twittered on the branches of firs and pines and spruces. Here and there in the forest, Conan had smeared birdlime on some of those branches. He hoped for grouse, but would take whatever he caught. Food was food; he approached hunting with a barbarian's complete pragmatism and lack of sentimentality.

He had not called on Melcer's farm since Stercus rode through Duthil. He did not care to admit, even to himself, that he had formed something of a liking for the Gunderman; the mere idea of liking any of the invaders was abhorrent to him. But it took Stercus' visit to the village to remind him that there could be, there should be, no meeting between those who had come into Cimmeria and those who rightfully belonged here. In his own country, Melcer would have been a good enough fellow. In Conan's country, what was he but a marauder and a thief?

Conan was gliding through the forest, not on a game track but not far from one,
either, when he heard a twig snap on the track a hundred yards behind him. In an instant, he silently slipped behind the bole of a great, towering fir. He had an arrow nocked and ready to shoot. Deer were not usually so careless as to announce themselves.

A moment's listening convinced him that this was no deer. It was no Cimmerian, either; no one from Conan's people could possibly have been so inept among the trees. The blacksmith's son grinned a wide and ferocious grin. What better sport than tracking one of the Aquilonians through the forest? Actually, Conan could think of one better: tracking the Aquilonian and then slaying him. But his father had forbidden that, and no doubt wisely, for it would cost the folk of Duthil dear.

Through gaps in the trees, Conan soon saw who the blunderer was ―a squat, heavyset Gunderman named Hondren. Conan's lip curled scornfully. He did not care for Hondren, and had trouble thinking of anyone who could. The soldier roared and cursed whenever he came into Duthil, and had been known to cuff boys out of his path when they did not step aside fast enough to suit him. He had not tried cuffing Conan, but Conan had never got in his way, either. Trailing him, dogging him, would be a pleasure.

On through the woods Hondren stumbled. Of course he found nothing worth pursuing; he could hardly have spread a better warning of his presence had he gone along the trail beating a drum. Conan followed, quiet as a shadow.

For most of an hour, Conan had all he could do not to laugh out loud at Hondren's blundering. He could have shot the Gunderman a hundred different times, and Hondren would have died never knowing why, or who had slain him. He had to work hard to remember his village would suffer if anything befell this miserable lump of a man.

Hondren began cursing ever louder and more foully at his lack of luck. That his own incompetence had brought that bad fortune never seemed to have crossed his mind. Conan got bored with trailing him through the forest and began showing himself. He wondered how long Hondren would take to notice him. The Gunderman needed even longer than he had expected.

At last, though, Hondren realized he was not alone in the woods. "Who's there?"

he growled. "Come out, you dog, or you'll be sorry."

Out Conan came, laughing. "You not catch anything?" he jeered in his bad Aquilonian.

"No, by Mitra, I didn't catch anything." Fury on his face, Hondren advanced on the young Cimmerian. "And now I know why, too: I had a stinking barbarian close by, scaring off the game."

Conan laughed louder than ever. "I not scare game. I follow you long time. You scare plenty all by self."

"Liar!" Hondren slapped him in the face, as he might have done with a small boy on the main street in Duthil.

But they were far from the main street in Duthil, and Conan, though a boy, was far from small. His ears rang from the blow. It did not cow him, though―far from it. Red rage ripped through him. He struck back with all his strength, not with a slap but with his closed fist. Hondren's head snapped back. Blood spurted from his nose. He blinked, clearing his senses. A slow, vicious smile spread over his face.

"You'll pay for that, swine," he said, gloating anticipation in his voice. He flung himself at Conan and bore him to the ground by weight and momentum.

The blacksmith's son knew at once that Hondren did not merely seek to punish him for presuming to answer one blow with another. The Gunderman wanted his life, and would take it unless he lost his own. Hondren's hands, hard as horn, sought his throat. Conan tucked his chin down against his chest to keep his enemy from gaining the grip he wanted.

A knee to the belly made the Gunderman grunt. But Hondren was still stronger and, most of all, heavier than Conan, who had not yet got all the inches or thews that would one day be his. Hondren dealt out a savage buffet that made Conan's senses spin, and his weight was a dreadful burden that seemed as if it would crush the life from the Cimmerian even if his foe failed to find the stranglehold he
sought.

Scrabbling wildly and more than a little desperately, Conan felt his hand close on a rock that fit it nicely. In a mad paroxysm of fury, he tore the stone from the ground and brought it smashing down on the back of Hondren's head. The Gunderman's eyes opened very wide. A shudder ran through his body; his hands lost their cunning and ferocity. With a savage cry of triumph, Conan struck again, and then again and again, until blood poured onto him from Hondren's torn scalp and smashed skull, and until the man from the south stopped moving altogether.

After making sure Hondren was dead, Conan stood a little while in thought. If the deed were traced to him, ten from Duthil would die. But if Hondren were to vanish in the forest―who could say for certain what had befallen him?

Decision came on the instant. Conan took hold of the Gunderman's boots and dragged his corpse to a stream that chuckled through the woods less than a hundred yards away. Before pushing the body into the stream, he went back and carefully erased every sign of its passage from the place where he and Hondren had fought to the streambank. By the time he was finished, he doubted even a Cimmerian hunter could have traced what he had done. From everything he had seen, the Aquilonians were far less woodswise than his own folk.

He stuffed stones into Hondren's breeches and tunic, to make sure the corpse did not rise once decay set in. Although he pushed it into the stream at the deepest point he could find, less than a yard of water covered it ―not enough to suit him.

An alert searcher might spy it, no matter how shadowed by tall trees its final resting place was. He gathered more stones, these larger and heavier, and set them on the body to weight it down and to break up its outline and make it harder to see. That done, he used moss and branches and pine needles to disguise the places from which he had taken the stones. Someone who knew the streambank well might notice something had changed; someone seeing it for the first time would spy nothing out of the ordinary.

By the time he finished his work, he was soaked from head to foot. That gave him yet another idea: he pulled his tunic off over his head and scrubbed it in the stream, cold water being best for taking bloodstains out of cloth. Having taken care of that last detail, he went on with the hunt.

Mordec looked up from his work when Conan came into the smithy carrying a brace of grouse and some songbirds. "Those will be tasty," said the blacksmith, and then he took a closer look at his son. "What happened to you? You're all wet."

"I―fell in a stream," answered Conan.

Hearing his hesitation, Mordec advanced on him, hammer still in hand. "What happened to you?" he repeated, ominous thunder in his voice. "The truth this time, or you'll be sorry." He hefted the heavy hammer to show how sorry Conan might be.

His son did not flinch from the weapon. Looking Mordec in the eye, he said, "I killed a man in the woods."

"Crom!" exclaimed Mordec; whatever response he had expected, that was not it.

Gathering himself, he asked, "Was he a man of this village, or a stranger from some other place? Will the blood feud take in our family alone, or all of Duthil?"

"He was an Aquilonian," said Conan: "that brute called Hondren."

"Crom!" repeated Mordec; surprises were coming too fast to suit him. He knew the man his son meant, and knew he was indeed a brute. But he also knew of the warning the invaders had laid down. If one of their men was murdered, ten Cimmerians were to escort his spirit out of the world. "Tell me what passed. Tell me all of it. Leave out nothing-nothing, do you hear?"

"Aye, Father." Conan did: a bald, straightforward account. He finished, "The lich is hidden as well as I could hide it. In the forest, the Aquilonians are all fumblefingered fools. I do not think they will come across it. They will decide he had a mishap in the woods― and so he did." Savage pride filled his voice.

Without hesitation, Mordec knocked him down. When he got up, the blacksmith flattened him again. Afterwards, Mordec helped him to his feet. "That was to remind you the Aquilonians will decide Hondren had a mishap in the woods ―if you do not brag of what you did. It is a brave and bold thing, a boy beating a
warrior trained. But it is your life and nine more if you ever breathe a word of it.

Silence, or you die! This is no game. Do you understand?"

"I do, Father." Conan shook his head to clear it; Mordec had not held back with either blow. "You have a hard hand with your lessons."

"And you have a thick skull to drive them through," said the blacksmith with rough affection. "I have to make sure they get home."

"I'll keep quiet," said Conan. "I know what I did. I don't have to shout it in the street―I'm not Balarg."

Mordec threw back his head and laughed. That was his opinion of the weaver, too, although Balarg, no doubt, also had a low opinion of him. Their rivalry did not keep them from working together when they had to. Since the coming of the Aquilonians, they had to ever more often.

But laughter quickly faded. Setting a hand on his son's shoulder, Mordec said, "You did well, son, as well as you could once he attacked you. Now we hope all the invaders are as woodsblind as you say. I think they may be." Even saying that, though, he wished Crom were the sort of god who hearkened to his worshipers'

prayers.

Chapter Seven

The Weaver's Daughter

When the Aquilonian army advanced into Cimmeria, it had come through the woods. It had had to; without coming through the woods, it could not have penetrated the country. But pioneers with axes had widened the forest tracks so good-sized columns of men could advance along them, and all of the Gundermen and Bossonians could see one another and draw strength from seeing one another.

Now Granth son of Biemur picked his way along a game trail hardly wider than the spread of his shoulders. He clutched his pike with both hands, ready to impale anything that burst out from among the trees. Behind him tramped his cousin

Vulth, who hung on to his pike just as tight. And behind them strode Benno the Bossonian, an arrow nocked in his bow. As far as Granth knew, no other Aquilonians were within a mile or two of his comrades and him.

"Hondren!" he called. "Hondren! You out there? You hear me?" In lower tones, he muttered, "If we do find the stinking dog, we ought to beat his brains in for making us go through this nonsense."

"What makes you think he's got any brains to beat in?" asked Vulth. He too raised his voice: "Hondren! Where are you, you mangy hound?"

Benno spat. "Who cares if we find him or not? I can't stand that bad-tempered bastard, and I don't know anybody who can."

Granth wished the archer had not said that. He did not like Hondren, either, and also knew not a single man who did. Hondren was nothing but trouble for everyone around him. That had been true in the Aquilonian encampment next to Duthil. From things Granth had heard and others he had seen, it had been true in Duthil itself. And it was certainly true now that Hondren had gone missing in the woods.

"We're not looking for him for his sake ―Mitra knows that's true," said Vulth.

"'We're trying to find out what the devil happened to him. If the Cimmerians knocked him over the head, they've got to pay for it or they'll think we're soft."

That only made Benno spit again. "If it were up to me, I would have paid them to get rid of him."

"He was a good man in a fight," said Granth: as much praise as Hondren was ever likely to get now. He had been missing for three days. None of the search parties had found any trace of him.

"He did like fights," agreed Vulth, but that was not the compliment it might have been, for he went on, "He liked them so well, he'd start them himself."

"If he started one out here, he didn't win it," said Benno. "Something's gnawing
the meat off his bones right now." Somber satisfaction filled his voice.

"Something or somebody," said Vulth. "I wouldn't put it past these barbarians to eat man's-flesh."

"Anybody who ate Hondren would sick him up afterwards." Benno made horribly real-sounding retching noises.

After another hour's trudge through the dark, gloomy forest, Granth stopped caring what had happened to Hondren. All he cared about was making sure the same thing, whatever it had been, did not happen to him. He said, "We'll never prove the Cimmerians did him in."

"Maybe we'll kill ten of them anyway, just for the sport of it," said Benno. "We ought to start with the cursed smith in that village. You know the fellow I mean?

Big, ugly bruiser, and his eyes measure you for a coffin every time you walk past his doorway. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who knocked Hondren over the head."

"He doesn't hunt much himself," said Granth. "He usually sticks close to the forge and sends his son out instead."

"Maybe the boy did for Hondren," suggested Vulth. "That lad will be bigger than the blacksmith when he's done."

"He's not small now," said Granth.

"His beard hasn't even begun to sprout," said Benno with a scornful laugh. "If he put paid to Hondren, to hell with me if Hondren didn't deserve to die." That was cruel, but not too far from what Granth was also thinking.

A goldfinch fluttered across the game trail, a bright splash of color against the endless dark greens of the Cimmerian forest: warm brown back, black and white head, crimson face, and broad yellow chevrons on black wings. Three or four others danced through the air behind it, calling sweetly. Then they were gone, and shadows and silence ruled once more.

No, not quite silence, for a stream murmured and splashed just on the edge of hearing. Granth cocked his head to one side, to gauge the direction. "Shall we go over there?" he asked, pointing. "My water bottle is about empty."

"Well, have a swig from mine." Vulth took it off his belt and held it out to Granth. "I don't want to waste any time with side trips, and Hondren won't be in that stream unless he went and drowned himself."

"He wouldn't do anything like that," said Benno. "Too many people would thank him if he did."

Granth raised his cousin's water bottle to his lips, tilted back his head, and drank.

Sweet, strong Poitanian wine ran down his throat. He took a long pull, then gave the bottle back to Vulth, saying, "I made a good trade, for my bottle held nothing but water."

"Wine is sovereign against a flux of the bowels," said Vulth solemnly.

"No doubt," said Benno. "It also goes down smoother than water."

Laughing, the three Aquilonians went on down the track. Not a bowshot away, the stream chuckled to itself. Whatever secrets it held, secret they would stay.

Conan knew the invaders were beating the woods for their missing fellow. He saw search parties going into the forest ever)' morning. He slipped in amongst the tall trees himself more than once, shadowing the Gundermen and Bossonians as he had shadowed Hondren. Here, though, he remained but a shadow. Had he revealed himself to the blundering Aquilonians, they might have wondered if he had done the same to their missing soldier.

He wanted to brag about what he had done. He wanted to clamber up on his rooftop and shout out the news to all of Duthil ―no, to all of Cimmeria. Making himself keep silent might have been harder than slaying Hondren. But the thought of what the invaders would do to his village ―and, even more, the thought of what his father would do to him ― held his lips sealed.

Mordec noticed how much trouble he had keeping quiet. After a few days, Conan's father asked, "How would you like to go and spend some time with Nectan, boy? If you're helping him watch his sheep, you'll be keeping your secret from only one man, not from the whole village. Maybe that will be easier for you."

"All right, Father. I'll go," said Conan, who was always eager to give the shepherd a hand. Then he hesitated. "Will Mother be all right with just you here to take care of her?"

"I was taking care of your mother before you were born, you know," said Mordec.

"I'll go on doing it as long as we both live. Don't you worry about that. I know she snaps at me. Don't you worry about that, either. It's her way; she's short-tempered because of her sickness. But we understand each other well enough."

Reassured, Conan threw a loaf of brown bread and some smoked mutton into a leather sack and hurried out to the meadows to join Nectan. The shepherd seemed not at all surprised to see him. Only later did he wonder if his father had come this way before speaking to him.

"Good to have an extra pair of hands and an extra set of eyes with me," said Nectan. "It's lambing time now, and I don't deny I can use you here."

He did not set Conan to helping him help the ewes who had trouble giving birth.

Conan had no idea how much good Nectan's ministrations did the ewes. As always, the blacksmith's son marveled at how quickly the newborn lambs could start gamboling across the grass after their mothers ―and how quickly they could go gamboling off straight into trouble.

He pulled them out of a creek that ran through the hilly meadow. He watched some of them tumble down the hillsides and then get up again, apparently unharmed. And he watched one tumble down a hillside and then not get up, for it had broken a hind leg. Nectan stooped beside that one and cut its throat, and he and Conan ate roast lamb that night.

"Happens every year," said the shepherd as he cooked a chunk of meat over the
campfire. "Seems a shame, but it can't be helped. Hand me a few of those mint leaves, will you?" Eaten along with the lamb, they made the savory meat taste even sweeter.

Lambing season also brought wolves and eagles down on the flock, for they found newborn lamb every bit as savory as did Nectan and Conan. The shepherd and the blacksmith's son drove them off with showers of stones. Conan knocked down one great hawk on the wing. He thought he had killed it, but it fought its way into the air once more and flew off, screeching in pain and fear.

"Bravely done," said Nectan. "The way you throw, I'd not want to get in the way of a stone from your hand."

"I wanted it dead." Defeating a foe did not satisfy Conan; he craved nothing less than his enemies' utter destruction.

Nectan only shrugged. "I wouldn't want to kill off all the eagles. They're rare bold birds. Wolves, now―if your stones could smash in the skull of even' cursed wolf ever born, I'd not shed a tear. Only reason the wolves go after lambs instead of me is that I put up a tougher fight ―and I daresay the lambs are tastier, too." He chuckled.

Despite all they could do, the shepherd and his helper lost some lambs. Without Conan's help, the shepherd would surely have lost many more. Conan did shoot one wolf through the heart as it was about to leap on a lamb. Nectan skinned the beast and presented him with the hide.

"You keep it. I have others," said Conan, remembering his fight for life with the pack of wolves in the snow.

But Nectan would not hear of it. "A wolfskin for me?" He laughed at the very idea. "By Crom, the sheep would love me for that, wouldn't they, if I draped it round my shoulders for a rain cape? They'd flee me fast as they could run. If anyone is to get any use from it, that had best be you."

Seeing the shepherd's stubbornness, Conan could only nod. "I thank you," he said.

"If you have a need, come to the smithy. My father or I will do your work for you."

"I don't use much in the way of ironmongery, though I thank you for your kindness," said Nectan. "Arrowheads now and again, for I will lose shafts, same as any other archer. If I'm out here and can't come into Duthil, I'll chip the heads out of flint. I'm not so good as the cursed Picts, who do it all the time, but I manage."

"Picts," muttered Conan, and he scowled ferociously. In Cimmeria, the Aquilonians were enemies because they were neighbors and, at the moment, because they were invaders. Enmity between Picts and Cimmerians, though, was in the blood of both folk, and went back to the days when lost Atlantis still rose above the waves. As long as Cimmerians and Picts both survived, that enmity would also endure.

"I didn't say I loved 'em, boy, for I don't," responded Nee-tan. "But they do know how to chip stone. And they had better, for in working metal they may as well be so many helpless babes."

When Conan thought of Picts, he thought of killing Picts. No Cimmerian could think of Picts any other way. And when he thought of killing Picts, he thought less of the Gunderman he had actually slain. Little by little, as time went by, he grew less likely to brag about what he had done. The unending vigilance a herdsman needed also played its part in that: he was too busy to dwell excessively on what he had done.

His father let him stay with Nectan almost a month. By the time Mordec came out to reclaim him, he had for all practical purposes become a shepherd himself. "Do I have to go back to Duthil?" he asked. The prospect of dealing with people rather than sheep seemed distinctly unattractive.

"I was beginning to hope you would let me keep him, Mordec," added Nectan.

"He's as good here as anyone could hope to be."

"Glad to hear it," said Mordec. "But I have need of him, too, and so does the smithy." He nodded to Conan. "Come along, son."

His tone and his looming physical presence brooked no argument. However regretfully, Conan turned away from Nectan. "Aye, Father." He did not look back toward the shepherd until he and Mordec were at the edge of the meadow and about to plunge into the dominant Cimmerian forest.

Then he waved once. Nectan waved back just as Conan and Mordec plunged in amongst the trees.

They walked on for a while, their footfalls almost silent on the pine needles carpeting the forest floor. A red fox ran across the game trail they were using. The fox stared in astonishment; the breeze blew from it toward them, so it had not taken their scent, and not even its keen ears let it know they were near. With a flirt of its brush, it vanished behind a fir. Conan had started to nock an arrow.

Without a target, he slid the shaft back into its quiver.

High overhead, a hawk screeched shrilly. Again, Conan reached for an arrow.

Again, he left the motion incomplete. Nodding, Mordec said, "If it's after a lamb, it's Nectan's worry now."

"Soon the lambs will be too big for any bird to carry off," said Conan. "But the wolves are a different story. They will steal from the flock at any season of the year." He carried on his back the roughly tanned hide of the wolf he had killed.

"Miserable, thieving creatures."

"They might as well be men," remarked his father. After another minute or so, Mordec asked, "You liked it there, then?"

"I did, Father," said Conan, with an enthusiastic nod of his own. "Things are―simpler than they are in Duthil."

"No doubt." Mordec walked on once more before continuing. "Things in the village are less simple than when you left, too."

"Oh?" Conan did not care for the way his father said that. "What's gone on? And how is Mother?"

"Your mother is about the same as she always is," answered Mordec. "She is not well ―I do not think she will ever be well ―but she is no worse, or not much worse, than she was when you saw her last."

"All right," said Conan. His mother had been sickly for as long as he could remember. He always hoped she would get well, but he would have been amazed ―so amazed, he might not have known what to do ―if she actually had. He asked, "What about the village, then?"

"Ah. The village." Mordec did not seem eager to talk about it. At last, unwillingly, he said, "Well, Count Stercus has come back again."

"He has?" cried Conan. He grabbed for an arrow once more, though the gesture was even more useless than it had been with the fox or the hawk. "What is he doing there? Why won't he leave us alone?"

"Well, he said he came because of the Aquilonian soldier who disappeared near Duthil," answered Mordec. "The first time he said that, I feared he was going to punish us even if his men never found the fellow's body. But I think that just gave him the excuse he needed to come back anyhow."

"The excuse?" echoed Conan, his voice rising in puzzlement. But then a sudden, horrid certainty blazed in him, fueling fun' fierce as his father's forge. "Tarla!" he burst out.

"It seems so, yes," said Mordec unhappily. "He sniffs around her, sniffs around Balarg's house like a hungry hound after meat."

"I'll kill him!" raged Conan. "I'll cut his heart out and feed it to swine. I'll drape his guts over the roofpole. I'll ―His father shook him, hard. Conan's teeth clicked together on his tongue. Pain lanced through him. He tasted blood in his mouth. When he spat, he spat red. He said no more. Seeing that he was going to say no more, Mordec nodded in somber approval. "Good," said the blacksmith. "Maybe I've shaken some sense into you.

Can you imagine what would happen to Duthil if you were mad enough to murder the Aquilonian commander? Can you?"

"He deserves death," said Conan sullenly.

"Yes, no doubt," said Mordec. "I told you once you might kill him if he aims to debauch Balarg's daughter the way he did that other Cimmerian girl. But think on it. Wouldn't you say it's truly Balarg's first duty to defend her honor?'"

"I― " Conan broke off in confusion.

Laughing, Mordec finished for him: "You like the shape of Tarla's nose and her pretty little ankles, and so you think you can do what her father really should."

Conan walked on for a long time without saying another word. His cheeks and ears felt as if they were on fire. Like most boys first setting eyes on a girl they fancied, he had been too shy, too much afraid of making a fool of himself, to say much to the one who was the object of his affection. Like most boys, also, he had fondly believed his grand passion went unobserved by those around him. Finding himself so badly mistaken could be nothing less than mortifying.

"Don't fret, lad," said Mordec, not unkindly. "Maybe there will be a match between the two of you, and maybe there won't. It could happen. Seeing where Balarg and I stand in the village, joining our two houses might prove wise. We've even spoken of it, once or twice. But I will tell you this: whether the match comes or not, the world will go on. Do you understand me?" Still not trusting himself to speak, Conan grudged a nod. His father went on, "And I will tell you one thing more, no matter how little you care to hear it ― no one dies of a broken heart, even if people often wish they could. Do you understand that?"

Since Conan was convinced his father was raving like a lunatic, he could not very well nod again. Yet to shake his head would have been to deny the plain import of his father's words. With both choices bad, he walked on, pretending he had not heard. Mordec's rumbling chuckle said the pretense was imperfectly convincing.

Conan flushed once more.

They walked into Duthil side by side, Conan matching his father's long, tireless strides. Villagers and two or three soldiers from the camp not far away were on the main street. Conan, who had had no company save Nectan and a flock for the past month, stared in wonder at so many people all together.

A ball came rolling his way. Before he could do anything about it, his father leaped forward, kicked it with all his might, and sent it flying far down the street.

The usual shouting pack of boys chased after it. "I liked that," said Mordec, more cheerfully than Conan was used to hearing him speak. "When you grow up, you don't get the chance for such things so often, and that's a cursed shame." He pointed to the boys. "Do you want to get into the game? Do it while you can."

But Conan shook his head. After a month tending sheep, kicking a ball seemed a childish pursuit. He had been playing games all his life. If his father enjoyed them so much, he was welcome to them.

And then Conan forgot Mordec, forgot the ball, forgot everything around him, for up the street toward him came Tarla, a brass-bound wooden water bucket on her hip. He hurried toward her. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

Though she had no more years then he, she knew what to do with them. Her cool gray eyes measured him with womanly precision. Her gaze made him realize how seldom he had washed, how seldom he had run a bone comb through his hair, in all the time he had spent with Nectan. The shepherd cared nothing for such fripperies, and Conan had cared for them no more. Now, too late, he did. He stared down at the mud under his boots.

"Of course I'm all right," answered Tarla. In Conan's ears, her voice might have been the chiming of silver bells, even though she continued, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Why? Because of that―that blackguard Stercus." Conan had learned some fine new curses from Nectan, and wanted to tar the Aquilonian nobleman's name with all of them. Somehow, though, he did not think that would improve his standing with Balarg's daughter, and so he swallowed most of what he might have said.

Tarla tossed her pretty head. Sable curls flew. "Oh, he's not so bad," she said, and
sniffed. "At least he bathes now and again."

Even a few weeks earlier, that sally would have sent Conan off in headlong retreat. As much as anything else, what made him stand his ground was the loathing he felt for Stercus. Once more in lieu of worse, he said, "He's nothing but a damned invader."

The weaver's daughter tossed her head again. "And what business is it of yours, Conan, who I see or what I do?"

His father had reminded him such things were Balarg's business first, and not his own. From Mordec, those were only words, words to be evaded or ignored. From Tarla, they were a thrust through the heart. Again, though, he did not flee. "What business is it of mine?" he repeated. "The business of someone who― " He broke off. He did not flee, no, but he could not go on, either.

Yet what he managed to say was enough to draw Tarla's notice in a way nothing that came before had done. She leaned forward, and had to make a hasty grab at the water bucket to keep it from slipping from its place. "Someone who what?"

she asked softly.

"Someone who thinks you should have nothing to do with the stinking Aquilonian, that's what!" blurted Conan.

Tarla's gaze went hard as flint, cold as ice. "You would know more about stinking than Stercus does," she said, and pushed past the blacksmith's son, walking on toward her father's house with angry, determined steps.

Conan stared helplessly after her. He knew he had blundered. He even knew what he should have said ―not that that did him any good now. He kicked at the dirt and snarled some of the things he had wanted to call Stercus, bringing the curses down on his own head instead.

"Come on, son," said Mordec. Conan started; he had almost forgotten his father.

The blacksmith added, "Maybe time will mend it. That often chances."

"It's ruined," said Conan. If something was wrong now, it would stay a disaster forever. That was a law of nature, especially when one was thirteen.

"We lost the fight against the cursed Aquilonians," said his father. "Do you suppose we'll stay quiet under their heels forever? Things have a way of changing."

"What's that got to do with Tarla?" stormed Conan: there is none blinder than he who will not see. He hurried away from Mordec and stormed on to the smithy.

The boys kicking the ball hastily got out of the way, wanting no part of the storm clouds that darkened his features. More than one grown man stepped aside, too; had the whole world had but a single neck, he would gladly have brought a sword down on it, and his face showed as much.

Only after he crossed the threshold did his expression soften. He hurried past the forge, back into the part of the building where his family dwelt. His mother sat up in bed, propped on cushions, knitting a vest for him or for Mordec. Conan nodded to her. "I'm home," he said.

Verina smiled. "It's so good to see you, Conan. I've missed you." Her voice seemed even weaker and more rasping than Conan remembered it.

"How do you feel?" he asked anxiously.

She shrugged. "Every day is another day. But I know I will be better, now that you are here again."

He hoped she was right, but he could not help wondering whether she was trying to reassure herself or him. "Is there anything I can get for you?" he asked.

"No, no, no." Verina waved away the question with a flutter of thin fingers. "I have everything I need, now that you are here again."

"I was doing something I needed to do," said Conan.

"So your father told me." Verina made a sour face. "I wish you wouldn't get into
so much trouble."

"If I hadn't fought back, that―Aquilonian would have killed me," said Conan, not wanting to describe Hondren to his mother in any more detail than that.

Mordec came up behind Conan. "The boy is right," said the blacksmith. "He had to be strong, or he would have gone under. Life is hard. Life is cruel. All we can do is hold off death as long as we can."

Verina looked at her husband. "I know something of holding off death," she said.

Mordec coughed ―not the long, dreadful, racking coughs that tore at Verina, but a short one full of embarrassment. Verina went on, "And I know how hard and cruel life can be, too. Do you think I would stay in my bed day after day, year after year, if I did not?"

Although Mordec had fought the Aquilonians for as long as he could, Verina drove him off in headlong retreat. Conan stayed; she had not turned her sharp tongue on him, and seldom did. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you, Mother?" he asked.

"Stay safe," she answered. "Past that, nothing matters. Too many I hold dear have died on one field or another. I don't want you to fall that way."

"I won't," declared Conan. His hand folded into a formidable fist. "I'll make the other fellow fall instead." He did not doubt he spoke the truth, and wondered why his mother began to weep.

In his first full growing year on Cimmerian soil, Melcer discovered both the good and the bad about the land where he had chosen to settle. The soil itself was splendid: as rich as any in Gunderland, and here he had a farm large enough to be worth working, not the tiny fragment of a family plot that would have been his portion in the country where he was born.

The weather, on the other hand―well, the less said about the weather, the better.

He thanked Mitra he had not put wheat in the ground; no variety he knew would have reached maturity in the short Cimmerian growing season. Even barley was
risky; he tried not to dwell on how risky it might be. The barbarians here raised rye and oats, which ripened more quickly still. Melcer did not mind rye bread, but, as far as he was concerned, oats made better animal fodder than food for human beings.

The vegetables in the garden by the cabin flourished ― until a late frost wreaked havoc upon them. Fortunately, the barley sprouted the day after that frost. Had it come up the day before, he would have lost the whole crop, and he did not have the seed grain to withstand such a catastrophe.

Evlea's belly began to bulge with their second child. This seemed a healthier place to raise children than Gunderland, perhaps because it was less crowded. He heard of many babies of Aquilonian blood being born on nearby farms, and of hardly any dying. Families were large down in the land whence he had come, but practically all of them had the sorrow of losing a young child, or more than one.

Loving something as vulnerable as a baby meant casting the dice with fate, but few mothers or fathers were so cold as to refuse the challenge.

Though he had other Aquilonians for neighbors, Melcer still carried his pike wherever he went, on the farm or off it. He seldom saw a Cimmerian, and not seeing the natives suited him fine. They seemed cowed for the time being, but how long would that last? How long could it last? The barbarians were fierce and proud. Would they not seek revenge for their defeat one day? If they did, Melcer intended to be no easy meat.

He did not think all the Cimmerians lusted for his blood, even if some of his fellow settlers seemed to take that view. The odd half friendship he had forged with the boy named Conan helped dissuade him from believing any such thing.

But then the whole winter and much of the spring went by without his seeing Conan. He began to wonder whether some misfortune had befallen him.

When Conan did reappear, he came out from behind a tree at the edge of Melcer's farm with such silent grace, he might have been standing there for some little while before the Gunderman noticed him. And when Melcer did, he needed a moment to be sure the newcomer was indeed the boy he had known. Conan had added a couple of inches and at least twenty pounds, and, despite already being more than good-sized, still gave the impression of a puppy who had not yet grown
into his feet.

"Hail," said Melcer, and then, cautiously, "Is there peace between us?" The pike was thrust into the ground close by, but not close enough to suit him. Conan looked devilishly quick and dangerous.

But the Cimmerian did not shake his head. "No war between us, anyhow," he said. His Aquilonian was still bad, but better than it had been the last time he visited Melcer's farm. He had plainly kept company with some of the settler's countrymen, even if he had not come here for some time. In an odd way, that made Melcer jealous. Conan went on, "No have special quarrel with you."

"No special quarrel, eh?" Melcer unobtrusively shifted closer to the pike. Now he could grab it in a hurry if he had to. "And do you have a general quarrel with me?"

"Of course." Conan seemed surprised at the question. "You are Aquilonian. You are invader. Not love you, not― " He blew Melcer a kiss to show what he did not feel about him.

You are an invader. You are an Aquilonian. Melcer wondered whether every Cimmerian stored that hatred in his heart, whether it merely awaited the opportunity to burst forth. That was a worrisome thought, for the natives still far outnumbered the settlers. It would take years of immigration ― probably years of out-and-out expulsion, too ― before southern Cimmeria took on a fully Aquilonian character.

And yet Conan had said, with the rude frankness of the barbarian, that he had no special quarrel here. Melcer saw no reason not to believe him, not when he so openly declared his hates. The Gunderman asked, "Where have you been? Why didn't you come here for so long?"

"In my village, and hunting," answered Conan. "And some time with Nectan the shepherd." He stood even taller and straighter than usual. "I kill wolf."

"Good for you," said Melcer, and meant it. Cimmeria had far more wolves than
he had ever known in Gunderland. Their howling had kept him awake through many long winter nights, and he had lost livestock despite his best efforts to stand watch over the animals every moment. "I have killed wolves, too," he told the Cimmerian.

"A man's work," said Conan. Melcer took that in the spirit in which it was offered: as praise for him and not bragging on Conan's part about his own manhood. But then the youngster added, "I want all wolves in Cimmeria dead."

He was not looking at Melcer, but he was staring south toward Venarium, the heart of Aquilonian rule in the conquered province.

When Melcer thought of wolves that went on two legs rather than four, he did not look in the direction of Venarium. Instead, barbarians such as the youngster standing before him sprang to mind. He did not think the Cimmerians would give warning by howling before they began to hunt.

And then Conan surprised him by asking, "You know Count Stercus?" He pronounced the unfamiliar name with great care, obviously not wanting to be misunderstood.

"Do I know him? By Mitra, no!" said Melcer. "But I know of him. Everyone who comes here knows of him."

So intent was Conan on his own thoughts, he did not even snarl at the idea of Aquilonian settlers coming into a land he reckoned his. He simply asked, "What do you know of him?"

"That he is the governor of this province," began Melcer, but the young Cimmerian waved impatiently: that was not the sort of thing he wanted to hear.

Melcer went on, "Of the man I know not so much, and not so much of what I know is good."

Conan said something in his own language then. Melcer had learned not a word of Cimmerian, nor did he care to, but the curses bursting from the young barbarian's lips sounded fiery enough to make him wish he knew what they meant. Somewhere off behind Conan, a bird sang sweetly, offering an odd counterpoint to his impassioned oaths.

At length, the youngster had vented his spleen to the point where he could abandon his own tongue and attempt to speak in a civilized language once more: "You tell what you know."

Melcer began to obey before reflecting that Conan had not the slightest right to command him. By then, he had already said, "I hear that Stercus is a lecher of no small fame ―that if he weren't a lecher, he would have been able to stay in Tarantia and wouldn't have had to command the army that came up into this country."

"A lecher." Again, Conan pronounced a word strange to him with care. "What means this?"

"He chases women ―and young girls, too, by what folk say, though I know not if that be true ― more than is proper for a man."

"Crom!" Conan whispered. The next moment, he was gone, as suddenly and silently as he had appeared. A bush shook for a moment, giving some small hint of the direction in which he had gone, but Melcer heard not a sound. The Gunderman shrugged broad shoulders and then went back to work; on a farm, especially a new farm, there was always plenty to do. For a little while, he wondered why a barbarian boy should care about the highest-ranking Aquilonian hereabouts. But in the unending round of labor, he forgot Conan's concerns soon afterwards.

Chapter Eight

The Wandering Seer

As spring passed into summer, Mordec at last began to believe the Aquilonians would not take revenge on Duthil for Hondren's disappearance, and that Conan had hidden the soldier's body well enough to foil detection. He had not thought that Captain Treviranus would seize hostages and slay them without good reason; the commander of the local garrison impressed him as a decent enough fellow within the limits of his position and situation. But Count Stercus ― Count Stercus
was a different story. Whenever Mordec saw the Aquilonian commander, he thought of a serpent, and serpents were all too likely to strike without warning.

And Mordec saw Stercus far more often than he wished he would. The Aquilonian nobleman kept riding into Duthil on one pretext or another. And, whenever he came into the village, he always made a point of seeing, or of trying to see, Balarg's daughter Tarla.

After three or four such visits, there could be little doubt of Stercus' intentions.

Conan, in his jealous rage, had seen through them from the first. Mordec was loath to believe that his son could be right, that the Aquilonian had conceived an unhealthy passion for a girl so young. When the blacksmith could no longer escape the truth, the hatred he conceived for Stercus, though colder than Conan's, was no less savage. He wanted to crush King Numedides' governor under the sole of his boot, to wipe him off the face of the earth. And what was worst of all was that Stercus behaved so smoothly, he gave no provable cause for offense, no matter how plain he made his interest in Tarla. Worse still, she seemed as much flattered as repelled by it; Mordec wondered if she were using the Aquilonian nobleman to lacerate Conan's feelings.

He soon discovered he was far from alone in his reaction to Stercus, for the Gundermen and Bossonians of the nearby garrison loved the count hardly better than did he. Nor were they shy about saying so over a stoup of ale at the smithy.

"Oh, aye, he's a piece of work, he is," declared one of them with drunken sincerity. "Ready for aught ―if it's pretty and not quite ripe."

"Why put up with such a man?" asked Mordec. "In Cimmeria, he would not last long. His first crime would be his last."

The Gunderman stared at him owlishly. "You haven't got noblemen in Cimmeria, have you?"

"Noblemen?" Mordec shook his head. "We have clan chiefs, but a man is a chief because of what he has done, not because of what his great-great-grandfather did."

"I thought so. That explains it," said the Gunderman. "We put up with bad nobles, you see, for the sake of good nobles―and there are some. If you know who's on top right from the start, you don't need to fight about it all the time. You can get on with the rest of your business."

That made more sense than Mordec wished it did. Tiny, pointless wars between clans or, even more often, within clans had plagued Cimmeria for centuries uncounted. What Cimmerian would ever admit he was any other man's inferior?

Not even the edge of a sword against his throat was sure to make him say such a craven thing; he was as likely to lash out against the swordbearer, conquer or die.

Mordec wondered whether the invaders from the south fully grasped the difference between their land and the one in which they now found themselves.

He doubted it. Getting on with the rest of your business had never been a great worry in Cimmeria.

"Besides," added the Gunderman, "who knows what we'd get for a commander if we did knock Stercus over the head? No matter what else you say about him, he's a brave fighter. We might be stuck with some other fellow in bad odor with the King who'd run away if a hawfinch chirped at him."

"I thought you spoke of good nobles," said Mordec.

"I did, and there are," said the soldier, draining his mug. Mordec poured it full again. "I thank you," the Gunderman told him. "There are plenty of good nobles ―in places like Tarantia. But you'll not see many of that sort here, by Mitra. A man comes to a place like this without a reputation or at best to try to repair one.

If his is already good, he can do better."

Had he spoken with contempt, he would have infuriated Mordec. But he did not: he simply told the blacksmith how he saw the world. Mordec judged that worth knowing. He did not believe any of the Aquilonians cared to learn how the folk whose lands they had invaded looked at them. Learning such a thing would have proved instructive for the men from the south, had they attempted it.

The Gunderman heaved himself to his feet. "I'd best get back to the camp," he said. "I thank you again for your ale and for your company. You're a good Cimmerian, you are." Off he went, wobbling slightly as he walked.

He might have called Mordec a good dog in the same tone of voice. The blacksmith's great, hard hands folded into fists. "A good Cimmerian, am I?" he whispered. "One of these days, you will see how good I am."

Conan spent as much time as he could either in his father's smithy or in the forests far from Duthil. If he did not wander the now dusty, now muddy streets of the village, he ran no risk of bumping into Tarla ―and he did not have to see Count Stercus coming to Balarg's house for yet another visit. Conan would cheerfully have murdered the Aquilonian noble. Fear of Stercus' armor and weapons deterred him not at all. Not even the fear of his father held him back, for he sensed Mordec would not have minded in the least seeing Stercus stretched lifeless and bleeding in the dirt. Only fear of what the invaders would do to Duthil in reprisal stayed his hand.

Even' so often, while pumping the bellows or changing a quenching bath or doing such other work as his father set him, he would see Count Stercus riding past.

Then he wanted nothing more than to take up Mordec's heaviest hammer and smash Stercus' skull as he had broken Hondren's. When his father let him shape simple tools, he pounded at them in a perfect passion of fury.

Escaping Duthil altogether suited him better. Then he did not have to boil with rage at spying Stercus or flinch with mortification and jealousy whenever he set eyes on the weaver's daughter. In the woods he saw no one, spoke to no one. And if he looked back on his last unfortunate conversation with Tarla and wished that conversation might have gone otherwise ―if he did that out there among the pines and fragrant spruces, who but he would know?

He perched on a great gray granite boulder one noon, eating a frugal lunch of oatcakes and cheese, when a man said, "Might I share somewhat of that?"

Conan started. He had neither seen nor heard the stranger approach, a fact that should have been impossible. His hand closed round the shaft of a javelin he had plunged into the ground by the boulder. "Who are you?" he demanded roughly.

"What do you want?"

"My name is mere rubbish. If you would have it, though, it is Rhiderch." The
stranger bowed. "A wandering seer, I." He bowed again. He looked the part. He was about sixty, his hair gone gray, his beard ―nearly white ―reaching halfway down his chest. His garments were of colorless homespun set off by a necklace and bracelets of honey-gold amber. "As for what I want, well, after far travel a bite of food is welcome."

"Share what I have, then," said Conan, and gave him some of the oatcakes and half the chunk of cheese. The old man ate with good appetite. Conan watched him for a while, then burst out, "How did you come upon me without my being the wiser? By Crom, you could have slit my throat and taken everything I had, and I would not have known you were there until too late."

Rhiderch's eyes, gray as the granite upon which Conan sat, twinkled. "I am no robber, lad. I seek what's free-given, and thank you for your kindness."

"You did not answer me. How did you come upon me unawares? I thought no wolf nor panther could do the like, let alone a man."

The seer chuckled. "There are ways, lad. Indeed there are. I know but the minor mysteries. Many others are wiser by far."

"Teach me!" said Conan.

At that, the laughter faded from Rhiderch's face. Now he had come upon something he took seriously. "Why, perhaps I shall, if it be your fate to learn such things. Give me your hand, that I may learn whether it is permitted me."

Conan held it out. Rhiderch clasped it in his own. The two hands were a study in contrasts: Conan's square and scarred and callused, with short, grimy nails on thick, strong fingers; Rhiderch's long and thin and pale and spidery, his palm narrow, his fingernails fastidiously groomed. Conan had seen palm readers before, but Rhiderch did not examine the lines on his hand. Instead, the seer closed his eyes and murmured a charm in a language whose cadences were like those of Cimmerian but which the blacksmith's son could not understand.

Suddenly and without warning, Rhiderch's hand closed tight on Conan's. At the
same time, the seer's eyes opened very wide. Thinking it a trial of strength, Conan squeezed back as hard as he could. He was twice as thick through the shoulders and arms as the scrawny Rhiderch. But, for all the impression his grip made on the long-bearded wanderer, he might as well not have bothered responding to what he took to be the challenge. Rhiderch's hand clenched tighter and tighter, at last with crushing force.

As abruptly as the seer had begun to squeeze, he relaxed the pressure. Sweat poured down his forehead and cheeks; a drop dangled at the end of his long, pointed nose. He swiped a sleeve across his face. "Crom!" he muttered: the ejaculation of a man shaken to the core.

"Well?" demanded Conan. "Am I fit to learn your tricks for sliding through the trees without a sound?"

"You are fit for― " Rhiderch broke off and mopped his brow again. "What you are fit for, son of Mordec, is more than I can say. Never have I seen ― " He stopped once more, shaking his head. "Truly, I wonder whether I read you aright."

"How do you know my father's name?" asked Conan, for he was sure he had not spoken it.

"I know a good many things," said Rhiderch, but after a moment he shivered, though the day was mild. "One of the things I know is that yours is the strangest destiny of any ever to come into my ken."

"How so?" asked Conan, but the seer would not answer him. He tried a different question: "If you saw my destiny, did you see the Aquilonian called Stercus in it?" He did not say that Stercus commanded the Aquilonians in Cimmeria; this, from him, passed for cleverness and caution.

Rhiderch looked at him ―looked through him. "Speak not of slicing saplings when the tall tree towers. Speak not of slaying sparrows when the hawk hovers."

"I spoke of slicing nothing. I spoke of slaying no one." Conan knew some of his
countrymen collaborated with the invaders. He could not fathom it, but he knew it to be true. He would not admit his lust for Stercus' gore to a man he had not met before this moment.

But what he admitted, what he denied, seemed to mean nothing to Rhiderch.

"Your mouth spoke no words," said the seer. "Your spirit cried aloud ―though the greater cry all but drowned the smaller."

"Will you speak sense?" asked Conan testily. "All your words go round and round, reflecting back on one another with no meaning left behind."

"If you will not hear, you shall surely see." Rhiderch remained cryptic. "Like a migrating bird, your fate flies high and far. Where you will end your days, and in what estate, I cannot say, but no Cimmerian's weird is stranger."

"Lies and foolishness. You make me sorry I fed you instead of driving you away,"

said Conan.

He hoped to anger Rhiderch, but the seer only smiled. "No mean feat for me, for few will ever make you sorry for anything you do."

That did it. Anger sparked in the blacksmith's son. "Get you gone," he growled.

"Get you gone, or I shall not answer for what will come next." Now he reached for the javelin he always kept close at hand.

"As you say it, so shall it be." Rhiderch vanished with the same unnerving speed and silence he had used in appearing. One instant, he stood beside Conan; the next, the blacksmith's son might have been ― was ― alone on his boulder.

Too late, Conan remembered that he had wanted Rhiderch to teach him that trick of silent appearances and disappearances. "Come back!" he shouted. "Come back, you stinking old fraud!" But Rhiderch, however obscure he might have been, was no fraud, not in the way Conan meant it. He did not come back, nor did Conan ever ask him about it again ― and if the young Cimmerian ever mastered the art of silently and unexpectedly entering or leaving a scene, as many in times to come were to find he had done, he did it by himself and on his own.

For the time being, Conan sat there muttering curses and regretting the waste of the oatcakes and cheese. They could have kept him well fed for another meal out here in the woods, which meant they could have kept him away from Duthil for another half a day, maybe longer. Away from Duthil, and especially away from Balarg's house, was where he most longed to be.

But later that day he knocked down a stag. It was perhaps the cleanest kill he had ever made: his arrow pierced the stag's heart, and the animal fell over dead after only a handful of stumbling steps. Conan wanted to roar in triumph like a great hunting cat. Only the knowledge that such a cry would surely draw scavengers, whether of the two-legged or four-legged sort, held him back.

Still, to the hunter went the rewards. Conan kindled a small, almost smokeless fire and roasted the stag's kidneys and mountain oysters and slices of its liver over the flames. Eaten with mushrooms he found nearby and washed down with pure, cold water from a chuckling brook, the repast was as fine as any he had ever enjoyed. He buried the offal and wedged the rest of the meat, wrapped in the deer's hide, in the crutch of two branches, too high up for wolves to reach. He slept nearby; also up a tree.

Waking before sunrise the next morning, he hurried back to the pine where he had secured the meat. He found wolf tracks in the soft ground by the base of the tree and claw marks in the bark on the tree trunk as high as his head. The beasts had done all they could to despoil him, but their best had not been good enough.

After starting up the fire again, he breakfasted on more liver and a chunk of the stag's heart. He wished he could keep the rest of the meat fresh longer. Since he could not, he put the remainder of the carcass on his back and started off to Duthil.

Count Stercus rode out of Fort Venarium and through the brawling streets of the little town that had come to bear the same name. Many Aquilonians took the existence of the town of Venarium to mean that civilization had come to southern Cimmeria. To Stercus' way of thinking, by contrast, the town of Venarium was proof that civilization would never come here.

He escaped the smells and the clamor of the place with a sigh of relief. Once out in the countryside, he was at least in territory honestly barbarous: Venarium wore a tawdry mask and aped its betters. He tried to imagine King Numedides or some other truly cultured man finding pleasure here on the wild frontier, tried and felt himself failing. A truly sophisticated taste would recoil in horror from what was available hereabouts.

"But even so―" murmured Stercus, and urged his horse up from a walk to a trot.

Some of the raw material to be found here, though often very raw indeed, did hold a certain promise. That girl in that stinking Cimmerian village might prove very enjoyable indeed, once he broke her to his will ― and breaking her would be enjoyable, too, in its way.

He wondered if he simply ought to take her back to the fortress and get on with the business of turning her into his pliant slave. Some of the barbarians had grumbled about the other girl with whom he had so amused himself, but that was not his principal reason for holding back here. Showing himself too eager had ended up disgracing him down in Tarantia; if not for that, he never would have had to come to this accursed frontier at the edge of the world. Restraint, then, might serve better―and might also be amusing.

In one way, though, Stercus showed no restraint whatever. He rode with his sword naked across his knees, ready to use at a heartbeat's notice. It would be years before Aquilonians could travel through this country without a weapon to hand. Stercus muttered to himself, wishing his officers had not persuaded him to refrain from avenging the disappearance of that Gunderman near Duthil. He remained convinced the man had not vanished all on his own. If he had, would his body―or at least his bones ―not have come to light? Stercus thought so.

The road was narrow, not a great deal broader than the game track it had been before the Aquilonians first came to this miserable land. Dark, frowning firs pressed close on either side. It made ideal country for an ambush. Much of Cimmeria, in fact, made ideal country for an ambush. That was another reason why Stercus doubted whether the soldier named Hondren had gone missing all on his own. "Damned skulking barbarians," he muttered.

But the barbarian he met when he guided his horse around the next bend in the
road did not skulk. The fellow strode along boldly, as if he had as much right to the roadway as any civilized man. His hair and beard had gone gray. The only ornaments he wore were a necklace and bracelets of amber.

Stercus nearly rode him down then and there. In truth, the nobleman could hardly have said what held him back. He reined in and pointed an accusing finger at the Cimmerian, saying, "Stand aside, you!" He did not bother with Cimmerian. He had no idea whether the other man knew Aquilonian, nor did he care: that pointing finger and a loud, commanding voice more than sufficed to make his meaning plain.

As it happened, the barbarian proved to understand his language, and even to speak it himself. "Soon, soon," he said soothingly. "First I would know something of the manner of man you are."

"By Mitra, I will tell you what manner of man I am," snapped Stercus, brandishing his blade. "I am a man with scant patience for any who would let or hinder me."

He hoped to put the barbarian in fear, but found himself disappointed. The man came up to him and said, "But give me your hand for a moment, and I will speak to what lies ahead for you."

That piqued Count Stercus' interest. "A seer, are you?" he asked, and the Cimmerian nodded. Stercus lowered the sword, but only partway. He held out his left hand, at the same time saying, "Come ahead, then. But I warn you, dog, any treachery and you die the death."

"You may trust me as you would your own father," said the barbarian, at which Stercus laughed raucously. He would not have trusted his father with his gold, nor with his wine, nor with any woman he chanced to meet. He thought that meant the barbarian knew not the first thing whereof he spoke. That the man might have known more than Stercus guessed never once crossed his mind.

"Here," said Stercus, extending his hand farther yet in a gesture he copied from King Numedides.

The Cimmerian took it. His own grip was warm and hard. He nodded to himself, once, twice, three times. "You are measured," he said. "You are measured, and you are found wanting. You shall not endure. Twist as you will, turn as you will, nothing you do shall stand. The old serpent dies. The young wolf endures."

"Take your lies and nonsense elsewhere," snarled Stercus, snatching his hand away. "Not even one word of truth do you speak, and you should praise Mitra in his mercy that I do not take your life."

"You laugh now. You jeer now," said the Cimmerian.

"Come the day, see who laughs. Come the time, see who jeers."

"Get you gone, or I will stretch your carcass lifeless in the dust," said Stercus. "I have slain stouter men for smaller insults."

"I go," said the barbarian. "I go, but I know what I am talking about. I have seen the wolf. I have counted his teeth. You are but a morsel, if you draw consolation from that."

Stercus swung up the sword with a shout of rage. The Cimmerian who called himself a seer skipped back between two tree trunks that grew too close together to let Stercus follow unless he dismounted. Not reckoning the barbarian worth his while to pursue, he rode on toward Duthil.

By the time the Aquilonian got to the village, he had all but forgotten the warning, if that was what it was, the barbarian had given him. He looked ahead, toward seeing Tarla, toward tempting her into wanting for herself all the things he wanted for her. He sometimes thought the temptation the greatest sport of all, even finer than the fulfillment.

When Stercus came into Duthil, he saw the blacksmith's son walking up the street with the evidence of a successful hunt on his shoulders. The Aquilonian noble reined in and waved. "Hail, Conan," he called. "How are you today?"

The boy's face flushed with anger. Stercus knew Conan loved him not; that
knowledge only piqued his desire to annoy the young Cimmerian. He suspected that Conan held some childish affection of his own for Tarla, which would do him no good at all when set against the full-blooded and refined passion of a sensual adult.

"How are you, I say?" Stercus' voice grew sharper.

"Well, till now," answered Conan in thickly accented Aquilonian ― though somewhat less so than when Stercus began coming to Duthil. Like a parrot, the boy could mimic the sounds his betters made.

And, as Stercus realized after a moment, Conan could also ape, or try to ape, the studied insults a grown man might offer. Had a grown man, one of his own countrymen, offered Stercus such an insult, he would have wiped it clean with blood. The code duello was ancient and much revered in Aquilonia. Dirtying his sword with the blood of a barbarous blacksmith's boy never once occurred to Stercus. But he did suddenly spur his horse forward, and the destrier would have trampled Conan if the youngster had not sprung to one side with an agility that belied his loutish size. Laughing, Stercus rode on to the house of Balarg the weaver, the house of Tarla, the house of what he conceived to be his affection.

Conan found his mother up and about, filling a pot from a great water jar and hanging it to boil above the hearth. "You should rest," he told her reproachfully.

"Oh? And if I rest, who will cook our food? I see no slave in the house," replied Verina. "And what's the point of rest? When your father begins to hammer, every stroke seems to go straight through my head." She raised a hand to press it to her temple.

"I'm sorry," said Conan, who could have slept sound and undisturbed were Mordec beating a sword blade into shape six inches from his ear. He set down the burden he had brought from the forest. "See the fine venison we'll have?"

His mother looked at it, sniffed, and coughed. To Conan's relief, the cough did not begin one of her spasms. "This will do for tomorrow, I suppose," she said indifferently. "For stew today, I killed the black hen who'd stopped laying. We may as well get some use out of her."

"Ah," said Conan, and then, a moment later, "All right." He did his best to make himself believe it was.

"If you want to be useful, you can cut up these turnips and parsnips and onions for the stew ―and chop up this head of cabbage, too ―not too fine, mind you, or it will cook too fast when I put it in," said his mother.

"Of course," said Conan. As the knife tore through the vegetables, he wished it were tearing through Count Stercus' flesh instead. He imagined blood spurting from every cut, not colorless turnip juice. The picture pleased him, so much that he sliced harder than ever.

"Easy, easy," said Verina. 'These are not heads to be set above the doorposts of our house, you know. No need for murder here."

"Oh, but there is," said Conan. "If ever a man wanted killing, that damned Aquilonian is the one."

"I doubt he's any worse than the rest of them," said Verina.

"He is," insisted Conan. "The way he sniffs around ― around this village is nothing but a disgrace." He felt uncomfortable mentioning Tarla to his mother.

She understood what he was talking about even when he did not talk about it.

With a toss of the head, she answered, "That one is a little hussy. If she weren't, the accursed Aquilonian wouldn't keep sniffing around her. I don't know why you worry about her. She isn't good enough for you."

Conan started chopping the vegetables even more savagely than before. His mother did not think anyone was good enough for him. Conan did not know what he thought. He only knew that, as he passed from boy to man, he cared less with each new day that went by whether a girl was good enough for him. Whether she was interested in him ―that was another story, and one in which he had a burning interest.

"But don't mind me," said Verina. "After I'm dead and gone, you and your father will settle things to your own liking, I'm sure." She began to cough again, softly but steadily.

"Here. Drink some water, Mother." Conan hurried to dip some out of the jar and into a mug. He handed it to his mother and stood over her until she did drink. Not so long before, she had been taller than he; he remembered those days very well.

Now he towered over her. Before too long, he would overtop his father, too. That was a truly dizzying thought. No one in Duthil could match Mordec's inches.

Mordec came back into the kitchen from the smithy, as if thinking of him were enough to conjure him up. Sweat ran down his fire-reddened face and forearms, washing clean rills through the soot that covered them. "I could do with some water, too, son," he rasped. "Fetch me a cup, if you'd be so kind."

"Aye, Father." Conan found a larger mug and dipped it full.

"My thanks." Mordec drained it in one long draught. Then he went to the water jar himself. He filled the mug again. Instead of drinking from it, he poured it over his head. "Ahhh!" he said: a long exhalation of pleasure. Water ran through his hair, ran through his beard, and dripped from the end of his nose.

"There you go, making part of my kitchen floor into mud," said Verina shrilly. As in the smithy, the floor here was only of rammed earth. When it got wet, it did turn muddy.

But Conan's father only shrugged. "Give it a little while and it will dry, Verina,"

he said. "As for me, though, I needed that, by Crom. I'm surprised I didn't hiss like hot iron quenched when I poured it over me."

"Did you see Count Stercus today, Father?" asked Conan.

Mordec's mouth thinned to a narrow line. "I saw him, all right. What if I did?"

Conan scowled blackly. "Is that not the face of a man who deserves death?"

"I've seen men I liked better at first glance," answered his father. "But my guess is, where he looks bothers you more than how he looks."

That shaft hit unpleasantly close to the center of the target. Conan flushed so hot that he longed for a mug of water to cool him. Stubborn as always, he said, "He's got no business here."

"He thinks otherwise," said Mordec.

"Well, I think he can ― " But Conan broke off. He could not say what he wanted Count Stercus to do, not with his mother listening. He growled in frustration, down deep in his throat.

"What happens to him does not first depend on what you think," said his father.

"We've been over this ground before. It depends on what Balarg thinks. He is the girl's father, after all." Verina tossed her head once more. Mordec took no notice of her.

"Why doesn't Balarg do something, then?" cried Conan.

His father frowned. "By now, I wish he would do more myself. And I wish Tarla would stop preening every time she sets eyes on the Aquilonian noble. Balarg should speak to her about that. But the world is as it is. It is not the way we wish it were. I suppose that's why Crom isn't the sort of god who makes a habit of granting prayers."

However earnestly he spoke, Conan hardly heard him. Mordec had presumed to criticize Tarla, which only served to infuriate his son. As far as Conan was concerned, Tarla could do no wrong―this despite the fact that she did not care to speak to him and showed Stercus far more sweetness, just as Mordec had said.

Verina started to cough again. Conan scarcely noticed even that sound, which most of the time roused nothing but dread in him.

Mordec guided Verina back to the bedchamber. A glum frown on his heavy-featured face, the blacksmith returned to the kitchen and finished the supper his wife had begun.

At harvest time, almost everything in Duthil stopped. Even folk who did not farm went into the fields to help bring in the oats and rye. The ripe grain had to come in before bad weather could spoil it. On it depended the hopes of the village through the winter and into the following spring.

Conan and Mordec both swung scythes whose blades the blacksmith had forged.

So did Balarg. Along with the other women of Duthil, Tarla helped gather the golden grain into sheaves. The Aquilonian soldiers watched the work from their encampment not far away. None of them came out to help the Cimmerians. The first autumn they had been here, and even the second, they had tried to join the villagers. Everyone in Duthil had pretended they did not exist. By now, the invaders had learned their lesson: they might be here, but they were not welcome.

Mordec stood up straight. He grunted and twisted and rubbed at the small of his back. "This is not my proper trade," he grumbled, "and every year my bones tell me so louder and louder." Conan worked on tirelessly. He might have been powered by the water that would turn the grindstones in the mill to make the grain into flour. With his fourteenth winter approaching, aches in the bones were as far from him as gray hair and a walking stick.

Like all the villagers, he did pause ever so often to glance anxiously up toward the sky. Mist and clouds floated across it even at high summer, and high summer was a long way behind them now. Rain at harvest time would be disastrous. Hail would be even worse. Hail at harvest time might mean old men and women and young children would never see another spring. As Mordec had said, Crom did not answer prayers, but more than a few went his way at this season even so.

Bend. Swing the scythe. Watch the grain fall. Straighten. Take a step forward.

Bend. Swing again. That was Conan's life from first light of dawn until the last evening twilight leaked from the sky. Almost all the men in Duthil, and the boys old enough to do their fair share, took part; the chief exception was Nectan the shepherd, who did not leave his flock even for the harvest.

When the men came back to the village, the}' wolfed down food and ale, then fell into bed and slept like the dead. When morning came, they would munch oatcakes or porridge, then stuff more oatcakes and perhaps some cheese into their belt pouches and lurch out to the grainfields for another day's backbreaking labor.

At last, only a few gleaners were left in the fields, gathering up the last heads of grain the main harvest had missed. And then, with only stubble and dirt remaining, Duthil took one of its rare days of rest. Instead of rising before sunup, men ― and women ―slept late. When at last they rose, they did only the most essential things. Whatever was not essential would wait. A lot of families, Conan's among them, did heat water for baths, which had gone by the wayside along with so much else during the work-filled chaos of harvest time.

After the day of rest came a day of celebration. By age-old custom, the folk of Cimmeria celebrated whether the harvest was good or bad. If it was good, they celebrated because it deserved celebrating. If it was bad, they celebrated to cast defiance in the face of fate. Chickens stewed. Ducks and geese roasted, with thrift)' housewives carefully catching the drippings. Slaughtered hogs turned on spits over trenches full of fire. Casks and jars of ale were broached.

Like any Cimmerian, Conan had been drinking ale since he stopped drinking his mother's milk. It was more filling and often more wholesome than water. He rarely drank to excess. A couple of thick heads had made him wary of that.

Today, though, he recklessly poured down the ale, hoping to borrow enough courage from it to say some of the things he wanted to say to Tarla.

He had not said them by midafternoon, when Count Stercus rode into Duthil. The Aquilonian noble sat astride his charger and, unusually, led a pack horse with several stout casks tied to its back. Spotting Conan's father in the crowd of strangers, he pointed to him and spoke in Aquilonian, no doubt to make himself seem more important: "Translate for me, my good man."

Mordec nodded. "Say what you will."

"Tell your people I heard they would feast today. Tell them also that no feast is a true feast without wine." Stercus pointed to the pack horse. "I have brought your enough to prove the point."

He could not have bought himself popularity, or even toleration, with silver or with gold. Wine proved another story. The Cimmerians drank it when they could get it; Aquilonian traders had made it known in this land where no vineyard could
prosper. But so much of the strong, sweet brew at harvest time ―yes, sly Stercus had known what coin to spend.

And if he made sure Tarla drank several beakers of the red blood of the grape, if he laughed by her when her walk went clumsy and her speech got slurred, if he whirled her in a sprightly Aquilonian dance when pipes and drums began to play, who could hold it against him? No one at all ―no one but Conan the blacksmith's son, who found himself upstaged again.

Chapter Nine

For Stercus Sake?

Rhiderch the seer stayed in and around Duthil through the winter. He made himself useful now and again. Balarg's wife had lost a silver ring―work of the ^￡sir―and Rhiderch told her to slaughter a certain hen. Sure enough, she found it in the bird's gizzard. It must have slipped from her finger while she was scattering grain for her chickens. She valued the ring enough to feed the seer for a week afterwards ― and she was not one usually given to fits of generosity.

And Rhiderch also found four sheep that had wandered away from Nectan during a snowstorm that covered their tracks as fast as they were made. He told the shepherd to look by a red rock beneath a tall spruce. Nectan knew a reddish boulder just in from the edge of the forest that fit the bill. When he went to the rock, there were the sheep. He gave Nectan one of them, reckoning it better to have three back than to have lost them all.

The seer's powers came and went. They did not always serve him as he would have wished. He also did odd jobs to keep himself fed and sheltered. Except for his erratic gift, he did nothing better than everyone else. But he did a lot of things better than most people, and so found ways to make himself useful.

One morning in early spring, Conan came upon him repairing the wall of a neighbor's house. Wherever he had learned to work with wattle and daub, he took pains to do a proper job, using plenty of sticks and twigs to anchor the mud.

Nodding to the blacksmith's son, he said, "A good day to you. Next I'll put more
thatch on the roof, to keep the rain from dripping through and marring the wall again."

"That will keep the house sound, sure enough." Conan hesitated, then asked, "How do you see what you see?"

Rhiderch did him the courtesy of taking the question seriously. "I know not, lad,"

he answered. "All I know is that I see. Sometimes it will be as clear as if it were before my eyes, the way I see you now. Sometimes what I see will mean nothing or next to nothing to me, yet seem plain enough to the person to whom I tell it.

And sometimes neither I nor he will know what a vision means."

"When you see something, are you ever wrong?" asked Conan.

"Wrong?" Again, Rhiderch paused to think before replying. "Well, as I say, there are times when I cannot tell you what will come from things I have seen. But that's not what you meant, is it?" Conan shook his head. Rhiderch thought a little longer, then said, "No, I don't believe I see falsely. If a meaning comes of it, it is the meaning I have seen."

"So it seemed to me," said Conan. "Tell me, then: what do you see about our folk and the Aquilonians?"

"So far, I have not seen anything, not in the way you mean," replied Rhiderch.

"Could you?" asked Conan eagerly.

"Could I bring on a vision instead of waiting for one to strike me?" The seer frowned. "I know not. I do not believe I have ever tried. For most visions, I would not try."

"But this one is important to all our people," protested Conan.

"Well, so it is," admitted Rhiderch. "All right, lad. I'll give it a go. Let no one say I fought shy of doing what we Cimmerians need."

He stood there at the edge of Duthil's main street: a lean old man with long, clever hands filthy from mud. His lips moved, at first silently and then in a soft, droning chant. Awe prickled through Conan. He realized the seer was gathering his mental powers to pierce the veil of the unknown as a sharp awl might pierce thick, resistant leather. Rhiderch's eyes met Conan's, but the blacksmith's son did not think the other man truly saw him. Whatever Rhiderch saw, it was not the little village where Conan had lived all his life.

The seer suddenly went stiff. His eyes opened very wide, so that white showed all around their irises. "Crom!" he muttered, whether calling on the grim northern god or simply in astonishment Conan could not have said. In a voice that might have come from the other side of the grave, Rhiderch went on, "Gore and guts and grief and glory! War and woe and fire and flame! Death and doom and dire deeds! War, aye, war to the knife, war without mercy, war without pity, battle till the last falls still fighting!"

Conan shuddered. He had got more in the way of a vision than he had bargained for. Rhiderch twitched like a man in the throes of an epileptic fit. Hoarsely, Conan asked, "But who will win?" Nothing else mattered to him. "Who will win?"

Now Rhiderch's gaze thrust through him like a sword. "War and woe!" repeated the seer. "Duthil dies a dismal death. The golden lion― ' He twitched again.

"Aye, the golden lion flaps above your head."

"No!" howled Conan, a long wail of misery. Bitterly he repented of his own curiosity. Repentance, as usual, came too late. "No! Let it not be so! Tell me not that accursed Aquilonia triumphs."

Rhiderch blinked several times. Only after the fact did Conan notice the seer's eyes had stayed open every moment while he was prophesying. With reason on his face once more, Rhiderch inquired, "What said I?"

"You do not know?" exclaimed Conan. Rhiderch shook his head. Although he had manifestly returned to the mundane plane, he still seemed pale and drawn, as though he had just shaken off a nearly killing fever. As best Conan could, he recounted Rhiderch's baleful words.

The seer heard him out in silence. Rhiderch looked down at the daub on his hands as if it were dripping blood. "I know not what to say to you, lad," he said at last, "save this alone: the foretelling and the event are not the same. The event is the thing, the foretelling but a shadow. Like any shadow, it shifts and grows and shrinks in response to the light that casts it."

"Cold comfort, by Crom!" jeered Conan. "You have seen my village dead. How shall the shadow of that shift? You are nothing but a stinking carrion crow with corpse meat in your mouth!"

Rhiderch bowed his head. "If you blame the messenger for the message, strike now," he said.

Instead of striking, Conan swore. He spun on his heel and stormed out of Duthil.

Slaying Rhiderch would solve nothing, for how could he slay the seer's words?

They would echo inside him until the unfolding of time revealed their fulfillment―and he was all too sure it would. Rhiderch had been a man inspired; however shadowy his words might have been, he had spoken truth.

Air spicy with the sap of conifers surrounded Conan as he rushed into the woods.

Leaving behind the stinks of Duthil ― the dung, the animals, the smoke, the unbathed bodies, the tanning hides ―was easy. Leaving behind Rhiderch's prophecy came harder. That followed Conan: indeed, try as he would, he took it with him. Escape was what he wanted most, and what he could not have.

A raven croaked at him from a tall spruce. He shook his fist at the big, black bird.

"Begone, cruel corbie!" he cried. "You'll not take the flesh from my bones to feed your nestlings." He stooped to pick up a stone.

Wise and wary in the ways of men, the raven leaped into the air with a great rustle of wings. Conan hurled the stone anyway, as much from sheer rage as for any other reason. It just grazed the outermost feather on the raven's left wing. The bird gave another hoarse cry and vanished into the forest.

"And take your ill-luck with you, accursed thing!" shouted Conan after it. The
woods seemed to swallow his words. He wondered if they reached the raven. He could only hope. Had curses stuck as readily as they were given, all the Aquilonians would long since have vanished from Cimmeria.

Conan realized he had only an eating knife at his belt, for he had rushed out of the village in a passion, with not the slightest thought for what he would do next.

Now that his temper began to cool, he keenly felt the lack of either bow or javelin. A knife was no weapon to wield against wolf, let alone panther. He took two steps toward Duthil, but then abruptly checked himself. What would the villagers do if he came stumbling back after rushing away so furiously? Would they not laugh at him, whether to his face or behind his back? Of a certainty, they would.

Pride is a terrible thing. For pride's sake, the blacksmith's son would sooner have risked his life than risked the laughter of friends and neighbors. And, had any other man of Duthil stood where Conan stood, he would have made the same choice. What the Cimmerians lacked in material goods, they made up for in a superabundance of pride. If not for pride, they would have fought less amongst themselves, and would have made a harder nut for the Aquilonians to crack. None of that crossed Conan's mind. He knew only that he would rather have faced wolves than his fellow villagers.

A twig breaking underfoot froze him into animal immobility. The oaths that followed were in Aquilonian. Conan would not be laughed at, but he mocked the shortcomings of others readily enough. The invaders blundering along the trail there could hardly have made more noise had they been a herd of cattle.

As Conan had amused himself by doing before, he began to trail these Aquilonians. The closer he could come to them without their being aware he was anywhere nearby, the happier he would be. They ambled along, loudly announcing their presence to anyone with ears to hear. Conan almost gave himself away at their antics; only by biting down hard on the inside of his lower lip did he defeat the urge to guffaw.

Someone else stepped on a stick. "You clumsy idiot," said a Bossonian. "How are we supposed to catch anything when you do that?"

"Oh, and it wasn't you the last time, eh?" retorted a Gunderman. "You walk like you've got rocks in your boots."

"And you talk like you've got rocks in your head, so devils eat you," said the Bossonian. He cupped a hand behind his ears. "And if you listen, you can hear all the animals in the forest running away from us."

"Not in this forest." The Gunderman shook his head. "Half the things in this forest want to kill us."

Conan nodded. He wanted to kill all the invaders who tramped through the woods that had been his ever since he grew old enough to venture into them for the first time. He was close enough to smash in a couple of the hunters' skulls with hurled rocks, too. But he did not think he could slay every one of them, and even if he did he would only bring a savage vengeance down on Duthil. He cast no stones, then, but hung close to the Aquilonians and listened.

Another Gunderman spoke for the first time: "Everything in this whole country wants to kill us." Conan nodded again; so did the Gunderman's hunting companions. The yellow-haired soldier continued, "I'll tell you something else, too ― our beloved count isn't making things any better for us, the way he's prowling around that girl in the village."

That astonished Conan. Even the Aquilonians realized Stercus had no business doing what he was doing? The blacksmith's son had not dreamt that could be so.

Why did they not restrain him, then?

The Bossonian archer laughed. "And if you tell him so, Vulth, you'll get it in the neck. In fact, if you even talk about it with anybody you can't trust, you're liable to get it in the neck anyway. Stercus doesn't like people telling him what he can do and what he can't."

"King Numedides told him," said the Gunderman who wasn't Vulth: a younger man, with a merry smile. "That's why he's up here, not still down in the capital prowling after young girls there."

"Ah, but there's a difference," the Bossonian replied. "Numedides can tell anybody anything. That's what being king is all about. You damned well can't.

You're just a miserable, no-account pikeman with dung on your boots. Nobody wants to hear what you've got to say."

Had anyone spoken so to Conan, the blacksmith's son would have done his best to murder the offender. No Cimmerian would stand for the notion that his word was not as good as any other man's. Clan chiefs won their places not thanks to their fancy bloodlines but by virtue of the strength and wisdom they displayed. Anyone might challenge them, and men frequently did. If being frozen in place from fear of a wicked nobleman's status was what went into civilization, then Conan wanted no part of it, vastly preferring the barbarism in which he had been raised.

His father had seen that benefits also accrued from a social system more highly structured than Cimmeria's, but he was blind to those.

The Gunderman, instead of taking the archer's words as a deadly insult, only laughed. "And you've got dung on your tongue, Benno," he said. "That's why everybody loves you so much."

Benno's reply taught Conan several new Aquilonian curses. He was not completely sure what all of them meant, but they sounded splendid, rolling off the Bossonian's tongue with a fine, sonorous obscenity. The Gunderman at whom they were aimed laughed some more. That Conan did understand. Friends could take such liberties.

For a little while, he forgot about murdering all the invaders. Following them, spying on them, made sport enough.

Granth hated the Cimmerian forest. Even with comrades along, he always felt like a flea making its way through the matted fur of the biggest, shaggiest dog in the world. He did not offer up that conceit to Vulth and Benno. He knew too well that his cousin and the Bossonian would make the most of it.

When he stopped for a moment, the other two soldiers also halted. "What is it?"

asked Vulth. "Did you see something? Did you hear something?" He sounded edgier than usual himself; perhaps the damp, silent immensity of the woods had begun to get under his skin, too.

However reluctantly, Granth shook his head. "No," he admitted. "But half the Cimmerians in the world could be within fifty feet of us, and we'd never notice, not in woods like these."

"By Mitra, we would!" Benno laughed and mimed taking an arrow in the chest.

"We'd notice pretty damned quick, too."

That had a horrid feeling of probability to Granth. It also made him stop, look, and listen again. But he saw nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing ― except the hair-prickling feeling at the nape of his neck that not all was as it should be. He muttered to himself.

"Still jumpy?" said Vulth.

"Not―jumpy." Granth tried to put the feeling into words: "More as though a goose just walked over my grave."

"You're a goose ―a silly one," said his cousin. Granth scowled; he might have known Vulth would make him pay for careless words like those.

"And if anything walks over your grave in this country, it's likelier to be a panther or a dragon ―something with long, sharp claws, anyway ― than a goose," added Benno. "Geese are the least of what we've got to worry about here."

That only served to reinforce Granth's feeling on unease. Try as he would, he could find no rational reason for it. Telling himself as much, though, did not make it go away. He leaned against the rough bark of a fir that might have sprouted before the kingdom of Aquilonia coalesced out of the wandering Hyborian tribes that had shattered the ancient, sorcery-steeped land of Acheron. Even then, this forest had belonged to Cimmeria.

Thinking of the land naturally made him think also of the dour folk who dwelt upon it. But thinking of the Cimmerians only added to his unease. Again, he groped for words: "They aren't acting so ―so beaten as they did just after we came up here."

Neither Vulth nor Benno had to ask who they were. Frowning, Vulth said, "They've had a couple of years to lick their wounds and to take our measure.

What's the old saw? Familiarity breeds contempt, that's it. They've seen us drinking ale and standing around scratching ourselves. They haven't seen us fight for a while."

"We should have gone on," said Benno. "We should have bitten off a bigger chunk of this cursed country than we did."

"If you ask me, we're lucky we bit off any―if you want to call it luck," said Granth. "They could have beaten us there by Fort Venarium. Hell, they almost did."

"And they know it, too," agreed Vulth. "You can see it in their faces when you go into Duthil. Like I said, they've licked their wounds. They're pretty much healed.

Now they're getting to want another crack at us."

This time, Benno did pull an arrow from his quiver and set it to his bowstring. "If they want one, I'll give it to them."

"More of us now than there were when the army first came up into Cimmeria,"

observed Granth. "Every settler who's started a farm can wield a spear or a sword or a bow or an axe at a pinch."

"I still wish we'd conquered more of Cimmeria," said Benno stubbornly.

To Granth's annoyance, Vulth nodded. What was he doing, backing a Bossonian against his own cousin? But then he looked to the north and said, "So do I. How many Cimmerians are there that we didn't beat? How many of them can fight at a pinch? And how many of them are feeling the pinch now?

Yes, Granth had always hated the Cimmerian forests. They stretched across the landscape like a great mantling cloak. And just how many savage barbarians sheltered beneath that cloak? He did not know. He hoped he ―and all the Aquilonians in these parts ―would not have to find out.

A fireplace poker was one of the simplest bits of smithery Mordec did: a long iron bar with one end twisted back on itself to make a handle. It had neither edge nor temper, and needed neither. Taking the hot metal off the anvil with his tongs, the blacksmith simply set it aside to let it cool.

He set down the tongs, too, then walked back into his bedchamber to see how his wife fared. Verina had fallen into a fitful sleep. Her face was thinner and paler than it had been even when the Aquilonians invaded Cimmeria; the bluish cast to her lips was more pronounced. Mordec's great shoulders heaved in a hopeless sigh. How long could she go on? How could he go on ―and, especially, how could Conan go on ― when she lost her protracted struggle with mortality?

He sighed again, then straightened. For the time being, she did not need him.

With Conan out hunting, he had wanted to be sure of that before stepping away from the smithy for a little while. Nodding to himself, he turned and walked out into Duthil's narrow, muddy main street.

Boys yelled and ran, kicking at their leather ball. Chickens clucked indignantly.

They flapped their all but useless wings to help them scurry out of the way of the boys. Dogs, by contrast, ran joyously with the children. They might not know what the sport was, but they were ready to play. A brindled cat yawned from a doorway, every line of its sleek body declaring that it had better things to do with its energy than waste it so prodigally.

Mordec strode through the noisy chaos as if it did not exist. Boys and dogs and even chickens made way for him. The cat, unimpressed, yawned again, flipped the tip of its fluffy tail up over its eyes to keep out the sun, and fell asleep.

Mordec had not far to go. He ducked his way into the house of Balarg the weaver.

Balarg was busy at the loom. He worked on for a few moments, then nodded to the blacksmith. "Good day," he said, civilly enough. "You look to have somewhat on your mind."

"I do. I do indeed." Mordec had little lightness in him at any time. His nod now was as somber and jerky as if he were made of the iron he worked.

"Say your say, then," Balarg told him. The weaver gestured toward another stool.

"And sit, if you care to."

"I'd sooner stand," said Mordec. Shrugging, Balarg got to his feet, too. He was not so thick through the shoulders and chest as the blacksmith, but came closer than any other man in Duthil to matching him in height. By rising, he might as well have warned Mordec he would not suffer himself to be loomed over. Ignoring such subtleties, Mordec bulled ahead: "This has to do with your daughter."

"With Tarla?" Balarg's eyebrows rose in surprise or a good simulation of it.

"We've walked this track before, but you look bound and determined to do it again, so go on, by all means."

"She draws that accursed Aquilonian noble the way spilled honey draws flies,"

said Mordec bluntly. "We'd all be better off if he stopped coming to Duthil, and you know it as well as I do."

Now the weaver's brows came down, though even frowning he lacked Mordec's gloomy Now the weaver’s brows came down, though even frowning he lacked Mordec’s gloomy intensity. Still, his voice had no give in it as he replied, "Tell me just what you mean. You need to be careful about what you say, too. If you claim she has done anything improper with the Aquilonian ― anything at all, mind you ―then we can step out into the street and settle that directly. You once said our quarrels could wait while the men from the south were in our country, and I thought that fair enough. Still, Mordec, some things cannot be borne."

The blacksmith exhaled angrily. "I do not say she has done anything―not the way you mean. But when that stinking Stercus comes to call on her, she ―she smiles at him."

Balarg threw back his head and laughed. "Plain to see you have a son and not a daughter. That is the way of girls ― the way of women ― and has been for as long as they have had to try to deal with us men."

"Oh, I know a girl's smiles are sweet, and I know the sweetest of smiles need not mean a thing. I am not a fool, Balarg, and you make a mistake if you reckon me one," said Mordec. "But I also know some things you seem to forget. Does the tale of poor Ugaine mean nothing to you?"

"Ugaine was Stercus' plaything, in the town the Aquilonians have built," said Balarg. "Tarla stays here in Duthil, and Stercus has not laid a finger―not so much as a finger ―upon her. Do you deny it? Do you, damn your stiff neck?"

"I do not," said Mordec. "But do you deny that even his own officer warned us against Stercus? Do you deny he has given her more attention than is her due?

What he has done is no guide to what he will do, or to what he would do. And you will also have heard the stories the Aquilonian soldiers tell, that he was cast forth from their capital, cast forth from their kingdom, for liking young girls too well? He has done these things, Balarg. Given the chance, he will do them again."

"You are the one who speaks Aquilonian, so you would know better than I," said Balarg. Mordec glowered and flushed; the weaver might have accused him of friendship with the invaders. Sensing his advantage, Balarg went on, "Besides, if we listened to everything the soldiers said, we would never have time for anything else. I think your quibbles spring from a different seed, myself."

"What nonsense are you spewing now?" rumbled Mordec irritably.

"Nonsense? I doubt it." Balarg was a clever man, and, like most clever men, pleased with his own cleverness, and with showing it off. "You complain about the Aquilonian because you aim to match Tarla with your own great gowk of a son. I've seen him casting sheep's eyes at her often enough."

Mordec scowled, for at least part of what the weaver said was true. "He'd make a better match for her than any other you'd find in Duthil, and you know it."

"In Duthil? Aye, likely enough." But Balarg spoke as if Duthil were a very small place indeed. "Tarla, though, Tarla might find a match in any of the villages of Cimmeria, and pick and choose from among her suitors."

"What if- " But Mordec broke off with that question unspoken. If he asked Balarg whether Tarla would entertain a suitor from Venarium, he would mortally insult the other villager, and their feud would burst into flame whether he wanted it to or not. Or, worse, Balarg might make it plain that he would entertain a suit from

Stercus, in which case Mordec did not see how he could keep from inflaming the feud himself.

Being a clever man, Balarg saw much of that, if not all, regardless of whether Mordec finished the question. "I think you have said enough," growled the weaver. "I think you have said too much. And I think you had better go, or one of our wives will be a widow before the sun sets tonight."

"Oh, I'll leave," said Mordec. "But I will tell you one thing more, Balarg: you are no blacksmith, and you know nothing of the fire you play with." He turned on his heel and tramped out into the street.

The boys' ball came bounding toward him. Before he thought, he drew back his foot, then shot it forward. His toe met the ball squarely and sent it flying over the houses of Duthil and far out into the fields beyond. The boys skidded to a stop, their necks craning comically as they turned in unison to follow the flight of the ball. When at last it thudded to earth, some of them ran after it. Others stared in awe at Mordec.

"Nobody can kick like that," said one.

"He just did, Wirp," said another. Wirp shook his head, manifestly disbelieving what he had just seen.

Mordec said not a word. He slowly walked back to the smithy, wishing he could boot sense into Balarg as readily as he had vented his spleen on a harmless ball.

On sentry-go outside the Aquilonian camp by Duthil, Granth son of Biemur watched Count Stercus ride south toward Venarium. Turning to his cousin, he said, "I wish he'd find some other village to visit."

Nodding, Vulth answered, "You aren't the only one. The more he comes here, the more trouble I see down the road."

Out of the side of his mouth, Benno said, "Here comes trouble closer than down the road."

Sergeant Nopel emerged from the fortified encampment and bore down on the sentries. Granth tried to straighten up, and also tried not to be too noticeable as he straightened: that might have made Nopel see he'd been slouching. Nopel noticed almost everything; noticing was part of what made him a sergeant. But he only waved now, a world-weary flap of the arm that said he had larger things to fret about than whether his sentries slouched. "As you were, boys," he called.

Despite that, Granth did not relax from the brace he had taken. "What's up, Sergeant?" he asked.

Nopel did not answer right away. He looked toward Duthil. After a moment, Granth realized he was looking beyond Duthil toward the trackless wilderness still inhabited by wild, unsubdued Cimmerians. He said, "The tribes are stirring."

Granth and Vulth and Benno and Daverio stared at one another in consternation.

"How do you know that?" asked Daverio.

"How do I know?" said Nopel. "How do I know? By Mi-tra, I'll tell you how I know. I've just come from talking with Captain Treviranus, and he told me. That's how I know." By the way he spoke, he might have had the news from the gods themselves.

Granth was not prepared to disagree with him. As far as the Gunderman was concerned, Treviranus made as good a garrison commander as anyone could want. If he said a thing was so, so it was likely to be. But cynical Daverio asked the question that had barely occurred to Granth: "Well, how does the captain know?"

"How does he know?" Sergeant Nopel sounded as if he could not believe his ears.

But the Bossonian bowman nodded. Nopel's frown was fearsome. "Why, because he's heard, that's how."

"Well, who told him?" persisted Daverio. "It wasn't anybody from here, or we'd all have heard about it by now."

And Granth could hardly disagree with that, either. Anything anyone in the garrison knew, everyone in the garrison knew in a matter of minutes. The Gundermen and Bossonians, a tiny island in a vast, hostile sea, had no secrets from one another.

"I don't know who told him. I only know what he told me," said Nopel. He fixed Daverio with a challenging stare. "You want to go tell him he's wrong? You want to tell him you know better, and we can all relax? He'll be glad to hear that. You bet he will."

Daverio was a hard and stubborn man, but no common soldier would have been so rash as to beard Captain Treviranus in his den. He shook his head now, saying, "I'm trying to find out what's going on, that's all. If the tribes are stirring out there somewhere, what are we supposed to do about it?"

Exactly how vast was Cimmeria? Granth did not know, not in any detail; he knew only that the corner of it Count Stercus' army had worried off was just that―a corner. Countless clans of barbarians ― clans assuredly uncounted by any Aquilonian, at all odds ―still prowled the dark woods in squalid freedom. If they were to band together against the soldiers and settlers from the south― "Aye, Sergeant," said Granth. "What are we supposed to do about it?"

"I was coming to that," said Nopel portentously. "Did you think I wasn't? We've got to push scouts up to the north and see with our own eyes what the damned barbarians are up to."

"We can send scouts north, all right," said Vulth. "We can send 'em, but will we ever see 'em again if we do?"

"And why wouldn't we?" demanded Nopel.

All the sentries laughed. The laughs were not pleasant. "Why, Sergeant?" said Granth. "On account of the damned Cimmerians will do for them, that's why. Do you think we can kill ten for one for what happens up there?"

Nopel grunted. He turned and tramped away without answering. Vulth clapped

Granth on the back. "Well done, cousin," said Vulth. "You made the sergeant shut up, and not everybody can boast of that."

Benno had a more practical way of congratulating Granth. He took his water bottle off his belt and offered it to him. When Granth tilted back his head and drank, he wasn't too surprised to find sweet, strong wine running down his throat.

He took another pull at the bottle, and then another, until at last Benno snatched it out of his hand.

Granth wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Benno glowered. Vulth chuckled. "You see?" he said to the archer. "He's figuring out what it's all about."

"It's about him being greedy, that's what," said Benno. But even the touchy Bossonian seemed not too put out.

For his part, Granth looked to the north. He had seen one swarm of Cimmerians bearing down on the army of which he was a small part. In his mind's eye, he saw another, this one bigger, fiercer, more ferocious. Until that moment, he had not imagined anything more ferocious than the onslaught he and his countrymen had so narrowly survived. Now he discovered his imagination was stronger than he had thought possible.

"What do we do if the barbarians come down on us, the way Nopel and the captain say they might?" he asked, worn' in his voice.

"Kill 'em," Vulth answered stolidly. "Kill 'em till they're piled so high, they have to climb over their cousins to jump down onto our pikes."

When Granth looked toward the village of Duthil, everything seemed tranquil enough. Women carried water from the stream back to their homes. Wood smoke rose from the smoke holes in their roofs. A couple of men stood talking. Neither of them paid the least attention to the Aquilonian encampment. Two years after the fight at Fort Venarium ― now the citadel at the heart of the town of Venarium ― the villagers might have accepted the camp as part of the landscape.

A dog nosed at a mound of garbage. He ignored the encampment, too. He might have been sincere. Granth had his doubts about the Cimmerians.

If more barbarians swarmed down out of the north, what would the folk of Duthil do? Would they take up arms and fight alongside the Aquilonians against the new invaders? Would they sit quietly and wait to see how the other Cimmerians fared against the men from the south? Or would they grab whatever weapon came to hand and try to murder every Gunderman and Bossonian they could find?

Granth did not know, of course. Only a god could know the future. But the pikeman had a good idea which way he would bet.

He said, "We ought to haul some of the villagers out of that place and squeeze them. To hell with me if they don't know more than they're letting on."

"Not a bad notion," agreed Vulth. "Some of the women seem plenty squeezable ― or they would, if you didn't think they'd knife you for touching them."

"They act that way when others are around to see, sure enough," said Benno. "But some of them are friendly enough if you can get them off by themselves."

"Braggart," said Granth. Benno preened.

"Braggart and liar both," said Vulth. "Before I believe a word he says, I want to know who he means, and I want to know how he knows."

"Who? The miller's wife, for one." Benno looked toward Duthil and licked his chops. "And how do I know? When the millstones start grinding, the Cimmerian who runs them has to make sure they behave, and then he can't make sure his lady behaves. And the stones are so noisy, he can't hear a thing that goes on anywhere close by."

After looking at each other, Granth and his cousin both shook their heads.

"Braggart," said the one. "Liar," said the other. Benno protested, but not, Granth judged, in the way he would have it he really had done the things he claimed to have done. Soldiers, of course, had been telling lies about women ever since Mitra first let there be soldiers and women.

Then something else occurred to Granth. "Maybe the young one Count Stercus
keeps coming back for will stick a knife in him one of these days, and maybe we'll all be better off if she does."

"No." Vulth shook his head. "Think of the vengeance we'd have to wreak. Have you got the stomach for massacring a whole village?"

"For Stercus' sake? For him doing what he's got no business doing, with somebody he's got no business doing it with?" Granth did not need to think that over; he knew the answer at once. "Not a bit of it." But then he hesitated. "To save our own necks, though? That's a different story." None of the other Aquilonian soldiers argued with him.

Chapter Ten

For Tarla's Sake

Few would have called Count Stercus a patient man. In the matter of the weaver's daughter in Duthil, though, he had been more patient than most of the debauched rogues who had known him down in Aquilonia would have dreamt possible. For one thing, he reckoned the game with Tarla worth the candle. And, for another, he still painfully remembered the consequences of his impatience in Tarantia. If not for that, he never would have found himself reduced to pursuing a chit of a barbarian girl here at the misty northern edge of the world.

And so, patience―patience to a point, at any rate. But Stercus was no Stygian priest, no mystic from the distant, legendary land of Khitai, to practice patience for its own dusty sake. He was an Aquilonian to the core: a man of action, a man of deeds. He could bide his time ―he had bided his time―with some definite end in view, but if the end remained in view, remained close enough to reach out and touch, he would, sooner or later, reach out and touch it.

That time, at last, had come.

He rode forth from Venarium in helm and back-and-breast, more to make a brave show when he came to Duthil than for any other reason. These days, the country north of what had become a booming little town put him more in mind of the

Bossonian Marches or Gunderland than of the dark, brooding wilderness Cimmeria had been before the coming of the gold lion on black.

Fair-haired men and women worked in fields and garden plots carved from primeval wilderness. Smoke rose from the chimneys of sturdy cabins. Garrisons overawed surviving Cimmerian villages. Some of those forts might grow into towns, as Venarium had. The barbarians themselves would surely go to the wall, overwhelmed by the strength and majesty of advancing Aquilonian civilization.

Contemplating their fate, Stercus allowed himself a certain delicate melancholy.

It was a pity, but the count did not see how it could be helped.

Even now, so soon after the initial conquest, most of the traffic on the road was Aquilonian: more settlers' wagons coming into this new land; soldiers who helped keep the settlers safe; merchants and peddlers of all sorts, intent on taking what profit they could from the land in which they found themselves. And, coming the other way, down toward Venarium, farmers who had more closely followed the army were bringing first fruits and vegetables to market. An oxcart full of onions might not seem such a wonderful thing at first glance, but Stercus smiled as he rode past it, for those were Aquilonian onions.

Only a handful of Cimmerians were on the road. Except for the sake of a drunken carouse or luxuries they could not make for themselves, the barbarians seldom went to Venarium. They wanted little to do with the Aquilonian presence swelling in their midst. That they wanted little to do with it was in Stercus' eyes yet another harbinger of their eventual extinction. If they could not see they were in the presence of something greater than themselves, that went a long way toward proving they did not deserve to survive.

Axes rang in the forest. Trees fell. More cabins full of settlers from Gunderland rose every day. Stercus smiled to himself, for it was good.

But, by the time he got most of the way to Duthil, the road had become a track once more, and the woods pressed close on either side. This far north, few settlers had yet come. The land remained in its state of primitive barbarism.

Another horseman on the track, this one riding south, caused Stercus to rein in.

The roadway was especially narrow here; they would have to go slowly as they
edged past each other. By the crimson crest on his helm, the other man was a captain. "Your Excellency!" he called, recognizing Stercus. "Well met, by Mitra!

I was on my way to Venarium to bring word to you."

"Word of what, Treviranus?" asked Stercus, his voice a little chilly; his mind was on other things than duty.

The commander of the garrison by Duthil pointed back over his shoulder to the village and beyond. "The tribes are stirring, your Excellency. Out beyond where our arms have reached, Cimmeria begins to bubble and boil like a pot of stew left too long over too hot a fire."

Stercus' laugh was loud and long and scornful. "If the barbarians want another go at us, they are welcome to it, as far as I am concerned. We smashed them once.

We can do it again."

"Sir, we smashed three or four clans," said Treviranus worriedly. "If three or four more rise against us, we'll smash them again, aye. But Cimmeria has clans by the score. If thirty or forty rise against us, that is a very different business. How could we throw back such a swarm of men?"

"If you have not the courage for the work, Captain, belike I can find a man who has," said Stercus.

Treviranus flushed angrily. "You misunderstand me, your Excellency."

"Good. I hoped I did," said Stercus. "Have you got any true notion how many barbarians may be in motion against our frontier? With the way the Cimmerians squabble among themselves, isn't it likelier to be three or four clans than thirty or forty?"

"Most of the time, your Excellency, I would say yes to that," replied Treviranus.

"But not now."

"Oh? And why not?" Again, Stercus laced his voice with scorn.

The junior officer said, "Why not, sir? Because most of the time, as you say, Cimmerians fight Cimmerians, and they break up into factions. But we know one thing about them: they all hate us. I worry that they will sink all their own feuds until they have driven us from their soil."

Count Stercus yawned. "You grow tedious, Captain. If you want to keep an eye on the barbarians beyond the border, you may do so. But if you start at shadows like a brat waking up in its crib in the middle of the night, then you do yourself no good, you do King Numedides no good, and you do Aquilonia no good. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," said Treviranus tonelessly. He saluted with mechanical precision, then yanked his horse's head around and rode back up the track toward Duthil. He did not look over his shoulder to see whether Stercus followed. By his stiff, outraged posture, he was doing his best to pretend Stercus did not exist.

Laughing, the Aquilonian nobleman urged his own mount into motion once more.

Thirty or fort)' clans of Cimmerians getting together for any reason, any reason whatsoever? Count Stercus laughed again. The notion was absurd on the face of it. He would have had trouble believing even three or four clans could unite, if not for the fight at Fort Venarium. If three or four more clans came, he had no doubt the Aquilonians would indeed crush them and send them off howling.

No doubt because of his outrage, Captain Treviranus rode faster than Stercus. The garrison commander had already gone back into his little fortress by the time Stercus emerged from the trees into the clearing surrounding Duthil. The count rode past the palisade toward the village. One of the Aquilonian sentries pointed his way. He saw as much out of the corner of his eye, but did not deign even to turn his head. That he was recognized gratified him. That he acknowledge being recognized never entered his mind. His notion of nobility did not include obliging.

When he came into Duthil, he did slow his horse so he would not trample any of the boys playing ball in the street. He cared nothing for them; seeing them go down under his horse's hooves would have made him rejoice. But it would have angered and grieved Tarla, and Stercus was not a man to frighten his quarry before he brought it down.

He did not see the blacksmith's son among the shouting boys. That left him oddly relieved. The hatred in Conan's blazing blue eyes could not be disguised. And the Cimmerian, though still smooth-cheeked, was already six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and chest a man twice his age might have envied. When thinking of Conan, Stercus was not at all sorry he rode a charger and wore armor.

And here was the house of Balarg the weaver. Count Stercus swung down off his steed, and his armor clattered about him. Then, feeling foolish, he mounted again, for he saw Tarla coming up the street carrying a bucket of water from the stream that ran by the village. He rode up to her, saying, "Good day, my sweet."

"Good day," she answered, and looked down at the ground.

Eyeing her, Stercus wondered how he had contented himself with Ugaine even for a moment. This was what he really wanted: unspoiled, lovely, and young, so young. But he had been patient for a long time ―a very, very long time, to his way of thinking. Every heartbeat left Tarla older. Soon, too soon, she would no longer be his image of perfection, only what might have been.

Thinking of that made all Stercus' hard-kept patience blow away like the mist.

"We've already waited too long, my darling," he said urgently. "Come away with me now."

She shook her head. "I cannot. I will not. I belong here."

Rage rose up like black smoke from the fire that burned inside Stercus. Had she been playing him along all this time, playing him for a fool? She would be sorry―sorrier―if she had. "You belong with me," the nobleman said. "You belong to me."

At that Tarla's chin came up in defiance. She shook her head again, more firmly this time. "No. I belong to myself, and to no one else," she declared, as full of native love of freedom as any other Cimmerian ever born.

Count Stercus cared nothing for the freedom of Cimmerians. "By Mitra, you are mine!" he cried, and, leaning down, snatched her up onto his saddlebow. The
bucket went flying, water splattering the already muddy street. Tarla shrieked.

Stercus cuffed her. She shrieked again. He hit her once more, harder this time.

One of the boys playing ball in the street threw a rock at Stercus. It clanged off his backplate and did him no harm. Another youngster ran toward Count Stercus with a stick of firewood ―the first weapon he could find ―in his hand. Stercus'

sword sprang free. He swung it in a shining arc of death. The Cimmerian boy tried to block it with the wood, but to no avail. The blade bit. The boy fell, spouting blood, his head all but severed from his body.

"Wirp!" cried Tarla. But Wirp would never answer.

The rest of the barbarians in the street roared. They ran not away from Stercus but toward him, intent on pulling him from the saddle. He set spurs to the destrier.

Snorting, the great horse sprang forward. Lashing out with its hooves, it stretched another boy dead in the street, his skull smashed. Left arm encircling Tarla's supple waist, Stercus thundered out of Duthil and into the woods.

Granth son of Biemur knelt on one knee in a soldiers' hut. The dice had been going his way―he was up twelve lunas, and hoped to make it more on his next cast. Before he could throw, though, a trumpeter blew the assembly call.

"Damnation!" he said, scooping up the silver he had won. "Why did the captain have to decide to hold a drill now?"

"We'll get back to the game soon enough," said Vulth, "and then I'll clean you out."

"Ha!" said Granth. He got to his feet. "Come on ―let's get it over with."

Gundermen and Bossonians hurried out to the open space between huts and palisade. They clapped helms on their heads, fastened mailshirts, and had pikes and bows ready. If by some accident this were no drill, they were ready for war.

"Foolishness," grumbled Benno. But his bow was strung and his quiver full.

"No doubt," said Granth. Then Captain Treviranus strode out in front of the

Aquilonians. Seeing his grim countenance, Granth began to wonder how foolish the horn call was.

"Something's gone wrong in Duthil," said Treviranus bluntly. "Count Stercus rode into the village a while ago, and he hasn't come out―at least, not this way. And the barbarians in there have been whooping and hollering ever since he did ride in. We'd better find out why they're in an uproar and calm them down ―if we can."

"What if we can't?" called someone. Granth could not see who it was, but the same question had crossed his mind. What would he and his friends have to do to pull Stercus' chestnuts out of the fire?

Treviranus faced the question squarely. "If they want trouble, we'll give them all they want and more. We can't let them think they can rise up against us. If they do, the whole countryside is liable to boil over." He waited to see if any more questions would come. When none did, he nodded. "All right, then. Let's go."

He led the Bossonians and Gundermen ― the whole garrison except for a handful of men left behind to hold the camp ―toward Duthil. That he led made the archers and pikemen follow willingly. Some officers would simply have sent the soldiers forth, but Treviranus was not one of that stripe.

Even before leaving the fortified encampment, Granth could hear the Cimmerians shouting and their women keening. A man came out of Duthil and strode straight at the oncoming Aquilonians. One man against a company of soldiers―but such was his fury that Granth almost halted and did tighten his grip on his pikestaff.

"Two!" shouted the Cimmerian in bad but understandable Aquilonian. "He kill two boys, steal girl. He pay! You all pay!"

"Count Stercus did this?" demanded Treviranus.

"Aye, he do! Dog and son of dog!" the Cimmerian said. "We catch, we kill."

Granth knew Captain Treviranus had no more love for Stercus than any other

Aquilonian did. Treviranus might have been able to soothe the villagers ― except that they did not want to be soothed. The man who had advanced on the soldiers stopped, picked up a stone, and flung it at them.

The stone thudded off a pikeman's buckler. The response of the Bossonian archers was altogether automatic. Bowstrings thrummed. Half a dozen shafts whistled through the air. They all pierced the Cimmerian. He took a couple of staggering steps toward the men from the south, as if still intending to assail them, then slowly crumpled.

"Damnation," said Treviranus quietly. "I wish that hadn't happened. Well, no help for it now. Forward, men. Battle line ―pikemen in front of the archers. We're likely going to have a fight on our hands now."

He proved a good prophet. No sooner had the Cimmerian fallen than more stones began flying at the Aquilonians from Duthil. At least two archers also began shooting from the village. A Bossonian cried out and sat down hard with an arrow through his thigh.

Vulth reached up and settled his conical helm more firmly on his head. "We're going to have to clean the place out now," he said, "and the barbarians in there are going to try to clean us out, too." Granth nodded. His cousin struck him as a good prophet, too.

Along with his comrades, Granth pressed on into Duthil. He saw no one on the street―but, down at the far end of it, two bodies sprawled in ugly death. The Cimmerian had not lied. Granth had not really thought he had.

A door flew open. A barbarian charged out swinging an axe. He chopped down one Bossonian and left another bowman pouring blood from a great gash in his leg. The pikemen turned on the barbarian then and stretched him lifeless in the mud, but not before he had taken more from the Aquilonians than they could ever take from him.

An arrow from the house next to the blacksmith's caught a pikeman three soldiers down from Granth in the throat. The other Gunderman clawed at the shaft that drank his life. He fell to his knees and then over on to his side. "Dever!" cried

Granth, but Dever would never hear him again.

"Now we have to crush them," Captain Treviranus said. "One house at a time, if we must, but crush them we will!"

Even after the battle in front of Fort Venarium, Granth had never imagined work like this. Men fought to the death with whatever weapons they had. Women snatched up kitchen knives and flung themselves at pikemen and archers. More often than not, they would plunge the blades into their own breasts rather than risk capture. The Aquilonians spared children ―until a boy who could not have been eight years old stabbed a Bossonian in the back. He had to reach up to get the knife between the bowman's ribs, but it found his heart. After that, the soldiers behaved as if they were destroying a nest of serpents.

Serpents, though, never stung back so savagely. Granth was one of the Gundermen who used a log to batter down the door to the smithy. The only person they found inside was a skeletally skinny woman whose gray eyes blazed in a face ghost-pale. She came at them not with a kitchen knife but with a long, heavy sword. She wounded two men, one of them badly, and fought with such ferocity that she made the Gundermen slay her.

"Mitra!" said Granth. "These aren't barbarians ― they're demons, demons straight from hell!"

"Mitra carry Count Stercus straight down to hell," panted Vulth. "If not for him, everything would be quiet here. Now-"

Now the Cimmerians of Duthil, making their final stand, thought of nothing but taking as many of their foes with them as they could. Wounded barbarians feigned death, lying quiet until they could spring up and strike one last telling blow. The shrieks of the sorely hurt and the dying on both sides rose up into the uncaring sky.

At last, all the Cimmerians in Duthil above the age of five or so lay unmoving.

Granth's pikestaff was scarlet along half its length. Gore splashed his mailshirt.

He no longer hesitated about spearing Cimmerians on the ground to make sure they would not rise again ―he had seen too many of them do just that. Vulth had
a bandage on his right arm. Benno had taken an arrow through his left hand.

Daverio was dead, his head smashed in by a Cimmerian despite his helm.

Captain Treviranus limped with a leg wound. "You're bleeding," he told Granth.

"Am I?" said Granth foolishly. He found he was, and that a chunk was missing from his left earlobe. He had no memory of getting hurt. Waving at the carnage all around, he asked, "What now, Captain?"

"Now I'd like to roast Stercus over a slow fire," answered Treviranus. "The whole countryside will rise up against us on account of this ―and for nothing!

Nothing!"

Vulth prowled the wreckage of the village. The carrion birds that had already begun to settle flew up again, croaking in annoyance, when he walked past. They came fluttering down again after he went by. When he came back to Granth and Treviranus, his face bore a worried expression. "What's wrong?" asked Granth.

"I've been looking for the blacksmith's body," said his cousin. "He's big as a bear―he shouldn't be hard to spot. But he's not here."

"Are you sure?" asked Treviranus. Vulth nodded. Granth could not remember seeing the smith in the brief, bloody, uneven battle. By Captain Treviranus'

frown, neither could he. The garrison commander said, "Where is he, then?" In Duthil, the Aquilonians found no answers.

Mordec and Balarg and Nectan the shepherd tramped north ― farther north than they were used to going. Nectan laughed and grinned at Mordec. "For one so grim, you've got a rare sneaky streak in you. Setting your son to guard the sheep is the best way I know to keep him from coming with us."

"I told him he could fight when war came again," answered Mordec. "Soon we'll know if it is here. That will be time enough to blood the boy in battle." He did not say that Conan was already blooded. The time for battle might not yet be at hand.

If it were not, what point to spilling his son's secret and risking betrayal? Two had some small hope of keeping silent. Four, as far as he could see, had none ―
especially when he had brought Balarg with him not least to make sure the weaver spoke to no Bossonians or Gundermen. Maybe he did the man an injustice. If he did, he would apologize when the time came. Meanwhile ―Balarg pointed ahead, past the next line of evergreen-clad hills on the northern horizon. "Do you think they will be there?" he asked.

"Crom! They had better be there!" exclaimed Nectan.

"Even the invaders have begun to get wind of them," said Mordec. "If the accursed Aquilonians think they're there, there they're likely to be." He tossed his head, dismissing the question. "No point fretting about it, not now. Sooner or later, one way or the other, we'll know."

The most widely traveled of the men from Duthil, the blacksmith led the weaver and the shepherd along a winding trail over the side of one of those steep hills to the north. A broader, easier path went through a valley below, but Mordec steered his comrades away from it. They had already evaded two or three Aquilonian patrols. Being so obvious even ignorant foreigners could not miss it, the track in the valley was a logical place to find another.

Evade the Aquilonians they did. But the hill had not yet begun sloping down toward the north before a Cimmerian voice came out of nowhere: "Halt, dogs!

Halt or you die!"

"We are of your own folk," said Mordec. But he halted, a step in front of Balarg and Nectan.

A harsh laugh answered him. "I've already slain three Aquilonians trying to sneak up this way. The last one wore a black wig and spoke our language as well as I do. He died anyway― and he died hard."

"Come and see who we are," said Mordec calmly. "We seek Herth's men, if they be near." He stood ready to spring into the woods if the first arrow missed him ―and if it did, he aimed to avenge himself on the man who shot it, regardless of whether that man sprang from Aquilonia or Cimmeria.

After a moment, the Cimmerian came out into the track. He had a lean, pantherish build, and held a sword ready to use. His breeks were woven in the same checked pattern as Herth's had been. "I have friends behind me," he warned as he strode up to the men from Duthil. He prowled around them, then grudgingly nodded.

"You're of my folk, all right. But how do you come to have Herth's name in your mouth, when the clan he heads dwells far from these parts?"

Balarg swelled with indignation. "Did I not guest him in my own house? Did these my comrades not speak with him there?"

"I don't know. Did you? Did they?" The Cimmerian scout was unmoved. "If you did, say your names, and maybe I will know them." One by one, Mordec, Balarg, and Nectan told him who they were. At that, for the first time, the scout stopped sneering. "Aye, he spoke of you. Come with me, then, and I'll take you to him."

He ducked back into the woods, to return a moment later carrying a yew-wood longbow almost as tall as he was. Without looking back, he hurried north. The three men from Duthil matched him stride for stride.

After a while, Mordec asked. "Did you truly have friends back there?"

That made the man from Herth's clan stop and grin. "You'll never know, will you?"

Not too much later, the blacksmith realized he was heading downhill: he and his comrades had reached the north-facing slope at last. But the trees were so thick around him that he could not see very far. He tramped on. Sooner or later, he would learn what he needed to know.

About two thirds of the way down the hillside, the forest abruptly gave way to meadow. The Cimmerian scout pressed on. Mordec stopped dead in his tracks. So did Balarg and Nectan. Their eyes were wide with astonishment. After a moment, Mordec realized his were, too.

The encampment sprawled over more than a mile of land, tents and lean-tos thrown up in the wildest disorder and men picking their way between them. The disciplined Aquilonians would have laughed themselves sick at the chaos. But
they would have laughed out of the other side of their mouths at the great swarm of Cimmerians mustered here. Mordec had never dreamt so many of his countrymen could come together in one place without starting to murder one another. "Crom!" murmured Nectan, at least as astonished.

That soft exclamation made the scout realize he had lost the men he was supposed to be guiding. He looked back over his shoulder and saw them staring at the ragged but huge gathering of the clans. "Not bad, eh?"

"No." At the sight of such a host, Mordec's weariness fell from him like a discarded cloak. "Not bad at all."

Conan did not mind watching Nectan's sheep. As it often did, getting out of Duthil for a while appealed to him. If he did not have to see Tarla―and, most especially, if he did not have to see Count Stercus ―he did not have so great a need to brood about what might have passed between them.

Keeping an eye on the new year's lambs pleased him better. They were too large now for any eagle to hope to carry off, but they wandered farther from their mothers than they had when they were smaller. That made them easier for wolves to take ―or so it would have, at any rate, had the blacksmith's son not been vigilant.

On the little hillcrest from which he watched the flock, the air was crisp and clean and clear. It smelled of the meadow, and of the forests that were never far away in Cimmeria. The village stinks Conan was used to might have belonged to a different world. A slow smile stretched across his face. This was the life a man was meant to lead. If he could have spent the rest of his days herding sheep on the hillsides and meadows of his native land, he was sure he would have been happy.

He leaned back on the soft green grass, folded his hands behind his head, and smiled up at the sun, which had peeped out for a little while from behind the usually all-enshrouding Cimmerian mist. Some would have taken that pasture as an invitation to fall asleep, but Conan knew the sleeping shepherd was the one whose flock faced misfortune.

Regardless of what he knew, a yawn escaped his lips. He might have let himself
doze, there in the fitful sunshine. He might have ―but a sudden scream in the distance sent him scrambling to his feet.

The cry rang out again. It had to have burst from a woman's throat―and from the throat of a woman who knew herself to be in desperate peril. Conan snatched up his bow and quiver and began to run. He spared the sheep one brief glance over his shoulder as he dashed into the forest. For the next little while, they would have to fend for themselves.

Yet another scream dinned in Conan's ears. He nearly cried out himself, to tell the woman to keep screaming. Each shriek gave him a clearer notion of where she was. But if what harried her was man, not beast, Conan knew he would only warn that rescue was on the way. He held his tongue, but ran harder than ever.

At that pace, not even such a woodswise hunter as Conan could hope to travel silently. He heard small animals bounding away in all directions. He even saw a fox turn tail and flee. He remembered as much later. At the time, the fox scarcely registered.

Before long, he paused, panting, and cocked his head to one side. He knew he was close now, and did not want to run too far. A squawking commotion among the jays off to his left sent him hurrying in that direction. A moment later, another scream told him he had guessed well.

When he burst into the little clearing, he saw a girl on the ground, her tunic torn off, her bare skin white and glowing in the sun, her hands cruelly tied behind her, one of her ankles bound to a sapling. Above her towered a man who, by his swarthy coloring and light brown hair, had never been born in Cimmeria. The fellow looked up in surprise at Conan's arrival.

"Stercus!" cried Conan. "Die like the beast you are, you filthy Aquilonian devil!"

He nocked an arrow, raised the bow, and drew it with all the fury in him ― drew it with too much fury, in fact, for the bowstring snapped and the arrow spun away uselessly.

Count Stercus' sword already had blood on it. He gave Conan a mocking bow.

"You see how Mitra favors me," he said. "I had not thought to combine two
pleasures here, but since you are kind enough to give me the chance ― " He slid forward in a fencer's crouch.

"Run, Conan! Save yourself!" called the girl.

"Tarla!" said Conan. Her words had on him the effect opposite the one she had intended. As long as she was in danger, he would not, could not, dream of fleeing.

Throwing aside the bow, which was no good to him now, he quickly stooped and grubbed two stones out of the dirt. He hurled one, the smaller, at Stercus' head.

The Aquilonian nobleman was swift and supple as a serpent. Laughing a mocking laugh, he ducked the flying stone. But even as he ducked, Conan flung the other stone at his right hand, and it stuck squarely. Stercus let out a sudden, startled howl of pain. His sword spun through the air, to land well out of reach. Roaring like a panther, Conan charged him.

Stercus matched the blacksmith's son in inches, but Conan was already wider through the shoulders than the invader. He thought to bear Stercus down and crush or choke the life from him. But what he thought was not what happened, for the nobleman was wise in ways of wrestling he had never imagined. Conan found himself lifted and flipped and slammed to the ground, the arrows flying out of his quiver to land all around him.

"However you like, Conan," said Stercus, smiling a twisted smile. "For any way you like, I am your master." He lashed out at Conan with a booted foot. But the blacksmith's son had expected that. He grabbed the boot with both hands and yanked. With a startled squawk, Stercus toppled. But he kicked Conan away when the Cimmerian would have sprung on top of him. The two of them grappled, rolling and pummeling and cursing each other as foully as they could.

Stercus soon found the fight warmer than he really wanted. He tried to knee Conan in the groin. More by luck than by Conan's design, Stercus caught him in the hipbone instead: a painful blow but not a disabling one. Conan seized a fallen arrow and scored the back of Stercus' hand with the point. Stercus' laugh was more than half snarl. "You'll have to do better than that, barbarian!" he said.

The Aquilonian brought his knee up again, this time into the pit of Conan's
stomach. The air whooshed out of the blacksmith's son. He writhed on the ground struggling to breathe, all else forgotten. Tarla wailed in despair. Count Stercus laughed once more, this time triumphantly.

But even as he rose to finish Conan, he suddenly gasped in horror. "I burn!" he whispered. "Oh, I burn! Poison!" He shook all over, like a man with an ague. His eyes rolled up in his head. Foam started from his mouth. He let out a bubbling shriek of supernal agony. The foam gave way to blood. Now Stercus was the one whose breath failed, and his failed forever. Tearing at his own throat for the air that would not pass, he fell over, dead.

When Conan got his breath back, he looked at the arrow that had slain Count Stercus. Sure enough, it had a greenish discoloration on the head and several inches down the length of the shaft: it was one of those he had envenomed from the fangs of the serpent he slew in the temple out of time. He had not known that when he grabbed it and used it. But who had proved mightier here, Mitra or Crom?

He scrambled to his feet, shaking off the battering that Stercus had given him as a dog coming out of a stream might shake off cold water. And then he snatched up Stercus' sword and hurried over to Tarla.

"Conan!" she said. The sound of his name in her mouth just then was worth more to him than the rubies of Vendhya, the gold of distant Khitai. And the look of her―Conan realized, more slowly than he might have, that she likely wished he would look away rather than staring at all Stercus had uncovered. And look away he did, but only after he had seen his fill.

"Here," he said roughly, stooping beside her. "I'll get you loose. Hold still, now, or you're liable to get cut."

Freeing her ankle was the work of a moment. He had to take more care with the thongs that bound her hands, but soon they too troubled her no more. As soon as the job was done, she turned lithely, flung her arms around him, and covered his face with kisses. "I thought he'd kill you!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Conan, sweet Conan, I was so afraid!"

He hardly heard a word she said. That she held him was miracle enough. Of themselves, his arms tightened around her as well. At the pressure of his hands against her bare, smooth flesh, she squeaked in surprise ― surprise, perhaps, not altogether unmixed with pleasure. A heartbeat later, though, she twisted away and snatched up the tunic Count Stercus had stripped from her. But even after she donned it once more, it scarcely covered her, for Stercus had torn it in taking it away.

"I'd better bring you back to the village," said Conan. He cast a longing glance toward Stercus' great horse, which was tied to a young pine at the far edge of the clearing. He would have liked nothing better than to return to Duthil aboard the nobleman's charger. But he had never been on horseback, and bringing the destrier back to Duthil would have told the nearby garrison that Stercus had come to grief. Regretfully, he shook his head. Even more regretfully, he realized he had to leave behind Stercus' armor, which lay discarded beside the horse. The back-and-breast would be too small for him, but the helm might well fit. Even so ―no.

Better to sneak back and get them under cover of darkness. The sword he would keep now.

"Duthil will be all in an uproar," predicted Tarla. "That― that wretch killed Wirp and another boy who tried to keep him from stealing me. He cut one of them down, and the horse struck the other with its hoof." She shuddered at the memory and interlaced her fingers with Conan's.

He squeezed her hand, several different excitements warring in his breast. "Our folk will not bear an outrage like that," he said. "If there is to be an uprising against the Aquilonians at last, let the bards sing that it began in Duthil."

"Aye," said Tarla softly. "I ― I was wrong to let Stercus have anything to do with me. I did it partly to make you jealous. I'm―I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter." Conan's voice was rough. "He got what he deserved. Now we'll get you home to your father, and we'll spread the word of what happened to you in Duthil, and then" ―he brandished Stercus' blade―"then let Aquilonians look to their lives!" Hand in hand, he and Tarla started down the track toward the village.

Chapter Eleven

The Rising

A trumpeter blew a long blast on a battered horn. Mordec, by then, had grown used to the bugle calls that rang out from the Aquilonian encampment by Duthil.

Those were sweet and musical. This was only noise, and harsh, discordant noise at that. But the sweet, musical calls belonged to the invaders, while this was of Cimmeria. He did not need to wonder which he preferred.

Not far away from him, Herth scrambled onto a lichen-covered boulder that thrust its way up through the grass of the meadow. The trumpeter's call blared out again.

All through the vast, disorderly Cimmerian encampment, fierce eyes ―some gray, others piercing blue ―swung toward the northern chieftain.

"Hear me, men of Cimmeria!" cried Herth in a great voice. "Hear me, men of valor! We have come, many of us, from afar to right a great wrong and to drive the foul invaders from the south out of our land forevermore." He pointed southward, over the hills Mordec and Balarg and Nectan had crossed not long before. "Well, warriors? Shall we set our brothers free?"

"Aye!" Like a wave, the answering shout swelled and swelled, until at last it filled the great encampment. That one ferocious, indomitable word came echoing back from the hills, again and again: "Aye! Aye! Aye!"

Mordec turned to Nectan and Balarg, who stood beside him. "Now let Stercus reap what he has sown."

Both his fellow villagers nodded. Balarg's response in no way differed from Nectan's. Mordec also nodded, in sober satisfaction. Unless he was altogether mistaken, the weaver made as true and trusty a Cimmerian as any warrior here who had traveled far to spill Aquilonian blood.

Herth pointed toward the south once more. "Forward, then!'" he shouted.

And forward the Cimmerians went. No Aquilonian army could have done the like. Aquilonians, civilized men, traveled with an elaborate baggage train. The Cimmerians simply abandoned everything they could not carry with them. They had briefly paused here to gather in full force. For that, lean-tos and tents had proved desirable. Now the Cimmerians forgot them. They would eat what they carried in belt pouches and wallets. They would sleep wrapped in wool blankets, or else on bare ground.

But they would march like men possessed. And they would fight like men insane.

Past that, what else mattered?

They had no generals, no colonels, no captains. They had clan chiefs ―and listened to them when they felt like it. In long, straggling columns, they followed several tracks that led into and through the hills separating them from the province the Aquilonians had carved out of their country. They had only the vaguest notion of what they would find there. They cared very little. If it was not of Cimmeria, they would slay it.

Mordec and his companions from Duthil had come a long way. Most of the warriors streaming south had come from farther still. If they did not need rest, Mordec sternly told himself he did not need it, either. He watched Nectan and Balarg brace themselves With him, they began to retrace their steps.

How many men tramped toward the Aquilonian province? Mordec had no idea.

Enough, though. He was pretty sure they would be enough.

This time, he and Balarg and Mordec took the straight road, the road through the valley, that led back toward Duthil. It was shorter and involved less climbing than the track they had followed to reach the great Cimmerian camp. Mordec thought he had earned that much relief. And the straight road had Aquilonian patrols on it.

The blacksmith carried an axe whose head he had forged himself. He intended to blood that axe again. It had been thirsty too long.

He pushed the pace, wanting to be among the first who came upon the Gundermen and Bossonians. His fellow villagers kept up with him, though they lacked his iron endurance and had to force themselves along. They were not at the very forefront when Cimmerians met Aquilonians, but they were close enough to
join in the fight.

That fight was short and savage. The Aquilonians put up the best struggle they could, but before long Cimmerian numbers simply overwhelmed them. Mordec did indeed blood his axe ―a Gunderman's head stared up glassily beside his body. Someone said, "A couple of the devils got away."

"Not good," said Mordec. "They'll warn their countrymen."

The other Cimmerian shrugged. "Let them. We'll be upon them soon enough, come what may."

"But― " Mordec gave it up. He had spent too much time in the company of the civilized Aquilonians. The future would be what it was, warning or no. He nodded. "Aye. We'll be upon them soon enough."

Conan and Tarla walked hand in hand down the track toward Duthil. In his other hand Conan clutched Count Stercus' sword. He had plunged it into the ground again and again to cleanse it of the blood of his fellow villager. Soon enough, he hoped, it would drip with Aquilonian gore. It was a rich weapon, the blade chased with gold and the hilt wrapped in gold wire. Conan cared little for the richness.

That the sword was long and sharp mattered more.

"You saved me," said Tarla for perhaps the dozenth time. Her eyes glowed.

He squeezed her hand. He had no words to show her what he felt; pretty speeches were not in him. But he knew, and he thought Tarla knew, too. Nothing else made any difference.

"Almost there now," said Tarla.

Conan nodded; he knew the landmarks on the trail as well as he knew the backs of his own hands. He fretted about Nectan's sheep, for he knew they might fall into danger without him there to watch over them. But Tarla was more important.

Once he brought her back to Balarg's house, he would hurry back to the meadow and resume the duty his father had set him.

Suddenly he halted, the inborn alertness of one who lived close to nature warning him something ahead was amiss. Tarla would have walked on, but his grip on her hand checked her. "Something's not right," he said, cocking his head to one side to listen.

After imitating his gesture, Tarla frowned in pretty confusion. "I don't hear anything," she said.

"Nor do I," answered Conan. "And we should―we're close enough to Duthil by now. Where's all the usual village noise? Too quiet by half, if you ask me."

"It's not always noisy there," said Tarla.

"No, but ― " Conan broke off. He let himself be persuaded. If the girl he cared about more than anything in the world ―at least for the moment―thought everything was all right, then all right everything was likely to be, merely because she thought so. Squeezing her hand again, he went forward once more.

In back of Duthil, the woods grew close to the village. He and Tarla were no more than ten or twenty yards from the closest houses when they came out into the open. They both stared in astonished horror at what they saw. Blood and bodies were everywhere. The stench of all that blood, a heavy iron stink that might almost have come from the smithy, filled Conan's nostrils. More ravens and vultures and carrion crows spiraled down by the moment.

But scavenger birds were not all that moved in Duthil. A pair of Bossonian archers spotted Conan and Tarla as they came forth from the forest. "Mitra!"

exclaimed one. "We missed a couple of these damned barbarians."

"Well, we'll get them now," answered the other. Both reached over their shoulders for arrows, nocked them, and, in the same instant, let fly.

Both Bossonians aimed for Conan. He was plainly the more dangerous of the two ―and, if they shot him, they might have better sport with Tarla. The bowmen were well trained and long practiced in what they did. Both shafts flew straight
and true ―but Tarla sprang in front of the blacksmith's son and took them full in the breast.

"A life for a life, Conan," she said. "Make us free." If she knew any pain, she did not show it. She fell with a smile on her face.

"No!" howled Conan. But as he stooped beside her, two more arrows hissed over his head. He turned then, and ran for the woods. Had Tarla not said those last three words, he would have thrown his life away charging the Bossonians. Now he could not, not when he had her last wish ―no, her last command ―ringing in his ears. He had to live. He had to avenge.

Yet another arrow thudded into the trunk of a pine by the side of the track, while the fletching of one more brushed his shoulder as the shaft flew ever so slightly high. Then he was out of sight of the Bossonians. If they came after him, he intended to double back and ambush them. He paused to listen. When he heard the clink of mailshirts, he cursed and began running hard again. That meant they had pikemen with them, in numbers too great for one to assail.

"My own bow, then," muttered Conan as he pounded up the track. Fitting a new string would be but a minute's work. His own bow ―and Count Stercus' head. No symbol would be more likely to rouse Cimmeria to rebellion against the invaders from the south than proof the hated governor was dead. But Conan would gladly have given even the abominable Stercus his life back again in exchange for Tarla's if Crom but granted such bargains.

Only after he was well away from Duthil did he stop again, cursing as foully as he knew how. If the Aquilonians had worked a massacre in his home village, what of his father? What of his mother? That last thought almost sent him running back down the track, straight toward the Gundermen and Bossonians. But no ―they demanded a greater vengeance than he alone could wreak.

He found the clearing in which he had rescued Tarla. Count Stercus lay where he had fallen, an expression of anguish and horror still imprinted upon his dead features. Grimly, Conan hewed the head from the Aquilonian's body. Stercus'

narrow blade was not the ideal tool for the job; a Cimmerian claymore would have been better. But the blacksmith's son did what he had to do.

Even as he lifted Stercus' head by the hair, a man called to him from the far edge of the clearing: "A fine prize, that. Whose would it be?"

He whirled, Stercus' head in his left hand, Stercus' sword in his right. The newcomer was another Cimmerian, but not a man he had seen before. He said, "It is the head of Stercus himself, the Aquilonians' accursed commander. However great a prize it may be, it was far too dearly won."

"Count Stercus' head? Crom!" exclaimed the stranger, who was lean and strong and worn from much travel. He wore an iron cap on his head and carried a formidable pike. Gathering himself, he went on, "This is great news, if true. Bring it straightaway to Herth, for he has with him men from the south who will know if you lie."

Conan raised his sword. "If you say I lie, you will lie yourself―lie stark and dead," he growled. "Take me to Herth." By the way he spoke, he might have been a chief himself.

And the other Cimmerian nodded, accepting and even honoring his touchy pride.

The fellow pointed to Stercus' charger and back-and-breast and helm. "Did those belong to the Aquilonian wretch?"

"They did," said Conan indifferently. "Take the horse and the corselet, if they suit you. They are of no use to me. Let me try the helmet first." When he found it fit, he laughed grimly. "It will do better on my head now than on Stercus'." He shook his ghastly trophy.

"You give with both hands, like the leader of a clan," said the other Cimmerian.

"I am not. I am only a blacksmith's son," said Conan. "Take me to Herth. If he has men from the south in his company, they will know I am no liar."

When they came upon the meadow where Conan had warded Nectan's flock, he found more strangers taking charge of the sheep. "We must eat," said the man with him. "We have come far and traveled hard."

Though Conan would have liked to protest, he found he could not. "Better you than the Aquilonians," he said.

"You speak truth. Ah, there." His new companion pointed. "There is Herth, coming out of the forest. He has the southern men with him. Do you know any of them?"

"The biggest is my father," answered Conan. He ran toward Herth and Mordec.

Dread clogged his heart when he saw Balarg with then, but he kept going.

"Conan!" cried Mordec, who lumbered forward to greet him. "What have you got there?" An amazed smile of pure delight spread over his father's face. "That is Stercus' head, Stercus' and no one else's." He turned back to shout at Herth: "Here's the Aquilonian leader dead, slain by my son. What wonderful news!"

But Conan shook his head. "No. Everything else I have to say is bad. Let Balarg only come up to hear, and I will tell it all."

Balarg recognized the head as quickly as Mordec had. "This is bravely done," he said. "Most bravely done indeed. If you seek Tarla's hand, how can I say no now?"

"I cannot seek Tarla's hand, however much I might want to," said Conan, and he went on to tell how he and Tarla had gone back to Duthil, and what they had seen there, and how Tarla had met her end. He looked at his father. "Had I known that you and Balarg were away from the village, I would have taken her north, not south, and then she might yet breathe."

Mordec's face might have been a mask of suffering cut from stone. "So she might.

Not all my choices have turned out well, however much I wish they would have. I fear for your mother, lad."

"So do I," said Conan. "I came away for the sake of revenge alone, for Tarla and for her. Without that to think of, I would gladly have died there."

"No. It is for the Aquilonians to die," said Balarg in a voice like iron. Conan had never heard the like from him. "If they will slaughter innocents, they have sealed their fate. Blood and death and ruin to them!" Tears ran down his cheeks, though Conan did not think he knew he shed them.

Herth stepped forward and nodded to Conan. The clan chief and the blacksmith's son were much of a height. Herth said, "Lead us to this Duthil place, boy, and you'll have your vengeance. I promise you that.

"With my father and Balarg and Nectan, I would go back to Duthil whether you and your men come or not," said Conan. "But come if you care to. The Aquilonians have a fortified camp beyond the village with enough archers and pikemen in it to glut you all on gore."

"Forward, then," said Herth, and forward they went.

Sickened by the sights and stinks of death all around him, Granth son of Biemur finally threw up his hands in disgust. "Enough!" he said. "Plundering a battlefield after a fight is one thing. Plundering a place like this ― " He shook his head. "If only these folk had a little more, we might be robbing the houses we grew up in.

It makes me want to retch."

"Then go away," said Benno the archer, who had no such qualms. "More for the rest of us."

Maybe he thought he would shame Granth into going after booty with the other soldiers from the garrison. If he did, he was wrong. Granth turned and strode back toward the palisaded camp just south of Duthil. Benno had been pulling the wool stuffing out of a mattress in the hopes the Cimmerians who had slept on it had also secreted some of their valuables inside it. So far, his hope looked likely to be disappointed.

Granth almost ran into Vulth, who came out of the blacksmith's house carrying a heavy hammer. "What good is that?" demanded Granth.

"Not much, probably," admitted his cousin. "You look sour enough to spit
vinegar. What's your trouble?"

"This." Granth's wave encompassed it all. "Are we a pack of ghouls out of the desert, to batten on the dead?"

"The Cimmerians won't miss it any more," said Vulth. "None of them left alive except maybe the blacksmith's son."

"He shouldn't have got away, cither," said Granth gloomily. "He'll cause trouble for us."

"What can one boy do?" asked Vulth with a dismissive shrug.

Before Granth could even begin to answer, the soldiers at the northern edge of the village, the edge closest to the endless forest, cried out in surprise and alarm. And other cries mingled with those of the Bossonians and Gundermen: fierce shouts in a language Granth had never bothered to learn. They filled the pikeman's ears, and seemed to swell like approaching thunder.

"Cimmerians!" yelled someone, and then the storm fell on Captain Treviranus'

men.

More barbarians than Granth had imagined there were in the world came loping out of the woods. As had the northern men in the fight at Fort Venarium, they wielded a wild variety of weapons. Here, though, they took the Aquilonians altogether by surprise ―and here, too, no knights would come to the rescue of the pikemen and archers. One of the barbarians brandished Stercus' staring head.

"Form up, men! Form up!" shouted Treviranus desperately. "If we fight them all together, we still may win!"

But the Aquilonians never got the chance to follow their commander's good advice. The enemy was upon them too suddenly and in numbers too great, while they themselves were scattered all through Duthil and not looking for battle. But whether they sought it or not, it found them, and they had to do what they could.

Many of them, beset from front and rear and sides all at the same time, simply
fell. Others gathered in struggling knots, islands in a sea of Cimmerians, islands bloodily overwhelmed one by one.

Granth and Vulth, near the southern edge of the village, had a few moments longer to ready themselves for the onslaught than most of their comrades. "Side by side and back to back to the palisade," said Vulth. "It's the only hope we've got, and it's a long one."

Side by side and back to back it was: a savage business, but somehow less so than Granth had expected. In point of fact, he had never expected to reach the palisade at all. But after he and Vulth stretched a couple of Cimmerians lifeless on the grass of the meadow, most of the barbarians ran past them rather than attacking.

Had they seemed cowards, they would have been quickly dragged down and killed. The appearance of courage meant they soon required less of the genuine article.

But by the time they reached the palisade, reaching it did them no good.

Cimmerians were already boosting one another up to the top and dropping down into the fortress that had held down Duthil and the surrounding countryside for the past two years. With the whole garrison inside, the fortified encampment might have put up a stout defense. With only a few men within, it would not last long.

"What do we do? Where do we go?" asked Granth, seeing that the fortress would not save them.

"Into the woods," said Vulth. "They're our only hope. If we can get to a settler's farm, we may hold out against these howling devils."

Granth laughed wildly. "We'll make them pay for hunting us down, anyhow."

Into the woods they plunged.

Adore blood flooded Duthil's muddy main street. Here, though, Conan watched in delight, not horror, for these were Aquilonians who fell. And the blacksmith's son used Count Stercus' sword to wicked effect, bringing down a pair of Bossonian
archers and a Gunderman who relied on the length of his pike to hold foes at bay but who fatally underestimated his foe's pantherish quickness.

Before long, the only Aquilonians left in Duthil lay dead in the street. Few of the invaders had tried to surrender; none had succeeded. Cimmerians plundered the corpses, taking for their own weapons and armor finer than what they had brought south with them.

Herth strode along the street. The clan chief bled from a cut on his forehead and another on his leg. He said, "They are men after all. When I saw they'd put a village to the sword, I took them for cowards and murderers and nothing more.

But they are warriors as well, and they did not flee."

"They are brave enough," said Mordec. "They beat us in battle once. And belike the village was roused against them after Stercus stole Balarg's daughter."

"He paid with his life, as he deserved to," said Conan.

Balarg nodded. "He did indeed. And yet I would have let him live, if only that would bring back Tarla with him."

"And I." Conan nodded, too.

"That cannot be now," said Herth. "Now there is vengeance, a great glut of vengeance, to take."

Mordec went into the smithy. When he came out, grief etched his harsh-featured face. His great shoulders slumped. As he strode toward Conan, fear suddenly filled the youth's heart―fear not of danger, nor of foes, but of the news he was about to hear. That fear must have shown on his face, for Mordec nodded heavily.

"She's dead, boy. Your mother's dead," he said hoarsely. But a somber admiration also filled his voice: "She took up a sword and made them earn what they took.

And there's blood on the blade, so they paid a price for it."

Herth set a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder. "Any warrior can take pride in such a wife."

"I do," said Mordec. He turned to Conan. "And so should you."

"Pride?" Conan shook his head. "After today, what care I for pride? After today, with my mother dead" ―he did not misspeak of Tarla, who was Balarg's to mourn, and whose place in his affections was more recent―"what care I if I live or die?"

"I will tell you, if you truly need telling," answered his father. "Herth had the right of it: to be sure she did not die for nothing, and to be sure the accursed Aquilonians will pay dearly for robbing us of what they had no right to touch. Do you suppose Crom would care to hear you snivel? You know better, and so do I.

We still have a job of work to do before we can die content."

Conan considered. He looked down at the gold-chased, gold-hiked blade he held in his hand. Slowly, he nodded. Stercus' sword had not yet slaked its full thirst for Aquilonian blood. "Let it be as you say, Father. For vengeance's sake, I will live. I will live, and the invaders shall die."

"Why else do you think I still walk and breathe?" returned Mordec.

"Come, then." Herth pointed ahead. The gate to the palisaded Aquilonian encampment had come open. Cimmerians poured in, although the mere fact that those gates had opened argued that there was no need for more fighting men within the palisade. The clan chief saw as much, saying, "Let us go south. And wherever we meet them, death to the Aquilonians."

There was a war cry Conan would eagerly shout. He went into the smithy.

Mordec took a step toward him and reached out as if to halt his progress, but Conan twisted past. The blacksmith started to go after him, then checked himself.

To Herth, he said, "Best he should see, I suppose."

"Belike," said the clan chief. "If he needs one more reason to fight, what better?"

After a moment, as if reminding himself, Herth added, "I'm sorry, Mordec."

"So am I," answered Conan's father. "She did not fear death, not when she'd been
battling it for years. This might have been quicker and cleaner than she would have got in the natural course of things. Still, though, the invaders will pay for robbing her of the time she would have had left."

When Conan came out into the street once more, his face was as set and grim as Mordec's. His eyes burned with a dry, terrible fire. "Death to the Aquilonians," he said. In his mouth, it was not a war cry after all. It was simply a promise.

Two men burst out of the woods at the edge of Melcer's field of barley. The farmer threw down his hoe and snatched up his pike. The men were so ragged and haggard and dim', he thought they had to be Cimmerians. But the hair peeping out from under their helmets was as blond as his own, which meant they were Gundermen like himself. He did not set down the pike even so. Gundermen too could be robbers and brigands.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply. "What are you doing on my land? Answer me right this minute, or by Mitra I'll run you off it."

They could not answer him immediately. They both stood there panting, as if they had run a long, long way. At last, the younger one, a fellow with formidably wide shoulders and a face friendly despite its weariness, managed to gasp out, "The Cimmerians are over the border."

To Melcer, that was the worst news in the world. "Are you sure?" he said. "How many of them?"

The newcomers carried pikes, too, the pikes of foot soldiers. They held them out, not threateningly but so that Melcer could see the fresh bloodstains on the spearshafts. "We're sure, all right," said the older one. "How many?" He turned to his comrade. "How many do you suppose, Granth?"

"Oh, about a million," answered Granth, the broad-shouldered one. "Maybe more."

"They ran us out of Duthil," added the other Gunderman. "To hell with me if I know whether anybody else from the garrison is left alive. Stercus is dead, not
that he's any great loss. And those barbarian devils have been baying at our heels ever since. If you're going to save yourself, you'd better do it now, or you're a dead man. You may be a dead man anyhow."

Melcer looked around his farm. He saw all the work of the past two years: stout cabin, barn, garden, fields. Then he looked to the north. He knew where he was likely to see smoke rising, and how much. More fires were burning than could be accounted for by the settlers' usual business, and some of the columns of smoke rising from the accustomed places were thicker and blacker than they should have been, as if rising from buildings rather than chimneys. Melcer was not afraid to make a stand if that stand had some hope of success. Dying to no purpose was something else again.

He nodded to the two pikemen. "My thanks. Go on and warn more folk." Even as the words left his mouth, a southbound horseman galloped past winding a horn and shouting out danger to all who would heed him. Melcer nodded again. Now he had confirmation, not that he truly needed it. "Aye, go on, both of you. I'll tend to my business here."

On the very edge of hearing came howls that might have burst from wolves'

throats ―that might have, but had not. Those were the war cries of barbarians, barbarians on the loose, such swarms of savages had no business running loose within the bounds of the province. They had no business running loose, but here they came.

"We're off, then," said the older pikeman. "We'll make for Fort Venarium, I expect. If we can throw back the Cimmerians anywhere, that will be the place.

And what of you?"

"If things go ill, perhaps I'll see you there," said Melcer. Above the uproar of the barbarians, a bell began to ring, loudly and insistently. "That is the signal for the yeomen of the countryside to gather. You only garrisoned this land. We live on it, and we will not give it up."

"They'll smash you," said Granth. "You don't know their numbers."

Melcer answered with a shrug. "If they do, then they do. But if they take us down
to hell, you had best believe we'll have a fine Cimmerian escort to lead the way."

The two pikemen began arguing. Melcer had no time for them. He ran back toward the farmhouse ― and met his wife hurrying his way, with their baby daughter on one hip and Tarnus, their son, hurrying beside her. "The alarm bell!"

exclaimed Evlea.

"Sure enough," said Melcer. "The Cimmerians are over the border―over the border in a great horde, all too likely. We can flee or we can fight. I aim to fight."

"What are the odds?" asked Evlea.

He shrugged again. "I know not. All I know is, this is my land. If I must die for it, then die I will, and be buried on it." He quickly kissed her. "Get out while you can, dear."

She shook her head. "If I can find someplace to leave the children, I'll fight beside you. This is not your land alone."

One of the pikemen came over to them. "Vulth thinks he has a better chance in Venarium," said Granth. "Me, I'd sooner make my stand as far north as I can. I'm with you, if you'll have me."

"Gladly," said Melcer. Evlea nodded. The bell tolled out its warning cry. Melcer went on, "We're to make for it when it rings, and do what needs doing once we're gathered there."

Melcer hoped he could find a place to leave his children ― and his wife ―in safety before they came to the bell. But he discovered none, none he would trust against an assault by more than a handful of barbarians. By all the signs, far more than a handful were loose in the land. The bell rang in front of the house of a farmer named Sciliax. Pointing to the cabin, a bigger, fancier, stronger building than Melcer's, Sciliax said, "Women and children in there. We'll defend it with all we have."

All they had, at the moment, consisted of about thirty farmers armed with the sort
of weapons farmers carried, plus perhaps half a dozen real soldiers like Granth.

More men were coming their way. Would they be enough? Melcer saw, recognized, and worried about the expression on Granth's face: the pikeman did not like the odds. Slowly, Melcer said, "Maybe we ought to serve out swords and spears and whatever else we've got to the women who will take them."

"Yes, by Mitra!" cried Evlea.

But Sciliax said, "What if they're taken?"

"What if we lose?" returned Melcer. "They'll surely be taken then, and they won't have us at their sides to save them."

Sciliax was older than most of the settlers who had come north out of Gunderland, and plainly set on old ways of doing things. But he glanced toward Granth, as if wondering what a real soldier thought of the question. Granth did not hesitate. "This fellow's right," he said, pointing Melcer's way. "Whatever you do―whatever we do, I should say―our chances are bad. The more fighters we have, the better we're likely to fare. I've seen Cimmerian women fight. Are ours weaker than theirs?"

Before Sciliax could answer, Evlea said, "I'll see to it, then." She rushed into the farmhouse. Women began spilling out of it, women tough enough to make a go of things beyond the frontier of Gunderland. They all clamored for weapons. Some were young, some not so young. Before long, most of them had spears and axes and swords. Some of the men who wore helms gave them to women. With a sort of bow, Granth presented his to Melcer's wife.

"Here they come!" Suddenly, the cry rose from a dozen throats. Melcer's gaze went to the woods north of Sciliax's farm. Black-haired Cimmerians loped out from among the trees. They saw the defenders mustered in front of the farmhouse, saw them and swarmed toward them. The barbarians advanced in no neat formation, but they were ready ―more than ready―to fight.

"Form a line!" shouted Granth. "Everyone ― help your neighbor. If you save him, he may save you next. No point in running. They'll just slay you from behind." No one had appointed him general of this little force. He simply took the
job ―and the embattled farmers and their wives obeyed him.

Here came a Cimmerian swinging a scythe. He was lean and dirty and looked weary, as if he had traveled a long way with nothing more in mind than murdering Melcer. He shouted something in his own language. Melcer could not understand it, but doubted it was a compliment. The Cimmerian swung back the scythe ―and Melcer speared him in the belly.

The soft, heavy resistance of flesh tugged at the pike. For a moment, the barbarian simply looked very surprised. Then he opened his mouth wide and shrieked.

Melcer felt like shrieking, too. He had never killed a man before. He had to kick out with his foot to clear the Cimmerian from his pike.

Another Cimmerian swung a two-handed sword, a stroke that would have taken off Melcer's head had it connected. But the weapon was as cumbersome as it was frightful, and he easily ducked under it. He had gone a lifetime without killing anyone, but claimed his second victim only moments after the first.

He had no time to look around and see how the fight as a whole was going. He could only do his best to stay alive himself and make sure any barbarian who came near him fell. Some of the screams and shouts on the battlefield in front of Sciliax's house came from women's throats. Melcer could not even look to see if Evlea remained hale. "Please, Mitra," he whispered, and fought on.

Cimmerians fell. So did Gundermen. Some lay still, and would never rise again.

Others thrashed and wailed and moaned, crying out their torment to the uncaring sky. The wounded on both sides sounded much alike. At first, the sounds of anguish tore at Melcer; as the fight went on, though, he heard them less and less.

After what seemed like forever, the Cimmerians sullenly drew back. Melcer had a chance to lean on his pike and draw a breath and look around. Evlea still stood.

The axe in her hands had blood on the head. Granth's helmet sat dented and askew on her head. Granth himself was also on his feet. And so was Sciliax, though a scalp wound left his face bloody.

But the fight, very likely, was not over. As Melcer watched in dismay, more barbarians emerged from the trees to the north. He looked around in growing
despair. Where would his own side find reinforcements?

Chapter Twelve

The Fall of Venarium

Panting, Conan glared at the stubborn Gundermen who defended a sturdy farmhouse with a ferocity he had not thought any folk but his own could display.

Beside him, flanks also heaving, stood his father. Mordec said, "They'll have their wives and their brats in there. If anything will make them stand fast until we cut them down, that's it."

"I know a couple of them," said Conan. His father looked at him in surprise. He pointed. "That one pikeman is from the garrison by Duthil."

"Oh, him. Aye." Mordec nodded. "He almost did for me a little while ago."

"And that other fellow, the tall farmer near him, worked lands not far from here,"

continued Conan. "He's not a bad man, or he wouldn't be if only he'd stayed in his own country. That's his woman there, with the axe."

"I mislike killing women, but if they try to kill me ― " Mordec broke off and looked over his shoulder. "We have more men coming, I see. But those accursed Aquilonians will still take a deal of killing."

Off to one side, Herth was wrapping a rag around his head. His helm had kept a blow from smashing his skull, but the rim, driven down by the dint, left him with a long cut on his forehead. Wiping blood away from his eyes, the clan chief said, "That's what we've come for―to kill them."

The Cimmerians mustered themselves in a ragged line out of the range of the hunting bows a few of the Gundermen carried. Several of the men who had been in the fight before bore minor wounds. This had been Conan's first real taste of battle. He had dealt hard blows. He burned to deal more.

Ranged in front of the farmhouse, the yellow-haired farmers and soldiers waited.

They were badly outnumbered now, but still stood defiant. "Why don't they go inside?" asked Conan. "They could give us a harder fight that way."

"They could for a little while," said Mordec. "Then we'd fire the place, and they'd burn with their families."

Conan grimaced, then nodded. Burning foes from a fortress―yes, he could see the need. Burning foes and families alike ―he could, perhaps, see the need for that as well, but it raised his gorge even so. The women and children had done nothing to deserve such a fate but accompany their men into this land. Was that enough? Maybe it was.

Herth pointed toward the Gundermen. "Come on, lads!" he called to the Cimmerians around him. "Let's finish the job!"

Roaring and shouting, the Cimmerians surged forward. Mordec and Conan trotted side by side. Conan noted that his father did not waste his breath on war cries. He simply scanned the enemy line until he chose an opponent. Then he pointed at the man and spoke two words to Conan: "That one."

"The tall one with the pitchfork?" asked Conan, wanting to be sure. His father nodded. The two of them had fought as a team in their first clash with the embattled farmers. Few men, no matter how doughty, lasted long when beset by such a pair.

Shouting in Aquilonian, the man with the pitchfork thrust at Mordec. The blacksmith beat aside the makeshift weapon with his axe. Conan drove Stercus'

sword deep into the Gunderman's vitals. Blood spurted; its iron stink filled his nostrils. The Gunderman howled. Even with his dreadful wound, he tried to skewer Conan with the pitchfork. Mordec's axe ―not a tool for felling trees, but a broad-headed war axe for cutting down men ―descended. The sound of the blow reminded Conan of those made when cutting up a pig's carcass. The pitchfork flew from the farmer's suddenly nerveless hands. The fellow crumpled, his head all but severed from his body.

Another Gunderman fell to the two of them, and another. The farmers' line
wavered. They still fought bravely, but bravely did not serve when each had to face more than one foe. In a furious, cursing knot, they fell back toward the farmhouse door. The three or four pikemen in mailshirts still on their feet defended the door, while some of the farmers ―and the handful of women who had not fallen ―ran inside.

One of the pikemen―the one Conan had recognized ― nodded in an almost friendly way to Mordec and him. "I knew the two of you were trouble," the soldier said. "Now I see how right I was."

Some of the Aquilonians at the camp by Duthil had been dreadful. Some had merely been hard. A few, this fellow among them, had been decent enough. "If you stand aside, Granth, we will spare you," said Mordec.

Granth shook his head. "No. These are my people. If you try to harm them, I'll kill you if I can."

"Honor to your courage." Mordec might have been a man passing sentence. The fight grew fierce again, the Cimmerians battling to push past the last few defenders. Granth went down. Conan did not see how. He only knew that he fought his way into the farmhouse.

That was worse than any of the fighting outside had been. Women and children screamed like lost souls. Egged on by the presence of their loved ones, the Gundermen battled with reckless disregard for their own lives. From outside came a shout: "Clear away, you Cimmerians! We'll burn the farmhouse over their heads!"

Conan, by then, was caught up in the struggle. The fury of battle upon him, he did not want to break it off. His father dragged him out of the farmhouse by main force. Mordec was the only man there who could have overmastered him. Conan came close to striking out at the blacksmith, too. "We'll find more fighting later, never you fear," said Mordec, which helped resign the boy to turning aside from this clash.

Cimmerian archers shot fire arrows at the wooden walls and thatched roof of the farmhouse. Before long, the flames caught and began to spread. But even as some
of the Cimmerians exulted, others pointed to the trees on the far side of the house and exclaimed, "They're fleeing there!"

"How can they?" demanded Conan. "We've got them cordoned off."

His father shook his head in what could only be admiration. "That damned Aquilonian must have dug himself an escape tunnel. What a sneaky wretch he has to be. He thought of everything―except he didn't run it quite far enough from the house."

The Cimmerians pounded after their prey. The fighting in amongst the trees was more confused than the battle before the farmhouse ― more confused, but no less savage. Here and there, two or three Gundermen would turn at bay and sell their lives dear, allowing their comrades and their wives and children to escape the catastrophe that had befallen the colony.

Along with his father, Conan helped smash down one of those rear-guard efforts.

More Aquilonians blundered along ahead of them. Now the invaders had a taste of defeat, a taste of terror. Conan wanted them to drink that cup to the very dregs.

He and Mordec swiftly gained on the running family ahead. The woman had a baby on her hip and held a boy by the hand. "Go on, Evlea!" said the man. "I'll hold them off. Go on, I tell you." Pike in hand, Melcer turned and set himself.

"Come on, barbarians!'" he snarled. But then he recognized Conan. "You!"

"Go right, lad. I'll go left," said Mordec. "We'll take him down."

But Conan found himself with no great hunger for the blood of a man he did not hate. "Wait," he told his father. Mordec eyed him in astonishment, but did not charge ahead, as he had been on the point of doing. Conan spoke to Melcer in Aquilonian: "You leave this land? You leave our land?"

"Aye, curse you," growled the farmer.

"You leave and never come back?" persisted Conan. "You swear you leave and never come here again?"

"By Mitra, Cimmerian, this land will never see me again if I get out of it," said Melcer, adding, "Damn you! Damn you all!"

Conan shrugged off the curse and nodded at the oath. "Then go," he said. He spoke with authority a grown man ― indeed, a clan chief―might have envied.

The farmer from Gunderland and his family hurried off to the south.

They had not gone far before more Cimmerians hard on the heels of Conan and Mordec came trotting up. The newcomers, by the weave of their breeks, were men from the far north. They pointed indignantly at Melcer and his wife and children. "Are you daft? They're getting away!" cried one.

"Let them go," said Conan. "They have sworn an oath by their god to leave this land and never return. The farmer is a good man. What he has promised, he will do. It is enough, I say."

"And who do you think you are?" howled the Cimmerian from the north. "The King of Aquilonia?" He brandished his sword, as if to go after Melcer and Evlea and the children regardless of the oath the Gunderman had given.

"I am Conan son of Mordec," answered Conan proudly, "of the village of Duthil."

That gave the other Cimmerians pause; they knew what had happened in Duthil, what had happened to Duthil, Conan added, "And anyone who would slay those Aquilonians will have to slay me first."

"And me." Mordec ranged himself alongside his son. They stood there, alert and watchful, waiting to see whether their own countrymen would charge them.

"Madness!" said the Cimmerian with the sword. The angry black-haired men shouted at one another and nearly began to fight among themselves, some wanting to slay Conan and Mordec, others respecting their courage even when that courage came for the sake of a foe. At last, that second group prevailed without any blows being struck. "Madness!" repeated the swordsman, but he lowered his blade.

"Let us go on," sad Mordec. "Plenty of other invaders loose in the woods, even if we give this handful their lives." In a low voice, he asked Conan, "Would you really have fought your own folk for the sake of a few Aquilonians?"

"Of course," answered Conan in surprise. "The farmer gave his oath, and I my word. Would you make me out a liar?"

"Did I not stand with you?" said his father. "But that northern man may have had the right of it even so when he spoke of madness." He clapped his son on the back. "If so, it's a brave madness. When Stercus' soldiers came in, I did not think you were a warrior. By Crom, my son, a warrior you are now."

"As I have need to be," said Conan. "My mother still wants vengeance." He cursed. "I could murder every accursed Aquilonian from here to Tarantia, and it would not be vengeance enough."

"You slew Stercus," said Mordec. "Everyone who had to live under him will envy you for that. And Verina died with blood on her blade. I think she was gladder to fall so than to let her sickness kill her a thumb's breadth at a time."

"It could be," said Conan reluctantly, after considerable thought. "But even if it is, the Aquilonians deserve killing." His father did not quarrel with him.

Melcer did not know who had owned the horse he acquired before it came to him.

It was an Aquilonian animal, bigger and smoother-coated than the Cimmerian ponies he had occasionally seen in these parts. He put Tarnus on the horse's back, and sometimes Evlea and the baby as well. That let him head south faster than he could have with his whole family afoot.

And speed was of the essence. As long as he and his loved ones stayed ahead of the wave of Cimmerian invaders, they kept some chance of escaping the land that had risen against the settlers. If that wave washed over them, if too many barbarians were ahead of them on the road to Gunderland, they were doomed.

Conan and his father could have killed them all. Melcer knew as much. That the young barbarian had chosen to spare them instead still amazed the farmer. He had
not thought any Cimmerian knew the meaning of mercy.

When he said that aloud, his wife shook his head. "Mercy had nothing to do with it," maintained Evlea.

"What name would you use, then?" asked Melcer.

"Friendship," she said.

He thought it over. "You may be right," he said at last, "although whenever I asked Conan if we were friends, he always told me no."

"He did not want to admit it," said Evlea. "Like as not, he did not want to admit it even to himself. But when the time came, he found he did not have it in him to slay a woman and children if he knew and liked their man."

That last phrase, no doubt, held the key. Melcer wondered what had happened back at Sciliax's farmhouse after his family and he used the escape tunnel. The memory of that terrifying journey through pitch blackness would stay with him until the end of his days. Clumps of dirt had fallen down on the back of his neck and his shoulders between the support beams. He had banged the top of his head on more than one of those beams, too, once or twice almost knocking himself cold. Every step of the way, he had gone in fear that the tunnel would collapse, burying him and his family forever. And screams of hatred and despair and agony had echoed from behind, driving him on like strokes of the lash. Better not to know, perhaps, what had chanced after he got out.

The horse stumbled. He yanked at the lead rope. "Keep going, you cursed thing,"

he growled. "If you don't keep going, we're ruined."

"Will we travel all night?" asked his wife.

"Unless that animal falls down dead under you, we will," answered Melcer. Then he shook his head. "No, not so: even if it dies, we go on, except then we go on afoot." He muttered under his breath. "These past two years, I've welcomed the long days and short nights of this northern summer. Now, though, now I would
thank Mitra for less light and for more darkness to cloak us."

"Mitra does as he pleases, not as we please," said Evlea.

"Don't I know it!" Melcer looked around. Columns and puffs of black smoke rose all along the northern horizon, pyre after pyre marking the memory of Aquilonian hopes. Even as he looked, a fresh plume of smoke went up west and a little north of him. But the Cimmerians had not yet begun burning forts and steadings to the south. Therein lay his hope.

As the day wore on, he saw ever more settlers placidly working in their fields, men who did not yet realize peace here lay forever shattered. He shouted out warnings to them. Some cursed. Others laughed and called him a liar, thinking he was playing a joke on them. He wished he were.

The sun set in blood. Melcer kept going. He intended to keep going as long as breath was in him, for he was sure the Cimmerians would do the same. The moon rose two hours after the sun set. He rejoiced and cursed at the same time: it would light his way, but it would also let marauding barbarians spy him. Where were the mists, where were the fogs, of Cimmeria? If they were not here, all he could do was go on, and go on he did.

He came to Venarium as the sun was rising again after too brief a night. His wife and children nodded and half dozed on the back of the horse, which tramped along as if worn unto death. He wished he could have treated the luckless animal better, but that would have endangered his family and him. The horse had to pay the price.

"What are you doing?" asked Evlea when he took the horse off the road that led to Venarium. He made for the river upstream from the town.

"They must know there that the blow has fallen," answered Melcer. "If they see me, they'll dragoon me into the army to try to hold Venarium. I swore an oath to the Cimmerian to leave his land ―and I don't think we'll hold the place. So I'll skirt it if I can."

His wife did not have to think long before nodding. Melcer let the horse drink and crop the grass when it got down to the riverbank. He looked for a ford. About a mile east of Venarium, he found one. The water came up to his midsection; it barely wet the horse's belly. After he led the horse up onto the south bank, he did not make for the road again. Instead, he went straight into the middle of a dense patch of woods. He tied the weary horse to a sapling, then lay down, careless of his wet clothes. "We can rest here," he said. "With Venarium behind us, now we can rest."

Conan scratched at the rag bound to his left arm. The cut itched, but no longer pained him much. The Aquilonian soldier who had given him the wound was dead; the palisaded camp the man defended had gone up in smoke. Along with the other Cimmerians on the southbound road, Conan topped a last hill and stared ahead. "That must be Venarium," he said.

"No doubt," agreed his father. Mordec yawned. For all his iron strength, the marching and righting had cruelly told on him.

Fresher because he was younger, Conan kept on looking at the town, and at the fortress at its heart. "How will we take this place?" he asked. That they would take it he had no doubt.

"This band alone won't do it," said Mordec. "We'll need to wait until more men come up. Then I suppose we storm it. What else can we do? We know nothing of siegecraft, and the Aquilonians might bring a new army against us while we sit in front of their fort."

Nectan the shepherd scowled at the houses and shops as much as he did at the fortress. "We'll burn all of it," he said, "and so we should. This was prime forest before the Aquilonians came."

"If we burn the houses and shops, the soldiers in the fortress won't be able to see what we're doing because of the smoke," said Conan.

His father eyed him. "Spoken like a true war leader," said Mordec. "Take that notion straight to Herth and put it in his ear. He needs to hear it. By Crom, my son, you may make a chieftain yourself one day."

Conan cared nothing about being a chieftain. He cared nothing about what might happen one day. Vengeance was the only thing that burned in him. The road to vengeance ran through Venarium. Knowing that, he went in search of Herth. The war leader was not hard to find. He had stayed at the forefront of the Cimmerian host ever since it burst upon the province the Aquilonians had stolen.

Herth heard Conan out, then nodded. "Here is a thought with some weight behind it," he said. "We already have plenty of reasons to burn Venarium. What need have we for such a place in our midst? It would only make us more like accursed King Numedides' men. And now you have told me precisely when and where the fires should be set. For this, I thank you."

Not all the Cimmerians were firmly under Herth's control. Such was the way of life among the warriors of the north. So many of them did as they pleased, not as any chieftain told them. More than a few did as they pleased in despite of what any chieftain told them. Having fought to the outskirts of the Aquilonian stronghold, they saw no reason why they should not fight their way straight into it.

The Aquilonians inside Venarium gave them such a reason. The defenders were not yet inclined to withdraw to the fortress. Archers lurked among the buildings at the outskirts of the town. As soon as Cimmerians drew within range, the archers began to shoot. They killed several men and wounded even more before the Cimmerians sullenly drew back.

"Here is what we will do," said Herth after fresh troop of black-haired barbarians came down from the north to augment his force. "We will all charge together at one signal. That way, the enemy cannot shoot many of us before we gain a lodgement in the town. Once we have done that, we can hunt down the bowmen ―and any others who stand against us ― because we have far more men than the Aquilonians. Wait for the signal, mind you, and then everyone forward together."

For once, no one quarreled, as often chanced when a war chief tried to impose his will on the men he more or less led. The bodies lying in front of Venarium spoke eloquently of the folly of every man's going forward for himself. The Cimmerians gathered themselves, looking to their weapons and looking for their friends and
kinsmen. They had never been in the habit of marching or attacking in neat lines, but they all moved up to where they could hear the signal.

A bugle blared. The Cimmerians roared. They swarmed forward toward Venarium. A great excitement seized Conan, as if he had poured down too much ale. Here at last was the enemy's great stronghold. If Venarium fell, the Aquilonian hold on southern Cimmeria would be broken forever. He looked at the host of his countrymen dashing along to either side of him. How could the town, how could the fortress, keep from falling under such a weight of warriors?

Arrows arced out from the town toward the attackers. Here and there, a man fell, to lie thrashing or to lie still. But Herth had known what he was about. Too many men went forward for all, or even very many, of them to fall. On they came, roaring out their hatred of the foreigners who had tried to subject their land. And as soon as they got in among the homes and shops, the fight for the town of Venarium was as good as won.

Not that the Aquilonians in the town believed as much. Archers kept shooting from inside buildings. Pikemen would rush out of doorways, spear passing Cimmerians, and then try to get back to defend the entrances before other Cimmerians could cut them down. Sometimes they succeeded; sometimes they fell. But Venarium had plenty of defenders, and they were stubborn enough to make it a tough nut to crack.

Conan rapidly discovered that a sword did not make the ideal weapon with which to assail a pikeman. The soldiers who carried pikes had a longer reach than he did; he almost spitted himself on a pike, trying to get at the Gunderman who wielded it. But when another Cimmerian distracted the foe, Conan leaped close and drove the blade into his neck. He fell, blood spurting from the ghastly wound.

Another Gunderman sprang forward to try to keep Conan's countrymen out of a shop. Someone from the street flung a rock at the Gunderman. He shrieked and staggered, his face a gory mask. He did not suffer long; Conan's thrust pierced his heart.

Before long, a cry went up in both Cimmerian and Aquilonian: "Fire!" Conan wondered whether Herth was using the ploy he had suggested, or whether some Cimmerian had simply concluded that burning out Venarium's defenders was the
easiest and least costly way to flush them from the fine cover the buildings in the town afforded. He also wondered whether he would ever know, and doubted it very much.

"Ha!" shouted a Cimmerian, savage glee filling his voice. "Here's how we roast Numedides' swine!"

Smoke quickly thickened the air. Fighting fires was hard, even hopeless, work in the best of circumstances. Fighting fires in the middle of a desperate battle was impossible. As wooden buildings began to burn, the Aquilonian defenders came forth, either to fight in the streets or to flee back toward the fortress of Venarium.

Open space separated the fortress from the town. Count Stercus had not permitted taverns and saddleries to encroach on the palisade. Whatever else he had been, he had made a competent military engineer. Bossonian archers on a walkway inside the palisade shot at any Cimmerian who ventured into the cleared area.

The archers also shot at Aquilonians who ventured into the cleared area. By then, the town's attackers and defenders were inextricably mixed. Realizing as much, the Aquilonian officer in command ordered the gates shut against his countrymen outside, lest those gates also admit Cimmerians who would bring ruin with them.

Forced to fight out in the open in front of the fortress, the Gundermen and Bossonians who had been defending the town of Venarium realized only one thing was left to them: to sell their lives as dearly as they could. They turned at bay against the Cimmerians, fighting with the mad courage of men with nothing left to lose. Wild to crush the invaders, the Cimmerians battled back as ferociously.

Quarter was neither asked nor given in that wild struggle. Little by little, the Cimmerians fought their way toward the palisade. They did not have greater courage than their foes. They did have more men to throw into the fight. In the end, that sufficed.

Not far from Conan, Mordec's axe rose and fell, rose and fell. Red drops flew from it as he cut down one Aquilonian after another. "To me!" he roared again and again. "To me, you wolves of the north!"

And then, to Conan's surprise, the gates of the fortress flew open once more. Out stormed the knights of Aquilonia, of whom he had heard so much. He had seen how fearsome Stercus seemed, riding into Duthil on his great horse in his helmet―the very helmet now topping Conan's head ―and back-and-breast.

Twoscore knights thundered forth now, their lances couched, their faces ―what could be seen of them ― grim. "Numedides!" they cried, and, "Aquilonia!"

But their charge now proved less than it might have. For one thing, many of the men in front of the gates were Gundermen and Bossonians; the knights had to ride them down or force them aside before they could get to the Cimmerians.

And, for another, the open space in front of the fortress of Venarium was so tightly packed with men, any charge quickly lost its momentum.

That left the knights an armored island in the midst of a Cimmerian sea. Many of them quickly threw aside their lances. They drew their swords and slashed away at the barbarians hemming them in on every side. But they could not keep all the Cimmerians away from them and their horses. Stallions screamed as they were stabbed. Knights were dragged from the saddle. Swords and daggers found the joints in their armor. The Aquilonians exacted a fearful toll from their foes, but more Cimmerians kept coming forward. The knights were irreplaceable. Once they went down to death, the men inside the fortress could send out no other such force.

Conan hurled a rock at an archer up on the wall. His aim had been true against Stercus, and his aim was true now. The Bossonian clapped both hands to his left eye. He screamed loud enough to be heard above the din of battle. Screaming still, he staggered backward and fell off the walkway.

Not far from him, another Bossonian also went down, struck in the chest by a shaft from a Cimmerian bow. That left a gap in the defense, a gap the Aquilonians, beset everywhere, could not set right at once. "Come on!" cried Conan. "Boost me up, you men! If we once gain the palisade, Venarium's ours!"

Willing hands heaved him aloft. His own hands gained a purchase at the top of the palisade. He pulled himself up. He pulled himself over. He swung down onto the walkway, the first Cimmerian inside the Aquilonian stronghold. Soldiers
rushed toward him, desperate to cut him down. At their van came a skinny little Bossonian. He shot at Conan. The arrow kissed the sleeve of the Cimmerian's tunic and flew harmlessly past.

As the archer nocked another shaft, Conan sprang forward. With tigerish quickness, he seized the little man and used his body as a shield and a flail, battering other Aquilonians and knocking several of them to the ground a dozen feet below. Then, roaring, he flung the luckless Bossonian down with them.

He was not the only Cimmerian on the walkway for long. Where he had gone, his countrymen were quick to follow. Soon a knot of northern warriors stood up there, hacking and smiting. More Gundermen and Bossonians came to try to slay them. The enemy knew what would happen if they held their ground.

"Stand aside, by Crom!" That great bass roar could only have come from Mordec.

The blacksmith shouldered his way forward, to stand side by side with Conan once more. The blade of his axe was dented and all over blood. A wider smile than Conan had ever seen on him wreathed his usually somber features. He pointed to the foe. "At them!" he shouted, and Conan was not slow to join his charge.

As they had outside the fortress, the Aquilonians on the walkway fought with desperate bravery. Conan had doubted their courage before this uprising broke out. He doubted it no more. What flesh and blood could do, the Gundermen and Bossonians did. But flesh and blood could do only so much. He and Mordec, fighting side by side, were a host in themselves. And they had ever-growing weight behind them. The top of a ladder cleared the palisade. Cimmerians swarmed up it and onto the walkway.

"There's a stair." Mordec pointed with his axe. "We'll get down into the courtyard.

Then this whole fortress will be ours."

A Gunderman lunged at him with a pike. Light on his feet despite his bulk, he sidestepped. Conan's sword bit into the Gunderman's wrist. The soldier's severed hand fell to the planks of the walkway with his spear. The Gunderman screamed.

Mordec pushed him off the walkway, then surged forward once more.

Conan hacked and slashed and thrust. He was bigger and stronger and quicker than most of the men he faced, even if only down grew on his cheeks. Step by gory step, the head of the stairs grew closer. An arrow shot from the ground hissed past him and thudded into the logs of the palisade. Another shaft struck a Cimmerian behind him. His countryman's yells of anguish differed little from those of the Gunderman he had mutilated.

More of Numedides' soldiers rushed up the stairs to try to stem the Cimmerian tide. Mordec's axe swept the head from a Bossonian's shoulders, then took off a Gunderman's arm above the elbow. "Come on!" shouted the blacksmith in Aquilonian. "Who's next to die?"

However brave the enemy soldiers were, such carnage could not help but daunt them, at least momentarily. Conan still at his right hand, Mordec set foot on the first step leading down into the fortress of Venarium. A moment later, they gained another step, and then another. After that, their foes recovered some of their spirit, and nothing came easy any more.

Easy or not, though, they and the rest of the Cimmerians cleared the stairway of Bossonians and Gundermen one hard-fought step at a time. "Forward!" bellowed Mordec again and again. Forward the men of the north went, over the hacked and bleeding bodies of those who would stand in their way― and over not a few of the bodies of their own countrymen. With a deep-throated roar of triumph, Mordec leaped from the last stair down to the ground within the fortress. He shouted again, this time with words in the cry: "Venarium is fallen! Venarium is ours!"

An arrow smote him, just to the left of the middle of his chest.

He stood there for a moment, a look of absurd surprise on his face. Then he turned to Conan, as if remembering something important he needed to say.

Whatever it was, it never passed his lips. His eyes rolled up in his head. Like a toppling tree, he crumpled, the axe falling from fingers that suddenly would not hold it.

"Noooo!" shouted Conan, a long howl of despair and fury. That his father should fall in the moment of victory― "Curse you, Crom!" he cried, and threw Stercus'

sword in a startled Gunderman's face. Then he snatched up the axe Mordec had wielded so well.

He swung that axe with a madman's fury. No Aquilonian could stand against him.

No one could come close enough even to engage him. And he wounded more than one Cimmerian he did not recognize as a countryman because of his berserk grief. The men with whom he had fought his way into Fort Venarium grew as wary of him as the Gundermen and Bossonians they opposed.

"He is fey," said one Cimmerian to another, and his comrade nodded, for it did seem as if Conan willfully sought his own death on the battlefield.

But whether he sought it or not, it did not meet him at Venarium. Others died there, Aquilonians and Cimmerians alike. A handful of Bossonians and Gundermen managed to escape the falling fortress by scrambling down over the south wall of the palisade and fleeing across the river, but most fell either in the courtyard or defending one barracks hall or another until the Cimmerians either battered down a door and forced an entrance or burned the building over their enemies' heads.

At last, as the sun sank in the northwest, the fighting dragged to a stop, for no more Aquilonians remained alive and unwounded to carry on. Cimmerians tended to their own injured men and cut the throats of the Bossonians and Gundermen who lay on the ground. "They did the same to us after the last fight here," said Nectan the shepherd, leaning wearily on a pikestaff. "As often as not, it's a kindness of sorts, putting somebody who won't live out of his pain."

Conan heard him as if from very far away. The blacksmith's son looked down at his hands, which still clutched his father's axe. When he took them off the axe handle, the place where his father and he had clenched it was the only part not drenched in gore. And his palms seemed the only part of him not soaked in it. His arms were crimson up past the elbows. Blood dyed his tunic and breeks in colors Balarg the weaver had never intended.

Balarg himself had come through the battle apparently unwounded. He stirred bodies not so much to see if they yet lived as to find out what sort of wealth they carried.

"How can you think of loot when everything that matters to us is dead or in ruins?" demanded Conan.

"I am not dead," answered Balarg. "I am not dead, and I am well and truly avenged on my foes. I shall have to find a home in a new village. I would sooner do that as a man with riches than as a man with none. You will face the same trouble. You should plunder, too."

"I have no stomach for it, not now. What I have won, I have bought too dear,"

said Conan. He looked around and shook his head. "I have no stomach for Cimmeria, not any more. My father is dead. My mother is dead, and I have not had time to mourn her." That was a knife of shame, twisting in his gut. He looked Balarg in the eye. "And Tarla is dead. What do I have left to hold me here?"

"Where would you go?" asked the weaver.

"I know not." Conan's shoulders ached when he shrugged. How many times had he swung Stercus' sword and his father's axe in battle? More than he could count.

With another shrug, he went on, "Let those who still have something worth holding here dwell in this land. As for me ― " He spat and shook his head.

Chapter Thirteen

Aquilonia

Even the wild rush of the Cimmerians from the north faltered after the fight at Fort Venarium. Before moving south of the river, they paused to treat their wounded, to put their dead in the ground, and to take what plunder they could from the ruined fortress and from the gutted town around it.

Conan was among the first to cross the river, two or three days after the battle. All that had kept him from going south sooner, going south by himself, was the desire for a vengeance greater than he could hope to wreak alone. He had already punished the Aquilonians for his mother's murder, and for Tarla's. Now he owed them for his father, too.

Revenge for Mordec proved harder to come by than he had hoped. The pause in the Cimmerians' reconquest of their stolen land allowed word of their onslaught to spread widely among the Aquilonians who had settled south of Venarium. By the time the Cimmerians pushed on, they found many farms abandoned. Some of the folk from Gunderland had driven their livestock along with their wagons.

Some had even burned the farmhouses they were abandoning, to make sure their foes got no use from them.

Gundermen and Bossonians also left most of the fortified garrisons they had built to keep watch on nearby Cimmerian villages. Here and there, though, the soldiers who fought under Aquilonia's gold lion on black fought rear-guard actions to slow the Cimmerians' advance and to help the settlers escape.

They picked the best places to defend that they could: mostly valley mouths, where the attackers had to come straight at them on a narrow front. Conan hurled himself into one of those savage little fights after another. Stercus' fine blade was gone; on his hip, Conan now wore a shortsword he had taken from the corpse of a blond pikeman of Gunderland. For his principal weapon, however, he still carried his father's axe. He did not try to clean the handle of the bloodstains that marked it. As far as he was concerned, they were a badge of honor.

He eyed a line of pikemen posted across the road, and a squad of Bossonian bowmen behind them. He had begun to see what Mordec meant about the Aquilonians' order and discipline. Because Numedides’ men knew their places and their roles, they hurt the Cimmerians worse than they would have otherwise.

The barbarians gathering with Conan had no sort of order whatever.

But they did have a driving ferocity alien to the Aquilonians. When Herth shouted, "At them!'" they went forward at an eager, ground-eating lope that said they wanted nothing more than to close with their foes. Their shouts were fierce and wordless. They might have been hunters pursuing a stag.

Unlike stags, the Bossonians and Gundermen fought back. Arrows, flight after flight, felled poorly armored invaders before they could close. But the archers could not kill all the barbarians, and the ones who lived came on. The pikemen set themselves. Conan, running toward them, readied his axe.

A Gunderman thrust at him. A lithe twist meant he slid past the spearpoint. "Oh, no, you don't!" cried the pikeman, and drew hack his weapon for another jab. Too late ―Conan's axe split his skull from crown to teeth. The Gunderman crashed to the ground, dead before he realized what had hit him.

The blacksmith's son slew the soldier beside him, too. "Come on!" called Conan to his countrymen. "Here's a gap I've made for you!" Cimmerians rushed forward and poured through it. They suffered one more volley of Bossonian arrows. But then the archers, protected no more from the warriors they had tormented, needed to turn and run if they were to survive. Some saved their gore by flight. The Cimmerians cut down others from behind. Most of the pikemen from Gunderland died where they stood, trying to the last to slow the barbarians' advance.

"Boldly done, son of Mordec," said Herth when the slaying stopped.

With a broad-shouldered shrug, Conan replied, "I could slaughter every Aquilonian soldier in the world, and it would hardly seem vengeance enough."

Herth eyed the crumpled bodies on the sward. He knew how many of them had gone down before Conan's axe. He looked back toward Venarium and Duthil, recalling how many soldiers the blacksmith's son had slain in the fights farther north. "Son of Mordec, I am not a soft man," he said at last. "I have seen wars and battles aplenty, against the AEsir and Vanir, against the Picts, aye, and among our own folk as well. This I tell you, and I speak truly: in the matter of vengeance, those who bore you can have naught over which to complain."

"It is not enough, I tell you." Conan stubbornly set his jaw.

"You could kill and kill and kill, and still you would say the same," observed the clan chief from the north, and Conan nodded, for he knew he could not deny the other man's words. Herth continued, "Killing alone will never sate you."

Nodding again, Conan said, "Like as not, you speak the truth once more. What then? Shall I reckon myself forever unavenged?"

"If you measure vengeance by killing alone, I do not see what other choice you
have," said Herth. "But Aquilonians did not only kill here. They ruled here as well, and that is as hateful to freeborn Cimmerians. I know you are determined to quit your homeland."

"I could be more determined about nothing else," agreed Conan.

"Well and good," said Herth. "I have no quarrel with you there. Perhaps one day you will make a mercenary soldier down in the south, a sergeant or even a captain. Then you may well come to have Aquilonians under your command, and you will rule them as they have ruled here. If anything can, that may complete your revenge."

"By― " But Conan broke off with the oath incomplete, saying, "So it may. Time will tell."

"Time always tells. As you come to have more years, you will begin to wish it held its peace," said Herth. "You do not swear by Crom?"

"Not now," answered Conan. "One of these days, I daresay, I will once more. For now, though, I am as angry at the god as he has shown himself angry at me. If he has robbed me of my nearest and dearest, I will rob him of his name in my mouth.

It is the only thing of his I can take."

Before replying, Herth glanced again at the Aquilonian corpses all around. "I am glad I am not your foe," he said. "Even were I a god myself, I should be glad I was not your foe."

"I know not what you mean," said Conan. Where Herth had looked to the north, he hungrily stared southward. "We should be off. The longer we delay, the more of our foes escape." He kicked at the dirt. "I wish I would have kept Stercus' head, that I might have thrown it across the border into Aquilonia as token of the reason for our rising. But it would have begun to rot and stink by now, and we had no chance to pack it in salt, so I flung it to the swine instead, before we got to Venarium."

"A good enough fate for the Aquilonian," said Herth. Conan grudged a nod,
although fury still seethed in him. The chief went on, "A pity, what befell Duthil.

Otherwise, you could have salt-cured the Aquilonian's head and hung it over your doorway."

"This past little while has seen the end of all I held dear," answered Conan. "My family, my village, her I would have loved ―all gone, all dead. Do you wonder I would quit this accursed land?"

Herth shook his head. "I have already told you no. And the more I see of you, son of Mordec, the less I wonder at anything you might do."

"Onward, then," said Conan, and onward he went. If the war chief who, as much as any Cimmerian, had mustered the northern tribes and clans for war against King Numedides' men chose to follow, Conan did not mind. And if Herth and the other Cimmerians chose to stop where they were, Conan did not mind that, either.

He would go on alone against Aquilonia, an army of one.

Herth did order his men forward once more. He wanted to do the Aquilonians as much harm as he could, and he had little time in which to do it. The summer campaigning season was brief in the north; before long, his men would begin drifting back toward their homes to help in the harvest. In the meantime ― in the meantime, the Aquilonians would pay, and pay, and pay.

Horncalls and fire beacons sent word of danger all along the border. It had been a generation since the Cimmerians invaded Aquilonia, but men whose hair and beards were now grizzled told tales of the last war to those who would fight the next: such has been the way of it since time began.

Melcer escaped the fall of the Aquilonian province in southern Cimmeria only to be dragooned into the army that would try to withstand the barbarians. Since he already had a pike, they did not bother to issue him one. The shortsword they gave him was pitted with rust; the helm they clapped on his head seemed hardly sturdier. When he asked for a coat of mail, they laughed in his face.

"Mitra! You'll want a charger and his caparison next!" said a fat sergeant. "What have you done to deserve iron rings?"

"I have fought the Cimmerians, up in the north," answered Melcer. "What have you done, that you say me nay?"

The sergeant's face darkened with anger. "Speak not so to me, dunghill clod, or you'll wear stripes on your back in place of chainmail."

"If you use all your soldiers this way, you are a fool to trust them in the field behind you," said Melcer. "Any number of ways a fellow who makes his men hate him can find an end."

He did not get the mailshirt, but the sergeant troubled him no more. And he did see Evlea and his children off to the south. The more ground they put between themselves and the barbarian irruption, the happier he was.

Looking north, back into the province he'd had to leave, made Melcer's blood boil. Whenever he did, he saw fresh fires going up. He knew too well what they meant: more farms and settlements burning. What had been civilization was going back to barbarism as fast as it could. Remembering the time and effort he had put into his own farm, knowing how many other settlers had worked just as hard, Melcer cursed both the Cimmerians and Count Stercus, whose brutality had fired their rebellion.

From what the Gunderman had heard, the Aquilonian army had crossed into Cimmeria in one place, had advanced together until it ran into the wild men, and then had beaten them, opening the southern part of the land to settlement. The barbarians' entry into Aquilonian territory was a different business. They slipped across the river by ones and twos, by tens and twenties, and soon Melcer was seeing new fires not in Cimmeria alone, but also in the land Kings of Aquilonia had ruled for generations.

The hastily mustered defense forces rushed this way and that, trying to run the barbarians to earth before they did too much damage. Sometimes they succeeded.

More often, the Cimmerians escaped to burn and plunder and kill somewhere else.

Melcer slept very little. His pikestaff acquired sinister red-brown stains. He found
himself wearing a mailshirt before too long. The underofficer who had had the shirt would never need it again. Of that Melcer was sure. It did not fit him very well, but he stopped grumbling after it stopped an arrow that might have pierced his heart. He soon found himself doing a sergeant's job. He did not get a sergeant's pay―he got no pay at all, only food, and not enough of that―but men recruited after him, men who had not seen what he had seen or done what he had done, listened to what he said and obeyed his commands.

He wondered what he would do if he and his men hunted down Conan and his father. The Cimmerians could have slain him. Conan had not called letting him go an act of friendship or mercy or anything of the sort. But whether he had used the name or not, that was what it amounted to.

Maybe the boy ―the youth, now ―and the great, hulking man who had sired him had perished in the fight at Fort Venarium or one of the smaller skirmishes between Sciliax's farm and the border between Cimmeria and Aquilonia. For the sake of his own conscience, Melcer hoped they had.

He soon had other things to worry about. As more and more barbarians came over the border, the defenders had to split themselves up into smaller and smaller bands to try to deal with all of them. Sometimes a larger swarm of Cimmerians would fall on one of those bands, in which case the result would be massacre, but not massacre of the sort King Numedides' followers wanted.

Melcer and his men and some other soldiers from Gunderland had to clean up the results of one such miscalculation. For a little while, things went better than they had any business doing, for they found some of the Cimmerian sentries drunk asleep, got past them, and assailed the main body of enemy warriors before the barbarians knew they were anywhere close by. But the Cimmerians fought back with a grim, implacable ferocity that stalled the Aquilonian attack at the edge of an orchard.

The trees gave archers excellent cover. Melcer's byrnie turned another Cimmerian arrow. He wondered whether the sergeant who had not wanted to give him a coat of mail still lived. He also wondered whether that sergeant had got into the fighting himself, or whether he had fled south and let others try to hold the barbarians out of Aquilonia.

"Let's go!" shouted Melcer. "We can drive them back!" He rushed at a Cimmerian. The man carried only a shortsword and wore no armor, not even a helmet. He had no chance against a mailed pikeman, and he knew it. He gave ground to save his gore.

Seeing him draw back encouraged the Bossonians and Gundermen with Melcer.

They followed the farmer, where they might not have if the Cimmerian had stood his ground. Here in this little brawl, the civilized soldiers outnumbered their barbarous foes.

Once the fighting got in amongst the apple and pear trees, it was every man for himself. "Numedides!" cried Melcer, and his men took up the cry. The Cimmerians yelled back, some using war cries in their own language, others calling down curses on Numedides' head in broken Aquilonian.

A Cimmerian threw a stone at Melcer. The chainmail kept it from breaking ribs, but he knew he would wear a bruise despite the padding under the links of iron.

He saw another Cimmerian with an axe hotly engaged against a Gunderman, and rushed over to help his countryman finish the enemy warrior.

Before he got there, the Cimmerian cut down the other pikeman. The fellow brought up his axe, ready to chop at Melcer, who set himself for a lunge at the barbarian. They both checked themselves in the same instant, exclaiming, "You!"

In that frozen moment, Melcer made his choice. He drew back and lowered his spear, saying, "Go your way, Conan. You spared me and mine when you might have slain. I can do no less for you. Is your father here as well?"

"No." The young barbarian shook his head. "He fell at Venarium. Stay safe, Melcer. Maybe some other Cimmerian will bring you down."

"We were invaders in your land," said Melcer. "You fought hard to drive us out.

You are the invaders here. Do you think we will act differently?"

Conan shrugged broad shoulders: a man's shoulders, though he was not yet a man. "I care not. Find a new foe. I will do the same."

Melcer drew back another pace before looking for a different Cimmerian to fight, in case Conan meant trickery. He and his countrymen won the skirmish. They were happy enough to plunder the corpses of those who had stood against them.

Melcer prowled the orchard to see if one of those corpses were Conan's.

He did not find the blacksmith's son's body. He never saw the Cimmerian again.

But he had reason to remember him the rest of his days.

We can't turn back," said a lean, gloomy young Cimmerian named Talorc as he and his comrades sprawled around a fire in the hills of Gunderland. "Too many of those accursed Aquilonian dogs between us and the border."

One of his comrades was Conan. "If we can't go back, we go on," he said, and swigged from a skin of wine taken from a tavern.

Most of their fellows had not penetrated so deeply into Numedides' kingdom.

They were no longer part of an army. They were a bandit band, out for loot and out to stay alive in a land roused against them.

A howl came from off in the distance. In Cimmeria, it would have been a wolfs cry in the night. Here, Conan cursed. He had come to know too well the belling of hunting hounds ―and this hound sought his scent, and his companions'. "We made a mistake," he said. "We should have left someone behind to deal with the dog. An arrow out of the night, and we wouldn't have had to worry about it any more."

"They would only have brought up another one." Talorc spoke with a certain grim fatalism.

"We would kill that one, too," said Conan. Some of the others seemed to think their chances poor. That calculation had never entered Conan's mind. He was still alive. He still had weapons ready to hand. As long as he could, he would go on struggling to survive.

Another howl resounded, this one closer and louder and more excited: the dog
had found the Cimmerians' trail. The calls of men floated on the breeze, too. They also sounded excited. They hoped they were going to run this band of barbarians to earth and be rid of it for good.

Conan had a different idea. "They think they will come on us unawares and scatter us," he said; he had already seen the Aquilonians do that once, and had barely come out of the trap alive. "Let's give them a surprise. How will they like it if they find an ambush waiting for them?"

He had to browbeat the rest of the Cimmerians into moving. Some of them would not, and sprawled by the side of the fire, careless of what might happen to them.

Conan let them stay where they were. If anything, catching sight of them would help spur on the enemy, help make him careless.

And that was exactly what happened. Spying the Cimmerians slumped there, the Aquilonians stormed forward, certain they would have easy pickings. The barrage of spears and arrows that greeted them from both flanks sent them running away even faster than they had advanced. Now they cried out in terror, not triumph.

Conan made sure the dog did not live.

Afterwards, he found only a couple of his countrymen hurt, while half a dozen Aquilonians sprawled in death along the track. Now Conan plundered the corpses.

He did not know what he would do with the lunas he took from a dead man's belt pouch. The man's sword, though, was another story. He knew just what to do with that, and hung it on his belt in case something happened to his father's axe.

The Cimmerians pressed ever deeper into Aquilonia. Part of that was Conan's urge to drive the knife home as best he could, the rest a half-formed hope that the Aquilonians would not trouble them so much once they moved farther from the border. That hope proved forlorn. The Aquilonians cared no more for banditry than Conan's folk would have with a gang of Gundermen loose in their land.

One by one, the other raiders fell. The band fissured: now one man, now two or three, would give up, break off, and try to go back to Cimmeria. Conan never learned what happened to those warriors. He would not have bet it was anything good. As for himself, he had no thought of tomorrow past stealing a sheep or a pig and keeping his belly full. The brigand's life, the thief's life, turned out to suit
him better than any he had known in Duthil.

After a while, only eight or ten Cimmerians were left with him. He did not think they were in Gunderland any more by then. They had penetrated into Aquilonia proper. The folk who dwelt here looked different and spoke differently from the Gundermen Conan had come to know so well. Many of them did not seem to recognize the raiders for what they were, either.

Conan gulped wine in a farmhouse the men from the north had just plundered.

The farmer lay dead on the floor at his feet. "It's been a long time since Cimmerians pushed this deep into Aquilonia," he exulted.

Talorc had drunk more than Conan had ―had drunk himself sad, in fact. He began to weep now, saying, "We'll never go home again, either."

"Well, so what?" said Conan. "I've got nothing to go home to, anyhow.

Numedides' men made damned sure of that. Best thing I can do now is pay them back in their own coin."

Talorc wept harder. "They'll kill us." He was hardly older than Conan.

"They haven't done it yet," said Conan. "They can keep on trying." He stirred the dead Aquilonian farmer with his boot. "Until they manage, I'm not going to worry about it." Some of the other Cimmerians laughed. The rest, more inclined to Talorc's mood than to Conan's, drank until the farmhouse held nothing more to drink.

They left the place before sunup the next morning. As day brightened, Conan could see a few clouds of smoke rising well to the north: the sign other Cimmerian bands still roamed their enemies' land. His companions did not fire the farmhouse. That would have brought Aquilonian notice to them, and they had already had more notice from King Numedides' soldiers than they wanted.

Later that day, a squadron of Aquilonian knights rode north past them without slowing down, without recognizing them for what they were. Conan laughed at that, but not for long. The knights might not trouble him, but they would help
harry his countrymen out of Aquilonia. He wished he could do them a bad turn.

The worst turn he could think of was simply surviving.

Somewhere to the south and east lay Tarantia, Numedides' glittering capital. Had any Cimmerian ever reached it? The blacksmith's son had no idea. He did want to see it before the Aquilonians hunted him down, though. That would be a triumph of sorts.

Two days later, he discovered that not all the Aquilonians failed to see Cimmerians for what they were. A raucous cry rang out: "There they are, the murdering bastards!" About a dozen men from the south, farmers and townsfolk kitted out with the same odd mix of weapons and armor as the brigands bore, came loping toward them across a field. One of the Aquilonians shouted something else: "Kill them! Kill them all!"

Another field, even broader, lay on the far side of the road. Conan did not think flight would serve the Cimmerians. A savage grin on his face, he turned to the others who had come so far from their northern homes. "If we kill a few of them, the rest will flee," he said. "We can do it!"

There, however, he miscalculated. Talorc was a good bowman despite his tears, and knocked down two Aquilonians before the rest could close. But that did not discourage the ones who still lived. On they came, shouting King Numedides'

name. The battle that followed would be forever nameless, but it was as fierce as many bigger fights of which the chroniclers sang for centuries.

Talorc fell almost at once, fulfilling his own dark prophecy. He wounded one of the two Aquilonians who had assailed him. Another Cimmerian soon slew the man. The fight went on without them. Neither side showed even the slightest interest in flight. It soon became clear things would end only when either Cimmerians or Aquilonians had no one left who could stand on his feet or wield a weapon.

Up until then, Conan had dealt out wounds in plenty, but had received hardly more than scratches. In that fight he learned edged steel could bite his flesh, too, and that it was no more pleasant when it did than he would have guessed. But not a cry of pain escaped him when he was hurt; he would not yield to wounds any
more than he had yielded to his father's hard hands. And, since none of the gashes he received was enough to cripple him, he went on fighting, too.

One of the Aquilonians was a great bear of a man: not quite so tall as Conan, perhaps, but even wider through the shoulders, with enormous arms, a thick chest, and an even thicker belly that hung down over the top of his breeches. He was a farmer, not a soldier; his only weapon was a spade. But he swung it with a wild man's lunatic savagery. It split flesh, broke bones, shattered skulls. One Cimmerian after another went down before him.

Conan, likewise, was the champion for the men of the north. After half an hour, those two were the only fighters not weltering in their gore. Conan hefted his father's axe. The hulking Aquilonian advanced on him, still clutching that blood-dripping spade. A half-crazed grin stretched across his face. "One of us dies," he said.

"Aye." Conan nodded. Here was a foe he could respect. "One of us does." He threw the axe, a trick he had taught himself between bouts of brigandage. Its head should have torn out the Aquilonian's heart.

Clang! Fast as a striking serpent, the big man knocked the flying axe aside with the spade. His grin got wider. "Looks like that one's going to be you."

Conan made no reply. He did the last thing the Aquilonian could have expected: he rushed straight for him. The foe hesitated for a fatal heartbeat, wondering which blow to use to strike down the apparent madman he faced. But Conan's madness had method to it; the Aquilonian had just started to swing back the spade when Conan seized the handle just below the blade.

He heaved and twisted. So did the enormous Aquilonian. Whichever of them could wrest the spade from the other would live. His enemy would die. It was as simple as that. The Aquilonian's first couple of jerks on the handle were almost contemptuous. He had never yet met a man who could match his strength.

But then he grunted in surprise. He set his feet. He took a better grip. The youth who opposed him might have been made of iron and leather and powered by a lion's heart, or a dragon's. Strain as the Aquilonian would, he could make no
progress against him. Indeed, he felt himself beginning to fail. A few more twists, and he would be without the weapon that had worked such slaughter.

"No!" he cried hoarsely, and tried to stamp on Conan's foot. But that foot was not there when the Aquilonian's boot crashed down. And, distracted from the struggle over the spade, the Aquilonian felt it rip from his fingers. "No!" he shouted once more, this time in despair and disbelief. That was the last word that ever passed his lips.

Breathing hard, Conan stood over his corpse for a moment. Then he threw aside the murderous spade. It had served him well enough, but he knew there were better weapons. He had his choice of any on the field now, and of the loot his comrades and their foes had carried.

His father's axe on his shoulder, a fine sword on his hip, his belt pouch heavy with silver lunas and golden rings, he strode down the road toward Tarantia.

A curious thing happened then. As long as Conan was part of a band of Cimmerians, all the Aquilonians in the countryside had done their best to hunt him down. When he walked along by himself, they forgot all about him. One lone youth, they seemed to say to themselves, could never threaten their grip on this kingdom. Knights who might well have slain him on sight had they found him in company with others of his kind rode past him without a second glance ―sometimes even without a first.

And the deeper into Aquilonia he got, the more he began to see that the people who lived on the land did not know him for a Cimmerian at all. They should have; he resembled them no more than a wolf takes after a lap dog. But he heard one peasant woman murmur, "How big and strong they grow them in Gunderland!" to another as he walked by. He did not catch what the second woman said in reply, but it sent both of them into a fit of giggles.

Obscurely annoyed without knowing why, Conan kept on toward the capital without giving the slightest indication he had heard the peasant women or noticed them in any way. For some unfathomable reason, that only set them giggling again.

Sometimes he would stop and chop wood or pitch hay for a meal and a place to sleep. Even his bad Aquilonian got taken for a frontier accent, not a barbarous one. He began to wonder about the ignorant folk who lived near the heart of this kingdom. The Bossonians and Gundermen he'd known had been enemies, aye, but worthy enemies. A lot of the people near Tarantia, shielded for generations by the rougher men who dwelt closer to the border, would not have lasted long had they had to defend their holdings against raiders from the north.

They did not even seem to know how lucky they were to be so shielded. Conan was drinking wine in a tavern when an Aquilonian at the next table spoke to his friend: "They say the barbarians have run us out of that Cimmeria place."

The friend's jowls wobbled as he swigged from his mug of wine. They wobbled again when he shrugged. "Well, so what?" he said. "Mitra, I don't know what we wanted with such a miserable country to begin with."

"Oh, it wasn't us ―not folk like you and me," said the first man wisely. "It was those miserable frontiersmen. All they do is make babies, and they were looking for somewhere to put more of them."

"Well, they didn't find it there." His friend laughed. "Not my worry any which way."

"Nor mine," said the first man. "Here, drink up, Crecelius, and I'll buy you another round."

They too were enemies. Even so, Conan wanted to pound their heads together. He doubted whether it would do any good, though. They were so sunk in sottish stupidity, nothing was likely to knock sense into their thick skulls.

Another thought crossed his mind later that day, after he had left the tavern behind. If the ordinary folk of Aquilonia had this view of the Cimmerian expedition, what did King Numedides think about it? Up until now, Conan had always assumed the King of Aquilonia would be gnashing his teeth in fury over his failure in the north. Now, suddenly, the blacksmith's son wondered. Could it be that Numedides was as indifferent to the disaster as so many of his subjects seemed to be?

What sort of a sovereign was Numedides if in fact he did not care? Conan laughed gustily and shrugged. As if the doings and thoughts of the King of Aquilonia could possibly matter to him!

Villages grew thicker on the land. Some of them were more than villages: some were towns. Conan eyed them with a hunter's unrelenting hunger. How long had it been since anyone plundered these places? The pickings would be rich indeed if anyone could.

Conan was walking along a hedgerow taller than a man when he heard argument from beyond it. Exasperation in his voice, a man was saying, "Everything will be fine, Selinda."

"Oh, it will, will it?" exclaimed Selinda shrilly. "I think those barbarians will cut your throat as soon as you go out on the road."

"They aren't anywhere close to here," said the man. "And the soldiers are driving them back. Everybody says so. And my onions need to go to Tarantia. We won't get any money if they don't."

His wife ―it could be none other―let out another squawk. "I don't like it, Renorio. I don't like it at all."

When Conan emerged from beyond the hedgerow, they both suddenly fell silent.

They stood beside a ramshackle wagon that was, sure enough, piled high with onions. A bored horse dozed in harness. A shrewd smirk crossed Renorio's face and then, as quickly, vanished. He pointed to Conan. "You there, fellow! Can you drive a wagon?"

"Aye." Conan had never tried in his life, but had too much pride to admit there was anything he could not do.

Neither Renorio nor Selinda, plainly, had the slightest notion he was one of the fearsome barbarians who alarmed them. The farmer said, "How would you like to make two lunas ―one now, the other when you bring back the wagon?"

"What you want me to do?" asked Conan.

His accent did not faze the Aquilonian, either. "Take these onions to my brother-in-law in the great market square in Tarantia. Help Polsipher unload them, then bring the wagon back here," answered Renorio. "Two lunas."

By his greasy smile, Conan suspected he would not readily part with the second silver coin. Nevertheless, the blacksmith's son nodded. "I do this."

"Good. Good! Climb on up, then," said Renorio. Conan did, as if he had done so a thousand times before. He waited. Reluctantly, Renorio gave him the first half of the promised payment. With a fine show of authority, he flicked the reins. The horse snorted in surprise ―and perhaps derision ―and began to walk. Behind Conan, the farmer spoke triumphantly to his wife: "There. Now you don't have to worry any more. Are you happy? You don't look happy. You're never happy, seems to me."

Selinda screeched at him. They went back to arguing.

Conan began experimenting. Well before he got to Tarantia, he learned how to use the reins to make the horse start and stop and turn to the left and right. It all seemed easy enough. When the Cimmerian came to the capital of Aquilonia, he had no trouble finding the great market square, for a stream of wagons of all sizes flooded into it. He bawled Polsipher's name until someone answered. Renorio's brother-in-law did not seem unduly surprised at finding a stranger on the wagon; maybe the farmer had hired others before.

They unloaded the wagon. Like Renorio, Polsipher had no idea Conan was a Cimmerian. Conan climbed back up on the wagon and drove away. Polsipher called after him: "Turn around! The farm's back that way!"

As if he could not hear, Conan cupped a hand behind his ear and kept on in the direction he had chosen. Now that he had seen Tarantia, he wanted to learn what lay beyond it ― and riding had proved easier than walking. He would not get his second silver luna, if Renorio ever would have given it to him. But the farmer would not get his wagon or his sleepy horse. Conan liked that bargain fine. If

Renorio did not, too bad for him. Conan rode out of the city and off to the south and east. He had already begun to learn the trade of thief.

Legions of the Dead

Conan, born in the bleak, cloud-oppressed northern hills of Cimmeria, was known as a fighter around the council fires before he had seen fifteen snows. In that year, the Cimmerian tribesmen forgot their feuds and joined forces to repel the Gundermen who, pushing across the Aquilonian frontier, had built the frontier post of Venarium and begun to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria. Conan was one of the howling, blood-mad horde that swept out of the northern hills, stormed over the stockade with sword and torch, and drove the Aquilonians back to their former border.
At the sack of Venarium, still short of his full growth, Conan already stood six feet tall and weighed 180 pounds. He had the alertness and stealth of the born woodsman, the iron-hardness of the mountain man, the Herculean physique of his blacksmith father, and a practical familiarity with knife, axe, and sword.
After the plunder of the Aquilonian outpost, Conan returns for a time to his tribe. Restless under the conflicting urges of his adolescence, his traditions, and his times, he becomes involved in a local feud and is not sorry to leave his village. He joins a band of Æsir in raiding the Vanir and the Hyperboreans. Some of the Hyperborean citadels, however, are under control of a caste of widely feared magicians, called Witchmen, and it is against one of these strongholds that Conan finds himself taking part in a foray.

1 • Blood on the Snow

A deer paused at the brink of the shallow stream and raised its head, sniffing the frosty air. Water dripped from its muzzle like beads of crystal. The lingering sun gleamed on its tawny hide and glistened on the tines of its branching antlers.
Whatever faint sound or scent had disturbed the animal was not repeated. Presently it bent to drink again from the frigid water, which rushed and bubbled amid crusts of broken ice.
On either side of the stream, steep banks of earth lay mantled in the new-fallen snow of early winter. Thickets of leafless bush grew close together under the somber boughs of the neighboring pines; and from the forest beyond, nothing could be heard but the ceaseless drip, drip of melting snow. The featureless leaden sky of the dying day scarcely seemed to clear the tops of the trees.
From the shelter of the woods, a slender javelin darted with deadly precision; and at the end of its arc, the long shaft caught the stag off guard and sank behind its shoulder. The stricken creature bolted for the far side of the creek; then staggered, coughed blood, and fell. For a moment or two it lay on its side, kicking and struggling. Then its eyes glazed, its head hung limply, and its heaving flanks grew still. Blood, mixed with froth and foam, dribbled from its sagging jaws to stain the virgin snow a brilliant crimson.
Two men emerged from the trees and studied the snowy landscape with searching eyes. The larger and older, plainly in command, was a giant of a man with massive shoulders and long, heavily muscled arms. The swell of his mighty chest and shoulders was visible beneath the cloak of fur that enveloped his stalwart figure and the coarse, baggy woolens he wore beneath the cloak. A broad belt of rawhide with a golden buckle held his garments around him, and a hood of wolf fur, forming part of the cloak, obscured his face.
Now pushing back the hood to peer about, he revealed a head of curling golden hair, slightly streaked with gray. A short, roughly trimmed beard of the same hue clothed his broad cheeks and heavy jaw. The color of his hair, his fair skin and ruddy cheeks, and his bold blue eyes marked him as one of the Æsir.
The youth beside him differed from him in many ways. Scarcely more than a boy, he was tall and brawny for his age―almost as tall as the full-grown Northman beside him―but lean and wiry rather than massive. He was dark and sullen, with straight, coarse black hair hacked off at the nape, and the skin of his somber visage was either naturally swarthy or heavily tanned. Under heavy black brows, his eyes were as blue as those of the giant at his elbow; but whereas the golden warrior’s eyes sparkled with the joy of the hunt and zest for the kill, those of the dark youth glowered like the eyes of some wild and hungry predator. Unlike his bearded companion, the young man’s beard was shaven clean, although a dark stubble shadowed his square jaw.
The bearded man was Njal, a jarl or chieftain of the Æsir and leader of a band of raiders known and feared on the wintry borders between Asgard and Hyperborea. The youth was Conan, a renegade from the rugged, cloud-haunted hills of Cimmeria to the south.
Satisfied that they were unobserved, the two emerged from cover, descended the bank, and waded the icy current to the place where their kill lay lifeless on the blood-spotted snow. Weighing almost as much as the two men together, the stag was too heavy and, with its branching antlers, too cumbersome to bear back to their camp. So, while the youth watched broodingly, the chieftain bent and, with a long knife, swiftly butchered the beast, peeling back the hide and separating the shoulders, haunches, and ribs from the rest of the carcass.
“Dig a hole, boy, and make it deep,” grunted the man.
The youth cut into the frozen slope of the bank, using the blade of the long-handled ax that had been strapped to his back. By the time that Njal had finished dressing the stag, Conan had hacked out a pit capacious enough to hide the offal. While the Northman cleaned the bloody quarters in the rushing stream, the youth buried all that was left of the carcass, and scraped the crimson snow into the pit along with the loosened soil. Then untying his fur cloak, die Cimmerian dragged it back and forth, obliterating the traces of his handiwork.
Njal wrapped the flesh of the deer in the freshly flayed hide of the beast and tied the mouth of the improvised sack with a thong brought along for the purpose. Conan cut a sapling with his ax and trimmed it down to a pole as long as a man, while the jarl cleansed his javelin by thrusting it into the sand in the bed of the stream. Njal tied the bag to the middle of the pole, which the two then hoisted to their shoulders. Dragging Conan’s cloak behind them to erase their footprints, they climbed the farther slope and reentered the woods.
Here along the Hyperborean border, the pines grew tall, thick, and dark. Wherever a break in die forest afforded a vista, the ridges could be seen to roll endlessly away, covered with snowcapped pines of a green as dark as sable. Wolves skulked along the nighted forest trails, their burning eyes lambent green coals, while above floated great white owls on silent wings.
The two well-armed hunters had no fear of die local creatures; save that, when a bear ambled across the path ahead, they gave it a respectfully wide berth. Like ghosts they glided through the darkened woods to join their fellow raiders, who lay encamped beneath the shoulder of a hill. Since both were woodsmen born and bred, they made no noise and left little trace of their swift passage. Even the scrubby bushes did not rustle as they slipped through them.
So well concealed was the Æsir camp that their first knowledge of its presence was the murmur of voices around a hidden fire; yet the watchful sentinels had seen their coming. An elderly Northman, whose locks had turned to silver, rose from the fireside to greet them silently. One of his eyes was bright and keen; the other was an empty socket concealed by a leather patch. He was Gorm, a bard of the Æsir, over whose bent shoulders slept a harp in a sack of deerskin.
“What word from Egil?” demanded the raider chief, lowering the pole from his shoulder and motioning to the cook to take it away.
“No word, Jarl,” said the one-eyed man somberly. “I like it not.” He moved uneasily, as does a beast at the scent of danger.
Njal exchanged a glance with the silent Conan. Two days before, an advance party had left the camp under cover of a moonless night to spy out the great castle of Haloga, which lay not far beyond the hills that ringed the horizon to the southeast.
Thirty warriors, seasoned and canny veterans all, led by Egil the huntsman, had gone to scout the way and to study the fortifications of the forbidding Hyperborean stronghold. Conan, unasked, had brashly spoken out against the imprudence of so drastically dividing their strength thus near the enemy, and Njal had roughly bade the youth to hold his tongue. Later, regretting his harshness, the jarl had brought Conan with him in search of game as his rude way of making amends.
Egil’s messengers should have returned many hours since. The fact that they had not stirred fear in the mind of Njal, and in the secret places of his heart, he wished that he had harkened to the young Cimmerian’s warning.
Njal’s shortness of temper and the urgency with which he had driven his men across the wilderness to the Hyperborean border were not without cause. Hyperborean slavers, a fortnight since―slavers with the red mark of Haloga on their black raiment―had carried off his only daughter, Rann.
Brooding over the fate of his beloved daughter and the whereabouts of his trusted scouts, the jarl repressed a shudder. The Witchmen of shadowy Hyperborea were feared far and wide for their uncanny mastery of the black arts; and Haloga’s sadistic queen was feared like the Black Death.
Njal fought down the chill that clutched his heart and turned to Gorm the skald. “Tell the cook to broil the meat swiftly―and on charcoal, for we cannot risk the smoke of open fires. And bid the men eat fast. When night descends, we move.”

2 • The Horror on the Parapet

All that night, like a band of wolves, the raiders from Asgard drifted in single file across the snowy hills into the clammy, swirling mists of Hyperborea. At first the night was star-decked only, but once they crossed the hills, cold mists blotted out even the wan and frosty glimmer of the stars. When at length the moon arose, the mists bedimmed it to a pearly blotch in the sky, like a moon reflected in wind-ruffled water.
Despite the gloom that drenched this barren, bog-infested, scantily inhabited land, the raiders took advantage of every slightest bit of cover, every leafless bush and stunted tree and inky patch of shadow. For Haloga was a mighty fortress, and doubtless guarded well. Desperate and vengeful as he was, Njal well knew in the depths of his heart that his only hope of success lay in surprise.
The moon and mists had fled together before they reached Haloga. The castle stood on a low rise in the center of a shallow, bowl-shaped valley. Huge were its frowning walls of dark stone, and massive the masonry around the lone and ponderous gate. Above the main walls rose a castellated parapet. A few windows were set high in the towers; nothing else but arrow slits broke the clifflike surface of the megalithic walls.
It would, Njal knew, be difficult to storm this place. And where were the men whom he had sent ahead to scout the way? No sign of them had been discerned, even by his keen-eyed trackers; for the newly fallen snow had obliterated their footprints.
“Shall we essay the walls, Jarl?” asked a warrior-an outlaw fled hither from Vanaheim, if his red beard was any token.
“Nay, the dawn approaches, curse the luck!” growled the chief. “We must wait for night again, or pray the gods will let the white-haired devils grow careless and raise the portcullis. Tell the men to sleep where they are and to sprinkle snow over their furs so none can see them. Tell Thror Ironhand his squad has the first watch.”
Njal lay down, wrapped his furs around him, and closed his eyes. But sleep came not soon; and when it came, dreams of shadowy, chuckling menace made it hideous.

Conan slept not at all. Possessed by uneasy foreboding, the youth still resented Njal’s gruff dismissal of his argument against the scouting party. He was a stranger among the Æsir freebooters, driven from his homeland by a blood feud, and had with difficulty won a precarious place among these blond warriors. They approved his ability to endure privation and hardship without complaint, and the bullies among them had learned to respect his heavy fists; for despite his youth, he fought with the ferocity of a cornered wildcat and needs must be dragged bodily from a foe once he had felled him. But still, as youths will, the Cimmerian burned to win the applause of his elders by some feat of daring or heroism.
Conan had observed the windows of the keep, which were much too high to reach by climbing, were it humanly possible to scale such walls without a ladder. He had mastered many sheer cliffs in his homeland; but those had at least afforded a toe- and finger-hold. The stones of Haloga were fitted and trimmed to a glassy smoothness that defied the climbing efforts of any creature larger than an insect.
The arrow slits, however, were set lower in the walls and thus seemed more accessible. Those of the lowest tier were little more than thrice a man’s height above the ground, to give the archers a fair shot at besiegers who might cluster about the base of the wall. Plainly too narrow for a full-grown man of the bulk of most Æsir, were they too narrow for the smaller, slenderer Conan?

When dawn broke, one raider was missing from the camp―the young Cimmerian outlaw, Conan. Njal had other things to think about and so had little time to ponder the fate of a surly, black-visaged young runaway, who seemed to lack the stomach for this raid.
The jarl had just discovered his missing scouts. They hung from the parapet, clearly visible as dawn lit the empty sky and dispelled the clammy fogs that shrouded the air of this accursed land. The men were still alive, dancing in their death throes at the ends of thirty ropes.
Njal stared, then cursed until his voice was hoarse, and he dug his nails into his hard palms. Although he felt sick to the roots of his soul, he could not tear his eyes away.
The eternally young queen of Haloga, Vammatar the Cruel, stood on the parapet fair as the morning, with long bright hair and full breasts, which curved sweetly beneath her heavy white robes. A lazy, languorous smile parted her full red lips: The men who attended her were true Hyperboreans, unearthly in their gaunt, long-legged stature, with pale eyes and skeins of colorless silken hair.
As the hidden Æsir, sick with rage and fury and helpless horror, watched, the men of Egil’s party were slowly done to death with merciless hooks and wickedly curved knives. They squealed and flopped and wriggled, those gory, mangled things that had been stalwart warriors two days before. It took them hours to die.
Njal, his lips bitten through, aged much during that endless, terrible morn. And there was nothing at all he could do. A leader cannot throw a small band of men against high walls with only hand weapons. If he has a large, well-found army capable of keeping the field for months, he can batter down the walls with rams and catapults, or undermine them with tunnels, or roll siege towers up to them and swarm across, or surround the stronghold and starve it out. Lacking such overmastering force, he needs at least scaling ladders as long as the wall is high, a force of archers or slingers to beat the defenders back from the ramparts, and above all surprise.
Surprise, the advantage on which Njal had counted, was now lost to him. However the Hyperboreans had captured Egil’s scouting party, the mere fact of their capture had alerted the people of Haloga to the presence of Æsir in the vicinity. The Witchmen of this devil-haunted land must, by their weird arts, have known of the approach of the hostile force. The sinister legends about them were now proved true by the crimson evidence hanging against the red-stained stone of the parapet. Haloga had known that the Æsir were out there all the time, and not even the cold-hearted and vengeance-loving gods of the Northlands could help them now.
Then it was that the first plume of jet-black smoke drifted from the lofty windows of the keep, and the torturers broke, crying out in amazement, and scurried away with their black gowns flapping. The lazy, catlike smile vanished from the soft, curved lips of Haloga’s queen. A feeble, flickering flame of hope leaped up within the breast of Njal of Asgard.

3 • Shadow of Vengeance

Scaling the wall had been neither easier nor harder than Conan had guessed. A rain spout, curved like the mouth of a vomiting dragon, caught and held the noose of his rope on the fifteenth or sixteenth try. The rope, knotted at intervals for better purchase, neither slipped nor broke beneath his weight.
When he had ascended to the level of the slit, Conan locked his legs about the rope and rocked back and forth, like a child on a swing. By throwing his weight from one side to the other, he increased the dimensions of the arc. It was slow going; but at last, at the end of a swing to the right, he came within reach of the slit.
The next time he swung, he shot out a hand and grasped the masonry. Still holding the rope in his free hand, he thrust a booted foot into the opening and followed it with the other. Slowly and carefully he shifted his weight until he was sitting on the sill of the arrow slit with his legs inside. He still grasped the rope with his left hand, for it occurred to him that, if he released it, his lifeline would fall away and hang out of reach when he would have need of it for a hasty departure.
The slit was too narrow for Conan to pass through in his present position. Already his lean hips were wedged into the opening, the sides of which were angled outward to give the defender a wider field of arrow shot. So, turning sideways, he wriggled his hips and midsection through the aperture. But when his arms and chest reached the narrow opening, his woolen tunic, bunched up beneath his armpits, arrested further progress. Would he not look an utter fool, he thought, if the Witchmen came upon him wedged in the arrow slit? He had visions of being caught forever in this stony vise. Even if undiscovered, he would perish of hunger and thirst and make good food for the ravens.
Gathering courage, he decided that by expelling all the breath from his lungs, he might just slip through. He took several deep breaths, as if preparing to swim under water, exhaled, and pushed ahead until his thrashing feet found a firm surface to stand on. Turning his head, he wormed it through the inner edges of the slit and collapsed on a rough wooden floor. In his excitement he had released the rope, which started to snake through the slit. He caught it just before it slipped away.
Conan found himself in a small circular chamber, an archer’s roost that was unoccupied. As he peered around in the gloom, he sighted a rough stool, placed there for the comfort of the defender. He pulled the stool nearer and made the rope fast to it, so that the heavy wood might serve to anchor the rope during his escape. Then he stretched his cramped muscles. He must, he thought, have left a few square palms of skin on the stonework as he scraped through.
Across the room from the arrow slit, the masonry was interrupted by an arched doorway. Conan drew his long knife from its scabbard and stole through the aperture. Beyond the doorway a spiral stair led upward, and occasional torches set in wall brackets did little to dispel the almost palpable obscurity.
Moving a step at a time and flattening himself against the wall to listen, Conan slowly worked his way through many passages to the central keep, where prisoners of rank and worth might lodge. Day had dawned long since, although little light penetrated this massive pile of stone through the arrow slits and narrow windows. From the screams that filtered faintly through the thick walls, the Cimmerian youth had a grim notion of what occupied the Witchmen on the parapet.
In a corridor intermittently lit by torches set in brackets, Conan found his prey at last―two of them, in fact. They were guarding a cell and, from the look of them, he knew the old stories were true. He had seen Cimmerians and Gundermen and Aquilonians and Æsir and Vanir, but never before had he set eyes upon a Hyperborean at close quarters, and the sight chilled the blood in his veins.
Like devils from some lightless hell they seemed, long-jawed faces white as fungi, pale and soulless amber eyes, and hair of colorless flax. Their gaunt bodies were clad all in black, save that the red mark of Haloga was embroidered on their bony chests. It seemed to Conan’s fancy that the marks were bloody tokens of hearts that had been torn from their breasts, leaving naught but a grisly stain behind. The superstitious youth almost believed the ancient legends that these men were mere cadavers, animated by demons from the depths of some black hell.
They did have hearts, however; and when cut, they bled. They could also be killed, as he found when he hurled himself upon them from the corridor. The first one squawked and went down, sprawling awkwardly under the thunderbolt impact of Conan’s catlike leap, and died bubbling as the Cimmerian’s knife pierced his breast.
The second guard, staring slack-jawed and blank-eyed, gaped for a heartbeat. Then he aimed a kick at the intruder and went for his sword. But Conan’s knife, a serpent’s tongue, flicked out and slashed the Hyperborean’s throat, leaving a mirthless, red-rimmed smile below the guard’s pale thin-lipped mouth.
When the two were dead, Conan stripped them of their weapons and, dragging the bodies to an empty cell, heaped upon them the straw that lay matted on the floor. Then he peered into the small compartment that they had guarded.
A tall, milk-skinned girl with dear blue eyes and long, smooth hair the color of sun-ripened wheat stood proudly in the center of the enclosure, awaiting a fate she knew not of. Although the maiden’s high young breasts rose and fell in her agitation, there was no fear in her eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Conan, a Cimmerian, a member of your father’s band,” he said, speaking her tongue with an accent foreign to her. “If you are Njal’s daughter, that is.”
She lifted her chin. “I am indeed Rann Njalsdatter.”
“Good,” he grunted, thrusting into the lock a key snatched from the dead Witchmen. “I have come for you.”
“Alone?” Her eyes widened, incredulously.
Conan nodded. Snatching her hand, he led the Æsir girl into the corridor and gave her one of the two swords of the slain Witchmen. With her behind him and his newfound weapon readied for action, he cautiously retraced his steps along the stone passageways through which he had come.
Down the long corridor he prowled, silent and wary as a jungle cat. Moving with every sense alert, his smoldering gaze swept the walls and the doors set in them. In the flickering torchlight, his eyes burned like those of some savage creature of the wild.
At any moment, Conan knew, the Witchmen might discover them, for surely not every denizen of the castle was on the parapet with the torturers. Deep in his primal heart, he breathed an unspoken prayer to Crom, the merciless god of his shadowy homeland, that he and the girl might, unobserved, attain the arrow slit whereby he had entered.
Like an insubstantial shadow, the young Cimmerian glided through the gloomy passageways, which now curved following the girdle of the curtain wall; and Rann, on little cat feet, followed after him. Torches smoldered and smoked in their brackets, but the dark intervals between the flickering lights were alive with evil.
They met no one; yet Conan was not satisfied. True, their luck had held thus far, but it might end at any moment. If two or three Witchmen fell upon them, they might still win through; for the women of the Æsir were not pampered playthings but skilled and daring swordswomen. Often in battle they stood shoulder to shoulder with their men; and when fight they must, they fought with the ferocity of tigresses.
But what if they were set upon by six or a dozen Witchmen? Young as he was, Conan knew no mortal man, however skillful with his sword, can face at once in all directions; and whilst they thrust and parried in these dark passages, the alarm would surely sound and rouse the castle.
A diversion was needed, and one of the torches they passed gave the youth an inspiration. The torches were soaked in tarry pitch to burn long and slowly, but they burned deep and were not easily extinguished. Conan glanced about. The walls of the castle were of stone, but the floor planks and the beams supporting them were wooden. Across his grim face flitted a small smile of satisfaction.
Conan needed to find a storeroom, and as he prowled the corridors, he peered into chambers whose doors were open. One was vacant. Another contained a pair of empty beds. A third appeared to be a storage place for broken or damaged weapons and other metallic objects awaiting repair.
The door to the next room stood ajar, leaving a narrow crack of darkness in the flickering torchlight. Conan pushed it, and the door swung open with a faint squeal of hinges. Then he started back and hastily shut out the sight of that dark chamber; for the room contained a bed, and on the bed lay a sleeping Witchman. Beside him on a stool were several phials, which Conan supposed held medications for a sick man. He left the fellow snoring.
The next chamber turned out to be the sought-for storeroom. As Conan surveyed it from the hall, the rising sound of footsteps and voices caused him to whirl about, lip lifted in a snarl. He gestured frantically to Rann.
“Inside!” he breathed.
The twain slipped into the storeroom, and Conan closed the door. Since the room had no window, they waited in complete darkness, listening to the clatter of the approaching Hyperboreans. Soon the party passed the door, speaking in their guttural tongue, and their footsteps died away.
When all was silent again, Conan drew a long breath. Holding high his Hyperborean sword, he opened the door a crack, then more widely as he viewed naught but the empty corridor. With the door ajar, the dim light of the torches pierced the gloom, and he could make out the contents of the chamber. Here were a pile of fresh torches, a barrel of pitch, and in one corner, a heap of straw to garnish the cell floors in lieu of carpets.
It was but the work of a moment for Conan to toss the pile of straw about the chamber, overturn the barrel of pitch upon it, and spread the viscous stuff around. Darting out into the passageway, he snatched a torch from the nearest bracket and heaved it into the combustible mass that covered the floor of the storeroom. Crackling lustily, the flames ate their way through the straw and belched black smoke along the corridor.
Tarred from face to boots and coughing from the acrid fumes, Conan caught Rann’s hand, sprinted down the winding stairs, and regained the alcove through which he had gained entry. How long before the Witchmen would discover that their castle was ablaze, Conan knew not; but he trusted this diversion to occupy their full attention while the rescuer and rescued squirmed through the narrow slit and clambered down the rope to the safety of the frozen ground.

4 • That Which Pursued

Jarl Njal bellowed with joy and seized the laughing, weeping girl in his arms, crushing her against his burly chest. But even in his joy, the chieftain paused to look deep into Conan’s eyes and clap the youth on the shoulder with a friendly buffet that would have knocked most striplings off their feet.
As they hastened to the Asgard camp beneath the cover of the snow-tipped pines, the youth, in terse words, described the day’s adventure. But words were scarcely needed. Behind them a raven cloud of soot besmudged the afternoon sky, and the crash of collapsing timbers and fire-blackened masonry resounded like distant thunder in the hills. The Witchmen would doubtless save part of their fortress; although many of the lank, flaxen-haired devils must have already perished in the conflagration.
Wasting no time, Njal ordered his men to begin the long trek back to Asgard. Not until he and his band were deep in their own land could the chief of the Æsir count himself safe from Hyperborean vengeance. There would, no doubt, be pursuit; but for the moment the dwellers in Haloga had other matters to busy them.
The Æsir made haste to depart, and in their hurry they sacrificed concealment to speed. Since the face of the wan sun was still pillowed on the treetops, they could with effort put leagues between themselves and the castle before the early fall of the northern night.
From the parapet of Haloga, the agelessly beautiful Queen Vammatar watched them go, her jasper eyes cold with hate as she smiled a slow and evil smile.

There was little greenery in this flat land of bog and hillock, and what there was lay blanketed in snow. As the sun neared the horizon, clammy coils of choking fog rose from the stagnant meres and laid a chill upon men’s hearts. The travelers saw few signs of life, save for a couple of Hyperborean serfs who fled from the band and lost themselves in the mist.
From time to time, one or another of the Æsir set an ear to the ground, but no drumming of hooves could be heard. They hastened on, slipping and stumbling on the uncertain, frozen footing. But before day wrapped her icy cloak around her shoulders and departed, Conan glanced to the rear, and cried out: “Someone follows us!”
The Æsir halted and gazed in the direction that he indicated. At first they could see nothing but the endless, undulant plain, whose junction with the sky was hidden in the mists. Then a Northman with vision that transcended the sight of his fellows exclaimed:
“He is right. Men on foot pursue us, mayhap…mayhap a half a league behind.”
“Come!” growled Njal. “We will not stop to camp this night. In these fogs, ’twere easy for a foe to creep upon us, no matter how many sentries we might post.”

The band staggered on while the setting sun was swallowed by the voracious mists. After the Æsir had long trudged in darkness, a wan moon climbed above the mists that hemmed them in, and its light shone on a faint patch of rippling shade. It was the pursuing force, larger and nearer than ever.
Njal, a man of iron, strode forward with his exhausted daughter in his arms; nor would he entrust so precious a burden to another. Conan, full as he was with the vigor of youth, ached in every limb and sinew as he followed the giant jarl. The other raiders, uncomplaining, maintained the grueling pace. Yet their pursuers seemed to tire not at all. Indeed, the host from Haloga had not slowed, but was on the contrary gaining upon them. Njal cursed hoarsely and urged his men to greater speed. But however doggedly they struggled on, they were altogether played out. Soon they must turn and make a stand, albeit the jarl well knew that no seasoned warrior would choose to do battle on a strange terrain when overtaken by exhaustion. Still, their meager choice was plain: either fight or be cut down.
Each time they crested a low hill clad in winter’s silvered garment, they could see the silent mass of moving men, twice their number, drawing nearer than before. There was something strange about these pursuers, but neither Njal nor Gorm nor any other of the company could quite tell what was wrong with them.
As the hunters drew closer, the hunted perceived that not all the members of the oncoming force were Witchmen, a race that tended to be taller and more slender than the Northmen. Many of the pursuing host had mighty shoulders and massive frames and wore the horned helmets of the Æsir and Vanir. Njal shivered, as from the icy touch of some uncanny premonition of despair.
The other strange thing about the pursuers was the way they walked.…
Ahead, Njal spied the loom of a hill, higher than most of the eminences of this flat land, and his weary eyes brightened. The crest of the hill would serve for a defensive position, although the chieftain wished it higher yet and steeper to force the enemy to charge uphill in the teeth of Æsir weapons. In any case, the foe was almost snapping at their heels, so stand they must, and soon.
Shouldering the girl, Njal turned to shout from a raw throat: “Men! Up yonder hill and speedily! There we shall make our stand.”
The Æsir plodded up the misty slope, to assemble at the crest, well pleased to cease putting one road-weary foot before the other. And like true warriors everywhere, the prospect of a bloody battle brightened their flagging spirits.
Thror Ironhand and the other captains passed around leathern bottles of wine and water, albeit little enough was left of either. The raiders rested, caught their breath, and limbered their bows. Long shields of wicker and hide, which had been slung upon their backs, were cast loose and fitted together to form a veritable wall of shields, encircling the crest of the hill. One-eyed Gorm uncovered his harp and began in a strong, melodious voice to chant an ancient battle song:

Our blades were forged in the flames that leap
From the burning heart of Hell,
And were quenched in frozen rivers deep,
Where the icy bones of dead men sleep,
Who fought our sires and fell.

The respite was short. Shouldering through the fog, a swarm of sinister figures emerged from the murk, and with steady, rhythmic steps stalked up the slope, like men walking in their sleep or puppets worked by strings. The flight of javelins that met the shambling attackers slowed them not at all, as they hurled themselves against the ring of shields. Naked steel flashed darkly in the wan moonlight. The attackers swung high sword and axe and war hammer and brought them whistling down upon the living wall, cleaving flesh and shattering bone.
In the van Njal, bellowing an ancient Æsir war cry, hewed mightily. Then he paused, blinking, and the heart in his bosom faltered. For the man he was fighting was none other than his own captain, Egil the huntsman, who had died that morn on the end of a rope, suspended from the walls of Haloga. The light of the pallid moon shone plainly on that familiar face and turned Jarl Njal’s bones to water.

5 • “Men Cannot Die Twice!”

The face that stared stonily into his own was surely that of Njal’s old comrade; for the white scar athwart the brow betokened a slash that Egil, five summers before, had suffered in a raid against the Vanir. But the blue eyes of Egil knew not his jarl. Those eyes were as cold and empty as the skies above the starless, misty night.
Glancing again, Njal saw the mangled flesh of Egil’s naked breast, whence hours before the living heart had been untimely torn. Revolted by the thing he saw, Njal perceived that however much he wounded his adversary’s flesh, these wounds would never bleed. Neither would his old friend’s corpse feel the bitter kiss of steel.
Behind the dead but battling Æsir, a half-charred Witchman stumbled up the slope, his face a grinning mask of horror. Here, thought Njal, was a denizen of Haloga who had perished in the fire set by the wily Conan.
“Forgive, brother,” whispered Njal through stiffened lips, as with a backhand stroke, he hamstrung Egil’s walking corpse. Like a puppet with severed strings, the dismembered body flopped backward down the hill; but instantly the cadaver of the grinning Witchman took its place.
The Æsir chieftain fought mechanically but without hope. For when your foe can summon forth the very dead from hell to fight you, what victory can ensue?
All along the line, men shouted in hoarse surprise and consternation as they found themselves fighting the walking corpses of their own dead comrades who had perished under the cruel knives of the Hyperboreans. But the host that swarmed against them numbered others in their hideous ranks. Side by side with Witchmen crushed beneath collapsing walls or burned in the day’s conflagration strode corpses long buried, from whose pale and tattered flesh grave worms wriggled or fell wetly to the ground. These hurled themselves, weaponless, upon the Æsir. The stench was sickening; and terror overwhelmed all but the hardiest.
Even old Gorm felt the icy clutch of fear at his heart. His war song faltered and died.
“May the gods help us all!” he muttered. “What hope have we when we pit our steel against the walking dead? Men cannot die twice!”
The Æsir line crumbled as wave after wave of walking corpses swept the warriors down, one by one, and crushed them into the viscid earth. These attackers bore no weapons but fought with naked hands, tearing living men asunder with their frigid grip.
The Cimmerian stood in the second rank. When the stout warrior before him fell, Conan, roaring with a voice as gusty as the north wind, leaped forward to fill the gap in the swaying line. With a sweep of the Hyperborean sword he bore, he severed the neck of a skeletal thing that was squeezing the life from the Northman at his feet. The skull-like head rolled grinning down the hill.
Then Conan’s blood congealed with horror: for, headless or not, the long-dead cadaver rose and groped for him with its bony hands. With the nape of his neck tingling in primordial fear, Conan kicked out and stove in ribs that showed through the tattered flesh. The corpse staggered back, then came on again, talons clutching.
Gripping his sword hilt with both hands, Conan put all his young strength into a mighty slash. The sword bit through the lean and fleshless waist, severed the half-exposed spinal column, and sent the divided cadaver tumbling earthward. For the moment, he had no opponent. Breathing hard, he shook back his raven mane.
The Cimmerian glanced along the Æsir line. Njal had fallen, taking with him a dozen of the foe, hacked, like venison, into pieces. Howling like a wolf, old Gorm took his place in the wavering line, swinging a heavy axe with deadly skill. But now the line was breaking; the battle nearly done.
“Do not slay all!” a cold voice rang in the stillness, borne upon the icy wind. “Take such as you can for the slave pens.”
Peering through the murk, Conan spied the speaker. On a tall black stallion sat Queen Vammatar in her flowing snow-white robes. Trembling in every limb, he knew the legions of the walking dead obeyed her least command.
Suddenly Rann appeared at Conan’s side, her face wet with tears but blue eyes unafraid. She had seen Gorm and her father fall before the onslaught of the ghastly enemy and had pushed her way through the press to the young Cimmerian. She snatched up a discarded sword and prepared to die fighting. Then, like a gift from Crom, an idea shaped itself in Conan’s despairing mind. The battle was already lost. He and the surviving Æsir were bound, as surely as day follows night, for the slave pens of Hyperborea. Something, however, might be saved from the wreck of all their hopes.
Whirling, Conan lifted the girl in his arms and tossed her over his shoulder. Then he kicked and hacked a path through the foe, down the corpse-littered slope to the foot of the hill, where the queen sat on her steed awaiting the end, an evil smile on her half-parted lips.
In the stable dark beneath the swirling coils of mist, the queen, eyes raised to watch the final struggle on the hilltop, failed to mark the noiseless approach of the Cimmerian. Nor did she see the girl he set upon the trampled snow. No premonition reached her senses until iron fingers closed about her forearm and thigh and hauled her, shrieking with dismay and fury, from her mount. With a mighty heave Conan hurled the queen from him, to fall with a splash into the chilly bosom of the bog. Then Conan lifted Rann and boosted her, protesting, into the vacant saddle.
Before he could vault up behind her on the prancing animal, several of the living corpses, obeying the furious commands of their mistress, seized Conan from behind and clung, leechlike, to his left arm.
With a superhuman effort, before he was dragged earthward by the putrid monsters, Conan struck the stallion’s rump with the flat of his sword. “Ride, girl, ride!” he shouted. “To Asgard and safety!”
The black horse reared, neighing, and bolted across the foggy, snow-clad plain. Rann hugged the animal’s neck, pressing her tear-stained cheek against its warm hide, and her long blond hair mingled with its flying mane.
As the steed swept around the base of the hill and off to the west, she cast one backward glance, just as the brave youth who twice had saved her life went down beneath a mound of fighting cadavers. Queen Vammatar, her white robes spattered with slime, stood in the frosty moonlight, smiling her evil smile. Then the loom of the hill and the rising fogs mercifully hid the scene of the carnage.

Across the plain, a score of Æsir survivors trudged eastward in the pallid moonlight, their wrists bound behind their backs with rawhide thongs. The walking dead―those who had not been cut to pieces in the fray―surrounded the captives. At the head of the weird procession marched two figures: Conan and Queen Vammatar.
With every step the queen, her handsome face twisted with fury, slashed at the Cimmerian youth with her riding whip. Red weals crisscrossed his face and body; but he walked with shoulders squared and head held high, although he knew that none returned from the slave pens of this accursed land. Easy it would have been to slay the queen when he threw her from her stallion, but in his natal land custom demanded chivalry toward women, and he could not forsake his childhood training.

As the eastern fogs paled with the approach of dawn, Rann Njalsdatter reached the borders of Asgard. Her heart was heavy, but she remembered the last stanza of the song that Gorm had chanted beneath the fog-dimmed moon:

You can cut us down; we can bleed and die,
But men of the North are we:
You can chain our flesh; you can blind our eye;
You can break us under the iron sky,
But our hearts are proud and free!

The brave words of the song stiffened her back and lifted her spirits. With shoulders unbowed and bright head high, she rode home under the morning.

The Thing in the Crypt

The greatest hero of Hyborian times was not a Hyborian but a barbarian, Conan the Cimmerian, about whose name whole cycles of legend revolve.

From the elder civilizations of Hyborian and Atlantean times, only a few fragmentary, half-legendary narratives survive. One of these, The Nemedian Chronicles, gives most of what is known about the career of Conan. The section concerning Conan begins:

Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars―Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet.

In Conan's veins flowed the blood of ancient Atlantis, swallowed by the seas eight thousand years before his time. He was born into a clan that claimed an area in the northwest of Cimmeria. His grandfather was a member of a southern tribe who had fled from his own people because of a blood feud and, after long wandering, took refuge with the people of the North, Conan himself was born on a battlefield, during a fight between his tribe and a horde of raiding Vanir.

There is no record of when the young Cimmerian got his first sight of civilization, but he was known as a fighter around the council fires before he had seen fifteen snows. In that year, the Cimmerian tribesmen forgot their feuds and joined forces to repel the Gundermen, who had pushed across the Aquilonian frontier, built the frontier post of Venarium, and begun to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria. Conan was a member of the howling, blood-mad horde that swept out of the northern hills, stormed over the stockade with sword and torch, and drove the Aquilonians back across their frontiers.

At the sack of Venarium, still short of his full growth, Conan already stood six feet tall and weighed 150 pounds. He had the alertness and stealth of the born woodsman, the iron-hardness of the mountain man, the Herculean physique of his blacksmith father, and a practical familiarity with knife, ax, and sword.

After the plunder of the Aquilonian outpost, Conan returns for a time to his tribe. Restless under the conflicting urges of his adolescence, his tradition, and his times, he spends some months with a band of the AEsir in fruitless raiding against the Vanir and the Hyperboreans. This latter campaign ends with the sixteen-year-old Cimmerian in chains. He does not, however, remain a captive long...

1. Red Eyes

For two days the wolves had trailed him through the woods, and now they were closing in again. Looking back over his shoulder, the boy caught glimpses of them: shaggy, hulking shapes of shadowy gray, loping amongst the black tree trunks, with eyes that burned like red coals in the gathering murk. This time, he knew, he could not fight them off as he had done before.

He could not see very far, because all around him rose, like the silent soldiers of some bewitched army, the trunks of millions of black spruces. Snow clung in dim, white patches to the northern slopes of the hills, but the gurgle of thousands of rills from melting snow and ice presaged the coming of spring. This was a dark, silent, gloomy world even in high summer; and now, as the dim light from the overcast faded with the approach of dusk, it seemed more somber than ever.

The stripling ran on, up the heavily wooded slope, as he had run for the two days since he had fought his way out of the Hyperborean slave pen. Although a purebred Cimmerian, he had been one of a band of raiding AEsir, harrying the borders of the Hyperboreans. The gaunt, blond warriors of that grim land had trapped and smashed the raiding party; and the boy Conan, for the first time in his life, had tasted the bitterness of the chains and the lash that were the normal lot of the slave.

He had not, however, long remained in slavery. Working at night while others slept, he had ground away at one link of his chain until it was weak enough for him to snap. Then, during a heavy rainstorm, he had burst loose. Whirling a four-foot length of heavy, broken chain, he had slain his overseer and a soldier who had sprung to block his way, and vanished into the downpour. The rain that hid him from sight also baffled the hounds of the search party sent after him.

Although free for the moment, the youth had found himself with half the breadth of a hostile kingdom between him and his native Cimmeria. So he had fled south into the wild, mountainous country that separated the southern marches of Hyperborea from the fertile plains of Brythunia and the Turanian steppes. Somewhere to the south, he had heard, lay the fabulous kingdom of Zamora ―Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery. There stood famous cities: the capital, Shadizar, called the City of Wickedness; the thief-city of Arenjun; and Yezud, the city of the spider god.

The year before, Conan had had his first taste of the luxuries of civilization when, as one of the blood-mad horde of Cimmerian clansmen that had poured over the walls of Venarium, he had taken part in the sack of that Aquilonian outpost. The taste had whetted his appetite for more. He had no clear ambition or program of action; nothing but vague dreams of desperate adventures in the rich lands of the South. Visions of glittering gold and jewels, unlimited food and drink, and the hot embraces of beautiful women of noble birth, as his prizes of valor, flitted through his naive young mind. In the South, he thought, his hulking size and strength should somehow easily bring him fame and fortune among the city-bred weaklings. So he headed south, to seek his fate with no more equipment than a tattered, threadbare tunic and a length of chain.

And then the wolves had caught his scent. Ordinarily, an active man had little to fear from wolves. But this was the end of winter; the wolves, starving after a bad season, were ready for any desperate chance.

The first time they had caught up with him, he had wielded the chain with such fury that he left one gray wolf writhing and howling in the snow with a broken back, and another dead with a smashed skull. Scarlet gore spattered the melting snow. The famished pack had slunk away from this fierce-eyed lad with the terrible whirling chain, to feast upon their own dead brethren instead, and young Conan had fled southward.

But, ere long, they were again upon his track.

Yesterday, at sunset, they had caught up with him at a frozen river on the borders of Brythunia. He had fought them on the slippery ice, swinging the bloody chain like a flail, until the boldest wolf had seized the iron links between grim jaws, tearing the chain from his numb grasp. Then the fury of the battle and the hurtling weight of the pack had broken the rotten ice beneath them. Conan found himself gasping and choking in the icy flood. Several wolves had fallen in with him―he had a brief impression of a wolf, half immersed, scrabbling frantically with its forepaws at the edge of the ice―but how many had succeeded in scrambling out, and how many had been swept under the ice by the swift current, he never learned.

Teeth chattering, he hauled himself out on the ice on the farther side, leaving the howling pack behind. All night he had fled south through the wooded hills, half-naked and half-frozen, and all this day. Now they had caught up with him again.

The cold mountain air burned in his straining lungs, until every breath was like inhaling the blast from some hellish furnace. Devoid of feeling, his leaden legs moved like pistons. With each stride, his sandaled feet sank into the water-soaked earth and came out again with sucking sounds.

He knew that, bare-handed, he stood little chance against a dozen shaggy man-killers. Yet he trotted on without pausing. His grim Cimmerian heritage would not let him give up, even in the face of certain death.

Snow was falling again―big, wet flakes that struck with a faint but audible hiss and spotted the wet, black earth and the towering black spruces with a myriad dots of white. Here and there, great boulders shouldered out of the needle-carpeted earth; the land was growing ever more rocky and mountainous. And herein, thought Conan, might lie his one chance for life. He could take a stand with his back against a rock and fight the wolves off as they came at him. It was a slim chance―he well knew the steel-trap quickness of those lean, wiry, hundred-pound bodies―but better than none.

The woods thinned out as the slope grew steeper. Conan loped toward a huge mass of rocks that jutted from the hillside, like the entrance to a buried castle. As he did so, the wolves broke from the edge of the thick woods and raced after him, howling like the scarlet demons of Hell as they track and pull down a doomed soul.

2. The Door in the Rock

Through the white blur of whirling snow, the boy saw a yawning blackness between two mighty planes of rock and flung himself toward it. The wolves were upon his heels―he thought he could feel their hot, reeking breath upon his bare legs―when he hurled himself into the black cleft that gaped before him. He squeezed through the opening just as the foremost wolf sprang at him. Drooling jaws snapped on empty air; Conan was safe.

But for how long?

Stooping, Conan fumbled about in the dark, pawing the rough stone floor as he sought for any loose object with which to fight off the howling horde. He could hear them padding about in the fresh snow outside, their claws scraping on stone. Like himself, they breathed in quick pants. They snuffled and whined, hungry for blood. But not one came through the doorway, a dim, gray slit against the blackness. And that was strange.

Conan found himself in a narrow chamber in the rock, utterly black save for the feeble twilight that came through the cleft. The uneven floor of the cell was strewn with litter blown in by centuries of wind or carried in by birds and beasts: dead leaves, spruce needles, twigs, a few scattered bones, pebbles, and chips of rock. There was nothing in all this trash that he could use for a weapon.

Stretching to his full height―already inches over six feet―the boy began exploring the wall with outstretched hand. Soon he came upon another door. As he groped his way through this portal into pitch-blackness, his questing fingers told him that here were chisel marks on the stone, forming cryptic glyphs in some unknown writing.

Unknown, at least, to the, untutored boy from the barbarous northlands, who could neither read nor write and who scorned such civilized skills as effeminate.

He had to stoop double to wedge himself through the inner door, but beyond it he could once more stand erect. He paused, listening warily.

Although the silence was absolute, some sense seemed to warn him that he was not alone in the chamber. It was nothing he could see, hear, or smell, but a sense of presence, different from any of these.

His sensitive, forest-trained ears, listening for echoes, told him that this inner chamber was much larger than the outer one. The place smelt of ancient dust and bats' droppings. His shuffling feet encountered things scattered about the floor. While he could not see these objects, they did not feel like the forest litter that carpeted the antechamber.

They felt more like man-made things.

As he took a quick step along the wall, he stumbled over one such object in the dark. As he fell, the thing splintered with a crash beneath his weight. A snag of broken wood scraped his shin, adding one more scratch to those of the spruce boughs and the wolves' claws.

Cursing, he recovered himself and felt in the dark for the thing he had demolished. It was a chair, the wood of which had rotted so that it easily broke beneath his weight.

He continued his explorations more cautiously. His groping hands met another, larger object, which he presently recognized as the body of a chariot. The wheels had collapsed with the rotting of their spokes, so that the body lay on the floor amid the fragments of spokes and pieces of the rims.

Conan's questing hands came upon something cold and metallic. His sense of touch told him that this was probably a rusty iron fitting from the chariot. This gave him an idea. Turning, he groped his way back to the inner portal, which he could barely discern against the all-pervading blackness. From the floor of the antechamber he gathered a fistful of tinder and several stone chips. Back in the inner chamber, he made a pile of the tinder and tried the stones on the iron. After several failures, he found a stone that emitted a bright flash of sparks when struck against the iron.

Soon he had a small, smoky fire sputtering, which he fed with the broken rungs of the chair and the fragments of the chariot wheels. Now he could relax, rest from his terrible cross-country run, and warm his numbed limbs. The briskly burning blaze would deter the wolves, which still prowled about the outer entrance, reluctant to pursue him into the darkness of the cave but also unwilling to give up their quarry.

The fire sent a warm, yellow light dancing across the walls of roughly dressed stone. Conan gazed about him. The room was square and even larger than his first impressions had told him. The high ceiling was lost in thick shadows and clotted with cobwebs. Several other chairs were set against the walls, together with a couple of chests that had burst open to show their contents of clothing and weapons. The great stone room smelt of death―of ancient things long unburied.

And then the hair lifted from the nape of his neck, and the boy felt his skin roughen with a supernatural thrill. For there, enthroned on a great, stone chair at the further end of the chamber, sat the huge figure of a naked man, with a naked sword across his knees and a cavernous skull-face staring at him through the flickering firelight.

Almost as soon as he sighted the naked giant, Conan knew he was dead―long ages dead. The corpse's limbs were as brown and withered as dry sticks. The flesh on its huge torso had dried, shrunk, and split until it clung in tatters to naked ribs.

This knowledge, however, did not calm the youth's sudden chill of terror. Fearless beyond his years in war, willing to stand against man or brute beast in battle, the boy feared neither pain, nor death, nor mortal foes. But he was a barbarian from the northern hills of backward Cimmeria. Like all barbarians, he dreaded the supernatural terrors of the grave and the dark, with all its dreads and demons and the monstrous, shambling things of Old Night and Chaos, with which primitive folk people the darkness beyond the circle of their campfire.

Much rather would Conan have faced even the hungry wolves than remain here with the dead thing glaring down at him from its rocky throne, while the wavering firelight painted life and animation into the withered skull-face and moved the shadows in its sunken sockets like dark, burning eyes.

3. The Thing on the Throne

Although his blood ran chill and his nape hairs prickled, the boy fiercely took hold of himself. Bidding his night-fears be damned, he strode stiff-legged across the vault for a closer look at the long-dead thing.

The throne was a square boulder of glassy, black stone, roughly hollowed into the likeness of a chair on a foot-high dais. The naked man had either died while sitting in it or had been placed upon it in a sitting position after his death. Whatever garments he had worn had long since mouldered away to fragments. Bronze buckles and scraps of leather from his harness still lay about his feet. A necklace of unshaped nuggets of gold hung about his neck; uncut gems winked from golden rings on his claw-like hands, which still clasped the arms of the throne. A horned helm of bronze, now covered with a green, waxy coating of verdegris, crowned the pate above the withered, brown horror of the face.

With iron nerve, Conan forced himself to peer into those time-eaten features. The eyes had sunken in, leaving two black pits. Skin had peeled back from dried lips, letting the yellow fangs grin in a mirthless leer.

Who had he been, this dead thing? A warrior of ancient times―some great chief, feared in life and still enthroned in death? None could say. A hundred races had roved and ruled these mountainous borderlands since Atlantis sank beneath the emerald waves of the Western Ocean, eight thousand years before. From the horned helm, the cadaver might have been a chief of the primal Vanir or AEsir, or the primitive king of some forgotten Hyborian tribe, long since vanished into the shadows of time and buried under the dust of ages.

Then Conan's gaze dropped to the great sword that lay across the corpse's bony thighs. It was a terrific weapon: a broadsword with a blade well over a yard in length. It was made of blued iron―not copper or bronze, as might have been expected from its obvious age. It might have been one of the first iron weapons borne by the hand of man; the legends of Conan's people remembered the days when men hewed and thrust with ruddy bronze, and the fabrication of iron was unknown. Many battles had this sword seen in the dim past, for its broad blade, although still keen, was notched in a score of places where, clanging, it had met other blades of sword and ax in the slash and parry of the melee. Stained with age and spotted with rust, it was still a weapon to be feared.

The boy felt his pulses pound. The blood of one born to war seethed within him. Crom, what a sword! With a blade like that, he could more than hold his own against the starving wolves that padded, whined, and waited without. As he reached for the hilt with eager hand, he failed to see the warning flicker that moved within those shadowed eye sockets in the skull-head of the ancient warrior.

Conan hefted the blade. It seemed as heavy as lead―a sword of the Elder Ages. Perhaps some fabled hero-king of old had borne it―some legendary demigod like Kull of Atlantis, king of Valusia in the ages before Atlantis foundered beneath the restless sea…

The boy swung the sword, feeling his thews swell with power and his heart beat faster with pride of possession. Gods, what a sword! With such a blade, no destiny was too high for a warrior to aspire to! With a sword such as this, even a half-naked young barbarian from the raw Cimmerian wilderness might hack his way across the world and wade through rivers of gore to a place among the high kings of earth!

He stood back from the throne of stone, feinting and cutting the air with the blade, getting the feel of the age-worn hilt against his hard palm. The keen old sword whistled through the smoky air, and the flickering light of the fire glanced in sparkling rays from the planes of the blade to the rough stone walls, whipping along the sides of the chamber like little, golden meteors. With this mighty brand in his grasp, he could face not only the hungry wolves outside but a world of warriors as well.

The boy expanded his chest and boomed out the savage war cry of his folk. The echoes of that cry thunderously reverberated about the chamber, disturbing ancient shadows and old dust. Conan never paused to think that such a challenge, in such a place, might rouse things other than shadows and dust―things that by all rights should have slumbered without interruption through all future eons.

He stopped, frozen in mid-stride, as a sound―an indescribable, dry creaking―came from the throne side of the crypt. Wheeling, he saw… and felt the hair lift from his scalp and the blood turn to ice in his veins. All his superstitious terrors and primal night-fears rose howling, to fill his mind with shadows of madness and horror. For the dead thing lived.

4. When Dead Men Walk

Slowly, jerkily, the cadaver rose from its great stone chair and glared at him from its black pits, whence now living eyes seemed to blaze forth with a coldly malignant stare. Somehow―by what primeval necromancy the boy Conan could not guess―life still animated the withered mummy of the long-dead chief. Grinning jaws moved open and shut in a fearful pantomime of speech. But the only sound was the creaking that Conan had heard, as if the shriveled remains of muscles and tendons rubbed dryly together. To Conan, this silent imitation of speech was more terrible than the fact that the dead man lived and moved.

Creaking, the mummy stepped down from the dais of its ancient throne and swiveled its skull in Conan's direction. As its eyeless gaze fixed itself on the sword in Conan's hand, lurid witch fires burned within the hollow sockets. Stalking clumsily across the chamber, the mummy advanced upon Conan like a shape of nameless horror from the nightmares of a mad fiend. It extended its bony claws to snatch the sword from Conan's strong young hands.

Numb with superstitious terror, Conan retreated step by step. The firelight painted the mummy's black, monstrous shadow on the wall behind it. The shadow rippled over the rough stone. Save for the crackle of the flames as they bit into the pieces of ancient furniture with which Conan had fed the fire, the rustle and creak of the cadaver's leathery muscles as they propelled it step by faltering step across the crypt, and the panting breath of the youth as he struggled for air in the grip of terror―save for these sounds, the tomb was silent.

Now the dead thing had Conan backed against a wall. One brown claw stretched jerkily out. The boy's reaction was automatic; instinctively, he struck out. The blade whistled and smote the outstretched arm, which cracked like a broken stick. Still clutching at empty air, the severed hand fell with a dry clack to the floor; no blood spurted from the dry stump of the forearm.

The terrible wound, which would have stopped any living warrior, did not even slow the walking corpse. It merely withdrew the stump of the maimed arm and extended the other.

Wildly, Conan burst from the wall, swinging his blade in great, smashing strokes. One blow caught the mummy in the side. Ribs snapped like twigs under the impact, and the cadaver was hurled off its feet with a clatter. Conan stood panting in the center of the room clutching the worn hilt in a sweaty palm. With widened eyes he watched as slowly, creakily, the mummy dragged itself to its feet again and began mechanically shuffling toward him, its remaining claw extended.

5. Duel With the Dead

Around and around they went, circling slowly. Conan swung lustily but retreated step by step before the unstoppable advance of the dead thing that came on and on.

A blow at its remaining arm missed as the mummy jerked the member out of the path of the sword; the impetus swung Conan half around and, before he could recover, it was almost upon him. Its claw-hand snatched at him, caught a fold of his tunic, and ripped the rotten cloth from his body, leaving him naked except for sandals and loincloth.

Conan danced back and swung at the monster's head. The mummy ducked, and again Conan had to scramble to keep out of its grip. At last he caught it a terrific blow on the side of the head, shearing off one horn of the helm. Another blow sent the helmet itself clanging into a corner. Another bit into the dry, brown skull. The blade stuck for an instant―an instant that almost undid the boy, whose skin was scraped by ancient black nails as he frantically tugged his weapon loose.

The sword caught the mummy in the ribs again, lodged for a nearly fatal second in the spine, and then was jerked loose once more. Nothing, it seemed, could stop it. Dead, it could not be hurt. Always it staggered and shuffled toward him, untiring and unfaltering, even though its body bore wounds that would have laid a dozen stout warriors moaning in the dirt.

How can you kill a thing that is already dead? The question echoed madly in Conan's brain. It went round and round until he thought he would go mad with the repetition of it. His lungs labored; his heart pounded as if it were about to burst. Slash and strike as he would, nothing could even slow the dead thing that shuffled after him.

Now he struck with greater cunning. Reasoning that if it could not walk it could not pursue him, he drove a fierce, back-handed slash against the mummy's knee. A bone cracked, and the mummy collapsed, groveling in the dust of the cavern floor. But still the unnatural life burned within the mummy's withered breast. It staggered to its feet again and lurched after the boy, dragging its crippled leg behind it.

Again Conan struck, and the dead thing's lower face was shorn away; the jawbone went rattling off into the shadows. But the cadaver never stopped. With its lower face a mere expanse of broken white bone beneath the uncanny glow in its eye sockets, it still shambled after its antagonist in tireless, mechanical pursuit. Conan began to wish he had stayed outside with the wolves rather than sought shelter in this cursed crypt, where things that should have died a thousand years ago still stalked and slew.

Then something caught his ankle. Off balance, he fell full-length to the rough stone floor, kicking wildly to free his leg from that bony grip. He stared down and felt his blood freeze when he saw the severed hand of the corpse clutching his foot. Its bony claws bit into his flesh.

Then a grisly shape of nightmare horror and lunacy loomed over him. The broken, mangled face of the corpse leered down into his, and one claw-hand darted towards his throat.

Conan reacted by instinct. With all his might, he brought both sandaled feet up against the shrunken belly of the dead thing stooping over him.

Hurled into the air, it fell with a crash behind him, right in the fire.

Then Conan snatched at the severed hand, which still gripped his ankle.

He tore it loose, rolled to his feet, and hurled the member into the fire after the rest of the mummy. He stopped to snatch up his sword and whirled back toward the fire―to find the battle over.

Desiccated by the passage of countless centuries, the mummy burned with the fury of dry brushwood. The unnatural life within it still flickered as it struggled erect, while flames ran up its withered form, leaping from limb to limb and converting it into a living torch. It had almost clambered out of the fire when its crippled leg gave way, and it collapsed in a mass of roaring flame. One blazing arm dropped off like a twitching stick. The skull rolled through the coals. Within minutes the mummy was utterly consumed, but for a few glowing coals of blackened bone.

6. The Sword of Conan

Conan let out his breath with a long sigh and breathed deeply once again. The tension drained out of him, leaving him weary in every limb.

He wiped the cold sweat of terror from his face and combed back the tangle of his black hair with his fingers. The dead warrior's mummy was at last truly dead, and the great sword was his. He hefted it again, relishing its weight and power.

For an instant he thought of spending the night in the tomb. He was deathly tired. Outside, the wolves and the cold waited to bring him down, and not even his wilderness-bred sense of direction could keep him on his chosen course on a starless night in a strange land.

But then revulsion seized him. The smoke-filled chamber stank, now, not only of the dust of ages but also of the burning of long-dead human flesh―a strange odor, like nothing Conan's keen nostrils had ever detected before, and altogether revolting. The empty throne seemed to leer at him. That sense of presence that had struck him when he first entered the inner chamber still lingered in his mind. His scalp crawled and his skin prickled when he thought of sleeping in this haunted chamber.

Besides, with his new sword, he was filled with confidence. His chest expanded, and he swung the blade in whistling circles.

Moments later, wrapped in an old fur cloak from one of the chests and holding a torch in one hand and the sword in the other, he emerged from the cave. There was no sign of the wolves. A glance upward showed that the sky was clearing. Conan studied the stars that glimmered between patches of cloud, then once more set his footsteps to southward.

Conan the Defiant

Prologue

Neg the Malefic walked in the chambers of the dead.

It was only fitting that he travel such musty and dank places, for he was a necromancer, and his power oozed like dark syrup from those no longer among the living. More than a worker of simple death-spells, Neg kept captives in the cold chambers beneath the malignant temple peopled by the Men With No Eyes. Men called Neg's ensorcelled the dead-not-dead, or called them zombies, and made signs to ward off evil when they spoke of such things. The necromancer laughed at the thought. Men were sheep, and Neg was a shepherd. Someday, he would rule the living as he now ruled his undead.

Shadows danced on the soot-stained walls, flickering patterns cast by the black tapers guttering in their tarnished green brass holders. Smoke fled from the small flames to further paint darkness upon the walls and ceiling, to stir the spiders in their webs. No living man ventured here by choice; even the Men With No Eyes came only to tend the candles, and that only at Neg's command. They had no need of light, and the zombies at Neg's beck no longer cared to see one another. The undead were held in thrall, and wished nothing more than to slip the magical tether holding them from the Gray Lands.

Neg laughed, and the sound echoed along the deserted corridor, bouncing from the rock walls and back upon itself. No doubt his undead wished to leave his hospitable embrace. Alas, he could not allow that, for they had too much to give to depart with it. They had traveled across the River of Death, and been forced to return. They knew things normal living men did not know. And through them, Neg also learned these secrets. Such knowledge was power in the hands of one so skilled as he had become over the years.

An umber rat chittered at him as the magician passed, disturbed in its meal upon what appeared to be a human finger bone. Neg fixed the rodent with his baleful stare, and the rat fell silent, struck by the power of the killing gaze. The rat shivered, emitted one final squeak, and collapsed. Its naked pink tail twitched nervously as it died.

Neg smiled.

He passed from the dank hallway into a massive chamber. Thick black mold graced the walls in mottled patches, and the flickering light did little to keep the darkness at bay. The reek of death was stronger here, holding sway in the musk-laden air. The click of Neg's boots against the grimy flagstones echoed hollowly in the vast room.

Neg strode to the center of the room, unaffected by the dark, a man certain of his path. He took a deep breath, drinking in the odor of decay as an ordinary mortal might inhale the aroma of a fine perfume. His realm. His.

"Come," he commanded. His voice danced against the distant walls and bounced back at him, hollow, as had been his footsteps.

The darkness stirred. There came the creak of sinew, the rustle of tomb-dried clothing, the shuffle of rotten leather against stone. The hard chill that wrapped Neg seemed to increase, driving icy talons deeper into his body, into his very essence. That, too, was a part of his strength. A slight breeze arose, stirring Neg's long hair. Once, his hair had been black, so black it had seemed blue; but gray had long since taken command of the magician's locks. It had been five hundred years since he had seen the visage of a young man in his glass. But no matter; he had also long since ceased to age as did ordinary men.

The unseen things in the chamber drew closer, forming a circle around Neg with their sounds. Closer, yet closer-

"Hold!"

All sound ceased. No breath save Neg's own disturbed the stillness of the room.

"Who am I?" Neg called.

Thirty voices spoke as one. "Master," they said. But the sound was hushed, the intonation flat, the spirit dull.

"Aye, Master I am and shall remain, until I deem it otherwise. Never forget it." He paused, to enjoy his control. Silence surrounded him as might a blanket of dark wool. He spoke again. "Who knows of the Source of Light?"

"I know," came a deep male voice.

"Come closer."

The shuffle of feet on stone sounded.

Neg snapped his fingers, the click sounding like the breaking of a dry stick, or, perhaps, a dried bone. A small flame erupted from the blackened nail of his thumb, and yellow light fought the gloom, penetrating but a small distance. It was enough of a lamp to reveal the gray and expressionless features of a dead man.

"Hold. Speak. Why has it not been delivered to me?"

The man's lips moved, but he stared straight ahead, as if looking into some far land. "Vultures pick at the corpses of your agents in the shadow of the Great Wall of Koth."

"By Set's Black Hand! What happened? Speak quickly!"

The dull voice droned on. "Your men slew the Khauranian tribesman and obtained the talisman as you ordered. But they sought to increase the weight of their purses by selling the stolen fetish to a mage in the Kothian city of Khalis. Instead of gold, the mage would have paid them with the poisonous essence of black lotus. A struggle ensued. Your men died."

"Fools! I shall call them back from Gehanna and make them beg for death for a thousand years!" Neg spat upon the flagstones, his rage riding high, tightening his thin shoulders. Those men would suffer, indeed, but-what of the talisman? He voiced his question.

"In the struggle, the magician was also slain," the zombie said. "The Source of Light fell into the grasp of a priest. The device even travels toward the Temple of the Suddah Oblates."

"No."

"Yes." What seemed a faint smile flitted across the face of the dead man.

Neg snatched at his purse, digging out a handful of coarse translucent-white crystals. He flung this at the zombie, and the shower of material followed the path of the whuffing flame surrounding the magician's thumb. The zombie emitted a low moan as the crystals touched his face. From each contact with the crystals came a sizzling sound, as fat dropped into a cookfire sputters, and smoke boiled forth from the burning flesh. The zombie collapsed in a boneless fashion, released from the life-giving spell by the magicked salt Neg threw at him.

The necromancer glared down at the corpse. "Nay, you shall not escape that easily. Enjoy your brief moment in the Gray Lands, my thrall, for I shall snatch you back to serve me again soon enough!"

The small fire on his hand vanished as Neg glared at it, and the magician spun and started for the chamber's exit. "Out of my way! Go back to your slumber and its nightmares!"

As the mage stalked angrily from the chamber, the enthralled zombies began their tired shambling back to the edges of their prison. Upon the floor, the magicked salt hissed and evaporated in a greasy yellow cloud, filling the air with the taint of burned sulphur and brimstone. The zombies looked longingly at the vanishing salt. It had carried release for one of their number; all of them knew that the touch of Neg's magic was the only hope for their own freedom. But the salt was gone, and with it, their hope.

In the darkness, unmoving, stood a woman known as Tuanne. She had been beautiful in life, and in death had kept her beauty, due to the whim of Neg the Malefic. She alone stood unmoving, disobeying the necromancer's command. A single crystal of the magical salt had flown past its intended target to land upon her full and shapely breast. The thin silk of her dress was unaffected, but the salt had burned that tender breast, as a hot needle would burn. The pain was intense, but she did not cry out.

For, along with the pain, Tuanne realized that the spell holding her enthralled was no longer in force.

The others reached their destination and fell once again into nightmarish slumber, but Tuanne stood fixed, full of questions. Was this some cruel trick of Neg's? If she tried to leave the chamber, would he be waiting? How could this have happened? The touch of enspelled brack had always returned the zombies to death before. Could it be that such a small amount merely destroyed part of the spell? Was she truly free?

No, Tuanne decided, she was not free. Whatever else might be, she was still a zombie, not dead and not really alive. She had been held in this state by the evil wizard for a hundred years. All those she had known in life now walked the Gray Lands. She had been denied her rightful place among them, and she wished for nothing as much as that rightful place, as did all the other zombies Neg held.

Well. If it were not a trick, if she truly had slipped the noose by which she had been tethered, what could she do now? Neg held the key to her death, and he would have but to look at her to restore his control again. There must be something she could do, however, to break completely free of this ensorcelled state. And there must be some way to help the others Neg held captive.

Tuanne searched her memories, both in life and in her brief walks across the Gray Lands. After a moment, the answer swam up through the depths of her mind, a clear and shining light in the murk: that was the solution. Light. The Source of Light which Neg sought to increase his powers. That talisman held her release, along with the release of the others in this hellish chamber. She must find the fetish and use it to free herself and the others. Yes. That was what she would do.

The beautiful zombie slowly walked to the exit, smiling for the first time in a hundred years. She would do whatever she must to obtain the Source of Light.

Whatever she had to do ....

Chapter One

The young man came from the north, through the mountains, the cold and jagged teeth that separate Hyperborea from Brythunia. His name was Conan, and he was well-muscled and tall beneath the crusty furs he wore. He carried a heavy broadsword of ancient blued iron, still sharp but notched from battles long past. He had taken the blade from across the thigh bones of a corpse, and very nearly died for his trouble. He shivered at the memory. It had been unnatural, that moldering corpse, and he had no love for such dark magics. A man who trucked with such things could lose his soul.

An icy wind ruffled Conan's black mane, but the cold fire of his blue eyes was untroubled by the weather. In Cimmeria, the land of his birth, such winds were a part of life, to be accepted as one of Crom's small tests.

He had been walking for several days, living on roots and late-season berries, and a few snared rabbits. It was a hard trek, but better than the time before. Anything was better than slavery, even the wolves who had pursued him for two days after his escape. The wolves were gone, and should they return, he now had the sword.

Conan's keen gaze searched the rocks along his path. He had been looking for a particular kind, and finally, he saw it. A whetstone to repair the notches in his blade. It was a lesson he had learned well from his father: Always keep your steel sharp and smooth; a rough edge lends itself to weakness and breakage.

An hour with the stone gave the sword a new sheen and sharpness, and even the deepest nicks were reduced to smooth steel. He swung the weapon back and forth and grinned. As the son of a smith, he had a practical familiarity with bronze and iron, and this blade was superb, in balance and in temper.

Taking the sword had given the young Cimmerian the glimmer of an idea. The corpse, for all its activity after the blade had been removed from its skeletal embrace, had no further use for the weapon, while Conan certainly had. There existed many rich men who had much more gold than they could ever use; therefore, taking a portion of it here and there would hardly inconvenience them. There was, Conan had heard, a city to the south, in Zamora, where many rich merchants lived, along with their stores of treasure. A thief might do well for himself there, and Conan meant to travel to the city, called Shadizar, and test the theory.

How far it was to Shadizar, the Cimmerian did not know. He would travel south until he found it. Since leaving the mysterious crypt he had fallen into while pursued by the wolves, Conan had not set gaze upon another human being. He had seen rabbits, bears, and even a great cat prowling the mountains; unfortunately, he was not apt to get directions from beasts. He smiled at the thought.

A scream broke into the young man's smile, and he leaped to his feet, the sword held ready to strike.

The sound echoed from down the mountain, in the direction he intended to travel. He was curious, but not foolish. His capture into slavery had not lessened his bravery; however, it had taught him caution. One who always leaped without first looking was an imbecile, and Conan of Cimmeria was no man's fool. He moved toward the sound quickly but cautiously, alert for signs of danger.

At first glance, it appeared that a single swordsman stood against five antagonists, themselves armed with swords, long dirks, and spears. The single man, dressed in a dark robe, had his back protected by the steep slope of the mountain and faced the others across a short stretch of rocky ground, angled slightly downward. The robed figure was outnumbered, certainly, but he had the high ground and the others could not get behind him.

Conan's first thought was to leap into the fray, and he nearly did so, on the side of the single man, simply because of the odds. He held back at the last instant. Perhaps it was better to watch a moment and see what transpired. The big Cimmerian did move closer, still unseen by the combatants.

One of the five darted in, swinging his curved sword downward at the head of the robed man. The defender leaped to his left and brought his own weapon down in an angular slash, catching the curved-sword wielder on the right ribs.

There came a sound like a ripe melon dropped upon flagstones.

Conan blinked, surprised. It was no sword the robed man held, but a short wooden stick, a slightly curved cane of sorts.

The attacker groaned and fell back, tripping over one of his comrades and dropping his blade to clutch at his battered torso.

A second attacker thrust a spear at the robed man's side, and Conan was surprised again, at the speed of the parry. The robed figure spun tightly and cut downward with the cane, blocking the spear. He continued the circular motion upward, shoved the spear away, then followed through with a crack upon the spearman's shoulder. Conan heard the wet snap of bone.

The third attacker managed to get his spear between the legs of the cane fighter then, and tripped him. The fourth and fifth men moved in for the kill.

Conan yelled to distract the attackers, and leaped at them, his newly sharpened blade whistling as he swung it back and forth. What they thought of this fur-covered apparition he did not know, but the men gave ground.

The spearman who had tripped the cane fighter thrust his weapon's point at Conan's breast, and the young Cimmerian chopped the wooden shaft in half with a single stroke.

A large man slashed at Conan with a wicked-looking dirk, tearing a gaping hole in his furs and raising a bloody furrow over Conan's hip. Enraged, Conan turned and swung his blade. The sharp iron sang, then tore a path through the man's face at the eyes, slinging the resulting gore across his nearest companion. The cut man was dead where he stood, and his soul fled before he finished his fall to the stony ground.

In a moment the cane fighter was up, and seeing that the odds were so changed, the remaining men fled, leaving the dead one behind.

Conan stood watching them run, breathing great clouds of vapor into the cool air. Next to him the robed man stood tall in a ready position, the tip of his cane held at throat-level, also watching the attackers flee. After a moment he thrust the cane under his belt and bent to examine the fallen man.

"Dead," he pronounced. Conan thought he heard a tinge of regret in the man's deep voice.

"Aye," the Cimmerian said. "I hope I chose the right side. "

"Such would depend upon one's viewpoint," the man said. "From mine, you certainly chose well." He glanced down at the fallen man. "From his, I cannot say, but I suspect he would be most unhappy." The man held his hands out, to show that both were empty. "I am called Cengh, a poor priest of the Suddah Oblates." He was a tall man, though not so tall as Conan, with light hair and a short beard. He was perhaps thirty years old.

"I am Conan, of Cimmeria, late of Hyperborea. "

"Well met, Conan. Tell me, what prompted you to join my side instead of that of the assassins?"

"Five against one seemed unfair." Conan pointed at the cane through Cengh's belt. "Had you a real blade, you might have killed them and won the fight on your own."

"We do not hold with killing men," Cengh said. "Even mountain bandits who have no such scruples."

"But you have nothing against breaking their bones."

"Ah, no."

Conan shrugged. His business finished, he turned to depart.

"But wait," Cengh called. "Where are you going?"

"I travel to Zamora."

"You have saved my life. You must allow me to repay you. "

"You could tell me if I am on the right track to Shadizar."

"A wicked place," Cengh said. "Full of thieves and trulls. Why would you wish to go there?"

Conan grinned. "A business opportunity."

"But you are wounded." He pointed at the cut on Conan's hip.

"A scratch. It will heal."

"Shadizar is a month's journey from here on foot. I travel to the Temple That Will Not Fall, the center of the Suddah Oblates, only two days from here. Come with me, so that we may extend our hospitality and replace your clothes, if nothing else."

Conan's first inclination was to refuse. He wanted nothing to do with priests or temples; still, the stinking furs he wore were about to rot away. And, the idea of a hot meal and a sheltered bed for a few days was not repulsive. He had saved the man's life, after all, and in his position, Conan would certainly wish to offer some means of repayment. A man paid his debts. It was only fitting that he give the priest a way to offer his gratitude.

"Aye. I suppose a few days delay would not be amiss."

The region in which they traveled continued rocky and mountainous. Cengh told Conan that the Kenzankian Range ran the entire way along the eastern borders of Brythunia and Zamora, to Khauran. Once across the high hills between Hyperborea and Brythunia, there was a north-south road which was more than a little easier to tread than the snowy wastes.

Conan was curious about Cengh's use of the cane, and expressed it so.

The priest smiled. "Ah, while we oppose violence, there are, unfortunately, times when nothing else will suffice. Wild beasts seldom listen to reason, and there are some men who seem little better than animals. Our founders, being a pragmatic lot, decided to devise some forms of protection. Thus, we have weapons-canes, staves, certain kinds of nets, ropes-but we try to avoid using even those."

The path rose steeply, and Conan found himself occupied with his footing upon the ice-slicked rocks. "How then," he said, after reaching a fairly level area, "do you take game?"

"We do not. We eat no meat or fowl. Nothing with warm blood. We do consume fish."

Conan shook his head, but did not speak. No meat? How did a man keep his blood red without meat? Of course, he had not eaten much of that himself of late, but that was through no lack of desire. Then again, Cengh seemed no less of a man than many Conan had met in his young life. Certainly at least two of the brigands who had attacked him had reason to know as much.

"In any event," Cengh said, "I am but a novice with the fimbo." He patted the curved cane. "At The Temple That Will Not Fall, Oblate Kensash, who wears sixty-five winters and hair as white as hoarfrost, demonstrates real proficiency."

Conan nodded. As a warrior, he looked forward to seeing that.

The pair still had a day's journey ahead of them when the Temple That Would Not Fall came into view. Conan immediately saw how the place came to be so named: it was a massive stone structure perched impossibly on a thin spire of rock. It seemed to Conan nothing so much as a plate heaped with mounds of fruit, balanced on a straw. He felt a chill as he stared at the temple. Surely no natural structure could exist in such a manner. And to the young Cimmerian, anything unnatural was linked with magic, as surely as ancient Atlantis had been swallowed by the oceans.

Cengh smiled at the vision, and Conan held his own face in an expressionless mask. He would not reveal fear to this man.

The path became steeper, ceasing to be a walk for a climb at stretches. Climbing presented no obstacle to a Cimmerian, however, and Cengh even made to remark upon Conan's prowess.

"In Cimmeria we send children to gather firewood on steeper slopes," Conan said. That was not strictly true, since few parents had children to spare to the falling death, but often children would ascend rocky spires on their own. He had done so often enough as a boy.

As the pair began walking a flatter stretch of ground, Cengh stopped suddenly, as if listening.

Conan strained his own ears, searching for any unusual sound. Just ahead stood a snow-shrouded jumble of large boulders, with scraggly, dark green bushes obscuring the bases of several of the rocks. The path then wound off to the left, and seemed to change into a series of hand-and footholds as it ascended once again. He listened, and there came to him only the wind, moaning across rocky hollows; a distant bird crawed; nothing else-wait. There was something. A kind of high-pitched rattle. He had heard something similar before-a serpent he had seen in the desert, winding sideways across the evening sands. It, too, had made a sound much like this one. When the snake had made for Conan, he had flattened its head with a stone and discovered the source of the noise: a series of horny chambers on the snake's tail, containing tiny beads.

"Is it a serpent?" Conan asked.

"Worse." He drew his cane and straightened.

In a moment, Conan saw what the priest meant.

From behind the largest of the boulders emerged something unlike anything Conan had ever seen. Tall it was, at least his own height, and it had two arms and two legs. This beast, however, had never seen the inside of a human womb. It was some form of reptile, scaled and grayish-green, and it dragged a tail as thick as Conan's thigh where it joined the body, tapering to a point thinner than a man's fingertip. It had the face of a lizard, slits for nostrils, and yellow eyes, with fleshy, oddly puckered lips. It looked as if it meant to whistle with those lips. On top of its bony head was the compartmented plate that rattled as it moved, much as the thing had been on the serpent's tail. It had short arms, with three claws on each. It seemed to smile, and in so doing, revealed pointed teeth the size and shape of a child's dagger.

"It's a stith," Cengh said, answering Conan's unasked question. "Do not allow it to spit on you."

Conan unlimbered his sword, never taking his gaze from the stith. "Will it attack an armed man?"

"Aye. It will attack fifty armed men. And kill more than it can eat, for sport. A hellish beast."

"How fast is it?"

The stith's smile faded and it pursed its lips again.

"Too fast to run from," Cengh said.

The stith shuffled toward the two men, lashing its tail back and forth, catlike.

Conan took a tighter grip upon the stained leather handle of his sword. "To the left," he ordered. "I will take the right."

But before the two could move, the stith gathered itself and sprang, bounding toward Conan in great hops, like a rabbit, using its fat tail for balance.

Fast it was, and no mistake about that! Conan leaped to his right and raised his sword, just as the stith spat a stinking stream of glowing emerald liquid at where the man had just been. The effulgent lance spattered upon the rocky ground, and the expectoration raised dank smoke where it touched.

"Crom!" Conan swung his sword, chopping downward as the stith bounded past, but his reaction to the acidic sputum slowed his reflexes. Instead of bisecting the stith's head, he merely hacked off the tip of its tail.

The stith was unhappy with the action. It screamed, a sound like a child touching a hot kettle, and spun, spraying another line of vivid green at its tormentor.

Conan dodged, twisting so the brilliant stream passed his shoulder and chest by less than a thumb's thickness. He shuffled backward, cocking his blade by his ear.

The stith turned and inhaled deeply, prepared to spit again, Conan did not doubt.

"Hai!"

Cengh's yell was followed by the thwack! of his cane across the spine of the stith.

The monster coughed, and blew a mist of somewhat duller green instead of the thin jet. Conan felt a stinging on his face and bare arms, but he twirled away from the malignant fog and recocked his blade over his shoulder.

The stith spun toward Cengh and inhaled sharply.

Conan leaped and swung his sword in a flat horizontal arc. The newly sharped edge sliced through the scaled neck, slowed briefly as it passed between two vertebrae, and exited opposite the point of its entry. Blood gouted and fountained as the stith's head tumbled from its body and smacked into the hard ground. The quivering, headless body leaped once, reflexively, then fell.

The young Cimmerian stared at the dead beast in wonder. If the priests knew these things stalked the mountain crags and yet went armed only with sticks, they were either brave men or fools. Perhaps both.

Chapter Two

"Snow!" Cengh yelled.

Conan stared at the priest. Had the man taken leave of his senses?

"Get to the snow, over by the rocks," Cengh commanded. "Quickly."

At first Conan thought perhaps the stith had a mate; or mayhaps the beasts somehow feared snow, but that thought was erased after a moment. When the two men reached the crusty summer snow maintained by the shadows of the boulders, the priest gathered up a double handful and made as if to shove it into Conan's face. The young Cimmerian took a step backward, bringing his gore-smeared blade up. "What foolishness is this?"

"The stith's poison," Cengh said. "We must wash it from your skin. Even a small dose brings illness or death."

The younger man recalled the stinging he had felt when the now-dead beast had coughed at him. Ah. He put his sword on the ground and scooped at the cold whiteness surrounding his ankles. He scrubbed at his face, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks as the crystals abraded his skin.

After three such applications, Cengh seemed satisfied. But he pointed to a smoking patch on the furs Conan wore near his shoulder. "It will eat through to the skin," the priest said. "Best you remove that portion."

Conan reached for his sword, but Cengh produced a short, curved knife shaped much like a tooth. "Here, use this. "

The Cimmerian took the knife, tested the edge with his thumb, and nodded. The priest kept his blade shaving-sharp. It was but the work of a moment to excise the tainted section of fur.

Cengh then examined Conan's face carefully. "It should serve," he pronounced. "A concentrated splash of the venom is nearly always fatal, but it appears you were dusted only lightly."

Conan used a portion of the contaminated fur just removed from his clothing to wipe the blood from his sword. He also returned the curved knife to Cengh. "No rules against knives in your order, eh?"

Cengh grinned as the knife vanished beneath his robe. "Roots must be sliced and fruit sometimes peeled."

Conan did not return the grin. These Oblates might be peaceful, but they were also apt to be dangerous to anyone foolish enough to presume too much on that peacefulness.

"Are there apt to be any more like that one?" Conan waved toward the dead stith.

"Likely not. They are solitary and territorial."

"Considering the terrain, the bandits, and creatures, I suspect your order is not bothered overmuch by visitors," Conan said dryly.

"Very true," Cengh said, just as dryly.

On closer examination, the Temple That Will Not Fall seemed much less magical than Conan had first thought. The rock spire upon which the main bulk of buildings balanced was much thicker than it had seemed at a distance; more, this close the young barbar could see that support struts extended from the spire to the base of the manmade structures. And the struts bore a number of arches, a form that Conan knew added strength. So, perhaps it was clever construction and not magic which kept the temple perched on the rock, though the latter could not be totally discounted. The place was huge, easily the size of a small town or large village.

The priest and the Cimmerian wound up a set of narrow steps cut into the mountain's rock. Ahead loomed a split wooden gate set into a mortared rock wall; both gate and wall were easily thrice the height of a tall man.

Standing outside the gate, Cengh hailed the watch.

"Ho, will the temple allow one of its children entrance?"

A hooded face appeared over the top of the wall and peered down at the two men. "Which child might that be?" the man called back.

"Cengh the Messenger," Conan's companion returned. He pushed his cowl back, revealing his face.

"Ho, Cengh! Welcome! And who might this fur-clad giant with you be?"

"He is Conan of Cimmeria, to whom I owe my life."

"Ah, welcome to you as well, Conan of far Cimmeria."

The man vanished, and in a moment, half of the gate swung inward. The wood was as thick as Conan's chest, and with the movement came the creaks of heavy iron hinges. The rich smells of people, animals, and cooking flowed out with the temple air. The young Cimmerian took in the scents, realizing how long it had been since he had been in civilization.

If anything, the temple was larger than it seemed from without. There were streets, houses, larger buildings, indeed, it should be, called the City That Will Not Fall, Conan thought.

Cengh waved at robed figures as he passed them, and they smiled and waved in return. It did not take Conan long to realize that all the people he saw were male. There were children playing here and there, but all boys. He remarked upon this to Cengh.

"True," the priest said. "Women are not allowed inside the temple. We are a celibate order."

Conan considered this for a moment.

"How then do you produce children?"

Cengh laughed. "We do not. Our acolytes journey from all over to join us here."

"Why?"

"It is a good life, especially for the children of poor men. We offer food, shelter, clothing, faith, and knowledge. "

"But no women."

"The life of a priest is not for every man."

"Indeed," Conan said. Although young, the Cimmerian knew that much about himself. Eating roots and being without the company of women held no attraction for him.

As the two passed a knot of men examining a basket of fruit, Conan caught a glimpse of a particularly smooth face under one of the cowls. At least one of these young would-be priests looked almost girlish.

Not a few of the robed figures returned Conan's appraising looks. Conan felt his anger bubble as some of the younger boys smiled and pointed at his ragged furs. How many of them had escaped slavery and fought wolves and a corpse? he wondered.

"Pay them no mind, Conan," Cengh said. "They are ignorant of a man's worth. They will learn."

"If they survive." Conan's voice was a low rumble.

A bleating goat ran past, and a fat, robed figure chased it, yelling, "Halt, beast! I have already lost your sister and her milk! Come back!"

Conan laughed at the sight, and his anger, quick to rise, fled just as quickly.

Cengh led Conan to a building cut and assembled from a smooth, white rock. Inside was a pool set into the floor. Warm vapor arose from the surface of the clear water; a clean, sharp scent reached the younger man's nostrils.

"The waters are for soaking," the priest said. "Perhaps you would care to bathe?"

The young Cimmerian giant nodded. Heated water, and clean? Aye, he would care to wash the stench of travel and furs from his muscular form.

"I shall have clothing brought to you. I must go and deliver my message before I can partake of the mint pool myself. "

Conan nodded, already stripping the furs from his body. He laid his sword near the edge of the pool and stepped into the water. Ah, here was a pleasure! The water was so hot it raised gooseflesh. Conan sat, and the relaxing hotness rose to his chin. He closed his eyes. Ah . . .

As Cengh made his way toward the Highest Oblate's chambers, he was unaware that one of the ubiquitous robed figures took a special notice of his passage. The figure seemed no different from any of the others attending to various chores along the main thoroughfare of the temple city; it was, however, a counterfeit. The gray robes covered one called Skeer, and he had been many things: thief, footpad, spy, and assassin, but never a priest. His presence inside the Temple That Will Not Fall was the result of careful planning backed by the forces of evil magic.

Skeer drew his pay from Neg, master of necromancy.

Quickly, Skeer established his secretive watch. He was most adept at this, a skill born of long practice, and aided muchly by his appearance. Neg's agent had a face that practically radiated truth and innocence. It had been said of Skeer that should he be caught stabbing a fat merchant repeatedly, he could claim to be merely cleaning his dagger and be believed, such was his countenance.

The priest presented no challenge to his follower's talents. Skeer paused now and then, and pretended to examine his sandal or something of interest in a shop window, but these subterfuges were more to keep in practice than for actual need. Cengh never looked in his shadower's direction. The fool.

Cengh entered a building, and Skeer hurried to follow him. The priest would be delivering a message shortly to someone-Neg's agent did not know to whom-but it was paramount that he be in a position to overhear that message. According to his sources, vital information would be contained in Cengh's recital. Failure to obtain that information would delay Skeer's success in his mission. Neg would not be pleased at any delay, and Skeer most assuredly did not wish to incur the necromancer's displeasure.

He shuddered at the thought.

So it happened that when Cengh delivered himself of a most important message to the Highest Oblate, a set of ears for which it had been unintended also received the words. And a smile came to the lips of a face so angelic even the mother of its owner's most cruelly murdered victim would have difficulty disliking it.

Behind a stall for housing rams, Skeer raised a short, fat-bladed dagger over the breast of a securely trussed goat. The fat priest would never find his lost beast. Or if so, it would be in no condition to produce additional milk. The goat had a greater destiny.

Skeer plunged the dagger downward, and skewered the animal's heart. Blood pumped, and the man cupped his hands to catch the warm fluid. He raised his hands and lowered them thrice, according to the spell, and chanted the phrase Neg had carefully drilled into him.

By warmth growing cold, by life made dead, by the Gray Beyond, I seek the Connection!

Skeer then tossed the blood into the air, and drew the arcane symbol representing Neg upon his left wrist with blood on the tip of his right forefinger. The air in front of him shimmered and seemed to thicken. The man shivered. He had done this several times before, and each time was no better than the last. He grew cold, as if dipped into a stream of melted snow.

"SPEAK." The voice came from the rippling air in front of Skeer, disembodied, but loud and powerful.

"I have the arrival details of that which you seek, lord."

"I EXPECTED NO LESS. WHEN?"

"Three days, lord."

"GOOD. DO NOT FAIL ME, SKEER. "

"Never, my lord."

The air shivered, much as the man who beheld it, and all of a moment, returned to its natural state. Skeer took a deep breath, and allowed it to escape slowly. The idea of failure flitted only briefly across his mind. He put the thought away in haste. Best not to think of that.

One of the Men With No Eyes glided to a stop in front of Neg. The necromancer regarded the visage. The name was not accurate, strictly speaking. His servants did have eyes. Those globes were entirely white, with what seemed to be clouds shifting back and forth in the milky orbs, so that an ordinary man watching might fear for his sanity. And such optics were useless for seeing, of course. But then, there were certain compensations for blindness.

Neg smiled. To the figure, he said, "Prepare the Chamber. Within a moon, I shall have that which I need to energize it."

The Man With No Eyes nodded once, bowed, and moved smoothly from Neg's personal chamber.

Ah, yes, Neg thought. Skeer had all the cunning of a weasel, and the morality and loyalty, too, but he would do as he was instructed. He feared to do otherwise, and with good reason. Soon. Soon.

A boy brought clothing to the enclosed pool in which Conan soaked. Decent clothing, too, the Cimmerian noted. For a time he had mused that he might be offered a priest's robes, but no, these items were ordinary, save for their good quality. There were underbreeks of some silken cloth, short leathern breeches, thickly cut sandals with long leg ties, a supple leather tunic, and even a belt and purse. The last was quite empty, Conan noted. All this was set upon a thick towel.

Conan stepped from the bath and dried himself, then proceeded to dress. By Crom, the clothing even fit!

As he was lacing the final strap on his new sandal, Cengh returned. He nodded at the Cimmerian, then shucked his robes and sank into the heated and scented waters.

"Ah. The gods be praised for hot water!"

Conan nodded. He felt a great deal better himself.

Cengh said, "If you can spare me a few moments to cleanse away my travel dust, I suspect I can find someone willing to feed us."

The young Cimmerian nodded again. Food would be welcome enough. "Do the Oblates believe in drinking the products of the grape?"

The priest laughed. "Wine? But of course! We are not barbarians-" Cengh fell silent suddenly. "I meant no insult, Conan."

"It is no insult. And barbarians invented wine."

"But priests have become the experts at drinking it," Cengh said. "I shall show you."

The temple of the Men With No Eyes squatted on a dark hillside near the juncture of Corinthia, Brythunia, and Zamora. The forest at the base of the hill was dank, prey to rain that somehow fell harder and more often than it did on the surrounding territory. The storms were often charged with powerful lightning, and raged at the earth with hail and discharges, as well as pounding rains.

It was through this dark forest and in the midst of a driving storm that Tuanne made her escape from Neg the Malefic's domination. Though not living in the way of mortal men, Tuanne had no special powers that allowed her to ignore the mud-slicked ground or the bone-chilling sheets hurled by the storm. Lightning flashed and was chased by its loud brother thunder as the beautiful zombie slipped and slid away from her former prison. Her long, jet hair lay plastered to her head and back, and her flimsy clothing gaped where it had been rent in a dozen places by thorn brambles and untimely falls. More than anything, the normal coldness she felt was intensified, so that her limbs, her breasts, and her cheeks felt as if they had been carved from ice. Those foolish men who thought that zombies felt no pain knew nothing of it.

Tuanne did not know where she was going. All she knew was that the talisman she sought called to her, tugged at her as if it were attached by an invisible string. If she turned away from it, the pull increased. The Source of Light, and her salvation, lay that way, to the north and east; therefore, it was that way she would travel. Until she came to the place where the device rested, she herself would not rest. She would obtain the talisman, she would somehow use it to free herself and her brothers and sisters still held by the necromancer. Somehow.

Lightning shattered the darkness, and a nearby fir tree exploded in a spray of wood and sap. Thunder tried to hide the damage, battering at the night. Tuanne started at the light and sound, so close they came almost as one. She fell yet again, and her sodden dress tore, revealing more of her ivory skin to the storm's attack. It did not matter. She would find new clothing. It would not warm her, but that did not matter, either. She had a goal, and a hundred years of wanting it. She would endure until she reached it.

Chapter Three

Conan followed Cengh into a large hall filled with robed Oblates. Everyone, save the big Cimmerian, was dressed in the same manner, even the servers. The bath and new clothing suited the young barbar well enough, but the idea of dining on roots and berries created less enthusiasm. Well. He had learned to make do with what was available.

Cengh found two vacant spots on a long wooden bench along one of the tables, and gestured for Conan to sit. The Cimmerian did. He had to lean his sword against the table, for he had no scabbard. His sharp eyes had also taken note that he was the only armed man in the room. At least, the only one who had his weapon visible. He recalled Cengh's curved knife, and wondered what other loose robes might conceal.

Conan's thoughts were interrupted by a server, who sat an earthen jug down on the table, with two brass cups.

Cengh poured the wine, and offered a full cup to Conan. The Cimmerian lifted the cold brass to his lips and tilted it back. The cold wine flowed.

"This is good," Conan said. In fact, it was the best wine he had ever tasted.

Cengh smiled and refilled the empty cup. "We manage a passable vintage now and then."

A second server arrived, bearing a steaming platter. This was placed in front of Conan, who looked at it with interest. There were several small fish on the plate, and the aroma rising from them was pleasing.

Cengh produced his knife, and used it to split one of the fish along its length, revealing a long row of bones. He pried up one end of the row and peeled the entire strip away, discarding it on the empty end of the platter. "This is the best way," Cengh said. "The fish are local, caught in the mountain streams, and it is best to remove the bones, lest they stick in your throat."

Conan nodded. He had the trick. He picked up one of the fish, split the hot flesh with his fingers, and dug the thin central spine and attached bones out with one horny thumb. Then he popped most of one half of the fish into his mouth.

"This, too, is good," he managed between bites. And again, it was more than passable. The flavor was excellent, the consistency enough to provide resistance to chewing. He began to see how the priests might survive without meat. This was hardly the roots and berries he had feared.

Conan and Cengh fell to the business of eating. The platters kept coming, and after a dozen of the fish, Conan's hunger was assuaged. There was sufficient wine to mitigate his thirst, as well. Civilization did have its contents, he had to admit.

Skeer sat several tables over in the vast dining hall, near where one of the torches cast bright, flickering light upon the diners. He ate methodically, for nourishment rather than pleasure. Food was nothing, drink brought him no joy. No, Skeer's real passion came from two things: women, and the smoke of the hemp-weed. Neither of those was available in the Temple That Will Not Fall. Either of his desires was a delight; both together were as much as Skeer could wish to enjoy.

Occasionally, Skeer would cast a glance at the messenger priest and his barbarian companion. The latter ate with little regard for delicacy, and Skeer would have held him in total contempt, save for the air of alertness about him. Barbarians paid more attention to their surroundings than did civilized men, and the spy would not relish having to follow that muscular giant. Those cold blue eyes were too sharp; even Skeer's quick glances triggered some kind of atavistic response in the man. The barbarian was aware of being watched, of that the spy was certain.

Skeer went back to his meal. The barbar was of no consequence. At this point, neither was the messenger priest. What Neg the Malefic's agent needed to know he knew; it was only a matter of a few days until he could finish his mission here. When he was done, Neg's gratitude would enable Skeer to buy all the women and hemp he wished. Certainly something to look forward to, he thought.

Conan awoke with the coming of dawn. The quarters Cengh had provided were hardly luxurious; still, the room was clean, the straw mattress firm and free of vermin, and the blankets warm. A look through the small window showed that many of the priests were already about on the narrow streets, ahead of the cock's crow.

The Cimmerian youth stretched and moved to the dining hall. There seemed to be no exchange of coin for goods and services here, and Conan wondered at how well the communal living seemed to work.

The tables were laid with cheeses, boiled chicken eggs, and various fruits, along with loaves of hard black bread. Conan helped himself, washing down his meal with draughts of the priests' excellent wine. He felt much refreshed, and ready to continue his journey to Zamora.

Cengh met Conan at the exit of the dining hall. The priest carried a leather scabbard. "Ah, you are up. Have you dined?"

"Only just finished."

"Good. I thought this might make carrying your sword somewhat easier." He offered the sheath to Conan.

The brawny Cimmerian took the scabbard and examined it. It was of some rough, knobby leather, triple-stitched, with thick welting where sharp edges would touch the insides. Conan inserted the blade of his sword slowly to the guard, then jerked the weapon free. The leather hissed at the iron, but did not impede its release. A well-made sheath, and he said as much to Cengh. After a moment, a second comment arose in Conan's mind.

"If you do not kill animals, how came you by the leather for this?"

Cengh smiled, and nodded. "Why, you yourself provided it."

Conan looked at the sheath. The leather did look familiar. After a moment, he had it. "The stith."

"Indeed."

"But it was killed only two days past."

"It has been retrieved and utilized. We do not kill if we can help it, but neither do we waste anything."

"How came the leather to be tanned so quickly?"

"We have a . . . special process."

Magic was what Conan heard in the priest's undertone. He did not press the question further. Instead, he said, "I consider that we are quits on any debts, Cengh."

The priest said, "I consider my life worth more than I have given, but I accept your judgment, Conan of Cimmeria. "

"I shall be on my way, then."

"Perhaps you would like to see our weapon training before you depart?"

Conan considered this. Zamora would surely wait another day or two; besides, he had a young man's curiosity and Cengh's skill with his stick had been impressive. "Aye, I would like that."

"Come, then."

Conan resheathed the sword and followed Cengh.

The man was old, his hair and beard like snow, yet he stood tall and straight within his gray robes, facing a man at least forty winters his junior. Both men held short wooden canes in two-handed grips, and each stood with his weapon tip pointing at the other's throat. The younger man was stripped to a loincloth, and his frame was well covered with muscle.

The younger man shifted his stance in quick dancing steps, this way and that, moving to within an armspan of the older man, then backward, bouncing on his feet lightly.

Conan had once seen one of the serpent-killing rodents brought to Cimmeria from far Vendhya. The owner had placed the ratlike creature in a pit with one of the hooded serpents whose bite brought quick death. This young man danced around the older man as the rodent had danced around the snake. In the end, for all its deadliness, the snake had been killed itself.

The older man shifted only enough to keep his attention focused on the younger, his movements deliberate but economical.

If asked, Conan would have wagered on the younger man to win the match. He was faster, undoubtedly stronger, and more aggressive. From the way he moved, he was no stranger to this kind of training fight. He had the edge, for the old man had demonstrated none of these qualities.

The younger man attacked. He leaped forward, raised his cane overhead, and snapped it down sharply, as if to split the older man's white forelock and the head beneath it. It was a fast strike, but hard, and had it landed, it would have knocked the old man senseless, or worse.

The old man shifted his body a hair to his left, moving slowly, it seemed to Conan, and whipped his own cane up and down in a shallow curve.

The young man's stroke missed cleanly.

The old man's cut took the other on the side, smacking loudly into a rib. The white-haired man danced a short step farther away and turned, his cane again raised to the other's throat. The young man recovered and turned to face his opponent.

After a moment, the two men relaxed, and smiled at each other.

Ho, Conan thought, sometimes the slow serpent kills the quick rat! He realized he had just learned something important. That the old man had not obviously shown his skill sooner did not mean he was without any. Impressive.

"Come and meet Oblate Kensash," Cengh said.

The old man was showing his opponent the manner of his strike, when Conan and Cengh approached.

"This is the man I spoke of," Cengh said.

"Ah," Kensash said, "the outland swordfighter. Cengh has spoken highly of your skill."

"And I have just seen yours," Conan replied.

Kensash shrugged. "Malo is my best student. Malo, this is Conan, of whom you have heard."

Malo, Conan could see, was unimpressed with whatever stories he had been told. He smirked at Conan, looking pointedly at his long black hair and darkly tanned skin. He said, "You seem fairly strong, outlander. Perhaps you would engage in a match with me?"

"I do not know the rules of your game."

"Game?" Malo bristled. "Men have died playing this game! No rules, save to win!"

Conan looked at Kensash. The old man wore a sad smile. "Sometimes Malo is impetuous. You are a guest; and not a student. You need not fight."

Conan grinned. "Let Malo teach me this stick game."

Kensash tendered his cane to Conan, who weighed it in his hands, swung it a few times to get the feel, and nodded at Malo. "When you are ready."

Malo grinned wolfishly and danced back two steps, to bring his cane into guard position.

Conan stood relaxed, his own weapon hanging loosely in one hand by his side.

Malo seemed impatient. "Raise your weapon! Protect yourself!"

"No need," Conan said.

That enraged Malo. He leaped at Conan and swung his cane at the Cimmerian's head. Conan stepped in toward his attacker and caught the moving stick with his left hand. The look of puzzlement on Malo's face changed to shock as Conan brought his stick first against Malo's side and then against his head. Malo dropped, stunned.

Kensash laughed, and Conan's own smile was unforced.

Malo managed to reach his feet. "You cheated! If I had been using a real sword, you would have lost your hand grabbing it!"

Conan said, "Had you been using a real sword, I would not have been so foolish as to clutch at it. You were using only a stick."

"But it is supposed to represent a real blade!"

"Then consider that my bare hand represented an armored gauntlet."

Malo's rage would have continued, but Kensash waved him to silence. "Would you care for a match with an old man, Conan?" he asked softly.

"Aye. "

The brawny Cimmerian faced the old master. For several moments neither man moved. Then Conan shifted his stance slightly to the left.

Kensash adjusted his own feet a hair, no more.

Conan moved a shade to his right.

Kensash duplicated the motion.

After a series of such moves and countermoves, Conan knew that no matter what he did to prepare for an attack, the old man would be ready for him. To hit at this opponent was to invite instant retaliation. The Cimmerian way was to attack, and Crom take the consequences, but Conan knew that such an attack on this particular enemy would result in mutual slaying, did they both wield real swords. He was brave, but he was not insensitive to his instincts. Skill could balance bravery, were it enough, and Kensash was the most skillful swordsman Conan had ever faced.

The young Cimmerian lowered his cane and nodded at the old master.

Kensash returned Conan's nod. "You are wise beyond your years, Conan of Cimmeria. Should you elect to stay, I would be honored to teach you my small learnings."

"Nay, Oblate, not small. But my path lies elsewhere."

As Conan and Cengh left the training yard, the Cimmerian could feel the gaze of the frustrated Malo burning into his spine.

Tuanne walked, her feet shod in new boots, her body covered with new breeches and tunic, under a warm cloak of soft fur. The man who had provided these things had considered himself fortunate in the exchange. He had desired her, had met her terms, and made payment before he had ever touched her. The grave-chill of her flesh had turned his thoughts from lust to fear. He was, Tuanne knew, glad to be rid of her. So now the beautiful zombie walked the southern fork of the High Brythunian Road, traveling east toward her goal.

There was no way to know how far she must journey, nor how long it would take. She had no need of food, nor of rest, and she would continue as long as it took.

She had nothing if not time.

Chapter Four

In the bowels of Neg the Malefic's temple was a room unlike any of those surrounding it. This chamber held within its polished white marble walls a spire of pure quartz crystal, half the height of a man and as thick as a man's thigh. The top of the crystal had been sheared flat, and a hollow scooped from the transparent mineral, a space no larger than a child's fist. Nothing else occupied the dustless white floor, save the spire. On the gleaming walls were set carven crystal sconces, each bearing several special, slender tapers that burned smokelessly, casting smooth yellow light to every corner. The room was the antithesis of the remainder of the temple; it was clean and light and pure. Each hour, five of the Men With No Eyes came and wiped each surface carefully, to maintain that purity.

Neg strode into the chamber and observed the crystal spire. The room existed as a focus for the talisman he sought; when he had the Source of Light, it would rest in the spire of crystal. Once properly utilized, the immense powers held in the fetish would flow, and Neg would receive them. It was a secret he had stumbled upon during his questionings of the restored dead.

Neg smiled at the thought. Yes. He ranked among the highest in his control of necromantic energies, but there were limits. Once bathed in the energies of the Source of Light, he would be paramount in that rank. Strange, that such dark energies could come from something that seemed so opposite. But it was not his philosophy to ponder the "why" of such a thing, only the "how." It was enough that light and dark could be mixed to produce the results he sought. Power. Ultimate control of the dead. With a wave of his newly augmented hand, Neg would be able to raise a legion of dead to command; a second wave would put them back into eternal slumber just as easily. In battle his troops would be invincible; more, each living soldier who fell would become his thrall instantly. How unnerving that would be, to suddenly see one's battle companion rise from death to become an enemy!

It would be only a matter of a short time. Soon, Skeer would fetch that which he had been sent to collect. Soon, he would travel back to the temple of the Men With No Eyes and present the prize to his master. And soon, Neg the Malefic would become Neg the Omnipotent.

Abruptly, Neg spun, his robes flaring out, and stalked from the shining chamber. As he walked the darker hall, he saw the Men With No Eyes come to maintain the polish of the waiting chamber. Good. Good . . .

Conan made ready to depart from the Temple That Will Not Fall. He was much refreshed, and somewhat better supplied than he had been before meeting Cengh. Along with the new sheath for his blade, he now bore a pack filled with smoked fish and dried leathery strips of fruit, enough for several days sustenance. He had watched the old swordmaster practice for a time, and had learned from his observations. It was tempting to stay and enjoy this easy life, but his urge to travel would not be denied. Shadizar called.

The Cimmerian had taken his leave of Cengh and begun wending his way through the narrow streets of the temple city, when he nearly stumbled upon something that made him pause.

Crouched behind a crate of refuse was a priest. The hiding figure appeared to be watching a second priest who looked travel-worn and dusty as he made his way along one of the minor thoroughfares. More interesting to Conan was the fact that the crouching priest clutched a short dagger in one slim hand, ready to strike. Ho, an assassination?

The knife-wielding figure suddenly spun and spied Conan watching him. The Cimmerian caught a glimpse of the face under the cowl. It looked familiar, that face, young and almost girlish-The priest sprang for Conan, knife lifted as if to stab.

There was no time to pull his sword. Conan shifted to his left, a quick, sliding step, and swung his knotted fist overhead. The hard edge of his compacted palm smacked into the attacker's wrist, knocking the knife free of its owner's grasp. The priest cursed in a high voice and tried to dart away. Conan lunged and caught a handful of robe. He jerked hard, and the priest lost his footing and tumbled to the ground, sprawling onto his back. Before he could move, Conan dropped to his knees astride the fallen priest, pinning his arms. The Cimmerian pushed the cowl away.

And beheld the face of a woman.

Her hair was hacked off short, shorter than Conan's own, but her face was not merely that of a girlish male. He knew a woman when he saw one. But to be certain, he slid one hand along the fallen "priest's" chest, and discovered the soft swelling of a female breast.

This gesture did not please the woman. She renewed her efforts to escape, and cursed Conan through gritted teeth.

"Ignorant savage beast! Mitra take your manhood!"

Conan grinned. A spirited woman, to curse a man who held her so. Aloud, he said, "Who are you? Why did you try to stab me?"

"Dog, son of a dog, eater of offal, get off me!"

Conan nodded. He clamped one powerful hand around the girl's wrist, arose from his knees, and regarded her.

"Release me!"

"When you answer my questions."

"I shall scream!"

"Oh? And show the good priests that a woman has defiled their temple?"

That shut her up. She took several deep, sighing breaths, and regarded Conan more closely. As she did, he remembered where he had seen her before. On the day he had arrived, she had been picking over fruit on the main street. He had thought that one of the priests looked less than mannish.

Apparently, she decided that screaming was not in her best interests.

"Well?"

"That priest has something that belongs to me," she said. "I sought to recover it."

"By slaying him?"

"No. I would have used the dagger to ensure the return of my property, no more."

"Then why attack me?"

"I thought you meant to stop me."

"Not I," Conan said. "I was merely passing."

"Then release me, so that I might finish my business. This is no concern of yours."

"It became my concern when you tried to skewer me."

"Barbaric fool! I must get to that priest before he reaches the Highest Oblate! I am sorry I mistook your intent. Please!"

Conan considered it. He had no responsibility to the priests and it was not his business, true enough. He released his grip.

Without pausing, the young woman ran to her fallen dagger, snatched it up, and sprinted from the alley.

Conan had but a brief moment before he heard her yell. She could not have reached the priest in that time. His curiosity piqued, he strode to the mouth of the alley and cast a glance after the ersatz priest.

If seeing the girl had been interesting, what he now saw was much more so: two priests stood and wrestled in the street a hundred yards distant, one bearing a short blade that glittered in the morning's golden sunlight. A third priest lay on the dusty street, a bloody stream running from his back to stain both robe and dust crimson. And the woman ran toward the two fighting men, her own knife held ready to strike.

As Conan watched, the priest with the knife drove that weapon home into the belly of the other; the wounded man clutched at his entrails and fell, red seeping between his fingers. The assassin turned to the other fallen man and ripped the bleeding man's purse from his belt. He checked it, and seemed satisfied. He then spotted the running woman and turned to flee. In a moment, he was gone, into the maw of a nearby alley. The woman veered away from the fallen men after the assassin, but he had several seconds head start. If he knew the streets, it would be unlikely that she would catch him.

It was not his business, but Conan walked to the fallen priests, curiosity running stronger than before. As he neared the stabbed men, he recognized one of them.

The belly-stabbed man was Cengh.

Suddenly this did concern the Cimmerian. Cengh was his friend. Rage enveloped Conan in a flash.

"Cengh!"

The priest coughed. "C-C-Conan. I thought you g-gone."

"Let me see the wound."

Cengh shook his head. "You cannot help. I am mortally stabbed." Cengh coughed again, and the blood flowed stronger between his fingers.

"Who did this? Why?"

"The S-S-Source of . . . Light. He t-took it."

"Who?"

The dying priest shook his head again. "I do not know him. One of Neg's hirelings. You-you must . . . recover it, Conan. Otherwise Neg will, he will . . ." Cengh coughed again, a racking, shuddering movement that ended in blood-spitting.

"Speak, Cengh! Who is Neg? Where can I find him?"

A look of peace flowed over the man's features then, and he went slack in Conan's arms.

Conan's rage flamed higher. Dead!

The young Cimmerian stood, his fists knotted tightly into hammers, his mighty chest rising and falling with his breaths. He had known Cengh but a short time, but the man had been his friend, had fed and clothed him, had shared danger with him. Shadizar could wait. Somebody was going to pay for this.

Somebody was going to pay dearly for this.

Skeer made his way to the main gate quickly, after losing his pursuer. The appearance of the small, knife-wielding priest and the barbarian had been a surprise, but in the end, they mattered not. He had the talisman. In a few moments, he would be clear of the temple and on his way, with no more than a week or ten days journey ahead of him. Neg would be pleased, and Skeer would soon be rich.

Conan picked a spot on the trail out of sight of the main temple gate, a place narrow enough so anyone attempting to pass him could not do so without being seen. He crouched in the shelter of one of the scraggly bushes and waited.

He did not doubt that the assassin would leave the temple with his booty. If he had been quick enough, Conan thought, he might have beaten the killer to this point. If so, then the man was dead. On the other hand, if the cutthroat had gotten out ahead of him, waiting here only gave him a greater lead.

The Cimmerian decided he would wait for what he thought sufficient time, and if the false priest did not appear, then he would see if he could pick up his trail farther down the mountain. Failing in that, he would inquire after someone Cengh had called "Neg." The hireling would eventually return to his master, and both could be recipients of Conan's ire.

The cold scratched with sharp claws at Conan through his cloak, but he ignored it. Chill winds ruffled his square-cut mane and brought moisture to his fiery blue eyes, but he paid them no worry, either.

An hour after he had begun his vigil, a solitary figure dressed in gray robes approached Conan's hiding place, coming from the city.

Conan grinned wolfishly and picked his sword up from the rock against which it leaned. He had removed it from the sheath early on, so that even the whisper of leather against iron would not betray his position when the time came. He slipped from the boulder upon which he had perched and gathered his energies to spring. A bit closer, come a bit closer . . . .

Conan leaped from concealment and brandished his broadsword, ready to behead the cowled figure. "Prepare to join your cursed gods, assassin!"

The robed figure backed away quickly and raised one hand in a gesture meant to halt Conan. "Wait!" came the voice. "You are mistaken!"

Even as he stalked forward, ready to decapitate the speaker, Conan recognized the voice. Even as she quickly pulled the cowl back to reveal her face.

The young woman from the alley.

Conan lowered the sword, disgusted. "You."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Waiting for the man who assassinated my friend. Consider yourself lucky you are not him."

She had no answer for that. But after a moment, she said, "I fear you will wait forever for Skeer. I had to wait for my chance to slip from the temple-the murders have caused the city to be sealed. If he is inside, the priests will find him. If without, I fear he has already made his way past this point."

Conan fastened on the name she spoke. "Skeer, you said?"

She shook her head, as if she had just realized she had spoken too much.

Conan raised his blade again. "I will have what you know of this, woman. If it was not my business before, it is now. Speak!"

"You would not kill a woman?"

"Mayhaps not. But there are other ways to obtain information. "

That threat seemed to shake her. She sighed. "Very well. I shall tell you. We are both bent on the same business, that of revenge."

Conan waited.

"I am called Elashi. I come from the desert region of Khauran; my people are nomads, and have wandered the wastes for at least a hundred generations. The one you seek is called Skeer, and he is in the service of a black necromancer. "

"That would be Neg," Conan said.

"You know of him?"

"Nay, only the name."

Elashi continued her story. "My father, Lorven, was chief of our tribe. Neg had him slain. A valuable . . . object was taken. I seek to avenge my father and retrieve the stolen property."

"Have you no brothers? Vengeance is a man's job."

Her eyes flashed then, and Conan saw the anger rise to her face from deep within. "I am firstborn! My brothers tend their beasts and wives! It is the eldest who must do such duties!"

"And this 'valuable object'-would it be called the Source of Light?"

This statement shook her, literally. "How did you know that?"

"A dying man's legacy."

She waited a moment before proceeding. "Aye, it carries death with it, I think. My father found it in the ruins of an ancient city uncovered by the shifting sands. He was killed for it, and those who killed him died in turn. You saw what happened to the priest who recovered the talisman after that."

"The object is cursed?"

She sighed again. "Perhaps. It is filled with power. Some arcane magic sleeps within, according to the shaman of our tribe. He could not divine its function."

Conan felt uneasy about this revelation. Magic was better left alone, in his experience. Those who dabbled in witchery often became ensnared by it in ways they had not foreseen.

"Why have you not gone directly to this Neg?" Conan asked. " 'Twould seem simpler."

"Nay. He commands power. One cannot just approach him directly. I thought to take that which he seeks and use it to gain admittance. He would see Black-Souled Set Himself to obtain the Source of Light. Once within his guard, I will kill him."

Conan thought about that. A complicated plan, too indirect for his tastes, but it might work.

"What now? You have lost your chance."

Her face hardened. "I know Skeer's visage, and to where he travels. I shall catch up with him."

The young Cimmerian regarded the woman. She was somewhat older than he, perhaps by three or four winters, and her face was attractive enough. He had reason to know she was very womanly under her priestly robes. And yet, despite her sex, she was a woman of deadly resolve. He had never met such a one before, and it attracted him. He was a loner, but he saw the common goals.

He said, "I have no use for your talisman, but I would see this Skeer and his master cross into the Gray Lands. Perhaps we can travel together."

She regarded him for a moment. "Aye, perhaps. If our common goal is all you desire."

Conan was quick to take her meaning. In truth, the thought of bedding her had crossed his mind; but, if she was uninterested, he had no problem with that. He did not force himself on women-there had never been need of that.

"Aye. Then let us depart and locate our quarry. He gains even as we speak."

The Cimmerian and the woman of the desert turned and started down the mountain.

Chapter Five

The High Brythunian Road was, in the best of seasons, a desolate place. Even when the sun warmed the lower lands to the heat of a man's blood, cold shrouded the mountain passes with permanent blankets of snow. Narrow paths were kept clear in the summer by the tramp of travelers' boots and mounts, but winter saw thickening of the white overlay to depths thrice the height of a tall man. In the fields far below, the crops were ripening toward the harvest moon. Winter had yet to blow his icy breath along the High Road, but his younger sister, Autumna, had sent warning chills of her own. Her winds carried cold, but no snow, at least.

It was along this windswept path that Tuanne trudged. She had long ago ceased worrying about the cold. It was a constant, no less than night and day, and she bore it stoically.

Ahead, according to directions she had received, lay a small village. This nameless place squatted at a juncture that virtually ensured that travelers from either direction would stop for rest or refreshment. She felt very strongly that the thing she sought approached the village from the opposite direction; the emanations of magic energy touched her with feathery fingers. If she could reach the village before the bearer of the magical device, she could set a snare for Neg's agent. Care would have to be taken; while she was impervious to death in the ordinary sense, the magic she sought to use to bring release for others might release her too soon if wielded improperly. That must not happen. She must collect the talisman, and she must return to free her zombie kin.

From ahead there came the sudden cough of a mountain cat. The sound caused her to break stride for a moment. She was not armed, at least not with weaponry that animals would respect. She knew fear, then. To be eaten by a beast-would that affect zombie charms against true death? Would she still be somehow alive in the belly of a great cat? She shuddered at the thought.

The cat slunk from behind an outcropping of cold, gray granite, belly low to the ground, its tail twitching.

Tuanne stopped and stood very still, watching the animal. She could not outrun it, there was no point in trying. If it came for her, there was little she could do.

The wind blew from behind her, toward the lion.

The cat stopped its stalk all of a moment, and Tuanne saw it wrinkle its nostrils as it caught her scent. It roared at her then, and she jumped. But the sound was not one of intention to attack; no, rather, it sounded a note of something she could not quite identify: frustration, perhaps. Or maybe it was . . . fear. For the great cat, easily twice her size, began to back away, watching her warily. When it had moved nearly to the granite outcrop, it turned and leaped, vanishing in a heartbeat.

So, she thought. Even a beast recognizes the stench of unnaturalness and refuses to feed upon it. Her curse was, she supposed, a blessing in this case. But it brought her little joy. To be such that a hungry predator would flee was not a thing in which one would rejoice.

Sighing, Tuanne started walking along the trail once more. Night stole upon her quietly, but she only slowed to be certain of her tread. Darkness held few dangers for a zombie. Fewer now, it seemed, than before . . .

Skeer was cold and tired and more than a little hungry. He had left the monastery in a great hurry, and the horse he had cleverly hobbled for his escape had somehow managed to slip its bonds before he reached it. The missing horse carried his food and blankets as well, and there was nothing for it but to move as quickly as he could on foot. A return to the monastery for a mount and supplies would be the epitome of idiocy as well as quick suicide.

Ah, well. The village lay just ahead another hour or so. He had money, he could feast, rest indoors, and mayhaps even purchase feminine company to warm his bed. True, he would have to depart with the rising sun, upon a mount, he hoped. The priests were apt to be more than a little irate at the killings and theft, and pursuit would surely follow. Fortunately, more than one path led away from the monastery, once the major trail juncture was attained, and he hoped the false signs he had left indicating his flight elsewhere would be taken as valid. Such a fortunate happening would buy sufficient time that his pursuers would never catch him. He could afford the stop, certainly. They could not track him at night, certainly.

Darkness laid its ebon shroud upon the cliffs, but he was nearly there. He would be at the village soon, and the lights of the place shined ahead of him, beckoning.

"Surely he went this way," Elashi said. She gestured at the left-hand path that wound toward the south.

"I think not," Conan said.

"I am a woman of the desert," she said, "and not some simpering tavern slut with slack wits! I can read trail signs as well as any man in my tribe, and here they are so obvious a one-eyed goat could see them. That broken branch, used to slow the slide-see the way the dirt has been disturbed?-and the rocks kicked loose from their beds, there and there"-she pointed at the gravel as she spoke-these things tell the tale. He passed this way, slipped upon the damp earth and may as well have left us a message telling us to follow him!"

"Perhaps he did," Conan said. He pointed to the right-hand path. "I shall go this way." He started along the trail. He did not look back. After a moment he heard Elashi's footsteps padding up behind him.

Her voice, when she spoke, was angry.

"Barbarian, have you no sense? I have explained the signs to you! And yet you ignore them! Why do you behave this way?"

Conan kept walking, but he spared her a glance. "This one you call Skeer is not a careless man," he finally said. "Many places along the upper trail were more treacherous, and yet he left no sign in half a dozen places where you lost your balance and slid and I nearly did so. For him to slip here, at such a simple and crucial turning, would seem unlikely. "

"What are you saying?"

"That perhaps he did leave the signs, but deliberately."

She thought about that for a moment in silence. Then, "But what if you are wrong?"

He shrugged. "I have been wrong before. It will not kill me in this instance."

She did not speak to this, but continued to walk alongside him.

Tuanne attained the village and found what proved to be the single inn. The portly innkeep kept smiling nervously at her, as if both attracted and repelled. He answered her question through dry lips.

"Nay, mistress, none other than yourself have sought lodging this evening."

She nodded. It confirmed her sense of where the talisman was: close, but not yet here.

"I wish a room. And I will sit in the common room for a while, by the fire. Bring wine."

"Y-yes, mistress."

The man scuttled to fetch the wine as Tuanne moved to sit at a rude table set near the dwindling embers. The place was smoky and more than a little dirty, and the guttering of several fat lamps added as much to the smoke as to the light.

Several men sat drinking at the rough-cut tables: two who seemed Brythunian by dress and manner; one hawk-faced and dusky-skinned man who might be of the Stygian mid-class; a fourth who wore dark furs over darker skin, and might be Kushian or perhaps a Keshanite. A skinny woman with dirty-blond hair stood near the first pair and laughed too-loudly at their jokes; likely she was the village trull, to judge from her clothing. She wore a simple thin shift and obviously nothing beneath it.

The men cast hungry glances at Tuanne as she seated herself. Some smiled and tried to lock glances with her, but she ignored them. The dark man made a sign against evil, and looked quickly away. Perceptive, that one. The trull seemed merely to resent the competition.

The innkeep arrived with the wine. Tuanne made no offer to pay, and he hesitated only a moment before scurrying away. She touched the earthen cup, twirling it upon the table, but did not drink. Mortal food and drink held nothing for her, neither taste nor sustenance. The wine served merely as an excuse, for appearance only. She would sit here and await Neg's lackey.

Her plan was simple enough: she would attempt to lure the man to her room. Failing that, she would follow him to his room, or elsewhere, and using the stone she bore within her belt pouch, she would bludgeon the man into insensibility and capture the talisman.

He was coming. She could feel it.

She toyed with the wine cup, and waited.

Skeer entered the inn and, within a moment, spied the pale and beautiful woman sitting alone by the dying fire. How could such a one as that be alone? Were the men seated in the room all lacking in essential maleness? At the sight of the woman, Skeer immediately felt his own manhood stir. Food could be ordered, and would be, and drink to chase the chill from his bones, but he must speak to the woman as soon as possible; else she might disappear-surely she was some mystical creature from a delightful dream?

He said as much to her as he sat in the chair across the table from her. Her smile told him his attentions were not unwelcome. It was going to be a much better night than he had dared hope for; this was a woman to remember!

He spoke of himself as he ate the half-raw pork and stale bread the innkeep sat before him. Most of his speech consisted of lies, including the name he gave, his place of birth, and his occupation. He knew how to present himself in the best light to a skeptical woman; he had practiced it many times. It hardly seemed necessary with this gorgeous creature. Aside from what seemed a certain . . . coolness, she smiled at all his crude jokes, and seemed to hang upon every falsehood he devised. He washed both bread and lies down with draughts from the bottle of wine, and soon felt both warmer and more amorous. This woman drank little, but it hardly seemed to matter-she seemed perfectly willing to follow his lead without the assistance of the grape.

"I was thinking," he said, "that perhaps you might accompany me while I engage a room for the night."

Again, that cool and stimulating smile from her. "I have already taken a room," she said. "Perhaps you would care to . . . share it with me?"

"By Mitra, I would like nothing better! Come, let us go there."

"Wouldn't you like to finish your wine first?"

"We shall take the bottle with us. And another, for good measure." He could hardly believe his fortune. He would not even have to pay for the room.

He stood, wobbled but a little, and extended a hand to assist her-what was her name again?-ah, well, no matter-to her feet.

"Your hand is like ice," he said, when he felt her touch.

"Surely a man such as yourself can bring warmth to it?"

He grinned. "Aye. I can warm all manner of things, my lady. "

Tuanne followed Neg's minion down the narrow hall way toward the room indicated by the leering innkeeper. A stub of a taper provided flickering shadows and only a feeble glow against the darkness. They entered the unlit room, and she smiled in the gloom. It would be easier in the darkness. She reached into her purse and touched the smooth stone nestled there.

Sparks danced just ahead of her, accompanied by the chink! of flint on steel.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Lighting a taper, lady."

"Why? You have no need of eyes for this particular engagement. "

The sparks danced upon the wick of the candle he held, and a small flame glowed into life. "Ah, my lady, such beauty as yours must be seen as well as touched. Here we are. Come, remove those concealing garments and allow me to feast my eyes."

Tuanne hesitated only a moment. He seemed more alert than he had in the common room, and he could see her too easily. Better not to chance an attack now-he had the talisman upon his person, and she was uncertain as to what might happen if she were exposed to it incorrectly. In a few moments, when he was either occupied or sated, the timing would be better. It did not matter if she did that which he wished. She began to disrobe, removing her boots and breeches, then her vest and shirt. In a minute, she stood naked before him, the candlelight glimmering over her form. Her skin made the palest ivory seem dark, even in the dim light, and her body was as lush and rich as any living woman's.

The man sucked in a startled breath. "You are more beautiful than I imagined," he said, his voice hoarse. Quickly, he began to remove his own clothing. He took special care with his purse, and Tuanne knew this was where he had hidden that which she sought. Once it was safely out of his grasp, she could proceed.

"Come here," he ordered. He lay back on the pallet and extended his arms to her.

Tuanne smiled and moved toward him. Unseen, her foot nudged her own purse toward the edge of the pallet, so that the stone within would only be a short reach away.

At the base of the rickety stairs leading to the inn's sleeping quarters, Conan and Elashi stood, talking in low whispers to the innkeeper.

"My patrons deserve their privacy," the portly man said. But he rubbed his thumb across the fingertips of his left hand several times, as though feeling an imaginary coin.

In answer, Conan dropped his own hand to touch the hilt of his sword. There was no need for speech, for the innlord took that meaning quickly enough. "Ah, the third room from the end. He-he is with a woman."

"Return to your business," Conan ordered.

As the innkeep shuffled quickly away, Conan started up the stairs. Elashi started to follow, but he held out his hand. "No. I shall deal with the killer of my friend."

"But the Source of Light-"

"I have no need of magical devices. I shall bring it to you when I am done."

"How can I trust you?"

Conan's blue eyes smoldered in the faint light. "You have my word."

They stood silently for a moment, and when he turned to ascend the stairs, she stood her own ground.

Before he reached the hallway at the stairtop, he drew his blade. Three doors down, was it? He trod carefully, settling his not-inconsiderable weight onto each footstep as though walking upon fragile ice he wished to avoid breaking.

"By Bel, you are as cold as the pit of winter!"

Tuanne pressed herself against the man, and said, "I have been standing bare in this chilly room. A draught of wine will warm me. I'll get it."

"Hurry."

But what her hand found when it left their bed was not wine in an earthen bottle, but a stone that fit comfortably within her grip.

"What are you doing? What is that?"

He was alarmed; something in her motion must have given her away. She twisted away from him and raised the stone.

There existed a number of things he could have done, several of which would have produced results in his favor. He could have leaped from the bed and fled; he could have caught Tuanne's wrists and struggled, for her strength was no more than that of a mortal woman; he could have ducked the striking hand. What he did instead, however, was to snatch at his clothing for the knife he carried. In a smooth and practiced motion, he thrust the short blade up at the woman, sinking it to the hilt in her stomach, then jerking it free so that her blood might flow fast and freely.

Tuanne smiled as she saw the satisfaction on his face turn to horror. There was no blood, and had he managed to stay conscious for another moment, he would have seen the edges of the wound seal and vanish back into perfect whiteness. But she continued her own motion, and the stone met flesh and bone just over his ear, and his senses were clouted from him. He went limp without a sound.

Tuanne dropped the stone and arose. She spared the unconscious man a single glance, then turned toward his clothing.

Conan kicked the door so hard it flew from its hinges. He leaped into the room. Light from a single candle shined within, to reveal-By Crom! What a woman this was!

Gloriously nude, she spun to face him.

Before she could speak, he said, "Fear not, lady. My business is with your friend there." Conan pointed with his sword. "He sleeps soundly for all this noise."

"He is not asleep, big man. He is unconscious. He sought to-to . . . take advantage of me. I managed to hit him on the head. He is a villain most foul."

"Aye, that he is, lady." He continued to stare at the woman. He had seen his share of women undraped, but none so lovely as this one. And he was young enough so that the fires ran very hot in his blood at a sight such as this.

"You have rescued me, and I am most grateful," she said. She smiled at Conan, then seemed to notice for the first time that she was naked. "Oh."

Conan did not feel as though he had done much in the way of rescue, but certainly he had no intention of arguing with this woman. She could be as grateful as she wished. He lowered the point of his sword. She moved closer. "I am called Tuanne," she said. "And what is your name, my bravo?"

"Conan. Of Cimmeria."

"Ah. One of the strong northern men."

While his attention was focused upon her, Conan's vigilance suffered. The room bore a window, covered with a thin layer of cloth. It was through this aperture that the supposedly unconscious Skeer suddenly took leave. The man leaped to his feet sans covering, and dove through the portal.

Conan leaped past the woman, uttering a curse, and would have followed, but a voice from behind stopped him.

"Hold!"

Conan spun, his sword raised.

Elashi stood in the doorway, brandishing a sword of her own. Where had she come by that? Conan wondered.

"Skeer escapes," he said, gesturing at the window.

"I will have the talisman," she said. "Give it to me."

"I do not have it," the Cimmerian began.

"Now, or I will skewer you like a pig!" She advanced, her sword leading.

Woman or not, Conan was not a man to take such a threat lightly. He moved to meet her attack. Peripherally, he noticed the woman called Tuanne scrambling to gather her clothing. He turned his attention away from her; she was no threat, but this mad desert woman might well be.

"For my father!" Elashi yelled, and lunged at Conan.

He parried her thrust with his blade, but held his own return cut. Whatever else she was, she was no swordfighter. Her balance was wrong, her strike awkward, and her footwork almost comical.

He allowed her to strike at him twice more before he slammed his own weapon into her sword, hard. The shock of it tore her grip loose, and the blade fell upon the floor with a clatter. She made as if to attack him barehanded, and he had to move his sword quickly to avoid accidentally injuring her. She was foolish, but certainly brave.

"Stop," he said. "I yield."

"Do not make sport of me, barbarian!"

"Nay, Elashi. I am not your enemy, though you refuse to see it. Skeer left without a stitch to cover him. If he has your talisman, it still lies here."

She drew herself up. "Very well. Where?"

"Perhaps Tuanne saw it-" The brawny Cimmerian stopped speaking. Where was the beautiful woman?

"If you are looking for the harlot, she left."

Conan moved to the pile of clothes Skeer had left. He had seen, briefly, a pouch lying among them when he'd entered the room. The pouch no longer lay there.

"Well? Where is it?"

Conan said, "It seems that Tuanne has taken it."

"And you just let her do it."

"It was you who created the diversion," he said. "Had you not come in with your swordplay, we would have Skeer and the talisman. Now we have neither."

"Your talent for stating the obvious is wonderful, Conan. Now we have to find them both."

She turned and stalked from the room, and Conan could only shake his head. Women. What man could understand them?

Chapter Six

Whatever vestige of wine remaining within Skeer had lost its ability to fog his mind. No, the chill of the evening upon his bare skin alone would have remedied that even if he had not bounced from a low rooftop onto the hard ground outside the inn while making good his escape. His head hurt where the woman-the zombie woman, he corrected his thought-had clouted him with something; but far worse, he had lost the Source of Light; in the end, that would be fatal.

There was much confusion within Skeer. The woman was a zombie, certainly. He had seen enough of the creatures at Neg's beck, and he felt a fool for not recognizing her sooner. As to the massive barbarian, he recognized him from the temple. A hound sent by the priests, no doubt, and one able to recognize the false trail, as well. Not good.

Well. The hound was one thing, the zombie another. One of them had the talisman now, and he would have to determine which, and then retrieve it. He had no desire to become one of Neg's undead himself, and his failure would lead to that, not to mention a most horrible passage before reaching that loathsome state. Neg had never been accused of being merciful.

He had clothing, of a sort. A drying line yielded a coarse shirt and breeches, and a cobbler's shop with a poor lock had given him a pair of new boots that almost fit. A further foray into a merchant's shop had provided a short sword and a supply of salt.

This latter substance held no enchantment, and thus its effectiveness was sorely limited; still, it was the best he could do under the circumstance. Mixed with water and held now in a stoppered jar, the solution offered a temporary stay to the zombie, should he encounter her first. A sufficiently saline solution would paralyze one of the undead for a short time. Long enough to recover the talisman and be several hours distant before she could recover.

If she had the magical object.

It might be that the barbarian swordsman had it, which produced a different set of problems. But he had to sleep sometimes, and Skeer could forgo that pleasure to save his hide.

So, the first problem lay in figuring out which way whoever had the Source of Light would travel. The barbarian would no doubt be returning it to the Suddah Oblates for some reward, and therefore retracing the path Skeer had taken to arrive at the village. An unpleasant thought, that, to contemplate meeting with those worthies.

As for the zombie, well-who could tell what a dead woman might think? If she were one of Neg's, then she would have come from the east, opposite his own trek from the west. But why had she come at all? Had Neg sent her, not trusting Skeer's abilities? While he would not put it past the necromancer, that made little sense. But if she wanted the talisman, then she would probably wish to avoid the priests, did she know they, too, wished to possess it. So she would go the opposite way.

So, the zombie or the barbarian?

In truth, neither choice appealed greatly to Skeer. But the third choice, of eventually having to face Neg's wrath, appealed even less. And deciding wrongly of the first two would ultimately bring upon him the third.

Well. Since both the zombie and the barbarian wanted the talisman, and both had been there with it, he had to think upon which would likely prevail. As clever as he himself was, he had been duped by the woman. What chance would a mere barbarian lout have against the wiles of such a beauty? Little or none, Skeer figured. So, east it was.

On his way from the village, he stole a horse. Were she on foot, he would catch her before daybreak.

Tuanne kept the Source of Light encased within the thick leather of the purse so that it could not come into contact with her flesh. She felt the pull of it, a mystic call that whispered for her to touch it and be free, but her resolution remained firm. No, when she could release the others from their bondage, then she would know that freedom herself. Until then, she would ignore the siren call from the magical key.

The arrival of Conan and the woman who obviously knew him had been a near disaster. She had been lucky to escape. The Source of Light was sought by more than just herself, and she would have to be vigilant until her need for it passed. After that, she did not care who had it as long as it was not Neg. To be called from the Gray Lands a second time would be more than she could bear.

The night and its cold enveloped her as she walked along the road, retracing her earlier path. She was tired, in a way that the living could not be tired, but she did not need sleep or food as they did. A mortal pursuer would have to rest and sup, and each moment thus wasted would advance her lead.

In the dark, Tuanne walked, feeling, for the first time in a hundred years, hope for her own future.

"We must go east," Conan said.

"I understand," Elashi said.

The big Cimmerian looked at her. Thus far, she had questioned virtually all his decisions. He did not ask, but she told him anyway.

She said, "Anyone going west will run into the priests, and thus will be taken captive. We can always check that. Anyone going east will escape, unless we capture them."

"Mm," he said, acknowledging her logic. "At dawn."

"Yes, we might as well use the room Skeer left for us. You sleep there." She pointed at the corner and tossed him a blanket. "I shall sleep here."

Conan shrugged.

She settled upon the bed, while the young giant moved to his assigned corner. Just as he began to drift into slumber, however, she spoke.

"Did you think she was beautiful?"

Conan came back from the edge of sleep. "Who?"

"That woman. Tuanne, you called her."

"Yes."

"You thought so? With such unhealthy white skin you thought her beautiful?"

"Yes."

"Men!"

Conan awaited further dialogue, but none came. He shrugged again and sank into blissful sleep.

As the false dawn neared, Skeer beheld his quarry trudging along the trail toward him. Ah! He had risked his neck and that of his mount by leaving the trail to circle ahead. He had been fortunate; the horse still had use of all four legs and here his risk was now repaid!

He lay in wait behind a thick-holed evergreen tree, his horse tied to another such well back from the road. The zombie's walk was listless, if steady, and she seemed to take little notice of her surroundings.

Skeer unstoppered the jar of saltwater and held the container ready. Soon . . . soon . . .

She came abreast of him. He leaped out into the road and hurled the contents of the jar at her. She threw up one hand to protect herself, but the gesture did not help. As the liquid struck her, she stiffened, and fell into a supernatural swoon.

Skeer moved to the downed figure, bent, and tore his purse from her grasp. He laughed. " 'T'would pay you not to meddle in Skeer's affairs, undead bitch." He looked at her, helpless on the dusty road. She could hear him and see him, he knew, she just could not move.

He considered dallying for a few moments, to finish that which he had desired earlier at the inn. She would not object, and he had no interest in her pleasures, in any event. It would be the work of a few moments to undress her ....

No. He had nearly lost the Source of Light that way earlier, and in those few moments, pursuit could draw that much closer. A pity, but he valued his life much more than any woman, no matter how comely. Riches and women by the hundreds awaited him farther along; merely quick pleasure and risk existed here.

He turned and moved toward his tethered horse.

"Farewell, undead one."

His laugh echoed in the trees.

The sun rose and beamed down upon her, but its heat was scant, and its light showed only cloudy skies. Tuanne had been trying to move for hours, and not even the smallest vibrations had she managed. She gathered her energies once again . . . .

Under the drying crust of salt, she moved her left arm. It was only a small motion, barely a quiver, but it meant that the effect of the saltwater had nearly worn off. Skeer would be far away, but once she could move, she could follow. That single goal held everything for her.

Conan spied the woman. She seemed to be sitting in the middle of the road, odd. He drew his sword, as did Elashi. (The blade, she finally reported, had been lifted from the side of a drunken man in the inn's common room. Likely he had yet to awake and miss it. A lesson in thievery of which the Cimmerian took note. Anyone who could allow his sword to be stolen thusly surely had little need of it.) Tuanne must have heard their approach, for she turned to look at them; still, she did not rise. Perhaps she was injured? Good for them, Conan thought, if not for her.

Conan loomed over the sitting woman. He pointed his sword at one shapely breast. "We'll have Skeer's purse and that which it contains," he said.

Tuanne began to cry. Her body shook with great sobs, and lines of tears tracked her perfect skin. She cried as does a child who has lost her mother.

Conan found himself backing a pace away and lowering his weapon. "Hear, what is this?"

The woman continued to cry. She was not especially loud, but it was obviously founded in deepest grief.

"Stop that," the young Cimmerian said, feeling awkward. "Nobody will harm you. We want only-"

"Oh, hush, fool barbarian!" Elashi said. She had already sheathed her own sword, and now she bent to put her arms around the crying woman. Tuanne buried her face in Elashi's breast and continued to sob quietly. Elashi petted the dark hair and murmured softly, "There, there." She turned and glared at Conan. "See what you have done."

"I? I have done?"

"Yes, you and your threats."

Conan's rage rose in his breast, but he had no focus for the anger. He wished to slay something, but what? A crying woman huddling against another? He turned and stomped to the edge of the road, hoping something would leap out and attack him. A bear, a wolf, a demon, anything. Nothing did, however, and his frustration merely increased.

After a few moments, Elashi called to him.

"Conan. You should come and hear this."

Tuanne had stopped crying, and with Elashi's help, had gained her feet. Conan saw that her clothing was crusted with some whitish powder.

"I do not have the talisman you seek," she began. "The one you call Skeer followed me and took it."

Conan ground his teeth together. Everybody wanted this accursed device!

"I must have it," she said.

"Why?"

She turned to answer the Cimmerian's question. "I need it to help me die."

When she finished her story, Conan could think of little to say. "You are truly a zombie?"

"I died more than a hundred years past," she said. "But I have not been permitted to take my rightful place in the land of the dead. Nor have dozens of others under Neg's thrall. "

"This Neg deserves killing," he said.

"If he obtains the Source of Light, he shall be able to raise legions of dead. And he will certainly use his powers to do more evil."

Conan shrugged. "It is not my business to meddle in magical affairs. I have a debt to pay to Cengh, that is all."

"We must help her," Elashi said. Her voice was firm.

Conan said nothing, knowing she would explain. She always did.

She did not disappoint him. "We shall catch Skeer and retrieve the Source of Light. Then, we shall travel to the crypts where the other prisoners are held and use it to free them-and her. You"-she nodded at Conan- "may then slay Neg, and I shall take the talisman back to my home."

The muscular youth shook his head.

"Is there a flaw in my plan? Is it not simple?"

"It is simple enough," Conan said.

"Then what?"

He thought about that for a moment. He did wish to settle the score with Skeer; and, since Neg had dispatched the killer, such settlement extended to him, as well. The plan was direct he liked that part of it-only, the idea of traveling with two women, well, that might be more complex. It was difficult enough with one.

"Well?" Elashi demanded.

"Nothing," he said. "We shall try your plan."

"I do not see how it can fail," Elashi said.

Prudently, Conan chose not to speak to that statement.

Winter, however, did choose that moment to make his presence felt. He did so in the form of a blizzard that quickly boiled over the mountaintops, battering all beneath it with sleet, hail, and, of course, snow.

Conan knew how to deal with such weather, and immediately began to build a lean-to in the woods nearby, using his sword to trim branches and vines for the structure. Within an hour, he had shelter for the three of them, a small fire going to fight the hard chill, and a nest of evergreen boughs for added warmth.

"How long must we stay here?" Elashi asked.

"Until the storm stops."

"We do not have weather like this in the desert. How long will that be?"

He shrugged. "An hour, a day, three days. Only the gods know."

"But Skeer will escape!"

Before Conan could answer, Tuanne said in a soft voice, "Not likely. If you cannot travel, neither can he."

Elashi regarded the pale woman. "Could you travel in this storm?"

"I could, but slowly. And I would be . . . colder than usual."

The woman of the desert sighed. "Well. I suppose we shall just have to wait, and hope we do not lose his trail."

"I can locate that which he carries," Tuanne said. "He can flee, but he cannot hide, not from me."

The coldness of her voice touched Conan then, with a finger more icy than the wind blowing around them. She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but she was also something outside his experience. She did not look dangerous, but that she was, he also had no doubt. He put more wood on the fire against the cold, but it did not drive this particular chill from him.

Skeer's fortune had shifted into the realm of the less-than-good. When the storm started, he had pushed his mount, in an attempt to outrun it for shelter. As the snow thickened, he lost the trail. His mount stumbled and threw him, fortunately without injury to himself. Unfortunately, the horse had broken his leg. Skeer realized he was going to be stranded for the duration of the storm.

Well, he thought, as he pulled his sword and advanced on the hapless animal, at least he would not be hungry ....

Chapter Seven

The storm beat at the Earth with icy fists for two days and nights. Came the dawn of the third day, the sun finally reclaimed the land, sending his golden light over a world enshrouded in glistening white. Just in time, too, since the last of their provisions had been consumed.

Conan had not been idle during the blizzard. He had used his dagger to carefully carve three sets of snowshoes from green saplings. The storm had not spared the road, and the attendant cold had crusted the surface, but not to a solidity that would support the weight of a man on mere boots. Too, he had attempted to forage for food; unfortunately, he had sighted no game during the wintery onslaught. It had been left to Tuanne, who herself did not eat, to locate some tough and starchy roots upon which Conan and Elashi chewed. The Cimmerian liked this fare little-he was beginning to feel like a squirrel-but he had little choice. Better rabbit food than none at all. In any event, the storm had done its mischief, and it was now possible to depart.

Elashi had her doubts. "We will sink to our breasts in this accursed snow and freeze!"

"Nay," Conan said. "With these"-he waved the snowshoes-"we can stay on the surface, if we move with care."

Such a thing proved to be the case. The Cimmerian youth led the way across the mounded snows; he sank, but only a little, and his steps created small shush-shush sounds in the frigid air. Conan was a large man, and if the snow would support his weight, Elashi and Tuanne had little worry of being swallowed by the white powder.

Movement was possible, but speed other than slow was not. The young Cimmerian's breath made fog in the air as he shuffled along the road, buried now beneath half a span of fresh snow. Likely Skeer would be having no easier time of it, unless he had cleared the mountain pass before the storm had begun, and Conan contented himself with that belief. Of course, the thief and slayer did not have two women along to slow his pace; still, one made do.

At the moment that the three pursuers began to follow him once again, Skeer moved not at all; rather, he sat wrapped in a blanket, huddled next to a small fire, in magical contact with Neg. He had eaten well, but his trip would be slowed for it. And his lack of a speedy return must be explained, lest Neg chastise him for it.

It had taken no small effort to capture a snow hare. He did not need the meat, but warm blood was essential for the communicatory spell. He had no desire to utilize his own crimson essence, though that was always an option.

Contact was established. The Connection forged in magical fires became as a link between Skeer and his master.

"SPEAK. "

Best move directly to the heart of things, Skeer figured. "I am delayed by a winter storm, lord. My mount is no more, and it might take some time to replace it, as there are none available nearby."

"DO YOU HAVE THAT WHICH I SEEK?"

"Be assured that I do, my lord. I shall hasten to deliver as soon as possible."

"SEE THAT YOU DO. WASTE NO TIME."

"By your command, lord."

Skeer felt the contact sunder, and he shuddered at the malign power of the necromancer that still vibrated through his soul. Neg must not find him wanting, lest his ire manifest itself as Skeer had seen it happen to others. As a master, the necromancer was powerful and generous to those who served him well. To those who served him less than successfully . . . well, 'twas better not to think of them.

The thief stood, stretched his cold ligaments, and swung his arms to hasten the circulation of blood. Best to do as he had been instructed, and waste no time.

"Do you know this route?" Conan asked.

Tuanne nodded. "Yes. We currently travel toward the four mountains known as the Death Mask. Somewhere within their valley lies Opkothard, the city of mystery. It I have never seen, and even rumors speak of it in whispers."

"Is our quarry likely to go there, do you think?" Elashi asked.

Tuanne shook her head. "Unlikely. The most direct path lies ahead. There would be no reason to detour."

"Then perhaps we can catch up to him," Elashi said.

Conan did not state his doubt of this-that Skeer had a horse and they did not. Alone, at a trot, he might maintain the pace of a mount. With these two, Conan thought it unlikely they would catch their quarry.

This was only moments before they discovered Skeer's camp, however. When he saw the remains of Skeer's illfated horse, the big Cimmerian was glad he had not voiced his earlier worry. The left foreleg of the animal was broken, though hardly the cause of death. Though the local vermin had been at the corpse, leaving no useful meat, Conan found a vertebra that had been cleaved in twain with a sword. Skeer had killed his mount, likely due to the broken limb. And had eaten better for it, though he walked now. Fortune had smiled upon them in that respect, at least.

"Perhaps Skeer will detour to this Opkothard after all," Conan said. "Unless he wishes to travel the remaining distance on foot. We might catch him there. Or at least obtain mounts of our own."

"Have you funds for such a purchase?" Tuanne asked.

Conan smiled. "Nay. But I have come to realize that such a state is not always an impediment."

Nightfall found the trio only half the distance they would have traveled without the encumbrance of snow; still, Skeer could travel no faster, and would hardly be gaining. Conan hurried to gather small branches from a dead tree. "We must build a fire," he said.

Elashi, as she was wont to do, remarked upon this with no small amount of superiority in her voice.

"Why do you hurry, Conan? Are you so cold?"

As if in answer, a distant howl came, echoing in the dimming light. After three heartbeats, the howl was followed by a second, then a third. A moment more, and the air seemed alive with the voice of the wild creatures.

Elashi turned to Tuanne, who moved to help Conan gather wood.

"Wolves," Tuanne said simply. "Or worse."

"Worse?"

"Dire-wolves, perhaps. Or those touched with the magic of a were."

"I don't understand," Elashi said. "A where?"

"Werewolves. Men, who when the moon is right or the magic high enough, change from human into magicked creatures. They look like wolves, and act much as natural wolves, but they are intelligent, as are men, and impervious to normal weapons."

Elashi shuddered. It was no more than another heartbeat before she was next to Conan, stripping dry twigs from the tree.

Once the fire was going, Conan felt better. Natural beasts feared fire. If these things painting the night with their songs were other than natural, he would trust to his sword. Crom gave a man courage at birth, and a strong arm and sharp blade would divest a magical beast of its head, he would wager. His dealings with magic thus far in his young life had left a bad taste upon his tongue, and he wanted no part of it.

The beastly howls grew closer. Conan noted that Elashi and Tuanne both seemed more tolerant of his closeness as the sounds drew nearer. At one point, he leaned in to add fuel to the crackling fire. When he leaned back, he felt the hips of both women touch his own brawny thighs to either side. He grinned, but it was a tiny one, more to himself than visible. There were some advantages to the night noises.

The Cimmerian spread his cloak wide. "Wrap this around you," he told the women, "so that we may share our warmth." In truth, with the fire roaring only a span away, he was quite warm; still, both Elashi and Tuanne seemed eager to accept.

To his right, Elashi radiated much heat of her own; but to his left, Tuanne seemed as cold as might a woman carved from marble and left out in the chill of winter. Soft, her body was, but frigid.

With his belly rumbling around the roots and tubers he had eaten and the warmth of the fire and companionship of two women, Conan felt himself slip into a doze.

He awoke to Tuanne's hurried whisper.

"Conan."

The Cimmerian's blue eyes flicked open, to see a monster facing him across the dim remains of the fire.

It was some form of wolf, but half the size of a horse, and nearly as white as the snow around it. In the faint light of the fire, the thing's bared teeth gleamed like old ivory.

Conan felt Elashi stir next to him. "Prepare to stoke the fire," he whispered. "I shall see if I can frighten it away. "

The dire-wolf edged a bit nearer, watching Conan intently.

Abruptly, Conan leaped to his feet and waved his sword. "Ho, wolf!" he yelled. His voice was a harsh bass that thundered in the quiet night.

The dire-wolf jumped backward twice its length, startled, but stopped there and held its ground. Without turning around, Conan said, "Tuanne, do you think this might be one of those were-creatures of which you spoke?"

"It does not have a magical air about it, no," she replied.

"Good. Build up the fire, in case it has brothers."

The white wolf growled, a deep rumble. Its lips lifted to show the finger-long fangs, and the ruff on its shoulders rose. Stiff-legged, it took a small step toward Conan.

The man gripped his sword's handle loosely, avoiding tension that would slow him, and began to circle to his right.

The wolf turned to follow Conan's progress. The rumble increased. Conan watched as it gathered itself for a spring.

The wolf leaped, aiming for Conan's throat. Lithely, the Cimmerian youth bounded to one side, out of the creature's path. He swung the big broadsword around and over his head, as might a man splitting wood with an axe, but kept his shoulders down, as he had been taught.

The wolf's speed was deceptive. It seemed to move slower than it actually did. Conan's swing, had it connected with the beast's neck or body, would have dealt it a killing blow. As it happened, the razored edge of the sword met instead the tip of the beast's tail, and severed it neatly.

The wolf howled and spun, but its balance was altered by the missing segment of tail. When it darted in to sink its teeth into Conan's thigh, what it found instead was the Cimmerian's cloak. Growling, it tore at the material, shaking it from side to side.

Having adjusted for his earlier error, Conan's second cut was more accurate. His blade sang in the frosty air, a cold melody of iron and blood, and the edge of the sword met the gristle and bone of the dire-wolf's neck. The contest went to the man and forged metal.

The beast's head sagged, then fell away from the body, sinking into the snow with a wet thump. An instant passed before the body of the wolf realized its fate. Then, in a single, final spasm, the body sprang sightlessly, smashing into Conan, knocking him sprawling, gouting crimson over the fallen man.

Both Tuanne and Elashi leaped toward Conan, yelling his name.

The Cimmerian giant sat up and shoved the corpse of the wolf away from him, smearing yet more of the thing's gore over his hands. Steam arose from the congealing blood, to dissipate in the night's hard cold.

"It is nothing," he said, getting to his feet.

The two women stared at him. Even Tuanne, who must have seen many sights in her unnatural lifetime, seemed amazed that Conan still lived.

"Lend me your knife," Conan said to Elashi. "Perhaps the white fur of this beast might be worth something."

Silent for once, Elashi tendered her dagger.

Conan tested the edge, found it satisfactory, and set to removing the pelt of the dire-wolf. The creature would have no more use for it. He could not tan it properly, but the wolf also had brains it would no longer need, as well. Rubbed into the inner lining of the pelt, they would help preserve it until proper methods could be used.

Chapter Eight

Neg swung his hand hard, and the back of it smacked against the face in front of him with a satisfying, if not particularly effective, slap.

The recipient of the strike held his unblinking stare without apparent pain or even interest. He was one of the Men With No Eyes, and his glassy orbs swam with swirling and tiny gray clouds that gave his face the only movement visible.

"Is she the only one?" Neg demanded.

The figure nodded once, the gesture almost a bow.

"Then you shall replace her!"

At this the figure finally showed some emotion. He backed away, raising his hands.

Neg smiled. He waved, and another pair of his sightless minions flowed toward the condemned one. They grabbed him tightly, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might resist. Abruptly, the struggles stopped, as if the man-it had once been a man, after all-realized the uselessness of his actions.

"Take him to the vaults. Kill him."

After the three had departed, Neg moved to observe himself in a looking glass on the nearby wall of his chamber. Where have you gotten to, Tuanne? Not within my range of command, for I cannot feel your essence, either in the land of the living or the dead. The In-Between Lands? I could not find you, be you there, but how did you manage to leave my vaults, my pretty night-child?

Neg's image regarded him impassively, its face hiding any emotion beneath a mask of unconcern. It bodes ill, brother, the image seemed to say, for one of your thrall to escape. Such a thing has never happened before. Is your power waning? Is there some preternatural force interfering with your own? Has some trickster god inserted his verge into your affairs for reasons of his own?

Neg turned away from the glass, disturbed by the questions of his mirror image. Such things could not be answered. She was gone, whatever the reason, and that was as much as he could ascertain at the moment.

Very well. He could deal with that aspect of the affair. Aside from the fact that Tuanne was one of his favorite slaves, there existed the matter of maintaining appearances. True, he deemed it unlikely that anyone outside his castle would ever know of her escape; still, if anyone did learn of it, it would seem a chink in his power. Therefore, it would behoove him to locate the woman and retrieve her as soon as possible.

He clapped his hands. Almost immediately, one of the blind priests stood before him. It was as if the man had heard the sound of Neg's hands in the air before they had slapped together, so fast was the response. Possibly he had; the cult had hearing beyond that of mortal men.

"Go and find my thrall, the one your brother allowed to escape. Take five like yourself and go now. Do not return without her. "

The Man With No Eyes bowed, and turned away, his robes flaring with the quickness of his move.

Good, Neg thought. That chore would be settled soon. The Men With No Eyes were most tenacious. He would content himself with devising an appropriate punishment for the lovely Tuanne when she was returned to him. Something subtle, but effective.

Meanwhile, he would await the delivery of the Source of Light. Should it arrive before his priests could fetch Tuanne, that would end the matter. With the talisman's power, he could find her anywhere, Between Lands or no. His reach would be boundless.

He grinned at the thought and felt quite happy. Perhaps another rat would try to scold him as he walked the dank halls of the castle. That would be nice. He would like to use his death-gaze once again. And when he exhausted the rat supply? Well, there were always the nearby villagers ....

Skeer's feet bore large blisters inside his ill-fitting boots as he approached the city of Opkothard. He had caught distant glimpses of it as the trail twisted through the craggy mountains, but when he rounded the final bend that allowed him a full view, he abruptly forgot the pain in his feet.

Opkothard: it was a place of much speculation by those who had never been there. He himself had managed to survive thirty-two winters without laying his gaze upon the place, and had never felt the lack. As he stared at the city wall no more than an hour's walk ahead, he wished he did not have to see it now.

The city wall was massive, the exact color of the surrounding rock, and likely built of that same gray stone. Judging size at this distance was no easy chore, but if that ant crawling along the top was a man, then the wall scaled a height of at least twelve spans. What need had they of a barrier that high? And correspondingly thick, too, he would wager.

There was only one entrance along the unbroken gray wall, that being astride the very path upon which he now trod. The gates, themselves half the height of the wall, seemed to be of some dark red material. As he drew closer, Skeer observed that this material seemed to be iron, and the red a thin layer of rust. No invading force would burn through those portal doors!

As if any invading force could even reach the doors. For, as he approached, the thief saw that the path narrowed for the last segment, so that nothing wider than a single dray could traverse it. To either side, a sheer drop loomed, ending in jagged rocks far below. Just before the gates, a domino bridge finished the path. With it raised, a gap wider than five armspans would open its maw to swallow any so foolish as to try and leap it.

The Opkothardians did not wish to have uninvited company, so it would seem. And any not allowed in would have a difficult time trying to force entrance. Three or four men might march abreast along the narrow path to the drawbridge, but leaping over the gap while avoiding arrows from a phalanx of bowmen on the walls certainly did not fulfill any of Skeer's ambitions. Leave that to men without enough sense to come in out of the rain.

The guard posted above the gates must have seen Skeer approaching for the better part of half an hour, and yet he seemed to take no notice until Skeer hailed him.

"Ho, the city!"

'Yes? What would ye be needin', footman?"

"Entrance would do."

"Aye, ye would think so. For what purpose?"

Skeer had not thought of having to satisfy an examination for entrance to the city; still, his wit had never been dull on such matters. As he had walked the final steps to the gate, he had spied painted upon the rock near the rusted iron a symbol, that of a fat-bodied spider. Now Skeer paid reverence to no particular gods, though he was wont to use the names of many, usually in swearing. But he had some knowledge of this particular symbol: it represented the Nameless spider-god, a patron deity of Yezud, were he not mistaken. The Nameless had never held sway over great numbers in the way that Mitra, Bel, or even Set had done; still, the Nameless had his worshipers. For his sign to be so prominently displayed upon the otherwise graffitiless wall likely meant something of import.

"Well, footman? Did the devil take your tongue?"

"There could be many reasons for my journey here, fellow man, but as it happens, I came to pay my respects to Him With No Name, whose form carries legs eight in number. "

"Eh? Why didn't ye say so in the first place? Welcome, pilgrim, to Opkothard. May the Nameless look upon you with favor."

"And may He look upon you as you deserve, as well, friend," Skeer said. And I hope he sucks your juices out through your eyes, fool.

The right half of the massive gate swung outward enough to admit a single man, making in the short journey a screech that would have given a demon pause. Skeer congratulated himself in his quickness of thought, as he moved into the mysterious city that liked spiders.

When Conan and his two companions approached the city gate to Opkothard, the shadows stretched long, as the sun settled for his nightly rest. The Cimmerian had seen other walled cities, though none with such an imposing fence as this one.

"Ho," the watchman called down from the wall top, "state what business ye have in Opkothard." There sounded an arrogance in his voice that instantly grated on the brawny Cimmerian.

Conan was tempted to yell to the watch that such business was his own, but he held his tongue. While he could easily clamber over the wall, being a Cimmerian bred to the mountains, the two women might not fare so easily.

Before he could speak, however, Tuanne stepped into a shaft of dwindling sunlight, so that her pale skin seemed almost to glow in its whiteness. "Open the gate," she commanded.

Conan watched the guard closely. The man licked lips that seemed to have gone suddenly dry, and made a complex sign in the air with one hand. "Aye," he said, all trace of arrogance suddenly vanished. Whether he recognized Tuanne for what she was or not, he certainly saw something in her that hurried his wave to the gatetender below. In a moment, the gate swung open with a metal screech.

Inside, Conan's first impressions were mixed: there came to him the city-smells, of people, cooking, and waste, all blended into an aromatic odor unknown outside civilization. A cleared area in front of a row of stone buildings held a man-sized carving of a spider, a hulking monster squatting on eight thick legs. The streets seemed relatively wide, but numerous alleys branched from them, narrow paths between the manmade rock structures.

A small boy stared at the trio, and Conan hailed him.

The boy moved closer. "Are you a barbarian?"

The Cimmerian allowed himself a dry chuckle. "Aye, boy, or so some men name me. But we're looking for someone."

He described Skeer, but the boy shook his head. "Hain't seed him. What's that skin you carry?"

"It belonged to a wolf who asked too many questions," Conan said. "Would you know the man we seek if you should see him?"

"Aye, giant sir."

"Good." Conan turned to Elashi. "Do you have any coins?"

"A few."

"Give the boy a copper."

Elashi fished in her pouch and produced a coin. She flipped it toward the boy, who caught it deftly.

Conan said, "Now, boy, if you see this man, come and find me, and there will be two more coppers for you."

"I shall go and look instantly, sir!"

"Nay, hold. How many ways are there out of this city?"

"There are but two, sir. This entrance, and the one which leads to the enclosed valley to the north, where our crops are grown. "

"Better. You stay here and watch to see if the man leaves. Direct me to a trader, where I might sell this pelt."

The boy gave Conan a complicated set of turnings, and the big Cimmerian nodded. Leading Elashi and Tuanne, he set off to find the trader's store.

As it turned out, the trader kept his stock mostly outside, under a blue-striped tarp. When Conan strode into the tent without walls, bearing the dire-wolf pelt, a short and thin man seemed to appear from nowhere, to begin clucking over the fur.

"Ah, a fine pelt, fine. Dire-wolf, is it not? Of course, it needs to be properly tanned and the head is missing, so it is less than perfect; still, I might be moved to offer a piece of silver for it, for I am feeling generous today."

Tuanne touched Conan on the shoulder, her fingers chilly against his skin. He turned toward her.

"No less than five silver pieces," she whispered. "White dire-wolves are rare, and he will likely realize twice that much when he sells it."

The merchant was so busy rubbing the fur that he missed the whispered advice. Conan's next words brought him out of his trance.

"Eight pieces of silver," the young Cimmerian said.

The trader looked as if someone had spat upon him.

"Eight? Eight? Are you mad? Has the sun cooked your brain? Even a man as generous as I would be taking bread from the mouths of his children to offer more than three silvers for such a moldy skin!"

Conan allowed himself another small smile. Traders were the same everywhere, it seemed. They would rather bargain than breathe.

Conan shrugged. "I would not wish to be the cause of seeing your children starve. Perhaps I could accept seven and eat less well myself."

The man practically bounced, so much was he enjoying himself. "Four. Four would force me to borrow from my burial money-would you have a man remain above the ground, outlander, for a trifling amount of silver?"

Conan rubbed at his chin. "A serious matter, merchant. Still, to accept less than six might well cause me the same fate."

The merchant fingered the pelt, and gave Conan a shrewd appraisal.

Without seeming to, Conan looked around. Several rough-looking men had drifted toward the tent. Three of them bore daggers thrust through their belts, but none carried swords or pikes.

"Your barbarian disguise is very clever," the merchant said, "but it does not fool me. I know a trader when I speak to one. Five, and that is my final offer."

Conan nodded. "You are too sharp for me, master tradesman. I accept."

The little man grinned. He slapped Conan on one hard shoulder, seemed surprised by the muscle there, and nodded.

The exchange proceeded. As the five silver coins flashed in the rapidly fading sunlight, Conan was very much aware of the five men who watched the transaction with more than casual interest. Elashi and Tuanne also seemed to notice the attention. When Elashi made to speak, Conan silenced her with a gesture.

"Ho, master merchant," the Cimmerian said, "that anvil yonder seems to be placed badly."

The merchant nodded. "Aye. My two loutish assistants dragged it there and could move it no further. They have been gathering their strength for several days before attempting to relocate it."

"Where would you have it?"

"There, by the barrel of ironware."

"I shall move it for you."

With that, Conan walked to the large anvil, a chunk of black-painted iron easily equal to his own weight. He squatted, wrapped his fingers around either end, and stood. With the anvil held to his chest, he turned easily toward the merchant. "It seems that this must be hollow."

"Hollow? Nay, friend, it is solid pig iron, the best casting. "

Conan pressed the anvil upward until it was at arm's length over his head. He repeated the motion thrice more before holding the weight as before. "Are you certain? It seems no more than a hollow shell, filled with, say, feathers. "

The effect of this demonstration was not lost upon the market riffraff who had been watching. These worthies suddenly recalled that they had business elsewhere, or so it seemed to Conan. He heard small mutterings-

"-by the Nameless, no one is that strong-!"

"-not trifle with that barbarian-"

"-by Set, I'll not risk it-!"

-and the five drifted away as they had come.

Conan carried the anvil to the location indicated by the merchant and set it down as softly as a mother would a sleeping child.

"I would fire both my loutish assistants if you wished work as their replacement."

"Thank you, good merchant, but no. I have five pieces of silver, and therefore do not need to work."

When Conan turned back toward Elashi and Tuanne, he saw that both women were staring at him.

"By Mitra's Left Nostril," Elashi said, "I have never seen a man with your strength! How could you move such a thing so easily?"

Tuanne did not speak, but nodded her agreement with Elashi's question.

Conan felt quite pleased with himself. "That trinket? It was nothing. Come, let us find lodging for the night. In the morning, we shall locate Skeer and make an end to this business."

When they left the merchant's store, Conan's walk held more than a little swagger. A man could find himself in much worse places than this: to have frightened dangerous men and impressed beautiful women with a single action, and to have silver in one's purse. Yes, there were much worse places for a man to be.

Chapter Nine

The guard posted above the South Gate of Opkothard could not recall when he had seen a stranger lot than had come to visit the city. Yesterday, a pilgrim alone who looked more like a footpad than a True Believer had come. Then, a muscle-laden barbarian, bearing a white animal skin and two women, one of whom was obviously a priestess of Him With No Name. The touch of her gaze made him cold, and he was quick to allow them in-he did not need the One With No Name frowning upon him. Then, after the sun went down, six priests had arrived in the darkness, though it was the guard's belief that darkness meant little to them, for they were certainly blind. Never a misstep had one of them made, however, and he also did not doubt that he would walk halfway around the city to avoid meeting these six in any secluded place. And finally, just before his watch was to end, a single robed figure approached.

"Who goes there?" the guard called out.

"I am Malo, priest-initiate of the Suddah Oblates."

The guard knew of that order; they had passed in and out of the city before. But this one carried a sword in a belt fastened around his waist, and the Suddah had never shown arms before. Still, it was not his job to divine the peculiarities of some minor religion. The Suddah were allowed in, and that was the end of it.

The guard gestured to the gatekeep, and once more, the massive iron slabs forced a protesting groan from the hinges as the gate swung open.

"I feel that which we seek," Tuanne said. "That way." She pointed. Ahead lay a crooked street that wound through a shabbier section of the city. The moon, if it shone, did so behind a thick blanket of clouds, and the only light came from guttering torches set at sparse intervals on poles along the road.

Conan said, "Since Skeer has seen us all, 'twould be best if we caught him unawares. I favor obtaining a meal and room for the night, then rising early."

"That is a good idea," Elashi said. She sounded amazed that any such thought could have come from her companion.

Conan turned toward her, started to speak, then thought better of it. Never mind. It did not matter.

"There is an inn just ahead," Tuanne said.

Conan squinted into the darkness. His eyes, though sharper than most, failed to see sign of an inn.

Tuanne chuckled, the first laugh Elashi and Conan had heard from her. She said, "I am used to the darkness. My sight has had many years to adjust."

She led them down the narrow street, and the smell of something spicy cooking wafted to Conan's nostrils. His mouth watered. Aside from roots, he had eaten nothing for several days. The meat of dire-wolves was sour, according to Tuanne, and the rancid stench of the carcass he had skinned had been enough to convince Conan that it was better left uneaten.

They came to the inn, a stone building with a wooden door and shutters, and a sign hung over the portal. The sign, an unpainted wooden plank, had burned into it the design of a spider. Big on that around here they were, Conan thought. He did not recognize the words etched with some hot tool into the wood under the picture.

"It is called 'The Tarantula,' " Tuanne said.

Elashi shuddered. "I know that name. It is a large spider, big as a man's hand. I have seen them in the desert."

"Poison?" Conan asked.

"No. No more than a bad sting from the bite, so my people say. But hairy and ugly."

Conan dismissed the subject from his thoughts. That a thing might be hairy and ugly worried him not. Poison was another matter.

"Skeer is not within," Tuanne announced. "At least the talisman is not, and I cannot imagine that he would release it from his grasp."

Conan nodded. "Then we shall enter and dine."

Several fat torches lined the walls of the inn, giving everything a smoky, yellow cast. Four men and two women sat or stood about in the central room, eating, talking, or just taking in the warmth of the fire set in the large hearth in one corner. It smelled clean enough.

Tuanne moved to a wooden table near the fire, Elashi and Conan following. The room's occupants cast lazy glances at the trio, but none moved to speak, and none seemed concerned over the visitors.

After a moment, a portly woman wrapped in a stained lined apron approached. "What'll be for ye this night, strangers?"

"Wine," Conan said, "and food. Bread, meat, what have you."

"No meat, I'm afraid, big man. All eaten. I have cheese, sharp and green, bread, black and crusty, and all the wine ye can hold."

Conan felt a pang of hunger for a seared slab of beef, but he had long ago learned to make do with what was available. "Aye, mistress innkeep, bring those things, then. "

She waddled away, to return shortly with a platter bearing two loaves of black bread, a head-sized chunk of fragrant cheese, and three brass cups. After a moment, she fetched a pair of wine bottles and set them onto the table. "Four coppers for the meal," she said.

"Have you a room?"

The woman looked shrewdly at Conan, and grinned. "One room for the three of ye?"

"Aye."

"To be sure, to be sure. Another four coppers."

"What is the rate of copper to silver in this town?" Conan asked.

The woman hesitated for a moment, then grinned. "No point in trying to fool a man what can take care of two women at once," she said. "Ten to one."

Automatically, Conan said, "I had heard fifteen."

"Well, in some quarters, may be. Here, twelve to one would be more appropriate."

Conan did not feel like haggling, since the food lay in front of him. He handed the woman one of his silver coins. "Here, then, for the meal and room, and the balance for your service."

"Ah, a generous man ye be, young sir." The woman took the coin and walked away.

The bread was not warm, but neither was it stale; the cheese indeed had a hard sharpness, and the wine tasted sweet and dry. Conan ate with gusto, as did Elashi. Tuanne ate nothing, but pretended to sip from her cup and occasionally stirred bits of bread and cheese around the platter for any who might be watching.

After the meal, the three were shown their room, a clean, if small, space up a flight of stairs. There was, however, a slight problem.

"There is only one mat," Elashi said.

"But surely large enough for three," the innkeep said. She flashed a wicked and knowing grin.

"Bring another mat," the desert woman said firmly.

The woman nodded and turned away. Under her breath, but still audible, she muttered, "Trouble in paradise, eh?"

Conan smiled, but wiped the expression away at the sight of Elashi's sudden glare at him.

"I would share your bed, Conan," Tuanne said. "The night is cold, and your warmth appreciated."

Elashi's reaction to this was, as much she had done while with Conan, unexpected. When the portly innkeep returned, dragging a second sleeping mat, the desert woman said to her, "I have changed my mind. It is too cold to sleep alone. I will bed with them." She waved one hand airily at Conan and Tuanne.

The innkeeper's wicked grin returned. "Aye, I have no trouble understanding that."

"We shall only sleep together," Elashi said. "For warmth."

"Of course, mistress. Of course."

Skeer fared somewhat less well at that very moment. He had no desire to call attention to himself, and therefore had rented a small sleeping stall in a pigsty of an inn, so that he might be thought poor. He had stretched a line of fishing cord across the entrance to the doorless stall at ankle level. The string, while thin, was sufficiently strong that a man trying to pass through the doorway in the dark would very likely be tripped. Skeer slept with his dagger clutched in one hand, and lightly enough so the thud of a falling body would sure awaken him in time to use the blade before the intruder recovered from his loss of balance. Further, he had taken the precaution of using his dagger to dig a small hole in the dirt under the rancid hay that served for a bed, whereupon he hid the talisman. Buried and the dirt smoothed over, a casual search would not reveal his treasure.

In truth, Skeer did not think he would be bothered during the night. Of the six stalls in the drafty building, none but three was occupied. One contained a drunkard, stinking of sour wine and snoring loudly enough to disturb the dead's slumber; the second held a badly wheezing white-haired man who must have seen seventy winters, all of them hard; and the last cell held himself. While it was unlikely that anyone still followed him, it was even less likely that, should that be the case, they would seek him here. Certainly no one would freely stay here, had he any other choice.

On the morrow, Skeer would seek to replenish his fortunes somewhat, to obtain a horse and supplies, and be off. While he would dally in better quarters and with warmer company than those snoring and wheezing about him at the moment, he would not do so at the expense of his hide. Should Neg discern that one of his agents dared to disobey his orders, said agent's life would be worth less than road dust.

With that pleasant thought echoing in his mind, Skeer slipped into an uneasy sleep.

The Men With No Eyes moved silently through the streets, unhampered by the shroud of night that gave most men pause. The torches flamed low, where they still glowed at all, and the clouds had dropped to become thick fog. The city of Opkothard lay encrusted in swirling cold, the Stygian darkness hiding its secrets from sight-but not from the Men With No Eyes. They moved as one, checking for any sign of the zombie Tuanne. Though blind, their ears caught the faintest sounds; the footsteps of a rat in an alley thundered in their ears. Though blind, their nostrils could scent the sweet smell of a man with a woman, behind closed doors. Though blind, their skins caught the faint heat of an old man smoking a pipe as he lay sleepless in his bed, remembering his past days of youth and glory. Lack of sight meant little to these evil priests, and they moved almost tirelessly, predators on the hunt. They would find that which they sought, or they would not return to their temple.

They would find her.

Malo settled in a wool-shed, burrowing among the bales of fleece for warmth. His questions had determined that the barbarian who had slain two of his brother priests had indeed sought refuge here. Well, he would not find it.

That the one who called himself Conan had killed Cengh and Mikahl the Messenger Malo doubted not at all. The evidence was indisputable. The barbarian lout had fled, taking with him the Source of Light which the messenger had brought to the temple. Would an innocent man flee? Surely not.

That the Cimmerian ape had humbled and embarrassed Malo in front of his teacher merely added fuel to Malo's righteous anger. He had been quick to volunteer to join the searchers for the slayer of the two Oblates. Only this time, these would be no fimbo rules to observe. The blade Malo now had lying next to his hand was of fine Turanian steel, folded many times during its forging for strength, with an edge he could use to shave his beard. Let the ape try to catch it in his hand as he had the wooden blade, and it would be blood and bones in the dirt of the street!

For the deaths of the Oblates, Conan must die. For the embarrassment of Malo, that death would be slow and painful. He would carve the barbarian like a straw practice-post, filling the gutters with the pieces!

On the morrow he would find the killer. On the morrow, the killer would pay. With that thought, Malo slipped into a sleep laced with glorious and bloody dreams.

In the heart of Opkothard, in the depths of a black temple dedicated to the Eight-Legged God With No Name, a rail-thin priest tended to his obscene ministrations. On the altar lay the entrails of a fresh-killed ram. A dozen black spiders, each with a belly bearing a red hourglass design, scuttled through the gore. The priest watched the patterns created by the spiders, and his divinations filled him with worry. There were dangerous men in the city, some bearing Powers better not trifled with, some seeking those energies. Such men as these could create many problems, if proper attention were not paid.

The thin priest watched the spiders a moment longer, then reached for the ceremonial club at his belt. The spiders, having served their one-time purpose, were no longer energized. Carefully, but with the proper detachment, the priest smashed each of the spiders into pulp. They were all female, the spiders, and what he did to them was no more than they did to their mates, once the males had served their purpose. The wheel spun, as always, completing the cosmic cycle.

The results of this divination must be taken at once to Emreaves, the High Priest. He might wish to take steps against these intruders into the sanctity of the spider-god's mountain stronghold.

One of the spiders trembled on the altar, probably no more than a nervous spasm, but the priest paused and brought the ceremonial club down upon it with great force. Parts of gut splattered, and the gory effluvia stained his robe, but he took no notice of it. The ceremony was the important thing; a robe could be washed, but a haunting by an illused spider was another thing altogether.

Chapter Ten

Skeer awoke to the muffled sound of a man yelling nearby; in fact, the man making the racket lay sprawled upon the floor of Skeer's unkempt sleeping stall, more or less facedown in the filthy hay. This posture was responsible for the reduced volume of the man's cry, it being difficult to make much noise with a mouthful of compost.

The thief came up from sleep all of a moment. He rolled from his pallet toward the intruder, the point of his knife leading. It was but a second's work for Skeer to grab the fallen man's hair and pull his head back to expose the throat. He laid the edge of his blade against the strangely clean skin. By the thin shaft of morning sun that penetrated the stall through a warped board, Skeer took stock. He recognized the man as the drunk who had occupied one of the other sleeping stalls earlier. The artfully tied fishing line had not failed in its purpose. Now, what was the man about?

Skeer posed the question. "What are you doing in here?"

The odor of the sour wine nauseated him when the man opened his mouth to reply. "Ah, ah, ah, good sir, my lord, I-I, I 'uz just lookin' for-for-"

"Come on, man, spit it out!"

An unfortunate choice of words, it seemed. The drunk started to heave; his mouth opened, and a torrent of stinking liquid gushed forth.

"By Set!" Skeer leaped backward to avoid the rush of vomitus as the drunk continued heaving.

After a moment, the stench in the fetid cell rose to fill every corner, it seemed. Skeer's own belly rumbled at the high odor.

The drunk, smiling, said, "I 'uz in search of the night stall, my lord. Nature called."

"Out!" Skeer yelled. "And mind the line!"

The drunk managed to raise himself to a wobbly stance, and, despite Skeer's warning, tripped over the string across the doorway as he exited. After a moment, he shambled off down the hallway.

Wonderful, Skeer thought. Such a place is this that a drunk mistakes my sleeping room for an outhouse! It was past time to be away from here, of that there was no doubt.

Quickly, Neg's agent went to dig up his treasure.

As Skeer departed from his ill-spent night lodging, an unseen figure stood in the shadows, watching intently. Skeer rounded a corner, out of sight, and the watcher moved into the light, revealing the drunken man who had recently lain upon the floor of Skeer's quarters. Now, however, the man's gaze seemed sharp and unfogged by wine; and, when he moved, his gait revealed only steadiness, with no trace of alcoholic crippling.

The drunk smiled.

A second figure slipped from the shadows, to stand near the drunk. This proved to be the old man who had also occupied a stall in Skeer's most recent quarters. His white hair was no less so, but his manner betrayed the color, as he moved more like a man in his summer than in his winter.

"Get to the High Priest," the ersatz drunk said to the facsimile of an old man. "Tell him I am certain this is the outlander he seeks. He is much too alert for a man with nothing to hide."

"Emreaves will be pleased to hear of this," the other said.

"Go, then. The faster you bespeak it to him, the quicker he will be pleased."

"By your command, Disguise Master. May the Nameless One be with you."

"He can be anywhere he pleases, as long as his priests continue to pay so well."

The High Priest of the Opkothardian Temple of the Spider God With No Name nodded at the message delivered by the man decorated with the skill of the Disguise Master's art. That the man was little more than a novitiate priest, carrying twenty-odd winters, could not be determined from his appearance.

The Disguise Master, while not a True Believer, had his uses. This instance proved to be one of them. Although the message from his Under Priest had only confirmed that which Emreaves had already felt, the exact identity of the man bearing the power-emanating talisman had been less than clear. It was here and someone bore it, that much had been certain; more than that he could only guess at, and such a thing was much too dangerous to risk by mere guessing. He must know, and he must act upon that knowledge before the magical device might be used. The One With No Name frowned upon stray magics in his domain, and it fell to his priests to prevent such powers from coming to fruition.

Emreaves said, "Good. Return and find the Disguise Master. Do as he commands, and bid him to continue his surveillance upon this outlander until I contact him."

The young priest bowed. "My lord."

After the young-man-disguised-as-an-old-one departed, Emreaves left the antechamber and moved to the inner sanctum. There were prayers to be mounted and rituals to be observed, after which he could strike the bearer of the magical device with karmic impunity. It remained only to determine the manner of the outlander's demise, and there would be little difficulty in that: he had so many methods from which to choose . . . .

Conan awoke from a dream in which he had lain with two women, neither of whom could get enough of him. As his eyes caught the faint gleam of morning's first light into the room, he realized that he did indeed lie between two women, and he smiled.

"Pleasant thoughts?" asked Tuanne.

Conan said, "You awaken early."

"I do not sleep in the manner of normal women," she said. "But I thank you for your warmth in the night."

"Gladly given."

To his opposite side, Elashi stirred. For a brief moment, she pressed her full breasts against Conan and draped one leg over his hips. "Mmm," she said. Then, she opened her eyes, stiffened, and quickly pulled away from contact with the big Cimmerian.

"Let us go and find Skeer," Conan said, before Elashi could speak.

"Yes," she said, "we should do that."

Five of the Men With No Eyes stood outside the Tarantula Inn in their dark robes, unspeaking and unmoving. The morning's chill seemed not to bother them, and their breathing made steam-fog in slow and steady patterns. After a moment, the sixth priest emerged from the inn and nodded to the others. Two of the priests moved to cover the inn's front entrance, while two others circled around the back to take up positions behind the back exit. The final two priests reentered the inn. Without pause, they began to ascend the stairs toward the sleeping rooms.

Malo had wasted no time in his search for the barbarian killer. Before first light, he had arisen from his bed of musty wool and begun looking for night workers. He found several: garbage haulers, trulls, and those with insomnia. While Opkothard was a large city, it was not so large that the passage of strangers went unnoticed. Before an hour had passed, Malo knew that a larger barbarian had spent the night in a local inn, accompanied by two women.

Malo spat when he heard this. The man was no doubt spending some ill-gotten loot on painted whores, while laughing over the slaying of two priests. Well. He would laugh no more when Malo finished with him.

Skeer had spotted a likely horse to steal, along with a shop that could supply food and blankets for the remainder of his trip. He need only fetch the supplies-the shop's owner had thoughtfully inscribed his arrival time at his place of business upon the door-jamb, and it would be an hour hence-and be off. By the time anyone knew anything was missing, Skeer the wily would be a long way down the road.

He was just making ready to enter the shop when he felt a sense of being watched.

Skeer had no magical talents, depending instead on his skills for survival; still, this particular sense had saved him more than once, and he was loath to distrust it. Without being obvious, Neg's agent checked his surroundings.

At first, he saw no one. But after a second scan, he spotted the worker. The man seemed to take no notice of Skeer, engrossed as he was in loading manure from a large mound of the same substance into a rude wooden pull-cart. Industriously, the man shoveled, pausing only to wipe his brow on one dirty sleeve.

Skeer considered his position. True, the manurist could see him, but certainly seemed to have no interest other than his labor; and the man had nothing of the familiar about him-Skeer deemed it certain he had never seen him before; still, that crawly feeling persisted. Perhaps there existed some unseen watcher, peering from behind a blind or curtain. Perhaps even some magical ward protected the shop's interior?

Skeer shook his head. No, this no longer seemed such an easy victory. He decided to seek another target.

He walked away from the shop front, past the manure loader, who never looked up at him.

You seek shadows where none exist, Skeer told himself. But he did not turn back toward the shop.

Conan had just buckled his sword sheath around his waist when the door to the room burst inward and slammed against the wall. Two men stepped inside and looked directly at Tuanne.

At least they pointed their noses in her direction. For Conan could see that their eyes held only blank grayness where other men had pupils.

Tuanne's reaction consisted of a catlike hiss. She backed up two steps, until her back met the wall and she could go no farther.

Conan said, "Tuanne?"

"Neg's men," she said, "come for me! They are called Men With No Eyes."

Conan's sword sang its song of steel and leather as he whipped the blade free of its sheath. "They will soon be called the men with no heads, do they not depart!"

The two men turned to face the Cimmerian.

"They are dangerous, Conan! Deadly!"

"They are not even armed," Conan observed aloud.

"There is no need. They are skilled and abnormally strong!"

"We shall see how skilled and strong they are. You," he said to the priests, "leave my room, now!"

The men moved away from each other, as if to encircle Conan.

The Cimmerian youth gripped his sword in both hands, fingers loose, and aimed the point of his weapon at the chest of the nearer man.

To Conan's left, Elashi drew her blade and turned so she covered his left side. To his right, Tuanne picked up the earthen water pitcher and held it over her head, as if to throw it. Conan grinned. By Crom, to have two women who would fight . . . Well, a man could hardly do better!

The first priest moved, and his speed surprised Conan. He leaped in, kicked at Conan's knee, and leaped back, all before the muscular Cimmerian could swing his blade. He did manage to shift his leg, so that the knee-strike only thudded against a thick thigh instead. Even so, the force of the kick shoved Conan half afoot backward.

So. Tuanne's assessment of the men had not been in error. They were both fast and strong. Then again, Conan was no weakling.

"Haah!" the Cimmerian screamed and charged, blade cocked over his shoulder.

Fast he might be, and strong, but the attacker had only as much space to maneuver as the room allowed, and it allowed little. When he would have danced lithely backward, the wall refused him passage. Conan's blade came down, set to shear the man open from skull to crotch.

Amazingly, the blind man twisted to one side. He was good. But not good enough to avoid the sword's edge entirely. Sharpened iron met the flesh of his arm, and the sword hardly paused in its passage. The arm flew from its owner.

He was not done, this one-armed one. He spun in a short circle and thrust out his bare heel. The kick caught Conan in the pit of the belly and knocked him backward.

"Oof!"

Though corded with muscle, the strike still hurt Conan's midsection enough to draw from him the expletive.

The priest made an error then, by trying to follow up. Conan was not injured greatly, and when the Man With No Eyes leaped in, swinging his remaining arm, he was skewered like a bird on a spit. Even in death he made no sound, as he sagged.

The second attacker, busy trying to grab Tuanne, had troubles of his own. First, the zombie woman tossed the water pitcher at him. When he raised his arm to ward it off, Elashi darted under his guard and sliced across his ribs with her sword. It was not a deadly cut, but it was messy; blood welled and spattered as he leaped backward.

Before the man could recover, both Conan and Elashi moved in, thrusting with their blades almost in unison. Conan's stab took the man in the throat, Elashi's in the belly. He fell, mortally injured.

"So much for them," Conan said.

"There will be others," Tuanne said, out of breath. "Neg would never send just two. We must leave quickly!"

Aye, Conan would favor that. These two had been much too quick to suit him.

They started down the stairs.

Malo arrived at the inn bearing the likeness of a spider on its front. A pair of men stood to the sides of the door, watching intently. At least it seemed that way, until he got closer. He shuddered. Unlikely they watched anything with those eyes!

But his quarry lay within, and he was in no mood to be delayed.

"Ho, friends. I would enter the inn."

The two men turned as one to stare sightlessly at him.

Hmm. Perhaps it would be better to wait for the barbarian to exit . . . ?

Less than three heartbeats later, the barbarian did so, at a run. As fast as the two door-watchers moved, Conan was past them before they could react. More, the damned barbarian had with him the women of whom Malo had heard.

The Suddah Oblate reached for his sword.

His muscles warmed by his earlier exertions, Conan's reactions now were speeded up. He whipped his sword around in a short arc in time to catch the lunging blind attacker squarely on top of the head.

It truly was a fine blade, Conan thought, as the flesh and bone bisected neatly.

The second blind one gave out a piercing whistle, and Conan's instant feeling was that the sound was a signal. Best they depart, quickly!

He turned toward the whistler and began swinging his sword back and forth in snappy cuts, moving forward. "Stay behind me," he commanded Elashi and Tuanne.

The attacker had no choice but to give ground, and he did so as Conan wove a path away from the inn.

Malo moved for Conan. Just then, two more of the strange-eyed men stormed around the side of the inn. They became aware of Malo, and mistakenly thought him an enemy, for they moved toward him.

Malo bore these two no ill will; however, their intent seemed plain enough, and he raised his Turanian steel in a defensive pose. "You are mistaken," he said. "I am not with them."

His words seemed to have no effect. One of the men darted toward him, and Malo's automatic reaction was to flick a cut at him. It cost the attacker the better part of his left hand. Malo grinned. This was his first real fight in ten years of training. If these men would take him, why, let them try! He would finish the barbarian later. He shuffled his feet, right, left, right, left, in the economical slide steps he had been taught. Warily, the two blind men moved back.

Skeer heard the fight before he saw it. His inclination was to turn and move the other way, opposite the crowd that appeared from nowhere as they always seemed to do when a fight broke out. But the best way to blend in was to go with the flow, so he circled a horse stall with the others to see the cause of the outcry.

What he observed sent very cold chills rolling along over his spine, and forced a sweat onto his brow.

By Set! It was that barbarian lout from the temple! And the zombie bitch was with him! More, one of the Suddah Oblates also waved a sword in the air, and four-no, three of the Men With No eyes opposed them-one seemed to be very dead, and one of the remaining ones bled rather profusely. And there was a girl he did not know, also engaging in swordplay.

Something was wrong here.

Skeer did not understand all that he observed, but he understood that none of it was to his benefit. The barbarian and the zombie were bad enough; that Neg had sent some of his damned priests also did not bode well.

His first reaction was to flee-to grab the nearest horse and ride for the South Gate at a full gallop. But even as he watched the barbarian cut down another of the priests, Skeer's sense of caution took him. He had a vision of himself being stopped at the gate by some unknown agent, tugged from his stolen mount, and enchained. The vision filled him, leaving no room for doubt. That it could happen seemed quite likely, what with all this going on. What else might be possible? No, he would hide in the city until darkness, and utilize stealth for his escape.

With the clash of steel in his ears, Skeer hurried away from the battle.

"It is him!" Tuanne yelled.

Conan, busy chopping at one of the priests, did not register the exclamation's meaning.

"What? Who is it?"

"Skeer. And he's getting away!"

The big Cimmerian managed to cut down his opponent just then, when the man slipped on something in the street and half-fell. Conan assisted his meeting with the dirt.

Behind him, another priest toppled, headless. This one was attacked by someone Conan did not recognize at first. After a moment, he recalled the face: Malo, the priest he had sparred with at the Oblates' temple. Good that he chose now to appear, Conan thought.

Elashi, though spirited, lacked both strength and speed to match her opponent. Tuanne, however, was assisting the desert woman, and between the two of them, they managed to keep the last blind man at bay.

Conan stepped in behind the man. "Ho!" he said.

The man turned at this new threat, and Conan drove his sword's point through the man's breastbone and heart.

Even as the priest fell, Tuanne called out. "Hurry, Skeer escapes!"

But as Conan and the two women turned to leave, they found their path blocked-by Malo.

"Stand aside, priest!" Conan commanded. "A murderer makes good his escape."

"Aye," Malo said, "perhaps. But another shall not!"

"Are you daft? There are no murderers here! We fought to protect ourselves!"

"Your tongue should freeze from your lies," Malo said. He raised his sword over his head, edge up, and angled so that it formed a horizontal shield. "This blade is not wood, barbarian, and neither do you wear a gauntlet."

"Conan!" Tuanne cried. "Skeer moves farther away."

"I have not the time for this, Malo! Move!"

"To examine your corpse I shall move."

Conan's rage rose to fill him. He lifted his heavy sword high, as a man preparing to split firewood might, and leaped.

Malo held his position, sword raised to block. His form was perfect.

Unfortunately, Malo's training had not prepared him for the wrath of Conan of Cimmeria. Conan's blued iron weapon came down so fast and hard that it whistled in the morning air. The force of the blow knocked Malo's blade down, and the brawny Cimmerian's razored edge bit into Malo's forehead, slicing him open as might a cook opening a melon.

The spirit of Malo, Suddah Oblate, escaped through the rent and went to join his ancestors. By the time the body collapsed to the ground, Malo was quite dead.

Conan, however, did not pause to examine the corpse. He and Tuanne and Elashi left abruptly, chasing the vanished Skeer.

Chapter Eleven

During the balance of the day Skeer did not stop for more than a few moments. He snatched a meal almost literally on the run; he felt the urge to keep moving, as if the breath of doom beat hot upon his neck. It seemed more than coincidental that the barbarian and zombie bitch had followed him here; too, the presence of the Men With No Eyes bothered him. And there was something else, some unnamed fear that lurked about him, as if nothing evil dogged his footsteps. This latter fright had no reasonable basis, for he had neither seen nor heard anything to cause it. And yet there was no denying that he felt it. So he moved, casually for the most part, but frequently and without tarrying. To a watcher, he would have seemed unhurried, for he took pains to make it appear so. But to himself, Skeer was in full flight, death pounding along behind him.

"Which way?" Conan asked.

Tuanne closed her eyes, tilted her head slightly backward, then pointed down a twisted street. "There."

Elashi started to run down the street, but Conan caught her arm. "Nay, hold a moment."

Tuanne opened her eyes. "Why do you hesitate?"

The three of them stood at the conflux of four streets, surrounded by more of the ubiquitous stone housery. A wagon of melons sat broiling in the high afternoon sun nearby, giving the air a sickly sweet scent; women picked over the fruit, bargaining with the wagon's owner. Behind Conan, an old man sat by a large water pipe, smoking some aromatic mixture that stained the space around him with blue fumes.

"We have passed this place before," Conan said.

"So?" Elashi made as if to hurry off again.

"We have passed this place and several others more than once. Our quarry is not standing still."

"As always, you state the obvious," Elashi said.

Tuanne raised a hand and touched the other women on the shoulder. "Wait. I think I take his meaning. Skeer is running, and with only my link to the talisman to go on, we cannot follow fast enough to catch him. Is this correct, Conan?"

"Aye."

"Then what would you have us do?" Elashi asked.

"There is only one way out of the city," the Cimmerian said. "Unless he chooses to escape into a box canyon, he must pass through the South Gate. We take up a stance nearby and wait."

"How long?" Elashi said.

"As long as it takes. We can sleep in turns, if need be."

Elashi nodded. "I must admit your plan sounds valid."

Conan wondered why it pained her so to admit such a thing, but he did not speak his thought aloud.

As the barbarian and two women moved off, the old man drawing upon the water pipe stood and abandoned his smoky pleasure. He moved out into the street, to watch the trio. When they were nearly out of sight, he waved. One of the women picking at the melons nodded and hurried off down the street, following the three outlanders. The man selling the melons left his work and scurried over toward the old man.

The smoker wiped at his face, and streaks appeared as the paint-and-powder disguise he wore rubbed off. "These three have something to do with the other one," he said. "Tell the High Priest that I would have another five of his men. Send two of them to the South Gate, and have the other three meet me here. My own agents will continue to follow our quarry."

"By your leave, Disguise Master."

"I have just given it, fool. Go."

In the Inner Sanctum of the temple, Emreaves finished his final ritual. He had only to burn the ceremonial incense for the final touch, and he could safely instigate the Death of the Shes. Not a pleasant way to die, if there was any such method, but a certain one. In the history of the temple, no man had ever lived through the curse of the Shes; indeed, it might not always befall the victim instantly, like a clean lightning bolt, but eventually, befall him it would. The Shes, once summoned, never stopped until they had accomplished their task. For those so condemned who were True Believers, a requisite part of the torture was to inform them of the curse, then do nothing to hinder their escape. Many chose suicide rather than face what would happen in its stead.

Night began to shade the streets outside as Emreaves lit the ceremonial incense. Pungent smoke wafted into the dark timbers arched over his head, and in the falling light, he imagined he could hear the rustlings of ten thousand tiny feet as they stirred into life.

The High Priest smiled as he waved the incense. Those who carried magic into his city did so at their peril. The Priests of the Nameless would ever see to that.

When evening cast its dark net over the city, Skeer felt much relieved. Darkness was his brother, cloaking the activities of thieves and whores with welcome cover. No one could catch what they could not see, and in the night, Skeer moved among the shadows as one rendered invisible.

Through the day he had not been troubled by the barbarian and his women; neither had he gazed upon any other danger to himself. That bothersome worry persisted, but no manifestation of it had come to pass.

Well. Soon he would be shut of Opkothard and all its problems.

The plan he had mentally drawn was simple: here squatted another of the public inns, replete with a good crowd of wine swillers. Outside, tethered to a rail, a half-dozen horses awaited riders. A sleepy-looking guard leaned against a nearby wall, ostensibly watching the mounts and securing the peace. Skeer would slit the guard's throat, take the strongest-looking mount, and make his way to the gate, wearing the dead man's clothes. If any man searched for him, they would not see anyone in Skeer's raiment approach the exit. He would talk his way past the gatemaster and be off. With the supplies he had liberated a few moments earlier, he could be halfway to Neg's stronghold before he needed to stop; by then, no one could catch him even if they knew where he was bound.

That the barbarian knew Skeer's destination seemed apparent. He was in league with the zombie bitch-he should have severed her head and tossed it far from her body when he'd had the chance, dammit!-and doubtless she had told him of her encounter with Skeer. He berated himself once again for failing to recognize the zombie when first he had seen her. Fool!

Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. Better to accept the past and get on with the present.

The guard nodded, asleep on his feet. Without the wall to prop him, he surely would have fallen. Skeer had no trouble at all walking right up to the doomed man. His greatest worry was how best to dispatch the man without getting blood on the guard's clothing. After a moment of thought, he had the method.

With his knife, Skeer pried a loose paving stone from the road. He hefted it, to get the feel, then drew his arm back and smashed the stone into the guard's temple. He felt the bone give under the blow, and the man fell, instantly unconscious. Likely to die from the cracked skull, given a chance, but Skeer would not risk that. After hurriedly stripping the man of his clothing, Skeer bent and nicked the great vessels on both sides of the unconscious man's neck. As the man's life poured onto the street, Skeer dressed himself in the guard's uniform. In another moment, he had picked a large gray stallion, mounted the low saddle, and urged the horse into a walk. Rot in Gehanna, Opkothard, he thought, as he moved toward the South Gate.

When he stopped at a narrow intersection, to peer around for any sign of pursuit, Skeer thought he heard something. Like tiny fingers tapping lightly on dry paper, it sounded, or rats' feet over broken glass in some dead cellar, perhaps.

Ah, well. It was nothing to worry about. He kicked the horse lightly, and started off.

As the moon sailed across the clear skies dotted with the cold fire of ten thousand stars, Conan shifted uncomfortably upon the edge of the hay cart parked near the South Gate. Though it had been his idea to watch the gate for Skeer's departure, he much disliked the idea of waiting instead of acting. He turned and looked at the two women behind him, lying in the hay. Elashi slept, wrapped in a blanket Conan had found hanging on a line to dry earlier in the day. Tuanne's eyes were open, but she stared sightlessly into space, seeming to take no notice of her surroundings.

The cart had been parked near the juncture of an alley and the main street of Opkothard. From Conan's position, he could easily see the gate, though the shadows of the buildings flanking the alley hid him from all but the sharpest of views.

So it was that when the rider approached, the sharp-eared Cimmerian heard and saw him without being detected by the horseman. One of the nightwatchmen, Conan noted, probably come to relieve the gate guard.

The new guard reined his horse to a halt and called out something to the man posted over the gate. Conan could not quite make out the words, but it seemed that his first idea had been incorrect.

Abruptly, Tuanne sat up, shaking the cart. Conan turned toward her.

"The talisman! It is very near!"

Conan turned back to stare at the new guard. The sliver of moon did not cast enough light to reveal the man's face, but Conan's thoughts leaped ahead of his sight. Though not civilized, his wits were not dull-Skeer sat astride that horse, in disguise.

Drawing his sword, the young giant pushed nimbly away from the cart and started toward the gate.

"Why would ye be desiring exit at this time o' the eve, fellow guildsman?"

Skeer regarded the man with what he hoped was an expression of exasperation. He shrugged. "I would not, brother. 'Tis the orders of the Watch Commander. He's expecting somebody and I be sent to meet him."

"Why was not I told of this order?"

"Ask the Unnamed One, brother, for I do not know. I just follow orders. Open the gate, hey? and we can discuss the philosophy of upranks when I return."

The gate guard grumbled, muttering some not-quite-beneath-his-breath curse, and finally called down to the gatemaster to crank open the door.

Skeer grinned. This was too easy, fooling fools.

That sound he had heard earlier, the skritch-skritch, suddenly returned. He turned in the saddle and looked behind him. Nothing there-wait! There was a man stalking across the road, a big-shouldered figure whose face was in shadow, but who carried a bared sword in his right hand, and from his size, could be only the barbarian!

He would have tried to hurry the gatemaster, but then Skeer saw something even more riveting than the barbarian: the statue of the spider seemed to be . . . undulating. Skeer strained his eyes against the darkness, and it seemed to him that a living carpet had somehow overlain the stone statue, a dark stain that seemed to ooze down and onto the road. As he watched, the stain moved closer, filling the street. It took a moment for him to see that of which the carpet was actually composed Spiders! Thousands of them! They were hairy-legged and big, each at least the size of a man's hand and fingers, all scuttling directly toward the gate!

And directly toward Skeer.

Of a moment, Skeer knew that the arachnids were meant for him. That sense of foreboding he had felt all day focused, and he knew, he knew that these hellish creatures sought Skeer and none other.

The thought filled him with terror.

The gate was partially open now, almost wide enough to admit a horseman. Skeer could not wait. He spurred the horse, and the beast leaped forward, knocking the gatemaster sprawling and cursing. Skeer's left knee scraped against the rusty iron and tore his pants leg, but that didn't matter. A bruised knee would heal; the bites of a thousand giant spiders very likely would not.

The guard suddenly caught sight of the advancing tide of eight-legged creatures.

"By the Nameless! Let it not be me!"

He grabbed a torch from its holder and extended it toward the spiders. Yellow light danced over the cobblestones.

Yellow light danced over the cobblestones, and Conan stopped, hearing the guard's yell at the same instant he became aware of the ten thousand tiny footfalls. He looked down, and saw the spiders then, advancing like a wave along a shoreline.

"Crom!"

He would have run, but the first of the hirsute things began to stream past him then, and he might as well have been a tree for all the attention they paid him. The spiders flowed over his feet and around his ankles, but they did not molest him, neither did they pause. Conan stood very still; to step on one might raise the attention of the others, and a sword seemed little defense against such a horde of fat-bodied crawlers.

Skeer, meanwhile, had bolted through the partially opened gate. Conan heard the hoofbeats rapidly gaining away from the city. Damnation! He had escaped again.

He turned and beheld both Elashi and Tuanne, watching in wide-mouthed horror as the street seemed to move under him. Conan breathed very slowly, holding himself as still as he could. If the spiders decided to attack him now, he would be hard-pressed to escape. Elashi had said that these creatures-if they were indeed the same kind whose image decorated the Tarantula Inn-carried no lethal poison. Still, a hundred bites would no doubt carry a man a long way toward meeting his god, and Conan had no desire to join Crom just yet.

It seemed hours, but more likely was no more than a few minutes before the final spiders straggled past him. By this point, the vanguard of the black wave had passed through the open gate. When the last ones had cleared the portal, Conan ran to the city's exit and stared after the retreating mass of eight-legged creatures.

Above him, the guard chanted some prayer over and over; of the gatemaster, there was nothing to be seen. And as for Skeer, he was lost in the distant darkness.

The big Cimmerian looked up at the frightened guard. "What manner of infestation is this?" he called.

"Hail O Nameless and protect thy faithful servant from harm. Hail O Nameless and protect thy faithful servant-"

Conan rapped on the gate with the pommel of his sword. "Guard! Must I scale the wall and separate you from your head? What of the spiders?"

The guard seemed to awaken from a trance. "What?"

"The spiders, the spiders!"

"They are sent by the One With No Name, whose form they copy. It is the Curse of the Shes-each one is female-and they seek the death of one who would oppose the spider-god."

"And who might that be?"

"The guard-the one who left. He must have offended the god."

"Aye, likely he offended more than one god," Conan said. "And escaped, to boot."

The guard looked grave. "Nay, friend. There is no escape from the Shes. If you bear the curse, they will follow ye to the ends of the Earth. They never quit until they accomplish their mission." He shuddered. "I would not be in that man's boots for all the gold in the city."

Conan turned away and walked back to the two women. "We shall have to find horses and supplies," he said. "It seems that Skeer has escaped us once again."

Elashi made as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it. Good. Conan's mood would not have suffered any snideness readily.

Chapter Twelve

Conan had four pieces of silver left from his sale of the dire-wolf's skin, but in this city, he could at most buy a single horse for that, and not one apt to carry a man very far before collapsing of old age or infirmity. He needed two horses, at the very least, and three would be better. In addition, he needed supplies, food for two, and assorted gear for travel-blankets, cooking utensils, and the like. They had not the time to earn these things, for every hour that passed gave Skeer that much more of a lead.

So it would be theft that gave them what they needed, Conan reasoned. There were many men who had much more than necessary for comfort, and the Cimmerian had no qualms about taking from the rich. As a boy, he had gone with other men on raids from Cimmeria; booty from these raids was considered just compensation. In this case it would not be war, but certainly it was necessary.

Men in cities tended to keep their gold and silver either well-hidden or well-protected, or both, and so the theft of money might entail no small risk. Thievery being a skill he had only the rudiments of, Conan felt no great confidence in his ability without more practice. If he had to go directly to the items he needed, however, it meant also no small amount of time used to locate mounts and supplies, and then to liberate them. Time was the key factor here: with each passing moment Skeer distanced himself farther. So, the trick lay in minimizing the risk but gaining hard currency as soon as possible.

It came at this point that the Cimmerian noted something rather strange: a night workman stretching canvas for an awning nearby. Not that there was anything strange about the man or his actions per se, but rather in the manner-there was something passing familiar in his motions.

As Conan watched the man, it came to him. Early in the day, he had passed an old man smoking from a water pipe. Something about the set of this man's moves brought that old man to mind. They looked nothing alike, the two, and yet, bodies did not lie as did clothing. He was reminded of Skeer, posing as a guard just an hour past.

Conan, Elashi, and Tuanne walked past the man, and the worker gave no obvious indication that he watched them. And yet, now that the thought lodged in his mind, the young Cimmerian felt an interest from the man, almost as a pressure upon his back. What could it mean?

Conan grinned.

"Something is amusing?" Elashi asked.

"Aye. Perhaps."

The Disguise Master waited until the trio was out of sight, then he abandoned the awning and hurried to circle the block of housing and stables, to await further sight of the barbarian and two women. As he ran, he shed his outer layer of clothing, to reveal a long robe that had been carefully rolled up around his waist. With motions made economical through practice, he shook the robe loose, raised the cowl that had been hidden under his jacket, and lo! he was no longer a worker, but a priest.

He slid to a stop well ahead of the trio he followed. From beneath the robe, he pulled a prayer mat, and quickly unrolled it and laid it upon the door stoop of a small temple dedicated to the worship of Vela, a minor harvest deity. He knelt upon the mat, pressed his hands together in prayer, and lifted his eyes to stare toward the night sky.

He heard the voices, then the footsteps, as his quarry approached. Ah, yes, he could see them peripherally-but wait-there were only two, the women. Where was the giant outlander-?

Night-cooled metal touched the Disguise Master's throat at that moment, and he instantly knew to where exactly the barbarian had gotten.

"Why do you spy on us?" Conan asked.

"M-m-my son; you are mistaken-"

Conan tossed the clothes he had seen the man strip away moments earlier in front of the "priest."

The man swallowed. "W-what do you want of me?"

"Answer my question."

"I am paid by the High Priest of the Nameless One. I followed the one who left the city pursued by the curse of the spiders."

"Then why watch us? He is no friend of ours."

"You came together; you pursued him; there is a link. The High Priest will have no mystery in his city."

"Ah. And were you well paid for this labor?"

When the man spoke, pride tinged his voice. "Yes. I am the best in this city at what I do. My disguises are second to none, and I am never seen."

"Until now. I hope you have some of this pay upon your person. "

"Why?"

"As a token of your affection. And to maintain the integrity of your neck." Conan pressed the sword a bit deeper into the spy's throat.

"In my purse," the man said. His voice now seemed little more than a whisper.

Elashi and Tuanne had come to stand in front of Conan and his captured footpad-spy. Conan said, "Fetch his purse."

Elashi bent and pulled open the leather pouch on the man's belt.

"Mitra! He carries gold! A dozen coins, at least!"

To the spy Conan said, "Well paid, indeed. And what measure of affection would you have us take as compensation for being the first to penetrate your skills?"

"A-a-all of it."

The big Cimmerian withdrew his sword's pressure against the man's flesh, grinning as he did so. "Nay, we would not leave a man without a copper. What price would it take to buy three horses and supplies for a month's travel?"

"Two gold solons."

"Take three," Conan ordered Elashi.

"Only three? But surely a man who carries this much on his person must have much more buried somewhere-"

"Nay, three is all we need."

"You are generous," the spy said. "I have no argument with you. I will be on my way-"

"Hold," Conan said, lifting the sword to point at the spy's belly. "I would rather you did not run to your High Priest until we are well away from this city."

"I would not think of it-"

"And to that end, I think we should bind you."

"It is not necessary. I shall give you my oath-"

"My experience is that rope binds better than oaths," Conan said. "Or, in this case, strips from the clothing you abandoned should do."

"Truly you need not do this," the spy began.

Elashi leaned over and said, "Better bound than to have one's throat slit, eh? My friend over there loves to watch blood flow. Sometimes he drinks it."

The spy shuddered, cast a fearful glance at Conan, and quickly extended his hands, wrists crossed, to be bound.

Moments later, the trio headed for the trader's store where Conan had sold the dire-wolf's pelt only little more than a day past.

"I am certain he would not mind doing business with us, even at this late hour, if we obtain two gold coins worth of good but pay him three."

"Then we leave this night?" Elashi said.

"The road is visible, and if Skeer travels in the dark, so can we," Conan replied. "At least far enough away so that casual pursuit will not happen upon us."

"Travel at night is not so bad," Tuanne said. "One can get used to it."

They continued to the merchant's place.

Neg stood contemplating his image in the looking glass when one of the Men With No Eyes glided silently into view behind him. The necromancer turned. "Yes?"

They did not speak, these blind priests, but they had a rich vocabulary of gestures and signs. The priest held up six fingers, pointed to himself, then drew a finger across his throat sharply. The message could be no plainer.

"Dead? All six?"

The priest nodded.

"Set curse them! How?"

The Man With No Eyes shrugged.

Neg considered the information. That the man knew was no mystery. They had some kind of link among them. But-what was he to do? Obviously, they had found Tuanne, and had been slain for their trouble. They must be close to her still. He could send more priests, or . . .

Neg spun away and stalked toward his Spell Chamber. Unless the bodies of the killed priests had been burned or hacked to bits, they could still be useful. He would recall their souls from the Gray Lands and reanimate their bodies. Whoever had dealt them the death-cards would find dealing with zombies much more difficult ....

Conan, Elashi, and Tuanne, now mounted on solid horses and bearing food, blankets, and assorted utensils strapped to their mounts, approached the South Gate of Opkothard. The guard there was the same who had been working earlier, when Skeer made his escape. The man recognized Conan, and said not a word, merely ordered that the gate be opened.

With the night half done, the Cimmerian youth, the desert woman, and the beautiful zombie departed the city of spiders.

The Opkothardian morgue had been dug deep into the earth, so that the heat of the sun would not accelerate the decay of its occupants. It was both cool and dark, even at noon, and as the hour approached midnight, the only light came from flickering fat lamps set in sconces here and there on the walls. The air was mostly still, but shadows danced on the dark walls as the fat sputtered and sent smoky tendrils toward the low ceiling.

The attendant sat propped on a high-backed stool, leaning back against the wall nearest the door, contemplating his next meal. He had cheese and wine and even some fresh fruit, and he debated with himself as to which he should devour first, and when. He had been busy earlier. There were eight new bodies, all dead of violence, to be palleted and tagged for burial. Six of them blind men, now there was an unusual happenstance. In his twelve years running the morgue, he had seen corpses aplenty, but never six so alike, and blind to boot. Then there was the priest from up the mountains, the Ulblats or Oblates or some such. Finally, there was the nightwatchman, with his caved-in skull and slit throat. Somebody out there with a lust for blood, right enough.

The cheese, he decided, washed down with the wine. He would save the fruit for later.

As he unwrapped the cheese, something disturbed the flies.

Normally, there were not many flies in the morgue. The attendant did not much care for them buzzing over his charges. A few managed to slip in now and then, and eventually, when he was bored enough, he would hunt them down and swat them. Mostly; they were no bother. Now and again, a gas bubble would shake a corpse, and rattle the flies enough so they would buzz around a moment before alighting again. Likely that was the cause of the buzzing he now heard.

Odd, though, he thought, as he sliced a chunk of the cheese with his knife and popped it into his mouth. A trick of the flickering light made it look like one of the cadavers in the back corner had moved.

He chuckled. That had happened a time or two. Somebody they thought dead came out of a deep trancelike sleep. None of these bodies were going to do that, though. None of them had any illness claim them; 'twas cold steel and hard brick that done 'em in, and none were ever deader.

The flies buzzed again. Very loudly this time.

The attendant sat up, clutching his cheese knife. Could maybe a rat have gotten in? Set-damned rats! He hated them. He slid from the stool. Best go see.

He was bent over, searching the floor for any sign of rodents when one of the blind men sat up.

The attendant jumped high enough to smack his head on the ceiling. Gas, it had to be-One by one, the other blind dead men began to stir.

When one of them slipped from the pallet and stood, turning his head from side to side, the attendant ran, dropping his cheese and knife, screaming. This was black evil and nothing else!

When the attendant had done, the Men With No Eyes filed silently out of the morgue, saying nothing, united once again in their purpose. They sought one like them, and this time, they would have her or live forever as zombies.

Skeer rode at a gallop until the horse, exhausted, could do no more than walk. The vision of the spiders had caused in him more panic than he could remember ever-feeling, but now that he was far away from the city, he felt better. A little better, but if knowledge was power, then Skeer's weakness rivaled that of a newborn babe. Whatever had happened back in Opkothard lay beyond his ability to understand at the moment. His temptation was to rein in his stolen mount, find some small creature for bloodletting, and try to contact Neg. Years of self-preservation and caution held that thought in check, however. There seemed to be some treachery afoot, and Neg might well be involved in it. Skeer had not managed to survive this long by trusting anyone.

Once he arrived at his destination, Neg's stronghold near the fabled Triple Juncture of Corinthia, Zamora, and Koth, he could survey the lay of his situation. He had friends-well, at least those who would supply information for a heavy stipend-who could apprise him of Neg's demeanor. From that position he could proceed accordingly.

Likely, some mistake lay at the root of all that insanity back in the walled city. It would be properly rectified when he arrived at Neg's castle. But just in case things were not as he wished, he would move as the sharp-spined anteater did when making love in the old joke: slowly and with great care.

A chill wind touched him, and he pulled the stolen cape closer about his shoulders.

"We ride for a hour or two, then make camp," Conan said.

Elashi said, "I thought we could travel at night, that the road was clear and wide."

"Skeer must sleep eventually. So must we. You and I, at least."

But it was only three-quarters of that time later that Conan pulled his mount to a halt. He stared off into the darkness, then turned to Elashi.

"Those spiders prefer warmth, you said?"

"They are common in the desert, yes. Such cold air as this would certainly disable or destroy them."

"I think not. Look."

Elashi seemed to strain her eyes against the darkness. "I see nothing, save a small mound."

Conan turned to Tuanne.

"I see them," she said quietly.

"Them? Where?" Elashi raised herself higher upon her saddle, using her knees against the horse's back. Conan noted the play of strong muscle in her legs as her split skirt shifted to reveal her thighs.

"The mound," the Cimmerian said. "Watch it carefully."

A moment passed. Then, "It moves!"

"Aye. It is composed of the spiders. Perhaps those on the outside might expire in the night air, but I think maybe those within might well survive."

"Spiders do not behave so!"

"Normal spiders do not," Tuanne said. "These are enspelled. They have a purpose."

Elashi shuddered, and Conan felt a chill crawl along his own spine. He would not like to be the object of those enchanted creatures.

"We shall move back down the road for our camp."

"A good ways, I hope?" Elashi said.

"Aye."

Chapter Thirteen

The clothing used to tie him had been childishly easy to escape from, but not so the emotions that dogged him. Even the night could not hide the Disguise Master's humiliation; he felt as if it glowed from him, beckoning to any passerby: see, I am shamed by a barbarian! The agony of it chewed at him, like some unseen rodent, sharp teeth drawing constant professional blood. In twenty winters, he had never been seen for what he was while he plied his trade. True, those with natural suspicion had looked upon him askance, but then, they looked upon everyone that way. No one had ever entrapped him as had the muscle-bound outlander, no one had ever seen him for what he was. It had always been a point of high pride with him. But now, he could no longer carry that unblemished affirmation. And worse, after the ultimate insult, that barbaric lout had robbed him!

The Disguise Master stalked the night streets, enraged. The money was nothing. He had amassed a fortune over the years, had more than he could ever spend. Gold meant nothing. Craft was the thing, craft and honor. And now, his honor stood in ruins. A single spot of black amidst all the white had turned it gray. True, one man out of thousands could hardly be considered monumental failure, but gray was still gray, no matter how light the hue.

What was he to do?

The solution seemed obvious. As long as the barbarian-Conan, he called himself-walked the land of the living, the Disguise Master's honor could not be cleansed. Alive, he was a blot. Dead, the statement could be made: No living man can claim to have bested the Disguise Master.

Yes. That offered the only respite.

He himself had killed now and again, but he was no assassin. But he had more money than he could possibly spend, and there were those more adept at striking a man down than he, those who would do so gladly for sufficient payment.

The priest was shut of the whole matter now that the participants had departed his city. But honor must be served. He would rectify the matter, even if he had to travel to the end of the Earth to do it. He would watch the barbarian squirm before he had him killed. The Disguise Master smiled. There lay a pleasant thought. Conan of Barbaria dead, and the Disguise Master's honor reclaimed.

He would gather men and supplies and leave as soon as possible.

Elashi screamed.

Conan came up from sleep, sword in hand, looking for the threat. It proved to be easy enough to dispatch when he found it.

One of the black spiders scuttled from Elashi's blanket. Before it moved far, Conan trod upon it. It made a crackling, pulpy sound as he crushed it.

When Conan turned back toward Elashi, he found his two female companions hugging each other tightly.

"It was only a single spider," he said. "Likely lost from the main group."

"I hate them!" Elashi said. Then, after a moment, she said, "Tuanne, you are so cold!"

The pale-skinned woman nodded. "I have been cold for as long as I remember, it seems. It is an ache one learns to stand; it never becomes comfortable."

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Elashi looked up at Conan. She raised one knee slightly, and her skirt fell back to reveal her shapely thigh, tanned brown by the sun. Her skin contrasted darkly next to Tuanne's, and the effect struck Conan in such a way that he found his breath coming faster.

"She is cold, Conan. Come, and help me warm her."

At first, the young Cimmerian took her meaning simply. But when Elashi moved her knees farther apart, raising her skirt so that he could see clearly her dark triangle, it dawned on him that her intent went past merely warming Tuanne. It was an invitation he did not expect, sudden in its tendering, but also one he did not intend to refuse. He did not question her change of heart-he had yet to meet the man who understood why women behaved as they did.

"Aye," he said, sheathing his iron sword, "we shall all warm each other."

Both Tuanne and Elashi smiled, and Conan also grinned as he went to join them under the blankets.

The Brute stank of wine and sweat, but the Disguise Master minded it little; after all, the man was a killer, and supposedly the best in the city. He had plied his trade for some six years, and that he still lived surely meant he was adept at it. According to his sources, the Brute-if he had another name, no one seemed aware of it had slain in personal combat some seventeen men; additionally, he had backstabbed twice that many more. He was big, dirty, brutal, and coarse. Exactly what the Disguise Master desired for this particular job.

As the dawn's light painted the skies, the Disguise Master readied his crew. Along with the Brute, he had engaged a pair of footpads whose skills ran more to petty thievery than to mayhem, but who would do anything for money. Murder seemed no barrier, and he would have trusted them less than the distance he could heave them, without the Brute as protection. The latter might slay him for his gold easily, save that he had been promised a large sum on the return to Opkothard, and the Disguise Master had made certain that his party knew he carried only small coinage upon his person. Alive and back in the city, he would be worth money; dead on the trail would serve no one.

It had taken no small effort to learn all there was to know about Skeer, and the knowledge gained left much to be desired. Still, where he was bound seemed known: he was likely a minion of the necromancer Neg, about whom little good could be said. This was inference, but the presence of the woman zombie and the raising of the six dead men from the morgue gave truth to some form of necromancy. And, since Neg the Malefic was the leading exponent of this form of magic anywhere close to the city, then likely Neg's hand lay upon the proceedings in some manner. His castle was known, even in Opkothard, and if Skeer traveled there, his pursuer Conan must surely follow. Therefore, to find his quarry, the Disguise Master need only travel to Neg's domain. Somewhere along the way, perhaps, they would happen across the doomed Cimmerian. If not, they could await his arrival. A simple plan, and like most of his plans, most workable.

Feeling his confidence return, the Disguise Master led his motley entourage through the South Gate of Opkothard and into the morning light.

The new sun aborning caught Skeer in the grip of a nightmare: he was buried under thousands of crawly spiders, being bitten and injected with venom that burned in his veins like acid . . . .

Skeer sat up suddenly, cold sweat beaded on his face. Spiders-!

He shuddered in the chill air. A dream. It was only a dream.

Nonetheless, Skeer hurried to gather up his blankets and to stoke up a quick fire for breakfast. There seemed no way that spiders, no matter how determined, could follow him through the cold mountain passes. In less than a week, he would be in Neg's domain, and that worthy magician's magic surely was proof against any threat that might be dogging him, arachnidal or human.

They marched together, footfalls landing in uniform cadence, six who had been alive but now were animated by necromantic mantology. Dead the Men With No Eyes were, but moving inexorably after their assigned quarry. They did not rest, neither did they stop for food or drink.

The dead have no need for such things.

In his cleanest of rooms Neg paused in his movements to stroke the spire of crystal that occupied the center of the marble-walled temple. Soon, he would have the power to bring this room to its function. Soon, he would be not merely Neg the Malefic, but Neg the Omnipotent.

He smiled, feeling the cold crystal under his fingers. Yes, the promise of it touched him almost orgasmically, a thing he had not known in itself for hundreds of that years. Power. Power was the best aphrodisiac. When he had that power, he would call Tuanne to him and make use of her as he had never been able to before. Yes.

Conan awoke with an arm around each of the women. Elashi, in his left, was warm, her breath tickling his bare chest lightly. Tuanne, much less cold than before, lay quietly curled against his right side, her lips pressed against his skin gently.

The young Cimmerian had never spent such a night before, and the memory of it brought a smile and a catlike satisfaction to his thoughts. He would revise his opinion of traveling with two women, to be certain.

Elashi woke, and Tuanne's eyes opened. They lifted their heads and smiled across Conan's broad chest at each other, then at him.

"Sleep well, Conan?" Elashi asked.

"Never better."

Tuanne said, "I have not been warmer in a hundred years. Thank you, both."

"Anytime," Conan said. "If you are feeling a chill at the moment . . . ?"

Elashi swatted his shoulder. "Goat!"

Conan grinned. Not a goat, perhaps, but not found wanting, at least. Pride stirred within him.

Within a few moments, Conan started a fire, upon which a quick meal was prepared. Again there was no meat, it being difficult to carry other than dried without spoiling, but there was bread and cheese and hot herbed water to drive away the earliness of the hour.

After clearing the camp and loading the horses, the three departed.

Farther up the road, they paused at the spot where they had seen the spiders the previous night.

Only a few arachnid carcasses remained, quivering in the sun's early rays, or being picked apart by carrion feeders, ravens, and larger vultures.

"They have departed ahead of us," Conan said. "Save the ones who were exposed to the cold directly."

Elashi said, "Ooh. It makes me shiver to think of all those black creatures scuttling along!"

"Think how you would feel if you knew they pursued you instead of Skeer," Tuanne said.

"An unpleasant thought," Conan said.

Indeed. He would not wish such a fate upon any man, even Skeer. His plans for the brigand included merely an appointment with a sword, a clean and honorable end. Perhaps better than Skeer merited, given the list of offenses of which Conan personally knew; still, magic was better left alone, and Conan would not curse Skeer with such a fate as some spider-god had done.

Chapter Fourteen

The days passed quickly for Skeer. He slept little, stopping only when the obnubilation of darkness forced him to rein his tired horse to a halt. He would rise with first light, eat of his sparse supplies, and resume his journey. He looked back frequently, but saw nothing threatening. The weight of the magical talisman in his purse seemed to increase each day, but his hard riding brought him closer to Neg's domain with each of his mount's footfalls. Another day, and he would be in territory where he was known and respected as one of Neg's own. Another day.

"We near the village that is the gateway to Neg's domain," Tuanne said. "I can feel his presence ahead of us like some malignant beacon."

"Skeer pushes himself. We have gained but little," Conan said.

Elashi said, "I would catch him, but I must confess that I look forward to nights now."

Conan grinned. He, too, did not mind the coming of darkness, not with Tuanne and Elashi to bracket him as they lay together.

Neg could feel the approach of the Source of Light, as a cold man might feel the warmth of a distant fire. It was only a glimmer now, the faintest of heats, but it came.

He stood in the ingress of one of the high tower windows, watching a thunderstorm spend its fury upon the castle and surrounding land. Lightning turned the night into stark day for a heartbeat, and thunder punctuated the flash with the voice of an angry giant. Torrents of rain swept over the ancient stone of his castle, wafting that unique dusty smell to his nostrils on the wings of the damp wind.

Soon the land would ring of steel and boots, as he commanded a different kind of thunder, that of the marching dead. Soon.

Dead, the six Men With No Eyes marched stolidly, stoic in the face of the angry storm. They moved as always, slowed only by the mud and wind. They had no supernatural speed, but like a tortoise, they continued relentlessly. What they lost to the horses, they regained during the night, so that they drew closer, albeit slowly, to her whom they sought. Where she journeyed was of no import, neither did it matter how long it took to make up the distance.

Eventually, they would prevail, even had they to walk to the ends of the Earth. Or beyond.

Brute grumbled. "Gods-be-damned rain!"

The tarp over his conical head leaked, spilling a trickle of cold water onto his neck, and he shifted his position, shoving one of the sniveling footpads halfway out into the deluge.

"Hey, hey!" the man said.

The Disguise Master did not know the man's real name, if he had one, but called him "Port," since it seemed he always took the left when they traveled. The other one naturally became "Starboard." For a well-remembered and detested year, the Disguise Master had been impressed into a ship's gang, sailing the dog routes across the Vilayet Sea to the Eastern Cities of Turan: Khoraf, Khorusun, Onagrul, and half a dozen smaller ports. He knew sailing terms well, and sometimes used them as part of his costume when disguised as a seaman.

Brute turned to glare at the protesting man. "Something you wished to say, rat-eater?"

Port took little time to consider his reply. "Nay, Captain. I 'uz just startled, 's all."

Brute turned away, uninterested. The Disguise Master had restrained the man from killing both Port and Starboard several times. Good. The more irritated he got, the worse for Conan when they caught him. Which, he hoped, would be soon. He cared little for the rain, and his tarp fared only slightly better than the one under which Brute hunkered.

Once, during a lull in the mostly-steady rain, Conan arose from the communal arrangement with Tuanne and Elashi to attend to a function of nature. As he avoided the larger puddles outside their strung-and-staked tent, he saw something scuttle across the wet ground. A rat? Or a ground squirrel-?

No.

He was slow to move, and the creature escaped his boot and vanished into the wet night. He finished his business and returned to the makeshift tent. Elashi stirred and smiled at him. Sleepily, she said, "Everything all right?"

"Aye," he replied.

He did not mention the eight-legged denizen he had seen. There seemed no point in so doing.

But a glance at Tuanne's dark eyes showed that she had seen what he had.

It had many names, the village. It was sometimes called "Vanatta," in honor of a local man who had proved himself adept in politics a hundred years past, becoming advisor to the then-king. Those distant workers of magic familiar with Neg's proximity tended to call it "Necromancer's Hold." The villagers, when they bothered, usually just called the place "Rain Town," for the long season of storms that seemed to always find the village even when the surrounding countryside stayed dry. Many blamed the constant rain on Neg's influence, but few dared to speak such a thing aloud. Even the dead had ears, and no man wished to call necromantic attention to himself by speaking ill of the local wizard.

Skeer cared nothing for the names, and thought little of the village at all, but never had he been so glad to see it as he was on this evening. He had friends here, or at least comrades willing to help him, either for Neg's favor or hard cash.

It was to the smallest of the town's three inns that he rode, saddle-weary and edgy from lack of sleep. Darkness had begun to claim the day, but at last the damned rain had ceased. At the inn, Skeer flung the horse's reins at the stoop boy. "Care for the animal," he said.

"Aye, my lord Skeer! And fine to see you, sir!"

Skeer ignored the boy and tromped through the mud to the inn's entrance. It was called "The Boiled Pig," for reasons known only to the first owner, long dead, and as such places went, it would take either major reconstruction or burning down to improve it. "Pig's Sty" would be a better name, but even so, he welcomed it. The Boiled Pig offered safety. Anyone who asked for him here would meet bland looks and raised brows. Skeer? No one here by that name. No one arrived here of late at all. Perhaps you might try the Necropolis, or the Smoking Cat ....

Inside, the innkeep, a large man bearing several scars on his face from his years as a soldier, nodded at Skeer.

"A room," Skeer said. "And a bottle, with a woman to bring it and stay. You have not seen me."

Scarface nodded. "Take four," he said. "Imelda will deliver your wine."

Skeer nodded. Imelda kept herself relatively clean, talked little, and asked no questions. Good. What he wanted now was company and sleep, more the latter than the former, a measure of how tired he was.

Skeer shuffled over the sawdust floor toward the room. There was no talk of money, nor would there be any: Skeer held a half interest in The Boiled Pig, and such a thing entitled him to some privileges.

In the morning he would ask questions, to discern, if possible, Neg's current mood. But first he would rest.

As night stole the light from the skies, Conan, Elashi, and Tuanne came to an unexpected halt. Ahead lay a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran the fast-moving waters of a river. There had been a bridge constructed of thick ropes and planks over the ravine, but the anchoring posts on Conan's side of the drop had weakened, from the storm, apparently, and one of the logs had pulled loose from the wet earth. A single strand of arm-thick hemp stretched across the abyss to the remaining post, itself leaning precariously; the other post lay on a ledge a hundred feet down, and the ropes to which it had been attached dangled near it.

"Oh," Elashi said. "We shall have to go around."

Tuanne shook her head. "It is fifty miles to the next bridge-if it still hangs."

Conan dismounted and peered over the edge of the cliff. He stood, brushed mud from his hands, and began to look around.

"For what are you searching?" Tuanne said.

"There would be spare rope for repairs, if the bridge builders had any foresight. Protected from rot, I'll wager."

"What good would that do?" Elashi asked. "There are no trees thick enough to support the weight of the bridge anywhere around here. And the ropes are out of reach."

"Ah," the young Cimmerian said, "there is a box sheltered in those rocks. Let us see what it contains."

As Conan had guessed, the thick wooden box, sealed with some rancid oil, proved to contain several lengths of hemp of various diameters. Conan began to coil one of the lines, somewhat thicker than his thumb, into a series of hoops.

"In Cimmeria, we learn to climb before we can walk. I shall climb down and attach the rope to the post. Our horses can pull the post up, we shall replant it, restring the bridge, and go on our way."

"What about the ropes on the bridge?" Elashi said.

"A simple matter. I shall climb out and fetch them back."

"In the dark?"

He laughed. "Morning would be better. Even a Cimmerian avoids climbing on wet rock in the dark unless there is a compelling hurry to do so."

"Perhaps we should bed early," Elashi said, "so that you will be strong in the morning?"

Conan smiled at her, then at Tuanne. "Aye. A good idea."

In the morning, Conan arose, feeling much refreshed and very strong. While the two women fixed breakfast, he tied one end of the coil of thick rope to the remaining bridge support, after hammering the pole upright with a head-sized boulder, then tossed the rope over the cliff and began his descent into the gorge.

The rocks were somewhat drier after the night without rain, and the footholds were many, so it took only a few minutes to make the climb down to the fallen post. Once the rope was attached to the fallen support, it was but a matter of a few more moments for him to scramble up the hemp hand over hand.

It took longer to weave a makeshift harness for the three horses, but before the sun had risen far on his day's journey across the heavens, the fallen bridge support was raised. Conan's muscles bulged as he helped the horses drag the post to its former place of residence, upending the thick wood into the soggy hole.

Another two hours work saw the two posts firmly implanted in the ground, with heavy rocks to aid the tamping and support.

Finally, Conan climbed out onto the bridge on the single line, swinging like a monkey until he reached the wooden planking, then dangling down to snatch at the free-swinging lines.

By noon, the structure's repair was accomplished. Conan's skill with rope came from years of practical application, and the knots were pulled tight not only by his own mighty thews, but by those of the horses, as well. Likely the bridge was as strong as it had ever been, he figured.

But as they began to cross the bridge, Tuanne turned sharply in her saddle to look behind them.

Conan said, "What-?"

"The Men With No Eyes!"

He turned to see six forms approaching at a run, all moving in eerie unison. He reached for his sword.

"Conan, no! They are dead-like me. Your blade will be useless!"

"I'll take off their heads! Let them find us without them!"

Elashi said, "There is a better way!"

Conan turned to stare at her. She held one hand stiff, pointing down at the bridge upon which their horses now stood. Conan understood instantly. "Good idea."

The Cimmerian giant dug his heels into his horse's sides, and the animal started forward.

Once on the opposite side of the bridge, Conan quickly dismounted as the women thundered past. He drew his blade, and waited. Timing would be important. A shame to waste all the morning's work, though.

The six zombies broke into two files of three each as they approached the bridge, saying nothing Conan could hear. Their feet hit the first planks. He waited.

The first two were halfway across before the last two started onto the bridge. Conan waited.

The leaders were no more than three spans away. Conan raised his sword, still waiting. Two spans, one-now!

Using the strength of his arm and chest, Conan swung the sword. The razored blue iron bit into the support rope and sheared it cleanly. The bridge tilted abruptly, canting sharply as the support on one side let go.

Three of the Men With No Eyes pitched off into the abyss, falling silently. The other three were quicker, and they grabbed onto the planks, saving themselves from the fall.

In another stroke, Conan sheared the center support rope. Hemp unraveled as the rope snapped, tilting the bridge yet farther from level. Another of the zombie priests lost his grip and slid off to join his brothers.

The remaining two began to inch their way along the precarious platform toward Conan.

The Cimmerian's sword rose for the third time. The final cut took the final rope, and the bridge, anchored only at the far side, swung down and across the chasm, to smash into the cliff Conan had climbed down and up earlier in the day. The heavy wooden planks split and shattered from the force of the pendulum swing, and the final two passengers were knocked from their perch, to tumble to the river far below.

Behind him, Tuanne said, "The fall will not destroy them."

Conan turned and nodded at her. "Perhaps not. But it will surely slow them. Even a Cimmerian could not make that climb in less than a day or two. By then we shall be well on our way."

He mounted his horse; after a moment the three of them rode away.

Skeer awoke, feeling more refreshed than he had in months, it seemed. Nothing like a safe roof over one's head, a warm body in one's bed, and wine in one's belly to allay nagging unease.

A breakfast warming his insides, Skeer began to ascertain the state of affairs in the village, and, more important, with his master, Neg the Malefic.

From One-Eye the cutpurse, he heard: "Nay, 'tain't nothin' unusual about His Lordship's domain. They that don't see come and go like usual."

From Alleta the trull, came: "I cannot speak for his desire, since it seems he has no taste for the pleasures of the flesh, but, no, nothing to indicate any strangeness other than normal have I seen."

More informative was Piper, the store's lackey: "Sure, sure, I been inside, just like always. What? No, his worship don't seem angry, 'cept that one of his Reawakened Ones got loose, somehows. No, he didn' make that privy to me, but a man's got ears, ain't he? Other than that, no different than usual, I say."

Skeer considered the sources, naturally, when digesting the information that he had been fed. And he did not stop with just those three, but after the greater part of the morning nosing around and asking such questions of a dozen others, including some of the less criminally minded citizens of the village, he felt that the comments he had first heard were representative. Few people actually saw Neg, only a few suppliers of goods and services, but all of them seemed to think the necromancer's state of mind differed little than usual. While Neg could hardly be termed "usual" or "normal" when compared to other men, he had emotions, and they did not seem particularly stirred.

Good. With that assurance, Skeer felt he had dallied enough. Another day in the village without attending to his given chore would be dangerous, for certainly Neg would learn of it. And he had said most plainly to make all deliberate speed. A night of rest from an exhausting and dangerous trip could be justified. A day of dithering afterward could not.

With his courage bolstered, Skeer squared his narrow shoulders and went to meet his master.

Chapter Fifteen

The village lay before Conan and his companions, and it seemed little different from a dozen other such hamlets the Cimmerian had seen before. But he reined his mount to a halt when he saw what lay beyond the sleepy-looking town. Few cities of any size were likely to sport such a castle as he now saw.

Vast it was, and ancient; time had weathered the dark gray stone so that it seemed almost smooth from this distance, but even the years could not wash the evil that emanated from that massive edifice. Conan felt his skin crawl as the hairs stood on his arms and neck. He had an urgent desire to turn and ride as fast as the horse could run, a gut feeling that stole over him as he stared at the tall towers and high walls.

"Neg's castle," Tuanne said unnecessarily.

Elashi said, "I suppose it is too much to ask of the gods that Skeer has yet to gain entrance to that that fortress."

Tuanne nodded. "It is. I can feel the pull of the talisman, and it lies beyond those walls."

Conan uttered a short curse that he deemed inappropriate for the ears of his companions, so he spoke the expletive under his breath. Well. There was nothing to be done for it. If that was where Skeer had gone, then that was where he would go, too.

"Do you know a way in?" he asked Tuanne.

"I knew a way out. But I suspect that path will be blocked. Doubtless Neg has discovered it, once he learned that I had escaped his clutches."

Conan turned back to stare at the castle. He could not see the base at this distance, but there would be a way inside, and if he looked diligently enough, he would find it.

Tuanne seemed to read his thoughts. "I am afraid gaining entrance will be no small matter," she said. "Neg is jealous of his privacy. And I cannot offer much assistance in this. I am free of his spell only by a magical fluke. Should he see me, he could resume his ensorcellment of me easier than scratching a bothersome itch."

"Let us find an inn, then. We have money and can book a room and eat before we decide our best path." Conan turned away from the distant castle.

Silently, the two women followed the Cimmerian into the village.

Despite his assurances, Skeer felt a prickle of fear as he approached the only entrance to Neg's castle. Something was in the air. He felt it, with the sense that every good thief had, a high tension, as if some giant string had been stretched to near its breaking point. Outwardly, things seemed the same as when he had last been there; but there lay beneath the normal sights another thing altogether.

The moat seemed sluggish in the afternoon sun, but beneath those placid waters swam creatures better left unprovoked. Fish as big as a man with teeth the size of a man's fingers lurked, awaiting feeding, intentional or otherwise. And in the depths, so he had heard, monsters that fed on the killer fish made them seem like minnows.

Once, so the story went, a curious and mostly insane soldier had determined to row a boat across the ring of infested water, with the idea of scaling the castle wall and slaying Neg, for some injury Neg had caused to himself or his family. Armed with sword and pike, the soldier had a sturdy wooden pirogue unloaded from his wagon and into the water.

Halfway across the moat, the soldier met his fate. He sank in a bloody swirl of water and vanished forever, boat and all.

Since, no one had been eager to attempt a crossing of the wizard's deadly ditch, as it was known locally.

The tall drawbridge nestled against the stone when Skeer approached. When he was close to the edge of the moat, the massive bridge began to descend, the heavy chains rattling as they passed through the iron-ringed portals, despite the thick layers of grease there. He had not called out his name, but it was not necessary. Though blind, the Men With No Eyes knew Skeer; whether by smell or hearing or some other arcane manner, it did not matter.

The drawbridge finished its descent. Skeer looked up, and a score of Neg's priests peered sightlessly down over the wall's top at him. He repressed a shudder. He had learned to tolerate Neg's other servants, but the Men With No Eyes frightened him more than even the zombie dead.

He hesitated for a moment, then nudged his horse forward. It was much too late to turn back. Besides, he told himself, he had something that Neg wanted more than anything. He had served the necromancer exceedingly well, and would no doubt be most welcome.

Brute exited the inn and looked up at the Disguise Master. "Ain't here," the big and smelly man said.

The Disguise Master nodded. "That leaves only one inn, the Smoking Cat. If they have arrived before us, likely we shall find them there."

"Good," Brute said.

But at the final inn boasted by the village, Conan of Cimmeria was not to be found. There were, however, the two women who had aided in humiliating the Disguise Master.

Outside, the professional spy said, "Take the women. Surely Conan intends to return for them."

Brute shook his head. "I'll not have anything to do with that pale one."

"What?"

"She carries some kind of curse, and I'll not infect myself with it."

"I am paying you-"

"-to kill the big man, no more."

"We'll do it," Port said.

The Disguise Master looked at the footpad. "You?"

"Him and me," Port said, nodding at Starboard. The second man nodded his affirmation.

The Disguise Master looked at Brute in disgust. The big man shrugged blandly. "No matter to me. I'll do Conan."

"Very well. Bring the women to me. I shall wait behind the stables, there. "

"Aye, master," Port and Starboard said in unison.

Inside the Inn, Elashi and Tuanne rested in the room they had taken. Conan had gone to inspect the defenses of Neg's castle. He would, he had said, return before dawn.

"I must go to the nightchamber," Elashi said.

Tuanne said, "I shall wait here."

"I think I envy you that, not having to attend to such needs."

"Do not," Tuanne said. "It hardly makes up for the rest."

"I suppose not. I shall return shortly."

Though she carried her dagger, the attack by two small men caught Elashi unawares. Before she could defend herself, one of the attackers had his own dagger's point pressed into her throat. "Move wrongly and die!" he said.

"What is it you wish? I have no money-"

"Not money, bitch. Neither do we desire your favors. Our master would have a word with you."

The other one said, "Can you handle her?"

"Certainly I can, fool. Fetch the other one."

The door to the room opened, and where Tuanne expected to see Elashi, she saw a strange man. At first, she thought perhaps he was one of Neg's, but his manner lacked the confidence one of the necromancer's minions would have this close to home. He held a short dagger pointed in her general direction.

Conan had provided Tuanne with a dagger of her own upon leaving Opkothard. She snatched the blade from her belt and faced the intruder. He smiled, a wicked, gap-toothed grin, and moved slowly toward her.

Tuanne's own smile rose, and wicked was too mild a term for it. This one carried his confidence in his blade. That could be destroyed.

Slowly, Tuanne raised her left arm, so that the sleeve of her blouse slid back, revealing the cold ivory flesh. Just as slowly, she lifted the dagger so that the keen edge lay against the flesh of the raised arm.

The intruder paused. She could almost hear his thoughts: Hey, what is this?

With a quick motion that made him jump, she sliced her arm. The wound gaped, but no blood flowed. She felt the sting of the cold steel, then felt the edges of the cut begin to seal shut and heal. The process took only a few seconds.

"Great Asura!" The man backed away, holding both hands out in front of himself, the knife he held obviously forgotten in his fear.

Tuanne tossed her own knife underhanded toward the room's nearest wall. As luck had it, the instrument struck point first and quivered in the wood. She began to advance toward the frightened man. "Come," she said. "Let me touch you and drink your life."

At that, the man turned and nearly slammed into the wall in his haste to escape. Before she took a second step, he was gone, more fleet than a rabbit from a hound.

She smiled, amused by the incident, until she remembered that Elashi had not returned. The amusement vanished as Tuanne darted into the hall, seeking her companion. A quick circuit of the inn revealed that which she feared: Elashi was gone.

Crouched in a stand of tall reeds on the edge of the necromancer's moat, Conan studied the walls of the castle. The blocks had been quarried and set without mortar, and the centuries of rain had blended the joinings into a smooth facing. An ordinary man would have little success climbing such a wall, but Conan felt certain of his ability to do so, although it would be a difficult ascent, even for him.

Guards patrolled the top, more of the blind ones, and their number was not small. Since they did not see as such, they might well hear the scrabblings of his fingertips as he scaled the wall, and that would be bad. Clinging like a fly to a flat wall was not the best position from which to defend one's self. Even an indifferent marksman could pick him off with a crossbow from the top, should they "see" him attempting the climb. Or a pot of hot oil could do wonders for defense, were it poured upon a hapless climber.

When the guards had passed, the young Cimmerian found a hand-sized rock among the reeds. He hefted it, then lobbed it overhead, so that it struck the moat near the center.

The resulting agitation of the water, terminating in the leap of some monster fish nearly as big as he was, told Conan what he wished to know: swimming or rowing across that body of water would be a fool's venture.

He slipped away from the reeds, moving quietly for all his size, until he had gained the cover of a small copse nearby. Gaining entry to the castle would be no easy matter, as Tuanne had said. Already, he had determined that the tunnel she had used to escape from the necromancer's chambers had been sealed with earth, to a depth as far as Conan's sword would reach, at least. The moat boasted those monsters, and the walls were only slightly less smooth than a baby's backside. Darkness would offer no cover, not to guards without eyes. It posed a tricky problem, fair enough.

Conan worked his way through the thin growth to where he had tied his horse. No, it would be no easy task. Of course, he could set up camp and wait for Skeer to leave, but if Tuanne was correct, they had not the time. With the magical device Skeer would have tendered to his master, the dead would be stirring, and that thought gave the Cimmerian youth no comfort. Besides, he did not have the patience to stand idly by and wait. A man of action could grow old waiting. No, there would have to be some way. He could not see it at this point, but if one existed, he would find it.

For now, he would return to the inn.

"Where is Elashi?"

"Taken," Tuanne said.

"Taken? Where? By whom?"

Quickly, she explained. Before she had finished, Conan was on his way outside. She followed.

The late afternoon sun had vanished behind a thick bank of slate clouds, building to a storm in the west. A wind had begun, and the air seemed alive with energy when the Cimmerian stepped into the street. Just ahead of him, Conan saw a big man, larger even than himself, holding a thick broadsword, point down. That he awaited Conan seemed all too obvious. At the sight of Conan, the man raised his blade.

Conan drew his own sword without question. A man pointing a blade at you needed no explanation until afterward, assuming you survived to ask about his reasons.

But the big man offered an expository greeting.

"Conan of Cimmeria, be you?"

"Aye. Have I business with you?"

"Indeed. My master, him who you made sport of in Opkothard, bids me to tell you that he hopes you enjoyed your stolen gold, for it shall cost you your life."

"The spy."

"He prefers the name Disguise Master."

"Has he taken my companion, Elashi, of the desert?"

"Aye, that he has."

"Then he is dog and son of a dog!" Conan said.

The big man grinned at the Cimmerian. "You'll not anger me so easy, boy. He is not family, only paymaster."

Conan stalked forward, his sword held with the point aimed at the other man's throat.

"Tell me where Elashi is and live," Conan said.

The big man facing the Cimmerian laughed. "For all your size, you are no more than a boy to me, barbarian. You shall be dead in a moment, what matters where your woman might be?"

Conan inched closer, his boots set solidly upon the packed earth of the road, his knees bent slightly, ready to spring. He was finished talking.

The big man lunged at Conan, swiping at him with the broadsword in a wide slash that would have taken his head from his body, had it landed. Rather than trying to block, the Cimmerian ducked under the cut and thrust with his own sword.

The big man danced back quickly, and Conan's stab fell a foot short of its target. The Cimmerian youth did not pause, but followed the thrust with a full overhead swing, as a man swings an axe for splitting wood.

The big man raised his blade to block, and the clang! of metal on metal produced sparks visible even in the brightness of the day. Conan felt the vibration of the blades begin in his wrists and run all the way to his shoulders. The man was strong, no denying that.

His opponent shifted to his right, and duplicated Conan's overhead cut. Instead of blocking, Conan danced to his right and parried, slamming his blade into the flat of the big man's sword. The attacker's sword missed Conan cleanly, and such was the force of the strike that it carried the broadsword in an arc that buried the tip in the dirt of the street.

Before Conan could follow up, however, the man wrenched his weapon free and turned to face the Cimmerian once again.

"Not bad for a boy, and a barbarian, to boot," the big man said. "I would have you know the name of your slayer, Conan. I am called Brute."

Conan spared Brute a choppy nod, but no words. The man stood between him and Elashi, and whatever respect he might feel for Brute as a fighter was tempered by his disdain for him as a kidnapper.

Brute charged, swinging his blade back and forth like a fan.

Conan backed away, his own sword raised high. One step, two, three. He caught the rhythm of Brute's powerful swings one-two, one-two, and mentally set himself.

On Brute's backswing Conan moved. Instead of backing, he leaped in, slightly aslant to Brute's recovery slash. With all the power he could muster, Conan brought his weapon down-The razored iron clawed Brute's arm just below the thick muscle of his shoulder, sliced through the flesh and bone, and cut into the ribs beneath, stopping before they were sheared through.

Brute's arm gouted blood and was flung away from his body by the weight of the broadsword still clutched in his hand. For a heartbeat, Brute held the hilt of his weapon in his remaining hand, with the severed arm and hand also attached to the sword's grip. Then, the sword and arm fell away, as the shock hit him. Brute fell to his knees, his life pumping into the street. He made a vain attempt to stop the flow with his hand, but it was futile; blood ran past the hand, which rapidly grew ghostly.

Brute looked at Conan, and managed a smile. "Well cut, boy. Your woman is-is . . . at the grain shed."

Conan nodded. He acknowledged the information with the only thing he could think of that might repay the bleeding man. "You fought well, Brute."

The dying man closed his eyes, and nodded. Then he toppled forward and sprawled facedown in the street.

Conan slung the blood from his sword. The grain shed. He would find it, and the one who called himself the Disguise Master.

Chapter Sixteen

A hard rain began to fall. The clouds that had been piling up through the afternoon finally made good their threat, and the first assault consisted of hail, pea-sized and noisy.

Inside the grain shed, the musty smell lay over the coarse sacks full of barley, wheat, and rye, unabated by the rumble of hail upon the roof. The Disguise Master turned away from the spectacle of the store, as the forerunner to the rain proper ended. The white of the hail covering the ground gave way to its warmer brother, as the fat-drop rain began to pound.

Where was Brute? He was supposed to have been here, bearing the injured Conan, so that the Disguise Master could witness the final stroke.

One of the footpads cackled-he couldn't tell if it was Port or Starboard-and poked a finger at the captured woman, who sat bound and propped against a stack of grain bags.

"Cease that," the Disguise Master said almost absently.

The footpad looked up from his fingering, startled, and quickly withdrew his questing hand. "By your command, master. "

The Disguise Master turned away, disgusted. To be reduced to working with such scum for more than a day or two rankled. The sooner this business was done, the better.

Where was that smelly assassin?

Neg could hardly control his hand as he reached for the Source of Light. Skeer held it out, still inside a leather bag, holding it by a drawstring as if he were loath to touch it any more than necessary.

"At last!" Neg said.

When he touched the bag, he felt a thrill run through his arm as might a current of hot fluid. He had not enjoyed such a sensation since the last time he had been with a woman, and that was many scores of years past.

Power. Power emanated from the talisman in raw waves, so much power that it bathed the room in its vibrations. Yes. Yes!

Neg tore his attention away from the device he held and looked at his agent. "My faithful servant, you have done all that I could expect. Your reward will be great."

He turned away from Skeer and moved to an oaken sideboard. He opened the cabinet and removed a cloth bag. Turning back toward Skeer, he spread the mouth of the bag so that the gold coins within caught the light and gleamed. He saw the greed in Skeer's glance, and smiled at it. He tossed the bag to his agent, who caught it deftly.

Neg returned to the sideboard and fetched a dusty bottle of wax-and-cork stoppered wine. "I have been saving this vintage for such a special occasion. Would you join me in a drink?"

Skeer smiled, hefting the gold. "Aye, master."

The necromancer nodded and cracked the seal on the wine. He produced two glasses and poured the liquid into them. The wine was the color of old rubies, and the sparkles in it reflected from Skeer's face as he raised his glass in a toast.

"To your goals," Skeer said.

"Aye," Neg said. "To my goals."

Skeer sniffed at the wine, took in the aroma, and tasted the red fluid. Excellent! He drained half the glass and smiled at Neg. His earlier fears, it seemed, had been entirely unjustified. The necromancer had been delighted, he had paid quickly and without demurring, and had even broken the seal on a bottle of very fine wine. What more could a man ask from a master?

He was nearing the end of his wine, when he began to feel somewhat dizzy.

"A problem?" Neg asked.

Skeer shook his head. "A touch of vertigo."

"Some more wine, perhaps?"

"N-no. I-I-"

Neg reached out, and Skeer thought the action was to steady him, but instead, the necromancer merely caught the wineglass in his fingers. "The glass is very expensive," he said. "I wouldn't want it to be broken when you fall."

Fall? What could he mean? Then he chanced to notice that Neg's own glass remained full, the wine untouched, and the realization fell upon him like an edge-weighted shroud: the wine, it must be-

"Poisoned," Neg said, as if catching his thought. "You served me so well in life, I should think you would serve even better in death."

Then the world went gray, and Skeer could not even summon the strength to curse as he fell. Before he hit the floor, oblivion claimed him, and Skeer no longer dwelled among the living.

Lightning flared over the gorge, and rain cascaded down the rocky walls, over mosses and lichens, drenching already-wet stone yet more. Thunder beat upon the sheer walls with loud fists, and the rain swirled on twisted winds, flying not only downward, but at odd angles seldom seen in flat lands.

On the west side of the gorge, six battered figures worked their way up the slick stone, ignoring winds, rain, lightning, and thunder. They were greatly spaced along the face of the rock, since some had fallen more than once, and had to begin the climb over. The farthest along had five or six spans left before he crested the gorge's lip, assuming he managed to maintain his grip for the remaining distance. The last in the ragged line of climbers had ten times that distance to traverse.

One of the climbers, the third in line, placed too much weight on a ledge of slick rock, and lost his footing and grasp upon the wall. He tumbled off, to fall silently to the rain-swelled river below. None of the other climbers spared him a glance. The five continued on doggedly, intent on the ascent.

As the third climber struck the water far below, another group of travelers reached the eastern edge of the gorge. What had been several thousand spiders was now reduced to only a few hundred, but their purpose, like the zombies before them, remained unabated. Without preamble, the spiders began to climb down the face of the gorge. Some fell almost immediately, others managed to cling to the wetness.

Overhead, the lightning spoke of the comic vision it saw in the gorge, and its noisy child thunder laughed loudly at the joke.

Conan led Tuanne along a narrow alleyway. Here and there, overhanging roofs jutted out enough to block the main portion of the thunderstorm, but Conan spared the deluge little care. A man would not dissolve under a little rain, and Elashi was yet to be freed.

"There," Tuanne said, pointing through the rain. "That building is the grain shed. At least it was in my time."

Conan pulled his sword free of the lizard-skin sheath. He paused under the shelter of an overhang long enough to stone the edge where it had been nicked in the fight with Brute, but no longer. He started toward the shed.

"Will you not try and take them unawares?" Tuanne asked.

"I shall not skulk," Conan answered. "Direct action would be better here."

"Even if one of them holds a knife to her throat?"

He paused. "What you say has some merit," he admitted. "Have you an idea?"

"Aye. Allow me to enter. I can ascertain if Elashi is with them, and her position, and signal you if it is safe to attack. "

"I would rather not send a woman in my stead," Conan said.

"You are most kind to be concerned, Conan." Her voice was very soft. "But they cannot harm me with their blades, in any event."

"Aye. I had forgotten."

"And that is the kindest comment anyone has made to me in a hundred years," she said, smiling. She raised herself onto her tiptoes and kissed him gently.

He watched her march across the rain-sodden ground toward the shed, and, as soon as she entered, strode after her. He flattened his back against the damp wood next to the door, and waited, his sword held ready.

"Conan!" he heard, and without hesitation, he leaped through the door.

Inside, Tuanne stood with a dagger buried in her breast, facing a rat-faced man who wore an expression of profound astonishment. Next to this man stood the one known as the Disguise Master; beyond, a third man scrambled for an exit on the far side of the building, while Elashi struggled to free herself from coils of thin rope binding her.

The Disguise Master produced a crossbow from somewhere, and swung it up to cover Conan. He triggered the quarrel, and the bolt sped forth, to impale the Cimmerian.

Once, in his childhood, Conan had seen a traveling troupe pass through his village. There were singers, dancers, and those who demonstrated more martial arts. Among the latter group was a thin, whippetlike man who performed a trick that had amazed all who saw it: he dodged arrows fired at him by bowmen. For weeks afterward, Conan and the other children of the village had practiced the trick, with the result usually being bruises caused by the blunt arrows shot from makeshift bows. Due to his quickness, Conan had been hit less often than most; the trick had been to move just at the instant the arrow left the bow. A half-second later was too late.

Even as Conan saw the crossbow come up, he started his shift. As a child, he had done the trick barehanded; now, however, he held a sword, and without thinking, he swung his weapon as he dodged. The short quarrel flew, and of a piece, Conan moved and cut-and sliced the wooden shaft in twain.

"By Set!" the Disguise master yelled, as the pieces of the quarrel tumbled and hit the far wall.

He was reaching for a second shaft as Conan leaped upon him, and bisected his head much as he had the arrow.

The rat-faced man turned to flee, following his faster comrade, and Conan took two steps to chase him, then stopped. Elashi was safe, that was the thing. Tuanne already moved to untie the desert girl. The Disguise Master wore his final earthly guise, and chasing two fleet footpads through the rain appealed little to Conan. He would be running merely to deal them justice, while they would be fleeing for their miserable hides. The gods who granted speed favored those who sprinted for life and limb more than they did those who would right wrongs. That was always the way of it.

Conan turned to Elashi. "Are you harmed?"

"What," began the woman, "took you so long?"

The Cimmerian youth could not suppress a grin. Unharmed she was.

Well. This place was as good as any to wait out the rain. After that, other problems faced them, not the least of which was figuring out a way into Neg's heavily defended castle.

Neg the Malefic had problems of his own. In the special chamber he had prepared, as pristine as a god's drinking glass, the Source of Light now nestled within the crystal carved to receive it. True, there had been a surge of energies when the talisman was so placed, but it was in no way operational at the level that he needed. Something had gone amiss, and he could not understand what.

His curses echoed from the walls as he raged back and forth, trying to discern what portion of his spell was lacking. Damnation and Demons, what had he forgotten? It should work; he had done everything as the crumbling parchment directed, laid all the proper geas, spoken the incantations correctly-he was certain of it. Set knew he had-practiced dozens of times while waiting for the talisman to arrive! What in all the gods-be-damned Hells was the matter?

Easy, Neg, he told himself. Do not upset yourself. Doubtless it is some simple step, something so minor it was overlooked. He would repeat the process, taking care to observe the smallest pronunciation correctly, the most minute detail. He had not done all this to fail over some niggling matter. He would have all the documents for the spells brought here, not trusting to his prodigious memory, and he would do it step by step until he had it right.

Neg turned to face the zombie who stood silently near the entrance, awaiting the necromancer's pleasure.

"Go to my library and fetch the BiblioNecrum, the Book of the Damned, and the Black Folio. Quickly."

Skeer, gazing back at his master through dull eyes, said, "By your command, lord." He turned and shambled off.

So close, Neg thought. He would not fail. No way.

The body that had been Skeer alive now functioned as well or better for Skeer dead; it did not, however, do so with Skeer in total command. True, he willed himself to actions-walking, standing, talking-but only by Neg's leave.

Such a state grated upon Skeer as nothing in his entire career had grated upon him. Rage which had smoldered and fueled for his entire life now burned hotly within his cold breast. To be treated this way, after all he had done for Neg! It rankled, it burned, it ate at his psyche like powerful acid upon soft flesh. Given his own control, he would slay Neg a thousand times, making each death worse than the one prior, delighting in each groan his victim made, finding ecstasy in every pained expression the necromancer could field. Ah, given his way . . .

There lay the problem, squarely in his ken. He had no such control. Neg's voice commanded, and he could not fail to obey; the thunder of a god's tongue could not do more to motivate Skeer than did Neg's softest whisper. He was in thrall to the wizard, and until he felt it, had never known the true meaning of that term.

He thought briefly, as he entered Neg's library, of the zombie woman he had drenched in saltwater. He understood, now, what it was she had wanted with the talisman. Some innate sense told him that the Source of Light was, for one cursed with reanimation as he now was, a key to the true death. A touch of the power the thing carried, and he would go to the Gray Lands.

And, he thought, as he dug a heavy book from the carved ebony cabinet, was that such a bad thing? True, to walk the earth, impervious to sword or poison, would be a thing of great power, in and of itself. Unfortunately, the drawbacks made the power worthless to one such as Skeer. The smoke of the hemp-weed did not bring visions to one without breath; neither did women hold any further interest for him in the ways he had known them before. Parts of him were more dead than others, so it seemed.

He found the second volume for which he had been sent, pulled it from its position next to a bookend made from a human skull and hammered brass, and continued his search for the final book. No, being a zombie meant being unable to enjoy those things for which he had spent his entire life working-and even if that had not been so, even if he could have those things, being in Neg's thrall prevented it in any case. Neg never released his nightwalkers. Some had been in his service for hundreds of years.

That such a fate lay in store for him Skeer did not doubt for an instant.

The third book came to light, and he retrieved it. Slowly, without the slightest joy, he began to trudge back toward the crystal chamber, bearing the leatherbound-works for which he had been sent. Lapdog Skeer, he thought mirthlessly. For what crime did he deserve this? Certainly, he had offended as many gods as the next thief; the bodies of his victims, if piled up, would tower well over his head; he had despoiled women, stolen treasures, and done other things a reputable citizen would have nightmares about; still, others had done much worse, and they had not been condemned to this cruel fate!

From down the dusty corridor, Neg's voice echoed: "Hurry, damn you!"

So bidden, Skeer's legs took control, and he began to run. Inwardly, he cursed Neg, using every god of which he had ever heard.

It was, of course, to no avail.

All he could do was what Neg commanded. Do that, and wait, and hope something would happen.

Chapter Seventeen

"Aye," Conan said, "no doubt half the demons in Gehanna would willingly open a portal for you, Elashi. In this instance, however, I would prefer not to risk my neck on your sweet voice."

Elashi clenched her fists. "Just because we sleep together does not mean-"

"He is right," Tuanne cut in.

Elashi turned to face Tuanne. "You are taking his part?"

"Few men, if any, are as practiced in the arts of guile as Neg," Tuanne continued. "No one has ever tricked his way into the castle-not past the Men With No Eyes."

The three of them had returned to the inn, and sat alone in front of the fire, drying their clothes.

Tuanne said, "Conan's talents are many, as we both know, but trickery is not his forte."

Elashi nodded. "Aye. He is brutally honest, I must admit. One of his endearing characteristics-"

Conan grinned.

"-of which he has only a few," she finished.

Conan squeezed water from his left boot, then set it closer to the fire, to dry. "I confess I cannot see an easy way into the castle. Alone, I might manage to bypass the moat beasts, scale the wall, and fight my way past the guards."

Tuanne shook her head. "The chances would be exceedingly slender. No one has ever done so before. "

"Then what are our options?"

The zombie woman leaned toward the fire. Steam rose from her clothes, but she seemed unaffected by the heat.

"There is another way. There are dangers, perhaps as many as a direct assault on the castle itself."

Conan watched the shadows dance across her features as she spoke. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman.

"My contacts with the inhabitants of the Gray Lands over the years have given me access to certain knowledge. There is a way to travel in the In-Between Lands, and such travel covers territory in the real world at the same time."

Conan blinked. "I do not understand."

"Magic, Conan. A kind of shortcut."

The Cimmerian turned to stare into the fire. He did not enjoy talk of magic. Then again, he could think of no better way to achieve his goal at this point.

Outside, the rain continued unabated, tapping at the roof with liquid fingers. The sound lulled a listener, but Conan knew this was no time to feel relaxed. The hardest part of this entire venture seemed to lie ahead, and the path led through magic, making things yet worse.

The problem, Neg discovered, lay not in his pronunciation, but in his preparation. He had omitted a step: the crystal sconce upon which the Source of Light lay was spotlessly clean, but the instrument utilized to accomplish this deed had been the wrong one. He saw it now, and it was a natural enough mistake. Where he had translated the Kambujan word wanitakala to mean "clean woman," or virgin, it actually should have been wanitakale, whose meaning was altogether different. The "e" instead of "a" ending changed "clean" to "soiled," and instead of a virgin, he needed a trull. The ages had dimmed the manuscript and even the sharpest eye might have made the same mistake. Now that he looked for it, the word definitely ended differently than first he had thought.

So. He needed a brush made from the hair of a trull to dust the sconce. That done, the spell should proceed without problem.

"Skeer!"

The zombie appeared at the doorway.

"Go to the village and return with enough trull hair to make a brush this size." He held the hand-sized brush up. Then he tossed a pouch of coins at Skeer. "Pay whatever it takes, and hurry. I have no doubt you are well acquainted with all the whores of the village, so I expect you to return before night falls."

After Skeer had departed, Neg stood staring at the Source of Light. Such a small matter could interrupt the most complex magics. Well. It would be rectified before the day was gone. He could hardly wait.

Skeer felt the stares of the villagers burn into his back after he passed-none dared meet his gaze-and he felt something akin to shame. The rain had finally stopped, not that it bothered him, and he splashed through the standing puddles as he went to fetch that which he had been directed to collect. For the amount of gold in Neg's pouch, he could buy the hair of all the trulls in the village, and likely an arm or leg from each to go along with it. He would spend it all, to spite Neg, and cut only enough to fulfill the minimum requirements. Though he could no longer interact with women as he had before, the expression on Belinda's face-yes, she would do fine-would be interesting to behold.

That would be the extent of it, interest. All men had to die, Skeer knew that, even though he had never thought over much of his own end. Still, to be cut down in so dastardly a manner and by one for whom he had done such service . . . it still pained him more than he could begin to express. All he was missing, all he would miss-could there be a worse curse than to be faced with the things he wanted but could no longer enjoy? True Death was sweeter, and that denied him. Damn Neg to the depths of the deepest Hell!

But meanwhile, fetch the trull hair, as ordered, oh-so-obedient cur Skeer!

Determined spiders enspelled by the priests of a dark god moved faster than reanimated dead men, so it seemed. What had first been several thousand, then several hundred, now numbered only several dozen, but still they marched. Ordinarily much less sure of foot than a common window spider spinning its web in dusty eaves, the tarantulas made their way across waters and rocks, rain notwithstanding, and scuttled onward toward their goal.

Four of the things that had been men awaited at the edge of the gorge while their slower brothers finished the climb, and they took no notice of the spiders that crested the rocky lip and hurried westward.

The night began to settle upon the land, a darkening blanket laced with stars, but neither spiders nor zombies paid it heed, for neither spiders nor zombies lived for the joys of the light. It suited them, the night, for their purposes were darker than a Stygian pit, and in the surrender of sun to moon, they found, if not joy, at least a kind of unity of intent.

The spiders scuttled, and the zombies finished their climb and resumed their walk.

"It is him!" Elashi said.

Conan moved to the small and grimy window at which the desert woman stood, and peered out into the deepening shadows. The man who passed was none other than Skeer. Automatically, Conan's hand went to his sword's hilt. He felt Tuanne join them at the window, and further felt her start, stiffening at what she saw. He turned toward her.

"There is no need for that," she said, touching Conan's fingers on his sword's grip. "Skeer has become my brother in perversion."

"What do you mean?" Elashi said.

"He belongs to Neg even in death."

"A zombie?" the Cimmerian said.

"Aye. Neg's reward for a job accomplished."

Conan moved, as if to exit the inn.

"Where are you going?" Tuanne called.

"To speak with Skeer." He drew his blade.

"Do not! Your blade cannot kill him."

"He would move little without arms or legs," the Cimmerian said. "I shall carve him into slivers."

"Please, hold."

Conan paused. "You have no love for Skeer, dead or alive. Why do you ask this?"

"I have been Neg's creature for five times your lifespan. If Skeer sees you, he will likely guess I am nearby. If Neg knows where I am, he will . . . call to me. I cannot refuse his call, even though I managed to break away through his misuse of magicked salt before. I cannot bear the thought of falling back into Neg's thrall. Please."

Conan rolled the sword in his palm, then resheathed the blade. "Aye. I suppose Skeer cannot help us at this point, in any event. And I would not have you distressed."

Both women reached out to touch the Cimmerian's shoulders at the same moment. "Thank you," Tuanne said.

"And my thanks, as well," Elashi said.

The ingredients Tuanne needed for the spell to attain the In-Between Lands were, she said, simple. As the morning broke over the village, she, Elashi, and Conan went to the local market to obtain several items. Other things were not so easily located, but by noon, the zombie woman had all that she needed. Before she undertook to work the enchantment, she stopped to speak of the undertaking to her two friends.

"I have never been there," she said, "but the stories I have heard are frightening. While we have day here, it might be night there. There will be a road, as part of the spell, to lead us to the interior of Neg's castle; to leave this road is to court disaster. Even upon the path, safety can easily be imperiled, by all manner of unnatural creatures. Even accomplished witches or wizards tread very carefully in the In-Between Lands, and we shall have no such protections as they. I do not think I can be given the true death, even there, but certainly you could, and what might happen to me could be worse. You must know these things ere we attempt this journey."

Elashi glanced at Conan, then back at Tuanne. "My father walks the Gray Lands unavenged," she said, "and I will do whatever is needed to end that shame."

"Get on with it," Conan said. "Where any mortal may walk, Conan does not fear to tread. "

"Very well. Stand near me."

She began to chant, a strange, singsong melody, and while doing so, she lit a brazier that quickly filled the rented room with a spicy, aromatic smoke. The small fire in the metal pot seemed normal enough, until Tuanne tossed several items into it, changing the flame from red-orange to green, and then a blue to rival the summer skies over Cimmeria. Conan's vision began to play tricks on him, as the walls seemed to waver and bend, leaving no straight lines.

At the door, the innkeep knocked. "Are you cooking something in there? We do not allow cooking or sacrifices in the rooms!"

"Ignore him," Tuanne ordered.

The knock grew louder. "Hey! Within! I smell something burning! Is that goat flesh roasting?"

"Begone!" Conan ordered. "Else it be human flesh charring, and yours to boot!"

The knocking ceased abruptly, and the sound of hasty footsteps retreating reached Conan's ears. He allowed himself a small smile.

The smoke from the brazier now seemed to fill the room; the Cimmerian could not even see the walls. Suddenly, he felt a draft, as though the window had been opened, and the smoke began to clear.

When the vapors had thinned enough, what Conan saw was no longer the inside of a second-rate inn in some small village; rather, he stood on a plateau, part of a vast plain, and the air swam with tiny motes under a blue-green sun.

He swallowed, and looked around, his hand going instinctively to his sword. To the west-if that direction was west here-lay a vast jungle. To the east, what seemed an endless desert. Northward was a sea-if any body of water had ever been the color of fresh blood-and to the south, a range of mountains that must hold up the very sky, so tall were they. He looked down, to see a narrow path beneath his feet, leading down the plateau toward the distant jungle. It was the only road in sight, and nothing stood upon it save the three of them.

Conan turned to Tuanne with the question unspoken but apparent.

She nodded. "We are here."

Elashi pointed at the jungle, the strange light making her skin an eerie blue several shades darker than the pale blue of Tuanne's skin. "Is that where we are to go?"

Tuanne nodded again. "Aye. That jungle represents Neg's castle. If we survive to attain the middle of it, we shall find ourselves past his perimeter in the real world.

"If we survive . . . ."

Chapter Eighteen

With a set of fine steel shears, Neg trimmed the last of the stray hairs from the new brush. A blonde, not that it mattered, and hair as fine and soft as a baby's. It could have just as easily been as coarse as a pig's back, for all he cared, as long as it worked.

The Source of Light nestled in its bag hung from his belt, bumping gently against his hip as he lifted the whore's hair brush and began to gently dust the already-spotless crystal. He would have hurried, but such spells were, as he had already been made all too aware, fragile. Meticulously, he covered every part of the carved mineral with the fine brush, cleaning invisible particles away. Too small to see, they might be, but large enough to foul the spell, that much he knew.

He spent perhaps ten minutes going over the crystal before he decided he had done enough. He took a deep breath, allowed it freedom, then placed the brush in his pouch as he removed the talisman.

So softly did he place the Source of Light into the niche for it that it would not have disturbed the slumber of a mouse.

There. Done. Now, to finish the incantations and see if his work had been successful.

His voice held the proper tones as he chanted the magic words, but there lay within them an additional fire now, a force he could feel. It was different from before, no doubt. It was going to work, he was sure of it!

When he was done, there could be no doubt of it. The Source of Light began to glow, pulsing as if alive, giving off a radiant light of such clarity that it hurt his eyes to gaze upon it. Power surged forth, power compared to which the earlier force he had felt was as nothing.

It began to fill him, that power, as wine filled an empty vessel, splashing within and against his walls, lighting a magic pyre upon every atom of his being.

Power! To mold as he chose! And his way was life and death, one unto the other. The energies boiled within his black soul, and he knew, he knew he could give or take life with a glance! As long as the talisman lay safely within its crystal receptacle, he, Neg the Malefic, would be Neg the Omnipotent!

He strode out into the hall. "Attend!" he said, his voice like thunder. Immediately, a dozen of the Men With No Eyes appeared.

"Guard this door," he ordered. "No one is to enter except me."

The blind priests scurried to obey. All save one.

"You," Neg said. "Look at me."

The man turned his sightless eyes toward the necromancer.

"Die," Neg said. He stared hard at the priest.

The man toppled soundlessly, until he hit the flagstones. Dead, and no doubt.

Neg smiled at his handiwork. "Live," he said, waving his hand toward the dead man.

Wordlessly, the priest lifted his head, then got back to his feet.

Neg laughed. Power! "Stay with the others," he said. The now-zombie priest moved away.

Neg turned, his cape flaring dramatically, and strode off down the hallway. He had done it! He would begin to raise his army immediately. Within a fortnight, the world would tremble before the might of Neg!

His laugh echoed along the stone walls.

Within their catacombs, the rats crouched lower, suddenly afraid.

The descent from the plateau was easy enough, although the shifting light, now blue, now red, now almost normal, played hob with the footing at times. Conan led, Elashi followed, and Tuanne brought up the rear. Thus far, they had seen no signs of life, and just as well, as far as Conan was concerned. To the north, the sea of blood danced under the colors, red, purple, nearly black, and back again. The jungle lay ahead.

Earlier, the Cimmerian had voiced his concern that the jungle stood much farther away than Neg's castle did from the village. Tuanne had answered that there was no direct correlation between distances in the real world and the In-Between Lands. A mile in one could be a foot in the other, and no way to tell which way it would translate.

Very well. Whatever it required, he would do. At times, he doubted his wisdom in pursuing this whole affair; still, a friend, albeit one of short duration, had died. Someone owed for that, and Conan of Cimmeria did not shirk his duty, no matter what the obstacles.

A wind began to blow from the desert behind them, hot and dry, offering to parch instead of cool. Dust devils sprouted ahead, swirling brown and full of dead, dry topsoil. There were two, no, three-hist! what was this?

The dust devils coalesced, compacting, growing opaque and dark. As they shrank in size, they sharpened in character, so that after a moment, what moved ahead was no longer air but solid, walking on two legs upright as did men. But no form of men were these creatures, least none of which Conan had seen or heard.

The things moved toward the human trio, and as they grew closer, Conan saw that they bore a resemblance to birds: where a man's face would be, a raptor's beak protruded from what was undeniably feathers. Large orange eyes shifted in the feathery masks; shoulders sloped to short but vestigial wings, the ends of which were hooked into obsidian-colored claws, three on each wing. The legs looked manlike, but the feet were high-arched and clawed as the wings.

Conan unlimbered his sword, swinging it back and forth to loosen the muscles of his shoulders, shifting his grip as might a man tuning a flute, until he found the proper position.

"Can we go around them?" Elashi said from behind him.

"To step from the road might conjure worse," Tuanne answered. "We could go back and hope they might not follow. "

"Nay," Conan said, "our path leads that way, and they will allow us to pass-one way or another." This was a threat he could deal with, win or lose.

"Then allow me to lead," Tuanne said. "My flesh is repellent to beasts, and not liable to damage as is yours."

"Nay, again," Conan said. "No one holds Elashi at knifepoint here."

"You should at least try to reason with them," Elashi said. "Perhaps they mean us no harm."

When the strange birds were less than three spans away, Conan raised his sword and aimed its point at the eyes of the leading one. "Ho, feathered ones! Allow us to pass in peace."

The leader, whose feathers gleamed a darker blue-black than the other two giant avians, opened his hooked bill and emitted a piercing craw! but slowed not his advance.

"So much for reason," Conan said to Elashi. "You cannot say I did not try."

Two spans from the Cimmerian, the leader of the small flock leaped, and his jump carried him twice Conan's height into the dry air. He flapped his wings, and the rustle filled Conan's ears. He did not fly well, the big bird, but he had enough power to outhop any human athlete.

The move caught Conan by surprise, and the Cimmerian twisted to follow the short flight with his blade, only to feel the sting of the thing's foot claws on his shoulder as the creature dipped suddenly and slashed at him. Cimmerian blood ran down a muscular arm, but the wound was shallow and nearly painless.

The birdman touched down and bounced lightly into the air again.

Behind him, Conan heard the flutter of more wings, and he spun to face the other two avian monsters. Both of them took to the air as had the leader, but this time, the Cimmerian youth was prepared for the motion. He leaped, nearly half his own height into the air, and slashed with his heavy sword. The tip of the weapon scored, digging a deep furrow into the right leg of one of the birdmen. The thing squawked loudly, and rained scarlet from the wound.

Conan grinned as he twisted to face the beasts again. Magical they might be, but they could bleed well enough.

The wounded birdman touched down, and collapsed into a heap. Surely the injury was not so great . . .

As he watched, the stricken bird dissolved into a spinning wind, becoming once again a small dust devil that quickly scattered, spraying sand over the combatants. Conan blinked against the dust, and swung his sword to ward off a second attack from the leader. Both missed their marks.

"The touch of iron is fatal," Tuanne said. "It is so with many magical beings."

"Good," Conan said.

The two remaining creatures began to synchronize their attacks, though, one darting in while the Cimmerian turned to hack at the second. They were very fast, these birdmen.

As Conan whipped around to face the leader again, he heard a startled squawk from the one behind him, then the sound of a body thumping into the dirt. When the leader dodged and leaped that way, the Cimmerian youth saw the other birdman lying on the ground, Elashi's dagger sunk in one lower leg. He grinned.

As the wind began again, swirling dust into his face, the leader of the birdmen attacked.

"Skreee!" it screeched as it dropped for Conan, all its claws extended.

The man leaped to his left and swung his sword. Feathers flew as the edge sliced into the thing's chest and tore completely through it. It must be almost hollow, Conan thought, as the leader of the attackers flopped onto the ground.

After the wind died, the three travelers looked at each other. Both women made a fuss over Conan's wound. In truth, it was hardly more than a scratch; still, he did not object to their ministrations. He said, "If that is the worst we have to face on this journey, it will be no hardship."

"Unfortunately, that might well be the least of our worries," Tuanne said. "I have heard tales that would make these beasts seem like sparrows."

"Spare me the tales," Conan said. "Some things are better left unspoken."

The three started along the path again.

The denizens of Neg's moat had an unexpected feeding, as dozens of fat, juicy spiders began to leap into the water, swimming for the castle. The feast did not last long, however, as the taste of the ensorcelled arachnids lay exceedingly foul upon the palates of the submarine guards. Whether it was the natural flavor of tarantula or some vouchsafe bitterness added by magic mattered not to the fishes of the circle; the unspoken word passed among them rapidly: pauugh! Eat not the black crawlies, they taste bad in the extreme!

So it was that some two dozen of the hardiest tarantula reached the base of Neg's castle. Following rat burrows and mole paths, they continued onward, gaining entrance to the home of the one they sought. He called to them, the accursed one did, and they went to fulfill their destiny, as messengers of an angry god.

Skeer trudged along, bearing a bowl of fruit for his majesty Neg's diet, when he saw the spiders. So startled was he that he dropped the wooden bowl, scattering grapes, dates, and plums over the floor in a shower. The bowl clattered loudly on the gray flagstones.

"What is that racket?" Neg called.

Skeer, petrified, could not summon an answer.

The spiders scurried for the zombie, close to their goal at last.

Neg entered the hallway. "Skeer, what clumsiness have you discovered-?" He stopped, and looked at the spiders. "Ho, friends of yours, be these?"

"Th-th-they began following me in the c-c-city of Opkothard, Master!"

"Ah. The Shes. I have heard of the curse. They are ensorcelled, sent to kill you. You must have offended the local priests somehow. Came a long way, they did."

"M-m-master, can you not help me?"

Neg laughed, long and hard.

The spiders drew nearer, and Skeer stood as if rooted to the floor.

"M-master?"

"Fool! You are dead! What harm can these do to you now?"

Abruptly, Skeer knew the truth of it. He was dead!

"Fetch me another bowl of fruit, lout." Neg turned and swept out of the hall.

The first spider reached Skeer's leg. Its touch bothered him, but when it sank its fangs into his calf, it was no more bothersome than a mosquito bite would have been when he was alive. He reached down to crush the spider, then merely brushed it away. What would it do?

The spider scuttled back a few feet, and was surrounded by its fellows, who stopped. It seemed somehow to be communicating.

Skeer turned, first picking up the overturned fruit bowl, and started back toward the kitchen. The spiders followed. He stopped.

They stopped.

He took two steps.

The tarantulas scuttled along.

He stopped again.

The spiders froze.

Skeer laughed. How frustrating it must be to find their quarry dead but still moving. What was an ensorcelled creature to do? Biting Skeer was a waste of venom, perhaps that was what the one had told the others. So now, their purpose blocked, where should they go? Apparently, they had decided to follow Skeer, lacking any other purpose. Like so many dogs, following him.

Skeer started back toward the kitchen, and his eight-egged retinue followed, keeping a span of distance between him and themselves. He laughed again. Odd how things turned out. Who would have thought a few weeks ago that he would be dead, enthralled as a zombie, and lord of perhaps thirty-odd fat and furry spiders? Good that he was not a storyteller or minstrel-no one would believe such a tale. It was too fanciful for words or song.

He went to attend to his master's chore, followed by his wiggling, furry carpet.

At the inn, six dead men crowded into the empty room. They looked at the brazier in silence, smelled the magical herbs and spices in silence, and realized where their quarry had gone, again without audible sound.

Two of the zombies left, to gather ingredients. The others awaited their return. Leaving the world for magic lands might have gained their quarry time, but it bought them little else-the Men With No Eyes would not be deterred by such a tactic.

Later, when the smoke cleared, the small room at the inn once again stood empty, and the innkeep shuddered as he wondered how so many people had gone in and none had come out.

Chapter Nineteen

The Opkothardian morgue attendant had recovered from his fright, though he would swear there were gray hairs on his head and in his beard that had not been there before. Seeing six dead men rise and walk again certainly was enough to take several years off any sane man's life.

Of course, he thought, as he leaned against the cool wall of the morgue, staring at this latest batch of charges, those six had been unusual. Outlanders, and dead by violence, so who knew what evil lurked in their souls? All the corpses currently occupying his vault were, thank the Nameless, local people, and dead of natural causes, for the most part: a jar of bad figs laid one family of four down, the red fever took several more, a collapsed wall gave him three workers who were slower to move than others. And one very old man had simply removed his clothes and laid down in the public baths to be fished out several hours later when someone noticed he had not surfaced. Little chance for evil doings in this lot.

He was calm enough, then, when he heard the rat skittering in the back among the far tables. Rats he could deal with.

He picked up the dart he had had Zenk the knifemaker construct for him. This item consisted of a length of wood a few inches long with a sharpened nail sticking from one end and stabilizing feathers on the other. It looked like a short and squat arrow, but it was accurate when thrown at close range, and he had lately skewered many an unsuspecting rodent with it. He grinned as he slowly made his way back toward the dark corner.

The grin faded abruptly when he saw the wrinkled corpse of the drowned old man sit up suddenly. The only thing he could think to do in his terror was to toss the dart. The small weapon stuck in the old man's shoulder, but if it bothered the corpse, it did not show.

Then the others began to stir. All around him, the dead rose from their slabs, not speaking, but moving as though alive otherwise.

The morgue attendant ran screaming from the room. The only way he would ever enter it again, he swore, was when somebody carried his lifeless body inside!

Nearing the In-Between Lands, Tuanne stopped suddenly, and seemed to sway as if she might fall. Conan said, "Are you all right?"

"It's Neg," she said, eyes closed. "He has begun to use the power of the talisman. He calls to the dead."

Conan and Elashi looked around. They were alone.

"I can feel it pull at me," Tuanne continued. "It is a strong call. A command."

"Can you resist it?" Elashi asked.

"For now. Do you have the salt I gave you?"

Conan looked at the woman from the desert. He knew not of this.

Elashi said, "I have it."

"If I should falter, you must use it. If Neg's power grows, I will have to go to him. By a different path than that upon which we now tread."

"But the dangers-"

"It will not matter. I will have to obey."

"Then let us hurry," Conan said. "The sooner we arrive and dispatch this cursed man, the better."

As the "day" wore on, Conan began to see the effects of Neg's sorcery. In the distance, figures appeared, walking at right angles to the path upon which the trio traveled. When these grew nearer, Conan reached for his sword.

"Nay," Tuanne said. "They will not harm us. Look at them."

They were people right enough, Conan saw. But what the blue fire of his eyes reflected upon were people in thrall. Men, women, children, marching across their path, unaware of Conan and his companions. They seemed to be sleepwalkers, looking straight ahead, as if drawn by some invisible string.

"The souls of the dead who have yet to make the final passage into the Gray Lands," Tuanne said. "They are called back to their bodies by the power of Neg's weird.

"Most are recently dead; some, likely, have been in the ground longer, but had passage delayed for some reason. Those bodies will not be pleasant to look upon when their former owners return."

"Ugh," Elashi said.

Conan did not speak to this, but his reaction paralleled Elashi's. A corpse more than a few days moldering, even in winter, was not an appetizing sight.

The numbers of the crosswalkers grew as the three neared the jungle; hundreds, mayhaps thousands of them had passed and there seemed to be no end to them.

"Within a few days Neg will have an army surrounding his castle," Tuanne said. "All the dead for a thousand miles will flock to him. No one not in his command will be able to even approach his stronghold. No one alive."

Tuanne swayed again, and stopped walking. She started to walk after the latest group moving aslant to them.

"Tuanne!" Elashi called.

The zombie woman took another step, then stopped. She shook her head, turned to look at her companion, then quickly stepped back onto the path. "His power increases," she said.

Conan saw that Elashi held cupped in her palm a measure of salt crystals. She returned them to her purse and dusted her hand.

"We shall arrive at the edge of the jungle in an hour, I judge," Conan said. "Come."

The armies of the night were stirring.

In his highest chamber, Neg looked through the window out into his domain-it was all his domain now!-at the figures in the distance. They came. From all directions, as far as Neg's eye could discern, they came.

He laughed, deep and booming, and waved to those who could not see him but who felt his call. Come to me, he thought, come and join the most powerful force ever assembled. An unkillable, unstoppable force, commanded by me. Come!

The power flowed through him stronger now, as he grew more used to the workings of it. It streamed away from him as light streamed from the sun. He was god to all the dead, and they were his worshippers, come to bow to him.

The armies of the night stirred, and came to their master.

Surprise was too mild a term for what the Disguise Master felt. He should be dead, no man could live after such a stroke as the barbarian had delivered with his heavy blade. He recalled it vividly: as his entire life sped by, the gods-be-cursed Conan had chopped down, and-The Disguise Master reached up and felt his head.

There lay down the middle of his skull a gap, half the width of his finger, narrowing by the time it reached a spot between his eyes in the front, and the crown in the back. Inside the gap he felt a squishy softness-his brain, he did not doubt and at that instant the Disguise Master very nearly went mad. No man could live with such a wound!

It was then that he realized that he was not breathing.

He could draw in a breath, true enough, but it did not seem to matter if he held or released it. Experimentally, he spoke, and that worked well enough, if he remembered to pull in enough air to work his voice.

Realization dawned at the same instant that he felt compelled to start walking.

He was dead.

Dead he was, but brought back somehow. Therefore, he must be a zombie. And, likely it was Neg who commanded his feet to move. The unnaturalness of it filled him with dread, but then there came an ameliorating thought: perhaps he might have a second chance at slaying Conan, did he still live.

The smile that crossed the Disguise Master's face twisted his lips in a cruel sneer as he thought of that possibility. Perhaps the gods were not to be cursed after all.

As he moved down the road for he knew not where, he saw others moving as he did. There was Brute, sans one arm, plodding along. Others he did not recognize, many of them. This Neg had power, no doubt of that. Well. He would see what he would see. Meanwhile, he would content himself with the thought of meeting Conan again. This time, should it happen, he would have an advantage: a dead man could not be slain.

Across the land they rose.

Malo, who had been a Suddah Oblate, stood and shuffled to the west. Behind him, two of his brother priests also found themselves alive but not alive.

A nightwatchman who had been careless dug his way through still-damp earth and joined the parade of dead.

Two mountain bandits who had been ambitious but unskilled drew what the beasts had left of them together and started down the mountain.

Across the land, they rose. The gutter scum of Shadizar; the hanged footpads of Numalia; the sacrificed of black Stygian rites; the good, the evil, the criminal, and the blameless. All who had died within a thousand miles of Neg's castle, all who had not yet been awarded a permanent place in the Gray Lands, all who had limbs enough to walk or to crawl, all of them rose, from biers, from sepulchers, from coffins, from unmarked graves. Rose, they did, and went to meet their new master.

The armies of the night marched.

Night fell suddenly in the In-Between Lands. Dusk laid the softest of hands on the road, and then night fell almost as quickly as a lamp deprived of fat.

The jungle edge lay five minutes away, but Conan had no desire to attempt that entrance in the dark.

"We camp here," he said. No one disagreed.

He journeyed to the nearest copse to obtain firewood. He did not know if the creatures that inhabited this world would fear fire, but fear it or not, a flaming brand shoved into one's face would give one pause in any event.

They ate dried strips of fruit and smoked fish that Elashi had packed in her purse. Conan washed the distasteful stuff down with small sips of wine he had thought to bring in a leather bottle. He drank sparingly-a man would not want his wits dulled here-and wondered if the fire might draw unwanted attention. Upon reconsideration, he decided that he would find a sheltered spot away from the fire, the better to see the surrounding territory, and anything that might find its way to the light.

Overhead, there were stars, but no moon. The sky bore no resemblance to any he had ever seen: the familiar constellations did not shine here. Here, he saw a curve of points that seemed like a knife blade; an irregular ring that lay low on the horizon; a thick collection of hard diamonds that almost seemed like a man's fist. Had there been any doubt that the land he walked was other than his world, this sky would certainly have dispelled it.

After the meal Conan added wood to the fire. "Let us move away from the fire," he said. "So that anything curious about it will not happen upon us unawares."

Again, neither woman demurred, and they found a ring of scrubby bushes half a minute's walk from the fire. He considered sitting watch, but since Tuanne did not sleep, decided that his time would be better spent in rest. Her eyes were better suited to the dark than his, and she could awaken him if danger threatened.

With Elashi on one side and Tuanne on the other, Conan drifted into a deep and tired slumber.

He awoke to see that Tuanne was gone.

False dawn lay over the In-Between Lands. The fire had burned down to a few glowing coals and leaving the path had drawn no new terrors, but Tuanne was nowhere in sight.

He sat up, and Elashi awoke.

"What is it?"

"Tuanne is gone," he said.

They scrambled to their feet and left the cover of the brush, but the darkness was impenetrable beyond a few spans.

"We must find her!" Elashi said.

"It is too dark," Conan replied. "We would only lose the path ourselves."

"We cannot leave her here!"

"I am open to suggestion."

Elashi fell silent.

"She said her path would differ from ours, if she succumbed to Neg's call," Conan said. "We must get to Neg's castle; that is our best hope of saving her."

"How will we get out of this place?" Elashi asked, voicing Conan's own worry. "I do not know the spell, nor do you."

"She said this path was built especially for us. Perhaps there will be some indication when we reach the proper point."

"And perhaps we shall wander around in this place until our bones turn to dust!"

"I am open to suggest-"

"Stop saying that!"

The first rays of the strange dawn began to light the dark sky, and Conan kept his words within. There was nothing else to be done. He could understand her fear.

Better she should say it than he.

The novelty of being followed by his own small hirsute army soon palled for Skeer. They followed him everywhere. Since he was spared sleep and elimination, he did not have to worry about awakening to a spidery blanket, or treading on one in the confines of an outhouse; still, they never left him.

In a fit of pique, Skeer decided to eliminate the damned things. He lunged across the small distance separating the tarantulas from himself. Almost as if they anticipated his move, the furry-legged creatures scattered. As fast as he could move, he only managed to catch one of them under his sandaled foot. It gave out a satisfying crunch! and splattered arachnidal gore in a spokelike pattern, but try as he did, he could not catch any of the others. He was certain that their speed was not natural, so fast did they skitter away. Were he alive, he would have exhausted himself trying to kill the things. As it was, he eventually realized the futility of his efforts, despite his lack of anything better to do.

As soon as he ceased trying to mash the life from them, the spiders regrouped. Twenty-two of the little bastards, he counted. Life had had its bad moments; death, it seemed, was ever so much worse.

Skeer walked the empty halls of Neg's castle, stirring seldom-trod dust and thinking black thoughts.

Tuanne knew she was lost. The touch of Neg's mind was but fleeting upon her, other than the same compunction that drew the others walking the In-Between Lands, but with that touch she knew he had seen her.

Ah, Tuanne! I thought you might return. I have several new pleasures in mind for you upon your arrival. You departed without bidding me so much as a simple farewell. I am injured.

Neg's mental voice hardened, the crack of a psychic whip. I am injured; so shall you be ....

With that, Tuanne's hopes dwindled to a pinpoint, buried under resignation so heavy that a mountain seemed light by comparison. To be Neg's slave for a thousand years, the object of his ire for once escaping, loomed over her blacker than the darkest cave under any heaven.

Along with souls of the others ensnared in his curse, Tuanne continued to walk.

There was no longer any need for the village that had sustained him for centuries. As a test of his power, Neg sent a wave of his new troops into the hamlet.

Those villagers who did not flee shortly became part of his new army.

As the evening deepened to violet and then black, the flames of the burning village made a nice light to view the several thousand zombies who gathered outside his moat.

"Speak my name!" he commanded.

With one voice, they spoke. Because some were farther away than others, the sound swelled and droned into a roar like a breaking wave upon a beach.

"Neg! Neg! Neg!"

His chest swelled with power and pride.

"NEG! NEG! NEG!"

"NEG-NEG-NEG-NEG-NEG-NEG-NEG-NEG . . . "

Yes. Neg. Master of the world.

Chapter Twenty

The jungle steamed around them, deep green, and the light that filtered through the thick canopy above seemed as normal as that of the land to which they journeyed. No longer blue, the sun, when he glimpsed it, burned yellow and hot. Conan's sweat attested to the heat. Next to him, Elashi removed her outer garments, to tie them around her shapely hips.

It was an odd jungle. No insects swarmed the air, no sounds of beasts hunting in the distance reached their ears. For all the dangers that Tuanne had warned them of, nothing came to interrupt their journey.

Two hours walk into the sodden bush, and they came to the end of their quest in the magic lands.

"You were right," Elashi admitted. "That must be how we are to reenter our own world."

Ahead lay what appeared to be the grandfather of all trees; on its side, a wooden gate hung, twice the height of a man. Standing guard over this portal was a large and muscular man holding a sword, clad only in a loincloth and boots.

The man looked familiar. He was easily as large as Conan, had square-cut black hair to his shoulders, and stood with a kind of arrogance.

Crom! It could not be!

"By Mitra!" Elashi said. "It it is-is-"

"Myself," Conan finished.

"It cannot be."

"A fair copy, then. Although methinks he looks too insolent."

Elashi said, "Oh, no, he is the exact image of you."

Conan looked at her. "You should get along as well with him as you do with me, then." His voice was very dry.

"I think not," she replied, pointing.

The ersatz Conan stalked toward them.

"Ho," the real Conan said.

The copy stopped and looked puzzled. One might say almost stupidly so, Conan thought, then shook that idea away. Natural wonderment.

"What do you want?" the fake Cimmerian said.

"To pass yon gate," Conan replied.

"You may not. I am charged with preventing any entry."

"Does this include yourself?"

"Nay. But," the fake continued, "you are not me. You are some demonish illusion. Magic!" He spat.

Conan resisted the urge to expectorate in agreement. Instead, he said, "It is you who are the illusion. Let us pass, and you may continue to wear my form."

"Nay, demon. And I shall see your true shape after I cut away your magical veil." So saying, the gate guard drew his sword and took a stance.

Conan's grin was wolfish as he replied with his own blade, matching the other's stand. He strode forward, raised his weapon, and cut at the other's head, hard.

The block offered could not have been better placed; more, it carried every bit as much power as Conan's strike. A bad sign.

The counterfeit Conan looked surprised again.

Surely, the genuine Conan thought, surely I do not offer such an expression to the world? I must find a looking glass someday.

Not now, however, he thought, as the fake slashed at his arm. Conan danced back and parried, then circled the move into a stab at the thick chest. The imitation leaped back fleetly, and the strike fell well short.

Two more minutes of thrust and counterthrust ended in a draw, neither man having touched the other. How could a man defeat himself? Conan worried the thought as he feinted a broad sweep and bore in for a short cut to the neck. His move was anticipated, blocked handily, and in a comic touch to the already comic proceedings, then duplicated exactly by the false Conan. As was Conan's next block.

"Crom!" both men said at the same instant.

"Perhaps you can reason with him," Elashi offered as the paired Conans stood facing each other two spans away.

"Reason? You jest," the real Conan said.

The other Conan laughed.

Then again, who better to reason with than yourself?

The genuine Cimmerian-although he wondered if perhaps the other man might not think he was the real article too-lowered his blade.

"If one of us is a fake, he is a good one," Conan said.

The tree gate guardian nodded. "I'll allow that."

"But what if we are both real?"

"Unlikely."

"Granted, but possible in this land of magic, you must agree."

"Aye. Possible."

"Then if that is true, to allow me to pass through the gate would be no dereliction of your duty."

Grudgingly, the other nodded. "True enough."

"Then allow me to pass, for I know I am real."

The ersatz Conan pondered upon that for a moment. "Even if what you say is true, what about her?"

Conan was stumped for a reply.

Elashi said, "I? I am merely an illusion."

"An illusion?"

"Aye. A phantom. Not real. A ghost."

"Hmm. Were that the case, you could pass. But I would have to determine the truth of it."

Elashi smiled. "Easily done. Touch me. Your hand will pass through unimpeded."

The real Conan stared at her. Had she gone mad? She was no illusion! His hand had never passed through her warm flesh!

Elashi took a step forward, turned her head slightly, and winked at the real Conan.

Ah. Now he understood. "Yes, touch her," he said, sheathing his sword.

The fake Conan lowered his blade, now that the threat seemed to be gone. He took two steps toward Elashi.

She chose that moment to lift her thin undershirt, baring her full and tanned breasts. "Here," she said. "Feel."

When the copy Conan extended his hand to stroke those perfect globes, the real Conan leaped, and clouted the other behind the ear with a powerful hammerblow of his knotted fist. The fake Conan dropped, his consciousness knocked from him.

Elashi grinned, and covered herself.

"I would not have been duped that way," Conan said.

Her grin grew larger.

"I would not have," Conan insisted.

"Of course not," she said. But she did not stop smiling.

As they moved to the gate, the vision of the half-naked Elashi as she had stood there lay heavily upon his memory. He could hardly blame the other Conan, who sprawled sleeping on the soggy ground. It was a fine sight, truly it was. Not that he would have fallen for such a trick. Really.

Neg discovered yet another trick given him by his new powers. He could, if he so desired, "see" through the eyes of a designated zombie. It required merely his willing this after making mental contact, and he became instantly able to be in two places at once, one fully and the other in a kind of dreamlike state. Depending upon his intent, the "real" sight could be either place. More, he could shift his mind into the bodies of the Men With No Eyes, and that proved to be most interesting. Though blind, their other senses were so acute so as to render the sightless state only a minor annoyance. He tried the technique on one of the living villagers brought to him as a test subject, but could not make the shift. Ah, well. A small matter. Upon the quick death of the villager, the deed became possible.

Soon, his army would be large enough to send sweeping all before it. He merely needed to decide upon a direction. Should he go north, into Corinthia, Nemedia, and Brythunia? Or perhaps farther west, taking Ophir and Aquilonia, to the sea state of Zingara? Koth and Shem lay southward, and beyond them Stygia and Kush, and to the east, Zamora and Turan . . . .

Ah, such decisions! Not that it mattered which way he chose to conquer first; in the end, it would all be his. With each battle, his army would grow; every fallen soldier would become his man, every civilian slain another. The greater the defenses, the faster his forces would grow. An invincible army of dead, never needing sleep or food or rest, would sweep all before it, as a wind moved dry leaves.

Then, once he ruled the entire world, he could do anything. Anything! He would rule for ten thousand years!

The last man alive in a world filled with dead servants.

The door though the tree led to a dark corridor. Conan led, his sword probing ahead, while Elashi clutched onto his belt from behind.

After a moment, they saw a dim light ahead.

Another moment, and the light proved to be a guttering fat lamp on the wall of a quite ordinary stone corridor. Conan felt a coldness as he passed through the portal into the necromancer's castle. When he turned to look at the exit, he saw nothing but a blank stone wall.

"Are we here?" Elashi said.

"So it would seem."

"Now what?"

"Now we find Neg and kill him."

Five zombies walked through the In-Between Lands as a unit, five who had been Men With No Eyes. The sixth now rested, if somewhat uncomfortably, within the bowels of a creature the size of a terrestial whale. This monster had burrowed up through the road on which the six traveled and engulfed the zombie in a single bite. If the taste of dead flesh reanimated bothered the creature, it gave no sign, but sank back into the land as if it were water, and disappeared, bearing its most recent dinner with it.

The five continued on without their colleague.

Unbeknownst to Elashi and Conan, Tuanne had taken the same route into Neg's castle, albeit before the counterfeit Conan arrived to take up his post. It was to this portal that the five remaining trackers unerringly moved.

At the giant tree they met the false Conan.

"I have been tricked once," he said. "It will not happen again. Leave."

The zombie priests had no such intentions. They started toward the gate.

Whichever god or demigod who had duplicated Conan, whatever his, her, or its reasons, had done an exceedingly good job. The rage that smoldered and flared within the construct erupted like a human volcano. He flew into the five priests, sword blurring back and forth, up and down, this way and that, and abruptly, the air was filled with a rain of dead flesh. Hands, arms, feet, ears, a head-everything the cold sharp iron could find it severed and flung hither and yon. Some of the more mobile pieces-hands, especially-tried to return to their owners, scrabbling along like fleshy insects, but the flashing blade never let up long enough to allow it.

Even the rage of a fake Cimmerian is an awesome sight.

When the man finally exhausted even his great strength, the clearing by the giant tree lay deep in bloodless, butchered flesh. Instinctively, the simulacrum of Conan seemed to know that if he scattered the pieces far enough from each other, they would not be able to reunite. A kind of life would exist, but more akin to flora than fauna. To this end, the copy of a man kicked the scored sections of his attackers for a mile around the jungle. The fake Conan then returned to his assigned post, glowering at the jungle through fire-blue eyes.

The zombie Men With No Eyes had come to the end of their journey in a way they had never begun to expect.

Five thousand enthralled zombies stood gathered outside in the darkness. Neg stared at them from the ramparts of his castle. Half again enough to begin, he decided. And northwest seemed a good direction. He waved his left arm.

"Go. Kill all men in your path until you reach Numalia. Await there my pleasure."

Half of the force turned and shambled off in the darkness. What would the good folk of Numalia think when they saw an army of dead stop on their doorstep? What would they pay to be rid of them? Everything, eventually, but Neg would start by demanding wagons full of precious stones, gold, assorted virgins, and rare baubles as he decided upon at his leisure. Perhaps he would have a castle built of gold, with sidewalks of rubies and emeralds. An interesting idea.

The rest of the zombies he wished to keep close to home, for the moment. Any attacking force sent by those who might discern where the zombies originated would have to deal with his reserve, and they were formidable enough.

He turned away from the sight of the departing troops.

His conquest of the world had begun.

Had it been possible, Skeer would have been red with anger. As it stood, he showed no external sign of his rage, and that was just as well. Neg's power was such that should he become irritated, what he could or might do was unpredictable. Not that Skeer had done so well in predicting his master's behavior before he had grown so strong. Skeer the fool, Skeer the jester, Skeer the slackwit, to fall for such an old trick as poisoned wine. Why, he had used the same himself!

He walked through a lower portion of the castle, and the skitter of his dog spiders stayed the same as it had been since they had joined him. He had grown accustomed to it, especially since there was nothing to be done for it.

Ahead of him, he saw Tuanne walking his way.

"Ah. We meet again."

She did not speak, but continued walking, albeit slowly.

"Going to see our mutual master?"

"Aye," she said.

"Give him my regards: a pox upon him for a thousand years."

"Fallen out of favor, Skeer?"

He turned and began to walk next to her. "He calls you, eh? I would see your meeting, would he allow it. "

"Can you think so badly of me, now that you suffer the same affliction?"

Skeer walked unspeaking for a few steps. Finally, he said, "Nay, I admit that I cannot. I can understand why you did what you did. Would that I could retrieve the talisman. I would put an end to this quickly enough."

"You know where it is?"

"Aye, for all the good it does. It is well guarded, and all of his enthralled are forbidden to even think of entering the saferoom."

"We are not forbidden such a thing," came Conan's voice from behind them.

Skeer spun. Tuanne twisted her neck to see, though she did not stop walking. "Conan!" she said. "And Elashi!"

"Aye. The salt, Elashi."

Skeer straightened from his crouch. "You have salt? Here?"

"Aye."

"Then cast it upon me, as well!"

Tuanne said, "It is ordinary salt, Skeer. It will not break his spell, it will only stop movement temporarily."

"Anything, so that I might resist his call. Please."

"I am not disposed to aid you, Skeer. You slew my friend. "

"I can take you to the talisman," Skeer said. "You can stop Neg if you have that."

Conan looked at Tuanne.

"Yes," she said. "Please."

"Very well. Here is the water bottle, Elashi. Add your salt to it."

The woman complied, and in a moment, held a small amount of saline solution. She cupped her hand and poured the brine into it, then flung it at Tuanne. Tuanne stiffened, and Conan caught her before she fell. He laid her gently upon his cloak, upon the flagstones. "We shall return for you when this is done."

She could not speak, but he saw the sparkle in her eyes.

"And me?" Skeer said.

Conan looked down at the spiders, who seemed unperturbed at their presence. "After you show us where the talisman is held."

"Come, then, before Neg decides he needs his boots polished yet again, and calls for me."

With a last glance at Tuanne, Conan and Elashi followed Skeer, staying far enough back to avoid treading upon the spiders between them.

Chapter Twenty-one

"There are six guards," Skeer said. "Men With No Eyes. One of them is like I am, the others living."

"We shall deal with them," Conan said.

"First, we must reach them. Listen."

From around the bend in the corridor just ahead came the sound of voices approaching.

"Quickly, in there!" Skeer pointed at a nearby door. He led the way through it, with Elashi behind him and Conan following her.

Once inside the room-it was a storage area, with dozens of tapers hung by double strings and dark wooden barrels stacked two high along the walls-Conan left the door ajar a crack. He held his sword ready as he peered through the narrow opening.

Outside, half a dozen men moved past the impromptu hiding place. They all had that pale, wan look of the reawakened dead.

Next to him, Skeer said, "Neg has allowed many of the assembled throng inside, as a security measure. The halls are likely to be full of his new slaves."

"Then we shall have to be careful," Conan said.

"Could we not pass for more of the same?" Elashi asked.

"Nay. We recognize our own," Skeer replied.

"Perhaps we could pretend to be your prisoners," Conan said.

"Yes, that might work. Although I am no more than a lackey to Neg, many of the newly enzombied ones know I am at least a close lackey."

"Then let us proceed," the Cimmerian said.

Something was amiss, Neg felt. What, he could not say, but it was as if some worrisome itch troubled him, in a place he could not quite reach. There could be no need for alarm, not with the thousands of loyal nightwalkers gathered outside, along with the dozens of new ones within. He was invulnerable to ordinary attack, and he could draw not only upon the physical strength of his followers, but upon their stored minds, as well. What they knew he could know; he merely had to seek the answer.

What was it?

Hmm.

Well, for one thing, Tuanne was overdue to arrive. Perhaps he should check upon her progress.

He sent his mind searching for hers. Ah, there it was, quite close by. Give me your eyes, he commanded.

What he then saw made no sense. It seemed to be a blank wall, dimly lit, and practically featureless. After a moment he realized that it was not a wall, but a ceiling.

How could this be? Was she standing still and staring at a ceiling? That was impossible, since he had commanded her to attend him here. She might move slowly, but move she must.

Close your eyes, he said mentally.

Nothing happened. The ceiling stayed where it was.

Now that he observed it more closely, he could see that the height of it was more than usual. Were it in his castle, as indeed it must be, then Tuanne must be squatting, or even lying upon her back. And unable-certainly not unwilling-to close her eyes. The only way that could happen would be if she were under some sort of counterspell. A spell laid by another, more powerful wizard, or witch, perhaps? Or maybe just something as simple as a paralyzing solution of salt, none of which was allowed in the castle, save what Neg personally controlled.

Whatever the cause, it boded ill. This was a fly in the ointment, and it must be dealt with, immediately.

He broke his contact with Tuanne. Where was Skeer?

Never mind. He was of no importance. He clapped his hands, and two of his priests, still living (he would have to attend to that soon too), appeared. "Go and find Tuanne. Bring her here."

The priests bowed, and hurried out.

Still, the invisible itch persisted. Something more. And where had Skeer gotten to? Perhaps he should see what the ex-thief was up to . . . ?

Later, he decided.

The Disguise Master walked in tandem with Brute. They had been among the lucky ones admitted to the inner sanctum of Neg's castle. Brute now had his arm back. That had been interesting, watching the arm drag itself along by finger and wrist action, seeking its owner as might a crippled dog. Brute had bent and picked it up, then simply stuck it back where it belonged. It had healed within a matter of hours.

As had the cut in the Disguise Master's own head. Sealed over like a puddle of water in a winter storm. To all appearances, he looked no different than when he was alive. True, some of the zombies looked far worse than did he. Some wounds took much longer to heal, and where large portions of flesh or bone were missing, total repair did not occur. It made for some interesting scarring, and unbelievable locomotion, people stumping around on bare bones, in some cases.

Ah, well. It was not his to reason how or why. Even though he was in thrall to the necromancer, he had a kind of freedom. Better walking dead than rotting in the ground dead.

Tuanne lay on Conan's cloak, a prisoner within her own salt-frozen body. Neg had touched her mind, and had seen that she lay unmoving. Little doubt he would wonder about that, and no doubt that he would do something about it. Her only hope lay with Conan and Elashi.

As the dawn rose, a caravan of notarii performers journeying southward toward Koth began to break camp. One of the men striking his tent happened to glance at the next ridge over. He gasped, and quickly made the sign against evil in the chilly morning air before he began yelling the alert. "Zhombeya! Zhombeya!" he screamed.

The camp responded quickly. As the thousands of silent figures walked and slid down the face of the ridge, anything that could not be packed and carried rapidly was left behind. Before the approaching horde reached the site, the campers were long gone, moving at historically proper right angles to the zombies' march.

The notarii knew how to deal with Zhombeya, and the way of it was simple: Run. And run fast.

In their return from the dead, Neg's minions had apparently gained no more perception than they had when alive. As Conan and his two companions passed the third group of zombies, led by Skeer, they did so for the third time without questions. Either the patrolling groups thought Skeer in control, or they did not care. While Skeer had nodded at one death-brother he seemed to know, he had not needed to speak his prepared remarks: "These are my prisoners. I am taking them to Neg."

That was what he was ready to state, but as yet, no one had seemed particularly interested in them.

These perverted creatures were not very observant. Conan still wore his sword, as did Elashi. This was going to be easier than Conan had thought.

"Conan!" came the yell that destroyed Conan's smugness.

He turned, to see the Disguise Master and Brute, both none the less for his having slain them.

"Best we move, fast!" Conan said.

The three of them broke into a run, away from the Disguise Master.

"After them! They are Neg's enemies!"

Those words were apparently the correct ones, for the dozen or so zombies in the hall began to chase them.

Conan drew his sword, but did not slow his pace. His pursuers were already dead, and while he could cut them down, he could not hope to disable a dozen of them quickly enough to win the victory. A wise man, his father had told him, knew when to run and when to fight. It was time to run.

They pounded around another bend in the corridor, to face another group of ten of the walking dead. Conan would have slashed a path through them, but Elashi's wit was quicker than his blade.

"Behind us!" she called. "Neg's enemies pursue us!"

"Neg's enemies" was definitely a triggering phrase. The ten were galvanized into action. They leaped to defend their master, no doubt mindlessly obeying his injunction to do just that, at any cost.

Conan, Elashi, and Skeer kept running, leaving the two groups to sort it out. Doubtless they would in short order, but Conan had no plans to stay and find out.

Enemies in his castle! How they had come to be there he could determine later; meanwhile, they had to be captured or destroyed!

Neg tugged at his mustache, twirling one end in nervousness. He would fill the castle with his enthralled; there would be no place for an enemy to hide!

He sent the call.

In a few moments, five hundred more of his nightwalkers would stalk the halls!

Skeer, trailing spiders, led Conan and Elashi down a flight of steep stone stairs. There were fewer of his creatures dogging him now, since Conan's large feet had flattened several in their flight, but those that remained stuck grimly and gamely on their path.

Behind them, pursuit thundered along the flagstones. No one came down the stairs, however.

Skeer said, "This way leads to the dungeon."

"What of the talisman?" Conan asked.

"Halfway around the castle. But we can cover a great part of the way by going under it."

"Lead on, then."

The last of Skeer's spiders, perhaps sixteen or eighteen of them, moved to one side, keeping well clear of Conan's footsteps.

Neg faced the one who called himself the Disguise Master. "Speak," he said.

"He is called 'Conan,' lord. An outland barbarian. He was the one who . . . slew me. He travels with a woman, though there was another woman with them earlier, a zombie-"

"What? Describe this zombie woman!"

The Disguise Master did.

Tuanne! Ah!

"We had scores to settle-"

"I am not interested in your petty arguments. Tell me more about this barbarian and woman."

"There was a third one with them, one of your enthralled."

"Really? Describe this one!"

"He has a face that would grace a sainted holy man. And a collection of spiders follows him-"

"Skeer! By Set's Black Coils! I shall grind his bones into powder! No, that would be too good for him. I shall have him rendered armless and legless and used as a footstool!"

Lost completely in a maze of hallways they were, and suddenly Skeer stopped. "Oh, no! He calls me."

If such a thing was possible, Skeer turned even whiter than he already was.

"He-he knows!"

"The Disguise Master," Elashi said.

"Aye," Conan agreed. "Use the salt solution."

The desert woman unstoppered the liquid and sprayed it at Skeer. The zombie went rigid, and Conan caught his stiffened form and lowered him to the floor next to the wall.

The remaining spiders formed a semi-circle around Skeer.

"We are on our own," Conan said. "Let us go and find this guarded room."

Elashi nodded. "I shall follow you."

Tuanne had regained some movement by the time the two Men With No Eyes finished carrying her to Neg's inner sanctum. The necromancer wore a smile that might have graced a demon contemplating some particularly hellish deed.

"Ah, the lovely Tuanne! We have much to discuss, you and I."

The priests set the zombie woman onto her feet. She swayed slightly, but managed to remain standing. She was lost, and there seemed no point in hoping any longer.

"What is the intent of this lout of whom I have only recently learned, this Conan?"

Though she tried to hold back the words, Neg's gaze compelled her to speak. "He-he seeks your death."

"My death? Ha! Thousands have desired such and thousands have failed to achieve it. Most of them found for themselves that which they would wish for me."

"And yet, he is inside your castle, is he not?"

Neg frowned. "You have learned insolence. I cannot permit this." He waved, and pointed one finger at Tuanne.

Pain seared her, as if a hot needle had been thrust into her tender breast. She gasped, bent, then managed to straighten.

"Is this all this man wishes?"

She could not lie, she knew, but perhaps she could shade the truth. Conan no doubt wished many things, and certainly she did not know them all.

"I do not know all that he wishes." That was the truth; she had not lied to him-he had not asked what else Conan had planned. If he asked, she would have to tell him, but without that compulsion she had some small amount of control.

The necromancer tugged at his mustache. He twirled it and smiled. "No matter," he said. "Within a few moments the entire castle will swarm with my nightwalkers. Your hero will be captured and brought here for my amusement. Perhaps the two of you can perform certain . . . dances together for me."

Tuanne stood silently. Perhaps he was through with her for now. Hope stirred slightly, a nearly extinct hope, but not extinguished totally. Conan and Elashi were resourceful. Perhaps there was some small chance yet left.

"Is this Conan alone?"

The word came hard, but it came. "No."

"Ah. Who is with him?"

"Elashi, a woman of the desert."

"Ah." The demonic smile replayed. "The more the merrier. And would she have me dead, as well?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "Yet another fool to join my army. Ah, well, with two women and one barbarian, I am sure I can devise some entertainment that will amuse me for a few moments."

Tuanne said nothing, but the small hope she held wavered. Neg was too powerful now, she could feel the energies radiate from him like heat from a bonfire. With a wave of his hand he could slay both Conan and Elashi, with no more effort than swatting a bothersome insect. Their only chance lay in finding the Source of Light and disrupting the power Neg now enjoyed.

At best, the odds were overwhelming.

Chapter Twenty-two

Conan began to feel like a butcher. He and Elashi had given up all pretense of secrecy. They ran along the corridors of the massive castle, twisting and turning, using their blades to clear a path when needed. The zombies could not die of sharp steel, but a sufficiently skilled and powerful stroke would slow them considerably. A man hopping on one leg moved much slower than the desert woman and Cimmerian. And heads were also good. A body without a head could not see to follow, until it had fetched that lopped off extremity, and that took time.

They ran, until finally they found by accident that which they sought. Six robed figures stood arrayed along the corridor with a door behind them. This must be the place, Conan thought.

The unarmed priests launched themselves at the two interlopers. They were fast, the Men With No Eyes, but the corridor was narrow enough so that they could not easily encircle Conan and Elashi.

Conan wove a deadly tapestry with his blade, cold blue iron dancing through warm flesh. He cut and slashed, leaped and pivoted, and quickly downed two of the attackers.

Elashi, behind him, kept one of the priests at bay with her blade, scoring on him with mostly shallow cuts, but enough to hold him at bay.

The remaining three danced and dodged, and kept Conan hopping to avoid being caught. He had the sword and great strength, but they were faster. And, he recalled, one of them was already dead. He had to take care not to allow that one-which was he?-to grasp his blade and pinion it while the others moved on him.

A snap kick caught Conan in the ribs on the left side. He grunted and chopped downward with his weapon. The sword bit into a thigh, but no blood welled. Ah, the zombie!

The undead priest snatched at the bloody blade, but Conan jerked it back, slicing off two of the zombie's fingers in the process. He wouldn't lose track of that one, at least.

Another of the blind men spun in, his right arm extended, fist doubled tightly. The whirling strike, aimed at Conan's temple, bounced, instead, off the muscular shoulder the Cimmerian hunched up at the final instant. Even though the meat of Conan's arm was both thick and hard, he felt the power of the punch vibrate him deeply.

Behind him, Elashi yelled, "Conan! Down the corridor!"

Conan lunged at the spinning priest and lanced the man's belly open with a surgical stab. As the priest fell, blocking his brothers for a moment, Conan took the time to look at Elashi's concern.

Crom! More of the undead shambled toward them. They had only a few seconds before they would be buried in attackers.

"The door!" Conan yelled.

He bounded over the fallen priest, slashed at the blind zombie, severing a hand, then turned toward the door.

Locked, of course.

Elashi managed to skewer her man. She jumped to aid Conan against the final pair.

The approaching zombie horde neared.

Conan leaped across the corridor, buried his sword in the gut of the living priest with a backhand slash, then threw his body against the locked door.

The mechanism of the lock had never been intended to withstand the weight of a Cimmerian giant at full force. The metal screeched and surrendered, and the door slammed open, Conan flying through the doorway. Elashi slipped in behind him. Before the nearest zombie could reach the entrance, Conan slammed the door shut and braced his hands against it.

"There it is!" Elashi said.

The muscles in Conan's arms and shoulders rippled as the zombies outside pounded and shoved against the door. "Well, fetch it!" he said, leaning against the wood. It moved open half an inch, then held. "And hurry!"

Conan looked over his shoulder as Elashi ran to the crystal stand. She hesitated, her hand over the talisman.

"It glows," she said.

"I care not if it sings and dances! Collect it!"

She snatched the talisman up. "I have it."

"Good. Stand next to the door. On this side."

She moved to obey.

"Stand ready," he ordered. With that, Conan leaped away from the door and in front of Elashi.

The door burst open and four zombies fell into the room. Conan grabbed Elashi and jumped over the sprawled bodies into the corridor.

Perhaps fifty of the undead had gathered there.

Well. He would meet Crom with arms sore from swinging a sword, Conan thought. He raised his blade.

Elashi said, "Wait!"

He looked at her. She held the talisman-it was glowing, a kind of greenish light coming from it-out in front of her.

The zombies backed away from her, as though in fear.

Quickly, she jumped forward and touched one of them with the talisman. He fell, and as he did, shriveled as a leaf dropped into fire.

"She bears the True Death!" somebody said.

At this, half of the zombies turned and ran. The others moved toward Conan and Elashi, but no longer threatening. They smiled.

"Me," one said, "touch me first!"

"And then me," another said. "Bless you!"

Conan was puzzled for a moment.

"They wish to die," Elashi said quietly. "The talisman's touch will free them to return to the Gray Lands."

Conan nodded. "Touch them. Then let us find Neg and touch him-with this." Conan shook his sword.

A small village in the middle of nowhere waited for destruction. They had heard of the zombie march, of the thousands who killed all before them, and those who had not fled knew there was no hope.

But, as the killers approached, a strange thing happened: they stopped. They moved not, but simply stood and stared, as if seeing something a thousand miles away.

It was, the villagers later said, as if they had run out of intent.

Neg's anger filled the room.

"The talisman! It has been moved! My power wanes!"

Still in thrall, Tuanne managed a smile. He controlled her, and many of the others in the castle, but outside of that, the magic that fueled Neg's power would fall off dramatically.

The necromancer spun and faced Tuanne. "You! Your barbarian did this!"

"I hope so," she said.

"Bitch! You will twist for this!" He stabbed a finger at her, but Tuanne felt no stabbing fire this time. Her smile continued unabated.

"I shall deal with you later!" He turned and stalked from the room.

The solution of saltwater Elashi had used upon him must have either been weak or in insufficient quantity, Skeer realized. Movement returned to his limbs much sooner than he would have thought. He stood, and the ever-present spiders scuttled back a little. He sighed. Neg's punishment for his transgressions would be most unpleasant, of that he was certain. But-wait-the compulsion was gone! What had happened? He felt for the undeniable command, but Neg must be occupied elsewhere, for he could not sense any presence. Odd.

Skeer had never been one to look a gift's origins over too closely. He had to get to the talisman.

Conan and Elashi moved down the corridor, and left bodies piled upon the floor as they walked. Many of the undead came to embrace the Source of Light, though now the Cimmerian thought it more the Source of Death. Others still fled when they felt the power. Conan wondered if a direct touch was needed. He suspected it was not, but he had no notion of how to operate the device, and it was just as well. That kind of power could be seductive. Better a man did not tempt himself that way.

They moved down the hall, the only two living people, re-releasing to death the souls of all who wished it.

Neg stormed along the corridors, rage stirring his black heart. He would find this barbarian and he would turn his death-gaze upon the fool until the man withered into ash! The disruption in his plans did more than irritate him, it was an affront to his entire being! He had not lived all the centuries, planning and scheming to get this far to be stopped by some barbarian!

Skeer, spiders in tow, reached Neg's crystal chamber. The bodies lying sprawled were so deeply piled in places he had to climb over them, to see that the room no longer held the magical device. So. Conan and the woman had managed to beat Neg's formidable defenses. Amazing.

He began to follow the trail of corpses, some of which now were little more than dry bones. When the True Death claimed them, the preserving spell had vanished, and the corruption had been vastly accelerated. Or, perhaps, maybe just resumed where it had left off before Neg's call. That thought pleasured him not at all, especially when he contemplated his own dissolution; still, if somehow Neg lost control of him permanently, then he could adjust to living-or not living-this way. Something could be found to replace women and hemp. What, he could not say, but with enough time, something could be arranged.

The trick, then, was to see that Neg died or was rendered permanently inert somehow, without losing his own semblance of life. Might be tricky, that.

He hurried along, searching for Conan and Elashi.

The spiders crawled over the bodies, apparently without the slightest bit of interest in them.

Once-bright tapestries hung on the walls of the central meeting chamber, a room large enough to seat a hundred comfortably. The years had faded the drapes to dull tones, and layers of dust and cobwebs coated the long table down the center of the room. The skylight allowed the rays of the morning sun into the chamber, albeit filtered through iron bars thick with red rust. The nearly perpetual rain had yet to make its appearance on this morn, and the chamber held enough light to see with clarity.

Into the central room came Neg, through the south hallway.

At the same moment, Conan and Elashi entered the chamber via the north corridor.

Slightly behind Conan, Skeer and his tarantulas moved.

The four stood still for a heartbeat.

"So," Neg said. "You are the cause of my consternation!"

"Aye," Conan said, hefting his sword. "And you caused the death of my friend."

"I have caused many deaths, barbarian. I deal in death."

"My father among them," Elashi said.

Neg laughed. "And you, Skeer? Have you a complaint?"

Skeer hesitated. If Neg triumphed . . .

"No matter," Neg said. "Your treachery has earned you my ire. When these two fall, I shall attend to you."

Skeer felt his stomach roil.

Conan shifted his feet into a fighting stance, sword raised. He began to inch forward in small, carefully balanced steps.

Neg stood with his arms folded, watching.

Elashi raised her sword and also moved for Neg.

The necromancer affected a pose of disdain.

Conan saw that the man bore no weapons, at least none that were obvious. Ordinarily, he would care little for striking down an unarmed man, but Neg hardly fit into the category of ordinary. A quick, clean death was too good for him, but it was Conan's way; he would not stoop to torture.

When the Cimmerian was nearly close enough to leap and destroy the wizard, Neg raised one hand and held stiffened fingers pointing at Conan. "My eyes," he said.

Without thinking, Conan glanced up to lock gazes with the other man.

And could not look away.

Neg's eyes seemed to swirl with color, and they bored into Conan like a dagger. Suddenly, Conan felt his knees grow weak, as did his arms. The sword drooped, and he felt as if he were moving through thick mud . . . .

Elashi darted in then, her shorter blade raised to split Neg's skull. He snapped his gaze from Conan to the woman. She stopped, as if running into a rubbery wall. The sword fell from her fingers, and she sat down and covered her eyes with her hands, sobbing.

Conan felt some of his strength return, and he gathered himself to spring at the necromancer.

Neg looked away from Elashi and back at the Cimmerian, and the weakness enveloped him like a weighted blanket. Lifting the anvil at the trader's seemed easy compared to keeping his eyes open. If he could just lie down and rest for a moment, he could slay the villain later . . . .

"Do not sleep!" Skeer yelled. "It is the death-gaze! You will never awake if you stop now!"

Neg smiled at Skeer. "I have had enough of your crossings, Skeer!"

With that, Neg waved both hands in Skeer's direction, as if casting dust.

Conan managed to look at Skeer. The zombie groaned, and began to shrivel. In a few seconds, he looked like a grape left in the sun too long. The moan caught in his throat, and he fell. His skin turned to parchment, his flesh seemed to melt from under it, and after three heartbeats, a mummified skeleton lay on the chamber floor where Skeer had been.

The big spiders swarmed over the corpse, highly agitated.

"Now," Neg said, "to finish this unpleasant business."

He turned back toward Conan.

Conan struggled to take the final two steps that would allow him to reach Neg. He managed one, and then stopped, as if cast in iron. He could not move. He could hear Elashi crying softly behind him, and he regretted that she would die, but there was nothing he could do. He would not give up, but he could . . . not . . . move. . . .

Neg screamed.

Conan shook his head as the spell slackened slightly.

It was the spiders. They attacked Neg. He slapped at them, smashing and flinging them from him, but those who were not killed darted back at him, clambering up his legs and biting wherever they could reach.

With the fall of Skeer, the spiders' confusion ended. Skeer was dead, but his essence was finally seen to have been transferred to Neg. And Neg was alive. They could now fulfill their mission, the Shes, and so they did.

Conan raised the sword. It weighed as much as a boulder! He shuffled his foot forward half an inch. His feet were nailed to the floor "Die!" Neg screamed.

The spiders fell away from him, rolling onto their backs, some of them, legs fluttering in the still air.

Conan strained against a mountain in his way, shoving as though through solid rock Neg looked up from the twitching spiders at Conan.

"No!" He shot one hand up.

Conan contracted the muscles of his back and shoulders and stomach and brought the sword down with all the power he had left.

The edge of the sharped blue iron hit Neg square on the head. The chunk! of the blade opening the skull was lost in a sudden rush of what seemed a foul wind bursting forth from Neg's head. The stench gagged Conan, and he released the sword and fell to his knees.

The tapestries blew in the unnatural wind. The dust in the chamber stirred into a blinding storm. Conan rubbed at his eyes.

When it cleared, on the floor next to Conan was a pool of corruption, a greasy puddle of red and black fluid, oozing over the flagstones.

And Neg the Malefic was no more.

Chapter Twenty-three

At a village in the middle of nowhere, a great cry suddenly rent the air as the voices of many dead-undead thousands gave out a ragged cheer.

Partial freedom had been achieved.

In Neg's inner sanctum, Conan and Elashi found Tuanne, freed of the necromancer's control. The two women wept for joy, and Conan had to admit to himself that he was happy to see the zombie girl, not to mention being more than a little pleased at still being alive.

"You killed him," Tuanne said.

"Conan did," Elashi said. "With the help of Skeer's spiders, of all things." She explained the final battle with Neg.

When she had done, Tuanne smiled. "A brave man, is our Conan." Both women turned to smile at him.

"And now what?" Conan said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable somehow.

"We must use the talisman to free the walking dead," Tuanne said. "If you will help me? I cannot touch the Source directly."

"Of course," Elashi said.

The two women drew aside. Conan heard them mumbling together. He kept one portion of his mind on the women, but another part stayed alert for any of the zombies or Men With No Eyes who might still be lurking about the castle. Correction, the stinking castle: the odor that permeated the air made the smell of a charnel house seem like delicate flowers. Breathing such noxious fumes could hardly be a healthy, worthwhile endeavor.

"Best we go outside," Tuanne said.

"Aye. "

The three of them went to the lowered drawbridge and crossed the moat. Once outside, they turned back to face the castle. If anything living-or dead-stirred save themselves, Conan could not see it.

"Hold the device thusly," Tuanne said. She gestured, and Elashi took the proper grip from her example.

"Yes. Now, say the words, Quodnecesant "

Elashi repeated the words.

"-sibidamnononerit-"

"-sibidamnononerit " Elashi finished.

There came a rumble from within the castle. The sky over it suddenly seemed to brighten. No, it did grow brighter! Almost as if a new sun had appeared there.

Conan blinked against the glare.

The light flashed, then, sending out thousands of beams, like a stylized rendition of the sun done by a mad artist. As quickly as it had come, the glow died.

The Disguise Master, running tirelessly next to Brute, with whom he now had much more in common than before, saw the man next to him speared with a lance of bright light. A second later, he felt a similar spear enter his own spine.

Both died the True Death instantly.

Malo the priest rejoined his ancestors in the Gray Lands, transfixed by the fiery rod for a second before he tumbled from a high mountain pass into eternity.

All over the land, those who had been plucked from the afterlife by Neg's sorcery were returned to it. Outside the nameless village, several thousand fell at once, as if they were puppets with their strings cut by a giant razor.

Totally free now, they were.

And outside the castle Tuanne turned to Elashi. "If you would wrap the talisman in a piece of cloth or purse, please?"

Elashi dropped the Source of Light into her purse, pulled the leather bag from her belt, and passed it to Tuanne.

"Thank you. My proximity to it, oddly enough, protected me from the splash that took my fellow zombies." She hefted the bag. "I will touch it directly. There are some nice trees over there, I think I shall do it there."

Elashi started to cry. "Must you? I-we have come to care for you." She glanced at Conan, who nodded briefly.

"Come here," Tuanne said softly.

When Conan and Elashi were close enough, Tuanne put her arms around both of them, and hugged them tightly. "You have been lovers and friends to me," she said, "and I shall remember you through all eternity. But I must go. I am a hundred years past my time."

Elashi's tears continued to stream.

Conan turned his head away for a moment, to brush at something that had gotten into his eye.

Elashi said, "W-w-would you like us to . . . to-?"

"No. I would rather you remember me as I am now," Tuanne said. "It will be quick, and there will be little left, after a hundred years."

Conan rubbed at his other eye. Dust, it had to be.

"Fare thee well," Tuanne said. She turned, and walked toward a small grove of evergreen trees. Elashi watched her go, until Conan tugged gently at her arm.

"What are you doing?"

"She wants privacy," Conan said. "Let us give her that. "

Elashi turned toward Conan and pressed her face against his chest.

"Do you still wish the talisman? I could retrieve it for you, after Tuanne-"

"No. Let it rest with her bones. Better that we should both remember her as she was."

"Aye."

They walked away from the edge of the moat, and Conan felt a discomfort he could not quite define.

"What will you do now?" Conan asked.

"Return to my tribe in the desert," Elashi said. "I must report upon this to my brothers and uncles. And what of you?" Elashi asked.

Conan shrugged. "I was bound for Zamora before. I see no reason to change my destination."

"Shall we travel together until I turn south? I suddenly feel alone."

"Aye," Conan said. "Why not?"

The two of them walked away from the dead castle, and neither looked back at the small grove of evergreen trees.

Conan the Hunter

The Lurker Below

In a tunnel deep under Brythunia's capital city, Conan smelled the rotting stench of death. A sudden, wet, sucking noise and an unnatural bubbling squeal sent a chill down his spine. As he readied his sword, he made out the form of a nightmarish horror rising from the ooze.

The beast was huge; its slime-coated bulk filled the entire tunnel.

Slobbering obscenely, it splashed toward the Cimmerian, who stumbled back, trying to stay out of its reach. A dozen long tentacles, each hairy on top and covered with spongy suckers on the underside, waved around it.

Suddenly, without warning, several of the tentacles lashed out, coiling tightly around Conan's leg and waist in a viselike grip. Slowly Conan was dragged into the noisome creature's central maw, wide enough to swallow a man whole. Conan groped desperately for his sword, but it lay just beyond his fingertips.

The mighty barbarian was helpless; futilely, he thrashed about, unable to prevent the beast from hauling him into its slavering orifice.

Prologue

An eerie silence shrouded the dim chamber, like thick fog on a dark, moonless night. Flickering candles illuminated a large ebon altar, which dominated the room. On the floor before the altar, a woman knelt.

Her pale, alabaster skin contrasted sharply with her coal-black hair and deep crimson robes. Her eyes glowed red like hot embers in a brazier, but the pupils were as black and shiny as a serpent's. She cast back her hood with thin, black-nailed fingers, revealing a visage that was compelling, yet evil beyond comprehension. It was the face of a woman with exotic beauty, immense power, and cold-blooded resolve.

The sinister altar was covered with unspeakable stains, thickest at the flat, circular top and thinner near the base. One stain glistened wetly in the dim light; from it, thin rivulets had run down the sides of the altar to form fresh pools on the floor. The chamber reeked of death.

A large bronze door rasped open into the room. Beyond the door was a dark hallway fitted with deep, plush carpet. The candlelight revealed a tall, thin man standing in the doorway. He was hairless but for a wispy, almost imperceptible white beard. Wrinkles crisscrossed his pale skin. In his left hand was a ring of keys; his right hand still grasped the intricately carved wooden door handle. He let go of the handle, knelt in the doorway, and lowered his head.

He spoke in a high-pitched, lilting voice that was silkier than his flowing, pale blue robes.

"Azora, most Revered Priestess, I have come in answer to your summons."

She rose slowly from the floor and turned toward the doorway. Her eyes flickered with ill-concealed contempt as they took him in.

"Ah, Lamici. It will not be long before the final rites are complete.

You will be well rewarded, eunuch."

The last was emphasized, as if to remind him of his station. Azora's voice was rich and deep. It filled the room and echoed faintly. She gestured toward the top of the altar by tilting her head.

"You may dispose of this carrion."

"At once, Priestess."

He retreated briefly into the hallway and emerged bearing a large leather sack. Hesitating, he viewed the scene at the altar with an expression of evident distaste. Azora watched him with amusement. Weak, cowardly fool, she thought. As if he could sense this, he moved purposefully to the altar and reached up.

Hanging from the ceiling was the naked body of a once-beautiful young woman. Rusted iron manacles were clamped cruelly around both her ankles and suspended from heavy chains attached to huge metal rings set in the ceiling. Her long, golden-blonde hair hung down, almost touching the top of the blood-smeared altar. Jeweled silver bracelets gleamed on each of her slender wrists, and a bright silver chain hung from her neck. The body was unmarked, in spite of the wet puddles on the chamber floor. Her skin was a ghastly, bloodless white, and her eyes and mouth gaped unnaturally wide in an expression of extreme terror.

Lamici slid his sack around the lifeless form, carefully avoiding contact with any of the red blotches. He pulled the drawstrings tight just below the slender ankles. Gripping one ankle firmly and using his key, he unlocked the manacles. With a surprising show of strength, he slung the sack over his shoulder and lugged it out into the hallway. He paused briefly, carefully shutting the stout bronze door behind him.

Azora turned back to the altar and closed her eyes. With hands extended toward the altar, she began a slow, rhythmic chant. As her lips formed sounds and words in a language that had been old when Atlantis sank, the candles in the room flared up with scarlet fire. The blood streamed toward her in ribbons, and her outstretched hands absorbed the crimson flow. The chant ended abruptly when there was no more blood; the candles subsided to their normal flickering yellow glow.

Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the altar. She could feel the energy coursing through her whole body; no human could match her accelerated thoughts and reflexes. Soon she would have enough energy to invoke the ancient spells. With the waxing of the next moon, she would complete the final ritual to that end. Since her adolescence, she had studied primeval tomes written by high priests of the Thurian serpent-people. These grimoires, long believed lost or destroyed, told of potent sorcery that would prolong life and give complete dominion over mortal men and women.

Azora hungered for powerhfor enough power to control even the most exalted of the world's kings. Before long, all the mighty would cower at her feet like whipped dogs. It was her destiny to be as the great Thurian priestesses of old. For she was Mutare: more than human. She smiled wickedly, revealing horrific rows of twisted, razor-sharp black teeth.

One

The Pommel

The walled city of Pirogia teemed with the usual sights and sounds of local Brythunian nightlife. Fair-skinned, blond-haired Brythunians, at work and play, jammed the streets and plazas. Scattered groups of laughing Kezankian hillmen staggered in and out of the many taverns along the winding ways. The stern-faced city guards regarded these drunkards as a nuisance but gave them a wide berth. Their king, Eldran, was descended of Kezankian stock and would not take kindly to reports of city guards roughing up his countrymen.

Beyond the maze of cobblestone streets were poorly lit, stinking alleys, strewn with refuse. Beggars and drunks shuffled along these dark, noisome, rat-infested avenues, mumbling to themselves in hoarse voices. Later, the cheap sour wine they swilled would take its toll, and they would pass out in the same alleys for the night. Some would never awaken, but to give the city guard its due, even the sleazy alleys of Pirogia were safer than the best in many large cities. A prudent man, however, would keep one hand on his sword-hilt and the other on his purse before venturing into one alone.

Into one such alley, at the end of a curiously deserted street, strolled a short, dark-skinned man. His shoulder-length hair was jet black, and his eyes were even blacker. His cruel, narrow face was sporting a smile. He moved with catlike agility through the alley, blending in with the darkness. Stepping nimbly over the prone form of a snoring beggar, he stopped at a heavy oak door in the wall of a tall brick building. A huge, two-handed iron sword had been driven between the bricks directly above the door, so that only the hilt protruded.

Smoothly drawing out his dagger, he rapped sharply on the door. A muffled voice issued from within, cursing in broken Brythunian. "Filthy beggar! Get your reeking, maggot-covered hands off my door. You'll have no wine from me until you show me the color of your coin!"

Answering with a deep, amused voice, the dark-eyed stranger spoke in clear Zamoran. "Immanus, you old dog! 'Tis me, Hassem. Get your bulk over to this door and open it at once!"

The heavy bolt clanked as Immanus drew back the portal, swinging it inward. Hassem peered within while sheathing his dagger. He made this motion easily, without looking down. He had obviously made it countless times before.

The tavern, known as the Pommel, was scarcely better lit than the alley. Dense, oily smoke rose from a few sparse lamps set in the corners of the room, cloaking the inn's already-dim environs. Heavily stained wooden tables and benches were scattered throughout. At the far end of the chamber was the bar, flanked by an old brick staircase leading upward.

Seated at the tables was a rogues' gallery of clientele. In one corner sat a well-known Nemedian slavetrader, toasting noisily to his henchmen with a huge earthen tankard. Thick brown ale spilled down the front of his already-stained tunic. He ignored it, roaring loudly to the barkeep for more.

Next to him sat two shifty-eyed Kothians, speaking of plots and schemes in whispers while sipping quietly from their goblets of wine. In the center of the room, a band of Kezankian outlaws groped their harlots and sang a bawdy song. A few tables away sat a scantily clad, sultry Brythunian wench. She giggled at something her young, blond-haired companion whispered to her. He was well dressed, perhaps the son of some noble, slumming for the night with his willing courtesan. He ran his hand along her bare hip and bent to whisper again into her ear.

Next to the door towered the deeply tanned giant, Immanus. He was clad in a brown leather vest and pantaloons. A huge gold hoop dangled from one ear, and the dim light reflected off his shiny bald head. His barrel chest was a mass of old scars. A three-foot-long scimitar hung from his thick, black leather belt. He beckoned Hassem to come inside, then effortlessly closed the heavy door with one huge hand. He was a mountain of muscle; his only visible soft spot was his large, round belly. Immanus turned to face Hassem, bending down and speaking quietly into the Zamoran's ear.

"Were you followed, Hassem?"

"If I had been, my dagger would now require cleaning," he responded in a slightly injured tone. Immanus ignored this and thumped his thick-skinned bald pate with a meaty index finger.

"This is my old friend, Hassem. As long as I pay heed to him, he will stay with me. If I ignore him" Immanus made a cutting gesture across his throat and chuckled at his dark jest.

The scowling Hassem saw little humor in it. He began fingering a small, securely wrapped bundle tucked into his belt. "Is the barbarian here? I arranged the meeting last night, but the weak-minded savage's wits were so addled with wine, I doubted he would recall our rendezvous."

"Be not so quick to judge him. Barbarian he may be, but I have seen Cimmerians before. They are a hardy and cunning folk, with strange ways, not to be trifled with. Many fools have met death after challenging me, but I would not be so certain of the outcome if I were pitted against a Cimmerian."

Immanus stared intently at Hassem, as if waiting to be rebuked. After a moment, he laughed and slapped the Zamoran on the back with a force that would have knocked a lesser man to his knees. Hassem slipped him a small pouch that clinked faintly as the enormous Immanus stuffed it into his vest.

"You'll find him upstairs. He has just finished his first flagon of wine and is doing well at dice tonight, although I feel his luck is about to change."

Hassem dodged his way through the revelers, pausing at the bar to procure a goblet of cheap wine. He wet his lips with a pungent swig, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat it out on the stone floor.

Filthy stuff, he thought. These goatherding Brythunians could learn a lesson or two about wine-making. At least he would be leaving this pigsty of a city tonight, to return to Zamora. The last of his goods would be sold to the barbarian. He was in such a hurry to divest himself of this particular item that he had haggled over the price only for the pretense.

Setting the goblet down, he reached into his belt and felt of the smooth metal of the jeweled silver bracelet that rested there. The reward for leading the city guard to its whereabouts would be a hundredfold greater than the price he had settled on with the slack-witted barbarian. However cunning the Cimmerian was, he could surely not avoid the sweep of the headsman's ax. Hassem lifted his goblet again and smiled at the thought. He stood up and began ascending the stairs.

The Pommel's upper floor was somewhat better lit than its lower floor, albeit smaller. Furnished only with a few rough-hewn wooden tables and benches, most of the floor was taken up by a large dicing table.

Gamblers crowded elbow to elbow. Loud yelling punctuated every roll of the dice, followed by the groans of losers or the shouts of winners.

The babble of conversation and swearing, in a variety of languages, gave the room a unique feeling, one more like a bazaar than a tavern.

As Hassem reached the top of the stairs, a particularly tall and muscular gambler moved away from the dice table, a jumble of coins clutched in one huge fist. He strode over to a nearby table and jammed the coins into a pouch at his belt. His square-cut black mane framed a bronzed face that was at once youthful and experienced. Even in the low lighting, his bright eyes were clearly visible, as if they burned with blue fire. Brawny arms, thick with corded muscle, were covered with dozens of long, thin scars. A black leather vest did little to hide the swell of his powerful chest. He wore a broad belt and dark blue breeches, and travel-worn but sturdy sandals. Hanging from the belt was a massive broadsword, its sharp, silvery-blue blade bared and gleaming in the lamplight. His bearing was that of a warrior, seemingly out of place among the wastrels in the tavern, like a wolf among rats.

And indeed, Conan of Cimmeria was out of place. Born on a battlefield and raised in the frozen wastes of harsh, northern Cimmeria, he had little experience with the ways of so-called civilized men in their walled cities of wood and stone. His first contact with them had landed him in chains, a slave captured by Hyperboreans. Memory of that captivity, and his escape from it less than a decade ago, still filled him with rage.

The Cimmerian had few qualms about relieving this sort of men of their ill-gotten wealth. He knew from experience that the pickings were ripe in Zamora, and he had decided to return there, crossing through Brythunia. In the Zamoran city of Shadizar, he would obtain the wealth he needed to surround himself with beautiful women and exotic wines.

His needs were simple, he reasoned. He had all the resources he needed to succeed; from his father, a blacksmith, he had inherited an iron-hard, powerful physique. His mind was quick and sharp, his steel broadsword even sharper. With these tools and his knowledge of thieving, he was sure to fatten his purse.

A flagon was set before him by a serving wench. He lifted it, poured wine into his goblet and drank deeply, tossing a silver coin onto the table. He took note of Hassem entering the room and watched as the Zamoran approached. He had already learned much from this weasel, he mused. He realized that Hassem was not to be trusted, but he realized, too, that he himself had gotten the better of a bargain that the two had struck. He would have paid thrice the asking price.

When Hassem had first shown him the jeweled bracelet, Conan had been fairly sure that it was stolen. He cared little about whom it had been stolen from. It would make the perfect parting gift for Yvanna, the Brytlumian wench he had been staying with during his sojourn in Pirogia. The dice had been good to him tonight, and he could pay for the bauble without emptying his purse. She was a lusty wench, and the thought of her lush, curvaceous body and fresh-scented blonde hair, combined with the wine he had drunk, had aroused his amorous appetites.

Tomorrow, after one more night of pleasuring, he would give her the bracelet and move on to Shadizar.

Hassem sat down across the table from Conan and pulled the carefully wrapped bundle from his belt. Stroking his wispy moustache nervously, he eyed the bronze-skinned giant.

"Well met, Conan. How is your luck at gaming tonight?"

"Fair, Hassem." Conan gestured toward the crowded dicing table. "Better than many of these others." He spoke Zamoran with a rough accent. He had learned the language just recently, but was nonetheless fluent in it.

"Then payment will not present a problem. Forty silver nobles, or two gold crowns, as agreed."

"Agreed, Hassem. But first I will see the goods again."

Shielding the view of the bundle with his hand, Conan partially withdrew the wrapping and examined the bracelet carefully to make sure the thieving Zamoran had not substituted a worthless fake. He scratched at a few of the small jewels with his thumbnail to make certain they were not paste.

Hassem was a little indignant at Conan's inspection. "It is genuine, I assure you. My reputation would suffer if I made a practice of swindling. Besides, a warrior of your stature would no doubt make short work of me. Hassem has no wish to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life."

"You would sell your mother to Nemedian slavers if the price was right.

I know of the ways of Zamoran thieves. Here is your payment."

Hassem was angry at the barbarian's rebuke. To be spoken to in such a manner by a savage! You will have your payment tonight, too, northern dog, he thought. He reached out and took the gold coins offered him.

Bowing mockingly, he stood up and crossed over to the dicing table, leaving Conan to finish his flagon of wine.

Smiling at the thought of Yvanna, Conan stuffed the bundle into the inner pocket of his leather vest. Where in Crom's name was the girl?

She was supposed to meet him here a few hours after sunset, when she finished her last dance at the Inn of the Golden Lion. He emptied his goblet quickly and poured himself another. He was too preoccupied to notice that Hassem had already left the room.

Nearly half an hour later, he emptied the last of the flagon into his goblet. He was not drunk, but the wine was definitely having an effect on him. Yvanna had not shown up, and his patience was wearing thin.

Perhaps he would dice some more before giving up on the wench. As he mulled this thought over, he heard a loud commotion from the lower floor. There was an earsplitting crash, followed by a familiar ringing sound that could only be the drawing of swords. His head cleared somewhat as his keen instincts immediately alerted him to possible danger. He dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other patrons, who were much more inebriated than he, ignored the disturbance. Apparently, brawls and outbreaks of fighting were commonplace in the Pommel as the night wore on. Conan relaxed a little but remained wary.

Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of booted feet pounding up the stairs. He recognized a patrol of the city guard, led by an officer of some sort. The man was different from many of the soft, city-bred weaklings that Conan had seen in most positions of authority or rank. His chiseled face was accentuated by pitch-black, short-cropped hair and a neatly groomed beard and moustache. Obviously not a Brythunian, he was nearly as tall as Conan himself, with even broader shoulders and a thick, solid-looking torso. He wore a chain mail shirt and gripped a curved sword in his right hand. His dark brown eyes scanned the premises, evidently looking for someone who was wanted very badly by the guard.

The room was immediately pitched into chaos, as more than half of the patrons doubtlessly believed they were about to be arrested. Some made feeble attempts to hide their features; others nervously eyed the large, dirt-encrusted window on the wall facing the alley. A few crouched under a table in one corner, desperate to escape from the sight of this black-bearded giant.

A loud bellow of annoyance was heard from below. The bald-headed Immanus came charging up the stairs, shoving aside three of the guards like straws in the wind. He stood nose to nose with the mailed officer, one hand on the hilt of his scimitar, the other balled tightly into a mallet-like fist. His swarthy face was red, either from the exertion of running up the stairs or from anger at the guards' sudden intrusion.

"What is the meaning of this, Salvorus? We have paid our dues to avoid trouble with the guard. You, a captain, should know better than to risk the anger of your superior."

"If you have bribed the general, then I am sure he would not have told me, Immanus. In any case, I owe you no favors. I have no interest in this open sewer you mistakenly call a tavern, or in any of the offal floating in it. Least of all, in you. I am here on the king's business, looking for only one man. Stand aside, unless you are fool enough to take on me and my patrol. What say you?"

Snarling, Immanus unclenched his fist and jabbed a beefy finger into Salvorus's mailed chest. "You dare to insult me? The Pommel is a long way from the king's palace, and accidents are common in these back alleys. Leave at once, or by Ishtar, the only service you'll be doing for your king is to fatten his alley rats with your rotting corpse!"

Salvorus's expression turned hard. Cautiously but forcefully, he lunged with speed amazing for one so large. His burly left arm shot out and he wrapped his hand around Immanus's throat, shoving him against the wall.

Choking under the pressure, Immanus shoved Salvorus back with both hands, then quickly drew his scimitar. Its curved blade gleamed wickedly in the light cast by the dimly burning lamps. The room fell silent. All eyes and ears attended the two men poised on the verge of what was, to the observers, an uncertain battle. Patrons at the dicing table made a few quiet bets on the outcome.

Moving back a little, Salvorus raised his blade and beat the scimitar with a ringing crash, striking blue sparks. Immanus parried and thrust, but his heavy blade slid off his opponent's chain mail. Before Immanus could recover, Salvorus darted forward, slashing downward. The scimitar clattered to the floor next to several of Immanus's severed fingers.

Salvorus turned and lashed out with his left fist, striking Immanus square in the jaw. The sickening crunch of his jawbone shattering almost drowned out his cry of pain. Immanus slumped to the floor, clutching his bloody finger stumps. At the dicing table, coins changed hands while the gamblers stared speechless, in awe of the damage Salvorus had wrought.

Conan's eyes narrowed as he watched the battle. His first impressions were right; this captain was no fop with a title, but an expert fighter. Still, Conan had done nothing wrong, so the captain could not be after him. Perhaps that weasel of a Zamoran, Hassem, had done something to irk the king. Conan looked over to the dicing table, then noticed that he was missing. No doubt the gutless thief had slunk out during the commotion.

Wiping his blade on his fallen opponent's pantaloons, Salvorus strode purposefully over to where the Cimmerian sat. Conan's left arm rested on the table; his right arm hovered over his hilt. Still breathing fast from his pitched battle with Immanus, the captain spoke directly to the barbarian.

"You are Conan of Cimmeria?" he asked, as if already certain of the answer.

"I have done nothing. What do you want of me?"

"You will come with me to the palace, where you are wanted for questioning. If you have done nothing, as you say, you will be released."

"Why am I wanted? I have been in Pirogia for less than a week. I tell you, I am just a traveler, passing through your city. Let me be."

"My patience is nearly exhausted, Cimmerian. If you will not come quietly, I will take you by force. You saw how Immanus fared. I do not wish to hurt you, only to question you."

Conan's temper was beginning to flare. In his homeland, he would have killed this stranger for accusing him thusly without reason. However, he had learned that civilized men were strange in their ways, so he would not attack this man unless further provoked. He had no desire to rot for months, or maybe for years, in some reeking Brythunian dungeon.

"Tell me what I am accused of and I will decide whether or not to go with you."

"I tire of this game, dog! In your belt, wrapped in cloth, is a bracelet you have stolen. The jeweled bracelet of the king's daughter, whom you foully murdered last night. What manner of devil are you, barbarian dog, to hew her body so cruelly? Were I allowed, I would see justice meted out on your body now!"

Conan was shocked. He should have known that Hassem's price was too low. The worthless Zamoran slime had turned him in to the guard, perhaps out of malice, or perhaps to claim a reward. It mattered little now what the reason was. The word of a traveling Cimmerian would not be believed. He had no choice but to disable the captain and flee the city.

Taking advantage of the Cimmerian's momentary surprise, Salvorus grabbed Conan's thickly muscled right wrist in a grip like a vise.

Conan grunted and tried to shake him off, but such was Salvorus's strength that the bone could not withstand the strain and snapped with an ugly popping sound.

Now enraged, Conan lifted his empty wine flagon with his left hand and bludgeoned Salvorus with it. The heavy bottle struck the officer square on the face, breaking his nose. Blood sprayed like a geyser from both of his nostrils, and he let go of his grip on the Cimmerian's wrist.

Swinging the bottle like a club, Conan struck the officer again on the side of the head. The glass shattered, showering the floor with shards.

Blood poured down the side of Sarvorus's head from an ugly gash.

Salvorus's face was a mask of blood and fury. Roaring and cursing, he shook his head to clear it and swung his deadly sword at Conan's neck.

Ducking the sweep, the Cimmerian rolled off the bench, cutting himself on the broken glass, and drew his broadsword with his good arm. He parried Salvorus's next cut, leaped to his feet, and hacked brutally at the wounded man's exposed head. Salvorus's parry was late, slowed a little by the blows he had received. The flat of Conan's blade struck him again, full on the head, and he fell to the floor with a heavy thud, senseless.

Conan hurdled over the body and rushed for the stairs. The guards, panicked by the sight of the onrushing juggernaut, practically fell over themselves to clear a path. Conan kicked them out of the way as he bounded down the stairs. The tavern door had been knocked off its hinges, no doubt by Salvorus and his patrol. Dashing past the startled revelers, the Cimmerian burst out into the alley, running almost headlong into Yvanna. Even in his astonishment at meeting her, Conan could not help but run his eyes up and down her voluptuous dancer's body.

The moonlight of the alley silhouetted Yvanna's slender waist and full-breasted figure. Lips like red wine were parted in surprise, and hair the color of sunlit gold cascaded over her slender shoulders. She wore a revealing silken shift that left little to the imagination. At her waist, a sheathed stiletto hung from her thin belt. Another was visible, tucked into one of her high boots.

"Crom! Where have you been, girl? I have waited for hours!"

Yvanna's eyes went wide as she took in Conan's disheveled appearance.

He was spattered with blood from Salvorus's wounds, and slivers of glass protruded from still-oozing wounds in his arms and face. His sword was stained red; he held it tightly in his left hand. His broken right wrist had begun to swell. An ugly purple bruise was forming, and the hand protruded at a unnatural angle. Where a lesser man would have fallen prone in agony, Conan ignored these injuries.

"Conan your wrist! What happened to it? Who were you fighting with?"

"I broke it in a scuffle with some fool of a captain who accused me of a foul deed I had nothing to do with. I tried to tell him that it must have been Hassem who slew the king's daughter and looted her corpse.

But the captain, Salvorus, would not listen to me and tried to take me by force. I must leave this alley at once, before his lackeys summon help. If I read the signs right, the whole city guard will soon be tracking me down like dogs on a hunt!"

"But your wrist! How will you manage to escape? Let me hide you until it heals. I know of a place that the guards will never search. I will bring a healer to tend to the break. By then, they will not be looking so hard for you, and you can slip out unnoticed."

He shook his head. "No, my features mark me. Cimmerians are a rare sight in this city, and I would be seen right away. No disguise could change my height and build. I must find that snake, Hassem, beat the truth out of his worthless skin, and bring him to the guard myself.

Otherwise, I will have no peace. Besides, men of my race do not hide from trouble. And I would repay Hassem for this!"

He lifted his injured wrist, his eyes smoldering with fury. After looking up and down the alley, he reached down and yanked the filthy cloak off a beggar who lay slumbering facedown a few feet away from the wide-open tavern doorway. He wrapped the garment around his shoulders, ignoring the stale odor of vomit rising from it.

"This will do for now. We will leave the alley together, like wine-addled lovers on our way to a tryst."

She sniffed the ragged cloak doubtfully and wrinkled her nose. "At least no one will want to get close to you."

He put his left arm around her, and the two went down the alley at a rapid pace. They moved carefully through the labyrinth of side streets, winding their way' toward Pirogia's west wall, were Yvanna lived. As they walked, Conan reflected on his predicament. He should have suspected that his luck at the dicing table would turn sour. However, he was not one to wallow in self-pity. He simply adapted to the situation, his energy dedicated to working out a solution to the problems that faced him. Apparently his good fortune had not entirely deserted him; no guards accosted them and they returned safely to her lodging.

Yvanna lived in a large, mud-brick building that had a crude but sturdy roof of pitch-smeared wood. The structure had been divided into several sections, which housed other tenants. She made sure that the doorway was clear, then signaled to Conan. They slipped inside unnoticed.

Yvanna's lodging consisted of two small rooms, with only a few simple wooden furnishings. The place was neatly kept and in good repair.

Yvanna managed to make a good living, dancing at the Inn of the Golden Lion. She enjoyed her work, and was gratified that her patrons always enjoyed it, too. When Conan had shown up several days ago, his gaze had drawn her. He was unlike most of the men she danced for; younger, but so serious, and so naive in some ways. As she had finished her dance, she could tell that her lithe body and suggestive motions had fired his passions. He had watched her quietly and intently, not jeering and laughing like so many of the others did.

Later, she met with him in the common room of the Golden Lion, wanting to know more about this quiet giant. After their first bottle of wine, they decided to spend an evening enjoying the city's nightlife together. As the night wore on, they ended up at Yvanna's. She marveled at his animal vitality and passion. No man had ever attracted or satisfied her as much as this strange Cimmerian did.

Now she picked the shards out of his skin while he related the evening's events to her. Cleaning the blood from his wounds, she frowned at the nasty lump of swollen, bruised flesh that marked his broken wrist. Unless she brought a healer, he might never regain use of his hand. Again, she was impressed by his stoic attitude toward what must be excruciating pain. Not once had he even winced. Eventually he finished his recounting of the tale and fell silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.

When she was done, he reached for his sword and lay down on the pile of deep furs that served as her bed. He fell into a light doze, with his left hand still resting on his sword's worn hilt. She was aware of how shallow his sleep was. Moving with a dancer's quiet grace to avoid awakening him, Yvanna slipped out to find the healer.

Two

Brythunian Blood

"Idiot!"

At the palace, in a gaudy and ornate antechamber, a red-faced General Valtresca stood before a downcast Captain Salvorus. The general of the Brythunian army was only a little shorter than Salvorus, but much smaller of build. His beard, moustache, and thinning blond hair were shot through with streaks of gray and white. Although his hair gave him the look of a man in his fifties, his handsome face showed few signs of age.

The general wore a perfectly fitted steel breastplate, embossed with elaborate designs. Covering his upper arms were gussets of steel rings, attached to the breastplate. Fastened to these was a calf-length cape of deep red wool. Expertly crafted mail gauntlets with embossed steel plating fit snugly over his hands and lower arms. Iron-studded boots of thick leather covered his feet and rose to just beneath his knees.

Close-fitting breeches of thick but supple reddish-black leather encased his sinewy legs. Hanging from his hip was a long, thin sword with an elaborately engraved hilt. The scabbard was cunningly inlaid with gold and silver leaf. The general cut an impressive and authoritative figure, and he was all too aware of it. His bearing and manner were at once brusque, condescending, and pompous.

At present, Salvorus did not look nearly as impressive as the general.

His battered face was a mass of bruises and contusions. A gash below his temple, not yet dressed, still gleamed wetly with blood, which matted his black hair. He stood rigidly upright, taking the abuse from the general quietly. However, a sweat-drenched brow belied his cool posture; he was clearly nervous.

Valtresca continued his tirade, so upset that veins stood out on his temples. "Your clumsiness has made the guard a laughingstock in this city! You had the savage in your grip, and you carelessly let him slip through. If you had used your head instead of your sword-arm, the defiler of Eldran's beloved daughter would now be shackled in the dungeons, listening to the sounds of the headsman's grinding-wheel as he sharpened his ax. Instead, you return empty-handed, with a pitiful excuse. You had six men with you. Surely no one man could have overpowered all of you. Especially if your claim of breaking his wrist is true. This is too rich! A one-armed barbarian escapes from a half-dozen trained guardsmen led by Salvorus, hero of the border wars!"

Salvorus had been listening to the general's rebuke for over a quarter of an hour, and his patience was beginning to wear thin. "General, meaning no disrespect, they were hardly trained guardsmen. According to witnesses, the yellow-bellied scum were trampling one another to clear a path for the escaping Cimmerian. I have seen alley rats with more guts than these city guards. They are competent enough to break up a street brawl, and to crack the heads of disorderly drunkards, but they have not the courage or the skill to face a foe such as this Cimmerian.

If I had brought some of my lads, seasoned in battle at the Nemedian border, I assure you that your dungeons would have a new occupant tonight. By Mitra, I have never seen his equal in strength and speed!

According to the serving wench, he had even consumed two flagons of wine. As you have told me, General, a successful commander must never underestimate his foe."

"A pity you did not consider this before you approached him," said Valtresca, interrupting. "I trust you will not repeat this mistake.

Salvorus, I was a good friend of your father's, Mitra protect his soul.

When I heard of your deeds in the border wars, I had you promoted to a position of no little importance, and moved to this city. Now, in your first month at your new post, you already disappoint me. Out of respect for your father, I give you a second chance. Find the barbarian. We can be certain of his guilt; his reaction to your accusations leaves no doubt of it. Go and bring him back, alive or dead. The king will take some consolation that the heathen responsible for this monstrous deed has been brought to justice. Send for your bordermen, if it will help.

Use whatever means you must to see that he does not escape unpunished."

"At once, General!" Salvorus saluted, whirled about, and left quickly.

He was relieved to be out of the chamber, out of the reach of Valtresca's stinging invective. There was truth to the saying that the general's tongue could wound a man more deeply than his sword.

As the captain made his way through the stone hallways of the palace, he considered this latest turn of events. Just over a month ago, he had successfully crushed an attempted invasion by a Nemedian baron who had wished to lay claim to a large parcel of Brythunian land, flanked by the great fork in the Yellow River. At the time, Salvorus had been only a lieutenant. His captain was killed in the first attack by the Nemedians, leaving him in charge of the border guard of five hundred men. Although outnumbered three to one, Salvorus had held the banks of the river for over a week, until reinforcements had finally arrived. He had slain more than two score Nemedians with his own sword, while taking few wounds himself.

The bordermen had rallied around him, drawing courage from his deeds.

During the battle, he had been too preoccupied with issues of survival and tactics to consider what would happen to him afterward. Later, when the monarch of Nemedia had made the unlikely claim that he had had nothing to do with the raid, and had sent a caravan laden with gifts of appeasement, Salvorus had become something of a hero. The king had thanked him personally and given a banquet in his honor.

When Valtresca had offered him the coveted position as captain of the city guard, he had readily accepted. Now he was beginning to regret that hasty decision. His strongest abilities, he believed, were in battle, and he had thrived on the dangers and challenges that the border warfare had provided every day. Here in the city, the dangers were of a different sort, the "battles" requiring tactics different from those he was accustomed to. True, the rewards were greater and the risk somewhat lessened, but he was not yet certain that the post suited him. A man with more skill at politics and less at swordplay would probably do better.

However, Salvorus was not ready to give up. Valtresca had gotten his own start in the same border garrison as he, and surely had faced the same difficulties. Salvorus would prove that he was capable. He believed that someday he would replace Valtresca as general of the Brythunian army. To be sure, it was a small army in comparison with those of great kingdoms such as Aquilonia, Ophir, or Shem. However, the title of Brythunian General carried with it a meaning of honor and tradition dating back for centuries.

Salvorus's wounds could be tended to later. He had already sent as many patrols as could be summoned to monitor all exits from the city. His lieutenants would presently be assembling in the guardhouse. He had formed a plan to snare the Cimmerian, and he would not rest until it was put into action. Due to his natural fighting ability, strength, and immense size, Salvorus had never before been beaten in hand-to-hand combat. Rubbing gently at the bridge of his blood-encrusted broken nose, he realized that this Conan might prove to be his most challenging conquest.

In the chamber Salvorus had just come from, Valtresca paced, head bent slightly as if he were deep in thought. He rubbed occasionally at his beard. After a while, he stopped pacing and straightened up, then moved to a polished oak table that sat in one corner of the room. Atop the table was a small gong. He picked up a mallet that lay alongside it and struck the gong forcefully.

Minutes later there was a gentle, insistent knock at the door. "'Tis not locked. Enter!" Valtresca said impatiently.

The door opened quietly, and a fair-skinned, thin-boned old man in blue silk robes stepped in. He bowed slightly, then pulled the door shut behind him. Valtresca spoke to him in a hushed voice. "We may have a problem, Lamici. I gave you strict instructions about disposing of the body. How did the princess's trinket wind up in the hands of this westerner?"

"I handled the matter with utmost secrecy and caution, I assure you,"

the chief eunuch replied in his soft, singsong voice. "Surely you do not suspect me of despoiling the body."

"No, but someone did. The necklace and bracelets were given to the princess when she was young, and as she grew, they were too small to be taken off. Such is the custom with women of Brythunian nobility. To remove them, the thief would have had to hack off the hands and the head. No wonder the body was found in such a state! If only I had been in the city yesterday, in time to quiet this matter before the whole guard had been alerted. After the king was told, a reward was even offered for finding or capturing the culprit."

"I sent word to you immediately when I heard that the body had been discovered by the guard. Surprising that the message reached you so quickly."

Valtresca cursed. "Not quickly enough. Fortunately, the gullible Salvorus believes the barbarian is responsible. There is only one person who could know otherwise. According to Salvorus, a Zamoran named Hassem told him who had the bracelet, and where it could be found. Like a dog eager to please its master, our loyal captain went to fetch it.

If only he had slain the Cimmerian!"

"Ah, General. I have heard of Hassem. He is a Zamoran fence, a sewer rat, with no scruples. While such men are useful, they cannot be trusted. Has he collected his reward yet for leading the guard to the criminal? As I recall, the price for revealing the rogue's whereabouts was set at two hundred gold crowns. Surely Hassem will want the gold.

Perhaps you should advise Salvorus to send for him, so that we may pay him"

"Of course! Leave the matter to me, eunuch. A fence, eh? Hassem will get much more of a reward than he counted on. I would know what evidence he has of this Cimmerian's guilt."

"Hmmm I am willing to wager he knows much more than he told the captain. Perhaps with the proper inducements, he can be made to tell you."

Valtresca's face hardened. His eyes shone like cold and soulless sapphires. He smiled cruelly and suggestively flexed his mailed glove.

"If he knows anything, he will tell me. Leave me now. Keep your eyes and ears open for any further news. I must know all that is said to the king." His voice lowered until it was almost a whisper. "Does Azora know of this?"

The old eunuch's gaze turned down to the floor. "I have not informed her personally, nor have I spoken to her since after the ritual two nights ago. As you are aware, she has an uncanny ability to know much that is not said. If it concerned her, she would no doubt have summoned me."

"We must be certain that she does not summon you over this matter. I fear no man, but hers is a sorcery I would not care to have working against me. I will see to Hassem and discuss the outcome with you later."

Lamici bowed again, opened the door, and left as quietly as he had entered. Despite his calm outward appearance, the eunuch's mind was spinning with disturbing thoughts. He did not care to dwell on the fate that lay in store for him should he be linked to the death of the princess. He was upset that the body had been discovered and confused as to how this could have happened. He certainly had not plundered the corpse, but he could not help but believe that Valtresca must suspect some involvement on his part. He had always admired the general, whom he had seen grow from a strong-willed, impetuous youth to an efficient if heavy-handed leader of men. Valtresca represented what he considered the true model of Brythunian nobility. Born of a long line of pure Brythunian blood, and the son of a baron, he should rightfully have been chosen king when the previous monarch had died, leaving no heir.

For more than twenty years, the eunuch had served the former royal family and their king, Khullan. Brythunian blood had run true in Khullan, but not in his successor, "King" Eldran. Lamici resented the presiding monarch, whose blood was a mix of Kezankian, Brythunian, and even a little Hyperborean. Although the hillmen were technically Brythunian, he considered them peasant stock, suitable only for herding goats and tilling fields. He still cursed the day, just over a year ago, when this unworthy peasant had been chosen king.

True, Eldran had served well as soldier and then as leader in the border wars, but his bloodstock was illsuited for a king. Valtresca's worst fears about Eldran had proven to be true; the man preferred to negotiate and trade with rival kingdoms, as if his land and its people were goods to be haggled over at a marketplace. He had not the backbone to stand up to his peers, and he hid behind his useless treaties and words like a spineless weakling.

Only a strong man of noble blood could bring together all the people of Brythunia and restore the power inherent to the throne. When Lamici was very young, his grandmother had served the royal family of her time, and she had told him many tales of the wealth and position that had once made Brythunia a mighty nation. Lamici was proud to have been chosen as a royal eunuch; the sacrifice of his manhood was insignificant in comparison with the honor of serving the royal family.

Over the years, he had watched quietly as the throne began to lose power, eroding slowly but surely, until Brythunia itself was in danger of breaking apart into squabbling factions. As generations passed, the once-proud people of Brythunia were degenerating into barbarism.

Invasions by bordering countries were commonplace, the rulers of rival nations considering the royal house of Brythunia to be a joke, its ruler a "king of oafs." The words had burned in Lamici's heart, and he longed to make these rulers regret saying them.

Valtresca was the man who could accomplish this. He was aggressive, and would not tolerate these "accidental" raids across the Brythunia border, made with increasing frequency by its neighboring kingdoms.

Instead, he would band together the scattered, localized militia and push the borders west across the Yellow River and south into Corinthia.

King Valtresca would begin the new age of the Brythunian Empire, which would ultimately swell to the shores of the great Western Ocean.

Lamici's heart soared as he visualized this dream; he could see the banners, decorated with the colors of the great nation, flying over the gleaming cities.

The eunuch had pondered for months how to go about the usurping of Eldran. The king was guarded day and night by stout Kezankian hillmen, whose loyalty to him was unbreakable. Such was their fierce devotion that they would consider it an honor to die for him. Their senses were sharp, their blades even sharper.

To worsen matters, a renegade, power-hungry baron from southeastern Brythunia had recently hired an assassin to poison Eldran.

Unfortunately, the nobleman's fool plan had failed, and maddened citizens had burned him alive in his own castle. The would-be poisoner was beheaded, the traditional punishment for capital crimes. Now, with the king's suspicion aroused, not even the most skillful of assassins could guarantee success, and Lamici could not risk even one failure. If the king were to suspect him, his vision would be ended forever by the keen edge of the executioner's ax. Fervently, he had prayed to the gods for help.

Three weeks ago, late in the evening, his prayers had finally been answered. While in the city purchasing supplies, he had been approached and greeted by a strange young woman who somehow knew his name. She had simply stepped out of one of the many alleys and introduced herself as Azora. She had been clad in an ankle-length, shapeless brown cloak and had worn thin leather gloves. A hood had been cast over her face, concealing her hair and forehead. At first, he had noticed her entrancing eyes; they had glowered in the evening darkness with dim red light, like rubies in torchlight. When he had blinked and looked again, he had seen that they were just normal brown eyes. She had told him where she was from, but he could not recall the place now. The meeting was like a dream; he remembered little of it, but he thought it had lasted for hours.

For reasons he still could not recall, he had followed her to a deserted, ancient part of the city he had never visited before. There were old structures there, predating the city built around them. Out of superstition, the structures had been declared off limits, and the city guard chased away any vagrants or curious passersby who wished to take a closer look. On that evening, they had walked past the patrol and into one of the aged, crumbling buildings. The guards had looked right through them as if they were not even there. He had been frightened at the time, but had entered nonetheless.

The building was reminiscent of a temple, but rough, unadorned, and unfurnished. Azora spoke, and at the sound of her voice, a huge block of stone at the far wall swung outward, revealing a winding corridor beyond. The contrast between the corridor's trappings and the crude stone of the outer room was striking. Deep carpets, red like mats of blood, covered the gray stone floor, and strange-looking torches hung from the walls, burning with smokeless green fire. Lamici had followed her to a bronze double door nearly twice his height, with a heavy lock clasped around its two bizarrely carved wooden handles. At her command, the lock opened and the portals swung inward, as if some invisible giant had pushed them.

A gust of foul air rushed past the doors, flowing over him. His stomach had almost heaved at the odor, which was strong with death and decay.

He had wanted to run, but was no longer in full control of his actions.

Instead, he had followed her into the darkness beyond. She lit several dozen candles, carefully placed in a ring around some large object in the chamber's center. When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he had seen that the object was some sort of altar and that the odor emanated directly from it. He had squinted at it, trying to make out the strange symbols etched on its surface, but then Azora had turned to face him.

"I know who you are and what you want, eunuch," she had said in a hauntingly beautiful voice that echoed unnaturally in the strange room.

"Such knowledge is the gift given to a high priestess of the Mutare. I have led you here because you can bring me something that I want. In return for this, I will use my power to assist you in deposing the king and putting another of your choosing in his place."

"You have such power?" he had asked, then regretted doubting it. "What is it you want of me?"

"The king trusts you, and you have free access to the palace. Further, he has charged you with the duty of educating his daughter. I will give you a salve that, when rubbed on the skin of a woman, will put her fast asleep. You will touch the king's daughter with this salve. While she sleeps, you will bring her to me."

"What if I am seen? And why, with your power, can you noth"

"hperform this deed myself?" she had interrupted. "My true countenance cannot be hidden from a human female. The ways of the Mutare are not without some limitations."

"Your true countenance? Whath" He had gasped in shock when she pulled back her hood and cast off the leather gloves. She smiled at him, revealing rows of pitch-black teeth. He had seen that his first glance at her eyes had been right; they did glow red-orange, like hot iron taken from a smith's forge. Her fingernails were as black as soot, contrasting sharply with her dove-white flesh. He had shuddered, and he remembered having been so terrified that he had nearly lost control of his bladder, like a frightened young whelp.

"Know what I am, eunuch. I must not be seen; the priests of Mitra are age-old enemies of the Mutare, and I have no time for interruptions.

The affairs of this land mean nothing to me; I care not who herds these human sheep. My concerns are for other matters, far beyond your human comprehension. All you must do is bring me the girl, unharmed and unmarked. Long have I waited for this opportunity a virgin of white skin and golden hair, born of a king in this very city. So was it written; the prophecy is true.

"If you heed my words, you will not be seen, nor will you be suspected of any wrongdoing. Bring her to me. When I am through with her, you may dispose of the body as you see fit. After you have brought her, I will see that the king dies of a wasting disease, which will come from within his body. You need do no more. Nothing will cure him, not even the useless prayers of the dotard, drooling priests of Mitra as they croon foolishly to their weak, indifferent deity. Eldran will die, and the next man to sit upon the throne will be chosen by the people as their new king."

After the plan had been revealed to him, Lamici had been given two keys. One activated the mechanism that moved the great stone block in the temple, the other fitted the lock that secured the immense bronze double doors leading to Azora's altar room. He was also given a small jar of salve. When he had left the ancient temple and returned to the palace, the hour had been late and his head had ached terribly. The next morning upon awakening, he was convinced he had dreamed it all. He had then seen the keys and the jar lying on his night table, mute testimony that the priestess had been real. He had hastily hidden them in a hollow space behind a loose brick in the wall of his bedchamber.

Now, weeks later, his part of the bargain was finished. All that remained was for Azora to finish her part. He gazed out a palace window as the great yellow face of the sun rose above the mountains far to the east, its warming rays shining through the sparse, billowing clouds.

Yes, he thought, his old eyes were at last witnessing the dawn of a new era, an era in which Brythunia would reign supreme. Smiling at this thought, he hurried down the corridor toward Eldran's chambers. Perhaps the king was not feeling well this morning.

Three

The Healer and the Hunter

Conan awoke suddenly, alerted by the faint noise of a door closing. He had been sleeping for several hours, but his senses were sharp immediately. After a night like the one he had been through, most civilized men would have woken in a foggy stupor, but the barbarian's instincts were as keen and fresh as a panther's.

By reflex, the Cimmerian grasped the hilt of his sword gently but firmly, ready for trouble. He winced slightly when trying to use his right hand; the fingers would not move, and his lower arm ached with a dull, steady throb. His head also ached, but with a more familiar sort of pain, induced by the bottles of wine he had quaffed last night. His mouth was as dry as the Zamoran desert.

He relaxed slightly when he saw that the noise was only that of Yvanna, returning with one who was most likely a healer. The man wore the trappings of a priest of Mitra, but he was younger looking than most priests Conan had seen. His robes were travel-worn but clean, and his feet were clad in heavy sandals, patched many times. Long, reddish-brown hair framed his solemn, light-skinned face; a dense, curling beard and moustache covered his jaw. He gripped a heavy, iron-shod birch staff with his right hand, balancing the large, well-worn leather sack that hung from his left shoulder by heavy straps. He had tied a belt of rope around his waist, but he wore no blade, at least not openly.

Conan rose slowly from the makeshift bed of furs and walked over to the large urn of water that sat in a corner of the chamber. He set his sword against the wall, lifted the urn with one hand and drank deeply.

After setting the vessel back down, he wiped his mouth, stifling a belch.

Yvanna spoke to him in a concerned tone of voice. "Conan, this is Madesus, the healer I told you about last night. He can be trusted not to reveal your whereabouts."

Conan eyed the man suspiciously, as if he doubted this. "You are a priest, Madesus?" he asked, gesturing toward the man's garments.

"Once I was, three years ago, at a Temple of Mitra in Corinthia. Now I am simply Madesus, the Healer. I wear these robes by choice and by right, and am still a devout worshiper of the Lord of Light." He changed the subject suddenly, as if reluctant to explain further. "Your wrist is badly broken; allow me to tend it, and I will be on my way.

Yvanna speaks truly in saying that I will tell no one you are here. As a healer, I was taught to cure the sick, not to question or betray them." He opened his large sack and began removing various phials, jars, and other objects from it, placing them on a nearby table. He asked Yvanna to bring him water from the urn, then took several candles from his sack and lit them.

Conan scowled, but said nothing more. If the healer was lying, it was too late to do anything about it now. He would have to move on soon anyway, as the guards were probably searching the whole accursed city for him. Healed or not, he would find Hassem and pay the swindling cur for his treachery. The Zamoran would soon be fencing his stolen goods in hell. He looked over toward the table, where Madesus was mixing a noxious-looking liquid. His nose twitched at its pungent odor.

"Please extend your wrist, palm up, mind you." Madesus applied the salve to the swollen, bruised flesh, then wrapped his hand around the wrist and closed his eyes. "Holy Father, bringer of light, defender of good, hear the prayer of your humble servant" he began, bowing his head.

The priest chanted in this manner for several minutes. Conan began to feel a strange tingling in his lower arm, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up straight. He suppressed the urge to jerk his hand away from the healer and his magick, forcing back his instinctive distrust of any sorcerous mummery. He bore no ill will toward Mitra or his worshipers, although his own god was Crom, who lived under the cold, gray mountains of Ben Morgh, in Cimmeria. His people seldom prayed to their grim deity, as Crom's gift to themhthe strength to strive and slayhwas given at birth. Praying to the god for anything else would be an admission of weakness. Conan doubted that Crom would even answer such prayers.

Finally, Madesus stopped praying and let go of the wrist. His brow was beaded with sweat; he wiped it with a slightly shaking hand. Then he dumped the contents of a small phial into a cup of water and drank it down. After a moment, his hand stopped shaking. Noting the mystified expression on Conan's face, the priest smiled and spoke reassuringly.

"Although very short, the prayer of healing is somewhat taxing. Now, try flexing your fingers."

Conan clenched his right fist, then opened it. Slowly and stiffly, the fingers responded. Visibly, his wrist was still swollen and discolored, but it was quickly returning to normal.

Conan decided that whatever else he may be, this healer was no fakir.

Gruffly, he thanked the priest.

"What do you wish in payment for this cure?"

"I can accept nothing personally. You must, however, give me something to bring to the temple as an offering. Normally, a priest would ask for three gold crowns in return for this service, done for one who is not of the faith. If you give me nothing, the cure will soon wear off."

Conan was about to object, but he had learned the wisdom of not bandying words with priests and wizards. Besides, he had his winnings from the dicing table. His purse had always emptied quickly; he would fill it again, in time. He reached for the pouch, then realized with a shock that it was not where it should be. His eyes searched the room, hoping that it had simply fallen off, or that Yvanna had taken it when cleansing his wounds last night. "My pouch! Have you seen it, Yvanna?"

Her gaze went to his belt, where the pouch had been attached. A few strands of frayed purse strings were all she could see. 'The cords must have broken in your scuffle with ah, when you had your accident last night," she finished lamely as Conan shot a warning look in her direction.

"I see," said Madesus, shaking his head. "If I do not make an offering soonh"

"Wait! Take this, healer. Its worth is doubtless more than three crowns, but I am grateful for your help." Conan pulled out the cloth-wrapped silver bracelet, still tucked firmly in his belt. He had planned to give it to Yvanna, but she could not safely wear it anyway, considering its source. Since he had paid only two crowns for it, he was still coming out ahead. He unwrapped the bauble and handed it over.

Madesus took it, then dropped it suddenly with an exclamation, as if it were a venomous serpent.

"Mitra protect us!" he burst out in an astonished tone of voice, then carefully picked up the bracelet, examining it curiously. "An aura of diabolical evil emanates from this object. It has faded, but I sensed it when I first touched the bracelet. Whoever last wore it died a horrible, unnatural death. Judging by the strength of the aura, this occurred very recently. How did you come by the object?"

For a moment, Conan considered spinning a yarn to explain, then decided that telling the healer the truth could do little to worsen his present situation. "I bought it last night from a Zamoran named Hassem. His price was low, so I asked not where he had obtained it. He most likely stole it, or swindled someone for it."

Madesus had looked straight into Conan's eyes as he spoke, as if trying to tell if the Cimmerian was being truthful. The healer's fair-skinned face was a mask of grave concern. "Where can Hassem be found? I fear that an ancient evil has awakened, here in this very city! Unless it is found and stopped, it will grow in power until none can withstand it.

May Mitra protect us!" His hands were shaking again. He refilled a cup with water, dumped the contents of another phial into it, then gulped the brew down.

Conan and Yvanna looked at him dubiously, wondering if the man had gone mad. What ancient evil was he raving about? Conan found it hard to believe that Hassem was anything more than a lying, low-life thief.

"The yellow scum has probably fled for Zamora by now. What is this evil you speak of? How can you sense its presence so, just by touching the bauble?"

"Priests of Mitra are instructed, even in early stages of their indoctrination, to recognize the signs and traces that mark the enemies of light. Later they develop sensitivity to objects, or even to places, that diabolical creatures have been near. Stronger evil leaves marks that are easier to detect. We call these marks an 'aura.' They are invisible to the naked eye and are felt only when the object or place is touched. Just as a skilled woodsman may identify a particular animal by the odor of its spoor, so may a skilled priest learn to distinguish among the different auras of evil and identify a particular enemy.

Priests who are confined to temples often lose this ability, since they seldom confront such malefic creatures directly.

"Although I am considered young by the standards of the priesthood, I have witnessed more spawn of evil than many a graybeard who stays within the safe walls of his temple. I tell you, this bracelet has been touched by a malevolence that I have not seen before, but I sense its oppressive weight, its desire to maim and destroy, its hatred for all living creatures. Perhaps through prayer, the Holy Father will see fit to tell me more about it. If he does not, then it is his will that I am involved no further. I must leave you now, but I caution you: beware of Hassem! He may be only a pawn in a game of evil, but he has become involved with the forces of darkness. Be careful that you, too, are not entangled in this web so deeply that you cannot get out."

Madesus's voice had begun to rise, and he emphasized the last with a loud rap of his iron-shod staff. Rising to his feet, he picked up his worn sack and carefully repacked it, then wrapped the bracelet in white cloth and dropped it within.

Conan took the warning lightly, believing little of the healer's talk of auras and webs of evil. These intangible, priestly affairs would not distract him. His business was with Hassem, a man of flesh and blood.

Flesh that could be pierced with steel, and blood that would spill. Let this lunatic chase his crazy delusions of evil plots at work in the city, as long as he did not interfere with Conan's mission of vengeance. He nodded good-bye to the healer and strapped his sword to his belt, marveling at how much better his wrist felt.

The healer was right, and Conan knew that he would have to be careful.

Guards would be stationed at all the gates, looking for him. This might work to his advantage, since there would be fewer guards left to search for him in the inner city, where he planned to start hunting the sly swindler. Yvanna had told him last night that a large reward had been posted for leading the guard to the bracelet, a reward that the Zamoran thief would try to collect. Conan would watch the entrance to the palace from a place of concealment. Yvanna would listen for news of the incident; there was bound to be talk at the Golden Lion, as rumors traveled more quickly in the city than the scurrying of an alley rat.

Conan stared silently, reflecting on the strange healer's words, while Yvanna prepared a meal of stewed spiced meat, goat's cheese, and thick-crusted shepherd's bread.

Having declined Yvanna's offer to dine with them, Madesus wandered absentmindedly toward the oldest and poorest of the city's three temples that were devoted to the worship of Mitra. He was certain that Conan had withheld some of the truth, but he doubted that the barbarian had any thing to do with the evil he had sensed while touching the bracelet.

Unfortunately, the two had not taken his warnings seriously. He would have to investigate further and find the source of this evil; although he was no longer considered a priest by the clergy of Mitra, it was his responsibility not to turn away from evil and pretend it was not there.

Wherever he found it, he felt compelled to face it, though it might mean his doom. This he had learned from his mentor, Kaletos, years ago in Corinthia, in a final conversation that still burned in his mind.

"Hear my words, Madesus, and pray to Mitra that you never need make use of them. For there is great evil in the world, and not all of it in the hearts of men. Indeed, man himself is not born to evil, but turned to it. You may slay an evil man, but you will not destroy the evil that was in him. The accursed serpent-god Set is truly evil, and is but one of many ancient powers of dark malice that slither and crawl in the bowels of the earth. These forces never die; they may sleep for centuries, eventually awakening to spread their wickedness among men.

Weak, greedy men will heed their false words and promises. Such men are food for evil, and when they have been consumed, they are tossed aside, but too late to see the folly of their ways.

"Some men are destined to seek the true evil that corrupts men, and destroy it. My master was one who sought out and destroyed evil, and I sense that this is your fate, too. On his deathbed, my master gave me an amulet and taught me the prayers to invoke its powers against evil.

Now, Madesus, I give it to you; I advise you to utter the prayers only in a time of great need. You have chosen a path not taken by many. On this path, you cannot be a priest of Mitra, at least not in the traditional sense. Leave this temple and go forth. Seek the evil that awaits you and banish it forever from the face of the earth. But do not neglect your duty to man, or forget the arts of healing I have taught you. The amulet will not respond to one who uses it for his own ends, so your motives always must be for the greater good. I will pray to Mitra for you, and you will always be welcome in his temples."

Madesus had left Corinthia over three years ago, hoping that one day he would return to tell Kaletos of his travels since they had parted. He knew that his master had been right; it was not his destiny to remain a priest of the temple in Corinthia, but instead, to be a foe of the sort of evil that men could not defend themselves against, with their weapons of iron and steel.

Through his travel-worn robes, he fingered the seven-pointed star of the amulet that hung from his neck. He could sense that the trail of evil he had followed ended here, in the city. By happenstance or by unseen intervention, he had been guided here. The bracelet was his link to the evil; he would find out where the malevolence lurked and hunt it down. His face was grim as he walked up the steps leading into the temple.

"Halt! You therehhalt, I say!" an armored guard bellowed, pointing as he drew his straight, double-edged sword.

Conan threw him a murderous glance, then turned to look quickly down the alley. It was blocked by the fallen rubble of a run-down building.

He had been moving carefully in the general direction of the palace, staying off the main streets as much as possible. Until now, he had not even seen a patrol. He doubted he could clear the wall of rubble before the guard would be upon him. There were no side doors or windows in this alley to duck into. Just as well, he thought, drawing his sword.

If these fools wanted to capture him, he would show them just how difficult it could be. He spun around and rushed toward the approaching guard. As he neared the man, he recognized Lieutenant Ekkar, a patron of the Golden Lion.

Surprised, clearly expecting Conan to flee, Ekkar stopped and dropped into a fighting stance. Behind him, the other members of the patrol drew their blades. Unlike their leader, they wore only leather jerkins and iron caps.

"Hold! I do not wish to slay you. I was accused falsely and have done nothing!" Conan shouted.

"Do not waste your breath on me, barbarian! Save your lies for the captain. If you will not throw down your sword and come freely, my men and I will cut you down now."

"Throw it down? I would sooner bury it in your craven guts, dog!"

Snarling, the lieutenant moved closer, with the cautious stance of an experienced swordsman. He raised his blade and beat it against Conan's, lunging in for a quick kill. He may as well have beaten it against a stone wall. Conan knocked the guard's blade aside and extended his own point in a thrust that nearly impaled the onrushing man. Instead, the sharp steel tore away a large section of the lieutenant's mail armor as he leaped backward, recovering. Conan could see the fear creeping into his foe's expression. Still, the guard held his stance, moving warily, trying to draw Conan out. One of the men behind him raised his sword and began moving in, but the alley was too narrow for more than one to have fighting room.

Chest heaving, Ekkar shouted a few orders. "Felg, send for more men!

Jourand, circle around to the other side of the alley!"

Then he retreated two steps, his blade raised to meet an attack. Conan knew that if he did not cut through him, the alley would soon be overrun with guards. Flexing his mighty sword-arm, he chopped at the upraised blade with all his strength. The outmatched lieutenant's blade snapped, ringing loudly as Conan's sword hewed through it, the vest of mail, and several ribs. Ekkar went down, knocked backward by the force of the blow, blood spurting from the gaping wound in his chest. His mouth opened as if to say something, but the words were drowned in a flood of thick red blood.

Felg and Jourand rushed in, stepping over the grisly corpse of their fallen leader. One of them slashed at Conan with a wide-bladed curved knife, while the other swung at his head with a long scimitar. Ducking under the cut to his head, Conan lashed out, knocking the curved knife aside and disemboweling Felg. Parrying clumsily, Jourand backed off, almost slipping on the coils of Felg's spilled intestines.

Pressing the attack, Conan made a feint, then a cut at his opponent's unprotected flank. Razor-sharp steel sliced easily through the leather jerkin, passing deep into the guard's body. Jourand screamed and dropped his scimitar as Conan wrenched his blade from the man's side.

The guard went down, clutching futilely at the gout of blood spewing from the ghastly wound.

Conan shook the dripping gore from his sword and glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming up behind him. Seeing no one, he scrambled up the rubble and down over the other side, hearing shouts from behind him. More damned guards! He ran at full speed down the alley, hoping to lose them. The route curved to the right and ended less than ten feet away in a high brick wall with no windows. The only possible exit was a stout wooden door, braced with thick, iron-bolted metal bars, each bar as long as his arm.

Without hesitating, Conan sped up and kicked the portal with all his strength. It rattled in its frame, creaking, the metal bars bending slightly. He backed up and charged it again, slamming into it shoulder-first with a bone-jarring thud. The wood cracked, and one of the iron bolts popped out as the metal bar bent further. He grabbed the bar and heaved, cords standing out on his brawny arms. Slowly, the thick iron pulled away from the door, succumbing to the awesome pressure. A second bolt popped out, then another. Only two bolts remained when the first of the reinforcements rounded the corner.

"Crom!" Conan swore as with a final effort, he wrenched the bar off the door and swung it like a club at the approaching guard.

The man went down without uttering a sound, his skull crushed. Conan hurled the bar like a spear at another guard, then picked up his sword, yelling out a bloodcurdling Cimmerian war cry. The makeshift spear struck its target in the abdomen, its momentum knocking the man backward into his companions. Meanwhile, wearing mailed armor, more guards rounded the corner. One was fitting an arrow into his short bow.

Seeing the futility of rushing headlong into a storm of arrows, Conan took advantage of the guards' entanglement and gave the door another solid kick. The jamb snapped away from the inside, and the door fell in with a noisy crash. Conan swore in frustration as he saw that the place was a warehouse, filled from floor to ceiling with huge barrels of wine.

He pulled one of the barrels down and grabbed hold of it by both ends.

With his mighty thews bulging from the strain of its weight, he heaved it over his head, then hurled it with all his might at the oncoming guards. The heavy missile landed full on three of them, crushing them instantly and knocking several others to the ground. It burst open, its wooden slats popping free of the restraining iron bands. Cheap wine splashed everywhere, dousing the guards. Conan rolled several more barrels out into the alley, effectively blocking the way.

Retreating inside, he crawled across the top of the barrels, reached the front of the warehouse, and dropped to the floor, peering out into the street through one of the cracked, dirty windows. He saw more guards rushing toward the entrance to the alley. Well, he had no choice but to chance it; if he could not outrun them, he would send as many as he could to hell before they cut him down. As he braced himself to kick the front door open, he felt a faint draft of air across his foot, coming from a seam in the wooden floor.

Pushing a barrel aside, he saw that a trapdoor had been cleverly concealed in the floor. It must lead outside somehow, or else he would not have felt the draft. Digging his sword-point into the seam, he flipped the door up and peered into the hole below. Crude rungs along the side led down into a dark pit, but the air was not musty, though it smelled faintly of sewage.

As if deciding the matter for him, the front door rattled on its hinges and he could hear the shouts of more guards approaching from the rear, grunting and cursing as they heaved themselves onto the barrels. He dragged a barrel toward him and descended into the hole, concealing the trapdoor with it as much as he could. Under the door's thick wood, a stout iron bolt could be drawn to prevent entry from above. The bolt clanked as Conan shot it home. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond.

From below, a faint glint of light was visible. He tested each rung carefully as he climbed down the narrow shaft. The trapdoor must have been unused for years, judging by the thick cobwebs he brushed aside on his descent. The webs' multilegged occupants scurried away from the intruding human. He reached the bottom and saw that the shaft led to an apparently idle tunnel in the city's sewer. The light he had seen came from a rusted grate in the street above. A far-off smell assailed his nostrils, and he heard the faint squeak of rats from farther down the sewage tunnel. He felt a tickle at the back of his neck and brushed at it, shuddering when he realized that his upper body was crawling with spiders. He wiped them off and stamped on them, getting bitten by a few in the process. The bites stung, but they were too small to be more than an annoyance. The blasted creatures infested this accursed tunnel!

Needing no further incentive, Conan decided to trust his sense of direction and went down the passage that he hoped led toward the palace. The guards would not be able to follow him if he took enough turns in these sewage ducts to throw them off their pursuit. In fact, he had not even heard them trying to break into the trapdoor yet.

Exhilarated by the battle, and feeling more hopeful, the Cimmerian wound his way through the old tunnels beneath the city.

Four

King Eldran

King Eldran wiped the sweat from his pale forehead and peered into the mirror that hung on the wall of his simply furnished royal bedchamber.

What he saw displeased him. This morning, every one of his forty-five years could be seen in his furrowed brow and haggard face. Just last night, he had begun to feel the first stages of some sort of malady setting in; as a precaution, he had mixed a Kezankian herbal concoction to fortify himself against it and retired to his bed. Now he definitely felt worse.

He would have suspected poisoning, but after the recent attempt on his life, he had watched all of his food as it was prepared. Last night, he had even seen to the meat stew himself. Each of his guardsmen had eaten from the same platter; his preference and theirs was for the simple fare that he had eaten all his life. Indeed, his tastes usually ran toward the simpler aspects of lifehin his room, his garb, and his manner of rulership. This preference had lowered esteem for him in the eyes of many nobles, who viewed him as a crude boor, a goatherd with a crown. However, he knew that his subjects loved him all the more for it. He was no silver-tongued diplomat, but he had an honest and straightforward way of speaking that appealed to most people.

In situations where protocol and flowery phrases were of great importance, he relied on the skills of Lamici, his chief eunuch. Lamici had long served the royal family in this capacity. Eldran personally cared little for the eunuch, who smiled too much and spoke too smoothly for his liking. Still, Lamici served well in his capacity, and his family had served the Brythunian monarchy for generations. Eldran looked out of his window at the rising sun. He judged from its position that the eunuch would soon be making his routine morning visit to discuss pressing matters of diplomacy.

Eldran rubbed at his face and blinked his eyes, trying to clear the haze that was setting in. If this feeling did not abate by midday, he would see a healer. He had endured many of the usual soldiers' ailments during the border wars. He hoped that he was not so old as to let a minor affliction wear him down, like a doddering beggar who complained of every creak in his aged joints.

He had been grieving over the recent loss of his only daughter, Elspeth. No doubt his grief had taken its toll. He could not help but feel responsible for her demise; she was the victim of some plot against himself. His rage at her death had dissipated, to be replaced by a terrible sense of loss, an emptiness. She had been so beautiful, just like her mother, Cassandra. It was a hard world that took a man's wife, only to take his daughter a few years later. He had eventually learned to live with the loss of his wife, to adapt by plunging himself deeper into his life as a soldier. Memories of Elspeth flashed through his mind's eyehher smile, her laughter, her golden-blonde hair and fiery temper. These were the memories he treasured.

Smiling sadly, he reached for his dark gray doublet and donned it, then pulled on a pair of black woolen trousers and boots made from the thick but supple hide of the rare Kothian black rhinoceros. After fastening his weathered sword-belt around his waist, he decided he was beginning to feel a little better. He straightened up and felt the familiar weight of his father's Kezankian sword, its heavy steel blade pressing reassuringly against his side.

With the morning sun shining on him through the window, Eldran looked more regal than he believed himself to be. His short-cropped dark hair was streaked with gray and white, and he kept his beard short out of habit. Steely gray eyes, shaded with blue by the dawn's light, reflected his inner personality: a man of iron will and iron integrity, honest, simple, and strong. His years of war in the borders of northeastern Brythunia had earned him a muscular frame, and he was renowned for his skill with the sword. His face, though scarred over the years, was handsomely rugged.

Eldran's agreeable nature and respect for others made him easy to befriend, and men had always found him a resourceful and successful leader. His rise in the small Brythunian army had been rapid, but seldom were any envious of him, as he earned his reputation through deeds that were brave and unselfish. His personal losses had hardened him, as a smith tempers a blade when he forges it. Many of those who served as his personal guard had been saved by him in the course of harrowing border conflicts.

He had become a general at about the same time as his friend, Valtresca. The two had campaigned together for years, each commanding forces that guarded the eastern border. Valtresca was from the south, closer to Brythunia's capital city, but they had always cooperated to repel invaders from Hyperborea or Turan.

Eldran had been surprised when the officers and nobles of Brythunia had requested that he replace the previous king, Khullan, who had died in an accident a few years before, leaving no heir. Brythunian monarchs typically came from a military background, but usually they bore a nobler bloodline than Eldran's. Eldran had expected that Valtresca would be chosen as the new ruler of Brythunia when the former king had passed on to the land of his fathers. He had even considered deferring to Valtresca, doubting his own abilities to be adequate for the task.

After struggling with the decision, he had accepted the kingship. He made Valtresca general of the armies in all regions of Brythunia.

Eldran had worried that his new general would have been dissatisfied, but Valtresca had expressed no resentment at this turn of events.

Several Brythunian nobles had told him that his acceptance of the kingship would quell their endless power squabbles, which were often fueled by the choice of a king who was from one particular nobility.

Eldran was also the first king in many generations to have the loyal support of the hillmen. In the end, it was this that swayed him. The hillmen had never been fully respected by the past kings of Brythunia; they had no real wealth to speak of, and were by and large a crude and reclusive people.

Eldran saw that if he accepted the kingship, he could hope to unify Brythunia into a powerful nation and put a stop to the endless harassment of its borders by neighboring realms. He had no dreams of empire; Brythunia had no resources with which to equip a large army for long campaigns to conquer its powerful neighboring kingdoms, and he had not the inclination to make war and slay others for land. Blood was too costly to trade for dirt. Eldran's hopes were for a country that wouid be safe and peaceful for its people. He had begun to negotiate with the lords of Corinthia, Zamora, and mighty Nemedia. They took him more seriously than they had taken the Brythunian kings of the past, since Eldran could raise an irregular army from his loyal following that would be large enough to pose a threat.

In the meantime, there were constant raids, explained away as "accidents" committed by "renegades." Eldran believed that in reality these skirmishes were tests of his strength and resolve. Valtresca's skill had been invaluable in proving the capabilities of the Brythunian armies. The more raids that were routed, the better the negotiations went. Unfortunately, there were thosehNemedians or Zamorans for the most parthwho had seen Eldran as a threat. Within recent months, there had been several unsuccessful attempts to assassinate him. He had made powerful enemies, he realized, but he could do little to prevent this from happening. He regarded the attempts as a measure of his success; his plans must be working or these hidden rivals would not be seeking to eliminate him.

The very recent effort to poison him had resulted in his becoming even more cautious. He did not like being guarded more carefully, though he realized the necessity. He actually enjoyed the company of the hillmen, many of whom had fought at his side in the northeastern mountain battles. He wistfully considered that he should have protected Elspeth better, but it was too late now. He shook the thought from his mind, trying to concentrate on the pressing aspects of his dealings with the surrounding kingdoms.

Eldran again glanced out the window. Lamici might bring news of the Zamoran prince's response to his last proposal for use of border land.

From just outside his room, he could hear the heavy tread of his closest friend and guardsman, the Kezankian chieftain Kailash.

"The eunuch Lamici is outside your chambers, Lord Eldran," the robust hillman said in his booming voice. "By Erlik, I would sooner bathe with a Khitan water viper than take counsel with him. His very voice taxes me. How you can stand him, I do not know."

"Peace, old friend. He serves the people, just as you and I do, though I do not like him either. A kingdom is made up of many men, great and small, each with his own tasks. Who is to judge which men are more important? There are many in this city whom I do not like, but I have learned to get along with them. We have had this conversation before, but I see that your mind will never change, Kailash; you are as stubborn as the grizzled mountain goats that your brother herds.

Nevertheless, please bring Lamici in. We have much" Eldran paused, wiping his brow, " much to discuss."

With a slightly bewildered expression, Kailash squinted at the king.

"Are you ill, Lord? You look pale."

"Eh? Oh, a passing ailment of no importance. You worry too much, Kailash. I am no stripling, to be coddled so. Have the men see to breakfast, and let me do the worrying for myself. And let the eunuch in, before we wile away the morning with our idle chatter."

"Of course, Lord." Kailash grinned and pounded Eldran solidly on the back, laughing. Eldran winced at the blow, but his friend missed this as he hastened toward the outer doors to admit Lamici.

The king moved over to a massive stone table that dominated the room and sat down in one of the roughly upholstered chairs positioned around it. He began reviewing his map of Brythunia and its surrounding kingdoms, although he knew every pen-stroke of it by heart.

"Good morning, sire. A glorious sunrise today!" Lamici spoke enthusiastically, but his eyes were cold and flat. He walked toward the table, bowed, and stood stiffly by a chair, facing the king. Eldran gestured for him to take a seat, then noticed that the eunuch was eyeing him curiously. "Sire, you seem troubled this morning. Shall I fetch the healer to attend you?"

"Nay, Lamici. 'Tis of no concern." Eldran spoke with some irritation, for he was growing tired of these constant inquiries into his health.

"What news from the Zamoran prince today?"

"The messenger has not returned yet, sire. He was dispatched a fortnight ago, and the roadsh" Lamici began, but he was interrupted.

"Yes, yes, the roads are fraught with peril, as you have said before.

Still, the fellow could have gone to Vendhya and been back by now. I will send a patrol to see if our messenger was delayed." Eldran again brushed sweat from his brow, the droplets larger than before. He was annoyed with himself for losing his temper with the eunuch. His patience had been worn thin by his affliction, compounded with his sorrow over the loss of Elspeth. "Perhaps we should adjourn, Lamici. I suppose you are right, I am troubled this morning. I slept poorly and could do with more rest before we continue our discussion."

"Is it the princess, sire? The people mourn your loss. I mean no intrusion into your personal matters, but if there is anything I can do to comfort you, just name it. I have heard that Valtresca has found out who committed this heinous deed and even now is hunting down the foul villain. The headsman has begun sharpening his ax, although a quick death is too just for such an outrageous crime."

"The execution will give me no gratification; beheading the murderer will not bring Elspeth back. Still, for his crime, the murderer must be sent to hell, where he will be judged more harshly and suffer more punishment than mortal man could inflict. Tell me his name, so that I may know who has caused me this anguish."

"Conan, sire. A wandering barbarian vagrant, who slew her for the jewelry she wore. Even now his neck would be lowering onto the headsman's block but for the gross mistake of Captain Salvorus. He had Conan in his grasp, but let him slip through it last night."

"Salvorus? Oh, yes, the young man from the southwestern border. A solid warrior. Years ago, he held the river while badly outnumbered by the blasted Nemedians. Unfortunate that he could not apprehend this Conan.

If Salvorus could not catch him, the barbarian must be resourceful. See to it that the guards proceed with caution when dealing with him. A man who would foully murder the king's daughter is an even greater danger to the people. If he cannot be taken alive safely, have the guards slay him themselves. Prepare an order of execution. I will sign it now."

Lamici unrolled a parchment scroll he had carried into the room with him. Without questioning why the eunuch had produced the document so quickly, Eldran scanned it, then pressed his signet ring to the bottom of it. Lamici noticed with great satisfaction that the king was sweating freely, breathing rapidly, and shivering slightly. Eldran's hand trembled as he embossed the parchment with his ring, and his complexion paled visibly. Good! Azora had kept her part of the bargain; soon this oafish hillman would die.

Lamici decided that he rather enjoyed watching this son of a goatherd suffer. If only you knew how your slut of a daughter had really died, bumpkin! Would that you could have heard her pitiful screams while she writhed in agony, "sire." Soon you will join her in hell. "Valtresca personally assured me that this evildoer will be found and punished, sire. Is there anything else you require?"

"No, thank you, Lamici. Please leave me. I have much to think about and will send for you when I am ready to discuss these matters. Tell me at once when you hear from the Zamoran messenger. You may go now."

"Yes, sire. I hope you will feel better soon," Lamici added, drawing on all his skill to sound sincere. He bowed and left the room, his slippered feet treading noiselessly across the thick rugs that covered the stone floors.

Eldran rose slowly from the chair and called out for Kailash. Fighting the dizziness that had come over him, he realized that his condition was worsening. He moved slowly toward the bed and eased himself onto it. Kailash rushed in, his voice full of concern.

"I have already sent for a healer, Lord. Forgive me for doing so without your consent, but I know you well enough to tell when you need one. You stubborn Kezanki, you would be gasping out your dying breath before you would send for a healer yourself." Kailash was doing his best to sound cheerful, but his tone of voice was betraying him. "Why, nine years agohthe Graskaal Mountain warshI remember you walking ten leagues with a Hyperborean arrow stuck deep in your gut. It was darker than a Stygian tomb that night, so we did not even know you had been hit until you fell flat on your face."

Eldran smiled grimly. "Truly, we have been through hard times together.

However, you exaggerate. As I recall, it was only two or three leagues that we walked. Let me rest. How am I to feel better with you braying in my ear like a donkey?" He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. "Not to mention that you smell like a donkey. Worry not, friend donkey, I will be better soon." Eldran made his best effort to sound cheerful, but he doubted he was deceiving Kailash. He closed his eyes and sighed, laid back onto his bed, and soon fell asleep.

He began to dream a strange dream. In it, he saw people, some of them close friends, gathered around an odd-looking old black stone altar, staring up at its top. In the background, he heard Lamici playing a funeral dirge with a lyre. Valtresca stood with the crowd around the altar, but when Eldran tried to speak to him, he turned his face away silently. Then Eldran moved through the crowd, asking them whom they mourned. None would answer him, not even Kailash, who looked straight at him but did not seem to recognize him. Nearing the altar, he saw an alluring woman with jet-black hair and fair, smooth skin standing atop it. She reached a hand out to him, which he took; then he ascended the altar effortlessly. The crowd turned away and began to leave.

The woman, whom he did not recognize, embraced him and kissed him passionately. Taken by surprise, he struggled but could not break free of her embrace. He looked past her and saw that his wife and daughter were standing motionless before the altar, staring at him. Lamici continued to play the dirge, his fingers moving ever more rapidly over the lyre until the strings blurred.

Then a powerfully built man with black hair and blazing blue eyes burst into his view, brandishing a western broadsword. He rushed straight for Eldran's wife and daughter, sword upraised! Opposite him, Valtresca appeared suddenly, but he had no weapon. He looked up to Eldran, pleading for Eldran to throw him a weapon. The king drew his own blade and tossed it toward the general, who caught it with the ease and grace of a juggler. The general raised the blade and slashed at the black-haired man before he could reach the two women.

When Valtresca struck with the Kezankian blade, the man dissolved like a handful of dust scattered into a gusting wind. Without warning, Valtresca spun around and drove the blade through one woman, then the other, while Eldran screamed soundlessly. Lamici crooned and strummed the lyre fervently, now playing an old Brythunian dance song, often heard during celebrations of victory.

The strange woman who held Eldran in an iron embrace tilted her head back and laughed, revealing rows of teeth sharper than a serpent's. She leaned forward and plunged her long, razor-sharp teeth deep into his unprotected throat. His struggles weakened as she fastened her mouth on his neck, sucking blood out of him like a human leech. Soon he felt consciousness slip away.

Eldran awoke with a start, his veins afire, shivering and sweating. He tried to cry out, but there was some sort of pressure on his throat, choking the sounds back. He felt weak and disoriented, his vision blurring, then clearing. How long had he slept? He dimly remembered a horrifying nightmare, with a woman, an altar, and The memory faded quickly, the details slipping from his feverish mind. He could see Kailash and the healer speaking in low murmurs at his bedside. He tried to raise himself from the bed, but his leaden limbs would not respond.

The healer wiped Eldran's brow with a cool, damp cloth, saying something to Kailash that was unintelligible to the king.

" wake suddenly he yesterday he herbs sorcery was tossing, and
find priest" was all that Eldran could hear before the healer stopped speaking and left the room. Kailash bent down to stare gravely at Eldran, placing a meaty hand on the king's shoulder. He spoke directly, but Eldran had trouble hearing him.

"Old friend, be strong healer back. Will find him" Eldran heard, before his eyes closed and he fell again into an agonizing sleep wherein the dream repeated itself, like a mad play set on a stage in the lowest pit of hell.

Kailash took his hand from the king's shoulder and stood up, pacing the chamber. Over the years, he had seen Eldran drunk, feverish from the sickness of battle wounds, and suffering from fatigue or sunstroke.

Never had he seen his friend succumb so quickly, without warning, to any disease. Only yesterday the king had looked pale, but nowhere near as ghostlike as he was now. He had fallen into an unrestful slumber, tossing and crying out. The healer could not awaken him or ease his pain, though his eyes would open, then close again after a short time.

No food or water could pass down his throat; their attempts to feed him had resulted in nearly choking him to death.

Kailash suspected that foul sorcery was afoot, some spawn of hell summoned from the abyss to wrack the spirit and body of Eldran. No healer could hope to protect the king from these black arts. Only a priest or a wizard could help Kailash's ailing friend now. He had sent three of his most fleet-footed men to the border for a Kezankian shaman, but even if they flew on the wind like winged eagles, they would not return to the city for many days. Be strong, my friend, he urged. Resist this demon that gnaws at your heart. By Erlik, I know you can do it.

Kailash continued pacing, wondering just how much time his friend had left, feeling helpless to stem the flow of life ebbing from Eldran at a steady, unstoppable pace.

Five

The Lurker Below

Conan grunted in disgust as he stepped on something wet, slimy, and hairy wriggling out from underneath his sandaled foot. He had been trudging for hours in the tunnels of the city's ancient sewer and was growing weary of wallowing knee-deep in the endless pools of reeking, filth-ridden ooze. He nearly gagged as a new, particularly vile odor assaulted his nostrils, rising from the syrupy sludge he waded through.

He had thought his sense of smell had mercifully deserted him a few hours ago, but apparently it had not. Fortunately, the sewer system was either forgotten or simply unused in many areas, or his journey would have been even more unpleasant.

He looked along the ceiling of the tunnel he was in, hoping to catch sight of the faint ray of light he had seen toward the tunnel's end. A growing feeling that he had lost his way had begun gnawing at him. He had not seen light from the street's sewer grates for several hours, but he was certain that he had gone in the general direction of the palace.

At a juncture of three tunnels he had passed over an hour ago, he had been unable to decide which branch to take. The one leading toward the palace had a very slight downward bend to it, which he found disturbing. Nevertheless, he had taken it, not being one to shy from the dark like a frightened child. As he followed the passage, the almost nonexistent light had diminished to an inky blackness that even his keen eyes, adapted to the dark, could scarcely penetrate. He paused, realizing that the light he thought he had seen was actually some stone or rubble protruding from the wall, lighter in color than the others. By Crom, he had had enough of this! Turning around, he decided to go back to the juncture and take a different path.

Moving his hand along the wall for guidance, he began to retrace his steps. His fingers glided along some oddly shaped stonework. Curious, he probed the wall and was surprised when a piece of it came off easily in his hand. The fragment had rounded knobs at one end, was jagged at the other, and was about as long and thick as a man's forearm. He dropped the object in disgust, discovering that it was indeed an old arm-bone. Hastening, he continued to feel along the wall to find his way back up the passage.

The hairs on the back of Conan's neck raised as a sickening revelation dawned on him: the whole wall was composed of the tightly packed bones of men and animals. Throwing caution aside, he rushed up the passage, hindered slightly by thick muck sucking greedily at his feet. Now he knew also what he had smelled: the odor of fetid decay, the rotting stench of the dead. He was in a vast corridor of death.

As this realization dawned on him, he tripped over something damp and hairy and fell face-first into a stinking pool of scum. Spluttering, he stood up and regained his balance, wiping the sludge from his face. He heard a wet, sucking noise, and an unnatural, bubbling squeal sent a chill down his spine. He readied his sword just in time to make out a form of nightmarish horror rising from the ooze.

The beast was huge; its heaving, slime-coated bulk filled the entire tunnel. Slobbering and squealing obscenely, it splashed toward Conan.

He moved back, trying to stay out of its reach. He could get only a vague idea of its form: a lumpy, mushroom-shaped body and a dozen or so long tentacles, each one hairy on top but covered with spongy, octopus-like suckers on its underside. Without warning, one of the tentacles lashed out like a whip. Conan avoided its sweep by leaping straight into the air. Unfortunately, he had misjudged the height of the tunnel, and his head smashed forcefully into the ceiling, bringing chunks of rock and bone down on top of him. Momentarily stunned, he stood motionless in the tunnel while a few more of the writhing tentacles coiled tightly around him, seizing his leg and waist in a viselike grip.

Meanwhile, the unstable ceiling had continued collapsing around him, crashing down in an avalanche of stones and skeletal remains. Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw a thin ray of light from above piercing the darkness that surrounded him. Evidently he was closer to the surface than he thought, for the cave-in had actually exposed the tunnel to the sun from above, albeit only faintly.

The ray of light served to illuminate the corridor enough for Conan to see the freakish monstrosity holding him in its deadly grip. Clumps of matted hair, in various sickly hues of ochre, thatched its mottled hide, covering wrinkled, pebbly, pinkish-white skin. Revolting growths of green mold sprouted from its skin, like noxious boils. The noisome creature's central toothless maw, wide enough to swallow a man whole, made obscene slobbering noises and drooled an unspeakably putrescent sludge.

The bristly tentacle around Conan's waist flexed, abruptly squeezing him with crushing force. The constriction shoved the breath out of his lungs, and spongy suckers on the tentacle's underside slurped at his skin like hundreds of greedy, round leeches. The circulation in his left leg was fading quickly as the tentacle continued to clench with increasing pressure. Conan's head cleared slightly from the beating taken by the crumbling ceiling above, and with his sword, he chopped viciously at the tentacle encircling his waist. The blade bit deep, nearly shearing through. Howling, the beast withdrew the injured member and yanked unexpectedly at Conan's leg.

Pulled off balance, the Cimmerian went down again, striking the back of his head solidly on the hard stone floor. Had his bull neck not craned forward at the last instant, his skull would have been crushed like an eggshell against the solid rock. His sword was jarred from his grasp; he groped for it in the dim light while thrashing and kicking at the tentacle pulverizing his leg.

The beast still did not release him, but instead began dragging him to its greedily awaiting mouth. Stringy droplets of black ichor fell from its partially open maw, sizzling and smoking where they struck the floor. As it maneuvered Conan nearer, heavy folds of skin in the center of its body rolled back, revealing a single malevolent dark-red eye, larger than Conan's head. The glistening orb bulged grotesquely as its slitted black pupil stared at the Cimmerian, reflecting some demonic intelligence.

Conan groped desperately for his sword but it lay just beyond his fingertips. Bracing himself against the wall with his free leg, he tried futilely to prevent the beast from dragging him further toward its slavering orifice. He groped on the floor for fingerholds, but his hands found only the loose stones and debris that had fallen from the ceiling. Desperate, he seized a larger stone with both hands and heaved it at the beast's exposed eye, his thickly muscled arms exerting all the force that he could bring to bear. The missile struck the great eye with a sickening wet splat, punching into the creature's soft innards.

Mortally wounded, it began convulsing, its limbs flailing as it writhed in throes of agony.

However, it did not release Conan's trapped leg, but rather, increased the awesome pressure until he felt his bones being ground to powder. It raised Conan up and slammed him into the wall of the tunnel, then pounded him against the floor until the very ground around the barbarian was shaking with the beast's violent, dying spasms. More of the ceiling came loose, and tons of dirt, rock, and bones dumped onto the beast until it moved no more. The limb pinning Conan's leg relaxed, its deadly coils loosened.

Breathing raggedly, Conan dragged himself away from the dead, grisly brute that had nearly slain him. His leg was miraculously unbroken; he could feel the painful tingle of its returning circulation. The last cave-in had permitted more light to shine into the tunnel. He could see hundreds of oozing, red rings around his waist and leg, where the suckers had been leeching his blood. Ugly burns from the tentacles'

abrasive bristles had raised up all over his flesh, and his waist ached where he had nearly been squeezed in half. A torturer's rack would have been kinder to his body than the sewer's unnatural man-eater. Every inch of him felt bruised and wracked by the severe beating he had taken, the pounding against the tunnel walls as if he were a human bludgeon.

Conan retrieved his sword and got slowly to his feet, limping. Peering upward, he could see that a shaft had been opened by the collapsing ceiling, wide enough for him to climb to the surface. Miraculously, the roof had not caved in completely, entombing him in these reeking sewers with the lurking horror he had just escaped. The original foundation of the sewers had held fast. Conan estimated that the climb up was at least eighty or ninety feet, but for a Cimmerian hillman, such an ascent would be leisurely. In his youth, he had climbed steeper mountains with fewer footholds.

Moving cautiously to avoid pulling down more of the roof, Conan ascended, trusting to his questionable luck that there would be no guards standing by at the surface. The battle had raised enough of a commotion for someone above to have heard it. His battered body was in poor shape to get involved in a pitched battle, but his animal-like-vitality was already preparing him for whatever would happen next. Conan was rapidly recovering from an experience that would have rendered most men dead, mad, or in shock for days.

The climb took longer than he had anticipated. His progress was impeded by the rocks' instability, and several times he had slipped backward a few feet before regaining a hold. His tortured body was slow to respond to the further demands he was making of it. At last his perseverance was rewarded and he reached the safe ground of the surface. He immediately noticed that the sun was much lower in the sky than he would have believed. His sense of time had somehow failed him in the sewer tunnels; wandering through them must have taken nearly half the day. His sense of direction had served him better; the palace was only a few hundred paces away. He had managed to surface in one of the many expansive gardens that surrounded the palace. Although the palace gates were heavily guarded, and the entrance to the palace barred, no guards patrolled the gardens. Fate had treated him kindly on his latest roll of the dice.

Instinctively, he left the newly made crater now marking the garden he was in and moved into a nearby thicket of carefully trimmed needle-trees. His probing eyes searched the area from his new vantage point, seeking any sign that his unexpected appearance had been discovered. All was quiet; no hordes of guards came rushing out into the palace grounds. Far away, he could see a few guards milling around the palace's bronze front door.

Several hundred paces in the opposite direction were the outer palace walls, immense stone bulwarks wide enough for two men to walk on side by side, and easily thrice Conan's height. Set into the walls, stout, crudely constructed iron gates hung on massive hinges, flanked by buttresses of stone for reinforcement. The walls and gates had been built generations ago, beyond the memory of any loremaster or dusty history book. Many a battering ram had splintered like a twig against this impressive portal. The walls were made of a curious stone that had resisted the bombardment of countless missiles, launched by the ballista of would-be conquerors.

Conan scowled with the realization that he was trapped behind the walls. He must find a place to conceal himself until nightfall, when he could slip over them unseen. His body was still covered with the drying dirt and muck from the sewer below, effectively camouflaging him.

Although he longed to rinse the slime off himself, he would wait for a more opportune time.

His eyes continued their surveillance of the palace grounds, until he saw his chance for concealment. A huge cart stood unattended not fifty paces from the thicket he was crouching in. The cart was loaded with hay, no doubt destined for the royal stables. He could slip into it, lodge beneath the cover of the hay, and peer out between the wooden slats of the cart's walls, where he would have a perfect view of the palace's front door. The cart was sitting less than five feet from the path, affording a perfect view of anyone who might come along. Conan would watch from here. Maybe Hassem had not yet arrived to collect his reward. Now he was even angrier than before with the Zamoran scum, who was indirectly responsible for his many recent brushes with death.

With as much stealth as he could muster, Conan darted for the cart, hunching low to avoid being noticed by the guards at the palace door.

He made a dive and quickly burrowed into the straw, making certain it covered him completely. Grateful for the opportunity to rest, he began his silent vigil of the palace doors.

Moments after he settled in, the outer iron gates swung open to admit a patrol of city guardsmen, followed by several richly garbed priests of Mitra. The strange party moved with haste along the path to the palace doors, where they were admitted immediately. A messenger mounted on a fleet-footed Aquilonian steed galloped out of the doors on some urgent errand. Conan sensed that something was afoot in the palace; he had never seen priests in such a hurry.

As if confirming his conjecture, another pair of priests in strange, dark green robes, adorned with symbols that Conan did not recognize, came bustling out of the palace, speaking to each other with excited gesturing. As they neared the outer gates, they were nearly trampled by a regally attired lone man riding a tall black horse. His deep red cape flapped in his wake like a banner in a strong breeze. He wore a polished breastplate with chain mail sleeves, and dark leather breeches. Polished metal studded his boots, and he gripped the horse's reins firmly in his mailed hands. At his side was a thin, long-bladed sword with an elaborate hilt. He wore no helm, and his hair was streaked with gray and white. The crest on his breastplate was identical to the crest painted on the city guards' shields.

The mailed rider shoved the priests aside rudely and trotted along the path toward the palace doors. Conan took an instant dislike to this man, though he had never met him face-to-face. After the haughty warrior had ridden inside, Conan continued monitoring the gates. For the next few hours, traffic moved along the path, but nothing of any importance as far as he could tell. Daylight was waning, and the sky was beginning to darken as dusk approached.

Just as Conan began to think that Hassem would not show, he looked along the path for one last time, and drew in a sharp breath. Marching through the gates was a procession of guards, led by none other than Captain Salvorus. Next to Salvorus walked the object of Conan's hunt, the treacherous Hassem. His sword-arm itched to bury a few feet of steel in the worm's guts, but he was in no position to take on the whole patrol right in front of the palace. He had waited this long; he was certain that Hassem would have to leave soon, and when he did, Conan would follow him.

Then a new idea struck Conan. If he wore the helmeted costume of a city guard, he could pass freely through the gates and follow Hassem without being noticed or stopped. The only problem would lie in obtaining a uniform large enough to fit him properly. The sky had begun to darken, casting shadows over the gardens. Conan slid carefully out of the cart and crawled underneath it, crouching behind the wheel closest to the path. After a brief wait, a small patrol came through the gates, but the guard at the rear was too short.

Conan continued to wait, hoping that a taller guard would pass by. He was startled by a movement out of the corner of his eye. A man leading a horse was approaching the cart. From the look of his mud-stained clothes, Conan guessed that he was a gardener, or a grounds keeper of some kind. The man was tall and strongly built, much like the Cimmerian. He wore a hillman's simple cloth headdress, designed to block the sun's sweltering rays. Grinning, Conan altered his plan.

After his messy trip through the sewers, he looked more like a gardener than a guard, anyway.

After the gardener reached the cart, he began to fasten the horse's harness to the crossbar. His back was to the crouching barbarian, who remained unseen in the encroaching darkness of evening. Conan stepped quietly out from underneath the cart and grabbed the hapless man from behind, clamping one hand over the fellow's mouth to stifle any cries that would alert the palace guards. Conan bore him down to the ground, intending to knock him senseless, but the gardener twisted nimbly aside, and it was Conan's head that crashed into the dirt, face first.

The gardener jumped up and began yelling loudly and frantically to the guards who stood by the palace doors.

"Crom!" Conan cursed, sputtering through a mouthful of turf. He spat, then hooked an arm around the screaming man's leg, pulling him heavily to the ground. The gardener's jaw struck the crossbar of the cart as he fell, stunned. So much for stealth, Conan thought, as he got to his feet and readied his blade for the charge of the palace guards who hastened toward him. The horse, bound to the cart's crossbar, bolted in sudden terror straight for the guards. A corner of the cart caught Conan painfully on his shoulder, jarring his sword out of his hand and nearly knocking him down again. The Cimmerian's weight stopped the cart as the horse's harness-strap slid off the crossbar.

Reaching for his fallen sword, Conan accidentally placed his foot in one of the harness's loops. The slack in the strap was taken up instantly by the bolting horse, tightening the loop around Conan's ankle and pulling him unceremoniously off his feet. "Belial blast you, beast!" he cursed, just before the wind was knocked out of him by his sudden impact with the turf. Giving up hope of retrieving his sword, he bent all his strength to the seemingly hopeless task of freeing his ankle from the strap and the fleeing horse.

As the animal gained speed, it dragged the barbarian through a punishing gauntlet of bumps, rocks, and bushes, galloping madly all the while through the palace gardens. Conan's ankle was twisted brutally; he felt as if his foot was about to be torn from his leg. The Cimmerian knew that even he could not take this kind of abuse for long. He groped frantically for the strap while trying desperately to find a way out of his predicament. Directly ahead, he saw a row of widely spaced trees.

Instead of veering off, the charging stallion plunged right through one of the gaps.

Twisting violently, Conan extended his arms and locked them in a death grip around the trunk of a tree, bracing himself for the shock. The horse came to a sudden stop, causing every joint in the Cimmerian's body to scream at once as his sinews and bones were pitted against those of the horse in a hopelessly unbalanced contest. Conan would have been torn to pieces by the horse's momentum had the frayed leather strap not snapped first.

Conan slumped to the ground, exhausted. His arms were still locked around the tree trunk; he could not loosen his grip. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he let go and raised himself unsteadily to his feet, staggering and limping on his twisted ankle, which refused to support his full weight. Weaving dizzily, he tried to move back to the cart, where his sword still lay. His vision swam in a blurring red haze, which he dimly realized was blood streaming down into his eyes from his torn scalp.

Wiping at his face, he cleared his sight just in time to see the enraged gardener move menacingly toward him with clenched fists. Conan put an arm up to ward off the attack, but his limbs felt heavier than blocks of granite, and his reflexes were too slow. The gardener raised a mallet-like fist and hammered it squarely into Conan's face. Conan felt his jaws slam shut and his neck snap back as his head rocked from the incredible force of the blow. He fell sprawling onto the hard ground, his thoughts fading away into darkness.

Six

Treason and Poison

In Valtresca's antechamber at the palace, Hassem sat next to a heavy wooden door, in an elaborately carved chair. He sweated nervously while Valtresca paced before him, red-faced with anger, ranting.

"Hassem, you greedy fool! I told you to peddle those trinkets in Shadizar, where they could not be tracedhnot in this city! Instead, you sell one of the bracelets to this barbarian, and try to collect the reward without my finding out about it. You told me you would leave the city two nights ago. I know how treacherous you thieving Zamorans can be, but I did not expect your greed to overcome your intelligence."

"Honored General, you misinterpret my motives," Hassem began, having just hatched a plan to get himself out of his current predicament. He had planned to leave last night for Zamora, but unforeseen, the city gates had been closed to trap the Cimmerian, and he had been told by Salvorus to collect his reward the next day, at the palace. Clearing his throat, he steadied his voice. "I have provided you with a scapegoaththe foreigner Conan. Everyone believes he is guilty, even your stalwart do-gooder, Captain Salvorus. The barbarian has no alibi; I have already made certain that he would be the perfect one to blame for the crime. Without him, the death of the princess would remain unsolved; a stain on your spotless record, a debt to Eldran that you could never truly repay. Surely the reward money is the least you would give me for this service before I return to Shadizar. You are right, of course. I am not foolish enough to try to trick you. I thought you would appreciate this final brush stroke on the plan you have painted so masterfully."

Valtresca's frown disappeared, and he began to chuckle. "Hassem, you are amusing, even when you lie. I admire your resourcefulness, but I caution you to be more careful of what you do in the future, without first consulting your bettershyou will live longer."

The General ceased chuckling, walked over to a tall oak cabinet with crystal doors, and removed a dusty bottle of wine and two ornately embellished silver wine goblets. From a chest next to the cabinet, he took a small pouch. "We need discuss this no further. I am satisfied.

Let us enjoy a goblet of the finest wine of Kyros and raise a toast to the death of this Cimmerian rogue. You have done the city a great service, and the king would express his gratitude personally were he in better spirits today." Eyes glinting cruelly with sarcasm, he poured the wine sparingly into each goblet, handing one to Hassem.

The Zamoran eyed the vessel suspiciously, but Valtresca raised his with enthusiasm, ignoring Hassem's distrustful expression. 'To the death of the savage who slew the princess!" The general drank deeply. Relaxing, Hassem also sipped from his goblet. Then he took a long pull of it, realizing that it was indeed a surpassing vintage, from a land of world-renowned vineyards.

Valtresca smiled with satisfaction and tossed the pouch to the floor beside Hassem's chair. It clinked loudly, and a glint of gold was visible from within. Hassem knelt to pick up the pouch, then coughed and clutched at his throat, dropping the goblet. "Bry-Brythunian d-dog," the spluttering thief cursed as he reached feebly for the dagger in his belt, fumbling at the hilt and drawing it out unsteadily.

Valtresca deftly slid out his sword and stepped toward Hassem. At that moment, a loud knock sounded at the door.

"General Valtresca? I heard the sounds of a struggleh" said Salvorus, who had been approaching from the far end of the hall outside the general's antechamber. The wooden door, which had not been latched firmly, swung inward from the considerable force behind Salvorus's knock. Reacting quickly as the door opened, Valtresca savagely kicked Hassem in the face with his boot. The Zamoran's mouth erupted in a spray of blood and teeth before he passed out on the hard stone floor.

"Salvorus!" the general panted, pointing at the fallen Hassem. "I have learned that this scum was the Cimmerian's accomplice. He turned Conan in after an argument over how the princess's jewels were to be split up. The fool tried to knife me! If he still lives, take this subhuman slime down to the dungeon and chain him. At dawn, the headsman will have two necks to cleave!"

Valtresca smiled again, congratulating himself on the improvisation that he had just executed so perfectly. An hour before, he had taken a draught of a special oil that would prevent the poisoned wine from affecting him. The poison was not deadly anyway; he had purchased it from a Khitan merchant who told him when imbibed, it would only temporarily cut off the flow of air into a man's lungs, long enough to render him unconscious. On the morrow, the last men who could connect him with the death of the princess would be silenced forever. Only he and Lamici would know the secret.

The general looked down with irritation at his polished boots; Hassem had soiled them with his bloody face. He contemptously wiped the blood on the fallen Zamoran's tunic. A pity that the lying miscreant had decided to cheat him. Valtresca had hired Hassem to spy on Lamici, and to make sure that the eunuch disposed of the princess's corpse as planned, without trying to implicate Valtresca. He had paid Hassem generously for this task.

In the past, he had used Hassem for many similar schemes; the Zamoran had always proved reliable. Hassem's payment for spying on the eunuch was to be the bracelet and the amulet from the princess's body, to be fenced in the wicked city of Shadizar after Hassem left for Zamora.

When Valtresca had learned that the avaricious Hassem had broken his part of the pact, he knew that he must find the treacherous Zamoran and silence him forever. Valtresca stood quietly as Salvorus leaned over the fallen thief, checking for signs of life.

The huge captain extracted the daggers with which Hassem had liberally equipped himself, then picked up the unconscious Zamoran. Salvorus thought it strange that the Cimmerian would work with Hassem, and even stranger that Hassem would be fool enough to attack Valtresca in the general's own chambers. However, he reasoned that his experience with the Zamorans and Cimmerians was limited, and he had seen many strange and inexplicable actions during his tour of duty in the city. Shaking his head, he slung Hassem over one burly shoulder and began his trek to the unpleasant depths of the palace dungeons. He never ventured into their stinking halls and cells unless he was personally responsible for a prisoner interred there.

Only an hour before, he had hauled Conan into one of the small dungeon's dank and mildewy cells, and had chained the barbarian securely to the wall. He had marveled at Conan's size and physique; these Cimmerians were a hardy folk indeed. Salvorus's own strength had been great enough for him to lift Conan without aid, but his arms had felt the strain by the time he reached the dungeon. Salvorus had never met a man stronger than himself; much of his fame in soldiering had been brought about by feats of strength impossible for most men.

His father had been a stonecutter, and Salvorus had worked as an apprentice, lifting heavy slabs of rock, often holding them in place while a difficult cut or chip was made. Later, Salvorus had labored in rock yards, chiseling stone out of quarries and bearing it to wagons, carting it to a future site of some nobleman's wall or fortress.

When Salvorus had come of age, he had taken up soldieringhpartially for the excitement it offered, but mostly for the opportunity to set aright the grievances his family had suffered at the hands of invading armies.

Slavers had caught his mother while he and his father were off at a quarry. Afterward, his father had never been the same man, gradually sinking into a listless depression that lasted until his death, some eight years later. Salvorus had no brothers or sisters, so for a while, the Brythunian army had become his family.

For years after joining the army, he had courted women steadily, seeking the hot embraces of sensual, full-bodied, lusty Brythunian women. His career as a soldier took him away from his amorous encounters before they could develop into relationships; as a result, he had found no woman to settle down with and have a family. His rapid rise in the ranks of the army had prevented him from making close friends with many of his fellow soldiers since he moved about the region, serving under various commanders. His best friends were back in the border legion he had commanded as lieutenant. The city guards were a sort he had trouble mingling with. They were men who had been given "preferred" positions, not because of their fitness for the work, but rather, because of their relationship to nobles, or because of the favors owed to their families by the aristocracy.

Yes, he mused, he was a loner. He still enjoyed the caresses of many willing women he had met in the city, and he had filled many a night with bouts of lovemaking. While enjoyable, these encounters offered only short-lived companionship. He believed that several of the women would have accepted a proposal of marriage gladly, but he avoided seeing them repeatedly, deliberately letting any bonds of friendship dissipate.

He supposed that he preferred to be a loner, free to pursue his career without being tied down to the docile life of a typical city soldier, who gripped an ale mug far more often than the hilt of a sword. He knew of such men, who eventually retired, spending their evenings in taverns, swilling cheap wine and making exaggerated claims of their prowess in battle.

Such an end would be undignified, Salvorus felt. He would retire when his sword was pried from his dead hand, perhaps after having fallen in battle. The death of a soldier should be a death with honor and purpose. He would continue to serve, taking risks because he must to feel alive. As he descended into the palace dungeon with Hassem draped over his shoulder, he reflected on this thought, realizing that his recent move to the city had probably been a mistake. His only way out would be to prove himself worthy as a leader of men, fit to command as colonel, or even as general. Perhaps he would try drilling these sluggards who served him as city guards, and begin instructing them in the arts of proper soldiery.

Salvorus mentally planned a regimen of drills to improve the performance of his company of guards, so preoccupied that he did not notice that Hassem was regaining consciousness. The shifty-eyed Zamoran assessed his position as he bounced uncomfortably on one of the massive captain's brawny shoulders. His head, arms, and upper body dangled down over Salvorus's back, while his legs were gripped securely by one of the huge man's arms. Hassem felt weak; his breath came in uneven wheezes as the poison coursed through his body. His jawbone throbbed in agony, and the thick, oily taste of blood filled his mouth. Small droplets of blood trickled out between his smashed lips occasionally, falling to the cold stone floor. When he ran his swollen tongue along his gums, he could feel jagged stumps where several of his teeth had been. Risking a glance at his surroundings, he guessed that he was being carried to the dungeons below the palace. He had escaped from them once, years before, but not without help. They were constructed in a confusing maze of corridors, like a labyrinth.

He noticed that his daggers were missing, but he could see their hilts protruding from a bag that dangled temptingly from Salvorus's broad belt. If he could just reach one of them, he could slip it right between his captor's shoulder blades, then try to find the pathway he had once used to escape. He concentrated on feigning unconsciousness, while judging the right moment to make his move.

He focused on one particular dagger, his "black dragon," which had been rubbed generously with a paste made from the deadly leaves of the black lotus. One scratch from his black-dragon dagger would be enough to bring down a man and kill him swiftly with its poisonous bite.

Valtresca had not kicked out all of Hassem's teeth, he thought grimly; the general would find that Hassem could still bite. Waiting patiently, the Zamoran maintained his ruse of immobility, like a serpent coiled to strike.

Unmindful of the imminent danger from behind, Salvorus continued his long march to the cells. The dungeon's mazelike corridors were lit by sparsely placed lamps, burning dimly. Salvorus knew the secret of the maze, a simple method of navigating its endlessly branching pathways by interpreting symbols marked on the lamps, cleverly disguised as part of each lamp's ornamentation. He was nearing the cellblock; he could tell this by the smell permeating the area: a strong odor of urine, feces, and decay. As he turned a corner, he saw that his nose had not lied to him.

The cramped compartments were arranged side by side along one long wall of the dungeon corridor; each was narrow and long, designed to hold up to a half-dozen occupants. The corridor providing access to them was only three feet wide. Conan had been placed in the first cell. Through the bars, the captain could see that the barbarian was still hanging in heavy shackles, suspended from the wall by stout iron bolts. Salvorus reached for his key ring and selected a large, rusty iron key, which he fitted into the cell door's lock. Just before he turned the key, he felt a sharp, deep pain in his side.

"By Erlik's beard!" he cursed in shock, dropping Hassem. His hand went to his left side, where he could see a thin-bladed dagger protruding.

The Zamoran must have regained his senses! For the second time in the last few days, he had underestimated an opponent. Roaring in anger, he swept his heavy-bladed sword from its well-oiled scabbard and aimed a vicious cut at the groggy thief, still dazed from his tumble to the hard floor. Salvorus's murderous stroke never descended; without warning, he toppled over as if poleaxed.

Shaking the cobwebs from his aching head, Hassem got unsteadily to his feet. He could barely walk; his dagger-thrust had taken all the energy he could muster. Even then, the stroke had gone wide of its intended target, its thin, serrated blade sliding miraculously into a tiny unmended patch in the mail shirt. He noticed for the first time that his captor had been none other than Captain Salvorus himself. If his wits had not been so hazy from the poison and his injury, he would have recognized this sooner. Hassem cared not who he killed. He had slain many men less deserving than this buffoon.

Hassem's skill with the dagger had served him well. As he stood, he pulled his black dragon roughly from the fallen captain's side, its serrated blade making a rasping noise as several more links of chain mail were torn loose. Salvorus lay motionless on the floor; the black lotus was sending him into a slumber from which he would never awaken.

One final detail remained: Hassem must arrange the body to create the illusion that Conan had struggled with Salvorus and fatally stabbed him. The jailer would find the corpses in the cell, each clutching a dagger in his hand. He turned the key in the cell door and stepped in.

The commotion had roused Conan. Hassem was pleased to see the barbarian shackled tightly, without slack, in chains fastened to thick iron rings set solidly in the stone wall. Conan looked very much the worse for wear; his dirt-encrusted body was an aching mass of bloody contusions.

Nevertheless, the Zamoran approached him cautiously, his dagger ready.

"We meet again, witless brute," Hassem taunted. His normally deep, tonal voice had degenerated to a rasping, guttural growl. "This time, I will have the personal pleasure of sending you to hell, or whatever black pit the souls of barbarians are sent to," he continued, gloating.

"Now I will finish what I began, after I convinced this dull-witted foolh" he gestured to the prone form of Salvorus "hthat the princess died by your hand. If only this dog knew that his master, his precious general, was the one who really had her killed!" His laughter came in short, choked bursts. Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood and tooth fragments into Conan's face.

Conan struggled to break free of the chains, but he knew that in his weakened condition, he would need hours to snap their stout iron links.

He strained with all his might, chest heaving, cords standing out on his bulging arm and leg muscles, but to no avail. "Erlik take you, Zamoran gutter-rat! Send me to hell, but know that I will be waiting for you there!" He spat a curse at Hassem, drew in a breath, and made a final effort to break out of the chains.

Hassem stepped forward, assuming an expert knife-fighter's stance. He lowered the dagger, preparing for a disemboweling slash at Conan's unprotected belly. "Your death will be slow and painful, barbarian pighuuungh!"

Conan watched in astonishment as Hassem pitched forward onto the cell floor. A heavy, iron-hilted throwing-knife protruded from the thief's back, buried to the hilt squarely between his shoulder blades. Hassem had fallen on his own serrated dagger; its thin blade had passed completely through him, sticking out next to the hilt of the iron throwing-knife.

Salvorus knelt at the door to the cell, his arm still extended from throwing the blade. Leaning against the door frame for support, he raised himself slowly to his feet. He felt certain that the Zamoran's dagger had been poisoned; his side was afire with its venom. The puncture made by Hassem's dagger was minor; Salvorus had suffered far worse injuries in the border wars. Whatever the poison was, its potency was considerable. He fought its effects, but he did not know how long his strength would last.

"By Crom and Mitra!" Conan burst out when he saw that Salvorus had saved him. "That was a mighty throw! I had not looked forward to our next meeting, but now I say well-met, Captain Salvorus." He saw that Salvorus was off balance, and eyed the rent that Hassem's dagger had made in the mail shirt. Blood seeped from it slowly, staining Salvorus's tunic and pooling on the floor.

"Conan," the captain began, "I now believe you are innocent foul treachery of the worst kind, treason in a high place, here at the palace! Hard to believe, General Valtresca a traitor" His voice was unsteady, as if he were in great pain. "I must bring news of this to the king, news of this" he faltered, as though forgetting what he was going to say " will free you, then come with me to see King Eldran and Kailash."

Fumbling, Salvorus took the keys from the cell door and unlocked one of the shackles on Conan's ankles. He blinked his eyes as if to clear them, and shook his head slightly. He began unlocking another shackle, but his great strength finally failed him, overcome by the lethal black lotus blossoms of far-off Khitai. A lesser man would have been killed instantly, but Salvorus possessed a vitality not unlike that of the Cimmerian. He lived, but he was in the sleep of the black lotus, a sleep of strange dreams that ended in death.

Guessing rightly that Hassem had poisoned Salvorus, Conan cursed the ill luck that continued to plague him. Now the only man who could exonerate him of the crime he was accused of lay dying on the floor of the dungeon cell. If only he could reach the keys that lay by Salvorus's outstretched hand! At least one of his legs was freed. He bent it at the knee, bracing himself, and pressed off the brick wall with all his might. His tortured body ached with the effort, but he knew he must keep trying.

After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, he felt one of the bricks loosen, its mortar crumbling as it succumbed to the combined force of Conan's mighty arms and legs. He continued pulling, concentrating on the brick. Finally it slid out of the wall with a grating sound, nearly pulling Conan's arm out of its socket as it did so. Now he had at least one free leg and the partial use of one arm.

Swinging the block of stone like a club, he hammered it against the chain by his foot. More than once he struck his foot, sending waves of pain up his leg. Gritting his teeth, he continued, until the iron chain-link finally parted under the pounding. The stone block was badly cracked and chipped, but he had only to free his other arm and he could escape this accursed cell. Heaving, he strained against the last ring set into the brick wall. The mortarwork was too solid. He paused to chip at the brick with the remnant of the stone block that hung from the end of his free arm's shackle. Without warning, the iron ring he struggled with broke loose of the brick, sending him crashing to the floor.

He grabbed the keys and unlocked the shackles, then bent to see if Salvorus was still breathing; the captain's chest rose and fell in shallow, even breaths. He tore off Hassem's cloth tunic and stuffed it beneath the captain's mail shut to stanch the flow of blood from the knife wound. The edges of the puncture were a sickly, purplish-black color, and a ghastly odor rose from the wound. If he left Salvorus here, the man could die from this poison before proclaiming Conan's innocence. Perhaps the healer, Madesus, could be sent to tend his wounds. He had told Conan that he was an expert in healing poison victims.

Conan wrestled with his options, finally deciding that he would make better time unburdened by the huge captain's slumbering body. He must find Madesus quickly; if anyone could heal Salvorus, it would be the strange priest who had restored Conan's wrist. He disliked abandoning the captain, who had saved him from an unpleasant end on the blade of Hassem's knife. Now, if not for Salvorus, Conan would be burning in the hot fires of the lowest pits of hell. Silently he vowed to help Salvorus, though the man was in part responsible for Conan's recent woes.

Taking the keys and arming himself with the captain's huge sword, he emerged from the cell, looking each way down the corridor. He had been out cold when dragged into the cell, so he had no clear idea of the way to take. He began walking in the direction that Salvorus and Hassem had come from. After a short while, he discovered that the mazelike corridors of the dungeon were laid out in a random series of forks and turns, like in a maze. Fortunately, there were dim lanterns at some of the junctures; after his brush with death in the city sewers, he had little desire for another journey in the dark.

Still, he must be very careful to avoid getting lost in this labyrinth.

Time was a luxury he did not have; he had to reach Madesus as quickly as possible. As he tried to think of a way out, he caught a glimpse of a small, wet spot on the corridor floor. He wiped at it with a finger, then held the finger closer to the lantern. Blood! Fresh, too, from the look of it. Hassem's face had been bleeding when he had arrived at the cell door with Salvorus. The wretched thief had unwittingly left Conan a trail to follow!

Relaxing a little, readying his sword, Conan swiftly followed the crimson path, which he knew would eventually lead him out of the musty corridors to fresh air and freedom.

Seven

The View in the Pool

Trembling, Madesus laid the jeweled bracelet down on a rough-hewn corner table in his cramped, crudely furnished room. Tarocles, the balding, scrawny high priest of the city's poorest temple to Mitra, had permitted him to use this tiny room. Normally, it was reserved for acolytes.

Madesus shifted in the seat of an uncomfortable wooden chair and rubbed his tired eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep. Since he had touched the bracelet the day before yesterday, strange dreams had disturbed his repose. Yet when he had awakened, he had remembered nothing of the dreams. Last night he had decided to learn more of the bracelet's origin. Conan had claimed no knowledge of its history. Madesus had had no choice but to perform the rites of loretelling, and to pray to Mitra to reveal the nature of the strange bracelet, which had radiated such strong evil.

From sunset yesterday until dawn this morning, Madesus had chanted, while in his brazier burned the acrid leaves of the Maljorna, the holy tree of knowledge. Sometimes he wondered sacrilegiously if Mitra actually had a sense of humor. Why else would the god have chosen the harsh-smelling Maljorna as his holy tree, which stank more than smoldering cow dung, instead of something with a more pleasant fragrance that would have served as well? Madesus's eyes still burned from exposure to the smoke, and he felt strangely light-headed. To make matters worse, his loretelling prayer had apparently failed. He lowered himself into the wretched cot that served as his bed, praying that his sleep might be less fitful than it had been the night before last.

Closing weary eyes, he began breathing deeply and fell into a fitful doze.

At the sound of his creaking door opening, he awoke. Feeling refreshed but still light-headed, Madesus rose to see who was at his chamber. His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw, and his throat suddenly felt very dry. Standing in the doorway was his old mentor, Kaletos.

"Master! 'Tis good to see you, after all these years. Why, just recently I considered returning to Corinthia to see how you and the temple fared. Your health looks to be as good as ever. The years have been kind to you."

"Madesus." The old man in the doorway wore voluminous, bright white robes and spoke in a deep voice, roughened by advanced age. Eyes of bright green blazed like emeralds, contrasting with his pale, wrinkled face and skin. He was bald but for a few thin tufts of shockingly white hair above each ear. Around his neck was an amulet similar to Madesus's, a seven-pointed silver star with a multifaceted amethyst mounted in the center. He leaned on a birch staff, not unlike Madesus's but bowed after decades of bearing the venerable priest's weight.

"Master?" Madesus asked hesitantly.

"Forgive me, Madesus, for entering unbidden. The cold moon of Derketo hath waxed and waned threescore times since our parting, and the curiosity of an old man hath grown since that time. Thy brow is furrowed with worry. What troubles thee, my young friend?"

Still feeling fuzzy from his sudden awakening, and recovering from the surprise of seeing his old tutor, Madesus cleared his head with effort and spoke. "I have slept poorly these past days, Master. I fear that an ancient evil is stirring in this city. This objecth" he pointed to the jeweled silver bracelet on his table "his somehow linked to it. I have prayed for guidance, but holy Mitra did not find me worthy of it last night. Strange but fortuitous that you should appear in the city in my hour of need. Still, I would not impose upon you to intervene in a matter that has fallen to me. How have you fared these past years, Master? What news from the temple in Corinthia?"

"The weight of many years rests heavily upon my shoulders, Madesus. All is well at the temple, but I wished to see what befell thee after our parting, before Mitra at last puts my weary bones to rest and claims my soul. You were my best acolyte, and the burden I laid upon thee at our parting was great. 'Tis not an easy path thou hast chosen; I followed it for many years, until holy Mitra, in his boundless wisdom, directed me to the temple of Corinthia, where I initiated thee into the ancient and secret Order of Xuoquelos. In time, thou wilt tutor another, as it hath been for centuries uncounted. Thou art the last of an Order that hath watched the world since the age of the Lemurian Empire.

"Thou hast been drawn here, to this place, for a purpose yet unclear.

Cast aside thy doubts about thy unworthiness and worry not about 'imposing' upon an old fool! Hand me the bracelet; let us lift the veil that conceals the face of evil from us. This simple floor will serve as a font from which the knowledge we seek will flow, Mitra willing.

Prepare for the Rite of the Font."

Madesus reached over to a clay pot on a corner table of his room and dipped water out with a wooden ladle. He poured it out onto the floor of the small room, forming a thin, oval pool several feet in diameter.

Replacing the dipper, he carefully picked up the bracelet and passed it to Kaletos. The old man took it gingerly, turning it over in his hand and closing his eyes, his brow furrowed with concentration. Moments later, a scintillating silver nimbus appeared around his hand, expanding to encompass the bracelet and his upper arm. As the nimbus flickered and grew, Kaletos's amulet began to glow brightly, like a seven-pointed star in the night sky. A cone of white light blazed from the amethyst to the shallow pool of water, which began to steam.

"Behold, the view in the pool!" exclaimed Kaletos. "Observe the font with caution, for its visions can oft lead one astray."

On the surface of the pool, through the steam, Madesus could see the image of an ancient stone building. The view in the pool was like a painting made by an artisan with a keen eye for color and depth; it was so realistic that he felt he was standing before the building itself.

The scene changed, and he could now see inside the structure. He recognized the trappings of a primeval temple.

Then the pool clouded before clearing once more to reveal the familiar figure of Conan. This new scene was even animated, portraying the barbarian stalking through the streets of the city, like a jungle beast in search of prey. Madesus could see Conan approaching the edifice present in the previous scene. The Cimmerian beat futilely on the building's huge doors in a vain effort to gain admittance. Madesus tried to pinpoint the building's location; there was something very familiar about its stone walls, which he could not quite recognize. He had the feeling that he had passed by it before, in the not-too-distant past.

The view shifted again to the inside of the building. In the dimly lit interior stood a woman wearing a long black cloak, the hood cast back.

Although only her head was exposed, Madesus could see that she was young and beautiful. Her straight, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and onto her back like an ebon waterfall, contrasting with the flawless white skin of her perfectly formed face. Her full lips looked as smooth and moist as rain-washed red roses.

A tall, stately man of middling years stood before the woman. With a start, Madesus saw that the man was none other than Eldran, King of Brythunia. She led him toward a large stone block at one end of the building, which looked like some sort of crude altar. When she reached the altar she turned to Eldran and smiled invitingly, then opened her cloak, letting it slide down to the floor. She wore nothing beneath it.

Reaching for him, she pressed the bared ivory globes of her full, firm breasts against his muscular chest and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him with wanton abandon.

Eldran returned her passionate advances eagerly, stroking and embracing her with increasing intensity as the fires of his lust flamed hotter.

Madesus's face reddened at the sight of the two lovers, writhing obscenely in the view revealed by Kaletos's amulet and the thin pool of water. Then he gasped in shock as the scene suddenly changed before his eyes, or rather as the woman changed. He first noticed that her eyes now glowed redly like smoldering embers. Her nails had grown, transforming into wickedly curved black talons. She opened her mouth wide, revealing row upon row of sharp, cruelly hooked black teeth, which she sank into the unsuspecting king's neck.

Struggling to free himself, he thrashed and kicked, but to no avail. As Madesus watched in horror, Eldran's struggles weakened and the teeth remained fastened in his flesh, draining his lifeblood like pointed ebon leeches. She paused, leaning back from the prone form of the king, and let a few droplets of blood drip to the hard stone floor. Then she looked up suddenly, staring straight at Madesus, as if he had been looking in at her through a window. The surface of the water rippled, the view blurred, and the thin pool of water slowly evaporated in a hissing cloud of steam.

Kaletos stood quietly in place, watching Madesus. The room was silent for several minutes as the healer struggled to interpret the gruesome and bizarre revelations of the pool. Finally he spoke, his voice filled with dread and loathing.

"Mutare. The woman in the pool looked exactly like a Mutare priestess, from the drawings in the iron-bound Books of Skelos. I have seen it, but I cannot believe my eyes. The Mutare were a corrupt cult, descendants of the decadent Thurian serpent-people who were obliterated centuries ago! How is it possible?"

"The Mutare hath long been dead, and the last Thurian died several millennia hence," said Kaletos solemnly. "Yet thine eyes have not deceived thee. Truly, thou hast seen a Mutare priestess in the font.

Remember, great as their powers were, the Mutare were but upstart pupils of their Thurian masters. Many a sage hath sworn that the Thurians laid much of their lore down in tomes, lost when their empire fell into ruin. No matter how deep these vile tomes were buried, they were bound to surface in time. Holy Mitra hath brought thee here to face this ancient evil and drive it back to the hell from which it hath risen. Thy path hath been revealed, my young friend. To this fate hast Mitra consigned thee!"

Madesus sat down wearily on his crude cot and assumed a resigned expression. "So this is the evil I have sensed here in the city a Mutare priestess. My only links to her are this bracelet, King Eldran, and Conan of Cimmeria." Sighing, he pondered his predicament for several moments before speaking again. "Master, although I have read much from the Books of Skelos, I remember little about the Mutare. The drawings were hauntingly familiar, but the passages describing this degenerate post-Thurian cult were obscure. What knowledge have you of the Mutare?"

Kaletos leaned against the wall of Madesus's small room, rubbing his snowy-white beard thoughtfully. "I recall only bits and pieces, Madesus. The subject is taboo, spoken of in whispers by foolish old loremasters. Thou must not rely completely on the writings in the Books of Skelos. Many of the passages art subject to interpretation. As much as I can recall, I will relate to thee. The Mutare were terrible, hideous beings. Once human, they twisted their souls with frenzied rituals of blood and sacrifice. They hungered not for wealth, nor for the passions of the flesh. Their motives were those of hate and chaos, and they sought the power to bring pain and suffering to mortals. They despised humans, though they had once been human themselves, for humans have what the Mutare had lost forever: their souls.

"Using forbidden knowledge of demon-haunted Thuria, they traded their souls for the power to perform feats of sorcery that were far beyond the capacity of other mages and priests of the time. Their power was exceeded only by their malice; they thrived on the woe and travail of hapless humans. During the century of their dominion, they slaughtered thousands of innocents every day with pestilence, famine, or outright butchery. They incited war among the peoples of their time, and revived grievances among men that would otherwise have remained forgotten. The most notorious of the Mutare was Skauraul, a cruel, self-proclaimed monarch of the southern land now known as Shem. His palace, a breeding ground for obscenity and horror, was surrounded by thousands of sharpened poles, upon which any who defied him were skewered like meat on a spit. He reveled in the groans and screams of the dying, sounding all hours of the day and night outside his palace, as the wretches he tortured so brutally would die slowly from their ghastly wounds. Other tales of similar atrocities abound from this era.

"As with all evil, the Mutare proved to be their own worst enemy. Their numbers grew, but the numbers of available victims decreased, so the Mutare quarreled among themselves over the rights to human death and misery like a flock of desert vultures over a pile of carcasses. The lesser Mutare were eradicated quickly in violent confrontations, until of the original hundreds, naught but a dozen remained. Some preferred to avoid the risk of conflict and withdrew into places of hiding. The others were eventually overthrown, including Skauraul, who was himself impaled on a silver spike. The spike was forged and, by one of our Order, ensorcelled with spells to bring about his downfall. A great scouring took place; sages tell of priests who spent their lifetime searching out and destroying any books or magicked items of the Mutare.

Much that was recorded of them was lost in this crusade.

"Still, bits and minutia of Mutare history can be gleaned, as you have done, from such works as the Books of Skelos. Legends say little of the physical details of Mutare. They may appear as normal humans, or as humanoids with eyes that glow as hot and red as the flames of the abyss, obsidian-black fangs and talons, and unnatural voices that ring hollowly.

Some claimed that Skauraul never aged, that his was the power to withstand even the ravages of time. The Mutare were hard to kill. They bled not, nor did they feel pain from injuries that would mortally wound a normal man. More deadly to them were the symbols and prayers of good.

"Madesus, if thou must face a Mutare, thou must first steel thyself in heart and mind, and rely on thy resolve and the powers of thy amulet.

It will serve thee well in such a conflict, but let it not stray from thy grasp! This is all I can say now to thee. I grow weary, and must needs rest these creaking bones. At my age, I have not the strength to help thee face this challenge, but my prayers go with thee. Take not the time to resthgo forth now, for the Mutare's powers will grow with every passing moment. I will take my leave of thee, but perhaps we will meet again soon. Until such time, I bid thee farewell and confer upon thee the blessings of guidance and goodness, which holy Mitra hath given us. Fare thee well, my young friend!"

With a feeble wave, Kaletos straightened up somewhat, turned slowly, and hobbled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Madesus watched him leave, then rubbed his eyes and splashed water over his face. After a short prayer, he rose from his knees, his mind made up.

He would first visit King Eldran again, now with the certain knowledge that the king was dying from the foul sorcery of the Mutare. The amulet's power might lift the curse, or at least stop the wasting disease from progressing. Madesus took his cloak from the peg on the wall and donned it hastily. He tied a large pouch to his belt and left for the palace.

It was a short walk from the temple to the palace gates. The healer reached the gates quickly. Below him, in the palace's dungeons, Salvorus was dying slowly as Conan moved through the winding dungeon corridors.

Madesus persuaded the bored-looking guards at the palace gates to admit him. One tall, lanky guard, his breath reeking of cheap spirits, led Madesus to the palace's main double doors, standing like huge monoliths of wood and iron in the moonlight. The guard drew his sword and pounded the flat of its blade loudly on the left door, three times in succession. Set at eye level in the door was a small panel that slid open. A gruff voice called out to the guard in a thick Zingaran accent.

"Gevaro! Get ye back t' the gate! 'Tis not dawn yet, by Erlik's black beard, ye lazy sack o' dung! Eh? What's this, a visitor at this hourhand a priest from the temple o' Mitra, by the look. What do ye want, priest?"

Madesus smiled wanly at the man's banter. Zingaran buccaneers were seldom seen this far east of their homeland. "I am on urgent business concerning the king. Please admit me at once!"

"Ha! Me, admit the likes o' ye, what with no papers an' such, in the wee hours o' the mornin'? I'll admit no man without reason, priest or no!"

"Listen to me carefully, Zingaran," Madesus said slowly, gripping his amulet and wrinkling his brow in concentration. "You will open the door for me. Then you will send this guard back to his post. After I enter, you will forget that we have ever met." He spoke in a voice imbued with authority as he evoked an enchantment that would convince the stubborn doorkeeper to let him in.

"I-I-I'll open the door for ye, priest. Gevaro! Get back t' yer post, afore I nail ye up t' keep ye there!"

Madesus could hear the Zingaran's keys jangling, and moments later, the door swung open. He stepped in, wondering if getting to the king would be even more difficult once he was inside the palace. Still concentrating on the spell, he spoke again to the bewitched doorkeeper, obtaining directions to the king's chambers. He traversed several of the palace's long, narrow corridors, hoping that the doorkeeper had given him the right information. He would have expected the king to live on one of the palace's upper floors, but the Zingaran had told him that Eldran preferred to dwell on the ground floor.

So far, he had seen no one else in the halls, not even guards or servants. The whole palace must be dozing peacefully, at least until daybreak, when the corridors would be full of the clamor and bustle of a typical day. Madesus was surprised by the apparent desertion, but pleased that he had not been seen. After making just a few more turns, he would be at the door to the king's outer chambers. His heart began to pound, anticipating a battle to release Eldran from the curse of the Mutare. He could expect resistance, and he could not be sure of the outcome. Would the priestess's powers prove greater than his own? He would soon find out.

He reached a short, wide corridor that the doorkeeper had described. He would have to go through the door on the right. He noticed two doors on the left. One stood wide open, hanging crookedly on bent hinges that were barely fastened to the corridor side of the door. The latch-and-bolt mechanism, also on the corridor side, appeared to have been torn apart, their stout iron plates ripped like sheets of parchment. This seemed odd to Madesus, since the rest of the palace was kept in very good repair. His curiosity aroused, he moved toward the damaged door to take a quick look and nearly cried out in surprise when he felt himself being seized from behind. A huge hand clamped over his mouth and pulled him backward, so abruptly that he almost fell.

"Sssst! Madesus!" a rough, familiar-sounding voice whispered into his ear. " 'Tis Conan! Do not make a sound. I need your help!"

Madesus nodded, quietly wondering what the Cimmerian was doing at the palace. He felt the hand lift from his mouth as Conan freed him. The tall barbarian gestured toward the wrecked door and motioned to the priest to follow him. Madesus noticed that the other door, closed only moments ago, was now open. The Cimmerian must have been concealed behind it. The priest marveled at the catlike stealth of which this black-haired giant was capable; Madesus had not heard a sound, and even the slightest scrape would have echoed in the empty hallway.

The priest hesitantly followed Conan into the room beyond the ruined door. He could see now that this had been the outer door to some sort of dungeon, explaining why the hinges were on the corridor side of the door. He suspected that the damage was more of Conan's handiwork. He had healed the barbarian's broken wrist only a few days ago. Surely, these Cimmerians possessed remarkable strength and powers of recuperation. Judging from the damage, he surmised that Conan had been imprisoned here.

Inside the room was another open door, in similar condition to the outer door. The crumpled forms of two palace guards, their limbs twisted, lay slumped against the doorway in pools of blood. Beyond the door, a narrow stone staircase led down, presumably into the dungeon.

Conan took a few steps downward, again beckoning Madesus to follow.

Frowning at the sight of the dead guardsmen, Madesus stepped past the bodies to the top step, where he halted.

Conan wedged the door in place as much as possible, but its badly bent frame would no longer fit the doorway properly. The light at the top of the stairs was considerably brighter than the light in the hall and the rooms, owing to the two lanterns hanging on the walls above the top steps. Madesus noticed for the first time that Conan's body was covered with gashes and swollen patches of bluish-black flesh. Several minor cuts still bled, but the stalwart, blue-eyed giant was oblivious to the pain of these injuries.

"Conan! Fate's loom has again woven the threads of our destinies together. As I recall, you were trying to avoid any contact with the city guard. What brings you to the palace?"

"I was seeking Hassem, the thieving scum who framed me for the murder of the princess. Instead, I nearly found death. This city is a pit of corruption and lies. Erlik take these civilized men and their dishonorable ways! By Crom, I have seen more honor among Pictish savages than I have seen among the men of this accursed city. The dogs trapped me, then chained me in one of their stinking dungeon cells. I was to stay there until dawn, when my neck was to be cloven by an axhtheir idea of justice.

"Salvorus, the captain of the city guard, was dragging Hassem into a cell next to mine. The thief was to be taken to the block also, if Salvorus had not sent him to hell a few hours earlier. The worm slipped out of Salvorus's grasp and planted a poisoned dagger in the captain's back. He would have gutted me like a trussed pig in a slaughterhouse if the captain had not shaken off the poison long enough to toss a dagger through Hassem's back. What a throw it was, by Crom!

"Now, as we speak, Salvorus lies dying from the poison in Hassem's knife. You must save him! Before Hassem died, he spilled his guts to me, and unknowingly to Salvorus. He told a tale of treachery that led to this palace. The Zamoran said he was working for General Valtresca, and this news had Salvorus foaming at the mouth. Hassem claimed that the king's own general had the princess killed, in some plot to further the general's foul career. Come! You must tend Salvorus. I know the wayhfollow me!"

Madesus paused to consider. He believed Conan's brief and jumbled retelling of the events of the past few hours, but if Valtresca was a traitor, they were all in great danger. The priest had never met the general, but he had heard tales of him: ambitious and cruel, an unscrupulous but ingenious man. Yet no one would have questioned his loyalty to the throne. Such a man was deadly to his enemies. What role did he play in the king's affliction? Was he connected in some way to the Mutare priestess?

This possibility troubled Madesus deeply. He believed that he could face the priestess alone and best her, but to overcome Valtresca as wellhthat was a task for a skilled warrior. The priest disapproved of Conan's methods, and had been saddened by the sight of the dead guards in the dungeon antechamber. Their only crime had been to follow orders and oppose the Cimmerian's escape.

Still, Conan was well suited to the task of fighting Valtresca, and the visions Madesus had seen earlier clearly indicated that the barbarian's fate was somehow tied up with Madesus's own. In his heart, he knew he must heal the dying captain anyway. Mitra took a dim view of priests who turned away from the sick and the dying. Sighing, Madesus spoke to Conan swiftly.

"I will heal the dying captain, but once again I have a price you must pay. We have become entangled in the web of perfidy and intrigue pervading this city. Mitra has charged me to banish an ancient enemy lurking here, and Valtresca may be a link in the chain of evil that I must break. Against one such as Valtresca, my powers are limited at best. The malevolent creature I seek to vanquish will use the general as a weapon to destroy me. Valtresca would be a blade both keen and deadly in the hands of this creature. In return for healing Salvorus, I would ask you to shield me from Valtresca, and slay him if need be.

Tonight I must reach my enemy and cast it back to the dank bowels of the pit it crawled from. Will you accompany me?"

Now it was Conan's turn to think. The Cimmerian's decision was made quickly; his barbaric code of honor instinctively chose his course for him. "Had Salvorus not acted on my behalf, I would be burning in the pits of hell now. Heal him, and I swear by Crom to stand by you. Enough of thishfollow me!"

Without further words, Conan turned and descended the stairs rapidly, knowing that with every stride, Salvorus's life was ebbing. Madesus was hard-pressed to keep pace, but his quest had stoked a fire within him and he somehow managed to match Conan's speed. The unlikely pair of warrior and priest hastened together through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace dungeon.

The journey seemed to take hours. Conan bent occasionally to look for the traces of blood on the floor, while Madesus gathered in his willpower for the upcoming tasks. On the way, he learned that Salvorus was dying from a wound poisoned with black lotus. The priest knew that the poison could not be made purely of black lotus blossoms, which would instantly kill a victim on contact. Hassem had most likely purchased blossoms that were cut or plucked improperly, and therefore had lost some of their nocuous powers. Madesus knew how to bring a man back from the lethal dreams of the lotus. He had once seen the ritual performed, and curiosity had prompted him to learn it himself. He hoped his memory would serve Salvorus.

Finally they reached the captain. Madesus grimaced at the sight.

Salvorus was clearly in the throes of a painful death. Rivers of sweat ran down his feverish face, and his lips were black and swollen. His eyelids would snap open, only to shut as quickly. He moaned and trembled, and his breath came in gasps that rasped like a shovel digging gravel from a pit. Working quickly, Madesus knelt and extracted a phial of salve from his pouch. He removed the cloth Conan had jammed into Salvorus's gashed side and rubbed some of the salve into the nasty wound. This brought screams and thrashing from Salvorus. "Hold him down quickly!" Madesus ordered as he was nearly knocked into a wall by the delirious captain. Conan pinned Salvorus to the floor and held him steady as Madesus continued to work.

The priest began a slow, rhythmic chant while passing his hand before the amulet. Heartbeats later, a scintillating purple aura began to shine around his hand. He placed his palm on Salvorus's forehead, continuing to chant. The amulet blazed with a bright purple glow, and the aura from Madesus's hand began to grow until it encompassed Salvorus's body. Conan drew in a sharp breath and drew back, overcome by his instinctive dread of magic and the supernatural. Salvorus had stopped thrashing, and his moans had subsided to murmurs.

Finally, Madesus ceased the chant, and the purple glow subsided. The priest dusted Salvorus's face with a strange, dull silver powder. Conan sniffed at a refreshing but bittersweet odor in the air, which dissipated quickly. When the captain's face soaked up the powder, Madesus clapped his hands loudly.

Salvorus's eyes opened slowly, his lids fluttering. His breathing was steady, and the black swelling in his lips had begun to recede.

Painstakingly, he sat up and groaned. "My veins are afire, by Mitra!"

His vision blurring, he blinked and stared at Conan. "Conan? Is this hell, then? Were you slain, as I was? But noh" he shook his head as he glanced at Madesus "ha priest of Mitra would not be here if this were hell."

"Nay, Salvorus, we are all alive, by Crom!" Conan bellowed, overjoyed that the captain had been revived. "This healer dragged you back from the abyss, so the devils in hell will have longer to wait before they gnaw your bones!"

"I live! I know not how, but I am deeply indebted to you. Great is your skill, healer. I must rise to bear news of Valtresca's treachery to the king, and serve justice upon the general's villainous, tainted body."

Salvorus lurched to his feet, wobbling. Steadying himself against the dungeon's hard, cold walls, he slowly regained his senses. Madesus eyed him, assessing his condition.

"Slowly, Captain, slowly. Your body is still fighting the black lotus, but I say now that you are healed. With every step, you will regain your strength. I, too, have urgent business with your king, but you must not tax yourself too strenuously, or your recovery will be short-lived."

"I have no time, healer! We must go now. I gain strength from the image in my mind, of Valtresca's vile neck on the headsman's block!"

As Salvorus finished speaking, a sneering laugh sounded from the corridor far behind him. "Enjoy your deluded fantasy, my young captain," said a familiar-sounding voice mockingly, "but I would be more mindful of your own neck than of mine!"

The three men whirled in shock. At the end of the passage stood General Valtresca, laughing, his polished sword and armor gleaming in the lamplight Behind him were over half a dozen heavily armed palace guards. The guards in front had crossbows, loaded with wicked-looking steel bolts. Valtresca and his troop were less than twenty feet away, in easy crossbow range.

Salvorus snarled at the general while inching his hand toward the bag of Hassem's knives, still tied to his belt. "Deceiver! Have you no shred of honor or decency left, that you would kill us in cold blood?

King Eldran saved your life once, and you were close friends. Now you take his friendship and spit it back into his face. For this foul treason, you will pay dearly. Die, spawn of hell!" In a smooth, sweeping motion, Salvorus drew one of Hassem's knives and hurled it with all his might, straight for the general's breast.

Stepping back reflexively, Valtresca twisted his sword with inhuman speed and deflected the razor-sharp missile. "Slay them!" he shouted to the men around him. The guards with crossbows let their bolts fly, and the others rushed down the corridor to attack.

Eight

Rats in a Trap

As the archers released their deadly missiles, Conan dived into the open cell, pushing Madesus ahead of him. His swiftness saved them.

Madesus felt the air from the bolts rush past his head as priest and barbarian fell to the filthy stone floor of the dungeon cell. Hassem's stiffening corpse broke Conan's fall. He quickly rolled off and sprang to his feet, firmly gripping his sword.

Madesus was not as fortunate. His head cracked loudly against the frame of the iron cell door, and an instant later, his face impacted with the hard floor. His vision swam in blurring circles, and he barely managed to turn over before losing consciousness. Conan did not see him pass out; he was already charging the attacking guardsmen.

Salvorus escaped injury by falling quickly to the floor as the bolts were loosed. Having no sword, he jumped to his feet and drew two more of Hassem's daggers. If he could cut through his attackers, he could reach Valtresca. At least these traitorous guards would provide him with a sword, he thought grimly.

"Conan!" he called to the Cimmerian. "Two apiece, but save the general for me!"

The barbarian grinned. "Rush the bowmen next. Those bows are slow to reload!"

"What of Madesus? Was he hit?"

"Aye, but not by a bolt. He cracked his skull on the door as he fell."

Conan looked as if he was going to say more, but the two men had no time for further talk.

Although the corridor was wide enough for three men to walk abreast, only two could fight in it side by side. Salvorus engaged one guard while Conan attacked another. In the crowded passage, the battle raged.

Salvorus parried the crude slashes of his foe with Hassem's knives, but he could not press the guardsman or risk a lunge with the short blades.

The two exchanged a flurry of blows, and the sound of ringing steel filled the air.

Conan made short work of his opponent, aiming a series of dizzying cuts at the man's unprotected arms. He drew the guard off balance, then lunged in, plunging the heavy blade through his foe's armored midriff.

The man grunted in surprise and tumbled to the floor, dropping his blade.

With a wet, ripping sound, Conan tugged his sword free of the guard's guts, then kicked the corpse's sword over to Salvorus. While a third guard stepped up to engage Conan, the barbarian made a backhanded slash at Salvorus's foe, giving the captain time to pick up the sword. The Cimmerian's new opponent made a wide slash with his curve-bladed Kothian sword, aiming for Conan's head. The Cimmerian parried the slash effortlessly and dived forward, lashing out with his hammerlike fist.

The miscued blow crunched painfully into the guard's iron collar instead of his chin. Conan hastily withdrew his throbbing hand and readied his sword for another parry.

The guard was an accomplished swordsman, but his confidence had been shaken by Conan's ferocity. He now attacked more cautiously, and Conan was able to drive him back several paces by sheer force. Eventually the man lost his resolve and raised his blade for a sloppy overhand cut.

Conan swung his huge sword with all his strength. It connected with the guard's descending blade, shattering the thinner metal into a dozen shards. Conan's blade continued its deadly arc, hacking through the man's chain mail shirt to his breastbone.

With a bestial cry, the Cimmerian yanked his blade out of the guard's shattered corpse. The blood of his foes dripped from his body and sword, and his eyes swam in a red mist. His savage instincts had taken control of him. Shaking the gore from his dripping blade, he roared a defiant challenge, like a tiger among a pack of wolves. "Who dies next?"

Fighting at his side, Salvorus found the Cimmerian's battle prowess impressive. The captain was a war-hardened veteran, and he doubted that any of the Kezankian warriors he had known could have matched Conan.

Motivated by Conan's bravado, Salvorus renewed his attack on the guardsman he faced. He speedily disarmed the man, then chopped viciously at his mailed torso. His blade punched through the mail and drove deep into the guard's innards. He wrenched the blade out sideways, tearing away mail and spilling entrails. Still gripping a dagger and sword, he stepped toward the fourth guard as Conan moved to do battle with the last three men surrounding Valtresca.

The crossbowmen were reloading frantically; they finished as Conan moved toward them. Aiming hastily, they let their bolts fly at the charging Cimmerian. This was what Conan had hoped for. He dived and rolled, losing no momentum. By ill luck, one bolt fleshed Conan in the thigh. Its shaft snapped off as he came out of the roll. Wincing, he withdrew the splintered bolt with his free hand and flung it aside, ignoring the steady trickle of blood.

"Cowardly dog!" he yelled to Valtresca. "Will you whimper behind the skirts of these women, or will you pit your blade against mine and fight like a man?"

"Your squeals amuse me, Cimmerian pig! I would not deign to sully my blade with your uncouth barbaric blood! Besides, Captain Rogar here has requested the pleasure of separating your unsightly head from your shoulders."

From behind the two archers stepped a short, heavyset man with a face flat and square, as if chiseled from stone. A crudely forged breastplate covered his huge chest, and he carried a mace and shield in his enormous hands. Brass gauntlets adorned his wrists. He flexed his bare, apelike, muscle-bound arms and grinned crookedly at Conan, revealing stumpy, yellowed teeth. The archers backed up behind him before Conan reached them.

Salvorus spared a glance at Rogar whilst skewering the last of the guards. He recognized the man as one of Valtresca's handpicked mercenaries. In fact, not one of the men in the corridor was a native Brythunian. "Captain" Rogar was little more than a hired Zamoran butcher. Valtresca had justified Rogar's rank by citing the body count the man had piled up in the border wars. Salvorus knew that the grossly fat man was deadly with his mace. As he hurried forward to aid Conan, he yelled a warning.

"Conan, avoid his shield! Do not strike it!"

The cry came too late as Conan made a powerful cut to Rogar's shield, hoping to crush it and bury his blade in the man's bulging gut.

Instead, he found with a start that the shield had caught his blade; he could not withdraw it. The odd-looking shield was a powerful lodestone!

Cursing, he wrenched at his trapped blade with all his might, trying to dodge Rogar's spiked mace. This was evidently what the Zamoran had hoped for. He swung the heavy weapon diagonally, catching the side of Conan's head with a terrific blow. Stunned, the Cimmerian let go of his hilt and lurched into the corridor wall, staggering from the awesome force of the strike.

As Rogar hefted the mace for another swing, Salvorus tossed his remaining dagger, praying for Hanuman to guide his arm. This time his throwing knife was not knocked aside; it sank to the hilt in Rogar's beefy arm. The chunky man dropped his shield but gave no other sign that he even felt the dagger. Conan's sword popped free with a clang.

Rogar's small, black eyes sparkled as he turned to lash out at Salvorus with the mace. He missed narrowly, and Salvorus stepped back a pace, thrusting at Rogar with his sword. His blade clanged harmlessly off the guard's breastplate. Glancing past his opponent, Salvorus noted with dismay that the archers had nearly finished loading their crossbows again. Conan would be easy prey for their bolts if Salvorus could not dispatch this mace-wielding brute quickly!

With speed matching his desperation, the captain dropped his sword and hurled himself at Rogar. Surprised, the huge Zamoran flailed futilely at Salvorus with his mace, but the heavy weapon was useless in close quarters. Salvorus locked his powerful hands on Rogar's throat and squeezed with all his might. Rogar grabbed at Salvorus's arms, trying to pull them away. The two stood grappling for several moments, until Salvorus saw the bowmen take aim at Conan, who still leaned against the wall, his hand pressed to his ringing skull. With a mighty shove, Salvorus bore down on Rogar and used his superior strength to push the shorter man into the line of fire.

Salvorus's timing was perfect. Once again the bowmen fired, but this time they cried out in dismay. One bolt sank into Rogar's back, bringing a yowl of pain. The other bolt flew over the short man and buried itself deep in Salvorus's shoulder. His grip on Rogar loosened immediately, and the Zamoran broke free, choking through his bruised windpipe and clutching at the shaft protruding from his back. He pulled it out and raised it over his head as if to plunge it into the captain's bare neck.

His thrust went astray as Conan at last recovered his senses, kicking Rogar in the knee and sending him sprawling. Gasping from the pain of the bolt in his shoulder, Salvorus tore the shaft out and fought to recover from the shock of the wound. Conan reached down to retrieve his dropped sword as Rogar stretched his hand toward his mace. They grabbed their weapons simultaneously; Rogar, still scrambling to regain his feet, was slow with his swing at Conan. He looked up just in time to see the Cimmerian's blood-smeared, razor-sharp blade descending. It sliced the handle of Rogar's mace in two and bit deep into the Zamoran's thick bull neck.

Rogar gaped stupidly at the stub of mace in his hand. His eyes glazed over and his head fell backward, tumbling to the floor with an obscene thud. His twitching, decapitated corpse pitched forward, spewing gouts of thick blood. Conan kicked the gory head aside and rushed straight for the two bowmen, brandishing his blade and bellowing an earsplitting Cimmerian war cry.

Valtresca, looking less smug than before, assumed a fighting stance and retreated a few paces. "Quickly, you fools!" he shouted to the bowmen.

"Ready your blades and dispose of this lout!"

The two men dropped their crossbows and reached for their hilts, but the sight of a Cimmerian juggernaut coming for them was more than they could stomach. They turned and sprinted down the corridor past Valtresca, leaving the general to stand alone. Cursing, Valtresca ran after them, but his armor slowed him down. The bowmen slammed the corridor's iron door shut behind them, and Valtresca swore vehemently as he heard the heavy outer bolt and iron crossbar fall into place. He was trapped.

"Cowardly swine! I will flay the useless flesh from your spineless bodies and feed you to the rats for this outrage! Open the door, I command you! Come back at once, I say!" He continued to rant, but the only sound from the other side of the door was the fading footfalls of the fleeing guards.

Valtresca turned to face Conan and resumed his fighting stance. The general's jaw was set with determination, but a glitter of fear shone in his eyes. He held his ornate sword deftly in his mailed right fist.

The dim, shifting light in the passageway glinted on the gauntlet's metal studs, and his eyes were pools of menace.

With his left hand, he reached into a belt pouch. Conan approached warily, suspecting that Valtresca's bragging was backed by expert swordsmanship. He also had little doubt that the general would resort to dirty tricks.

Farther back in the corridor, Salvorus picked up his sword with his good arm, favoring his wounded shoulder. He hastened to catch up with Conan, but was wary of Valtresca. He knew that the general was a master of strategy and tactics, and was a lethal threat even without his guards.

The Cimmerian moved in, trying to force the general back against the barred door. He was closer than a dozen paces when Valtresca made his move. He sprang forward toward Conan, lashing out with his blade. Conan parried quickly, then made a lightning-quick riposte. His blade scraped across the general's solid breastplate, digging a deep groove in its decorative crestwork. Valtresca stepped back and tossed the small phial of liquid he had retrieved from his pouch, aiming for Conan's head.

Conan, expecting this, ducked the tiny projectile. It flew past his head and struck Salvorus, shattering against his chain mail with a tinkle of glass. Salvorus continued moving forward, disregarding the impact. As he advanced, his nose twitched, catching an acrid scent. He glanced down with horror at the front of his mail, which was steaming and melting. He grunted in agony as the strange liquid burned into his flesh, hissing like water dumped onto hot coals.

Valtresca's throw had put him slightly off balance, but Conan moved in again, feinting for the general's arm. Valtresca's parry was late, and Conan's blade sliced through the general's mailed sleeve and gashed the arm beneath.

"Swine!" Valtresca snarled. "Prepare to meet your bestial ancestors in hell!" With a twisting motion, he chopped at the hilt crosspiece of Conan's sword, which had snagged slightly in the tough mail of the sleeve. The crosspiece was no match for Valtresca's keen, expertly tempered steel. It snapped off, and the general's blade sank into Conan's hand, knocking the blade from his grip.

Valtresca raised his blade immediately, then plunged it straight at the Cimmerian's unprotected chest. Conan dived aside, dodging the thrust, but his blood-slimed feet slipped out from under him. He sprawled to the floor, weaponless, as Valtresca's gleaming blade flashed through the air toward his exposed neck. Defiantly, he put his arm up in a desperate effort to protect himself.

A loud scream sounded in the corridor. Valtresca's blade continued its descent toward Conan's neck, but spun wide of its intended target. The general's arm and hand fell with it, no longer attached to Valtresca's body but still gripping the blade. Salvorus, severely wounded but finally reaching the battle, had swung his sword with bearlike strength, shearing through Valtresca's mailed arm and chopping it off.

He raised his sword again to finish the general off, but his great strength finally failed him, and he slumped heavily to the floor, overcome by his wounds.

For a heartbeat, Valtresca's eyes met Conan's. Then both men looked over at Conan's sword, lying on the floor between them. Neither man moved, as if trying to determine if the other was closer to the weapon.

Conan's hand, though cut deeply, bled only a little. His dented head throbbed hotly, as if it were a chunk of iron on a smith's anvil, and blood oozed sluggishly from his pierced thigh. The Cimmerian felt no pain from these injuries, which would have devastated a lesser warrior.

Like a wounded animal, he fought on ferociously, showing no weakness.

Valtresca, a product of civilization, was far less accustomed to searing agony, like that coursing from the blood-spewing stump of his arm to his numbed brain.

The general made the first move, groping vainly for the loose sword with his remaining arm. His fingers closed only on empty air. As he saw Conan snatch the sword and slam it through the breastplate into his body, his only thought was that he had finally been beaten. He felt three feet of tempered steel rip through him, and a black void engulfed him. A choking rattle issued from his throat. He shuddered briefly, then sank to the dungeon floor.

Exhausted, Conan rose awkwardly and moved over to Salvorus, limping slightly. He bent to help the captain up, then grimaced. He could see that Salvorus was dying. Wisps of smoke rose from a fist-sized cavity in the big man's chest, bubbling hideously. The vile liquid from Valtresca's missile had burned a hole through muscle and rib and was eating away at Salvorus's vitals. Conan shuddered at the thought of what the seething fluid would have done to his head.

"Conan," Salvorus whispered, "is he dead?"

"He burns in hell, Salvorus. But say no more, by Crom! I will fetch the healer, who will tend your wounds. Stay here!"

Salvorus shook his head faintly. "Nay, Conan. Mitra calls to me my time is short." He wheezed, and red froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth as he struggled for breath. "You owe me not, but I would ask a boon from you. Take the priest to the king. Help him find and destroy the evil he speaks of. Save the king." Weakened from the effort of speaking, Salvorus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then spoke his last words to the Cimmerian, who listened solemnly. 'Trust no one but the hillman, Kailash. Take news to him. Tell him king must know
promise me." Salvorus gasped vainly for breath, closing his pain-misted eyes.

"He will know, or I will die bearing him the news. The evil will be destroyed. You will be avenged, I swear by Crom and Mitra!" Conan's eyes burned blue with flames of anger. The Cimmerian's blood seethed from the battle, and his thoughts were of rage and vengeance for the death of a comrade who had paid the ultimate price to save his life.

With a final, choking sigh, Captain Salvorus joined his ancestors.

Conan closed the captain's eyelids and placed Salvorus's sword on the dead man's breast. Tonight he had fought side by side with a man.

Salvorus had died a warrior, and Conan would honor his oath to his former ally or pay for it with his own blood. Such was the way of Cimmerians, and so it was with Conan. Giving the matter no further thought, he turned to see what had become of Madesus.

The priest raised his aching skull from the hard stone floor, his vision clearing in time to see the sweat-drenched, blood-slimed Cimmerian step into the cell. Madesus blinked in a vain effort to focus his eyes and rubbed the side of his head gingerly with one hand. A large lump had formed by one ear. He winced as his fingers probed the rising to make certain his skull had not been cracked. Groaning, he sat up and faced Conan.

"Conan, praise Mitra! You live! Is Salvorus with you, or was he captured?"

"Neither, healer. Valtresca struck him down with trickery, but I sent the treacherous dog to hell, where the fiends are gnawing his bones.

The others fled, or were slain."

"I must see Salvorus! My arts may yet save him, if he still lives."

Conan shrugged and shook his head doubtfully. "I have seen the look of death in thousands of fallen men. though my years are less than yours.

Still, were it not for him, I would be dead. Look at him if you will.

Take not too much time, for we are trapped here through the treachery of Valtresca's guardsmen."

Conan pulled Madesus to his feet, and the two walked into the gory corridor, past stiffening corpses to the prone form of Salvorus.

Madesus's face turned grim and he closed his eyes, hanging his head.

"I can do nothing for him but pray for his soul. His flesh has been consumed by the blood that flows in the veins of the scaly, winged Drakken, ancient beasts from a nameless era. Where Valtresca came by it, I know not. No man has told of seeing Drakken since the days of my great-grandfather." Kneeling, Madesus drew forth a phial. He shook droplets of it out onto Salvorus's body, while softly chanting a prayer to Mitra.

As the priest chanted, Conan walked over to the general's corpse and snatched the pouch that hung from the dead man's belt. Parting its strings and peering inside, he saw another phial, carefully wrapped in cloth. What interested him more was the gleam of gold at the bottom of the pouch. Carefully, Conan tucked the pouch into the thickest pocket of his leather vest.

Madesus finished his prayer and stood, gazing solemnly at his dead comrade. "Conan!" he called to the barbarian. "Let me bind your wounds, so we may leave this forsaken place."

Conan shook his head. "We have no time for that, healer."

He moved over to the iron door that had cut off Valtresca's escape. "I have a promise to keep, and we must leave now!"

Conan turned to face the iron portal that blocked his way. It was stoutly built and appeared to be in perfect repair. He shoved against it hard, without budging it. Drawing in a deep breath, he pushed again, throwing his full weight into the door.

"Crom!" he swore, exhaling. "The door is barred from the other side.

Only a battering ram could break it down. We are stuck in this accursed place, like rats in a trap!"

Madesus frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "We should wait for the guards to let us out. Surely they will arrive soon, to see what became of Valtresca and his patrol."

"Wait here? Nay, there must be another way out."

Pacing like a caged tiger, Conan scowled as he racked his brain. As he gazed at Salvorus's body, an idea struck him. He dug into his vest and took out the tiny glass phial. Very carefully, he drew out the tightly stoppered cork, then stood back from the iron door. Taking aim, he splashed the liquid generously on the front of the portal. Immediately the hard metal began to bubble and hiss like boiling water. Acrid smoke billowed from the door, making Conan's eyes and nose burn.

Slowly the smoke dissipated. The potent fluid had chewed a hole, as big as Conan's head, right through the door. Holding his hand steady, Conan reached into the hole and lifted the bar on the other side from its brackets, letting it clatter to the floor. Groping, he found the bolt and drew it. His upper arm brushed against the edges of the hole, and he felt the agony of contact with the residue. His flesh burned as though stung by a hundred wasps, but he kept his grip on the bolt, drawing it and flinging it aside. An ugly red welt formed on his arm and spread slowly. Madesus looked at it with concern but said nothing.

Conan kicked the door open viciously. It swung out easily, slamming into the wall with an echoing clang. "Quickly, Madesus! We must find the king and his man Kailash, before the guards reach us. Follow me!"

Nodding, Madesus hastened to keep up with the fleet footed barbarian.

He managed to stay within sight of the Cimmerian, whose uncanny sense of direction chose the right path through the winding corridors. They saw no one during their flight to the palace's ground floor. At the top of the stairs, Conan paused to check for guards. Madesus leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, puffing from his exertion. After catching his breath, he ascended the stairs slowly, watching Conan.

The Cimmerian waved him forward and moved quietly into the guardroom.

The area was deserted, and this put Conan's nerves on edge. Still, the sun had not yet risen, so perhaps this was normal. With a hand on his sword-hilt, Conan crept through the palace's ground floor, following Madesus's directions to the king's chambers.

Finally, he reached a large, copper-plated door that Madesus had described as the outer portal to King Eldran's lodgings. The door was firmly shut, and Conan wondered why there were no guards standing before it. He looked over his shoulder, checking to see if Madesus had followed him. Conan had grudgingly begun to respect the priest even more. He had kept up with Conan, and moved quietly. Never had the Cimmerian known a priest like him. Madesus was unlike many of the pompous, altar-bound slugs of the Mitraic priesthood whom Conan had met in times gone by. He was curious about this priest's past, but he had avoided asking questions, deeming it wise to stay out of the affairs of priests, wizards, and their ilk.

With a start, Conan saw a form emerging from behind a tapestry on the wall beside Madesus. He shouted a warning, but Madesus was grabbed before the cry escaped Conan's throat. Then the copper doors opened with a crash, and the Cimmerian was caught in an outpouring swarm of Brythunian hillmen. By reflex, he began drawing his sword, but stopped as a huge, dark-haired Kezankian hillman loomed in the doorway and called out in a booming voice.

"Wait! Harm them not, dogs!" His commanding voice stopped the hillmen, who stood warily around the giant Cimmerian. The massive hillman pointed at Conan and smiled grimly. "You," he said with an emphatic pause, "must be Conan. The priest, I do not know. We owe a great debt to both of you for exposing the traitor and his plot to usurp the throne." The hillman looked down at the huddled form of a guard by his feet. With a sandaled toe, the Kezankian flipped the body over. 'This wretch was one of the traitor's guards. We caught him fleeing from the dungeon. After I showed him some steel, his tongue flapped like a pennant in high wind. When I learned of his involvement, I sheathed my sword in his yellow guts. Pah!" He spat contemptuously on the crimson-stained tunic of the dead guardsman.

"I am Kailash, King Eldran's friend and protector. Come inside and tell me your tale. Is Salvorus with you?"

"Nay," said Conan, his eyes downcast. "He fell in battle with Valtresca."

Kailash's eyes clouded, and he clenched his fists so tightly that the knuckles turned white. "This is evil news! Speak not the name of the fiend! Henceforth, he shall be know as traitor. May a thousand devils tear at his foul heart while he roasts in hell! Salvorus was a good man. He deserved better than to die by the knife of treachery. The mourners will croon a dirge for many days, and his memory will be honored by all who serve the king. Release the priest!" he called over to the hillman who held Madesus. "Come forward, priest. Join me and Conan, and tell me all that has happened!"

Conan pushed his sword into his belt and released his grip on the hilt as he and Madesus followed Kailash into the king's outer chambers.

Nine

Descendant of Xuoquelos

Conan talked briefly with Kailash, sketching an outline of the desperate fight in the dungeon. Madesus interrupted in an impatient tone of voice.

"King Eldran's time is short! You must take me to him now. As you talk, the king's life is draining away like water from a cracked goblet. An ancient evil has risen, and has your king in its deadly, sorcerous grasp."

"How do you know this?" Kailash asked.

"I regret that I have no time to explain. Trust me, or your king will die." Although his tone of voice was controlled, Madesus tightly clenched his hands, and his face was drawn tight with frustration.

"I know not all his motives," Conan broke in, "but no man may know the inner mind of a priest. Madesus means your king no harm, and his actions have spoken louder than words."

Kailash fell silent, his thoughts in turmoil. He had suspected that the king was the victim of sorcery, not of poison, as others thought.

Still, how could he trust the priest with the life of his friend? He was desperate for a solution; the king was in the third day of his sickness and showed no signs of recovering. Attempts to offer him food or drink had failed. How long could Eldran last? The king was strong, and his will was harder than forged steel, but Kailash knew that his friend was dying.

"I will take you to him, healer, but I will be right beside you. I will not leave him alone with you. Conan, follow if you wish."

His mind reluctantly made up, Kailash led them to the king's inner chamber, where Eldran lay as still as a dead man. Three days had taken their toll on the Brythunian monarch. His face was pale and drawn; his eyes had sunk into his skull. Although he slept, his eyes were wide open, frozen in a glazed expression of terror and loathing. A dry, unrecognizable choking sound issued from his open mouth occasionally, and his fingers twitched spasmodically.

Even Kailash, who had seen the king's gradual decline, was still horrified by Eldran's appearance. Conan could see that death had its icy hand wrapped around the king; he began to doubt that even Madesus could do anything for the dying monarch. A gloomy sense of dread settled over the room as each man mulled over dark thoughts similar to Conan's.

Only Madesus did not falter at this grim spectacle. Gripping his amulet in one hand, he whispered a prayer and laid his other hand on the king's brow. There was a sharp, crackling sound, and a deep blue spark leaped from the king's brow to the priest's hand. Kailash cursed and drew his sword, but Conan restrained him. Madesus let out a cry of pain as the spark touched him, and pulled his hand back as if he had plunged it into a basket of venomous serpents.

"Mitra protect us! I can feel the presence of evil, gnawing at the cords that bind this man's life. A Mutare has risen from the abyss to bring death and despair to the living. Her hold is strong, but by the will of Mitra, I will free your king from her grasp. Put your blade away, and put your mind at ease. I am no pawn of darkness. Behold!"

As Kailash and Conan looked on in wonder, Madesus drew forth his amulet, lifting it from around his neck and holding it high. A blinding white light blazed forth, bathing the room in its warm, cheering glow.

The two warriors blinked, then stepped back in astonishment. Madesus's robes and eyes had also begun to glow. The glare was so bright that Kailash had to shield his eyes, while Conan squinted.

"I am from an ancient and secret Order. I am one of the last descendants of Xuoquelos, the greatest prophet of Mitra ever to walk upon the face of this world. He was not a priest, nor am I truly a priest. We of the Order are guardians. For thousands of years, our Order has kept a silent and thankless vigil, seeking to rid the world of ancient evils lurking in forgotten chasms and corners. Our Order has faced evil that would freeze a man's soul and stop his heart merely to look upon the face of it. As my master followed Mitra's bidding to fight this evil, so do I. The Holy Father has seen fit to set this task to me. I must not rest until the priestess of the Mutare has been utterly destroyed!"

Madesus's voice had deepened steadily as he spoke, increasing in volume. The last words crashed into the room like a thunderbolt. When he stopped speaking, he relaxed, letting his shoulders slump. The light dimmed to a bearable level, and Madesus lowered his hand to the king's brow. Once again a blue spark jumped from the prone man's forehead to Madesus's outstretched palm. This time, instead of pulling back, the priest closed his hand around the spark and tightened his grip.

His clenched fist began to glow redly, like a hot piece of iron in a smith's forge. A loud, crackling sound filled the room, and thin curls of smoke issued from Madesus's clenched fingers. The red glow subsided as he slowly opened his hand. The blue spark was gone. The white-garbed healer again stretched his hand out to the king's brow, this time meeting no resistance. He closed his eyes and recited a prayer in a low, steady voice. The language was unfamiliar to Conan, who had traveled through many lands and heard many languages. He instinctively dreaded sorcery and the supernatural; as he watched Madesus perform the ritual, he felt a chill run down his spine. Kailash, evidently feeling some of the same dread, stood speechless as the priest uttered his prayer.

After a few minutes, Madesus turned to Conan and Kailash. "He is out of immediate danger, but far from being healthy and safe," he said. "I have banished the demon that tortured him from within. His strength will return slowly; he may even awaken. His respite will be brief at best, for another demon will come to finish what the other had begun. I have been weakened by the rite of banishment; I dare not perform it again until tomorrow at the soonest."

"Who is this 'Mutare'?" demanded Kailash. His eyes blazed with anger.

"I will lead a thousand swords against her! By Mitra and Wiccana, no man will rest until we hack her to pieces. Tell me where we may find her!"

"Even ten thousand swords would be in vain," replied Madesus wearily.

'The Mutare are not flesh, and it is said that they have no blood to spill. The enemyhour enemyhof your king is female, a priestess. This much I know, but I know not where she is. All I have are clues and shadows to chase, but I assure you, I will find her." His words were spoken in a tone of iron resolve.

"Now that the general is dead, why would she bother to keep her bargain with him?" Conan asked.

"The Mutare need no reason to kill," replied Madesus. "But the king would die without any further effort from her. The death spell she has woven is very old, and very powerful. Your king will be out of danger only when she is destroyed. Our Order has knowledge of these spells, and I have sensed the presence of such a spell here. The Mutare made a pact with a Demon Lord, offering the soul of a mortalhmost likely a blood relation of the king's."

Kailash's eyes narrowed at this statement, and he paled visibly. "The princess! Her body was found, just before the king was taken sick!"

"As I feared," Madesus said gravely. "The Demon Lord will keep sending formless servants of darkness to rend the king's soul. The blood of the king's daughter has opened a gateway leading from the abyss to the king. Only through the destruction of the Mutare can the gateway be closed. The pact between the priestess and the Demon Lord will be dissolved when she is gone."

"How can she be slain?" Kailash burst out in frustration. "You said that not even ten thousand swords could harm her. Is she invincible, then?"

"Be not so quick to despair, hillman. The Mutare priestess is an enemy of Mitra, whose powers are as limitless as the heavens above. By his will, the amulet I bear will accomplish what ten thousand swords cannot. There were many ancient objects of power, enchanted with spells deadly to the Mutare. Most of them are lost or destroyed; our Order has preserved a few others. On the morrow, I will find her. Yet I cannot face her alone. I need your help and your swords to win this battle.

While I bear the amulet, there is nothing she can do directly to harm me, but she is sure to have allies of flesh and blood, against whom the amulet is powerless. The traitorous Valtresca was only one of her minions. There is little doubt that more blood will spill before we reach her. I only pray it will not be ours!"

"My oath to Salvorus binds me," Conan interjected grimly. "Until the king is out of danger, I will come with you, and let no man stand in our way."

"I will go with you also," Kailash said solemnly. "I owe Eldran my life a dozen times over. He is my friend, and my king. 'Tis time I repay my debt to him. Within the hour, we will have a thousand men-at-arms toh"

"No, Kailash," Madesus broke in, shaking his head. "As skilled as your warriors are, their numbers would only hinder us. To be certain of victory, we must catch the priestess unawares. If she has time to prepare for us, the consequences will be dire indeed. She would easily detect the approach of so many, as the Mutare have keen senses, sharper and farther-reaching than those of man. Only the three of us know of her existence; let us keep this secret among ourselves. Tell no one, no matter how certain you are of their trustworthiness."

"Very well, then. Just the three of us it will be. How will you find the lair of this harlot of darkness?" Kailash's eyes burned with his desire for vengeance.

"Nothing more can we do until tomorrow," Madesus replied. "Make whatever preparations you deem necessary. Conan, I have just enough energy left to tend your wounds, then I must return to the temple to retrieve my belongings. We must all rest before we begin this task. We shall need as much endurance and awareness as we can muster to overcome the menacities awaiting us."

Conan began to object, but Madesus stubbornly refused to leave without seeing to the more serious of the Cimmerian's injuries. The barbarian sat impatiently upon a dais near the one the king lay upon, while the healer went about his business. At some point during the ministrations, Conan's eyes began to close and his head slumped down upon his massive chest as sleep overcame him.

"Leave him where he is," Madesus whispered to Kailash. "Do not disturb him; he will awaken when his body is ready. I have set the healing in motion, and his own powers of recovery are astonishing. Healers must seldom be needed in his homeland, if they are to be found anywhere in Cimmeria at all."

Madesus followed Kailash out of the king's chamber. "I will return soon from the temple and sleep here, in this outer chamber. Admit no one but the most trusted of men into the outer chamber, and admit no one at all into the inner chamber! By the will and mercy of the Holy Father Mitra, this will all be over before nightfall tomorrow."

"Aye," Kailash agreed, "by the will of Mitra, let it be so! Shall I send a man to accompany you to the temple?"

"'Tis only a short journey, and I need no help in carrying what few possessions I left there. I shall return within the hour."

Without another word, Madesus passed through the copper doors and left the palace, while several curious hillmen watched. They looked questioningly at Kailash, who shook his head in response. Drawing his sword and seating himself on a wooden bench, he began a minute inspection of his blade. From a travel-worn black leather pack, laying on the bench next to him, he withdrew a sharpening stone and set to work, Kailash found this blade-work helpful when he needed to resolve difficult problems. Valtresca, a traitor! The king had trusted his general. The politics of the Brythunian nobility had always befuddled Kailash, who was born in the northeastern mountains and raised by hillpeople, as King Eldran had been. He had always considered politics to be the refuge of the weak or the deceitful, but Eldran, ever the smarter of the two, had eventually convinced him otherwise.

Yet it was politics, Kailash supposed, that were partially to blame for the series of events leading to the murder of the princess and the near death of the king. How long had Valtresca's resentment of Eldran festered before his plot to destroy the king had been thwarted by Conan and Madesus? What if there were other traitors lurking in the palace, waiting for their chance to strike? The very idea made his blood run cold. But Kailash thought it unlikely that there were any other traitors. The remaining palace guards and staff were completely loyal to Eldran, such was the influence the king had on his people. Never had a Brythunian king come so close to uniting the quarreling factions of the country, while keeping the poaching kings of Nemedia and Corinthia at bay.

Of course there were those who resented Eldran's success. Several old royal families from the southern lands of Brythunia did not acknowledge Eldran's authority, although they made no protest over his claims to other regions of Brythunia. Many of these publicly objected that Eldran was not descended of a royal bloodline. Valtresca would have had supporters from these families. Kailash shuddered to think that if Eldran had died already, the general's evil plot would never have been discovered. Were it not for the actions of Conan and Madesus, Valtresca might well be on the throne.

Kailash began to wonder about the Cimmerian warrior, and his unlikely ally, a powerful priest of Mitrahwho claimed not to be a true priest!

The hillmen had heard tales of Cimmerians, fierce barbarians from the frozen north. Their legendary sack of the Aquilonian stronghold at Venarium, which Conan might even have been a part of, was the stuff of civilized soldiers' nightmares. Kailash had always pictured Cimmerians as pale-skinned, grim-faced, dark-haired giants, more like animals than men. Conan did not fit this picture, although Kailash had a healthy respect for his obvious prowess. The hillman doubted that any of his men could best Conan in a fight, not with any weapon. In the past few days, the Cimmerian had filled the city's burial ground with the bodies of many guardsmen. Kailash actually found himself looking forward to fighting side by side with such a great warrior.

Kailash's understanding of Madesus was much less clear. Never had he seen such power wielded, though he had heard stories of sorcerers and priests with ensorcelled amulets and the like. The hillmen were a superstitious folk. In his youth, he had spent many an evening around campfires, listening to graybeards' stories of bewitchment, hauntings, and unearthly wizardry. At first he believed that these tales were designed to scare him, but in the years since, he had seen evidence supporting many of the stories. Priestly and wizardry matters were beyond his understanding, and he had been taught to fear the unknown.

Even Madesus had put him on edge.

In any case, the king had been healthier after the healer's assistance.

The other priests and healers had been powerless to ease the king's pain. Still, Kailash did not fully trust Madesus; he believed that the healer cared more about destroying the Mutare priestess than he did about saving Eldran. In either case, they were all working toward common goals. Kailash would continue to show nothing but enthusiasm for the task.

He wondered what they thought of him. To the casual observer, he was nothing more than another battle-hungry, dull-witted hillman. In the past, this assumption had been the downfall of many an enemy. As his father had said, a man will learn more by keeping his eyes and ears open than he will learn by keeping his mouth open.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a gentle knock on the chamber doors. He put his sharpening stone back into his pack and stood up while the hillmen went to the door. Could Madesus be back so soon?

Puzzled, he waited for the door to open.

Behind it stood Lamici, the chief eunuch, in silk robes. "I apologize for this intrusion, Kailash," he said softly. His voice was trembling slightly, and he looked somewhat rumpled, as if he had just been roused from his slumber. "One of the guards was saying that Valtresca had been slain, after revealing himself to be a traitor!"

"Yes," said Kailash absently. "Conan slew him, after the general murdered Salvorus. The barbarian and the priest Madesus exposed the traitor."

"Shocking! One of the king's oldest friends, a traitor to the throne."

Lamici feigned surprise, but nervously wondered if his own treachery had also been discovered. "Did anyone speak to Valtresca before he died?"

"Only the barbarian. According to the priest, the general was a pawn of a greater evil, a priestess of an ancient and evil cult called Mutare.

This priestess, for reasons not known to us, wove a spell of death about Eldran. Were it not for Madesus, the king might now be dead."

Lamici was relieved that he had not been discovered. However, their knowledge of Azora's involvement disturbed him. How could a simple priest of Mitra know of her? Azora had told him that no priest would be able to save the king once her spell was complete. Still, it mattered little now. With Valtresca dead, Lamici's hopes to restore the glory of the Brythunian throne were shattered. The meddlesome barbarian and priest would pay for this outrage! Azora would crush them like bugs. He had to bring her this news, as quickly as possible. But first he would find out what Kailash knew; obviously, the Kezankian bumpkin still trusted him.

"A Mutare? This evil harlot of darkness still lives, or was she slain, too?" he asked.

"Nay, the priest knows not where to find this sorceress, but he said he would track and destroy her. He is powerful, Lamici, not like any priest I have ever known. He bears an amulet that harnesses great magical forces. Conan and I are going with him soon, to help him find the priestess and destroy her. She and Madesus must be enemies of old."

"Did they meet before? How did he know of her?" Lamici was now deeply worried. If the priest was not eliminated quickly, Lamici's dealings with Azora might be discovered.

"He did not say if they had met, but he knew she was nearby. He has an uncanny air about him, Lamici. He could somehow sense her presence; how, he would not explain. I know not what Conan and I can do against the Mutare, but Madesus asked us to accompany him, and I owe a great debt to him."

"Indeed, we all do," said Lamici, smiling. "If I may say, the guardsmen were wondering who would take Valtresca's place as general. If I may be so bold, let me say that none is better suited or more loved by the people than you, Kailash."

Kailash paused for a moment, as this thought had not occurred to him.

He had never put himself in the role of general, but with Salvorus also dead, and the other captains away from the palace, there was no other successor around. Kailash was irritated that he had not thought of this; his mind had been occupied solely with the threat to the king's life. Eldran had always told him that the safety of a king's subjects was far more important than the safety of the king himself.

"The king will soon be well enough to choose his own general," Kailash said after thinking it over. "I made a promise to the priest, and must fulfill it before I do aught else."

Lamici nodded. "Of course you are right," he said. "I will make the necessary arrangements to remove the general's body, and see to the repairs and cleaning of the dungeon. When do you leave?"

"Within the hour. Whenever the priest returns from the temple. Lamici, tell no one of this. We cannot take the chance that traitorous ears may hear us."

"For three generations have the eunuchs served the royal family,"

Lamici said reassuringly. "Your secret is safe with me. May the gods be with you all." He bowed and bid the hillman good-bye.

Moving as quickly as he could, Lamici went to his chambers. From his hiding place, he withdrew a needle-pointed dagger that bore a thin groove along the full length of its gleaming blade. Very carefully, he opened a small jar and picked up a brush laying alongside it, dipping the brush into the jar. His nose recoiled from the stink of the vessel's contents. He carefully dabbed the brush along the dagger's groove, filling it with the orange, saplike liquid, then closed the jar and returned it to its secret place beside the brush.

He pulled back his right sleeve, revealing a thin sheath strapped to the underside of his forearm. His hairless head shone with sweat as he slowly sheathed the blade. He had seen what even one drop of the jar's deadly contents would do to a man, just by touching his skin. He had taken the jar from a Vendhyan assassin, who was caught trying to poison the king. The man, posing as a Vendhyan ambassador negotiating a trade agreement, had been hired by rival nobility of Brythunia. The assassin had coated a tiny dart with the poison and fired it at the king from across the room. At that moment, a gust of wind had blown into the open palace windows and diverted the dart's flight. It had struck a hillman on the arm, but had not pierced the skin. Nonetheless, the man had gripped his arm and fallen to the floor, howling in agony and convulsing. Foam had begun to drip from his mouth before he died. The only mark on his body had been a tiny, thin welt on his arm.

Lamici's mouth curved into a smile at this memory. Such a death was fitting for the meddlesome priest who had ruined Lamici's plans.

Madesus would die foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. The eunuch slid the blade the rest of the way into the hidden sheath and donned a hooded cloak, then slipped out into the ebbing darkness of the Brythunian dawn.

Ten

Shadow and Stone

Madesus reached the temple as the sun rose over the eastern wall of the city, brightening the dull, ivory-colored temple walls with its warming glow. He stopped halfway up the steps to the huge main doors. As if the sun had awakened his memory, he suddenly remembered the location of the building he had seen in his dream, and in the magical pool created by Kaletos.

The city was filled with old buildings, but the oldest of them lay just west of the palace. He had passed by them many times since his arrival in the city; some structures were in crumbling ruins, others had weathered the years well. He was certain that the building they sought had once been a temple. He had not recognized the pantheon; there were strange and ancient carvings on its side.

In the dream and in the pool, the carvings had stood out in crisp detail, as if newly sculpted. In reality, years of weather would have nearly smoothed the carvings from the walls; only the deepest markings would have remained. Perhaps the dream had shown the building as it was centuries ago. Such was not uncommon in mystical scrying. Why had he not sensed the evil that must lurk behind those carvings, within the walls of the building? Mayhap the place itself cloaked the Mutare, and had been chosen for this purpose.

Madesus continued up the steps with newfound urgency. Now was the time to strike against the evil. In the daylight, even blocked by stone walls, the Mutare's powers would be weaker. The bright sun was an omen that Mitra was with him today.

Feeling more confident of his chance of defeating the Mutare, Madesus entered the temple and gathered his possessions. He had no time to speak with Kaletos again; he knew that he must return immediately to the palace, where Conan and Kailash waited. He left a few pieces of silver in his Spartan room for the temple's coffers, and departed hastily.

The streets were crowded on his way back to the palace, as the city went about its morning business. News of the king's renewed health had spread, and many of the townspeople were in better spirits. Little did these people know that with the Mutare in their midst, they were as lambs with a wolf in the fold. The priest shouldered his way through the crowd, finally reaching the palace gates.

At the gate, the guards quickly recognized him, bowing as he passed through. Minutes later, he rejoined Kailash in the king's outer chambers. Conan had risen only moments before, feeling bruised but no longer exhausted. He had borrowed rugged garb from one of the larger hillmen: leggings of sturdy green cloth, and a long-sleeved, lined tunic with dark leather lacing up the front. He had retrieved his straight, broad-bladed western sword, now hanging unscabbarded from his wide, thick leather belt. Underneath the tunic he still wore his torn leather vest, and on his feet were thick-soled sandals. Overall, his clothing reflected a strange mix of east and west, but his eyes and build were unmistakably those of the western barbarian.

Kailash greeted Madesus and slung his black leather pack over his broad back. His gear was similar to Conan's, except for his curved sword, heavy black boots, and thick iron cap. "We need no rest," he said grimly to the priest. "If you know where this priestess is, we will follow you there now." Conan nodded, dropping his scarred hand to the hilt of his sword in affirmation.

"Truly, Mitra is with us," said Madesus. He had misgivings about plunging ahead unrested, but he was far from weary. "At sunrise today, the location of the Mutare's lair became clear to me. I am now certain that she is in one of the old temple buildings in the ruined section of the city."

Kailash was startled by this. "The ruins? An entire patrol constantly guards those buildings, to keep out undesirables. Superstition and fear keep nearly everyone else away. Many of those structures are haunted, or cursed. The city was built around those ruins, but no man knew who had dwelt there. In the early history of the city, many brave men, exploring the buildings, died from unexplained accidents."

Madesus nodded, unsurprised. "This sort of place would be ideal for a Mutare. As for the guards, they would be more likely to sense the passing of a gentle breeze than the passing of a Mutare. The Mutare are masters of stealth and guile; you could pass by the priestess on the street and take no notice of her. Know you aught else of these buildings, Kailash?"

The burly hillman shook his head. "Nay, they are a mystery even to the longest-bearded of our loremasters. I have the feeling that we are about to find out more than I care to know!"

Conan interrupted brusquely. "Let us go, then! I would soon make good on my oath to Salvorus, before our beards grow as long as your loremaster's." He strode toward the polished copper doors, flinging them open with little exertion. Kailash laughed gustily and followed, with Madesus at his side.

The priest directed Conan to the ruins, near the center of the city. A short wall had been raised around the old structures and was crumbling in a few places along the street that ran alongside it. Even in the morning sun, the, ruins were a somewhat gloomy place. Several tall buildings, still intact, cast long shadows over the street; many of the lower buildings were cloaked so that the sunlight never even touched their stone walls. The style of construction was foreign in all of Brythunia.

Some unnameable aspect of the place set Conan's nerves on edge.

Kailash's tale of the hauntings and deaths had sparked the barbarian's instinctive dread of the supernatural. He was determined to be wary in this place. Reflexively, he freed his blade and carried it openly.

Kailash quickly followed suit. Only Madesus remained calm, undisturbed by the shadows and the tales of ancient curses.

The patrol of guardsmen detected their presence quickly, and were sent on their way by Kailash. The street became very quiet as the sounds of the patrol's retreating boots on the hard stone pavement faded in the distance. The sigmoidal street curved around the ruins. In a quarter of an hour, the three men had traveled halfway along its length. Madesus called a halt to examine one of the buildings.

It stood back less than sixty paces, beyond a large crack in the short stone wall. A tall tower with a crumbling turret stood next to it, almost completely shielding the old temple from the sunlight. One corner was visible from the street. Its decaying stonework and shape indicated its origin, older than the reckoning of venerable sages. Its weathered gray walls were not menacing, and what remained of the stone carvings was too faint to identify which deity the temple's worshipers had paid homage to.

Madesus studied the building, then pointed it out to Conan and Kailash.

The Cimmerian passed through the crack in the wall. It was so short that it did not even rise to the level of his shoulders. He scanned the nearby buildings carefully, but saw nothing out of place. He gestured to Kailash and Madesus, who came forward.

In a barely audible voice, Madesus spoke to the two men. "If you must speak, do so only in the faintest of whispers. Once we reach the building, let me lead. If we find the priestess, do not look her in her eyes. The temptation will be strong, but if you succumb, you will find those eyes as deadly as the fangs of a venomous serpent. With the amulet, I will shield us all with what protection I can."

Conan nodded. "How will you destroy her?"

"With the amulet. Its light, of which you have seen only a glimmer, will dissolve her like fog in the morning sunlight. Your blades might cleave her flesh, but she has no life blood in her veins for you to spill. It was written that only a Mutare with living blood in its veins may be slain by steel. This is a riddle, since by nature, the Mutare have no living blood in their veins.

"Against the light, she has no choice but to flee. If she flees, you must try to stop her. She can be held, though in holding her, you may be wounded, or even killed. If she tries to touch me, the amulet will repel her. This is why I must lead. If we can trap her, she will be doomed. We cannot allow her to escape!"

Kailash gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. "A plague on these creatures! I would as soon confront a Turanian horde bare-handed than walk blindly into the den of this lioness, knowing I can do nothing against her."

Conan grunted in agreement, knowing exactly how the hillman felt.

Madesus followed the two men to the temple as they trod upon the remains of an old path that led to a large stone door. Conan circled the building, noting that it had five irregularly sized walls, not four as he had at first thought. Five long, low steps led up to the large door, the only visible entrance. Closer inspection revealed why this building had lasted so long; its walls and steps were made of hard gray marble. The elements had worn the stone to a dull finish, but only a few chips and cracks had worked their way into the tough rock.

Conan gestured toward the door, and Madesus nodded. The Cimmerian moved quietly up the steps, scrutinizing the huge stone portal. He examined it with puzzlement, noting that there were no handles. It was half again his height, more than ten feet tall, and nearly as wide. The temple itself was short; its roof was only a few feet from the top of the door. Conan began hunting for a way inside.

Kailash joined Conan while Madesus stood by, looking around. Even on the building's doorstep, the priest could not feel the Mutare's presence. He concentrated, trying to pick up any trace of the evil, but the effort was fruitless. He began to wonder if this was the right building, or if the pool and his dreams had somehow misled him. Then he brushed the doubts aside. This had to be the place. Some forgotten art had imbued the very stone with the power to block his sight.

After several minutes of thorough searching, Conan and Kailash had found no way to open the door. Conan was ready to put his shoulder to it and force it, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a loud click issued from the top step to the left of the door, followed by a low, grating noise as the portal opened. Conan could see a narrow track in the floor beneath the door, along which the marble door was sliding to the right. Behind it, he could see a huge bronze handle set in the stone, protruding from the back of the door.

Instantly alerted, Kailash darted to one side, readying his sword and putting his back to the outer wall. Conan did likewise, moving to the other side. Madesus reached into his tunic, lifting out his amulet and wrapping the chain around his hand. Now he sensed her presence, faint but definite, wafting out of the open doorway like a far-off scent of decay. Steeling himself, he peered into the shadowy darkness beyond the slowly opening portal.

In the dim light, he saw a spacious inner chamber, a veritable auditorium running the entire length and breadth of the building.

Opposite the door, where two of the walls joined, was a large, oddly shaped block of stone; Madesus supposed it was an altar of some sort.

Rows of unusually shaped stone benches rose from the floor between the door and the block. Their backs were very high, made of bronze wrought into strange designs, and set directly into the stone benches. Aside from more carvings on the walls, there were no other features in the room. The inner arrangement left little doubt that it was indeed a temple. Madesus squinted at the carvings, trying to make them out, but the light was too poor. Drawing in his breath, he stepped across the threshold into the temple.

Conan and Kailash followed, but Conan was still trying to determine what had caused the door to open. The step where the click had come from was depressed slightly, as if stepped on, but the Cimmerian was certain that neither he nor Kailash had done so. His mind continued to work on this puzzle as he stood behind the priest, looking around. The high ceiling was darker than the skin of a Kushite, and the benches squatted menacingly, like short beasts of bronze and stone, ready to strike at anything within their reach. He looked over at Kailash, whose brow was already beaded with nervous sweat. Conan's own keen senses told him also that danger lurked here.

As the three men studied the auditorium, Conan heard another click from the top step outside. He whirled to face the door, watching with astonishment as it began sliding shut. Grasping one of the ornamental bronze backs attached to a bench, he wrenched it free. Kailash spun around and dashed toward the door, reaching for the bronze handle with his free hand. He got there before Conan and grasped the handle, pulling it back in a desperate effort to keep the door open.

Unfortunately, he was outweighed by the massive portal, which slowed only a little from his efforts.

Conan jammed his chunk of bronze into the path of the closing door.

Ancient metal groaned from the pressure, bending with a metallic screech. The door continued to slow down with only a few handspans of open space left. The barbarian placed his foot against the doorjamb and wrapped his open hand around the bronze handle, trying to help Kailash pull the door back open. The combined might of hillman and Cimmerian was more than the aged bronze could bear. The handle snapped off the door with a loud crack. Kailash held it in his hand, looking at it and cursing.

Conan tried to force the door back by pushing directly against its stone edge. He heaved against it, muscles knotting from the effort.

Kailash threw his weight into it, straining and sweating. The door closed with a stony thud. They gave up, leaning back against the temple wall, gasping for breath from the exertion. Madesus shrugged, untroubled that they were shut inside the temple, with no way out.

"Save your strength," he said in a tone of grim determination. "We may be trapped, but if we are, so is she. No doubt there is a trick to opening the door. If we search long enough, we will find it. We must find her instead. I sense her presence faintly, so she must be nearby.

There must be another exit or doorway somewhere. Let us seek it!"

"I'll look along this wall, Kaih" Conan began, but Madesus quickly cut him off.

"Hush! Do not speak his name, or any of our names! If she can hear us, she will use our names against us. Your name forms an invisible link to you; it opens a chink in the psychic armor that protects your mind from her insidious spells."

Kailash and Conan looked at the priest quizzically, but Madesus was in no mood to explain this strange statement further. The priest spoke a few soft words in a strange tongue, and the amulet in his hand flared up brightly, illuminating the room. Conan moved along one wall, while Kailash took another. They found nothing along the walls, and simultaneously they reached the stone block. Madesus walked between the rows of benches, heading straight for the block.

As he neared it, he identified it as an altar to Targol, an obscure and strange god with even stranger worshipers. As far as Madesus knew, the Targolian religion had not existed for over five centuries. Targol had been described as a harsh, cruel god, demanding much from his followers and giving little in return. In spite of this, the priesthood of Targol had once been a powerful force, albeit a neutral one, indifferent to current events and politics. Yet Madesus recalled a tale of what had happened in ancient Zamboula to the priests of Yog, who had tried to ban the worship of Targol in their city. One by one they had disappeared without a trace, until none remained. Later, their fully clothed skeletons had been found heaped in a pit.

Madesus examined the altar, momentarily distracted by his curiosity about the Targolian religion. He brushed at a layer of fine dust covering some faint runes etched in the altar. Mo ments later, a drowsy feeling settled over him; he found concentration difficult. The light from his amulet began to dim, and he blinked, trying to focus his eyes on Conan and Kailash and tell them about Targol. Kailash was standing to the right of the altar, near Madesus, frozen in place with a glassy stare. Madesus tried to move toward the hillman and awaken him, but his feet felt like leaden bricks. The priest realized that he and Kailash were paralyzed.

Conan had begun searching the stone block, which rose to waist level on him. It was oblong and five-sided, like much of the temple's architecture. He noticed a pattern of curving scrape marks on the floor by the base of the block. He was about to tell his companions of this when a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. The Cimmerian shook his head to clear the haze, and yawned. Even after this, he felt unnaturally tired, so he rubbed his face. The room darkened no, it was Madesus's amulet dimming. He thought about leaning against the block and resting briefly. When was the last time he had slept? It felt like days ago, or weeks. He slumped against the block, his sword slipping from his gasp.

The razor-sharp blade clanged against the altar and nicked his calf on its way down. Conan's mind cleared instantly as a thin trickle of blood ran down his shin. His heart pounded at the sight of Madesus and Kailash, slumped against the altar. They were dozing with glazed, open eyes that stared with an eerie blankness. The amulet still dangled from Madesus's hand, but its light had faded to an almost imperceptible glow. Instantly alerted, Conan picked up his sword and moved over to Madesus, shaking him. The priest would not awaken; his lips moved, but no sound came forth.

Deciding on his course of action quickly, Conan used his blade to cut carefully along Madesus's exposed forearm, until blood welled out of it. The priest quickly woke up, startled, and his amulet brightened.

The Cimmerian strode purposefully toward Kailash, pulled back his sleeve, and made a small cut along the hillman's arm. Kailash, still holding on to his sword somehow, jerked and took a swing at Conan, who deftly ducked the blade as Kailash gathered his wits and checked his motion.

"What in the name of Wiccanah" the hillman blurted out, then got a grip on himself. "What happened to us?"

Madesus's face tightened in anger. "Already she is toying with us. Oh, this one is crafty, more dangerous than I thought." He let out a low chuckle, then pointed to a fine layer of dust surrounding the altar.

The dust was now disturbed in several places. Madesus held up his hands, still chuckling. "Look at your hands."

Conan and Kailash opened their palms and examined them, their eyes widening in surprise at the light purple stains that covered them.

"Powder from the blossoms of the purple lotus," said Madesus softly, as he looked at his own palms. "Just a thin layer, not enough for us to detect, but enough to send us into a drugged, sleepy paralysis. Have a care not to touch the altar again. I wonder, what fate did she have in store for us while we slept? Fortunate that we did not get more of the dust on us, or the lotus-spell would have resisted the sword-cuts."

"Look here," Conan said, pointing at the scrape marks he had seen earlier.

Kailash studied the marks. "This stone swings open, in the same direction as those curves. If you push against it from the other side, it may just slide aside."

Madesus held his amulet close to the altar, moving it around so as to cast a more direct light.

"Why not make it as bright as you did in Eldran's chambers?" Kailash asked.'

"Already I have used a great deal of energy today, for the healing. As even you could not carry a sackful of heavy stones over your head for hours, I cannot keep the amulet so bright for hours. Waithlook at the bottom corner." Madesus pointed down, by Conan's foot.

Conan bent and squinted, then he saw it. A small corner at the base of the altar was conspicuously bare of the purple lotus dust. He was about to press against it, but Kailash halted him.

"Hold a moment," the hillman said, thrusting his sword into his belt and rummaging through his leather pack. "Here. Let me try." He extracted a pair of thick leather gloves from the pack and pulled them on. Conan stood aside as Kailash reached down and pushed against the corner. The altar slid aside easily, as though well oiled, making only a faint grating sound against the hard stone floor. Beneath it, a dark shaft plunged into the floor, with steep stone steps leading down.

Madesus moved his amulet over the dark pit, while Kailash peered down into the shaft, craning his neck for a better view. "The stairs lead down as far as I can seehugh!" A reeking stench of decay washed over his nose, causing him to gag. It was worse than the sickly sweet odor of rotting carcasses strewn thickly about a sunbaked battlefield.

Kailash pulled back to exhale.

As strong as the smell was, Madesus was struck more by the increasing feel of evil. It was so overpowering that he felt he could almost touch it in the air about him. "She is down there," he said.

Kailash lowered himself to descend, pausing to plant his feet squarely on the steps. Madesus continued holding the amulet over him, illuminating the stairway. The Kezankian stood on the first step, his body visible from the knees up, then proceeded carefully. Soon he was at shoulder level with the edges of the pit, only his head and shoulders visible from above. At that moment, Conan heard a barely audible click from somewhere under the floor, near the base of the altar. Before he could yell a warning, a finely honed, gleaming metal blade swept out across the opening of the shaft, aiming straight at Kailash's exposed neck.

The hillman's battle-sharpened reflexes and iron cap saved him. He ducked into the shaft, almost beneath the blade, which bit deeply into the forge-hardened iron of his helm and struck it from Kailash's head.

The blade, designed to reset in the base, jammed on the helm and snapped off. A foot-long piece of metal jutted from the cap. Kailash looked at it in horror, blood rushing in his ears from his close brush with death. He pounded the cap against the stone until the blade popped loose, then set the cap back on his head.

"Mitra take this accursed place!" A stream of even more colorful curses issued from him before Conan and Madesus could urge him to move on.

Conan was taking no chances. Ripping another piece of bronze loose from the bench, he wedged it between the altar and the floor to prevent the block from swinging closed. Madesus went behind Kailash into the shaft, to keep the light in the center. Conan followed closely, his nostrils wrinkling at the pungent stench.

Madesus fished a small philter out of his belt pouch and shook some powder from it. The smell cleared, and Conan felt somehow refreshed just by breathing the powder. The clean smell traveled with them as they descended further into the tunnel. The stairs went on for several dozen paces, spiral-ing straight down and slightly to the left. The ceiling was high; even Conan did not have to hunch forward.

At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor took on an entirely new appearance. A thick red carpet, woven with strange patterns, covered the gray stone floor; torches of black iron hung along the walls. They did not burn, but radiated a peculiar light nonetheless, giving the passage a greenish cast. Madesus called them to a halt when Kailash reached the bottom stair.

"Targolian torches," he murmured, gesturing at the walls. "Many have sought the secret of their making, but the art is lost. They burn without heat and last for centuries before winking out. Incredible that these are still lit."

Kailash prodded the carpet with his sword, expecting another trap of some kind. This time, nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped onto the carpet. Madesus and Conan followed, spreading out in the wide corridor. The priest took the lead, with Kailash and Conan an arm's length behind him. The deep pile of the carpet cloaked the sounds of their footfalls as they walked carefully down the winding passage.

The walls were simple and unadorned, with torches spaced two or three paces apart on either side. Madesus bent down and perused the carpet, suppressing a shudder at what he found. The evenly woven fibers were actually human hair, the variance in shades of red accounting for the pattern. He kept this to himself, deeming it unnecessary to disclose this unpleasant detail to Conan and Kailash.

Conan counted the torches along the wall, trying to estimate how far they had gone. He found the green glow unsettling, and being underground in this tunnel reminded him of his recent encounter with the hideous beast in the sewers. His eyes flickered back and forth, and he frequently glanced over his shoulder, just to be certain that nothing was creeping up from behind. The silence in the corridor unnerved him, and he reckoned that the plush carpet would muffle the sound of anyone approaching unbeknownst.

Kailash was more uneasy than Conan. Unlike the barbarian, he had little experience in this sort of situation. Although he was easily a dozen years older than the Cimmerian, he had seen fewer battles and had seldom traveled beyond the borders of his native Brythunia. Nervously, he rubbbed his neck and silently thanked Mitra for sparing it. He envied Conan's apparent calm; in an effort to appear as composed as the Cimmerian, he steeled himself and wiped the sheen of sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. The corridor was not at all warm, but another bead of sweat rolled down his nose before falling soundlessly to the carpet.

Conan had counted fewer than thirty torches when Madesus paused, holding his hand up to signal a stop, but not looking back. Conan could see nothing, and wondered why the priest had halted.

"May Mitra guard our souls from the evil that awaits us," the priest whispered. "Around that bendh" he pointed to the far end of the corridor, which took a sharp turn to the right "hher presence is so strong that every bone in my body cries out from the chill of her decadent malice. She has most likely detected our intrusion, for she can sense my nearness just as I sense hers. Remember, do not let her escape!"

Conan breathed out, forcing himself to relax and be loose, ready for whatever was to come next. Madesus gripped his amulet firmly, while Kailash raised his sword. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the bend in the passage. In the next few moments, events became a simultaneous blur.

First, the three stared dumbfounded at what they saw around the bend.

Hoping and yet dreading to find the priestess, they instead saw a huge bronze double door, filling the corridor and appearing more impervious than the gates of a fortress. Next, they heard a muffled thud several paces behind them. Conan glanced over his shoulder and saw with dismay that a heavy bronze portcullis had slammed down, barring their retreat.

The sturdy bronze bars were twice the thickness of his thumbs, and much less pitted and tarnished than the bronze backs of the benches in the temple above.

As Conan glanced over his shoulder, he felt an unpleasant dampness on the sides of his sandaled feet, and a familiar, pungent odor assaulted his nostrils. After watching the portcullis cut off their retreat, he looked down. Rising up through the carpet, filling the entire corridor, was a warm flood of crimson: thick, coppery human blood.

Kailash bellowed in terror at the sight, making a futile attempt to shake the red droplets from his boots, then regaining his composure.

Conan fought back the overpowering urge to retch. Desperately, he racked his brain for a way out of their horrifying predicament. The sanguine tide had already risen above his ankles; it felt grotesquely warm and sticky against his exposed flesh.

The Cimmerian could tell that in a matter of minutes, the flow of crimson would rise above their heads, drowning them in its suffocating warmth.

Eleven

The Crimson Corridor

Die, fools! Your puny swords and sniveling gods cannot save you now!"

Azora cackled wickedly to herself. Through her Augur, she watched the corridor beneath Targol's temple fill with blood. The Augur was an orb no larger than an apple, but powerful enough to display images of events occurring thousands of leagues distant. Many years ago, she had stolen the instrument from a Stygian necromancer. The arrogant, self-centered dotard had believed that only he was powerful enough to evoke its magic.

At present, Azora had focused it on the events taking place in the corridor outside of her former altar room. Her red eyes glinted with cruel gratification as she watched the three doomed men, struggling to free themselves from her trap. Fear and despair flowed from them; she soaked it up like rainwater on hot desert sand.

Before her three victims had reached the temple, Lamici had paid her a visit. At first she had been livid over his unbidden arrival, but as he related the events that had transpired, her anger had dissipated. She had already been forewarned of the priest's presence; his interference with her invocation of death had revealed his nearness to her, like a bonfire blazing in the night sky.

Her awareness of him had awakened an ancient hatred in her. His kind was stronger than most bumbling, cowardly half-wits who constituted the laughable priesthood of Mitra. She had not known that any of his Order still existed, but she had quickly resolved to crush this one. At first she had not known his name. She could only see him and feel him, since the Augur conveyed no sounds to its bearer.

Fortunately, the unscrupulous Lamici had told her their names, and of their simplistic plan to challenge her. The eunuch amused her; he was refreshingly corrupt for a human. Earlier, she had planned a slow, agonizing death for him, eagerly anticipating the pain and fear she would wring from his dying body. Now she supposed that in gratitude for his services, she would kill him quickly when he had outlived his usefulness.

When Azbra had learned of Madesus's intentions, she had quickly conceived a scheme to ensnare the unsuspecting priest, and the ineffectual dolts who accompanied him out of misguided loyalty. Honor and loyalty were the refuge of slack-witted weaklings.

She watched the image in the Augur with amusement. Balberoth, the Demon Lord she had bidden to carry out her lethal scheme, had done so with a delightfully hellish ingenuity. She would have to use him in the future, to entertain her with the deaths of others who sought to defy her.

Even if the slow-witted blunderers had gotten past the bronze doors, they would have found nothing. Azora was now far, far away from the temple. She was confident of her ability to destroy Madesus, but she had no time to waste in doing so personally. After making her pact with the Demon Lord, she had begun the rite of translocation. The pathetic city of Pirogia and the mindless human insects who infested it had begun to bore her, anyway. Her business there was nearly concluded.

There was one more secret she sought, a secret that would make her invincible. Already she was powerful, but she was irked by the thought that an insignificant priest and a thick-skulled barbarian had interfered with her plot to destroy the king. She needed more power, and she craved the long-lost secret of invincibility.

According to a vague passage in a dusty grimoire she had perused, this secret had been known to only one being: Skauraul. Centuries ago, he had been the most powerful of the Mutare. By piecing together information from numerous obscure and dire tomes, she had divined the location of his long-deserted stronghold. Even its memory had passed from the minds of living men, but she had found it through her Augur.

When Conan and his companions had stood upon the outer steps of the Targolian temple, Azora had completed the rite of translocation, arriving on the path leading into Skauraul's stronghold. Once inside, she would learn Skauraul's secret and become impervious to any contrivances of Madesus or his Order of simpletons.

Unfortunately, translocation was difficult, even for her. The rite had taken all the power she could muster; she would need several days to regain it fully. When she had recuperated and added Skauraul's powers to her own, she would return to Pirogia and turn the city into a mass grave. The hapless dwellers there would have the honor of being among the first victims in a spree of chaos and carnage she would embark upon.

Azora now stood before the outer walls of the stronghold. Monumental gates sagged in ruins on broken hinges. All around her were the vast, impassable steppes of Shem's parched, lifeless desert. She stepped through a huge gap in the shattered portals.

Ahead, the ancient stronghold rose from the arid wasteland like the stump of a long-dead tree. Its walls were greenish-black, sandblasted by hot, desert winds. Cracked and chipped, they stood defiantly, facing the reddish-yellow desert like silent sentries of stone. They were roughly circular, made up of eleven immense stone slabs. They tapered near the top, several hundred feet from the ground. The stronghold had no windows, and only one door: a tall, narrow portal of black iron.

Weathered stone steps led up to this door, flanked on both sides by large statues, whose only recognizable features were heads, legs, and wings; the wind had worn everything else away. Knee-high drifts of sand had piled up on the steps, where they partially blocked the door. Even the most stubborn of desert life forms had forsaken the place.

As she walked up the steps to the iron door, Azora took one last look into the Augur. She smiled cruelly at what she saw there. Tucking the orb carefully into her cloak, she pushed the black doors open and stepped within.

Beneath the Targolian temple, Madesus remained outwardly calm, but inwardly his mind was a turbulent sea of thought. "Conan!" he said urgently, ignoring his previous warning regarding the use of names, "can you bend the bars of the portcullis?"

Wordlessly, the brawny Cimmerian seized the portcullis and heaved mightily, bracing himself against the bronze doors for leverage. Sweat broke out on his furrowed brow, and his ropelike muscles bulged in knots beneath his skin. Even Conan's superhuman strength was no match for the inch-thick bars of bronze. He released his grip, flexing his fingers to loosen them. The blood continued to fill the corridor with frightening speed; it lapped greedily at his knees.

Kailash had begun to hurl himself against the bronze doors, but he was faring no better than Conan had fared with the bars. The double doors gave slightly, but they were held securely by an oversized bronze padlock clamped around each of their outer handles.

"Madesus!" the hillman called out breathlessly. "If there is anything you can do with your amulet to get us out of this, do it now! In a few minutes, the blood will rise over our heads!"

Madesus shook his head despondently. 'The amulet has power to heal, but-it cannot save us from this trap!"

Kailash pounded the bronze doors with his fists. "Then we are beaten!

The priestess has won!" He looked down dejectedly, where the crimson flood had crept up past his knees.

Only Conan refused to give up hope. In desperation, he pulled one of the black metal torches from its wall moorings. He reasoned that the clublike torches might be strong enough to smash the bronze padlock.

With all the force he could bring to bear, he swung the heavy torch down on the lock, striking it squarely. Stubbornly, it refused to break apart.

"Wait!" Madesus said. "Instead of trying to smash the lock, use the bar to pry it apart!" The priest's voice had taken on an edge of anxiety; his calm demeanor was fraying as the blood crept up past his belt of rope.

Conan quickly inserted the rod of heavy black metal into the gap between the bronze hasp and the latching bar. The strange torch's tapered end was just narrow enough to wedge into the space. Conan pulled down on the torch with a supreme effort and nearly snapped the black metal bar.

The Targolian torch proved to be stronger than the bronze lock. The hasps gave in, torn into halves of twisted bronze. Although badly bent, the black metal torch continued emitting its strange, bright green glow. Conan dropped it. Its glow faded as it sank into the blood.

The bronze doors, no longer held by the lock, were immediately pushed open by pressure from the crimson tide. Needing no urging, the three blood-soaked men dashed into the chamber beyond. Once inside, Conan and Kailash strained to shut the doors behind them and cut off the macabre crimson flow.

Madesus's amulet flared up, illuminating the entire room. As if voicing everyone's thoughts, Kailash groaned in dismay. Conan swore with earsplitting force. "No exit, by Crom! We are cut off!"

Kailash struggled to keep the doors closed behind them, putting his back against the portals and digging his feet in against the floor to keep from sliding. "I cannot hold the doors closed for long," he said through clenched teeth. "Whatever we do, we must do it soon!"

Madesus and Conan looked blankly at each other, out of ideas. They surveyed the room, searching for a way out. The chamber had five bare walls, identical except for the wall with the bronze doors.

Extinguished candles of black wax were arranged with strange symmetry along the red granite floor.

An ugly pool of blood had gushed in between the double doors before Kailash had closed them. Madesus marveled at the fit of the doors, so exact that no blood leaked through them. It was, however, the object in the center of the chamber that drew Madesus's attention. He had seen a likeness of it in an ancient book of lore, from the Corinthian temple's library.

"By Mitra! Behold the altar of the Mutare!" he exclaimed as he stared at it, horrified and yet fascinated. The altar was covered with stains of indeterminate origin. Grotesque symbols had been etched into its broad base; above it, badly rusted chains dangled, suspended from the high ceiling. Madesus noticed something familiar about the pattern of the candles, then warned the others.

"Beware of where you step in here. Hold a moment, while I extinguish the amulet's light." In a few seconds, the light from the amulet went out, plunging the room into total darkness.

Conan's eyes adjusted. Then he could see a faint, glowing red line, traced around the base of the altar in the shape of a five-pointed star. A circle had been drawn through the points of the star. Ten candles had been placed along the circle, one at every point of the star, and one between each point.

"Do not cross the lines," Madesus cautioned as he bent to examine them more closely, illuminating the room again with bright light from his amulet. Behind him, Kailash continued to struggle with the doors.

"I cannot hold these much longer," he said, his voice showing the tremendous strain he was under. Conan moved over and joined him, grunting in surprise at the overwhelming weight pressing against the doors. Kailash evidently possessed considerable strength, to have held them shut for as long as he had.

Bracing his feet on the floor, Conan placed one hand on each door and pushed. "I'll help," he told Kailash. From the weight pressing against them, it felt to him as if the corridor outside was now filled to the ceiling with blood.

Madesus finished his examination of the lines, which had disappeared when the light of his amulet shone upon them. A growing feeling of doubt was gnawing at him. At first, when he had been walking through the passage, he had felt the presence of the Mutare so strongly that he was certain she was nearby. Now the feeling was fading, as if they had moved away from her or as if she had moved away from them.

"I am a fool!" Madesus burst out. "We have been misled! Oh, she is a crafty one, this priestess."

Conan and Kailash eyed him dubiously. "What?" Conan demanded gruffly.

"What are you saying?"

"She has fled, after luring us into this trap. I know not how she escaped, or where she has gone. Indeed, she must now be very far from here, or the feeling of her nearness would not have faded so quickly.

As I feared, she must have discovered we were after her, and laid this snare for us before absconding!"

Conan listened to the priest's discouraging conjecture but refused to succumb to despair. He saw no way to prevent the jaws of this trap from closing upon them, but he would not give up hope while he still lived.

Their most immediate problem was keeping the doors closed against the red tide that threatened to drown them. A desperate thought crossed his mind.

"Madesus!" he called to the priest, who was still berating himself.

"That altar looks heavy enough to hold back these doors. It's less than a dozen paces away. I must try it!"

"Wait!" the priest said warily. "You cannot move it without crossing the invisible lines. If you cross the lines, you may die."

"I will die anyway. We are wasting time. I must move the accursed altar!" As if to confirm Conan's statement, the doors buckled inward slightly, allowing a thin stream of blood to jet through before the two men could force the portals shut again.

Madesus nodded reluctantly, gripping his amulet tightly. He knew that the lines on the floor formed a pentagram, a magical barrier often drawn to summon a powerful creature and keep it at bay. When he stepped across the lines, Conan would open a hole in the barrier. If the Cimmerian was quick enough, he might reach the altar and push it to the doors before the creature could discover the hole and escape through it.

Kailash shifted his weight to bear the pressure of both doors, while Conan looked dubiously at the immense altar. If it was solid stone, its weight could easily be thrice that of his own. Inhaling deeply, he strode up to the altar and shoved against it with the force of a charging bull.

Madesus and Kailash watched in astonishment as the Cimmerian passed right through the altar. "What in the Nine Hells of Zandruhungh!" Conan exclaimed as he lost his balance, falling to the floor with a resounding thump. He got up slowly, eyeing the altar suspiciously. He reached out to touch it, but his hand simply passed into it. Quickly, he snatched his hand back, rubbing it.

As Conan did so, a sudden transformation came over the phantom altar.

It began to rise off the floor like a cloud of black, oily smoke, shifting in shape until it resembled something vaguely humanoid. Its color was a deep, impenetrable black, darker than a Khitan tar pit on a moonless night. Its body was thick at the top, tapering to a shadowy point near the floor, with long, thick arms of black smoke. Wisps of smoke extended from the arms, forming enormous three-fingered hands with long, sharp talons. A faceless head rose from its neckless body; the smoke had thinned in places to give the sinister impression of a wide, slitted mouth and two slanted eyes.

The mouth moved, issuing a deep, echoing laugh. The hollow, booming sound reverberated in the chamber. Conan in stinctively began to back away from the creature. "Run!" the shadowy form said in a murky, thunderous voice dripping with malevolence. "You cannot escape me! Your souls are mine! But before I take them, I hunger for a taste of your flesh!" Moving with lightning-fast speed, the creature reached out with a huge hand and wrapped it around the Cimmerian's neck.

Conan felt himself being lifted from the floor. He twisted and thrashed, trying to break the shape's unearthly grip, but was baffled as his hands encountered nothing but air. His thick neck muscles were all that saved him from a crushed windpipe.

Without any apparent exertion, the creature flung him against the granite wall of the chamber like a child's toy. He slid to the floor, dazed and filled with dread. Conan knew they faced no earthly foe, but some vile demon with unholy powers. By Crom, he longed for a foe made of flesh and blood! He hoped that the priest could do something against this beast.

Madesus regained his senses, having been momentarily overcome with surprise. At the sight of the creature, his throat had suddenly become dry, and his stomach had rolled queasily. The form before them was a shadow demon, a terrible beast from the abyss. According to legend, the shadow demons' inhuman strength was matched only by their unquenchable appetite for human flesh. A loremaster had once told Madesus that only nine demons of shadow existed, all of them serving one master: the Demon Lord Balberoth.

Madesus raised his amulet and hastily recited verses, hoping that he correctly pronounced them. "Masquim Xul nar marratu, ia Balberoth! Ia Balberoth! Xizul absu marratu, nar marratu, ia Balberoth!"

The priest's voice became rough and deep as the strange, unwieldy words stumbled haltingly from his tongue. The shadow demon snarled at him, started toward him, but was unable to cross the pentagram's lines. In a clear, commanding voice, the priest said: "Begone, formless one! Return to the pit from whence you came, in the name of Almighty Mitra!"

The demon shrieked and began to disappear, becoming more and more transparent until its voice was a distant wail. Finally it faded into nothingness. Madesus breathed a sigh of relief as Conan got to his feet.

Kailash groaned and shifted his hold on the doors. Sweat was pouring off of him in rivulets, but he stood stubbornly in place. His muscles ached from the strain. "What now?" he managed to gasp.

Madesus was about to respond, when the room was engulfed in darkness.

Seconds later, the priest felt the temperature drop to an icy, bone-numbing cold. Slowly the amulet pushed away the darkness, until once again it lit up the room. All three men gaped at what had appeared in the center of the pentagram.

Facing Madesus was a manlike being with sapphire-blue skin, clad in a high-collared cloak of metallic black fabric. He was taller than Conan by a head, but much thinner. His eyes had no pupils; they were stark white, like his thin lips. Covering his head was a short, triangular patch of silvery-white hair, with razor-edged points at the center of his forehead and on both sides of his neck. In one hand, his long, ashen-white nails gripped a staff of crystal.

He shifted the staff to his other hand and spoke in a resonant voice.

"I greet thee, son of Xuoquelos, and thy companions from Cimmer and Brythun." His accent was odd, but his tone was compelling. In spite of his bizarre appearance, Conan and Kailash took an instant liking to him. He repelled only Madesus, who recognized the blue-skinned entity right away.

"Balberoth. I should have known your shadow-demon brat would come crying to you after I chastised him."

The priest's attitude was outwardly confident, but doubt gnawed at him inside. The Demon Lords were among the most dangerous of all supernatural foes. Madesus knew that he did not have the power to destroy Balberoth, but he could weaken the demon and force him to retreat to his kingdom in the abyss.

"Amusing, Madesus." Balberoth paused for effect. "Yes, I know thy namehand Conan, and Kailash." He pronounced the names with sarcasm, which went unnoticed by all but Madesus. "Now that we are acquainted, we can relax. Let me ease thy burden, hillman." The Demon Lord gestured with his staff, and Kailash realized that the pressing weight on the other side of the doors was gone.

Tentatively, the hillman backed away from one of the doors, but stood ready to shut it again. It remained closed. "Out of danger now," the Demon Lord said reassuringly. He gestured, and the doors swung slightly inward, revealing an empty corridor beyond. Kailash regarded the passageway in amazement. The walls and carpet were dry; there were no stains of blood anywhere, though the portcullis still blocked the corridor a few feet beyond the doors.

Madesus looked down at his robes. Where there had been red stains before, there were none now. He clapped his hands in mock applause. "A clever trick, Balberoth. Perhaps you will juggle for us next, or walk a tightrope."

Conan and Kailash were confused by the change that had overcome the priest. His words were uncouth and insulting. In contrast, the blue-skinned man was friendly and polite, his words comforting. Surely they had nothing to fear from him.

"Thy jealously dost not become thee, Madesus. Dost not thy philosophy dictate that thou should be forgiving and kind, not harsh and cruel? I regret the hostile manner in which my shadowy minion conducted himself earlier, and I forgive thee for upsetting him so. I assure thee, I was in no way responsible for his rash deeds. He was under the power of a creature who stole him away from me, and most unfortunately forced him to attack thee."

"Then why are you here? To apologize to us, to bestow your unwanted sympathy upon us? Or, more likely, to finish the task your lackey was ill equipped to accomplish!"

"Thine accusations are unfounded, priest. I have come to join thee in a common goal, that of finding and destroying the Mutare priestess. She abducted my minion and forced it to fight with thee and thy companions.

Such a wanton act cannot go unpunished. Together, we will find her and put an end to her misdeeds!"

Conan and Kailash were now convinced that Madesus had been wrong about Balberoth. He was not a demon, but some otherworldly creature sent by the gods to help them. They were satisfied that he was reaching a hand out in friendship. Had Madesus gone mad? Could he not see that Balberoth could help them all?

Madesus shook his head, but he was unaware of the effect that Balberoth was having on Conan and Kailash. "Save your lies, hell-spawn. You pretend to offer us help, yet I perceive only your burning desire to slaughter us like cattle. Enough of this! By the will of Mitra, Father of Light, I command you to cast aside your staff and return to the bottomless depths of your slime-filled spawning-pit! Masquim Xul ia marratu, yar Balberoth! Balberoth, absu yar alaxul! Xizul absu marratu, nar marratu, yar Balberoth!"

As the priest spoke, his amulet flared up, sending a ray of blinding light straight at the demon.

Before the ray could reach Balberoth, it bent unnaturally, curving away and striking his crystal staff instead. The beam bounced off, producing an impressive shower of multihued sparks. Rebounding, it missed Kailash by inches before colliding with the bronze doors. The colossal slabs shivered; tendrils of bluish-white light crawled over them, and then they crumbled into small shards. Balberoth looked Conan straight in the eye and pleaded with him.

"Conan! Thou must help me! Madesus has gone mad; he nearly slew Kailash!" He turned his gaze to the hillman next, his eyes glowing like white beacons. "Quickly, wield thy sword and cut him down before he murders us all in his madness!" The demon's bone-white lips drew together in a ghastly smile. He grinned malevolently at Madesus, who shuddered involuntarily at the unholy demon's gaze.

The priest watched in disbelief as the two men advanced slowly toward him, brandishing their swords. "Conan! Kailash! The demon has bewitched you, turned you against me. Conan! What of your oath to Salvorus?

Kailash! Think of your king, and your sworn duty to protect him. Close your ears to the words of this creature of night!"

They did not heed the priest. Their eyes were clouded, their ears closed to his words. Balberoth urged them on, sensing that he had the upper hand. "Quickly! Thy lives are at stake! Strike now, before he strikes thee down!"

Madesus stepped back and blasted the demon, but the ray from his amulet missed again, deflected by the crystal staff. Conan reached the priest first, his sword-arm swept back in preparation for a brutal slash. For an instant, his eyes and mind cleared with the realization that the demon's voice had charmed him. He checked the motion of his blade, but then the moment was gone. He continued with his swing.

Madesus lurched sideways as the Cimmerian's sword ripped through his robe, grazing the surface of his skin. The priest lost his footing and fell to the floor, right in front of Kailash. The huge hillman lifted his blade for a lethal thrust. Madesus sought frantically for a way out, but his back was against the wall. He closed his eyes and waited for the sharpened steel to pierce his vitals, dismally aware that the priestess had defeated him. The last member of the Order of Xuoquelos was doomed.

Twelve

Shan-e-Sorkh

Azora brushed aside the thick tapestry of cobwebs stretching across the antechamber of Skauraul's stronghold. She had shut the front doors behind her, blocking out the painfully intrusive rays of the mid-morning sun. Its accursed face burned hot and bright in the red wastes of the Shemitish desert, hurting her eyes and stinging her flesh. She hated the sun; it sapped her strength, like a giant yellow leech.

The dark, musty antechamber of the stronghold was much more to her liking. She felt an ancient residue of evil in the place, and inhaled its stale air with relish. A few bulbous, hairy-legged spiders stirred in the corners of the room, disturbed by her presence. With interest, she watched these children of Zath, the Zamoran spider-god of Yezud. A few of them were twice the size of her head; their plump, glistening abdomens were bloated with poison.

She admired them for their singularity of purpose. The children of Zath were harbingers of death, cunning little assassins who could trap and slay creatures many times their size. Even the smallest of their kin inspired fear and loathing in humans. One could learn much by studying their methods.

Azora removed the Augur from her cloak, peering casually into it to see if the pathetic priest and his dull-witted guard dogs were dead yet.

She frowned in annoyance, as the Augur refused to focus. The harder she concentrated on it, the more resistance she felt. Finally she gave up in fury, flinging the orb to the floor and cursing. The priest had not the power to block the Augur, even were he aware of its distantly probing eye!

Still fuming, she picked up the Augur. It had been working perfectly just a short while ago, by the outer walls of the stronghold. Acting on impulse, she shoved the outer doors open, then looked into the Augur once more. Immediately the room below the Targolian temple came clearly into focus. Her anger gave way to gratification as she saw the two warriors advancing on the priest, brandishing their swords.

The weak-witted buffoons had been easy prey for Balberoth, whose spellbinding voice had the power of suggestion over all but the most iron-willed of mortals. The two bullish oafs would serve admirably as executioners. Their help was vital, for neither she nor the Demon Lord could directly harm the priest, who bore an ancient talisman blessed by Mitra, the wretched Father of Light. Satisfied that the meddling priest's death was imminent, she put the Augur back into her cloak and slammed the doors shut. If the sun had not been so intense, she would have left the doors open and savored every dying moment of Mitra's contemptible pawn.

With the irksome priest removed, she was free to pursue her present goals. First, she would learn Skauraul's secrets, to protect herself from any threat that other priests of Mitra might pose. Afterward, she would return to the city and cause the frail human maggots there to suffer and die. Soon, on the first day of the Scorpion's Month, the moon would disappear from the night sky. On that blackest of eves, she would complete the ultimate Mutare ritual of power: the spell of immortality. No longer would the passage of time affect her, as it affected all living creatures by aging and weakening them. Had Skauraul been able to complete this rite, he would have become the overlord of all lands.

When she finished the rite, she would be a priestess no longer, but a goddess: baleful and indomitable. Her whims would drive kingdoms to ruin and despair. Priests and emperors would grovel before her; she would find countless ways to torture and humiliate them, each more painful and degrading than the last. Mankind would feel the coming darkness of eternal nightfall, and be powerless to stop it.

None of the Mutare before her had ever reached this pinnacle of power.

They had fallen to quarreling among themselves, leading to their mutual destruction. Even Skauraul had been weakened so severely that the ragtag Order of Xuoquelos had vanquished him. Azora had no such enemies to contend with; Skauraul had been the last of the Mutare, and Madesus was the last of the Order.

Azora could not remember when she had first learned about the Mutare.

She had no recollection of parents or childhood. She considered Stygia to be her birthplace. Her first memories were of a place by the Bakhr River, near the Purple Lotus swamps of southern Stygia. There she had undergone the ceremony of change, marking her birth as a Mutare. In the years afterward, she had pursued knowledge of the Mutare with insatiable obsession.

By journeying to many faraway lands, seeking places ancient and forbidden, she had found what she sought. She had lied, cheated, stolen, and murdered; she had let nothing stand in her way. The Mutare were unencumbered by human weaknesses of conscience and morals.

Eventually she had amassed a store of knowledge sufficient to begin carrying out her schemes. Soon Skauraul's knowledge of the black arts would supplement her own.

She brushed aside the sticky strands of web in the antechamber, dislodging a hand-sized spider. It scuttled toward her, then paused.

She glanced at it with annoyance, then with curiosity. Unlike its larger cousins above, this spider was hairless; its shiny black body was thinner and more angular, with proportionally longer legs and wicked, curved fangs. It glared up at her with its many green, glowing eyes, suggesting an intelligence beyond those of its larger, bulbous brothers. Azora ignored it and moved toward the closest of the antechamber's three inner doors.

The doors were small, but forged of iron and fitted with elaborate designs of metal. Hideous, leering gargoyles protruded from the stone wall above each door, poised as if to reach down and strike the unwary.

Their snarling faces were stone masks of hatred. A master sculptor had added uncanny realism to mouths that bristled with rows of jagged teeth. A long, thick tongue lolled grotesquely from each open mouth, ending in a sharp point of stone like a spike. Their stubby arms each had seven-clawed hands, clutching small orbs, and webbed, batlike wings sprouted from their narrow shoulders. Obscenely exaggerated genitalia jutted forth between their short, thick, scaly legs. The carvings showed some minor cracks and other signs of wear, but otherwise, they were in surprisingly good repair.

The door before her was also in good condition. Shem's desert climate permitted no rust to set in; even if rain had fallen upon the fortress, none would have come into the chamber through the solidly built stone roof. Azora reached for the door handle with her black-gloved hand, but stopped and turned when she heard a faint whisper from behind.

The hairless spider was only a few feet from her, still staring up with its headful of lidless eyes. Its long legs flexed, and it jumped straight at her with blinding speed. Azora raised her hand to bat it away while dodging aside. She missed by inches. The creature landed squarely on her left shoulder and gripped the fabric of her cloak tightly. Cursing, she swatted at it with her right hand, trying to brush it off.

"Ssst wait!" it hissed into her left ear, in a faint, bubbling whisper. "No foe am I! No hurt I. Ssst I helps she."

Her hand still raised, Azora turned her head and scowled at the creature with an expression of anger and suspicion. The children of Zath had lost the power of speech centuries ago, or so claimed the dusty lorebooks she had read. She had nothing to fear from this little one anyway. Since she was without lifeblood, unlike weak humans, lethal poisons were of no consequence to her. She decided to see what the creature wanted, before crushing it like an oversized grape against the chamber's stone floor.

"Yesss, ssst, yes will help she," it said, as if sensing her hesitation. "Sssaved she already, I have!" it hissed.

"And what have you saved me from, little one?" Azora sneered in amusement.

"Had Xim stopped she not, open would door be! She-bones would old ones be gnawing!" Xim found this humorous; his whispering voice burbled in a sinister parody of laughter

"These are the old ones?" Azora said sarcastically, pointing to the gargoyles over the doors. "They are but lumps of stone! Great is my power, little one. I command demons that could grind these old ones into sand." Even as she boasted, she considered the possibility that Xim was telling the truth.

Xim shifted his grip on the Mutare's shoulder, bobbing up and down a little as if agitated. "With Xim's help, demons not need she, no demons! Sssecrets I have. Yes, yes tell them to she!" Xim's eyes glowed fiercely, like lighthouse beacons on a foggy night. "But help us, she must!"

"There are others here like you?" Azora asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ssst no, no, no. Not like Xim. Friends Xim has, who in webs dwell."

The arachnid waved its two forelegs at the upper corners of the room, where Azora had first seen the larger spiders. "Thirsty for man-blood, no more lizards and desert bugs! Mussst have man-blood, as ancient master once brought. Like ancient master she is, yesss! When first Xim saw she, knew this he did! Bring man-blood again she must, or no help no more will Xim give!"

Azora's eyes gleamed blackly in the faint light of the chamber as she bored them into Xim. They were like the eyes of a cobra poised to strike. "Did the ancient master have a name?"

"Ssst yes, yes, but too long, too hard to say. Scar, Xim called him, yes he did!"

Scar? Skauraul! Azora was more certain than ever that Xim's ancient master had been the Mutare who ruled from this stronghold. She would postpone the demise of this little one until she learned all that it knew of Skauraul.

"If it is blood you desire, little one, then blood you will have!" From within her cloak, she drew out a small glass flask and uncorked it.

Inside, a syrupy red liquid sloshed around. She let some of it drip out onto her right palm, then offered the outstretched hand to Xim.

He shifted forward and sucked up the drops greedily with his sharp, hollow fangs. Azora was glad that she had carried the flask around; many of her powerful spells required a bit of human blood. She would have to ration it carefully to avoid running out. If she exhausted her supply, there were no humans for many leagues around to replenish it.

Better to lie to this insipid creature and use him as long as she could before crushing him. "Soon you and your friends will drink the fresh blood of living men, as you once did. This I swear!"

When Xim had cleaned every trace of blood from her palm, she carefully replaced the cork and tucked the flask back into a pocket of her cloak.

"Tell me, little one, did the master have a library?"

Xim clicked his fangs together. "Man-blood warm and fresh is better, yes it isss," he burbled. "Too long since man-blood has Xim tasted. But no lib-bary have I seen, no. What is lib-bary?"

Azora bared her black, hooked teeth in a snarl, biting back her temper.

"A hall of books and scrolls," she said impatiently. "There must be one here. Take me there, now!" Her voice rang commandingly in the chamber.

Xim bobbed up and down, hissing excitedly. Red froth bubbled from the points of his fangs. "Ssst yes, yes, know this place, Xim does. Show she the way, he will! Far from here is lib-bary. Know secret paths."

"Show me, then," she demanded. "Quickly, little one!"

Xim jumped nimbly from her shoulder to the wall of the chamber, where he clung to the stone in a manner that defied gravity. He scuttled along the wall, away from the door Azora had been about to open.

Moments later, without warning, the spider vanished. She spun around, quickly looking for any signs of trickery. "Xim! Where have you gone, you treacheroush"

Xim's bubbling whisper came back in response, from behind the wall.

Azora could barely hear it; the wall muffled his voice. "Through wall must she walk. No doors open, or wake old ones, she will. Ssst no doors, no old ones, no, no!"

She put her hand out to touch the wall on the spot where Xim had disappeared. Her hand passed through it. Then a section of the wall wavered and faded. Beyond it, she could see a narrow stone passage, sloping upward into the stronghold. Xim clung to a large stone brick along the corridor's wall, waiting. Azora stomped forward, vexed that she had not seen through this childish illusion right away. It was a simple sorcerer's trick, designed to deceive the unwary. The translocation must have drained her more than she had realized. She would have to be more careful, since only the passage of time would restore the energy that she had expended.

Unlike weak humans, she needed no sleep, no food or drink. She fed on the fear of the living, and drank their anguish. This was all the sustenance she needed. Without it, she would slowly wither; her power would evaporate like dew under the morning sun.

She moved down the corridor, following Xim. The faint light from the chamber faded quickly, but her eyes adjusted to the absence of light immediately. She could see farther in darkness than in light; her catlike red eyes pierced the blackness. A suffocating quiet shrouded the corridor; the only sounds were those of Xim's sporadic wheezing, the occasional, scuffing of Azora's boots on the stone floor, and the rustling of her heavy cloak.

They passed several side passages and doors, but Xim kept to the main corridor, turning only a few times. The strange arachnid knew the way well; not for a moment did he hesitate as they went deep into the stronghold. The Mutare priestess carefully memorized each turn they made, creating a mental map of their route.

One section of corridor looked much like another. The decor was unremarkable; it consisted of almost perfectly symmetrical brickwork.

Large, square blocks of dark stone had been laid evenly in unending rows along the floor and walls. No torches, tapestries, or rugs adorned the halls; the place was as bare as it was gloomy. Nearly every door she passed by was made of iron, fashioned in strange but repetitious patterns.

Azora wondered what forgotten secrets lay behind the closed doors, but she did not stop to satisfy her curiosity. She had taken a liking to the stronghold. She could sense its brooding evil, as if the very bricks were imbued with hostile intelligence. She mused as she walked, realizing that this would be a fitting place to enact her schemes.

Skauraul's influence had stretched from here to faraway lands in all directions; her power would soon be greater than his ever had been. She was eager to unearth the powerful, hidden knowledge lying within the dusty rooms of Skauraul's tower.

"Sssoon, soon," crooned Xim, as if he could read her thoughts. "Nearly there, she is, yes! Seen lib-bary, been there. Yes, yes," he bubbled as he crept along the corridor. "Soon, up long ssstair must we go, up-up-up!"

They had slowly been moving upward all along, Azora knew. She could feel the incline of the corridor, but could not tell precisely how far they had ascended. The way had gradually curved around and doubled back at least a dozen times'. The doors and walls were in increasingly better condition as they went higher and higher. The sensation of evil heightened as well, until she could feel its comforting presence all around her. There was something else here, too a new presence, more forceful, but hostile. She wondered what it was.

Xim halted several feet before her, where the corridor came to an abrupt end. Before them was a spiral staircase of black iron, rising beyond the range of even her eyesight. A thick iron column, carved in painstaking detail, supported solid metal steps that wound about it.

The steps were narrow, with no rails.

"Ssst long stair," Xim sputtered. "Up must she go. Yes, yes, up. At top is what she seek!"

Still distrustful of the strange spider, Azora followed it cautiously to the base of the winding stair. She was prepared to deal harshly with any treachery the little runt might attempt. At the present time, though, she was willing to risk following it. Earlier, before the translocation, she had tried using her Augur to peer within the stronghold, to see what secrets it held. Her Augur had failed to penetrate the walls. Again and again she had tried, but the Augur had stubbornly refused to focus for her. Obviously, some potent spell of Skauraul's, cast upon the tower long ago, was interfering.

No matter, she reflected, setting aside her misgivings about Xim as she reached the bottom step. After Xim led her to Skauraul's store of wisdom, she would beat the little multilegged runt to an oozing green pulp and feed the dripping carcass to its "friends" in the antechamber below.

Spurred on by the image of the hairy spiders devouring Xim's pulped remains, Azora began the long walk up the serpentine iron staircase's countless steps.

Thirteen

Targol

Madesus heard the air rushing past Kailash's blade as it hurtled toward him. Its keen edge sliced through his robes but missed his side by a fraction, biting into his leather sack instead. The sack's contents spilled forth in a jumble of crushed jars and smashed phials as the blade snagged into its metal hasp. Kailash tugged at it, temporarily blocking Conan's path.

The priest rolled to one side, hoping to rush for the door. His speed was no match for the Cimmerian's. As Kailash snarled and wrenched his blade free, Conan jumped forward to cut Madesus off. Both the hillman and the barbarian acted mechanically; they did not speak, and their eyes were glazed with madness. The demon's mesmerizing voice held them like puppets on a string. Madesus drew in his breath, preparing for the sword-thrust that would most likely end his life. He raised up his amulet, chanting rapidly, hoping he was not too late.

All three men froze in place as something in the doorway caught their attention. Even Balberoth's voice died on his bone-white lips. The shards of the bronze doors were rising from the floor, and the remaining pieces had detached themselves from the frame. Metal twisted and shifted before their eyes, changing into an increasingly familiar shape, and eventually melded into a single form. Before them stood a giant in bronze, with a profile similar to that of a human male, but crudely shaped and oddly proportioned, as if hastily chiseled from stone by some drunken sculptor.

The giant was over nine feet tall. Yellow-orange flames flickered in his eye sockets. He raised a bronze hand bigger than Conan's head and extended it toward the three men. He held the hand up, unbending the fingers slowly. Angular bronze lips parted, revealing teeth of red fire and a tongue of yellow-orange flame. A single word issued from this furnace-like orifice.

"STOP." The syllable boomed out like a searing blast of hot, desert wind, bringing beads of sweat to the faces of the three awestruck onlookers. Balberoth squinted and blinked, but said nothing.

The bronze giant took one stride forward into the room, his huge, squarish feet chipping the hard stone floor. Slowly his mouth opened and he spoke again. "I AM TARGOL."

Balberoth spared a quick glance at Madesus, then spoke to Conan and Kailash with apparent desperation. "Attack, fools! This is some trick of the priest, who would destroy thee with his treachery! Strike the priest down and this apparition will vanish!"

Kailash shook himself and took a step toward Madesus, swinging his sword savagely. With incredible speed for his size, the bronze giant caught the blade in his left hand, wrenching it from the hillman's grasp. That powerful hand crumpled and twisted the weapon as if it were a piece of straw. Expertly forged, hardened Nemedian steel was no match for Targol's awesome strength. The mangled blade fell to the floor with an echoing metallic clank.

The giant's fiery gaze fixed on Balberoth. "YOU HAVE DEFILED TARGOL'S

TEMPLE. YOU WILL CEASE TO EXIST." The words issued slowly from the mouth of fire, reverberating in the room. As they echoed, Balberoth burst into flames. The demon screamed as he was consumed in a column of smokeless, red-orange fire. When the screams and the fire died out, nothing remained of Balberoth but a small, greasy blue smear on the chamber floor.

Conan's mind cleared immediately, and he shook his head as if waking from a disorienting dream. He stared wide-eyed at the creature of bronze that stood before them, its eyes of flame flickering in the darkness. After a long pause, he found his voice. "Well done, Madesus!

Your amulet is powerful indeed! Why did you not summon up this giant earlier?"

Madesus said nothing in response. He continued to gape at the bronze titan in fascination, as if he had not even heard Conan speak.

Eventually his answer to the Cimmerian came out in a cracked whisper.

"My amulet has no such power. We stand before Targol himself!"

Kailash fell to his knees, turning away from the giant's face. Conan shuddered with superstitious dread, glad that Balberoth was gone, but wondering if Targol would do away with them next. Madesus looked as if he was about to say something, when the misshapen giant spoke again.

"LEAVE THIS PLACE IN PEACE. TARGOL HAS NO QUARREL WITH YOU."

Madesus cleared his throat nervously. "My companions and I thank you, mighty Targol. We will do as you say. But if I may ask, have you destroyed the Mutare priestess, or only the demon she summoned?"

Madesus's voice sounded small and faint in comparison to Targol's.

Conan and Kailash looked at him as if he had gone mad. Targol simply stood there, his fiery mouth still open, ignoring the priest's question. After a long, silent pause, his deep voice thundered again.

"SHE HAS FLED TO THE SHAN-E-SORKH. SHE IS OF NO CONCERN TO TARGOL. YOU

WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE. COME BACK NO MORE."

Conan and Kailash needed no further urging. As they fled the room, the hillman glanced wistfully at the remains of his sword, lying on the floor beside the giant's feet. Conan clapped a huge hand on Madesus's shoulder, propelling him toward the doorway. The bronze effigy stood aside, letting them pass through the doors. The corridor's macabre red carpeting muffled the sound of their footsteps. Madesus looked over his shoulder for a final glimpse of Targol, but all he saw was the bronze door, no longer in pieces on the floor. It shut behind them, looking exactly as it had when they had first seen it. The priest shook his head and hastened to catch up with his companions.

They slowed to a half-run without speaking among themselves, quickly reaching the steep stone stairway leading into the auditorium above.

Conan went up first, climbing out into the huge chamber. Minutes later, all three stood in the temple, looking around. Conan observed that the bronze backs he had torn from the benches were back in place, as were the bronze handles on the back of the temple doors. However, the temple doors were no longer closed. They were wide open, beckoning them to leave.

Outside, the afternoon sky was bright, though none of the sun's rays shone directly through the open doors. When the last of them had stepped through, the doors slid shut with a resounding crash. Startled, they jumped at the sound. The Cimmerian breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be out of the strange temple. Kailash immediately fired questions at Madesus, wanting to know more about Targol and Balberoth.

"Why did he destroy the demon, yet spare us?" the hillman asked, still confused by the giant's actions. "Conan did more damage to the temple than Balberoth did!"

"There is ancient enmity between Targol and the Demon Lords," the priest replied absently. "Yog, a Demon Lord worshiped by the people of Darfar, was Targol's worst enemy of old. Yog was a fierce demon of the Elder Night; some say the most powerful. In Zamboula, where the worship of Yog became most popular, the Yoggite hierarch tried to drive all other religions out of the area. Several centuries ago, on one bloody night, the priests of Targol were captured and marched to a pit of Yog, where their hearts were cut out and eaten by the Yoggites in a sacrificial ceremony. Stories are still told of that grim ritual of butchery, when the moonlight glinted redly as hundreds were slaughtered, filling the pit with blood.

"The next day, the sharp-toothed priests of Yog disappeared, even the hierarch. No trace of them was seen until the moon rose again that night. Their skeletal remains were found piled in the pit, still clad in their feathered robes and Khari finery. Terrible was Targol's vengeance, but futile. His temple in Zamboula fell into ruin, and eventually a new Yoggite priesthood was established. Texts of history agree that to this day, Targol bears a deadly grudge against Yog and his kind, but both are unwilling to confront each other directly.

Balberoth no doubt fell victim to this grudge."

"I have heard that no man can look upon the face of a god and live,"

Kailash stated solemnly, looking Madesus straight in the eye. "Yet we have done so."

"We may have, hillman, but we may have not," Madesus replied cryptically. "Little is known of Targol, and much of what is written about his appearance is contradictory. However, Targol's mastery over the elements of earth and fire has been hinted at by several scholars.

The bronze colossus we saw may have been a golem, crafted and animated by Targol to serve his purpose. As I said before, the gods prefer to avoid confrontation. For instance, Conan, your Cromh"

"This is no time for a lesson, priest," the Cimmerian interrupted, shifting his feet impatiently. "I know all I wish to know of Crom.

While we stand here prattling, our chances of finding this accursed priestess grow lesser and lesser. We have a task to finish!" He threw a murderous glance at Kailash, as if to warn him not to get the priest going again with further questions.

"Yes, of course," Madesus agreed. "You are quite right. Indeed, our task is now more difficult than ever. We must pursue the priestess to the Shan-e-Sorkh. Many leagues must we travel, to the desert wastes of eastern Shem. On horseback, the journey will take over a month."

"Over a month!" Kailash exclaimed in dismay.

"Longer," Conan interjected. "Only a fool would take a horse into the waterless sands of the Shemitish desert. Even camels cannot survive there. We can ride to the southern borders of Khauran, but from there, we will have to continue on foot." He shook his head ponderously. "A few years ago, I was in a tavern, speaking with an old Nemedian campaigner. He had once journeyed to Sabatea, a Shemitish city near the Taian Mountains, just west of the Shan-e-Sorkh. Many times did he fill his wine cup when he spoke of this journey, and his hands shook. He had been escorting for a merchant caravan through the area. 'What the desert lacks in water, it makes up for in bandits,' he said."

Kailash snorted. "No bandit has ever crossed swords with the son of Kranarous and lived."

"The Nemedian's hands trembled not at the memory of the bandits, but of something else," the barbarian retorted. "The deserts of Shem are places of deaths forsaken entirely by the living. What the Nemedian had seen, he would not say. Anything that can strike terror in the hardened heart of a jaded Nemedian mercenary, we would do well to avoid. I propose we take a different route than his; let us cross the Kezankian Mountains to the east, avoiding Corinthia, Zamora, and Koth. If we follow the mountains southward, we will find the trade road leading from Khauran to Zamboula. We can use the Taian Mountains for bearing. I have only one question, priest. The Shan-e-Sorkh is a vast area of desert. Where in it will we find our quarry?"

"An excellent question, Conan. I have a few questions of my own, more difficult to answer than yours. Why would she go there, and how did she get there so quickly? The traces of her presence I felt were very strong; they could not even have been a few days old. Yet, as you say, the journey takes a month. No doubt she has mastered translocation, another of the magical arts. Only those who wield incredible magical power can manage this feat. I did not anticipate that even she had such abilities. Still, I have an idea of where in the Shan-e-Sorkh she has gone. My master said that Skauraul, greatest of the vanquished Mutare, had dwelt in the land of Shem. Perhaps she has gone to the ruins of his palace, to seek something there, or to restore the palace and build her powers there."

"Even so, we do not know where these ruins lie," Conan pointed out.

'True enough; we do not know yet. However, all we need do is to come close. The sorcery that shielded the Mutare from me in Targol's temple will not shield her in the desert. We will head for the center of the region, until I feel some trace of her presence. Then we will know what direction to take."

"I will have horses and provisions prepared," Kailash added, looking ruefully at his empty sword-belt. "I also must find a new sword.

Hopefully, I will test its edge on bandit-necks."

They descended the temple steps and made their way past the nearby old buildings, quickly reaching the street. A few clouds had drifted into the path of the afternoon sun, and an autumn breeze whispered among the buildings, brushing them with cool fingers. Conan ignored the chill, thinking that the place to which they were headed would be more than warm enough.

The Cimmerian was calmer than Kailash about the impending journey.

Conan had traveled through many lands, from the icy, frozen tundra of the north to the sweltering jungles of the south. Each had its likeable and dislikable qualities. He called none of them home; even Cimmeria was homeland but not truly his home. His restless nature kept him constantly moving from land to land. Seldom did he ever return to Cimmeria. There he grew bored with the grim, gray mountains, ceaseless winter, and dull life-style.

His homeland had proven no less perilous than other countries he had traveled through. His kin were a fierce, warlike race, bearing grudges against enemy clans for uncounted centuries. No battle that Conan had fought in the lands of civilized men had been as savage and elemental as the clan-wars of Cimmeria. Nonetheless, the men of the south could be as cruel as their deserts.

Conan reached into his memory to recall details of the terrain they would soon encounter. For ease of navigation, he reckoned that the simplest course would follow the Kezankian Mountains south, until their craggy ridges and peaks gave way to the Mountains of Fire. This forbidding range along the northern border of Shem formed a barrier of land that few men would dare cross. They would have to avoid these mountains altogether by heading southeast for several days. Then the most difficult stretch of their trek would lie before them: the crossing of the Shemitish desert to its sunburnt heart, known to some as the Shan-e-Sorkh.

This godforsaken area was shunned by even the hardiest of Shemitish desert dwellers. Its endless leagues of hard-baked earth and waterless dunes of sand were the setting of many a grim campfire tale. Conan had oft heard soldiers spin yarns about their daring adventures in this desert land. If one believed every tale told, the place teemed with savage desert beasts, fierce, marauding nomads, and evil spirits haunting the crumbling stones of ruined castles. As superstitious as he was, Conan discounted many of the stories he heard as the boasting of soldiers inspired by excesses of cheap wine.

What Conan really hoped to find in the desert was the ruins of some forgotten palace, with its treasure-store intact. If he could fulfill his oath to Salvorus and fatten his purse in the process, so much the better. He had planned to journey south to Zamora anyway. When he arrived in Shadizar, he would have enough coin to do more with his nights than practice thievery. When all this was over, he would relish a few drunken evenings of wenching and debauchery.

Thinking cheerfully of Shadizar's flesh-pits, Conan moved with Madesus and Kailash. As if by unspoken agreement, the Cimmerian was now in charge of the expedition. Hillman and priest followed him quietly to the palace, where they would rest and prepare themselves for their arduous journey. Though each man had his own reasons for undertaking the quest, they were united in a single main purpose: to find and destroy the Mutare priestess.

Nearby, another man followed behind them, moving with silence that a panther would have envied. The man was wearing a lightweight cloak, with its dark-gray hood cast over his face. The cloak concealed his robes of powdery-blue silk, rustling softly like the scaly skin of serpents in an underground den. In the shadows beneath the hood, eyes colder than winter in Vanaheim dogged every step Conan and his companions made, and ears strained to hear their every word. Lamici's fanatical mind was bent on revenge. He cared not that they planned to travel south; he would follow them to the mouth of the River Styx and beyond, if necessary. For the good of Brythunia, he would strike down Madesus. The accursed priest had revived the false king and destroyed Lamici's dreams of bringing honor and respect back to his homeland.

Conan and Kailash had aided him, and they also deserved death; Lamici planned to deal with them, too.

The eunuch felt the reassuring weight of his deadly stiletto, its envenomed blade still strapped to his forearm. Soon, Lamici would sheath it in the priest's heart. The meddler could not hide behind the two warriors forever, Lamici reasoned grimly. When the moment of vulnerability came, the eunuch would be there, ready to strike.

Lamici's pale lips drew back tightly into a cruel smile, shadowed by a hood as gray as the clouds now filling the brooding sky.

Fourteen

Southbound

Eldran sat up slowly. Even this simple act was a difficult feat for him. He had awakened less than an hour ago, to find that the Mutare's death-spell had dreadfully weakened his body.

His mind, once as sharp as an Aquilonian sword, was now duller than a stone ax. He knew that his appearance was shocking, although he had not seen his face in a looking-glass. When his friends gazed upon him, their expressions told him as much as a looking-glass would have.

Even Kailash, standing before him, could not hide the pity he felt.

Eldran could see it in the corners of his friend's eyes and hear it in the edges of his voice. He was disgusted by his weakness. He prayed silently to Wiccana for quick restoration of his health, before word of his frailty could spread to neighboring kingdoms. If loose tongues wagged news of his unstable health, the Nemedians and Hyperboreans would swoop down on Brythunia like buzzards, tearing at his people and snatching away pieces of their land. Shred by shred, they would pick apart the kingdom he was trying to bind together.

He pushed these depressing thoughts to the back of his mind. What had the hillman just said? He grimaced and spoke raspingly to his old comrade. "Forgive me, my friend. I cannot hold my thoughts together.

Please explain to me again why you must go south."

"Of course," Kailash said, gritting his teeth in frustration. He was outraged to see Eldran reduced to such a state. The priestess would pay for her misdeeds! Clearing his throat, he repeated his tale to Eldran.

To the king's credit, the hillman's account was jumbled, and even a man in full possession of his wits would have found the tale confusing.

However, with the help of Madesus and Conan, Eldran soon understood the events that had passed since he had fallen ill. Feebly, he held up a shaking hand to silence Kailash.

"I am indebted to all of you," he said, letting his hand drop to his lap. "And Salvorus's name shall be honored in the historian's chronicles henceforth. Yet this journey you plan will rob me of a chance to pay back my debts. Would that I had the strength to go in your place."

Eldran finished this declaration with a wracking cough that nearly doubled him over, causing Kailash to tense. Madesus simply offered an expression of quiet concern; he opened his mouth as if to speak, then quickly shut it, saying nothing.

Conan happened to be watching Madesus at that moment, when a realization struck him. The priest could do nothing further for Eldran, and his helplessness was frustrating him. Madesus had always come through when pitted against the magic of his enemies, although the priest's spells had been very selective, as if evoked at the whim of some unseen entity. Strange were the priests of Mitra. The Cimmerian was looking forward to parting company with Madesus and his priestly embroilments.

"Conan, I am sorry that you have become involved in this affair,"

Eldran apologized in a hoarse, uneven voice. "I absolve you of the oath you made to my captain. You need not venture south. In fact, if you would consider it, I would offer you the position of captain in the city guard. You have proven yourself worthy. If you do not wish to be captain, I would ask at least that you accept a full purse of gold, and passage through the gates of the city to wherever you wish to go. This is the least I can do to even the score between us."

"Nay," the Cimmerian responded. "You cannot discharge my oath. The oath of a Cimmerian is no cloud in the sky, to be swept away by a passing breeze. Salvorus's spirit will not rest until the priestess is slain.

Your captain was a stalwart man, and the wrongful death of such a man must be avenged." Conan snorted. "To think that men call me and my kin barbarians! I will live or die by my oath. However, I would accept the bag of gold, for the expenses of our journey."

Eldran's head drooped wearily, but the ghost of a smile was on his face. "Last night you were in my dungeon, awaiting the fall of my headsman's ax, and now you will travel hundreds of leagues to vanquish my foe. You speak truly. We civilized people could learn much from you.

I am grateful that my borders do not cross with those of Cimmeria! Go south then, if you must. Equip yourselves as you will from the armory, and take the finest stallions our stables have to offer. With such resolve as you have, you will triumph over this depraved priestess and return to the city. My prayers go with you."

Completely drained, Eldran slid back down onto the dais, his chest heaving as violent spasms of coughing wracked him again. Sweat drenched his furrowed brow, and all color had fled from his face. The monarch said nothing more to them, finally closing his eyes and drifting into a troubled slumber.

They left his chamber without comment, their eyes downcast. Several of Kailash's fellow hillmen swarmed around the chamber's only exit.

Kailash gave them specific orders for the king's safekeeping. He trusted every man in the chamber implicitly. He had fought side by side with these men at one time or another; over the years, they had become like brothers to him.

Kailash's main concern now was to find a suitable blade, and a horse on which to ride south. He realized that in a way, he was looking forward to the journey. Many years had passed since he had been on a campaign in the wilds. Recently he had been confined to the city with the king, leaving only to escort Eldran to places within a day's ride. His initial suspicion of Conan and Madesus had been replaced with respect, even with admiration. Conan was a finer warrior than any in Kailash's memory, and Madesus wielded power that Kailash had never seen the like of.

Like the hillman, Conan was also reflecting on the imminent journey. He was neither eager nor apprehensive about the quest. For all his talk of oaths, he still harbored other good reasons to travel south. Madesus's tale of Skauraul and his fortress had reminded him of tales he had heard from others of the vast hordes of forgotten wealth lying heaped in dusty treasure-vaults.

If Skauraul had been as powerful as Madesus had described him, the evil Mutare lord must have piled up countless riches in his lifetime.

Superstition may have kept looters away from the ruins of the stronghold, until its very existence was forgotten. Mayhap a thorough search would turn up some material rewards for their quest. With his mind's eye gazing upon casks full of glinting gold coins, and urns spilling over with shimmering gems, the barbarian youth followed Kailash and Madesus to the palace armory.

The armory, located less than a hundred paces from Eldran's chambers, was a storehouse of weapons and armor from all over Hyboria. In the past, Brythunia had acquired many of its war implements from other lands. Some weapons had been taken from slain invaders; others had been purchased, or given to Brythunian nobles as gifts. There was little order to the jumble of equipment packed into the small, poorly lit room. Several racks of swords stood near the door, and a few worktables had been piled high with other weapons needing work. Against one wall, a precariously balanced stack of breastplates and shields looked as if the slightest touch would topple it.

Standing in the doorway, Madesus shifted impatiently from foot to foot while waiting for Kailash and Conan to select their gear. The burly, muscle-bound Kezankian finally settled on a hand-and-a-half sword over three feet in length. Such was his strength that he could easily wield it with one hand. Its quillons were cunningly crafted in the likeness of a hawk's outspread wings. A carved iron hilt suggested the head of a fierce hawk, its sharp beak forming the pommel. So keen was the blade's edge that Kailash had sliced his thumb while testing it. Such a sword was not made to be sheathed. Instead, the hillman donned a leather harness with which to strap the immense blade to his back. Then he picked out a new helm to replace the one he had lost in the temple.

Finally he selected a pair of arm-guards, studded with plates of iron.

Conan declined to wear any corselet, jerkin, or mail. They were confining, and he did not wish to be burdened by them. He would trust his sword-arm and his blade to protect him from whatever enemies they might encounter. As he scanned through the bewildering assortment of gear in the armory, a broad-bladed dagger caught his eye. The weapon protruded slightly from beneath a disorderly pile of other daggers.

Pulling the weapon free, the Cimmerian grasped it by its blackened iron hilt and hefted it, checking its weight and balance. Forged for thrusting and throwing, the dagger had no crossguard. Its wide blade was nearly as long as Conan's forearm. Nodding in approval, he slammed it into its heavy leather scabbard. The seams of the scabbard were secured by strips of beaten copper, tarnished over the years. With apparent fascination, Kailash watched Conan's selection of this dagger.

"You would have me choose another?" the barbarian rumbled, wondering why Kailash was staring at him.

The hillman paused, then found his voice. "Nay, you are welcome to any that are here. That dagger is very old; it has been in the armory for years beyond my memory. Eldran once told me that hundreds of years ago, it was given as a gift to King Maelcinis of Brythunia. Maelcinis never had a son to pass his weapons down to; his spirit may have guided your hand to this weapon. May he guide it as well in battle!"

Conan looked at the dagger dubiously, disliking this thought. He hoped that the spirit of Maelcinis would keep out of his affairs, especially in battle. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to keep the dagger.

"With luck, you will not need your weapons and armor," Madesus interjected, his voice showing irritation at the time being spent in the armory.

Kailash snorted. "Luck is the armor of fools. Trust in it too often and your corpse will be buzzard-feed. In a battle, I trust naught but steel." Conan grunted in agreement.

Madesus sighed, shaking his head, but a mild tone of mirth crept into his voice. "As you wish. Interesting, how two seasoned warriors can take longer to ready themselves for battle than a bride takes to ready herself for her wedding ceremony."

Kailash's face reddened, and Conan tensed at this insult. In Cimmeria, he would have split a man's skull for making such a gibe. However, in his years of association with men outside his homeland, he had learned to suppress such urges. Kailash was ready to retort, but began to laugh instead when he saw the dark look on Conan's face. The Cimmerian continued to scowl, while Madesus chuckled and the Brythunian hillman roared at Conan's discomfort.

Wiping the tears from his face, Kailash clapped a beefy hand on Conan's tensed shoulder and tilted his head toward the door. "The priest is right. We must tarry not, else we arrive late at the wedding!"

Conan gritted his teeth at this affrontery. Civilized men had a puzzling sense of humor. In an attempt to put a halt to further jesting, he pounded Kailash jarringly on the back, then followed him out of the armory. In a lighter mood, the three men went to the stables, where sturdy Brythunian mounts awaited them with leather packs bulging with provisions. Wool riding-blankets, dyed dark green, were strapped across the backs of the reddish-black horses.

Kailash deftly flipped his blanket back, rolled it up, and tied it down securely. He vaulted onto his horse with a smooth, practiced motion, holding the reins loosely in his left hand. Conan, who had less experience with horses, took a little while longer but was soon atop his steed. She was the largest of the three, her shoulders even in height with Conan's head. Although she shifted a little as Conan settled onto her back, she bore his considerable weight with no visible strain.

Madesus, who had watched the others carefully, made several unsuccessful attempts to mount his horse. On the third try, he fell back heavily, landing squarely on his backside. To his embarrassment, Conan and Kailash found this mishap hilarious.

"I have ridden only a few times before, and that was in my youth," the priest said in his defense as he put a hand to his bruised posterior.

"Priests of Mitra are accustomed to traveling on foot, not on the backs of beasts!"

Kailash's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Worry not, my friend. You will quickly remember how to ride. By the time we reach the Brythunian border, your backside will wish you had forgotten!"

After a careful check of their provisions, they took off at a trot, deciding to put off sleep for a while. Kailash suggested that they ride until several hours after sunset. He would lead them to an inn he knew of in the village of Innasfaln, by the foot of the western slopes of the Karpash Mountains. Conan was content with this arrangement if the inn was directly on their path to Skauraul's stronghold. He had no objection to letting Eldran's bag of gold pay for lodging, hot food, and a jack of ale or two.

He was more concerned with what their plan would be when they reached Shan-e-Sorkh. He had seen the region marked on the crude maps at the palace, and it had looked large to him. As they rode to the southeast, he again asked Madesus how they would make their way to Skauraul's stronghold. He had no wish to spend endless dry, hot days on a fruitless search of that haunted desert wasteland.

"As I have explained, I can sense the Mutare's presence," the priest reiterated. "If I sense her not, we must put our faith in Mitra to lead us to her. Our cause is just, and when our steps falter, he will guide us. Leave this to me, and let it trouble you no more. I have underestimated the powers of the priestess one time too many, a mistake I will not repeat. She is resourceful, and will no doubt see us approaching when we are close. You and Kailash must be ready then to overcome whatever obstacles she may place in our path."

Conan pressed Madesus further, somewhat dissatisfied with this vague response. The priest was unable, or unwilling, to answer his questions, so the barbarian eventually gave up. Kailash, riding a few lengths ahead of them, kept his eyes and mind focused on the road before them.

They had left the city gates quietly, hoping to attract no attention.

Kailash's garb was that of a simple hillman, if somewhat better armed, and hillmen were a common enough sight at the city gates. Several of the guardsmen had recognized him and waved as he passed. Word had probably leaked out among the soldiery that Kailash was on some urgent mission at the king's bidding.

In fact, Conan received most of the attention. The sight of a Cimmerian in Brythunia was rare indeed, but the sight of a mounted, blue-eyed giant of the north, accompanied by a Kezankian warrior and a priest of Mitra was enough to start the most reticent of tongues wagging. As it happened, the people were preoccupied with news of King Eldran, who was recovering rapidly from his illness. The trio of questors would soon be forgotten as later that night, the wineshops and fleshpots of Pirogia would fill with revelers drinking toasts to the king's health and the end of the period of uncertainty that his near death had brought about.

In the days that followed, kings and politicians of the neighboring kingdoms would greet this news with far less enthusiasm. Nemedia and her ally, Corinthia, had already been plotting invasions. King Yildiz of Turan, who would hear some two days later of Eldran's miraculous recovery, would be in ill humor for the remainder of the week. Yildiz's imperial expansion plans had long included Brythunia, and he had been shifting troops and hiring mercenaries in anticipation of Eldran's demise and the opportunity it might present.

Yet there was one who was already more upset than any of these kings would be. There was one who fumed and plotted, his cunning but twisted mind bent to a single dark purpose: revenge. He was hunched over the back of a reddish-black horse, outfitted with sacks of supplies and wearing the dark gray cloak of a Brythunian villager.

He rode southeast, in single-minded pursuit of the three who had shattered what might have been his last chance to restore Brythunia to its ancient splendor. As he followed their trail, Lamici began weaving together the threads of a new plot, which would bring about the death of a certain priest of Mitra and send those sword-wielding dogs to hell in the process.

The eunuch's eyes, shielded by his hood, stared intently forward with the obsessed glaze of madness.

Fifteen

Innasfaln

With Kailash leading Conan and Madesus through pastures of Brythunian countryside, the first leg of the trip passed quickly. Kailash knew the area so well that he needed no road, nor did he pause even once to get his bearings. Waning sunlight fell on the edges of deep green forests carpeting the northern horizon. These great woodlands thinned to the south, giving way to the grim, stony foothills of the Karpash Mountains.

They passed no villages, as the southern regions were only sparsely inhabited. Kailash had told them that the king of Zamora actually claimed much of this land, although he stationed no troops or made no garrison north of the mountains. The hillman took pride in this, and credited Zamora's lack of military presence to Eldran's influence.

Conan saw little worth claiming; the countryside was barren.

The sun had just dipped behind the Karpash's looming peaks when Kailash called a halt. He scanned the rocky steppes of the mountainside as if looking for a landmark.

"The village is not far," he said, nodding. "Two or three hours at most. We must soon dismount and lead our beasts up yonder." He pointed to a rocky incline in the distance. "Beyond that rise lies Innasfaln."

Their progress was impeded by fading light and uncertain footing. The terrain was rocky and steep at times, and Madesus had no skill in leading his horse through it. Eventually they reached a grassy knoll, with strange two-limbed trees growing atop it. Kailash came down off his steed, and the others did likewise. From here, they would go afoot.

They could make out a stony path leading away from the hillock, deep into the forbidding stone wall of the Karpash.

Madesus walked stiffly, leading his horse carefully along the path. He quickened his pace and moved up alongside the hillman. "Why is there a village in this isolated place?"

"There are but few passes through the mountains, and Innasfaln lies at the narrow mouth of one of them," Kailash replied. "There we will get news of what to expect on the road to the south." Then he winked slyly at Conan. "But we can anticipate getting more than just newshthe taproom at Innasfaln is reputed to have the smoothest ale in Brythunia, and the lustiest wenches of easy virtue to pour it for us." With amusement, he watched Madesus's reaction to his comment.

"I see," the priest said skeptically. "In that case, you two should make camp outside this village whilst I venture in to obtain news of the road. You have no time to waste on a drunken debauch this evening.

We must sleep as little as possible, for this I will tell you: the priestess sleeps not. Every moment we waste, her power grows and the odds of our victory diminish. Had I knownh"

Kailash broke in with a chuckle. "Worry not, priest! I jest with you.

Conan and I are seasoned warriors; we can handle ourselves in this place. 'Tis best that we stop at the inn for a flagon or two, lest we attract too much attention from the locals. I would as soon not arouse their curiosity. Besides, the innkeeper knows you not. Years ago, he and I were campaigners in the Brythunian border wars."

Madesus conceded to the logic of the hillman's argument, but again a hint of skepticism crept into his tone. "Very well, a jack or two, then we retire. Be warned that I shall rise a few hours before dawn and wake you both, regardless of your condition."

This remark brought more chuckling from Kailash. Conan, who had listened with interest to the hillman's description of the inn, was disappointed. He would have welcomed the hot embrace of a full-bosomed tavern harlot on a cold night like this. Several days had passed since he had been with Yvanna, and he did not see why a little revelry would slow down their progress. Let Madesus sleep while he and Kailash caroused in the taproom, or elsewhere, each in the arms of a willing wench!

When they reached the edge of the village, the only light in the sky came from the cold, white disk of the moon. The orb looked down upon them like a pale, frowning face. Nightfall had sent the temperature plummeting. The cold air bit at every uncovered patch of skin with unseen teeth, and the horses' breath rose from their nostrils like steam from a boiling water pot.

Conan barely took notice of the chill; the Brythunian autumn was nothing like the bitter cold of his native Cimmeria. Kailash had pulled a hood over his head and put his helmet on over it. His thick hillman's tunic kept the cold out, and he was from the northeast, where the weather was similar to Cimmeria's. In spite of his robes and cloak, Madesus felt the chill most keenly. He had to admit that a warm inn appealed to him at the moment. Mitra would surely forgive him for venturing into a den of iniquity under these circumstances. Or so he hoped.

Innasfaln was a small village. They passed by several crude wattle-and-daub huts. Nearly all of them were apparently occupied.

Squatting in the center of the village were half a dozen solid-looking structures, built of irregular chunks of stone and plugged with mud and pebbles. Kailash pointed to the largest of them. A Brythunian standard, out of place in such wretched surroundings, rose proudly from the building's shabby roof. Several horses were tethered to a wooden rail by the front door.

The inn had no windows, and only a heavy, pitch-smeared tarp over its irregularly shaped doorway. Conan had been in seedier dives than this, but he had to admit that even the filthy, ill-kept Pommel outshone this wretched-looking hellhole.

The three men dismounted and approached the rail. Conan and Kailash secured their horses to it and lifted the bags off, flinging them over their shoulders. Madesus was walking slowly, rubbing his bruised backside. Conan and Kailash laughed heartily at the priest's discomfort.

"If you feel sore now, wait until tomorrow," the hillman said. "You may wake before we do, but I'll wager we'll be back on our horses before you are!"

Still chuckling, Conan secured the small bag of gold to his belt. He passed two pieces of the coin to Kailash. "These are forh" he paused, sparing the priest a glance "hlodging."

The Kezankian grinned, but shook his head. "If old Malgoresh is still here, we will drink free!" He doffed his helmet and stowed it in his pack, then pulled his hood back. Without another word, he shoved the tarp aside and entered. Conan followed him.

The Cimmerian's doubts about the taproom proved ill-founded. The brightly lit room was good-sized, but overly crowded. Every bench was taken, and many people simply stood in clusters, or leaned against the rocky walls. As Conan and Kailash walked in, a few heads turned and a few conversations halted. Moments later, heads turned back and talk resumed, the regulars apparently indifferent to the two travelers after all.

"Look there!" Kailash pointed at a long, high wooden table in the back of the room. Behind the table stood a paunchy, graybearded man, dipping ale from a huge oak barrel. Many similar barrels lined the back wall. '"Tis Malgoresh, as I'd hoped!" Kailash plowed through the mass of tightly packed bodies, with Conan close behind. A few sober patrons saw the men approaching and hastily stood aside.

Only a few tavern wenches were present, in spite of Kailash's earlier comments. Many had long since seen their prime years pass, but a few caught the wandering eyes of the Cimmerian youth. He was surprised to find even a few beauties like these strutting about in this dungheap of an inn, hidden away in such a small, remote village.

"Hold a moment," Conan said to the hillman, looking behind him with concern. "Madesus did not follow us in. We should wait untilh"

"Bah! A priest in a taproom is like water on a fire. He may have given up and decided to find a room. Besides, I was only taunting him earlier, 'ere we approached the village. The wenches here have lost some of their luster. After a few tankards of ale and such fare as can be had at this hour, I'll be ready for a night's rest." As Kailash spoke, a mischievous look came to his face. "If the priest comes in, we could have a jest at his expense. When we get to yonder table, let's make eyes at a few of the barmaids. The expression on the priest's face would be worth the tongue-lashing we'd no doubt get for our trouble!"

Priest or no priest, Conan would have liked to take the plan even further, but he supposed that he may as well go along with Kailash. He pushed aside a giggling drunk who blocked their way. With a balancing act that a skilled juggler would have envied, the tall and lanky villager managed not to spill a drop of ale. After one look at Conan, he decided to vacate his place at the table.

Kailash stepped up to the high table at the back of the tavern. Behind it, the balding barkeep plunked a few huge tankards of ale down and wiped his hands on the filthy, ale-stained apron tied loosely around his ample waist.

As he turned his bearded face toward them, looks of surprise and recognition came into his eyes. "By Hanuman's hairy stones! 'Tis me old friend Kailash, or I'm a Pict!" His throat, roughened from years of shouting at tavern-goers, roared with hoarse laughter. "Welcome to the finest tavern for a hundred leagues around!"

Kailash laughed uproariously. '"Tis the only tavern for a hundred leagues around, you old warhorse!" He pointed at Malgoresh's sizable waistline. "I see that you've guzzled a few barrels' too many of your own brew. Have you swigged all of it tonight, or did you leave enough for two parched travelers?"

Malgoresh looked dubiously at Conan. "Two? Is he with you, orh"

"Speak no ill of him! His name is Conan, and he hails from the frozen lands of Cimmeria. Any sword raised against him would clash first with mine."

"A Cimmerian, by Hanuman's shaggy lingam! Strange must be the tale of his coming here, but methinks even stranger would be the tale of how you two became comrades." Malgoresh scratched his chin thoughtfully, his expression becoming somber. "What news from Pirogia?"

"The king's health is restored." Kailash leaned forward, glancing to either side and speaking in a hushed voice. "But Valtresca is deadhand Salvorus, too. The general was exposed as a traitor to the throne. In a pitched battle beneath the palace, Conan and Salvorus slew him."

Malgoresh's jaw dropped, as did the tankards he was setting down before them. Ale sloshed across the table and dripped onto the floor in foaming puddles. "A traitor!" he hissed, ignoring the spilt ale and bending forward to keep his coarse voice from reaching too many ears.

"What ill news you bear, old friend! Still, at least Eldran lives."

"Yet he is not out of danger," Kailash said grimly. "I have no time tonight to tell the full tale. If Mitra is with me, I will return to Innasfaln soon and relate it to you. 'Tis a strange tale, in which Conan has played a great part. Only Mitra knows how it will end.

Tomorrow we travel south, and I have need of news from you before we leave."

"Of course! Anything you wish to know. But how is it that Valtrescah"

"Enough, 'Gor! No more questions will I answer until my dry throat is soothed by a few draughts of your ale. Have you forgotten our thirst, or has your head gone as soft as your belly?"

Malgoresh clapped a hand to his hairless forehead, clucking to himself.

He retrieved the dropped tankards and gave them a cursory wipe with his apron. After dipping them into the ale barrel, he set them down before the two travel-weary warriors.

Still standing outside, Madesus eyed the tavern's door dubiously. He was having doubts about joining Conan and Kailash. Nevertheless, he supposed he should keep a watchful eye on them. He swallowed his misgivings and stepped inside, just as Conan and Kailash swallowed their first draughts of Innasfaln ale.

Within, the tavern was larger than Madesus had expected. However, everything else about the place was much as he had imagined. The pungent stench of unwashed bodies and stale beer intermingled with less easily identifiable odors. He believed that everyone in the village was jammed into the place. More than a dozen crudely made tables were packed with men of various age and origin. Madesus counted six barmaids, and some three-or four-score patrons. Many were laughing, or breaking into occasional off-key singing, while others hunched forward over their tables, trying to talk above the clamor.

Madesus was grateful for his travel cloak, which hid his true identity.

He supposed that the patrons in this place would have wondered what a priest was doing among them. He was not surprised to see Kailash and Conan swilling ale, like horses at a trough. As Madesus approached, they clanged their tankards together in a toast, then drank deeply of the thick, dark ale.

A buxom, blonde-haired peasant wench walked boldly toward the two men, her generous charms shifting suggestively beneath a flimsy garment of gauzy, red-dyed cotton. One of the villagers groped her firm, rounded behind as she strutted past; she giggled and swatted the man's hand away, her attention focused on the two strangers.

Outraged by this wanton display, Madesus stomped toward his companions, intent on putting a stop to any licentious designs his comrades might have for this wanton harlot. He was so engrossed that he stumbled right into a short, stocky villager.

The man's stinking breath assailed Madesus's nostrils. The stench was vile enough to stop a charging bull in its tracks. The priest turned his head to one side, making a futile attempt to avoid breathing the cloud of fouled air that hung cloyingly about the man's pitted, unshaven face and unwashed tangle of hair. "I beg your pardon," he said politely to the grubby, potbellied villager.

"Huh! Wa'sh where ya goin'! Waddara, inna hurry, are ya?" The drunken cretin's slurred speech was nearly unintelligible. He punctuated the question with a deep, reverberating belch, sending a reeking wave of air into the priest's face. Madesus found it easier to determine what the man had been eating and drinking than what he was saying. However, to avoid provoking the besotted wretch any further, he simply stepped back and bowed slightly. The uncouth man staggered past, picking at his grimy ear with a dirt-encrusted finger and belching again.

By this time, Conan and Kailash had each found a voluptuous wench. The Cimmerian had thrown a brawny arm around the slender waist of a pale-skinned hussy, who ran her painted, long-nailed fingers through his mane of black hair. A dark-eyed doxy, wearing only thin cloth strips that covered very little of her smooth skin, exchanged bawdy gibes with Kailash. The warriors saw Madesus and waved, calling to him, but their voices were drowned out by the overwhelming din of the taproom.

Madesus dug into his satchel and carefully withdrew two heavy coins, golden dragons of Nemedia. Each was worth five Aquilonian gold nobles.

He palmed the thick coins and approached the two wenches, praying silently to Mitra that his idea would work.

"Ladies." He managed to smile as he spoke, realizing that the word applied only loosely to these two. "Both of you come hither, for just a moment."

The women looked questioningly at Kailash and Conan, who shrugged and nodded their approval. Madesus put his hands where his companions could not see them and lowered his head slightly, whispering to the barmaids.

"My friends are poor, having diced their wealth away on our journey. I am loath to see two beauties like yourselves waste your evening for a few paltry silver pieces. Soon these two worthies will be too drunk to appreciate your charms anyway. My fortunes have been better, and I would share my luck with you." He pressed a golden dragon upon each.

"Here, take these and retire from this place. You must share this coin with all the other barmaids. You and your friends need not waste this night on these ruffians here. Agreed?"

Wide-eyed, they stared at the golden dragons, more wealth than they would earn in a month of nights. They nodded, looking at Madesus blankly. One of them tossed her hair back and pressed against him, flirting. "Will ye not be joinin' us, even later?" The sound of her husky, seductive voice and the sight of her full, rounded breasts, straining against their gauzy confines, would have raised a man from his deathbed.

Embarrassed by this brazen behavior, Madesus pulled back a little, almost wishing that he were not a priest of Mitra. "Nay," he said, shocked that he had been thinking any impious thoughts, even for a brief instant. "Our journey has been long, and I am fit for naught but sleep this night." The women looked at each other, smiling coyly. They slipped away through the crowd and went out the door.

Madesus shook his head, silently asking Mitra for forgiveness. These warriors were a decadent influence. To think that for the cause of good, a priest of Mitra must lie and give away good gold to harlots! At times like this, he understood why so many priests took refuge in the haven of Mitra's temples.

Conan and Kailash watched the priest, first with disbelief, then with wonder as all of the women trickled out of the taproom like sand from an hourglass. Madesus walked up to them with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well?" the priest asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Crom! What did you say to them?" Conan shook his head in disappointment.

"Aye. Why did they leave?" Kailash's tone echoed the barbarian's.

"I told them that you had no coin to offer for their favors," the priest replied. "Further, we have no time for these diversions. When we have done away with the priestess, you will have plenty of time to pursue your depraved leisures. But for now, I implore you to keep about you the few wits you have. No doubt you have even forgotten to ask news of the road ahead."

Conan scowled, and Kailash fixed his gaze on the floor. Then they broke out laughing. Madesus looked at them as if they had gone mad. This brought out even louder guffaws, until the two were roaring uncontrollably before the discomfited priest.

Although he found Madesus's reaction amusing, Conan was truly disappointed. He was certain that Darinais, the golden-haired Brythunian trollop he had met, would have willingly bedded him without asking for so much as a copper farthing. He was younger and more vigorous than either Madesus or Kailash realized. A late-night romp with Darinais would have lifted his spirits. Ruefully, the Cimmerian began to wish that Madesus had not decided to come into the tavern.

Kailash drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table with a solid thump. He looked about for the barkeep, but did not see him anywhere. "Malgoresh!" His bellowing voice actually rose above the hubbub. "More ale!"

Behind the counter was the taproom's rear door. Unlike the front door, it was made of stout, iron-backed wood. Crude but sturdy hinges anchored it to a thick, vertical column of wood set into the taproom wall. The door banged open and Malgoresh stepped through, red-faced and puffing, as if he had just outraced a bloodthirsty Pict war party.

Braced on each of his immense Turanian shoulders was a barrel of ale, held in place by his burly arms.

"In a moment!" Malgoresh yelled back, setting the barrels down with a heavy thud. Beads of sweat had formed on his sharply hooked nose.

"Where in Zandru's Nine Hells did me serving wenches go? I turn me back for a span or two and they go, without so much as a 'by your leave'!"

Cursing, he haphazardly dipped tankards into ale barrels at a frenzied pace, setting them on the long, narrow table.

Patrons snatched up the tankards just as quickly as he put them down, leaving coins on the table. Without bothering to count these or to make change, the gruff Turanian barkeep scooped up the bits of copper and silver, dropping them deftly into his capacious belt purse. A continuous stream of oaths poured forth from him as he moved up and down the length of the table. When he finally caught up with the demand, he mopped his sweat-soaked face with his apron and sauntered back over to Kailash.

The hillman took a deep pull from his tankard. "Busy night," he noted, then wiped foam from his moustache.

"Aye. Too busy. I've a mind to close early. Many years have passed since we last shared a barrel of ale. What say that youhboth of youhjoin me?"

"Not tonight, my friend. The years have taught me that there are better places to pass the night than the floor of a tavern. Soon my companions and I must find rooms to retire to."

"Companions?" Malgoresh's eyes settled on Madesus. The priest's cloak covered his religious garb, but the Turanian's shrewd gaze took in a few conspicuous details: no weaponshnot even a daggerhand simple, travel-worn garments. Yet the, man had not the look of a merchant or a noble. The Turanian's instincts told him that this was some sort of sorcerer, or maybe a priest. Shaking his head, Malgoresh gave Kailash a dubious look. The Kezankian hefted his tankard and took another pull from it.

"This is Madesus, ah" the hillman paused, catching himself "her, a friend from Corinthia," he added lamely.

Madesus extended his hand to the barkeep, who took it and shook it vigorously. Madesus felt the bones in his hand grate together under the power of the Turanian's grip. He fought the urge to wring his numbed fingers when the barkeep let go. "Well met, Malgoresh," he managed. "We are grateful for your hospitality."

"Think nothing of it." The bald barkeep shrugged and turned to fill another tankard with ale. He set this down in front of the priest, who eyed it as if it were a fanged serpent, Malgoresh pretended not to notice this, but he was now convinced that Madesus was not just an ordinary traveler. "Kailash and I fought side by side in more than one border campaign. Why, our last campaign together seems like only days ago. There were but twenty of us, traveling along the southern banks of the Yellow River, when we were ambushed by that slave-raiding Nemedian bastard, Nekator. His numbers were thrice our own, and half our lads were cut down before we knew what had befallen us. That was a battle, by Hanuman's woolly member! The water turned red andh"

Malgoresh's tale was rudely interrupted by the arrival of a dirt-smeared lout, whose breath stank like a slaughterhouse on a hot summer day. He swayed unsteadily against the table, shoving in between Madesus and Conan. Snuffling noisily, he broke wind loudly enough for the sound to carry over Malgoresh's voice. "Ale! Blast you, ale!" The boisterous lout slammed his empty tankard down forcefully, planting it squarely on the fingers of Conan's left hand.

Conan pulled his hand back and growled in annoyance, elbowing the besotted patron in the gut. Madesus noted with despair that it was the same buffoon who had accosted him earlier.

"Ooomph!" the sodden cretin gasped as Conan's elbow drove into his side. He staggered backward, nearly falling, but recovered his shaky balance with a superhuman effort. Snarling in drunken rage, he aimed a blow at Conan's head with his tankard. The Cimmerian easily blocked the attack with one arm, and rammed an iron-hard fist into the man's pockmarked face. Howling through his shattered jawbone, the drunkard was propelled backward from the force of the blow. Before he sank to the floor, the troublemaker pitched his tankard in Conan's direction.

Through a cruel twist of fate, the haphazardly thrown missile sailed straight toward the barbarian's face. Conan ducked to one side, putting a hand up to bat the tankard to the floor. The heavy iron vessel flew past his outstretched hand and crashed solidly into Kailash's forehead.

The hillman remained conscious long enough to wish he had left his helmet on. Dazed by the bone-crushing impact, he lurched against the table, then dropped to the floor like a felled ox.

Angered that his friend had been struck, but wary that a brawl was brewing, Malgoresh yelled desperately at the two men. "Stop! Stop, I say! If fight ye must, then fight outside!"

Unfortunately, the Turanian's words fell on deaf and drunk ears. Conan balled his hands into tight fists and drove them into his stunned opponent's ribs. The unmistakable sound of breaking bones was followed by earsplitting curses. Spitting out a few fragments of bloody teeth, the man yelled for help through his broken jaw. "Kulg! Wenak!" he wailed, sinking to the floor and retching noisily, his hands drawn up over his smashed rib cage.

At a table nearby, two heads turned. As the commotion spread through the crowd, conversations died down and a strange quiet settled in.

Kulg, a hulking brute of a man, looked up from his ale cup. He bore a strong resemblance to the injured Vansa, writhing on the floor before Conan, but was much larger and uglier than his brother. He was so hairy that many jests were madehbehind his back, of coursehabout his probable ancestry. His shaggy black beard crept up his face and nearly covered his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows stuck out from below the thick ridges of his sloping forehead, and coarse hair sprouted from the neck of his ragged, ill-fitting tunic. Even compared to his brother, Kulg was not very bright. He was, however, quickly enraged by the sight of his kin on the floor, spewing blood and twitching in agony.

Beside him, Wenak slid a small, well-honed knife out of its sheath and palmed it. Wenak was nothing like his older brothers; he was small, mean, and cowardly. Keeping his eyes on Conan, he readied his throwing knife and waited for the Cimmerian to turn his back.

Kulg's tactics were much more direct. Growling in bestial fury, he raised his immense bulk from the groaning bench that had borne his weight. Holding his hairy, long-nailed fingers out, he rushed straight at Conan.

As a veteran of many tavern fights, the barbarian reacted instinctively, sidestepping the shaggy giant and tripping him as he lumbered past. Kulg collided with the high table and proved to be more than a match for the heavy wood. The table flipped over, toppling Malgoresh and sending ale and tankards flying. The flailing Turanian groaned in dismay as he landed on the floor, pinned beneath the table.

Madesus, upset by the turn of events but powerless to stop them, moved around to examine the dent in Kailash's head.

Turning, Conan grabbed one of Kulg's treelike arms and twisted it behind the big man's back, in the same motion, he kicked the back of Kulg's knee and drove him to the taproom floor. Both men landed on the table, bringing another groan from Malgoresh, who bore the brunt of the impact. Wenak, seeing a chance to bury his shiv in Conan's unprotected back, drew his hand back in a smooth, well-practiced motion.

Madesus caught the glint of steel as Wenak made ready to throw the knife. "Conan! Behind you!" he gasped, jumping toward Wenak desperately, hoping to spoil his aim.

Wenak hesitated for a moment, nearly deciding to cast his knife at this onrushing green-cloaked stranger. Instead, he hastily threw it at Conan, then turned nimbly to make an escape.

The Cimmerian heard Madesus's warning cry, but had no way to roll out of the knife's path. Wenak's throw was high; the weapon sailed through the air several feet above Conan and sank into one of Malgoresh's empty ale barrels. With renewed fury, Conan grabbed the back of Kulg's head and pounded the man's hairy face repeatedly into the bottom of the wooden table.

A helpful patron stuck his foot out as the fleeing Wenak ran by, sending him flying into a table. Wenak rolled off and crawled underneath. The table's annoyed occupants chose to blame the loss of their ale on the patrons of a nearby table. Within moments, the fighting spread through the taproom like a brushfire through a dry prairie.

Sixteen

Departure

Lamici reached Innasfaln about an hour after Conan, Madesus, and Kailash had arrived. The eunuch cautiously approached the village, leading his horse to the tavern at the center. Many years had passed since he had traveled this far from the city, and never had he traveled so far alone. His bones ached and he was miserably cold, but not once did his determination wane. Now more than ever, he was bent to the singular purpose of vengeance.

The eunuch's cadaverous appearance would have shocked those at the palace who knew him. His gaunt, haggard face had the look of a man twenty years older. His eyes, normally cool and placid, were fervent and bloodshot. The skin beneath them was dark and sagging, as if Lamici had not slept for several days. Nevertheless, the same obsession that had driven him to this state gave him the energy to go on. He had ceased to think of his own future, or of any future beyond the death of those who had shattered his lifelong dreams.

They were here. He could see their horses tied to a rail out side the tavern. A terrific racket issued from the building's crude doorway.

Alarmed, Lamici circled to the back of the structure, lashing his horse to a nearby tree. He listened carefully, trying to pick out the voices of his quarry. All he could hear were the mixed sounds of wood breaking and men shouting. He pulled his hood down over his face as far as it would go, warily approaching the tavern's doorway.

Lamici entered, and his fears of being noticed proved unfounded. The taproom was a frenzied melee of punching, kicking, and shouting bodies.

He veered around a pair of drunken clods who were cheerfully pulping each other, and stopped in a less chaotic corner. From this vantage point, he scanned the large room, hoping for a glimpse of his prey.

At the opposite side of the room, less than thirty feet away, he saw Conan. The barbarian was struggling with some hairy, apelike brute who was even taller than the Cimmerian. He could not see Madesus or Kailash. Trusting to his disguise, he inched along the wall, closer to the barbarian. A flying iron goblet clanged off the wall before him, and he was forced to step over a few bodies that had been rendered senseless during the brawling. He guessed that there were over two-score combatants slugging it out in the small taproom. The ruckus afforded him perfect cover. No one noticed him as he moved closer and closer to the back of the room, where Conan and Kulg still struggled.

The Cimmerian was amazed that Kulg was conscious. He had beaten the man's head into the bench, slammed him into the stone wall, and had probably broken one of the hairy giant's arms. In spite of this abuse, the tenacious Kulg kept getting up and charging the barbarian head-on.

As Kulg rushed at him again, Conan braced himself for the bone-jarring impact. If the stubborn ape would not lie down after this exchange, Conan would have to draw his sword and take sterner measures.

As Kulg reached out for him, Conan twisted aside and prepared to send his assailant flying. At that instant, he felt a tug at his ankle, and his balance was spoiled. Vansa had managed to stop retching and clutching his broken ribs long enough to grab hold of Conan's leg. The Cimmerian kicked at the interfering hand, dislodging it as Kulg plowed into him. Grunting, Conan toppled over and soaked up Kulg's crushing weight. Enraged, the Cimmerian groped futilely for his sword.

Only a few paces away, Madesus was trying unsuccessfully to revive Kailash. The iron tankard had dug an ugly groove in the hillman's tough skull, and blood still oozed from a flap of skin that had been torn from Kailash's forehead. The priest was cursing himself for not having tried harder to keep his two companions out of this place. He had been against the dalliance from the start.

With a sigh, Madesus fished around in his spacious leather pouch and extracted a small clay jar of ointment. He daubed the balm generously on the ugly gash to stop the bleeding. Probing the wound gently, his skilled fingers found a crescent-shaped break in the hillman's skull.

This wound would be much more difficult to tend; to save Kailash, he would have to use the amulet. "Malgoresh!" he shouted to the Turanian, who was still freeing himself from the wreckage of a table.

"How bad is he?" the panting barkeep asked as he crawled over the table to the priest.

"He lives, but we must carefully move him to a safer place, where I can mend his cracked skull."

Together, they slowly pulled the hillman to the back corner of the taproom. Madesus drew forth his amulet, shielding it from all in the room but Malgoresh. The Turanian's eyes widened.

"Tell no one what you have seen," the priest cautioned.

Malgoresh licked his lips and got to his feet. "Nary a word, I swear by the hair on Hanuman'sh"

"Watch me no more! Try to stop the fighting, while your tavern still stands." Madesus turned away and laid one palm on the Kezankian's gore-smeared brow. In his other hand, he held the amulet. Closing his eyes, he began the chant of healing.

Malgoresh limped over to Conan and Kulg. His legs throbbed painfully where the table had struck them. He saw that Kulg had trapped the Cimmerian with his vast bulk and was smothering the breath out of him.

Malgoresh selected a heavy plank from a ruined table, which he used to bludgeon the back of Kulg's hirsute head.

His swing whacked solidly against the base of Kulg's granite-hard skull. The dense oak board made a booming thud as it struck, but Kulg did not even flinch. Eyes agog in disbelief, Malgoresh swung the thick plank again, bearing down with all his strength. This time Kulg let out a deep growl and stopped throttling Conan long enough to rub the back of his bruised head.

Gasping for breath, the Cimmerian wasted no time in squirming out from under the giant's deadly clutches. He kneed the stubborn Kulg in the forehead, while Malgoresh brought his wooden maul down hard on the man's spine. Kulg, reeling from the abuse, got slowly to his knees, trying to focus his badly blurred vision. Malgoresh aimed another blow at him, but the wounded giant somehow managed to put his good arm out and catch the end of the plank in his hand. He yanked on it, trying to wrest it from Malgoresh's grasp. The Turanian hung on tightly, but got only a handful of splinters for his trouble.

Brandishing his new weapon, Kulg tottered in place, pausing to decide which foe to strike first. Conan immediately closed his hand around his sword-hilt and raised the blade with grim ferocity. Malgoresh backed off, turning to retrieve Wenak's knife from the ale barrel.

Crouching unseen less than ten feet away, Lamici chose this moment to make his move. All backs were to him, including Madesus's. The priest wore no leather jerkin to turn aside Lamici's point. The eunuch advanced on the unsuspecting priest, who chanted over Kailash in the corner of the taproom. The high table, lying on its side, hid him partially from view. Lamici slid along the wall, reaching up his sleeve for the concealed stiletto. He was close enough to hear the priest's soft chanting. He freed the stiletto from its wrist sheath, then froze as the priest suddenly became silent.

Madesus finished the prayer of healing and opened his eyes. Kailash coughed, stirring weakly. The priest heard a sharp hiss from behind his back and looked over his shoulder in time to see a thin tongue of steel plunging toward him. Alarmed, he sprang up, but could not avoid the blade's deadly arc. As he pivoted, the stiletto slashed open his left arm and bit into his shoulder. He reached out, his fingers grabbing hold of Lamici's sleeve. The wound in his shoulder was shallow; he would easily heal it later.

Lamici let out a hissing laugh between clenched teeth. "Meet thy doom, fool! Pay the price for thy crimes against my country!"

A torrent of unbearable agony suddenly coursed through Madesus's veins.

Poison! The priest fell to the floor, dropping his amulet. As Lamici grabbed it, the amulet flared up brightly, searing his palm and blinding him. With the amulet in one hand and his stiletto in the other, the eunuch pulled back, pivoted, and beat a hasty retreat. The amulet cooled, and its light subsided. He stuffed it into a pocket of his cloak and felt his way along the taproom wall, until he reached the doorway.

Madesus clutched vainly at his healer's pouch, praying desperately to Mitra as the searing pain from the shoulder wound spread into his heart. Convulsing, he tried to cry out for help, but no air would come from his still lungs. Praying silently to Mitra, he closed his eyes and quietly departed from the world of mortal men.

Conan whirled as he saw the flash of light, and wrenched his dripping, gore-stained blade from Kulg's motionless corpse. Ten feet from him, a gray-cloaked form was moving rapidly along the wall, clutching a thin-bladed knife in one hand. The barbarian drew in a sharp breath as he looked toward the back corner of the taproom, his mind reeling with shock. The overturned table blocked most of his view, but lying in plain sight was Madesus's limp, outstretched arm. All around it was a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Acting purely on impulse, Conan made straight for the fleeing, gray-hooded knife-wielder. The Cimmerian plunged like a stampeding bull through the sparring villagers. He gained quickly; his dark-garbed quarry moved uncertainly, groping along the wall like a blind man, unaware that Conan was looming nearby. The barbarian's face was a dark thundercloud of fury, and he uttered the bone-chilling war cry of his native Cimmeria as he closed the distance. He was near enough to see blood still glistening wetly on the knife, and he had no doubt that the blood was the priest's.

Conan extended his sword in preparation for a thrust that would skewer the man like a boar on a spit. At that instant, the irksome Wenak, still cowering beneath a table, stuck his foot out. The Cimmerian lost his sword first, then his balance. The blade clattered to the floor, several feet away from the sprawling Cimmerian, as Lamici slipped out of the doorway and into the night.

Enraged, the frustrated Cimmerian went berserk. Glaring through the red mist that swam before him, he seized Wenak by the ankle and hauled him out from under the table. Wenak screamed shrilly, squirming in his captor's viselike grip.

"Motherless whelp! Join your brother in hell!" Conan heaved Wenak up and dashed his head against the taproom's hard stone wall. Wenak's skull burst open with a sickening, muffled crack, like the splintering of rotting timber, and left an odious smear of reddish-gray pulp on the wall.

Conan's blood raced through his veins; his temples throbbed with hot fury. He snatched his dropped sword from the floor and heaved a table out of his way, intent on finding and slaying the priest's attacker.

Behind him, a battle-crazed villager was swinging a sizable chunk of wood, striking wildly at everyone who came within his reach. Raising up his crude but effective weapon, he landed a mighty blow on the base of the oblivious Cimmerian's neck. So forceful was the blow that the wood splintered on impact. Conan took several faltering steps toward the door before tumbling to the taproom floor, still clenching his sword.

He crawled for a few more feet before his eyes closed and his head sagged against the frame of the doorway.

When Conan awoke, the morning sun had already climbed into the eastern sky. It shone through the window in his room at Malgoresh's inn.

Startled, the disoriented Cimmerian lurched to his feet and instinctively groped for his sword. Then the memory of last night's ill-boding events returned to him. He slumped back down on the crude cot he had been sleeping on and rubbed his aching neck, wincing as his fingers found a lump the size of a date protruding from the base of his skull.

Conan's head was pounding like a Pictish war drum. He felt queasy from rising so quickly, but he managed to rise again and shuffle across the floor toward a bowl of water he had seen in the corner. From the room's appearance, he judged that he was in one of the village's stone buildings, maybe the inn next to the tavern.

He downed a few swallows of water and poured the rest of it over his throbbing head. He had no idea of who or what had felled him, but he hoped that his attacker had fared worse. Gratified to find his sword leaning against the wall, he picked up the weapon and moved on. By some miracle, his pouch of gold still hung from his belt. Silently he thanked Crom for giving him the strength to recover so quickly from last night's foray. With sword in hand and a bag of gold at his belt, the Cimmerian's spirits were lifted somewhat.

He found that his judgment had been correct; he had spent the night in one of the inn's cottages. The taproom was less than thirty paces distant. He saw a small cluster of villagers milling about by the taproom's main door and wondered what had become of Kailash and Malgoresh.

Madesus, he felt with grim certainty, had not survived last night's encounter. The sight of the priest's limp arm, with its pale hand thrusting out from a blood-soaked sleeve, filled him with rage and despair. His heart burned like a fiery coal at the memory, and a voice inside him cried out for revenge. He would find Madesus's assailant and deal with him later. First he would see what had happened to Kailash.

The taproom's main doorway had been barricaded. A few sullen looks were cast at Conan by several of the villagers, who lowered their voices and moved away as the Cimmerian approached. Two old men remained, staring at him as he came closer. The barbarian doubted that these two graybeards had been in the taproom last night.

"Where is Malgoresh?" he asked gruffly, being in no mood to exchange pleasantries.

One of the men harrumphed indignantly at Conan's tone and did not answer. The other, whose craggy face was as roughened and weatherworn as the Karpashian Mountains themselves, paused before responding.

Leaning forward on a worn walking-stick, the old man finally spoke, through a mouth entirely bereft of teeth.

"Inside. Been 'oled up in there for th' whole o' th' mornin'," he told Conan, his tone indifferent and his words barely understandable.

Conan stepped past them, stopping at the wooden barricade. He pounded on it with his fist, bellowing Malgoresh's name in a voice loud enough to crack stone. Impatiently, he shoved the heavy wooden barricade back and stomped into the taproom.

Malgoresh stood inside, his pale face and slumped shoulders conveying much news to the Cimmerian. The Turanian had evidently been making a halfhearted effort to clean up the taproom. "I put up the barrier last night to keep everyone out," he said. "There is a back door, if you would have waitedh"

"Never mind the barrier." Conan barged in. "Where are Kailash and Madesus?"

"I took you and Kailash to separate rooms last night, to let you recover from your wounds. I've no doubt that he still sleeps. His wound was dire enough to send a lesser man to the grave. That blow you took would have stopped a charging boar in its tracks. Yet here you stand!"

"Madesus?" Conan asked, dreading the answer.

Malgoresh pointed to a table against one wall of the taproom. The priest's prone, motionless form lay atop it. Conan rushed over and drew back the cloak that had been pulled over Madesus's face. The sight of his dead companion filled him with grief and renewed anger.

"The only mark he bears is a wound on his shoulder," Malgoresh said quietly.

Conan examined the shoulder wound, frowning. He saw nothing to explain how the priest could have died. The wound was deep but small, and it had missed Madesus's vitals. The priest's killer must have envenomed his blade with a lethal poison. This was no accident in a brawlhit was cold, deliberate murder.

Keeping his fury in check, Conan looked the body over for signs of any other wounds. Malgoresh had retrieved the priest's leather bag and placed it on the table.

"The battle broke up shortly after you fell," he told Conan. "Those who had the most inclination to fight were the least apt. You slew Kulg and Wenak; their brother died during the night. Aside from them, your friend was the only casualty. We've had it happen before, but not always here in the taproom. Kulg and his two brothers were Hyrkanian scum, passing through on their way to Zamora. Fate has blown an ill wind your way."

"I saw the assassin as he fled," Conan muttered. "When I catch him, he will learn what it means to cross a Cimmerian."

Malgoresh shuddered at the determination and menace behind Conan's words. He was grateful that no Cimmerian had ever borne him a grudge.

"How will you find him? His trail is cold. He must be hours away!"

"How many paths lead out of this village?" Conan asked.

"By horse, only twohthe east and the west roads. On foot, a good many more."

"Find out if anyone has seen a gray-cloaked stranger fleeing on either road. Not everyone's wits were soggy with your ale last night. I offer gold to any who saw him leave!"

Conan gave Malgoresh the best description of the stranger that he could, omitting a few details to screen out any false news. Before Malgoresh left, he brought a jug of water, a small loaf of hard bread, and a cold joint of beef to Conan. Although he had no appetite, the Cimmerian chewed at the loaf and joint, puzzling over the strange manner of the priest's death.

Conan had found two very disturbing clues when he had looked the body over. One was a small scrap of blue silk, clasped tightly in Madesus's clenched hand. The other clue was something he really had not found: the priest's amulet. It had either been picked up in the battle or stolen by the assassin. Conan found the latter explanation far more likely. As he forced his throbbing head to work on the problem, a familiar-looking face appeared in the doorway.

"Conan!" Kailash called out, shuffling unsteadily into the room. "Have you seen Madesus?"

Wordlessly, Conan stepped aside so the Kezankian could see the face of the man lying on the table.

"Mitra!" The hillman choked, his face a pale mask of shock. "How can this be? How?" He clenched his fists and slammed them against the wall, then turned his face away. "This is the work of the priestess, or of some evil ally of hers! 'Tis the only explanation. The first night of our quest and we are beaten!"

Conan remained silent.

Grief and hopelessness gripped Kailash's voice. "Beaten! Without his power, she cannot be destroyed. He said so himself. The priestess has won, and Eldran is doomed. We are all doomed!"

"We are not beaten until we lie cold upon a slab of wood or stone, like Madesus," Conan said. "Whatever may befall ushor Eldranhwe have a duty to Madesus. I saw his murderer, but was felled 'ere I could catch him.

Malgoresh will find news from any who may have seen him flee the village."

"Aye, you are right, by Mitra," said the Kezankian, pulling himself together. "We must track this fiend, hew his worthless body with a thousand sword-strokes, and leave it to be torn by buzzards! No death could be too ignoble. Then we will decide what to do about the Mutare."

Kailash was unable to overcome his fatalistic sentiments, but he could at least push them aside temporarily.

"In the process," Conan continued, "we may recover his missing amulet.

Another priest might use its power to defeat the priestess!"

"His amulethgone? How did he die?"

Conan showed the hillman the shoulder wound. "Poison, from the signs. I found this, too." He showed Kailash the torn scrap of blue silk. He had no idea that it would cause such a violent reaction.

Kailash's jaw dropped. Dumbfounded, he gripped the table to keep himself from falling. The sight of that piece of silk dealt his heart a crushing blow and sent his brain reeling. The scrap's unmistakable meaning filled him with despair. He felt as if he were living inside his worst nightmare, where all his darkest fears came true. He knew whose robe the shred of silk had been torn from. Lamici, chief eunuch of the royal family of Brythunia, was the priest's murderer.

"I am a thrice-accursed dolt!" Kailash said dejectedly, hanging his head. "I should never have trusted him, never!"

"Who?" Conan demanded, exasperated. "Speak up, man!"

Swiftly, Kailash told Conan about Lamici, and his role in the day-to-day routine of the palace. During his discourse, the dejected hillman called himself every kind of fool. The Cimmerian did not see how Kailash could have known that the eunuch was a traitor. He shook his head, wondering how solid warriors like Kailash could tolerate life in the city, with its traitors, politics, and petty squabbling. Palace intrigues would drive a Cimmerian mad in a matter of days.

Kailash fumed, red-faced with agitation. "We must hunt him down. I shall not rest until his foul heart has been cut out and his black soul rots in the deepest pit of hell!"

Conan's sentiments echoed the hillman's. A treasonous wretch like Lamici was lower than a dung-eating maggot. "Madesus will be avenged!

Yet we must not underestimate this piece of palace offal. He is either very crafty, very lucky, or both. I thought no one knew where our path led, besides Eldran himself."

"Aye," Kailash agreed, his white-hot temper cooling. "We know not how deeply the traitor is embroiled in this affair. Was he in league with Valtresca, with the priestess, or with both?"

"It matters not. Were he in league with Set himself, I would follow this whoreson into the abyss and run him through! Come, let us see what Malgoresh has found, and tend to our horses. No matter where this viper's trail leads, we must ride swiftly to seal his doom!"

Seventeen

Path of the Serpent

Malgoresh had gleaned very little news from the villagers. Most of those who had not been at the taproom that night had been asleep in their huts. When Conan and Kailash found him, the frustrated Turanian shared what meager information he had.

"One old woman was roused by the sound of galloping hooves in the night," the morose innkeeper said. "Her name is Syrnecea; she is a priestess of Wiccana and lives alone in a hut at the eastern edge of the village."

"We must speak to her," Conan said firmly, though he flinched as Malgoresh spoke of the priestess.

"Syrnecea is blind, and if her mind were an inn, she would have rooms to let, if you take my meaning. You'll learn nothing from her."

"Take us to her anyway," Conan said insistently.

Malgoresh protested again, but finally led them to Syrnecea's hut. It was small but stoutly built, and looked older than many of the huts they had seen on the west side of Innasfaln.

"She lived here before the village was settled," Malgoresh commented, as if reading their thoughts. "Some say she has seen the Year of the Lion pass a dozen times. I know not if this is true, but she was midwife for a few of the village's elders." He paused, pointing to a stooped old woman who was emerging from the hut.

Conan believed that the woman could easily be over a hundred years old.

Her flowing white hair hung down nearly to her bent knees, and her face was wrinkled like the skin of sunbaked fruit. Hearing their voices, she turned toward them, but clearly was unable to see their faces.

Syrnecea's eyes were shut as tightly as window-shutters on a stormy day. She was thin, short, and crooked, reminding Conan of a gnarled tree, bent from years of strong windshbent, but not broken.

When they were within a few feet of Syrnecea, they greeted her politely. "I am Conan, from the north, and this is Kailash, a Kezankian fromh"

"Names, names. I am too old to remember names. Nothing can I know of thee from thy names. Come here, so I may know thee by the feel o' thy faces. A man's face is a window into his soul."

Conan and Kailash looked at each other skeptically. Malgoresh crossed his arms and lifted his gaze toward the sky. Deciding to humor the old woman, the two swordsmen came close enough for her to touch their faces. Syrnecea was too short to reach the Cimmerian's face, so he knelt by her, keeping his impatience in check as she moved her gnarled fingers over his scarred, squarish face. Next, she examined Kailash's face, which took less time than Conan's had.

"Stern faces o' men-at-arms," she said, letting her hands drop. "Sad faces, for men so young. Why have such mighty warriors as thee come to this humble village?"

"We seek a man you may have knowledge of," replied Conan. "You heard a horse last night, riding hard past your hut, on the road to the east?"

"Aye, most queer 'n' disturbin'," she mused. "'Twas not the sound that woke me, but the feelin' o' evil. The rider was a messenger o' death. I felt its presence, like icy fingers around me heart."

Kailash broke in eagerly. "You are certain he rode east?"

"Satisfy thy own curiosity," she said cryptically. "The horse passed within a few paces o' where we stand, tramplin' me garden."

Simultaneously, the men looked down at the recently tilled earth. A few clear hoofprints could be seen, pointing eastward.

"Thank you, Syrnecea," Kailash said gratefully. "To the east we ride, Conan!"

The Cimmerian dug out a piece of gold from his stash and pressed it into the blind woman's palm.

"A rich reward, for so little news!" Syrnecea was surprised by Conan's generosity. "Strange was the passin' o' this evil rider; I sense thy grief is linked to him somehow. I felt something else after he passed, but'twas a tinge o' goodness 'n' warmth that chased away the evil. I have sensed it before, but where, I cannot recall. Old age is a thief that creeps unseen upon me at night, stealin' away me memories as I sleep. Be ready for this thief when he comes to thee." She stopped speaking for a moment, then turned away from them. "He will someday find thee, be thee peasant, warrior or king."

They thanked her again, exchanging dubious glances with each other, agreeing with Malgoresh about the old woman's mental condition.

Refreshed by the vigor of purpose, they bid Malgoresh farewell and set off to find Lamici. The Turanian had stuffed their packs to bursting with provisions for the journey. Kailash had offered him a few pieces of gold for his troubles, and to help repair the taproom. Malgoresh had refused the offer. He had also solemnly promised to send a few trustworthy men to Corinthia with the body of Madesus. They would return the priest to Kaletos at his temple, for proper interment.

For the soul of their fallen companion, each man said a silent prayer to his respective deity. During the ride out of Innasfaln, they seldom spoke. Their eyes were busy looking for signs of Lamici's passing, and they kept their thoughts to themselves.

The eunuch proved difficult to track. Both men had skill in pathfinding, and their combined efforts were needed to pick out the signs of Lamici's trail. Many times the stony road gave no trace of his passing. They trusted to instinct and stayed near the road, eventually picking up small signs of his passage.

Although they did not know it, the route they followed had a name. By many travelers, it was known as the Path of the Serpent. Narrow and sinuous, it wound through the treacherous, craggy peaks of the vast mountain range forming Brythunia's southern and eastern borders. In places, the path was so thin that they were forced to ride single file.

They kept a watchful eye out for any evidence of bandits, especially in these narrow stretches of the path.

The midday sun was now directly above them; it warmed their bodies, but not their hearts. Conan broke the silence that had prevailed for several hours. "Why does he travel east and south, away from the city?"

Kailash answered immediately, as if he had been mulling over this very question. "Somehow, he knows where the priestess is. He must intend to warn her of our coming, or else he seeks a reward for slaying Madesus.

It matters not. We must stop him before he reaches the priestess. She may not know that Madesus is dead. When she finds out that the priest can no longer oppose her, there is no telling what she may do."

"We will catch the wretch," Conan said confidently. "No aging, city-bred eunuch can outrun a Cimmerian on a hunt. I'll not rest until his foul blood stains my blade and his black soul rots in hell!"

They made few stops as they rode along the Path of the Serpent, pausing only to let their horses rest and drink. There were many small lakes near the path, fed by narrow, sluggish rivers. Conan grumbled that they were pausing too frequently, but Kailash insisted that they keep their horses fresh for the long journey ahead. The Kezankian hoped that Lamici would drive his horse too hard and be forced to continue on foot. The Cimmerian grudgingly gave in to Kailash's argument.

The weather favored them until late in the afternoon, when angry clouds formed in the sky, cutting off the sunlight and its warmth. They had gradually climbed upward as they rode, and the air was now very cool.

The trees were still clustered thickly together, but the terrain was more rocky. They rode for several hours without finding any trace of Lamici.

The stony ground and dim light made tracking even more difficult, and Conan cursed the circumstances that had forced them to undertake this trek through these hills. He could now understand why the Brythunians feared no invasion from Zamora. Only an army of goats could have easily passed through the broken, rocky barrier formed by the Karpash Mountains. Their own horses had trouble in many places, and they had to dismount several times. They led their hardy steeds through narrow gaps of rock and up sharp inclines with shaky footing.

The going was slow. When afternoon turned into evening, Kailash estimated that they had traveled only thirty leagues. Neither man could judge the distance accurately, since the mountains still surrounded them on all sides.

"We must stop here for the night," Kailash said, sliding wearily off his horse.

"Nay, let us continue," Conan objected. "The clouds have broken, and the moon will provide enough light for us to see the path."

"Aye, enough to see the path, but what if he turns aside from the path?"

Conan frowned. '"Tis doubtful that he would. A horse could not traverse these mountains without staying on this path. There are too many trees and rocks. While these would present no obstacle to your clansmen or mine, a royal eunuch is no hill-climber. I say we forge ahead, lest he escape us."

Kailash sighed and stared for a while at the sunset. "Lead on," he said finally, climbing back up onto his mount.

They ate while they rode, without making a dent in the provisions that Malgoresh had thoughtfully provided. Conan found a bulging aleskin stuffed into one corner of his food-pack; he uncorked the skin and quickly upended it. The ale was not fresh, but he relished it anyway.

He passed the skin to Kailash.

The hillman took a generous swallow and smacked his lips noisily. "When this is over, we must return to Innasfaln and repay our growing debt to Malgoresh. His storytelling is even better than his ale-brewing."

Conan nodded. "I knew not of any Turanians who served in the army of Brythunia. Is he Turanian, or Brythunian?"

"Both," replied Kailash, taking another swig of ale. "Mostly Turanian.

His grandmother was Brythunian, a slave captured by Nemedians and liberated by his grandfather. His mother and father raised him in Sultanapur, by the Vilayet Sea. When he was a boy, they left Turan and journeyed eastward to Zamora, where most of his family still lives, in a village far north of Yezud. Our path may take us near there."

"To Zamora?" Conan asked with interest. "Have you been there before?"

"Years ago," Kailash said. "Malgoresh and I crossed these mountains and went to visit his family. We took a different path, one that cuts through the mountains to the south. We never went as far south as Yezud, a city full of lunatics who worship their spider-god, Zath. No sane man would traffick with those zealots."

"I was passing through your city on my way to Zamora. I have heard many tales of Shadizar and Arenjun, and of the wealth to be found there. I have heard little of Yezud, save rumors and legends."

"The worst of which are true." Kailash shuddered. "An ill-timed visit to that accursed city has shortened many a man's life span. I pray our trail does not lead there."

'The path has mostly led east, with only a slight southward bend,"

Conan noted. "We may cross into the Kezankians soon, if we do not turn directly south."

"Aye, we are not far from my homeland. Still, the going will be only a little easier in the Kezankian Mountains. Many years have passed since I have been there." Kailash's voice trailed off, as if he were lost in thought. When he spoke again, he changed the subject. "What would you do in Zamora? You are a swordsman, not a thief."

"What a soldier earns for a year of hard fighting, I would make in a day as a thief," Conan answered without shame. "Besides, you saw how much trouble I got into back at your city. Zamora is a lawless place, and its denizens care not where a man is from. The laws and customs of civilized lands are a senseless muddle to me. In Zamora, a man makes laws with his blade. I would carve a comfortable life for myself there."

Kailash shook his head. "Even a lion may be slain if he falls into a den of serpents. If you go to Zamora, watch your back, or it may suddenly sprout dagger-hilts. There are many kinds of thieves there; some of them steal more than gold!"

"Not from a Cimmerian," Conan said confidently.

"Why not return with me to the city?" Kailash offered. "We need a new captain, and the pay is better than you may think." He pointed at the bag of coins tied to Conan's belt. "You already have seen how generous Eldran can be, and the women"

Conan shook his head. "Nay. There are women in Zamora, too. Caged in your city, I would grow restless, with nothing to do but crack together a few drunken skulls every day and yell at witless city guardsmen. A ten-year-old boy from my clan could best any of them!"

Kailash was about to protest, but his esteem of the guards was only a little higher than Conan's. He gave up the conversation and chanced to glance down. He nearly fell off his horse in surprise at what he saw, "Look!"

Conan reined in and turned his mount back. A fresh mound of horse droppings lay on the path near Kailash's horse.

"Lamici's mount?" Kailash conjectured.

"Or the spoor of some other traveler's beast," Conan said, but without conviction.

Both men kicked their horses into a trot, believing that they had picked up Lamiei's trail again. They strained to watch the path, maintaining as much vigilance as possible under the moon's faint light.

When the clouds dissipated completely, they could see a few of the brighter stars, looking down on them from the black sky.

They rode on for hours, pushing forward with all the speed they could muster. They saw nothing else to confirm that Lamici had passed through, but they stubbornly continued. Finally they agreed to stop and sleep for a few hours, to let the horses rest. Laying down their saddle-blankets, they flung themselves to the ground and were fast asleep in moments.

They were closer to Lamici than they realized. The eunuch had ridden hard after fleeing the village. Half-blinded by the light from the priest's strange amulet, Lamici had panicked. He had wondered if Conan would pursue him; if he had not been blinded, he would have crouched by the door and waited for the stupid barbarian to come out and feel the deadly sting of his stiletto. His vision had been slow to return, and he had stumbled along the outer wall of the tavern, searching in the dark for the tree where he had tied his horse.

When he had found it, his nerves were screaming in raw fear. He had taken too long; the Cimmerian would be on him like a bloodhound!

Frantically, he had mounted the horse and kicked it into a full gallop.

He had ridden east for several hours before realizing in what direction he was going. His vision had returned, but not his nerve. If he turned around, he risked a head-on confrontation with Conan and any allies the Cimmerian may have with him.

On the other hand, if he continued east, he might find a place wherein to conceal himself. If the Cimmerian passed by, Lamici could hide in silence until Conan was safely gone. Satisfied with this plan, he had continued eastward. He soon discovered the problem with this, though: the path afforded no hiding places. On all sides were rocks or closely clustered trees; he had not the strength to climb or break through them. Frustrated, he had kept going, clinging to the idea of finding a safe place in which to hide.

The eunuch made slower progress than Conan and Kailash had; he had far less skill in navigating the difficult path. He still kept his lead, however, since he was not pausing to track as were the other two. He was glad that the rocky trail left few traces of his passing, and was careful to steer away from any dirt that would leave a telltale hoofprint.

Now, less than three leagues away from Conan and Kailash, Lamici slept.

Unlike the sound sleep of his pursuers, his rest was troubled by a strange dream. In the dream, he was a small gray mouse in the middle of an open field. The field surrounded him for as far as he could see, affording no cover.

He was being chased. It was nighttime, so he could not discern what was hunting him, but it flew overhead, seeking him out. He heard the leathery sound of its flapping wings, and its shrill, far-off cry. He froze in terror and gazed upward, trying to fathom what pursued him.

All he could see was a huge single eye, bearing down on him. It was dark red, with a black slit of a pupil in the center. He waited for the inevitable doom to descend upon him, unable to move. He felt sharp claws and jagged teeth sinking into his frail form, tearing him to pieces.

Lamici awoke with a scream. He looked up, as he had in the dream, but there was no eye, just the bone-white, neutral orb of the moon.

Trembling, he breathed a sigh of relief. Looking around, he saw only his horse, tethered to a tree. He was about to lie down again when a strange, azure-blue glow caught the corner of his eye.

It came from inside his leather pouch, which lay on the ground beside him. He unwound the cord that secured the pouch's closing and peered inside. The priest's amulet was glowing faintly. Lamici frowned, rummaged through his gear for some dark cloth, and wound it around the amulet in several layers. Having stifled the glow, he tucked the strange object back into the pouch. He had just finished tying the cord when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Good evening, Lamici." A strangely echoing female voice filled his ears. He whirled around to face her.

"Azora!" he cried out in shock. "Here? Howh"

"'How' is not important. Listen closely to me, and do as I tell you."

The Mutare stood before him, cloaked in black, barely visible in the dark of night. The moon shone on the pale skin of her face, partially shadowed by her cloak's hood. Beneath the darkness of her hood, he could see her dark red eyes. Her lips gleamed redly in the moonlight, as if smeared with fresh blood. The long sleeves of her cloak covered her hands, and the hem of the cloak rested on the ground.

"Of course, Priestess. I am at your service, as always. I beg of you to answer me one question. Why does Eldran still live?"

"Strong are the forces that protect him. The priest, Madesus, bears a talisman that interferes with my magic."

"No longer, Priestess. I have slain him! Last night, in the village, I struck him down with my envenomed dagger."

"Truly?" Her eyes bored into his, as if she was fathoming the depths of his memory to see if he lied. Then her lips parted in a grim smile of victory, and she laughed chillingly. "Well done, eunuch! Then only one task remains for you. Bring his talisman to mehthe amulet he bore. Its powers are ancient and deadly. Without its power, no onehnot even a priest of accursed Mitrahcan stand before me!"

Lamici smiled. "I have it with me, Priestess. I took it from his dead hand." Triumphantly, he picked up his leather pouch and extracted the cloth-wrapped amulet.

Azora backed away a few paces. "Wait! I cannot look upon it now. It has powers of its own, even without the priest to wield it against me. You must continue along the path you are on, and bear south when you reach the eastern slopes of the Kezankians. Guard the talisman! Bring it to my fortress in the Shan-e-Sorkh. There, I have the power to destroy it."

Lamici's expression revealed his confusion.

"I am not here in the flesh, you fool!" Azora explained impatiently.

She reached out her hand to the eunuch and passed a black-nailed finger completely through him. "You see only a reflection. So vast is my power that I cast it from far away."

Lamici struggled to grasp the idea, then spoke again. "How will I find your fortress? I have never traveled so far south or east."

"I shall send my reflection again when you bear south. Bring me the talisman, and tarry not. After I destroy it, Eldran will die. This time nothing will prevent his death!"

"There is one more problem, Priestess. Conan and Kailash still live.

They escaped from the trap in the temple, and even now, they follow me."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Azora's face. In better light, the eunuch would have also seen her momentary expression of doubt. "They must not catch you. There is little I can do to protect you from them until you are closer to my fortress. Ride swiftly! Hundreds of leagues still separate us, and you must close the distance. Keep the talisman hidden!"

The image of Azora vanished, as the moon was blocked by a thin layer of clouds drifting into the night sky. Lamici rubbed his eyes, yawned, and gathered his gear. He would reach Azora with the amulet. He would salvage his hopes with her help. No matter the cost to him, he would stay ahead of his pursuers and lead them to their doom. Laughing, he galloped eastward, leaving the two sleeping warriors many leagues behind him.

Eighteen

The Sleeper in the Sand

Azora was levitating a few feet above the floor of the library within Skauraul's fortress. Languidly she lowered herself to the plushly carpeted but cold floor. She sat there motionless, looking more like a figure in a painting than one in real life.

For some hours she had floated thusly, searching the ethereal spirit world for signs of Madesus's amulet. Her body, left behind in the material world, did not inhale or exhale, nor did her crimson eyes blink even once. Her mortal shell had simply hovered mindlessly, serving only as a tether for the intangible cord of her spirit.

Eventually she had returned from the ethereal lands, having found what she sought.

She had learned the ways of ethereal travel from the tomes in Skauraul's vast arcane library. There were hundreds of volumes there, filled with long-forgotten secrets of dark, sorcerous arts. Her first sight of the library had struck her with awe. It was the greatest she had ever seen, a storehouse of arcane knowledge. She had gleaned from Xim that many treasure-vaults were hidden in Skauraul's stronghold, but these had not interested her. To her, the library's worth was far greater than that of all the gems and gold in the fortress.

Xim had refused to accompany her into the repository. Anxious to explore the works within, she had not cared what Xim did. She had left him in the hall outside, dismissing him as she had looked over the many shelves full of ancient books, and the neatly organized racks of scrolls. The library was vast, with a ceiling over twenty feet high and every inch of wall space taken up by shelves and racks. A dozen storehouses in darkest Stygia would not equal it.

The first volume she had chosen to study was Skauraul's personal grimoire. The immense tome rested on an oddly shaped table, built entirely of human bones. Its covers had been made of beaten copper, now badly tarnished with age. The gilt-edged pages inside were thick and yellowed, but not yet crumbling. The first two thirds of the volume were tightly packed with script written in Skauraul's spidery hand.

Thousands of words filled each expansive page, but unlike similar texts she had perused, this one contained no drawings or diagrams. The pages themselves had given off a queer glow, dim but bright enough to read by, even if the room was pitch black. Curiously, the remaining third of the book had been empty.

She had scanned through the last few pages before this empty section.

They were written in a language unknown to her. Exasperated, she had flipped back through the book until she had found a section she could read. For hours she had pored eagerly over Skauraul's writings.

Eventually her deep thirst had been temporarily quenched, and she had decided to practice some of the arts described in the vast tome.

The most intriguing of these had been the art of ethereal travel.

Physical distances meant nothing in the strange world of the ethereal, where she could send her spirit thousands of leagues away in the wink of an eye. Carefully, she had made the incantations necessary to free her spirit from her body. At first the spell had not worked, but after repeated attempts, she had begun her journey into the dreamy, intangible realm of the ethereal.

Skauraul had written that one's ethereal spirit could look upon events in the material world and yet remain unseen to those in that world.

Azora had decided to see what had become of the fool Madesus and the two bumbling warriors in the temple, where she had laid a trap. Where she should have found their torn, gashed bodies, there had been nothing. Perturbed, she had next sought Balberoth, to see if he had utterly destroyed them. As she willed her spirit to seek him, she had been taken on a terrifying journey through the dark, chaotic layers of the abyss itself.

Balberoth's formless spirit had been sent to a special pit in hell, reserved for demons who are banished from the physical world. She had read of the existence of such a pit, but words had not done it justice.

The place was a mind-numbing chaosium, filled with endlessly screaming, tormented wraiths, who would writhe in impotent fury for all eternity.

Shuddering, Azora had withdrawn her spirit from the pit, back to the library.

How could Balberoth have failed? The priest Madesus had not the strength to resist a demon of the Elder Night, who was nearly as powerful as a lesser god. Shaken, Azora turned the question over in her mind, seeking an answer. Mitra himself must have intervened, for only a god had the power to banish a demon of the Elder Night. If Mitra was with Madesus, the priest posed more of a threat than she had originally thought. Determined to find him, she had reentered the ethereal world and begun searching.

Instead of finding Madesus, her spirit had located Lamici. The insane old fool was sleeping beside a road that cut through the Karpash Mountains. Azora did not understand why her spirit had been drawn to the eunuch, but she decided to enter his dreaming mind and awaken him, a fascinating technique that Skauraul had described in great detail.

When the screaming eunuch had risen, she had decided to question him.

What she had learned both gratified and confounded her. At least the priest was dead; the eunuch had stopped his heart with a deadly poison.

She had used the potion herself in the past, and knew that its effects were irreversible. By luck, the eunuch had also seized the priest's amulet.

She was uncertain of what role the amulet had played in this affair, but she knew how dangerous the talisman was to her. It was the last magic remnant of Xuoquelos, one of the Mutare's most bitter enemies.

She was certain that the amulet had prevented her death-spell from striking down Eldran, and perhaps it had even kept the priest safe from Balberoth.

Lamici would bring her the amulet. She dared not touch it herself, nor even look upon it, but she did know how to render it harmless. When immersed in the blood of a man with no soul, the talisman would lose its power. Lamici would serve this purpose; when she had first met him, she had begun to take his soul away. Since a man thus deprived fears nothing, she had left him a little of his soul, intending to extract all the torment she could from him when he had become useless to her.

His fear would bring him to her. Her only concern was over the two warriors. If they managed to catch the eunuch, they might use the amulet against her, or bring it to one who knew the extent of its powers. As long as Lamici kept ahead of them, she was safe. She could do nothing to the warriors when they were so far away, but soon they would come within her sphere of influence.

Without the priest or the amulet to protect them, she would easily cut them down. They could not harm her for she could not be slain by ordinary steel. She would torment and weaken them, and feed them to the spiders in the chamber far below. She had decided to keep these children of Zath as pets. Xim, however, she did not trust. She would eventually dispose of him, too, but at present, he was the least of her concerns.

Time was on her side. At full gallop, Lamici and his pursuers would not enter the Shan-e-Sorkh for a week. She would put the time to good use, to absorb Skauraul's magical writings. She would avidly seek the most powerful of the ancient Mutare's secrets: immortality. Of all the mages who had searched for this most precious secret, only Skauraul had ever unearthed it. The historical accords she had read told of his being vanquished before he could complete the rituals required to attain immortality. She would not suffer a similar fate; there was no one alive to stand in her way.

Returning to the bone-table and the dire volume resting upon it, Azora began reading fervently, as if in a trance. Inscribed somewhere within its copper-bound pages was the key to eternal life. She started with the first page. She would not rest until she found it.

Xim crouched outside the library's door, waiting. Scar, the ancient master, had told him that one day the female would come.

"She will have eyes like mine," he had said. "Show her the secret way past the old ones, and take her to the top of the long stair. Follow her not into the Thalamus Arcanus! Hide yourself in the hollow above the door and await my return. So that you may show her the way when she comes, I grant you the power of speech."

When he had finished speaking, Scar had touched Xim with a long, black-nailed finger, altering the arachnid's mind and body to give him the use of words.

Later that same day, a strange, white-haired man had come to the fortress, calling out the ancient master's name. The man carried with him a long, silver spike. Xim remembered the master's words as he had opened the door and gone out to confront the visitor: "The fool thinks I can be killed," Scar had muttered. "He knows not how deeply I have dug my roots. Even if his ill-conceived plan works, he cannot destroy me utterly. In a few centuries, when he is but dust in a forgotten crypt, I shall return to trouble the world again."

Scar had charged Xim to remain in the fortress's antechamber until the female came. Without further words, the master had left the fortress and gone out into the desert to confront the white-haired man.

Through the open fortress door, Xim had impassionately watched their brief and terrible struggle. Eventually the white-haired stranger had impaled Scar upon the silver spike. As he did so, Scar's body had simply turned to dust, which had quickly been scattered by the continually blowing desert wind. The force of the wind had increased until it had become a howling gale. The stinging sand forced the stranger to back away from the fortress; it shut the heavy stone door that Xim had been looking through. The sand storm blew about the fortress for many months, keeping away looters and curious explorers.

When the wind had died down, the fortress had been completely covered.

No trace of its existence remained.

Throughout the centuries, the ageless Xim had patiently waited for the female to arrive, faithfully keeping his sleepless vigil at the fortress's doorway. Slowly the xanthuous dunes had shifted, lifting the sandy shroud that had draped the fortress for so long. By then, its existence was remembered only in a few dusty scrolls or seldom-read books. Some considered it mere legend, as no one living had ever claimed to have seen it.

As Azora feverishly perused Skauraul's ancient manuscript, and Xim crept quietly into the hollow above the door, the sands outside the fortress had begun to stir again. This time there was no wind blowing them hither and thither; they swirled and moved about like swarms of tiny insects. Only a select few grains moved, all from a small, localized area. Some rose from the ground briefly, only to fall back down.

Hours passed; the sun climbed into the cloudless desert sky, then dipped below the western horizon. With every hour that went by, more grains of sand became animated, until a small, dusty maelstrom was formed several dozen paces from the fortress's stony door. Speck by speck, it grew. By late that following evening, it was nearly seven feet in height. Whirling and spinning, the funnel of sand twisted toward the fortress door, guided by some unseen intelligence.

It stopped when it reached the portal, stretching and changing in shape. A naked humanoid form became visible from the feet up, as if the flesh was pouring into the funnel from an invisible pitcher. Gradually the dusty granules became one with the form, and the whirling funnel of sand disappeared. Before the door of his fortress stood the most powerful Mutare in history, born anew. Skauraul's deep, rumbling laughter echoed across the desolate steppes. Extending a hand, he pushed the heavy stone door open with ease, as if it had been a gossamer veil.

His bare feet made no sound as he walked inside, crossing the antechamber in a few powerful strides. His smooth, pale-skinned body was well muscled, and proportioned almost too perfectly. His complexion was flawless; only a keen eye could have detected faint, rounded scar-lines on his chest and the center of his back, where the silver spike had pierced him years ago. Like Azora's, his nails and teeth were black, but his lips were white. Devoid of hair, he did not have even eyelashes or eyebrows. Eyes of solid, unfathomable black, like polished orbs of coal, surveyed the chamber.

The webs parted before him as he approached the illusory wall that served as gateway to the rooms in the fortress. He moved into the corridor, pleased to find that the old ones were still perched above the false doors, exactly as he had left them. He stepped past the false wall, into the stone passage beyond.

High in the tower above him, Azora slumped back in her chair and looked up from the book before her. She was exhausted; days of reading had fatigued her even more than the rite of translocation to the desert had done. She had pored over the pages in a trancelike state, without feeling the exhaustion until this moment. Incredible powers were now hers, and dark secrets, too. Much of the book described excruciating methods of torture, to reap fear and anguish from hapless human victims.

She longed to put her newfound skills into practice. Soon she would send her spirit into the ethereal world to see how Lamici was faring.

Before she could attempt this, she would need to recharge her magical energies, presently at a very low ebb indeed.

From her cloak she withdrew a small bowl, made of thinly beaten metal, with strange symbols etched into its curved sides. Next, she drew out a palm-sized box, carved from the wood of a carnivorous Kalamtu tree.

Sliding its cover off, she took out a dried, pressed piece of a black lotus blossom. Placing the blossom into the bowl, she spoke a single word.

"Atmak."

A thin blue flame burned from her fingernail, and she set the blossom afire.

It burned very slowly, filling the air with dark, acrid smoke. Placing the bowl on the floor in front of her, she took the smoke into her lungs. Within seconds, she was deep in the dreams of the black lotus.

Far below her, Skauraul stood at the base of the long stair. He had donned breeks, and a sleeveless black vest with side-laces woven of black human hair. The tight breeks and vest had been fashioned from the thick skin of a giant lizard. He wore no boots or sandals, nor any other gear save a black stone ring, which he had slipped over the smallest finger of his left hand.

Mechanically, he began climbing the long stair. He ascended quietly, with only the occasional sound of his thick, black toenails clicking against the stone steps. Everything was as he remembered it. In the centuries he had lain dormant in the sand, no pilferers or defilers had disturbed his great fortress. It had nested safely in its sandy tomb, awaiting his return.

Hundreds of years ago, even before his rise to power, Skauraul had foreseen the day of his defeat. The premonition of his own death had preyed upon him, driving him to madness. In his recurring dream, a white-haired old man skewered him upon a silver spike. He had used his power to seek and slay those who resembled the man in this vision.

Eventually all humans had looked to him like the man in his premonition. Thousands had died on spikes outside his palace; the sand had turned red from their blood. Still, the vision would not go away.

The gods themselves had seemed determined to vanquish him. They feared that his powers would eclipse theirs, and they lashed out at him in jealousy.

They would fail. He would survive, and his powers would grow.

While continuing his systematic murders, he had studied the esoteric Thurian Codex, eventually learning of a way to conquer death. He would need help; the spell that would bring him back from the dead could be cast only by another Mutare, steeped in the arts of necromancy.

Further, the caster must not know of Skauraul's designs.

To achieve this goal, Skauraul struck a bargain with the venerable serpent-god, Set. To the evil Stygian god, ten thousand victims were sacrificed horribly on the spikes outside his fortress. In return, Set granted Skauraul's request.

Centuries later, in the Purple Lotus swamps of southern Stygia, by the southernmost banks of the Bakhr River, Set had come to one of his priests in a dream, telling him that a special girl-child would be born in a nearby village. He had told the priest other secrets, dark whisperings of rituals that had turned the stomach of even the jaded Stygian priest.

Obediently, the priest had kidnapped the girl-child from the village and raised her in his swampy habitat. She was unlike human females, not just physically, but in her attitudes and interests. He had grown afraid of her, but greater had been his fear of Set. Fourteen years later, on the eve of the day of her birthhin the Year of the Spider and the Month of the Scorpionhhe had performed the ritual that Set had commanded. Later, he had deliberately imbibed a lethal dosage of juice squeezed from the blossoms of the purple lotus.

Skauraul knew not what she had done or where she had gone in the years prior to her arrival at his fortress. Further, he cared not. Set had kept his part of the bargain, and the priestess had unknowingly invoked the spell that Skauraul had inscribed in his book hundreds of years ago.

If the casting of it had not destroyed her, Skauraul had further uses for her. He controlled her completely, though she knew it not. She would bear him many Mutare children. He commanded magic that would speed the growth of their spawn within her; a new child would be born every time the moon waxed full. When the babes had grown sufficiently, he would send them out to all lands, like harbingers of chaos and calamity to groveling, mewling human wretches everywhere. He cared not that her powers would diminish while she was with child. Her weakened condition would keep her from attempting to destroy him.

Skauraul's eyes glinted blackly with anticipation as he marched up the steps to claim his bride.

Nineteen

Marathon

The sun burned balefully in the cloudless azure sky above the eastern desert of Shem. Conan shaded his eyes with a sun-bronzed hand and carefully scanned the southern horizon. He blinked several times to be certain that what he saw was not a desert phantasm, nor an image conjured up by his sunbaked head. Nay, he saw it still, the gray speck weaving at the outer edge of his vision.

"I see him, just half a league away," he rasped hoarsely to Kailash.

"He must have stopped to rest last night," the Kezankian mumbled. He felt and sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of sand.

"Today we catch him, by Crom!" Conan said wearily. "The seventh day of our chase, and the wretch still leads us!"

"Eighth day," Kailash corrected. He had been counting the days since they had left Innasfaln. The first few days had been uneventful, but on the fifth day, a small band of Zuagir bandits had attacked them. The two warriors had made camp in the southeastern foothills of the Kezankian Mountains, south of the Road of Kings. Conan had awakened in time to see several shadowy, knife-wielding forms approaching the camp under the cover of darkness. The Cimmerian had charged the Zuagirs and shouted to Kailash, rousing him.

In a pitched battle, they had slain a few of the nomads, but others escaped, taking Conan's and Kailash's horses with them. Conan's provisions had still been packed onto his mount, but Kailash's had fortunately been lying on the ground beside him. Though discouraged, they were unwilling to give up the chase, and had continued afoot to dog Lamici's southward trail.

Their diligence had not been in vain. The next day they had found the carcass of a horse that Kailash recognized as one of the steeds from Eldran's stable. The eunuch had pushed it too hard; he was now forced to continue on foot. With renewed hope, the two warriors had followed his sandal-tracks along the southernmost foothills of the Kezankian Mountains. The trail was colder. Lamici had gained much distance on them.

They had tracked him to the northeast edges of the Mountains of Fire.

Eventually even the far-off sight of those mountains had vanished from the horizon as they had forged deeper into the arid wastes of the Shemitish desert. Lamici's foot-track had proven easier to follow than his horse-track. They had been certain of their nearness to him, but the eunuch had stayed maddeningly ahead of them.

Only now, days later, had Conan actually sighted him. Both men moved their aching legs along, redoubling their efforts to apprehend their quarry.

"The wretch has the endurance of a desert scorpion," Conan grumbled, "and better luck than we have had."

"His luck is about to change," Kailash mumbled grimly, fingering the hilt of his sword suggestively.

"If he reaches the fortress before we catch him, our luck may worsen,"

Conan observed grimly.

Kailash lapsed into a surly silence, conserving his energy. Neither he nor Conan had yet brought up an issue of growing concern: their dwindling provisions. They had conserved their supply of water, but the grueling pace they maintained was taking its toll. Further, they had not rested in the hottest hours of the day, as originally planned. To gain distance, they had opted to trudge on even while the sun was at its zenith.

Kailash believed that a few days without water would not trouble the Cimmerian. He wished that he had the same iron constitution as Conan, for he feared he would slow them up. His legs were cramping badly, his lungs ached from the searing air of the desert, and the exposed areas of his flesh were red and peeling. After they caught the eunuch, he was unsure if he could survive the journey back.

He allowed his mind to retreat from these unhappy thoughts, letting it linger instead on visions of cool tankards of ale and the soft caresses of beautiful tavern wenches. In a dreamlike state, he kept moving on, mindlessly following the Cimmerian.

As the merciless sun finally retreated from the sky, Conan once again surveyed the southern horizon. He smiled through cracked, chapped lips at what he saw. They were closing on Lamici, whose trail was weaving like the crooked gait of a tavern drunk. They had passed his empty, discarded water skin hours before; surely the crazed eunuch was on his last legs.

Conan turned at the sound of a soft thump behind him. Kailash had pitched forward into the sand. The Cimmerian moved toward him immediately, but Kailash stirred and got to his feet.

"Fell asleep," Kailash muttered, brushing sand from his face. He promptly fell back down.

Conan threw him a worried glance. He propped the hillman's head up and put the water skin to his blistered lips.

Kailash sipped at it, then raised himself on his elbows.

"Need to rest," he told Conan through half-closed eyes. "You go on."

Conan looked back toward the far-off figure of Lamici, which he could barely see in the fading light of dusk. He wished for even a few hours of sleep. He could not drag the big Kezankian along with him, nor could he simply abandon him here in the desert. They had only one skin of water between them. He made another attempt to prod Kailash into consciousness, but the groggy hillman lay motionless on the ground.

Disconcerted and out of ideas, the Cimmerian flung himself to the sand, a few paces away from Kailash. After pulling his hood over his face and resting a hand on the hilt of his drawn sword, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

Conan woke up feeling strangely refreshed. All about him were drab yellow dunes of fine sand, blown smooth by a wind that swept across them. The wind had sculpted sinuous patterns into the dunes, like waves in a sea of sand. His skin was dry and his lips were badly sunburned, but he did not feel the nagging tickle of thirst in his throat. Then an awful realization struck him. The morning sun was rising! He had overslept!

He raised up a hand to shield his eyes from the fiery gaze of the desert sun's blazing eye. He lurched to his feet and moved over to awaken Kailash. With a jarring shock, he noticed that the hillman was nowhere in sight. There were no tracks in the sand to show where he might have gone. Desperately, Conan scanned the horizon for any sign of his friend. The sun burned especially bright today, so bright that he put one hand against his brow to shield his eyes.

In fact, the sun loomed closely over him, filling the sky with an unbearable radiance. He raised his arms protectively, peering out through slits in his squinting eyelids. As suddenly as the orb had swelled to fill the sky, it began to shrink and recede. He noticed that it had changed from yellow in color to bluish-white.

Now it was no longer in the sky above him, but at the end of a silver chain. An elderly, white-haired man held the chain in one hand; in the other, he gripped a silver spike. His only garb was a tattered, dusty brown wrap; the well-worn sandals upon his feet flapped loosely. He shuffled across the sand toward the bewildered Cimmerian.

"Slay him as I did!" he crowed in a shrill voice, waving the spike around.

Conan quickly assumed a fighting stance, his weapon ready. Old as he was, this crazy geezer might be dangerous.

"When he looks upon it, he must face thee! Do not let him flee!" The man continued to rave, holding up the amulet. Conan recognized the trinket; it looked identical to the one Madesus had carried!

"Who are you?" the disoriented Cimmerian asked, still gripping his weapon firmly.

"Deranassib of Pelishtia," the man answered. "Pierce his heart! Slay him as I did!"

"Who am I to slay, and how? I have no amulet, no silver spike. Where is Kailash, who was here with me?"

This time the old man did not respond. He pointed southward with his spike, turned his back toward Conan, and walked away, prattling on. As he walked, the flesh on his body faded until there was naught but bleached white bone. The skeleton receded, then sank into the sand, disappearing from Conan's field of vision. The perplexed barbarian made no effort to follow. The sun was in his eyes again; it filled the sky and expanded toward him, crushing, burning, searing

Conan woke up bellowing, grasping his sword-hilt and leaping nimbly to his feet. The sky was still dark; he had been dreaming. Cursing, he kicked at the sand and let his racing pulse slow down. A few paces away, Kailash stirred and yawned, then got up.

"Did you say something?" he asked in a sleep-muddled voice.

"Nay," Conan replied, thinking it best not to share the strange, unsettling dream with his companion. "We must move on. I think that Lamici did not stop to rest."

"You should have left me," the hillman said, hanging his head in shame.

"My weakness may have cost us dearly. What time I have lost, I will make up for today. Onward!"

Wasting no more breath, Kailash set off at a rapid pace. The wind had not blown while they slept; the sand clearly showed Lamici's footprints. Under the light of the moon, they followed without pausing.

Conan easily matched the hillman's long strides, and by sunrise, they were close enough to see the eunuch from afar.

He was nearing the broken walls of an ancient structure. The walls rose unexpectedly out of the desert before them, and beyond them stood a forbidding tower. As Kailash saw the eunuch stagger toward the structure's ruined gate, he uttered a stream of profanities that would have made an Argossean sailor flinch. "Run!" he called hoarsely to Conan. "We must catch him before he goes within!"

Drawing on reservoirs of inner strength, they dashed pell-mell toward the wall. Conan wondered whose doom was at hand: Lamici's or theirs?

Putting aside his misgivings, he sprinted over the sand. He passed Kailash and rapidly closed the distance to the limping, faltering eunuch. He did not know that within the fortress, from the highest tower, soot-black eyes were coldly watching him.

Lamici looked over his shoulder and nearly screamed in terror when he saw the barbarian coming within a few hundred paces of him. The eunuch had no voice left with which to scream, and his blistered lips had swollen and split grotesquely. His gaunt, skull-like face was a peeling mask of cracked and sunburnt tissue, hanging in dozens of strips. The rest of his body was in similar dishevelment; his dust-soiled blue robes hung in shredded disarray about his stick-like body.

Most shocking of all were his eyes. For days he had stared into the sun, fascinated by its brightness. The orb had given them the color and texture of congealed, milky-white potato soup. He was almost blind. In spite of his hampered vision, he knew which way to go, guided by some unseen pathfinder. He no longer remembered why he walked, or even what his own name was. His world consisted of very few objects: the sun, the fortress, and the amulet. They were all somehow important.

He stumbled through an opening in the outer wall, falling over but managing to stagger to his feet and continue. Behind him, the Cimmerian bolted madly toward the gate, less than a dozen paces away. He raised his sword before him, and its point was mere paces from the eunuch's back. The unseen, dark-eyed watcher within the fortress observed every step. As Lamici passed through the wall, the watcher spoke his first word in many silent centuries.

"Kapatmak-kutuk!"

The syllables rolled echoingly from Skauraul's throat, setting powerful forces in motion.

"Augh!" Conan bellowed in surprise as he slammed into the hardened iron of the gate, where there had been only empty air moments before. His blade went flying, and he rebounded backward into the sand. Reeling from the unexpected collision, he groped for his weapon and rose unsteadily.

"What witchery is this?" Kailash asked, skidding to a halt several feet in front of the gate. "Look!" With his sword, he pointed toward the walls on either side of the gate. They were no longer crumbling, cracked ribs of stone jutting up from the stand. Now they stood restored, unblemished and impervious.

"We must climb over," grumbled Conan. "We can still catch him!"

Both he and the hillman were skilled climbers. They scaled the gate, which provided more footholds and grips than did the smooth walls.

Conan hoisted himself up to the top of the gate and looked over it.

Lamici was halfway to the steps that led to the fortress's door. The Cimmerian swung over the gate and climbed part of the way down, then dropped to the ground below. Kailash followed him, rolling as he fell upon the soft sand. The eunuch was only a few hundred feet away. He had just reached the steps that led up to the fortress door.

"Delmek-keskin!"

Once again Skauraul spoke boomingly from the tower.

Conan drew his broad-bladed dagger as he darted toward the faltering eunuch. Behind him, Kailash let out a roar of surprise and pain. Conan glanced over his shoulder, nearly dropping the dagger in astonishment.

A long, wickedly barbed spike had suddenly thrust up from the sand. Its iron shaft was nearly as thick as the Cimmerian's wrist. The spike had narrowly missed the hillman, grazing his left side and ripping away a piece of his worn cloak. Conan felt a slight tickle by his right foot and instinctively dived to one side. His lightning-fast reflexes saved him; another iron spike pierced the air where he had been only an instant before. It rose in the air, a head taller than Conan, before stopping.

The sandy patch of ground between the two men and the fortress had become a nightmarish death trap. Conan and Kailash frantically dodged the lethal spikes, which were sprouting from the ground around them like deadly iron weeds. Occasionally a spike would retract back into the ground; the sand would fill the hole that had been made, leaving little trace of the evil presence.

Conan and Kailash continued their frenzied dance around the spikes, inching closer to the fortress. Both men bled from numerous close calls, and their cloaks were ripped and torn in countless places. The Cimmerian, already winded from the foot-race, knew he would be skewered if he let his concentration slip for even a moment. Trusting to luck, he plunged ahead heedlessly, closing his eyes and running at full clip toward the door of the fortress.

When he opened his eyes again, he stood at the base of the steps, beyond the reach of the harrowing spikes. A nasty gash had opened along his right leg; the barbs from one spike had slashed his flesh brutally.

He was otherwise intact.

Imitating Conan's crazed rush for the steps, Kailash hurled himself forward. He had nearly made it when a pole came up forcefully, ripping through his left foot and continuing upward. Howling in agony, Kailash fell to the ground.

Conan latched hold of the spike and wrenched at it with all his might.

The thick iron pole bent, then snapped off. Its barbs bit deeply into his palms, but he ignored the blood that flowed. Kailash pulled his foot free from the stem. In spite of his dehydration, a few tiny droplets beaded from his eyes, drawn out by the pain. Grimacing, he tore a loose strip from his cloak and bound his injured foot, knotting the cloth tightly and hobbling forward. Thick blood oozed slowly into the wrapping.

Gripping the spike like a makeshift spear, Conan drew his arm back.

"Die, dog of hell!"

He hurled the deadly shaft toward Lamici, who had been struggling weakly with the fortress's heavy door. Even for one of Conan's skill, the emaciated eunuch made a poor target. The point buried itself in the eunuch's right shoulder, passing through with enough force to push the door open. The momentum of Conan's throw propelled Lamici inside.

Conan retrieved his dropped dagger and bounded up the steps. Kailash limped stubbornly after him, wincing. They reached the door minutes later and dived inside.

A gruesome sight awaited them in the fortress's cobwebby antechamber.

Several hairy, bloated spiders surrounded the eunuch's prone form and were busily feasting upon it. Conan's stomach heaved in revulsion at the hideous slurping and rending noises. Wielding his sword, he quickly dispatched the carnivorous arachnids.

Kailash fought off others that had dropped down from the chamber's high ceiling, while Conan wrenched a small leather pouch from the dead eunuch's scrawny waist. Inside, he found nothing but a small, heavy, cloth-bound object. He tore off the wrappings and triumphantly held up Madesus's amulet.

Kailash looked down at his injured foot. "You must leave, Conan! Take the amulet and flee. Give it to a priest with the power to wield it against the priestess. You must go, now!" He thrust the bag of provisions at the Cimmerian.

Conan was spared the decision.

"Kapatmak-kapi!" Skauraul had spoken for a third time, sealing the human maggots in his tower. The iron door clanged shut. Conan made a vain effort to pull the spear from Lamici's corpse and block the door, but he was too late.

Leaving the lofty observation room, Skauraul began the long climb down the winding stairs.

Twenty

Exitium

Conan and Kailash stared at the stone portal. Kailash tried his strength, but the door stubbornly refused to open. "There are three other doors," the burly hillman observed after his eyes had adjusted to the chamber's almost indiscernible light.

Conan eyed the doors with suspicion. Leering gargoyles crouched menacingly above them, and his instincts told him that traps lay just beyond.

"Four doors," Conan said, moving to the large stone door that had slammed behind them. He made several efforts to force it open, but the stout portal would have withstood a dozen men with a metal-shod battering ram. Kailash and Conan combined their strength in a final, superhuman push. The thick stone refused to yield; it stood before them, silently mocking their strength. Panting from exertion, they gave up and slumped against the wall.

"Why did it close?" Kailash wondered aloud. "By Mitra, the traps in this accursed place are timed with inhuman precision! Do the very doors obey the witch's commands?"

Conan responded with a vague grunt and mumbled a few curses. He was looking around the chamber for another way out and noticed that the light within had somehow improved. As he scanned the walls and ceiling, he was startled to find that the priest's amulet was shining. It gave off an increasingly bright blue glow. He held it aloft, allowing it to illuminate the room.

"Look here! Tracks, in the dust!" Conan called to Kailash, pointing at boot-marks in the thin layer of dust on the floor before one of the doors.

Kailash stared questioningly at the amulet, but Conan only shrugged in response. Then the hillman studied the tracks and carefully eyed the door. "Locked or bolted, I'll warrant." He tried the handle, letting out a murmur of surprise when the portal pushed open with ease.

Conan put a restraining hand on Kailash's shoulder. "Wait," he said curtly. "I'll go first, to light the way." With his sword, he pointed to the blood-soaked wrap around the hillman's injured foot. "Step carefully! More traps may lie ahead."

Kailash nodded, shifting his grip on his hilt. With the toe of one sandal, Conan shoved the door all the way open. The amulet shone into the large, semicircular room beyond. It was empty but for a half-dozen or so statues. In the center of the room, a wrought-iron spiral stair wound upward, disappearing into the high ceiling some twenty or thirty feet above. Conan stepped guardedly, motioning for Kailash to follow.

The Kezankian paused to wrap a new strip of cloth around his foot, then limped in after Conan.

Seven statues stood opposite the door, spaced evenly apart, taking up the entire wall. They resembled the repugnant gargoyles that perched above the doors in the outer chamber, but they were larger and did not grip orbs, as their smaller counterparts did. Conan had no wish to walk within their reach. He strode catlike toward the twisting stair of iron in the room's center.

Kailash picked up the barbed spike still gleaming wetly with Lamici's blood. To prevent the door from closing behind them, he wedged the spike against the jamb and set its point securely into the door.

When Conan placed his foot on the bottom step of the iron stair, he heard a loud crack from the antechamber. Whirling, he jumped off the step toward the door, landing beside Kailash, who reacted more slowly.

The crack was followed by a stony thump, and a cloud of gray dust billowed in from the doorway. Conan shoved the amulet forward, hoping to see what was happening in the outer chamber.

When the dust settled, both men cursed and backed into the room.

Standing in the doorway was the hideous, crouching form of a gargoyle.

Its skin had changed from pitted gray stone to dark, reptilian green, and its eyes flickered redly in the shadowy chamber. Before either man could react, the leering beast tossed its orb at them.

Conan's blade lashed out and rang against the milky-white sphere with a burst of blue sparks. Deflected, the orb fell to the floor a few feet away from the Cimmerian, sputtering faintly. Wisps of noxious white smoke rose from it, fouling the air. Conan advanced and raised his sword to strike the gargoyle.

The scaly beast moved rapidly. It grabbed the spike that Kailash had jammed into the doorway and shoved the point menacingly at Conan. The Cimmerian sidestepped the deadly weapon, twisting and bending his head.

With a bloodcurdling cry, he swung his sword at the beast's exposed side. The blade bit deeply into the creature's vitals, shearing off a leathery chunk of flesh that fell to the floor with a meaty thump.

The gargoyle jumped back, grasping the door handle and pulling the door firmly shut, blocking Conan's next attack. The wounded beast slid the spike through the handle, barring the portal, as grayish-yellow ichor gushed from the gaping wound in its side. Moments later, the beast froze and turned to stone, its hands still locked onto the spike.

Inside the chamber, Conan threw himself against the thick door, but could only rattle it. Kailash yelled a warning to Conan, who turned from the door to face the hillman. The ashen-faced Kezankian stood a few feet away, staring in horror at the statues along the wall. All seven had begun to advance slowly toward them. Like the gargoyles above the doors, their flesh had taken on a scaly, green appearance, and to Conan they looked even more formidable than their smaller, orb-bearing cousins.

Further, his eyes were watering from the acrid smoke of the cracked orb. The fumes tore at his lungs like daggers; every breath he drew brought fresh twinges of pain from within his chest.

The statue in the center flapped its leathery wings and soared into the air, while the two nearest to Conan began closing in. Cut off from Conan, Kailash hobbled over to the iron stair, gritting his teeth as four of the sharp-taloned beasts moved closer, surrounding him.

Conan set his back to the door and prepared to meet the flying gargoyle's attack. It dived right at the Cimmerian, talons and fangs bristling and leathery wings flapping. The barbarian held his position until the fearsome talons were inches from his face. With a yell, he dodged to one side and rolled to his feet, swinging his blade with enough vigor to fell a tree. The gargoyle slammed into the door with stunning force; a loud crack of snapping bones filled the room.

The edge of Conan's blade tore through the beast's wings, ripping them from its back. They lay on the floor, still beating weakly. The gargoyle left a nasty smear on the door as it slid down, twitching spasmodically. Seconds later, its crumpled carcass had turned back to stone. Undaunted, the other two gargoyles closed the distance to Conan, stepping near enough to strike.

In the center of the chamber, Kailash fought desperately. His punctured foot ruined his balance and kept him on the defensive. A few gargoyles sported minor wounds from the hillman's efforts, but the Kezankian himself bled from bloody scratches. One gargoyle had gotten close enough to rip a furrow along Kailash's jaw. Step by step, they forced the sweating hillman to retreat up the iron stair. He had already climbed a dozen feet above the floor, but from this position, he could no longer see Conan.

Slowly, he backed up the stair, struggling to keep his balance. At least now only one beast at a time could attack him. As he neared the top of the stair, he was eye-level with the chamber there. A small but sturdy-looking wooden door was the only exit. Before Kailash could put his back to this door, two gargoyles raced into the chamber and blocked the exit. A few more crept up the stairs, barring his return to the room below. The hillman turned to face the beasts closest to him, hoping to cut them down and reach the door. Their sharp talons slashed at him, tearing deep, crimson furrows into his sword-arm. Blood welled from dozens of cuts.

Keeping his composure, the hillman surprised his unearthly foes by rushing straight for them, then falling to the floor. Rolling smoothly between two of the gargoyles, Kailash lunged for the door. His injured foot shot arrows of pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and wrenched at the doorhandle, praying silently to Mitra that the door would open. Mitra was listening. The unlocked door opened easily, and he fell into the room beyond, narrowly evading the grasping talons of the gargoyles pursuing him.

Darkness shrouded the chamber he had entered. The bright light from the amulet had faded gradually as Kailash had moved upstairs away from the Cimmerian.

Groping for the doorhandle, he slammed the portal shut. Seconds later, it rattled in its frame as a gargoyle rammed into it. Fumbling along the door frame, Kailash found the bolt and shot it home with a reassuring iron clank. The door looked solid enough to keep the beasts at bay for at least a while. He slumped against the door to brace it, catching his breath and automatically assessing his position. His eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, still could not discern any of the room's secrets.

As he tightened the shreds of cloth around his wounded foot, he heard a strange sound from somewhere in the chamber. He froze, listening intently, but the din made by the gargoyles battering the door drowned out nearly everything else. His hillman instincts took over; he readied his sword and felt along the wall, hoping to find a defensible corner in the room. During a pause in the noise from outside, he heard the sound again. It was a soft rustling, like leather rubbed against smooth stone. The sound had grown louder. His left hand found the end of the wall, and he stood up straight in a fighting stance. How much longer would the door hold? He suspected that the gargoyles could see in the dark. If they broke in, his doom was at hand.

An eerie sensation from his foot wiped all thoughts of the door from his mind. Some thing was probing lightly at his injured foot. His skin crawled as he felt the thing touch him. Moments later, he felt new pain as something small and sharp thrust into the open wound. A revolting sucking noise ensued.

Kailash jerked his foot away in disgust, kicking to dislodge the thing that clung to it. The creature hissed wetly in anger as he shook it off. He heard it fall softly to the floor, sputtering. Its body had been soft, bulbous, and leathery. From what pit had this horror crawled? He swung blindly in the direction of the hissing. His sword rang against the stone floor with a shower of tiny sparks. He had missed, and the sparks had died too quickly for him to get a glimpse of the creature.

As he aimed another swing, a dim, orange glow filled the room. His nose twitched at a strange, smoky odor. He could now see that the room was small. In an open doorway on the opposite wall, a narrow stair led up into the tower. There was no furniture or features save the door he had bolted a few minutes earlier. He was not alone in the chamber. A few feet away, a large spider was dragging itself across the floor toward him. Its pale eyes glowered at him with rage, suggesting that it had far more intelligence than any of its smaller kin. By luck, he had wounded it. A few of its severed legs lay on the floor near it. Mitra had surely guided his desperate sword-stroke. Fresh red blood, leeched from his foot, smeared the spider's loathsome fangs. He fought a sudden urge to retch and looked up, away from the spider.

Kailash sucked in a breath of air, gasping in surprise. He saw the source of the glow, and of the smoke. A woman was coming down the narrow stairs. In one hand she carried a dark stone bowl. Wisps of smoke rose from the bowl, which gave off a dull, orange-red glow. The fumes concealed her face and other features from him, but he was certain that he was confronted by the Mutare priestess. She carried no weapons that he could see, but Madesus had told him that against her, a sword was useless.

She reached the bottom stair and stepped into the room, setting the stone bowl on the floor. The smoke parted around her, and he could see that she wore no garments. The light cast a hellish red glow on her smooth skin and tinted her shoulder-length, shiny black hair. Wantonly, she ran her fingers through her tresses, stroked her neck, then her perfect body. She moved her hands over the generous globes of her exposed breasts, and past them to her belly. Her stomach was not flat, as he would have expected. It bowed outward, as though she were with child. The skin above her navel pulsed obscenely, like a beating heart.

He tore his gaze from her, repulsed.

She laughed, a sound that chilled his bones and froze the hot blood in his veins. "Welcome, hillman!" She paused, seeing that his eyes were downcast. "You cannot bear to look upon true beauty? Am I too much for your eyes?"

Against his will, Kailash felt his gaze being drawn to her. Invisible fingers gripped his head, turning it toward her. He clenched his lids shut, sensing that he could nothmust nothlook into her eyes.

She laughed again, more cruelly than before. "It matters not. I am with child. My scion grows quickly within me. Before the waning of this moon, the first of a new race of Mutare will be born. Your miserable body and its warm red blood will satisfy the hunger of my child. With a simple gesture, I could stop your heart. Instead, I shall relish your cries of agony as I feast upon your living flesh. For a human, you are strong. You will live for some time, until I rip the beating heart from your body and drink its juices. Look upon me, upon the beautiful face of death!"

With a choking gasp, Kailash's eyes opened wide and stared at Azora.

Her eyes were wide, red-black pools that drew him in. He was powerless to pry his gaze from them. His slashed, bleeding jaw hung slackly open.

His limbs were leaden, immovable. He fell dumbly to the floor, still conscious and still struggling. He gripped his sword so tightly that it stayed clenched in his paralyzed fist. His eyes, wide with terror, were still riveted to Azora's face.

The priestess's crimson lips drew back over rows of daggerlike black teeth. With inhuman strength, she shredded his mail vest as if it were gauze. Her malevolent eyes bored into his eyes as she tore a strip of flesh from his exposed chest and brought it to her mouth. Kailash could not even move his lips and throat to scream.

As Azora reached for his chest again, Kailash heard a loud, angry hiss from behind her. The priestess whirled, momentarily breaking her eye contact with the hillman. The wounded spider had locked its fangs around her ankle.

"Man-blood you told Xim," it wheezed angrily through its fangs. "Now you take from Xim! Blood is for Xim!"

Shrieking in fury, the priestess directed her gaze at the hideous spider and made a short, violent motion with her right hand. The spider flattened instantly, as if struck by an immense mallet. Azora kicked the pulpy remains away with her foot.

Kailash, released from her gaze, realized that he had regained control of his limbs. Shocked, but reacting with instincts that had pulled him through countless deadly border wars, the hillman adjusted his grip on the heavy-bladed sword and rammed it into the nearest targethAzora's distended, pulsing belly. His strength and fury drove the wide blade through, until its sharpened steel point protruded from her spine. A violent shudder shook her body.

Kailash's heart raced. Had he slain her? How could it be possible? His brief, wild hope was dashed as she moved slowly, drawing the three-foot length of steel from the ghastly ruins of her abdomen. Kailash jerked the blade through her fingers, dismayed to see that she did not bleed.

A foul-smelling ichor dripped from her belly, but she took no notice of it. Backing into the corner, Kailash raised his sword and waited.

Azora felt her belly, then screamed with rage. "The child is destroyed!" She turned her face toward him, her eyes burning hot and red like the very fires of hell. "Scum! Your pitiful blade is less to me than the sting of a mosquito. You will suffer as no human wretch has! With every drop of blood I draw from you, I will wring more agony than any human has endured!"

Kailash again felt his body freeze. She gestured, and the blade jumped from his grasp, rising into the air. With a flick of her wrist, the darkly stained length of steel plunged downward through the hillman's side. An unseen hand of incredible strength pushed it through him, burying the sword deep into the stone floor under him. Kailash's brain pounded with agony; his muscles, denied by their paralysis, could not even recoil from the blow. Sweat poured from his body as blood spurted from the wound.

"No vital organs were pierced," the priestess told him mockingly. "Your death will take days, like the death of a rabbit in a hunter's trap."

Maliciously, she gestured at the sword-hilt, rocking it back and forth and fraying the wound. Reaching down, she placed her hand on the ugly gash. Her palm burst out in flames, and she seared the wound shut around the blade. The sickening odor of charred flesh and blood filled the room. Kailash felt his mind disconnecting from his body, retreating from the scene in the room that had become a grisly torture chamber.

When the door burst open, finally succumbing to the pounding of the gargoyles outside, he was scarcely aware of it. In his dreamlike state, he could see but neither smell, taste, hear, nor feel. Three gargoyles rushed in past the smashed door, moved to the corner, and surrounded Azora and the prone hillman. To Kailash's surprise, they attacked the priestess.

Kailash would not have been thus surprised had he but known of the gargoyles' true origin and purpose. They were ancient creatures, born of an age predating the Mutare. The serpent-people of Valusia had bred the gargoyles to serve as guardians. From a sorcerer in Stygia, Skauraul had wrung secrets of mastery and used them to control the beasts. Azora knew nothing of these secrets, nor was she aware that her spells had no power over the gargoyles. Their simple minds lacked the human and animal emotions that much of Azora's sorcery depended on.

Eyes blazing, Azora faced the onrushing gargoyles, gesturing wildly with her hands. She cursed when the beasts continued to press her. They knew only that she was an intruder. Hundreds of years before, Skauraul had ordered them to destroy all intruders. Before Azora could react, they carried out this order relentlessly. In a frenzy of thrashing claws and gnashing fangs, they seized the priestess and tore her to pieces. She had no blood, but the substance of her body was pulled apart by their vicious onslaught. Regaining control of his body, Kailash turned away from the carnage.

He knew that his situation was hopeless. Azora had pinned him like an insect to the stone floor. Yet when he looked for his blade, he saw that it was lying beside him. Had it been an illusion? The chest wounds were real enough. Blood still trickled from the ugly gashes she had torn in his flesh, but his side was unmarked. The gargoyles would be after him next. Lurching painfully to his feet, the hillman brandished his sword and prepared for their attack.

His strength had ebbed, and he was dizzy from the loss of blood. He no longer felt the pain in his foot. His leg had gone numb from the knee down. In spite of these injuries, his Kezankian stubbornness kept him from laying down to die. Before this chamber became his tomb, he vowed to send a few of these scaly beasts back to hell. Grimly, he prayed silently to Mitra and braced himself for his final battle.

In the chamber below, Conan also faced several of the beasts. He jumped onto the pile of gargoyle stone at the base of the door, aiming a slash at the beast on his right. With unexpected agility, the gargoyle dodged the blow and launched itself at the Cimmerian. Momentarily off balance, the barbarian could not raise his blade to meet the onrushing beast. As he braced himself for the impact, the gargoyle on his left reached for the amulet with its daggerlike talons. Unexpectedly, the beast froze in mid-swipe as its talons brushed against the amulet's glowing surface.

The scaly horror turned instantly to stone, as Conan was slammed against the door by a rib-bruising impact with the other gargoyle.

The battered door burst open, too weak to withstand the combined weight of the two assailants. They spilled into the room beyond, in a confusing jumble of human and reptilian limbs. The amulet skittered away as Conan hit the floor. The gargoyle's massive torso pinned down his sword-arm, but he had somehow managed to keep his sword in hand.

Grunting and writhing, Conan grappled with the beast. The immense creature outmatched even the powerfully muscled Cimmerian; its arms were twice the thickness of his. Using all of his skill and speed, Conan knew that he could do no more than temporarily keep the beast from strangling him. His sword was useless in such close quarters; he let go of its hilt. The broad-bladed dagger at his belt was unreachable. In desperation, he cast his gaze about the room, searching for a weapon with which to give himself an advantage.

His red-misted eyes settled on the tip of the barbed spike that had snapped as the door burst open. It was wedged point-up between the doorjamb and a large piece of rubble. Wrenching his pinned arm from underneath the beast, Conan fought for a solid hold on the gargoyle's rough, scaly hide. One of the creature's hands gripped his throat, and its talons were digging in, tearing the skin and slicing into the thick cords of muscle on Conan's bull neck. The beast's other hand was wrapped around Conan's left forearm.

The thews in Conan's right arm bulged as he tightened his grip on the gargoyle. Heaving, he shifted his weight and flipped the beast over onto the tip of the outthrust spike. The sharp, barbed shaft sank into the beast's short neck. The skewered gargoyle convulsed once, then again, before turning to stone.

Shaking from his exertions and breathing erratically, Conan rose to his feet. His neck was a ruin of ripped muscle and torn flesh. A red fog clouded his vision, and he felt light-headed from lack of breath. His only thought was to recover his sword and the amulet, and to help Kailash if the hillman still lived. The other room had become strangely silent.

He took one look at his bent sword before casting it aside, drawing the broad-bladed dagger from its sheath in his belt. The short hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose, and in spite of the desert heat, he felt a wave of icy cold pass over him.

Before him stood a black-garbed man, barefoot and weaponless. A small fire enveloped his right hand, illuminating his ageless face and dark, flinty eyes. Conan fought down an instinctive fear of sorcery and tightened his hand around the hilt of his dagger. He clearly faced a demon, or a sorcerer of some kind. In spite of the heat in the room, a deep chill crawled down his spine.

"I would welcome you were I a gracious host," the man said, smiling almost imperceptibly. "I am not. As for my wife, whom you have traveled so far to meet, she is indisposed."

Conan gauged the distance to the sorcerer and readied his dagger for a throw. He trusted his aim, and he prayed that a blade through the heart would finish this black-eyed devil. Even as he tensed his arm and drew it back, the devil's sorcery lifted him from the stone floor.

"Yuzmek," Skauraul whispered, gesturing upward. "Akmak."

The iron outer doors swung open with a crash, and Conan was propelled out of the room, through the air. The Cimmerian reached for the door frame as he flew past it, but the motion simply set him spinning.

Skauraul rose him up high into the air, past the tower steps, and over the bed of spikes that rose threateningly from the sand.

"Azalmak-delmek."

As the Mutare spoke, Conan plummeted toward an upthrust iron spike.

He could see the gleaming tip rushing toward him. The sharpened shaft ran through his leg, grated past the bone, but missed his vitals.

Grunting from the excrutiating pain, Conan gripped the shaft to keep it from tearing out. His iron will and vitality kept him from passing out.

He turned his face to the sorcerer, who stood in the doorway, gloating.

"Insect!" the mage raved. "A hundred warriors like you could do nothing to stop me. Suffer the fate of fools who lack the wit to fear me! You may live until nightfall, if the vultures overlook you." Skauraul turned, his cold laugh ringing out at Conan from the tower chamber.

Thousands of years before, when Skauraul's reign of terror was at its apex, Cimmerians were a race unknown in the civilized world. So it was that the Mutare had never encountered a barbarian, else he would never have left so dangerous a foe alive.

With a howl of animal rage, Conan channeled all his might into the arm that still gripped the dagger. His aim was true, and Skauraul did not see the silvered steel as it hissed through the air like an arrow from a longbow. The broad, foot-long blade struck the Mutare from the side, shearing through his ribs. The dagger had no crossguard, so the raw force of Conan's throw buried it to the pommel.

Conan's attack would have been a last, futile gasp, as no normal blade could harm a Mutare. But fate had guided the Cimmerian's hand in King Eldran's palace armory. The ancient, broad blade that Conan had chosen had been forged from a unique silver spike. The spike had been a holy relic from Pelishtia, forged into a dagger by King Nathouk and given as a gift to King Maelcinis of Brythunia. Nathouk had taken the spike from the tomb of Deranassib, the holy man who had slain Skauraul. The white-haired Deranassib had appeared in Conan's strange dream.

Skauraul clutched at his side and doubled over, drawing his breath in sharply. He spun around and howled. His unearthly scream rang out across the desert, and before the echoes had faded, the Mutare had crumbled to grains of sand. The blade lay smoldering in the doorway, its metal edges orange-red as if just taken from a smithy's forge. A chance wind swept across the steps to the doorway, scattering the small pile of sand.

Clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw muscles ached, Conan threw his weight forward, snapping the barbed shaft that had speared his leg. He drew it completely through the wound, each inch bringing fresh waves of pain. Finally the barb was out. He threw it down in disgust, making a tourniquet of his sword-belt to stem the crimson flood from the wound.

Limping, he went up the steps into the tower.

From Lamici's cloak, he tore a few strips and bandaged the ghastly hole in his thigh. The dagger looked far too hot to handle; its blade was glowing more brightly than before, the red glare turned a yellow-orange. As he went to look for Kailash, it began hissing and smoking. The heat filled the room, baking Conan like a loaf in an oven.

His deeply bronzed skin turned red, and he reluctantly abandoned his search for Kailash; injured, the hillman could not have withstood the four gargoyles. The last sound he had heard from Kailash had been the horrible scream of a dying man. At least he had avenged his friend's death, and fulfilled his promise to the hillman.

Conan hurried out of the smoking tower, retrieving the last water-skin as he left. When his foot struck a small, metallic object, he unthinkingly scooped it up as he rushed out. Later, he would wonder how he came to hold the amulet.

The dagger on the floor was now glowing white-hot, and the room had begun to shake. When Conan reached the edge of the spike-bed outside the tower, the stone walls rumbled ominously.

A sudden explosion rocked the tower, and the stone slabs cracked and collapsed with an earsplitting roar, as if a god had smote the structure with a mighty hammer. Skauraul's fortress began crumbling into dust, as its maker had done only minutes before.

Conan continued his trek toward the outer walls with as much speed as he could muster. When he reached the ruined gates, only a broken stone ring and a pile of crumbling stone remained where the tower had once risen proudly.

The Cimmerian sighed. So much for the treasure he had hoped to find. He felt fortunate to have escaped with his life. Bowing his head to shield his face from the sun, he began the grueling journey to the north.

Twenty-one

A Parting of Ways -

Conan remembered little of his arduous trek through the desert. He had numbly traversed the sandy wasteland until it was far behind him. His water-skin had been empty for over a day. Barbaric endurance had kept his legs moving, one stride at a time, until he reached the southern tip of the Path of the Serpent.

Near the path, he had found water and a haven for sleep, refreshing his mind. His body still ached from the punishment he had endured at the fortresshhe limped badly, and the leg wound was healing poorly. He shrugged this off; he had suffered worse in the past. Conan knew that he would reach Brythunia in spite of these wounds.

When he returned to Pirogia, he would tell Eldran his tale. He was certain that the king would give him a horse, supplies, and maybe even gold. He would bid Yvanna farewell; he smiled, for the first time in days, at this thought. Then he would leave for Zamora.

His mind occupied with these pleasant thoughts, the Cimmerian reached Innasfaln unmolested in several days of easy travel. He decided to stay at Malgoresh's inn for the night, in spite of the unpleasant memories the place held for him. A few tankards of ale would raise his spirits, by Crom! The innkeeper might even find him a horse.

He pushed open the taproom's new, pitch-smeared wooden door and strode in. It was late in the afternoon, but the sun had already begun to set.

A few locals looked up from their ale cups, then just as quickly looked away. At the back of the room, Conan saw the innkeeper's familiar face.

Malgoresh was leaning forward, intently conversing with two patrons who sat with their backs to the Cimmerian.

"Ale, by Crom!" he said as he reached the table.

Malgoresh looked up, and his jaw dropped in surprise. "By Hanuman's furry member 'tis Conan!" He smiled broadly.

One of the men at the table made a choking sound, spat out a mouthful of ale, and slammed down his tankard with a crash. He spun around to face the Cimmerian. Conan, in turn, felt a wave of shock engulf him.

"Kailash! By Crom and all the spirits of my fathers, I thought you were dead!"

He extended a scarred hand to the Kezankian, who grasped it. The hillman stood up slowly and pounded Conan on the shoulder with his free hand. The Cimmerian saw that Kailash's left leg was gone from the knee down. In its place was a freshly fashioned leg of wood.

"A thousand times I prayed to Mitra, hoping you might have escaped,"

the hillman said elatedly. "What befell you in the fortress?"

'Tell me your tale first. The last sound I heard from you was the scream of a man on the torturer's rack!" Conan sat down heavily on the bench.

Grinning, Malgoresh slammed fresh mugs of ale down on the table before them, as Kailash related the grisly events of his encounter with Azora and Xim.

"The beasts tore her into a thousand pieces and scattered the bits about. Gods, what a sight! They came for me next. I could barely raise my sword to defend myself. One beast I slew by luck and a well-placed sword-thrust. The next tore my leg off like the wing of a fly!" He thumped the wooden stump with a finger. "While he devoured it, I stuck my blade down his maw. He turned to stone like the other, but my sword was stuck. Then the third gargoyle suddenly turnedhas if being summonedhand went out, back down the stairs.

"I dragged myself to the burning bowl that the accursed priestess had brought into the room and sealed my leg wound with its hot coals. Then I blacked out from the pain. When I woke up, the fortress was shaking and trembling. Stone cracked around me, and a hole gaped in the outer wall of the room. I pulled myself to it, narrowly avoiding the slabs of rock that fell from the ceiling. I threw myself through the gap and rolled down the side of the fortress. Its sides leaned crazily, and I slid for dozens of feet before I hit the sand. By Mitra, I know not how my bones held together!"

"Kezankians are made of strong stuff," a grinning Malgoresh commented, nodding sagely.

"Aye, but not as strong as the stuff of Cimmerians! I would have died in the desert had Kaletos not intervened."

Kailash pointed to the man who sat next to him. Conan had forgotten about him in the excitement of seeing the hillman. Kaletos? The name was familiar Madesus's mentor! Conan stared at him curiously. Kaletos looked like a much older version of Madesus. He had only a few strands of white hair left, but his bright green eyes were strangely youthful.

Conan's gaze was drawn to the amulet around Kaletos's neck, reminding him of the amulet he had recovered from the fortress. Conan removed the talisman from its wrappings and handed it to the ancient priest, who accepted it with a look of sorrow.

"How did you find Kailash? Did you follow us through the desert?" Conan asked, mystified.

"Nay," the pale-lipped Kaletos answered in his strange Corinthian accent. "My young friend Madesus bid me to help thee. When he fell to the assassin's blade, I sensed his demise." He raised the amulet that Conan had handed to him. "It was this I followed," he said.

"Did you have horses? Swiftly you traveled, to reach the inn before me!"

"Thy friend will tell thee the tale," the priest said with a wry smile.

As Conan watched, Kaletos's white robes began to shimmer. They gave off an unbearably bright light. Conan blocked the light with his hands and squinted through his fingers, hoping for a glimpse of the priest.

What the Cimmerian saw next, he kept to himself for the rest of his life. Through the dazzling white light, Kaletos's ancient face was changing. The lines of age vanished, though the piercing, wide-set eyes looked the same. A long, patriarchal beard had appeared on his face, and his hair was long and flowing. It was the visage of Mitra, Lord of Light. Before Conan shut his eyes and bowed his head in the overpowering presence, he saw something else.

Beside the white-robed entity, another had appeared. It grasped the amulet and stood smiling for a moment, looking straight at Conan. Then Madesus was whispering to him. "We thank you, Conan. Grieve not for me, for I am now at peace, my worldly tasks done."

Following that, the two vanished in the blink of an eye.

The remaining men stood gaping at each other, speechless. After a few moments of stunned silence, they began talking. No one else in the taproom had seen the white glow, or anything else that the three men had witnessed.

Kailash shook his head. "I remember Kaletos finding me in the desert, feverish and near dead. We had horses, or so I thought, and he took me to a temple, where priests tended to my leg. When I was ready to ride, we made for the inn here."

"Aye, you arrived only this morning!" added Malgoresh.

"On horses?" Conan asked.

"Yes" Kailash paused, as if his memory were troubling him." We tied them outside."

"When I entered, I saw no horses outside," Conan said solemnly.

The Kezankian's face paled. He brooded for a while before speaking again. "A wise man meddles not in the affairs of priests and wizards."

Then he reached for his tankard of ale, smiling.

Lifting his own tankard, Conan nodded in agreement.

Conan the Indomitable

One

A man-high cairn marks the desolate juncture where the lands of Brythunia, Corinthia and Zamora come together. Centuries of wind and rain and snow and sun have worked their hot and cold hands and weathered claws over the pillar, smoothing it into little more than a soft-featured mound of stone rising from the barren ground. The mountain upon which the cairn squats is most always covered with snow, continually subjected to harsh storms, and it draws few visitors intent on seeing a geographical marker of such plain visage.

Upon the narrow snowbound path that passes the cairn walked a man and a woman. Arguing.

"There were horses," the woman said, "but naturally, it never occurred to you to fetch a pair."

The speaker of these words was named Elashi, a beautiful young woman born of the Khauranian desert. While lush of breast, she had the supple muscles and carriage developed by one familiar with hard work, and her legs were firm and slim from much walking. She wore a heavy cloak over a woolen shirt and long woolen skirt against the cold, and her feet were encased in high boots. A short, curved sword dangled from a strap at her left hip.

"Most of the horses were either dead or about to be," her companion said, his voice dry. "Riding a dead horse makes for slow going."

The man was also young, but certainly fully grown. He stood tall and wide-shouldered, with thickly muscled arms and a deep, heavy chest. Clean-shaven, he wore his black hair in a square-cut mane, and his blue eyes seemed to flash with a deep inner fire. Conan his name was, begotten of the fierce barbarian mountain people from the cold lands of Cimmeria far to the north. He too wore a woolen shirt and woolen pants under a winter's cloak and was shod in heavy boots, and the sheathed sword he carried was long and straight, of ancient blued iron, its edges sharped like razors.

"A lot you know," Elashi continued. "I sometimes wonder what, if anything, you are good for, you great barbarian lout!"

Conan shook his head. Since meeting Elashi at the temple of the Suddah Oblates, his life had certainly been less than dull. They had taken up with a beautiful zombie woman, fought a necromancer's blind priests and undead minions, and nearly been skewered a dozen times along the way. He and Elashi had shared sleeping robes for much of the time, but despite that, she continued to harangue him at every opportunity. It seemed that she never tired of extolling his faults, real or imagined.

Conan said, "I heard no complaints last night as the fire dwindled." He grinned widely at her.

After a few seconds, and seemingly against her will, Elashi returned Conan's grin. "Well, I suppose you do ometimes rise to certain occasions." She was silent for half a dozen steps and then said, "But we would have more energy for such alliances had we horses to ride."

"I noticed no lack of energy on my part," Conan said. "And as long as we are wishing for that which we do not have, why not wish for a kingdom and servants? Or perhaps a palace of gold?"

"Oh, you, you―barbarian lout!"

He grinned again as she fell silent. After the death of Neg the Malefic, the necromancer whom Conan had slain, the young Cimmerian and Elashi had agreed to travel together until their paths parted. Conan intended to visit the wicked city of Shadizar, in Zamora, to ply the trade of thief, while Elashi's plans would take her farther south, to her native Khauran. From inquiries along the way thus far, Conan had learned that the route would not be direct; the best road detoured into Corinthia for perhaps several days' journey before looping southeast into Zamora again. Even as he recalled this, the path upon which they trod turned to the west and began to angle down the mountain.

Perhaps there was a village or town ahead in which he could practice his thievery and obtain enough silver for two horses, thereby putting an end to Elashi's constant carping. He certainly hoped it would be so.

Snow lay thick upon the land save for the path, where it had been trodden down. It was winter but clear, the blue skies sharp, the air cold and clean. Conan much enjoyed such places; towns offered much, but the air inside a city stank of odors unknown in the mountains. A man had to balance these things, of course. Meat and wine and lusty companions were more apt to be found in civilization than along a snow-covered trail in the middle of nowhere. While Conan's god Crom lived inside a mountain, he had never ordained that men were supposed to do the same.

From ahead on the trail there came a noise.

It was a small thing, the sound, and ears less sharp than Conan's would have dismissed it as perhaps a breeze-inspired shrub's rustling or a small rock dislodged by some tiny animal. The big Cimmerian stopped, and listened intently.

"What are you―?"

Conan waved Elashi to silence. When he spoke, his voice was a deep whisper. "Someone waits just ahead, around that large boulder."

Elashi glanced at the house-sized rock Conan had just indicated. "I see no sign of anyone," she said, matching his whisper.

"There was a noise," Conan insisted.

"I heard nothing. And I am a woman of the desert, do not forget."

How could he forget? She reminded him of it at least once daily. "Perhaps you need desert sand for your ears to work properly. I heard a cough."

That earned him a glare that, had it been a blade, would have left him in small and bloody chunks upon the snowy ground. "Listen, you barbarian oaf―"

"No more time for games," he cut her off. He drew his sword. "I sense that we are in danger."

Elashi nodded. Despite her verbal abuse of her companion, she had been with him long enough to understand that his senses were indeed sharper than those of ordinary men. She drew her own sword. "What should we do?"

"You circle behind the rock while I proceed along the trail to draw their attention. That way, you can take them unaware while they watch me."

"I will not!" she said, her whisper increasing in volume. "Just because I am a woman, you seek to shield me from risks! Never forget that I am firstborn."

Conan stared at her, amazed, as if she had suddenly sprouted wings and was preparing to leap up and fly into the heavens. He was young, and he supposed that he would learn more with age, but for the moment he did not think it possible that he would ever understand the motivations of women. Perhaps no man could. "Very well," he said. "You proceed down the trail while I circle behind the rock… and whoever it is that awaits there."

"Better," she said. But after a moment of triumph, her grin faded and she looked nervously at Conan. "You would actually send me along the trail into the jaws of possible death?" Her stare was incredulous and her voice quavered. She acted as if he had spat on her.

Conan shook his head and glanced around at the mountains. Was there some demon hiding out there, sent to bedevil him? And what did Elashi want from him? Disagree with her and she argued. Agree with her and she argued even more. Crom! He felt the heat of anger rise within him.

Fighting to keep his voice level, he said, "All right. What is your suggestion?"

"Keep your voice down," she ordered.

Conan's anger increased as he stared helplessly at her. She was beautiful, to be sure, but maddening!

"You proceed down the path and draw the attention of whoever or whatever is there," she said. "I shall circle around the rock and get behind them. That way, I may take them unaware."

Conan stared, unable to speak in his frustrated rage.

"Isn't that a better plan than the one you had?" she asked sweetly. Warm goat butter would not have dissolved in her mouth, he thought. Surely, surely I have offended some god and this is my punishment. He stood silent for a moment, then stalked off without another word. Whatever was on the other side of that boulder had better not be intent on causing him grief.

When he rounded the shelter of the rock, Conan found himself facing trouble. Five men stood before him; short, muscular, and swarthy, each held a dagger-tipped pike. They wore cracked and sweat-stained leather armor and gauntlets, and heavy boots. Behind these five a single being sat astride a tall black stallion. This creature wore a heavy riding cape, woolen shirt, and leather breeches, and held in a gauntleted hand a thin sword across the front of the horse's saddle.

Conan was somewhat puzzled about this last figure.

At first glance, it seemed a man from its dress and manner; on closer examination, the beardless face was definitely female, this self-evident not merely from its smoothness of complexion but from its shape and the bearer's use of cosmetics. The lips were rouged, the eyebrows partially plucked, and the area around the eyes darkened with a bluish hue. The reddish-brown hair was shorter than Conan's own, and cut feathery on the ends. Additionally, the creature's shirt front jutted out in twin peaks that certainly seemed womanly… but the crotch of the tight leather breeches revealed a bulge than seemed most definitely male.

Conan's examination of the horsed figure was interrupted by its speech. "Stand and deliver!" it said. The voice added to his confusion. It was deep, that of a strong man. Coming from those ruby lips, it sounded most odd indeed.

"Stand and deliver what?" Conan asked. "Are you blind, that I appear to be some fat merchant laden with gold or wares? What you see is all I own, and that is little enough."

"I will have your sword," the figure said.

At that moment Elashi appeared behind the six, clambering up the rock so that she was above them.

Conan swung the sword back and forth to limber his shoulder, then gripped the handle with both hands and aimed the point at the throat of the nearest pikeman, a techinque he had learned from the swordmaster of the Suddah Oblates. "I think not," he said.

The pikeman swallowed dryly.

"Do not be a fool," the horse rider said. "We are six to your one. Give us your sword and live. Refuse and die."

"I find it somewhat strange that you seem willing to lose at least some of your men to collect a sword. Such an exchange is bad business. I think that perhaps there is something else on your mind."

The man-woman laughed, a deep, throaty sound. "Wise, for a savage."

On the boulder, Elashi had put her sword down and was lifting a head-sized rock.

The leader of the bandits leaned forward on the horse. The creak of the saddle leather was loud in the otherwise quiet clearing. "Very well. Then we shall have to obtain that which we wish the hard way. Take him!"

Elashi chose this precise instant to hurl the rock she held. Now the desert woman was not much of a swordswoman, true, and she talked too much for Oman's taste, but apparently the throwing of rocks could be numbered among her skills: the large stone smacked into the head of one of the pikemen, felling him like a poleaxed pig. The sound of the rock striking the skull was much like that of a melon when smashed with a heavy board. That worthy would trouble no one else in this world.

Startled, the pikemen turned to espy this new threat. The rider's mount shied at the sudden movements, backing itself almost to the boulder. Before the rider could turn, Elashi, sword in hand, leaped upon him―or her―screaming.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Conan darted forward, swift for a man so large, and swung the ancient blue-iron blade. The stroke met flesh, cleaving muscle and bone, toppling a second pikeman into a fall that would ultimately end in the Gray Lands―and likely Gehanna.

Elashi and the rider fell from the horse. Conan had time to see the mysterious bandit leader leap up and twist about sharply; the movement spun Elashi away as a terrier tosses a rat. She hit the ground and rolled up, sword held ready.

No matter. Her distraction had accomplished its purpose. Conan swung his sword back and forth, chopping at the disorganized pikemen, who were at quarters too close to use their weapons effectively. Blue iron met pike wood and sheared it, continuing on to carve bloody canyons through leather armor. Conan's mighty arms drove the weapon he bore, gutting one man, removing another's head, driving all before the Cimmerian whirlwind. Before they could gather their wits, four of the five pikemen were down, one by Elashi's stone, the others by courtesy of Conan's blade.

The fifth pikeman deemed it wise to change occupations at that moment, to that of a fleet-footed messenger; he ran, dropping his pike to attain yet more speed. For an instant Conan considered retrieving one of the fallen pikes to use as a spear against the fleeing man, but decided that dealing with the leader was more important. As he turned, however, the rider managed to recapture the horse. Flinging itself onto the saddle, the leader of the bandits spurred the animal, which bolted straight at Conan.

The Cimmerian dodged, swiping at the rider, but the figure leaned away from the sword's arc and Conan cut nothing more than air. The force of the slash spun the young Cimmerian off balance. In a heartbeat, horse and rider were past, moving too swiftly for Conan to recover in time to give chase.

Conan watched the retreating figures of pikeman and rider. Came the rider's call: "I'll have your sword yet, barbarian!"

Conan, shook his head. Why would anyone be willing to risk death for a sword of uncertain worth? In fact, while the blued-iron weapon was of good quality and quite serviceable, it had no intrinsic value. The handle was plain and leather-wrapped, not bejeweled or carved ivory, and the guard was merely a single bar of thick brass. The strange bandit leader must be mad.

Elashi approached, brushing dirt from her cloak.

"Are you injured?" Conan asked.

"Nay." She finished her cloak dusting and looked at Conan askance. "You let two of them escape."

He could not suppress a surprised grunt. "You never mentioned that you desert dwellers drank blood."

"Little point in leaving a job half accomplished," she said. "I suppose there's nothing to be done for it. Let us examine the corpses."

"Examine them? Why?"

She regarded him as she might a simpleminded child. "And you intend to become a thief? For valuables, of course."

Conan nodded at this. For once she had a point. But even as he rifled the sparse purses of the fallen bandits, the question of why they had attacked continued to plague him. And the man-woman's retreating threat to have his sword―what was that all about?

Well, he would pay it no more mind. It was finished and done with, and like as not, he had seen the last of that odd personage.

* * *

Two

Although the purses of the slain mountain bandits yielded only a few coppers, Conan was not the least averse to collecting the coins and sharing them equally with Elashi. Certainly the bandits had no further need for money where they were bound.

As the Cimmerian and the desert woman made their way down the mountain road, they saw in the distance a small village; thanks to the bandits, they could now buy food and a room for the night. Only a few days past, Conan had carried two silver coins, the last of his profit from the pelt of a dire-wolf he had slain. Unfortunately, as he had raced through the halls of the necromancer's castle, he had somehow dislodged the silver from his purse. After the aggravation of the bandit's attack, providing supper and shelter was the least the dead men could do.

As evening sought to claim the day, stormy purple and gray clouds gathered on the horizon. The wind grew colder, carrying in its chilly teeth the promise of snow. Conan knew the signs: a blizzard was building. It would be most uncomfortable to be caught out in the open in the coming weather. The village lay less than an hour ahead by his reckoning, and the two of them should arrive there at about the time the storm did. If they hurried.

The village was like a dozen others Conan had Seen in his travels. Perhaps a score of structures, most of them small houses of stone with sod roofing, sprawled along the sides of the road, now somewhat wider than it had been in the mountains. The largest of the buildings was, naturally, the village inn. The wordless sign over the doorway bore merely a carved picture of a sheep, doubtless detailing the mainstay of local industry. The building was also of stone, weathered and in disrepair, with oiled but torn lambskin over the windows, showing a fitful yellow glow from within.

As Conan and Elashi approached the inn, the snow began to flurry about them. In a moment the swirling winds had the powdery whiteness dancing thickly in the evening air. The combination of snow and gathering darkness quickly reduced visibility to a few spans.

"Not a very appealing place," Elashi observed.

"Our choices are somewhat limited," Conan said.

"True."

He swung the heavy wooden door inward and took in the interior of the inn. The ceiling was low, hardly an arm's length taller than Conan himself, and the central room into which they stared was occupied by perhaps twenty people, most of them men. They sat at rude tables or stood near the large fireplace within which a fat log burned brightly. An archway at the end of the room led, Conan surmised, to sleeping rooms and storage for food and drink.

Stepping into the room, Conan shut the door behind Elashi, never taking his gaze from the occupants. Most of them were obviously locals: dark-complected, older men dressed in shepherd garb. There were a few women who matched the men in age and clothes, also likely local folk.

At the far end of the communal eating and drinking room sat a thin man dressed as though for summer in thigh-length trousers and a short tunic. He had hair the color of straw and a foolish grin upon his face. Likely drunk or slack-witted, Conan thought.

Behind this summery fool sat two men who looked very much like the five who had assaulted Conan upon the trail. There were no pikes in evidence, but each man wore a sword and long dagger ensheathed upon his belt, and their features looked hard in the light of guttering tapers mounted at odd intervals upon the stone walls.

Conan finished his scan of the room just as a tall and spindly man whose face seemed buried within the shroud of a gray beard approached. The innkeeper, no doubt.

"Ah, welcome, travelers. Would ye be desirin' food 'n' drink, then?"

Conan nodded. "Aye. And a room for the night."

Graybeard bobbed his head in an enthusiastic nod. "Done, done. Ye made it just in time, I warrant. "Tis a howler startin' up out there." As if to punctuate his words, the wind whistled and blew a blast of snow through one of the torn shades. Graybeard said, "Lalo, cover that hole!"

The thin blond man stood and moved to the window, where he began to repair the window cover with a patch and string that he pulled from a pocket on his tunic. The man continued smiling all the while, and he hummed a strange little tune as.he worked.

Conan and Elashi, meanwhile, moved to an empty table not far from the fire as Graybeard went to fetch wine and whatever passed for supper.

The meal, as it turned out, was not altogether bad. The meat was mutton, somewhat greasy, but edible. Hard brown bread accompanied the meat, and the wine was red and sharp but better than some that Conan had tasted. Elashi produced a small knife from her belt and sliced the meat into strips; Conan draped pieces of these over chunks of bread and washed them down with the wine. Certainly it bested foraging along the trail for roots and ground squirrels, as they had been doing for several days.

Graybeard accepted half a dozen coppers for the meal and asked another four for the room. Conan would have bargained but he was tired, and what did it matter anyway? The money had been his for only a few hours; he had not grown particularly attached to it. He paid for the meal and room, causing a smile to grow in the midst of Graybeard's hairy visage.

Over his third cup of wine, Conan began to feel somewhat relaxed. The journey along the mountains had been relatively uneventful―save for the inept bandits―but even so, it had been a long walk. With food and wine in his belly and shelter against the winter's rages, he felt most comfortable.

He should have known that meant trouble. Every time he felt at ease of late, something always seemed to come along to spoil it.

"Watch it, fool!"

Conan looked up from his warm feeling, to see the straw-haired man, the one Graybeard had called "Lalo," backing away from the table at which the two swordsmen sat. Apparently Lalo had jostled the table in passing and the occupants had taken umbrage at his clumsiness. One of the swordsmen was missing most of an ear. The other had a nose that had been broken more than once, and was decidedly bent to one side.

"Sorry, m'lord," Lalo said.

Bent Nose half-stood. "Are you making sport of me, fool? Calling me lord?"

"Why, no, m'lor―I mean, no, sir. 'Twould be hard to make sport of one such as yourself."

"That's better."

Lalo's grin never faltered. "I mean, there's so little to work with."

Bent Nose blinked, obviously not understanding.

At his table, Conan smiled. He might be called a barbarian for his looks, but he knew humor when he heard it.

Unfortunately for Lalo, One Ear's wits were at least a bit sharper than his companion's. "Fool," he said. "He has insulted you!"

Bent Nose looked at him quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah," Lalo said. "I see that you are indeed a wit." He paused for a second, then continued: "No, on second pass, I think that is probably only half-true."

Conan chuckled into his wine. Judging from Bent Nose's reaction, it seemed true enough.

"Why are you laughing?" Elashi asked. "Those two will cut that poor man into bloody ribbons!"

Conan shrugged. "That's his problem. A sharp tongue is no match for a sharp blade."

One Ear said, "Idiot! He insults you again."

This was enough for Bent Nose. He cleared his blade. "I shall have your laughing head for a soup bowl!" he bellowed, advancing slowly toward Lalo.

Elashi jumped to her feet, drawing her own sword.

Conan said, "What are you doing?"

"Since there are no men in here to protect a harmless, unarmed soul from such brutes, I shall do so myself!"

Conan sighed. Always something came to disturb his peace. He stood. "Be seated. I shall handle this."

"I would not want you to strain yourself," she said.

Conan merely shook his head. Is this a test, Crom? Perhaps I should have remained at the monastery with the late Cengh and given up women. They are certainly more trouble than they are worth, at times.

Bent Nose looked up to see Conan looming. He paused in his pursuit of Lalo. "What is your business here, outlander?"

Conan decided to try reason. "I have had a long day," he said, "and I would not see it ended by being blood-spattered. Why not allow Lalo here to live?"

Bent Nose shifted the point of his sword in Conan's direction. "I care less than mouse turd for how your day has gone. This fool insulted me and he shall pay for it!"

Conan, whose sword remained sheathed, spared a glance at Elashi, then at Lalo. "Perhaps," he told Lalo, "if you apologized to Bent Nose here, this matter could be resolved peacefully."

"Bent Nose? Who are you calling Bent Nose?"

Conan said, "Have you never used a looking glass?"

"I suspect the last one he gazed upon shattered when forced to reflect such a heinous image," Lalo observed.

"You help matters not at all," Conan told the grinning man.

"Yaahh!" With that exclamation, Bent Nose charged, sword uplifted to split Lalo like a stick of kindling.

Conan had plenty of time to draw his own weapon and block the attack, but as he pulled his sword free of the sheath, One Ear stood and threw his wine bottle at Conan's head.

While the Cimmerian's reflexes were fast, even he could not slap the bottle from the air with the flat of his sword and then have sufficient time to block Bent Nose's strike at Lalo. As the glass bottle shattered against Conan's sword, Bent Nose's blade came down upon the hapless Lalo…

No! He missed! Lalo danced to one side, and the sword that would have cleaved him hit a thick table top instead, burying the blade to half its width in the wood. Bent Nose jerked on the handle, but the sword was stuck fast.

What Lalo did then was quite amazing. He danced back toward Bent Nose, grabbed his wrist and underwent some kind of contortion, twisting and turning as he dropped to his knees on the floor. Bent Nose screamed and flew over Lalo's head to dive face first into the nearest wall.

Conan had no more time to marvel over this maneuver, however, as One Ear charged, brandishing his sword and howling like a demented wolf. He sought to run Conan down, a mistake most costly. Conan merely extended his sword to arm's length and One Ear spitted himself on the point. Half of the sword's length emerged from the man's back, carrying upon its tip blood from his lanced heart. One Ear fell, and Conan managed to jerk his blade free as the man went down. He bent and wiped the gore from the iron on One Ear's tunic, not doubting for a moment that the man was dead.

So much for a peaceful evening by the fire.

Conan turned, to see Lalo and Elashi examining Bent Nose. From the angle of the downed man's head, it was clear that his neck was broken; and from his impact against the wall, likely his skull was broken as well.

Such proved to be the case. Elashi stood and said, "He is dead."

Conan moved toward Elashi and Lalo. Around them, the inn's other patrons sat frozen―so many figures in a painting―afraid to move.

"I have never seen that type of wrestling before," Conan said. "Very efficient."

Lalo's grin never wavered. "I learned it from the little yellow men of Khitai," he said. "I spent several years there. It is called jit-jit. By its use, a practiced small man may best a larger one, or even one armed."

"Interesting," Conan said. "Perhaps a man who tempered his mirth might not have to use it at all."

"Ah," Lalo said, "but you see, that is my curse." He paused to glance at the two dead men. "I appreciate your help, though I could have handled these two myself. Perhaps you will allow me to buy you a bottle of wine and explain?"

Conan glanced at Elashi, who nodded. Of course. And, he had to admit, he was more than a little curious himself.

"When I was a boy in the mountains of eastern Zamora," Lalo began, "my father ran afoul of the local wizard. A very subtle being, this wizard was. He could have caused my father's crops to fail or our cows to dry up, or perhaps visited a plague upon our family. But the magician was, as I have said, very subtle; and his magics were no less effective for this. He laid his geas upon the sons of my father."

Lalo paused to sip at his wine. His smile remained constant.

"My brothers―I had three―all perished from the effects of the wizard's curse within two years of its placement. In an effort to escape, I fled across the vast Eastern Desert to Khitai. To no avail, in that the curse stayed with me."

Elashi was leaning forward, fascinated. As for himself, Conan felt less interest now than dread. This tended to happen whenever the subject of magic was broached. Such unnatural doings were not to his taste. Still, the story was somewhat intriguing.

"It was there," Lalo continued, "in Khitai that I learned the fighting art of jit-jit. The Khitains are quite adept at such things. Eventually my curse caused me to leave there as well. I cannot stay in one place too long; even the most sympathetic souls cannot stand against the wizard's magic for more than a few weeks."

"What exactly is this curse?" Conan asked.

"I cannot stop smiling," Lalo replied. "And I cannot prevent myself from making sport of those around me. You, for instance, Conan, have so much muscle that it is doubtful you can stretch enough to scratch an itch on your backside."

"What?" Conan started to rise from his seat.

Elashi touched his forearm. "The curse, Conan."

Conan relaxed, understanding. "I take your meaning, Lalo."

The smiling man sighed. "Indeed. Imagine if you can what it would be like to be with a woman and be unable to avoid insulting comments even as you are joined together."

"How awful!" Elashi murmured.

"Here you have come to my aid against two of the Harskeel's thugs, and even so, I cannot help myself from haranguing you."

"Who exactly is this Harskeel?" Conan asked.

"Not 'who' precisely, but more of 'what,' " Lalo said. "Its full name is Harskeel of Loplain, and it is an hermaphrodite―half man, half woman."

Elashi inhaled sharply.

"You know of it?" Lalo asked. ,

"Aye," Conan answered. "We had an encounter with it along the trail earlier this very day. Is it perhaps mad?"

"Mad? What makes you ask, you apelike buffoon?"

Conan's anger stirred, but he forced it down. The man was cursed, after all. "This Harskeel thing lost five of its men in an attempt to steal nothing more than my sword."

"Ah, I can see why you would think it crazed. No, there is method in this madness. The Harskeel of Loplain is also cursed, but by its own actions. Once it was two separate people, a man and a woman. These two were lovers, and desired more intensity and closeness―not that a barbarian like yourself could possibly understand such a thing―so they stole a book of spells from a witch. Unfortunately for them, they bespoke the spell incorrectly. It left them considerably closer than was their intent."

"Ugh," Elashi said. "But what has that to do with Conan's sword?"

"Actually, it collects swords from anyone who shows the slightest sign of bravery. There is supposed to be a counterspell, some mantologic process that will return the Harskeel to its former state of two people. The spell involves the use of a sword dipped in the blood of its owner. If the owner is―or was―brave enough, it will trigger the magic. So far, more than a few men have died without providing the needed weapon."

"I thought this creature wished more than merely my sword," Conan said.

"Certainly it did not seek your brain," Lalo said. "Forgive me."

Conan merely nodded. He had heard worse from Elashi, and she was under no particular curse.

Lalo told them his time at the local inn was about up and that he would be leaving soon. Conan and Elashi also planned to leave as soon as the snowstorm ended, likely on the morrow. The three of them finished the bottle of wine and then parted, Lalo warning Conan to take care on his journey. Now that the outlander had slain so many of the Harskeel's men, the hermaphrodite would certainly consider him a candidate for the spell it needed.

As Conan and Elashi started for their room, she said, "A shame, to be cursed so."

"I notice he did not insult you during our conversation," Conan said.

"Why should he, when you made such a likely target?"

"The two of you would do well together," Conan said. "You have so much in common."

Elashi chose to be offended by this, which surprised Conan not at all. Hardly anything she did surprised him of late. When they arrived in their room, for instance, she lay against him under the inn's rough blanket, touching him and laughing softly… as if they had been newly wed that same morning. He shook his head, not understanding, but not minding this in the least.

* * *

Three

Deep in the twisted bowels of the Grotterium Negrotus, Katamay Rey once again called upon the slab of enchanted quartz. Under the dank-green fungal glow, the wizard scried, searching the depths of crystal stone for the future.

The clear rock became milky, then slowly cleared near one end, and the face of a man appeared. Strong featured, with black hair and fiery blue eyes, the man's face peered unseeingly back at Rey, unaware of being observed.

Rey made mystical passes over the quartz, but the remainder of the crystal refused to lose its milky hue. He tried several times, but nothing more than the face of the young man appeared.

"Set blast you, you cursed stone!"

The quartz did not seemed, frightened by this threat; indeed, as if in response to the curse, even the face pictured therein faded, leaving the crystal once again blank.

Cursing further, Rey turned away from the obstinate crystal. Well, he thought, at least he had something: the danger to his domain seemed to be centered in that youthful face. Now he could prepare to deal with it.

"Wikkell!"

At the sound of the wizard's voice, something shuffled ponderously across the damp stone floor. Half again the size of a large man, the figure shambled into the eerie green light. It bore a single pink eye set in the middle of its sloping forehead, and upon its back, a hump, much like those worn by the desert-roaming beasts of the Southern Wastes bordering Punt and Stygia. Bald it was, but bearded, and dense muscle corded its arms and legs. The hunchback was naked save for a groin cloth; the knuckles of its hands nearly touched the stone under its splayed feet as it shuffled into sight.

"Master," the hunchbacked Cyclops said. It had a voice like sail canvas being torn.

"Go to the Northern Chambers," Ray said, "and prepare a reception for anyone who ventures to cross the land above. I will have any who dare the forbidden paths brought before me."

"Master," Wikkell said by way of acknowledgment. He bowed slightly, causing his hands to scrape the floor, and turned to leave.

"Alive," Rey said to the retreating form. "I want them alive."

Chuntha the witch fondled the carved baculum wand and regarded her thrall. The Worm Gigantus lay before her, flattened on its bottom by its own weight. It looked as if someone had taken an ordinary red earthworm, increased its size by more than a thousandfold, and bleached it ghostly white. There were no features recognizable as a face―one end seemed much like the other―but a series of discolorations did indicate that the head of the giant worm faced Chuntha. Three times as long as a man's height and easily as thick as a wine barrel, the worm twitched as it listened to its mistress.

"Go, Deek," she said, "to the Northern Chambers. The danger to us will manifest itself there, and soon. We must control it to survive and triumph over That Bastard who opposes us. You are authorized to create an alliance with any who would aid us: the bats, the Whites, the Webspinners, any or all of them. Promise them what they ask, but do not allow the forces of That Bastard to obtain that which I seek. Do you understand?"

The worm could not speak, but by scraping its body in certain ways over the stone beneath it, the creature could manufacture a kind of counterfeit voice. "Y-y-yes-s."

When her servant had left, undulating its torpid body over the slimed floor, Chuntha stroked her cheek with the wand, thinking. She had not envisioned such a powerful dream in some time. The danger would come from a single man. She had seen that much, but not the face of the stranger. In the dim green light, she regarded the baculum. It had power, but perhaps not enough in this instance. Mayhap she needed to try the dreaming jewel. The ensorceled gem contained much magical force, and there was some risk involved in its use, but this was no time to be cautious. The signs portended great danger, and dangerous times required risky measures. Yes. She would fondle the dreaming jewel and see what insight it offered.

In the manse that perched upon the high rocks like a mountain goat, the Harskeel regarded itself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, feeling for the first time in years a real sense of hope. That barbarian along the high road… could he be the one? Surely he was brave; he had faced six-to-one odds, even though his confederate had aided him. And the latest story, of how he had slain another in the village tavern with no more effort or worry than a man slaughtering sheep… surely that added to his bravery?

The Harskeel in the mirror nodded. Aye, it seemed to say, the blooded sword of this one might well be the final key we have been awaiting these last fifteen years. If this barbar―named Conan, according to its spies in the tavern―is the one, then we can be as we were before.

Yes. A pleasant thought.

Soon we shall have him, the Harskeel told itself. Already a score of our men prepare to ride. No matter how many must die, we will have that blade… and the blood of its bearer! Certainly a pleasant thought.

The newly fallen snow enfolded the village like a white shroud, a pristine blanket that sparkled under an icy-blue sky. The storm had passed, leaving peace in its wake.

The sun had already completed a major portion of its morning's journey when Conan and Elashi emerged from the inn. They had breakfasted well; additionally, the innkeeper had supplied them with snowshoes so they might more easily traverse the knee-deep snows that had covered the road.

"We shall take the shorter route mentioned by the innkeeper," Conan said.

Elashi shook her head. "Did not you hear also the tale of the watchbeast that sometimes prowls that shorter path?"

"Aye. And Conan of Cimmeria is not prepared to march for an additional five days merely to avoid some escaped dog that sometimes prowls' a path." He patted his sword. "A blade that has slain a dire-wolf will certainly serve to dispatch some mangy cur should it trouble us."

"I did not hear the innkeeper say that the beast was a dog."

"What else? Perhaps the watchbeast is instead a goose. So much the better―then we shall dine in high style―should it honk threateningly at us." He laughed, amused by the image.

For once Elashi was quiet. Conan silently thanked Crom for not-so-small a favor.

So the pair marched away from the small village, high-stepping on their bentwood-and-gut snowshoes, hearing the dry powder beneath their feet squeak with each step. The day was bracing, if cold, and Conan felt rested from his sleep and belly-warm with his breakfast. Another two days would see them clear of the Karpash mountains and out of Corinthia, onto the Zamoran plateau. It was but another half-moon's walk to Shadizar, so he had been told. Less if he could steal a pair of horses. Once there, Elashi would continue southward and he could be about the business of enriching himself through serious thievery. He looked forward to that with interest.

The twenty riders struggled to control their mounts. The breath of men and animals made fog in the freezing air as the horses shifted nervously about.

Then the Harskeel itself entered the courtyard astride its stallion. From its throat the deep voice boomed out over the gathered riders. "I want the man and his sword. A bag of gold coins to the one who delivers them together. And a swift and painful death to any man who is the cause of their loss. Is that perfectly clear?"

There came a murmur of assent from the riders.

"Good. We ride for the village. Now!"

The thunder of hooves shook the morning as the Harskeel and its minions departed the manse's courtyard.

Three hours out of the village, Conan and Elashi paused to lunch upon strips of lamb jerky purchased at the inn. The meat was dry and chewy, but fortunately the innkeeper had also supplied the couple with a leather flask of mild wine, and they used this to wash down the jerky. Later, when they camped for the night, Conan could set snares for rabbits or ringtails, which they could roast over the evening's fire. With luck, they could be through the pass and over the mountain road's highest elevation by darkfall.

Wikkell, the hunchbacked cyclops, moved through narrow corridors of wet stone, splashing through puddles of limed water that sometimes bubbled with inner effervescence. There were a dozen ways to reach the Northern Chambers, this tunnel being one of the wider ones, albeit not the shortest. It would not do to be stuck in one of the narrow tubes whilst on Katamay Rey's business. The master held no interest in excuses, and he was not gentle with those who failed him. Wikkell's predecessor as first assistant had angered the wizard, and as a result, had spent his final moment of life turning into a puddle of putrid ooze upon Rey's chamber floor. Wikkell's first chore as new assistant had been to clean up the remains of his predecessor, an unpleasant task that ever cautioned him to take extreme care in dealing with the wizard who ruled half of the cave system.

Recalling that incident served to hurry Wikkell's splayed feet as he moved toward his goal. Should he fail in his assigned task, 'twould be better not to return to these parts at all; certainly it was an option he would keep in mind, but one he would rather not exercise. He increased his pace yet more.

Deek slithered along a twisting tunnel, moving quite fast for a being without appendages. The belly plates upon which he traveled had evolved to suit rock, and he slid forward more like a snake than a worm, winding from side to side, head slightly raised above the slimed floor of the cave.

As he crawled along, Deek formulated his plans for communication with the other sentient species that inhabited the Grotterium Negrotus. The Bloodbats lived to eat and procreate, and they always needed more room. He could offer them one of the giant caverns to the west of the cave complex as a breeding ground. Chuntha had kept them empty for reasons of her own, and the bats would do anything to occupy such a vast space.

The Webspinners, on the other coil, were permanently stationary, and grown thin from lack of proper food. Could Deek assure them of a steady food supply, they would be more than willing to aid the witch in any way they could.

And the Blind Whites? Well, they were quite another matter. Those obscene, apelike creatures were friendly with the cyclopes and unlikely to want anything Chuntha could supply. Like as not, they would pull rock daggers on any worm foolish enough to approach them, stabbing first and asking each other stupid questions as they ingested the remains. Best to avoid those vermin altogether.

Deek had not seen Chuntha so agitated since the worms had brought her that man traveler a few months past. She had practically danced then; unfortunately, the poor traveler had not lasted very long under the witch's ministrations, a single episode in her bed being enough to finish him. But the remains had been quite tasty, as Deek recalled. Perhaps the witch would allow them to have her leavings again once this new traveler had served his purpose. But first they had to catch him. Deek increased his coiling, moving faster. It would not do to miss this person. Not at all. Deek had no desire to serve as fodder for the lime pits, a fate very, likely to be the result of failing to please Chuntha.

Conan and Elashi rounded the trail's turning as the sun began to sink behind the tallest peak to the west. The trek had been monotonous thus far. They had seen no one save an occasional curious mountain goat peering down at them. Another hour or so and they could stop for the night, Conan figured.

Then, just ahead, from the hard shadow of a sharp-edged spire of rock, a monster stepped into their path.

Conan and Elashi stopped and stared at the beast. Big it was, as large as a draft horse, but save that it stood on four legs, altogether unlike any horse they had ever seen. The beast looked to have been assembled by some mad god intent on blending dog, cat, and rat. The head was mostly canine but with catlike jowls and teeth; the body wore striped fur, much like a domestic tabby's, but in contour it was more like a hunting hound. The tail was long and pink, naked of hair, and properly belonged on a giant rat. The feet were also ratlike, with four toes on each foot, and each toe was tipped with a black claw. The thing growled and emitted a short bark, sounding like a great grizzled bear.

Without taking her startled gaze from the monster, Elashi spoke. "Some mangy stray dog, you said? Or perhaps a fat goose upon which we could dine, eh? Once again you astound me with your predictive powers, Conan."

"Better you should use your blade than your mouth," Conan said, starting to reach for his own sword.

The thing gave another bearlike bark and sniffed the air. Conan froze, leaving his sword in place. The wind was at the watchbeast's back, as the outlander could tell from the stench reaching his nostrils. Perhaps it could not see particularly well, for it made no move toward them.

"It seems unsure of us," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Perhaps if we remain still, it will lose interest."

"We might stand here until we starve," Elashi said, her voice also low.

"I am open to suggestion."

"Why do you always say that at such times as this?" Her voice grew somewhat louder.

"Why not yell, to better attract its attention?"

That shut her up. They stared at the composite beast.

For its part, the watchbeast did seem somewhat confused. It cocked its head from side to side, quizzically staring in Conan and Elashi's direction. Had it any sight at all, it seemed impossible that it would miss them, the distance being less than perhaps thirty spans; it sniffed the frosty air unmoving.

Conan's hand itched to pull his sword, but he remained still. Better to wait a few moments at least, to see what the thing would do. If it came at them, he would have plenty of time to draw his weapon, although fighting such a monster hardly seemed a pleasant pursuit.

The horseman touched the track in the snow, then turned to face the Harskeel and the other riders. "Very fresh, m'lord. The snow has kept the impression of the footwear's strings. They can be no more than a very few minutes ahead of us."

The Harskeel flashed its ambiguous smile. "Good. Forward!"

"Have you gods we can call upon?" Elashi whispered.

"None but Crom," Conan said. "And Crom rarely listens to prayers. He gives a man strength and cunning in certain measure at birth, then allows him to make his own way in the world."

"A harsh god," Elashi said.

"Aye. He rules over a harsh land, he could be little else."

"My own gods tend to be good for finding water or helping with the hunt," she said. "I don't think we have any god for dealing with the likes of that." She gestured at the beast with a glance. The thing had by this time sat upon its haunches, still staring in the direction of the two unmoving people.

"I cannot understand why it does not merely approach closer to see what we are," Conan said.

"Let us not give it any ideas in that direction, Conan."

"We cannot stay here forever," he said. "Perhaps we can utilize the same trick we played upon the Harskeel. I shall run aslant to it and when it chases me, you can attack it from the rear."

"A good idea," she said quickly.

Conan could not suppress a small chuckle. She did not hurry to volunteer to draw this beast's attention, he noted.

"Of course, once I move, it might notice us both," Conan said. "And mayhap choose to take the stationary meal instead."

Elashi considered this for all of three seconds. "On second thought, I think perhaps your plan lacks merit. Let us both draw our blades and run directly at it."

"Aye, better than to die a frozen statue. Ready?"

"As I shall ever be."

"Your sword, then."

As Conan and Elashi unsheathed their weapons, the watching monster came to its feet. Its striped fur bristled and it uttered several more barks, followed by a rumbling growl. The two were starting to run, when they heard another sound.

"There they are!"

Conan glanced over his shoulder to see a horde of horsemen bearing down upon them.

"Crom! What is this?"

Elashi did not question her fortunes, however. She merely took off at a right angle to the trail, diving behind a clump of scraggly brush. Conan understood. He duplicated the desert woman's dive and crouched down behind the weedy cover in time to see the watchbeast go sprinting past, heading straight for the approaching horsemen.

The bearlike cries and growls joined the yells of startled men and the whinny of terrified horses.

The watchbeast leaped, knocked three riders from their mounts and began to claw and chew the downed men, rending them as easily as a wolf does a hare. The other men began throwing pikes, some of which struck the monster, injuring and enraging it.

Conan saw at the rear of the pack of men and animals none other than the Harskeel itself, gesturing and screaming at its men.

"I think it best that we depart," Conan said, pointing at the fracas.

"For once I agree."

Quickly, the two of them hurried away from the fight.

Ten minutes away from the battle behind them, Conan and Elashi slowed their pace somewhat. "I think the Harskeel will have its hands full binding wounds," he said. "Besides, they will not be able to follow us in the dark. Nightfall is only moment away. We are safe for now."

Elashi nodded. "The Harskeel must indeed consider you a prime candidate for its magic."

"Aye, but… who knows? Mayhap it considers you a candidate as well. You also bear a sword."

That thought made her stop and think for a moment.

"We shall continue walking through the night," Conan said. "By morning we should be clear of the mountain and able to take any direction we choose on the plateau. They won't be able to follow us if we take pains to cover our trail."

"Then you feel we are in no danger?"

"I have no doubt of it," Conan said, smiling. Just then the ground opened beneath them, swallowing them like the maw of some giant creature.

* * *

Four

The length of their fall was nearly five spans; fortunately, the bottom of the descent was watery. Conan splashed into an icy pool and sank, quickly touching the bottom. He pushed away and broke the surface, realizing that he could easily stand as the depth was equal only to his chest. Elashi's head appeared briefly above the surface as she came up yelling; then she began to sink again. Apparently her rearing in the desert had not included instruction in the art of swimming. Conan grabbed one of Elashi's wildly waving hands and pulled her to him. She immediately clamped her legs around his waist and wound her arms tightly around his neck, sputtering incoherently.

The Cimmerian took stock. The pool was no more than a small pond in size, occupying a portion of what was obviously a tunnel in a cavern. The walls of this rock tube appeared to be as smooth as a child's face, and curved upward in tight arcs that, combined with the lack of projections, offered no means by which to climb. Cimmerians learned to climb almost as soon as they learned to walk, and if one of them could see no way of ascending something, likely it could not be done. Were the ceiling closer, he could perhaps toss Elashi up to the hole there, and she might then dangle knotted clothing or a vine down to Conan for him to climb up. Yes, and were lizards winged, why, then they would be birds.

The thickening night above offered less light with every moment. Best they leave this freezing water as soon as possible, Conan thought, and find another exit before darkness enshrouded them totally. He began to wade from the pool to the nearest shore, Elashi's weight being small burden on his efforts.

"Crom!"

Elashi leaned back from her tight embrace to look at Conan's face. "What it is?"

Conan did not answer but nodded toward the shadows of the cave. Elashi turned slightly to see what had drawn the oath from the Cimmerian.

Moving into the fast-dwindling light from out of the hidden depths of the cave came a double handful of… things. White they were, squat creatures more kin to ape than human. They wore no clothing save their own shaggy fur, and while each face showed a nose and mouth, where their eyes would be were only blank flesh and bone. They bore very large ears, however.

"Mitra!" Elashi said.

The water now stood below Conan's knees. He increased his pace, to reach the shore before the eyeless white creatures would arrive. Elashi relaxed her hold upon Conan and reached for her sword. Conan drew his own weapon as the two of them attained the drier, but still damp stone floor.

"Perhaps they are friendly," Elashi said. She did not sound particularly convinced.

"Perhaps," Conan said. "But let us keep our blades ready in case they are not."

She did not argue with that.

The blind white creatures moved closer.

The Harskeel was enraged: six of its men dead, two more dying, and another three wounded badly enough to require that they quit the chase. Only nine remained uninjured after slaying the hellish beast that had attacked them. The barbarian and the woman had escaped; night staked its claim to the day even as the Harskeel had its troops lay a rough camp. Damnation! The quarry had been within their grasp! Now they would have to wait until first light to proceed―who knew if the slain monster had a mate or kin in the hills?―and the Harskeel would bet gold against goat dung that Conan and the female with him would not dally, awaiting their pursuers. By the Nameless and all of its furry minions! Knowing there was nothing to be done for it decreased the Harskeel's rage not one whit.

Wikkell was weakening the cave roof for yet another pitfall trap when one of the Blind Whites ran into the chamber and skittered to a stop against the heavy ladder upon which the cyclops stood precariously balanced.

"Idiot!" Wikkell yelled as the ladder swayed.

The Blind White chittered something in its own language, a tongue that Wikkell had been required to learn in order to perform his duties for Katamay Rey.

"What? What are you babbling about?"

The creature repeated its hastily blurted speech, and this time Wikkell was able to make sense of it. The man, the one they sought, had fallen into the trap below the pass's summit!

Wikkell hastened to scramble down the ladder. Success, and so soon! The wizard would be pleased. "Do you have him?"

The Blind White assured Wikkell that this was so. Ten of his brothers surrounded the trapped man and would doubtless already be bearing him to one of the lock chambers in the Whites' main cave.

"Good, good!" With that, Wikkell shuffled off after the Blind White to fetch his quarry.

Deek heard the tale from a leathery-brown Bloodbat, who swooped down to perch on a stalagmite nearby. Deek did not particularly trust the bats, since they were always willing to switch allegiance to whomever offered the most reward; still, at the moment the monkey-sized bats seemed prone to work for Chuntha… after the generous offer of breeding space.

Deek dragged that portion of himself that passed for a vocal apparatus over the rock. "A-are y-y-you s-sure?"

Certain, the bat affirmed. A pair of blood-filled humans had fallen into One Eye's traps: a large and likely delicious meaty one, and a smaller tidbit.

Deek agitated his scraper back and forth rapidly. "Wh-what h-h-happened to th-the m-m-men?"

As to that, the bat did not know for certain. The report from the overflier was that the two succulent morsels had been surrounded by a large group of the Blind Whites, intent on their capture.

"D-damn!"

Deek twisted his bulk and began undulating along the floor. If One Eye had the men, Deek was a prime candidate for the lime pit. Not a pleasant fate. He had to do something, and quickly! The Webspinner Plants were thick in this portion of the cave system. Perhaps he could enlist their aid. He must do something, in order to continue his existence. Without the one the witch sought, Deek's life was worth less than the guano beneath that wretched and stupid bat!

The first of the eyeless white things sprang, less carefully than it should have. They were definitely not friendly, Conan decided as he sidestepped and swung his sword in a flat horizonal arc. The end of the blade tore through the creature's side, cutting it very nearly in twain. It continued its leap past Conan and fell into the pool behind the man. The blood was red enough, even in the dying light; ruby stained the cold ripples.

The rest of the attackers moved more cautiously.

When Conan edged forward, they gave ground, spreading out to try and surround the Cimmerian and Elashi.

Then Conan noticed an odd thing. As the light from above faded, he saw an eerie greenish glow coming from the walls and ceiling of the chamber; it was a ghostly pale luminescence, but sufficient for the Cimmerian's sharp eyes to see clearly.

The surrounding creatures seemed in no hurry to move, and Conan decided that 'twould be better if he and Elashi departed. He said so.

"And how are we to accomplish that? Fly over them?"

"Nay," Conan said, taking a firmer grip on his sword's haft. "Not over, but through. There are only three of them blocking the way. You take the one on the right and I shall clear the other two from the path. On my signal."

Elashi sighed, licked her lips, and nodded.

"Now!"

With that, the two of them leaped at the three startled creatures. Elashi's target simply turned and ran, while Conan's both emitted startled growls and crashed into each other in their efforts to get out of his way. There came the sound of bone meeting bone as their skulls connected. They fell, and Conan sprang over them and found himself running next to Elashi.

"That was not so difficult," Elashi said.

Conan managed a grunt but saved the rest of his breath for running.

Into the depths of the glowing tunnel they fled, pursued by the rest of the chittering creatures.

Wikkell stood over the floating corpse of the Blind White, staring at it. He blinked his single pink eye, then turned to the two Blind Whites who sat on the cold floor rubbing at lumps on their heads.

"What happened to the men?" Wikkell finally asked.

The two Whites babbled. The things were monsters, they said. They chopped down one of the brothers with giant claws―you could hear the whistle as they swung their weapons!―and sought to rend us likewise! We stood in their path and they hurled us aside like you would brush a spider away! We fought valiantly but were overcome by the power of the monsters…

"Enough," Wikkell said. "You let them escape."

But our brothers pursue, the two said.

"You had better pray they catch them," Wikkell said. "If those humans escape, it will be my life. Before I go, I will take you and as many of your brothers as I can with me!"

Upon them the curses of ten thousand demons! Wikkell moved down the tunnel into which the men had fled. He already knew that the witch had sent one of her fat worms wiggling this way to fetch his quarry. If she got it, he would spend the rest of his life waiting for the wizard's curse that would convert him to melting ooze. Not that the wait would be all that long. He had to capture the man Rey desired, no two ways about it.

Deek emerged into the wide section of the tunnel and observed with his hidden eyes the form of a dead Blind White bobbing in the pool beneath the opening to the sky.

The bat who had spoken to him earlier spiraled down and landed upon the corpse, which promptly sank. The bat squawked and lifted, to alight once again on the edge of the pond.

"D-d-don't b-b-bother," Deek said. "Th-that o-one's b-blood is m-m-mostly g-gone."

Well, something was better than nothing, the bat said. If the mighty Deek would help fetch the tidbit in the water, why, then the bat would tell him something interesting.

The mighty Deek's anger flared, and for a moment he considered dropping a coil onto the bat and reducing it to a mashed blood spot upon the floor. The image of the lime pit intruded, and he thought better of it. Raising his tail and snapping it down sharply, Deek slapped the water behind the dead Blind White. The splash hurled the body and half of the pond's water into the air. When the dead creature landed, the Bloodbat was on it in an instant, stabbing the pointed tube through which it fed into the cooling corpse.

"Y-y-you h-had s-s-something t-to t-tell m-me?" Deek scraped from the rock as he loomed over the bat.

The creature jerked its feeding tube from the body; blood dripped from the angled tip. Oh, yes, it said. Those two humans Deek wanted? Well, they had escaped from the Blind Whites and One Eye. They went that way.

Deek could not believe his good fortune. Escaped? That meant there was still a chance that he could capture them! Filled with sudden hope, Deek slid away at full crawl. Mayhap he could escape the lime pit after all!

In his chamber, Katamay Rey waited for word of the man's capture. He had thought to have Wikkell dispatch the man immediately, but on rethinking it, decided that perhaps it would be wiser to question the captive. Likely as not, a single person could not cause all the grief the wizard had foreseen in his crystal. More likely the man represented another magician, or perhaps some army; better to keep him alive long enough to ascertain the truth. Then he could kill him. And there were some spells that called for human blood and body parts, of course; so he would not be wasted. The wizard smiled at his cleverness. Soon this little incident would be finished and he could get back to the business of grinding That Bitch into well-deserved oblivion.

Chuntha touched the dreaming jewel, a fire-filled ruby, to various parts of her body, groaning with the pleasure it gave. The gem did not tell her when Deek would return with the captives, but it did say that there would be more than one involved in this matter. Chuntha beheld blurry images of another; perhaps two or three more. That boded ill. One was bad enough. She must take care to be certain that the wizard did not come by this knowledge.

She smiled into the putrid phosphor enveloping her. The one central to this business was a man of great physical power, the jewel told her. Young and strong and vibrant, alive with raw male energy, he would be a welcome treat after the recent months of drought. To lie with one such as the jewel bespoke would add greatly to her power. The Sensha would wrap them in its embrace, and the man's being would flow into hers, physically and spiritually. It promised to be the most exciting encounter in quite some time. Chuntha could hardly wait!

Meanwhile, along corridors lined with rocky teeth above and below, Conan and Elashi sprinted, trying to lose their pursuers. As they ran, they descended deeper into the earth; around them, the air grew colder.

High above, night draped its ebon cloak over the land, but it mattered not the least in the fungus-lined depths of the cave that seemed to have no end.

* * *

Five

The morning sun cast its light over the mountain trail, the beams bright but offering little heat in the clear wintry air. The Harskeel watched from horseback as one of its men leaned over the hole in the ground. Two other men held the first's feet as he dangled into the pit. After a moment the two supporters pulled the man up. He stood and faced the Harskeel.

"There be a cave under the trail, m'lord. Big 'un. The tracks end at the edge, so it looks like the two of 'em fell in. Pretty long drop down there. There be water at the bottom."

The Harskeel shifted on its saddle, eliciting a creak from the stiff leather. "No sign of them?"

"Nay, m'lord."

"Could they have survived the drop? Is the water deep enough to ensure that?"

The man shook his head. "Can't say, m'lord."

The Harskeel nodded at the two men behind the speaker, gesturing with a small jerk of its head, pointing into the pit with its nose. They understood. Before the speaker could gather his wits, the other two stepped forward and shoved him. He stumbled and pitched over the edge of the pit, screaming. Came a splash; then, after a moment, a curse.

"Hmm," the Harskeel said. "It seems as if they could have survived such a fall. Very well. They are likely alive then. We shall construct ladders and torches. They are down there, and so shall we go likewise."

The men looked nervous at this suggestion, but the Harskeel did not care. It felt certain. This Conan was the one to supply the ingredient to lift the spell. Oh, to be two again!

"Be quick about it," the Harskeel ordered.

An hour later a makeshift ladder was lowered into the cave. Leaving a single man to watch the horses, the Harskeel and its remaining troops descended into the pit.

The blind followers were persistent but not nearly as fleet of foot as Conan and Elashi. While the Cimmerian and the desert woman had not lost their pursuers, they had gained a considerable lead as they ran through the twists and turns of the cavern's corridors. Thus far they had been fortunate not to have fled down a dead end or into a tube that narrowed so much as to forbid passage.

With the last turning, however, their luck seemed to expire. At the end of the corridor were two passages; the one on the right narrowed almost immediately, so that they would have to crawl down it. The passage to the left was larger, but a thundering waterfall obscured one wall of that tunnel, and the water gathered in what appeared to be deep pools beneath the cascade, blocking the path. Recalling Elashi's swimming abilities, it did not look to be a promising route.

"We had better go back to the last turning," Elashi said, voicing Conan's thought.

"Too late," he said. "Even now the floor vibrates with their footsteps." He unsheathed his sword. "It appears we must take our stand here."

Elashi nodded and drew her sword. She and Conan stood side by side, waiting for the white beasts.

"This way," came a man's voice over the sound of the cataract.

Conan spun around. He saw no one.

"Here," came the voice again.

Squinting into the left-hand corridor, Conan was startled to see a man's hand emerge from the near side of the waterfall. The hand beckoned. "Hurry!" the voice said.

Conan and Elashi glanced at each other. They had little to lose. Even so, the big Cimmerian approached the roaring water cautiously, finding that the deep pool in the center of the corridor was bounded by a shallow ledge. Once he attained the spot where he had seen the hand, Conan leaped through, his blade held ready to strike.

Behind the waterfall, which was wide but shallower than it had appeared, a short, thick-set man stood, illuminated by the green glow of the ubiquitous wall fungus. Old he was, perhaps fifty, with a gray beard and long, matted gray hair under a limp hat. His clothes were soggy cloth breeches and shirt, and crude sandals, and he held a long dagger at the ready. Behind the man lay a high corridor, winding away for a long distance.

Elashi splashed through behind Conan, water spray ing from her form. As soon as she looked up, the older man gestured with his head down the corridor. Conan needed no prompting to understand. They followed the stranger away from the waterfall.

Around two turns of the corridor, the man stopped. "Them Blind Whites can't hear us through the noise of the waterfall, and they can't smell nothin' past the water, neither. They won't come this way."

"We thank you for your aid," Conan said.

"Tull, I'm called," the old man said.

"Well met, and timely, Tull. I'm Conan, of Cimmeria, and this is Elashi, of Khauran." The Cimmerian paused, then asked, "What is this place, friend?"

"That'll take some time for the tellin'."

Conan looked around. "It seems that we have little else."

"I have a hiding place not far from here," Tull said. "Suppose we go there and I'll explain what I know."

Conan and Elashi nodded. Tull moved off, and they followed.

Wikkell ducked to avoid a crusty stalagtite dangling from the low ceiling. His Blind White guide stopped, cocked his head to one side, then turned to the cyclops. The guide chattered. His fellows were returning, it seemed. They approached from down the corridor and would be upon them momentarily.

Wikkell smiled at that, revealing thick, wide-set teeth. This venture was proving to be easier than he had anticipated. In a moment the Blind Whites would appear―there they were now―and they would be bearing with them―No one!

Where were the men?

The leader of the Whites shuffled his feet on the floor. There had been two of them, he said, one a female, judging from her odor. But they had escaped.

"Escaped!" Wikkell roared the word as if it were a virulent curse.

That was so. Vanished into solid rock.

"Men do not vanish into solid rock," the cyclops said.

Either that or they walked on water, the leader of the group said. Perhaps they were wizards.

"Show me. I will see this with my own eye."

A waste of time, the leader said.

"It is my time to waste." And, he thought to himself, if the quarry has truly escaped, there will be considerably less time remaining to me than heretofore.

The cyclops followed the Blind Whites down the corridor.

The bat alighted upon a rocky fold just ahead of Deek and used its teeth to scratch at something on its left wing strut.

"W-w-what i-is t-t-the n-n-news-s-s?

Bad, the bat told the worm. The two men―one a female, so he had learned by listening to that barbaric speech of the Whites―had escaped, vanished, disappeared.

Deek considered that. It was bad that he did not have the man and woman in his possession; on the other coil, it was good that One Eye did not have them either. Perhaps this affair might be salvaged yet.

"I-i-is t-t-there a-a-another w-way t-to w-w-where t-the m-m-men v-v-vanished-d-d?" This was a long speech for Deek to scratch out on the rock.

The bat indicated that this was so.

"S-sh-show m-m-ine."

In his chamber, Katamay Rey grew impatient, waiting for news of the man's capture. He rummaged through his collection of crystals, searching for the small blue stone that he used for communication. He would call his cyclops and ask about the delay. Where was that cursed stone?

In her chamber, Chuntha fumed, awaiting the report from her minion Deek. What could be keeping him? She would give him another hour; then she would try a dreamcast to contact the great white worm. The anticipation of receiving the captive was high in her, and she was not one to suffer delay easily.

Tull's hiding place proved to be a fungoid grotto reached by climbing up a rough wall in a large cave. The narrow entrance to the grotto was covered by a flap of hide that had been covered with crushed stone so that it blended into the wall, rendering it almost invisible from the floor of the cave below.

Inside, the walls were caked thick with the glowing fungus; here the light was concentrated and almost bright. The room contained a small table constructed of various lengths of bone bound with gut strings, upon it rested a cup made from an animal's skull. There was also a pile of furs in one corner, likely used for sleeping. Conan noted that these furs seemed very similar in shape and color to the Blind Whites, as Tull had called them. Also, there were smaller skins, birdlike but rat-colored, in the collection.

"This place is called the Grotterium Negrotus," Tull said. "The Black Caves. I have been here for nearly five years, best as I can figure."

"How did you come to be so?" Elashi asked.

"I fell through a hole In the ground above."

"Sounds familiar," she said.

"Who were those creatures that attacked us?" Conan asked.

"Them's the Blind Whites. Mostly they side with Rey."

"Rey?"

"Aye. There's two rulers down here. One's Katamay Rey, he's a wizard what uses crystals and such for his magic. The other's Chuntha the witch. Her magic, well, it's more involved with, uh―" he glanced at Elashi―"uh, it's more of a personal nature."

"Personal nature?" Elashi asked.

Tull made a sign with his hands, the meaning of which was unmistakable. Conan grinned, and Elashi glared at him.

"Anyways, the two of 'em have been at each other for as long as I been here. According to what I heard, they been fightin' each other for control of the caves for hundreds of years. Got all the natives workin' for 'em. Blind Whites, which you met, Webspinner Plants, Bloodbats, Worms Gigantus, and the hunchbacked cyclopes. They switch sides sometimes."

"Sounds like a wonderful place," Elashi said, her voice full of irony. "Why do you stay here?"

"Can't get out. The worms 'n' the cyclopes, they close up the trap holes after a little while. In five years I ain't found a way out."

Conan stared at Tull. To be trapped here for the rest of one's life? That was an unpleasant thought.

"I get by," Tull continued. "Nobody's found this place, and the taste of the Whites and bats ain't so bad once you get used to it."

"Are there any other people here?"

Tull shook his head. "Now and again somebody drops in through one of the traps. If Rey gets 'em, he kills 'em quick and that's it for 'em. If Chuntha gets 'em, the goin' is more pleasant, judging from what I heard and seen once, but almost as fast. Druther be caught by her 'n' him, but I avoid 'em both."

Conan digested this morsel of information. "I have no intention of spending my days in this pit," he said. "We shall have to find a way out."

"I been lookin' for five years and ain't found it yet.

"Nonetheless, there must be a way."

"You'll want to be careful," Tull said. "If the Whites know, then Rey knows you're down here and likely anything Rey knows, Chuntha will know, too. They'll be lookin' for you."

Conan touched the handle of his sword. "Perhaps they might be sorry if they find me," he said.

Tull glanced at Conan's sword, then at the big Cimmerian's muscular frame. "Aye, perhaps. But likely you'll be sorrier. One cyclops would make two of you, and there's hundreds of 'em. And the big worms can sometimes squeeze the air out of a cyclops, one against one."

Conan and Elashi looked at each other.

"Better we should find a way out," Elashi said.

Conan said nothing, but agreed silently. Witches, wizards, and hellish cavern beasts held no attraction for him whatsoever. The sooner they left this place, the better Conan would like it.

* * *

Six

The size of the cave system impressed the Harskeel while at the same time frightening its men. Their torches cast a fitful yellow glow that blended with the fungal green light emitted from the dank walls. Finding Conan and the woman might prove to be a more difficult task than first the Harskeel had imagined. Well, it made no difference. Conan was the one; the Harskeel grew more convinced of it every moment. Once it had the barbarian's sword, the spell reversing this accursed joining could be intoned. The words had long since been committed to the Harskeel's memory, burned in deeply as if placed there by a red-hot iron brand. Ahead, the tracker uttered a short curse.

"What is it?" the Harskeel asked.

"Lost the sign agin, m'lord. Looks like somethin' passed behind 'em and wiped it away. See?"

The tracker held his torch close to the floor. The encrusted salts and slime had been smoothed over, as if something wide and heavy had been dragged over the surface in a side-to-side manner. There was a kind of pattern to the smoothing, a widened "S" shape.

"Ever see a track like this before?" the Harskeel asked.

The tracker shook his head. "Can't say's I have, m'lord. Not exactly. Once, in the desert, I seen a pattern kinda like it. Serpent track. But there ain't no snakes this size." He gestured at the floor.

You hope, the Harskeel thought. And I hope so too. 'Twould be difficult to utilize Conan and his blade did they have to be extracted from the belly of a monster serpent.

"We shall continue on down this tunnel," the Harskeel said.

The Whites had moved ahead of Wikkell toward the waterfall cavern and so the cyclops was alone when the call came from his master. All of a moment the air to one side of the cave seemed to swirl with purple light; a low humming began and increased in volume to that of a giant winged insect. Wikkell stopped, realizing almost immediately the cause of the phenomenon.

From the purple haze came Rey's voice. "HAVE YOU THE MAN I SEEK?"

Wikkell swallowed dryly and chose his words carefully. "Even now I am on my way to collect him, Master. The Blind Whites have trapped him in a corridor some distance away."

"HOW LONG UNTIL YOU RETURN WITH HIM?"

"Ah, that is difficult to predict, Master. The corridor is some distance away, as I said. And your chambers are considerably farther, as the man is in the opposite direction from them."

"MAKE HASTE, WIKKELL. I HATE TO BE KEPT WAITING."

"I shall return as soon as possible, Master."

The purple blot upon the air swirled and faded, leaving the cyclops alone in the dim green light. He tried to swallow again but found his mouth too dry to accomplish that simple task. He had purchased more time with his lie… well, perhaps not a lie, only an exaggeration. But best he hurry and accomplish that which he had told Rey was imminent. Otherwise…

The image of himself as a steaming puddle of ooze upon the floor thrust itself into the cyclops' thoughts. He increased his speed.

Though he was wide awake, Deek had a dream. In it he lay at the feet of Chuntha, who loomed over him as if she were ten times her normal size. "Where are the people I sent you to fetch?" she demanded.

Deek could feel himself exude the oily flux that passed for sweat among his kind. "I―I h-have n-not yet a-arrived at t-t-their l-location, M-m-mistress. I-it is… ah… s-s-some d-distance a-away."

Chuntha increased in size, towering over Deek. She bent and picked up the worm as if he were no more than a hatching fresh from the egg. She held him in her hands as she sometimes did that wand-bone of hers. With the slightest pressure, she could squeeze him into mush. "Hurry, Deek. I grow impatient. You do not want that."

Without a sounding rock to scrape upon, Deek could not speak, but no, he definitely did not want Chuntha impatient with him. No.

Deek awoke to find himself crawling along as before, the bat, his guide, still flitting back and forth above him. Had he the ability, he would have sighed. In lieu of that, he merely increased his speed.

Conan had listened to Tull's story with interest, but he was not ready to accept the older man's conclusion. And were he to find the way out, best he begin looking immediately. He said as much.

Once again to his surprise, Elashi failed to contradict him. "Aye," she said. "The sooner we are shut of this place, the better."

Tull shook his head. "I think you're daft, lad, but I'll not see you wandering about in the caves without my assistance. May be that you can do what I could not. You shall have my knife's help."

Conan grinned. This was more like it. Far better to be up and doing something than to sit passively awaiting Fate's bidding. "Good," he said. "Then let us be about it."

With that, the three departed Tull's grotto.

Wikkell stood staring at the waterfall. "Are you certain they went this way?" The Blind Whites affirmed that this was so.

The cyclops brooded for a moment. Well, if they went this way, he could also go thus. He began to wade into the icy water. It deepened quickly, rising as he stepped into it. Three paces and the water level was nearly at his chin. Too deep for the humans to have waded through it. Perhaps near the edge it was shallower…?

Indeed. As Wikkell sidestepped, the pool!s floor angled upward. In a moment the water was only knee-depth. It was tricky going, with that rushing cascade right next to him. He moved his splayed feet over the slippery bottom with care. The fugitives must have edged along like this until they were past the waterfall.

Wikkell slipped on a protruding bottom stone. He would have fallen into the depths of the pool, but he waved his arms wildly and instead overbalanced toward the flowing waterfall. He fell into it―And through it.

Ho-ho! he thought as he drew himself to his feet and stood erect. The water hid another chamber and tunnel! He turned and stuck his head through the waterfall, now seen to be little more than a thin but wide cascading sheet.

"This way, blind fools," he said. "They went this way."

From a shallow crevasse in the stone floor, Deek watched as One Eye first disappeared into the waterfall, then pushed his head through it and called to the Blind Whites.

When the creatures had all moved through the sheet of rushing water, the bat flitted down and alighted next to Deek.

"D-d-did y-y-ou k-know of t-this?"

The bat affirmed that it did. The other end of the tunnel entered into one of the Bloodbats' breeding chambers, in point of fact.

"I-is t-there a-a-another w-way to the c-c-chamber?"

Certainly, the bat said. You do not think that we fly through that water whenever we wish to leave, do you?

"T-t-take m-me t-t-there."

As you wish, the bat said, seeming bored by it all.

Deek felt a small surge of happiness as he slithered off after the supercilious bat. The prey would not be coming back this way, not with One Eye and the Whites blocking egress. If he could get to the other end in time, he could be there to capture them. With the help of a breeding cave full of bats, it should be easy enough.

"What lies at the ends of this tunnel?" Conan asked.

Tull pointed. "That way is the bat cave, where they breed. The other way you already know about; it's the waterfall."

"Is it possible to slip past the bats?" Elashi asked.

"Aye, lady, if one is careful and quiet. Mostly they sleep, when they ain't breeding."

"Then let us go that way," Conan said. As young as he was, his voice carried a tone of command. It was all well and good to joke with Elashi when they were ambling along a mountain trail, but when real danger threatened, Conan's instincts would not be thwarted by words. He would play her games only as long as it suited him.

Conan took the lead, with Elashi and Tull following.

The journey to the breeding cavern took less than an hour. As they neared their destination, Tull halted them and began to whisper.

"The bats do not see well," Tull said. "But they sense movement. Slow motions hardly register. If you think one sees you, hold still, and like as not it'll drift back to sleep without bothering you."

Conan nodded, noting that Elashi did the same.

"One thing, though," Tull said. "They can smell blood a long way off. If you get a scrape or cut, they'll be on you like flies on offal―no offense, lady―and there'll be hell to pay. Four or five of 'em can drain a White dry in a minute, and there's likely a hundred of 'em hanging from the ceiling in this cave. Take care you don't brush against a sharp rock."

Conan drew his sword.

"That won't do you no good," Tull said. "Not if you face a hundred of 'em."

"Perhaps not," Conan said. "But if they come to drink my blood, they will pay dearly with their own."

Tull chose not to speak to this, and with Conan still in the lead, they moved off.

Wikkell asked, "Do you know where this tunnel leads?" and realized the futility of the question before the chattering Whites could frame a reply. Of course they did not know; until he had shown them, they had not realized the passageway even existed. Well, he would find out soon enough.

"H-h-how l-long?"

Soon, the bat said. Can you not smell the breeding chamber's lovely essence?

Deek did notice a foul, musty odor wafting down the hallway, but fortunately, had not complained of it.

"That smooth track turns and goes this way, m'lord."

The Harskeel nodded. It had a feeling that whatever had made that track would lead them to Conan. "Stay with it," the Harskeel ordered.

The bats were larger than Conan had anticipated. They hung upside down from protrusions on the roof and walls of the chamber, enwrapped in membranous wings so that they looked like giant flat-faced, tailess rats more than anything else. Here and there a pair were joined together, but for the most part, the hanging bats were still and quiet.

Slowly, carefully, the trio moved across the cave. There were rocks strewn all over, which made for dangerous footing, and spires of rock jutted up from the floor like talons waiting to snag an unwary victim.

More than a dozen openings led away from the cave, some of them at floor level, others higher up along the glowing green walls. There were three such exits directly across from where the trio had entered, and it was for the center opening that Conan, Tull, and Elashi made their way. Tull had indicated that this was the longest and largest of the local hallways, with abundant hiding places should someone or something come along.

They were halfway across the large cavern, the bats overhead sleeping peacefully, when trouble arrived. And as trouble was wont to do, it arrived in droves.

Behind them, a gravelly voice said, "There! Get them!"

Conan spun about, sword at the ready. From the tunnel they had recently vacated, eight or ten of the Blind Whites poured forth, chattering. Behind them lumbered a creature unlike anything the Cimmerian had ever seen. Tall it was, half again Conan's own height, with a hunched back and a single pink eye. It shambled forward, as fast as the Whites for all its size, gnarled and muscular arms outstretched, fingers splayed wide as if to gather in Conan and his friends.

The leading Blind White chose that moment to trip upon a loose rock. He fell, and misfortune guided him so that he was impaled upon one of the stalagmite talons, the point of which emerged from the hapless creature's back.

If the sounds of the chattering Whites had not been enough to awaken the bats, the gout of blood from the clumsy one certainly was. Overhead, the bats came to life.

There was more. Behind Conan, Tull swore. Conan spared him a glance and in the background saw a single bat emerge from another tunnel, followed by―Crom!―a ghostly pale worm as big around as a man! The beast slithered across the rocky floor toward the three people, bent on its own hellish purpose.

As the bats began to swoop down, screeching in high-pitched voices, the Blind Whites snatched up rocks from the floor and hurled them at the flying creatures. Though they must have been aiming at the sounds, their throws were none the less accurate than if they had eyes. Bats were struck by the stones and knocked from the air.

"The men, get the men!" the cyclops yelled, its voice a roar. The Whites, however, were too busy to pay the one-eyed creature much heed.

A bat flew at Conan, and the Cimmerian slashed with his blade, hacking one wing off. The bat spiraled away, screeching.

"There he is!" came another voice.

Conan looked for the source of this new threat. From the tunnel behind the great white worm came seven or eight men, armed with pikes and carrying torches. Conan recognized them a heartbeat before their leader appeared. The Harskeel!

The bats also noted this new intrusion into their nesting area, and it seemed no more pleasing than the others. Dozens of them swooped down upon the pikemen and the Harskeel. The men jabbed and cut at the flying creatures with their short pikes, but to little effect.

Bats screeched, Whites chittered, the Harskeel and his men screamed, the cyclops roared, and the giant worm scraped across the rock. Pandemonium ruled the cave.

"Best we leave!" Tull shouted as Conan chopped another diving bat from the air.

Conan swung his sword again, barely missing yet another bat. Aye, now there was an idea whose time had come.

* * *

Seven

Departing from the bat-infested cavern was not as easy to do as to say. As Conan slew still another darting bat, something leaped upon his back. He twisted, hurling one of the Blind Whites to the floor. Elashi finished the creature with a thrust of her blade. Blood gouted.

"This way!" Tull yelled.

Moving on a surface made slippery by gore, Conan and Elashi sought to follow the older man.

One of the pikemen managed to slog his way toward them, brandishing his weapon. "Halt!" he called. Then "Urk!" as both a bat and a Blind White fastened themselves to him.

Behind Conan, the giant cyclops roared and used his massive fists like hammers, battering aside men, bats, and Whites foolish enough to get in his way.

To Conan's left, the sluglike worm crawled closer, swatting at the occasional White with the tip of what the Cimmerian assumed to be its tail. That segment of the worm whipped through the air with more speed than the young Cimmerian would have thought possible, smashing the apelike creatures, spinning them away like children's dolls.

Conan cut another bat from the air, slinging its hot blood into Elashi's face. "Watch what you are doing!" she yelled.

Tull said, "Here!"

Conan and the desert woman hurried through the sudden clearing of antagonists to the tunnel in which Tull stood, urging them to him. In another moment they had made their exit.

Running down the tunnel, Conan asked, "Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" Elashi said. "Away from that place!"

"This tunnel has a number of twists and branches," Tull called out, a wheeze in his voice. "We can lose any pursuit here."

"Perhaps they will not pursue us at all."

"I think that might be wishful thinking, lass. It strikes me that all of 'em are after you and the big 'un here."

"Wonderful," Elashi muttered. "Just wonderful."

The Harskeel was willing to allow all of its men to, die could it but attain its prey, but there was no point in permitting them to be slaughtered without achieving that goal. The tunnel into which Conan and the girl―and that old man, who was he?―had fled was all the way across a cavern full of strange creatures bent upon destruction. Best to retreat and gather his energies for a later pursuit, the Harskeel told itself.

"To me!" it called.

Only four pikemen were able to respond, and the Harskeel, bloody sword in hand, led them to the nearest exit. On the way, they gathered up one of the wounded bats. Could it talk, they would question it later.

Wikkell stood glaring down at the giant worm, his breath still coming fast from his exertions. "Call off your bats!" he ordered the coiled creature.

Deek uncoiled slightly and scraped part of himself over the rock beneath his body. "H-h-have y-your W-whites c-c-cease t-their d-d-destruction!"

Cyclops and worm glared at each other.

"You have allowed them to get away!"

"I-I h-have a-allowed it? I-it is y-y-you w-who a-allowed it!"

Behind Wikkell, one of the Whites screamed, struggling with three bats who had stuck their feeding tubes into him.

"While we stand here arguing, they move further into the tunnels. Perhaps we can strike a bargain? We can work together. There are three of them, after all; we can divide them up when we catch them. They all look alike… who is to know?"

Deek considered this for a moment. Aye, better to have One Eye where he could be seen, and there was some merit in the plan, not that he intended to share anything once the men were collected. "A-a-agreed!"

Wikkell held his smile in check. Once they caught the humans, he could smash the worm with a big rock and that would be the end of it. In the meantime, it would be better to have the witch's thrall where he could keep his eye watching it.

"Let us go, then," Wikkell said.

"W-wh-what of y-your W-w-whites?"

Wikkell turned to look. Most of the Whites were down; a few still hurled rocks at the swooping fliers.

"Let the bats have them; thus far they have only gotten in my way."

"A-as h-have the b-b-bats. C-c-come."

Deek moved quickly, but with added caution. He trusted One Eye less than the distance he could fly like a bat, which was to say, not at all.

Together, cyclops and worm started for the tunnel.

In his chamber, Rey's impatience simmered to a roiling bubble.

In her bed, Chuntha's agitation at being kept waiting blossomed like a bitter fungus.

"Which way?" Conan asked as the three fleeing humans came to a triple forking of tunnels.

Tull scratched at his beard. "I dunno," he said. "I never took this route afore."

"One is as good as another," Elashi said. "The center path."

Before either man could speak, the desert woman hurried into the chosen tunnel. Tull raised a questioning eyebrow at Conan.

Conan shrugged. "She is like that. I have found it better not to argue. It saves much time."

The two men followed Elashi.

"Best you slow down," Conan called to Elashi. She was perhaps ten spans ahead of the Cimmerian youth and running nearly full out.

"Can't keep up, Conan?" she called back.

"No, it is just that―"

His words were interrupted by Elashi's scream. She dropped suddenly from view, and her disappearance was followed almost immediately by a splash. Conan increased his speed and skidded to a halt on the damp rock just short of where the desert woman had vanished.

He found himself on the edge of the largest cavern yet, balanced on a rocky lip overlooking a vast lake; he could not see the far shore as the fungal glow faded rapidly with distance, the water being illuminated only by the roof, a good ten spans above.

A span or so below Conan, Elashi came up from the water, which reached only to her hips. Conan grinned down at her. "I can keep up. It is just that we don't know these tunnels and we might happen upon something unexpected," he said.

"I hate you!" Elashi said.

Tull slid to a stop next to Conan, overbalanced and nearly fell but was stopped by an outthrust brawny arm.

"Take care," Conan said.

Tull nodded, regaining his breath. "The Sunless Sea."

"You know this place?"

"I have seen it from a different vantage point, but yes." To Elashi, Tull said, "Best you exit the water, lass. There are certain creatures who live in it―"

Whatever ending Tull intended to his sentence was lost in the splashing Elashi made as she frantically left the water. To Conan's left was a kind of beach a few steps away, and it was but four heartbeats before Elashi attained this drier vantage point. A short ledge led from the mouth of the tunnel along the rock wall to the beach, and Conan and Tull made their way down to the shore to join the woman.

Elashi began to remove her wet clothing, wringing it out as she did so.

"Give me your cape," she said to Conan, who managed to keep himself from smiling as he tendered the garment. The fall had served her right, but it was probably best to refrain from speaking it thus. She wrapped herself in the cape, which was hardly drier than her own clothing.

"So," Conan said, "what of this sea?"

"I know only a little about it," Tull answered. "It widens as you see here, and narrows to a small river's width in other places. S'posed to go on for miles and miles, though it's more like a large lake 'n a true sea―the water ain't brine. I learned this from a White I captured once."

"Go on."

"No one knows for certain where the sea ends, but it might be that it eventually emerges above the ground."

Conan looked at the still water. "That would be reason enough to follow it."

"Had we but a ship and rowers," Elashi put in. Sarcastically, as usual.

"That might be possible," Tull said. "After a fashion."

"How so?" Conan asked.

"There are creatures in the water. A form of giant whiskered fish is among them. As big as a house, if the White could be believed."

"So?"

"In my youth I fished the great western rivers," Tull said. "These bottom fish contain large bladders filled with air. When the creatures die, they will float for a time. With one of them, we might make a raft. We could use fins and large bones as paddles."

"All well and good," Elashi said, "but how are we to collect this monster fish?"

"We have your swords and my knife," Tull said. "A sure stroke in a vulnerable spot would slay one."

"And what is to draw one of these fish to a place where we could slay it?" she continued. "We have no bait."

Conan and Tull glanced at each other, then back at Elashi. The two men grinned. Whatever else the desert woman was, she was not slow of wit. "Ha! You are both mad!"

"The other choice is to stay here forever and face the worms, bats, Whites and cyclopes," Conan said, "not to mention the wizard and the witch."

"Then one of you may act as bait!"

Tull said, "I am the fisherman. I must watch for the signs of the creature."

"And I am much better with my blade than are you with yours," Conan said. "Do you think you could slay a fish as large as a house with that needle you carry?"

"I will not do it," Elashi said. "You are both addled completely out of your feeble minds!"

Tull sketched a picture of the fish in the wet sand near the water's edge. "You must drive your blade in here," he said, indicating a spot just behind the head. "Angled in thus, to sever the great nerve within the spine, here."

Conan nodded.

"The flesh is soft, as is the bone, but it will require a powerful stab, likely to the full depth of your blade."

Conan nodded again.

Tull stood and brushed the sand from his hands. "Farther along the shore, just there, is a likely spot. You see that spire of rock that juts out over the water?"

"I see it."

"If the lass swims in the deep water below it, you will be positioned to stab the fish as it passes underneath."

Elashi grinned at this. "Ah, a shame. I would be willing to go along with this moon-mad plan, but alas, I cannot swim a stroke. Ask Conan, he knows. So much for your plan."'

"No need to swim," Tull said. "You will dangle from the rock spire. We can cut that cloak into strips for a swing."

"But―but―" she began.

"So much for your objections," Conan said.

It took less than an hour to make everything ready. Elashi hung from the spire, only her feet touching the surface below. Tull had her waving her legs back and forth, agitating the water. Above . her, Conan stood with his sword held in both hands, point held down. Tull watched the water in the distance.

"If you allow a fish to eat me, I shall never forgive you, Conan. I will follow you around the Gray Lands for ten thousand years making you regret it, I swear."

Conan considered that thought and found it as unpleasant as any he had ever, had. To be tormented by a woman's bitter tongue for eternity, aye, now there was a truly hellish thing. Surely Crom would not punish any man so?

"Look there," Tull said. He pointed.

Conan looked. A wide ripple seemed to be approaching them. "I see no fish."

"But you see the water of its passage. It will have to come closer to the surface as it approaches. In a moment… ah, there!"

Something thin and spined broke the surface.

"Its dorsal fin!" Tull cried. "Make ready, lad!" To Elashi he said, "I'll pull you up when it gets close enough."

"You had better!" Elashi said.

"By Mitra, it's a big 'un," Tull said. "You could feed a whole village for an entire moon on it!"

"Should not you pull me up now?"

"A moment more. Conan?"

"I am ready." The Cimmerian took a deep breath, allowed it to escape, and tightened his reverse grip on the sword's handle. Here it came, closer, it was getting closer and closer…

"Up we go, lass!" Tull started tugging on the twin ropes of cloth holding Elashi. She came up half a span――then the strap on the left broke. The wet pop! of the cloth was joined by the woman's scream as she clutched the remaining support, nearly jerking Tull from his perch.

"Mitra's ass!" Tull hollered. He began to pull Elashi upward again. Too slow. The fish would be there in another instant and―Elashi scrambled up the cloth strand like a monkey, continued past the end Tull held and clambered over him onto his back just as the fish reached the spot where she had dangled.

Screaming a wordless sound, Conan leaped from the spire, landed wide-legged upon the back of the fish, and drove the point of his sword downward with all of his strength. His chest and stomach and shoulders contracted, his arms flexed with power, and the blue iron sank to the hilt in rubbery flesh. He even managed a grin. Why, this was simple.

The fish thrashed, tossing the outlander from its back as a maddened horse would throw a legless rider. Conan hit the water and was battered by sudden waves. The fish's tail slapped the surface next to him as he came up, barely missing him, and the force of the thrashing tail sent the man tumbling through the water like a wood chip in a storm-swollen ditch.

Despite the roiling water, the Cimmerian man aged to orient himself and start swimming for the shore. He attained the base of the spire and climbed rapidly, joining Elashi and Tull within a moment.

Beneath the trio, the fish's struggles lessened. Conan's strike had been true. After a few moments the great breast stopped moving on its own. Slowly the dead fish rose to the surface, bobbing up on its side, water streaming downward from scales the size of platters.

Conan grinned at Elashi. "Behold, our boat."

Elashi wrinkled her nose. "It has a loathesome stench already. In a few days it will stink to the ends of the world."

Conan and Tull looked at each other. Some people could find fault everywhere. Give them a chest of gold and they would complain of the weight they must carry.

* * *

Eight

W-we h-h-have th-them!" Deek said. He and Wikkell had paused so that the worm could speak: moving and talking at the same time was all but impossible for Deek's kind.

"How so? I see no one here but us."

"Th-this t-t-tunnel l-leads to the S-s-sunless S-sea."

"Ah." Even though Wikkell had spent very little time in this region of the vast Black Cave system, he could not help but know of the sprawling underground lake. "Then they are trapped."

"S-s-so it w-w-would s-s-seem."

"Then let us proceed apace. I feel certain that the two of us can capture and hold a mere three humans."

"W-w-without a d-doubt," Deek agreed.

There were limits to Rey's communication spell. Wikkell was either beyond the reach of the magic or dead, the latter being somewhat more unlikely. Still, either way boded ill for the wizard's plans. If the prey had managed to somehow elude the cyclops and move beyond Rey's range to speak to his servant, that was bad. If Wikkell were somehow indisposed and unable to answer Rey's call, that was also bad. Not for a moment did the magician consider that the cyclops might ignore his hail. So either of the two choices was unacceptable, and yet one of them must indeed be the case.

Katamay Rey moved to a chest of assorted magical impedimenta and began to rummage through it. There was no help for it, then. He would have to gather supplies and a retinue and go find Wikkell, or the barbarian, or both.

Damn. Why was it that anything of consequence always seemed to require his own hand? Did he have to do everything around this place?

Chuntha's patience was ended. That slithering servant of hers was beyond her dreamcasting range, blast him! Who knew what evil might have befallen Deek? The man―the big, strong, handsome, virile man―might be escaping her clutches even as she lay upon her bed dreading the very thought.

No. It would not do.

She sighed. She supposed that she should have learned by now not to send a worm to do a witch's job. It had seemed so simple, to merely fetch the man to her―but no, by the Demon Sensha's Hairy Mound, some laughing fate wished to cheat her of her just due. Perhaps the wizard had a hand in it. An unpleasant thought.

Chuntha raised her naked form from the sodden bed and moved to gather a collection of certain items of magical power. Very well. She had not always been a stay-at-home ruler. She would go and fetch the man herself. And if Deek lived and was whole, he would be made to suffer for her extra labors, too.

The blind white thing responded to the Harskeel's questions, speaking in a tongue that sounded like a tortured monkey's wails. Fortunately, one of the Harskeel's men was familiar with a mountain dialect that was similar enough that some sense could be made of the creature's replies.

"I am only interested in the one called 'Conan,' " the Harskeel said. "Ask it about him."

The pikeman did so.

A stream of babble came from the beast.

"M'lord, he says there was a large man and that he and his brothers were sent to fetch him."

"Ask it who sent it."

More gratings upon the ear.

"He says he works for the one-eyed monster, who in turn works for the wizard of the caves."

The Harskeel shook its head. Treading on a wizard was bad business. There was no help for it, though.

When they had obtained as much information as the Harskeel thought itself apt to get from the white thing, it drew its sword and snapped a quick but powerful cut at the creature's neck. Razor steel met flesh, and the startled cry died even as it was born. The severed head fell, trailing blood, and bounced along the cave floor.

So much for that.

Leading its remaining men, the Harskeel moved off.

Using his sword and Tull's knife, Conan hewed several shallow compartments and numerous footsteps into the flesh of the dead fish. A pair of riblike bones, each fastened to portions of fin with strings cut from his former cape, made passable paddles with which to propel the once-living raft. He also cut some of the fish's flesh into small chunks for eating, though in truth the raw fish held little appeal to his or Elashi's appetite.

"Here," Tull said. "Watch."

With that, the ragged man clambered down from the fish's side―now the top of their raft―and splashed onto the nearest shore. After a moment he returned with a yellowish mushroom he had found at the base of the cave wall. Then he picked up a hand-sized slab of the cut fish and squeezed the fungus over it. Juice from the fungus fell upon the translucent fish, and as it did, the flesh became opaque.

Conan's keen nose noted an acidic tang to the juice, and he remarked upon it.

"Aye," Tull said. "The juice of this particular toadstool is harmless, but it 'cooks' the fish. In a few minutes it'll be like we roasted it in an oven."

Conan was somewhat dubious as to the powers of toadstool liquid, but a taste of the fish when Tull indicated that it was "done" put an end to his doubts. The fish was delicious! Given that it was the first meal he and Elashi had enjoyed in some time, they ate with gluttonous relish, stuffing the fish down in great mouthfuls.

Somewhat later, feeling sated, Conan said, "I suppose it would be too much to ask that another of these fungi along the wall would serve as wine?"

Tull chuckled. "Would that it were so, lad, but nay. There is a kind of mushroom I've seen that gives visions when eaten, but it has a nasty flavor and is just as apt to make a man puke as dream."

"Thank you, no," Conan said.

Elashi had climbed down the steps Conan had carved into the monster fish and was washing her hands in the water. She finished the chore quickly, mindful of the kind of things Tull had spoken of as living in the lake.

"Well," she said as she ascended the fish back to the shallow depression where Conan and Tull sat digesting their recent meal. "Are we ready to begin this altogether unusual voyage?"

Conan nodded, stood, and stretched. "Aye, and why not?" Joints and sinews popped as he rolled his shoulders and swung his arms back and forth to loosen them.

With that, he fetched one of the paddles. Tull took the other, and they moved to the edges of their fishy boat to stand in the wells they had carved out for support. The Cimmerian looked across the fish at Tull, who nodded, and both men dug their paddles into the water.

Slowly, ponderously, the dead fish began to move.

It was not the best of all possible craft, but once moving, the fish slid through the still water fairly easily. Currents, if there were any, did not seem to impede their progress, and nothing from the depths rose to challenge them.

Not long after they started, the place from whence they had begun their voyage was lost in the darkness. The cave roof oft dipped lower and raised higher, and the side walls were sometimes not in view. It might almost be a lake above ground on a moonlit night, save that the light here was decidedly green and no breath of wind nor insect's call disturbed the silence. There were only the sounds of their paddles splashing in the water and an occasional intestinal groan from the innards of the decomposing fish.

Conan had been in places he preferred more, but all in all, his fortunes could have been considerably worse. He had good companions, a full belly, and control of his movements. His blade was sharp in its sheath, and there would certainly be no lack of food in the foreseeable future. It was true that Crom had not favored him with a gold and gem-encrusted barge, but there was transportation, albeit somewhat slippery, and he and his companions seemed safe from immediate pursuit. Anyone trying to swim after them would likely be apt to find themselves lining the belly of a creature like the one beneath Conan's feet. He found that thought pleasing. A comfortable heat lubricated his shoulders, and the strain of rowing was pleasant, raising a legitimate sweat upon his skin. A man could do far worse.

As to the future? Well, he did not ponder overmuch on that. Better to live in the moment and deal with the future when it arrived; elsewise a man might spend his entire life fretting of things that might never come to pass. Such worries would serve only to spend one's alloted time, and were foolish ways to waste it. Even paddling a dead fish over a silent lake, lit by glowing fungus and buried under the earth, certainly bettered the alternative he had been facing only a few hours past. He still lived, and that was the most important fact. Everything else could be worked out as it happened.

Smiling to himself, Conan pulled his paddle through the still water.

"S-s-stand r-r-ready," Deek scraped softly. "H-here is th-the e-e-entrance t-to the s-s-sea."

Wikkell nodded, assuming that whatever passed for eyes on the giant worm could take in the gesture. He flexed his fingers and started forward.

"B-b-be c-c-cautious," Deek warned, "T-th-there s-seems to b-be a d-d-drop a-a-ahead―"

Deek's warning was unnecessary. Wikkell teetered on the brink but kept his balance as he looked over the quiet water below. Quickly he shifted his single-eyed gaze back and forth, taking in the beach and shoreline to the side.

"I see no sign of them."

"I-i-im-p-possible. L-let m-me s-s-see."

Deek undulated to the edge of the tunnel's exit and waved his head back and forth.

"Only a fool would try to swim in that," Wikkell observed. "Could they have a boat?"

"Un-un-unlikely," Deek replied.

"Well, unless they jumped in and drowned, I surmise that they managed some means of trans port.

"S-'s-so it w-w-would s-seem. L-l-look!"

Wikkell turned his head in the general direction of where he assumed Deek was "pointing." He saw what appeared to be several lengths of short bone and scraps of cloth littering the beach. He moved down the ledge, Deek inching along behind him.

The cyclops' examination of the litter proved his assumption correct. There were piece of cartilaginous, flexible bone, fresh, likely from a fish, and strands of dark, heavy cloth.

"Somehow they have constructed a boat. Out of what, I would dearly like to know, by Set's Black Scales!"

Deek moved from the sand and crumbled rock beach to a more solid surface nearby so that he could address the problem. "W-w-we n-need t-t-transport-t-tation."

"Indeed." Wikkell swept his gaze over the area. "Unfortunately, I see nothing useful for that purpose."

"T-that t-t-tunnel, t-to y-your r-r-right."

"Don't tell me you have a barge hidden in there, Deek."

"N-n-nay. B-but s-some of th-the W-w-webspin-ners l-live d-d-down th-that w-way."

"How do you know this? And what good does that do us, in any event?"

"I a-am g-g-gifted w-with an ex-excellent sense of s-s-smell. And th-the s-s-spinners c-can m-make almost a-a-anything w-with th-their w-w-webbing."

Wikkell blinked. What a clever thought. Who would have even expected such from a worm? "Ah, excellent, Deek! You are proving to be a most resourceful traveling companion."

Had Deek a proper mouth, he would have smiled. True, Wikkell the one-eye was one of the wizard's minions, but the compliment sat well in any event. These cyclopes were apparently brighter than they appeared, to so quickly recognize talent in others and to then voice it in such a straightforward manner. Too bad they worked for the wizard. Just as it was too bad that he had to work for Chuntha.

"Let us go and see if we can bargain with the Webspinners."

"I-i-indeed."

Katamay Rey decided to travel light. Aside from two chests full of magical apparatus―scrying crystals, sleezewart, anthelmintics, sleepdust, and assorted spellbooks―he carried only enough food, clothing, and niceties to sustain a dozen men for six weeks. His retinue―a mere score of hunchbacked cyclopes―spread these items of cargo amongst themselves without question. Rey had little appreciation for the intelligence of his thralls, feeling certain that seldom, if ever, there existed a thought in any of their heads that was not an autochthonous one, so placed there by himself. "Stupid" was too kind a term even for the brightest among the cyclopes, Rey figured, and when he laid his gaze upon Wikkell, whom he had considered somewhat promising, that unworthy soul would find himself sorry to have been born.

There was a sedan chair, borne by a pair of stalwarts, but he waved it away. He would walk on his own for a time―a novel idea―and stretch his legs. It had been so long since he had done any exercise, it would be refreshing.

Striding purposefully ahead of the Cyclopes, the wizard marched off to attend to business.

Chuntha's saddle was cinched into place on the back of one of the larger worms, a torpid-thinking vermis called Soriusu. Behind her mount, two dozen more of the giant worms twitched, awaiting the witch's command to move. Chuntha's saddlebags, made from fresh Blind White leather, rested in front of her spread legs. Her erotics, potions, dreaming jewels, and assorted wands lay within, and thin bags of hallucinogenic spore powder nestled along the edge of her saddle within easy reach. She was ready.

"Go!" Chuntha commanded.

Here at the exit to her personal chamber, the light-emitting fungus was particularly strong, and her naked skin, warmed as always by her inner fires, glowed viridly as she moved under the verdant glow. Chuntha smiled to herself. This would be a great adventure, ending in what she was certain would turn out to be a magnificent copulatory episode.

The delicious thought warmed her even more.

* * *

Nine

Conan, Elashi, and Tull floated along the Sunless Sea for the best part of a day without major incident. Things did sometimes swirl in the waters around them, sending ripples or an occasional splash their way, but Conan's keen eyes found no source for these actions. Once something large bumped the raft fish from underneath, rocking the three riders, but whatever it was, it troubled them only the one time. Perhaps it had taken a mouthful of their boat and been satisfied.

Near what Conan judged to be evening―who could tell in this land of eternally glowing walls?―they paddled the raft into a quiet cove and wedged it against a rocky shore. It was darker here than in many other places, the light-fungus being rather scantly distributed along the walls of the cove's grotto, and if anybody or anything happened to pass by upon the water, it might well be that they would miss seeing the trio and their make-do boat.

All three of the voyagers were covered with a sticky and smelly fish effluvia, and none had any desire to sleep upon the dead creature could it be avoided. A series of ledges stair-stepped its way up the wall away from the water, and a particularly wide one was an easy two minutes' climb. Perched here, the three shared more of the "cooked" fish. Tull gathered some lichen that was edible, if not deliciously so, and they also chewed on that as they rested.

"I wish we could build a fire," Elashi said. "It is so damp in here."

Conan glanced at the woman, but said nothing.

"I know, I know," she said. "Might as well wish for a kingdom. It was only a thought."

"How far do you reckon we come?" Tull asked.

Conan shrugged. "Miles. Hard to say on the water."

"Aye. Reckon we lost any followers. Kinda hard to track in water."

Conan chewed on a mouthful of the lichen. It had a sour taste but was a change from the fish. Earlier in the day the fish had been the best food he had eaten in a long time; after consuming the pale, bloodless flesh several times since, it had lost much of its appeal.

Likely Tull was right about pursuers, but he would sleep with one hand on his sword. This place was run by a wizard and a witch, and although his experience with magic was slim, he wanted no more part of it. Such things were dangerous a«id unclean. Give him a fanged beast to face, or berserker swordsmen, and he could hold his own as well as any man. Some spell-spewing necromancer was another thing altogether. Honest men stayed away from such things, and Conan wanted no truck with wizards or witches or any of their ilk.

"I'll stand the first watch," Tull said.

Conan nodded. He looked at Elashi. "We have no fire, but we can share our own warmth."

"Aye," she said, smiling.

The pair of them found a particularly dark recess on the ledge, leaving Tull sitting near the edge, watching the ice-smooth Sunless Sea.

The Webspinner Plants could not move from their rooted position, but they were none the less dangerous for that. The plants, each twice the height of a tall cyclops, with thorny branches surrounding a central maw, produced a spiderlike silk webbing with which they snared their prey. Unlike spiders, most of whom built nets upon which they might catch a hapless passerby, the Webspinner Plants could throw sticky, ropelike lines for some distance. These lines would adhere to anything save the plants' own webbing. The victim thus caught would then be hauled inexorably to the plant, where it would be impaled upon the sharp spikes until it ceased struggling, then drawn into the waiting maw. Around the plants was an arti-ficed floor of shimmery silk-overlay that kept the prey lines from sticking to the cavern's rocky surface. The undigested and regurgitated bones of a thousand meals past lay upon the silken floor, and one desiring to speak to the plants stayed outside the range of the prey lines or took his chances on becoming dinner.

Wikkell and Deek kept well outside the perimeter of the largest of the silk floorings, talking to the queen of this particular nest of Webspinners. Logic dictated that the Webspinners should have been long extinct since they were immobile, and despite their ability to heave lines; any prey species with half a brain should certainly have learned over the years to stay well away from the plants. v However, the Webspinners had another talent, and while both Wikkell and Deek had spoken to them a number of times, that talent was once again in full evidence: the voices of the plants were most compelling. What Wikkell heard when the queen spoke was the voice of a female cyclops, honey-smooth and filled with promise of all manner of conjugal delights, almost irresistibly offered. Almost. Deek's hearing apparatus, upon receipt of the same voice, construed the sound as that of a female of his species, gravid with a thousand eggs and desiring a big, strong worm such as himself to fertilize them at his earliest pleasure. Guaranteed pleasure, vermis-mine…

Both cyclops and worm knew that the voice was specific to whatever kind of creature that heard it: males heard females and females heard males, generally, and only those with strong minds or experience with the plants could resist the siren song they sang.

"Come closer," the queen of the plants urged, "that we might discuss this without having to strain ourselves by yelling." Surely no cyclopian female had ever sounded so sweet and so willing to do anything Wikkell might desire. Anything at all, would he simply come a bit closer…

"Nay, sister," Wikkell said. His voice held no rancor; he understood the mechanisms the plants used and begrudged them not, for everybody wanted to survive. "What we wish to discuss involves a long-term arrangement rather than a quick meal upon Deek here or myself."

"Long term?" Deek heard the gravid female's soothing tones in the high pitch that his kind used, sounds quite inaudible to human or cyclopian ears but hot music to his own. Even knowing what she was, the call tempted him.

"Aye," Wikkell continued. "A large supply of food, spaced over a long period."

"How much? Over how long?" The sweet tones vanished abruptly and the queen's suddenly alien rasp held no promise of anything either Wikkell or Deek or anything interested in staying alive would find intriguing. The big plant was now all business.

Wikkell spared a quick grin and whisper for Deek. "That got her attention."

Softly, Deek scraped back, "I-i-indeed."

Louder, Wikkell said, "We need water transportation. You can spin a boat of your webbing, can you not?"

"Certainly," came her reply. The tone was full of arrogance and disdain. "There is little we cannot create of the Magic Cord."

"In return for supplying my friend Deek and me with such a conveyance, we would be willing to offer you, oh, say half a dozen each of Whites and bats to be placed within range of your… ah… supply lines."

"Twenty each," the queen said. "And your boat shall be a thing crafted with the utmost loving care.

Wikkell grinned down at Deek. He whispered, "I think we can bargain her down to half that."

"W-whatever. B-be q-q-quick t-though."

Wikkell addressed the queen again. "The boat need merely float, my leafy queen, not win a contest of beauty. Eight each."

"Even so, such labor requires much skill, mobile one. Sixteen."

In the end they settled on a dozen bats and ten Whites as the price for the craft. To be delivered as soon as Wikkell and Deek finished a small errand they had to accomplish. The queen would rather have eaten something immediately of course, but she knew a good bargain when she had one, and she and her sisters could survive for a long while without eating did they need to.

"Would this errand have anything to do with three small mobile ones who float upon the waters?"

Wikkell blinked his great eye. "You know of them, Majesty?"

"I can speak to all of my sisters via the deep .roots we share. The three move away from here, toward the Great Ambit Cave."

"Ah. Well, yes, as it happens, those are the ones we seek."

"If my sisters and I should help you snare these, might not there be an additional price tendered for such a service? We are not all planted here, you know."

Wikkell and Deek regarded each other. They had been given great leeway by their master and mistress, respectively, and they had used more time than originally intended. To fail was to die. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Something could certainly be arranged in that direction."

"Another two dozen each, white walkers and dark fliers," the queen said.

Wikkell grinned. He loved to bargain, and had little chance to do so. "Two dozen? For a mere three? I had thought to offer, oh, say five each."

Even as the smiling cyclops and giant webspin-ning queen continued their deal, the other plants began spinning an oval, watertight bowl large enough to hold a dozen men.

The night passed quietly for Conan and his friends. He relieved Tull after a few hours, and Elashi chose to sit with him as the older man fell into slumber. She and Conan did not spend all of their time watching the water; indeed, a portion of that evening found them far more intent on each other, and the pleasure thereby derived was both refreshing and tiring at the same time.

In the morning―for lack of a better term―the three remounted the dead fish and paddled away.

Perhaps two hours later, the walls of the cave narrowed considerably, so that the overhanging ledges on both sides could very nearly be touched with one of the paddles. They continued onward with such surroundings for another ten minutes; then the cavern expanded again to thrice larger proportions. Just ahead, however, the waters split in twain as a bifurcation appeared in the rock. One river ran to the left, another of equal size went to the right.

"Which way?" Tull called as he paddled.

"One is as good as the other," Conan replied. "To the right."

Elashi looked agitated at this. Conan refrained from smiling. He had a sudden revelation. "You would rather we went the other way?"

"Did I say that?" she asked.

"No. To the right, then."

"It looks darker that way."

"To the left, then," Conan said, playing his hunch.

"It looks narrower that way," she said.

Conan grinned to himself. He was, he realized, finally beginning to understand how her mind worked. She did not want to make a decision, but she would almost always oppose any that he made. Therefore, to go to the left, he must be adamant about going the other way.

"The right fork is definitely the better way to go," he said. He waited for a heartbeat, and was not disappointed.

"I think it would be better to travel the other fork," Elashi said.

Ah, ha! He was right. But the trick lay in not agreeing too readily. He had to agree without seeming to agree. Complex creatures, women; they would rather argue than do almost anything else.

Conan shrugged. "Very well. I think the right branch would be better, but perhaps you are correct."

"Of course I am."

He turned his head away so she would not see him smile. It worked, this time. Of course one snowflake did not a blizzard make, but at least it was a beginning. Perhaps he might come to understand the ways of women after all.

They paddled the fish into the left branch of the split.

The Harskeel was more than a little tired and much more than a little irritated. What should have taken but a short while had turned into a major imbroglio. All these sundry beasts darting and flittering about to obscure what should be a simple quest. It did not ask for much, the Harskeel―merely to be less than the sum of its parts once again. Was that too much? One brave man and his sword was small compensation for the reversal of its unnatural joining; why could not the fates and the gods tender such a miniscule request? But no. Nothing, nothing, nothing was ever easy. Instead of a clean capture and subsequent sundering back into its natural and rightful selves, the Harskeel was forced to grub around under the ground Ijke some ilysüdaen snake! It was all too much.

Well, when it finally captured this Conan fellow, the man would be made to know some of the Harskeel's own torment. After the sword was blooded, perhaps some slow torture would repay the barbarian for the effort expended to retrieve him.

It seemed only fair.

The Harskeel's tracker returned. "We found a tunnel that goes around that bat cave and gets us back on the trail again, m'lord."

"Good. Let us move foward. Mind you keep your pikes at the ready." This last command was hardly needed as the four remaining men had yet to to lower their weapojis since the slaughter in the bat cave; still, a leader had to remind its followers who did what every now and again.

The Harskeel smoothed an eyebrow and patted its hair,―somewhat to its own disgust, as well as a sense of lightness―and followed the tracker along the new trail.

Rey now rode in the sedan chair, rocking comfortably with the walking rhythm of its two bearers. The wizard looked around. It had been too long since he had ventured out to observe his domain, far too long. What was the point in ruling if one could not go out and lord it over the realm now and then? He resolved that once this man was dispatched to the Gray Lands and That Bitch dealt her just reward, he would get out more often.

The drone of the marching Cyclopes, keeping step together, lulled the wizard into a comfortable somnambulance. He leaned back against the chair, his head lolling to one side as he dozed and daydreamed of future glories.

The undulations of the worm clasped within her spread thighs gently shifted Chuntha back and forth like a waving frond in an alternating breeze. The rasp of belly plates over the damp rock was almost melodic: scrape, scr-a-a-p-e―a short beat followed by a longer one as the coils slid the creature forward. A pleasant way to travel, although she could easily think of several ways that would increase the pleasure. But another time; the stalemate between herself and the wizard needed to be put to rest; that concerned her now more than her immediate pleasure. Settle with him once and for all. After that she could perhaps expand her activities to take in a portion of the world above the caves. A more ready supply of men existed there, of course, and one could never have too many of them around. They went so fast.

Rocking with pleasure, Chuntha dreamed of future glories.

* * *

Ten

The silken vessel was most interesting, Deek and Wikkell agreed. It was light enough for Wikkell to lift with one hand, and yet banging it accidentally against a wall produced no apparent damage. The craft would easily hold them and perhaps two more passengers as large as they, and the plants had thoughtfully provided a floor inside for added support and comfort.

Once the cyclops and worm reached the sea, the wondrous boat rode high in the water with nary a leak. Utilizing a large sculling oar produced by the plants―at no extra charge―Wikkell saw Deek safely aboard, locked the oar into place, then hopped into the vessel and rapidly propelled the boat away from the shore.

While Deek had no hands, he was able to use the tip of his tail to assist Wikkell with the sculling. The gleaming, silvery craft sped over the smooth water at a pace both occupants found quite amazing.

"I doubt that I could run this quickly," Wikkell observed.

Deek made no audible reply, the bottom of the boat being too smooth for his vocal apparatus to engage, but he was of a like mind. The plants built well, no arguing that. Something to keep in mind for the future. One could construct a number of things from this remarkable webbing.

"Surely the prey we pursue cannot travel half so fast," Wikkell said. "We should catch them in short order."

If we do not take a wrong turning, Deek thought.

"That is, if we do not take a wrong turning," Wikkell said. "But we have help from the plants, after all."

Deek could not speak but he lifted his head and waved it up and down in a gesture that he hoped would pass for a nod.

Wikkell caught the motion and smiled, showing his square and sturdy teeth. "Yes, indeed. I begin to have hopes that this venture might well turn out in our favor after all, Deek old son."

Deek nodded again. The boat skimmed along the water, carrying them after their quarry. Perhaps, Deek thought, he might yet escape the lime pits and come out of this with some kind of victory. A shame he was going to have to flatten Wikkell, though. He was beginning to grow fond of the cyclops. Perhaps there was another way to get the people without killing his new friend. He could explore that idea, certainly; it was the least he could do.

A single cruising bat spied the Harskeel's man sitting alone on the rock next to the sea, and apparently decided that such a meal was simply too good to bypass. The bat dived, already extruding his pointed feeding tube to skewer the unsuspecting delicacy.

Unfortunately for the bat, the man was not alone, and merely acting as bait for just such an attack. The flying rodent had no sooner lit upon the man than he was set upon and captured by three other men who had lain hidden nearby, under the direction of the Harskeel. The bat thrashed and fluttered, but the touch of cold and sharp iron at his throat brought the struggle to a fast end.

"I would speak with you," the Harskeel said.

The bat made no reply.

"Ah, you do not understand civilized speech. A pity. Kill it," the Harskeel ordered.

"Wait!" the bat called out. His voice was high and the accent made the word almost unintelligible, but the Harskeel grinned at the sound of it.

"Hold," it commanded.

The Harskeel's men stayed their pikes.

"Now," the Harskeel said, "how are you called?"

The bat gnashed sharp teeth. When he spoke, his voice was haughty. "I am Crimson So Strong, High Flier and Drinker of Life."

"Crimson?"

"Named for the beautiful splash of that same color upon the fur of my back."

"Fine. 'Red' will do for a name. Now, Red, I have a proposition for you."

"A proposition? We do not deal with those who hold us captive."

"Let him go."

The Harskeel's men released the bat, who gathered himself for a fast escape.

"Before you leave, Red, you should at least hear my proposition. Not that I think you shall get very far, you understand. Zate over there can skewer you before you rise more than this high." The Harskeel held up its thumb and forefinger, separated by the thickness of a boot heel.

Red turned slightly to look at the man called Zate. That worthy grinned brightly and hefted his pike meaningfully.

"I was merely stretching my cramped wings," Red observed. "Certainly I should be most interested to hear your proposition."

"Your kind drinks blood for sustenance, do they not?"

"I feel that you already know that," Red answered.

"As it happens, I have dabbled in magic now and again," the Harskeel said.

Behind the Harskeel, one of its men snickered. The Harskeel did not pause, nor did it turn. As soon as all of this was done, that man was as good as dead, one could bet one's fortune on that.

The Harskeel continued smoothly. "And, as it also happens, I am in possession of a spell that will produce fresh blood in a large quantity."

"You jest," Red said. "You are pulling my wing."

"Perhaps a sample for your edification?"

With that, the Harskeel produced a small brass bowl from its purse and held it out for the bat to inspect. Red took the bowl and looked at it carefully. "This is empty," the bat said. He rapped a knuckle against the metal, producing a hollow clink. "I see no blood."

The Harskeel retrieved the bowl. "I wished you to be assured there was no trickery involved." The Harskeel pushed its shirt-sleeves back, showing its arms to be bare, and held the small brass bowl cupped in its hands. It began to speak quietly in a language that it knew none around it could understand.

The Harskeel finished its incantation.

The bowl began to fill. Dark liquid welled quickly, reaching the brim of the bowl and forming a meniscus. The Harskeel handed the bowl to Red, who sniffed it.

"Why, it smells just like―"

"―blood," the Harskeel finished. "Go ahead, taste it."

Red looked at the blood and his feeding tube started to flick out, then stopped, "How do I know it is not poisoned?"

The Harskeel smiled. "You do not. However, why should I bother? If I had wanted you dead, I could have easily had you impaled upon three pikes earlier."

Red considered this. "That makes good sense." He extruded his feeding tube and inserted it into the bowl of liquid. Faster than it had come, the blood vanished.

"Why, this is excellent! The best I have ever tasted!"

"So glad you liked it."

"This spell, what would it take to obtain it? And how much of this nectar can it produce?"

"I thought you might get to that. The spell has limits, of course. You might get as much as, oh, six or seven barrels."

"Seven barrels? How… how wonderful! We could feast a hundred of us on that."

"Of course the spell will recharge itself after a few days, and be able to make that much more each time."

"I must have it! Ask anything!"

The Harskeel grinned. Truly these bats were not adept at trading. In fact, the spell would produce a half dozen barrels of blood, but only once. Were this fluid not consumed rapidly, it would clot within a matter of hours, making it totally useless. Of course by the time the bats found that out, the Harskeel planned to be long gone.

"I am following someone who escaped via this body of water," the Harskeel said. "I require a boat, and someone who can tow it as well."

"That's all?"

"I am a generous sort."

Red glanced at the empty bowl. "Well, I must confess that there is little free wood in the caves. Boats are normally made from wood."

"I care not if the craft is made from dung, so long as it floats."

"Hmm. I am certain that we can come up with what you require. I shall convey this offer to my brothers and we will most assuredly manage something. You, ah, will wait right here until I return?"

"Indeed I shall."

"I shall hurry." Red gathered himself to leap into flight, then paused. "You might want to tell Zate to stay his pike."

The Harskeel laughed. "No problem, Red, my friend."

With that, the bat zipped into the air and darted away.

The Harskeel watched the bat flit off through the nearest exit. It was very pleased with itself. A small spell that would buy him the barbarian's capture was cheap enough. If all of the bats were as gullible as Red, the transaction would be as smooth as a looking glass. They could be easily bluffed and tricked; Zate's skill with a pike, for instance, was such that he would be most lucky to hit a man-sized target at two paces, much less a flying bat at five times that distance. Pikes were not meant to be thrown; it would take a stronger man than Zate to manage such a task.

"This river seems to go on forever," Elashi said.

"Aye," Conan responded. "And it seems also to be curving to our right."

"Best hope we come to a stopping point soon," Tull said. "Look."

Conan and Elashi followed the direction of Tull's pointing finger. Conan saw what the man meant immediately, although Elashi did not. "What?" she asked. "I see nothing amiss."

"The fish rides lower in the water," Conan said. "Observe the'steps' I cut out."

Indeed, it was obvious that their boat was sinking, albeit slowly; several of the steps nearest the edges of the great fish were under the water.

"Why is it doing that?" Elashi asked.

Conan shrugged. He knew little of such things.

Tull said, "Perhaps other fishy predators were at the bottom during the night. Or perhaps our mount is becoming waterlogged."

"Can we do anything about it?"

"Find a good spot to start walking, I should think," Tull said. "Although we can probably get another day or two out of it before it goes under for good."

An hour later Conan shook his head. "I like this not," he said.

"What now?" Elashi asked.

"We have turned almost back in the same direction whence we came."

"I see no signs of that. How can you know this?"

Conan shrugged again. He had an innate sense of direction, had had it as long as he could remember. It was possible for him to get lost, of course, but some inner guide usually oriented him quickly, no matter what the surroundings.

"Well, it does not really matter, does it? Anyone following us will have to take the same waterway. So it loops and twists a bit, so much the better―we shall be harder to find and see for that."

Conan did not speak to this. Perhaps Elashi was right. He had no logical reason to feel trepidatious; still, some atavistic sense stirred within him, and he prepared himself for the worst.

Rey was surprised as he entered the breeding cave of the Bloodbats: the place was virtually empty. Well, of living things, in any event. The floor showed signs of a fairly active stour: the dessicated bodies of several Blind Whites and men lay strewn carelessly about, as well as a number of slain bats. Hmm. It seemed that his prey had passed this way. But… where were the bats who normally clung to the walls and ceilings? There were only a few of them dead upon the floor, and the wizard could not imagine the remainder abandoning their cave over such trifles. A little blood never bothered the bats.

Rey laughed, amused by his own joke. Blood did not bother the bats. That was a good jest! He would have spoken it aloud, but he realized that his escort of cyclopes would likely see little humor in it. Stupid creatures, one and all, and fit only for thralls.

Yes, well, that was all fine and good, but he had business to which he must attend. The bats had obviously gotten off somewhere to do something, and he would likely discover that purpose eventually. Besides, that was not the primary reason for his trip by any means. No, and the presence in the cave of dead men other than those he sought did not seem a benevolent augury. One had to wonder who they were and how they had gotten here, and in what way were they connected to the ones Rey sought. That a connection existed he doubted not at all. He had not lived as long as he had by trusting coincidence any farther than he could pitch a cyclops one handedly.

Rey waved, and the pair of cyclopian chair-carriers bent and lifted his sedan from the ground. Well, he would get to the root of it soon enough.

In that grating-over-rock voice her thralls had, the advance worm returned to tell Chuntha of the carnage in the bats' breeding cave. That news did not bother the witch a whit, but the worm also bespoke a more unpleasant fact: the wizard had moved through the cave, along with a number of one-eyes carrying large amounts of cargo.

Chuntha shifted uneasily on the worm she rode. This boded ill. Something was definitely out of order in the caves if that sluglike wizard would bother to stir his indolent self and go venturing about. That he wanted to steal her barbarian she knew; the lengths to which he would go to thwart her surprised her somewhat.

The witch's resolve hardened. So be it. If the wizard wanted a fight, fine. She would give it to him. She was no fragile wisp to be blown away by his hot air. She would see about this!

Her mount responded to the pressure of Chuntha's knees and began his segmented glide once again. The other worms initiated their own crawls, and the party moved on.

Perhaps two-score bats arrived at the Harskeel's location, dragging by lines behind them what appeared to be several large wooden doors.

The bat named Red flitted down to stand before the Harskeel. "Your boat," he said.

The Harskeel observed the ancient planking. "You call these things a boat?"

The bat shrugged. "You said it need merely float."

"It must also hold my weight and that of my men."

"If it does not, no matter. We shall fly above and support the difference as we tow the thing."

The Harskeel considered that. In point of fact, it had little choice, were it to continue its pursuit of Conan and his companions. With the bats towing the "boat," surely they would make good speed. "Very well," the Harskeel said. "Let us assemble it and make ready to depart."

Red smiled, showing his needle-pointed teeth. "We would fly much faster were we not so hungry."

The Harskeel grinned. So, the creatures were not quite as trusting as he had at first thought. Ah, well. No matter. "Have you a container?"

"As it happens, there is a depression in the rock, just over there." Red pointed with a wing tip. "The cleft at the bottom of the declivity should hold about a barrel's worth of liquid, if I am any judge of such things."

"When it comes to liquid, I bow to your expertise," the Harskeel said. "Come, then, and allow me to offer you some nourishment."

The bats flocked around the Harskeel as it filled a hole in the rock with blood. After they had finished drinking, all of the bats agreed that it was quite the best-quality meal they had ever had. Promises from the witch and wizard meant nothing compared to this, they said. They were the Harske'el's friends forever!

"Tell me more about this witch and wizard," the Harskeel said.

Gladly, the bats replied. Anything for such a fine friend. Anything at all.

* * *

Eleven

The passage in which the three steered the slowly sinking fish narrowed, although Conan could see that it widened considerably up ahead. A few moments later, they attained the wider passage. Almost immediately Conan knew that something was wrong. He glanced around and saw the cause of his worry. Behind them was the mouth of the narrow pass through which they had just emerged. Next to it was a similar opening. Conan stopped his paddling.

"What is it?" Tull asked.

"Observe," Conan said, pointing with the paddle.

Tull and Elashi turned to look behind them.

"Uh~oh," Tull said.

"What is the matter?" Elashi asked. "I see nothing but two large holes in a wall. Is there some pursuit?"

Conan said, "Do you not recognize this place? You were set on entering one over the other not so long ago."

Elashi shook her head. "What are you babbling about?"

The big Cimmerian nodded at the twin passages behind them. "We have made a loop," he said. "Yesterday we entered that passage on the left. Now we have returned to the same spot. If there is any pursuit, likely it will come from the direction in which we now travel."

"Oh!" Elashi said. "Oh, dread."

Dread indeed, Conan thought. It seemed that there would be no way out of the underground via this waterway.

"What are we to do now?" Elashi asked.

"I think it best we beach this stinking fish corpse and resume our travels on foot," Conan answered. "As I recall, there were a series of small openings on the wall only an hour or so ahead."

Tull said, "Aye, right, lad. Our boat should get us that far."

"The faster, the better," Conan said.

Both men dug their makeshift paddles into the water deeply. The sodden fish moved slowly, but move it did.

Wikkell and Deek paused to dine upon several carefully selected fungi and to rest from their labors at the scull oar. While neither creature was bothered by toadstools that would fatally fell a man, each had his own preference as to flavor, and so each searched for the particular variety of cave-growing fungus that suited him best. They were fortunate in finding their favorites in short order.

"I would say we made excellent time thus far today," Wikkell said around a mouthful of putrid yellow mushroom.

Deek, now firmly upon solid rock, scraped his reply. "I-indeed. A p-p-pleasant w-way to t-t-travel."

Wikkell nodded. "Aye. And I was thinking that the plants might well be able to produce other items that we might find useful. Clothing, perhaps; or they might even be persuaded to manufacture furniture."

"T-that s-s-same th-th-thought had c-crossed m-my m-mind." Since it was not necessary for Deek to utilize his mouth for speech, he continued to eat all the while he said this.

"Of course we would eventually run out of bats and Whites to trade, but I for one cannot say I would be greatly aggrieved if that should come to pass."

"N-n-nor w-w-would I."

Wikkell swallowed a mouthful of his meal. "By that time, we could have the caves looking very fine indeed." He started to take yet another bite of the mushroom but paused, suddenly remembering. "The wizard would never allow it," he said, his voice sad.

Deek paused in his own mastication. "T-t-too r-right. N-n-neither w-would the w-w-witch."

Wikkell's appetite was gone of a moment. He tossed the mushroom aside and brushed the crumbs of it from his lips. "I do not recall it personally, of course, but I am told that the caves were a much happier place before the coming of the wizard and the witch."

"S-s-so I t-too h-have h-h-heard. A p-p-pity."

Wikkell stood and rubbed his hands together to warm them. "Well, there's nothing to be done for it, is there? To raise a hand against Katamay Rey would result in instant liquidity and putrification."

"C-c-chuntha p-prefers the l-l-lime pits."

Both Wikkell and Deek gave out with their versions of a shudder.

"Best we depart, Deek old slug. The sooner we get this business behind us, the better."

"A-a-aye, O-one-Eye. O-one m-m-must d-deal w-with r-r-reality."

"Unfortunately. Come. I shall assist you into our boat."

"Y-y-you are t-too k-k-kind."

After Deek was aboard, Wikkell shoved the lightweight craft into the water and hopped inside. As soon as the oar cleared the shore, he began bending it back and forth in the powerful scull he had gotten better at as they had traveled. Perhaps there was some way he and Deek could both come out of this adventure with their skins whole. There were, after all, at least three humans, and from the debacle he had witnessed in the bat cave, likely a few more loose ones running about. Were Wikkell to return with several of them for Rey's pleasure, who was to know if Deek also captured a few for the witch?

According to the oral history of the caves, there had been a time hundreds of seasons past when the cyclopes and the worms had gotten along together rather well, living in harmony and bother ing no one. The plants had feasted upon the much stupider Whites and bats, and life had been an altogether better proposition than it was under the rule of either witch or wizard. Wikkell could see how it might have been so: this Deek was a pleasant enough sort, much better company than a haughty bat or a jibbering moron of a White, and certainly much, much nicer than the human wizard, with his noxious spells and offhand death-dealing. At the very least, Deek considered the cyclopes thinking beings, even if enemies, something Rey could not bring himself to believe. Perhaps there was some way to avoid braining the great worm with a rock after all. Wikkell would think about it and gently broach the subject when it might be appropriate.

All of which was moot, of course, did they not catch the humans, and soon.

Wikkell bent to his oar, thinking of the unpleasant alternative to losing their prey.

Offhand, the Harskeel could not recall ever having traveled or even having heard of anyone who had traveled in such a ridiculous manner. It and its men sat perched upon the damp planks of their "boat," which was being hauled rapidly along an underground waterway by no less than forty blood-drinking bats. Would that he could see such an assemblage passing by from the shore. Surely it must be a sight to behold from that angle.

There was nothing funny, however, in being in competition with both a powerful wizard and an equally powerful witch for the bounty they all sought. The Harskeel had a healthy respect for magic, garnered the hard way, and its only hope was to obtain the prize first and be gone before a bigger dog arrived to take it. The bats, expansive with blood-bloated bellies, had told him all about the wizard and the witch and their enthralled agents, the cyclopes and the giant worms. This proposition grew trickier by the moment.

Still, the Harskeel considered, it was itself not without resources. Aside from its remaining men―not the most adept of warriors, but who would fight well to protect their hides―the Harskeel also had a few small spells of its own. Granted, it was no adept at magic, either, but with the element of surprise on its side, a minor conjure at the right time might well turn the contest in its favor. A blinding light here or a thick fog there could alter the course of a battle. There were five barrels of blood left in the spell he had promised the bats. Said creatures would scarcely appreciate wasting such a delectable treat by having it pour down upon an enemy, but the Harskeel hardly considered the wants of the bats germane to its own plans. One did what one had to do to win, and demons devour the losers.

The makeshift craft skimmed over the water, throwing up a fine spray, such was the thing's bat-augmented speed. As long as they had to deal with only a single worm and one hunchbacked cyclops, it could be managed. Could they but stay ahead of the witch and the wizard, the game was still within the Harskeel's reach. At this speed, it did not see how it could lose.

Once again Rey's temper flared hotter. This was all very amusing, to go forth seeking sport, but he had come to the edge of the Sunless Sea without sighting either his prey or his cyclops. Perhaps Wikkell was dead after all, and if so, just as well, for failure was something Rey could not abide. There were a hundred other cyclopes who could replace Wikkell, though the fool had once shown promise.

Never mind that, Rey thought. By the process of elimination, the man he sought must be somewhere farther along. He must have obtained a boat of some kind. No matter. He would not escape that easily.

Rey called for his chest of spells. The cyclops bearer shambled forth and deposited the case upon the rock. The beast clunked the load down somewhat heavily.

"Careful, fool! Should you break the wrong item, this entire cave could disappear into limbo!"

A lie, of course, but Rey enjoyed the instant look of fear that appeared on the face of the cyclops.

Rey dug around in the case until he found The Book of Structural Theurgy. He caused a small flame to burn at the tip of his right thumb so that he might better view the text. He leafed through the pages. Temples, Castles―no, that was too far, back up―Buildings, Bridges. Ah, there it was. Now if his memory served, there should be a spell here…

Set's Scales! Where was it? He knew he had used the spell before; it was like a bridge at the shore that appeared in the direction one traveled and disappeared behind. It had to be here some where… wait, it came to him, he should look under "Dock."

Yes. There it was.

Rey mumbled the proper phrases, made the appropriate gesturology, and waited expectantly. A heartbeat later the dock blinked into existence, as solid as could be.

The wizard smiled at the sudden drone of the Cyclopes. That is correct, morons. I am Katamay Rey, your master, and best you never forget it.

Magic concluded, Rey returned to his sedan and waved one indolent hand toward the dock. "Forward," he said.

His carriers obeyed. Before they reached the end of the magical dock, another section popped into view, extending the dock that much farther into the water. As the party neared the end of that section, yet another appeared, while behind them, the dock next to the shore winked out as if it had never been. The wizard could have caused it to remain, of course, but the cost would have been high. Conservation of magical energy was necessary were one to avoid overextending one's self.

The pace was stately rather than rapid, but Rey did not worry over this. He knew that the Sunless Sea ended some distance ahead in a loop, so sooner or later, anything that traveled that way upon the waters would return in this direction.

It was only a matter of time.

Chuntha's travels led her to a different fjord of the Sunless Sea than that of her rival's. This had been her intent, and she planned to remain behind that bastard of a wizard and out of sight until they came upon the man they both sought. She could not see the wizard ahead, but her scout had returned with news of his position, and he was right where she wanted him. With surprise on her side, she would take care of him once and for all.

The immediate problem was how to navigate the waterway, but a clever witch was never stymied by such trifles.

"All of you, assemble over here," she commanded the worms. "Side by side, in rows, thusly." She gestured, to show the worms the proper ranks.

The creatures came and did as they had been bidden. Eight worms across and three lengthwise they lay, pressed together into a large mat.

From her selection of wands, Chuntha procured a thin rod, no thicker than her middle finger but nearly half her height. Holding this before herself with both hands, she began to rub it over her body, up and down. At the same time, the witch murmured the melodious tones of the spell, a singsong performed in a language from a time when mankind was yet very young.

The casting took effect. She opened her mouth and from it a torrent of fluid emerged, spraying and soaking the ranks of worms as Chuntha walked around and around them. As the liquid touched each worm, it flowed under it, coating it completely. The fluid was sweet-smelling and more volatile than water, and a moment after it covered the creatures beneath the woman, the secretion hardened into a pliable gel.

"Now," Chuntha said, "on my command, the center rank will contract into a half-loop, the front rank will allow itself to be pushed forward, and the rear rank will be dragged along. We are going to inch along to the water. Go!"

To the amazement'of the worms, they were now joined together as solidly as if they were one creature. Chuntha smiled as she watched the connected worms move, knowing that they must be thinking she planned to drown them all.

The mat reached the water, and to the further amazement of the leading creatures, it began to float. More, no water came through the gel surrounding them, but air seemed to pass quite freely.

After a few moments, Chuntha had her boat. She loaded her luggage aboard the raftlike construction, first removing from her bags another wand, this one shaped like a wooden screw such as might be used in a fruit press. She placed this to the rear of the raft, where it clung magically. A short incantation and the screw trebled in size, then began to turn. The effect of this worm-gear device was to drive the raft of worms forward.

Chuntha smiled and went to stand at the front of the raft, naked legs spread wide, the gentle breeze of their motion ruffling her hair. She was quite pleased with herself. Quite pleased.

* * *

Twelve

Conan's plan to ride their decomposing boat to the tunnels he had earlier seen was not to be. The dead fish, aside from filling the cavern with a noxious, rotting stench, had also begun to sink to the point where it was almost impossible to propel it with the fin paddles Conan and Tull wielded. The cold water of the underground sea washed over the trio's ankles even at the center of the craft.

"Best we attain the shore," Conan said. "There is enough ledge and beach for us to walk. We are not far, as I recall."

"Aye, lad," Tull said. "Good idea."

The two men strained to paddle the hulk closer to shore. Elashi leaped to the rocky outcrop closest to them, followed by Tull and then Conan. The fish bobbed somewhat higher in the water now that was free of its human riders, but water still covered most of it. As Conan watched, the fish jerked slightly: something must be feeding on it from below.

"This way," Conan said.

He led them up a narrow ledge that wound deeper into the rocks. The wall of the cave was a goodly distance from the water here, and the glow-fungus was scanty on the outcrops, making the footing treacherous in the darkness. Even so, the Cimmerian's sharp eyes managed to spy a relatively safe path.

They were no more than five minutes away from where they had abandoned their boat when Conan stopped and waved Elashi and Tull to silence. He heard something. The sound was difficult to trace due to the surrounding rock and the echoes it cast, but it seemed to be coming from the water.

"Take cover," Conan ordered. "Something approaches on the sea."

Tull and Elashi obeyed, scrunching down behind nearby boulders. Conan himself moved into a patch of heavy shadow next to a fallen stalagtite twice his height and diameter. He squatted and froze into immobility.

After a moment the source of the sound grew nearer and he recognized the noise even as he saw its cause: a boat, with a sculling oarsman whose stroke occasionally broke the surface with a small splash.

And what an oarsman! The creature stood half again Conan's height, bore a large hump upon its furry back, and had but a single eye. Bald it was, but with a thick beard. It had massive arms and squarish, thick fingers, and its movements propelled the boat along at thrice the best speed Conan and Tull had managed to move the fish.

The boat was silvery, shining almost as if it were a looking glass upon the darker water, and of what it was constructed, Conan could not guess. As the craft drew abreast and rapidly past, Conan's superior height allowed him to see into the boat. Lying upon the floor next to the one-eyed giant was what appeared to be a giant grub. White it must be, even in the green light, and segmented like a worm, as big around as a barrel at the center, and rounded on both ends. Conan wondered if these were the same two he had seen vaguely in the bats' cave.

The Cimmerian shook his head as the craft and its strange occupants passed. He wanted no part of this pair. A few moments later the thing was out of sight, and Conan moved to where Tull and Elashi waited.

"Did you see?" Conan asked.

"Aye," Tull answered. "A cyclops and one of the giant white worms. Odd, though. They're enemies, on opposite sides. Strange they'd be together. I never seen 'em that way afore."

"My, how wonderful," Elashi said. "They have teamed up on our account. You must be proud, Conan."

"Come," Conan said. "They have missed us, and by the time they realize it, we can be far gone."

With that, the three started moving again, in the opposite direction of the cyclops and the worm.

Deek lifted his head and seemed agitated. Wikkell understood; he knew little about the sensory apparatus of the worms, but did it function at all, it could hardly miss the reek that filled the air. Spoiled fish, and no mistake about it.

"To our right," Wikkell said, "just ahead, there floats the cause of the stink, friend Deek. One of the great fish that inhabit the sea has gone to join its ancestors, so it seems."

Wikkell spared the fish a glance. Quite a large creature, he noted. It must have been most formidable when alive.

Deek raised the front portion of himself up over the edge of the boat and observed the dead fish. Its brother denizens of the depths must have been at it, he saw, for there were great chunks gouged out of the flesh here and there. Something odd about the wounds, though.

Well, the worm thought, it was not their concern. He lowered himself back into the boat and used his tail to once again help Wikkell with the oar.

The openings into the craggy rock wall were easily attained. Tull gathered several clumps of the glow-fungus into a matted ball, in case the tunnels might be devoid of the plant light, and the three ascended the rocky wall and entered the largest of the three openings. Conan felt better almost immediately. There seemed little likelihood of anyone being able to follow them here, not with all, of the possible exits from the giant caverns of the Sunless Sea.

Tull's precautions regarding the light seemed sound, as the walls of the new tunnel were mostly dark. The diameter of the tube was perhaps that of a small room, tall enough to stand and walk, but either side being easily reached in a step or two. With Tull holding the ball of fungus high, the three of them started off down the tunnel.

Conan halted suddenly, listening intently.

"What is it?" Elashi asked, her voice a whisper.

Conan strained to hear, but the faint noise he had heard was gone. He shook his head. "Nothing. Let us depart."

They moved off.

The Harskeel's caution in dispatching a scout bat ahead paid dividends. The solitary flier returned and alighted upon the raft. It was Red, and he gave his report gleefully. The three they sought were just ahead! They had entered a tunnel only a few moments' distance. No, they had not seen him, of that Red was certain.

The Harskeel grinned. Finally!

Deek suddenly became agitated, and Wikkell had no notion of what the cause might be. The giant worm thrashed about in the boat.

"What is it?" Wikkell asked. "Do you want to say something?"

The worm did what the cyclops had come to recognize as a nod.

"Very well. I shall put ashore so that you may find a patch of rock."

Wikkell did just that, and moments later Deek was able to produce that scratching and hesitant voice of his.

"Th-the f-f-fish!"

"What about it? Just a dead creature."

It was difficult for Deek to speak at great length, given the method he had to use. How best to explain that their quarry could not possibly have had a boat, nor any means of constructing one when they had first arrived at the Sunless Sea? And that some of the gouges on the body of the dead fish were, in retrospect, hardly likely to have been made by others of its kind? Best get right to the point: "Th-their b-b-boat!"

Wikkell, for all his size, was not in the least stupid. Despite Katamay Rey's thoughts to the contrary, one did not rise to become first assistant to a wizard by being less than adept. He understood Deek's reference immediately.

"You think so?"

The more Deek thought about it, the more certain he was. "Y-y-yes."

Wikkell digested this unpleasant tidbit, then nodded. "Aye, it would make a certain kind of sense. We should at least check out the possibility, should we not?"

"I-i-indeed."

Wikkell altered his stroke with the oar and the light craft turned quickly. In a moment they were heading back the way they had come. Clever humans, if they could use a dead fish for a raft. Mayhap more clever and therefore more dangerous than they had been given credit for. It might be wise to take extreme care when at last they were approached. It would be foolish to worry about Rey's anger only to be skewered by some sword-wielding human.

On the Sunless Sea, the wizard Katamay Rey was carried over a never-ending dock, accompanied by his thralls the cyclopes. Ahead, the bridge appeared… behind, it vanished… and it was as if they moved across the most solid of ground.

Chuntha's raft of living worms churned through the water, driven by the magicked screw, keeping far enough behind the wizard to avoid being seen but close enough so that he was but a few moments ahead at any given time.

"There," Red said, flapping a membranous wing toward three openings on the face of the cliff set back slightly from the edge of the water. "The center hole."

"You are certain?" the Harskeel asked.

"Without a doubt."

"Good. Then let us proceed apace."

"Uh, I feel that our bargain has been completed," Red said. "We provided transportation upon the water, and now that journey is at an end."

"But we have not yet captured our prey."

"Your prey," Red observed.

The Harskeel considered its options. Did it need the bats any further? Well, who could tell? Better to have them and not need them than to be without and require their assistance. "I feel that my concentration is too poor to perform the bloodspell transfer at the moment."

Red looked dubious, as dubious as it is possible for a monkey-sized bat to look. "Oh? And what would aid your concentration? No, allow me to guess: capture of the three tasties?"

"How astute you are."

Red nodded. "I see."

"Barrels of blood in infinite supply," the Harskeel said. "It would be a shame to perhaps mislearn the spell and ruin it, would it not?"

This statement took Red a bit longer to think about. "Very well. We shall accompany you."

"A bat after my own heart."

"Not a bad idea at all."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Let us hurry and catch them."

"What in the world is that?" Elashi asked, pointing.

Just ahead of them the narrow cave widened into a large chamber. Centered in the room were several tall and spiky-looking, thick-stalked plants. Glow-fungus grew thick upon the walls here, and the plants were easy to see. Upon the floor, surrounding the plants, lay what appeared to be a shimmery carpet that covered the rocks with a soft blanket. Conan had seen that material somewhere before, and it only took an instant for the youthful Cimmerian to recall where: the boat in which the cyclops and worm had ridden seemed most similar.

"Uh-oh,"Tull said.

"I do not like the sound of that," Conan said. "What is the problem?"

"These be Webspinners," Tull said.

"So?" Elashi said.

"I know little about them save that they are best avoided, can the Whites and the bats be believed.'"

At that moment Conan heard someone call him.

Conan.

He looked around. There was no one here save the three of them.

Conan of Cimmeria. Strong, handsome, manly Conan.

The voice was female, laden with honey and desire, and Conan felt a great puzzlement. Where was the woman who called? He would very much like to know, since it seemed as if she would be well worth getting to know better. A lot better.

Here, Conan. Behind the beautiful plants just ahead of you. Come to me and I shall fulfill your every desire. Pleasure beyond any you have ever known.

Conan blinked. So brazen! He had never known even a trull who so blatantly offered herself to him.

The big Cimmerian glanced at Elashi. No doubt she would not find this woman's call so appealing, and Conan expected to hear of her displeasure quickly and in full measure. But no, Elashi seemed to be caught up in her own thoughts, staring off at the plants as if she could not hear the woman calling to them. Even as he watched, Elashi took a step toward the Webspinners.

Then, next to him, Tull also started forward.

Abruptly, Conan felt a sense of wrongness about that voice.

Fear not,mighty warrior, came the soft tones. Do not concern yourself with these two. They will not come between us. It is you I want, and you whom I shall serve in any manner you desire.

Elashi and Tull walked toward the pale carpet, ignoring each other.

"Hold a moment," Conan called to his friends.

Neither slowed, and Conan knew that the shadow of danger lay upon them. That voice―he had not heard it with his ears, but within his head! It was a trap of some kind.

Conan drew his blued-iron sword and leaped forward.

"Tull! Elashi! Stop!"

The Harskeel and its men and bats moved through the narrow corridor. They were of necessity strung out some distance since the bats could not fly were they bunched too close together. If Red's information held true, they would shortly come upon Conan and his friends.

It was all the Harskeel could do to keep from laughing. It urged its men to greater speed.

"There," Wikkell said, pointing to the shore.

The dead fish bobbed slightly as it slowly spun along the edge of the waterway. Now that he looked closer, Wikkell could see the indentations that must have been carved by something other than the teeth of a predator.

The cyclops rowed the boat ashore. He and Deek exited the craft. "There is almost no current in the water. They must be around here somewhere."

"B-b-back th-the w-w-way w-we c-c-came?" Deek suggested.

"That makes sense. We did not pass them beyond. Let us return to the water. We can move much faster that way."

"A-a-agreed."

Conan's protective reaction was somewhat shortsighted. He leaped past his friends and turned to face them. "Hold!" he ordered, his voice echoing in the quiet cave. But… what if they did not? What was he to do, cut them down?

Fortunately, both Elashi and Tull seemed stunned by the force of Conan's shout. They stopped moving just as they reached the floor covering and shook their heads, as if awakening from a dream.

Conan, pay these two no mind! I am waiting for you.

The heretofore velvet-toned voice seemed somewhat terse and irritated in Conan's mind.

"Move back," Conan said. He looked down and noted that he now stood on the strange overlay upon the stone floor.

Elashi screamed. "Conan! Behind you!"

The big Cimmerian spun, sword raised, in time to see a pale and thick green-tinted rope hurtling toward him. The cable flew true, but as it would have draped itself over Conan's shoulder, he swung the sharp iron and hit the thing solidly. The hawser seemed as solid as wood, but the force of Conan's shoulders and arms drove the razor-edged sword; the rope sheared cleanly on impact. The severed section brushed past, touching Conan's wrist and tearing away a patch of skin as it fell. He felt something sticky on his hand where the rope had touched.

Elashi had drawn her own sword, and Tull his dagger, and all three strove to move away from the danger. Another rope was launched―from a hole in the trunk of the nearest plant, Conan saw―and then a third and a fourth.

"Quick, it's some kind of web!" Conan said, scrambling to attain the bare rock, as did Elashi, but Tull slipped on the smooth coating over the floor and fell. As he did, one of the cast lines landed on him. The rope adhered to Tull's tunic as if a part of it, and the slack in the cable vanished. Tull began to slide toward the plants.

Conan sprang toward the captured man and hewed downward with his blade, catching the rope. It took two cuts to sever it.

In his mind, Conan heard: Sisters! Aid me! These are the ones worth months' of food. There was no seduction in that voice, only menace.

Five, six, a dozen more sticky ropes jetted toward the trio. Tull scrabbled to his hands and knees and ran doglike away from the plants. Two of the ropes flew past, missing him and Conan, and the Cimmerian realized that the floor covering was of the same material as the lines and, as well, a measure of the extent of the lines' reach. He darted past Tull, scooped him up with one arm, and leaped for the closest patch of bare rock. One of the ropes tore a leather scrap from his boot, but then they were out of range.

"Gods all!" Elashi said.

The three stared at the plants.

Wait, came that too-sweet voice to Conan again. This is all a mistake. Come to me and feel the depths of pleasure.

Conan looked at Elashi. "Do you hear that?"

She nodded. "The powerful voice of a desert chief," she said. "Asking me to be his bride and firstwife."

Conan glanced at Tull. "And what do you hear?"

"A wench who would render me unconscious with her lusts," Tull said.

Conan nodded. He understood it now. The plants emitted some kind of lure to attract victims. Those so attracted would no doubt become sustenance for the plants in short order.

No, came the voice. You are not to be eaten. Believe us.

"I think not," Conan said. He turned back to his friends. "Best we go back and find another route."

But as the trio turned to go back the way they had come, a bat chittered and swooped out of the tunnel toward them. After a moment more bats followed, and there came the cries of men.

Conan shook his head and raised his sword. Was there no end to this madness?

* * *

Thirteen

It was Deek who spotted the exits from the cavern. Wikkell angled in toward the shore, beached the craft, and he and Deek alighted.

"Th-they m-m-must h-have g-g-gone th-there."

"What makes you so certain?"

"L-l-look."

Wikkell quickly noted what the worm was indicating. The shore, such that it was, virtually disappeared a short distance past the three holes in the rock above them, leaving a sheer cliff face dropping straight into the water. They would have to have the agility of flies to stick to that wall. If their prey had truly come this way, the only method left to them would be to swim a considerable dis tance, and Wikkell did not think that likely. They had not gotten this far by being particularly stupid.

"Aye. But which hole?"

"O-o-one i-is a-as g-g-good a-a-as a-another."

Wikkell nodded. "The one to the right, then?"

"W-w-why n-not?"

The climb was fairly easy for Wikkell, but it took a bit longer for Deek. When they finally attained the orifice, Wikkell noted that it was rather dark within.

"I shall go back down and scrape up some glow-fungus."

"N-n-no n-need. I c-c-can s-s-see w-w-well e-enough."

"I shall follow your lead, then."

The two of them entered the passage.

Bad luck rode the wings of the first four bats to swoop at Conan. The first attacker became two half bats as he was split lengthwise by the Cimmerian's blade. The second and third bats pulled out of their dives to avoid the deadly sword, but in so doing, they flew within range of the plants and their sticky lines; the plants wasted no time in snaring the hapless bats in their ropes. The fourth bat managed a tight turn, grinning as he avoided a line cast by the Webspinners. The grin disappeared as Conan slashed again, removing the bat's head from its shoulders. The hurtling body sailed into the first pikeman to arrive, knocking him flat.

Elashi and Tull cut with their own weapons. Conan had time to see Tull open the belly of a bat and Elashi's steel take the wing and leg of another.

The racket smote Conan's ears: screaming bats, yelling men, the hiss of plant ropes thrown through the dank air. Even so, he grinned. This was something he could deal with, a direct threat, and it was far better to meet an enemy face-on than to continue skulking about in these blasted caves forever.

With that, Conan stepped forward and whipped his blade back and forth at the next wave of bats.

One of the pikemen charged toward Tull and Elashi, pike extended to impale them. Conan smiled as he saw his two friends leap aside, except that Tull stuck his foot out and tripped the attacker. The unfortunate man stumbled and managed to keep his footing but only after he had run a good dozen overbalanced paces onto the silken floor covering. A pair of sticky ropes flew and connected with the pikeman. Plant food he was, and nobody's fault save his own.

No time to think about that. Back to the business at hand!

The Harskeel was altogether enraged: two of its men were down; the other two hopped around like dancers, failing to engage the barbarian and his friends; and the bats were dropping like cut wheat. The Harskeel had drawn its own blade, but it felt no confidence in its men or the bumbling bats. Time for magic, it decided, and quickly!

In the Harskeel's belt pouch were two glass vials: one was of shroud powder, the other of sundust. Tossed against a hard surface, the former would explode into pitch blackness, the latter into brilliant light. Were the Harskeel to use the sundust here in the cave, that brightness would certainly blind any who gazed upon it. Conan and the other two would be easier to deal with were they sightless.

The Harskeel pulled the vial from its belt and raised it for the throw. They must be looking in its direction for the magic to work, so attention must be paid.

"Conan!" the Harskeel screamed.

Hearing his name, the barbarian glanced away from the bat he had just cut down. The sound of its voice calling Conan also drew looks from the man and woman next to him. Good!

The Harskeel threw the vial.

On the Sunless Sea, Katamay Rey felt a disturbance in the air. It was a distance ahead, but he was certain that it concerned his quest. To his bearers he said, "Faster! Your best speed!"

The twp cyclopes who carried him complied. Because the dock created never-ending extensions of itself at whatever the speed of its occupants, the party began to move at a run, a pace considerably faster than any man could manage.

Chuntha stopped her living raft at a turning in the waterway and stepped ashore. She moved to the cover of a boulder half eaten away by water dripping from the far ceiling, and peeped around the rock to see how far ahead Rey's party had moved. She expected to see him no more than a short distance away, but she was surprised. The wizard had gained considerably; more, he and his one-eyed trolls now moved at more than twice the speed he had been traveling at earlier. Sensha curse him! What was he up to now?

The witch ran back to her raft and increased the turning of the screw that powered her craft. Whatever he had in mind, she would not be left behind!

The raft of worms churned out into the waterway and moved rapidly around the turning.

"M-m-may all th-the g-gods D-d-damn!"

"What is it?"

The giant worm halted his slither and spoke to Wikkell. "I-it's a-a d-d-dead e-end," he said. "Th-the p-p-passage n-n-narrows j-just a-a-ahead."

"Is there no alternate passage?"

"N-n-none."

"Well, Misha curse it. We will have to go back and try the next passage."

"L-l-let u-us h-h-hurry."

Indeed, Wikkell thought, let us do precisely that.

The vial that the Harskeel tossed flew through the air to smash against the rock exactly where it had aimed. The Harskeel closed its eyes and further covered them with an arm in anticipation of the blinding flash. One, two, three, that should do it!

But when the Harskeel jerked its arm down and opened its eyes, what greeted it was blackness as thick as cold tar.

Curse all the gods! It had thrown the wrong damned vial!

The cave suddenly went black, and Conan spun about in wonder. That creature, the Harskeel, had tossed something at the floor that must be the cause of the instant night. But… why? It was magic, right enough, and potent, but how could darkness favor the Harskeel?

Conan did not want to wait around to find out. He whispered. "Elashi! Tull!"

"Here," Elashi whispered back.

"And here," Tull said.

"Move toward me. I think I can lead us past them."

There was considerable thrashing about in the darkness as various beings tried to move without hitting a wall or each other. The bats had a certain expertise, but even they must have relied somewhat upon their eyes. Conan heard thumps as bats hit things in the curtain of night that had enveloped them.

"Conan?"

"Here, Elashi."

The woman was very near, and Conan reached out and found her. His hand touched her breast.

"Not now, goat."

"Good that you can joke at a time like this," he said.

At that point Tull blundered into Elashi's backside; Conan could feel the impact as the desert woman was pushed against him.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, lass."

"Hold hands," Conan commanded. "Elashi, grab my hand."

They linked themselves together, and Conan began to edge away from the Webspinners. His sense of direction guided him, that innate knowledge he had, and even though he bumped into things in the darkness―rocks, dead bats, a semiconscious pikeman―he led his party into the tunnel and away from the chaos.

Behind them, Conan heard the Harskeel screaming for its men and the bats to block the passage, but it was already too late.

Deek and Wikkell neared the entrace to the cul-de-sac they had taken. Before they reached their intended exit, however, Wikkell pulled the worm to a halt. "Wait," he said. "I hear something."

Carefully the two of them inched closer to the opening. At this stage of their quest, a strange noise might well be worth much trouble, and they agreed without speaking to exercise extreme, caution. Wise that the cyclops and worm did so; the phrase "much trouble" was more than a bit euphemistic, considering what awaited them.

On the edge of the rocky shoreline was a wooden dock, doubtless magically created for it had not been there before. Upon the dock stood Katamay Rey, surrounded by several of Wikkell's brothers; more of the cyclopes stood upon rocky ledges.

Wikkell uttered a whispered epithet, the common and impolite word for excrement, and backed hastily into a deep shadow. Deek agreed with the curse and slid back as quickly as did Wikkell.

"We are doomed," Wikkell whispered.

Deek's scraping on the rock was muted, but it seemed abnormally loud to Wikkell. "P-p-perhaps n-not. L-l-look."

It took the cyclops a moment to understand. The focus of the folk gathered below did not seem to be upon the tunnel entrance in which Wikkell and Deek were huddled. No, the assemblage below appeared to be focused upon the center orifice. Wikkell and Deek's feeling of relief was tempered by the knowledge that this was both good and bad. Good because perhaps Rey did not know they were here; bad because it must mean he did know that the humans everyone had been chasing around the caves for what seemed like forever must be in the next tunnel over. That Rey had to come and fetch them himself boded ill for Wikkell; that Rey might capture the men offered Deek no hope for pleasing Chuntha. A bad scenario whichever way it was constructed.

The thoughts of worm and cyclops were interrupted then as several of the cyclopes gave voice to rumbles, acknowledging the arrival of newcomers upon the scene. Neither Deek nor Wikkell could see who these folk might be, but they could certainly guess. It appeared that the game was over. "I think, Deek my friend, that we are in trouble."

"Y-y-you h-have s-s-said it, f-f-friend."

Katamay Rey smiled at the surprise on the faces of the three who appeared in the mouth of the tunnel. They had apparently not been expecting a reception, two men and a woman, but their shock did not last. The larger of the men drew a dark-bladed sword, while the woman and the second man also produced weapons nearly as fast. Doubtless they could cause some damage to his minions with those, Rey thought, and the cyclopes, in their enthusiasm to capture the trio, might also injure one or more of them. After all the efforts expended upon this quest, the wizard had no intention of seeing his prey damaged until he had a chance to attend to that personally. He saw the big man gather himself as if to leap down upon the first of the approaching cyclopes. No, that would not do, not at all.

Katamay Rey waved his hands and uttered several words in a language whose last native speaker had died a thousand years earlier. A net flickered out of the air, a coarse-meshed affair stronger than tempered steel and impervious to edged weapons. The net fell upon the three people above, entangling them as they tried to move.

Like much of his magic, the use of this spell exhausted certain supernatural elements of the air in the vicinity. Beneath Rey's feet, the dock quivered slightly but held firm after a moment. Too much magic in any given place depleted that area's store of etheric energies for a time, as a wine bottle is emptied of liquid. One had to be careful lest one create a spell that rendered further magic impossible for a time. Best to always have a reserve for emergencies. Well, no matter. He had the three now, finally…

"Bring them down," Rey ordered. Half a dozen of the cyclopes hurried to comply.

The three within the net struggled to escape, but it was a wasted effort. Until he dissolved the magical device, they were not going anywhere.

Katamay Rey smiled. Whatever threat these three had posed to his control of the Black Caves was certainly past.

Chuntha observed Rey's capture of the three she sought with more than a small amount of irritation. Sensha blast him! He had beaten her to the quarry!

The naked witch slid behind a convenient boulder and considered her options. Because he was first did not mean he was the winner; the issue would not be resolved until he achieved his own stronghold, with its magical wards. Until then, Rey was dangerous but not unbeatable. She had surprise with her; at the proper moment an attack could be mounted against the wizard that would disrupt whatever plans he had.

Timing was, of course, critical; a mistake could be costly. Still, Chuntha did not despair. She had a few tricks of her own packed away, and the thought of destroying That Bastard once and for all caused a warm glow in her belly. She would have her quarry―two men and a woman, each useful―and with proper planning, Rey would have an unplanned and permanent trip straight to Gehanna.

A most pleasant thought.

* * *

Fourteen

The Harskeel's anger filled it to capacity. When the shroud powder's effect faded, it found itself looking upon a scene of carnage. None of its men remained alive. Of the four, one had been cut down by the barbarian, the plants had apparently taken another, the bats in their confusion had fastened to a third, and the fourth lay trampled upon the rocky floor. More than a few bats lay dead as well. Red was not one of them.

The bat with whom the Harskeel had bargained hopped toward the man, surveying the dead as he came. "Bad business," Red said.

The Harskeel could not trust itself to speak.

"Well, what say we just take our spell and call it quits, eh?"

Now the Harskeel's voice came out, but it came coldly and precisely, the antithesis of its enraged feelings. "I have another spell. This one is somewhat different in effect. It turns bats into insects."

"You jest."

"Would you perhaps like a demonstration? Upon yourself, for instance?"

Red spent little time considering this. "Uh, no. I shall take your word for it."

"Good. Then let us go and capture this barbarian before I decide that all of the bats in this blasted cave would serve me better as butterflies!"

Wikkell and Deek watched as the three captives were carried to the magical dock. Their weapons were removed and the net dissolved by the wizard, but only after each human was safely in the grip of a pair of cyclopes. Even the largest one's struggles availed it little against the strength of Wikkell's brothers, and the man seemed to realize this, and was still.

As the worm and the cyclops watched, Rey and the group walked to the end of the dock, which was magically lengthened, the rear section vanishing like so much smoke in a vent breeze. In a few moments the procession was nearly out of sight.

"N-n-now wh-what?"

Wikkell sighed. "We are in deep trouble, I would say. You cannot go home, for your mistress will doubtless be unhappy with you."

"Th-that p-p-puts it m-mildly."

"Nor can I return to my own caves, since the wizard himself had to come and fetch those I was sent after. He has no use for failure."

"Wh-what a-are w-we to d-do, th-then? Live as o-o-outcasts?"

"Well, better outcasts than not at all, but I confess that scrounging a living on our own has little appeal for me."

"I-I a-agree."

Wikkell nodded, and the idea that had been nebulously floating about in his head took on more solidity. "Ever wonder how much better off we would all be had not the witch and the wizard ever come to reside here in the caves?"

"M-m-more th-than o-once."

"Or, since that is wishful thinking, were they to leave, or perhaps destroy each other?"

"M-more w-w-wishful th-th-thinking."

"Perhaps not. Neither of us can go home again while those cursed two inhabit the caves. Our lives are practically worthless. As such, might not we try and spend them in a manner that might benefit both our peoples?"

"A-a-are y-you s-suggesting r-r-revolution?"

"I am indeed. What have we to lose?"

Deek considered this. Wikkell's idea, which would have seemed hopelessly absurd only a few days past, did not now sound quite so insane. Not when the only other choice was to spend the remainder of one's allotted time slithering from shadow to shadow against the day when either Chuntha or Katamay Rey would discover and thus put a quick end to them.

"Not to put too fine an edge on it, Deek, but… it is either them or us, and given my current thoughts on the matter, I would rather it be them."

"I-I a-agree," Deek said. And why not?

"Well, then, let us see what we can do to gather help."

Every so often Conan tensed his muscles and tried to break free of the two cyclopes holding him, but he might as well be trying to fly by flapping his arms for all the good it did. They had a grip like iron, and he was in no position to kick them where it would hurt the most.

Elashi and Tull fared no better, and Conan's smiles did not seem to particularly reassure them. The future did not shine brightly at the moment. Then again, the Cimmerian had been in difficulties at least this bad before and had survived to live another day. Who could say? There was little point in worry since it would not help, and he would better spend his energies preparing to seize any opportunity to better their situation. Even free and with his blade, defeating these giant one-eyed beings, not to mention the wizard, might not be the easiest thing he had ever done, but one had to assume that anything was possible.

Chuntha watched from concealment as the wizard and his troop went past. The time was not yet ripe, but it would happen before Rey reached the safety of his own caves. She would make it happen.

The Harskeel and its entourage of Bloodbats reached the mouth of the tunnel that led to the Sunless Sea in time to observe Katamay Rey and his prisoners departing the scene. Red identified the wizard and indicated that irritating the same would be paid with dire consequences.

The Harskeel thought it would explode from the anger within it. Fortunately, it managed to keep its temper. Why did the gods thwart it so? Was that a part of the curse, somehow kept secret from it?

"Very well, we shall follow them and seek an opportunity."

"An opportunity to do what?" Red asked.

"Never mind. Just get the boat into the water."

As the Harskeel and the bats entered the water and started after the wizard, Deek and Wikkell watched from within their small cave.

"I wonder how this strange-looking man figures into all this. Doubtless you recall him or her or it, whatever it is, from the encounter in the bat cave?"

"I-I-I r-recall. A-a p-p-puzzle."

For his part, Katamay Rey was feeling very pleased with himself. He had captured the three with more ease than he had anticipated, given Wikkell's failure to do so. He looked forward to inspecting and questioning them at his leisure once in his own chambers, and doubtless that would provide him with many hours of amusement. The big one, especially, should last quite a while before he gave up the spirit.

Then the ceiling of the cave just ahead rumbled and dropped several large rocks into the water, splashing the dock-walkers. Almost immediately, a screaming apparition fell from the hole opened high above, coming right at them!

Rey's surprise was such that even the most basic defensive spells escaped him. He barely had time to make a warding-off motion with his hands. It was sufficient to change the path of the shrieking monster slightly, so that it missed the dock and hit the adjacent water. Still, the attack was enough to startle all those who beheld it. These included the cyclopes attending to the prisoners.

Rey's attention to the attack from above slowed his gaze at the prisoners for a single beat too long.

Conan's guards had relaxed their hold enough for him to free one arm. The second guard had a firmer grip, but unfortunately for him, Conan was able to twist about and bring his booted foot into contact with the most sensitive part of males of virtually all upright species. The cyclops, for all his size and power, gave voice to an almost girlish screech at the strike and suddenly found better uses for his hands than holding on to Conan. The cyclops clutched at himself, doubled over, and moaned.

Conan was already moving. He leaped at the single cyclops holding Elashi and repeated the strike that had worked so well before. This cyclops was faster, but in order to protect his ability to sire children, he let go of Elashi to block Conan's foot. That was all the Cimmerian needed, and at the last moment he pulled the kick and threw his weight instead into a shove. Big as the cyclops was, he was too close to the edge of the dock to withstand Conan's full weight. The hapless cyclops teetered on the edge of the dock and then fell into the water.

Elashi, meanwhile, went for the weapons. In the confusion following the attack from above, the desert woman managed to collect the swords and Tull's knife. She tossed Conan his blade, and the brawny Cimmerian began whipping it back and forth at the Cyclopes holding Tull. Said guards wanted no part of Conan's sword, and they hastily released their charge.

"Into the water!" Conan yelled.

Tull and Elashi obeyed, the latter despite her inability to swim.

Despite the noise and surprise, they stood little chance of escaping since the wizard was beginning to recover his wits, and there was, after all, no place for the three to go. Conan surfaced, towing Elashi with his sword held over her chest, and paddled furiously for the nearest shore. He expected a bolt of magical energy to sear him into ash at any moment, but he kept moving.

Chuntha saw her chance. Something had dropped from above, coming down almost on top of the Wizard, and while he and his troops milled about in confusion, the gorgeous man and the other two managed to free themselves and leap into the water. Good! She could give Rey something else to keep his attention while the three attained the shore; she could then collect them later.

The witch increased the speed of her worm raft and churned toward the magical dock just ahead. She removed from her bags a cork-and-wax-stop-pered ceramic jar containing a fog spell. She smiled as she saw the wizard catch sight of her.

"It's the witch! I knew this was her doing!"

The wizard raised his hands to cast a spell, but Chuntha beat him to it. She jerked the stopper from the jar and the fog boiled out explosively. She quickly recorked the jar, but in an instant the area around both worm raft and dock was enshrouded in thick, wet grayness, effectively rendering both wizard and witch invisible to each other.

"Set curse you, bitch!"

"And you, you bastard!"

A magical lightning flashed as Rey tried to wipe away the fog, but Chuntha countered with another blast of fog from the jar. Between those actions and the forces needed to maintain the dock and her boat, the available magic in the immediate area dropped rapidly. Nobody was going to be doing any heavy spellwork for a while, not here.

Time to depart, Chuntha, she told herself. Go and find that big, fine-looking man…

Scurrying along the shore of the waterway, the Harskeel saw the fog in the distance. Now what? it wondered. Where was that cursed bat when it needed him? It quickened its pace.

Conan swam to a shallow ledge upon which he could stand, Elashi in tow. He set the woman upon her feet. Tull arrived a moment later. "What happened?" he asked.

"I know not," Conan replied, "nor do I care. Let us find a path away from here."

"Aye," Elashi said.

From the fog-shrouded water just behind them came a voice: "A good idea from a man who probably has less brain than a turnip."

Conan spun about, his sword pointing into the fog. That voice… he knew it from somewhere…

Elashi recognized it first. "Lalo!"

Indeed. As he watched, Conan saw the cursed man they had met at the inn only a few days past emerge from the fog and wade toward them. Had it only been a few days? It seemed half a lifetime.

"What are you doing here?" Elashi asked.

"I thought I would drop in and surprise you," Lalo said, "although I am certain almost everything surprises your apelike companion there. What is going on here?" He grinned his perpetual grin, and even Conan had to return a smile.

"I shall explain and introduce you to Tull later," Conan said. "At the moment I think it best we leave before the fog clears."

"Come, come, Conan, does the fog ever clear for you?"

Elashi laughed, and that surprised Conan not in the least. These two should marry. She would be more than a match for the straw-haired fellow.

Deek and Wikkell proceeded in their silken boat, but more cautiously than before, sculling slowly. They arrived in the vicinity of the confrontation between their respective mistress and master, nay―make that ex-mistress and ex-master―as the final wisps of magical fog began to clear from the water. They were in time to see Chuntha leaving rapidly upon a raft made of what looked like two dozen of Deek's brothers and Rey directing his moving dock toward the nearest shoreline.

"I wonder what happened here."

Deek could not speak in the boat, but his curiosity was no less than Wikkell's. He waved his tail in agitation.

"I agree," Wikkell said. "Best we not get too close. They don't see us, and I for one would prefer to keep it that way. Let us find a cove or small bay and lay low."

Wikkell turned the small boat. He glanced over his shoulder. "Not that it matters any longer," he said, "but I do not see the people we were sent to fetch. I wonder if they have escaped? We might still find them."

Deek shook his head in negation.

"You're right. We are committed now. Although perhaps we might induce those three to help us. They seem very lucky, and it would not hurt to have them on our side."

If we happen to run into them, Deek thought.

"If we happen to run into them," Wikkell said.

Odd, Deek thought. They were beginning to think a lot alike. This might well be the start of a beautiful friendship―assuming they lived long enough to enjoy it.

* * *

Fifteen

Tull's immediate reaction upon attaining dry land was to flee back toward the place where they had been captured. Conan was of a different mind.

"The wizard will expect that," he said. "Better we should proceed in the opposite direction."

Lalo agreed. "Despite your appearance to the contrary, that is actually very clever."

Conan shook his head. Lalo's curse could turn even a compliment into an insult.

The four of them moved quickly along the fogged shore, hoping to be well away before the cover evaporated.

Not five minutes later, another series of tunnels branched off to their right. Tull turned to Conan. "What do you think?" he asked.

"You're asking him?" Lalo said to Tull. "There must be more than a bit of slack in your wits, old man."

Tull reached for his knife.

"Wait," Elashi said, catching Tull's arm. "Lalo here is under a geas."

"He'll be under the ground if he does not curb his tongue," Tull said.

"He cannot help insulting you―that is his curse."

Tull considered this. "Really? What a strange thing to inflict upon someone."

"Not to interrupt this discussion," Conan said, "but we are apt to suffer much worse if we stand around and allow ourselves te be retaken by the wizard."

"Aye," Tull said. "So which way?"

"That one," Conan said, pointing at the nearest tunnel. He glanced at Elashi to see if she planned to gainsay that, but for once the woman was silent. She was watching Lalo.

Into the tunnel they fled. After twenty minutes the corridor bifurcated, and they chose the right-hand fork and continued on. Shortly the narrow pipe blossomed out into a wide, low-roofed chamber, the floor of which was littered with large, pillow-shaped stones. The four sat upon one of these stones to catch their breath.

"Perhaps one of you nit brains would be so good as to explain what is going on here," Lalo said.

Elashi looked at Conan. "I think he means you," she said.

"You are so much better with words," Conan told her. "You tell him."

"Very well." Elashi explained their adventures of the last few days. Tull added background material about the caves and the ongoing battle between the witch and the wizard. When they were done, Elashi asked Lalo how he had come to be there.

"As it happened, I wore thin my welcome at the village inn. I insulted the owner's ugly daughter once too often and he showed me the door. An old story. So I decided to take the dangerous route, feeling I had not much to lose. I saw evidence of your passage―the dead watchbeast and the Harskeel's men, looking somewhat worse for the local scavengers having been at them. And I passed almost entirely through the area without incident… until the ground opened beneath my feet and I fell into the huge lake below. I thought certain my time had come to leave this world for the next. Imagine my surprise when I saw the three of you standing on a dock practically right in my path."

"I can imagine," Conan said. His voice was dry.

"Well, anyway, what has that tiny mind of yours come up with for a way out of here?"

Curse or no curse, if Lalo kept talking that way, Conan doubted if he could maintain his temper much longer. He smiled benignly, though, and said, "At first we merely thought to find a way out, to escape."

"At first?" Elashi and Tull echoed in unison.

"Aye. After that last episode, our plans changed somewhat."

"They did?" Tull and Elashi said.

Conan continued. "Aye, they did. We now have in mind collecting some of the valuables amassed by either the witch or the wizard or both, to pay for our troubles here. Then we will leave."

"Are you mad?" Elashi asked.

"Not at all. You will recall Tull telling us that both the witch and the wizard have assorted jewels and gold, collected in their caves through centuries of robbing passersby."

"Aye," Elashi said. "So? You cannot expect to simply stroll into the stronghold of a magician and steal such valuables."

"And why not? The witch and wizard are both out here looking for us, are they not? Recall that worm raft we saw. Think about it―where is the last place you would expect them to look?"

"He is mad," Elashi said to Tull,

Lalo laughed. "Perhaps, but there is nothing wrong with his plan, despite the fact that it was hatched by him. When the farmer is in the field, the hens are ripe for the fox."

"You have taken leave of your senses as well," Elashi said.

Lalo nodded. "Doubtless after years of smiling so. As you might suspect, I have little love for wizards, and being compensated by one pleases me greatly. With enough money, one may insult anyone and get away with it. A rich man can buy companions who will withstand much for sufficient payment. Or mayhap even find another mage who can lift the spell. With great wealth comes great respect. I shall be happy to assist you, you barbarian buffoon."

Conan smiled. "Glad to have your help, Lalo."

Elashi and Tull looked at each other.

"Maybe Conan does have something," Tull said.

Elashi said, "Oh, he has something all right―half the wits of a bedbug!"

"I am open to suggestions," Conan said.

Despite herself, Elashi grinned. She shook her head. "All right, I take your point. I have no better idea. At the moment, anyway."

"Then we shall do it," Conan said. "I think I can direct us back to Tull's hideaway. Can you lead us to the wizard or the witch's chambers from there, Tull?"

"Aye."

"Then let us be on our way."

Conan felt good about his plan. He figured that they owed the witch and the wizard much for all the grief those two had caused them. What better blow to strike than one that would provide financial benefit in the process? As Lalo had said, sufficient money would make a soothing balm. A most soothing balm indeed…

Though they had grown used to each other's company, Wikkell and Deek decided that it would be best to return to their own people as soon as possible. With the witch and the wizard away from their chambers, the time would never be better for the worm and the cyclops to approach their own kind with their plans to depose the evil humans.

So when Chuntha and Katamay Rey went deeper into the far reaches of the Sunless Sea searching for the three humans, Deek and Wikkell turned -their craft homeward.

They sculled the little boat along until both were hungry and tired, then stopped to make a meal upon assorted fungi and to rest themselves.

"It will not be easy, you realize."

"N-n-no. O-our p-p-people w-w-will b-be a-afraid."

Wikkell nodded and munched upon a brownish mushroom with a slimy cap. "And rightly so. Both the wizard and the witch are powerful. Many of us may die. It will take some convincing. I fear my brothers may feel I am merely trying to save my own hide."

"T-t-true e-enough."

"Certainly. But in the long run, it will be better for us without such tyrants as rulers."

"I-in th-the l-long r-r-run, w-we a-are a-all d-d-dead."

"Yes, to be sure. But look at us, for instance. We get along well enough, though I confess I had misgivings early on."

"A-as d-d-did I."

"But there is no reason your people and mine cannot be friends, save for those two who rule."

"A-a-agreed."

"We must convince our brothers and sisters to take the long view, Deek. Why, we might even create some kind of joint council, your folk and mine, with input from the plants and perhaps even the bats and Whites. Bring prosperity to the caves, instead of the boots of Rey and Chuntha upon our throats."

"Am-am-ambitious i-idea."

"True. But united, we could certainly defeat even such powerful beings as those two."

"O-one w-w-would h-hope."

Wikkell smiled and the green light played upon his thick teeth. "Here, have some of this slimeball."

"Th-thank y-you, f-f-friend."

Deek caught the succulent fungus in the gash that served his kind for a mouth. Normally the worms kept their mouths hidden under a flap of tough epidermis, never revealing the orifice except to the most trusted of friends or a mate. At this point Deek felt that if he could not trust Wikkell the one-eye, he likely could not trust anyone.

"We might well go down in history," the cyclops said, reaching for another slimeball.

"O-or i-into th-the l-l-lime pits," Deek said.

Yes. There was that, too.

Katamay Rey's anger flowed through him, tempered somewhat by fear. The stranger in the caves―Conan, he had heard the female call him―ran loose once again. A bad sign, considering the crystal's prophesy. Of course it was the Witch's fault. Somehow she had caused the ceiling to fall in almost upon them, and her construct or thrall, whichever it had been, had very nearly hit its target, save for Rey's quick warding action. The following attack, with its blasted fog and his counter, had depleted the magical flux "so that he had been unable to deal the witch the crushing blow she so justly deserved. In fact, had a bit more of the mantalogical energies been drained, the very dock upon which he stood would have dissolved, and that would have been a fine predicament to have faced.

When at last the fog had cleared, both witch and quarry where nowhere to be seen. There was barely enough flux left to construct the never-ending dock to chase them. The going was slow at first, until the wizard and his cyclopes departed from the defluxed region, back into the farther reaches of the Sunless Sea. Oh, she was going to pay, Chuntha was, and twist properly in the doing of it.

Chuntha's raft had very nearly come apart while battling the wizard. The magical glue had softened and the entire construct had shifted and wobbled before she had enough sense to turn her craft and beat a fast retreat from the immediate area close to Rey. Fortunately, she emerged from the space where the magic had been drained before her raft became a collection of worms once again. The glue solidified and Chuntha sparked the magicked screw to higher rotation. The beautiful barbarian had escaped, and no doubt he and his party would be running for all they were worth, away from the wizard. Chuntha merely had to retrace her earlier course along the waterway until she spotted them, or some trace of them.

She had the advantage of the wizard now, and she meant to utilize it fully. She wondered what that apparition had been falling from the ceiling, but did not worry overmuch about it. Probably some spell Rey had cast incorrectly, and it served him right to have it backfire so. That was not her concern; the man she sought was, and she intended to bring all her energies to bear upon his retrieval.

Having abandoned the raft and taken the route along the shore, the Harskeel arrived at the end of the confrontation between witch and wizard. As the magical fog still enshrouded the scene, the Harskeel realized that there was perhaps more than a bit of danger here for itself and its quest. Quickly the Harskeel ordered the bats dispersed, to return later. It found a large, horseshoe-shaped rock to crawl under and conceal itself.

From out of the fog a raft of giant white worms appeared, bearing a beautiful, naked woman. This craft went back the way the Harskeel had just come.

Moments later the fog dissipated and the wizard was revealed, ranting upon a dock in the middle of the waterway.

Of Conan and his companions there was no sign.

After a moment the wizard began walking upon his dock and a new section of it appeared in front of the marching cyclopes. They followed the path of the witch's worm raft.

Interesting, the Harskeel thought. It had been beyond the edges of the fog, and Conan had not come this way. Since the barbarian was not held captive by either witch or wizard, he must then have gone in the opposite direction. Aha! The witch and the wizard moved in the wrong direction; too bad for them, but not for the Harskeel.

As soon as the wizard moved from view, it would summon those stupid Bloodbats and resume its quest. With luck, it might be some time before wizard or witch realized their error; with more luck, perhaps they would destroy each other, although the Harskeel thought it best not to depend greatly upon that.

The wizard and his cyclopes marched along the magical dock and out of sight. Now, where were those moronic bats?

* * *

Sixteen

With his uncanny sense of direction fully operative, Conan managed to lead the party of four through twists and turns that eventually ended at the hideaway Tull had constructed.

Oddly enough, the bat cave, which had to be traversed again, was empty of those winged creatures. Not that Conan particularly cared where they had gotten to, as long as that place lay far away.

"My," Lalo said as he observed Tull's hidden alcove, "quite the nest-maker, are you not? Pity you aren't female, you'd make some man a fine wife."

Tull's smile was obviously forced, and he kept toying with the handle of his dagger.

Conan could well see how it would be necessary for Lalo to be an adept in some form of combat. Even when you knew about the curse, Lalo tended to grate upon the nerves in a hurry. To break the tension, Conan asked, "Which is the closer―the witch's abode or that of the wizard?"

"Each is about the same distance from here, I reckon," Tull said.

"Hmm. Then which would likely hold the most booty?"

Tull scratched at his bearded chin, considering the question. "Depends on what you're looking for. The wizard, he has a fondness for gold. It don't tarnish like silver nor rust like iron, and the caves are some damp, as you no doubt have noticed."

"Ah, that sounds promising," Lalo said.

Both Conan and Tull held their silence for a moment, waiting for Lalo to add an insult, but none was forthcoming. That was almost irritating in itself.

"Then again," Tull finally continued, "the witch, she has a liking for precious stones. Rubies, emeralds, fire-rocks, like that."

Conan considered that. Such a choice was most interesting. Gold? Or gems? A dilemma. "Can we perhaps raid both chambers?"

"Madness," Elashi said to Lalo. "Whatever wits he may ever have possessed, they are gone now. Greed makes you stupid, Conan."

Conan ignored her, but Tull's next comment scotched the idea of a dual robbery.

"Not likely," Tull said. "They are maybe the same distance from here, but in different directions. It's two days' march between 'em, easy."

"Too bad," Conan said. "Well, the witch's chambers, then."

Elashi raised one eyebrow at Conan. "Why so?"

It lay upon the top of Conan's tongue to answer that he thought dealing with a witch―a woman―would be easier than dealing with a wizard―a man―should anything go wrong. Recalling his travels with Elashi so far, however, he realized that to speak such reasoning aloud would only irritate her arid bring forth an undammed flow of invective. For some reason, Elashi seemed convinced that women were the equal of men in practically all things, and Conan had no desire to listen to another of her tirades. Perhaps, he thought, he was learning to deal with women after all.

"Well?" she said.

Conan thought quickly. "Well-cut jewels are more valuable than gold, and much lighter. We can carry more gems than coin."

That made sense, and Elashi nodded.

Conan kept his face an expressionless mask, though he was smiling inside. There was nothing wrong with the way his mind functioned, Lalo and Elashi's carping to the contrary.

"Then let us wait no longer," Conan said. "Lead on, Tull."

Wikkell's labors among his fellow cyclopes had not been spectacularly successful. Their resistance had been somewhat more than he had anticipated.

As he trudged along a back tunnelway to meet

Deek, he recalled one of many similar conversations: "Attack the wizard? And the witch? Are you daft?"

"Certainly there is some risk," Wikkell began.

"Some risk? By all the demons in Gehanna, Wikkell, those two will certainly turn us into ooze if we dare oppose their will."

"They are but two, and we are many."

"So said the slug about the pair of falling boulders, brother. There is much room upon the floors of these caves for puddles that once were such as we."

It pained Wikkell to hear this, the more so because the speaker was in fact his true brother, born of the same mother only a year after Wikkell himself had been born.

"We shall have aid from the worms."

"Ah, well, that is different, then. You have been eating the black-spoored mushrooms again, haven't you? I trust the worms almost as far as I do the wizard."

In the end Wikkell realized that he was wasting his breath. If he could not convince his own brother of the lightness of his cause, what chance did he have of enrolling others in his plan? And perhaps "plan" was too strong a term. "Vague leaning" might be more appropriate at this stage of the revolution.

He needed some kind of demonstration, something to show the cyclopes that the wizard and the witch were not invulnerable. Could he but demonstrate the smallest crack in their magical armor, it would be enough. No one liked being ruled by the magical iron hand, and if they truly thought a real chance existed to overthrow the tyrant, Wikkell was certain he could convince them.

Well, perhaps Deek had fared better. It would be galling to admit that the worms were more reasonable than his own kind, but he had to admit that such a thing might be possible. He could swallow his pride, he supposed, if Deek could generate more fire among his fellows. It was the end that mattered, after all.

Not long now, Wikkell thought. The prearranged meeting place lay only a few minutes ahead. It was an out-of-the-way spot, unlikely that anyone would accidentally happen upon them, which is why they had chosen it.

Wikkell sighed and tried to think of the best way to break his bad news to the worm.

In the small grotto, hidden from prying eyes, Deek arrived to find Wikkell already waiting. Too bad. Ah, well, there was no help for it. He had to tell his one-eyed friend the bad news.

They exchanged greetings, and Deek settled himself upon a particularly resonate patch of rock.

"M-m-my b-b-brothers th-th-think I a-am m-mad."

"Oh, no. I was hoping―" Wikkell stopped.

"H-h-hoping wh-what?"

"That you would have better success than I. My fellows also think me less than sane."

"Th-they w-w-won't h-help?"

"I'm afraid not. And from your comments, I assume the same is true of your folk?"

"S-s-sad, b-but t-t-true."

"Damn them all to Gehanna. Now what are we going to do?"

Deek had pondered that thought long and hard, and his conclusion involved more than a little personal risk. He said, "W-w-we h-h-have t-to sh-show th-them."

Wikkell nodded. "My thoughts as well. Can we but demonstrate that the witch and the wizard are not all-powerful, we have a chance."

"G-g-got a-any i-ideas?"

"Plenty, though I suspect most are apt to get us killed. I should like to avoid such a thing if at all possible."

"I-I-I t-too w-would a-avoid s-s-such an e-ending."

"Well, then, let me put forth my thoughts and then listen to yours. We are resourceful, after all. Surely we can come up with something."

Deek nodded. Indeed, he thought. High time to either defecate or slide out of the scat trench. No two ways about it.

"Here is my first idea…"

The blasted bats took their time returning to where the Harskeel lay in hiding. Travels would have to be on foot or in the air. The Harskeel did not trust itself to the bats' ability to safely carry it, so that meant it would have to walk.

Being enraged seemed to have become the Harskeel's permanent mental state, and it feared that its anger might cause it to do something foolish. The Harskeel made an effort to calm itself. All right. The quarry had escaped once again; at least its two competitors for Conan had been put off the scent. Its men were all dead, true, but there were the bumbling bats to replace them. That might be rather like exchanging a half-wit for an idiot, but one had to make do as best one could. All in all, the Harskeel reflected, things were no worse than ever they had been. No better perhaps, but no worse. When at last it captured its prey, the end would justify all of these rigorous means, certainly. With those thoughts trying and mostly failing to calm its anger, the Harskeel set off after Conan and his friends.

Urging the worm raft to its utmost speed, Chuntha scanned the banks of the Sunless Sea, searching for signs of her elusive quarry. She knew not how far the waterway extended, never having followed it to its end in all the years she had resided below the ground. She often thought of the sunlit world above, and how happy she had been there, plundering the bodies of willing men for their carnal spirits. Unfortunately, she could not run around naked up there any longer, civilization having curtailed that option, and worse, too many bodies aroused suspicion. More than once she had fled from a city or a village with the local folk chasing her, hot for her death.

The underground had disadvantages, to be sure, but once she managed to wrest total control of it from the wizard, she could arrange to have a steadier supply of bedmates than before. Few men would risk the caves to retrieve a lost traveler, and Chuntha knew she could snag the odd one now and again without arousing much suspicion. After all, dangerous animals lived up there, and brigands, too; one had to expect that they would take their toll…

A dark opening appeared on the cave wall to her right, just ahead. Since her quarry now traveled on foot, such an exit might well appeal to them. The problem was that she could not explore every tunnel along the way; there were far too many of them. Fortunately, Chuntha had exactly the thing she needed.

From her supplies she took a tall, black jar and a pair of tweezers. She opened the jar's lid and with the tweezers removed a speck of red the size of a pin's head. She quickly closed the jar and set the red speck upon the deck of her living raft. Uttering a few mystical phrases, Chuntha waved her hands at the speck. In a twinkling it expanded into a red hornet the size of a sparrow. The creature fluttered its wings, buzzing.

"Go," Chuntha commanded. "Explore that tunnel and return to me if you find any human within."

Obediently the giant hornet rose from the raft and jetted away, zipping toward the tunnel in an arrow-straight line. The magicked hornets were of limited value, but useful within those limits. They could be directed for simple tasks such as an in-and-out search of a tunnel. More complex things were beyond their capacity; still, if her beautiful barbarian were in that tunnel, the insect would find him and return to tell the tale.

She had dozens of the creatures within her jar, and she would dispatch as many as it took to locate her quarry. She had obtained the magical beasts after a liaison with a self-styled wizard who had, in bed, sought to match her powers of Sensha. He lost, naturally, and those magics of his she could operate became hers by default. It had been a long time ago, but Chuntha still remembered the man fondly. He had lasted the better part of an hour before dying.

Being that the escapees were on foot, they could not have gone far. They were either in a tunnel close to the place where the wizard had lost them or not far ahead and still fleeing onshore. Either way, Chuntha should be able to find them soon.

She smiled at that thought. She had planned to take the captives back to her chamber, to enjoy them at her leisure, but perhaps not. Perhaps she would take them to the nearest flat spot and have them there.

The thought of it warmed her loins. Yes. Why wait? Better to enjoy them before that stupid wizard perhaps mucked things up again. Afterward her powers would be increased, and she would deal with the hapless Rey.

The worm raft continued along, Chuntha smiling upon its back as she moved over the waters.

Katamay Rey sat in his sedan chair, borne at a fast trot by his cyclopes. He had yet to catch sight of Conan and the others but, he reflected, it should be only a short while before he did so. Of course they could have easily darted into one of the myriad openings along the way. Quite probably they had done so, had they any sense, but that did not worry him. The wizard was not without certain spells to ascertain such things…

From his pack of magical impedimenta, Rey withdrew a leather bottle of no small age. He shook the bottle, and a faint buzzing began within. He removed the cork from the narrow-necked vessel and shook it again. A small insect, gnat-sized, emerged from the bottle, which the wizard quickly recorked. Rey spoke a tongue-twisting phrase in a gutteral language and the gnat-sized creature blossomed into a blue wasp the size of a small bird. The giant insect buzzed back and forth, awaiting Rey's command, which was not long in coming.

"Go and explore the first tunnel you find that is large enough to admit a man. Finding any men, return and report it to me immediately."

The blue wasp buzzed and took off, heading toward the shore. Rey smiled at its departure. He had once had another investigatory insect species, a jar of magical red hornets, but he had traded them to a cocks-wizard above ground long ago. The hornets and wasps were antipathetical, and it was possible to use one or the other, but not both simultaneously. The red and the blue insects hated each other and would fight to the death upon meeting. Rey had thought it an unnecessary duplication to have both.

Of course the witch was somewhere in the vicinity, and she would have to be dealt with in the not-too-distant future. He would be better prepared the next time, and she would rue the day she had sought to challenge Katamay Rey!

The Cyclopes trotted along the never-ending dock, oblivious to their master's contemplations. For his part, the wizard felt that his quest would be ended shortly. It could not happen soon enough to suit him, either.

* * *

Seventeen

Conan's plan was simple, and he saw no need to complicate it. They would travel to the witch's quarters, bypass or dispatch any guards left there, and load their purses and pouches with loot. Having done that, they would depart rapidly and find a place where the roof of some cavern was accessible from below. Here they would dig their way through the roof, which should prove to be the ground above, clamber out, and be gone.

Naturally Elashi had her doubts, and she voiced them quickly, as was her wont. "First, what makes you think we can dispatch any guards so easily? What if this witch has left one or more of those giant worms standing ready to intercept would-be visitors?"

"Recall the giant fish?" Conan said. "If my blade could slay him, it can slay a much smaller legless grub."

"All right, assuming this is so, then there is the matter of our escape. Do you think it so easy to simply dig through the roof and depart these caves? Tull here has been underground for five years. Think you not that he has tried such a maneuver before?"

Conan looked at Tull. "Have you, then?"

"Sort of," Tull answered. "The places where the roof is reachable are few, and while I tried digging in a couple, I could never finish before either a worm or a cyclops came along. Spotting holes, they usually patch 'em, save the ones they make themselves for trapping travelers. Those are always too high to reach, or guarded."

Conan turned back to Elashi. "There are four of us; we can dig much faster than one. Besides, the odd worm or cyclops happening by will pose less of a threat to four."

"You have all the answers, do you?" Elashi was angry.

Conan nodded. As a matter of fact, he did."Aye, leastways the ones we need, save one: how much farther is our objective, Tull?"

"A few hours' walk."

"Then let us save our breath for walking instead of spending it talking," Conan said.

Elashi frowned at this; Lalo's face kept its perpetual smile, and he said nothing.

Through rocky chambers they traveled, passing under great pointed stalagtites that dripped tiny drops of mineralized water, past walls so thickly covered with glowing fungus that the bright green light generated gave them views clearer than the shining of the full moon.

Once the four passed within a few spans of a solitary Webspinner Plant. Conan heard the seductive but faint call of the carnivorous plant: Mighty warrior! Come to me and be pleasured beyond belief! But his earlier experiences made him immune to its beckonings, as were Tull and Elashi.

They warned Lalo but need not have bothered. Lalo paused and appeared to listen for a moment, then answered the mindspeech of the plant aloud: "I have seen better leaves on overripe turnips," he said. "If ever there was an uglier bit of flora, doubtless men would be struck blind upon viewing it."

Lalo's insults sparked an angry response from the Webspinner, and its siren's song became one of outrage: I shall eat your liver, foul one!

Apparently no one under Lalo's particular curse had passed this way before. Conan suspected that should the plant be so foolish as to snare Lalo, likely it would choke upon him.

Tull's years of experience in the caverns had given him some knowledge of little-used passages, and the four kept to these, avoiding contact with any of the giant worms. Once they spotted one of the creatures passing by in a cross tunnel, but it did not appear to notice them, intent as it seemed on some destination of its own.

The hours passed, and eventually the four arrived in the vicinity of the witch's personal chambers. Cautiously Conan and Tull crept forward until they could see the entrance to the main chamber.

From behind the cover of a series of large rocks, the pair viewed the scene.

A quad of giant worms lay just outside the entrance.

Conan and Tull slid back and rejoined Elashi and Lalo. These two whispered between themselves, stopping when Conan arrived.

"Well?" Elashi and Lalo said together.

"There are four worms guarding the entrance," Conan said.

"Aha!" Elashi said.

"I foresee no problem," Conan said, somewhat sharply. "The solution is simple. Two of us will draw the worms' attention, allowing the other two to slip inside and plunder the chamber. Tull tells me the worms cannot move so fast as can a running man. After the theft, we shall all rejoin at a prearranged place."

Elashi merely shook her head, while Lalo said, "Conan, you would make the task of marching into Gehanna and slaying the King of the Demons sound like a routine visit to the night chamber."

Elashi found her tongue and managed to get it working. "And who, pray tell, is to lead the worms upon this merry chase? I played fish bait once; and I have no intention of repeating such a performance."

"Tull and I will draw the worms away," Conan said. "I can lead the pair of us to our meeting place later, and surely you and Lalo can manage to pocket a few lightweight stones?"

Lalo chuckled. "I called you a barbarian fool before, but I stand corrected. You are worse, Conan. You are a politician. You should be a king somewhere."

That did not sound much like an insult to Conan, but knowing Lalo, he was certain it must be. He ignored it.

Tull said, "Aye. Twould best be done quickly, too. Sooner or later the witch will realize that she has lost our track and turn her attentions this way. Best we be gone 'fore she returns."

Nobody argued with that.

"Let us make ready, then," Conan said.

The Harskeel was no tracker, but it knew that the bats could fly faster than either it or its quarry could move on foot, so it dispatched them forward to search, keeping only Red as a guide.

Red, by this time, chaffed at the Harskeel's commands, and so the Harskeel tried to mollify him.

"I begin to wonder if this blood spell is worth all our efforts," the Bloodbat said.

"You recall the taste. What more can I say?"

"I had not intended to spend the rest of my life on your quest."

"Ah. Well, I can understand that. As a token of my esteem for your assistance, I shall supply you personally with an extra incentive. Naturally I was only joking about turning you into an insect."

"Oh, naturally." The bat's voice held some disbelief.

"I have a small spell.you might find amusing. It will make you irresistible to the females of your species."

Red made a noise that the Harskeel took for a laugh. "A waste of your spell," he said, "for I am already irresistible to all females I desire."

The Harskeel suppressed its own laugh. "Ah, of course. But there is an added effect to the magic: it allows the user to… ah… maintain a certain… potency. Indefinitely."

"Indefinitely, you say?"

"Practically."

Red stared at the Harskeel. "Ah. I see. Well, certainly I have never had any problems in this regard, but I can see where that might be useful."

This time the Harskeel allowed itself to laugh.

Just then one of the other bats returned, jabbering at them in the bat's speech.

"What has it said?"

"Apparently your quarry―your pardon, our quarry―stands near the entrance to the witch's chambers."

"What are they doing there?"

"Who knows? We are not mind readers. It is sufficient that they are."

"How much farther is it?"

"Mot far. If we hurry, we can be there within the hour."

"Then let us hurry!"

Wikkell and Deek had settled upon a plan that, while risky, carried with it a fair chance of success. They moved along one of the main corridors toward the chambers of the witch, already implementing their idea. Wikkell had wrapped around his wrists―rather loosely, but not obviously so―a length of rope that trailed off into a long leash. The end of this tether lay clamped tightly in Deek's mouth, and from external appearances, it seemed that Deek held Wikkell in thrall.

The plan was simple enough. They would arrive at the witch's chambers, Wikkell ostensibly a captive. The guard worms knew Deek as a confidant to Chuntha and would normally have little hesitation about admitting him to her sanctum. Deek would indicate that he was supposed to bring his captive to the witch for questioning. Of course, since Chuntha was not inside, he would need to wait for a time.

Once inside the chambers, Deek and Wikkell would steal one of the witch's more prized possessions―some spell or talisman―and then leave, offering the guard worms a story about Chuntha's having summoned them elsewhere. Guard worms were picked for their size and fighting skills, not for their brains, and Deek had little worry that they would impede the plan in either direction.

Then, to finish the plan, they would reverse roles―Wikkell playing captor and Deek captive―and repeat the operation at the chambers of the wizard. It would take another two days at their best speed, but when it was done, each would have a magical talisman from the inner chambers of the ruler opposite. With such devices in hand, convincing their people that they stood a chance against witch and wizard should be much easier. Both Deek and Wikkell had rehearsed their speeches: "If the wizard/witch is so powerful," they would say, "then how is it that I was able to enter his/her chambers and take this magical implement so easily? He/she is more bluster than bite. We can prevail!"

Admittedly, there was no guarantee that this idea would positively work, but certainly it was a better idea than awaiting the certain end that would befall Wikkell and Deek whenever their respective masters finally got around to wondering about them. A small chance, they thought, was better than none at all.

Several times as they neared the witch's chambers, Deek and Wikkell passed other worms in the main corridor, and each time those other worms readily accepted Deek's fabricated story. It looked as if this plan might work, and as the two kept reminding each other and themselves, they had nothing to lose.

Something, Chuntha realized, was amiss. She had seeded each opening she had passed along the edge of the Sunless Sea with a search hornet. If there was even a suspicion of an exit, she had sent one of her magical insects to check it. So far, each that reported back had failed to detect her prey. Some had not yet returned, but Chuntha began to grow restless. Unless this barbarian could somehow grow wings of his own, it was impossible for him to have traveled this far. Her boat's speed far exceeded that of a walking man, and even a runner would have trouble in maintaining such a pace for long. But… if it were not possible for the man and his companions to have passed where she now floated, it could mean only one thing: her quarry had gone the other way.

Chuntha slapped her bare thigh, sending a quiver through the taut muscle. Of course! Why had she not thought of that before? She had assumed that they would flee from pursuit back the way they had come. That assumption could be, she realized now, a mistake.

She wondered if the wizard had also been taken in by the ploy. Had he done so, he would be approaching her even as she sat bestilled thinking of it.

Chuntha sighed deeply. If that were the case, she would have to prepare to battle him now, even without the powerful essence of the barbarian. There was no way to slip past Rey did he come this way, and while she would have preferred to fight him on her own ground, this place was as good as any.

Chuntha bent over her assemblage of magical paraphernalia and began to lay out her most potent items. At least she had surprise on her side, She would find a quiet cove shrouded in shadow and await the wizard's arrival. With luck, she could strike him down before he became aware of her.

Rey reached the conclusion that he moved in the wrong direction before he had dispatched his third wasp seeker. It was not a logical and reasoned decision, but a deeply felt reaction from his gut. He knew, by some manner that he could not precisely say, that the one called Conan and the others had gone in the opposite way.

The wizard lost no time in rectifying his error. Immediately he circled on the dock and urged his cyclopian mounts to a run. He was worried. His chambers were guarded, of course, but these newly arrived troublemakers had proved rather resourceful thus far, and the nagging dread brought on by the crystal's prophesy sprang to the fore of his thoughts. What mischief might they do should his guards be overcome? Not a pleasant thought. There were spells in his inventory that could do great damage in untrained hands. In fact, maybe the best solution to this entire affair would be to scurry home as fast as possible and barricade himself into his chambers, backed by the full powers he kept there.

The more he thought about it, the surer he became. If only it was not yet too late!

"Faster!" Rey commanded the cyclopes.

But they were already at their highest speed, and he was jolted back and forth in the sedan by the cadence of their running steps. Of a moment Rey had a dark premonition about all this… and he liked it not in the least.

* * *

Eighteen

At the turning of the corridor approaching the witch's chambers, Conan and Tull suddenly leaped into view of the four large worms standing guard.

"Yaah!" Conan screamed, whirling his sword overhead.

Tull also hopped about, making meaningless noises and waving his arms.

The worms got the point. The four of them moved as one, scooting across the rocky floor with a speed Conan found rather amazing.

At the first sign of movement, Conan and Tull ran, drawing the worms after them. As they pounded along the rocky floor of the corridor, Conan said, "They move faster than you led me to believe."

"Faster than I believed myself," Tull panted.

Indeed, as Conan and Tull rounded another turning of the corridor, the worms cleared the first turning in pursuit. Conan said, "It appears that we won't have to slow to avoid losing them."

Tull glanced over his shoulder as the worms slithered into view behind them. "Mitra! Who would have expected them to be able to slide along so quickly?"

Both men increased their speed and saved their breath for running. They managed to maintain their lead, but just barely, and a slip or slowing now would allow their pursuers to catch them all too quickly.

Elashi and Lalo waited until the guard worms were out of sight, then quickly darted to the entrance of the witch's chambers. Lalo took the lead and in a moment they were inside an antechamber. Glow-fungus covered the walls and the way was easy to discern.

"I hope that the witch did not think to leave magical wards in place," Lalo said, his voice a whisper.

"Now you think of this!"

"I did not hear you voice such a concern earlier, Elashi dear. Perhaps you have been with Conan too long… some of his lack of wit may have tainted you."

"I have not the time to properly educate you, you grinning fool," she said. "We have a job to do."

They made their way through the antechamber and into a large and high-ceilinged room. In the center of it lay a,large bed of silken cushions, and various items of furniture stood against the walls: chests, dressers, trunks, and an assortment of boxes, large and small.

"This must be the place," Elashi said.

"As always, your perception amazes me. Certainly this is the place."

"Shut up and look for jewels!"

Quickly, the pair of them moved forward.

The Harskeel did not plan to be thwarted this time. Regardless of the cost, it intended to have Conan and his blade. Its idea was not overly complex. When Conan was spotted, the Harskeel intended to launch all of the fifteen or so bats still in its command at the barbarian lout. That Conan would die and be drained of blood quickly was a given, but before he was completely desanguineous, the Harskeel would dart in and seize the barbarian's sword and blood it. A few drops would suffice; it was, after all, not the quantity but the quality of the fluid that mattered. True, the Harskeel would not have the pleasure of watching Conan die slowly, suffering for the grief he had caused, but at this stage of the game, the end was paramount. One sometimes had to forgo the lesser pleasures for the greater. All that the Harskeel desired at this point was to achieve its main goal… and then depart these cursed caves forever.

It hurried along the path, eager for the finish to its quest.

Time dragged, and Chuntha began to worry anew. That Bastard should have arrived by now. That the wizard had not marched into her trap bothered the witch greatly. She saw two possibilities: one, that he had somehow been made aware of her and held back, or two, he had also discerned that the quarry he and Chuntha mutually sought had taken another route.

The witch decided that she must know which was the case, and quickly. She plucked one of the red hornets from its prison, enlarged it, and dispatched it with instructions: "Go along this waterway until you see Katamay Rey the wizard. Do not allow him to see you, and return immediately and report."

In an eyeblink the enchanted hornet was gone.

Chuntha sat back down upon the raft and waited.

Rey's thralls made good time. The wizard's trip toward his own chambers progressed rapidly. At one point, over the clop-clop of his Cyclopes' heavy tread upon the never-ending dock, he thought he heard a buzzing sound, but when looked around, he saw nothing. It did not matter. That Bitch was still in the area somewhere, but likely far behind him and going in the wrong direction. Surely she had made the same mistake as he, and that was her problem and not his own.

Slowly the guard worms gained upon the two running men. Conan glanced over his shoulder and realized that it would be only a matter of time before the giant beasts overtook him and Tull, an unpleasant thought. They had to do something fairly soon; the older man's labored breathing told the Cimmerian that Tull neared exhaustion.

"Can… they… climb?" Conan managed.

"Not… well," Tull said, his voice almost a gasp.

"Good. Turn to the right."

This last phrase came as the two reached a fork in the tunnel. If Conan's memory served, they had already taken that tunnel once and circled back, and there was a rather sheer wall leading up to a narrow ledge not far ahead. Several boulders lay upon that ledge, itself four or five times the height of a tall man.

True to his recall, the steep wall loomed ahead. Conan, who had long since sheathed his blade for more efficient running, pointed at the wall. "There! Climb!"

Tull needed no clarification, and neither did he waste his breath on answering. He merely nodded once.

The pair reached'the wall and began to ascend. Conan, whose early years had been spent in the cold clime and jagged peaks of Cimmeria, could climb anything that offered even the smallest of grip for his fingers. Within a few heartbeats he was to the ledge. Tull, for all his advanced age and lack of practice, arrived upon the ledge not far behind Conan. Climb or die seemed to bestow a certain skill upon the older man that Conan had not suspected.

"Now… what?" Tull managed between labored breaths. "We are trapped, even though they cannot reach us."

Conan, already moving toward a boulder twice the size of his head, said, "Perhaps not. A hard enough rain might persuade them to leave."

Tull took Conan's intent quickly and moved toward a slightly smaller rock.

Below, the four squirming guards rattled against the cliff's face. One of them began scraping part of his underbelly over a flat patch of rock. In a moment Conan realized that the sound thus produced was a fair counterfeit for speech.

"C-c-come d-d-down!" the scraping seemed to say. The language was one Conan had heard in Hyperborea several years past, and its meaning was clear enough.

Lifting the rock over his head, Conan leaned over the edge of the shelf upon which he and Tull stood, and hurled the rock down upon the worms.

The boulder hit the worm nearest the cliff, and the sound of the rock smashing the worm was most satisfying. Dark icteroid fluid sprayed and oozed from the crushed flesh, and the beast flailed about in its death throes.

Tull's rock also found its mark, bouncing from a second worm and doing less damage but enough to ensure the worm's demise. This one jittered madly to and fro before slowing to a post-death nervous quiver halfway across the width of the cave.

The remaining pair of worms withdrew to what they must have considered a safe distance. Conan found another rock nearly as large as the first he had thrown, and hurled it at them. The rock missed, but its path was beyond where they lay, and both worms hastily retreated past the point where the rock had impacted.

After appearing to confer for a moment, one of the worms wiggled back and forth ever the rocky floor, sending another message to Conan and Tull.

"W-e-we'll b-b-be b-back!"

With that, the two turned and slithered away.

"What do you think?" Tull asked, watching as the worms vanished into the tunnel.

Conan shrugged. "Gone for help, perhaps. Or they have remembered their primary duty is to guard the witch's chambers. It matters not. Come, let us depart."

With that, Conan descended, Tull standing guard with an uplifted rock until the younger man was down. Conan drew his sword and watched while Tull clambered down the rock face. The worms did not reappear.

"I hope the girl and the idiot have had sufficient time," Tull said.

"Aye. They have had all we can supply. Let us get to the meeting place."

The main problem for Elashi and Lalo proved to be an embarrassment of riches: had they a pack animal, they could have loaded it with booty until it staggered from the weight. The witch's tenure in the caves had produced quite an accumulation of precious stones. Though it was difficult to tell precisely in the greenish light, there appeared to be rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, fire agates, opals, and pearls, according to Lalo, who claimed to have knowledge of such things.

As they gathered the valuable gems, the pair divided them into four leather sacks for easier distribution and carrying once they rejoined Conan and Tull.

Finally Elashi said, "Enough."

"But there is so much more!"

"The leather of the bags is soggy and partially rotted," she said, "and if we overfill them, we are apt to burst the sacks."

"A valid point, for a woman. Let us depart, then."

Each of them picked up two head-sized sacks of gems and moved toward the exit. Not a moment too soon, they discovered, for as they left the witch's chambers and hurried along the corridor, a pair of worms approached from the opposite direction. Fortunately, the worms did not appear to see Elashi and Lalo as the latter pair ducked around the corner.

"This adventure is turning out much better than I expected," Lalo observed.

"Perhaps," Elashi said, "but we are not finished yet. Best you save your self-congratulations until they are more justified."

Lalo looked at Elashi with his ubiquitous smile. "Could it be that you have been cursed in the same manner as I, lady dear?"

"Listen, fool―wait! What's that?"

There came the sounds of someone approaching.

"Quick, over there!" Lalo pointed to a cleft in the rock, darkened by the lack of glow-fungus. The two of them scurried to the small opening and squatted to enter it. Once inside, they turned to observe the corridor.

A moment later a giant worm entered their view, holding by some means a rope, the other end of which was attached to a cyclops' wrists. It appeared that the worm had made a captive of the one-eyed giant.

Elashi watched the odd pair pass, but she kept part of her attention on Lalo. Sure enough, the smiling man took a deep breath and began to open his lips as if to call out an insult. Quickly the desert woman dropped one bag and clamped her hand over Lalo's mouth. Whatever sound he might have made was lost in his startle men t.

The worm and the cyclops passed and moved out of sight.

Elashi removed her hand from Lalo's mouth.

"For an incredibly assertive, nay―a pushy woman―you have some virtue," he said.

That was as close to a compliment as Elashi had ever heard him make. She grinned in return.

"Come on. We must find Conan and Tull."

Deek and Wikkell arrived at the entrance to the witch's chambers to be met by a pair of very agitated guard worms. Wikkell stood silently by while the three worms communicated with each other in a language almost inaudible to the cyclops. After a short while Deek tugged on the rope, and he and Wikkell went into the chambers.

Once far enough away that the guards could not hear, Wikkell spoke. "What was that all about?"

"T-t-trouble f-for th-the w-w-witch. T-two of th-the m-m-men ap-appeared h-here. F-four g-g-guards g-g-gave ch-chase."

"Four guards? I only say the two."

"Th-the oothers a-are d-d-dead. Th-the m-m-men d-dropped r-r-rocks on th-them."

"How grisly." Wikkell pondered it for a moment. "Then again, this serves our purposes. Sorry about your brothers, but certainly this will not add to the witch's stature."

"T-t-true."

Wikkell looked around. "You know this place better than I. What shall we steal?"

"O-o-over h-here."

Wikkell followed the worm toward a chest of drawers. As he did, the cyclops stepped on an object sharp enough to prick even his calloused foot. He stopped and kicked the offending item from the floor. "Hmm. This is a cut gemstone. Look." He held the precious rock out for Deek to see. "Does the witch normally leave such things just laying around?"

"N-no."

Wikkell considered that for a moment. "You said the worms saw two of the men. There were others, as I recall."

"A-at l-least o-one."

"I should not wonder that while the guards chased those two, the witch might have had another visitor."

"Th-the g-g-guards a-a-re s-s-stupid. Wh-why, th-this c-c-cave is f-full o-of th-thieves!"

Wikkell laughed, and had to stop himself from becoming too loud. "Let us be about our business, Deek old slug. Find us something we can use to keep our necks―you do have a neck?―safe."

* * *

Nineteen

The Harskeel arrived near the witch's quarters in time to see a giant worm leading a cyclops bound at the wrists from the chamber, past two larger worms apparently standing guard. Moving back out of sight, the Harskeel called to Red for an explanation.

"You walk too slowly," Red said. "The men have gone."

The Harskeel ground its teeth together. "Where?"

"Not far. Two of them move to an apparent rendezvous-with the two others. According to my scouts, the first pair led the guard worms away while the second pair entered the witch's chambers and later emerged carrying several bags."

The Harskeel shook its head. Thieves, and bold ones, to risk the witch's domain. Not that it mattered. It would have whatever had been stolen after it had the four slain. Which ought to happen soon, could the bats be believed.

"Which way?" the Harskeel inquired.

"Follow me," Red said.

Conan and Tull had been waiting at the rendevouz point but a few moments when Elashi and Lalo arrived, each bearing two bulging sacks.

"Amazing," Lalo said. "I thought it certain you two would have become lost and never found this spot."

Tull ground his teeth, but Conan only smiled. "I see your venture was successful."

"Enough gems to buy a kingdom," Elashi said. "And I shall allow you to carry my share." She thrust the two leather sacks at Conan.

The big Cimmerian smiled and shook his head. "I would rather keep my sword arm free," he said. "Just perchance I should need it." He took one of the sacks from her and hefted it. Unfortunately, the rotted leather, unable to withstand this movement, chose that moment to burst, spilling jewels in a glittering torrent upon the rocky floor.

"Now look what you have done!" Elashi said.

Conan did not bother to respond verbally. He merely squatted and gathered up a large handful of the fallen stones and tucked them into his belt pouch. Then he stood.

"What of the rest?" Tull asked, gesturing at the valuable gems strewn over the floor.

"I have all I can comfortably carry," Conan said.

"As Elashi has pointed out to me endlessly, there is no point in being greedy, if such makes one stupid."

"But all that wealth―"

"―will be worthless unless we escape these caves. Should I be attacked, I would not have my abilities impeded by wealth or anything else."

"Look," Lalo said, pointing. "One of the bats."

Conan glanced at the creature which quickly flitted back the way it had come and out of sight. "One is no threat but there may be others," he said. "Best we depart." With that, he turned and started off.

Tull, Elashi, and Lalo stared at the fallen gems for a moment, then reluctantly followed the outlander. Elashi bent and retrieved a particularly large emerald-cut stone that glittered up at her. Catching up to Conan, she offered him the gem. "This one seemed too good to leave," she said.

Conan looked at the stone. Aye, it was a fine specimen. He took the jewel from her. For a moment it seemed to tingle in his fingers with a kind of subtle vibration. He tucked it into his pbuch and thought no more about it.

The witch's ensorceled insect returned to her, bearing the news that the wizard moved in the opposite direction and at a goodly speed. This did not appeal to Chuntha in the least. Blast him! Both he and her prey seemed to have a head start that might well prove too great for her to make up, given the top speed of her worm raft.

Well, no problem was insurmountable. In this case, there was a way, albeit a somewhat dangerous one, to gain an advantage. Chuntha had held back on utilizing the method earlier, since the risk to her was considerable, but now it seemed the time had come for different measures. Already more dangerous conditions had arisen in the caves than ever she had faced before, and she might as well try something risky to salvage whatever she could ere there was nothing left to save.

Chuntha caused her living raft to move to a gently sloping shore with such speed that it partially beached itself. Utilizing her magic, she dissolved the spell holding the worm assemblage together, freeing her thralls into individuals once again.

"Return to my chambers as best and as quickly as you can," she ordered them.

When the worms had moved off, searching for connective tunnels that might lead them home, the witch removed from her packet of spells one she had used but once in the last two hundred years. The parchment upon which the spell was inked had been made from the scaled skin of a flying reptile thought long extinct from the world of men. This creature had been one of the last of its kind, discovered in a hidden valley deep in the fetid jungles east of Xuchotl, in the Black Kingdoms far to the south. The wingspan of such a beast dwarfed that of the largest known bird, save that of the roc; the toothed head resembled that of a crocodile; and the curved, black talons on its feet were like unto knife blades.

When the spell's words were properly uttered, the parchment would become a cloak; this cloak, when wrapped around one, metamorphically changed the wearer into a near-exact replica of that toothed and winged reptile. Fearsome and fierce, this soaring monster need fear no earthly nemesis; unfortunately, the spell had a major flaw that was its danger: one could not know how long the magical cloak would remain in effect. It might stay complete until the wearer shrugged it off hours, or even days, later; too, the cloak could fail abruptly after a few minutes and its hapless occupant might find him-or herself high above the ground, but suddenly having lost the ability to fly. Such a hazard required judicious use of the spell; failure at a sufficient height would occur but once.

Despite her varied repertoire of magics, Chuntha had only this one spell that would allow her to fly. She could not effect a means of slowing her descent should the cloak suddenly lose its effectiveness. There was one rather complex conjuration that would lighten her body to featherweight, but by the time she could intone the first few words of it, she would likely be a bloody mush upon the ground. Still, it was better to die trying as not.

The witch selected a high, rocky spire and began to climb it, carrying only the reptilian parchment with her. The ancient beings had flown and soared beyond compare, they had not done so well on ascent from the ground, so Chuntha deemed it best that she begin her flight from a high glide.

At the top of the spire she squatted and unrolled the scaled parchment, then began to read aloud the magic words.

Katamay Rey could not say that he was totally pleased with his situation, but he felt a certain confidence. A report from one of his search wasps had given him the knowledge that the witch floated on her worm raft far behind him. By the time she understood her error, both Rey and their mutual quarry should be far outside her grasp.

Only moments later, however, a strange shadow passed over the wizard. He glanced up, but the air under the high ceiling appeared empty. No, wait… there, ahead… what was that? Before he could do more than wonder, the shadowy figure was gone, leaving the wizard to surmise.

"What was that?" he said aloud.

The nearest cyclops, who had noted his master's attention and looked up, shrugged. "A bat, perhaps?"

"'Twould be the largest one ever," Rey said. "I think not." But, he thought to himself, if not a bat, then what?

Perhaps the apparition meant nothing. Perhaps it held no threat to him. Or perhaps it was merely a figment of his imagination. But deep in his black heart, Rey felt another dagger-stab of worry.

Deek and Wikkell were feeling very pleased with themselves. The first part of the plan had gone as smoothly as a baby worm's topside. The two of them now had tucked away in Wikkell's belt a magical implement from the witch's armory. At the first clear patch of rock far enough from Chuntha's quarters to avoid arousing undue interest, the pair halted and Deek explained its operation.

The device looked like nothing so much as a thick chunk of wood the size of a human's playing card with a tiny hole in one end and a small lever on its side.

"P-p-point i-it a-at th-the w-w-wall o-over th-there and p-p-push th-the l-lever," Deek said.

Wikkell did so, and the thing spat a fine strand of white thread into the still air. The thread's end touched the wall, and more and more of the silky line followed, assembling itself into a bizarre tangle that formed a cobwebby net. Wikkell moved the lever back to its original position and the flow ceased abruptly, breaking contact with the magical object.

Wikkell was not altogether impressed. "So? It makes a spider's web. That is hardly much help to us.

"T-t-try to m-m-move th-through i-i-it."

Wikkell did so and quickly became entangled. His struggles only entrapped him more, until after a moment he could hardly move at all.

"All right, I am impressed. How do I get out of this?"

"R-r-reverse th-the l-l-lever."

Wikkell managed to do so. The spidery mess began to flow back into the little block of wood. Within a few moments the stuff had all disappeared, leaving the cyclops free to move again.

"I-it i-is n-n-not th-the m-m-most p-powerful sp-spell," Deek said, "b-but a-an-anyone c-can o-operate it, i-it r-requires n-no sp-special kn-know-ledge."

"A distinct advantage," Wikkell observed. "Can we do so well at the wizard's quarters, I should think we could mount a powerful argument to our people."

"Th-then l-l-let u-us pr-proceed."

The two of them did just that.

The Harskeel could smell success. One of the bats had only just returned with the information that those whom it sought were but a few moments' walk ahead. The temptation was to hurry, but the Harskeel did not wish anything to spoil its chances. Better to proceed carefully, then attack at the most propitious moment.

As the Harskeel crossed a wide patch of rocky floor, it chanced to glance down at the pebbles that littered the area. Odd, how they glittered in this cursed green light. It bent and fetched up one of the stones.

Surprised, the Harskeel stopped and stared at the rock. Aye, rock it was, but hardly one that should be casually found upon a cavern floor. Unless it missed its guess―unlikely, since the Harskeel had some knowledge of gemology―this jewel, easily the size of its little fingertip, was nothing less than a finely cut ruby.

Further examination showed that the majority of the stones scattered at its feet were also various gems of no small value. Never one to pass up wealth for little work, the Harskeel allowed that it could pause in its chase long enough to collect the valuable minerals. His prey must have dropped them unknowingly, for certainly no one would deliberately leave such objects behind. It would take but a moment or two, and surely the Harskeel could spare that much time.

High in the vaults of the dark cave, a giant creature soared on leathery wings, flying with great speed and grace, hurrying to arrive at its destina tion before the magic that kept it aloft ceased working.

Inside the cloak, Chuntha felt the power of the thing whose kind had ruled the air millions of years before men lived on the earth. It was most seductive, the feeling of flight… the sensual nature of it could easily become addictive. The risk, however, outweighed the thrill for her. There were better ways to achieve warm feelings than to chance the final dance with death.

As soon as she collected her barbarian, the witch thought, she would show one of those ways to him. True, he would not survive the encounter, but ah, he would enjoy his final moments of ecstasy…

* * *

Twenty

As Conan led his friends down a winding tunnel with a high ceiling, something most strange happened. Behind him, Lalo said, "I fear yon lout leads us to certain doom."

This insult was but one of a more or less constant stream of similar comments, and Conan had begun to learn how to ignore them. Only this time there came another sentence almost immediately upon the heels of the statement, as if it were an echo: But would that I were Conan and ready to face whatever might come with no more than a sword and his courage.

Conan paused and turned to Lalo. "What was that?"

"Pray what is the matter, Conan? Are your ears plugged, so that you are now deaf as well as harebrained?"

And again the voice softly followed: Would that I could speak my admiration of you, Conan, and not be forced to vilify you with every passing moment.

It came to Conan then that the voice he heard, which was most definitely that of Lalo, had not reached him through his hearing but had arisen from within his head, much as the voice of the Webspinner had done earlier.

"Nothing, never mind," Conan said, turning back to the path ahead. What sorcery was this? He had heard Lalo speak, but he was certain that the speech within his head was in fact what the grinning man was truly thinking when he had made the rude comment.

Something was definitely amiss were that the case, but Conan thought it prudent to avoid mentioning it; perhaps he was simply imagining things.

A few moments later, as Elashi negotiated a steep spot on the cavern floor, she slipped and fell, landing solidly but unhurt upon her ample backside. Her cloak and undershift slid well back, revealing her slim legs almost to their juncture. Conan admired the view.

Elashi looked up and saw Conan smiling at her. "Goat," she said. "Can you think of nothing else?"

But following her speech came that eerie voice in Conan's mind again: Ah, would that we had a few moments to be alone together, Conan, my ram. All of this excitement has stirred my lusts.

Conan blinked, certain that the others must have heard her, but it seemed apparent from their de meaner that neither Tull nor Lalo had caught the second portion of Elashi's speech. Or, Conan was convinced, her thoughts.

How could he hear these things? Had some kind of spell been cast upon him?

Upon reflection, that made no sense he could discern. What would be the purpose of such a geas? Certainly it was to his advantage, not to that of any of his opponents. To know what a man or a woman thought, whatever they might say, was a powerful tool.

Well. That it had happened seemed the important thing. Worry about how or why could be left for when there was more time to ponder upon the cause. If you were tethered by a thick rope and a man handed you a sharp blade, you did not bother yourself with the origin of the iron or the name of the smith who had made it; you cut yourself free.

Conan was nothing if not pragmatic.

And perhaps it would be better not to mention this new talent to the others just yet.

"They are just ahead," Red said to the Harskeel. "All four of them, around that next turning."

"Are your fellows ready to attack?"

"We would have an end to this and receive our promised bloodspell. Yes, we are ready."

"Good. Then let us finish this unpleasant business."

The Harskeel increased its speed toward the turning, not more than twenty paces distant.

Still draped in the mantle of the flying repti e, Chuntha alighted in front of her quarters and the two startled guard worms.

They shied away, until she removed the magic al cloak long enough to show them who she was.

The worms looked vastly relieved. The leader reported their encounter with the barbarian. "H-he m-m-must b-be a d-demon! He s-s-slew C-c-cook and T-t-tuma!"

She waved the two worms to silence. The loss of two guards was nothing; the important thing Was that the barbarian was nearby. No time to stop and rest, then.

She did not ask of further matters.

The witch climbed onto the tail of the larger guard. "When I change back into the winged creature, you are to use your muscles to hurl me inio the air, that way," she said, pointing. Without waiting for a reply, Chuntha donned the scaled garment and once again assumed the form of its former owner.

The startled guard, no less so for having been told this would happen, lashed his tail sharply, catapulting the ensorceled witch into the air like a rock hurled from a sling. The leathery wings fluttered and snapped out, and Chuntha sailed down the long corridor.

There were several ways the barbarian could have taken, but she knew at least one that he had not and others that were less than likely. She Was near, she felt it, and she would have him soon!

Katamay Rey had long since attained the shore, and now his cyclopian carriers bore him in a jolt ing run down the most direct corridor toward home. He had the distinct feeling of being late to the party, and tardiness in this case might well be his undoing. "Hurry, you useless lumps, hurry!"

If anything, the continuation of Wikkell and Deek's plan went smoother than had the beginning. The pair of Cyclopes who guarded Rey's chambers knew better than to impede Wikkell's comings and goings; apparently the wizard had not bothered to enlighten them as to Wikkell's current status, an oversight that the cyclops had counted upon. The wizard thought they were all morons, and seldom bothered to inform the Cyclops of anything that did not directly concern them. Wikkell knew that Rey also thought that little, if any, of his business concerned anyone save himself, so the fear that the guards would attempt to stop Wikkell had been a small worry at best.

With Deek slithering along behind him on the leash, the two of them entered the wizard's chambers.

As they had done in the witch's quarters, the rogue cyclops and renegade worm quickly selected a talisman and departed. Once away from the general vicinity of the guards, it was Wikkell's turn to demonstrate to Deek the instrument they had just stolen.

It seemed to Deek that the small graystone jar was innocuous enough. From it Wikkell removed a pinch of pale powder and cast it in a glittery shower upon the floor before the worm.

"Wh-what d-d-does i-it d-d-do?"

"Crawl over it and see."

Had he shoulders, Deek would have shrugged; lacking them, he twisted his body slightly and started to slither over the fine power. Quickly the worm found that he could not gain any purchase on the floor. He could move his own body by contracting his muscles, but there was no friction between his body and the underlying rock. It was as if the solid stone had turned to air for all the resistance it offered.

Wikkell grinned down at his friend. "A special lubricant," he said. "You cannot move upon a surface coated with it, nor can anybody do anything but slip and slide upon it. Here."

With that, Wikkell leaned toward Deek and gave him a gentle shove. Deek slid across the rock more easily than had their web boat over the surface of the water. He hit a patch of normal rock half a body length behind, and hastened to inch himself back onto it.

"Im-im-impressive," Deek said. "I-is i-it p-p-permanent?"

"No. It lasts but an hour or so, then vanishes. Still, with these two items to show our brethren, perhaps we can generate more support."

"Un-un-d-doubtedly."

"Then let us waste no more time. My folk or yours?"

"M-m-mine a-a-are cl-closer."

"Then lead on, friend."

Conan's sharp hearing caught the high-pitched sound of the cluttering bats before his companions noted their approach. The Cimmerian wheeled about, drawing his sword and frightening the others with the suddenness of his movement.

"Conan―what―?" Elashi began.

"Bats, behind us!" Conan said.

The bats, more than a dozen strong, boiled through the green light toward them. They were in a fairly wide cave, though it had begun to narrow where Conan and the others stood. A few more paces and they could attain a short tunnel that would force the oncoming bats to fly in tandem to enter it.

Tull pulled his knife and Elashi her sword, while Lalo bent for a fist-sized rock.

"Into the tunnel," Conan ordered. "I shall hold them until you are inside."

"Conan―" Elashi began.

"Do as I say, quickly!"

The three obeyed, and Conan could hear the fear in their thoughts, along with their reluctance to leave him alone to face the bats. They had no intention of deserting him, and he smiled grimly at the power of knowing their minds. He raised his sword for the first cut.

The first bat to arrive felt the shock of cold iron slicing through him but realized his mistake too late. Entrails spilled as the dying creature careened into a stalagtite and expired.

The second and third attackers fared no better as a backstroke with the sharped blue iron took one's head from its furry shoulders and the return stroke sheared the hindquarters from the other.

There were too many of them, though. Before Conan could ready the sword for another cut, four of the bats barreled into him. They were much smaller and lighter than he, but the weight and momentum of their number were enough to knock him from his feet. He stabbed upward as he fell, skewering one of the bats.

One of the other attackers dragged its claws over Conan's shoulder, drawing blood to fill the gouges. Conan grabbed the thing's neck with his free hand and squeezed. Small bones and cartilage cracked wetly as the Cimmerian tossed the strangled bat away from him.

Behind the frantic fluttering of the bats, Conan saw the form of the Harskeel. He might have suspected that one was still around.

The Harskeel darted toward Conan, a thin blade drawn for action, but it could not get close enough to bring its blade into play―the flurry of bats darting hither and yon impeded.it.

Behind him, Conan heard Tull, Elashi, and Lalo yell.

"We are coming, Conan!"

As Conan punched one of the bats square in the face with his knotted fist, shattering that poor creature's teeth and jaw, he thought that the odds now seemed more in their favor. A few more bats, one man; they could deal with those―Something screamed.

It was an unearthly sound, like nothing the Cimmerian had ever heard; a grating, screeching roar that made the skin of his neck chill and bump. It came from above, that horrible shriek. He risked a glance upward and noticed that the bats and the Harskeel did the same.

A flying monster swooped down toward him. It had a long, thin head and a mouth filled with teeth the size of a man's fingers, and its wings seemed to stretch halfway across the breadth of the cave.

Conan jerked his sword back to strike at the thing―Crom, it was huge!―but one of the bats, trying to get away from the descending horror, flitted behind him just as the Cimmerian cocked the blade and started to shift his grip on the handle. The edge of the blued iron bit into the bat's skull, effectively stopping further voluntary activity by the bat; unfortunately, the blade stuck in the wet bone, and the weight of the bat was enough to pull the sword from a startled Conan's too-loose grip Time to leave, Conan thought. He turned to sprint toward his friends, but it was too late. The talons of the flying monster closed upon him, one claw gripping his arm like an iron band, the other snagging in the leather of his belt. Conan felt himself lifted into the air as easily as a newborn child picked up by its mother. The flapping of the great wings fanned the air, stirring up a stinging spray of rocky grit and mold from the cavern floor.

"Run!" Conan yelled to his friends.

In answer, Lalo took aim and hurled his rock. Unfortunately, his aim was less than perfect and the rock struck Conan on the thigh.

"Go!" Conan yelled.

Conan was already too high for his friends to reach. They needed no further urging. The three of them ran for the small exit tunnel as Conan was lifted yet higher into the. air by the demonic flying beast.

Beneath him, the Harskeel screamed in a voice that started deep but quickly rose to a woman's shrillness. "Noooooo!"

The monster bearing Conan banked to the left and flapped away. Conan did not struggle. To be dropped from this altitude upon the rocky floor could hardly help his cause. Better to see where this thing would end its flight than to be dashed to jelly upon the surface below.

The Harskeel's rage evaporated in an instant as it realized that which had dropped upon it from the monster above was none other than Conan's blood. Only a few drops, to be sure, but certainly that would be enough? And the sword lay embedded in one of the dead bats on the ground, not three paces away!

The Harskeel had started for the fallen sword when Red alighted upon the floor in its path.

"Stand aside," the Harskeel ordered.

"We are done trucking with you," Red said, fluttering his wings in apparent anger. "Give us our spell, now!"

. "Certainly, certainly, in a moment. I only need fetch that―"

"Now!"

It was too much. To be thwarted by a fool of a bat when its goal lay within reach was too much. The Harskeel whipped its blade around in a flat arc, all the strength of its shoulder and upper arm in the blow. Red's head spewed blood as it looped through the air and fell, to bounce twice upon the cavern floor.

There were perhaps five or six bats still unin jured. They glanced at one another, then at the Harskeel.

"Anyone else in a hurry?"

No one, it seemed, was in a hurry.

The Harskeel walked to Conan's fallen blade and wrenched it free of the dead bat. The words of the spell came to it, firmly set in its memory after all the years of searching. The few drops of Conan's blood were carefully scraped onto the tip of the blue iron, and the point of the sword was just as carefully drawn down the Harskeel's body by its trembling hands, making a thin furrow from the top of its head to its crotch.

The last words of the spell came from the Harskeel's throat.

The air around it began to shimmer, and the Harskeel felt a surge of joy. It was going to work! Already it could feel itself―no, themselves―begin to separate into two beings. The male half focused on the right, the female half on the left, as the furrow―drawn by the blade and the blood of a truly brave man―combined with the magic of the spell to widen, forming two people where before there had been one.

The remaining bats watched in awe. The Harskeel laughed, the sound now coming from two throats and two mouths. Success! It had killed hundreds, slain indiscriminately, robbed, cheated, stolen, and finally, finally after all the years, it had achieved its―no, not its―their goal! The lovers would now become two, as they had been before.

Stretching apart as might a strand of elastic clay, what had been split finally into two. A mo merit later, a man stood facing a woman. Their smiles were radiant.

"What is this?" came a voice from behind them.

The man and the woman turned. The man held Conan's blade, the woman the thin sword that had been the Harskeel's.

They found themselves facing none other than Katamay Rey.

"Who are you?" the wizard demanded to know.

"None of your affair," the woman said.

"Hold your tongue," the man standing next to her said.

"After all these years? I will not!"

"It was your hasty speech that got us into this mess originally," the man said.

"I beg your pardon! It was you who―"

"Silence!" the wizard yelled. "I have not the time for this bickering."

"If we are fast enough, we can take him," the woman said, dropping her voice to a whisper, "Do not be a fool," the man whispered back.

"Now!" she yelled. The woman leaped toward the wizard, the sword held ready to cut him down. Half a step behind her, the man who had recently been joined with her managed to shake his head as he jumped to follow her. One more killing would hardly cause them problems.

A pair of cyclopes stood behind Rey, but at some distance. They would not be able to intervene in time.

The wizard raised his hands and waggled his fingers, and he spoke four hard-edged and harsh words.' '

Even as he gathered himself for the final leap to chop down the wizard, the man who had been half of the Harskeel felt himself slow, as if his feet had become liquid. He chanced a quick glance down, and in an almost detached manner noted that this was indeed so―his feet had become fluid. Even as he looked, his lower legs sank into the puddle that had been his feet. There was no pain, but a foul odor came from the ooze.

The man twisted his body to look at the woman with whom he had been perversely intimate for so long. Her lower half now consisted of an identical ooze, and she sank rapidly into this bubbling pool of high stench, looking quite puzzled.

"Now look what you have done!" she said, her voice a wail.

"I? I have done?"

It was the man's last speech, and in a moment the words were followed by his final thought: curse all the gods!

An instant later the two who had been the Harskeel of Loplain were nothing but bubbling puddles of stinking slime upon the floor of the cave.

* * *

Twenty-one

Deek's appearance accompanied by a cyclops caused no small stir amongst his kind.

"―D-d-deek! Wh-wh-what i-is th-this―?"

"―h-h-how c-came y-you b-by on-one-eye―?"

"―a-are y-you c-crazy―?"

But a short demonstration that first ensnared some of their folk and then turned the floor to oiled ice beneath others of them stirred them even more.

"―b-by all the g-g-gods―!"

"―r-r-emove th-th-this st-stuff―!"

"Think they are ready to listen?" Wikkell asked.

"S-so it w-w-would s-s-seem."

So the worms listened as Deek and Wikkell out lined their scheme. While there was no generalized rush to mount a revolution against the witch, voices that had been still before now were heard. That there was dissatisfaction with Chuntha's rule no one doubted; that there might be a chance to void that rule had never been thought likely. But if all of the giant worms joined with all of the cyclopes, perhaps such a thing was possible. Deek and Wikkell's possession of the two talismans they had purloined indicated that the witch and the wizard did indeed have vulnerable spots.

The discussion heated up and the talks were not short; in the end, though, the worms reached a consensus: if Deek and Wikkell could guarantee participation by the one-eyes, well, then, certainly the worms would be willing to fight alongside of them.

Deek and Wikkell looked at each other, and each knew the jubilation the other must feel. Success!

Well, to be sure, it was only half successful; still, with the worms' promise in hand, they had a potent weapon to sway the cyclopes to their argument.

Leaving the worms' chambers, Deek and Wikkell went to visit the cyclopes.

As his captor flew through the caves on its huge, leathery wings, Conan wondered which of the two magical rulers was responsible for his plight. That either the witch or the wizard had sent this beast was apparent. And it also seemed that he was wanted alive, else he would surely be dead by now. The flying monster merely had to loosen its grip and allow the fall to do the deed.

The answer to the Cimmerian's question was not long in coming. That tickle of words inside Conan's head came again: We shall be home soon, my beautiful barbar.

Definitely female, that voice, and since it seemed to come from the toothed reptile carrying him, Conan figured that the witch was somehow within the form of the creature.

Indeed. As the cave's walls seemed to close in and the floor grew closer, the thing holding him turned and swooped down familiar tunnels, reaching at last the entrance to Chuntha's chambers. Two large worms stood guard over the portal. Conan could not be certain that those two were the same he had seen before, since all of the worms looked alike to him, but he suspected it was so.

The creature settled to the floor-, loosing its grip on the Cimmerian but remaining within the reach of the worms. A hasty move might be repaid with a slap of one of those massive tails, and Conan did not desire to discover how powerful such a stroke might be.

Any thoughts of quick escape fled when the scaled reptile suddenly altered its shape. After a shimmer in the air, Conan beheld the form of the witch for the first time. He had expected a crone, wrinkled and crusty, bent with ages of evil, speaking in a cracked and raspy cackle, but that was not what he beheld, not at all.

Crom, she was beautiful! And naked! Her face, her breasts, her long and well-formed legs, her dark, silky hair… everything about her was altogether lovely.

The witch's smile was sensual and full of invitation.

"I have been searching for you for too long a time," she said. "We have much to… discuss."

Conan stared at the naked woman. Surely a woman who looked like this could not be as bad as he had been led to believe?

"Come," she said. "Into my chambers. You must be tired from your fight with the bats. You can lie down on my bed and… relax."

Relaxing was not high upon Conan's list of desired activities at the moment. Hardly. A man could not stand next to such a woman and think of rest, save in the most abstract of futures. Rest? Later. Much later. Added to his thoughts came the feathery touch of that mindspeech he had begun to hear recently: We shall lie together on my bed, strong one, and I shall show you pleasure beyond any you have ever known.

Chuntha turned, and the view from behind was as lovely as that from the front. Conan watched her walk away. Actually, it was more of sway than a walk, and the muscles moved under her smooth and silky skin in a most interesting manner.

Without prompting, Conan followed. He seemed to recall Tull's warnings about the witch, but the memory was dim and distant compared to the reality of the woman he beheld.

The escape tunnel that Tull, Elashi, and Lalo had chosen was instead a dead end. It stopped abruptly at a flat wall, and there was no option save to turn around and retrace their steps.

The three had not gone a dozen paces, however, when they halted again. A pair of cyclopes stood there, blocking the exit. After a moment the cyclopes moved apart, revealing just behind them the form of Katamay Rey.

"Ah, my friends," the wizard said. "You left so abruptly earlier that we did not have time to finish our discussion. And look, another has joined you." Rey nodded at Lalo. "Have I not seen you somewhere before?"

"I have only just dropped in," Lalo said, ever smiling.

"Mm. Of course, I recall. Sent by Chuntha, were you?"

"Not at all, you pea-brained fool."

Startled, the wizard raised one hand, then stopped. "There's something about you… ah, I have it! You are enspelled. My brother Mambaya Rey used to have such a curse at his disposal. Perhaps you know him?"

For once Lalo was struck with silence.

"Well, no matter, no matter. I see that your large companion has left you. Where is he?"

None of the three spoke.

The wizard grinned. "Ah, well, we can discuss this more at our leisure back at my chambers. You will come and visit, will you not?" He waved at the cyclopes flanking him, and they moved toward the three.

Tull and Elashi glanced at each other, and Tull shook his head. A knife and a sword would be of little use against these, and Lalo's wrestling less so. They were captured. Conan was gone. Things did not look good.

Wikkell's people seemed at first a bit more skeptical than had Deek's; still, the presence of the giant worm added to their interest.

"Talk is cheap, brother," one of the Cyclopes said.

"Indeed," Wikkell replied. He lifted the web device and pointed it at the doubting cyclops. The thin spray shot forth.

"Hey!"

In a moment the doubting one was so entangled he could not move, save to squirm.

"Help me!"

When half a dozen others moved to do so, Wikkell turned the floor into perfect smoothness, and the six slipped and fell and slid hither and yon.

"W-w-we s-seem to h-have g-gotten their a-attention."

"Yes, we have, haven't we?"

Several hours later the discussions came to their conclusion. Yes, the cyclopes would join the worms in overthrowing the witch and the wizard. What exactly was the plan? How was it to be instigated?

Wikkell drew himself up and said, "Deek and I have that all arranged. First you are to choose a war council, with leaders. The worms shall do the same, and the two of us will then present our plan to the leaders of both sides at once, to save repetition. Naturally, Deek and I intend to be commanders of our respective troops."

With that, Wikkell marched away, Deek following. The murmur of the cyclopes as they began to vie for position trailed the two down the corridor.

At a distance at which they would not be overheard, Deek found a patch of speech rock. "Wh what p-p-plan? Th-this i-is th-the f-f-first I-I have h-heard o-of s-s-such a p-p-plan!"

"I had to say something, did I not? Frankly, I felt all along that our chances of ever getting this far were remote at best. I never really believed that we should actually have to mount a war against the witch and the wizard."

"W-w-well, w-we h-h-have c-come t-to i-it. N-n-now wh-what a-are w-we t-to d-d-do?"

"Devise a plan of attack, it would seem. Got any ideas?"

"I-I a-am b-beginning t-t-to r-regret I w-was e-ever h-h-hatched," Deek said. If it is possible for the body of a worm scraping over rock to intone regret, the voice thus produced indeed sounded regretful.

"Cheer up, Deek old slug. We are no worse off than we were before. Who knows? We might even win."

"I-I sh-shall n-not w-w-wager m-my n-n-nest o-on th-that p-p-possibility."

The witch proceeded to a large bed that lay in the center of the room. She climbed onto the bed, crawled to the middle on her hands and knees, then turned and lay upon her back. She smiled at Conan. "Come here, my beautiful barbarian man. I would feel your warmth next to me."

Conan had been with more than a few women in his young life, but none who had ever called to him quite like this. His mouth was dry as he started for the bed.

Came the mindspeech: Come and enjoy total pleasure, big man, and give me your strength. It will be your finest thrill, and your last.

Conan paused at that. His last?

"Why do you keep me waiting? Am I not desirable?"

Spend your manly essence within me, and with it your life force. Hurry, I hunger for it!

Conan continued to move toward the woman―she was no less beautiful and enticing than before―but a note of caution sounded within him. This mindspeech was the truth, not the words she spoke, and he realized that to consummate his lust with this creature―who was, after all, a witch―would be his death knell. But what was he to do? She desired him, and were he to thwart that desire, there was no foretelling what she might turn to next. An ordinary woman scorned was dangerous; what evil might a witch refused do him?

What was it she had said? She wanted his essence? Well, if he could somehow manage to avoid doing what she wanted, then perhaps he had a chance to survive.

How to manage that was another matter altogether. Death was an expensive price to pay for a few moments of pleasure. Crom would hardly welcome a man who would make such a foolish trade. This manner of combat was scarcely comparable to dying in battle with a sword in hand.

Conan searched for memories of ice and snow, and wading through freezing water.

Such thoughts helped but little.

"You are quite lovely," Rey told Elashi. The desert woman stood next to Tull and Lalo. The wizard had taken their weapons, and they all were now inside his personal chamber. A pair of cyclopes waited just outside the door.

"I have had no need for women for some years," Rey continued, "but I might rekindle the old fires for one such as you."

"I would rather be boiled in oil than suffer your attentions," Elashi said.

"What?"

"Are your ears stuffed with mold?" Lalo asked. "The lady finds you repellent, a feeling in which I concur wholeheartedly."

"Cannot you two keep silent?" Tull said, his voice low. "You do not want to make him angry. He is very powerful."

"Wise," Rey said. "You will have a quick death for that. These other two will suffer a bit longer, after they have told me the whereabouts of whatever his name is… Conan?"

"I expect Conan is long gone from these caves and safe from either you or the witch," Elashi said.

"Would that it were so," Rey said, "for he is dangerous; still, I cannot take the chance that he might yet be free down here. You will aid me in his capture, like it or not. I am not a man to be trifled with, as you shall learn."

Tull, Elashi, and Lalo looked at each other. This did not bode well. Elashi was most worried about Conan. She feared he was in dire straits indeed.

* * *

Twenty-two

W-w-will th-the b-bats and Wh-whites d-do i-it?" Reluctantly Wikkell turned to face Deek. They were in the cave in which the cyclopes regularly bathed. A small cataract spilled from a high ledge upon which Deek and Wikkell perched, splashing into the shallow pond below. The sound of the water covered their voices from the female cyclopes who were cavorting below them in the pond. An attractive lot, Wikkell noted, and he would certainly rather be down there with them than up here with Deek. "W-Wikkell?"

"What? Oh, sorry, Deek. Yes, I think they will do it. I doubt that the plants will be of much use to us, but given the weight of numbers, I do not believe they will oppose us either. I expect the initial charge of the Whites and the bats might prove costly to them, but if they want to continue to live in the caves, I feel it is only right that they share the risks of our endeavor."

"O-o-one c-c-cannot m-make m-m-mushroom w-wine w-without c-c-crushing a f-few t-t-toadstools."

"Well put, Deek. The time must be soon for our strike, are we to keep our intent secret."

Wikkell glanced back down at the female cyclopes. One of them saw him and waved. He waved back.

"S-s-someone y-you kn-know w-w-well?"

"Not yet. If we survive the upcoming confrontation, though, I hope to get to know her much better."

"A-as o-one-eyes g-go, s-she s-s-seems qu-quite l-lovely."

"I always knew you were a worm of good taste. You must introduce me to your nestmates when this is done."

"Wh-when i-it is d-d-done."

At least several hours had elapsed, although to Conan the passage of time felt more like days; finally the witch fell into what the Cimmerian hoped would be an exhausted―and long―slumber.

He had felt better himself, he thought, as he hurriedly gathered his clothes. His belt pouch fell with a thump .that seemed terribly loud, and Conan froze at the sound. Several of the jewels rattled from the purse and onto the hard floor. Conan ignored them, even though one of them was the large gem than Elashi had given him.

Chuntha did not stir from her torpid pose, and the Cimmerian finished collecting his garb and quickly moved toward the cave's exit.

Conan considered the problem of the guard worms as he finished dressing. His sword lay back in the cave where he and his friends had fought the bats. A bare-handed struggle against the worms held little appeal. How was he to bypass the pair? True, they were set to guard the cave from intruders, not from one leaving. Utilizing surprise, he could most likely dart past them before they could gather their wits. By the time they recovered enough to pursue him, he would be well ahead, and he knew from his earlier experience that he could outrun the slithering beasts.

On the other hand, while such an action might gain him an immediate lead on the worms, they also might not bother to pursue him at all. The guards could just as easily enter the cave and rouse Chuntha, and Conan had considerable doubt about his ability to outrun the monstrous flying reptile into which the witch could transform herself. A dilemma.

In the end he decided that the key lay in boldness. He had recognized the speech produced by the worms and could speak a fair portion of it. He took a deep breath and stepped out through the chambers' entrance.

"Ho, guards," he said in the tongue the worm had spoken earlier.

The two worms spun around, coiling as might serpents preparing to strike.

"Chuntha slumbers and wishes to be undisturbed," Conan said. "I am being sent to fetch a thing for her. Move aside."

Conan gambled that the worms would assume his apparent nonchalance meant what he said was true. The Cimmerian doubted that many, if any, of Chuntha's guests had ever left at all, much less without her express permission, and reckoned that the guards would know this and fear to question her orders.

The two worms seemed to look at each other, though whatever organs they used that passed for eyes were not apparent to Conan. The Cimmerian suffered a long and tense moment…

Then, with a slight rotation that Conan took to be a shrug, the pair relaxed back into their earlier poses.

Striving to look as if he owned every inch, of the caves, Conan strolled away at a leisurely pace, never looking back.

When he was around the first turning in the corridor, Conan picked up his pace considerably. He had escaped from the carnal clutches of the witch, but he still had to find his friends. He began to run, planning to put a goodly distance between himself and the witch as soon as possible.

He had been at the sprint but for a few moments when he rounded a corner and ran smack into a tangled nest of sticky webbing. He tried to back away from the clinging threads, but he could neither escape nor break free of them. The more he struggled, the more enmeshed he became. Even his powerful muscles were no match for the strength of the fibers. He was still try fruitlessly to break free when he saw a cyclops standing next to a giant worm, watching him. What now? he thought.

"I-I-I a-am n-not s-sure a-ab-about th-this." Deek watched the man struggle against the grip of the magical webbing.

Next to Deek, Wikkell nodded as if in agreement but said, "I understand your reluctance. Still, somehow, this one is at the root of all this. Both my master and your mistress―"

"E-e-ex-m-m-master a-and m-m-mistess," Deek broke in and corrected.

"Yes, yes, to be sure. Our ex-master and mistress seemed to think this man was of some import. As we have seen, he certainly is resourceful. He has managed to escape from both wizard and witch on his own, no small task."

"B-b-but c-can w-we t-t-trust him?"

"I would rather have him on our side than against us. Certainly he has no more love for Rey and Chuntha than do we. And we do have something to offer, do we not?"

"Y-y-yes."

"Then let us go and speak with him."

In the wizard's chambers, Rey questioned Elashi. He had a pair of his Cyclopes holding her tightly as he stood sharpening a somewhat rusted knife with a stone. The sound of the blade being whetted made cold, scraping noises in the quiet room. Tull and Lalo stood against a nearby wall, manacled to the rock. While the chains and wrist clamps were covered with thick scales of red-brown rust flakes, the iron had lost none of its core strength.

Rey finished working on the knife. He touched the edge with one thumb; apparently it was done to his satisfaction. He moved toward Elashi, grinning wickedly in the green light, and waved the knife gently back and forth as he drew nearer to the desert woman.

The two cyclopes had firm grips on both of Elashi's arms; unfortunately for Rey, both of the woman's slender but strong legs remained unencumbered. When the wizard was within her range, Elashi managed to launch a stiff kick.

"Ah!" The wizard grunted, expelling most of his air. He stumbled back to the accompaniment of congratulatory noises from Tull and Lalo for Elashi's action.

It was but a short diversion, however, and the effect of Elashi's resistance did nothing to improve Rey's mood.

"Hold her feet!" the wizard ordered when his breath had returned.

Though Elashi kicked and struggled, it was but a moment's work for the cyclopes to each capture one leg. Firmly gripped now at the upper arm and ankle, Elashi found herself held stretched horizonally between her two captors much like a blanket among players of the childhood game of "Toss the Man High and Catch Him."

Rey moved in and inserted the sharpened blade under Elashi's belt. A single jerk of his wrist sliced the leather strap, and the belt fell away. The wizard moved to the hem of her heavy fabric skirt and gripped it with one hand, cutting the material to her crotch. The skirt gaped, revealing the smooth skin of her legs all the way to her underclothes.

Two more passes with the knife and Elashi lay stretched between the cyclopes naked save for her boots. The wizard stepped between her spread legs and laid the flat of the blade knife upon her belly. "Ready to tell me where Conan is?"

"Rot in the deepest hell!" Elashi said. Her voice quivered, but she tried to keep her face impassive.

Rey turned the knife so that it was edge down. He started to press the edge into her flesh…

"Wait!" Lalo yelled. "I shall tell you!"

"Lalo! Say nothing!" Elashi said.

The wizard turned away from the woman. "Yes?"

Lalo's grin looked pained, and his insult when it came was weak: "Wicked fool, spare her and I shall tell you Conan's location."

"I spare no one. But I can make her death quick."

Lalo nodded. "Very well. Conan hides in a small grotto some distance away. Tull here has used it for his residence for some years."

Tull and Elashi managed to stare at Lalo with amazement and disbelief; the wizard undoubtedly thought this due to Lalo's treachery.

"Explain to me the location and you shall live until my cyclopes return with the barbarian."

Tull and Elashi caught on to Lalo's ploy.

Tull said, "Tell him nothing, you traitor!"

"I hate you!" Elashi said.

Ever-smiling, Lalo took a deep breath and began to tell the wizard how to get to Tull's grotto.

Seemingly satisfied, the wizard had Elashi chained next to the two men. She drew her tattered clothes about her as best she could and settled down upon the rocky floor, shaking from nervous reaction.

Rey swept out of the chamber to instruct his thralls in the retrieval of Conan. It was only when the wizard appeared to be well out of earshot that the three captives spoke to each other, and then in quiet whispers.

"Why did you tell him Conan was in my grotto?" Tull asked. "When last we saw him―"

"―some monster had captured the awkward oaf," Lalo finished. "Aye, and since the flying creature did not come from Rey, then we may be almost certain it was dispatched by the witch. We could have hardly told him that, now could we? 'Conan? Why, the witch has him.' That would have sealed our doom instantly, would it not?"

"Lalo is right," Elashi whispered. "At least this way we have purchased a bit more time."

"Besides," Lalo said, "I had to say something. I could not allow him to harm you."

Although Lalo's smile was perpetual with him, it seemed to soften somewhat when he said this, and Elashi grinned at him in return. "I thank you for that."

"Even as stupid and worthless as you are, you have more uses alive than dead," Lalo said. From him, this was practically a raging compliment, and Elashi shook her head from the wonder of it.

"All this is beginning to get on my nerves," Tull said. He got no argument from either of the others on that point.

"What will we. do when Rey discovers that Conan is not where we said he would be?" Elashi asked.

"Try to deceive him further," Lalo whispered.

"'Gone? Well, yes, of course. He said that if we did not meet him there soon, he would go to the waterfall where first he met Tull.' And after that, mayhap we can send him yet elsewhere."

"He is certain to catch on after a time or two. It is a decidedly risky plan," Tull said.

"Better than no plan at all," Elashi observed. "Besides, what have we to lose now?"

Another point no one wished to speak to or think overly about… not while chained to a cold wall in the chambers of an evil wizard.

* * *

Twenty-three

Conan saw the two figures approaching, but he was unable to offer a defense or to flee. When the unlikely pair arrived at a distance two spans from him, they stopped.

"We would speak with you," the one-eyed giant said.

The Cimmerian looked down at his trapped limbs. Bound as he was in the sticky webbing, he had no choice save to listen to the cyclops and the worm. "I am listening," he said, as if he had a choice.

"Things are not as we would have them in our realm," the cyclops said. "We intend a change."

"W-w-we n-need y-your h-h-help," the worm said.

They went on to explain what they had in mind.

While his intention was to find his friends and flee this accursed realm as soon as possible, the alternative offered by the pair certainly held merits the Cimmerian had to ponder, especially considering his current state.

"So," the cyclops said, "that is our intent. If you help us achieve it, you and your friends will be free to go on about your own business with our blessings."

"And if I do not agree?"

"W-we c-can l-leave y-y-you h-here t-to r-r-rot," the worm said in that grating speech of his.

It was, Conan had to admit, a most powerful argument.

"Well, then, I agree to aid you. Both witch and wizard have done nothing but cause me grief since I arrived here, I would see them in Gehanna at the earliest opportunity."

The cyclops, who had given his name as Wikkell, nodded and turned to the worm. "See? I told you he would be reasonable."

With that, the giant one-eyed being extended a small wooden device toward Conan and his nest of sticky threads. After a moment the threads began to pull away from Conan's body and the small block of wood somehow sucked the strings into itself. A few seconds later all of the netting in which Conan had been trapped had vanished.

Magic, and no doubt of that. He liked it not at all. Still, it was not as if he had been given much in the way of choice. Whatever the reason, he was a man of his word; once his pledge was given, he would not break it.

"Our sources tell us that your friends have been collected by the wizard," Wikkell said.

"Are they well?"

"I have it as likely… for as long as the wizard thinks they might lead him to you."

"Why is it that I am so important to both witch and wizard?"

"Wh-who k-knows?" This from the worm, who called himself Deek.

"I think it perhaps has something to do with some kind of prophesy," Wikkell said. "In some way, the wizard fears you, and likewise, so does the witch."

"I cannot understand why. I have no magic; I am no more than an ordinary man."

"A man, perhaps. Hardly ordinary. To have escaped from the wizard, and then from the witch after sharing her bed, these are things no man has ever done before."

"W-w-were i-it n-n-not f-for y-you, n-n-none o-of th-this w-w-would h-have h-happened."

Conan shrugged. "I think this is all due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Whatever the original reason," Wikkell said, "it does not matter so much now."

The three started down the corridor. Conan pondered what they had told him. They would aid him in freeing his friends. There was to be an attack, and during it he might be able to take advantage of the confusion. If he should happen to slay the wizard in passing? Well, so much the better.

Deek and Wikkell spoke of their actions over the last days, and Conan filled them in on his own adventures. They seemed impressed, although he told his story in an offhand manner devoid of bragging.

A few moments later several of the Blind Whites came down the rocky hallway toward Conan and the others. Conan tensed, but Wikkell quickly reassured him there was no need to worry. The Whites were now in league with the cyclopes and the worms. The witch and the wizard were about to have a full-scale revolution on their hands.

One of the Whites approached and spoke to Wikkell in a language Conan did not recognize. After a moment another of the Whites was motioned to come closer by the cyclops.

The second White carried an object over one shoulder, something Conan had not noticed earlier: his sword!

The White tendered the blade to Wikkell, who held it as a man would hold a long knife. The cyclops turned to Conan. "Here. You might like this. The Whites found it laying between two puddles upon the floor of the cavern where you must have been captured by Chuntha." At this statement a shudder seemed to ripple through Wikkell.

"Something wrong?"

Wikkell shook his head. "I suspect I know what those puddles represent. They stir a rather unpleasant memory."

Conan took the sword and did not ask after the source of the cyclops' recollection. The Cimmerian had noted, however, that his ability to hear the mindspeech had left him. He suspected that the cause of that particular talent had somehow been the responsibility of one of the jewels they had stolen from Chuntha, one of those spilled in his hasty escape from her chambers. A pity in one way to have lost it; on the other side of that coin, however, it was magic and apt to cause more trouble in the long run than it was worth. His limited experience with magic had shown Conan that even those who knew how to perform such conjurs often found themselves in difficulties from them, and there were indeed things with which men were not made to tamper.

Conan hefted the solid weight of the sword and smiled at the weapon. Here was something a man could trust and depend upon. A strong arm, cold iron, and skill… aye, he would take those over spells any day.

Chuntha awoke from a languorous sleep. She grinned to herself as she stretched…

She sat up abruptly, startled. Where was the barbarian? Why did he not lie next to her, dead from his exertions as surely he should be?

Now that she was more awake, Chuntha noted that she did not feel the usual sensation of greatly increased energy that came from having drained a man of his essence. Sated, yes, but empowered, no. What had happened?

She leaped to her feet and strode naked to the chamber's exit. Outside, her guards lay flaccidly in repose upon the cold stone.

"Where is the man? Chuntha's voice, full of anger, cut at the two.

"G-g-gone to f-fetch wh-whatever it w-was you w-wished," the worms replied. "By y-your orders, m-m-mistress, he t-told us―"

"And you let him go? Just like that? Fools! I will see you baking in the lime pits!" She spun away from the stammering worms and stormed back into the chamber. No one had ever lain with her and walked away, no one! She had been lax, she had wanted to make him last, that had been her mistake! Well, she would fetch him back and none of his clever manipulations would serve him this time, no matter how pleasant! Conan, he had called himself, was a dead man!

Rey still had a small hope that somehow all this would turn out in his favor. He had, after all, captured three of the loose humans wandering about in his caves, and had melted two others. As nearly as he could tell, only the one, Conan, remained at large. True, the prophesy seemed centered on that man, but even now, half a dozen of his cyclopes marched at top speed to retrieve his quarry. Rey would have gone himself, but he had another foreboding feeling that he was better off for the moment in the seat of his power. Once Conan was returned, the wizard intended to slay all four of the troublemakers quickly and finish the entire unsavory episode. He had thought he might prolong it, taking certain pleasures in the slowness of it, but something about that felt altogether too risky. Puddle them and be done with it, he thought, and get back to business as usual.

Chuntha, even knowing the risk, once again called upon the spell of the metamorphic reptile. She took to the air, rage and shame filling her at hav ing lost a game at which she was most expert… to a mere man, and a barbarian at that. The monster flew, sharp eyes alert, seeking prey.

As Conan and his two new companions moved through the winding caveways, they found themselves faced suddenly with a half dozen cyclopes. Upon viewing Conan, the largest of the cyclops, one who seemed to be the leader, spoke sharply, obviously an order. The other five cyclopes spread out anid started for Conan.

The Cimmerian drew his sword and prepared to die. He might cross over into the Gray Lands, but by Crom, he would not go without taking some of them with him!

"That will not be needed," Wikkell said, raising one arm and gesturing at Conan.

The Cimmerian held the sword with both hands, point aimed at the throat of the nearest approaching cyclops. He did not relax his stance at his companion's comment.

Wikkell stepped forward and called out to the leader of the cyclopes, speaking in a harsh and choppy language that Conan did not understand. The leader replied, and a short exchange of dialogue followed, at the end of which the leader ordered his troops to stop.

Conan raised slightly from his bent-kneed fighting stance and lowered the point of his blade. "What did you say to them?"

"I told them there was about to be a revolution against the witch and the wizard. Anyone who stood against the action would certainly die for it, as would anyone who tampered with my short friend with the sword here―that is to say, you. Jalouri, the leader of Rey's guards over there, informs me that his loyalties to the wizard have never really been all that solid, and he has indicated that he and his troops would be more than happy to assist us in any way they can."

"Good of him," Conan said.

"One does not need to be a. fish to know which way the tide flows," Wikkell said.

Conan sheathed his sword. "Lead on, friend."

The party, now swelled by six, moved on.

"I think I might be able to slip my hands out of these manacles," Elashi said. "They are very loose upon my wrists."

"A stupid idea," Lalo said. "Neither Tull nor I can do so, and what good would it do you to be free? Do you think you can bypass the wizard and his guards?"

"Perhaps not," Elashi said, irritated, "but there might be something in this chamber I can use to free you. At the very least we might be able to strike the wizard down, can we find a weapon."

"Her idea has merit," Tull said. "I'd rather take a few of 'em with me, do I have to leave this life."

Lalo merely shrugged and looked dubious. One of his smaller insults.

Elashi strained and tugged at the cuff on her right wrist. The skin peeled back next to the rusty metal and blood flowed, lubricating her hand. The two men watched as she managed to pull her hand loose. The left hand came free easier, since she had the right to help, but blood also oozed from scrapes there when she was done. Her wrists hurt, but not so much as all that, especially considering what the alternative would shortly be.

Quietly, and with great care, she stole across the chamber toward a large trunk against the far wall. Perhaps there would be something inside it she could use.

She wondered about Conan. Had he met his end at the teeth of the monster that had snatched him into the air? She hoped not; for all of his faults, Elashi had grown to like Conan more than a little. Of course he was not so witty as Lalo, who despite his curse, seemed a most clever companion. Still, she would not like to think of Conan dead. They had gone through much together, and he was so young. It would be such a waste.

Do not worry about that now, Elashi, she told herself. Whatever has happened to Conan, you must try to keep yourself alive.

She hurried over to the chest.

* * *

Twenty-four

In the largest chamber he had yet seen, Conan observed from a high ledge thousands of occupants: worms, cyclopes, Bloodbats, and Whites, mostly keeping together in like groups, but here and there a few mingling without regard for kind. A low rumble of conversation filled the cave as the thousands below talked among themselves.

Wikkell and Deek moved to the edge of the shelf, and the cyclops took a deep breath and yelled at the assemblage: "Ho, brothers! Listen to me!"

The drone of speech faded to silence as those below looked up at Wikkell. There was a long pause, filled with anticipation, before the cyclops spoke again.

"The time has come for us to restore our world to what it once was," he said. His voice boomed out loudly, carrying to all parts of the chamber. "Those who have held us in thrall for so long must be removed, forever!"

A loud cheer broke from the crowd, hoots and yells and high-pitched whistles. He definitely had their attention.

"Your leaders will tell you of your duties. The witch and the wizard will not relinquish their control easily, and they are powerful, but the time has come!"

Another wave of approbation swelled from the ranks, louder than before. Wikkell turned away.

"G-g-good sp-speech," Deek said.

"I hope it was not my last one," Wikkell said. He glanced at the barbarian. "Ready?"

Conan nodded. "Aye." He grinned. Here was a situation he could enjoy: battle, with no complexity to it.

The Whites would attack the sanctums of both witch and wizard simultaneously, followed by the bats, then a mix of worm and cyclopian troops. The bats would also fly back and forth, reporting messages as needed. Somewhere in the midst of all that, Conan would seek to find and free his friends. It was simple enough. His favorite kind of plan. It might fail, but at least it would not do so due to some serpentine twist that went awry.

Conan led Wikkell and Deek down the path toward Katamay Rey's cave.

Elashi rummaged around in the trunk, discarding items that offered no apparent use to her. She found a stoppered vial and turned to show it to Lalo and Tull.

"Should I open this?"

"Better you should not," Lalo said. "We do not know what resides within, and it might be something we would rather not know intimately."

Elashi nodded and tossed the vial into a pile of clothing already pulled from the trunk.

Further searching produced a rod of shining metal. The thing was the diameter of Elashi's little finger and as long as the distance between her thumb tip and forefinger. There was a knobby protrusion near one end. Curious as to the object's function, Elashi pressed the knob. Fortunately, the opposite end was not pointed at any part of herself; rather, the tip of the rod was aimed at the pile of clothes next to the trunk. A bright and jagged white light erupted from the rod with a crackling noise like that of a large fire, and the pile of clothing sizzled and burst into flame.

Elashi dropped the rod. "Mitra!"

"Best stay away from that, girl," Tull said.

"No, fool," Lalo said. "Bring it here."

"You want me to touch that again? What if it discharges another of those lightninglike bolts?"

"I hope that it does," Lalo said. "At the chains that bind us. Where is your wit, woman? And hurry, in case the wizard has heard the noise and comes to investigate!"

With the clothing burning and filling the chamber with flickering orange light, Elashi picked up the magical rod and scurried back toward Lalo and Tull.

In the guise of the flying reptile, Chuntha soared high around a wide turning in one of the major tunnels, and beheld a most surprising sight: below was a collection of Blind Whites, hurrying along the corridor. Behind the Whites and not much above them, a flock of Bloodbats flitted along.

What misdeed was this? Whites and bats, intent on some purpose, and together?

Chuntha puzzled over the event, heretofore unseen.

There was more: behind the first two groups, at some distance, came a gathering of giant worms and cyclopes! Hundreds of them, moving along as if they had been born of the same mothers instead of enemies for scores upon scores of years.

Oh, dear.

Whatever the cause of this phenomenon, Chuntha immediately knew that such a collaboration of the cave's inhabitants was not to her advantage. In fact, she reasoned that it could mean nothing but disaster. The only place they could be going was her chambers, and from the look of them, they did not intend to fall down and worship her when they arrived.

Sensha's damnation! That prophesy of unnamed disaster had come forth despite all of her efforts to thwart it!

Given her present circumstances, wrapped within a spell whose longevity could not be depended upon, Chuntha had no desire to see if the weight of her magic could prevail against such an unruly looking mob as that below her. Besides, most of her magical apparati lay back at her chambers.

Had Rey done this? No, she thought, likely not.

Conan had somehow engineered it, as the prophesy had hinted he would. Frightening, to think that a man without any apparent sorcery about him could cause such things. Not only had he resisted her carnal magics, but now this.

The mark of a wise witch was the knowledge of when to stay and when to leave, and no doubt about it, it was time to move on. Better she should forget about Conan, the wizard, the caves, and everything connected with them. Chuntha was not fond of the idea of losing, but she was less fond of the idea of dying.

Unseen by.those below, the magical creature flew on with increased speed.

Elashi pointed the end of the rod at the chains holding Lalo to the wall. She closed her eyes and pressed the stud.

Nothing happened.

The desert woman opened her eyes. She pressed the knob again. A kind of thin whine came from the rod.

"So much for that idea," Tull said. "Looks like it only had one bolt in it."

"Maybe not," Lalo said. "Maybe it just needs to gather more magic for a time. Wait for a few moments and try again… unless you have pressing matters elsewhere to which you must attend?"

After a short wait, Elashi again pointed the rod at Lalo's chains and touched the knob. She expected nothing, but Lalo's surmise proved correct: a bright bolt zapped forth and struck the iron links. Elashi again dropped the device, but the force of the magic had already done its job. The chains binding Lalo to the wall ring had shattered under the impact of the blinding energy.

"The wizard must be deaf," Tull said as Lalo moved to retrieve the magic rod.

"Perhaps he is out," Lalo said, "looking for flies from which to pull the wings." He picked up the rod and examined it. "Patience, Tull old fool. We shall have you free in a few moments."

Lalo waited for what he considered an appropriate length of time before he tried the device again. True to his words, the thing functioned as it had twice before, and Tull's chains fell away. They were free!

Rey had been sleeping soundly, but even so, the use of potent magic so near had roused him. He felt rather than heard it, and swam up from slumber. The first thing he noticed was the smell of burning cloth. What had caused that? Fire was mostly a stranger to the caves, since virtually everything in them was too damp to burn without difficulty. But that was definitely the stench of scorched wool, and very near.

The captives. They must have done something they should not have been able to do.

Rey sighed. He could not even gather a few minutes of sleep without being interrupted. Enough of this. He had planned to keep them alive, to guarantee the capture of their comrade, Conan, but not if it meant he had to suffer for it. He would kill them now and take his chances on the barbarian's recovery.

Rey arose from his bed and went to the chamber where he had left the prisoners.

He very nearly ran into them.

The three of them had somehow managed to get free of their chains! They were but a few spans from him as he entered the chamber, and apparently hurrying to leave. He raised his hands in a curse-casting posture.

"Stop where you stand!" he ordered.

One of them, the cursed grinning man, extended something in Rey's direction. The wizard immediately recognized it as his lightning rod. If it had sufficient charge to send a bolt, he could be in trouble.

"Hot!" Rey yelled, waggling his fingers.

The grinning man yelped and dropped the rod, now a glowing orange from the small spell Rey had cast upon it.

"You have caused me enough trouble," Rey said. "I am about to be shut of you. Give my regards to the damned souls in Gehanna."

But as he raised his hands again to melt the three, a noise intruded on his concentration. It sounded as if someone was approaching the entrance to his chambers from the main corridor. A lot of someones, actually. Could it be his cyclopes, " returning with Conan already? No, it was too soon. Who, then?

The noise grew quite loud. A kind of droning chant.

Best he go see what it was; the two guards out front could not be trusted to handle anything more complex than feeding themselves and defecating.

"Stay here!" Rey commanded. "Move through this portal and you will certainly regret it."

With that, Rey turned to go see what all the noise was about.

Chuntha knew of several ways to the surface. She regretted that she would not be able to return to her chambers to retrieve certain of her favorite possessions, but she also considered herself lucky to have made her escape so easily. True, she could have withstood a lengthy attack provided she had been able to see it coming in time; doubtless she could have slain a goodly number of the revolutionaries in the process as well. Then again, it did not matter if she killed hundreds of them if, in the end, they managed to overcome her.

Soaring along, praying to assorted dark deities that the spell would hold until she could make good her escape, Chuntha could not help but feel curious as to just how Conan had inspired this revolt.

One of the hidden exits to the world above lay not far from the wizard's quarters. It was, in fact, the closest of such egresses, and the witch felt she might chance it in her present form. Why not? It would warm her black soul to see if the wizard had troubles as bad as her own.

The reptile that was also a witch altered its course when it came to a wide bifurcation in the large tunnel.

Katamay Rey reached his chambers' entrance and looked out.

What the wizard saw filled him with utter surprise and shock: a horde of Blind Whites advanced toward him, and behind them, a flock of Bloodbats darkened the air with their numbers.

By Set's scaled scrotum! What was this?

The two guards normally posted were nowhere to be seen.

Rey ducked back inside, feeling a moment of panic. He had not survived all these centuries by being entirely stupid. He was about to come under attack, and if he wanted to live to see more centuries, he had best do something, and quickly!

Over the years he had perhaps grown a bit arrogant, he realized. Hundreds of years past, when first he had arrived at the caves, the wizard had been more cautious. He had set traps to protect himself in the event of just such an attack, but in the ensuing decades and centuries, he had almost forgotten about his protections. Many had fallen into disrepair or, in the case of those involving magic, lost their potency. But there remained one he had never deactivated.

Rey hurriedly rehearsed the words of the old spell, trying to be certain he recalled them correctly. He stepped back out into the hallway and faced the oncoming horde. The Whites could not see per se, but they were aware of him through their augmented senses of hearing and smell.

They charged, full tilt, screaming. The bats flew right behind the wave of running Whites.

Rey spoke aloud the words of the ancient spell, gesturing at the ceiling of the corridor as he did so.

Suddenly the tunnel was filled with the roar of uncounted tons of rock breaking loose from the age-old ceiling. The noise of the avalanche was followed immediately by the screams of those below. The roof did not entirely collapse, nor did the rocks that fell do so all at once, but the position of the attackers made it quite impossible for them to escape the cascade of rocks that showered down upon them. Despite the dampness, dust and grit flew. Moans arose from the shattered victims, those still capable of mounting speech. Red splashed and coated the walls. It was a hard rain indeed.

When the last rock dropped, what remained was a corridor now somewhat shallower on the bottom and deeper at the top than before. The new floor was that much higher for the bodies under the former ceiling. Two or three Whites had avoided the trap, and several bats flew around in dazed circles, but the attack was broken.

Rey grinned, pleased with himself… until he saw the first rank of worms and cyclopes begin climbing over the rockfall. Set and all the demi-demons!

* * *

Twenty-five

The fire that had burned the pile of clothing had begun to die down when from it there came a pop!

Elashi, Lalo, and Tull all turned at the sudden sound and stared at the fading light of the smoldering clothing.

"What was that?" Tull asked.

Elashi shook her head.

Lalo said, "That vial you tossed into the clothing. I think perhaps the fire has opened it."

No sooner had Lalo said this than a poisonous-looking black vapor arose from the dying fire. The tendrils of black appeared to be unaffected by the fire's heat―and it looked nothing at all like normal smoke. As the three watched, the curling black swirled up and began to move toward them, pulsing as if to some unheard rhythm.

"Uh-oh," Tull said. "I like the look of this not at all."

"What can we do?" The wizard has threatened to blast us if we move from this chamber," Elashi said.

"Better the demon we know than one we do not," Lalo told her, nodding at the malignant vapor undulating slowly toward them. "Besides, it sounds to me as if the wizard might have his hands occupied at the moment."

Neither Tull nor Elashi chose to argue with Lalo's assessment of the situation. The black cloud was growing in size; already it blotted out half of the chamber.

The three scrambled for the doorway.

Conan moved along the corridor next to Wikkell and Deek. Ahead, the ceiling had just fallen in with a sound like constant thunder, burying the advance ranks of Whites and bats. The wizard was not without his defenses, so it seemed. The Cimmerian sheathed his sword in order to better clamber over the uneven piles of rock now blanketing the floor.

The witch who was a flying reptile approached the scene of carnage and flapped down to perch on a shelf high above it all. My, my. That Bastard most assuredly had his problems. Could the magicked beast have performed the action, it would have grinned. Chuntha decided that she could tarry here for a bit and watch. It seemed that the wizard was finally about to get his just due, and this was too good a show to miss.

Rey's skills had fallen into disuse over the years, but there had been a time when he was as adept a spellcaster as any. He dredged up old curses and conjurations from his long past, searching for one that would put a decisive end to this attack. There was a demon-call he had used once, oh, three or four hundred years ago. As he recalled, the demon had been both large and fearsome, with a hideous visage. Yes, he would set the demon upon the blasted worms and traitorous cyclopes and see how they enjoyed that!

Could he but recall the words of the damned spell in time…

Tull, Elashi, and Lalo ran into the antechamber and skidded to a halt. The wizard was not to be seen.

"Outside, he must be outside, in the corridor," Elashi.said, pointing at the door.

"We cannot go out there," Tull said.

"Well, no doubt the black vapor behind us will stop at the open doorway through which we have just passed," Lalo said, his voice heavy with irony.

Elashi shook her head. Lalo was right. What were they going to do?

Chuntha's observation post gave her a good view of the proceedings below; That Bastard, give him credit, had more than a few things left up his sleeve. The witch watched with respect as the air began to swirl inside the hastily sketched pentagram on the floor in front of the entrance to the wizard's chambers. Calling up something, he was, and she doubted that such an act would do the attacking rebels any good whatsoever.

Wait―what was that?―no, who was that? Conan! Climbing over the fallen rock, in company with the cyclopes and worms.

For a moment Chuntha's rage was such that she nearly took to the air, intending to dive down and rend the cursed barbarian into tattered and bloody flesh. But no. Wait a moment and see what the wizard works, she thought. No point in being foolish.

The reason Rey had chosen the location of his chambers originally from all the thousands available was simple enough: the magic permeating the old rock here hung thick and potent. A spell that might exhaust some other location might hardly take a small fraction of the energies resident in this particular area. So it was that the wizard had sufficient force to conjur the demon.

Within the bounds of the pentagram, the air twirled and became a flashing display of purple and yellow, much like a liquid bruise upon the atmosphere. Came a loud clap of noise and suddenly the demon, one of Set's lesser messengers, named Tunk, appeared in an eye-smiting flare of light. Tunk was easily twice the size of the largest cyclops, thrice the weight in his earthly form, and bristling with dagger-sized black claws on hands and feet. His mouth―and there was no doubt of his maleness to anyone with even the smallest of vision―his mouth opened in a grimace that be came a roar. Teeth like a boar's tusks flashed in the light of Tunk's arrival, and the sound he made might be likened to that of iron plates banged and scraped together with great force.

Tunk's appearance put a halt to the advancing horde of worms and cyclopes as quickly as if those worthies had reached the end of a stout tether.

"Go and kill them, all of them!" Rey ordered. "I call upon you with your true name Tunk, and demand that you obey."

Tunk, of course, had no choice; still, his rage at being jerked away from a most interesting encounter with a demoness in Gehanna was such that killing something would have come easily enough without an order. The demon leaped from the pentagram toward the startled worms and cyclopes.

Wikkell sucked in a deep breath as he saw the monstrous apparition bound from where it appeared in front of the wizard. It was coming right at him, it seemed, and the small form of Conan perched atop a new-made hill in between did little to give the cyclops confidence that he would survive for long once that thing arrived. Panic flowed through Wikkell, and he scrabbled in his belt for a weapon, any weapon, he might use to defend himself.

Conan must have been as startled and frightened as he, the cyclops thought, and yet the man, less than a third the size of the onrushing demon, drew his sword and raised it.

Amazing, that this puny human would dare to stand with what amounted to a small sliver of iron against such a behemoth. Doomed, and yet stand ing his ground Conan was, and no one could see such a thing and not feel admiration against the amazement that anyone could be so foolish ess to hope to prevail.

The thing reached the base of the rocky slope upon which Conan stood and began its ascent.

The problem was that after it crushed Conan, Wikkell and Deek were next in line.

The black vapor lapped at the edges of the inner chamber's doorway behind the three people, then slowly began to ooze across the floor like some cold and thick liquid.

Tull, Elashi, and Lalo moved across the antechamber away from the blackness, toward the exit. Now they could see the wizard outside, directing some hellish monster's attack against a gathering of worms and cyclopes and―yes!―Conan!

Not that he had a chance against the thing that rushed toward him. The giant beast made Conan look tiny, perched as he was atop a hill of rock, sword raised. The monster screamed in a roaring gong of a voice as it charged.

Rey smiled in triumph. Best this, fools! he thought as Tunk sprinted toward Conan and his doomed friends.

Chuntha watched, trying to remain detached, she could not help feeling the excitement as the demon prepared to destroy Conan and the rebels. This would be most bloody… and most amusing.

"D-d-do s-s-something!" Deek scraped.

Wikkell came up with the graystone jar full of pale powder they had stolen from the wizard's chambers. No good―wait! Perhaps it might help.

Instantly Wikkell saw that he would have but one chance, and that one slim. The timing must be perfect; a mistake would be instantly fatal. Then again, it was not as if there were a number of choices left to him. Better a small chance than none at all.

"Conan!" Wikkell yelled. "When I yell again, leap to the side!"

"What?" Conan did not turn, but kept his gaze upon the thing bounding up the side of the hill at him.

"Just do it! I have a plan!"

Conan considered his options. He might inflict a nasty wound upon that thing coming at him, but he had little hope of slaying it outright before it swiped at him with one of those clawed hands or feet and disemboweled him. If Wikkell had a plan, Conan was not averse to trying it. He could always die swinging his blade later, if it came to that.

"Aye!" Conan yelled. He bent his knees further.

Rey watched as his enthralled demon sprang up the hillside. Another leap and he would be upon Conan, and good riddance―!

"Now, Conan, now!" the cyclops behind the Cimmerian yelled.

Was not that Wikkell, his old assistant? Rey wondered. I thought him dead…

As he watched, Conan leaped agilely to one side, tumbling and falling on the loose rock as he landed, out of the demon's path. Well, no matter. Tunk could attend to Conan after he slew the cyclopes and the worms.

Wikkell swung his arm, as if casting something. What was he doing? Rey could not see anything, no… wait, something glittered in the green light, some kind of dust.

The cyclops leaped to one side and the worm next to him slithered the opposite way just as Tunk landed on the spot where Conan had only recently been.

Tunk's feet shot out from under him and he fell upon his back, hard. As heavy as Tunk was, he should have hit the rock and stuck, but instead, he skipped over the ground as a cast stone does over water―once, twice―and on the second bounce, flew into the air a good span high. The demon sailed like a bird for a moment; unfortunately for him, Tunk was not a creature of the air in his current form, and his flight became less birdlike and more like a boulder.

The demon hit the ground past the base of the slope after having gone perhaps fifty paces through the air, dropping an easy four spans.

Rey felt the earth shake beneath him when Tunk slammed into the cave's floor. Such a fall would have killed any man who ever lived, and most likely anything else born of nature as well. Even a demon could not withstand such an impact without damage, as long as he wore solid flesh.

But Tunk was a demon, and while his recovery would have been painful, he would have risen from the fall in a moment or two, shaken but more enraged than ever, except that the force of the impact shook loose a few of the more solidly entrenched roof rocks that had resisted the wizard's earlier release spell.

Two house-sized boulders fell. The first landed squarely upon Tunk's prone form, driving him into the rock as a man drives a tent peg with a large mallet.

The second boulder, somewhat larger than the first, came down upon the big rock, and thus drove it into the floor, shattering the top of the first and the bottom of the second. What was thus formed looked much like a rather fat mushroom when the dust settled.

There were limits even to a demon's power, Rey knew. Tunk was not going to be digging out from under that any time soon, if ever.

The wizard looked and saw Conan rising to his feet, sword in hand. Best to retreat to his chambers, Rey thought, to consider his next move. And now!

The black miasma had swirled to fill nearly all of the antechamber. Elashi, Tull, and Lalo crouched at the doorway watching the darkness come toward them. Lalo said, "We have to get out of here, at once!"

With that, the three of them turned and sprang for the exit―just as the wizard leaped at the portal from the other side. The four collided and fell sprawling.

Fortunately for the three captives, their combined weight was enough to force the fall to end outside the chambers. As they tried to untangle themselves, they heard a screech of something whose voice they recognized: the flying reptile that had taken Conan before.

Chuntha could stand it no longer. The wizard, That stupid Bastard! had failed to kill Conan and stop the attack. His enthralled demon lay flattened under solid rock, and Conan―that vile, wretched, beautiful barbarian―was still alive.

It was too much. The only man to ever shame her in bed must die, that was the beginning and end of it. The witch leaped into the air and flapped downward in a flight she intended to end with her claws buried in Conan's heart.

Screeching in primal rage, the reptile dived…

Conan ran toward his three friends and the fallen wizard. Ten paces, five, he would be upon them in an instant, and his sword would claim the wizard's head, by Crom! He raised the blade to strike―The screech from above called Conan's attention. He looked up to see the ensorceled witch coming through the air at him. He immediately saw that he would not be able to reach the wizard before the flying reptile would intercept him. He turned toward the witch. A lucky strike might take a wing, he thought, though it was much more likely that the toothed snout would take him first. Well, he would met his end as a man, sword swinging. He twisted to face the new threat.

I have you now! Chuntha thought. Prepare to die, Conan!

She was five armspans from Conan and dropping fast when the spell enshrouding the true form of the witch failed.

One moment she was a terrible and ferocious thing from the early dawn of life on earth; the next moment the leathery form vanished. Chuntha screamed, and the voice was that of a woman.

Conan saw the change, as quick as an eyeblink. What was a scaled monster became a naked woman, hair streaming back in the wind of her flight, now a fall heading straight at him. The Cimmerian was startled; not so much that he failed to leap lithely out of the witch's path, but enough so that he did not swing the sword to slash at her.

The sword was not necessary in the end, however.

Chuntha the witch hit the rock floor with less force than had Rey's demon, but it was more than sufficient enough to end her days on earth. She bounced only once, stopped. The naked form seemed almost unmarked on the back, but the face and front had become red jelly and splintered white bone in an instant.

As Conan watched, the smooth beauty of the witch's back and buttocks and legs shriveled, as quick as a dry leaf cast into a hot fire. In an instant, nothing but black ash remained of the form that had been kept alive for long years past the day when it should have died.

Chuntha the witch was no more.

Conan turned back toward the wizard. He was still alive, and did Conan not attend to that, the evil sorcerer might do to him what Chuntha had just done to herself.

Lalo and Tull were helping Elashi to crawl away from the chamber's entrance when the wizard managed to attain his feet. He looked at the approaching Conan, shook his head, and turned toward me portal. He leaped inside. : Conan rushed after the wizard. Best to stop him before he could mount another magical attack.

"Conan, no!" Elashi screamed. "Do not go in there!"

The Cimmerian was but a few steps away from the entrance and moving fast when he heard Elashi's yell. Something in her voice warned him of great danger, and he managed to alter his path. He skidded and slid, and dropped his sword. He had to put both hands out to keep from smashing 'head-on into the wall next to the entrance. As he did this, he heard the wizard cry out, a high-pitched and terrible sound. Something had him.

What ungodly thing lay within?

A moment later Katamay Rey stepped out, stumbling past Conan.

The Cimmerian could not be certain it was the wizard at first. The creature who staggered past him was wrapped in black flame that seemed to consume him. Flesh crackled like fat dropped into a heated skillet, and the man's screams were continuous.

Conan retrieved his fallen sword and started toward the man. Slaying him would surely be a mercy, though that was not Conan's motivation.

He raised the sword.

Rey knew he was dying. There was no cure for the Black Rot; it would burn him to nothingness in a matter of moments. Not even the most powerful healing spell he knew would delay it for a second.

Through his pain and rage, Rey accepted his end. He would die, there was no help for it. But, by Set, he would take all those around him to Gehanna with him!

Even a dying wizard has power, and wizards do not die easily or fast, even under decay of Black Rot. He would have time to kill them all and bring the cave down around their ears!

With his final conscious thoughts, Rey unleashed all the powers at his command. Not stopped, such energies would consume everything for half a day's walk in all directions.

Conan stopped in mid-stride, blade lifted to strike; as if he had hit wall of packed feathers, or encountered one of the fierce winter winds of his homeland, a wind a big man could lean into without falling. He could force himself forward a little but then it pushed back at him, this invisible barrier. What―?

The wizard began to glow under the black flame. Rays of red and yellow and blue light shot forth, lighting the dim cave to the brightness of full daylight, albeit a day like none ever seen by mortal man.

Rocks rumbled and seemed to leap up and fly away from the ground around the tortured form of the wizard.

A weird humming―like the wings of a million bees―began.

Conan felt a weakness enter him, turning his arms and legs into pigs of lead. He wanted nothing so much as to lie down, to rest…

A crackling beam shot out from the wizard's face, or where Conan assumed the face had been, and the beam lanced into one of the cyclops halfway across the corridor. The cyclops exploded, bursting into thousands of pieces, shattering like glass.

Around Conan the air seemed suddenly filled with ice, so cold was it all of a moment, and yet a second later the air seemed as hot as if it were from an oven. Then the heat faded… and still Conan could not move.

The Cimmerian realized the great threat. The wizard, whatever his condition, was still dangerous. He had to strike him down―or they might all die.

Against the force of the invisible barrier, Conan strived to move. An inch, two, three he managed, only to be pushed back past his starting place. And he felt wearier with each passing second. If he could but rest, for only a moment, he could finish this…

No! Conan told himself. Any rest now would likely be his last.

The humming increased; the rays grew brighter, turning the wizard into something that could not be gazed upon without going blind; and the crackling beams shot forth and blasted at the cyclopes and the worms. One of the beams barely missed Conan; he felt the heat of its passing. The ceiling rumbled overhead, as did the walls and the floor.

Conan closed his eyes. Even through their lids he could see the bright glow that the wizard had become. He pushed again against the unseen barrier, utilizing his great strength to its utmost. The Cimmerian youth managed to lower the blade, knowing he could not swing it in a cut. He pushed against the wall of feathers, leaned into the magic wind, gaining a step, then two, the muscles of his legs bulging with the effort, the sinews creaking with the strain.

Rocks fell from the ceiling, but Conan ignored them. Another step, a tiny one, like a small child might take. His boots slid backward a hair on the stone, but he willed himself forward, pressing down as well as forward, gripping the ground through the leather of his shod feet as best he could.

A section of wall collapsed behind Conan, followed by more rock from the ceiling. He felt the floor shudder and shift under him. Another moment or two of this and an earthquake would likely bury them all.

But try as he might, Conan could get no closer. The point of his blade was only a handspan away from the shining wizard, but it might as well have been a. thousand miles.

Then, over the unnatural noises produced by the dying wizard, there came a single voice, cutting as only it could through the cacophony, the voice of Lalo, the cursed one: "I knew he could not do it! Such a weakling!"

Conan's rage could no longer be contained. All of Lalo's previous insults added to his ire, and this one was the final straw. Weakling? Weakling! I will show you who is a weakling!

Burning with the fires of outrage and insult, Conan bunched his powerful thews in a final, total effort. He lunged, slowly for all his strength, but a definite surge forward.

The point of Conan's blued-iron sword touched the rotting form of the wizard on the chest over his black heart, paused for the briefest of instants, then plunged through and sliced open the throbbing pump. Blood sprayed forth in a fountain, covering Conan.

After what seemed like forever, the wizard collapsed.

The lights winked out, the humming stopped cold, the walls and ceiling stilled.

The silence after Rey's fall was almost tangible.

Then the quiet was broken. Without a trace of irony in his voice, Lalo said quietly, "Well, I stand corrected."

Nobody had anything to say for quite a while after that.

* * *

Twenty-six

Wikkell and Deek moved to where the remains of the wizard lay on the rock and stared at the spot. A thin black powder covered the floor there, all that was left of the once-powerful mage.

Several more of the cyclopes and worms moved in to look upon the dust and ash that had been wizard and witch.

"We have won," Wikkell said.

"I-i-indeed."

Some of the cyclopes approached Wikkell, and a contingent of worms moved with them.

What, they asked, do we do now?

As easily as that, Wikkell and Deek found themselves cast in the role of rulers.

Conan sheathed his sword and went to his Mends.

Lalo had arisen and moved to stare into the wizard's chambers. "The black smoke is gone," he said. "And the wizard and the witch are both dead, thanks to you, Conan. You are most resourceful."

The Cimmerian shook his head. Could his ears be deceiving him? Had Lalo offered a compliment without a cutting edge? He waited for the verbal slash, but none came. And when Lalo turned to look at the others, something even more amazing occurred: Lalo had stopped smiling.

Elashi spoke first. "Lalo! Your face!"

Lalo reached up to touch his mouth. The smile returned, but it was different this time. "The curse! It… it is gone!"

Elashi ran to Lalo and embraced him.

Tull and Conan glanced at each other. Tull said, "The wizard's dying must have done it."

Conan nodded. He looked on as Lalo and Elashi hugged, but he felt no sense of jealousy. They seemed destined for each other, and his path was to have diverged from that of the desert woman's soon in any event.

Lalo and Elashi broke their embrace and turned to regard Conan. Each looked abashed.

Conan grinned. "Nay," he said. "You two shall have my blessing." To himself, Conan thought: although you might come to see this as a curse someday too, Lalo; her tongue is as sharp as yours was, and without any spell to drive it.

Wikkell and Deek approached the Cimmerian. The cyclops smiled. "We owe you much, Conan." he said. "Without you, we would still be enslaved. How can we repay you?"

That question needed no contemplation whatsoever. "Show us the way out of here," Conan said.

"D-d-done," the worm said.

So it was that Conan, Tull, Elashi, and Lalo were taken along a twisted corridor that wound upward. Against the dim green of the glow-fungus, a shaft of almost solid-looking white light stabbed down at the end of the tunnel: sunshine, from the world above.

"There," Wikkell said. "There is the entrance to your world."

Conan nodded and extended his right hand. Wikkell understood the gesture, and his own huge hand enveloped the Cimmerian's hand in a powerful squeeze. The two smiled at each other. "Go in peace, Conan."

"F-f-farewell," Deek added.

Tull, Elashi, and Lalo had already hurried up the incline and out of the cave when Conan turned away from the worm and the cyclops and walked toward the exit. In his belt pouch he still had a handful of valuable gems, which he would divide equally with the others. Not enough to make any of them rich, but enough to keep them in food and drink for some time. And they had come through the duel with witch and wizard exhausted, but alive and unharmed. It could have been much worse, but never had he been so glad to see the end of an adventure.

Striding boldly, Conan of Cimmeria walked into the sunshine and out of the dim caves. He blinked against the unaccustomed brightness of the day.

A few spans away his friends awaited him, but for the moment Conan was content to stand with the warmth of the sun on his face and the cold wind ruffling his dark hair. Free! At last!

Then he smiled and walked away from the entrance to the vast caves. He did not look back.

Conan the Freelance

PROLOGUE

Ten million years before the birth of the first man, the tallest peak in what would be called in dimly future times the Karpash Mountains stood in ice-capped majesty near what was to become the border between Corinthia and Zamora. It had no name then, there being no creatures with language to make names; later, it would be called Mount Turio. On a cold winter's day and without warning, an explosion shook the earth to its roots, and the top half of the mountain blew off. Pulverized rock formed ebon and stormy clouds that hid the face of the sun; glowing lava spewed and flowed down, feeding upon and consuming giant trees flattened for two days' march in any direction from the wounded mountain. The sweeping hand of destruction wiped away a hundred thousand animals, scouring the land with a stone wind that spared no living thing exposed to its abrasive touch.

Halfway to the edge of the world, beasts paused in their paths at the sound of the mountain vomiting itself up and darkening the skies.

It was a noise to rival the scream of a god.

After a million years, the crater left by the titantic explosion became a lake as large as a small sea.

After ten million years, the scars of the cataclysm had mostly been erased by time and weather, smoothed by winds and rain and snow and sun. The great crater lake remained, however, icy and clear and deep.

In the center of that vast lake, nameless and mostly unknown to the eyes and thoughts of men, the floating mat of a unique plant thrived upon the surface of the azure water. The growth was called Sargasso weed by those with a need for such names. Dense the weed was, and buoyant and thick enough to support the weight of a low, rambling structure large enough to house a thousand men. A careful man could walk from the center of the Palace of the Sargasso for most of a day and not reach the closest edge of the living island, though finding water was seldom a problem. In places the mat was carefully thinned by predators who lived below and sought .to trap prey; a misstep would send the unwary to a watery death in the jaws of some hungry denizen spawned in the lake's cold, dark depths. Even should a man avoid the quicksandlike traps in the Sargasso, he was ever at risk, for things also lived in the tangled growth above the chilly water, things that had over centuries developed a taste for human flesh.

In the center of this construction of nature and man, in the bowels of the sprawling and low castle, dwelled the one known as the Abet Blasa, Dimma of the Fogs, called by some the Mist Mage.

Although the roof of the chamber bore several large openings covered with sheets of clearest quartz to allow a goodly measure of the sun's light to flow into the room, a perpetual fog enshrouded Dimma where he sat upon a throne of carved woods and ivory. Indeed, Dimma's form itself seemed to blend with the swirling mist. He had no hard edges, appearing as insubstantial as the grayness he wore about himself as a billowing cloak.

Into the shifting grayness came a thing that upon land could pass for a man. Once the ancestors of this creature had dwelled Below, but through the arcane arts of the Mist Mage, these beasts had been elevated, both in form and in intelligence. Dimma called them selkies, and through his crafting, had made them into most useful servants. No longer were they simple beasts, and although they could pretend to be human upon the land, in the water they reverted magically into something from a man's nightmare.

The selkie's name was Kleg, and it spoke in a singsong tone, more as if using some stringed instrument than a true voice. "My lord, I am here."

The wavering image of the Mist Mage turned toward the selkie. Dimma focused his attention upon the creature to whom he was literally a god. "Speak to me of your mission, Kleg."

"My lord. Six days' ride from here upon the back of the packbeast you created stands the Tree Folk's forest. We have determined that the . . . ingredients you seek can be found therein."

The Mist Mage leaned forward. His face shimmered as a wisp of fog passed over-and through-it, becoming for a moment more sharply etched. Kleg felt a spasm of fear clutch at his bowels, turning them cold.

"And have you brought these ingredients to me?"

"No, my lord. The Tree Folk are powerful and vigilant. In the attempt to secure that which you seek, four of your servants were destroyed. Only two of us remained, and our escape was a near thing."

Dimma leaned back in his throne, the wood and ivory visible to the selkie through his master's body. "You are as powerful as three men, Kleg."

"Even so, my lord. The Tree Folk themselves are agile and strong, and they control their grove so that even such as we could not overcome them."

The Abet Blasa sat silently for a moment. "You are certain that which I require can be obtained from the Tree Folk?"

"Certain, my lord."

"Then it does not matter how agile or strong they are. I will have what I must have. You must do whatever is necessary to accomplish this task. Go and gather your brothers. A dozen, a hundred, as many as you think needed. All the beasts of the Sargasso are at your disposal."

"Your word is my life," Kleg said as he bowed and backed from the chamber.

Indeed, Dimma thought as he watched the selkie leave. Your life and the lives of ten times ten thousand are nothing compared to what I must have.

Dimma rose and floated across the huge room. Where he moved, the fog thickened about him, centering upon his person as if flowing from his body outward, and indeed that was the case.

Five hundred years past, Dimma had been a young and foolish student of the arts. In his travels, he had grown arrogant in his power. One fateful day, he sought to test the mettle of the Wizard of Koth, a shriveled and toothless old man whose reputation Dimma had carelessly deemed larger than his true power.

Dimma had been wrong. Toothless he might be, but the Wizard of Koth was not without a fierce and sorcerous bite. In the ensuing battle, the old man had died, but not without first laying his curse upon the cocky Dimma.

As he lay breathing his last, the old man had managed a smile. "You are a hard one," he'd said. "Flint and fired iron, and giving away nothing. But from this day forth, it shall not be so. You shall give away all; your body will become that of a man of mist, and ever shall you dwell in fog. So shall it be said, so shall it be done."

The old man had died then, and Dimma had been unworried. A dying curse was to be expected; he had weathered more than a few as he had slain various adepts. They meant nothing. He, Dimma, had stalked wizards of the Ring and of the Square. He had bested the yellow Seers of Turan, crushed the darkskinned spell singers of Zembabwei. One more mage meant little to him.

At first.

A month after his duel with the Wizard of Koth, Dimma sought his pleasure with a woman. He reached for her, and-His hand passed through her body!

Dimma fled from the encounter and convinced himself he had fallen prey to an illusion, a trick resulting from much wine and too little light, and at first, it seemed to be so. But during the ensuing months, the old Kothian's curse had flowered into a bitter, airy blossom. Dimma became more and more insubstantial, and there seemed no cure for it. It came and it went without reason.

He was not without skill, and he utilized all of it to rid himself of the geas, but it was to little avail. More and more of his time was spent as a creature less of flesh than of vapor. Days, sometimes weeks would pass before he regained the flesh. He could still perform most of his own conjurations, using one of his servants as a standin for those things needing a physical hand, but the other pleasures of the body were lost to him. He could not eat or drink or enjoy erotic pleasures with women, nor could he feel the sensations of heat or cold or texture. He became a kind of ghost, living in perpetual fog, a thing more brother to mist than to man.

Five hundred years is a long time, however, and the constant searching eventually turned up clues to a cure for the affliction. From a sacred cave in Stygia came a tattered scroll with part of the cure; from a ruined temple on Siptah's Isle came another part. Dimma's agents roamed to the Black Kingdoms-Kush, Darfar, Keshan, and Punt-as well as to the northern cold lands of Vanaheim and Asgard. No place was too distant to reach if some hope might be offered for a cure, no cost too great. Some of the spells collected stretched from before the time Atlantis had been swallowed by the sea.

At last, Dimma had the pieces of the puzzle he needed, all save one. And the final item lay practically in his own realm! He would have it at any cost. It had been twenty years since last he managed a few moments of solidity; he never knew for what reason or when he might be given a brief respite from his curse. Now he saw the end of his torment looming only days or weeks away, and he would use every bit of his not inconsiderable power to achieve that end, no matter if it required destruction of a kingdom!

Dimma felt a stray breeze lift and shift him sideways. Someone had left a door ajar or a window open, and that someone would die for the error. Soon he would not have to suffer such indignities, and woe to any man or anything that stood in Dimma's way.

Woe, indeed.

Chapter ONE

The narrow mountain path lay upon a steep grade, patches of loose gravel strewn over it, but the young man walking the route did so with both agility and grace. He was, after all, a Cimmerian, and those from the mountains of his birth learned to climb as soon as they could walk. The man was called Conan, and the slanting rays of the setting sun reflected from smoldering blue eyes framed by a thick, black square-cut mane that touched wide, heavy shoulders. Conan wore the hastily tanned hide of a wolf over his brawny back, short leathern breeches, and sandals with thongs that laced up around his muscular calves. The chilly mountain air nipped at the places where his skin lay bare, but he ignored the cold stoically. After the confinement of the vast underground system of the Black Cave in which he and his then companions almost died a dozen times, the open air was welcome, no matter what its temperature.

He was bound for Zamora, for the wicked city of Shadizar, wherein he intended to ply what he hoped would be the lucrative trade of thief. It was said that a quick wit, a strong arm, and a sharp blade were all a man needed to survive in Shadizar. Add to that a light touch and quick feet, and genuine prosperity could supposedly be had. Conan meant to find out if this was true. He was young, but his short life had given him a wealth of experience and he stood ready to add material wealth to his experience.

The trip thus far had taken much longer than he had thought it would; the gods kept putting obstacles in his path, albeit that some of them were attractive women, and his adventures had been more than a little perilous. Necromancers and wizards and monsters had bedeviled Conan-like most honest men, he had no use for magic-and between the beautiful desert woman Elashi, the long-dead zombie woman Tuanne, and the evil witch mistress of the caves, Chuntha, his desire for women of late had been more than slaked. He was alone again, and happy for it.

The path took a sharp turning to the right a few steps below where Conan walked, and from around that turn came a noise.

It was small, the sound barely enough for the Cimmerian's sharp ears to discern, but he stopped his progress immediately and drew the ancient blued-iron sword ensheathed at his side. The blade was solid and heavy, the hilt unadorned leather wrapping over the metal tang, and it had cost Conan a bout with a long-dead warrior who had been reduced to a living skeleton. The blade was of razor sharpness, kept so by Conan's application of whetstones after even the smallest usage.

Gripping the sword in two hands, after the manner of the warrior priests he had met in a mountain temple, Conan moved along the path, taking great care to avoid dislodging any of the small stones littering the hard ground. The sound could mean nothing, a rock contracting in the cold or a small animal scurrying about chasing an insect, but Conan had not survived this long in a dangerous world by taking foolish chances. Crom was his god, and Crom gave a man a measure of strength and wit at birth, then left the rest up to him. Any of Crom's children who failed to use both gifts properly need not waste breath trying to call for the god's help.

Keeping close to the wall of rock that bounded the path on the right, Conan reached the edge of the turn. Raising the sword so that it would not betray his presence, he quickly stepped around the corner and brought the blade down again, pointed at throat level.

Just ahead the path widened considerably where the mountain had been worn away by time and weather, and in the deep cleft of rock stood a half-naked woman with a long spear, her back to the stone, half-encircled by five man-sized dragons. A sixth dragon lay on its back nearby in a large pool of what Conan supposed was its own ichor. Clutched in its claws was a scrap of cloth that seemed to match the breechclout that was now the spearwoman's sole garment.

The cloth had been a costly trophy for the giant lizard, so it would seem.

Conan's recent adventures were much in his mind, so much so that his first thought upon viewing the scene in front of him was: Oh, no. Another woman.

The greenish-gray-scaled dragons stood upright, had long tails, pointed snouts and yellow eyes, and were not without peripheral vision. The nearest one either saw or smelled or heard the Cimmerian and flicked a glance in the man's direction. So still was Conan that the thing looked back toward its female prey, then snapped its attention-to Conan a second time. It made a burbling hiss, drawing the gazes of the other dragons.

Conan wondered how fast they were. Could he turn and flee without being caught? Well, likely not, the path being rather steep around the turn, and besides, there was the woman. Now that he looked closer, he could see bloody gouges on one of her shoulders, doubtless put there by the thing that had stolen her garment, and despite his danger, Conan had time to notice that the shoulder was well rounded and firm, and the breast next to it also well rounded and firm. Indeed, the woman's torso was more muscular than most women's he had seen, sinews shifting under the tanned skin as she shifted the spear in her grasp. It was not unattractive, the sight, and despite his resolve to avoid women for a time, he felt himself curious about this one.

The first dragon hissed and burbled again, and two of the other dragons shifted toward Conan, leaving two to watch the woman.

"Best you run, stranger," the woman said, her voice quite calm. "These are Korga, the Pili's hunting dogs."

Conan did not know who the Pili were, nor did he care. To the woman he said, "I am going south. Are these . . . ah, Korga apt to allow me to pass?"

"Nay, stranger."

"Well, then, I know how to deal with dogs, no matter what their shape," Conan said, loosening his grip on the sword, then re-forming it. To the dragons, he said, "Here, curs!"

But he did not wait for the Korga to gather themselves. Raising the heavy sword over his right shoulder as a man raises an ax for splitting firewood, he sprang. The closest dragon seemed startled by the man's sudden charge. It flashed wicked teeth, pointed and as long as a man's little finger, but before it could do more than bare these deadly fangs, Conan was upon it. The blade whistled in the cool evening air, and when it landed, it was not wood that split but the beast's skull. Gore splashed and the thing dropped, dead before it sprawled on the rocky ground.

Conan spun to his left to meet the charge of the second Korga. The thing hissed and burbled and clawed at the man, and its jaws snapped shut with a loud click, but missed as Conan dodged backward and swung the sword. The blade met scaled flesh, but the angle was bad and the sharpened iron merely tore a fist-size chunk of the beast's side away and flung it from the mountain. The monster howled liquidly and backed away a pace, lashing its thick tale in rage.

Conan sensed the approach of the third attacker, but it moved faster than he'd thought possible, and quick as the Cimmerian was, he could not better the dragon's speed. The thing barreled into him, knocking him from his feet. In the fall, Conan lost his grip on his sword, and it clattered to the ground half a body length away.

Catlike, the Cimmerian twisted, turning his fall into a dive. He rolled and came up, but the third Korga charged him before he could retrieve his blade. The pointed teeth loomed large in the gaping maw, and Conan drew back his fist. He would ram his hand down its throat. Maybe he could choke it before it bit his arm off-The dragon screeched and stumbled, then fell forward to land facedown at the Cimmerian's feet. What . . . ?

The woman's spear stood embedded deeply in the beast's back. She had sacrificed her weapon to save him!

Conan dived again, snatched up his blade, and sprinted toward the woman. She had fetched up a rock the size of a hen's egg, and as Conan ran, he saw her throw the stone at the nearer of the two Korga watching her. The missile struck the thing squarely on the chest, knocking it backward. The creature clasped its front claws to the injury, hissing and howling as might a cat tossed into a fire.

The Korga Conan had wounded earlier sought to stop the man's charge, but Conan's powerful right arm and shoulder arced the sword in a one-handed cut that ripped out the beast's throat. It fell, mortally wounded.

Three down, two more to go.

The woman bent for another rock, but the second of the two Korga she faced hopped in and grabbed her. It lifted her clear off the ground, and Conan realized he would arrive too late to save her; it opened its mouth to bite off her head-She poked the monster in the eye with her finger.

The Korga dropped the woman and clapped its claws to its injured eye; it danced around in a circle with the pain and outrage. Unfortunately for the Korga, that was to be its last dance, for Conan held his sword point forward and ran the monster through, spitting it neatly. If a lizard the size of a man could look surprised, this one did as it fell, its spirit already on the way to the Gray Lands to join those of its dead brothers.

The last Korga found itself with a bruised chest and all alone against two opponents. The woman came up with another rock and hurled it with good effect, smacking into the Korga's belly as Conan stalked forward with his bloody weapon lifted. The Korga apparently decided it had had enough, for it turned and left in a great hurry. The woman tossed another rock after it, but missed, and the thing fled down the mountain path much faster than a running man could hope to match.

Not that Conan was really interested in chasing it. He took a few halfhearted steps after the thing, waving his sword and yelling, but the farther away it got, the better, as far as he was concerned.

When he turned back toward the woman, she was retrieving her garment from the claws of the dead Korga. Conan watched as she donned the ripped but still serviceable sleeveless jerkin and pulled it shut with a thin belt. A pity, that, Conan thought, because she was quite a well-endowed woman, for all her muscle. Those feelings toward women he had thought slaked now reared again, as if the past months had not existed.

"I owe you my life, stranger," she said, and smiled.

Conan gestured with his sword at the spear standing from the killed beast. "And I owe you mine. Consider us even on that score."

"Done. I am Cheen, medicine woman of the Tree Folk." She went to retrieve her spear.

"I am called Conan, of Cimmeria."

"Well met, Conan, from the top of the world."

"You know Cimmeria?"

"We have heard of it. My grove is but half a day's journey from here. Would you stop and rest and eat with us?"

Conan had been several weeks on the trail and in no hurry for much company, but this woman who could slay dragons with such offhand calmness intrigued him. "Aye, I suppose my journey would not suffer greatly for such hospitality."

"Come, then. It will be dark soon and best we find a safe place for camp. Night travel in the mountains is not without its dangers."

Conan looked at the dead beasts. "Nor would daylight seem to be altogether trouble free."

"There are things in these hills after dark that make the Pili's dogs look like tame pups," she said.

"By all means, then, let us find a campsite."

As they moved along the mountain path, Cheen told Conan of the Pili.

"They are like men," she said, "but also distant kin to the Korga. Warm blood flows in their veins, but it is lizard blood to be sure. They inhabit the desert two days' journey past my grove. They eat people when they capture them."

Conan considered this. "Can one travel south to Shadizar without traversing this Pili desert?"

"There are ways to skirt their territory, yes."

"Good." Conan was afraid of no man in a stand-up fight, but the idea of walking across a wasteland of maneaters who used tame dragons for dogs held little appeal.

None, actually.

He did not ask what Cheen had been doing alone in such dangerous territory, it being none of his business, but she volunteered the information. "I have been for the last moon seeking a plant that grows in these hills. A kind of toadstool used in our religious ceremonies. Such fungi grow only on the dung of the wild mountain goats, these goats unfortunately being also a favorite prey of the Pili when they cannot obtain human meat."

Conan grunted noncommittally. Religion was another form of magic; he preferred to have no truck with it either, but he did not begrudge those who did.

"I have found enough for our next True Seeing." Hereupon she opened a small purse tied to her belt and showed Conan some dank-smelling little brown mushrooms. "Properly mixed and consecrated, the brew made from these allows one to see one's god."

Again Conan shrugged. He could do without such sights. He had more in mind filling his senses with good wine, better food, well-made weapons, and well-made women, all of which would be available to a rich thief in Shadizar. Let the priests see to the gods, a man had enough to worry about without that.

As the sun touched the western horizon, they came upon a wide ledge twice a tall man's height above the trail and climbed up to it. Cheen climbed well, better in fact than Conan had ever seen any woman climb. She was like a spider as she moved up the rock, finding toe and fingerholds he would have thought impossible for any save a Cimmerian.

Once on the ledge, they built tall cairns of loose rock on both ends so that nothing larger than a rabbit could approach without tumbling the barriers. A dead bush on the rock face gave them tinder and fuel for a small fire, and it was but the work of a moment for Conan to strike sparks from a flint and a hardened chunk of melted iron he carried for that purpose to start the fire. He had a skin of water and several strips of dried squirrel jerky the two of them shared as night laid its dark shroud over the land.

The night was cold and the fire offered but a small warmth. Conan was of a mind to offer to share his wolf-pelt cloak with Cheen. He did so, but she only smiled and told him it was not necessary.

Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had more in mind to share with her than merely the cloak and she somehow sensed this. Women were adept at knowing such things, he had found, though the how of it had eluded him. In his travels, Conan had met many men, but never one who claimed to understand the minds of women. Well, no, there had been one who said he knew exactly what women wanted, but he had also thought that the world was round, like a ball, and that he could fly by flapping his arms like a bird. That one had tried his second theory from the roof of the tallest structure in the village in which he had lived, a water tower ten times a man's-height. He had not survived the test. Mad as a pig full of wine, he had been.

He wondered at times if a man who truly understood women existed anywhere.

With those thoughts in his mind, Conan drifted into a sound slumber.

Chapter TWO

The morning broke crisply, the sun's rays slanting over the eastern hilltops to paint pink and yellow the ledge upon which Conan and Cheen lay. Conan stirred easily from sleep, alert and a bit stiff from his bed on solid rock.

The woman awakened as Conan rekindled the fire and began to warm his hands against the morning's chill.

"Slept you well?" she asked.

"Aye. As always."

After sharing the last of Conan's dried meat and rinsing it down with water from his skin, they descended the cliff face. Once again, Conan was impressed by the woman's agility. She moved like the snow monkeys of Cimmeria, never a slip or slide as she clambered downward.

Conan, never loath to recognize a notable skill, remarked upon Cheen's ability as they attained the trail.

She smiled. "We do some climbing where I come from. But I confess that I am least among those who have real talent at it. It is good that I am a medicine woman, for I would make a poor hunter."

Conan did not speak to this, but he was surprised. If she were the least climber among her people, what must the best be like? Perhaps they could even rival Cimmerians for agility.

As the sun rose to his highest perch, Conan followed Cheen downward toward a green valley in the distance. Aye, it was as if some god had a particular fondness for the hue, splashing verdaccio and emerald and olive everywhere.

The path twisted and turned upon itself as it worked its serpentine way around the mountain's side. Because of the circuitous nature of the hike, Conan did not see the forest until it practically stared them in the face. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps his hearing had gone bad, for to be so close to such a large wood, surely there should have been sounds his ears could detect?

But, no. The Cimmerian's eyes gave him the truth after a moment. The forest was in fact much farther away than first he had thought. The trees were of such proportions that they appeared like a glen of normal oaks, but Conan quickly realized that these trees were much larger than any he had seen before. There were hundreds of them, and unless Conan was very much mistaken, this grove of trees was full of giants, thrice the height of the tallest he had ever seen before. Crom, they must be fifty times the height of a man or more, massive plants that reached for the roof of the world.

As the pair drew nearer the grove of giants, Conan saw that there were houses built in the branches, an entire village mounted in the sky. Some of the constructions were relatively low to the ground, not more than ten spans up; some were much higher. There was no undergrowth, the ground being bare save for a carpet of dead leaves. He wondered whether this was because the thick canopy stopped light and rain from reaching the ground or if it were from design.

Had Conan half a dozen brothers his own size, it would have been impossible for them to link hands and surround the largest of the wooden monsters; even the smaller trees dwarfed the biggest normal trunk Conan had ever beheld.

"My grove," Cheen said.

"Your people live in the trees," Conan said.

"Aye. We are born, we live, and we die there."

"I can see how it is you know something of climbing."

"For a groundling, you have no small ability yourself." She smiled at him. "Especially seeing how ... large you are. None of our men approach your size."

They reached the base of the nearest tree. Conan looked up into the crown. The mighty limbs extended from the trunk in a rough circle, narrowing as they went up. The bark was smooth to his touch, a reddish color with patches peeled away to show a lighter color underneath. The leaves were long, triple-pointed, and the size of a man's hand, a dark, waxy green that was almost black in color.

There at the bottom of the tree was a skin the size of a shield stretched tightly over what seemed a hollow. Cheen used the butt end of her spear to rap the skin, which boomed like a drum. She tapped on the tree drum for a time, a rhythmic musical pattern. A few moments after she finished her drumming, something dropped from the lower branches toward them.

Instantly Conan drew his sword and made ready to cut the falling mass.

"Hold," Cheen said. "There is no danger."

Indeed Conan saw this even as she spoke. What fell from above was a kind of ladder. Conan moved closer to examine it and saw that it was plaited from strands of flexible vine, a thick rope with hollow knots that formed foot and handholds. He sheathed his blade.

"What if some attacker came and pounded up your drum?"

"Each of the Tree Folk has his or her own song," she said. "No two are alike. The watch knows them all. A strange song would likely draw a spear or shower of arrows."

Conan nodded. Attacking those who lived in the trees would be a difficult task. A dozen men with axes might labor a day to chop down a single tree, and a rain of arrows, spears, or even rocks would make such a chore dangerous and unpleasant at best. The lack of undergrowth would keep a fire from being a threat to those above, and it would take a large fire indeed to light one of the trunks. Conan took all this in with a practiced, albeit young military eye. He would not wish to lead the army of men who would make war on these Tree Folk.

"Shall we go up?" Cheen asked.

"After you," Conan said.

His courtesy was rewarded when he looked up as Cheen climbed a span above him. Her legs were not unpleasant to look upon.

As they left the vine rope, a short, stout woman greeted Cheen. This was the watch, and she was armed with a spear and an obsidian dagger as long as Conan's forearm. A bow and a quiverful of arrows leaned against the main trunk nearby, and a pile of rocks each as big as a man's head was held in place by vines next to the bow. As Conan had surmised earlier, coming up uninvited might be a perilous adventure.

Even a normal man would have little trouble balancing upon the thick branch upon which Conan followed Cheen. It was as wide as Conan's shoulders and the smooth bark had been shaved so that it was flat under his bare feet. He had removed his sandals and hung them over one shoulder for the climb and he saw no need to replace them.

Ahead loomed a large structure. This had been built from a platform on the branch upon which Conan now trod, and the edifice extended upward to connect to several other limbs. Conan noticed that the house was structured of the same wood that formed the giant tree, various-sized branches lashed together with vines like the one they'd ascended on. It was obviously of human construction, but looked like nothing so much as a giant wasp nest or beehive. Standing at the doorway to the building were two women dressed similarly to Cheen. Each woman was as well thewed as the medicine woman, and each held a short spear that rested its butt upon the wooden platform that formed a stoop to the house.

More women. Where were the men?

The guards nodded at Cheen, and she entered the house. Conan followed her. Holes in the roof provided sufficient light so that the Cimmerian could see. The room bore a long, low pallet against one wall and a carved chair in the center that faced a window opposite the door. Seated in the chair was an old woman, hair like snow, face eroded by time and sun. She wore a multihued green cloak wrapped about her body, the bright dyes almost luminous in the dim light. Her arms were bare, and though she was old, the lines of her arms and shoulders were deeply etched with tight muscle.

"Ho, Vares!" Cheen called.

The old woman turned away from her window and smiled at Cheen. "Ho, Cheen! It went well, your quest?"

Cheen lifted the bag containing the mushrooms she had shown Conan. "Yes, mistress. We can call the gods once again."

Vares nodded. "This is good. I had thought the next time I saw them might be after crossing the Gray Lands." She looked pointedly at Conan. "You have brought us a guest?"

"Aye, mistress. This is Conan of Cimmeria. When I was beset by the Pili's dogs at Donar Pass, he came to my aid."

The old woman smiled. "Accept my gratitude, Conan of Cimmeria. I should have hated to lose my eldest daughter."

"It was a mutual effort," Conan said.

Vares laughed. "What is this? A man who does not brag?"

Conan looked at Cheen, one eyebrow raised in question.

Cheen said, "Among our people, the men are great . . . storytellers. Sometimes they embroider their tales with, ah, exaggerations."

"I have seen no men here," Conan said. This was perhaps blunt, but in Cimmeria, no one was faulted for directness. In some of the more so-called civilized lands through which he had traveled, it seemed that lying was a virtue, a thing that Conan could not understand.

"Ah. Come and look, then," Vares said. "Tair is teaching Hok the spring dance." She pointed toward the uncovered window.

Conan moved to look.

Leading away from Vares's house was a branch that thinned considerably after only a short distance. The limbs of the next tree intertwined with those of the one in which Conan stood, passing above and below; indeed, there was within his sight a virtual forest of arm-and leg-thick branches, mostly bare of leaves.

Running at speed along one of the branches was a short, well-made man dressed only in a sea green breechcloth. He ran as if the branch were as wide as a town road, and he laughed as he moved. Behind him a few paces, also running, was a boy. Conan guessed the boy's age at perhaps twelve winters, and he, too, was dressed in no more than a simple wrap of cloth about his loins.

Conan watched, intrigued, as the man leaped high into the air and came down near the end of the tree limb. That far out, the branch was very thin indeed, and it bent under the man's weight. Surely he would fall . . . ?

But-no. The bent branch recoiled, and the man flew upward into the air, propelled by the springy wood, so that he soared briefly like a bird. Still rising, he tucked himself into a ball and somersaulted, flipping forward much like an acrobat Conan had seen at a fair as a boy.

The man opened from his tuck and extended his arms and hands. He caught a tree limb fully three spans higher than the one from which he had leaped, and spun around it. All of a single move, he twirled, his legs up and in a heartbeat hung head down by the backs of his knees, body outstretched, arms extended again.

Under the man, the boy sprang, using the limb for thrust. He, too, tucked into a tight ball and spun, turning once, twice, snapping open, arms outstretched. The man and boy met sharply, palms on each other's wrists, and swung back and forth for a second until the man flexed and tossed the boy up and overhead to perch lightly on the limb. After a moment, the man pulled himself up to sit next to the boy.

"The man is Tair," Cheen said, "the boy Hok. My mother's second child and her youngest."

"Your brothers," Conan said.

"Aye."

"A dangerous game they play. What if Tair should miss catching the boy?"

"There are many branches between there and the ground," Cheen said, shrugging. "Hok would likely find one."

"And if he did not?"

"Life is full of risks, is it not?"

Conan nodded. "Aye." Not every Cimmerian reached adulthood, either. A hardy people, these.

"Come," Cheen said, "you have shared your food and drink with me, it is only right that I offer you the hospitality our poor tree can provide.

Kleg did not like being so far away from water, and he especially did not like this particular kind of land, the dry and sandy region men called desert. True, he and his brothers had only a short stretch of the desert to cross, a finger of the land belonging to the lizards. Were the Pili to discover Kleg and his troop, they would no doubt be unhappy to the point of a killing attack, but this strip of their territory was far from the main concentration of the foul-smelling reptiles and likely to be unnoticed. And if not, well, too bad. He Who Creates had ordered that Kleg go to the forest folk's domain by the fastest route; a detour to avoid all the Pili's lands would add two days to the journey. He Who Creates was not to be disobeyed. Those who dared to trifle with Him usually lived only just long enough to regret it.

Kleg sat perched uncomfortably upon the back of the scrat, a stupid, mean-spirited beast with four thick stumpy legs, a hide like moss-covered rock, and a tendency to bite anything it could reach. Half again Kleg's own height, they were grass-eaters, the scrats, and would spend all their time feeding if allowed to do so; they could, however, store vast quanties of fat in the big humps they carried over their hindquarters, and could go weeks without eating or drinking. Would that He Who Creates had given the packbeasts a better disposition and a body odor other than that of week-old dead fish.

Kleg turned to look at his troop. A score of his brother selkies followed his lead, many on scrats, some on foot, and all looking as uncomfortable in this barren, dry land as Kleg himself felt. He would prefer to be in the cool waters of home, his body shifted into the smooth and powerful form that was his natural shape. Ah, to be long and sinuous with rows of sharp teeth to rend his prey, his fins cutting powerfully through the water, feeding, then chasing the willing females for other pleasures ....

You dream, Kleg. He Who Creates did not make you for your pleasure, but to serve. Maybe once you fetch this thing He desires, you may be allowed some measure of relaxation; until then, best you take care of your task. Recall what happens to those who fail Him.

Kleg shuddered at the memory of the last Prime Brother. He Who Creates had set the Prime to some chore and the Prime had failed. When He Who Creates had finished with the Prime, the bits and pieces that remained had been fed to the scavengers. Horribly, even those scraps had seemed aware, wanting to scream, right up until they were consumed.

No, dream of swimming the dark waters after you achieve your goal, Kleg. Not before.

In the deep rock of the Pili's main cave, Rayk hissed at Thayla, his queen and mate. "Witch! What would you have of me?"

The Queen of the Pili reclined on a mound of furred cushions, her pale blue skin bare save for a gossamer gown of translucent red. Long ago, the Pili had been scaled, but after a million years of change, they could pass for men in dim light. They had no hair, their ears were somewhat smaller, but their blood was warm and they bore their young alive and nursed them as did mammals. Thayla's shape was that of a woman, her hips wide, her breasts heavy and full, and the thinness of her lips and the catlike pupils of her eyes did not detract from her exotic beauty.

Thayla smiled. "Why, I would have you do nothing, husband and King. The same as you always do." She watched ,him fume, his anger growing. Thayla knew precisely how to enrage Rayk. He was the strongest of the Pili, the fastest runner, without fear when facing an enemy, but in her hands, he was as a child.

"Thayla-"

"No, husband, you are right. The Tree Folk are strong in their high perches. Of course, had we the Talisman of the Forest, we, too, could fill our desert with lush growth and no longer have to scratch out a bare living."

"You lie on your cushions wrapped in the finest silks and talk about scratching out a bare living?"

"I am queen," she said. "Luxury is my right. Others of us are not so fortunate."

"And they would be less fortunate still were I to have them slaughtered under the big trees for your ambition."

"Surely there must be another way."

"Surely there must, but no Pili has discovered it in a thousand years."

"And would not the bards sing your glory forever were you the one to devise such a way?"

He stood there staring at the tapestry woven by the Seventh Queen of the Pili more than twelve centuries past. The cloth painting showed the legendary Stak, the First King, leading a great army of Pili against humans in the Battle of Aranza. The bards still sang of the battle, in which men were driven from the Pili kingdom. Alas, that was long ago, and the numbers of the Pili had decreased even as those of men had grown. Now, only a few hundred of the Pili remained.

"Aye," Rayk finally said. "With such a magical device, we could move to the middle of the Great Desert, far from the reach of men, and regain our former strength."

"Well, then," Thayla said, "perhaps we can devise such a plan together, you and L"

She shifted her legs, allowing the red silk to fall away, revealing her body to Reyk. She smiled, and this one was of invitation and not scorn.

Reyk took a deep breath and released it, then moved toward her. "Perhaps," he said. His voice was little more than a whisper when he said, "You are a Paphian witch."

She laughed. "Aye, husband, come to your whore."

There was nothing humble about the feast spread before Conan. Upon a platform higher in the tree lay fruits, meats, a kind of bread, cheeses, and several wooden jars of wine. Steam rose from the cooked foods, and as Conan ate, he remarked on this to Cheen. "I would think fire a danger here."

"We floor our fireplaces with stone, as do ground dwellers. The wood of our trees is living, and therefore less likely to burn than the dead and dry timbers used for houses upon the earth."

Conan chewed on a bite of bread, then washed it down with a gulp of red wine. That made sense. "So, your people stay in the trees all the time?"

"Only most of the time. It is a rite of passage among us to descend to the ground for testing. And there are certain plants for medicines, materials such as stone and so forth, that must be gathered. Most of what we need is provided by the trees. We are content with our lot."

"How did these giant trees come to be?"

Cheen looked away, then back at Conan. "They have always been here," she said.

Something changed in her voice as she said this, and Conan knew she was lying. Some secret connected to the tree dwellers' homes. Ah, well. It was not his business. He would eat and rest and be on his way.

Shadizar awaited.

Chapter THREE

Abruptly, Dimma became solid.

It came upon him unexpectedly as always, and it had been years since he'd worn the flesh, so for a brief moment, he was overwhelmed with the sensations that arrived. He felt a coolness on his skin, a heaviness as vapor froze into muscle and bone and coursing blood, and even the itch on one arm was welcome. He was a man again!

There in his throne room, Dimma shouted for his selkie guards. They came on the run. There was no way to predict how long it would last, his return to real substance, and he knew he wanted to experience as many pleasures of the flesh as possible, as soon as possible.

"Bring me food, anything with taste! Call the witch woman Seg to me, hurry! A chamber pot! My meridian needles! Move! Now!"

The selkies sprinted to comply. They had been drilled in this exercise dozens of times, so that not an instant would be lost should Dimma coalesce from his normal state into that which he had once been.

As his servants rushed to obey him, Dimma stood and stretched, feeling the crackle of cartilage in his joints, the fibers of muscles throughout his form. -Ah, this was bliss! His legs quivered at the unaccustomed weight upon them, his feet gloried in the coldness of the floor beneath them, he was aware of every inch of himself, of the air he breathed, the pull of the earth, the sounds of his heart pumping blood through his vessels. Gods, no man better appreciated his body than did Dimma in that moment.

A selkie rushed in carrying a tray piled high with steaming fish, a haunch of some denizen of the Sargasso, some greenish red fruit. For being the first to bring Dimma such a treat, the Mist Mage would reward the selkie with anything in his power to grant. Dimma grabbed at the food with both hands and savagely bit into whatever was topmost.

The scent of it nearly took his head off; the taste of fish brought tears it was so good.

The selkie stood holding the tray as Dimma grabbed at the contents and thrust hands full toward his mouth. The texture, the taste, the heat, the smell!

A second selkie arrived with Dimma's meridian needles, and the Mist Mage turned from the food, grease running down his chin, and snatched the po needle up and jammed it into his wrist, interrupting the flow of see energy in the invisible channel, causing a flowering of hot pain that raced through him. Even to feel pain again was a joy!

Seg arrived. in the chamber, naked save for a hastily thrown-on cloak of sealskin. "To me, quickly!" Dimma ordered.

The witch started to shrug away the cloak.

"Leave it! I would touch it and you together."

Seg complied. He had not been able to lie with her for twenty years, but she was no less beautiful now than she had been then: her skin was ivory, her hair a raven's wing, her breasts and thighs and womanhood lush and inviting.

"Hurry," he said. The last time, he had become mist while with Seg, before he could accomplish what he set out to do. "Hurry!" he said as he pulled her toward him. By all the Gods, she felt so good! They fell to the floor together.

Prudently, the selkies looked away.

Kleg stopped his troops a few hours away from the Tree Folk's grove. They had passed a band of the Pili's hunting beasts, those nasty upright reptiles, only a short way back, but the dogs had been few in number and had declined to offer the selkie group any resistance. Doubtless they rushed to report the passage to their masters, but by the time that happened, the selkies were long out of Pili territory.

One problem was solved, but the major one remained: how were they to obtain the talisman He Who Creates desired? It was, Kleg knew, the most holy of the Tree Folk's relics, and they were not apt to part with it willingly. Kleg could have fielded an army ten times the number of the band he had brought, but he also knew that such an effort would have been pointless. The trees were too well fortified to storm by main force. The last time they tried a direct attack had been a disaster.

No, this called for guile, and he had only brought enough help to give the Tree Folk something upon which to focus while he worked out a means to obtain by subterfuge that which he must have. Kleg had not risen to be Prime due to a lack of wits. There had to be a way, and he would find it. Else he would no longer be Prime-or anything else. Such a spur provided him with excellent motivation. Achieve or die, that was the whole of it.

Kleg looked into the distant valley. He had several ideas; time, then, to winnow them and see what remained.

Cheen went off to make preparations for a ceremony scheduled for that night, leaving Conan in the company of her brothers, Tair and Hok. Their meeting had been amicable enough, though Conan was more than a little amused at the puffery of both the older and younger males.

"Ah, the giant barbarian of which I have heard," Tair said. Standing next to him, Conan realized how small the man was; he barely reached the center of Conan's chest in height; he was shorter than Cheen by half a handspan. "I myself am the largest among the Tree Folk, both in what you see and what is covered." He dropped a hand to his breechcloth and winked at Conan.

"I shall leave you men to your lies," Cheen said.

After she departed, Tair and Hok took Conan on a tour of the trees. Each was linked to at least one other, Tair said, by vine bridges, so that one could move from one side of the grove to the other without difficulty. He, Tair, had personally built the highest and best of the bridges, with, he admitted, some small help from insignificant others.

Conan grinned. The bragging was so overt that it was not offensive. Tair could not open his mouth without crowing, and the boy Hok strived mightily to emulate his older brother.

"You saw my spring dance?" the boy said. "Tair says I am the best of all my age and better than many who are winters older, and it .must be so for him to say it."

Conan nodded and tried not to laugh.

As they wended their way through the branches and across the bridges, Conan saw that indeed this was an entire village amongst the boughs, lacking little, if anything, that a similar town on the ground would have. Here, leaf-eating creatures were penned in small corrals; there, small gardens grew from dirt carefully mounded on thick tree limbs; over there, a platform large enough to hold fifty people was built and centered around one of the trees. Only such giants of the forest would support so much activity, but the Tree Folk had adapted themselves to a life in the air quite well. In Cimmeria, Crom lived under a mountain. What manner of gods would a tree people worship?

The three came to a bridge upon which there were four men. A dead limb had apparently fallen from some height, landing upon the bridge, and the angle of it made passage difficult. The four men were attempting to remove the obstruction, without apparent success. The limb was as thick as Conan's thigh and quite long, and the bridge was bent low under the weight.

"I am the strongest in the grove," Tair said. "I shall show these weaklings how a man moves a twig." He puffed up his chest and walked to where the four men were. There was a brief exchange, which became rather heated. Apparently the four did not wish for Tair to move the limb, thereby making them look ineffectual. Conan grinned.

After a moment, though, Tair squatted next to the branch and made as if to lift it. To his credit, he was able to move it slightly upward, but even as he sputtered and strained, it was apparent to Conan that the little man did not have the required strength.

Conan moved to where Tair grunted and heaved at the limb. "Heavy?" Conan said.

Tair desisted from his labor. "Indeed. If I cannot move it, no man among us can."

"Let me try."

"You are large, but size does not always mean strength."

"True."

"Still, you may try."

Conan took a wide stance and gripped the limb. He strained as his mighty legs began to straighten, and he felt the weight and knew he could lift the branch, albeit not easily. The weight began to move, then Conan glanced at Tair, and saw the man's worried frown. It came to Conan suddenly that if he managed the task, then Tair would no longer be the strongest man in the trees.

Conan considered it for a moment. He could move the branch and such would make him admired for his power by most, but Tair would suffer a loss of pride. And since such things were so highly valued among these men, Conan decided upon a second course of action.

The big Cimmerian relaxed and the branch settled. He saw a look of relief pass over Tair's features. "It is very heavy," Conan said.

Tair nodded.

"Those four could not move it, nor could you. And you have seen what I have done."

Tair said, "Aye."

"Perhaps the two of us can do what the four of them could not?"

The little man grinned. "Surely so."

Tair moved to stand next to Conan, and the two of them heaved upward against the branch. Conan took care not to lift too much, so that Tair felt his share of the weight. The dead branch came up and flipped over the side of the bridge to crash to the ground far below. The bridge sprang upward at the loss of weight, but none on it had trouble maintaining his footing.

Tair turned to the four. "See what men with real strength can do? This is Conan from the top of the world, and he is my friend!"

Tair slapped Conan on the back, and they and Hok proceeded upon their explorations.

Conan knew he had made a friend and not an enemy by his action, and he felt good for having done so.

Thayla moved from her pile of furred cushions where her husband slept the sleep of exhaustion. She smiled to herself as she went to see the root witch for a potion that would ensure she did not conceive from her just-finished activity with Rayk. Now was not the time to be great with child. No, soon her ambition to be queen of much more than a patch of scrub desert would begin to realize itself, and she needed to be able to guide that endeavor without any complications. There was much out there in the world that she would enjoy; Thayla would not be content to lie back and miss all the pleasures that power had to offer her. She had developed a liking for the forbidden and she would indulge herself more in it. One pleasure in particular fascinated her.

When the occasional human was captured, it meant for the Pili a feast. There was no taste to compare with manflesh, properly prepared, and all the Pili relished such treats. But sometimes, before the captives were cooked and eaten, they were kept alive for a time, to be fattened or flavored by special diets. And as queen, Thayla had access to these captives.

The idea at first had repelled her, but over time, she came to see certain desires as being her right. Rayk did not know, of course; only few of her trusted servants knew, but thrice, Thayla had taken her pleasure with human men in the same way she had just taken it with her husband. Such a thing was forbidden by Pili law, but she was, after all, queen, and in her mind, above the laws. Human men were different from Pili males, they smelled differently, acted differently, and they were ... larger in certain areas. Considerably so. Her first encounter with an aroused man had amazed her. She had not thought it possible to manage him, but she had, and she had found the sensation more pleasurable than ever it had been with Rayk, or any of the other Pili she sometimes took as lovers.

Alas, human captives were few and far between. Most of that race either did not know the Pili existed, or they had sense enough to avoid Pili territory. But if the Pili could grow in numbers, if they could find a place wherein they would not be bothered until they could become strong again, why, then, they could venture forth to ensnare unwary humans with more frequency. It would please her greatly should this come to pass, and she was just the person to manipulate it into happening. Rayk was strong and brutal, but he was a fool; she was the power behind him, and with sufficient prodding, he would do as she wished. He always had, and she had no intention of being thwarted in this desire.

As she approached the root witch's cave, Thayla smiled again. Life was easy for those who knew how to live it.

Chapter FOUR

Night stole into the valley like a master thief and draped her ebon and starry cloak over the giant trees. The sounds of chittering birds and insects formed a shifting web in the dark foliage, and torches guttered in their holders around the large platform Conan had seen earlier.

Cheen had invited him to the ceremony-there was to be a feast and plenty of wine-and Conan, never one to turn down a celebration, agreed to attend. He could return to his journey in the morning.

Only the leaders of each tree and their spouses would be allowed to partake of the potion Cheen had created this time, she told Conan. Eventually all of the Tree Folk would have their chance, but due to the scarcity of the ingredients, only small numbers could enjoy the Seeings at each ceremony.

When they arrived at the platform, at least thirty or forty people were already there, with others occupying a smaller platform nearby. Some of the celebrants sang, low and droning melodies, accompanied by musicians on drums and with wooden flutes. Conan noticed a number of coils of thin rope stacked near one edge of the platform, but before he could ask about these, Cheen said, "I must go to honor my mother. Will you be all right alone?"

Conan laughed. "The day a Cimmerian cannot manage to survive a friendly celebration will be the day the sun ceases to shine."

With Cheen vanished into the crowd, Conan wandered to a large table replete with food and drink. He sampled various roasted meats, tasted several wines, and decided that the Tree Folk were adept at both cooking and vintnery.

There was a large wooden bowl of dark red wine in the center of the table that was as good as any Conan had ever had. He dipped one of the wooden cups with the ornately carved handles into the wine for a second serving, and decided that there certainly must be worse places for a man to spend his time than in these trees.

A short while later, Cheen returned to find Conan. He was feeling extraordinarily good, and he grinned widely at her.

"The ceremony is about to begin," she said. "Are you certain you do not wish to partake?"

"Thank you, but nay. Your people set a fine table, Cheen, and I have sated myself with both food and wine. That dark wine is especially potent."

"Dark wine?"

"In the large wooden bowl." Conan waved at the table behind him.

"You drank from that bowl?"

"Aye. Two cups' worth. I was sorely tempted to have more, so good was it, but I thought not to be greedy."

"Who is your god, Conan?"

"My god? Why, Crom the Warrior, who lives under the Mountain of Heroes. Why do you ask?"

She laid one hand on his solid shoulder and smiled at him. "Because the wine in the sacred bowl from which you drank is the same in which the Seeing medicine was mixed."

That took a moment to sink into Conan's consciousness. "What?"

"If the potion works for you as it does for us, you shall have an opportunity to see, your god shortly."

Conan stared at her. "Is there an antidote for your potion?"

"I am afraid not."

Conan considered that for a moment. To see Crom? He was not at all certain that he desired to do that.

Kleg lay hidden by the night only a few paces away from one of the large trees, considering his options. There appeared to be some kind of ritual going on in the trees; a large number of the Tree Folk sang and danced on a large platform twenty times his height above the ground. His own troops rested less than half an hour behind him. The talisman he sought was, he knew, in this very tree. The capture and torture of one of the residents had revealed this knowledge sometime past, and the revelry above might well play into Kleg's hands. Under the dark's helpful cover, a few of the selkies might ascend the trunk of the giant tree, using the special gloves and boots made of shark-brother's hide and teeth. While a distraction on the other side of the grove drew their attention, he could try for the prize. Probably some of the guards would be sober, but with that many drunks wandering around, surely their vigilance might be lax?

Abruptly, Kleg decided. Yes. He would take two of his brothers with him and the rest would raise a din elsewhere once he and his two soldiers reached a position from which they could strike at their goal.

Kleg hurried back through the dark toward his hidden troops. The night was young, and in an hour or two, they could be ready to move.

Conan awoke suddenly. His head hurt, and he felt muzzy. He sat up. What had happened . . . ?

Ah. He recalled. That dark wine, the potion . . .

He observed his surroundings. He was on the platform, and there were perhaps two dozen of the Tree Folk lying asleep or sitting groggily around him; night still held sway, and Conan could not say how long he had slept. Apparently Cheen's potion did not affect Cimmerians in the same manner as it did her people. Just as well "Ho, Conan!" The voice was loud, impossibly deep, vibrant with power, alive with force.

Conan turned.

Standing on the end of the platform was a giant of a man, half again Conan's height, thickly muscled, clad in fur boots and a wolfskin codpiece, his bare chest gleaming with oil in the flickering light of the dimming torches. The man had a full beard, his teeth shining whitely in a huge smile, and upon his dark red hair he wore an ornate bronze helmet bearing a pair of long and curved horns. Here was a warrior, no doubt of it, a man to inspire awe.

Conan got to his feet. "Who calls Conan?"

The giant laughed. "Do you not recognize me?"

Conan felt a fluttery sensation in his bowels, as if something alive were being kept captive there and had suddenly grown most unhappy about it. Surely it could not be? In that moment, however, he felt certain that indeed it was.

"Crom," he said, his voice very soft.

"In the flesh, boy. Come to see what I have made."

Conan licked suddenly dry lips. One did not meet a god every day. "What would you have of me?"

"Why, nothing, boy. You have nothing to offer. You are a weakling."

Anger welled in Conan, and the dullness in his smoldering blue eyes vanished, growing preternaturally sharp. "No man calls Conan a weakling!"

"No man has, fool."

Conan removed his sword and sheath from his belt and set it upon the platform.

"What think you are doing now?" Crom asked.

Conan flexed his hands, rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and took a step forward. "I would show you that you are in error," Conan said.

Crom laughed again. "You would grapple with me? You would dare wrestle a god?"

"Aye. There is little a Cimmerian will not dare."

"I think perhaps I gave you too much bravery and not enough wits."

"Perhaps." Conan continued stalking toward the giant.

"Very well, then, Conan of Fooleria. Come and pit your strength against mine."

Conan nodded. Certainly there were worse ways to die than wrestling with your god; there could hardly be a harder challenge. Not that he intended to lose.

Conan gathered his muscles for a leap, took two more quick steps, and leaped for Crom And jumped right off the platform into empty air.

Conan had time to hear Crom laugh and see him vanish as he fell toward the ground, so far below as to be invisible in the night. He also had time to remember that Crom was supposedly most fond of jesting and that this joke was certainly well played upon Conan ....

Kleg directed the bulk of his force to a position some distance away from the target tree. He handed the subleader a stubby candle protected from stray breezes by a thin, hollow crystal open at the top and bottom. The small light within was hidden by a cover of ray hide. "When the flame reaches the second ring, start your attack. Make a lot of noise, bang shields and spears together, start little fires, I care not, only be certain to attract a lot of attention. Wait until the flame touches the second ring so that we shall have time to reach our goal."

"As you command, Prime."

With his two strongest troopers, Kleg returned to the target, moving with great care. The whole of his force wore dark clothing over their already-dark skin, and the chances of being seen were slight, at least until they were into the tree itself.

The three put on their shark-hide-and-teeth gloves and boots and began to climb. The sharp teeth bit into the smooth bark like claws, allowing them to inch their way upward. Once they attained the lower branches, it would go much faster.

Nearing the place where a guard stood on a limb, Kleg had one of his troopers move around where he might be seen. Sure enough, the guard heard or saw something.

"Who's there? Is that you, Jaywo? I am not amused at your antics!" This was one of the males, a gruff-voiced and older one. When no answer came, the guard grew suspicious. "Jaywo? Answer!" The guard lifted the short spear and pointed it at the climbing selkie.

But before the guard could thrust downward, Kleg reached the branch behind the guard. Kleg pulled his knife, a razoredged sliver of obsidian, and leaped upon the guard. A quick slash opened the guard's throat before he could cry out a warning, and a shove launched the dying man into the air. The noise of his landing was louder than Kleg had thought, but not so loud as to draw notice from above.

"Hurry," Kleg said. "We have but a short time."

The two selkies obeyed their leader, and all three moved quickly along the thick limb, angling upward.

Conan awoke with his head threatening to burst this time, and found himself dangling in midair by a rope around his left ankle. Even as he realized this, somebody started to haul him up toward the platform above.

Conan lifted himself and caught the rope with his hands so that he was upright, and he began to climb. It was but the work of a moment to reach the platform.

On the other end of the rope stood Cheen, Tair, and two other men. Tair said, "By the great Green One, you are as heavy as that branch we moved."

Conan was confused. "How came I to be down there? I recall seeing-seeing . . . Crom. We-he-I offered to wrestle him."

Cheen said, "The potion sometimes causes disorientation. We all wear safe lines once the ceremony begins." She pointed at her ankle.

Indeed, all of the people wore such ropes, at least the ones Conan could see. Those coils he had seen earlier. That was what they were for. Wise.

"Since you are a stranger to our ways, I put the line on for you while you slept."

"I am in your debt," Conan said.

"And was your visit with your god a good one?"

"It was ... instructive," Conan said. Aye. One had best be wary of challenging a god, be he real or an illusion. Especially one with a sense of humor as had Crom.

To his left, someone on the ground began yelling. A number of them, did Conan's ears not lie, making quite a racket.

"What . . . ?" he began.

"Intruders in the grove!" Cheen said. "We are under attack. It must be the selkies again!"

"Selkies?"

"To arms!" Tair yelled. "To arms!"

Conan saw his sword, lying where he had left it. He hurried toward it. He did not know who or what selkies were, but if there was fighting to be done, he knew well how to swing a blade.

Kleg watched as the people on the platform, now below his position, began to stream toward the sound of his troops. There was one who did not seem to belong here, a large and bulky man with square-cut black hair and a large sword, but that was of no import now. The talisman he sought was only a few steps away, past two female guards armed with spears.

Kleg nodded to his two selkies. They each drew a pair of obsidian knives and rushed along the narrow branch one behind the other.

The two guards caught sight of the approaching selkies. One of them threw her spear; the weapon's point pierced the throat of the first of his selkies. The trooper fell wordlessly, but even as he did, he threw both of his knives. His dying action served only to wound one of the guards, but it was enough so that the second selkie could get close enough to launch himself at the two women. The selkie and one of the women fell; she screamed all the way down.

The second woman managed to catch the limb with one hand, but her action was wasted, for Kleg arrived and stamped on her fingers with his toothed boot. She lost her grip and fell.

Kleg was at the entrance to the building and he used his blade to slice open the ceremonial knot binding the door closed.

Inside was a single chest, also bound with a special knot, and his blade made short work of it as well. He opened the chest and in the dim light saw the talisman.

It was a seed, hard and eye-shaped, the size of a small apple, warm and moist to his touch. He looked at it for a second, then jammed it into his belt pouch and hurried from the chamber. He had lost two selkies and he might lose others when they were attacked from the trees, but it did not matter. He had what he had come for!

As Kleg was letting down the ladder rope for his descent, he caught sight of a small form darting along a branch. He had been seen.

Quickly, Kleg climbed and hid behind an outcropping of foliage. After a moment, one of the males, a small one, scooted along the branch just in front of him. Kleg reached out and clouted the boy with the butt of his knife, knocking him senseless. He started to cut the boy's throat, then stopped. No. He would take the boy along. There might be something to learn from interrogating him; besides, should they encounter the Pili on their return home, the boy might be made to serve other purposes. The Pili, he knew, were more than passing fond of eating human flesh. Perhaps they could buy safe passage with such a tidbit.

Kleg was very strong compared to a man, and shouldering the boy's weight and climbing down the vine was not difficult in the least.

Once on the ground, he hurried to the prearranged meeting place where he would be joined by his troops.

He had accomplished his ordered task and he was jubilant. It had almost been too easy, but he was not one to tempt fate by dwelling on that thought.

Chapter FIVE

Conan followed Tair, winding through the trees toward the sounds of battle. Several times the big Cimmerian almost lost his balance on some of the smaller limbs, but each time managed to recover in time to maintain the chase. Along their route other armed men and women joined the procession. After a final short sprint, they arrived at the tree edging the far end. of the grove.

The members of the besieged tree had dropped dozens of flaming balls of pitch, so that the scene below them was easily viewed. Conan saw perhaps a dozen shadowy shapes darting about, and their behavior seemed more than passing strange. They made much noise, the attackers, screaming and slinging stones and hurling spears upward, 'out there seemed to be much ado about little. At first, those below looked to be men, but as Conan drew nearer, he was able to detect an inhuman aspect to their shape and movements. They were the right size and general shape, they had faces and hands and yelled in manlike tones, but they were somehow alien. Selkies, Tair had called them.

Tair slid to a stop on a broad limb and leaned forward, his spear held high and ready to cast. But he held the throw, hesitating.

Conan came to stand next to him. The air was heavy with the sharp stench of the sputtering pitch below. He looked at Tair.

"What are they doing?" Tair said. "Have they gone mad?"

Indeed, Conan thought. Those in the trees were in no danger from those capering below. In fact, several of the selkies lay sprawled on the ground, outlined in flickering yellow from the burning resin globs lying about, Tree Folk spears sprouting like stiff weeds from their corpses. "A diversion?" Conan offered.

"Aye." Tair nodded. "But-from what are they diverting us?"

"Perhaps we should capture one and ask it."

"A good idea, Conan."

Tair moved to a coil of climbing vine and kicked it over the edge of the branch. He moved down the rope even before it completely stretched out, and Conan had never seen a man climb with such speed; a spider could have done it no better on his own line of webbing.

Conan immediately followed Tair down the cable of plaited vine.

If the selkies took any notice of Tair and Conan, they gave no sign, but as Conan neared two spans above the ground, the yelling attackers abruptly turned and squinted into the darkness.

Conan leaped the final distance, pulled his sword forth with a rasp of leather and a ring of tempered iron, and charged after Tair, who pursued the suddenly fleeing selkies. The tree dweller might be a faster climber, but Conan's long and powerful legs gave him the edge on the ground. In two heartbeats, the Cimmerian passed Tair and began gaining on the retreating selkies. Conan had time to wonder why the attackers fled. Surely one small tree dweller and one somewhat larger Cimmerian could not have frightened them so badly? Most odd.

That was something to worry over later, though. Conan began to overtake the selkie nearest the rear of the running group, and he had to decide how best to stop the straggler without killing him. A sword thrust to one leg? Aye, that would do it.

The starlight reflected from the blued iron blade as the running man took aim at the intended target and prepared to strike At that moment, however, the fleeing selkie must have sensed his danger. Whether he heard Conan's thudding footsteps or caught some peripheral movement or detected his pursuer with some sense unknown to men, it mattered not, for he glanced over his shoulder, saw Conan, and dodged sharply just as Conan jabbed with the point of his heavy sword.

The intended thrust missed its mark, and the lack of expected resistance off-balanced Conan the slightest bit. In itself this would have been of little consequence; however, at that precise moment a gnarled root loomed from the dark ground, Conan's bare foot connected with the root, and he tripped. Such was the Cimmerian's momentum that he took to the air, launched from the earth in a headlong dive. Conan uttered a curse he had first heard his father speak when once the smith had accidentally struck his hand with a forge hammer.

Fortune smiled upon the endangered selkie, only to turn its back with a frown an instant later. The selkie saw Conan's mishap, must have thought it an intentional leap, and dodged again. Alas for the selkie, he mistook the angle of his pursuer's flight and instead of leaving Conan's path, he shifted the wrong way; realizing his error, the selkie tried to twist away, succeeding only in stopping cold.

Conan smashed into the startled selkie with all of his not inconsiderable weight, stretching the creature out and slamming him facedown into the ground with the man on his back. The two slid for perhaps three spans, the Cimmerian youth riding the figure beneath him as a boy rides a sled across new snow.

The other selkies quickly gained the cover of night and disappeared.

Tair arrived a moment later and skidded to a stop. "I am the best spring dancer in the trees," he said as Conan stood, "but you must teach me that leap, I have never seen anything quite like it."

Conan looked down at the unconscious selkie, then at Tair. He had the presence of mind to shrug. "That? That was nothing, a child's trick where I come from."

"Shall we take this one back and question him?"

"Aye," Conan began.

He was interrupted by the sound of approaching footfalls. Conan spun away from the downed selkie; sword held ready, but it was a contingent from the trees and not the selkie's comrades.

"The sacred Seed!" one of the men yelled. "They have stolen the sacred Seed!"

Back at the tree in which the god-seeing ceremony had been held, Conan listened as Cheen explained.

"The trees of our grove are the mightiest in all the world," she said, "but it was not always so. Twenty generations past, the most powerful of our medicine women created a spell that caused normal trees to grow thrice or more times their usual size."

Conan nodded, but did not speak. He looked at the empty chest at her feet.

"But it was not enough that they should grow. The ground here cannot provide enough nourishment for the roots of so many trees such as ours. So the medicine woman-she was known as Jinde-wove another spell, which she invested in a special seed. It gives great energy to any plants near it."

Magic. A thing not at all to Conan's liking. It seemed to be everywhere he went, and he would avoid dealing with it, given a choice.

"Without the seed," Cheen continued, "our trees will soon wither and die."

Well. A sad fate, but not really Conan's concern. Best to leave magic to those who wanted to deal with it.

Before Cheen could continue, Tair came running toward them. "Have you seen Hok?" he said, all out of breath.

"No," Cheen answered. She looked at Conan.

"Not since before the ceremony," he said.

"He should be in the boys' hut," Cheen said.

Tair nodded. "Aye, he should be, but he is not."

"Have the call drum sounded. He is probably up and wandering about because of all the excitement," she said.

But when the last echoes of the drum faded, the boy Hok did not respond, and a search of every tree also failed to turn him up. When the hunt had been completed, Cheen's face was a mix of rage and sorrow as she said, "Along with the life of our grove, the selkies have stolen my youngest brother!"

The sun blazed and beat upon the heads of the selkies as they trudged across the isthmus of dry sand belonging to the Pili. Kleg would feel much better once they had achieved the coolness of the distant mountains, both for reasons of comfort and of safety. Good fortune had traveled with them during the outwardbound journey and he would have such luck continue as they returned home with their master's prize.

It was not to be. From behind a tall hillock of sand and scrubby growth ahead, a troop of Pili emerged, armed with their long dart slingers and prepared for battle.

Kleg counted the lizard men and saw that they numbered only slightly more than his own band. He called his selkies to a halt.

Normally, a group such as Kleg's would be attacked immediately; however, the Pili seemed in no great hurry to begin the fight that would surely end with much death on both sides. They, too, stopped and waited. Kleg took this as a good sign.

After a few moments, one of the Pili stepped forward. From the bright red sash he wore wrapped around his middle, Kleg assumed he was the leader. It was difficult to say, since the Pili all looked alike to him. The single Pili strode toward the selkies.

One of Kleg's troopers raised a spear, but Kleg waved one hand at him. "Nay, hold," he said. "Perhaps we might come to some accommodation." Kleg stepped forward and walked toward the approaching lizard man. When they were two spans apart, both stopped.

"You trespass on Pili territory," the lizard man said. His accent was harsh, but his command of the common tongue was adequate for normal conversation.

Kleg did not bother to try and deny it. "Aye. My master, He Who Creates, has bid me to achieve His business with haste; to go around would cost two days."

"Attempting to cross will surely cost you much more. My master, the Lord High King Rayk, has charged me with protecting his domain from unauthorized trespass."

"It seems we are at an impasse then."

"So it seems. We outnumber you."

"Indeed, but by a small margin. If we fight, most of us will likely die on both sides."

"True. It is unfortunate, but not to be helped."

The lizard man turned to walk back to his troops.

"But hold a moment," Kleg said. "Perhaps there is a way around this dilemma."

The lizard man stopped. "I am listening."

"What if there were a way for our passage to be authorized?"

"Hardly likely."

"Yet you could grant us crossing were there a compelling reason?"

"It is within the realm of possibility."

Kleg spoke rapidly in true selkie speech, a liquid whistling that the lizard man could not possibly understand. One of Kleg's troop dismounted from his packbeast and approached, carrying a large leather sack over his shoulder.

The Pili's hand drifted toward the knife at his belt.

"Nay, friend, there is no treachery here. Bide a moment."

The selkie with the sack placed it upon the ground and stood away.

"I am given to understand that the Pili have a most interesting diet at times."

"Not for fishman flesh, which is exceedingly vile," the lizard man said.

Kleg nodded. He knew as much and was also exceedingly glad of it. "But behold." He bent and opened the sack, then upended it, to reveal the still-unconscious boy kidnapped from the trees.

The Pili's slit eyes widened. "Ah. A human."

"Indeed. If truth must be known, we have no great use for him ourselves. Perhaps you would take him off our hands?"

The lizard man blinked and appeared to consider this. "In exchange for allowing you to pass unmolested."

"That had occurred to me, yes."

"He is not very large, the human."

"True, but the only one we happen to have at the moment. And consider the alternative. Your men and mine will fight bravely and many will die. You may win, but it will be a costly victory at best. If you manage to survive to return to your king only to report most of your troop has been slain, surely that will not be happy news?"

"Surely not."

"If, on the other hand, you return with this nice tender young boy for the communal pot, would that not reflect more honor upon you?"

The Pili glanced over his shoulder at his band, then back down at the boy. "There is some merit in that which you speak," the lizard man finally said. "Of course, the Pili are fierce warriors and we could probably slay you and take the boy anyway."

"The bravery of the Pili has never been in question," Kleg said. "Still, it would not be an easy task."

The lizard man nodded. "Aye, the fishmen are not inconsiderable opponents." He looked up from the boy and stretched his lips in a horrible grimace. At first, Kleg took this to be a threat, then he realized it was in fact a smile.

"We of the Pili are feeling benevolent this day, and in honor of the approaching Moon Festival, have decided to allow safe passage to the band of fishmen who wandered onto our territory accidentally."

"You are generous and wise," Kleg said.

"So it has been said before."

"If ever you should happen to be in my land, be certain to ask after me."

"Indeed."

The deal was done, and cheap at the price, Kleg figured. Nothing . stood between him and his goal now, save a few days of uneventful travel. He Who Creates would be most pleased.

Chapter SIX

Dimma lifted to his lip a carved gold cup of fine wine produced by the famed Aquilonian winemakers; indeed, the region bordering the Tyborg River just south of Shamar might well be the source of the most exquisite wines in the world, and this particular vintage was the best of the best. It had taken only a few hours before the newness of being flesh again had allowed just any sensation to be a wonder; now, Dimma required a higher stimulation, such as this rare and valuable wine. He smiled as he inhaled the fragrance of it, anticipating the smoothness of it on his palate.

Alas, it was not to be. Even as he tilted the gold cup, he felt the sense of cold that sometimes presaged his change.

"No!"

The cup fell. He had not dropped it, only ceased being able to hold it. Even as the falling container passed through his lap to splash on the throne under him, Dimma reaped the fruit of a dying wizard's curse, becoming no more solid than smoke.

He raged, hurling curses of his own after the centuries-dead wizard of Koth, hoping his epithets would seek out and find the soul of his tormentor no matter how deep the pit of Gehanna he inhabited. Dimma called upon the pox of poxes, the blackest of evil demons, the hate of every major and minor god to smite his old enemy.

He found himself drifting a few steps away from his throne and stopped his imprecations. Once again, he was a disembodied voice, lacking that which most men took for granted. His curses gained him nothing. His hope lay in collecting the final ingredient for his cure. The other parts lay well guarded in the safest chamber of his castle, awaiting only the final talisman and the utterance of the spell, the words of which Dimma now knew as well as the back of his ghostly hand. He had said the words in his mind ten thousand times, practicing for the day when he could speak them aloud and remove this malediction at last.

Where are you, Kleg? Best hope that you have what I need, and best you hurry!

"What will they do with the boy?" Conan asked.

Tair, busy gathering supplies for a long trek, said, "Kill him. That is not the question, only when and how. The selkies are thralls to the Mist Mage, the Abet Blasa, who lives in the great mountain lake six days from here. They have stolen our Seed, doubtless for some nefarious purpose, and our grove dies without it. As for my brother . . ." He shrugged. "We can only hope to catch them before they dispose of him."

Conan nodded, aware of the seriousness of Tair's intent. Not once had he bragged during his explanation.

"We could use another strong man," Tair said.

"Aye," said Cheen, coming up behind Tair, her own pack already loaded. "Your help would be welcome."

Conan considered it. Cheen had saved him from the dragon, though he had repaid that debt almost immediately. And they had offered him their hospitality, he had eaten their food and drunk their wine, albeit the latter had given him somewhat more adventure than he had anticipated. Such a courtesy did not demand his allegiance to the death, of course. Still, the memory of his own slavery when not much older than Hok was still strong in Conan. He hated slavers and child stealers.

"When do we leave?" Conan said.

The boy was too young for her usual ministrations, Thayla decided. Then again, he was young and therefore tender, and certainly his arrival could not be considered an ill fortune. A small feast before she sent her loutish husband off to seek the magic secret of the Tree Folk would not be unwelcome. Warriors might fight more wolfishly with empty bellies, but a taste of things to come might also spur the Pili expedition on to great effort. She had already convinced Rayk that once they began their oasis in the desert, such treats would be only a matter of time. The Pili were few in number and slow to breed; however, their advantage lay in reaching adulthood much faster than did the more numerous humans. Raise a Pili child and a human side by side and the Pili would be fully grown while the other was still learning to walk. That could be turned to their advantage, given time.

Stal, the commander of the troop that had returned bearing the boy, stood with Rayk, repeating-and doubtless embellishing-the story of how they had come by' the human.

"-and even though we were outnumbered four to one by the fishmen, they were so fearful that they tendered the human and begged for our mercy. Since the Moon Festival is nearly upon us, and since they were so repentant over their error in blundering quite by accident onto our territory, I decided to spare them. After all, what is a festival without a feast?"

Rayk nodded and slapped Stal on the shoulder. "You have done well, Stal. I have no doubt you could have slaughtered the offending fishmen easily, but your actions showed a fine grasp of tactics. Better to feast than to be burying one's comrades."

Thayla rolled her eyes upward and looked away. Just like, males, standing around congratulating themselves on how brave and mighty they were, doubtless lying about nearly all of it. Then again, Stal was a fair specimen of Pili male-he had made a few overtures in Thayla's direction-and she might one day, out of boredom, take him to her bed. He had ambition, this one, and might prove useful to her.

The human was in the cage built for such purposes, awake and watching his captors somewhat fearfully. Likely he knew his fate.

Thayla walked to the cage and smiled at the young captive. "Hungry?" she asked.

He did not respond.

"Do not worry, you shall be well fed. The Moon Festival is but four days hence, and until then, you shall have as much as you can eat. Would that we had captured you a moon or so past, though. Four days is hardly enough time to add much to your small frame."

She smiled again, and took a small pleasure as the boy shuddered. He knows, well enough.

But as Thayla turned away in a thin rustle of silk, a thought occurred to her. Why were the fishmen crossing her territory? They must have come from the grove of the Tree Folk, else how had they come by one of them as a captive?

The Queen of the Pili walked toward the king and Stal.

"Pardon, great warrior, but did the fishmen say what business they had with the Tree Folk?"

Stal looked at her, his gaze quickly but unobtrusively traversing her lush body. Rayk appeared to take no notice, but Thayla certainly did. He was hungry for her.

"No, my queen, they did not speak of this."

"What does it matter to us what the fishmen do?" Rayk interjected.

"Concerning the Tree Folk and certain plans you and I have discussed, my lord king, everything matters."

"Ask the boy," Rayk said. He laughed. "Perhaps he knows the minds of the fishmen."

It was meant as a joke, but Thayla spun, her silk flaring out to reveal her nude body under it to Stal, exactly as she intended. "I shall."

At the cage, she said, "Harken, boy. What do you know of the fishmen's business at your grove?"

The boy crouched at the far side of the cage, silent.

"Speak."

He said nothing.

Thayla considered this. Were you in his place, would you say anything, knowing your immediate future lay in a cooking pot as a meal for your captors? Decidedly not.

"Very well. Speak and you shall have your freedom."

Behind her, Rayk uttered a short curse and moved toward his queen. "Hold, Thayla!"

She waved at him impatiently. "Silence, husband."

The boy looked at the king, then back at Thayla. "Is this true? If I tell you, you shall let me go?"

"Upon the grave of my mother I so swear," Thayla said.

The boy blinked and appeared to think' about it for a second. Then he said, "They stole the Seed," he said. "I saw one of them take it. I tried to follow him, but I was caught."

Thayla stared at the boy. The Seed. He must mean the Talisman of the Forest. How could it be possible that the fishmen could do what the Pili had failed to do for so long? "By the Great Dragon! Is this true?"

"Yes, mistress."

Thayla turned to glare at Stal. "You fool! You allowed the fishmen to pass carrying a great treasure!"

"Thayla-" Rayk began.

She turned her glare upon him but did not speak.

Rayk did not need her prompting, however. To Stal he said, "Assemble your troop. Full strength, take enough to offset the fishmen's numbers. I shall personally lead them after the fishmen. With luck, we can catch them before they attain the great lake." He turned toward Thayla as Stal scurried from the rocky chamber.

"You had better catch them," Thayla said. "If the magician of the lake gets his hands on that talisman, it is lost to us for certain."

"Mistress," came the boy's voice from the cage. "Did you forget your promise to free me?"

Thayla did not even bother to look at him when she spoke. "Do not be stupid, boy. You are not going anywhere."

"You swore an oath!"

"I lied. Take it up with your god when you see him. In four days."

Kleg had anticipated a quiet journey, but he had not figured on something no selkie had ever been able to predict: the weather.

Shortly after they left the desert behind and reached the foothills, a storm began brewing. Kleg could feel the moisture in the air and it was not unwelcome in one sense, but it would slow them some, should it continue to gather, and should it happen to move their way.

The storm did both. Purple-gray clouds built a tower toward the sun, mushrooming at the top into fleecy tatters. Lightning danced in the heart of the storm, and the rumble of some god's drums rolled over the mesa toward the selkies. A herald wind blew, the breeze full of dampness, and within a few minutes, the gray curtain sweeping toward them arrived. Fat drops splattered on the dry ground, kicking up tiny clouds of dust at first. When , the full force of the storm flowed over them, the world turned dark and gray, visibility dropped to a few spans, and the stupid pack scrats obstinately stopped and refused to move, even under spear-point prods.

Kleg grinned up into the bowels of the storm. Well, if you cannot avoid it, you might as well enjoy it, he thought. The rain was so heavy you could almost Change and breathe it, and it was tempting to shift his form and lie at least partially submerged in one of the deepening puddles all around them. He would not, of course, but it was tempting.

They were on high enough ground, no risk of a flash flood, though some of the small streams they had crossed outbound would be swollen into rushing rivers by the rain. Crossing a river was hardly an obstacle to a selkie, and if the packbeast refused to swim, why, then, they could be dinner for their former riders after the Change. It would serve the damned things right, and it would be worth the walk the rest of the way home, Kleg decided. He Who Creates did not count such beasts generally, and would certainly not care about them when balanced against the talisman Kleg carried in his pouch. Hardly.

Smiling, Kleg enjoyed the rain.

The Tree Folk had two dozen armed members in its party, about equal numbers of men and women. More, they had some strange tracking beasts that looked to be big spotted cats, unlike any Conan had seen before. They kept the cats leashed, a dozen of them on thick leather straps, two or three per handler.

Cheen and Tair set a good pace, but it was no trouble for Conan to maintain; in fact, he offered to go ahead. Cimmerians might not climb as well as did these people, but they were second to none as trackers. Conan could easily see the signs of the selkie's passage, even on the shifting sandy ground of the Pili's territory.

Eager to rescue their brother and talisman, Cheen and Tair agreed with Conan's suggestion. He loped off easily, following the trail that might as well have been a road before him.

"Beware the Pili's dogs!" Cheen called out as Conan moved away from the band.

"Aye, I shall," Conan called back to her.

The Pili troop numbered nearly a hundred, and it was augmented by half that many of the dragonlike Korga. The Korga ranged ahead, on the trail of the fishmen, and the Pili followed them at very nearly a run. Thayla watched them depart. Her fool of a husband had better catch the blasted fishmen.

She smiled as she turned back toward the entrance to her chambers. Well, if they were gone more than a few days, they would miss the feast. Sad for them, but not for those who remained behind. Especially her; as Queen, she would get the best parts, including those normally reserved for the King. It was indeed an ill wind that blew no good at all. One had to take one's compensations where one could find them. And the thought of it made her mouth water.

Chapter SEVEN

Conan had gained half a day on the Tree Folk when he found the signs of a meeting between the selkies and another group. To the east, a line of storms thundered distantly, but the dry ground here held shallow impressions altered only slightly by wind and sun. From behind that sandy hillock had come a band whose footprints differed from those of the selkies. At first, they looked like man tracks, but a closer examination revealed subtle differences. Pill, Conan figured, since this was supposedly their territory.

The big Cimmerian quartered the area, with the sun baking his tanned skin darker all the while. Here, two members of the selkies had moved to meet a single footman from the Pili. One of the selkies had carried something heavy enough to make him sink deeper into the soft ground when he approached the meeting, but had not carried it away when he left. On the other hand, the Pili had left much deeper tracks when he had turned back toward his party. There was a depression in the earth, just there, where something smaller than a man but large enough to be a boy had been dropped. Whatever it was, the Pili had taken it.

Unschooled in civilized ways Conan might be, but he could read trail sign. The selkies had given something to the Pili here. According to what Cheen had told him as they began their trek, the selkies and Pili were not on friendly terms, as likely to fight when meeting as not, especially on Pili home ground.

Conan raised from his squat by the tracks. He looked toward the north, where the Pili tracks led. The lizard men ate human flesh, Cheen had said. Conan could imagine that a bargain might have been struck, with the boy Hok as some kind of bribe.

Which way should he go? The selkies' trail lay to the east, and they had taken both the magic Seed and the boy. But if the Pili now had Hok, he was possibly in more peril than before; like as not, the selkies would keep him until they returned to their master; the Pili, on the other hand, might eat him sooner.

Conan decided. The Seed would keep indefinitely, but the boy might not. He would go north.

Conan stripped a dry branch from one of the scrub plants, broke it into a number of parts, and made from it an arrow he laid on the ground, pointing after the Pili trail. Under this, he created a small stick figure meant to represent Hok. A second arrow indicated the selkie trail, and under this one, he formed an outline of a seed. When Cheen and Tair and the others reached here, they would know which way Conan had gone, and why. With luck, they would find the picture before the wind covered it with dust.

The big man took a long sip of water from the skin he carried over one shoulder, adjusted his sword belt, and started north.

The storm that delayed the selkies was but one of several, and while Kleg fretted at the delay, there was nothing to be done. A god might move the rain, but a selkie could do nothing but wait.

There were several ponds that had been shallow and scummy only hours before but now were quite deep. And as long as they were stuck here, Kleg finally decided it might as well be a pleasant stay.

"Bring one of the scrats," he ordered one of his selkies. He had to yell to be heard over the steady downpour. "Shove it off that rise into that lake."

"My Lord Prime?" the selkie began, puzzled.

Kleg smiled widely, showing many teeth. "Perhaps the brothers would enjoy a swim-with a bit of dinner included?"

The selkie mirrored Kleg's smile. "Yes, Prime, immediately!"

Thayla was returning from the kitchen, where she had been discussing the preparation of the upcoming Moon Festival feast, when she heard some kind of commotion outside. Could her husband have retrieved the magic talisman already?

The queen stopped a young female returning from the main entrance to the caves. "What is that noise outside?"

The female, naked save for a leather crotch strap, but too young for anything other than budding breasts and a distant promise of more, bowed and said, "The Korga, my lady."

"I thought the king took the Korga with him."

"Not all, my lady."

Thayla went to see for herself what the beasts were hissing and moaning about.

Outside, the desert wind blew warmly, but with a hint of moisture. It appeared to be raining to the east, but more than a little distance away. Rain here was a rarity; it did not happen more than once or twice every season, and not plentifully at that.

The Korga master stood yelling at six or seven of the man-sized and mostly stupid lizards, who dashed back and forth in their high-fenced yard excitedly.

"Silence, you ignorant beasts!"

The Korga master was an old Pili; he had been old when, as a child, Thayla had first seen him, and he seemed unchanged in all that time. "What is it, Rawl-)"

The old Pili shrugged. "I cannot say, my lady. The Korga smell something out there."

"What are you going to do about it?"

He shrugged again. "Nothing. The king told me to keep this bunch penned."

"The king is not here and I am. Release the Korga to go and chase whatever is bothering them so that we may have quiet here."

"By your command, Queen Thayla."

Rawl opened the gate to the pen and the Korga dashed out in that funny gait they had, their thick tails stuck out behind for balance as they ran. She did not much care for the things, and were it up to her, would keep none about the caves. They ate more than they provided, and it was only the male Pili who thought they had any value. Probably because the males were closer to the Korga in thought and action, she thought. There were enough troops left to protect the caves without the stupid beasts slavering about, and good riddance. Mayhaps they would not return. There was a pleasant thought.

Conan saw the approaching figures long before they arrived. His fiery blue eyes took in the scene, and he knew he was about to meet another batch of the Pili's dragonlike hounds. He rolled his shoulders, limbering them, and pulled his sword. A cursory glance told the Cimmerian youth that there was no cover to be had. There was a small hill, not more than thrice his own height, a short ways to his left; that would give him the higher ground, something of an advantage, but not much. He had perhaps a minute or so before the reptilian creatures arrived, so he trotted toward the rise and began to climb.

When he was nearly to the top of the hillock, Conan almost fell into a pit. Due to the nature of the ground, he had not seen it until he was nearly upon it. The sandy depression was fairly deep, perhaps nearly his own height, and the sides were angled down sharply. Odd, the pit, he seemed to recall seeing something like it before, but he could not quite remember where.

Conan circumvented the pit and reached the pinnacle of the small hill. Perhaps one of the Korga would fall into the hole, were it moving fast enough to miss seeing it in time. True, it could climb out easily enough, but the effort would give Conan more time to dispatch the others.

He shifted his grip on the sword handle until it felt perfect. Seven of them. Bad odds. Well, if this were to be his last battle, he would sell himself as dearly as he could. He would arrive in front of Crom with as many of these beasts as he could bring. He hoped Crom had forgotten about their earlier meeting, but it had been recent enough that Conan doubted that happening.

The lizard beasts came, hissing and growling. They seemed to take no notice of the change in terrain, but clambered up the hillock in lunging bounds, teeth flashing in their scaled muzzles as they drew nearer.

Conan cocked the sword back over his right shoulder. Perhaps he could cleave through two at once, did he swing hard enough.

Perhaps some god felt benevolent this day, for the first of the onrushing beasts never thought to look for its footing and fairly sailed into the pit just below where Conan stood. The big Cimmerian, even though staring his death in the eyes, managed to find a smile. Foolish beast.

The other Korga, however, seeing the fate of their leader, slowed their headlong run and circled around the pit.

Conan shifted to his left as the sun's hot light flashed on the fangs of the nearest beast. As the thing lunged toward him, Conan swung the blued-iron blade with all his strength. The sword sang in the air as it bit into the Korga's neck, found a space between bones, and sheared the thing's head cleanly from its shoulders.

The headless body continued running, but past Conan.

Conan spun in time to meet the next Korga's charge. Continuing the motion of the blade, Conan opened the beast horizontally. Entrails spilled, and the lizard creature blinked and looked down, forgetting all about Conan.

But the other four were nearly upon him. Conan shifted his stance to recock the blade.

He could take one more, mayhaps two, were he lucky The first Korga screamed from the pit. It was a long cry that stopped as though sliced off by a razor.

Conan risked a glance toward the pit as another of the beasts impaled itself on his extended sword point.

Something was coming out of the pit, and it was not the Korga that had fallen into it.

In that instant, Conan recalled where he had seen the like before. It had been much, much smaller, and had belonged to a spidery creature that fed upon ants and other tiny insects unfortunate enough to slide into its trap.

What came from within this ground, however, was twice the size of the beasts, and it looked like a spider from the dream of a mad god. The monster was black and furry, eyeless, but with arm-thick mandibles that dripped smoking poison, and what seemed at least eight legs.

"Crom."

Faster than he would have thought possible, the monster scrabbled up the hillock and attacked one of the surprised Korga. The click of the thing's mandibles was loud in the desert air; with one snap, it clipped the Korga in twain.

The remaining Korga scattered amidst loud and fearful hissings, and the monster turned toward the nearest and began to chase it. Big it was, and hideous, and faster than its scaled target.

Conan turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

Perhaps the hellspawn preferred Pili dogs to human flesh, but Conan had no intention of finding out firsthand. Let it feast on the Korga until sated. And even as he ran, he resolved to watch more closely his own steps.

Kleg waded into the small lake, grinning. The rain continued, somewhat lighter now, but as the water rose up to his waist, then chest and neck, the rain ceased to matter.

He sank below the surface and began the Change.

With his first breath of water, gills sprouted along the sides of his neck. His bones stretched, sinews creaking as they followed, and his flesh began to shift. His legs elongated and at the same time fused into a single unit. His feet formed themselves into a tail, longer on the top than on the bottom. His arms drew in toward his sleek body, his hands flattening into fins. A dorsal fin sprouted from his back, a delta shape reaching upward, and other fins emerged from his ventral side. His eyes moved back, his mouth widened, and rows of serrated teeth pushed through the hardening gums.

In a few seconds, the Change was complete. What had been Kleg the manlike was now twice the length and covered with skin the texture of pumice, as deadly a thing that swam any salt sea.

With a flick of his tail, Kleg drove his metamorphosed form through the water. New senses told him that the thrashing scrat lay just ahead, waiting for its destiny.

And its destiny was . . . prey.

Around him in the water, Kleg was aware of his brothers also undergoing the Change, becoming as he was, seeking that which he sought, but Kleg was first, and he opened his massive jaws and bit deeply.

In a matter of moments, the clear blue water had turned a cloudy crimson, and the struggling scrat was no more.

Chapter EIGHT

Dimma floated through the halls of his castle toward the strong room that contained his most valuable treasures: the eight items that composed his recovery spell. Only one piece was lacking for completion, and soon his Prime selkie would return with that one piece.

Ah, to be solid again, never to fear that coldness and sudden shift into vaporous ether! Once he retained a body upon which he could depend, things would change in this realm. He would go forth in the flesh, sweeping all who stood before him aside, taking control of all he saw. He had practiced his spells for five hundred years, after all, and he would not make the same mistakes he had made before. He would be Dimma the Mist Mage no longer, but instead Dimma the Destroyer. Perhaps he would make himself king, and even allow Seg to be his queen-until he got bored with her, of course, and found some nubile beauty to replace her. And after that one, another and another. There was much to be done, after all the years of inactivity. Pleasures to be had, armies to be slain, villages and even countries to enslave, all at the whim of Dimma the Destroyer.

Yes. He much liked the sound of that.

Ahead, Conan saw the rocky outcrop that must be the habitat of the Pili. The three-toed tracks of the deceased Korga led directly toward the low stone mound, which seemed more a jumble of giant rocks piled upon the desert by a careless god than anything else.

Conan squatted and observed the mound. The Pili had chosen a location from which they could observe approach from any direction. Aside from occasional clumps of dry bush, the land was bare around the mound for half an hour's fast walk. Even using the sporadic cover of the bushes, it would take a skilled man to manage a surprise visit to the Pili. In daylight, a party of three or more would likely find it impossible, were even a half-blind guard posted.

There was the key, Conan decided. A careful man could sneak close under cover of night, assuming he kept downwind to avoid watch beasts. Assuming also that the Pili's night vision was no more sharp than a man's. Risky, perhaps, but was not Conan planning to become a successful thief when he reached Shadizar? One had to begin practice somewhere.

Conan moved to a roundish clump of brush and settled into its shade. Darkness would not be long in coming. He would wait; in the meanwhile, he would sleep.

Kleg, his hunger sated and his form once again that which resembled a man, looked up at the clearing sky. The rain had finally diminished and, even as he watched, stopped entirely. The late-afternoon air was cool and evening fast approaching. They would resume their homeward journey on the morrow, he decided.

Awake in her bed, Thayla was restless. She hoped her fool of a husband could recover the talisman of the Tree Folk, but there was no guarantee of success. That the Pili were in decline could not be denied, but with that magical token, they might establish themselves far enough away from the trails of men to become once again a powerful force. Then those things that should be hers by right could be made to happen, but until then, life might be a precarious thing.

Thayla threw the silk sheet from her and lay naked on the bed, her voluptuous body exposed to the night air. She needed a male, she decided, but she deemed none of those left behind by her husband satisfactory. He had taken the strongest and best ones with him, and Thayla was certain he had done so deliberately to thwart her desires. As a married female, she was not allowed to lie with any other than her husband, but that was a formality as far as she was concerned. Still, the cream of the Pili had gone with the king, leaving behind mostly females, children, and old males; with a few young stalwarts who had strength, but little experience as lovers. She did not feel like teaching a new male old tricks on this night.

No, Thayla wanted a lover with power and grace and endurance and she wanted him now.

Too bad, she thought. Maybe a prayer to the Great Dragon will bring results, eh? A gift from the Gods?

The Queen of the Pili rolled over onto her stomach and clutched one of the silken pillows to her bosom. The Gods help those who help themselves, she thought, sighing. Which of the boring young males could she send her chambermaid to fetch?

Conan worked his way toward the rocky mound with the skill of a hunter stalking a wary deer. Under the blanket of night, even his sharp eyes had trouble seeing much detail in the desert, though the chore was made easier by the Pili themselves as he drew nearer.

A guttering, smoky torch mounted on the face of the stone revealed both a guard and the entrance to a cave.

Prone on the soft ground, Conan considered the scene.

The guard looked like a man at this distance, a bald man, wearing a kind of short, dark kilt and crossed straps over his chest. His skin seemed bluish in the dim light, though that was hard to tell for certain. A short, thin spear completed the Pili guard's costume, this weapon held in one hand, though it was more like a long arrow than a real spear. After searching for a bow, Conan spotted a wooden thrower lying on the ground next to the guard. He did not seem particularly alert, the guard, as he leaned against the wall behind him, appearing to be half-asleep.

The yawning entrance to the cave bothered Conan more than did the single guard. He had no love for such places, especially after his recent experience in a vast underground system full of giant worms, bloodbats, and other foul beasts. Still, he had come to rescue Hok, and if the boy was within, there was no help for it. It was not likely that the Pili would send him out should Conan ask.

The Cimmerian circled to his right, moving with great stealth, freezing at the smallest desert sound, until finally he was next to the rock wall to the guard's left. He moved closer, until he deemed it unlikely he could approach any more without being seen. During this time, the guard shifted from foot to foot once, slouched more against the wall, hawked and spat twice. No, alertness did not seem one of this particular Pili's virtues.

Conan's plan was simple enough. He found a stone somewhat larger than his fist and gripped it in his right hand. With his left hand, he picked up a pebble, then tossed it past the guard. When the Pili turned to see what had made the noise, Conan would leap up and clout that bald head with the stone.

The pebble bounced from a flat patch of stone and skittered into the darkness.

The guard did not move, nor did he appear to take notice of the sound.

Well, probably the normal contractions of the mound under the cooling desert air made many such sounds each night and the guard was used to them. Conan should have thought of that.

He found a slightly larger pebble and tossed it.

The result was the same.

Perhaps the Pili were hard of hearing?

Conan picked up another stone, this one nearly as large as the rock he planned to use as a weapon. This would certainly get his attention. He heaved the rock.

The stone, easily the size of a small boy's fist, clattered past the guard's feet. Still the Pili did not react.

Conan stood and moved. If he had not heard that, neither would he hear Conan's footsteps.

Half a span away from the guard, Conan lifted the rock to strike. He stepped closer. Then stopped.

The guard, leaning against the rock, was asleep on his feet. Conan raised his other hand and waved it in front of the guard's face. The Cimmerian grinned. Well. He would sleep more soundly in a moment. Conan lifted the rock.

Inside the cave, there were more torches set at irregular intervals along the corridor wall. Conan hurried along the corridor. The place had a musky smell that was not unpleasant, and the air was warmer than that outside. He was inside and that had been easy enough. Now all he had to do was find the boy and get back out.

No, Thayla decided, she would not awaken her chambermaid and have her fetch one of the young males. It would take more effort than it was worth. Instead, the queen arose from her bed and put on her wrap. Perhaps she would go for a walk in the night air. The Korga had not returned, so .they would not hiss at her. That the animals had not come back disturbed Rawl the old one, but bothered. Thayla not a whit. Stupid beasts.

She moved into the corridor outside her sleeping chamber-Just in time to see a human pass by on the cross hall.

Thayla froze. He had not seen her, she was sure.

A man? Inside the caves? How? Thayla started to raise the alarm, but stopped. Perhaps she was imagining things. Perhaps her desire had clouded her vision, and her mind was creating phantoms in the corridors. She smiled ruefully. Aye, it could be. And she could imagine her embarrassment if she roused the Pili only to be told they could not locate her dream.

Thayla walked toward the cross hall, stepped out into it, and looked for her dream man, expecting to see emptiness.

There he was. He rounded a turning as she watched, unaware of her.

She shook her head. She could smell that musky odor men had, could plainly see that impossibly broad and muscular body, could hear the shuffle of leather sandals on the stone floor. No, this was no dream, he was real! The largest one of his kind she had ever seen, wide shoulders and thick arms and legs and long, dark fur upon his head.

Thayla felt herself quivering. What was he doing here?

She began to follow him. It did not matter what he was doing here, she decided. The Gods had smiled upon her and granted her wish. Even if this were a dream, she meant to enjoy it to the fullest.

Conan felt a chill, and he stopped and looked around carefully. No one was apparent. Thus far, he had passed chambers in which sleeping Pili had lain, but he had not found Hok.

He moved deeper into the mound, searching.

Thayla went into a sleeping chamber and roused one of the young Pili males who had more muscle than brains.

"My queen!"

"Silence. Come with me."

The male obeyed.

Around a series of turnings Conan went. The entrance to a large chamber beckoned. He entered.

There against one wall stood a cage, and in it was the sleeping form of the boy Hok.

Conan moved toward the cage. Finally.

The door to the cage was bolted shut with a complex series of levers that could not be reached from within, but which Conan could work easily enough from without. He moved toward the throw lever. Best not to wake the boy yet, he decided, lest he cry out in surprise.

"Stand there," Thayla ordered the young male. "Here, take this." She handed him a long, wrist-thick pole normally used to knock nesting bats from the ceiling.

Then the Queen of the Pili moved to stand in the entrance to the jail chamber.

"Ho, man," she said.

At the sound of a soft voice, Conan spun and drew his sword.

Standing in the dim corridor's light was a woman. She was bald and wearing some flimsy wrap. Even as he watched, she shrugged the covering off. The wrap formed a pool around her feet and she stood there naked.

Conan stared. Bald she might be, but she did not lack any of the usual curves of a woman. Her breasts were heavy and full, her hips wide and promising, her arms outstretched as if in invitation. She might be a Pili, but she was no less comely for that. Conan had seen few women who had more to offer than did this one.

The woman-no, the Pili-smiled at him.

"Come," she said. "I have something for you." She ran one hand down her hip, then back up to touch her breast.

Well, he was not so foolish as to dally with a woman in the midst of an enemy camp, but he had best ensure her silence. Conan moved quickly to catch the woman as she turned and began to walk out of his sight.

She was only two spans distant when he entered the corridor, moving directly away from him, and he was taken with the lush shape of her back and buttocks and legs And then the world suddenly flashed red with pain and dwindled to black around him.

NINE

The selkies were nearly ready to leave when the rear guard came 'running into the camp. "Prime! The lizard men come!"

Kleg grabbed the panting selkie by the shoulders. "What foolishness is this?"

The selkie managed to catch his breath. "An army of them, Prime, thousands!"

"Idiot! The Pili do not number in the thousands!"

"Hundreds, then."

"Somebody put a spear. through this babbling fool."

"Dozens, Prime, I swear on my birth egg!"

"Show me."

A quick ascent of one of the nearby hills and Kleg stood next to the scout looking into the distance.

Well, by the balls of He Who Creates, the scout was right. There had to be at least seven or eight dozen of the lizard men, along with those toothed reptiles they used as hunting beasts, marching directly along the trail the selkies had traveled a day earlier. What were they up to, these Pili? This was certainly a war party, and there were no settlements between the Pili and the village of Karatas on the lip of the Home Lake. True, the lizard men could be going to try and sack Karatas, but that was unlikely, the village being surrounded on three sides by a tall and well-defended palisade, with the Sargasso at its back. No, these lizard men likely had something else in mind, and Kleg had a premonition that he knew what it was: his own party. Such a thing did not bode well for the much smaller group of selkies. But why? They had nothing the lizard men could possibly want, nothing of value ....

Kleg slapped his head with the heel of his hand in sudden realization: the talisman! And how had they found out about it? Why, Kleg, Prime servant of He Who Creates, supposedly the most clever of the selkies, had practically told them-he had given them that blasted man child, who had no doubt talked before he was consumed. The boy, had seen Kleg take the damned thing. Blast!

Kleg turned and scurried down the hill, the scout behind him. The lizard men were no faster on land than were the selkies. They were at least an hour behind, and if they left immediately, Kleg and his troop could maintain that lead all the way to the Sargasso. Once there, the denizens of the weed would halt any pursuit; any that managed to straggle through would face the wrath of He Who Creates, an unpleasant prospect at best and certainly a fatal one.

If, however, the lizard men should somehow gain an hour, the odds were too. long in their favor. And Kleg had to return home with the talisman.

He decided what needed to be done. He called his troop to gather around him. There were only a dozen left after the diversion at, the trees, but they should prove sufficient if correctly utilized.

"We are pursued by the lizard men," Kleg said. "They outnumber us perhaps eight to one. We cannot fail in our mission, so I shall go ahead and leave you to slow them."

This produced a not unexpected reaction from the selkies, a grumbling response common to every soldier who had ever lived.

"But wait," Kleg said. "There is a river half a day ahead of us, one no doubt made much deeper by the storms of yesterday. We will journey there, and you shall all Change and wait for them in the water."

The group brightened somewhat at this order. Selkies had certain basic skills on land, but in the water, no lizard man would be a match for one. Dispatching half a dozen or more each ought not to be a problem, they would be thinking, and Kleg sweetened the order by saying, "Once you have slaughtered the lizards, you may return home, and I am certain I can convince He Who Creates to reward each of you with at least two new wives and access to the best feeding grounds."

A ragged cheer went up from the selkies. The way to a selkie's heart was through his stomach, and if that entry was not enough, well, the other route would usually suffice. Both together could not be denied. Food and females, Kleg thought, it worked every time.

"Come let us depart and make ready for our enemies."

Conan awoke, swimming up through murky depths to find that he did not recall where he was or how he had come to be there; more, his head hurt exceedingly. Had he drank too much wine?

The Cimmerian sat up, and saw that he was in a cage. Next to him was the boy Hok.

Ah. Now he remembered. There had been a beautiful bald woman, naked, beckoning him. That was the last thing he recalled before the sky fell on him.

"Ah, my stalwart man is awake at last," came a voice.

Conan turned. It was her, the woman. No, not a woman, a Pili, though for purposes of looks, there seemed little difference, save for the lack of hair and the blue tint to her skin. She wore a red wrap he had last seen bunched at her feet.

More torches had been set aflame, so that the interior of the cave was quite bright, and when the Pili woman saw Conan look at her, she moved her hands slightly and the wrap gaped wide down her front, revealing again the bare breasts and other delights he had noticed before.

"I see you find me somewhat attractive," she said.

Indeed, Conan thought, she cold not help but notice that. He shifted his position slightly.

The Pili woman laughed. When she moved closer, Conan could see that her eyes were catlike, the pupils narrow and diamond-shaped. And her face was not ugly, though he spent little time looking at that portion of her, since her slow walk caused other parts of her to move in a much more interesting manner than her face.

Though the squarish pattern of the cage's bars would allow Conan to reach through them, the Pili woman stopped well out of his grasp. "I am Thayla, Queen of the Pili," she said. "Welcome to our caves."

"You always keep your guests in cages?"

"Usually. But fear not, you shall be released soon. How may I address you, my stalwart man?"

"I am Conan, of Cimmeria."

"Are all the men of your Cimmeria so . . . large?" She waved at him, and for a moment, Conan thought there was more to her comment than it seemed. He must be mistaken.

"Nay."

"Then I must consider myself especially blessed to be able to take you in," she said. "Why have you come here?"

"To fetch the boy." He nodded at Hok. "The selkies stole him."

"Ah. Well, perhaps some bargain might be arranged."

"I have nothing of value save my sword," Conan said.

She smiled. "Indeed. It seems a mighty weapon."

Conan looked at where his sword lay, on the floor behind the queen, but she was looking at him.

What, he wondered, did the queen wish of him? He knew that the Pili ate his kind, but the hunger in her eyes seemed to him of a different kind than one lusting for food.

The waterway that had been little more than a meandering stream when the selkies crossed it outbound now raged past, a churning brown river of mud and foam, carrying sticks and other detritus along at a heady speed. Even Changed, the selkies would be hard-pressed to maintain their position against such a current. The timing on this would be tricky, Kleg realized.

The leader of the selkies dispatched a scout to watch for the arrival of the lizard men. He would have his troops wait until the last moment before entering the turbulent waters for their attack.

Kleg himself waded into the river, feeling the powerful tug of the current at his legs. He dropped the water's embrace, shifted his form as quickly as he could, and swam across to the opposite bank. It was a difficult task, as powerful as he was. When he attained the far shore, he had been carried hundreds of spans downriver.

After resuming his upright form, Kleg walked back to the river's narrowest width, the place the lizards would logically make their crossing. Being -land dwellers arid poor swimmers, the pursuers would likely attempt to build some kind of ferry. A line strung across the river by some bravo would be followed by a thicker rope, and a raft constructed to be worked along the rope. There were plenty of trees about, but even so, the raft would take several hours to build, at least, and that in itself should buy Kleg enough time to be safely away and far ahead of the lizards. When the raft was overturned and at least some of the lizards turned into carrion, it would take more time to catch the raft or perhaps even to build another. Kleg figured he could count on at least half a day gained thusly, perhaps more.

The Prime selkie grinned. He waved at his troops, motioning for them to move upriver, to allow for the current. They would hide there in the thick brush and wait for the lizards; once the raft was constructed, they would slip into the water and attack. It was a good plan, Kleg felt.

Being the author of such a tactic pleased Kleg, and he felt it only right that he stay and watch it put into practice. An hour more would make little difference, since he would gain a dozen times that; what survivors remained would never catch him with that kind of lead, assuming they even bothered to continue.

So Kleg found a comfortable spot and awaited the upcoming slaughter with a certain amount of gleeful anticipation.

The queen left Conan in the cage, alone with Hok.

"They are going to eat us!" Hok said.

"Perhaps not," Conan said. "The queen has indicated that some accommodation might be reached."

"She lies. She said I would go free if I told her what the fishmen wanted at our grove. I said, but she only laughed at me when I asked her to open the cage."

Conan nodded. So, the queen was not to be trusted. Good to know.

"We aren't eaten yet, boy," he said. "We shall see what happens." He brushed several small rocks to one side, clearing a space on the floor, then stretched out flat.

"What are you doing?" Hok asked. .

"Going to sleep."

"How can you sleep? We must find a way out!"

"The way out is through the door, boy. When they come and open it, then we shall have a way out. In the meanwhile, I am tired, so I shall sleep."

"But-but-but-"

"Awaken me if they begin to eat us."

With that, Conan closed his eyes and drifted into slumber, albeit a light one. The boy was fretful and rightfully so, but there was nothing to be done at the moment and Conan might need his strength later. He felt certain that the Queen of the Pili was not quite ready to make soup of him just yet. She had something else in mind.

Three chambermaids scurried around in her sleeping quarters, cleaning the queen's room.

"Fresh pillows!" Thayla ordered. "Make them thick ones. And burn incense, the pungent black kind. Hurry!"

As Thayla watched her maids rush to freshen her chamber, she felt an excited flutter in her belly. Such a giant of a man would doubtless furnish her with much pleasure! She could hardly wait. She might keep him for days before her husband returned. They could have the boy for the festival, but this large man would not be consumed until she had worn him to exhaustion. However long it took.

She much looked forward to the task.

Things were not going according to Kleg's plan.

First, the lizard men had not bothered to send a line across the river with a swimmer. Well, all right, that was no great problem. If they built enough rafts to carry all their troops, or didn't mind following the raft downstream to return it for another crossing, so much the better. That would take even more time.

But instead of starting to fell, trees, the lizards had begun to unpack things from several large containers they carried. Tents, perhaps? Were they planning on being here long enough to require a camp?

From his hidden vantage point across the wide river, Kleg smiled. Even better. He was practically home free-Wait. What were they doing now?

A dozen of the lizards scurried about, each carrying what looked like bellows. What . . . ?

As Kleg watched, the lizards began pumping air into the tents-no, not tents, but some kind of large skin bags. These were sewn in such a way that they inflated easily, forming oblong if somewhat squashed-looking eggs ....

Floats. They weren't going to make a raft, they planned to cross the river on these skin bags!

Kleg's moment of panic quickly passed. Well, so they had floats; it mattered not. So much the better. His selkies would have less problems with these than with a wooden raft. One pass, one bite, and the floats would pop like foam bubbles!

Kleg had to see this. It would be a slaughter, truly.

It was but a matter of minutes before a dozen of the floats were fully inflated and made ready. Eight or nine lizards gathered around each float and hustled it to the water's edge. Kleg's anticipation grew. Ah, to be in the water and enjoying the feast himself!

But the lizards did not launch the floats as expected. Instead, one of them passed along the line of troops, carrying a large earthen pot. The lizards began to dip the tips of their throwing darts into the pot. Some kind of ritual?

Kleg's eyes widened as he realized what was happening.

The short spears came out of the pot with their tips a smoldering red that glistened in the daylight.

Poison!

The lizards started their crossing, and while three or four of them on each float wielded paddles, the other four or five stood with their dart slingers held high, watching the water!

Kleg stared. Upstream, the scout would have given the word to the dozen selkies, who by now would be in the river and moving to attack. The angle of a Changed selkie's jaws would require that they roll onto their backs to bite the floats, exposing their bellies! The floats rode high in the water, so the selkies would be close to the surface when they came for the floats.

Kleg knew he should run, should gain as much time as possible, but he was frozen in place, watching.

The first float into the water began to drift rapidly downstream as it gained a little in the crossing. The lizards began to hurl their poisoned spears, yelling as they did so.

The float deflated suddenly and the lizards screamed as they fell into the water, but Kleg recognized the thrashing forms of three of his dozen selkies in their death throes, spears sticking out of their poison-maddened bodies.

More floats began the crossing. More darts were thrown. Some of the lizards went down as their floats were deflated, but most did not.

Kleg managed to find his feet. At least a third of the lizards would finish the crossing, and all or nearly all of his selkies would sleep with the fishes when it was over.

Kleg had miscalculated. They were only minutes behind him now.

He ran for his life.

Chapter TEN

Conan awoke feeling somewhat refreshed, to find the boy Hok staring nervously at him. He sought to put the boy at ease.

"Fear not," Conan said. "I have a plan."

Hok's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Aye. When the lizard men come for us, they will open the door and we shall pretend to be docile. Once out, I shall overcome them and thus we shall make good our escape."

The boy stared. His mouth gaped. "That is your plan?"

"Simple, is it not?"

"Simple-minded, more like."

"I am open to other suggestions," Conan said, feeling somewhat irritated at Hok.

"Why do we not turn into birds and fly away? Or maybe squirrels? That is as likely to happen as your plan."

"For such a small boy you seem to be burdened with more than your share of tongue, Hok."

"For such a large man, your wit seems rather small-"

"Shhh. Someone comes."

Hok stilled his voice at the sound of approaching footsteps on the stone floor.

It was the queen, and she was alone.

"I have come to invite you to my chamber, Conan my stalwart."

"Gladly I accept," Conan said. "If you would but open the door."

"Oh, to be sure, I shall open it wide for you," she said.

Conan did not have to fake his smile. This was going to be almost too easy.

The Queen of the Pili raised her right hand, closed into a loose fist. "But first a small guarantee of your cooperation." With that, she opened her hand and flung into Conan's face some kind of powder.

Before he could stop himself, Conan sucked in a quick breath. He sneezed and tried to cough the powder from his lungs, but it was too late. As his consciousness faded, taken from him by the dust the queen had thrown, Conan had time for a final thought: Perhaps he was going to have a harder time of this than he had thought:.

When next Conan awoke, he found himself lying on silken cushions next to the Queen of Pili. He, like she, was altogether naked. And he was feeling rather tired.

The queen smiled at him. "Ah, my stalwart man arises yet again."

Conan stared at her. His thoughts were muddled. She had drugged him, he recalled. And she must have had him taken to her chambers.

"You have been magnificent," she said, touched his shoulder with her fingertips. "None has ever done better."

"I have done nothing," Conan managed.

"You are too modest. Surely you recall?"

"I recall you flinging a powder into my face."

"And nothing since? Ah, if that was how you behaved when asleep, I cannot help but wonder how much better you shall do when awake!"

Conan shook his head, trying to clear it. What was she talking about?

The queen then rolled toward him, and showed him exactly what she meant.

Kleg called for the curses of ten thousand gods to fall upon the lizard men, but he had no intention of stopping to see if the imprecation worked. At first he thought to hide, that surely a single selkie would be more difficult to find than a dozen, but given the unknown tracking abilities of the lizards, he decided not to chance it. No, speed would be his best ally. One selkie could certainly move as fast as a troop of lizards, especially given that the lizards sought only booty, while the selkie ran for his skin.

Kleg wove his way through the thick forest as the day wore down to night, and while he saved his breath for his physical efforts, his mind continued to conjure up curses against his chasers.

Conan arose from the queen's bed, not a little tired himself, and found his clothes. The effects of the drug had long since worn off, but the queen finally slept.

He found his sword under a cushion that had been thrown. across the room earlier. Likely there were guards posted without, but obviously they had been instructed not to enter the chamber unless specifically called upon to do so; had mere noise been the signal, they would have burst in on Conan and the queen half a dozen times already.

Conan grinned. He could not say that his visit with the lizard woman had been unpleasant; indeed, he found it most difficult to think of her as other than a human woman, given her actions thus far.

Conan stuck his head through the chamber's opening. There were two guards, one on either side of the door. Softly, the Cimmerian said, "Hark, the queen wishes to convey a message." His voice was little more than a confidential whisper.

The two guards looked at each other, then back at Conan.

Conan waved them closer, grinning like a conspirator.

The two grinned, doubtless thinking themselves men of the world, and leaned toward Conan.

The Cimmerian grabbed each guard by the neck and slammed their heads together, hard. There came a sound like a gourd dropped on stone. When he released the guards, they fell like pole-axed oxen.

Conan hurried down the hallway to fetch Hok.

When Thayla awoke, she did so smiling. Who would have thought . . . ?

Where was he?

She sat up abruptly. Conan was gone! How had he gotten out?

"Guards! To me!"

Nothing happened. Thayla leaped up and ran to the doorway.

The two guards lay sprawled on the cavern floor unconscious.

By the Great Dragon!

"To arms!" Thayla screamed. She had to find him, and quickly. It would not do to have a human running around who might speak of his actions with the Queen of the Pili, especially when such speech might reach the wrong ears.

Her husband's ears.

"To arms! "

Conan ran across the desert to the east, the boy Hok next to him.

"But how did you escape?" Hok asked. "Did you smite the queen with your sword?"

"Save your breath for running, boy."

"It takes no breath to listen."

"Ask your sister when you see her. Better still, ask your brother, Tair."

If he continued moving through the night, Kleg would reach the village of Karatas on the Home Lake early the next day. Once there, he would be safe, for although the village was peopled largely by humans, there were also others of his own kind here and there, and all paid obeisance to He Who Creates. Once he reached the Sargasso, he could Change and wend his way through the weed paths to the underwater castle entrance, the talisman held safely in his teeth. There were creatures in the weed who would challenge even a Changed selkie, but not many, and none who could catch one in open water. Yes. A few more hours and he would be in the clear.

As darkness painted the earth with her colors of gray and black, Kleg ran, calling on all his strength and speed. He could rest when he got home; to tarry now would mean death.

When it was determined that Conan and the human boy were nowhere to be found inside the caves, Thayla assembled a dozen of the remaining males into a tracking force.

"We must find the escaped man and boy," she said. "It is most important."

Some of the males snickered at this, but Thayla cut their laughter short with a baleful stare. "Should they not be caught, I shall explain to the king that you allowed them to escape.

The dozen young males became serious. She knew what they would be thinking: whatever else happened, she was the queen, and she had the king firmly gripped where a male was most sensitive. If it came to it, whom was he more likely to believe?

Very serious indeed.

"I shall lead this expedition myself," she said. Thayla allowed a moment for this to sink in, a female leading males, but if there were any objections, no one voiced them. She could not trust them to return and tell her that Conan had been slain; she had to see it for herself.

"Let us depart, then," the Queen of the Pili said.

And depart they did.

Deep in his strong room, Dimma had a sudden premonition. His Prime servant was somehow in danger.

Dimma willed himself toward the door. He could move slowly in this fashion, though even a stray breeze could divert him. He felt that if Kleg were dead, he would know it, and it did not seem that such was the case; still, if Kleg had obtained the prize he sought, he must return with it. To that end, Dimma could send other of his thralls to ensure that if Kleg had collected the magic Seed, he would be certain to finish the remainder of his journey, albeit he might not be alive to do it. The life of one selkie meant nothing, even if the selkie did happen to be the Prime. There were always others who could be elevated to that position.

All who served Dimma knew the penalty for failure and it would not do to allow any to forget it, even for an instant. One could not have too many examples made to remind all of such things. If Kleg had failed, whatever remained of his corpse would be hung where all could see. If he accomplished his labor, then he would be sent to the deep with honor, his reputation secure. What else could he wish for other than the thanks of his god?

Chapter ELEVEN

Conan and Hok had not run far when they noticed pursuit.' Conan made to draw his sword, then stopped.

"Hold here," the Cimmerian said.

A party of about ten figures came toward them, and as they drew nearer, Hok's face broke into a wide smile.

"Cheen!"

Indeed, as Conan had seen, the followers were of the Tree Folk.

A few moments later, the group arrived. Cheen hugged her brother, and there were smiles all around.

Cheen clasped Conan tightly. "Thank you, Conan, for saving my brother!"

Despite his recent encounter with the lizard queen, Conan felt himself warm to Cheen's embrace. Conan's own arms seemed to surround the woman unbidden by thought.

Cheen moved from Conan's embrace to look up into his face. "We were trying to devise a way into the Pili's mound when we saw you and Hok flee. How did you manage it?"

"The queen took him away," the boy said before Conan could speak. "He won't tell me how he did it, but they were gone a long time and-"

"I shall explain it all later;" Conan interrupted hastily. "Now it would be best if we departed."

Cheen gave him a doubtful look, then finally nodded. "Aye. Tair and the rest continued following the selkies' trail. They'll want our help."

"And the lizard men might field pursuit," Conan said.

"We have achieved half our goal," Cheen said. She ruffled Hok's hair. "I am glad to see you, little brother."

They started off.

Kleg continued moving through the night and it was well that he did so, for he was never more than half an hour in front of his pursuers. He could not be certain that they even knew he existed, but a search of the dead selkies would not have revealed the talisman; doubtless the lizard men continued to follow, still seeking that same item.

Came the glimmerings of dawn and Kleg's step faltered somewhat; despite his great strength, his flight had tired him more than a little. His goal lay near at hand, though. The stark palisade of the village of Karatas rose to meet the morning's mists just ahead.

To the east of the settlement stood what appeared to be a rocky hill. Upon closer examination, the hill proved to be a single, huge chunk of rock, all of a piece, and the rays of the sleepy sun revealed this eminent boulder's single hue to be a deep and rich jet. Against the greenery of trees and grass, the black rock stood out like a blotch of dark paint on an albino's pale arm. The village, Kleg knew, had been named after this geologic phenomenon, for the name Karatas itself meant "black rock" in the tongue of those who had first settled the area.

Kleg hurried toward the towering wall of wood ahead of him. The magic talisman bumped his waist within the pouch he wore. Nearly safe, he was. True, one could enter the crater lake anywhere and make one's way through the Sargasso, but the unexplored weed was fraught with dangers. The safest tunnels through the growth began where the village met the water; besides, once inside the city, the lizard men's pursuit would end. The gates might be opened for a single Pili, but certainly not for an armed force of them; the administrators of Karatas wanted no more trouble than already existed within the protective walls. The Pili would know as much.

The wall loomed. Kleg came to stand under the guard post mounted over the smaller of the two gates on the road leading to the village.

"Ho, the gate watch!"

A fat, bearded man helmeted in a bowllike morion leaned out to look down at Kleg. "Aye, 'tis the watch. Who calls?"

"Kleg, Prime servant of He Who Creates, seeking entrance."

The guard moved back from sight, and the long bronze lever that controlled the smaller door creaked in its channel. An instant later, the iron-backed door swung outward on its thick, oiled hinges. "Enter, Prime."

Kleg smiled as he strode into the village. They knew him here, and they wanted no trouble with his master, upon whose sufferance they existed. He Who Creates could, if He so desired, magically wipe the village away as easily as a selkie crushing a water bug, and all who resided therein surely must know it.

When the gate swung shut behind him, Kleg felt a sense of relief. He would find a place to eat and to rest before going into the Sargasso. He could afford to spend a day recuperating, now that the end of his quest had drawn so near.

There was an oasis in the desert across which Conan, Cheen, and the others trekked, a splash of greenery that edged a spring-fed pond, and it was to this oasis that the group made their way under the oppressive heat of the sun.

As the men and women of the Tree Folk's party filled their water skins and rested in the cool shade, Cheen took Conan aside.

"Much as I would like to continue, we should rest and wait here until evening," she said. "The desert drinks the life of those who seek to cross this part of it on foot during the day."

Conan nodded. There had been no sign of pursuit from the Pili, and desert travel was best done under the cool moon and not her hotter brother, the sun.

"Come and explain what Hok spoke of, regarding the Queen of the Pili," Cheen said, laying her hand on Conan's arm. "There is a quiet place, just over there, beneath the shade of that flowered bush, where we will not be disturbed."

Conan looked at the swelling of Cheen's breasts under the thin shirt she wore, at the tightness of her muscles, and at the bright smile she gave him. He became aware that it was very possible his explanation would be accompanied by a demonstration, and despite his resolve about women, at the moment the idea was not unpleasant in the least.

"Aye," he said, returning her smile.

Thayla's tracker found the place where Conan and the boy had been joined by others, so that their party now matched the queen's own number. The Pili set off to follow, but shortly thereafter, a desert wind began to blow, stirring the sand and dust, and within minutes, the tracks of the escapees and their new companions were completely obscured.

Thayla led her troop across the desert, a mixture of fear and anger simmering in her hot blood. How dare that man leave before she was done with him? And what would happen to her if ever her husband should stumble onto Conan?

One of her troopers made to approach the queen. "Should we not go to the oasis, milady?"

The queen shook her head. "We are Pili, we can travel without water."

"Beg your pardon, milady, that is true, we can, but the humans might-"

"We will pass the oasis," she. said, "and perhaps in so doing get ahead of them, where we can set a trap."

"Ah," the trooper said. "Wise."

Thayla did not bother to reply to his flattery. Were she wise, they would be feasting on cooked manflesh in the mound and not chasing their dinner across the desert.

From the castle that rode the Sargasso, Dimma sent forth a magical call. There responded to the command a number of unnatural beings who owed their existence to earlier magicks of the Mist Mage: skreeches arose from the lake's depths, joined by the eels of power, and finally, the gigantic and omnivorous Kralix.

The skreeches were half-fish and half something that resembled women, and in the air, their voices in concert produced a hypnotic drone that drew those who heard as spilled honey draws flies. A man unwary enough to fall into the clutches of a skreech would find himself dead in short order, for the skreeches drank blood. A dozen of them swam up to answer their master's call.

The eels of power attained at full growth the length of a tall man and the thickness of his arm, and each bore within its body an energy akin to the lightning from a storm. To touch an eel in the water was to die stunned and blasted. A score of the eels came to the summons.

The Kralix was one of a kind. It was twice the size of an ox, its skin a glistening, mottled gray green, and it would eat plant or flesh with equal interest, and could swim the waters or stalk the land with nearly equal ability. It most resembled a thing that might have been born of wolf, bear, and toad, had the three somehow mated together, and its curse was-that it felt neither pain nor joy. All the Kralix ever felt was hunger, and unleashed, it would eat itself into a stupor. It was an amphibian nightmare, the Kralix, and its power was unequaled by any beast in the lake and few that had ever walked the land.

Dimma sent these minions into the weed, toward the village that perched on the rim of the water. "Go," he said. "Go and find my Prime selkie and escort him to me."

Obediently, they went.

Dimma floated in his throne room. The skreeches and eels would be limited to the lake, but the Kralix could attain the land. Certainly its appearance in the village would be cause for consternation. Dimma smiled at the thought. Given enough time, the Kralix could chew its way through the palisade wall itself, and Dimma had given it the essence of his Prime selkie as a guide. Wherever Kleg was, the Kralix would find him. And woe be to anybody or anything that got in the Ranafrosch's path ....

Under the thick bush in the oasis, Conan leaned on one elbow, grinning at Cheen. As he had hoped, his explanation of his adventures with the lizard queen had ended in a demonstration of sorts. Cheen's responses had been most enthusiastic.

Cheen returned his smile. "I had wondered about you since we met," she said.

"And now?"

"Now my curiosity is well satisfied."

Now that he had recovered Hok, Conan wondered about the second part of their quest. "What of the magic talisman?"

Cheen sat up and began to dress. Conan felt a slight stab of regret, for she was very comely without her clothes. He decided that he much liked women with a certain amount of muscle. It was both attractive and useful.

"I am attuned to the Seed," Cheen said. "Wherever it might be, if I can but get close enough, it will call to me."

That should make things somewhat easier, Conan decided. He said as much.

Cheen finished dressing. "We should rest," she said. "We leave when the sun begins his sleep."

Conan nodded. He lay back on the cushion of dead leaves and soft earth and, within moments, fell into a deep slumber untroubled by dreams.

Kleg sat alone in one corner of a small and uncrowded inn called, for reasons no one seemed to remember, the Wooden Fish. The innkeeper, a bald, stout, pockmarked man of advanced years, set before the selkie a platterful of cooked eel and raw mussels, as well as a tankard of kral, a potent and aromatic beverage favored by Kleg's kind. He had heard men refer to kral as smelling like a night chamber and tasting like pond scum, but to a selkie, the beverage was sweet and fresh, and far better than the vinegary wines men drank.

Kleg felt much better than he had for several days. He had food, drink, and a room for the day. He would eat and drink, sleep while the sands of the day ran down to night, then arise and look up a few old friends in the evening cool, waiting until dawn again to begin the final leg of his journey. He deserved the rest, he knew, and a single day more would mean little against the vast scale of time, given that he had accomplished his mission. He Who Creates might grumble at Kleg's slowness, but such noises would be lost in the joy of the prize. Moreover, He Who Creates would certainly not wish for the talisman to be lost during the swim due to tiredness on the part of its bearer. Of that, Kleg had no doubt he could convince his master.

The selkie chewed thoughtfully on a section of eel. It was badly cooked, the eel, and spiced worse, but that was a small matter. In another few days, Kleg would be free to roam the Sargasso, and would dine on fresher fare seasoned in its own hot blood. The thought of it brought a smile to Kleg's face, and his white teeth gleamed brightly in the flickering light of the tapers.

Chapter TWELVE

Thayla's plan to circle well past the oasis and set a trap for the escapees and their new band seemed to her without flaw. The Queen of the Pili had high hopes that the encounter would be brief and bloody, ending with more meat for the table than her kind had seen in many moons. From disaster could come triumph. When her foolish husband returned, the evidence of her impropriety would be steaming in the kettle, or perhaps slowly roasting over a low fire. Indeed, with as much food as the ambushed party represented, she would have a triumph she could lord over her husband for a long, long time, especially should he fail to obtain the forest talisman.

The shortest and most reasonable path to the east from this part of the desert required a traveler to pass among a series of shifting dunes not more than a few moments' walk ahead of Thayla and her band. These mounds of fine, powdery sand stood at their tallest more than a dozen times the height of a Pili, and their contours shifted from month to month, sometimes even from day to day. The winds shaped the sands, moving the drifts slowly but surely, so that where they lay upon the desert now was a far remove from where they had been even twenty winters past. Smooth valleys tended to form between the towering dunes, and these valleys became natural pathways.

When they reached the dunes, Thayla followed the widest entry path for a short distance. "Here," she said. She divided her force and ordered it into position.

"You, you, and you, climb that hillock and hide behind the crest. You and you, ascend yon sandy rock. The four of you, over there. You and you and you, with me, over here."

The dozen Pili were thus arranged so that when the escapees entered the valley, they would be surrounded.

"Oh, and a special reward for the one whose spear slays the large man, the one who fled our hospitality."

That remark would ensure that virtually all the troops would concentrate on Conan. To be even more certain, Thayla added, "And should he escape again, I will have all of your hides for a carpet to floor the Korga pens."

The attack from higher ground would give her troops the advantage, Thayla felt, and even if the slaughter was not complete, Conan would certainly die. That was, after all, the important thing.

As the sun settled low to begin his nightly rest, Thayla climbed the squeaky sands, to wait.

Conan and the small group of Tree Folk moved across the dark desert, water bottles full, enjoying the coolness of the night. Under the moon's pale gaze, a series of humps arose from the flat desert ahead of them.

"The dunes," Cheen said. "That means the end of the desert is not far. We will be well clear by first light."

Conan regarded the dunes. He felt a chill colder than the night air warranted prickle his spine. "I like this not," he said.

Cheen looked at the Cimmerian. "I do not take your meaning."

"Travel in the dark is made bearable by the ability to see for such a long distance." He waved one arm to indicate the flat bareness of the desert around them. "In those hills of sand, our view will be much impeded."

So.

"So, we have seen no sign of pursuit by the Pili."

"We should thank the Green Goddess for such good fortune. Perhaps they chose not to follow."

"Aye. But the Queen of the Pili did not strike me as someone who would allow us to escape unmolested."

"Does this worry of yours reach some conclusion?"

Conan shrugged. "The Pili would know that we could see them coming for a long way on the desert, giving us time to prepare a defense. But in those hills ahead, they might hide until we came very close. We could be trapped."

"You worry needlessly. It is unlikely the dunes hold hidden Pili."

"Unlikely, perhaps. Not impossible."

"What would you have us do?"

"Go around."

"That is not a good idea. Going around would cost us hours; we would be caught in the desert sun for at least another half day, perhaps longer."

Conan shook his head. Why did it seem as if he had spent the greater part of his life of late arguing with women? They must like it, he thought, for no more reason than the sake of the argument itself. Surely it was better to cook under a desert sun for half a day than to leave one's bones bleaching on the sands for eternity? But he did not say so aloud; instead, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and vowed to approach the passage ahead with special caution, no matter what Cheen said.

The single man standing night watch at the main gate of Karatas was bored. He could hardly be blamed for being so; after all, the last real threat to the city from without had come in the time of his father's father. The village was somewhat under the protection of the Mist Mage, at least enough so that any of the roving bands of bandits who might not be deterred by the palisade were loath to try Dimma's power. The region was remote enough so that no king with a great army and a wizard of his own cared to bother with a small village on the edge of a big lake with few riches to offer. True, the guard thought-and the dullness of his watch offered much time for thinking, though he was not overburdened with an apparatus for cerebration-there were a few attractive women, some passable wines, and even a little gold here. Hardly enough of all three together to be considered sufficient booty by a king with an army to feed and clothe, however.

Having entertained this particular train of thinking more than a few times during the boring seasons of his watch, the guard could not be bothered to worry when, from his perch on the wall, he saw a single Pili approaching the village in the silvery moonlight. The guard's beard was shot full of gray and he had been assigned this watch since before that beard had begun to fully sprout. The most dangerous incident he had faced in all that time had been a drunken farmer who threw rotten melons at him. And missed.

The guard had seen lizard men before. They were rare in these parts, to be sure, but probably half a dozen had passed through the gates during his watch at one time or another, so the guard was not one to gape at the sight of a Pili, even one with a decidedly regal bearing such as this one had.

"Alert, the watch!" the Pili called.

"Alert, indeed," the guard called back. "What be your business here?"

"I carry a message for one of the fishmen. Permit me to enter."

Even though the lizard man carried a long spear, the guard felt no particular peril. He tugged at the lever that opened the smaller entrance. Below him, the door began to swing open.

The Pili turned and shouted something into the darkness in a tongue the guard did not understand.

"What . . . ?" the guard began. He stopped when he caught sight of at least a score of spear-carrying lizard men running toward the gate. "Hey!"

The guard tried to reverse the lever. The greenish bronze suddenly seemed slippery in his hands. This was bad business!

"Here!" came a voice.

The guard looked, and saw the first Pili standing below him, inside the gate, The guard was still deciding whether to question, threaten, or plead with the lizard man when the thrown spear struck him solidly in the center of the chest. He was filled with hot pain, but only for an instant. The pain stopped, he became numb, then he could not feel anything.

The guard's final thought was an odd one. After all the years of dullness, something exciting had finally happened.

Kleg awakened after the cloak of night had fallen over the village. He felt much better. He arose, .drenched himself with the bowl of wash water in the room, and thus refreshed, left the room on the inn's third and highest floor, intending to eat another meal before going out.

As the selkie reached the stair landing, he chanced to glance out through the small window cut through the outer wall. The sky's cloth of darkness was pierced by the sharp pinpricks of uncountable stars and easily half the grinning moon, and a cool breeze carried the living odor of the lake through the opening. Kleg felt quite good, until he happened to look down through the window.

There on the narrow street between the inn and the leather shop across it, several figures scurried along. Between the moon's glow and that of a fat-fueled torch mounted on the side of the inn at street level, it was easy for the selkie's sharp eyes to tell that the trotting forms were neither men nor selkies.

They were Pili.

The chill that enveloped Kleg had nothing whatever to do with the night winds blowing through the window.

Pili! How could they be here? Surely the guard would not have admitted an armed band of them! Had they scaled the wall surrounding the village? Broken through the gate?

Never mind that, Kleg. How they got inside is not nearly so important as why they are here: they are after you and not the least doubt of that.

For a moment, Kleg yielded to panic. A score of Pili would move through the village like dung through a worm; it would only take moments for them to find him!

Unbidden, his hand found the pouch of his belt containing the magical talisman. Should they manage to obtain the Seed and somehow spare him, his fate would make a quick death by spear pleasant compared to what He Who Creates would do to him. He had to escape!

Yea, even though it was dark and the weed paths under the water would be most dangerous, he had to get to the lake. In his Changed form, his chances were much better there than in his upright from here. And while the Pili might have managed to breach the village's wall, it would be a cold sun in the desert before they learned how to swim well enough to catch a selkie!

Carefully, Kleg started down the steps.

From below, a voice called out loudly, "We seek a fishman! Is there one here? Speak, or taste my spear!"

"U-u-up-s-stairs," came a quavering response.

Kleg stopped cold. By the Black Depths! He was trapped!

A tall Pili with whom Thayla considered trysting once he got a little older slid down the side of the sand dune from the top and came to rest next to the queen.

"They are coming!" he said.

Thayla nodded. "Exactly as I planned. You know what you are to do."

"Aye, my queen."

"Prepare, then."

The young male nodded and climbed upward, where he rejoined the other two males Thayla had kept with her. The queen herself followed, moving more slowly. She planned to watch from the peak of the hillock as her troops attacked. The numbers on both sides were about equal, but she had the advantage of surprise. Night would help, insofar as confusion went in the dark, but the Pili saw no better than did men, nor was their hearing an improvement.

Well, it did not matter if many or all of her troops died, as long as she got what she wanted.

Now, there was carnage to observe. Doubtless her reptilian ancestors would have been pleased with the smile that thought brought to her lips.

The Queen of the Pili continued to grin as she climbed to a position from which she could watch the slaughter.

Conan slipped away from the others and circled to his right. Perhaps Cheen was right. Perhaps he worried needlessly, like some child afraid of ghosts in the dark. He had seen once again, however, from his confrontation with Crom-if that had been other than a potion-inspired dream-that leaping without looking was fraught with danger. Were it not for that rope about his ankle during the ceremony in the trees, likely his brains would have been dashed all over the roots below. Conan of Cimmeria was not a man to repeat the same mistake once he had grasped the idea of it. One who always used his might and never his wits would likely lead a short life, and he had no intention of so doing.

The sand of the slope was finer than that upon which they had been walking, and Conan stepped upon it carefully to avoid having it cheep birdlike under his sandals. The wind was at his back, and it carried tiny sharp teeth of sand that bit at his exposed flesh and sought to burrow beneath his clothing. The odor of the desert was dry and lifeless, and his nostrils detected no sign of the lizard musk he recalled from the cage and caves.

Halfway up the slope, Conan's sharp blue eyes caught sight of three dark splotches above him, at the peak of the dune. At first he thought the shapes some type of plant, but as he cautiously climbed upward, he realized that he was mistaken.

The three forms were Pili warriors, and they were intent on something on the other side of the dune.

Conan could easily guess what that something was: the Tree Folk, walking into a trap.

Taking care to avoid scraping the blade on the scabbard, the Cimmerian drew his sword. He was nearly upon the three, who had risen from prone to half crouches, when the night wind at his back gave him away.

"Gah, what is that stink?" one of the Pili answered.

"Not I," a second said.

"It smells familiar," the third said. "Like . . . it is a man!"

The three started to turn.

No more need for stealth. Conan churned up the slope, the sand chee-cheeing under his sandals.

He bellowed a warning: "Pill! On the dune tops! Pili! Beware!"

The yell was replaced by the exclamations of the startled Pili.

The nearest of the three lunged up, and the angle of the dune gave him momentum as he stabbed at Conan with his spear. The Cimmerian dodged, slow in the dry mire, but quick enough to avoid the thrust. The Pili's lunge turned into a fall, then a helpless, uncontrolled tumble as he flew down the side of the dune, screaming as he went.

The second Pili managed only to lift his weapon before Conan's blued-iron blade whistled in the night air and cleaved the lizard man open from one side of his neck to the opposite shoulder. He sprouted his life's blood into the dry sand, which drank it eagerly.

The third Pili stood to flee, but not fast enough. The point of Conan's sword found and entered the Pili's back and exited through the lizard man's heart and sternum. Conan lifted his right foot and used it to shove the dying Pili from his blade, and this one tumbled down the opposite side of the dune toward the startled Tree Folk below.

Conan took in the scene: the Tree folk, warned by his yell, were already climbing the hill toward him, to take the high ground. Several Pili charged down other dunes, waving spears and yelling. As Conan watched, one of the Tree Folk took a thrown spear in the leg. Little Hok was halfway up the dune by now, with Cheen right behind him. One of the Tree Folk spun and hurled a spear, and was rewarded by a scream from the Pili who caught the point in the belly.

Conan grinned. A simple battle, odds nearly even, now this was something he understood! He yelled wordlessly and charged down the dune, sword raised to smite the enemies below.

Chapter THIRTEEN

Keg searched for options and found them few. Below in the main room of the ramshackle inn, an unknown number of Pili had just discovered his whereabouts. He was on the third floor with only one stairway leading down. He could go down the stairs to a likely death. He could hide and hope to avoid being discovered, or he could develop wings and escape; otherwise he would have to leap to the cobblestones below and that would cost him broken legs at the least and probably worse.

Things did not look promising.

From his belt, Kleg drew the long dagger he habitually carried and resolved to sell his life for as much Pili blood as he could. He did not know if He Who Creates could reach across the death barrier to the Gray Lands, but were such a thing possible, certainly it would happen; did Kleg die here this night, he meant to show he had struggled valiantly in his master's service before falling.

Suddenly there came a loud crash. The inn shook, as though rattled by an earth tremor, and the voices of those below raised into a frantic, panicked babble. Came up the stairs screams and the sounds of breaking furniture and general chaos. .

What in the world . . . ?

Cautiously, Kleg stole down the stairs, dagger in hand.

When he rounded the final turning on the second-story landing, he saw a chair fly past the base of the stairwell, followed by a Pili-sans head.

Something was definitely amiss here.

Kleg descended further, and what he beheld was indeed a frightening sight.

The east wall of the inn was more or less collapsed, the ceiling above canting down over a massive hole to the outside; half a dozen Pili scrabbled around the wrecked room, jabbing their spears at a nightmare.

The monster they fought looked to be part toad, part bear, and perhaps leavened with dog or wolf, but it was huge! Its gaping maw was lined in the front with needlelike teeth that tapered to solid plates of flat molars in the back. The beast chewed something, and Kleg's stomach roiled as he realized that what it chewed was the remains of a Pili's head. The. morsel crunched wetly in the monster's jaws.

The jabs of the Pili's spears did not seem to affect it much, if at all, and as Kleg watched, the thing lunged forward, very quickly for such a large creature, and bit the leg from another Pili.

The lizard man screamed, but the beast was apparently as unaffected by this as it was by the spears, which sank into its flesh but drew no blood. The mottled gray-green monster chewed on the leg as a cow chews on her cud, oblivious to all else.

There was a mostly clear pathway to the inn's door, and Kleg decided that there would never be a better time for him to depart. He sprinted toward the exit.

The Pili were too busy to notice him, but Kleg's run did draw the attention of the monster, whose red eyes turned to follow the selkie's dash for freedom.

The knowledge came suddenly to Kleg; the thing was here for him!

Certainly the beast was no friend to the Pili. Could it have been sent by the Tree Folk?

Kleg reached the door and ran through it into the street. A small crowd had gathered and was moving toward the inn.

"Hey, whut's alla noise about . . . ?"

". . . god's cursed racket in there . . . ?"

". . . watch it, fool!"

Kleg ignored the people, save for the one he banged into during his flight, and he only paid enough attention to that one to shove him roughly aside. If these idiots wished to enter the inn, so much the better. They would make fodder for the thing therein, and perhaps keep it from following him.

It did not seem likely that the Tree Folk had fielded such a monster, and since it was not one of the Pili's pets, then the logical conclusion was that He Who Creates had sent it. But why? To help Kleg? Or to devour him? Mayhaps the magical talisman that bumped at his waist could survive a trip in the belly of the beast quite easily and that was He Who Creates' intent in sending it.

Kleg did not know the answers to his questions, nor was he interested in waiting here to find out. That hideous monster gobbling up Pili as if they were sweetmeats did not look to be something with which you could reason.

Kleg ran toward the docks, trusting to speed instead of stealth now. If he could but reach the water, he would be safe!

Another thought thrust itself into his consciousness all of a moment. If He Who Creates had sent the beast after him, could not He have also sent others? Things that could even now be waiting in the Sargasso for Kleg?

The running selkie slowed, coming to a stop.

Uh-oh. He could have gone forever without that thought.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps in this case what he did not know would hurt him. Perhaps it would eat him.

Kleg turned and walked into an alleyway between a smith's shop and a half-fallen temple. Before he ran pell-mell to the water and threw himself into a set of jaws like those destroying the inn, perhaps he had better think on this for a while.

Rage enveloped Thayla. Her trap was falling apart before her eyes! Someone had given the alarm! The essence of her attack was off, the surprise gone, and even now, the Tree Folk scooted up a dune ahead of her soldiers, largely untouched. Where were the three who were supposed to be at the summit of that hill?

There one of them was-Gods, he was flying down the hill, falling, rolling, and what was-oh, no, it was that barbarian human! He stood there at the crest, waving his sword and yelling. Now he was charging downward, and the Tree Folk were turning to join him.

In the dark, bodies fell, Pili and human; there came the hard clatter of spears, the screams of wounded. And Conan laid about with that sword, chopping her troops down as a Pili clears brush, back and forth, back and forth, by the great Green Dragon.

It was a rout. More Pili were down than men, and whatever advantage the Pili might have had fled like the sand before a windstorm. Another of her troops dropped, cut nearly in half by that berserk man she had taken to her bed. Yet another ate a spear thrown by one of the tree dwellers. Her warriors were the ones being slaughtered, not the men, and Thayla watched in horror as it happened.

It came to her as Conan chased the last of her troops that she herself was in danger. Might not they look for other Pill?

Thayla slid down from her perch on the dune. Best not to be found if they looked.

As she hurried to find a place to hide, the Queen of the Pili was filled with a bitter blend of fear and loathing and anger.

Now what was she going to do?

Conan chased the fleeing Pili and caught him after a short sprint. The heavy iron sword sang a song of death in the night as it chopped the Pili's head from his shoulders. The lizard man collapsed, spouting crimson into the thirsty sands.

The Cimmerian turned, his own blood coursing rapidly within him, searching for more opponents.

Alas, there were no more Pili to be slain.

"Conan, are you unharmed?"

He looked up to see Cheen scurrying toward him.

"Aye. What of the others?"

The two of them began a check of the Tree Folk. They had lost five of their party to Pili spears. A. quick count showed nearly a dozen of the lizard men were now corpses.

"Should we search for others?" Hok said to his sister.

"I think not," Cheen said. "Our goal is ahead and I would not delay here. What say you, Conan?"

The Cimmerian was busy with his honing stone, touching up the blade of his sword. As he polished out a nick on the edge with the stone, he nodded at Cheen. "Aye, let us continue onward. II is unlikely that we will be troubled by such as these again." He waved the sharpened sword at the bodies on the sand. "Before the queen realizes we have slain her troops, we will be well out of their territory."

After a quick burial of their dead and attention to the wounds of the living, the group departed the scene of the battle.

Swirling through. the quiet halls, Dimma felt within him a sense of frustration. He had done all he could do, he reasoned. His Prime selkie would die before failing, he had sent as much help as was like to be useful, and all he could do now was wait. After five hundred years, a few days was nothing, and yet Dimma could feel the end of his torture almost as if he had flesh and was feeling the touch of a woman. Were he solid, he could venture forth himself, could brave any winds, could go and see for himself what was transpiring. Alas, in his current form, even a stray breeze would drive him before it as a shepherd does lambs, and there was nothing h,. could do about it, despite his most powerful magicks.

It enraged hire, his helplessness, and he intended to revenge himself upon the world when he again wore the flesh. That he should suffer so for hundreds of years needed payment, and the payment would be in rivers of blood and mountains of bone. Those who had taken their bodies for granted would suffer because he, Dimma, had not been able to enjoy that simple pleasure. Not until his rage was spent would he be content to rest and think about what he would do next.

Now, how would he begin? Well, a plague to kill all the inhabitants of Koth, where a dying wizard's curse had infected Dimma, that would be a good start.

The Mist Mage felt better, thinking about an orgy of destruction. Soon, it would be.

Soon.

Kleg found himself on the horns of a dilemma. On the one side, the village contained Pili who wanted to drink his life and steal the talisman he had stolen, so he had to get to the waters of the lake and the safety of the Sargasso. On the other side of the problem, there was at least one monster after him, and perhaps others, and he was uncertain as to their intent. He Who Creates had motives beyond understanding by a selkie, and the waters might well prove more dangerous than the village.

Kleg leaned against the rough wooden wall of the smith's shop and pondered the problem. Which was it to be? The demons he knew? Or the demons he did not? One thing for certain, he needed to choose soon. That thing might find him again, or the Pili might. Or both unhappy events might come to pass. His chances of surviving such an encounter were slim at best.

Come on, Kleg. Which is it to be?

Chapter FOURTEEN

The Queen of the Pili was not one to be discouraged easily. Even though all but one of her troops had been slain-that one spared only because he had been knocked unconscious and was therefore thought dead-Thayla had no intention of giving up the chase. The party of Tree Folk had also lost nearly half its strength, had been reduced to five, not counting Conan and the boy. Seven against two was a situation that precluded direct attack by the smaller number, but despite that, Thayla intended somehow to prevail.

How she was going to see Conan dead was unknown, but some opportunity would arise, of that she was certain.

She and her single trooper, an unseasoned youth called Blad, stayed well back of the Tree Folk as they neared the edge of the desert.

Once they were in the greener land that lay ahead, they could move closer to the others. Perhaps they could pick them off one by one, lowering the odds slowly. Something would occur to her, sooner or later.

Kleg decided. Whatever the possible dangers in the lake of his birth, he would be much better equipped to deal with them in his Changed form. That thing back in the inn was larger and more fearsome than a selkie in the water, but given its shape, it could not possibly be as fast. And while there were smaller denizens who could give a swimming selkie pause, there were not many. Better he should be twice his present size and armed with a mouthful of teeth and muscular speed than to be caught here on the shore with nothing but a dagger and these puny land legs. He did not have to take the most direct route to the castle, after all. There were a thousand pathways through the weed.

So be it.

The decision made, Kleg immediately felt better. He worked his way toward the docks, moving in the shadows, taking great care not to be seen. Once he reached the water, it would be but a short swim to the edge of the Sargasso. Yes, this was the wiser decision, to be sure.

As he drew nearer to his goal, Kleg slipped the belt and pouch from his waist, rebuckled the belt, and put it over his head and around his neck. The material of the belt was of some special elastic substance that would easily stretch to accommodate the much-thicker body he wore as a Changed selkie. He Who Creates was nothing if not thorough.

Only a few feet from the water, Kleg patted the pouch around his neck. How light the talisman was; he could hardly tell anything was within the thick leather container. He shook the pouch and listened for the rattle he had grown used to the last few days.

The talisman did not rattle.

Kleg's action only served to cause the flap of the case to gape open. How could that be? He had tied it most securely!

With a sensation of sinking panic, Kleg reached into the leather pouch and groped for the talisman.

And found that it was gone.

The crowd standing on the narrow street in front of the Wooden Fish received a great surprise when, all of a moment, a monster burst through the front door, destroying the portal and bringing half the wall down in the process.

Standing to one side of the gathering was a gnarled man, of boylike stature, named Seihman. He had been strong and adventurous once, but now he was known as Seihman of the swine, for that was his work these days, to care for the boars and sows owned by one of the village's richer men. Hardly a glorious function, but it kept him in food and wine-mostly wine-and was certainly better than starving-or worse, dying of thirst.

When the hideous beast broke through the wall of the inn, Seihman's reaction matched that of the rest of the curious: he turned to flee. Around him, the crowd broke like a fat raindrop striking a smooth stone. Seihman, whose best years were long past, ran for all he was worth, trying to watch the demon or whatever at the same time. His initial burst of speed was quite remarkable in that it was unmatched by any younger man on the street; alas, Seihman managed only three such quick bounds before he stepped upon something hard and roundish, tripped, and fell flat on his back.

The crowd vanished like smoke in a high wind, and Seihman found himself sprawled alone on the street altogether too close to a creature large enough to swallow him in one gulp, had it a mind to do so.

"Mitra, spare me!"

Seihman had not spent a copper or a moment in one of Mitra's temples in twenty winters, but he inwardly swore to make amends for this lack if only the Divine One would see fit to allow him this one small favor.

The beast, as ugly a thing as Seihman had ever beheld, glanced without apparent interest at the fallen man, then turned and trotted off down the street toward the lake.

Seihman managed to sit up. "Oh, blessings on you, Divine Mitra! I am in your debt!"

As the monster ambled away from him, Seihman chanced to look down to see what had tripped him.

What was this here odd-looking eye-shaped thing? Some kind of pit, much larger than any he had ever seen, though. A seed?

Seihman gingerly picked up the Seed and hefted it in one hand. Maybe it had some value? Standing, he put the Seed inside his ragged tunic, where it rested warmly against the skin of his aged belly. He would take it by Old Talow, the vegetable merchant. Maybe Talow might recognize it, and who knowed? Maybe he would even buy it. Could be it might be worth a mug of cheap wine, maybe.

Before the curious could return, Seihman shuffled off toward his lodging behind the swine pens. He began to spin a story in his mind to tell his friend the goatherd over a mug of wine when next they met: Aye, I did see the thing what wrecked the Wooden Fish. Come right at me, it did, but I stood my ground all alone and stared it down, and it turned tail and runned off.

Well. It was almost true.

Dawn broke cloudless, splashing the land next to the river with pale and cool sunshine.

The recent rains had washed out most of the tracks of the fleeing selkies, but when Conan and the Tree Folk reached the bank of a rushing river, they found ample evidence of the fishmen.

Lying on the shore were five or six dead selkies, of two versions: one like those Conan had seen at the trees, only these were bloated and purple and covered with buzzing flies. The other version of selkie was a great fish twice the size of a man, with an underslung jaw full of teeth and a smooth, tapering body with long fins and tail. These also were swollen in death, fly-blown, and two of the corpses had small spears lodged in them. The air stank of poison, and this was confirmed by the fact that no scavengers had been at the meat and fish. The flies, too stupid to know better, ate and died by the hundreds.

"Hie, look here!" Hok called.

Conan moved to where the boy stood. Hok pointed down at tracks in the drying mud. Conan recognized them from his time in the desert. Pili.

Well. It took no genius to understand what had happened here. The Pili and the selkies had fought, and it seemed that the Pili had gotten at least a few of the fishmen.

Cheen came to stand next to Conan. "There are some dead Pili farther downstream," she said.

"And it looks as if there are more Pili tracks on the other side of the river, though it's hard to say from here," the Cimmerian said.

"You have good eyes," Cheen said.

"We should make a raft and cross. There, on the opposite side, someone else has already done so." He pointed at a wooden platform beached slightly downstream.

Cheen said, "Aye, that has the look of our construction. Tair is still ahead of us."

"Best we move to catch him."

"You do not think there are any more like these in the water, do you?" She pointed at one of the great fish, then shuddered.

"Likely not. No reason for them to stay, if any survived."

They set about building a raft, a chore that took not as long as Conan would have supposed. The Tree Folk were very good with wood and vine, and in a matter of hours, they were done.

The crossing was uneventful.

"Another day's travel and we should arrive at a village on the shore of the Sargasso lake," Cheen said as they disembarked from the raft. "So I have been told. I have never been there myself."

"And past that?"

"The Mist Mage lives in the weed. He has a floating castle in the middle. No one has ever gone there and returned, save his creatures."

"Best hope we catch the selkies before then," Conan said.

Aye.

Thayla and Blad counted the dead Pili they found along the riverbank. There were at least a dozen, and the Dragon knew how many more might have been washed downstream out of sight. That fool, her husband, did not seem to be among the corpses. Thayla was unsure of how to react to this. While Blad moaned over dead comrades, Thayla felt that the discovery was somewhat a mixed blessing. Had the king been among the fallen, her chase would have been over. She would be queen, could choose some pliant male as consort-maybe even Blad here-and live out her days in what luxury she could force from the Pili.

But as long as Rayk lived, there existed the chance that he would find out about Conan. Of course, she had survived such rumors before, because the transgressor in question had always been devoured and therefore had been unable to answer any questions about the matter. Even a fool expected no reply from a boiling pot of soup. But Conan lived, and as long as he and her husband both continued to do so, she was in peril.

"We need a raft," Thayla told Blad. "Construct one so that we may cross."

"At once, my queen."

"You need your strength now," she said, smiling at the young male, "but after we cross the river, perhaps I can find a way to suitably reward you for your steadfast service, Blad my worthy." Might as well bind him to her personally, she decided.

The young male stared at her. "I need no reward, milady."

Thayla shrugged out of her heavy travel robe, then quickly removed her undergarments. After a moment, she stood naked before him. "But you shall have one anyway. If you hurry."

As she redressed, Thayla smiled and thought to herself that never had she seen a Pili move with such alacrity.

Where was the talisman?

That was the question that filled Kleg's mind to bursting. How could it have been lost? When? Where?

As he made his way back toward the inn, he went over in his mind for the hundredth time all the events and places of the last day. He had still had the talisman in the room he had taken for sleeping. He had opened the pouch to check. Somehow, he had failed to secure the leather strings properly, and somehow, the magic Seed had fallen from its container.

Had it been during the run downstairs? Or when he had seen that beast? Or when . . . ?

Wait. He had bumped into somebody on the street, some fool gawking at the inn, he had shoved the man aside-Yes! That was it! He must have flung the talisman loose during that encounter.

In the dark, perhaps no one had noticed it. It was not remarkable to look upon, a brownish gray, mostly round, and pointed-on-both-ends seed, looking like nothing so much as a giant fruit pit.

With the coming of daylight, however, someone might notice the Seed.

Kleg moved quickly, but he kept to alleyways and next to buildings as much as possible. Dawn brought an end to the shadows in which he had hidden from the Pili, and there were at least a few who had not met their end at the jaws of the beast. Of course, they should not be inside the village, so they would also have to be less than obvious in their movements. A single Pili here and there would likely raise a few eyebrows but no real alarm. Half a dozen spear-bearing lizard men marching abreast would have the local guard out in a hurry, and they had to know that.

The Prime selkie crossed a narrow side road, moving quickly past an old man throwing grain into a penful of swine. The old man stared, but Kleg did not speak or slow his pace.

And what of that monster? What had happened to it? He had not seen it again during his dodgings, but he doubted that the creature had been slain by the Pili, or by anybody else.

Ah, this was all becoming too complicated. He had to find that talisman, and he had to find it quickly!

Seihman looked up from his strewing of near-fermented grain to the pigs to see the selkie march past. The old man shook his head. Strange goings-on about here of late. There was that demon thing in the street, this selkie, and early this morning, when the cock still crowed, he had seen one of them lizard men skulking about, too. It added up to a bad omen, he reckoned, and best he step lightly so as not to get stuck in the middle of whatever was going on.

He tossed the final bucket of slops to the pigs, dropped the wooden container next to the rail fence, and figured it was time to go and get something to drink for breakfast. The goatherder ought to be coming round about now, and maybe he could get a bit of free wine out of him with the story about the monster.

Oh, and that pit he had found, maybe he could take that by Old Talow's and get a copper or two for it.

Seihman reached inside his shirt for the seed.

Whups. Not there. Hmm. Musta dropped it somewheres. Ah, well, no help for it. Probably not worth anything, anyways.

Chapter FIFTEEN

Keg could not recall a worse day in his life. The time He Who Creates caught him with the kitchen maid had been bad, as had the occasion when he accidentally ripped a thousand-year-old tapestry down from one of the castle walls. This, however, made those as nothing.

He had returned to the street outside the destroyed tavern. The monster was gone, fortunately. Unfortunately, the magic talisman was also absent. If he had in fact dropped the item in the street and he could not think otherwise then somebody or something had picked it up.

The sun's light slanted down from on high, and Kleg could not tarry for fear of being spotted by the Pili. He had seen a pair of them lurking behind a shed earlier, but luckily they had not been aware of him.

The selkie leaned against the back wall of the Wooden Fish, hidden in a patch of thick shade: What was he going to do? To return to face He Who Creates without the talisman meant a painful, messy death, and no doubt of that. To fail to return would hardly be better. Kleg knew that no matter how fast or how far he ran, he could not escape the vengeance of his master. He could put off the inevitable for a time, but as sure as the sun went down each night so would Kleg go down, and if his death for failure would be bad, his end for trying to get away would be thrice as horrible, were such a thing possible. He Who Creates had raised the selkies from the slime of the lake bottom and made them stronger and faster than the men who ruled most of the earth. One who could turn bottom fish into selkies with a wave of His hand could certainly find one of His creations and squash him as easily as a child could squash a bothersome gnat.

No, neither of those options offered the Prime selkie the slightest joy.

The only road to redemption was the road that led to the talisman. But how? He could hardly walk around asking every passerby if he had happened to find a magic Seed stolen from the Tree Folk, now, could he? And mayhaps the Pili had already found it.

Kleg shook his head. Why had he been put in this position? All he asked from life was to be allowed access to females and game fish! It was hardly fair. He had done what he was supposed to do. Surely He Who Creates, Who Knew All, could see that?

Aye. And perhaps this was part of the test. To see how hard His servant would strive to accomplish his given task.

Kleg shook his head again. Why me?

Evening began drawing her black cloak about the land when Conan and his party finally caught up with Tair and the second group of Tree Folk. There was some rejoicing to see those still living, and also sorrow for those who had perished along the way.

As the two small units of Tree Folk mingled, Conan stood apart. Not far from them, a huge black rock lay embedded in the earth, as if dropped by the hand of a careless god.

The greetings and commiserations done, Tair and Cheen came to stand next to Conan.

"The village of Karatas lies just beyond the black rock," Tair said. "The last of the selkies have attained sanctuary there. There was a battle at a river a ways back, between the selkies and a large group of Pili."

"Aye," Conan said, "we saw signs of it."

"Apparently the Pili also chased the selkies. Somehow, they, too, have managed to get inside the walls surrounding the village."

"Then that is where we must go."

Tair nodded. "Aye, but there is a problem. Due to some trouble, the normal gate guard has been trebled, and they are allowing no strangers to enter. Even one who is as brave and strong as I cannot hope to break through the entrance."

Conan shrugged. "So we find another way to get inside."

"I am given to understand that the walls of Karatas have not been breached since they were built," Cheen said. "Some have tried."

"I did not offer to breach them," Conan said. "Do you not think that you can climb them?"

Tair grinned widely and slapped Conan on one hard shoulder. "By the Green Goddess, surely you jest? There is nothing I cannot climb!"

"And the others?"

"Well, they are not so adept as I, certainly, but a wall of wood can hardly offer much challenge. The palisade is, after all, nothing more than a bunch of trees without limbs."

"Then we should find an unwatched spot and climb," Conan said. "When darkness is the deepest."

"Aye, a clever idea. We can drop a line for you once we are atop the wall."

"I think I can manage the climb on my own.

Aye, he thought, or die trying before allowing himself to be pulled up on a rope. The Tree Folk had no more fingers or toes than did Cimmerians, and if they could scale that wall, he would be cursed forever if he could not do the same.

"I shall send a scout to find a good place," Tair said. "Meanwhile, let us eat and speak of our adventures. I have much to say."

Conan grinned. Aye, he was certain of that fact. Never had he met a people so full of themselves. They had raised the standards of bragging, to be sure.

Thayla chewed on a hard root and grimaced at the taste and texture. There was some milky fluid in the thing that spurted into her mouth, producing a salty and slightly bitter tang. While sustaining, it was hardly part of a diet she would desire given choice. Still, one had to make do. There was no time to hunt meat and still maintain their watch on the Tree Folk and that accursed Conan.

Next to her under the cover of thick shrubbery, Blad smiled at her. Simpleton that he was, he required very little to make him happy. After crossing the river where so many of their kind had died, Thayla had gifted the young Pili with a treasure he had never thought to attain, and now he belonged to her, body and spirit. Males were so predictable it was laughable.

"They are settled, you say?"

"Aye, milady. They eat and talk among themselves."

Thayla digested this bit of information along with another bit of root. Whatever idea she had had about slaying the Tree Folk one at a time vanished when Conan and his group joined another, larger band of the accursed humans. There were nearly a score of them gathered together now, and a misstep on Blad's part would likely see him skewered. Not that such an idea greatly distressed her, since she thought of males as disposable-one Pili was as good as another; they all looked alike under the moon-but since Blad here was the only one she had, Thayla was loath to give him up-at least until she had a suitable replacement.

"We are near the village?" she said.

"Aye, my queen. A few minutes' walk."

What, she wondered, were the Tree Folk up to now? And where was that fool husband of hers? The village squatted on the edge of a vast lake, and he had to be inside the walls-unless he was in the water or somehow on the weed therein, neither of which she thought likely. So what was he doing in there?

"Go and watch the men," Thayla ordered. "Report back immediately if anything happens."

The smile vanished from Blad's face. Doubtless he had something other in mind than lying alone in the brush spying on their quarry. Thayla reached out and stroked his arm. She gave him a half-lidded look and a sultry smile. "I shall wait here for your return."

The grin blossomed again on Blad's face and he jumped up almost eagerly. "At once, my queen!"

After he was gone, Thayla shook her head. Truly males were driven by something other than their brains.

The thick of night found Kleg sitting unhappily in a rat-infested tavern near the docks. A sign outside proclaimed the tavern to be the Bright Hope. The name was a huge joke, for there was neither brightness nor hope within.

Kleg brooded over a wooden cup of kral under the flickering light of sputtering fat lamps. The rough, filthy room was filled with smoke and perhaps a score of low-caste men and half as many bottom-of-the-barrel trulls seeking to service them. The planks of the walls were warped and colored a dead gray, with torn fishnets draped here and there as an attempt at decorations. A vile place. Kleg was only in it because he thought it unlikely anyone would think to look for him here.

Kleg sipped at his drink. The crowd of men was a rough one, cutpurses, dock thugs, and the like, with a thin leavening of more upright citizens: at a table near the selkie, a goatherder and a swinekeeper drunkenly told each other tales in loud voices.

None of the riffraff bothered Kleg. It was well known that a selkie was no easy mark, being stronger than a man even on land and quick to anger if irritated. Small consolation.

". . . No, wait, let me tell ye about the time I slew a direwolf with naught else but my sling-"

"No, no, no, I heared that story a hundred times! Let me tell you o' the monster at the inn!"

The goatherder splashed wine down the front of his already-stained and stinking sheepskin jerkin. "Ah, go on with ye, it's lies ye be tellin'! "

"No, no, no! I was there, I tell you! It come right through the wall o' the Fish, tore the wood like it was a spider's web and come right at me! Big as a house"-Here the swinekeeper waved his mug of wine to emphasize the size of the thing about which he spoke, and sloshed a goodly portion of the wine into a high arc that ended on the dirt floor-"it were, and me standin' there in the street all alone, nothin' between it 'n' me, and I says to myself, by Mitra, my time is come, so's I might as well go out like a man. I stared it in the eye, I did, I dared it to come for me, and it see'd my face and turned away!"

"Aye, I'ud run were I sober and seeing you for the first time meself," the goatherder said. Amused at his own joke, the man laughed loudly, trailing off into a hoarse cackle.

"No! I faced 'im down, I did! The street were thick with folk and they every one of 'em ran like water bugs from a carp! But I stood my ground! I'ud show you, it ever comes back, the demon!"

This brought another round of raspy cackles.

Kleg was distracted by his plight, else he would have picked up on the substance of the conversation sooner. As it was, he realized the implications as the goatherder stood and made some comment about emptying his bladder; then stumbled off, weaving awkwardly through the clutter of the room.

If any of this were true, if this old man had been on the street when the monster broke out of the inn last eve, then maybe he had seen the talisman!

Kleg shook his head. It was a faint hope. Still, a faint hope was better than no hope at all.

The selkie stood and moved toward the old swinekeeper.

Even through his drunken haze, the man's face registered his fear as Kleg loomed over him.

"Eh?"

"I heard part of your story," Kleg said. "A man as brave as you deserves more than scorn. What are you drinking?"

"Why, dregwine, what else?"

Kleg waved at the serving woman, a white-haired slattern dressed in a shapeless rag whose original color had become hidden under layers of filth. "Ho, a bottle of your best for my brave friend here."

The swinekeeper's face lit up with besotted joy. "Why, that's kind o' you, milord! You bein' a selkie and all, not that I ever had any disrespect for your kind, you unnerstand."

Kleg nodded. "Tell of this adventure of yours of which I have heard so much talk."

"Much talk, eh? Ha, shows what that fool goatherd knows! Aye, milord, it were a terrible sight! Only last night it happened."

The wizened little man launched into a retelling of the story Kleg had overheard. He paused when the serving woman returned with the wine, poured until his cup overflowed, and drank half the new portion. "Aye, so there I were, all alone, facing the demon with naught but my courage ...."

A hush fell over the room, the conversations around stopping as if by a signal. Kleg glanced up from the old man's rambling, to see what had caused the sudden quiet.

Standing in the doorway, outlined by the fat lamps to either side of the entrance, was a Pili.

The swinekeeper was oblivious and had grown more heroic in his retelling his tale.

". . . so I moved toward it, figurin' to poke its eye out, maybe . . ."

The Pili could hardly see much in the smoky room, Kleg felt, but if he came in and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom, it would not be long before he would be able to pick out the only selkie therein.

Kleg surreptitiously fingered his knife. One-on-one, he felt that he could hold his own, especially with surprise on his side.

The Pili strode into the room. No one spoke, save the drunken swinekeeper, who was lost in his own glory. Then a second Pili entered, followed by a third.

Uh-oh. This altered things.

"We are searching for one of the fishmen," the lead Pili said.

Fully half of the room's patrons turned to look at Kleg.

The Pili took note of the action, and his gaze followed the others to where Kleg sat.

"Ah! At last!"

But whatever else the Pili would have said or done to Kleg at that moment was lost in the sound of the east wall being rent. A fat lamp flew and splashed burning fuel over men and rude furniture as the wall splintered inward. Men screamed and scrambled to run. The building shook as if swatted by a giant's hand, and the froglike monster of which the drunk next to Kleg spoke burst through the wood as if indeed the wall were no stronger than the web of a garden spider.

The swinekeeper, who, in his tale, was now chasing this same creature through the streets of the village, took one look at the snorting apparition that had just chewed through the wall and fainted dead away.

The three Pili could not stand against the panic of thirty men. The lizards were swept through the doorway by the stampede. The dry wood began to burn where the fat lay upon it.

Kleg grabbed up the unconscious swinekeeper and carried the man after the others. He spared a glance backward . . . to see that the monster was right behind him. He ran harder, dodging and twisting through the dingy alleys of the village.

Chapter SIXTEEN

Time and weather had not treated the palisade surrounding the village particularly well. Perhaps climbing the wall would have seemed difficult to an ordinary man, but Conan found the task relatively simple. Rot had invaded many spots, and digging the punk from the decayed areas produced more than adequate hand and footholds. Where the wood had resisted one enemy, others could be found: wormholes, bird attacks, termites, all contributed to Conan's ease of ascent. They might as well have hung a ladder over the parapet. If these people depended upon their wall as the major deterrent against outsiders, then they were living in a fool's realm.

For all his skill as a Cimmerian, Conan moved slowly compared to the Tree Folk. They swarmed up the wall as might ants, moving as quickly and certainly as a man hurrying down a wide garden path.

Once over the wall, Conan rejoined the others.

"Now what?" Cheen asked.

"Now we go hunting for selkies," Conan said. "Small groups, no more than two or three, so as not to attract attention."

"I shall go with you," Cheen said.

"Very well. Should any of the couples discover our quarry, best they send for help."

After the remainder of the Tree Folk divided up, they started into the strangely quiet village.

Conan led Cheen down an alley, moving toward what he thought the center of the small town. Now, were he a selkie, where would he be?

The answer to that was plain: in the water and on my way back to the magician who had sent me. Still, the obvious was not always the answer. Had the selkies attained the water and the mat of weed, then pursuit was likely ended, according to what Cheen said. Conan did not wish to be another of the men who ventured to the wizard's castle and failed to return. The life of the trees hung in the balance, but when he compared it to his own life, the Cimmerian youth was pragmatic. There were other trees, albeit none so large, that Cheen and her kind could learn to inhabit. As far as he knew, there was only one Conan of Cimmeria, and he meant to keep that one alive.

He stopped and sniffed the air.

"What is it?" Cheen asked.

"Something is burning."

"Aye, probably a hundred fireplaces and five times that many grease lamps and tapers," she said. "The stench is quite obvious."

"No, it is more than that. And listen."

Cheen cocked her head to one side. "I hear only the wind from the lake, and some night bird-wait. Voices."

Conan nodded. Aye, voices, and under that, the crackle of a fire, a fairly big one.

He looked up at the low clouds, casting his gaze back and forth. "There," he said, pointing.

A faint orange flicker danced on the clouds.

"What is it?"

"The clouds reflect the fire. Let us go and see what fuels it."

He led Cheen unerringly toward the source of the fire.

When the Cimmerian and the woman from the trees arrived, the conflagration had already drawn a sizable crowd. A hundred or more people stood about, watching the building burn. As Conan drew to a halt, he saw the flames leap to the roof of the structure next to the one already burning. A collective gasp arose from the crowd, followed by a babble of excited voices.

A line of a dozen men bearing sloshing buckets appeared. One by one, the men darted toward the flames and hurled the contents of their containers at the burning buildings. It was to little avail, Conan saw. The heat was too great for the firefighters to approach too closely, and probably half the water splashed short, landing on the street. What fluid reached the flames had little, if any, effect.

The firefighters ran off to fetch more water.

Standing a few feet away, a ma-n dressed in a goatherder's fleece and smelling of his charges talked to no one in particular.

"Mitra strike me down if I lie, but old Seihman 'uz right. Knocked a hole right in the wall, the beast did, an' it be a monster right enough!" The goatherder shook his head. "Ye ne'er see'd nothin' like it! I leaves to visit the night chamber and when I gets back, there be a room full o' lizard men, fishmen, and monsters eatin' right through the stinkin' walls!"

Conan shifted a few steps to face the old man.

"Fishmen, you say?"

"Aye, one o' 'em, anyways. Sittin' right there big as you please next to old Seihman himself and drinkin' wine when the thing come through the wall! Snatched up old Seihman and run off."

"To where?"

The goatherder glanced up from his drunken gaze at Conan's chest. "Mitra, you're a big 'un, ain'tcha?"

"The fishman, where did he go?"

The goatherder shook his head. "Dunno. Like to got trampled, I 'uz too busy to see wheres they got to."

"How long ago?"

"Since the fire. Not long."

Conan turned away from the man and looked at Cheen. "Like as not our quarry," he said.

"What of the beast of which he spoke?" Cheen asked.

Conan shrugged. "What of it? No concern of ours. We should look for the fishmen. There cannot be too many selkies around here carrying old men. He should not be too hard to find. Come."

As the pair turned away, the fire spread to another building. The crowd gasped.

"My queen, the men are leaving!"

Thayla was thus roused from a light sleep. "What?"

"They move toward the village," Blad said.

"But you said the gate was guarded."

"So it is. They are not going toward the gate."

Thayla shook her head, trying to clear the dregs of slumber. "Show me."

She followed the young male toward the village. The trip was a short one, and she arrived in time to see the tree dwellers and Conan scaling the wall.

"They are audacious," she said.

"What are we to do now, milady?"

"Follow them. If they can climb it, so can we.

Indeed, it was so. While it took a considerable effort and no small amount of time, Thayla, aided by Blad, managed to surmount the wall, using finger and toeholds invisible from a distance.

By the time the two Pili had managed the task, the Tree Folk and Conan were not to be seen.

Thayla felt a moment of panic. If her husband still lived, it was very likely that he, too, was in this collection of detritus that passed for a human town, and it was not so large a place that the King of the Pili might never bump into her barbarian lover. She had to find Conan before this happened and see him dispatched to meet with his gods. But where was he?

"Look, milady. Smoke."

Aye, there was a thick curl of dark smoke in the air, and beyond it, a flicker of red orange that could only be flame. Would not a fire draw Conan's attention as well?

"Let us go there," she said.

Kleg was in a panic as he ran, carrying the drunken old man who smelled of swine and had lapsed into unconsciousness. There could be no doubt that the monster that ate its way through the second building in which the selkie had been had come looking for him. How had it found him? Well, were it sent by He Who Creates, such a problem was no more than a trifle. This thought only confirmed Kleg's thoughts as to his master's relative omnipotence.

He had to find the talisman and he had to get back to the castle and he had to do both quickly. One could not dodge such enemies as the Pili and a magical beast forever in a village bounded by walls on three sides and water on the other-Hsst! What was this?

Kleg slid into a patch of dark shadow next to a bakery and stared at two figures in the narrow street just beyond. There was a man and a small boy, dressed in the style of the Tree Folk, standing under the fitful light of a dying torch. He could not be sure, but the boy looked familiar. Of course, they all looked alike to Kleg, but-could this not be the image of the boy he had traded to the Pili for passage?

No, he decided, it could not be. That particular boy would have been stew long ago, a morsel to be consumed quickly by the rapacious Pili.

No matter. What did matter was that the two were most certainly Tree Folk, and-how had they gotten here? Were their others of their kind? Yes, yes, there must be. And that they were after Kleg he doubted not a whit.

By the Black Depths! It was not enough to be chased by two kinds of enemy; now there were three!

Kleg sagged. It was most unfair.

He turned and sprinted into the nearby alleyway to avoid the tree dwellers. He had to get to a place where he could revive this smelly pig man and find out what he knew. If, Kleg worried, the old man knew anything useful at all.

After a series of dodges and twists, the Prime selkie found a leather stable that, save for two spavined horses, was empty. The gloom inside was unbroken, save for a high window that admitted enough night light so that he could barely see. Kleg dropped the old man on a mound of dry hay, inhaled the dusty scent kicked up by the action, and began searching for something with which to revive the drunk.

He found a leather bucket used to feed the animals, and scooped it full of scummy water from a trough. Returning to the old man, the selkie dribbled some of the warm liquid onto his face. When this provoked no response, he upended the bucket and dumped all the contents into the old man's face. That woke him up.

"Hey! Leave off! Mitra curse you!"

Kleg waited as the old man wiped his face with his bony hands.

"Who are you?"

"I bought you wine, remember?"

"Oh. In the Bright Hope. The fishman. Why is it so dark in here, I cannot see."

"That does not matter now. Recall the beast that attacked you in the street last eve?"

"My head hurts. I need a drink."

"Later. You shall have a barrel of wine, if you aid me."

"Eh? A barrel o' wine?"

"When you saw the beast last night, did you happen to notice anything else?"

"Anything else? Such as?"

"A . . . seed. About the size of a man's fist."

"Aye, I did see such a thing. Picked it up,

I did, I meant to sell it to the old Talow, but . . ."

"But what?"

In the semidarkness, Kleg could see the old man's features grow crafty, his bloodshot eyes narrowing, his lips curling into a thin smile.

"Go on, about the Seed."

"Well, maybe it has got some value, eh?"

"I have already said, a barrel of wine if you can produce it."

"Maybe more than a barrel o' wine, eh? Maybe it is worth two barrels?"

"Two, done."

"Ah. Three, maybe?"

The selkie's anger enveloped him like a shroud. Every other soul on the streets wished to drink his blood and this stinking old man wanted to exact a higher price! Kleg grabbed the old man's ragged shirtfront with one hand and lifted him clear off the floor; with his other hand, he drew his knife and laid the point against the man's wrinkled throat. "And maybe I shall cut your head off and spit down the hole! If you have the Seed, produce it!"

"N-n-no, don't cut me! I-I-I d-don't have it-"

Kleg pressed the tip of the knife against the flesh and a bead of blood appeared.

"W-w-wait! I had it! B-b-b-but I lost it!"

"Where did you lose it?"

"I d-d-dunno. I had it wh-when I slopped the pigs this morning! Then I could not find it!"

"Where are the animals penned?"

"B-behind the sl-sl-slaughterhouse! Two st-streets up fr-from the g-g-grain b-b-bin."

Kleg lowered the old man, so that he stood on shaky legs. "Is this true? Could you have dropped it at the pens?"

"Y-yes. I am sure that is wh-where I lost it."

Kleg felt a surge of hope within his breast. Could it be that he might still find the talisman and escape?

"What of my wine?" the old man said. His voice had lost its quaver and greed had replaced the fear.

Kleg looked at the old man. He could not have this drunken lout telling this tale to anyone else.

"The wine. Ah, yes. It is right there, behind you.

When the old man turned around to squint into the darkness, Kleg grabbed his hair with one hand and drew the sharp blade across his throat, hard. The old man gurgled and pitched forward, clutched at his neck, and tried to dam the outward flow of his life. He failed.

Kleg noticed that it was getting lighter inside. He glanced at the window and saw that the sky was a glowing yellow orange. The fire, it must be spreading!

The selkie did not spare the swinekeeper a backward glance as he darted from the stable.

By the Black Depths, half the village was in flames!

He had to get to the swine pens before the whole place went up.

He ran.

Conan realized that they were in danger when he saw a building next to the palisade collapse and fall against the wall. Flames licked at the wooden retainer, and in moments it, too, was being eaten by the raging fire.

Conan grabbed Cheen by one arm. "We must get out of the village!"

"What?"

"The fire is out of control, the whole town is going to burn. We will be cooked in here!"

Around them, people began to realize much the same thing, judging from the excited tones of their voices. Conan watched as a group of four men ran down the main street toward the main gate in the distance. Flaming structures lined both sides of the road, and when the four were only a hundred paces away, the tallest of the buildings lurched forward and fell, covering the men with burning wood and blocking the street with more fire.

The fires reached up toward the night sky as more and more buildings took light. The heat smote Conan on his exposed skin. The very air was hot in his lungs. Buildings exploded into flame now, popping and crackling and swirling like dust devils.

Screams filled the air as the inhabitants realized how bad it really was. A wall of mad, dancing fire sprang up, blocking any exit toward the village gate, and even the palisade itself now shot fiery fingers even higher, driving the darkness well back.

"The lake," Conan said. "We must go toward the lake."

"The lake is dangerous!"

"It is certain death any other way! Come!"

The two of them turned and ran in the direction of the only coolness left in the village. And even attaining that was not assured, as the pitch-covered docks sunk in the lake were beginning to smolder in places.

Conan looked up to see a Pili running the same way, and next to the lizard man, he spotted Tair and Hok, also fleeing. Whatever differences any of them had would have to wait, for when fleeing fire, all animals were brothers.

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Thayla went from worrying about her husband to worrying about being roasted. Almost everywhere she looked flames filled the night. The whole village was on fire! What was going on here?

"Milady! This way!"

For a moment, Thayla allowed herself to be pulled along by Blad; he seemed to know where he was going. Then she saw an opening in the wall of fire, and she shouted at him. "That way is clear."

"That leads to the lake, milady!"

She took his point. Pili did not swim, there being little opportunity to do so in the desert. Then again, while the desert was hot, it hardly compared to a raging fire.

"There will be water craft of some kind. Hurry! "

They hurried. The crackle of light and heat was joined here and there by the collapse of buildings and the screams of villagers too slow to escape one or the other.

Thayla did not know what had caused the inferno but she suspected that her quarry had been in some way responsible.

The Queen of the Pili dodged a shower of flaming embers falling in her path. Time to worry about cause later, fool. Worry about escape now!

As the Mist Mage floated down one of the many corridors of his enclosed realm, he felt himself grow heavy. Could it be? Could he be about to gain solidity again, so soon?

With that very thought, he coalesced into the substance of a man and dropped to the stone floor.

A miracle! For this to happen again so soon after the last time surely must portend good fortune? His goal must be nearly attained!

None of his servants were near, and he needed to get to food and his mistress while he wore the flesh. So Dimma ran down the hall, glorying in his ability to do so. As he passed a thick sheet of quartz that had been carved into a bat-shaped window and inset into the wall to admit light, he skidded to a stop. He very nearly fell, being unused to walking, much less running, but managed to maintain his footing. He returned to the window and stared through it.

The quartz was of varying thickness, so that anything viewed through it was somewhat distorted to a man's eye, but the mineral was of sufficient quality to allow Dimma to see in the distance, on a clear day, the village of Karatas, on the eastern edge of the lake. Under night's shroud as it now was, the village was usually invisible, the tiny lights being too far away to be viewed. But Dimma could see it now, Karatas. Or what was left of it.

Even from so great a distance, the flames that engulfed the town formed a bright flickering that lit the night.

Dimma stared at the sight. In his five hundred years, he had seen many towns destroyed-by wind, by fire, sometimes by magic. After such a long time, little surprised him. Some fool of a peasant knocks over a lamp and the tinder-dry wood of his but catches the sizzling oil and ignites, spreading to other hovels quickly. All too common a happening.

Still, as Dimma watched, a grin lit his face. Even though it was a sight he had seen many times, it was not one of which he had ever tired. The villagers' terror would be a delicious morsel, could he but be close enough to hear their frightened yells, could he but see their stricken faces. Ah, yes, some things never lost their appeal.

But as Dimma continued his vigil, he felt a ratlike worry gnawing at his thoughts. His Prime selkie would most likely come through the village on his way back with the final ingredient of Dimma's salvation. Had he already completed his passage, there was no problem. Or, had Kleg yet to reach the town on the shore, he could wait for it to finish burning, also without any danger, a delay Dimma did not like, but could understand. But what if Kleg were in the village even as -Dimma watched? What if the fool allowed himself to be consumed by the fire, and with him the only remaining piece of the spell Dimma needed to remove his curse?

No, that would not do, not at all!

Dimma turned away from the quartz window and sought to run again. He would send more of his thralls to look for the selkie. Every beast under his command, if need be, for nothing was more important than that this quest be ended successfully, nothing!

Dimma managed five quick steps, but the sixth was denied him. As his foot reached for the floor, the Mist Mage lost himself. As he became brother to smoke once again, Dimma screamed his frustration to the heavens.

Kleg, Prime selkie, highest of those brought up from the fishes by He Who Creates, knelt in mud thick with swine excrement, digging through it with his hands.

The pigs were gone. Kleg had knocked the fence aside, and the squealing animals fled the approaching fire without so much as a backward glance. The selkie himself glanced nervously over his shoulder now and again. That cursed monster could appear again at any moment, but he could not allow himself to dwell on it.

Already, the mud began to dry from the intense heat, making it more difficult to work. The nearest building had not yet taken flame, but it smoked and creaked next to him, and it would only be a matter of moments before it joined the storm of flames that beat at the night.

He had not much time left, Kleg knew. Flames ate the village around him, he was very nearly encircled, and the skin on his arms and face baked under the approaching enemy's hot breath. He dragged his fingers through the mud like small rakes, praying that the old man had spoken the truth. It had to be here. It had to be!

A loud pop! announced the ignition of the building next to Kleg. The blast of heat smote at the selkie like a hot fist.

Kleg dived away, sprawling facedown in the mud. The muck was cooling to his skin, and he quickly rolled onto his back, coating himself with a thick layer there as well. That helped, but he knew it would only buy him a few seconds. He had to flee now, or die.

There was no help for it, the talisman was lost.

Kleg took two steps through the hardening mire and put his foot down on something hard.

He dropped and dug through the sty. His hand touched a familiar shape. Could it be?

The 'Seed!

Kleg grinned as he dug the talisman from the mud. He had it!

He stuffed the muddy Seed into his pouch, made certain that the pouch was tied securely shut this time, and ran. The corridor ahead narrowed rapidly, but he was through before the fire claimed it completely.

Ahead, the smell of the lake called. The fire was nearly everywhere, but Kleg was certain he could make it to the water and the weed beyond.

With the mud protecting him against the intense heat, Kleg dodged his way toward safety.

Conan led Cheen, Tair, and Hok to the edge of the lake. Others of the village had much the same idea, and the Cimmerian and his small band arrived at the shore next to a collection of small boats and pulled up on the mud at the same time as a dozen villagers.

Conan moved toward a boat that would hold six people safely.

A large man beat him to it. "This 'un is mine!" the man said. He started to shove the boat into the water.

"There is room for half a dozen. We will share it," Conan said.

"Nay! There is no time!" The man pulled a knife from his belt, a curved blade that was nearly a short sword in length. "Away with you!., "You are right, there is no time for this," Conan said. With that, he drew his own broadsword and swung it, taking off the hand holding the knife, as well as the head behind it. The big man, no longer so tall, dropped like a sack of wheat.

"Into the boat!" Conan ordered.

Tair, Cheen, and Hok obeyed.

Next to them, with a hiss and a roar, a dock covered in thick pitch flashed into a long sheet of flame.

Conan shoved the boat, putting his legs and back into the move. The boat slid into the water and moved easily away from the land. At the last instant Conan leaped, landing next to Cheen.

Tair already had one of the oars up and in the lock, and Hok was straining to lift the second oar when Conan grabbed it from him and thrust it into place. "Move aside," he commanded, catching the handle of the second oar.

This was not an art at which the Cimmerian was particularly skilled, rowing, but strength counted for a great deal. Conan pulled the wooden blades through the water, using the great power of his arms and shoulders, leaning back into the movement, and the boat sped away from the shore and burning dock at a speed equal to a sluggish runner.

A shed on the dock collapsed, sending a shower of sparks at the boat, but only a few cinders reached them.

As Conan rowed, he looked at the village. It seemed to be a single sheet of flame now, with only a few surviving figures on the edge of the water outlined against the raging inferno.

"The weed is not far," Tair said.

Conan nodded, but did not speak. There was a large enough stretch of water between the village and the weed so that the fire would not reach it, even if the weed was apt to burn, probably unlikely for a water plant in any event. He would worry about the weed and its dangers later; now, he had to escape the edge of the fire.

Conan rowed, and the boat slid across the water to safety.

When Thayla and Blad reached the land's edge, there were only a pair of boats left, and those the object of contention among a group of perhaps fifteen men. The men flailed at each other with fists and feet. A few used knives or sticks, and for good reason. The small boats might each possibly hold four or five passengers safely; more would sink the craft.

Thayla did not hesitate. She ran straight for the nearer of the boats. "Blad-clear a path!"

The young Pili warrior lowered the point of his spear and uttered a war cry as they ran.

The villagers were obviously not expecting an attack by the Pili; Blad's war cry, a hissing, screeching, yodellike scream designed to frighten enemies, seemed to do just that. The men turned to look at the two Pili, freezing where they stood.

Fortunately, only one man was directing in their path. Blad skewered him with the spear and hurled the startled victim aside, releasing the spear and man together. Blad veered to his right a hair and slowed, so that Thayla passed him and leaped into the boat. Blad shoved the boat into the water and jumped in behind her. Fetching up a paddle, he stood in the stern and turned back toward the stunned men. The young Pili screeched again and waved the paddle menacingly.

Several of the men started forward as if to chase the drifting boat. Another group of four or five men ran to the last boat, drawing the attention of the ones chasing the Pili.

Thayla found another paddle and began using it, propelling the boat into deeper water.

At that, all but one of the pursuing men turned back and ran toward the one boat remaining. Before they had covered half a dozen paces, the dock next to the boat collapsed sideways, and buried boat and men under a wall of flaming debris. A hot blast of wind hit Thayla, making her gasp, but she did not stop paddling.

The man who had not run to the boat was now in the water; he was a good swimmer. He was able to move faster than Thayla could paddle the boat, and in a few seconds he was nearly to the craft.

"Wait! Let me in!"

"Blad!" Thayla said sharply.

The young Pili turned to look at his queen, and she nodded meaningfully. at the man in the water. Blad nodded.

To the man, he said, "Here, catch the paddle!"

When the man drew close enough to reach the extended paddle, Blad jerked it up and snapped it down again. The edge of the heavy wooden implement smashed the swimming man squarely on top of the head.

The sound was quite loud, Thayla thought as she watched the man sink. A lot of bubbles came up where he went down, but the man did not rise again: Good. They were free of the burning land. Thayla pulled her paddle from the water.

"Take us to the weed there, Blad," she ordered.

She had in mind waiting there until the fire died down, then returning to the dead village and home. Surely her husband or Conan, or both of them, had perished in the fire. Her quest was therefore over.

It had been a near thing, but she felt a lot better now.

Kleg twisted and leaped over a fallen timber that tried to roast him. The dried mud was sloughing off his skin in flat chunks, but it still offered him a fair amount of protection. There was but one more obstacle between him and the water, a low wall of fire fed by a line of tar spilled from a flaming barrel that had tipped onto its side next to where the dock had been.

The running selkie pulled the pouch from his belt and tied it securely around his neck. The pouch bounced on his chest, cracking away more mud, but the weight of the Seed within was the important thing.

Kleg leaped the line of fire, felt it scorch his legs, and came down not on flat ground but on a piece of red-hot iron, some kind of brace from the dock. He was not prepared for the misstep, and his left ankle twisted. He heard a pop in his ankle and knew he had done some damage.

His next step told the tale. When he put his left foot to the ground again, he fell. Some ligament had torn and his ankle would not support his weight.

Behind him, the barrel of pitch exploded, slinging globs of fire out in a fountain. One bit of pitch landed on Kleg's right boot. Desperately he pulled the boot off and flung it away as he managed to come up to a one-legged stance on that same foot.

The water was only a few spans away. He hopped.

A river of burning pitch flowed toward the selkie. He glanced backward and saw more barrels of the stuff starting to burn. If they all went up at once, he would be bathed in the boiling tar!

Kleg hopped for all he was worth.

The barrels blew apart behind him, but he was already diving into the cool safety of the lake when the sheet of deadly pitch arced toward him. When the tar splashed into the water, Kleg was half a span deep and still diving.

He began the Change, and in a matter of moments, he had no more worries about what dangers the land might offer. He was long, sleek, and deadly, and aside from a sore fin on his left side, had never felt better in his life.

That which had been manlike bared its teeth in a fearsome grin and swam once again in the waters of its birth.

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Conan rowed the small boat to the sloping edge of the weed. When the bow struck the plant, it was as if they had hit solid ground.

The four of them climbed out of the boat onto the mat, and Conan found that indeed the substance seemed very solid. The leaves he saw lay curled tightly against the vinelike runners. Those finger-thick strands of the material, easily visible in the light of the burning village, ran back and forth in a kind of tight weave that supported Conan's weight with a spongy consistency much like damp forest ground covered with leaves and humus. The plant had a distinctly sour, almost fishy odor.

Several boats in the water still moved toward the Sargasso, but none came near where Conan and his friends stood. There might have been other survivors already on the strange weed, but the surface was uneven, rising up into small hillocks here and there, forming shallow trenches in other places, and he did not see anybody else. What an odd thing this Sargasso was.

Conan turned back toward the village, which was now engulfed in its entirety in raging fire. Even where the flame stopped short of the water, the heat must be of killing intensity, to judge from the hot wind that reached him here, hundreds of spans away. If anything still lived within the confines of what had been the village of Karatas, surely it would soon be charred beyond recognition.

As he watched, a great spinning column of fire formed and twisted across the beach, twirling and sending sparks high into the air.

Aye, they had been blessed with good fortune. Many had not been so swift or so lucky.

After a few moments observing the conflagration, Conan turned to Cheen. "It would seem that our quest has ended. If your magical talisman was there"-he pointed at the village"then surely it is destroyed. I am sorry."

Cheen turned away from the fire, and for an instant Conan mistook her action for grief.

"No," she said. "The Seed is not destroyed."

Conan looked at her, puzzled.

She turned slightly to her right, then her left. She glanced downward. "At least one thief must have escaped. I can feel the presence of the Seed yet," she said, "but it is moving away. There." She pointed at the Sargasso beneath them.

Conan's hand stole quickly to the hilt of his sword, then stopped when its master realized there was no threat. "In the weed?"

"Underneath it. The selkies must still have it. One of them swims away from the fire with it. There."

Conan nodded. This was some kind of magic, Cheen's ability to know such things, and he liked it not. Still, he believed that she spoke the truth.

The Cimmerian turned toward Tair. "Your sister says the Seed survives. If we are to retrieve it still, we shall have to cross this weed after it."

Tair nodded. "Aye. Well, never let it be said that Tair was frightened of a treacherous plantscape and its denizens, not to mention the evil wizard who controls them. I shall follow the thieves to the earth's bowels if need be."

"And I too," the boy added.

Conan looked at the vast expanse of Sargasso, lit here by the flickering orange of the dying village, but invisible farther out into the lake and night. Well. He had come this far; another day or two would hardly matter.

"I am with you," he said.

Tair grinned. "Good. Between the two of us, the Mist Mage's beasts will be as nothing."

Conan could not repress his own grin. He was glad Tair thought so, though his own experiences had taught him to be more cautious in making such statements; still, you could not fault the man's bravery.

"I think perhaps we should wait until daylight before beginning our trek," Conan said.

"Aye," Cheen said. "You are wise."

Conan smiled again. Wise? Hardly. A wise man would likely never have begun this quest. Then again, he had never claimed wisdom. Plenty of time to develop that when his hair turned the color of high mountain snow, his eyes grew dim, and his ears became dulled like an old and rusted blade.

If he lived that long.

The Queen of the Pili and her young trooper left their small boat and began immediately looking for a place to conceal themselves. Blad, as usual, did not comprehend the reasons for their actions, and Thayla was beginning to tire of explaining things to him.

"We are alone, you have lost your spear, and we have nothing to protect ourselves save our knives. Suppose for an instant that you are one of the residents of that torched village yon, huddled here with others of your kind. You did see the other boats?"

"Aye, mistress, but I fail to see-"

"You are no doubt most miserable," she continued over his interruption, "and having lost everything you own, might be feeling more than a little anger along with your sorrow. So you see two unarmed Pili, one of whom is a beautiful female; what might you consider doing to them in your sorrow and rage, were you a man among a group of men?"

She watched as the thought worked its way through Blad's mind. Slowly.

"Ah," he said. "I see."

"Good that you-,do. Now find us a place of concealment until we can determine who else inhabits this stinking weed."

Blad cautiously led his queen toward a flat-topped hill not far from where they had landed the boat. As they rounded the tangle of growth, they saw a figure crouched in the shadows next to the hill's base. Blad drew his knife.

"Thayla? Is that you?"

The voice was unmistakable, the figure impossible to deny even in the darkness, and Thayla's shock was great and her thoughts near panic. So it was that the Queen of the Pili found her husband, the King of the Pili.

Blad put away his knife. "Milord!"

Thayla ground her teeth as the young fool looked from Rayk back at her, his guilt at having lain with her shining forth from his face like a torch. She had told him that Rayk was most likely dead.

"What are you doing here?" Rayk moved into what starlight the patchy clouds allowed to pass and looked at his wife.

"My lord husband! How happy I am to see you

Thayla pushed past the openmouthed Blad and embraced her husband, pressing herself tightly against his body and working her fingers against the muscles of his back.

"Thayla . . . ?"

She dropped her hands lower and pressed his hips toward her own, moving suggestively. "My husband, I thought perhaps you had perished!"

"I very nearly did. But-but-how-why . . . ?"

Thayla's mind worked quickly. She pulled back from her embrace, but kept her hands on her husband's shoulders, gazing lovingly-she hoped it appeared so-into his face. She had to spin a believable tale, and in a hurry.

"A band of Tree Folk attacked our home," she said, glancing peripherally at Blad.

The young Pili stood there, openmouthed still.

"They had with them several barbarian warriors, the like of which I have never known." Well, that was partially true. She had never been with anyone like Conan before.

"We fought them off and pursued them."

"You did? Yourself?"

She drew herself upright. "You did not marry a weakling, Rayk."

He nodded. "How true."

"We chased them as far as the Tongue River, and there we saw bodies, fishmen and Pili."

"Yes, yes, we slew them as we crossed the river. Many of our own were lost in the fight."

"I was so concerned that I had to find you," she said. "I feared for your safety, husband."

She watched his face as he assimilated her tale. He nodded, and Thayla breathed a small sigh of relief.

"We have had our own troubles," he said. "A monster attacked us, we lost the fishman with the talisman-I think he still had it-and then the fire . . ."

"Where is the rest of your troop?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Who knows? I found myself alone in a boat at the water's edge, then here. I have seen no more of them. What of your own group?"

"Only Blad here remains." She nodded at the young Pili. "He has been most brave in defending me."

Rayk looked at Blad, who had finally managed to close his mouth. "I shall see him rewarded once we return home."

She was safe! Likely as not, Conan was dead, cooked to a crisp in the blazing village. If he had survived the fire somehow, he was out here somewhere. Once they headed back to the desert, they would never see him again.

"Then as soon as the fire dies down, we can go?"

He frowned at her. "No, of course not. We have not recovered the magical talisman. I am sure the fishmen have taken it to the wizard's castle, in the center of the lake. We must go there and see."

"Are you mad? The smoke magician will turn us into jelly! We cannot face that!"

Rayk shook his head, and his face bore that insufferably stubborn look she had grown to hate over the years. "Most of our men have died. We must have the talisman to survive, now more than ever. Do you not recall what you said on the matter?"

"But . . . that was then. It is different now-"

"No," he said, cutting her off. "It is the same. We must find a way to reap some profit from this disastrous venture. Our numbers are too small to survive without help."

Thayla stared at him, aghast. Oh, no! If Conan were out on this weed somewhere, there was still a chance they might meet! And even if they did not, to face the Mist Mage was suicide!

As her mind scrabbled to find a way out of this new danger, Rayk smiled and pulled her against him. "I have missed you greatly," he said. "Come and let us find a comfortable spot to lie down." He handed his spear to Blad. "Stand watch," he ordered. "The queen and I have things to, ah . . . discuss privately."

Thayla felt his hand at the small of her back, urging her away from Blad, who now glared at his king with sudden jealousy and hatred. Rayk did not notice Blad's expression, however, intent as he was on other things.

By all the Gods, were all males so stupid the world over?

Thayla looked over one shoulder at Blad and raised her finger to her lips in a gesture of silence. The young Pili turned away in anger.

How wonderful the world was. One more problem she did not need.

Kleg swam, full of power, through the dark waters, along familiar tunnels through the thick roots of the Sargasso. Light from the moon and stars and even the sun itself never penetrated to this place, but he could see and sense his way quite easily. Uncounted numbers of tiny plants lined the sides of the tunnels, plants glowing with a cold inner fire that produced a pale bluish green light. And even had the plants not done so, a Changed selkie had organs that allowed a kind of vision in almost total darkness. Kleg could not have said how this sense worked, but it gave him an awareness of anything living for nearly the same distance as he could see on land under the stars. The larger the creature, the more aware of it Kleg became.

At the moment Kleg was most glad to have such a sensing mechanism, because he was aware of something following him. Something very large indeed, larger than he in his Changed form was, and not far behind. Fast as he was and traveling at top speed, Kleg could not outswim his pursuer, and that worried him greatly. He had a suspicion as to what the thing was following him. The same beast that he had seen in the village. Whatever its intentions, the selkie was not enthralled with the idea of allowing the thing to catch him.

Kleg knew he could not maintain his current speed for long, that he would tire and have to slow. Whether the thing behind him had to do likewise was another question he did not care to risk his life upon. So-what was he to do? He could continue to swim until exhausted, a thing that would happen long before he reached the safety of the castle. He could turn and fight, and despite his present powerful form, he had few doubts about how that would end. He could try to talk to the monster. Ho, what a choice that was!

So, what was to be done?

The glimmering of a fourth idea began to shine inside the selkie's head. His injured foot had been greatly healed by his Change-small wounds were usually cured completely by the process for some reason-and were he to return to his manlike form, the ankle would hardly trouble him at all.

He could not outswim the beast in the water, but perhaps he could outrun it on the weed? Big as the thing was, it would find the going harder on the Sargasso than would a man, surely. There were places where the weed was as treacherous as a swamp, full of danger, but perhaps Kleg could use that to his advantage. Certainly there were more places to hide than in a narrow tunnel. All in all, being on top of the weed seemed at least marginally safer than swimming under it, at least at the moment.

Yes. There were places where the tunnel sent side branches toward the surface. Kleg would find one of them and use it, and perhaps leave his pursuer behind. Mayhap it was not the best thing to do, but it seemed to be the least dangerous option he had at the moment.

The Prime selkie swam onward, searching for his escape.

Chapter NINETEEN

Dimma floated about his throne room, angry, but not uncontrollably so. His selkies should have returned by now. They must have met with some difficulties; like as not, that fire on the far shore had something to do with them. He resisted the idea he had formed earlier, to send more of the lake's thralls to search for Kleg and his brethren. The eels and the sirens would keep any intruders from water and weed, and the Kralix would find the Prime selkie, alive or dead. He did not worry over the safety of the sexless monster. It would take a mighty warrior to disable the beast, much less kill it.

So, what was to be done?

Nothing more than he had already initiated. To send forth an army of lake creatures would serve no purpose. Did Kleg survive, he would return, and if he did not live still, the Kralix would find whatever was left and bring it back. Simple enough.

Over the centuries, Dimma had learned patience, though he had done so grudgingly. Once he attained the flesh again permanently, he could indulge himself. Until then the most reasonable course was simply to wait.

Though it was the wisest way, Dimma did not have to like it, however. Best that his Prime selkie have a very good excuse for being tardy when he did arrive. A very good excuse indeed.

Came the dawn, and the fire still burned upon the hapless village, though much diminished in intensity. What remained standing of Karatas was little: a few stone chimneys had survived the heat, but little else.

Conan had arisen with the coming of daylight, and he and his three companions saw clustered on the weed others who had survived the fire's wrath. Knots of men, women, and children gathered here and there, most still watching the burning of what had been their homes.

"Ho, look there!" Tair said, pointing.

Two men came toward them, and Conan's sharp blue eyes recognized them as Tree Folk from Tair's group. Of those who had accompanied Cheen, there seemed to be none left.

Cheen and Tair went to greet the two survivors. Hok moved to where Conan stood. "Are we going to the wizard's castle, Conan?"

"Aye, so we are."

"Will there be danger?"

"Likely."

The boy appeared to consider this for a moment. "Well, probably he does not eat people."

Aye, Conan thought, but his experience with wizards had shown him that those who dabbled in magic could, and often did, do worse than simply eating people. He did not speak this aloud, however. No point in worrying the boy further.

Tair and Cheen returned with the two men of their tribe.

Tair said, "Ah, such tales these tell. They speak of a giant beast who seems part frog, a beautiful lizard woman, and they claim also to have seen one of the selkies. Such boasting!"

Coming from Tair, the accusation of braggadocio was amusing. But Conan fastened upon the sighting of the lizard woman. He asked the men about it.

"Aye, a blue-skinned beauty she was," one of them said. He was short, stubby, and darkskinned. Conan recalled his name as Stead. The other man, taller and more fair, was named Jube.

Stead continued. "Had another with her, a male, young looking, but full-grown. We would have followed them, but the fire drove us in different directions."

Conan considered this news. The Pili woman was most likely the same one he had met in the caves. It had not been an unpleasant experience overall, but he did not think she was here to thank him for it. No, if Pili women were like those of his own kind, they did not take kindly to being left abruptly without warning or explanation. Like as not, she and her companion had perished in the fire-Conan had seen no signs of any Pili on the weed after their arrivalbut a man could never be faulted for vigilance. He would stay alert.

There was a tangled hillock nearby, and Conan took his leave and approached the growth. Climbing it was not much different from climbing a normal hill covered with thick underbrush. Once he attained the top, he stood and looked around.

The vantage point gave Conan clear sight for some distance in the early-dawn light. The castle was a low, sprawling affair rather than one weighted with high towers, and he judged he could walk there in a few hours, had it been over level ground. Given the terrain, however, it was hard to say how long it would require to attain the structure. It might take the better part of a day; much depended upon what dangers might lay hidden in the Sargasso, ready to prey upon an unsuspecting traveler.

In other directions, Conan espied more folk from the destroyed village. He did not see any Pili or selkies, nor did he see any froglike monsters. That was a point in their favor, at least.

The Cimmerian descended from the hillock and returned to his companions.

Stead and Jube had not only managed to outrace the fire, but had looted a vendor's stall on the way, and they thus had in their possession a long row of linked sausages, several oiled-paper packets of jerked beef, and even a few loaves of crusty bread. It was to this meal that the six sat before starting their journey. At least they would travel with full bellies, Conan thought, and that was another point in their favor. A hungry man sometimes made mistakes, and he had the idea that to make a mistake in the wizard's domain might well be fatal.

Conan chewed on a bite of bread and wished he had a cup of good wine to wash it down. He was not afraid of what might lie ahead. After all, he had recently survived a confrontation with Crom Himself-what could be more dangerous than that?

Thayla's breakfast was a raw fish, taken by Blad's spear. Well, actually, it had been Rayk's spear, but it was now wielded by the younger Pili. The flavor of the fish was not unpleasant, though she would have risked a fire to cook it had it been up to her. The king would have none of that, however, and she had to admit he had a point. He was not altogether stupid when it came to matters of strategy and tactics.

When the king moved to a clump of weed nearby to relieve himself, Thayla took the opportunity to speak to Blad.

"What is it?" he asked. His voice was surly.

"Do not act so foolishly, Blad! He is my husband."

"So I heard all through the night."

"It is not him I desire."

"Oh? You gave a good imitation of it!"

"Fool! I had to so that he would not suspect that it is you I want for a husband."

Blad turned to face her, surprise on his features. "Really?"

So young. And so stupid. Aloud, Thayla said. "Of course. He is old and weak. You are young and strong. How could anyone not prefer you to him?"

Blad practically preened as he swelled with pride.

Gods, males were so easy to manipulate. "This is a dangerous undertaking," she continued, "and perhaps the king will not survive it. When we return to our home, I shall choose a new consort." She laid one hand on his shoulder and stroked him briefly. "Whom do you think my new consort will be?"

"Milady, forgive my stupidity-"

"Shh. The king returns. We shall speak more of this later. Only know that I am yours, Blad my stalwart."

As Rayk made his way back from the call of nature, Thayla turned to smile at him. She had both males where she wished them to be. Her sated husband suspected nothing about her and Blad, much less Conan, and if he lived to return with her to the caves, then she would casually mention that Blad had made improper advances toward her during their earlier adventures. Poor Blad would sprout a forest of spears before he could open his foolish mouth.

Then again, did the king meet with some mishap, Thayla would need a companion to protect her until she could reach safety. Blad would do until then.

In any event Blad would eventually have to die. He knew she had lied to her husband about the attack on the caves, and of course, he had a much larger secret in his possession, their illicit coupling. Even with the king dead, Blad would know that the queen had been willing to lie with other than her husband, and he could hardly forget that,. even were they to marry. He would always be suspicious that what she had done once she might do again. And rightly so, she knew. So, in any case, Blad could not be allowed to live once Thayla was in a place of safety again. At the moment, however, she preferred to have two devoted males protecting her instead of one.

"We shall depart immediately," Rayk said.

"Of course, my lord," she said.

When the king turned away, Thayla winked at Blad, who smiled and nodded in return.

The thing dogging Kleg had not slackened in its pursuit, and the selkie was growing tired. He would have to find an exit soon-Abruptly Kleg's senses detected something ahead of him. It danced at the edges of his perception for a moment before he recognized it for what it was. Or, rather, what they were: eels!

Kleg felt a stab of fear. The eels almost always stayed far down in the lake's depths, where they were no danger to anyone save those bottom fish unfortunate to be touched by them.

He had touched one of the eels once while in his water form, and the sensation had not been pleasant. The brief contact had caused his muscles to quiver uncontrollably, and had sent a flutter through him that had been hot and cold, a burning, freezing paralysis. A single eel was not a killing danger to a full-grown selkie, but were his senses correct, there were half a dozen at least in his path, and that many did pose a deadly threat. Once an eel had discharged its power, it was helpless for a time; the one that had touched Kleg long ago had found itself bitten in twain as soon as the selkie had recovered sufficiently to do so. But six at once, that was another matter.

The monster chased him and the eels lay ahead. Had Kleg any doubts about leaving the water for the surface, those doubts were now extinguished like a candle in a windstorm.

The weed above the swimming selkie was thin, though there were no openings apparent in it. He could wait no longer. In a few heartbeats, there would be a tangle of eels, selkie, and monster, and Kleg did not wish to enjoy that particular gathering.

Kleg reached deep within himself and found a bit of fear-inspired strength. Using all the power he possessed, he increased his speed to its utmost. He guided himself to the very bottom of the tunnel, so that his ventral fins skimmed the weed. Then Kleg pointed his nose toward the roof of the tunnel and drove for all his worth straight up.

He hit the roof like a blunt spear, hard.

The thin weed could not withstand the force of Kleg's impact. The driving selkie tore through the material as a needle pierces cloth.

Such was his speed and force that Kleg passed through the weed and more than his own body length into the air. He fell back and flopped onto the Sargasso much like a beached fish.

Quickly, the selkie assumed his man form. He was safe from the eels, at least, and mayhap they would give the monster something to worry over.

The leather sack and strap had survived the impact and still hung safely around his neck. He was naked otherwise, his clothes having been shredded and lost when last he had Changed, but that did not matter. The air was warm above the weed and he needed no protection from the weather. That was the least of his worries.

The Prime selkie trotted away from the hole he had torn in the weed, hurrying in the direction of his master's abode. Perhaps the eels would kill the thing chasing him. Perhaps not, but in either case, he was not waiting to see.

Chapter TWENTY

Conan led the five Tree Folk across the matted Sargasso, moving cautiously. There were many places where the uneven surface dipped or rose enough to block the Cimmerian's view for any distance, and he avoided these spots as much as possible. Additionally, he had several times put one foot down on patches of weed that started to give under his weight. Only his quick reflexes saved him from falling through the weed into whatever might be waiting in the water beneath.

They were skirting a wide patch of this thin weed when Cheen stopped and closed her eyes.

"The Seed," she said softly. Then, louder, "It is no longer under the water. It is ahead of us, there!"

She pointed straight ahead.

Before Conan could stop him, Jube lunged forward. "Where? I will retrieve it!"

The man only managed three steps before he sank from sight through the weed. "Aahh!" Water sloshed up through the hole he had made.

Conan moved to the edge of the broken weed and dropped onto his belly to spread his weight. He reached down into the gap. "My arm, take my arm!"

Jube came up sputtering, thrashing at the water, and shot a panicked hand upward. By some good fortune, he managed to clasp his hand around Conan's wrist.

Conan had him now. He began to edge backward from the hole, using his feet and free arm. This was a danger averted Suddenly Conan felt sensation grip him, a feeling unlike any he had ever known. It was somewhat like the way his hair sometimes stood on end on a cold and dry day, but that was as close as he could come. His body tingled with a cold fire, his muscles felt as if they belonged to another man, and he convulsed in a spasm that jerked his entire frame, flinging him backward and away from the hole.

Jube's grip was broken, and well that it was so, for the man's fingers had become with the tingling as powerful as a wooden clamp. The sensation stopped when contact ended.

Jube screamed, and his body contorted, his arms shaking. For only an instant his shriek lasted, then he slid back into the hole, and the black water covered him.

Conan was paralyzed; he could not seem to gather his strength to rise. A strange, buzzing sound came from the hole in the weed. After a moment, it stopped.

Cheen and Tair rushed to help Conan to his feet. Brushing them aside, he arose on his own, feeling shaken but otherwise undamaged.

"Crom, what was that?"

He moved back to the hole, carefully, and peered down into it. As he watched, Jube's body floated up to the surface. Tair would have reached for it, but Conan held him back.

"Nay, hold a moment."

"He will drown!"

"Touch him and you may die also. Here, let me have your spear."

Tair tendered his weapon. Gingerly, Conan prodded the body with the wooden butt of the spear. The sensation he had felt was either gone or did not travel through the wood. He pushed the end of the haft under Jube's leather belt, heaved, and managed to lift the man half out of the water. Another tug, and Jube was clear, lying on the weed.

Conan released the spear and reached out to touch Jube with one finger, very carefully. Nothing amiss now. He rolled the body over onto its back.

"He is dead," Cheen said, saying aloud what Conan already knew."

"Aye."

"There is not a mark on him, no wound, nothing. How could this be?"

The man's face was contorted into a grimace that indicated he had died in great pain.

"He looks just like old Kine did after the lightning hit him," Tair said. "Only his face is not black."

"Lightning does not strike underwater," Cheen said.

"Perhaps it does in the wizard's domain," Tair said.

Conan, meanwhile, had edged back to the hole and now peered into the water. Something was moving under the surface. He raised the spear and suddenly jabbed downward. The point struck something, and Conan flipped it up into the air, slinging it free of the spear. For the brief time that the spear had been in contact with the thing, he felt another of those shivery cold fires dance in his hands, but considerably weaker than before.

The thing fell onto the weed, and Conan went to examine it, followed by the others.

"What is it, a snake? Was he bit?" That from the boy.

Conan squatted next to the wriggling creature, being careful to avoid touching it. It was as long as his arm, and the thickness of his wrist. "Not a snake. An eel."

In truth, while the thing looked more like such a beast than anything else, it was not exactly like any eels Conan had seen before. Still, the name was as good as any.

"I have never heard of an eel with poison," Cheen said.

"I have," Conan said. "But I do not think Jube was bitten. This thing contains some power. Kin to the lightning, perhaps. I think that just touching it is worth your life."

The eel's wiggling slowed and grew less, until finally it stopped altogether.

"Well," Conan said, "magic or not, it can be killed. But we had best be certain to avoid falling into the water."

They all turned to look at the unfortunate Jube.

Blad led the way, testing the weed with his spear and hesitant steps. Rayk followed, and Thayla was behind him.

"Husband, I would not have you think me critical-"

"Hah! "

"-but," she continued, ignoring his interruption, "what is it you think we are going to do when we arrive at yon castle?"

"I shall think of something," Rayk replied.

"That would be a first."

"Hold your tongue!"

"Do you perhaps think that you and Blad and I are going to storm the place and wrest from a wizard something he so obviously wants? The three of us?"

"You try my patience!"

"Nay, I merely seek answers. I concede the value of the Tree Folk's talisman, but trying to beard the lion in his own den seems less than wise."

"I said that I will think of something. We must first get there and see the lay of the situation. I shall speak of it no more. And neither shall you."

He turned away from her, and Thayla stared at his back. By all the Gods, he was a bigger fool than even she had thought. He seemed intent on getting them all killed. Well, that would not do. More and more, it seemed as if Blad was a better choice. When the opportunity arose, she would speak to the young Pili. Convincing him to put a spear into Ray k's back should be easy enough. Then the two of them could turn around and go home. With Rayk dead, things would be a lot easier to manage. He had gotten more arrogant of late, and a more tractable mate was definitely in order. A shame it could not be Blad, since he was already hers, body and soul, but she could hardly trust a male who knew too much, which Blad certainly did.

Ah, well. There was no help for it. If she wanted to survive, she would simply have to make some hard choices. One could not have everything, though one could certainly try.

From ahead, there came an eerie wailing sound. It was the cry of some creature, and there was something about it that both attracted and repelled at the same time. Thayla could not recall ever having heard the like. If she had been made to describe it, she would have said the sound seemed to be a lonely creature who was part wolf, part human woman, and part swamp loon. It was not so much a howl as a song, and it made her skin crawl.

The three Pili stopped.

"What is that?" Thayla asked.

"How should I know? You have spent as much time on this smelly plant as have L"

"Should we investigate?" Blad said.

Rayk and Thayla spoke together as one:

"No," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"It might be useful to us," the king allowed.

"And it might have us as its next meal," the queen countered.

"I feel drawn to see what makes the sound." It was Rayk who said this, but Blad nodded his agreement.

"Aye, I also feel the attraction," Thayla said, "and that is reason enough to avoid it."

The two Pili males looked at her as if she had sprouted wings and might fly away at any moment.

"It sounds like some kind of lure," she said, trying to be patient.

"How can you know this?" Rayk demanded.

"I cannot. But I thought you wanted to go to the mage's castle and retrieve the talisman?"

"Aye, that is true."

"Then you must decide which it will be. Would you collect the magical device or go chasing off in the weed after some unknown sound that might be deadly?"

She watched Rayk and Blad look at each other. The sound called louder to them than it did to her, that was apparent. Males were prey to drives that did not seem to afflict females, and this soulful song dragged insistently at them.

The king turned to look in the direction of the sound, and Thayla pointed at Blad, catching his attention. She shook her head from side to side, indicating that she did not want to seek the source of the mournful tune calling to them.

Blad, dull as he was, understood. When the king turned back toward Thayla and her lover, she nodded at the younger Pili male.

He found his tongue. "Ah, perhaps the queen is right, Majesty. Our goal is the talisman. We could investigate the sound on our way back."

The king glared at Blad, then at Thayla. He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, the queen thought. "Very well. First we fetch the talisman."

The three turned away from the sound and proceeded toward the unseen castle in the distance.

Thayla's brief moment of triumph and satisfaction faded quickly. Going from one unknown danger to another was hardly a thing to inspire a feeling of victory.

Though better at home in the water, Kleg had spent more than a small portion of his life above it upon the surface of the Sargasso. He knew many of the dangers it held and how to avoid them, and he used that knowledge now as he ran across the living mat. He stayed well away from the large tangles of vegetation, especially those with large gaps in the weave. Those mounds sometimes contained predators, ranging from a ratlike scavenger the size of a dog to cattle-sized crustaceans that could snip a land selkie's arm off with one snap of a pincer.

Too, there were patches of trap weed scattered here and there, though a careful eye could detect those from the slight change in coloration from the normal surface.

Whatever it was that dogged his trail was indeed slower upon the weed than under it, and Kleg steadily gained ground upon the thing. He would be tired when he arrived at the safety of the castle, but if things continued as they were, he would arrive there well ahead of his chaser. Kleg managed a smile. This entire affair had been more than he had anticipated, but at last it was nearing the end.

A distant call reached him, a seductive song that flowed over the running selkie like warm honey.

Kleg's smile increased as he recognized the sound: skreeches.

Having spent most of his life on and under the Sargasso, the Prime selkie knew well the lure of the skreeches. He, like his fellows, was practically immune to the call. Partially this was due to long exposure, and partially it was because He Who Creates had designed the skreeches to attract men and not selkies. What might cause one of Kleg's brothers to feel merely a wistful desire would overpower most men. A man would go to a skreech as a bee went to a flower, feeling the attraction until the skreech fastened her teeth in his throat. Those teeth were hollow fangs, the largest of which were the size of Kleg's fingers, pointed like needles. A hungry skreech could drain the blood from her victim in a matter of moments, turning the strongest man into a pale, dead husk to be cast aside. Not a pleasant death, Kleg thought, after having seen a few. There had been a time when men sometimes chose to dare the Sargasso, and any who survived the sight of a companion taken by a skreech certainly never returned.

Once, in the village, Kleg had questioned a survivor of a skreech encounter. It had been most amusing. The man had paled and made warding off signs at the very mention of the things. Mermaids, he called them, though Kleg had not known the term. Like a beautiful woman from the hips up, the man had said, and a fish from there down. That was an apt enough description, Kleg knew. Beautiful, until she opened her mouth and sank those teeth into you.

He darted to one side, to avoid a patch of trap weed.

The skreeches were not his concern. Even if he should fall prey to one, his strength was more than a man's and equal to the bloodsuckers; besides, it was said that a skreech did not care for the taste of selkie.

Kleg put one hand up on the pouch that still hung around his neck. The talisman was within, and he was nearly where he needed to be. His master would be pleased.

At the moment, Dimma was not in the least pleased. Some unseen crack in wall or floor or ceiling admitted a cold draft of wind, and that small stirring was enough to send the Mist Mage floating down a dank hallway quite against his will. He tried to concentrate hard enough to slow or stop his passage, but it was to no avail.

Dimma raged soundlessly. Five hundred years he had suffered! It was too much! He would, by all the Gods, spend at least the next five hundred years venting his anger upon anyone who crossed his path for the indignity of it all. It was only just that tens of thousands should suffer and die to make amends for his own suffering. Men, beasts, forests, all of them would pay.

The warmth of his anger flowed through the filmy substance of the Mist Mage, giving him the. determination to resist the small breeze that wafted him where it would. Dimma floated against the wind, feeling more powerful than he had in ages.

Oh, yes, certainly, he thought, you are strong enough to resist the breath of a mouse, eh?

Wait, he told himself. Wait until I am flesh again! Every mouse for a week's journey in any direction will die!

Along with everything else!

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

As the day wore on and the sun rose higher to splash its warmth upon Conan and his four companions, the Cimmerian began to feel more at ease upon the weed. As a matter of course, he avoided any clump or hillock of the plant that might hide an attacker. After observing several more places where the Sargasso was too thin to walk upon, he noticed that such places were lighter in color than the thicker places, a faint, but definite difference. He avoided the lighter patches and the footing stayed firm.

Alas, Conan could not see how they would reach the castle before dark, traveling in such a roundabout manner. To circumvent some of the obstacles took them far to the sides at times, and sometimes the places upon which they could safely walk required a wide detour to find.

As the light of noon shone upon them, they stopped to eat the last of the food Stead and the late Jube had stolen in the village.

"Good that you found this," Conan said, chewing on a greasy sausage.

Stead said, "Yes. Jube did not die with an empty stomach."

He said this as if it were important, and both Tair and Cheen nodded in agreement.

Conan swallowed a bit of the sausage and bit off another chunk. He could not say that dying with a full stomach was better than leaving this world with an empty one. The choice for him was between living and dying. Alive, a man could always find something to fill his belly. Dead? Well, that was another matter, and though it came to all eventually, Conan was in no hurry to try that option as yet.

To amuse himself, Hok dug at the weed with the point of the short knife Tair had given him, and he looked happy in that small chore. Conan smiled at the boy. It took little to keep a child amused.

"What do you think we shall find when we arrive at the castle?" Cheen asked.

Conan shrugged. "Who can say? Your magical Seed, if our luck is good. Perhaps some valuables the wizard is not using. Or maybe a hundred armed selkies instead." He did not worry about such things. He would face it when it arose, and to worry overmuch about it now was merely wasted effort.

Before Tair could speak to that, there came a haunting sound unlike any Conan had ever heard. His ears were keener than those of his companions, who did not seem to hear it at first. A woman singing some sad and compelling melody, it sounded like.

Tair noticed it; Conan saw him turn his head to better hear the tune. Hok lifted his head from his digging at the weed, Stead caught the sound and finally, Cheen looked around, apparently puzzled.

"What is that?" Tair said. "I have never heard anything so . .. beautiful!"

Aye, Conan agreed. The, singing conjured up visions of women lamenting the loss of their men, calling for someone to come and help them forget their sadness. Anyone would do, but they would prefer Conan, as if they could see him there, listening.

Already, Tair was on his feet, as was Hok. Behind them Stead had taken several strides toward the call. Cheen continued to look puzzled.

"What are you doing?" Cheen asked.

Conan ignored her and began to follow Stead. The boy and his older brother had already started in that direction.

"Conan? Tair? Wait!"

Something about the call was familiar to Conan, but he could not say what it was immediately. It was as if he had heard it before somewhere ....

It felt like a dream to him, a vision fueled by the sweetness of those voices. Familiar, yes, but where and when had he heard it before? Surely he could not forget such women?

Behind him, Cheen yelled. "Conan! Stop! Something is wrong! Do not go to them!"

She was like a buzzing mosquito, meaningless, and Conan continued to walk. Fortunately, there seemed to be little or none of the thin weed between him and the women, and-yes, he could see them in the distance, perched on the edge of a small lake within the confines of the Sargasso. It was hard to tell at first, but as Conan and the others drew closer, he could see that there were three of them, and they were all naked as well. Their beauty matched their songs. They were lush of breast, had long, black hair that fell to their hips, and-what was this? Their legs were joined into a single, greenish body that ended in a tail!

Well, no matter. They were not women, but certainly they were close enough. And they did need him so. Their song told him.

Conan grinned. Yes.

He started to move faster.

Something snared Conan's legs, locking his ankles together. He was unprepared for it, and he toppled forward. He threw his arms out to stop his fall and the weed was forgiving, but his legs were still snarled in something. He looked back.

Cheen had grabbed him around the ankles, and she held tightly to them now.

"Let go," he said.

"Conan, no! Something is amiss here!"

"Aye, release my legs; that is what is wrong!" No.

No? Well, he would see about that. There was no way she could hold him, he was much too strong. He pulled one leg free, drew his foot back, and was about to thrust his heel into her face-Then he remembered where he had heard the call before.

In the underground caves where he had been trapped with Elashi the desert woman and the old warrior Tull, there had been some magical, evil plants that had used a voice inside their minds to lure Conan and his friend close. They had very nearly died as a result.

The plants had sounded much like these half women just ahead sounded.

By Crom, it was a trap!

Conan stayed his foot. "I am free of the spell," he said to Cheen. "Release me so that we might save the others!"

"Are you sure?"

"Hurry, woman!"

Cheen let go of Conan's leg, and he bounded up. The song still droned at him, seductive and insistent, but he knew it for what it was now, and the naked women with their arms outstretched toward him held no allure.

The other two men and the boy were still enthralled, however.

To Cheen, Conan said, "Take the boy. I will stop Tair and Stead!"

The Cimmerian began to run.

Thayla had been unable to speak to Blad alone. Her fool of a husband had not moved more than a few spans away from her since the dawn. Did he suspect something? No, she could not see how that was possible, but certainly he had not given her an opportunity to speak to Blad without being able to overhear them, not since he answered nature's call that morning. She had gone off to do the same several times since, trying to offer a suggestion to him to do the same again, but he had not done so. And she could hardly ask Blad to come with her when she squatted behind a clump of weed; fool that he was, even Rayk would look askance at that.

Thayla was beginning to feel desperate. They had to be getting closer to their destination, though they had not sighted it for some time. The way was roundabout, certainly, due to dangers real or imagined, but eventually the three of them would reach the castle, were they not killed by something along the way. To continue onward was to court certain death, Thayla felt, and if she could not get Blad's attention soon, she had in mind using her own knife to slit Rayk's throat.

Better that Blad should do the deed, in case something went wrong, but someone had to do something soon. This was lunacy. Thayla was not ready to die, not for a long, long time.

As the late-afternoon shadows began to paint the hollows and hillocks of the Sargasso, Kleg drew ever nearer the abode of his master. Not long now. He could make out the details of buildings, could see the low and rambling structures that made up the entire compound. He would be there well before darkfall, the hero returned, the instrument of his master's salvation. Surely He Who Creates would be so filled with gratitude that Kleg's reward would be boundless.

Behind the running selkie, the drone of the skreeches lay faintly on the air. Apparently they had yet to ensnare their prey, for when that happened, the songs died more quickly than the victims.

And as for the beast that trailed him, Kleg had neither seen nor heard from it for a long time, hours at least. Whatever it was, whatever it-wanted, it would not have from Kleg, for He Who Creates could destroy even such a monster as that one with a few well-chosen words, of that Kleg was certain.

The Prime selkie continued his thoughts of glory and reward as he ran. Soon. He would be there soon.

"Hold!" Conan said as he ran past Tair and turned to face the man.

The tree dweller's face had the look of one who had consumed too much wine. He seemed to be in a trance, staring past Conan as if the Cimmerian were not there. He did not slow his steady gait toward the singers.

Peripherally, Conan caught sight of Cheen as she grabbed Hok. The boy struggled with his sister, fighting to free himself, but she was bigger and much stronger. Those muscles Conan had admired came into play, and the boy was held fast, despite his efforts to break free.

"Tair, you must stop. This is some kind of trap!"

Still Tair ignored Conan's warning.

The big Cimmerian considered the problem. How to stop the man without injuring him greatly? True, he could catch and hold Tair, but doing so would engage him, leaving Stead to continue toward the singers.

Conan decided what he must do. He clenched his right hand into a fist, and using this knotted hammer of flesh and bone, he punched Tair. He struck the tree dweller high on the torso, just under the breastbone.

Tair's wind left him with a strangled rush, and he dropped, doubled over to his knees, temporarily unable to breathe. As he clutched at his belly with both hands, Conan turned back toward the fishwomen and Stead.

Too late.

Stead was within a span of the nearest woman, and what happened then would stay with Conan forever. The woman smiled, and her lips kept spreading wider and wider, revealing a mouth that was impossibly large and teeth that belonged on a great cat or perhaps a dire wolf. That maw gaped, and the thing that looked half woman and half fish lunged at Stead, clasping him to her breasts and sinking those horrible teeth into his neck.

Stead struggled, the spell broken, but it was beyond him to break free. He screamed. Blood ran from-the terrible wound in his neck, spurting and spraying over the monster clamped to him.

Crom! Conan jerked his sword from its sheath and leaped toward the thing killing Stead. So lost was it in its meal that it did not seem to notice Conan.

Blued iron flashed in the light of the setting sun, and the blade whistled as Conan whipped it down as might a man splitting wood with an ax. He had to slash to one side, to avoid striking Stead.

Sharpened iron met the flesh and bone of the thing's right shoulder and cleaved the arm free.

It screamed then, an inhuman screech that hurt Conan's ears. Dropping Stead, the thing moved for Conan like a striking serpent, wiggling on the ground, its remaining arm extended, hand hooked into a sharp-nailed claw.

Conan stood his ground, snapped the sword up over his head, and brought it down with all the strength of his massive shoulders and arms behind the cut.

The blade split the she-creature's head in twain.

The dying thing twisted away in a final spasm and lay quivering on the weed.

The second of the singers slithered over the weed toward Conan. He leaped forward to meet her, and she reared up, balanced impossibly on that tail, arms spread wide to grab him. Conan shoved the point of his blade at her heart and ran her through.

She grabbed the sword in her hands and more blood flowed as her fingers were sliced open on the sharp edge, but such was her strength that she wrested the weapon from Conan's grasp as she fell dying to join her sister on the Sargasso.

Conan twisted to face the third monster as it came for him. He prepared to grapple with the thing as it rose up from the snakelike sliding.

But just as the she-thing reached its full height, it sprouted a spear where its left eye had been.

The creature screeched and fell over backward, both hands wrapped around the haft of the spear that had pierced its brain, killing it.

Conan turned and saw Cheen standing there. Hok lay at her feet, looking dazed. He nodded at the woman. Once again that well-muscled arm had thrown true. She had saved him once more.

Stead, however, was beyond help. The side of his neck was a raw wound that had drained his life's blood. Even had Conan been able to reach him sooner, it was unlikely such a gaping hole could have been successfully stanched.

Conan rose from his examination of the dead man and retrieved his sword. Cheen, Tair, and Hok approached.

"Is he . . . ?" Tair began.

"Aye," Conan said.

"What were those things?" Hok asked.

Conan shook his head. "I know not. I do know that this Sargasso is no place for us. The sooner we are away from here, the better."

"We had better hurry," Cheen said. "We do not wish to be out here after darkness."

Aye, there was a wise comment, Conan felt.

He said, "To the castle, then. We have scores to settle with whoever set these things against us.

"Aye," Tair said. "That we do."

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

As the sun gave up his daily reign over the earth and night began to creep out around the edges of the world, the Palace of the Sargasso loomed into Kleg's sight. Close as he was, he could see the pair of selkies standing by the southwestern-most entrance, their tall lances next to them.

At last! He was all the way home!

When the guards saw him, they snapped to alertness, their lances pointed toward him.

Kleg had a moment of worry. Was something wrong?

Then he saw the two recognize him. They relaxed their fighting stances and ordered their weapons.

Kleg released his own tight carriage and slowed to a more comfortable walk.

"Ho, my lord Prime," one of the guards said.

Kleg nodded imperiously. "How stands the watch?"

The other guard, one of Kleg's nest mates and therefore allowed a certain leeway in his speech with the Prime, said, "Dull, brother."

Kleg grinned. While all selkies were brothers, some were more so. The southwest entrance had always been considered an important post because it was nearest the kitchens. A quick guard could dart in and secure a succulent morsel-or one of the kitchen maids-and be back on his post before anyone was the wiser. Kleg knew, for he had once stood this same watch himself.

"See that it stays that way," Kleg said.

He strode past the pair to the first set of tall doors. He worked the latch, pushed the heavy wooden door noiselessly open on well-greased hinges, and stepped inside.

A torch lit the entranceway, showing the next set of doors, only two strides away. Beyond that portal was yet another, smaller door. Each of the forty-six entrances to the palace was constructed in a similar fashion. Even on the windiest of days, a careful passage through the triple-protected entrances would stop even the faintest breeze from coming into the castle. In the form that he wore, He Who Creates could not abide wind, and woe to anyone who forgot that.

Kleg had not gotten to be Prime by being careless. He waited until the air was absolutely still before moving to the second portal, then did the same with the final door.

Inside the palace proper, Kleg moved along the wide torch-lit corridor. He Who Creates would not likely be found here; torches offering a stirring of the air, that also did not please the master.

Not far along the corridor, however, there was a peculiar beast sleeping upon a tattered rug. This creature, another of the master's creations, appeared to be kin to wolf and ape, having the body of the former and the head of the latter. He Who Creates had named these things vunds. It was not very intelligent, the vund, but it was fast on its feet and it could repeat simple messages entrusted to it.

Kleg kicked the vund. It jerked awake with a start and stared at him.

"Go and find the master of the palace and say to Him, 'Your Prime has returned.' Do you understand this?

The vund blinked.

"Say it."

The thing's voice was near a growl, but understandable enough: "Yur Prime 'as return'd."

"Good. Go. Hurry."

The vund loped off down the corridor, half again as fast as a selkie could run. Wherever He Who Creates might be in the castle, the vund would find Him. The palace was huge, but the vund would search until it located the master of it and everything else within the walls.

Kleg himself headed toward the special room in which certain magical devices had been placed. Once He Who Creates got the message he had sent, it was a certainty that that was where Kleg would find him.

The torches on the walls burned steadily, disturbed only by the wind of his passage as Kleg went to meet his master.

Simple-minded as it was, The Kralix held steadfastly to its one goal. It had been given a task, and its entire being was focused on that chore. Find the One. Bring the One. Allow nothing to stand in your way.

It was hungry but it did not pause to eat. The One was still ahead of it somewhere; the Kralix could feel the One as it could feel the weed under its feet and the air on its skin, and it had to get to the One and bring it.

Dimly the Kralix realized that its position was such that it would not have far to go once it caught the One. The One was going in the right direction on its own, and that was good, but the Kralix had not been instructed about that. It had been told three things only: find the One. Bring the One. Allow nothing to stand in your way.

Tirelessly, the Kralix lumbered on, fulfilling its mission.

Night had cast its net of stars into the sky when Conan and his party arrived next to the castle on the Sargasso.

To their left and a hundred spans distant, a pair of guttering torches lit a wide double door set in the flat wall between the torches. The flickering lights also showed two selkies standing guard.

Hidden by the cloak of night, Conan and the three Tree Folk were invisible to the selkies, but even so, the Cimmerian motioned for the others to crouch low, and when he spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper.

"We have arrived," he said.

"Aye," Tair said. "Now what?"

Conan considered. A direct attack was possible, the odds being three 'to two in their favor, but he did not know but that the guards could call for quick help. Having a score of fishmen pour forth from the door might well be possible, and he did not like those odds.

They could perhaps work some sort of trick on the guards. Conan could draw their attention to one side, say, while Tair and Cheen circled around behind. Could they lure the fishmen away from the door, that would keep them from seeking help.

Or perhaps they could steal close enough in the darkness to spit the pair with two wellthrown spears. Cheen was certainly adept with hers, and Conan had no reason to believe that Tair was any less skilled.

But as he pondered these things, the burden of choice was lifted from them.

A monster stalked out of the night and charged the two selkies.

Tair saw it first. "By the Green Goddess, look at that!"

Conan did not need to be told again.

The thing was easily twice the size of an ox, wide-legged, and its smooth, mottled skin glistened under the torches. It looked to be some kind of water beast, Conan thought, but with claws and fangs like that of a bear of mayhap a direwolf. It thumped heavily across the weed directly at the door.

The two selkies leaped forth and attacked, jabbing with their lances, but they were as wasps stinging a man. One of the selkies ventured too close, and those massive jaws crunched him with a sound loud in the night. Conan shook his head. A quick death, at least.

The second selkie hurled his lance and the long point of it sank deeply into the monster. The creature spat out the first selkie, and paused long enough to pluck the lance from its side with one forepaw, flicking the weapon away as might a man brushing dust from his cloak. Then it lunged, fast for so large a beast, and used the same paw to claw at the second selkie. The fishman was opened from chest to groin by the swipe, and fell backward, mortally wounded.

The monster paid the dead and dying selkies no more mind, but turned toward the door and hurled itself at the portal. The stout wood cracked and splintered under the impact. The thing opened that hideous mouth and attacked the shattered door with those pointed fangs, chewing through the wood.

"It eats the door," Hok said incredulously.

Indeed it was so, Conan saw. The three of them watched in astonishment as the monster devoured enough of the door to gain passage. Once it moved from sight, save for the hindmost part of it, there came another crash as something inside fell prey to the thing's teeth.

"Must be an inner door," Conan said.

After a few moments, the monster disappeared completely, not without more sounds of destruction.

The night grew very quiet after that.

Tair and Cheen and Hok looked at Conan, wonder in their faces.

"I do not know what it is," he said, in answer to their unasked questions, "but it has provided us with an entrance. If you are still interested in going inside to find your Seed?"

Thayla's fear was high in her now, and not without reason. There had been no opportunity to speak alone with Blad, and her husband seemed preternaturally alert, so that using her obsidian blade on him had been impossible.

Now he had led the trio to the castle itself, and they moved parallel to the long wall, searching for an entrance.

"Hold!" Rayk whispered hoarsely, waving at her and Blad to get down.

Thayla obeyed and, in a moment, saw the cause of her husband's caution.

Oh, no! It was Conan, and some of the Tree Folk!

The big man led two adults and a child across a short stretch of open weed toward the castle. Following their path with her gaze, Thayla saw what lay ahead of the four, and it was an amazing and grisly sight.

Two of the fishmen lay sprawled on the weed, mangled corpses both. The remains of a shattered door hung on the wall, lit by a single torch that hung loosely above and to one side of it.

"What-?" Thayla began.

"The beast in the village," Rayk answered before she could finish her question. "I have seen its work before."

"What is it doing here?"

Rayk shook his head. "I know not, nor do I care. It has given us a way inside, we should be thankful to it."

"What if it waits within?" Blad asked.

"What of it? It will dine on those four before we attempt to enter."

Thayla watched Conan steal across the ground, his sword lifted and ready. "And if it is still hungry when we get there?"

"Then we shall wait until it leaves."

"Rayk, I think this has gone far enough."

He turned to face her. "I am king, Thayla, and it matters not what you think."

She stared at him as he turned back to watch the four men cautiously enter the castle through the shattered doorway. Truly he had lost his reason. She reached for the knife at her belt. Best to stab him now and flee.

But Rayk was up and moving toward the castle. Thayla glanced at Blad.

"Come along!" Rayk ordered.

Before she could speak, Blad stood and followed.

Fools! All males were fools! They would get her killed yet!

"Thayla!"

Reluctantly the Queen of the Pili stood and hurried after her husband. She had no wish to remain alone and unprotected out here. Besides, Conan still lived, and if the thing that had torn its way into the castle had moved on, the big man would likely continue to live. If he and Rayk chanced to speak before she could prevent it, things would become very tricky and dangerous indeed. Best she be next to Rayk to prevent such a thing from happening.

Silently, the three Pili followed the four humans into the wizard's domain.

Dimma hung quietly in his sleeping chamber, trying to close his mind and rest. The chamber had been designated for sleeping because it was the stillest in all the palace. Surrounded on all sides by other rooms and with the doors closed, it was as dark as new pitch and unstirred by even the faintest wind. Like a cave in the bowels of the earth, the silence here was almost a tangible thing.

Sleep was not forthcoming for Dimma, however; his mind darted birdlike from perch to perch, too agitated for rest.

Came a knock at the door.

Despite his unrest, Dimma did not allow himself to be disturbed while in this chamber, not for any reason. Whoever did so courted a quick and messy death, and Dimma willed himself toward the floor so that he might better see the fool he was about to slay.

"Who dares?" he called out.

"M-m-my l-lord?"

It was the voice of his sub-Prime - selkie.

"Enter and meet your doom!"

The door opened, very slowly, so as not to stir the air in the room, and the selkie stood there. One of the vunds sat near his feet.

"Have you a final word before you die?"

"M-m-my lord, the v-vend, it h-has a m-m-message."

"Then it shall die as well." Dimma raised one foggy arm and prepared to cast a spell of burning at the two. He could do that much on his own, at least.

"S-speak!" the selkie said to the vund.

The vund stood and took a deep breath. Its last, Dimma thought and he cocked his hand to throw the spell.

"Yur Prime 'as return'd."

Dimma held his hand. "What?"

The vund repeated the message.

Such joy shot through Dimma that he instantly dropped his hand, the burning spell forgotten. Could it be true? After all the centuries?

"What is this beast's station?"

"The s-southwest d-d-door, my lord."

Dimma laughed. It was some distance away, that entrance, but even so, his Prime would be halfway to the strong room by now. "Away with you!" he ordered. "To the strong room!"

The sub-Prime and the vund hurried away, and Dimma willed himself after them. The end of his torment was near!

Moving as fast as he could, the Mist Mage floated through his palace toward his redemption.

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

When Kleg arrived at the strong room where all but one of the elements of a particular magic spell were stored, he was met by the master of the realm, the Abet Blasa, Dimma the Mist Mage.

He Who Creates floated half a span from the floor.

"My Prime. Do you have that which I dispatched you to fetch?"

Still naked save for the pouch around his neck, Kleg nodded. He fished the Seed from the bag. "Aye, my lord."

Kleg felt the wizard's joy almost as a tangible thing, a blast of heat from an open hearth. Then, "What took you so long?"

Kleg began to explain. "The journey was fraught with deadly peril, my lord. Pili and monsters and-"

"Never mind, never mind, it matters not. What is important is that you have the talisman. Quickly, place it in the niche!"

The selkie hurried to obey. Within the strong room, guarded ever by four of his brothers, Kleg saw the other elements of the spell set in their places. Here stood the skull of a longextinct big cat; there in a wooden case was the cloak of a witch; over there, a wax-stoppered bottle filled with a black liquid that had once been the blood of a minor demon. There were more than a dozen such exhibits, and the only one lacking was the Seed that Kleg even now placed with great care into a sconce set near one wall.

"Everyone out," He Who Creates ordered.

Kleg scurried to obey, along with the two guards who had been with him.

"Close the door."

One of the guards pulled the door shut, carefully, so as not to stir the air, and looked at Kleg. "What happens now, Prime?"

"He Who Creates will work a spell," Kleg replied. "And in so doing, he will create a new self."

Kleg turned back toward the closed door. His master had not exactly been effusive in his praise. On the other hand, Kleg still lived, and considering how long it had taken him to accomplish his task, that was not something at which to sneer. After the spell was done, perhaps He Who Creates would be feeling more generous. Kleg intended to wait right here and find out.

The Prime selkie's intention was thwarted, however, when he heard heavy footfalls approaching down one of the long corridors and caught a fetid odor he recognized immediately.

The monster! It still pursued him!

Kleg's thoughts jumbled upon themselves. How could this be? If that thing could follow him here, into his master's domain, what did it mean? What could he do?

Full of sudden fear, the Prime selkie started to knock at the closed door, to ask He Who Creates for help-then he stopped. To disturb his master now would likely be worth death. Better he should lead the thing away. He could outrun it easily enough, he knew that, and if the beast outrun it easily enough, he knew that, and if the beast caused He Who Creates distress while He was performing His spell, that would likely bring swift death as well.

Kleg said, "A thing will pass here in a moment, seeking me. Stay out of its way. Allow no one else to disturb our master!"

With that, Kleg turned and ran off down the corridor.

Dimma's pleasure was unbounded. The ingredients he had spent most of his lifetime collecting were all finally assembled. The spell itself required nothing more now save that he pronounce it aloud, something he could do easily even in his present form. There were three short verses to the incantation. He had spoken them in practice so many times they were as familiar to him as his own name.

The Mist Mage drifted over the floor to the center of the strong room. He took a deep breath and began to intone the words of the spell that would make him whole at last.

No one had challenged Conan and the three Tree Folk as they moved through the long corridors. They had seen no more guards, nor anyone, for that matter. Conan found it odd.

"Certainly is still," Tair said. "The place feels dead."

Indeed, the air was motionless. The torches on the walls burned steadily, sending their smoke straight up to paint dark the high ceiling with nearly perfectly round pools of soot.

"I do not like it in here," Hok announced.

With that Conan agreed, though he did not voice it aloud. Instead he said, "Cheen?"

She pointed down the left branch of a corridor that forked just ahead of them. "The Seed is that way."

The four of them made the turning.

Conan's plan for retrieving the talisman was somewhat vague, but direct in intent at least. They would find a way to steal it, were it unguarded, and if it was protected, they would slay the guards, take the magical Seed, and flee. He preferred simple plans, and this one seemed basic enough. If possible, they would avoid the wizard. If he could not be avoided, then they would slay him and then depart. Simple.

Thayla allowed her husband to move away from her, slowing her pace so that she dropped back far enough to whisper to Blad without being heard. She had to keep her voice very low indeed, so quiet was the corridor.

"Milady?"

"The king is mad," she said. "He will cause the death of us all."

"But what is to be done? He is the king."

"riot if he is dead." She reached out and touched the shaft of Blad's spear meaningfully.

"Milady!"

"Hear me, Blad my stalwart. If he dies, then you will become king and my consort."

The young Pili's eyes widened. If he had any spark of ambition at all, this ought to fan it into a flame.

"Thayla! Blad! Why are you tarrying?"

The king had stopped and was looking back at them.

Thayla stopped and bent. "A stone in my boot, Rayk." To Blad she said, "Hold still, that I may lean against you." She pulled her boot from her foot and made as if to empty the nonexistent stone from it onto the flagstone floor. As she leaned against Blad, she allowed her hand to stroke a sensitive area of his body, unseen by the king.

Blad gasped at her touch.

"What is it?" the king asked.

"Uh ... uh ..." Blad said, obviously at a loss.

"The point of my dagger has accidentally pricked him," Thayla said hurriedly.

"Well, put your boot back on, withdraw your blade, and let us continue."

Rayk turned away from them, and Thayla gave Blad a hot look. The youth had the spear. She hoped he would use it, and soon.

Kleg knew the corridors of the palace as well as anyone, and he dodged through them now, leading the thing behind him on another chase. Had it been sent by some rival wizard? What was it? Would He Who Creates bother to deal with it, once He had finished His spell?

Too many questions and not enough answers.

As Kleg ran, he took care to double back on his trail every so often so as not to get too far away from the strong room in which his master worked His spell. He had not eaten or rested for what seemed a long time, and he was tiring. Best he be close when his master finished His current chore so that He Who Creates could take care of this thing chasing him.

Conan sensed someone around the corridor's next turning, and he waved his companions to a halt as he went to see who-or what-it might be.

The Cimmerian crouched low and slowly moved to peer around the edge of the wall. A quick glimpse was all he needed. Just around the corner stood four selkies, each armed with a spear, bracketing a wooden door inset into the wall.

He moved back behind his cover. Whispering quietly, Conan said to the others, "I think we have found your Seed. There are selkies ahead, guarding a door."

"Yes, I can feel the nearness of the Seed," Cheen said.

"Very well. There are four of them and three of us," Conan said.

"Nay, there are four of us!" Hok allowed. He sounded indignant.

"Very well, four, then. If we attack quickly, we can overcome them and retrieve the stolen Seed."

Tair hefted his spear. "Aye. I am ready."

Cheen nodded.

Conan drew his sword and took a deep breath. "On my count of three," he said. "One. Two. Three!"

With that, the Cimmerian leaped around the corner and sprinted toward the guards.

"Shhh," Rayk said, waving for Thayla and Blad to halt. "The Tree Folk and that large man are just ahead."

The three Pili crouched, and Thayla moved enough so that she could see that what Rayk said was true. The four humans were likewise crouched at the juncture of two corridors not far ahead of them.

"They do not know we are here," Rayk said. "We can steal up and slay them before they notice us." He drew his obsidian knife: "Ready your spear," he whispered to Blad. "You take the big one, I will cut down the female and the smaller man. Thayla, you kill the child."

"Rayk-" she began.

"Silence! Do as I order!"

Moving with great stealth, the three Pili crept up behind the four. Thayla risked a glance at Blad, who returned her look. She nodded at the king, then at Blad's spear. Now is the time, she thought.

Just as Rayk gathered himself to leap, Thayla heard Conan begin counting. What was he doing?

When the big man reached the number "three," the entire group leaped up and darted around the corner.

The move caught the Pili by surprise.

After a moment, Rayk said, "After them!"

With that, the king jumped up and ran around the corner.

Blad and Thayla followed.

Two verses of the spell were complete, and Dimma had just begun the third when he heard some kind of commotion in the corridor outside the strong-room door.

The Mist Mage frowned. His concentration was broken, and he mispronounced the third word in the second line.

"Set and Drakkar take you!" he screamed.

Now he would have to begin the spell again! Oh, whoever had caused this was going to die! But not now. Everything could wait until he was finished.

He began the first verse of the spell again.

In his near exhaustion, Kleg had allowed the monster to gain upon him. It dogged him closely now, only a dozen spans behind, loping along in a slow, but steady run that never seemed to vary, shaking the walls as it moved.

Ahead was the corridor that led back to the strong room. Kleg was nearing the end of his strength, and were he to survive, he would have to do something soon. Perhaps He Who Creates was finished with the spell by now. Even if his master was not, Kleg felt as if he had no choice. He had to have help with this thing, and soon. If nothing else, the guards might be able to fight it to a standstill.

Calling upon the last of his reserves, Kleg increased his speed a final time and rounded the corner.

As the selkies turned to face the unexpected attack by Conan and the Tree Folk, the Cimmerian looked past them to see another selkie dash round the far corner toward them.

A moment later, the monster who had chewed its way into the castle also came round the turning.

Conan slashed at the startled guard and his blade bit deeply into the selkie's skull, dropping him.

"Conan!" Cheen yelled. "Behind us!"

Conan spun past the other guards and, in turning, saw a trio of Pili armed with knives and a spear, charging toward him, weapons raised to strike.

Crom! What was happening?

Selkies, Pili, Tree Folk, and a giant monster all ran pell-mell toward each other. The corridor was chaos. Confusion reigned.

So much for a simple plan.

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Keg rounded the corner nearest the strong room and faced more than he had expected. What was this? Men and Pili, battling with his brother selkies!

Unarmed and naked, Kleg would have turned back, but the monster behind him forbade that option. Given no other choice, he ran forward to join the fray.

Thayla ran next to Blad. "Now!" she commanded. "Kill him now!"

Blad glanced at her. Confusion lit his face. "Which one?"

"The king, fool! Use your spear!"

Conan parried the second guard's lance point and cut at the selkie's belly. The wounded guard doubled over and dropped his weapon.

The Cimmerian spun away, slinging blood from his blade as he cocked it over one shoulder against the next enemy foolish enough to get within range.

To Conan's left, Tair traded jabs with the third selkie guarding the door, while Cheen and Hok worried the fourth guard with spear and knife.

To his right, the Cimmerian saw three Pili running closer. The leader held only a knife, but the one behind him carried a spear. The third Pili was the female with whom Conan had been intimate, and she was screaming something he could not quite understand.

The Pili would get to him in a moment, so Conan shifted his stance to await the charge.

But as the leader of the lizard men approached, he suddenly threw up his hands and screamed. The knife flew, bounced from one wall, and clattered onto the flagstones.

Conan was puzzled, but only for a moment. As the leader fell, the one behind him jerked, the spear from the dying lizard man's back and raised the weapon in triumph.

"I am king!" he yelled. "Long live the new king!"

Conan leaped forward and thrust his broadsword into the Pili's chest.

The Pili blinked and gave Conan a look of absolute surprise, then pitched backward and fell flat upon his back, his open eyes still staring.

A short reign to be sure, Conan thought.

"May the Great Dragon shrivel your manhood!" the female Pili screamed. She drew her knife and leaped at Conan.

He hated to cut down a female, but if the choice was her life or his, Conan was prepared to decide it in his own favor.

He did not get the chance, however. Something slammed into his back and sent the Cimmerian sprawling. On the way down, he lost his sword.

Thayla's rage wrapped her like a cloak as she lunged toward Conan, her knife set to gut him. But the selkie who had come running around the corner ran smack into the barbarian and the two tumbled to the floor. Thayla leaped to one side and barely avoided being knocked over by the tumbling pair.

She moved back toward them, knife lifted. If the selkie bested the man, then she would sink her blade into his back. If Conan survived, she would do for him likewise.

The man was strong, Kleg thought as they wrestled on the floor, maybe twice as strong as any the selkie had ever faced, but he was thrice as powerful as a man, and this contest would be his.

Not easily, though. The man shifted, and his muscles bulged as he avoided Kleg's hands on his throat. The pair rolled, slammed into a wall, and it was Kleg who took the brunt of the impact. The selkie's grip was broken and the man took advantage of this to slip free. The man dived, rolled, and came up, fists doubled to strike.

Kleg came to his feet and observed the man. He obviously intended to box, and even a weaker opponent could defeat a stronger one, did his blows land solidly. Kleg shifted warily to his left-The selkie's foot touched something cold on the floor and he spared it a fast look to see what it was.

The man's sword lay there.

Quickly as he could, Kleg squatted and snatched up the weapon. The man was too far away to get to him before he completed the action.

Kleg grinned as he hefted the weapon. "Prepare to die," he said. He stepped forward, raising the sword easily as he moved, and made to slice the man in twain.

"Look out behind you, fool!" a female voice called.

Kleg ignored the cry. He was not stupid enough to fall for that old trick.

Then he caught the stink of his nemesis and felt the hot breath of the thing on his back. No! He tried to turn, but it was now too late. Everything went dark.

The last thing the Prime selkie felt was the sharp teeth of the monster closing on him.

Thayla screamed a warning, but the fishman paid her no mind. The monster behind him opened hellish jaws and bit the selkie, taking his whole upper body into its mouth. The thing lifted its victim from the floor and shook it like a dog shakes a .rat. Bones crunched. Blood oozed from the selkie.

The Queen of the Pili stared in horror, but the monster had no apparent interest in her or anyone but the selkie. The beast turned away, the surely-dead fishman securely in its mouth, and padded down the hall toward the door.

Conan also turned to watch the monster, and Thayla realized this was her chance. Of course, the king was dead, but her hatred of Conan had grown enough so that it no longer mattered. She leaped at his back, her knife raised to stab.

"Conan!" a woman screamed.

The man in front of her reacted instantly. He dropped flat, and Thayla's lunge, overbalanced as she was, carried her past. She tripped and fell. She threw both her hands out to stay the fall, but she was too close to the wall. The knife in her hand hit the wall and she could not release it as she continued her headlong fall. She saw the point coming at her right eye and she managed a final scream before the knife claimed her.

Dimma's anger bordered on madness, so black was it. Once again he had lost the words of the spell, such was the uproar outside his chamber.

Before the wizard could restart the first chant, the door burst open, sending a blast of air that battered the Mist Mage and knocked him across the room almost to the ceiling.

"Who dares!"

When Dimma had righted himself, he saw the Ranafrosch standing in the shattered doorway, the body of a selkie clenched in its jaws.

"Not now, you moronic beast!"

The Ranafrosch dropped the body onto the floor. It thudded against the flagstones and lay still. The monster looked at Dimma like a fetch-dog at its master.

Dimma's rage exploded and he cursed the thing, extending one wavering hand that sent a beam of heat and light splashing over the beast like a bucket of fire.

The Ranafrosch's skin blackened and crackled under the magical attack. It emitted a moan and fell, rolling over onto its back. The stink of its flesh filled the air.

Dimma managed to will himself back into position over the various talismans and other ingredients.

Once again, he thought. For the last time.

Conan looked at the Pili female. She was dead, sure enough, with that wicked-looking black blade buried in her eye up to the hilt. Killed by her own hand.

He picked up his sword and turned toward his companions. Cheen and Hok had been joined by Tair, and they finished off the last selkie guard as he watched.

The monster, meanwhile, shoved the door open and stepped inside the chamber beyond. After a moment, the thing was rewarded for this action by a blast of light and a fierce heat Conan could feel even where he stood. All the Cimmerian could see was the thing's hindquarters, but it was apparent that the monster would walk the land of the living - no more. Smoke rose from its carcass.

Conan moved to where the three Tree Folk stood.

"The Seed is in there," Cheen said.

"Aye. You see what the monster got for going through that door?" Conan said.

"We have come too far to realize defeat now," Tair said. He started for the door.

Conan sighed. Aye, that they had. He made after the smaller man, and Cheen and Hok followed.

The Mist Mage was nearly done with his spell. A few words more and he would regain the flesh permanently. He felt a surge of happiness build within him, but he kept it from spilling forth, at least until he could say the last line of the spell. Eight words more, six, four "There it is!" a woman yelled.

Dimma mispronounced the second to last word of the spell that would have made him whole.

He screamed. "Is there no end to this!"

He turned his attention to the four people who had invaded his chamber. A woman was moving toward one of his talismans. Who were these interlopers? What were they doing here, voiding his attempts to free himself of his curse?

The largest man, a barbaric-looking fellow replete with thick muscles, leaped toward Dimma, wielding a sword. The man swung the blade in a manner that would have cleaved the wizard in half, had he been other than mist. As it was, the sword passed harmlessly through him, trailing no more than wisps of fog.

The swordsman looked puzzled, and tried a second cut, to the same end. Dimma would have laughed, had he not been so enraged.

The blast of magical force Dimma had directed at the unfortunate Ranafrosch had almost completely depleted his personal powers; otherwise he would have swept the four from his sight with the same kind of infernal rays. As it was, his ire so disrupted his thoughts that he could only come up with a simple holding spell. He spoke aloud three words and made the proper signs and the four people froze into immobility, the big one with the sword raised for a third strike. The fool would die in that pose, as soon as Dimma was finished with his important business.

To assure his privacy, Dimma floated to the shattered door and peered into the hall. There were a number of bodies lying about, but no sign of anyone else alive to disturb his conjuration. Thank all the base Gods for that!

Dimma returned to his strong room and began his spell for what he hoped would be the final time.

Conan felt as -though he were bound in an invisible net; he was unable to move more than a hair before he met the unseen resistance. He strained his powerful muscles to their utmost, to no avail. The wizard had laid some kind of spell upon them, and whatever he was saying at the moment, Conan felt certain that it would not serve him and his companions were the wizard to finish it.

The mage floated with his back to them, and Conan could see the wall beyond through the body of the wizard as the man-was he a man?-droned out some doubtlessly evil incantation.

But . . . what could he do? He was trapped. and even if free, he had seen that his weapon was useless against the magician.

The breath of doom cooled his spine.

Dimma unwound the final words carefully, all his concentration upon them. Nothing would interrupt him this time, not if the entire castle were to sink, nothing!

The last syllable of the last word rolled forth from Dimma's lips into the still air and hung there echoing softly.

The wizard held his breath, waiting. He had done it. Would it work? Would anything happen?

The air about the Mist Mage began to swirl, he could feel himself stirring. Something was happening!

The currents of magic within which Dimma had lived almost his entire life also stirred as did the air, drawing into themselves all the esoteric forces available in the room.

It was working!

The spell, it seemed, was gathering its own power, pulling energies from the air and water and building to add to its tapestry. It took from Dimma part of his own force; he felt it drain from him, but that meant nothing, for when it worked he would be a man again, and able to command much greater powers than he had as a halfling!

As he felt himself begin to form bones and organs and muscles and start sinking slowly toward the floor, Dimma leaned back his head and howled in triumph. Yes! Yes! It was happening, after all the centuries! At last!

Conan had been trying unceasingly to break the invisible bonds upon him when he felt them suddenly weaken. His upraised arms came down a little, and now the spell felt more like thick mud around his limbs than a tightly wrapped net. He could move, but slowly.

In front of the Cimmerian the magician was growing more opaque and solid, settling toward the floor like a broad leaf falling from a tree, floating gently from side to side.

Conan felt certain that were the wizard to reach the ground and turn, it would be all over for him and his companions. The spell over his body weakened a little more, but he was still sluggish. He would not be able to move fast enough to chop the mage down; it would be like trying to move the sword underwater.

As the wizard lowered toward the floor, Conan also lowered his blade so that it pointed straight ahead. He could not cut, but mayhap he could use the point like a spear. He managed a step. His legs felt as if they were bound in pants of iron, his feet shod in boots of lead. Sweat broke from his skin as he strained to take another step. The wizard was only three spans away, another four or five steps and he would be there.

If he had the time.

Yes, he was becoming as he once was, Dimma felt, and in another moment he would be free, forever. He had already decided how he would destroy this entire realm. Far below the waters of the lake, a magical shield kept the molten rock under it from bursting forth as once it had ten million years past. He had placed the shield there when the mountain had rumbled two centuries ago, linking the protective device to his own soul. Should he die, the shield would vanish, and a river of lava would jet up to boil the waters of the lake before spilling over the sides of the mountain to cook everything it touched: He could also release the spell as he transported himself magically away, and by all the Dark Gods, he would do so!

His feet were nearly touching the floor now, and' he knew that when they did, he would have defeated the old wizard's dying curse. He began to laugh. Triumphant, finally!

Conan took another step, the sword held in front of him with both hands. His speed increased a little, but it was still no more than a crawl. Three paces more and he would be there; two . . . but-the magician had settled to the floor now, and he was starting to turn-Dimma felt his muscles tense as they took up his new weight, the floor solidly under his feet. Done. And now to destroy personally those who had dared to interrupt his labors before leaving the molten rock to finish everyone else.

He turned slowly. "Time to die," he said.

With all his strength, Conan lunged. It was slow, the move, but his entire being was behind the sword. The wizard turned as the point of the blade arrived. The broadsword sank into the magician's new body just under the breastbone and continued on, slowly, but surely. Blued iron passed through the mage's heart and between two segments of spine before piercing the skin of his back and then his cloak, to emerge into the still air.

The spell holding Conan vanished of a moment, and the release sent the Cimmerian forward like a hurled rock. His sword's hilt slammed into the dying wizard's abdomen and the mage was knocked from his feet and two spans backward by the force of it. He twisted as he fell, and landed on his side.

"N-n-n-o-o-o-o-ooooo!" was all that he said, a lamenting wail. He shuddered once, and was still.

Dimma the Mist Mage was no more.

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

"Is he dead?" Cheen asked, coming to stand next to Conan.

Before he could speak, the body on the floor began to change. As they watched, the solid form of the Mist Mage began to shrivel, as a piece of fat tossed into a hot fire shrinks. The magician's skin thinned and wrinkled and became like old parchment, then disappeared completely. The flesh under it did much the same, and after a moment only the bones remained, yellowish at first, then turning pale, chalky white before crumbling to powder. The entire transformation took less than a minute, and at the end, nothing remained of the Mist Mage save a thin layer of dust on the flagstones.

"Aye," Conan said, "I would say he is dead."

"Older than he looked, too, I would wager," Tair added.

Cheen turned away and went to the cause of their quest. She lifted the Seed gently from where it lay and held it up before her face, staring at it reverently.

"We can go now," she said.

Conan looked around. "Aye. But perhaps we might tarry long enough to collect a few baubles." His keen eyes detected the yellow gleam of gold in some of the fittings in the room, and surely that faceted green jewel next to the destroyed door was of some value? This venture might prove most rewarding after all.

The floor rumbled beneath Conan's feet, rocking him.

"What was that?" Hok said.

The adults looked at each other. "It felt like an earth tremor," Conan said.

"On the water? Not likely?"

The castle shook again, hard enough so that Conan had trouble maintaining his stance. Cheen fell to one knee, and even the fine balances of Tair and Hok were disturbed. A large crack appeared in the ceiling and dust showered down from the gap.

"Whatever the cause, best we get out of here before it collapses on us," Conan said.

The others followed his lead as the Cimmerian ran for the doorway. He skirted the dead monster, reached out to snatch the jewel from the stand next to the opening, and stuffed the gem into his belt pouch as he ran.

A creature with the body of a dog and the face of a monkey ran past, looking fearful, and Conan fell in behind it.

"What are you doing?" Cheen asked. "We came in from the opposite direction!"

"This beast lives here, likely it knows the halls better than we."

The dog-thing scrabbled across the stones as it rounded a corner, Conan and the others right behind it. Ahead, a pair of selkies also ran, and if they noticed the people behind them, they gave no sign of it.

The floor shook again, the hardest tremor yet, and even Conan could not stay on his feet. He tumbled, managed to roll on one shoulder and come up without injury. A chunk of the wooden archway supporting the ceiling just ahead of him shook itself loose and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. More cracks laced up the walls and across the ceiling.

Whatever it was that had the wizard's castle in its grasp, it did not appear that the structure would survive.

"Quickly!" Conan ordered.

The other three managed to clamber to their feet to rejoin Conan once again.

The dog-thing was nearly out of sight, but Conan spied it up ahead and once again gave chase.

Through the corridors they ran, with the building shaking and twisting around them, walls starting to collapse, the floor buckling.

Finally the dog-thing led them to a door. It moaned at the closed portal, scratching at the wood with its paws, until Conan arrived. "Move aside!"

The dog-thing obeyed, and Conan twisted the handle and shoved the door wide. Beyond lay another door. They all ran toward it, opened it, and saw yet a third portal. Conan swore and leaped at the final barrier, flinging it wide.

Night still held sway outside, but the stars shined down on them, and Conan led his companions and the dog-thing out into the clean air. A heartbeat later, the Sargasso shook violently and the portal through which they had only just passed collapsed behind them.

"A near thing," Tair said, staring at the fallen doorway.

"We are not safe yet," Cheen said. "Look!"

Conan turned to follow her pointing finger.

In the distance, great clouds of steam rose from the lake, nearly blotting out the moon. The clouds were lit from below by an orange glow.

The weed undulated again, and a roaring sound in the distance came as more steam boiled upward and the orange glow increased in brightness.

"A volcano," Tair said. "The mountain is coming to life underneath the lake!"

Conan nodded. He knew of such things, where the rock itself flowed like honey down the slopes of hollow mountains, burning everything in its path. The lake would boil like a pot on a cookfire, and everything in it would be scalded to death, the weed included.

The Sargasso rippled, and they were all thrown down by the hard wave.

"We have got to get away from here!" Tair said.

Not far from where they lay, the weed tore suddenly asunder, and water splashed up through the rent.

Conan stood. "It is a day's walk to the water's edge," he said.

The Sargasso erupted to his left, spraying torn weed high into the air, and the stench of rotten eggs filled the air. Before Conan could speak, another patch of weed, fifty spans away in the opposite direction, flew upward, and a gout of flame filled the air over the torn weed, roaring and then vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"Crom!"

"We will never make it to the shore," Tair said. "Not through that!"

"We have no choice," Conan said. "Better to die trying than not."

"Wait," Cheen said. "Maybe there is another way.

"I am open to suggestion," Conan said.

The weed shook again. In the distance, balls of gaseous fire flared and vanished, lighting up the night. A low rumble began and grew louder, and the weed rocked as if it were a boat in a stormy sea.

"The Seed," she said. "It has great powers."

"Enough to calm this?"

She pulled the talisman from her belt and looked at Conan. "Nay. But perhaps it can transport us home."

"What?"

"There is a legend that says one who is attuned to the Seed can call upon it for a return to the grove."

"A legend? Do you know how to invoke it?"

"I am not certain."

A blast of fire rose upward a hundred spans from them, a ball that floated upward into the darkness. The heat singed the hair on Conan's arm.

"Our time runs short," he said. "Try your spell."

"Gather close," Cheen said. "Link hands."

Conan and Tair clasped wrists to the Cimmerian's left, and he reached for Hok with his right. The boy darted away.

"Hok!" Conan called.

The boy ran to the dog-thing and gathered it up into his arms. The thing quivered, but made no resistance as the boy held it, then ran back to where Conan stood.

"What are you doing?"

"It is afraid. We cannot leave it here to die," Hok said.

He hoisted the thing over one small shoulder and grabbed Conan's right hand with his left, then extended his right arm and hooked it around his sister's arm. Tair also linked elbows with Cheen on her right, leaving her hands free to cup the Seed. She started speaking quietly and quickly, saying something Conan could not understand.

The noise of an explosion filled the air. In the distance a fountain of red orange reached from the lake toward the stars. A moment later, the weed began to buck wildly. When the others would have fallen, Conan held them up, using all the strength of his thickly thewed legs to stand fast on the gyrating weed.

Cheen continued to speak in a low, hurried voice.

The weed snapped upward suddenly, like a man popping a whip, and Conan and the others were hurled skyward. Even as they flew, still connected, he glanced down and saw the weed burst open beneath where they had stood, and a ball of fire coming up from the water. Conan sucked in what he thought would surely be his last breath-When he exhaled, releasing his breath, Conan found himself standing on solid ground beneath the great branches of a giant tree.

"It worked!" Tair yelled, releasing his grip on Conan to clasp his sister to his chest.

To Conan's other side, the boy Hok danced in a circle, clutching the dog-thing tightly. The animal yipped excitedly.

Conan grinned. Magic was by and large something he avoided when he could, but this time he had no problems with this particular example of it. He could not recall looking death so closely in the eye before. He was most glad to be alive.

For a moment, Conan thought he heard a familiar laugh in .the distance. Is that you, Crom? Making up for your joke by sparing me? If so, you have my thanks.

The laugh, if there was one, faded, and Conan's grin grew into a full smile. Tomorrow he would resume his interrupted journey to Shadizar. He would bid farewell to Cheen and Tair and Hok and their giant trees, and he would go. The wicked City of Thieves awaited him, its treasures ripe and ready to plunder.

Conan the Formidable

ONE

Along the road toward wicked Shadizar from the Karpash Mountains came the young man, a long blued-iron sword sheathed over his left hip. The lone figure loomed larger than most men; he was tall, broad of shoulder and thick of arm and leg, his skin tanned the color of dry rawhide, with flashing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong chin.

Here, the sun remorselessly baked the Zamoran plateau, drawing spirals of heat from the flat, cracked ground. A hot breeze blew and spun small wind devils that twirled briefly with nowhere to go before dwindling to their dusty death.

That same sweltering breeze stirred the squarecut black mane of the young man as he paused to drink from the leathern water sack he carried. The liquid was tepid and reeked of iron and sulphur, but Conan of Cimmeria had tasted worse and been glad of it. He lowered the skin and looked around.

There was little to see. The plateau bore scant growth, a few scrubby bushes here and there. Ahead, perhaps another three hours' walk, was a rocky outcrop, not quite a foothill, but offering some trees and shade, did Conan's sharp eyes not lie.

The journey toward Shadizar had been long and treacherous, and even though the sun smote him with its hot hand, Conan was glad of the quiet desolation. Thus far he had encountered all manner of dangers from men and beasts, and things worse than either. It was his good fortune to have survived, albeit he would have done so in a somewhat better style had he been able. He wished now for a robe to reflect the bright light from his brawny frame; that would make the walk cooler and easier.

The Cimmerian laughed aloud. "Aye," he said to the empty, cooked landscape, "a robe and a horse, and a bag of gold across the fine saddle, while I am wishing!"

He took another drink of the water, plugged the skin, and started walking again. He had a fine sword, its edge sharped to razor keenness; he wore a pair of leather under-breeks, a wide belt and a purse, though this container was empty, and he had a water skin yet half full. More, he had strong legs, and sturdy feet shod in well-cut sandals. A man could do a lot worse. Conan's god was Crom the Warrior, and Crom allowed a man measures of things at birth: a certain amount of strength, this much cunning, that much wisdom. After that a man was on his own; Crom cared not for whiners, and it did not pay to call upon the god for favors.

Conan had seen Crom once. Or thought he had. He smiled at the memory. Aye. What a man did with what he was given was up to him. And what Conan had was a desire to travel to the City of Thieves to ply the trade of that metropolis and become wealthy. A few more days and he would finally arrive. Once there and laden with stolen jewels and coins, he could drink and wench and enjoy his well-earned luxury.

Until then, he would walk.

As night drew her twilight veils across the land, she allowed a welcome coolness to flow into the air. Conan found himself in the outcrop toward which he had trudged, and the road to Shadizar wound now its way through hardy evergreen trees and thicker scrub brush. He saw signs of small animals and decided he would construct several snares with which to catch his supper before making camp for the night. He had no cloak, nor had he furs to soften the ground, but it would be the work of only a few moments to make a bed of branches and aromatic needles. The evening was already cooler than the day by far, but it would not grow much more so; he had outwalked finally the frosty breath of the mountains.

It was while setting his third snare of twisted vines that the Cimmerian's keen hearing detected a noise normally foreign to the lairs of ground squirrels.

Somebody sneezed. He had never heard such a sound from a rabbit, and certainly no rabbit would follow the sneeze with a soft but definitely human curse.

Giving no sign that he had heard, Conan continued to set the snare, looping the vine over the bent sapling and locking into place the notched pegs that held the trap cocked. Alerted, however, the Cimmerian strained his ears to catch other sounds in the gathering dusk.

He was near the edge of the road, astride a narrow animal trail that disappeared into a thicket of thorny bushes. A small clearing of dry grasses lay to his left, and a stand of evergreen trees with heavy undergrowth stood across the road. It was from this last area that the sneeze had come.

As he finished the snare, Conan's ears continued their report. There came the rasp of iron against leather-a short sword or dirk being drawn-the liquid clink of chain mail and the creak of leather armor, another sneeze and a muted curse, followed by a whispered admonition for silence. This last was in a heavily accented version of the Zamoran common tongue.

So. He had unseen companions in yon trees, and from the sound of them, they had questionable intent. A friendly party would have hailed him in the open and not skulked about in hiding, drawing weapons and urging each other to silence.

Conan considered his surroundings. He would move toward the thorn bushes and put his back to them. No one would be coming from that direction.

With the Cimmerian, the thought was the deed. He strode to the bushes, turned to face the woods, and drew his broadsword. Night had not yet won her battle with day, and the sinking sun glinted from the blued blade as it sang forth from its scabbard with the tones of dry leather rubbed on cold iron. Conan gripped the handle with both hands, right over left, and swung the weapon back and forth to limber his wrists and shoulders.

"Ho, dogs of the night! Come forth and declare yourselves!"

After ten heartbeats, the bandits began moving noisily through the brush and out onto the packed dirt of the road. There were six of them, and Conan did not doubt that they were brigands. They wore the vestiges of military gear; odd collections of mail, gauntlets, and bowl-shaped brass helmets. Perhaps they had once been warriors in some army, or perhaps they had merely waylaid some poor troop and stolen the armor. Two of the men carried short and curved swords; two more held wooden spears with daggerlike points; one man bore a pair of fat knives, and the last man carried a morning star-an iron ball studded with spikes and mounted on a wooden handle as long as Conan's arm. A motley assemblage, to be sure.

The man with the morning star stepped out ahead of the others. He was short but wide and muscular, and nearly bald. He did not wear a helmet. "No need to be insulting, barbarian. We are not night dogs, but merely . . . ah . . . poor pilgrims on a journey."

Conan laughed. Was that supposed to make him put away his sword? "Pilgrims?"

"Aye, and as such, we are short of coins. Perchance would you happen to have any you could contribute to our cause?"

No.

"Ah. Well, that sword you wave about so dangerously might be worth something. We could sell it."

"I am not disposed to give it up."

The man waved the morning star at his band. "There are six of us and but one of you. Give us the sword and whatever valuables you carry and you may leave here unharmed."

"Pardon me for not trusting you, but I think not."

"There are still six of us to your one."

"That can be changed." Conan grinned wolfishly, showing his strong white teeth.

The man with the morning star shrugged. He turned to his men. "Alas, the gods wish us to work for our living, brothers. Slay him."

The six spread out and began to move toward the Cimmerian. He watched them and assessed their strengths as they came at him. The spear carriers plodded, both being fat men, and Conan ranked them low in skill. The swordsmen were young, although one walked with a limp and the other nervously shifted his grip on his weapon like a man playing a flute. If the bandit with the two knives had survived many encounters such as this with no more than those weapons, he must be fast and adept. And the leader, with the spiked iron ball, had probably become leader by besting any challengers. All of them could kill and had probably done so before, but the leader and the knifeman were the ones to be most wary of, Conan judged.

Likely they expected him to stand fast and parry their attacks, using the thorn bushes as protection for his back. That would be the most prudent and expected defense.

It was for that reason that as they formed a ragged semicircle around him, Conan screamed and leaped at the brigands.

The two spearmen were closest. Startled, they tried to back up and thrust with their spears at the same time. Neither act did they do well. The Cimmerian swung the sword and slammed the first man's spear shaft aside. He continued the stroke in a circle over his head and brought the blued-iron blade down. The sharp edge sheared through the brass helmet and bit deeply into skull and brain, and the spearman dropped as if his legs had disappeared.

The other spearman turned to flee, and Conan jerked his blade from the head of the first attacker and jumped at the man, skewering him from the side, driving the point of the sword deeply in between two ribs and through one lung and the heart. The man screamed and dropped his spear to grab the thing killing him. He lost four fingers as Conan jerked the blade free and slung blood from it into the eyes of the nervous swordsman trying to sneak behind him.

"Set's balls-!" the man began. He did not finish the curse, for Conan's sandaled foot caught him in the belly and knocked him back into the knifeman.

It was unexpected, and the knifeman thrust out with his knives in reaction, burying both to the hilt in the amazed swordsman's kidneys. The killed man fell, taking one of the knives with him.

The limping swordsman lunged at Conan, slipped, and fell onto his face. As the Cimmerian dodged back to avoid the fallen man, he in turn tripped over the first spearman.

"Crom!"

The knife wielder leaped in to gut him, but Conan snapped his blade up even while lying sprawled on his back and the tip entered the man's pubis. The man screamed girlishly, dropped his knife and clutched at himself, staggering off and out of the fray.

The limping sword carrier scrambled up and dove at the fallen Cimmerian-only to impale himself on the awaiting blued iron. Here was good luck and bad. Conan's sword buried itself in bone and was wrenched from his grip in the other man's final agony. He fell across Conan's legs and clutched them in a death grip. He was trapped!

"Prepare to meet your god!" the leader said as he jumped in and raised the morning star to smash Conan's face. Conan twisted, nearly tearing free of the death grip on his legs, but he knew he was too slow-!

Then from out of the night came a whooshing noise, almost like that of an arrow whistling but louder, and the bandit leader suddenly sprouted a fence post from the center of his back. The morning star fell and sank into the body of the dead man on Conan's legs.

Conan stared. What had entered the leader's back and pierced through to exit from his chest was no post. It was a spear, but what a spear! The leaf-shaped blade was longer and wider and thicker than Conan's hand, and the shaft to which it was affixed was as big around as his arm.

The leader fell backward, but stopped as the butt of the huge spear hit the ground. After a heartbeat, the dead bandit toppled to one side.

Conan bent and pried the dead swordsman's fingers from his leg and pulled himself free of the corpse. He stared at the bandit leader. What kind of arm could throw a spear that big, hard enough to go through a man that way?

As Conan got to his feet and looked for his sword, three forms came from the trees. In the thickening dark and at first glance, he could see that they were two men and a woman, dressed in leather and homespun wool. The men carried spears, which meant it was likely the woman had thrown the one that had killed the bandit and saved Conan. Amazing.

He stared at them in awe. They looked just like other men and women he had seen throughout his travels, save for one important difference. Even the woman, who was the smallest of the three, was easily half again Conan's own height, and probably twice his weight.

Giants. He was facing three giants.

Two

Despite his amazement, Conan recovered his sword and began wiping the gore from the blade, using the shirt of one of the dead bandits. A man who did not see to the care of his weapons did not deserve to have them.

"I owe you my life," he said to the giants.

The three spoke slowly to each other in a language Conan did not know. A moment passed. Then the woman, who had raven hair past her shoulders and a form that was unmistakably female despite her great size, turned toward the Cimmerian. She spoke to him in the same Zamoran commontongue in which he had addressed the trio.

"You fought well. You are not of the local tribes of men."

Her voice was understandably deep, but feminine. Her features, large though they were, were not unattractive, and her proportions were like those of an ordinary woman grown nearly twice normal size. Conan had seen men who were supposed to be giants, but most of those were oddly built, with thick brows and lips, and hands and feet distorted from the usual.

"I am Conan, of Cimmeria," he said, "a country far to the north of here. I journey to Shadizar." He inspected his blade for nicks and was pleased to find it free from such defects.

Another pause, and the woman turned to speak to her companions in that same language they had used earlier. After yet another long moment, she turned back toward Conan. They seemed very deliberate in their actions, he noted.

"Our village is near the road to Shadizar. Perhaps you might like to visit us?"

"Are any more of your people so . . . large as you?"

"Except for the children, we are all of like size."

Conan considered that. A village full of giants! Certainly that would be a sight to behold. Shadizar had waited this long-surely it would wait another day or two?

"Aye, a visit to your village would be worthwhile."

One of the male giants went to retrieve the woman's spear from the body of the bandit leader. The weapon came loose easily in the giant's grip; it made a noise somewhat between that of a boot being pulled from mud and a nail twisted free of wet wood. He handed it to the woman.

"That spear was well thrown," Conan said.

"I am called Teyle," she said, "and we are known as the Jatte people. I can sometimes hit my target with this-"she thumped the spear's butt on the hard ground-"but I have little strength compared to most."

Conan looked at the wound in the chest of the dead bandit, a hole into which he could easily have inserted his hand. The strongest normal man would have difficulty lifting and hurling the weapon that had done such damage, and this giant woman claimed to be a weakling. What the Jatte people lacked in speed, they most definitely made up for in strength.

"Have you food?" Teyle asked. "We have wine and cheese and meat. You are welcome to share it."

"I am in your debt already," Conan said.

Teyle looked at the dead bandits. "These were carrion eaters," she said. "They deserved no better than death. It is you who have saved us the effort of removing most of them."

Well, that was true enough, though he had done it for his own reasons. And such work did make a man hungry.

"Wine, you said?"

"Aye."

Conan slept well, his dreams fueled by the free and excellent wine, his rest made better by knowing a trio of stalwart giants shared his campsite.

Surely they meant him no harm, when they could have easily slain him at the same time they slew the bandit leader.

When dawn streaked the clear skies with its first glimmers, the Cimmerian arose feeling much refreshed. Here was another adventure, but one that seemed without the dangers of his most recent travels. A village of giants need fear little, and he was their guest.

As they set out on the road after a filling breakfast, Teyle, the only one of the trio with whom he could converse, told Conan something of the Jatte's history.

"Three hundred years past," she said, "our ancestors were brought to life by a wizard who needed strong backs for construction of his castle. He was a benevolent magician, and when the work was done, he gave the Jatte their freedom. Since that time, we have lived more or less peacefully in the village where first we began."

It seemed to Conan that a cloud of emotion passed over Teyle's face when she spoke this last sentence, but he did not press her on it.

They walked in silence for some hours, save for slow conversations among the Jatte trio that Teyle did not bother to translate for the Cimmerian.

Around midday they came to a narrow path that wound down a cleft in the rocks to their right. Conan followed the three along this trail until it came to parallel a small stream lined with willow trees and cattails. Another hour's walk took them into thicker vegetation, and yet another hour brought them to the beginnings of a swamp. Here the ground turned mushy and the trees grew taller, forming a canopy that kept out the sun's light in many places. A stray beam lanced through here and there, but the buzz of insects and the slosh of the water were largely undisturbed by the sun that had rested so heavily upon Conan only the previous day.

The path had long since vanished, but the giants seemed to know just where to step to avoid sinking into the increasing mire. This was not a journey the Cimmerian would like to undertake the first time alone, for patches of quicksand and mud were apparent nearly everywhere, and serpents slithered across their track more than once, some of the snakes being as big around as Conan's legs and thrice the length of a man. As long as he was following the giants, however, he did not worry. Where they could put their huge feet and enormous weight, he had no fear of treading.

It was while they halted on a relatively dry patch of the swamp to eat that Conan's keen ears detected a strange chittering noise in the distance. It was almost like that of a ditch frog after a hard rain.

The giants noticed the sound as well. The taller of the two males snarled and said, "Vargs!" He spat on the damp ground.

Conan turned to Teyle. "Vargs?"

The woman nodded, "Swamp-dwelling beasts. They are like Jatte but very small. Smaller even than you. They have green, mottled skins, they file their teeth to points, and they are the worst kind of savages. They roam in packs and they . . . eat Jatte flesh."

Conan considered that. A creature that ate giants might also be disposed to eat human flesh. Unconsciously, his right hand drifted over to touch the handle of his broadsword.

"They are cowards," she continued, "and attack only if they outnumber us a dozen to one. Probably we shall not be bothered by them."

Conan nodded. Nevertheless, he would stay alert.

They followed the twisting trail through the swamp. Several times the Cimmerian was warned against a misstep by his companions, and he realized that the village of the giants was unlikely to be visited by accident. Nay, even if someone knew where it lay and was bent on reaching it, the journey would be perilous at best. Conan had a sharp eye for detail, and his memory of trails once traveled would stay clear for long periods. But even so, this was not a trip he would wish to make without great care as to where to put his feet.

It was late afternoon before they broke free of the swamp and found themselves at the edge of the Jatte village.

It was an impressive sight.

The houses were made mostly of wood, with thatch roofs, and even the smallest of them was large by men's standards. A number of the Jatte moved and worked in Conan's view. Here, women pounded grain for flour; there, men cut logs for firewood or construction; yonder, children played at mock battles. It made the Cimmerian feel as if he were but child-sized, as indeed here he was; even those children who had only begun their earliest changes into adults were as large or larger than Conan. He had never seen the like.

Some of the villagers stopped what they were doing and came to greet the returning trio, and those that came looked at Conan with curious eyes. They chattered at each other in their own tongue, and Conan heard his name mentioned by Teyle.

After a few moments, Teyle and her two companions led Conan to a large structure near the center of the village. Close to the entrance were a boy and a girl. Both were slightly larger than Conan, though he judged their ages at around thirteen winters. They wore spun-wool shirts and short kilts, and their feet were shod in mottled green leather boots that rose halfway to their knees. Each had hair the color of Teyle's, and there seemed to be a family resemblance.

Teyle pointed to the boy. "This is Oren." The boy smiled. "And this is Morja, his twin sister. They are my younger siblings."

Conan nodded at the children.

"A fine specimen, Teyle!" the boys said.

Conan looked at the giant woman. "Specimen?"

"I have taught them something of the language you use," she said. "But they often speak it badly."

Conan accepted this; true, the young often did things badly.

"My father is inside," she said. "He wishes to meet you."

"How can he know of my arrival?"

"The twins would have told him."

Inside, the large building was dim, lit only by the numerous windows cut through the walls and left open to the outside. A particularly large giant, nearly twice Conan's own height, stood next to what appeared to be a solid but empty cage near the center of the room. There were tables and chairs set around the perimeter of the enclosure, as well as large baskets of woven straw reeds here and there.

"Ho, Teyle!" the giant called.

"Ho, Father."

Conan and the woman left the others at the doorway and walked toward her father. He wore a dark beard flecked with gray, but was naked save for a tanned animal hide wrapped around his hips and extending to his knees. His chest and shoulders and arms were mounded with heavy muscle, and his skin was tanned darker than Conan's. Conan got the impression that this giant could break him in half with no more effort than a man would expend in breaking a broomstick.

"This is the man Conan," she said, "who slew five of the men bandits at the plateau outcrop. My father, Raseri, chief of the Jatte, and also the tribe's shaman."

"Five bandits, eh?" Raseri said, his voice booming loudly in the enclosed space. "Excellent, my daughter! A fine specimen you have brought me!"

There was that word again, and this time Conan did not think it was used accidentally. He had a sudden stab of worry, and he started to turn to face Teyle.

He saw her hand, knotted into a great fist that made his own seem tiny, blurring toward his head. "I am sorry," she said.

Before even his quick reflexes could protect him, the world flashed red and yellow and went black as Conan's consciousness fled his body.

THREE

The wagon wound along the High Corinthian Road over the packed snow of the pass into Zamora. The conveyance laboring under the frigid breath of the mountains was constructed mostly of wood, built long and wide, with high sides and a peaked roof of taut and heavy cloth that protected the inside from many of the vagaries of weather. The tall wooden wheels, six in number, were bound by bands of iron, the hubs packed thick with black grease, the spokes wrapped in strips of aged green copper for extra strength. Along the baseboard a vitruvian design had been carved deeply into the wood, though the intricate scrollwork had been bleached as gray as the rest of the aged timber by the sun's unforgiving gaze.

The vehicle's size was such that it was necessarily restricted to the larger roads, and the speed achieved by its six harnessed oxen was slow at best.

On the front of the wagon, before a cloth curtain that screened the interior, sat a cowled figure whose face lay in deep shadow. He held the reins connected to the oxen in gloved hands.

After a moment a second figure emerged from the wagon's bowels and sat next to the driver. This second man was fair, with hair the color of fresh straw, his face clean-shaven and handsome by most standards. He wore a gray woolen robe similar to the driver's. He slapped the driver on the back of one shoulder. "Ho, Penz. Dake would have you stop so that we may prepare a meal."

A wordless growl issued from under the hood.

The blond man grinned, showing beautiful teeth. "Ah, hairy one, you are too dour. You need to enjoy life more!"

With that, the man reached up and grabbed the cowl covering his companion's face and jerked the cloth back, uncovering the one called Penz.

Penz snarled and swung his gloved fist at the other, hard. The backhanded gesture was powerful, and the force of the strike knocked the blond man from the seat, to fall nearly his own height to the packed snow of the road. Penz reached for his cowl and pulled it back into place, but not before the reason for his distress was obvious to any who might be there to see.

Penz had the face of a beast. Of a wolf.

Where a man would have a nose, Penz had a muzzle, ending in a snout. When he showed his teeth in rage, they were long in front, pointed, designed for tearing flesh. And, except for the snout and the deep-set eyes, his entire face was covered with coarse, stiff hair. More like fur than human hair.

As the oxen drifted to a stop, Penz made as if to leap from the wagon onto the fallen man when a powerful voice cut through the air's hard chill like the lash of a whip.

"Penz! Hold!"

The man with the face of a wolf froze as if slammed on the head by a hammer.

Through the curtain came a third man. He was the opposite of the man struggling to rise in the snow next to the wagon. The third man's skin was swarthy, his hair the color of a flock of ravens; a long mustache dangled well below his squarish chin. He was wide under his robe, and the muscles of his forearms where they cleared the sleeves danced with power as he flexed his fingers into huge fists.

The blonde meanwhile came to his feet. "I will smash your furry face!"

The swarthy man glared at the blonde. "Silence, Kreg!"

The enraged Kreg glared at the speaker, then found cause to look down at the damp spots on his robe. He brushed at the snow still clinging to him and did not speak against the command to hold his tongue.

To Penz, the swarthy man said, "You are not to strike Kreg. Punishment is mine, do you understand? I am the master here!"

Penz nodded.

"Say it!"

The wolfman managed an understandable reply. "Dake is the master."

"Good," Dake said. And with that, he swung one of his huge fists and clouted Penz in the chest, knocking him from the wagon and into the grinning Kreg. The blonde's grin vanished as the heavy form of the wolfman knocked him flat into the snow again.

"And you are not to taunt Penz again," Dake said. He moved back into the wagon, leaving the two men lying on the cold ground.

Inside, the wagon appeared larger than it did from without. There were benches upon which to sit, latched cabinets built into the sides, and enough sleeping space for a dozen large men. Tro the catwoman and Sab the four-armed man sat looking apprehensively at Dake as he returned to the padded bench that was reserved for his use. He scowled at them. No one in all of Corinthia or Zamora, or even in Koth, had a collection of oddities such as his, but Dake was not satisfied. Tro was as feline as Penz was wolfish. Her body was very womanlike under the fur, however, and more than a few men had paid for the privilege of enjoying the catwoman. Dake had used her himself, though of late he had less desire that way.

Sab's second set of arms was smaller than the first, but both sets were functional, and he always drew those willing to pay to see him. The crowds had thinned somewhat of recent days though, and Dake knew he needed something better with which to draw paying audiences. And something mayhaps bigger.

Between his small skills as a mage and his collection of freaks he would not starve, but Dake's ambition was to be the chief entertainer of a king somewhere, with enough money to indulge his main desire: to breed and grow stranger and stranger creatures, to become a master of the grotesque, with dozens, maybe hundreds, of monsters, things never before seen by the eyes of men. There were wizards who could produce such with a wave of one hand, he knew, but Dake's magicks were of a small order, and it was not within him to rise to the heights of those wonder-workers. No, he could conjure little things, but it was not his to be a great wizard. He could, however, become a great collector.

Rumor had it that there was a race of giants somewhere off the road to Shadizar. And the same tale-tellers spoke of a dwarfish folk, no taller than small children when fully grown, also living nearby. Dwarves were common, but these tiny men were said to be the color of tree frogs. To add two such creatures to his collection would greatly augment Dake's chances of finding a patron, so it was with this intent that he traveled toward the City of Thieves. He even had a rough map, purchased from a fine example of drunken tavern scum at a run-down inn just inside the wall of the city of Opkothard. The man had been down to drinking dreg wine, and a bottle of more of the same had bought his treasure. For a few coppers, Dake had a location that might produce a specimen of great value to him. Of course there was always the chance that the map was a fake and not even worth the sheepskin upon which it had been enscribed, but Dake did not think it so. He had a nose for such things, and the carefully maintained map, folded and refolded hundreds of times over years, had the look of authenticity. Were this so, it would be worth a vineyard and cheap at a dozen times the price he had tendered.

The thought of besting another, even a total sot, in a business deal and the possibility of attaining a wealthy patron cheered Dake somewhat, enough so that he felt a rush of pleasure that changed into another kind of desire.

He smiled at the catwoman and nodded toward the big bed that he alone was allowed to use-save for times when he invited another to join him there. As he did now.

Tro sighed and stood, moving toward the bed.

Dake went to join her, and he laughed as he saw Sab turn his face away. The four-armed man was in love with the catwoman, as she was with him, though neither knew that Dake was aware of this.

Too bad. It did not matter what they wanted. They were not people, they were oddities. It mattered only what Dake desired, for he was the master, was he not?

When the sun had made two full circuits of the skies and the moon had bathed the world in her light twice also, the wagon arrived at the place where its occupants would have to depart from the well-made road.

The wolfman stood next to the wagon. Dake stood next to Penz, and Kreg next to him, observing a winding path that descended a rocky decline toward what appeared to be a stream a ways below.

"There," Penz said, pointed one gloved finger toward the south.

"You are certain?" Dake asked.

"Aye. See there in the distance the thick green? That would be the swamp."

Dake unfolded the map and looked at it again. He had another copy of it, one he had made with his own hand in the event this one was lost or damaged. It seemed that Penz was correct.

The dark man said, "We shall have to find a place to conceal the wagon. That patch of forest half an hour's walk back should do it."

Kreg said, "What of the oxen?"

"They can roam free, they will not wander far. And they will come when I call them." Dake waved his hand, curling the fingers in a-come-hither gesture. A geas to call domestic beasts was hardly a major spell, and one Dake could perform without much ado. Though he had not been born a magician, he had shrewdly learned over the years that sometimes even mages could fall upon hard times and that during those periods they could be induced to sell some of their smaller spells, were the price offered high enough.

"Should not we leave someone to guard the wagon?" Kreg asked.

"No." Dake could also put a repellent conjure upon the wagon so that any passersby unskilled in the arts would find themselves uncomfortably near vomiting in the immediate vicinity. Such a magical ward could hardly keep a witch or wizard of any talent at bay, but then, a mage of any real power would hardly need or want a wagon, even such a fine one as Dake's. "No, we shall all go down the path together. I may need your talents in securing our new companions."

Penz went to turn the wagon and start it back toward its place of concealment. Dake stood for a moment gazing out at the distant trees that likely stood rooted in a swamp. It had been some years since he had graced Shadizar with his presence, but he knew there were wealthy men there who would enjoy the notoriety of being the sponsor of Dake's menagerie . . . especially if Dake could obtain a true giant and a new kind of dwarf to add to it.

Already the possibilities of interbreeding stimulated the mage's imagination: a giant catman or woman? A dwarf wolfman with green fur? A four-armed giant or dwarf, perhaps? True, certain species did not always conceive when bred with other species, but there were spells that could aid in such couplings. Dake knew some of the easier conjurations, and he knew that with sufficient gold, he could purchase others.

He turned and climbed up onto the back of the wagon, smiling as he did so.

The possibilities were many, and rife with excitement.

FOUR

Conan awoke to find himself inside a cage.

The Cimmerian had a pain in his head and stiffness in his' muscles. The cause of the latter appeared to have come from lying on the floor of an odd cage; it took a moment for his mind to recall the reason for the former. The memory, when it carne, was not pleasant.

The woman giant had struck him while his attention had been elsewhere. And as for her claim of being a weakling, Conan was unconvinced. No man had ever struck him that hard.

His situation did not look promising. Conan sat and rubbed at the sore spot on his head. He looked around. His sword and scabbard were gone, but save for that, he had been left with his clothes, belt, and purse. He had flint and steel and punk, and therefore the ability to make fire. This oversight was a mistake on the part of his captors.

The cage, which he had not had time to observe closely before, was constructed of a hard white substance that for a moment defeated his attempts to identify. The odd-shaped bars and rods were of varying sizes, woven together in strange patterns and sealed at the joints by a greenish material, obviously a kind of glue. Attempts to pick away the seals with a fingernail and the firesteel proved no more effective than an equal effort would be on stone. And when he struck the white rods with a knuckle, they gave back a tone that was metallic, as if he had tapped on bars of bronze.

Bones.

It came to Conan suddenly that the rods and bars of his cage were made of bone. And judging from the lengths of the longer ones, the bones had come from creatures considerably larger than was he.

"Ah, awake, I see."

Conan twisted and spotted the giant whom Teyle had identified as her father, Raseri, standing behind the cage.

"Tell me," the giant continued, "have you any idea as to the situation in which you find yourself ?"

Conan was not disposed to be talkative, but the other had the advantage of him. It might not be wise to irritate a giant who had you in a cage. He said, "I am in a cage made of bone that is exceedingly hard, bones taken from those of your kind, I suspect. I cannot guess as to the reasons why. Perhaps you people are cannibals."

The giant laughed, a deep and booming sound that bounced from the walls of the room. "Very good! You are correct about the cage. Our Creator, knowing we would need special structures were we to be useful to him, gave us stronger bones than little men have. And your conjecture as to our being cannibals is a good theory, given your circumstances, but wrong. Unlike the Vargs, we are not savages; rather, we are natural philosophers."

Conan did not know the term and he did not speak. The more knowledge the giant gave him, the better Conan's chances of escape.

"I see by your expression that you are unfamiliar with our doctrine. Natural philosophy is the study of the world and that which is within it. We seek to know all things about all things."

The giant moved closer toward the cage, until he came to stand his own height away. He looked down at Conan. "If we are to survive in a world where we are greatly outnumbered by men who hate and fear us, we must know everything there is to know about our enemies. Therefore you have become a specimen for our study."

"I am no scholar," Conan said. "I can tell you little."

"Ah, but you are not the first to occupy that cage.

We have . . . studied those you call scholars. We know that there are many different kinds of little men, just as there are of us. We have need to question a warrior, one from another land."

"I do not need to be in a cage to answer questions."

"Ah, but I am afraid you must be. Some of the questions are physical ones, and painful."

Conan stared at Raseri. For a moment the Cimmerian's flashing blue eyes grew smoky. They meant to torture him. Well. When the cage door was opened, he would see how strong they were against his most potent rage. He knew that his speed was greater than theirs and if -he could somehow get to his sword-there it was, propped against the wall behind the giant-then he would see how hard the flesh of giants was when compared to a sharp blade. Better certainly to die with sword in hand than to submit meekly to torture. Crom welcomed warriors but had little use for men who would not fight. Since it seemed that Conan was soon to join his god, best if he did so accompanied by as many of his enemies as he could bring with him. There were worse things than dying; dying badly was one.

The swamps were thick and full of dense vegetation, scummy pools, and treacherous footing. The sun's rays managed to pierce the canopy in only a few places, and the resulting darkness, even at midday, gave the air a constant gloom.

Perhaps this gloom was why Kreg strayed from the narrow path down which Tro's sure feet led the group. The fair-haired man began to sink into the ubiquitous sludge.

"Help!"

Dake shook his head in disgust. To Penz he said, "Pull him out."

The man-wolf nodded once and removed the coil of rope looped over his shoulder. He uncoiled the end of the hemp carefully and held it in his left hand as he made ready to toss the rope to Kreg.

"Hurry, you hairy fool!" By this time Kreg had sunk to his thighs in the muck and his struggles to free himself only caused him to settle faster.

Dake sighed. Kreg was loyal to a fault, but more than a little stupid. For a man trapped in a mire that would swallow him to hurl insults at his rescuer demonstrated a lack of wit. Did not Dake command Penz to save him, then the wolfman, no doubt grinning all the while, would certainly allow Kreg to sink to his bubbly death. One did not want one's assistant to be too smart or too ambitious and therefore dangerous, but perhaps Kreg's loyalty was overly offset by his dullness.

Penz hurled the rope. Since Kreg was but a few spans away, the circles of heavy hemp uncoiled only a little and the main mass of the line struck, the trapped man solidly, hitting him hard on the face and chest.

"Ow! Set curse you!"

Dake could not see Penz's face, hidden as it was by his cowl, but he felt certain that the man wore a wolfish smile.

Around them, the swamp buzzed with insects. Kreg's legs made sucking noises as Penz hauled him free of the entrapping ooze. When Kreg was halfway free, Penz jerked the rope a little too hard and Kreg fell forward onto his face, splattering mud in all directions.

Behind Dake, both Tro and Sab laughed.

Kreg dragged himself back onto the path and stood shaking with rage. He glared at Penz. "You off-balanced me on purpose!" He pulled a long dagger from his belt. "I will have your ears for this!"

"Put the knife away," Dake commanded.

Kreg, too stupid to realize his own danger, turned to glare at his master. "You saw what he did!"

"And I saw that it was you who strayed from the path. Next time I shall let you sink!"

Penz began methodically recoiling the rope.

Kreg shook with rage, but he put the dagger back into its sheath.

Dake turned away. One day these two would try seriously to kill each other. Penz was too valuable to lose, and if Kreg did not mend his anger, then he would have to be dealt with. Assistants were easy to come by, wolfmen were not. It was sad, but loyalty could not make up for everything.

And there were more pressing matters to be settled first. Dwarves to find, and giants to capture.

As if in answer to his thought there came a strange sound from the depths of the swamp, a sing-song drone unlike anything the mage had ever heard before.

"What is that?" Kreg asked.

"Let us proceed forward and find out," Dake said.

Deep in the bowels of the swamp, where no human had ever ventured, past the quickest of killer sands and through trees that sometimes grew as thick as a palisade wall, lay the home of the southernmost tribe of Vargs. In the clearing next to the cold soaking pool, Fosull, the leader of the tribe, picked a bit of flesh from between his pointed front teeth with a sharpened fingernail, then chewed thoughtfully on the bit of gristle. He was the tallest and best-knit of his people, nearly a quarter as high as one of the Jatte, and he could run faster and climb quicker than Vargs half his age. His mottled green skin had a few wrinkles here and there, and his eyes were perhaps not quite as sharp as they had been a dozen summers past, but no one dared challenge him for the leadership yet, not even his oldest son, Vilken, though that day would not be long in coming. The boy needed a bit more seasoning, but Fosull would have no problem in stepping aside in another summer or two to allow Vilken to do the hard work of leader while he, Fosull, attended to his nine wives and accepted the due of a retired rather than a dead leader.

As Fosull prepared to remove his breechskin before stepping into the pool, Brack, one of the trail watchers, came running up. "Ho, Leader!"

Fosull sucked his teeth and affected a bored look. "The day is warm and I am about to enjoy the water. What is it?"

"Trespassers, Leader."

"Jatte?"

"No. Outswamp men. And odd ones."

"How odd?"

"One has four arms. Another the face of a dire beast. There is a catlike female. The other two are ordinary."

"Interesting. And where did you see this group?"

"On the lower Turtle Trail."

Fosull considered this information. True, the outswamp men were not nearly so tasty as were the Jatte; then again, food was food, and better outswamp men than no men at all. The Varg diet of late had been confined mostly to swamp pigs and assorted rodents, so five outswamp men, even if odd ones, would be worth a feast. The soak pool would have to wait.

"Very well. Assemble the warriors at high Turtle. We shall take the intruders at the mossback turn."

"My leader."

Brack sprinted off into the bush. Fosull went to collect his spear where it stood propped against the lush vinelimb tree that overhung the pool. Perhaps the oddity of the intruders would add to their flavor?

One could hope.

Conan had been alone in the cage for most of the morning. His eyes still smarted from the smelly liquid that Raseri had splashed upon him before leaving. The giant had hurled the contents of a smallish wooden bowl at him, and the resulting odor reminded Conan of a dead rat left three days in the hot sun. Other than a mild stinging in his eyes, the Cimmerian had noted no ill effects from the stinking shower. Raseri had watched him for a moment after the spray, nodded to himself, then departed.

This was like no torture of which Conan had ever heard.

Teyle entered the structure and walked toward the cage. Conan glared at her but did not speak.

"The koughmn caused you little distress, I see," she said.

He held his tongue.

"You must understand that I bear you no ill will," she said. "I was charged by my father to obtain a specimen of littleman warrior, and you were unfortunate enough to happen along."

Conan found small consolation in this. He still did not speak.

"We are few and the little men are many," she continued. "To survive, we must know our enemies. Surely you can understand this?"

"Until I arrived here, I was not your enemy," Conan finally said.

"But your kind are. I regret that I had to trick you, but I had my duty."

"I would be more forgiving were you to unfasten the door to this cage and release me."

"Alas, it cannot be so. I only wanted you to know that your being here is not personal."

"It seems that I am to die in a cage under the hand of your kind, so you will forgive me if I take it personally."

Teyle had nothing to say to this, and she turned and walked away.

Conan looked again at the cage. Where he judged the door began and ended, the joints were sealed with that same greenish glue as were the rest of the bars. He had already determined that the substance was impervious to being scratched by his flint or steel, and that it would not burn. Neither would the metallic bones take fire.

Carefully the Cimmerian pitted his muscles against each of the bones forming his prison, trying to find a weak spot. In one corner he came across a single bone the length and approximate thickness of his arm; it creaked a little as he tugged on it. Removing it would not allow an opening large enough to permit escape, but it would give him a possible tool with which to pry. Too, he could use the bone as a club. Should Raseri come close enough, he could try to shatter his skull; mayhaps he could throw the makeshift club and effect some damage. Better something than nothing.

Conan gripped one end of the loose bone and pulled, putting his back and shoulders fully into the effort. The strut creaked and seemed to give somewhat. He relaxed a moment, then tugged again.

The thought of smashing Raseri gave Conan reason to smile grimly. Killing one of the giants would go at least a short way toward making up for not having seen the trap.

He kept working at the bone.

It was not as if he had anything better to do at the moment.

FIVE

The attack upon his party took Dake by surprise. On the cusp of one moment, the five of them were slogging through a marshy clearing; on the cusp of the next moment, a horde of screaming little green men brandishing spears streamed out of the thick brush that lay ahead.

In that instant, which seemed to stretch slowly like hot resin pulled from tree bark, Dake realized that he and his collection of oddities would be overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers. There must be at least a score of them. He had to do something quickly were he and his to survive.

Dake hurriedly spoke the words of a spell. The space behind him shimmered; there came a clap like thunder, and of an instant there stood behind him a gigantic red demon. Three times the height of a tall man, the thing flashed cruel fangs and slashed at the turgid swamp air with claws that appeared easily capable of disemboweling an ox.

The dwarves skidded and slid to a halt almost as one.

Dake waved at the demon and it took a step forward.

The little green creatures broke and ran back toward the cover of the swamp, chattering at each other and calling no doubt on their gods for protection.

Dake smiled. The demon was, of course, no more than an illusion, with less substance than the smoke of a campfire. Certainly it appeared real, and who in his right mind would care to get close enough to be able to say otherwise?

As the dwarves fled, Dake called to Penz, "Catch me one!"

The wolfman nodded and trotted forward, uncoiling his rope. Penz kept a sliding noose formed on one end of the rope, and now he twirled this over his head and threw it so that it encircled one of the fleeing dwarves. Penz pulled the rope taut, and the sudden jerk snapped the green dwarf from his feet. The little man sat hard upon the squishy ground.

Well. If catching a giant were this easy, they would be back on the road to Shadizar before much longer.

The green dwarf struggled, but Penz kept the rope tight so that there was not enough play for the captured one to regain his footing. Dake hurried toward his new prize.

The demon faded into nothingness as its creator withdrew his attention from it. He had a real spell to cast, the mage did, and the threat of attack was gone.

As the dwarf moved toward Penz, seeking to slacken his bondage, Dake spoke the words of his most effective enchantment. The holding spell settled over the dwarf almost visibly, so that he ceased struggling and became calm.

"You are mine now," Dake said. "You cannot escape my geas."

Whether the little man understood him or not Dake could not say, but he was now bound-as were the other members of the mage's collection by a magical net that rendered him helpless to harm or flee from his new master.

"Loose the rope," Dake commanded Penz.

The wolfman did so.

The new thrall looked at his captors. Dake made an upward motion with one hand, indicating that the dwarf should arise. The little man did so, albeit somewhat reluctantly. He tried to fight the spell-they all did that at first-but Dake only smiled again. This was the one magic of real power that he currently used, and it worked exceedingly well. Better to be able to do one thing well than nothing at all, and his trick had served him unfailingly thus, far.

"Let us continue," Dake said.

"Wh-what of this one's brothers?" Kreg asked.

"You saw how they reacted to the demon. They will not bother us again."

Kreg looked doubtful, but he was not one to gainsay his master. The troops, newly enlarged by one, moved on.

Behind Raseri, four male giants entered the room that had become Conan's prison. Each of the four carried a long, straight staff. These sticks appeared to be at least the length and thickness of a giant's spear shaft. At a signal from Raseri, the giants gathered around the cage, one on each side.

Raseri spoke a single word and the four stepped toward the cage and lowered their staves.

From behind Conan, the first staff was thrust into his cage, hard. Conan felt the motion somehow and twisted to avoid being poked. He clubbed at the staff with one knotted hand, the hammer of his fist connecting solidly and battering the stick downward, but before he could further react, a second staff jabbed him in the back.

The Cimmerian grunted and absorbed the blow, dodging to one side as a third attack entered his domain.

The cage was of sufficient height for him to stand, but any upward leap would bring Conan's head into contact with the top of the prison, so he was limited to moving from side to side or dropping. Unfortunately, there was no one place in the cage where he could avoid all four cudgels.

A staff hit him a glancing blow on the thigh, knocking him to one side, where another poke took him in the belly.

Conan's mind scrambled for a way to protect himself. These four were too strong; he would be battered to death within a few moments did he not do something!

A near miss gave him a chance. He grabbed and tried to pull one of the staves from the grasp of its wielder. The giant pulled the stick back with such force that Conan lost his grip.

With death riding his shoulder, Conan saw another small hope.

The dimensions of the cage were such that while he could not avoid all four staves, were he to stand in the middle of one side pressed against the bars, three of the attackers would not be able to reach him without moving; thus far, they had kept their places. Of course such a move would render him more open to the attacker on that side, but better one than four.

He leaped as the nearest giant thrust his staff at his belly, turned so that the end of the weapon slid by, barely touching him, and slammed into the bone wall, shoulder and hip first. Conan grabbed the extended staff with both hands, scissored his legs around the wood and locked his ankles together, pulled the staff to his chest, clutching at it with hands, arms, thighs, and ankles.

Even the giant could not hold a man of Conan's weight extended at arms' length on the end of a stick. Conan crashed to the floor of the cage, pulling the staff from the surprised giant's grip.

Instantly the Cimmerian was up. He had a weapon!

He shifted the heavy staff as he came to a crouch, and thrust it back at its former owner with all the power he possessed.

Guided by Conan's hasty but well-aimed jab, the staff caught the giant squarely on the forehead. The sound was like that of a mallet striking a tent peg. The startled giant's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to his knees, then fell onto his right side. The cage shook from the fallen giant's impact with the ground.

Conan pivoted and pulled the staff halfway back into the cage. It was too heavy for him to swing properly, even had he the room, but perhaps he could land a few blows before the others beat him senseless. He grinned wolfishly.

"Excellent!" Raseri said, clapping his hands. He spoke another foreign phrase and the three remaining giants lowered their staves.

Conan regarded the giant leader. His blood sang with rage and he would have liked to attack, but despite his small victory, he was still caged and at Raseri's mercy.

"Most resourceful," Raseri said. "And given the nature of the attack, the only possible response."

"Free me from this cage and I will demonstrate other responses," Conan said, hefting the staff.

Raseri smiled. "Oh, no, of course not. We have many more tests for you. Surrender the staff."

"Nay, I would keep it. Take it if you can."

"I cannot allow you to keep it, for it might be used as a lever. The ekad glue is hard, but you are strong and might be able to wrench an opening by which you could escape."

Conan did not move.

"I can have them batter you again," Raseri said, waving at the trio.

"Better to die fighting than to submit like a goat to the slaughter."

"Ah. A warrior's code. Very good. But it is not yet time for you to die. Tender the staff."

"No."

With that, Raseri reached into a pouch at his belt. His hand was closed when he removed it.

Conan shifted his stance. He lifted the staff, balanced it in his hand, and drew back his arm. It had no point, but hurled with sufficient force, it might do some damage. A blunt spear was better than none at all.

Before the Cimmerian could make his desperate cast, however, Raseri flung the contents of his hand at the caged man. A black powder shimmered in the air. Conan leaped to the side but could not avoid the dust. He made to hold his breath, but an acrid stink told him he had already inhaled some of the powder. His vision swam and blurred, and he felt his legs weaken. With the last of his strength, Conan threw the staff, but already the drug had stolen his power. The staff sailed from the cage and clattered harmlessly at Raseri's feet.

Once again the darkness claimed Conan for its own.

Raseri was elated.

The specimen his daughter had collected was perhaps the best upon which he had ever experimented. This outland small man was brave, strong, and clever. There was much to be learned from him.

The leader of the Jatte looked up from his writing table at the unconscious captive in his cage. His personal elation was tempered by the knowledge that small men like this one represented a great danger for his kind. The local specimens had not demonstrated such abilities or defiance. Most of them had been so terrified at the mere existence of such as the Jatte that their resistance had been almost nil. Most had died quickly, most had done so pleading. Were they the norm, then the Jatte could prosper without undue worry.

But . . . if this outlander was more representative of what the small men could do and be, there was indeed a problem. Sooner or later the Jatte would become known to the outside world. Already a few small men had somehow managed to overcome the swamp, and even the Vargs, to arrive at the village, though none had left. It was but a matter of time before others managed the task.

Teyle had no stomach for his experiments, but she was too softhearted. What she saw as torture, Raseri saw as only necessity. She saw the little men as people and not as the threat that Raseri knew they would someday become. She could picture things only in the moment, while Raseri had to take the long view. Ten seasons or a hundred seasons might pass without incident, but what of his children's children? Without a means to understand and defend themselves, their future might be lost. Raseri had long ago given up his regret at doing what must be done to ensure the survival of his people. Life was, after all, difficult, and the gods helped those most who were willing to help themselves. Conan there in the cage would die, but his death would be of benefit to the Jatte. That was all that was important. Knowledge was strength-the more, the better.

He turned back to his parchment and began to outline the results of the most recent test. The pictures necessary for the task were most intricate, and it took a great deal of care to inscribe them properly. It would do no good to put them down if later they were to be misinterpreted. Raseri bent to his purpose.

Deep in the swamp, in the ceremonial clearing where sometimes he presided over the ritual slaughter of captured enemies, Fosull gathered his shaken warriors about him. The sun revealed himself here, and his light showed more than Fosull cared to see. Even the Vargs, accustomed to fighting Jatte thrice their size, had been terrified at the appearance of the red giant, who made the Jatte seem small. A being from the depths of nightmare it had been, and the warriors still spoke of it breathlessly.

"Have you ever imagined such a monster?"

"Those teeth could crunch a turtle's shell!"

"It was looking right at me-!"

"Silence!" Fosull commanded. "You babble like children."

"But you yourself saw it, Fosull-"

"I saw that it was big, but only one and we were many. And my warriors ran like mice from a tree cat!"

"What would you have had us do? Die under those talons? This was a magical being, not of this world!"

Fosull did not speak to that, for that much was true enough. He had seen the monster shimmer into life from the air, and no Varg magic could begin to match such a thing. The shaman could cure chills and sometimes heal a barren womb with his spells, but no shaman had ever been able to create monsters from nothingness. Maybe a spear would be as a thorn prick to such a beast.

"We will have a war council," Fosull said. "And decide how to deal with these outswamp men. Where is my son? Vilken? To me."

After a moment the Vargs realized that the chief's oldest male child was not among them.

"Vilken! Where are you?"

But Vilken was not to be found. Fosull's belly clenched as he realized that he had not seen his son since the attack on the small band and its demon protector.

Could it be that Vilken, his heir and the next chief of the Vargs, had been caught by the monster? That Vilken was now no more than a half-digested meal for that hideous red thing from the bowels of Gehanna?

Fosull shuddered at the thought.

Shaken though he was, Fosull was chief, and showing his emotions to his warriors would belittle him. He cast the worry from himself. "We will have a war council."

"The outswamp men may escape," one of the warriors said.

"Nay, they will not. They move toward the Jatte village," Fosull said. "Even their demon cannot overcome all the Jatte, I will wager. And if they escape from the giants, we will be waiting for them when they return."

"But how can we fight such a thing?"

"There are ways," Fosull said. "There are always ways."

SIX

Dake's group, less one, crouched in the thick brush a short way off the trail. A thicket of fanshaped plants concealed them from the eyes of any passersby upon the trail, and it would take more than a casual intent to wander through the vegetation accidently, dense as it was. Dake's clothing had suffered from an encounter with a thorn bush not ten spans away, and he did not envy anyone else who might chance upon that needle-tipped plant.

Penz, whose lightness and fleetness of foot matched well his wolfish appearance, made his way quietly back to where the rest of them lay hidden. The wolfman arrived and squatted next to Dake.

"Well?" the mage said.

"The village is but ten minutes from here."

Ah! Then the rumor was true. "Did you see any of them alone?"

"Nay. I saw only groups, working."

Dake mulled that over. His plan for securing a giant was simple enough. If they could find one alone, keep it distracted so that he could get close enough to enspell it with his obedience geas, the task would be done. Size should not affect the magic, but distance from the subject did. Unless he was close to the quarry, the spell would not work. Better it was a giant who would not be missed for a time, a woodcutter away from prying eyes, or a hunter or gatherer. That way they could be a goodly distance away from the village before anyone started searching for the captive. Dake did not fancy having to fight an entire horde of giants, and he suspected his demon illusion would fare less well with them than it had with the green dwarves.

The master of freaks glanced at his latest acquisition as he thought this. Nasty little brute, his teeth all filed to points that way, his skin near the shade of a spotted tree frog, dark green splotches against a lighter hue of the same color. Unlike most dwarves, this one's head and hands and feet were in proportion to his body. Save for his size, the little green creature was built much like any ordinary man. Still, Dake was most pleased with the capture, and in itself, the froggish one alone was worth the trip. But back to the object of the original quest.

"Just how large are these giants?" Dake asked.

Penz spread his arms wide and glanced at his hands each in turn. "Nearly two spans, the men. The women are somewhat shorter."

Almost twice the height of a man. Excellent!

"Very well. We shall move closer and await our opportunity to ensnare one of them."

Visions of a sinecure danced in Dake's thoughts. Wealthy patrons would fight each other for the right to sponsor his breeding program, and he would become a man of substance and standing, respected for his talents and skills. Ah, yes!

When Conan awoke this time, the room was quiet. He sensed a presence behind him, and he sat up in the cold and uncomfortable cage of bones and turned to see who watched him.

Two children stood there.

Conan recognized them as the twins Teyle had named upon his arrival at the village. Her younger siblings, she had said. Assuming she had not lied about this, and there was no reason Conan saw for her to have done so, they were called Oren and Morja.

"Why do you stare?" Conan asked. "Have you never seen a normalsized man before?"

"We are normalsized," Oren said. "You are one of the small men."

"And we have seen only a few such as you," Morja added. "Mostly they did not survive our father's experiments for long."

Conan was not comforted by this knowledge.

"You shall not last long either," Oren said.

Came then the sound of someone's approaching footfalls.

"Father comes!"

The twins looked around in panic. "We must hide!" Morja said.

Against the far wall, away from the door, was a collection of large baskets. The two giant children ran toward these and secreted themselves behind the containers.

After a moment Raseri entered the room and approached Conan, obviously looking for something. Or someone.

"I seek my youngest children," he said. "A boy and a girl of thirteen seasons. Have you seen them?"

Conan was a warrior, and as such, normally straightforward and forthright in his speech. There was no dishonor, however, in lying to a captor who intended to torture you to death. Anything a man could do to thwart an enemy in such a situation seemed perfectly valid to the Cimmerian. "Nay," he said. "No one has been here save yourself."

Raseri muttered something under his breath and turned away. After a moment he was gone again.

Oren and Morja peeked from behind their hiding place, then slipped from concealment and approached the caged man.

"We are forbidden to enter here whenever our father conducts his experiments on the small men or the Vargs," the girl said. "To do so and be caught means that we would be beaten and restricted to the children's huts for a full cycle of the moon. Why did you not tell him we were here?"

"Why should I? He is my enemy. I owe him nothing but resistance."

"Come," Oren said. "Best we leave before our father returns." The boy started toward the doorway.

Morja said, "As children of our father, we must be considered your enemies as well. You could have caused us much suffering."

"I do not make war on children."

"We are as large as you and likely as strong," the boy said. "I would wager I can throw a spear as far as any small man!"

"Even so," Conan said.

The girl turned to follow her brother, but as she did, she spoke, softly so that Oren could not hear. "Thank you, small man."

"I am called Conan."

"Then thank you, Conan."

After they were gone, he returned to the cage slat upon which he had expended no small effort. The bone felt as if it had a slight bit more give to it than when he had begun working on it. He did not know how much time he might have left, but he had no better options to explore at the moment. Better to die trying something, anything, than to sit and wait helplessly for fate to claim him.

Grasping the strut, Conan tugged at it, relaxed, pulled again, rested, then strained against the ironhard bone yet one more time. Apparently Raseri did not intend to feed him or allow him water, doubtless to test his ability to do without. Did he not escape soon, hunger and thirst would begin to weaken him. Whatever happened, Conan did not intend to die parched or of starvation. A man could effect his own end in many ways, especially in a cage as unyielding as this one, or as long as he could reach his own flesh with his teeth.

He hoped, however, it would not come to that. Perhaps Raseri would bring back others to torment him with sticks again. That way he could meet his end on his feet and in combat, as a warrior should.

The night was alive with sounds. Bats chattered, frogs croaked, hunting cats cried in the distance. Insects buzzed and hummed in the fetid darkness, and small, scaled things splashed in the myriad bodies of stagnant and scummy water all around the six who lay hidden near the Jatte village.

Dake slapped at an insect biting the side of his neck. Curse this swamp! There were more crawling and flying vermin here than ever he had seen anywhere. Did they not secure their quarry soon, they would be bled dry by the clouds of mosquitoes and other pests that inhabited the darkness!

No opportunity had yet presented itself to catch one of the giants. None had left the village, at least not that the mage or his entourage could ascertain.

Dake considered several options. Moving about in the night would offer a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they would be much less likely to be seen. On the other hand, the risks associated with the bungling about in unfamiliar surroundings in the dark were high. Morning might bring the chance that a solitary worker would leave the village, or it might not.

Another small denizen tried to steal Dake's blood, this time from the back of one bare hand. He crushed the insect with a quick slap.

In the end, the noxious living and biting clouds of pests decided it for Dake. There were no guards posted; the villagers obviously felt safe in their homes. They would steal into the village while the giants slept and secure a captive. Between Penz and Tro's animal senses, they should be able to travel in the dark without losing the path. When morning came, the troop could be far away from the village.

Dake motioned for the others to gather in closer so that he could explain his plan.

In the darkness of his prison Conan heard a faint crack as he pulled on the bar of his cage. The bone shifted in his hands; 'twas only a hairsbreadth, but enough to bring a wide grin to the Cimmerian's face. He could not see the joint where the green glue coated the whiteness, but a quick exploration with his fingertips told the tale. The coating was like unto the hardness of rock, but it was also brittle. The constant small flexing of the bone under the adhesive had been enough to cause a tracery of fine lines to appear beneath Conan's touch.

Cracks. Faint ones to be sure, but definitely there.

Conan redoubled his efforts. There came to his ears further splintery sounds. Chips of the hardened glue popped away from the joint, unseen in the dark but felt as they struck his hands and wrists. The bone now had more slack in it. He shifted his grip toward the joining, which had begun to squeak and make a grinding sound with each tug. It was definitely moving more readily!

With a suddenness, the bone wrenched loose at one end.

Conan uttered a short, sharp laugh, and without pausing, pivoted the free end of the bone upward. The opposite end, still anchored, cracked the Surrounding glue, shattering it as a smith's hammer might shatter a small stone.

The bone was quite heavy in Conan's grip as he lifted it. As long as his arm and thicker than his wrist, the thing made a formidable club. Conan swung it back and forth, continuing to smile at the pitch-black room. More important, the bone was a tool. With it he could pry at other joints, mayhaps even shatter the glue by pounding at it. The gap he had created was not nearly large enough to allow him to escape, but given a few hours unimpeded, Conan felt certain he could free himself. Once he was out of the cage, the Jatte would not recapture him so easily as they had taken him. He still had his flint and steel, and yon baskets against the wall would make fine tinder. With this building-and perhaps a few others-in flames, the giants would be too busy to worry about him. 'Twould serve them right if the entire village burned to the ground.

Conan raised the club and smashed it downward. Glue chips flew.

In the arms of night, and further hidden beneath the safety of a thorn thicket, the Vargs slept, save for the watch and Fosull. The chief sat just outside the wicked bushes with his spear across his lap. He brooded. He had told his warriors that he had a plan for combating the giant red demon and that he would reveal it when the time was ripe.

In truth, Fosull had no such plan. Oh, he had an idea. When the great demon had sprung forth, Fosull had been looking at one of the outswamp men, a darkish, swarthy person with black hair on his head and dangling from his face. This one was evidently the leader, and it was he who had summoned the monster. Put a few spears through that one before the demon was called and perhaps the others could not raise the hideous thing. Or, even if the demon did arise, mayhap the slaying of its master would cause it to turn on the others.

As strategy and tactics went, this idea was not particularly well formed. If, however, attacking the demon seemed foolish, this at least seemed less so to Fosull. Were it not his son who was held by the outswamp men, he would have been disposed to allow the group to leave unmolested, rather than risk the unknown dangers. But a chief who did not try to free his heir would hardly remain chief for long. Vargs respected strength, and they had little patience with any kind of weakness. Already his warriors had halfway convinced themselves that they had not really been afraid of the demon, merely startled. For Fosull to admit that the monster had frightened him would be his downfall.

And there was Vilken to consider. The boy was his oldest son, after all, and while he had half a dozen other sons and nearly that many daughters, a Varg did not let his first-born simply be taken-not by anyone, not by another tribe of Vargs, not by Jatte, not even by a monster from the pit. Some recovery effort had to be made.

Fosull sighed and rolled his spear back and forth with his fingertips. At first light they would move toward the Jatte village and see what was to be seen. And if the idea he had did not work, well, everyone had to die eventually. If not one day, then on another. The gods would decide.

Perhaps he should offer up a few words to the gods, so that their thoughts might favor him in the coming battle. It might do no good, as often his entreaties seemed to fall upon deaf ears; then again, it certainly could not hurt.

The gods always decided one way or another, did they not? If a few well-chosen words could sway them in a given direction, a Varg would be foolish not to utter them.

The chief of the Vargs went to find a prayer rock.

SEVEN

Dake the freakmaster led his force carefully and quietly into the village of the giants. The newest of his collection, the little green man, had reluctantly supplied Dake with his name, delivered in a thickly accented but understandable variation of the local dialect. Vilken, he was called, and while the dwarf moved with reluctance, Dake saw at once that the nearness of the giants excited him. When Dake questioned Vilken about this, the answer was simple enough: "We eat them, when we can catch them."

Dake lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. How wasteful. Then again, he supposed, were there a large number of giants available to the outside world, the ones he planned to command would be lessened in value. That would hardly do.

"There," Dake said, pointing. "That house."

"Why that one?" Kreg asked.

What a fool. What difference did it make? Dake did not bother himself to answer his assistant.

They approached the structure. The wolfman and the catwoman kept watch as Dake and Kreg moved toward the door, followed by four-armed Sab and the green Vilken. Dake saw their shadows dance across the wall of the huge house.

The freakmaster frowned. Dancing shadows? That was wrong!

He became aware of several things almost at the same instant: The scene before him was growing brighter and seemingly orange in color; there came a crackling sound from behind, and also a strong smell of smoke in the air.

Dake spun in a half turn.

Behind them a building was on fire. Even as

Dake registered this, the entire roof blossomed into flame with a deep whuff and the night became as bright as day.

And the night also came to life with the startled cries of a village full of giants.

Escaping from the cage provided Conan with one of his most satisfying experiences. In life, failure was to be expected at times, but failing to try, even when faced with a situation that seemed hopeless, was the worst failure of all. Every battle produced victors and vanquished, and that was the way of things; there was no dishonor in losing an honest fight. It was only in giving up when any chance still existed for winning that a man truly lost.

As the blows of his makeshift hammer shattered the final obstacle to his freedom, Conan laughed aloud. His days at the knee of his blacksmith father had not gone without producing some knowledge. Conan suspected that his father would have admired his skill as the third slat was knocked from the cage of giants' bones. Without pause, the Cimmerian wriggled through the gap and hurried through the dark toward where his sword stood propped against the wall.

Once he had buckled the sheathed blade around his hips, Conan felt better.

He moved to the baskets where the children had earlier hidden from their father. Squatting next to the containers of woven, dry reed, Conan drew hot sparks from his flint with the chunks of worn steel. The basket under the shower of tiny stars began to smolder. With the application of tiny puffs of air from Conan's pursed lips, the reed quickly took flame. In another few moments the entire collection of baskets blazed, filling the room with light and heat and smoke.

Conan felt better still as he paused long enough to watch the flames begin to lick at the wood of the wall behind it, then to greedily consume the thatch of the roof above.

The blued-iron sword sang its razor-edged hum as he snatched it from the leather scabbard and then ran toward the door. No other man would ever again occupy a cage in this building.

Grinning with satisfaction at having escaped from an enemy, the young man darted outside into the cool, safe arms of the night.

Even though he was still sitting outside the protection of the thorn bushes under which his warriors sheltered, Fosull had surrendered to a light and troubled slumber. The leader of the Vargs was startled from this fitful sleep by the shout of the watch.

Fosull rubbed at his eyes. "What is this bellowing about?"

"Fire, my leader! From the direction of the Jatte village!"

Fosull came to his feet and stared. Orange flickers painted the low night clouds in the distance. Yes, something was aflame over that way, and a large fire it was, too.

"Up!" Fosull yelled. "Awaken! To me!"

He felt a thrill of excitement rush through him. Trouble at the Jatte village could only benefit the Vargs. Maybe the fire might even provide a succulent roast or two! "Hurry, fools! The gods smile upon us and frown upon our enemies! Hurry!"

So much for his plan, Dake thought, as he led the others hurrying for the cover of a small structure behind the house they had intended to enter.

This smaller house was large enough to hold all six of his party, and at first Dake thought it was a storage shed. As the last of them entered the place, though, the stench within told a different story.

"Gah," Kreg said, wrinkling his nose. "We have found a giant's nightchamber!"

"Silence, fool!" Dake whispered. "Someone may hear you, and nightchambers do not speak!"

The mage peered through the door at the burning building. A number of the village's inhabitants had gathered to fight the fire and were hurling buckets of water onto the flames.

After his initial panic, Dake realized that this event might work in their favor. Everyone in the village would be concerned with the fire. What better time to collect a specimen? The fire had a good grip on its prey. At the very least, that one building would succumb to its hot talons and smoky fangs; it would be hours burning.

"Everybody out," Dake ordered.

"But-but the fire!" Kreg said.

"It will keep their attention, idiot. We shall collect our giant and be gone. The fire has done half our work. Hurry!"

The six made their way around the village, using the flame-created shadows of buildings to cover their moves.

Most of the men in the village fought the burning. A pair of enormous living chains led from a well to the fire, and buckets of water danced along the first line toward the building, then back along the second to the well. Those who were not in either line gathered in knots of five or ten, calling encouragement as they watched.

Gods curse them! He needed one alone!

"Find me one by himself!" Dake said.

"There stands one," Kreg said a moment later. "But it is only a woman."

Dake turned to look in the direction his assistant pointed to. A woman? A giant woman would be as good as a man, would she not? Maybe better. He could breed her perhaps. Breeding a giant man with a normalsized woman might be a problem, but the other way around would be easier.

"Good. Circle around to her left, and if she starts to look in my direction, attract her attention."

Kreg obeyed, and Dake moved in toward his quarry.

She was too entranced by the fire to notice her stalkers until the last instant. Something alarmed her and she started to turn, but she did not manage it before Dake finished the words of his spell. She stood frozen, staring at him, unable to make even a whisper of alarm.

Dake almost laughed aloud. He had done it! He had captured a giant!

Time to depart, he thought. He hurriedly so ordered his thralls away from the frenetic activity.

As the seven moved quickly from the conflagration, they were startled to see a pair of normalsized men come toward them out of the darkness. No, not normal men, Dake realized, but giant children!

Some god must want this venture to succeed, the mage thought. He was not one to look askance upon such a gift from a god. He quickly spoke the words of the geas yet again. Taken unaware, the children struggled, but their efforts were useless. Once again Dake's spell wove its unbreakable net, and the two young giants came into his power. Not one giant, but three! True, it would take some time for these latter two to grow to full size, but Dake could wait. And with a male and two females, he certainly had enough breeding stock with which to raise others.

Dake turned to the catwoman. "Lead us out of here, Tro. And be quick about it."

Nine figures hurried from the light of the fire and out of the village toward the swamp.

In the chaos of the burning building, Conan was tempted to stay and test his blade on a giant or two, but he knew that such a risk was unwarranted. Only a fool would attack an entire village of giants alone. The harsh land of Cimmeria did not allow many fools to reach maturity, and Conan did not count himself among those slackwits who might have somehow cheated death. He had escaped and destroyed his prison, along with the giant's precious writings about what he called natural philosophy. While he would have cheerfully cut Raseri into bloody tatters, it was not worth the risk of trying to find him in the midst of all the confusion. Giants ran this way and that, yelling, scooping water, and trying to douse the fire. Light danced, casting weird shadows, and smoke and steam boiled, making the night smell of steam and burning wood together.

Aye, he would slay Raseri, but this was not the best of times to do so. Plus, that sleep powder was tricky, and the giant leader likely had more of it in his pouch, along with who knew what else.

Nay, he thought as he slipped into the swamp, better to count himself lucky and now schooled somewhat better in the ways of the world. He would be more careful in the future about trusting people, be they his kind or giants. Crom might forgive a man a mistake once; repeating the error would likely draw the god's anger. The lesson was cheap enough, 'considering how costly it could have been.

Conan had enough to do as he tried to recall the treacherous path by which he had come to this place. Retracing it in the night would be no small accomplishment either. There, by that large-boled fern, he remembered that the path went that way ....

The distant fire cast yet enough light for him to see the trail. And more than enough illumination to reveal the sudden appearance of a dozen little men half his size, brandishing spears and showing pointed teeth that gleamed whitely against their dark faces.

Crom! What was this?

The sounds issuing from the giants' village grew fainter as Dake and his captives followed the catwoman's lead into the swamp. Dake was elated. Even the insects seemed less bothersome; perhaps they had been drawn to the fire and consumed. By the time any pursuit might be initiated, he and his troop would be halfway to the wagon. Another few days would see them nearing Shadizar, and fame and fortune. Ah, life was good!

Conan would have retreated had there been any haven to hand. Behind him lay the village, and he had no intention of ever returning there. To either side the swamp spawned patches of deadly mire that would suck a man to his death. Ahead were the spear-carrying dwarves. None of the choices appealed, but Conan realized there was only one that he could make.

He lifted his sword. The dwarves seemed as surprised to see him as he them. His one chance lay in hacking through before they could gather their wits. He charged, screaming.

Half of the spear carriers scattered immediately, darting off the trail into the swamp. The others were slow to react. One, a bit braver or more foolish or both, hurled himself at Conan and thrust his spear at the Cimmerian's groin.

Conan twisted, swung his sword, and cut the spear's shaft cleanly. The force of the slash against the spear knocked the dwarf aside.

A second attacker jabbed at Conan, and the obsidian point of the short spear tore a shallow furrow over Conan's left hip. The Cimmerian chopped downward with his blade, and the edge bit the attacker's neck. The blur of iron passed through the rubbery padding between bones and lopped the head from the body. The dying head screamed without sound.

Never pausing, Conan leaped, his sandaled foot using the next crouching dwarf as a springboard, and flew half his own height into the air, hurtling over yet another startled dwarf, who could only watch him fly by in amazement.

Then he was past the milling horde, still on the trail, and running as fast as he could. With that ability to recall trails, Conan managed to keep his pace for some distance before he misstepped and stumbled. He fell, and at that same instant a short spear passed over him and thudded into a tree two spans away.

Conan scrambled up, regained the path, and continued to put distance between himself and the dwarves. Apparently that last-thrown spear was the extent of their pursuit, at least for the moment. He did not hear the thumps of small feet behind him; neither did the startled cries of the dwarves seem to be drawing nearer.

Giants, and then dwarves. The world, Conan realized, was full of mystery.

EIGHT

Tro's eyes equaled those of any night cat, and she led Dake and his enthralled group unerringly through the darkness along the swampy trail. What missteps she might have failed to see were spotted by Penz, whose distant kin and kith had also mastered the night. Between the two of them, the risks were minimal. The group did not run, but it moved briskly and at a pace no normal-sighted man could possibly manage without chancing the quicksand's slow death.

Whether the Vargs and the Jatte could see better than could men was not something Dake knew.

The mage was tired, but the thought of capture by either the dwarves or the giants fueled his steps, and where he went, his thralls had no choice but to accompany him.

Kreg was not under the spell that draped the others, however. "Can we not stop and rest for a moment?" he asked. "Surely they cannot pursue us, save but slowly?"

Dake shook his head. "We do not know that for certain."

"Why not ask the freaks?"

Dake slowed his pace. On occasion Kreg astounded him by making such simple yet profound statements, proffering reason that certainly should have come to Dake's own mind, but had not. Dake did not compliment his assistant on his wit; that was not his way. Compliments were useless unless there was something to be gained. He merely nodded and moved closer to the giant female.

"What is your name?" Dake spoke in the same tongue in which he had communicated with the little green man.

The woman, who was dressed in a simple homespun shift, appeared to try to fight the spell in which she was trapped. Her arm muscles bunched into tense knots. Her face tightened from the strain, and she shook her head from side to side, her hair whipping out like a dark cloud. Her efforts were to no avail of course. After a moment of struggling, she said, nearly spitting the words, "I am called Teyle."

"Can your people follow us along this trail in the dark?"

Another small time of trying to withstand his magic ensued. "Yes, but-" She bit off the rest of the reply, having met his question directly.

Dake grinned. He had had some experience with these matters. "Can they match our speed?"

"No."

"At what pace can they follow compared to ours?"

"Much slower."

His grin widened. Dake thought it unlikely that anyone would notice the missing trio before the fire was either quenched or done feasting upon the building. But even if someone did, it seemed there was little danger of being caught from behind.

Dake turned toward the dwarf and asked him the same questions. The little one had apparently accepted his lot and did not resist as he said that the Vargs could not follow quickly in the darkness either. And that was assuming they would try, believing that Dake could field a demon.

Stopping presented little risk. "Hold," Dake said to the troop. "We will rest a moment."

The group halted.

Dake turned once again toward Teyle. "Remove your garment," he said.

This time the fight to resist took longer, but in the end the giant woman did as she was told.

The moon and starlight that filtered through the canopy of trees was dim, but enough to reveal that the woman was most comely. Unlike some misshaped giants born of normal parents, Teyle was built like a woman of Dake's own kind, albeit much larger. Her form was shapely; she had melon-sized and firm breasts, wide and womanly hips, and muscular, but definitely feminine, arms and legs.

"Turn around."

Teyle obeyed.

Yes, Dake mused, this one was as attractive from behind as from the front, with nary a splotch upon her perfect form. She would produce excellent offspring; she had the body for it.

What those offspring might be was another matter.

"Put your clothing back on."

Teyle again obeyed, but this time much faster.

Dake could not tell if she had blushed. He turned, however, and noticed that the giant boy was staring at the woman as she dressed. Dake could not see his expression clearly. Was that some interest on his face? Perhaps he was old enough to breed?

"Move along," the mage ordered. "We want to be well away from here when dawn finds us."

The troop started down the path once again.

Dake laughed softly to himself. They were well ahead of any pursuit, and would be much more so by first light. Once they reached the wagon, they would be able to maintain that lead, for aided by a small spell, the transport could easily move at the pace of a man on foot, even a giant. Upon reaching civilization, the giants and dwarves, if they bothered to follow that far, would have to cease their chase. They would hardly keep their lives or their freedom long if they continued, whether they caught up with Dake or not.

Dake laughed again, pleased with himself. Fame was only a matter of time. There were no obstacles in his path now, and none likely to be, he thought.

Conan moved along the twisty path at a steady if slow pace, his keen eyes searching for places he remembered. Trees and thick bushes loomed in the night, shadowy and indistinct, and while the swamp was cooler than it had been in the day, it was no less damp. Insects buzzed past with hums and high-pitched whines. Though his vision was sharper than that of most men he had known, the darkness required that he take special care. Signs that were easily visible in daylight were sometimes well concealed by the night's ebon cloak. Several times he had started to put his weight down upon places that would not support him, only to be saved by his quick reflexes. To slacken in his alertness could well be fatal.

The Cimmerian detected no signs of either giants or the small green men as he wound his way through the mire. Aside from that single thrown spear immediately after his encounter with the Vargs, no indications of followers had reached his senses.

He considered stopping long enough to make a torch with which to light his path, and thereby increase his speed, but decided that the risk might prove more than the aid. True, he would be able to move faster could he see better; but true also that a man carrying a flaming brand in the dark is all too visible. And a man who sat within the light of a campfire could not see into the night, being blinded by the nearness of flame. In the dark Conan was more or less concealed, and he preferred it that way. No, he would continue to grope his way along. When dawn stretched and touched the world, he could increase his pace.

Conan was both hungry and thirsty, and he did risk pausing long enough to drink from a small and sluggish stream that burbled near the trail at one turning. The water was surprisingly sweet and it refreshed the fleeing man greatly. His belly growled, complaining from lack of food, but Conan ignored it. He could, he knew, go several days without eating, and it was far better to be hungry than captured. Or dead.

Conan moved along the treacherous path, putting ever greater distance between himself and the Jatte village. An occasional break in the trees revealed orange flickers against the distant sky. These glimpses of the fire's continued life brought smiles to the Cimmerian's face.

Would, he thought, that the entire village caught flame and perished. 'Twould certainly serve them right.

Raseri ordered his people back from the burning building when it became evident that the structure could not be saved. The captured man was within, as were a number of scrolls and other items of value that he hated to lose, but there was no help for it.

The chief and shaman of the Jatte directed his firefighters to turn their efforts to the buildings closest to the one inflamed, to prevent spread of the raging blaze. Buckets of water began to splash upon the roofs and walls of those structures most likely to catch an errant spark. Within moments the drenchings had wet down all of the houses close to the fire. Heat brought forth clouds of steam, but more water was sloshed onto the drying walls to replace that stolen by the fire's breath.

Hours passed before the encircled fire began to dim. No longer free to feast, the fiery beast ate the last of its meal, unable to reach far enough to affect the surrounding structures. Like an old man, the fire grew feeble, sending up showers of sparks as a support post collapsed here and there, threatening to begin anew as the posts took flame, but impotent to go any farther. Now the buckets of water brought hissing groans from the failing creature of heat and light. Its time was almost over.

Raseri watched as the flames and heat died, leaving only smoldering spots and glowing red coals in its stead.

Miraculously, the cage of bone had escaped destruction. It stood alone in the circle of what had been a building, blackened by the heat and soot, canted slightly to one side as if a heavy weight had pressed down upon it, but still whole.

As the heat further decreased, Raseri was able to approach the cage. He expected to see the charred remains of the warrior, either sprawled upon the bottom slats or lying in roasted chunks beneath the cage. A pity. The man had shown promise of lasting longer than any other captive had ever By the Great Sun above!"

Raseri could feel the heat through the soles of his sandals as he trod upon the hot coals, but he ignored the smoke coming from his footgear as he ran toward the cage.

There was no sign of the body.

The captured man was gone!

Raseri stood staring at the empty cage. Abruptly one of his smoking sandals scorched and took flame. The giant cursed and jumped, then ran from the burned compound to cooler ground. He stamped his foot and extinguished the leather, bent and pulled both of the hot sandals from his feet, then cursed again.

The man had escaped. And the cause of the fire now seemed most obvious. The Creator curse him to the end of infinity!

Raseri turned to look at his people, who were watching him in puzzlement. The chief of the Jatte shook his head. Done was done; the building could not be brought back. How the little man had managed to free himself was a question that could be put only to him-had he not perished in the swamp, which Raseri thought to be likely. Still, they would have to be certain. If by some miracle this Conan had managed to stay to the trail and survive, he could not be allowed to return to others of his kind. The whereabouts of the Jatte village might be suspected by some on the outside, but none who had actually seen it could be allowed to go free to speak of it. The small men could not threaten that about which they did not know.

Night was waning; false dawn approached in front of his more truthful brother. At first light they would have to seek out the escapee and recapture him.

Raseri turned toward a young Jatte male. "Ready the hellhounds!"

The youth looked puzzled.

"The captive has escaped the fire and fled," Raseri said. "He must be tracked and caught."

The shaman looked around. Teyle had a bond with the hellhounds; she could control them better than any man in the village. "Teyle!" he called out loudly.

His daughter did not answer. Nor, as he found out within a few moments, would she respond. She was gone, and with her, the twins.

What kind of sorceror was this Conan, to escape the cage and to take Raseri's three favorite children?

"Bring the hellhounds!"

Far enough into the swamp and sufficiently away from the Jatte village to feel safe, the Vargs followed in confusion, and none were more addled than Fosull.

The chief of the Vargs stood leaning against a thick-boled tree, the smooth bark cool against his skin. His men had dragged three downed warriors away from the perimeter of the Jatte village, the three slain by a maddened creature that could be nothing other than one of the outswamp men. Another Varg was injured to the extent that he, too, would likely be making the journey to meet his ancestors at any moment.

Who was that man? None of the Vargs who had seen the party of outswamp men-and that included Fosull himself had recognized the attacker. Her had burst into their midst and carved a bloody path through them, running away at a speed that would surely send him into the sandy grip of death.

"My leader!"

Fosull turned toward the warrior who called. "What is it?"

"The Jatte. They have released the hellhounds!"

As if to emphasize the warrior's words, there came the skin-pebbling howl of one of the, monsters, a sound closer to a great cat's scream than that of a wolf.

By the Great Forest God! Hellhounds! "Quickly, to the warrens!"

"What of the bodies of our comrades?"

"Leave them! They might slow the hellhounds."

But even as Fosull spoke, one of the faster of the Jatte's killer beasts bounded along the trail, foamy drool dripping from its fanged jaws.

The first glimmerings of dawn had only just begun, but there was more than enough light to see the hound clearly. Large it was, twice the size of Fosull, and while it might or might not claim hell as its birthplace, it bore little resemblance to any creature ever born of dog.

The thing paused as it arrived in the clearing, giving the Vargs a better view of their doom. The beast's head was squarish, like unto a bear, with deep-set black eyes and flaring twin pits for a nose. Teeth it had many of, long and sharp for rending its prey, and tiny round ears to the sides of its ugly head. The hellhound's body was wolverine-like, but covered in a thick reddish fur, and its feet were wide, clawed and flat, big enough that it could use them like paddles in the swamp. A hellhound could swim with equal ease through water or quicksand, and any prey stupid enough to think to escape offside the trail would make a quickly fatal mistake.

Fosull readied his speak for a cast. Were it simply the one, his Vargs could prevail, for they had successfully fought single hellhounds before. But with others following and his troops already weakened and in disarray, it would appear as if the battle were lost. The Jatte seldom loosed the hounds, for the warrens were protected by poisonous stakes that even the beasts could not surmount. But in the open ....

The hellhound sniffed the air, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet clearing. Then, after a moment that seemed to stretch as long as any Fosull had ever endured, the hellhound turned and bounded off.

Fosull stood staring at the disappearing monster.

What in the name of any god-?

The remainder of the hellhound pack, at least another seven or eight of them, streamed past, following the lead beast.

Fosull continued to stare stupidly at the pack as it bayed and growled, moving away from him and his startled troops. Even after they were long past, he held his spear ready for what he had thought to be his last throw.

Finally he lowered his weapon. The hellhounds were not after the Vargs. That much was clear. But . . . who were they chasing?

In an instant the answer came to him. The outswamp man, the one who had killed three of the Vargs. The Jatte were after him! Somehow that one must be connected to the others, those who had taken Fosull's son. They had set fire to the Jatte lodge, with the giant cage therein, and now the Jatte sought them.

Of the other outswamp men there was no sign; they must have taken another trail, but of a moment Fosull was convinced that the band who controlled the demon was also gone from the village.

If the hellhounds caught them, then Vilken would be as dead as they would be, assuming the hounds could overcome the demon. Certainly it would be a fight worth seeing, the hounds against the more-than-giant demon.

"After them!" Fosull ordered.

"Are you gone mad?" one of his warriors said. "You want us to pursue the hounds?"

"We are not their intended prey," Fosull said. "And they will lead me to my son. Move, quickly!"

The habits of obedience were strong in the Vargs, and the warriors followed their leader as he moved out onto the trail. Daylight painted bright streaks into the sky of night, changing the dark into light.

So far this venture had been costly and not to Fosull's liking. Time to take control and change that, the Varg leader thought. He managed a grin as he moved along the trail.

As he smiled, an early ray of sunshine gleamed from his wicked, pointed teeth.

NINE

The rising sun found Conan in a section of the swamp full of short, odd trees with broad, waxy leaves the length of a man's arm and as wide as two hands side by side. Already the fetid swamp seemed hot. Behind him in the distance suddenly came the cry of some thing, echoed in a moment by similar beastly voices. The calls were faint and unlike any he could recall, but his immediate worry was that the things-whatever they might be-were on his trail.

This could bode ill. The edge of the swamp lay some distance away yet, and the howls behind Conan grew louder and closer at a speed faster than his own.

Whatever made that noise would be upon him before too much longer, and Conan had no desire to meet this new threat while balanced on a narrow path in a desolate swamp. He needed a clear spot in which to make his defense, a place with room in which to move and use his blade to its best advantage.

The Cimmerian began to run, trusting his memory to keep him to the winding trail. As he recalled, there were places not too far ahead that offered safe footing, one in particular that might serve him. With good fortune he might arrive there in time.

Aye, with good fortune he would have never come to be in this predicament in the first place. True, he had escaped the cage, but smiling luck had played only a small part in that; to die a few hours later would hardly be much improvement. Mayhaps it was time that chance ran in his favor. Then again, Conan knew that Crom helped most those who helped themselves. The man from the frozen north would rather put his trust in a sharp blade than in the hands of the gods. A sword could be directed by skill; the gods did only as they would. A keen edge cut deeper than any prayer of which Conan had ever heard.

With the things baying distantly at his back, Conan ran.

The wagon in the small clearing off the road was a welcome sight, Dake had to admit, if only to himself. Nothing had been disturbed, and the freakmaster hurried to remove the simple spell that protected the conveyance and its grazing beasts. The scene was as he had left it, and the lack of any half-digested meals upon the short grass indicated that none had come near the wagon in his absence.

"Harness the animals," Dake ordered his crew.

As they obeyed, the mage smiled. This entire adventure had been without major impediment. He had four new additions to his menagerie, and Shadizar lay waiting. Along the route there were a number of smaller towns and villages in which he could hone his performances, and even earn a few coins, to arrive at his final destination in good fettle.

Yes, if a man had wits, he could rise to the top like the finest cream. By the time they reached Shadizar, Dake would have his presentation ready to amaze the rich merchants and thieves who ruled the city. They would vie for the right to sponsor him, he was certain of it.

He watched as Sab harnessed one of the oxen, the man's four arms moving with practiced speed and grace over the beast of burden. Was Sab alone not amazing? Who else had such a wonder on display? Indeed, who else had a collection to equal a four-armed man, a catwoman, a wolfman, three giants, and a green dwarf ? No one, Dake answered himself.

The oxen were finally in place, the wagon ready to depart. Dake considered the logistical problem of Teyle for a moment. Although the interior of the wagon would carry a dozen normalsized men in tight if relative comfort, the vehicle had not been designed with one such as the giant woman in mind. True, space could be made for her to lie easily, and she could sit, did she do so resting upon the floor, but moving around inside would be a problem for her. The interior roof barely cleared Dake's own head when he stood, and a rough road would sometimes bounce him enough so that he struck the ceiling when he was standing. Teyle would have to crawl in order to move about inside, and while that might be an interesting and pleasant sight to behold, it might also rub raw spots upon her knees.

Dake wanted to avoided marring her if at all possible. This was not due to any weak-willed worry on his part; he would butcher any or all of his thralls if absolutely need be, but there was no point in damaging valuable goods unless one had no other choice. No, better she should ride out front with Penz. The driver's platform had an overhanging roof to keep rain and snow off, and was high enough to that even Teyle could sit there without bumping her head. She could crawl inside to sleep when necessary.

Having solved that small worry, Dake ordered his crew into the wagon, save for Teyle and Penz. As the massive cart rolled from its concealment toward the road, Dake stood on the rear step, holding on to the door's frame, and looked back toward the unseen village of the Jatte. He marked it well in his memory. Should anything happen to the three giants he had collected, he could always return for more.

He smiled as the wagon achieved the road. Fame and fortune awaited ahead, and not more than an easy journey lay between them and himself.

Raseri, along with three of his best hunters, moved along the path through the swamp, following the hellhounds. They had come to the big leaf trees, and the tracking beasts were far ahead, so far that only an occasional faint howl reached the Jatte's ears.

The leader of the giants was not one to trust either the gods or fortune, believing that examination and documentation served the Jatte better than wishes or prayers. While most of the experimental material gathered about the barbarian his daughter had captured had been destroyed in the fire, not all of it had been lost. Raseri had taken samples of the small man's hair, his clothing, even a patch from the sheath of Conan's sword, to compare against samples taken from others who had occupied the cage. These items had been kept in the root house, in the deepest and coolest corner where sometimes frost formed even on the hottest summer days. The Jatte had long ago discovered that cold would preserve once-living things considerably longer than open exposure allowed.

It was the faint scent of these samples that the hellhounds followed, and they would continue to seek that odor until they found the escapee. Raseri had known the beasts to follow a trail five days cold; there was no animal in the swamps able to overcome a pack of hellhounds. If Conan had blundered into a patch of quicksand and drowned, the hounds would recover the corpse. If some great cat had eaten the man, the hounds would bring that back. Even if no more than a few patches of the barbarian remained, they would be enough to draw the hounds.

Raseri moved along the trail at a steady pace, in no great hurry. There was no way they could manage the speed of the hounds, just as there was no way Conan could outrun them. Like as not, the four Jatte would be met by the tracking animals returning home with whatever bits of barbarian gristle and bone remained after they had savaged him.

The leader of the Jatte did worry about his missing three children, though. How a single man could abduct a trio, the smallest of whom were his own size, was a mystery to Raseri. One that he looked forward to solving. Soon.

Ahead of the leader, Lawi, the youngest of the four Jatte on the hounds' trail, called out. "The left turning," he said.

Raseri nodded and waved at the other two Jatte behind him. These were the brothers Kouri the Older and Hmuo the Younger, and also Raseri's nephews once removed. "To the left."

The four Jatte took the left tine of the trail's fork, following the distinctive tracks of the hellhounds.

From far ahead came the barely discernible yowls of the hunting beasts. Closing in on their prey, Raseri hoped.

Conan found the clearing he recalled. It was to the left of the trail, bounded on one side by a loop of stagnant pond covered with virid scum and darker green lily pads. A semicircle of swollen-based trees grew thick upon a slope that dropped sharply away, directly opposite the trail. On the side to the immediate right grew smaller trees and an underbrush of thorny brambles. Save for the trail's opening, not much wider than Conan's arm span, there was no easy entrance to the clearing.

Unless his pursuers could walk on water or bull their way through the wicked thorns at speed, they would have to come into the clearing in a single file, which, Conan felt, gave him an advantage. The beasts could circle around and come up the slope, assuming they were smart enough to recognize that option; even so, they would be slowed greatly by such a maneuver. Could they swim, they could cross the pond, but again at a reduced speed. He did not know how many of the things trailed him, nor did he have any idea as to their size or capabilities, but there was little choice in the matter. The sounds of the approaching pursuers grew closer, and if volume was any indication, they were nearly upon him., Conan moved into the clearing, halting just inside the entrance, and unsheathed his sword. He stood with his back against the underbrush, hidden from a viewer upon the trail. He took several deep breaths, gripped the sword's handle in both hands, and lifted the blade over his right shoulder as might a man about to split firewood with an axe. He was as ready as it was possible to be, he decided. He managed a tight grin. Were it his time to die, he would do so with his sword in hand and he would go down swinging iron death at his killers. A man could do much worse, and no man would live forever.

Ho, Crom, he thought. Is today my day to join you?

The God of the Mountain did not deign to reply. Just as well, Conan thought. He would rather not know that answer until it came.

Fosull and his warriors moved along the empty trail, dodging a patch of quicksand and skirting a pond that had grown to nearly reach the path, listening to the Jatte's hellhounds howling ahead of them. The leader of the Vargs had already thanked several favorite gods for sparing him and his from the beasts, but that mercy did nothing to return Vilken or to avenge the deaths dealt by the outswamp men. Given the nature of the hounds, it seemed likely that those unfortunate men would be torn to bloody tatters long before the Vargs arrived upon the scene. Too bad, since Fosull would have liked to deal the offenders pain and suffering on his own; still, dead was dead, and if the gods chose to use the hellhounds as their agents, Fosull was not one to argue with them. Could they recover his son, he would be satisfied. A few scraps of meat for the pot would certainly not be looked upon askance, should that favor be also granted, but not at the cost of facing hellhounds or monstrous demons.

Nay, he and his would be content with what bounty the gods elected to allow them, Fosull decided.

The rear scout came running up, all breathless.

"Yes?"

"-J-J-Jatte, my leader." He had to pause for air.

"Where?"

"Behind us."

"How many? How far?"

The scout held up one hand with the thumb folded into his palm. "F-four. Maybe an hour back."

Fosull considered this information. He had, he saw, fourteen warriors. In a confrontation with four Jatte, he might prevail, though he would like better odds. Still, were they an hour back, a fight might be avoided. If the hounds brought the outswamp men to earth, it was possible that he and his troops could retrieve Vilken and disappear into the swamp, using small animal trails the Jatte would not chance. It seemed a workable plan, and at the very least, the Jatte would not happen upon them in less than an hour.

"Quicken your pace," Fosull called to his warriors.

The fifteen Vargs hurried along the trail.

Conan could now hear the footfalls of the approaching pursuers, so close were they. He took another deep breath, released half the air, and held the rest. The sword was rock-steady over his shoulder.

So fast did the thing enter the clearing that Conan's cut took it above the hindquarters instead of in the neck. The shock of the strike vibrated up the Cimmerian's hands and was absorbed by his thickly muscled arms. The blued-iron blade sheared through the animal's backbone and was very nearly wrenched from Conan's grip as the beast howled and went limp. Conan clung to the handle with all his might, and the wounded creature fell away from the sword and skidded to a stop two spans away. It quivered and tried to move, but only the forepaws still worked.

Ugly brute, Conan had time to see. Bigger than a big dog and not like anything he had ever known before. He moved to the half-paralyzed beast and cut at it again, this time connecting with the back of the neck and nearly severing its head. The thing quivered a final time and died.

More of them were coming, lagging behind the leader, and the Cimmerian readied himself for the fight. He stepped out into the path, sword held ready to slash.

The second beast bounded into view, spied Conan, and hurtled itself toward the man. Conan allowed the thing to get within range, then swung the heavy blade from right to left; at the same time he jumped to his right, so that the end of the sword chopped into the side of the animal's head. The strike was fatal, for the-for what of a better name-dog tripped and rolled past Conan and did not move.

The third dog to arrive scrabbled to a halt at the entrance to the clearing and sniffed the air repeatedly as Conan stepped into view again, sword pointed at the next enemy.

Likely the thing smelled the blood of its companions, Conan judged, for this one held its position and made a whining noise.

After a moment, three other of the hellish dogs arrived to stand next to this one. These too sniffed at the air, and all of them milled about for a moment as if confused.

"Ho, dogs! Come in and die!"

One of the remaining four leaped forward, and the other three followed it.

Conan sprang to meet the charge, and his movement must have startled the attackers, for the leader stopped abruptly and the three behind it slammed into it. One of those in the rear fell into the pond, gave a catlike yowl, and started to scramble out.

Taking advantage of the confusion and the fact that the dogs had to come at him one after another, Conan charged.

The leader tried to turn but could not manage it for the others blocking its retreat, and Conan's blade opened the dog's side from shoulder to belly. Crimson gouted, and the dog bit at the moving blade, but far too slowly.

Conan drew back the sword and thrust it point first. The blade entered between two ribs at a spot where he judged the thing's heart would be. The dog howled and leaped up, knocking its nearest comrade into the nest of thorns opposite the scummy pond. The wounded dog leaped at Conan but fell short as the man hurriedly backed away; then the dog collapsed, blocking the trail.

One dog, upon the path, was moving backward. Another was trying to dig itself from the tangle of brambles and only becoming more enmeshed, and the third beast, the one in the pond, was about to regain the narrow trail.

Conan took three quick steps, put his foot upon the back of the dead dog on the trail, and leaped at the one behind it.

The dog turned and ran.

Even as he came down, Conan hacked at the dog in the pond. The thing lifted one fat paw, as if to ward off the strike, and then the sharped iron sliced the leg through.

The beast howled and fell back into the water. It tried to swim but the missing leg off-balanced it, and it began to move around in a tight circle.

The brambles still held one animal prisoner, and Conan turned to deal with that one.

But as the Cimmerian moved to dispatch the struggling beast impaled upon the hundreds of thorns, the dog that had retreated along the trail must have regained its courage, for it returned and leaped, its dripping fangs aimed at Conan's throat. As he twisted to meet the threat, Conan slipped upon a patch of blood on the trail and fell to one knee. The accidental move saved him, for the attacker flew over the man's suddenly lowered form and landed upon the dog still trapped in the thorn bushes, the weight driving them both deeper into the brambles.

The swimming dog had nearly completed another circle and was facing the trail when Conan pierced its neck with his sword's tip. The greenish water turned ruby as blood pumped from the dog. It continued to struggle, but to no avail. Even as Conan turned away to deal with the two still wrapped in their blanket of thorns, the dog in the water sank.

One of the final two dogs scrambled free of the plants that held it, only to meet bloody iron.

The last of the monster dogs reached for Conan with fangs smeared with its own blood, but it could not move freely with its rear still held fast by the myriad small hooks dug into it, and the man's blade sang its song of death once more.

After Conan's heart slowed and he wiped sweat and gore from his face, he looked around at the carnage. Six of the things, all dead. He felt suddenly tired from his exertions. It was often that way after a battle, but there was no time to rest. He had triumphed over these formidable beasts, but their masters must surely be not far behind. Dogs, even such as these, were one thing. Giants were another.

He wiped his blade clean on the fur of one of the dead dogs, resheathed the sword, and made his way back to the trail. He turned away from the Jatte village and took up his route. At the very least, he had provided the Jatte with some measure of his worth and repaid them somewhat for his stay in their cage of torture. He would have had it be Raseri who lay slaughtered here, but the leader of the giants would find a surprise when he came for his dogs.

Conan smiled at the thought.

TEN

When Fosull's forward scout came running back, he bore news that sounded unbelievable.

"My leader! The hellhounds! They are dead!"

"All of them?"

"All of them."

Fosull considered that, but spoke to it no further. He would not have his warriors see him disturbed, even by such news as this.

The band of Vargs continued on to the site where the fight had taken place. They were dead, all right. Half a dozen of the most vicious animals in the swamp, cut down by what appeared to be a sword. Incredible.

Fosull inspected the area, observed the tracks, and like any Varg with only one eye and less than half a brain, quickly came to realize that the hellhounds had been slain by a single man. One of the outswamp ones, and likely the same half-naked man who had killed several of his warriors at the outskirts of the Jatte village. There were no prints or signs of the group that had fielded the demon.

This was bad. Very bad. Six hounds killed by one man. Here was a warrior to avoid, unless he was on your side, and he and his troops were following him instead of those who had taken Fosull's son. Not a good idea.

His warriors looked at Fosull expectantly. Despite his awe, he was the leader and it fell to him to present an appearance of non-concern, if not of outright nonchalance.

"I had thought there were more hounds," he said.

The scout, a fleet-of-foot young Varg of nineteen seasons named Olir, blinked and stared at Fosull. "My leader?"

"I thought there were eight or nine. To slay that many would have been a fair chore. But a mere six . . ." He allowed his words to trail off as he tested the obsidian tip of his spear with one callused thumb. The implication was that he, Fosull, could have taken six hellhounds without raising a decent sweat.

There was a murmur among his warriors. Disbelief, Fosull reckoned, but he smiled anyway. One did not get to be-and remain-leader without a certain prowess, and it had been a dozen seasons since anybody had challenged him at anything. The last to try him had eaten Fosull's spear before he could do more than stamp his feet and wave his own weapon. More than half of this band had been but children when Fosull had slain that challenger, and the story had been embellished over the seasons so that many of the younger warriors thought Fosull invincible. Even so, somebody who could slaughter six hellhounds and walk away was no one with whom they wished to trifle.

"We waste our time here," the leader of the Vargs said.

"We are going to follow the one who did this?" Olir asked.

"Of course. I expect that he shall lead us to the others. Vilken remains their captive, or had you forgotten?"

"N-no, my leader."

"Then let us depart. Go and scout, and see that you don't trip over our quarry."

Fosull watched Olir as he moved off ahead of the others. His pace was slower than normal, to be sure. And Fosull was more than a little certain that the young Varg would do everything in his power to avoid happening upon the man who had slain the hounds. As would Fosull, were he the scout.

Lawi was pale as he returned to the spot where Raseri and the other two Jatte sat finishing their hastily packed midday meal. The group rested in a small hollow formed by the larger branches of a lightning-felled tree. Moss coated much of the downed timber, whose wooden body had lain here for at least five seasons.

"Have you determined why the hounds have gone silent? Have they caught up with their prey already?"

Lawi shook his head and sat down upon a fat log that angled up from the mire on the side of the trail. "Aye, they caught up with the one we seek."

"That is good-" Raseri began.

"Nay," Lawi cut in. "The hellhounds are dead."

"What? Impossible!" That from Kouri.

"It cannot be!" Hmuo said.

Raseri withheld comment.

"Come and see for yourselves."

When the four giants arrived at the scene of the slaughter, it was Kouri who spoke first: "Varg tracks! So that is why the hounds are dead. A large party of Vargs were here!"

Raseri bent over one of the dead hounds, then moved to examine a second, and then a third. "Nay," he said. "These wounds were not made by Varg spears."

"Then who-?" Hmuo began.

"Conan of our cage. See?" He pointed at a gaping wound. "This was done by a sword. Examine the other three and you will find like injuries."

"You say that all six were killed by one small man?"

Raseri turned toward Kouri. "Aye. He is most resourceful, as we know by his escape from the cage and his flight along the trail. And never have we captured a fiercer example of the small men. You should recall that."

Kouri raised one hand to his forehead and rubbed at it. When the caged Conan had been attacked by the four Jatte with staves, it had been Kouri who had lost his weapon to the small man and been slammed unconscious for his trouble. It was unlikely that Kouri would forget that episode.

"But what were the Vargs doing here?" Lawi asked.

Raseri shrugged. "Who can say? Perhaps they wished only to obtain a meal."

"But they continue to follow the man after seeing this. Surely even the Vargs cannot be that stupid?"

Raseri mused upon this for a moment. "It is odd," he finally allowed. "And most interesting. They must have compelling reasons. We have seen the same thing and yet we also continue to follow, is this not so?"

Hmuo said, "Regarding that. I have examined the trail carefully and have yet to see Jatte tracks. What of Teyle and Oren and Morja? It would seem that they are not with the fugitive."

That was even odder, Raseri thought. But surely there must be some connection between the barbarian and his own missing children? That Conan had escaped from the cage alone was most difficult to believe; mayhaps he had had help. It might be that he had comrades unnoticed by Teyle when she captured him. Perhaps these comrades had freed Conan and then taken the children for revenge, fleeing along another of the trails?

Raseri had to admit that the hypothesis seemed farfetched; still, one had to account for the reality somehow, and that Conan had escaped and his son and two daughters had disappeared at the same time were facts. How these things had come to pass might be difficult to ascertain, but the ways of reason dictated that for every effect there was a cause. Whatever else happened, Conan must be captured. What he knew could be determined only after that was accomplished.

Raseri nodded to himself. Aloud, he said, "Come. There are no more answers to be gained here. We must catch Conan."

"And get past the Vargs to do it," Kouri said.

"If need be, we shall do so."

Conan made good time along the trail. The swamp was thinning; there were now patches of dry land that extended for long stretches along the path, and he knew it would not be long before he regained the road to Shadizar upon which he had met the giants.

The Cimmerian considered himself lucky to be free, and his intent was to continue his trip without further adventures into danger, could he avoid them. He was alive, albeit somewhat hungry, and with each moment that passed, he moved farther away from both giants and dwarves. He would be glad to be shut of the swamp.

Only moments later Conan found a kind of berry he recognized as edible, and he paused long enough to make a short meal of the things. 'Twas not as solid as meat or fowl, but better than listening to the rumble of his empty belly. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and continued on his way. He would, if his memory served him correctly, be nearing the road soon. It would not come fast enough to suit him.

The wagon rolled along the bumpy road, and Dake fell into a doze, lulled by the rocking motion. He had a dream. In the dream he was master of a huge circus, a hippodrome packed with thousands of spectators, all of them watching the hundreds of oddities that he had collected and bred. Catwomen performed acrobatic dances; four-armed men and women juggled dozens of colored balls; green dwarves and towering giants paraded back and forth; wolfmen fought each other with tooth and nail. All of this took place under the largest tent in creation, a high-peaked, blue-and-white-striped roof of pure silk that shaded the viewers in the stands.

Suddenly there was a crack! and one of the huge poles holding the tent aloft snapped. The billowing silk collapsed upon the throng of customers and freaks; people began yelling at Dake for help. "Dake! Dake! Dake . . . ."

He awoke to find Kreg shaking him. "Dake."

The mage slapped his assistant's hand away from his shoulder. "Why do you disturb my slumber?"

At the same moment of his question, he noticed that the wagon was not moving.

"Why are we stopped? I did not call for a halt!"

Kreg shook his head. "We have broken a wheel."

"What? Show me."

Dake alighted from the rear of the wagon and followed Kreg around to the front. The wheel on the side upon which Teyle now sat next to Penz was indeed broken. At least four of the spokes had shattered or cracked badly, and a segment of the circle under the protective iron rim was knocked loose, the rim itself flattened where the support had failed.

"By Set's scaled scrotum! What happened?"

Penz looked down from where he sat. "We rolled over a large rock that had a larger hole behind it."

"Fool! Why did you not go around it?"

"No room. See for yourself." Penz pointed back along the road, and it was apparent that what he said was true. The road had narrowed where the protruding rock jutted up from the surface, and one side was lined with brush while the other dropped sharply into the shallow ravine.

Dake cursed again, calling upon several lesser known gods, and describing some of their more disgusting personal habits in his imprecation. The malediction was enough to make the oxen stamp their feet nervously.

Finally he said, "Unpack the spare wheel and replace the broken one."

Penz grinned, showing his wolfish teeth. "Alas, we cannot. We have already used the spare wheel. Recall the ascent of the Haraan Pass?"

Dake clenched his fists in voiceless rage. Yes. They had not had time for a wheelsmith to construct them another since the accident. And the weight of the massive wagon was such that all six wheels were necessary for support.

"Can you not use your magic to effect repairs?" Kreg asked.

No, he had no such spell, but Dake did not deem it wise to reveal the limits of his powers to anyone, much less his weak-brained assistant. "Magic is not to be wasted on such mundane chores," he said. "You and Penz and Sab shall take the woodcutting tools and carve replacements for the broken parts. There are sufficient trees about for suitable lumber."

"But-but that will take hours!"

"So? I am disposed to enjoy the countryside for a time."

"What countryside? There is nothing here but a patch of forest and a red-dirt road."

"Hold your tongue, idiot, or lose it!"

Kreg glowered, but fell silent. He knew well that Dake had but to wave Penz on and the wolfman would delight in tearing out Kreg's throat. Or Dake could simply put his obedience spell on his assistant and have him stand fast while the freakmaster smashed Kreg's head with the nearest handy rock. Kreg had seen his master kill before, and he knew well that murder bothered Dake not one whit.

"Sab! Bring the cutting tools!" Kreg bellowed. "And get yourself down from your perch, hairy face!"

Penz leaped from the driver's seat, landing lightly, and continued to grin at Kreg. Dake saw that Kreg's insult had no effect, for the wolfman was taking great delight in Kreg's barely controlled anger. Ah, a pity, but certainly Kreg was nearing the end of his usefulness. If Penz behaved himself, perhaps he would be allowed to dispatch his tormentor to the Gray Lands.

As the trio moved to locate wood sufficiently dry and unrotted with which to replace the spokes and broken wheel segment, Dake looked for a shady spot wherein to continue his nap. Mayhaps his dream would resume itself. That would be pleasant.

ELEVEN

Once he regained the road, Conan increased his pace, enjoying the feel of the solid ground beneath his sandals. His powerful legs, made strong and sturdy by lifting heavy rocks and logs as a boy in Cimmeria and subsequent years of walking and running, propelled him along with effortless strides.

He was, he reflected, little the worse for wear. He had his sword, and the adventure with the giants had cost him some comfort and time, but little else. Shadizar and wealth lay before him, and he would not be deflected from his goal again.

As the sands of the day trickled down toward dusk, Conan found a place suitable to stay the night. He set snares, quickly caught a rabbit, and by full dark had a fire lighted and a meal cooking over it. As he tore at the roasted meat with his strong white teeth, he smiled. Someday when he was old and grizzled, he could tell the story of the giants and the green dwarves to his grandchildren. Until then he would waste no more of his time worrying about it, for the events were in the past, over with, done.

"The wheel is repaired," Kreg said. His face and hands were begrimed with dirt and axle grease, blended artfully together with sweat, and he stank in the bargain.

Overhead, the partial moon shined her pale and waxy light down upon Dake and his party.

"It has taken you long enough," Dake said. "There is a stream down the hill. Go there and clean yourself and your garments. Take Sab and Penz with you and have them do likewise, then return. It is too dark to risk travel. I do not wish to have another broken wheel."

As Kreg led the four-armed man and the wolfman to the stream, Dake sent a glance back along the road behind the wagon. The forced stop had cut by several hours the lead they had gained on any pursuers. True, it was unlikely that followers would march through the swamp at night, and any of the giants who might have taken up the chase were likely still half a day behind, even considering the broken wheel. Be that as it might, Dake would feel better once the sun reclaimed the night and allowed them to continue their journey.

When Kreg and the others returned, he had them move the wagon from the road and into a small clearing near a grove of reddish-barked evergreen trees. As the night's chill settled over them, the unusual band climbed into the wagon and slumbered.

Fosull slept badly, tormented by dreams. His night visions were peopled by huge red demons, half-naked outswamp men, Jatte, and other shadowy figures he could not recognize. Fosull, fleet of foot and quick of arm while awake, found himself unable to run faster than a crawl in the dream, and all the power of his arm could hurl his spear but at the speed of a falling leaf. Where normally he wore his kilt of soft deerskin around his loins, he was naked. He kept trying to find his hut, but was hopelessly lost within the warrens, unable to recall the path leading home. During one frantic flight from a herd of four-armed catwomen, Fosull realized that he was dreaming; even so, he could not shake himself from the nightmare upon which he rode.

This dream was not, he managed to think, among his better ones.

Raseri lay awake long into the night, turning over possibilities in his mind, considering, thinking, trying to make the events of the past two days fit into a neat package. It was difficult, nay, more, it was not yet possible to do so. Too many variables had yet to be eliminated. Raseri could not devise a single theory that would account for what he knew.

The leader of the Jatte was sorely perplexed. Generally he could determine the reasons for happenings. Of course that might be because most of the things in his world were simple on the face of them, and easily laid to rest. Here instead was a complex problem unlike any he had dealt with before, and while it distressed him on one level, on another he found it quite invigorating. One's satisfaction at solving a difficult situation would be proportionately greater than the satisfaction of handling a simple problem.

Raseri smiled at the thought. That he would resolve the problem was a certainty; the questions were when? and where? and how difficult?

He was worried about his three missing children, of course, but he reasoned that they were in no great danger, at least for the time being. Had the abductors-and he was now sure that there were more than one-wished to kill the kidnapees, they would hardly have taken them so far away from the village to do so. No, likely the childstealers had some other use in mind for Teyle, Oren, and Morja. Perhaps they had in mind experimenting upon them, like he had done with Conan. Or displaying them. There were many possibilities, and Raseri sorted through as many of them as he could before sleep claimed him.

Conan arose early, prodded by a desire to put more distance between himself and his nearly fatal visit with the giants. Even as the first glimmerings of dawn sparkled redly through the skies, the Cimmerian was up and walking, eating the remains of another cooked rabbit as he moved, pausing only long enough to wash down the meat with a handful of water from a brook near the road.

By the time the day was fully alight he had been on the road for the better part of an hour.

As he crested a slight rise in the highway, he saw in the distance, stopped next to the side of the road, a wagon. Quite large it was, and perched upon six wheels. Eight or ten oxen grazed near the conveyance, which was roofed and very nearly the size of a house.

Conan loosened his sword in its sheath as he stepped from the road into the cover of a stand of small trees. His recent adventure had reinforced his caution, and while the inhabitants of the large wagon might be harmless, he was not disposed to trust them sight unseen.

The big Cimmerian moved easily through the trees, taking care to do so quietly, keeping some measure of cover between himself and the wagon.

He found a spot covered with dried tree needles and squatted down behind a scraggly bush to observe the situation. He would watch for a time and see what transpired.

After a few moments a fair-haired man emerged from the vehicle, followed by another man wrapped in the folds of a robe and wearing a cowl. Conan was unable to see this second man's features clearly, but the third man to exit the wagon was another matter.

This man had no fewer than four arms.

Conan was reflecting on this oddity when the wagon creaked and shook, and a giant woman, bent to avoid hitting her head on the door frame, emerged. When she straightened, Conan saw at once that the woman was Teyle, of the Jatte.

Decidedly strange, he thought. The strangeness increased when the Jatte twins, Oren and Morja, followed their older sister. Behind them came a woman covered in short fur, with the face and features of a cat. And behind her there came a mottled green dwarf, whose kin Conan had recently met.

He continued to watch as the fair-haired man and the four-armed one collected the oxen and harnessed them to the wagon. The cowl covering the face of the second man Conan had seen fell away as he examined the front wheel of the wagon, and Conan saw then a face that reminded him of a dog. No, he corrected his thoughts, not a dog, but a wolf.

What an incredible collection of people. All gathered together under the roof of one wagon. What could it mean?

"Do you find my freaks interesting?" came a voice from behind Conan.

The Cimmerian spun and came up, drawing his sword as he moved.

"No, this will not do," the man said. He mumbled something Conan did not understand and made a casting motion with one hand.

Conan shifted quickly to one side and raised the sword to strike. How had the man managed to come upon him without being heard? There were few who could stalk so close to him, -and this rather ordinary-looking, swarthy man, with his black hair and long mustache, seemed an unlikely candidate. While he did not appear to be armed, this fact did not dispose Conan to lower his blade.

"Put that thing away," the man said. It was not a request, but an order from the tone of it, and Conan started to laugh.

The sound died in his throat as a deathly chill gripped him and he felt his arms obeying the stranger's commands. It was as if bars of lead had been laid upon his wrists, weighting them heavily, forcing his hands downward.

Conan strained against the force that held him. Sweat sprang up and beaded on his face and shoulders as he resisted the incredibly strong pull. For a moment, the sword halted, quivering in the cool morning air.

The stranger frowned.

The blade began to shake harder. Even though he resisted with all his might, the muscles of Conan's shoulders and arms bunched, the tendons standing out under his tanned skin, the point of the blued-iron sword beginning again to settle toward the mouth of its sheath.

The Cimmerian watched himself as he inserted the weapon into the scabbard, and it was as if his arms belonged to another man.

"That is much better," the dark man said, grinning.

The realization of what had just happened swept over Conan in that instant: magic! The man had put a spell upon him!

The Cimmerian laughed, hands spread to choke his captor, but the air itself seemed to thicken, so that he was suddenly pressing against a barrier he could not overcome.

"You waste your time," the man said. "I am Dake, and you will obey me, like it or not."

Conan managed half a step, the effort turning his face red with exertion.

"You are very strong," Dake observed. "Perhaps instead of merely killing you, I can find some use for you. How are you called?"

Conan, realizing the futility of trying to attack the magician, ceased his attempt. He did not plan to speak, but the same kind of power that had forced him to sheathe his blade now pulled at his voice. He clamped his mouth shut and tried to resist.

A dozen heartbeats went past.

"Conan," he heard himself say.

"Ah, well, then, Conan. Come along."

He walked past the Cimmerian toward he wagon.

Perhaps it was useless to resist, but Conan tried. Despite his efforts, he found himself turning and following the mage. He could not stay his feet; neither could he move forward to throttle the man. The spell was powerful, more so than Conan's ability to defy it. He was like a leashed dog with a choke-strap about his neck.

As they walked down the slight grade toward the conveyance, Conan realized that it was probably magic that had allowed Dake to sneak up behind him. Teyle and her twin siblings must also be under a similar spell. He wondered how many of the rest of those assembled by the wagon were held there by this magician's curse.

Well. Like as not, he would find out soon enough.

It looked as if his intention to avoid being sidetracked on his way to Shadizar had just been thwarted yet again.

When they reached the end of the swamp without having come upon the outswamp men or Vilken, Fosull felt himself impaled upon the horns of a dilemma. To travel outside of the swamp was most dangerous. The outswamp men were not a tolerant lot, as the Vargs had learned the hard way through the years. A band of his kind invited attack, and while they could defend themselves against the odd bandit or curious farmer, there were many more of the outswamp men than there were Vargs. Fosull's grandfather had led a hundred warriors from the swamps to forage during the Great Drought some forty seasons past, and had returned with only half that number alive. The philosophy of the outswamp men seemed to be that if somebody was different from them, they should kill them out of hand.

What was to be done? He did not want his warriors slaughtered. Then again, he could not hope to retain their respect did he let his son's captors escape. Fosull knew he was growing older, and that he was no longer the Varg he once was. While he was fairly certain he could best any Varg in the tribe, he was not positive. Allowing his son and heir to be taken without doing everything possible to retrieve him would certainly appear to be a weakness, and any sign of weakness would bring the challenges. Such was the way of the Vargs.

Curse those outswamp men to the deepest pits of hell!

Something must be done, and while reluctant to bow to the reality, Fosull knew what it must be. A troop of fifteen Vargs could not easily remain invisible outside the swamp, but a single Varg might.

Fosull turned to his warriors. "Go back to the warrens. I shall fetch Vilken on my own."

"My leader!"

"A group of us only invites curiosity and attack. Alone I can avoid detection."

"But-but the red demon!"

"I am Fosull, I do not fear Varg, outswamp men, or demons. Do as I order."

They were reluctant, but they obeyed. They muttered to each other of his bravery to attempt such a thing alone, and Fosull knew that if he survived, he would have a stockpile of respect that would last a long time. Who would challenge the Varg who ventured alone outside the swamp to contend with a demon bigger than a Jatte?

For his own part, Fosull was not thrilled with the idea, but already he had begun to conceive a plan. Vargs had a natural camouflage in the swamp; they could blend into the background easily and remain undetected by their prey. The outswamp men came in various sizes, some not much larger than Fosull, especially the children, and there were ways to disguise what he was. There were always ways.

TWELVE

There was a short ladder built into the rear of the wagon and Dake used this to climb onto the wooden platform that was part of the frame of the structure. The peaked canvas would not support his weight, of course, but the beam immediately next to the ladder was both thick and wide, and a careful man could sit upon this plank and watch the road behind the wagon. Often Dake would make the ascent and sit, enjoying the heat of the sun upon his face, along with the feeling of superiority that came from being high above the ground.

Dake had, he felt, much to feel superior about.

This new addition, this Conan with the large muscles, had sparked a number of thoughts. Many of the villages in which the mage piled his trade were full of unsophisticated folk. True, a four-armed man, or a woman who looked like a cat, or any of the other freaks in his entourage, always drew those who would pay to view them; still, there was only a limited amount of profit to be made from such displays in a small village. At a few coppers each, a hundred souls did not amount to all that much.

Mostly Dake had fattened his purse in such towns by using his thralls in other ways. Many men were curious as to what it would be like to lie with a catwoman, and long-hidden silver would be produced for the chance. Penz was an expert with his rope, and contests against those who fancied themselves adepts at catching things with a noose would bring in the odd wager. The green dwarf might well prove to be good enough with that short spear to best locals who thought themselves better in throwing at targets. The giant woman might challenge the lusts of some men, though he would have to be careful there about the possibility of offspring-a miniature giant would impress no one.

More than anything, however, even in the smallest backwater village they did love to gamble. And in those places where men were hard from working the land or hunting for food, they loved to gamble on a man's physical prowess. Feats of strength, wrestling matches, fights-those were the events upon which the simple folk would wager. Dake had seen fifty silver coins, and even a few gold ones, proffered as bets upon a contest between two fighters, and this in a village where the land, houses, and belongings combined did not seem worth a handful of hollow-eared coppers.

For a man who could field a contestant who was strong and agile, there was money to be had. True enough, once they reached Shadizar, the freaks themselves would be enough of an attraction so that a fighter would not be necessary. Then again, the thieves of Shadizar had even more money with which to wager, did they not? Besides, a man with a good sword arm would make an excellent guard for all the riches Dake intended to possess, especially a thrall made loyal by a magical spell.

How adept was Conan had yet to be determined. One could not judge a man's abilities by mere appearance, albeit that the barbarian certainly looked fit and fierce enough. A few tests before they reached the next village would be in order.

Dake smiled, once again pleased with himself. A clever man would always find a spot near the top of things, did he but use his brain with care.

Inside the wagon, Conan regarded his fellow captives. They were no less odd at close quarters than they had seemed at a distance. The catwoman sat next to the multi-armed man and the two spoke together in quiet tones scarcely above a whisper. The wolfman kept his cowl up and kept also to himself. The green dwarf scratched himself under his breechskin and grinned, revealing his pointed teeth. The trio of giants merely looked glum. Currently the wagon was being driven by the blond man, who seemed the only occupant not under the dark man's magical control.

Teyle, who lay stretched at great length upon a makeshift pallet, rolled up onto one elbow and regarded Conan. "You escaped from my father's cage on your own?"

"Aye."

"Most impressive." She paused for a moment, seemed to consider something, then continued. "I am glad that you did."

This surprised Conan. "Why?"

She gestured at the interior of the wagon. "I find being held captive an unpleasant experience. I had not known how it felt before."

Conan nodded, but did not speak. Aye, he thought. Having been held against his will a number of times had never lessened his distaste for it. If anything, it only worsened his feelings each time. Slavery was not a fit state for a man-or for women.

"What do you know of this man who calls himself Dake?" Conan finally asked.

"He has some magical powers," Teyle said.

"Tell me that which I do not already know."

"He is taking us to Shadizar to be exhibited as freaks of nature. He intends to breed us and bring forth more and different kinds of beings."

"He told you this?"

"No. But his lackey, the fair-haired man named Kreg, has spoken of it gloatingly. And Tro, Sab, and Penz have verified the plot."

With this, Teyle introduced the other captives to Conan. The green dwarf was named Vilken.

The Cimmerian digested this new information and considered how best to use it.

"Escape is impossible," Penz said, as if in answer to Conan's unspoken question. "The spell the mage casts is powerful. It binds us to him and prevents us from harming him or disobeying his direct command."

Conan nodded. Aye, he had struggled with all his might and had been unable to overcome the geas. Even now he tested the bonds of the magic and found them unchanged.

Penz went on. "I have been Dake's prisoner for five seasons. Tro has been held for three, Sab for nearly as long. The spell has not weakened in all that time. We cannot act against him."

"My father can," Vilken said, showing his teeth.

Conan turned to look at the dwarf, who had a gamy odor that was unpleasant. "Your father?"

"Aye. He is the leader of our tribe. He will come for me."

"You seem very sure."

"He cannot do less and remain leader."

Conan considered this.

"And our father will come too," Oren said. Next to the boy, his sister Morja nodded.

The Cimmerian looked at their older sister, who also nodded and confirmed their statement. "Raseri cannot allow the whereabouts of our village to be known to the outside world of small men. And he would scarcely allow three of his children to be taken without some recovery effort."

Conan said, "Green dwarves and giants will hardly have an easy time of it wandering about in places occupied by people my size."

"My father is the cleverest of all the Vargs,"

Vilken said, not without a large measure of pride in his voice.

"And my father is twice as clever as your father, beast," Oren said.

Vilken bared his teeth and made as if to attack the giant boy. Oren halfway rose to meet the Varg.

"Hold!" Conan commanded.

The two stopped and looked at him.

"We gain nothing by fighting among ourselves."

"Vargs are no more than vicious beasts!"

"And Jatte are no more than stupid meat!"

"Enough!"

The Varg and the Jatte boy glanced at each other with hatred again, then at Conan. It was Vilken who spoke first. "Who elected you leader, to give us orders?"

Conan's grin was full of menace, and he knotted one fist into a fleshy hammer. "I elected myself. I do not intend to spend the rest of my life held captive. Dake's spell does not prevent me from enforcing calm."

The two would-be combatants looked at Conan and apparently decided that they would rather not test his mettle. They subsided without further demonstration or speech.

"Now," Conan said, "I want to know everything about Dake and his dog Kreg."

Raseri had considered several plans for his pursuit of those who had stolen his children and had finally settled upon the one he thought most reasonable. He sent the men of his tribe back to the village and proceeded alone from the swamp and onto the road of small men. The giant's logic gave him a simple mode by which he intended to operate. He would travel at night, keeping to well-used roads, avoiding contact with the small men except to ask about his quarry. A giant would be remarkable and a topic of conversation, but not nearly as much so as a group of such beings. By the time word could spread of a giant, Raseri would have moved onward.

Night travel held its dangers of course, but there were few beasts that could stand against a Jatte armed with spear and a long obsidian knife, as Raseri was. During the day he would sleep, hidden from small men. Conan he knew by sight, and the others left distinctive tracks. Following a trail at night was difficult if not altogether impossible at times, but Raseri figured that once a direction was established, like as not his quarry would maintain it. A check now and then with one of the small men would certainly be enough to ensure that he stay on the correct path. If he would be noticed, so too would his children, who could hardly be less conspicuous than he.

Once he caught up with the abductors, he would formulate a specific plan of attack. Generally, his intent was to slay the small men and take back his children.

He found a shady spot hidden from passing eyes and settled down to make a meal of the rabbit meat and dried fruit he carried, after which he would sleep until dark.

All things considered, Raseri was happy with his plan. 'Twas not unduly complicated, and it also allowed him some options, should the need arise. He was pleased with his thoughts as he drifted into sleep.

Fosull had already spent the morning in travel, and he had discovered that the ones he sought had a conveyance. If anything, that made things easier, for following the deep track of a wagon was a lesser problem than keeping sight of footprints. The width and weight of the vehicle guaranteed that it would have to keep to the road, or hard ground at the least, and as long as the weather held dry, a Varg of Fosull's ability could follow such ruts to the end of the world.

Perhaps more interesting was the fact that the ones who had stolen his son now traveled with at least three Jatte. One adult-a woman, Fosull judged-and two children. True, the prints of these latter were the same size as those of the outswamp men, and a lesser tracker might assume them to be so; however, Fosull knew Jatte footgear as well as he knew his own bare toes, and if those two were not Jatte, he would spit on his own father's burial pit.

Whether the Jatte had come of their own accord or not was less of a certainty, but Fosull reckoned it not likely. Jatte had less use for outswamp men than did Vargs-they did not even eat the ones they caught and killed.

A bad business, this, outswamp men who could take Varg and Jatte alike.

The few times Fosull detected travelers approaching from the opposite way, he scurried from the road and hid himself until they passed.

When the Varg reached the little-known fork that led to a tiny settlement of outswamp men, he deviated from his tracking of the wagon.

Upon reaching the cluster of several houses-they could hardly lay claim to being a village-Fosull moved with great stealth, staying downwind of the local dogs until he saw what he needed.

Hanging in the hot sunshine from a line strung between two trees was an assortment of outswamp men's clothing. The Varg spotted the item he deemed necessary and crept through the shrubbery and tall grass until he was close enough to make his sprint. Up he leaped, and quickly he dashed to the line of nearly dry clothes. He snatched a cowled robe from the hemp rope and never paused a moment in his flight. One of the dogs caught his scent and set up a furious barking, but Fosull would be far away before anyone came to investigate the source of the dog's lament. If by some chance the beast pursued him, then it would be the animal's last misfortune. Hellhounds were one thing, common dogs something else.

When he deemed that he was far enough from the settlement, Fosull considered his prize. The cloth was rough and coarse homespun, a muchfaded brown that was closer to tan than the dye must have been when fresh. It was but the work of a few moments to shorten the sleeves with his knife and to cut away the hem so that it would not drag upon the ground. With the garment on and the hood raised, naught but the Varg's hands and feet were readily apparent to a passerby. Fosull located a small pond and from the edge of this he scooped up some mud, which he applied to his feet and hands, darkening them to a mottled gray. The outswamp men had among them those of short stature, children, dwarves and the like, albeit none of them were apt to be green-skinned. With the clothing and the dirt caked upon his extremities, Fosull figured to pass all but a careful scrutiny, and it was his intent to avoid giving too many of the outswamp men a chance to examine him closely.

Thus disguised, Fosull returned to the main road and resumed his journey along the trail of the wagon that carried his son.

THIRTEEN

Conan awoke from a hot sleep as the wagon halted.

The overhead canvas kept most of the sun out, but the thick cloth absorbed and then passed on the heat to the extent that the interior of the vehicle was thereby made cloying; it was a sticky warmth, devoid of breezes and less than comfortable.

His efforts to free himself of the spell in which he was ensnared had proved fruitless. Even as he came up from slumber, he tested himself against the magician's power yet again, willing his legs to carry him away from the wagon.

Again his best was to no avail. He was held more firmly than if he were wrapped in thick ropes. Hemp would stretch and give, at least, and this curse felt the same as it had when first it had been laid upon him.

"Everybody out!" Kreg ordered.

The inhabitants of the wagon trooped out into the afternoon sunshine. A small wind stirred Conan's black mane as he alighted from the step, and the air was refreshing after the enclosure of the wagon. There was a small wooded patch to the left of the road, and a field of boulders on the right, most of which were inset into the dusty red ground.

The hated slaver Dake stood nearby, grinning at his captives.

"I have arranged a small entertainment for you," he said. "Our newest addition, while not the beneficiary of nature's largess as are the rest of you, is not without a certain rough charm." He smiled at Conan, who returned the expression with a cold stare. "Barbarians tend to make good fighters, and while large muscles do not always indicate great strength, I expect that Conan is not without a certain amount of power within his sinews."

Conan glanced at his companions. Penz's face was impassive. Vilken's sharp-toothed smile played over his countenance. The catwoman and the four-armed man watched Dake, a trace of worry evident on their features. The giant children merely looked on with curiosity. Teyle towered over them all, arms folded under her ample breasts.

"There," Dake said, pointing. "That rock. Go and fetch it for me, Conan."

The Cimmerian tried yet again to resist the magic, but it was as if his legs belonged to another. He stalked toward the boulder, a misshapen stone that was as high as his knees and as wide as his shoulders. He squatted, wrapped his thick arms around the rock and clutched it tightly with both hands. Using in the main the strength of his thighs and hips, he pulled the boulder free of the dust and stood. It weighed about as much as he did, Conan judged.

The Cimmerian walked back toward Dake. Where he stood next to the magician, Kreg's eyes widened as he watched Conan approach.

"Very good," Dake said. "You may put it down."

"Where?"

"Why, anywhere you choose. It matters not."

Conan would have hurled the heavy rock at Dake, but the magician's leave about where he could put the stone did not extend to the spot upon which the slaver stood. It was not from want of trying, however, that the young Cimmerian was unable to crush his enemy. When it became apparent that he could not use the rock to smash Dake, Conan turned away from the restraint and shoved the weight at Kreg instead.

"Set's balls!" the man yelled. He scrambled back, nearly tripped, but managed to maintain his footing and avoid being flattened by the falling boulder. The heavy rock hit the ground with a whump! and kicked up a small cloud of dust.

"You-you barbaric fool! You almost hit me!"

Conan's grin was as wolfish as any of Penz's. And in fact, Penz and the other enslaved oddities smiled at Kreg's discomfort.

Even Dake's face wore a slight grin. He said, "Not a bad effort, but surely you can do more. There, that one, fetch it to me."

Conan's smile vanished as he turned and beheld his second task. The rock did not appear to be buried, but it was larger than the first, probably half again his own weight.

The Cimmerian moved to the boulder. Its shape, much like that of a lopsided mushroom, offered convenient handholds under the lip of the cap, and while it took a great deal of straining, Conan's thews were equal to the task. His steps were solid from the weight of the rock, if slow, and he managed to keep the stone from dragging the earth as he made his way back to where Dake and Kreg stood.

"Excellent! Put it down." Dake turned to look at his assistant, then back at Conan. "Right there. And take care that you do not startle Kreg here by dropping it too close to him."

Kreg glared as Conan deposited the rock.

"One more. Ah, that one."

Conan looked in the direction of Dake's pointing finger.

The boulder was taller than Conan and easily twice his weight, he figured. It was narrow only at the top, and smooth, and offered no easy grip. Conan shook his head even as his feet moved to obey Dake's command. "I cannot see a way to lift it," he said.

"But you must try."

Rage flared behind Conan's eyes, and he felt the heat of it burn his skin. To be ordered about like a dog, it was more than he could bear!

For a brief moment Conan felt the spell holding him slacken, if only just a little. Joy surged in him, but he did not reveal his feeling. Something had affected the curse. What was it?

In that moment the full power of the geas returned and Conan reached the subject boulder. He would have to think on it later.

There was no easy way to manage this labor. The smooth rock offered no purchase, and in any event it was too large to reach around to lock his hands together. He pondered the problem for a moment, then he had an idea.

He began to push against the top of the boulder, tilting it slightly, rocking it up from where it was buried at the base. He moved to the opposite side and shoved it the other way, then returned to his original position to repeat the action yet again. The boulder, resting undisturbed for an eon, began to teeter. This would take precise timing, Conan knew, and he waited for the rock to begin to overbalance before he ran around it and put his back against it, holding it up.

The boulder now partially rested upon the ground and partially on Conan's broad back. With great care the Cimmerian leaned forward, moving slowly, so that the weight rested more and more upon him. At the same time, he bent his knees and squatted, lowering his body so that the top part of the huge stone began to pivot over the fulcrum he had provided it. He shifted again, striving for a perfect balance, bringing his arms up to the sides to cradle the immense mass upon his back and shoulders.

The boulder came free of the ground and rested entirely on Conan's back. He had misjudged the weight, he realized; it was heavier than he had thought. If he misstepped and fell, the rock would crush him against the ground.

With steady and slow steps, Conan covered the distance between himself and the slavemaster.

"Amazing," Dake said. "I did not think that you could manage it. Put it down-I would not have you injure yourself."

Conan leaned back; the boulder slid from his shoulders and thunked against the ground. It looked as if it might topple, but remained upright, if canted at an angle.

"Sab, Penz, and Kreg, to me."

The four-armed one and wolfman hurried to their master, as did his assistant.

"Lift that stone for me."

The three gathered around the tall rock, tried to find means by which to hold it, but could not.

"Tip it, as he did."

They did try. But when the stone was overbalanced, it proved too much for the trio. Despite their efforts, the rock fell, kicking up a great explosion of dust when it did so.

"Enough," Dake commanded. To Conan he said, "You are very strong. Can you wrestle?"

Grudgingly, Conan said, "Aye."

"Do you know the fist style of fighting?"

"I have some knowledge of it."

"Are you adept at either?"

"Both."

"Good, good! We will clean out every village on the way to Shadizar! With you as my champion, we shall quite probably be rich by the time we arrive in the City of Thieves!"

Conan did not speak. The prospect of being made to fight for wagers did not sit well with him. Being made to do such a thing by magic only made it worse. Then again, it was better to be considered useful as a fighter and alive than useless and dead, by any measure of which Conan knew. Living, you had a chance to escape and wreak vengeance. Dead, you faced the Gray Lands, a prospect that he knew was much worse, having visited there via magic.

Aye, he would fight if he must. But would that his opponent were Dake.

Fosull's plan was working out better than he had expected. The few outswamp men he encountered stared, or made comments to each other about his short stature, but none offered any real bother. Perhaps they could see that his spear was sharptipped and smooth from use; a short man with a spear is equal to a tall man without a weapon, after all. At least that was how Fosull counted it.

As the sun smiled down from his highest perch, a wagon filled with brass-bound wooden casks appeared on the road behind the Varg; it was drawn by a team of four oxen and driven by a hugely fat outswamp man whose beard and hair seemed joined into a mass of greasy red spikes extending in all directions.

As the wagon neared, Fosull stepped from the road to allow it to pass. Instead, the fat redhead, dressed in fringed leather shirt and pants as greasy as his hair, pulled the oxen to a halt.

"Ho, short one."

"Ho," Fosull called back, somewhat suspiciously. Why had he stopped?

"Are you bound for Elika?"

Fosull had no idea where Elika was, or even what it was, but it seemed like a good idea to be bound for somewhere. "Aye," he called from beneath his hood.

"Well, then, climb up and ride, for I am also traveling to that same said village and I would enjoy company."

The Varg considered the idea but for a moment. The tracks of the wagon he followed lay ahead, and riding would certainly be easier than walking. The obese one seemed amiable enough. Fosull scrambled up to sit on the wide plank next to the driver.

The fat man urged the oxen forward and the wagon bounced along.

"I am called Balor the Winejack, short one."

"Fosull."

"Well-met then, Fosull."

They rode along for some way, Balor making most of the conversation and apparently content to have Fosull nod now and then or utter a word of encouragement for him to continue.

"Of course there's bandits," Balor said, "and I keep my iron babe handy for 'em." He reached under the seat and produced a short-handled battle axe. The weapon had seen some use and a number of years, to judge from the nicks and rust on the blade and the worn handle, but it appeared no less effective for those. Fosull gripped his spear tighter, but Balor shoved the axe back under the seat and laughed.

"Then again, the bandits is been slack hereabouts of late. I suppose you heard about the pack of 'em slaughtered a few days back along the Corinthian Road?"

No, Fosull hadn't heard. That opening provided Balor with enough material for another half hour of talk. He explained that one of the nastiest bunch of bandits for quite a ways had been killed in the hills. From what the wolves and vultures had left, the unfortunate brigands had for the most part been sword-cut, although one had a hole punched in him as big around as a man's forearm, and what do you suppose could do that to a fellow?

Fosull allowed as how he knew not, and that gave Balor leave to talk about the various ways he had seen men killed over the years.

Aye, the man was as long-winded as a spring deer, but Fosull would likely not be bothered by other outswamp men as long as he was in the company of one of them, and riding was faster and easier than walking. Listening to the boring stories was a small enough price to pay.

Later, however, the Varg gained another dividend when Balor brought forth one of the kegs of wine and tapped it. A man hated to drink alone, Balor said, and surely Fosull would oblige him by quaffing a few cups of this excellent vintage, would he not?

Surely Fosull would.

The ride became more and more pleasant as man and Varg drained cups of the admittedly excellent vintage wine. Amazing what the product of the grape could do to heighten one's spirits, was it not?

Indeed, Fosull said, laughing and slapping his new companion on the back.

Indeed!

Raseri's steps were not in the realm of mythology-no magic boots to carry him a day's walk at a stride-but his long legs did move him half again as fast as a walking small man. Thus far no one had spoken directly to him or otherwise slowed his pace. A confrontation with a giant bearing a spear apparently called for more effort than most of the small men wished to expend for whatever gain might be made.

No one had overtaken the leader of the Jatte from whence he had come, and those passing from the opposite direction were soon lost to view behind him. Thus it was that when Raseri arrived at a forlorn and ramshackle inn that squatted toadlike next to the road, no one had come before him with news of passing giants.

Raseri had to bend very low to enter the building; fortunately, the structure, rude though it was with oilskin flapping over open windows and lashed-beam construction, had a high-framed ceiling, so that he could stand erect.

The Jatte leader took some interest in the reaction of the few patrons within as they noticed him. Awe, fear, surprise, all these were reflected on their faces. He judged that most of the half dozen or so were locals, farmers or shepherds. Two were women, one old and cronelike, the other younger and dressed provocatively. The inn's trull, Raseri reasoned, having been taught of the small men's custom of selling certain pleasures.

"Wh-wh-what d-do ye w-want?"

Raseri looked down at the speaker, a man wearing a patch over one eye and several scars where half his beard would have otherwise grown.

"Food. And drink."

"We h-h-have mutton and ale. And w-wine."

"Those will do."

Raseri reached into his belt pouch and produced several of the copper and silver coins he had taken from various captives over the years. "Are these sufficient?"

The greedy gleam in the innlord's eye told the Jatte chief what he wanted to know before the man spoke.

"Yes. To be sure!"

"Give me as much as these are worth," Raseri said. "What I do not eat immediately I shall take with me."

"At once!"

The younger of the women moved toward Raseri. She licked her lips, which seemed to have gone dry, and her voice when she spoke was nervous. "Would ye be wantin' anything else, milord giant?"

"Of what do you speak?"

The woman gestured at herself with one hand.

Behind Raseri, two of the men drinking ale at a rough table laughed. One said, "Feki's dreaming, eh?"

The other man said, "I think not. I think she could manage it. She handles me, after all."

"Ho, ho! So could a female mouse!"

Raseri said, "I need only food. And information. A large wagon passed this way recently. How long ago?"

The woman nodded. "Aye. Yesterday, past noon. Had a strange driver, all hooded he was, and wearing gloves, even in the hot sun."

The Jatte reached into his pouch and produced several silver coins. He handed them to the woman. "For your trouble."

The woman's face lit in a bright smile. "Thank ye, milord giant!"

Raseri shrugged and turned toward the innlord, who brought forth several slabs of cold and greasy mutton and a small cask of ale. The giant collected the food and drink and put them into the sack he had slung over his shoulder. He would walk and eat.

Were he only a day behind the wagon, he could gain upon it, for oxen were slower than he. If he walked at night, likely he could close the gap even more, for the small men seldom ventured forth during the night, even on well-marked roads. But what frightened a small man did not necessarily do the same for a giant.

Yes, this gathering was frightened of a single giant, but a dozen small men with weapons would not be, and strength did not always lie in size, but sometimes in numbers.

Raseri left the building and the mutterings of those within it behind. He chewed on the cold meat as he walked, washing it down with swallows of the ale, holding the cask as might a -small man holding a cup. In a way, this trip was good, despite its cause. It had been too long since he had gone out among the small men. There was always something to be learned, and knowledge, after all, was the ultimate power.

FOURTEEN

It had been some years since Dake's last visit to the hamlet of Elika, a mere half an hour's journey along a side path to the southwest. The small track was barely large enough to allow passage of the wagon, but allow it it did. The village itself nestled within a meander of the Illitese River, a broad, cold waterway fed by numerous mountain streams born largely of snowmelt high up the southern slopes of the Karpash range.

Kreg guided the creaking wagon toward the village through stands of white-barked hardwood trees that grew so thick as to form arches over parts of the road. The land here was fertile, and warm enough year-round so that grapes were the main crop, furnishing a steady supply of the fruit for local winemakers. The Elikans also caught rainbow-colored fish in the river and grew certain grains and other fruits. As small towns went, Elika had more to boast about than did many, and while not rich, neither was it particularly poor. Many stout people lived there, always a reliable indicator of how much food was to be had.

By the time the wagon managed to lumber into the town, news of its arrival had spread, and more than a score of curious villagers-men, women, and children-had gathered to watch.

As Dake emerged from the conveyance, Kreg hurried to pull forth the thick plank that normally rode under the vehicle's belly. He unfolded a set of legs attached to the plank and latched them, so that a narrow platform was created against the backdrop of the wagon's starboard side.

The freakmaster mounted the platform and turned to face the curious. He began his spiel.

"Friends, the Master of Oddities has arrived, bringing for your entertainment all manner of wonders!" Dake waved his arms, flinging them wide, then drawing his hands back in slowly, practiced grand gestures to match his booming voice.

"For a few coppers on this very evening, you can gaze upon sights never seen before by normal men! You can behold with your own eyes the green, human-flesh-eating dwarf from the jungles of far Zembabwi! Or feast your gaze upon Tro, the catwoman! Or Penz, the man whose mother was a she-wolf-and whose father a rogue! Too, you can see Sab, the man with four arms! And from the edge of the world, past distant Khitai, I have brought you giants!"

Dake glanced at the crowd, which increased in size even as he smiled down upon them. "Friends, one of my giants is a woman of great beauty and such proportions as to make a blind man stare." He winked at the audience and was rewarded by the laughter of several men, who understood that there would be one show for all to see-and another for men willing to pay extra.

"And aside from all these wonders, unmatched in the civilized world, I bring also Conan the Cimmerian, a barbarian fighter from the frozen north, undefeated as a wrestler or boxer in over a hundred battles! Conan invites all comers, and if there is one among you who would test his mettle, he offers two gold solons to any who can best him!"

That woke them even more, Dake saw. Most men had seen naked women, and even the occasional freak of nature, but the call of a wager wafted over the crowd like the scent of a well-prepared meal. There was always some fool long on might and short of wit who would fight anybody-or anything-for money. Dake had seen men step into a roped-off ring to challenge muzzled and declawed bears or great apes, for no reason other than the thrill of battle. The local champion would certainly be produced for the call of gold.

As more and more of the villagers turned out to hear Dake, he warmed further to his task, already thinking of the night's show. A ring of torches in the darkness would give enough illumination so that the freaks could be viewed, and it would be Kreg's job to see that everyone around the arena had paid before Dake would allow the show to be gin. He would do a few illusions, perhaps summoning the demon, or the fire-that-did-not-burn, maybe even the rain of toads. Then the livestock would be brought out, one at a time, and Dake would spin a fantasy about each of them. Catwomen or wolfmen were amazing by themselves of course, but by the time Dake finished creating a past for them out of whole cloth, they would be more so.

Once the general audience had had its fill, the village women would be sent away for the viewing of Tro and Teyle, should Dake decide to show them without clothing. The wagon would serve for any willing to pay the steep price asked to lie with either the catwoman or the giantess. Probably none here could afford them, but one never could be certain unless one asked. There would be many in Shadizar who would have the means.

The same enclosed ring could be used to stage the fighting match between Conan and the local challenger. That would be last, of course, because a good fight was hard to top. Then in the morning, perhaps some rope work by Penz, or maybe a target contest with Vilken. The little ogre contended that he was expert with his weapon; 'twas best to find out if it were true before reaching larger audiences.

Yes, this would be a profitable stop, if Dake were any judge of such things, and certainly he was.

"Miracles, friends! Things beyond your imagination! Tonight and tonight only! All will want to see, for to miss it will be the regret of a lifetime!"

Within the wagon, Conan listened to Dake's deep voice.

"He speaks lies," the Cimmerian said.

"Of course he does."

Conan looked at Penz and heard the scorn in the wolfman's voice.

"My mother was no more wolf than his. She was the daughter of a nobleman in Argos. She was ravished by her own brother, thus making my father also my uncle. He was a rogue, true enough, but my condition has aught to do with true wolves."

Tro spoke, something she had seldom done in Conan's presence. "Aye, we are all of us freaks, but nothing unnatural. We are nature's errors, sports."

Teyle said, "Nay, my ancestors were magically created. But 'twas so long ago that none of us living has had any experience of it."

Sab said, "Mayhaps, but I have seen those of your size born of women smaller than I and fathered by normalsized men. While all life might be said to be magic, you cannot fly as a bird or swim under the sea or descend into the pits of Gehenna as would a demon."

Teyle nodded in agreement.

Vilken laughed. "No, but could my people catch her, she could descend into the great cooking pit and become what the gods intended-food for the Vargs!"

At that, Oren reached over and clouted Vilken. The boy's hand was open and the blow only connected with the Varg's shoulder, but it was enough to tumble the green dwarf from the bolted-to-the floor stool upon which he sat and send him sprawling. Instantly Vilken sprang to his feet and lunged for his spear.

Conan was faster, and he snatched the weapon away. "Hold!" he said.

"I will kill this meat animal!"

"You will sit down or regret that you did not."

Conan could see the rage boiling in the little man, and a quick glance at the giant boy showed that his fists were clenched and that his rage was a match for Vilken's.

"Let the little tree frog try it!" Oren said. "I will make him eat that sharp stick he carries!"

"You will also sit," Conan said. His voice was low, but stern. "Or I will spank you like you deserve."

"I am as large as you!"

"And your size means nothing. Sit."

The boy's anger bubbled, and Conan saw that he was gathering to spring, either at Vilken or at Conan himself. The Cimmerian shifted his weight slightly and prepared to stop Oren's rush-

"Do as Conan says," Teyle said.

"But-but sister, you heard this green animal insult us!"

"Another time and place, Vilken would be a threat. Here and now, it is Dake who is the enemy of all of us. Would you spend your life in this wagon? Forced to lie with your sisters to beget twisted children who will also be raised as slaves?"

Oren's anger left him as air leaves a dying man, and he sat back upon the edge of the bed once again.

Teyle looked at Vilken. "And you, Varg? Do you plan to end your days capering for the small men at the orders of one such as Dake?"

Vilken also deflated somewhat. He shook his head. "My father will come."

"Perhaps. In the meantime, who are your allies?"

Vilken sighed. After what seemed a long moment, he returned to his seat.

Conan was impressed by Teyle's speech. That he could have defeated the giant boy and Varg, alone or together, he doubted not, but the giant woman had calmed them without lifting any more than her voice. The power of words had called forth their doubts and stolen their rage. He saw her look at him, and he nodded once, a short motion, to acknowledge her action. Conan was always willing to give another credit where it was due, especially when the deed was done in a manner in which he himself would not have behaved.

Teyle smiled at him, a thin smile but there, and returned his nod.

Well. The immediate problem was over, but what would the remainder of the day bring?

Conan found out the answer to his question as the hours wore down. Dake put the troop to work, clearing a large circle of dirt a few minutes' walk from the center of the village, surrounding it with tall torches staked into the ground. Kreg kept the curious locals away.

As the shadows of night began to paint the land, the arena was finished and the enthralled group was ordered to the river to bathe. Dake's offhand command to strip did not bother Conan, but he could see that Tro and Teyle were embarrassed by their nudity. Neither had reason to be, for while Tro was covered by a fine layer of furlike hair and Teyle was of huge stature, both were built as attractively as any woman Conan had ever known, firm of hip and thigh, and nary a wrinkle or sag anywhere. He was a young man, and of course he looked at the women. It was fortunate that the water was so cold, for it kept his attraction and interest from becoming apparent.

Clean and somewhat refreshed, the group dressed and returned to the wagon. They dined on cold meat and fruit-some kind of apple, Conan reckoned-and drank a mild, pale wine that Kreg had procured from the villagers.

Conan refrained from filling his belly, eating only small amounts and sipping lightly at the wine. A full belly detracted from a man's fighting prowess, he had learned, and too much wine sometimes produced a reckless bravery but never added more skill.

From without the wagon the murmur of the gathering villagers reached them. Quite a large crowd, Conan judged from the sounds.

After a time Dake began to expound from his platform. He spoke of far places, incredible tribes, and man and animal perversions. His voice rose and fell, now booming, now hushed, and the crowd was mostly silent, laughing at the occasional jest.

"-and from the heavens, behold!"

The villagers yelled and laughed and made a great commotion.

Small objects plopped against the canvas roof, causing the material to sag and sounding like clumps of mud when they struck.

"I thought this was an illusion," Conan said.

"An illusion with some substance," Penz said. "They look and feel real but do not last for more than a few moments before disappearing."

Dake's voice boomed again. "Like toads not? Observe! As I make them come, I send them away!"

More startled chatter from the crowd.

Kreg stuck his head into the wagon. "You are first tonight, Tro. Then Penz, Sab, Conan, Vilken, and the giants. Do not be tardy!"

As Conan was paying attention to Kreg, he did not hear some of what Dake said, but the ending was: "-and now, friends, I give you the beautiful and incredible Tro, the woman who is also a cat!"

Tro moved through the curtained doorway, and there were yet more gasps and exclamations from the audience.

Each went in their turn-Penz, Sab, and then Conan. Were he not being held in magical thrall, Conan would have laughed at the lies pouring forth from the mage's mouth. How he, Conan, had been undefeated in a hundred fights against men, beasts, and even demons. True, the Cimmerian had encountered all of those at one time or another. Some he had fought with sword, some with his bare hands, and he had won more than his share of such encounters, but Dake's stories were beyond the accomplishments of any but a god. The man made it sound as if Conan could defeat an army with the one hand while drinking a tankard of ale with the other, never raising a hair or a bead of sweat.

Vilken was produced with a similar story, and he flashed his pointed teeth as if it were all true and he was enjoying the retelling of it immensely.

Finally the three giants were brought forth, and they apparently impressed the crowd most of all, especially Teyle. Conan saw a number of men looking wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the giant woman, and he did not have to be particularly adept to understand their thoughts.

In due course the women of the village drifted away, along with a number of the men, some of whom did not seem overly willing to leave but whose wives, with tugs or shoves, prodded them to do so. When the crowd had thinned to an audience of men only and Kreg had collected more coins from each, Dake ordered Tro and then Teyle to remove their clothing and parade around naked in front of the leering assemblage.

Conan was offended greatly by this. Seeing the two uncovered while bathing was one thing; after all, all of them were slaves and he also had been forced to strip. Pandering to the lusts of these idiot villagers in such a manner, for money, angered the Cimmerian. It was not as if the catwoman and the giantess were trulls who did it willingly. They were unable to resist, and it was Dake whose purse was fattened.

After hearing the ribald comments for what he apparently deemed long enough, Dake had the women dress and stand aside.

"Now, we have amused ourselves. Is there no man among you who will dare to face the unbeaten barbarian?" He gestured at Conan, whose glower was not faked in the least.

The men laughed and mumbled, and a name reached Conan's ears: Deri.

The crowd parted, and a man lumbered into view.

Big he was, larger even than Conan, and shaggy looking. His nose had been broken at least once and skewed to one side, and there were scars crisscrossing his chin and one cheek. Part of an earlobe was missing. He wore a leather vest, with no sleeves or shirt under it, and thick hair sprouted all over the visible parts of him. His beard and hair, both long, were a greasy brown, and the hair on his chest was nearly as dense as Penz's. Beneath a large belly was a pair of ragged wool pants tied with a cloth sash. Deri's feet were bare and nearly black with dirt, and sprouted more hair so that they looked almost like fuzzy boots, save where they were relieved by the tips of his bare toes. The toenails were long and ragged and clogged with dirt.

From the mass of his shoulders and arms, Conan guessed that Deri had done more than a bit of heavy lifting. There was a layer of fat over them, but plenty of muscle under that.

When he smiled, Deri revealed a gap where his two upper front teeth should have been.

"Aye, I dare your champion. 'E looks too pretty to be a fighter! 'E looks more like a woman!"

The villagers erupted into laughter at this lame joke.

"Are you a wrestler or a boxer, friend Deri?" Dake asked.

"Catch as catch can," Deri said. "No holds barred."

"Done!" Dake said. "Two gold solons to the winner." The freakmaster produced two coins from his belt and held them up between his thumb and forefinger. The torchlight glittered on the gold.

"Might as well give 'em to me now, I says." Deri turned and grinned at his companions. One slapped him on the back and others voiced agreement.

"We shall see," Dake said. "Perhaps some of you other worthy men would be willing to wager on the contest? So confident am I of my man that I am willing to offer, oh, say, two coins to one?"

That brought a surge of men toward Dake, waving all manner of coinage. Conan saw much copper, less silver, but even a few small bits of gold flashing in the firelight.

"Easy, friends, easy. My man Kreg shall accept your wagers. Select one from among you to hold all monies."

The serious business of betting continued for some time. During this period Dake pulled Conan aside. As the Cimmerian stripped to his loin cover, Dake said, "Do not defeat him too quickly. Allow him to throw you a time or two and we shall offer three-to-one odds and collect the remainder of their money."

Conan studied Deri as the challenger shucked his clothing. "He is not an inconsiderable opponent," the Cimmerian offered dryly.

"No matter."

"It is not you who are facing him."

"I have every confidence in you, Conan." Dake slapped one of Conan's solid and hard shoulders. "You see, Deri is fighting for money. If he loses, he shall be but as poor as he was before. But if you lose, I shall force you to stand still while I allow Kreg to use you for sword practice."

FIFTEEN

Balor was a man not at all averse to being a walking example of some of the more extreme effects of his product. At the moment the fat man lay semiconscious in the rear of the wagon, draped in what would seem a most uncomfortable manner amid the wine casks. He showed no apparent unease, however, and the only sign that he was awake took place whenever the wagon would hit a particularly deep rut or bump, jolting it. At such occurrences, Balor would usually yell, in a voice that should certainly scare small children and dogs, "Curse all the daughters of Ophir, and all of their mothers too!"

Fosull, feeling no pain or any sensations whatsoever save a warm muzziness, grinned from within the cover of his hood and shook his head when Balor once again uttered his favorite imprecation. The winejack must have had some unpleasant experiences with the women of Ophir, wherever that was.

The Varg was content to drive the wagon. They had passed an inn some hours back, but slowed only a little. A stream that looped close to the road had provided the oxen with water to slake their thirst and a bit of fresh mud to cover the patches of green that had begun to peek from under the dried dirt on Fosull's hands and face. Balor, drunk as a fly in a sun-rotted mango, had never noticed the stop.

Fosull had no idea how far ahead the village of Elika might be. He had managed to ascertain that this was a small settlement a short trek from the main road before Balor had surrendered to the gods of wine.

It did not really matter. The wagon tracks continued onward and Fosull would follow them until he caught the son-stealers. If they missed the turn to Elika, too bad. If Balor sobered in time, he could point the way; otherwise, the leader of the Vargs intended to keep to his goal.

As evening covered her face with shades of night, a damp wind began to blow, and in the breeze Fosull caught the scent of approaching rain.

Even as he sniffed the air, a faint flash of white lit the night behind them. Moments later a low grumble rolled over the moving wagon. Lightning and its slower brother thunder, Fosull knew. The storm followed them, and doubtless it would prove faster than the plodding oxen.

This was bad news. The oxen might be unhappy about the storm; Fosull was no herdsman to know about beasts of burden. Better they should be secured somewhere before the full brunt of the rain arrived. And while Vargs were hardly ants to be washed away by the odd storm, the mud with which he had only just daubed himself would certainly do so. He and the drunk Balor could always shelter under the wagon once the animals were tethered, but a cave or house, or even a thick growth of trees or bushes, would be welcome.

There was a method to gauge the distance of a storm, taught to Fosull by his grandfather. It involved counting, a skill at which no Varg was particularly adept, but Fosull could reach the number of fingers and toes that he had. When a bolt of lightning was seen, one started to count. Could one get all the way to the last toe, going slowly, the storm was at least ten minutes from arriving. Fosull had no idea of why this was true, but it worked more often than not. The reach to fewer toes or fingers meant that the rain would be closer. He would continue to look for shelter until he judged the storm to be ten minutes behind them, at which time he would secure the oxen and awaken Balor so that they might move under the wagon. Assuming he did not find better protection from the storm, of course.

What bothered Fosull more than the immediate threat of being drenched, however, was what the storm might do to the tracks of the wagon he followed. A hard storm would churn the earth into muck, and the wagon's imprint might well be lost.

Ah, well. He would have to slay that dog when it appeared, he supposed. Vargs had no control of the weather, despite the appeasement deasils the shaman would sometimes offer to the sun and gods.

The smell of rain grew stronger.

The herald rain found Raseri nearing a thin patch of young trees, far from other shelter. He knew as well as any Jatte the ways of weather, and in a village of farmers and hunters, such knowledge was considerable. The storm's brunt approaching was nearly upon him, and he expected that it would be short, but fierce.

Raseri used his obsidian knife to cut branches for a lean-to he quickly constructed against a medium-sized tree on the edge of a grove. He placed the makeshift structure well away from the larger and higher trees. It was known that the gods would sometimes hurl lightning at the tallest objects in an area, perhaps to teach them humility. The leader of the Jatte had no desire to be roasted by the gods' lightning; he had seen one of his kind so struck and the sight had not been pleasant.

It was but the work of a few minutes to build the slanted shelter and pile the lashed branches thick with the roughly woven thatch. It would hardly be proof against the heaviest-driven gusts of rain, but it would keep the most part of the water from within. Being perhaps a little damp was considerably better than being drenched and chilled to the bone.

The lean-to finished, Raseri crawled into it on his hands and knees just as the first fat drops began to spatter around him. Lightning shattered the dark and thunder smote at his ears, but the gods chose to spare him. A nearby tree exploded and the sharp smell of boiled sap and wood filled the air for an instant even as the now-pounding rain sought to wash the stink away.

Not a fit night to be without, Raseri decided. Lucky he was to have even this much protection from it.

The villagers of Elika gathered almost to a man around the area of Dake's wagon, waiting for the fight. Bad weather was coming to add to the night's tension. Conan was aware of the rain's less-than-stealthy approach, heralded as it was by the lightning, thunder, and hard winds. The storm, however, was hardly uppermost in his mind as he circled to his left, watching carefully the man circling opposite him. Torchlight cast wavering shadows every which way, and even the dimness was not kind to his opponent.

The Cimmerian, having fought more than a few men, had thought to tie his hair back with a short leather thong, to deny Deri any easy grasp. The large villager looked to be powerful, but slow, though Conan did not count upon this latter aspect greatly. Often bigger men moved considerably faster than it would seem at first glance.

Deri feinted a grab at Conan's right wrist and followed the fake attack with a round kick at the Cimmerian's head.

Conan ducked, jumped in, and shoved at Deri's shoulder, using both hands.

The bigger man began a fall, then turned it into a dive away from the shove. He rolled into a ball and came up, spinning to face Conan.

He was faster than he looked, and he had some skill in tumbling. Conan added that to his store of knowledge.

Deri grinned. "Is that your best, girl-face? Mosquitoes bother me more!"

He was a talker. Some men liked to talk when they fought. Conan himself preferred to save his energy for the battle rather than to waste it in words, except when he saw some advantage in taunts. Sometimes a word could anger an opponent into doing something foolish.

" 'Twas not I rolling around in the dirt," Conan ventured.

Deri laughed, showing the large gap in his teeth. "A man needs to loosen up, don't he?"

Conan circled back to his right. A childish taunt would not reach through the thickness of this one's skull.

Deri shifted his weight, as if he were going to move to his right, then lunged suddenly, hands outstretched.

Conan dodged and knotted his right fist into a fleshy mallet. He hammered at Deri's ducked head, missed, and slammed the edge of his bunched hand into the man's back just below the right shoulder. It was like hitting a leather-covered tree trunk.

Deri grunted, dived into another roll, and twisted as he came up.

"My sister hits harder than that."

"A man needs to loosen up."

Deri grinned again. "I will loosen your limbs from your body, barbarian!"

Conan reasoned that since Deri was larger, and likely as strong as he himself was, it would be better to say out of his grip and continue to strike or kick him.

Deri rushed in again, seeking to grapple.

Conan sprang aslant to the charge and punched, the knuckles of his fist catching Deri over the left eye. The skin split under the blow, but the bigger man spun away and chased after Conan.

As the Cimmerian backed quickly from the attack, he heard Dake yell, "Stay in the ring! Who leaves it loses!"

Conan glanced down to see where his feet were in relation to the ring. The distraction proved costly.

Deri lunged, almost in a dive, and wrapped his arms around Conan's waist.

The Cimmerian hammered down with both fists, but the angle was bad and the force of his strikes was absorbed by Deri's thick back.

Deri raised from his crouch and lifted Conan free of the ground, then snapped backward and hurled the smaller man through the air.

Conan also knew something of tumbling. Even so, the angle of his fall was less than optimum, and he hit hard on one shoulder as he tried to tuck into a ball. He came up, then dived forward and rolled again.

The second roll caught Deri short. Expecting to catch Conan standing, the village overbalanced and nearly lost his footing.

Lightning struck nearby, the sound of the thunder coming almost as one with the flash of white.

"Mitra!" someone yelled.

The light and noise drew some of Deri's attention. Conan dropped his left shoulder and charged, driving his powerful legs hard. He hit Deri square in the chest with his shoulder.

The villager went sprawling, and such was the force of Conan's rush that he nearly stepped on the fallen man. He was forced to leap to clear the obstacle.

By the time he landed, Deri was up again, though no longer grinning.

It began to rain then, a hard patter that quickly increased to a downpour.

Crom! The rain fell so hard that Conan had to wipe it from his eyes to see his opponent. At least it was not mixed with his own blood, as was the water flowing down Deri's face.

As Conan circled past Dake, the man whispered behind him: "Enough toying, Conan. You may finish him now. The rain is uncomfortable."

The young Cimmerian gave no sign that he had heard the mage speak. Toying? This Deri was as strong as a bull! If he should get a good grip-The thought called to itself the deed. Deri lumbered forward. The muddy ground offered a poor support for Conan's intended sidestep. He slipped, not enough to fall, but enough to allow Deri to close. The larger man threw his arms around Conan's waist and laughed in triumph as he lifted him from the ground.

Strong as he was, Conan knew that Deri would break his spine unless he got free. The man's arms tightened and the pressure on Conan's lower back increased. Conan's fists against the man's back and shoulder were to no avail. Crom, the pain-!

Conan opened his hands and brought them together with all the power he had, striking Deri on the ears with the flats of his palms. The sound was loud to Conan's own ears; it must have been deafening to Deri.

The brute screamed, an inarticulate and high-pitched yell, and dropped Conan to clasp his hands to his wounded ears.

That was all that Conan needed. He snapped his foot up and connected with the instep against the big man's crotch.

Deri's eyes bulged as his hands left his ears to clutch at the new injury.

Conan drew back his fist and slammed the stunned man square between the eyes. The blow hurt the Cimmerian's knuckles, but it was worse for Deri. He fell backward like a tree being toppled. A great splash erupted when he hit the puddled ground. The rain beating down was not enough to rouse the fallen combatant, and it became obviously and immediately apparent that the fight was over. The only way Deri was going home this night would be if he were carried.

"Well done," Dake said.

Conan turned to face the man who enslaved him, and for a moment his rage blossomed enough so that he once again felt the lessening of the magic that gripped him. Not enough so that he could attack, but with a noticeable difference.

"Collect the wagers, Kreg," Dake said, turning his back to Conan. "I shall be in the wagon drying myself."

Dake moved away, splashing through the mud and puddles, toward the wagon.

Lightning flared and thunder hammered the ring and the suddenly weary Conan.

This, he decided, was not going to be a pleasant life.

He had to escape.

Somehow.

SIXTEEN

With the storm still beating upon the thick canvas roof of the wagon, Dake dried and then dressed himself in a clean robe. He grinned. Quite a profitable evening this had been. The show had drawn nearly everyone in the village and they had been captivated, as he had known they would be. Conan's battle with the gap-toothed fool had paid off even better. A pity about the storm, though. Dake had no intention of standing about in the rain while customers dallied with the catwoman or giantess in the wagon, so that would have to wait for a better night. Still, all in all, he could hardly complain. Most of the loose money in the village had found its way into Dake's purse, of that he was certain, and it seemed a good omen. A good beginning did not guarantee a good ending, but certainly it helped.

Dake moved to the doorway and yelled out into the rain. "Come inside, fools. I would not have you sicken because of the weather."

Obediently-how else?-his thralls moved to heed his command.

Rousing Balor from his stupor amid the wine casks had proved impossible, so Fosull left the man and crawled under the wagon. The oxen were tethered by their nose rings to large rocks and would not be going anywhere. When the storm broke, there was little shelter to be found, so the wagon would have to do.

As the rain showered down, Balor began to curse again, louder than before. There came a sodden thump as the man jumped-or more likely fellfrom the wagon's bed and landed next to the rear wheel. He scrambled across the rapidly muddying ground and collapsed next to Fosull.

"Why did you not wake me?"

"I tried. You seemed content to slumber."

"I might have drowned!"

"But you did not."

"What of the oxen?"

"Tied securely."

"I do not suppose you bothered to bring any wine?"

"As it happens, I did."

A nearby flash of lightning lit Balor's face, revealing his grin. "Ah, for a small man, you are large of wit."

"Next to the front wheel."

The space under the wagon was not such as to allow Balor room to sit upright, but he was able to crawl well enough to reach the small wine cask. He returned to sprawl next to Fosull after a moment, the smell of fresh wine on his breath and beard.

"I fear the water may pool and flow under our shelter," Balor said.

"I have dug a trench around the wagon to prevent that."

"Ah, what a clever one you are! Have some wine?"

Fosull nodded. "Aye. Might as well."

But as he drank, Fosull was full of dark thoughts. This was no mild spring shower, 'twas a fierce rain. On the morrow the dirt road would quickly dry out, but it would be washed clean of recent tracks. Finding the wagon carrying Vilken would be made more difficult.

Why, he wondered, did the gods task him this way?

The innermost thatch of Raseri's lean-to had become soaked by the time the storm abated; still, the shelter had done no less than he had expected and had kept him virtually dry. As the lightnings and thunder grew distant and quieter, moving away with the heavier rains, he considered his options.

He could leave immediately after the rain stopped, but this did not seem wise. The road would be a sea of mud, and someone of his size and weight would negotiate such a venue with difficulty at best.

Better that he should wait until the sun had baked some of the water from the earth, say, until mid-morning. Had the wagon he followed at a distance been within the realm of the storm, surely it would have to wait at least that long before attempting travel. A heavy conveyance would sink even deeper into rain-softened ground than would a giant.

Yes, that would be the wiser choice, Raseri felt. Thus satisfied with his reasoning, the leader of the Jatte fell into a comfortable, if somewhat damp, slumber.

Conan's lower back ached, as did his ribs where they curved around toward his chest. He had fought against more skilled men, but few if any had been much stronger than Deri.

The fat lamp near his pallet upon the floor of the wagon guttered and sent a lazy tendril of smoke toward the already-stained canvas ceiling, painting a new line of black against the rain-sodden material.

Dake and Kreg were fast asleep, as were most of the others. Close to where Conan lay, however, Teyle was awake.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice in a low whisper.

"Some. It is bearable." He kept his voice quiet, a match for hers.

"Where does it hurt?"

Conan pointed at his injuries.

The giant woman shifted slightly. Though she moved slowly and with care, the wagon creaked under her. She held herself still for a moment, but the sound did not appear to have roused any of the sleepers. Her motions were enough to bring her close to Conan. She sat next to where he lay on his back.

"Lie upon your belly," she said.

"Why

"My people have a technique for healing with their hands. Perhaps I can lessen your injuries."

Conan shrugged and rolled onto his belly.

After a moment he felt Teyle's hands on him. Her touch was soft as she slid her palms down to cover most of his lower back. After shifting them so that her hands were centered over the places where it hurt the most, she held them still.

Several moments passed, and Conan felt Teyle's hands begin to grow warmer against his bare skin. Soon it was as if her flesh were somehow heated from within; his own sinew grew hot under her touch. Not so hot as to burn him, but certainly of a degree higher than he would have thought possible from another's mere laying on of hands.

The warmth was soothing, if nothing else, and Conan relaxed under the giant woman's ministrations.

How long she kept her palms pressed against him he could not say, but it seemed a lengthy period. When she pulled her hands from his body, the ache he had felt was much abated; in fact, it was almost completely gone.

Conan sat up and faced the giant woman who sat smiling down at him. Even seated, she was much taller than he.

"I have no more pain," he whispered. "Is this some kind of magic?"

She said, "Perhaps it is. I cannot say. I was taught the skill by my grandmother. She told me that anyone could learn it, so I think that if it is magic, it is of a natural kind." Her voice was tinged with sadness.

Conan felt a sudden urge to hug the woman, feeling somehow that she was afraid and in need of comfort, despite her size. From where he sat, his face was level with Teyle's large breasts; still, he leaned forward and put his arms around her and pulled her to him.

She did not resist, and her arms, as thick as his own, encircled his shoulders and tightened.

"I fear for what will happen to my brother and sister," she said, holding Conan in a grip stronger than any woman had ever done. "And I fear for what that evil man will do with me as well."

Pressed against those formidable breasts, Conan turned his head to the side and said, "Do not worry, Teyle. I will find a way to free us."

But as he stroked and comforted her, Conan wondered how he would manage to do what he promised.

When morning broke cloudlessly over the village, Dake stood on the seat of the wagon and surveyed the land around him. A vast stretch of mud existed where the ground was bare, and the vegetation was still sodden from the night's storm. The wagon would not get two spans before it became mired, he realized. They would have to wait some hours until the sun dried things up a bit before they could leave.

As the others awoke, Dake had Tro prepare a breakfast. He informed them of his conclusion regarding travel.

Vilken said, "But if we hog down, can you not have your demon pull us free?"

Kreg laughed. "Fool! The demon is naught but an illusion!"

"Kreg! Hold your tongue or I shall remove it!" Dake glared at his assistant. The idiot revealed things better kept secret. Though it hardly mattered to his thralls, Dake would not put it past Kreg to say the same thing in a room full of potential enemies. Kreg was definitely losing his usefulness, there could be no doubt of it. Something would have to be done about him, and in the near future.

Dake and Kreg left the wagon to examine the road leaving the village. After they had gone, Conan turned to the other captives. "I have no intention of arriving in Shadizar as a slave," he said. "We must try to escape."

"We have tried many times," Penz said. "To no avail."

"Have you all attempted escape at the same time?"

"Aye," Tro put in softly. "Even three together made no difference."

"We are now eight," the Cimmerian said. "Numbers sometimes lend strength."

The original three captives looked dubious.

"What is there to lose?"

Sab spoke to that. "Dake will become angry and punish us."

"How shall he know?"

"He always knows," Penz said. "The magic is tied directly to him."

"Then you may tell him I forced you to attempt it," Conan said.

The group filed out of the wagon, Conan leading the way. He slogged through thick mud, away from the vehicle and in the opposite direction taken by Dake and Kreg.

Not more than ten paces distant, a barrier stopped the Cimmerian's advance. There was nothing visible in the clean morning air, but all of a moment, Conan found himself pressing against what felt much like a wall of gigantic bow strings. The barrier gave under his hands but pushed back; after a struggle that advanced him another two steps, the wall shoved him hard enough that he could not maintain his footing in the mud, and he slid backward for two paces before stopping.

"Come and stand next to me and push," Conan ordered the others.

With all eight of the captives pressing, against the invisible barrier, the resistance lessened and allowed for more give. The group managed six hard-won steps before they were halted. Slowly, the magical ward began to slide them toward the wagon, until they were back where first they had encountered the spell.

Conan's smoldering rage flamed into a hot blaze. He charged the barrier again, drawing his sword as he did so. Perhaps he could cut his way through it-To his surprise and that of his companions, the Cimmerian managed to slosh over the muddy ground for a good fifteen spans, at least three times the distance he had managed with the help of the others. The sword was still lifted, but he had not used it. As he felt the springy tension of the spell start to halt him again, Conan let out a wordless growl of anger and cut at the force that sought to push him back.

The spell gave way!

Conan drove himself forward another five paces, his rage giving way to triumph. He was defeating the mage's curse!

As his anger faded, however, the invisible hand clutched him and hurled him backward. Conan was lifted from his feet and propelled through the morning sunshine, a rock tossed by a playful god. He hit the ground well past his startled companions and skidded through the mud, throwing up a shower of water and muck before sliding to a halt near the wagon.

Even as Conan stood and began to wipe the guck from his arms and legs, he puzzled over the event. He had been about to break free of the curse, he was certain of it. What had happened?

Dake returned with his dog Kreg at that moment, and the Cimmerian saw at first consternation, then relief, on the dark man's face.

"Tried to leave us, did you, Conan? Ah, can you not see that it is a waste of time and energy? Best you save your strength for the fights I shall procure for you on the road to Shadizar. My spell is unbreakable."

Conan continued to strip the ooze from his body, saying nothing.

"Still, I am the master, and attempts to defy me must be punished."

"Vent your anger upon me," Conan said. "I forced the others to try it."

Dake looked at his thralls, then back at Conan. "Yes, you would do that. Try to use brute strength to solve every problem. Very well, then. Suffer for it.

The mage turned to Kreg. "Hurt him. But do not do any damage, do you understand?"

Kreg grinned.

To Conan, Dake said, "Stand still and allow Kreg to chastise you, barbarian fool. And remember the lesson: To go against my wishes is futile."

Kreg's first slap hit Conan's face, and the Cimmerian stared at the man with contempt, unable to resist or to move away. While he knew it was unwise, he could not keep from taunting the blonde. "Is that your best, dog? A mosquito stings harder."

Conan saw the anger flood into Kreg's face, darkening his fair skin. The man drew his booted foot back to kick.

"Take care, Kreg," Dake said. His voice was mild. "If he is too injured to fight, I shall inflict matching wounds upon you."

Kreg's anger seemed tempered by the threat and he put his foot down, withholding the intended kick. Instead, he stepped forward and punched Conan under the breastbone. The strike was powerful, and even the thick muscles there could not absorb all the force of it. Conan felt his wind go, and his knees buckled slightly. He did not fall, but it was only with great concentration that he stayed standing.

"I can cause pain without injuring you, barbarian."

Kreg's grin grew wider as he further proved that he could do just that.

SEVENTEEN

As the wagon worked its way slowly over the still-boggy ground, Conan lay on his pallet, Teyle attending to the new aches Kreg had given him. He was bruised, but the slaps and punches had injured his pride more than they had harmed his body.

As Teyle took away his pain, Penz sat nearby, fingering one of his hempen ropes, uncurling then recurling it into tight coils. Outside the covered doorway, Kreg drove the wagon, with Dake next to him, and those inside spoke in quiet tones when speak they did.

"He has done the same to us," Penz said. "Tro, Sab, and I have all felt Kreg's fists. He enjoys using them."

"So I noticed," Conan said. A twinge of hurt fled under Teyle's hot hands even as he spoke.

"It is better not to anger him," Sab added.

Conan essayed a shrug, difficult to do while lying facedown. "A man enraged often loses his control. I thought to cause him to expend more energy and thus finish sooner."

"That was brave. He could have hurt you," said Oren.

"I was consoled by the knowledge that Dake would punish him did he do so."

"A risky business," Penz said.

"All of life is a risk, friend."

"Well, at least now we know that we cannot break Dake's spell," Teyle said.

For a moment Conan considered telling his fellow prisoners what conclusion he had reached about that, but then decided against it. While he felt he could trust them, it was possible that Dake might be able to compel them to supply answers to questions they might not otherwise heed. That the freakmaster was wily and dangerous was a given. What his companions did not know, they could not reveal. Better for them. Better for him.

For the spell could be broken, Conan felt.

Despite his lack of civilization's manners, Conan was no slackwit when it came to reasoning. Those times when he had most successfully resisted Dake's magical enthrallment had been when his rage had been at its strongest. On each occasion, as his anger had lessened, so had the the geas reclaimed him. He had very nearly broken free when last he tried, and he reasoned that his elation at near release had dampened his anger sufficiently so that he had failed.

This was powerful knowledge. A sword was a good weapon, but knowing how to use it made it a dozen times better. Armed with this new understanding, Conan now had a plan, which he would confide to the others at the proper time. Under this plan he surmised that if they could all grow as enraged as had he, surely they could overcome the magical barrier and escape. The gods must know they had just cause.

'Twould be best to attempt it when Dake was not around, for there was nothing to prevent the mage from reinstating the curse, and furthermore, burning anger could not be maintained forever. Then again, once outside Dake's influence, a strong arm might hurl a spear or rock that would end the man's threat permanently.

It was, as these things went, a simple plan, but 'twas the simple ones that most often worked best.

So, no, Conan would not reveal what he had learned, not yet. He would wait. Shadizar must still be some distance away, and with only Dake and his cur to watch them, the right moment would certainly arise.

Patience was not Conan's strength, but he had learned that sometimes nothing else would serve. He would bide his time, and then he would act.

Fosull began to grow irritated at his companion's lamentations. The redheaded fat man maintained his drunkenness with a continuing influx of wine, and his babblings had become a grating upon the Varg's concentration.

Fosull himself no longer imbibed any of the wagon's contents, for it took all of his sober attention to continue his main task. The storm had done that which he had feared, smoothing the road and removing most of the wagon's tracks. Here and there, an especially deep rut remained, but those partial impressions were few and easily missed without a sharp eye. Balor's mutterings served only to distract Fosull, and he could ill afford a divided attention.

The Varg considered several options open to him. He could leave the wagon and continue his pursuit on foot. This would be slower and present the same associated risks as before. Or, he could put his spear into the fat man's heart and dump the corpse and continue on alone. Only there might be those along the way who would recognize the winejack's wagon and wonder at how a small person with muddy skin came to occupy it. Fosull had no desire to answer questions of this stripe.

Or, he could continue on as things were now, turning a mostly deaf ear to the fat man until the drunken ravings deepened into unconsciousness once again, as surely they would.

In the end, Fosull decided that the latter was the best course of action. Balor was still of more use than harm, and during a lucid moment had even told the Varg that they were fast approaching the village of Elika. Someone there might have seen the wagon, the Varg figured, and could keep him to the correct path.

So, as the sun cooked the wet earth and wrung from it the moisture of the night's storm, Fosull continued to drive the wine wagon, searching for the occasional track that belonged to the wagon of his son's captors.

Just ahead of Raseri was an open wagon drawn by oxen, working its way along the road. The Jatte shaman slowed his pace so as not to overtake the vehicle, and made to examine the conveyance and its occupants without being seen. The wagon was stacked with barrels, likely filled with wine, to judge from the faint odor of it in the air. Two small men sat upon the driver's platform, one of them apparently a child who wore a cowled robe. A father and son, likely, delivering their wares to some village farther up the road.

The wagon's speed was slower than Raseri's own, but he decided that while it offered little threat to him, it might be better to dog it for a way rather than to pass it. The giant's reason for this was simple enough: Anyone approaching from the opposite direction would likely pause and exchange greetings with the wagoneers, giving Raseri time to conceal himself did he so desire. It was a matter of giving himself more options, always a good idea. Soon enough he would have to seek answers from the small men again, as the rain had erased the tracks of the larger wagon containing his children. He hoped to find a village or a farm near one of the forks in the road so that he could make inquiry against taking the wrong path.

Keeping far enough back so that he could dart from the road did the wagon stop, the Jatte shaman and leader followed the pair of small men.

A few moments later the larger of the two occupants crawled into the back of the wagon and disappeared from sight. Raseri worried that he had been seen, but the vehicle did not slow and it appeared that the man had not noticed him. The smaller of the men-surely a child, at that size? continued to urge the oxen forward.

Several hours from the village, the western road from Ophir joined the wider, southerly road to Shadizar. As they approached this juncture, the sun had already begun to dry the shallower puddles along the way into traceries of cracks. There was even dust in the air ahead, a fact remarked upon by Kreg to his master.

Dake, roused from a partial slumber upon the seat, awoke fully and saw that this was indeed so. In the distance, a haze of dust did fog the air. At the same time that he noticed this, Dake also saw that the road past the melding of the highway to the distant Ophir Pass, itself just north of the border with Koth, was deeply rutted with wagon tracks and human scandal and boot prints.

"Oh-ho," Dake said. "A wealthy caravan precedes us, and only a short distance ahead."

Kreg looked at his master. "How do you know this?"

Dake said, "Did not you yourself just point out yon cloud of dust?"

"Well, aye, but-how can you tell the dust of a wealthy caravan from that of a poor farmer driving sheep or pigs?"

Stupid, and no doubt of it. Dake sighed. "Use your wits. There are tracks of at least a dozen wagons ahead of us, as well as the prints of thrice that many men on foot. No poor farmer could manage either for driving sheep. And the tracks are fresh, laid down after the rain, and from the direction of the Ophir Pass. A simple deduction."

"True, but there could be several farmers, could there not?"

Dake sighed again. Why did he bother to explain? "Do you not recall that the Ophir Pass is thick with bandits who prey upon unwary travelers?"

"Aye."

"How much resistance do you think even a large number of dirt farmers or sheepherders would offer such brigands?"

"Not much, I expect."

"So if this group has come from that direction, then it must be protected by armed troops. Mercenaries, most likely, or mayhaps even regular soldiers. And such troops cost money; therefore, whatever they are protecting must have some value."

Watching Kreg's face was like unto watching the sun light up the morning skies. Truth dawned upon his features. "Ahhh. I see."

Hardly more than a blind man, Dake thought. And even that with as much difficulty as a goat trying to fly.

"Increase our speed," Dake said. "I would know who peoples this caravan."

Obediently Kreg stirred the oxen to a faster pace.

The sun was half through his daily journey when Fosull, still driving the wagon of the besotted and unconscious Balor, came upon the turning for the village of Elika. He would not have known this, save that a local resident was by chance arriving at that same juncture from the opposite direction at almost the same moment.

"Ho!" the man called out. "Is that Balor's wine wagon?"

"Aye," Fosull replied, "it is."

"Where then is Balor?"

Fosull had a moment to be glad he had not slain the drunkard. "He is, ah, asleep in the wagon."

The farmer laughed. "More likely soused in his own wares, I would wager"

"Just so. Tell me, friend, have you taken notice of a large wagon traveling the roads hereabout?"

"Oh, you mean Dake and his band of freaks?"

Fosull's heart sped up. "That would be it, yes."

The man shook his head sadly. " 'Twas an interesting display of oddities the freakmaster offered, but I also bet my last copper that Deri would best Dake's champion in a fighting match. Who would have known that the barbarian could move like that?"

"Would you happen to know where Dake and his band might be now?"

"On the road to Shadizar," the man said, waving in the direction from which he had come. "Four or five hours along."

The hunting instinct in Fosull flared and he felt a surge of cold twist his bowels. Only a few hours ahead!

"One other question, friend. Are there turns that must be taken to reach this Shadizar?"

"Nay. Straight down this road as the crow flies will do it."

Fosull grinned, remembered in time that view of his teeth might cause some consternation, and managed at the last instant to keep them hidden. "I thank you. Well, we must be going."

"But are you not planning to stop at Elika and deliver some of Balor's wines?"

"To be sure, but . . . ah . . . upon our return, in a few days."

With that, Fosull snapped the reins over the back of the oxen and the wagon lurched forward. Balor did not gainsay this move, being at the moment as dead to the world as an average corpse. And if he should awaken later and offer a grumble about missing his stop, they could always part company, Fosull knew. One way or another.

Raseri watched the meeting of the wagon and the farmer from a vantage point nearer than he would have hoped for. A large clump of hedgelike bushes near the turnoff grew almost to the very edge of the road. Using care so that his great feet did not smash too many twigs or small plants, the giant was able to creep within a few spans of the wagon, to a position whereby he could hear snatches of the conversation between the driver and the pedestrian.

From the voice it was apparent that the driver of the wine wagon was no child. And a tiny flash of green under the grayish skin-not skin at all, Raseri realized-on the small man's hand gave the leader of the Jatte the final clue he needed: The driver was a Varg!

As the wagon jerked forward and began to move off, with the farmer going down the hill away from the main road, Raseri pondered this new information.

The news about the wagon, commanded by one called "Dake," was welcome of course, but what in the name of the Creator was a Varg doing here, so far away from home?

When the wagon was some distance down the road, far enough so that Raseri thought he might safely resume his own progress, he left the cover of the brush and started walking.

Vargs, like the Jatte, were not known to leave their home and travel among the small men. Then again, Raseri reasoned, he himself was here, having been given sufficient need. Too, the Varg must have some compelling reason to be on the road to Shadizar, following the path of those who had kidnapped three of the Jatte-Aha!

Of a moment Raseri had a reason for the Varg's presence. The pedestrian had called the one known as "Dake" a freakmaster. Someone who displayed "oddities." A Jatte would seem an oddity, to the small men. Would not a Varg seem one also?

This Dake had taken a Varg, as well.

And as for the "barbarian" fighter of whom the farmer spoke, Raseri felt certain that this was Conan, which confirmed his earlier suspicion that his former captive was indeed in league with those who had stolen his children. And only a few hours ahead!

Raseri smiled grimly to himself. The heavier wagon would move more slowly than either the wine cart or Raseri himself. By nightfall, perhaps, he and this unknown Varg would overtake their prey.

The Jatte shaman and leader twirled the shaft of his spear reflectively in the fingers of one hand. This adventure would be finished soon, and the road would be awash in the blood of those who had caused it to begin. A Varg or two in the bargain would certainly be worth a little extra effort.

An hour after meeting the local villager, Fosull became aware that he was being followed. Taking care not to reveal this new knowledge, the Varg surreptitiously reined the feeling while pretending to check on the slumbering Balor.

Fosull saw a flash of deeply tanned skin behind him as the shadower quickly hid himself in the trees at the roadside, but the instant's view was enough to reveal that the follower was too large to be one of the outswamp men.

As Fosull turned back to his driving, he pondered what he had discovered. It was a Jatte, it had to be. No outswamp man could be that big. But-why was he following the wine wagon?

Or was he following the wine wagon?

Well, yes, to be sure, he was behind it and following it, after a fashion, but was that his true goal? Jatte did not leave their village very often, and then almost always in groups of three or four so as to catch the odd outswamp man. Why would a single Jatte be out here, so far away from home?

Then Fosull recalled the tracks he had seen when he had discovered the wagon's path for the first time. There were Jatte on board the same vehicle that had his son.

Of course. Someone from the giants had come to fetch back his own.

Fosull smiled, this time allowing his teeth to show since there were no outswamp men to see. Well. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. And if not, perhaps he could manage a bit of meat for the communal pot, at the least. If he and Vilken hurried, maybe they could get home before it spoiled.

A pleasant thought.

EIGHTEEN

The first real sign that they were drawing nearer to the caravan was the appearance of rear guards who whirled about and faced Dake's wagon with lances raised. While they could hardly be called a handsome group, they were well-outfitted, with stout leather arm and shin guards, oiled chain-mail vests over thin lanate shirts, and small round shields of layered rawhide hung from wide belts. Each man bore both a short sword ensheathed at the left hip and a slim lance with a double-edged tip, more appropriate to horsemen than foot soldiers, but light and short enough to be carried easily. They all wore stout boots of good cut. Dake, who had had occasion to deal in such items from time to time, could see that the master of these men had not stinted on quality when it came to supplying them.

"Hold, there, wagoneers. Where be ye bound?"

Dake responded politely to the challenge issued by one he assumed was the leader of the six-man troop, a stocky fellow with bandy legs, red hair, a florid complexion, and squinty eyes, the latter of which were seemingly made worse by exposure to the sun's light.

"We make for Shadizar."

Squinty looked at his men, then back at Dake. "Aye, that seems reasonable, being that ye travel the Shadizar road. To what purpose?"

Dake's response was still even-toned, but slightly less polite. "Business."

"What sort of business?"

The mage's patience, never of the strongest metal, bent and nearly broke. "My business, footman, and none of yours."

Squinty seemed taken aback. He blinked, considered Dake's response for a moment, scratched at some small and unseen vermin under his chin. "Well, be that as it may, we shall be obliged to inspect your wagon."

"By what authority?"

Squinty grinned and hefted his lance. "By the authority that will have ye looking like a dart board if ye try and stop us."

Dake grinned, and it was a malevolent expression. "Well, then, by all means, inspect it."

Squinty puffed out his chest and grinned over his shoulder at his men, who nodded. He looked back at Dake. "Any women in there by chance?"

"As it happens, yes. Three."

"Hear that, boys? Women!"

The other five laughed and passed several rude remarks.

As the red-haired trooper eagerly moved toward the rear of the wagon, Dake leaned back and spoke in a low voice into the cloth that separated the passengers from the outside. "Conan, there is an ugly little man about to open the rear door. Knock him silly. Try not to kill him though."

Next to Dake, Kreg grinned.

"And the rest of you back there, there are five more fools out here on the road. When Conan clouts the one, I want you to hurry out here and catch the rest of them. They are armed, so take care that you are not speared or cut. I would like them all alive, if possible."

There was some risk, Dake knew, but it should be very slight. Were he one of the loutish guards, the sight of Dake's troop would be unnerving to say the least. He would be amazed if the five did not take to their heels with the utmost speed when they saw what they would face if they stayed. Teyle alone would frighten the wits from most men; and that combined with the sight of the others . . . well, it would take a brave man indeed to stand and fight.

Behind the wagon, the lustful Squinty reached up to open the door.

The wagon tracks were fresh, but the road upon which they lay had seen a great deal of use recently. Fosull stopped the wine cart several times and alighted to examine the various ruts and tracks, and from his observations, he deemed that a large group of wagons, horses, and men on foot had gone before the six-wheeled vehicle. Those latter tracks were deeper than the others and had characteristic nicks and grooves that Fosull had become most familiar with since he began following them.

More people would make things more difficult, Fosull realized, as he stood and dusted off his knees. A mistake, for that caused some of the dried mud on his palms to flake away, revealing the green underneath. In fact, his disguise was wearing most thin in places, and it was only Balor's constant intoxication that prevented the man from noticing.

How, Fosull wondered, did the fat man ever manage to deliver his goods when he spent so much of his time consuming them?

As the Varg climbed back onto the wagon, he looked surreptitiously back down the road for signs of his giant shadow. He did not see the Jatte but could still feel his presence out there somewhere; there was no reason to believe himself abandoned. Another problem, but one he could consider at a later time. First he had to catch up with the wagon and retrieve his son. The conveyance was only a couple of hours ahead, he reckoned, and by nightfall he might well be abreast of it.

In the back of the cart, the drunken man snored on.

Raseri did not think himself as good a tracker as the Varg, but he was adept enough to know that his quarry lay not far ahead, either in time or distance. The wheel prints were fresher, albeit somewhat harder to discern because of all the other traffic upon the road.

Well. No matter. As long as he could see them.

What to do about the Varg was another thing. It would hardly do to allow the little green animal to foul up the pursuit. Vargs had a certain low cunning, to be sure, but in matters of thought, the Jatte knew them to be lacking, on the average. Which was not to say that the Varg upon the wagon was necessarily average, of course. That he had come so far and managed to fool at least one small man into thinking he was something else was indicative of perhaps a more than rudimentary intelligence. Still, it was hardly proper for Raseri to overestimate the animal's abilities.

The Jatte waited until the wagon was far enough away as to be no more than a small dot he could hide with his thumbtip before he regained the road from his concealment in the rocks. Now and again the Varg did look back in this direction, and it was possible that the creature might have noticed that he was not alone. There was little Raseri could do about it, nor was he particularly worried about a confrontation with a single Varg armed as he himself was; still, 'twas best to keep as many options open as possible. Knowledge, as anyone with half a brain knew, was power.

Raseri strode off after the distant wagon, making alternate plans one after another, trying to serve up every possibility so that he might solve problems in advance. Chance favors a prepared mind, he knew. He was confident he could anticipate virtually everything he might encounter.

When the door to Dake's wagon was opened, Conan was ready. More than ready, he was eager to vent his anger upon anyone remotely deserving of it, and he had heard enough of the conversation between the soldier and Dake to know that the man was arrogant and altogether too officious. True, he would rather be leaping. upon Dake, but failing that, being able to move and focus his rage upon another was better than nothing. So this fool would bother women, would he?

The door swung wide on its greased hinges, and a grinning red-haired man squinted into the relative darkness of the wagon.

The smile vanished as Conan leaped.

"Mitra!" the man had time to blurt before the Cimmerian was upon him.

For Conan, the scuffle was unhappily short. He swung his fist, knotted into a fleshy hammer, and slammed it into the man's left temple. The guard fell, unconscious, into a heap upon the dusty road.

Crom! He could have put up more of a fight!

Behind him, the doorway of the wagon erupted as the other passengers boiled forth and out to confront the remaining troops. Vilken was first, pointed teeth showing, followed by Penz, Oren, Morja, Tro, Sab, and last, but certainly not the least of them, Teyle.

Dake had not forbidden him to take part, Conan realized, and with that thought, he moved. He grinned and rounded the side of the wagon, voicing a wordless cry as he did so.

At that moment Dake chose to field his red demon.

The stunned looks upon the faces of the five remaining soldiers was as sight to behold. As one unit they turned and started to flee, moving very fast indeed for men hampered with light armor.

Vilken threw his spear and hit one of the men on the unprotected part of his left hamstring; the man stumbled and went sprawling facedown.

Penz sent a loop of his rope through the air and encircled a second trooper. The noose tightened around the man's ankles, and he, too, made a sudden dive to the unforgiving road.

Conan's speed allowed him to overtake the third man, whereupon he shoved with both hands and increased the man's flight so that his legs could not keep up with his new pace. He fell and rolled, ending up on his back, yelling for mercy.

The fourth man fell clutching his head under the combined efforts of the catwoman and four-armed Sab, calling upon various gods as he did so.

The last man dodged from the road and was surrounded by Teyle and her siblings. Big she was, but her long legs gave the giant woman better than average speed once she began moving, and when the final trooper found himself running toward the Jatte woman, he threw down his lance and held his palms out toward her in surrender.

Conan could understand that he and his companions would appear to be formidable, to be sure, but he felt a sense of disgust at how easily the troops had been taken. Whoever paid these six was surely not getting his money's worth.

"Bring them back here," Dake ordered. "I feel that we shall make quite an impression on the caravan when we arrive bearing its rear guards trussed up like pigs for the slaughter!"

There were other guards of course, armed as those now marching in front of Dake's wagon had been. But their amazement at seeing their fellows bound around the arms and shoulders, only their legs free for walking, caused no small stir when finally the entire assemblage arrived at the main body of the caravan.

The caravan was as rich as Dake had forecast. Wagons covered with white and red tents held the center of the train. One of the wagons was larger than Dake's own. The smell of perfume wafted over the sweat stink of the footmen and horses, and the air was also laden with the scent of spice. He heard the soft voices of women coming from one of the larger wagons. The freakmaster would wager that whatever was in the cargo wagons was worth no small amount in the main bazaar at Shadizar.

The line of armed men, at least a score and a half strong, leveled their lances uneasily. Some of the guards made warding-off signs against curses and the evil eye.

"Here, what deviltry is this?" a large trooper called out.

Behind the captured soldiers, Dake stood on the wagon's driving platform and engaged his best voice. "I would speak to your master!"

In due course, a tall and regal man, swathed in the finest blue Aquilonian silk robes and headdress, appeared and moved imperiously toward Dake's wagon. Upon his feet were boots cut from the skins of large desert lizards, and he wore a neatly trimmed full beard, mostly black but shot through with gray, and his nose was nearly a beak under steely blue eyes. A cruel and arrogant face, Dake saw, belonging to a man of wealth and power, the face of one used to getting his way.

Excellent!

"I am the master of this caravan and of those men you have mistreated," the man said, his voice a deep baritone. "Who are you to trifle with my servants?"

Dake, wise in the ways of rich men, knew when to bluster and when to flatter. His voice took on an obsequious tone. "I? I am merely Dake the freakmaster, O great lord. I travel to Shadizar seeking a patron to sponsor the most incredible collection of oddities known to man. I thought only to demonstrate how unworthy these so-called guards are for a man of your obvious greatness."

The caravan master glared at the trussed guards. "Well, that they are unworthy is obvious enough." Then, "Freakmaster?"

Dake stuck his hand through the curtain and gestured. After a moment his thralls emerged from the back of the wagon again, to the gasps and wonderment of the caravan.

"Behold for yourself, my Lord . . . ?"

"Capeya," the caravan master finished. "And not a lord, but only a simple . . . merchant."

"Ah, a man who earned his wealth rather than inherited it."

Capeya smiled, showing strong teeth. "Just so, friend Dake." He looked at the freaks as they drew nearer; he was obviously impressed. "Quite an assembly. I have never seen such a variety, even in Shadizar during the High Festival. A unique collection."

"Just so," Dake said, his own smile more than a match for Capeya's.

"These will draw large crowds when displayed."

"And they are even more than they appear, good merchant." Dake strove to make the word "merchant" sound as much like "milord" as he could. " 'Twas they who subdued the six rear guards with what I must confess was little effort."

"Ah. Even better." Capeya smiled again. "And you are seeking a sponsor, you say?"

"In a word, yes."

"My wagon is appointed in a somewhat comfortable fashion, friend Dake. Perhaps you might join me there to partake of some not-unworthy vintage wine I have recently obtained? We might then speak of things that might be to our . . . mutual benefit."

Dake's joy was unbounded. Finding this caravan was a stroke of fortune almost beyond belief. Shadizar was still days away but he already had a patron, he did not doubt it for a moment, could they but come to terms!

He kept his face bland when he responded.

"Why, certainly I should enjoy that, friend Capeya." Inwardly he grinned like a slackwit. He had never met a merchant who could out-bargain him, and he did not think Capeya would be an exception.

Here, he knew, was the first stop on the road to riches!

NINETEEN

Conan liked it not that Dake seemed to get along so well with the master of the caravan. Alike as two fleas on an alley rat they were, and the Cimmerian could sense a rogues' alliance already aborning. This did not help matters of possible escape. True, should he break free of the curse Dake had laid upon him, he felt he could win through the guards easily enough. He had his sword, and his recent experience with the merchant's small army impressed him little. To a motley collection of hill bandits, these troops would likely appear to be a threat, whereas Conan recognized them for layabouts who looked better than they were. Carving a path through such men would entail some dangers, to be sure, but not enough to worry overmuch about. He was, after all, composed of some what sterner stuff than the average hill bandit. He did not have to best them all, only one or two who stood directly between him and freedom.

For the others, especially the children, things might not be so easy, however, and Conan resolved that he would not go off and leave them behind as Dake's captives. Despite her earlier trickery, Teyle had proven to be a friend, with her ministrations to his wounds and what other comforts she offered in the night. Conan had forgiven her her transgression against him. She had learned her lesson about being a slave, and he was not so small of mind as to deny a repentant woman another chance. She certain could not depart without her younger brother and sister, and as long as he was bringing three, he might as well bring the rest. Besides, he had grown to like the group; despite their unusual appearance, they were far better men and women than Dake and his cur. Penz was an ugly freak but kindhearted; Kreg was a handsome fellow, but evil to his rotten core. There was a lesson in recognizing this.

Conan marched alongside the freakmaster's wagon, the dust kicked up by the men, animals, and wagons ahead of him filling the air, adding to the dirt of his sweaty skin and making it difficult to breathe. The other thralls fared little better, save perhaps for Teyle, who was tall enough to avoid ingesting much of the disturbed road grit. Would that he had a bath of hot spring water. Might as well wish for a palace of rubies while you are at it, Conan.

Kreg drove the wagon, looking angry. Perhaps he resented being left behind while Dake went to drink and dine with the merchant. Good. Any small discomfort Kreg had to suffer raised Conan's spirits. Maybe the lackey would stab his master in the back in irritation. Stranger things had happened.

Since Dake was occupied some distance away, this might be an ideal time to try an escape, save that it was still daylight and such an attempt would be all too obvious. Conan did not doubt his abilities to overcome a sentry or two once he was free, but were he slowed by his struggle to break the spell, Kreg might well have enough time to plant a spear in his back, or have one of the merchant's troopers do so. He was, after all, the least valuable member of the enthralled collection, and therefore expendable.

So the Cimmerian trudged along, biding his time. Sooner or later that time would arrive, and he would be certain to be ready when it did.

Fosull was surprised when he realized what had happened. In truth, it had never occurred to him that the kidnappers of his son intended to join the collection of wagons further up the road. He knew little of the ways of the outswamp men, and had thought those of the large group ahead of them to be no more than fellow travelers going in the same direction. By the Green God's left testicle, this surely complicated matters!

"Wh-where are we?"

Fosull glanced around to see Balor struggling to sit up, clutching his head with one hand.

"On the road. Other than that, I know not."

The fat man managed to purchase a sitting pose. He glanced around. "Bu-but this is well past the village!"

"We stopped there this morning," Fosull lied. "Do you not recall?"

"We did?"

"Certainly. You sold two casks of wine and then gambled the money away betting upon a race between two beetles."

"No!"

"Indeed."

Balor started to shake his head, moaned at this, and stopped, now gripping his skull with both hands. "I recall none of it. Was I drunk?"

"Aye. You drank a dozen flagons of wine."

"Only a dozen? Odd, that normally would not cause me to lose my memory."

"That was before the race. Afterward you drank a dozen more."

"Ah. That must explain it,"

"Perhaps you might drink a bit more now, since it seems you are afflicted with some malady."

"Hair of the dog that bit me for a cure, eh? Not a bad idea. What did you say your name was again, small friend?"

Fosull could not stop his grin in time.

Balor's eyes grew wide. "I think maybe I have had too much wine, friend. I am seeing things."

"Wine is the cure for many illnesses, is it not?"

"You do have a point. And you are kind to drive my wagon while I attempt to heal myself. I shall reward you in Shadizar. If I survive that far."

With that, Balor lay back down and reached for one of the smaller kegs.

Fosull still had his main problem, though. His prey had become enveloped in a very large collection of like folk, and that put a different face on how he would manage to recover his son and deal his foes justice. Perhaps he could leave off the justice portion and simply recover Vilken? As he reckoned it, he was no more than an hour behind the wagons, and it would be dark soon. Night was a friend to the Vargs back in the swamps, and Fosull did not think it would be less so here. Much could be done under the cover of darkness that would fail under the sun's harsh eyes, especially when none knew he was about.

Of course, there was that cursed Jatte dogging his tracks; he knew of Fosull's existence. To be caught between the many hands of the outswamp men and a Jatte was not high among Fosull's worldly desires. Something would have to be done about the giant, without a doubt. And soon, too.

Suddenly a thought pierced the clouds of Fosull's mind, a thought so stunning as to nearly unseat him from the wagon. It blossomed like a toadstool after a hard rain, invisible one moment, there the next, and it was so incredible as to nearly overwhelm him. Simply, yes, believable, hardly, and yet . . . and yet it could be the solution to retrieving his son and dealing with the Jatte.

Fosull grinned, no longer worried that Balor might see his pointed teeth. His proposal was a thing no Varg had ever done before, so audacious was it, but it appealed to him. After all, was he not Fosull, bravest and cleverest of all his kind? Would it not be fitting that he be the first to ever attempt something so radical?

Aye, he decided. It would be fitting.

Of course it could also be fatal, but without risks, life held little meaning.

By all the gods, he would do it!

When the six-wheeled wagon tracks began to be partially obscured by others, Raseri knew he was confronted by a new set of difficulties. His quarry now rode with a rather numerous escort of its own kind, and that boded ill for the leader of the Jatte. To be sure, he had raised that possibility in his mind earlier, but it had been dismissed as not being very likely until they reached a settlement. That had been a miscalculation, and Raseri was not one to suffer such things gladly.

"The Creator's lowest curse upon you all!" he said under his breath.

So intent was Raseri upon his misjudging that he paid less than full attention to his tracking task. He reasoned that as long as he could see the wine cart there in the distance, there was no real need to be overly assiduous, but this proved to be another error.

Out of the thin brush next to the road to his left, the hooded form of the Varg suddenly appeared, brandishing his spear.

"Hold, Jatte!"

Raseri swung his own spear around and hefted it in preparation for a throw. "Are you mad, Varg, to dare face me alone?" Raseri made ready to skewer the little green beast. He drew back his arm "Nay, stay your cast, Jatte."

This surprised Raseri. "Why should I?"

"We trail the same quarry."

"What of it?"

"They have taken my son, Vilken."

"That matters not bug's dung to me."

"But they have also taken three of your people."

Raseri reminded himself that knowledge was power. He lowered his spear arm slightly. "You have seen them?"

"Nay. But I saw the tracks earlier, back along the road, so they still live."

"Praise the Creator for that," Raseri said. Then, "Why did you stop and confront me, about-to-be-dead Varg?"

"I want my son back. You want your own back. There are many of them and only one each of us."

"This is true. So?"

"I propose a . . . temporary alliance."

Raseri was tempted to laugh, but the statement intrigued him. He lowered his spear a little more. "An alliance? Jatte with Varg? You must be mad."

"Each of us has certain abilities the other does not. You are much more powerful, but I can hide in places you cannot. You are clever in ways different than I. I am agile, and you are strong. Would we not stand a better chance of accomplishing our respective tasks together than separate?"

Raseri lowered his spear so that the butt rested on the ground. He stared at the Varg, amazed.

"You are passing clever for an animal. I must concede that you have a point."

The Varg lowered his own spear and grinned, showing his wicked teeth. "You are considering my proposition, then?"

"Nay. I have already considered it. It makes sense, though I am not inclined to trust you."

"If I give my word as leader of the Vargs to offer you no danger until after our people are rescued, would that suffice?"

"You are the leader of the Vargs?"

The little green creature drew himself up to his full height, such that it was. "I am. Fosull, I am called."

"Well, I will be dipped in goat dung. I am Raseri, shaman and chief of the Jatte."

"Then we have a truce?"

Raseri paused for a moment. He could squash the Varg at any time, should it prove necessary. Meanwhile, the little beast had a logical point that could not be denied.

"We have a truce."

"Good. Let us go then, Raseri, and find a way to recover our own."

"Lead on, Fosull."

Raseri was not quite ready to turn his unprotected back on the Varg, but he was quite amazed. That a Varg would have the sense to think of such a thing was beyond any experience that Jatte had ever had of Vargs. He had underestimated these little green beasts, and badly.

Would wonders never cease?

Dake could feel the admittedly excellent wine working upon him, but its effect only made his wits quicker. The transaction was essentially complete; all that remained now was to fill in the final details. The meat of the bargain was, he felt, mainly his. In exchange for the merchant's notinconsiderable protection and patronage, Dake would tender to him one quarter of the profits gained from display and other uses of the freaks. After operating expenses, of course. And the day that Dake could not conceal the amount of such profits by fifteen percent in his favor, he would dance naked through the streets of Shadizar with a rancid goat draped over his shoulders.

"And as to the breeding procedures . . . ?" Capeya asked, rather delicately.

"How do you mean, my partner?"

"Could we not . . . ah . . . charge admission to watch?"

Dake covered his smile with a sip of wine from the carved wooden cup. This merchant was perhaps more clever, than he appeared. His suggestion was an excellent idea.

Dake said so, eliciting a smile and nod in return.

"And I must say that the idea of this . . . circus, as you call it, a large circle filled with attractions, has a certain merit. I have also properties in the city of Arenjun, as well as some small holdings in the neighboring country of Khauran, to the southeast, which might stand conversion to smaller replicas of this, provided you can produce enough of your oddities to people them."

"Never fear, good man; that I can surely do. I am not without certain . . . magical skills that will ensure just what I say."

"Excellent. I foresee a long and profitable association, Dake, my friend."

"As do I. Let us drink, then, to your continued good health."

"And to yours."

The two men drank deeply of the wine.

Capeya put his cup down and clapped his hands twice.

A young woman draped revealingly in red silks entered the tent, disturbing the balance of the moving wagon only sightly.

"This is one of my slaves," the merchant said. "To use as you will."

"Why, you are most kind, good man. Perhaps you would enjoy a . . . visitation with one of my more comely thralls? It would be the least I could do."

The merchant's eyes took on a sudden gleam. "Ah, yes. The giantess, the younger sister, she reminds me of one of my daughters. I could find things to say to her."

Dake grinned, as one man of the world to another.

"Doubtless, doubtless. Tonight, then, when the wagons are still, I shall have her brought to you for your pleasure."

"You are a generous man."

"No more than yourself."

The two smiled at each other again, but Dake's was the larger grin. Aha, he thought. You have revealed a weakness to me, my new partner. I shall not forget that you are a molester of children.

Not that Dake cared a whit for the girl's fate. He would have taken her himself earlier, save that it had not been convenient. Perhaps he would attend to that before he sent the girl to the merchant's wagon.

Dake smiled, and the expression was full of all manner of things.

TWENTY

Night scattered her stars across the skies like bright grains of sand, tiny pinpricks through the curtain of darkness to the pure white beyond. A gibbous moon waxed near to full, bathing in pale silver the land, casting cool shadows in eerie shapes. Far from the abodes of man, and with no more than cooking fires to disturb the night, the caravan stood halted, the draft animals grazing on what vegetation they could find.

Conan returned to the wagon from the call of nature, taking in the sights and smells of the camp and evening. Were he free, this was the kind of place in which he felt most at ease. The quiet night did not have the call of a busy town, no inns at which to drink or wench, but it had a grace of its own.

As he moved the wagon, he saw a flash of gray under the bright moon, someone moving into concealment behind a scrubby clump of brush not far away from where he walked.

While the Cimmerian's eyes were as sharp as any man's, they could not penetrate the bush sufficiently to reveal what lay within. The figure that had darted behind the cover was small, childlike, but Conan felt that there was another, larger person also concealed there, though he could not have said exactly why he felt this.

He would have investigated but he -was under magical orders to attend to his functions and return to the wagon, and the wards were too powerful to try on such a casual curiosity.

Inside, there were other problems more pressing.

Morja sat quietly sobbing in one corner of the wagon. She was attended by Teyle, who glanced up with pain in her eyes as Conan returned. Dake meant to send the girl to the merchant for the man's perverted pleasure, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it. Impotent rage filled the wagon; all within were seething at the prospect.

To the catwoman Conan said quietly, "Ask Dake for permission to leave the wagon. When you pass it, look carefully at the large bush that grows thirty or so paces to the left."

Tro looked puzzled.

"Someone hides there, and I would know who."

She nodded and moved to the front of the wagon to speak through the curtain to Dake.

After the catwoman left, Conan moved to confer with Teyle.

"We cannot allow this to happen," she said, her voice tight and brittle. "She is but a child!"

Conan nodded. "Mayhap we can do something."

Her look of hope touched the Cimmerian's young heart. "What?"

He started to tell her of his belief that sufficiently powerful rage could break the spell.

Dake stuck his head into the wagon at that moment and interrupted them. "I go to enjoy my new benefactor's largess," he said. "A lush woman in red silks awaits my pleasure." He looked at the still-crying Morja. "Kreg shall come for you in a few moments. Stop that crying-no, wait, continue it. It will add spice to Capeya's enjoyment of you, unless I miss my guess."

He looked around at the others. "The rest of you behave yourselves quietly until I return in the morning."

With that, Dake was gone.

"Conan?"

To the giantess he said, "Wait a moment."

Kreg arrived, grinning. "Come along, big little girl. Tonight you learn how to be a woman."

Teyle lunged after her sister as Kreg led her from the wagon, but it was as if she struck an invisible wall. Dake had taken pains to instruct each of them not to try to stop Kreg.

Tro returned.

"Conan!" Teyle said, her voice cracking.

"I understand your fear," he said, "but bide a moment." To the catwoman he said, "Well?"

"There are two men there. One is very small, Vilken's size. The other is like Teyle, even larger."

"Father!" Both Vilken and Oren spoke as one.

Conan grinned. Good. The more confusion, the better. To the other slaves he said, "Attend closely! I think we can break free of Dake's spell. And we must hurry, if we are to save Morja."

"The one like a cat saw us," Fosull said.

"Perhaps not," Raseri said. "Else there would have been an outcry raised."

"Not if she is a prisoner like the others. I think perhaps the only one free is that lout with the straw-colored hair. And the dark one, of course. Dake."

"Is it not odd that neither she nor the barbarian man tried to escape? None watched them as they came and went. What would have stopped them from simply walking away?"

The Varg shook his head. "I know not. It is as you say, decidedly odd."

Raseri mused on this point for a moment. Then he said, "Well. Both this Dake and the straw-haired man are gone, and that girl with the latter is my daughter, Morja! We should free those in the wagon first and then go after her."

"Agreed. I am less likely to be seen. You keep watch and I shall approach the wagon."

"That seems reasonable."

Fosull took a deep breath, let it out, and started for the wagon in which his son was imprisoned.

Inside the peaked canopy that covered the pillow-strewn conveyance, Dake leaned back on a thick cushion and allowed the comely slave to pour him another flagon of excellent wine. He sipped at the liquid, then smiled at the young woman. She smiled nervously in return, and the flickering of the tapers set here and there inside the tent illuminated a comely face.

"I would see what you look like under those silks," Dake said. "Remove them."

The girl did so, and the mage was not unimpressed by what she revealed. Her skin was of a tawny shade, and unblemished, and she was heavy of breast and wide of hip, a body made for a man's pleasure, he reckoned.

"Come closer," Dake said, grinning.

Conan felt the simmering anger of the others around him begin to boil, as did his own. To be slaves, to be forced to obey Dake's every whim, it was intolerable!

For a barbarian, accustomed to uncomplicated emotions, it was not a difficult task to allow one's rage to burst forth. But if Conan thought that the others held less anger than his own, he quickly realized that he was mistaken.

Penz seemed to glow with anger, his eyes wide and his lips skinned back to reveal his long eyeteeth.

Tro and Sab shook with their emotion, the woman growling softly deep in her throat, the four-armed man clenching and unclenching all of his hands into tight fists.

Spittle flew from Vilken's mouth as he chanted something over and over, toneless words Conan did not understand.

Teyle merely stared at the place where last she had seen her sister, but her face was flushed and her breathing came fast and loud.

Even the giant boy, Oren, seemed about to sunder apart from pressures inside his body.

Conan felt the rage gathering as a tangible thing, a thickening of the very air around them into dark emotion, as if the wagon had become filled with black smoke.

It grew, stronger and stronger, until Conan knew he must move . . . or die.

"Now!" he yelled. "Now!"

Fosull was nearly to the wagon when suddenly it flew apart, as if it were a melon dropped upon hard ground. The door to the rear burst open and was ripped from its hinges as the large barbarian sailed forth Another man followed the barbarian; no, it was a young Jatte, screaming something incoherent The heavy canvas of upper wall shredded under the claws of the wolfman, and he dived through the opening, howling-Through the front of the wagon came the catwoman and a man with four arms, both plummeting to the ground and rolling up to stand again Vilken-Vilken!-sliced open another section of the canvas with his spear and leaped forth, yelling the Suicide Attack Chant at the top of his voice The giant woman stood and burst the roof with her hands, tearing the heavy cloth as if it were a spider's web, yelling in a booming voice for someone named Morja!

Fosull stood stunned under the onslaught of activity, unable to think of what to say or do.

"This way!" came the deep voice of Raseri, a sound surely loud enough to disturb the sleep of the dead.

Fosull turned and saw that the escapees had also heard the roar.

"Father!" Fosull heard Vilken call. "I knew you would come for me!"

Fosull turned and saw his son. He managed a quick smile. "Aye, boy. But I planned to do it with less noise! We must be away, quickly!"

"Is that a Jatte with you?"

"We shall speak of it later. Your own companions are no less strange."

"True, Father. True."

Fosull turned and ran toward the spot from whence Raseri beckoned. The sounds from the wagon must have alerted the entire caravan-men were stirring and yelling in wonderment-and the plan of sneaking away quietly was destroyed. Best to leave quickly now, and a spear to anyone who stood in the way!

Dake was groaning under the practiced hands and lips of the naked slave when suddenly he felt something snap in his mind. For a moment he confused the feeling with that of pleasure, but it quickly became apparent that the cause was other than that.

His thralls had slipped away from his control!

The mage leaped up from the cushions and shoved the surprised woman away, cursing as he moved.

"M-m-milord?"

"Silence, woman! Where are my clothes?"

As Dake scrabbled about, searching for his robe and boots, he felt the presence of his freaks dwindling with every passing moment. What had happened? His spell had never been broken before! How could this be? Was it Capeya? Did he have some wizardry Dake had not noticed? Was this some treachery on the merchant's part?

Dake hurriedly dressed and leaped from the wagon. He needed answers, and fast.

Outside, the camp was in turmoil. Men yelled at each other in the dark, cursed as they stumbled about, trying to determine what was happening, and got in Dake's way as he raced for his wagon, calling for Kreg.

What in the name of the Seven Hells had happened?

Conan ran for all he was worth and still could not maintain the pace of Teyle, who ran ahead of him.

The spell was shattered, they were free, but he kept his sword at the ready in case he should encounter Dake along the way. The mage might be able to recast his magic, and Conan meant to give him cold and sharp iron before he could muster his wits to try it.

Ahead, Teyle yelled for her sister . . . and got an answer as Morja called back to her as from a distance.

The running man lost sight of the giantess as she rounded a collection of wagons. He was slowed further when two men bounded into his path, holding their short swords ready for battle.

The Cimmerian was moving too fast to even try to dodge round them. He swung his blade back and forth, hard.

The two had badly underestimated Conan's speed. Their own cuts were too slow, and the broadsword's song was joined by the sound of the head of the guard on the left being severed from his neck, and the arm of the guard on the right being sheared above the elbow.

The slashes slowed Conan only slightly, and while one man screamed and the other man's head tried to, the Cimmerian thundered past.

He caught sight of Teyle just as she reached Kreg. The blond man had released his grip on Morja and was attempting to draw his long dagger when Teyle slapped at him. Her open hand caught Dake's cur across the face, smashing his nose and causing him to turn a three-quarter backward somersault to lie sprawled upon the ground.

He would be unconscious or dead from the force of that blow, Conan knew.

"Teyle!"

The giantess turned and saw Conan bearing down on her.

"She is all right," Teyle said. "They had yet to reach the merchant's wagon."

"Good. Let us leave, now!"

Teyle and Morja nodded, and turned to follow Conan.

They were free, but it would do them little good were they slain by the remaining guards. Even such dullards as those would be difficult to face in enough numbers, and Conan was not ready to die, not so shortly after regaining his freedom.

They ran to find the others who had escaped.

TWENTY-ONE

It was a strange collection indeed that left the confines of the merchant's caravan under the waxing moon. Conan, aided by the keen vision of a catwoman and the sharp nostrils of a wolfman, led four giants, two green dwarves, and a four-armed man away from imminent slaughter.

They passed a small wagon in which a fat man sat cradling his head. When the rotund one looked up and saw the group, Conan heard him moan and say something about drinking too much wine.

The Cimmerian set and kept up a goodly pace, for he did not know if they would be followed, and if so, when such pursuit might commence. Ordinarily it was risky to chase anyone in the dark, and despite the nearly full moon, it was not wise to move quickly over unknown ground at speed.

Conan's first instinct had been to leave the road and move across the mesa-like flat ground-there was no point in making the chase easy, did it come.

He thought that Dake would certainly wish to recapture them. They had been, after all, his livelihood, and of a moment, were so no longer. Too, Dake would be greatly angered. Conan's captivity had shown him that the man could not stand to be thwarted in any way; certainly this was a major attack on the freakmaster's pride.

"Take care," Tro said. "There is a dip in the ground ahead."

Conan pulled his thoughts away from pursuit and scanned the darkness. Yes, he saw the depression, to the left. He veered to the right to avoid it.

"I didn't see anything," Oren observed.

"That's because you are a stupid, blind meat animal," Vilken said.

"Oh? And you are less than dog dung!"

"Silence!" came the voices of Raseri and Fosull together.

Conan grinned; and continued to move further into the night.

It was good that Dake's magicks were of a small order, for were his stares able to destroy, there would exist nothing more than a smoking crater for as far as eye could see.

Sitting on the ground by the freakmaster's feet, Kreg cupped his hands around his smashed nose. The bleeding had stopped, but the man's handsome face would never be the same.

"On your feet, fool! We must go after them!"

Kreg gripped the wheel of the wagon next to which he sat and clambered upward. "In the dark?"

"In a firestorm from Gehanna if need be!"

Dake turned to where Capeya stood waiting. "Does that present a problem? You now own one quarter of the profit of those who have escaped."

"Aye, and I would see them recovered. This area is unafflicted with bandits. We can leave a dozen men to watch the caravan and take twice that number for pursuit."

"You yourself would join the chase?"

Capeya grinned. "Aye. I am not unfamiliar with hunting. I have slain tusked pigs and musk oxen. Men die easier than either."

Dake nodded, but inwardly he did not agree. Pigs and wild bulls might be fierce, but they did not have the cunning of men, nor did they throw spears or swing swords. Still, he had but to get close to the escapees and they would fall under his control again. This time he would remain vigilant until they could be conventionally imprisoned in a suitable enclosure with sufficient guards to watch over them. Their escape had been a fluke, likely caused by his distraction with the slave girl.

"How soon can we leave?" Drake asked.

"Within the half hour, or I shall know why."

"Good."

As Capeya's men gathered themselves and their gear for the chase, Dake collected several items of his own from his wagon. He had a few more spells that might prove useful on the trail, and he packed carefully the magical implements he would need to perform those conjures. If need be, he could field the rain of toads and the demon, but those would hardly be potent against his thralls, since they knew the illusionary nature of the amphibians and red giant.

That he would recover the escapees the magician did not doubt. They were on foot and ill supplied, and it would be only a matter of time. He would have to take care to avoid injuring the more valuable ones whilst securing them within his spell's range, but some of them were less valuable than others. Conan the barbarian had outlived his usefulness, for one. The man was dangerous. It was he who had killed one guard and gravely wounded another during the escape; the sooner he was dead, the better.

An hour away from captivity, Conan paused long enough to meet more formally his new companions. Teyle had explained to her father something of how they had come to be captured, exonerating Conan.

For the Cimmerian there was no joy in seeing the leader of the Jatte again. He would as soon spit the giant on his blade as look at him, but for now, at least, Raseri was much less of a danger than Dake and his newfound henchmen.

Fosull was introduced by Vilken as his father.

Were he in their position, Conan knew that he too would have gone after his own children; no man worthy of the name would do otherwise. Still, he would prefer to be far away from this entire collection of folk, given his choice.

The choice was hardly his to make at the moment. True, he could leave and perhaps circle widely around the caravan and continue onward to Shadizar. Although this merchant, Capeya, was apparently fairly well placed there, the city was also supposedly large enough for a man to lose himself within. He might stay there months, or years, without meeting the merchant or his hirelings again. Conan, however, was not a man who liked to sleep with one eye open, and knowing that he would have to avoid being discovered by Capeya grated upon him. It would be like having a sharp pebble inside one's boot, forever annoying until it was removed. Until he decided what he wished to do about it, this was as good a place to be as any.

Raseri said, "We cannot lead them to our homes."

"Agreed," Fosull said.

Conan shook his head. "Dake already knows where your people live. You have help there. Your reasoning makes no sense."

"Would this Dake have told the others?" Fosull asked.

" Not likely," Penz said. "He gives away nothing of value."

"Well, then, if we slay him and his assistant, there will be no one to reveal our location," Raseri said.

Conan looked at the group. "We have one sword, three spears-two of them rather short-and a coil of rope. That is hardly enough weaponry to over come twenty or thirty well-armed troops, albeit badly trained ones."

"We would have surprise on our side," Fosull said.

"Aside from the odds," Conan continued, "your problem would still exist if you did slay Dake and Kreg. "

Raseri looked at Conan, and his expression was a shrewd one, the Cimmerian saw.

"I do not understand," Teyle said.

" We know of your village," Conan said. He waved at Tro, Sab, and Penz.

"But what of it?" the giantess asked.

"They are not Jatte, daughter."

"Nor Varg," Fosull added.

Teyle faced her father directly. "Father, it was Conan who was responsible for freeing us. It was Conan who came to help me free Morja. And it was Conan who resisted Dake more than any of us."

"None of which makes him Jatte, daughter."

"So you would slay him and the others for the crime of not being Jatte?" She turned toward Fosull. "Or Varg?"

"For the crime of knowing where to find us."

"Are we to hide for the rest of our lives and the lives of our children's children? As the outswamp men grow in numbers and reach, is it not inevitable that they shall someday stumble across us?"

"Mayhaps. Death is inevitable too, but it is to be put off as long as possible."

As father and daughter spoke, Conan quietly drew his sword. Raseri noticed this, and reached for his spear.

"Then let us decide who lives and who dies now," Conan said.

Raseri grabbed his weapon and started to come up, as did both Fosull and Vilken.

Penz, Tro, and Sab tensed and made ready to attack or defend.

"No!" Teyle yelled.

Raseri spared her a glance. "It must be so, daughter."

"I have come to know these people as my friends," she said. "If you would slay them, then slay me, too."

"You have lost your senses!"

"No. I have gained them."

Oren and Morja moved to stand next to Teyle. "She is right, Father," the girl said. "They are our friends, too."

"You have all gone mad," the Jatte leader said, shaking his head.

"What of you, Vilken?" Fosull asked.

"I would not oppose you, Father, but for meat animals, they have acted quite well."

"Best listen to your children," Conan said. "For if this fight does not go your way and we survive, you will have died for no good reason."

Conan held his sword loosely, ready to swing it into play if need be. The bones of the Jatte were exceedingly hard, as he had reason to know, but the point of his blade would certainly pierce their flesh, and he intended to skewer Raseri's heart if the giant lifted the butt of his spear from the ground. The giant was strong, but the Cimmerian knew he was faster. He gathered his strength for the leap.

Raseri stood silent for what seemed a long time. Then he said, "There is among my kind a potion that induces forgetfulness; it fogs the memory of recent events. If we survive this encounter with Dake and his ilk, would the four of you be willing to drink of the potion?"

Conan looked at the man with the face of a wolf, the woman with the features of a cat, and the four-armed man. Each of them nodded. Like it or not, he had become their leader, and they were deferring to him.

Conan faced Raseri again. "If you can offer proof that this potion is not merely a poison, we would consider it."

"I am willing to drink of it myself before you do," Raseri said. "Is that sufficient proof ?"

"Along with your word that it will only fog our memories, aye."

"You have my word."

"Very well. But if you have such a substance, why have you not administered it to others before and allowed them to go free?"

"I did not trust it. Who knows but that the effect might wear off over the course of a long life?"

"But you are willing to trust it now?"

"Rather than fight with my own children? Yes."

Conan nodded. "If we survive, then."

Penz said, "Listen!"

Conan strained his ears but could not hear what had disturbed the wolfman.

"Men approach," Penz said. "And horses."

"Best we move," Conan said. "We can discuss all this later, but here is not a place to stage a defense."

"Agreed," Raseri said.

Fosull turned to his son. "Go ahead and find us such a place. Quickly!"

Vilken hurried into the darkness, and the rest of them moved out after him.

"Tracks, milord," said the trooper.

From the back of the fine horse upon which he rode, Dake recognized the man as the squinty-eyed one who had stopped him on the road.

The freakmaster turned to the merchant. "I would have thought you would have had this one gutted for his inefficiency."

"Aye, I would have, save that despite his lack of wit, he is our best tracker."

"A pity."

"Is not that always the way of it? Adequate help is so difficult to find and keep."

Dake glanced over at Kreg, who still attended to his smashed nose. Aye, that was the truth of all gods.

The merchant asked, "What do the tracks tell us?"

Squinty had two men with torches bending over the ground, and he returned to his own inspection of the soft dirt. After another few moments, he stood and approached his master.

"There be ten of them, milord. Four of 'em big and heavy, one of 'em even bigger than the giant woman. Two of 'em be very small-likely the green froggy one has another like him along. The rest be normalsized."

Dake considered this information. So, another giant and another of the dwarves had arrived. Interesting. They might have carried with them some kind of counterspell that had freed the others. Only, Dake did not think it so. Were they wizards of note, they would likely have opted to inflict more damage rather than to flee. That they had followed him for such a lengthy distance was amazing. They were tenacious. That was important to know too.

Odd that they would have joined together, since according to Vilken's information, the two peoples hated each other. That might be a bad sign, too.

Ah, well. There was nothing to be done for it. He was not willing to turn back and give up his entire stock of wealth in the world. At the worst, even salvaging a few of the freaks would be better than none at all.

"Let us find them," Dake said. "They cannot be too far ahead. If good fortune is with us, we shall have them back before another day had passed."

Forward they rode.

TWENTY-TWO

Vilken returned to the hurrying group after a few minutes to report to his father.

"There is no high ground in this direction," he said. "All is flat, with scrub growth scarcely able to hide a rabbit, much less all of us. If we turn to the south, we might reach the rocky outcrops by dawn."

"We are no more than half an hour ahead of them," Conan observed. "They move slower in the dark, having to track us, but doubtless shall increase their pace once it is light."

"Have you any suggestions?" Raseri said.

"Aye. Move toward the hills. The rocky ground there will better hide our trail. And we might prepare ways to slow them, if we hurry."

No one had any better ideas, so they agreed to Conan's plan, tenuous though it was.

Raseri felt as if he were in control of the situation as well as could be expected. One of his main goals, to retrieve his children, had been achieved. The other part of his mission, to destroy those who knew the location of the Jatte village, lay nearly within his grasp. He had spoken only half the truth to his daughter earlier. Death was to be put off for as long as possible, unless that death served a higher purpose. Could he make certain none knew how to find his people, then he was willing to pay for that with whatever coin it required, even his own life.

Conan must die, as must the three freaks, and those who had held his children captives. If this was not accomplished in the fight that must soon be waged, then it would be achieved afterward.

There might be such things as potions that would fog memory, but were there, Raseri of the Jatte did not know of them. He did, however, know how to brew a dozen poisons from common herbs, leaves, or flowers, and he would make such a drink for any survivors among those who must die.

He had given his word, to be certain, but a promise given to an enemy was meaningless in Raseri's ethical system. Protecting his people was more important than anything else. He was the shaman and leader, and this was his highest duty, no matter what the cost. He need only survive long enough to ensure his people's safety, and he thought himself rather clever to have avoided a direct confrontation with Conan and the freaks until he could guarantee the destruction of anybody who might be a danger.

Fosull would have left with Vilken had he thought his chances to return home were better that way. Although he did not trust any of his companions save his son, he saw them as his best protection were there to be an attack. In the confusion, he and Vilken could escape. Already he had coated the tip of his spear with the juice of the glit berry, a fast-acting poison that would fell a victim in only a few heartbeats. Normally a hunter would avoid using the poison, for it made the meat of whatever it killed inedible, but in matters of self-defense, eating was less important than breathing.

As the group worked its way through the dwindling darkness toward the rocks yet ahead of them, Fosull considered which of his potential enemies might be first to take a spear, should it come to that. Raseri was the strongest, and likely the most dangerous-Fosull had seen a Jatte throw a spear and impale a Varg at over a hundred of his paces but Conan could not be discounted. He was fast, and according to Vilken's stories of their captivity, told in hushed tones as they walked, more than passing strong himself. Nor was the giantess to be ignored, for she could kill a Varg with a punch or kick. The Jatte boy and girl might be dangerous, but they would be less adept than the others. The wolfman, catwoman, and four-armed one were unknowns, and an enemy about which you knew nothing was worse than one about which you knew much. Who could say what those three might be able to do? He had seen evidence of their superior eyes and ears during the night, and that alone gave him pause.

Fosull nearly tripped on a rock, so intent was he on his thoughts. Careful, fool! It would hardly do to fall and break a leg while planning how to best so many enemies.

The truce declared with Raseri for the rescue of Vilken and the Jatte children was finished, Fosull felt. If all this group died and went straight to the Green Pit, it would bother Fosull not the slightest. If they survived those chasing them, Fosull would certainly try to see that such a thing happened, could he do it with minimal risk. It would be a pity to ruin so much meat; still, they could not reasonably be expected to carry it back on foot before it spoiled, and better that Raseri and his were dead and spoiled here than alive to kill Vargs again someday.

One had to look after one's own kind first, after all.

Conan reached the rocks ahead of the others and began looking for ways to slow their pursuers. A kind of animal trail would through the smaller rocks and into a two-span-wide cleft between two high walls of the reddish stone.

As dawn pushed the sun into the sky, Conan began to climb the wall to the right, scrambling up it with a skill born of long practice as a boy in Cimmeria. The height was perhaps five times his own, and it was but the work of a few moments to scale the small peak and achieve the top.

In the gathering light of early morn, he could see the horses and men in the distance, still perhaps half an hour's travel away.

Conan looked around.

"Ho, Conan! What are you about?" That from Penz.

He leaned over and saw the others below in the cleft.

"A surprise for our friends behind us. Can you climb up here and bring your rope?''

"Aye"

When Penz arrived, Conan had already begun moving boulders to the lip of the short peak's edge. He had balanced several large rocks into a precarious pile, held in place by small shards propped against one side.

"Do you have enough line to reach from here to the ground and across the patch?"

"Aye, twice that."

"Measure it out."

Penz did so, and Conan drew his sword and cut the thin hemp. He tied the end around several of the rock shard supports and carefully dropped the rest of the line into the cleft, keeping the weight of it from pulling on the props.

"Best all of you below move ahead and out of the way," Conan called.

For the next few moments Conan and Penz moved more rocks to rest along the lip, leaning them against each other and the first pile. Twice small stones rolled over the edge and threatened to unbalance the collection, but both times Conan or Penz managed to stop it from happening.

"They will be here in a few moments," Conan said, glancing back at their pursuers. "Let us climb down and prepare."

Quickly the two men did just that. At the bottom of the cleft, Conan wrapped the rope around a rock resting in a deep shadow and strung the rest of the rope across the cleft a span above. With luck, a man or a horse would not see it in time to avoid tripping on it.

Vilken returned, sent by his father to report to Conan.

"The path winds higher into the rocks," he said. "There is another high stretch of flat ground past these outcrops, and then the foothills. My father says that if we can make it that far, the horses will not be able to follow us."

Conan nodded. "Good. If we can be certain of delaying them here, then they will not be able to catch us on foot."

Penz looped the reminder of his rope into a coil that he placed over his shoulder and across his chest. "What if they realize that they can circle these rocks and thus avoid our trap?"

"We shall have to make certain that they do not," Conan said.

"And how do we do that?"

"You go and join the others. I shall stay behind to give them something to chase."

Penz nodded, his wolfish features expressionless. "Take care, Conan. Dake wants the rest of us alive, I would wager, but like as not he would see you dead."

"Not to worry, friend. Cimmerians are taught to be fleet of foot should the need arise. I shall rejoin you shortly."

After Vilken and Penz departed, Conan moved back through the cleft, taking care to avoid the rope strung across the bottom, to stand near the far entrance.

He would not have long to wait.

Dake and Capeya rode in the middle of the phalanx, with mounted and foot troops both before and after them. The morning's light found them nearing a stand of large rocks and hillocks.

" 'Twill be rough going for the horses here," the merchant said. "Better we should circle around. Likely they are headed for yon foothills beyond."

"Could they not have hidden themselves in the rocks, hoping we would pass?"

"Unlikely. Our tracker would notice the lack of prints on the other side, and then they would be neatly trapped. We have enough men to encircle the rocks, and a few well-placed arrows would fell anyone foolish enough to try to flee. 'Twould be a stupid move on their part to try to hide there."

"Wishful thinking, I suppose," Dake said.

Capeya was about to send a man to tell the leaders of the column to skirt the rocks when Dake heard a yell.

"There they be!"

Dake tightened his knees on the back of his steed and raised himself up a bit. The man yelling was the bumbling tracker, Squinty.

Beyond, at the edge of the rocks, stood Conan. He apparently took notice of the approaching column, for as Dake watched, the barbarian turned and ran into an opening between the tallest two stones.

"After them!" Capeya yelled.

The four lead horsemen began the chase, the hooves of their mounts kicking up sandy dirt as they galloped off in pursuit. Behind them the first ranks of foot troops followed, slower, but at a respectable speed for men in light armor.

Kreg, doubtless eager to be in on the kill, kicked his own mount into motion and sped off after the leaders.

Dake glanced at Capeya, who smiled in return. They were not so foolish as to risk battle themselves when they had paid fighters for the purpose.

Capeya twisted on his mount and called to those troops and horsemen behind him. "Go! Hurry!"

When the last of the troop was past, Capeya and Dake urged their horses forward, but slowly. The men had been given orders to spare the freaks on pain of being beheaded, but the barbarian was fair game, and a nice purse of silver coins would go to the man who returned bearing his head. Conan's spirit would surely join those of his ancestors shortly, considering the number of men focused on that end.

Dake and Capeya arrived at the entrance to the cleft just as the first horsemen reached the middle of the passage. Conan was not in sight.

Of a moment, Dake felt a premonition. He glanced upward and saw that the upper right side of the passage was piled high with many loose rocks. A patch of sunlit rock caught the mage's attention. And-what was this?-a rope dangling from the edge across the lighted portion? What would a rope be doing there?

Almost instantly Dake realized the danger.

"Hold!" he bellowed. "It is a trap!"

Too late. Even as he watched, the rope went taut for an instant. Thin shards of rock shot from the top of the cliff, jerked free by somebody in the space below tripping on the other end of the hemp.

Dozens of rocks, ranging from the size of a man's head to four or five times that large, showered down upon the men and horses below. The men could only go forward or backward; there was no escape to either side, and confusion stalled them. Those in back attempted to stop and turn.

One horseman in front whipped his mount into full speed, only to run smack into a tumbling boulder that knocked him from his steed and smashed him into the ground, crushing his head. The horse kept going and escaped.

Dake saw the scene as if time had slowed, moving like syrup on a winter's day.

Two footmen were flattened by one large rock. It made a sound like a dog crunching small bones.

Two more horsemen felt the hard rain and went down, along with their unfortunate mounts. Dake had never heard a horse scream that way.

Squinty found an overhang that spared him, only to have his neck pierced by a splinter the size of a dagger from a stone shattering nearby. Blood spurted from the hole made when he jerked the splinter out, and he fell, turning the ground around him crimson. Squinty's good fortune ran out with his life's blood.

Kreg, who had entered the cleft with the others, leaped from his horse and ran back along the opposite edge from the falling rocks. The gods who look after fools and slackwits must have shifted their intent from Squinty to Kreg, for he came through with nary a scratch upon him.

When the dust had settled, Capeya and Dake counted the toll: six men dead, two others injured badly enough that they would die shortly, three more damaged but able to survive. Three horses had been killed, one more wounded so gravely that it had to be put to the sword.

In one fell swoop their small army had been reduced by a third.

"May all the gods rot you!" Dake yelled after Conan, who was doubtless well away from earshot. When they caught him, Dake intended to have the barbarian flayed, his skin peeled away, and the wounds rubbed with salt until the man died screaming in agony!

But first they had to catch him.

TWENTY-THREE

"Did it work?" Teyle asked.

"Aye, it worked," Conan replied.

"How many did you get?" Raseri asked.

"I did not stop to count them."

The group was nearly to the foothills and as yet there was no sign of pursuit. "Perhaps you got them all," Morja offered.

"I would think that unlikely," Fosull said.

"Perhaps they might not continue pursuit," Oren said.

Penz and Tro and Sab looked at each other. Then Penz said, "Dake will come, even if he has to do it alone. He needs to get within only a few spans of a person to use his spell."

"We broke the spell before," Vilken said. "What is to stop us from doing it again?"

"He was distracted," Sab said. "He will make sure we are guarded if he catches us again. It will do little good to break the enchantment only to find a dagger buried in your guts. Besides, he has other spells."

"I do not fear his rain of toads or unreal demon," Vilken said.

"Those are not his only ensorcelments," Tro said softly. "He has others that are not illusions."

"Aye," Penz said. "Of course, most of them are merely for show. He can turn wine or any other liquid into pure water with a green powder. He can also burn flesh with another conjuration, and create blinding flashes of light. We have seen him do all of those."

"Turning wine into water will avail him little," Conan said, touching his sword for emphasis.

"He is a dangerous enemy," Tro said. "He will follow us to the ends of the earth before he admits defeat. We know him."

Conan nodded. "Very well, then. Let us find a place where the advantage is ours and end his threat forever."

Voices rumbled with worry, but Conan cut them off. "I do not intend to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for Dake or anyone else. And since Raseri and Fosull would not have us lead them to where we might find help, then let us attack and win or lose as we will."

"Even if your trap killed half of them, we are still outnumbered," Penz said.

Conan looked at his companions each in turn. "Dake is a threat to us all. Those who know him best say he will never stop hunting them. He has magical talents that can overcome a strong man's will. He already knows where the Jatte and Vargs live. If he loses our trail, what is to stop him from proceeding directly back to the swamp to lie in wait there? Six of you must return there eventually, is this not so?"

None could fault Conan's logic.

Raseri said, "Aye, Conan is correct. We must slay Dake and his dog if we and our kind are to ever rest easy again."

"We might all die," Sab said.

To the four-armed man Conan said, "Is not a clean death better than a life of slavery, subject to Dake's every whim?"

Tro and Sab exchanged quick glances. The catwoman nodded slightly.

"Aye," Sab said. "We stand with you."

Penz added his voice. "As shall L"

Fosull said, "While there is something to be said for leading them to the swamps and having my warriors slaughter them there, I find that I too agree."

Raseri nodded. "Dake must die. The sooner the better."

"They must leave their horses to follow us into the high hills," Conan said. "If we search carefully for a place we can defend, then the advantage will be ours. Let us proceed."

Though Conan was not the oldest, nor likely the wisest, the others deferred to his lead. He had been battle-tested, and the assemblage knew this. Conan himself was not altogether confident that he could prevail over those who chased them, but he was not averse to giving it the best of his blade to find out. It was a simple choice: Win or lose, live or die, and while the consequences were dire, it was easy enough for him to commit to it. To fight depended upon skills that Conan knew well, and a man could hardly ask for a better way to be tested than to stand or fall on his own ability.

As they moved higher into the hills, Raseri smiled to himself. It was going as well as if he had directed it all himself. As long as Dake, Conan, and the other freaks died, he would be triumphant. How that happened hardly mattered. In battle or by poison, certainly it would happen, and soon.

Fosull found that he was not averse to the idea of a battle. The outswamp men were stronger, but they provided larger targets for his spear. He would watch his back, of course, but better to do something than to wander around out here in the center of nowhere forever. The gods would be with him or not, and the gods had always held a certain warmth for him, he knew. Of course his gods were a long way from home, as were the Vargs and the Jatte, but certainly the outswamp men had few others in these hills that they could call upon. And a poisoned spear at close range was difficult to deflect unless a god put his mind to it, Fosull knew. If the leader of the Vargs threw his weapon, one of his enemies would die at the very least.

Kreg came riding back toward Dake, looking worse for the layers of reddish dust that coated him.

Dake looked at the filthy man. "Yes?"

"They are into the hills. The trail turns rocky and steep and is narrow, even at the start. The horses cannot climb it."

Dake glanced over at Capeya, who was dozing as he rode. Abruptly the merchant awoke. "What? What is it?"

"We shall have to leave the horses soon," Dake said. "And continue the chase on foot."

Capeya waved one hand in a careless gesture. "I was not born mounted. I can walk as fast and as far as any man."

"I did not doubt it."

"It will be dark in a few more hours," Capeya said. "Surely they shall have to stop. My men have torches. We can continue to follow and thus gain upon them."

"You are a clever hunter," Dake said.

"Aye. My quarry seldom escapes."

To Kreg, Dake said, "Go back to the trail and have the troops tether the animals and make a camp. With good Capeya's permission, of course, we can leave a few men to watch the mounts there until we return."

The merchant nodded his assent. Kreg turned his steed and moved off.

"We shall have them soon," Capeya said. "Trapped like squealing boars."

"Of course. But we must take precautions. Boars do not shower boulders on their hunters."

"I take your point."

As the afternoon sun slanted down toward evening, Conan and the others found that for which they had been searching. The trail wound upward and there came a place where the animals who had worn the path sometimes turned and moved up a steeper incline. This narrower path took great care to ascend; more, it would allow no more than one person at a time to move along it. At the top of this incline there jutted out a flat shelf of rock, perhaps the size of a large house, or even a small inn. To clamber from the path onto the flat shelf required a fair amount of ability; what was easy for a mountain goat was more difficult for a man. Were a fair bowman to stand upon the trail below, he might manage to shoot an arrow to reach the ledge, but it would be a near thing.

Conan climbed up to the shelf and examined it. Above, the hill continued to rise steeply for several hundred spans before it crested. There was no apparent way to arrive upon the shelf from another angle without climbing the hill from behind, and that was unlikely on the part of any pursuers. No, the only way was via the path he had just taken, unless one had wings or was willing to travel a day or two to the other side of the hill. With any potential attacker having to come at them single file, and having to worry about sliding backward at the slightest misstep, this spot was as good as they were likely to find.

Conan worked his way back to the trail below.

"Night comes soon," he said. "And there is where we camp." He pointed up at the shelf.

All were in agreement.

"I shall see if I can snare some rabbits or other small game," Conan said. "The rest of you should climb to yon ledge. You might gather some large rocks, in case we have unwelcome visitors."

With the others working their way upward, Conan went to see if he could provide them with some kind of supper.

The small fire was sufficient to sear the two rabbits and three ground squirrels Conan had collected, and while it was hardly a sumptuous meal, it helped calm the rumbling in the otherwise empty bellies of the escapees. There had been several small mountain streams along the climb to cool their thirst, but the game was more than welcome.

The meal was mostly done. Raseri walked to the edge of the cliff to relieve himself. Fosull and Vilken sat near the other end of the shelf, talking quietly. Penz demonstrated rope tricks to the Jatte twins. Tro and Sab huddled together near the hillside.

Teyle sucked the marrow from a bone and tossed the empty shell into the fire. Conan sat next to her, chewing the last bit of gristle from his own portion of roasted rabbit.

"I did not have time to thank you for our escape and for saving my sister's honor," the giantess said.

"It was nothing."

"Nay, it was." She shivered in the night air.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

Conan moved closer and put one arm as far around Teyle as it would reach. She was a giant, but she was also a woman, and she had banished the aches from his body. He could warm her, at the very least.

As they sat close together, she said, "My father wishes for your death as much as he does for that of Dake."

"Oh?"

"He takes very seriously his belief that the Jatte must stay hidden forever."

"But what of the forgetfulness potion of which he has spoken?"

She shrugged under his encircling arm. "I have never heard of such a thing."

Conan looked to where Raseri stood relieving himself.

Teyle seemed to realize what she had said. "He is the shaman and knows many herbs that I do not, of course. And he has given his word."

Her loyalty to her father was admirable, but Conan's disquiet was not made easier by her statement. He could not help but recall that Raseri would have cheerfully tortured him to death in the name of the "natural philosophy" he practiced. How much was such a man's-albeit he was a giant-honor to be trusted? Trusting Teyle had put him into a cage, after all, and although they had since gone through adventures that made Conan feel as if she could be relied upon, so such thing could be said of Raseri.

Men who took their duty too seriously could be very dangerous, Conan had learned.

Something disturbed the Cimmerian's light slumber. The fire had long since dwindled to cooling embers, emitting only a fitful glow and little smoke, and the flat stretch of rock had cooled under the night's breath as well. No one stirred on the shelf as far as Conan could see. He sat up.

Low and thick clouds hid most of the stars and the moon, and the air was still.

What had awakened him-?

There, below on the trail, farther down the mount, a tiny speck of orange light glimmed. As he watched, he saw more such lights, and he knew them for torches in the distance. They were around several turnings of the trail, probably an hour or more away, but moving steadily.

Conan reached over and shook Teyle awake.

"What-? "

"Our unwelcome guests come. Behold."

Behind him he heard some of the others stirring, roused by his quiet speech to Teyle, or perhaps by some innate sense of danger such as had roused the Cimmerian.

Penz moved closer. "They are either brave or stupid to travel by night in these mountains. The path is dangerous."

Tro walked to the edge of their camp and peered into the darkness. She was back in a moment. "It is too far to see for certain. At least fifteen men on foot. More, perhaps."

"Looks as if your trap collected a few," Penz said.

"Would that it had taken more."

"Now what?" Teyle asked.

"We wait."

"Perhaps with luck they might pass by without seeing us," Morja said.

Her brother added his thoughts: "We could then go back the way we came and steal their horses."

"Nay," Raseri said. "We chose this place for battle. Better we should make certain they know we are here, eh, Conan?"

The Cimmerian had to agree. "Climbing up here in the dark is not likely, so they shall have to wait until light. Meanwhile, when they draw level with us, perhaps another rain of stone might serve us."

There were few loose rocks on the shelf, and most of those were either too small or too large to be of use; still, there were enough fist-or headsized chunks for all of the party to have several each. Moving as quietly as they could in the dark, they gathered the stones.

"When I give the command, throw your rocks as quickly as you can. Aim for the torches if you can see nothing else. Hold back some of the stones for use when it gets light."

Conan himself held a rock slightly larger than his fist in his right hand, a smaller stone ready in his left. Were they lucky, they might crack a few skulls or knock three or four men off the trail. Any reduction of the attackers would help.

They watched as the enemy climbed higher toward them. Whatever was done, Conan knew it would have to be done quickly. He and his party had little food and almost no water, and a long siege would quickly deplete both. A day or two at most, and things would have to be ended.

One way or another.

TWENTY-FOUR

The torchman walking directly in front of Dake grunted and suddenly took it upon himself to pitch headfirst over the edge of the trail. He screamed as he tumbled down the hill. His torch lay guttering where it fell. What-?

Then Dake realized that the thumps and thuds he heard were caused by things falling onto the trail or bouncing down the side of the hill from above. Hard things, such as, say, rocks.

"They are above us!" Dake screamed. "Take cover! "

Alas, finding cover was easier commanded than accomplished. The hill sloped upward steeply and offered only dirt and rocks. On the opposite side of the precarious trail, the slope was somewhat steeper, and a leap that way risked bouncing to the bottom, a notinconsiderable distance, and serious injury or death.

A guard shrieked a curse behind Dake as a rock smashed into his leg, knocking it from under him. Dake saw the white of bone in the man's shattered limb gleam in the light of the remaining torches.

Those men carrying said torches must have realized that being bearers of the light made them more visible targets, for the flaming brands were dropped or thrown away in short order, adding darkness to the confusion.

"Idiot!" Capeya screamed, shoving a man who turned to run and slammed instead into the merchant. "I will have you flogged and quartered and-gukk! "

Whatever further punishment the merchant intended dealing the man would never be known, for a rock easily as big as Capeya's head came down smack upon that portion of him and shattered his skull as if it were no more than an egg hammered by a man's fist.

So much for Dake's wealthy patron.

"Set curse you!" Dake yelled into the darkness. He jammed his hand into his belt pouch and pulled forth his Bottle of Lightning. "Cover your eyes!"

With that, Dake spoke two of the three magic words and uncorked the bottle. He hurled it straight up as hard as he could, then yelled out the final word that completed the spell.

Having seen several of the torches fall down the hillside, Conan was pleased with his initial attack. A rock was certainly a useful weapon when utilized correctly. At this distance, it was better than a sword Amidst the screams of the wounded and panicked men below, he heard a yell that sounded familiar.

"Cover your eyes!" came the faint cry.

"Was that not Dake? And had not Penz and Tro and Sab said something about a blinding spell?

Conan had barely time to turn away and shut his eyes before the impossibly bright light seared through even his closed lids. Reflected off the hill, it was still enough to turn everything white and cause spots to dance before the Cimmerian's gaze.

As quickly as it had come, the flash of white blinked out, and when Conan looked again, he found he could see well enough even though the spots persisted.

Others of his party were not so fortunate.

"By the Green God, I cannot see!" Fosull called out.

"Nor can I!" Vilken said.

To a degree, nearly all of the others were affected; some had not heard the cry; some had, but had not understood it in time. Only the four-armed man was able to see as well as Conan, and that because he had used two of his hands to cover his eyes.

Conan hurled another stone, as did Sab, and then they hurried to make certain that none of their comrades moved in the wrong direction and risked a fatal fall.

"Stand still," Conan ordered. "Sab and I shall lead you away from the edge."

Below, Dake realized that the rain of stone had ceased. After a final pair of rocks bounced down, well past his position, he realized too that his lighting must have blinded the attackers. It was only a temporary loss of vision, a matter of minutes, and likely would not allow him enough time to gather his troops and mount an attack. Even if he knew exactly where to attack, he suspected it would not be a simple matter of marching there and capturing his thralls. Not in the dark, in any event.

Someone scrabbled over the path toward him.

"Dake?"

Kreg. Whatever gods favored the fool had not yet withdrawn their protection, so it seemed.

"Is that them?" Kreg asked.

"Unless the rabbits and squirrels of the mountains have taken up rock-throwing."

"What are we to do?"

"At the moment, nothing. They have ceased their attack. Morning arrives shortly. When we can see them, then we can decide what to do about them." Ah.

Came the dawn. Dake inched his way from behind the rock that sheltered him and peered up the hill.

There was a ledge some distance above that jutted from the face of the rise, much like the prow of a ship. Although he could not see anyone upon the ledge from this angle, Dake would wager a gold solon against a copper cent that those he sought were perched on top of that shelf.

Going up there to collect them would be a hellish task. The small trail leading that way was narrow, strewn with loose gravel, and steep enough to provide a nasty fall if one slipped. Dake had no intention of trying to climb that while avoiding the rocks that would surely greet such an attempt.

The situation was not to his liking. He had one trump card he could play, and its use entailed a fair amount of risk. Among his untried conjurations was one he had won in a game of dice from a down-on-his-luck magician who said he was from Zingara. This spell would, so the gambler had claimed, levitate something as heavy as an ox to whatever height one desired-yea, even all the way to the moon. Such a claim had seemed farfetched to Dake at the time, but two of the other spells he won from the unlucky wizard had worked as promised, and one of those was the binding spell that had given Dake command of his thralls.

Even if the spell did work, there was a drawback: It would do so only once. The magic needed was fairly strong, the Zingaran wizard had said, and once it was sucked from the storehouse of sorcerous energies in the area, it would burn itself out as did a moth flying into a flame.

Could Dake but get close enough, he could again lay his obedience spell on those rogues above; however, he had no desire to go floating upward to become a target for their rocks and spears.

No, the spell was a good idea, but only if he could distract the escapees' attention enough so that he would not be noticed. Were they busy with other things, he could utilize the magic and take them unawares.

Assuming, of course, that the wizard had not lied to him about this levitation.

Once more behind the safety of his rock, Dake removed from his pouch the focus for the floating trick. It was a small bird, carved from some black and heavy wood, with the runes that would loose its power etched upon the bird's breast. Dake studied the runes. Aye, he recalled the words for which the symbols stood. If the magic was sufficiently potent to lift an ox, then it could certainly lift him and his slackwit assistant. He need only keep his quarry busy enough so that they did not notice him.

Well. That could be done.

Dake grinned at the thought. Before the sun reached his midpoint, it would be done!

"What do you see?" Raseri asked.

Conan pulled himself back from the edge of the shelf. An arrow sailed up a span or two past him, but fell back of its own weight. At this distance, to be hit by such a missile would be less damaging than an insect bite; still, they kept shooting.

"They are mostly hidden," the Cimmerian said. "And since they can see our rocks coming down, there is no point in wasting our supply."

The blindness suffered by the group had been temporary, as Penz had assured them it would be, and all could see as well as they had before. Even so, Conan kept them well back from the edge, so that those below could not discern how many of the escapees might be up here.

"Do you think they will try to attack?" This was from Oren, who seemed pleased at the idea.

"Who can say? I would not, in their position. I would wait and try to starve us out. They cannot know if we have food and water, however, and they may not have much of either themselves."

"So we wait, eh?" That from Fosull. "I like that not."

"Nor do I," Conan said. "But sometimes waiting is the best ploy. It allows our enemies opportunity to make a foolish mistake, and it keeps us from doing the same."

"How long-?" began Teyle. She stopped as a wet, plopping sound interrupted her. There came another such sound, and another, and in a moment the air was filled with the cause: It was raining toads.

Illusions they might be, but they felt real when they struck. A toad thumped onto Conan's neck, and he brushed it away. By Crom, what did Dake hope to gain with this foolishness?

Below, the nine men who were still able to mount an attack looked at Dake as if he had gone mad.

"You want us to climb up that steep hill against the boulders that will certainly be heaved down upon us? This is surely a stupid idea!"

"Aye," said a second man. "They cannot stay there forever. Why not simply camp down here out of range and wait for them to come down?"

Dake shook his head. "Nay, I am not disposed to wait. I have already begun the attack. Behold!"

The nine men looked up to the sky above the shelf; it was dark, and raining what appeared to be dirt clods upon, the ridge. One of the clods bounced down the hill.

"You attack them with toads?"

"Aye, and a demon shall lead you up the hill. Observe!"

The mage performed the conjuration, and the gigantic red demon appeared.

The startled nine drew back, muttering to their gods.

"If you can send that," said one man, "why would you need us?"

Dake could not fault the man's logic, but he had no time to cater to it. "I have my reasons."

"May be, friend, but our master is dead, and I do not recall him leaving you in command. Even with your tame demon, such an assault would be suicide!"

How had these men suddenly developed such a grasp of tactics? Dake wondered. Before, they had seemed much less clever. Well. No matter. They would attack, like it or not. He had purposedly gathered them in close, so that all would be in range of his obedience spell. He had never done nine at once, but as long as they were bunched within the reach of his magic, there was no reason why the spell should not work.

Dake spoke the words quickly, taking care not to mispronounce them.

"Hey, what is that?" one of the men began fearfully. "What are you-?"

He did not finish expressing his qualms. Dake instead completed his incantation, felt the geas take hold of the nine, and said, "Silence, fools!"

A short distance away, outside of his range, Kreg called out, "The toads have stopped falling."

"No matter." A wave of Dake's hand sent the demon lumbering up the hill. Being an illusion, it was unaffected by the steepness of the slope. The demon was a fearsome sight, to be certain, but useless, as those above knew it for what it was. No matter, though.

"You nine go and capture yon escapees, now!"

Against their wishes, the nine troops began their climb.

"The red demon comes," Penz said.

"Do we need fear it?" Fosull asked.

"Nay, Father. It is an illusion."

"Why, then, is Dake sending it?" Conan wondered aloud. "He knows that we know this."

"Perhaps it is to hide those who come behind it," Penz said. "Observe."

All of the group moved to the edge of the shelf and peered down the hill. A loose line of men clambered upward.

"Ready your stones," Conan said.

"This way," Dake said to Kreg. "Hurry!"

"What are we going to do?"

The pair moved along the trail and rounded the next turning.

"Turn so that I may mount you, pig 'a back," Dake commanded.

Kreg looked puzzled, but turned. Dake climbed up onto his assistant's back, the carved bird of levitation clutched in one hand. He wrapped his free arm around Kreg's chest and pressed his knees against the blond man's sides.

"I do not understand."

"We are going up the mountain."

"Not if you think I can carry you."

"Silence, idiot. I will use magic to lift us. As you feel yourself grow lighter, use your hands to move us along the hill. Take care to stay close so that we are not seen. We shall sneak up on them."

"Ah."

Dake spoke the words represented by the inscribed runes, directing the energy into Kreg. For a moment nothing seemed to happen.

"It is working!" Kreg said.

"Of course it is working, fool. Did I not say that it would?"

Despite his speech, Dake felt a sense of amazement as Kreg's feet left the ground and the pair began to float upward as if they were two linked bubbles in a mug of ale.

"Stay close to the hillside!"

Kreg obeyed, pulling them along with his fingertips, much as a man swimming along the bottom of a pond might.

Well, the old wizard had spoken the truth. Would wonders never cease?

Four of the nine attackers had been driven back by rocks from Conan's well-thewed arm, and the others dodged similar missiles hurled by the Cimmerian's companions.

"Is that all of them?" Fosull asked, as he threw a stone. The rock fell well short of the climbers and bounced harmlessly past them.

"So it would seem," Raseri said.

"I do not see Dake, nor is Kreg apparent," Conan said.

"Perhaps they went over the side last night," Teyle offered.

"Somehow that seems less than likely."

"They would not risk themselves do they survive," Penz said.

"These troops are certainly either brave or stupid," Raseri said as one of his tossed rocks caught one of the men full in the chest and knocked him down the hill.

"Or enspelled," Tro said.

Dake did not know how long the magic would keep them aloft. Long enough, to surprise the escapees, he hoped. He was consoled by the knowledge that if the spell failed, they were but a short way above the angled hillside, and that his fall would be cushioned by Kreg's body if they were to come down unexpectedly.

They had risen well above the level of the shelf upon which their quarry stood showering rocks upon the hapless troops. Now they moved almost horizonally to a position that would bring them directly over the shelf.

"Carefully, carefully."

Below, the red demon had arrived at the ledge and stood there snarling ineffectively. The freaks and Conan ignored the illusion, casting rocks through him, and even walking within the space occupied by the creature. Dozens of evaporating toads still hopped about, although they, like the impotent demon, would be gone soon.

"There, move toward that large boulder on the back edge of the shelf."

Kreg did as directed. When they reached the rock, he gripped it tightly. Dake hopped from his back. This action was enough so that Kreg would have floated away had he not been anchored by his clutch upon the rock. Even so, his legs drifted upward.

"H-h-hey!"

"Silence!" Dake hissed.

"B-b-but I am without weight!"

"I'll take care of that in a moment. Stay where you are until I recapture the others."

"B-b-b-but-"

"I said be quiet!"

Dake moved quickly toward the freaks and that cursed barbarian. They were all gathered at the edge, bent on stopping the remaining troops from ascending. A few more steps and he would be close enough to envelop them in his spell ....

Some unknown sense warned Conan of danger. He spun, to see Dake coming toward them from behind!

"Behind us!" Conan yelled. "Move apart!"

Even as he yelled, Conan leaped to one side, away from the others.

Dake continued onward, speaking rapidly a language Conan did not know. The others started to spread out. In panic, Oren scooped up and threw a rock at the advancing magician, but it was hardly more than a pebble, no larger than a man's big toe.

Dake recited the final word of his spell, and the invisible net of magic fell upon the freaks. Only Conan was outside the range. "Don't move!" Dake commanded those he had just enthralled. Obediently, they froze into living statues.

Unfortunately, Dake's command could not stop the rock that Oren had tossed. The rock was small, but it came fast and hard and struck the mage square in the mouth. Two of his front teeth shattered and his lip split, gouting blood.

Dake wiped at his injured mouth. No matter. The boy would suffer for that. Later, after he enspelled Conan and had him leap from the ledge to his death!

Dake turned toward his final prey. Conan had drawn his sword and moved as far away as he could, but it would avail him not. Dake began the incantation again.

At the fourth word of the spell that would enslave the barbarian, Dake found that his injury would not allow him to pronounce it. He spat blood and fragments of teeth, but the gap could not be closed sufficiently to allow him to say the word!

Conan resolved to go to meet his god with his sword swinging. If he moved fast enough, perhaps he could lay the sharp iron on Dake before the spell captured him completely. He took a deep breath as he watched the man opposite him spit blood. He lifted his blade and charged, screaming.

Dake panicked. He dodged Conan's rush and turned to the enthralled freaks.

"Get him! Kill him!" he tried to say. The words came out, "Hithum! Hilluim!"

None of the freaks moved.

"Yaaah!" Dake screamed.

Something was wrong here, Conan realized. He had deliberately overbalanced when he had launched himself at Dake, so that even if he were enspelled, his momentum might carry him through. Only, instead of snaring him in the geas, Dake had merely moved aside.

Conan's rush carried him to the edge of the shelf. He nearly went over and was forced to drop his sword that he might keep his balance. His weapon slid to the lip and dropped, falling only a few spans before sticking up in the hard ground.

The Cimmerian twisted to face his enemy.

Dake had drawn a long knife from his belt, and was backing away.

Why was he not under Dake's spell? Surely he had been close enough? And why had the man pulled a dagger when he had magic at his command?

Conan grinned as he realized the only possible answer. Something was wrong with Dake's magic!

"So, slaver, your power has failed."

Dake continued to back away.

Conan moved in, brawny arms held wide, crouched low, inviting a thrust.

Dake lunged, driving the point of his blade at Conan's heart Conan twisted away and slammed the heel of his hand against Dake's shoulder. Dake was knocked sideways, but he slashed backward with the dagger, and the tip dug a furrow across Conan's chest The Cimmerian took the cut willingly, for that put him in position to drive his fist into the space under Dake's breastbone with all the power he could muster Dake's breath exploded out of him in a wheeze that showered Conan with blood from the man's smashed lips. He dropped the dagger Conan grabbed Dake as he sagged and lifted him above his head. He turned and took three quick steps toward the edge of the shelf "Doah!" Dake yelled. "Doah!"

Conan bent his powerful arms and legs and when he straightened them, threw Dake high into the air And over the edge of the shelf.

"Yaaaaahhhhhh!"

The slaver fell a long way before smashing into a flat rock. The scream cut off as if sliced by a sharp blade. The body bounced the rest of the way down the hill, over the trail below, and out of sight.

The four troopers who remained standing on the steep slope shook themselves and stared up at those on the ledge. Abruptly the four must have decided that they had urgent business elsewhere, for they scurried down to the trail below and did not slow when they reached it.

Conan turned back to look at the rest of his party. The death of Dake had released them from ensorcelment. Several of them came forward to congratulate him.

"H-h-help!"

Conan turned to see Kreg floating in the air at the juncture of the ledge and the hillside.

Penz moved, his rope twirling.

Kreg drifted upward, as a bit of thistle rises over a hot fire.

The wolfman threw his rope. The loop rose and settled over Kreg's shoulders, but in his haste to grab the hemp, the lackey knocked the noose up so that it encircled instead his neck.

Kreg made choking sounds but managed to grab the rope above the noose with both hands and thus gain himself some slack.

The wind began to move Kreg away from the face of the hill and out over the edge of the shelf. Conan could see that Penz was being pulled along and nearly lifted from his feet. The Cimmerian ran to assist the wolfman, catching the rope and adding his weight to it. Even so, the tug was strong.

"Pull me down! Pull me down!"

Conan and Penz tried, but they could only manage to move the floating man toward them slightly. He now drifted over the steepest part of the hill below the ledge, where it was very nearly a straight drop.

"Raseri, your assistance," Conan called.

But as the Jatte moved to aid them, whatever magic responsible for holding Kreg aloft chose at that instant to fail. Kreg went from being like a bird on the end of a string to being like an anvil tethered to one. His face was full of surprise as he hurtled past them, hands waving in a futile attempt to regain some kind of balance. That was a mistake, but Conan did not think that keeping his hands on the rope would have helped Kreg much, considering the speed at which he fell. To Conan and Penz's credit, they managed to maintain their hold on the hemp, although it might have been better for Kreg if they had not.

There came a wet crack as Kreg reached the end of his rope. Conan and the wolfman looked at each other as the others went to observe the man who dangled by his neck below them.

Penz grinned wolfishly.

TWENTY-FIVE

Those who had been Dake's thralls the longest were first to make certain that he was indeed dead. Conan arrived as Penz stripped the few belongings from the body and examined them.

"Aside from his wagon and the coins hidden in the strongbox therein, he had little to show for his wickedness," Sab observed.

"And now he has nothing to show for it. I hope some of his victims will be on hand to argue his passage through the Gray Lands on his way to Gehanna," Tro added.

"And what are your plans now that you are free?". Conan asked.

Tro, Sab, and Penz exchanged glances. "Perhaps we shall return and claim Dake's wagon. He has no further need of it and likely none will contest our ownership of it. We might use it to travel to a place where our appearance is not thought so unusual." Penz was speaking. "You are welcome to come with us, friend. Part of the wagon's proceeds rightfully belong to you."

"Nay, I think not. I have my own road to travel. You may have Dake's wagon and money with my blessing." Conan looked up the hill. The four Jatte and two Vargs were still descending toward them. "Tell me, do you think such a place as you seek exists?"

The wolfman, catwoman, and four-armed man shrugged in unison.

Penz looked at Conan. "Who can say? There are stories of an island off the coast of the Western Sea in the Black Kingdom where all manner of oddities live in harmony. Perhaps we shall go there and see if the tales are true. Dake's money will make the trip possible. We can hire our own guards, if need be. Freaks with swordsmen are bothered less than those without."

The Jatte and Vargs arrived just then.

"Is he truly dead?" Vilken asked.

"Aye. Dead as anyone gets."

"Good."

"And our business together is done," Conan said.

"Nay, but not quite," Raseri said.

Conan looked up at the giant.

"You and these others still know where to find the Jatte."

"And the Vargs," Fosull added.

"When we arrive upon the flatlands, I shall prepare the potion of forgetfulness," Raseri said. "After you have drunk of it, you can go on your way."

Conan glanced at Penz, Tro, and Sab. He saw agreement there, though he was not particularly disposed to give up his own memory.

"Very well. We shall travel with you back to where we began climbing the hills."

Raseri smiled, showing his big white teeth.

Alone in the patch of scrub growth near the place where the merchant's horses-now long gone-had been tethered, Raseri gathered chu root, leaves of the hemin bush, and the bitter, milky stalks of the pok weed. To ingest any of the three was worth death; to drink a potion made from all guaranteed it beyond doubt. A single sip from this brew would fell an ox. Raseri intended that each of the four outsiders would drink an entire cupful.

When he returned to where the others had started an afternoon fire and were roasting rabbits, the Jatte was smiling again. He was, he reckoned, clever beyond any of these small men or Vargs.

Conan watched as Vilken and Oren exchanged the secrets of their skills. The Varg demonstrated his expertise with his spear, while the Jatte boy showed the other how best to hurl a rock. Odd how these two had come to find a certain peace with each other. Were it not for their leaders, who knew but that they might learn to live in peace?

As Raseri approached the fire, Conan stepped to where Penz squatted, chewing on a leg of cooked rabbit.

"Do you know how to work any of the late Dake's magic tricks?"

Penz wiped grease from his mouth with the back of one hand. "Aye. Some. I cannot call the toad rain or the demon. Neither can I bind others to my will, or fly, but I can use the green powder."

Conan looked sharply at Penz, who grinned in return. "Aye, I do not trust the giant one either."

Conan clapped Penz on the shoulder. "Good."

An hour after Raseri had brought the potion to a simmer in a pot he had made from the bowl-like helmet of one of the fallen soldiers, he deemed the substance cooled enough. Using small metal cups taken from the kits of the dead soldiers, Raseri served up four potions of the brew, leaving nearly half of the dark mix in the makeshift pot.

It was Penz who fetched the cups for himself and the others, and it was Penz who surreptitiously sprinkled dashes of green powder into each cup while his back was turned to Raseri.

As soon as Conan, Tro, Sab, and Penz all had the brew in hand, Raseri said, "Drink up, and forget!"

Conan and the others regarded their cups and each other. The Cimmerian stared at the giant, who still stood next to the fire.

"Why do you hesitate? Have I not given you my word that this is harmless, save to your memory of how to find the Jatte?"

"Aye, so you have said," Conan answered. He looked at the murky brown liquid within the metal cup, and as he watched, it sparkled briefly and turned clear, so that he could see the metal shining dully up at him through what he had supposedly just been transformed into water.

Teyle bent and picked up one of the metal cups and dipped it into the pot. "I too shall drink of it, Father, to show them you speak the truth."

"No!" Raseri grabbed the cup from his daughter.

"Do you fear to have your daughter drink the same brew you would have us down?"

Raseri glared at Conan, then at the others.

"Conan speaks for us," Tro said.

Raseri looked as if he might scream, or attack them, so angry did his face appear. Then it calmed. "Nay, I have no such fear. Though I would save my own memories, observe!"

With that, he put the cup to his lips, tilted it back and drained it, swallowing the contents with one gulp.

Fosull danced toward the fire, snatched up a cup, and dipped it onto the brew. "No one shames a Varg," he said. He swallowed the contents nearly as quickly as had Raseri.

"Gah, what a vile taste," he said. "But now keep your part of the bargain, outswamp men!"

Conan looked at his three friends, and nodded. They drank.

When they were done, Raseri turned away and vomited violently.

"What is this?" Fosull asked. "What is this?"

The Jatte finished emptying his belly, then turned back to face the others.

"Father-?"

"The potion was poisoned," Conan said.

"Father!"

"Aye. And I thought they might demand that I drink of it, so I swallowed oil from the brill vine earlier to coat my stomach so none of it would be absorbed. But it is too late for them; already the poison courses through their systems and they will be dead in a matter of a few heartbeats. The secret of the Jatte is once again safe."

Fosull's green skin seemed three shades paler than normal. He dropped to his knees, making a gargling sound. Since he was much smaller than Raseri, Conan figured that the poison would claim him faster.

"You poisoned me? We are allies!"

"Do not be any more stupid than you are, Varg," Raseri said. "You are no more than an animal. You would have killed me at the first opportunity."

"True, Jatte. I would have." He grinned weakly. "Still, I will not go to my long sleep alone." And with that, he cast his spear.

Raseri dodged, and the spear only nicked his arm in passing. He put his hand over the small cut and pressed the flesh to stanch the tiny flow of blood.

"You are wrong yet again, Varg. You die with none but these small men to keep you company!"

Vilken had dropped his own spear and rushed to grab his father.

As his son clutched at him, Fosull began counting aloud.

"-three . . . four . . . five..."

"What is he doing?" Teyle asked.

"-eight . . . nine . . . ten!"

"The poison has affected his mind," Raseri said.

"Nay," - Fosull said, the sickly grin in place, pointed teeth grinning. "I wished only to be certain you did not try to express my poison from your wound before it had a chance to work."

"What?! "

"Aye. Giltberry juice. See you in Gehanna, Jatte! "

Raseri lifted his hand from the tiny wound and saw that already the edges of the cut had turned black. His legs wobbled and he sat upon the ground, hard. "I die, but I managed to keep the Jatte's secret! You all drank my poison and will follow me quickly!"

Teyle knelt next to her father and held him to her. "Father!"

Conan shook his head. "Nay, Raseri. Your treachery served you not. What we drank was no more than water, your poisoned brew having been altered by Dake's magic, courtesy of Penz."

Raseri's eyes widened in horror as he heard this.

Fosull fell forward onto the ground and died.

A moment later Raseri collapsed, joining the Varg in death.

"I am sorry it had to end this way," Conan said to Teyle. They had built a huge pyre upon which Raseri and Fosull's remains now burned brightly to greet the fall of night.

"He brought it upon himself," Teyle said.

"What will you do now?"

"I am now leader of the Jatte," she said. "I must return and take care of my people."

"And what of us?"

"You mean us no harm. Go your own way."

"And what of the Vargs?"

"Perhaps Vilken and I can make a truce. Too many of our people die for the wrong reasons. There must be a better way."

Conan nodded.

"And what of you, Conan?"

"I am bound for Shadizar. After a long and twisted path, it seems I am finally about to arrive there."

"I wish you good fortune."

"My thanks."

But as Teyle walked closer to the pyre where her father's corpse burned, Conan wondered about Shadizar. After his adventures of the past few months and years, being a thief was going to seem altogether . . . well, altogether dull.

The Tower of the Elephant

1

Torches flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarter, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of these doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face.

In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke-stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters - furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick-fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element - dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame - for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold-eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired

Gunderman - a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain.

This man halted in his description of an intended victim’s charms, and thrust his muzzle into a huge tankard of frothing ale. Then blowing the foam from his fat lips, he said, `By Bel, god of all thieves, I’ll show them how to steal wenches: I’ll have her over the Zamorian border before dawn, and there’ll be a caravan waiting to receive her. Three hundred pieces of silver, a count of Ophir promised me for a sleek young Brythunian of the better class. It took me weeks, wandering among the border cities as a beggar, to find one I knew would suit. And is she a pretty baggage!’

He blew a slobbery kiss in the air.

`I know lords in Shem who would trade the secret of the Elephant Tower for her,’ he said, returning to his ale.

A touch on his tunic sleeve made him turn his head, scowling at the interruption. He saw a tall, strongly made youth standing beside him. This person was as much out of place in that den as a gray wolf among mangy rats of the gutters. His cheap tunic could not conceal the hard, rangy lines of his powerful frame, the broad heavy shoulders, the massive chest, lean waist and heavy arms. His skin was brown from outland suns, his eyes blue and smoldering; a shock of tousled black hair crowned his broad forehead. From his girdle hung a sword in a worn leather scabbard.

The Kothian involuntarily drew back; for the man was not one of any civilized race he knew.

`You spoke of the Elephant Tower,’ said the stranger, speaking Zamorian with an alien accent. `I’ve heard much of this tower; what is its secret?’

The fellow’s attitude did not seem threatening, and the Kothian’s courage was bolstered up by the ale, and the evident approval of his audience. He swelled with self-importance.

`The secret of the Elephant Tower?’ he exclaimed. `Why, any fool knows that Yara the priest dwells there with the great jewel men call the Elephant’s Heart, that is the secret of his magic.’

The barbarian digested this for a space.

`I have seen this tower,’ he said. `It is set in a great garden above the level of the city, surrounded by high walls. I have seen no guards. The walls would be easy to climb. Why has not somebody stolen this secret gem?’

The Kothian stared wide-mouthed at the other’s simplicity, then burst into a roar of derisive mirth, in which the others joined.

‘Harken to this heathen!’ he bellowed. `He would steal the jewel of Yara! - Harken, fellow,’ he said, turning portentously to the other, `I suppose you are some sort of a northern barbarian-‘

`I am a Cimmerian,’ the outlander answered, in no friendly tone. The reply and the manner of it meant little to the Kothian; of a kingdom that lay far to the south, on the borders of Shem, he knew only vaguely of the northern races.

`Then give ear and learn wisdom, fellow,’ said he, pointing his drinking-jack at the discomfited youth. `Know that in Zamora, and more especially in this city, there are more bold thieves than anywhere else in the world, even Koth. If mortal man could have stolen the gem, be sure it would have been filched long ago. You speak of climbing the walls, but once having climbed, you would quickly wish yourself back again. There are no guards in the gardens at night for a very good reason - that is, no human guards. But in the watch-chamber, in the lower part of the tower, are armed men, and even if you passed those who roam the gardens by night, you must still pass through the soldiers, for the gem is kept somewhere in the tower above.’

`But if a man could pass through the gardens,’ argued the Cimmerian, `why could he not come at the gem through the upper part of the tower and thus avoid the soldiers?’

Again the Kothian gaped at him.

`Listen to him!’ he shouted jeeringly. `The barbarian is an eagle who would fly to the jeweled rim of the tower, which is only a hundred and fifty feet above the earth, with rounded sides slicker than polished glass!’

The Cimmerian glared about, embarrassed at the roar of mocking laughter that greeted this remark. He saw no particular humor in it, and was too new to civilization to understand its discourtesies. Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing. He was bewildered and chagrined, and doubtless would have slunk away, abashed, but the Kothian chose to goad him further.

`Come, come!’ he shouted. `Tell these poor fellows, who have only been thieves since before you were spawned, tell them how you would steal the gem!’

`There is always a way, if the desire be coupled with courage,’ answered the Cimmerian shortly, nettled.

The Kothian chose to take this as a personal slur. His face grew purple with anger.

`What!’ he roared. `You dare tell us our business, and intimate that we are cowards? Get along; get out of my sight!’ And he pushed the Cimmerian violently.

`Will you mock me and then lay hands on me?’ grated the barbarian, his quick rage leaping up; and he returned the push with an open-handed blow that knocked his tormentor back against the rude-hewn table. Ale splashed over the jack’s lip, and the Kothian roared in fury, dragging at his sword.

`Heathen dog!’ he bellowed. `I’ll have your heart for that!’

Steel flashed and the throng surged wildly back out of the way. In their flight they knocked over the single candle and the den was plunged in darkness, broken by the crash of upset benches, drum of flying feet, shouts, oaths of people tumbling over one another, and a single strident yell of agony that cut the din like a knife. When a candle was relighted, most of the guests had gone out by doors and broken windows, and the rest huddled behind stacks of wine-kegs and under tables. The barbarian was gone; the center of the room was deserted except for the gashed body of the Kothian. The Cimmerian, with the unerring instinct of the barbarian, had killed his man in the darkness and confusion.

2

The lurid lights and drunken revelry fell away behind the Cimmerian. He had discarded his torn tunic, and walked through the night naked except for a loin-cloth and his high-strapped sandals. He moved with the supple ease of a great tiger, his steely muscles rippling under his brown skin.

He had entered the part of the city reserved for the temples. On all sides of him they glittered white in the starlight - snowy marble pillars and golden domes and silver arches, shrines of Zamora’s myriad strange gods. He did not trouble his head about them; he knew that Zamora’s religion, like all things of a civilized, long-settled people, was intricate and complex, and had lost most of the pristine essence in a maze of formulas and rituals. He had squatted for hours in the courtyard of the philosophers, listening to the arguments of theologians and teachers, and come away in a haze of bewilderment, sure of only one thing, and that, that they were all touched in the head.

His gods were simple and understandable; Crom was their chief, and he lived on a great mountain, whence he sent forth dooms and death. It was useless to call on Crom, because he was a gloomy, savage god, and he hated weaklings. But he gave a man courage at birth, and the will and might to kill his enemies, which, in the Cimmerian’s mind, was all any god should be expected to do.

His sandalled feet made no sound on the gleaming pave. No watchmen passed, for even the thieves of the Maul shunned the temples, where strange dooms had been known to fall on violators. Ahead of him he saw, looming against the sky, the Tower of the Elephant. He mused, wondering why it was so named. No one seemed to know. He had never seen an elephant, but he vaguely understood that it was a monstrous animal, with a tail in front as well as behind. This a wandering Shemite had told him, swearing that he had seen such beasts by the thousands in the country of the Hyrkanians; but all men knew what liars were the men of Shem. At any rate, there were no elephants in Zamora.

The shimmering shaft of the tower rose frostily in the stars. In the sunlight it shone so dazzlingly that few could bear its glare, and men said it was built of silver. It was round, a slim perfect cylinder, a hundred and fifty feet in height, and its rim glittered in the starlight with the great jewels which crusted it. The tower stood among the waving exotic trees of a garden raised high above the general level of the city. A high wall enclosed this garden, and outside the wall was a lower level, likewise enclosed by a wall. No lights shone forth; there seemed to be no windows in the tower - at least not above the level of the inner wall. Only the gems high above sparkled frostily in the starlight.

Shrubbery grew thick outside the lower, or outer wall. The Cimmerian crept close and stood beside the barrier, measuring it with his eyes. It was high, but he could leap and catch the coping with his fingers. Then it would be child’s play to swing himself up and over, and he did not doubt that he could pass the inner wall in the same manner. But he hesitated at the thought of the strange perils which were said to await within. These people were strange and mysterious to him; they were not of his kind - not even of the same blood as the more westerly Brythunians, Nemedians, Kothians and Aquilonians, whose civilized mysteries had awed him in times past. The people of Zamora were very ancient, and, from what he had seen of them, very evil.

He thought of Yara, the high priest, who worked strange dooms from this jeweled tower, and the Cimmerian’s hair prickled as he remembered a tale told by a drunken page of the court - how Yara had laughed in the face of a hostile prince, and held up a glowing, evil gem before him, and how rays shot blindingly from that unholy jewel, to envelop the prince, who screamed and fell down, and shrank to a withered blackened lump that changed to a black spider which scampered wildly about the chamber until Yara set his heel upon it.

Yara came not often from his tower of magic, and always to work evil on some man or some nation. The king of Zamora feared him more than he feared death, and kept himself drunk all the time because that fear was more than he could endure sober. Yara was very old - centuries old, men said, and added that he would live for ever because of the magic of his gem, which men called the Heart of the Elephant, for no better reason than they named his hold the Elephant’s Tower.

The Cimmerian, engrossed in these thoughts, shrank quickly against the wall. Within the garden someone was passing, who walked with a measured stride. The listener heard the clink of steel. So after all a guard did pace those gardens. The Cimmerian waited, expected to hear him pass again, on the next round, but silence rested over the mysterious gardens.

At last curiosity overcame him. Leaping lightly he grasped the wall and swung himself up to the top with one arm. Lying flat on the broad coping, he looked down into the wide space between the walls. No shrubbery grew near him, though he saw some carefully trimmed bushes near the inner wall. The starlight fell on the even sward and somewhere a fountain tinkled.

The Cimmerian cautiously lowered himself down on the inside and drew his sword, staring about him. He was shaken by the nervousness of the wild at standing thus unprotected in the naked starlight, and he moved lightly around the curve of the wall, hugging its shadow, until he was even with the shrubbery he had noticed. Then he ran quickly toward it, crouching low, and almost tripped over a form that lay crumpled near the edges of the bushes.

A quick look to right and left showed him no enemy in sight at least, and he bent close to investigate. His keen eyes, even in the dim starlight, showed him a strongly built man in the silvered armor and crested helmet of the Zamorian royal guard. A shield and a spear lay near him, and it took but an instant’s examination to show that he had been strangled. The barbarian glanced about uneasily. He knew that this man must be the guard he had heard pass his hiding-place by the wall. Only a short time had passed, yet in that interval nameless hands had reached out of the dark and choked out the soldier’s life.

Straining his eyes in the gloom, he saw a hint of motion through the shrubs near the wall. Thither he glided, gripping his sword. He made no more noise than a panther stealing through the night, yet the man he was stalking heard. The Cimmerian had a dim glimpse of a huge bulk close to the wall, felt relief that it was at least human; then the fellow wheeled quickly with a gasp that sounded like panic, made the first motion of a forward plunge, hands clutching, then recoiled as the Cimmerian’s blade caught the starlight. For a tense instant neither spoke, standing ready for anything.

`You are no soldier,’ hissed the stranger at last. `You are a thief like myself.’

`And who are you?’ asked the Cimmerian in a suspicious whisper.

`Taurus of Nemedia.’

The Cimmerian lowered his sword.

`I’ve heard of you. Men call you a prince of thieves.’

A low laugh answered him. Taurus was tall as the Cimmerian, and heavier; he was big-bellied and fat, but his every movement betokened a subtle dynamic magnetism, which was reflected in the keen eyes that glinted vitally, even in the starlight. He was barefooted and carried a coil of what looked like a thin, strong rope, knotted at regular intervals.

`Who are you?’ he whispered.

‘Conan, a Cimmerian,’ answered the other. `I came seeking a way to steal Yara’s jewel, that men call the Elephant’s Heart.’

Conan sensed the man’s great belly shaking in laughter, but it was not derisive.

`By Bel, god of thieves!’ hissed Taurus. `I had thought only myself had courage to attempt that poaching. These Zamorians call themselves thieves - bah! Conan, I like your grit. I never shared an adventure with anyone, but by Bel, we’ll attempt this together if you’re willing.’

`Then you are after the gem, too?’

`What else? I’ve had my plans laid for months, but you, I think, have acted on a sudden impulse, my friend.’

`You killed the soldier?’

`Of course. I slid over the wall when he was on the other side of the garden. I hid in the bushes; he heard me, or thought he heard something. When he came blundering over, it was no trick at all to get behind him and suddenly grip his neck and choke out his fool’s life. He was like most men, half blind in the dark. A good thief should have eyes like a cat.’

`You made one mistake,’ said Conan.

Taurus’s eyes flashed angrily. `I? I, a mistake? Impossible!’

`You should have dragged the body into the bushes.’

‘Said the novice to the master of the art. They will not change the guard until past midnight. Should any come searching for him now, and find his body, they would flee at once to Yara, bellowing the news, and give us time to escape. Were they not to find it, they’d go on beating up the bushes and catch us like rats in a trap.’

`You are right,’ agreed Conan.

`So. Now attend. We waste time in this cursed discussion. There are no guards in the inner garden - human guards, I mean, though there are sentinels even more deadly. It was their presence which baffled me for so long, but I finally discovered a way to circumvent them.’

`What of the soldiers in the lower part of the tower?’

`Old Yara dwells in the chambers above. By that route we will come - and go, I hope. Never mind asking me how. I have arranged a way. We’ll steal down through the top of the tower and strangle old Yara before he can cast any of his accursed spells on us. At least we’ll try; it’s the chance of being turned into a spider or a toad, against the wealth and power of the world. All good thieves must know how to take risks.’

`I’ll go as far as any man,’ said Conan, slipping off his sandals.

`Then follow me.’ And turning, Taurus leaped up, caught the wall and drew himself up. The man’s suppleness was amazing, considering his bulk; he seemed almost to glide up over the edge of the coping. Conan followed him, and lying flat on the broad top, they spoke in wary whispers.

`I see no light,’ Conan muttered. The lower part of the tower seemed much like that portion visible from outside the garden a perfect, gleaming cylinder, with no apparent openings.

`There are cleverly constructed doors and windows,’ answered Taurus, `but they are closed. The soldiers breathe air that comes from above.’

The garden was a vague pool of shadows, where feathery bushes and low spreading trees waved darkly in the starlight. Conan’s wary soul felt the aura of waiting menace that brooded over it. He felt the burning glare of unseen eyes, and he caught a subtle scent that made the short hairs on his neck instinctively bristle as a hunting dog bristles at the scent of an ancient enemy.

`Follow me,’ whispered Taurus, `keep behind me, as you value your life.’

Taking what looked like a copper tube from his girdle, the Nemedian dropped lightly to the sward inside the wall. Conan was close behind him, sword ready, but Taurus pushed him back, close to the wall, and showed no indication to advance, himself. His whole attitude was of tense expectancy, and his gaze, like Conan’s, was fixed on the shadowy mass of shrubbery a few yards away. This shrubbery was shaken, although the breeze had died down. Then two great eyes blazed from the waving shadows, and behind them other sparks of fire glinted in the darkness.

`Lions!’ muttered Conan.

`Aye. By day they are kept in subterranean caverns below the tower. That’s why there are no guards in this garden.’

Conan counted the eyes rapidly.

`Five in sight; maybe more back in the bushes. They’ll charge in a moment-‘

`Be silent!’ hissed Taurus, and he moved out from the wall, cautiously as if treading on razors, lifting the slender tube. Low rumblings rose from the shadows and the blazing eyes moved forward. Conan could sense the great slavering jaws, the tufted tails lashing tawny sides. The air grew tense - the Cimmerian gripped his sword, expecting the charge and the irresistible hurtling of giant bodies. Then Taurus brought the mouth of the tube to his lips and blew powerfully. A long jet of yellowish powder shot from the other end of the tube and billowed out instantly in a thick green-yellow cloud that settled over the shrubbery, blotting out the glaring eyes.

Taurus ran back hastily to the wall. Conan glared without understanding. The thick cloud hid the shrubbery, and from it no sound came.

`What is that mist?’ the Cimmerian asked uneasily.

`Death!’ hissed the Nemedian. `If a wind springs up and blows it back upon us, we must flee over the wall. But no, the wind is still, and now it is dissipating. Wait until it vanishes entirely. To breathe it is death.’

Presently only yellowish shreds hung ghostily in the air; then they were gone, and Taurus motioned his companion forward. They stole toward the bushes, and Conan gasped. Stretched out in the shadows lay five great tawny shapes, the fire of their grim eyes dimmed for ever. A sweetish cloying scent lingered in the atmosphere.

`They died without a sound!’ muttered the Cimmerian. `Taurus, what was that powder?’

`It was made from the black lotus, whose blossoms wave in the lost jungles of Khitai, where only the yellow-skulled priests of Yun dwell. Those blossoms strike dead any who smell of them.’

Conan knelt beside the great forms, assuring himself that they were indeed beyond power of harm. He shook his head; the magic of the exotic lands was mysterious and terrible to the barbarians of the north.

`Why can you not slay the soldiers in the tower in the same way?’ he asked.

`Because that was all the powder I possessed. The obtaining of it was a feat which in itself was enough to make me famous among the thieves of the world. I stole it out of a caravan bound for Stygia, and I lifted it, in its cloth-of-gold bag, out of the coils of the great serpent which guarded it, without awaking him. But come, in Bel’s name! Are we to waste the night in discussion?’

They glided through the shrubbery to the gleaming foot of the tower, and there, with a motion enjoining silence, Taurus unwound his knotted cord, on one end of which was a strong steel hook. Conan saw his plan, and asked no questions as the Nemedian gripped the line a short distance below the hook, and began to swing it about his head. Conan laid his ear to the smooth wall and listened, but could hear nothing. Evidently the soldiers within did not suspect the presence of intruders, who had made no more sound than the night wind blowing through the trees. But a strange nervousness was on the barbarian; perhaps it was the lion-smell which was over everything.

Taurus threw the line with a smooth, ripping motion of his mighty arm. The hook curved upward and inward in a peculiar manner, hard to describe, and vanished over the jeweled rim. It apparently caught firmly, for cautious jerking and then hard pulling did not result in any slipping or giving.

`Luck the first cast,’ murmured Taurus. `I-‘

It was Conan’s savage instinct which made him wheel suddenly; for the death that was upon them made no sound. A fleeting glimpse showed the Cimmerian the giant tawny shape, rearing upright against the stars, towering over him for the death-stroke. No civilized man could have moved half so quickly as the barbarian moved. His sword flashed frostily in the starlight with every ounce of desperate nerve and thew behind it, and man and beast went down together.

Cursing incoherently beneath his breath, Taurus bent above the mass, and saw his companion’s limbs move as he strove to drag himself from under the great weight that lay limply upon him. A glance showed the startled Nemedian that the lion was dead, its slanting skull split in half. He laid hold of the carcass, and by his aid, Conan thrust it aside and clambered up, still gripping his dripping sword.

`Are you hurt, man?’ gasped Taurus, still bewildered by the stunning swiftness of that touch-and-go episode.

`No, by Crom!’ answered the barbarian. `But that was as close a call as I’ve had in a life no ways tame. Why did not the cursed beast roar as he charged?’

`All things are strange in this garden,’ said Taurus. `The lions strike silently - and so do other deaths. But come - little sound was made in that slaying, but the soldiers might have heard, if they are not asleep or drunk. That beast was in some other part of the garden and escaped the death of the flowers, but surely there are no more. We must climb this cord - little need to ask a Cimmerian if he can.’

`If it will bear my weight,’ grunted Conan, cleansing his sword on the grass.

`It will bear thrice my own,’ answered Taurus. `It was woven from the tresses of dead women, which I took from their tombs at midnight, and steeped in the deadly wine of the upas tree, to give it strength. I will go first - then follow me closely.’

The Nemedian gripped the rope and, crooking a knee about it, began the ascent; he went up like a cat, belying the apparent clumsiness of his bulk. The Cimmerian followed. The cord swayed and turned on itself, but the climbers were not hindered; both had made more difficult climbs before. The jeweled rim glittered high above them, jutting out from the perpendicular -a fact which added greatly to the ease of the ascent.

Up and up they went, silently, the lights of the city spreading out further and further to their sight as they climbed, the stars above them more and more dimmed by the glitter of the jewels along the rim. Now Taurus reached up a hand and gripped the rim itself, pulling himself up and over. Conan paused a moment on the very edge, fascinated by the great frosty jewels whose gleams dazzled his eyes - diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, turquoises, moonstones, set thick as stars in the shimmering silver. At a distance their different gleams had seemed to merge into a pulsing white glare; but now, at close range, they shimmered with a million rainbow tints and lights, hypnotizing him with their scintillations.

`There is a fabulous fortune here, Taurus,’ he whispered; but the Nemedian answered impatiently. `Come on! If we secure the Heart, these and all other things shall be ours.’

Conan climbed over the sparkling rim. The level of the tower’s top was some feet below the gemmed ledge. It was flat, composed of some dark blue substance, set with gold that caught the starlight, so that the whole looked like a wide sapphire flecked with shining gold-dust. Across from the point where they had entered there seemed to be a sort of chamber, built upon the roof. It was of the same silvery material as the walls of the tower, adorned with designs worked in smaller gems; its single door was of gold, its surface cut in scales, and crusted with jewels that gleamed like ice.

Conan cast a glance at the pulsing ocean of lights which spread far below them, then glanced at Taurus. The Nemedian was drawing up his cord and coiling it. He showed Conan where the hook had caught - a fraction of an inch of the point had sunk under a great blazing jewel on the inner side of the rim.

`Luck was with us again,’ he muttered. `One would think that our combined weight would have torn that stone out. Follow me; the real risks of the venture begin now. We are in the serpent’s lair, and we know not where he lies hidden.’

Like stalking tigers they crept across the darkly gleaming floor and halted outside the sparkling door. With a deft and cautious hand Taurus tried it. It gave without resistance, and the companions looked in, tensed for anything. Over the Nemedian’s shoulder Conan had a glimpse of a glittering chamber, the walls, ceiling and floor of which were crusted with great white jewels which lighted it brightly, and which seemed its only illumination. It seemed empty of life.

`Before we cut off our last retreat,’ hissed Taurus, `go you to the rim and look over on all sides; if you see any soldiers moving in the gardens, or anything suspicious, return and tell me. I will await you within this chamber.’

Conan saw scant reason in this, and a faint suspicion of his companion touched his wary soul, but he did as Taurus requested. As he turned away, the Nemedian slipt inside the door and drew it shut behind him. Conan crept about the rim of the tower, returning to his starting-point without having seen any suspicious movement in the vaguely waving sea of leaves below. He turned toward the door - suddenly from within the chamber there sounded a strangled cry.

The Cimmerian leaped forward, electrified - the gleaming door swung open and Taurus stood framed in the cold blaze behind him. He swayed and his lips parted, but only a dry rattle burst from his throat. Catching at the golden door for support, he lurched out upon the roof, then fell headlong, clutching at his throat. The door swung to behind him.

Conan, crouching like a panther at bay, saw nothing in the room behind the stricken Nemedian, in the brief instant the door was partly open - unless it was not a trick of the light which made it seem as if a shadow darted across the gleaming door. Nothing followed Taurus out on the roof, and Conan bent above the man.

The Nemedian stared up with dilated, glazing eyes, that somehow held a terrible bewilderment. His hands clawed at his throat, his lips slobbered and gurgled; then suddenly he stiffened, and the astounded Cimmerian knew that he was dead. And he felt that Taurus had died without knowing what manner of death had stricken him. Conan glared bewilderedly at the cryptic golden door. In that empty room, with its glittering jeweled walls, death had come to the prince of thieves as swiftly and mysteriously as he had dealt doom to the lions in the gardens below.

Gingerly the barbarian ran his hands over the man’s half-naked body, seeking a wound. But the only marks of violence were between his shoulders, high up near the base of his bull-neck - three small wounds, which looked as if three nails had been driven deep in the flesh and withdrawn. The edges of these wounds were black, and a faint smell as of putrefaction was evident. Poisoned darts? thought Conan - but in that case the missiles should be still in the wounds.

Cautiously he stole toward the golden door, pushed it open, and looked inside. The chamber lay empty, bathed in the cold, pulsing glow of the myriad jewels. In the very center of the ceiling he idly noted a curious design - a black eight-sided pattern, in the center of which four gems glittered with a red flame unlike the white blaze of the other jewels. Across the room there was another door, like the one in which he stood, except that it was not carved in the scale pattern. Was it from that door that death had come? - and having struck down its victim, had it retreated by the same way?

Closing the door behind him, the Cimmerian advanced into the chamber. His bare feet made no sound on the crystal floor. There were no chairs or tables in the chamber, only three or four silken couches, embroidered with gold and worked in strange serpentine designs, and several silver-bound mahogany chests. Some were sealed with heavy golden locks; others lay open, their carven lids thrown back, revealing heaps of jewels in a careless riot of splendor to the Cimmerian’s astounded eyes. Conan swore beneath his breath; already he had looked upon more wealth that night than he had ever dreamed existed in all the world, and he grew dizzy thinking of what must be the value of the jewel he sought.

He was in the center of the room now, going stooped forward, head thrust out warily, sword advanced, when again death struck at him soundlessly. A flying shadow that swept across the gleaming floor was his only warning, and his instinctive sidelong leap all that saved his life. He had a flashing glimpse of a hairy black horror that swung past him with a clashing of frothing fangs, and something splashed on his bare shoulder that burned like drops of liquid hellfire. Springing back, sword high, he saw the horror strike the floor, wheel and scuttle toward him with appalling speed - a gigantic black spider, such as men see only in nightmare dreams.

It was as large as a pig, and its eight thick hairy legs drove its ogreish body over the floor at headlong pace; its four evilly gleaming eyes shone with a horrible intelligence, and its fangs dripped venom that Conan knew, from the burning of his shoulder where only a few drops had splashed as the thing struck and missed, was laden with swift death. This was the killer that had dropped from its perch in the middle of the ceiling on a strand of its web, on the neck of the Nemedian. Fools that they were not to have suspected that the upper chambers would be guarded as well as the lower!

These thoughts flashed briefly through Conan’s mind as the monster rushed. He leaped high, and it passed beneath him, wheeled and charged back. This time he evaded its rush with a sidewise leap, and struck back like a cat. His sword severed one of the hairy legs, and again he barely saved himself as the monstrosity swerved at him, fangs clicking fiendishly. But the creature did not press the pursuit; turning, it scuttled across the crystal floor and ran up the wall to the ceiling, where it crouched for an instant, glaring down at him with its fiendish red eyes. Then without warning it launched itself through space, trailing a strand of slimy grayish stuff.

Conan stepped back to avoid the hurtling body - then ducked frantically, just in time to escape being snared by the flying web-rope. He saw the monster’s intent and sprang toward the door, but it was quicker, and a sticky strand cast across the door made him a prisoner. He dared not try to cut it with his sword; he knew the stuff would cling to the blade, and before he could shake it loose, the fiend would be sinking its fangs into his back.

Then began a desperate game, the wits and quickness of the man matched against the fiendish craft and speed of the giant spider. It no longer scuttled across the floor in a direct charge, or swung its body through the air at him. It raced about the ceiling and the walls, seeking to snare him in the long loops of sticky gray web-strands, which it flung with a devilish accuracy. These strands were thick as ropes, and Conan knew that once they were coiled about him, his desperate strength would not be enough to tear him free before the monster struck.

All over the chamber went on that devil’s game, in utter silence except for the quick breathing of the man, the low scuff of his bare feet on the shining floor, the castanet rattle of the monstrosity’s fangs. The gray strands lay in coils on the floor; they were looped along the walls; they overlaid the jewel-chests and silken couches, and hung in dusky festoons from the jeweled ceiling. Conan’s steel-trap quickness of eye and muscle had kept him untouched, though the sticky loops had passed him so close they rasped his naked hide. He knew he could not always avoid them; he not only had to watch the strands swinging from the ceiling, but to keep his eye on the floor, lest he trip in the coils that lay there. Sooner or later a gummy loop would writhe about him, python-like, and then, wrapped like a cocoon, he would lie at the monster’s mercy.

The spider raced across the chamber floor, the gray rope waving out behind it. Conan leaped high, clearing a couch -with a quick wheel the fiend ran up the wall, and the strand, leaping off the floor like a live thing, whipped about the Cimmerian’s ankle. He caught himself on his hands as he fell, jerking frantically at the web which held him like a pliant vise, or the coil of a python. The hairy devil was racing down the wall to complete its capture. Stung to frenzy, Conan caught up a jewel chest and hurled it with all his strength. It was a move the monster was not expecting. Full in the midst of the branching black legs the massive missile struck, smashing against the wall with a muffled sickening crunch. Blood and greenish slime spattered, and the shattered mass fell with the burst gem-chest to the floor. The crushed black body lay among the flaming riot of jewels that spilled over it; the hairy legs moved aimlessly, the dying eyes glittered redly among the twinkling gems.

Conan glared about, but no other horror appeared, and he set himself to working free of the web. The substance clung tenaciously to his ankle and his hands, but at last he was free, and taking up his sword, he picked his way among the gray coils and loops to the inner door. What horrors lay within he did not know. The Cimmerian’s blood was up, and since he had come so far, and overcome so much peril, he was determined to go through to the grim finish of the adventure, whatever that might be. And he felt that the jewel he sought was not among the many so carelessly strewn about the gleaming chamber.

Stripping off the loops that fouled the inner door, he found that it, like the other, was not locked. He wondered if the soldiers below were still unaware of his presence. Well, he was high above their heads, and if tales were to be believed, they were used to strange noises in the tower above them - sinister sounds, and screams of agony and horror.

Yara was on his mind, and he was not altogether comfortable as he opened the golden door. But he saw only a flight of silver steps leading down, dimly lighted by what means he could not ascertain. Down these he went silently, gripping his sword. He heard no sound, and came presently to an ivory door, set with blood-stones. He listened, but no sound came from within; only thin wisps of smoke drifted lazily from beneath the door, bearing a curious exotic odor unfamiliar to the Cimmerian. Below him the silver stair wound down to vanish in the dimness, and up that shadowy well no sound floated; he had an eery feeling that he was alone in a tower occupied only by ghosts and phantoms.

3

Cautiously he pressed against the ivory door and it swung silently inward. On the shimmering threshold Conan stared like a wolf in strange surroundings, ready to fight or flee on the instant. He was looking into a large chamber with a domed golden ceiling; the walls were of green jade, the floor of ivory, partly covered by thick rugs. Smoke and exotic scent of incense floated up from a brazier on a golden tripod, and behind it sat an idol on a sort of marble couch. Conan stared aghast; the image had the body of a man, naked, and green in color; but the head was one of nightmare and madness. Too large for the human body, it had no attributes of humanity. Conan stared at the wide flaring ears, the curling proboscis, on either side of which stood white tusks tipped with round golden balls. The eyes were closed, as if in sleep.

This then, was the reason for the name, the Tower of the Elephant, for the head of the thing was much like that of the beasts described by the Shemitish wanderer. This was Yara’s god; where then should the gem be, but concealed in the idol, since the stone was called the Elephant’s Heart?

As Conan came forward, his eyes fixed on the motionless idol, the eyes of the thing opened suddenly! The Cimmerian froze in his tracks. It was no image - it was a living thing, and he was trapped in its chamber!

That he did not instantly explode in a burst of murderous frenzy is a fact that measures his horror, which paralyzed him where he stood. A civilized man in his position would have sought doubtful refuge in the conclusion that he was insane; it did not occur to the Cimmerian to doubt his senses. He knew he was face to face with a demon of the Elder World, and the realization robbed him of all his faculties except sight.

The trunk of the horror was lifted and quested about, the topaz eyes stared unseeingly, and Conan knew the monster was blind. With the thought came a thawing of his frozen nerves, and he began to back silently toward the door. But the creature heard. The sensitive trunk stretched toward him, and Conan’s horror froze him again when the being spoke, in a strange, stammering voice that never changed its key or timbre. The Cimmerian knew that those jaws were never built or intended for human speech.

`Who is here? Have you come to torture me again, Yara? Will you never be done? Oh, Yag-kosha, is there no end to agony?’

Tears rolled from the sightless eyes, and Conan’s gaze strayed to the limbs stretched on the marble couch. And he knew the monster would not rise to attack him. He knew the marks of the rack, and the searing brand of the flame, and tough-souled as he was, he stood aghast at the ruined deformities which his reason told him had once been limbs as comely as his own. And suddenly all fear and repulsion went from him, to be replaced by a great pity. What this monster was, Conan could not know, but the evidences of its sufferings were so terrible and pathetic that a strange aching sadness came over the Cimmerian, he knew not why. He only felt that he was looking upon a cosmic tragedy, and he shrank with shame, as if the guilt of a whole race were laid upon him.

`I am not Yara,’ he said. `I am only a thief. I will not harm you.’

‘Come near that I may touch you,’ the creature faltered, and Conan came near unfearingly, his sword hanging forgotten in his hand. The sensitive trunk came out and groped over his face and shoulders, as a blind man gropes, and its touch was light as a girl’s hand.

`You are not of Yara’s race of devils,’ sighed the creature. `The clean, lean fierceness of the wastelands marks you. I know your people from of old, whom I knew by another name in the long, long ago when another world lifted its jeweled spires to the stars. There is blood on your fingers.’

`A spider in the chamber above and a lion in the garden,’ muttered Conan.

`You have slain a man too, this night,’ answered the other. `And there is death in the tower above. I feel; I know.’

`Aye,’ muttered Conan. `The prince of all thieves lies there dead from the bite of a vermin.’

`So - and so!’ The strange inhuman voice rose in a sort of low chant. `A slaying in the tavern and a slaying on the road - I know; I feel. And the third will make the magic of which not even Yara dreams - oh, magic of deliverance, green gods of Yea!’

Again tears fell as the tortured body was rocked to and fro in the grip of varied emotions. Conan looked on, bewildered.

Then the convulsions ceased; the soft, sightless eyes were turned toward the Cimmerian, the trunk beckoned.

`Oh man, listen,’ said the strange being. `I am foul and monstrous to you, am I not? Nay, do not answer; I know. But you would seem as strange to me, could I see you. There are many worlds besides this earth, and life takes many shapes. I am neither god nor demon, but flesh and blood like yourself, though the substance differ in part, and the form be cast in a different mold.

`I am very old, oh man of the waste countries; long and long ago I came to this planet with others of my world, from the green planet Yag, which circles for ever in the outer fringe of this universe. We swept through space on mighty wings that drove us through the cosmos quicker than light, because we had warred with the kings of Yag and were defeated and outcast. But we could never return, for on earth our wings withered from our shoulders. Here we abode apart from earthly life. We fought the strange and terrible forms of life which then walked the earth, so that we became feared, and were not molested in the dim jungles of the east, where we had our abode.

`We saw men grow from the ape and build the shining cities of Valusia, Kamelia, Commoria and their sisters. We saw them reel before the thrusts of the heathen Atlanteans and Picts and Lemurians. We saw the oceans rise and engulf Atlantis and Lemuria, and the isles of the Picts, and shining cities of civilization. We saw the survivors of Pictdom and Atlantis build their stone-age empires, and go down to ruin, locked in bloody wars. We saw the Picts sink into abysmal savagery, the Atlanteans into apedom again. We saw new savages drift southward in conquering waves from the Arctic circle to build a new civilization, with new kingdoms called Nemedia, and Koth, and Aquilonia and their sisters. We saw your people rise under a new name from the jungles of the apes that had been Atlanteans. We saw the descendants of the Lemurians who had survived the cataclysm, rise again through savagery and ride westward as Hyrkanians. And we saw this race of devils, survivors of the ancient civilization that was before Atlantis sank, come once more into culture and power - this accursed kingdom of Zamora.

`All this we saw, neither aiding nor hindering the immutable cosmic law, and one by one we died; for we of Yag are not immortal, though our lives are as the lives of planets and constellations. At last I alone was left, dreaming of old times among the ruined temples of jungle-lost Khitai, worshipped as a god by an ancient yellow-skinned race. Then came Yara, versed in dark knowledge handed down through the days of barbarism, since before Atlantis sank.

`First he sat at my feet and learned wisdom. But he was not satisfied with what I taught him, for it was white magic, and he wished evil lore, to enslave kings and glut a fiendish ambition. I would teach him none of the black secrets I had gained, through no wish of mine, through the eons.

`But his wisdom was deeper than I had guessed; with guile gotten among the dusky tombs of dark Stygia, he trapped me into divulging a secret I had not intended to bare; and turning my own power upon me, he enslaved me. Ali, gods of Yag, my cup has been bitter since that hour!

`He brought me up from the lost jungles of Khitai where the gray apes danced to the pipes of the yellow priests, and offerings of fruit and wine heaped my broken altars. No more was I a god to kindly jungle-folk - I was slave to a devil in human form.’

Again tears stole from the unseeing eyes.

`He pent me in this tower which at his command I built for him in a single night. By fire and rack he mastered me, and by strange unearthly tortures you would not understand. In agony I would long ago have taken my own life, if I could. But he kept me alive - mangled, blinded, and broken - to do his foul bidding. And for three hundred years I have done his bidding, from this marble couch, blackening my soul with cosmic sins, and staining my wisdom with crimes, because I had no other choice. Yet not all my ancient secrets has he wrested from me, and my last gift shall be the sorcery of the Blood and the Jewel.

`For I feel the end of time draw near. You are the hand of Fate. I beg of you, take the gem you will find on yonder altar.’

Conan turned to the gold and ivory altar indicated, and took up a great round jewel, clear as crimson crystal; and he knew that this was the Heart of the Elephant.

`Now for the great magic, the mighty magic, such as earth has not seen before, and shall not see again, through a million million of millenniums. By my life-blood I conjure it, by blood born on the green breast of Yag, dreaming far-poised in the great blue vastness of Space.

`Take your sword, man, and cut out my heart; then squeeze it so that the blood will flow over the red stone. Then go you down these stairs and enter the ebony chamber where Yara sits wrapped in lotus-dreams of evil. Speak his name and he will awaken. Then lay this gem before him, and say, “Yag-kosha gives you a last gift and a last enchantment.” Then get you from the tower quickly; fear not, your way shall be made clear. The life of man is not the life of Yag, nor is human death the death of Yag. Let me be free of this cage of broken blind flesh, and I will once more be Yogah of Yag, morning-crowned and shining, with wings to fly, and feet to dance, and eyes to see, and hands to break.’

Uncertainly Conan approached, and Yag-kosha, or Yogah, as if sensing his uncertainty, indicated where he should strike. Conan set his teeth and drove the sword deep. Blood streamed over the blade and his hand, and the monster started convulsively, then lay back quite still. Sure that life had fled, at least life as he understood it, Conan set to work on his grisly task and quickly brought forth something that he felt must be the strange being’s heart, though it differed curiously from any he had ever seen. Holding the pulsing organ over the blazing jewel, he pressed it with both hands, and a rain of blood fell on the stone. To his surprise, it did not run off, but soaked into the gem, as water is absorbed by a sponge.

Holding the jewel gingerly, he went out of the fantastic chamber and came upon the silver steps. He did not look back; he instinctively felt that some transmutation was taking place in the body on the marble couch, and he further felt that it was of a sort not to be witnessed by human eyes.

He closed the ivory door behind him and without hesitation descended the silver steps. It did not occur to him to ignore the instructions given him. He halted at an ebony door, in the center of which was a grinning silver skull, and pushed it open. He looked into a chamber of ebony and jet, and saw, on a black silken couch, a tall, spare form reclining. Yara the priest and sorcerer lay before him, his eyes open and dilated with the fumes of the yellow lotus, far-staring, as if fixed on gulfs and nighted abysses beyond human ken.

`Yara!’ said Conan, like a judge pronouncing doom. `Awaken!’

The eyes cleared instantly and became cold and cruel as a vulture’s. The tall silken-clad form lifted erect, and towered gauntly above the Cimmerian.

`Dog!’ His hiss was like the voice of a cobra. `What do you here?’

Conan laid the jewel on the ebony table.

`He who sent this gem bade me say, “Yag-kosha gives you a last gift and a last enchantment.”’

Yara recoiled, his dark face ashy. The jewel was no longer crystal-clear; its murky depths pulsed and throbbed, and curious smoky waves of changing color passed over its smooth surface. As if drawn hypnotically, Yara bent over the table and gripped the gem in his hands, staring into its shadowed depths, as if it were a magnet to draw the shuddering soul from his body. And as Conan looked, he thought that his eyes must be playing him tricks. For when Yara had risen up from his couch, the priest had seemed gigantically tall; yet now he saw that Yara’s head would scarcely come to his shoulder. He blinked, puzzled, and for the first time that night, doubted his own senses. Then with a shock he realized that the priest was shrinking in stature - was growing smaller before his very gaze.

With a detached feeling he watched, as a man might watch a play; immersed in a feeling of overpowering unreality, the Cimmerian was no longer sure of his own identity; he only knew
that he was looking upon the external evidence of the unseen play of vast Outer forces, beyond his understanding.

Now Yara was no bigger than a child; now like an infant he sprawled on the table, still grasping the jewel. And now the sorcerer suddenly realized his fate, and he sprang up, releasing the gem. But still he dwindled, and Conan saw a tiny, pygmy figure rushing wildly about the ebony table-top, waving tiny arms and shrieking in a voice that was like the squeak of an insect.

Now he had shrunk until the great jewel towered above him like a hill, and Conan saw him cover his eyes with his hands, as if to shield them from the glare, as he staggered about like a madman. Conan sensed that some unseen magnetic force was pulling Yara to the gem. Thrice he raced wildly about it in a narrowing circle, thrice he strove to turn and run out across the table; then with a scream that echoed faintly in the ears of the watcher, the priest threw up his arms and ran straight toward the blazing globe.

Bending close, Conan saw Yara clamber up the smooth, curving surface, impossibly, like a man climbing a glass mountain. Now the priest stood on the top, still with tossing arms, invoking what grisly names only the gods know. And suddenly he sank into the very heart of the jewel, as a man sinks into a sea, and Conan saw the smoky waves close over his head. Now he saw him in the crimson heart of the jewel, once more crystal-clear, as a man sees a scene far away, tiny with great distance. And into the heart came a green, shining winged figure with the body of a man and the head of an elephant - no longer blind or crippled. Yara threw up his arms and fled as a madman flees, and on his heels came the avenger. Then, like the bursting of a bubble, the great jewel vanished in a rainbow burst of iridescent gleams, and the ebony table-top lay bare and deserted - as bare, Conan somehow knew, as the marble couch in the chamber above, where the body of that strange transcosmic being called Yag-kosha and Yogah had lain.

The Cimmerian turned and fled from the chamber, down the silver stairs. So mazed was he that it did not occur to him to escape from the tower by the way he had entered it. Down that winding, shadowy silver well he ran, and came into a large chamber at the foot of the gleaming stairs. There he halted for an instant; he had come into the room of soldiers. He saw the glitter of their silver corselets, the sheen of their jeweled swordhilts. They sat slumped at the banquet board, their dusky plumes waving somberly above their drooping helmeted heads; they lay among their dice and fallen goblets on the wine-stained lapis-lazuli floor. And he knew that they were dead. The promise had been made, the word kept; whether sorcery or magic or the falling shadow of great green wings had stilled the revelry, Conan could not know, but his way had been made clear. And a silver door stood open, framed in the whiteness of dawn.

Into the waving green gardens came the Cimmerian, and as the dawn wind blew upon him with the cool fragrance of luxuriant growths, he started like a man waking from a dream. He turned back uncertainly, to stare at the cryptic tower he had just left. Was he bewitched and enchanted? Had he dreamed all that had seemed to have passed? As he looked he saw the gleaming tower sway against the crimson dawn, its jewel-crusted rim sparkling in the growing light, and crash into shining shards.

Conan the Magnificent

Prologue

Icy air hung deathly still among the crags of the Kezankian mountains, deep in the heart of that arm of those mountains which stretched south and west along the border between Zamora and Brythunia. No bird sang, and the cloudless azure sky was empty, for even the ever-present vultures could find no current on which to soar.

In that eerie quiesence a thousand fierce, turbanned Kezankian hillmen crowded steep brown slopes that formed a natural amphitheater. They waited and merged with the silence of the mountains. No sheathed tulwar clattered against stone. No booted foot shifted with the impatience that was plain on lean, bearded faces. They hardly seemed to breathe.

Black eyes stared down unblinkingly at a space two hundred paces across, floored with great granite blocks and encircled by a waisthigh wall as wide as a man was tall. Granite columns, thick and crudely hewn, lined the top of the wall like teeth in a sun-dried skull. In the center of that circle three men, pale-skinned Brythunians, were bound to tall stakes of black iron, arms stretched above their heads, leather cords digging cruelly into their wrists. But they were not the object of the watcher’s attention. That was on the tall, scarlet-robed man with a forked beard who stood atop a tunnel of massive stone blocks that pierced the low wall and led back into the mountain behind him.

Basrakan Imalla, dark face thin and stern beneath a turban of red, green and gold, threw back his head and cried, “All glory be to the true gods!”

A sigh of exaltation passed through the watchers, and their response rumbled against the mountainsides. “All glory be to the true gods!”

Had Basrakan’s nature been different, he might have smiled in satisfaction. Hillmen did not gather in large numbers, for every clan warred against every other clan, and the tribes were riddled by blood feuds. But he had gathered these and more. Nearly ten times their number camped amid the jagged mountains around the amphitheater, and scores of others joined them every day. With the power the true gods had given him, with the sign of their favor they had granted him, he had done what no other could. And he would do more! The ancient gods of the Kezankians had chosen him out.

“Men of the cities,” he made the word sound obscene, “worship false gods! They know nothing of the true gods, the spirits of earth, of air, of water. And of fire!”

A wordless roar broke from a thousand throats, approbation for Basrakan and hatred for the men of the cities melting together till even the men who shouted could not tell where one ended and the other began.

Basrakan’s black eyes burned with fervor. Hundreds of Imallas wandered the mountains, carrying the word of the ancient gods from clan to clan, kept safe from feud and battle by the word they carried. But it had been given to him to bring about the old gods’ triumph.

“The people of the cities are an iniquity in the sight of the true gods!” His voice rang like a deep bell, and he could feel his words resonate in the minds of his listeners. “Kings and lords who murder true believers in the names of the foul demons they call gods! Fat merchants who pile up more gold in their vaults than any clan of the mountains possesses! Princesses who flaunt their half-naked bodies and offer themselves to men like trulls! Trulls who drench themselves in perfumes and bedeck themselves in gold like princesses! Men with less pride than animals, begging in the streets! The filth of their lives stains the world, but we will wash it away in their blood!”

The scream that answered him, shaking the gray granite beneath his feet, barely touched his thoughts. Deep into the warren of caverns beneath this very mountain he had gone, through stygian passages lit only by the torch he carried, seeking to be closer to the spirits of the earth when he offered them prayers. There the true gods led him to the subterranean pool where eyeless, albescent fish swam around the clutch of huge eggs, as hard as the finest armor, left there countless centuries past.

For years he had feared the true gods would turn their faces from him for his study of the thaumaturgical arts, but only those studies had enabled him to transport the slick black spheres back to his hut.

Without the knowledge from those studies he could never have succeeded in hatching one of the nine, could never have bound the creature that came from it to him, even as imperfectly as he had. If only he had the Eyes of Fire … no, when he had them all, bonds, so tenuous now, would become as iron.

“We will kill the unbelievers and the defilers!” Basrakan intoned as the tumult faded. “We will tear down their cities and sow the ground whereon they stood with salt! Their women, who are vessels of lust, shall be scourged of their vileness! No trace of their blood shall remain! Not even a memory!” The hook-nosed Imalla threw his arms wide.

“The sign of the true gods is with us!”

In a loud, clear voice he began to chant, each word echoing sharply from the mountains. The thousand watching warriors held their collective breath. He knew there were those listening who sought only gold looted from the cities rather than the purification of the world.

Now they would learn to believe.

The last syllable of the incantation rang in the air like struck crystal. Basrakan ran his eyes over the Brythunian captives, survivors of a party of hunters who had entered the mountains from the west. One was no more than sixteen, his gray eyes twisted with fear, but the Imalla did not see the Brythunians as human. They were not of the tribes. They were outsiders. They were the sacrifice.

Basrakan felt the coming, a slow vibration of the stone beneath his feet, before he heard the rough scraping of claws longer than a man’s hand.

“The sign of the true gods is with us!” he shouted again, and the creature’s great head emerged from the tunnel.

A thousand throats answered the Imalla as the rest of the thick, tubular body came into view, more than fifteen paces in length and supported on four wide-set, massive legs. “The sign of the true gods is with us!” Awe and fear warred in that thunderous roar.

Blackened plates lined its short muzzle, overlapped by thick, irregular teeth designed for ripping flesh. The rest of that monstrous head and body were covered by scales of green and gold and scarlet, glittering in the pale sun, harder than the finest armor the hand of man could produce. On its back those scales had of late been displaced by two long, leathery boils. Drake, the ancient tomes called it, and if those volumes were correct about the hard, dull bulges, the sign of the true gods’ favor would soon be complete.

The creature turned its head to stare with paralyzing intensity directly at Basrakan. The Imalla remained outwardly calm, but a core of ice formed in his stomach, and that coldness spread, freezing his breath and the words in his throat. That golden-eyed gaze always seemed to him filled with hatred. It could not be hatred of him, of course. He was blessed by the true gods. Yet the malevolence was there. Perhaps it was the contempt of a creature of the true gods for mere mortal men. In any case, the wards he had set between the crudely hewn granite columns would keep the drake within the circle, and the tunnel exited only there. Or did it? Though he had often descended into the caverns beneath the mountain-at least, in the days before he found the black drake eggs-he had not explored the tenth part of them. There could be a score of exits from that tangle of passages he had never found.

Those awesome eyes turned away, and Basrakan found himself drawing a deep breath. He was pleased to note there was no shudder in it. The favor of the old gods was truly with him.

With a speed that seemed too great for its bulk, the glittering creature moved to within ten paces of the bound men. Suddenly the great, scaled head went back, and from its gaping maw came a shrill ululation that froze men’s marrow and turned their bones to water. Awed silence fell among the watchers, but one of the prisoners screamed, a high, thin sound with the reek of madness in it. The boy fought his cords silently; blood began to trickle down his arms.

The fiery-eyed Imalla brought his hands forward, palms up, as if offering the drake to the assemblage. “From the depths of the earth it comes!” he cried. “The spirits of earth are with us!”

Mouth still open, the drake’s head lowered until those chill golden eyes regarded the captives. From those gaping jaws a gout of rubescent flame swept across the captives.

“Fire is its breath!” Basrakan shouted. “The spirits of fire are with us!”

Two of the prisoners were sagging torches, tunic and hair aflame. The youth, wracked with the pain of his burns, shrieked, “Mitra help me!

Eldran, I-“

The iridescent creature took two quick paces forward, and a shorter burst of fire silenced the boy. Darting forward, the drake ripped a burning body in half. The crunching of bones sounded loudly, and gobbets of charred flesh dropped to the stone.

“The true gods are with us!” Basrakan declaimed. “On a day soon, the sign of the gods’ favor will fly! The spirits of air are with us!” The old tomes had to be right, he thought. Those leathery bulges would burst, and wings would grow. They would! “On that day we will ride forth, invincible in the favor of the old gods, and purge the world with fire and steel! All praise be to the true gods!”

“All praise be to the true gods!” his followers answered.

“All glory to the true gods!”

“All glory to the true gods!”

“Death to the unbelievers!”

The roar was deafening. “DEATH TO THE UNBELIEVERS!”

The thousand would stay to watch the feeding, for they were chosen by lot from the ever-growing number encamped in the surrounding mountains, and many had never seen it before. Basrakan had more important matters to tend to. The drake would return to its caverns of its own accord when the bodies were consumed. The Imalla started up a path, well worn now in the brown stone by many journeys, that led from the amphitheater around the mountainside.

A man almost as tall as Basrakan and even leaner, his face burning with ascetic fanaticism above a plaited beard, met him and bowed deeply,

“The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla,” the newcomer said. His turban of scarlet, green and gold marked him as Basrakan’s acolyte, though his robe was of plain black. “The man Akkadan has come. I have had him taken to your dwelling.”

No glimmer of Basrakan’s excitement touched his stern face. The Eyes of Fire! He inclined his head slightly. “The blessings of the true gods be on you, Jbeil Imalla. I will see him now.”

Jbeil bowed again; Basrakan went on, seemingly unhurried, but without even the inclination of his head this time.

The path led around the slope of the mountain to the village of stone houses, a score in number, that had grown up where once stood the hut in which Basrakan had lived. His followers had spoken of building a fortress for him, but he had no need of such. In time, though, he had allowed the construction of a dwelling for himself, of two stories and larger than all the rest of the village placed together. It was not a matter of pride, he often reminded himself, for he denied all pride save that of the old gods. The structure was for their glory.

Turbanned and bearded men in stained leather vests and voluminous trousers, the original color of which was a mystery lost in age and dirt, cowed as he passed, as did women covered from head to foot in black cloth, with only a slit for their eyes. He ignored them, as he did the two guards before his door, for he was openly hurrying now.

Within, another acolyte in multihued turban bent himself and gestured with a bony hand. “The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla. The man Akkadan-“

“Yes, Ruhallah.” Basrakan wasted not even moments on honorifics. “Leave me!” Without waiting to be obeyed, the tall Imalla swept through the door Ruhallah had indicated, into a room sparsely furnished with black-lacquered tables and stools. A hanging on one wall was a woven map of the nations from the Vilayet Sea west to Nemedia and Ophir.

Basrakan’s face darkened at the sight of the man who waited there.

Turban and forked beard proclaimed him hillman, but his fingers bore jeweled rings, his cloak was of purple silk and there was a plumpness about him that bespoke feasting and wine.

“You have spent too much time among the men of the cities, Akkadan,”

Basrakan said grimly. “No doubt you have partaken of their vices!

Consorted with their women!”

The plump man’s face paled beneath its swarthiness, and he quickly hid his beringed hands behind him as he bowed. “No, Basrakan Imalla, I have not. I swear!” His words tumbled over each other in his haste. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “I am a true-“

“Enough!” Basrakan spat. “You had best have what I sent you for, Akkadan. I commanded you not to return without the information.”

“I have it, Basrakan Imalla. I have found them. And I have made plans of the palace and maps-“

Basrakan’s shout cut him short. “Truly I am favored above all other men by the true gods!”

Turning his back on Akkadan, he strode to the wall hanging, clenched fists raised in triumph toward the nations represented there. Soon the Eyes of Fire would be his, and the drake would be bound to him as if part of his flesh and will. And with the sign of the true gods’ favor flying before his followers, no army of mortal men would long stand against them.

“All glory to the true gods,” Basrakan whispered fiercely. “Death to all unbelievers!”

Chapter I

Night caressed Shadizar, that city known as ‘the Wicked,’ and veiled the happenings which justified that name a thousand times over. The darkness that brought respite to other cities drew out the worst in Shadizar of the Alabaster Towers, Shadizar of the Golden Domes, city of venality and debauchery.

In a score of marble chambers silk-clad nobles coerced wives not theirs to their beds, and many-chinned merchants licked fat lips over the abductions of competitors’ nubile daughters. Perfumed wives, fanned by slaves wielding snowy ostrich plumes, plotted the cuckolding of husbands, sometimes their own, while hot-eyed young women of wealth or noble birth or both schemed at circumventing the guards placed on their supposed chastity. Nine women and thirty-one men, one a beggar and one a lord, died by murder. The gold of ten wealthy men was taken from iron vaults by thieves, and fifty others increased their wealth at the expense of the poor. In three brothels perversions never before contemplated by humankind were created. Doxies beyond numbering plied their ancient trade from the shadows, and twisted, ragged beggars preyed on the trulls’ wine-soaked patrons. No man walked the streets unarmed, but even in the best quarters of the city arms were often not enough to save one’s silver from cutpurses and footpads. Night in Shadizar was in full cry.

Wisps of cloud, stirred by a warm breeze, dappled the moon sitting high in the sky. Vagrant shadows fled over the rooftops, yet they were enough for the massively muscled young man, swordbelt slung across his broad chest so that the worn hilt of his broadsword projected above his right shoulder, who raced with theta from chimney to chimney. With a skill born in the savage wastes of his native Cimmerian mountains he blended with the drifting shades, and was invisible to the eyes of the city-born.

The roof the muscular youth traveled came to an end, and he peered down into the blackness hiding the paving stones of the street, four stories below. His eyes were frozen sapphires, and his face, a square-cut lion’s mane of black held back from it by a leather cord, showed several ordinary lifetimes’ experience despite its youth. He eyed the next building, an alabaster cube with a freize of scrollwork running all the way around it an arm’s length below the roof. From deep in his throat came a soft growl. A good six paces wide, the street was, although it was the narrowest of the four that surrounded the nearly palatial structure. What he had not noticed when he chose this approach-eying the distances from the ground-was that the far roof was sloped. Steeply! Erlik take Baratses, he thought. And his gold!

This was no theft of his own choosing, but rather was at the behest of the merchant Baratses, a purveyor of spices from the most distant realms of the world. Ten pieces of gold the spice dealer had offered for the most prized possession of Samarides, a wealthy importer of gems: a goblet carved from a single huge emerald. Ten pieces of gold was the hundredth part of the goblet’s worth, one tenth of what the fences in the Desert would pay, but a run of bad luck with the dice had put the Cimmerian in urgent need of coin. He had agreed to theft and price, and taken two gold pieces in advance, before he even knew what was to be stolen. Still, a bargain sworn to must be kept. At least, he thought grimly, there was no guard atop the other building, as there were on so many other merchants’ roofs.

“Crom!” he muttered with a last look at Samarides’ roof, and moved back from the edge, well back into the shadows among the chimneys. Breathing deeply to charge his lungs, he crouched. His eyes strained toward the distant rooftop. Suddenly, like a hunting leopard, he sprang forward; in two strides he was sprinting at full speed. His lead foot touched the edge of the roof, and he leaped, hurling himself into the air with arms outstretched, fingers curled to grab.

With a crash he landed at full length on the sloping roof. And immediately began to slide. Desperately he spread his arms and legs to slow himself; his eyes searched for a projection to grasp, for the smallest nub that might stop his fall. Inexorably he moved toward the drop to the pavement.

No wonder there was no watchman on the roof, he thought, furious at himself for not questioning that lack earlier. The rooftiles were glazed to a surface like oiled porcelain. In the space of a breath his feet were over the edge, then his legs. Abruptly his left hand slid into a gap where a tile was missing. Tiles shattered as his weight smashed his vainly gripping hand through them; fragments showered past him into the gloom beneath. Wood slapped his palm; convulsively he clutched. With a jerk that wrenched at the heavy muscles of his shoulder he was brought up short to swing over the shadowed four-story drop.

For the first time since his leap he made a sound, a long, slow exhalation between his teeth. “Ten gold pieces,” he said in a flat voice, “are not enough.”

Suddenly the wooden roof-frame he was grasping gave with a sharp snap, and he was falling again. Twisting as he dropped, he stretched, caught the finger-joint-wide ledge at the bottom of the frieze by his fingertips, and slammed flat against the alabaster wall.

“Not nearly enough,” he panted when he had regained his breath. “I’ve half a mind to take the accursed thing to Zeno after this.” But even as he said it he knew he would not go to the Nemedian fence. He had given his word.

At the moment, he realized, his problem lay not in how to dispose of the emerald goblet, but in how to leave his present position with a whole skin. The only openings piercing the alabaster wall at this height were ventilation holes the size of his fist, for the top floor and the attic were given over to storage and quarters for servants and slaves. Such needed no windows, to the mind of Samarides, and if they had them would only lean out and spoil the appearance of his fine house. No other ledges or friezes broke the smoothness of the walls, nor were there balconies overlooking the street. The roof he had first leaped from might as well have been in Sultanapur, the roof above as well have been beyond the clouds. That, the dangling youth reluctantly concluded, left only the windows of the third floor, their arched tops a good armspan lower than his feet.

It was not his way to dally when his course was decided. Slowly, hanging by his fingertips, he worked his way along the narrow ledge.

The first two arched windows to pass beneath his feet glowed with light. He could not risk meeting people. The third, however, was dark.

Taking a deep breath, he let go his hold and dropped, his body brushing lightly against the wall. If he touched the wall too much, it would push him out and away to fall helplessly. As he felt his legs come in front of the window, he moved his feet inward, toward the window sill.

Stone smashed against his soles, his palms slapped hard against the sides of the window, and he hung precariously, leaning outward. The thickness of the wall, the depth of the window, denied even a fingernail’s hold. Only the outward pressure of his hands kept him from hurtling to the street.

Muscles knotted with the strain, he drew himself forward until he could step within Samarides’ dwelling. As his foot touched the carpet-strewn floor, his hand went to the worn leather of his sword hilt. The room was dark, yet his night-accustomed eyes could make out the dim shapes of cushioned chairs. Tapestries, their colors reduced to shadings of gray, hung on the walls, and a dimly patterned carpet covered the marble floor. With a sigh he relaxed, a trifle, at least. This was no sleeping chamber, with someone to awaken and scream an alarm. It was about time something went right on this night of continuous near-disaster.

There were still problems, though. He was unsure whether the worst of these was how to get out of the dwelling-or how to get to his goal.

Samarides’ house was arranged around a central garden, where the gem merchant spent a great deal of his time among the fountains. The only door of the room in which he displayed his treasures opened onto the ground-floor colonnade around that garden.

It would have been easy to climb down from the roof to the garden, and Baratses had told him exactly the location of the door to the treasure room. Now he must make his way through the corridors, and risk coming on servants or guards.

Opening the door a crack, he peered into the hall, lit by gilded brass oil lamps hung on chains from bronze wall sconces. Tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl stood at intervals along walls mosaicked in intricate patterns with thousands of tiny, multihued tiles. No one trod the polished marble floor. Silently he slipped into the corridor.

For a heartbeat he stood, picturing the plan of the house in his mind.

The treasure room was in that direction. Ears straining for the slightest hint of another’s footstep, he hurried through the halls with a tread as light as a cat. Back stairs led downward, then others took him down again. Their location and the fact that their dark red tiles were dull and worn marked them as servant’s stairs. Twice the scuff of sandals from a crossing corridor gave warning, and he pressed his back to a wall, barely breathing, while unseeing servants in pale blue tunics scurried by, too intent on their labors to so much as glance down the branching way.

Then he was into the central garden, the high, shadowed walls of the house making it a small canyon. Splash and burble echoed softly from half-a-score fountains, scattered among fig tree and flowering plants and alabaster statuary. The treasure room lay directly opposite him across the garden.

He took a step, and froze. A dim shape hurried toward him down one of the garden paths. Silently he moved further to the side, away from the light spilling from the doorway. The approaching figure plowed. Had he been seen, he wondered. Whoever was coming moved very slowly, now, seeming almost to creep, and made no sound at all. Abruptly the figure left the slated walk and moved toward him again. His jaw tightened; no other muscle of him moved, not so much as an eyelid blinking. Closer.

Ten paces. Five. Two.

Suddenly the strangely still-dim figure froze, gasped. The big youth sprang. One hand cut off sound by covering the mouth that uttered it.

His other arm pinned the figure’s arms. Teeth dug into his calloused palm, and his captive flung about wildly, kicks thudding against his legs.

“Erlik take you!” he hissed. “You fight like a woman! Stop that, and I’ll not hurt-“

It penetrated his mind that the body he held was rounded, if firm. He side-stepped to the edge of the light from the doorway, and found himself studying large, brown eyes that were suddenly frowning above his hand. It was a woman, and a pretty one, with satiny, olive skin and her hair braided tightly about her small head. The biting stopped, and he loosed his grip on her jaw. He opened his mouth to say he would not harm her if she gave no outcry, but she cut him off.

“I am a sorcereress,” she whispered hoarsely, “and I know you, Conan, far-traveler from Samaria, or Cymria, or some such place. You think you are a thief. Release me!”

The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. How could she know? He seemed to have a talent for running afoul of sorcerers, a talent he would just as soon lose. His grip was loosening when he became aware of the amused gleam in her big eyes, and the way her small, white teeth were biting a full lower lip. For the first time he took in her garb, snug, dull black from neck to toes. Even her feet were covered in ebon cloth, with the big toe separated like the thumb on a mitten.

Holding her out from him by her upper arms, he was unable to suppress a smile. Slender, she was, and short, but the close fit of her odd garments left no doubts as to her womanhood. She kicked at him, and he caught it on his thigh.

“Sorcereress?” he growled softly. “Then why do I think you’ll change your story should I take a switch to your rump?”

“Why do I think that at the first blow I’ll howl loudly enough to bring half the city?” she whispered back. “But truly I don’t wish to. My name is Lyana, and I’ve heard of you, Conan. I’ve seen you in the streets.

And admired you. I just wanted to sound mysterious, so I could compete with your other women.” She shifted in his grasp, and her round breasts, large on her diminutive slimness, seemed even more prominent.

Her tongue wet her lips, and she smiled invitingly. “Could you please put me down? You’re so strong, and you’re hurting me.”

He hesitated, then lowered her feet to the ground.

“What is this garb you wear, Lyana?”

“Forget that,” she breathed, swaying closer. “Kiss me.”

Despite himself his hands came up to clasp her face. Before his fingers touched her cheeks, she dropped to her knees and threw herself into a forward tumble past him. Stunned, he still managed to whirl after her.

One tiny foot flashing from the middle of her roll caught him under the ribs, bringing a grunt, slowing him enough for her to come to her feet facing the wall … and she seemed to go up it like a spider.

With an oath Conan leaped forward. Something struck his arm, and he grabbed a soft, black-dye rope, hanging from above.

“Mitra blast me for a fool!” he grated. “A thief!”

Soft laughter floated down from close enough over his head to make him peer sharply upwards. “You are a fool.” The girl’s soft tones brimmed with mirth. “And I am indeed a thief, which you’ll never be. Perhaps, with those shoulders, you could be a carter. Or a cart horse.”

Snarling, Conan took hold of the rope to climb. A flicker caught the corner of his eye, and he felt more than heard something strike the ground by his foot. Instinctively, he jumped back, losing his grip on the rope. His grab to regain it brushed only the free end as it was drawn up.

“It would have struck you,” the girl’s low voice came again, “had I intended it so. Were I you, I’d leave here. Now. Fare you well, Conan.”

“Lyana?” he whispered roughly.

“Lyana?” Mocking silence answered him.

Muttering under his breath, he searched the ground around his feet, and tugged a flat, black throwing knife from the dirt. He tucked it behind his swordbelt, then stiffened as if stabbed.

The girl was a thief, and she had come from the direction of the treasure room. Cursing under his breath he ran, heedless of the rare shrubs and plants he passed.

An arched door led into the chamber where Samarides kept his most valuable possessions, and that door stood open. Conan paused a moment to study the heavy iron lock. That the girl had opened it he had no doubt, but if she had been within, then any traps must have been disabled, or else be easily avoided.

The Cimmerian hesitated a moment longer, then started across the chamber, floored in diamond-shaped tiles of alternating red and white.

The emerald goblet, he had been told, stood at the far end of the room on a pedestal carved of serpentine. At his second step a diamond tile sank beneath his foot. Thinking of crossbows mounted on the wall-he had encountered such before-he threw himself flat on the floor. And felt another tile sink beneath his hand. From the wall came a rattling clink and clatter he had been a thief long enough to recognize. The sinking tiles had each released a weight which was pulling a chain from a wheel. And that in turn would activate … what?

As he leaped to his feet a bell began to toll, then another. Cursing, he ran the length of the room. Twice more tiles sank beneath him, and by the time he reached the dull green mottled pedestal, four bells clanged the alarm. The pedestal was bare.

“Erlik take the wench!” he snarled.

Spinning, he dashed from the chamber. And ran head-on into two spear-carrying guards. As the three fell to the floor it flashed into Conan’s head that it was just as well he had not dallied to choose something to make up for the loss of the goblet. His fist smashed into the face of one guard, nose and teeth cracking in a spray of red. The man jerked and sagged, unconscious. The other scrambled to his feet, spear ready to thrust. Had he delayed, Conan thought, they could likely have held him in the chamber long enough for others to arrive. His sword flickered from its sheath, caught the spear just behind the head, and the second guard found himself holding a long stick. With a shout the man threw the pole at Conan and fled.

Conan ran, too. In the opposite direction. At the first doorway of the house he ducked inside, bursting into the midst of servants nervously chattering about the still ringing bells. For an instant they stared at him, eyes going wider and wider, then he waved his sword in the air and roared at the top of his lungs. Shrieking men and women scattered like a covey of Kothian quail.

Confusion, the Cimmerian thought. If he spread enough confusion he might get out of there yet. Through the house he sped, and every servant he met was sent flying by fierce roars and waving blade, till cries of “Help!” and “Murder!” and even “Fire!” rang down every corridor. More than once the young Cimmerian had to duck down a side hall as guards clattered by, chasing after screams and yelling themselves, until he began to wonder how many men Samarides had.

Cacophony run riot tilled the house.

At last he reached the entry hall, surrounded on three sides by a balcony with balustrades of smoke-stone, beneath a vaulted ceiling worked in alabaster arabesques. Twin broad stairs of black marble curved down from that second-floor balcony to a floor mosaicked in a map of the world, as Zamorans knew it, with each country marked by representations of the gems imported from it.

All of this Conan ignored, his eyes locked on the tall, iron-studded doors leading to the street. A bar, heavy enough to need three men for the lifting, held them shut, and the bar was in turn fastened in place by iron chains and massive locks.

“Crom!” he growled. “Shut up like a fortress!”

Once, twice, thrice his broadsword clashed against a lock, with him wincing at the damage the blows were doing to his edge. The lock broke open, and he quickly pulled the chain through the iron loops holding it against the bar. As he turned to the next chain, a quarrel as thick as two of his fingers slammed into the bar where he had been standing. He changed his turn into a dive to the floor, eyes searching for the next shot.

Instantly he saw his lone opponent. Atop one flight of stairs stood a man of immense girth, whose skin yet hung in folds as if he had once been twice so big. Lank, thinning hair surrounded his puffy face, and he wore a shapeless sleeping garment of dark blue silk. Samarides. One of the gem merchant’s feet was in the stirrup of a heavy crossbow, and he laboriously worked the handles of a windlass to crank back the bowstring, a rope of drool running from one corner of his narrow mouth.

Quickly judging how long it would be before Samarides could place another quarrel in the crossbow, Conan bounded to his feet. A single furious blow that struck sparks sent the second lock clattering to the floor. Sheathing his sword, the Cimmerian tugged the chain free and set his hands to the massive bar.

“Guards!” Samarides screamed. “To me! Guards!”

Muscles corded and knotted in calves and thighs, back, shoulders and arms, as Conan strained against the huge wooden bar. By the thickness of a fingernail it lifted. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The thickness of a finger. The width of a hand. And then the massive bar was clear of the support irons.

Three slow, staggering steps backwards Conan took, until he could turn and heave the bar aside. Mosaic tiles shattered as it landed with a crash that shook the floor.

“Guards!” Samarides shrieked, and pounding feet answered him.

Conan dashed to the thick, iron-studded doors and heaved one open to crash against a wall. As he darted through, another quarrel slashed past his head to gouge a furrow in the marble of Samarides’ portico.

Tumult rose behind him as guards rushed into the entry hall, shouting to Samarides for instructions, and Samarides screamed incoherently back at them. Conan did not look back. He ran. Mind filled with anger at a young woman thief with a too-witty tongue, he ran until the night of Shadizar swallowed him.

Chapter II

That quarter of Shadizar called the Desert was a warren of crooked steets reeking of offal and despair. The debaucheries that took place behind closed doors in the rest of the city were performed openly in the Desert, and made to pay a profit. Its denizens, more often in rags than not, lived as if death could come with the next breath, as it quite often did. Men and women were scavengers, predators or prey, and some who thought themselves in one class discovered, frequently too late, that they were in another.

The tavern of Abuletes was one of the Desert’s best, as such was accounted there. Few footpads and fewer cutpurses were numbered among its patrons. Graverobbers were unwelcome, though more for the smells that hung about them than for how they earned their coin. For the rest, all who had the price of a drink were welcome.

When Conan slapped open the tavern door, the effluvia of the street fought momentarily with the smell of half-burned meat and sour wine in the big common room where two musicians playing zithers for a naked dancing girl competed unsuccessfully with the babble of the tavern’s custom. A mustachioed Nemedian coiner at the bar fondled a giggling doxy in a tall, red-dyed wig and strips of green silk that did little to cover her generously rounded breasts and buttocks. A plump Ophirean procurer, jeweled rings glittering on his fingers, held court at a corner table; among those laughing at his jokes-so long as his gold held out, at least-were three kidnappers, swarthy, narrow-faced Iranistanis, hoping he would throw a little business their way. A pair of doxies, dark-eyed twins, hawked their wares among the tables, their girdies of coins clinking as their hips swayed in unison.

Before the Cimmerian had taken a full step, a voluptuous, oliveskinned woman threw her arms around his neck. Gilded brass breastplates barely contained her heavy breasts, and a narrow girdle of gilded chain, set low on her well-rounded hips, supported a length of diaphanous blue silk, no more than a handspan in width, that hung to her braceleted ankles before and behind.

“Ah, Conan,” she murmured thoatily, “what a pity you did not return earlier.”

“Have some wine with me, Semiramis,” he replied, eying her swelling chest, “and tell me why I should have come back sooner. Then we can go upstairs-” He cut off with a frown as she shook her head.

“I ply my trade this night, Cimmerian.” At his frown, she sighed. “Even I must have a little silver to live.”

“I have silver,” he growled.

“And I cannot take coin from you. I will not.”

He muttered an oath under his breath. “You always say that. Why not? I don’t understand.”

“Because you’re not a woman.” She laughed softly and traced a finger along his jaw. “A thing for which I am continually grateful.”

Conan’s face tightened. First Lyana had made a fool of him this night, and now Semiramis attempted the same. “Women never say their minds straight out. Very well. If you’ve no use for me tonight, then I’m done with you as well.” He left her standing with her fists on her hips and her mouth twisted in exasperation.

At the bar he dug into his purse and tossed coppers onto the cracked wooden surface. As he had known it would, the sound of coins penetrated the wall of noise in the room and drew Abuletes, wiping his fat fingers on the filthy apron he wore over a faded yellow tunic. The tavernkeeper made the coins disappear with a deft motion.

“I want wine for that,” Conan said. Abuletes nodded. “And some information.”

” ‘Tis enough for the wine,” the tavernkeeper replied drily. He set a wooden tankard, from which rose the sour smell of cheap wine, before the big youth. “Information costs more.”

Conan rubbed his thumb over a gouge in the edge of the bar, made by a sword stroke, drawing the fat man’s piggish eyes to the mark. “There were six of them, as I recall,” he said absently. “One with his knife pricking your ribs, and ready to probe your guts if you opened your mouth without his leave. What was it they intended? Taking you into the kitchen, wasn’t it? Didn’t one of them speak of putting your feet in the cookfire till you told where your gold is cached?”

“I have no gold,” Abuletes muttered unconvincingly. He could spot a clipped coin at ten paces, and was reliably rumored to have the first copper he had ever stolen buried somewhere in the tavern.

“Of course not,” Conan agreed smoothly. “Still, it was Hannuman’s own luck for you I saw what was happening, when none else did. ‘Twould have been … uncomfortable for you, with your feet in the coals and naught to tell them.”

“Aye, you saw.” The fat man’s tone was as sour as his wine. “And laid about you with that accursed sword, splintering half my tables. Do you know what they cost to replace? The doxies were hysterical for all the blood you splattered around, and half my night’s custom disappeared for fear you’d cut them down as well.”

Conan laughed and drank deeply from the tankard, saying no more. Never a night passed without blood shed on the sawdust-strewn floor, and it was no rare sight to see a corpse being dragged out back for disposal in an alley.

Abuletes’ face twisted, and his chin sank until his chins doubled in number. “This makes it clear between us. Right?”

The Cimmerian nodded, but cautioned, “If you tell me what I want to hear. I look for a woman.” Abuletes snorted and gestured to the doxies scattered through the common room. Conan went on patiently. “She’s a thief, about so tall,” he marked with one big hand at the height of his chest, “and well rounded for her size. Tonight she wore black leggings and a short tunic, both as tight as her skin. And she carried this.” He laid the thowing knife on the bar. “She calls herself Lyana.”

Abuletes prodded the black blade with a grimy-knuckled finger. “I know of no woman thief, called Lyana or aught else. There was a man, though, who used knives like this. Jamal, he was named.”

“A woman, Abuletes.”

The fat tapster shrugged. “He had a daughter. What was her name? Let me see.” He rubbed at a suety cheek. “Jamal was shortened a head by the City Guard, it must be ten years back. His brothers took the girl in.

Gayan and Hafid. They were thieves, too. Haven’t heard of them in years, though. Too old for the life now, I suppose. Age gets us all, in the end. Tamira. That was her name. Tamira.”

The muscular youth stared expressionless at Abuletes until the fat tavernkeeper fell silent. “I ask about a girl called Lyana, and you spin me a tale of this Tamira. And her entire Mitra-accursed family.

Would you care to tell me about her mother? Her grandfather? I’ve a mind to put your feet in the fire myself.”

Abuletes eyed Conan warily. The man with the strange blue eyes was known in the Desert for his sudden temper, and for his unpredictability. The tavernkeeper spread his hands. “How hard is it to give a name not your own? And didn’t I say? Jamal and his brothers wore the black garments you spoke of. Claimed it made them all but invisible in the dark. Had all sorts of tricks, they did. Ropes of raw silk dyed black, and I don’t know what all. No, Tamira’s your female thief, all right, whatever she calls herself now.”

Black ropes, Conan thought, and suppressed a smile. Despite his youth he had had enough years as a thief to learn discretion. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

“Perhaps,” the tapster grumbled. “You mark me on it. She’s the one.

This makes us even, Cimmerian.”

Conan finished his wine in three long gulps and set the empty tankard down with a click. “If she is the woman I seek. The question now is where to find her and make certain.”

Abuletes threw up his pudgy hands. “Do you think I keep track of every woman in the Desert? I can’t even keep track of the trulls in my own tavern!”

Conan turned his back on the tavernkeeper’s grinding teeth. Tamira and Lyana, he was sure, were one and the same woman. Luck must be with him, for he had expected days of asking to find a trace of her. Denizens of the Desert left as few tracks as the animals of that district’s namesake. Surely discovering so much so quickly was an omen. No doubt he would leave the tavern in the morning and find her walking past in the street. Then they would see who would make a fool of whom.

At that moment his eye fell on Semiramis, seated at a table with three Kothian smugglers. One, with his mustache curled like horns and big gilded hoops in his ears, kneaded her bare thigh as he spoke to her urgently. Nodding in sudden decision, Conan strode to the table where the four sat.

The Kothians looked up, and Semiramis frowned. “Conan,” she began, reaching toward him cautioningly.

The big Cimmerian grasped her wrist, bent and, before anyone could move, hoisted her over his shoulder. Stools crashed over as the Kothians leaped to their feet, hands going to sword hilts.

“You northland oaf!” Semiramis howled, wriggling furiously. Her fist pounded futilely at his back. “Unhand me, you misbegotten spawn of a camel! Mitra blast your eyes, Conan!”

Her tirade went on, getting more inventive, and Conan paused to listen admiringly. The Kothians hesitated with swords half drawn, disconcerted at being ignored. After a moment Conan turned his attention to them, putting a pleasant smile on his face. That seemed to unsettle the three even more.

“My sister,” he said mildly. “She and I must speak of family matters.”

“Erlik flay your hide and stake your carcass in the sun!” the struggling woman yelled. “Derketo shrivel your stones!”

Calmly Conan met each man’s gaze in turn, and each man shivered, for his smile did not extend to those glacial blue orbs. The Kothians measured the breadth of his shoulders, calculated how encumbered he would be by the woman, and tossed the dice in the privacy of their minds.

“I wouldn’t interfere between brother and sister,” the one with hoops in his ears muttered, his eyes sliding away. Suddenly all three were engrossed in setting their stools upright.

Semiramis’ shouts redoubled in fury as Conan started for the rickety stairs that led to the second floor. He smacked a rounded buttock with his open palm. “Your sweet poetry leads me to believe you love me,” he said, “but your dulcet tones would deafen an ox. Be quiet.”

Her body quivered. It took him a moment to realize she was laughing.

“Will you at least let me walk, you untutored beast?” she asked.

“No,” he replied with a grin.

“Barbarian!” she murmured, and snuggled her cheek against his back.

Laughing, he took the stairs two at a time. Luck was indeed with him.

Chapter III

The Katara Bazaar was a kaleidoscope of colors and a cacophony of voices, a large, flagstone-paved square near the Desert where sleek lordlings, perfumed pomanders at their nostrils, rubbed shoulders with unwashed apprentices who apologized with mocking grins when they jostled the well-born. Silk-clad ladies, trailed by attentive slaves to carry their purchases, browsed unmindful of the ragged urchins scurrying about their feet. Some vendors displayed their goods on flimsy tables sheltered by faded lengths of cloth on poles. Others had no more than a blanket spread beneath the hot sun. Hawkers of plums send ribbons, oranges and pins, cried their wares shrilly as they strolled through the throng. Rainbow bolts of cloth, carved ivories from Vendhya, brass bowls from Shadizar’s own metalworkers, lustrous pearls from the Western Sea and paste “gems” guaranteed to be genuine, all changed hands in the space of a heartbeat. Some were stolen, some smuggled. A rare few had even had the King’s tax paid on them.

On the morning after his attempt at Samarides’ goblet-the thought made him wince-Conan made his way around the perimeter of the bazaar, searching without seeming to among the beggars. Mendicants were not allowed within the confines of the great square, but they lined its edges, their thin, supplicating cries entreating passersby for a coin.

There was a space between each ragged man and the next, and unlike beggars elsewhere in Shadizar these cooperated to the extent of maintaining that distance. Too many too close together would reduce each man’s take.

Exchanging a copper with a fruitmonger for two oranges, the big Cimmerian squatted near a beggar in filthy rags, a man with one leg twisted grotesquely at the knee. A grimy strip of cloth covered his eyes, and a wooden bowl with a single copper in the bottom sat on the flagstones before him.

“Pity the blind,” the beggar whined loudly. “A coin for the blind, gentle people. Pity the blind.”

Conan tossed one orange into the bowl and began stripping the peel from the other. “Ever think of going back to being a thief, Peor?” he said quietly.

The “blind” man turned his head slightly to make sure no one else was close by and said, “Never, Cimmerian.” His cheerful voice was pitched to reach Conan’s ear and no further. He made the orange disappear beneath his tunic of patches. “For later. No, I pay my tithe to the City Guard, and I sleep easy at night knowing my head will never go up on a pike over the West Gate. You should consider becoming a beggar.

‘Tis a solid trade. Not like thieving. Mitra-accursed mountain slime!”

Conan paused with a segment of orange half-lifted to his mouth. “What?”

Barely moving his head, Peor motioned to a knot of six Kezankian hillmen, turbanned and bearded, their dark eyes wide with ill-concealed amazement at the city around them. They wandered through the bazaar in a daze, fingering goods but never buying. From the scowls that followed them, the peddlers were glad to see their backs, sale or no. “That’s the third lot of those filthy jackals I’ve seen today, and a good two turns of the glass till the sun is high. They should be running for the rocks they crawled out from under, what with the news that’s about this morning.”

The beggar got little chance between sunrise and sunset to say anything beyond his pleading cry, and the occasional fawning thanks. It could not hurt to let him talk, Conan thought, and said, “What news?”

Peor snorted. “If it was about a new method of winning at dice, Cimmerian, you’d have known of it yesterday. Do you think of anything but women and gambling?”

“The news, Peor?”

“They say someone is uniting the Kezankian tribes. They say the hillmen are sharpening their tulwars. They say it could mean war. If ‘tis so, the Desert will feel the first blow, as always.”

Conan tossed the last of the orange aside and wiped his hands on his thighs. “The Kezankians are far distant, Peor.” His grin revealed strong white teeth. “Or do you think the tribesmen will leave their mountains to sack the Desert? It is not the place I would chose, were I they, but you are older than I and no doubt know better.”

“Laugh, Cimmerian,” Peor said bitterly. “But when war is announced the mob will hunt for hillman throats to slit, and when they cannot find enough to sate their bloodlust, they’ll turn their attentions to the Desert. And the army will be there-‘to preserve order.’ Which means to put to the sword any poor sod from the Desert who thinks of actually resisting the mob. It has happened before, and will again.”

A shadow fell across them, cast by a woman whose soft robes of emerald silk clung to the curves of breasts and belly and thighs like a caress.

A belt woven of golden ciuords was about her waist. Ropes of pearls encircled her wrists and neck, and two more, as large as a man’s thumbnail, were at her ears. Behind her a tall Shemite, the iron collar of a slave on his neck and a bored expression on his face, stood laden with packages from the Bazaar. She dropped a silver coin in Peor’s bowl, but her sultry gaze was all for Conan.

The muscular youth enjoyed the looks women gave him, as a normal matter, but this one examined him as if he were a horse in the auction barns. And to make matters worse a scowl grew on the Shemite’s face as though he recognized a rival. Conan’s face grew hot with anger. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first.

“My husband would never approve the purchase,” she smiled, and walked away with undulating hips. The Shemite hurried after her, casting a self-satisfied glance over his shoulder at Conan as he went.

Peor’s bony fingers fished the coin from the bowl. With a cackle that showed he had regained at least some of his humor, he tucked it into his pouch. “And she’d pay a hundred times so much for a single night with you, Cimmerian. Two hundred. A more pleasant way to earn your coin than scrambling over rooftops, eh?”

“Would you like that leg broken in truth?” Conan growled.

The beggar’s cackles grew until they took him into a fit of coughing.

When he could breathe normally again, he wiped the back of his hand across his thin-lipped mouth. “No doubt I would earn even more in my bowl. My knee hurts of a night for leaving it so all day, but that fall was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Conan shivered at the thought, but pressed on while the other held his good mood. “I did not come today just to give you an orange, Peor. I look for a woman called Lyana, or perhaps Tamira.”

Peor nodded as the Cimmerian described the girl and gave a carefully edited account of their meeting, then said, “Tamira. I’ve heard that name, and seen the girl. She looks as you say.”

“Where can I find her?” Conan asked eagerly, but the beggar shook his head.

“I said I’ve seen her, and more than once, but as to where she might be…” He shrugged.

Conan put a hand to the leather purse at his belt. “Peor, I could manage, a pair of silver pieces for the man who tells me how to find her.”

“I wish I knew,” Peor said ruefully, then went on quickly. “But I’ll pass the word among the Brotherhood of the Bowl. If a beggar sees her, you’ll hear of it. After all, friendship counts for something, does it not?”

The Cimmerian cleared his throat to hide a grin. Friendship, indeed!

The message would come to him through Peor, and the beggar who sent it would be lucky to get as much as one of the silver pieces. “That it does,” he agreed.

“But, Conan? I don’t hold with killing women. You don’t intend to hurt her, do you?”

“Only her pride,” Conan said, getting to his feet. With the beggars’

eyes as his, he would have her before the day was out. “Only her pride.”

Two days later Conan threaded his way through the thronging crowds with a sour expression on his face. Not only the beggars of Shadizar had become his eyes. More than one doxy had smiled at the ruggedly handsome young Cimmerian, shivered in her depths at the blue of his eyes, and promised to watch for the woman he sought, though never without a pout of sultry jealousy. The street urchins, unimpressed by broad shoulders or azure eyes, had been more difficult. Some men called them the Dust, those homeless, ragged children, countless in number and helpless before the winds of fate, but the streets of Shadizar were a hard school, and the urchins gave trust grudgingly and demanded a reward in silver. But from all those eyes he had learned only where Tamira had been, and never a word of where she was.

Conan’s eyes searched among the passersby, seeking to pierce the veils of those women who wore them. At least, the veils of those who were slender and no taller than his chest. What he would do when he found her was not yet clear in his mind beyond the matter of seeking restitution for his youthful pride, but find her he would if he had to stare into the face of every woman in Shadizar.

So intent was he on his thoughts that the drum that cleared others from the street, even driving sedan chairs to the edge of the pavement, did not register on his mind until it suddenly came to him that he stood alone in the middle of the street. Turning to see where the steady thump came from, he found a procession bearing down on him.

At its head were two spearmen as tall as he, ebon-eyed men with capes of leopard skin, the clawed paws hanging across their broad, bare chests. Behind came the drummer, his instrument slung by his side to give free swing to the mallets with which he beat a cadence. A score of men in spiked helms and short, sleeveless mail followed the drummer.

Half bore spears and half bows, with quivers on their backs, and all wore wide, white trousers and high, red boots.

Conan’s eyes went no further down the cortege than the horsemen who came next, or rather the woman who led them, mounted on a prancing black gelding a hand taller than any her followers rode. Tall she was, and well rounded, a delight both callimastian and callipygean. Her garb of tight tunic and tighter breeches, both of tawny silk, with a scarlet cloak thrown well back across her horse’s rump, did naught to hide her curves. Light brown hair, sun-streaked with gold, curled about her shoulders and surrounded a prideful face set with clear gray eyes.

She was a woman worth looking at, Conan thought. And besides, he knew of her, as did every thief in Shadizar. The Lady Jondra was known for many things, her arrogance, her hunting, her racing of horses, but among thieves she was known as the possessor of a necklace and tiara that had set more than one man’s mouth watering. Each was set with a flawless ruby, larger than the last joint of a big man’s thumb, surrounded by sapphires and black opals. In the Desert men taunted each other with the stealing of them, for of all those who had tried, the only one not taken by the spears of her guards had died with Jondra’s own arrows in his eyes. It was said she had been more furious that the thief entered her chambers while she was bathing than at his bungled attempt at theft.

Conan prepared to step from the procession’s path, when the spearmen, not five paces from him now, dropped their spears to the ready. They did not slow their pace, but came on as if the threat should send him scurrying for cover.

The big Cimmerian’s face tightened. Did they think him a dog, then, to beat from their way? A young man’s pride, dented as much as he could stand in recent days, hardened. He straightened, and his hand went to the worn, leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword. Dead silence fell among the crowd lining the sides of the street.

The spearmen’s eyes widened at the sight of the young giant standing his ground. The streets always cleared before their mistress, the drum usually sufficing, and never more than the gleam of a spearpoint in the sunlight required at most. It came to each in the same instant that this was no apprentice to be chivvied aside. As one man they stopped and dropped into a crouch with spears presented.

The drummer, marching obliviously, continued his pounding until he was between the two spearmen. There his mallets froze, one raised and one against the drumhead, and his eyes darted for a way out. The three men made a barricade across the street that perforce brought the rest of Lady Jondra’s cortege to a halt, first the mailed hunters, then the horsemen, and so back down the line, till all stood stopped.

The ludicrousness of it struck Conan, and he felt mirth rising despite himself. How did he get himself into these predicaments, he wondered.

“You there!” a husky woman’s voice called. “You, big fellow with the sword!” Conan looked up to find the Lady Jondra staring at him over the heads of her spearmen and archers. “If you can stop Zurat and Tamal in their tracks, perhaps you can face a lion as well. I always need men, and there are few who deserve the name in Shadizar. I will take you into my service.” A tall, hawkfaced man riding next to her opened his mouth angrily, but she cut him off with a gesture. “What say you? You have the shoulders for a spearman.”

The laughter broke through, and Conan let it roar, though he was careful not to take his eyes from the spearmen or his hand from his sword. Jondra’s face slowly froze in amazement. “I am already in service,” he managed, “to myself. But, my lady, I wish you good day and will no longer block your passage.” He made a sweeping bow-not deep enough to lose sight of the spear points-and strode to the side of the street.

For an instant there was stunned silence, then the Lady Jondra was shouting. “Zurat! Tamal! March on! Junio! The beat!”

The spearmen straightened, and the drummer stiffly took up his cadence again. In moments the procession was moving. Jondra rode past stiffly, her eyes drifting to the big Cimmerian as if she did not realize what she did. The hawkfaced man rode beside her, arguing volubly, but she seemed not to hear.

A knot of barefooted street urchins, all color long faded from their tattered tunics, suddenly appeared near Conan. Their leader was a girl, though at an age when her scrawniness could pass for either sex. Half a head taller than her followers, she swaggered to the muscular youth’s side and studied the array of hunters. The lion dogs passed, heavy, snarling brutes with spiked collars, pulling hard on the leashes held by their handlers.

“Dog like that could take your leg off,” the girl said. “Big man, you get a spear in your belly, and who’s going to pay us?”

“You get paid when you’ve found her, Laeta,” Conan replied. The trophies of the hunt were borne by skins of leopards and lions, great scimitar antelope horns, the skull of a huge wild ox with horns as thick and long as a man’s arm, all held aloft for the view of the onlookers.

She cast a scornful glance at him. “Did I not say as much? We found the wench, and I want those two pieces of silver.”

Conan grunted. “When I am sure it’s her.”

This was not the first report of Tamira he had had. One had been a woman more than twice his age, another a potter’s apprentice with only one eye. The last of Jondra’s procession passed, pack animals and highwheeled ox-carts, and the throng that had stood aside flowed together behind like water behind a boat.

“Take me to her,” Conan said.

Laeta grumbled, but trotted away down the street, her coterie of hard-eyed urchins surrounding her like a bodyguard. Under every ragged tunic, the Cimmerian knew, was a knife, or more than one. The children of the street preferred to run, but when cornered they were as dangerous as a pack of rats.

To Conan’s surprise they moved no closer to the Desert, but rather farther away, into a district peopled by craftsmen. The din of brass-smiths’ hammers beat at them, then the stench of the dyers’ vats.

Smoke from kiln fires rose on all sides. Finally the girl stopped and pointed to a stone building where a sign hanging from chains showed the image of a lion, half-heartedly daubed not too long past with fresh carmine.

“In there?” Conan asked suspiciously. Taverns attracted likes, and a thief would not likely be welcome amid potters and dyers.

“In there,” Laeta agreed. She chewed her lip, then sighed. “We will wait out here, big man. For the silver.”

Conan nodded impatiently and pushed open the tavern door.

Inside, the Red Lion was arranged differently from the usual tavern. At some time in the past a fire had gutted the building. The ground floor, which had collapsed into the cellar, had never been replaced. Instead, a balcony had been built running around the inside of the building at street level, and the common room was now in what had been the cellar.

Even when the sun was high on the hottest day, the common room of the Red Lion remained cool.

From a place by the balcony rail just in front of the door, Conan ran his gaze over the interior of the tavern, searching for a slender female form. A few men stood on the balcony, some lounging against the railing with tankard in hand, most bargaining quietly with doxies for time in the rooms abovestairs. A steady stream of serving girls trotted up and down stairs at the rear of the common room with trays of food and drink, for the kitchen was still on the ground level. Tables scattered across the stone floor below held potters whose arms were flecked with dried clay and leatheraproned metal workers and apprentices with tunics stained by rainbow splashes.

The ever-present trulls, their wisps of silk covering no more here than they did in the Desert, strolled the floor, but as he had expected Conan could see no other women among the tables. Satisfied that Laeta was mistaken or lying, he started to turn for the door. From the corner of his eye he saw a burly potter, with a round-breasted doxy running her fingers through his hair, look away from her bounty to glance curiously at a spot below where the big Cimmerian stood. Another man, his leather apron lying across the table before him and a squealing jade on his knees, paused in his pawing of her to do the same. And yet another man.

Conan leaned to look over the railing, and there Tamira sat beneath him, demurely clothed in pale blue robes, face scrubbed to virginal freshness … and a wooden mug upended at her mouth. With a sigh she set the mug on the table upside-down, a signal to the serving girls that she wanted it refilled.

Smiling, Conan slipped the flat throwing knife from his belt. A flicker of his hand, and the black blade quivered in the upturned bottom of her mug. Tamira started, then was still except for the fingers of her left hand drumming on the tabletop. The Cimmerian’s smile faded. With a muttered oath he stalked to the stairs and down.

When he reached the table the throwing knife had disappeared. He ignored the wide-eyed looks of men at nearby tables and sat across from her.

“You cost me eight pieces of gold,” were his first words.

The corners of Tamira’s mouth twitched upward. “So little? I received forty from the Lady Zayella.”

Conan’s hand gripped the edge of the table till the wood creaked in protest. Forty! “Zarath the Kothian would give a hundred,” he muttered, then went on quickly before she could ask why he was then only to receive eight. “I want a word with you, wench.”

“And I with you,” she said. “I didn’t come to a place like this, and let you find me, just to-“

“Let me find you!” he roared. A man at a nearby table hurriedly got up and moved away.

“Of course, I did.” Her face and voice were calm, but her fingers began to tap on the table again. “How could I fail to know that every beggar in Shadizar, and a fair number of the trulls, were asking after my whereabouts?”

“Did you think I would forget you?” he asked sarcastically.

She went on as if he had not spoken. “Well, I will not have it. You’ll get in my-my uncles’ attention. They’ll not take kindly to a stranger seeking after me. I led you here, well away from the Desert, in the hopes they’ll not hear of our meeting. You’ll find yourself with a blade in your throat, Cimmerian. And for some reason I don’t quite understand, I would not like that.”

Conan looked at her silently, until under his gaze her large, dark eyes began blinking nervously. Her finger-drumming quickened. “So you do know my country of birth.”

“You fool, I am trying to save your life.”

“Your uncles look after you?” he said abruptly. “Watch over you?

Protect you?”

“You will find out how carefully if you do not leave me alone. And what’s that smug grin for?”

“It’s just that now I know I’ll be your first man.” His tone was complacent, but his every muscle tensed.

Tamira’s mouth worked in silent incredulity, and scarlet suffused her cheeks. Suddenly a shriek burst from her lips, and the throwing knife was in her hand. Conan threw himself from his bench as her arm whipped forward. Beyond him an apprentice yelped and stared disbelieving at the tip of his nose, from which a steady drip of red fell to put new blotches on his dye-stained tunic.

Warily Conan got to his feet. Tamira shook her small fists at him in incoherent fury. At least, he thought, she did not have another of those knives. It would be out, otherwise. “But you must ask me,” he said as if there had been no interruption. “That will make up for the eight gold pieces you stole from me, when you ask me.”

“Erlik take you!” she gasped. “Mitra blast your soul! To think I worried … to think I … You’re nothing but an oaf after all! I hope my uncles do catch you! I hope the City Guard puts your head on a pike! I hope-I hope-oh!” From head to toe she shook with rage.

“I eagerly await our first kiss,” Conan said, and dodged her mug, aimed at his head.

Calmly turning his back on her wordless shouts, he strolled up the stairs and out of the tavern. As soon as the door closed behind him, his casual manner disappeared. Urgently he looked for Laeta, and smiled when she appeared with her palm out.

Before she could ask he tossed her two silver coins. “There’s more,” he said. “I want to know everywhere she goes, and everyone she sees. A silver piece every tenday for you, and the same for your followers.”

Baratses’ gold was disappearing fast, he thought, but with luck it should last just long enough.

Laeta, with her mouth open to bargain, could only nod wordlessly.

Conan smiled in satisfaction. He had Tamira now. After his performance she thought he was a buffoon intent on seduction to salve his pride. He doubted if she even remembered her slip of the tongue. Almost she had said he would get in her way. She planned a theft, and wanted no encumbrance. But this time he would get there first, and she would find the empty pedestal.

Chapter IV

Much of the Zamoran nobility, the Lady Jondra thought as she strolled through her palace garden, deplored that the last of the Perashanids was a woman. Carefully drawing back the vermilion silk sleeve of her robe, she dabbled her fingers in the sparkling waters of a fountain rimmed with gray-veined marble. From the corner of her eye she watched the man who stood next to her. His handsome, dark-eyed face radiated self-assurance. A heavy gold chain, each link worked with the seal of his family, hung across the crisp pleats of his citrine tunic. Lord Amaranides did not deplore her femininity at all. It meant that all the wealth of the Perashanids went with her hand. If he could manage to secure that hand.

“Let us walk on, Ama,” she said, and smiled at his attempt to hide a grimace for the pet name she had given him. He would think the smile was for him, she knew. It was not in him to imagine otherwise.

“The garden is lovely,” he said. “But not so lovely as you.”

Instead of taking his proffered arm she moved ahead down the slate-tiled walk, forcing him to hurry to catch up to her.

Eventually she would have to wed. The thought brought a sigh of regret, but duty would do what legions of suitors had been unable to. She could not allow the Perashanid line to end with her. Another sigh passed her full lips.

“Why so melancholy, my sweetling?” Amaranides murmured in her ear. “Let me but taste your honey kiss, and I will sweep your moodiness away.”

Deftly she avoided his lips, but made no further discouraging move.

Unlike most nobly born Zamoran women, she allowed few men so much as a kiss, and none more. But even if she could not bring herself to stop her occasional tweaking of his well-stuffed pomposity, Amaranides must not be put off entirely.

At least he was tall enough, she thought. She never allowed herself to contemplate the reason why she was taller than most Zamoran men, but she had long since decided that her husband must be taller than she.

Amaranides was a head taller, but his build was slender. With an idle corner of her mind she sketched the man she wanted. Of noble lineage, certainly. An excellent horseman, archer and hunter, of course.

Physically? Taller than Amaranides by nearly a head. Much broader of shoulders, with a deep, powerful chest. Handsome, but more ruggedly so than her companion. His eyes …

Abruptly she gasped as she recognized the man she had drawn in her mind. She had dressed him as a Zamoran nobleman, but it was the sky-eyed street-ruffian who had disrupted her return from the hunt. Her face flooded with scarlet. Blue eyes! A barbarian! Like smoky gray fires her own eyes blazed. That she could consider allowing such a one to touch her, even without realizing it! Mitra! It was worse done without realizing it!

“… And on my last hunt,” Amaranides was saying, “I killed a truly magnificent leopard. Finer than any you’ve taken, I fancy. It will be a pleasure for me to teach you the finer points of hunting, my little sweetmeat. I …”

Jondra ground her teeth as he rattled blithely on. Still, he was a hunter, not to mention nobly born. If he was a fool-and of that there was little doubt in her mind-then he would be all the more easily managed.

“I know why you’ve come, Ama,” she said.

“… Claws as big as…” The nobleman’s voice trailed off, and he blinked uncertainly. “You know?”

She could not keep impatience from her voice. “You want me for your wife. Is that not it? Come.” Briskly she set out through the garden toward the fletcher’s mound.

Amaranides hesitated, then ran after her. “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me, sweetling. Sweetling? Jondra? Where are you … ah!”

Jondra fended off the arms he tried to throw around her with a recurved bow she had taken from a gilded rack standing on a grassy sward. Calmly she slipped a leather bracer onto her left arm for protection from the bowstring. Another bow, a second bracer, and two quivers, clustered fletchings rising above their black-lacquered sides, hung on the rack.

“You must … equal me,” she said, gesturing toward a small round target of thickly woven straw hanging at the top of a wide wooden frame, which was three times the height of a man, a hundred paces distant. She had intended to say ‘best,’ but at the last could not bring herself to it. In truth, she did not believe any man could best her, either with a bow or on horseback. “I can marry no man who is not my equal as an archer.”

Amaranides eyed the target, then took the second bow with a smug smile.

“Why so high? No matter. I wager I’ll beat you at it.” He laughed then, a shocking bray at odds with his handsome features. “I’ve won many a purse with a bow, but you will be my finest prize.”

Jondra’s mouth tightened. Shaking back the hanging sleeves of her robes, she nocked an arrow and called, “Mineus!”

A balding man, in the short white tunic of a servant, came from the bushes near the frame and tugged at a rope attached near the target.

Immediately the target, no bigger than a man’s head, began to slide down a diagonal, and as it slid it swung from side to side on a long wooden arm. Clearly it would take a zig-zag path, at increasing speed, all the way to the ground.

Jondra did not raise her bow until the target had traversed half the first diagonal. Then, in one motion, she raised, drew and released.

With a solid thwack her shaft struck, not slowing the target’s descent.

Before that arrow had gone home her second was loosed, and a third followed on its heels. As the straw target struck the ground, she lowered her bow with an arrow nocked but unreleased. It was her seventh. Six feathered shafts decorated the target. “The robes hamper me somewhat,” she said ruefully. “With your tunic, you may well get more than my six. Let me clothe myself in hunting garb-are you ill, Ama?”

Amaranides’ bow hung from a limp hand. He stared, pale of face, at the target. As he turned to her, high color replaced the pallor of his cheeks. His mouth twisted around his words. “I have heard that you delight in besting men, but I had not thought you would claim yourself ready to wed just to lure me to … this!” He spat the last word, hurling the bow at the riddled target. “What Brythunian witch-work did you use to magic your arrows?”

Her hands shook with rage as she raised her bow and drew the nocked arrow back to her cheek, but she forced them to be steady. “Remove yourself!” she said grimly.

Mouth falling open, the dark-faced nobleman stared at the arrow pointed at his face. Abruptly he spun about and ran, dodging from side to side, shoulders hunched, as if simultaneously attempting to avoid her arrow and steel himself against its strike.

She followed every skip and leap, keeping the arrow centered on him until he had disappeared among the shrubs. Then she released the breath in her tight lungs and the tension on her bowstring together. Thoughts she had disciplined from her mind came flooding back.

Lord Karentides, her father, had been a general of the Zamoran Army, as well as the last scion of an ancient house. Campaigning on the Brythunian border he chose a woman from among the prisoners, Camardica, tall and gray-eyed, who claimed to be a priestess. In the normal course of events there would have been nothing strange in this, for Zamoran soldiers often enjoyed themselves with captive Brythunian women, and the Brythunian slaves in Zamora were beyond counting. But Karentides married his captive. Married her and accepted the ostracism that became his.

Jondra remembered his body-his and … that woman’s-lying in state after the fever that slew so many in the city, sparing neither noble nor beggar. She had been raised, educated, protected as what she was, heiress to vast wealth, to blood of ancient nobility. The marks were on her, though-the height and the accursed eyes of gray-and she had heard the whispers. Halfbreed. Savage. Brythunian. She had heard them until her skill with a bow, her ready temper and her disregard of consequences silenced even whispers in her hearing. She was the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid, daughter of General Lord Karentides last of a lineage to rival that of King Tiridates himself, and ware to anyone who mentioned aught else.

“He would not have hit it once, my lady,” a quiet voice said at her elbow.

Jondra glanced at the balding servant, at the concern on his wrinkled face. “It is not your place to speak so, Mineus,” she said, but there was no rebuke in her voice.

Mineus’ expression folded into deference. “As you say, my lady. If my lady pleases, the girl sent by the Lady Roxana is here. I put her in the second waiting room, but I can send her away if that is still your wish.”

“If I am not to wed,” she said, replacing her bow carefully on the rack, “I shall have need of her after all.”

The second waiting room was floored with a mosaic of arabesques in green and gold, in the middle of which stood a short, slender girl in a short tunic of dark blue, the color Lady Roxana put on her serving maids. Her dark hair was worked in a simple plait that fell to the small of her back. She kept her eyes on the tiles beneath her small feet as Jondra entered the room.

An ebony table inlaid with ivory held two wax tablets fastened face-to-face with silken cords. Jondra examined the seals on the cords carefully. Few outside the nobility or the merchant classes could write, but servants had been known to try altering their recommendations. There were no signs of tampering here. She cut the cords and read.

“Why do you wish to leave the Lady Roxana’s service?” she asked abruptly. “Lyana? That’s your name?”

“Yes, my lady,” the girl answered without raising her head. “I want to become a lady’s maid, my lady. I worked in the Lady Roxana’s kitchens, but her handmaidens trained me. The Lady Roxana had no place for another handmaiden, but she said that you sought one.”

Jondra frowned. Did the chit not even have enough spirit to meet her eyes? She abhorred a lack of spirit, whether in dogs or horses or servants. “I need a girl to tend my needs on the hunt. The last two found the rigors too great. Do you think your desire to be a lady’s maid will survive heat and flies and sand?”

“Oh, yes, my lady.”

Slowly Jondra walked around the girl studying her from every angle. She certainly looked sturdy enough to withstand a hunting camp. With fingertips she raised the girl’s chin. “Lovely,” she said, and thought she saw a spark in those large, dark eyes. Perhaps there was some spirit here after all. “I’ll not have my hunts disrupted by spearmen panting after a pretty face, girl. See you cast no eyes at my hunters.”

Jondra smiled. There had definitely been a flash of anger that time.

“I am a maiden, my lady,” the girl said with the faintest trace of tightness in her voice.

“Of course,” Jondra said noncommittally. Few serving girls were, though all seemed to think the condition made them more acceptable to their mistresses. “I’m surprised the Lady Roxana allowed you to leave her, considering the praises she heaps on your head.” She tapped the wax tablet with a fingernail. “In time I will discover if you deserve them.

In any case, know that I will allow no hint of disobedience, lying, stealing or laziness. I do not beat my servants as often as some, but transgression in these areas will earn you stripes.” She watched the sparks in the girl’s eyes replaced with eagerness as the meaning of her words broke through.

“My lady, I swear that I will serve you as such a great lady deserves to be served.”

Jondra nodded. “Mineus, show her to the servants’ quarters. And summon Arvaneus.”

“It shall be done, my lady.”

She dismissed the matter from her mind then, the sounds of Mineus leading the girl from the room seeming to fade to insignificance.

Replacing the tablets on the ebony table, she crossed the room to a tall, narrow cabinet of profusely carved rosewood. The doors opened to reveal shelves piled with scrolls of parchment, each bound with a ribbon. Hastily she pawed through the pale cylinders.

The incident with Amaranides had crystallized a decision. That the whispers about her parentage were still being bruited about was reason enough to end her consideration of marriage. Instead …

Amaranides had said she liked to best men. Could she help it that men, with their foolish pride, could not accept the fact that she was better than they, whether with bow or horse or on the hunt? Well, now she would best them properly. She would do what none of them had either the skill or the courage to do.

She untied the ribbon about a scroll and searched down the parchment until she found what she sought.

The beast, my lady, is said to be scaled like a serpent, but to move on legs. Winnowing out obvious exaggerations caused by fear, I can reliably report that it has slain and eaten both men and cattle. Its habitat, my lady, seems, however, to be the Kezankian Mountains near the border between Zamora and Brythunia. With the current unrest of the hill tribes, I cannot suggest.

The parchment crumpled in her hands. She would bring this strange beast’s hide back as her trophy. Let one of Amaranides’ ilk suggest he could do as much. Let him just dare.

Tamira scurried down palace corridors in Mineus’ wake, barely hearing when the balding old man told her of her duties, or when he spoke to other servants. Until the very last moment she had not been certain her plan would work, even after so much planning and labor.

Forty gold pieces she had obtained from Zayella, and all had gone in preparation for this. Most went to Roxana’s chamberlain, who provided the use of the Lady’s private seal. There would be no checking though, to trip her up, for the Lady Roxana had departed the city a day past.

Tamira allowed herself a smile. In a day or two she would have Jondra’s fabulous necklace and tiara.

“Give attention, girl,” Mineus said impatiently. “You must know this to help prepare for the Lady Jondra’s hunt.”

Tamira blinked. “Hunt? But she just returned from a hunt.”

“You saw me speak to Arvaneus, the chief huntsman. No doubt you will depart as soon as supplies are gathered.”

Panic flashed through her. It had been none of her intention to actually go on one Jondra’s forays. There was no point to her sweating in a tent while the jewels remained in Shadizar. Of course, they would be there when she returned. But so might the Lady Roxana. “I-I have to see … about my belongings,” she stammered. “I left clothing at the Lady Roxana’s palace. And my favorite pin. I must fetch-“

Mineus cut her short. “When you’ve had instructions as to your duties in preparing for the hunt. Not only must you see that my lady’s clothing and jewels are packed, but you must see to her perfumes, the soaps and oils for her bathing, and-“

“She-my lady takes her jewels hunting?”

“Yes, girl. Now pay attention. My lady’s rouges and powders-“

“You mean a few bracelets and brooches,” Tamira insisted.

The old man rubbed his bald spot and sighed. “I mean nothing of the sort, girl. Of an evening my lady often adorns herself to dine in her finest. Now, since you seem distracted for some reason, I will see you through your tasks.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon Tamira was prodded and pushed from one labor to the next, always under Mineus’ watchful eye. She folded Jondra’s garments of silks and laces-three times she folded them before reaching Mineus’ satisfaction-and packed them in wicker panniers. Rare perfumes from Vendhya and powders from far Khitai, rouges from Sultanapur, costly oils and unguents from the corners of the world, all she wrapped in soft cloths and packed, with the halding old man hovering close to remind her that every vial and jar must be handled as gently as a swaddling child. Then, staggering under the weighty panniers, she and another serving-woman carried them down to the stableyard, where the pack-animals would be loaded on the morrow.

On each trip through Jondra’s chambers, the chests for transporting the noblewoman’s jewelry, thick sided boxes of iron, made her mouth water.

They sat so tantalizingly against a tapestry-hung wall. But they were empty iron now, for they would not be filled until the last instant.

Still, the gems would be going with her. She could not help smiling.

Aching from the unaccustomed labor, Tamira found that Mineus had led her to a side door of the palace. “Fetch your belongings, girl,” he said, “and return quickly. There will be more work.”

Before she could speak she had been thrust outside, and the door closed in her face. For a long moment she stared wonderingly at the red-painted wood. She had forgotten her panic-induced invention of possessions. Her original plan called for remaining inside Jondra’s palace until the necklace and tiara were in her hands. In that way Conan would never discover what she was up to. The huge barbarian seemed intent on…

It dawned on her that she was outside the palace, and she spun around to study the narrow street. A turbanned Kezankain hillman squatted disconsolately against a wall across the street, and a few ragged urchins played tag on the rough paving stones. She heaved a sigh of relief. There was neither a beggar nor a doxy in sight. Her uncles could provide a bundle to satisfy Mineus. Keeping a careful watch for Conan’s many eyes, she hurried down the street.

Unseen by her, three of the urchins broke off their play and trailed after her.

The hillman watched her go with lustful eyes, then reluctantly returned to his surveillance of the palace.

Chapter V

At a corner table in Abuletes’ common room, Conan glowered into a lea them jack half-filled with cheap Kothian wine. Semiramis, in a girdle of coins and two strips of thin scarlet silk, was seated in the lap of a Turanian coiner across the crowded room, but for once that was not the reason for the Cimmerian’s dour face. What remained of Baratses’

two gold pieces had been lessened at dice the previous night. With all of his mind on Tamira, he had given no thought to how to get more. And worst, he had had no word from Laeta. It was only a day since he had set the urchin to watch Tamira, but he was certain-as certain as if he had been told by the dark-eyed thief herself-that she moved already on the theft she planned. The theft he had vowed to beat her to. And he had no word!

Grimacing, he raised his wine and gulped the remainder of it down. When he lowered the jack a tall, bony man stood across the table from him. A fine black Khauranian cloak, edged with cloth of gold, was pulled tightly around him as if to hide his identity.

“What do you want, Baratses?” Conan grumbled. “I keep the two gold pieces for the attempt, and you should be thankful to have it made so cheaply.”

“Do you have a room in this … establishment?” The spice merchant’s black eyes darted about the raucous tavern as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. “I would talk with you in privacy.”

Conan shook his head in disbelief. The fool had obviously dressed himself in what he considered plain fashion, but just as obviously he was no denizen of the Desert. His passage had certainly been noted, and footpads no doubt awaited nine deep in the street for his departure, but here, where he was safe from such, he feared robbery.

“Come,” Conan said, and led the way up the rickety wooden stairs at the back of the common room.

His own room was a simple box of rough wooden planks, with a narrow window shuttered in a vain attempt to keep out the stench of the alley behind the tavern. A wide, low bed, a table with one short leg, and a lone stool were all the furnishings. The Cimmerian’s few possessions-aside from the ancient broadsword he always wore-hung on pegs in one wall.

Baratses glanced around the room disdainfully, and Conan bristled. “I cannot afford a palace. Yet. Now, why are you here? Something more to be stolen? You’ll give a fair price this time, or find someone else.”

“You’ve not yet fulfilled your last commission, Cimmerian.” Though the door was closed, the merchant kept his cloak clutched about him. “I have the rest of your gold here, but where is my goblet? I know Samarides no longer possesses it.”

“Nor do I,” Conan replied ruefully. “Another was there before me.” He hesitated, but could not rid himself of the belief that the man deserved at least some information for his two gold pieces. “I have heard the Lady Zayella has the goblet now.”

“So she offered you more than I,” Baratses murmured. “I had heard you had some odd concept of honor, but I see I was wrong.”

The Cimmerian’s eyes grew icy. “Do not call me liar, merchant. Another took the goblet.”

“The room is close,” Baratses said. “I am hot.” He twitched the cloak from his shoulders, swirling it before him.

Instinct flared a warning in Conan. As the cloak moved aside his big hand slapped down to grasp Baratses’ wrist, stopping a black-bladed Karpashian dagger a handspan from his middle. “Fool!” he said.

Blood and teeth sprayed from the merchant’s face beneath Conan’s fist.

The dagger dropped from nerveless fingers and struck the floor no more than an instant before Baratses himself.

The big Cimmerian frowned at the man lying unconscious before him. A sheath on Baratses’ forearm had held the black blade. Conan bent to remove that, and tossed it and the dagger atop the cloak. “An attempt on my life,” he muttered finally, “surely earns me the gold you brought.”

Unfastening the merchant’s purse from his belt, Conan emptied it onto his palm. There was no gold, only silver and copper. He counted it and grimaced. Three coppers more than a single gold piece. It seemed his death had been intended whether he had the goblet or not. Pouring the coins back into the purse, he added it to the dagger and sheath.

On the floor Baratses stirred and moaned.

Knotting his fist in the bony man’s tunic, Conan lifted him erect and shook him till his eyes fluttered open. Baratses let out a gurgling groan as his tongue explored splintered teeth.

“I do not have the goblet,” the Cimmerian said grimly. Easily he hoisted the merchant’s feet clear of the floor. “I have never had the goblet.” He took a step and smashed Baratses against the shutter, which burst open. The bloody-faced man dangled above the alley at arm’s length from the window. “And if I ever see you again, I’ll break the rest of your teeth.” Conan opened his hand.

Baratses’ wail cut off as he landed with a squelch in equal parts of mud, offal and the emptyings of chamber pots. A scrawny dog, disturbed at its rootings, began to bark at him furiously. Scrambling shakily to his feet, Baratses stared wildly about him, then broke into a slipping, sliding run. “Murder!” he screamed. “Murder!”

Conan sighed as he watched the merchant disappear down the alley. His cries would bring no aid in the Desert, but once he was beyond those cramped streets the City Guard would come quickly enough. And listen attentively to a respectable merchant’s tale. Perhaps it would have been better had he slit the man’s throat, yet murder had never been his way. He would have to leave the city for a time, until the furor died down. The fist that had broken Baratses’ teeth pounded the window frame. And by the time he returned Tamira would have accomplished her theft. He might never even know what it was, much less in time to get there first.

Hastily he made his preparations. The contents of Baratses’ purse were added to his own. The dagger in its sheath he fastened to his left forearm, then settled the black cloak about his broad shoulders. It fit a trifle snugly, but was ten times better than what he had.

He frowned at a lump over his chest, and felt inside the cloak. A small pouch of cloth was sewn there. From it he drew a small silver box, its lid set with blue gems. Inferior sapphires, his experienced eye told him. He flipped it open; his lip curled contemptuously at the sickly verduous powder within. Pollen from the green lotus of Vendhya. It seemed Baratses liked his dreams to come when he desired them. The small quantity in his hand would bring ten gold pieces. Upending the silver box, he tapped it against the heel of his hand to make sure all of the pollen fell to the floor. He did not deal in such things.

Quickly he ran an eye over the rest of his possessions. There was nothing there worth the bother of bundling. Near two years of thievery, and this was all he had to show for it. A fool like Baratses could throw away on stolen dreams as much as he could earn in a night of risking his life. Pushing open the door, he slapped the worn leather hilt of his broadsword with a mirthless laugh. “This is all I need anyway,” he told himself.

At the bar Abuletes came slowly in response to the big Cimmerian’s beckoning gesture. “I need a horse,” Conan said when the fat innkeeper was finally before him. “A good horse. Not one ready for the boneyard.”

Abuletes’ black eyes, deepset in wells of suet, went from the cloak on Conan’s shoulders to the stairs. “You need to leave Shadizar quickly, Cimmerian?”

“There’s no body to be found,” Conan reassured him. “Just a disagreement with a man who can get the ear of the City Guard.”

“Too bad,” Abuletes grunted. “‘Tis cheaper to dispose of a body than to purchase a horse. But I know a man-” Suddenly he glared past Conan’s shoulder. “You! Out! I’ll have none of you filthy little thieves in my place!”

Conan glanced over his shoulder. Laeta stood just inside the door, glaring fiercely back at the tavernkeeper. “She has come to see me,”

the Cimmerian said.

“She?” Abuletes said incredulously, but he was speaking to Conan’s back.

“You have news of Tamira?” Conan asked when he reached the girl. It was like his luck of late, he thought, that the news would come when he could not use it.

Laeta nodded, but did not speak. Conan dug two silver pieces from his purse, but when she stretched out a hand for them he lifted them out of her reach and looked at her questioningly.

“All right, big man,” she sighed. “But I had better get my coin.

Yestermorn your wench went to the palace of the Lady Jondra.”

“Jondra!” So she was after the necklace and tiara. And he had to leave the city. Grinding his teeth, he tossed the coins to Laeta. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

She tucked the silver under her torn tunic. “Because she left again.

And,” she added reluctantly, “we lost her trail in the Katara Bazaar.

But this morning I set Urias to watch Jondra’s palace, and he saw her again. This time she left dressed like a serving girl and riding a supply cart in Jondra’s hunting party. The lot of them departed the city by the Lion Gate. A good six turns of the glass ago, it was. Urias took his time telling me, and I’m docking him his share of this silver for it.”

Conan studied the girl, wondering if she had spun this tale. It seemed too fantastic. Unless … unless Tamira had discovered Jondra was taking the fabled necklace and tiara with her. But on a hunt? No matter. He had to leave Shadizar anyway. As well ride north and see for himself what Tamira was up to.

He started to turn away, then stopped, looking at Laeta’s dirtsmudged face and big, wary eyes, truly seeing her for the first time. “Wait here,” he told her. She eyed him quizzically, but stood there as he walked away.

He found Semiramis leaning against the wall at the back of the common room, one foot laid across her knee so she could rub it. Quickly he separated out half the coin in his purse and pressed it into her hand.

“Conan,” she protested, “you know I’ll not take money from-“

“It’s for her,” he said, jerking his head toward Laeta, who was watching him suspiciously. Semiramis arched a questioning eyebrow. “In another year she’ll not be able to pass as a boy any longer,” he explained. “Already she’s putting dirt on her face to hide how pretty she is. I thought, maybe, that you…” He shrugged awkwardly, unsure of what he did mean.

Semiramis raised herself on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek.

“That’s no kiss,” he laughed. “If you want to say goodbye-“

She laid her fingers against his lips. “You are a better man than you try to pretend, Cimmerian.” With that she slipped by him.

Wondering if women were made by the same gods as men, he watched her approach Laeta. The two spoke quietly, looked at him, then moved toward an empty table together. As they sat, he suddenly recalled his own needs. He strode back to the bar and caught the tavernkeeper’s arm as the fat man passed.

“About this horse, Abuletes …”

Chapter VI

Dark hung silently over Shadizar, at least in the quarter where lay the Perashanid palace. A hatchet-faced man in a filthy turban and stained leather jerkin, his beard divided into three braids, moved from the shadows, freezing when the barking of a dog rent the night. Then quiet came again.

“Farouz,” the bearded man called softly. “Jhal. Tirjas.”

The three men named appeared from the dark, each followed by half a score other turbanned Kezankian hillmen.

“The true gods guide our blades, Djinar,” one man murmured as he passed hatchet-face.

Booted feet thudding on the paving stones, each small column hurried toward its appointed goal. Farouz would take his men over the garden’s west wall, Jhal over the north. Tirjas was to watch the front of the palace and assure that no one left … alive.

“Come,” Djinar commanded, and ten grim hillmen hurried after him to the east wall of the palace garden.

At the base of the wall two of his men bent to present cupped hands for his booted feet. Boosted thus, Djinar caught the top of the wall and scrambled over to drop inside. Moonlight put a silver glow on the trees and flowers of the garden. He wondered briefly at the labor involved.

So much sweat, and for plants. Truly the men of the cities were mad.

Soft thuds announced the arrival of his companions. Swords were drawn with the susurration of steel on leather, and from one man came a fierce mutter. “Death to the unbelievers!”

Djinar hissed for silence, unwilling to speak lest his feelings at being within a city became plain in his voice. So many people gathered in one place. So many buildings. So many walls, closing him in. He motioned the hillmen to follow.

Silently the stony-eyed column slipped through the garden. No doors barred their entrance to the palace. It was going well, Djinar thought.

The others would be entering the palace at other places. No alarm had been given. The blessings of the old gods must be on them, as Basrakan Imalla had said.

Abruptly a man in the white tunic of a servant appeared before him, mouth opening to shout. Djinar’s tulwar moved before he could think, the tip of the curved blade slicing open the other man’s throat.

As the corpse twitched in a pool of crimson, spreading across the marble floor, Djinar found his nervousness gone. “Spread out,” he commanded. “None must live to give an alarm. Go!”

Growling deep in their throats, his men scattered with ready blades.

Djinar ran as well, seeking the chamber that had been described to him by a sweating Akkadan beneath the iron gaze of Basrakan Imalla. Three more servants, roused by pounding boots, fell beneath his bloody steel.

All were unarmed, one was a woman, but all were unbelievers, and he gave them no chance to cry out.

Then he was at his goal, and it was as the plump man had said. Large square tiles of red, black and gold covered the floor in geometric patterns. The walls were red and black brick to the height of a man’s waist. Furnishings he did not notice. That lamps were lit so that he could see them was all that was important.

Still gripping his sanguine sword, Djinar hurried to the nearest corner and pushed against a black brick four down from the top row and four out from the corner. He gave a satisfied grunt when it sank beneath his pressure. Quickly he moved to the other three corners in turn; three more black bricks sank into the wall.

A clatter of boots in the corridor brought him to his feet, tulwar raised. Farouz and other hillmen burst into the room.

“We must hurry,” Farouz snarled. “A bald-headed old man broke Karim’s skull with a vase and escaped into the garden. We’ll never find him before he raises an alarm.”

Djinar bit back an oath. Hurriedly he positioned four men on their knees, forming the corners of a square beside widely separated golden tiles. “Press all together,” he ordered. “Together, mind you. Now!”

With sharp clicks the four tiles were depressed as one. A grinding noise rose from beneath their feet. Slowly, two thick sections of the floor swung up to reveal stairs leading down.

Djinar darted down those stairs, and found himself in a small chamber carved from the stone beneath the palace. Dim light filtered from above, revealing casket-laden shelves lining the walls. In haste he opened a casket, then another. Emeralds and sapphires on golden chains.

Opals and pearls mounted in silver brooches. Carved ivories and amber.

But not what he sought. Careless of the treasures he handled, the hillman spilled the contents of caskets on the floor. Gems and precious metals poured to the marble. His feet kicked wealth enough for a king, but he gave it not a second glance. With a curse he threw aside the last empty casket and ran back up the stairs.

More hillmen had come, crowding the room. Now some pushed past him to the chamber below. Squabbling, they stuffed their tunics with gems and gold.

“The Eyes of Fire are not here,” Djinar announced. The men below, panting with greed, paid no mind, but those in the chamber with him grew long faces.

“Perhaps the woman took them with her,” suggested a man with a scar where his left ear had been.

Farouz spat loudly. “It was you, Djinar, who said wait. The strumpet goes to hunt, you said. She will take her guards, and we shall have an easier time of it.”

Djinar’s thin lips curled back from his teeth. “And you, Farouz,” he snarled. “Did you cry for us to press on? Did you spend no time in the places where women barter their flesh for coin?” He clamped his teeth on his rage. The feeling of walls trapping him returned. What was to be done? To return to Basrakan Imalla empty-handed after being commanded to bring the Eyes of Fire … He shuddered at the thought. If the Zamoran jade had the Eyes of Fire, then she must be found. “Does none of these vermin still live?”

Mutters of negation filled the room, but Farouz said, “Jhal keeps a wench alive till his pleasure is spent. Do you now abandon the Imalla’s quest to join him?”

Djinar’s dagger was suddenly in his hand. He tested the edge on a well-calloused thumb. “I go to ask questions,” he said, and strode from the room.

Behind him the hubbub of argument over the looting rose higher.

Chapter VII

Conan let his reins fall on the neck of his horse, moving at a slow walk, and took a long pull on his waterskin. His expression did not change at the stale taste of the tepid fluid. He had drunk worse at times when the sun did not beat down so strongly from a cloudless sky as it did now, though it had risen not three handspans above the horizon. His cloak was rolled and bound behind his saddle pad, and a piece of his tunic was held on his head like a kaffiyeh by a leather cord. Rolling hills, with here and there an outcrop of rock or a huge, half-buried boulder, stretched as far as the eye could discern, with never a tree, nor any growth save sparse patches of rough grass.

Twice since leaving Shadizar he had crossed the tracks of very large bodies of men, and once he had seen Zamoran infantry in the distance, marching north. He kept himself from their sight. It did not seem likely that Baratses had influence enough to set the army on his trail, but a man in Conan’s profession quickly learned to avoid chance encounters with large numbers of soldiers. Life was more peaceful, less complicated without soldiers. Of the Lady Jondra’s hunting party he had seen no sign.

Plugging the spout of the skin, he slung it from his shoulder and returned to a study of the tracks he followed now. A single horse, lightly laden. Perhaps a woman rider.

He booted the roan into a trot, its quickest pace. He intended to have a word with Abuletes when he returned to Shadizar, a quiet converse about messages sent to horse traders. The tavernkeeper’s friend had denied having another animal beside this gelding on its last legs, and bargained as if he knew the big youth had reason to leave Shadizar quickly. Conan dug in his heels again, but the animal would move no faster.

Snarls, growing louder as he rode, drifted to him over the next rise.

Topping the swell of ground, he took in the scene below in one glance.

Half a score of wolves quarreled over the carcass of a horse. Some eyed him warily without ceasing their feast. Twenty paces away the Lady Jondra crouched precariously atop a boulder, her bow clutched in one hand. Five more of the massive gray beasts waited below, their eyes intent on her.

Suddenly one of them took a quick step forward and leaped for the girl on the rock. Desperately she drew her feet up and swung the bow like a club. The wolf twisted in mid-air; powerful jaws closed on the bow, ripping it from her grasp. The force of it pulled her forward, slipping down the side of the boulder. She gave a half-scream, grabbed frantically at the stone, and hung there, closer now to the creatures below. She pulled her legs up, but the next leaper would reach them easily.

“Crom,” Conan muttered. There was no time for planning, or even for conscious decisions. His heels thudded into the roan’s ribs, goading it into a sliding charge down the hillside. “Crom!” he bellowed, and his broadsword whispered from its worn shagreen scabbard.

The wolfpack gained its feet as one, gray forms crouching to await him.

Jondra stared at him in wild disbelief. The roan, eyes wide and whinnying in terror, suddenly broke into a gallop. Two of the wolves darted for the horse’s head, and two more dashed in behind to snap at its hamstrings. A forehoof shattered a broad gray-furred head. Conan’s blade whistled down to split the skull of a second wolf. The roan kicked back with both hind legs, splintering the ribs of a third, but the fourth sank gleaming fangs deep into one of those legs. Screaming, the horse stumbled and fell.

Conan stepped from his saddle pad as the animal went down, just in time to meet leaping gray death with a slashing blade. Half cut in two the great wolf dropped. Behind him Conan heard the roan scramble to its feet, whinnying frantically, and the solid thuds of hooves striking home. There was no opportunity to so much as glance at his mount, though, or even to look at Jondra, for the rest of the pack swarmed around him.

Desperately the big Cimmerian cut and hacked at deadly shapes that darted and slashed like gray demons. Blood splashed cinereous fur, and not all of it was theirs, for their teeth were like razors, and he could not keep them all from him. With cold certainty he knew he could not afford to go down, even for an instant. Let him once get off his feet, and he was meat for the eating. Somehow he managed to get the Karpashian dagger into his left hand, and laid about him with two blades. All thought left him save battle; he fought with as pure a fury as the wolves themselves, asking no quarter and giving none. To fight was all he knew. To fight, and let the losers go to the ravens.

As suddenly as the combat had begun it was ended. One instant steel battled slashing fangs, the next massive gray forms were loping away over the hills, one limping on three legs. Conan looked around him, half wondering that he still lived. Nine wolves lay as heaps of bloodsoaked fur. The roan was down again, and this time it would not rise again. A gaping wound in its throat dripped blood into a dark pool that was already soaking into the rocky soil.

A scrabbling sound drew Conan’s eyes. Jondra slid from the boulder and took her bow from the ground. Snug tunic and riding breeches of russet silk delineated every curve of her full-breasted form. Lips pursed, she examined the gouges in the bow’s glued layers of bone and wood. Her hands shook.

“Why did you not put arrows into a few?” Conan demanded. “You might have saved yourself before I came.”

“My quiver…” Her voice trailed off at the sight of her half-eaten horse, but she visibly steeled herself and went to the carcass. From under the bloody mass she tugged a quiver. A crack ran down one side of the black lacquerwork. Checking the arrows, she discarded three that were broken, then slung the quiver on her back. “I had no chance to reach this,” she said, adjusting the cords that held the lacquered box on her back. “The first wolf hamstrung my gelding before I even saw it.

It was Hannuman’s own luck I made it to that rock.”

“This is no country for a woman to ride alone,” Conan grumbled as he retrieved the rolled cloak and wiped his bloody blade on his saddle pad. He knew he should take a different course with this woman. He had, after all, ridden halfway across Zamora for the express purpose of getting close enough to steal her gems. But there he stood with his horse dead, a dozen gashes that, if not serious still burned and bled, and no mind to walk easily with anyone.

“Guard your tongue!” Jondra snapped. “I’ve ridden-” Suddenly she seemed to see him fully for the first time. Taking a step back, she raised the bow before her as if it were a shield. “You!” Her voice was a breathless whisper. “What do you do here?”

“What I do is walk, since my horse is slain in the saving of your life.

For which, I mind me, I’ve heard no word of thanks, nor an offer to bind my wounds in your camp.”

Mouth dropping open, Jondra stared at him, astonishment warring with anger on her face. Drawing a deep breath, she shook herself as if waking from a dream. “You saved my life…” she began, then trailed off. “I do not even know your name.”

“I am called Conan. Conan of Cimmeria.”

Jondra made a small bow, and her smile trembled only a little. “Conan of Cimmeria, I offer you my heartfelt thanks for my life. As well, I offer the use of my camp for as long as you choose to stay.” She looked at the wolf carcasses and shuddered. “I have taken many trophies,” she said unsteadily, “but I never thought to be one. The skins are yours, of course.”

The Cimmerian shook his head, though it pained him to abandon useful pelts. And valuable ones, too, could they be gotten back to Shadizar.

He hefted his waterskin, showing a long rent made by slashing jaws. A last few drops of water dripped to the ground.

“Without water, we can waste no time with skinning in this heat.” He shaded his eyes with a broad palm and measured how far the sun had yet to rise to reach its zenith. “It will get hotter before it cools. How far is it to your camp?”

“On horses we could be there by the time the sun is high, or shortly after. On foot…” She shrugged, making her heavy breasts move under the tight silk of her tunic. “I walk little, and so am no judge.”

Conan made an effort to keep his mind on the matter at hand. “Then we must start now. You will have to keep up, for if we stop in this heat we shall likely never move again. Now, which way?”

Jondra hesitated, clearly as unused to taking commands as to walking.

Haughty gray eyes dueled with cool sapphire blue; it was gray that fell. Without another word, but with an irritated expression painted on her features, the tall noblewoman fitted a shaft to her bow and began walking, headed south of the rising sun.

Conan stared after her before following, and not for the pleasant rolling motion of her rump. The fool woman had not wanted him behind her. Did she fear he would take her by force? And why had she seemed shaken by fear when she recognized him? Slowly, however, his questions were submerged in the pleasure of watching her make her way over the rolling hills. The silk riding breeches fit her buttocks like skin, and the view as she toiled upslope ahead of him was enough to make any man forget himself.

The sun climbed on, a ball of luteous fire baking the air dry. Shimmers rose from the rocky ground, and boot soles burned as if they rested on coals. Every breath sucked moisture from the lungs, dried the throat.

Across the sky marched the sun, to its zenith and beyond, roasting the flesh, baking the brain.

The sun, Conan realized as he labored uphill in Jondra’s wake, had replaced the woman as the center of his thoughts. He tried to calculate the time he had left to find water, the time before the strength of his thews began to fail. The effort of wetting his cracking lips was wasted, for the dampness did not last beyond the doing. He saw no use in offering up prayers. Crom, the Lord of the Mound, the god of his harsh native land, listened to no prayers, accepted no votive offerings. Crom gave a man but two gifts, life and will, and never another. Will would carry him till dark, he decided. Then, having survived a day, he would set about surviving the night, and then the next day, and the next night.

Of the girl he was not so sure. Already she had begun to stagger, tripping over stones she would easily have stepped over when they left the horses. Abruptly a rock smaller than her fist turned under her boot, and she fell heavily. To hands and knees she rose, but no further. Her head hung weakly, and her sides heaved with the effort of drawing a decent breath from the bone-dry air.

Scrambling up beside her, Conan pulled her to her feet. She hung limply from his hands. “Is this the right direction, girl? Is it?”

“How-dare-you,” she managed through cracked lips.

Fiercely he shook her; her head lolled on her neck. “The direction, girl! Tell me!”

Unsteadily she looked around them. “Yes,” she said finally. “I-think.”

With a sigh, Conan lifted her over his shoulder.

“Not-dignified,” she panted. “Put-me-down.”

“There’s no one to see,” he told her. And perhaps never would be, he told himself. A well-honed instinct for direction would keep him moving on the path Jondra had set as long as he was able to move; an instinct for survival and an indomitable will would keep him moving long after the limits of ordinary human endurance had been breeched. He would find her camp. If she actually followed the true path. If he had not waited too late to question her. If…

Putting his doubts and Jondra’s weak struggles alike from his mind, Conan set out slightly to the south of the line the sun had followed in rising. Constantly his eyes searched for signs of water, but in vain.

It was too much to hope for palm fronds waving above a spring. Now, however, he could not find even the plants that would show him where to dig for a seep hole. No trace of green met his eyes save the short, wiry grass that could grow where a lizard would die of thirst. The sun blazed its way westward.

Conan’s gaze swept toward the horizon. No smoke marked a campsite, no track disturbed the stony flanks of the hills before him. A steady, ground-eating pace he kept, tirelessly at first, then, as shadows lengthened before him, with an iron determination that denied the possibility of surrender. With water the coming night would have been a haven. Without it, there would be no stopping, for if they stopped they might well never take another step.

Darkness swooped, with no twilight. The stretching shadows seemed to merge and permeate the air in moments. The searing heat dissipated quickly. Stars blinked into being, like flecks of crystal on black velvet, and with them came a chill that struck to the bone as fiercely as had the sun. Jondra stirred on his shoulder and murmured faintly.

Conan could not make out what she said, nor waste the energy to wonder what it had been.

He began to stumble, and he knew it was not only the dark. His throat was as dry as the rocks that turned under his feet, and the cold gave little relief to the sun-cracked skin of his face. All he could see were the unwinking stars. Locking his eyes on the horizon, a thin line where sable merged into ebon, he trudged on. Abruptly he realized that three of those stars did seem to shimmer. And they lay below the horizon. Fires.

Forcing his feet to move faster, Conan half-ran toward the camp, for such it must be, whether Jondra’s or another. Whoever’s camp it was, they must go in, for they had to have water. With his free hand he loosened his sword in its scabbard. They needed water, and he meant to have it.

The “stars” clearly became fires built high, surrounded by two-wheeled carts and round tents, with picket lines of animals beyond. Conan stumbled into the firelight; men in short mail tunics and baggy white trousers leaped to their feet. Hands reached for spears and tulwars.

The Cimmerian let Jondra fall and put a hand to his sword hilt.

“Water,” he croaked. The one word was all he could manage.

“What have you done?” a tall hawkfaced man demanded. Conan worked for the moisture to ask what the man meant, but the other did not wait.

“Kill him!” he snarled.

Conan’s broadsword slid smoothly free, and it was not the only steel bared to gleam in the light of the fires. Some men raised their spears to throw.

“No!” The faint command came in a thirst-hoarsened voice. “No, I say!”

Conan risked a glance from the corner of his eye. One of the mail-shirted men held a waterskin solicitously to Jondra’s lips, and her shoulder, were supported by Tamira, in the short, white tunic of a servant.

Not lowering his sword-for few of the others had lowered theirs-Conan began to laugh, a dry, rasping sound of relief. It hurt his throat, but he did not care.

“But, my lady,” the hawkfaced man protested. Conan remembered him, now, at Jondra’s shoulder that day in Shadizar.

“Be silent, Arvaneus,” Jondra barked. She took two more thirsty gulps from the waterskin, then pushed it aside and held out an imperious hand, demanding to be helped to her feet. The man with the waterskin hastened to comply. She stood unsteadily, but pushed him aside when he tried to support her. “This man saved me from wolves, Arvaneus, and carried me when I could not walk. While you huddled by the fires, he saved my life. Give him water. Tend his hurts, and see to his comfort.”

Hesitantly, eying Conan’s bare blade, the man with the waterskin handed it to the big Cimmerian.

Arvaneus spread his hands in supplication. “We searched, my lady. When you did not return, we searched until dark, then built the fires high that you might see them and be guided to the camp. At first light we would have-“

“At first light I would have been dead!” Jondra snapped. “I will retire to my tent now, Arvaneus, and give thanks to Mitra that my survival was not left to you. Attend me, Lyana.” Her rigid-backed departure was spoiled slightly by a stumble, and she muttered a curse as she ducked into her scarlet-walled pavillion.

Conan cast an eye about the encampment-the tulwars and spears were no longer in evidence-and sheathed his own blade. As he was raising the waterskin, he met Arvaneus’ gaze. The huntsman’s black eyes were filled with a hatred rooted in his marrow. And he was not the only one staring at the Cimmerian. Tamira’s glare was one of frustration.

“Lyana!” Jondra called from her tent. “Attend me, girl, or…” The threat was implicit in her tone.

For the barest moment Tamira hesitated, giving Conan a well-honed look, then she darted for the tent.

Arvaneus’ face was still a mask of malignity, but Conan neither knew the reason nor cared. All that mattered was that he would now surely reach the necklace and tiara before the young woman thief. That and nothing more. With a rasping chuckle he tilted up the waterskin and drank deeply.

Chapter VIII

The tall, gray-eyed young man kicked his horse into a trot as the lay of the country told him he neared his village. The last wisps of morning fog lingered among the towering forest oaks, as it often did in this part of Brythunia, not far from the Kezankian Mountains. Then the village itself came in view. A few low, thatch-roofed houses of stone, those of the village’s wealthiest men, were dotted among the wattle structures that clustered around two dirt streets that lay at right angles to each other.

People crowded the street as he rode into the village. “Eldran!” they shouted, and dogs ran beside his horse, adding their barking to the uproar. “You have come! Boudanecea said you would!” The men were dressed as he, their tunics embroidered at the neck, with cross-gaitered fur leggings that rose to the knee. The women’s dresses were longer versions of the tunics, but in a profusion of scarlets and yellows and blues where the men’s were brown and gray, and embroidered at hem and at the ends of the sleeves as well.

“Of course I’ve come,” he said as he dismounted. “Why should I not?”

They gathered about him, each trying to get close. He noticed that every man wore a sword, though few did in the normal course of days, and many leaned on spears and carried their round shields of linden wood rimmed with iron. “What has happened here? What has the priestess to do with this?” A tumult answered him, voices tumbling over each other like brook water over stones.

“… Burned the farmsteads …”

“… Men dead, women dead, animals dead…”

“… Some eaten…”

“… Devil beast…”

“… Went to hunt it…”

“… Ellandune …”

“… All dead save Godtan …”

“Hold!” Eldran cried. “I cannot hear you all. Who spoke of Ellandune?

Is my brother well?”

Silence fell, save for the shuffling of feet. No one would meet his eyes. A murmur spread from the rear of the crowd, and they parted for the passage of a tall woman with a face serene and ageless. Her hair, the black streaked with gray, hung to her ankles and was bound loosely back with a white linen band. Her dress was of pristine linen as well, and the embroideries were of the leaves and berries of the mistletoe. A small golden sickle hung at her belt. She could walk anywhere in Brythunia and the poorest man in the land would not touch that sickle, nor the most violent raise a finger against her.

Eldran’s clear gray eyes were troubled as they met hers of dark brown.

“Will you tell me, Boudanecea? What has happened to Ellandune?”

“Come with me, Eldran.” The priestess took his arm in a strong grasp.

“Walk with me, and I will tell you what I can.”

He let her lead him away, and none of the rest followed other than with sympathetic eyes that made fear rise in him. In silence they walked slowly down the dusty street. He kept a rein on his impatience, for he knew of old she would not be rushed.

Before the gray stone house where she lived, Boudanecea drew him to a halt. “Go in, Eldran. See Godtan. Speak with him. Then I will tell you.”

Eldran hesitated, then pushed open the door of pale polished wood, A short, slight woman met him inside, dressed like Boudanecea, but with her dark, shiny hair braided in tight spirals about her head as a sign that she was still an acolyte.

“Godtan,” was all he could say. What of Ellandune, he wanted to shout, but he had begun to fear the answer.

The acolyte silently drew aside a red woolen door-hanging and motioned him to enter the room. A stomach-wrenching melding of smells drifted out. Medicinal herbs and poultices. Burned meat. Rotting meat. He swallowed and ducked through. She let the hanging fall behind him.

It was a simple room, with a well-swept floor of smooth wooden planks and a single window, its curtains pulled back to admit light. A table with a glazed pottery basin and pitcher stood beside the bed on which lay the naked shape of a man. Or what had once been a man. The right side of his face was burned away, a fringe of gray hair bordering what remained. From the shoulder to the knee his right side was a mass of charred flesh, crimson showing through cracks in the black. There were no fingers on the twisted stick that had once been his right arm.

Eldran remembered that right arm well, for it had taught him the sword.

“Godtan.” The name caught in his throat. “Godtan, it is I, Eldran.”

The horribly burned man’s remaining eye flickered weakly open, swiveled toward him. Eldran groaned at the madness in it.

“We followed,” Godtan said, his voice a gurgling croak. “Into-the mountains. Kill it. We were-going to-. We didn’t-know. The colors-of it. Beautiful. Beautiful-like death. Scales-turned-our arrows-like straws. Spears wouldn’t-. Its breathis fire!”

That mad eye bulged frantically, and Eldran said, “Rest, Godtan. Rest, and I’ll-“

“No!” The word came from that twisted mouth with insistence. “No rest!

We-fled it. Had to. Hillmen-found us. Took Aelric. Took-Ellandune.

Thought-I was-dead. Fooled them.” Godtan gave a rasping bark; Eldran realized with a shiver that it was meant to be laughter. “One-of us-had to-bring word-what happened. I-had to.” His one eye swiveled to Eldran’s face, and for a moment the madness was replaced by bewilderment and pain. “Forgive-me. I-did not-mean-to leave him.

Forgive-Eldran.”

“I forgive you,” Eldran said softly. “And I thank you for returning with word of what happened. You are still the best man of us all.”

A grateful smile curved the half of Godtan’s mouth that was left, and his eye drifted shut as if the effort of keeping it open were too great.

Grinding his teeth, Eldran stalked from the building, slapping the door open so that it banged against the wallstones. His eyes were the gray of forged iron, hard and cold from the quenching, and when he confronted Boudanecea his fists were clenched till the nails dug into his palms in an effort to control his anger.

“Will you tell me now?” he grated.

“The beast of fire,” she began, but he cut her off.

“A tale for children! Tell me what happened!”

She shook a fist under his nose, and her fury blazed back at him as strongly as his own. “How think you Godtan took his burns? Think, man!

A tale for children, you call it. Ha! For all the breadth of your shoulders I’ve always had trouble thinking of you as a man grown, for I helped your mother birth you, and wrapped your first swaddling cloths about you with these hands. Now you bring my doubts home again. I know you have the fierce heart of a man. Have you the brain as well?”

Despite his chill rage Eldran was taken aback. He had known Boudanecea since his childhood, and never had he seen her lose her temper. “But, Godtan … I thought … he’s mad.”

“Aye, he’s mad, and as well he is. All the way from the Kezankians he came, like that, seeking to tell us the fate of his companions, seeking the help of his people. Seeking my help. But none of my spells or potions can help him. The greenrot had set in too deeply by the time I saw him. Only a necromancer could help him now.” She touched the golden sickle at her belt to ward off the evil of the thought, and he made the sign of the sickle.

“So the … the devil beast came,” Eldran said.

Her long hair swayed as she nodded. “While you were in the west. First one farmstead was burned, all of the building, and only gnawed fragments of people or cattle left. Men made up stories to settle their minds, of a fire that killed the family and the animals, of wolves getting at the remains when the fire burned down. But then a second farmstead was destroyed, and a third, and a fourth, and …” She took a long breath. “Twenty-three, in all, and all at night. Seven on the last night alone. After that the hotheads took matters into their own hands. Aelfric. Godtan. Your brother. A score of others. They talked like you when I spoke of the beast of fire after the first farmstead. A tale for children. Then they found spoor, tracks. But they still would not believe me when I said no weapon forged by the hands of ordinary men could harm the creature. They made their plans in secret, and sneaked from the village before dawn to avoid my eye.”

“If no weapon forged by man…” Eldran’s hands worked futilely.

“Boudanecea, I will not let it rest. The hillmen must pay for my brother, and the beast must be slain. Wiccana aid me, it must! Not only for revenge, but to stop it coming again.”

“Aye.” The priestess breathed the word. “Wait here.” In what would have been hurry for one without her stately dignity, she disappeared into her house. When she returned she was followed by a plump acolyte with merry brown eyes. The acolyte carried a flat, red-lacquered chest atop which were neatly folded white cloths and a pitcher of whiteglazed pottery. “From this moment,” Boudanecea told him, “you must do exactly as you are told, and no more. For your life, Eldran, and your sanity, heed. Now, come.”

They formed a procession then, the priestess leading and the acolyte following behind Eldran. The women marched with a measured tread, and he found himself falling into it as if an invisible drum beat the steps.

The hair of the back of his neck stirred as he realized where they were taking him. The Sacred Grove of Wiccana, eldest of the sacred groves of Brythunia, where the boles of the youngest oaks were as thick and as tall as the largest elsewhere in the forest. Only the priestesses and acolytes went to the sacred groves now, though once, countless centuries in the past, men had made that journey. As sacrifices to the goddess. The thought did not comfort Eldran.

Limbs as thick as a man’s body wove a canopy above their heads, and the decaying leaves of the past season rustled beneath their feet. Abruptly a clearing appeared before them, where a broad, low grassy mound lay bare to the sky. A rough slab of granite, as long and as wide as the height of a man, lay partially buried in the side of the mound before them.

“Attempt to move the stone,” Boudanecea commanded.

Eldran stared at her. He was head and shoulders taller than most men of the village, well muscled and with broad shoulders, but he knew the weight was beyond him. Then, remembering her first instructions, he obeyed. Squatting beside the great stone, he tried to dig down with his hands to find the lower edge. The first handfuls moved easily, but abruptly the dirt took on the consistency of rock. It looked no different than before, yet his nails could not scratch it. Giving up on that, he threw his weight against the side of the slab, attempting to lever it over. Every sinew of him strained, and sweat ran in rivulets down his face and body, but the granite seemed a fixed part of the mound. It did not stir.

“Enough,” Boudanecea said. “Come and kneel here.” She indicated a spot before the slab.

The acolyte had laid open the top of the chest, revealing stoppered vials and bowls of a glaze that seemed the exact green of mistletoe.

Boudanecea firmly turned Eldran’s back to the plump woman and made him kneel. From the white pitcher she poured clear water over his hands, and wiped them with soft white cloths. Other cloths were dampened and used to wipe sweat from his face.

As she cleansed his face and hands the graying priestess spoke. “No man or woman can move that stone, nor enter that mound save with Wiccana’s aid. With her aid…”

The acolyte appeared at her side, holding a small green bowl. With her golden sickle Boudanecea cut a lock of Eldran’s hair. He shivered as she dropped it into the bowl. Taking each of his hands in turn, she pricked the balls of his thumbs with the point of the sickle and squeezed a few drops of his blood on top of the hair. The acolyte and bowl hurried from his view again.

Boudanecea’s eyes held his. He could hear the plump woman clinking vials, murmuring incantations, but he could not look away from the priestess’ face. Then the acolyte was back, and Boudanecea took from her the bowl and a long sprig of mistletoe, which she dipped into the bowl.

Head back, the priestess began to chant. The words she spoke were no words Eldran had ever heard before, but the power of them chilled him to the bone. The air about him became icy and still. A thrill of terror went through him as he held out his hands, palms up, without instruction. It was as if he suddenly had known that he must do it.

Mistletoe slapped his hands, and terror was replaced by a feeling of wholeness and well-being greater than any he had ever known before.

Boudanecea chanted on, her paean rising in tone. The dampened sprig of mistletoe struck one cheek, then the other. Abruptly his body seemed to have no weight; he felt as if he might drift on the lightest breeze.

Boudanecea’s voice stilled. Eldran wavered, then staggered to his feet.

The peculiar sense of lightness remained with him.

“Go to the stone.” Boudanecea’s voice hung like chimes in the crystallized air. “Move the stone aside.”

Silently Eldran moved to the slab. It had not changed that he could see, and rather than feeling stronger, he seemed to have no strength at all. Still the compulsion of her words was on him. Bending beside the stone, he fitted his hands to it, heaved … and his mouth fell open as the stone rose like a feather, pivoted on its further edge, and fell soundlessly. He stared at the stone, at his hands, at the sloping passage revealed in the side of the mound, at Boudanecea.

“Go down,” she told him. Tension froze her face, and insistence made her words ring more loudly. “Go down, and bring back what you find.”

Taking a deep breath, Eldran stumbled down the slanting, dirt-floored passage. No dust rose beneath his feet. Broad, long slabs of stone had been carefully laid for walls and roof to the passage, their crude work showing their age. Quickly the passage widened into a round chamber, some ten paces across, walled and roofed in the same gray stone as the way down. There were no lamps, but a soft light permeated the room. Nor were there the cobwebs and dust he had expected. A smell of freshly grown green things hung in the air, a smell of spring.

There could be no doubt as to what he was to bring up, for the chamber was bare save for a simple pedestal of pale stone, atop which rested a sword of ancient design. Its broad blade gleamed brightly, as if it had just come, newly made and freshly oiled, from the smith’s hand. The bronze hilt was wrapped with leather that could have have been tanned that season. Its quillons ended in claws that seemed designed to hold something, but they were empty now.

A sense of urgency came on him as he stared at the sword. Seizing it, he half-ran back to the sunlight above.

As he took his first step onto the ground of the clearing he heaved a sigh of relief. And suddenly he felt as he had before coming there. All the strange sensations were gone. Almost against his will he looked over his shoulder. The great stone rested where it had originally lain, with no sign that it had ever been disturbed. Even the place where he had dug beside it was no longer there.

A shudder ran down his bones. Only the weight of the sword in his hand-an ordinary seeming, if ancient, blade-remained to convince him something had actually happened. He clung hard to sanity, and did not wonder about what that something had been.

“Flame Slayer,” Boudanecea said softly. Her hand stretched toward the sword, but did not touch it. “Symbol of our people, sword of our people’s heroes. It was forged by great wizards nearly three thousand years ago, as a weapon against the beasts of fire, for the evil of Acheron had launched a plague of them, creations of their vile sorceries, upon the world. Once those claws held two great rubies, the Eyes of Fire, and the sword could control the beasts as well as slay them. For it can slay the beast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me of it?” Eldran demanded. “Why did you bring me here unknowing, like a sheep to ….” His voice trailed off, for he did not like the thoughts that image brought back.

“It is part of the geas laid on the sword,” the priestess replied, “and on we who keep it. Without the aid of a priestess, no one can reach the sword. But no priestess may speak of the sword to any who does not hold it. Great care must be taken in choosing to bring a man to the blade, for as well as its uses against the beasts of fire it can be a locus of great power to one who knows the ways of such things.”

He hefted the sword curiously. “Power? Of what kind?”

“Do you seek power, Eldran?” she asked gravely. “Or do you seek to slay the beast?”

“The beast,” he growled, and she nodded approval.

“Good. I chose you when first I knew what the beast was. You are acknowledged the finest man in Brythunia with sword or horse or bow. It is said that you move through the forest, and the trees are unaware of your passage, that you can track the wind itself. Such a man will be needed to hunt down the beast of fire. And this you must remember. Do not allow the sword to leave your possession, even while you sleep, or you will never regain its hilt. Instead the sword will, Wiccana alone knows how, return to its place beneath the stone. Many times it has been lost, but always, when it is needed and the stone is lifted aside, the sword is there. That will not help you should you lose it, though, for the sword may be given to any man but once in his life.”

“I will not lose it,” Eldran said grimly. “It will do its work, and I will return it here myself. But now I must take it from here.” He began to move toward the trees, out of the sacred grove; his first nervousness was returning, as if this was not a place for men to remain long. “There is no time to waste, so I must choose the rest of my party quickly.”

“Rest?” Boudanecea exclaimed, halting him at the edge of the trees. “I intended you to go alone, one swift hunter to slay the-“

“No. There must be blood price for Aelric and Ellandune, and for any others who fell to the hillmen. You know it must be so.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Your mother was like my own sister. I had hoped to hold her grandson one day, hoped for it many a day before this. Now I fear I never shall.”

“I will come back,” he said, and laughed suddenly, shocking himself.

“You will get to see me wed yet, Boudanecea.”

She raised the mistletoe in benediction, and he bowed his head to accept it. But even as he did he was listing in his mind the men he would take into the mountains with him.

Chapter IX

Easing himself in his high-pommeled Zamoran saddle, Conan studied the country toward which the hunting party traveled. The flat, rolling hills through which they rode had changed little in the three days since his rescue of Jondra, except that the short grass was more abundant here and a brown tangle of thornbushes occasionally covered a stony slope. Ahead, though, the hills rose quickly higher, piling up on one another till they melded into the jagged, towering peaks of the Kezankians.

These were an arm of that range that stretched south and west along the border between Zamora and Brythunia. Conan knew of no game in them that would attract a hunter like Jondra save for the great spiral-horned sheep that lived amid the sheer cliffs in the heart of the range. In the heart of the mountain tribes, as well. He could not believe she meant to venture there.

The hunting party was a vile-tempered snake twisting its way among the low hills, avoiding the crests. Spearmen muttered oaths as their sandaled feet slipped on stony slopes, exchanging insults with mounted archers. Pack animals brayed and muleteers cursed. Ox drivers shouted and cracked their long whips as the oxen strained to pull the highwheeled supply carts. The string of spare horses, raising an even taller plume of dust than all the rest of the party, was the only part of the column not adding to the tumult. Jondra rode before it all with Arvaneus and half a score other mounted hunters, oblivious of the noise behind them. It was no way to enter the country of the hill tribes.

Conan was only thankful the dogs had been left behind in Shadizar.

Tamira, perched precariously atop lashed bundles of tenting on a lurching cart, waved to him, and Conan moved his horse up beside the cart. “You surprise me,” he said. “You have avoided me these three days past.”

“The Lady Jondra finds many labors for me,” she replied. Eying the carter, walking beside his oxen, she edged more to the rear of the highwheeled vehicle. “Why did you follow me?” she whispered fiercely.

Conan smiled lazily. “Followed you? Perhaps I seek the country air.

Invigorating rides are good for the lungs, I’m told.”

“Invigorating-” She spluttered indignantly. “Tell me the truth, Cimmerian! If you think to cut me out-“

“Already I have told you my plans for you,” he broke in.

“You … you are serious?” she said, a rising note of incredulity in her voice. As if fearing he might seize her on the instant, she wiggled to the far side of the cart and peered at him over the top of the rolled tenting. “The Lady Jondra requires that her handmaidens be chaste, Cimmerian. You may think that saving her life will gain you license, but she is a noble, and will forget her gratitude in a moment if you transgress her rules.”

“Then I will have to be careful, won’t I?” Conan said, letting his horse fall behind. She peered after him anxiously as the cart trundled on. Conan wore a satisfied smile.

He was sure she did not believe that he had no interest in Jondra’s jewels-she was no fool, or she could not have thieved as long as she had in Shadizar-but she would at least think his mind was divided between the gems and her. Most women, he had found, would believe that a man lusted after them on the slightest provocation. And if Tamira believed that, she would be nervously looking over her shoulder when she should be getting her hands on the gems.

A blackened hillside caught the big Cimmerian’s eye, off from the line of march, and he turned his horse aside from curiosity. Nothing was left of the thornbushes that had once covered the slope save charred stumps and ashes. It did not have the look of lightning strike, he thought, for the bolt would have struck the hilltop, not its side.

Abruptly his mount stopped, nostrils flaring, and gave a low, fearful whicker. Conan tried to urge the animal closer, but it refused, even taking a step back. He frowned, unable to see anything ominous. What would frighten a horse he had been told was trained for the hunting of lions?

Dismounting, he dropped his reins, then watched to be sure the animal would stand. Its flanks shivered, but training held it. Satisfied, Conan approached the burn. And loosened his sword, just in case.

At first his booted feet stirred only ashes over blackened soil and rock. Then his toe struck something different. He picked up a broken wild ox horn with a fragment of skull attached. The horn was charred, as were the shreds of flesh adhering to the bone, but the piece of skull itself was not. Slowly he searched through the entire burn. There were no other bones to be found, not even such cracked bits as hyenas would leave after scavenging a lion’s kill. He extended his search to the area around the char.

With a clatter of hooves Arvaneus galloped up, working his reins to make his horse dance as he stared down at Conan. “If you fall behind, barbar,” the hawkfaced man said contemptuously, “you may not be so lucky as to find others to take you in.”

Conan’s hands tightened on the horn. The gems, he reminded himself firmly. “I found this in the ashes, and-“

“An old ox horn,” the huntsman snorted, “and a lightning strike. No doubt it signifies some portent to one such as you, but we have no time for wasting.”

Taking a deep breath, Conan went on. “There are tracks-“

“I have trackers, barbar. I have no need of you. Better you do fall behind. Leave us, barbar, while you can.” Wheeling his mount in a spray of rocks and dirt, Arvaneus galloped after the fast-disappearing column.

There was a sharp crack, and Conan discovered that the ox horn had broken in his grip. “Zandru’s Nine Hells!” he muttered.

Tossing the shattered remnants of horn aside, he knelt to examine the track he had found. It was only part of an animal’s print, for the stony soil did not take tracks well. At least, he thought it was an animal’s print. Two toes ending in long claws, and scuffings that might have indicated the rest of the foot. He laid a forefinger beside one of the claw marks. The claw had been easily twice as large as his finger.

He had never heard of a beast that made tracks as large as these. At least, he thought, Jondra did not hunt this. Nor did he think he would warn her of it. What he knew of her suggested she would leap at the chance to hunt an unknown creature, especially if it was dangerous.

Still, he would keep his own eyes open. Swinging into the saddle, he galloped after the hunting party.

Sooner than Conan expected, he caught up with them. The column was halted. Men held the horses’ heads to keep them silent, and the carters held the oxen’s nose-rings so they would not low. Tamira paused in beating dust from her short white tunic to grimace at Conan as he walked his horse past the cart of tenting. From somewhere ahead came a faint, steady pounding of drums.

At the front of the line Jondra and a handful of her hunters lay on their bellies near the crest of a hill. Leaving his horse at the foot of the slope, Conan made his way up to them, dropping flat before his head overtopped the hill. The drumbeat was louder here.

“Go, barbar,” Arvaneus snarled. “You are not needed here.”

“Be silent, Arvaneus,” Jondra said softly, but there was iron in her tone.

Conan ignored them both. A third of a league distant another column marched, this one following a knife-edge fine, caring not whether it topped hills or no. A column of the Zamoran Army. Ten score horsemen in spiked helms rode in four files behind a leopard-head standard. Behind came twenty drummers, mallets rising and falling in unison, and behind them … The Cimmerian made a rough estimate of the numbers of sloped spears, rank on rank on rank. Five thousand Zamoran infantry made a drum of the ground with their measured tread.

Conan turned his head to gaze at Jondra. Color came into her cheeks beneath his eyes. “Why do you avoid the army?” he asked.

“We will camp,” Jondra said. “Find a site, Arvaneus.” She began moving backwards down the slope, and the huntsman slithered after her.

Conan watched them go with a frown, then turned back to peer after the soldiers until they had marched out of sight beyond the hills to the north.

The camp was set up when Conan finally left the hill, conical tents dotting a broad, flat space between two hills. Jondra’s large tent of bright scarlet stood in the center of the area. The oxen had been hobbled, and the horses tied along a picket line beyond the carts. No fires were lit, he noted, and the cooks were handing out dried meat and fruit.

“You, barbar,” Arvaneus said around a strip of jerky. “I see you waited until the work was done before coming in.”

“Why does Jondra avoid the army?” Conan demanded.

The hawkfaced man spit out a wad of half-chewed meat. “The Lady Jondra,” he snapped. “Show a proper respect toward her, barbar, or I’ll…” His hand clutched the hilt of his tulwar.

A slow smile appeared on Conan’s face, a smile that did not extend to suddenly steely eyes. There were dead men who could have told Arvaneus about that smile. “What, huntsman? Try what is in your mind, if you think you are man enough.” In an instant the black-eyed man’s curved blade was bare, and, though Conan’s hand had not been near his sword hilt, his broadsword was out in the same breath.

Arvaneus blinked, taken aback at the big Cimmerian’s quickness. “Do you know who I am, barbar?” There was a shakiness to his voice, and his face tightened at it. “Huntsman, you call me, but I am the son of Lord Andanezeus, and if she who bore me had not been a concubine I would be a lord of Zamora. Noble blood flows in my veins, barbar, blood fit for the Lady Jondra herself, while yours is-“

“Arvaneus!” Jondra’s voice cracked like a whip over the camp. Pale faced, the noblewoman came to within a pace of the two men. Her closefitting leather jerkin was laced tightly up the front, and red leather boots rose to her knees. Arvaneus watched her with a tortured expression on his face. Her troubled gray eyes touched Conan’s face, then jerked away. “You overstep yourself, Arvaneus,” she said unsteadily. “Put up your sword.” Her eyes flickered to Conan. “Both of you.”

Arvaneus’ face was a mosaic of emotion, rage and shame, desire and frustration. With a wordless shout he slammed his blade back into its scabbard as if into the tall Cimmerian’s ribs.

Conan waited until the other’s sword was covered before sheathing his own, then said grimly, “I still want to know why you hide from your own army.”

Jondra looked at him, hesitating, but Arvaneus spoke up quickly, urgently. “My lady, this man should not be among us. He is no hunter, no archer or spearman. He does not serve you as … as I do.”

With a deep chuckle, Conan shook his black-maned head. “It is true I am my own man, but I am as good a hunter as you, Zamoran. And as for the spear, will you match me at it? For coin?” He knew he must best the man at something, or else contend with him as long as he remained with the hunters. And he carefully had not mentioned the bow, of which he knew little beyond the holding of it.

“Done!” the huntsman cried. “Done! Bring the butts! Quickly! I will show this barbarian oaf the way of the spear!”

Jondra opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again as the camp erupted in a bustle of men, some scurrying to clear a space for the throwing, others rushing to the carts to wrestle with a heavy practice butt. The thick bundle woven of straw was a weighty burden to carry on a hunting expedition, but it did not break arrows or spear points, as did casting and shooting at trees or at targets on a hillside.

A shavenheaded man with a long nose leaped on an upturned keg. “I’ll cover all wagers! I give one to twenty on Arvaneus, twenty to one on the barbarian. Don’t crowd.” A few men wandered over to him, but most seemed to take the outcome as foregone.

Conan noticed Tamira among those about the keg. When she left, she strolled by him. “Throw your best,” she said, “and I’ll win a silver piece … .” She waited until his chest began to expand with pride, then finished with a laugh, “… Since I wagered on the other.”

“It will be a pleasure to help you lose your coppers,” he told her dryly.

“Stop flirting, Lyana,” Jondra called sharply. “There’s work for you to be doing.”

Tamira made a face the tall woman could not see, bringing a smile to Conan’s face despite himself, then scurried away.

“Will you throw, barbar?” Arvaneus asked tauntingly. The tall huntsman held a spear in his hand and was stripped to the waist, revealing hard ropes of muscle. “Or would you rather stay with the serving girl?”

“The girl is certainly more pleasing to look on than your face,” Conan replied.

Arvaneus’ face darkened at the ripple of laughter that greeted the Cimmerian’s words. With the blade of his spear the Zamoran scratched a line on the ground. “No part of your foot may pass this line, or you lose no matter how well you throw. Though I doubt I must worry about that.”

Doffing his tunic, Conan took a spear handed to him by another of the hunters and moved to the line. He eyed the butt, thirty paces away. “It does not look a great distance.”

“But see the target, barbar.” The swarthy huntsman smiled, pointing. A lanky spearman was just finishing attaching a circle of black cloth, no bigger than a man’s palm, to the straw.

Conan made his eyes go wide. “Aaah,” he breathed, and the hawkfaced man’s smile deepened.

“To be fair,” Arvaneus announced loudly, “I will give you odds. One hundred to one.” A murmur rose among the watchers, and all in the camp were there. “You did mention coin, barbar. Unless you wish to acknowledge me the better man now.”

“They seem fair odds,” Conan said, “considering the reputation you have with yourself.” The murmur of astonishment at the odds offered became a roar of laughter. He considered the weight of his purse. “I have five silver pieces at those odds.” The laughter cut off in stunned silence.

Few there thought the hawkfaced man might lose, but the sheer magnitude of his unlikely loss astounded them.

Arvaneus seemed unmoved. “Done,” was all he said. He moved back from the line, took two quick steps forward, and hurled. His spear streaked to the center of the black cloth, pinning it more firmly to the butt.

Half a score of the hunters raised a cheer, and some began trying to collect their bets now. “Done,” he said again, and laughed mockingly.

Conan hefted his spear as he stood at the line. The haft was as thick as his two thumbs, tipped with an iron blade as long as his forearm.

Suddenly he leaned back, then whipped forward, arm and body moving as one. With a thud that shoved the butt back his spear buried its head not a finger’s width from the other already there. “Mayhap if it were further back,” he mused. Arvaneus ground his teeth.

There was silence in the camp till the man on the keg broke it. “Even odds! I’ll give even odds on Arvaneus or-what’s his name? Conan?-or on Conan! Even odds!”

“Shut your teeth, Telades!” Arvaneus shouted, but men crowded around the shavenheaded man. Angrily the huntsman gestured toward the butt.

“Back! Move it back!” Two men rushed out to drag it a further ten paces, then returned quickly with the spears.

Glaring at Conan, Arvaneus took his place back from the line again, ran forward and threw. Again his spear struck through the cloth. Conan stepped back a single pace, and again his throw was one single continuous motion. His spear brushed against Arvaneus’s, striking through the black cloth even more closely than the first time.

Scattered shouts of delighted surprise rose among the hunters. The Cimmerian was surprised to see a smile on Jondra’s face, and even more surprised to see another on Tamira’s.

Arvaneus’s face writhed with fury. “Further!” he shouted when the spears were returned once more. “Further! Still further!”

An expectant hush settled as the butt was pulled to sixty paces distant. It was a fair throw for the mark, Conan conceded to himself.

Perhaps more than a fair throw.

Muttering under his breath, the huntsman set himself, then launched his spear with a grunt. It smacked home solidly in the butt.

“A miss!” Telades called. “It touched the cloth, but a miss! One to five on Conan!”

Arm cocked, Conan hurtled toward the line. For the third time his shaft streaked a dark line to the cloth. A tumultuous cry went up, and men pounded their spears on the ground in approbation.

Telades leaped from his keg and capered laughing through the crowd to clasp Conan’s hand. “You’ve cost me coin this day, northerner, but

‘twas worth every copper to see it done.”

Eyes bulging in his head, Arvaneus gave a strangled cry. “No!” Suddenly he was running toward the butt, pushing men from his path. He began wrestling the heavy mass of straw further away. “Hit this, barbar dog!”

he shouted, fighting his weighty burden still. “Erlik take you and your accursed cheating tricks! Hit this!”

“Why, ‘tis a hundred paces,” Telades exclaimed, shaking his head. “No man could-” He cut off with a gasp as Conan took a spear from the hand of a nearby hunter. Like antelope scattering before a lion, men ran to get from between the Cimmerian and the distant target.

Arvaneus voice drifted back to them, filled with hysterical laughter.

“Hit this, barbar! Try!”

Weighing the spear in his hand, Conan suddenly moved. Powerful legs drove him forward, his arm went back, and the spear arched high into the air. The hawkfaced huntsman stared open-mouthed at the spear arcing toward him, then screamed and hurled himself aside. Dust lifted from the butt as the spear slashed into the straw beside the two already there.

Telades ran forward, peering in disbelief, then whirled to throw his arms high. “By all the gods, he hit cloth! You who call yourselves spearmen, acknowledge your master! At a hundred paces he hit the cloth!”

A throng of hunters crowded around Conan, shouting their approval of his feat, striving to clasp his hand.

Abruptly the shouts faded as Jondra strode up. The hunters parted before her, waiting expectantly for what she would say. For a moment, though, she stood, strangely diffident, before speaking.

“You asked me a question, Cimmerian,” she said at last, looking over his shoulder rather than at him. “I do not give reasons for what I do, but you did save my life, and your cast was magnificent, so I will tell you alone. But in private. Come.” Back rigid and looking neither to left nor right, she turned and walked to her scarlet tent.

Conan followed more slowly. When he ducked through the tent flap, the well-curved noblewoman stood with her back to the entrance, toying with the laces of her leather jerkin. Fine Iranistani carpets, dotted with silken pillows, made a floor, and golden lamps stood on low, brass tables.

“Why, then?” he said.

She started, but did not turn around. “If the army is out in such force,” she said distractedly, “they must expect trouble of some sort.

They would surely try to turn back a hunting party, and I do not want the trouble of convincing some general that I will not be ordered about by the army.”

“And you keep this secret?” Conan said, frowning. “Do you think your hunters have not reasoned some of this out themselves?”

“Is Lyana as you said?” she asked. “Pleasing to look on? More pleasing than I?”

“She is lovely.” Conan smiled at the stiffening of her back, and added judiciously, “But not so lovely as you.” He was young, but he knew enough of women to take care in speaking of one woman’s beauty to another.

“I will pay Arvaneus’s wager,” Jondra said abruptly. “He does not have five hundred pieces of silver.”

The tall Cimmerian blinked, taken aback by her sudden shift. “I will not take it from you. The wager was with him.”

Her head bowed, and she muttered, seemingly unaware that she spoke aloud. “Why is he always the same in my mind? Why must he be a barbarian?” Suddenly she turned, and Conan gasped. She had worked the laces from her jerkin, and the supple leather gaped open to bare heavy, round breasts and erect, pink nipples. “Did you think I brought you to my tent merely to answer your questions?” she cried. “I’ve allowed no man to touch me, but you will not even stretch out a hand. Will you make me be as shameless as-“

The young noblewoman’s words cut off as Conan pulled her to him. His big hands slid beneath her jerkin, fingers spreading on the smooth skin of her back, to press her full breasts against him. “I stretch out both hands,” he said, working the leather from her shoulders to fall to the carpets.

Clutching at him, she laid her head against his broad chest. “My hunters will know … they will guess what I … what you …”

She shivered and held to him harder.

Gently he tipped her head back and peered into her eyes, as gray as the clouds of a mountain morning. “If you fear what they think,” he said,

“then why?”

The tip of her small pink tongue wet her lips. “I could never have made that spear cast,” she murmured, and pulled him down to the silken cushions.

Chapter X

Conan tossed aside the fur coverlet and got to his feet with an appreciative look at Jondra’s nude form. She sighed in her sleep, and threw her arms over her head, tightening the domes of her breasts in such a way as to make him consider not dressing after all. Chuckling, he reached for his tunic instead. The locked iron chests containing her gems got not a wit of his attention.

Three days since the spear casting, he reflected, and for all her fears of what her hunters might think, it would take a man both blind and deaf to be still unaware of what occurred between Jondra and him. She had not let him leave her tent that first night, not even to eat, and the past two had been the same. Each morning, seemingly oblivious of the hunters’ smiles and Arvaneus’s glares, she insisted that Conan

“guide” her while she hunted, a hunt that lasted only until she found a spot well away from the line of march where there was shade and a level surface large enough for two. The chaste, noble Lady Jondra had found that she liked lying with a man, and she was making up for lost opportunities.

Not that her absorption in the flesh was total. That first day she had been unsatisfied on their return with how far the column had traveled.

Up and down the line she galloped, scoring men with her tongue till they were as shaken as if she had used her quirt. Arvaneus she took aside, and what she said to him no one heard, but when he galloped back his lips were a tight, pale line, and his black eyes smouldered. There had not been another day when the progress of the column failed to satisfy her.

Settling his black Khauranian cloak around his shoulders, Conan stepped out into the cool morning. He was pleased to see that the cookfires had at last been made with dried ox dung, as he had suggested. No smoke rose to draw eyes to them, and that was more important than ever, now.

A day to the north of where they camped, at most two days amid the now steep-sloped hills, lay the towering ranges of the Kezankian, dark and jagged against the horizon.

The camp itself squatted atop a hill amidst trees twisted and stunted by arid, rocky soil. Every man wore his mail shirt and spiked helm at all times, now, and none went so far as the privy trenches without spear or bow.

A sweating Tamira, dodging from fire to fire under the watchful eye of the fat cook, gave Conan a grimace as she twisted a meat-laden spit half a turn. Arvaneus, sitting cross-legged near the fires, sullenly buried his face in a mug of wine when he saw the Cimmerian.

Conan ignored them both. His ears strained for the sound he thought he had heard. There. He grabbed Tamira’s arm. “Go wake J … your mistress,” he told her. Hands on hips, Tamira stared at him wryly.

“Go,” he growled. “There are horsemen coming from the south.” A look of startlement passed over her face, then she darted for the big scarlet tent.

“What offal do you spout now?” Arvaneus demanded. “I see nothing.”

Telades came running across the camp to the hawkfaced man’s side.

“Mardak claims he hears horses to the south, Arvaneus.”

With an oath the huntsman tossed his mug to the ground and scrambled to his feet. A worried frown creased his face. “Hillmen?” he asked Telades, and the shavenheaded man shrugged.

“Not likely from the south,” Conan said. “Still, it couldn’t hurt to let the rest of the camp know. Quietly.”

“When I need your advice,” Arvaneus snarled, but he did not finish it.

Instead he turned to Telades. “Go among the men. Tell them to be ready.” His face twitched, and he added a muttered, “Quietly.”

Unasked, the Cimmerian added his efforts to those of Telades, moving from man to man, murmuring a word of warning. Mardak, a grizzled, squint-eyed man with long, thin mustaches also was passing the word.

The hunters took it calmly. Here and there a man fingered the hilt of his tulwar or pulled a lacquered quiver of arrows closer, but all went on with what they were doing, though with eyes continually flickering to the south.

By the time Conan returned to the center of the camp, ten horsemen had topped the crest of the next hill and were walking their horses toward the camp.

Arvaneus grunted. “We could slay all of them before they knew we were here. What are they, anyway? Not hillmen.”

“Brythunians,” Telades replied. “Is there really cause to kill them, Arvaneus?”

“Barbarian scum,” the hawkfaced hunter sneered. “They don’t even see us.”

“They see us,” Conan said, “or they’d never have crossed that crest.

And what makes you think we see all of them?”

The two Zamorans exchanged surprised looks, but Conan concentrated on the oncoming men. All wore fur leggings and fur-edged capes, with broadswords at their waists and round shields hung behind their saddles. Nine of them carried spears. One, who led them, carried a long, recurved bow.

The Brythunian horsemen picked their way up the hill and drew rein short of the camp. The man with the bow raised it above his head. “I am called Eldran,” he said. “Are we welcome here?”

A sour look on his face, Arvaneus stood silent.

Conan raised his right hand above his head. “I am called Conan,” he said. “I welcome you, so long as you mean harm to none here. Dismount and share our fires.”

Eldran climbed from his horse with a smile. He was almost as tall to Conan, though not so heavily muscled. “We cannot remain long. We seek information, then we must move on.”

“I seek information as well,” Jondra said as she strode between the men. Her hair, light brown sun-streaked with blonde, was tousled, and her tight riding breeches and tunic of emerald silk had an air of having been hastily donned. “Tell me… .” Her words died as her eyes met those of Eldran, as gray as her own. Her head was tilted back to look up at him, and her mouth remained open. Finally she said unsteadily, “From … from what country are you?”

“They’re Brythunians,” Arvaneus spoke up. “Savages.”

“Be silent!” Jondra’s enraged scream caught the men by surprise. Conan and Eldran stared at her wonderingly. Arvaneus’s face paled. “I did not speak to you,” she went on in a voice that shook. “You will be silent till spoken to! Do you understand me, huntsman?” Not waiting for his answer, she turned back to Eldran. The color in her cheeks was high, her voice thin but cool. “You are hunters, then? It is doubly dangerous for you to hunt here. The Zamoran army is in the field, and there are always the hillmen.”

“The Zamoran army does not seem to find us,” the Brythunian answered.

His still-mounted men laughed. “As for the hillmen…” There was an easiness to his voice, but grim light flashed in his eyes. “I have given my name, woman, but have not heard yours.”

She drew herself up to her greatest height, still no taller than his shoulder. “It is the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid of Shadizar, to whom you speak, Brythunian.”

“An honorable lineage, Zamoran.”

His tone was neutral, but Jondra flinched as if he had sneered.

Strangely, it seemed to steady her in some fashion. Her voice firmed.

“If you are a hunter, perhaps you have seen the beast I hunt, or its sign. I am told its body is that of a huge serpent, covered with scales in many colors. Its track-“

“The beast of fire,” one of the mounted Brythunians murmured, and others made a curving sign in the air before them as if it were a charm.

Eldran’s face was tight. “We seek the beast as well, Jondra. Our people know it of old. Perhaps we can join forces.”

“I need no more hunters,” Jondra said quickly.

“The creature is more difficult to slay than you can imagine,” the tall Brythunian said urgently. His hand gripped tightly at the hilt of his sword, a weapon of ancient pattern with quillons ending in claws like an eagle’s. “It’s breath is fire. Without us you can but die in the seeking of it.”

“So say you,” she said mockingly, “with your children’s tales. I say I will slay the beast, and without your aid. I also say that I had better not find you attempting to poach my kill. This trophy is mine, Brythunian. Do you understand me?”

“Your eyes are like the mists of dawn,” he said, smiling.

Jondra quivered. “If I see you again, I’ll put arrows in both of your eyes. I’ll-“

Suddenly she grabbed a bow from one of her archers. Brythunian spears were lowered, and their horses pranced nervously. Hunters reached for their tulwars. In one smooth motion Jondra drew and released, into the air. Far above the camp a raven gave a shrill cry and began to flutter erratically, dropping toward a far hill.

“See that,” Jondra exclaimed, “and fear my shafts.”

Before the words were out of her mouth the distant raven jerked downward, turning over as it plummeted to reveal a second arrow transfixing its feathered corpse.

“You are a fine shot,” Eldran said as he lowered his bow. Smoothly he swung into his saddle. “I would stay to shoot with you, but I have hunting to do.” Without a backward glance he wheeled his horse and rode down the hill, his men following as if unaware that their backs were bare to the camp’s archers.

That thought occurred quickly to Arvaneus. “Archers,” he began, when Jondra whirled on him, glaring. She said no word, nor needed to. The huntsman backed away from her, eyes down, muttering, “Your forgiveness, my lady.”

Next she turned her attentions to Conan. “You,” she breathed. “He spoke to me like that, and you did nothing. Nothing!”

The big Cimmerian eyed her impassively. “Perhaps he is right. I found signs of a beast that may kill with fire. And if he is right about that, perhaps he is right about the difficulty of killing it. Perhaps you should return to Shadizar.”

“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!” She spat each word. “Why was I not told of these signs? Arvaneus, what do you know of this?”

The huntsman darted a malice-filled gaze at Conan. “A fire begun by lightning,” he said sullenly, “and a few old bones. This one is frightened by his own shadow. Or by the shadow of the mountains.”

“That is not true, is it?” Jondra’s eyes were doubtful on Conan’s face.

“You do not make invention for fear of dying at the hillmen’s hands, do you?”

“I do not fear death,” Conan said flatly. “The dark will come when it comes. But none save a fool seeks it out needlessly.”

The noblewoman tossed her head haughtily. “So,” she said, and again,

“So.” Without another look at Conan, she stalked away, calling loudly,

“Lyana! Prepare my morning bath, girl!”

Arvaneus grinned at Conan malevolently, but the Cimmerian youth did not see him. Matters had become complex far beyond his simple plans on leaving Shadizar, Conan thought. What was he to do now? There was one way he knew to concentrate his mind for the solution of a problem.

Producing a small whetstone from his pouch, he drew his sword and settled cross-legged to touch up the edge on the ancient blade and think.

Basrakan Imalla glared at the raven lying dead on his chamber floor and tugged at the forks of his beard in frustration. The watch-ravens were not easily come by. Nestlings must be secured, and only one pair in twenty survived the incantations that linked them so that one of the two saw and experienced what the other did. Time to secure the birds, time to work the spells. He had no time for replacing the accursed bird. Likely the other had fallen to a hawk. And he had so few of them.

With a grunt he kicked the dead bird, smashing it into the bare stone wall. “Filthy creature,” he snarled.

Tugging his crimson robes straight, he turned to the six tall perches that stood in the center of the floor. On five of the perches ravens sat, tilting their heads to watch him with eyes like shiny black beads.

Their wings, clipped so they could not fly, drooped listlessly. There were few furnishings in the room other than those perches. A table inlaid with mother-of-pearl bore a brass lamp and a scattering of implements for the dark arts. A shelf along one wall held the volumes of necromantic lore that he had gathered in a lifetime. No one entered that room, or the others reserved to his great work, save him, and none save his acolytes knew what occurred there.

Lighting a splinter of wood at the lamp, Basrakan began to trace an intricate figure in the air before the first bird. The tiny eyes followed the flame, which was mirrored in their black surfaces. As he traced, Basrakan chanted words from a tome copied on vellum made of human skin rather than sheepskin, words that floated in the air till the walls seemed to shimmer. With each word the tracing grew more solid, till an unholy symbol in fire hung between himself and the raven.

The raven’s beak opened with painful slowness, and creaking words, barely recognizable, emerged. “Hills. Sky. Trees. Clouds. Many many clouds.”

The sorcerer clapped his hands; the fiery image vanished, and the words ceased to come. It was often thus with the creatures. By the spells that held them they would speak of men before all else, but if there were no men they would mutter about whatever they happened to see, go on forever if he did not silence them.

The same ritual before the next bird gained him the same reply, with only the terrain changed, as did the next and the next. By the time he reached the last raven he was hurrying. An important matter awaited his attention in the next room, and he was certain by now what the creature would report. Chanting, he traced the symbol in fire, preparing even as it came into being to clap his hands.

“Soldiers,” the raven croaked. “Many many. Many many.”

Barakan’s breath caught in his throat. Never more than now had he regretted the inability of the ravens to transmit numbers. “Where?” he demanded.

“South. South of mountains.”

Thoughtfully the sternfaced Imalla stroked his beard. If they came from the south, they must be Zamorans. But how to deal with them? The bird that had actually seen the soldiers could be made to return and guide his warriors back to them. The men would see it as a further sign of the favor of the old gods, for birds were creatures of the spirits of the air. And it would the first victory, the first of many against the unbelievers.

“Return!” Basrakan commanded.

“Return,” the raven croaked agreement, and he broke the link.

How many soldiers, he wondered as he strode from the chamber, and how many warriors of the true gods to send against them?

As he passed through the next chamber, he paused to ponder the girl who cowered against a wall paneled in polished oak, as rare and costly in these mountains as pearls. Her dark eyes streamed tears, and her full mouth quivered uncontrollably. Her skin was smooth and supple, and his view of it was not hampered by garments.

Basrakan grimaced in disgust and wiped his hands on the front of his scarlet robes. Only eighteen, and already she was a vessel of lust, attempting to ensnare the minds of men. As did all women. None were truly pure. None were worthy of the ancient gods.

Shaking himself from his dark reverie, the holy man hurried on. He had no fear for the girl’s wandering. The geas he had put on her would not allow her to leave that chamber until he gave her permission, until he found her worthy.

In the corridor he found Jbeil Imalla just entering his abode. The lean man bowed, his black robes rustling stiffly. “The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla. I come with ill tidings.”

“Ill tidings?” Basrakan said, ignoring the greeting. “Speak, man!”

“Many warriors have joined our number, but most of them have never seen the sign of the true gods’ favor.” Jbeil’s dark eyes burned with the fervor of the true believer above his plaited beard, and his mouth twisted with contempt. for those less full of faith than himself. “Many are the voices crying out to witness a sacrifice. Even some who have seen now whisper that the creature sent by the ancient gods has abandoned us, since it has not been seen in so many days. A few, among the newcomers, say that there is no sign, that it is all a lie. These last speak now in private places, among themselves, but they will not forever, and I fear the hearts of the doubters may be easily swayed.”

Basrakan’s teeth ground in frustration. He had had the same fears of abandonment himself, and scourged himself at night, alone, for his lack of belief. He had tried to summon the beast of fire, tried and failed.

But it was still there, he told himself. Still beneath the mountain, waiting to come forth once more. Waiting for-his breath caught in his throat-a sign of their faith.

“How many warriors are gathered?” he demanded.

“More than forty thousand, Imalla, and more come every day. It is a great strain to feed so many, though they are, of course, the faithful.”

Basrakan pulled himself to his full height. Renewed belief shone on his dark narrow face. “Let the warriors know that their lack of faith is not secret.” He intoned the words, letting them flow from him, convinced they were inspired by the true gods. “Let them know that an act of faith is demanded of them if they would have the sight they crave. A bird will come, a raven, a sign from the spirits of the air.

Half of those gathered are to follow it, and it will guide them to unbelievers, soldiers of Zamora. These they must slay, letting none escape. Not one. If this is done as it is commanded, the sight of the true gods’ favor will be granted to them.”

“A bird,” Jbeil breathed. “A sign from the spirits of the air. Truly are the ancient gods mighty, and truly is Basraken Imalla mighty in their sight.”

Basrakan waved away the compliment with a negligent hand. “I am but a man,” he said. “Now, go! See that it is done as I have commanded.”

The blackrobed man bowed himself from the sorcerer’s presence, and Basrakan began to rub at his temples as soon as he was gone. So many pressures on him. They made his head hurt. But there was the girl.

Showing her the evil within her, saving her from it, would ease the pain. He would chastise the lust from her. His face shining with the ascetic look of one who suffered for his duty, Basrakan retraced his steps.

Chapter XI

Djinar lay on his belly in the night and studied the hunter’s camp, lying still and quiet on the next hill. His dark robes blended with the shadows of his own stony hilltop. Only smouldering beds of ashes remained of the cook fires, leaving the camp in darkness, its tents and carts but dim mounds, save for the soft glow of lamps within a large tent of scarlet. The moon rode high over the jagged peaks to the north, but dense dark clouds let its pale light through only an occasional brief rent. A perfect night for attack. He tugged at the triple braids of his beard. Perhaps the ancient gods were with them.

It had certainly seemed so during the days when the trail of the hunting party led north like an arrow aimed at the encampment of Basraken Imalla. Could it be that the Eyes of Fire were drawn in some fashion to the Imalla, that the true gods stirred themselves among men, even through the Zamoran slut? A chill like the trickle of an icy mountain stream ran down Djinar’s spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. It seemed to him that the ancient gods walked the earth within sight of his eyes. Rocks grated behind him; Djinar gasped, and almost fouled himself.

Farouz dropped down beside him on the stony ground.

“Sentries?” Djinar asked finally. He was pleased at the steadiness of his voice.

The other man snorted in contempt. “Ten of them, but all more asleep than awake. They will die easily.”

“So many? The soldiers set guards in such numbers, but not hunters.”

“I tell you, Djinar, they all but snore. Their eyes are closed.”

“A score of eyes,” Djinar sighed. “All it takes is one pair to be alert. If the camp is awakened, and we must ride uphill at them …”

“Bah! We should have attacked when first we found them, while they were yet on the march. Or do you still fear the Brythunian dogs? They are gone long since.”

Djinar did not answer. Only because Sharmal had gone off alone to answer a call of nature had the Brythunians been seen, ghosting along the trail of the hunters from Shadizar. There was no great love lost between Brythunian and Zamoran, it was true, but either would turn aside from slaying the other to wet his blade with the blood of a hillman. Farouz would have placed them between their two enemies-at least two score of the Brythunians; half again so many Zamorans-without a thought save how many he could kill.

“If your … caution brings us to failure,” Farouz muttered, “do not think to shield yourself from Basrakan Imalla’s wrath by casting blame on others. The truth will be known.”

Farouz, Djinar decided, would not survive to return to the Imalla’s encampment of the faithful. The old gods themselves would see the justice of it.

Again boots scrabbled on the rocks behind him, but this time Djinar merely looked over his shoulder. Sharmal, a slender young man with his wispy beard worked into many thin braids, squatted near the two men.

“The Brythunian unbelievers ride yet to the east,” the young man said.

“They did not stop at dark?” Djinar demanded, frowning. He did not like behavior out of the ordinary, and men did not travel by night without pressing reason, not in sight of the Kezankians.

“When I turned back at sundown,” Sharmal answered, “they still rode east. I … I did not wish to miss the fighting.”

“If there is to be any,” Farouz sneered.

Djinar’s teeth ground loudly. “Mount your horses,” he commanded.

“Surround the camp and advance slowly. Strike no blow until I call, unless the alarm be given. Well, Farouz? You speak eager words. Can your arm match them?”

With a snarl Farouz leaped to his feet and dashed down the hill to where their shaggy, mountain-bred horses waited.

Djinar followed with a grim smile and climbed into the high-pommeled saddle. Carefully he walked his mount around the side of the hill, toward the camp atop the next stony rise. The rattle of unshod hooves on rock did not disturb him, not now. He guided his horse upslope. To the core of him he was convinced the Zamorans would not rouse. The ancient gods were with him. He and the others were one with the dark.

He could make out a sentry, leaning on his spear, unseeing, unaware of one more shadow that drifted closer. Djinar loosed his tulwar from its scabbard. The true gods might walk the camp before him, but there was another presence as well. Death. He could smell it. Death for many men.

Death for Farouz.

Smiling, Djinar dug in his heels; his mount sprang forward. The sentry had time to widen his eyes in shock; then the curved blade with the strength of Djinar’s arm and the weight of the charging horse behind it took the man’s head from his shoulders. Djinar’s cry rent the darkness.

“By the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!” Screaming hillmen slashed out of the night with thirsty steel.

Conan’s eyes slitted open, where he lay wrapped in his cloak and the night beneath the sky. After her behavior he had chosen not to go to Jondra’s tent, despite the lamps that remained invitingly lit even now.

It had not been thoughts of the silken body that had wakened him, though, but a sound out of place. He could hear the breathing of the sentry nearest him, a breathing too deeply regular for a man alert. The fools would not hear his advice, he thought. They listened, but would not hear. There were other things they did not hear, as well. The sentry’s half-snore was overlaid by another sound; stones slid and clicked on the hillside. On all sides of the hill.

“Crom!” he muttered. In a continuous motion he threw aside hit black cloak, rose to his feet and drew steel. His mouth opened to shout the alarm, and in that instant there was need no longer.

On the heels of the hollow ‘thunk’ of a blade striking flesh came, “By the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!”

Chaos clawed its way out of the dark, hillmen appearing on every side screaming for the blood of unbelievers, hunters scrambling from their tents crying prayers to their gods for another dawn.

The big Cimmerian ran toward the sentry he had listened to. Shocked to wakefulness the hunter tried to lower his long-pointed spear, but a slashing stroke across the face from a tulwar spun him shrieking to the ground.

“Crom!” Conan roared.

The hillman jerked at his reins, spun his shaggy mount above the downed sentry toward the huge man who loomed out of the night. “The true gods will it!” he yelled. Waving his bloody blade above his turban, he booted his shaggy mount into a charge.

For the space of a heartbeat Conan halted, planted his feet as if preparing to take the charge. Suddenly he sprang forward, ducking under the whistling crescent of steel, his own blade lancing into the hillman’s middle. The shock of the blow rocked the Cimmerian to his heels as the hillman seemed to leap backwards over his horse’s rump to crash to earth.

Placing his foot on the chest of the corpse, Conan pulled his sword free. Warned by a primitive sense, by a pricking between his shoulderblades, he whirled to find another mounted foe, and a tulwar streaking for his head. But his steel was rising as he turned, its razor edge slicing through the descending wrist. Tulwar and hand flew, and the keening hillman galloped into the night with the fountaining stump of his wrist held high, as if he could thus keep the blood from pouring out of him.

Already two highwheeled carts were towering bonfires, and flames swiftly ate five of the round tents. Over all hung the din of battle, the clang of steel on steel, the screams of the wounded, the moans of the dying. Another cart burst afire. The burnings cast back the night from struggling pairs of men who danced with sanguine blades among the bodies that littered the hilltop. Of those who lay still, more wore the mail shirts and spiked helms of Zamorans than wore turbans.

All this Conan took in in an instant, but one sight among all the others drew his eyes. Jondra, drawn from her sleeping furs and naked save for a quiver slung over her shoulder, stood before her crimson walled tent, nocking arrows and firing as calmly as if she shot her bow at straw targets. And where her shafts went hillmen died.

Another had become aware of her, the Cimmerian saw. A hillman at the far end of the camp suddenly gave an ululating cry and kicked his mount into a gallop for the bare-skinned archer.

“Jondra!” Conan shouted, but even as he did he knew she could not hear above the tumult. Nor would all his speed take him to her side in time.

Tossing his sword to his left hand, he flung himself in two bounds back to the sentry who lay with his face a ruined mask staring at the sable sky. Ruthlessly he put a foot on the man’s outstretched arm, ripped free the heavy hunting spear from the death-grip that held it. With desperate quickness he straightened, turned and threw, freezing as the spear left his hand. No will or thought was left for motion, for all rode with that thick shaft. The hillman’s mount was but two strides from Jondra, his blade heartbeats from her back, but still she neither heard nor turned. And the hillman convulsed as a forearm-long blade transfixed his chest. His horse galloped on, and he slowly toppled backwards, falling like a sack before the woman he meant to slay.

Jondra started as the body hit the ground almost at her feet, but for a moment continued to fumble at her empty quiver in search of another arrow. Abruptly she tossed aside her bow and snatched the tulwar from the dead man’s hand.

Conan found he could breathe again. He took a step toward her … and something sliced a line of fire across his back. The big youth threw himself into a forward roll and came to his feet searching for his attacker.

There were men behind him, both hillmen and hunters, but all save Arvaneus and Telades were killing or being killed, and even as he looked they engaged turbanned foes. He had no time to seek out particular enemies, Conan thought. There were enough for all. The dark blood-rage rose in him, cold enough to burn.

When he turned back Jondra was gone, but thoughts of her were buried deep now in the battle-black of his mind. Some men are said to be born for battle; Conan had been born on the field of battle. The scent drawn in with his first breath had been the coppery smell of fresh-spilled blood. The first sound to greet his ears had been the clash of steel.

The first sight his eye beheld had been ravens circling in the sky, waiting till living men departed and they ruled what remained.

With the battle fury that had been his birthright he strode through the flames and screams of the encampment, and death rode on his steel. He sought the turbanned men, the bearded men, and those he found went before Erlik’s Black Throne with eyes of azure fire their last memory of the world of men. His ancient broadsword flashed banefully in the light of burning tents, flashed till its encrimsoned length could flash no more, but seemed rather to eat light as it ate life. Men faced him, men fell before him, and at last men fled him.

The time came when he stood alone, and no turbans could his questing eye find but those on dead men. There were standing men, he realized as the haze of battle-rage thinned and cleared his eyes, Zamoran hunters gathered in a loose circle about him, staring in wonder tinged with fear. He turned to face each man in turn, and each fell back a step at his gaze. Even Arvaneus could not hold his ground, though his face flushed with anger when he realized what he had done.

“The hillmen?” Conan demanded hoarsely. He stripped the rough woolen cloak from a hillman’s corpse and wiped his blade clean.

“Gone,” Telades said in a high voice. He paused to clear his throat.

“Some few fled, I think, but most…” His gesture took in the entire hilltop, strewn with bodies and burned-out tents, illumined by flaming carts. “It was your work that saved us, Cimmerian.”

“Hannuman’s Stones!” Arvaneus roared. “Are you all women? It was your own arms saved you, swords in your own hands! If the barbar slew one or two, it was his skin he sought to save.”

“Do not speak the fool,” Telades retorted. “You of all men should not speak against him. Conan fought like a demon while the rest of us struggled to realize that we were awake, that it was not a nightmare we faced.” A murmur of agreement came from the circle of men.

Face twisted darkly, Arvaneus opened his mouth, but Conan cut him off.

“If some of them escaped, they may return with others. We should be gone from this place, and quickly.”

“There stands your hero,” Arvaneus sneered. “Ready to run. Few hillman bands are larger than the number which attacked us, and most of them now wait for the worms. Who else will come against us? I, for one, think we slew all of the mountain dogs.”

“Some did flee,” Telades protested, but Arvaneus spoke on over him.

“I saw none escaping. If I had, they wouldn’t have lived to escape. If we run like rabbits, then like rabbits we run from shadows.”

“Your insults begin to disturb me, huntsman,” Conan said, hefting his sword. “In the past I have forborne killing you for one reason or another. Now, it is time for you to still your tongue, or I will still it for you.”

Arvaneus stared stiffly back at him, his tulwar twitching in his hand, but he did not speak. The other hunters moved back to give room.

Into the silence Jondra stepped, a robe of brocaded sky-blue silk covering her to the ankles and held tightly at her neck with both hands. She studied the two men confronting each other before speaking.

“Conan, why do you think the hillmen will return?”

She was attempting to ignore the tension, the Cimmerian knew, and so disarm it, but he thought the answer to her question was more important than killing Arvaneus. “It is true that bands of hillmen are usually small, but in Shadizar it is said the Kezankian tribes are gathering.

The soldiers we saw marching north bear this out, for it is also said the army is being sent to deal with them. To go risks nothing; to stay risks that the few who fled may bring back a thousand more.”

“A thousand!” the hawkfaced man snorted. “My lady, it is well known how the hill tribes war constantly with one another. A thousand hillmen in one place would kill each other in the space of a day. And if, by some miracle, so many were gathered together, their attention would surely be on the soldiers. In any case, I cannot believe in this bizarre rumor of a gathering of the tribes. It goes against all that I know of the hillmen.”

Jondra nodded thoughtfully, then asked, “And our injured? How many are they, and how badly hurt?”

“Many nicks and cuts, my lady,” Arvaneus told her, “but only fourteen hurt badly enough to be accounted as wounded, and but two of those seriously.” He hesitated. “Eleven are dead, my lady.”

“Eleven,” she sighed, and her eyes closed.

” ‘Twould have been more, my lady, save for Conan,” Telades said, and Arvaneus rounded on him.

“Cease your chatter of the barbar, man!”

“Enough!” Jondra barked. Her voice stilled the hunters on the instant.

“I will reach a decision on what is to be done tomorrow. For now the wounded must be tended, and the fires put out. Arvaneus, you will see to it.” She paused to take a deep breath, looking at no one. “Conan, come to my tent. Please?” The last word was forced, and as she said it she turned away quickly, her robe flaring to give a glimpse of bare thighs, and hurried from the circle of men.

Conan’s visits to Jondra’s tent and sleeping furs had been an open secret, but an unacknowledged one. Studiously the men all avoided looking at Conan, or at each other, for that matter. Arvaneus seemed stunned. Tamira alone met his eyes, and she glared daggers.

With a shake of his head for the vagaries of women, the big Cimmerian sheathed his sword and followed Jondra.

She was waiting for him in her scarlet tent. As he ducked through the tent-flap, she slipped the silk robe from her shoulders, and he found his arms full of sleek bare skin. Full breasts bored into his ribs as she clutched at him, burying her head against his broad chest.

“I … I should not have spoken as I did earlier,” she murmured. “I do not doubt what you saw, and I do not want you to stay away from my bed.”

“It is well you believe me,” he said, smoothing her hair, “for I saw as I said. But now is no time to speak of that.” She sighed and snuggled closer, if that was possible. “It is time to speak of turning back.

Your hunters have taken grievous hurt from the hillmen, and you are yet a day from the mountains. Do you enter the mountains with carts and oxen, you’ll not escape further attention from the tribes. Your men will be slain, and you will find yourself the slave of an unwashed tribesman whose wives will beat you constantly for your beauty. At least, they will until the harsh life and the labor leaches your youth as it does theirs.”

Word by word she had stiffened in his arms. Now she pushed herself from him, staring up at him incredulously. “It has been long years,” she said in breathless fury, “since I apologized to any man, and never have I … asked one to my bed before you. Whatever I expected for doing so, it was not to be lectured.”

“It must be spoken of.” He found it hard to ignore the heavy, round breasts that confronted him, the tiny waist that flared into generous hips and long legs, but he forced himself to speak as if she were draped in layers of thick wool. “The hillmen are roused. Ants might escape their notice, but not men. And should you find this beast you hunt, remember that it is a hunter as well, and one that kills with fire. How many men will you see roasted alive to put a trophy on your wall?”

“A folk tale,” she scoffed. “If hillmen cannot frighten me off, do you think I will run before a myth?”

“Eldran,” he began with a patience he no longer felt, but her screach cut him off.

“No! I will not hear of that … that Brythunian!” Panting, she struggled to gain control of herself. At last she drew herself up imperiously. “I did not summon you here for argument. You will come to my bed and speak only of what we do, or you will leave me.”

Conan’s anger coiled to within a hair’s breadth of erupting, but he managed to keep his reply to a mocking, “As my lady wishes.” And he turned his back on her nudity.

Her furious cries followed him into the fading night, echoing across the camp. “Conan! Come back here, Mitra blast you! You cannot leave me like this! I command you to return, Erlik curse you forever!”

No man looked up from his labor, but it was clear from the intensity with which they minded their work that none was deaf. Those prodding burning bundles from the carts with spears abruptly redoubled their efforts to save what had not already caught fire. The newly set sentries suddenly peered at the failing shadows as if each hid a hillman.

Tamira was passing among the wounded, lying in a row on blankets in the middle of the camp, holding a waterskin to each man’s mouth. She looked up with a bright smile as he passed. “So you’ll sleep alone again tonight, Cimmerian,” she said sweetly. “A pity.” Conan did not look at her, but a scowl darkened his face.

One of the carts had been abandoned to burn, and flaming bundles lay scattered about the others. The fat cook capered among the men, waving a pewter tray over his head and complaining loudly at their use of his implements for shoveling dirt onto the fires. Conan took the tray from the rotund man’s hands and bent beside Telades to dig at the rocky soil.

The shavenheaded hunter eyed him sideways for a time, then said carefully, “There are few men would walk out on her without reason.”

Instead of answering the unasked question, Conan snarled, “I’ve half a mind to tie her to her horse so you can lead her back to Shadizar.”

“You’ve half a mind if you think that you could,” Telades said, throwing a potful of dirt and small stones on a fiery bale, “or that we would. The Lady Jondra decides where to go, and we follow.”

“Into the Kezankians?” Conan said incredulously. “With the tribes stirring? The army didn’t come north for the weather.”

“I’ve served the House Perashanid,” the other man said slowly, “since I was a boy, and my father before me, and his before him. The Lady Jondra is the house, now, for she is the last. I cannot desert her. But you could, I suppose. In fact, perhaps you should.”

“And why would I do that?” Conan asked drily.

Telades answered as though the question had been serious. “Not all spears are thrown by the enemies you expect, northlander. If you do stay, watch your back.”

Conan paused in the act of stooping for more dirt. So the spear that grazed his back had not been cast by a hillman’s hand. Arvaneus, no doubt. Or perhaps some other, long in the Perashanid’s service, who did not like the last daughter of the house bedding a landless warrior.

That was all he needed. An enemy behind him-at least one-and the hillmen surrounding. Tomorrow, he decided, he would make one last try at convincing Jondra to turn back. And Tamira, as well. There were gems aplenty in Shadizar for her to steal. And if they would not, he would leave them and go back alone. Furiously he scooped dirt onto the tray and hurled it at the flames. He would! Erlik take him if he did not.

In the gray dawn Djinar stared at the pitiful following that remained to him. Five men with shocked eyes and no horses.

“It was the giant,” Sharmal muttered. His turban was gone, and his face was streaked with dirt, and dried blood from a scalp wound. His eye focused on something none of the rest could see. “The giant slew who he would. None could face him.” No one tried to quiet him, for the mad were touched by the old gods, and under their protection.

“Does any man think we can yet take the Eyes of Fire from the Zamoran woman?” Djinar asked tiredly. Blank stares answered him.

“He cut off Farouz’s hand,” Sharmal said. “The blood spurted from Farouz’s arm as he rode into the night to die.”

Djinar ignored the youth. “And does any man doubt the price we will pay for failing Basrakan Imalla’s command?” Again the four who retained their senses kept silent, but again the answer was in their dark eyes, colored now by a tinge of horror.

Sharmal began to weep. “The giant was a spirit of the earth. We have displeased the true gods, and they sent him to punish us.”

“It is decided, then.” Djinar shook his head. He would leave much behind, including his favorite saddle and two young wives, but such could be more easily replaced than blood from a man’s veins. “In the south the tribes have not yet heeded Basrakan’s call. They care only for raiding the caravans to Sultanapur and Aghrapur. We will go there.

Better the risk no one will take us in than the certainty of Basrakan’s anger.”

He did not see Sharmal move, but suddenly the young man’s fist thudded against his chest. He looked down, perplexed that his breath seemed short. The blow had not been that hard. Then he saw the hilt of a dagger in the fist. When he raised his eyes again, the other four were gone, unwilling to meddle in the affairs of a madman.

“You have been attained, Djinar,” Sharmal said in a tone suitable for instructing a child. “Better this than that you should flee the will of the true gods. Surely you see that. We must return to Basrakan Imalla, who is a holy man, and tell him of the giant.”

He had been right, Djinar thought. Death had been in that camp. He could smell it still. He opened his mouth to laugh, and blood poured out.

Chapter XII

Amid the lengthening shadows of midafternoon, some semblance of normality had returned to the hunter’s camp. The fires were out, and those carts that could not be salvaged had been pushed to the bottom of the hill, along with supplies too badly burned for use. Most of the wounded were on their feet, if not ready for another battle, and the rest soon would be. The dead-including now the two most seriously wounded-had been buried in a row on the hillside, with cairns of stones laid atop their graves to keep the wolves from them. Zamoran dead, at least, had been treated so. Vultures and ravens squawked and contended beyond the next hill, where the corpses of hillmen had been dragged.

Sentries were set now not only about the hilltop camp itself, but on the hills surrounding. Those distant watchers, mounted so they could bring an alarm in time to be useful, had been Conan’s idea. When he put the notion forward Jondra ignored it, and Arvaneus scorned it, but the sentries were placed, if without acknowledgement to the Cimmerian.

It was not for pique, however, that Conan stalked through the camp with a face like a thunderhead. He cared nothing who got credit for the sentries, so long as they were placed. But all day Jondra had avoided him. She had hurried about checking the wounded, checking the meals the cook prepared, meddling in a score of tasks she would normally have dismissed once she ordered them done. All in the camp save Conan she had kept at the run. And every particle of it, he knew, was to keep from talk with him.

Tamira trotted by in her short white tunic, intently balancing a flagon of wine and a goblet on a tray, and Conan caught her arm. “I can’t stop now,” she said distractedly. “She wants this right away, and the way she’s been today I have no wish to be slow.” Suddenly the slender thief chuckled. “Perhaps it would have been better for us all if you hadn’t slept alone last night.”

“Never mind that,” Conan growled. “It’s time for leaving, Tamira.

Tomorrow will see us in the mountains.”

“Is that what you said to Jondra to anger her so?” Her face tightened.

“Did you ask her to go back with you, too?”

“Fool girl, will you listen? A hunting trophy is no reason to risk death at the hands of hillmen, nor are those gems.”

“What of Jondra?” she said suspiciously. “She won’t turn back.”

“If I can’t talk her into it, I will go without her. Will you come?”

Tamira bit her full underlip and studied his face from beneath her lashes. Finally, she nodded. “I will. It must be in the night, though, while she sleeps. She’ll not let me leave her service, if she knows of it. What would she do without a handmaiden to shout at? But what of your own interest in the rubies, Cimmerian?”

“I no longer have any interest,” he replied.

“No longer have,” Tamira began, then broke off with a disbelieving shake of her head. “Oh, you must think I am a fine fool to believe that, Cimmerian. Or else you’re one. Mitra, but I do keep forgetting that men will act like men.”

“And what does that mean?” Conan demanded.

“That she’s had you to her bed, and now you will not steal from her.

And you call yourself a thief?”

“My reasons are no concerns of yours,” he told her with more patience than he felt. “No more than the rubies should be. You leave with me tonight, remember?”

“I remember,” she said slowly. As her large brown eyes looked up at him, he thought for a moment that she wanted to say something more.

“Lyana!” Jondra’s voice cracked in the air like a whip. “Where is my wine?”

“Where is my wine?” Tamira muttered mockingly, but she broke into a run, dodging around Telades, who labored under one end of a weighty brass-bound chest.

“Mayhap you shouldn’t have angered her, Cimmerian,” the shavenheaded hunter panted. “Mayhap you could apologize.” The man at the other end of the chest nodded weary agreement.

“Crom!” Conan growled. “Is everyone in the camp worrying about whether I …” His words trailed off as one of the sentries galloped his horse up the hill. Unknowingly, easing his broadsword in its scabbard, he strode to where the man was dismounting before Jondra. The hunters left off their tasks to gather around.

“Soldiers, my lady,” the sentry said, breathing heavily. “Cavalry. Two, perhaps three hundred of them, coming hard.”

Jondra pounded a fist on a rounded thigh. Her salmon silk tunic and riding breeches were dusty and sweat-stained from her day’s labors.

“Erlik take all soldiers,” she said tightly, then took a deep breath that made her heavy breasts stir beneath the taut silk of her tunic.

“Very well. If they come, I’ll receive their commander. Arvaneus! See that any man who’s bandaged is out of sight. If the soldiers arrive before I return, be courteous, but tell them nothing. Nothing, understand me! Lyana! Attend me, girl!” Before she finished speaking she was pushing through the assembled hunters, not waiting for them to move from her path.

The hawkfaced huntsman began shouting commands, and hunters and carters scattered in all directions, hastening to prepare the camp for visitors. Moving the wounded inside tents was the least of it, for most of them could walk without assistance, but Jondra’s industriousness had left bales and bundles, piles of cooking gear and stacks of spears scattered among the remaining tents till the camp seemed struck by a whirlwind.

Ignoring the bustle behind him, Conan settled into a flat-footed crouch at the edge of the camp, his eyes intent on the direction from which the sentry had come. More than once his hand strayed unconsciously to the worn hilt of his ancient broadsword. He did not doubt that the sentry had seen Zamoran soldiers and not hillmen, but he had as little regard for one as for the other. Relations between the army and a thief were seldom easy.

A ringing clatter of shod hooves on loose stone heralded the soldiers’

approach well before the mounted column came into sight. In ranks of four, with well-aligned lance-points glittering in the afternoon sun, they wended their way along the small valleys between the hills. A banner led them, such as Zamoran generals were wont to have, of green silk fringed with gold, its surface embroidered in ornate gold script recounting victories. Conan snorted contemptuously at the sight of the honor standard. At that distance he could not read the script, but he could count the number of battles listed. Considering the number of true battles fought by Zamoran arms in the twenty years past, that banner gave honor to many a border skirmish and brawl with brigands.

At the foot of the hill the column drew up, two files wheeling to face the camp, the other two turning their mounts the other way. The standard bearer and the general, mocked by the plume of scarlet horsehair on his golden helmet and the gilding of his mail, picked their way up the hill through the few stunted trees and scattered clumps of waisthigh scrub.

At Arvaneus’ impatient signal two of the hunters ran forward, one to hold the general’s bridle, the other his stirrup, as he dismounted. He was a tall man of darkly handsome face, his upper lip adorned by thin mustaches. His arrogant eye ran over the camp, pausing at Conan for a raised brow of surprise and a sniff of dismissal before going on. The Cimmerian wondered idly if the man had ever actually had to use the jewel-hilted sword at his side.

“Well,” the general said suddenly, “where is your mistress?”

Arvaneus darted forward, his face set for effusive apologies, but Jondra’s voice brought him to a skidding halt. “Here I am, Zathanides.

And what does Zamora’s most illustrious general do so far from the palaces of Shadizar?”

She came before the general with a feline stride, and her garb brought gasps even from her hunters. Shimmering scarlet silk, belted with thickly woven gold and pearls, moulded every curve of breasts and belly and thighs, rounded and firm enough to make a eunuch’s mouth water.

It was not the raiment that drew Conan’s attention, however. On her head rested a diadem of sapphires and black opals, with one great ruby larger than the last joint of a big man’s thumb lying above her brows.

Between her generous breasts nestled that ruby’s twin, depending from a necklace likewise encrusted with brilliant azure sapphires and opals of deepest ebon. The Cimmerian’s gaze sought out Tamira. The young woman thief was demurely presenting to Zathanides a tray bearing a golden goblet and a crystal flagon of wine, with damp, folded cloths beside.

She seemed unaware of the gems she had meant to steal.

“You are as lovely as ever, Jondra,” the general said as he wiped his hands and tossed the cloths back onto the tray. “But that loveliness might have ended gracing some hillman’s but if I hadn’t found this fellow Eldran.”

Jondra stiffened visibly. “Eldran?”

“Yes. A Brythunian. Hunter, he said.” He took the goblet Tamira filled for him, gracing her with a momentary smile that touched only his lips.

“I wouldn’t have believed his tale of a Zamoran noblewoman in this Mitra-forsaken place if it had not been for his description. A woman as tall as most men, ravingly beautiful of face and figure, a fair shot with a bow. And your gray eyes, of course. I knew then it could be none but you.” He tilted back his head to drink.

“He dared describe me so? A fair shot?” She hissed the words, but it had been “ravingly beautiful” that made her face color, and the mention of her eyes that had clenched her fists. “I hope you have this Eldran well chained. And his followers. I … I have reason to believe they are brigands.”

Conan grinned openly. She was not a woman to take kindly to being bested.

“I fear not,” Zathanides said, tossing the empty goblet back to Tamira.

“He seemed what he called himself, and he was alone, so I sent him on his way. In any case, you should be thankful to him for saving your life, Jondra. The hillmen are giving trouble, and this is no place for one of your little jaunts. I’ll send a few men with you to see that you get back to Shadizar safely.”

“I am no child to be commanded,” Jondra said hotly.

The general’s heavy-lidded eyes caressed her form, and his reply cams slowly. “You are certainly no child, Jondra. No, indeed. But go you must.”

Jondra’s eyes flickered to Conan. Abruptly her posture softened, and her voice became languorous. “No, I am not a child, Zathanides. Perhaps we can discuss my future plans. In the privacy of my tent?”

Startlement passed over Zathanides’ face to be replaced by pleasure.

“Certainly,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Let us … discuss your future.”

Arvaneus’ swarthy face was a blend of despair and rage as he watched the pair disappear into the scarlet tent. Conan merely scooped up a handful of rocks and began tossing them down the hill one by one.

Telades squatted next to him.

“More trouble, Cimmerian,” the shavenheaded man said, “and I begin to wonder if you are worth it.”

“What have I to do with anything?” Conan asked coldly.

“She does this because of you, you fool northlander.”

“She makes her choice.” He would not admit even to himself that this flirting with Zathanides sat ill with him. “She’s not the first woman to choose a man for wealth and titles.”

“But she is no ordinary woman. I have served her since she was a child, and I tell you that you were the first man to come to her bed.”

“I know,” Conan said through gritted teeth. He was unused to women casting him aside; he liked neither the fact of it nor the discussing of it.

A woman’s scream came from the tent, and the Cimmerian threw another stone. The tightness of his jaw eased, and a slight smile touched his lips. Arvaneus took a single step toward the scarlet pavilion, then froze in indecision. From where she knelt by the tent flap, Tamira cast an agonized glance at Conan. All the rest of the camp seemed stunned to immobility. Another shriek rent the air.

Telades leaped to his feet, but Conan caught the hunter’s arm. “I will see if she requires aid,” he said calmly, tossing aside his handful of stones. Despite his tone the Cimmerian’s first steps were quick, and by the time he reached the tent he was running.

As he ducked through the tent-flap, the story was plain. Jondra struggled among the cushions, her scarlet robe rucked up above her rounded hips, long legs kicking in the air, while Zathanides lay half atop her fumbling with his breeches and raining kisses on her face. Her small fists pounded futilely at his back and sides.

With a snarl Conan grasped the man by the neck of his gilded mail shirt and the seat of his breeches, lifting him straight into the air.

Zathanides gave a shout, then began cursing and struggling, clawing at his sword, but the huge Cimmerian easily carried him to the entrance and threw him from the tent to land like a sack.

Conan took a bare instant to assure himself that Jondra was unharmed.

Her jewelry was discarded on the cushions, and her robe was torn to expose one smooth shoulder, but she seemed more angry than hurt as she scrambled to her feet, pushing her silk down over her sleek nudity.

Then he followed Zathanides outside. The general had risen to one knee, his mouth twisted with rage, and his sword came out as Conan appeared.

The Cimmerian’s foot lashed out. The jeweled sword went flying; Zathanides yelped and clutched his wrist. The shout of outraged pain faded as Conan’s blade point touched the general’s throat.

“Stop!” Jondra cried. “Conan, put up your sword!”

Conan lowered his steel slowly, though he did not sheath it. It had been she who was assaulted, and by his thinking Zathanides’ life was hers to dispose of as she saw fit, or even to spare. But he would not disarm himself until the man was dead or gone.

“I’ll have your head, barbarian,” Zathanides snarled as he got painfully to his feet. “You’ll discover the penalty for attacking a Lord of Zamora.”

“Then you will discover the penalty for … for manhandling a Lady of Zamora,” Jondra said coldly. “Tread warily, Zathanides, for your head and Conan’s will share the same fate, and the choice is yours.”

Zathanides’ dark eyes bulged, and spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. “Make what charges you will, you halfbreed Brythunian trull.

Do you think there is anyone in Zamora who has not heard the stories of you? That you bed a man before you take him in service as a hunter? Who will believe that one such as I would touch such a slut, such a piece of-“

He cut off and took a step back as Conan’s sword lifted again, but Jondra grabbed the Cimmerian’s massive arm, though both her hands could not come near encircling it. “Hold, Conan,” she said unsteadily. “Make your choice, Zathanides.”

The dark-faced general scrubbed at the spittle on his chin with the back of his hand, then nodded jerkily. “‘Tis you who has made a choice, Jondra. Keep your savage lover. Enter the mountains if you will, and find a hillman.” Stamping to where his jewel-hilted blade lay, he snatched it from the ground and slammed it home in the sheath at his side. “For all I care, you can go straight to Zandru’s Ninth Hell!”

Satisfaction glimmered beneath Conan’s anger as he watched the general’s stiff-backed march to his horse. Zathanides might wish to abandon Jondra to her fate, but too many of his own soldiers knew that he had found her. The attempted rape might well be covered up-especially if other nobles felt about Jondra as the general did-but failing in his attempt to turn a woman back from the mountains would place his manhood in an unfavorable light indeed. At least, that was the way the Cimmerian believed a man of Zathanides’ ilk would look at the matter. Conan felt he could safely wager that the next day would see the appearance of a force under orders to escort the hunting party to Shadizar, without regard for what Jondra had to say.

As Zathanides and his standard bearer galloped down the hill, Arvaneus approached the crimson-walled tent, his manner at once arrogant and hesitant. “My lady,” he said hoarsely, “if you command it, I will take men and see that Lord Zathanides does not survive the night.”

“If I command it,” Jondra replied in an icy tone, “you will sneak in the night and murder Zathanides. Conan did not await my command. He faced Zathanides openly, without fear of consequences.”

“My lady, I … I would die for you. I live only for you.”

Jondra turned her back on the impassioned huntsman. Her eyes fastened on Conan’s broad chest as if afraid to meet his gaze. “You begin to make a habit of saving me,” she said softly. “I see no reason for us to continue to sleep apart.” Arvaneus’s teeth ground audibly.

Conan said nothing. If his thoughts concerning Zathanides were correct, then he should be gone from the camp before the night ended, for the general’s instructions would certainly include the death of one large northlander. Too, there was his plan of departing with Tamira. Leaving from Jondra’s bed would necessitate explanations he did not want to make.

The tall noblewoman drew a shuddering breath. “I am no tavern wench to be toyed with. I will have an answer now.”

“I did not leave your bed for wanting to,” he said carefully, and cursed his lack of diplomatic skill when her chin went up and her eyes flared. “Let us not argue,” he added quickly. “It will be days before the wounded have their strength back. They should be days of rest and enjoyment.” Days spent in her return to Shadizar, he thought, but his satisfaction vanished at her scornful laugh.

“Can you be so foolish? Zathanides will brood on his manhood and the pride he lost here, then convince himself that he can escape any charges I might bring. Tomorrow will see more soldiers, Conan, no doubt with orders to take me back in chains if I’ll go no other way. But they will need to seek me in the mountains.” Abruptly her face stilled, and her voice hardened. “You are not so foolish as that. You know as well as I the soldiers will return. You would have waited and seen me carried back to Shadizar like a bundle. Well, go, if you fear the mountains. Go! I care not!” As abruptly as she had turned her back on Arvaneus, she turned to face the huntsman again. “I intend to press on at first light,” she told the hawkfaced man, “and to move quickly. All baggage must be discarded except what can be carried on pack animals.

The wounded and all men who cannot be mounted will turn back with the ox-carts. Perhaps their trail will confuse Zathanides for a time …

.”

As her list of instructions went on, Arvaneus shot a look over her shoulder at Conan, smug satisfaction mingled with a promise of violence. There would be more trouble from that quarter. Or rather, the Cimmerian reminded himself, there would be if he continued with the hunters, which he had no intention of doing. And since such was his plan, it was time for him to be making preparations for his leavetaking.

Slowly Conan moved away from the noblewoman’s flow of commands. With studied casualness he drifted beyond the cookfires. The fat cook, frowning over a delicate dish for Jondra’s table, never looked up as the Cimmerian rooted among the supplies. When Conan walked on, he carried two fat leather pouches of dried meat in the crook of his arm.

Taking one quick look to make certain he was unobserved, he cached the meat beneath a thornbush on the edge of the encampment. Soon he had added four waterbags, and blankets of blue-striped wool. He was inured to sleeping with naught but his cloak for protection from the cold, or even without it, but he could not think a city woman like Tamira was so hardy.

The horses had to wait until the point of leaving-they certainly could not be saddled now without drawing unwanted attention-but he walked to the picket line anyway. It was easier to choose out a good mount when there was light to see. The big black he had been riding would do for him; Tamira needed a horse with good endurance as well, though. He had intended to move down the line of animals without stopping, so as to give no hint of his interest, but as he came to a longlegged bay mare-just the sort he would choose for Tamira-his feet halted of their own accord. On the ground at the mare’s head rested a high-pommeled saddle, a bulging waterbag, and a tightly tied leather sack.

“In the night, Tamira?” he said softly. “Or while I sit waiting for darkness to come?” The picture of the rubies lying on the cushions of Jondra’s tent was suddenly bright in his mind.

With a calm he did not feel, Conan strode through the camp, his eyes seeking Tamira. Once more the encampment was an anthill, hunters scurrying at Jondra’s commands. For an instant the noblewoman paused, gazing at Conan as if she wished to speak, but when he did not slow she turned angrily back to supervising the preparations for the next morning. Nowhere did Conan see Tamira. But that, he thought grimly, might mean he was not too late.

Conan knew how he would have entered the scarlet tent, had he chosen to steal the rubies with the camp aroused. A glance told him no one was watching, and he quickly slipped behind Jondra’s pavilion Down the back of the tent a long slit had been made. Parting it a fingerwidth, he peered in. Tamira knelt within, rooting among the cushions. With a muffled laugh she drew out the sparkling length of the necklace. The tiara was gripped in her other hand.

Soundlessly Conan slipped through the slit. The first announcement of his presence Tamira received was his hand closing over her mouth. His free arm encircled her, pinning her arms and lifting her before she had time to do more than gasp into his palm. She had dropped the gems, he saw; but that was the end of his moment of peace. Tamira exploded into a wriggling, kicking, biting bundle. And footsteps were approaching the front of the tent.

With a muttered oath the Cimmerian ducked back through the slit with his struggling burden. Behind the tent was no place to stop, however, not if someone was going to enter the tent, not with Tamira as likely as not to scream that he had been thieving. Cursing under his breath, he scrambled down the stony slope until he found a clump of scrub brush that hid them from the camp. There he tried to set her down, but she kicked him fiercely on the ankle, rocks slid beneath his foot, and he found himself on the ground with Tamira beneath him, her eyes starting from her head from the force of the fall.

“You great oaf?” she wheezed after a moment. “Do you try to break my ribs?”

“I did not kick myself,” he growled. “I thought we agreed to leave in the night. What were you doing in Jondra’s tent?”

“Nothing was said about the rubies,” she retorted. “I haven’t changed my plans for them, even if you have. Perhaps,” she finished angrily,

“you find what Jondra gives you more valuable than rubies, but as I am not a man I have a different view of the matter.”

“Leave Jondra out of this,” he snapped. “And do not try to change the subject. You have a horse waiting this very instant.”

Tamira shifted uneasily beneath him, and her eyes slid away from his.

“I wanted to be ready,” she muttered. “For the night.”

“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “that I take you for a fool? The saddle cannot escape discovery till nightfall. But if someone planned to steal the rubies and leave the camp within the turn of a glass …

You could not have been planning such a thing, could you?”

“They would not have held you to blame.” Her tone was sullenly excusatory. “Jondra would not blame you if she found you with the rubies in your pouch. And if she did, it would be less than you deserve.”

“Jondra,” he breathed. “Always Jondra. What is it to you whose bed I share? You and I are not lovers.”

Tamira’s large brown eyes grew even wider. Scarlet suffused her cheeks, and her mouth worked for a long moment before sound finally came out.

“We most certainly are not!” she gasped. “How dare you suggest such a thing? Let me up! Get off me, you great ox! Let me up, I say!” Her small fists punctuated her words, pounding at his shoulders, but suddenly her fingers had tangled in his hair, and she was pressing her lips to his.

Conan blinked once in surprise, then returned her kiss with as much fervor as she was putting into it. “Don’t think this will convince me to stay,” he said when they broke apart for air. “I’m not such a fool.”

“If you stop,” she moaned, “then you are a fool.”

With one last silent reminder that he would not be a fool, Conan gave up talk and thought alike for pleasures at once simpler and more complex.

Chapter XIII

He was not a fool, Conan told himself once more as he guided his horse along a trail halfway up a nameless peak on the fringe of the Kezankians. If he kept saying it, he thought he might convince himself in time. Before and behind him stretched the hunting party, all mounted and many leading pack animals, wending their way deeper into the hillman domains. The sun stood barely above the horizon. They had left the camp in the hills before the first glimmer of dawn. The ox-carts with the wounded would be on their way back to Shadizar.

Lost in his own thoughts, Conan was surprised to find that Jondra had reined aside to await him. He had not spoken to her since she turned her back on him, but he noted that at least she was smiling now.

She drew her horse in beside his. The trail was wide enough for the animals to walk abreast. “The day is fine, is it not?” she said brightly.

Conan merely looked at her.

“I hoped you would come to me in the night. No, I promised myself I would not say that.” Shyly she peered at him through lowered lashes. “I knew you could not leave me. That is … I thought … you did stay because of me, did you not?”

“I did,” he said glumly, but she appeared not to notice his tone.

“I knew it,” she said, her smile even more radiant than before.

“Tonight we will put the past behind us once and for all.” With that she galloped up the line of mounted men to resume her place at their head.

Conan growled deep in his throat.

“What did she want?” Tamira demanded, guiding her mount up beside his.

It was the same bay snare she had chosen cut for her flight. She glared jealously after the noblewoman.

“Nothing of consequence,” Conan replied.

The young woman thief grunted contemptuously.

“‘Tis likely she thinks you are still here because of the over-generous charms she displays so freely. But you came because of me. Didn’t you?”

“I came for you,” Conan told her. “But unless you want to see how strongly Jondra wields a switch, you had best not let her see us talking too often.”

“Let her but try.”

“Then you intend to explain to her that you are not Lyana the handmaiden, but Tamira the thief?”

“If she faced me in a fair fight,” the slender woman began with a toss of her head, then broke off in a laugh. “But it is not talk I want from you. She can have that. Till tonight, Conan.”

The big Cimmerian sighed heavily as she let her horse fall behind his.

It was no easy task he had ahead of him, and all because he could not allow a woman who had shared his bed-much less two of them-to enter the Kezankians while he rode back to Shadizar. He supposed those men who called themselves civilized and him barbarian could have managed it easily. It was beyond him, though, and his pride was enough to make him believe he could bring both safely out of the mountains. Of course, he knew, soon or late each woman would find out about the other. At that point, he was sure, he would rather face all the hillmen of the Kezankians than those two females.

The thought of hillmen brought him back to his surroundings. If he did not keep watch, they might not even make it fully into the mountains, much less out. His eyes scanned the steep brown mountain slopes around him, dotted with tress bizarrely sculpted by wind and harsh clime. He searched the jagged peaks ahead. No signs of life did he discern, but the breeze brought a sound to him, faint yet disturbing. It came from behind.

He reined his horse around to look back, and felt the hair stir on the back of his neck. Far below and far distant among the foothills a battle raged. He could make out little save dust rising as smoke from the hills and the small forms of men swarming like ants, yet for an instant he saw what he could swear was a Zamoran honor standard atop a hill. Then it was ridden down, and the men who rode over it wore turbans. Most of the other shapes he could make out were turbanned as well.

“What is the matter?” Jondra shouted, galloping down the trail. She had to force her way through a knot of hunters gathered behind Conan. “Why are you halted?”

“‘Tis a battle, my lady,” Telades said, shading his eyes with one hand to peer down at the hills. “I cannot say who fights.”

“Hillmen,” Conan said. “From the look of it hillmen are killing some part of the Zamoran army.”

“Nonsense!” Arvaneus snapped. “The army would sweep any hillman rabble aside. Besides, the tribes never gather in such numbers, and …

and…” The force of his words weakened as he spoke, and he finished lamely with, “It is impossible to make out details at this distance.

That could be anyone fighting. Perhaps it is not a battle at all.”

“Perhaps it is a folk dance,” Conan said dryly.

Jondra touched his arm. “Is there aught we can do to aid them?”

“Not even if we had wings,” the big Cimmerian replied.

Relief was writ plain on the faces of the hunters at his reply, but it was relief tinged with fear. It was all very well to talk of entering the Kezankians and risking the wrath of the hill tribes. To actually see that wrath, even at a distance, was something else, and most especially when it seemed to be dealt out by more hillmen than a man might expect to see in a lifetime of roaming the mountains.

Jondra looked from face to face, then put on a smile. “If so many hillmen are down there, then we shall have the mountains to ourselves.”

Her words had little effect on the hunters’ expressions. A raven appeared, flying around the side of the mountain. “There,” Jondra said, drawing her bow from its lacquered case behind her saddle. “Should there be a hillman or two left in the mountains, we’ll deal with them as easily as this.” Her bowstring slapped against her forearm leather; the raven’s wings folded, and the bird dropped like a stone. Conan thought he heard her mutter something about “Brythunian” as she recased her bow. “Now let us ride,” she commanded, and galloped back up the trail.

Slowly the column of hunters formed again behind the noblewoman. As Tamira passed Conan, she gave him an anxious, wide-eyed look. Perhaps he was a fool, he thought, but he could be no other than what he was.

With a reassuring smile for the young woman thief, he joined the file of horsemen picking its way up the mountain.

Eldran ran a judicious eye over the two score men following him through a field of boulders deeper into the mountains, and said, “We stop for a rest.”

“About time,” said a round-cheeked man with gray streaking the long hair that was held back from his face by a leather cord. “We’ve ridden since before first light, and I’m not so young as I once was.”

“If you tell me about your old bones one more time, Haral,” Eldran laughed, and the others joined in, though their laughter was strained.

Haral’s age and plumpness were belied by the scars on his face, and the wolf whose fur trimmed his cloak had been slain with his bare hands. “A short stop only,” Eldran went on. “These mountains feel ill, and I would be done with what we came for and out of them quickly.”

That cooled their mirth, as he had intended it should. The laugh had been good for easing the disquiet, and perhaps more than disquiet, that had fallen over them all since they entered the mountains, but they must be ever mindful of what they were about and where they were if they were to leave with their lives.

As the others sat or lay or even walked a bit to stretch their legs, Eldran reclined with his reins wrapped loosely about one hand. He had had his own difficulties in keeping his mind cleanly on his purpose in the Kezankians. Even through the unease that hung about him like a miasma, a tall Zamoran beauty with arrogance enough for a score of kings had a way of intruding on his thoughts when he was not careful.

But was she truly Zamoran, he wondered. Her manner, acting as if she ruled whatever ground she stood on, said yes. But those eyes. Like the mists of morning clinging to the oaks of the forest. No Zamoran ever had such eyes, as gray as his own.

Angrily he reminded himself of his purpose, to avenge his brother and those who went with him into the Kezankians, never to return. And to avenge as well those who had died attempting to defend their farmholds against the beast of fire. To make certain that more deaths did not come from the beast. If he and every man with him died, it would be small price for success. They had all agreed to that before ever they left Brythunia.

A raven circled high above him. Like the bird he and Jondra had shot, he thought. Angrily he leaped to his feet. Could nothing put the woman from his mind? Well, he would not be reminded of her longer by that accursed bird. He pulled his bow from its wolf-hide case behind his saddle.

“Eldran!” From a space clear of boulders higher on the mountain, a bony man with a pointed nose waved to him frantically. “Come quickly, Eldran!”

“What is it, Fyrdan?” Eldran called back, but he was scrambling up the slope as he spoke. Fyrdan was not one to become excited over nothing.

Others of the band followed.

“There,” the bony man said, flinging out an arm to point as Eldran joined him.

Eldran cupped his hands beside his eyes to improve his seeing, but there was little to make out save boiling dust and the tiny figures of struggling men on the hills far below. “Hillmen,” he said finally.

“And Zamorans,” Fyrdan added. “I saw the banner their general carried go down.”

Slowly Eldran’s hands dropped to his sides. “Forgive me, Jondra,” he said softly.

“Perhaps the soldiers had not fetched her yet,” Haral said. “Perhaps these are the other soldiers we saw.”

Eldran shook his head. “The others were further west. And I watched their camp until their general left to find her.”

“A Zamoran wench,” Fyrdan said scornfully. “There are plenty of good Brythunian women eager for a tumble with…” His words trailed off under Eldran’s glare.

“We will speak no more of the woman,” the gray-eyed man said. “We will talk of other things, things that must be said. We have tracked the beast here to its home ground, and its spoor is on the mountains themselves. The very rocks are baneful, and the air reeks of maleficence. Let no man say he has not felt it as I have.”

“Next you will be claiming second sight,” Haral grumbled, then added with a chuckle, “Unless you’ve changed greatly since last we swam together, you cannot qualify to become a priestess.” No one echoed his jollity; grave eyes watched Eldran, who went on in grim tones.

“I have no need of second sight to scent death. Who follows me from here must resign himself that his bones will go unanointed. I will not think ill of any man who turns back, but let him do it now.”

“Do you turn back?” Haral asked gently. Eldran shook his head. “Then,”

the plump man said, “I will not either. I am old enough to choose the place of my dying, an it comes to that.”

“My brother rode with yours, Eldran,” Fyrdan said. “My blood burns as hot for vengeance as yours.” One by one the others made it known that they, too, would go on, and Eldran nodded.

“Very well,” he said simply. “What will come, will come. Let us ride.”

The raven was gone, he saw as he made his way back down to the trail.

Birds of ill omen, they were, yet he could not find gladness in him for its absence. It had reminded him of Jondra, and whether she lived or no he could not think he would ever see her again. But then, he thought bleakly, there would be ravens beyond counting deeper in the Kezankians, and bones aplenty for them to pick.

Chapter XIV

Basrakan Imalla stalked the floor of his oaken-paneled chamber with head bowed as if his multihued turban were too heavy. His blood-red robes swirled with the agitation of his pacing.

So many worries weighing on his shoulders, he thought. The path of holiness was not an easy one. There was the matter of another dead raven in the next chamber. Men, it had said before dying. But how many, and where? And to have two of the birds slain in only a few days. Did someone know of the ravens’ function? Someone inimical to him? Another had reported men as well. Not soldiers; the birds could distinguish them. But the inability to count meant there could be ten or a hundred.

It might even be the same party seen by the dead raven. He would have to increase his patrols and find these interlopers, however many groups of them there were.

At least the bird that accompanied the men he had sent against the soldiers had reported victory. No, not merely victory. Annihilation.

But even with that came burdens. The warriors he had sent forth camped now, so said the raven. Squabbling among themselves over the looting of the dead, no doubt. But they would return. They had to. He had given them a victory, a sign from the old gods.

Unbidden the true source of his worries rushed back to mock him, though he tried as he had so often in days past to force it from him. A sign from the old gods. The sign of the ancient gods’ favor. Seven times, now, he had tried to summon the drake, each attempt carefully hidden from the eyes even of his own acolytes, and seven times he had failed.

Unrest grew in the camps for the led of the showing. And those he had sent after the Eyes of Fire had not returned. Could the old gods have withdrawn their grace from him?

Wrapping his arms around him, he rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Am I worthy, O gods of my forefathers?” he moaned. “Am I truly worthy?”

“Our question exactly, Imalla,” a voice growled.

Basrakan spun, and blinked to find three hillmen confronting him. He struggled to recover his equilibrium. As he drew himself up, two of the bearded men shrank back. “You dare disturb me?” he rasped. “How did you pass my guards?”

The man who had stood his ground, his mustaches curled like the horns of a bull, spoke. “Even among your guards there are doubts, Imalla.”

“You are called Walid,” Basrakan said, and a flicker of fear appeared in the other’s black eyes.

There were no sorceries involved, though. This Walid had been reported to him as one of the troublemakers, the questioners. It had taken him a moment to remember the man’s description. He had not thought the troublemaking had gone so far as this, however. But he had prepared for every eventuality.

With false calmness he tucked his hands into the long sleeves of his crimson robe. “What doubts do you have, Walid?”

The man’s thick mustache twitched at the repetition of his name, and he half turned his head as if looking for support from his companions.

They remained well behind him, meeting neither his eyes nor Basrakan’s.

Walid drew a deep breath. “We came here, many of us, because we heard the old gods favored you. Those who came before us speak of a fabulous beast, a sign of that favor, but I have seen no such creature. What I have seen is thousands of hillmen sent to battle Zamoran soldiers, who have ever before slaughtered us when we fought them in numbers. And I have seen none of those warriors return.”

“That is all?” Basrakan asked.

His suddenly mild tone seemed to startle Walid. “Is it not enough?” the mustached man demanded.

“More than enough,” Basrakan replied. Within his sleeves his hands clasped small pouches he had prepared only a day past, when the unrest among the gathered tribes first truly began to worry him. Now he praised his foresight. “Much more than enough, Walid.”

Basrakan’s hands came out of his sleeves, and in a continuous motion he scattered the powder from one pouch across Walid. As the powder struck, the Imalla’s right hand made arcane gestures, and he chanted in a tongue dead a thousand years.

Walid stared down at his chest in horror for a moment as the chilling incantation went on, then, with a shout of rage and fear, he grabbed for his tulwar. Even as his hand touched the hilt, though, fire spurted from his every pore. Flame surrounded him as clothes and hair turned to ash. His roar of anger became a shrill shriek of agony, then the hiss of boiling grease. A plume of oily black smoke rose from the collapsing sack that had been a man.

The other two men had stood, eyes bulging with terror, but now one burst for the door, and the other fell to his knees crying,

“Forgiveness, Imalla! Forgiveness!”

In two quick strides Basrakan was on them, throwing the powder at the fleeing man and the kneeling one alike. His long-fingered gestured, and the chant rose once more. The running man made it to the door before fire engulfed him. The other fell on his face, wriggling toward Basrakan, then he, too, was a living pyre. Their screams lasted only moments, blending into a shrill whistle as flame consumed their bones.

At last even the black smoke guttered out. Only small heaps of dark, oily ash were left on the floor, and sooty smudges on the ceiling. The fierce-eyed Imalla viewed the residues of his accusers with satisfaction, but it faded quickly to grim anger. These men would have brothers, cousins, and nephews, scores of male relatives who, while they might fear to confront Basrakan openly, would most certainly now be a source of further dissention. Some might even go beyond words. The tribesmen lived and died by the blood feud, and nothing could turn them from it save death.

“So be it,” he pronounced intently.

Dark face as cold and calm as if he had a lifetime for the task, Basrakan gathered a sampling from each pile of ash, scraping them into folded scraps of parchment with a bone knife four times blessed in rites before the ancient gods of the Kezankians. Ash from each dead man went into a thick-walled mortar of plain, unworked gold. The sorcerer’s movements quickened as he added further ingredients, for speed now was essential. Powdered virgin’s eye and ground firefly. Salamanders’

hearts and the dried blood of infants. Potions and powders, the ingredients of which he dared not even think of. With the thigh bone of a woman strangled by her own daughter he ground the mixture, twelve times widdershins, intoning the hidden names of the ancient gods, names that chilled the marrow and made vapors of frost hang in the air.

Twelve times the other way. Then it was done, this first step, leaving the golden vessel filled almost to the brim with black powder that seemed to swirl like smoke in its depths.

Gingerly, for the blending was deadly to the touch now, Basrakan carried the mortar to a cleared space on the pale stone floor. There, dipping a brush tipped with virgins’ eyelashes into the moist mixture, he carefully scribed a precise pattern on the smooth stone. It was a cross, its arms of equal length exactly aligned to north and south, east and west. Tipping each arm was a circle, within which he drew the four idiograms of the ancient gods, the secret signs of earth, air, water, and fire. Next a triangle, its apex at the meeting of the arms of the cross, enclosed the symbol for the spirits of fire, and that same character was placed on each point of the triangle.

Basrakan paused, staring at what he had wrought, and his breath came fast. He would not admit to fear despite a tightening in his bowels, but this was more dangerous than anything he had yet attempted. An error in any phase, one completed or one to come, and the rite would rebound on him. Yet he knew there was no turning back.

Deftly he tipped the last of the powder into a silver censer on the end of a silver chain. Ordinary flint and steel provided the spark and set it smouldering. Aligning his feet carefully on the broad base of the triangle, he swung the censer in an intricate pattern. Wisps of smoke wafted upward from the silver ball, and Basrakan’s incantation rose with the odoriferous vapors. With each swing of the censer one crystalline word rang in the air, words that even the fiery-eyed Imalla could not hear, for they were not meant for human ears, and the human mind could not comprehend them.

Around him the very air seemed to glisten darkly. Smoke from the censer thickened and fell to the stone floor, aligning itself unnaturally with the pattern drawn there. Basrakan’s chant came faster, and more loudly.

The words pealed hollowly, like funereal tolling from the depths of a cavern. Within the ropes of smoke now covering the configuration came a glow, ever fiercer and hotter, till it seemed as if all the fires of the earth’s bowels were bound in those roiling thongs of black. Sweat rolled down Basrakan’s thin cheeks from the heat. The glow became blinding, and his words rose higher and higher, the walls shivering under their impact.

Suddenly Basrakan ceased his cry. Silence came, and in that instant, glow and smoke and drawn pattern all vanished. Even the smoke from the censer failed.

Done, Basrakan thought. Weariness tilled him. Even his bones felt weak.

But what had had to be done, had been done.

A tremor shook him as his eye fell on the remains of his accusers. On each pile of ash, from which all that could be burned had been burned, danced pale flames. Even as he watched they licked into extinction. He drew a deep breath. This was no cause for fear, but rather for exaltation.

Jbeil burst into the chamber, panting, with one hand pressed hard to his side. “The bless … the bless … the blessings …”

“An Imalla must be dignified,” Basrakan snapped. Returning confidence, returning faith, washed away the dregs of his fear. “An Imalla does not run.”

“But the camps, Imalla,” Jbeil managed past gulps of air. “Fire. Men are burning. Burning, Imalla! Warriors, old men, boys. Even babes unweaned, Imalla! They simply burst into flame, and not water or dirt can extinguish them. Hundreds upon hundreds of them!”

“Not so many, I think,” Basrakan replied coolly. “A hundred, perhaps, or even two, but not so many as you say.”

“But, Imalla, there is panic.”

“I will speak to the people, Jbeil, and calm them. Those who died were of tainted blood. Did the means of their dying tell you nothing?”

“The fire, Imalla?” Jbeil said uncertainly. “They offended the spirits of fire?”

Basrakan smiled as if at a pupil who had learned his lesson well. “More than offended, Jbeil. Much more. And all males of their blood shared their atonement.” A thought struck him, a memory of words that seemed to have been spoken days in the past. “My guards, Jbeil. Did you see them as you came in?”

“Yes, Imalla. As I came to you. The two who were at your door accompanied Ruhallah Imalla on some errand.” His eyes took on a sly cast. “They ran, Imalla. Ruhallah knows little of dignity. Only the urgency of my message brought me to such haste.”

“Ruhallah had his own urgency,” Basrakan said so softly he might have been speaking to himself. He fixed the other man with an eye like a dagger. “Ruhallah is to blame for the fiery deaths this day. He and those false guards who flee with him. Ruhallah led those men of the blood that perished this day into false beliefs and tainted ways.” It could be so, he thought. It must be so. Assuredly, it was so. “Ruhallah and the guards who flee with him must be brought back to face payment for what they have done.” Few things amused Basrakan, but the next thought to visit him brought a smile to his thin lips. “They are to be given to the women of the men who died by fire this day. Let those who lost kith and kin exact their vengeance.”

“As you command, Imalla, so will it be.” Jbeil froze in a half-bow, and his eyes went wide. “Aaiee! Imalla, it had been driven from my mind by the burnings and …” Basrakan glared at him, and he swallowed and went on. “Sharmal has returned, Imalla. One of those you sent after the Eyes of Fire, Imalla,” he added when the tall holy man raised a questioning eyebrow.

“They have returned?” Basrakan said, excitement rising in his voice.

“The Eyes of Fire are mine! All praise to the old gods!” Abruptly he was coldly calm, only an intensity of tone remaining of the emotion that had filled his speech. “Bring the gems to me. Immediately, fool!

Nothing should have kept you from that. Nothing! And bring the men, as well. They will not find their rewards small.”

“Imalla,” Jbeil said hesitantly, “Sharmal is alone, and empty handed.

He babbles that the rest are dead, and other things, as well. But there is little of sense in any of it. He … he is mad, Imalla.”

Basrakan ground his teeth, and tugged at his forked beard as if he wanted to pull it out by the roots. “Empty handed,” he breathed at last, hoarse and icy. He could not be cheated of his desires now. He would not be. “What occurred, Jbeil? Where are the Eyes of Fire? I will know these things. Put this Sharmal to the question. Strip him of his skin. Sear him to the bone. I will have answers!”

“But, Imalla,” Jbeil whispered, “the man is mad. The protection of the old gods is on him.”

“Do as I command!” Basrakan roared, and his acolyte flinched.

“As … as you command, Imalla, so will it be.” Jbeil bowed deeply, and moved backwards toward the door.

So much had happened, Basrakan thought, in such a short time. There was something he was forgetting. Something… “Jbeil!” The other man jerked to a halt. “There are strangers in the mountains, Jbeil. They are to be found, and any survivors brought to me for offering to the true gods.

Let it be done!” He gestured, and Jbeil nearly ran from the room.

Chapter XV

“We will make camp now.” Jondra announced while the sun still rose.

Arvaneus’ voice rose, echoing her command, and obediently her hunters dismounted and began seeing to the pack animals and their own mounts.

Conan caught her eye questioningly, and she favored him with a smile.

“When hunting a rare animal,” she said, “care must be taken not to bypass its feeding grounds. We will spend days in each camp, searching.”

“Let us hope this animal is not also searching,” Conan replied. The noblewoman frowned, but before she could speak Arvaneus came to stand at her stirrup.

“Do you wish the trackers out now, my lady?” he asked.

Jondra nodded, and a shiver of excitement produced effects to draw male eyes. “It would be wonderful to get a shot at my quarry on the first day. Yes, Arvaneus. Put out your best trackers.”

She looked expectantly at Conan, but he pretended not to notice. His tracking skill was the equal of any of the hunters’, but he had no interest in finding the creature Jondra sought. He wanted only to see the two women returned to the safety of Shadizar, and he could offer them no protection if he was out tracking.

Jondra’s face fell when Conan did not speak, but the dark-eyed huntsman smiled maliciously. “It takes a great special skill to be a tracker,”

he said to no one in particular. “My lady.” He made an elegant bow to Jondra, then backed away, calling as he straightened. “Trackers out!

Telades! Zurat! Abu!” His list ran on, and soon he and nine others were trotting out of the camp in ten different directions. They went afoot, for the slight spoor that a tracker must read as a scribe read words on parchment could be missed entirely from the back of a horse.

With the trackers gone, the beauteous noblewoman began ordering the placement of the camp, and Conan found a place to settle with a honing stone, a bit of rag and a vial of olive oil. A sword must be tended to, especially if it would soon find use, and Conan was sure his blade would not be idle long. The mountains seemed to overhang them with a sense of foreboding, and something permeated the very stones that made him uneasy. The honing stone slid along his blade with quiet sussuration. Morning grew into afternoon.

The camp, Conan decided after a time, was placed as well as it could be under the circumstances. The stunted trees that were scattered so sparsely through the Kezankians were in this spot gathered into what might pass for a grove, though an exceedingly thin one. At least they added some modicum to the hiding of the camp.

Jondra’s scarlet tent, which she had never considered leaving behind, stood between two massive granite boulders and was screened from behind by the brown rock of a sheer cliff. No other tents had been brought-for which small favor the Cimmerian was grateful-and the hunters’ blankets were scattered in twos and threes in a score of wellhidden depressions.

The horses were picketed in a long, narrow hollow that could be missed even by a man looking for it. To one unfamiliar with the land the encampment would be all but invisible. The trouble, he thought sourly, was that the hillmen were more than familiar with their mountains.

There would be trouble.

As though his thought of trouble had been a signal, a sound sliced through the cool mountain air, and Conan’s hand stopped in the act of oiling his sword blade. Through the jagged peaks echoed a shrill, ululating cry, piercing to the bone and the heart. He had never heard the like of that sound, not from the throat of any man or any creature.

The big Cimmerian was not alone in being disturbed by the hunting call-for such he was sure it was. Hunters sat up in their blankets, exchanging worried glances. Some rose to walk a few paces, eyes searching the steep, encircling slopes. Jondra came to the flap of her tent, head tilted questioningly, listening. She wore leather now, jerkin and breeches, as always fitting her curves like a second skin, but plain brown, suitable for the hunt. When the sound was not repeated she retreated inside once more.

“What in Mitra’s thrice-blessed name was that?” Tamira said, dropping into a crouch near Conan. She adjusted her short white robe to provide a modicum of decency, and wrapped slim arms about her knees. “Can it be the creature Jondra hunts?”

“I would not be surprised if it was,” Conan said. He returned to the oiling of his blade. “Little good those rubies will do you if you end in the belly of that beast.”

“You try to talk me into fleeing,” she retorted, “leaving you with a clear path to the gems.”

“I have told you,” he began, but she cut him off.

“A clear path to Jondra’s sleeping furs, then.”

Conan sighed and slid his broadsword into his sheath. “You were in my arms this night past, and she not for two days. And I said that I came into these thrice-accursed mountains for you. Do you now call me liar?”

Her eyes slid away from his, to the rugged spires of granite surrounding them. “Do you think the trackers will find it? This beast, I mean? Perhaps, if they do not, we will leave these mountains. I would as well steal the rubies while returning to Shadizar.”

“I would as soon they found naught but sore feet,” Conan said. He remembered the half-charred fragment of skull and horn. “This beast will not be so easy to slay as Jondra believes, I fear. And you will not steal the rubies.”

“So you do mean to take them yourself.”

“I do not.”

“Then you intend to save them for your paramour. For Jondra.”

“Hannuman’s Stones, woman! Will you give over?”

Tamira eyed him sharply. “I do not know whether I want you to be lying or not.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked in puzzlement.

“I intend to steal the rubies, you understand, no matter what you say or do.” Her voice tightened. “But if you did not come for the rubles, then you came for me. Or for Jondra. I am uncertain whether I wouldn’t rather have the sure knowledge that all you wanted was the gems.”

Conan leaned back against the boulder behind him and laughed until he wheezed. “So you don’t believe me?” he asked finally.

“I’ve known enough men to doubt anything any of you says.”

“You have?” he exclaimed in feigned surprise. “I would have sworn I was the very first man you’d known.”

Color flooded her cheeks, and she leaped to her feet. “Just you wait until-“

Whatever her threat was to be, Conan did not hear its finish, for Telades hurried into the camp, half out of breath and using his spear as a walking staff. Men hastened to surround him, and the Cimmerian was first among them.

A hail of words came from the hunters.

“Did you find tracks?”

“We heard a great cry.”

“What did you see?”

“It must have been the thing we hunt.”

“Did you see the beast?”

Telades tugged off his spiked helm and shook his shaved head. “I heard the cry, but I saw neither animal nor tracks.”

“Give your report to me,” Jondra snapped. The hunters parted to let her through. Her eagerness was betrayed by the bow in her hand. “Or am I to wait until you’ve told everyone else?”

“No, my lady,” Telades replied abashedly. “I ask forgiveness. What I saw was the army, my lady. Soldiers.”

Again a torrent of questions broke over the man.

“Are you sure?”

“From the lot we saw fighting?”

“How could they get into the mountains ahead of us?”

Jondra’s cool gray eyes swept across the assembled hunters, and the torrent died as though she had cracked a whip.

“Where are those soldiers, Telades?” Conan asked. Jondra looked at him sharply, but closed her mouth and said nothing.

“Not two leagues to the north and east of us,” Telades replied. “Their general is Lord Tenerses. I got close enough to see him, though they did not see me.”

“Tenerses,” Conan mused. “I have heard of him.”

“They say he hunts glory,” the shavenheaded hunter said, “but it seems he thinks well enough to know when danger is about. His camp is so well hidden, in a canyon with but one entrance, that I found it only by merest chance. And I could not see how many men he has with him.”

“Not one fewer than Zathanides,” Conan said, “if what I have heard of him is true. He is a man with a sense of his own importance, this Tenerses.”

Jondra broke in in flat tones. “If you two are quite finished discussing the army, I would like to hear the results I sent this man for in the first place. Did you find tracks, Telades, or did you not?”

“Uh, no, my lady. No tracks.”

“There are still nine others,” the noblewoman said half to herself. “As for these soldiers,” she went on in a more normal tone, “they have naught to do with us, and we naught to do with them. I see no reason why they should be a subject of further discussion, nor why they should even become aware of our existence. Am I understood?”

Her gaze was commanding as it met each man’s eyes in turn, and each man mumbled assent and grew intent in his study of the ground beneath his feet, until she came to Conan. Eyes of chilling azure looked back at her in unblinking calmness, and it was smoky gray orbs that dropped to break the mesmerizing contact.

When she looked at him again, it was through long eyelashes. “I must talk with you, Conan,” she murmured. “In my tent. I … would have your advice on the hunt.”

Over Jondra’s shoulder Conan saw Tamira watching him intently, hands on hips. “Perhaps later,” he said. When the noblewoman blinked and stared, he added quickly, “The mountains are dangerous. We cannot spare even one watcher.” Before she could say more-and he could see from the sparks in her eyes that she intended to say much more-he retreated across the camp to his place by the boulder.

As he settled once more with his back to the stone, he noticed that both women were looking at him. And both were glaring. The old saying was certainly proving true, he thought. He who has two women oft finds himself in possession of none. And not one thing could he think to do about it. With a sigh he set back to tending his steel. Some men claimed their blades had the personalities of women, but he had never known a sword to suffer jealousy.

The other trackers began returning at decreasing intervals. Jondra allowed these no time to become involved in extraneous-to her-matters with the other hunters. She met each man as he entered the camp, and her sharp gaze kept the rest back until she finished her questioning and gave the tracker leave to go.

One by one the trackers returned, and one by one they reported …

nothing of interest to Jondra. One, who had searched near Telades, had found the cheek-piece of a soldier’s helmet. Another had seen a great mountain ram with curling horns as long as a man’s arm. Jondra angrily turned her back on him before he finished telling of it. Several saw hillmen, and in numbers enough to make a prudent man wary, but none had found the spoor of the beast, or anything that might remotely be taken as a sign of its presence or passage. The gray-eyed noblewoman heard each man out, and strode away from each impatiently tapping her bow against her thigh.

The last to return was Arvaneus, trotting into the camp to lean on his spear with an arrogant smile.

“Well?” Jondra demanded as she stalked up to him. “I suppose you have seen nothing either?”

The hawkfaced huntsman seemed taken aback at her tone, but he recovered quickly and swept a bow before her. “My lady, what you seek, I give to you.” He shot a challenging look at Conan as he straightened. “I, Arvaneus, son of Lord Andanezeus, give it to you.”

“You have found it?” Excitement brightened her face. “Where, Arvaneus?”

“A bare league to the east, my lady. I found the marks of great claws as long as a man’s hand, and followed them for some distance. The tracks were made this day, and there cannot be another creature in these mountains to leave such spoor as human eyes have never before seen.”

The entire camp stared in amazement as Jondra leaped spinning into the air, then danced three steps of a jig. “It must be. It must. I will give you gold to make you wealthy for this, Arvaneus. Find this beast for me, and I will give you an estate.”

“I want no gold.” Arvaneus said huskily, his black eyes suddenly hot.

“Nor estates.”

Jondra froze, staring at him, then turned unsteadily away. “Prepare horses,” she commanded. “I would see these tracks.”

The huntsman looked worriedly at the sky. The sun, giving little warmth in these mountains, lay halfway to the western horizon from its zenith.

“It is late to begin a hunt. In the morning, at first light-“

“Do you question my commands?” she snapped. “I am no fool to start a hunt for a dangerous beast with night approaching, but I will see those tracks. Now! Twenty men. The rest will remain in camp and prepare for the hunt tomorrow.”

“As you command, my lady,” Arvaneus muttered. He glared malevolently at Conan as Jondra turned to the big Cimmerian and spoke in a soft voice.

“Will you ride with me, Conan? I … I would feel much safer.” The awkwardness of her words and the coloring of her cheeks gave her the lie. With obvious difficulty, she added, “Please?”

Wordlessly Conan rose and walked to the picket line. Arvaneus barked orders, and others joined the Cimmerian. As Conan was fastening his saddle girth, he became aware of Tamira, making a great show of idly petting the nose of a roan next to his tall black.

“Will you ride with me, Conan?” she mimicked softly. “I will feel so much safer.” She twisted up her face as if to spit.

Conan let out a long breath. “I’d not like to see either of you dead, or a hillman’s slave. You will be safer here than will she out there, so I go with her.”

He stepped up into the high-pommeled Zamoran saddle. Tamira trotted alongside as he rode from the hollow where the horses were picketed.

“You will be out there,” she told him, “and so will she. You could return to find me gone, Conan. And the rubies. What is to keep me here?”

“Why, you’ll be waiting for me,” he laughed, booting his mount to a trot. A hurled rock bounced off his shoulder, but he did not look back.

Chapter XVI

The party of Zamoran hunters made their way in single file along the gullies and clefts that lined the mountains like wrinkles of ancient age on the face of the earth. Arvaneus led, since he knew the way, and Jondra rode close behind him. Conan, in turn, kept close to the tall noblewoman. There would be little time to spare when protection was needed. The mountains seemed to press in on them malignly, even when their way opened enough for a score of men or more to ride abreast.

The big Cimmerian’s eyes searched the jagged crags and steep slopes around them constantly, and with instincts long buried in civilized men he probed for his enemies. No sign of hillmen did he see, no hint of them came to his senses, but menace still oozed from the stones.

Outwardly he seemed at ease, but he was dry tinder waiting for a spark.

Abruptly Arvaneus drew rein where the walls of rock were steep and close. “There, my lady,” the huntsman said, pointing to the ground.

“Here is the first track I found.”

Jondra scrambled from her saddle to kneel by a small patch of clay. The deep marks of two massive claws and part of a third were impressed there. “It is larger than I thought,” she murmured, running two slender fingers into one impression.

“We have seen the tracks,” Conan said. The oppressive air seemed thicker to him. “Let us return to the camp.”

Arvaneus’ lip curled in a sneer. “Are you afraid, barbar? My lady, there are more tracks further on. Some are complete.”

“I must see that,” Jondra exclaimed. Swinging into her saddle she galloped ahead, and Arvaneus spurred after her.

Conan exchanged a look with Telades-by the shavenheaded hunter’s sour face he liked this as little as the Cimmerian-then they and the rest of the column of horsemen followed.

As it had often before, the narrow passage opened out. This time it led into a small canyon, perhaps a hundred paces wide, with five narrow draws cutting its steep brown walls. Conan eyed those openings suspiciously. Any enemy hidden in those would be on them before they had time to react. The hillmen’s favorite tactic was the ambush.

On the floor of the canyon the spoor of the beast was plentiful. Tracks leading both in and out showed that the beast had explored the narrow cuts. Unease permeated the column; hunters shifted their spears nervously, or reached back to touch the cased bows behind their saddle, and horses danced and shied. Jondra uncased her bow as she dismounted at the track Arvaneus pointed out, and nocked an arrow before kneeling to examine it. The hawkfaced huntsman frowned at the ground around him, attempting with only partial success to control his mount’s quick sidesteps.

Conan found himself wondering about that frown. Arvaneus had seen this canyon and the tracks that filled it only a short time before. What was there for him to frown about? The big Cimmerian’s breath caught in his throat. Unless there were more tracks than he had seen before. If that was true they must leave immediately.

Conan opened his mouth, and a shrill ululation split the air, chilling the blood, making the horses buck and scream. Jondra’s mount tore the reins from her hands and bolted, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling wildly, leaving the noblewoman standing like a statue of ice. With difficulty the Cimmerian pulled his big black around. “Crom,” he breathed into the din filling the stone walls.

Into the canyon came a monstrous creature, huge, on massive legs.

Multihued scales glittered in the sinking sun, broken only by dark, leathery-appearing bulges on its back. Adamantine claws gouged the stone beneath them. The broad head was thrown back, the widespread maw revealing jagged teeth like splinters of stone, and that piercing cry struck men to their souls.

The hunters were men who had faced death many times, and if it had never before confronted them in such form, still death was no stranger to them. As that malevolent howl ended they forced themselves into movement, fighting horses half-mad with terror to spread and surround the gargantuan form. The man nearest the beast leveled his spear like a lance and charged. With a clang as of steel against stone the spear struck, and the rider was shivered from his saddle. The great head lowered, and flame roared from that gaping mouth. Man and horse shrieked as one, a shrillness that never seemed to end, as they were roasted alive.

A gasp rose from the other hunters, but they were already launching their attack, men charging in from either flank. Even had they wished to turn aside, the beast gave them no chance. More swiftly than any leopard it moved, claws sweeping bloody rags that had once been men to the ground, jaws crushing men and horses alike. Spears splintered like straws against the iridescent scales, and the cries of the dying drowned out all save thought, and fear became the only thought in the hunter’s minds.

Through that howling maelstrom of certain death Conan galloped, swinging low out of his saddle to snatch an unbroken spear from the bloody ground. Those great golden eyes, he thought. The eyes had to be vulnerable, or the long, dark protuberances on its back. He forced his mount to turn-it struggled to run on, away from the horror-and the sight that met his eyes sent a quiver through him as not even the beast’s hunting cry had.

Jondra stood not ten paces from the creature’s head. Even as he saw her, an arrow left her bow. Squarely on one malevolent golden eye the shaft struck. And ricocheted away. The beast lunged, claws streaking toward her. Frantically she leaped back, but the tip of one claw snagged in the laces of her red leather jerkin, and she was jerked into the air to dangle before the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the carnage around it, the shouting, screaming men, the beast seemed to study her.

A thrill of horror coursed through Conan. There was a light of intelligence in those auric globes. But if the brain behind them could reason, it was a form of reasoning too inhuman for the mind of man to know it. It did not see the beautiful woman as other than prey. The spike-toothed mouth opened, and Jondra was drawn closer.

Conan’s spear came up. “Crom!” he bellowed, and his heels thudded his fear-ridden mount into a charge. His spearpoint held steady on one leathery bulge. He clamped his knees tightly on the animal against the shock he had seen throw others to the ground, but even so the force of the blow rocked through him, staggering his horse to its knees.

With sinuous grace and blinding speed the glittering beast twisted, smashing Conan with the leg from which Jondra dangled. Breath rushed from the big Cimmerian as he was lifted and hurled through the air.

Stony ground rushed up to slam what little air remained from his chest.

Desperately he fought to breathe, forced numbed muscles to move, rolled to hands and knees, staggered to his feet. Jondra lay on her back near him, writhing, bare breasts heaving as she struggled for air.

The beast turned its attention to the Cimmerian, Jondra’s jerkin still tangled in its claws. What remained of his horse lay quivering beneath the creature; gobbets of flesh fell from its fanged jaws.

In what he knew was a futile gesture Conan drew his ancient broadsword.

Steel made no mark on those infrangile scales. He could not move quickly enough to escape the creature’s attack unburdened, much less carrying Jondra, and he could not leave her behind. Yet he would not die without fighting.

“Ho, Conan!” Swaying in his saddle, Telades rode toward the beast from behind. The mail over his chest was rent, and blood drenched him, but he gripped his spear firmly. “Get her away, northlander!” Pounding his boots into his horse’s flanks, he forced it forward.

Iridescent scales flashed as the creature spun.

“No!” Conan shouted.

Flame engulfed the shavenheaded hunter, and the beast leaped to tear at smouldering flesh.

The Cimmerian would not waste Telades’ sacrifice. Sheathing his blade, he scooped Jondra from the ground and darted into a narrow cleft, pursued by the sounds of crunching bone.

As the terrible grinding faded behind him, Jondra stirred in his arms.

“I did not mean for them to die,” she whispered. Her eyes were horror-laden pools.

“You wanted to hunt the beast,” he said, not slowing his steady stride.

Under other circumstances he would have searched for survivors. Now he thought only of getting Jondra far from that charnel scene, back to the relative safety of the camp.

Jondra pressed herself more firmly against his broad chest as if sheltering from storm winds in the safety of a huge boulder. “Telades gave his life for me,” she murmured, shivering. “Truly, I did not wish it to be. Oh, Conan, what can I do?”

Conan stopped dead, and she huddled in his arms as though hiding from his icy blue gaze. “Leave these mountains,” he said harshly. “Go back to Shadizar. Forget this beast, and always remember the men who died for your foolishness and pride.”

Anger and arrogance flared across her face. Her fist rose, then abruptly fell limp. Tears leaked down her cheeks. “I will,” she wept.

“Before all the gods, I swear it.”

“It will not repay Telades’ sacrifice,” he said, “but it will at least mean that you value what he did.”

Gently she touched Conan’s cheek. “Never have I wanted a man to guide me, but you almost make me…” Small white teeth bit her full underlip, and she dropped her eyes. “Will you come back to Shadizar with me?” she said softly, shifting in his grasp again so that her full, round breasts were exposed to his gaze.

“Perhaps,” he replied gruffly, and began walking once more, with his full concentration on the twists of the cleft and the stony ground beneath his feet. Only a fool would refuse a woman like the one he held. And only a fool would disregard the advice he had given. But Telades had become a friend, and the man had died for him as well as for her.

A part of the Cimmerian’s code demanded that Telades’ death, offered in place of his own, should be repaid, just as another part of that code demanded that he see Jondra and Tamira to safety. At the moment the second seemed much more easily accomplished than the first! How, he thought, could he slay a beast that steel could not harm? If he took no notice of the charms Jondra displayed in his arms, it was no wonder.

Chapter XVII

Tamira was the first person Conan saw when he strode into the camp with his arms full of half-naked noblewoman and the sun a bloody ball balanced on jagged peaks. The slender young thief regarded him with fists on hips and a jaundiced eye for the way Jondra clung to him. Then Jondra looked around dazedly, revealing her tear-stained face. Tamira’s jaw dropped, and she dashed into the redwalled tent to return with a cloak.

As Conan stood Jondra upright, the smaller woman enfolded her in soft blue wool. When he released his hold on her, the noblewoman sank to her knees. Tamira knelt beside her, drawing Jondra’s head to her shoulder and glaring up at the big Cimmerian.

“What happened?” she demanded hotly.

“We found the beast she hunts. Hunted. Have any of the others returned?”

Dark eyes widening with sudden fear, Tamira shook her head. “None. They

… they could not all be dead?”

“Of course not,” Conan said. He would be very surprised ever to see another of them alive, but there was no point in terrifying the wench more than she already was. Better to find work to occupy her mind. “See to her,” he told Tamira. “She never stopped crying for a hundred paces together all the way back here.”

“And no wonder,” Tamira replied hotly, “with no better care than you’ve taken of her.” She bundled the unresisting noblewoman off to her tent, leaving Conan standing open-mouthed.

He would never understand women, he decided. Never. Then he became aware of the remaining hunters gathered around him, looking at him worriedly. Looking to him for commands, he realized with some surprise.

Firmly he put all thoughts of women from his mind.

“At dawn,” he told them, “we leave for Shadizar. But first we must survive until then. No man sleeps tonight, unless he wants to risk waking with his throat cut. And no fires. Break open the supply packs.”

With as much haste as Conan could manage, the hunters prepared themselves. All of the arrows were shared out, three quivers per man, and each man had an extra spear, as well as a waterbag and a pouch of dried meat. A coward or two might flee, with the means at hand, but he would not condemn the others to death if flight was required.

An assault from hillmen might come at any time, from any quarter save the cliff that backed Jondra’s tent. Even if the first thrust were beaten off, they could not afford to be there when daylight came, pinned like bugs beneath a butcher bird’s claws. They would attempt to retreat after an attack, or during, if it could not be driven back. And if they were on the point of being overwhelmed, every man would have to see to his own survival as best he could.

Worst of all would be an attack by the beast. As he moved through the darkening twilight from man to man, Conan left each with same final words. “Do not try to fight the beast. If it comes, run, and hope your gods feel kindly toward you.”

Not far from Jondra’s tent Conan settled into a flat-footed squat. Did the worst come, the others had only themselves to think of. He would need to be close to the women if he was to get them away.

A crunch of stone underfoot announced Tamira’s approach, and he shifted his pair of spears to make a space for her.

“She’s asleep,” the slender woman sighed as she dropped to the ground beside him. “She wore herself out with tears. And who’s to question it, after what she saw?”

“It happened by her command,” Conan said quietly, “and for her pride.

That Brythunian told her of the beast, and I told her what I had discovered of it.”

“You are a hard man, Cimmerian. As hard as these mountains.”

“I am a man,” he told her simply.

For a time Tamira was silent. Finally she said, “Jondra says you are returning to Shadizar with her.”

Conan gave a sour grunt. “It seems she talked a lot for a woman on the point of exhaustion.”

“She plans to have apartments constructed for you in her palace.”

“Ridiculous.”

“She intends to dress you all in silk, with wristlets and armbands of gold to show off your muscles.”

“What?” He thought he heard a giggle beside him in the deepening dark, and glared at her. “Enjoy your jokes, girl,” he growled. “I, myself, do not find them funny.”

“You were her first man, too, Conan. You cannot know what that means to a woman, but I do. She cares for you. Or perhaps it is for the image of you that she cares. She asked me if there were other men like you. She even compared you with Eldran, that Brythunian. She pretended not to remember his name, but she did.”

Something in her voice struck him. “Mitra blind me if you don’t pity her.” His tone was incredulous.

“She knows less of men than I,” the slender thief replied defensively.

“It is a hard thing to be a woman in a world with men.”

“It would be harder in a world without them,” he said drily, and she fisted him in the ribs.

“I don’t find your jokes,” she began, but his hand closed over her mouth.

Intently he listened for the sound he was sure he had heard before.

There. The scrape of a hoof-an unshod hoof-on stone.

“Go to the tent,” he whispered, giving her a push in the right direction. “Rouse her, and be ready to flee. Hurry!”

At that instant a cry broke the night. “By the will of the true gods!”

And hordes of hillmen swarmed through the camp on shaggy mountain horses, curved tulwar blades gleaming in the pale moonlight as they rose and fell.

Conan hefted a spear and threw at the nearest target. A turbanned rider, transfixed, screamed and toppled from his galloping horse.

Another hillman, calling loudly on his gods, closed with raised steel.

There was no chance for the Cimmerian to throw his second spear. He dropped flat and swung it like a club at the legs of the charging animal. With a sharp crack the haft of the spear struck; horse and rider somersaulted. Before the hillman could rise, Conan put a forearm’s length of spear through his chest.

All about the Cimmerian steel clanged against steel. Men shouted battle cries, shouted death rattles. In that deadly, bloody tempest an ingrained barbarian sense gave Conan warning. Pulling the spear free, he whirled in time to block a slashing tulwar. Deftly he rotated his spear point against the curved blade, thrust over it into his bearded attacker’s throat. Dying, the hillman clutched the weapon that killed him with both hands. His horse ran out from under him, and as he fell he wrenched the spear from Conan’s grip.

“Conan!” Tamira’s shriek cut through the din to the Cimmerian’s ears.

“Conan!”

Desperately the Cimmerian’s eyes sought for the slender woman … and found her, lifted to a hillman’s saddle by a fist in her hair. Grinning broadly through his beard, the tribesman tauntingly lowered his blade toward her throat. With one hand she frantically attempted to fend off the razor edge, while the other clutched at his robes.

Conan’s broadsword came into his hand. Two bounds took him to Tamira’s side; the hillman’s head went back, and his mouth fell open as the Cimmerian’s steel slid smoothly between his ribs. Lifeless fingers loosened in Tamira’s hair, and Conan caught her as she fell. Trembling arms snaked round his neck; she sobbed limply against his chest.

With a corpse on its back the horse galloped on, and in the space of a breath Conan had taken in the situation in the camp. The fight went badly. Had gone badly, for there was little of it left. Few of the turbanned warriors remained in the camp, and they were occupied with mutilating the dead. Murderous cries from the dark told of hillmen spreading in pursuit of hunters. Jondra’s tent was in flames.

A chill went through the big Cimmerian. As he watched, the last of the tent collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the night. If Jondra was in that, there was no hope for her. He hoped that she had gotten out, but he could not help her now. He had a woman to care for, and no time to spare for another.

Bending to catch Tamira behind the knees, he heaved her onto his shoulder like a sack. A half-formed protest came through her weeping, but the flow of tears did not slow. None of the tribesmen slashing at corpses noticed the muscular youth or his well-curved burden as he faded into the night.

Like a spirit Conan moved from shadow to shadow. Darkness alone, however, was no shield, he knew. From the clouded velvet sky a nacreous moon shed little light, but enough to make movement plain to a discerning eye, and Tamira’s short, white robe made matters no better.

The night-clad rocks were filled with the clatter of galloping hooves on stone, the shouts of hunting hillmen. They hunted, and, given time, they would find.

The Cimmerian kept moving, always away from the noise of the hillmen, and his eyes searched for a hiding place. A line of deeper blackness within the dark caught his gave. He made his way to it and found a horizontal fracture in the face of a cliff. It was wide enough to hold Tamira, deep enough for her to remain hidden from all but someone sticking an arm into it.

Lowering the girl from his shoulder, he thrust her into the crack.

“Stay quiet,” he told her in low tones, “and do not move. I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Listen to me, woman!”

“He … he was going to kill me,” she sobbed. “He was l-laughing.”

She clutched at him, but he gently removed her hands from his shoulders.

” ‘Tis over, now. You are safe, Tamira.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I must find Jondra. Remain here till I return, and I will get the three of us out of these mountains.” He had thought his voice full of confidence-certainly more confidence than he felt, at the moment-but she drew back from him into the crack in the cliff.

“Go then,” she said sullenly. He could not see her, but her tears seemed to dry up suddenly. “Well? Go, if you want to.”

He hesitated, but Jondra was still to be found, and whether alive or dead he did not know. Tamira would be safe here until he could return.

“I will come back quickly,” he said, and slipped away into the night.

Tamira peered from the crevice, but though her night vision was like that of a cat, she could see nothing. Conan had disappeared. She settled back sulkily.

She had nearly been killed, had been taunted with her own death, and he went after her when it should have been clear even to a blind man that she needed the comfort of his arms. But then, were not all men blind?

It was not fair that he could affect her so much, while he cared so little. Once she had been able to think calmly and logically about any man. Once-it seemed a hundred years ago-before she allowed the young Cimmerian giant to … Even alone in the dark she blushed at the thought.

She would not think of him any more, she decided. Drawing herself to the front of the crack, she tried once more to pierce the darkness. It was futile, like attempting to peer through a raven’s wing. A chill wind whined through the mountains, and she pulled her knees up, huddling, painfully aware of how little warmth was to be had from her short tunic.

Where had he gone? To look for Jondra, he claimed, but how did he intend to find her in the night? Was the noblewoman even alive? The tent had been aflame, Tamira remembered. Nothing could have survived in that. Except … the iron chests containing Jondra’s jewels.

Tamira’s eyes gleamed with delight, and she bit her lip to suppress a giggle. “Let him search for Jondra,” she whispered. “He’ll return to find me gone. Gone from the mountains, and the rubies with me.”

With the suppleness of a cat she rolled from the crevice, came to her feet in the night. The cold breeze ruffled her white tunic about her thighs. For an instant she considered the problem of that garment’s paleness.

“Well, I cannot go naked,” she said finally, then clamped her teeth shut. She could not afford to make a sound, now.

Silently she glided into the dark, moving with all the stealthy skill she possessed. No matter what was said in Shadizar, in the taverns of the Desert, concerning Conan, she was the best thief in the city.

A sound halted her, a grating as of boots on rock, and she wished she had her daggers. Whoever it was, she thought contemptuously, he was clumsy. Noiselessly she moved away from he-who-stepped-on-rocks …

and was buried beneath a rush of smelly robes and unwashed flesh.

She kicked at the cursing men who swarmed over her, struck at them until her wrists were caught in a grip like a vise. Hands fumbled at her body. She saw a bearded face, merciless and hard, and a curved dagger raised high. A scream choked in her throat. So many men to kill one woman. It was unfair, she thought dully. Her tunic was grasped at the neck and ripped open to the waist.

“See!” a voice said hoarsely. “It is as I said. A woman, and young.”

The hard face did not change. “A lowland woman! A vessel of lust and corruption!”

“Even so,” a third man said, “remember the Imalla’s commands. And remember Walid’s fate before you think to disobey.” The hard-faced man blinked at that, and frowned.

“Take me to the Imalla,” Tamira gasped. She knew that Imallas were holy men among the hill tribes. Surely a holy man would protect her.

The hard face split in an evil grin. “Let it be as the wench wishes.

Mayhap she will come to regret not choosing my blade.” And he began to laugh.

Chapter XVIII

In the canescent pre-dawn light Conan flattened himself on a narrow granite ledge as a file of hillmen rode by on a narrow path below, between steep walls. Their numbers had thinned as the night waned, but there were still too many of the bearded men to suit him. As the last of the horsemen disappeared up the twisting track, the big Cimmerian scrambled from fingerhold to fingerhold, down from the ledge, and set off at a trot in the opposite direction, toward the campsite that had become a bloody shambles so short a time before, toward Tamira’s hiding place.

Two hundred paces down the trail he passed the remains of one of the Zamoran hunters. He could not tell which. The headless body, covered with blackened blood and bright green flies, lay with limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Conan gave the corpse not a glance as he went by. He had found too many others during the night, some worse than this, and at each one he had only been grateful it was not Jondra. Now worry for Tamira filled his mind. He was sure she was safe-even in daylight that crack would not be easily noticed-but she had been alone for the entire night, a night filled with hillmen and the memories of murder.

Along the slope of a mountain he trotted, eyes ever watchful. Dropping to his belly, he crawled to the top of a rough stone outcropping. Below him lay the camp, blackened ground and ash where Jondra’s tent had stood against the cliff. Half a score bodies, many in more than one piece, were scattered among the stunted trees-Zamoran bodies only, for the hillmen had carried their own dead away. There was no sound but the somber droning of flies.

Conan took a deep breath and went over the ridgetop, half sliding down the other side on loose rocks and shale. The dead he let lie, for he had no time to waste on burials or funeral rites. Instead he concentrated on what might be of use to the living. A spear, whole and overlooked by the hillmen. A waterbag unslashed and bulging damply. A pouch of dried meat.

The tribesmen had been thorough in their looting, however, and there was little to find. Broken spearpoints, the cook’s pots, even the rope used for picketing horses had been taken, and the ashes of Jondra’s tent had been sifted for anything not consumed by the flames. He did find his black Khauranian cloak, tucked where he had left it beneath the edge of a boulder. He added it to the pitiful pile.

“So you are a thief, a looter!”

At the hoarse words Conan grabbed up the spear and whirled. Arvaneus shuffled toward him, black eyes glittering, knuckles white on his spear haft. The huntsman’s head was bare; dust covered him, and his baggy white breeches were torn.

“It is good to see another of Jondra’s party alive,” Conan said. “All thought you were slain by the beast.”

The huntsman’s eyes slid off to the side, skipped from body to body.

“The beast,” he whispered. “Mortal men could not face it. Any fool could see that. That cry…” He shivered. “They should have fled,” he went on plaintively. “That was the only thing to do. To try to fight it, to stay even a moment…” His gaze fell on the pile Conan had made, and he tilted his head to look sidelong at the big Cimmerian. “So you are a thief, stealing from the Lady Jondra.”

Hair stirred on the back of Conan’s neck. Madness was not something he had encountered frequently, especially in one he had known when sane.

“These supplies may save Jondra’s life,” he said, “when I find her. She is lost, Arvaneus. I must find her quickly if she is to get out of these mountains alive.”

“So pretty,” Arvaneus said softly, “with her long legs, and those round breasts meant to pillow a man’s head. So pretty, my Lady Jondra.”

“I am going now,” Conan said, stretching out one hand to pick up his cloak. He was careful not to take his eyes from Arvaneus, for the other man still gripped his spear as if ready to use it.

“I watched her,” the swarthy huntsman went on. The mad light in his eyes deepened. “Watched her run from the camp. Watched her hide from the hillmen. She did not see me. No. But I will go to her, and she will be grateful. She will know me for the man I am, not just as her chief huntsman.”

Conan froze when he realized what Arvaneus was saying. The Cimmerian let out a long breath, and chose his words carefully. “Let us go to Jondra together. We can take her back to Shadizar, Arvaneus. She will be very grateful to you.”

“You lie!” The huntsman’s face twisted as if he was on the point of tears; his hands flexed on his spear haft. “You want her for yourself!

You are not good enough to lick her sandals!”

“Arvaneus, I-“

Conan cut his words short as the huntsman thrust at him. Whipping his cloak up, the Cimmerian entangled the other man’s spear point, but Arvaneus ripped his weapon free, and Conan was forced to leap back as gleaming steel lanced toward him once more. Warily, the two men circled, weapons at the ready.

“Arvaneus,” Conan said, “there is no need for this.” He did not want to kill the man. He needed to know where Jondra was.

“There is need for you to die,” the hawkfaced man panted. Their spearpoints clattered as he felt for weakness and Conan deflected his probes.

“We have enemies enough around us,” Conan told him. “We should not do their killing for them.”

“Die!” Arvaneus screamed, rushing forward, spear outthrust.

Conan parried the thrust, but the huntsman did not draw back. He came on, straight onto the Cimmerian’s spearpoint. Arvaneus’ weapon dropped to the ground, but he took yet another step forward, clawed hands reached for Conan, impaling himself further. Surprise flooded his face; jerkily he looked down at the thick wooden shaft standing out from his chest.

The big Cimmerian caught Arvaneus as he collapsed, eased him to the stony ground. “Where is she?” Conan demanded. “Erlik blast you, where is Jondra?”

Laughter wracked the huntsman. “Die, barbar,” he rasped. “Die.” Blood welled up in his mouth, and he sagged, eyes glazing.

With a muttered curse Conan got to his feet. At least she was alive, he thought. If it was not all a fantasy constructed by a mad mind.

Gathering up his supplies, he set out for Tamira’s hiding place.

From the shaded shelter of huge stone slabs, split from the cliff behind her by an earthquake centuries gone, Jondra stared longingly at the tiny pool of water far below and licked her lips. Had she known it was there while dark still covered the Kezankians, she would not have thought twice before assuaging her thirst. But now … She peered to the east, to a sun still half-hidden by the jagged peaks. It was full enough light to expose her clearly to the eyes of any watchers.

And expose, the voluptuous noblewoman thought wryly, was exactly the right word. Save for the dust of flight on her legs, she was quite naked.

“Not the proper dress for a noble Zamoran woman while hunting,” she whispered to herself. But then, Zamoran nobles were seldom roused from their slumber by murderous hillmen or tents burning around them. Nor did they take part in the hunt as the prey.

She turned once more to study the pool, and licked lips that were dry again in moments. To reach it she would have to traverse a steep, rocky slope with not so much as a blade of grass for cover. At the bottom of the slope was a drop; she could not be sure how far from this angle, but it did not look enough to cause difficulty. The pool itself beckoned her enticingly. A patch of water she could doubtless wade in three strides without sinking to her knees, with three stunted trees on its edge, and at that moment it seemed more inviting than her palace gardens.

“I will not remain here until my tongue swells,” she announced to the air. As if the sound of her own voice had spurred her to action, she crawled from the shelter of the stone slabs and started down the slope.

At first she moved carefully, picking her way over the loose stone.

With every step, however, she became more aware of her nudity, of the way her breasts swayed with every movement, of how her skin flashed palely in the sunlight. First night and then the stone slabs had provided some illusion of being less naked. She had often lain naked in her garden, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun, but here sunlight stripped the illusion as bare as she. Here she could not know who watched her. Reason told her if there was a watcher, she had greater problems than nudity, but reason prevailed nothing against her feelings. Curling one arm over her breasts helped little, and she found herself crouching more and more, hurrying faster, taking less care of where she put her feet.

Abruptly the stones beneath her turned, and she was on her back, sliding amid a cloud of dust. Desperately she clawed for a hold, but each stone she grasped merely set others sliding. Just as she was ready to moan that matters could not get worse, she found herself falling.

Only for long enough to be aware of the fall did she drop, then a jolt pulled her up short. The slide of rocks and dirt she had begun did not cease, however. A torrent of rubble showered down on her. Covering her face with her arms, spitting to clear dust from her mouth, she reflected that she would be a mass of bruises from shoulders to ankles after this day.

The rain of dirt and stones slowed and halted, and Jondra examined her position with a sinking feeling. The first shock was that she hung upside down, against the face of the drop she had been sure would present no difficulty. A twisted tree stump no thicker than her wrist held her ankle firmly in the V it formed with the face of the drop.

Beneath her a pile of rubble from her fall reached just high enough for her to touch the stones with her fingertips.

Deliberately she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths to calm herself. There had to be a way out. She always found a way to get what she wanted, and she did not want to die hanging like a side of mutton.

She would, she decided, just have to get hold of the stump and lift her ankle free.

At her first attempt to bend double a jolt of pain shot from her ankle, and she fell back gasping. The ankle was not broken, she decided. She would not accept that it was. Steeling herself against the pain, she tried again. Her fingers brushed the stump. Once more, she thought.

A rustle drew her eyes toward the pool, and terror chilled her blood. A bearded hillman stood there in filthy yellow tunic and stained, baggy trousers. He licked his lips slowly, and his staring black eyes burned with lust. He started toward her, already loosening his garments.

Suddenly there was a noise like a sharp slap, and the hillman stopped, sank to his knees. Jondra blinked, then saw the arrow standing out from his neck.

Frantically she searched for the shaft’s source. A movement on a mountain caught her eye, a moment’s view of something that could have been a bow. Three hundred paces, the archer in her measured calmly, while the rest of her nearly wept for relief. Whichever of her hunters it was, she thought, she would gift him with as much gold as he could carry.

But she was not about to let anyone, least of all a man in her service, find her in such a helpless position. Redoubling her efforts, she split several splinters of wood from the stump and chipped her fingernails, but got no closer to freeing herself.

Suddenly she gasped in renewed horror at the sight of the man who appeared walking slowly toward her. This was no hillman, this tall form with fur leggings and clean-shaven face and gray eyes. She knew that face and the name that went with it, though she would have given much to deny it. Eldran. Vainly she tried to protect her modesty with her hands.

“You!” she spat. “Go away, and leave me alone!”

He continued his slow advance toward her, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his broadsword, his fur-lined cloak slung back from his shoulders. No bow or quiver was in evidence. His eyes were fixed on her, and his face was grim.

“Stop staring at me!” Jondra demanded. “Go away, I tell you. I neither need nor want your help.”

She flinched as three hillmen burst silently from the rocks behind the Brythunian, rushing at him with raised tulwars. Her mouth opened to scream … and Eldran whirled, the broadsword with its clawed quillons seeming to flow into his hand. In movements almost too fast for her to follow the four danced of death. Blood wetted steel. A bearded head rolled in the dust. And then all three hillmen were down, and Eldran was calmly wiping his blade on the cloak of one.

Sheathing the steel, he stepped closer to her. “Perhaps you do not want my help,” he said quietly, “but you do need it.”

Jondra realized her mouth was still open and snapped it shut. Then she decided silence would not do, but before she could speak the big Brythunian had stepped onto the pile of rubble, taken hold of her calves and lifted her clear of the stump that had held her. One arm went behind her knees, and she was swung up into his arms. He cradled her there as easily as did Conan, she thought. He was as tall as the Cimmerian, too, though not so broad across the shoulders. For the first time since the attack she felt safe. Color abruptly flooded her face as the nature of her thoughts became clear to her.

“Put me down,” she told him. “I said, put me down!”

Silent, he carried her to the pool and lowered her gently by its edge.

“You are down,” he said. She winced as he felt her ankle. “A bad bruise, but it should heal in a few days.”

There was dried blood on his forehead, she saw. “How came you by that?

Have you met other hillmen?”

“I must get my bow,” he said curtly, and stalked away.

As well if he did not return, she thought angrily, but the thought brought a twinge of anxiety. Suppose he did not return. Suppose he decided to abandon her, naked and alone in this wilderness. When he reappeared she gave a small sigh of relief, and then was angry with herself for that.

He set his bow and a hide quiver of arrows down, then turned to her with a bleak face. “We met other hillmen, yes. Two score men followed me into these accursed mountains, and I failed to keep them safe until we accomplished our purpose. Hillmen, hundreds of them, found our camp.

I do not know if any of my companions still live.” He sighed heavily.

“I surmise the same fate befell you. I wish I could promise to see you to safety, but there is a task I have yet to accomplish, and it must take precedence even over you. I will do what I can for you, though. I must regret that I cannot take days to sit here and just look at you.”

It came to her that he was looking at her, looking as if he intended to commit what he saw to memory. It also came to her that she was naked.

Quickly she scrambled to her knees, crouching with her arms over her breasts. “A civilized man would turn his back,” she snapped.

“Then the men you call civilized do not appreciate beauty in a woman.”

“Give me your cloak,” she commanded. “I am no tavern wench to be stared at. Give it to me, I say!”

Eldran shook his head. “Alone in the heart of the Kezankians, naked as a slave girl on the auction block, and still you demand and give orders. Take garments from the hillmen, if you wish, but do so quickly, for we must leave this place. There are others of their sort about. If you do not wish me to watch, I will not.” Taking up his bow again, he nocked an arrow, and his eyes scanned the mountain slopes. “Hurry, girl.”

Face flushed with anger and some other emotion she did not quite understand, Jondra refused even to look at the corpses. “Their garments are filthy and bloodstained,” she said, biting off each word. “You must provide me decent garb. Such as your cloak!”

“Wiccana has cursed me,” the Brythunian said as if she had not spoken,

“that she made your eyes touch my soul. There are many women in my native land, but I must come to here, and see you. I look into your eyes, and I feel your eyes touch me, and there are no other women. It is you I want to bear my children. A petulant, pampered woman whose very blood is arrogance. Why should I so want a woman such as you? Yet my heart soars at the sight of you.”

Jondra’s mouth worked in soundless fury. Petulant! Bear his children!

And he went on, saying unbearable things, things she did not want to hear. Her hand found a fist-sized rock by the water, and, with no more thought than white-hot rage, she hurled it. She gave a shocked gasp when Eldran crumpled bonelessly. A thin line of blood trickled down his temple.

“Eldran?” she whispered.

Frantically she crawled to his unmoving form, held a hand before his mouth. He still breathed. Relief filled her, stronger than she would have believed possible. She hesitated over touching the bloody gash where the stone had struck, then instead gently smoothed back his curling brown hair.

Suddenly her hand jerked back as if burned. What was she doing? She had to be gone before he regained consciousness. At best he would start his ranting again, about her bearing his children and the like. At worst .

. . She remembered the ease with which he had carried her-and firmly pushed away the memory of feeling protected while he did so. He was strong. Strong enough to force his will with her. She must go quickly.

The first of her needs was water, and she dropped down beside the pool to drink until she felt she would burst at one more swallow. The cool water invigorated her. Limping, she walked back to Eldran. He must be the source of what she needed. Truly she could not bring herself to touch the hillmen’s garments, but things of his were another matter.

His bow she snatched up with an excited murmur, and raised it to test the pull. In astonishment she stared from the bow to the man on the ground. She had never met the man who could pull a stronger bow than she, but this bow she could not draw a handspan. Reluctantly she laid it on the ground beside him.

The sword she did not touch, for she had no skill with the weapon.

Instead she slipped the tall Brythunian’s dagger from his belt. Once she made slits in his fur-lined cape for her head and arms, it made a passable tunic, when belted with one of the rawhide thongs that had tied his fur leggings. The leggings themselves she cut to wrap around her feet, then tied with pieces of the other thong.

And then she was ready to go. For long moments she knelt by Eldran’s side, hesitating. Some men never awoke from head injuries. What if he needed care?

“Jondra?” he murmured. Though his eyes remained closed, his hands reached out as if searching for her. She started back from it as from a snake. He must care for himself, she decided.

At the start she kept her pace slow, for the mountainous terrain was rough at best. Her ankle would give no trouble if she did not overtax it, she thought. But after a time her thoughts drifted to Eldran, too.

He had been near to waking when she left. He would be dazed, at first, but not too dazed to know she was gone, nor to remember what she had done. He was a hunter. Her hunters could track. There was no reason to suppose the Brythunian could not. And Eldran had two good legs on which to walk.

Almost without realizing it she began to press for speed. The ache in her ankle grew, but she ignored it. Eldran would be following her. She had to keep ahead of him. Her breath came, in gulps. Her mouth was dry as if she had never drunk, and her throat as well. She was a hunter, too, she told herself. She knew how to watch for prey; she could also watch for a pursuer. Constantly she studied her backtrail, till she spent nearly as much time looking over her shoulder as looking ahead.

Rounding a thick, stone spire, she had taken three staggering, limping strides before she saw the half-score hillmen, sitting their horses and staring at her in amazement.

“A gift from the old gods!” one of them shouted, and booted his horse forward.

Jondra was too tired to struggle as he tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her belly-down across his mount before his saddle pad. Weeping in exhausted despair, she sagged unresisting as the hillman flipped up the tail of Eldran’s cloak and fondled her bare buttocks.

“He will save me,” she sobbed softly into the shaggy fur beneath her face. “He will save me.” And a part of her mind wondered why the countenance she conjured was that of the Brythunian.

Chapter XIX

Conan’s teeth ground as he stared into the crevice where he had hidden Tamira. Staring, he knew, would do no good. She was not likely to appear from the mere force of his looking.

Forgetting the crack in the stone, he examined the ground and frowned.

There was little that was enlightening. The ground was too stony to take footprints, but he had learned to track in the mountains of Cimmeria, and the ground in one set of mountains was not too unlike that in another. Here a rock was scraped. There another had its dark bottom turned up to the light. The story he found was perplexing.

Tamira had left. That, and nothing more. He could find no sign that hillmen or anyone else had come to take her. She had simply gone. Nor had she waited long after his own departure to do so, for he could see remnants of the night’s dew on some of the overturned stones.

“Fool wench,” he growled. “Now I have two of you to find.” And when he found the thief, he vowed, he would wear out a switch.

Carrying his spear at the trail, Conan set out at a lope, easily following the scattered sign. As he did he felt like cursing. It was clear where she had headed. The camp. The rubies. Perhaps she finally had them, for he remembered the iron chests had not been in the ashes of Jondra’s tent.

Suddenly he stopped, frowning at the rocky ground. There had been a struggle here, among several people. He picked up a torn scrap of white cloth. It was a piece of a servant’s tunic, like the one Tamira had been wearing. He crumpled it in his fist.

“Fool wench,” he said again, but softly.

Warily, now, he went on, eyes searching as much for hillmen as for signs of passage. After a time he became aware that he was following three tracks. Two were of men on horseback, one the set he followed, one much fresher. Newest of all were the tracks of several men afoot.

Hillmen did not travel far without their shaggy horses, and there were not enough of them to be soldiers. He could think of no other group at large in the mountains, for if any of the Zamoran hunters remained alive they were certainly seeking the lowlands as fast as they could.

Suspicions roused, he looked even more carefully for likely ambush sites. The Kezankians had a wealth of such places, which did not make his task easier. Sharp bends around precipitous slopes and narrow passages between sheer walls were common. Yet it was a small valley bordered by gentle slopes that first halted him.

From the end of a deep ravine that opened into the valley, he studied it. Motionless, he stood close against the rock wall. It was motion which drew the eye more than anything else. Stunted trees dotted the slopes, but in numbers too small to provide cover. From the valley floor to the peaks there were few boulders or depressions to hide attackers, and those lay halfway to the summit on both sides. Hillmen liked to be close for their ambushes, to allow their prey little time to react. Everything his eyes could see told him the valley was safe, but instinct prickled in the back of his skull. Instinct, which had saved him more than once, won out.

Swiftly he retreated down the ravine. At a place where the wall had collapsed in a fan of rock, nearly blocking the way, he climbed up and out. Patient as a hunting cat he moved from boulder to boulder, twisted tree to twisted tree, following every fold and dip in the land.

Finally he found himself on the slope above the valley. Below him, crouched behind a jagged boulder with bow in hand, was a man. Conan grunted softly in surprise. Though he lacked fur leggings, the embroidered tunic marked the ambusher as a Brythunian. In fact, Conan knew him for the leader of those who had come to Jondra’s camp in the hills. Frowning, he eased silently down the incline. Just above the watcher he stopped, settled his cloak about his shoulders and sat with his spear leaning against his shoulder.

“Whom do you wait for, Eldran of Brythunia?” he asked conversationally.

The Brythunian did not start. Instead he looked calmly over shoulder.

“You, Conan of Cimmeria,” he said. “Though I will admit I did not know it was you who followed us.”

“Not you,” Conan said. “Hillmen. And you can tell the rest of your men to come out. Unless you think they really have need to watch my back.”

Grinning, Eldran sat up. “So we both know what we are about.” He waved his arm, and one by one seven men in furleggings and embroidered tunics appeared on the slope, trotting to join them. “Do you, too, seek to rescue Jondra, then, Cimmerian?”

Conan drew a long breath. “So she is in the hands of the hillmen. Yes, I seek her, though it was another woman, also a captive, I first set out to find. But you speak as if you also wish to rescue Jondra. This puzzles me, considering the warmth of your last meeting with her.”

“We have met since, she and I,” Eldran said ruefully, “and there was even less warmth on her part. Some time after, I found where she had fallen captive to hillmen.” He fingered his rough gray woolen cloak, dirty and torn; it was a hillman’s cloak, Conan saw, stained and dirty.

“There are matters I must discuss sharply with that woman.”

One of the other Brythunians, a bony man with a pointed nose, spat. “I still say forget the woman. We came to slay the beast of fire, and we must do it if we all die. We have no time for foreign women.”

Eldran did not reply, though his face tightened. Another of them murmured, “Peace, Frydan,” and the bony man subsided, albeit with an ill grace.

“So you hunt the beast as Jondra did,” Conan said. “She learned better after twenty of her hunters died, torn apart or burned alive. Only she, myself and one other survived that enounter, and we barely. I would see the thing dead, too, Brythunian, but there are easier ways to kill yourself.”

“The Zamoran wench finds the beast,” Frydan muttered disgustedly,

“while we find only tracks. Mayhap we do need her.”

Again Eldran ignored him. “Jondra hunted for a trophy,” he said. “We hunt to avenge dead kin, and to prevent more deaths. Your steel could not prevail against the beast of fire, Conan, nor any mortalwrought metal. But this,” he laid a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, “was forged by mages for that very purpose.”

The big Cimmerian eyed the weapon with sudden interest. Objects of sorcery were not beyond his experience. Betimes he could feel the aura of their power in his hands. If this weapon was indeed as Eldran said, then his debt to Telades could yet be repaid. “I would heft the weapon that could slay that creature,” he said, but the gray-eyed Brythunian shook his head.

“Once it leaves my possession, Cimmerian, it will journey, Wiccana alone knows how, back to the place where it was given me, and I shall never regain it in this life. Such is the way of its ensorcelment.”

“I understand,” Conan said. Perhaps it was as the Brythunian said, and perhaps not, but did Eldran fall, he vowed, he would see that wherever the blade journeyed, it came first to his hand. One way or another, if he lived, the debt to Telades would be paid. “But before the beast, the women. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Eldran replied. “As our trails have converged, perhaps we will find both women together. Haral continued after the hillmen who have Jondra, and he will mark the way so we may follow quickly.”

Conan got to his feet. “Then let us tarry no longer if we would save them before they are harmed.” Yet as they filed down the slope his heart was grim. Women captives did not receive kind treatment from hillmen. Let them only have courage, he thought. Let them only survive till he could find them.

For the twentieth time Tamira examined her bonds, and for the twentieth time knew the futility of such study. Leather cuffs about her wrists and ankles were attached to stout chains fastened in the ceiling and floor of the windowless, stone-walled chamber, holding her rigidly spreadeagled in mid-air. The slender thief’s sweat-slick nudity glistened in the light from bronze lamps. The air was chill; the sweat came from fear, fear more of something half-sensed in the room than of her captivity.

Jondra hung suspended as she was, facing her, and Tamira exchanged glances with the noblewoman. The taller woman’s body also gleamed, every curve of breast and hip and thigh highlighted. Tamira hoped she also shared the other woman’s calmness of face, though it was slightly spoiled by Jondra’s constant wetting of her lips.

“I am the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid of Zamora,” Jondra said, her voice quaking. “A generous ransom will be paid for my safe return, and that of my serving woman. But we must be clothed and well-treated.

Did you hear me? I will give our weight in gold!”

The crimson-robed man who labored at their feet, drawing a strange pattern on the floor with powders poured from small clay bowls, did not glance up. He gave no sign at all that he had heard, as he had given no sign since they were brought to him. He murmured constantly as he drew, words that Tamira could barely hear, and could not understand at all.

Tamira tried not to listen, but the steady drone bored into her ears.

She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Basrakan Imalla, the men who had thrown her at his feet had called him. She would have wept for her belief that a holy man would protect her, but she feared that if she began she might never stop.

“I am the Lady Jondra of the House … .” Jondra licked her lips nervously. Her head tossed as she attempted to jerk at her bonds; a quiver ran down the length of her, but no more. “I will give you twice our weight in gold.” Her voice was fringed with panic, and the tone of panic grew with every word. “Three times! Four! Any amount you wish!

Anything! But whatever you intend, do not do it! Do not! Oh, Mitra protect, me, do not!”

The beautiful noble sobbed and struggled wildly, and her fear sparked Tamira’s own to flame. The thief knew now what she sensed in the chamber, what she had not allowed herself to even think of. Sorcery.

The very walls reeked of sorcery. And something else, now that she let herself feel it. A malevolent hatred of women. Sobs wracked her, and tears streamed from beneath eyelids squeezed shut as if she could hide behind them.

“You are vessels of iniquity” The harsh voice cut through Tamira’s weeping. Unwillingly she looked. Basrakan stood stroking his forked beard, and his black eyes glittered despite at them. “All women of the cities are unclean vessels of lust. The old gods themselves will prove it on your bodies. Then I will chastise you of your vileness, that you may go to the ancient gods of these mountains in purity.”

Shuddering, Tamira tore her eyes from him, and found herself looking down at the design he had drawn, an elongated diamond with concave sides. A short, black candle on one of the points flickered beneath her, another beneath Jondra. The configuration of lines within the diamond pulled at her gaze, drew it hypnotically. Her thoughts fragmented, became a maze, and unrecognizable images came into her mind, images that brought terror. Shrieking in the depths of her mind she tried to flee, to find a refuge, but all was chaos and horror.

Suddenly the maze itself shattered. Gasping, she found that she could look away from the diamond. The sternfaced Imalla had seated himself cross-legged at one end of the unholy pattern. He struck a small gong of burnished brass that stood by his side, and she realized it had been that sound which had released her from the maze. Again the gong sounded, and he began a new chant. Once more the gong chimed. And again. Again.

She told herself that she would not listen; but her bones seemed to vibrate with his words, with the reverberations of the brass. The air within the chamber grew chill; it thickened and stirred. Its caress on her body was palpable, like the feathery stroking of soft hands that touched her everywhere at once. And the heat, rising.

In disbelief she stared down at the candle beneath her. The flame stood firm, untroubled by the breezes she felt stirring, yet it could not possibly be the source of the waves of heat that seemed to rise from it. But the heat came, from somewhere, licking through her limbs, making her belly roll and heave, changing. She tried to shake her head, tried to deny the desire that curled and coiled within her. Dimly she heard a groan of negation from Jondra. Vaguely she saw the noblewoman, head thrown back, hips jerking uncontrollably, and she knew that she writhed as well.

Her lips parted; a moan was wrenched from her. “Conan!” With the tattered shreds of reason left to her, she recognized an answering cry from Jondra. “Eldran!” It would not stop. Her blood boiled.

With a crash the doors of the chamber flew open. Tamira gasped as if plunged into icy water; all sensation of desire fled from her in an instant. Weeping replaced it, tears for the uncleanness that seemed to cover her.

Basrakan leaped to his feet. “Do you desire death, Jbeil?” he snarled.

“Do you desire to join Sharmal?”

The gaunt man in the door bowed deeply. “Forgiveness, Basrakan Imalla,”

he said hastily, “but it is the Eyes of the Fire.”

Basrakan pulled him erect by fistfuls of black robe. “Speak, fool! What of the Eyes?”

“Sharmal claims that a woman brings the Eyes into the mountains. And he describes her.” Jbeil flung a hand, pointing to Jondra.

Through her tears Tamira met the noblewoman’s eyes, and got a confused stare and a shake of the head in return.

Basrakan’s blood-red robes swirled as he spun. Tamira would have flinched from his gaze if she could. Before it had been malign. Now she could read in them skin being flayed, flesh stripped from bone. Her skin. Her flesh.

“Two camps of outsiders were destroyed this night past.” The Imalla’s voice was quiet, like the first brush of a knife against a throat.

“‘this woman came from one of them, Jbeil. Find every scrap that was taken from that camp. Find the Eyes of Fire. Find them, Jbeil.”

Jbeil ran from the chamber as if his own throat had felt that blade’s caress.

Basrakan’s eyes, like ebon stones, were locked on Jondra, but Tamira could not break her own gaze from them. As she stared helplessly, she found herself praying to every god she knew that whatever Basrakan sought was brought to him. Quickly.

Chapter XX

From the scant shelter of a sparse clump of twisted trees above the hillman village, Conan frowned at a two-story stone structure in its center. Armed men swarmed in hundreds about the score of crude stone huts, but it was the slate-roofed building that held his eyes. Around him lay the Brythunians, and they, too, watched.

“I have never heard of a dwelling like that among hillmen,” Eldran said quietly. “For the Kezankians, it is a palace.”

“I have never heard of so many hillmen in one place,” Frydan said nervously. His eyes were not on the village, but on the surrounding mountains. Half a score camps were visible from where they lay, one close enough for the breeze to bring the sour smell of cooking and the shouts of men searching through the low tents. They had seen more clusters of the low, earth-colored tents in reaching their present vantage. “How many are there, Haral?”

“A score of thousands, perhaps.” The plump Brythunian’s voice was a study in casualness. “Perhaps more. Enough to go around, in any case.”

Frydan stared at him, then closed his eyes wearily.

Through a gap between mountains Conan caught sight of crude stone columns. “What is that?” he asked, pointing.

Haral shook his head. “I have done little looking about, Cimmerian. I saw the woman, Jondra, taken into that building below, and since I have watched and waited for Eldran.”

“Rescuing her will not be easy,” Conan sighed. “Are you sure you did not see another captive?” Once more Haral shook his head, and the Cimmerian resumed his study of what lay below.

“It would take an army to go down there,” Frydan protested. “Eldran, we did not come to die attempting to rescue a Zamoran wench. We seek the beast of fire, or do you forget? Let us be about it.” Some of the other Brythunians murmured agreement.

“I will have her out of there,” Eldran replied quietly, “or die in the-“

An awkward silence hung over them for a moment, then Haral abruptly said, “There is an army in these mountains.”

Frydan’s mouth twisted sarcastically. “The Zamorans? I am sure they would come to help us if we only asked.”

“Perhaps they would,” Conan said with a smile, “if they were asked properly.” The others looked at him doubtfully, obviously wondering if he made a joke, so he went on. “Their general is one Tenerses, I understand, a lover of glory and easy victories. He has been sent into the mountains to put down a gathering of the hill tribes. Well, here it is.”

Even Haral was skeptical. “Unless this Tenerses is a fool, Cimmerian, he’ll not attack here. Why, he’d be outnumbered four to one at the very least.”

“That is true,” Conan agreed. “But if he thought there were but a thousand or so hillmen, and they on the point of leaving before he could gain his victory…” He grinned at the others, and slowly, as the idea caught hold, they grinned back. All save Fyrdan.

“The tribesmen would all rush to meet his attack,” Eldran said, “giving us as good as a clear path to Jondra’s prison. Perhaps your woman-Tamira?-is there as well. Both sets of tracks came to this village.”

Conan’s smile faded. He had stopped counting hillman camps when he reached twenty, but Tamira could be in any one of ten thousand dingy tents. He could do nothing save rescue Jondra and hope to find the slender thief after. It was a faint hope at the moment, but he had no more. “Who will go to lure Tenerses?” he said grimly.

“Fyrdan has a silver tongue,” Eldran said, “when he wishes to use it so.”

“We should be about our charge. It is what we came for,” the bony man said stiffly.

Eldran put a hand on his shoulder. “I cannot leave this woman,” he said quietly.

Frydan lay still for a moment, then sighed and sat up. “If I can steal one of the sheep these hill scum call a horse, I will reach the Zamorans in half a turn of the glass. A moment to snare this general with my tale and get his block-footed soldiers marching.” He squinted at the sun, approaching its zenith. “The earliest I could get them here is midafternoon, Eldran. With luck.”

“Wiccana will give you her luck, and guide your words,” Eldran said.

Conan turned from the leavetaking among the Brythunians to resume his study of the stone building. “I will get you out,” he vowed under his breath. “Both of you.”

Pain had long since come and gone in Tamira’s shoulders, wracked by her suspension. Even the numbness that replaced pain had faded into the background, leaving only fear. She did not have to look at Jondra to know the noblewoman’s eyes were directed, as were hers, at Basrakan, the man who held their fate on the tip of his tongue. She could as soon have grown wings as taken her eyes from his dark presence.

The Imalla sat, now, on a low stool. Idly he stroked his forked beard and watched the two bound women with eyes as black as bottomless pits.

For the first turn of the glass he had stalked the room, muttering dire threats and imprecations at those who moved slowly to obey him, to obey the will of the true gods, muttering about the Eyes of Fire. Twice so long he had sat quietly, and Tamira wished he would pace again, rant, anything but look at her. His eyes no longer glittered; they seemed devoid of life or even the barest shreds of humanity. In their depths she read tortures that did not even have names. That which called itself Tamira cowered in the furthest recesses of her mind in a vain attempt to escape that diabolic ebon gaze, but she could not look away.

At the doors came a scratching. It was like the slash of a knife in the dead silence. Tamira shuddered; Jondra whimpered and began to sob softly.

Basrakan’s scarlet robes rippled as he rose fluidly. His voice was filled with preternatural calmness. “Bring the Eyes to me.”

One door opened a crack, and Jbeil entered diffidently. “I have not your knowledge, Basrakan Imalla,” the gaunt man said as if he dared not breathe, “but these fit the description my poor ears heard.” The gems he extended in his hands gleamed in the lamp light.

Tamira’s eyes widened. The blackrobed man held Jondra’s necklace and tiara.

Basrakan put out a hand; the jewelry was laid in his palm. From beneath his blood-red robes he produced a dagger. Almost delicately he picked at the settings around the two great rubies. Gold, sapphires and black opals he threw aside like trash. Slowly his hands rose before his face, each cupping one sanguine gem.

“They are mine at last,” he said as if to himself.

“All power is mine.” His head swiveled-no other muscle moved-to regard the two naked women suspended in chains. “Before this sun sets the doubters will have their proof. Confine these women, Jbeil. This day they will be given to the old gods.”

Tamira shivered, and for an instant she teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. Given to the old gods. Sacrificed-it could mean no other. She wanted to cry out, to plead, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. Wildly she stared at the swarthy, turbanned men who appeared to take her from her bonds. Her limbs would not work; she could not stand unaided. As she was carried from the room, her eyes sought desperately for Basrakan, the man who had the power of life and death here, the man who could, who must change his edict. The sternfaced Imalla stood before a table on which rested the rubies, his long fingers busy among vials and flasks.

The door closed, shutting off Tamira’s view, and a wordless wail of despair rose in her throat. She tried to find moisture in her mouth so that she might beg the cold-eyed men who bore her unheeding of her nudity. To them she might as well not be a woman. Sacrificial meat, she shrieked in her mind.

Inexorably, she was carried on, down winding stone steps into musty corridors. A thick iron-bound door opened, and she was thrown to land heavily on hard-packed earth. With a hollow boom the door slammed.

Escape, she thought. She was a thief, a skilled thief, used to getting into places designed to keep her out. Surely she could get out of one meant to keep her in. Awkwardly, for the stiffness of her arms and legs, she pushed up to her knees and surveyed her prison. The dirt floor, rough stone walls, the obdurate door. There was nothing else.

Dim light filtered down from two narrow slits near the ceiling, twice the height of a tall man above her head. Her momentary burst of hope faded away.

A whimper reminded her that she was not alone. Jondra lay huddled on the dirt, her head in her arms. “He will never find me,” the noblewoman wept bitterly.

“He will find us,” Tamira said stoutly, “and save us.” To her shock she realized that, though all her other hopes were gone, one still remained. She had never asked favor or aid from any man, but she knew with unshakeable certainty that Conan would find her. She clung to an image of him breaking down the heavy, iron-bound door and bearing her away, clutched at it the way a drowning man would clutch a raft.

Jondra did not stop her slow, inconsolable sobbing. “He does not know where I am. I hit him with a rock, and … I do not want to die.”

Tamira crawled to the taller woman and shook her by a shoulder. “If you give up, then you are dead already. Do you think I did not know terror to my soul in that chamber above?” She made a disgusted sound deep in her throat. “I’ve seen virgin girls on the slave block with more courage than you. All of that vaunted pride was camouflage for a sniveling worm ready to crawl on her belly.”

Jondra glared up at her with some spark of her old spirit, but there was still a plaintive note in her voice. “I do not want to die.”

“Nor do I,” Tamira replied, and abruptly the two women were clinging to each other, trembling with their fear yet drawing strength each from the other. “You must say it,” Tamira whispered fiercely. “Say it, and believe it. He will save us. “

“He will save us,” Jondra said hoarsely.

“He will save us.”

“He will save us.”

Basrakan intoned the last word, and his eyes opened wide with awe at the rush of strength through his veins. He felt as if a single bound would take him the length of the room. He drew a deep breath and thought he could detect each separate odor in the room, sharp and distinct. So this was what it was to be bonded with the drake.

On the table the glow faded from the rubies, from the lines of power drawn there in virgins’ blood and powdered bone and substances too dreadful for mortal men to speak their names. But the glow that permeated Basrakan’s very marrow did not fade. Triumph painted his face.

“We are one,” he announced to the chamber, to the dangling chains where the women had hung. “Our fates are one. It will obey my summons now.”

Tamira started as the door opened, crashing back against the stone wall. She felt Jondra tense as Basrakan appeared in the opening.

“It is time,” the Imalla said.

“He will save us,” Tamira whispered, and Jondra echoed, “He will save us.”

“They are stirring,” Eldran said.

Conan nodded, but did not take his eyes from the two-story stone structure below. From all the camps hillmen were moving, thick lines of them filing toward the stone columns that pecked through the gap between mountains. In the village five score turbanned men stood before the stone building. A red robed man with a forked beard and multihued turban stepped out, and a muffled roar rose from the waiting hillmen, the words of it lost with the distance.

The Cimmerian stiffened as Jondra appeared, naked, arms bound behind her, a guard to either side with drawn tulwar. And behind her came Tamira, tied and bare as well.

“They are together,” Eldran said excitedly. “And unharmed, so far as I can see. Alive, at least, praise Wiccana.”

“So far,” Conan said.

The skin between the Cimmerian’s shoulderblades prickled. There was much about the scene below that did not please him, much beside the way the women were being treated. Where were they being taken, and why?

Why?

The hundred hillmen formed a rough, hollow circle about the redrobed man and the two women. The procession joined the streams flowing toward the distant columns.

“This feels ill,” Conan said. Unconsciously he eased his ancient broadsword in its worn shagreen sheath. “I do not think we can wait longer.”

“Just a little longer,” Haral pleaded. “Fyrdan will bring the soldiers soon. He will not fail.”

“Not soon enough, it seems,” Conan said. He got to his feet and dusted his hands together. “I think I will take a stroll among the hillmen.”

With a grin, Eldran straightened. “I feel the need of stretching my legs as well, Cimmerian.”

“You young fools!” Haral spluttered. “You’ll get your heads split.

You’ll … you’ll …” With a growl he stood up beside them. “We’ll need turbans, if we’re to pass for hillmen long enough to keep our heads.” The others were on their feet now, too.

“There is a camp just down the mountain,” Conan said, “and none in it save women and children, that I can see.”

“Then let us be about our walk,” Eldran said.

“These old bones aren’t up to this any more,” Haral complained.

The small file of men started down the mountain.

“… For the time of our glory has come,” Basrakan cried to the throngs of turbanned men jammed shoulder to shoulder on the mountainsides about the amphitheater. Their answering roar washed over him. “The time of the old gods’ triumph is upon us!” he called. “The sign of the true gods is with us!”

He spread his arms, and the flow of power through his bones made him think he might fly. Loudly he began to chant, the words echoing from the slopes. Never had so many seen the rite, he thought as the invocation rang out. After this day there would be no doubters.

His dark eyes flickered to the two naked women dangling from their wrists against the iron posts in the center of the circle of crude stone pillars. It was fitting, he thought, that those who brought him the Eyes of Fire should be the sacrifice now, when the new power that was in him was made manifest to his people. They struggled in the bonds, and one of them cried a name, but he did not hear. The glory of the old gods filled him.

The last syllable hung in the air, and vibration in the stone beneath his feet told Basrakan of the coming. He drew breath to announce the arrival of the sign of the true gods’ favor.

From the masses on the slopes shouts and cries drifted, becoming louder. Basrakan’s face became like granite. He would have those who dared disturb this moment flayed alive over a slow fire. He would …

There were men within the circle! Abruptly the words penetrated his mind.

“Soldiers!” was the cry. “We are attacked!”

Walking hunched to disguise his height, with his cloak drawn tightly around him, Conan pushed through the pack of hillmen quickly, giving no man more than an instant to see his face. Grumbles and curses followed him. A roughly wound turban topped his black mane, and his face was smeared with soot and grease from a cooking pot, but he was grateful that men saw what they thought they should see, no matter what their eyes told them. The wide circle of crude stone columns was only a few paces away. Conan kept his head down, but his eyes were locked on the two women. A few moments more, he thought.

A murmur ran through the crowd, growing louder. Far down the mountain someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry. It had been more than the big Cimmerian expected to go undetected so long. Best to move before the alarm became general. Grasping his sword hilt firmly, Conan tore off the turban and leaped for the circle of columns.

As he passed between two of the roughly hewn pillars he realized what words were being said. “Soldiers! We are attacked! Soldiers!” Over and over from a thousand throats. Zamorans, he thought, laughing. They might live through this yet.

Then he was running across the uneven granite blocks, blade bared. The redrobed man, forked beard shaking with fury, shouted at him from atop a tunnel built of stone that seemed to reach back into the mountain, but Conan did not hear. Straight to the blackened iron posts he ran.

Tears sprang into Tamira’s eyes when she saw him.

“I knew you would come,” she laughed and cried at the same time. “I knew you would come.”

Swiftly Conan sawed apart the leather cords on her wrists. As she dropped, he caught her with an arm around her slim waist, and she tried to twine her arms about his neck.

“Not now, woman,” he growled. In a trice he had her slender nudity bundled in his cloak. From the corner of his eye he saw that Eldran had treated Jondra the same. “Now to get out,” he said.

Haral and the other Brythunians were within the columned circle, all facing outwards with swords in hand. From outside, bearded faces stared at them, some with disbelief, some with anger. And some, Conan saw, in amazement, some with fear. Tulwar hilts were fingered, but none; moved to cross the low granite wall atop which the columns stood.

From afar came the sounds of Zamoran drums beating furiously. The clash of steel drifted faintly in the air, and the shouts of fighting men.

Mayhap we can just stay here till the soldiers come,” Haral said unsteadily.

A ripple ran through the hillmen pressed against the circle’s perimeter.

“Stay back!” the redrobed man cried. “The unbelievers will be dealt with by-“

Screaming at the top of their lungs, a score of turbanned warriors leaped into the circle with steel flashing against the Brythunians. By ones and twos, others joined them. Conan wished he knew what held the rest back, but there was suddenly no time for thought.

The Cimmerian blocked a tulwar slash aimed at his head, booted another attacker full in the belly. The second man fell beneath the feet of a third. The Cimmerian’s steel pivoted around his first opponent’s curved blade to drive through a leather-vested chest. He wanted to spare a glance for Tamira, but more hillmen were pressing on him. A mighty swing of his ancient broadsword sent a turbanned head rolling on the granite blocks, then continued on to rip out a bearded throat in a spray of blood.

Battle rage rose in him, the fiery blood that drowned reason. Hillmen rushed against him, and fell before a whirlwind of murderous steel. His eyes burned like azure flames, and all who looked into them knew they saw their own death. In some small corner of his mind sanity remained, enough to see Eldran, facing three hillmen and pushed almost to the low stone wall, fighting with broadsword in one hand and tulwar in the other. Haral and another Brythunian stood back to back, and a barricade of corpses slowed others who tried to reach them.

Abruptly the hillman who faced Conan backed away, dark eyes going wide with horror as he stared past the Cimmerian’s shoulder. The tribes men outside the circle were silent, pressing back from the stone columns.

Conan risked a backward glance, and clamped his teeth on an oath.

Slowly the iridescent form of the beast of fire moved from the stone tunnel, its great golden eyes coldly surveying the arena filled with men who slowed and ceased their struggles as they became aware of it.

One of the leathery bulges on its back had split; the edge of what appeared to be a wing, like that of a great bat, protruded. And almost beneath its feet crouched Tamira and Jondra.

“Behold!” the redrobed mage cried, flinging wide his arms. “The sign of the true gods is with us!”

For an instant there was silence save for the dimly heard sounds of distant battle. Then Eldran shouted. “Cimmerian!” The Brythunian’s arm drew back; the ancient broadsword with its strange, clawed quillons arcked spinning through the air.

Conan shifted his own sword to his left hand, and his right went up to catch the hilt of the thrown blade.

As if his movement, or perhaps the sword, had drawn its eyes, the brightly scaled beast stepped toward the Cimmerian. Memory of their last encounter was strong in Conan, and as the spike-toothed maw opened he threw himself into a rolling tumble. Flame roared. The hillman he had faced screamed as beard, hair and filthy robes blazed.

Conan knew well the quickness of the beast. He came to his feet only to dive in a different direction, one that took him closer. Fire scorched the stone where he had stood. The glittering creature moved with the speed of a leopard, Conan like a hunting lion. With a mutter of hope that Eldran spoke truly about the weapon, the big Cimmerian struck. A shock, as of sparks traveling along his bones, went through him. And the blade sliced through one golden eye, opening a gaping wound down the side of the huge scaled head, a wound that dripped black ichor.

Atop the stone tunnel the redrobed man screamed shrilly and threw his hands to his face. The beast reared back its head and echoed the scream, the two sounds merging, ringing through the mountains.

Conan felt his marrow freezing as the cry lanced into him, turning his muscles to water. Anger flared in him. He would not wait so to die.

Fury lent him strength. “Crom!” he roared. Rushing forward, he plunged the ensorceled weapon into the creature’s chest.

With a jerk, the beast’s movement tore the hilt from his hand. Onto its hind legs it rose, towering above them all. If its cry had been one of pain before, now it was a shriek of agony, a scream that made the very stones of the mountains shiver.

The redrobed man was down on his knees, one hand to his face, the other clutching his chest. His black eyes on the scaled form were pools of horror. “No!” he howled. “No!”

Slowly the monstrous shape toppled. The stones of the tunnel cracked at its fall. A damp, leathery wing emerged from the broken bulge on its back, quivered once and was still. From beneath the beast extended a corner of scarlet robe, rivulets of crimson blood and black ichor falling from it.

From the hillmen on the slopes a keening went up, an eery wail of despair. Suddenly the thousands of them broke into fear-ridden flight.

Even now they tried to avoid the circle of columns, but their numbers were too great, their panic too strong. Those close to the low stone wall were forced over it, screaming denial, by the press of human flesh. The circle became a maelstrom, hundreds trampling each other in their eagerness to flee.

Like a rock Conan breasted the flood, his eyes searching desperately for Tamira and Jondra. The men streaming around him had no thought left but escape, no desire but to claw through the pack, grinding underfoot anyone who slowed them. No man raised a hand against the Cimmerian except to try to pull him from their path. None touched a weapon, or even seemed to see him with their terrified eyes. They would not stop to harm the women deliberately, but if either woman went down beneath those trampling feet …

Eldran’s height made him stand out as he waded through the shorter hillmen with Jondra in his arms. The Brythunian scrambled over the low stone wall and disappeared in the wash of dirty turbans.

Then Conan caught sight of the gold-edged black cloak, well beyond the circle, being borne around the mountain by the tide of flight. “Fool woman,” he growled.

The clash of steel was closer, driving fear deeper into the hearts of men still trying to flee. There was no room to draw or swing a sword, but here and there daggers were out now, and hillman spilled hillman’s blood to carve a way through to safety. With hammering fists and swordhilt, Conan hewed his own path through the mob, ruthless in his need to reach Tamira. Screaming men went down before his blows, and those who fell beneath the feet of that frenzied horde did not rise again.

The hillman village came into sight. Around the two-story stone building swarmed a hell of panting, desperate men dragging screaming black-swathed women with squalling babes in their arms and children clutching their long skirts. Here knots of men could break off from the seething mass to seek their camps. Others paused in flight to grab what they could from the stone huts. Bright steel flashed and reddened, and possessions changed hands thrice in the space of a breath.

Conan’s sword and the breadth of his shoulders kept a space clear about him, but he barely even saw the men who slunk away from him like curs.

He could no longer find Tamira among the now spreading streams of hillmen.

Abruptly the slender woman thief dashed from the stone structure that towered over the others in the village. She gasped and snugged the gold-edged black cloak tightly about her as Conan grabbed her arm.

“What in Mitra’s name are you doing?” the Cimmerian demanded fiercely.

“My clothes,” she began, and shrieked when he raised his sword.

Deftly Conan brought his blade over her head to run through a blackrobed man who ran from the building with a dagger in his hand and murder in his eye. The hillman’s multihued turban rolled from his head as he fell.

“I was just,” Tamira began again, holding the cloak even more tightly, but she cut off with a squeal as Conan swung her over his shoulder.

“Fool, fool woman,” he muttered, and with a wary eye for other hillmen with more than flight on their minds, he headed for the mountain heights.

Behind him, clangor rose as the Zamoran army topped the rise overlooking the village.

Epilogue

Leaning back against a boulder, Conan allowed himself a real smile for the first time in days. They were at the edge of the mountains, and in their journey they had seen no hillman who was not fleeing. Certainly there had been none interested in attacking outsiders.

“… And when Tenerses realized how many hillmen he faced,” Fyrdan was saying, “he began shouting for me and his torturer all in one breath.”

“There was little fun where we were, either,” Haral told him. “These old bones cannot take this adventuring any more.”

Jondra and Tamira, still swathed in their borrowed cloaks, huddled close to a small fire with their heads together. They showed more interest in their own talk than that of the men.

“It was hard enough with the Zamorans,” the bony man laughed. “I thought I would have my hide stripped off on the instant. Then that . .

. that sound came.” He shivered and pulled his cloak closer about him.

“It turned men’s bowels to water. The hillmen stood for only a moment after that, then broke.”

“That was Conan,” Eldran said from where he examined the two shaggy horses they had found wandering, saddled but riderless, in the mountains. There had been others that they could not catch. “He slew the beast of fire, and it … screamed.”

“And the Zamoran gained his victory,” Haral said, “and his glory. It will be years before the hill tribes so much as think of uniting again.

He will be acclaimed a hero in Shadizar, while the Cimmerian gets nothing.”

“Let Tenerses have his glory,” Conan said. “We have our lives, and the beast is dead. What more can we ask?”

Eldran turned suddenly from the horses. “One more thing,” he said sharply. “A matter of debt. Jondra!”

Jondra stiffened and looked over her shoulder at the tall Brythunian.

Tamira rose swiftly, carefully holding the black cloak closed, and moved to Conan’s side.

“I know of no debt I owe you.” The gray-eyed noblewoman’s voice was tight. “But I would speak with you about garments. How long am I to be forced to wear no more than this cloak? Surely you can find me something more.”

“Garments are a part of your debt,” Eldran told her. He ticked off items on his fingers. “One cloak lined with badger fur. One pair of wolf fur leggings. And a good Nemedian dagger. I will not speak of a crack on the head. Since I see no chance of having them returned, I will have payment.”

Jondra sniffed. “I will have their weight in gold sent to you from Shadizar.”

“Shadizar?” Eldran laughed. “I am a Brythunian. What do I care of gold in Shadizar?” Abruptly he leaped, bearing the tall noblewoman to the ground. From his belt he produced long leather thongs like those used to tie leggings. “If you cannot pay me,” he said into her disbelieving face, “then I will have you in payment.”

Conan rose to his feet, one hand going to his sword hilt, but Tamira laid both of her small hands atop his. “Do nothing,” she said softly.

The big Cimmerian frowned down at her. “Do you hate her so?”

Tamira shook her head, smiling. “You would have to be a woman to understand. Her choice is to return to being a wealthy outcast, scorned for her blood, or to be the captive of a man who loves her. And whom she loves, though she cannot bring herself to admit it. It is a choice any woman could make in an instant.”

Conan admitted to himself that Jondra did not seem to be struggling as hard as she might, though she almost made up for it with her tirade.

“You Brythunian oaf! Erlik blast your soul! Unhand me! I’ll have your head for this! Derketo shrivel your manhood! I will see you flayed alive! Ouch! My ransom will be more wealth than you’ve ever seen if I am unharmed, Mitra curse you!”

Eldran straightened from her with a grin. She was a neat bundle in the cloak, now, snugly tied from shoulders to ankles with the leather thongs. “I would not take all the wealth of Zamora for you,” he said.

“Besides, a slave in Brythunia can have no interest in gold in Shadizar.” He turned his back on her indignant gasp. “You understand, Cimmerian?”

Conan exchanged a glance with Tamira; she nodded. “I have had it explained to me,” he answered. “But now it is time to take my leave.”

“Wiccana watch over you, Cimmerian,” Eldran said. Frydan and Haral echoed the farewell.

Conan swung into the saddle of one of the two horses. “Tamira?” he said, reaching down both hands. As he lifted her up behind him, her cloak became disarrayed, exposing soft curves and satin skin, and she had to press herself to his back to preserve her modesty.

“Be more careful,” she complained.

The big Cimmerian only smiled, and spoke to the others. “Fare you well, and take a pull at the hellhorn for me if you get there before me.”

As their shaggy mount carried them away from the small camp, Tamira said, “Truly you do not have to worry for her, Conan. I’ll wager by the end of the year she has not only managed to make him free her, but that they are wed as well.”

Conan only grunted, and watched for the first appearance of the lowlands through the gap ahead.

“It is a pity we must go back to Shadizar empty handed, is it not?”

Still Conan did not reply.

“No doubt some hillman has the rubies, now,” Tamira sighed heavily.

“You must understand, I do not hold it against you. I would like to see you once we return to Shadizar. Perhaps we could meet at the Red Lion.”

“Perhaps we could.” Delving into the pouch at his belt Conan drew out the two great rubies from Jondra’s regalia. They seemed to glow with a crimson light on his calloused palm. “Perhaps I might spend some of what I receive for these on you.” Tamira gasped; he felt her rumaging within the cloak, and smiled. “Did you think I would not know of the pouch sewn inside my own cloak?” he asked. “I may not have been raised as a thief, but I have some skill with my fingers.”

A small fist pounded at his shoulder. “You said you would not steal from her,” the slender thief yelped.

“And so I did not,” he answered smoothly. “I stole them from you.”

“But you would not steal from her because you slept with her, and you .

. . I … we…”

“But did you not say that should not trouble a thief?” he chuckled.

“Do not go to sleep,” Tamira said direly. “Do not even close your eyes.

Do you hear me, Cimmerian? You had better heed my words. Do you think I’ll allow…”

Conan tucked the rubies back into his pouch, then thoughtfully moved the pouch around on his belt where it would be harder for her to reach.

He might not receive the triumphal parade that Tenerses would get, but his would not be a bad return to Shadizar. Laughing, he booted his horse into a gallop.

Conan the Invincible

Chapter I

The icy wind whipping through the brown, sheer-walled chasms of the Kezankian Mountains seemed colder still around the bleak stone fortress that grew from the granite flank of a nameless mountain in the heart of the range. Fierce hillmen who feared nothing rode miles out of their way to go around that dark bastion, and made the sign of the horns to ward off evil at its mention.

Amanar the Necromancer made his way down a dim corridor that violated the very heartstone of the mountain, followed by those no longer human. He was slender, this thaumaturge, and darkly handsome, his black heard cropped close; but a vaguely serpentlike streak of white meandered through his short hair, and the red flecks that danced in his eyes drew the gaze, and the will, of anyone foolish enough to look deeply. His henchmen looked like ordinary men, at first glance and from a distance, but their faces were vaguely pointed, their eyes glinted red beneath ridged helmets, and their skins bore reptilian scales.

The fingers of the elongated hands that held their spears ended not in nails, but in claws. A curved tulwar swung at the hip of every one except for hire who marched close behind Amanar. Sitha, Warden of the S'tarra, Amanar's Saurian henchman, bore a great doubleedged ax. They came to tall doors set in the stone, both doors and stone carved with serpents in endless arabesques.

"Sitha," Amanar said, and passed through the doors without pausing.

The reptiloid warden followed close behind, closing the massive doors after his master, but Amanar barely noticed. He spared not a glance for the naked captives, a man and a woman, bound hand and foot, who lay gagged at one side of the column-circled room. The mosaicked floor bore the likeness of a golden serpent, surrounded by what might have been the rays of the sun. The mage's black robe was wound about with a pair of entwined golden serpents, their heads finally coming over his shoulders to rest on his chest. The eyes of the embroidered serpents glittered with what would not possibly be life. He Spoke.

"The sacrifice, Sitha."

The prisoners writhed in a frenzy to break their bonds, but the scaled henchman, muscles bulging like a blacksmith's, handled the man easily. In minutes the captive was spreadeagled atop a block of red-streaked black marble. A trough around the rim of the dark altar led to a spout above a large golden bowl. Sitha ripped the gag away and stepped back.

The bound man, a pale-skinned Ophirian, worked his mouth and spat. "Whoever you are, you'll get naught from me, spawn of the outer dark! I'll not beg! Do you hear? No plea will crack my teeth, dog! I will not...."

Amanar heard nothing. He felt beneath his robe for the amulet, a golden serpent in the clutches of a silver hawk. That protected him, that and other things he had done, yet each time there was the realization of the power he faced. And controlled.

Those fools of Stygia, those who called themselves mages of the Black Ring, had so condescendingly allowed him to study at their feet, confident of his worshipful admiration. Until it was too late, none of them knew the contempt that festered in his heart. They prated of their power in the service of Set, Lord of the Dark, yet no man of them dared so much as lay a finger on the dread Book of Typhon. But he had dared.

He began to chant, and behind the altar a mist formed, red and golden, as a mist of flames. Beyond the mist blackness stretched into infinity. The Ophirian's tongue was stilled, and his teeth chattered in their place.

It was said that no human mind could comprehend the terrible knowledge contained in the book, or hold a single word of it without madness and death. Yet Amanar had learned. But a single page, it was true, before the numinous powers of it, wrenching at his mind, turning his bones to jelly, sent him grievously wounded and howling like a dog out of the city of Khemi into the desert. And in his madness, in that waterless waste beneath a burning sun, he had remembered that page still. Death could not come near him.

In the mists, from the mists, a shape coalesced. The Ophirian's eyes bulged in silence-stricken terror. The woman screamed into her gag. The golden head that reared above them in the swirling vapors-neither quite serpent nor lizard-was surrounded by a halo of a dozen tentacles longer than a man. The serpentine, golden-scaled body stretched back into the darkness, on beyond the reach of eye to see or mind to know. A bifurcate tongue flickered between fangs, and eyes holding the flames of all the furnaces that ever were regarded Amanar. Greedily, the mage thought, and fingered his amulet once more.

Across the sands he had stumbled, burning, drying, thirsting, remembering that page and unable to die. At last he came on Pteion the Accursed, fear haunted and abandoned. In the days of dark Acheron, before Stygia was aright but a stretch of sand. In the nameless, forgotten cavern beneath that city he had found Morath-Aminee, bound there for rebellion against Set when those who now called themselves then walked on all fours and rooted beneath stones for grubs. With his memories of that page-would they never stop burning at him?-he found the means to release the god-demon, the means to keep it in rein, however tenuously, and the means of his own protection. He had found power.

"Morath-Aminee," he half-chanted, half hissed. "O Eater of Souls, whose third name is death to hear, death to say, death to know, thy servant Amanar brings these offerings to thy sacrifice."

He held out his hand. Sitha placed a golden-hilted knife, its blade gilded, in his grasp. The Ophirian opened his mouth to scream, and gurgled horribly as Amanar slit his throat. At that instant the golden tentacles of the god-demon struck at the man on the altar, clutched him where he lay amid the spreading pool of his own blood. The tentacles avoided the proximity of Amanar.

"Eat, O Morath-Aminee," the mage chanted. He stared into the eyes of the sacrifice, waiting the proper moment.

Horror grew on the Ophirian's face as he realized he was dying. And yet he did not die. His heart pumped; his life blood poured from his ruined throat, the rubiate liquor flowing over ebon marble, channeled to the golden vessel at the foot of the altar for later necromancies. But he was not allowed to die.

Amanar heard in his mind the satisfied sibilation of the god-demon feeding. The Ophirian's pale eyes filled with desolation as the man realized what was being taken from him besides his life. The mage watched those eyes become lifeless though yet alive, empty windows on a soulless depth. With care he made a precise slit in the twitching chest. His hand poised above it, and he met the Ophirian's despairing gaze.

"Thank me for the release of death," he said.

The Ophirian's lips labored to form the words, but no sound emerged. Only horrendous bubbles in the diminishing flow of blood from the chasm that had been his throat.

Amanar smiled. His hand thrust into the slit, caught the pulsing heart, and ripped it free. It beat one last time as he held it before the Ophirian's eyes.

"Die," the mage said. The god-demon released its hold, and the husk on the altar slumped at last in death.

Sitha appeared beside the mage with a golden plate, on which Amanar placed the heart. That, too, had its uses in his magicks. He took the linen cloth the reptilian offered, and wiped his blood-stained hands.

Sitha turned away.

"Amanar." The god-demon's susurration rolled against the walls. "Thou useth my sacrifice, soulless one, for thine own pleasure."

Amanar glanccd hurriedly about him before answering. The woman writhed in her bonds on the edge of insanity. She heard nothing beyond the shrieks her gag choked back. Sitha continued out of the sacrificial chamber as if he had not heard. The S'tarra had little capacity to think for themselves, but they could obey orders. Sitha would place the heart in a golden bowl prepared beforehand with spells to keep its contents fresh. Only then would he be able to consider anything else, if his soulless mind were ever capable of considering anything.

The mage dropped his head on his chest and bowed in his most humble fashion. "O, great Morath-Aminee, I am but thy humble servant. Thy servant who freed thee from the bonds set upon thee by the Dark One." Gods and demons could not forget, not as men forget, but oft did they prefer not to remember debts in their dealings with men. The reminder could not be amiss.

A golden-scaled tentacle reached toward Amanar-it was all he could do not to flinch away-then jerked back as if from a great heat. "Thou wearest the amulet still."

"O Most High among the Powers and Dominions, this one is so insignificant beside thee that thou mightest destroy him without noticing such a speck in thy path. I wear this merely that thou mayst be aware of me, and spare me to thy service and greater glory."

"Serve me well, and in that day when Set is bound where I was bound, in that day when I rule the Outer Dark, I will give thee dominion over my herds, over those who call themselves men, and thou shalt bring the multitudes to my feeding."

"As thy word is, so shall it be, great Morath-Aminee." Amanar became aware that Sitha had returned with two other S'tarra. The necromancer flicked his hand in a summoning gesture, and the two scurried toward the bloodstained altar, dropping to all fours as they came near the black marble slab. Their eyes did not rise to the god-demon towering over them as, half-groveling, they unfastened the sacrifice and bore it away.

A different tap jerked Amanar around to stare at the tall cavern doors. No one dared disturb these ceremonies. The tap came again. He twitched as the voice of the god-demon hissed in his mind.

"Go, Amanar. This concerneth thee most vitally."

He glanced back at the great golden serpent-shape, rearing motionless above the black altar. The flame-filled eyes watched him with-what?-amusement? "Prepare the next sacrifice, Sitha."

The bound woman spasmed in ever greater frenzy as scaly hands lifted her from the tiled floor. Amanar hurried from the chamber.

A Turanian with a pointed beard stood eyeing the S'tarra nervously, his slight plumpness and loose yellow robes contrasting sharply with the empty red eyes and ring mail of the guards. The man craned to look beyond the mage into the sacrificial chamber, and Amanar closed the door firmly. He had few human servants who could be trusted beyond the Keep; it was not yet time for them to learn what they served.

"Why have you left Aghrapur, Tewfik?" he snapped.

The plump man put on a fawning smile and washed his hands in front of his chest. "It was not my fault, master, I beg you to understand that."

"What do you babble about, man?"

"That which you set me to watch, master. It is no longer in the strongrooms of King Yildiz."

Amanar blanched. Tewfik, taking it for rage, cringed, and the S'tarra guardsmen stirred uneasily, but the thaumaturge was quaking inside. He gripped the Turanian's robes with iron fingers, pulling the man erect.

"Where is it now? Speak, man, for your life!"

"Shadizar, master! I swear!"

Amanar glared at him and through him. Morath-Aminee had known the import of this message. The god-demon must know of what was now in Shadizar. A new hiding place must be found, but first he must secure within his power that which was gone. That which must be kept from Morath-Aminee at all costs. And to do that, he must risk bringing it within the very grasp of the god-demon. The risk! The risk!

He was not aware that he still carried the sacrificial knife until he slid it into the Turanian's ribs. He looked into the face that now stared open hate at him, and felt regret. Human servants were useful in so many ways that S'tarra could not be. Too useful to be thrown away casually.

The mage felt something thump against his chest and looked down. Jutting from his black robe was a knife hilt from which Tewfik's hand fell away. Contemptuously Amanar hurled the dying man from him.

He plucked the knife free, held up its bloodless blade before the man on the stone floor, whose mouth was filling with his own blood.

"Fool," Amanar said. "You must kill my soul before mortal weapon can harm me."

He turned away. The guards' desire for fresh meat would dispose of what remained of Tewfik. If Amanar were to have the time he needed, Morath-Aminee must be kept satiated. More prisoners must be brought. More sacrifices for the Eater of Souls. He reentered the sacrificial chamber to attend to the first of these.

Chapter II

The purple-domed and many-spired city of Shadizar was known as 'the Wicked,' but the debauches of its high-chinned nobles, of their cruel-eyed wives and pearl-draped daughters, paled beside the everyday life of that part of the city known as the Desert. In those narrow, twisting streets and garbage-strewn alleys, haven of thief, kidnapper, murderer, and worse, the price of a body was silver, the price of a life copper, the price of a soul not worth speaking of.

The big youth lounging on the bed upstairs in the tavern of Abuletes, in the heart of the Desert, had no thought of those who might be coughing out their lives in the fetid squalor outside. His eyes, sapphire blue beneath a square-cut black mane, were on the olive-skinned woman across the small room, who was adjusting the gilded brass breastplates that displayed rather than concealed her swelling bilobate chest.

The rest of her attire consisted of transparent pantaloons, slashed from waist to ankle, and a gilded girdle of no more than two fingers' breadth, slung low on her rounded hips. She wore four rings, green peridot and red almandine on her left hand, pale blue topaz and red-green alexandrite on her right.

"Do not say it, Conan," she said without looking at him.

"Say what?" he growled. If his unlined face proclaimed that he had seen fewer than twenty winters, his eyes at that moment said they had been Winters of iron and blood. He tossed aside his fur covering with one massive hand and rose to dress, as always first seeing that his weapons were close to hand, the ancient broadsword in its worn shagreen sheath, the black-bladed Karpashian dagger that he strapped to his left forearm.

"I give to you freely what I sell to others. Can you not be satisfied with that?"

"There is no need for you to follow your profession, Semiramis. I am the best thief in Shadizar, in all Zamora." At her laugh, his knuckles whitened on his leather-wrapped sword hilt. He had more reason for his pride than she knew. Had he not slain wizards, destroyed liches, saved one throne and toppled another? What other of his years could say half so much? But he had never spoken of these things even to Semiramis, for fame was the beginning of the end for a thief.

"And for all your thievery," she chided, "what do you have? Every copper you steal drips from your fingers like water."

"Crom! Is that why you will not be mine alone? The money?"

"You're a fool!" she spat. Before he could say more, she flounced out of the room.

For a time he sat frowning at the bare wooden walls. Semiramis did not know half of his troubles in Shadizar. He was indeed the most successful thief in the city, and now his successes were beginning to rebound on him. The fat merchants and perfumed nobles whose dwellings he robbed were making up a reward to put an end to his depredations. Some of those self-same men had hired him upon occasion to retrieve an incriminating letter or a gift given indiscreetly to the wrong woman. What he knew of their secrets was likely as big a reason for the reward as his thefts. That, and their hot-eyed daughters, who found it delightfully wicked to dally with a muscular young barbarian.

With a grunt he got to his feet and slung a black Khauranian cloak edged in cloth-of-gold around his broad shoulders. These ruminations were gaining him nothing. He was a thief. He should be about it.

As he made his way down the rickety stair into the crowded common room, he ground his teeth. In the center of the room Semiramis sat on the lap of a mustachioed Kothian kidnapper in a striped cloak of many colors. Gold armlets encircled his biceps, and a gold hoop hung from one dark ear. The oily man's right hand gripped Semiramis' breasts; his left arm flexed as the other hand worked beneath the table.

She wriggled seductively, and giggled as he whispered in her ear. Conan ignored the pair as he strode to the bar.

"Wine," he ordered, and dug into the leather purse at his belt for the necessary coppers. There were few enough remaining.

Fat Abuletes made the coins disappear, replacing them with a leathern jack of sour-smelling wine. His neck rose in grimy folds above the collar of a faded yellow tunic. His dark eyes, sunk in the suet of his face, could weigh a man's purse to the last copper at twenty paces. Instead of moving away, he remained, studying Conan from behind the fat, flat mask of his face.

The smells of the thin wine and half-burned meat from the kitchens warred with the effluvia wafted in from the streets whenever the door opened to let another patron in or out. It yet lacked three full glasses of night-fall, but the tables were filled with cutpurses, panderers and footpads. A busty courtesan in brass-belled ankle bracelets and two narrow strips of yellow silk hawked her wares with lascivious smiles.

Conan marked the locations of those who looked dangerous. A turbanned Kezankian hillman licked his thin lips as he studied the prostitute, and two swarthy Iranistanis in loose, flowing red pantaloons and leather vests ogled her, as well. Blood might well be shed there. A Turanian coiner sat hunched over his mug, pointed beard waggling as he muttered to himself. It was known in the Desert that he had been badly bested by a mark, and he was ready to assuage his humiliation with the three-foot Ibarri swordknife at his hip. A third Iranistani, dressed like the first two but with a silver chain dangling on his bare chest, attended a fortuneteller turning her cards at a table against the far wall.

"What hold you, Conan," Abuletes said abruptly, "on the coming troubles?"

"What troubles?" Conan replied. His mind was not on the tavernkeeper's words. The soothsayer was no wrinkled hag, as such women were wont to be. Silken auburn hair showed at the edges of her voluminous brown cloak's hood, framing a heart-shaped face. Her emerald eyes had a slight tilt above high cheekbones. The cloak and the robe beneath were of rough wool, but her slender fingers on the Mar cards were delicate.

"Do you listen to nothing not connected to your thievery?" Abuletes grumbled. "These six months past no fewer than seven caravans bound for Turan, or coming from there, have disappeared without a trace.

Tiridates has the army out after the Red Hawk, but they've never gotten a glimpse of that she-devil. Why should this time be any different? And when the soldiers return empty-handed, the merchants screaming for something to be done will force the king to crack down on us in the Desert."

"He has cracked down before," Conan laughed, "and nothing changes." The Iranistanis said something with a smirk. The soothsayer's green eyes looked daggers at him, but she continued to tell her cards.

Conan thought the Iranistani had the same idea he did. If Semiramis wanted to flaunt her trade before him.... "What proof is there," he said, without taking his eyes from the pair across the room, "that the Red Hawk is responsible? Seven caravans would be a large bite for a bandit to chew."

Abuletes snorted. "Who else could it be? Kezankian hillmen never raid far from the mountains. That leaves the Red Hawk. And who knows how many men she has? Who knows anything of her, even what she looks like? I've heard she has five hundred rogues who obey her like hounds the huntsman."

Conan opened his mouth for an acid retort, and at that moment the situation at the fortuneteller's table flared. The Iranistani laid a hand on her arm. She shook it off. He clutched at her cloak, whispering urgent words, hefting a clinking purse in his other hand.

"Find a boy!" she spat. Her backhand blow to his face cracked like a whip.

The Iranistani rocked back, his face livid. "Slut!" he howled, and a broadbladed Turanian dagger appeared in his fist.

Conan crossed the room in two pantherish strides. His big hand clamped the bicep of the Iranistani's knife arm and lifted the man straight up out of his chair. The Iranistani's snarl changed to open-mouthed shock as he tried to slash at the big youth and his knife dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers. Conan's iron grip had shut off the blood to the man's arm.

With contemptuous ease, Conan hurled the man sprawling on the floor between the tables. "She doesn't want your attentions," he said.

"Whoreson dog!" the Iranistani howled. Left-handed, he snatched the Turanian coiner's Ibarri sword-knife and lunged at Conan.

Hooking his foot around the Iranistani's toppled chair, Conan swung it into the man's path. The Iranistani tumbled, springing up again even as he fell, but Conan's booted toe took him under the chin before he could rise above a crouch. He flipped backward to collapse at the feet of the coiner, who retrieved the sword-knife with a covetous glance at the Iranistani's purse.

Conan turned back to the pretty fortuneteller. He thought he saw a dagger disappearing beneath her capacious cloak. "As I saved you an unpleasantness," he said, "perhaps you will let me buy you some wine."

Her lip curled. "I needed no help from a barbar boy" Her eye flickered to his left, and he dove to his right. The scimitar wielded by one of the other Iranistanis bit into the table instead of his neck.

He tucked his shoulder under as he dove, rolling to his feet and whipping his broadsword free of its shagreen sheath in the same motion. The two Iranistanis who had been sitting alone faced him with scimitars in hand, well apart, knees slightly bent in the stance of experienced fighters. The tables around the three had emptied, but otherwise the denizens of the tavern took no notice. It was a rare day that at least one man did not give his death rattle on that sawdust-covered floor.

"Whelp whose mother never knew his father's name!" one of the longnosed men snarled. "Think you to strike Hafim so and walk away? You will drink your own blood, spawn of a toad! You will-"

Conan saw no reason to listen to the man's rantings. Shouting a wild Cimmerian battle cry, he whirled his broadsword aloft and attacked. A contemptuous smile appeared on the dark visage of the nearer man, and he lunged to spit the muscular youth before the awkward-seeming overhand slash could land. Conan had no intention of making an attack that left him so open, though. Even as the Iranistani moved, Conan dropped to the right, crouching with his left leg straight out to the side. He could read death knowledge in the man's dark bulging eyes. As the gleaming blue blade of the scimitar passed over his left shoulder his broadsword was pivoting, slashing through the leather jerkin, burying itself deep in the Iranistani's ribs.

Conan felt the blade bite bone; beyond the man choking on his own blood he saw the second Iranistani, teeth bared in a rictus, rushing at him with scimitar extended. He threw his shoulder into the pit of the dying man's stomach, straightening to lift the Iranistani and hurl him at his companion. The sword tearing free of the body held it up enough that it fell sprawling at the other man's racing feet. The second Iranistani leaped over his friend, curved blade swinging. Conan's slash beat the scimitar aside, and his backhand return ripped out the man's throat. Blood spilling down his dirty chest, the Iranistani tottered back with disbelieving eyes, pulling an empty table over when he fell.

Conan caught sight of Semiramis heading up the stair, one of the Kothian's big hands caressing a nearly bare buttock possessively as he followed. With a grimace, he wiped his blade clean on the baggy pantaloons of one of the dead men. Be damned to her, if her eyes had not shown her she already had a better man. He turned back to the table of the red-haired woman. It was empty. He cursed again, under his breath.

"This one's dead, too," Abuletes muttered. The fat tavern keeper knelt beside the first man Conan had confronted, his hands like plump spiders as they slipped the silver chain from about the dead man's neck.

"You broke his neck. Hanuman's stones, Conan. That's three free-spenders you've done me out of. I've half a mind to tell you to take your custom elsewhere."

"Now you have it all," Conan said sourly, "and you don't have to give them any of your watered wine.

But you can bring me a pitcher of your best. Kyroian. On them."

He settled at a table against the wall, thinking rough thoughts about women. At least the red-haired wench could have shown a little gratitude. He had saved her from a mauling, if nothing worse. And Semiramis .... Abuletes plonked down a rough earthenware pitcher in front of him and stretched out a grubby hand. Conan looked significantly at the last of the dead Iranistanis being hauled away by the two scruffy men who earned coppers fetching and carrying around the tavern. He had seen all three of the dead men's purses disappear beneath Abuletes' filthy apron. After a moment the tavern keeper shuffled his feet, wiped his fat hands on his apron, and left. Conan settled down to serious drinking.

Chapter III

The tables that had emptied during the fight refilled quickly. No one had given more than a passing glance to the dead men as they were removed; the level of shouted laughter and raucous talk had never decreased. The half-naked courtesan briefly considered the breadth of Conan's shoulder with lust-filled eyes, then passed on from his grim face.

His troubles, Conan decided by the time he had emptied four wooden tankards of the sweet wine, would not be settled by the amounts he normally stole. Had he been a man of means the auburn-haired baggage would not have gone. Semiramis would not have thought it so important to ply her trade. But golden goblets lifted from the halls of fat merchants, pearl necklaces spirited from the very bedsides of sleek noblewomen, brought less than a tenth their value from the fences in the Desert. And the art of saving was not in him. Gambling and drinking took what remained from wenching. The only way to sufficient gain was one grand theft. But what? And from where?

There was the palace, of course. King Tiridates had treasures beyond counting. The king was a drunkard-he had been so since the days when the evil mage Yara was the true power in Zamora-but in justice he should willingly part with some portion of his wealth for the man who had brought Yara and the Elephant Tower down. If he knew that man's deeds, and if he were of a mind to part with anything to a barbarian thief. But the debt was owed, to Conan's mind, and collecting on it-albeit without Tiridates'

knowledge or consent would not be theft at all.

Then there was Larsha, the ancient, accursed ruins not far from Shadizar, The origin of those toppled towers annd time-eroded walls was shrouded in the depths of time, but everyone agreed there was treasure there. And a curse. A decade before, when Tiridates was still a vigorous king, he had sent a company of the King's Own inside those walls in the full light of day. Not one had returned, and the screams of their dying had so panicked the king's retinue and bodyguard that they had abandoned him.

Tiridates had been forced to flee with them. If any had tried to penetrate that doom-filled city since, none had ever returned to speak of it.

Conan did not fear curses-had he not already proven himself a bane of mages?-as he did not fear to enter the very palace of the king. But which? To remove sufficient wealth from the palace would be as difficult as removing it from the accursed ruins. Which would give him the most for his labors?

He became aware of eyes on him and looked up. A dark, hook-nosed man wearing a purple head-cloth held by a golden fillet stood regarding him. A purple silk robe hung from the watcher's bony shoulders.

He leaned on a shoulderhigh staff of plain, polished wood, and, though he bore no other weapon and was plainly not of the Desert, there was no fear of robbery-or anything else-in his black eyes.

"You are Conan the Cimmerian," he said. It was not a question. "It is said you are the best thief in Shadizar."

"And who are you," Conan said warily, "to accuse an honest citizen of thievery? I am a bodyguard."

The man took a seat across from him without asking. He held his staff with one hand; Conan saw that he regarded it as a weapon. "I am Ankar, a merchant dealing in very special merchandise. I have need of the best thief in Shadizar."

With a confident smile Conan sipped his wine. He was on familiar ground, now. "And what special merchandise do you wish to acquire?"

"First know that the price I will pay is ten thousand pieces of gold."

Conan set his mug down before he slopped wine over his wrist. With ten thousand... by the Lord of the Mound, he would be no longer a thief, but a man with a need to guard against thieves. "What is it you wish stolen?" he said eagerly.

A tiny smile touched Ankar's thin lips. "So you are Conan the Thief. At least that is settled. Know you that Yildiz of Turan and Tiridates have concluded a treaty to stop the depredations against trade along their common border?"

"I may have heard, but there's no loot in treaties."

"Think you so? Then know that gifts were exchanged between the kings in token of this pact, which is to last for five years. To Tiridates Yildiz sent five dancing girls bearing a golden casket, on the lid of which are set five stones of amethyst, five of sapphire and five of topaz. Within the casket are five pendants, each containing a stone the like of which no man has ever seen."

Conan was tiring of the strange man's supercilious air. Ankar took him for a rude, untutored barbarian, and perhaps he was, but he was not a fool.

"You wish me to steal the pendants, not the casket," he said, and was pleased to see Ankar's eyes widen.

The self-named merchant took his staff with both hands. "Why do you say that, Cimmerian?" His voice was low and dark.

"The casket you describe could be duplicated for far less than what you offer. That leaves the pendants."

He measured the other's age and added with a laugh, "Unless it's the dancing girls you want."

Ankar did not join in, continuing to watch Conan with hooded eyes. "You are not stupid-" He stopped abruptly.

Conan angrily shut off his laughter. Not stupid-for a barbarian. He would show this man a thing or three of barbarians. "Where are these pendants?" he growled. "If they're in the treasure room, I will need time for planning and-"

"Tiridates basks in the reflected glory of a more powerful monarch. The casket shows that Yildiz has concluded a treaty with him. It is displayed in the antechamber before his throne room, so that all who approach him may see."

"I will still need time," Conan said. "Ten days for preparations."

"Impossible! Make fewer preparations. Three days."

"Fewer preparations and you'll never see those pendants. And my head will decorate a pike above the West Gate. Eight days."

Ankar touched the tip of his tongue to thin lips. For the first time he appeared uncertain. His eyes clouded as if he had lost himself in his thoughts. "Fi... four days. Not a moment more."

"Five days," Conan insisted. "A moment less, and Tiridates will keep his pendants."

Ankar's eyes dimmed again. "Five days," he said finally.

"Done." Conan suppressed a grin. He meant to have those pendants in his hand that very night, but had he told this Ankar that, when he put the pendants in the man's hands, Ankar would think it nothing out of the ordinary. By negotiating for ten days and settling for five as the absolute minimum, he would be thought a miracle worker when he produced the pendants on the next morn. He had seen each reaction from men before. "There was mention of ten thousand gold pieces, Ankar."

The swarthy man produced a purse from beneath his robe and slid it halfway across the table. "Twenty now. A hundred more when you tell me your plan. The balance when you hand me the pendants."

"A small part beforehand for a payment of ten thousand," Conan grumbled, but inside he was not displeased at all. The twenty alone equalled his largest commission before this, and the rest would be in hand on the morrow.

He reached for the purse. Of a sudden Ankar's hand darted to cover his atop the gold-filled pouch, and he started. The man's hand was as cold as a corpse's.

"Hear me, Conan of Cimmeria," the dark man hissed. "If you betray me in this, you will pray long your head did in truth adorn a pike."

Conan tore his hand free from the other's bony grip. He had to restrain himself from working the hand, for those icy fingers had seemed to drain the warmth from his own. "I have agreed to do this thing," he said hotly. "I am not so civilized as to break the honor of my word."

For a moment he thought the hook-nosed man was going to sneer, and knew that if he did he would rip the man's throat out. Ankar contented himself with a sniff and a nod, though. "See that you remember your honor, Cimmerian." He rose and glided away before Conan could loose a retort.

Long after the dark man was gone the muscular youth sat scowling. It would serve the fool right if he kept the pendants, once they were in hand. But he had given his word. Still, the decision as to where to gain his wealth had been settled. He upended the pouch, spilling thick, milled-edge roundels of gold, stamped with Tiridates' head, into his palm, and his black mood was whisked away.

"Abuletes!" he roared. "Wine for everyone!" There would be time enough for frugality when he had the ten thousand.

The man who called himself Ankar strode out of the Desert, trailed to the very end of the twisting, odoriferous streets by human jackals. They, sensing something of the true nature of the man, never screwed their courage tight enough to come near him. He, in turn, spared them not a glance, for he could bend men's minds with his eye, drain the life from them with a touch of his hand. His true name was Imhep-Aton, and many who knew him shuddered when they said it.

At the house he had rented in Hafira, one of the better sections of Shadizar, the door was opened by a heavily muscled Shemite, as large as Conan, with a sword on his hip. A trader in rare gems-for as such he was known among the nobles of the city-needed a bodyguard. The Shemite cowered away from the bony necromancer, hastening to close and bolt the door behind him.

Imhep-Aton hurried into the house, then down into the basement and the chambers beneath. He had chosen the house for those deep buried rooms. Some works were best done in the bowels of the earth, where no ray of sun ever found its way.

In the anteroom to his private chamber two lush young girls of sixteen summers fell on their knees at his entrance. They were naked but for golden chains at wrist and ankle, waist and neck, and their big, round eyes shone with lust and worshipful adoration. His will was theirs, the fulfillment of his slightest whim the greatest desire of their miserable lives. The spells that kept them so killed in a year or two, and that he found a pity, for it necessitated the constant acquisition of new subjects.

The girls groveled on their faces; he paused before passing into his inner chamber to lay his staff before the door. Instantly the wooden rod transmuted into a hooded viper that coiled and watched with cold, semi-intelligent eyes. Imhep-Aton had no fear of human intruders while his faithful myrmidion watched.

The inner room was barren for a mage's work-chamber-no piles of human bones to stoke unholy fires, no dessicated husks of mummies to be ground into noxious powders-but what little there was permeated the chamber with bone-chilling horror. At either end of a long table, thin, greasy plumes of smoke arose from two black candles, the tallow rendered from the body of a virgin strangled with her mother's hair and made woman after death by her father. Between them lay a book bound in human skin, a grimoire filled with secrets darker than any outside of Stygia itself and a glass, fluid-filled simulation of a human womb, within which floated the misshapen form of one unborn.

Before the table Imhep-Aton made arcane gestures, muttered incantations known to but a handful human. The homunculus twitched within the pellucid womb. Agony twisted its deformed face as the pitiful jaws creaked painfully open.

"Who calls?"

Despite the gurgling distortion of that hollow cry, there was an impenousness to it that told Imhep-Aton who spoke across the countless miles from ancient Khemi, in Stygia, through another such monstrosity.

Thoth-Amon, master mage of the Black Ring.

"It is I, Imhep-Aton. All is in readiness. Soon Amanar will be cast into the outer dark."

"Then Amanar still lives. And the One Whose Name May Not Be Spoken yet profanes the honor of Set.

Remember your part, and your blame, and your fate, should you fail."

Sweat dampened Imhep-Aton's forehead. It had been he who brought Amanar into the Black Ring. He remembered once seeing a renegade priest given to Set in a dark chamber far beneath Khemi, and swallowed bile.

"I will not fail," he muttered, then forced strength into his words so the homunculus could hear and transmit. "I will not fail. That which I came to secure will be in my hands in five days. Amanar and the One Whose Name May Not Be Spoken will be delivered into the power of Set."

"That you are given this chance of redemption is not of my will. If you fail...."

"There will be no failure. An ignorant barbarian thief who knows no more of reality than a gold coin will-"

The horrible, hollow voice from the twisted shape in the glass vessel cut him off. "I care naught for your methods. Set cares naught. Succeed, or pay."

The grotesque mouth snapped shut, and the homunculus curled tighter into a fetal ball. The communication was ended.

Imhep-Aton scrubbed damp palms down the front of his purple robe. Some measure of what had been sucked out of him these minutes past, he could regain at the expense of the two girls awaiting his desires.

But they knew their place in the scheme of things, if not the brevity of that place. There was little to be gained from such. Not so the thief. The Cimmerian thought himself Imhep-Aton's equal, if not, from some strange barbarian perspective, his superior. The mere fact that he was alive would remind the mage of this time when he stank with fear-sweat. Once the pendants were safely in hand this Conan would find not gold, but death, as his payment.

Chapter IV

The alabaster walls of Tiridates' palace stood five times the height of a man, and atop them guardsmen of the King's Own marched sentry rounds in gilded half-armor and horsehair-crested helms. Within, when the sun was high, peacocks strutted among flowers from lands beyond the ken of man, the hours were struck on silver gongs, and silken maids danced for the pleasure of the drunkard king. Now, in the purple night, ivory towers with corbeled arches and golden-finialed domes pierced the sky in silent stillness.

Conan watched from the shadows around the plaza that surrounded the palace, counting the steps of guards as they moved toward each other, then away. His boots and cloak were in the sack slung at his side, muffling any clank of the tools of his trade. His sword was strapped across his back, the hilt rising above his right shoulder, and the Karpashian dagger was sheathed on his left forearm. He held a rope of black-dyed raw silk, on the end of which dangled a padded graponel.

As the guards before him met once more and turned to move apart, he broke from the shadows. His bare feet made almost no sound on the gray paving stones of the plaza. He began to swing the graponel as he ran. There would be little time before the guards reached the ends of their rounds and turned back.

He reached the foot of the pale wall, and a heave of his massive arm sent the graponel skyward into the night. It caught with a muted elicit. Tugging once at the rope to test it, he swarmed up the wall as another man might climb a stair.

Wriggling flat onto the top of the wall, he stared at the graponel and heaved a sigh of relief. One point had barely caught the lip of the wall, and a scrape on the stone showed how it had slipped. A finger's breadth more .... But he had no time for these reflections. Hurriedly he pulled the sable rope up, and dropped into the garden below. He hit rolling, to absorb the fall, and came up in rustling bushes against the wall.

Above, the guards came closer, their footsteps thudding on the stone. Conan held his breath. If they noticed the scrape, an alarm would surely be raised. The guards came together, muttered words were exchanged, and they began to move apart. He waited until the sounds of their going had faded, then he was off, massive muscles working, in a loping stride past ferns that towered above his head and pale-flowered vines that rustled where there was no breeze.

Across the garden a peacock called, like the plaintive cry of a woman. Conan cursed whoever had wandered out to wake the bird from its roosting. Such noises were likely to draw the guards' attentions.

He redoubled his pace. There was need to be inside before anyone came to check.

Experience had taught him that the higher he was above a ground-level entrance, the more likely anyone who saw him was to think he had a right there. If he were moving from a lower level to a higher, he might be challenged, but from a higher to a lower, never. An observer thought him servant or bodyguard returning from his master to his quarters below, and thought no more on it. It was thus his practice to enter any building at as high a level as he could. Now, as he ran, his eyes searched the carven white marble wall of the palace ahead, seeking those balconies that showed no light. Near the very roof of the palace, a hundred feet and more above the garden, he found the darkened balcony he sought.

The pale marble of the palace wall had been worked in the form of leafy vines, providing a hundred grips for fingers and toes. For one who had played on the cliffs of Cimmeria as a boy, it was as good as a path. As he swung his leg over the marble balustrade of the balcony, the peacock cried again, and this time its cry was cut off abruptly. Conan peered down to where the guardsmen made their rounds. Still they seemed to notice nothing amiss. But it would be well to get the pendants in hand and be away as quickly as possible. Whatever fool was wandering about and perhaps silencing peacocks-must surely rouse the sentries given time.

He pushed quickly through the heavy damask curtains that screened the balcony and halfway across the darkened room before he realized his mistake. He was not alone. Breath caught in a canopied, gauze-hung bed, and someone stirred in the sheets.

The Karpashian dagger appeared in his fist as he gathered himself and sprang for the bed. Silken gauze as fine as spun cobwebs ripped away before him, and he grappled with the bed's occupant, his wild charge carrying them both onto the marble mosaic floor. Abruptly he became aware that the flesh he wrestled with, though firm; was yielding beneath his iron grip, and there was a sweet scent of flowery perfume. He tore away the silk sheets to see more clearly who it was that struggled so futilely against him.

First bared were long, shapely legs, kicking wildly, then rounded hips, a tiny waist, and finally a pretty face filled with dark, round eyes that stared at him fearfully above the fingers he locked instantly over her mouth. She wore a silver-mounted black stone that dangled between her small, shapely breasts, and beyond that was concealed only by dark, waistlong hair.

"Who are you, girl?" He loosened his grip to let her speak, but kept his hand poised in case she took it into her head to scream.

She swallowed, and a small, pink tongue licked her ripe lips. "I am called Velita, noble sir. I'm only a slave girl. Please do not hurt me."

"I won't hurt you." He cast a quick eye around the tapestry-draped bedchamber for something convenient to bind her with. She could not be left free to raise an alarm. It came to him that these were not the sleeping quarters of a slave girl. "What are you doing here, Velita? Are you meeting someone?

The truth, now."

"No one, I swear." Her voice faltered, and her head dropped. "The king chose me out, but in the end he preferred a youth from Corinthia. I could not return to the zenana. I wish I were back in Aghrapur."

"Aghrapur! Are you one of the dancing girls sent by Yildiz?"

Her small head tossed angrily. "I was the best dancer at the court of Yildiz. He had no call to give me away." Suddenly she gasped. "You do not belong here! Are you a thief? Please! I will be yours if you free me from this catamite king."

Conan smiled. The idea had amusement value, this stealing of a dancing girl from the king's palace. Slight as she was, she would be no inconsiderable burden to carry over the palace wall, but he had pride of his youth and strength.

"I'll take you with me, Velita, but I have no desire to own slaves. I'll set you free to go where you will, and with a hundred pieces of gold, as well. This I swear by Crom, and by Bel, god of thieves." A generous gesture, he reflected, but he could well afford it. It would still leave nine thousand nine hundred for himself, after all.

Velita's lower lip trembled. "You aren't making sport of me, are you? Oh, to be free." Her slender arms snaked around him tightly. "I will serve you, I swear, and dance for you, and-"

For a moment he enjoyed the pleasant pressure of her firm by breasts against his chest, then drew himself back to the matter at hand.

"Enough, girl. Help me obtain what I came for, and you need do no more. You know the pendants that came with you to Tiridates?"

"Surely. See, here is one." She pulled the silver chain from around her neck and thrust it into his hands.

He turned it over curiously. His time as a thief had given him some knowledge in the value of such things.

The silver mounting and chain were of good workmanship, but plain. As for the stone .... An ebon oval as long as the top joint of his forefinger, it had the smooth feel of a pearl, but was not. Red flecks seemed to appear near the surface and dart into great depths. Abruptly he tore his gaze from the pendant.

"What are you doing with this, Velita? I was told they were displayed in a golden casket in the antechamber of the throne room."

"The casket is there, but Tiridates likes us to dance for him wearing them. We wear them this night."

Conan sat back on his heels, replacing his dagger in its sheath. "Can you fetch the other girls here, Velita?"

She shook her head. "Yasmeen and Susa are with officers of the guard, Consela with a steward, and Aramit with a counselor. As the king has little interest in women, the others take their pleasure. Does...

does this mean you will not take me with you?"

"I said I would," he snapped. He hefted the pendant on his palm. Ankar would likely not pay any part of the ten thousand for one pendant, but to gather the other four from women scattered throughout the palace, each in the company of a man, was clearly impossible. Reluctantly he replaced the silver chain about her neck. "I will take you away, but I fear you must remain another night yet."

"Another night? If I must, I will. But why?"

"Tomorrow night at this hour I will come again to this room. You must gather the pendants here, with the other girls or without. I cannot carry more than one of you over the wall, but I'll not harm them, I promise."

Velita worried her lower lip with small, white teeth. "They care not, so long as their cage be gold," she muttered. "There's risk in what you ask."

"There is. If you cannot do it, say so. I'll take you away tonight, and get what I can for the single piece."

For a moment longer she knelt frowning among the tangled sheets. "You risk your life, I but a whipping. I will do it. What-"

He planted a hand over her mouth as the door of the darkened room opened. A mailed man entered, the red-dyed crest of a captain on his helm, blinking in the dimness. He was even taller than Conan, though perhaps a finger less broad of shoulder.

"Where are you, wench?" the captain chuckled, moving deeper into the room. Conan waited, letting him come closer. "I know you're here, you hot-bodied little vixen. A chamberlain saw you flee red-faced hence from our good king's chambers. You need a true man to assuage your-What!"

Conan launched himself at the large man as the other jumped back, clawing for his sword. One of the Cimmerian's big hands clutched the captain's sword wrist, the other seized his throat beneath a bearded chin. He could afford no outcry, not even such as the man might make after a dagger was lodged twixt his ribs.

Chest to chest the two big men stood, feet working for leverage on the mosaic arabesques of the floor.

The guardsman's free hand clubbed against the back of Conan's neck, and again. The Cimmerian released his grip on the man's throat, throwing that arm around the Zamoran to hold him close, At the same instant he let go the sword wrist, snaked his hand under that arm and behind the other's shoulder to grab the bearded chin. His arm corded with the strain of forcing the helmeted head back. The tall soldier abandoned his attempt to reach his sword and suddenly grasped Conan's head with both his hands, twisting with all his might.

Conan's breath rasped in his throat, and the blood pounded in his ears. He could smell his own sweat, and that of the Zamoran. A growl built deep in his throat. He forced the man's head back. Back.

Abruptly there was an audible snap, and the guardsman was a dead weight sagging on his chest.

Panting, Conan let the man fall. The helmeted head was at an impossible angle.

"You've killed him," Velita breathed. "You've... I recognize him. That's Mariates, a captain of the guard.

When he's found here...."

"He won't be," Conan answered.

Quickly he dragged the body out onto the balcony and dug his rope out of the sack at his side. It would stretch but halfway to the ground. Hooking the graponel over the stone balustrade at the side of the balcony, he let the dark rope fall.

"When I whistle, Velita, unloose this."

He bound the dead guardsman's wrists with the man's own swordbelt, and thrust his head and right arm through the loop they formed. When he straightened, the man dangled down his back like a sack. A heavy sack. He reminded himself of the ten thousand pieces of gold.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "And what's your name? I don't even know that."

"I'm making sure the body isn't found in this room." He stepped over the rail and checked the graponel again. It wouldn't do to have it slip here. Clad in naught but the pendant, Velita stood watching him, her big dark eyes tremulous. "I am Conan of Cimmeria," he said proudly, and let himself down the rope hand over hand.

Almost immediately he felt the strain in his massive arms and shoulders.

He was strong, but the Zamoran was no feather, and a dead weight besides.

His bound wrists dug into Conan's throat, but there was no way to shift the burden while dangling half a hundred feet in the night air.

With a mountaineer's practiced eye he studied distances and angles, and stopped his descent in a stretch of the carven wall free of balconies. Thrusting with his powerful legs he pushed himself sideways, walking two steps along the wall, then swinging back beyond the point where he began. Then back the other way again. He stepped up the pace until he was running along the wall, swinging in an ever greater arc. At first the dead Zamoran slowed him, but then the extra weight added to his momentum, taking him closer to his goal, another balcony below and to the right of the first.

He was ten paces from the niveous stone rail. Then five. Three. And he realized he was increasing his arc too little on each swing now: He could not climb back up the rope-the guardsman's wrists were half-strangling him-nor could he continue to inch his way closer.

He swung back to his left and began his sideways run toward the balcony. It was the last time, he knew as he watched his goal materialize out of the dark. He must make it this time, or fall. Ten paces. Five.

Three. Two. He was going to fall short. Desperately he thrust against the enchased marble wall, loosed one hand from the rope, stretched for the rail. His fingers caught precariously. And held. Straining, he hung between the rope and his tenuous grasp on the stone. The dangling body choked his burning breath in his throat. Shoulder joints cracking, he pulled himself nearer. And then he had a foot between the balusters. Still clutching the rope he pulled himself over the rail and collapsed on the cool marble, sucking at the night air.

It was an illusory haven, though. Quickly he freed himself from the Zamoran and bent back over the rail to whistle. The rope swung as the graponel fell free. He drew it up with grateful thanks that Velita had not been too terrified to remember, and stowed it in his sack. There was still Mariates to deal with.

Mariates' sword belt went back about the officer's waist. There was naught Conan could do about the abrasions on the man's wrists. On the side away from Velita's balcony, he rolled the dead man over the rail. From below came the crashing of broken branches. But no alarm.

Smiling, Conan used the cavern marble foliage to make his way to the ground. Evidence of Mariates' fall was plain in shattered boughs. The captain himself lay spreadeagled across an exotic shrub, the loss of which Conan thought the dilettante king might regret more than the loss of a soldier. And best of all, of the several balconies from which the man could have fallen, Velita's was not one.

Swiftly Conan made his way back through the garden. Once more the guards' paces were counted, and once more he went over the wall easily. As he reached the safety of the shadows around the plaza, he thought he heard a shout from behind, but he was not sure, and he did not linger to find out. Boots and cloak were on in moments, sword slung at his hip.

As he strode through pitchy streets at once broader and less odoriferous than those of the Desert, he thought that this might be almost his last return to that squalid district. After tomorrow night he would be beyond such places. From the direction of the palace, a gong sounded in the night.

Chapter V

Conan woke early the morning after his foray into the palace. He found the common room empty except for Abuletes, counting his night's take at the bar, and two skinny sweepers in rags. The fat tavernkeeper eyed Conan warily and put a protective arm about the stacked coins.

"Wine," Conan said, fishing out the necessary coppers. For all his celebration the night before there were still six of the dark man's gold coins in his purse. "I don't steal from friends," he added, when Abuletes drew the money down the bar after him in the crook of his arm.

"Friends! What friends? In the Desert, a brother in blood is no friend." Abuletes filled a rough earthenware mug from a tap in a keg and shoved it in front of Conan. "But perhaps you think to buy friends with the gold you were throwing about last night. Where did that come from, anyway? Had you aught to do with what happened at the palace in the night? No, that couldn't be. You were spending like Yildiz himself before ever it happened. You'd better watch that, showing your gold so free in the Desert."

The tavernkeeper would have gone on, but Conan cut him short. "Something happened at the palace?"

He was careful to drink deep of the thin wine for punctuation, as if the question were casual.

"And you call a king's counselor dead something, plus others to the king's household and a dozen guardsmen besides, then it did."

"A dozen!"

"So I said, and so it was. Dead guardsmen at every hand, Yildiz's gifts to Tiridates taken, and never a one who saw a hair of those who did it. Never a one in all the palace." Abuletes rubbed his chins with a pudgy hand. "Though there's a tale about that a pair of the sentries saw a man running from the palace. A big man. Mayhap as big as you."

"Of course it was me," Conan snorted. "I leaped over the wall, then leaped back again with all that on my back. You did say all the gifts were taken, didn't you?" He emptied his mug and thumped it down before the stout man. "Again."

"Five gemstones, five dancing girls and a golden casket." Abuletes twisted the tap shut and replaced the mug on the bar. "Unless there's more than that, they took all. I'll admit you couldn't have done it. I admit it. But why are you so interested now? Answer me that."

"I'm a thief. Someone else has done the hard part on this. All I have to do is relieve him of his ill-gotten goods." Relieve whom, he wondered. He had had no other plan beyond himself. Of that he was certain.

That left guardsmen gone wrong, stolen away with the treasure and the slave girls after slaying their comrades, or slain themselves after letting someone else into the palace to do the theft.

Abuletes hawked and spat on a varicolored rag, and began to scrub the bartop. "Was me," he said absently, "I'd have naught to do with this. Those who did this thing aren't of the Desert. Those who rob kings aren't to be crossed. Necromancers, for all you know. There was no one seen, remember. Not a glimpse of a hair."

It could have been a mage, Conan thought, though why a mage, or anyone else, would go through the danger of stealing five dancing girls from the palace, he could not imagine. Too, magicians were not so thick on the ground as most men believed, and he was one who should know.

"You begin to sound worried for me, Abuletes. I thought you said there were no friends in the Desert."

"You spend freely," the tavernkeeper said sourly. "That's all there is. Don't think there's more. You stay out of this, whatever it is. Whoever's behind this is too big for the likes of you. You'll end with your throat cut, and I'll be out a customer."

"Perhaps you're right. Bel! I'm for a breath of air. This sitting around talking of other men's thefts gives me a pain in the belly."

He left the fat tapster muttering darkly to himself and found his way to the street. The air in the Desert was anything but fresh. The stench of rotting offal blended with the effluvia of human excrement and vomit. The paving stones, where they had not been ripped up to leave mudholes, were slick with slime.

From the dim depths of an alley, barely wide enough for a man to enter, the victim of a robbery moaned for help. Or the bait for a robbery. Either was equally likely.

Conan strode the crooked streets of that thieves' district purposefully, though he was not himself sure of what that purpose was. A swindler with tarnished silver embroidery on his vest waved a greeting as he passed, and a whore, naked but for gilded brass bells and resting her feet in a doorway, smiled at the broad-shouldered youth as she suddenly felt not so tired after all. Conan did not even notice them, nor the "blind" beggar in black rags, tapping his way down the street with a broken stick, who eased his dagger back under his soiled robes after a glance at the grim set of Conan's jaw, or the three who followed him through the winding streets, the edges of their headcloths drawn across their faces, white-knuckled hands gripping cudgels beneath their dingy cloaks, before the size of his arms and the length of his sword made them take another turning.

He tried telling himself that the pendants were beyond his reach now. He had naught beyond glimmers of suspicion who had taken them, no idea at all where they were. Still, ten thousand pieces of gold was not a thing a man gave up on easily. And there was Velita. A slave girl. She would be happy with any master who was kind to her. But he had promised, sworn, to free her. By Bel and by Crom he had sworn it. His oath, and ten thousand pieces of gold.

Suddenly he realized he was out of the Desert, near the Sign of the Bull Dancer, on the Street of the Silver Fish. A tree-lined sward of grass ran down the center of the broad avenue. Slave-borne sedan chairs vied in number with pedestrians, and there was not a beggar in sight. This place was far from the Desert, yet he had friends-or at least acquaintances-here. The tavern hoarding, a slender youth in a leathern girdle, vaulting between the needle horns of a great black bull, creaked in the breeze as he went in.

Taverns, Conan reflected as he searched for a certain face, were much alike, in the Desert or out. Rather than footpads and cutpurses, plump merchants in purple silk and green brocade occupied the tables, but only the methods of stealing were different. In place of a coiner was a slender man holding a pomander before his prominent nose. He did not make the money he passed, rather buying it through the back door of the king's mint. The panderers dressed like noblemen, in scarlet robes, with emeralds at their ears, and some of them were indeed noblemen, but they were panderers no less. The prostitutes wore gold instead of gilt, rubies instead of spessartine, but they were just as naked, and they sold the same wares.

Conan spotted the man he wanted, Ampartes, a merchant who cared little if the king's duties had been paid on the goods he bought, alone at a table against the wall. Whatever happened in Shadizar, Ampartes soon knew of it. The chair across the table from the plump merchant groaned in protest as Conan's bulk dropped into it, a sound not far from that which rose in Ampartes' throat. His oily cheek twitched as his dark eyes rolled to see who had noted the Cimmerian's arrival. He tugged at his short, pointed beard with a beringed hand.

"What are you doing here, Conan?" he hissed, and blanched as if in fear the name might have been overheard. "I have no need of... of your particular wares."

"But I have need of yours. Tell me of what happened in the city last night."

Ampartes' voice rose to a squeak.

"You... you mean the palace?"

"No," Conan said, and hid a smile at the relief on the merchant's face. He grabbed a pewter goblet from the tray of a passing serving girl, a hand's breadth strip of crimson silk low on her hips her only garb, and filled it from Ampartes' blue-glazed flagon. The girl gave him a coy smile, then turned her blonde head with a snort and hurried on sulkily when he did not give her a second glance. "But anything else unusual.

Anything at all."

For the next two hours the merchant babbled in his relief that Conan was not involving him in the palace theft. Conan learned that on the night before in Shadizar a dealer in rare wines had strangled his mistress on discovering her with his son, and a gem merchant's wife had put a dagger in her husband's ribs for no reason that anyone knew. A nobleman's niece had been taken by kidnappers, but those who knew said her ransom, to come from her inheritance, would pay her uncle's debts. Thieves had entered the homes of five merchants and two nobles. One noble had had even his sedan chair and the robes from his back taken on the High Vorlusian Way, and a slave dealer's weasand had been slit outside his own auction house, some said for the keys to his strongbox, others for not checking the source of his merchandise, thus selling an abducted noblewoman into Koth. A merchant of Akif, visiting a most specialized brothel called The House of the Lambs of Hebra, had ....

"Enough!" Conan's hand cracked on the tabletop. Ampartes stared at him open-mouthed. "What you've told me so far could happen on any night in Shadizar, and usually does. What occurred out of the ordinary? It doesn't have to do with gold, or theft. Just so it's strange."

"I don't understand what you want," the oily man muttered. "There's the matter of the pilgrims, but there's no profit there. I don't know why I waste my time with you."

"Pilgrims?" Conan said sharply. "What was unusual about these pilgrims?"

"In Mitra's name, why would you want to know about...." Ampartes swallowed as Conan's steel blue eyes locked his. "Oh, very well. They were from Argos, far to the west, making a pilgrimage to a shrine in Vendhya, as far to the east."

"I need no lessons in geography," Conan growled. "I've heard of these lands. What did these pilgrims do that was out of the ordinary?"

"They left the city two full glasses before cock crow, that's what. Something about a vow not to be inside a city's walls at dawn, I understand. Now where's your profit in that?"

"Just you tell me what I want to hear, and let me worry about profit. What sort of men were these pilgrims?"

Ampartes threw him an exasperated look. "Zandru's Bells, man! Do you expect me to know more about a mere band of pilgrims than that they exist?"

"I expect," Conan said drily, "that on any given day you'll know which nobles lost how much at dice, who slept with whose wife, and how many times the king sneezed. The pilgrims? Rack your brains, Ampartes."

"I don't...." The plump merchant grunted as Conan lay his left arm on the table. The forearm sheath was empty, and the Cimmerian's right hand was below the table's edge. "They were pilgrims. What more is there to say? Hooded men in coarse robes that showed not a hair of them. No better or worse mounted than most pilgrims. The bodies of five of their number who'd died on the way were packed in casks of wine on camels. Seems they'd made another vow, that all who started the pilgrimage would reach the shrine. Mitra, Conan, who can say much of pilgrims?"

Five bodies, Conan thought. Five dancing girls. "There were fighting men with these pilgrims? Armed men?"

Ampartes shook his head. "Not so much as a dagger in evidence, is what I heard. They told the sergeant at the Gate of the Three Swords that the spirit of their god would protect them. He said a good sword would do a better job, and wearing a soldier's boots wasn't enough."

"What about a soldier's boots?"

"For the love of... now I'm supposed to know about boots?" He spread his hands. "All right. All I know is one of them was wearing a pair of cavalryman's halfboots. His robe was caught on his stirrup leather so one showed." His tone became sarcastic. "Do you want to know what they looked like? Red, with some sort of serpent worked in the leather. Strange, that, but there it is. And that, Conan, is every last thing I know about those accursed pilgrims. Will you satisfy my curiosity now? What in the name of all the gods does a man like you want with pilgrims?"

"I'm seeking a religious experience," Conan replied, sheathing his dagger. He left the merchant laughing till tears ran down his fleshy cheeks.

As Conan hurried across Shadizar to the stable where his horse was kept, he knew he was right. Not only the five bodies in casks told him, but also the Gate of the Three Swords. That gate let out to the northeast, toward the caravan route that ran from Khesron through the Kezankian Mountains to Sultanapur. Vendhya might only be a name to him, but he knew it was reached by leaving through the Gate of the Black Throne and traveling southeast through Turan and beyond the Vilayet Sea. As soon as he could put saddle to horse, he would be off through the Gate of the Three Swords after Velita, the pendants, and his ten thousand pieces of gold.

Chapter VI

The man in field armor contrasted sharply with the others in Tiridates' private audience chamber. From greaves over his halfboots to ring mail and gorget, his armor was plain and dark, so as not to reflect light when on campaign. Even the horsehair crest on the helmet beneath his arm was russet rather than scarlet.

He was Haranides, a captain of cavalry who had risen without patron or family connections. Now the hawknosed captain was wondering if the rise had been worth it.

Of the four others in the ivory-paneled room, only two were worthy of note. Tiridates, King of Zamora, slouched on the Minor Throne-its arms were golden hunting leopards in full bound, the back a peacock feathered in emeralds, rubies, sapphires and pearls-as if it were a tavern stool, a golden goblet dangling from one slack hand. His amethystine robe was rumpled and stained, his eyes but half-focused. With his free hand he idly caressed the arm of a slender blonde girl who knelt beside the throne in naught but perfume and a wide choker of pearls about her swanlike neck. On the other side of the throne a youth, equally blonde and slender and attired the same, sulked for his lack of attention.

The other man worth marking, perhaps more so than the king, stood three paces to the right of the throne. Graying and stooped, but with shrewd intelligence engraved on his wizened face, he wore a crimson robe slashed with gold, and the golden Seal of Zamora on its emeralded chain about his neck.

His name was Aharesus, and the seal had fallen to him with the death of Malderes, the previous chief king's counselor, the night before.

"You know why you are summoned, captain?" Aharesus said.

"No, my lord Counselor," Haranides replied stiffly. The counselor watched him expectantly, until at last he went on. "I can suspect, of course. Perhaps it has to do with the events of last night?"

"Very good, captain. And do you have any glimmering why you, instead of some other?"

"No, my lord Counselor." And this time, in truth, he had not a flickering of an idea. He had returned to the city only shortly after dawn that very morning, coming back from duty on the Kothian border. A hard posting, but what could be expected for a man with no preferment?

"You are chosen because you were not in Shadizar this year past." Haranides blinked, and the counselor chuckled, a sound like dry twigs scraping together. "I see your surprise, captain, though you conceal it well. An admirable trait in a military man. As you were not in the city, you could not be part of any... plot, involving those on duty in the palace last night."

"Plot!" the captain exclaimed. "Pardon, my lord, but the King's Own has always been loyal to the throne."

"Loyalty to his fellows is another good trait for a military man, captain." The counselor's voice hardened.

"Don't carry it too far. Those who had the duty last night are even now being put to the question."

Haranides felt sweat trickling down his ribs. He had no wish to join those men enjoying the attentions of the king's torturers. "My lord knows that I've always been a loyal soldier."

"I reviewed your record this morning," Aharesus said slowly. "Your return to the city at this juncture was like a stroke from Mitra. These are parlous times, captain."

"Their heads," the king barked abruptly. His head swung in a muddled arc between the captain and the counselor. Haranides was shocked to realize that he had forgotten the king was present. "I want their heads on pikes, Aharesus. Stole my... my tribute from Yildiz. Stole my dancing girls." Tiridates directed a bleary smile at the slave girl, then jerked his gaze back to Haranides. "You bring them back to me, do you hear? The girls, the pendants, the casket. And the heads. The heads." With a belch the king sagged back into a sodden lump. "More wine," he muttered. The blonde youth darted away and returned with a crystal vessel and a fawning smile.

The captain's sweating increased. It was no secret Tiridates was a drunkard, but being witness to it could do him no good.

"The insult to the honor of the king is, captain, paramount, of course," Aharesus said with a careful glance at the king, who had his face buried in the goblet of wine. "On a wider view, however, what must be considered is that the palace was entered and the Chief King's Counselor murdered."

"My lord counselor-thinks that was the reason for it all, and the other just a screen?"

The Counselor gave him a shrewd look. "You've a brain, captain. You may have a future. Yes, it makes no sense otherwise. Some foreign power wished the Counselor dead for some purpose of their own.

Perhaps Yildiz himself. He has dreams of an empire, and Malderes often thwarted those plans." Aharesus fingered the golden seal on his chest thoughtfully. "In any case, it's doubtful that Yildiz, or whoever is responsible, would send his own people into the very palace. One of those being questioned screamed the name of the Red Hawk before he died."

"She's just a bandit, my lord Counselor."

"And a man babbles when he's dying. But she's a bandit who will dare much for gold, and we have no other way to search. Until one of those being questioned loosens his tongue." The chill in his tone promised the questioning would continue until many tongues were loosened; Haranides shivered. "You, captain, will take two companies of cavalry and hound this Red Hawk. Run her to ground and bring her here in chains. We'll soon find if she had aught to do with this business."

Haranides took a deep breath. "My lord Counselor, I must have some idea of where to look. This woman brigand ranges the entire countryside." Incongruously, one of the slaves giggled. Tiridates had both fair heads clutched to his chest.

The stooped counselor flickered an eye at the king and pursed his lips briefly. "Before dawn this morning, captain, a party claiming to be pilgrims departed Shadizar by the Gate of the Three Swords. I believe these were the Red Hawk's men."

"I will ride within the hour, my lord Counselor," Haranides said with a bow. He suspected the guards at that gate were among those under the question. "With your permission, my lord Counselor? My King?"

"Find this jade, captain," Aharesus said, "and you will find yourself a patron as well."

He waved a bony hand in dismissal, but as the captain turned to go Tiridates lurched unsteadily to his feet, pushing the two pale-skinned slaves sprawling at his feet.

"Find my pendants!" the drunken King snarled. "Find my casket and my dancing girls! Find my gifts from Yildiz, captain, or I'll decorate a pike with your head! Now, go! Go!"

With a sour taste in his mouth, Haranides bowed once more and backed out of the audience chamber.

The garden of Imhep-Aton's rented dwelling was pleasant, a cool breeze rustling in the trees and stirring the brightcolored flowers, but the mage took no pleasure in it. He had had some idea that Conan could deliver the pendants before the five days he had bargained for-the necromancer had some knowledge of thieves, and the way their minds worked. But never had he expected the Cimmerian to revert to his barbarism and turn the palace into a charnel house. The chief king's counselor, in Set's name!

He cared not what Zamorans died, or how, but the fool had set the city on its ear with these murders.

Now Imhep-Aton must worry that the thief would be run to earth before the prize was delivered into his bony hands.

The mage whirled as his muscular Shemite servant came into the garden, his lean face so twisted that the big man quailed.

"I did as you commanded, master. To the word."

"Then where is the Cimmerian?" The thaumaturge's voice was deceptively gentle. If this cretin had bungled as well ....

"Gone, master. He has not been seen at the tavern since this morning, early."

"Gone!"

The brawny Shemite half-raised his hands as if to shield himself from the other's anger. "So I was told, master. He sent a message to some wench at the tavern that he would be away some time, that he was riding to the northeast."

Imhep-Aton's scowl deepened. Northeast? There was nothing to the .... The caravan route from Khesron to Sultanapur. Could the barbarian be thinking of selling the pendants in the very country from which they came? Obviously he had decided to work for himself. But, Set, why the dancing girls? He shook his vulturine head angrily. The savage's reasons were of no account.

"Prepare horses and sumpter animals for the two of us at once," he commanded. "We ride to the northeast." The Cimmerian would pay for this betrayal.

Chapter VII

The Well of the Kings lay some days to the east and west of Shadizar, surrounded by huge, toppled slabs of black stone, worn by rain and wind. Some said they were the remains of a wall, but none knew when or by whom it could have been built, as none knew what kings had claimed the well.

Conan walked his horse between the slabs and into the stunted trees, to the well of rough stones, and dismounted. On the other side of the well, back under the trees, four swarthy men in dirty keffiyehs squatted, watching him with dark eyes that shifted greedily to his horse. He flipped back the edge of his Khauranian cloak so they could see his sword, and heaved on the hoist pole to lift a bucket of water from the depths. Other than his cloak, he was covered only by a breechclout, for he liked to travel unencumbered.

The four moved closer together, whispering darkly without looking away from him. One, the leader by the deference the others showed, wore rusting ring mail, his followers breastplates of boiled leather. All had ancient scimitars at their hips, the sort a decent weapons dealer sold for scrap. Behind them Conan could see a woman, naked and bound in a package, wrists and elbows secured behind her back, knees under her chin, heels drawn in tight to her buttocks. She raised her head, tossing back a mane of dark red hair, and stared at him in surprise, tilted green eyes above a dirty twist of cloth for a gag. The fortuneteller.

Conan emptied the bucket in a worn stone trough for his horse, and drew up another for himself. The last time he had helped this woman, she had shown not even the gratitude to warn him of the two Iranistanis'

attack. Besides, he had Velita to find. He dashed water in his face, though it made little difference in the gritty heat, and upended the rest of the bucket over his head. The four men gabbled on.

So far he had tracked the pilgrims by questioning those passersby who would let an armed man of his size approach them. Enough had glimpsed something to keep him on this path, but in the last day he had seen only an old man who threw rocks and ran to hide in the thorn scrub, and a boy who had seen nothing.

"Have you fellows seen anything of pilgrims?" he said, levering up yet another bucket of water. "Hooded men on horseback, with camels?"

The leader's sharp nose twitched. "An we did, what's for us?"

"A few coppers, if you can tell me where they are." There was no reason to tempt this lot. After a day when he could be traveling away from the men he sought, he had no time to waste killing vultures. He put on a pleasant smile. "If I had silver or gold, I'd not be out chasing pilgrims. I'd be in Shadizar, drinking."

He dried his hands on his cloak, just in case.

"What do you want with those pilgrims?" the sharp-nosed man wanted to know.

"That's my affair," Conan replied. "And theirs. Yours is the coppers, if you've seen them."

"Well, as to that, we have," sharp-nose said, dusting off his hands and getting up. He started toward Conan with his hand out. "Let's see the color of your coins."

Conan dug into the leather pouch at his belt with his right hand, and sharp-nose's grin turned nasty. A short dagger with a triangular blade appeared in his fist. Laughing wickedly, the other three pulled their scimitars and rushed forward to join the kill.

Without pausing a beat Conan snatched up the bucket left-handed and smashed it down on the man's head, blood and water flying in all directions. "No time!" he shouted. He plucked the dagger from its forearm sheath, and of a sudden its hilt was sticking from the throat of the foremost attacker. Even as it struck Conan was unlimbering his broadsword. "Bel strike you!" He leaped across the collapsing man, who was clutching the dagger in his throat with blood-covered hands. "I've no time!" A sweeping slash of the broad blade, and the third man's torso sank to the ground where his head was already spinning. "No time, curse you!" The last man had his scimitar raised high when Conan lunged with a two-handed grip and plunged his blade through leather breastplate, chest and backbone. Black eyes filmed over, and the man toppled to one side with his hands still raised above his head.

Conan put a foot on the leather armor and tugged his sword free, wiping it clean on the man's dingy keffiyeh before he sheathed it. The dagger was retrieved from its temporary home in a brigand's throat and cleaned in the same way. The woman watched him wide-eyed, starting away as much as her bonds allowed when he came near, but he only cut the cords and turned away, sheathing his dagger.

"If you don't have your own horse," he said, "you can have one of these vermin's. The rest are mine. You can have the weapons, if you want. They'll fetch something for your trouble." But not much, he thought.

Still, he owed her nothing, and the horses, poor as they were likely to be, would be a help if he had to pursue those accursed pilgrims far.

The red-haired woman rubbed her wrists as she walked to the dead men, unashamed of her nakedness.

She was an ivory-skinned callimastian delight, all curves and long legs and rounded places. There was a spring to her walk that made him wonder if she was a dancer. She picked up one of the scimitars, ran a contemptuous eye along its rust-pitted blade, and suddenly planted a bare foot solidly in the ribs of one of the dead men.

"Pig!" she spat.

Conan went about gathering the horses, five of them, one noticeably better than the rest, while she kicked and reviled each body in turn. Abruptly she whirled to face him, feet well apart, fist on rounded hip, scimitar swinging free. With her tousled hair in an auburn mane about her head, she had the air of a lioness brought to human form.

"They took me unawares," she announced.

"Of course," Conan said. "I suppose the black is yours? Best of the lot." He braided the reins of the other four, hairy plains animals two hands shorter at the shoulder than his own Turanian gray, and fastened them to his highpommeled saddle. "Best for you would be to go straight back to Shadizar. It's dangerous out here for a woman alone. What possessed you to try it in the first place?"

She took a quick step toward him. "I said they took me unawares! They'd have died on my blade, else!"

"And I said of course. I can't take you back to the city. I seek men who took something that... that belongs to me."

A pantherine howl jerked him around, and he tumbled backwards between the horses just in time to avoid decapitation by her curved blade. "Derketo take you!" she howled, thrusting at him under a horse's belly. He rolled aside, and the blade gouged the packed earth where his head had been.

Scrambling on his back, he tried at once to avoid her steel and the hooves of the horses, now dancing excitedly as she moved swiftly around them trying to stab him. The roiling of them brought him suddenly looking out from under a shaggy belly at her as she pulled back her scimitar for yet another thrust.

Desperately his legs uncoiled, propelling him out to tackle her around the knees. They went down in a heap together on the hard ground, and he found his arms full of female wildcat, clawing and kicking and trying to jerk her sword arm loose. Her soft curves padded her firm muscle, and she was no easy packet to hold.

"Have you gone mad, woman?" he shouted. For an answer she sank her teeth into his shoulder. "Crom!"

He hurled her away from him. She rolled across the ground and bounded to her feet. Still, he saw wonderingly, gripping the rusty sword.

"I need no man to protect me!" she spat. "I'm not some pampered concubine!"

"Who said you were?" he roared.

Then he had to jerk his sword free of its scabbard as she rushed at him with a howl of pure rage. Her green eyes burned, and her face was twisted with fury. He swung up his sword to block her downward slash. With a sharp snap the rusty scimitar broke, leaving her to stare in disbelief at the bladeless hilt in her hands.

Almost without a pause she hurled the useless hilt at his face and spun to dash for the dead men by the well. Their weapons still lay about them. Conan darted after her, and as she bent to snatch another scimitar, he swung the flat of his blade with all his strength at the tempting target thus offered. She lifted up on her toes with a strangled shriek as the steel paddle cracked against her rounded nates. Arms windmilling, she staggered forward, her foot slipping in a pool of blood, and screaming she plunged headfirst over the crude stone wall of the well.

Conan dived as she went over; his big hand closed on flesh, and he was dragged to his armpits into the well by the weight of her. He discovered he was holding the red-haired wench by one ankle while she dangled over the depths. An interesting view, he thought.

"Derketo take you!" she howled. "Pull me up, you motherless whelp!"

"In Shadizar," he said conversationally, "I saved you a mauling. You called me a barbar boy, let a man near take my head off, and left without a word of thanks."

"Son of a diseased camel! Spawn of a bagnio! Pull me up!"

"Now here," he went on as if she had not spoken, "all I did was save you from rape, certainly, perhaps from being sold on the slave block. Or maybe they'd just have slit your throat once they were done with you." She wriggled violently, and he edged further over the rim to let her drop another foot. Her scream echoed up the stone cylinder. She froze into immobility.

"You had no thought of saving me," she rasped breathlessly. "You'd have ridden off to leave me if those dogs hadn't tried you."

"All the same, if I had ridden on, or if they'd killed me, you'd be wondering what you'd fetch at market."

"And you want a reward," she half wept. "Derketo curse you, you smelly barbar oaf?"

"That's the second time you've called me that," he said grimly. "What I want from you is an oath, by Derketo since you call on the goddess of love and death. An oath that you'll never again let an uncivil word pass your lips toward me, and that you'll never again raise a hand against me."

"Hairy lout! Dung-footed barbar! Do you think you can force me to-"

He cut her off. "My hand is getting sweaty. I wouldn't wait too long. You might slip." Silence answered him. "Or then again, I might grow tired of waiting."

"I will swear." Her voice was suddenly soft and sensuously yielding. "Pull me up, and I'll swear on my knees to anything you command."

"Swear first," he replied. "I'd hate to have to toss you back in. Besides, I like the view." He thought he heard the sound of a small fist smacking the stone wall of the well in frustration, and smiled.

"You untrusting ape," she snarled with all her old ferocity. "Very well. I swear, by Derketo, that I'll speak no uncivil word to you, nor raise a hand against you. I swear it. Are you satisfied?"

He hoisted her straight up out of the well, and let her drop on the hard ground with a thud and a grunt.

"You...." She bit her lip and glared up at him from the ground. "You didn't have to be so rough," she said in a flat tone. Instead of answering, he unfastened his swordbelt, propping the scabbard against the well.

"What-what are you doing?"

"You spoke of a reward." He stepped out of his breechclout. "Since I doubt a word of thanks will ever crack your teeth, I'm collecting my own reward."

"So you're nothing but a ravisher of women after all," she said bitterly.

"That was close to an uncivil word, wench. And no ravishment. All you need to do is say, 'stop,' and you'll leave this place as chaste as a virgin for all of me."

He lowered himself onto her, and though she beat at his shoulders with her fists and filled the air with vile curses the word 'stop' never once passed her lips, and soon her cries changed their nature, for she was a woman fully fledged, and he knew something of women.

After he regained his clothes and his weapons while she rummaged among the dead men's things to cover herself. Her own garments, she said, had been ripped to shreds. He noted that this time she inspected the weapons carefully before selecting one, but he had no worries at turning his back on her even after she had belted it on. When she had been turning the air blue, not one of her curses had been directed at him.

If she could keep her oath then, he was sure she would keep it now.

Once he had filled his goatskin waterbags, he swung into his saddle.

"Hold a moment," she called. "What's your name?" She had clothed herself in flowing pantaloons of bright yellow and an emerald tunic that was far too tight across the chest, though loose elsewhere. A braided gold cord held her auburn mane back from her face. He had seen her dig it out from the purse of one of the dead men.

"Conan," he said. "Conan of Cimmeria. And you?"

"My name is Karela," she said proudly, "of whatever land I happen to be standing on. Tell me, these pilgrims you seek, they have something of great value? I don't see you as a holy man, Conan of Cimmeria."

If he told her about the pendants, she would no doubt want to go with him. From the way she had handled her sword he was sure she could pull her weight, but even so he did not want her along. Let her get a sniff of ten thousand pieces of gold, and he would have to sleep with both eyes open, oath or no.

He was sure of that, too.

"Valuable only to a man in Shadizar," he said casually. "A dancing girl who ran away with these pilgrims.

Or maybe they stole her. Whatever, the man's besotted with her, and he'll pay five gold pieces to have her back."

"Not much for a ride in this country. There are harder bandits about than these dog stealers." She nodded to the bodies, where Conan had dragged them, well away from the water.

"I seek pilgrims, not bandits," he laughed. "They won't put up much fight. Farewell, Karela." He turned to ride away, but her next words made him draw rein.

"Don't you want to know where these pilgrims of yours are?"

He stared at her, and she looked back with green eyes innocently wide. "If you know where they are, why didn't you speak of it before? For that matter, why speak of it now? I can't see you volunteering help to me."

"Those jackals... made a fool of me." She grimaced, but the open look returned to her face quickly. "I was mad, Conan. I wanted to take it out on anyone. You saved my life, after all."

Conan nodded slowly. It was barely possible. And just as possible she would send him off chasing hares.

But he had nothing else to go on besides picking a direction out of the air. "Where did you see them?"

"To the north. They were camped beyond some low hills. I'll show you." She vaulted easily into the saddle of her big black. "Well, do you want me to show you, or do you want to sit here all day?"

Short of dangling her down the well again, he could think no way of making her talk. He moved his black cloak to clear the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, and motioned her to ride past. "You lead," he said.

"I know," she laughed as she dug her heels into her mount's ribs. "You like the view."

He did that, he thought wryly, but he intended to watch Karela with an eye to treachery. Trailing the robbers' horses, he rode after her.

For the rest of that day they rode north, across rolling countryside sparsely covered with low scrub.

When they camped at nightfall, Conan said, "How much farther?"

Karela shrugged; her heavy round breasts shifted beneath the tight green tunic. "We'll reach it some time after dawn, if we break camp early."

She began to pile dry twigs from the scrub for a fire, but he scattered them. "No need to advertise our presence. What makes you think they'll still be there?"

Tucking flint and steel back in her pouch, she gave him an amused smile. "If they've gone, at least you'll be closer than you were. Who is this man in Shadizar who wants his slave girl back?"

"If we're riding early, we'd better turn in," he said, and she smiled again.

He wrapped himself in his cloak but did not sleep. Instead he watched her. She was wrapped in a blanket she had carried on her horse, and had her head pillowed on her high-pommeled saddle of tooled red leather. He would not have put it past her to try sneaking off with the horses in the night, but she seemed to settle right into sleep.

Purple twilight deepened to black night, and scudding clouds crossed stars like diamonds on velvet, but Conan kept his eyes open. A gibbous moon rose, and at its height the Cimmerian thought he felt eyes on him from the surrounding night. Easing his narrow-bladed dagger from its forearm sheath, he loosed the bronze brooch that held his cloak and snaked into the night on his belly. Thrice he circled the camp in silence, always feeling the eyes, but he saw no one, nor any sign that anyone had ever been there. And then, abruptly, the feeling was gone. Once more he crawled all the way around the camp, but there was still nothing. Disgusted with himself, he got up and walked back to his cloak. Karela still slept. Angrily he wrapped himself in the black wool. It was the woman. Waiting for her treachery was making him see and feel what just was not there.

While the sun was but a red rim shining above the horizon Karela woke, and they rode north again.

Slowly the land changed, the low rollings becoming true hills. Conan was beginning to wonder what the men he sought would be doing so far to the north of the caravan route, when suddenly Karela kicked her horse into a gallop.

"There it is," she cried. "Just over those next hills."

Hurriedly he galloped after her. "Karela, come back! Karela!" She hurried on, disappearing around a hill.

Fool woman, he thought. If the pilgrims were still there, she would have them roused.

As he rounded the hill, he slowed his mount to a walk. She was nowhere in sight, and he could no longer hear the sounds of her horse running.

"Conan!"

Conan's head whipped around at the shout. Karela sat her horse atop a hill to his right. "Crom, woman!

What are you-"

"My name is Karela," she shouted. "The Red Hawk!"

She let out a shrill whistle, and suddenly mounted men in a motley collection of bright finery and mismatched armor were boiling through every gap in the hills. In a trice he was the center of a shoulder-to-shoulder ring of brigands. Carefully he folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle. So much as a twitch toward his sword would put iron-tipped quarrels through his body from the four crossbows he could see, and there might be more.

"Karela," he called, "is this the way you keep your oath?"

"I've said no uncivil word to you," she replied mockingly, "and I haven't raised my hand against you. Nor will I. I'm afraid the same can't be said of my men. Hordo!"

A burly, black-bearded man with a rough leather patch over his left eye forced his horse through the circle to confront Conan. A jagged scar ran from under the patch and disappeared in the thatch of his beard. That side of his mouth was drawn up in a permanent sneer. His ring mail had once belonged to a wealthy man-there were still traces of gilt leftand large gold hoops stretched his ears. A well-worn tulwar hung at his side.

"Conan, she called you," the big man said. "Well, I'm Hordo, the Red Hawk's lieutenant. And what I want to know, what we all want to know, is why we shouldn't cut your miserable throat right here."

"Karela was leading me," Conan began, and cut off as Hordo launched a fist the size of a small ham at him. The big man's single eye bulged as Conan caught his fist in mid-swing and stopped it dead.

Chapter VIII

For a moment the two strained, arm to arm, biceps bulging, then Hordo shouted, "Take him!" The ring of bandits closed in.

Dozens of hands clutched at Conan, tearing away his cloak, ripping loose his sword, pulling him from the saddle. But their very numbers hampered them somewhat, and he did not go easily. His dagger found a new home in ribs clothed in dirty yellow-in the press he never saw the face that went with them-a carelessly reached arm was broken at the elbow, and more than one face erupted in blood and broken teeth from his massive fists. The numbers were too many, though, and rough hands at last managed to bind his wrists behind him and link his ankles with a two-foot hobble of rawhide. Then they threw him to the stony ground, and those who had boots began to apply them to his ribs.

Finally Hordo chased them back with snarled threats, and bent to jerk Conan's head up by a fistful of hair. "We call her the Red Hawk," he spat. "You call her mistress, or my lady. But don't ever sully her name with your filthy mouth again. Not as you live."

"Why should he live at all?" snarled a weasel-faced man in dented halfarmor and a guardsman's helmet with the crest gone. "Hepakiah's choking to death on his own blood from this one's dagger right now" He grimaced suddenly and spat out a tooth. "Cut his throat, and be done!"

With a grin Hordo produced a wavy-bladed Vendhyan dagger. "Seems Aberius has a good idea for a change."

Suddenly Karela forced her horse through the pack around Conan, her green cat-eyes glaring down at him. "Can't you think of something more interesting, Hordo?"

"Still keeping your oath?" Conan snarled. "Fine payment for saving you from the slave block, or worse."

Hordo's fist smashed his head back into the ground.

"No man ever had to save the Red Hawk," her lieutenant growled. "She's better than any man, with sword or brains. See you remember it."

Karela laughed sweetly. "Of course I am, good Conan. If anything happens to you, it will be at the hands of these good men, not mine. Hordo, let's take him to camp. You can decide what to do with him at leisure."

The scar-faced man shouted orders, and quickly a rope was passed around Conan, under his arms. The bandits scrambled to their saddles, Hordo himself clutching the rope tied to Conan, and they started off at a trot, the horses' hooves spraying dirt and gravel in Conan's face.

Conan gritted his teeth as he was dragged. With his arms behind him, he was forced to skid along on his belly. Sharp rocks gashed his chest, and hardpacked clay scraped off patches of skin as large as his hand.

When the horses skidded to a halt, Conan spat out a mouthful of dirt and sucked in air. He ached in every muscle, and small trickles of blood still oozed from those scrapes that dust had not clotted. He was far from sure that whatever they had planned for him would be better than being dragged to death.

"Hordo," Karela exclaimed in delight, "you have my tent up."

She leaped from the saddle and darted into a red-striped pavilion. It was the only tent in the camp lying in a hollow between two tall, U-shaped hills. Rumpled bedrolls lay scattered around half-a-dozen burned-out fires. Some of the men ran to stir these up, while others dug out stone jars of kil, raw distilled wine, and passed them around with raucous laughter.

Conan rolled onto his side as Hordo dismounted beside him. "You're a bandit," the big Cimmerian panted. "How would you like a chance at a king's treasure?"

Hordo did not even look at him. "Get those stakes in," he shouted. "I want him pegged out now."

"Five pendants," Conan said, "and a jewel-encrusted casket. Gifts from Yildiz to Tiridates." He hated letting these men know what he was after-at best he would have a hard time remaining alive to claim a share of what he thought of as his own-but otherwise he might not live to collect even a share.

"Stir your stumps," the bearded outlaw shouted. "You can drink later."

"Ten thousand pieces of gold," Conan said. "That's what one man is willing to pay for the pendants alone.

Someone else might pay more. And then there's the casket."

For the first time since arriving in the hollow Hordo turned to Conan, his one eye glaring. "The Red Hawk wants you dead. She's done good by us, so what she wants is what I want."

A score of bandits, laughing and already half-drunk, came to lift Conan and bear him to a cleared space where they had driven four stakes into the hard ground. Despite his struggles they were too many, and he soon found himself spread-eagled on his back, wet rawhide straps leading from his wrists and ankles to the stakes. The rawhide would shrink in the heat of the sun, stretching his joints to the breaking point.

"Why doesn't Hordo want you to have a chance at ten thousand pieces of gold?" Conan shouted. Every man but Hordo froze where he stood, the laughter dying in their throats.

With a curse the scar-faced brigand jumped forward. Conan tried to jerk his head aside, but lights flared before his eyes as the big man's foot caught him. "Shut your lying mouth!" Hordo snarled.

Aberius lifted his head to stare cold-eyed at the Red Hawk's lieutenant, a ferret confronting a mastiff.

"What's he talking about, Hordo?"

Conan shook his head to clear it. "A king's treasure. That's what I'm talking about."

"You shut-" Hordo began, but Aberius cut him off.

"Let him talk," the pinch-faced brigand said dangerously, and other voices echoed him. Hordo glared about him, but said nothing.

Conan allowed himself a brief smile. A bit longer, and these cut-throats would turn him loose and bind Hordo and Karela in his place. But he did not intend to let them actually steal the pendants he had worked so hard for. "Five pendants," he said, "and a golden casket encrusted with gems were stolen from Tiridates' very palace not half a fortnight gone. I'm on the track of those trifles. One man's already offered me ten thousand pieces of gold for the pendants alone, but what one man offers another will top.

The casket will bring as much again, or more."

The men encircling him licked their lips greedily, and shuffled closer. "What makes them worth so much?"

Aberius asked shrewdly. "I never heard of pendants worth ten thousand gold pieces."

Conan managed a chuckle. "But these were gifts from King Yildiz to King Tiridates, gems that no man has ever seen before. And the same on the casket," he embroidered.

Abruptly Karela burst through the close-packed circle of men, and they edged back from the rage on her face. Gone were the makeshift garments she had acquired at the Well of the Kings. Silver filigreed breastplates of gold barely contained her ivory breasts, and a girdle of pearls a finger wide hung low on her hips. Red thigh boots covered her legs, and the tulwar at her side had a sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg on the pommel.

"The dog lies," she snarled. The men took another step back, but there was raw greed on their faces. "He seeks no gemstones, but a slave girl. He told me so himself. He's naught but a muscle-bound slave catcher for some besotted fool in Shadizar. Tell them you lie, Conan!"

"I speak the truth." Or some of it, he thought.

She whirled on him, knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. "Spawn of a maggot! Admit you lie, or I'll have you flayed alive."

"You've broken half your oath," he said calmly. "Uncivil words."

"Derketo take you!" With a howl of rage she planted the toe of one red boot solidly in his ribs. He could not contain a grunt of pain. "Think of something lingering, Hordo," she commanded. "He'll admit his lies soon enough then." Suddenly she spun on her heel, drawing her sword till a hand-breadth of razor-sharp blue steel showed above the worked leather scabbard. "Unless one of you has a mind to challenge my orders?"

A chorus of protests rose, and to Conan's amazement more than one gnarled and scarred face was filled with fear. With a satisfied nod Karela slammed the tulwar back into its sheath and strode away toward her tent. Men half-fell in their haste to get out of her way.

"The second part of your oath," Conan shouted after her. "You struck me. You're foresworn before Derketo. What vengeance will the goddess of love and death take on you, and on any who follow you?"

Her stride faltered for an instant, but she went on without turning. The doorflap of the red-striped pavilion was drawn behind her.

"You'll die easier, Conan," Hordo said, "if you watch your tongue. I've a mind to rip it out of you now, but some of the lads might want to hear if you babble more of this supposed treasure."

"You act like whipped curs around her," Conan said. "Have none of you ever thought for yourselves?"

Hordo shook his shaggy head. "I'll tell you a tale, and if you make me speak of it again I'll skewer your liver. From whence she came no one knows, but we found her wandering naked as a babe, and little more than one she was, in years, but with that sword she now wears clutched in her fist. He that led us then, Constanius by name, thought to have his sport with her, then sell her. He was the best of us with a sword, but she killed him like a fox killing a chicken, and when two who were close to him tried to take her, she killed them, too, and just as quick. Since then we've followed her. The looting she leads us to has always been good, and no man who did as he was told has ever been taken. She commands, and we obey, and we're satisfied."

Hordo went away then, and Conan listened to the others talking as they drank around the fires. Amid coarse laughter they discussed what sport would be had of him. Hot coals were much talked of, and the uses of burning splinters, and how much of a man's skin might be removed and yet leave him living.

The sun blazed higher and hotter. Conan's tongue swelled in his mouth with thirst, and his lips cracked and blackened. Sweat dried on his body till no more came, and the sun scored his flesh. Aberius and another fish-eyed rogue staggered over and amused themselves by pouring water on the ground beside his head, betting on how close they could come to his mouth without letting a drop fall where he could reach it. Even when the clear stream was so close he could feel the coolness of it on his cheek, Conan refused to turn his head toward it. He would not give them so much satisfaction.

In time the other man left, and Aberius squatted at Conan's head with the clay waterbottle cradled in his arms. "You'd kill for water, wouldn't you?" the weasel-faced man said softly. He glanced warily over his shoulder at the other bandits, still drinking and shouting of what tortures they would inflict on the big Cimmerian, then went on. "Tell me about this treasure, and I'll give you water."

"Ten-thousand-gold-pieces," Conan croaked. The words scraped like gravel across his dry tongue.

Aberius licked his lips eagerly. "More. Where is this treasure? Tell me, and I'll convince the others to set you free."

"Free-first," Conan managed.

"Fool! The only way you'll get free at all is with my help. Now, tell me where to find-" He squawked suddenly as Hordo's big hand snatched him into the air by the scruff of his neck.

The one-eyed brigand shook the rat of a man, Aberius' feet dangling above the ground. "What are you doing?" Hordo demanded. "He's not for talking with."

"Just having a little sport," Aberius laughed weakly. "Just taunting him."

"Taunting," Hordo spat. He threw the smaller man sprawling in the dust. "It's more than taunting we'll do to him. You get back to the rest." He waited while Alberius scrambled, half-crawling, to where the other brigands watched laughing, then turned back to Conan. "Make peace with your gods, barbar. You'll have no time later."

Conan worked his mouth for enough moisture to get out a few pitiful words. "Letting her do you out of the gold, Hordo."

"You don't learn, do you, barbar?"

Conan had just time to see the booted foot coming, then the world seemed to explode.

Chapter IX

When the Cimmerian regained consciousness, it was black night and the fires were burning low. A few brigands still squatted in muttered conversation, passing their stone jars of kil, but most were sprawled in drunken snoring. There was a light in the pavilion-Conan watched Karela's well-curved silhouette on the striped tent wall-but even as he watched it was extinguished.

The rawhide cords had tightened until they dug into his wrists. Feeling was almost gone from his hands. If he remained there much longer he would not be able to fight even were he to get free. His massive arms corded. There was no give to his bonds. Again he pulled, his body knotting down to the rippled-iron muscles of his stomach with the strain. Again. Again. Blood stained his wrists from the cutting rawhide, and wet the ground. Again he pulled. Again. And there was a slackness to the cord at his left wrist. No more than a fingers-breadth, but it was there.

Suddenly he froze. The feeling that had come in the camp with Karela, of eyes on him, was back. And more than back, for his senses told him the watcher was coming closer. Warily he looked around. The men by the lowburning fire had sunk into sodden mounds, making as much noise asleep as they had awake. The camp was still. Yet he could still feel those eyes approaching. His hackles rose, for he was sure the bearer of those watching eyes now stood over him, staring down, but there was nothing there.

Angrily he began to jerk at the rawhide binding his left wrist, harder and harder despite the quickened flow of blood and the burning pain that circled his wrist. If there was something standing above him-and he had seen enough in his life to know that there were many things not visible to the eye-he would not lie for it like a sheep at slaughter.

Rage fueled his muscles, and suddenly the stake tore free of the ground. Immediately he rolled to his right, clutching that cord in both hands and pulling with all his might. Slowly the second stake pulled out of the hardpacked earth.

Conan's bones creaked as he sat up. The lacerated flesh of his wrists had swollen to hide the cords.

Diligently he worked to loose them, then freed his ankles. The craving in him for water was enough to send another man for the nearest waterbag, but he forced himself to work some suppleness back into his stiffened muscles before he moved. When he rose, if he was not at full strength he was nonetheless a formidable opponent.

In pantherine silence he moved among the sleeping men. It would have been easy for him to slay them where they lay, but killing drunken men in their stupor was not his way. He retrieved his sword and dagger and fastened them on. His red Turanian half-boots he found discarded by the coals of a burned-out fire. Of his cloak there was no sign, and he had no hope of recovering the coins from his purse. He would have to search every man there. Still, he thought as he stamped his feet to settle his boots, as soon as he could get to their horses he would be back on the trail of the pendants. He would take the precaution of scattering the rest of the mounts before he left. There was no need to leave the brigands able to pursue.

"Conan!" The shout rolled through the hollow as if launched from a dozen throats, but there was only one shape approaching the camp.

The Cimmerian cursed as bandits stirred from their sodden sleep and sat up. He was in their midst with no way out short of fighting, now. He drew his broadsword as a light appeared in Karela's striped tent.

"Conan! Where are the pendants?"

That booming voice stirred something in Conan's mind. He was sure he had heard it before. But the heavily muscled man approaching was unfamiliar. A spiked helmet covered the man's head, and a chain mail tunic descended to his knees. In his right hand he gripped a great double-bladed ax, in the other a round buckler.

"Who are you?" Conan called.

The brigands were all on their feet now, and Karela was before her pavilion with her jeweled tulwar in hand.

"I am Crato." The armored man came to a halt an arm's reach from Conan. Beneath his helm his eyes were glassy and unblinking. "I am the servant of Imhep-Aton. Where are the pendants you were to bring him?"

A chill ran down Conan's back. He knew the voice, now. It was the voice of Ankar.

From behind Conan the voice of Aberius rang out. "He was telling the truth. There are pendants."

"I don't have them, Ankar." Conan said. "I'm chasing the men who stole them, and a girl I made a promise to."

"You know too much," the big man muttered in Imhep-Aton's voice. "And you do not have the pendants.

Your usefulness is at an end, Cimmerian."

With no more warning the ax leaped toward Conan. The Cimmerian jumped back, the razor steel drawing a fine red line across his chest. The possessed man recovered quickly and moved in, buckler held across his body, ax at the ready well to his side. If a sorcerer controlled the body, the man whose once it had been was an experienced ax fighter.

Conan danced back, broadsword flickering in snakelike thrusts. A slashing attack would leave him open, and that ax could cut a man half in two. Crato continued his slow advance, catching each sword thrust with his buckler. Watching those lifeless eyes was useless, Conan quickly realized. Instead he watched the massive shoulders for the involuntary movements that would foretell the big man's attacks.

The mailed right shoulder dipped fractionally, and Conan dropped to his heels as the ax whistled over his head. His broadsword darted out to stab through the mail at a thigh, then he was rolling away from the return ax-stroke to come once more erect facing his opponent. Blood ran down the ax-man's leg, but he came on.

Conan circled to the other's right, toward the ax. It would be more difficult for Crato to strike at him, thus. The ax slashed out in an awkward backhand blow. Conan swung, felt his blade bite through bone, and ax and severed hand fell together. On the instant Crato hurled his buckler at Conan's head and threw himself in a roll across the ground. Conan ducked, beat the round shield aside with his sword, but even as he recovered Crato was coming to his feet with the battle-ax in his left hand.

Blood pumped from the stump in regular spurts, and the man-or the sorcerer possessing him-seemed to know he was dying. Screaming, he rushed at the Cimmerian, ax slashing wildly. Conan caught the haft on his blade and smashed a knee into the other's midriff. The big Shemite staggered, but his great ax went up for another stroke. Conan's broadsword slashed into the man's shoulder, half-severing the ax arm. Crato sank to his knees, his mouth opening wide.

"Conan!" Imhep-Aton's voice screamed. "You will die!"

Conan's blade leaped forward once more, and the helmeted head rolled in the dust. "Not yet," the Cimmerian said grimly.

When he raised his gaze from the headless body on the ground Conan found the bandits had formed a ring around him. Some had swords in hand, others merely looked. Karela faced him with the curved blade of her tulwar bare. She glanced at the dead man, but kept her main attention on the big Cimmerian.

Her gaze was oddly uncertain, her head tilted to watch him from the corner of her eye.

"Trying to leave us, Conan?" she said. "Whoever this Crato was, we owe him thanks for stopping you."

"The pendants!" someone called from among the gathered men. "The pendants are real."

"Who spoke?" Hordo demanded. The Red Hawk's bearded lieutenant lashed them with his eye, and some dropped their heads. "Whatever real or isn't, the Red Hawk says this man deserves to die."

"Twenty thousand gold pieces sound very real to me," Aberius replied. "Too real to be hasty."

Hordo's jaw worked angrily. He started for the smaller man, and stopped with a surprised look at Karela as she laid her blade across his chest. She shook her head without speaking and took the sword away.

Conan eyed the woman, too, wondering what was in her head. Her face was unreadable, and she still did not look directly at him. He had no intention of sharing the pendants, but if her mind was changing on the matter he might yet leave that hollow between the hills without more fighting.

"They're real, all right," he said loudly. "A king's treasure, maybe worth more than twenty thousand." He had to pause to work enough moisture into his throat to speak, but he would not ask for water. The slightest sign of weakness now, and they could well decide to torture what he knew from him. "I can take you to the thieves. And mark you, men who steal from kings are likely to have other trinkets about." He turned slowly to catch each man's gaze in turn. "Rubies. Emeralds. Diamonds and pearls. Sacks bulging with gold coin." Avarice lit their eyes, and greed painted their faces.

"Gold, is it?" Hordo snorted. "And where are we to find all this wealth? In a palace, or a fortress, with stone walls and well-armed guards?"

"With the men I follow," Conan said. "Hooded men claiming to be pilgrims. They took five women when they stole the rest. Dancing girls from the court of Yildiz. One of these is mine, but the other four will no doubt be attracted to brave men with gold in their fists." Lecherous laughter rose, and one or two of the brigands swaggered posingly,

"Hooded men, you say?" Aberius said, frowning. "And five women?"

"Enough!" Hordo roared. "By the Black Throne of Erlik, don't you all see there are sorcerers in this? Did none of you look closely enough at this Crato to see he was possessed? Didn't you see his eyes, or listen to him speak? No mortal man has a voice like that, booming like thunder in the distance."

"He was mortal enough," muttered a thick-set man with a broad scar across his nose. "Conan's steel proved that."

"And what is sought by wizards," Conan said, "is doubly valuable. Did anyone ever hear of a wizard grasping for something that was not worth a king's crown?"

Hordo looked uncertainly at Karela, but she stood listening as if the talk had no connection to her. The one-eyed man muttered under his breath, then went on. "Where do we seek these hooded men? The country is wide. What direction do we ride? Conan himself has said he has no idea. He followed the Red Hawk thinking she'd lead him to them."

"I saw them," Aberius said, and stared about him defiantly as everyone turned to look at him. "I, and Hepekiah, and Alvar. Two days gone, riding to the east. A score of hooded men, and five bound women on camels. Speak, Alvar."

The thickset man with the scarred nose nodded heavily. "Aye, we saw them."

"They were too many for the three of us," Aberius went on hurriedly, "and when we came here to the meeting place, the Red Hawk had not yet come, so we didn't speak of it. You never let us make a move without her, Hordo." A mutter of angry assent rose.

Hordo glared, but there was satisfaction in his voice when he said, "Two days gone? They could be in Vendhya for all the good it does us."

The mutter grew in intensity, and Aberius took a step toward the huge, bearded man. "Why say you so?

All here know I can track a lizard over stone, or a bird through the air. A two days' trail is a beaten path for me."

"And what of Hepekiah?" Hordo growled. "Have you forgotten the Cimmerian's blade in your friend's ribs?"

The weasel-faced man shrugged. "Gold buys new friends."

Hordo threw up his hands and turned to Karela. "You must speak. What are we to do? Does this Conan die, or not?"

The auburn-haired woman looked fully at Conan for the first time, her tilted green eyes cool and expressionless. "He's a good fighting man, and we may have need of such when we overtake these hooded men. Strike camp, and bring his horse."

Shouting excitedly and laughing, the bandits scattered. Hordo glared at the Cimmerian, then shook his head and stalked away. In an instant the camp was a stirred anthill, the pavilion going down, horses being saddled and blankets rolled. Conan stood looking at Karela, for she had not moved an inch, nor taken her eyes from his face.

"Who is this woman?" she said suddenly. Her voice was flat and expressionless. "The one you say is yours."

"A slave girl," he replied, "as I said."

Her face remained calm, but she sheathed her sword as if slamming it into his heart. "You trouble me, Conan of Cimmeria. See you do not come to trouble me too much." Spinning on her heel she marched toward the horses.

Conan sighed and looked to the east, where the red sun was just broaching the horizon. The night's dew had cleared the dust from the air, and it seemed he could see forever.

All he had to do now was find the hooded men, free Velita and take the pendants, all the while watching his back for a knife from some brigand who decided they had no need of him after all, and keeping an eye on Karela's mercurial temper. Then, of course, there was the matter of relieving the bandits of the pendants in turn, not to mention finding a new purchaser, for in Conan's eyes Crato's attack had finished his agreement with Ankar, or Imhep-Aton, or whatever his real name was. It was just his luck the man seemed to be a magician. But he had a tidy enough bundle without adding that worry to it. All he needed now, he thought, was the Zamoran army. He went in search of his cloak. And a water skin.

Chapter X

Puffs of dust lifted beneath the hooves of the column of Zamoran cavalry, a company strong, as they crossed rolling hills sparsely covered with low scrub. Their lance points and chain mail were blackened against reflecting the sun. They rode in a double line, round shields hanging ready to hand beside their saddles, with Haranides at their head, hard men, hand-picked by the captain, veterans of campaigning on the borders.

Haranides unconsciously shifted his buttocks on the hard leather of his saddle as he turned his head continually from side to side, watching, hoping, for a flash of light. With naught to go on but a direction, he had had to take a chance. Half his command was scattered in a line abreast on either side of him, and then only when both topped a hill. Every one of them had a metal mirror, and if any sign of a trail was found ....

He grimaced as his second in command, Aheranates, galloped up beside him from his place immediately before the column. A slender youth with smooth-shaven fine-featured face and big dark eyes more suited to flirting with a palace wench than looking on death, Aheranates had been foisted on him at the last minute. Ten years younger than Haranides, in two he would outrank him. His father, much in favor with the king, wanted his son to gain a touch of seasoning, and incidentally to share in the glory of bringing the Red Hawk before the king bound in chains.

"What do you want?" Haranides growled. If he succeeded on this mission, he would not need the good opinion of the youth's father. If he failed, the man could not save him from the king's threat.

"I've been wondering why we're not pursuing the Red Hawk," Aheranates said. Haranides looked at him, and he added, "Sir. Those were our orders, were they not? Sir?"

Haranides restrained his temper with no little effort. "And where would you pursue, lieutenant? In what direction? Or is it just that this isn't dashing enough for someone used to the glitter of parades in the capital?"

"Not the way I was taught to handle cavalry. Sir."

"And where in Sheol were you taught...." A flash of light to the east caught his words in his throat. Once.

Twice. Thrice. "Signal recall, lieutenant. By mirror," he added as the other pulled his horse around. "No need to let every running dog know we're out. And bring the company around."

"As you command. Sir."

For once Haranides did not notice the sarcasm. This had to be what he sought. By Mitra, it had to be.

He could barely restrain himself from galloping ahead of his troop, but he forced himself to keep the march to a walk. The horses must be conserved if there was a pursuit close at hand, and he prayed there would be.

The men strung out to the east waited once they had passed on the signal, each man falling in behind the column as it reached him. Those beyond the man who first flashed his sighting would be riding west to join them. If this was a false alarm, Haranides thought ....

Then they topped another hill, and before them was a small knot of his men. As he rode closer another rider rejoined from the east. Haranides finally allowed himself to kick his mount into a gallop. One of the soldiers rode forward, touching his forehead respectfully.

"Sir, it looks to have been a camp, but there's...."

Haranides waved him to silence. He could see what was unusual about this hollow between two hills.

Black-winged vultures, their bald heads glistening red from their feeding, stood on the ground warily watching the quartet of jackals that had driven them from their feast.

"Wait here until I signal," Haranides commanded, and walked his horse down into the hollow: He counted the ash piles of ten burnt-out fires.

The jackals backed away from the mounted man, snarling, then snatched bones still bearing shreds of scarlet flesh and loped away. The vultures shifted their beady-eyed gaze from the jackals to Haranides. A half-eaten skull showed the thing on the ground had once been a man, but it could never have been proven by the scattered bones, cracked by the jackals' powerful jaws. Haranides looked up as Aheranates galloped down the hill.

"Mitra! What's that?"

"Proof there were bandits here, lieutenant. None else would leave a dead man for the scavengers."

"I'll bring the men down to search for-"

"You'll dismount ten men," Haranides said patiently, "and bring them down." He could afford to be patient, now. He was sure of it. "No need to grind what little we might find under the horses' hooves.

And lieutenant? Tell off two men to bury that. See to it yourself."

Aheranates had been avoiding looking at the bloody bones. Now his face abruptly turned green. "Me?

But-"

"Now, lieutenant. The Red Hawk, and your glory, are getting further away all the time."

The lieutenant stared open-mouthed, then swallowed and jerked his horse around. Haranides did not watch him go. The captain dismounted and slowly led his horse through the site of the camp. Around the remains of the fires was scruffed ground where men had slept. Perhaps fifty, he estimated. Well away from the fires were holes from the pegs and poles of a large tent. Four other holes, though, spaced in a large square, interested him more.

A short, bowlegged cavalryman trotted up and touched his sloping forehead. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the lieutenant said I was to tell you he found where they had their horses picketed." His voice became flatly noncommittal. "The lieutenant says to tell you there was maybe a hundred horses, sir."

Haranides looked to where two men were digging a hole in the hillside for the remains of the body.

Aheranates apparently had decided he should search rather than oversee their work as ordered. "You've been twenty years and more in the cavalry, Resaro," the captain said. "How many horses would you say were on that picket line? If the lieutenant hadn't said a hundred, of course," he added when the man hesitated.

"Not to contradict the lieutenant, sir, but I'd say fifty-three. They didn't clear away the dung, and they kept the horses apart enough to keep the piles separate. Some would be sumpter animals, of course, sir."

"Very good, Resaro. Go back to the lieutenant and tell him I want...." He stopped at the strained look on Resaro's face. "Is there something else you want to tell me?"

The stumpy man shifted awkwardly. "Well, sir, the lieutenant said we was mistaken, but Caresus and me, we found the way they went when they left here. They brushed their tracks some, but not enough. They went east, and a little north."

"You're sure of that?" Haranides said sharply.

"Yes, sir."

The captain nodded slowly. Toward the Kezankian Mountains, but not toward the caravan route through the mountains to Sultanapur. "Tell the lieutenant I want to see him, Resaro." The cavalryman touched his forehead and backed away. Haranides climbed the eastern hill to stare toward the Kenzankian Mountains, out of view beyond the horizon.

When Aheranates joined him, the lieutenant was carrying a stone unguent jar. "Found this down where the tent was," he said. "Someone had his leman along, seems."

Haranides took the jar. Empty, it still held the flowery fragrance of the perfume of Ophir. He tossed it back to Aheranates. "More like than not, your first souvenir of the Red Hawk."

The lieutenant gaped. "But how can you be certain this was the trull's camp? It could as easily be a... a caravan, wandered somewhat from the route. The man could have been left for some errand and been slain by wild animals. He could even have had no connection with those who camped here at all. He could have come after, and-"

"A man was staked out down there," Haranides said coldly. "'Tis my thought was the dead man.

Secondly, no camels were here. Have you ever seen a caravan lacking camels, saving a slaver's? And there is no staking ground for a coffle. Thirdly, there was only one tent. A caravan of this size would have had half a score. And lastly, why have you lost your fervor for pursuing the Red Hawk? Can it be your thought that she has a hundred men with her? Fear not. There are fewer than fifty, though I grant you they may seem a hundred if it comes to steel."

"You have no right! Manerxes, my father, is-"

"Sir, lieutenant! Prepare the men to move out. Along that trail you thought not worth mentioning."

For a moment they stood eye to eye, Haranides coldly contemptuous, Aheranates quivering with rage.

Abruptly the lieutenant tossed the unguent jar to the ground. "Yes, sir!" he grated, and turned on his heel to stalk down the hill.

Haranides bent to pick up the smooth stone jar. The flowery fragrance gave him a dim picture of the woman, one at odds with the coarse trollop with a sword he expected. But why was she riding toward the Kezankian Mountains? The answer to that could be of vital importance to him. Success, and Aharesus would smooth his path to the top. Failure, and the King's Counselor would give him not a thought as Tiridates had his head put over the West Gate. Placing the jar in his pouch, he went down to join his men.

Chapter XI

As the bandits climbed higher into the Kezankian Mountains, Conan stopped at every rise to look behind. Beyond the rolling foothills, on the plain they had left a day gone, something moved. Conan estimated the lead the brigands had, and wondered if it was enough.

"What are you staring at?" Hordo demanded, reigning in beside the Cimmerian. The outlaws were straggling up a sparsely treed mountainside toward a sheer-walled pass in the dark granite. Karela, as always, rode well in the lead, her gold-lined emerald cape flowing in the wind.

"Soldiers," Conan replied.

"Soldiers! Where?"

Conan pointed. A black snake of men inched toward the foothills, seeming to move through shimmering air rather than on solid ground. Only soldiers would maintain such discipline marching through those waterless approaches to the mountains. They were yet distant, but even as the two men watched the snake appeared to grow larger. On the plain the soldiers moved faster than the bandits in the mountains.

The gap would close further.

"No matter," the one-eyed man muttered. "They'll not catch us up here."

"Dividing the loot, are you?" Aberius kicked his horse in the ribs, and the beast scrambled up beside the other two. "Best you wait till it's in our grasp. You might not be one of those left alive to .... What's that?

Out there. Riders."

Others heard him and turned in their saddles to look. "Hillmen?" a hook-nosed Iranistani named Reza said hesitantly.

"Can't be," a bearded Kothian replied. His name was Talbor, and the tip of his nose had been bitten off.

"Hillmen don't raid far from the mountains."

"And not so many together," Aberius agreed. His glower included both Conan and Hordo. "Soldiers, be they not? It's soldiers you've brought on us."

An excited gabble went up from the men gathered around them. "Soldiers!" "The army's on us!" "Our heads on pikes!" "A whole regiment!" "The King's Own!"

"Still your tongues!" Hordo shouted. "There's no more than two hundred, to my eye, and a day behind us, at that."

"'Tis still five to one against," Aberius said. "Or near enough as makes no difference."

"These mountains are not our place," Reza cried. "We be rats in a box."

"Ferrets in a woodpile," Hordo protested. "If this is not our own ground, still less is it theirs." The rest paid him no mind.

"We chase mists," Talbor shouted, rising in his stirrups to address the bandits who were gathering. "We ride into these accursed mountains after ghosts. It'll not stop till we find ourselves with our backs to a rock wall and Zamoran lances at our throats."

Aberius sawed his reins, and his horse pranced dangerously on the steeply sloping around. "Do you question my tracking, Talbor? The path we follow is the path taken by those I saw." He laid hand to his sword hilt.

"You threaten me, Aberius?" the Kothian growled. His fingers slid from his pommel toward the tulwar at his hip.

Karela spurred suddenly into their midst, her naked sword in hand. "I'll kill the first man to bare an inch of blade," she announced heatedly. Her catlike eyes flicked each man in turn; both hurriedly removed their hands from their weapons. "Now tell me what has you at each other's throats like dancing girls in a zenana."

"The soldiers," Aberius began.

"These supposed pendants," Talbor started at the same instant.

"Soldiers!" Karela said. She jerked her head around, and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she spotted the distant line of men on the plain below. "Fear you soldiers so far away, Aberius?" she sneered.

"What would you fear closer? An old woman with a stick?"

"I like not being followed by anyone," Aberius replied sulkily, "Or think you they follow us not?"

"I care not if they follow us or no," she flared. "You are the Red Hawk's men! An you follow me, you'll fear what I tell you to fear and naught else. Now all of you get up ahead. There's level ground there where we'll camp the night."

"There's a half a day yet we could travel," Hordo protested.

She rounded on him, green eyes flashing. "Did you not hear my command? I said we camp! You, Cimmerian, remain here."

Her one-eyed lieutenant grumbled, but turned his horse up the mountain, and the rest followed in sullen silence broken only by the creak of saddle leather and the slick of hooves on stone.

Conan watched the red-haired woman warily. She hefted her sword as if she had half a mind to drive it into him, then sheathed it. "Who is this girl, Conan? What is her name?"

"She's called Velita," he said. He had told her of Velita before, and knew she remembered the dancing girl's name. In time she would come to what she truly wanted to speak of. He twisted around for another look at the column of soldiers. "They gain ground on us, Karela. We should keep moving."

"We move when I say. And stop when I say. Do you think to play some game, Conan?"

He turned back to her. Her green eyes were clouded with emotion as she stared at him. What emotion he could not say. "I play no more games than you, Karela."

Her snort was eloquent. "Treasures taken from a king's palace, so you say, not to mention this baggage you claim to have promised her freedom. Why then do the thieves flee to these mountains, where none live but goats, and savages little better than goats?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But it convinces me all the more they are the men I seek. Honest pilgrims do not journey to Vendhya by way of the heart of the Kezankian Mountains."

"Perhaps," she said, and shifted her gaze to the soldiers, far below. With a laugh she reared her big black to dance on its hind legs. "Fools. They'll not clip the Red Hawk's wings."

"It seems most likely they seek Tiridates' pendants, as we do," he said. "Much more so than that they seek you."

The red-haired woman glowered at him. "The Zamoran Army seeks me incessantly, Cimmerian. Of course, they'll never catch me. When their hunting becomes too troublesome, my men disperse to become guards on the very caravan routes we raid. The pay is high, for fear of the Red Hawk." Her sudden laugh was exultant.

To his amusement he realized she had been offended by his suggestion that the soldiers hunted other than her. "Your pardon, Karela. I should have remembered that taking seven caravans in six months would certainly rival even a theft from Tiridates' palace."

"I had naught to do with those," she said scornfully. "No creature from those caravans, man, horse, or camel, has even been seen again. When I take a caravan, those too old or ill-favored to fetch a price on the slave block are turned loose with food and water to find their way to the nearest city, albeit poorer than before."

"If not you, then who?"

"How should I know? The last caravan I took was a full eight months ago, and fat. When we left our celebrating in Arenjun it was to find the countryside too hot to hold us for those vanished caravans. I sent my men to their hiring, and these four months past have I been in Shadizar telling cards beneath the very noses of the King's Own." Her full mouth twisted. "I would be there still, if the risk of calling my band together once more had not seemed less than the odium of being eyed by men who thought to give me a tumble." Her glare seemed to include him and every other man in the world.

"Strange things are happening in the Kezankians," Conan said thoughtfully. "Perhaps those we follow have something to do with the vanished caravans."

"You make flight of fancy," she muttered, and he realized she was eyeing him oddly. "Come to my tent, Cimmerian. I would talk with you." She spurred away up the mountainside before he could speak.

Conan was about to follow when he became aware of being watched from the jagged mountains to the south. His first thought was of Kezankian hillmen, but then, as the hackles stood on the back of his neck, he knew it was the same invisible eyes he had felt that night with Karela, and again before Crato appeared. Imhep-Aton had followed him.

His massive shoulders squared, and he threw back his head. "I do not fear you, sorcerer!" he shouted. A hollow, ringing echo floated back to him. Fear you, sorcerer! Scowling, he spurred his horse up the mountain.

Karela's red-striped pavilion had been set up on a level patch of stony ground. Already the motley brigands had cook fires going, and were passing their stone jars of kil.

"What was that shouting?" Aberius called as Conan climbed down from his horse.

"Nothing," Conan said.

The weasel-faced man led a knot of ruffians down to face him warily. When he casually laid his hand on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, the memory of how he had used that sword against Crato was clear on those bearded, scarred and gnarled faces.

"Some of us have thought on these soldiers," Aberius said.

"You have thought," another muttered, but Aberius ignored him.

"And what have you thought?" Conan asked.

Aberius hesitated, looking to either side as if for support. There was scant to be found, but he went on.

"Never before have we come into these mountains, excepting to hide a day. Here there is no room to scatter. We must go where the stone will let us go, not where we will. And this when five times our number of soldiers follow our backtrail."

"If you've lost your enthusiasm," Conan said, "leave. I'd as lief go on alone as not."

"Aye, and take the pendants alone," Aberius barked, "and the rest. You'd like it well for us to leave you."

Conan's sapphire eyes raked them scornfully. Even Aberius flinched under that lashing gaze. "Make up your minds. Fear the soldiers and run, or follow the pendants. One or the other. You cannot do both."

"And you bring us to where these soldiers can take us," Aberius began, "you'll not live-"

Conan cut him off. "You do as you will. On the morrow I ride after the pendants." He pushed through them. They muttered fretfully as he went.

He found himself wondering if it would be better for him if they stayed or went. They still had no right to the pendants, in his eyes, but now that they were in the mountains he could use Aberius' tracking ability, at least. The man could tell the mark a hoof made on stone from that made by a falling rock. That was always supposing the weasel-faced brigand did not decide to slip a knife between his ribs. The muscular young Cimmerian sighed heavily. What had started out to be a simple, if spectacular, theft, had grown as convoluted as a pit of snakes, and he had the uneasy feeling that he was not yet aware of all the twists and turns.

As he approached Karela's red-striped pavilion, with half its ropes tied to small boulders because the ground was too hard for driving pegs, Hordo suddenly stepped in front of him.

"Where do you think you're going?" the one-eyed bandit demanded.

Conan's temper had been shortened by knowing Imhep-Aton followed him, and by the encounter with Aberius. "Where I want to go," he growled, and pushed the scar-faced man from his path.

The startled brigand stumbled aside as Conan started past, then whirled, his broadsword coming out, at the whisper of steel leaving leather. Hordo's tulwar darted toward him. Conan beat the curved blade aside in the same motion as his draw, and the bearded man danced backward down the slope with surprising agility for one of his bulk. The scar that ran from under his rough leather eye-patch was livid.

"You have muscles, Cimmerian," he grated, "but no brains. You think above yourself."

Conan's laugh was short and mirthless. "Do you think I intend to displace you as lieutenant? I'm a thief, not a raider of caravans. But you do as you think you must." His broadsword was a heavy weapon, but he made it sing in interlocked figure eights about his head and to either side.

"Put up your blades!" came Karela's voice from behind him.

Without taking his gaze totally from Hordo, Conan took two quick steps to his left, turning so he could see both the bearded bandit and the red-haired woman. She stood in the entrance of the pavilion, her emerald cape drawn close to cover her from her neck to the ground. Her green-eyed gaze regarded them imperiously.

"He sought your tent," Hordo muttered.

"As I commanded him," she replied coldly. "You, at least, Hordo, should know I don't allow men of my band to draw weapons on each other. I'd have killed Aberius and Talbor for it. You two are more valuable. Shall I let each of you consider it the night with his hands and feet bound in the small of his back?"

Hordo seemed shaken by her anger. He sheathed his sword. "I was but trying to protect you," he protested.

The muscles along her jaw tightened. "Think you I need protection? Go, Hordo, before I forget the years you've served me well." The one-eyed man hesitated, cast a sharp glance at Conan, then stalked off toward the fires.

"You talk more like a queen than a bandit," Conan said finally, replacing his sword in its worn shagreen scabbard. She stared at him, but he met her gaze firmly.

"Others end at the headsman's block, or on the slave block, but none of mine has ever been taken, Conan. Because I demand discipline. Oh, not the foolishness soldiers call discipline, but any command I give must be obeyed at once. Any command. In this band the Red Hawk's word is law, and those who cannot accept that must leave or die."

"I am no hand at obedience," he said quietly.

"Come inside," she said, and disappeared through the entrance. Conan followed.

The ground inside the striped pavilion had been laid with fine, fringed Turanian carpets. A bed of glossy black furs, with silken pillows and soft, striped woolen blankets, lay against a side of the tent. A low, highly polished table was surrounded by large cushions. Gilded oil lamps illumined all.

"Close the flap," she said. Her mouth worked, and she added with obvious effort, "Please."

Conan unfastened the flap and let it drop across the entrance. He was wary of this strange mood Karela seemed to be in. "You should be more careful with Hordo. He's the only one of this lot who's loyal to you instead of to your success."

"Hordo is more a faithful hound than a man," she said.

"The more fool you for thinking so. He's the best man out there."

"He is no man, as I mean a man." Abruptly she threw back the emerald cape, letting it fall to the rugs, and Conan could not stop the gasp that rose in his throat.

Karela stood before him naked, soft auburn hair falling about her shoulders. A single strand of matched pearls hung low around the curve of her hips, glowing against the ivory skin of her sweetly rounded belly.

Her heavy, round breasts were rouged, and the musky scent of perfume drifted from her as she stood with one knee slightly bent, shoulders back, hands behind her, in a pose at once offering and defiant.

He took a step toward her, and there was suddenly a dagger in her hand, its needle blade no wider than her finger but long enough and more to reach his heart. Her tilted green eyes never left his face. "You walk among my rogues like a wolf among a pack of dogs, Cimmerian. Even Hordo is but half wolf beside you. No man has ever called me his, for men come to believe the calling. If a woman must be a man's slave, then I'll be no woman. I'll walk behind no man, fawning for his favor and leaping to his command. I am the Red Hawk. I command. I."

With great care he lifted the dagger from her fingers and tossed it aside. "You are a woman, Karela, whether you admit it or no. Does there have to be one to command between us? I knew the chains of slavery when I was but sixteen, and I have no desire to wish them on anyone." He lowered her to the furs.

"An you betray me," she whispered, "I'll put your head before my tent on a spear. I'll... ah, Derketo." For a time she made no sounds that came not unbidden to her lips.

Chapter XII

The private thaumaturgical chambers of Amanar were in the very top of the tallest tower of the keep, as far from the room of sacrifice as they could be and still remain within that dark fortress. He knew that Morath-Aminee was in no way limited to the columned room in the heart of the mountain, but distance yet gave an illusion of safety.

The walls of the circular stone room were lined with books bound in the skins of virgins, and light came from glass balls that hung from sconces glowing from a minor spell. There was no window, nor any opening save a single heavily barred, iron-bound door. The scent of incense hissing with colored flames on the coals of a bronze brazier warred with the odor of a noxious brew bubbling in a stone beaker above a fire stoked with human bones. On the tables, dried mummies waited to be powdered for philters, among carelessly scattered ewers of deadly venom and bundles of rare herbs and roots.

The necromancer himself stood watching the boiling brew, his attention rapt. The dark liquid began to froth higher. With but a moment's hesitation he removed the amulet from his neck. A chill climbed his backbone at being even so barely separated, but it was necessary. Before the black froth reached the rim of the beaker, he lowered the amulet by its chain until serpent and eagle alike were covered. The silver chain grew colder, bitter metal ice searing his preternaturally long fingers. The froth sank, but the black liquid bubbled even more fiercely. The stone of the beaker began to glow red.

"Hand of a living man, powdered when dry

Blood of an eagle, no more to fly

Eye of the mongoose, tooth of the boar

Heart of a virgin, soul of a whore

Burn to their blackness, heat till they boil

Dip in the periapt, confounding the roil."

Hands shaking with haste, Amanar removed the amulet. He wanted to wipe it dry on the instant and replace it about his neck, but this stage of the spell was critical. With long bronze tongs he lifted the stone beaker. Nearby, atop a white marble pedestal, was a small, clear crystal coffer, fragile seeming against even that smooth stone. Deliberately the mage tilted the tongs, pouring the boiling liquid over the gleaming box.

The words he muttered then were arcane, known only to him among the living. The scalding mixture struck the small coffer. The crystal shrieked as if it would shatter in ten thousand pieces. The liquid seemed to gather itself to fly away in steam. As if from a great distance, screams echoed in the room.

Mongoose and boar. Virgin and whore. Abruptly there was silence. The noxious mix was gone, no drop of it remaining. The crystal walls of the coffer now contained gray clouds, shifting and swirling as if before a great wind.

Breathing heavily, Amanar set the beaker and tongs aside. Confidence was flowing back into him. The haven, however temporary, was prepared. He wiped the amulet clean, inspecting it minutely before placing it once more about his neck.

From below rose the dolorous tone of a great bronze gong. Smiling, the mage unbarred the door and took up the crystal coffer beneath his arm. The gong echoed hollowly again.

Amanar made his way directly to the alabaster-walled audience chamber, its domed ceiling held aloft by carven ivory columns as thick as a man's trunk. Behind his throne reared a great serpent of gold. The arms of the throne were hooded vipers of Koth, the legs adders of Vendhya, all of gold. As he surveyed the assemblage before him, the necromancer allowed no particle of his surprise to touch his face. The S'tarra he had expected knelt with heads bowed, while five young women he had definitely not expected, in gossamer silks, hands bound behind their backs, were forced to prostrate themselves before the throne.

Amanar sat, carefully holding the crystal coffer on his lap. "You have that which I sent you for?" he said.

Sitha stepped forward. "They brought this, master." The S'tarra Warden presented an ornate casket of worked gold, the lid set with gemstones.

The mage forced himself to move slowly, but still his fingers trembled as he opened the casket. One by one, four jewels the like of which no man had ever seen, mounted in pendants of silver or gold, were casually tossed on the mosaic floor. A blood-red pearl the size of a man's two thumbs. A diamond black as a raven's wing, and big as a hen's egg. A golden crystal heart that had come from the ground in that shape. A complex lattice of pale blue that could cut diamond. All were as nothing to him. His hand shook visibly as he removed the last, the most important. As long as the top joint of a man's finger, of midnight hue filled with red flecks that danced wildly as Amanar's palm cupped the stone, this was the pendant that must be kept from Morath-Aminee.

He waved the golden casket away. "Dispose of those trifles, Sitha." His S'tarra henchman bowed, and gathered the pendants.

Almost tenderly Amanar swathed the dark stone in silk, then laid it in the crystal coffer. When he replaced the lid, he breathed a sigh of relief. Safe, at last. Not even Morath-Aminee would be able to detect what was in there, for a time, at least. And before that could happen he would have found a new haven, far away, where the god-demon would never think to look.

Clutching the crystal box firmly, Amanar turned his attentions to the women lying before him with their faces pressed to the divers-colored tiles. They trembled, he noted with idle satisfaction.

"How came you by these women?" the mage demanded.

Surassa, who had led the foray, lifted a scaled head. The dark face was expressionless, the words sibilant. "Before Shadizar, master, we spoke the words you told us, and ate the powders, that the glamour might be on us, and none should see us enter."

"The women," Amanar said impatiently. "Not every last thing that happened." He sighed at the look of concentration that appeared in the S'tarra's red eyes. When they knew a thing by rote, it was difficult for them to separate one part.

"The palace, master," Surassa hissed finally. "We entered the palace of Tiridates unseen, but when we came to the place where that which you sent us to seek was to be, only the casket was to be found.

Taking the casket, we searched then the palace. Questioning some, and slaying them for silence, we found the pendants about the necks of these women, and slew the men who were with them. Leaving then the palace, we found that, as you had warned us, the glamour had worn off. We donned the robes-"

"Silence," Amanar said, and the saurian creature's words ceased at once. For their limited intelligence he had commanded them to fetch the casket and all five pendants, fearing they might make a mistake in the pressure of the moment and bring the black diamond instead of that which he needed. Yet despite all his careful instructions they had managed to increase their risk of being caught by taking these women. Rage bubbled in him, made all the worse for knowing that punishing them would be like punishing dogs. They would accept whatever he did, and understand not a whit of why. The S'tarra, sensing something of his mood, shifted uneasily.

"Bring the women before me," the necromancer commanded.

Hastily the five women were pulled to their knees and the bare covering of their silks ripped away. With fearful eyes the kneeling, naked women watched Amanar rise. He walked thoughtfully down the line of them.

Severally and together, they were beautiful, and just as important to him, their dread was palpable.

He stopped before a pale blond with ivory satin skin. "Your name, girl?"

"Susa." He quirked an eyebrow, and she hastily added, "Master. I am called Susa, an it please you, master."

"You five are the dancing girls Yildiz sent to Tiridates?"

Her blue eyes were caught by his dark ones, growing more tremulous as he watched. "Yes, master," she quavered.

He stroked his chin and nodded. A king's dancing girls. Fitting for one who would come to rule the world. And when the last jot of amusement had been wrung from them, their puny souls could feed Morath-Aminee.

"Conan will free us," one of the girls suddenly burst out. "He will kill you."

Amanar walked slowly down the line to confront her. Slender and long of leg, her big, dark eyes stared defiance even as her supple body trembled. "And what is your name, girl?" His words were soft, but his tone brought a moan from her throat.

"Velita," she said at last.

He noted how her teeth had clamped lest she should say "master." There would be much pleasure in this one. "And who is this Conan who will rescue you?"

Velita merely trembled, but Surassa spoke. "Pardon, master, but there was one of that name spoken of in Shadizar. A thief who has grown troublesome."

"A thief!" Amanar laughed. "Well, little Velita. What shall I do about this rescue? Sitha, command the patrols, if they find this man Conan they are to bring me his skin. Not the man. Just the skin." Velita shrieked and crumpled forward to rest her sobbing head on her knees. Amanar laughed again. The other women watched him, terror-struck. But not enough, he thought. "Each night you will dance for me, all five of you. She who pleases me most will gain my bed for the night. The middle three will be whipped and sleep in chains. She who pleases me least..." he paused, feeling the anxiety grow "... will be given to Sitha. He is rough, but he knows still how to use a woman."

The kneeling women cast one horrified glance at the reptilian creature, now watching them avidly, and threw themselves prostrate, groveling, screaming, pleading. Amanar basked in the miasma of their terror.

Surely this was what the god-demon felt when it consumed a soul. Stroking the crystal coffer and stroked by their shrieks, he strode from the chamber.

Chapter XIII

Conan eyed the ridge to the left of the narrow valley the bandits were traversing. There had been movement up there. Only a flicker, but his keen gaze had caught it. And there had been others.

He booted his horse forward along the winding trail to where Hordo rode. Karela was well to the front, fist on one redbooted thigh, surveying the mountainous countryside as if she headed an army rather than a motley band of two score brigands, snaking out behind her.

"We're being watched," Conan said as he came alongside the one-eyed bandit.

Hordo spat. "Think you I don't know that already?"

"Hillmen?"

"Of course." The lone eye frowned. "What else?"

"I don't know," Conan said. "But the one good chance I had, I saw a helmet, not a turban."

"The soldiers are still behind us," Hordo said thoughtfully. "Talbor and Thanades will let us know if they begin to close."

The two bandits had been ordered to trail behind, keeping the Zamoran cavalry in sight. Conan refrained from suggesting they might have become affrighted apart from the band and fled, or that Karela was holding the soldiers in too much contempt. "Whoever they are, we'd best hope they don't attack us here."

Hordo looked at the steep, scrub-covered slopes rising on either side of the trail and grimaced. "Mitra!

Pray they're not strong enough, though a dozen good men...." He trailed off as Aberius appeared on the trail ahead, whipping his horse steadily.

"That looks ill," Conan said. Hordo merely grunted, and the two rode forward to reach Karela as the weasel-faced bandit galloped up.

"Hillmen," Aberius panted. Greasy sweat dotted his face. "Six score, maybe seven. Camped athwart the trail ahead. And they're breaking camp."

There was no need to discuss the danger. Kezankian hillmen admitted allegiance to no one but themselves, though both Turan and Zamora had tried futilely to subdue them. The fierce tribesmen's way with strangers was simple, short and deadly. One not of his clan, even another hillman, was an enemy, and enemies were for killing.

"Coming this way?" Karela said quietly. At Aberius' anxious nod she cursed under her breath.

"And the soldiers behind," Hordo growled.

Karela's green eyes flashed at the bearded man. "Do you grow frightened with age, Hordo?"

"I've no desires to be between the sledge and the stone," Hordo replied, "and my age has naught to do with it."

"Watch you don't become an old woman," she sneered. "We'll leave the trail, and let the hillmen and the soldiers exhaust themselves on each other. Mayhap we'll have a good view from the ridge."

Conan laughed, and tensed as the red-haired woman rounded on him with her hand on her sword. If he was forced to disarm her-he did not think he could kill her, even to save his own life-he would certainly have to fight. Hordo as well. And likely the rest of the brigands, who had gathered a short distance down the rocky trail.

"Your idea of letting them fight among themselves is a good one," he said, "but if we try to take horses up these slopes we'll be at it still a week hence."

"You've a better plan, Cimmerian?" Her voice was sharp, but she had loosed her grip on her jeweled tulwar.

"I have. Most of the band will ride back along the trail and up one of the side canyons we've passed."

"Back toward the soldiers?" Hordo protested.

"The hillmen have trackers, too!" Aberius shrilled. "Once they pick up our trail, and they will, it's us that'll have to fight them, not the accursed Zamorans!"

"I trust there's more to your plan," Karela said softly. "If you turn out to be a fool after all...." Her words trailed off, but there was a dangerous glint in her tilted eyes. Conan knew she would not forgive the shame of having taken a fool to her bed.

"I said most of the band," the big Cimmerian went on calmly. "I will take a few men forward to where the hillmen are."

Aberius' laugh was scathing, and frightened. "And defeat all seven score? Or perhaps you think your mild face and dulcet tones will turn their blades aside?"

"Be silent!" Karela commanded. She touched her full lips with her tongue before going on in a quieter voice. "If you're a fool, Conan, you're a brave one. Speak on."

"I'll attack the hillmen, all right," Conan said, "but as soon as they know I'm there, I'll be away, I'll lead them past where the rest have turned off the trail, straight to the soldiers. While they're fighting, I and who comes with me will slip away to rejoin you and the others."

"One or the other will have your guts for saddle ties," Aberius snorted.

"Then they'll have yours, too," Karela said, "And mine. For you and I will accompany him." The man's pinched face drew tighter, but he said nothing. Conan opened his mouth to protest; she cut him off. "I lead this band, Cimmerian, and I send no man to danger while I ride to safety. Accept that, or I'll have you tied across your saddle, and you can accompany the others."

A chuckle rumbled up from Conan's massive chest. "There's no sword I'd rather have beside me than yours. I only thought that without you there, those rogues might keep on riding right out of the mountains."

After a moment she joined his laughter. "Nay, Conan, for they know I'd pursue them to Gehanna, if they did. Besides, Hordo will keep my hounds in line. What's the matter with you, bearded one?"

Hordo stared at her with grim eyes. "Where the Red Hawk must bare her blade," he said flatly, "there ride I."

Conan waited for another blast of the red-haired bandit's temper, but instead she sat her horse staring at Hordo as if she had never seen him before. Finally she said, "Very well, though you're like to lose your other eye if you don't listen to me. Get the rest on their way."

The one-eyed man bared his teeth in a fierce grin and whirled his horse back down the trail.

"A good man," Conan said quickly.

Karela glared. "Do not upbraid me, Cimmerian."

The mass of brigands clattered down the twisting trail and were soon lost to sight. Hordo booted his horse back up to where Conan and the others waited.

"Think you the watchers will take a hand in this, Conan?" the bearded brigand asked.

"What watchers?" Karela demanded. Aberius let out a low moan.

Conan shook his head. "Men on the hillside, but not to concern us now, I think. If they numbered enough to interfere, we'd know it already."

"Hordo, you knew of this and didn't tell me?" Karela said angrily.

"Do we wait here talking," Conan asked, "or do we find the hillmen before they find us?"

For a reply Karela kicked her horse into a gallop up the trail.

"If her mind were not on you, Cimmerian," Hordo growled, "she'd not need to be told." He spurred after the Red Hawk.

Aberius looked as if he wanted to ride back after the other bandits, but Conan pointed ahead. "That's the way."

The weasel-faced brigand showed his teeth in a snarl, and reluctantly turned his horse after the other two.

Conan rode in close behind, forcing him to a gallop.

As soon as they reached the others, Conan drew his sword and rested it across his muscular thighs. With thoughtful looks Karela and Hordo did the same. On that narrow trail, often snaking back on itself with screening escarpments of stone, they would be on the hillmen without warning. If the hillmen did not come on them the same way. Aberius lagged back, chewing his lip.

Abruptly they rounded a sharp bend, and were into the camp of the hillmen. There were no tents, but dark, hooknosed men in turbans and dirty motley bent to strap bedrolls while others kicked dirt over the ashes of their fires. A thick, bow-legged man, his bare chest crossed by a belt that held his tulwar, saw them first, and an ululating cry broke from his throat. For a bare moment every man in the camp froze, then a shriek of "Kill them!" sent all rushing for their horses.

Conan pulled his horse around as soon as the shout rose. There was no need to do more to ensure being followed. "Back," he said, forcing his horse against those of Karela and Hordo. Aberius seemed to have broken free already. "Back, for your lives."

Karela sawed her reins, brought her horse around, and then all three were pounding back the way they had come. Conan kept an eye behind. For the twists of the trail he could see little, but what he saw told him the hillmen had been quicker to horse than he had hoped. The lead horseman, a burly man with his beard parted and curled like horns, flashed into and out of sight as the trail wound round boulders and rock walls. When they reached the soldiers, they must be far enough ahead to distinguish themselves from the fierce tribesmen, though not far enough to allow too many questions.

Conan looked ahead. Karela was stretching her black out as much as the trail would allow, and Hordo rode close behind her, using his quirt to urge greater speed from her mount. If Conan could buy them a tenth of a glass at one of these narrow places .... As the Cimmerian rode between two huge, round boulders, he abruptly pulled his horse around. A quick glance showed that neither of the others had noticed. A few moments, and he would catch up to them.

The fork-bearded hillman galloped between the boulders, raised a wavering battlecry, and Conan's blade clove turban and skull to his shoulders.

Even as the man fell from his saddle-pad, more turbanned warriors were forcing their way into the gap.

Conan's sword rose and fell in murderous butchery, its steel length stained quickly red, blood running onto his arm and spattering across his chest.

Of a sudden he was aware of Karela, sword flashing, trying to force her way in beside him. Her red hair stood about her head like a mane, and battle light shone in her green eyes. Behind, Conan could hear Hordo calling for her to come back. Her curved blade took a hillman's throat, then another's slash cut one of her reins. A lance pinked her mount, and it reared, screaming and twisting, ripping the other rein from her hand.

"Take her, Hordo!" Conan cried. He brought the flat of his blade down across the rump of her great black horse, earning himself a bloody slash across his chest for his inattention to the hillmen. "Take her to safety, Hordo!"

The big, one-eyed brigand gathered in her dangling rein and spurred down the trail, pulling her horse behind. Conan heard her shouts fading. "Stop, Hordo! Derketo shrivel your eye and tongue! Stop this instant, Hordo! I command it! Hordo!"

Conan had no time to watch, though, for he was engaged again even as she shouted. The hillmen tried to force their way through by sheer weight of numbers, but only two men at a time would fit into the gap, and when more tried they fell before Conan's whirlwind blade. There were six men down beneath the prancing hooves, then seven. Eight. A horse stumbled on a body and reared. The savage cut Conan had intended for the hook-nosed rider half-severed the horse's neck. It fell kicking beneath the hooves of the next horse, and that one went down as well, its rider catapulting from the saddle to lose his turbanned head to the mighty Cimmerian's broadsword.

The rest of the swarthy riders fell back from that bloody passage, blocked now with dead to the height of a man. Raised tulwars and shouted threats of what would be done when Conan was taken told him they had not given up, though. He edged his horse back. Once he was gone they would clear away the dead, tumbling men and horses alike by the trail, and follow to avenge their honor. But he had gained the time he needed.

The Cimmerian pulled his horse around and booted it into a gallop. Behind him the blood-curdling cries still rose.

Chapter XIV

By the time Conan rejoined the other two, Karela was controlling her horse awkwardly with the single rein, and Hordo was assiduously avoiding her savage glare.

"Where's Aberius?" Conan said. There had been no sign of the man along the way.

Karela thrust a murderous look at the big Cimmerian, but there was no time to speak, for as he spoke they rounded a bend, and there ahead was the Zamoran cavalry column. The officer in the lead raised his hand to signal a halt as the three reached him. Some of the mailed men eyed Conan's bloody sword and loosened their own in their scabbards.

"Ho, my lord general," Conan said, bowing to the blocky, sunburnt officer. His armor showed more wear than any general's ever had, the Cimmerian thought, but flattery never hurt, and it could never be piled on too deeply. Though perhaps it might go better with the officer who joined them then, slender and handsome even beneath his dirt.

"Captain," the blocky officer said, "not general. Captain Haranides." Conan suddenly hoped the hillmen showed quickly. The dark eyes that regarded him from beneath that russet-crested helm were shrewd.

"Who are you? And what are the lot of you doing in the Kezankians?"

"My name is Crato, noble captain," Conan said, "late guard on a caravan bound from Sultanapur, as was this man, Claudo by name. We had the misfortune to fall among hillmen. The lady is Vanya, daughter of Andiaz, a merchant of Turan who took passage with us. I fear that we three are all who survived. I also fear the hillmen are at our heels, for I looked back not long since and saw them on the trail behind."

"Merchant's daughter!" the young officer crowed. "With those bold eyes? If that wench is a merchant's daughter, I'm King of Turan." The captain's mouth tightened, but he kept silent. Conan could see him watching their reactions. "What say you, Crato? What price for an hour of the jade's time?"

Conan tensed, waiting for her to draw her sword, but she merely pulled herself haughtily erect. "Captain Haranides," she said coldly, "will you allow this man to speak so? My father may be dead, but I yet have relatives who have the ear of Yildiz. And in these months past I hear that your Tiridates wishes to be friends with King Yildiz." The captain still said nothing.

"Your pardon, noble sir," Conan said, "but the hillmen...." Where were they, he wondered.

"I see no hillmen," the young officer said sharply. "And I've heard of no caravans since those seven that disappeared. More likely you're brigands yourselves, who had a falling out with the rest of your band.

Perhaps being put to the question will loosen your tongues. The bastinado-"

"Easily, Aheranates," the captain said. Abruptly he wore a warm smile for the three. "Speak more easily.

I'm sure these unfortunates will tell us all they know, if only..." The smile froze on his face, then melted.

"Sheol!" he thundered. "You've brought them straight to us!"

Conan looked over his shoulder and would have shouted for joy if he dared. The hillmen sat their horses in a startled knot not two hundred paces distant. But already the shock of seeing the soldiers was wearing off, and curved tulwars were being waved above turbanned heads. Ululating cries of defiance floated toward the cavalry.

"Shall we retreat?" Aheranates asked nervously.

"Fool!" the hook-nosed captain spat. "An we turn away, they'll be on our backs like vultures on dead meat. Pass the word-but quietly!-that I'll give no signal, but when I ride forward every man is to charge as if he had a lance up his backside. Move, lieutenant!" The slender officer licked his lips, then started down the column. Haranides turned a gimlet eye on Conan as he eased his sword. "I hope you can use that steel, big man, but in any case, you stay close to me. If we're alive when this is over, there are questions I want to ask."

"Of course, noble captain," Conan said, but Haranides was already spurring forward. Howling, the cavalry column poured after him up the trail. Screaming hillmen charged, and in an instant the two masses of men were locked in a maelstrom of flashing steel and blood.

Karela and Hordo turned away from the battle and rode for a narrow gorge that let off the trail. Conan hesitated, staring at the combat. Haranides might well have tried to kill him, had the captain known who he was, but this leading the man to his death suddenly festered inside the tall Cimmerian.

"Conan," Hordo called over his shoulder, "what are you waiting for? Ride before someone sees us going." The bearded ruffian continued to suit his actions to his words, following close behind his auburn-haired leader.

Reluctantly Conan rode after them. As they made their way up the sheer-walled cut in the dark granite, the sounds of killing seemed to follow them.

For a long time they rode in silence, till the battle noises had long since faded. The narrow passage opened into a canyon that meandered back to the east. Conan and Karela each rode locked in their own sour silence. Hordo looked from one to the other, frowning. Finally he spoke, with false jollity.

"You've a facile tongue, Conan. Why, you near had me believing my name was Claudo, for the bland look in those blue eyes of yours when you said it."

"A thief had best have a facile tongue," Conan grunted. "Or a bandit. And speaking of facile tongues, what happened to that snake Aberius? I have seen him not since before we met the hillmen."

Hordo forced a laugh with a worried glance at Karela, whose face looked like stormclouds on the horizon. "We encountered the craven well down the path. He said he was guarding our backtrail, to keep our retreat open."

Conan growled deep in his throat. "You should have slit the coward's throat."

"Nay. He has too many uses in him for that. I sent him to find the rest of the band, and to tell them to make camp. Can I but puzzle out how these canyons go, we'll be back to them soon."

"This is my band, Conan!" Karela suddenly snapped. "I command here! The Red Hawk!"

"Then if you think Aberius should escape his cowardice," Conan replied gruffly, "let him. But I'll not change my mind on it."

She tried to jerk her horse around to face him, but her single rein made the big black take a dancing sidestep instead. The auburn-haired bandit made a sound that in another woman Conan would have called a sob of frustration. But of course such was unlikely from her.

"You fool barbarian!" she cried. "What right had you to send me-me!-to safety? Giving my reins to this one-eyed buffoon! Whipping my horse as if I were some favored slave girl who must be kept from danger!"

"That's what you're angry about?" Conan said incredulously. "With but one rein left, you were easy meat for the next hillman's blade."

"You made that decision, did you? It was not yours to make. I choose when and where I fight, and how much risk I'll face. I!"

"You're the most ungrateful person at having your life saved that I've ever met," Conan grumbled.

Karela shook her fist at him, and her voice rose to an enraged howl. "I do not need you to save my life! I do not want you to save my life! Of all men, you least! Swear to me you will never again lift a hand to save my life or my freedom. Swear it, Cimmerian!"

"I swear it!" he answered hotly. "By Crom, l swear it!"

Karela nodded shortly and got her horse moving again with violent kicks and much tugging at her one rein. The bare brown rock through which they rode, layered in places with much faded colors, fitted Conan's mood well. Hordo dropped back to ride beside the muscular youth.

"Once I liked you not at all, Conan," the one-eyed man said in a voice that would not carry forward to Karela. "Now, I like you well, but still I say this. Leave us."

Conan cast a sour eye at him. "If there be leaving to do, you do it. And her, with the rest of her band. I have a seeking here, remember?"

"She'll not turn aside, despite hillmen, or soldiers, or demons themselves. That's the trouble, or what comes of it. That, and this oath, and a score of things more. Emotion rules her head, now, and not the other way round, as always before. I fear what this means."

"I did not ask for the oath," Conan replied. "If you think her temper runs away with her, speak to her, not me."

The bearded bandit's hands gripped his reins till his knuckles were white. "I do like you, Conan, but bring you harm to her, and I will carve you as a Kethan carves stone." He booted his horse ahead, and the three traveled once more in heavy silence.

Long shadows stretched across the mountain valleys by the time they found the bandit camp, among huge boulders at the base of a sheer cliff. Despite the crisp coldness of the air, the scattered fires were small, and placed among the boulders so as to lessen the chance of being seen. Karela's red-striped pavilion stood almost against the towering rock wall.

"I'll see you in my tent, Conan," the red-haired woman said. Without waiting for an answer, she galloped to the pavilion, gave her horse into a bandit's care, and disappeared inside.

As Conan dismounted, he found a knot of bandits gathering about Hordo and him. Aberius was among them, though not in the forefront.

"Ho, Aberius," the Cimmerian said. "I'm glad to see you well. I thought you might have been injured in holding the rail open for us." Some of the rough-faced men snickered. Aberius bared his teeth in what might have been meant to be a grin, but his eyes were those of a rat in a box. He said nothing.

"The hillmen are taken care of, then?" a Kothian with one ear asked, "And the soldiers?"

"Slitting each other's weasands," Hordo chuckled. "They're no more concern to us, not in this world."

"And I've no concern for the next," the Kothian laughed. Most of the others joined in. Conan noted Aberius did not.

"On the morrow, Aberius," Conan said, "you'll take up the trail again, and in a day or two we'll have the treasure."

The pinch-faced brigand had started at the sound of his name. Now he licked his lips before answering.

"It cannot be. The trail is lost." He flinched as the other bandits turned to stare at him. "It's lost, I say."

"But only for the moment," Conan said. "Isn't that right? We'll go back to that valley where the hillmen were camped, and you'll pick it up again."

"I tell you it isn't so simple." Aberius shifted his shoulders and tugged nervously at his dented iron breastplate. "While on the trail I can tell a rock disturbed by a horse from one that merely fell. Now I'm away from the trail. If I go back, they'll both look the same."

"Fool!" someone snarled. "You've lost us the treasure."

"All this way for naught," another cried.

"Cut his throat!"

"Slit Aberius' gullet!"

Sweat beaded the man's narrow face. Hordo stepped forward quickly. "Hold, now! Hold! Can you track these men, Talbor? Alvar? Anyone?" Heads were shaken in reluctant denial. "Then open not your mouth against Aberius."

"I still say he is afeared," Talbor muttered. "That is why he cannot find the tracks again."

"I'm not affrighted of any man," Aberius said hotly. He licked his lips once more. "Of any man." There was a peculiar emphasis to the last word.

"Of what then?" Conan said. For a moment he thought Aberius would refuse to answer, then the man spoke in a rush.

"On the mountain slope, after we four rode forward, I saw a... a thing." His voice gained fervency as he spoke. "Like a snake, it was, yet like a man, too. It wore armor, and carried a sword, and flame shot from its mouth twice the length of a sword. As I watched it signaled for more of its kind to come forth.

Had I not ridden to half-kill my horse, I'd be dead at those creatures' hands."

"If it had the flame," Conan muttered, "what need had it for the sword?" Some of the others began to murmur fearfully, though, and even those who were silent had unease on their faces.

"Why did you not speak of this before?" Hordo demanded.

"There was no need," Aberius replied. "I knew we would soon leave, since the tracks are lost. We must leave soon. Besides, I thought you would misbelieve me."

"There are strange things under the sky," Conan said. "I've seen some of them, myself. But I've never seen anything that could not be killed with cold steel." Or at least, very few, he amended to himself.

"How many of these things did you actually see, Aberius?"

"Only the one," Aberius admitted with obvious reluctance. "But it summoned more, and I saw them moving beyond the rocks. There could have been a hundred, a thousand."

"Yet all in all," Hordo said, "you saw but one. There cannot be many of them, else we'd have heard before. A thing like that would be talked of."

"But," Aberius began.

"But nothing," Hordo barked. "We'll keep a wary eye for these creatures of yours, but on the morrow we see if you can tell a horse track from horse moss."

"But I told you-"

"Unless you all want to give up the treasure," the one-eyed bandit went on as if the smaller man had not spoken. Loud objections went up on every side. "Then I'll talk to the Red Hawk, and at dawn we'll move. Now go get something into your bellies."

One by one the bandits drifted away to their fires. Aberius went last of all, casting a dark look at Conan as he went.

Chapter XV

While Hordo stumped off to the red-striped pavilion, Conan found a spot where he could sit with his back to a massive boulder and no one could come at him unseen. That look from Aberius had spoken of knives in the back. He got out his honing stone and broadsword and began to smooth the nicks made by hillmen's chainmail. The sky became purple, and lurid red streamers filled the jagged western horizon. He was putting the finishing touches to his blade's edge when the one-eyed brigand stormed out of Karela's tent.

The bearded man stalked to within a few feet of Conan, obviously ill at ease. Hordo rubbed his bulbous nose, muttering under his breath. "A good habit, that," he said finally. "I've seen more than one good man die because an untended notch in his blade left him with a stump the next time it took a good blow"

Conan laid the broadsword across his thighs. "You didn't come to talk of swords. What does she say about tomorrow?"

"She wouldn't even listen to me." Hordo shook his bearded head. "Me, who's been with her from the first day, and she wouldn't listen."

"No matter. On the morrow, you turn back, and I go on. Perhaps she's right not to risk these snakemen on top of all else."

"Mitra! You don't understand. I never got to speak of the creatures, or of Aberius' denial he can find the trail again. She paced like a caged lioness, and would not let me say two words together." He tugged at his beard with both hands. "Too long have I been with her," he muttered, "to be sent on such an errand.

Zandru, man, it's because you didn't come when she ordered that she's ready to bite heads off. And her temper worsens every minute you sit here."

Conan smiled briefly. "I told her once I was no hand at obedience."

"Mitra, Zandru, and nine or ten other gods whose names escape me at the moment." Hordo let out a long sigh and squatted with his thick arms crossed on his knees. "Another time I wouldn't mind wagering on which of you will win, but not when I might be shortened a head for being in the middle."

"There's no talk of winning or losing. I'm in no battle with her."

The side of the one-eyed man's mouth that was not drawn into a permanent sneer grimaced. "You're a man, and she's a woman. There's battle enough. Well, what happens, happens. But remember my warning. Harm her, and it's you will be shorter a head."

"Since she's angry with me, talk her into turning back. That will give you what you want. Her away from me." He did not add that it would also give him what he wanted, and relieve him of the necessity of stealing the pendants from the bandits.

"The temper she's in, 'tis more likely she'll order you staked out again, and begin again where first we were."

Conan touched his sword; his steel blue eyes were suddenly cold. "This time I'll collect my ferryman's fee, Hordo."

"Speak not of ferryman's fees," the other man muttered. "An she decides so... I'll get you away in the night. Bah! This talk of what will happen and what may happen is building towers of sand in the wind."

"Then let us talk on other things," Conan said with a laugh that did not touch his eyes. He believed the one-eyed brigand did indeed like him, but he would not trust his life to that where the need of going against Karela's commands was concerned. "Think you Aberius made these snakemen out of air, to cover his wanting to turn back?"

"He tells the truth with a face that shouts lie, yet this time I think he may actually have seen something.

That's not to say it was what he says it was. Ah, I know not, Conan. Snakes that walk like men." The bearded bandit shivered. "I begin to grow old. This chasing after a king's treasure is beyond me. I'd settle for a good caravan with guards who have no wish to die."

"Than talk her into turning back. 'Tis almost full dark. I'll leave the camp tonight, and in the morning, with me gone, there will be no trouble in it."

"Much you know," Hordo snorted. "With the humor on her now, she'd order us to pursue, and slay any who would not."

The flap of the striped pavilion opened, and Karela emerged, her face almost hidden by the hood of a scarlet cloak that covered her to the ground. She moved purposefully toward the two men through the deepening purple twilight. The cookfires made small pools of light among the boulders.

Hordo got to his feet, dusting his hands nervously. "I... must see to the horses. Good luck to you, Conan." He hurried away, not looking in the direction of the approaching woman.

Conan picked up his sword again and bent to examine the blade. It must needs be sharp, but the razor-edge some men boasted of would split against chain mail and quickly leave naught but a metal club.

He became aware of the lower edge of Karela's crimson cloak at the corner of his vision. He did not look up.

"Why did you not come to my tent?" she demanded abruptly.

"I had need to tend my sword." With a final examination of the edge, he stood and sheathed the sword.

Her tilted green eyes glared up at him from within the shelter of her hood; his sapphire gaze met hers calmly.

"I commanded you to come to me! We have much to discuss."

"But I will not be commanded, Karela. I am not one of your faithful hounds."

Her gasp was loud. "You defy me? I should have known you would think to supplant me. Do not think simply because you share my bed-"

"Be not a fool, Karela." The big Cimmerian made an effort to keep a rein on his temper. "I have no designs on your band. Command your rogues, but do not try to command me."

"So long as you ride behind the Red Hawk-"

"I ride with you, and beside you, as you ride with and beside me. No more than that for either of us."

"Do not cut me off, you muscle-bound oaf!" Her shout rang through the camp, echoing from tall boulders and the looming cliff. Bandits at the cook fires, and currying horses, turned to stare. Even in the dimness Conan could see that her face had colored. She lowered her voice, but her tone was acid. "I thought that you were the man I sought, a man strong enough to be the Red Hawk's consort. Derketo blast your soul!

You're naught but a street thief?"

He caught her swinging hand before it could strike his cheek, and held it easily despite her struggles. Her scarlet cloak gaped open, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. "Again you break your oath, Karela.

Do you hold your goddess in such contempt as to believe she will not punish a foresworn oath?"

Abruptly the auburn-haired woman seemed to realize the spectacle they were making before her brigands. She gathered her cloak together with her free hand. "Release me," she said coolly. "Rot your soul, I will not say please."

Conan loosened his grip, but it was not her plea that caused him to do so. As she tore her wrist free the hairs on the back of his neck were rising in an unpleasantly familiar fashion. He stared through the now black sky at the mountains around them. The stars were glittering bright points, and the moon had not yet risen. The mountains were formless deepenings of the night's shadows.

"Imhep-Aton follows still," he said quietly.

"I may allow you some liberties in private, Conan," Karela grated, rubbing her wrist, "but never again in public are you to .... Imhep-Aton? That's the name the possessed man spoke, that night in the camp. The sorcerer's name."

Conan nodded. "It was he who spoke to me first of the pendants. If not for the man he sent to kill me that night, I'd have delivered them to him, once I had them, for the price agreed. Now he has no more claim on me, or on the pendants."

"How can you be sure it is him, and not a hillman, or just the weight of night in these mountains pressing on you?"

"I know," he said simply.

"But-" Abruptly she stared past him, green eyes going wide in shock, mouth dropping open.

Conan spun, broadsword leaving its scabbard as he turned to knock aside the thrust of a spear in the hands of a demon-like apparition. Red eyes glowed at him from a dark scaled face beneath a ridged helmet. A harsh cry hissed at him from a fanged mouth. The big Cimmerian allowed himself no time for surprise. His return blow from the parry opened the creature from crotch to neck, black blood bubbling forth as it fell.

Already that sibilant battle cry was going up around the camp. Men leaped to their feet around the fires, on the border of panic as scores of scaly-skinned warriors poured out of the night. Alvar stared, and screamed as a spear pierced him through the chest. A swarthy Iranistani turned to flee and had his spine severed by a massive battle-ax in claw-fingered hands. Bandits darted like rats searching for an escape.

"Fight, Crom blast you!" Conan shouted. "They can die, too!"

He ran toward the slaughter in the camp, looking for Karela. Almost at once he spotted her in the middle of the fighting. From somewhere she had acquired a tulwar, though not her jeweled blade. Her cloak now dangled, bunched, from her left hand as a snare to catch other's weapons, and she danced naked through the butchery, red hair streaming, a fury from the Outer Dark, her curved sword drinking ebon blood.

"Up, my hounds!" she screamed. "Fight, for your lives!" Roaring, Hordo dashed in behind her to take a spear in the thigh that had been meant for her back. The one-eyed brigand's blade sought his reptilian attacker's heart, and even as the creature was falling he tore the spear from his leg and waded into the fray, blood over his boot.

Before Conan loomed another of the scaled men, his back to the Cimmerian, his spear raised to transfix Aberius, who lay on the ground wits bulging eyes, his gap-toothed mouth open in a scream. Battles are not duels. Conan slammed his sword through the creature's back to stand out a foot from its chest. While it still stood, death-shriek bubbling forth, he planted a booted foot on its agony-arched back to tug his blade free.

The saurian killer fell twitching across Aberius, who screamed again and wriggled free with a glare at Conan as if he wished the Cimmerian were in the scaled one's place. The weasel-faced bandit grabbed the dying creature's spear, and for a bare second the two men stared at one another. Then Aberius darted into the fighting, shouting, "The Red Hawk! For the Red Hawk!"

"Crom!" Conan bellowed, and plunged into the maelstrom. "Crom and steel!"

The battle became a kaleidoscoping nightmare for the Cimmerian, as all battles did for all warriors. Men battling scaled monsters flickered before him and were gone, still locked in their death struggles. The cloud of battles covered his mind, loosing the fury of his wild north country, and even those scaled snake-men who faced him knew fear before they died, fear at the battle light that glowed in his blue eyes, fear at the grim, wild laughter that broke from his lips even as he slew. He waded through them, broadsword working in murderous frenzy.

"Crom!" If these scaly demons were to pay his ferryman's fee, he would set it high. "Crom and steel!"

And then there were none left standing among the night-shrouded boulders save those of human kind.

Conan's broad chest was splattered with inky blood, mixing with his own in more than one place. He looked about him wearily, the battle fury fading.

Reptilian bodies lay everywhere, some twitching still. And among them were no few of the bandits.

Hordo hobbled from wounded brigand to wounded brigand, a red-stained rag twisted about his thigh, offering what aid he could to those who still could use it. Aberius sat hunched by a fire, leaning on his spear. Other bandits began to make their dazed way in from the darkness.

Karela strode across the charnel ground to the Cimmerian, the cloak discarded, tulwar still gripped firmly in her hand. He was relieved to note that none of the blood that smeared her round breasts was her own.

"It seems Aberius saw nothing after all," she said when she faced him. "At least we know now what you felt watching you. I could wish you had gotten your warning somewhat earlier."

Conan shook his head. It was no use explaining to her how he knew it had not been the gaze of these things he felt on him. "I wish I knew whence they-"

He broke off with a sudden oath, and bent to examine the boots of one of the, dead creatures. They were worked in the pattern of an encircling serpent, its head seeming surrounded by rays. Hurriedly he went to another body, and still others. All wore the boots.

"What takes you, Conan?" Karela demanded. "Even if you need boots, surely you could never wear something that came from these."

"No," he replied. "Those who stole the pendants from Tiridates' palace wore boots worked with a serpent." He tugged one of the boots from a narrow foot and tossed it to her.

She stepped aside to let it fall with a grimace of distaste. "I've had my fill and more of those things.

Conan, you can't believe these... these whatever they are, entered Shadizar and left, unhindered. The City Guard is blind, I'll grant, but not as blind as that."

"They wore hooded robes that covered them to their fingertips. And they left the city at night, when the guards on the gates are half asleep at best. They could have entered the night before and remained hidden until it was time to do their work at the palace."

"It could be as you say," Karela admitted reluctantly. "But what help that is to us, I cannot see."

Hordo limped up and stood glaring at Conan. "Two score men and four, Cimmerian. That's what I led into these accursed mountains on this mad quest of yours. Full fifteen are food for worms this night, and two more like not to last till dawn. Thank whatever odd gods you pray to, we took a pair of them alive.

The amusement of putting them to the question will keep you from being staked out in their place. And I'll tell you, for all my liking, if they tried I'm not sure I'd stop them."

"Prisoners?" Karela said sharply. "I've little love for these creatures dead, none alive. Give them to the men now. Come dawn we'll be riding out of these mountains."

"We abandon the treasure, then?" The one-eyed bandit sounded more relieved than surprised. "Fare you well, then, Conan, for I see this will be the last night we spend in company."

Karela turned slowly to give the Cimmerian an unreadable look. "Do we part, then?"

Conan nodded reluctantly, and with a rueful glare at Hordo. He had not meant her to find out so soon. In fact, his plan had been to leave in the night, with one of the prisoners for a guide, and let her discover him gone come morning.

"I continue after the pendants," the Cimmerian said.

"And that girl," Karela said flatly.

"Company," Hordo muttered, before Conan could speak further.

Toward them marched those of the bandits who were able to walk, not one man without at least one bloody bandage, and every one with his weapon in hand. Aberius marched at their head, using his spear like a walking staff. The others wore purposeful looks on their faces, but only he had a spiteful smile. Ten paces from where Conan stood with Karela and Hordo, they stopped.

Hordo started forward angrily, but Karela put a hand on his arm. He stopped, but his glare promised reckonings another time. Karela faced the gathering calmly, hand on hip and sword point planted firmly on the ground.

"Not hurt too badly, eh, Aberius?" she said with a sudden smile. The weasel-faced man seemed taken aback. He had a scratch down his cheek, and a piece of rag about his left arm. "And you, Talbor," she went on before anyone could speak. "Not as hard a night's work as you've had. Remember when we took that slaver's caravan from Zamboula, only they'd doubled the guard for fear of those quarry slaves they had bound for Ketha? I mind carrying you away from that across my saddle, with an arrow through you, and-"

"That's of no matter now," Aberius snapped. Hordo lurched forward, snarling, but Karela stopped him with a gesture. Aberius seemed to relax at that, and his smile became more satisfied. "No matter at all, now," he repeated smugly.

"Then what is of matter?" she asked.

Aberius blinked. "Has the Red Hawk suddenly lost her vision?" A few of the men behind him laughed; the others looked grim. "More than a third of our number dead, and not a coin in anyone's purse to see for it. We were going to steal some pendants from a few pilgrims. Now we've followed them all the way into these accursed mountains, and might follow to Vendhya with naught to show for it. Hillmen. Soldiers.

Now, demons. It's time to go back to the plains, back to what we know."

"I decide when to turn back!" Karela's voice was suddenly a whip, lashing them. "I took you from the mud, robbing wayfarers for a few coppers, and made you feared by every caravan that leaves Shadizar, or Zamboula, or Aghrapur itself? I found you scavengers, and made you men! I put gold in your purses, and the swagger in your walks that make men step wide of you and women wriggle close! I am the Red Hawk, and I say we go on, and take this treasure that was stolen from a king!"

"You've led us long," Aberius said. "Karela." The familiarity of the name brought a gasp from the red-haired woman, and a growl from Hordo. Suddenly she seemed only a woman. A naked woman.

Aberius licked his lips. Lecherous lights appeared in the eyes of the men behind him.

Karela took a step back. Conan could read every emotion that fled across her face. Rage. Shame.

Frustration. And finally the determination to sell her life dearly. She took a firmer grip on her tulwar.

Hordo had unobtrusively slipped his blade from its sheath.

If he had half a brain, Conan told himself, he would slip away now. After all, he owed her nothing. There was the oath not to save her, too. Before the brigands knew what was happening, he could be gone into the night, with one of the prisoners to guide him to the pendants. And Velita. With a sigh, he stepped forward.

"I do not break my oath," he said softly, for Karela's ears alone. "It's my own life I'm saving." He walked down to confront Aberius and the rest with a friendly smile, though the casual-seeming way his hand rested on his sword hilt was deceptive.

"Do not think to join us, Conan," Aberius said. There was considerable satisfaction in his smile. "You stand with them."

"I thought we all stood together," the Cimmerian replied. "You do remember the reason we came, don't you? Treasure? A king's treasure?"

The narrow-faced bandit spat, barely missing Conan's boot. "That's well out of our reach, now. I'll never find that trail again."

Conan let his smile broaden. "There's no need. These creatures you've killed tonight wear boots with the same markings as those who stole the pendants and the rest from Tiridates' palace. You can rest assured they serve the same master."

"Demons," Aberius said incredulously. "The man wants us to fight demons for this treasure." A mutter of agreement rose from the others, but Conan spoke quickly on his heels.

"What demons? I see creatures with the skins of snakes, but no demons." Protests broke out; Conan did not allow them to form. "Whatever they look like, you killed them tonight." He caught each man's eye in turn. "You killed them. With steel, and courage. Do demons die from steel? And you've bound two of them. Did they mutter spells and make you disappear? Did they fly away when you put ropes on them?"

He looked sideways at Aberius, and grinned widely. "Did they breathe flame at you?"

Laughter rippled through the brigands, and Aberius colored. "It matters not! It matters not, I tell you! I still cannot find the trail, and I've not heard a word from these monsters that any can understand."

"I said there's no need to find the trail again," Conan said. "At dawn we'll contrive to let these two escape. You can track them easily enough."

"They're both wounded," Aberius protested desperately. "Like as not, neither will last an hour."

"It's still a chance." Conan let his voice swell. "A chance for a king's treasure in gold and jewels. Who's for gold? Who's for the Red Hawk?" He risked unsheathing his sword and raising it overhead. "Gold!

The Red Hawk!"

In an instant every man save Aberius was waving his weapon in the air. "Gold!" they bellowed. "Gold!"

"The Red Hawk!" "Gold!"

Aberius twisted his thin mouth sourly. "Gold!" "Hawk!" His beady eyes glared murder at Conan.

"Good, then!" Conan shouted over their cries. "Off with you, to rest and drink! Till dawn!"

"Dawn!" they roared. "Gold!"

Conan waited until they were well on their way back to the fires, then returned to Karela. She stared at him as if stricken. He put out a hand to touch her, but she jerked her arm away and stalked toward her tent without a word. Conan stared after her in consternation.

"I said once you had a facile tongue," Hordo said, sheathing his sword. "You've more than that, Conan of Cimmeria. Belikes you'll be a general, someday. Mayhap even a king. If you live to get out of these mountains. If any of us do."

"What's the matter with her?" Conan demanded. "I told her I did this for me, not her. I did not break the oath she demanded."

"She thinks you try to supplant her," Hordo replied slowly. "As chief of the band."

"That's foolish!"

Hordo did not seem to hear. "I hope she does not yet realize that what was done tonight can never be undone. Mitra grant her time before she must know that."

"What are you muttering about, you one-eyed old ruffian?" Conan said. "Did one of those blows tonight addle your brains?"

"You do not see it either, do you?" The bearded man's voice was sad. "What has been shattered can be mended, but the cracks are always there, and those cracks will break again and again until there is no mending."

"Once there's gold in their purses, they'll be as loyal as they ever were. On the morrow, Hordo, we must bury these creatures as well as our own dead. There must be no vultures aloft to warn whoever sent them out."

"Of course." Hordo sighed. "Rest you well, Cimmerian, and pray you we live to rest another night."

"Rest you well, Hordo."

After the one-eyed bandit disappeared toward the camp fires, Conan peered toward Karela's pavilion, beneath the loom of the cliff. Her shadow moved on the striped walls. She was washing herself. Then the lamps were extinguished.

Muttering curses under his breath Conan found a cloak and wrapped himself in it beneath the shelter of a boulder. Rest you well, indeed. Women!

Imhep-Aton rose from his place on the mountainside above the bandit camp and turned into the darkness. When he reached a place where the shadows against the stone seemed to darken, he walked on, through the shadow-wall and into a large, well-lit cave. His mount and his packhorse were tethered at the rear of it. His blankets were spread by the fire where a rabbit roasted on a spit. Nearby sat the chest containing the necessities of his thaumaturgies.

The mage rubbed his eyes, then stretched, massaging the small of his back. One spell had been needed to gain the eyes of an eagle, a second to make the night into day to his sight, still a third to let him hear what was said in the camp. Maintaining all three at once had given him a pain that ran from his head all the way down his backbone.

Yet it was worth the discomfort. The fools thought they ruled where their horses' hooves trod. He wondered what they would think if they knew they were but dogs, to corner a bear and die holding its attention while he, the hunter, moved in for the kill.

Laughing, the necromancer bent to his supper.

Chapter XVI

Seated on his golden serpent throne, Amanar watched the four dancing girls flexing their sinuosities across the mosaic floor for his enjoyment. Naked but for golden bells at ankles and wrists, they spun and writhed with wild abandon, in the sweat of fear for his displeasure, the tinkle of the bells a counterpoint to the flutes of four human musicians who kept their eyes on their own feet. There were few human servants within the keep, and none ever raised their eyes from the ground.

Amanar luxuriated in the fear he felt emanating from the four women, enjoying that as much as he did the luscious curves they flaunted shamelessly before him. The fifth girl, golden-eyed Yasmeen, had been the first to find herself given screaming to Sitha-threats produced more fear if it was known they would be carried out-and she had somehow managed to cut her own throat with the huge S'tarra's sword.

It had been all the necromancer could do to keep her alive long enough to be sacrificed to Morath-Aminee, and there had been little pleasure for him in the haste of it. He had taken precautions to make certain there would be no repetition of the unfortunate incident. Through lidded eyes Amanar watched his possessions dance for his favor.

"Master?"

"Yes, Sitha?" the mage said without shifting his gaze. The heavily muscled S'tarra stood bowed at one side of the throne, but its scarlet eyes watched the dancing girls greedily.

"The map, master. It flashes."

Amanar uncoiled from the throne and strode out of the chamber with Sitha at his heels. The girls continued to dance. He had given no command to cease, and they dared not without it.

Close beside the throne chamber was a small room with only two furnishings. A silver mirror hung on one gray stone wall. Against the other a great sheet of clear crystal leaned on a polished wooden frame, etched with a map of the mountains surrounding the keep. In the crystal a flashing red light moved slowly along a valley, triggered by the wards Amanar had set. Lower animals would not set off the warning, nor would his S'tarra. Only men could do that.

Turning to the mirror Amanar muttered cryptic words and made cabalistic gestures that left a faint glow in the air. As the glow faded, the silver mirror grew clear as a window, a window that looked down from an eagle's height on men riding slowly along a mountain valley.

One of the men made a gesture, as if pointing to something on the ground. They were tracking. Amanar spoke further esoteric phrases, and the vision of the mirror raced ahead, seeking. Like a falcon sensing prey, the image stopped, then swooped. On a badly wounded S'tarra, stumbling, falling, rising to struggle forward again. Amanar returned the mirror to the mounted party that followed his servant.

Near thirty men, well armed, and one woman. The mage could not tell whether the woman or a heavily muscled youth with fierce blue eyes commanded. Amanar rubbed his chin thoughtfully with an over-long hand.

"The girl Velita, Sitha," he said. "Fetch her here immediately."

The big S'tarra bowed himself from the room, leaving Amanar to study the image in the mirror. S'tarra used their wounded, those too badly hurt to heal, as fresh meat. This one would not have been allowed to leave his patrol; therefore the patrol no longer existed. Since these men followed, it was likely they had destroyed the patrol, and that was no small feat. It was also unlikely that they followed to no purpose.

"The girl, master." Sitha appeared in the door grasping Velita by her hair so that the dark-eyed girl perforce must walk on the balls of her feet. Her hands hung passively at her sides, though, and she shivered in terror both of that which gripped her and of the man she faced.

"Let her down," Amanar commanded impatiently. "Girl, come here and look into this mirror. Now, girl!"

She stumbled forward-though with her grace it seemed more a step of her dancing-and gasped when she saw the images moving before her. For a moment the necromancer thought she would speak, but then her jaw tightened and she closed her eyes.

"You spoke a name once, girl," Amanar said. "A man who would rescue you. Conan. Is that man among these you see?" She did not move a muscle, or utter a sound. "I mean the man no harm, girl. Point him out to me, or I will have Sitha whip you."

A low moan rose in her throat, and she opened her large eyes long enough to roll them in terror at the huge S'tarra behind her. "I cannot," she whispered. Her body trembled, and tears streamed down her face in silent sobs, but she would speak no more.

Amanar made an exasperated noise. "Fool girl. All you do is delay me for a few moments. Take her, Sitha. Twenty strokes."

Fanged mouth open in a wide grin, the massive S'tarra gathered her hair once more in its fist, lifting her painfully as they left. Tears rolled down her face all the harder, yet still her sobs were soundless.

The mage studied the images further. She had actually answered his question, in part at least, though she likely thought she had protected the man. But she had named this Conan a thief, and thieves did not ride with more than a score of armed men at their backs.

From within his serpent-embroidered black robe he produced the things he needed for this simple task.

A red chalk scribed a five-pointed star on the stone floor. From a pouch he poured a small mound of powder on each of the points. His left hand stretched forth, and from each fingertip a spark flew to flare the powders to blinding flame. Five thin streams of acrid red smoke rose toward the distant ceiling.

Amanar muttered words in a dead tongue, made a gesture with his left hand. The smoke was suddenly sucked back down onto the pentagram, swirling and billowing as if whipped by a great wind, yet confined to the fivepointed star. He spoke one further word, and with a sharp crack the smoke was gone. In its place was a hairless gray shape no higher than his knee. Vaguely ape-like in form, with sharply sloping forehead and knuckles brushing the stone floor, its shoulders bore bony wings covered with taut gray hide.

The creature chattered at him, baring fangs that seemed to fill half its simian face, and sprang for the mage. At the boundary of the pentagram it suddenly shrieked, and was thrown back in a shower of sparks to crumple in the center of the star. Unsteadily it rose, claws clicking on the stone. The bat-like wings quivered as if for flight. "Free!" it barked shrilly.

Amanar's lip curled in disgust and anger. He was far beyond dealing with these minor demons personally.

That the girl had forced him to it was a humiliation he would assuage personally, to her great discomfort.

"Free!" the demon demanded again.

"Be silent, Zath!" the necromancer commanded. The gray form recoiled, and Amanar allowed himself a small smile. "Yes, I know your name. Zath! An you fail to do as I command, I'll use the power that gives me. Others of your kind have from time to time annoyed me, and have found themselves trapped in material bodies. Bodies of solid gold." Amanar threw back his head and laughed.

The ape-like creature shuddered. Its dead-white eyes watched the sorcerer malevolently from beneath bony eyebrow ridges, but it said, "Zath do what?"

"These two," Amanar said, touching the images of Conan and Karela. "Discover for me their names, and why they follow one of my Skim."

"How?" the demon shrilled.

"Play no games with me," Amanar snapped. "Think you I do not know? If you are close enough to an ordinary man to hear his speech, you can hear his thoughts as well. And you may as well stop trying me.

You know it will not work."

The demon chattered his fangs angrily. "Zath goes." With a thunderous clap, it disappeared. A wind ruffled Amanar's robe as air rushed into the pentagram.

The sorcerer dusted his hands as though he had touched something demeaning, and turned back to the mirror. For a time the images rode on, then suddenly one of their number pointed aloft. Consternation swept across their faces. Crossbows were raised, bolts loosed at the sky.

A snap sounded in the chamber, and the apelike demon was back in the pentagram, flexing its wings and fondling a crossbow quarrel. "Try to kill Zath," it giggled, and added contemptuously, "With iron." The demon amused itself by poking the quarrel through its bony arm. The crossbow arrow left no wound.

"What of that which I sent you for?" Amanar demanded.

The demon glared at him a moment before speaking. "Big man named Conan. Woman named Karela, called Red Hawk. They come for pendants, for girl. Free!"

Amanar smiled at the images on the mirror, recovering now from their encounter with Zath and riding on.

The lovely Velita's thief, and the famed Red Hawk at the same time, with her band. There were many uses to which such beings could be put.

"Ahead of these people," he said to the demon without taking his eyes from the mirror, "is one of my S'tarra. It is wounded, but yet lives. You may feed. Now, go." The necromancer's smile was far from pleasant.

The slopes of the twisting valley steepened and grew bleaker as the bandits rode. Conan eyed a thornbush, of which there were even fewer here than had been along the trail earlier. It was stunted and bent as if something in air or soil distorted the dark branches into an unwholesome simulacrum of the plant it had once been. All the scrub growth they passed grew more like that the further they went along the wounded snake-creature's trail.

"Fitting country," Hordo muttered just loud enough for Conan to hear. His lone eye watched Karela warily, where she rode at the column's head. "First snake-men, then that flying Mitra-alone-knows-what."

"It didn't hurt anyone," Conan said flatly, "and it went away." He was not about to say anything that might dissuade the others from turning back, but at the same time he could not entirely dispel his own sense of unease.

"It was hit," the one-eyed man went on. "Two bolts at least, but never a quiver out of it. 'Tis only luck the rest of these rogues didn't turn tail on the moment."

"Mayhap you should turn back, Hordo." He twisted in his saddle to peer down the line of mounted bandits straggled behind him on the winding Valley floor. Greed drove them forward, but since the strange creature was seen flying above them, seeming to follow them, every man watched the gray skies and stony slopes with sullen eyes. From time to time a man would touch his bandaged wounds and look thoughtfully back the way they had come.

Conan shook his black-maned head at the bearded brigand. "If she says she has decided to turn back, they'll follow her gratefully; if she pushes on, they'll begin dropping away one by one."

"You of all men should know she'll not turn from this trail. Not so long as you go on."

Conan was spared answering by a loud hail from Aberius. The weaselfaced bandit had been riding ahead of them to track the wounded snake-creature. Now he sat his horse where the trail wound around a rock spire ahead, waving his arm over his head.

"Halloo!"

Karela galloped forward without a word.

"I hope he's lost the track," Hordo muttered. Conan booted his horse ahead. After a moment the one-eyed man followed.

The red-haired woman turned her horse aside as Conan rode up. He looked at what Aberius had been showing her. The reptilian creature they had been following lay sprawled on its back, dead, in the shadow of the stone spire. Its chain mail had been torn off, and its chest ripped open.

"Scavengers have been at it already," Hordo muttered. "It's too bad the other one crawled off somewhere to die." He did not sound as if he thought it too bad at all.

"No vultures in the sky," Conan said thoughtfully. "And never have I heard of jackals that rip out a heart and leave the rest."

Aberius' horse whinnied as he jerked at the reins. "Mitra! The Cimmerian's right. Who knows what slew him? Perhaps that foul thing that flew over us and took no mind of crossbow bolts." His beady eyes darted wildly, as if expecting the apparition to appear again, from behind a rock.

"Be silent, fool!" Karela snapped. "It died of the wounds it took last night, and your approach frightened a badger or some such off its feeding."

"It makes no matter," Aberius said slyly. "I can track this carrion no further."

The woman's green-eyed gaze was contemptuously amused. "Then I've no more need of you, have I? I'll wager I can find where it was going myself."

"It's time to leave these accursed mountains." The pinch-faced man swiveled his head to the other bandits, waiting down the trail. Enough fear of the Red Hawk remained to keep them back from her council.

Karela did not deign to acknowledge his whine. "Since loosing its bow the creature has kept a straight line. When the twists of the land tools it aside, it found its way back again. We'll keep the same way."

"But-" Aberius swallowed the rest of his words as Hordo pushed his horse closer. Karela started ahead, ignoring them.

"An I hear any tales," the one-eyed man grated, "other than that you frighted some slinking vermin from this corpse, I'll see your cold carrion beside it." Conan caught his eye as he turned to follow Karela, and for a moment the bearded bandit looked abashed. "She needs one hound at least to remain faithful, Cimmerian. The way is forward, Aberius. Forward, you worthless rogues!" he bellowed. He met Conan's eyes again, then kicked his horse into a gallop.

For a time Conan sat his horse, watching the faces of the passing brigands as they came in view of the bloody, scaled corpse. Each recoiled, muttering or with an oath, as he rounded the spire and got a clear look at what lay there, but the greed in their eyes was undiminished. They rode on.

Muttering his own oath, Conan spurred after Karela and Hordo.

Chapter XVII

Haranides wearily raised his hand to signal a halt to the bedraggled column behind him. The site among the boulders at the face of the cliff had been a camp. An attempt had been made to hide the face, but a thin tendril of smoke still rose from ashes not covered well enough with dirt.

"Dismount the men, Aheranates," the captain commanded, wincing as he did so himself. A hillman's lance had left a gouge along his ribs that would be a long time in healing. "Take a party of ten and see if you can find which way they went without mucking up the tracks too badly."

The slender lieutenant Haranides could not help wondering how he had come through the fight without a scratch-touched his forehead stiffly in salute. "Sir." He sawed at his reins to pull his horse around and began telling off the men.

Haranides sighed. He was not in good odor with the lieutenant, which meant he would not be in good odor with the lieutenant's father, which meant .... Odor. He fingered the polished stone jar in his pouch.

The perfume had seemed familiar to him, but it was not until he was beating aside a hillman's curved sword that he remembered where he had smelled it before. And knew that the red-haired jade who had come to 'warn' him of the tribesmen was the Red Hawk.

The problem was that Aheranates, too, knew that he had had her in his grasp and let her slip away. Once the fighting was done and wounds were tended as well they could be in the field, Haranides had ordered them along the trail of the three.

"Sir?" Haranides looked up from his brown study to find Resaro knuckling his forehead. "The prisoner, sir?"

When the butchery was over they had found a hillman who had merely been stunned by a blow to the head. Now Haranides had great need to know what had brought such a body of tribesmen together.

They normally formed much smaller bands for their raiding. It was necessary to know if he might find himself facing other forces as large. He grimaced in disgust. "Put him to the question, Resaro."

"Yes, sir. If the captain will pardon me for saying so, sir, that was a fine piece of work back there. The handful we didn't slice into dogmeat are likely still running."

"See to the prisoner," Haranides sighed. Resaro touched his forehead and went.

The man might think it fine work, the captain thought, and in the onary course of events it might have been considered so, but this was no ordinary patrol. Two hundred good cavalrymen had he led through the Gate to the Three Swords. After burying his dead, separating those too badly wounded to go on, and detaching enough healthy men to give the wounded a chance if they were attacked on their way out of the mountains, he had four score and three left. And he had neither the Red Hawk or Tiridates' trinkets in hand. In eyes of king and counselor it would be those lacks that damned him.

A choked scream rose from where Resaro had the hillman. "Mitra blast Tiridates and the Red Hawk both," the captain growled under his breath. He walked into what had been the bandit camp, examining the ground between the looming boulders as much to keep his mind off the hillman's moans as in hope of finding anything of importance.

Aheranates found him standing where the pavilion had been. "Would I could see what she saw from here," Haranides said without looking at the slender man. "There is a wrong feel to this place. What happened here?"

"A battle. Sir." A supercilious smile curled the lieutenant's mouth at for once being ahead of Haranides.

"Or, at least, a fight, but it must have been a big one. Hillmen attacked the bandits in camp and cut them up badly. We no longer need worry about the Red Hawk. An she still lives, she's screaming over a torture-fire about now."

"A very complete picture," the captain said slowly. "Based on what?"

"Graves. One mass grave that must hold forty or more, and seventeen single graves. They're upslope, to the north there."

"Graves," Haranides repeated thoughtfully. The hill tribes never acted in concert. In their dialects the words for 'enemy' and 'one not of my clan' were the same. But if they had found some compelling reason.... "But who won, lieutenant?"

"What?"

The hook-nosed captain shook his head. "Learn something about those you chase. None of the hill tribes bury their victims, and they take their own dead back to their villages so their spirits won't have to wander among strangers. On the other hand, if the bandits won, why would they bury the hillman dead?"

"But the bandits wouldn't bury tribesmen," Aheranates protested.

"Exactly. So I suggest you take a few men and find out what's in those graves." It was Haranides' turn to smile, at the consternation on the lieutenant's face.

As the slender youth began to splutter about not being a graverobber, a bowlegged cavalryman ran to a panting halt before them. The edge of a blood-stained bandage showed under his helmet. "Captain," he said nervously. "Sir, there's something maybe you ought to see. It's...." He swallowed convulsively.

"You'd best see for yourself, sir."

Haranides frowned. He could not think of anything that would put one of these tough soldiers in this taking. "Lead the way, Narses."

The soldier swallowed again, and turned back the way he had come with obvious reluctance. Haranides noted as he followed that Aheranates was clinging to his heels. He supposed that to the lieutenant's mind, even something that made a seasoned campaigner turn green was better than opening day-old graves.

Near a thornbush springing from the crevice between two boulders a pair of soldiers stood, making an obvious effort not to look into the narrow opening. From chain mail and helmet to hook nose and bandy legs, they were like Narses, and like him, too, in the tightness around their eyes and the green tinge about their lips.

Narses stopped beside the two and pointed to the cleft. "In there, sir. Saw a trail of... of blood, sir, leading in, so I looked, and ...." He trailed off with a helpless shrug.

The blood trail was clear to be seen, dried black smears on the rock, and on the stony ground beneath the bush.

"Clear the brush away," Haranides ordered irritably. Likely the bandits, or the tribesmen, had tortured someone and tossed the body here for the ravens. He liked looking at the results of torture even less than he liked listening to it, and if the men's faces were any indication, this was a bad job of it. "Get a move on," he added as the men fiddled with their swords.

"Yes, sir," Narses said unhappily.

Swinging their swords like brush knives, to the accompaniment of grumbled curses as thorns found the chinks of their chain mail and broke off in the flesh, the bush was hacked to a stump and the limbs dragged clear of the crevice. Haranides put his foot on the stump and levered himself up to peer into the crevice. His breath caught in his throat.

He found himself staring straight into sightless, inhuman eyes in a leathery scaled face. The fanged mouth was frozen in rictus, seemingly sneering at him. One preternaturally long bony hand, a length of severed rope dangling from the wrist, clutched with clawed fingers at a sword gash in chain mail stained with dried blood. All of its wounds appeared to be from swords, he noted, or at least from the sorts of weapons men bore.

"But then, what self-respecting vulture would touch it," he muttered.

"What is it?" Aheranates demanded.

Haranides climbed down to let the lieutenant take his place. "Did you see anything else up this way?" the captain asked the three soldiers.

A shriek burst from Aheranates' mouth, and the slender young officer half tumbled back to the ground.

He stared wildly at the captain, at the three soldiers, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Mitra's Holies!" he whispered. "What is that?"

"Not a hillman," Haranides said drily. With a sob the lieutenant stumbled a few steps and bent double, retching. Haranides shook his head and turned back to the soldiers. "Did you find anything?"

"Yes, sir," Narses said. He seemed eager to talk about anything but what was in the crevice. "Horse tracks, sir. Maybe a score or more. Came from the camp down there, right past... past here, and went off that way, sir." He flung a hand to the south.

"Following?" the captain mused half to himself.

"We must go back," Aheranates panted suddenly. "We can't fight demons."

"This is the first demon I ever saw killed by a sword," Haranides said flatly. He was relieved to see the momentary panic in the three soldiers' eyes fade. "Get that thing down from there," he went on, turning their looks to pure disgust. "We'll see if our hillman friend knows what it is."

Grumbling under their breath, the bow-legged cavalrymen climbed awkwardly into the cranny and worked the stiffened body free. Haranides started back while they were still lifting it down.

The hillman was spreadeagled between pegs in the ground, surrounded by cavalrymen betting among themselves on whether or not he would open up at the next application. From the coals of a small fire projected the handles of half a dozen irons. The smell of scorched flesh and the blisters on the soles of the hillman's feet and on his dark, hairless chest told the use to which the irons had been put.

Resaro, squatting by the tribesman's side, thrust an iron carefully into the fire. "He isn't saying much so far, sir."

"Unbelieving dogs!" the hillman rasped. His black eyes glared at Haranides above a long, scraggly mustache that was almost as dark. "Sons of diseased camels! Your mothers defile themselves with sheep! Your fathers-"

Resaro casually backhanded him across the mouth. "Sorry, sir. Be a lot worse done to one of us in his village, but he seems to take it personally that we expect him to talk, instead of just killing him outright."

"Never will I talk!" the hillman growled. "Cut off my hands! I will not speak! Pluck out my eyes! I will not speak! Slice off-"

"Those all sound interesting," Haranides cut him off. "But I can think of something better." The black eyes watched him worriedly. "I'll wager the odds are good there's a hillman up there somewhere watching us right this minute. One of your lot, or another one. It doesn't matter. What do you think would happen if that man sees us turn you loose with smiles and pats on the back?"

"Kill me," the hillman hissed. "I will not talk."

Haranides laughed easily. "Oh, they'd kill you for us. A lot more slowly than we would, I suspect. But worst of all," his smile faded, "they'll curse your soul for a traitor. Your spirit will wander for all time, trapped between this world and the next. Alone. Except for other traitors. And demons." The hillman was silent, but unease painted his face. He was ready, Haranides thought. "Narses, bring that thing in here and show it to our guest."

The watching soldiers gasped and muttered charms as Narses and another carried the rigid corpse into the circle. Haranides kept his eyes on the hillman's face. The dark eyes slid away from the reptilian creature, then back again, abruptly so full of venom as to seem deadly.

"You know it, don't you?" the captain said quietly.

The hillman nodded reluctantly. His eyes were still murderous on Haranides. "It is called a S'tarra." His mouth twisted around the word, and he spat for punctuation. "Many of these thrice-accursed dung-eaters serve the evil one who dwells in the dark fortress to the south. Many men, and even women and children, disappear within those lightforsaken stone walls, and none are seen again. Not even their bodies to be borne away for the proper rites. Such abominations are not to be endured. So did we gather-" The thin-upped mouth snapped shut; the tribesman resumed his glare.

"You lie," Haranides sneered. "You know not the truth, as your mother knew not your father. Hill dogs do not attack fortresses. You cower in fear of your women, and you would sell your children for a copper."

The dark face had become engorged with rage as Haranides spoke. "Loose me!" the tribesman howled.

"Loose me, drinker of jackal's urine, and I will carve your manhood to prove mine!"

The captain laughed contemptuously. "With such numbers as you had, you could not have taken a mud but held by an old woman and her granddaughter."

"Our strength was as the strength of thousands for the righteousness of our cause!" the dark man spat.

"Each of us would have killed a score of the diseased demon-spawn!"

Haranides studied the hillman's anger-suffused eyes, and nodded to himself. That was as close as he was likely to get to confirmation that there were no more hillmen out. "You say they take people," he said finally. "Do valuables attract them? Gold? Gems?"

"No!" Aheranates burst out. Haranides rounded on him angrily, but the slender man babbled on. "We cannot pursue these... these monsters! Mitre! 'Twas the Red Hawk we were sent for, and if these creatures kill her, good and well enough!"

"Erlik take you, Aheranates!" the captain grated.

The hillman broke in. "I will guide you. And you ride to slay the scaled filth," he spat, "I will guide you faithfully." Anger had been washed from his face by some other emotion, but what emotion was impossible to say.

"By the Black Throne of Erlik!" Haranides growled. Seizing Aheranates' arm he pulled the young lieutenant away from the prying eyes of the men, behind a massive boulder. The captain glanced around to make certain none of the others had followed. When he spoke his voice was low and forceful. "I've put up with your insolence, with foolishness, slyness, and pettiness enough for ten girls in a zenana, but I'll not put up with cowardice. Especially not in front of the Men."

"Cowardice!" Aheranates slender frame quivered. "My father is Manerxes, who is friend to-"

"I care not if your father is Mitra! Hannuman's stones, man! Your fear is so strong it can be felt at ten paces. We were sent to return with the Red Hawk, not with a rumor that she might possibly be dead somewhere in the mountains."

"You mean to go on?"

Haranides gritted his teeth. The fool could make trouble for him once they returned to Shadizar. "For a time, lieutenant. We may overtake the bandits. And if they have been captured by these S'tarra, well the hilltribes may consider their keep a fortress, but if they thought to take it with fewer than ten score, it's possible eighty real soldiers can do the task. In any event, I won't turn back until I'm sure the Red Hawk and the king's playthings are beyond my grasp."

"You've gone mad." Aheranates' voice was cold and calm, his eyes glazed and half-focused. "I have no other choice. You cannot be allowed to kill us all." His hand darted for his sword.

In his shock Haranides was barely able to throw himself back away from the lieutenant's vicious slash.

Aheranates' eyes were fixed; his breath came in pants. Haranides rolled aside, and the other's blade bit into the stony ground where his head had been. But now the captain had his own sword out. He lunged up from the ground, driving it under the younger man's ribs to thrust out behind his shoulder.

Aheranates stared down incredulously at the steel that transfixed him. "My father is Manerxes," he whispered. "He...." A bubble of blood formed on his lips. As it broke, he fell.

Haranides got to his feet, cursing under his breath, and tugged his sword free of the body. He started at a footstep grating on the rock behind him. Resaro stepped up to look down at Aheranates' body.

"The fool," Haranides began, but Resaro cut him off.

"Your pardon for interrupting, sir, but I can see as you're distraught over the lieutenant's death, and I wouldn't want you to say something, in anguish, so to speak, that I shouldn't ought to hear."

"What are you saying?" the hook-nosed captain asked slowly.

Resaro's dark eyes met his levelly. "The lieutenant was a brave man, sir. Hid the terrible wounds he took against the hillmen till it was too late for him, but I expect he saved us all. His father will be proud of him."

He fumbled a rag from beneath his tunic. "You'd best wipe your sword, sir. You must have dropped it and got some of the lieutenant's blood on it."

Haranides hesitated before accepting the cloth. "When we get back to Shadizar, come see me. I'll need a good sergeant in my next posting. Now get the hillman on a horse, and we'll see if we can find the Red Hawk."

"Yes, sir. And thank you, sir."

Resaro knuckled his forehead and disappeared, but Haranides stood looking at the lieutenant's corpse.

Whatever slight chance he might have had of surviving a return to Shadizar without the Red Hawk and the Tiridates' trinkets had died with that foppish young idiot. With a muttered oath he went to join his men.

Chapter XVIII

Conan's keen eyes swept the ridges as the bandit column wound its way along the floor of the narrow, twisting valley. Hordo was by his side, muttering unintelligibly beneath his breath, while Karela maintained her usual place ahead of them all. Her emerald cape was thrown back, and she rode with one fist planted jauntily on her hip. With the need for tracking past, Aberius was back with the rest of the brigands, riding strung out behind.

"She acts as if this is a parade," Hordo growled.

"It may be," Conan replied. He eased his broadsword in its worn shagreen sheath. His gaze still traversed the ridgelines, never stopping in any one place for long. "We have watchers, at least."

Hordo tensed, but he was too long in the trade of banditry to look around suddenly. He loosened his own blade. "Where are they?" he asked quietly.

"Both sides of the valley. I don't know how many."

"It won't take many in here," Hordo grumbled, eyeing the steep slopes. "I'll warn her."

"We both go," Conan said quickly. "Slowly, as if we're just riding forward to have a casual word." The one-eyed man nodded, and they kicked their mounts to a faster walk.

Karela looked around in surprise and irritation as they rode up on either side of her. Her mouth opened angrily.

"We're being followed," Hordo said before she could speak. "Along the ridges."

She glanced at Conan, then turned back to Hordo. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Conan said. Her back stiffened, and she faced forward again without speaking. He went on.

"Half a glass past, I saw movement on the east ridge. I thought it was an animal, but now there are two to the east and three to the west, and they move together."

"Hannuman's stones," she muttered, still not looking at him. They rounded a bend in the trail, and whatever else she had to say was lost in a gasp.

In the center of the trail, only twenty paces from them, stood eight reptilian warriors like those they had killed, in chain mail and ridged helmets, bearing on their shoulders the four crossed poles of a bier. Atop the bier was a tall throne of intricately carved ivory, in which sat a man robed in scarlet. A white streak serpentined through his black hair. He held a long golden staff across his chest and bowed slightly without rising.

"I am called Amanar." His voice rang loudly against the precipitous slopes. "I welcome you, wayfarers."

Conan found he had his broadsword in hand, and noted from the corner of his eye that Karela and Hordo had their blades out as well. Amanar wore a smile, though it did not reach his strange, red-flecked black eyes, but the Cimmerian sensed evil there, evil beyond the scaled creatures that served him. There was nothing rational in his perception. It was a primitive intuition that came from bone and blood, and he trusted it all the more for that.

"Be not affrighted," Amanar intoned.

The sounds of sliding rock and gravel jerked Conan's gaze away from the man on the bier-he was shocked to realize the other had held his eyes thus-to find the abrupt rises to either side of the trail swarming with hundreds of the snakemen, many with javelins or crossbows. There were shouts from the bandits behind as they realized they were as good as surrounded.

"Rats in a barrel," Hordo growled. "Take a pull on the hellhorn for me, Conan, if you get to Gehanna first."

"What mean you by this?" Karela demanded loudly. "If you think to buy our lives cheaply-"

"You do not understand," the man on the bier interrupted smoothly. Conan thought he detected amusement. "The S'tarra are my servants. I greet what few strangers pass this way as I greet you, but betimes strangers are unscrupulous folk who think to use violence against me for all my friendliness. I find it best to remove all temptation by having my retainers near in sufficient numbers. Not that I suspect you, of course."

Conan was certain of the sarcasm in that last. "What kind of man is served by minions such as these scaled ones?" He suspected the answer, whether he got it or not, was that he had encountered another magician.

Instead of a reply from Amanar, Karela snapped, "You forget who commands here, Cimmerian!" Her green-eyed glare transferred to the man in the scarlet robes, lessening not a whit in intensity. "Still, Amanar, it is not a question out of place. Be you a sorcerer to be served by these monsters?"

Gasps rose from the bandits, and their mutterings increased. Conan winced, for he knew how dangerous it was to confront a mage too openly. But Amanar smiled as he might at rambunctious children.

"The S'tarra are not monsters," Amanar said. "They are the last remnants of a race that lived before man, and gentle of nature despite their outward appearances. Before I came the hillmen hunted them like animals, slaughtered them. No, you have naught to fear from them, nor from me, though some bands which do not serve me sometimes fail to distinguish between the hillmen who hate them and others of humankind."

"We met such a band," Karela said.

Conan looked at the red-haired bandit sharply, but he could not tell whether she believed the man, or whether she attempted some deeper game.

"Praise be to all the gods that you survived," Amanar said piously. "Let me offer you the shelter of my keep. Your retainers may camp outside the walls and feel safe. Pray say you will be my guests. I have few visitors, and there is something I would speak to you of, which I think you will find to your advantage."

Conan looked at the S'tarra arrayed on the slopes above and wondered wryly how many refused Amanar's invitations.

Karela did not hesitate. "I accept gratefully," she said.

Amanar smiled-once more it did not touch his eyes-bowed slightly to her, and clapped his hands. The eight S'tarra bearing his ivory throne turned carefully and started up the trail. Karela rode after him, and Conan and Hordo quickly followed her. On the slopes of the narrow valley the S'tarra kept alongside the bandits, moving over the slanted ground with lizardlike agility. Honor guard, Conan wondered, or simply guard?

"How much of what he says do you believe?" Hordo said softly.

Conan glanced at the throned man leading them-he had experience of the acuity of wizards' hearing.

Amanar seemed to be ignoring them. "Not a word," he replied. "That S'tarra, did he call it? was headed here."

The one-eyed man frowned. "If we turn suddenly, we could be free of his minions before they had ought but a crossbow shot or two at us."

"Why?" Conan laughed softly. "We came for the pendants, and what else we might find. He takes us into his very keep, right to them."

"I never thought of that," Hordo said, joining Conan's quiet laughter.

Karela looked over her shoulder, her tilted green eyes unreadable. "Leave the thinking to me, old one,"

she said flatly. "That beard leeches your brain." An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

Chapter XIX

As the narrow, twisting gorge they had followed so long debouched into a broader valley, they saw the Keep of Amanar. Ebon towers reared into the sky, their rounded sides seeming to absorb the afternoon sun. Black ramparts, crenellated and sprouting bartizans, grew from the stone of the mountain. A ramp led to the barbican, topped by troughs for pouring boiling oil on those who approached unwarily. Not even a thornbush grew in the stony soil surrounding it all.

Amanar gestured to the wide expanse of the valley below the fortress. "Camp your men where you will.

Then come you inside, and I will speak with you." His bier was carried swiftly up the ramp, leaving the bandits milling at its foot.

"Find a spot for my hounds, Hordo," Karela said, dismounting and handing him her reins. Conan climbed down as well. Her green eyes sparkled dangerously. "What do you think you're doing, Cimmerian?"

"I'm not one of your hounds," he replied levelly. He started up the ramp, noting the guard positions on the walls. It would not be an easy place for a thief to enter.

The Cimmerian tensed as running boots pounded up behind him. Karela eased her pace to a walk beside him, her heavy breathing coming more from anger, he suspected, than exertion. "Conan, you don't know what you're doing here. You're out of your depth."

"I need to see what's inside, Karela. These walls could hold off an army. I may yet have to scale them in the night if we're to gain the pendants. Unless Amanar and his scaly henchmen have frightened you out of it."

"I haven't said that, have I? And I won't have you accusing me of cowardice!"

They stopped before the lowered portcullis. From behind the heavy iron bars, a S'tarra peered at them with red eyes that seemed to glow slightly in the shadows of the gateway. Two more stepped from the arched doorway of the barbarian, pikes in hand.

"We are expected by Amanar," Conan said.

"I am expected," Karela said.

The S'tarra made a lifting gesture, and with a clanking of chain the grating began to rise. "Yes," it hissed.

"The master said the two of you would come. Follow me." Turning on its heel, it trotted into the dark recesses of the fortress.

"How did he know we'd both come?" Karela said as they followed.

"I'm not the one out of my depth," Conan replied. Behind them the portcullis creaked shut. The muscular Cimmerian found himself hoping it would be as easy to get out as it had been to get in.

The granite-paved baileys of the fortress, the sable stone barracks and casemates, were as bleak as the exterior, but then the S'tarra led them through great iron-bound doors into the donjon, a massive obsidian cube topped by the tallest tower of the keep.

Conan found himself in a marble-walled hall with a floor mosaicked its rainbow arabesques. Silver sconces held golden dragon lamps, filling even the vaulted ceiling, carved with hippogriffs and unicorns, with lambent radiance. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. If Amanar lit his entry hall with such, he had wealth enough and more for Conan's needs. There was still the matter of Velita, though, and his oath to free her.

The S'tarra halted before tall doors of burnished brass, and knocked. The creature bent as if to listen, then, though Conan heard nothing, swung one weighty door open. The music of flutes and harps drifted out as the creature bowed, making a gesture for them to enter.

Conan strode in, Karela rushing so as not to seem to be following. He smiled at her, and she bared her teeth in return.

"Welcome," Amanar said. "Sit, please." He sat in an ornately carved chair beside a low ebony table, fondling his golden staff. Two similar chairs were arranged on the other side of the table.

The music came from four human musicians sitting cross-legged on cushions against the wall. They played softly, without looking at one another or raising their eyes from the floor. A woman appeared from behind a curtain with a silver tray holding wine. Her gaze, too, never left the costly carpets that covered the floor as she set the tray on the table, bowed to Amanar, and scurried silently from the room. Amanar seemed not to notice her. His red-flecked eyes were on Karela.

"I didn't know you had any human servants," Conan said. He sat on the edge of his chair, careful to leave his sword free.

Amanar swung his gaze to the Cimmerian, and Conan found himself hard-pressed not to look away. The scarlet flecks in the mangy eyes tried to pull him into their inky depths. Conan gritted his teeth and stared back.

"Yes," Amanar said, "I have a few. Worthless things, totally useless unless they're under my eye. At times I have thought I might be better off if I simply gave them all to the hillmen." He spoke loudly, not seeming to care whether the musicians heard, but they played on without missing a beat.

"Why don't you use S'tarra servants, then?" Conan asked.

"They have limits. Yes, definite limits." The man with the odd white streak through his hair suddenly rubbed his hands together. "But come. Let us drink." No one moved to take one of the crystal goblets.

"Do you yet distrust me?" There was a touch of mocking in his voice. "Then choose you any cup, and I will drink from it."

"This is ridiculous," Karela suddenly burst out, reaching for the wine.

Conan seized her wrist in an iron grip. "A sip from all three in turn," he said quietly. Amanar shrugged.

"Release me," Karela said quietly, but her words quivered with suppressed rage. Conan loosed his hold.

For a moment she rubbed her wrist. "You've formed a bad habit of manhandling me," she said, and reached again for the goblet.

Amanar forestalled her by snatching the crystal cup from under her very fingers. "As your friend still mistrusts...." Swiftly he sipped from each of the three goblets. "You see," he said as he set the last one back on the silver tray, "I do not die. Why should I bring you here to kill you, when I could have had the S'tarra bury you beneath boulders in the valley where we met?"

With an angry glare at Conan, Karela grabbed a goblet and drank, throwing her head back. Conan picked up another slowly, as Amanar took his. The fruity taste was a surprise. It was one of the heady wines of Aquilonia, costly so far from that western land.

"Besides," Amanar said quietly, "why should I wish harm to Conan, the thief of Cimmeria, and Karela, the Red Hawk?"

A scream burst from Karela. Conan bounded to his feet with a roar, crystal cup falling to the carpet as he drew his broadsword. Amanar made no move except to sway toward Karela, standing with her jeweled tulwar in hand, her head turning wildly as if seeking attackers. The dark man's heavylidded eyes half closed, and he inhaled deeply as if breathing in her perfume. The musicians played on unconcerned, eyes never lifting.

"Yes," Amanar murmured, leaning back in his chair. He appeared surprised to see Conan's sword. "Do you need that? There is only me, and I can hardly fight you with my staff." He extended the staff to tap Conan's blade. "Put it away and sit. You are in no danger."

"I'll stand," Conan said grimly, "until a few questions are answered."

"Conan was right," Karela whispered. "You're a sorcerer."

Amanar spread his hands. "I am what some men call a sorcerer, yes. I prefer to think of myself as a seeker of wisdom, wanting to bring the world a better way." He seemed pleased with that. "Yes. A better way."

"What do you want with us?" she said, taking a firmer grip on her curved sword. "Why did you bring us here?"

"I have a proposal to make to you. Both of you." The mage fingered his golden staff and smiled. Karela hesitated, then abruptly sheathed her blade and sat down.

"Before I put my sword up," Conan said, "tell me this. You know our names. What else do you know?"

Amanar seemed to consider before answering. "Quite incidentally to discovering your names, I discovered that you seek five dancing girls and five pendants. Searching further told me these were stolen from the palace of King Tiridates of Zamora. Why you seek them, most particularly why you seek them in the Kezankian Mountains, I do not know, however." His smile was bland, and Conan could see doubt spreading on Karela's face.

So much had already been revealed that the Cimmerian decided it could do little further harm to reveal a trifle more. "We came because the women and the gems were taken by S'tarra." He bridled at Amanar's answering laugh.

"Forgive me, Conan of Cimmerian, but the mere thought that S'tarra could enter Shadizar is ludicrous.

The City Guard would kill them at sight, before they as much as reached the gates. Besides, my muscular friend, the S'tarra never leave the mountains. Never."

Conan answered in a flat voice. "Those who entered Tiridates' palace wore the boots the S'tarra wear, the boots worked with a serpent."

Amanar's laughter cut off abruptly, and his eyes lidded. Conan had the sudden impression of being regarded by a viper. "The boots," the sorcerer said at last, "are often taken by hillmen when they strip the S'tarra they have killed. I should imagine a caravan guard who killed a hillman during an attack and found a good pair of boots on him might take them. Who can say how far a pair of those boots might travel, or how many might be worn outside the mountains?" His voice was reasonable in the extreme, if devoid of color, but his black eyes challenged Conan to reject the explanation if he dared. The only sound in the room came from the musicians.

Karela abruptly broke the impasse. "Hannuman's stones, Conan. Would he have mentioned the gems in the first place if he had them?"

The young Cimmerian was suddenly aware of how foolish he must look. The musicians played their flutes and harps. Karela had retrieved her goblet from the carpet and poured more wine. Amanar sat with the long fingers of one hand casually caressing his golden staff. In the midst of this peaceful scene Conan stood sword in hand, balanced to fight on the instant.

"Crom!" he muttered, and slammed his blade into its sheath. He resumed his chair, ostentatiously sprawling back. "You spoke of a proposal, Amanar," he said sharply.

The mage nodded. "I offer you both... haven. When the City Watch searches too diligently for Conan the thief, when the Army of Zamora presses too hard against the Red Hawk, let them come here, where the hillmen keep the army away, and my fortress grants safety from the hillmen."

"From the kindness of your heart," Conan granted.

Karela gave him a pointed look. "What would you require in return, Amanar? We have neither knowledge nor skills to be of use to a sorcerer."

"On the contrary," the mage replied. "The Red Hawk's fame is known from the Vilayet Sea to the Karpashian Mountains, and beyond. It is said that she would march her band into Gehanna, if she gave her word to do so, and that her rogues would follow. Conan is a thief of great skill, I am sure. From, time to time I would ask you to perform certain... commissions for me." He smiled expansively. "There would, of course, be payment in gold, and I would in no way interfere with your, ah, professions."

Karela grinned wolfishly. "The caravan route to Sultanapur lies less than half a day to the south, does it not?"

"It does," Amanar laughed quietly. "And I'll not object if you should do business there. I may even have some for you myself. But make not your decision now. Rest, eat and drink. Tomorrow will be time enough, or the next day." He got to his feet, gesturing like a gracious host. "Come. Let me show you my keep."

Karela rose with alacrity. "Yes, I'd like very much to see it." Conan remained where he was.

"You may keep your sword," the mage said derisively, "if you yet feel the need of protection."

Conan sprang angrily to his feet. "Lead on, sorcerer."

Amanar looked at him searchingly, and the Cimmerian suddenly thought that he and Karela had been placed on the two ends of a merchant's balance scale. Finally the necromancer nodded and, using his golden rod as a walking staff, led them from the room. The musicians played on.

First the red-robed mage took them to the heights of the outer curtain wall, its sheer scarp dropping fifty feet to the mountain slope. Pike-bearing S'tarra sentries in chain-mail hauberks fell to their knees at Amanar's approach, but he did not deign to acknowledge the obeisance. From thence they went to the ebon parapet of the inner rampart, where S'tarra crossbowmen in bartizans could cut down any who managed to gain the outer wall. From the banquette catapults could hurl great stones. Atop the towers of the inner wall were ballistae, the arrows of which, as long as a man, could pierce through horse and rider together on the valley floor. Massive blocks of pitch-black stone had been piled to build barracks where dwelt S'tarra in their hundreds. The scaled ones knelt for the mage, and followed Conan and Karela with hungering rubiate eyes.

In the donjon itself, Amanar led them through floor after floor of many-columned rooms hung with cloth-of-gold and costly tapestries. Rare carpets covered mosaicked floors, and bore furnishings inlaid with nacreous mother-of-pearl and deep blue lapis-lazuli. Carven bowls of jasper and amber from far Khitai, great golden vases from Vendhya, set with glittering rubies and sapphires, silver ornaments adorned with golden chrysoberyl and crimson carnelian, all were scattered in profusion as if they were the merest of trinkets.

Human servants were few, and none that the Cimmerian saw ever raised his or her eyes from the floor as they sped by on their tasks. Amanar paid them less heed even than he did the S'tarra.

On the ground level of the donjon, as Amanar began to lead them to the door, Conan noticed an archway, its plain stonework at odds with the ornateness of all else they had seen within. The passage beyond seemed to slope down, leading back toward the mountain.

Conan nodded toward it. "That leads to your dungeons?"

"No!" Amanar said sharply. The black-eyed mage recovered his smile with an obvious effort. "That leads to the chambers where I carry out my... researches. None but myself may enter there." The smile remained, but the eyes with the strange red flecks became flat and dangerous. "There are wards set which would be most deadly to one who made the attempt."

Karela laughed awkwardly. "I, for one, have no interest in seeing a magician's chambers."

Amanar shifted his dark gaze to the red-haired woman. "Perhaps, someday, I will take you down that passage. But not for a time yet, I think. Sitha will show you out."

Conan had to control a desire to reach for his sword as a S'tarra fully as large as he suddenly stepped from a side passage. He wondered if the mage had some means of communicating with his servants without words. Such a thing could be dangerous to a thief.

The big S'tarra gestured with a long, claw-tipped hand. "This way," it hissed. There was no subservience in its manner toward them, but rather a touch of arrogance in those red eyes.

Conan could feel the eyes of the sorcerer on his back as he followed the dark-eyed man's minion. At the portcullis Sitha gestured without speaking for the heavy iron grate to be raised. From within the barbican came the creak of the windlass. Clanking chains pulled the grate to chest height on Karela. Sitha gestured abruptly, and the creak of the windlass ceased. The S'tarra's fanged mouth cracked in a mocking smile as it gestured for them to go.

"Do you not realize we are your master's guests?" Karela demanded hotly. "I'll-"

Conan grabbed her arm in his huge hand and pulled her protesting under the grate after him. It began to clank down at the very instant they were clear.

"Let's just be thankful to be out," Conan said, starting down the ramp. He saw Hordo waiting at the foot of it.

Karela strode angrily beside him, rubbing her arm. "You muscle-bound oaf! I'll not take much more of this from you. I intend to see that Amanar punishes that big lizard. These S'tarra must learn proper respect for us, else my hounds will constantly be goaded into fighting them. I might even carve that Sitha myself."

Conan looked at her in surprise. "You intend to accept this offer? The Red Hawk will wear this sorcerer's jesses and stoop at his command?"

"Have you no eyes, Conan? Five hundred of the scaled ones he commands, perhaps more. My hounds could not take this keep were they ten times their number, and I will not waste them against its walls in vain. On the other hand, if all the gold that you and I and all my pack have ever seen in our lives were heaped in one pile it would not equal the hundredth part of what I saw within."

"I've seen a lot of gold," Conan snorted. "How much of it stuck to my fingers, and how much of this would, is another matter. This Amanar prates of a better way for mankind, but I've never met a sorcerer who did not tread a black path. Think you what he will ask you to do for his payment."

"A safe haven," she snapped back, "close to the caravan route. No longer will I need to send my men off to hide as caravan guards when the army hunts us too closely. No longer must I play the fortuneteller while I wait to rejoin them. These things are worth much to me."

The Cimmerian snarled deep in his throat. "They mean naught to me. The Desert is haven enough. I came here to steal five pendants, not to serve a practitioner of the black arts."

They reached the bottom of the ramp, and Hordo looked from one to the other of them. "You two arguing again?" the one-eyed man growled. "What had this Amanar to say?"

The two ignored him, squaring off at one another.

Karela bit off her words. "He does not have the pendants. Remember, it was he who first mentioned them. And I saw no more than a handful of women among his servants, not one of whom looked to be your dancing girl."

"You talked of the pendants?" Hordo said incredulously.

Conan spared the bearded bandit not a glance. "You believe the man? A sorcerer? He'd have us think the mountains filled with tribes of S'tarra, whole nations of them, but that wounded one we followed was coming here. He knows of the pendants because his minions stole them."

"Sorcerer!" Hordo gasped. "The man's a sorcerer?"

Karela's green eyes flashed to the one-eyed man, the blaze in them so fierce that he took a step back.

"Show me where you've camped my hounds," she snapped. "I'll see they're bedded properly." She stalked away without waiting for a reply.

Hordo blinked at Conan. "I'd best go after her. She's going the wrong way. We'll talk later." He darted after the red-haired woman.

Conan turned to look back up at the fortress. Dimly, through the grate of the portcullis, he could make out a shape, a S'tarra, watching him. Though he could distinguish no more than it was there, he knew it was Sitha. Fixing what he could remember of the keep's interior in his head, he went in search of the others.

Chapter XX

A gibbous moon crept slowly over the valley of the Keep of Amanar while purple twilight yielded to the blackness of full night. And blackness it was, except about the fires where the bandits huddled well away from the keep, for the pale light of the moon seemed not to enter that maleficent vale.

"I've never seen a night like this," Hordo grumbled, tipping a stone jar of kil to his mouth.

Conan squatted across the fire from the one-eyed brigand. It was a larger blaze than he would have built, but Hordo as well as the others appeared to be trying to keep the night at bay.

"It is the place, and the man," the Cimmerian said, "not the night."

His eyes followed Karela for a moment, where she moved among the other fires stopping at each for a word, and a swallow of kil, and a laugh that more often than not sounded strained on the part of the men.

She had decked herself in her finest, golden breastplates, emerald girdle, a crimson cape of silk and her scarlet thigh-boots. Conan wondered whether her attire was for the benefit of the others, or if she, too, felt the oppression of the darkness that pressed against their fires.

Hordo scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed another dried dung-chip on the fire. "A sorcerer. To think we would ever serve such. She won't let me tell them, you know. That this Amanar's a mage, I mean." He added yet another chip to the blaze.

Conan edged back from the heat. "Soon or late, they'll find out." He checked the position of the moon, then laughed to himself. In that valley there might as well be no moon and sky full of rain clouds. A good night for a thief.

"More kil, Cimmerian? No? More for me, then." The one-eyed man turned the stone jar up and did not lower it until it was dry. "It'd take vats of this to comfort my bones this night. A mage. Aberius darts his eyes like a ferret. He'll bolt the first chance he sees. And Talbor says openly he'd ride out on the instant, could he find two coppers to steal."

"Why wait for the coppers?" Conan asked. "You like this thing as little as Aberius or Talbor. Why not ride out on the morrow?" It was in his mind that by dawn Amanar might not be so friendly toward the bandits. "You can persuade her if anyone can, and I think a night like this would be halfway to convincing her for you."

"You do not know her," Hordo muttered, avoiding the Cimmerian's blue-eyed gaze. "Once a thing is in her mind to do, she does it, and there an end to it. And what she does, I do." He did not sound particularly happy about that last.

"I think I'll take a walk," Conan said, rising.

Hordo's lone eye stared at him incredulously. "A walk! Man, it's black as Ahriman's heart out there!"

"And it's hot as the gates of Gehanna here," Conan laughed. "If you build that fire any higher, you'll melt."

He walked into the night before the other man could say more.

Once away from the pool of light cast by the fires-not far in that strange, malevolent night he stopped to let his eyes adjust as best they could. By touch he checked the Karpashian dagger on his left forearm, and slung his sword across his back. He had no rope or grappel, but he did not think he would need either.

After a time he realized that he could see, in a fashion. The full moon, glowing blue-green in the sky, should have lit the night brightly. The thin, attenuated light that in truth existed flickered unnaturally.

Objects could only be detected by gradations of blackness, and in that dark lambence all appeared to quiver and move.

Quickly he started toward the fortress, biting back a string of oaths as rocks turned beneath his feet on the slope and boulders loomed out of the black, often to be detected first by his outstretched hands.

Then the wall of the keep reared before him, as if the black of the night had been concentrated and solidified.

The gargantuan stones of that wall seemed to form an unbroken vertical plane, yet were there finger- and toe-holds to be found by a man who knew where to look. Conan moved up that sheer escarpment heedless of the infinite darkness beneath him, and the rocks that would dash his life out if his grasp slipped.

Short of the top of the wall he stopped, clinging like a fly, massive body flattened tightly against the ebon stone. Above him the S'tarra sentries' boots grated closer, and past. In an instant he scrambled through the embrasure, across the parapet, and let himself down over the inner edge. The climb down into the other bailey was easier, for that side of the wall had not been designed with the intent of stopping anyone from scaling it.

His feet found the paving stones, and he squatted against the wall to get his bearings. Scattered lamps, brass serpents with wicks burning in their mouths, cast occasional pools of light within the fortress. The heavy iron-strapped gates letting into the inner bailey stood open, and apparently unguarded. But that would be a dangerous assumption to make. He was choosing a spot to scale the inner rampart when a movement caught his eye.

From the shadows to his left down the wall a man darted across the bailey. As he passed through the meager light cast by a serpent lamp Conan recognized Talbor. So the man was not waiting to find his two coppers to steal. The Cimmerian only hoped the other raised no alarm to make his own task more difficult. Talbor ran straight to the open gate into the inner bailey and passed through.

Conan forced himself to wait. If Talbor was taken it would be no time for him to be halfway up the inner wall. No alarm was raised. Still he waited, and still there was no sound.

The Cimmerian uncoiled from his crouch and walked across the bailey, carefully avoiding the sparse pools of light from the serpent lamps. If glimpsed, he would be no more than another moving shadow, and it was rapid motion that drew the eye at night. He slowed, examining the gateway carefully. The guardpost was empty.

He went through the gate at the same slow walk and crossed the inner bailey. From the walls behind he could hear the tread of sentries' boots, their pace unchanging.

As he approached the huge cube of the donjon he chose his entry point. Best, because highest, would have been the single-black tower that rose into the darkness at one corner, but he had seen in the daylight that whatever mason had constructed it had been a master. He had been able to detect no slightest crack between the carefully fitted stones. It reminded him uncomfortably of the Elephant Tower of the necromancer Yara, though that had glittered even in the dark where this seemed one with the night.

The walls of the donjon itself presented no such problem, though, and he quickly found himself squeezing with difficulty through an overly broad arrowslit on the top level. Once inside he swiftly drew his sword.

A single oil lamp on the wall was lit; he began to examine his surroundings.

The purpose of the room he could not fathom. Its only furnishing, other than tapestries on the walls, seemed to be a single high-backed chair of carved ivory set before a gameboard, one hundred squares of alternating colors set in the floor. Pieces in the shapes of bizarre animals, each as high as his knee, were scattered about the board. He hefted one, and grunted in surprise. He had thought it gilded, but from its weight it had to be of solid gold. Could he depart with two or three of those, he would have no need of the pendants. Even one might do.

Regretfully he set the piece, a snarling, winged ape-creature back on the board. He must yet find Velita, and to attempt to do so burdened with that weight would be madness. With great care he cracked the door. The marble-walled hall was brightly lit by silver lamps. And empty. He slipped out.

As he moved along that corridor, its floor red-and-white marble lozenges in an intricate pattern, he realized that he moved through a strange silence. He had entered many great houses and palaces in the dead of night, and always there was some sound, however slight. Now he could have moved through a tomb in which no thing breathed. Indeed, as he cautiously examined room after room he saw no living thing. No S'tarra. No human servant. No Velita. He hurried his pace, and went down curving alabaster stairs to the next floor.

Through two more floors he searched, and the opulence he saw paled the golden figures to insignificance.

A silver statue of a woman with sapphires for eyes, rubies for nipples and pearls for the nails of her fingers. A table encrusted with diamonds and emeralds till it cast back the light of silver lamps a hundredfold. A golden throne set with a king's ransom in black opals.

And then he was peering into a room, plain beside the others for merely being paneled in amber and ivory, peering at a pair of rounded female buttocks. Their owner knelt, naked, with her back to the door and her face pressed to the floor. The muscular youth found himself smiling at the view, and sternly drew his mind back to the matter at hand. She was the first living soul he had seen, and human rather than S'tarra.

One quick stride took him to the bent form; a big hand clasped over her mouth lifted her from the floor.

And he was staring into Velita's large, liquid brown eyes.

"Come, girl," he said, loosing his hold, "I was beginning to think I'd never find you."

She threw her arms around him, pressing her soft breasts against his broad chest. "Conan! You did come. I never really believed, though I hoped and prayed. But it's too late. You must go away before Amanar returns." A shudder went through her slim form as she said the name.

"I swore to free you, didn't I?" he said gruffly. "Why are you kneeling here like this? I've seen no one else at all, neither S'tarra nor human."

"S'tarra are not allowed in the donjon when Amanar isn't here, and humans are locked in their quarters unless he desires them." She tilted her head up, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "I didn't betray you, Conan. Not even when Sitha whipped me. I would not tell Amanar who you are."

"It's over, Velita," he said.

She seemed not to hear. Tears trembled on her long lashes. "He became enraged. For my punishment several times a day, without warning, I am commanded to come to this room and kneel until I am told to leave. When I hear footsteps I never know if I am to be sent back to my mat, or if it is Amanar.

Sometimes he merely stands, listening to me weep. I hate him for making me fear him so, and I hate myself for weeping, but I can't help it. Sometimes he beats me while I kneel, and if I move the punishment begins again."

"I'll kill him," Conan vowed grimly. "This I swear to you on pain of my life. Come, we'll find the pendants, and I'll take you away this night."

The lithesome naked girl shook her small head firmly. "I cannot go, Conan. I am spell-caught."

"Spell-caught!"

"Yes. Once I tried to escape, and my feet carried me to Amanar. Against my will I found myself telling him what I intended. Another time I tried to kill myself, but when the dagger point touched my breast my arms became like iron. I could not move them, even to set the knife down. When they found me Amanar made me beg before he would free me."

"There must be a way. I could carry you away" But he saw the flaw in that even as she laughed sadly.

"Am I to remain bound the rest of my life for fear of returning to his place? I don't know why I even tried to take my life," she sighed heavily. "I'm sure Amanar will kill me soon. Only Susa and I remain. The others have disappeared."

The big Cimmerian nodded. "Mages are not easily killed-this I know for truth-but once dead their spells die with them. Amanar's death will free you."

"Best you take the pendants and go," she said. "I can tell you where they are. Four are in the jeweled casket, in a room I can show you. The fifth, the one I wore, is in the chamber where he works his magics." She frowned and shook her head. "The others he tossed aside like offal. That one he wrapped in silk and laid in a crystal coffer."

The memory of the stone came back to Conan. A black oval the length of his finger joint, with red flecks that danced within. Suddenly he seized Velita's arms so hard that she cried out. "His eyes," he said urgently. "That stone is like his eyes. In some way it is linked to him. He'll free you rather than have it destroyed. We'll go down to his thaumaturgical chamber-"

"Down? His chamber is in the top of the tower above us. Please release me, Conan. My arms are growing numb."

Hastily he loosed his grip. "Then what lies at the end of that passage that seems to lead into the mountain?"

"I know not," she replied, "save that all are forbidden to enter it. His chamber is where I said. I've been taken to him there. Would the gods had trade him like Tiridates," she added bitterly, "a lover of boys."

"Then we'll go up to his chamber," Conan said. She shook her head once more. "What's the matter now?" he asked.

"There is a spell on the stairway in the tower whenever he is out of the donjon. Truly he trusts no one, Conan. One of the human servants climbed that stair while Amanar was gone to meet you." She shivered and buried her face against his chest. "He screamed forever, it seemed, and none could get close even to end his misery."

He smoothed her hair awkwardly with a big hand. "Then I must enter the donjon when he is here. But if he isn't here now, Velita, where is he?"

"Why, in your camp of bandits. I heard him say that the night might affright them, so he has taken them rare wines and costly viands for a feasting."

Conan raised his hand helplessly. It seemed the gods conspired against him at every turn. "Velita, I must go back to the camp. If he suspects I'm here ...."

"I know," she said quietly. "I knew from the first you could not take me with you."

"Does not my standing here tell you my oath-sworn word is good? I will see Amanar dead, and you free."

"No!" she cried. "Amanar is too powerful. You'll die to no purpose. I release you from your oath, Conan.

Leave these mountains and forget that I exist."

"You cannot release me from an oath sworn before gods," he said calmly, "and I will not release myself from one sworn on my life."

"Then you will die. Yet I do pray that somehow you will find a way. Please go now, Conan. I must await Amanar's return, and I don't want you to see me...." The slender girl's head dropped, and her shoulders quivered with sobs.

"I swear!" Conan grated. Almost wishing to find himself face to face with the sorcerer, he strode from the room.

Chapter XXI

As Conan approached the bandit camp he was struck with the sounds of raucous laughter and drunken, off-key singing. Stumbling into the light he stared in amazement. The brigands were in full carouse.

Hook-nosed Reza squatted with a whole roast in his hands, tearing at it with his teeth. Aberius staggered past, head tilted back and a crystal flagon upturned. Half the wine spilled down his chest, but the weasel-faced man laughed and tossed the costly vessel to shatter against the rocky ground. Hordo swung his tulwar in one hand, a golden goblet in the other, roaring an obscene song at the moon. Every man sang or laughed, ate or drank, as was his wont and his mood, belching and wiping greasy fingers on his robes, gulping down costly Aquilonian wines like the cheapest tavern swill.

Through the midst of the revelry Karela and Amanar approached Conan. She held a crystal goblet like a lady of high degree, but there was a stagger to her walk, and the mage had his long arm about her slim shoulder. Amanar had pushed back her scarlet cape so that his elongated fingers caressed her silken flesh in a possessive manner. Remembering Velita, Conan was both disgusted and offended, but he knew he must yet control his temper until the pendant was in his grasp.

"We wondered where you were," the red-haired woman said. "Look at this feast Amanar has brought us.

This has cured the fit of sulking that had taken my hounds."

Amanar's dark eyes were unreadable. "There is little to see even in daylight, Conan of Cimmeria, and few men care to wander here in the night. What did you find to interest you in the darkness?"

"They built the fires too hot for my northern blood," Conan replied. He eyed the way those long fingers kneaded Karela's shoulder. "That's a shoulder, mage," he said with more heat than he had intended, "not a lot of bread dough."

Karela looked startled, and Amanar laughed. "The hot blood of youth. Just how old are you, Cimmerian?" He did not remove his hand.

"Not yet nineteen," Conan said proudly, but he was saddened to see the change in Karela's eyes. He had seen the same in other women's eyes, women who thought a man needed a certain number of years to be a man.

"Not yet nineteen!" Amanar choked on his own laughter. "Practically a beardless youth for all his muscles. The Red Hawk, the great robber of caravans, has robbed a cradle."

She shrugged off the mage's arm, her tilted green eyes glowing dangerously. "A barbar boy," she muttered. Then, in a louder voice, "I have considered your offer, Amanar. I accept."

"Excellent," the sorcerer said with a satisfied smile. He rubbed the side of his long face with the golden staff and regarded Conan. "And you, young Cimmerian who likes to wander in the dark? Despite your youth my offer to you yet holds, for I think there must be skill in those massive shoulders."

Conan managed to force a smile onto his lips. "I need to think longer. In a day or two, as you first spoke of, I will give you my answer."

Amanar nodded. "Very well, Cimmerian. In a day or two we shall see what your future will be." His red-flecked eyes turned to Karela with a caressing gaze that made Conan's flesh crawl. "You, my dear Karela, must come to the keep on the morrow. Without the young Cimmerian, of course, as he has not yet made up his mind. We must have a number of long private discussions concerning my plans for you."

Conan longed to smash his fist into that dark face but instead he said, "Perhaps you'll speak of some of those plans to us all. Knowing what they are might help me decide, and some of these others as well."

Karela's head had been turning between the two men with a comparing gaze, but at that she jerked rigidly erect. "My hounds go where I command, Cimmerian!"

A sudden silence fell, laughter and song all dying away. Conan looked around for the cause and found Sitha standing at the edge of the light, clutching a great double-bladed battle-ax across its broad chest.

Red eyes glowed faintly as it surveyed the men around the fires, and they shifted uneasily, some loosening their weapons in their scabbards. The S'tarra's lipless mouth curled back from its fangs in what might have been meant for a smile. Or a sneer.

"Sitha!" Amanar said sharply.

Looking neither to left nor right, the S'tarra strode through the camp to kneel at Amanar's feet. At an impatient gesture Sitha rose and leaned close to whisper in its master's ear.

Conan could catch no sound of what was said, nor read anything on the mage's dark face, but Amanar's knuckles grew white on his golden staff, telling Conan the man found the news displeasing. Talbor, Conan thought. Amanar gestured for his minion to be silent.

"I must leave you," the mage said to Karela. "A matter requires my attention."

"Not trouble, I hope," she said.

"A small matter," Amanar replied, but his mouth was tight behind his close-cropped beard. "I will see you on the morrow, then. Rest well." He turned his attention to Conan. "Think well on your decision, Cimmerian. There are worse things than what I offer. Sitha." The sorcerer strode from the camp, his S'tarra minion at his heels.

With the departure of the scaled creature the noise level of the camp began to rise again quickly. Hordo staggered up to Conan and Karela.

"I do not like those things," the one-eyed brigand said unsteadily. He still held his bared tulwar and the now-empty golden goblet, and he swayed as he spoke. "When are we to leave this accursed valley and be about what we know? When are we for the caravan routes?"

"You're drunk, my old hound," Karela said affectionately. "Find yourself a place to sleep it off, and we'll talk in the morning."

"I entered the keep tonight," Conan said quietly.

Karela's green eyes locked with his sapphire gaze. "You fool!" she hissed. Hordo stared with his mouth open.

"He has the pendants," the Cimmerian went on, "and the women. At least, he has two of the women. The other three have disappeared. It's my belief he killed them."

"Killed slave girls?" Hordo said, scandalized. "What sort of man does a thing like that? Even a sorcerer...."

"Keep your voice down," Karela snapped. "I told you not to bandy that word about until I gave you leave. And you, Conan. What's this nonsense you're babbling? If the women are gone, likely he sold them. Or was your precious Velita one of them?"

"She was not," Conan growled back. "And why should she still raise your hackles? You know there's nothing between us, though there seems to be quite a bit between you and Amanar, from the way he was fondling you."

"No!" Hordo protested, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Not Amanar. Not with you. I'll admit I thought better of you taking Conan to your bed, but-"

Face flaming, Karela cut him off sharply. "Be silent, you old fool! What I do, and with whom, is my business!" Her eyes flung green daggers at Conan, and she stalked away, snatching a flask from Aberius as she passed him.

Hordo shook his massive head. "Why did you not speak, Conan? Why did you not stop her?"

"She's a free woman," Conan said coldly. His pride was still pricked by the way she had accepted Amanar's arm about her. "I have no claim on her. Why didn't you stop her?"

"I'm too old to have my liver sliced out," Hordo snorted. "Your Velita was truly in the keep, then? I wonder you didn't take her, and the pendants, and ride from this place." He swept his curved sword in an arc that took in all the dark outside the firelight.

"She's spell-caught," Conan sighed, and told him how he had found Velita, and what she had said.

"So he lied to us," the bearded man said when Conan finished. "And if about the pendants and the women, about what else?"

"About everything. I had thought to tell her about what he's done with Velita, to show him for the man he is, but now I think she'd believe I made it up."

"And likely tell Amanar about it, to amuse him with your jealousy. Or what she'd see as jealousy," he added quickly as the big Cimmerian youth glared at him. "What am I to do, Conan? Even now I cannot abandon her."

Conan lifted his broadsword an inch free of its sheath and slammed it back again. "Keep your sword sharp, and your eye open." His steely gaze took in the motley rogues sprawled drunkenly around the fires. "And have these hounds of hers ready to move at an instant. Without letting her or Amanar discover it, of course."

"You don't ask much, do you, Cimmerian? What are you going to do?"

Conan peered through the darkness toward the fortress before answering. Even in that overpowering blackness those massive walls seemed blacker still. "Kill Amanar, free Velita, steal the pendants, and return to Shadizar, of course. Trifles like that."

"Trifles like that," Hordo groaned. "I need another drink."

"So do I," Conan said softly. The night weighed heavily on his broad shoulders. This valley would be a poor place to die.

Chapter XXII

The strange darkness lingered in the valley, resisting morning and fading to a gray dawn only after the blood-red sun stood well above the mountaintops. It was mid-morning before full daylight came, but Conan alone noticed in the bandit camp, for the others lay sprawled in drunken stupors. As the sun at last sucked the last canescence from the valley air, the Cimmerian made his way to the spring that bubbled from a cleft not far from the camp.

Scooping water in his cupped hands, he drank, and made a disgusted sound in his throat. Though cold, the water was flat and lifeless, like everything else in the barren and forboding rift. He contented himself with splashing it on his face, and settled to observe the valley.

On the battlements of the keep S'tarra moved, but nothing else stirred except vultures making slow circles in the distance. Conan wondered grimly how Velita had fared at Amanar's return. The sorcerer seemed not to know how far Conan's nocturnal peregrinations had taken him-at least, there was no sign of alarm, no squads of S'tarra sent for him-but that spoke not at all to her faring.

"Tonight," the muscular youth vowed.

Aberius, tottering up to fall on his knees beside the spring, glanced incuriously at him. The man's usual hostility seemed momentarily expelled by wine fumes. The weasel-faced bandit dashed a few handfuls of water over his head and staggered away to be replaced by Hordo, who threw himself at full length by the spring and plunged his head into the pool.

Just as Conan was about to go over and pull him out, the one-eyed man lifted his head and peered at the Cimmerian through dripping hair and beard. "Has this water no taste," he mumbled, "or did my tongue die last night?"

"Both," Conan chuckled. Hordo groaned and lowered his head once more to the water, but this time only far enough to drink. "Have you seen Talbor this morning, Hordo?"

"I've seen nothing this morning but the insides of my own eyelids. Let me decide in peace whether I desire to live or not."

"Talbor was inside the fortress last night, when I was."

Hordo lifted himself on his elbows, flipping water at his face with spatulate fingers. "Such a thing to tell a man with my head. Do you think that's why Amanar was summoned to the keep?"

Conan nodded. "Talbor's not in the camp. I checked at first light."

"He could have stolen what he wanted, taken a horse, and be halfway out of the Kezankians by now,"

the other man protested. "He's not as particular as you. He'd not insist on Tiridates' playpretties, and a dancing girl besides."

"You could be right," Conan said flatly.

"I know," Hordo sighed. "I don't believe it, either. So is he dead, or is he in the sorcerer's dungeon? And what do we tell her?"

"We wait to see what Amanar tells her. His S'tarra outnumber us at least twenty to one, and those are odds I bet small coins on."

He got to his feet as Sitha appeared at the portcullis and came down the black granite ramp. The tall S'tarra carried neither ax nor sword that Conan could see. It reached the bottom of the incline and set off at a brisk pace across the gray, boulder-strewn valley floor toward the bandit camp. Conan started down the rocky slope to meet it, and Hordo scrambled to his feet to follow.

When Conan walked into the camp, the scaled creature was the center of a ring of brigands. No weapons were in hand, he was relieved to see, but the human eyes there were far from friendly. And who could say of Sitha's?

Hordo pushed past Conan to confront the S'tarra. "What's this, then? Does your master send a message for us?"

"I come for myself," Sitha hissed. It stood half a head taller than the burly one-eyed bandit, taller even than Conan, and if there was no expression in those sanguine eyes there was certainly contempt in the sibilant voice. A padded gambeson and chainmail hauberk covered it to the knees, but it ,wore no helmet. "I am Sitha, Warden of the S'tarra, and I come to pit myself against you."

Aberius, behind Conan, laughed uneasily. "Without so much as a dagger?"

Sitha bared its fangs. "My master would not be pleased, an I slew you. We will pit strength at the stones."

"Stones?" Hordo said. "What stones?"

The S'tarra spun on its booted heel, motioning for them to follow. In a muttering file they did, down the valley away from the keep to a spot where boulders had been arranged to form a rough circle half a hundred paces across. The ground between had been smoothed and leveled, and in the center of the circle lay two rough spheres of dark granite. Conan estimated the smaller at twice the weight of a man, the larger at half again as much.

"Lift one of the stones," Sitha said. "Any one of you." It flashed bare fangs again, briefly. "Any two of you."

"Hordo!" someone called. "Hordo's strongest!"

Aberius eyed the stones, then Karela's one-eyed lieutenant. "Who'll wager?" he cried, his narrow face taking on a malicious smile. "Who thinks old Hordo can lift the small stone?"

"Old Hordo, is it?" Hordo spat.

He bent to the lesser of the huge stones as a babbling knot formed around Aberius to get their wagers marked. The burly man threw his arms about the stone, fitting his hands carefully to the undercurves, and heaved. The scar running from under his eye-patch whitened with strain, and his eye bulged. The round stone stirred. Abruptly his hands slipped, and he staggered back with an oath.

"Mitra!" the one-eyed brigand panted. "There's no way to get a good grip on the accursed thing."

Chortling, Aberius collected his winnings.

"Your strongest cannot lift it," Sitha hissed. "Can two of you do it? Let any two try." His scathing glance took in Conan, but the Cimmerian said nothing.

Reza and another hawk-nosed Iranistani, named Banidr, pushed forward. Aberius began again to hawk his wagering. Those who had lost the first time were now quickest to press their coins at him.

Reza and Banidr conferred a moment, dark heads together, then squatted, one on either side of the stone. Pressing their forearms in under the lower curve of the stone sphere, each grasped the other's upper arm. Their closeness to the stone forced them into spraddle-legged stances. For a moment they rocked back and forth, counting together, then suddenly tried to heave themselves erect. Veins popped forth on their foreheads. The stone lifted. A finger breadth. A handwidth. Banidr cried out, and in an instant the stone had forced their arms apart, torn loose their grips, and thumped to the ground. Banidr fell back, clutching himself. Arguments broke out as to whether the two had lifted the stone far enough or not.

"This!" Sitha's shout riveted the bandits, drying their arguments in midword. "This I mean by lifting the stone!" The S'tarra bent over the large granite ball, locked its arms about it, and straightened as easily as if it had been a pebble. Gasps broke from the bandits as it started toward them; they parted before it.

Five paces. Ten. Sitha let the stone fall with a crash, and turned back to the dumbstruck men. "That I mean by lifting." Peals of hissing laughter broke between its fangs.

"I'll have a try," Conan said.

The S'tarra's laughter slowed and stopped. Red eyes regarded Conan with open contempt. "You, human? Will you try to carry the stone back to its place, then?"

"No," the young Cimmerian said, and bent to the larger stone.

"Two to one he fails," Aberius cried. "Three to one!" Men eyed Conan's massive chest and shoulders, weighed the odds, and crowded around the weasel-faced man.

Conan squatted low to get his arms below the largest part of the big stone. As his fingers felt for purchase on the rough sphere, he found Sitha's frowning gaze on him.

With a sudden roar, the big Cimmerian heaved. His mighty thew corded, and his joints popped with the strain. The muscles of his broad back stood out in stark relief, and his massive arms knotted. Slowly he straightened, every fiber quivering as he came fully erect. His eyes met Sitha's once more, and snarling, the S'tarra took a backward step. With great effort Conan stepped forward, back bowed under the strain. He took another step.

"Conan," someone said softly, and another voice repeated, louder, "Conan!"

Teeth bared by lips drawn back in a rictus of effort, Conan went forward. Now his eyes were locked on the stone Sitha had carried.

Two more voices took up the cry. "Conan!" Five more. "Conan!" Ten. "Conan!" The shouts were flung back from the mountain slopes as a score of throats hurled forth their chant with his every step. "Conan!

Conan! Conan!"

He came level with the other stone, took one step more, and let the great sphere fall with a thunderous thud that every man there felt in his feet. Conan's shoulder joints creaked as he straightened, looking at Sitha. "Will you try to take my stone back?"

Cheering bandits darted between a glowering Aberius, parting with all his former winnings and more, and Conan, some clasping his hand, others merely wanting to touch his arm. Sitha's hands twitched in front of its chest as if clutching for the thick haft of a battle-ax.

Of a sudden the bronzen tones of a great gong broke from the fortress and echoed down the valley. Sitha whirled at the first tone and broke into a run for the black keep. The gong pealed forth again, and again, its hollow resonance rolling against the mountains. Atop the ebon ramparts of the keep S'tarra ran.

"An attack?" Hordo said, bewildered. The bandits crowded in close behind the one-eyed man, their exuberance of moments before already dissipated. Some had drawn their swords.

Conan shook his head. "The portcullis is open, and I see no one near the ballistae or catapults.

Whatever's happening, though. . ." He let his words trail off as Karela galloped up to face them, one fist on a scarlet thigh-boot.

"Are the lot of you responsible for this?" she demanded. "I heard all of you bellowing like oxen in a mire, then this infernal gong began." As she spoke the tolling ceased, though the ghost of it seemed yet to hang in the air.

"We know no more than you," Hordo replied.

"Then I'll find out what's happening," she said.

"Karela," Conan said, "do you not think it best to wait?"

Her green eyes raked him scornfully, and without a word she spun her horse and galloped toward the fortress. The big black's hooves rang on the black granite of the ramp, and after a moment's delay she was admitted.

Minutes later the portcullis opened once more. Sitha's massive form, helmeted and bearing the great battle-ax, galloped through the gate, followed by paired columns of mounted S'tarra. Conan counted lances as they streamed down the incline and pounded across the valley toward a gorge leading north.

"Three hundred," the Cimmerian said after the last S'tarra had disappeared. "More wayfarers, do you think?"

"So long as it's not us," Hordo replied.

Slowly the bandits returned to the cold ashes of their campfires, breaking into twos and threes to cast lots or dice. Aberius began maneuvering three clay cups and a pebble atop a flat rock, trying to entice back some of the silver he had lost. Conan settled with his back to a tilted needle of stone, where he could watch both the keep and the gorge into which Sitha had led the S'tarra. The day stretched long and flat, and except when Hordo brought him meat and cheese and a leather flagon of thin wine Conan did not change his position.

As the sanguinary sun sank on the western mountain peaks, the S'tarra returned, galloping from the same knife-sharp slash in the valley by which they had left.

"No casualties," Hordo said, coming up beside Conan as the S'tarra appeared.

Conan, once more counting lances, nodded. "But they took... something." Twenty riderless horses were roped together in the middle of the column, each bearing a long bundle strapped across it.

A spark of light in the east caught the Cimmerian's eye, a momentary glitter that flashed against the shadows of mountains already caught in twilight and was gone. It flashed again. Frowning, he studied the slopes around the valley. High above them, to the north, another spark flared and was gone.

"Think you Amanar knows the valley is watched?" Hordo asked.

"You use that eye," Conan said approvingly. The S'tarra rode up the long incline to the fortress, the portcullis creaking open to let them ride in without slowing. "I worry more about who does the watching."

The one-eyed brigand let out a long, low whistle between his teeth. "Who? Now that's a kettle of porridge to set your teeth on edge."

Conan knew the choices of who it could be-hillmen, the army, Zamoran or Turanian, or Imhep-Aton-but he was not certain which would be worst for him and for the bandits, or even if those two would be the same. Time ran short for him. "I mean to bring Velita out of the keep tonight, Hordo. It may mean trouble for you, but I must do it."

"I've half a memory of you saying as much last night," Hordo mused. Karela appeared, riding slowly down the ramp from the fortress. "Almost I wish you would, Cimmerian. 'Twould give the excuse to get her away from this place, away from the sorcerer."

Karela reached the bottom of the ramp and turned her big black toward the camp. She rode with one fist on her hip, her callimastian form swaying with the motion of the horse. The bloody sun was half obscured behind the peaks, now, yet enough remained to bathe her face in a golden glow.

"And if she will not go," Conan said, "you'll follow where she leads, be it a hillman's torture fire or Amanar's diabolic servitude."

"No more," Hordo replied sadly. "My last service to the Red Hawk, and it must be so, will be to tie her to her saddle and take her to safety." His voice hardened suddenly. "But it will be me, Conan. No other will raise a hand to her while Hordo yet lives. Not even you."

Conan met the fierce single-eyed gaze levelly. On the one hand, an oath not to lift a hand to save her; on the other, how could he stand and watch her die? It was a cleft stick that held his tongue.

Karela reined in before the two men, raising a hand to shield her eyes as she peered at the mountain-shrouded sun. "I had not realized I was so long with Amanar," she murmured, shifting her green eyes to them. "Why are you two glaring at each other like a pair of badgers? I thought you now were almost fraternal in your amity."

"We stand in concord, Hordo and I," Conan said. He stretched up his hand, and the other man grasped it, pulling him to his feet.

"We'll give them a good turn, eh, Cimmerian," Hordo said, "before we go under."

"We'll drink from golden goblets in Aghrapur yet," Conan replied soberly.

"What do you two babble about?" Karela demanded. "Gather my hounds, Hordo. I'll speak to them before that accursed dark comes on us."

With a quick nod Hordo darted ahead to assemble the bandits. Karela looked at Conan as if she wanted to speak, then the moment passed. There was much to say, he thought, but he would not speak first. He started after Hordo, and moments later heard her horse following slowly. She made no effort to catch up.

Chapter XXIII

"Do you want gold?" Karela shouted. "Well, do you?"

She stood atop a boulder as high as a man's head, crimson thigh-booted feet well apart, fists on hips, her hair an auburn mane. She was magnificent, Conan thought, from his place at the back of the semicircle of brigands who listened to her. Just looking at her was still enough to make his mouth grow dry.

"We want gold," Reza muttered. A few others echoed him. Most watched silently. Aberius had a thoughtful look in his beady eyes, making him look even more sly and malicious than usual. Hordo stood beside the flat-topped boulder, keeping a worried watch on the brigands and Karela both. The fires of the camp surrounded them, holding off the twilight.

"Do you like being chased into hiding by the army?" she cried.

"No!" half a dozen voices growled.

"Do you like spending half a year at guards' wages?"

"No!" a dozen shouted back at her.

"Well, do you know the caravan route is less than half a day south of here? Do you know that a caravan is coming along that route, bound for Sultanapur? Do you know that in three days time we'll take that caravan?"

Roars of approval broke from every throat. Except Aberius', Conan noted. While the others waved fists in the air, shouted and pounded each other on the shoulder, Aberius' look grew more thoughtful, more furtive.

"And the army won't hound us," she went on loudly, "because we'll come back here till they give up. The Zamoran Army are not men enough to follow where we go!"

The cheering went on. The bandits were too caught up in imagining the Zamorans less brave than they to think too closely on how brave they themselves were. Karela raised her hands above her head and basked in their adulation.

Hordo left his place by the boulder and came around to where Conan stood. "Once more, Cimmerian, she has us in the palm of her hand. You don't suppose this could...."

Conan shrugged as the one-eyed man trailed off doubtfully. "You must do as you will." Hordo still looked uncertain. Conan sighed. He would not like seeing the burly bandit dead. Purple twilight was already giving way, night falling as if the inky air had jelled. The bandits around Karela continued their cheering.

"I'll be away, now," the Cimmerian went on, "before they notice my going."

"Fare you well," Hordo said quietly.

Conan slipped into the caliginous night. Scudding clouds obscured the lustrous moon as he hurried along the stony slope. Before the full mantle of night enfolded that tenebrous vale, he wanted to be as close to the walls of the fortress as he could.

Abruptly he stopped, broadsword coming firmly into his hand. No sound had reached his ear, no glimmer of motion caught his eye, but senses he could not describe told him there was something ahead of him.

The darkness ahead seemed suddenly to split, fold and thicken, and there was an elongated shadow where there had been none. "How did you know?" came Imhep-Aton's low voice. "No matter. Truly now your usefulness is ended. Your pitiful efforts are futile, but as a rat scurrying beneath the feet of warrior in battle may cause him to trip and die, so may you discommode those greater than yourself."

The darkling shape moved toward Conan. He could see no weapon but an outstretched hand.

Of a sudden rock behind him grated beneath a boot. Conan dropped to a full squat, felt rather than saw a pike thrust pass above his head. Grasping his sword hilt with both hands he pivoted on his left foot, striking for where the pikewielder must be. He felt the point of his blade bite through chain mail and flesh at the same moment that he saw his attacker's red eyes glowing in the night. The falling pike struck him on the shoulder, the rubiate glow faded, and he was tugging his sword free of a collapsing body.

Desperately Conan spun back, expecting at any moment to feel the sting of Imhep-Aton's steel, but before him he saw three shadowy shapes now, locked in combat. A sibilant shriek broke and was cut off, and one of the shadows fell. The other two fought on.

A cascade of small stones skittering down the slope heralded the arrival of more S'tarra. On the fortress walls torches began to move, and the great gong tolled into the dark. The portcullis began to clank noisily open.

Conan could see two pairs of glowing eyes now, approaching him slowly, well separated. Could the beings see in that dark, he wondered. Could they recognize him? He would not take the chance. The shining sanguinary eyes were located thusly, he calculated, so the pikes must be held so.

Silently, with a prayer to Bel, god of thieves, the Cimmerian sprang toward the closer S'tarra, his sword arcing down for where he hoped the pike was. With a solid chunk his blade bit into a wooden pike-haft.

He kicked with the ball of his foot, and got a hissing grunt in reply. Reversing the swing of his broadsword, he spun it up and then down for the joining of neck and shoulder. The grunt became a scream.

Conan threw himself to one side as the second pike slashed along his ribs. The dying S'tarra grappled with him as it fell, pulling him to the ground, The other stood over him, triumph heightening the glow of its eyes. A howl burst from its fanged mouth as the Cimmerian's steel severed its leg at the knee, and the S'tarra fell beside the first. There was no time for precision. Like a cleaver Conan's blade split between those red eyes.

From the fortress pounding feet were drawing nearer. Quickly Conan jerked his sword free and ran into the night. The bandit camp had been roused as well. As he ran closer he could see them gathered at the edge of the light from their fires, peering toward the keep, where the gong still sounded. He circled around the camp and, cutting a piece from his breechclout, wiped his sword and sheathed it before striding in.

The brigands' eyes were all toward the sounds of S'tarra approaching; none but Hordo saw him enter.

Conan tossed the scrap of rag, stained with black blood, into a fire and snatched a cloak from his blankets to settle around his shoulders and hide the gash in his side.

"What happened?" Hordo whispered as Conan joined the others. "You're wounded!"

"I never reached the keep," Conan replied quietly. "S'tarra were waiting. And I discovered who watched from the mountain." He remembered the second light. "As least, I think I did. Later," he added as the other started to question him further. S'tarra were entering the camp, Sitha at their head.

The bandits backed away, muttering, as the reptilian creatures strode into the firelight. Only Karela stood her ground. Arms crossed beneath her round breasts, the red-haired woman confronted the massive bulk of Sitha. "Why do you come here?" she demanded.

"S'tarra have been slain this night," Sitha replied. Its crimson eyes ran arrogantly from her ankles to her face. "I will search your camp and question your men to see if any were involved." The bandits' muttering became angry; sword hilts were grasped.

"You may die trying," Karela said coldly. "I'll not have my camp searched by such as you. And if your master has questions, I'll answer them of him, but not of his cattle." She spat the last word, and Sitha quivered, claw-tipped hands working convulsively on the haft of the huge battle-ax.

"You may find," Sitha hissed malevolently, "that answering questions for my master is even less pleasant than answering them for me." It spun abruptly on its heel and stalked from the circle of light, followed by the rest of the S'tarra.

When the last of them disappeared into the dark, Karela turned to face the bandits. "If any of you were involved in this," she said sharply, "I'll have your ears." Without another word she strode through them and disappeared into her striped pavilion.

Hordo let out a long breath and pulled Conan aside. "Now what happened out there?" The brigands were breaking up into small knots, discussing the night's events in low voices. Aberius stood alone, watching Conan and Hordo.

"I slew three S'tarra," Conan said, "and Imhep-Aton slew two. Or was perhaps himself slain, but I don't believe that."

Hordo grunted. "He who sent the man Crato against you? A second sorcerer in this Mitra-forsaken valley is ill news indeed. I must tell her."

Conan grabbed the one-eyed man's arm. "Don't. She may well tell Amanar, and I do not think these two have any good will towards each other. Whatever comes between them may give you the chance to get her away from here."

"As with the hillmen and the soldiers," Hordo said slowly, "you will bring the two to combat while we slip away. But I think me being caught between two sorcerers may be worse than being caught between the others." He barked a short laugh. "I tell you again, Cimmerian, if you live, you'll be a general. Mayhap even a king. Men have risen from lower stations to become such."

"I have no desire to be a king," Conan laughed. "I'm a thief. And Imhep-Aton, at least, has no animosity toward you or Karela." Though the same, he reflected, could hardly be said of himself. "The keep is too much stirred for me to enter this night. I fear Velita must bear another day of Amanar. Come, let us find a bandage for my side and a flagon of wine."

Speaking quietly together the two men walked deeper into the bandit camp. Aberius watched them go, tugging at his lower lip in deep thought. Finally he nodded to himself and darted into the night.

Chapter XXIV

The sun, Conan estimated, stood well past the zenith. It was the day after his fight with the S'tarra, and Karela was once more closeted with Amanar for the entire morning. The bandits slept or drank or gambled, forgetting the ill of the night in the light of the sun. Conan sat cross-legged on the ground, honing his blade as he watched the black keep. To conceal his bandaged wound, he had donned a black tunic that covered him to below the hips. He lay the blade across his knees as a S'tarra approached.

"You are called Conan of Cimmeria?" the creature hissed.

"I am," Conan replied.

"She who is called Karela asks that you come to her."

There had been no further attempt to question the bandits about the occurrences in the night. Conan could not see how he might be connected with them now. He rose and sheathed his sword.

"Lead," he commanded.

The big Cimmerian tensed while passing through the gate, but the guards gave him no more than a flicker of their lifeless red eyes. In the donjon the S'tarra led him a way he did not know, to huge doors that Conan realized to his shock were of burnished gold. A great reptilian head was worked in each, surrounded by what appeared to be rays of light. The S'tarra struck a small silver gong hanging from the wall. Conan's neckhairs stirred at the great doors swung open-with no human agency that he could see.

The S'tarra gestured for him to enter.

With a firm tread Conan walked through the open doors; they swung shut almost on his heels with a thump of finality. The ceiling of the great room was a fluted dome, supported by massive columns of carved ivory. Across the mosaic floor Amanar sat on a throne made of golden serpents, while another burnished serpent reared behind it, great ruby eyes regarding all who approached. The mage's robe, too, was gold, seemingly of ten thousand scales that glittered in the light of golden lamps. Human musicians filed out by a side door as Conan entered. The only other present was Karela, standing beside Amanar's throne and drinking thirstily from a goblet.

She lowered the goblet in surprise at the sight of Conan. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. The chamber was cool, yet perspiration dampened her face, and her breath came quickly.

"I was told you sent for me," Conan said. Warily he placed a hand on his sword.

"I never sent for you," she said.

"I took the liberty," Amanar said, "of using your name, Karela, to ensure the man would come."

"Ensure he'd come?" Puzzled, Karela swung her green eyes from Conan to the mage. "Why would he not?"

Amanar pursed his lips and touched them with his golden staff. His eyes on Conan seemed amused. "This night past were five of my S'tarra slain."

Conan wondered from which direction the S'tarra would come. There could be a score of doors hidden behind those ivory columns.

"You think Conan did this killing?" Karela said. "I spoke to you of this matter this morning, and you said nothing."

"Sometimes," the dark sorcerer said, "it is best to wait, to let the guilty think they will escape. But I see you require proof." He swung his staff against a small crystal bell that stood in a silver stand beside the throne.

At the chime the door through which the musicians had departed opened again. Aberius hesitantly entered the chamber, his eyes darting from Conan to the throne, as if measuring the distance to each. He rubbed his palms on the front of his yellow tunic.

"Speak," Amanar commanded.

Aberius' pointed face twitched. He swallowed. "Last night, before the gong sounded, I saw this Conan of Cimmeria leave our camp." His beady black eyes avoided Karela. "This surprised me, for all of us think the darkness of the nights here strange, and none will go out in them. None other did, that night as before.

Conan returned after the alarm, with a wound on his side. I'll warrant there's a bandage beneath that tunic."

"Why did you not come to me, Aberius?" Karela said angrily. Her piercing gaze shifted to the Cimmerian.

"I said, Conan, that I'd have the ears of any man involved, and I-"

"I fear," Amanar interrupted smoothly, "that it is I who must set this man's punishment. It is me he has offended against. You, Aberius," he added in a sharper tone, "go now. The gold agreed upon will be given as you leave."

The weasel-faced bandit opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, then suddenly scurried from the room. The small door closed behind him.

"Why, Conan?" Karela asked softly. "Is that girl worth so much to you?" She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. "I give him to you," she said.

Conan's blade slipped from its sheath with a rasping whisper. "You reckon without me," the Cimmerian said. "I give myself to no one."

Amanar rose, holding the golden staff across his chest like a scepter. "Extend your life, Cimmerian.

Prostrate yourself and beg, and I may have mercy on you." He started forward at a slow walk.

"Dog of a sorcerer," Conan grated, "come no closer. I know your mage's tricks with powders that kill when breathed." The golden-robed man came on, neither speeding nor slowing. "I warn you," Conan said. "Die then!"

With the speed of a striking falcon the big Cimmerian youth lunged. Amanar's staff whipped up; hissing, a citron vapor was expelled from its tip. Conan held his breath and plunged through the cloud. His sword struck Amanar's chest, piercing to the hilt. For a bare moment Conan stood chest to chest and eye to eye with the mage. Then his muscles turned to water. He tried to cry out as he toppled to the mosaic floor, but there was no sound except the thud of his fall. His great chest labored for breath, and his every muscle twitched and trembled, but not at his command.

The sorcerer stood above him, viewing him with the same dispassion he might exhibit at a bird found dead in the keep. "A concentrated derivative from the pollen of the golden lotus of Khitai," he said in a conversational tone. A thin smile curled his lips cruelly. "It works by contact, not by breathing, my knowledgeable thief. The paralysis grows if no antidote is applied, deeper and deeper until life itself is paralyzed. I am told one feels oneself dying by inches."

"Amanar," Karela gasped, "the sword!" She stood by the throne, a trembling hand pressed to her lips.

The sorcerer looked at the sword as if he had forgotten it pierced his chest. Grasping the hilt he drew it from his body. The blade was unbloodied. He seemed pleased with her shock. "You see, my dear Karela? No mortal weapon can harm me." Contemptuously he dropped the sword almost touching Conan's hand.

The Cimmerian strained to reach the leather-wrapped hilt, but his arms responded only with drug-induced tremors.

Amanar emitted a blood-chilling laugh and casually moved the sword even closer with his foot, until the hilt touched Conan's twitching hand. "Even before Aberius betrayed you, Cimmerian, I suspected you in the slaying, though two of the dead displayed certain anomalies. You see, Velita betrayed you also." His dark laugh was like a saw on bone. "The gear I placed on her commanded her to tell me if you saw her, and she did, though she wept and begged me to kill her rather than let her speak." He laughed again.

Conan tried to curse, but produced only a grunt. The man would die, he vowed, if he had to return as a shade to do the deed.

The sorcerer's cold, lidded eyes regarded him thoughtfully. The red flecks in their black depths seemed to dance. "You rage, but do not yet fear," he said softly. "Still, where there is such great resistance, there must be great fear once the resistance is shattered. And you will be shattered, Cimmerian."

"Please," Karela said, "if he must die, then kill him, but do not torture him."

"As you wish," Amanar said smoothly. He returned to the throne and struck the crystal bell once more.

This time Sitha appeared from the small door through which Aberius had left. Four more S'tarra followed, bearing a litter. Roughly they lifted Conan onto the bare wood and fastened him with broad leather straps across his massive chest and thighs. As they were carrying him out Conan heard Amanar speak.

"There is much we must speak of, my dear Karela. Come closer."

The door swung shut.

Chapter XXV

As the litter was carried through the donjon, one mailed S'tarra at each corner and Sitha leading, Conan lay seemingly quiescent. For the moment struggle was futile, but he constantly attempted to clench his right hand. If he could make even that beginning .... The hand twitched of its own volition, but no more.

He fought to keep breathing.

The litter was carried from a resplendent corridor through an archway and down rough stone stairs. The walls, at first worked smooth, became raw stone, a passage hacked from the living rock beneath the dark fortress. Those who went thither no longer had a care for mosaics or tapestries.

The crude corridor leveled. Sitha pounded a huge fist against an iron-strapped door of rough wood. The door opened, and to Conan's surprise, a human appeared, the first he had seen in the keep who did not keep his eyes on the ground.

The man was even shorter than Conan, but even more massive, heavy sloping muscles covered with thick layers of fat. Piggish eyes set deep in a round, bald head regarded Conan. "So, Sitha," he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, "you've brought Ort another guest."

"Stand aside, Ort," Sitha hissed. "You know what is to be done here. You waste time."

Shockingly, the fat man giggled. "You'd like to cut Ort's head off, wouldn't you Sitha, with that ax of yours? But Amanar needs Ort for his torturing. You S'tarra get carried away and leave dead meat when there'd questions yet to be asked."

"This one is already meat," Sitha said contemptuously. Casually the S'tarra turned to smash a backhand blow to Conan's face. Ort giggled again.

Blood welled in Conan's mouth. Chest heaving, he fought to get painful words out. "Kill-you-Sitha," he gasped.

Ort blinked his tiny eyes in surprise. "He speaks? After the vapor? This one is strong."

"Strong," Sitha snarled. "Not as strong as I!" Its fist crashed into Conan's face, splitting his cheek. For a moment the S'tarra stood with fist upraised, fangs bared, then lowered its claw-tipped hand with an obvious effort. "Put him in his cell, Ort, before I forget the master's commands."

Giggling, Ort led the procession into the dungeons. Grim ironbound doors lined the rough stone walls.

Before one Ort stopped, undoing a heavy iron lock with a key from his broad leather belt. "In here," he said. "There's another in there already, but I'm filling up."

Quickly, under Sitha's direction, the other S'tarra unstrapped Conan from the litter and carried him into the cell, a cubicle cut in the rock as crudely as the rest of the dungeon. As chains were being fastened to the Cimmerian's wrists and ankles he saw his fellow prisoner, chained in the same fashion to the far wall, and knew a second of shock. It was the Zamoran captain he had tricked into combat with the hillmen.

As the other S'tarra left, Sitha came to stand over Conan. "Were it left to me," it hissed angrily, "you would die now. But the master has use of you yet." From a pouch at its belt it took a vial and forced it between the Cimmerian's teeth. Bitter liquid flowed across his tongue. "Perhaps, Cimmerian, when the master has your soul, this time he will let me have what remains." With a sibilant laugh Sitha shoved the empty vial back into his pouch and strode from the cell. The thick door banged shut.

Conan could feel strength flowing slowly back into his limbs. Weakly he pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned against the cool stone of the cell wall.

The hook-nosed Zamoran captain watched him thoughtfully with dark eyes. There were long blisters on his arms, and others were visible on his chest where his tunic was ripped. "I am Haranides," he said finally. "Whom do I share these... accommodations with?"

"I am called Conan," the Cimmerian replied. He tested the chains that fastened his manacles to the wall.

Three feet and more in length, the links of them were too thick for him to have burst even had he his full strength, and he was far from that as yet.

"Conan," Haranides murmured. "I've heard that name in Shadizar, thief. Would I had known you when we met last."

Conan shifted his full attention to the Zamoran. "You remember me, then, do you?"

"I'm not likely to forget a man with shoulders like a bull, especially when he brought me near ten score hillmen for a present."

"Did you indeed follow us, then? I would not have done it save for that."

"I followed you," Haranides replied bitterly. "Rather, I followed the Red Hawk and the trinkets she took from Tiridates. Or was it you, thief, who entered the palace and slew like a demon?"

"Not I," Conan said, "nor the Red Hawk. 'Twas S'tarra, the scaled ones, who did it, and we followed them as you followed us. But how came you to this pass, chained to the wall in Amanar's dungeon?"

"From continuing my pursuit of the red-haired wench when a wiser man would have returned to Shadizar and surrendered his head," the captain said. "Half a mountain of rock poured into the gorge by those things-S'tarra, you call them? No more than twenty of my men escaped. We had a hillman for a guide, but whether he led us into a trap, or perished beneath the stone, or even got away entirely, I know not."

"You got not those burns from falling rock."

Haranides examined his blisters ruefully. "Our jailor, a fellow named Ort, likes to entertain himself with a hot iron. He's surprisingly agile for one of his bulk. He'd strike and leap away, and in these," he rattled his chains, "neither could I attack nor escape him."

"If he comes again with his irons," Conan said eagerly, "perhaps in dodging from the one he will come close enough for the other to seize."

He pulled one of his chains to its fullest extent and measured with his eye. With a disgusted grunt he again slumped against the stone wall. There was room enough and more between him and the other man for Ort to leap and dodge as he would. The fat torturer could stand within a finger's breadth of either man with impunity. He realized the other man was frowning at him.

"It comes to me," Haranides said slowly, "that already I have told you more than I told Ort. How came you to be chained like an ox, Conan?"

"I misjudged the wiliness of a sorcerer," Conan replied curtly.

It rankled still, the ease with which he had been taken. He seemed to remember once calling himself a bane of wizards, yet Amanar had snared him like a three-years child. While Karela watched, too.

"Then you were in his service?" Haranides said.

Conan shook his head irritably. "No!"

"Perhaps you are in his service still, put in here to extract information more easily than good Ort."

"Are your brains moon-struck?" Conan bellowed, lunging to his feet. His chains left him paces short of the other man. At least, though, he had regained enough strength to stand. With a short laugh he sank back. "A cell is no place for a duel, and we can't reach each other besides. I'll ask you to watch your speaking, though. I serve no sorcerer."

"Perhaps," Haranides said, and he would say no more.

Conan made himself as comfortable as the bare stone floor and rough wall would permit. He had slept in worse conditions in the mountains as a boy, and of his own free will. This time he did not sleep, though, but rather set his mind to escape, and to the killing of Amanar, for that last he would do if his own life were extinguished in the same moment. But how to kill a man who could take a yard of steel through his chest and not even bleed? That was a weighty question, indeed.

Some men, he knew, had amulets which were atuned to them by magicks, so that the amulet could be used for good or ill against that man. The Eye of Erlik came to mind, which bauble had at last brought down the Khan of Zamboula, though not by its sorceries. That the pendant which Velita had worn nestled between her small breasts was a watch for Amanar's evil eyes was to the Cimmerian proof that it too was such an amulet. It could be used to kill Amanar, he was sure, if he but knew the way.

But first must come escape. He reviewed what he had seen since being carried to the dungeon, what Ort had said, what Haranides had told him, and a plan slowly formed. He settled to wait. The patience of the hunting leopard was in him. He was a mountain warrior of Cimmeria. At fifteen he had been one of the fierce Cimmerian horde that stormed the walls of Venarium and sacked that border city of Aquilonia.

Even before that had he been allowed his place at the warriors' council fires, and since then he had traveled far, seen kingdoms and thrones totter, helped to steady some and topple others. He knew that nine parts of fighting was knowing when to wait, the tenth knowing when to strike. He would wait. For now. The hours passed.

At the rattle of a key in the massive iron lock Conan's muscles tensed. He forced them to relax. His full strength was returned, but care must be taken.

The door swung outward, and two S'tarra entered, dragging Hordo unconscious between them. Straight to the third set of chains they took him, and manacled him there. Without looking at either of the other two men they left, but the door did not close. Instead, Amanar came to stand in the opening. The golden robe had been replaced by one of dead black, encircled with embroidered golden serpents. The mage fingered something on his chest through the robe as he surveyed the cell with cold black eyes.

"A pity," he murmured, almost under his breath. "You three could be more use to me than all of the rest together, with the sole exception of Karela herself, yet you all must die."

"Will you imprison us all, then?" Conan said, jerking his head at Hordo. The one-eyed bandit stirred, and groaned.

Amanar looked at him as if truly realizing he were present for the first time. "No, Cimmerian. He meddled where he should not, as you did, as the man Talbor did. The others remain free. Until their usefulness ends."

Haranides' chains clinked as he shifted. "Mitra blast your filth-soaked soul," the captain grated.

The ebon-clad sorcerer seemed not to hear. His strange eyes remained on Conan's face. "Velita," he said in a near whisper, "the slave girl you came to free, awaits in my chamber of magicks. When I have used her one last time, she will die, and worse than die. For if death is horrible, Cimmerian, how much more horrible when no soul is left to survive beyond?"

The big Cimmerian could not stop his muscles from tensing.

Amanar's laugh curdled marrow in the bone. "Interesting, Cimmerian. You fear more for another than for yourself. Yes, interesting. That may prove useful." His hellborn laugh came again, and he was gone.

Haranides stared at the closed door. "He fouls the air by breathing," he spat.

"Twice now," Conan said softly, "have I heard the taking of a soul spoken of. Once I knew a man who could steal souls."

The captain made the sign of the horns, against evil. "How did you know such a man?"

"He stole my soul," Conan said simply.

Haranides laughed uncertainly, not sure if this were a joke. "And what did you do than?"

"I killed him, and took back my soul." The Cimmerian shivered. That reclaiming had not been easy. To risk the loss again, perhaps past reclaiming, was fearful beyond death. And the same would happen to Velita, and eventually to Karela, could he not prevent it.

Hordo groaned again, and sat up, sagging his broad back against the stone wall. At the clank of his chains he stared at his manacles, then closed his eye.

"What happened, Hordo?" Conan asked. "Amanar had you brought hence by S'tarra, saying you meddled. In what?"

Hordo's scarred face contracted as if he wished to cry. "She was gone so long from the camp," he said finally, "and you, that I became concerned. It was near dark, and the thought that she must either remain the night in this place or find her way to camp through that blackness .... At the gate they let me in, but reluctantly, and one of the scaled ones ran calling for Sitha. I found the chamber where thrice-accursed Amanar, may the worms feast long on him, sat on his throne of golden serpents." His one eye closed again, but he spoke on, more slowly. "Musicians played, men, though their eyes never left the floor.

Those snake-skinned demon-spawn came, and beat me down with clubbed spears. The mage shouted for them to take me alive. Two of them I killed, before my senses went. Two, at least, I know."

He fell silent, and Conan prodded him. "Surely Amanar didn't have you imprisoned merely for entering his throne room?"

The bearded face contorted in a grimace of pain, and Hordo moaned through clenched teeth. "Karela!"

he howled. "She danced for him, naked as any girl in a zenana, and with as wild an abandon! Karela danced naked for the pleasure of that...." Sobs wracked his burly form, choking off his words.

The hackles stood on Conan's neck. "He will die, Hordo," he promised. "He will die."

"This Karela," Haranides said incredulously, "she is the Red Hawk?"

Redfaced, Hordo lunged to the full extent of his chains. "She was ensorceled!" he shouted. "She knew me not. Never once did she look at me, or cease her dancing. She was spell-caught."

"We know it," Conan said soothingly.

The one-eyed man glared at Haranides.

"Who is this man, Conan?"

"Don't you recognize him?" the Cimmerian laughed. "Haranides, the Zamoran captain we introduced to the hillmen."

"A Zamoran officer!" Hordo snarled. "Can I get my hands free, at least I'll rid the world of one more soldier before I die."

"Think you so, rogue?" Haranides sneered. "I've killed five like you before breaking fast in the morning."

The bandit and the captain locked murderous gazes.

"Forgetting your chains for the moment," Conan said conversationally, "do you intend to do Amanar's work for him?"

The glares shifted to him. "We're going to die anyway," Hordo growled.

"Die if you want," Conan said. "I intend to escape and let Amanar do the dying."

"How?" Haranides demanded.

The Cimmerian smiled wolfishly. "Wait," he said. "Rest." And despite their protests he settled down to sleep. His dreams were of strangling Amanar with the black pendant's chain.

Chapter XXVI

Karela woke and looked about her in confusion. She lay on a silk-draped couch, not in her pavilion, but in an opulent room hung with scarlet silken gauze. Silver bowls and ewers stood on a gilded table, and the forest Turanian carpet covered the floor. Sunlight streamed in through a narrow window. She was in Amanar's keep, she realized, and at the same moment realized she was naked.

"Derketo!" she muttered, sitting up quickly.

Her head spun. Had she taken too much wine the night before? For some reason she was sure she had spent a night inside the fortress. There was a vague memory of wild music, and a girl's sensual dancing.

She put a hand to her forehead as if to wipe away perspiration, and jerked it back down with another oath. The room was cool; she was cool. Quickly she rose to search for her clothing.

Her golden breastplates and emerald girdle were carefully laid out on her scarlet cloak, atop a chest at the foot of the couch. Her crimson thigh-boots stood before the chest, and her jeweled tulwar leaned against it. She dressed swiftly.

"Who was that girl?" she muttered beneath her breath as she tugged the last boot on, pulling the soft red leather almost to the top of her thigh. The dance had been shamelessly abandoned, almost voraciously carnal.

But why should that be important, she wondered. More important was to see that she watched her drinking in the future. She did not trust Amanar enough to spend another night in that keep. Her cheeks flamed, only partly with anger. She was lucky she had not wakened in his bed. Not that he was not handsome, in a cruel fashion, and powerful, which had its own attractions, but that would be a matter of her own choosing.

The door opened, and Karela was on her feet, tulwar in hand, before she realized it. She looked in consternation at the girl who entered, head down, not looking at her, with a tall, wooden-handled silver pitcher on a tray. Why was she so jumpy, she thought, resheathing the curved blade. "I'm sorry, girl. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Hot water, mistress," the girl said in a toneless voice, "for your morning ablutions." Still without raising her eyes she set the tray on the table and turned to go. She seemed unaffected by being greeted with a sword.

"A minute," Karela said. The girl stopped. "Has anyone come asking for me at the portcullis? Hordo? A bearded man with an eye-patch?"

"Such a man was taken to the dungeons, mistress, this night past."

"The dungeons!" Karela yelped. "By the tits of Derketo, why?"

"It was said, mistress, that he was discovered attempting to free the man Conan, and also that he had many golden ornaments in a sack."

The red-haired woman drew a shuddering breath. She should have expected something of the kind, should have guarded against it. Hordo and Conan had become close-sword-brothers, the hillmen called itand men, never truly sane in her opinion, were at their maddest in such relationships. Still, for her most loyal hound, she must do something.

"Where is your master, girl?"

"I do not know, mistress."

Karela frowned. There had been a slight hesitation before that answer. "Then show me to the dungeons. I want to speak to Hordo."

"Mistress, I... I cannot... my master...." The girl stood staring at the floor.

Karela grabbed the girl's chin, twisting her face up. "Look at me...."

Her breath caught in her throat. The girl might have been called beautiful, except that there was no single line of expression or emotion on her face. And her brown eyes were... empty was the only word Karela could think of. She pulled her hand away, and had to resist the desire to wipe it on something. The girl dropped her eyes again immediately on being released. She had made no slightest resistance then, and she stood waiting now.

"Girl," Karela said, making her tone threatening, "I am here, and your master is elsewhere. Now show me to the dungeons!"

The girl nodded hesitantly, and led the way from the room.

She had been on the topmost level of the keep, Karela discovered as they took curving marble stairs, seeming to hang suspended in air, down to the ground floor. In a small side corridor the girl stopped before a plain stone archway that led onto rough stone steps. She had not raised her eyes in the entire journey, and Karela did not really want her to.

"There, mistress," the girl said. "Down there. I am not permitted to descend."

Karela nodded. "Very well, girl. If trouble comes of this for you, I'll intercede with your master."

"The master will do as he will do," the girl replied in her toneless voice. Before Karela could speak again, she had scurried away and was gone around a corner.

Taking a deep breath, and with a firm grip on her sword, the red-haired bandit descended the stairs until she came to an iron-strapped door. On this she pounded with her sword hilt.

The door was opened by a huge, fat man in a stained yellow tunic. She presented her blade to his face before he could speak. At least this one did not stare at the ground, she thought, though perhaps he should to hide his face.

"The man, Hordo," she said. "Take me to where he is confined."

"But Amanar," the fat man began. Her sword point indented his neck and his piggy eyes bulged. "I'll take you to him," he stammered in a highpitched voice, and added, "Mistress."

Blade against his backbone, she followed him down the crudely cut corridor. He fumbled with the keys at his belt, and unlocked one of the solid wooden doors.

"Over there," she ordered, gesturing with her sword. "Where I can see you. And do you move, I'll make a capon of you, if you're not one already."

Anger twisted his suety face, but he moved as she directed. She pulled open the door and stared at the three men inside. Conan, Hordo, and one who looked vaguely familiar to her. All three looked up as the door swung open.

"You came!" Hordo cried. "I knew you would!"

Her green eyes rested on the broad-shouldered Cimmerian. His gaze, like twinned blue agates, regarded her impassively. She was relieved to see he still lived, and angry that she was relieved. The hard planes of his unlined face were handsome, it was true, and he was virile-her cheeks colored-but he was a fool.

Why did he have to oppose Amanar? Why could he not forget that girl, Velita? Why?

"Why?" she said, and immediately pulled her gaze to Hordo. "Why did you do it, Hordo?"

The one-eyed bandit blinked at her in bewilderment. "Do what?"

"Steal from Amanar. Try to free this other fool." She jerked her head at Conan without looking at him again.

"I stole nothing," Hordo protested. "And I knew not that Conan was imprisoned until I was chained beside him."

"Then you were brought here for no reason?" she said derisively. Hordo was silent.

"He," Conan began, but Hordo cut him off with a shout.

"No, Cimmerian!" He added, "Please?" and the word sounded as if it were carved from his vitals.

Karela looked at the two men in consternation. Their eyes met, and Conan nodded. "Well?" she demanded. Neither man spoke. Hordo would not meet her gaze. "Derketo take you, Hordo. I should have you flogged. Can I talk Amanar into releasing you, I may yet."

"Release us now," Hordo said quickly. "Ort has the keys. You can-"

"You!" she said sharply. "It's you I'll try to free. I have no interest in these others." She felt Conan's eyes on her, and could not look at him. "Besides, it may do you good to sit here and worry as whether or not I can talk Amanar into releasing you to me." She gestured to the fat jailer with her sword. "You! Close the door." She stepped back to keep him under her eye and blade as he moved to do so.

"Karela," Hordo shouted, "leave this place! Leave me! Take horse and-" The door banged shut to cut him off.

As the fat man turned from locking the massive door, she laid her curved blade against his fat neck. Her eyes were glittering emerald ice. "If I find you have not taken good care of him," she said coldly, "I'll carve that bulk away to see if there's a man inside." Contemptuously she turned her back and stalked from the dungeon.

By the time she reached the top of the rude stone stairs her brain was burning. Amanar had no right.

Conan was one thing. Hordo quite another. She would maintain the discipline of her hounds, and she had no intention of letting the mage usurp her authority in this fashion. She strode through the ornate halls of the black donjon, still clutching her sword in her anger.

One of the S'tarra appeared before her, blinking in surprise at the weapon in her hand. "Where is Amanar?" she demanded.

It did not speak, but its red eyes twitched toward a plain arch. She remembered Amanar saying that the passage beyond led to his thaumaturgical chambers. In her present mood, bearding the sorcerer there was just what she sought. She turned for the arch.

With a hissed shout, the mailed S'tarra leaped for her, and jumped back just in time, so that her blade drew sparks across the chest of its hauberk.

"Follow," she growled, "and you'll never follow anything again."

Its rubiate eyes remained on her face, but it stood still as she backed down the sloping passage, lined with flickering torches set in plain iron sconces. The corridor was longer than she had suspected. The archway, and the S'tarra still standing there, had dwindled to mere specks by the time her back came up against a pair of tall wooden doors.

The doors were carved with a profusion of serpents in endless arabesques, as were the stone walls of the corridor, though this had not been so high up. She thought she might be under the very heart of the mountain. Pushing open one of the doors, she went in.

The room was a great circle, surrounded by shadowed columns. The floor was a mosaic of a strange golden serpent. On the far side of the room, Amanar whirled at her entrance. Sitha, crouching near the mage, half rose.

"You dare to enter here!" Amanar thundered.

"I dare anything," she snapped, "while you have Hordo chained..." What was beyond the black-robed sorcerer finally impressed itself on her. The red-streaked black marble altar. The slim blonde girl bound naked to it, rigid with terror. "By the black heart of Ahriman," Karela swore, "what is it you do here, mage?"

Instead of answering, the cold-eyed man traced a figure in the air, and the figure seemed to stand glowing as he traced, stirring some buried memory deep inside her. Behind her eyes she felt something break, like a twig snapping. She would teach him to play his magical tricks with her. She started for the dark man...

and stared down in amazement at feet that would not move. They did not feel held, they had full sensation, but they would not move.

"What wizardry is this?" she demanded hoarsely. "Release me, Amanar, or-"

"Throw the sword aside," he commanded.

She stifled a scream as her arm obeyed, sending the jewel-hilted tulwar skittering across the mosaicked floor to ring against a column.

Amanar nodded in satisfaction. "Remove your garments, Karela."

"Fool," she began, and her green eyes started with horror as her slim fingers rose to the golden pin that held her scarlet cloak and undid it. The cloak slid from her shoulders to the floor. "I am the Red Hawk,"

she said. It was little more than a whisper, but her voice rose to a scream. "I am the Red Hawk!"

She could not stop watching with bulging eyes as her hands removed the golden breastplates from her heavy round breasts and casually dropped them, unfastened the emerald girdle that rode low on her flaring hips.

"Enough," Amanar said. "Leave the boots. I like the picture they present." She wanted to weep as her hands returned quiescent to her sides. "Beyond these walls," the black-robed man went on, "you are the Red Hawk. Inside them, you are... whatever I want you to be. I think from now on I will keep you thus when you are with me, aware of what is happening. Your fear is like the rarest of wines."

"Think you I'll return once I am free?" she spat. "Let me get a sword in my hand and my hounds about me, and I will tear this keep down about your head."

His laughter sent shivers along her bones. "When you leave these walls, you will remember what I tell you to remember. You will go believing that we conferred, on this matter or that. But when once again within this donjon, you will remember the true nature of things. The Red Hawk will grovel at my feet and crawl to serve my pleasure. You will hate it, but you will obey."

"I'll die first!" she shouted defiantly.

"That will not be permitted," he smiled coldly. "Now be silent." The words she was about to speak froze on her tongue. Amanar produced a knife with a gilded blade from beneath his robe and tested its edge with his thumb. "You will watch what occurs here. I do not think Susa will mind." The girl on the altar moaned. The sorcerer's red-flecked black eyes suddenly held Karela's gaze as a viper holds the gaze of a bird. She could feel those eyes reaching into the very depths of her. "You will watch," Amanar said softly, "and you will begin to learn the true meaning of fear." He turned back to the altar; his chant rose, cutting into her mind like a knife. Flaming mists began to form.

Karela's green eyes bulged as if they would start from her head. She would not scream, she told herself.

Even if she had a voice she would not scream. But her flanks and the rounded slopes of her breasts were of a sudden slick with sweat, and in her mind there was gibbering terror.

Chapter XXVII

"Conan!" Haranides shouted. "Conan!" The three men still lay chained to the walls of the cell beneath Amanar's keep.

Conan opened one eye, where he lay curled as comfortably as he could manage on the stone. "I'm sleeping," he said, and closed it again.

The Cimmerian estimated that a full day and more had passed since Karela had come to their cell, though there had been no food and but three pannikins of stale water brought to their cell.

"Sleeping," Haranides grumbled. "When do we hear of this escape plan of yours?"

"The Red Hawk," Hordo said hopefully. "When she sets me free, I'll get the rest of you out. Even you, Zamoran."

Conan sat up, stretching until his shoulder joints cracked. "If she were coming, Hordo," he said. "she'd have been here long since."

"She may yet come," the one-eyed man muttered. "Mayhap she took my advice and rode away."

Conan said nothing. His best hope for Karela was that she had accepted Amanar's word for Hordo's crimes and was even then in the bandit camp, surrounded by the men she called her hounds.

"In any case," Haranides said, "we cannot put our hopes on her. Even if she gets you free, bearded one, you heard her say she'd do nothing for the Cimmerian and myself. I think me she is a woman of her word."

"Wait," Conan said. "The tithe will come."

A key rattled in the lock.

"'Tis Ort who's come," Haranides growled. "With his irons, no doubt."

"Ort?" Hordo said. "Who is-"

The heavy, iron-strapped cell door slammed open, and the fat jailor stood in the opening. Behind him was a brazier full of glowing coals, and from the coals projected the wooden handles of irons, their metal ends already as bright red as the coals they nestled among.

"Who's to be first?" Ort giggled.

He snatched an iron from the fire and waved its fiery tip at them. Hordo put his back against the wall, teeth bared in a snarl. Haranides crouched, ready to spring in any direction, so far as his chains would let him. Conan did not move.

"You, captain?" Ort said. He feinted toward Haranides, who tensed. "Ort likes burning officers. Or you, one-eye?" Giggling, he waggled the glowing iron at Hordo. "Ort could give you another scar, burn out your other eye. And you, strong one," he said, turning his peg-eyed gaze on Conan, "think you to sit unconcerned?"

Suddenly Ort darted at the Cimmerian, red-hot iron flashing, and danced back. A long blister stood on Conan's shoulder. Awkwardly he raised one arm to cover his head, and huddled against the wall, half turning his back on the man with the burning iron. The other three men all stared at the big youth incredulously.

"Fight him!" Haranides shouted, and had to throw himself back to avoid a vicious slash of the iron that would have taken him across the face.

"Face him like a man, Conan," Hordo urged.

Cautiously Ort dashed again to strike and retreat, curiously agile on his feet. Conan groaned as a second blister grew across his shoulders, and pressed himself tighter to the stone.

"Why he is no man at all," Ort giggled. The nearly round jailor swaggered closer, to stand over Conan raising his blazing weapon.

A roar of battle rage broke from Conan's throat, and his mighty thews pushed him from his crouch. One hand seized Ort's bulk, pulling him closer; the other looped its chain about the jailor's neck, catching at the same time a desperately flung hand. Biceps bulging, he jerked the heavy iron chain tight, fat flesh bulging through the links. Ort's tiny eyes, too, bulged from that fat face, and his feet scrabbled desperately at the bare stone floor. The jailor had but one weapon, and he used it, stabbing again and again with the burning iron at the Cimmerian's broad back.

The stench of burning flesh rose as the fiery rod seared Conan's muscles, but he locked the pain from his mind. It did not exist. Only the man before him existed. Only the man whose eyes were staring from his fat face. Only the man he must kill. Ort's mouth opened in a futile attempt to breathe, or perhaps to scream. His tongue protruded through yellowed teeth. The chain had almost disappeared into the fat of his neck. The iron dropped, and breath rattled in Ort's throat and was silent. Conan put all his strength into one last heave, and there was the crack of a breaking neck.

Slowly he unwound the chain, freeing it with some difficulty, and let the heavy body fall.

"Mitra!" Haranides breathed. "Your back, Conan! I could not have stood it a tenth so long."

Wincing, Conan bent to pick up the iron. He ignored the dead man. To his mind all torturers should be treated so. "The means of our escape," he said, holding Ort's weapon up. Its metal was yet hot enough to burn, but the glow had faded.

Carefully Conan fit the length of the iron through a link of the chain a handsbreadth from the manacle on one wrist. He took a deep breath, then twisted, the iron one way, his wrist the other. The manacle cut into the just healed wounds left from his being staked out by the bandits, and blood trickled over his hand. The other two men held their breath. With a sharp snap the chain broke.

Laughing, Conan held up his free wrist, the manacle still dangling a few inches of chain, and the iron. "I'd hoped the heat hadn't destroyed the temper of the metal. It would have broken instead of the chain, otherwise."

"You hoped," Hordo wheezed. "You hoped!" The bandit threw back his shaggy head and laughed. "You bet our freedom on a hope, Cimmerian, and you won."

As quickly as he could Conan broke the rest of his chains, and those of the other men. As soon as Hordo was free, the bearded man leaped to his feet. Conan seized his arm to stop him from rushing out.

"Hold hard," the Cimmerian said.

"The time is gone for holding hard," Hordo replied. "I go to see to the Red Hawk's safety."

"To see to her safety?" Conan asked. "Or to die by her side?"

"I seek the one, Cimmerian, but I'll settle for the other."

Conan growled deep in his throat. "I'll not settle for death on S'tarra pikes, and if you will you're useless to me. And to Karela. Haranides, how many of your men do you think still live? And will they fight?"

"Perhaps a score," the captain replied. "And to get out of these cells they'll fight Ahriman and Erlik both."

"Then take you the jailor's keys, and free them. If you can take and hold the barbican, we may live yet."

Haranides nodded. "I'll hold it. What will you be doing, Cimmerian?"

"Slaying Amanar," Conan replied. Haranides nodded gravely.

"What about me?" Hordo said. The other two had been ignoring him.

"Are you with us?" Conan asked. He barely waited for Hordo's nod before going on. "Rouse the bandits.

Somehow you must get over the wall without being seen, and bring them up the ramp before the catapults can fire on them. You must kill S'tarra, you and Karela's hounds, and set as many fires as you can within the keep. Both you and Haranides must wait my signal to move, so we are all in position.

When the top of the tallest tower in the keep begins to burn, then ride."

"I'll be ready," Hordo said. "It is taught that no plan of battle survives the first touch of battle. Let us hope ours is different."

"Fare you well, Haranides," Conan said; then he and Hordo were hurrying from the dungeon.

At the top of the stone stairs, as they entered the donjon itself, a S'tarra rounded the corner not two paces from them. Hordo's shoulder caught the creature in its mailed midriff, and Conan's balled fist broke its neck. Hurriedly Conan pressed the S'tarra's sword on Hordo, taking a broadbladed dagger for himself. Then they, too, parted.

The way to Amanar's chamber atop the tower was easy to find, Conan thought. All one did was climb stairs until there were no more stairs to climb, sweeping marble arcs supported on air, polished ebon staircases wide enough to give passage to a score of men and massive enough to support an army.

And then there was only a winding stone stairway, curving around the wall of the tower with no rail to guard its inner drop. With his foot on the bottom step Conan paused, remembering Velita's tale of a spell-trap. Were Amanar not within the keep, Conan's next step could mean his bloody death by darkling sorceries. A slow death, he recalled. But if he did not go up, others would die at Amanar's hands even if he did not. He took a step, then a second and third before he could think, continuing to place one foot in front of another until he was at the top, staring at an iron-bound door.

A sigh of relief left him. Too, there was use in the knowledge that Amanar was within the keep. But this was not a way he cared to go about collecting information.

He opened the door and stepped into a room where evil soaked the walls, and the very air seemed heavy with sorcerous portent. Circular the room was, without windows and lined with books, but there was that about the pale leather of those fat tomes that made the Cimmerian want not to touch them. The tattered remains of mummies, parts of them ripped away, lay scattered across tables among a welter of beakers, flasks, tripods, and small braziers with their fires extinguished to cold ash. Jars of liquid held distorted things that might once have been parts of men. A dim light was cast over all by glass balls set in sconces around the walls that glowed with an eerie fire.

But Velita was not there. In truth, he admitted to himself, he had no longer expected her to be. He could, at least, avenge her.

Quickly he located the crystal coffer of which she had spoken. It sat in a place of honor, on a bronze tripod standing in the center of the room.

Carelessly he tossed the smoky lid aside to shatter on the stone floor, rummaged in the silken wrappings, and lifted out the silver-mounted black stone on its fine silver chain. Within the stone red flecks danced, just as in Amanar's eyes.

Tucking the pendant behind his wide leather belt he searched hurriedly for anything else that might be of use. He was ready to go when he suddenly saw his sword, lying among a fitter of thaumaturgical devices on one of the tables. He reached for it... and stopped with his hand hovering above the hilt. Why had Amanar brought the sword to this peccant chamber? Conan had had experience of ensorceled swords, had seen one kill the man who grasped it at the command of another. What had Amanar done to his blade?

The door of the room banged open, and Sitha sauntered in, fanged mouth dropping open in surprise at seeing Conan. Conan's hand closed over the swordhilt in an instant and brought the blade to guard. At least, he thought with relief, it had not killed him so far.

"So, Cimmerian," Sitha said, "you have escaped." Almost casually it reached to a jumble of long, mostly unidentifiable objects, and produced a spear with a haft as thick as a man's wrist. The point was near a shortsword in length. "The master cannot punish me for killing you here, in this place."

"You must do the killing first," Conan said. And he must set a fire. Soon. He circled, trying to get the tables out from between them. Reach was the S'tarra's advantage. Sitha moved in the opposite direction, spear held warily.

Abruptly the bronze gong began to toll. Sitha's red eyes flickered away for just a moment; Conan bent, caught the edge of along table with his shoulder, and heaved it over. Sitha leaped back as the heavy table crashed where his feet had been. Beakers of strange powder and flagons of multicolored liquids shattered on the floor. Acrid fumes rose from their mixing. The tolling continued, and now could be heard the faint sounds of shouting from the walls. Could Haranides or Hordo have decided not to wait, he wondered.

"My master sent me hence for powders," Sitha hissed. "Powders he thinks will increase the fear in the sacrifice." On the last word he lunged, the spear point darting for Conan's head.

The Cimmerian's broadsword beat the thrust aside, and his riposte slashed open the creature's scaled chin. Sitha leaped back from the blow, putting an elongated hand to the bloody gash and letting out a string of vile oaths.

"You still don't seem to have killed me," Conan laughed.

Sitha's sibilant voice became low and grating. "The sacrifice, Cimmerian, is that girl you came to this valley for. Velita. I will watch your face before I kill you, knowing you know she dies."

A berserker rage rose in the Cimmerian. Velita alive. But to remain that way only if he got there in time.

"Where is she, Sitha?"

"The chamber of sacrifice, human."

"Where's this chamber of sacrifice?" Conan demanded.

Sitha bared his fangs in a derisive laugh. With a roar Conan attacked. The berserker was on him. He jumped up, caught a foot on the edge of the overturned table, and leaped down on the S'tarra's side. The spearpoint slashed his thigh while he was in midair, but his slashing sword, driven by the fury of a man who meant to kill or die, but to do it now, sliced through the haft. Conan screamed like a hunting beast as he attacked without pause, without thought for his own defense, without allowing time for Sitha to do else but stumble back in panic. His second cut, almost a continuation of the first, severed the S'tarra's right arm. Black blood spurted; a shriek ripped through those fangs. The third blow bit into Sitha's thick neck, slicing through. Those red eyes glared at him, life still in them, for a bare moment as that head toppled from the mailed shoulders. Blood fountained, and the body fell.

Panting with reaction, Conan looked about him. There was still the fire to .... Where the arcane powders and liquids had mixed among shattered fragments of stone and crystal, yellow flames leapt up, emitting an acrid cloud. In seconds the fire had seized on the overturned table, igniting it as though the wood had been soaked in oil from a lamp.

Choking and coughing, Conan stumbled from the chamber. Behind him flames roared; air stirred already in the body of the tower, drifting upward. Soon that necromanical chamber would be a furnace, and the tower top would flare for the signal. The tollings of the bronze gong rolled forth. If the signal were still needed.

Quickly the Cimmerian found his way from the tower, to a room with a window overlooking the keep and the valley beyond. His jaw dropped. On the ramparts S'tarra scurried with their weapons like ants in a stirred hill, and to good reason, for the valley floor swarmed with near a thousand turbanned hillmen, mounted and armed with lance and tulwar.

Where Haranides and Hordo were, Conan had no idea. Their plan was gone by the wayside, but he might still save Velita if he could find the sacrificial chamber. But where in the huge black keep to begin?

Even the donjon alone would take a day to search room by room. A sudden thought struck him. A chance, a small, bare chance, for her.

Pantherine strides took him down alabaster halls and marble stairs, past startled S'tarra scurrying on appointed tasks and so afraid to stop him. Like a hawk he sped, straight to the plain stone arch and the sloping passage beyond that Amanar had falsely claimed led to his thaumaturgical chambers.

Conan ran down that passage leading into the very heart of the mountain, arms and legs pumping, deep muscled chest working like a bellows. Death rode in his steely blue eyes, and he cared not if it was his death so long as Amanar preceded him into the shadows.

The gray walls of the passage, lit by flickering torches, began to be carved with serpents, and then there were tall doors ahead, also carved with serpents in intricate arabesques. Conan flung the two doors wide and strode in.

Amanar stood in his black, serpent-embroidered robe, chanting before a black marble altar, on which lay Velita, naked and bound. Behind the altar a mist of lambent fire swirled; beyond the mist was an infinity of blackness. Conan stalked down the curving row of shadowed columns, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

The dark sorcerer seemed to reach a resting place in his chant, for without looking around he said, "Bring it here, Sitha. Hurry!"

Conan had reached a point a dozen paces from the altar. From then he examined the evil mage with great care. The man had not his golden staff, but what had he in its place? "I am not Sitha," Conan said.

Amanar started convulsively, whirling to stare at Conan, who stood in the shadows of the columns. "Is that you, Cimmerian? How have you come .... No matter. Your soul will feed the Eater of Souls somewhat early, that is all." Velita peered past Amanar at Conan with dark eyes full of hope and desperation. The fiery mists thickened.

"Release the girl," Conan demanded. Amanar laughed. The Cimmerian dug the pendant from his belt, let it dangle from one massive finger by its chain. "I have this, mage!"

The cold-eyed sorcerer's laugh died. "You have nothing," he snapped. but he touched his lips with his tongue and glanced nervously at the constantly deepening mists. Something stirred in their depths. "Still, it might cause... difficulties. Give it to me, and I will-"

"It is his soul!" a voice boomed, seeming to come from every direction. Among the shadows along the columns on the far side of the chamber, one shadow suddenly split, folded, and thickened. And there before them stood Imhep-Aton.

The Stygian sorcerer wore a golden chaplet set with a square-cut emerald, and a severe black robe that fell to his ankles. He moved slowly toward Amanar and the altar.

"You," Amanar spat. "I should have known when those two S'tarra died without wounds that it was you."

"The pendant, Conan of Cimmeria," the Stygian said intently. "It contains Amanar's soul, to keep it safe from the Eater of Souls. Destroy the pendant, and you destroy Amanar."

Conan raised his hand to smash the black stone against a column. And the will was not there to make his arm move so. To no avail he strained, then let his arm down slowly.

Amanar's laugh came shrilly. "Fool! Think you I placed no protection in that which is so important to me?

No one who touches or beholds the pendant can damage it in any way." Suddenly he drew himself up to his full height. "Slay him!" he shouted, each syllable a command.

Abruptly Conan became aware of what had coalesced in the mists above and behind the altar. A great golden serpent head reared there, surrounded by long tentacles like the rays of the sun. The auric-scaled body stretched into the blackness beyond the mists, and the ruby eyes that regarded Imhep-Aton were knowing.

The Stygian had time for one horrified look, and then the great serpent struck faster than a lightning bolt.

Those long, golden tentacles seized the screaming man, lifted him high. The tentacles seemed but to hold, almost caressingly, but Imhep-Aton's shrieks welded Conans' joints and froze his marrow. The man sounded as if something irrevocably irretrievable were being ripped from him. Eater of Souls, Conan thought, and shuddered.

The tentacles shifted their grip, now encircling and entwining, covering Imhep-Aton from head to feet, tightening. His shrieks continued for a disturbingly long time, long after blood began to ooze between the tentacles like juice squeezed from a ripe fruit, long after there should have been no breath or lungs left to scream with. The bloody bundle was tossed aside, to strike the mosaic floor with a sound like a sack of wet cloth. Conan avoided looking at it. Instead, he concentrated on the pendant hanging from his fist.

"Thou commanded me," a voice hissed in Conan's head, and he knew it was the great serpent, god or demon, which mattered little at the moment, speaking to Amanar. "Thou growest above thyself."

Conan stared at the hand holding the pendant. The grim god of his Cimmerian northcountry, Crom, Lord of the Mound, gave a man only life and will. What he did with them, or failed to do, was up to him alone.

Life and will.

"Thy servant begs thee to forgive him," Amanar said smoothly, but the smoothness slipped as the serpent's mind-talk went on.

"No, Amanar. Thou has passed thy time. Remove the amulet, and prostrate thyself for thy god's feeding."

Life and will. Will.

"No!" Amanar shouted. He clutched the chest of his black robe. "I wear the amulet still. You cannot touch me, Eater of Souls."

"Thou defieth me!" The serpent shape swayed toward Amanar, tentacles reaching, and recoiling.

Will. The soul pendant. Eater of Souls. Will.

"Crom!" Conan shouted, and convulsively he hurled the pendant toward the great serpent. Time seemed to flow like syrup, the pendant to float spinning in air.

A long scream burst from Amanar's throat. "Nooooo!"

The golden serpent head moved lazily, hungrily, the fanged mouth opening, bifurcate tongue flicking out to gather in the pendant, swallowing.

Despair drove Amanar's shriek up in pitch. Then another scream came, a hissing scream that sounded in the mind. On the altar Velita convulsed and went limp. Conan felt his bones turning to mush.

A bar of blue fire burst from the chest of the black-robed sorcerer, tearing his robe asunder, to connect him with the great golden god-demon. In unison their screams rose, Amanar's and Morath-Aminee's, higher, higher, drilling the brain, boring into bone and gristle. Then Amanar was a living statue of blue fire, but screaming still, and the great golden form of Morath-Aminee was awash with blue flame for all that length stretching into infinity. And that scream, too, continued, a sibilant shriek in the mind, wrenching !t the soul.

The man's cry ended, and Conan looked up to find that Amanar was gone, leaving but a few greasy ashes and a small pool of molten metal. But Morath-Aminee still burned, and now the great blue flaming form thrashed in its agony. It thrashed, and the mountains trembled.

Cracks opened across the ceiling of the room, and the floor tilted and pitched like a ship in a storm at sea. Fighting to maintain his balance, Conan hurried to the black marble altar, beneath the very burning form of the god-demon in its death-throes. Velita was unconscious. Swiftly the Cimmerian cut her loose and, throwing her naked form across his shoulder, he ran. The ceiling of the sacrificial chamber thundered down as he ran clear, and dirt filled the air of the passage. The mountain shook still, ever more and more violently, twisting, yawing. Conan ran.

In the keep above, he found madness. Columns fell and dark towers toppled, long gaps were opened in the great outer wall, and in the midst of it all the S'tarra killed anything that moved, including each other.

The massive Cimmerian ran for the gate, his shimmering blade working its murderous havoc among those S'tarra which dared face him. Behind him Amanar's tower, flame roaring from its top as from a furnace, cracked down one side and fell into a thousand shards of obsidian stone. The ground shook like a mad thing as Conan fought to the gate.

The portcullis stood open, and as Conan started through, the lissome dancing girl still suspended across his broad shoulder, the barbican door burst open. Haranides hurried out, tulwar in hand and dark face bloodied, followed by half a dozen men in Zamoran armor.

"I held the gate for a time," he shouted above the din of earthquake and slaughter, "but then it was all we could do to keep from being shaken into jelly. At least the accursed lizards became too busy killing each other to pay us any mind. What madness has taken them?"

"No time!" Conan shouted back. "Run, before the mountain comes down on us."

They pounded down the ramp as the barbican and portcullis collapsed in a heap of rubble.

The floor of the valley was a charnel house, the ground soaked with blood and the moans of the dying filling the air. Savagely hacked S'tarra lay tangled with bleeding hillmen corpses in a hideous carpet, here and there dotted with the body of a bandit. From the mountains around, despite the trembling of the earth, the sounds of battle floated, as those who fled the horror of the keep and the valley fought still.

Conan saw Hordo near the bandit campsite, sitting beside Karela's crumpled red-striped pavilion as if nothing had happened. With Velita still dangling over his shoulder, the Cimmerian stopped before the one-eyed brigand. Haranides, having left his men a short distance back, stood to one side. Rock slides rumbled loudly as the earth still shook. But at least, Conan thought, the death screams of the god-demon had faded from his mind.

"Did you find her, Hordo?" he asked as quietly as the noise would allow. They were in the safest spot there, so far as the earthquake was concerned, well away from the danger of the mountain coming down on them.

"She's gone," Hordo replied sadly. "Dead, I don't know, gone."

"Will you search for her?"

Hordo shook his head. "After this shaking I could search for years and not find her if she was right under my nose. No, I'm for Turan, and a caravan guard's life, unless I can find an agreeable widow who owns a tavern. Come with me, Conan. I've about two coppers, but we can sell the girl and live off that for a while."

"Not this girl," Conan replied. "I promised to set her free, and I will."

"A strange oath," Haranides said, "but then you're a strange man, Cimmerian, though I like you for it.

Look you, having decided there's no point to going back to Shadizar to lose my head, I, too, am going to Turan, with Resaro and such other few of my men as survived. Yildiz dreams of empire. He's hiring mercenaries. What I am trying to say is, join us."

"I cannot," Conan laughed, "for I'm neither soldier, nor guard, nor tavern keeper. I'm a thief." He studied his surroundings. Half of the black keep was covered beneath a mound ripped from the side of the mountains. The tremors had lessened too, till a man could stand with ease, and walk without too much difficulty. "And as I'm a thief," he finished, "I think it's time for me to steal some horses before the hillmen decide to return."

The reminder of the hillmen stirred them all to action. Quick farewells were said, and the three parted ways.

Epilogue

Conan walked his mount back up the hill to where Velita sat her own horse, watching the caravan make ready to move below on the route to Sultanpur. This was the caravan that had been spoken of, the big caravan that would drive through despite those that had disappeared. It stretched out of sight along the winding path that led through the pass. Conan did not believe they would have any trouble at all.

"Your passage is booked," he told Velita. She was swathed in white cotton from head to foot. It was a cool way to dress for travel in the hot sun, and they had decided it was best she not advertise her beauty until she got to Sultanapur. "I gave the caravan master a gold piece extra to look after you, and a threat to find him later should anything untoward befall."

"I still don't understand how you have the money for my way," she said. "I seem to recall waking just enough to hear you tell a one-eyed man that you had no money."

"This," Conan said, pressing a purse into her hands, "I took from Amanar's chamber. Eighteen gold pieces left, after your passage. If I had told the others of it-and I didn't lie, Velita, I just didn't tell them-they'd likely have wanted a share. I'd have had to kill them to keep it for you, and I liked them too much for that."

"You are a strange man, Conan of Cimmeria," she said softly. She leaned forward to brush her lips delicately against his. Holding her breath, she waited.

Conan brought his hand down on her horse's rump with a loud slap. "Fare you well, Velita," he shouted as her horse galloped toward the caravan. "And I am likely a thrice-accursed idiot," he added to himself.

He turned his horse down the caravan, on the way that would lead him west out of the Kezankians into Zamora. He now had about enough coppers left for two jacks of sour wine when he got back to Abuletes.

"Conan!"

He pulled his horse around at the hail. It seemed to come from a slave coffle. The caravan contained sorts that would have formed their own if not for the fear of those caravans that had disappeared. As he rode closer, he began to laugh.

The slaver had arranged his male and female slaves separately, to avoid trouble. The women knelt naked in the slight shade of a long strip of cotton, linked to the coffle line by neck chains. And kneeling in the center of that line was Karela.

As he reined in before her, she leaped to her feet, her lightly sunburned breasts swaying. "Buy me out of here, Conan. We can go back and take what we want of Amanar's treasure. The hillmen will have gone by now, and I doubt they'll want anything of his."

Conan mentally counted the coppers in his purse again, and thought of an oath extracted not too many days before. Oaths were serious business. "How came you here, Karela? Hordo thought you dead."

"Then he's all right? Good. My tale is a strange one. I awoke in Amanar's keep, feeling as if I had had a monstrous nightmare, to find an earthquake shaking the mountains down, hillmen attacking and the S'tarra gone mad. It was almost as if my nightmare had come true."

"Not quite," Conan murmured. He was thankful she did not remember. At least she was spared that.

"Speak on."

"I got a sword," she said, "though not mine. I couldn't find it. I regret losing that greatly, and I hope we find it when we go back. In any case, I fought my way out of the keep, through a break in the wall, but before I could reach the camp that fool sword broke. It wasn't good steel, Conan. I stole a horse then, but hillmen chased me south, away from the valley. I was almost to the caravan route before I lost them."

She shook her head ruefully.

"But that doesn't explain how you ended up here," he said.

"Oh, I was paying so much heed to getting away from the hillmen that I forgot to mind where I was going.

I rode right into half a dozen of this slaver's guards, and five minutes later I was tied across my own horse." She tried to manage a self-deprecating laugh, but it sounded strange and forced.

"In that case," Conan said, "any magistrate will free you on proof of identity, proof that you aren't actually a slave."

Her voice dropped, and she looked carefully at the women on either side of her to see if they listened.

"Be not a fool, Conan! Prove who I am to a magistrate, and he'll send my head to Shadizar to decorate a pike. Now, Derketo take you, buy me free!"

To his surprise, she suddenly dropped back to her kneeling position. He looked around and found the reason: the approach of a plump man with thin, waxed mustaches and a gold ring in his left ear with a ruby the size of his little fingernail.

"Good morrow," the fellow said, bowing slightly to Conan. "I see you have chosen one of my prettiest.

Kneel up, girl. Shoulders back. Shoulders back, I say." Red-faced and darting angry glances at Conan, Karela shifted to the required position. The plump man beamed as if she were a prime pupil.

"I know not," Conan said slowly.

Karela frowned in his direction, and the slave dealer suddenly ran a thoughtful eye over the Cimmerian's worn and ragged clothes. The plump man opened his mouth, then a second glance at the breadth of Conan's shoulders and the length of his sword made the slaver modify his words.

"In truth, the girl is quite new, and she'll be cheap. I maintain my repu- tation by selling nothing without letting the buyer know everything there is to know. Now, I've had this girl but two days, and already she has tried to escape twice and nearly had a guard's sword once." Conan was watching Karela from the corner of his eye. At this she straightened pridefully, almost into the pose the slave dealer had demanded.

"On the other hand, all that was the first day" Karela's cheeks began to color. "A good switching after each, longer and harder each time, and she's been a model since." Her face was bright scarlet. "But I thought I should tell you the good and the bad."

"I appreciate that," Conan said. "What disposition do you intend to make of her in Sultanapur?" Her green eyes searched his face at that.

"A zenana," the slaver said promptly. "She's too pretty for the work market, too fine for a bordello, not fine enough for Yildiz, neither a singer nor a dancer, though she knows dances she denied knowing. So, a zenana to warm some stout merchant's bed, eh?" He laughed, but Conan did not join in.

"Conan," Karela said in a strangled whisper, "please."

"She knows you," the plump slaver said in surprise. "You'll want to buy her, then?"

"No," Conan said. Karela and the slaver stared at him in consternation.

"Have you been wasting my time?" the slaver demanded. "Do you even have the money for this girl?"

"I do," Conan answered hotly. He reflected that a lie to a slaver was not truly a lie, but now there was no way to let Karela know the entire truth of the matter. "But I swore an oath not to help this woman, not to raise a hand for her."

"No, Conan," Karela moaned. "Conan, no!"

"A strange oath," the slaver said, "but I understand such things. Still, with those breasts she'll fetch a fair price in Sultanapur."

"Conan!" Karela's green eyes pleaded, and her voice was a breathy gasp. "Conan, I release you from your oath."

"Some people," the Cimmerian said, "don't realize that an oath made before gods is particularly binding.

It's even possible the breaking of such an oath is the true reason she finds herself kneeling in your coffle."

"Possibly," the slaver said vaguely, losing interest now that the chance of a sale was gone.

Karela reached out to pluck at Conan's stirrup leather. "You can't do this to me, Conan. Get me out of here. Get me out of here!"

Conan backed his horse away from the naked red-head. "Fare you well, Karela," he said regretfully.

"Much do I wish that things could have ended better between us."

As he rode on down the caravan her voice rose behind him. "Derketo take you, you Cimmerian oaf!

Come back and buy me! I release you! Conan, I release you! Derketo blast your eyes, Conan! Conan!

Conan!"

As her cries and the caravan faded behind him, Conan sighed. Truly he did not like to see her left in chains. If he had had the money, or if there had not been the oath .... Still, he could not entirely suppress a small tinge of satisfaction. Perhaps she would learn that the proper response for a man saving her life was neither to have him pegged out on the ground nor to abandon him to a sorcerer's dungeon without so much as a glimmer of a protest. An he knew Karela, though, no zenana would hold her for long. Half a year or so, and the Red Hawk would be free to soar again.

As for himself, he thought, he was in as fine a position as a man could ask for. Four coppers in his pouch and the whole wide world in front of him. And there were always the haunted treasures of Larsha. With a laugh he kicked his horse into a trot for Shadizar.

The Hall of the Dead

A squad of Zamorian soldiers, led by the officer Nestor, a Gunderman mercenary, were marching down a narrow gorge, in pursuit of a thief, Conan the Cimmerian, whose thefts from rich merchants and nobles had infuriated the government of the nearest Zamorian city.

Conan had left the city and been followed into the mountains. The walls of the gorge were steep and the gorge floor grown thickly with high rich grass.

Striding through this grass at the head of his men, Nestor tripped over something and fell heavily. It was a rawhide rope stretched there by Conan, and it tripped a spring-pole which started a sudden avalanche that overwhelmed all the soldiers except Nestor, who escaped, bruised, and with his armor scratched and dented.

Enraged, he followed the trail alone, and emerging into an upland plateau, came into the deserted city of the ancients, where he met Conan. He instantly attacked the Cimmerian, who, after a desperate battle, knocked him senseless with a sword-stroke on his helmet, and went on into the deserted city, thinking him dead.

Nestor recovered and followed the Cimmerian. Conan, meanwhile, had entered the city, clambering over the walls, the gates being locked, and had encountered the monstrous being which haunted the city. This he slew by casting great blocks of stone upon it from an elevation, and then descending and hacking it to pieces with his sword.

He had made his way to the great palace which was hewn out of a single monstrous hill of stone in the center of the city. He was seeking an entrance, when Nestor came upon him again, sword in hand, having followed him over the wall. Conan disgustedly advised him to aid him in securing the vast fabulous treasure instead of fighting.

After some argument the Gunderman agreed, and they made their way into the palace, eventually coming to the great treasure chamber, where warriors of a by-gone age lay about in life-like positions.

The companions made up packages of gold and precious stones, and threw dice to decide which should take a set of perfectly matched uncanny gems which adorned an altar, on which lay a jade serpent, apparently a god. Conan won the toss, and gave all the gold and the other jewels to Nestor.

He himself swept up the altar-gems and the jade serpent - but when he lifted it off the altar, the ancient warriors came terrifically to life, and a terrible battle ensued, in which the thieves barely managed to escape with their lives. Hewing their way out of the palace, they were followed by the giant warriors who, upon coming into the sunlight, crumpled into dust. A terrific earthquake shook down the deserted city, and the companions were separated. Conan made his way back to the city, and entering a tavern, where his light-of-love was guzzling wine, spilled the jewels out on the ale-splashed table, in the Maul. To his amazement, they had turned to green dust. He then prepared to examine the jade serpent, who was still in the leather sack. The girl lifted the sack and dropped it with a scream, swearing that something moved inside it. At this instant a magistrate entered with a number of soldiers and arrested Conan, who set his back to a wall, and drew his sword. Before the soldiers could close in, the magistrate thrust his hand into the sack. Nestor had regained the city, with the coins which had not crumpled, and drunk, had told of the exploit. They had sought to arrest him, but drunk though he was, he had cut his way through and escaped. Now as the magistrate thrust his fat hand into the sack, he shrieked and jerked it forth, a living serpent fast to his fingers. The turmoil which followed gave Conan and the girl an opportunity to escape.

Conan the Fearless

Prologue

The chamber exuded cold, but a kind of coldness deeper than that offered by the damp and mold-speckled gray stone walls. It was an unnatural chill, a thing of the soul as well as of the air, a frigidity of ancient bones interred in the heart of a glacier old when Atlantis still rode the oceans. In the center of this coldness stood wrapped its cause and its focus-Sovartus, Mage of the Black Square, delving into an arcane spell forged with warped and stained essences of evil.

The magician's body swayed with the forces flowing through him, and his voice was deep and powerful when he spoke. "Come forth, child of the gray lands. Come forth, spawn of the pits. Come forth by my command!"

Sovartus then intoned the Seven Words from the Parchment of Slicreves, being careful to pronounce them precisely. To do less was to court instant death-a word misspoken would allow the demon he conjured to tear free of the diagram sketched exactingly upon the flagstones.

From deep within the body of the castle a terrible shriek issued forth, made as if by some unearthly beast being dipped slowly into boiling lead.

In the center of the drawn pentagram smoke boiled forth from a tiny vibrating point, expanding outward in malignant waves of dark purple mixed with hard yellow, as a fresh bruise upon the air of the chamber.

There came an eye-smiting flash of infernal light, and the smell of burnt sulphur claimed the room. A demon suddenly stood within the confines of the pentagram, dripping black slime and exuding the stink of Gehanna from every pore. He was half again as tall as a man, with skin the color of fresh blood; he stood naked and hairless, and only a blind man could have failed to see how awesomely male he was.

"Who dares?" the demon screamed. He lunged toward Sovartus, seeking to wrap his taloned hands around the throat of the man with jet hair and pointed beard who grinned at him; but the demon slammed into the wall of force that bounded the pentagram. Giant muscles bunched in the monster's arms as he pounded his fists against the invisible barrier.

He screamed, a sound that carried the rage of Hell, and he bared long ivory fangs at the man. "You will beg a thousand days for death!" His voice screeched like sheets of thick brass being sundered.

Sovartus shook his head. "Nay, hellspawn. I have summoned you and you shall serve at my command." The mage grinned, then laughed. "You shall serve indeed, Djavul."

The demon recoiled, holding his clawed hands in front of him. His face held horror. "You know my name!"

"Aye. And thus you will do my bidding or remain bound in my pantagram until time's end."

Black slime oozed from Djavul's body and dripped onto the floor. Where it touched, tendrils of smoke spiraled up from the flagstones. Pools of sludge formed, but stopped at the outline of the magic diagram Sovartus had drawn. Djavul stared at the man. "You are a Wizard of the Black Ring?" the demon asked.

"Not the Ring, night-child. I am Sovartus of the Black Square, adept, and soon to be master of the Four Ways. I do not delude myself with the scarlet dreams of the black lotus, nor dabble in base necromancy such as those inept Stygian pretenders. It is not the Ring but the more powerful Square that binds and now commands you, Djavul. Know you of the Square in the pit?"

Djavul gnashed his fangs. "We know of it."

"Ah. And shall you serve as I bid?"

"I shall serve," he said. He flashed his teeth yet again at Sovartus.

"Yet take you care, man, for if you should make the smallest mistake-!"

"Threaten not, demon. I can bind you to a rock and have you carted to the Vilayet Sea to be tossed in to contemplate the bottom muck, should I so choose!"

Djavul's eyes flared redly, but he spoke not.

Sovartus turned away from the demon and looked to the wall nearest him.

Three children languished there, two boys and a girl, bound as was the demon, but by more mundane means: They were chained to the gray wall.

The children seemed beyond fear; they stood or sat staring at nothing, as if drugged. There were three of them-only three.

Sovartus turned back toward the demon. "Look upon these children," he commanded.

The demon beheld the three. He nodded. "I see them."

"Do you know them?"

"I know them," Djavul said. "They are Three of the Four. The girl is Water, the boys are Earth and Air."

"Very good. So you would recognize the Fourth if you beheld her?"

"I would know her."

Sovartus nodded. He smiled, his own teeth flashing whitely in the frame of his black mustache and beard. "I thought as much. Here, then, is your task, demon. To the south and east lies the city of Mornstadinos; within that city, the Child of Fire abides, but hidden. You will find her and bring her to me, alive and well."

Djavul glared at the wizard. "And then?"

"And then I will release you to return to your pleasures in Gehanna."

"I shall look forward with great joy to seeing you there, human. "

Sovartus laughed. "Of that I have no doubt; but when I arrive in Hell, it will likely be as your master, demon. More, you shall help me to achieve it; best, then, you take care not to offend me meanwhile."

Djavul's sharp teeth grated together and he started to speak in his metal-shredding voice. "I see-" He stopped.

Sovartus's black eyes gleamed in the light of the guttering lamps lining the walls. "Yes? Speak."

Though the demon was obviously reluctant, he nodded and said, "As I saw the Essence of the three children, so, too, I see your Essence, sorcerer. There is power in you, much power, and the promise of greater forces hangs upon you like a malignant shroud."

"Ah," Sovartus said, nodding in return, "you are perceptive for one born of the pit. You recognize how well-served you would be to avoid antagonizing me, then?"

"Aye. The Black-Souled Ones allow many things in their dealings with men. You may well do as you speak. I shall serve you, human. I have no desire to spend ten thousand years buried in black mud at the bottom of the Vilayet Sea."

"You are wise for a mere demon," Sovartus said. "When I arrive in Hell to rule after a few thousand years-after tiring of my rule here-mayhap I shall need a wise assistant such as yourself. Consider such as you do my bidding and so serve me well." He stroked his pointed beard with one slender hand. "For now, I bid you leave. Accomplish your mission and return quickly."

The demon gathered himself. "I hear, O master," he said, "and I obey."

Gigantic muscles flexed and bunched as the inhuman thing squatted and prepared to spring. He leaped, and another bruised flash lit the dank chamber; when it dimmed, Djavul was gone, leaving only the pools of sludge staining the floor where he had stood.

Sovartus laughed again, and stared at the three children. Soon he would have the Fourth; soon he would bring together the energies each held.

Then, ah, then, he would command all of the Four Elements and not merely the undines and wind-devils; not merely the salamanders and flames; not only the demi-whelves. No, when he at last had all Four of them, he would be able to create and unleash the Thing of Power, a force so awesome even Black-Souled Set himself must take notice.

Sovartus spun away, and his black silk robe flared about him. He was the most powerful of all the Black Square, and save for Hogistum, he always had been.

Hogistum had sought to keep the power from him by hiding it. The old one had ensorcelled a maiden, and then impregnated her. The maiden had birthed four children at once, quadruplets, and each child carried within it the lines of power for one Element. They had been separated at birth and scattered, to keep Sovartus from them.

Thirteen years he had searched, thirteen long years, and all the while he looked, he studied the arcane, to improve his skills. He had traveled to the corners of the world, seeking the children and knowledge. In the far-eastern jungles of Khitai he had dealt with the frozen-faced and yellow-skinned wizards; in the ruined temples of Stygia he had learned the skills of the Black Ring. Too, the mage had seen with his own eyes the emerald-skinned alien monster with the misshapen head of an elephant enshrined in Yara's tower in Arenjun, the Zamorian City of Thieves. Yes, he had learned his evil lessons well; even without the power of the Four, Sovartus was a force to be reckoned with, a sorceror second to none in all of Corinthia. Such power was not enough, of course, not when he could be the supreme power in all of the world.

Sovartus smiled as he stalked forth from the chamber and walked down the dark hallway toward the main hall of Castle Slott. Rats chittered and fled from his passage, and spiders climbed higher in their webs when he passed them.

Hogistum was dead, poisoned by Sovartus's hand, and the slain magician's plan was no more than a fading memory. The children had been gathered, save the one, and he possessed them. Sovartus had spent fortunes to obtain the first three. His henchmen had found them in Turan; in Ophir; in Poitain; how ironic that the last one would be in Corinthia, practically upon his own doorstep! He had three of them, and the bodies of those mortals who had aided or known of his quest now fed the fishes or more unspeakable water creatures, or lay moldering where no man's eye would ever behold them. When his demon collected the last, he would triumph. Too bad the old man was dead; Sovartus would like him to see the victory. Perhaps he would bring Hogistum back to life. He would have that power. Yes, that would be a fine jest, to bring the old mage back long enough to savor his failure and Sovartus's victory. He laughed loudly at the thought. He would do it, by Set he would. It was not every man who could bring back his murdered father from the gray lands.

Chapter One

In the nameless village at the foot of a pass from Zamora through the Karpash Mountains into Corinthia, a ramshackle inn squatted forlornly.

To this rickety and dilapidated place rode a tall and muscular young man, astride a fine buckskin horse for which he seemed ill-suited. The deep-chested horse carried a fine saddle and exotic silk blankets, and had bridle fittings of silver cast in the shapes of cranes and frogs; obviously, this was an animal belonging to a rich man.

The rider, however, wore a harbergeon of old and cracked leather, sans both mail and basinet, and his half-breeches appeared supple, but well-stained with age and sweat. His cape was ragged about the edges, if well spun. Strapped to his forearm in a sheath rode a long and wicked-looking dagger; and by his side a great broadsword with a plainly wrapped grip nestled in an even less ornate leather scabbard.

The evening winds blew the young giant's black hair into an unruly mane about his head, and his deepset eyes cast back the setting sun's fiery glare almost as if those eyes held blue fire of their own. He was Conan of Cimmeria, and if any man noticed the discrepancy between horse and rider as the pair approached the inn, none made so bold as to speak of it.

A boy of ten stood near the doorway of the inn, which, like the village, boasted no name that the rider could see. The man leaped from the back of the horse and observed the lad.

"Ho, boy, have you a stable in this place?"

"Aye." He stared at Conan's attire. "For those who can pay."

The boy's look amused Conan. He laughed and fished around inside the pouch on his belt, producing a small silver coin, which he tossed toward the boy.

Deftly, the boy snatched the coin from the air. He grinned widely at the man. "Mitra! For this you could near own the stable!"

"Food and water and brushing for my horse will be sufficient," Conan said. "And there might be another coin such as that for you on the morrow if my horse's coat gleams."

"It will outshine the sunrise!" the boy avowed. He leaped to catch the proffered bridle.

"Bide a moment," Conan ordered. He lifted a pair of heavy bags from the horse, being careful to keep the gold coins within from clinking as he did so. Those bags would better pass the night undisturbed next to him and not in some stable; Conan knew about thieves, for he was one himself. He watched the boy lead his horse away, and then turned to enter the inn.

The inside of the place certainly did not belie the promise of the exterior; the main room was dirty and enshrouded in smoke that curled from a sputtering fire in a blackened fireplace at the far end. There were no windows; the only other light came from cracks in the low roof and a few smoky oil lamps set on several of the rough wooden tables.

A fat man in a stained apron scurried toward Conan, his gapped smile displaying much blackness and rot. "Ah, good evening, my lord. How may I serve?"

Conan looked around. There were ten people in the room, and those he saw seemed as disreputable as the place itself. There were dark-skinned Zamorians, of course; two short and slant-eyed men who looked as if they might be Hyrkanians; a pair of sad-eyed and weary-looking women in torn pantaloons who could only be plying the oldest of all trades; finally, perched on a stool was a short and round man with gray hair, who watched Conan as a hawk might watch a serpent.

Conan turned back to the innkeeper. "Would you have other than moldy bread to sup upon in this wretched place? And wine less sour than vinegar?"

"Of course, my lord-"

"And a room for the night," Conan interrupted. "A room with a door and bolt."

"Mitra has blessed my establishment with such things as you seek," the fat innkeeper said, showing his blackened teeth again.

Conan grunted. "Fetch me food then, and we shall see if Mitra's blessing extends to the cook. And wine, your best."

The man appeared to appraise Conan shrewdly; but before he could speak, the wide-shouldered youth flipped a coin at him. The fat innkeeper's eyes widened as he caught the reflection of dim lamplight on yellow, even as the disk flew, through the air. He snatched the piece from its flight faster than a falcon slays a thrush, then opened his fingers carefully, to keep the coin hidden from the curious stares of the others in the dank room. But the flash of gold would not be denied.

"Gold!" The fat man's whisper spoke at once of greed and lust, and reverence. He made as if to bite the gold, to assure its purity, but apparently considered the stage of his teeth and only weighed the money in his palm. He clamped his fingers tightly around the shining disk and glanced around at his patrons, seeming, as he did so, kin to some wily rodent.

Conan chose that moment to stretch his mighty frame. Sinews cracked and joints popped as he rolled his massive shoulders and flexed his thick arms. The sounds and motion seemed to startle the innkeeper from his greed-fed trance. He bowed, mumbled, and hurried away. He was back in a moment bearing a wineskin and cup, which he fawningly placed on the table nearest Conan.

"Your meal will be prepared at once, my lord."

Conan grinned, aware that the riffraff of the tavern were staring at him. Disdaining the cup, he snatched up the wineskin and lifted it over his head. The stream of thin red wine tasted slightly bitter; but it was cool enough. Thrice Conan filled his mouth and swallowed before he downtilted the skin for breath. He stretched again, his muscles dancing like tame beasts under his deeply tanned skin, then sat upon the rude bench next to the table.

Around him the inn's customers turned back to pursue their own business-save the rotund man, who continued to watch the young giant from the corner of one pale eye.

The innkeeper returned in a short while bearing a wooden platter covered with a slab of steaming beef. The meat was as thick as Conan's hand and dripping blood, being only lightly seared, but the Cimmerian fell to eating, using his razor-edged Karpashian dagger to hew great chunks from the steak. He chewed lustily and washed the half-raw meat down with streams of the thin wine. It was not the best meal he had ever had, but it would suffice.

When he finished the meat and most of the wine, Conan turned to search for the innkeeper. Before he could do more than glance around, the obsequious man with the blacktoothed smile appeared at Conan's elbow.

"My lord?"

"I am no man's lord," Conan said, feeling sated with food and wine.

"But I am tired and would see the room Mitra saw fit to bless in this .

. . establishment."

"At once."

The innkeeper led Conan from the smoke-filled room, through a narrow corridor, to a steep set of wooden stairs. Each step creaked as Conan trod upon it, so that his ascent reminded him of a twittering flock of feeding birds. He grinned. Good. No thief could climb these steps to take a man unawares in the night.

The room was scarcely an improvement on the scene below, save that it was empty of anything but a pile of clean straw and a rough wool blanket. There was a round hole cut in the outside wall-window enough to admit air or moonlight, but too small for a man to enter. The door seemed solid, and there was a well-oiled brass bolt that slid easily in its recess to seal the portal. Odd, that. The bolt was the best-kept part of the room. Conan waved the innkeeper away, bolted the door, and tossed his leather bags full of loot into the corner near the mound of hay.

Something scuttled away from the solid thump of the gold and silver, chittering unseen in the dimness. Conan pulled his dagger and crept closer to the rude bed, his blue eyes alert. When he was ready, he rustled one edge of the hay.

The rat burst forth, fleeing, but he moved too slowly.

Conan stabbed with remarkable speed and impaled the brown-furred rodent on his dagger.

Conan grinned. That one would not be nibbling at him this night. He stood and flicked the dagger toward the small window, flinging the dead rodent from the blade, outside into the deepening evening. He wiped the dagger on the hay, sheathed the knife, and settled himself for sleep.

A whisper of a noise came in the hours before false dawn. It was so faint that it would have seemed to be hidden from ordinary ears by the night-creaks of the inn growing older. Conan awakened instantly, his senses alert.

Skritch. Skritch. It was a tiny thing, this aural intruder upon his rest; but it boded ill, for Conan detected in the noise the scrape of metal upon metal. Only a man used instruments of iron or brass, and a man at this hour meant danger.

Through the hole in the wall a faint beam of sinking moon and starlight entered the room. This was hardly enough for a cat to navigate by, but the Cimmerian's vision was sharper than other men's, and honed by many past dangers. He swept his gaze around the room until he focused upon the cause of the nocturnal sound.

In the pale glow Conan saw a thin wire sliding between the door and its jamb, a hooked bit of copper that tugged at the well-oiled bolt.

For a moment Conan felt a prickle of fear along the back of his neck.

No man born of woman had mounted the stairs that he had climbed earlier-this he would wager. He reached for his sword.

Suddenly, the greasy bolt slid free and the door burst inward. Three men rushed into the room, each wielding a dagger raised to strike.

Conan leaped up, jerked his broadsword free of its scabbard, and lunged for the assassins. If they thought to slay a sleeping man, they were sadly mistaken, for the Cimmerian attacked.

The first man was spitted before he saw his mortal danger. Conan ripped his sword free as the man fell gargling in his death throes. The Cimmerian instantly swung the heavy blade with a force denied all but the most powerful of men. The second assassin halfturned and managed to raise his dagger in defense, but his effort counted for naught.

Sparks flew as the broadsword mated with the dagger and swept it aside as if it were no more than a feather. Conan's blade bit deeply into the villain's side, shearing ribs and organs alike, and the man screamed in his final agony as he fell, to lie prone upon the filthy wooden floor.

The third man backed quickly away into the tight corridor, fear staining his features.

The wall across the corridor kissed the would-be assassin's back. He looked frantically to the right and left, but seemed to know that if he turned to flee, the berserk giant would be on him instantly. He switched grips on the dagger, holding it like a sword, and jabbed the point in Conan's direction.

Just then, from the stairs came a cacophony of screeching footfalls.

Flickering tapers threw ghostly fingers of yellow light ahead of their bearers. Conan did not take his attention from the dagger-bearing thief; however, the man must have thought it so. He lunged at Conan, seeking to bury the point of his weapon in the Cimmerian's groin. Conan leaped lithely to one side, fast for so large a man, and swung his sword overhead and downward with all his might. The sharp edge connected with the villain's head and bisected it, as a cook might split a melon. Gore splashed patterns upon the walls of the corridor, now better-lit by the innkeeper and the roundish man Conan had seen earlier in the common room. Conan turned toward these two with the point of his bloody sword aimed at the innkeeper's heart, a heart hidden under a grimy nightshirt.

The innkeeper went deathly pale and began to sweat profusely.

"P-p-please, sir, I have a family!"

Conan fixed the man with an unblinking stare, with eyes blazing like two glowing blue coals. He looked away, finally, at the mortal remains of those men who would have killed him had he been less vigilant. "Who were these scum?" he asked, pointing his blade at the nearest corpse.

"I-I-I know them not, sir," the innkeeper managed to stammer. Sweat rolled from him in fat, greasy drops that plopped onto the floor by his bare feet.

The short rotund man spoke. "Zamorian cutpurses, it would seem. They arrived at the inn only earlier this day."

Conan regarded the man. "I am called Conan of Cimmeria, but late of Shadizar. Who might you be?"

"I am Loganaro, friend, a merchant from Mornstadinos, in Corinthia. I am returning there from a visit to Koth, where I have-ah-business interests."

Conan nodded and turned his gaze back to the innkeeper. "How came these carrion-feeders to my room, owner of this Mitra-cursed dog barn? Not by way of those stairs."

"G-g-good sir, there is a second set of stairs at the far end of the corridor. B-bet-better-constructed ones."

"Aye. Now explain the reasons for the oiled bolt, dog."

"B-b-bolt? It-it was but recently installed, sir. The craftsman would have oiled it." The innkeeper swallowed and nodded. as though he were a puppet with a loosened string. "Yes, that must be it; the craftsman must have done it."

Conan shook his head. "A likely story. I am disposed to look up this craftsman and ask him."

The innkeeper turned an ashen hue. "B-b-but he is no longer in our village. He-ah-left-for Turan."

Conan spat at the floor. He squatted and used the ragged cloak of the dead cutpurse to clean his blade, then inspected the steel for nicks.

There were no fresh marks on the blade; the thief's dagger must have been of poorly made steel.

Smoothly, Conan rose to tower over the trembling innkeeper. "Drag this offal away from my room," he ordered the innkeeper. "I would return to my disturbed slumber."

"S-s-sleep?" The fat man seemed horrified at the idea.

"What else? No cock has crowed, and I am tired. Be quick, and I may overlook the matter of the oiled bolt."

Conan grinned as he ate portions of the breakfast the innkeeper had laid before him. The food was well-prepared and hot. If he belched, the owner of the dog kennel called an inn came running to inquire if he could be of service.

As Conan sat there the short merchant approached him. He addressed the Cimmerian. "Do you travel west, by happenstance?"

"Aye. To Nemedia."

"Then you will ride the north fork of the Corinthian road through Haunted Pass."

"Haunted Pass?"

The merchant smiled. "A name to scare children, no doubt. The wind sings strange songs as it makes its journey over the rocks. There are hollow places that give back sounds some men find unnerving."

Conan laughed, and tore a final chunk of fresh bread away from the third loaf the innkeeper had brought him. He washed the bread down with a sip of wine. "In the land of my birth we know of such wind-flutes,"

Conan said. "Even small children in Cimmeria have no fear of such sounds, much less a man of eighteen winters."

Loganaro shrugged under his dark brown robe. "There is also a haunted lake, called Spokesjo, near the summit of the pass."

"And do fish blow bubbles at unwary travelers from this haunted lake?"

Conan laughed again, amused by his own humor.

The merchant's face grew serious. "Nay, no fish swim in this lake.

Those things which do are better left unmentioned, save to say one should avoid the shores of the place in which they dwell."

Conan shrugged. "I travel through Corinthia to Nemedia, and this pass is the route by which I go, wind-noises and wives' tales notwithstanding."

Loganaro grinned. "Ah, a brave man. As it happens, I will also be returning to my country by this route. Perhaps you would care for a companion?"

Conan shook his head. "Nay, merchant. I travel better when I travel alone."

The merchant shrugged. "As you wish. I shall be before or behind you, in any event. I would not startle you should you note me upon your trail."

"It would take more than a single merchant on the road to startle me, Loganaro."

The short man nodded and said no more, but there was a look of amusement about him Conan did not care for. It was as if he withheld some deep and dark secret from the young Cimmerian.

Chapter Two

The snow lay like a thick and crusty blanket on the rocks girding the pass. The breath of Conan and his buckskin horse fogged the freezing air as they wound along the trail. Conan took no notice of the temperature, save to pull his fur cloak a bit tighter about him.

The buckskin mount picked its way slowly along the rocky path. There was little wind, but Conan heard a distant howling of air across some hollow. He grinned. Wind-flutes might scare the timid, but not a Cimmerian. The slow clop-clop of the horse's hooves accompanied the faint echo of the wind playing its ghostly tunes.

Ahead, Conan saw the surface of the small lake of which he'd been told.

He shook his head, and his square-cut black hair moved stiffly in the cold. The lake was frozen from shore to shore, and Conan would wager half the gold in the sack mounted behind him that the ice was as thick as his own well-thewed leg. It was less than likely any evil spirits would be emerging from that lake.

The trail passed within a few yards of the lake's frozen edge. The horse picked its way along in a lazy fashion, lulling Conan with the motion.

Halfway along the length of the lake the horse stopped suddenly and turned its head sideways to stare at the giant slab of ice.

Conan looked, but saw nothing. He dug his heels into the beast's sides.

"Move," he said.

The horse whinnied and shook its head, almost as if answering him. The animal snorted and began to sidestep away from the lake. "Foolish fly-brain!" Conan said. He kicked the horse harder. "I will feast on horseflesh this night if you do not move!"

There came a cracking sound, loud in the silence, and Conan jerked his gaze away from the recalcitrant horse and stared at the lake. A long, jagged fracture appeared on the surface of the ice; quickly, another appeared, then a third. It was almost as if something were pushing up from under the ice.

The surface of the frozen lake burst asunder, and chunks of ice the size of large dogs flew through the air before smashing back down. As Conan watched, beings began to clamber from the fissure onto the surface of the lake. And what beings they were! Each was man-sized, but shaped like a great ape. They were pure white, without facial features-no mouths or noses or eyes-and each was as smooth as polished crystal. A dozen of the creatures scrambled from the ice and began to run. For an instant Conan thought them pursued by something and uninterested in him, for they ran at angles away from him. Then he realized what they were doing: cutting off his escape!

Conan dug his heels into the horse's ribs hard, and slapped the beast's rump with one hand, trying to force it to flee. The horse, however, was possessed by primal terror; it reared and bucked, trying to throw its rider. Conan clamped his knees against the sides of the panicked beast, and by sheer force of his massive strength managed to hold on. The horse stopped bucking, but then seemed to freeze in its terror, becoming as a statue in the cold air.

The white monsters shambled toward him with hands outstretched, reaching.

To Gehanna with the horse! Conan leaped from the animal and drew his broadsword even as he flew through the air. He landed solidly, never pausing as he charged the nearest of the white monsters. When he came within range, he swung the sword hard.

The blade sheared one of the ice-beast's hands from its arm, and the hand fell to the ground with a thump. But no blood circulated in that frigid body; from the stump of the icy arm there issued instead a gusher of clear liquid, a stream as clear as water!

Cold fingers bit into Conan's shoulder and he spun to face another smooth beast. His sword sang as desperation drove his slash. Luck guided his aim: His blade lopped the water monster's head from its neck. The thing spasmed, then released its hold on him as it fell.

Another fountain of crystal fluid jetted from the falling body.

By Crom, the abominations could die well enough! But there were more than ten against him; bad odds, and Conan was no man's fool. He needed a path out, and he would have to carve it quickly!

Muscles of striated flesh flexed and bunched, driving sharp steel against the denizens. Thrice, cold hands were laid upon him; three times did Conan chop the offending hands away. He slashed, cut, stabbed, and kicked, showering the frozen ground with shards and watery chunks of the faceless monsters. They were many, but they were clumsy compared to the whirling, leaping man. Conan raged against them, destroying three more. The fluid of their bodies steamed and froze in the hard chill as Conan continued to weave his pattern of steel-laced death.

It was a fight that could have but one end, he knew, if he stayed and tried to slay them all. He was tired; the sword was heavy in his hands, and there were still eight of the shambling monsters trying to kill him. Time to depart.

Conan turned and ran in the direction from which he had come. The eyeless beasts, followed him, stringing themselves out into a line.

Conan managed a grin even in his exhaustion. Good. They were not only clumsy, they were no tacticians.

Abruptly, he stopped and turned, then ran back at the monsters. They were too far apart now to reach him in force; he faced a single creature, the largest of the group. Conan ducked the wild swing of the monster's fist. He raised his sword and brought it down smartly. The ancient steel bit through the thing's leg and slashed the limb away from the body. The water monster fell in silence, blocking Conan's path behind him. Conan sprinted away in the direction he had been heading when first attacked. Now, if he could only collect his cursed horse!

A sharp whinny pulled Conan up from his run. He turned and observed his mount being dragged toward the rent in the lake's surface by several more of those things that harried him. Still more of the evil spawn emerged from the lake to help clutch at the horse. There must have been at least twenty of them now. Half of them subdued the horse, while the others turned toward Conan.

His horse, all his food, and the stolen sack of gold were being dragged down into Spokesjo Lake! For an instant Conan chased them, his sword held high and rage befogging his mind. He stopped. No horse was worth dying for. There were thousands of horses and many rich men whose gold he could steal, if he lived.

"Crom take you all!" he yelled at the crystal-clear bloodless monsters before he turned and loped away.

On the road descending from the pass Conan spied a mounted figure in the distance. Though he increased his speed from a walk to a trot, then to a run, the figure grew no closer. He shouted a greeting, but received no answer; the rider never paused. Could this be the merchant he had met in that dog kennel of an inn earlier? If so, why did the man seem so intent on maintaining the distance between them? Cursing the watery attackers who had drowned his horse, Conan kept on.

After a weary day's walk Conan sighted the city of Mornstadinos, the first Corinthian city he had seen. True, there were no towers or tall spires such as graced Shadizar or Arenjun, but the settlement boasted a high wall and many buildings, even if most seemed more squat than those in other cities he had known. It would serve. If he hoped to continue his journey to Nemedia, he would have to obtain another horse and more silver or gold, and here of necessity would be the place to find both.

As the ground passed steadily under his boots Conan realized he would be at least another day on the road. From a vantage point on a foothill he could see a large forest on the far side of the city, and what seemed a vast plain beyond that. No travelers came toward him from the town, which was unfortunate. A fat merchant would no doubt be carrying exotic foods and valuables of which Conan could avail himself. Aside from his sword, his Karpashian dagger, and his clothes, the Cimmerian had nothing but a purse bearing a few coppers, enough for perhaps one meal and a few cups of bad wine. An unpleasant prospect, but one he had learned to accept; it was not the first time going hungry had been his lot.

Well. The city lay ahead and his belly would manage on roots and stream water until he reached its gates. Conan trudged stoically onward.

Loganaro judged that the tall barbarian was now an hour behind him, thanks to the gallop into which he had forced his horse. The beast was lathered with sweat, but this was of little importance: What mattered was that there be time for Loganaro to contact one of his patrons. Or, in this case, a patroness.

While the horse wandered along eating sedge grasses the man began his preparations for far speaking, a magic of no small power for which he had paid dearly. Even so, there was another price to be paid for each use of the talent. Loganaro pulled a short fat-bladed dagger from beneath his robes and clutched it tightly in his right hand. Clearing his sleeve away from his left arm, he revealed a forearm covered with thin scars. Some of these were old and faded by sun and age; others lay fresh upon his flesh, in shades ranging from angry red to pale pink.

Loganaro picked a spot between two of the younger lines and laid the tip of the dagger against it. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the needlesharp tip into his flesh.

Blood welled as he drew the blade downward, scoring tanned flesh with a thin line of living ruby liquid. There was some small pain, a necessary portion of the spell; more, there was the salty fluid itself, the major ingredient. The dagger's chore finished, Loganaro laid it aside, to replace the steel with his middle finger. He gathered the blood on the finger's tip until that member, was fairly coated; raising the finger skyward, the man intoned a phrase he'd been taught: "Hematus cephii augmentum sichtus."

Quickly following the words, Loganaro drew upon his forehead in blood the three arcane symbols that completed the spell: the adulation rind, his own personal chop, and the double curve that represented his patroness. Then he waited.

Five minutes pounded past, on their way to join the uncounted lines of time that had marched before them. On the birth of the sixth minute a voice came to Loganaro-a woman's voice. Scarcely above a whisper, the voice carried intensity and power within its folds.

Why have you called?

Loganaro spoke to the evening air. "Mistress, I may have found that which you seek."

I seek many things, insectus minor. Which thing in particular do you pretend to have discovered?

"That which will complete your Incantation of Animation for your ebon simulacrum, the Prince of the Lance."

Many have offered that final ingredient, servant. All have been found wanting.

"I think not this time, Mistress. I saw this man slay three experienced cutthroats with as little effort as a man takes to wipe wine from his lips. More, he traveled through Haunted Pass unaided by any conjur or cantrip."

A lucky man to move while the undines slept.

"Nay, Mistress, those creatures slumbered not under the ice of the haunted lake. They came forth in great numbers and tried to carry this mortal to their watery mansions. He slew many of the monsters. His horse was taken, and I thought for a moment he would follow them under the ice to retrieve the beast."

He accomplished this unaided?

"Indeed. I thought it best to remain unseen."

No doubt. I have never thought you a candidate for my Prince's assemblage. This man, however, interests me. Continue to observe him. I shall make contact with you with instructions when I deem it should be so.

"And my reward . . . ?"

Fear not, low one; the gold you value shall be yours if the heart of this man be sufficiently brave. The word of Djuluva the Witch is her bond.

"To doubt such never entered my mind, Mistress."

Has this man a name?

"He is called Conan, Mistress. A barbarian from Cimmeria."

Within her manse in Mornstadinos, Djuluva sundered the magical link with Loganaro and leaned away from the polished steel mirror that gathered her focus of mystic energies. She beheld her image: a fire-haired woman of thirty whose face appeared ten years younger smiled back at her. Her thin gown of raw silk revealed a shapely body lush of hip and breast and much experienced in carnal ways. The image held within the steel reflected the wicked smile of the comely witch as it seemed to mirror her thoughts and feelings. No man born of woman was a match for Djuvula in the arts of lovemaking, she knew. Many had tried; all had failed.

Realizing that no mortal man would ever be able to keep her pleased, Djuluva had decided to undertake the creation of an ersatz-man, a simulacrum she could hold in perpetual thrall, to satisfy her every whim. It had been simple enough to begin the undertaking. Her magic was particularly powerful when it came to such things. Unfortunately, some of the components of the assemblage were less simple to obtain. Her ebon-skinned Prince of the Lance lay in all his perfection in her bedchamber, yet unable to function without the final ingredient required for her witchery: the fresh heart of a truly brave man. Dozens of organs had been tried; all had failed to animate her lover. The so-pronounced brave hearts had done nothing whatsoever. Djuvula's disgust was profound.

Despite his obsequiousness, Loganaro was usually reliable in his dealings with her; perhaps, just perhaps, he had finally found what Djuvula needed. Such a thought was worthy of the smile she shared with her mirror. She would prepare her potions, just in case.

A tall man stood next to a much-scarred log, which leaned against a granite wall. The place was a remote corner of the estate of Lemparius, Center Strand of the Senate's Treble Whip, and the man none other than the owner of that vast acreage. In his long-fingered hands Lemparius held a device of brass and gold, shaped like a ball within a cube, but twisted in some perverse manner that was easy to see but difficult to describe. A voice issued from the device, that of Loganaro the free agent, speaking to the witch Djuluva. The conversation was not meant for Lemparius's ears, but such privacy was beneath the senator's consideration. He listened as he chose, using the storora, the "magic ear" constructed by some nameless Stygian artificer dead a hundred years.

"called Conan, Mistress. A barbarian from Cimmeria. "

Lemparius laughed, the sound much like a growl, as he adjusted some small subdivision of the device he held. The voices of the fat agent and the witch dwindled and finally vanished. Carefully, the senator bent and placed the mechanical miracle behind the man-thick log that formed an oblique angle against the massive granite wall. There was a special recess designed for the storora there, cut into the stone. The senator did not want anything to happen to the Stygian magic box; it was most useful, and, so far as he knew, it was unique.

Satisfied that the arcane device was safely nestled away, the senator turned around. A warm wind ruffled his long blond hair, giving his head almost a tawny glow. The sun glinted from his eyes as he moved, and that glint showed strangely shaped pupils more akin to a creature designed for predatory attack from above than to a man. Methodically, Lemparius removed his clothing. He stripped away his tunic and silken underbreeches first, then his sandals, until he stood naked on sandy ground bounded by a wall as tall as three men. He was alone in the vast clearing, so none beheld his nakedness.

None saw what followed.

Lemparius began to change. His contours altered, the skin and muscles flowing like fresh potter's clay. Bones crackled; cartilage tore asunder; the blond hair of a man thickened and turned into the tawny pelt of an animal, the hair sprouting as might weeds in some hellish garden. Lemparius's face seemed to sink. His nose flattened and broadened at the nostrils; his mouth stretched and his teeth fused and grew until the canines became fangs.

What had been a man groaned as it dropped onto all fours. Claws replaced nails, paws metamorphized from fingers and toes. The man's form shrank in places, stretched in other places, and when at last the metamorphosis was complete, the sthenic form that stood there was no longer any design of ape.

That which prowled the estate of Lemparius, one of the Treble Strands of the Senate Whip, was the spawn of cats: It was Lemparius, panther, one of the werefolk.

And the cat-beast was hungry.

Chapter Three

The sun had made but a small part of its journey across the morning sky when Conan entered the city of Mornstadinos. From a distance the Cimmerian had been unable to perceive the convolutions of the narrow streets. He now traversed myriad alleys, cul-de-sacs, and cobbled roads which appeared to have been laid out by someone besotted, blind, or mad. If a pattern existed to the maze, Conan was unable to discern it.

Here sat a stable full of horses and stinking of dung; next to the stable stood a temple replete with cowled oblates; beyond that edifice an open air market dealt in fruit and baked goods.

The barbarian's stomach rumbled, insistent in its hunger. He strode to the market, attracting more than a few stares at his muscular form.

From a woven basket Conan extracted a loaf of hard black bread. He poked the loaf with one finger, then waved the bread at an old woman.

"How much'?" he said.

The woman named a figure: "Four coppers."

Conan shook his head. "Nay, old one. I do not wish to buy your house and grandchildren, only this loaf of stale bread."

The old woman cackled. "Since it is obvious you are a stranger, I shall make you a bargain. Three coppers."

"Again, I have no desire for the entire basket of these rocks you would sell as bread, only the one." Conan waved the loaf and scowled.

"Ah, you would cheat an old woman of her hard labor? Very well then, I will accept two coppers and the loss so that you may think us hospitable in the Jewel of Corinthia."

"Where is your dagger, old woman? Surely a cutpurse who would steal my money must need a blade. Though I will allow that your tongue and wit are sharp enough."

The woman cackled again. "Ah, you're a handsome boy; you remind me of my son. I could not see you starve for want of a copper. One will buy you the best bread on the street. "

"Done, Grandmother."

Conan reached into his pouch and retrieved one of his few coins. He handed it to the old woman, who nodded, smiling.

"One other favor," Conan said. "You are right in calling me a stranger.

Where might a man find an inn and some wine with which to wash down the best bread on the street?"

"A man of means might find a number of places. But a man who would haggle over a few coppers with an old woman has fewer choices, meseems.

Down this road, two turnings to the right and one to the left, such a man could find the Milk of Wolves Inn. And if this man was some outlander who might not be able to read civilized writings, he might look for a picture of a wolf salient above the door."

"A wolf what?"

"Standing on her hind legs about to leap," the old woman said, cackling again.

"Well met, then, mistress baker. And farewell."

Conan located the Milk of Wolves Inn with no difficulty and, bearing his loaf of black bread, strode inside. The youngful hour seemed no barrier to the fair-sized crowd standing or seated at long wooden tables around the room. Most of the men appeared to be locals, judging from looks and clothing; several women were serving steaming bowls, and others offered hints of pleasures other than food or drink. He had been in many such places. Passable, for the most part, and cheap.

The Cimmerian found a vacant place at one end of a table and seated himself. He looked around the room, scrutinizing the patrons. Most of the men were probably poor but engaged in some honest trade: coopers, smiths, tradesmen, and the like. To his left Conan saw a group of four men who looked more unsavory, probably cutpurses or strong-arm thieves.

The largest of the four was of medium height, but very broad and heavily muscled, with dark eyes and blue-black hair; further, he had an enormous hook nose, which resembled a bird's beak. Conan had seen men with similar countenances before, men bearing a mix of Shemite and Stygian blood. This beak-faced one looked dangerous, not a man to turn one's back on.

Seated near the four was an odd pair: an old man with white hair and the weight of a good sixty or seventy winters riding his stooped shoulders, and a girl, a child of twelve or thirteen. The old man was dressed in a long robe with full sleeves. The girl, auburn-haired. wore blue hose and boots and a short jerkin of supple leather. Additionally, she carried a short sword under a broad belt, in the Turanian style.

"Your pleasure, sir?"

Conan looked up at the speaker, a fat wench draped in a shapeless dress much stained by food and drink. The barbarian fetched out one of his last three coppers and held it up. "Would this buy me a cup of decent wine?"

"It will buy you a cup of wine. How decent such a beverage is I leave to your judgment."

"That bad, eh? Well, I am in no position to be choosy. I shall risk the vintage."

The girl left, taking Conan's coin. The Cimmerian halfturned, to study the old man and the auburn-haired girl.

Conan quickly became aware that he was not the only person regarding the pair. The four Conan had marked as strong-arm thieves were also taking an uncommon interest. Such did not bode well for them, Conan figured. But it was not his business. He turned his gaze back toward the serving girl, who approached bearing an earthen mug brimming with dark red liquid. Some of the wine sloshed over the lip of the cup as she set it onto the table. Without saying anything, the girl moved off to see to other patrons.

Conan tasted the wine. In truth, it was not bad; certainly, he had drunk both better and worse. It would wash the bread down and help fill his belly for now. Later he could worry about his next meal. He broke a chunk of the black bread and tore off a mouthful of it with his strong teeth. The bread, too, was passable. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

Nearby, Beak-nose gestured at the old man and girl with a quick movement of his head. Two of his companions rose from the table and began to sidle toward the pair. One of the men toyed with the handle of his dagger; the other man merely scratched at his scraggly beard.

Beneath drawn brows Conan watched, interested. He took another bite of the bread.

When the two men were a few steps away from the old man, several people seated or standing near the inn's doorway gasped. Conan glanced toward the door and saw men scrambling to get out of the way of something. He could not see what caused the commotion, but it was as if a wind cut a path through a field of tall grain. As the crowd rippled aside, the cause became apparent.

Scuttling across the sawdust-covered floor was a spider. This creature was like none the Cimmerian had ever gazed upon before. It was the size of his fist, covered with fine hair, and glowed like a lantern inlaid with rubies: indeed, the thing pulsed, as might a throbbing heart.

Without hesitation the spider ran to the table at which the old man sat; in an eyeblink it scuttled up a table leg; another second saw the glowing arachnid leap in a graceful arc to land squarely in the mug of wine the old man held in one gnarled fist. The wine emitted a loud sizzle, a pop, and a small cloud of red vapor suddenly floated above the mug.

With every eye locked into a stare upon him, the old man smiled calmly, raised the cup to his lips, and drank.

Beak-nose's two minions suddenly decided they had business elsewhere, that they were late for such business, and that further delay would be disastrous. At least it seemed that way to Conan as he watched the two men scramble over each other in order to be first to reach the door.

Behind Conan someone uttered an oath and muttered, "Magic!"

At that moment the girl seated next to the old man leaped up. She tossed a moldy sunfruit into the air. Conan saw her set and guessed what would happen. A heartbeat later the girl pulled the short sword from its sheath smoothly and slashed it back and forth at the falling fruit. At first it might have appeared she had missed with her strokes, but Conan's sharp eyes beheld the truth and he grinned even as the fruit continued its fall-now in four pieces instead of one.

The Cimmerian chewed another bite of bread. Here was a message for all who chose this particular morning to breakfast at the Milk of Wolves Inn: This old man and girl were not so helpless as they might appear; best to tread elsewhere for easy pickings.

Beak-nose was not amused. He glowered at the old man, his own cup of wine clutched so tightly that the knuckles of his dark hand were chalk-white.

Someone at the door gasped again. A second spider appeared, this time heading for the foot of Beak-nose's table. Without preamble the hairy arachnid scrabbled up onto the rough wood and leaped into the man's wine.

Conan laughed. A challenge! Would he dare to drink?

Uttering a cry of wordless rage, Beak-nose leaped up and tossed the mug away with a backhanded flinging motion. The mug and its contents flew straight at Conan's face.

There was no danger, Conan knew. He raised one muscled arm to bat the mug away; unfortunately, the hand he chose contained the loaf of bread, the better part of which was as yet uneaten. The wine drenched the bread as the mug struck it, knocking Conan's breakfast onto the filth of the muchtrodden sawdust floor. Conan stared at the bread as it rolled over three times, covering itself with a layer of grime.

In better times, such an occurrence might be amusing, especially were it to happen to someone else; but at the moment Conan failed to see the humor. First his horse and all his gold had been lost; now his food.

The Cimmerian took a deep breath, and the air fed his quick rage as wind feeds a hot fire.

Beak-nose had drawn his own blade and was advancing upon his intended victims. The child bravely pulled her own small sword and moved to cover the white-haired man, who tried to pull her back to safety.

Conan's broadsword hissed as the leather sheath stroked it in its passage. Conan raised his blade and clenched the handle with both hands.

"You-you filth!" Conan roared.

The man turned in surprise. What he saw must have surely alarmed him, for he spun and tried to position his sword for a block or parry. At the same time, he tried to backstep away. He managed neither. Conan's sword caught Beak-nose in the middle of the breastbone and a hand's span of sharp steel sliced its way downward, opening the man as might a vivisectionist, from sternum to crotch. The man's face contorted in shock as his entrails spilled through the massive rent in his body. He fell backward, his spirit already on its way to join his ancestors.

Conan's rage was only partially spent. He looked around for the fourth member of the band. That one, however, was not in evidence. Conan glared at the inn's patrons, who all shrank away from the big youth with the bloody sword. All save one.

The young girl approached Conan, smiling. She had sheathed her sword, and when she drew near Conan saw that the girl barely reached his chest in height. With great reluctance he lowered his broadsword. He stared at the child. "Well?"

"Thank you, sir, for saving us." Her voice was warm. Indeed, the very air seemed to grow warmer as she stood there staring up at the Cimmerian.

"Do not thank me," Conan said, his voice still rough and angry. "The scum destroyed my breakfast. Would that he had put up a better fight, so that I might have made him suffer for it."

The girl's mouth opened into an O as Conan spoke, her face filled with shock and puzzlement.

The murmur of voices began to rise to fill the inn.

"-you see that strike? Such power!"

"-split him like a chicken-foreigner from some backwoods-"

A thin man with a jagged scar that lifted both his lip and left nostril came closer, warily watching the Cimmerian's unsheathed blade. He wore a splattered apron that might have once been white, but now displayed the remains of too many spilled wine cups and meals to be more than a splotched gray. Likely the owner of the inn, Conan judged.

The innkeeper glanced down at the dead man. His perpetual sneer seemed to increase a bit. "So, Arsheva of Khemi has finally picked the wrong victim." The man looked up at Conan. "Few men deserve such an exit from this life so much as he; he shall not be missed, and no mistake about that." Pulling a rag from the pocket of his apron, he tendered it to Conan. "Here. wipe your blade, sir, lest Arsheva's gore chew upon the steel with teeth of rust."

Conan took the greasy rag and methodically cleaned his sword.

"Still," the man said, "the Senate's Deputation will no doubt eventually arrive for an investigation of Arsheva's passing. I trust you had sufficient reason to dispatch him to the next world?"

Conan slid his sword into its leathern home. "Aye," he began, "my reasons were just. This offal-intended to attack myself and my assistant," the old white-haired man said. "This man is our bodyguard; he was merely performing his job in protecting us."

Conan stared at him. What was he about? He started to speak, but the old man interrupted again. "We shall finish our breakfast whilst awaiting the deputies. If you would bring my friend here a tray to replace the meal he lost, along with a bottle of your better wine, I should be most grateful." Here the old man raised a wrinkled and age-twisted hand bearing a small coin of silver. "And the balance of this for your trouble in this matter."

Scar-face took the coin, and nodded. "Aye. Obviously, a gentleman of means such as yourself will have no difficulties convincing the Senate's Deputation of your position in this matter." He drew back a chair at the old man's table for Conan. "I'll tend to your meal, sir."

Seated with the old man and girl, Conan waited for answers to his unasked questions. Earlier, he had held his tongue, reasoning that the old man had some purpose in coming to his aid. Perhaps it was merely to thank him for splitting the blackguard who would have attacked the girl. While unintentional, Conan had served them, certainly. But the barbarian now suspected there was more to be said than words of thanks.

The old man waited until the inn's patrons focused their attention elsewhere before he spoke. "I am Vitarius and this"-he waved his arm in its voluminous sleeve toward the girl-"this is Eldia, my assistant. I am a conjurer of small talent, an entertainer of sorts. We wish to thank you for taking our part in this matter."

Conan nodded, waiting.

"I sensed you were about to speak of your true reason for slaying our would-be assassin-he who slew your loaf of bread-which is why I injected my remarks."

Conan nodded again. The old man was not without sharpness of sight and wit.

"The deputies who will come to speak with us are corrupt for the most part. A few pieces of silver will expedite the resolution in our favor without a doubt; still, carving a man for knocking a loaf of bread to the floor is hardly considered just punishment in the minds of the Mornstadinosian Senate. Protecting a patron from attack by a cutthroat thief is sufficient reason to draw steel, however."

The young giant nodded. "I am Conan of Cimmeria. I have done you a favor and you have thus returned it; let us then consider the scales balanced."

"So be it," Vitarius said. "After breakfast, at least."

"Aye, that I will allow."

A serving girl arrived with a tray of hard rolls, fruit, and a greasy cut of pork, along with another cup of wine of a vintage better than the first drink Conan had partaken of. He ate with gusto, and washed the food down with gulps of the red liquid.

Vitarius watched Conan intently. When the Cimmerian was done with his meal, the conjurer spoke. "We are quits on debts; still, I have a proposition in which you might find some merit. Eldia and I demonstrate our simple illusions at street fairs and market gatherings, and we could use a man such as yourself."

Conan shook his head. "I truckle not with magic."

"Magic? Surely you do not think my illusions are magic? Nay, I work with the simplest of the arts, no more. Would I be in such a place as this were I a real magician?"

Conan considered that. The old man had a point.

"Still, of what use could I be to a conjurer?"

Vitarius glanced at Eldia, then looked back at Conan.

"That blade of yours, for one. Your strength, for another. Eldia and I are hardly capable of protecting ourselves from such as the one you slew. She is adept with her own sword for demonstrating speed and skill, but hardly a match for a full-grown man in a duel. My illusions might scare the superstitious, but in the end can hardly sway a determined assassin, as you have just seen."

Conan chewed on his lower lip. "I am bound for Nemedia."

"Surely such a considerable journey would be easier were you mounted and well-appointed with supplies?"

"What makes you think I lack such things?"

Vitarius peered around the inn, then back at Conan. "Would a man of property be spending his time in such a place?"

That reasoning was sound, but Conan followed the line a step further.

"Then, good conjure artist, why are you in such a place?"

Vitarius laughed, and slapped his thigh. "Ah, forgive me for underestimating you, Conan of Cimmeria. That a man is a barbarian does not mean he lacks wits. As it happens, we are conserving our money for supplies; we, too, intend to leave this fair city, to travel westward.

Our path will veer southward, toward Argos. We wish to-ah-travel in some style, in an armed caravan, and thus avoid possible encounters with the bandits along the Ophir road."

"Ah." Conan studied Vitarius and Eldia. He was a thief, to be sure, but he had nothing against honest work for a brief enough time. Besides, he was in no great hurry to reach Nemedia. In any event, the journey would be a great deal easier astride a good horse than on foot.

"A silver coin a day," Vitarius said. "We shall be ready to leave within the month, I should think, and surely such a short diversion would not inconvenience you greatly?"

Conan considered the sorry state of his money pouch. A good horse and supplies could be had for twenty or thirty pieces of silver, certainly.

And such work, guarding a conjurer and his assistant from sneak thieves for a moon or two, could not be too taxing.

Conan smiled at Vitarius. "Master of glowing spiders, you have engaged a bodyguard."

From under the cowled robe of a priest, Loganaro watched the Cimmerian talking to the old man and the girl. Djuvula's agent smiled to himself.

The barbarian's speedy and fearless assault upon the would-be assassin was impressive. Such convinced him he had discovered the man he sought to complete the witch's spell. Here was a brave man, to be sure.

Visions of gold danced in Loganaro's thoughts as he leaned back against the wall of the inn and sipped his wine. Before long, the heart of that giant barbarian with the fire-blue eyes would animate the witch's simulacrum for her carnal pleasures.

Chapter Four

The young Cimmerian and the conjurer's assistant followed Vitarius through a throng of brightly clad people come to celebrate the arrival-of-age party of a local winemaker's daughter. As the conjurer wended his way through the crowd, Conan decided there was more to the man than he pretended. He had seen too many older men make fools of younger ones to feel that an aged man was helpless; what a man lacked in muscle he could sometimes make up for in wisdom.

"We shall try to find a spot near the winemaker's stall," Eldia told Conan. "There the richer friends of the winemaker's daughter will gather, and there our performance will be better rewarded. "

Conan said nothing. He saw a stalwart lad minding the reins of three horses, one of which resembled greatly the animal he had lost to the water-dwelling creatures only a few days past. The flame of fury in his eyes burned brighter at the sight.

Vitarius chose that moment to turn and observe Conan. "You seem troubled, Conan," the conjurer said.

"Nay, Vitarius, only by a foul memory. I once had a horse, the twin of one of those we just passed. He was taken from me."

"I find such a thing difficult to understand. I would not like to be the man foolish enough to try to relieve you of any of your possessions, much less a horse of good breeding."

Conan grinned ruefully. "No man did the deed. I rode through a snowbound passage in the mountains east of here. While so doing, I was attacked by some water-dwelling beasts, the likes of which I have never before encountered. White they were, and faceless, with blood as clear as pure water."

"Undines!" Vitarius's voice carried both surprise and a touch of fear.

"You know of the monsters?"

"Aye. They are water spirits." Vitarius exchanged glances with Eldia, and something of import passed between them. After a moment the old conjurer looked back at Conan, and seemed to be weighing and measuring the Cimmerian's observation of them. That peculiar warmth Conan had noticed earlier seemed to emanate from Eldia as she stood next to him; indeed the air seemed to smolder. The sun was high and its rays drew sweat from most of the throng, but this new warmth was hotter.

Finally, Vitarius spoke. "It is said that the undines are now controlled by Sovartus, Mage of the Black Square. He is an evil sorcerer who, so it is rumored. seeks something-or someone-within the city of Mornstadinos. To this end, Sovartus attempts to cut off the city. Aside from the undines, there are other inhuman creatures held in thrall by this villain, aiding him in his quest."

"Sovartus, eh?" Conan rolled the name from his tongue and tossed it around in his mind. "Well, if this magician indeed controls the things that stole my horse, then he owes me a replacement."

"It would not be wise to try to collect such, Conan. Sovartus is a man without conscience and possessed of great magical powers. He kills without compunction and without regret."

"Nonetheless, I am not one to forget a debt, whether incurred by or owed to me."

"Some things are better forgotten," Vitarius murmured as he continued to weave his way through the crowd.

Loganaro stood uncomfortably before the tall rostrum and chair of Senator Lemparius, the most powerful politician in Mornstadinos, perhaps in all of Corinthia. The short man's discomfort was not made less by the two senatorial deputies who flanked him, each with a dagger pointing toward Loganaro's throat.

"There must be some mistake, Honored Senator. I have done nothing to contravene the laws in the Jewel of Corinthia."

Lemparius laughed, showing very white teeth. "You should have been a jester, Loganaro. If your crimes were divided equally among the population of the city, it is likely our dungeons would burst. You could be condemned a hundred times on what I personally know, thrice that number if half what I suspect could be proven."

Loganaro swallowed dryly. A vision of himself dangling on the gibbet made the bones of his legs feel rubbery. This encounter was unexpected, and it began to look as if he would not survive it. What had he done to so arouse the Senate Flail? A more important question was: How had he been discovered doing it?

Lemparius waved his left hand languidly. "Leave us."

The pair of deputies bowed slightly, sheathing their daggers. They spun on the balls of their feet, and, as one, marched from the chamber.

Loganaro felt the cold beads of sweat rolling down his spine, but he tried to maintain a calm appearance.

"While I could have you flayed and dipped in boiling salt water, such is not my intent-at the moment anyway." Lemparius arose from his chair with fluid grace. He toyed with the handle of a knife ensheathed at his right hip.

Loganaro stared at the senator's long fingers as he caressed the weapon; the short rotund man felt as if he were snared in some spell, for he could not take his gaze from the almost sensual stroking.

Lemparius laughed again. "You admire my steel tooth, eh?" The tall blond man pulled the knife from its leather holster and raised it to chest level. The weapon was curved from the butt to the point, like a bow. It conjured up ugly images: pictures graven of fangs or talons, set for ripping. The handle was of some dark wood, likely ebony, close-grained and highly polished. Loganaro could see that the knife was full-tanged, with brass rivets mating the wood with the steel.

There was a brass cap where the blade proper began, not so much a guard as a break in color from black to silver. The blade itself was short, perhaps twice the length of a man's little finger, but tapered along a wicked steel curve to a needle's tip. The outer side was thick and serrated for a quarter of its length; the inner curve alone bore the sharpened edge.

"Have you ever beheld a great saber-toothed cat?" Lemparius queried.

"No? A pity; they are magnificent beasts, though their numbers are declining. Each of these cats bears a pair of tusklike fangs, shaped just so"-the senator waved the steel blade back and forth-"so that they can slay nearly any beast that walks or crawls. I used one of these ivory wonders as the design for my own steel tooth. It allows me to feel a certain . . . kinship with the great cats."

Loganaro nodded dumbly.

"Ah, but you wish to see it demonstrated, do you not?"

"M-most Honored Senator, it is not necessary-"

"Certainly it is necessary, Loganaro. Follow me."

Lemparius led the shorter man down a narrow corridor lined with flickering tapers, then descended a steep flight of stone steps into the anteroom of what was obviously a dungeon. Loganaro began silently imploring each god he could remember for his life.

In a filthy cell hardly bigger than a coffin, a disheveled man of indeterminate age was pent. The man's hair was matted and unruly, his heard unkempt, and madness lit his wild eyes.

Standing in front of this cell, Lemparius turned to Loganaro and smiled. "You have a dagger. Give it to me."

Loganaro quickly complied, tendering his fat-bladed weapon to the senator. The Flail of the Senate then tossed the dagger into the cell through the slats of rusty iron. The man snatched up the knife in an instant and lunged at the pair outside his cell, stabbing through the bars as far as he could reach, but his efforts fell short. The attack drove Loganaro back in a startled leap. Lemparius moved not a hair.

"This man is condemned to die," the senator said. "For crimes too boring to enumerate. He has an appointment with the hangman on the morrow, but I feel that he may well be unable to keep his date with the gibbetmaster."

With that, Lemparius flicked the tip of his knife at the wrist of the prisoner. The movement was deceptively easy, Loganaro thought, but of such a speed that the creature within the cell had no time to move his arm from the strike. When he did jerk his hand back inside the bars, blood was already welling from a thumb-length cut upon his wrist. The man howled wordlessly.

Lemparius then threw the bolt set above the door and opened wide the entrance to the cell. He took two steps back in Loganaro's direction.

Loganaro himself scrambled backward twice as many paces. Was the senator mad? The condemned man had nothing to lose by attacking and killing them both!

The prisoner leaped forth from the cell, grinning like a living skeleton. He paused for a moment to suck the blood from his wrist, then spat the collection onto the grimy flagstones under his bare feet. He howled again, then charged for Lemparius, the short dagger held low to gut the senator.

In all his travels Loganaro had never seen anyone move quite as the senator did then. He was preternaturally fast, and he leaped like a cat at the prisoner. In his right hand Lemparius held the steel saber-tooth like a sickle. The knife blurred, and struck the condemned man on the side of the neck. Before the man could react, the knife based on a predator's tooth was jerked back and swung again, cutting this time into the opposite side of the already gravely wounded neck. Lemparius leaped away from his victim.

Loganaro had some experience with observing and even inflicting mortal wounds, but he had never seen anything like this. The great vessels carrying blood from the body to the head were cleanly sheared; crimson gouts pulsed from the arteries with each pump of the man's heart. The dying man stood for an instant as if he'd grown roots, unable to move.

Then he fell abruptly. In only a few seconds he paled to a ghostly hue as his blood pumped away. Dead.

Lemparius wiped the blood from his knife with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, then cast the gore off with a slinging motion. He smiled at Loganaro. "Did you know that by reversing the grip on my beauty thus"-he flipped the knife up, caught it as it twisted, so that he held the weapon with the handle pointing toward the ceiling and the point down-"I can effect a strike between a man's legs in much the same manner as the neck cut? Such a stroke does not kill, but does leave a man somewhat less . . . of a man."

Loganaro swallowed as if his throat had suddenly been filled with desert-baked sand.

"You seem quiet, free agent. Lost your tongue?"

Loganaro licked lips as dry as bleached bones. "Wh-what would you have of me, Honored Senator?"

Lemparius sheathed his knife and laid an arm around the shoulders of the other man. "You are in the employ of Djuvula the Witch. Did you know she has a brother who is a demon'? Ah, no matter. Currently, you shadow a barbarian called Conan. Yes, that is the name. Our witch wishes this man's heart to enliven the simulacrum she has designed."

"H-h-how can you know this?"

"I am not without my ways. Suffice it that I do know. I, too, have an interest in this barbarian. When the time comes, I would greatly appreciate your aid in capturing this man for my own." Lemparius smiled widely.

"I-I cannot." Loganaro's voice was barely a whisper.

"Your pardon, friend Loganaro, for my bad hearing. I thought for a moment I heard you say that you would not help me in this matter."

"Honored Senator, Djuvula would have my head mounted on a pole in the pit of her outhouse!"

"Dear little man, what I will do should you refuse my simple request would make you beg for such a fate. I shall protect you from Djuvula's wrath, you may be assured."

Loganaro swallowed again. "Might I know why you wish this thing?"

"I see no harm in such, now that you are in my employ. Djuvula, as you may know, no longer takes lovers from among men. I would have her take one more before she animates her simulacrum."

"You, Honored Senator? But-but I thought . . ." Loganaro's speech dribbled away as he realized what he had been about to say.

Lemparius laughed, apparently undisturbed. He finished Loganaro's thought for him. "You thought that I had already partaken of that dubious honor, and, like all the others, had been found wanting?"

"Your pardon, Senator-"

"Nay, you would be correct in your assumption. That was the case; however, this was some time ago. I have since become imbued with certain vigors of, shall we say, an animal-like power. With this new energy I feel certain my-ah-performance in that arena in which Djuvula so rightly claims mastery will be vastly improved."

"But if this is so, why not merely tell her this?"

"You have little understanding of women, it would seem. She has set her mind and it will not be changed without a great deal of determined effort. If I cannot instill belief beforehand, I shall have to have something with which to bargain. If I should hold this barbarian, I could extract a price for him. Should I fail in my ministrations, then Djuvula will have her simulacrum. I must confess, I foresee this as unlikely; still, it is the kind of bargain that should appeal to her; after all she cannot lose either way."

"I see. And you shall then assume a position in which you can protect any of your agents who might have caused her distemper in this matter?"

"Of course."

Loganaro considered his options. In truth, he saw no other choice than to agree with the senator's wishes. If Lemparius's plan somehow failed, likely as not Djuvula would seek revenge upon the man who betrayed her; on the other hand, if he refused the senator, he was a dead man for certain. Better to risk the unhealthy future than the unhealthy present.

"Naturally, since you have explained your reasons, I could do nothing less than offer my services wholly to you, Honored Senator."

"I thought you might come to see it that way, Loganaro. My instructions are simple: Go back to your dogging of the barbarian. Say nothing of this to Djuvula, but rather continue your communication with her. When she orders the taking of this man Conan, you will inform me and receive my instructions."

"As you wish, Honored Senator."

"You must address me as Lemparius henceforth, free agent. After all, you are now a respected employee, one who will be paid well for his services."

After Loganaro had gone, Lemparius went back to the body of the slain man and stared thoughtfully at it. He smiled. Djuvula would certainly forgive him, could he make good his boast of renewed vitality; it was unlikely that she would ever forgive Loganaro his devious switch in alliance. Too bad; the little weasel was very adept at spying and other criminal activities. He could be useful if he did not have to die to satisfy the witch's anger. Better him than me, Lemparius thought.

The senator stared at the body on the floor and felt a rumble in his belly. Well. There was no point in wasting such fresh meat.

There was no one to see the thing that Senator Lemparius became then, nor what he did. The guards would have less to toss upon the offal pile than the gibbetmaster's work would have left, though. And the panther would sleep with a full belly this night.

The evening shadows played across the thinning crowds as Conan watched Vitarius perform his conjures for the winemaker's party. The old man was good, Conan noted. He pulled live birds from a lady's dress, changed a glass of wine into vinegar, made an empty bottle spew ribbons of bright silk. Eldia ran about, collecting coins from the laughing crowd, stopping now and then to perform a trick of her own with her sword. She would slice a single button from a tunic, carve a loaf of bread into fancy shapes, even hold the blade in her hands and leap back and forth over it. It was a good show, and the coppers collected rapidly in the cup that Eldia rattled at the gathering.

Conan had little to do save watch. No cutpurses stalked the duo, though several pickpockets moved here and there. As long as they did not bother his charges, Conan bore them no malice. Being a thief made him tolerant of such things; after all, a man had to eat, and these folks would not miss a few lifted coins.

As with most street magicians, Vitarius seemed to be saving his best illusions for last. He had better hurry to finish, Conan thought, before everyone went home, taking their money with them.

A hush fell upon the people watching Vitarius as he drew himself up and began preparing for his final trick. Some of the crowd smiled and nodded. Conan heard a woman near him say, "His last one is the best; wait until you see it."

The old man gestured this way and that, mumbled incantations, and hopped about from foot to foot in a kind of dance. The watchers laughed, and Conan smiled with them.

Finally, Vitarius was ready. He motioned for the people around him to move back, and with a final dramatic wave of his arms, Vitarius said, "Now!"

There was a flash of bright light, and a cloud of dense white smoke filled the space; as the smoke began to thin, Conan discerned an enshrouded figure within. A large, dark form loomed ominously.

The crowd gasped as one voice as the smoke disappeared-to reveal a demon! The thing stood half again as tall as a big man, and Conan judged that, were it real, it would scale twice his own not-inconsiderable weight. The demon was bright red, massively male, and his grin showed teeth from a nightmare. Conan felt a chill frost his shoulders. Vitarius's other illusions were as nothing compared to this; the Cimmerian was impressed. When he glanced at Eldia, who stood an armspan away from him, Conan felt a jolt as she tore her gaze away from the demon to look at Conan. For the girl said quietly but quite clearly, "He did not bring it, Conan. It is real!"

The demon took a step toward Vitarius. He spoke then in a voice reminiscent of metal tearing. "Where is she, White One?"

When Vitarius made no answer, the demon scanned the crowd with eyes that glowed with infernal light. His sweeping gaze alighted upon Eldia, and he grinned widely. Dripping slime, the demon turned away from the conjurer and started toward the girl.

Eldia drew her sword and faced the monster.

The crowd, sensing malpractice in the apparition, began to scatter as leaves before a storm.

"Hold!" Conan yelled.

The demon glanced down at Conan. "Bespeak you to me, gnat?"

"Aye, demon. But rather this gnat is a wasp, with a stinger." Conan jerked his broadsword free and gripped it easily in both hands, to point at the demon's belly.

"I have no quarrel with you, wasp," the demon grated. "My business concerns this female human child and is none of your concern."

"Wrong, hellspawn. She stands under my protection; menace her at your peril."

"My peril? You are amusing, wasp, but I grow weary of you. Fly away and avoid being crushed."

Conan raised the broadsword and sighted along the edge at the demon's malefic face. "Conan of Cimmeria does not fly from the likes of you, beast."

"Then pray to your gods, insect, for your time is come."

The demon extended his black-taloned hands toward Conan, and the sound of his giant muscles cracking rent the air as he crouched and sprang.

Chapter Five

As fast as the demon was. Conan was faster. The Cimmerian leaped, as did the blood-red pit-spawn, but to the side; the demon's initial rush bypassed the man. Tortuous veins stood out on Conan's brawny arms as he swung the sword, aiming for the demon's neck. The force of Conan's strike sheared the air, moving so fast, the blade cried out a note somewhere between a moan and a whistle.

The demon, however, did not stand idle, awaiting decapitation; instead, he leaped high into the air and tucked his massive body into a tight ball, performing a somersault as neatly as an acrobat might. Before Conan could recover to bring the blade back for the return stroke, the demon regained his feet and danced lithely away.

"Where is your stinger, wasp?" The demon laughed in his grating way.

Conan gave no answer, but instead rushed forward, mighty legs pumping and his sword held ready for another slash.

The demon backstepped quickly, knocking a fruit vendor's stall askew as if it were no more than cobwebs. He might be laughing, but he moved readily enough from the cold steel Conan bore.

From the corner of one eye Conan saw Eldia dart forward with her blade upraised, only to be stopped by the hand of Vitarius. "Not that way!"

the old conjurer yelled.

There was no time for a lack of attention, Conan knew. The demon might fear steel, but he was big, strong, and hellishly fast; his claws would gut a man as easily as a handful of daggers would, and Conan had no intention of allowing the inhuman creature to lay those talons on his own hide. The Cimmerian whipped his sword back and forth, creating a deadly fan that sought the red flesh before him. The thing kept moving backward through the ruins of the fruit stall, and Conan followed, concentrating fully upon the fiend.

That concentration was a mistake. Conan stepped upon a crushed section of some greasy fruit and his leading foot shot out from under him. He lost balance and nearly fell. Only his quickness saved him then, for the demon reacted far faster than most men could have, lunging at his attacker with his giant right hand, the talons set to rend Conan's throat.

Even as he fell to one knee, Conan snapped his blade up in a short arc, releasing his grip with one hand to keep what balance he could.

Man-made steel met inhuman flesh and black bone, and . . . the ancient broadsword cleaved through the demon's wrist. A hellish right hand fell to the ground, smoking and dripping acidic ichor as it did so. The fingers of the severed extremity spasmed and relaxed several times, as if still somehow connected to the demonic muscles that previously controlled it.

The demon roared, a terrible noise that shattered nearby wine bottles and blew all other sounds from Conan's ears. As Conan sought to regain his own stance the maddened creature seemed to explode into motion: The now-handless arm swung at Conan, splattering the man with gore as the stump brushed aside the upraised sword, knocking the weapon from Conan's grasp. The barbarian managed to dive into a roll away from the demon's onslaught, and he came up with his own powerful arms widespread, ready to grapple with the one-handed attacker. Conan felt the foul breath of doom in his face; he knew he was no match for the demon with his bare hands, but he did not back away. By Crom, he would meet his end head-on and fighting!

As the demon gathered himself for his final lunge at Conan, a stream of blue fire suddenly splashed over his back and shoulders, blending with his red skin to form a purple haze. The child of the pit roared again, but the supernal glow only increased around him, sending ragged trails of smoke skyward as his skin began to char. Conan twisted to see the source of this blue fire, and beheld Vitarius, one hand extended toward the demon, the other laid upon the bare head of Eldia, who also glowed with essence of blue flame.

"No!" the tortured monster screamed. There came an eye-smiting flash of yellow and a danker shade of purple, and the demon vanished as abruptly as he had come.

Left behind was the demon's right hand, which twitched fitfully upon the cobblestones near Conan, as if still trying to reach the one responsible for its destruction.

Vitarius came to stand next to Conan, to stare down at the demon's hand. For a time neither man spoke. It fell to Conan, finally, to break the silence. "I think your explanation about being a simple conjurer is somewhat flawed, Vitarius. No small spell called that thing, nor did any illusion drive it away."

"True enough," the old man answered, looking tired. "An explanation is owed you, and I shall provide it. Were it not for you, Eldia would have been taken by Sovartus's enthralled one and the consequences of that do not bear contemplation."

"I await your tale."

"Aye, you shall have it. As you have surmised, Eldia and I are not precisely what we pretended upon our meeting in the Milk of Wolves inn.

I-" The old man stopped and jerked his head around. Save for Conan and himself, the road and stalls were empty. "Eldia! She is gone!"

Conan spun in a quick circle, looking for the girl. She was not to be seen. "The demon-" he began.

"No. He left alone! We must find her, Conan! If she is taken to Sovartus, she is doomed, as likely are many more. I swear to explain all this fully, but we must first retrieve the girl. You must trust me."

After the briefest of pauses, Conan nodded. He had no reason to believe Vitarius, since it was obvious the man had lied to him before: still, Conan was a man of action and so trusted his instincts more than his reason. No evil stench lurked about Vitarius and Eldia, and the demon would likely have killed him without their help. Conan retrieved his sword and waved it to point down the street. "I will take this direction; you go that way."

Vitarius nodded, and Conan loped off. He glanced back to see the old man pause long enough to collect the demon's hand and drop it into his belt pouch.

The bedchamber of Djuvula the Witch exploded into a cloud of bruised purple and yellow, leaving Djavul amid the smoke, clutching at the stump of his right arm with his remaining hand. The door to the chamber opened and the witch rushed in, alarmed by the sudden intrusion into her sanctum. "Demon-brother! What has happened?"

Djavul cursed with the power of Hell in his words. On the witch's bed the dark form of the unanimated simulacrum tossed from the force of those curses. Then the wounded demon said, "My hand!"

Djuvula seemed to relax somewhat. "Brother mine, why fret over such a thing? Another will grow to replace it-"

"Fool woman! It is not the hand, but the way in which it was lost! I am bound to Sovartus, a Mage of the Black Square-"

Djuvula sucked in a quick breath, startled.

"So, you know of this one," Djavul said, staring at his sister.

"Aye. A man of no small power, he."

"As I am in his thrall, I am well aware of that, flesh of my damned father. And I have failed in my attempt to do his bidding. That which I sought was guarded by a man of supernatural abilities. Instead of my taking his charge, he took my hand!"

"What would you have me do, brother-mine?"

"I must return to report my . . . difficulty to Sovartus. He will not be pleased. It would behoove me to be able to indicate I have some assistance forthcoming, perhaps even another plan for obtaining that which he seeks."

"We are blood-tied," Djuvula said, "and naturally I will aid you as I can."

"Good. Sovartus wishes to collect a girl-child known as Eldia-she is one of the Four, as you will know when you behold her. He already has the other Three. This one travels in the company of one of the White Magicians, possibly of the White Square, though I could not be certain.

And there is a large man of origin unknown to me with them. 'Twas he who cost me this." Djavul waved the handless stump. Already the wound had sealed itself into a smooth black glasslike stub.

Djuvula nodded, but the implications of what her demon brother had just spoken were not lost upon her. If Sovartus managed to hold sway over all of the Four children imbued with the power of the Four Ways, he would be the paramount force in magic upon Earth. If she could somehow strike a bargain with Sovartus for delivery of the remaining portion of his magical spell-this girl, Eldia-she could bask in some of his thus-earned power. And the man who separated Djavul from his hand, well, he sounded very much like a candidate for a spell of her own. She looked at the somnambulant form of her simulacrum, her Prince of the Lance.

She considered these things in a few heartbeats and then smiled at Djavul. "I will help you capture this child," she said. "Tell me, where did you leave her?"

Loganaro crouched under the cover of a fallen awning and watched the muscular barbarian run down the nearly empty street. The agent had arrived in the vicinity just in time to see the finish of Vitarius's performance. More than ever, Loganaro was convinced that Conan was the man for animating Djuvula's dream-lover. Certainly, this barbarian from far Cimmeria would be worth admittance to the witch's bed, if Senator Lemparius held him. Capturing him might be less than easily accomplished, however. It could be an expensive undertaking, Loganaro thought, and some of the coin needed would certainly find its way to his pouch.

The barbarian was too fast for him to follow, especially without cover to shield him from a casual backward glance, so Loganaro decided to append himself to the old magician instead. He felt certain that Conan would return to the white-haired one before long.

The sound of Conan's boots was loud upon the rough cobblestones of the street. It was growing darker as evening stole upon the scene, casting her nightly net. Conan's sharp blue eyes sent his penetrating gaze down each alley he passed, covering such passages from top to bottom with a single glance. Eldia was not to be seen.

As he ran past yet another of the building-bounded paths filled with the detritus of city life, Conan blinked and skidded to a halt. He raked the alley with a second look. Nothing moved in that dark rectangle; of that he was certain. Here stood a mound of trash-rags, scraps of animal skins, broken pottery-there, a stack of firewood. He beheld an alley like a dozen others he had passed in his run, and yet something within struck him as different. Some small thing intruded upon his senses, untouchable and yet somehow wrong.

There! A tiny flash of whiteness against the dark backdrop of the woodpile! Instantly, Conan knew it for the eye of a man, reflecting the now-risen moon's soft glow. He drew his sword and moved into the alley, the point of the heavy blade held aimed at the darkness-hidden bearer of the eyes he had seen.

As the barbarian's own sharp vision adjusted to the greater darkness of the alley, he made out a form squatting next to a pile of split kindling. The form arose and there shone the glint of moonlight upon steel as a short blade came up to point at Conan.

"Wait!" came a girlish voice. Eldia. "It is Conan, a friend. "

The form grew yet clearer in Conan's sight: a woman, her body nearly covering that of Eldia, standing behind her. The woman held her knife-a wavy-bladed dagger-aimed at the approaching man.

"Eldia, come forth into the light," Conan called.

"No," a woman's voice replied. This voice had the sound of honey upon steel, smooth and yet backed by hardness.

Conan stood motionless for a moment, then decided there was no danger here for him. He sheathed his blade and held his hands out to show their emptiness.

The woman took a step forward and the pale moonlight caressed her gently. She was perhaps eighteen, Conan judged, with jet-black hair that hung unbound to her waist. Her form was covered by a silken shirt and thin leather breeches, and upon her feet she wore thonged sandals of a fine cut. The body covered by these items was of a cut much finer than the sandals. The woman was lush of hip and leg, and beneath the thin blue silk of her shirt her breasts were full and heavy. There was something about her face, which was in itself flawlessly detailed, that seemed familiar to Conan. He knew he would hardly forget such a lovely woman had he seen her before, yet he was certain he knew that face . .

. .

Eldia moved into view, and Conan knew where he had seen the raven-haired beauty before: she was Eldia grown up into full womanhood.

The woman was too young to be Eldia's mother, so she must be-

"You are her sister," Conan said, voicing his thought as it came to him.

"Aye," the woman said. "And come to reclaim her from the villains who took her from our home."

Conan shrugged, his massive shoulders rising easily as he found it within himself to grin at the woman. "I took no one anywhere," he said.

"And it seems to me Eldia travels with Vitarius of her own accord."

The woman glanced toward the mouth of the alley, then back at Conan.

She raised the dagger a bit higher, clutching it tightly. Conan could see her knuckles whiten upon the haft of the weapon. "She was dragged screaming into the night," the woman said. "My father was slain, as was my mother. Before my mother died, she told me that Eldia was special, that she had brothers and a sister-my half-brothers and sister-of whom she had never told us. That whatever I did, I must find Eldia and hide her from those evil ones who desire her for their own wicked purposes."

Conan glanced at Eldia, who seemed content to allow her sister to speak. "And is Vitarius one of those evil ones?"

Eldia shook her head. "N-no, but-"

"It is all right, Eldia," her sister said. "You do not have to explain anything to this-this-barbarian."

"Someone is going to have to explain it," Conan said evenly. "I am tired of being made the fool in whatever games Vitarius and you two have mounted. We shall go back to this 'conjurer' and hear this tale outlined in its fullness."

"No," the woman said. "We are going home!"

"After I am satisfied with explanations of why I was attacked by a demon in a public square," Conan said, the anger rising in his voice.

"Now," Eldia's sister said, pushing the knife toward Conan. "Now, or I'll spit you and leave your carcass for the rats."

Without another sound Conan leaped at the woman. He caught her wrist as she tried to impale his throat upon her blade; he twisted the woman's arm hard, and she exclaimed and dropped the dagger.

Suddenly, the alley seemed to come to life. Small bodies slithered over the trash and woodpile; the scratchings of hundreds of tiny feet could be heard along with the gentle rasp of small forms moving everywhere.

Conan saw that the very walls and ground seemed to undulate in small waves.

"Crom!" He released the woman and moved back a pace, drawing his sword in a fluid and well-practiced move. But there was no single enemy to be faced here. Something touched Conan's boot, and he turned his fiery blue eyes downward to stare at the thing.

It was a salamander. The creature was no longer than Conan's middle finger, but it mounted his footgear with a kind of determination Conan found hard to credit. Such lizardlike things usually ran at the sight of men, but to judge from the sound, there must be hundreds of the things here in this alley. How had they gotten here? Why were they advancing upon him'?

"Hold!" Eldia said. The rustle of tiny feet stopped instantly. The single salamander upon Conan's boot froze as if transmuted into stone.

Eldia looked at her sister. "He saved my life on two occasions," she said. "And Vitarius means only to help me. We must allow him to have his explanation." She nodded toward Conan. "And you must hear what Vitarius has to say, sister, before we can go home. I was frightened by the demon earlier, otherwise I would have had you stay then."

Eldia looked at the salamander on Conan's boot. "Away," she said.

Obediently, the creature turned and wiggled away. Around them the sounds of other scurryings touched the night air; in a moment all was quiet again.

Conan stared at Eldia.

"Shall we go?" she said.

Conan and Eldia's sister looked at each other, and nodded. But Conan was not pleased with any of this. Not at all.

"Fool!" Sovartus screamed. "To be thwarted by an ordinary man!"

Djavul stood within the bounds of the black magician's pentagram, drawn up to his fullest height. "Nay, human mage, this was no ordinary man.

In a thousand years I have faced hundreds of men in mortal combat.

Their bones lie moldering in graves the world over. Never have I lost a death fight to any man. This man was more than most; more, he had magical help, else I would have triumphed over him despite his strength and skill. You face one of the White. Sovartus. "

"Vitarius!" Sovartus's voice was filled with anger.

"I know not his name, but he focused the power of Fire upon me, and the heat was not that which I could withstand."

"Damn you!"

"You are too late, magician. But all is not lost. I am brother to a human witch who has no small influence in the city that hides your quarry. You will have your child; I will have the man who did this."

Djavul raised his right arm and stared at the stump where his hand had been.

In the far depths of Castle Slott something screamed in hideous anticipation.

Chapter Six

The patrons in the Milk of Wolves Inn gave the four people seated at the table nearest the fireplace a wide berth. Conan suspected that some, if not all, of the people pretending to look everywhere else save at him and his companions had been present at the conjuring exhibition earlier. The Cimmerian did not blame them for being nervous; he himself felt no joy in the presence of those steeped in magic. The lethal flame in Conan's eyes burned low, but burn it did, as he listened to Vitarius's tale.

". . . Eldia was one of four children. Her mother, your mother, as well"-Vitarius pointed with his nose at the young woman seated across from Conan-"was ensorcelled by a powerful magician during her conception by him."

"You are saying I have a father other than the one I have known all my life?" Eldia's gaze was sharp and much harder than that usually seen in a child of her age.

"Aye. At your birth your mother was allowed to retain only one of her brood. Your father was Hogistum of the Gray Square, and he took the others and had them scattered across the world."

"Why?" Conan. Eldia, and the woman-Kinna, she called herself-all spoke at the same instant.

Vitarius sighed and shook his head. "It cannot be understood so easily.

Hogistum uncovered some ancient sorcery, weathered runes that came from a more primal time. He managed to decipher these writings and so learned how to link each of the Four Elements to a living soul. He was not an evil man, Hogistum, but he was curious. Of the Gray, he could work magic for black purposes or white, and usually, he tended toward the White. The Spell of Linkage was, in itself, neither good nor evil; it depended upon how it was used, once invoked. Hogistum had no intention of using it; he wished only to see if he could accomplish it.

At least this was what he claimed."

"How do you know this?" Kinna's voice was no less silken than Conan had noted before.

The old man hesitated for a moment, pausing to wet his lips with the wine cup in front of him on the rough table. "Hogistum had two students," he began. "One was his natural son, the other a pupil who had demonstrated magical aptitude but was of a low caste." Vitarius looked at each of the three faces in turn. "I was the low-caste pupil."

Conan nodded. No surprise there. Vitarius's attack upon the demon was explained, then.

Vitarius continued. "Since his own wife had died, Hogistum chose a young woman of his household, daughter of an old retainer, for his new bride. Upon this girl Hogistum worked his spell even as they lay together on the nuptial bed."

"How . . . vile!" Kinna said.

"I can see how you would think it so," Vitarius said. "In time, the birthing of four children occurred. Each of these babes was filled with power."

"I find this all hard to believe," Kinna said.

The old magician blinked like some ancient owl at the young woman. "Do you? In your life with your sister, have you not noticed certain . . .

abilities in her? Can anyone be cold in her presence? Is not her bed always warm, even on the coldest winter nights? And, of course, there are the salamanders."

The fire in Conan's eyes leaped a bit at this last statement. Aye, the girl had some truck with such creatures. Conan looked at Kinna, and saw that she nodded in spite of her obvious reluctance to believe what she was hearing.

"Eldia is one corner of the Square," Vitarius said. "She is the Child of Fire, flameweaver and Mistress of its beasts, the salamanders. Her sister, Atena, is the Child of Water, and through her the undines serve; her brothers are Luft, Child of Air and the wind-devils, and Jord, Child of Earth, Master of the demi-whelves and trolls. I did not make it so, but I speak it as it is."

Something had been gnawing ratlike at Conan's mind, something Vitarius had said earlier. The young man voiced it. "You spoke of another student, the natural son of Hogistum. Who is he? What has happened to him?"

Vitarius nodded as if expecting the question. "We speak of one you have had contact with, albeit indirectly. He owes you a horse."

"Sovartus?"

"Aye. He poisoned his own father and has spent the years since tracing and recovering the children Hogistum so carefully hid. He now has them all save Eldia."

"Hogistum was less than careful, it would seem." Conan toyed with his own cup of wine. "He is dead and his son's goal nearly accomplished."

"Aye. I managed to thwart him by taking Eldia from her captors before she could be tendered to him. I was too late for the others. Through them, he now influences three of the Square's Four Corners: Earth, Air, and Water. If he should complete the Square, he would have at his bidding a beast greater than the sum of the parts, a synergistic force Hogistum called the Thing of Power. This would be such a monstrous happening that even the gods would turn their faces away from it."

Conan shifted upon the bench, suddenly uncomfortable. Talk of magic always made him feel thus; such things as this men should leave alone.

Kinna leaned across the table, one more-than-ample breast brushing against the back of Conan's hand as she moved. "What are your intentions, then, Vitarius?"

The old magician sighed again. "I must protect Eldia, keeping her from Sovartus's clutches; more, I must somehow find a way to free the three children he holds."

"Can you do it?" Eldia said quietly. "Can you save my brothers and sister from my-my . . . half-brother?"

Vitarius shook his head. "I do not know. He is of the Black, and so wields powers I cannot; too, he commands the forces of Three Corners and I only One. I fear he is stronger than I. Sovartus, so it is said, even dares to practice base necromancy in his sorcery, calling upon the legions of the dead for certain spells. All I can do is try. I can do no more, and I will do no less."

Kinna leaned back and nodded. "Very well. I shall help you in any way I can. As long as Sovartus lives, Eldia is endangered. We must destroy him." Kinna looked at Conan. "What about you?"

Conan crossed his thick arms upon his chest and stared at the woman.

She was beautiful, but he wished no part of this.

"I travel to Nemedia," he said. "And I paused only long enough to earn an easier passage. I have been misled. I am not fond of liars, especially those who risk my neck without warning me, and I have less liking for practitioners of magic. I wish you well in your undertaking, but I am no longer a part of it."

Kinna glared at Conan, but Eldia only nodded, as did Vitarius. The mage said, "I cannot blame you, Conan, You have behaved bravely and we returned falsehood for it. We thank you for your help and wish you well in your journey."

Conan nodded and started to rise.

"But stay a moment," Vitarius said. "We owe you something for your trouble. There is the silver for this day's work, and a few coins besides, well-earned. And since I have held two rooms for this evening's rest, you are welcome to one of them, in further gratitude."

Conan took the coins, transferring them to his own pouch. "Aye, I'll use the room this night, deservedly."

The young Cimmerian turned and walked toward the doorway leading to the stairs and the lodging above the inn. The day had been long and he was tired.

The room was somewhat better appointed than the last in which Conan had slept, but not by much. A pallet stuffed with straw lay upon a much-worn and ratty carpet; a shuttered window could be opened out so that the room's occupants could behold the maze of streets three flights below. A nub of a taper burned in one corner of the room, sending the remains of smoky tallow toward the dark ceiling, but little light into the rest of the darkness. At least there were no rats buried within his bed, Conan noted. He pinched the candle wick and extinguished the small flame, then sprawled upon the pallet, his sword nearby. Sleep fell upon him like a cloak.

Like a cloak jerked away, sleep left the prone form of Conan a scant two hours later. The blue eyes flashed out a gaze that swept the dark room, but there was nothing to be seen, for the blackness was too thick even for the Cimmerian's sharp vision. He held his breath so that his hearing would work yet better, but the only sound was that of a small wind playing around the edges of the shuttered window and the creaks of the aging wood of the inn. And his own heartbeat sounded in his ears.

No danger was apparent, yet Conan trusted his instincts too well to ignore his wakefulness at this hour. He reached for his sword, feeling better once the stained leather handle was in his grasp.

Perhaps it was only the wind after all, he thought as he lay there.

When nothing else moved for a long time, Conan again slept, his hand still locked upon the hilt of his sword.

The darkness in Castle Slott was complete save for a musty yellow glow cast in a single room by a single lamp. Revealed in the fitful light stood Sovartus, his thin-fingered hands digging cruelly into the shoulders of one of three children chained to the damp and moldy wall.

Presently, a faint glow began to surround the bodies of the magician and his captive. At first the glow merely shimmered dimly; after a short while, however, the gleam of pale yellow light began to rival that of the lamp on the wall. In a few moments the boy and magician produced a source of illumination too bright to gaze upon without squinting. As Sovartus felt the boy's energies suffuse him, the magician laughed. Yes!

Wrapped in the folds of darkness outside of the Milk of Wolves Inn, Djuvula the Witch felt the wind tug at the edges of her black silk veil, stirring the cloth gently. She had determined that the child she sought was ensconced within, along with him of the White Square who was her protector. All it had cost her was money; a few silver coins spread around could oft work more miracles among men than could magic. Aside from the girl, Djuvula also sought some sign of the barbarian who had injured her demon-brother. Surely such a one must be a man with a powerful spirit. And a powerful heart.

The rising wind also tangled itself about the short form of Loganaro, hiding in the lee of an outhouse close to the inn in which Conan the Cimmerian slept. Loganaro impatiently awaited the arrival of the six cutthroats he had hired, paid for with gold from Senator Lemparius's bountiful purse. Surely the big youth could be taken by six men, no matter that some of them might be lost in the process. Such had been Lemparius's decision when Loganaro had reported that Conan had seemed upon the verge of departing the company of the old man, girl, and newly arrived woman. It had been hastily arranged; Loganaro would have preferred a longer time to select his crew, but one worked with what one was given. His major worry concerned not the taking of Conan, but the displeasure of Djuvula when she learned of his switch in allegiance, no matter he had little choice in the matter. This above all played upon his fears, and he wondered where Djuvula might be at the moment. And where those dimwitted cutthroats dallied.

On a dark street overshadowed by cluttered buildings and unkissed by the light of moon or man, a tawny shape walked. Dogs barked fearfully at the passage of the shape, perhaps startled by the scent of what was far too huge to be any street cat, though cat it surely was. Within the mind of the werepanther a laugh was formed, but when it erupted from between sharp white fangs, the laugh was something else entirely. The dogs of Mornstadinos went silent at the sound, as if they were afraid to draw the attention of the thing by further outcry.

The dogs need not have worried; the cat-which-was-also-a-man stalked a different prey than dogs: He had grown fond of the taste of a two-legged animal. The city was full of such. Six of those particular animals passed the cat in the darkness, blind to his presence. The werepanther allowed these six to move by unmolested, for beneath the feline brain the mind of the man knew they were about on his business.

And such business would bring him a different kind of pleasure than eating.

The normally peaceful slumber of Conan of Cimmeria was disturbed this night, and the powerful form of the barbarian turned restlessly upon the pallet of straw upon which he lay. He came to wakefulness once again, but once more could identify no threat to him. A dream. he thought, must have infiltrated his sleep. As he fell back asleep the second time that night, only the sound of the night wind came to his ears. Outside, it sounded as if a storm were rising.

Chapter Seven

The wind howled through the streets of Mornstadinos, searching out every hollow that could announce its passage. Gusts of damp air rattled loose objects and sent trash flying before it. The rain, when it came, exploded upon the cobblestones in fat drops, immediately drenching anything or anyone unprotected from the storm. Lightning turned the night into day in a series of instants; thunder followed in the darkness, booming like the angry grumbles of some irritated god. The storm, undetected by the bone aches of the weather-sayers, unleashed its torrents upon the city with a rare tropical fury usually unknown to the region.

"Mitra curse this rain!" said one of the cutthroats standing in the scant shelter of a roof overhang across the street from the Milk of Wolves Inn. Three or four of his companions echoed his comment before Loganaro silenced them with a withering glare.

"Are you cakes of spice who will dissolve under a little rain?"

Loganaro said.

"Nay," the cutthroat answered, "but this be no small shower, pursemaster. The rats'll be drowning this night."

"Concern yourself not with rats," Loganaro said. "You are not paid to worry over them, but to fetch me the man who lies sleeping yonder."

Loganaro pointed toward the inn.

The cutthroat, a swarthy man of Zamorian ancestry with a patch of leather covering one sightless eye, nodded. "Aye, that be true," Patch said. "But my mates and me would have words wi' ye regarding our . . .

arrangement." The man spoke in a heavy foreign accent laced with a polyglot patois.

Loganaro regarded the man. "Words? What words?"

"There be a story that this 'un you wants be the same man who played sword against the red monster some seen in the square during the winemaker's party."

"And what if he is? Do the six of you fear one man?"

"Nay, man, not fear; respect it be. They say this 'un be devil quick and strong as a bear to boot. If these things be true, my mates and me figures it be likely this 'un won't go easy. So maybe there ought to be a bit more grease."

Loganaro ground his teeth together. "How much more?"

Patch grinned, showing his own crooked yellow teeth. "Ah, a gold piece each would sit well."

"No doubt it would. We have an agreement for twelve gold solons for the job."

"That be before. Now we figure eighteen."

"Impossible. I might manage another two silver pieces each."

Patch shrugged. "The rain be cold; just as well we're shut of it."

Patch started to turn away.

"Two gold coins more," Loganaro said, angry with the man.

"Five," Patch returned.

Loganaro thought of the man he had seen slain in the dungeon under the Senate, and swallowed. A hard gust of wind blew rain against his back; cold water trickled down under his collar and along his neck. He thought about trying to bargain further, hating to lose more of his money to this thug, but decided against it. All the gold in Corinthia would be worthless were he not around to gloat over it. He took a deep breath. "Done. Five solons more. When you deliver the barbarian."

Patch showed his crooked teeth again. "Aye."

The fury of the storm seemed to wane for a moment. Loganaro waved toward the inn. "Do it, then. Now."

The six men darted from under the overhang and ran toward the inn, splashing through puddles already as big as small ponds.

Djuvula hurried toward her manse, cursing the rain. She hated to leave the surveillance she had undertaken upon the inn, but she could not abide the rain. There was no chance the old man and girl would be going anywhere in this night, in any event. She could return on the morrow.

The panther snarled, but the sound was lost in a giant's drumbeat of thunder. His fur was rain-matted, and the cat was not happy. Such weather kept his prey indoors and well-shuttered against intrusion.

Those unable to afford inns or houses were more difficult to locate, since the torrential rain washed much of their scent from the air.

Prowling under the downpour was a muddy business and less than enjoyable.

The panther turned away from his hunt and scurried toward one of many places especially prepared for his night roamings. This one was no more than a shed for storage of wool, but it offered shelter and a hidden cache of clothing suitable for a senator wishing to be incognito.

In the privacy of the shed, that which was a cat growled as it began to stretch joints and ligaments unnaturally, altering itself from a beast that walked on four legs to one of those who, moments earlier, had been its prey.

Conan had no fear of storms, but once again he lay awake, gripping his sword tightly. This time a sound in the corridor outside his room was apparent even over the tempest raging outside the inn. A soft footstep upon a loose board.

The barbarian came lightly to his feet and moved quickly toward the door. He threw the simple latch up, jerked the door open, and, in a single bound, leaped into the hall, sword held ready to strike.

Conan found himself facing a single figure wrapped in a thin blanket.

Kinna.

Conan lowered the sword, staring at the young woman. The blanket she wore covered much of her, but allowed most of her long legs freedom in the night air. Most shapely legs, Conan saw, with an underlying muscle he found instantly attractive.

Kinna seemed to note Conan's interest and tried to move the blanket to cover her limbs; this action allowed more of her upper body an air bath, however, including a glimpse of her full breasts before she hurriedly recovered them.

Conan grinned. "Why are you about at this hour?"

"I-I heard a noise at my window. A strange sound."

"We are three floors from the ground," Conan said. "It is less than likely anything could be playing at your shutters. The wind, no doubt."

Kinna nodded, sending a ripple through her long black hair. "So I thought. Once awake, I could not find sleep again. So I came out here to . . ." She trailed off and looked embarrassed.

"To what?" Conan asked, curious.

Kinna glanced down the hallway toward the night chamber, colored briefly, but spoke not.

Conan followed her gaze, then understood. Ah, women. To be embarrassed by such a thing as a visit to the night chamber was a thing he had never understood. Everyone had the same natural need; why should it bother anyone?

The silence between them grew, stretching to awkwardness. Conan felt no need to fill the quiet with words; still, he was awake and fully alert.

So he said, "This noise did not disturb your sister or Vitarius?"

"No. She sleeps the sleep of the innocent, and he rests as though practicing for his Final Slumber."

"Ah. Since I am up, perhaps you would like me to examine your window for the source of this noise?"

Conan saw sudden relief in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a more cynical glint. "Nay. Do not trouble yourself on our account. I would not delay your journey to Nemedia." She sounded angry.

Conan shrugged. "As you wish." He turned to go back into his room.

"Wait," Kinna said, touching his shoulder with one hand. Her touch was warm against his skin. "Forgive me. I offer rudeness where none is deserved. Eldia told me how you saved her from the assassin in this place earlier, and I myself saw you stand between her and the demon. I cannot blame you for wishing to go about your own life instead of continuing to risk it for our sakes."

Conan looked at her. She was a most attractive woman; she also kept her hand on his arm.

"I would like you to inspect my window after all." She smiled. "And, perhaps, afterward, we might also inspect the shutters in . . . your room?"

For a moment Conan failed to understand. He nearly blurted out that nothing was wrong with his shutters. Then he saw Kinna's smile, and he understood. He returned her grin. "Aye," he said.

Conan stepped lightly over the recumbent form of Eldia and around that of Vitarius, using the light of the taper Kinna held. He reached the shuttered window and looked at it. Nothing amiss there. He turned toward Kinna, already anticipating the short trip across the hall to his room. "Shield the flame," he commanded in a whisper. With that, Conan opened the shutters and stared into the rainy night.

Lightning flared twice in quick succession, driving away the darkness and giving the barbarian a good view of the walls and lower rooftops nearby. Save the storm, the night was empty as far as he could tell. He started to close the slatted wood strips.

The inn began to rattle, as might a wall under a barrage of rocks by small boys; Conan felt his hands and arms pelted, and he muttered a quick oath.

Startled, Kinna said, "What-?"

"Hail," Conan answered. "As big as grapes."

The clatter increased, and a sudden fierce blast of wind and ice tore the shutters from Conan's loose grasp. "Bel's eyes!" Conan leaned out and reached for the free-swinging shutters, receiving a pounding of hailstones for his trouble. He managed to snare one of the shutters and was reaching for the second when the wind slackened and the hail stopped. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets, and there came a sound, louder because of the relative silence following the stoppage of hail. At first Conan thought the new sound thunder, but he quickly discarded that notion; the noise was continuous.

Kinna joined the Cimmerian at the window. "What is that?"

Conan shook his head. "I know not-" he began. Then the lightning flashed again and revealed the source of the rumble: A tornado approached, twisting through the city, destroying everything in its path. The rampaging funnel looked to be heading directly toward the inn.

Someone moved behind Conan. Vitarius's voice cut through the wind and rain. "What do you see out there?"

Conan pointed wordlessly. The lightning seemed to have stopped for the moment, but there was no need of it; within the funnel of the tornado discharges played almost continuously, giving the twirling wind a bluish-yellow glow of its own, a ghostly, eerie luminescence unlike anything Conan had ever observed. "Crom," Conan said softly, "a devilwind."

Vitarius took in the sight. "Of that you may be certain, but it is no natural thing. Watch how it moves in a straight line along its path; no ordinary spinner does that. What you see before you is Sovartus's doing. He unleashes the power of Air against us. Fire will not stop it.

We must flee, or when the storm leaves, it will bear us with it!"

Kinna leaped to rouse Eldia while Vitarius gathered up his pack containing his magical gear. Conan continued to watch the tornado cut an arrow's line toward the inn.

"We need a cellar or sewer," Conan said.

"Not for this storm," Vitarius said, shouldering his pack. "It will simply stand and dig us out like moles. Our only hope is to get behind it; even Sovartus and his control of Air cannot reverse the direction of a storm so easily. We must move at angles to the wind and then into it before the funnel can tack to find us."

The four made their way down the dark stairs and into the main room of the inn. A pair of guttering fat lamps cast their luminous flux over the dank walls, giving enough light for Conan to see the exit. "This way," he commanded.

At that instant the door opened and a half-dozen men burst into the room. Each was armed either with a sword or long dagger; several of the rough lot bore ropes as well. The man leading wore an eyepatch, but there was nothing wrong with his remaining eye, for he jerked to a halt and pointed at Conan. "There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, I reckons. "

Blades flashed in the faint lamplight as the six men moved apart from one another and toward Conan. The Cimmerian never paused to wonder at the cause of this new danger; he merely drew his own broadsword and moved to meet it.

"Time, Conan, we do not have time!" Vitarius waved his hands vaguely in the air.

Conan grinned tightly, but did not look away from his adversaries. "I shall hurry as best I can."

Two of the men blocked the exit; the rest fanned out, trying to encircle Conan. The barbarian grinned. This was his kind of fight, steel and muscle, not magic. He picked a target, a wolf-faced man bearing a short sword. Conan hesitated not an instant, but sprang with feral grace at the man, swinging the broadsword in a two-handed sweep across his body. Wolf-face raised his blade, but too slowly; Conan's cut tore a furrow across the man's throat which showed for an instant the villain's spine. The man gurgled and fell backward.

A second man attacked Conan from the rear, swinging his sword overhead in a body-splitter strike. Conan turned and blocked, tensing the sinews of his thick arm. Steel kissed steel, and the two blades sang together; Conan's arm moved not at all, and the man lost his balance as he recovered from the failed stroke. Conan slid forward, the point of his weapon leading, and skewered the back-striker just under the breastbone. Conan raised one foot and shoved the falling body from his blade with his boot. He spun, to face two more attackers moving in together. Conan set himself to spring; better to attack before they could gather their wits to coordinate themselves-four was the most dangerous number of opponents.

The inn shook then, as if swatted by a giant's hand.

"Conan! The devilwind!" That from Kinna.

"Ow, I'm cut!" one of the men guarding the door screamed in pain, drawing the attention of the pair set to attack Conan.

The Cimmerian looked that way, to see little Eldia hacking away at the man with her weapon. Her speed was dazzling, and the man bore only a long dagger, with which he was ineffectually trying to protect his legs. Even as Conan watched, the girl darted in and sliced the man's leg again.

"Brat!" the man yelled, but he backed away from the door, nearly bumping into his fellow.

Vitarius was trying to work some kind of spell, Conan saw, mumbling and waving his arms; there was no effect apparent to the brawny Cimmerian.

He turned back to the two men facing him and moved on them, weaving a deadly pattern of razor-sharp edges.

The man with the eyepatch tried to circle outside Conan's reach, but the Cimmerian followed him, avoiding the second man, who was too fat to move quickly. The fat man was breathing hard as he tried to bring his sword into play against Conan's side.

The inn shook again, and the sound of the wind and fight was joined by that of voices yelling from up the stair. With a howl of joy Conan jumped for One-eye, blade whirling.

Loganaro watched the approach of destruction, feet frozen by his awe.

Never in all his travels had he seen such a storm; that it was unnatural seemed all too obvious. Who had sent the terrible whirlwind, and why, also flitted across his mind, but that thought was quickly chased away by the fear of dying amid a hail of debris. His cutthroats could look to themselves for survival; the barbarian was not so important as living for a short time more. Loganaro turned and sprinted away from the oncoming disaster. He would worry about what to tell Lemparius later.

Djuvula was nearly home when she saw the magically created monster wind rip its way through the maze of Mornstadinos like a ferret seeking a particular rat. Her occult eye immediately noted the storm for what it was, and it was only the work of a second to realize by whom it had been sent, as well. Hurriedly, the witch turned and began to run back toward the inn, splashing through the gutters and driving rain. If Sovartus's tame whirlwind collected the girl, Djuvula would lose a chance to increase her powers. More, there was the brave-hearted barbarian to consider. Of course, he was less important; Loganaro had another candidate for her, but of his opinion she was less than certain. Any man who could take the hand from a demon and survive had to be more than ordinary. But the girl was paramount in her interest.

Stalking in the wake of destruction walked a giant figure, unseen by the eyes of men. Red the figure was, and one-handed. It muttered to itself as it walked, the rumble of its voice merging with the thunder.

"You think wrongly, magician, if you think to cheat me of my revenge by employing other means to your evil ends. I will have this man!"

The walls of the Milk of Wolves Inn began to moan, as if in anticipation of their destruction. The exit door was blown open violently, tearing itself nearly from its crusty brass hinges; the sign marking the name of the place crashed to the ground and pinwheeled through the open doorway. The wolf salient had finally leaped; it came to rest against a table.

Conan had backed One-eye into a corner, and the man was fighting for his life. The pair of blackguards with daggers had been driven from the doorway by Eldia's small but deadly sword, assisted by the dagger of her sister; finally, Vitarius must have managed to get some kind of magic to work, for the fat assassin screamed as he began to glow redly, and to float half a span from the floor.

Vitarius yelled, to be heard over the heavy thunder created by the whirlwind which was nearly upon them.

"Conan! We must leave! Now!"

The Cimmerian made no answer, but lunged instead at One-eye. The man managed to block the sword, but in so doing, opened his head to attack.

Conan curled the fingers of his right hand into a huge fist and slammed it against the man's jaw. The bone snapped and the man was flung half his length backward. to smack into the now-vibrating wall. He slid to the floor, unconscious. Conan turned. "Go! Get out!"

Vitarius obeyed, leaving the fat man floating and screaming. Eldia and Kinna backed away from the two cutthroats with daggers, who showed no inclination to pursue them as Conan ran toward the door, waving his gore-smeared sword.

Outside, the wind struck the four with such force that for a moment they could make no headway. Conan alone could fight the blasts of the storm, but even his great strength would not be enough to tow an old man and two sisters against the wind.

Vitarius waved madly, his voice lost in the tempest. Conan understood what he wanted: They must move along the building, using it for support.

The four people seemed to be flies sticking to the wall, but they managed to creep along until they reached the corner of the building.

There Conan led the way around the edge, his arm linked to Kinna's. She in turn held her sister, who clasped Vitarius's bony wrist. The wind shoved the human chain down the street like so many leaves. They ran so fast, Conan almost lost his footing. He remembered, however, what Vitarius had said earlier: They must run aslant to the oncoming twister and get behind it. After moving a short way down the street, Conan ducked into the lee of a temple, dragging the trio with him. He paused long enough to allow them to catch their breath.

A portion of some building blew by in the street, torn from a structure. Conan pointed and yelled, "That way!"

They ran, gathering their energies when they had to leave the protection of houses or fences, leaning into the wind.

Behind them, the devilwind changed direction, so that only its edge sliced into the Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan turned to stare at the rampaging black monster, still reflecting its own ghostly light. He saw the bodies of the cutthroats fly into the air, spinning into the maw of the tornado. There was one he had slain; there went the fat man. He did not see the man with the patch. He did see that the storm tried to pursue them and so redoubled his efforts. Through it, Conan felt no real fear; rather it was the challenge of beating the storm that drove him. By Crom, no storm was as agile as a Cimmerian!

The wind tried to turn, but the clouds from which it dragged its sucking tip could not adjust their path so easily. The storm angled toward them, but slowly. When Conan judged they were far enough, he turned again, heading more into the wind. Debris smacked into him, but he held fast to the woman behind him. digging his boots deeply into the churned mud of the street. At one point Vitarius slipped; such was the wind that for an instant he floated flaglike from the taut arm of Eldia. Fortunately for him, the girl's grip was strong, else he would have been blown away.

The tornado raged, ripping the houses and stables and temples asunder, shredding planks as if they were straw, driving the resulting straws like spears to impale all before them. A stick of wood penetrated a thick fence post in front of him as if the stick were steel and the post no more than butter. The whirlwind seemed to stretch, to try to reach its quarry, brushing aside obstacles as easily as a man brushes crumbs from a table. Such a force seemed unstoppable; indeed, nothing man-created could withstand it. After what seemed several lifetimes, the Cimmerian drew level with the wind-devil; several lifetimes later, he was past-and behind it.

The tornado seemed to stand still: it tried to move back along its path. Conan held his breath, watching. After a moment. one stretching very long, the funnel began to move again, away from the young Cimmerian and the others.

The storm had been defeated. In a moment the swirling clouds overhead lifted their dragging tail of destruction, and the whirlwind was reclaimed. Gone.

Chapter Eight

Conan saw the demon first. The wind died slowly after the clouds sucked their whirling maw skyward: gone the tornado might be, but not the rain and ordinary airs of the storm. Conan led Vitarius, Eldia, and Kinna across the path left by the wind-beast, a path much like a road cut through a forest. Following the whirlwind's trail was the red demon, who saw Conan near the same instant he himself was spotted by the man.

Despite the lashing rain, the Cimmerian could observe the demon's face as it contorted in hatred. Conan drew his sword as the monster turned and began to sprint toward him.

"Vitarius!" This from Eldia, who pointed at the approaching devil.

The old magician turned and beheld the scene. Quickly, he laid one hand upon the head of the girl; the other hand he raised and pointed at the fast-arriving creature.

The demon skidded to a stop twenty paces away. "No," he said loudly.

"Score me not with your Fire's tongue again."

Vitarius hesitated. He looked at Conan.

The Cimmerian shook his head. "Nay," he said. "He would speak, I think.

Allow him."

The demon drew himself up to his full impressive height. "I would have you know my name," he said. "You are of the White, and so cannot use it against me even were I not bound to another. I am Djavul."

Conan never lowered his blade a hair. "Why should we care, demon?"

Rivulets ran down the sharp steel onto his hands.

"I am bound against you, wasp. but even were I not, your life is still forfeit under any circumstances. You owe me for this." Djavul raised his arm and extended the stump toward Conan. "Because you have done what no other man has ever done in injuring me so, I would have you know the name of the one who sends you to the gray lands. Ah, but very slowly you shall make the transition, wasp."

Vitarius raised his hand and aimed it at the demon, but Conan shook his head. "Nay, I say again, magician. I have my blade; I need not your protection. Let him come." The young giant shifted his stance, spread his legs wider for balance, and gripped the wet leather handle of the broadsword tighter. "You have been stung once, Djavul of Hell; come, I shall sting you again." Conan shook rain from his eyes.

Djavul looked from Conan toward Vitarius and Eldia, then back at the Cimmerian. "I think not, wasp."

"The magician stays out of it," Conan said inching forward slightly.

Mud squished under his boots.

Djavul laughed. "Trusting the words of men has led more than one night-child into foolishness. This is not the time or place. But I will see you again wasp." Djavul flicked a red-eyed glance back at Vitarius.

"And you as well, White one."

Abruptly, there came a clap of noise that rivaled the storm's thunder, and Djavul vanished.

With the rain still falling upon them, Conan turned to glare at Vitarius. "It would seem that I have made an enemy for myself. "

"The fault is mine," Vitarius said.

"It would seem you have made more than one enemy, Conan." This from Kinna, who stood staring at the spot where Djavul had vanished.

The Cimmerian looked at her. "How so?"

"Those men who attacked us as we left the inn. They came for you, not for us. Recall what the patch-eyed man said?"

Conan brought the memory forth: There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, l reckons. Kinna was right. But-why had they come for him? He had no enemies in this place save the hellspawn, Djavul. The devil wanted him, to be sure, but it seemed unlikely he would have sent human cutthroats to do his bidding. Who had sent them, then? It was a puzzle, a mystery, and Conan liked such things not.

"Perhaps we would be better served to get out of the rain," Vitarius said. "We might sort things out just as well dry as wet."

"Aye," Conan said, but his disquiet remained.

Djuvula watched her brother rage at the beautiful man with the sword, smiling as she did so. Ah, yes, this one was surely the one she sought.

Her gaze covered the barbarian lovingly, despite the rainy darkness.

Such thick, smooth muscle he had, and such a wonderful rage simmered in his flashing blue eyes as he faced Djavul with only a sword. His heart would drive her Prince as no other heart had been able to move him.

Yes.

Djavul vanished to Gehanna. Djuvula slid back into the cover of soaked hay bales, stacked head-high. It would not do for them to see her just yet. For a moment Djuvula's mind warred with itself: so much to have!

Here was the girl, the essence of Fire: the child glowed with it as a beacon lit to guide ships in fog-at least to one able to see such things, as a witch of power could. And the barbarian with the beautiful body, ah, how she wanted him!

Her smile increased. Perhaps she might allow this man that which she had given up on in other men, before she excised his mighty heart. Who knew? Such a barbarian might be possessed of vital energies beyond ordinary limits. She could . . . utilize him for a time before animating her Prince. Certainly he looked capable . . . .

Djuvula shook her head, as if to clear away the fantasy within by her action. She should think of the girl first. Then she laughed softly to herself. Why not slay two birds with the same stone? If she exercised care, she could have the girl and the man together. It would not be easy; the White Mage had demonstrated his power to Djavul before, and the witch could see the fear in her brother's eyes as he faced the old man again. No, it would have to be carefully done, using guile instead of force. Even as she thought it, Djuvula began to think of a plan.

Yes, a plan that would allow her to use her very special talents . . .

.

Senator Lemparius shed his wet clothes and went directly to the hot bath-kept ever so, awaiting his pleasure. As he sank into the water the warm vapors swirled around his head, bringing the scent of crushed mint to his nostrils. Ah . . .

One of the deputies scurried into the room, bowing as he came. "My lord Senator," the man began, "a terrible windstorm has wreaked much damage to the city, killing dozens of citizens."

Lemparius shrugged within the womb of blissful heat. "So? What is done is done; why disturb my bath for such?"

The deputy appeared undisturbed by the senator's lack of concern. "The man who brought this news awaits without, to speak to you of a matter related to this disaster."

"Send him away." Lemparius managed to raise one hand languidly to wave at the deputy; vapor rose from his skin into the cooler air of the bathchamber.

"As you command, my lord. The man would have you know his name, however. He calls himself Loganaro."

Senator Lemparius smiled. "Ah, there is a beast of a different strain.

Admit him."

As the deputy left, Lemparius sank yet deeper into the perfumed water, until his nose was barely clear of the liquid. A shame cats hated the water so.

Loganaro entered the chamber. The man was muddy and bedraggled, his face filled with a mix of ratlike cunning and fear.

The senator bobbed up slightly, clearing his mouth. "Where have you deposited my barbarian? You have collected him by this time?"

"Honored Senator, there was a complication-"

"Complication? Speak not of such! Complications in my service most often lead to ultimate simplification, if you understand my meaning?"

The fat man swallowed. Water still dripped from his gray hair. "It-it could not have been foreseen, lord! A windstorm arose even as my minions collected the barbarian. The inn containing them was demolished, smashed, and scattered; there was nothing to be done!"

Lemparius sat up in the bath and pointed one sharp fingernail at his agent. "I hope you are not telling me my prey was sucked up by a storm."

"N-nay, Honored Senator. My . . . collectors were; somehow, the Cimmerian and his friends escaped."

"Where, then, are they?"

"My agent follows them currently; he will report back to me as soon as they alight."

Lemparius relaxed a little, sinking into the massive tub. "Then I see no complication. Merely a delay. As soon as this man settles; you shall simply . . . retrieve him, eh? Only take care that this Cimmerian stays within your grasp, Loganaro mine. Otherwise there is that simplification of which I spoke. A state of being ever so much more simple than one so complex as, say, living and breathing."

Loganaro swallowed and nodded, his damp pale face going more ghostly.

When he had gone, Lemparius smiled. He took a deep breath and sank beneath the water, staying long enough for the warmth to caress his closed eyes and soak his hair. When he came up for air, he was still smiling.

Castle Slott rang with the shouts of its master. "Set curse them all!

By the Eternal Fires, I will have her!"

The three children iron-linked to the cold wall shrank back, as if they could sink into the stone away from Sovartus's wrath.

Sovartus flashed a grimace filled with hatred at the three, concentrating his gaze particularly upon Luft, the boy of Air. "You resisted me somehow," the magician said. "Else that wind would have drawn my quarry up and delivered her to me. I shall remember this, never fear."

With that, Sovartus stalked away from the three, his mind whirling with schemes for achievement of his goal. He muttered to himself as he moved. "Where rests my demon? If he cannot win the girl, he can at least find her and watch her! And what have I done with my casting sphere? Ah, may the Black-Souled Ones take everyone!"

The place was a shed for storage of dried meat and fish, hardly fit accommodations for men; still, it was dry under the solid roof. Crowded into the small cleared space beneath hanging racks of jerky and smoked fish, Conan stood glowering at Vitarius. The old man spoke.

"I cannot say who sent the assassins, if that was their intent. Because of the ropes they carried, I suspect the unfortunates intended to capture you."

Conan shook his head, fanning his damp black hair away from his face.

"There is no sense to that," he said. "I am unknown in these parts; no one would have reason to hold me."

"An old enemy, perhaps?" Kinna said this as she tried to light a stub of candle from a flint-and-steel she worked. Sparks flared in the shed, falling like shooting stars.

"Most of my enemies lie dead," Conan said. "None who live would bother to follow me this far from where I earned their enmity."

One of Kinna's sparks touched the greasy wick of the candle, appeared to smolder for a moment, then went out. Conan thought she uttered a curse, but her voice was too quiet for even his ears to understand what she said.

Almost absently. Eldia raised her finger and pointed it at the candle.

The stub of wax and string lit seemingly of its own accord, casting shadows to the walls and ceiling of the shed.

"So," Kinna said, looking away from the candle at Conan, "what will you do now?"

He considered his choices. He still cared little for practitioners of sorcerous arts. White. Black, or any other color: a quick exit from this city would serve his purposes well enough. Numalia beckoned, and there was certainly no profit to be had in staying here to contest with demons and magicians, not to mention the unknown master of the cutthroats dispatched by wind and blade to their destinies.

On the other hand, Conan felt a perverse stubbornness rising in him, a feeling of rage at being threatened. No matter that the hellish demon had reason for anger, nor that the master of the cutthroats now had similar reasons-his minions were scattered meat, no more. Conan had been minding his own affairs and had been provoked; such provocation deserved no less than he had given. Likely a prudent man would interpret such attacks as a sign from his patron gods to travel elsewhere at a goodly pace. Cimmerians were not, however, always prudent. Conan's anger at those responsible for causing him such discomfort was great; those who held Crom as their deity could not be faint-hearted. Crom was a hard god who offered little to his followers: he was savage, gloomy and dealt in death; more, Crom hated weaklings and cowards above all. Crom dispensed courage and will, taken in with life's first breath from out the womb. A man did not honor Crom by running from danger, no matter how great.

Conan stared at the trio gathered around the light of the single candle. He was bound for Nemedia, to be certain, and he did not like magicians, but there were matters to be attended to here.

The others waited for Conan to speak. At last, he did.

"It seems as if we are allies for a time," the Cimmerian said. his voice nearly a growl. He liked it little, but there it stood. He focused on Vitarius. "I trust you have some plan for defeating our mutual enemy?"

The old mage smiled. "Of a sort, Conan. Of a sort."

Chapter Nine

Loganaro found himself beset by a large problem: Where was the barbarian? That he had lied to Lemparius bothered Loganaro not a whit; he had seen Conan flee the destroyed inn, even as he had made good his own escape. Unfortunately, there had been no agents following the Cimmerian in the midst of that tempest.

Such a lie was simply an elementary precaution Loganaro had long since learned to take when dealing with powerful men. Conan had somehow escaped and still lived; therefore, he could be located, in time. If, however, Lemparius had suspected that Loganaro had lost the barbarian, events might have taken a decided turn in the direction of . . .

simplification, a term that left no doubt in Loganaro's mind as to its meaning.

The short figure hurried through the dampness of the early morning, only now beginning to be awash in the rays of the rising sun. The storm had done much to rearrange whole streets and alleys; Loganaro picked his way toward what had been the Milk of Wolves Inn.

Even though the full might of the whirlwind had not struck the inn, there was left little to proclaim it so. The wooden bones of the inn lay mostly scattered; only a single wall remained, standing guard over the pile of rubble. Loganaro felt drawn to this wall, even as he wondered why he had returned to this place. He had a network of informants second to no other free agent in Mornstadinos; he should be locating runners to put forth the word on the barbarian, alerting his eyes and ears to the search. For some reason, however, he was here.

A few stunned men and women wandered about in the wreckage, searching for survivors and, perhaps, lost possessions. Loganaro watched them for a short while, then decided his own time was being wasted here. He turned to leave.

The rubble issued a groan. Or, rather, someone under the rubble moaned.

Mildly curious, Loganaro moved toward the source of the sound. As he neared an overturned table, the free agent saw a hand scrabble up and shove at the remains of what had been a wall.

While Loganaro seldom performed any act without considering the gain for himself, he did so now. He bent and pulled at the impedimenta covering the owner of the hand. After a moment the face of the man under the debris became visible: It was Patch, one of Loganaro's cutthroats. Loganaro helped the man dig free, noticing that the Zamorian seemed unscathed save for a swollen jaw.

"What happened?" Patch mumbled painfully.

"You do not know?"

"I remember nothing but the big man. He be a formidable foe, right enough. Where be the others?"

"There was a twisting storm which took them. It did this." Loganaro waved one fat arm at the ruined inn.

"Got the barbarian, this twister?"

"Nay. He escaped with his friends."

Patch nodded, gently rubbing his swollen jaw. "Then you be still seeking the big man." It was not a question.

"Aye. And the reward has been raised." Loganaro had not thought of this before he said it, but he had no desire to leave life just yet. He had accumulated a great deal of ill-gotten monies, and the thought of profit on this venture no longer drove him as much as the fear of joining his ancestors prematurely. "Thirty pieces of gold."

Patch nodded, wincing. "Aye, a goodly sum, but who claims it shall have to earn it. Two, maybe three of my men lay dead 'fore the big man felled me. The whirlstorm claimed more dead than living here. This one you be seeking owes me."

"Alive," Loganaro said. "He must be taken alive."

"Aye, alive it be, but maybe some damaged."

Loganaro nodded. Patch was reputed to be one of the best men in Mornstadinos at this kind of work; it would not hurt for him to have a personal stake in retrieving Conan.

"Collect him within the next two days and there will be a bonus of five solons for you personally," Loganaro said.

Patch tried to grin, then apparently thought better of it as he clapped a hand to his swollen jaw. "Aye, pursemaster, you'll have your barbarian. Alive."

"Since it would seem that others seek us, in addition to Sovartus and his demon-thrall, it might be best if we stayed out of sight as much as possible until we can implement our plan," Vitarius said.

Conan leaned against a rack of dried fish and chewed with less than enthusiasm on a chunk of jerky. The meat was salty and dry; he wished for some wine to wash the leathery beef down. Might as well wish for a palace in Shadizer while you are at it, Conan thought. Aloud, he said, "I see flaws in your plan, old one."

Kinna took a piece of dried fish from the point of her sister's blade and regarded it with mild distaste. She said, "What flaws?"

"Our master magician purports that we leave the city soonest, mounted and well-supplied, for a journey to beard the lion in his den. A direct assault is to my liking, but I question how we are to become affluent enough to afford this journey. Have we gold or silver of which I am unaware?"

Conan looked at the three faces in turn, seeing negative shakes and raised eyebrows for his answer.

"I thought not. How, then, do you propose we obtain fine horses, saddles, and sundry supplies? Will you create such with your magic'?"

"Ah," Vitarius said, "unfortunately, no. White spells generally allow the worker little for personal gain."

"A pity. If one must deal with magic, it is too bad one cannot benefit." Conan grinned and picked at his teeth with his dagger's point, clearing away bits of meat. "Now it seems we come to something that falls into my area of expertise. "

Eldia speared a chunk of dried fish with her blade, flipped it into the air, and caught it in her mouth. She chewed lustily, obviously enjoying the tidbit. "How so, Conan?"

Conan paused long enough to open the door of the drying shed, to allow the morning's light into the dank room. The sun shone brightly from an ice-blue, cloudless sky. He looked back at the trio. "Tell me, who are the richest two or three men in the city?"

Vitarius scratched his cheek, considering. "Well, Tonore the rug merchant certainly would be one; then either Stephanos of Punt, the landlord, or Lemparius the Whip, I would think. Why?"

Conan ignored the question, asking yet another instead: "How do these men keep their wealth? Gold? Jewels?"

"Tonore's money is tied up in his wares mostly. He has a collection of carpets from as far away as Iranistan and Zembabwei. Too, he collects works of art, statues and paintings mostly. Stephanos is a landowner, and I would say most of his wealth consists of inns, brothels, and other such properties. Likely somewhat reduced since last eve's devilish storm. "

"What of Lemparius the Whip? And what does that mean?"

"He is the Center Strand of the Senate Flail, the most powerful of all the senators. In the city-states of Corinthia there are a few kings, but in Mornstadinos the people are ruled by a Senate. Many of the senators are wealthy, Lemparius probably more so than most."

"And how does he hold his money?"

"He has a palace, very opulent, so I understand. And he has a fondness for magical and mechanical toys, upon which he spends no small amount; by and large, though, I suspect Lemparius has more than a few sacks of gold and silver within his walls."

Conan's grin increased. "Ah, good."

Kinna spat a fish bone onto the dirt floor. "But-why are these things important, Conan?"

Conan faced the young woman, taken again by her beauty despite the dingy surroundings. "Because, Kinna, we need horses and supplies and cannot afford the time or effort needed to earn such things honestly."

Eldia understood more quickly than did her sister. She said, "You mean we're going to-?"

"-steal from the senator?" Conan finished. "Aye, Firechild, that we are."

One of the items in a witch's arsenal was a simple spell to create a magical, invisible thread of great length and strength. After she watched the beautiful barbarian and his friends enter the ramshackle shed, Djuvula created such a thread. Moving with all the stealth at her command, she stretched a section of this thread across the doorway, anchoring it lightly on either side of the entrance. When the inhabitants left the shed, the thread would entangle one or more of them, stretching to follow them from the shed as far as they might travel. The caster of the spell need only follow the glowing line, a line unseen by all without magically enhanced vision. There was a chance the old wizard might discover it, but such a possibility seemed unlikely: The spell was so simple and unthreatening, it almost always passed unnoticed save by one searching specifically for it.

The spell thrown, Djuvula hurriedly returned to her manse. The magic she contemplated required more than the small ingredients she normally carried upon her person. When that cantrip was completed, Djuvula could return and await her chance to get the beautiful barbarian alone. He would then deliver the girl to Djuvula. She smiled, thinking of it.

There existed some risk in the spell-the woman would have to be removed from the barbarian's presence somehow-but such a risk was small compared to the possible gain.

In her spellroom Djuvula quickly stripped away her clothing, to stand naked in front of her focusing mirror. Nakedness was required for most of her major spells, but Djuvula had long since been undaunted by such a necessity. She had, in fact, come to enjoy the feel of air on her nude body, a sensual part of witchery that suited her much better than any clothing men could produce.

There was another inn, some distance away, of which Vitarius knew; he led Conan and the sisters from the shed toward this place. As they exited the home of dried meat and fish, Conan thought he felt a strand of spider's silk brush his arm. He brushed at the line of web, but saw nothing, and so quickly forgot about it.

Even in the middle of disaster, people rallied and scurried to repair the damage. Already, teams of horses and oxen were at work, dragging rubble from pathways, clearing away downed timbers and adobe walls from alleys. As the four walked, they happened upon a further disaster in the making. Seven or eight men tugged on ropes attached to a fallen roof beam as thick as a fat man; the beam stood balanced precariously against a half-destroyed wall. The crew sought merely to topple the long timber in order, Conan thought, to bring down the fragment of wall that remained. That the men were inexpert was all too apparent to Conan; at least two of them stood directly under the heavy beam. If it should fall . . .

As he watched, the beam slipped from its support and came crashing down. One man jumped from under the falling weight with great agility, but the second man's speed was not sufficient. The beam pinned the unfortunate victim to the ground as a man's sandaled foot pins a snake.

He screamed as the wood smashed both his legs to the dirt. The remaining men immediately began trying to lift the beam, cursing as they realized they had not the strength. It looked hopeless.

Conan sprang, unthinking. Such was the speed of his movement that the men gripping the timber jumped back, as if fearing attack.

The Cimmerian ignored them. He wrapped his great arms around the end of the fallen beam and squatted, so that he held the wood to his chest. He shifted his feet slightly wider and tried to stand. Individual muscles stood out on his thighs like a network of thick bands: the hard flesh of his bare arms writhed as though small animals roved under his skin.

The beam did not move.

Conan adjusted his grip, took a deep breath, and screamed a wordless, guttural yell that caused the hair to stand on the necks of several watchers. With a contraction that caused his rock-hard thews to vibrate, the young giant stood, keeping his back stiff as his legs straightened. For a moment he stood there holding the giant beam, great veins standing out all over his exposed flesh like tiny snakes. Then the barbarian heaved the timber away from himself with a thrust of his hips. The heavy wood fell with a ground-shaking crash just past the end of the formerly trapped man's feet. Conan shook himself once and stretched his shoulders. "Best you be more careful," he said. "I might not walk this way again." He turned and strode back to where his friends stood, staring.

Kinna spoke first. "By Mitra! No man can be so strong!"

Conan grinned. "What? For lifting that twig?" Are there no men where you come from?"

Kinna's voice was soft and full of admiration. "None such as you."

Conan grinned wider, pleased with himself. This was the kind of chore for a man, one that needed quick reactions and strength-and one that impressed women and men alike.

The Cimmerian felt the slightest touch upon his leg then, just where his leathern breech gapped over his boots, but when he looked there was nothing to be seen.

The Smoking Cat inn might have been constructed on the same pattern as had the Milk of Wolves. The same benches, the same tables, even the same servers. The place was not crowded; however, likely owing to all the work needed to be done outside. Conan and the others found a table easily, and ordered wine and breakfast. "Might as well spend what we have," the Cimmerian said, "for we should have much more shortly."

"Stealing from a rich man could be very dangerous," Eldia said.

Conan smiled at the girl. "Aye. But I have some . . . experience in such things."

"There is a high wall surrounding Lemparius's estate," Vitarius put in.

"They have yet to build a wall a Cimmerian cannot climb," Conan said.

He quaffed a cup of wine.

Kinna stared at him with curiosity in her eyes. Finally, she spoke.

"How is it that you are so strong and so adept, Conan?"

He shrugged. "Cimmeria is a rocky land; ofttimes the rocks are in places where they impede a man's progress. Such rocks must be moved; some of them are heavy. As to my skills, well, a man learns what he must to survive."

"How are we to accomplish this-ah-liberation of valuables?" Vitarius said.

"Not 'we,' magician, me. I work best alone. You shall arrange today for our supplies; on the morrow I shall return with funds sufficient to pay for these things. Simple." Conan lifted another cup of wine to his lips and smiled again. This was more to his liking, and what he should have done in the first place-then he would have never become entangled with the nasty webs of magic he so disliked.

Djuvula the Witch smiled as she followed the glowing line of the thread that led to her prey. Soon he would be hers!

Patch, the cutthroat, grinned evilly as he watched the barbarian drink his third cup of wine. Good. If the man were drunk, so much the better.

He had planned to assemble a host of assistants earlier, but upon seeing the barbarian, Patch felt such a rage that he dismissed his earlier thoughts. No. He would strike when the big man was not prepared; he would knock him senseless and then work on the unconscious form with his bare hands and shod feet until he felt some measure of revenge. Aye, that be the way of it, to do it singly, to balm his wound and pride. No man defeated Patch and escaped unscathed. No man!

Chapter Ten

Conan decided to sleep for a few hours so that he might be rested and fresh for his nocturnal business. While the others went to arrange for their travel supplies, the barbarian ascended the stairs to the rooms the group had rented. The pair of rooms could have been twins to the ones at the destroyed Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan picked one and entered, bolting the door behind him. He sprawled upon the ticking and soon fell fast asleep.

Djuvula followed the magic thread up the stairs of the inn. The glowing line ended at the door to one of the sleeping rooms. One or more of those she sought must be inside. It was important, however, that she find the beautiful barbarian alone. Her spell would do her little good if there were another woman within the man's reach. How could she find out?

After a moment the idea came to her. Quickly, Djuvula descended the stairway and found a clean-up boy clearing tables. "Like to earn a few coppers, boy?"

"Aye, mistress. Whom shall I slay for you?"

"Not such a large task as that, boy. Just knock on the door of the room I point out and see how many people are within when you are answered.

Say you have come to change the bedding."

Djuvula handed the boy several coppers, and then followed him up the stairs. She pointed out the door, then moved back down the stairway, out of sight.

After a few moments the boy returned.

"Well?"

"There is but one in the room, mistress, and he seems an ill-tempered one at that. He said he would skewer me, were I to bother him again for such stupidity."

"What did he look like, boy?"

"A giant of a man mistress. A barbarian."

Djuvula smiled and gave the boy a handful of coppers. "Speak of this to no one, boy."

"I should hope not," the boy said. "Fat-arse the owner would take my money faster than flies locate dung."

When she was alone in the hallway again, Djuvula brought forth from her silken robe a vial stoppered with cork and wax; inside this clear-walled vessel was a liquid that glowed faintly, like phosphorus.

She pried the cork from the bottle's mouth and bent to pour a line of the fluid along the base of the door. Vapor rose in a thick yellow cloud, and the sorceress hastily backed away from the smoke.

Conan awoke suddenly. Something was wrong. Some strange smell had invaded his dreams . . . . He sat up suddenly and stared. In the light admitted by the poorly fitted shutters he saw a thin haze of yellow smoke filling the room. He sniffed deeply, then coughed as the irritating fumes filled his nostrils. Was the inn on fire? No, this was like no odor he had smelled before; no wood fed this noxious vapor-He suddenly found himself suffused with an emotion altogether different from curiosity: His body seemed about to burst-with lust.

There came a knock at his door. A female voice called to him. "Open the door, my beautiful barbarian."

Conan felt confusion. The voice was seductive and carried the tones of warm honey, the promise of undreamed of fulfillment. His lust increased. He moved to the door, slid back the bolt, and jerked the door wide.

The woman who stood there was covered from head to toe in a deep blue robe of fine silk. As he watched, the figure raised pale hands to slip back the hood covering her face and head. By all the gods, she was beautiful! Her hair was flame, her skin unblemished white, her lips ruby and smiling.

"Am I to stand in the drafty hallway?" she said.

Conan took two hesitant steps backward, and the woman followed, gliding smoothly across the floor. She eased the door shut behind her and smiled at him. She stood motionless for a moment, then slowly brought her hands to the front of the robe. With a quick flip of her fingers she opened the front of the robe and shrugged it away.

Beneath the blue silk she was naked.

Conan licked suddenly dry lips. By Mitra, what a woman! She was glorious! Her legs, her breasts-her whole body was perfect!

The mysterious woman reached out toward him with both hands.

Conan's desire knew no bounds. He stepped forward and wrapped his thick arms around the woman, hugging her to him, lifting her clear of the floor. He felt the stab of her fingernails, but such did not matter.

Nothing mattered in all the world save taking his pleasure with this woman!

The boy pointed to the door of the sleeping room. "That is the room you seek, sir."

Patch flipped a coin at the boy, a silver piece, but he begrudged it not. In a short while Patch would be thirty-five gold solons richer-what mattered a single silver? He waited until the boy was gone and he was alone in the hall; then Patch stole softly to the door of the barbarian's room. Caution was called for despite his desire for revenge.

As Patch placed his ear against the door, the wooden plank moved a hair. Unbolted, by Set's black hand! He grinned. The barbarian be foolish not to lock his door; he'd sealed his doom! Still moving quietly, the one-eyed man drew his sword.

A soft moan came from within the room. Patch paused, cocking his head to one side. What be this? Why, that sounded like-The cutthroat grinned more widely. Ah, this be a stroke of good fortune, indeed! Asura smiled upon him, for the barbarian likely would not notice his entrance in that he seemed occupied with . . . other matters. Patch took a deep breath, lifted his blade to strike, and shoved wide the door.

Conan could not understand the reason for his sudden lust or the appearance of the woman who seemed bent on slaking it; neither, it must be said, did he try particularly hard to fathom it. But when the door to his room crashed open and a man sprang through the entrance waving a sword, Conan understood that well enough. The spell holding him broke.

The woman in his arms pulled back at the look on Conan's face. "What-?"

She twisted to ape Conan's stare and beheld the assassin.

Conan thrust the naked woman away from him with a snarl. "So, dog-sister, you sought to occupy me for your butcher!"

"No!" the woman yelled.

There was no time for such a discussion, Conan knew. He rolled across the floor as the attacker brought his blade down. The sword cleaved the bed and not Conan. The Cimmerian grabbed his own blade and sprang to his feet, facing the cutthroat. By Crom, it was the patch-eyed man he'd fought in the tavern before the windstorm!

Behind the two men, the woman cursed with a command of invective Conan had seldom heard, even from soldiers or seamen. The Cimmerian grinned wolfishly at Patch and moved half a pace toward him. "Back for more of the same, One-eye?"

"The bells will toll your dirge, barbarian," Patch snarled. "Alive, you be wanted, but no man taunts me and lives! You be a dead man."

Conan's grin remained in place. "When last we met, I survived-we will see whose dirge plays, assassin."

Patch lunged, feinted with his blade, then swept a fanlike stroke across his body, aimed at decapitating Conan. Conan gave no ground, however, but instead moved toward the other man, holding his blade in a grip of iron. The one-eyed brigand's sword clanged against Conan's and rebounded. Patch cursed.

The Cimmerian raised his sword overhead to split his opponent from skull to crotch: before he could strike, however, Patch pulled a short dagger from his belt with his free hand and slashed at Conan. The bigger man leaped back, but the dagger drew a furrow across his thigh; blood welled and ran downward.

Conan reached down and touched the redness of his blood with the fingertips of his left hand. Lifting the salty fluid to his lips, he tasted it, and laughed at the sudden flash of fear on Patch's face.

Suddenly, he flicked the blood left on his fingers at the cutthroat, aiming for his eyes.

Patch cursed and leaped back. Conan circled to his left, then sprang, his sword doing its steely dance. The one-eyed man stabbed at him with the dagger as he swung his own sharp blade, but the brigand's defenses served him poorly. Patch left an opening. Conan took the offer. With a yell the big Cimmerian drove his broadsword at Patch, as he would a spear. The point took the would-be assassin just under the breastbone, slicing through his heart and out his back, between two vertebrae.

"D-d-damn you!" Patch managed as he fell.

With a powerful contraction of his upper back and shoulder, Conan jerked his blade free of the dying man. Turning his attention away from Patch, he spun, looking for the woman who had bewitched him.

She was gone.

The innlord had removed the body and replaced the bloody bed upon which it had finally fallen, being careful to keep his eyes respectful when he chanced to gaze at the Cimmerian. Conan offered the man a silver coin for his effort-his last such coin-with instructions to keep the Senate's Deputation at bay for a few hours. After that he would be gone, and they could whistle for him.

As he cleaned his blade and honed the nicks in its edge, Conan considered the attack. It was unfortunate that he and the woman had been unable to complete their liaison before One-eye had interrupted.

The man's appearance had certainly been a surprise; more, the woman had seemed surprised as well. If that were true, then perhaps the slain cutthroat had not been associated with her after all. Strange.

Of course, she had enspelled him somehow. That foulstinking smoke, most likely. But if she were not part of the plot to slay him, then-who was she? Stranger and stranger. Some of the stink remained in his nostrils, and he felt the smell was less of the vapor and more associated with the reek of magic he so distrusted. This was no place for a man of honor wrapped in some mystical web peopled with magicians, demons, and witches. The sooner he was shut of this business, the better. On the morrow, all things going as planned, he would ride from the west gate of Mornstadinos. Then all he would have to worry about would be an evil magician ensconced in a castle.

Conan shook his head, and continued to clean his blade.

Djuvula sat in her chamber full of black rage. Who had that one-eyed fool been? He had spoken of taking the barbarian alive, therefore he had been in the employ of someone else. Who? Who dared to interfere with her in this manner'? The person responsible would be most unhappy when Djuvula found out. Most unhappy.

Loganaro shook his head as he stared at Patch's corpse. The fool had paid for his arrogance in thinking he could take the barbarian alone.

Now what was he going to do?

Sovartus waved one hand at Djavul. "Go and find the girl and this greater-than-ordinary man who guards her," he said. "I shall contact you when I am ready."

"By your leave," Djavul grated. And he disappeared.

In the dining room of his palace Lemparius declined other than dabbling with his food. He would, he reasoned with a smile, eat something later in the evening. Something-or someone . . . .

Chapter Eleven

Mornstadinos lay deep in night's embrace when finally Conan approached the wall surrounding the estate of Lemparius, Center Strand of the Senate's Treble Whip. The Cimmerian moved easily despite the bound cut upon his thigh. The wound was shallow, and it caused him little concern; he had suffered much worse and survived. The man who had inflicted the injury no longer walked in the land of the living, and the slight pain Conan felt from his limb was small enough coin to pay for that privilege.

The wall was of smooth stones, set in an adobe mortar and covered with more of the claylike mud; in height, the wall was easily thrice Conan's own span. The tall youth grinned. Child's play, he thought, looking at the cracks in the adobe. To an ordinary man the wall might appear smooth; to a Cimmerian there might as well have been a ladder scaling the side. If Lemparius depended upon this wall for his primary protection, the man prepared himself ill for unsolicited night visitors.

It was but the work of a few moments for Conan to spider his way up the wall. At the top, shards of broken pottery had been set, along with splinters of rock. Were a climber fool enough to throw himself upon these jagged edges, certainly he could do himself injury. Conan laughed softly. Anyone adept enough to climb the wall was also likely to be adept enough to bypass the ragged points set in the top. He did so easily, undaunted by such small precautions on the part of the builder.

He worked his way down the inner wall until he reached his own height from the ground, then dropped, landing lightly for such a big man. Easy enough.

The palace stood a hundred paces away. Perhaps palace was too pretentious a word, Conan thought. Certainly, the manse was large, but it seemed less than imposing when compared to some of the structures he had seen in Shadizar. No comparison could be made with the destroyed Tower of the Elephant in Arenjun, to be certain; still, if the place held that which he sought, that would be enough.

The manse, too, was of adobe over stone, with gaps where the overlay had sloughed away to reveal the rock. Conan saw there was no moat; neither did there seem to be watch animals, dogs, or birds. He thought the last a bit strange; he had come prepared for either, with drugged meat and grain in a small sack tied to his belt.

Conan approached the house boldly, hoping to confuse any guards who might see him. If seen, he would try to get close enough to knock the guard senseless before alarm could be raised.

No guards materialized from dark recesses, however. Nor did Conan see any signs of guardhouses or posts. He shook his head, starlight gleaming from his blue eyes. This Lemparius was a gift from Bel to thieves, he thought. A wonder there stood no sign proclaiming invitation to steal.

Despite the ease of his entrance so far, he remained cautious. He was tempted to simply stride to the front entrance and enter the manse that way, but he decided against such audacity. Best not to press his luck; a window would do just as well.

From the ease of his work so far, Conan expected the window to be unlatched; he was not disappointed. The shutters swung wide easily, allowing him to clamber inside the building. Inside, he found himself in a storeroom laden with fowl hung to ripen for future meals, lit dimly by tapers in the hall beyond. He moved among the dangling carcasses gracefully, avoiding contact with the pungent flesh. He peered out into the hall.

Once again the young Cimmerian grinned widely. Empty. This was too easy. He began to relax. Such a man as owned this place deserved to be robbed; surely he must be swimming in arrogance?

He walked down the hallway, keeping to the edges of his booted feet for silence. Such a precaution was automatic, and not one apt to be relaxed simply because of one easy bit of theft.

The hall led past a large room with a steaming bath centered on it, sunk into the floor. Wisps of vapor rose to condense on the walls, and drops of moisture ran down to form small pools upon the floor. But where were the inhabitants of this place'? Could it be that everyone slept, without even a single guard? Such lunacy!

He moved past several rooms with doors ajar. He saw expensive furniture and rugs in some; paintings and statues in others; still others held mechanical devices, the purposes of which he could not immediately discern.

Finally, the Cimmerian came to a locked door. He grinned. About time.

He bent to examine the lock, and his grin increased. Such a lock would not stymie a child bent on entering the room. And Conan was no child.

He pulled his dagger and worked the point between the door's edge and the jamb. A simple twist of the blade freed the bolt from its recess; the door swung inward easily.

He took a taper from the hall and held it before him as he moved into the room. He stopped suddenly, and sucked in a quick breath. Crom!

The light from the flickering taper revealed a treasure room. There were gold statuettes, mostly of cats, set with precious stones; ivory tusks inlaid with spirals of gold and silver lay piled in a heap; plateware and soft leather bags-no doubt filled with coins-seemed scattered everywhere.

Here, then, was his goal. Conan shut the door behind him softly and held the taper high. Past thievery had taught him to take those things most easily converted to ready coin, and, since there seemed to be bags of coins among all the other richery of this room, best he should take advantage of such. Of course, were there jewels filling some of those leathern sacks, why, it would be foolish to bypass them. There was, however, no point in being greedy. A few hundred pieces of gold and a queen's ransom in precious stones should be sufficient for his needs.

He suppressed a laugh. A pity he had not brought a cart; so poor was the security, he was certain he could have loaded a wagon and driven away unseen.

The Cimmerian bent to begin examining the potential loot. Here was a bag of gold solons, hefty and fat; there, a small sack of fine emeralds, cut in rectangular fashion. He put the precious green stones into his own purse. The next bag contained perhaps sixty pieces of silver; reluctantly, he discarded these. Too heavy and not enough value, silver, compared to all this other wealth.

Using a large leather pouch, he loaded enough gold coins so that the triple-stitched leather threatened to tear with the weight. It was all the Cimmerian could do to keep from laughing. Not only would he travel to Nemedia in style, he would arrive a rich man. Why, they could hire an army to besiege the magician who held Eldia's sister. Or buy wizards of their own.

As he started to leave, Conan paused. There was a device sitting upon a pedestal of carved ivory near the door; he had missed it upon his entrance. He paused to look at this object. It was of gold, or, perhaps, brass, and resembled nothing so much as a ball within a cube.

There was, however, some kind of distortion in the construction; something he could not quite put his finger upon seemed wrong. Because of the position of the device upon the stand, he figured the construction must be quite valuable. He considered taking the object, then shrugged. No, he had enough. A good thief knew when to quit. He turned away.

"A wise choice," came a male voice. "Since you obviously do not know what the storora is or what it does. It would be wasted upon you."

Before the voice finished, Conan was already moving. He spun to face the source of the sound, pulling his sword with his right hand, even as he clutched tightly the bag of gold with his left. The taper he had held fell and was extinguished. The room filled with darkness, a tenebrous shroud in which the young Cimmerian could see nothing. Good.

If he were blind, then so would his opponent be.

The voice, when it came, was mocking. "If you think to lose me so easily, you are mistaken. I see you there, doomed thief."

Such was unlikely, Conan thought as he marked the position of the voice. He edged toward the speaker, sword leading.

"No, you shall not find me so easily, outlander." This came from a new position in the room, to Conan's left. He twisted to face it. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the gloom; there seemed to be a slightly blacker blob against the darkness just ahead, though he could not be certain. The only light came from a crack beneath the closed doorway, and such was only a faint glimmer.

"You must certainly be an outlander," the man said, "for no resident of Mornstadinos would be so slackwitted as to try robbing the house of Lemparius." He had moved again.

Conan considered his options. Here was a man who seemed to move much better in the dark than he had any right to; more, he had managed to sneak up on him without being heard. The young Cimmerian had his loot and had marked the door by the light-bearing gap beneath it. A successful thief is one who escapes with his booty, and that was his purpose. Time to leave.

Conan sprang for the door.

Even as he moved, Conan saw something pass in front of the light, forming two dark thick lines. A man's feet, he reckoned. And, if those feet bore the owner of the voice, they belonged to a man with supernatural speed, to have moved from his former position in that short time. Even as he thought this he swung his sword, to bisect the still-invisible figure. But the feet blocking the light vanished and his blade cut only air.

"You are quick, for a fool," said the voice. "Not that such shall save you."

Conan did not waste his breath in answering. Instead, he waved his sword back and forth as he backed toward the door, whipping the steel so that it sang in the darkness. Let the hidden speaker try to pass that barrier!

Conan reached the door, felt the handle touch his back, and considered his next move. This might be tricky. He dared not turn and expose his back to the man in the blackness. Opening the door with the sack of gold weighing his hand would be difficult, but not impossible. And there was the matter of possible confederates lurking in the hallway, awaiting his exit.

He shook his head. Too much to think about. A man could die of old age worrying about possibilities! He caught the latch, jerked it up, and pulled the door open as he moved away. Then the Cimmerian turned and leaped into the hallway.

And found himself alone. Conan laughed, and began to sprint down the taper-lit hallway. He heard a noise behind him and he glanced back, but saw nothing. He had only to make another turning in the hall and he would be nearly to the storeroom where he had entered the house. Once outside, he would make for the gate; it would be faster than climbing the wall. He was all but free.

He rounded the corner of the hallway, saw what lay before him, and uttered a curse. He slid to a stop, his powerful chest working to pump more air to his lungs.

At the end of the hallway, blocking his exit, stood a dozen men armed with pikes and swords. He would not be leaving that way. He turned and ran back in the direction from which he had only just come. Better to meet the one man from the darkness than a dozen armed troops, he figured. Especially now that he had the lighted hallway on his side. As he rounded the corner again the young Cimmerian noted that the men did not follow him. For some reason this worried him more than if they had.

Standing alone, thirty paces ahead, stood a single figure. The man was tall and blond-haired, with fair skin. In his hand he held only a curved knife, no sword, and he looked too relaxed to be expecting battle.

Briefly, Conan considered running the man down, not slowing, using his sword to sweep the figure aside. Something in the man's demeanor, however, caused the Cimmerian to slow, first to a trot, then a walk.

Finally, he stopped three paces away, and stared at the man blocking his escape. There was a danger here, something unnatural, and Conan felt the hairs on his neck prickle and rise as he beheld the man.

"So, you are less stupid than you appear," the man said. "Not much, perhaps, but some. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lemparius, senator, and master of this house you thought to rob. What say you to that, thief?"

"Stand aside," Conan said, his voice almost a growl. "I have no particular desire to slay you."

Lemparius laughed, a high giggle. "Oh, the richness of this." He twirled the fang-shaped knife he bore into the air and caught it neatly. He looked at the massive youth's sword disdainfully. "Come and pass me, outland fool. If you can, you shall live; if not, your corpse will gather flies before the morning sun breaks."

Conan moved. He leaped at Lemparius, slashing powerfully with his razor-edged broadsword. The sinews of his arms bunched as he swung the steel. Had it connected. the blade would have sheared the senator in half-had it connected. The senator moved, catlike, and Conan's strike missed cleanly. With a motion too fast for Conan to accept, Lemparius darted past and laid his curved knife across the bigger man's forearm.

It was almost a gentle touch, but it drew blood, a thin line the length of Conan's middle finger. The senator laughed as he stroked Conan with his knife.

Conan swung the weighty sack of gold hard. The move was unexpected by the senator, for the heavy coins slammed into his ribs solidly, knocking him sideways. Lemparius grunted and almost stumbled, but managed to regain his balance. Once again he blocked Conan's exit.

"A good move," Lemparius said. "You are quicker than I thought." With that, Lemparius took a deep breath and let out a piercing whistle.

The sound of sandals on the stone floor began, then increased, behind Conan, and the pikemen approached.

"If you have gods, best you make your peace with them," Lemparius said.

"And quickly."

The Cimmerian dropped the bag of gold and brought his left hand over to join his right upon the haft of the broadsword. Fast Lemparius might be, but whether he could block with his funny knife a two-handed swing with Conan's full might behind it remained to be seen. Conan lunged forward and chopped at the other man, his sword moving so fast, it was little more than a shiny blur.

Lemparius gave ground. He skittered back, and tried to counterattack once Conan's stroke missed. But Conan's own recovery was too fast, and Lemparius was driven back yet again. Conan began to think he would be able to drive the man before him quickly enough to escape the men rapidly approaching from behind. He moved as a man reaping grain, using short, rapid swings of his sword to push his opponent back.

While taking several of his scurrying steps backward, Lemparius slipped. The senator's feet shot out from under him and he sprawled suddenly, flat upon his back. The look of surprise upon his face at that moment was worth the sack of gold to Conan. He raised his blade.

At that instant his hope of escape was dealt a shattering blow. From the hallway behind Lemparius at least another dozen pike-and swordsmen appeared, running toward the Cimmerian. He was boxed!

Conan turned. The treasure room door was between him and the first group of troops. If he could get there, perhaps he could block the door from inside; perhaps there was another way out. Perhaps not, but he had little choice. If there were no other exit, then he would have more space in which to swing his blade at least. He would take as many of them with him as he could; Crom would appreciate his entry into the gray lands more were he preceded by a dozen or so of his enemies, dispatched there personally by his hand.

"Yield!" one of the pikemen yelled.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria. I yield to no man!"

In the periphery of his sight Conan saw Lemparius scramble back up to his feet. "Conan?" the senator said. The question caused the big Cimmerian to pause but an instant in wonder. That instant was enough to allow the first of the first group of pikemen to come within jabbing range. As the four-edged pike sought his face he slapped the shaft of the weapon aside with his sword and completed the circular motion in a downward slice. The pikeman screamed as the blade took him. His fellows paused enough to give Conan a chance to leap at the door. The Cimmerian gathered himself to spring.

"Conan! How wonderful!"

Puzzled, Conan halfturned to stare at Lemparius in wonder. His motion allowed him to see the senator swinging the bag of gold Conan had dropped just before that heavy bag crashed into his head. Blackness reigned.

Chapter Twelve

Conan swam up from the depths of a pulsing red mist; as the mists grew thinner, so his brain grew clearer. When he opened his eyes, the Cimmerian's awareness was full. He lay in utter blackness, surrounded by dank air and some foul stench. For a moment he could not imagine how he had come to such a place; memory returned, however, and the sight of Lemparius swinging the heavy bag of gold came to him.

He took stock. His head throbbed, but allowed him to sit up; his arm bore a small cut, nothing to worry about; his leg was still a bit sore.

Carefully, he slid from the hard bench upon which he sat to stand barefooted upon a cold floor. His sword was gone, as was most of his clothing. He wore brief underbreeks, and above that his belt and purse, nothing more. Conan opened the flap of his purse and reached inside.

Empty-no, wait, there was something . . . a stone it felt like, trapped in a fold of his pouch. He retrieved the stone and held it close to his face. There was no glimmer of light to sparkle from its contours, but from its shape Conan knew what it was: One of the emeralds must have fallen from the sack he had taken. Whoever had pent him in this Stygian pit had missed the hidden stone when he removed the contents of Conan's pouch.

He returned the emerald to its hiding place and closed the leathern flap again. If he escaped, the jewel would be useful; until then, a sword, dagger, or even a stick would be of more interest.

Exploration of the chamber in which he found himself took but a few moments. Roughly square, the room extended no more than three armspans in either direction. There stood on one end a massive wooden door, bound with strips of rusted iron, judging by touch, securely bolted from without. He found no hinges; therefore, the door opened outward.

He set his bare feet as solidly as was possible upon the damp flagstones, and put his big hands against the rough wood. Using all his strength, the powerful Cimmerian shoved.

The door might as well have been the side of a mountain for all it yielded. He backed away so that only the fingertips of one hand remained in contact with the door. He gathered his energies and jumped, slamming into the wooden barrier with his tensed shoulder, itself seeming no softer than the door when he connected. The door remained firm.

Conan took a deep breath, and his fists knotted unbidden into hammers.

He was truly captured. He wanted to rage and pound upon the door for release, but he held his temper. Such a display would be foolish, and a waste of strength.

Instead, the brawny Cimmerian walked back to the platform upon which he had but recently awakened. He moved easily now in the darkness, as the dimensions of the cell were graven upon his consciousness. He sat upon the platform and leaned back against the wall, to wait.

The time that passed while Conan waited was but small, no more than an hour. A cavalcade of footsteps echoed down a hallway outside the Cimmerian's cell; moments after he heard them, the door swung open. He held his pose, eyes slitted against the influx of torchlight that splashed into the small room. At least a dozen torches he saw, held by that many well-armed men. It would be foolish to think of attacking them barehanded.

Lemparius the Senator strode into the cell. "So," he said, "you have finally awakened from your swoon. Good. I thought perhaps I might have struck too hard. Not that it matters, after all-it is not your brain which endears you to me, Conan of wherever." Lemparius smiled. "Is not life strange? I sought to collect you, but you avoided such, dancing away like a flirtatious demi-vierge; now, now, you have come to me on your own. Find you that not amusing?"

Conan said nothing.

"Oh, dear. I hope I have not struck away your voice with my golden club."

Conan glared at him. "So, it was you who sent that pack of cutthroats against me during the windstorm." It was not a question.

"Indeed." Lemparius's smile never faltered.

"You should look to your help-they were ill-chosen fools."

"It matters not, for you are now here, and mine. It is the end which is important, barbar."

Conan nodded. That was true enough. He still breathed, was still sound of wind and limb; this was not yet ended.

"Surely, you wish to know why I have gone to such lengths to obtain your company?" Lemparius raised an eyebrow.

"Not particularly." He would not give his tormentor the satisfaction of seeing him curious.

The senator's smile dwindled slightly. "No? You do not care to know your fate, Conan of Barbaria? To know how you will spend the final moments of your existence?"

Conan measured the distance between himself and the man with a practiced eye. Likely, he could reach him before he was speared by Lemparius's cohort. But the man was devilishly fast; if he could lure Lemparius a step closer, he would have a better chance.

Conan said, "I care only that the stench of my pen increased tenfold by your entrance, dog. Perhaps it is your diet of dung which offends me."

Lemparius's smile disappeared, replaced by a scowl. He made as if to step forward toward Conan. The Cimmerian shifted his weight slightly on the bench, preparing himself to move quickly.

Lemparius stopped, and smiled again. "Ah, am I a halfwit that I would allow myself to be tricked by such a simple ruse? Think again, barbar.

And observe." Lemparius waved his hand. A man came forward, to stand near the senator. Conan had not seen him, previously hidden behind the glare of the torches. The man bore a cocked crossbow, and the barbed head of the quarrel was aimed directly at Conan's heart. Lemparius waved again, and a second man, armed like the first, came to stand on the opposite side. The cell was becoming crowded, Conan thought.

"Dalius here, to my left, is master of the arbalest, the finest marksman in all of Corinthia. He can pin a moving butterfly to a wall at ten paces. At this range I need merely call 'left' or 'right' and that would be the eye the bolt would skewer, pinning your head to the wall behind you."

Lemparius waited a moment for that to sink in, then nodded to the second crossbowman. "Karlinos came to me from Brythunia, where he was the best with his weapon. While not quite the marksman Dalius is, he is second to none other-your remaining eye would be transfixed by his bolt before the first quarrel fully emerged."

Conan relaxed against the wall. As he did so, he laughed loudly.

That Lemparius had gone to great lengths to capture him alive was apparent. While he knew not what plans the man had for him, he felt certain that death was not among them. Not just yet, anyway.

There came a female voice from behind the ranks of men. "He is the one."

With the voice came a scent of an exotic perfume. The smell and voice triggered the memory of where Conan had known them before-in his room at the inn! It was the woman who had bewitched him. By Crom, what was afoot here?

Lemparius turned slightly toward the sound of the woman's voice; Conan saw his chance. He gambled that the crossbowmen would not fire without a direct order. With hard contractions of his powerful frame Conan lunged. He had no real hope of killing Lemparius barehanded before he was clubbed down, but the satisfaction of landing one blow would be worth the effort. So Conan kicked, and the instep of his bare foot flew between Lemparius's legs and smacked solidly into his groin. The man grunted and went dead-white, all Conan had time to see before he was once again sent to the land of throbbing mists.

"-shall cut his heart out myself!"

"Nay, he is mine now; you have given him to me."

Conan's sight had not yet returned, but his hearing was not lacking. He would have leaped up, save that he realized several things at once. He was no longer on the bench in the stinking cell, but rather on a soft cushion. He might possibly overhear something of use, did they still think him unconscious. And he was bound hand and foot with soft yet tight straps. So the Cimmerian feigned sleep and listened.

"-came you by him?" That was the voice of the woman; Djuvula, the senator had called her.

"Ah, I was . . . approached by a free agent, a scurrilous fellow named Loganaro. He offered to sell me the barbarian for a goodly sum." That from Lemparius. And that name-where had he heard it? Loganaro . . . ah, yes, the fat man he had met in the nameless inn at the opposite foot of the Karpash Mountains.

Djuvula said, "Why should he do this? Of what use could a barbar be to you?" Conan could not see the woman's face, but her voice fairly dripped with anger.

"Why, none, normally; however, Loganaro mentioned that you had some interest in such a man. I sought only to detain him for you. As a favor."

"As a favor. I see. And what might you expect in return for this . . .

favor?"

"Dear Djuvula, let us not speak to each other as merchants, of trading this for that. You owe me nothing for this barbarian lout, not a thing."

There was a pause, in which Conan debated opening his eyes a mere slit.

He decided to do so, but this only afforded him a view of some silken pink cushion, which blocked the speakers from his line of sight. He would have to move, and that might not be wise just yet. He strained against his bonds. but they held firm.

Lemparius continued speaking. "I would have things as they were between us before, dear lady."

"You know such is impossible. I no longer engage in . . . those kinds of relations with ordinary menfolk."

"Ah. but I have changed, Djuvula. I am more than I was."

The woman laughed. "Surely you do not think my mantology so poor that I would not have noted the addition of your . . . change.'"

"Certainly. I meant no such slur upon your powers of divination, dear one. I merely meant that with my enhanced energies, I have a certain .

. . vitality I lacked previously."

Djuvula laughed again. "Not so much as my Prince, I would wager."

"Perhaps. On the other hand, there is something to be said for technique over mere staying power, is there not?" Lemparius's voice grew quieter. "I could keep you satisfied, lady. I know I could, given the chance."

"I have known such men as you have become, Lemparius. l suspect you boast beyond your capabilities."

"A chance, then. Surely, you have nothing to lose in granting me an opportunity to demonstrate my . . . capabilities? Should I fail. you would still have the clutter-muscled boy for your simulacrum. And if-nay, not 'if,' but 'when'-l succeed. why there will be no need of your Prince."

Another pause, this time of greater length. Conan sought to shift his body ever so slightly, so that he might see. but the cushion must have been as thick as a horse; it still blocked his vision with its pinkness!

"There is some merit in what you say, Lemparius," Djuvula said. "Very well. Demonstrate your newfound prowess."

"Here? Now?"

"Why not? Your men have battered the barbarian well enough so that he might sleep for a day; if he should wake, I would not be bothered by his watching. Unless you have scruples about such things?"

Lemparius laughed, but it sounded strained to Conan. "Hardly," he said.

"All right, then."

There came a rustle of clothing to Conan's sharp ears; he took the opportunity to shift a bit more on the cushions. Now he could see a bit of high ceiling and a wooden post; likely this post was part of some fancy bed upon which Conan lay trussed. Well, at least his hands were bound in front of his body, where he could get his teeth at the straps.

He brought his hands toward his face very carefully and slowly, until the silken bindings were at his lips. He began to gnaw at the material, which tasted of dye. It would take some time to chew through, he knew.

"Set take this cursed barbarian!" Lemparius said loudly.

"Some problem, Lemparius?" Djuvula's voice dripped with the sweetness of a beehive in spring.

"You can see very well there is! I am injured! That oaf kicked me! I-I feel a terrible pain when I try to-"

"A pity," Djuvula cut in. "So much for your vitality-"

"Hardly a fair test, Djuvula! You must give me time to recover from my injury!"

"Must I?" The woman laughed. "Well, I suppose I can wait a few more days before animating my Prince of the Lance. I shall allow three evenings, Lemparius. Perhaps the barbarian can keep me entertained until then."

"You mock me!"

"Nay, Lemparius. I would not trouble to do so; I merely please myself.

The barbarian is a brave man, truly, and it is his heart I shall have, living in the chest of my Prince. Meanwhile, I generously give you and him three days."

Conan had heard enough. He was to be sacrificed in some foul rite of magic! Abruptly, he sat up, and found himself seated on a bed next to a dead or unconscious black-skinned man of heroic proportions.

Lemparius and Djuvula lay on cushions near the bed. Both were unclothed. They turned to stare at Conan.

Conan brought his hands up in front of his face. He took a deep breath and expended it in a deep guttural yell. At the same time the young giant strained against the partially severed bonds on his wrists.

Muscles rippled in his shoulders and back; sinews crackled and raised on his arms as he concentrated his entire being upon the straps binding him. Suddenly, the material gave way. There came a muffled snap, and his hands were free.

Lemparius cursed, leaped up, and scrabbled among his clothes for his knife. He found the curved weapon, jerked it from its scabbard, and turned toward the Cimmerian.

Conan grabbed up the silken cushion nearest his hand and flung it at Lemparius. It was soft, the cushion, but solid and thick. The pillow flew past Lemparius's startled slash with the knife and knocked him backward. He stumbled and fell, landing smack upon his bare backside.

Wasting no time, Conan bent and tore the lashing from his ankles. As he finished he looked up, to see Lemparius recovered from his fall, already up and moving.

Conan sprang to meet Lemparius's charge. Fast the man might be, but Conan was not slow; in an eyeblink the Cimmerian locked his powerful hands around the wrists of the senator. Conan turned his hip into the knee thrust at his groin, was met with the senator's hip when he sought to bring his own knee into contact with the man's already-tender scrotal parts. The two men fell, still locked together. Conan was the stronger, he knew, and it would be but a matter of a few moments for him to overcome the other man.

The thin hair of Lemparius's wrists began to writhe under Conan's palms. And some trick of the light made the straining senator seem suddenly plastic-featured; his face seemed somehow to be sinking . . .

.

Crom! The man was no longer a man. but becoming a great beast! Fangs sprouted from his mouth, claws grew from his hands, and what had been Senator Lemparius now growled and tried to bite off Conan's face.

He cursed and flung the half-man, half-cat away from him, using the thick muscles of his chest and arms to their fullest. The beast flew across the room to slam into the wall.

A werepanther! Conan knew there were men who wore such guises to become wolves, but he had never heard of one who became a cat. He did not like his chances against such an unnatural creature with only his bare hands. And it was said that human weapons could not harm a wereman. It would not have helped if he had a sword, which he did not.

The panther rebounded from the wall and landed upon its feet. It turned and snarled, a throaty roar that sounded all too loud in the closed room. Slowly, the beast began to pad toward Conan. He would swear the cat smiled as it moved.

A weapon, he needed a weapon! Conan looked around quickly, but there was no-ah, wait! Lemparius's curved knife lay near Conan's bare foot.

He bent and snatched up the knife. Armed, he felt better.

"You must not kill him!" Djuvula screamed.

Conan glanced at her, but she spoke to the panther, not to him The cat ignored the woman's imprecation. But when the Cimmerian extended the wickedly curved knife toward him, the werepanther stopped his forward padding and snarled.

Conan spared a glance from the beast for the knife. Perhaps since this knife belonged to Lemparius, it might be more than it seemed. He might damage the beast.

With Conan, the thought was oft as the deed; he leaped toward the werepanther, slashing. The beast gave ground even as it struck out with its own sharp claws, batting at him, but missing. The big Cimmerian saw he was within a few steps of the door to the bedchamber. Time to depart. He cut the curved knife through the air to keep the panther at bay as he backed toward the exit. The beast snarled, but would not come close enough to strike.

Conan gained the door, jerked it open, and started through the portal.

The cat made a desperate rush then, slashing at the Cimmerian's leg with its right paw. Conan snapped the point of the sicklelike weapon down hard, and buried the tip in the panther's foreleg. The unnatural creature screamed and jerked its foreleg back, laying open the tawny hide in a crimson gash. The panther retreated, screaming continuously, and Conan slammed the brassbound door upon the sight. He saw nothing to stay him in the hallway in which he found himself, and so he fled, running like a man pursued by demons.

He did not look back.

Chapter Thirteen

Lemparius had departed to rally his minions. Djuvula sat alone in her chamber, staring at the inert form of her Prince. That she was furious did not begin to describe her black rage. Lemparius was a fool to think his wereman cloak would enhance either his anatomy or performance to majuscule proportions; worse, he had allowed her beautiful barbarian to escape! He would pay for that.

Then there stood the matter of Loganaro, free agent and betrayer. His proffered barbarian and Conan were one and the same, and the fat toad had sold him to her would-be consort. Now, there was a man who was going to pay for a moron's mistake, and do it twisting slowly as well.

The man who had sliced the hand from her demon-brother was without her grasp, and Djuvula needed small excuse to seek a target upon which to spend her anger.

Purple haze smote the air of her chamber within a yellow flash of tainted light. Well, well. Look who chose that moment to arrive.

Djavul bent to avoid hitting his head upon the ceiling.

"Sister," he grated, "I sense that you have captured my quarry."

Djavula laughed. "Oh, 'tis hardly better you come late than never, half-brother."

"Speak clearly, woman!"

"He is escaped, your hand-chopping barbarian. Due to an inept senator who fancies himself a kind of master swordsman."

"I shall have his skull for a soup bowl!"

"Nay, brother, he belongs to me. And I shall have little trouble in locating our mutual prey, for I have his clothes and sword at my beck.

I will cast the proper spells for you to locate him exactly-provided you return him to me before you exact your vengeance."

"You would bargain with me, sister?"

"Nay, I say again. You may do what you will with the man, so long as I can remove his heart from his still-living form. "

Djavul laughed. "So, you still seek to make yourself a new toy?" The demon nodded toward the form on Djuvula's bed. "I could easily summon better from the Depths for you, sister. Why, I would even undertake your pleasures myself-"

"Thank you, no," Djuvula said. "I'll not put myself into the thrall of a demon-lover, no matter how adept. The price would be more than I would care to pay."

Djavul chuckled. "Aye, were I you, I, too, would likely refuse such an offer; still, there is no harm in trying, is there?"

"I would expect no less of you, brother. But bide a moment; I have spells to produce . . . ."

Vitarius looked up, startled, as Conan stormed into the room. "Where have you been?" the old mage asked. "We expected you this morning-"

"Never mind, I shall explain later. Are we supplied? Ready to travel?"

"Aye. Eldia and her sister are waiting at the provisioner's; I thought it best to wait here for you-"

"Then let us depart, Vitarius. Now."

"You have acquired sufficient funds . . . ?"

"We must be on our way, old man. No time to tarry. There was some . . .

trouble during my venture. It would be best to clear the city gates quickly."

There were four horses, saddles of fair quality for each animal, and a pack beast tethered at a post in one of the twisted alleys Conan was coming to hate. Eldia and Kinna stood nearby. The older sister had obtained a thick brassbound staff, her own height in length. It was Kinna who spoke first when she saw the Cimmerian and the White magician approaching.

"Conan! Where are your clothes?"

"I was hot," he replied.

The woman seemed as if she might inquire further, but apparently thought better of it, for she spoke no more. Conan strode past her and into the provisioner's shop.

The owner of the establishment was a swarthy man of small frame, with a gold tooth gleaming in the rays of the afternoon sun, allowed inside by a large window. He exposed the tooth hesitantly at the sight of the big man moving toward him.

"I need a sword," Conan said, "something with heft and length. And a cloak."

"I have a stock of both," Gold-tooth replied. "And breeches, tunics, boots-"

"Aye, boots."

The proprietor led Conan to a second room, filled with supplies. Conan tried on several pairs of boots, but found none large enough. He settled for some thick-soled sandals with leg lashings; they would do well enough, since he was riding and not walking. A well-spun cloak, dyed indigo, was draped over his shoulders, and he nodded. It would suffice. Finally, he chose a sword. He found a double-edged blade as long as the distance between his outstretched fingertips and the middle of his chest. The handle was more ornate than he liked, but the steel seemed sound, and the edges were of sufficient sharpness to shave hair from the back of one hand. He would rather have had his own broadsword, but this one would have to do.

"A wise choice," Gold-tooth said. "The steel is of the many-folds variety, brought all the way from Turan."

"Do you know gems?" Conan asked.

"Why, certainly. I am passing familiar with-"

"Examine this, then." Conan dug into his belt purse and produced the single emerald remaining from the booty he had attempted to remove from Lemparius's household. He flipped the stone at the man's face.

Gold-tooth deftly picked the jewel from the air. He held it up to the light and squinted at the emerald. From his jacket he produced an eyeglass, and used the instrument to peer at the stone. Conan saw the man's eyes widen at the sight of the emerald.

"Well?"

"It-ah-has some value," Gold-tooth said. From the way he spoke, Conan thought the man's mouth had gone dry.

"Enough to pay for our supplies?"

The merchant started to smile, stopped, then turned the expression into a frown. "It-ah-would go some way as payment, yes. Perhaps . . . half, I would think."

Conan had dealt with men such as Gold-tooth; they would lie to their own mothers without a second thought, especially when matters of money were in question.

"In Zamora," Conan began, "such a precious stone would buy a dozen horses and five times the supplies you have furnished."

Gold-tooth's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained bland. "Perhaps it is so; however, this is not Zamora. Perhaps I might allow three-quarters of the debt for this-ah-bauble."

Conan shook his head, and his blue eyes sent a penetrating gaze at the small man. "I have not the time to play bargaining games with you. You shall have the stone for our supplies; speak no more about it."

"Oh? It seems to me that I hold the upper hand here, outlander. I can choose not to trade." Despite his words, he maintained his hold on the emerald, greed showing in his face.

Conan pulled his new sword from its stiff leathern sheath and aimed the point of the blade at Gold-tooth's throat. "No more of your unctuous babble, merchant! Accept the trade and live. Refuse at your peril!"

"I-ah-have-ah-men I can call!" Gold-tooth's voice trembled. He licked his lips, flashing his tooth at Conan.

"Do," Conan said. "Such would make my day. A thick coat of blood upon your stock would no doubt improve its appearance. Call your men."

Gold-tooth swallowed dryly, and licked his lips again. "I find that-ah-I am willing to accept the loss on-ah-the trade as you suggest-in the interests of maintaining-ah-good market relations."

Conan grinned. "I thought you might see it so." He turned and walked quickly from the room, his cape flaring behind him. He found Vitarius and the sisters awaiting him.

"Mount," Conan commanded. "It is time we departed this rabbit warren."

Lemparius waved his left arm at his men and yelled loudly in his anger.

"Fifty solons to the man who brings me the barbar! Breathing. And slow torture to the man responsible if the barbarian dies before I see him again."

A hundred men stared at the senator, nodding. None spoke.

"Go. I will not have him escape!"

The deputies left the courtyard at a double-time pace, accompanied by Lemparius's curses. His left fist clenched tightly, but not his right-that arm was securely bandaged and strapped to his body, protection for the wound which ran from elbow to wrist in length, and to the bone. Had such a wound been inflicted by an ordinary weapon, it would already have been healed; since the cut was made by his own saber-tooth knife, which bore a cat-enchantment, it would fare as any normal man's surgery.

Damn the barbarian! He would learn the meaning of pain once he was returned. Djuvula would have no need of his heart, of that Lemparius was certain-he could fill her needs. But Conan owed him for this injury.

Loganaro was close to panic. The barbarian and his party were leaving, an idiot could see that. How was he to stop them? The thought of facing Lemparius made the fat agent shudder. On the other hand, the idea of trying to stand against the truculent barbarian also had little appeal.

The four mounted their horses as Loganaro watched. By Yama, he could not simply allow them to leave! He must delay them somehow, must invent some story that would keep the barbarian in Mornstadinos until he could gather help.

With that thought Loganaro ran forward, mind working frantically.

"Sir," he called, "delay a moment! You remember me, don't you? I am Loganaro, we met in the village-" He stopped and gawked at Conan. Two things he noticed at once: The barbarian was pulling his sword-a new blade, from its look-and at his side he carried Lemparius's curved knife, sheathless, through his belt!

Conan stared at the fat man, intending to behead him. But there were people about; somebody might call the deputies, and he had enough to worry about as it was. Then a thought struck him, and Conan smiled. He sheathed his sword, recalling the conversation he had overheard while pretending to be unconscious in the witch's bedchamber. "Nay, fat one,"

he said, "I shall not spit your carcass on my new steel. That would be too merciful."

"Y-young sir, what can you mean? I have done you no harm-"

"Through no lack of trying, I'll wager. I see you recognize the knife I carry."

"N-n-no, I've never seen it-"

"Its former owner is your master, cur. I speak of Lemparius, senator and werepanther."

"Werepanther?"

"Ah, you did not know this? No matter. He is not your problem, doomed one. There is a woman, a witch-"

"Djuvula!"

Conan smiled. "Aye, you know of her too. Well that you should, for she wishes to make tripe of your guts."

"But-but-why?"

"Your former master gave you to her, dog. It seems the lady does not care for your manner of changing alliances. In trying to serve two, you have been abandoned by both."

"No!"

Conan laughed again. "Were I you, fat one, I would relocate my business to another city. Or another country. And quickly."

Loganaro turned and sprinted away, uttering oaths as he ran. It was one of the funniest things Conan had ever seen, and he laughed so hard, he nearly was unhorsed.

Vitarius said, "I was not aware you knew such a subdolous weasel as Loganaro, Conan."

Conan's laugh dwindled to a chuckle. "Only in passing," he said.

Vitarius led the way through the alleys and back streets toward the west gate of Mornstadinos. Eldia and Kinna followed close behind, and Conan brought up the rear, watching carefully for signs of pursuit. He saw a group of five deputies once, but they were at cross-angles to his path, moving away. Good.

The west gate was unguarded, save by a single man. This one leaned on his pike, engaged in ribald conversation with a dark short-haired trull with a heavily painted face. As Conan rode past the sentry, the man, intent on arguing over the price the woman was asking for her favors, did not even look up.

The sun was past the mid-afternoon point when the four rode unhampered from Mornstadinos. Conan could hardly recall any place he was happier to leave. Weighed against the double-dealing and intrigue of the citizens he had encountered in Mornstadinos, an attack upon a wizard in a magically fortified castle seemed almost an insignificant task.

Chapter Fourteen

Several hours out of Mornstadinos the party of four stopped to allow their horses rest. Aside from themselves Conan had seen no other travelers. The Corinthian road was empty.

Vitarius drank from a goatskin, splashing wine into his mouth until it dribbled down his chin. He passed the skin to Conan, who filled his own mouth several times, swallowing noisily.

Eldia and Kinna moved toward a thick stand of bushes. Conan called to them. "Careful."

Kinna waved the staff she carried. "Do not worry. I can attend to the rabbits and ground monks with this."

Vitarius said. "You had a story you were going to tell."

"Aye." Conan began to speak of his recent adventures. Shortly after he had started, the women returned.

When he finished, Kinna shook her head. "It seems you live a life charmed of the gods, Conan."

"Perhaps. I do not depend upon gods, however." He patted his sword with one callused hand. "Steel is much better. A good sword acts as a man demands and is as good as the man who wields it. Gods act for their own reasons, and cannot be depended upon in times of danger."

"Think you that the senator will send pursuit?" Eldia asked.

The Cimmerian shrugged. "Possible. He has no love for me. If the whoremonger at the gate recalls our passage, Lemparius might well dispatch his minions our way. At the crest of the last hill I looked back, but saw no dust along the road. If we are pursued, we have several hours on them."

Kinna nodded.

"That will likely be the least of our worries," Vitarius said.

"Sovartus has set certain . . . wards upon the roads leading away from Mornstadinos. We are five days ride from Dodligia Plain, upon which his foul castle rests. Before then we must pass whatever guards he has posted-not to mention the Bloddolk Forest."

"Bloddolk Forest?" the young Cimmerian repeated.

"Aye. A place of strange fauna and stranger flora. It lies away from the Corinthian road, to the north, along a side path. We must travel that way to reach Sovartus's domain. Not many men essay to ride that path; of those who do, few return."

Conan shrugged. The forest was in the future, not something to worry about now. "Best we resume riding," he said. "If men do follow, we are gained upon as we sit."

The four mounted their horses and moved off.

Djuvula swayed, sweat drenching her naked form. She moaned once, and clenched more tightly the clothing she held. Conan's clothing.

Djavul watched with interest, but without any stirring of carnal passion for the unclothed woman. His interest lay in finding the savage who had wounded him.

Djuvula collapsed. After a moment she arose, breathing deeply. She walked to where she had hung her robe, donned the garment, then turned toward her demon half-brother. "He rides the Corinthian road," she said. "With the girl and the others. They are half a day out."

Djavul nodded. "Good. I shall go and find them."

"Carefully, brother. They are no less than they were the last time you confronted them."

Djavul waved his injured arm. Already at the stump a new growth could be seen, the outline of tiny fingers. "I have learned some caution in dealing with the Firechild. I shall bide my time until an opportune moment presents itself."

"See that you do. And remember, I want the barbarian's living heart-I care not for what shape the rest of him might be in."

Djavul grinned; slime dripped from his fangs. "You shall have it, sister dear. He will hardly have any use for it after I am done with him."

Djavul vanished amid his booming-bruise of color.

Three days after the barbarian's escape from her chamber, Djuvula had a visitor, or, rather, two visitors. One was Lemparius; the other, Loganaro.

The senator shoved the fat man into the room before him. Loganaro's hands were bound, and his pasty face was stained with sweat and fear.

"A present for you, dear one," Lemparius said.

Djuvula smiled, showing even white teeth. "Why, Lemparius, how delightful! He's just what I wanted."

"Ah, good. I thought it might be so. And there is the matter of something I wanted as well, lady."

Djuvula's smiled increased. "I recall. What of your . . . injuries?"

"The . . . first is healed. The cut nearly so-I have had it stitched with saber-cat mane hair."

"Come into my bedchamber, then. Loganaro will wait for us here, won't you?"

Loganaro was too frightened to speak; he merely nodded dumbly.

Djuvula took Lemparius by the arm and led him into her chamber.

A long time passed, it seemed to Loganaro. Small cries occasionally issued forth from the bedchamber, but Loganaro knew these sounds were not those of pain.

After what seemed like years-hours, certainly-the chamber door opened, and Lemparius stumbled out. He looked as if he had been embattled; his face was flushed, his naked form was covered with sweat, and he moved as might a man twice his age. After a moment Djuvula followed the senator into the antechamber. She, too, was nude.

"Come, Lemparius." she said, "we have only begun."

Lemparius shook his head. "Nay, woman. l am finished. I can do no more."

"What of your enhancement?" Her voice was as sweet as that of a young virgin nun. Loganaro swallowed dryly. He had no desire to be party to this.

"Do not mock me, woman! No man could do better!"

"You deceive yourself. Many have done so," Djuvula said. Her voice sharpened a little. She had one fist clenched tightly next to her bare leg.

Lemparius growled. The sound startled Loganaro with its animal overtones.

"In fact," Djuvula continued, "I suspect an average eunuch might do nearly as well."

The senator snarled. "Witch! You will be sorry!"

Loganaro watched in horror as the man he knew shifted shape, becoming a great tawny cat that lashed its tail rapidly back and forth. The beast faced the woman, roaring.

Loganaro edged toward the exit to the antechamber. His heart pounded as if a maddened drummer worked it.

"So," Djuvula said, "you would turn the beast loose upon me, would you?"

The panther advanced a step toward her.

Loganaro sidled closer to the portal. They did not seem to notice him.

By Mitra, Yama, and Set, if he escaped this, he would reform, he would become a priest, he would never do another dishonest thing as long as he lived!

Djuvula raised her clenched fist in front of her face. "You are a poor loser, Senator. Turn and leave now, and I shall forgive you your ill grace."

The cat took another step toward the woman and lashed its tail faster.

It began to settle into a crouch, preparing to spring.

Loganaro reached the doorway. With his bound hands he caught the latch and lifted it.

Djuvula made a backhand toss at the panther with her fist, opening her fingers as she did so; a fine white powder sprayed from her palm into the face of the animal.

The cat sneezed: once, twice, a third time. It backed away a step and batted at its face with one paw.

"You have just been enspelled, cat-who-was-a-senator," Djuvula said, laughing. "I suspected you might try such as this. So now, there are three things you can no longer do: You cannot attack me, you cannot change your form back to that which you were, and you cannot enjoy the company of female panthers, should you manage to find any." The witch laughed again, the sound deep and throaty and totally amused.

The panther snarled and leaped toward the woman, but seemed to meet an invisible wall two paces from her. It rebounded, recoiled, leaped again, and again hit the same wall.

Djuvula put her hands upon her smooth hips and continued to laugh at the panther.

Loganaro waited no longer. He jerked open the door and ran. For one so portly, he moved faster than he would have believed possible. He did not stop running until he had covered half the distance to the west gate. Then he slowed only long enough to catch his breath before he started running again.

"We'll camp here for the night," Conan said. Ahead, he could see the edges of the forest Vitarius seemed to dread so. Despite his apparent lack of concern, the Cimmerian himself had no particular desire to camp in there.

The evening gloom was deepening as Conan gathered wood for the fire. He had the feeling he was being watched, no matter that he could see no one regardless of how fast he turned. He had learned to trust his instincts, and so resolved to stay alert.

When he mentioned his feeling to Vitarius, the old man nodded. "Aye,"

he said, "I feel the prickle of a stare from hidden eyes as you do. It may be nothing, or some animal, but we are close to the forest and it would be wise to take precautions. I shall mount a small spell, a warning enchantment to surround our camp. If anything larger than a rat tries to approach, we shall know of it."

Reluctantly, Conan nodded. He could do without any forms of thaumaturgy were it up to him; still, if someone-or something-watched and he could not see it with his own sharp eyes, then it was apt to be more lamialike than natural. One witch was enough; let the magician cast his spell-Conan would sleep lightly with his blade at hand.

Once the fire was blazing he felt better. No animal would venture close to fire, and the darkness was kept at bay by the dancing flames.

After a cold meal of dried pork and legumes, Vitarius crawled into his blankets and quickly fell asleep. Eldia soon followed, wrapped in her robes and covers close to the fire. She looked much younger as the flickering shadows waved over her face.

Kinna came to sit next to Conan. They stared at the fire quietly for a time, neither of them speaking. He felt the heat and presence of the girl next to him in a way different from the fire's warmth.

Finally, Kinna spoke. "This is all so strange to me. You are a man of the world; you have seen many adventures. I, on the other hand, have spent nearly all my life as a farmer's daughter, never venturing far from home. Until now."

Conan looked at the young woman, but said nothing.

"I have never met a man as brave and strong as you, Conan. You risk your life for something that hardly concerns you."

"Sovartus owes me a horse," he said. "And he has bedeviled me and caused me to be attacked by witches and werebeasts. A man settles his debts."

Kinna laid one hand gently on his hard-muscled shoulder.

"The night of the windstorm, at the inn-do you recall how we were going to inspect your window before we were interrupted?"

Conan smiled. "Aye, I recall."

She stroked his bare back under his cloak. "Perhaps we can inspect it now?"

Conan extended his arm, wrapping Kinna within the folds of his cloak, turning toward her. "Aye," he said. "I think you'll find it ready for your inspection."

Twenty paces from the ring of orange firelight Djavul snarled softly to himself as he watched the barbarian and the woman. The outer edges of the White One's spell glistened almost invisibly an arm's length away from the demon. To touch the enchanted air would cause noise and light sufficient to arouse the local dead. Djavul gnashed his daggerlike fangs as he glared at the human couple. "You shall watch me violate her before you die, barbarian human. And you shall beg for the release of death before I am done. Your time is coming."

The midnight moon shone wanly upon the pair of sleepy guards posted at the sides of the west gate of Mornstadinos., The clear sky threw its starlight upon the scene, joined by the guttering flames of four torches set upon the wall nearby. Sufficient light existed for the two men to see clearly the tawny form of a panther racing up the street toward them. So fast was the animal that the men scarce had time to do more than utter short oaths before the cat shot between them and out through the archway into the darkness.

Later, both men swore they had neither been drinking nor smoking hemp when they saw the panther. Such a beast was a great rarity in these parts, but not altogether unheard of, and none could fault them for having failed to stop it, as unexpected as it was. What both men failed to report was the sight of a long cut along one of the beast's forelegs, a gash that seemed nearly healed-and bound shut with sutures.

Upon sincere reflection, the sentries had decided that particular portion of their tale might be best left unsaid.

In the Corinthian night, under the stars and fading moon, the panther who had once been a man ran, moving in a manner that might be called dogged had he been canine instead of feline. He had a goal, this panther, and he moved through his element, the darkness, with only one thought in his more-than-cat mind: murderous revenge upon Conan of Cimmeria.

Chapter Fifteen

Conan awoke to see Vitarius grinning down at him. Or, rather, at them, for Kinna was still wrapped within the folds of the Cimmerian's cloak, asleep next to him.

"Morning," the old mage said. "Best we ride early, to clear the forest before nightfall. It is a hard day's journey under the best of conditions."

Conan nudged Kinna, who smiled in her sleep. "Later," she mumbled, "I'm tired."

Eldia peered from around Vitarius and laughed.

Conan felt a sense of unease, seeing the girl staring at her sleeping sister. Not precisely embarrassment, but something kin to it. "Wake, Kinna," he said gruffly.

Kinna rubbed at her eyes, smiled at Conan, then saw the magician and her sister watching her. She blinked, and came totally from the land of dreams. "What are you two staring at?" she said. "You're old enough to have seen men and women asleep together, Vitarius. And as for you, sister, I have no need to explain anything to one raised on a farm, do I?"

"No, Kinna," Eldia said, giggling. "No need at all."

"Then be away and allow me to dress!"

Eldia giggled again, but moved off to tend to her horse. Vitarius began packing his blankets.

Conan and Kinna looked at each other briefly, and each smiled.

There was a dankness within the embrace of the forest, a smell of mold and vegetation that seemed to have lain rotting for a thousand years.

The fir trees which were the mainstay of the forest were tall and barked with rough brown slabs like roof shingles; thick mats of brown needles graced the bases of these monsters, keeping the underbrush at bay. Bramble thickets filled the sunnier spots, though few areas were directly touched by the sun. Instead of the freshness Conan usually associated with greenery, a heavy atmosphere of rankness lay about them. No birds sang; no insects buzzed; no small animals darted about.

Conan could well see why Vitarius disliked the place, and said so.

"Ah, this is only the fringe," Vitarius said. "Deeper into the wood, things truly seem foul."

Conan suppressed a shudder. It seemed his life was filled with unnatural things of late. He did not like it.

The only sounds were the horses' hooves upon the packed dirt road, and those seemed half-swallowed by the thickening vegetation. The light grew dimmer as the trees closed on the road.

Conan thought he saw a flash of red through the trees, as if something darted between them and then behind a massive trunk thirty paces away.

He stared intently, but saw nothing else. His imagination? He was tempted to ride into the wood to look, but decided against it. He would rather clear the forest on the other end by nightfall.

They stopped at midday to rest the horses, eat, and stretch their saddle-weary bodies. The still air was dark, the sunlight prevented from reaching the forest floor by the canopy of thick branches. It was an eerie sensation to know the sun shone brightly at its zenith, but even so could scarcely penetrate the heavy foliage.

Conan's sense of being watched had not abated. "Stay near," he ordered the others.

"If my memory serves correctly," Vitarius said, "there is a stream not far ahead. We must ford it, as the water crosses our path. It should be no problem this time of year. Earlier, in the spring, it would be a torrent, impossible to cross."

Conan did not speak. He had again caught a glimpse of red darting among the trees. Enough of this, he decided. He drew his sword.

"What are you about, Conan?" This from Kinna, scratching a spot behind her horse's ear.

"Someone flits along our path," he said. "Hidden now in the wood. I would know who he is, and why he follows us."

Vitarius raised one gnarled hand. "Put away your blade, Conan. You shall likely see many strange shapes dancing in these woods. For the most part, the inhabitants offer no harm, only curiosity. It would be better to avoid antagonizing them."

Conan lowered the point of his blade. Perhaps the old man was right. It cost him nothing to allow the wood-dwellers to watch him, so long as they kept their distance. And they would reach the plain by nightfall.

They came to the stream Vitarius remembered within an hour. Fording the rill would be another matter, however. A huge tree had fallen across the path leading to the brook, very near the edge of the water's flux.

A man could clamber over the thick-boled trunk easily enough, but a horse could not. They could go around the great length of the tree, of course, but that, too, presented problems.

"This is the only shallow spot for a mile in either direction,"

Vitarius said. "From deposits built up by the bank's curve. A dozen feet on either side, the bank drops sharply. We shall lose time by detouring."

"Can't we cut through the tree?" Eldia said.

Conan laughed. "Aye, little sister, we could-if we had axes or long saws. Even so, it would take two strong men the better part of a day to move enough wood for a horse's passage. With my sword I might manage it in a month."

"I could burn it," Eldia said.

Conan looked at the girl, then at the old wizard.

The old man shook his head. "Nay. A natural fire would take days to burn this much wood. And were we to use enough of the Power to do it faster, we might draw unwanted attention to ourselves. There are things attracted to high energies, things I would rather not meet in these woods."

"What shall we do, then?"

"Go around," Conan said. "Unless you are willing to trust the swimming abilities of these horses, which I am loath to do. If we are only a mile from another crossing, we can return to the path opposite the stream within an hour or two, even allowing for the slower going in the woods."

"That means we must spend the night in the forest," Vitarius said.

Conan shrugged. There was nothing to be done. But as they passed the root ball of the fallen tree, he noticed the freshness of the moist soil still clinging to the roots. The giant tree had fallen but recently. That seemed somewhat odd, since there had been no storms since they'd left Mornstadinos. .

A thirty-minute ride brought the group to a spot where a sandbar could be seen stretching across the stream. The bed was wide, but the water flowed no faster than at the ford by the downed tree. "Here," Conan said. He directed his horse toward the water's edge.

"Conan, wait," Vitarius said. He pointed across the river at a tree that grew near the bank.

Conan looked at the tree. It was oddly shaped, looking more like a thorn bush than a tree for all that it was ten times the height of a man. And the thorns were fair-sized as well. There was some kind of litter on the ground around its base. The Cimmerian squinted, and saw what the litter was: bones. The skeletons of at least half a score animals ranging in size from muskrats to something as large as a big dog. What-?

Vitarius dismounted and removed an empty wineskin from his gear. He waddled to the water's edge and immersed the skin in the flowing stream. Bubbles rose to the surface.

"What are you doing'?" Conan asked.

Vitarius rose and capped the skin. He had trouble holding the heavy bag up. "Can you throw this across the stream to the base of the tree?"

The Cimmerian dismounted and hefted the water-filled bag. "I think so,"

Conan said. "Why?"

"Do it, and see."

Conan looked at the old wizard. Had the man lost his senses? He shook his head, but waved Vitarius back to give himself room to swing the bag. What was the old man trying to do? Likely the bag would burst on impact, giving the thorn tree a free drink of water, nothing else.

It was, perhaps, fifteen paces from where Conan stood to the tree. He whirled the rough goatskin around his head, flexing the sinews of his arm and shoulder. With a final hard spin Conan heaved the water container.

The skin seemed to move slowly, almost like a falling leaf. It hit the ground a few feet from the tree, and skidded toward the trunk. The seamstress who had stitched the bag deserved credit, for the bag held firm.

The next thing to happen did not seem to be slow at all. Three branches snapped downward from the tree, as if they were whips plaited of bullock leather. A dozen finger-long thorns stabbed the goatskin like tiny spears, and water sprayed in sudden fountains. When the bag lay drained of its contents moments later, the tree branches snapped away as quickly as they had descended.

Conan turned to Vitarius. There were startled expressions on the faces of Eldia and Kinna; he hoped his own face was less revealing.

"I mentioned that the flora in these woods was strange. Behold the Kiss-of-theLance tree-hardly one you would wish to pass unsuspecting, eh?"

"I see how the bones come to be there," Conan said.

"Movement over the root system triggers the branches to attack. The tree feeds on blood and other fluids from its victims, absorbed by the same roots. The bigger the prey, the more branches it uses to hold the victim."

Kinna shuddered.

"How are we to pass it?" Conan asked.

Vitarius turned to face Eldia. "Child?"

The girl nodded. She dug her heels into the side of her horse and started toward the sandbar.

Conan reached for her mount's reins as Kinna said, "No!"

Vitarius said, "She is in no danger! Let her go."

Conan looked up at the mounted child. She nodded. "He is right. I shall be safe."

Conan released the animal's reins.

"Conan! No!" Kinna urged her own mount forward, but Vitarius blocked her path. She had to pull up her horse or run the old man down. "She is a child! You saw what that-that-thing did to the goatskin-!"

The trio turned to watch as Eldia reached the opposite shore. With the first touch of her animal's hooves upon the ground, the branches of the tree quivered-and burst into flame! The whiplike branches, encrusted with long thorns, waved frantically, but this only served to fan the flames higher. The burning wood crackled like fat dropped into a cooking fire.

Vitarius pulled himself up onto his horse. "A small fire, not much power. I do not think it will notice us now."

The detour cost them nearly two hours. When the trail became too dark to see, Conan halted the party. He turned to Vitarius, who shook his head. "We are still better than an hour from the edge of the wood. Too dangerous at night."

"Then we camp here," Conan said.

Djavul crouched behind the bole of a tree, watching. He did not doubt that the White One would set his magical wards again. The way to avoid being detected by the spell was simple enough: He must be inside the perimeter when the mage cast the spell. On the road before, or in the plains after, that would be impossible without being seen. But here in the heavy woods it could be done if done carefully. That was why he had felled the tree. His quarry, the girl and the barbarian, were delayed long enough so that night caught them in the forest.

Moving with a stealth he was unused to, Djavul edged closer to the path. He was, he knew, nearly invisible in the darkness, but he still took care to move as quietly as possible. It was hard; demons had little reason to learn how to creep. This time, however, it was important that he avoid being detected. He was careful. No sticks snapped under his massive horny feet; no branches ruffled loudly as he passed. It took him nearly an hour to move but a few paces. When he was done, Djavul was within two leaps of the man he had sworn to kill.

"My spell is cast," Vitarius said. "We can rest easily now."

Conan nodded, but he still distrusted any form of magic. He laid his bare blade next to where Kinna had placed their blankets. When the young woman came into his embrace under the wool shelter, however, Conan ceased to think about the dangers of the forest.

It was smell, not sight or sound, that awakened him. The stink of hellspawn filled his sensitive nostrils. Instantly, he knew that the demon he had faced before had somehow found them. Conan's eyes flicked open, and he reached for his sword.

"Looking for something?" The metallic grate of the demon's voice was close, almost on top of Conan. He rolled from the blankets and came up, to see the giant red demon standing not two paces away. And the demon held his sword.

Behind him Kinna stirred. "Conan? What is it?"

Djavul grinned at the Cimmerian. He mocked the woman in his deep rasp: " 'Conan? What is it?' " Djavul tossed Conan's sword into the night.

The fire had burned down some, but there was still sufficient light for Conan to see his enemy well. "I am death, Conan, come for you. Not immediately, of course. I have some little entertainments for you first. "

Kinna sat up. Conan gave her only the smallest bit of his attention.

His sword was gone, but there was the curved knife of Lemparius back near his blankets. If he could get to it-

"Conan! Where is Eldia?"

Conan spared a glance at the girl's blankets. Empty.

Djavul's toothy grin increased. "I have moved her. It would not do that she and the old White One should splash her Fire upon me before I have a chance to finish my business."

Vitarius stirred. "What is-oh!"

"Come, wasp," Djavul said. "Grapple with me so that I might tear an arm or leg from you for my breakfast."

Conan dived for his blankets and seized the knife. He rolled up, clutching the steel fang, to face Djavul.

"Your stinger has shrunk, wasp." Djavul laughed. "Come and match it against my one hand." Djavul's nails flicked back and forth in the firelight like small daggers.

Conan edged forward.

Djavul leaped. He grabbed Conan's knife hand with his own remaining hand and wrapped his other arm around the barbarian's back. Conan felt the stump of the demon's wrist batter his spine. He drove his knee at the demon's groin, but hit the rock-solid flesh of a mighty red thigh instead. The two tumbled to the ground, locked together like wrestlers.

As strong as he was, Conan felt like a child in Djavul's embrace. The knife was wrenched from his grip and flew into the darkness. A moment later Djavul tossed the big youth away as a man might toss a loaf of moldy bread. The Cimmerian hit the ground hard, his wind knocked from him.

Djavul leaped the intervening distance to tower over Conan. "You make it too easy, wasp!" He bent over, reaching for Conan.

The Cimmerian saw Kinna then, swinging her staff. The heavy wood, as thick as her wrist, whistled in the night air. She smashed the rod across Djavul's back at kidney level. The brassbound staff splintered and cracked, so hard did she wield it. The impact brought a grunt from Djavul, but only staggered him. He turned, swinging his open hand. He hit Kinna on the shoulder, knocking her flying.

Conan regained his feet. At the same instant he heard Vitarius yell.

"Conan! Catch!" The white-haired wizard tossed something at the younger man.

Conan twisted, expecting to see a knife glittering in the firelight.

What he snatched from the air was no blade, however. It felt like grease over crackly parchment, both stretched over wood. It had several points on one end, like small daggers. In an instant Conan recognized what he held: Djavul's severed hand!

Then the demon spun to face Conan. Firelight reflected from his white fangs, and slime dripped from his open mouth as he reached to grab the man. He must have expected the man to back away, but the Cimmerian did the opposite. He lunged at the monster. He had one chance, and he used it. He gripped the severed hand like a sword, and, with all his strength, he jabbed the taloned fingers at the face of their former owner.

The partially mummified fingers were spread. The forefinger and middle finger stabbed into Djavul's eyes and sank in to the third joint.

The demon screamed, a sound that shattered the night air. Conan's ears rang, deafened, as Djavul staggered back, clutching his dead hand with his remaining live one. He tugged at the instrument of his torture, but it now seemed a part of his face, immovable. The demon dropped to his knees, still screaming. A strange crackling orange light surrounded his face. As Conan watched, the light expanded to cover Djavul's entire form. When the light had bathed the demon from head to toe, it stopped abruptly, winking out. Djavul fell over backward. His body ran like heated wax, losing form, then bubbled into a puddle of redness that spread over the fir needles, until, at last, nothing remained of him save a damp spot on the ground.

In Castle Slott a pentagram sketched exactingly upon the flagstones of a certain chamber suddenly flared into orange flame. When the flames vanished, so did the pentagram.

In Mornstadinos, in her bedchamber, Djuvula the Witch bolted upright from a dreamless sleep, her eyes wide. She screamed, but it was a wasted effort. Her brother was no more.

Chapter Sixteen

By the light of the rekindled fire Conan sat with Vitarius, Kinna, and the returned Eldia. The girl had been moved only a short way from the place where she had lain-still within the warding spell set by the old magician.

"He must have been very close to us when I cast the enchantment,"

Vitarius said. "The magic has not been disturbed. "

More than Conan could say for himself. "What happened to him?" He glanced toward the damp spot that had been Djavul.

"Because I am of the White, the demon knew I could not use his name against him. But flesh of his flesh was, as it turned out, a more potent weapon."

Kinna said, "How did you know what it would do?"

Vitarius shook his head. "I did not know. The White Square does not teach such things. But I had heard rumors; one learns something of the opposition if one lives long enough. I came across an old parchment some years ago, a page from some larger work that had been mostly burned by some wise soul. On this page it was written that flesh taken from a demon will rejoin its owner, can it be brought into contact with him again. Had Conan fitted the dead hand back to its wrist, I suspect the demon would once again have become whole. Apparently, however, the flesh of demons is not very discriminating-the hand adhered to the first portion of the devil it touched."

Kinna shuddered. "You mean the hand took root in the fiend's very face?"

"So it would seem. And since the eyes were a most unnatural place for it to be, the old hand killed him."

"A fitting death," Conan said. "I shall sleep better, knowing I am no longer dogged by hellspawn."

Near the edge of the Corinthian road, Loganaro the free agent slept fitfully. Coldness wrapped him, chilling him to his depths despite his overlay of fat. He had no blanket; neither had he supplies, having left Mornstadinos in a great hurry. He had managed to gnaw the bonds from his wrists, but other than the clothing he wore, he carried nothing.

Something unseen woke the fat man. He listened carefully as he peered into the darkness, but the only sound was of some distant night bird calling to its mate. Night sounds, nothing more. This far from Mornstadinos, he should have nothing to worry about. He was safe.

He relaxed somewhat. Nothing to fear. True, he was used to better accommodations when he traveled, but this setback was merely temporary at worst. He had contacts in many of the Corinthian city-states, even in several of the small kingdoms to the south. In no time at all he would be able to connive someone into furnishing him with a mount and supplies. After that he could quickly reach one of his caches of wealth, of which there were a fair number, in various places.

Mornstadinos might be the Jewel of Corinthia, but it was not the only city. He might travel to Nemedia, or Ophir, perhaps even Koth. He was well-connected in all of those places.

Of his hasty promise to become honest and even priestlike, Loganaro thought not at all, save to smile at such foolishness. One called upon the gods only in moments of great need. Should the gods answer that need, why, that was their concern, not his. He had made bargains such as that a dozen times, and each had been broken quickly thereafter. The gods were either forgiving, or disinterested in oath-breakers, in Loganaro's experience. A man did what he had to at the time. After that, well, things changed as often as the wind. What mattered was that he was alive and free to return to his less-than-honest-and-honorable ways. To hell with the gods.

The small grin on Loganaro's face faded slowly as he slipped back into sleep, lulled by the distant birdcalls.

Upon the starlit road a tawny shape ran. Dawn neared, presaged by its false brother, so darkness lay thickly over the western road from Mornstadinos. Only the breathing of the panther could be heard, and that breathing was tired.

Too, the panther was hungry. He had been running since he'd left the city, stopping only to rest for short periods, and to take a rabbit once, and later, a small ground monk. Hardly enough fare for a wildcat, much less such a large panther as was this one. Revenge fueled him, but revenge was not such a nourishing dish as warm flesh and hot blood.

As if some benevolent god had heard his wish, the panther suddenly caught the scent of living meat. There, just ahead, leaning against that tree. The cat slowed, and began his stalk, dropping his belly closer to the ground, moving more purposefully.

The meat slept. Good. That would make things easier. He could go for the throat and suffocate the prey. If the man tried to resist, the panther could rake open his victim's belly with his hind claws, and disembowel him.

The cat moved with all the stealth he had, silently as a ghost, but something startled the meat. Some inner sense, perhaps, warned him of his impending doom. His eyes snapped open and he tried to scramble to his feet. He yelled. "No! Not you! Gods, forgive me, I will keep my vow, I will keep it, I swear!"

The cat who had been a man grinned, revealing his long fangs. Well, well. How appropriate this was! That his dinner should be this fat-and treacherous fool. Most appropriate, he thought as he gathered himself to spring.

In the night the bird that had called to its mate suddenly went silent.

Once again quiet ruled.

Quiet, save for the sound of a great hungry cat rending its prey.

With the trees of the Bloddolk Forest behind him, Conan felt much better. Here lay a vast plain, dotted here and there by buttes and rocky ridges, but mostly flat and bare. This was more to his liking; a man could see danger for a long way, could prepare himself to meet it properly. Nothing would skulk to within a few paces under the cover of god-cursed trees and underbrush.

Ahead of him Vitarius and Eldia rode side by side, talking quietly.

Just behind them Kinna's horse walked. Occasionally, the young woman would look over her shoulder and smile at Conan. He minded this not at all, for she was a woman of beauty and no small lusty temperament. The tension that had ridden Conan since his first encounter with the witch no longer troubled him in any way. He grinned, and hurried his horse a bit so that he rode closer to the others.

"Ho, Vitarius," Conan said, "perhaps a stop for breakfast might be in order. Now that we are shut of that cursed wood."

"We should consider ourselves covered with good fortune," Vitarius said. "That we survived our passage unscathed."

"Good fortune? That we were nearly spitted by a perverse plant and gobbled up by a giant red demon?"

"Our trip was mild compared to some. At least we survived to tell the tale."

Conan nodded. The old mage had a point.

The four reined their mounts to a stop and unpacked dried meats and leathery strips of fruit, upon which they broke their fast. Between bites Conan mentioned to Vitarius how much he preferred this kind of terrain to that which they had just left.

Vitarius nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a brownish glob of some water-leached fruit. "Aye, under most circumstances I would agree. But this is Dodligia Plain, and not as safe as it appears at the moment. A half-day's ride will bring us within sight of Castle Slott-it is another full day from there. And on the plains surrounding such a wicked place, there will be obstacles. I suspect the only reason we have not encountered wardens such as those you met upon entering Corinthia is because we travel toward Sovartus. He would hardly expect the flies to proceed directly to his web."

The old man took another bite of fruit. "But rest assured, Sovartus is not one to leave his castle unguarded even if he does not expect us in particular. He has created a few enemies for himself: more than one man would see Sovartus swinging upon the gibbet. And the line to spit on his corpse would stretch to the horizon."

"I would lead such a line," Eldia said, looking grim for one so young.

"Aye," Conan said, "and I would be near the front so as to collect my horse before all the spoils were gone!" He laughed.

Vitarius frowned. "Better you should save your jests until after we accomplish our mission. Sovartus does not amuse easily, from my recollections, and once we sight the castle, we must assume the very ground to have ears."

Conan turned his head away from Vitarius and cupped his hands around his mouth. "See that you have my horse ready for my arrival!" he yelled. He turned back toward the trio watching him and smiled, his eyes full of blue fire.

No one smiled back at him.

As the sun passed midway over the land on its journey to night, the four came within sight of a far peak. An odd mountain, Conan thought, for it stood alone like a cone upon a table, without foothills or buttes near it. And the peak of the mountain was even more oddly shaped, jutting out so that it was somewhat wider above a pinched neck, like some distorted hourglass.

"Castle Slott," Vitarius said.

Conan blinked in disbelief. "That mountain?"

"Much of it. The rock is shot through with caves, most of which interconnect. That flare you see at the top is not natural; it was made by men and by magic. From here it appears small; closer you can see that the tip of Castle Slott is ten times as large as the largest palace in Mornstadinos. And the top levels are linked to the tunnels below. Properly provisioned, a man could wander for years within the castle-mountain and never retrace his steps.

"From here on," Vitarius continued, "we must be on our guard."

Conan stared at the castle. His earlier enthusiasm quickly waned as he contemplated the awesome construction.

Djuvula supervised the loading of her Prince of the Lance onto her wagon. The wagon was constructed of a sturdy wooden frame, with a square tent of heavy canvas stretched over hoops of steamed and bent ironwood.

"Careful there, buffoon! If you drop that case, I shall shrivel your manhood!"

The workman's eyes widened, and he moved more gingerly.

Djuvula turned away and went to finish packing her trunk of potions and powders.

As she carefully padded certain fragile glass balls full of brightly colored chemicals, once again the sorceress shook her head. She desired not this journey, but no help existed to save her from it. Djavul was dead; and, while there could be many reasons why, Djuvula knew in her own mind that her demon-brother must have met his fate at the hands of the barbarian, the old wizard, and the girl of Fire. Thus, revenge was added to her motives for wanting the man and girl. Revenge itself stirred her but little, though. Her relationship with Djavul had been based more on mutual self-satisfaction than on any true feelings; still, he had been kin. A point against her quarry.

With the expected failure of Lemparius as master swordsman of the bedchamber, it became more important to retrieve Conan for her Prince.

And, of course, there stood the matter of the girl, possession of whom would buy her favor from Sovartus. Now that Djavul was dead, she would need a patron more than before. For all these reasons Djuvula knew she must follow the barbarian and the girl he protected.

She smiled. Fortunately, she would not have to ride the Corinthian road for long. She had in her possession a powerful spell, taught her by Djavul, which would allow the caster to travel the inbetween lands. A few hours ride on that hellish road would be worth as many days travel on any highway in Corinthia.

True, such travel was not without risk even for a witch of considerable power; there were things that existed in the inbetween lands that would bring terror to the eyes of a demon, much less a mortal woman.

Unwary travelers under the gray sun could die a thousand deaths in a thousand horrible ways. Djuvula had made other journeys on that route, however. She was cautious; and, because of their head start, the risk must be taken if she were to catch her quarry.

She smiled at the thought and continued to pack her magical gear.

Near dusk Conan saw a new menace. One moment the plain to the Cimmerian's left stood empty for as far as the eye could behold. The next moment a creature stood not twenty paces away. The thing was taller than Conan by a foot, and it looked like nothing so much as a very large dog standing upon its hind legs. The hind feet differed in shape from a dog's or wolf's, being more manlike, and the forepaws seemed more apish than canine, but otherwise it was doglike. The ears were pointed, the snout long and the muzzle filled with sharp teeth, and the nose was black, with twin nostrils.

Conan had no more time than to turn toward Vitarius and utter a curse, when the beast vanished. It was there, then it was not-dematerialized into the dusky air.

Vitarius turned. Conan quickly described the apparition.

The old mage nodded. "A demi-whelf." he said. "A beast of Earth, and thus controlled by Sovartus-through Eldia's sibling."

"They are magic, to disappear so?"

"No. They live under the ground, in tunnels. The one you saw needed merely step into a concealed entrance to drop from sight."

"Ah," That made Conan feel better. Beasts, controlled by wizards or not, could be fought with steel.

"No doubt Sovartus shall shortly know we are here," Vitarius said.

"Best we continue moving; as like as not, the ground here is honeycombed with the whelves' tunnels."

The Cimmerian nodded. "What are they likely to do?"

Vitarius shrugged, his thin shoulders denting his robe slightly from within. "They must certainly contact their master somehow. A runner, perhaps, if not by some magical means. While demi-whelves have not the keenest eyesight, that one was close enough to observe us and give a description. I have no doubt that Sovartus is by this time aware of our presence."

"What will he do, then?" Kinna asked.

The old man shook his head. "I know not. We proceed toward his lair. He can attack us now, or, perhaps, only await our arrival."

"Then our advantage of surprise is gone," Conan said.

"I had not counted greatly upon it," Vitarius replied.

"Perhaps you should reveal your plan, then, magician." Conan had not cared for the sight of the demi-whelf.

"When we arrive in the vicinity of the castle, I shall create a magical diversion of sufficient power and agitation to warrant Sovartus's attention. While he is thus occupied, you need merely enter the castle, locate the children, and free them."

"That is your plan?" Conan shook his head. "I am to scale a giant mountain, enter a castle, search perhaps thousands of rooms until I find our quarry, defeat the forces that might be mounted by a powerful wizard inside as guards, and return with three children?"

"That is my plan, yes."

"Ah. And here I had thought there might be some difficulty in this undertaking. How foolish of me! It will be simple!"

"Sarcasm does not become you, Conan. I am open to better suggestions."

The Cimmerian shook his head again. "Nay, your plan suits me well enough." He touched the hilt of his sword. "I would rather rely on my blade than on complicated posturings in any event."

"I shall go with you," Kinna said.

Conan chuckled. "Nay. I said before I work better alone."

Kinna bristled. "You would take me were I a man!"

"I would not take you were you a tame dragon trained to belch fire at my command. I work best alone; I have always done so. And I am most glad that you are a woman, Kinna. I would have you be nothing else."

Conan could see the anger on her face war with another emotion. After a moment she smiled. "Yes. I, too, am glad to be a woman, Conan."

The inbetween lands were never peaceful, at least during those times when Djuvula had traveled them. In two directions, the south and east, storms raged, spewing forth lightning and thunder; where she was the atmosphere seemed charged with some elemental force, so that the air swam with countless small motes, all dancing madly. The inbetween lands twisted straight lines into curves and waves, made corners less than square, and surrounded every object with a fuzz of its own light-a total, encompassing delusion.

As Djuvula urged onward the frightened horses pulling her wagon, something dark flew across her path. gibbering loudly. The horses started and would have turned had she not used her whip. Despite blinders and a calming spell laid upon them, the horses were always skittish. Perhaps they somehow felt the danger that had once claimed one of their number while pulling Djuvula's wagon. That time, only Djavul had saved her from the fate of the horse, the filling of some monstrous thing's bloated belly.

Djuvula shuddered. She wished very much that Djavul still lived and was seated next to her now.

By her estimate she would need travel this hellish road only another ten minutes to emerge into her own world again. And ahead of her quarry. She already had her plans for handling the wizard and barbarian. If nothing went agley.

Even as she thought this, Djuvula saw a ripple in the landscape ahead of her. The ground flowed upward in a pulsing mound as a wave swells in a storm. The earth split with a wrenching sound, as if giant nails were being pulled from solid wood. A cave filled with pointed stone teeth suddenly yawned before the sorceress. That this earth-demon would devour her, horses, wagon, and all, she doubted not at all.

The animals pulling her wagon needed no urging to turn aside. Djuvula allowed them to tow the wagon away from the road monster, then quickly pulled them to a stop. To travel away from the safety of the road would be folly of the highest order. Despite her desire to arrive in the real world ahead of the party she sought, she decided to leave the inbetween lands. That the road monster somehow traveled toward her, moving like a wave in water, hastened her decision. She intoned the words of the spell quickly but carefully. The swimming air seemed to dance faster, and an actinic flash lit the scene . . . .

She found herself on a small road on the edge of a danklooking wood.

Quickly, she determined that she had arrived at the northern limit of the Bloddolk Forest; a further working of her location spell, using Conan's clothing, showed that the barbarian lay ahead of her, at least half a day's journey. Damn! She would have to enchant the horses so they could run all night to catch up to them. Unless she wanted to risk the inbetween lands again. The memory of the cave-mouthed monster drove that thought away in a hurry.

The witch laid the lash alongside the ear of the lead horse with a pop!

and the horses moved. One of them snorted and tossed his head, looking nervous. Djuvula looked in the direction of his attention.

Sleeping in the crook of a twisted hardwood tree lay a panther. Djuvula cursed the horse. "Fool animal, after what you have just seen on the highway through hell, you fear a sleeping beast?" She stung the horse's rump with the whip, and the animal went back to his job. The wagon moved away from the twisted tree and the sleeping cat.

Of the panther, once out of sight, Djuvula thought no more.

Chapter Seventeen

The camp was laid, the tire banked, and Vitarius set his magical wards once again. Conan had just dozed into a light sleep next to Kinna when he was jerked from slumber by a terrible cacophony around him.

It sounded to the Cimmerian as if the world were ending; a blast of noise smote his ears, louder even than the screams of the slain demon, Djavul. With the screeching came also a flashing of light, multicolored and blindingly bright. It took but a moment for him to realize what had happened: Something had entangled itself in Vitarius's magic spell.

Conan rolled from his bed, snatched up his sword, and came to his feet in a single fluid motion. The night sky was cloudy, but the splashes of light from the spell were sufficient to see all too well: The demi-whelves had attacked.

Vitarius untangled himself from his bedding and moved for Eldia, who was scrambling up with her own short sword held ready. Kinna had Conan's curved knife and was on her feet as Conan ran to meet the first whelf to enter the campsite. Muscles rippled under dark fur as the beast lunged at Conan, fangs bared to tear out his throat.

Those same fangs clacked shut in a final horror as Conan cleaved the head holding them from the whelf's neck with a single stroke of his night-cooled steel. Without pausing, the Cimmerian turned lightly on the balls of his feet to face another leaping wolf. This one spitted itself on the point of Conan's sword, howling wolfishly as it fell.

Unfortunately, the dying demi-whelf took Conan's blade down with him, twisting so hard that the handle was pulled from the Cimmerian's powerful grasp. Conan cursed, and bent to retrieve the embedded sword; as he did, a third whelf, attacking from the rear, missed its intended grab-and-bite aimed at Conan's neck. The whelf hit the man instead with its skinny legs, tripped, and flew over Conan in a lopsided flip, landing upon its back on the hard ground.

Conan pulled on his sword, but the weight of the dead whelf held the blood-warmed steel fast. The beast that had smacked into the ground began to rise.

The Cimmerian abandoned his task, turning instead to face the third attacker. He growled, to match the voice of the demi-whelf. As the beast set itself to spring, however, it was suddenly distracted. The whelf's attention upon Conan faltered for two reasons: Eldia's small sword stabbed into its rump as Kinna's knife slashed its opposite leg to the bone. The beast howled.

Conan leaped and drove a hammerlike fist between the whelf's surprised eyes-The creature dropped as might a sack of grain, its consciousness knocked from it.

Conan did not pause, but leaped back to retrieve his sword. With one foot against the downed whelf he wrenched his blade free.

Vitarius, at this point, managed to reach Eldia. The old mage put one hand upon the girl's head as the words of some magical chant rose against the din of the warding spell.

Conan had no more time to watch, then, as a phalanx of whelves suddenly breached the camp's perimeter and charged toward the human occupants.

He grinned, and ran to meet the new threat, slinging from his sword the gore of their downed comrades at the new arrivals as he moved.

The tight formation of whelves scattered at the sound and sight of Conan's whistling blade. The beasts were fast, but they stumbled over each other in their haste to reposition themselves, being too many in too small a space. One moved too slowly from the Cimmerian's reach, and so became a kind of limb-brother to the destroyed demon, Djavul.

A flash of supernal blue light came then in a tight beam that speared first one whelf, then a second and third. Thick smoke and steam erupted from the lupiform beasts as the light touched them, the beam moving like some supernatural spear. Eldia.

The remaining whelves scattered, baying in fear. Conan turned in time to see a shadowy form come up behind Vitarius and Eldia. The Cimmerian yelled and sprinted for them, but even he could not move fast enough. A clubbed and apelike fist smote the old man above one ear, and he crumpled. The contact between the wizard and the girl of Fire thus broken, the blue flame died abruptly, winking out like a snuffed candle. The afterglow filled Conan's eyes as he ran for the attacker, who bent to grab Eldia. The girl whipped her small blade up, and the whelf leaped back a step.

The short delay was enough; Conan thundered across the ground, not bothering to slow as he barreled into the whelf. The big man's shoulder smashed against the beast's chest, knocking it from its feet. The Cimmerian followed, lifted his sword, and brought it down hard. This one would trouble them no more.

Conan spun, to see Vitarius trying to stand. Quickly, he moved to help the old man to his feet.

The wizard was stunned. "What-what happened?"

"You were struck from the rear. I killed it."

Vitarius shook his head. "The whelves . . . ?"

"Dead, mostly, or gone. I see none moving."

The older man nodded, then looked about in sudden fear. "Eldia! And Kinna! Where are they?"

Conan looked around quickly. Of the two sisters there was no sign.

In the high reaches of Castle Slott, Sovartus of the Black Square laughed maniacally in triumph. She was his! His enthralled whelves had her! Only moments before, a raven had come, bearing the message from the ruler of the demi-whelves. Even now, the girl of Fire was en route, traveling through the underground network of tunnels built by a hundred generations of the earth-dwelling lupines.

Sovartus stood in a bare tower room, festooned with loops of dust-laden spider silk. The room had not been used for years, but the dark stains upon the slatted wood floor testified to its grisly former purpose.

This was the topmost enclosed space in the castle, a circular room with windows facing each of the four directions. It would be here that Sovartus would compound the Elements and create the most potent magic seen since before the sinking of Atlantis.

He strolled slowly about the perimeter of the tower, pausing to look through each arched window. He grinned. Soon each window would hold framed a view of a single Element: To the east would dance great winds; to the west, the earth itself would roil; to the north, storms would pour forth a deluge; and to the south-ah-finally, to the south would burn a pillar of fire, warm enough to scorch the dwellers of Hell itself. When the Elements were in place, then would he, Sovartus of the Black Square, command them to join; then would be born the Thing of Power.

Ah, yes, then would the Four meld and blend to become more than they had ever been. The idea, the forestalling, would be the conception and birth, the befruktning. And the world would tremble before it-and the man who mastered it.

Sovartus laughed again and clapped his hands. Immediately, a pair of black-robed and cowled figures entered the room and bowed low. Their faces were invisible within the shadows of their hoods, and they spoke not, but bowed again to the wizard.

"Fetch the Three," Sovartus commanded. "And have my talisman table and accoutrements brought here. And my robe of virgin's hair."

The figures in black bowed low again and scurried from the tower, leaving Sovartus alone. When they had gone, the magician stared at the stains upon the floor. Soon, he thought, soon the cities of men would resemble that dark spot, did they not offer up to him total obeisance.

The name of Sovartus would inflict fear and respect upon every man and woman hearing it, soon. Soon.

Conan found the bloody knife lying near a hole in the ground. He picked it up and hefted it. The same knife he had taken from Lemparius the wereman, the same he had last seen Kinna wielding against the demi-whelves. He stared at the hole, which angled into the earth wide enough so that a man could slide into it easily.

Vitarius came to stand next to him. "One of the entrances to the whelves' tunnels. They have taken the sisters underground."

Conan nodded, then made as if to enter the hole.

Vitarius touched the younger man's shoulder with one bony hand. "Nay, Conan. Crom may live inside a mountain, but this land belongs to the whelves. You would not find them in the darkness under the earth.

Besides, likely they are a far distance away by now, heading for the castle."

Conan turned away from the entrance to the demi-whelves' domain. "Then we must ride for the castle ourselves. They must cover the same distance, tunnel or no, and if we hurry, perhaps we can arrive before Sovartus takes them."

"It is dark," Vitarius said. "In the morning-"

"I do not fear the dark," the Cimmerian said. "If the beasts below are moving, so must we. If you would rather remain behind, I will go alone-"

"Nay," Vitarius said. "I shall accompany you."

The two men started for their horses.

The wagon of Djuvula the Witch lay under a shroud of magically induced blackness, invisible to normal eyes beyond a few feet. The fire-haired woman stood nearby, watching Conan and the mage of the White Square mount their horses. She cursed softly as the men rode away, angry with the fates for delaying her transit.

What had happened was all too apparent, from the corpses of the demi-whelves scattered about. There had been an attack, and the girl of Fire now belonged to the beasts of the ground, and therefore shortly to Sovartus. Ah, to have come so close, only to be thwarted!

Djuvula considered her options. She could still have the heart of the barbarian, no small comfort. And, possibly, she might still somehow bask in the glow of Sovartus's victory; he was, after all, a man, and prey to the same desires as all men not infirm or perverted. Sovartus was known to be many things, but a lover of boys was not among them, so Djuvula had heard. And she doubted not her skills in that arena.

Yes. Best to continue onward. She returned to the wagon and climbed onto the driver's bench.

In the darkness, hidden by a dry and sparse bush soon to become a tumbleweed, the panther who had been a man watched the woman who was a witch mount her shrouded wagon and depart. A normal cat's eyes were sharp in the night, and this particular cat had vision far better than normal in addition to a mind belonging to a man. True, the brain was going savage, so that in time the panther would be no more than a beast; still, there remained a strong gleam of manlike intelligence ruling the animal. And that intelligence had just seen its two greatest enemies depart.

There seemed hardly any choice but to follow. The witch he could not attack directly, but there might be some way to cause her downfall. The barbarian was but a man, and even with a magical knife he could be surprised and taken.

For the first time since he had become a panther for life, Lemparius felt a surge of pure happiness.

The cold dish of vengeance grew warmer.

In the highest tower of Castle Slott preparations were being made.

Black-robed and cowled figures moved around the room, attending to the desires of Sovartus. Under three of the room's four windows, two sons and a daughter of Hogistum had been chained. Three of the Four Elements were present, the last due soon.

Sovartus moved away from the fourth window, where he had been watching the quiet plain of Dodligia. The formerly agitated Elements now stood quiet, almost as if in anticipation of Sovartus's final victory. No breeze stirred; no ground trembled; no rain fell.

The talisman table stood in the center of the room, a square shape covered with carven symbols and resting on four gargoyle feet. Each quad-clawed foot clenched a square gem; these were black onyx, black pearl, black jade, and sunset opal. In the middle of the magical table was set a leathercovered book, also the color of a raven's breast, and square in shape. Midnight was the room's tone, darker yet its purpose.

This suited Sovartus well, and his smile remained constant. Soon, now, his striving would come to an end; when it did, there would be a new beginning to shake the world.

Chapter Eighteen

Conan and Vitarius had not ridden far toward Castle Slott, when the older man reined his horse to a stop and motioned for Conan to do the same.

"Why do you halt? The journey is just begun-"

"Silence!" Vitarius's voice held a tone of command that Conan had not heard before. The power of that single word startled the Cimmerian.

The old magician dismounted and took several steps in the direction of their travel. He reached out and seemed to be feeling for something in the night air. Conan saw nothing there. After a moment Vitarius nodded.

He stepped back a pace. "Sovartus has set a warding spell; we are at its boundary."

Conan stared into the darkness. "We are still some way from his castle."

Vitarius nodded. He mumbled something Conan did not quite hear. and waved his hands in a strange pattern. A faint reddish glow appeared in the air just ahead of the two men, and quickly expanded away from them.

"As you can see, he covers a large area. Once we enter the spell he will become aware of us. And I, with my magical abilities, will draw his attention more than an ordinary traveler would. Before we enter his realm, I must prepare myself. There will be guards for men-he is no fool-but likely, too, will there be guards for those bearing magics that would oppose the Black Square. I must be ready."

Conan dismounted and walked about, stretching his sinews as Vitarius sat cross-legged on the ground and chanted quietly to himself. The Cimmerian was impatient, eager to put his blade to work. Enough of this magical foolery. If Sovartus found himself transfixed upon cold and sharp steel, he would deflate readily enough, Conan would wager. All of these night-glowings and mummeries sat ill with the big youth. He would be shut of this kind of work as soon as possible; he was more than willing to hack his way out of it.

Time passed, and Conan grew yet more impatient. What was the old man doing? Crom, they would be here for the next season's change!

"I am ready," Vitarius said.

Once again Conan was startled by the magician's voice. There was the new note of power he'd heard before, but something additional also rode there. It seemed as if a young man had spoken. And though Conan saw nothing so changed he could name it, Vitarius seemed to move differently from the way he had before. Somehow more assured, his manner was.

They remounted their horses and approached the glowing air.

Conan noticed no difference when they entered the warding spell; no lights flashed, no screeches filled the night air. Vitarius, however, said, "He knows we have come. Be on guard. He cannot turn his full attention to us, for he is preparing himself for his abominable experiment. Still, he controls much power-and much danger lies ahead."

The Cimmerian pulled his sword free of its leathern home and held it angled across the front of his saddle. "Good," he said.

A wind began to blow, driving sand into Conan's face. His horse whinnied and tried to sidestep away from the dust, but the Cimmerian held the beast to its course.

"Sovartus," Vitarius said. "He seeks to test our mettle."

Conan nodded. "A breeze shall not stay us."

The wind increased suddenly, a gust rocking Conan in the saddle. He slitted his eyes and leaned into the dusty wind. With his free hand he tried to shield the eyes of his horse.

The old mage intoned the words of some spell then. Abruptly, the wind died.

"Air," Vitarius said. "But not much of it. He thinks us little threat, it would seem."

"I look forward to correcting his mistake," Conan said.

"I hope your optimism is well-founded."

Djuvula wrapped her scarf more tightly around her face to keep the dust from her eyes. She would not oppose Sovartus with her magic, of the Black, as was his own; therefore, it was unlikely he would deign to attack her directly. She had no fear of mortal guards who might be posted along the Dodligian road to Castle Slott.

She felt the force of the old wizard ahead of her flash out, and the wind died. That one had more power than she had thought. She had been surprised at how strong he truly was when he had paused to focus the White energies a short time earlier. He had just brushed aside Sovartus's nightwind as a man might brush away a pesky insect.

Interesting.

Of course, her major concern lay in how the wizard might utilize those energies against her, did he know she followed so intently. She must wait, it seemed, until Conan and he of the White Square were separated enough so that she could strike against the barbarian. The castle grew closer, and her dealings with Sovartus would have to be considered as well; still, enough time lay ahead yet to complete all her business.

All the time in the world.

The panther moved in the lee of the wagon, partially protected from the wind in this manner, but not altogether so; some of the road grit found his face, and he blinked against it. The panther trod carefully, to avoid coming within range of the magic shroud that cloaked the witch's conveyance. He did not think she knew of him, trailing her this way; neither would he have her know-yet. She had humbled him once with her foul magic, and he would not have such happen again.

As Lemparius padded along behind the wagon he considered for the hundredth time how he might effect Djuvula's destruction. She had rendered him impotent against her directly, but there must be another manner in which he could attack. Something indirect. But-what?

For a moment the beast took over. Lemparius had to resist the urge to snarl; he had to hold himself in check to keep from sprinting to the front of the wagon, to slash at the horses, to drink from their blood before leaping upon Djuvula to rend her lifeless.

The moment passed, and the mind of the man once again rode in full control of the animal's form. It would have been a foolish move to be prompted by such feline passions, a wasted effort, doomed from the start.

The catman shook his head. He would have to do something soon; he must do something ere he lost his human sanity to become a panther in thought as well as in form. He had but one hope in that regard: If Djuvula were to die, perhaps her bewitchment of him might also die. He might then regain his human form. A fragile hope, he knew, but all that he had.

Of course, there was the matter of Conan, who must die in any event.

But whether the barbarian was killed by the panther or by the man he had been mattered little. He would die; more, he must die in such a way that Djuvula-if she still lived-could not obtain the man's heart for her simulacrum. She must be denied that pleasure even if she survived it by only a moment.

Revenge was a dish to be savored slowly, Lemparius was finding, in all of its flavoring, before settling into partaking of it in full earnest.

The wind and dust settled then, but a sniff of the night air brought to the cat's sensitive nostrils the smell of something he liked less: rain, and coming soon.

Lemparius held the cat's voice, but the snarl and low growl existed in thought if not sound.

The rain came across the plain at a driving slant, presaged by lightning and booming thunder. In the light of the crackling discharges Conan saw the first fat, heavy drops splatter against the dry ground, raising dust as they thunked into the earth. In a moment the wall of water neared, a blanket of gray reaching to enshroud the two riders.

Despite the moisture in the air, the hair on Conan's arms and neck stirred, as it sometimes did on removing a heavy woolen cloak on a winter's day. His horse made as if to bolt, and Conan held him steady only with difficulty.

Vitarius suddenly reached skyward, arms extended fully, fingers spread.

He yelled a short phrase.

A jagged bolt speared from the heavens, straight at the pair of men and horses. Conan saw the bolt deflected somehow, several spans over his head. The thunder that followed the thwarted charge was also muted, so that it was felt more than heard.

Vitarius now glowed with a pale light not unlike that produced by the flashes of lightning. The rain that should have fallen upon them fell before and behind and to either side, as though an invisible tent had been erected over the men and mounts. The storm raged at the shield; lightning crackled at it, thunder drummed upon it, hail the size of Conan's fist shattered against the clear air. The dry ground around them, outside of Vitarius's protection, became like a swamp, yet Conan could smell the dust disturbed by his frightened horse's hooves as the animal pawed the ground.

The storm standing over him must be supernatural, Conan knew.

Unprotected from the tempest, he would have surely paid a dear price, maybe even his life. Despite his distrust and dislike of any form of magic, Conan found himself most glad to be next to Vitarius at the moment. Most glad.

Spray from the driving rain found its way through the canvas that formed the roof of Djuvulas wagon, thick as the material was. She dared not use any more of her magic to augment the material's natural protection, for fear of attracting either Vitarius's or Sovartus's attention. She had risked erecting a shelter for the horses, speeding up the process with a spell so that the hail, at least, would not bash them senseless. That same hail battered at her own roof, denting it deeply in places and making a terrible racket when the ice struck a supporting wooden hoop.

Djuvula lay on the bed next to the box containing her Prince. She stroked the smooth wood idly, and spoke to the form inside as if it were alive. "Fear not, my love. We may be dampened, but not for long.

Do not allow the din to disturb your slumber . . . . "

Crouched under the witch's wagon, the panther held very still, even to breathing shallowly and with great care. He did not think that Djuvula would hear him with the storm howling about them, but he knew he must not be careless.

He would have found other shelter had there been any; upon this portion of the plain, however, there existed no protection from even a normal rain, much less one driven by wizardry. Despite his ability to withstand ordinary dangers, the panther was no proof against such magic as Sovartus controlled. Hail so heavy that it dug holes in the ground would smash a skull easily enough even his.

A funnel began near one edge of the dry spot underlying the wagon and sought to cross to the opposite side. Lemparius would have moved, but the hail chose that moment to cease falling and the relative quiet might have allowed the witch to hear such a movement. So the panther held his place as the cold finger of water reached his belly and began to puddle there, running along his length.

His nostrils flared and the panther laid his ears back in rage. Yet another indignity for which Djuvula owed him. He cursed inwardly, but remained as a stone statue as the cold and muddy water soaked his fur.

As quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped. The stars appeared behind the scudding clouds along with a sliver of settling moon. As the storm faded so did the glow surrounding Vitarius. For a moment the wizard looked tired. Then he took a deep breath and straightened slightly, shaking off the weariness as a dog shakes off water.

"It has been too long since I played these games," Vitarius said. "I am out of practice."

Grudgingly, for all his dislike of sorcery, Conan said, "You did well enough."

"Aye, but these are but small tests. When Sovartus tries with real force, I shall have to do better."

The Cimmerian nodded.

"Then the sooner we get to yon castle, the sooner we can depart this cursed plain."

"Aye, Conan. Ride on."

They urged their horses onward.

High in his castle, Sovartus became aware of an irritation, something amiss in the mystical web of forces with which he surrounded himself.

On Dodligia Plain a faint glimmer of antithetical forces existed where none should, as a boil upon otherwise healthy skin. Well, he had no time for such things. He sent a wind to blow it away.

Sovartus returned to his preparations for the arrival of the girl of Fire. He donned his virgins'-hair robe, feeling the power it carried.

He called for a bottle of his oldest and finest wine and sipped of the liquid as he contemplated his new place in the cosmic scheme of things.

Ah, what power he would command!

He felt an itch in his side then, but it was metaphysical and not manifested in his own flesh. He expanded his consciousness, searching for the source of the bothersome itch.

Damnation! That glimmer upon the plain remained despite his broom of nightwind. Well, he could take another moment from his anticipation of glory to deal with it. Within his own sphere of influence Sovartus need not call for everything upon any of the Three he had pent. He was not without powers of his own, especially so close to his lair. He called for a storm, sending hellish force upward into the skies to shape the resulting tempest to his will. Then, like a boy casting a ball, Sovartus sent the tropical zephyr toward the troublesome speck. Defy this, insect!

Presently, the itch grew worse. After his astonishment that it persisted, Sovartus knew it for what it was: Vitarius, of the White, moved against him!

Truly astounding. Surely the old man knew better? He had not even kept himself young with his magic-those of the White seldom used their powers for personal gain or enhancement-and even if he were senile; he must know how foolish it would be to proceed against one of the Black in his own Square of power.

When the girl of Fire had been taken, Sovartus had given Vitarius no further thought; unless the man were mad, he would simply go away, for he could not hope to compare his feeble powers with those of Sovartus's own. To contend would be suicide-the man had to know thateven if Sovartus did not control the Thing of Power, which he shortly would.

There was very little for the White Square to draw upon here, not with the near-omnipotence of the Black focused as it was upon this plain.

Hogistum had taught them both that White and Black had their places; and this place belonged to the Black as surely as night followed day.

Vitarius had been the better student, he must know that.

Unless-unless Vitarius had some hidden focus? Some trick he concealed to spring upon an unwary opponent?

Sovartus rubbed at his face with one hand. Yes. That must be it. The old man has some hidden card: he had to have such. Best I find out what it is before I do anything that might turn back upon me, Sovartus thought. A probe, to see how Vitarius reacts.

Sovartus smiled, pleased with his sharpness of wit. And he had just the thing to try upon his old training mate. Just the thing . . . .

Dawn approached, but darkness still reigned when Vitarius once again motioned for Conan to halt. The two men had only a short distance left before reaching the base of Sovartus's mountain-castle, and Conan had hoped they might do so without further incident. He was wrong.

Vitarius said, "Our enemy is about to task us. And it will be no small thing this time. I think it better that we should part, Conan. You must ride for the castle; I shall try to occupy Sovartus while you search for the children. And Kinna. May the White protect you, Conan of Cimmeria."

Conan slapped at the hilt of his sword. "I will put my faith elsewhere, old one. But I wish you good luck. I will return with the children and Kinna as soon as I can."

The old mage nodded, and waved one aged hand. He alighted from his horse and sat cross-legged upon the ground.

Conan spared him a final glance before turning his attention-and his horse-back toward Castle Slott.

Djuvula felt a prickling on her skin as she drew near the old magician.

The air was full of anticipatory flux, presaging some magical production. Even within her concealing shroud of darkness she felt a chill touch her.

She was nearly past the old man, who sat upon the bare ground with his eyes closed when he called out. Djuvula started at his words.

"Ho, witch; best if you depart this area quickly. There is apt to be some spillage from my coming confrontation with Sovartus."

Djuvula almost spoke, then thought better of it. Could he really see her?

Vitarius answered her unspoken thought. "Aye, I have known you followed us for some time, witch. And I know, too, of that which shadows you.

Whatever your purpose, you would be better served to turn around and flee. My sense of future is very dim for the most part; but in this instance I see ruin for many near to this venture."

Djuvula stared at the White magician. What did he mean, that which shadows me? And what of his ill prophecy? Djuvula's chill intensified, and she glanced around the edge of her wagon, searching for any pursuer. She saw none.

No point in maintaining the cloaking spell, she knew. She allowed the shroud to dissipate. For a moment she considered what the old man had said. She decided to ignore him. He was about to receive the brunt of Sovartus's magical ire; he was no threat to her. And, more important, the barbarian no longer had the White to look after him.

The witch grinned. Conan would have gone on ahead to the castle.

Djuvula still knew not why, but that was where she would find him. She popped her whip at the horses.

The White mage never opened his eyes, but he spoke three words as Djuvula drove past, three words that touched her as might a fiery brand upon her flesh: "You were warned."

Chapter Nineteen

The first gleamings of morning light found Conan staring at the entrance to a large cave in Castle Slott's mountain base. The hole in the rock was easily large enough for a mounted man to enter, a perfect, open invitation at the end of the trail leading to the wizard's home.

Conan grinned. The cave mouth was, if anything, too perfect and too open. His experience as a thief had taught him many things, not the least of which was to beware of things that looked too good to be true.

His memories of the easy stroll into the home of Senator Lemparius were all too fresh in his mind; only a fool refused to learn from his mistakes. Conan of Cimmeria would not march into what must be a trap.

How else to enter the mountain, then? He smiled and looked up at the wall of craggy rock. He was, after all, a Cimmerian; mountains had yet to be made that could not be climbed, especially by those hardy northern people from whom Conan had been bred. He would go up, and he would find a way.

Before he did, however, Conan was curious about some thing his sharp senses detected in a stand of trees not far from where he now sat on his horse. There came the sounds of pent animals, and the odor of beasts tainted the morning air.

He slid from his mount and used a large rock to peg the animal's bridle to the ground. Moving with catlike grace, the big man went to see what lay within the cover of the trees.

Horses: A corral full of them milled about, guarded by a single man wearing a hooded black robe and holding a long staff. To one end of the enclosure sat a wattle-and-daub stable, with piles of hay and grain within.

From the cover of a thick-leaved bush Conan's grin stretched as wide as it got. Well, well, well.

The Cimmerian backed away from the corral. He would certainly return here when he had done his business with Sovartus; for now, however, he must finish that business.

Conan removed the bridle and unsaddled his mount, allowing the animal to graze among the sedge. No telling how long his errand might take, and there was no point in the horse suffering while his master was gone. He hid the mount's gear carefully, taking only a skin of wine and some dried meat for supplies. He made certain his sword and Lemparius's knife were securely in place, then approached the outcrops of the mountain. Pausing only to remove his sandals, he began his climb.

Sovartus was seated near his talisman table, working the intricate spell of the Rain of Cosmic Fire, from the unholy book called the Zilbermankarikatur, the use of which nearly always brought ruination to its object. That powerful and cursed energy now focused upon Vitarius of the White Square, a shower of annihilation that rarely failed.

Let's see you escape this time, old classmate!

One of his black hoods arrived then, and interrupted Sovartus's gloatings. The shrouded form bowed low and pointed speechlessly.

Sovartus turned to see what the hooded servant wished him to see.

A brace of demi-whelves stood there, looking nervous at being inside Castle Slott. More important, however, was the child held between them: It was her! The Child of Fire, his, at last!

So taken by this vision was Sovartus, that at first he did not notice the young woman standing near to the girl. When he did, Sovartus asked, "And who are you?"

The woman drew herself up stiffly. "I am Kinna, half-sister to those children you have stolen!"

Sovartus smiled, to reveal teeth as white as bleached bone. "Ah," he said, "then you are sister to me as well."

"Nay, black-souled warlock, I am not! Stepsister, perhaps, and that reluctantly."

Sovartus swept his gaze over the girl's comely form.

"No matter," he said. "I am certain I can find some good use for you, dear. But later we can discuss our mutual pleasure; for now I have other matters to which I must attend." The wizard clapped his hands, and more hooded figures appeared. Sovartus pointed to the girl. "You two, take Eldia to join her brothers and sister." To Eldia he said, "I have been waiting for you since you were born, girl. You will no doubt enjoy meeting your long-lost kin-for a few moments anyway."

Kinna said, "What are you going to do with them?"

Sovartus shrugged. "After they are drained of the essences I need, I shall have no further use for them. Magically, that is. I suppose I can devise some entertainment utilizing such tender things."

He waved at the remaining hoods. "Take her to a lockroom; see that she is well fed and made comfortable against my future use." To the two demi-whelves Sovartus said, "You may depart. And see that you advise the whelves that it would be wise to descend to your lowest tunnels for a time; the surface of Dodligia Plain will not be a healthy place to be in a few hours."

Sovartus spun, his robe flaring widely as he started for the tower. At last! At last!

The morning sun shone brightly, but not so brightly as the conflagration spraying from the skies onto Dodligia Plain. The panther had to swing wide to avoid the fires. Had he worn a man's body, the cat would have cursed; this would delay him, and he had already done one stupid thing by falling asleep at the wrong time. This act had allowed the witch to pull away from him. There had been no help for it; even his supernormal panther abilities had limits, and he had been stretching them for days, resting and eating little. He now thought to hurry and catch Djuvula, only this magical assault upon the empty plain slowed him again-Wait. The plain was not empty. Squinting against the splashes of brilliant red and orange, the panther saw a seated figure, protected from the incandescent air by a shimmering white glow. The old magician?

It must be, though the eyes of the feline watcher were not efficient enough to discern such details amid the surrounding brightness.

But, as the panther-who-had-been-a-man looked, the seated figure managed to stand. It raised one arm, and the hand seemed to ignite with a cooler flame, more blue than red. The flame grew into a ball half the size of the figure, then an indigo beam shot out, undimmed and unhampered by the fiery rain. The line of glowing energy arced away from its generator and splashed against the mountain with the castle atop it, creating a fountain of blue sparks where it hit.

The panther turned and loped away. He wanted no part of this, whatever it was. He had his own problems that must be attended to, and they did not include being fried by an angry wizard.

Djuvula stood by the cave, staring into the darkness. That it would be guarded she was certain; that she would try to pass those guards unaided she was certain she would not. The way inside meant risk, for Sovartus would have his privacy even from those who walked the Black Path, as did he. Her strength was hardly a match for one so steeped in thaumaturgy as was Sovartus. Womanly wiles would avail her little over the hooded ones who served the master of the Black Square, since these were not born of woman and were not equipped as men who might desire women. But there was a way: The hooded ones had weak minds and could be commanded by only a medium-complex spell. This she could do, though Sovartus would hardly approve. Still, the fastest and safest way into Castle Slott would be with an escort of those who guarded it. And one of those creatures stood near a corral of horses only a short distance away.

Djuvula went to her wagon to prepare the proper spell.

Conan clung to a sheer rock face, his fingers and bare feet clutching at the narrowest of cracks like a human fly. Just above, another body length, gaped a narrow entrance to what seemed a small cave. Likely just what he searched for, he thought.

The Cimmerian had climbed to a fair height-he was at least the spans of thirty large men from the ground, and a fall from here would certainly be fatal. He was not afraid, since falling from a climb had never worried him greatly. He had first climbed only shortly after learning to walk, and grown Cimmerians seldom fell from their cold mountains.

As Conan reached for a new fingerhold, however, a sudden jolt shook the mountain, as if it were struck by a giant's fist. The Cimmerian caught only a short peripheral glimpse of blue fire splashing against the rocks a dozen arm spans above him; then he was too busy trying to maintain his precarious grip upon the mountain's face. One hand slipped, and the vibration from the rock cast his feet away. For a moment Conan hung by the tips of four fingers, and only his great strength saved him from a deadly drop. He spent no energy in cursing, but snaked his feet against the rock, scrabbling for purchase with his toes. In a moment he managed to dig his toes into a fault; his left hand found an outcrop of rock and clamped onto it. Safe again, for the moment, at least.

Conan began to climb quickly, his earlier tiredness gone. He knew not what the blue light had been, nor did he care; he wished only to be in a more secure place soon. What happened once could happen again, and the next time the blue fire might be closer or stronger.

With that thought as a spur. Conan reached the lip of the ledge bounding the cave. He pulled himself onto the wide ledge and paused to take several deep breaths. Then he untied his sandals from his belt and pulled them on.

Now, to see where this cave led. He drew his sword and stepped into the darkness.

Sovartus started as the floor beneath his feet shook suddenly. He looked at the four children, each chained under a window of the tower room. There flowed no real power from them toward him, though the new girl strived to turn him into ash with her thoughts. His skill was proof against that; besides, the force assailing his castle came from without-Vitarius! He had forgotten the mage of the White Square in his joy at collecting the child. Sovartus cast his perception forth, feeling for the old man.

Yes, it had been Vitarius who had sent a tongue of White magic at Slott. He was indeed much stronger than Sovartus had thought. The Cosmic Fire fell upon him, and still he had sufficient force to attack.

Amazing.

Briefly, Sovartus considered his response. It galled him that his castle should be attacked. On the other hand, the castle could withstand much worse without major damage; and, of course, he had more important things to do. Yes, to be certain, he had not the time to waste upon Vitarius.

Let Vitarius rail against him: it would not matter shortly. Once the Thing of Power came into being, all of the White Square combined could not stand against it. He would ignore the old mage. When he was done with his business, he would crush Vitarius with less effort than a man would expend to swat a mosquito.

Sovartus strode to his talisman table and laid his hands upon it. He uttered the first part of the phrase he had memorized a decade past.

The table began to glow redly.

When he spoke the second part of the phrase, the four children moaned softly, surrounded by that same infernal glow. Sovartus smiled, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

Conan felt the mountain shake again, but the force seemed weaker this time. Perhaps it was because he was inside.

After walking in darkness down a narrow tunnel, feeling his way along, he came to a lighted hallway cut from the rock. Torches guttered from their holders every dozen paces; the new passage stretched for a long distance in either direction, with no clue as to which way he should turn. He decided to take the left path, for it seemed to climb slightly, and his direction must eventually lead him upward, were he to attain his destination.

He passed several smaller corridors branching to either side. These confirmed his feeling that he traveled the correct track, for this corridor seemed a major artery, much larger than the others.

Now and again the floor would vibrate, as if shaken by a mild earth tremor, but the effect was small, and Conan had no difficulty maintaining his footing.

After a time he came to a widening of the tunnel. The corridor opened into a vast room carved from the solid rock, a room with a ceiling so distant, the flickering torches could not cast their light far enough to touch it, a room with walls so wide, the torches set upon them looked no more than slender tapers.

He decided against traversing such a vast cavern in virtual darkness.

He retreated a few paces and reached for one of the torches set upon the wall. But as the Cimmerian touched the smooth wood of the light, he saw another such flickering torch moving toward him up the corridor along his previous path. He snatched his hand away and reentered the cavern until he was hidden in deep shadow. He held his sword ready.

A black-robed figure, face hooded and hidden, moved slowly up the corridor, pausing now and then. Conan saw that the man-if a man, in fact-was replacing burned-out flambeaus with fresh brands, removing these unlighted sticks from a large pack upon his back. He-it?-would pause only long enough to flame the new torch into life, then trudged onward.

Conan's first reaction was a strong desire to behead this robed figure, for he now felt certain that whatever inhabited the black cloth was not a true man. Something in the way the figure moved cried out of foul wrongness to the sharp-eyed Cimmerian. Aye, likely the black mage's minions were evil constructs.

The young Cimmerian slid farther back into the embrace of the cavern's dark arms. He could slay the robed figure. On the other hand, he could allow it to live and follow it; certainly, it must eventually run out of torches and return to some central supply area for more, if it were not already headed for such a place. Aye, that was a better plan, to have a guide.

In the darkness the robed figure passed, moving slowly across the giant room. Silently as a shadow, Conan followed.

Led by her enthralled guide, Djuvula moved easily along the gently sloping corridor deeper into the bowels of Castle Slott. Aside from the spell that ensnared the hooded one leading her, she dared not use her magic, for fear of being detected by Sovartus. The hooded creature had been taken outside the mountain, the actual working of the diablerie done there, and done quickly, so that Sovartus might miss it. Much as she would have liked to use the sword and clothing that the creature now bore, strapped to its back, for a locating spell, she feared to do so. The barbarian walked within the bounds of Castle Slott, she knew that much. She would find him somehow.

The stink of the things dressed in black robes offended the nostrils of the panther as he slunk along the rocky ground, hidden by his coloration and the shadows. Not-men, and foul, they were, and also not very alert. A dozen of the robed things stood guard within the entrance of the cave mouth, each armed with a double-edged pike with a blade as long as a man's arm. And those pikes were no doubt drenched in some spellery or another that would make them effective against the panther's were. Still, they could not hurt that which they did not observe. A beast with the skills of a great cat and the cunning of a man had the advantage of these. Lemparius, once-senator, moved past the guards unseen, unheard, and unknown by them.

Past the stench of the hooded things the panther could detect the scent of his prey, the perfumed witch. And since she sought the barbarian, he, too, must be within. Soon, the panther thought, his time would be soon.

Chapter Twenty

The hooded thing moved methodically, and Conan soon realized there was little chance of the creature noticing him: It never looked back.

For his part, Conan was impressed with whoever-or whatever-had constructed the vast array of tunnels and rooms that seemed to stretch endlessly around him. It must have taken hundreds of years: either that, or some very powerful magic. Conan did not wish to think too much about the latter possibility.

Following the winding path of the torchlighter. Conan could tell they were in fact ascending. The particular tunnel in which they now walked had a definite upward slant to the stone floor. Good. He only hoped he could find Kinna and Eldia along with the half-siblings before it was too late.

A brighter light loomed ahead, and Conan dropped back somewhat from his pursuit of the hooded one. He preferred not to lose his guide, but neither was he ready to be seen, not just yet.

Another large chamber had been hewn from the granite, and this one was well-lighted with torches on the walls and fat black tapers set in man-high bronze candelabra about the chamber.

The torchlighter stood near the center of this room. With it there stood two others like it, save that instead of unlit faggots, they carried long-bladed pikes. The three appeared to be conversing, but even Conan's keen hearing could make out no voices.

Here was a problem: To follow his lead dog, he would have to pass the armed guards. At the very least, there would be some commotion in so doing, and his guide was certain to notice it.

Conan looked around the chamber, peering from behind the edge of the entrance to the room. To his left there stood a row of iron-barred doors along one wall; across from that wall a lighted tunnel exited.

Ahead, a large vitruvian-edged tapestry of darkly colored material showed some hellish scene, with demons pursuing terrified naked men and women.

He hefted his blade, taking a tighter grip upon the leathercovered handle. He was a man of action, of deeds; so far in his association with the old wizard and the sisters there had been too much magic and too little honest fighting. Demons, wizards, and hooded things were not to his liking. He liked problems that could be solved with blade and sinew, not dark sorcery.

A flash of something pale caught the Cimmerian's attention. A face? At one of the barred doors? Why, this must be some sort of dungeon, another thing he had no love for, to be sure. And while the enemy of his enemy might not be Conan's friend, such a man might prove helpful.

Kinna! Conan recognized the girl at the same time she caught sight of his own visage. He motioned for silence, but too late to still an astonished gasp from the woman.

The three hooded things turned as one to behold the captured woman.

Then, again as one, they twisted to look at the object of her surprise.

Conan thought to duck back from sight, then decided against it. Enough of this cat-footed mincing! He sprang into the chamber, his sword gripped tightly.

The three facing him spread out instantly, as though controlled by a single mind. To either side the pikemen scurried, lowering their sword-tipped weapons to point at the intruder. Directly ahead, the torchlighter pulled two of the brands from his back pack and held them over an already-blazing torch. The new faggots flamed into life. For the first time Conan saw the thing's hands and wrists clearly: The flesh glowed with color in the firelight; green it was, and scaled like the belly of a snake.

The Cimmerian shook his head. What manner of man had such creatures for servants? Sovartus was beneath contempt. The pikeman to Conan's right edged a hair closer than his partner on the opposite side.

Conan took three quick steps forward and swung his sword with a force that would have cleaved an ordinary man in half. The hooded figure met his strike with its own blade. Sparks flew from the impact of steel upon steel, and the shock of the connection traveled up Conan's hands and arms to his shoulders. His cut was blocked, and from the angle of the pike it would have taken a very strong man to do that. Whatever these things were, they were not weaklings-!

"Conan! Behind you!"

The Cimmerian recovered from his surprise just in time. He leaped to one side as a second pike whistled through the air where he had just been. He spun and brought his sword downward, as a man would swing an ax to split firewood.

His blade hit the outstretched pike, and despite the unnatural strength of the lizard-man, knocked the weapon from its owner's grasp. An angry hiss came from under the hood as the thing sprang backward to avoid Conan's follow-up slash.

The lizard-man with the flaming torches also edged back a step, out of the Cimmerian's reach.

Conan smiled. Well. They had taken his measure and decided to accord him a modicum of respect.

The first lizard-man drew back his pike, as if to stab Conan through the back. The Cimmerian caught the motion from the corner of one eye and realized his position allowed only one safe move. He bent his knees and leaped-straight up.

The pike passed just under Conan's feet, and as the beastman fell helplessly forward, the Cimmerian came down upon his attacker's shoulders. Before the lizard-thing could rise, Conan chopped at his neck with the sword. It was like striking a tree. The thing squalled, and green liquid sprayed from the wound to ooze onto the bare stone floor.

There was no time for Conan to tarry and admire his handiwork. He jumped away from the downed lizard toward the second one, who was still trying to recover its weapon. It must have realized that to continue to reach for the pike was worth death, for the thing jumped at Conan instead, catching the man's wrists in its scaled hands.

Conan felt the roughness of that powerful grip as he tried to bring the sword into play. He could not swing the weapon: his hand was trapped too tightly. The Cimmerian released the sword, and it fell, slicing a line across the bare green arm that now protruded from the black robe.

The lizard-thing hissed, exhaling a charnel stench into Conan's face.

Sensing movement behind him, he twisted, flexing his brawny legs and back, turning the lizard-man around. Just in time, for the torchlighter smashed both his lit brands onto its comrade's back instead of Conan's.

The Cimmerian brought his knee up then, and slammed it into the thing's groin. Only smoothness met the hard muscle of his leg when it connected with the juncture of the lizard-thing's crotch. He'd not stop it that way.

Conan danced with the lizard, trying to avoid the swinging torches being flailed at him by the other creature. This could not go on much longer, he knew. This abomination was at least as strong as he was, and it had help.

Enough! The Cimmerian's rage boiled up, and he screamed his anger into the face of the lizard. Reaching deep inside for new strength, he hurled the thing away from him into one of the massive bronze candelabra. The post cracked, and the metal taper holder toppled, landing on the lizard-thing; its robe took fire quickly, and in an instant the monster became a living torch. It leaped up and ran, smashed into the wall opposite the cells, and fell, a fiery corpse.

The torchlighter dropped its weapons then, and turned to flee. It ran for the exit Conan had noticed earlier. Without thinking, the Cimmerian leaped for one of the fallen pikes. He snatched the weapon up and hurled it, all of a single move. The sword tip struck the running lizard high between the shoulder blades. For a moment the thing stood transfixed, then fell forward. The pike was embedded so deeply, it remained standing upright from the impaled form like a leafless tree.

Conan retrieved his sword and went to the door of Kinna's cell. A simple bolt fastened the enclosure's entrance shut, high enough to be out of reach of an inmate. Conan threw the bolt back, and Kinna rushed out and into his arms.

"Oh, Conan, I thought never to see you again!"

He patted the girl with his free hand.

"He has Eldia and the others, Conan, in some kind of tower, I think.

What of Vitarius?"

Conan said, "He remains on the plain. I felt some of his handiwork earlier, when the mountain shook."

"We must get to Sovartus before he unleashes his awful creation," Kinna said. "But I am not sure I can recall the way."

Conan pointed with his blade. "That way. The lizard-thing ran there before I stopped him. If he thought help lay in that direction, there we must go. Unless you would rather remain here while I continue?"

In answer, Kinna untangled herself from Conan's embrace and fetched the remaining pike. Her eyes flashed. "I shall accompany you. I'll accompany you, or I'll go alone!"

Conan uttered a short laugh. "I cannot fault your spirit, Kinna. Very well. Let us go and find this wizard and send him to join his ancestors!"

Djuvula's escort had moved silently and steadily, never hesitating, until they came to the lockroom chamber. There, the enthralled being stopped suddenly. The witch, startled, peered around the form of her reptilian guide to see what had given it pause.

Three of the hooded lizards lay dead in the chamber, one barely recognizable from being burned-it still smoldered against one wall.

Djuvula nodded to herself. This must be the work of the barbarian. From the looks of the congealing green blood on the floor, he could not be far ahead either.

Smiling, Djuvula prodded her escort with one sharp-nailed finger. The creature moved on, and the witch followed.

The panther would have stopped to eat had the flesh of the fresh-killed not-men been edible. The finely honed senses of the cat allowed it to know better, however. That meat was poison to any natural creature, and even to one wrapped in were it would not serve as sustenance. But no matter; the scent of the witch permeated the air; she was only a few paces ahead, down that corridor.

He could eat later, if not her flesh, then that of the barbarian-if Lemparius still had to wear the form of a panther.

The cat padded across the stone quietly and entered the corridor behind his prey.

From the highest tower of Castle Slott, Sovartus could see the beginning of life for the Thing of Power. The essences of the children were now wrapped within the spell he controlled; the plain itself seemed to live as great winds howled across the roiling ground, joined by rainstorms and bolts that arced from the earth to the skies and back. A crack split the ground asunder, and flames belched from the bowels of the earth to join the other Elements.

The four children seemed to be asleep, unseeing and unhearing of the energies erupting over the plain outside, but Sovartus felt those magical forces tugging at his own essence. Only his skill kept him from being torn apart by the elemental madness out there.

The hooded ones standing by his door cowered within their robes, but Sovartus only laughed to see this. Now, after all the years, after all the study and waiting, now, now, NOW!

Twin whirlwinds began to spin upon the convulsing plain, giant tornadoes of black air twirling at speeds never seen in such winds before. As Sovartus watched, these funnels detached themselves from the storms that created them, moving freely against the prevailing winds driving the clouds. The tornadoes moved to a point where they stood side by side, then like giant drills began to dig up the earth, twisting it upward.

Yes, yes! Sovartus shook with the power of it.

The ground rose in chunks the size of houses, of castles, and it came together over the tornadoes to form a body, a torso like none ever seen.

Sovartus laughed again and extended his arms toward the skies. Another pair of spinning winds, somewhat smaller than the first pair, howled forth from their mother storms and became as arms on the figure building itself upon the plain.

The castle shook then, struck by a line of blue light that arced from farther out on the plain. Sovartus nodded at the source of the light.

Too late, old classmate.

The master of the Black Square waved his arms yet again and pointed his stiffened fingers at the rainstorms. A single cloud broke away from the main body of the storm. Spitting lightning, the cloud moved to hover over the gigantic earthen body, then settled upon it. Three holes opened in the cloud, looking like eyes and a mouth; lightning formed jagged and flickering teeth in the gaping maw.

Sovartus howled in his glee, a sound to mimic the roar outside.

The black wizard ran to the window and leaned out into the rain to stare at the ground. The sundered earth still spat fire below, turning the base of the mountain white with steam as the fire met the rain.

Sovartus turned his hands palms up and raised them. The flames roared higher, and a pair of fireballs broke free of the pit and surged upward. Like demonic fireflies these globs of matter flew, soaring until they stood in front of the cloudhead that rode the massive body of earth, which in turn rode on legs of devilwind. The fireballs moved into the empty sockets with a hiss . . . .

Yes! Yes! YES! Sovartus took a deep breath and yelled out the final word, the last word in the most powerful spell he or any other mage had ever created.

The storm died. The earth sealed over, stopping the fire. The plain grew almost quiet save for those sounds coming from the construct that now towered as tall as the mountain which was Castle Slott. The thing made of the Four Elements turned, so that it faced Sovartus. It blinked, hiding its eyes of living fire with lids of cloud unaffected by the heat. When it opened its lids again, Sovartus knew that it truly saw him, that he had succeeded. Slowly and ponderously, the giant bowed toward Sovartus.

The Thing of Power lived.

And Sovartus was its master.

Chapter Twenty-One

Kinna led, for she recalled more of the route to the heart of the wizard's lair than at first she'd thought. In only a short time she and Conan ascended past the rock base and into the castle proper. The stones of the constructed portion of Slott seemed as old as the mountain itself. Here the walls bore the stains of many years of taper and torch soot; here, too, a maze of twisting tunnels honeycombed the construction, as they had in the rock beneath. The gloom was broken, however, by infrequent windows, allowing light from outside to war with the inner darkness. Passing one of these artificed cracks in the outer wall, Conan drew up suddenly to stare at the thing he saw taking form upon the bare plain.

"What is it?" Kinna called.

Conan pointed wordlessly.

The young woman returned two paces to look along the line of Conan's pointing finger. She gasped.

"Aye," Conan said, "of all the evil in this venture, that is the worst." He continued to stare at the tornadoes and churning earth, at the formation of a head from the thunderstorm, and the eyes of fireballs. The thing blinked then, and seemed to stare directly at Conan; then it bowed.

Conan turned away. "We must hurry," he said. "Whatever it is, Sovartus owns it-it bowed not to us!"

They ran. So quickly did they climb the slanting floor that they almost blundered into disaster. Conan's keen nose caught the scent of the robed lizards first, and he grabbed Kinna's arm and covered her mouth to still her surprised outcry. "Shhh. There are more of the hooded things just around the corner."

Kinna tugged at Conan's hand, and he removed his palm from her lips.

"How do you know?" she whispered.

"By their stench. Wait here."

Conan left Kinna standing in the shadows while he edged along the corridor to the turning. He squatted low, then carefully peeped around the corner, keeping his face close to the dank stone.

The hallway opened into yet another room, this one not much larger than a rich man's bedchamber. There stood next to the walls nine of the hooded reptiles, each armed with a pike like the one Kinna now bore.

From their positions it seemed as if these beings were guarding the arched doorway on the opposite wall. Deep in his gut Conan felt a surge of knowledge: Through that doorway must be Sovartus, and, with him, Eldia.

Conan slid back before any could see him. Here was where they must go; but passing nine of the hellishly fast and strong lizard-things would be dangerous. He arose from his crouch and moved silently toward Kinna to tell her what he had seen.

Djuvula had a premonition, and so stopped before allowing her guide to lead her around the next angle in the castle's corridor. She bade the enspelled reptile to stand fast, and she moved to steal a glimpse of what lay ahead.

Beneath the light of tapers sending spirals of black smoke toward the ceiling of the corridor stood the barbarian, talking to a young woman!

At last! She would take him now, by Set!

From the pack that she had caused the reptile to bear, Djuvula withdrew two items: The first was a curiously shaped vessel of magical design by which she could keep alive for a time any organ placed within. The second item was a thinwalled porcelain bulb. This latter Djuvula unpacked carefully from a thick, soft padding of lamb's wool. Within was a powder made from the dried petals of the black lotus. She had traded a magical spell to one of the priests of Yun for the deadly dust, against the time when she might need to deal instant death to anything that breathed. To inhale even the smallest portion was fatal, so the yellow-skulled priest had said; his demonstration upon a dog had proven it to Djuvula's satisfaction. The witch hefted the porcelain ball in her left hand and drew a small, sharp dagger from her girdle.

She had some surgical skill at removal of hearts from recently dead or dying men-all the failures-in the service of her Prince. But the barbarian must not flee before the black lotus blossom could do its work.

Djuvula jabbed the hooded creature with her dagger. "Go," she said, "and catch me that man you see just ahead."

The hooded figure moved, and Djuvula grinned at its back. It would not matter if Conan slew it, for the thing need only delay him a moment until she could toss her deadly gift within range of the barbarian.

Then all in the corridor would die, and quickly . . . .

The mind of the panther slipped back and forth now, from man to beast.

It was only with the greatest concentration that Lemparius could maintain a hold on his humanity within the form of the werecreature he had become. His fear drove him faster in his pursuit of the witch. If he did not catch her soon, he was certainly lost, doomed to live out his days as a cat; worse, he would not even be aware of his state, for his mind would be gone, submerged under that of the beast. He would be less than the flicker of a single spark in an endless Stygian night.

With this fright riding his supple form, the panther ran. And so, rounding a turning in the dank, rat-infested castle, he found himself staring at the back of Djuvula.

The man in him knew he wore a prohibition against attacking the flame-haired woman, but the beast surged forth and held sway over the cat's body. Lemparius, former senator, former man, roared his rage with the voice of a maddened panther.

The sound startled the woman; she jumped and uttered an oath before she knew she had nothing to fear from this particular cat.

Lemparius's mind fought for control even as the panther gathered itself to spring. He almost won control. Almost, but not quite.

The werepanther leaped for the witch.

Conan spun at the sound of feet scrabbling upon the flagstones. Several things happened then, with that particular kind of slowness that sometimes wrapped itself around moments of great danger. It was as if the air became cold-congealed syrup, arresting the motions of the players in this sudden drama.

One of the hooded lizards appeared out of the darkness, running toward him. Almost immediately, the thing was followed by a woman-the witch, Djuvula-Conan recognized. Then a sand-colored form seemed to float through the air-that was a panther, going for the-witch's throat. Conan thought he knew this beast.

He saw the line of a cut on the beast's leg, and knew he was correct.

Lemparius. But why was he attacking the witch Just then the panther was deflected by an invisible wall from his would-be prey. More sorcery!

No time to wonder how they had come to be here. Conan raised his sword as the black-garbed lizard-man leaped for him. The roar of the cat would draw others, Conan felt sure, and he had no plan, and no time to formulate one. The time for thinking was past; only action would serve him now!

Conan sidestepped and brought his blade down as the hooded thing lunged. The creature could not stay his charge, and the sharp steel met the scaly back and became part of it. The thing fell, loglike, bearing Conan's sword. The barbarian swore, and bent to yank the blade free.

The sound of many shuffling feet reached Conan. He turned toward the noise, and saw the first of the guards round the corner. That was a mistake, for Kinna leaped at the thing with her pike outstretched and skewered him like a pig for roasting.

The panther roared again, and again rebounded from the shield that protected the witch from his attacks. Growling and screaming in incoherent rage, the beast whirled, and espied Conan. It moved for him.

Four or five of the lizard-men cleared the corner, pikes held at the ready. Kinna's own pike was useless, still clutched by the entrails of the one she had slain.

"Kinna! To me!"

Conan caught another movement: The witch was fumbling with something.

She dropped whatever it was, but managed to catch it before it hit the floor. She cursed.

Conan swung around to face the panther, realizing too late that his sword offered no proof against the wereman's attack.

The cat leaped for Conan's throat, and the big Cimmerian swung without thinking. The blade sank into the beast's side, shearing ribs and knocking the panther to one side. But even as it landed, Conan saw the welling blood cease its flow, and the wound knit itself together.

The Cimmerian turned quickly toward Kinna and tossed her his sword.

"Here!" he yelled.

With that, he snatched Lemparius's curved knife from his belt just as the cat sprang again. Conan ducked and stabbed upward with the steel tooth. The tip speared the panther under the throat; the force of the cat's leap carried it over Conan's squatting form, and the magical blade laid it open from neck to hindquarters. Steaming entrails gushed forth, and the panther who had been a man hit the ground, rolled once, and died.

"Conan!" That was Kinna, who swung Conan's heavy blade wildly and with little effect against the cluster of hooded lizard-men, who all jockeyed to get at her.

Conan caught the sword from her and lunged forward. One of the lizards took the point under his chin. It fell back, mortally wounded.

"Now I have you!" came a voice behind him. Conan backed away from the clutch of pike bearers and risked a quick glance down the hall.

Djuvula the Witch stood straight and still, holding a small globe high over her head. "It is your time, Conan, and the time of all with you!"

The castle shook, the walls glowing briefly with a bluish light.

Vitarius! He still carried the fight against Sovartus! Good, Conan thought, for certainly he and Kinna were doomed-Djuvula screamed as she lost her balance on the vibrating floor. The globe she held spun away from her clutching fingertips, and she screamed again. "No!"

The globe smashed upon the floor as the blue light died. A thick cloud of dust burst from the shattered ball, a greenish-yellow mist that billowed out to fill the corridor.

Instantly, Conan knew the cloud for what it was: He had seen it used before by a Nemedian thief when they had scaled the Tower of the Elephant in Arenjun. The thief was long dead, but what he had said lived in Conan's memory. Black lotus dust, and breathing it meant death!

Conan's instincts took over. He grabbed Kinna by the hand. "Hold your breath, girl-do not breathe!-and run for your life!" With that, he led Kinna into the cloud of death.

Even without breathing, Conan caught the taint of a sickeningly sweet and cloying odor as the thick cloud closed over him. He tripped on the fallen form of the witch, nearly fell, but recovered, towing Kinna along with him.

Behind him, Conan heard the sound he had hoped to hear: the footsteps of the hooded lizard-men, chasing them.

The man and woman passed out of the cloud, but Conan kept going, to shake the traces of dust that clung to them. When he stopped. he still did not breathe as he brushed more of the vaporous substance from his and Kinna's clothes and bodies. He moved away from this spot before he finally allowed his inhaled air to escape. He drew in another lungful of air carefully, but no hint of the powdery death remained. He nodded at Kinna. "Breathe," he said.

Kinna panted noisily, and followed her inhalation with a question: "What of the hooded ones?"

"Listen," Conan commanded.

The sound of heavy forms dropping onto the flagstones reached his ears.

"I hear nothing-" Kinna began.

"Wait."

After a time the cloud of dust began to settle and dissipate; as it did, the silent forms of the hooded lizards took shape upon the floor.

Among them, too, lay the bodies of Djuvula the Witch, who had wanted Conan's heart for some foul spell, and near her a naked man was sprawled on his back, gutted.

"What-?"

"A poison," Conan explained. "I have seen it work before. Vitarius shook the mountain and the witch dropped the vial, destroying herself."

"Who was the man'?"

"Lemparius. And he was also a panther. Now he is neither. Come, we have your sister to rescue, and her siblings. And Sovartus must be stopped, or that thing on the plain will rule us all."

Chapter Twenty-Two

The blue streak broke against the castle, and Sovartus nearly pitched out through the window as the building shook from the impact. He clutched at the facing and managed to thrust himself back into the tower. The magician glared at the unseen figure on Dodligia Plain, and his face lit with hatred. He might have died in the fall had he not been quick. To control such as the Thing of Power and then to die from some base stupidity would be a cruel irony indeed.

Sovartus drew himself up to his full height and smiled. Time to end this farce with his old classmate. The master of the Black Square regarded his creation, which in turn stared back with unblinking eyes of fire.

"Go," Sovartus commanded, "and swat me that bothersome insect!" The magician waved his hand in a casting motion.

The Thing of Power, built of the Four Elements, turned away from Castle Slott, moving more quickly than it seemed possible. Walking on legs made from tornadoes, it took gigantic strides across the plain.

A line of blue shot from the seemingly empty plain toward the Thing of Power, and a small spot on its earthy body blackened and smoked, but the creature slowed not.

Sovartus grinned, looking to see if any of the children noticed. None had, for each of the captives seemed to be in a stupor, eyes closed, breath coming slowly.

No matter, the mage thought. It is enough that I see it!

Another line of blue fire scored the Thing of Power, but this time the flash was dimmer, and the beam passed harmlessly through one of the arms of spinning wind.

In a few moments the Thing of Power had dwindled, so that it seemed no larger than a man seen across a wide street. A third blue flame arrowed up from the ground and struck the creature, who was almost upon the source.

As Sovartus watched, the awesome Thing of Power bent and raised one of its arms. The arm came down hard, and the force of the blow shook the ground, even into the castle, so that Sovartus felt the strike through the soles of his boots.

That blow meant much to Sovartus, ah, yes. He knew then that Vitarius, pupil to Hogistum, and his enemy, was no more. He had been snuffed out with no more effort needed than to command it.

Nothing could stand in his way now, Sovartus knew, for there was no power capable of withstanding the creature he had created and was master of, no power on Earth. Not since the sinking of Atlantis had such forces been under the direction of men; his triumph was as awesome as the Thing of Power itself. It would live as long as he lived, and he could live forever!

Sovartus continued to stare at the Thing of Power as it marched back toward him. Soon the nations of the world would bow to him and offer him all manner of tribute. Soon he would destroy cities, lay waste to whole countrysides, slaughter armies, did not the people offer him his due. Soon he would rule the world, and it would function to his whim-or it would function not at all!

The thought of it filled Sovartus with black joy.

The passageway opened into an antechamber. Conan saw the backs of two more of the hooded lizard-men as he stepped into the antechamber. The lizard-men's attention lay elsewhere, and when Conan looked beyond them, he saw what held their gazes: a thin man with black hair and a pointed beard, dressed in a woven-hair robe, looking through a window.

"Sovartus," Kinna whispered next to Conan.

"At last," Conan said. He raised his sword.

Something must have alerted the two lizard-men, for they turned, as one, to stare at Conan and Kinna. They raised their pikes.

"I'll take the one on the left!" Kinna said.

Conan hesitated not at all, but leaped to do battle with the hooded figures. Sovartus glanced in his direction, then turned back to his contemplation of whatever lay outside the window, as if he had not the smallest of worries.

Knowing the lizard-men's speed and power gave Conan an advantage; he did not try to fence, but rather went around the jabbing pike. A single two-handed cut with his sword, braced for the shock, and Conan batted his foe down. He spun just as Kinna jabbed her pike into her opponent's hood, bringing forth a militant hiss from the reptilian creature. Conan whipped his blade around and chopped into the thing's head; it went down in silence. The big Cimmerian leaped into the tower room.

Eldia lay chained under a window; indeed, there were three others pent in the same manner, and all looked to be either in deep sleep or in the arms of death. Conan snarled his anger and took two steps toward Sovartus.

The magician turned away from the window and waved one hand at Conan, twirling his fingers as he did so.

Conan's sword handle suddenly grew hot, too hot to hold, even through the thick leather wrapping the haft. He switched the sword to his opposite hand, but the heat increased; the leather began to smoke, then burst into flame. Conan dropped the sword. The blade flashed into redness, then blue-white so bright that the Cimmerian had to look away.

There came a clap of noise, and when he looked back, the sword was gone, leaving only a black mark upon the floor.

Behind him, Kinna yelled, then followed the clunk! of her pike hitting the floor. There came another flash and thunderclap, and he knew her weapon had been destroyed.

Undaunted, Conan sprang again, drawing the curved knife that had killed Lemparius. It wore a spell, perhaps such was proof against Sovartus.

The knife pulled itself from Conan's grasp and spun away, to stick up in a table nearby. Deviltry!

Conan growled in fury. He still had his hands, by Crom! The big Cimmerian lunged, seeking to smash the thin man with his hammerlike fists.

An invisible boot slammed into Conan's belly. His corded stomach absorbed the blow, but it knocked him backward and off his feet.

Sovartus smiled and raised his hand. Another blow struck Conan, this one from the side. He swept his hands about, looking for an opponent with whom to grapple; there existed none, and yet a third blow crashed into his head, dazing him.

Kinna tried to reach Conan, but some magic beset her as well, for she fell back, gasping for breath. Conan came to his hands and knees, then to his feet.

Sovartus laughed and raised his hand again. "Fool! You cannot contend with me! I am your new god! Bow to me, and I shall spare you, as my first worshipper!"

"Never!" Conan said.

The invisible boot caught Conan under the chin, knocking him onto his back. He groaned involuntarily, sat up, and shook his head, struggling to rise.

Sovartus looked on, still apparently amused.

Behind Sovartus, chained to the wall, Eldia awoke. Her eyes flickered open. She blinked and looked at Conan, then at Sovartus.

Conan shook his head, this time in warning to Eldia to remain still.

The Cimmerian managed to get to one knee and one foot.

Eldia stared at Sovartus. She raised one hand and reached toward the magician's strange robe. Sovartus must have heard something, for he started to turn toward the girl.

Conan drew a deep breath and spat at the wizard. The man jerked his attention back toward Conan. "For that, you will die, fool!" He started to bring his hand down.

Suddenly, the back of Sovartus's robe erupted into flame. The wizard spun. "What-?" But the robe only flared out, fanning the blaze higher.

Sovartus cursed and tore the robe from his body. His attention left the massive youth.

Conan managed to regain his feet. He gathered his strength into his legs and jumped. This time he reached his object: He locked his hands like clamps upon Sovartus's throat. The two men fell, rolling through the fiery robe upon the floor. Sovartus brought his own hands into a grip upon Conan's neck. Though thin, the wizard had great strength, and he was driven by desperation. Conan felt fingers like steel bars dig into his flesh. He tightened his neck muscles and his grip, and screamed in savage rage.

Sovartus's grip slackened. The wizard's face went dark red, shading to purple; his eyes bulged from their sockets and blood ran from his nose; his lips drew back from his too-white teeth.

After what seemed the lifetime of a god, Sovartus's hands left Conan's neck, and he went limp.

A terrible sound broke over the castle, a wordless cry of rage and agony that vibrated Conan to his depth. He stood and looked out through the window.

The massive monster on the plain shook violently, waving its arms. It screamed again, and a landslide rumbled along its body, dropping a shower of dirt away from the torso. Its eyes flashed with living fire, and lightning broke from its mouth as it screamed a third time. The monster started toward the castle.

Conan found a pike. He thrust the weapon between the metal links holding Eldia to the wail. He took a deep breath, and tore the chains from their mounting. He turned toward Kinna. "Help her, and wake the others if you can! The monster on the plain comes!"

Conan moved quickly around the chamber, breaking the chains that bound the children, shaking the sleeping forms, trying to awaken them. The three came to, but were still groggy.

The floor began to shake as the monster drew nearer. Conan risked a glance at the plain again. The creature trembled and gyrated, and seemed on the verge of collapse; great chunks of its body broke off and tumbled away; the eyes of fire roared forth along with the lightnings, and the winds of its limbs waxed and waned.

"Up!" Conan yelled. He snatched up a still-bleary-eyed girl and pointed at the room's exit. "Out, fast! We do not want to be here when that thing arrives!"

Kinna led, half-towing one of the boys. Eldia followed, being the most alert, and Conan carried and dragged two of the children. They ran as if a hellish beast followed, as indeed it did.

When they neared the place where the witch and werepanther had died, Conan called a halt. "Slowly," he commanded, "lest we stir up the killing-dust."

Conan led the way. As he stepped over the body of one of the lizard-men, he paused. A large pack was strapped upon its back, and from one corner protruded the point of a sword. Conan bent and carefully opened the pack. Inside, he found clothing-his clothing!-and his broadsword. He managed a small smile. This one had been the witch's thrall, he guessed. He removed the sword and clothing, being careful to keep the poison dust from stirring.

"Move," Conan said when his belongings were reclaimed.

The group followed the winding aisles downward, occasionally passing the inert forms of lizard-men. These bodies bore no wounds, but Conan guessed that the death of their master must have doomed them as well.

The Cimmerian led Kinna and the children from the constructed portion of the castle and into the bowels of the mountain. A violent shudder hit the rock, so strong that the fleeing band found itself shaken from their feet to the floor.

"The monster has come home," Conan said. "I think it means to take the castle with it when it goes."

The six stood and ran.

The journey seemed to take forever. Several times, the floor shifted so much that footing was impossible. Once, a huge section of stone ceiling broke loose and fell, crashing down with a roar, barely missing the runners.

Finally, they reached the base of the mountain and the tunnel exit.

"This way," Conan yelled over the rumbling of the earth. "There are horses, if they still live."

While the monster battering at the castle stood partway around the mountain, the winds created by the tornadoes it bore as limbs raised dust and leaves all around Conan as he ran. Past the grove of trees he found the horses panicky, but still pent. With the thunder of the thing tearing at the mountain all around them, Conan managed to get the children and Kinna mounted before climbing onto a horse himself.

"Now, ride!" Conan commanded.

They rode, and fast.

Conan called a halt. The group turned to stare at the mountain-castle they had recently left. The elemental monster tore at the mountain, though the top of the castle itself was no more. Great chunks of granite flew high into the air, some smaller bits flying even past where Conan and the others sat upon their horses.

"Look!" Kinna said.

The thing reared and came down with both arms. It smashed into the solid rock. The main part of the mountain shattered. With it went the monster, dissolving into a massive cloud of rock dust and stone wind.

For a time no one said anything. Finally, Conan broke the silence: "It is done. Over."

Riding back along the Dodligian road, Conan spotted a figure in the distance, waving. He drew his sword. But as they moved closer he grinned and sheathed his blade. No threat here, in this familiar figure.

Eldia recognized the man then, and called out: "Vitarius!"

"Aye, Vitarius," the old man said as the riders drew nearer. "No one thought to bring a horse for me, eh? Well, no matter, I can ride double with Eldia, I suppose."

"We thought you might be . . ." Kinna began.

"Dead? Aye, Sovartus would have had it so. He lent the Thing of Power to squash me. I lanced it a few times, but I was as a gnat to a bullock. When it got too close, I chose to be elsewhere."

Conan looked around the bare plain. "That must have been some trick."

"I would take credit for it," Vitarius said, "but it was hardly anything to brag about. I slipped into the entrance to one of the whelves' tunnels and scuttled as deep as I could get. What the thing smashed was merely a simple illusion. Those are what I do best."

"So I recall you saying," Conan said dryly.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Well," Vitarius demanded, "are you going to tell me the tale or not?"

Conan grinned and related their adventures since last they had seen the old mage. Vitarius nodded and made appropriate noises as he listened.

Occasionally, he interrupted with questions.

"But-what caused Sovartus's robe to take fire?"

Conan pointed at Eldia.

"Odd. I had thought that the children would have been drained of all force by the creation of the Thing of Power."

Eldia nodded. "So it was. I no longer felt the fire within me when Sovartus enspelled me. My fires were transported to the Thing. But when I awoke and saw Conan injured, I somehow knew I still had a single spark. So I sent my final flicker of heat into Sovartus's robe."

"And glad I am that she did," Conan said. As he spoke he unwrapped the bundle of clothing he had retrieved from the dead lizard-man's pack.

While so doing, a shower of glittering green suddenly erupted from the breeks he unrolled.

"What is this?" Kinna said.

Conan laughed. "The emeralds! Lemparius must have put them there, thinking to retrieve them later! I purchased our supplies with but one of these beauties, and there must be fifty of them!"

"You are rich," Kinna said.

Conan shook his head. "Nay, rather say we are rich. We shall share them equally, for we all certainly earned them."

He apportioned the stones, and when he finished, each person had seven, with two to spare. These he gave to Kinna. "You'll likely have more use for them than I," he said. "You now have three new mouths to feed."

"Yes," she said, "I shall return to our land and build us a fine house; we won't be poor. Will you go with us, Vitarius?"

The old man nodded. "Aye. A fire to warm my old bones and such good company will suit me well enough. And I might teach the children a few conjures, just for amusement, of course."

Kinna turned to Conan. "And what of you, Conan? You would be most welcome in our house. And in my bed."

Conan shook his head. "My path lies elsewhere, Kinna. I traveled the road to Nemedia when we met, and I would continue upon it."

"I understand. You would not be a farmer or a landlord, I cannot see such for you. I shall remember you always."

"As I shall you," he said.

Conan watched the group ride away before he turned his own mount westward, toward Numalia. He had a new horse, courtesy of Sovartus of the Black Square, and emeralds worth twice the gold he had lost crossing into Corinthia. All in all, not a bad bargain, considering he was alive and whole to enjoy both.

He smiled, and rode off toward the setting sun.

The God in the Bowl

Arus the watchman grasped his crossbow with shaky hands, and he felt beads of clammy perspiration on his skin as he stared at the unlovely corpse sprawling on the polished floor before him. It is not pleasant to come upon Death in a lonely place at midnight.

Arus stood in a vast corridor, lighted by huge candles in niches along the walls. These walls were hung with black velvet tapestries, and between the tapestries hung shields and crossed weapons of fantastic make. Here and there, too, stood figures of curious gods - images carved of stone or rare wood, or cast of bronze, iron or silver - mirrored in the gleaming black mahogany floor.

Arus shuddered; he had never become used to the place, although he had worked there as watchman for some months. It was a fantastic establishment, the great museum and antique house which men called Kallian Publico’s Temple, with its i rarities from all over the world - and now, in the lonesomeness of midnight, Arus stood in the great silent hall and stared at the sprawling corpse that had been the rich and powerful owner of the Temple.

It entered even the dull brain of the watchman that the man looked strangely different now, than when he rode along the Palian Way in his golden chariot, arrogant and dominant, with his dark eyes glinting with magnetic vitality. Men who had hated and feared Kallian Publico would scarcely have recognized him now as he lay like a disintegrated tun of fat, his rich robe half torn from him, and his purple tunic awry. His face was blackened, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his tongue lolled blackly from his gaping mouth. His fat hands were thrown out as in a gesture of curious futility. On the thick fingers gems glittered.

‘Why didn’t they take his rings?’ muttered the watchman uneasily, then he started and glared, the short hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. Through the dark silken hangings that masked one of the many doorways opening into the hallway, came a figure.

Arus saw a tall powerfully built youth, naked but for a loincloth, and sandals strapped high about his ankles. His skin was burned brown as by the suns of the wastelands, and Arus glanced nervously at the broad shoulders, massive chest and heavy arms. A single look at the moody, broad-browed features told the watchman that the man was no Nemedian. From under a mop of unruly black hair smoldered a pair of dangerous blue eyes. A long sword hung in a leather scabbard at his girdle.

Arus felt his skin crawl, and he fingered his crossbow tensely, of half a mind to drive a bolt through the stranger’s body without parley, yet fearful of what might happen if he failed to inflict death at the first shot.

The stranger looked at the body on the floor more in curiosity than surprise.

‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Arus nervously. The other shook his tousled head.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ he answered, speaking Nemedian with a barbaric accent. ‘Who is he?’

‘Kallian Publico,’ replied Arus, edging back. A flicker of interest showed in the moody blue eyes. ‘The owner of the house?’

‘Aye.’ Arus had edged his way to the wall, and now he took hold of a thick velvet rope which swung there, and jerked it violently. From the street outside sounded the strident clang of the bell that hung before all shops and establishments to summon the watch.

The stranger started.

‘Why did you do that?’ he asked. ‘It will fetch the watchman.’ ‘I am the watchman, knave,’ answered Arus, bracing his rocking courage. ‘Stand where you are; don’t move or I’ll loose a bolt through you.’

His finger was on the trigger of his arbalest, the wicked square head of the quarrel leveled full on the other’s broad breast. The stranger scowled, and his dark face was lowering. He showed no fear, but seemed to be hesitating in his mind as to whether he should obey the command or chance a sudden break of some land. Arus licked his lips and his blood turned cold as he plainly saw indecision struggle with a murderous intent in the foreigner’s cloudy eyes.

Then he heard a door crash open, and a medley of voices, and he drew a deep breath of amazed thankfulness. The stranger tensed and glared worriedly, like a starded hunting beast, as half a dozen men entered the hall. All but one wore the scarlet tunic of the Numalian police, were girt with stabbing swords and carried bills - long-shafted weapons, half pike, half axe.

‘What devil’s work is this?’ exclaimed the foremost man, whose cold gray eyes and lean keen features, no less than his civilian garments, set him apart from his burly companions.

‘By Mitra, Demetrio!’ exclaimed Arus thankfully. ‘Fortune is assuredly with me tonight. I had no hope that the watch would answer the summons so swiftly - or that you would be with them!’

‘I was making the rounds with Dionus,’ answered Demetrio. ‘We were just passing the Temple when the watch-bell clanged. But who is this? Mitra! The master of the Temple himself!’

‘No other,’ replied Arus. ‘And foully murdered. It is my duty to walk about the building steadily all night, because, as you know, there is an immense amount of wealth stored here. Kallian Publico had rich patrons - scholars, princes and wealthy collectors of rarities. Well, only a few minutes ago I tried the door which opens on the portico, and found it to be only bolted. The door is provided with a bolt, which works both from within or without, and a great lock which can be worked only from without. Only Kallian Publico had a key to that, the key which you see now hanging at his girdle.

‘Naturally my suspicions were roused, for Kallian Publico always locks the door with the great lock when he closes the Temple; and I had not seen him return since he left earlier in the evening for his villa in the eastern suburbs of the city. I have a key that works the bolt; I entered and found the body lying as you see. I have not touched it.’

‘So,’ Demetrio’s keen eyes swept the somber stranger. ‘And who is this?’

‘The murderer, without doubt!’ cried Arus. ‘He came from that door yonder. He is a northern barbarian of some sort - a Hyperborean or a Bossonian, perhaps.’ ‘Who are you?’ asked Demetrio.

‘I am Conan,’ answered the barbarian. ‘I am a Cimmerian.’ ‘Did you kill this man?’ The Cimmerian shook his head. ‘Answer me!’ snapped the questioner. An angry glint rose in the moody blue eyes. ‘I am no dog,’ he replied resentfully.

‘Oh, an insolent fellow!’ sneered Demetrio’s companion, a big man wearing the insignia of prefect of police. ‘An independent cur! One of these citizens with rights, eh? I’ll soon knock it out of him! Here, you! Come clean! Why did you murder’

‘Just a moment, Dionus,’ ordered Demetrio curtly. ‘Fellow, I am chief of the Inquisitorial Council of the city of Numalia. You had best tell me why you are here, and if you are not the murderer, prove it.’

The Cimmerian hesitated. He was not afraid, but slightly bewildered, as a barbarian always is when confronted by the evidence of civilized networks and systems, the workings of which are so baffling and mysterious to him.

‘While he’s thinking it over,’ rapped Demetrio, turning to Arus, ‘tell me - did you see Kallian Publico leave the Temple this evening?’

‘No, he’s usually gone when I arrive to begin my sentry-go. But the great door was bolted and locked.’

‘Could he have entered the building again without your having seen him?’

‘Why, it’s possible, but hardly probable. The Temple is large, and I walk clear around it in a few minutes. If he had returned from his villa, he would of course have come in his chariot, for it is a long way - and who ever heard of Kallian Publico travelling otherwise? Even if I had been on the other side of the Temple, I’d have heard the wheels of the chariot on the cobbleStones, and I’ve heard no such thing, nor seen any chariots, except those which always pass along the streets just at dusk.’ ‘And the door was locked earlier in the night?’ ‘I’ll swear to it. I try all doors several times during the night. The door was locked on the outside until perhaps half an hour ago - that was the last time I tried it, until I found it unlocked.’ ‘You heard no cries or struggles?’

‘No. But that’s not strange. The walls of the Temple are so thick, they’re practically sound-proof - an effect increased by the heavy hangings.’

‘Why go to all this trouble of questions and speculations?’ complained the burly prefect. ‘It’s much easier to beat a confession out of a suspect. Here’s our man, no doubt about it. Let’s take him to the Court of Justice - I’ll get a statement if I have to smash his bones to pulp.’

Demetrio looked at the barbarian.

‘You understand what he said?’ asked the Inquisitor. ‘What have you to say?’

‘That any man who touches me will quickly be greeting his ancestors in hell,’ the Cimmerian ground between his powerful teeth, his eyes glinting quick flames of dangerous anger.

‘Why did you come here, if not to kill this man?’ pursued Demetrio.

‘I came to steal,’ sullenly answered the other. ‘To steal what?’ rapped the Inquisitor. ‘Food,’ the reply came after an instant’s hesitation. ‘That’s a lie!’ snapped Demetrio. ‘You knew there was no food here. Don’t lie to me. Tell me the truth or’

The Cimmerian laid his hand on his sword hilt, and the gesture was as fraught with menace as the lifting of a tiger’s lip to bare his fangs.

‘Save your bullying for the fools who fear you,’ he growled, blue fires smoldering in his eyes. ‘I’m no city-bred Nemedian to cringe before your hired dogs. I’ve killed better men than you for less than this.’

Dionus, who had opened his mouth to bellow in wrath, closed it suddenly. The watchmen shifted their bills uncertainly and glanced at Demetrio for orders. They were struck speechless at hearing the all-powerful police thus bearded and expected a command to seize the barbarian. But Demetrio did not give it. He knew, if the others were too stupid to know, the steel-trap muscles and blinding quickness of men raised beyond civilization’s frontiers where life was a continual battle for existence, and he had no desire to loose the barbaric frenzy of the Cimmerian if it could be avoided. Besides, there was a doubt in his mind.

‘I have not accused you of killing Kallian,’ he snapped. ‘But you must admit the appearances are against you. How did you enter the Temple?’

‘I hid in the shadows of the warehouse which stands behind this building,’ Conan answered grudgingly. ‘When this dog-‘ jerking a thumb at Arus - ‘passed by and rounded the corner, I ran quickly to the wall and scaled it’

‘A lie!’ broke in Arus. ‘No man could climb that straight wall!’

‘Did you ever see a Cimmerian scale a sheer cliff?’ asked Demetrio impatiently. ‘I am conducting this investigation. Go on, Conan.’

‘The corner is decorated with carvings,’ said the Cimmerian. ‘It was easy to climb. I gained the roof before this dog came around the building again. I went across the roof until I came upon a trap-door which was fastened with an iron bolt that went through it and was locked on the inside. I was forced to hew the bolt in twain with my sword’

Arus, remembering the thickness of that bolt, gulped involuntarily and moved further back from the barbarian, who scowled abstractedly at him, and continued.

‘I feared the noise might wake somebody, but it was a chance I had to take. I passed through the trap-door and came into an upper chamber. I didn’t pause there, but came straightway to the stair’

‘How did you know where the stair was?’ snapped the Inquisitor. ‘I know that only Kallian’s servants and his rich patrons were ever allowed in those upper rooms.’

A dogged stubbornness shadowed Conan’s eyes and he remained silent.

‘What did you do after you reached the stair?’ demanded Demetrio.

‘I came straight down it,’ muttered the Cimmerian. ‘It let into the chamber behind yonder curtained door. As I came down the stairs I heard the noise of a door being opened. When I looked through the hangings I saw this dog standing over the dead man.’

‘Why did you come from your hiding place?’

‘It was dark when I saw the watchman outside the Temple. When I saw him here I thought he was a thief too. It was not until he jerked the watch-bell rope and lifted his bow that I knew he was the watchman.’

‘But even so,’ persisted the Inquisitor, ‘why did you reveal yourself?’

‘I thought perhaps he had come to steal what’ the Cimmerian checked himself suddenly as if he had said too much.

‘What you had come after, yourself!’ finished Demetrio. ‘You have told me more than you intended! You came here with a definite purpose. You did not, by your own admission, tarry in the upper rooms, where the richest goods are generally stored. You knew the plan of the building - you were sent here by someone who knows the Temple well to steal some special thing!’

‘And to kill Kallian Publico!’ exclaimed Dionus. ‘By Mitra, we’ve hit it! Grab him, men! We’ll have a confession before morning!’

With a heathen curse Conan leaped back, whipping out his sword with a viciousness that made the keen blade hum.

‘Back, if you value your dog-lives!’ he snarled, his blue eyes blazing. ‘Because you dare to torture shopkeepers and strip and beat harlots to make them talk, don’t think you can lay your fat paws on a hillman! I’ll take some of you to hell with me! Fumble with your bow, watchman - I’ll burst your guts with my heel before this night’s work is over!’

‘Wait!’ interposed Demetrio. ‘Call your dogs off, Dionus. I’m not convinced that he is the murderer. You fool,’ he added in a whisper, ‘wait until we can summon more men, or trick him into laying down his sword.’ Demetrio did not wish to forgo the advantage of his civilized mind by allowing matters to change to a physical basis, where the wild beast ferocity of the barbarian might even balance the odds against him.

‘Very well,’ grunted Dionus grudgingly. ‘Fall back, men, but keep an eye on him.’

‘Give me your sword,’ said Demetrio.

‘Take it if you can,’ snarled Conan. Demetrio shrugged his shoulders.

‘Very well. But don’t try to escape. Four men with crossbows watch the house on the outside. We always throw a cordon about a house before we enter it.’

The barbarian lowered his blade, though he only slightly relaxed the tense watchfulness of his attitude. Demetrio turned again to the corpse.

‘Strangled,’ he muttered. ‘Why strangle him when a sword-stroke is so much quicker and surer? These Cimmerians are a bloody race, born with a sword in their hand, as it were; I never heard of them killing a man in this manner.’

‘Perhaps to divert suspicion,’ muttered Dionus.

‘Possibly.’ He felt the body with experienced hands. ‘Dead possibly half an hour,’ he muttered. ‘If Conan tells the truth about when he entered the Temple he would hardly have had time to commit the murder before Arus entered. But he may be lying - he might have broken in earlier.’

‘I climbed the wall after Arus made the last round,’ Conan growled.

‘So you say.’ Demetrio brooded for a space over the dead man’s throat, which had been literally crushed to a pulp of purplish flesh. The head sagged awry on splintered vertebrae. Demetrio shook his head in doubt.

‘Why should a murderer use a pliant cable apparently thicker than a man’s arm?’ he muttered. ‘And what terrible constriction was applied to so crush the man’s heavy neck.’

He rose and walked to the nearest door opening into the corridor.

‘Here is a bust knocked from a stand near the door,’ he said, ‘and here the polished floor is scratched and the hangings in the doorway are pulled awry as if a clutching hand had grasped them - perhaps for support. Kallian Publico must have been attacked in that room. Perhaps he broke away from the assailant, or dragged the fellow with him as he fled. Anyway, he ran staggeringly out into the corridor where the murderer must have followed and finished him.’

‘And if this heathen isn’t the murderer, where is he?’ demanded the prefect.

‘I haven’t exonerated the Cimmerian yet,’ snapped the Inquisitor. ‘But we’ll investigate that room and’

He halted and wheeled, listening. From the street had sounded a sudden rattle of chariot wheels, which approached rapidly, then ceased abruptly.

‘Dionus!’ snapped the Inquisitor. ‘Send two men to find that chariot. Bring the driver here.’

‘From the sound,’ said Arus, who was familiar with all the noises of the street, ‘I’d say it stopped in front of Promero’s house, just on the other side of the silk-merchant’s shop.’

‘Who is Promero?’ asked Demetrio.

‘Kallian Publico’s chief clerk.’

‘Bring him here with the chariot driver,’ snapped Demetrio. ‘We’ll wait until they come before we examine that room.’

Two guardsmen clomped away. Demetrio still studied the body; Dionus, Arus and the remaining policemen watched Conan, who stood, sword in hand, like a bronze figure of brooding menace. Presently sandalled feet re-echoed outside, and the two guardsmen entered with a strongly built, dark-skinned man in the helmet and tunic of a charioteer, with a whip in his hand; and a small, timid-looking individual, typical of that class which, risen from the ranks of artisans, supplies righthand men for wealthy merchants and traders.

This one recoiled with a cry from the sprawling bulk on the floor.

‘Oh, I knew evil would come of this!’

‘You are Promero, the clerk, I suppose. And you?’

‘Enaro, Kallian Publico’s charioteer.’

‘You do not seem overly moved at the sight of his corpse,’ observed Demetrio.

‘Why should I be moved?’ the dark eyes flashed. ‘Someone has only done what I dared not, but longed to do.’

‘So!’ murmured the Inquisitor. ‘Are you a free man?’

Enaro’s eyes were bitter as he drew aside his tunic, showing the brand of the debtor-slave on his shoulder.

‘Did you know your master was coming here tonight?’

‘No. I brought the chariot to the Temple this evening for him as usual. He entered it and I drove toward his villa. But before we came to the Palian Way, he ordered me to turn and drive him back. He seemed much agitated in his mind.’

‘And did you drive him back to the Temple?’

‘No. He bade me stop at Promero’s house. There he dismissed me, ordering me to return there for him shortly after midnight.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Shortly after dusk. The streets were almost deserted.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I returned to the slave quarters where I remained until it was time to return to Promero’s house. I drove straight there, and your men seized me as I talked with Promero in his door.’

‘You have no idea why Kallian went to Promero’s house?’

‘He didn’t speak of his business to his slaves.’

Demetrio turned to Promero. ‘What do you know about this?’

‘Nothing.’ The clerk’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

‘Did Kallian Publico come to your house as the charioteer says?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘Only a few minutes. Then he left.’

‘Did he come from your house to the Temple?’

‘I don’t know!’ The clerk’s voice was shrill with taut nerves.

‘Why did he come to your house?’

‘To - to talk matters of business with me.’

‘You’re lying,’ snapped Demetrio. ‘Why did he come to your home?’

‘I don’t know! I don’t know anything!’ Promero was growing hysterical. ‘I had nothing to do with it’

‘Make him talk, Diomis,’ snapped Demetrio, and Dionus grunted and nodded to one of his men who, grinning savagely, moved toward the two captives.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he growled, thrusting his head forward and staring domineeringly at his shrinking prey.

‘You’re Posthumo,’ answered the charioteer sullenly. ‘You gouged out a girl’s eye in the Court of Justice because she wouldn’t give you information incriminating her lover.’

‘I always get what I go after!’ bellowed the guardsman, the veins in his thick neck swelling, and his face growing purple, as he seized the wretched clerk by the collar of his tunic, twisting it so the man was half strangled.

‘Speak up, you rat!’ he growled. ‘Answer the Inquisitor.’

‘Oh Mitra, mercy!’ screamed the wretch. ‘I swear that’

Posthumo slapped him terrifically first on one side of the face and then on the other, and continued the interrogation by flinging him to the floor and kicking him with vicious accuracy.

‘Mercy!’ moaned the victim. 'I'll tell - I’ll tell anything’

‘Then get up, you cur!’ roared Posthumo, swelling with self-importance. ‘Don’t lie there whining.’

Dionus cast a quick glance at Conan to see if he were properly impressed.

‘You see what happens to those who cross the police,’ he said.

The Cimmerian spat with a sneer of cruel contempt for the moaning clerk.

‘He’s a weakling and a fool,’ he growled. ‘Let one of you touch me and I’ll spill his guts on the floor.’

‘Are you ready to talk?’ asked Demetrio tiredly. He found these scenes wearingly monotonous.

‘All I know,’ sobbed the clerk, dragging himself to his feet and whimpering like a beaten dog in his pain, ‘is that Kallian came to my house shortly after I arrived - I left the Temple at the same time he did - and sent his chariot away. He threatened me with discharge if I ever spoke of it. I am a poor man, without friends or favor. Without my position with him, I would starve.’

‘What’s that to me?’ snapped Demetrio. ‘How long did he remain at your house?’

‘Until perhaps half an hour before midnight. Then he left, saying that he was going to the Temple, and would return after he had done what he wished to do there.’

‘What was he going to do there?’

Promero hesitated at revealing the secrets of his dreaded employer, then a shuddering glance at Posthumo, who was grinning evilly as he doubled his huge fist, opened his lips quickly.

‘There was something in the Temple he wished to examine.’

‘But why should he come here alone in so much secrecy?’

‘Because it was not his property. It arrived in a caravan from the south, at dawn. The men of the caravan knew nothing of it, except that it had been placed with them by the men of a caravan from Stygia, and was meant for Kalanthes of Hanumar, priest of Ibis. The master of the caravan had been paid by these other men to deliver it directly to Kalanthes, but he’s a rascal by nature, and wished to proceed directly to Aquilonia, on the road to which Hanumar does not lie. So he asked if he might leave it in the Temple until Kalanthes could send for it.

‘Kallian agreed, and told him he himself would send a runner to inform Kalanthes. But after the men had gone, and I spoke of the runner, Kallian forbade me to send him. He sat brooding over what the men had left.’

‘And what was that?’

‘A sort of sarcophagus, such as is found in ancient Stygian tombs, but this one was round, like a covered metal bowl. Its composition was something like copper, but much harder, and it was carved with hieroglyphics, like those found on the more ancient menhirs in southern Stygia. The lid was made fast to the body by carven copper-like bands.’

‘What was in it?’

‘The men of the caravan did not know. They only said that the men who gave it to them told them that it was a priceless relic, found among the tombs far beneath the pyramids and sent to Kalanthes “because of the love the sender bore the priest of Ibis”. Kallian Publico believed that it contained the diadem of the giant-kings, of the people who dwelt in that dark land before the ancestors of the Stygians came there. He showed me a design carved on the lid, which he swore was the shape of the diadem which legend tells us the monster-kings wore.

‘He determined to open the Bowl and see what it contained.

He was like a madman when he thought of the fabled diadem, which myths say was set with the strange jewels known only to that ancient race, a single one of which is worth more than all the jewels of the modern world.

‘I warned him against it. But he stayed at my house as I have said, and a short time before midnight, he came along to the Temple, hiding in the shadows until the watchman had passed to the other side of the building, then letting himself in with his belt key. I watched him from the shadows of the silk shop, saw him enter the Temple, and then returned to my own house. If the diadem was in the Bowl, or anything else of great value, he intended hiding it somewhere in the Temple and slipping out again. Then on the morrow he would raise a great hue and cry, saying that thieves had broken into his house and stolen Kalanthes’s property. None would know of his prowlings but the charioteer and I, and neither of us would betray him.’

‘But the watchman?’ objected Demetrio.

‘Kallian did not intend being seen by him; he planned to have him crucified as an accomplice of the thieves,’ answered Promero. Arus gulped and turned pale as this duplicity of his employer came home to him.

‘Where is this sarcophagus?’ asked Demetrio. Promero pointed, and the Inquisitor grunted. ‘So! The very room in which Kallian must have been attacked.’

Promero turned pale and twisted his thin hands.

‘Why should a man in Stygia send Kalanthes a gift? Ancient gods and queer mummies have come up the caravan roads before, but who loves the priest of Ibis so well in Stygia, where they still worship the arch-demon Set who coils among the tombs in the darkness? The god Ibis has fought Set since the first dawn of the earth, and Kalanthes has fought Set’s priests all his life. There is something dark and hidden here.’

‘Show us this sarcophagus,’ commanded Demetrio, and Promero hesitantly led the way. All followed, including Conan, who was apparently heedless of the wary eye the guardsmen kept on him, and seemed merely curious. They passed through the torn hangings and entered the room, which was rather more dimly lighted than the corridor. Doors on each side gave into other chambers, and the walls were lined with fantastic images, gods of strange lands and far peoples. And Promero cried out sharply. ‘Look! The Bowl! It’s open - and empty!’ In the center of the room stood a strange black cylinder, nearly four feet in height, and perhaps three feet in diameter at its widest circumference, which was halfway between the top and bottom. The heavy carven lid lay on the floor, and beside it a hammer and a chisel. Demetrio looked inside, puzzled an instant over the dim hieroglyphs, and turned to Conan. ‘Is this what you came to steal?’ The barbarian shook his head.

‘How could I bear it away? It is too big for one man to carry.’ ‘The bands were cut with this chisel,’ mused Demetrio, ‘and in haste. There are marks where misstrokes of the hammer dented the metal. We may assume that Kallian opened the Bowl. Someone was hiding nearby - possibly in the hangings in the doorway. When Kallian had the Bowl open, the murderer sprang on him - or he might have killed Kallian and opened the Bowl himself.’

‘This is a grisly thing,’ shuddered the clerk. ‘It’s too ancient to be holy. Who ever saw metal like it in a sane world? It seems less destructible than Aquilonian steel, yet see how it is corroded and eaten away in spots. Look at the bits of black mold clinging in the grooves of the hieroglyphics; they smell as earth smells from far below the surface. And look - here on the lid!’ The clerk pointed with a shaky finger. ‘What would you say it is?’ Demetrio bent closer to the carven design. ‘I’d say it represents a crown of some sort,’ he grunted. ‘No!’ exclaimed Promero. ‘I warned Kallian, but he would not believe me! It is a scaled serpent coiled with its tail in its mouth. It is the sign of Set, the Old Serpent, the god of the Stygians! This Bowl is too old for a human world - it is a relic of the time when Set walked the earth in the form of a man! The race which sprang from his loins laid the bones of their kings away in such cases as these, perhaps!’

‘And you’ll say that those moldering bones rose up and strangled Kallian Publico and then walked away, perhaps,’ derided Demetrio.

‘It was no man who was laid to rest in that bowl,’ whispered the clerk, his eyes wide and staring. ‘What human could lie in it?’

Demetrio swore disgustedly.

‘If Conan is not the murderer,’ he snapped, ‘the slayer is still somewhere in this building. Dionus and Arus, remain here with me, and you three prisoners stay here too. The rest of you search the building. The murderer could only have escaped - if he got away before Arus found the body - by the way Conan used in entering, and in that case the barbarian would have seen him, if he’s telling the truth.’

‘I saw no one but this dog,’ growled Conan, indicating Arus.

‘Of course not, because you’re the murderer,’ said Dionus. ‘We’re wasting time, but we’ll search the building as a formality. And if we find no one, I promise you shall burn! Remember the law, my black-haired savage - you go to the mines for killing a commoner, you hang for killing a tradesman, and for murdering a rich man, you burn!’

Conan answered with a wicked lift of his lip, baring his teeth, and the men began their search. The listeners in the chamber heard them stamping upstairs and down, moving objects, opening doors and bellowing to one another through the rooms.

‘Conan,’ said Demetrio, ‘you know what it means if they find no one?’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ snarled the Cimmerian. ‘If he had sought to hinder me I’d have split his skull. But I did not see him until I saw his corpse.’

‘I know that someone sent you here tonight, to steal at least,’ said Demetrio. ‘By your silence you incriminate yourself in this murder as well. You had best speak. The mere fact of your being here is sufficient to send you to the mines for ten years, anyhow, whether you admit your guilt or not. But if you tell the whole tale, you may save yourself from the stake.’

‘Well,’ answered the barbarian grudgingly, ‘I came here to steal the Zamorian diamond goblet. A man gave me a diagram of the Temple and told me where to look for it. It is kept in that room -‘ Conan pointed - ‘in a niche in the floor under a copper Shemitish god.’

‘He speaks truth there,’ said Promero. ‘I’d thought that not half a dozen men in the world knew the secret of that hiding place.’

‘And if you had secured it,’ asked Dionus sneeringly, ‘would you really have taken it to the man who hired you? Or would you have kept it for yourself?’

Again the smoldering eyes flashed resentment.

‘I am no dog,’ the barbarian muttered. ‘I keep my word.’

‘Who sent you here?’ Demetrio demanded, but Conan kept a sullen silence.

The guardsmen were straggling back from their search.

‘There’s no man hiding in this building,’ they growled. ‘We’ve ransacked the place. We found the trap-door in the roof through which the barbarian entered, and the bolt he cut in half. A man escaping that way would have been seen by the guards we posted about the building, unless he fled before we came. Then, besides, he would have had to stack tables or chairs or cases upon each other to reach it from below, and that has not been done. Why couldn’t he have gone out the front door just before Arus came around the building?’

‘Because the door was bolted on the inside, and the only keys which will work that bolt are the one belonging to Arus and the one which still hangs on the girdle of Kallian Publico.’

‘I’ve found the cable the murderer used,’ one of them announced. ‘A black cable, thicker than a man’s arm, and curiously splotched.’

‘Then where is it, fool?’ exclaimed Dionus.

‘In the chamber adjoining this one,’ answered the guard. ‘It’s wrapped about a marble pillar, where no doubt the murderer thought it would be safe from detection. I couldn’t reach it. But it must be the right one.’

He led the way into a room filled with marble statuary, and pointed to a tall column, one of several which served a purpose more of ornament to set off the statues, than of utility. And then he halted and stared.

‘It’s gone!’ he cried.

‘It never was there!’ snorted Dionus.

‘By Mitra, it was!’ swore the guardsman. ‘Coiled about the pillar just above those carven leaves. It’s so shadowy up there near the ceiling I couldn’t tell much about it - but it was there.’

‘You’re drunk,’ snapped Demetrio, turning away. ‘That’s too high for a man to reach; and nothing but a snake could climb that smooth pillar.’

‘A Cimmerian could,’ muttered one of the men.

‘Possibly. Say that Conan strangled Kallian, tied the cable about the pillar, crossed the corridor and hid in the room where the stair is. How then, could he have removed it after you saw it? He has been among us ever since Arus found the body. No, I tell you Conan didn’t commit the murder. I believe the real murderer killed Kallian to secure whatever was in the Bowl, and is hiding now in some secret nook in the Temple. If we can’t find him, we’ll have to put the blame on the barbarian to satisfy Justice, but - where is Promero?’

They had returned to the silent body in the corridor. Dionus bellowed threateningly for Promero, and the clerk came suddenly from the room in which stood the empty Bowl. He was shaking and his face was white.

‘What now, man?’ exclaimed Demetrio irritably.

‘I found a symbol on the bottom of the Bowl!’ chattered Promero. ‘Not an ancient hieroglyphic, but a symbol recently carved! The mark of Thothamon, the Stygian sorcerer, Kalanthes’s deadly foe! He found it in some grisly cavern below the haunted pyramids! The gods of old times did not die, as men died - they fell into long sleeps and their worshippers locked them in sarcophagi so that no alien hand might break their slumbers. Thothamon sent death to Kalanthes - Kallian’s greed caused him to loose the horror - and it is lurking somewhere near us - even now it may be creeping upon us’

‘You gibbering fool!’ roared Dionus disgustedly, striking him heavily across the mouth. Dionus was a materialist, with scant patience for eery speculations.

‘Well, Demetrio,’ he said, turning to the Inquisitor, ‘I see nothing else to do other than to arrest this barbarian’

The Cimmerian cried out suddenly and they wheeled. He was glaring toward the door of a chamber that adjoined the room of statues.

‘Look!’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw something move in that room - I saw it through the hangings. Something that crossed the floor like a long dark shadow!’

‘Bah!’ snorted Posthumo. ‘We searched that room’ ‘He saw something!’ Promero’s voice shrilled and cracked with hysterical excitement. ‘This place is accursed! Something came out of the sarcophagus and killed Kallian Publico! It hid from you where no human could hide, and now it is in that room! Mitra defend us from the powers of Darkness! I tell you it was one of Set’s children in that grisly Bowl!’ He caught Dionus’s sleeve with claw-like fingers. ‘You must search that room again!’

The prefect shook him off disgustedly, and Posthumo was inspired to a flight of humor.

‘You shall search it yourself, clerk!’ he said, grasping Promero by neck and girdle, and propelling the screaming wretch forcibly toward the door, outside of which he paused and hurled him into the room so violently the clerk fell and lay half stunned.

‘Enough of this,’ growled Dionus, eyeing the silent Cimmerian. The prefect lifted his hand, Conan’s eyes began to burn bluely, and a tension crackled in the air, when an interruption came. A guardsman entered, dragging a slender, richly dressed figure.

‘I saw him slinking about the back of the Temple,’ quoth the guard, looking for commendation. Instead he received curses that lifted his hair.

‘Release that gentleman, you bungling fool!’ swore the prefect. ‘Don’t you know Aztrias Petanius, the nephew of the city’s governor?’

The abashed guard fell away and the foppish young nobleman brushed his embroidered sleeve fastidiously.

‘Save your apologies, good Dionus,’ he lisped affectedly. ‘All in line of duty, I know. I was returning from a late revel and walking to rid my brain of the wine fumes. What have we here? By Mitra, is it murder?’

‘Murder it is, my lord,’ answered the prefect. ‘But we have a man who, though Demetrio seems to have doubts on the matter, will doubtless go to the stake for it.’

‘A vicious looking brute,’ murmured the young aristocrat. ‘How can any doubt his guilt? I have never seen such a villainous countenance before.’

‘Yes, you have, you scented dog,’ snarled the Cimmerian, ‘when you hired me to steal the Zamorian goblet for you. Revels, eh? Bah! You were waiting in the shadows for me to hand you the goblet. I would not have revealed your name if you had given me fair words. Now tell these dogs that you saw me climb the wall after the watchman made the last round, so that they’ll know I didn’t have time to kill this fat swine before Arus entered and found the body.’

Demetrio looked quickly at Aztrias, who did not change color.

‘If what he says is true, my lord,’ said the Inquisitor, ‘it clears him of the murder, and we can easily hush up the matter of attempted theft. He is due ten years at hard labor for house-breaking, but if you say the word, we’ll arrange for him to escape and none but us will ever know anything about it. I understand - you wouldn’t be the first young nobleman who had to resort to such things to pay gambling debts and the like. You can rely on our discretion.’

Conan looked at the young nobleman expectantly, but Aztrias shrugged his slender shoulders and covered a yawn with a delicate white hand.

‘I know him not,’ he answered. ‘He is mad to say I hired him. Let him take his just desserts. He has a strong back and the toil in the mines will be well for him.’

Conan’s eyes blazed and he started as if stung; the guards tensed, grasping their bills, then relaxed as he dropped his head suddenly, as if in sullen resignation, and not even Demetrio could tell that he was watching them from under his heavy black brows, with eyes that were slits of blue bale-fire.

He struck with no more warning than a striking cobra; his sword flashed in the candlelight. Aztrias shrieked and his head flew from his shoulders in a shower of blood, the features frozen in a white mask of horror. Cat-like, Conan wheeled and thrust murderously for Demetrio’s groin. The Inquisitor’s instinctive recoil barely deflected the point which sank into his thigh, glanced from the bone and ploughed out through the outer side of the leg. Demetrio went to his knee with a groan, unnerved and nauseated with agony.

Conan had not paused. The bill which Dionus flung up saved the prefect’s skull from the whistling blade which turned slightly as it cut through the shaft, and sheared his ear cleanly from his head. The blinding speed of the barbarian paralyzed the senses of the police and made their actions futile gestures. Caught flat-footed and dazed by his quickness and ferocity, half of them would have been down before they had a chance to fight back, except that Posthumo, more by luck than skill, threw his arms about the Cimmerian, pinioning his sword-arm. Conan’s left hand leaped to the guard’s head, and Posthumo fell away and writhed shrieking on the floor, clutching a gaping red socket where an eye had been.

Conan bounded back from the waving bills and his leap carried him outside the ring of his foes, to where Arus stood fumbling at his crossbow. A savage kick in the belly dropped him, green-faced and gagging, and Conan’s sandalled heel crunched square in the watchman’s mouth. The wretch screamed through a ruin of splintered teeth, blowing bloody froth from his mangled lips.

Then all were frozen in their tracks by the soul-shaking horror of a scream which rose from the chamber into which Posthumo had hurled Promero, and from the velvet-hung door the clerk came reeling, and stood there, shaking with great silent sobs, tears running down his pasty face and dripping off his loose sagging lips, like an idiot-babe weeping.

All halted to stare at him aghast - Conan with his dripping sword, the police with their lifted bills, Demetrio crouching on the floor and striving to staunch the blood that jetted from the great gash in his thigh, Dionus clutching the bleeding stump of his severed ear, Arus weeping and spitting out fragments of broken teeth - even Posthumo ceased his howls and blinked whimpering through the bloody mist that veiled his half-sight.

Promero came reeling out into the corridor and fell stiffly before them. Screeching in an unbearable high-pitched laughter of madness, he cried shrilly, ‘The god has a long neck! Ha! ha! ha! Oh, a long, a cursed long neck!’ And then with a frightful convulsion he stiffened and lay grinning vacantly at the shadowy ceiling.

‘He’s dead!’ whispered Dionus, awedly, forgetting his own hurt, and the barbarian who stood with his dripping sword so near him. He bent over the body, then straightened, his eyes flaring. ‘He’s not wounded - in Mitra’s name what is in that chamber?’

Then horror swept over them and they ran screaming for the outer door, jammed there in a clawing shrieking mob, and burst through like madmen. Arus followed and the half-blind Posthumo struggled up and blundered blindly after his fellows, squealing like a wounded pig and begging them not to leave him behind. He fell among them and they knocked him down and trampled him, screaming in their fear. But he crawled after them, and after him came Demetrio. The Inquisitor had the courage to face the unknown, but he was unnerved and wounded, and the sword that had struck him down was still near him. Grasping his blood-spurting thigh, he limped after his companions. Police, charioteer and watchman, wounded or whole, they burst screaming into the street, where the men watching the building took panic and joined in the flight, not waiting to ask why. Conan stood in the great corridor alone, save for the corpses on the floor.

The barbarian shifted his grip on his sword and strode into the chamber. It was hung with rich silken tapestries; silken cushions and couches lay strewn about in careless profusion; and over a heavy gilded screen a face looked at the Cimmerian.

Conan stared in wonder at the cold classic beauty of that countenance, whose like he had never seen among the sons of men. Neither weakness nor mercy nor cruelty nor kindness, nor any other human emotion was in those features. They might have been the marble mask of a god, carved by a master hand, except for the unmistakable life in them - life cold and strange, such as the Cimmerian had never known and could not understand. He thought fleetingly of the marble perfection of the body which the screen concealed - it must be perfect, he thought, since the face was so inhumanly beautiful. But he could see only the god-like face, the finely molded head which swayed curiously from side to side. The full lips opened and spoke a single word in a rich vibrant tone that was like the golden chimes that ring in the jungle-lost temples of Khitai. It was an unknown tongue, forgotten before the kingdoms of man arose, but Conan knew that it meant, ‘Come!’

And the Cimmerian came, with a desperate leap and a humming slash of his sword. The beautiful head rolled from the top of the screen in a jet of dark blood and fell at his feet, and he gave back, fearing to touch it. Then his skin crawled, for the screen shook and heaved with the convulsions of something behind. Conan had seen and heard men die by the scores, and never had he heard a human being make such sounds in the death-throes. There was a thrashing, floundering noise, as if a great cable were being lashed violently about.

At last the movements ceased and Conan looked gingerly behind the screen. Then the full horror of it all rushed over the Cimmerian, and he fled, nor did he slacken his headlong flight until the spires of Numalia faded into the dawn behind him. The thought of Set was like a nightmare, and the children of Set who once ruled the earth and who now sleep in their nighted caverns far below the black pyramids. Behind that gilded screen there had been no human body - only the shimmering, headless coils of a gigantic serpent.

Conan The Warlord

Prologue: The Skeleton Troop

The Varakiel marshes were a desolate, legend-haunted place for a child to grow up in. From eastern Nemedia they stretch in uncounted leagues of isle and fen toward the sun's birthplace in the Brythunian steppe. Impassable alike to foot, hoof and boat, the great swamp has ever been a stagnant backwater of history, its miry expanse fabled as a death-snare for armies and a last refuge of hunted men.

For a boy of only eleven summers, life on the edge of such a vast, unexplored tract could be tantalizing in its sense of brooding mystery. The forlorn squeak of the marsh birds and the fluting of wind across nodding reeds permeated the soul, especially if the child was a dreamer, without brothers and sisters, and given to wandering away from familiar fields against his parents' warnings.

Lar had left his log raft far behind in the excitement of exploring the new land he had discovered-land that his father, strangely, had never spoken of. Doubtless the harsh old man knew of it, for he knew more of the Varakiel than anyone, and he reverenced its secrets.

Perhaps, then, this part was secret. Whether the cryptic expanse of dry ground was an island or a peninsula, the boy had not yet learned. The answer, in any case, might vary from season to season, depending on the yearly contest of flood and drought.

Lar's progress had been slowed by mires and willow thickets, and by the constant necessity of watching for bear, cat and snake. But ahead the terrain rose and opened out to a stretch of firm, dry grassland, like the farm pastures his father tilled far to westward. Rich, arable land, and yet not homesteaded-why?

Lowering the butt of his fishing spear to serve as a walking stick, Lar took up a swinging gait, scanning the horizon for tall trees or other vantage points.

Then, rounding an alder clump, he froze. A hideous sight reared just ahead of him: the bleached skeleton of a horse, upright and at the gallop, bearing on its back a grinning, skeletal rider clad in rusting scraps of armor!

Lar did not flee in superstitious terror. He regarded panic as beneath him, and his reason told him there was no immediate danger. He merely shrank back behind the screen of foliage and stood stock-still, listening. He heard only the rustle of leaves stirring in a breeze that had just arisen. No hoofbeats, no clank of arms. When the pounding of his heart subsided, Lar crept forth and looked past the alders once again.

The spectral rider was still there, galloping in place through sparse meadow grass. There was only one movement to the tableau, that of the fluttering, windborne tatters of colorless cloth yet clinging to the bones and decaying armor-clasps.

Spying carefully, Lar could see that horse and rider were fixed to the ground and held upright by a vertical wooden stake; it passed straight through the belly and saddle of the horse and up the empty rib cage of the horseman. He shuddered to note that the skull itself was impaled on the stake, the pointed end of which had apparently poked through bone to raise the rust-eaten crown of the helm a few inches above its normal fit.

Lar knew that slow impalement was a mode of execution favored by the stern Brythunians. He guessed instinctively that the rider, if not the horse, had been placed in that position while still living. The thought sickened him, yet he could not tear his eyes away.

He walked forward, widely skirting the elongated, big-toothed skull of the war stallion while gazing up at the dead rider. And he saw with a thrill of delicious fear that the horseman was the leader of a troop.

Spaced about the clearing in a loose formation, nine other horses and riders were impaled, each as ancient and desiccated as the first. Some of them had sunk to the bases of their weathered stakes, where they lay as mere piles of rust-stained bones, while others sported crusty-gray leather hauberks and wore the green-brass hilts of rotted iron tulwars at their waists.

Most peasant boys would have been overcome by the weird menace of the place. They would have run home, babbling incoherent tales for their parents to dismiss laughingly or to silence with stern, frightened looks.

But Lar was different; he was a dreamer, and his mind had ranged wider than the minds of most boys of eleven winters. In early boyhood he had pondered deeply the meaning of certain remarks heard on late evenings before the fire, when the adults thought him safely asleep in his chimney-corner.

Now he moved among the skeletons, chill awe sweeping over him. At the center of the cavalry formation lay another relic, the ruin of a chariot. The team that pulled it had not been staked upright as had the others, yet it waited patiently in its traces-three tumbled clumps of bone, tangled with leather harness straps in the grass. The vehicle was a mass of collapsed timbers: gray, splitting spokes and spars bleached white as the bones around them, crusted with lichen and with curling flakes of once-gaudy paint.

Mingled in the debris were parts of an eleventh human skeleton, the skull incomplete, doubtless cloven by some long-since rotted blade. Lar liked not the look of the ancient headbone's unbroken half, noting a strange flatness and elongation in contrast with the other skulls on display, and an odd prominence of tooth.

But there, in the midst of it all, shining from beneath a tattered leather scrap that might once have been a shield or an awning, Lar's eye caught the glint of an untarnished surface. He peered into the shadow and gasped. A golden statue! Kneeling before the wreckage, remembering to watch for swamp adders, he peeled back the leather fragment. Dry bones clacked as he shoved them eagerly aside.

It was an oval gem case, molded and embellished to look like a golden serpent's head. To one who had seen but few pieces of worked metal in his life, the intricacy of it seemed miraculous. The eyes were great gems; when Lar gingerly rubbed the dust from one of them with a fingertip, the faceted surface gleamed deep green. The serpent's fangs were also jewels, tapering prisms as clear as icicles.

Looking over the chest, Lar could see hinges at its rear. He placed a trembling hand between the fangs and raised the lid. It was heavy and stiff with disuse, but he managed to force it back to an upright position. The inner surface of the serpent's mouth blazed in the sun's rays, mirror-polished white gold. The bottom of the chest was full of blood-red gems from among which the snake's gold tongue protruded. But the real prize rested on the two-pronged tongue-a golden, jewel-encrusted chaplet.

Lar knew of crowns and treasures only through the fanciful tales spun by his uncles on midwinter evenings. Still, he understood instantly the ornament's use. He longed to place it on his brow .and view his reflection in the gleaming lid of the cask.

A sudden chill passed through him, and a terror touched his heart. He felt sure that if he dared look up, he would see the skeletal horsemen coming to life, flexing their chalk-white limbs, swiveling their creaky-hinged necks, wheeling their ghastly steeds toward him. He scarcely dared to raise his eyes. But finally he did, and saw that nothing was amiss. The riders were still there, the nearest looming over him as hideous as ever, yet motionless.

Iron clouds rolled over the marshland's distant reeds and trees, warning of a weather change. But nothing moved in the meadow except grass stalks. The wind among the bones made a faint sibilance in Lar's ears.

After all, he asked himself, what could be so evil or unholy about this place? Why should he fear to glimpse these vestiges of ancient power and mystic wonder? All his life he had heard the grandfolk prattle superstitiously against eldritch things; now he knew that he despised their cowardice! Not for him the cringing fears of ignorant serfs. He turned to the cask and reached inside to take the chaplet.

As his hand closed on the prize, he heard a metal latch disengage, and the lid of the chest slammed tightly down on his arm. He cried out in agony, feeling one of the ornamental serpent's needle-sharp fangs pierce his flesh to the bone.

Lar sobbed as he used his free hand to force the heavy, spring-loaded lid open, struggling to withdraw his arm. The deep perforation burned fiercely, like lye-yet already he felt a numbness creeping along the injured limb. His brain, too, was beginning to cloud.

As he pushed himself away from the chest and staggered upright, his dimming senses scarcely noticed that the serpent's jewel-pointed fang dripped not only blood, but yellow venom.

Three days later, his father found him staggering through a reed-choked slough near the leek field. He was dazed, and neither questions nor blows would bring him to speech. The old man hoisted his son on his shoulder and carried him back to their cottage, where the boy's mother waited.

"Lar! Oh Lar, my dearest child, why did you disobey me? Promise that you will never leave your mother's side again!" The distraught woman bathed and dried him, laid him on a pallet before the fire, and made a poultice for the festering wound on his arm.

Later, when the father had plodded off again to the fields, she tried to feed hot soup to her boy, but he would not take any. When she coaxed him, raising the wooden spoon to his lips, he seized her arm and bit it deeply. She screamed in his clutch; the wound burned like lye.

CHAPTER 1

The Dance of the Clubs

The dungeon was rank with the smells of human misery. Its fetid gloom made a tangible fog of despair that somehow was only deepened by the single source of light: a thin, dusty ray falling from a window grating high overhead. Where it struck the water puddled together with rotting hay on the floor, wisps of steam arose.

A score or more of the room's prisoners lounged or squatted in the shadows around its rough stone walls. Some of them were Nemedian serfs, swarthy-faced men clad in coarse, knee-length shirts corded at the waist with frayed rope. Others had more exotic rags and a more foreign look: jaunty street-thieves of Dinander, or wealthless travelers run afoul of municipal authority. The inmates varied widely in their physical health also, from the robust toughs loitering in choice positions near the cell door, to peasant wretches broken by torture, moaning in the darkest corners.

Least fortunate of all was the one who sprawled facedown in the center of the wet floor, his limbs twisted under him and one dirty, sandaled ankle protruding into the barred patch of daylight. It was his plight that seemed to concern his fellows the most, and they called attention to it in loud voices.

"Jailer! Poor Stolpa's dead! Come haul him away!"

"Yes, come and get him. He's starting to stink!"

A stout, full-bearded prisoner ambled to the wooden door and gave it three hard kicks that failed even to rattle its heavy timbers. He leaned down and shouted through the peephole: "Warden! Come along here! The fellow's been dead half the morning. He's going to sprout maggots!"

"Get rid of him! Get him out!" A chorus of yells and hoots built to a raucous crescendo. All the able men contributed lustily, with one exception.

He was a northern barbarian-a tall, well-muscled youth of perhaps eighteen seasons, with shaggy black hair and the faintest shadow of a beard. His ill-fitting townsman's shirt and trousers made a parody of his hulking size; yet as he lounged against the wall near the cell door, his catlike ease belied the ungainliness of his garb. He kept his eyes steadily on the doorway, whispering at intervals to the man beside him, a broken-nosed ruffian who now and again added a jeer to the general outcry.

"They are coming!" The crook-nosed man's battered face suddenly grew serious. "Just look to your own part, Conan! The others will do theirs."

"Aye, Rudo. May Crom favor us!"

A loud thump sounded at the door. The youth eased himself upright as his cellmates' shouts died away.

"You scum!" a gravelly voice racketed through the peephole. "Let's have some order in there, or I'll shoot quarrels into the lot of you!"

The bearded door-kicker took a step forward in front of the spyhole, spreading his hands amicably, and pointed to the motionless one in the center of the floor. "Your Honor, Stolpa's been dead for hours, and the cell's crowded as it is. We'd like to have him out of here, please."

"Dead, eh?" the unseen warder rasped. "And which of you miscreants throttled him?"

The spokesman nervously clasped his hands. "No one, sir. He's been ailing for some time, as you know."

"Well then, let his ailing carcass rot. And yours with it, Falmar!" The voice murmured irritably aside for a moment, then came back to the eyehole. "How do I know it's not a trick?"

A stir of displeasure sounded among the prisoners, and crook-nosed Rudo stepped quickly from his place beside the barbarian. He went to the middle of the cell and, waving aside the bearded man, addressed the door. "Sir. With your permission. . . ."

Elaborately he swung back his buskined foot, aimed and planted a kick in the middle of the inert body, with force enough to drive it a handsbreadth across the slimy floor.

"Stolpa's suffering has ended, sir." Rudo faced the door and lowered his head slightly. "Ours is only commencing. Will you take him, sir?"

The prisoners waited, as still as stones. After a moment an indistinct question and answer were exchanged outside the cell. Then the voice barked in through the peephole, "All right. But you must fetch him out, in case he died of the creeping palsy. Two of you carry him forth, no more."

Rudo and Falmar stooped over the body and hoisted it up by its legs and arms. As the dull sliding of the doorbolt sounded, the inmates shifted nervously.

The heavy panel grated inward.

"Come on, then! Be quick about it." The harsh voice belonged to a man with a gray-jowled face, wearing the bronze helmet and red-leather vest of a municipal guard. He indicated the way through the door with a jerk of his crossbow, and the corpse-bearers lugged their burden forward. A second, leaner jailer grasped the door by its bolt brackets, waiting to close it on their heels.

As they passed through the portal, the prisoners' tense watchfulness finally disintegrated; they made sudden, swift rush for the exit. The northern youth sprang to the door and, seizing the nearest guard's arm so as to wrench it free of the door handle, dragged the man bodily inside the cell; meanwhile, the two corpse-carriers set violently on the senior warder. Their attack was aided by their dead burden, Stolpa, who sprang out of their arms in a miraculous, frenzied resurrection.

Inside the dungeon the young barbarian took precious moments to beat down the guard with savage blows of his elbows and fists. He seized the man's cudgel, wrenching and twisting at its lanyard until he heard joints crack in the wrist it was tied to; finally the thong pulled loose. Clutching the hardwood baton, he threw aside its former owner, relinquishing him to the driving feet and fists of other prisoners.

Then, shrilling a bloodcurdling war-whoop, he hurled himself into the stream of men pouring through the doorway.

By that time the wardroom was a mass of fighting bodies. The thick-jowled warden was down and disarmed, trying to crawl out from beneath the fight, his face bright with blood from a split in his scalp. At least four other guards had joined the fray; as the barbarian shouldered through the crowd, two more uniformed men mustered up the narrow stone stair from the torture-rooms.

The youth met the second of them at the top of the steps, his club already slashing in air. The stroke was partly wasted on the edge of the warder's helm; nevertheless, it sent the man tumbling back down to the torchlit doorway at the stairwell's bottom.

In an instant the first guard turned back to avenge his companion; the youth twisted aside, and the cudgel-blow struck him smartingly across the shoulders. The two fenced, oak clacking against oak, until the northerner landed a rap across the other's knuckles. As the guard's baton slipped from agonized fingers, a cracking blow across the eyes laid him flat. A straggly haired inmate swiftly fell upon him to appropriate his weapon.

Meanwhile, the barbarian drove toward the ascending stair, where more guards clustered. There crook-nosed Rudo flailed at them with the stock of the chief warder's discharged crossbow, while other prisoners sought to grapple close and get inside the swing of the defenders' cudgels. Falmar strove fiercely against a burly guard, strangling him with his own stick; the scrawny Stolpa lay sprawled on the floor against the base of the stairs. This time his portrayal of a dead man looked even more authentic than before.

The young barbarian threw himself into the skirmish line, and struck viciously at the warders, who were already hard-pressed. Since metal hats covered their heads, he aimed slanting blows at their necks. He was quickly rewarded with a snap and a scream as a collarbone gave way.

A fierce battle-rhythm possessed the youth. His movements among guards and prisoners became a violent, intricate dance. When an enemy's cudgel nicked an arm or raked across his ribs, the flare of pain only quickened the tempo. Dodge aside, drive forward, parry, strike! Primitive blood chanted a savage war song in his ears.

The turmoil that raged around him seemed to slow and become trivial and remote. He felt all-powerful, invulnerable, his foes falling left and right before him like scythed stalks toppling in a grainfield.

Then the northerner was brought back to immediacy by urgent cries from behind. Dazedly, shaking off his battle-trance, he glanced around to see that more guards had come from the lower dungeon and sealed off the cell's exit. Some of the prisoners had either been driven back into the stinking hole or had never left it, due to cowardice or physical inability; now the mutineers' force was divided. Fletta, the tall, moonfaced interrogator, stood at the cell door, backed by two guards and plying a copper mallet against the skulls of those who tried to exit the cell or clear its entryway.

A misfortune, clearly, and a dangerous one to turn back and try to correct now. Still, there was good hope for most of the prisoners to escape up the dungeon stair. Only two guards defended it, and they were retreating up the steps before the flailing clubs of Rudo and Falmar, who led the attack.

Then suddenly a new commotion sounded above. Fresh defenders came streaming through the archway, hurrying down the railless, curving stair. These were Iron Guardsmen of the province's elite army, clad in black-metal caps and cuirasses; as they approached the fray, they drew long, curved sabers.

Their commander strode through the arch at the top and watched them descend; he was a lean, distinguished-looking man with trim black mustachios. He placed his hand upon the hilt under his cloak, yet remained on the edge of the landing to survey the scene, turning aside only to whisper a word to a lesser officer who started down the stair. Then, calm and taciturn, he gazed downdirectly it seemed, at the young northerner.

Thereafter the fight was short and brutal, the luckier prisoners falling before the warders' vengeful cudgels, the less fortunate methodically hacked or skewered by the Iron Guard. The northerner was hemmed in by guardsmen and disarmed by one who forced his thick, leather-vested body between the youth and his straining club. When he continued to struggle, a stinking shirt was clapped over his face from behind and he was dragged to his knees.

Yet he fought on against the cruel fists striking him from unseen directions. At any moment he expected to feel the chill of cold steel raping his guts, but for some reason his captors only pummeled and restrained him. His arms were bent behind his back, and there tied deftly and tightly. His thrashing neck was girdled by a large, sweaty bicep.

Around him he heard the last random thuds, moans and pleadings for mercy as the brawl ended. He was to be spared, it seemed; and so he strove all the harder, conjuring behind his sightless eyes vivid pictures of the tortures and indignities that might await him, if he lived so long.

Finally he could tell that the surviving prisoners were being herded back into the cell amid shouted orders and curses-yet he was kept kneeling on the floor in silence.

A level, businesslike voice spoke from somewhere near him. "This is the one called Conan?"

"Aye, sir, a Cimmerian. A dangerous fighter, and probably one of the ringleaders." The guard's voice quivered with anger and contempt. "With your indulgence, Marshal Durwald, he should be hamstrung, sir. Or killed straightaway!"

"Uncover his face."

The shirt was wrenched off, revealing to Conan the body-littered wardroom, the expressionless face of the black-cloaked military officer and the bloody-nosed visage of the municipal guardsman beside him.

The officer stared at him coldly for a moment. Then he spoke tonelessly: "Put him in a solitary cell, to be transported later." Marshal Durwald swiveled on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him. Over his shoulder he added, while stalking away, "He is remanded to baronial authority."

CHAPTER 2

The Manse

As the chariot rumbled down the back streets of Dinander, furtive eyes followed it from the darkened windows and doorways of the town. Even at night, and even among offal-strewn alleys, its passing was carefully noted, as were all such comings and goings in this dull, provincial capital, whether for the sake of gossip, or political intrigue, or out of simple fear.

The war-chariot gave its occupants a violent ride across road paves purposely made rough for the traction of horses' hooves. Its iron-shod wheels jolted sharply over the cobbles in the clopping wake of the three matched roan stallions. At each of the shallow, open sewers that cut across the pavement, ,the vehicle dropped giddily, then banged high into the air.

It was a difficult ride for both driver and passenger perched side by side on the padded plank set athwart the fighting-platform. It was harder still on the one who lay prone on the chariot's timber deck, his hands bound behind him.

"Keep down, you stinking barbarian, or I'll club you down!" The driver's muttered threat was emphasized by a fist wrapped around a heavy knife-hilt, with which he smote the prisoner's writhing back.

"Crom! You're killing me!" The stirrings and complaints from the floor were muffled by a horse blanket that had been thrown partly over the chariot's human cargo. "I can hardly breathe!"

"Quiet, Cimmerian." The voice of the passenger, black-cloaked Marshal Durwald, was level and matter-of-fact. "This journey is by the baron's order. If you are seen, your usefulness to him will be ended; then you will find a fate that befits your station in the world and your recent crimes. Stay quiet, and you may fare better." He glanced down contemptuously. "Don't bother working at your bonds. We are almost to the Manse."

The driver whistled, jogging the reins to speed his coursers. After what seemed to Conan an endless time, he felt the chariot roll across a rough plank bridge, as smooth as satin by contrast with the pavement of the street. He heard a hail from above and the sound of a heavy gate swinging to. Then the lurching motion stopped.

The blanket was yanked away. With barely time to get his cramped legs under him, Conan was hauled out of the chariot and onto hard dirt. He fell to one knee, caught his balance, then stood straight.

The marshal motioned toward a postern door in a great building that loomed nearby; the charioteer prodded him in the same direction. Conan turned on him with a dark look, and the driver backed off a little, momentarily forgetting his captive's bound wrists. The northerner glanced around, stretched his sore limbs as best he could, then sullenly went along between his captors.

The edifice around them was more fort than mansion. Its curtain wall reared as high as the height of three men combined, and its gatehouse was crowned by an overhanging parapet. For further security, round defensive towers formed the corners of the square main building. The principal structures were of fitted stone, but against the inside of the outer walls huddled stables and other outbuildings of wood. The tall Manse commanded all; a little distance away one of its great double doors stood open, spilling a pool of yellow light across the broad stone porch.

But tonight Durwald, the marshal, stayed far from the welcoming light; he plied a key in the lock of an iron-bound door in a well-protected recess of the Manse's front wall. The door whispered inward and the three passed through into a large, lamplit closet.

Rows of boots and cloaks hung along one wall, a battered bench ran the length of the other. Through a doorway at the end of the room, Conan glimpsed an ornate entry hall with brightly colored tapestries and an imposing central stair.

"Close that," the marshal ordered. After bolting the postern behind them, the charioteer hastened to shut the door to the main hall as well.

Durwald gestured for Conan to seat himself on the bench. The youth hesitated for a moment, then complied, moving as smoothly as he could to hide the lameness of his back and limbs. The charioteer stood to one side, and the marshal, too, remained standing.

"A Cimmerian, eh?" Durwald parted his cloak back from his steel-cuirassed chest and regarded his captive narrowly. "Yet when taken into custody, you had coinage of Zamora in your possession, and gold drams from our capital of Belverus. You have traveled in the south, then?"

The youth gave a noncommittal nod. He knew there were bloody crimes in the Nemedian capital that might be laid on his neck, whether truly or not.

"Answer when spoken to! How long have you been in Dinander?"

"A dozen days." Conan lowered his eyes to the floor, where their gaze was less likely to betray him.

The marshal fingered his mustache thoughtfully. "Do you have any relatives or other ties in Nemedia?"

"No." Conan wondered briefly at this turn in the questioning.

"Are you sure? No female kin traded southward as brides?" Durwald inclined his head, closely watching the captive, whose face showed only surly resentment at the notion.

When no further reply was forthcoming, the marshal resumed: "Well, then, lad! Coming from the northern wastes, what think you of the wonders of our civilization?" He smiled under his mustache with a new, false air of heartiness. "Do you like the Hyborian lands?"

The youth considered for a moment, then turned his face up to Durwald's. "'Tis strange . . . never have I seen such wealth as in these southern cities, nor such filth and misery." He shook his head wonderingly. "In Cimmeria a whole tribe may hunger, but if they thrive, they thrive together. Here honest folk starve amidst wealth, and a greedy few fatten themselves at the expense of many."

Durwald's eyes narrowed in distaste. "Best to leave such notions in the northern snow-mires, lad. Sensible or not, they will only get your tongue torn out in Dinander." He squinted at Conan appraisingly. "But you have more than a passing acquaintance with the Nemedian language. How did you gain it?"

Conan spoke carelessly. "Nemedian squatters were among the border kingdoms' rabble who tried to steal Cimmerian lands. In my youth we took a band of them hostage." He flexed his shoulders, apparently confident that his youth lay sometime in the remote past. "Later I was among the war-party that marched them to Fort Ulau and bore back the ransom."

"Eastern Nemedians, those?"

"Vastian farmers."

"Hmm. Yes." The marshal nodded thoughtfully. "Have you, then, any objection to entering the service of the baron of Dinander?"

"Why not?" Conan looked up, his face growing blank and wary. "As long as I am not expected to slay my kinsmen or spy against them."

Durwald's face shaped a true smile for the first time. "Well then!" He turned to the charioteer. "He will need better clothes in which to be seen by His Lordship"-the marshal wrinkled his nose- "but the bath will have to wait until later, I fear. Swinn, find him something to put on."

The charioteer turned to the garments on the wall hooks, searched among them and selected a green jerkin and tan trousers. He held them up wordlessly before Durwald, who nodded. "Now cut his bonds."

Swinn gazed doubtfully at the marshal, but only for a moment. Then he carefully laid the garments on the bench, drew his knife and advanced toward Conan. The youth arose and turned half away from him to place his bound wrists within reach.

The charioteer stood hesitating again.

"Do not fear," Durwald urged him. "If the northerner has any sense, he has guessed that whatever we intend to offer him is better than the dungeon and a lifetime in the copper mines. Go ahead and cut him loose."

Swinn did so, slicing the cords with a downward jerk of the blade. Conan brought his arms out in front of him, flexed them slowly while brushing away the cut ends of cord, and began massaging his red-wealed wrists. Meanwhile, Swinn cautiously moved up beside the youth to help him remove his clothing.

Conan's forearm darted out and struck him in the chest with an audible impact. "Back!" The charioteer reeled along the bench, steadying himself against the wall. Cursing, he shifted his hold on the knife to stabbing grip.

Durwald spoke up impatiently. "Swinn, leave him alone. You can put that turnip-slicer away now." He nodded to Conan. "Go ahead, boy. Remove those stolen rags yourself, if you insist."

The youth eyed the two others, relaxing his fighting-crouch and reaching to his shirt ties. "They are my own. Had I stolen, I would have stolen better than these!"

He stripped off the shirt, which was split halfway down the back from the day's cudgel battle. Then he lowered his tight, frayed trousers and kicked them to the floor. He showed no concern for his nakedness, but unavoidably he had a measure of pained regard for the bruises and welts that marked his body. His form was otherwise tan with sun and prison dirt, and splendidly tapered from the shoulders down, a remarkable physique for one indisputably so young. In spite of his injuries, he moved with the power and suppleness of a tawny leopard.

Conan donned the thicker and better-fitting garments, knotting the drawstring of the trousers and fastening the jerkin. Then he tied new brown-leather slippers on his feet in place of his soiled, travel-worn sandals.

"That is adequate. Come along." Durwald turned.

With Swinn close on his heels, Conan followed the marshal to the back of the cloakroom. There the officer pushed open a wooden door that revealed a spiral stairway in one of the Manse's corner towers. Conan had to duck as they ascended the narrow, worn stairs; from their upper course, a draped archway opened to a vacant sleeping-room whose plugged window-embrasures faced the Manse's front wall.

Durwald led the way through the room's far door and onto a mezzanine. This interior porch circled and commanded the ornate main portals and lofty entry hall, the upper vaultings of which were thick with shadow, Conan saw. The balcony's stout wooden railing, cut with deceptively ornamental cross-shaped loopholes, would provide a murderous bastion for archers called upon to cover the entrance and main stair. The three men walked a short way along the overhang, then turned through a taller door and into a large, ornately furnished chamber.

Just arising from high-backed chairs at a hexagonal writing table were two figures: a tall, elderly man with an iron-gray mustache, and a plump, round-faced retainer who moved silently beside him.

"Ah, Durwald. So this is the boy!"

The elder man half-turned to the door as he spoke. He was every cubit an aristocrat, clad in a fine leather kilt and a shirt of pleated silk, and armed with a silver-handled dirk, silver-scabbarded on a silver chain dangling from his hip. His face seemed the very sculpture of serene leadership, his gray mustache and side-whiskers softening the severity of his strong-arched nose and firm chin.

But as his head finished turning to fix both eyes on the new arrivals, Conan saw with unease that its noble symmetry was hideously broken. A livid, crookedly healed scar ran from one eye down to the corner of the man's mouth; in consequence his lip seemed to be raised perpetually at one side in an imperious smirk. The eye above it looked to be functional, if somewhat watery compared to its twin; now both eyes regarded Conan keenly with frequent, birdlike blinks.

The second man, by contrast, had an air of intense ordinariness. He wore his humble wool jerkin belted so tightly that bulges of soft fat projected above and below his waist. Close-shaven and spottily complected, he carried himself with something of a strut.

Durwald inclined his head in the aristocrat's direction, then stood pikestaff-straight. "Yes, Milord Baron! This is Conan, the lad of whom I told you. A savage Cimmerian, yet capable of understanding orders, it would seem. Conan, you may kneel before Baron Baldomer Einharson."

Conan gave a scant nod to the baron and remained standing, impassive.

Durwald's back stiffened with consternation as he swung to face Conan. "Cimmerian, you are required to kneel to your betters!"

The youth glanced around the circle of staring men. "Mayhap I will, when I meet one."

Durwald's hand found the hilt at his waist. "On your life, barbarian!"

"Marshal!" Baldomer raised an arm and spoke in a voice that, though hard-edged to command, was softened slightly by amusement. "Leave off; there is no need."

By the time the baron dropped his hand, a respectful silence was well settled in the room. "In any case, 'tis better that the boy lacks the habit of obeisance. That would interfere with his intended role."

The marshal looked from the sullen captive to the baron, then nodded. "Of course, Milord. Forgive me." He waited for a moment, composing his discomfiture, then asked, "You find his resemblance . . . adequate?"

Baldomer smiled. "Yes. He has the square-faced look that gives Cimmerian men such an air of ferocity . . . and their women such beauty." His brow wrinkled almost imperceptibly, as from a fleeting memory; then he smoothed his ravaged features as much as possible and continued his inspection. "With his hair trimmed to a decent length, and with the same pathetic attempt at a mustache as my son's, his likeness will be passable."

The plump man at the baron's elbow spoke, clasping his arms over his belly and leaning toward the nobleman officiously. "Milord . . . are you really suggesting that this burly brute could pass for young Favian?"

Baldomer laughed, turning his face aside so that he looked benign once again. "Well, Svoretta, my son and heir might have to wear padded jerkins henceforth to match his bodyguard! And both might have to wear war-helmets more often. But that would only improve Favian's public image."

While the others laughed dutifully, Svoretta pressed on with Baldomer. Clearly his subservience to the baron was less complete than theirs, and just as clearly he would rather have spoken in confidence.

"Milord, to introduce an unknown, unruly creature like this into your intimate household staff... I fear that it will pose a far greater danger than the one you seek to avoid. Speaking as your chief of espionage, I can say that the problem of maintaining secrecy in such an affair is practically insurmountable."

"Svoretta, this is nothing we haven't already discussed." The baron overruled his counselor abruptly but without gazing on him directly, as if accustomed to having him close at his side. "Whatever the difficulty of carrying out such a masquerade here in Dinander, it will be far simpler on the impending provincial tour. 'Tis then that we anticipate the greatest danger to my son's life-to my own as well-and the greatest need for a double." Baldomer's knuckles tapped absently on his kilted thigh as he spoke, his voice deepening.

"In these times of rampant rebelliousness among our peasants, my sole concern is the firm rulership of the barony of Dinander. That, of course, means the continued reign of the Einharson family. We must at all costs avoid the catastrophe of civil war-or worse, of some half-witted interference by our foppish King Laslo from his padded seraglio in Belverus!" Baldomer elevated his blinking gaze above the others' heads, his voice intensifying to an oratorical pitch.

"My own rule here must be firmly sustained! And more important, when my -earthly tenure ends, those in command must be ready to effect the orderly transfer of power from one generation to the next. Obviously, that is possible only through the preservation of my sacred seed, exalted aforetimes by the gracious gods and passed down from my divine forebear, Einhar." The baron's head turned back to his listeners, his gaze flashing among them with a bizarre, alternating aspect of serenity and cruelty. "Therefore our course is self-evident. Do all of you pledge yourselves absolutely? It is vital that the life of my son and sole heir be preserved!"

Baldomer's speech was followed by an embarrassed silence; it lasted, however, for only an instant before. the necessary nods, smiles and assents were given. The listeners had not failed to note how violently, even fanatically, the baron's fist smote his leather-clad thigh toward the end of his tirade.

The baron, by contrast, seemed unaware of any awkwardness; his eyes were alert, scanning the eyes of the others for signs of resistance or doubt-lastly the downcast, shadowed eyes of the Cimmerian.

Finally Svoretta dared undertake to calm his liege. "Yes, Milord, I understand your priorities in the matter, truly I do! Of course I can humbly offer only one thing in support of your divine mission-my life!" He paused for the effect, his head bowed in an attitude of utter reverence. "Therefore I shall undertake to implement your . . . command and see that only good consequences result from it." His effort of ingratiation culminated in a deep bow and a lingering kiss to the baron's extended fingers.

"Good, then." Baldomer returned swiftly to his earlier, equable manner. He waved a slack hand toward Conan. "We can bring this one into the household as a personal bodyguard; plainly he is a fighter? Splendid! And we can keep him out of sight, or else downplay the resemblance, until he begins standing in for my son. He must learn to stay quiet -that potato-mouthed Cimmerian accent will never pass! And of course we must teach him noble precedence and horsemanship.

"I leave all that, and the clothing and housing of him, to you, Durwald. On second thought, my son's mustache will have to be shorn, since I do not think this stripling could manage to sprout even so much of one in the time remaining!" He shot them all a grave look. "The secret must not travel outside this room. Regardless of the suspicions or rumors that may arise, there is to be no hint or confirmation from any of you." He lowered his face slightly to catch the Cimmerian's noncommittal gaze. "Understood, -boy?"

By leveling his look at Baldomer and nodding calmly, Conan surprised them all. "Aye. And what is to be my pay?"

Baldomer smiled thinly. "Must you trouble me with these petty things? Besides your life and your keep, one gold dram per fortnight should suffice. . . ." He reached into a slack purse on the table beside him, extracted a coin and flipped it to Conan.

Just then a green-velvet curtain parted at the back of the room, exposing a paneled door, and a young nobleman who edged through it a little unsteadily.

He was a large, tall lad, dressed in a silk shirt and a fur kilt lengthy enough to overtop his high, black cavalry boots. A long-bladed, jewel-hilted poniard was belted to his waist. His tousled raven hair and firm-jawed face bespoke Cimmerian blood as well as Einharson lineage, though both effects were weakened by the faint mustache at his lip. He was not unlike Conan in build, although he lacked some of the barbarian's height and more of his musculature. He sauntered in and stood by the table, resting one hand on it as he surveyed the room's occupants; whether he did this for dramatic effect, or to maintain his balance, was not entirely clear.

"Aha, a convocation! Men of responsibility pondering the weighty affairs of state!" The grandiose flourish of his free arm revealed, as did his slurred, flowery speech, that he was near-drowned in drink. "How is it, I wonder, that I was not summoned to this lofty conclave?"

The baron shot him a look of withering distaste. "Favian, when you are old enough to attend the counsels of men, and when you prove it by your honorable behavior, you will be summoned! Not before."

Favian straightened his back and faced up to the rebuke-without, however, relinquishing his grip on the table top. "Not even when the topic is so intimate to my welfare, Father? For I think I know what is being discussed here. Yon creature-" the young lord unsteadily raised his free arm, one finger wavering in Conan's general direction- "that is the one whose soiled breeches I am to hide behind, is it not?" He favored the barbarian with a bilious stare. "That unwashed thug is to usurp my public life! Well, am I right?"

Baldomer's face had gained color during his son's speech, but his voice remained cold. "In short, yes, you are right... at risk of repeating what you have already overheard while spying outside my door."

Favian's head recoiled slightly as from an invisible blow. If the accusation was unjust, apparently it smarted more painfully than a true one.

The baron spoke on: "Yet 'tis not quite so nefarious a scheme as you imagine. I merely intend, during a time of civil unrest, to take extra measures to preserve the safety of our line. None of your important functions will be interfered with"-Baldomer glanced among the other men-"none of your pleasures, that is." He paused to share a smile with the wary listeners at the lordling's expense. "Only in circumstances wherein you would be exposed to unnecessary danger will a substitution be made. On the coming tour, for example, I shall have you lads trade places in the traveling column. You might learn something from riding with common soldiers, Favian, while the barbarian . . . can better cope with an attack."

"Well, that serves me nobly indeed!" Favian pushed himself away from the table, reeling, and moved forward. "For a baron's son to be thus coddled, and smuggled all about the province while a jumped-up jailsnipe enjoys his rightful fame!" He staggered dangerously and caught himself. "I tell you, Father, 'tis a dire insult!" The baron extended a restraining hand, but his son lurched past him toward Conan. "I can acquit myself better than any flint-axed savage! Just watch me!"

With this, Favian swung a clumsy fist at the huskier youth's head; meanwhile, as Conan instantly saw, he threw himself off balance and left no provision for his defense. The Cimmerian seized Favian's arm with a single motion of his own, turned him aside and propelled him away. The aristocrat struck the side of a chair heavily and sprawled against it. He leaned there helplessly, clutching for the poniard at his belt but unable to find it.

At the moment of the encounter, Swinn, Durwald and Svoretta had unsheathed their weapons. Now they converged on Conan-who awaited them, crouching, ready to snatch up a heavy stool close at hand. But once again the baron intervened.

"Hold! Let him go. My son is deep in his cups and less than discreet, as always. The northerner was only defending himself, as he is paid to do. Sheathe your blades."

Svoretta scowled. "Milord! Would you let scum like this believe he can strike a Nemedian noble with impunity?"

"Nay! 'Tis all right, I said!" The baron shook his iron-gray locks. "I grow tired, and our business is settled. Spymaster, see my son to his quarters. Durwald, take charge of the new man. A fair rest to you all."

"Good night, my liege," his retainers echoed.

Baron Baldomer turned, crossed the room and made his exit through the curtained door.

But it was Durwald, not Svoretta, who was then busied for a moment calming and expostulating with the drunken Favian. While he did so, the chief of espionage went to Conan, clutching the hilt of his sheathed dirk, with Swinn standing ready close by. The stocky spy-chief grimaced meanly, bringing his face so near the youth's that the two almost collided.

"And so, barbarian! Doubtless you think yourself fortunate to be the newest foible of his lordship's -nobly indulged and vaulted up above your superiors, even while still fresh, or rather ripe"-here Svoretta made his sneer even uglier, to suggest an ill odor-"from the prison pen!" He glowered at Conan, letting his pockmarked features creep into a stare of undisguised hatred.

"Well, I warn you . . . fancies and playthings come and go in the Manse, sometimes overnight! But one thing has endured in this barony ..." he hissed out the last words in a whisper inaudible to anyone but Conan . .. "and that is my influence! And if I hear that you have grown arrogant, pressed your luck too far or taken one single advantage of your flukish position here, it will go even harder for you in the end. Harken to that!"

Svoretta fell silent, staring into the barbarian's face. Once, and once only, his shoulder twitched as if he meant to strike the younger man. But he held back the blow, perhaps because of the utter silence and stillness with which Conan returned his stare. Finally he uttered a foul curse and turned on his heel.

CHAPTER 3

The Schooling

The sun, from its zenith in the southern sky, burned down into the courtyard. Both its heat and the clatter of horses' hooves were magnified, trapped between the sheer side of the Manse and the high curtain wall. The steeds were well lathered after a morning's workout, and Conan's saddle-bow was coated with dust -as, he would have sworn, were his parched, thirsty lips.

"A little better, barbarian. You may yet learn to sit atop a horse." Durwald's voice was bored and slack, yet he waited upright in his saddle with no sign of fatigue. "See here, you needn't crouch and hunker so, nor lean so far on the turns. We Nemedian cavalrymen have a saying: 'Sit tall, and let the serfs and horses do the work.'" He laughed, stroking his mustache between two fingers. "With all that reaching and straining you would never pass for a Nemedian farmer, let alone an aristocrat!"

"In southerly lands they say that working with the horse saves its strength and speed," Conan grumbled in reply. "Besides, this saddle is infernally thick, and the stirrups are set too low."

"You will find the fixed stirrups useful if ever you have to swing a heavy weapon from the saddle." Durwald reined in his whickering steed at a stone drinking trough. "But enough for today; at least you begin to earn your calluses. Now for our midday meal!" He swung down smoothly from his mount. "Your weapon training will take place here this afternoon, under the fencing-master, Eubold. Trust him to put you through your paces."

Conan winced and guardedly let himself down the side of the horse. He imitated the other man by tying his reins to one of the rings set in the stone wall. Then he started across the dusty yard, walking stiffly from his previous day's beating, and the further punishment his weary thews had taken in the unaccustomed saddle. He could feel the sun scorching the back of his neck where his mane of hair had been shorn off.

"Where are you going, Cimmerian?" Durwald stopped short, turning to face him.

"Eh? To lunch."

"You dine in the servants' quarters, off the kitchen, lad." The marshal jerked his head toward the Manse's rear double doors. "Barbarous as you are . . ." he laughed and wheeled away . . . "you are not near savage enough for the officers' mess!"

Muttering a curse, Conan changed direction and headed for the broad doors on the balustraded porch.

Passing through them was like entering a dark cave; the sun's hot weight was lifted from his shoulders and he felt instantly and refreshingly cool. Yet from an archway at one side of the entry came another wave of heat and an infernal flicker: the fires of the huge kitchen hearth, crowded with steaming copper vats. Smoke meandered overhead among hanging sausages, hams and braids of onion and garlic, until it found its way out of a sooty hole at the ceiling's center. The room was rich with odors to tempt a hungry man's stomach, as well as some to turn it.

"Foraging for your lunch, barbarian?"

Of several heads bent over wooden worktables, the only one raised toward Conan was that of a curly haired young woman, a Nemedian farm girl of medium height and comely appearance. The lushness of her shape was shown off by a girdle of bright yarns laced around her narrow waist, joining her flimsy white blouse and knee-length skirt. She glanced at Conan appraisingly-with eyes that had been artfully shadowed, probably by means of chimney soot.

"You come too late, you know. Most of the food is already sent upstairs, or gobbled down here." She flashed him a defiant look, then shrugged uncaringly. "But all right, go in and sit. I'll see what I can scrape up for you." Suddenly she laughed, gaily enough to draw glances from her workmates. "You look like a fierce one indeed, with strange, barbarous appetites. I wouldn't want you carving up one of my haunches to gnaw on!" She turned with a toss of a shapely hip and busied herself at another table.

Conan passed on through the kitchen. The adjacent room was gloomy, lit by a single barred window-slit high in the wall. A long wooden table and rude benches stood in the center, and two sides of the room were lined with narrow, curtained sleeping-closets separated by wooden partitions. The one at the further end, alongside the cold stone wall, had been assigned to Conan late the previous night.

Ah well. No matter the chill, since this land was so much hotter in this season than his native Cimmeria in any season. He did not intend to stay in Dinander for the winter, in any case; mayhap not even for the night. Slowly, tenderly, he lowered his saddle-drubbed hindquarters onto the bench.

In a few moments the serving-wench appeared. She carried a wide wooden platter of food close against her belly, swaying her hips and shoulders gracefully on the approach. Conan's eyes were drawn up from the trencher's ample contents to the equally ample stresses and curves of her embroidered blouse. As she deposited her burden before him, thumping down an earthenware flagon of purple wine to one side of it, she leaned low enough to give him an even better perspective on her charms.

"There, barbarian! I hope that will be enough to stave off your northern appetites. If not"-she laughed good-naturedly-"give me some warning before you attack the horses with a meat knife, and I will look for more food in the pantry!"

"Ugh." Conan tossed a red-hot turnip into his mouth to crunch as he commenced tearing apart a thick loaf of black bread. "I could not stand to eat a horse, not after having been jounced about on one all morning!"

The maiden laughed, not loudly this time but sweetly. "What is your name, outlander?" After a glance at the curtained archway leading to the kitchen, she eased her round, wool-skirted thigh onto the end of the table. "Mine is Ludya."

"I am Conan," he said, barely audible through a mouthful of bread.

"You are ... a Cimmerian, is that right?" She rolled her eyes. "When I was a girl, I was not even sure Cimmeria really existed. We were told the wildest stories about ittales of ogres, cannibals, draken and even stranger things!" With a little shiver she folded her bare arms across her girdle. "It sounded like a dreadful place."

"There is no truth in that." Conan took a deep pull from his wine-jack. "The teller must have confused my land with Asgard and Vanaheim to the north, where such terrors abound."

"Oh." Ludya's eyes widened a little as she considered this. "Well, when I came to the city I learned that the Baron Baldomer, in his youth, brought back a Cimmerian bride from his northern campaigns-the Lady Heldra. I never saw her, but they say she was beautiful and kind." Her gaze drifted away thoughtfully for a moment, then returned to Conan. "So now the northern lands are much better regarded here. The people remember Heldra fondly, they honor her daughter, Calissa, and have even grown accustomed to the prospect of being ruled someday by her boychild, Favian. You look very like him, by the way." This she said with an appreciative flash in her glance.

"Hmm." Conan met her gaze, then chewed thoughtfully. "He is no relation to me though, and I have not heard of his mother, Heldra. Mayhap the daughter of an eastern chief, or else she was a far-roving warrior-girl."

Ludya sighed. "The thought of a mere barbar wench becoming baroness. . . ."? Her brown eyes glistened. "It proves that a comely female can rise high in the world, though a man be bound by his family's station." She paused, plainly bethinking herself of Conan, and added quickly, "Excepting you, of course. You have done well, to become a guard in a noble household."

Conan busied himself with his meal, not looking up. "And what became of Lady Heldra?"

"Oh, she died." Ludya's gaze sank to the floor.

"She did? How?"

"She was murdered, poisoned by a tainted venison pie. The bane was meant for her husband, 'tis said." Ludya shook her head sadly. "There is so much of that here-murders, revolts and so forth. But Lady Heldra's death was at the start of all the troubles."

Becoming aware of a sudden absence of eating sounds, Ludya looked over at Conan. He was poking with his wooden spoon through the dainties left on his plate, which included a baked tart of uncertain composition.

He looked up at her. "Poisoning is the custom here, you said?"

"Oh, no-Conan, I'm sorry!" She was contrite. "I shouldn't have told you that. I prepared all these things myself. Here, I'll taste everything, as I do when I serve the nobles, to prove that it's safe."

She leaned down, picked up a piece of cheese and bit off most of it, replacing a small remnant on the salver. Then she broke off a dripping hunk of the pie and scooped it toward her mouth.

At this Conan's doubtful look turned to one of amusement. Ludya noticed and, swallowing, arched her eyebrows at him. "Mmm. Spicy! Mind if I wash it down?" Leaning on one elbow, she reached close in front of him and bore his wine-flagon to her lips.

"Here now, that's enough!" Laughing, Conan wrapped a large hand around her wrist, drawing arm and cup away from her face. "You can stop now. I am convinced!"

Ludya laughed too, looking into Conan's eyes. A drop of wine was rolling from her lower lip and she caught it up with her quick pink tongue. It occurred to the northerner that her whole lush body was spread before him on the trencher-board like a magnificent dessert. For a moment her face lingered before his, edging closer. Then his mouth was tasting hers. His hands clasped her waist and pulled her against him; in a moment the ravaged food platter was shoved aside and they were nuzzling together in a tight embrace.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen arch a bell clanked flatly, once, then twice. Ludya stirred, but Conan grasped her closer, seeking her mouth hungrily. She whimpered and twisted in his arms. Then suddenly she was struggling violently against him. She gave an inarticulate cry, and shoving her body free of his, cuffed him hard across the mouth.

Astonished, he let her go.

"Stupid barbarian!" Her face was flushed with rage. "They rang for me! Do you want to get me flogged?" She rubbed her mouth with the back of one hand, tossed her hair to straighten it and turned away toward the kitchen. She was still patting her clothing straight as she pushed past a scrawny tow-haired boy who stood in the archway; he gave Conan a knowing, impertinent look, then came forward to clear the table.

An instant later the boy dodged nimbly to one side as the grim-faced northerner strode out of the room, his thoughts in a turmoil. The little vixen, how dare she use him so! And yet, he told himself, perhaps he had been too forward; who could know all the unaccountable local ways? Crom's curse on these Hyborians and the madness they called civilization!

The day's heat smote him again as he entered the yard. He scuffed across the dirt, a tempest roiling in his breast. Just ahead, in the shade of the smithy porch, waited a hulking man decked in gray-metal greaves, chain kilt, and cuirass, holding a battered helmet under one arm. His face had the fleshy, slack appearance of a strong warrior gone to seed.

Eubold, the fencing-master, no doubt, Conan thought. He was chatting with a shorter, thick-set man, barely visible in the shadows. As the second man turned and departed hurriedly toward the gate, Conan recognized him as Svoretta.

Scowling, Eubold watched Conan approach. "Well, barbarian, 'tis about time! You will learn not to keep your superior officers waiting, if only at the cost of some of that thick northern hide." The fencing-master's ill-shaven, leathery face creased further in distaste. "Tell me, have you ever swung a sword before?"

Conan gazed on the man sullenly. "I carried a broadsword at the sack of Venarium several winters agone."

"Hm. The northern broadsword-a clumsy affair. All edge since the weapon is far too heavy to bring the point into play. You might as well swing a hatchet!" He started away across the yard. "Frankly, I regret my orders to teach the use of a more advanced weapon to a savage like yourself. But come along, you may learn something-at least some respect."

The sun was slanting once more into the yard, this time from the west, as Conan struck and hacked at the exercise dummy: a cowhide bag stuffed with hay, hung torso-high from a wooden post. His exertions had fallen into a steady, rhythmic pace, and this, apparently, was the source of much irritation to the fencing-master, who sat yelling orders from a stool propped against the Manse's shaded wall.

"Faster! Not like that, boy. Put some liveliness into it. That's a saber you're holding, not an oak cudgel!" His voice, Conan thought, had the sour croak likely born when the first infant drill officer, still wet from his mother's womb, commenced his foul ranting. "The secret of a blade like that is in its lightness, its quick recovery. You can lunge with it. Use the point -no need to dawdle about like a lead-footed ox!"

That Conan's strokes moved regularly through every aspect of a circle, and that the tough, slack rawhide was deeply slashed, its straw entrails strewn over half the yard, were facts the instructor chose to ignore. The youth, his upper body unclothed and his hair pasted to his forehead by sweat, continued striking deliberately. If he made any change in reply to the sergeant's railing, it was to slow his pace.

"And when you must hack and slash, remember to follow through with all your might. The curvature of that blade will let you take off a limb with one stroke, but only if you draw it through the wound without losing power." Eubold carved air enthusiastically with the side of his hand. "The sawing motion is what does the deep cutting!

"Of course you can learn little by hacking at a straw dummy. Even strung-up human carcasses won't do-too limp, no resistance. There can be no substitute for a live, moving target." Eubold's voice grew round and expansive, as if he elaborated his argument to a larger, unseen audience. "A man is nothing but a fragile tower of muscle and tendon, boy, a mere balloon of blood! When that frail tent of blood and muscle is upright and stressed, in motion against you, a sword can do miracles to it-shear it right in half if the bladesman is strong and clever!" The fencing-master folded his arms and continued musing aloud, leaning back and scarcely following his student's motions. "With any luck, the baron will order up some live captives for us* to work with later -mutinous serfs, or young malcontents from the Temple School. That would be fine!

"But what now, barbarian? Are you still plodding along? No, no, that's not good enough. Again, there, and harder! Fah!" The tutor spat in disgust between his spraddled legs. "Curse you, northerner, you have paid no heed to me. This will never do." Abruptly he stood, kicking his stool aside. "We must have at it, then. 'Tis the only way you will ever learn." He strode forward, buckling the chin strap of his helmet and drawing on long leather gauntlets from his belt.

"A match?" Conan faced him, his blade slanting down loosely at his side. "Well enough! Where is my armor?"

"Your armor?" Eubold barked out a laugh. "True, you might be in need of some, to keep from sawing off your own foot. Otherwise, fear not. You will be in no danger unless I mean you to be." The fencing-master's sword leaped from its scabbard with a metallic hiss.

"Now then, this is the Nemedian saber, cavalry issue-a weapon that can stand against any Hyborian blade." He flicked the thin, slightly recurved edge in front of him, forth and back, while Conan raised his own saber on the defensive. "Thus armed, our troops might easily invest your homeland, Cimmerian-had we a sudden craving for frostbite and snow-lemming stew!" His laugh was drolly contemptuous. "Now first, when you slash, do it on the move, like this - hyaaa!"

With a grating cry the fencing-master launched himself forward, saber whizzing at a flat angle. Conan had to duck and sidestep quickly, his own blade screening his head.

"Now the backhand, thus!" The tutor stopped to pivot from the waist, his sword lashing out, and Conan was forced to retreat another step.

"'Tis clear that even a stumblekin like yourself can waltz away from my slashes all day. Hence the value of... the point!" An acrobatic lunge sent the fencing-master's blade spearing toward Conan. The only possible response was body right, blade left -and the two swords clashed together where the youth's midsection had been.

"Ah, there you see where tardiness could easily cost you your life! Now more slashes . . . thus, and thus, and thus!" Eubold seemed to be growing slightly winded from the combined effort of fencing and talking; gradually he fell silent. Yet his saber-strokes continued relentlessly.

Conan, after a night and day of exertion finding himself half-naked against an armored man, was saved from the kiss of the lashing blade only by his inbred, feral quickness. He leaped and dodged agilely; nevertheless the grating clash of steel rang out almost continuously. He was forced more and more to rely on steel rather than swiftness to ward off Eubold's blade.

To the farrier and stable-hands who silently gathered to watch, the fight had no seeming of play or practice. The fencing-master might decide to soften any of his lethal strokes by using the flat of his sword, but there was no guarantee of it until the last vital instant. The student had no such option; his only course, if he did not care to stake his life on trust, was to kill his armored adversary.

The Cimmerian knew it better than the watchers did, and scarcely felt inclined to trust his foe. Well he recalled seeing Eubold chatting with his sworn enemy, Svoretta, before the start of the lesson.

At length Conan appeared to be weakening; for the first time, his blade lingered too low an instant too long. The panting Eubold saw the opening and struck. All his preaching of elegant swordsmanship forgotten, he dashed his saber down in a vicious, whistling slash straight at his pupil's neck.

Simultaneously Conan recovered his balance, and with a move that showed either subtle readiness or superhuman quickness, he drove his own steel up against Eubold's in a violent parry. An ear-stabbing clang sounded. Steel flashed brightly as both blades broke off near the hilt and went spinning away through the air.

After a moment's amazed silence, Eubold's voice bellowed hoarsely once again: "Why, you oaf! Those etched blades were worth ten of you!" The fencing-master let fly his broken hilt, sending it hurtling close past Conan's unprotected ear.

In a flash the youth was upon him, grasping the brow of his helm with one hand so that the thick, leathery neck was jerked back. With the heavy hilt clenched in his other fist, he belabored his tutor savagely about the chin and face.

By the time the onlookers dragged Conan off, Eubold was subdued.

Durwald came to take charge, ordering two men to haul the fencing-master away. In response to the officer's questions, the watchers spoke volubly of the fight. Their accounts to the marshal were confused, but by then their hands rested on Conan's shoulders more in congratulation than in restraint. Durwald gave the Cimmerian a sharp rebuke, with no decree of any real punishment, and dismissed him.

After a bath from a cold bucket, Conan went back to the bustling servants' quarters. He shared supper with the other household minions, whose names he did not yet know. They were mindful of his newness and his recent fight, and their mealtime banter was strained, with only rare sallies at the outlander's expense. More than once that evening Conan heard whispers exchanged that ceased abruptly at his glance.

When most of the staff had retired, he arose from the bench and moved toward his own bed, but was stopped by a touch that fell silently on his arm from behind. A slim, feminine hand: Ludya's.

He turned to gaze on her face, upturned and dim-lit by the guttering candles. She was dressed in a scanty beaded costume, probably donned for her service at the baron's table. Conan started to step back, but her hand detained him. Wordlessly, still gazing into his eyes, she pulled her body up to his and ground her hips against him. He responded, seizing her in a savage embrace. After a few moments she led him to her sleeping-stall, where she received him passionately.

CHAPTER 4

The Shrine in the Crypt

"The basis of the science of noble precedence is the constant awareness of rank." Lothian, the baron's senior counselor and minister of protocol, inclined his gray old head as if afraid to look directly at his student. "Rank must be the first and predominant instinct in every member of the modern state, from the king on down to the lowliest. . . er, retainer." He stroked his carefully curled beard in a preoccupied way.

"Whether I can explain it adequately to a mere barb ..." his gaze, flicked nervously at last to the watchful steel-blue eyes of the youth who lounged on the broad divan opposite him. "That is, I cannot be sure that a foreigner like yourself, accustomed to the, shall we say, informal and diffuse style of government that prevails in a relatively, uh, primitive land, will be able to grasp this all-important concept...."

Unsure of how to proceed, the counselor looked to the table at his side and at the red-scriven scroll outspread there. Together, the broad polished plank and the low divan almost filled the narrow room. They were blazoned by a strip of morning sunlight from a vertical arrow-slit in the wall, formerly a generous window but now filled in with masonry on either side to improve its defensive function.

"We have chiefs in Cimmeria too." Conan shifted, restless in his sprawling posture, feeling half-buried by the deep cushions of the divan. "That is nothing remarkable; as long as they lead us well, they remain chiefs."

"Ah, there is the difference!" Gaining confidence, Lothian leaned forward on his wooden stool. "In Nemedia, as in all Hyborian kingdoms, the blooded nobleman must lead well. He does so by definition, out of his own innate superiority." The elder spread his thin hands apart, their pale, papery palms upward, to show the simplicity of it all. "He never, obviously, can rule less than well. Therefore he always enhances his power and rank."

Seeing Conan's brow, furrow at what should have been a self-evident proposition, the counselor shrugged resignedly. "If your homeland lacks such a concept, it is because your social organization has yet to develop sufficiently. Clearly, the upper level of your . . . native society has not risen to such heights of leadership."

"Nay, nor the lowest sunk to such depths of wretchedness." Conan nodded guilelessly to the counselor. "Having squatted three days in a Nemedian jail, I can affirm that!"

Lothian frowned. Rolling the two ivory handles on the table before him, he advanced his red-figured scroll with a rustling of parchment. If his inmost thoughts be known, the sage counselor found his appointed task nerve-wracking and distasteful. The role of tutor to a savage was an annoying one, a ludicrous reversal of the established order. Especially tutor to this rough fellow, with his imposing physical aspect and his reputation for brutalizing his teachers. Lothian's eyes flicked uneasily to the door of the chamber-left slightly ajar, thank the gods! He turned back to his pupil and spoke again, taking refuge in pedagogic cant.

"During the coming days we shall review the various aspects of noble precedence: chains of command, processional order, heraldry and rules of household. Much of this is common knowledge to the average Nemedian, you understand. These studies form the crowning wisdom of our modern science; more to the point, they are indispensable to you for security purposes, in your role as a baronial bodyguard." Lothian glanced up at Conan with curiosity glinting in his gray old eyes. "That is to be your function, is it not?"

"Aye." The Cimmerian returned the minister of protocol's gaze evenly.

"I ask only because it is a rather unusual rank. All the levels of nobility have their customary complement of guards and retainers, of course, but this employment puts you somewhat outside the ordinary scheme." Lothian lifted his eyes as if to question the matter further, then dismissed it with a shrug. Instead, he launched once again into the familiar harangue.

"The functioning of the whole empire centers about the king; it works for his protection and empowerment. Of course the monarch is almost never seen in a remote principality such as this. Nevertheless his spies abound, and his power remains absolute even here. We must be ever mindful of him, if only to offset the natural tendency of local authority to trespass on kingly office."

Oman's wandering gaze settled on his teacher. "You mean, the barons and Laslo don't get along?"

Lothian cleared his throat. "Well, there is a natural sort of tension, but one that works for the ultimate good of the kingdom. After all, no serf or subject can give his whole heart's devotion to the local ruler-the stern taskmaster who must personally oversee policing, tax collection, military conscription and so forth. There is unavoidable friction and resentment there. 'Tis far easier for the people to love the leader who rules from afar amidst fabled splendor, in glamorous Belverus.

"Therefore King Laslo is the common people's figurehead and champion. Occasionally he even caters to them by sending down an edict limiting the power of the nobles in some trifling way. Meanwhile, of course, the barons strive to increase their local autonomy. They band together to strengthen their voice at court, instead of warring against one another to enlarge their domains, as they would do in the king's absence." He smiled and inclined his head philosophically. "The system has functioned in recent years to make Nemedia a wealthy, stable empire."

Conan shifted his body in the yielding sea of cushions, trying through habit, and vainly, to get his feet beneath him. "Until the barons decide to rid themselves of the king. Or vice versa."

Lothian shook his head impatiently. "That is hardly likely; their shared reverence for noble blood and royal prerogative is too strong a bond." His silver-thatched brow knit slightly. "And yet there is danger from another quarter. By subversion, and by misrepresentation of the king's interest in local affairs-and, yes, with some energy rebounding from the, uh, decidedly firm stance taken by Baron Baldomer on civil discipline-a rebel movement has arisen against the baron's rule. You may have heard of it during your recent. . . detention?" The counselor's glance at Conan had an air of strained casualness.

Conan shrugged. "I knew that something was afoot, but I heard little of it. Most of the political criminals were kept below, in the torture-rooms. By the time they were brought to my cell, they were in no state to give fiery speeches."

"Yes." Lothian nodded to himself thoughtfully. "The revolutionary fervor is not truly abroad in the populace; a few incautious, half-mad troublemakers never pose a real threat. To hear Counselor Svoretta talk, every poacher is a rebel forager, every tavern-gossip a slinking propagandist. Dangerous prophecies to be whispered in the ear of a suspicious baron! Ah well!" The sage waved away his annoyance with a frail white hand, absorbed for the moment in thought.

Then, hearing a servant rattling crockery in the hall outside, the old man silently reminded himself of the need for discretion. Spymaster Svoretta's eyes and ears were posted everywhere, after all. He now glanced to the partly open door with a sensation of regret.

"In any case," he resumed, "the rebels seem to believe that if they throw off what they regard as a tyranny, they can somehow curry favor with King Laslo and be granted control of Dinander." He shrugged righteously. "Drivel, of course; nothing would have the Imperial Army down on us faster. But 'tis dangerous drivel if it weakens the people's belief in the men of Einharson and their supernatural warranties."

Conan propped himself up with an elbow against the carved wooden grapevines of the sofa's arm. "It is true, then, that the Einharsons claim some sorcerous title to their rule? I heard Baldomer say aught of it."

Lothian shrugged ever so slightly, with a glance to the doorway. "There are stories, yes. Whether they have a kernel of truth or are mere superstitions exploited by the family, it scarcely matters." The sage looked levelly at Conan. "If I were the baron, I would not rely too heavily on such beliefs to secure my rank. Adroit policy is more important."

"Aye . . . and a swift sword-arm." Conan clapped a hand on his own bicep to massage some of the recent kinks from it.

His tutor shot him a sudden, impatient look from under snowy brows. "Wrong, my child. A sword too swift will bring a man to ruin faster than anything else." He shook his ruffled locks, glancing disapprovingly at Conan's powerful body. "Better that some thought and wealth were given to learning and addressing the needs of the inhabitants of this barony, rather than to the hiring of additional sword-arms!"

Lothian turned back to his scroll with new energy. Perhaps this task would be tolerable after all; the young outlander seemed fairly tame and not entirely an inept pupil. He cleared his throat. "Now then. In street processions, the royal entourage will be headed by an honor guard of at least seven men, or if on horseback, by at least five. When a favored baron or knight accompanies the king, his own guards will nevertheless yield precedence. ..."

As the sage counselor droned on, Conan lay in the creeping ribbon of sunlight and thought of Ludya. The cushioned divan beneath him had some of the marvelous softness of her skin, though it lacked her smooth silkiness. The prospect of further trysting with her was enough to dull his restless yearning for escape. Why not bide here in the Manse a while longer and restore his strength?

Yet it was important to be watchful and to spy out the devious workings of the place. Ludya herself was the best means to that, a simple, spirited girl after his own heart, yet well-placed and full of knowledge of the court. And, ah, the loving ways of these southern lasses! He settled back deep into the upholstery, lulled by memories of her caresses. His mind grazed warmly in remote, sunlit pastures.

Suddenly a harsher touch prodded him, and he jerked instantly awake. His hand shot out to intercept the one that menaced him, even before his blurred eyesight could focus on his looming foe.

Blinking, he saw that the hand in his grasp held nothing more deadly than a plumed writing quill. He glanced up to the startled, pained face leaning over him, that of Lothian, the scholar. Gingerly Conan relinquished his grip on the thin old wrist lest the birdlike bones snap in his clutch. He hauled himself upright in the clumsy seat, slightly abashed.

The sage counselor backed away, rubbing his chafed limb and gathering his flustered dignity about him. "As I thought, napping in class! Well, young ruffian, be assured that tomorrow I shall test you thoroughly. Then we shall repeat however much of today's lesson you slept through." He waved his unimpaired hand sharply in the air. "Now, off with you! Go!"

Conan left the tutor massaging his wrist, and headed for the lower precincts of the Manse. While treading the worn spiral steps, he pondered. In spite of its lack of bodily strains and bruises, Lothian's teaching would be the hardest of all his duties to face. What a sledge-load of manure!

His weapon training, by contrast, had grown routine, even interesting, since being taken over by Durwald. And his horse pacing was tolerable under the lax supervision of Arga, the farrier. After the perils of the first days, Conan was beginning to feel more at ease among these Nemedians, vain as they were of their petty local crotchets and customs. It might do to linger here at the Manse, but not without a ready escape route and some material provision for his survival. He glanced carefully through the arch before entering the ground-floor corridor. He assumed that his movements around the place were watched.

Going to the kitchen, he did his share in helping to lay out the servants' dinner, then did more than his share in consuming it. The other menials had grown to accept him, even to like him. This was especially true of Velda, the fat, bawdy chief cook; the sly tow-headed boy, Glin; and Lokey, the half-witted kitchen hand whose forehead was still flat on one side from a mule kick received in childhood.

Conan's preemptive appetite posed no threat to any of them since food was ever-plentiful in the lower reaches of the house, as it was wasted royally by the nobles above. And in these gatherings, Ludya's familiarity helped to draw the stolid Cimmerian forth. She teased him merrily during the meal, as usual, and he enthralled the diners with heroic legends and gruesome accounts of northern ogres and trolls.

Later, when all were abed-and after a brief, restless wait in his own sleeping-closet for discretion's sake-Conan went to Ludya's side. They embraced, and conversed in whispers while lying close together, and embraced again. Ludya confided her fondest ambitions to him.

"Even in class-bound Nemedia, Conan, it happens from time to time that a girl of lowly station is favored by a man of position and taken by him to wife. Here, unlike some of the southern kingdoms where queens and priestesses hold sway, rank accrues only to the male. But a woman, if she is both beautiful and strong in spirit, can rise greatly. Like the Lady Heldra." Ludya's voice was a sighing warmth in Conan's ear.

"Great good fortune," he murmured back, "as long as one doesn't end as she did, with poison in her craw or a dagger in her back!"

"I serve the baron's table, Conan, and of late I have felt the young Lord Favian's eyes on me. He is an impulsive fellow, and yet he nears marrying age."

Conan's voice rumbled in the narrow bunk. "I would warn you against Favian. He is an intemperate chap, and violent in his cups."

"Not like you in the least, is he, Conan?" Ludya teased. "But truly, nobles must not be judged by the same mete as ordinary men. Rank and responsibility weigh heavily on them and impel them to excess. Favian merely bridles under his father's strictness, as any son would."

"Now there is a thought! If you want to rise in the world, why not catch the watery eye of the old man himself? Go straight to the top, marry the baron and make yourself Favian's mother!" Conan's husky whisper managed to convey a cynical distaste.

"Oh no, Conan! 'Tis a well-known state secret that Baldomer has no use for women." Ludya's voice shifted from protest back to confidentiality. "In the last Brythunian border war, just before Favian was born, he sustained two grave wounds: the one to his face and another lower down, here!" Ludya's hand moved expressively beneath the bedclothes. "'Tis a dangerous custom, the wearing of kilts by Nemedian nobles. He was sorely impaired; that is why he so cherishes Favian as the last Einharson heir.

"But I know you were jesting. Really, Conan, how could you suggest such a thing? Me seduce the baron, indeed!" She laid a hand on her bedmate's cheek in a mock slap. "Baldomer is mad and old, and not nearly so good-looking as Favian." She pecked a kiss on Conan's cheek. "Why, Favian is just as beautiful as you are ... maybe even handsomer. I can't make up my mind!"

Late that night, groggy with sleep and ebbed tides of pleasure, Conan raised himself from the warmth of Ludya's bed. He crawled to the end of the stall and drew on his clothes quietly to avoid waking her. He peered through the drapery, then went silent into the dim moonlit common-room.

His destination was not the burlap and hay of his own pallet. For that he would not willingly have abandoned the Nemedian girl's linen and soft furs, nor the fragrant warmth of her body.

He padded to the kitchen archway and felt his way cautiously through the room beyond, lit by the faint red glow of banked cook fires. An almost imperceptible fringe of light outlined the half-open door to the corridor; when Conan edged up to the opening and eased his head through, he saw the night sentry standing against the wall beside the Manse's rear entry.

The guard was a veteran in full uniform, including steel helmet and breastplate. Burdened so uncomfortably, he would not stand motionless for long Conan knew. He stepped back inside the kitchen and waited.

Indeed, in a little while he heard the scuff of leather soles in the corridor. They passed the kitchen, turned around and passed it again. Conan chose that moment to steal into the passage. Before the guard ended his circuit and turned back to face the corridor, the youth had flitted behind him through another archway.

The Cimmerian made his way slowly and noiselessly through pitch-black storerooms, using skills honed in night-stalking panther and minx through northern woods. Now he employed these talents in pursuit of a more fabled reward: the vast treasure that all castles harbored and all barons hoarded. Legendry told him it was so; he believed unquestioningly, and the promise of claiming his share of it made him bear all the vexations of the place.

Another hope was to find some escape route that might prove safer, when at length he needed it, than a desperate dash through the open palace gates by daylight. Although he had found no hint of such a route yet, a previous night's wanderings had taken him to the highest roof of the Manse, to an aerie above the very helmets of the pacing sentries. There he had breathed the heady airs of summer night, smelled the perfume of blooming jasmine, and gazed out over the slate and thatch of the town roofs to the moonlit band of river. Close beneath him, he had seen how tightly secured and well-patrolled was the baron's keep during the dark hours. Still, there would be a way.

The once-glimpsed stair, which Conan now found by touch, ascended toward an unexplored quarter of the Manse. But as he started up the narrow steps, he heard the scrape of a door at the top. A crease of light appeared and widened, sending forth yellow rays to pierce the dusty expanse of the storeroom; Conan ghosted off to take refuge behind a bale of coarse cloth.

The source of the light proved to be tapers of crimson wax, set in two of the three sockets of a gleaming silver candelabrum. As the wavering rays descended toward Conan, he was forced to crouch low out of sight. But the scuff of feet on the steps bespoke the presence of only one person, and so, as the light passed him by, Conan risked a look. The candles' glare illuminated an heroic if worn and war-ravaged profile: Baldomer's.

After the baron's passing, Conan glanced up to see that the door was shut. Then, moving silently and lurking among the shifting shadows thrown back by the swaying double flame, he followed. The Cimmerian felt intense curiosity over Baldomer's presence in the castle's nether rooms at this eerie hour. The nobleman's garb was strange for the excursion, consisting of a long, pale nightshirt, his leather kilt belted over it, and upon his breast a heavy, gleaming amulet in the form of a star, with six dagger-pointed blades.

The night-walker moved on steadily, as if sure of his purpose; yet Conan wondered that he seemed to be heading for the blank end of the vast, vaulted storeroom. No passage was visible in the wavering light. Was Baldomer going to visit a treasure-hoard secreted inside one of these dusty bales or kegs, or mayhap beneath the heavy flags of the cellar floor?

Walking straight to the back wall of the chamber, the baron set down his candelabrum on a crate at one side; then he laid his hands on a cobwebbed wooden loom across which a dusty, half-finished tapestry stretched like the sagging web of a titanic spider. Leaning and straining, the nobleman shoved the heavy frame aside to reveal a breach in the wall beyond a low, dark archway barred by a metal grating.

Without working any lock or bolt that Conan could see, Baldomer grasped the metal crossbar and pulled; as the grating swung open, it sent a rusty, rasping groan echoing through the dim emptiness. The baron picked up his candlestick and stooped to enter the cramped tunnel, the light sinking and dwindling immediately. It was almost out of sight when Conan ventured forward to follow.

He nearly tumbled down the steep, uneven steps waiting inside the archway, but he caught himself by wedging his palms between the narrow walls. He descended swiftly and silently, anxious to overtake the last faint glim of candlelight disappearing beneath.

The level corridor at the bottom was a burial crypt lined with open alcoves. Reflections of retreating candle-flame gleamed against its wet, slimy cobbles, and the joints of the masonry walls were green-bearded with sparkling nitre. Conan feared that the baron might look back at any moment and see him skulking along the straight, narrow passage; fortunately, stone monuments bulked out of the alcoves at intervals, large enough for him to hide behind.

These were the sarcophagi of Dinander's past rulers, Conan surmised. Involuntary contact with the marble casks confirmed the impression gained from the light of the distant candle-beams, that the sides of each one were intricately carved with runes and heraldic symbols. Laid atop each coffin were a rusting sword and suit of mail, probably once the favorite battle-dress of the noble cadaver tucked away inside.

Conan felt uneasy about these relics; he avoided touching them, for he possessed the primitive's dread of tombs and anything that lingers in them. Though some of the armor might be inlaid with silver or gold, this foul grave-trash was scarcely the treasure he sought. Nevertheless, each time the light was raised high in the passage ahead, he found it necessary to shelter behind the coffins and press up close against them.

After a long, tense stalk down the arrow-straight corridor, Conan began to wonder just where beneath the Manse or its grounds he was; the tunnel seemed to extend too far to be a part of the building's foundation. Then he saw an end to the journey, for the will-o'-the-wisp candlestick came to rest. It was deposited atop an especially large, ornate sarcophagus. The box lay transverse across the corridor where it abutted a wall just ahead.

Halting, the baron knelt with a genuflection that was screened by his body and invisible to Conan. Then he reached forward among the armor debris laid on that largest box-lid, taking up what looked like the rust-eaten skeleton of a great longsword. With careful reverence he propped it against the wall behind the sarcophagus. When it was placed thus, its hilt, star-shaped because of its crossed double hand-guard, stood up behind the marble coffin lid like a holy fetish above an altar. It resembled the amulet around Baldomer's neck, Conan realized; indeed, it was probably the model after which the charm was fashioned.

The baron took up the candelabrum and placed it in front of the hilt, so that the star was visible through the vacant center of the silver-branched utensil. The flickering tapers at either side illumined it, their flames playing brightly within the gems still gleaming from the ornate, decaying hilt.

The light in the gloomy passage seemed to grow brighter by virtue of Baldomer's careful placement of the sword. To Conan the weapon seemed inhabited by a radiance of its own; there was something uncanny in the way the flames danced and shimmered on the ancient metal, and for a moment he could not tell whether the sword he gazed on was old or new, corroded or freshly polished. He blinked repeatedly, squinting at the odd illusion.

Baldomer knelt before the tomb as before an altar, folding his kilt beneath his bare knees on the stone. Meanwhile, Conan crept forward for a better view, until he was lurking behind the last sarcophagus short of the candlelit one, mere paces from the baron. He peered over the coffin carefully so as not to disturb the debris atop it; some of the armor in this deeper and older part of the crypt was more intact than was the newer rusted plate. Fashioned of heavy bronze rather than of steel, it was tarnished bright green, but still serviceable.

Baldomer now spoke in a prayerful chant that reverberated along the narrow confine. His utterance was couched in archaic dialect containing obscure hints and allusions, but Conan could follow the gist of the ritualized statement.

"Sacred sword of Einhar! Blade of my father's father's first father, I commend myself and mine unto thy power! Still we sing the storied times when they wielder was king. Still we remember the old days, and honor the old ways. Kin of thine shall never brook the insolent eye, nor the treasonous tongue, nor the hand that moveth sluggishly to obey. All such are the rightful prey of the blades of Einhar's sons!

"O Sword of my father, our rule is by thy license. I pray thee, keep vigilant on our behalf. Watch over our clan; temper our spirits harshly with thine iron strength. Stand thee ready to lead us in the exercise of our noble privilege, carved aforetimes from the bones and blood of men!"

As Baldomer spoke this sanguinary chant, the hallowed sword appeared to blush ever brighter, Conan could now distinctly see candle-flickers playing along a gleaming blade, where before had stood a mere rust-eaten twig. The undeniable evidence of sorcery made him restless, and he glanced nervously over his shoulder to spy for other lurking shapes among the crypt's huddled shadows.

Then a further thought struck him: Baldomer's candles were burning low. The baron must soon finish his observance, and when he did, he must needs make his way back via this same corridor. Even if Conan managed to hide behind a coffin and then follow the noble out, he would reach the catacomb's entrance to find the grating closed and the heavy dross of the storeroom shoved once again in front of it.

The thought of being entombed with the dead of the ages in this magick-ridden crypt made the Cimmerian shudder. Keeping his eye on the kneeling, intoning noble, he crept back along the passage. Once he put a safe distance between himself and the light, he paused to watch the baron halt his utterances and, a moment later, arise and reach between the dwindling candles for his ancestor's sword. Satisfied that the strange religious observance was ending, Conan groped the rest of the way along the passage and at length back through the darkened storerooms to his bed.

But one thing of value he took with him from the crypt: a fragment of knowledge. For as he had lurked in an alcove near the end of that ancient corridor, he found that it contained, in addition to a coffin, a concealed door. Cleverly shaped of stone, the portal filled and sealed the niche almost completely, but not quite; for through the crack beneath it blew a draft, a warmer current invading the dank, noisome air of the tomb.- Putting his face near the floor to sniff it, the northerner had smelled the jasmine-scented breath of summer night.

INTERLUDE

The Plain of Smokes

From the Varakiel a forest of smoke-pillars rose skyward. Through sultry, yellowed daylight a motley army moved, stretching in a ragged line across field and copse, scrambling over hedges and splashing through shallow canals.

Peasants they were, sturdy men and apple-cheeked women in the rude garb of their daily toil. Yet they marched as an army, swinging their threshing flails and hayforks like swords, their faces wearing a hardened warrior's lack of expression. Their home fields and crofts were left far behind, else they danced up in flames with the others gouting fire on either hand.

In places along their line where a cottage or a hayrick was set newly alight, groups of marchers lingered nearby; weapons laid aside, they crouched in waiting circles. As rats, cats and sundry vermin were driven out of hiding by the scorching heat, the waiting ones seized them up and devoured them. In these attacks the pillagers threw off any sign of their humanity; oft-times two or three of them clutched together at the same struggling carcass, rending it alive with eager teeth.

When human refugees were caught, similar struggles ensued, but the feasting was of a different nature. As many as half a dozen of the marchers would fall greedily upon the victim and drag his or her wrists and ankles to their gaping mouths. But instead of tearing and devouring their prey, each captor would bite down once, hard. The victims, after their initial shrieks of agony and fear, would lie stricken on the ground. In time then they would arise, weak and faltering, to shuffle after their attackers. Finally each would take up a weapon, to become a part of the ever-advancing line.

So the campaign proceeded from swamp to plain, from onion field to ox pasture. Through it all, there sounded no drums or trumpets and there galloped no dispatch-riders. Seemingly the conquerors went on of their own accord, with no sign of leadership but one: down a rough dirt path that ran diagonally across the line of mounting smokes, a chariot rumbled.

It was a rude vehicle cut down from an ox-wain, decked with bright metal fittings, gaudy draperies and other petty spoils of the rural campaign. To its heavy poles had been yoked three sturdy farm horses, a brisk and healthy team, though not well matched in size or color.

Inside the rumbling conveyance rode three figures. The driver, a brawny man, wore the leather apron of a smith, with smudges of soot still shining on his thick arms and unshaven jaw; the fellow beside him was blackly bearded and also burly, a swamp-dwelling trapper judging by the rich and somewhat unripe appearance of the animal furs in which he was decked from neck to toe. These two stood in the front of the chariot, wordless and expressionless, stiffly balancing the weight of their bodies above the jolting axle.

The third passenger lay at leisure on a bed of cushions behind them, his weight so slight as to be ignored by the laboring team. For he was a mere boy, though he reclined in a plundered shawl of gold-embroidered purple, and wore on his brow a gold chaplet arrogating to royal rank. It was none other than the swamp-child, Lar, arisen from his sickbed and clearly exalted to some strange rulership. Of all those who stalked the plain under his command that day, his was the only face that wore what could be recognized as a distinctly human emotion, and that an incongruous one: he gazed over the whole scene with a look of imperious boredom.

As the charioteers rolled past peasant troopers who strode the fields, there was no exchange of signs or hails, nor even a glance of shared recognition. Both went their own way in cold, mindless efficiency. The chariot splashed across a shallow stream and followed the dwindling track into a brushy copse of elms and laurels. As the woods crowded closer and darker, the path grew fainter. The team finally scuffed to a halt before a hut of moss-green stone.

Marchers had already found and entered the place, as evidenced by its broken door and by the flames that gnawed tentatively at one corner of its mossy thatch. The burly guards stepped out over the sides of the chariot, and the young princeling stretched and sat up in his bed. Even as he stood erect, two armed peasants emerged from the hut dragging a third person; a scrawny, elderly man with a wild look in his eyes and a wilder disarray to his gray, bushy hair.

"Nay, infect him not!" Lor's voice piped abruptly, for already the captors were raising the old man's wrists toward their gaping mouths. "First I would put him to the question." Casually he hopped down from the chariot and ambled over; his two helpers went to crowd up close behind the captive.

"Well, old witch-man, your petty sway in this district is ended! An elder and greater magick comes to lay claim to you and yours." The boyish reediness of the lad's voice gave the portentous words a quality incongruous with the scene. He flicked a beckoning finger impatiently, and his henchmen forced the old one down on one knee, so that his face was on a level with the boy's.

"Tell me, old man, did you have time to send word to your far-flung brethren?" He glanced to the empty straw-filled cages at one side of the cottage. "I see that your pigeons have flown .. . bearing news of me, no doubt. What did you tell the others about this new faith which sweeps the plain?" He strutted and preened before his captive, like a child playing at men's conquests. "Will your warlocks guild be foolish enough to oppose me?"

The old one, grimacing in dismay, kept his yellowed, decayed teeth clamped shut behind his white-puckered lips. The bone-and-tooth beads around his neck and the grimy medicine-bag suspended thereon showed him to be a rural wizard, as did the herbs and fetishes hung from the eaves of his smoldering roof. He showed no sign of any vast or preternatural power as his watery eyes flashed doubtfully at his inquisitor. Still, he made no answer.

"Enough! He will not speak." Lar glanced up at his escort, one hand slipping casually inside his gaudy robe. "Cut him!"

Obediently and expressionlessly, the burly trapper produced a short, gleaming blade from his furs and jabbed it into the old warlock's side. Issuing a sharp yelp of pain and surprise, the captive writhed between the men who pinioned his shoulders.

At the instant the old man's mouth opened for the cry, Lar's hand leaped from the folds of his garment to the captive's face. So swift was the motion that it was hard to see, but it appeared that the youth tossed something into the withered old mouth-something small and blackly gleaming that seemed to wriggle like a thin, sinuous tadpole as it passed the ramshackle gate of the wizard's rotted teeth.

The old one clamped his jaws shut, his pain quickly forgotten, eyes wide in astonishment. Lar's hand fell back slowly to his side as the blacksmith's thick, sooty paw was insinuated under the old man's chin to keep his mouth closed.

The princeling stared closely at the wizard's face, now mutely eloquent. In the course of a moment it passed from surprise to alarm, through choking panic, to agony. Then the pale eyes bled tears, and rolling skyward in torment at whatever unseen predations and violations were taking place inside the gray old skull.

The witch struggled between his captors, his legs kicking violently enough to tear the moss of the cottage yard. With his mouth clamped shut within the blacksmith's sooty, viselike grasp, he could only emit stifled nasal grunts of pain, these gradually diminishing in intensity. And even after the warlock's struggles subsided, his head still nodded in exhaustion, his labored breaths sighing through his nose.

In a moment Lar waved an impatient hand and the smith's grip was withdrawn. The princeling leaned closer, putting his ear to the old man's mouth, which now lolled slightly open. He waited in a pose of alert listening, though all that could have been heard by the others was an exceedingly faint and scarcely articulated hissing, seemingly nothing more than the victim's feeble, glottal gasps. But the youth lingered patiently, nodding as if at some sage piece of advice imparted by a kindly gray-haired grandfather.

Finally, straightening up with a satisfied look, he reached a hand to the oldster's mouth and removed something from it, which he once again secreted in the breast of his mantle. Carelessly he turned and strode back to the chariot, tossing his minions one further command as they threw down the dying witch-man and hastened to follow.

"Watch the roads."

CHAPTER 5

Sword and Lash

"By Mitra's holy beard, lad wherever did you get this torso?" Dru, the armorer, lifted his largest black-armor breastplate away from Conan's naked chest. He replaced it on one of the heavy dowels set inside an oaken armoire. "Nothing here is going to fit him!"

He turned to Baron Baldomer, who stood at one side in black-and-gold casual equipage, his arms folded on his chest and a slight smile softening the wildness of his face. Dru said, "Milord ... I cannot alter anything we have on hand. I must turn a new piece of plate."

"They grow them big in Cimmeria." Baldomer reached forth a hand and squeezed the muscles of Conan's shoulder. The youth bore the touch for a moment, then twisted away uncomfortably. His massive chest was smooth-skinned and almost hairless, although marked by newly healed welts and some shackle scars at the neck. The baron eyed him appraisingly. "The feral northern vitality ... it shows in my son, too, but not so much as in this boy."

"We could as well let the youth hammer out his own steel plate," said Arga, the farrier, matter-of-factly. "Conan tells me his father was a smith. His folk use small forges, but they make good-sized, hotly tempered blades." The farrier kept his eyes downcast, sheepish about showing off his knowledge before the baron. "It must require a strong, untiring pair of arms at the bellows."

"Thus accounting for this boy's massive physique." Baldomer glanced amusedly at Conan, who said nothing. "Well, I have more urgent need of him than smithy toil." He addressed the armorer. "How long did you say a new plate would take?"

"A week, Milord, at least."

"Hm." The baron's brow furrowed. "Perhaps you could work from one of Favian's old outfits."

Dru nodded. "Perhaps, Milord. Though much of the young lord's weight is distributed . . . lower down."

"Come." Baldomer turned and strode out the double doors of the armory. The other three followed, last of all Conan, still shrugging his jerkin over his head.

Their lord led them briskly through the main entry hall and up the central steps. For the first time, Conan found himself on the broad expanse of marble stairway, and he took the opportunity to gawk; the room's stately alabaster pillars loomed tall from this angle, and the gold-and-scarlet tapestries blazed in sunlight from the windows set high above the Manse's front portal. It was afternoon, and the hall was empty except for Iron Guardsmen, who flanked its doorways, their eyes riveted straight ahead.

Moving swiftly, Baldomer crossed the mezzanine and entered a corridor that Conan recognized from his former explorations. Wheeling to a halt before a black-polished door, the baron gave two hard raps. Without waiting for a reply he struck the latch with the heel of his hand, pressed the door open and entered. The others followed him at a respectful distance.

The chamber, low-ceilinged and spacious, had no other occupants-only carven furniture, a great bed whose blankets were wildly disarrayed, and walls adorned with cavalry gear and bright tapestries. At a nod from the baron, Arga went to the window and dragged apart the thick curtains, letting in beams of dusty daylight.

Baldomer strode to a black-lacquered wardrobe opposite the bed and threw open its doors. Multicolored folds of clothing inside emitted musty scents of sweat and talcum. "Hmm. I know there are several suits of mail in here. One of them should be usable." He began sorting through the close-packed sleeves; after a moment's hesitation, Dru started working from the other end.

Shortly the armorer reached both arms into the cabinet and produced a cuirass; it was fashioned of brass, unadorned, and showing many scrapes and shallow dents. Its leather fastenings were sweat-stained and frayed, and the brass-ribbed leather battle-skirt hanging underneath it was in no better shape.

"Lord Favian's old training gear . . . not really enough to work with, I fear, Milord."

"No. It won't do." Baldomer was fingering a flimsy sleeve of scarlet fabric thoughtfully: a woman's diaphanous gown. He pulled it free of the other clothing, crumpled it in his fist and tossed it to the floor. "Keep on looking."

After a smart but undersized mailcoat had been rejected, the baron produced an impressive-looking armor suit from the back wall of the cabinet. It was a steel breastplate trimmed with black leather after the fashion of the Iron Guard, but more carefully crafted, and inlaid with silver. The matching silver-spiked helmet hung on a peg above it. "Here now, what about this?" He held the plate up against Conan's chest.

"A fair fit, Milord, with some alterations. But that is Lord Favian's new formal suit of mail, turned by me last fall at Milord's command for the Baronial Conclave." Dru's gaze at Baldomer showed some concern. "I doubt that your son has anything else so splendid to wear."

"Our need is more immediate." Baldomer did not spare him a glance. "I authorize you to fix up something for Favian from the standard guard uniform. And see that it's padded at the shoulders to make his figure better match this lad's. Here, boy, try this on."

As Conan began donning the heavy breastplate over his jerkin, Dru continued to protest. "But, Milord . . . is it really necessary to outfit a bodyguard so resplendently, with the provincial tour slated for so soon?"

"Better not to ask, armorer." The baron silenced him with a steely look. "And I bid you make no mention of it. To anyone . . . understood?"

"Yes, Milord." Dru stepped back, looking cowed.

"Now then. Raise your arms, boy. Yes, the straps will need lengthening, but it should do nicely. What's that?"

The baron turned as the chamber door banged open behind him. Arga and Dru stepped forward to their baron's defense, but when they saw that the intruder was only young Favian, they stood at ease, looking slightly abashed.

Favian was booted and leather-clad, fresh from the saddle. His lip was newly shaved by his father's decree, making his resemblance to Conan more noticeable. He stared at the party in surprise for a moment; then his eyes narrowed, and his broad, handsome countenance darkened. "So, Father, a new enormity! Stealing my face and my name is not enough for you. You find it necessary to ransack my closet, too! Truly, how can you explain this?" He flashed the baron a defiant look as he slammed his unstrung hunting-bow onto a rack by the door.

After a slight initial coloring, Baldomer's features composed themselves to as much icy regularity as his scarified face allowed. "A mere security matter, Favian, that is all. Besides which," he continued more vehemently, "my place is not to explain my actions to you. Remember, every decision I make is for your own good and that of the baron."

Favian stepped forward into the center of the room. "Yet you violate my privacy. You have given my best armor to this barbar-boy; next you'll probably have me clapping on his filthy dog-skins. Well, I won't have it!" He moved toward the wardrobe, reaching out to close one of its doors.

The baron stood fast, blocking his way. "What you will have or will not have is no prerogative of yours, Favian. Remember, you have nothing in this world but what I have given you-and nothing I cannot take back, should you prove undeserving!"

"Father, this is too much!" Favian turned from the unmoving baron and approached Conan. "You, there -get that armor off your stinking carcass at once!" While Conan glanced to the baron for assent, Favian shoved belligerently at the northerner's chest, scarcely budging him. He did so again, harder, as a measured provocation.

Then, suddenly, the lordling produced a riding crop from his sword-belted waist and lashed at Conan's unprotected head and shoulders. The Cimmerian raised an arm in defense and with a lightning-quick grab, seized the lashing tail of the quirt. He yanked it out of the young noble's grasp and tossed it into a corner of the room.

"Oh you will, will you? Miserable serf! Well, mark me, I am not drunk this time . . . and not unarmed, either!"

The room's confines rang with the sound of Favian's rapier clearing its scabbard. With hardly a pause in its streaking motion, the blade lashed out low at Conan's unshielded legs, but the northerner was already dancing back. He skipped clear of two more wild slashes, then vaulted over the bed to keep from being cornered.

"No, hold!" Baldomer's low command was addressed not to the fighters, but to his two retainers, Arga and Dru, who stood by indecisively, their hands on their dagger-hilts. An instant later the baron unhooked a scabbarded straightsword from the wall and tossed it to Conan. "Here, bodyguard, defend yourself!" The Cimmerian caught the piece smoothly, raising it before him just in time to meet Favian's blade as the young nobleman came vaulting over the bed.

"At him, son!" Baldomer called lustily.

The lordling's stroke knocked the scabbard free of Conan's blade to clatter across the floor. The blows that followed rang out rapidly and deafeningly, for it was easier to parry than to dodge in such close quarters. Conan saw that his heavy old sword was dull and notched; it had been a mere set-piece for years, and the leather winding of its hilt was dry and loose in his hand, allowing the metal edges beneath to saw and cut at his skin.

"Favian, pace yourself! Don't waste your strength," Baldomer urged his son. "The Cimmerian has endurance. Draw him out and await your chance."

Conan's worst discomfort was the ill-fitting chest armor that restrained his breaths and bit into the flesh under his arms. His movements were sorely limited, yet he was not hard-pressed.

For Favian's attack quickly lost energy against an armed and armored opponent. He spent ever more time in feinting and threatening and ever less in sparring. Not once did his blade strike the gaudy cuirass. It seemed that his only forceful strokes were low, vicious cuts at Conan's legs.

"That's it, son! Keep your wits. Wear him down."

Without fighting to kill or wound, the northerner began using his training to trip or disarm his adversary. Stools and tables crashed out of the combatants' way, or splintered before their rushes. Just once, Conan's blade locked into the curve of Favian's, threatening to wrench it out of the Lordling's grasp -and before the edges scraped apart, the Cimmerian glimpsed real fear in his opponent's eyes.

Then Baldomer's exhortations faded to silence, and Favian was holding his blade vertical before him, looking nervously amused, calling in fencer's sign-language for a halt. Conan lowered his weapon.

"Well, barbarian, I see that you have benefited greatly from our training." Breathing heavily, the lordling sheathed his blade. Then, to Conan's momentary alarm, he reached forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I should have taken you on a fortnight past, though poor old Eubold met with little luck even then." He gave Conan a rueful smile. "You have passed my little test. If I am bound to have a bodyguard, it may as well be one as nimble as yourself!"

Favian glanced around the company, his look daring anyone to assert that he had meant the fight in earnest. Dru, looking embarrassed, busied himself righting furniture, while Arga took Conan's sword to scabbard it once again on the wall. The youth surrendered the weapon wordlessly. The baron quietly gave orders to his retainers and left without good-byes, his face closed and remote. Conan shucked his armor and handed it to Dru, but as he was about to depart with the two craftsmen, Favian detained him.

"Now that we have crossed swords, Cimmerian, what say you to a drinking bout?" Favian went to an undamaged locker near the bed and brought out an earthenware bottle and two noggin-cups. He flourished the pair of pewter-sealed human skulls in front of Conan's face. "Frankly, I find tippling a nobler sport. I would rather lose my head to drink than to steel any day!"

Much later in the afternoon, when his once-sullen tongue had been oiled by liquor, Conan finished regaling Favian with the story of his jailbreak. His green jerkin was wine-stained and his gestures lavish. "When they dragged me from the place, I expected to be stuck in a gibbet, not in a noble household! 'Twas as good a piece of luck as a foreigner could wish in this tight-knit country . . . but mayhap an added trouble for you." He tipped his cup up, then thumped it back to the board. "I never wished that, Favian."

"Fah! Think nothing of it, Conan." The young lord waved a hand breezily in his new fashion of camaraderie. "Could I fault you for looking like me, or for being thrown into my father's dungeon at the wrong time? No reasonable fellow would hold that against you. What was the cause of your arrest, by the way? I never did find out for certain."

"I was guiltless, I swear." Conan shook his bleary head. " 'Twas only a curfew scrape."

"No consorting with rebels? Sedition, perhaps?" The noble youth watched his drinking partner closely.

"Nothing of the sort. Although there was a bit of skull-thumping when I was taken ... all on account of your city guards' rudeness."

"Aye." Favian nodded. "The municipals are on edge of late, because of rebel stirrings. And the whispers of snakecult activity, too. Not that there is any real danger to my family's reign. But the harsher the measures you take at the first hint of unrest, the less trouble you will have later on."

Favian tilted a flask sloshing yellow liquor first into Conan's cup and then, more sparingly, into his own. "Svoretta says the trouble is caused by rural serfs who want to skimp on their fees and tributes." He raised his skull-cup toward the dimming rays from the window, letting the sunset gleam in its red crystal eyes. "That, my friend, is where I could shine. If Father would let me lead a horse detachment into the countryside, I would show the ignorant turnip-eaters the price of dissidence! A lot of rebellion there'd be then! Or better, give me a chariot; I could drive one of those to Helheim itself!"

Conan watched his host through a spiritous haze. "There couldn't be much of a revolt underway. The peasants in the lockup didn't seem any too fierce. Perhaps a show of fairness would get better results. . . ."

"Peasants? Fierce? Why, of course not!" Favian overrode his companion's words with drink-slurred cynicism. "If they were fierce they wouldn't be peasants. That alone is what makes us Einharsons rulers: sheer ferocity, in spite of all Counselor Lothian's pleasant-sounding theories." The young lord tossed the contents of his cup down his gullet and regarded Conan with a sardonic look.

"From the time that my ancestor-noble Einhar, or his rotty grandsire, whoever began it-from the day he first took up a blade and learned the craft of butchery, using it to elevate himself above his fellow men . . . from that day, the sword has been the ultimate expression of our fine nobility. All of it is based on the murderous art of war. Ever must we use that skill, or induce others to use it for us. The moment we forget, we place ourselves in dire jeopardy!"

Carried away by his own rhetoric, Favian arose from his stool and took up his scabbarded sword from his bed. Removing the sheath and tossing it back onto the disarranged quilts, he clutched the weapon by the middle of its blade and held it up before him. "Strange to think, is it not, that this gruesome tool is the highest implement of human will, the tiller of man's destiny! Yet it is this flesh-slicer, and only this, that steers the course of empire, and sustains us Einharsons in our modest glory!"

"Only the sword?" Conan felt impelled to interrupt before Favian worked himself up into another fighting frenzy. "What about your exalted bloodline, then, and the supernatural wardings that protect your clan?" He watched his host across his raised cup.

"Wardings?" Favian glanced at him suspiciously and tossed the sword casually aside. "What know you of those?"

"Only what the baron once told me," Conan muttered. "And what is rumored around the castle."

"Ah, yes, rumors do seem to get around the Manse." The lordling turned his noggin-cup thoughtfully in his hand. "Well, Conan, soon I shall reach the age of initiation into the mystery of my family's heritage. Then I may find out whether Einhar's curse is merely a hobgoblin with which to scare credulous fools or whether there is real power in it." He eyed his drinking companion speculatively. "But you, Cimmerian, will never find out-if you are lucky, that is, and if you do your bodyguarding well."

Favian stoppered the flask and gathered the cups across the drink-splashed table. "Now, fellow, I make ready for my supper, and you must hie off to yours. But we shall talk again. And should my father forge onward with this imposture he has in mind, I pray that your good luck continues."

Conan left the interview with his wits fogged by Favian's heady beverage. It took all his concentration just to find his way downstairs, nor did stuffing his belly at the servants' table seem to help the state of his brain.

Ludya did not appear, and Conan did not take his usual part in the mealtime chatter. He sat silent, dully pondering what he now knew of Favian: the young nobleman had a volatile character, every bit as complex as the baron's, and mayhap just as mad in the final reckoning. His understanding was burdened by one further insight, which he knew the father shared: the knowledge of the son's cowardice.

After the meal, Ludya passed swiftly through the room without any greeting for Conan; her eyes went over him with no acknowledgment. To his half-stupefied senses, that was the final blow. He crawled away to his bed, blearily cursing all civilized men and women and their mad, unpredictable moods.

Late in the night Conan was dragged out of a murky pit of slumber by faint sounds from the common-room: scuffing footsteps and imperfectly muffled sobs. He rolled swiftly to the foot of his bed and parted the curtains. The candlelight was faint, but he saw that a half-clad figure was just disappearing into one of the alcoves: Ludya's.

In a moment he was across the room. He entered the dark closet and stood over her pallet, where she lay huddled, weeping quietly. "Ludya . . . what is wrong, girl? Have you been hurt?"

Her sobs became more audible as they mingled with her speech. "No, Conan, go away. Don't worry about me. Please!"

He knelt to put an arm around her. "What is it, child? You can tell me ... Crom!"

As his hand brushed the hot, swollen welts on her back, she whimpered in pain. Conan gingerly probed the extent of her injuries and felt the slickness of blood on his fingertips. "We must have these wounds dressed. Ludya, come." He put his unstained hand to her tear-damp cheek. "Girl, who did this to you? Tell me."

She sobbed for a long moment, making no reply. As he opened his mouth to speak again, his attention was caught by the clink of mailed boots in the adjoining room.

Heavy footsteps marched close to the alcove and halted with the clack of a metal-butted half-pike grounding on stone. A military voice, firm and toneless, called out, "The maid Ludya-is she here?"

"That is her bed, sir," confided a younger male voice.

Conan drew aside the curtain and saw two Iron Guardsmen standing before the alcove, one holding the pike and the other a flickering candle. Faces peered from between the curtains of the other sleeping-closets, but no one spoke.

"The wench Ludya will accompany us," the pikeman ordered Conan.

"She cannot come. She is unwell." Conan stepped forward, keeping the curtain closed at his back to block view of the girl.

"She must come along, by the baron's order. Move aside!" When Conan stood firm, the pikeman widened his stance and lowered his barb-bladed weapon to the ready. The second guard set his candlestick on the dining table and placed a hand on his swordhilt.

At that moment Ludya pushed through the curtain at Conan's side. He tried to restrain her, but she staggered past him toward the guards. She was pale and silent now, clad in slippers and a scanty shift. She clutched a fur blanket about her, but it left exposed one bare flank and part of her red-striped back. When Conan glimpsed this in the flickering light, rage buzzed inside his skull like a seething cloud of hornets. Any remnant of his earlier intoxication was by now wiped away.

The guardsmen fell into place, one in front of the shamed girl and one behind, and they moved off through the archway. When the pike-wielder heard Conan following them into the hall, he turned and leveled his blade. The barbarian faced him in the doorway, unflinching. After a moment's silent stare, the guard turned and hurried after his comrade and the retreating candle.

The Cimmerian followed the three closely through nighted corridors and up the servants' stair to the residential wing that was newly familiar to him. Several doors stood open there, and the guardsmen escorted the now-quiet Ludya through one of them: Favian's.

The pikeman turned and blocked the entry with his pikestave, but he did not drive Conan away from the doorway; the room within was fully visible to him. On the edge of the disarranged bed sat the young lord, half-dressed in a rumpled nightshirt and riding kilt, his head hanging and his elbows propped on wool-skirted knees. The baron stood at the center of the room, clothed hastily but formally, his hair standing up untidily on the scarified side of his head. His rigid face and posture betrayed his anger, as did the rapping of his knuckles against his kilted thigh. At his side, in the dark garb of a night-prowling spy, stood Counselor Svoretta.

When Ludya was thrust before the men, she sank to one knee in obeisance-or weakness. The second guard stayed with her, standing stiffly at her back. Baldomer bent and grasped the hair at one side of her head, tilting her tear-stained face up to the candlelight, then let it fall again. "So this is the wench, a mere table servant! What was she doing here?"

Favian raised his head and spoke in a weary, wine-bleared tone. "She would dally with me, she said, as most any of them gladly will. And yet she failed to please me. High notions this one has, indeed, for a low scullion." He raised his head to view the abject girl, a drunken sneer twisting his face. "Then she spoke impertinently to me, and so I scourged her. A commonplace enough happening; what of it, Father?"

Baldomer pivoted, drawing himself up in indignation before his seated son. "Favian, need I tell you why I am upset, or that I will not have unclothed wenches driven like cattle through the halls of this Manse? This is my home, I remind you, not a Zamoran brothel! It was your mother's home." The baron paced stiffly a few steps across the marble floor, then back to the bed, where he half-leaned over his son and shouted at him. "If you must vent your lusts so ignobly, then I bid you, use a trace of discretion! A display like this is scandalous and vulgar, bad for the morale of the entire household."

"All right, Father, I apologize-since you choose to make an issue of it." Favian shook his head in exasperation. "Can we please just have an end of it now?"

"An end? Very well!" Baldomer pulled himself erect. "But from this moment you are placed on restraint. And the woman cannot continue here; she will have to be killed."

"Father!" Annoyance and a little disgust tinged Favian's protest. "Why not just send her off somewhere?"

Now that he had his son's full attention, the baron's demeanor was somewhat more settled. "House lackeys must not be encouraged to fraternize with the nobility. It is a breach of precedence." He waved his hand at Ludya, who was stifling sobs once again. "And what if she comes back in a year with an infant on her hip, claiming your paternity and a lifetime share of support?"

"Father, why should that be a problem now, when it never was before . . . ?" Weary of argument, Favian arose from the bed and threw up his arms in futility. "All right, all right, slay her if you must! But leave me alone now, will you!"

The door-guard, thrust back bodily into the room, interrupted them. "Milords, this man . . . followed us from the servants' quarters. . . ." His speech was sporadic as he struggled with Conan over the haft of his leveled pike. Before he could say more, the Cimmerian hooked a leg behind his opponent's knee and shoved forward against the weapon. Still clinging to it, the guardsman toppled to the floor on his back. The other guard drew his sword and faced Conan as the barbarian stepped into the room over the fallen man.

"Boy!" Baldomer barked at him. "Control yourself!"

By a deliberate effort, Conan halted. He stood with his hands at his sides, though his fists remained clenched. "Milord Baron . . ." his tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar terms of respect . . . "I tell you, the girl means no harm." To his faint surprise, he could hear his voice rasp with emotion. "She has suffered much already; let her be!" As he spoke, the two guards positioned themselves in front of him, their weapons pointed at his throat.

"What interest can you possibly have in this affair -" the baron began.

"Milord." Svoretta stepped close to his master, though his words were audible to the others. "Since his arrival at the Manse, the barbarian and the wench have consorted together very closely indeed!" His pause lent added meaning to his words. "I charge the existence of a conspiracy to manipulate the will of the young Lord Favian-to suborn him against you by means of the girl's affections, to blackmail him, or possibly to steal from him."

For a time the only sound was Ludya's forlorn weeping. Favian's eyes rose slowly to meet Conan's. "And today I tried to make my peace with him, yet here again comes the stealthy savage, stealing this time into my very bed!" He shook his head angrily. "You are right, Father. The girl must die! Had I known of this little scheme, I'd have flogged her doubly, no, triply."

Baldomer's voice, smooth with complacency, joined his son's. "You see, Favian, how untidy these matters can become. If she were allowed to live-"

The nobleman was interrupted again, this time by the rattle of curtain hooks at the back of the chamber. An embroidered hanging parted there, to reveal a dim-lit doorway through which a young woman stepped. She was red-haired, with a pale, broad-cheekboned face that looked strikingly beautiful in the half light. Her slender form was wrapped in a green-velvet robe that she held together at the throat with one hand.

"Father, how can you torment this poor child?"

The baron raised an arm to forestall his daughter's approach. "Calissa-do not interfere here, girl. This is a matter between father and son."

"Nay, 'tis not!" She came barefoot around the end of the bed and stood beside Favian. "Just now I heard you call it a household concern. Well, my mother ran this house when she was alive, so I will have a say in it too." Calissa's robe fell apart a little way at the throat, exposing an alabaster curvature of chest that she did not bother to conceal. "Just send the serving-maid home; surely she has a home!"

While Baldomer faced his daughter with an air of mingled consternation and tolerance, Svoretta made answer to her. "My Lady Calissa, I fear 'tis not that simple. The damage is already done, and we must take a firm stance on this sort of thing-"

"Nonsense, Counselor. Your spies in our household should inform you better than that." Calissa turned to her father. "The girl Ludya is well liked by the rest of the servants. If you slaughter her for this mischance, you will be troubled henceforth by mutterings and terrors among all the scullions. Worse, you will have to deal with the ill will of that formidable individual -whoever he is."

Calissa's gesture indicated Conan, who stood tensed on the balls of his feet, eyeing the two guards positioned between himself and the rest of the company. From their ready postures and sweat-filmed faces, the Iron Guardsmen looked none too confident of their superiority.

"Oh please, Father, if this is just one of my brother's boyish indiscretions"-Calissa placed a hand on Favian's shoulder, which he shrugged off impatiently -"then there is no reason for any more suffering." She stepped forward and knelt beside the trembling figure on the floor, laying a protective arm over her. "Ludya . . . where is your home?"

The girl's voice was broken and barely audible. "Varakiel. The marsh country to the northeast."

"Do you have people there? Do you want to go back?"

Ludya seized Calissa's hand and bathed it in tears. "Oh please, Milady, please!"

The older girl helped her rise from the floor. "Come, let me tend your hurts. We will send you home soon, child." She led her charge toward the curtained doorway.

Conan called from his place at the other end of the room. "Ludya-"

Svoretta's harsh voice overrode him. "Milord, what of this incorrigible oaf? I warned your lordship of the trouble he would bring."

The baron turned a cold gaze on Conan. "Learn your limits, barbarian-before I limit you to a steel cage in the torture-rooms." He glanced after the departing women. "And forget the girl; you'll not be seeing her again."

CHAPTER 6

Nectar and Poison

Yet Conan did see Ludya once more before she was spirited off to her remote home district. For it was Arga, the farrier, who oversaw the hitching of the donkey cart in the gray-lit stableyard at dawn. And he, while instructing an elderly hand to accompany her, stoically pretended not to notice the hulking young ruffian who crept to her side where she lay bundled in the straw-bedded wagon.

"Ludya, girl, will you be all right? Are your homefolk kind? Only say the word and I'll trounce these noble guards and minions, and carry you away myself!"

Long Conan waited for her reply, and in vain. He watched her wan, expressionless face in the pale light whilst awakening birds chorused faintly in the trees beyond the wall.

"Ludya, do not despair!" As she lay there unresponding, Conan searched for words by which to soothe her inner hurt. "Your dream of advancement here was in vain. These courtly fools were never worthy of you. You'll be better off far away from this wretched Manse, girl; you'll be happier, much happier than-"

"Cease!" Her red-rimmed eyes flared suddenly at him, her bloodless lips forming an angry rapier-curve. "You are right, I have no further need of lords and noble lackeys." Her contempt was obviously meant to include him. "But I am not finished here, not by a long chance! There are other ways for one to rise in Nemedia."

This wrath in her, utterly strange to Conan, might have been hysteria, or worse. Yet there was a coldness to it and a fixity in her gaze as she spoke. "This unhappy land seethes with rebellion. I go forth now, but when I return, it will be with fire and sword" -her pale hand stirred weakly, folding an edge of her shawl across the lower part of her face-"to cleanse away the foulness festering here!"

Conan stared down at his recent lover, holding his dismay within himself. "Rest with your family awhile . . . " Across the yard, Arga finally turned away from the stable-hand, shouting an order for the guards to throw open the gates.

Numbly Conan reached down to brush the maid's slim fingers in farewell; then he faded back into the shadows of the smithy porch. But as the driver took his seat and the wain jolted forward, Conan called softly after her, "Crom heal you, my poor, mad Ludya!"

Conan did not allow his dolorous parting from Ludya to shadow his thoughts for long; he let himself be swept up with the other occupants of the Manse in readying a gala entertainment. The preparations were all the more feverish because the celebration was a farewell feast, to be given the day before the baron's departure on his tour of the provincial holdings of Dinander.

And so Conan spent many hours in the hauling of stools and trestles up and down stairs, unfurling and beating the dust out of tapestries heavy with gold threads, and performing other tasks less fitted to his size and dignity, such as the polishing of chamber pots and the husking of vegetables. By noontide of the great day, the kitchen cookfires were hot enough to make the Manse's basement swelter like an inferno, its great copper vats frothing and bubbling all at once. By mid-afternoon of the next day, the giddy aromas of spiced fruits and broiling game were enough to madden a creature more tame and civilized than the Cimmerian.

As he was filching sweetmeats from kitchen trays, at risk of raps on wrist or skull from Velda's long brass ladle, Counselor Svoretta sought him out. Curtly the spymaster told him to don his newly tailored suit of mail and stand ready for orders; until told otherwise, he was to stay out of sight during the festivities.

Much later, the day flown and the sun vanished in the west, Conan crept upstairs via one of the Manse's corner towers. He could not bear to wait any longer in his cramped, sweltering sleeping-cabinet; there he had nothing to occupy his thoughts but memories of Ludya and his restless doubts over whether he had already lingered fatally long in this domain of madmen. He must escape the prison of his gloom.

The Manse's festive atmosphere was evident in its ravaged kitchen, its bustling corridors, its stairways smelling of spilt wine and echoing with boisterous talk. He avoided the larger rooms, making his way to a remote corner of the mezzanine where he might overlook the party and remain inconspicuous. He felt sure he could pass for a guard in his polished black-and-gold helm and newly tailored cuirass, imposing but still too tight in the shoulders.

Brushing past murmuring lovers in the narrow, dark side-chamber, he slipped out onto the inner balcony. As he had hoped, this part of the gallery was not thickly populated. Moving to the rail, he encountered a wave of heat and a smother of smoky fumes, for the chamber below was alight with a lavish array of candles and oil pots. The entry hall was thronged with guests seated at red-draped tables, promenading through the main doors and loitering on the broad stairway.

Most of these appeared to be merchants, farm-squires, and their highest-ranking retainers. Appearing excited and a little astonished at this rare glimpse of baronial splendor, they loitered, gabbled noisily and overindulged in wine. More eminent guests, the minor nobles and guard officers, seemed to gravitate toward the entry to the inner Hall of State. Thence the tinny chirping of military trumpets issued, and there, presumably, the baron and his counselors held court.

Widely in evidence among both groups of revelers were uniformed men of the Iron Guard. Standing stiffly at intervals along the walls and up the stairs, and spaced more sparsely around the mezzanine, they seemed almost equal in numbers to the guests. Serving on highest alert, they went fully armored, with halberds grounded between their toes and rapiers sheathed at their belts. Conan realized uncomfortably that while his own steel carapace ornately enfolded his vital parts, he possessed no offensive weapon, not even an eating-knife.

Meanwhile, his armor was growing hot in this high, stuffy part of the room. The visor of his helm, though broadly pierced,, obstructed both vision and breathing. He raised it impatiently, then instantly regretted his action as a youthful voice called out to him from close at hand.

"Ho there, Lord Favian! So you choose to loiter out here with us rough-and-ready types!"

It was the inevitable confusion of identity. Pretending not to hear the hail, Conan turned away, reaching up to shut his visor. But a hand grasped his arm to arrest his flight; a rawboned, ill-tended paw, dark with sun and farm grime.

"Favian, Milord," the husky adolescent voice croaked, "'tis lucky to find you here." At Conan's murderous glance the hand was quickly withdrawn, but the speaker continued to peer ingratiatingly into his face. "I... I am Ralfic, remember, Sire? We had a jolly time at my father's manor. South of town, last season . . . don't you recall, your Lordship?"

Conan regarded the gangling youngster furiously; the lad was nearly his equal in years, though surely not in travels and combats. His face was pitted by some past siege of pox, his clothing foppish, his hair obviously cut with the aid of a porridge bowl. The Cimmerian counterfeit finally, grudgingly, conceded to his fate. He answered the younger man with a nod and a grunt, trying to bark it up from his belly like a true Nemedian noble.

"Yes, Milord . . ." the boy gazed at him uncertainly. "Well, our little carouse was great fun, was it not?" He grinned suddenly, exposing snaggled eyeteeth. "I cannot blame you, Milord, if your recollection was dimmed by all the ale we guzzled. Those peasant weddings are a rout, 'tis ever true"-he rolled his eyes ceilingward-"especially when the brides are young and innocent, and greatly in awe of their noble masters. Eh, Sire?"

Conan deepened his scowl and grunted again noncommittally while darting a distracted glance around the balcony. The youth's braying was attracting interested stares from other idlers, some of whom were now drifting toward him, sipping cups of mead. These they had obtained from a kilted, brown-vested servant who bore them on a tray balanced high over his shoulder.

Ralfic, although cowed by Conan's stare, clearly sensed that something was out of joint. The cornered Cimmerian searched for a quick means of escape, knowing that, were he trapped into speaking a single word of Nemedian, his inept masquerade would collapse all the faster.

"Remember that young lieutenant we thrashed, sire . . . what was his name? Arnulf? The one we diced with all night, who would not pay his bet?"

Desperate now, Conan was clenching a hamlike fist with which to brain Ralfic when the serving-man interrupted them. "Milord Favian! Your pardon, sire." He handed the startled Cimmerian a cup of yellow mead, then spun and departed, his tray empty under his arm.

"Aha, a wise lackey, to give his last cup to the noblest lord in attendance!" Ralfic crowed loudly enough at his own jest to draw nods and laughter from those nearby.

Thirsty as he was, Conan saw a better use for the drink. "Mmm. Uh." Raising a hand to his face, he grimaced, clumsily feigned illness. Then he thrust the sloshing cup into Ralfic's hand and quickly turned away.

"Why, thank you, sire," Conan heard the yokel saying as he fled. "A toast to you, Lord Favian. Purge your stomach in good health, sir!"

Conan was at the door of the blessedly dark, silent side-chamber when a hoarse scream rasped out from behind him. Tempted for just an instant to ignore it and make good his escape, he nevertheless turned back toward the mezzanine. This time, as he shoved his way back among the gawkers he remembered to flick down his visor.

There lay Ralfic against the wooden rail, clutching his belly. His mead-cup was shattered beside him, and bloody froth drooled from his gaping mouth. Where the dregs of his drink had fallen, they smoked and seethed on the polished wood floor.

Other guests bent over the dying farm-squire, and guards were shoving past frightened revelers toward the spot. Without waiting for them to arrive, Conan charged in the direction the poisoner had taken. He followed jabbing fingers and excited cries toward a passage near the head of the main stair, certain that he glimpsed the treacherous servant's brown vest disappearing into it. By the time he had pelted down the corridor, striding heavily in his armor, other guards could be heard clattering some distance behind him.

He knew the Manse well enough by now to guess in which direction the assassin had fled. Veering through an archway near the end of the passage, he dashed down a straight flight of steps, taking four at a time. Somewhere in the silent halls ahead of him there sounded footfalls, hushed voices and a low moan.

When Conan rounded a corner into the main corridor, he found the end of his chase. The poisoner lay dead, a dagger standing out sharply from his brown vest. Over him bulked Svoretta, wiping blood from his plump hand with a kerchief.

The chief of espionage stared keenly at Conan for a moment, as if trying to pierce the faceless steel helm with his gaze. "Well, Lord Favian-we know your true provenance better, of course, but I shall call you by that name for security's sake." The plump retainer glanced quickly up and down the corridor. "What you are doing here I know not, in view of your orders. But stand ready; your work may well begin tonight!"

Two guards came lumbering into the passage, and Svoretta at once demanded a report from them. When they told him of the poisoning and of Ralfic's death, he nodded knowingly with a sidelong glance at Conan.

A moment later there sounded new, hasty footsteps, and other men appeared: Baron Baldomer himself, looking wildly exultant, and a pair of guards behind him.

Svoretta reported the events to his master. "A known rebel, Milord," he said, nudging the body with his toe. "I happened on him in the corridor, recognized him and slew him. Then I learned that he had already done his evil work in trying to give poison to your son. Luckily, he failed."

"Aye, luckily indeed!" Baldomer gazed on Conan, his healthy eye for once almost as bright as his wounded one. "Come aside with me, boy."

Motioning Conan apart from the Iron Guardsmen, Baldomer addressed him briskly as Svoretta stood by. "You see now how wise I was to hire you, lad! Already you are serving your purpose, flushing our enemies forth. Now go to my son's room and bide there till morning. We shall lodge Favian elsewhere tonight for his safety. But be wary; this night's danger is not ended!"

Nodding curtly to signify his obedience, Conan turned. As he made his way upstairs, he was able to shoulder brusquely past guards and anxious partygoers alike, pretending muteness and deafness to their nods and salutations by virtue of his helmet's lowered visor. All the while, his mind was equally opaque with thought, pondering the assassin's sudden appearance and his equally sudden death.

There was no guard posted near Favian's door to witness Conan's approach, and no one lurked inside the room when he entered. Drink there was, set out in a crystal flask on the ornate table, but after his recent encounter he feared to taste it. And in spite of the lateness of the hour, he did not rest himself on the lordling's broad, soft bed. Instead, he removed his helm and armor, laid them on the cushion to resemble a supine body, and draped them with a satin quilt.

After possessing himself of one of the less decayed pieces of weaponry from Favian's wall, he snuffed out the candles. Unencumbered now by armor and able to move silently across the darkened room, he chose a padded chair on the interior side of the chamber, opposite the window. There he settled down to wait.

Two phantoms hunted through the dark palace halls. Savagely they sprang out of shadows, striking cruelly at one another with blades and flails. In transports of wrath they grappled and rolled across a dim-lit floor, tangled together in lashing dark cloaks. On falling into a stray beam of moonlight, they glared upward suddenly to reveal. . . not human faces, but the drooling , ravening jaws and bloodstruck eyes of wolves.

A dream. Nothing more than a sodden, fevered dream, Conan slowly came to understand. His reaction to it as he dozed had not reflected the intense, terror-stricken feelings it had inspired, he realized. For his chin still lay heavily on his chest, scarcely supported by his slack neck muscles. His nether limbs were still piled against the hard angles of the chair, cramped and chilled in the posture of unintended sleep. He pried open his reluctant eyelids to discover where he was.

Suddenly then he came alive, his heart lurching, wakefulness jolting through every limb, although he still did not move. For there, outlined against the paleness of the window, was a sinister shape which mirrored the skulking figures of his dream: hooded and silent, gliding slowly through the nighted room, an undeniably real menace, creeping slowly nearer. He watched it loom over the vacant sleeping-couch, saw a sharp motion, heard a muffled cry.

He was up then, moving lightly and swiftly on the balls of his feet. His weapon abandoned, he flung himself on the nameless creeper, bare hands poised to crush and rend. His victim sagged with a gasp before his onslaught, arms flailing, offering little resistance. Conan saw no sign of a blade, yet could not be sure because of the thick garment muffling the intruder.

Forcing the other's body down beneath his overmastering weight, he made a swift, groping inventory through the folds of the cloak. The only weapons he found were the age-old ones of womankind: soft breasts, silky tresses of hair, smoothly curving belly and thighs. Cursing under his breath, he dragged his writhing bundle toward the window and turned the pale face up to a beam of moonlight. It was Calissa, the baron's supple daughter, clad in her dark robe, the cowl raised.

He shifted her leaning weight as if to set her upright, then thought better of it. Clamping a hand to her chin, he whispered into a delicate ear, "In case there is any doubt, Milady ... I am not your brother." He waited for her reaction, but as there came only a passive flexing of her limbs, he spoke on. "If you set up a howl, I shall have to muzzle you. I mean you no harm, but I would rather not be denounced as a ravisher of noblewomen." Experimentally he loosened his hand, letting her head turn slowly to face him. Her motions had a strange, deliberate calm. He asked, "Can you hold your peace and listen to reason a moment, before rousing the whole Manse?"

She gazed up at him unanswering, but with seeming composure in her symmetrical features. Firmly he brought her to her feet, loosening his grip on her lithe limbs.

Her response startled him. Instead of drawing away, she eased up against him, her face softly brushing the side of his neck.

"Whoa, girl, what do you mean by this?" Nervously he brushed her creeping hands once again, checking for weapons. Satisfied that her probing fingers were innocent of any but amorous intent, he let his own touch roam across her softly flexing shoulders and lissome back. In a moment his mouth turned to greet hers.

Her embrace grew warmer, her lips more questing; they opened to his, promising him everything without uttering a word. Yet a comer of his mind still nagged uncertainly at him, and at length he broke off the kiss. "You are . . . companionable tonight," he muttered, slightly breathless. "Who were you expecting to find in that bed, anyway?"

He felt her back stiffen slightly; she ceased her embraces and drew far enough away to regard his face in the faint light. Her voice came forth smoothly, with surprising calm. "You presume much, bodyguard! A shame to let your suspicion stifle your passion . . . but I will answer, if you insist.

"I came here to have an intimate conference with my brother; instead, I found a cold, armored shape in his bed-and behind the visor of his helm, no face!" Her level, cultivated accents stumbled slightly at the recollection. "And then you, falling on me like a fiend from the shadows . . . ! Still, I know that you have not done away with Favian. I wondered before at your presence among us, but now I understand why a wild creature such as you has been brought to the Manse."

"Because of my fitness for a certain role, you mean." Conan glanced to the room's rear door, left ajar by Calissa. "That role may not be finished for the night. We should not dawdle near your brother's bed. One of us-he or I, I am not sure of which-is a lodestone for an assassin."

"My chamber would be more comfortable," she told him, laying a hand on his arm.

Her room was almost adjacent to Favian's, lying across a narrow passage in the false rear wall. The door had a good chaste bolt to seal it from within; when they had locked it, her moonlit sleeping-couch provided them a comfortable place for repose more satisfying than sleep.

"So you knew of the poisoning tonight?" Conan asked his hostess at length.

"Yes. Although I did not understand how it could be an attempt on my brother's life when, at the very same moment, he was partaking of less potent mead on the dais beside me."

"The cup was meant for me." Conan shook his head impatiently, as if to sweep webs of treachery aside from his vision. "Then, to hide his plan, Svoretta killed the killer."

"Are you suddenly so important to the workings of this palace, bodyguard?" Calissa's purring voice held, along with skepticism, a note of wistful jealousy, Conan intuited.

"Nay . . . only an irritant to Svoretta." His voice probed slowly through the dimness as he worked out his notions: "By killing me, the spymaster persuades Baldomer of the rebels' power, and so enhances his own. Even in failure, his ploy served that purpose."

"That could be true." It was Calissa's turn to shake her head gloomily. "Svoretta has been the guiding force here ever since my father's war wounds nearly killed him, changing him so much. The spymaster leads the strongest faction at court, and his clandestine powers are even greater. Now, with snakecult stirrings added to the rebel ferment, he will accrue more of a following."

"Lothian, for one, opposes him."

"Aye, Lothian!" Calissa laughed cynically. "Our harmless, maundering, childhood tutor. Why, only tonight my father threatened to clap him into irons for daring to counsel restraint in moving against the rebels. Another delight of this evening's entertainment!"

"I'm glad I missed it ... I wish had missed more of it," Conan amended himself.

"Oh, Conan. But it was a splendid evening, truly, in spite of all the intrigues." In a gush of enthusiasm, Calissa seized his reclining shoulder with an eager hand. "It was like my childhood days, when the Manse was surrounded by gardens and alive with the best bards and dancers. Every night there was a feast. Merchants and squires dealt freely here then, not just scowling men-at-arms! The land was happier, too."

Deciding to ignore her slight to men-at-arms Conan urged Calissa on. "That was when the Lady Heldra was alive?"

"Aye." She nodded sadly. "Long ago. Even Favian is too young to remember it well. Things have changed so since then. My father. . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"The baron was not so harsh a ruler aforetimes?" Conan asked.

"No, he was a fair-haired knight, a hero. And Mother was like a sylph, teasing him out of his deepest glooms. Oh, she was not weak; they matched each other at javelins and rode together to the hunt. But in her woman's way she brought a warmth to the house and to this whole realm. Her death was a great loss, a great crime. . . ." Calissa paused again. "If she had lived, I would be a better woman."

"And yet your family is a long line of fierce warriors, hardened to death and suffering, is it not?"

"Yes, so it is said. That old legendry stands us in good stead from time to time, when it is needed to muster the peasants out to fight. Nemedia is a turbulent land, with barons who wax surly and greedy. Unlike some provinces, Dinander is not safely hedged by mountains and rivers." She shook her head, drawing her long hair across her shoulders; the red of her tresses was so deep that it seemed black in the dimness, its color visible only where moonlight brushed its soft waves. "Still," she went on, "any good ruler would rather live at peace. To my father, this heritage of blood and steel has become an obsession, I fear."

"And with it, the mystic guardianship of the Einharson forebears?" Conan asked.

"Fah, superstitious nonsense!" Calissa's eyes flared at him from beneath her tent of moon-burnished hair. "I care nothing for that! I hope Favian will forget that rigamarole too, once he becomes baron. I can help him rule wisely; I have ideas for improving trade in the province, and for tithing the landholders more equitably-things my father would never consider, because they swerve from tradition. As a female, my voice in matters of state is ignored; they do not even intend to include me in tomorrow's provincial tour! But through Favian, I will have some influence."

"And so you creep to your brother's bed to counsel him privily by night." Conan stroked the noble maid, who had stretched out alongside him in her restlessness. "A wonder that you dare to. He strikes me as a turbulent fellow, more engrossed in his drinking and raping than in good government."

She flashed an irritated glance at him, but then nodded reluctantly, even wistfully. "Aye, 'tis true, we are not so close as we once were. As Favian approaches his majority, he tries out more and wilder excesses. As I do, too. But all of it is mere bridling at our father's overharsh control of us!" She adjusted her position on the cushion, propping her fists beneath her chin before speaking further.

"If Baldomer would just accept Favian and reassure him, and let him take on the trappings of power a little at a time. But try as he might, Favian never could please father. Now, I fear, he has given up entirely." Calissa stretched beneath the soothing pressure of Conan's hands on her robed back and laughed softly, with a note of sadness. "Strange, the great baron treasures his son and heir above all else, and launches elaborate schemes for his protection, yet he treats him with contempt, never showing him the least hint of fatherly love."

"Be that as it may," Conan muttered, "if I am any judge, Dinander is in for a wild ride once Favian's hand wields the whip."

"Bodyguard, you are a mere savage. And a youth at that, with no understanding of rulership." Calissa spoke chidingly, yet she lay still under his caressing hands. "It is in a great lord's nature to behave . . . erratically, because of the pressures and prerogatives of his office. How can anyone be expected to use power ably if she or he never tests its extremes, even those extremes that command the life and death of one's followers?"

Her words, he noted, were occasionally interrupted by little purrs of satisfaction at his continuing massage. Even so, she spoke on casually of worldly matters. "You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that some of the most righteous and well-loved rulers are also the most eccentric, even licentious, of men. Of these, our own King Laslo in Belverus looms foremost, with a harem of varicolored and variously sexed slaves for his amusement. Few of us highborn folk are free of these foibles, as you will learn. Few of us are easy in mind.

"By contrast with some others, my brother's carousings and philanderings are mild. Besides, young women of almost any rank seek him out first. He is comely"-she twisted her slim back to gaze up at Conan-"even as you are."

"Aye, no doubt you like my mein." Conan's fingers reached forth to brush aside dark strands of hair from Calissa's eyes. "How much of your liking, I wonder, is due to my likeness to him?"

"Careful, bodyguard! Even you can push matters too far. But now this idle gossip should cease." She rolled over on the couch. "And here, this smothering cloak impeded us before. Off with it!"

Calissa arched her back, squirmed out of her enfolding robe and tossed it to the floor. As she did so a wondrous, moonlit landscape opened before Conan's eyes.

CHAPTER 7

Favian's Ride

"Yonder lies Edram Castle, in the meanders of the Urlaub River." Durwald, the marshal, sitting straight in his saddle, slowed his horse to pass the word to those riding in the chariot close behind him. "We should easily be there by sunset."

"Yes, sire, thank Einhar!" Shaking the reins, Swinn, the charioteer, ran his team up along the high bank of the road to improve his view of the valley. "At least the hills and haunted fells are behind us, with their accursed rocky goat-paths!"

Conan, grasping the bronze rail to steady himself, stood up from his seat on the leather-padded plank athwart the chariot. Looking over Swinn's rounded shoulder and across the rumps of the horses, he saw the structure that Durwald referred to: a low, broad water-castle at the center of the valley below.

Built of yellow stone, it was laid out as five interlinked round towers topped by conical roofs, and enclosing a central courtyard. It stood on the opposite bank of the Urlaub, in a sharp bend of the blue, snaking river. Its position commanded the waterway on three sides; it also controlled a triple-arched stone bridge that spanned the river almost under the shadow of its turrets.

A strong keep for a rural squire,, Conan decided. And a rich one, judging by the lush green farm fields on either side of the river and the dense sprawl of cottages just before the bridge. It would be a long way upstream to the first river ford, he guessed, so whoever held Edram Castle held a stranglehold on the valley and a reliable source of tariffs and tolls.

The place was not far ahead by the road, which dropped swiftly from its present crest to wind through sparse-forested foothills and out into the level valley. At the very least, the castle promised a more comfortable sleeping-place than the drafty hill-cavern of the previous night, with its starlit serenade of owls and wolves among the crags and its long, weary watches against the threat of brigands.

Not that the nobles, with forty of Baldomer's picked horsemen formed up behind them, had much to fear from robbers or rebels. Assassination was the baron's pet worry-concerned as he was not so much with his own life as with that of his son. Among the cavalry rode Favian in the guise of a common trooper, surly and aloof from his fellows and scarcely heeding his nominal officers. Ahead of the horsemen rolled the chariot driven by Swinn, Conan idling within and garbed in the lordling's armor. In the vanguard rode Baldomer, black-clad astride his white stallion, with Durwald and two other officers keeping him close company. Svoretta was absent, having remained behind in Dinander to twitch the ropes of rulership in the baron's absence.

"Here, Swinn, move aside!" As the chariot lurched forward, the castle was lost from view behind tree-clad foothills, and Conan gruffly addressed the charioteer: "Let me drive the beasts for a change. I've watched you do it these past ten leagues; it can't be difficult." Reluctant to rest his aching nether parts on the jolting bench again, he pressed toward the front of the rattling platform to displace the driver.

"Nay, barbarian!" With a flick of the reins, Swinn changed the chariot's motion suddenly, causing the northerner to stagger back to his seat. "I may have to bow and scrape to you when the crowds are watching, but not here! Anyway, driving these battle-cars is a touchy skill. And a noble one, at that."

Conan grunted ill-naturedly and started to arise again, but he thought better of it as the road began to drop steeply down a rocky hill and into a narrow, grassy glen. "If cart-driving is so noble a pastime, why do all the nobles hereabouts prefer to lounge on horseback?"

Swinn laughed. "Lord Favian himself would rather be here in my place. He is the expert charioteer in the royal family. Why do you think he is so ill-tempered of late?" He tossed a glance backward at the formation of cavalry behind them, with the princeling riding stiffly out of earshot. "Having you go as a passenger in his stead will make him seem a dolt to his future subjects."

"Well then, we can try to please him better." The road had leveled again, and Conan now felt safe in standing. "I will learn horse-chasing someday; it may as well be now!" He made a grab for the reins, jostling the stocky charioteer to one side.

"Here, now, barbarian . . . aah . . . ugh!" Resisting Conan's shove, Swinn jerked suddenly rigid, then sprawled against his surprised passenger. Looking past the charioteer's shoulder, Conan saw that a long arrowshaft had driven deeply into the man's back, piercing the black steel armor as though it were parchment. As he watched, astonished, another shaft struck the charioteer's rigid body from the opposite direction; it had sufficient force to pass through both breastplate and breast, dinting Swinn's scapular plate outward with its point. Other projectiles were thudding into the wood of the chariot or clattering against the metalwork. One of them smote the back of Conan's helm, rattling it against his skull and causing white starbursts to bloom before his eyes.

A little way down the road a horse screamed and toppled: Durwald's. The chariot lurched and bounded as its team left the road to avoid Baldomer's stallion, which was staggering aside, an arrow standing out from its splendid white neck. Shouts and screams sounded before and behind the car as shafts rained out of the brushy woods that fringed the clearing. Belatedly a cavalry officer began rasping orders to the milling horsemen in the rear.

Conan was encumbered by the body of the charioteer, whose eyes were already glazing over. Letting Swinn slump heavily to the floor, he jerked back the reins in an effort to control the horses. Frightened, they reared and jostled backward, tilting the chariot up sharply and almost spilling Conan out among the wildflowers and fieldstones of the glen. Clinging to the rail, he let go the reins, nearly falling to his knees as each of the three horses tried to bolt in a different direction.

Then a hand steadied his shoulder and a voice rang in his ear. "Get your feet under you, if you want to ride! I'll soon have these brutes in order." It was Favian, capable-looking in his plain black cuirass and uncrested helm, who had leaped from his mount onto the platform. After kicking out the riding-bench, and Swinn's body after it, he groped among the horses' lashing tails to find the reins.

"Here now! Hang on tight and give me room!" The leather straps suddenly came alive in Favian's hands. With the horses surging forward as one, the chariot bounded across the road and into the meadow on the far side.

Conan stood gripping the rail, his knees bent to absorb the ever-increasing shocks of the wheels. He had assumed that the lordling would turn back up the road to flee the ambush, but he saw with alarm that they were rolling instead straight toward the brushy forest margin whence the arrow-fire was heaviest. As he stared, a shaft flew out of the foliage at him, swishing between the heads of horses and riders alike, almost tickling them with its feather fletching.

"Thank your northern snow-sprites for the jouncing of this wagon," Favian declared. "It makes us a trickier target!"

Conan said nothing, instead unclenching one hand from the rail to grasp the sword at his waist.

"Nay, nay, you fool, not the saber! The javelin!" Urging the horses to greater speed, Favian shouted exuberantly at his passenger: "That is a one-handed weapon with the range you'll need. Aye, there you are!" he added as Conan reached behind him, where the short spears were butted upright in quivers at the chariot's sides. The Cimmerian hefted one of them and braced another ready in the hand that still clutched the rail.

"All right, man! Now duck low!" Instead of wheeling the rumbling vehicle around to halt before the trees, as Conan expected he would, Favian astonished his passenger by continuing straight ahead into the brushy woods. The sunlit wave of green lashed into the Cimmerian's face, sliding across the defensively raised shaft of his javelin. Abruptly then, tall trunks and shadows loomed on all sides, sheltering cloaked figures who fled left and right before the plunging horses.

One of the dim figures wheeled, raising his longbow to speed an arrow at the chariot. Reflexively Conan's arm lashed out, and his javelin flew, piercing the man's unarmored chest. The ambusher crumpled and fell aside, the Cimmerian never noticing where the arrow went.

"Hiee, you have the knack!" Favian's shout was wild as he veered his team around a looming tree trunk. "I shall hunt them out and you shall slay them! There's one!"

Conan readied another spear, but it was not needed, for the fleeing man tripped on a fallen branch a dozen paces ahead of the horses. In an instant the animals were on top of him, stamping his body deep into the forest loam. Conan felt a sickeningly soft impact as the metal-clad wheel passed over the victim.

"Hee-yaa, another dead! They are scattering, the cowardly traitors! But be careful here." Favian crouched low and Conan sprawled helplessly against the rail as the chariot bounced over a fallen trunk bulking almost as high as the tall wheelhub. Then followed more giddy lurches and dips; the horses were plunging through a tangle of brush and downed trees, making it hard for Conan to regain his feet. The last impact was over human bodies, to the accompaniment of screams, as Favian ran his chariot over two more cloaked forms huddling behind the windfall.

Then, gathering speed, they were out among widely spaced tree trunks again; even so, Conan frequently found it necessary to duck under lashing foliage. Hearing shouts and hoofbeats from behind, he risked a glance backward to see that Baldomer's horsemen were entering the forest, riding down other ambushers. Yet the riders themselves were vulnerable; as Conan watched, one took an arrow in the throat and two more were knocked from their saddles by low-hanging limbs.

"Fear not, the glory will be ours!" Favian gave his full attention to the glade ahead. "A chariot can go places a horseman would never dare, because it is so much lower to the ground!"

So saying, he lashed his team down a tangled, tortuous rabbit trail in pursuit of a pair of fleeing ambushers. Conan clutched the rail and crouched low as the horses strained and surged before him, their tails close to flicking him in the face. Under Favian's demonic guidance, the wheeled platform seemed to spend more time in the air than it did on the ground, caroming past man-sized trunks and bounding over massive roots, threatening at each jolt to catapult its passengers high into the treetops.

"Hiee, that's it! Turn and fight, you skulking coward!" Favian bore down on one of the fugitives, who had stopped between two trees to aim an arrow at his pursuers. But the jolting chariot was an unstable target and the shaft went wide. The lordling, in his turn, slewed the battle-car close under the trees to give Conan a clear stab.

The javelin took the man in the armpit as he turned to run. Conan did not intend to relinquish the spear, for his others had been lost in the wild chase, and so he held on to it, dragging his victim a dozen paces through the forest before the weapon pulled free of the body. Then he raised it to face his last quarry.

This one had gained the top of an ancient, fallen log too high for even the baron's son to surmount. The hooded figure held no bow and gazed back for only an instant before vanishing on the far side. From that glimpse, Conan gained a strange conviction; he felt it as a pang deep in his stomach. The oval face coldly regarding him had been that of a female.

"Damned rebel snake-kisser! I'll have your head yet!" Favian, still hot in pursuit, drove his team on a long detour around the upended roots of the great tree. There he halted, cursing, at the brush-choked bank of a stream that splashed among boulders at the floor of the forested ravine. Conan stepped down from the platform and walked to the torrent's brink. There was no sign of the woman; the talking of the water masked any sound of her flight.

As he returned to the chariot and helped Favian attend to the half-dead, frothing horses, gruff voices and the cracking of twigs heralded the arrival of mounted troopers. They came at a walk, winding through the trees with no great urgency other than that raised by the visible agitation of their leader, Baron Baldomer, who sat astride a common soldier's horse.

"Favian! Here he is! Come on, men, this way," he cried with a wave of his arm. "Boy, what do you mean by chasing away so far afield?"

"Father, we were slaying rebels-" the lordling began.

"Well, I will not have it! You yourself might have been slain, and the royal line of Dinander cut short!" The baron jerked his horse aside in irritation, halting the animal before the chariot. "Henceforth stay at my beck and call."

Marshal Durwald, also riding a commandeered mount, reined up close behind him. "It was a respectable feat of charioteering just to get here, Milord! After all, the young lord did scatter the rebels, and he dispatched quite a number of them along the way."

"Aye. This barbarian shows an able hand with the javelin." Baldomer nodded in grudging respect. "No doubt you did the driving, Favian? I thought as much." He frowned, shaking his head. "Well, someday you must learn to be a true commander and lead your troops honorably, from the back of a fine steed."

Making no answer to his father, Favian went to fill his helmet with stream water for the horses. But as the lordling turned away, Conan saw that his features were distorted in anger, and wet with unmanly tears.

Meanwhile, a lesser officer came riding up through the trees to make his report to the baron. "Eleven rebels dead, sire. None left alive for questioning, sad to say. We think that five or six others may have escaped, but it will be dangerous to track them in this forest."

"Nay, there is no need. Squire Ulf knows the district and will tell us how best to strike at them." Baldomer turned to Durwald. "These were a desperate lot. Likely these were the snake-cultists we have heard tell of, judging by their hoods. Wouldn't you say?"

The marshal nodded uncertainly, watching the baron as if to gauge the risk of frankness. "'Tis hard to tell, indeed, Milord. The cloaks were obviously meant to hide their identity. But the few heads we now have may lead us to more in coming days." He raised a hand to tug his mustache. "I saw no sign of cult fetishes or distinctive markings among the dead rebels."

"They were brigands of the worst stripe, 'tis clear, since they shot our horses!" Baldomer shook his head in righteous wrath, his scarred eye glinting fiendishly. "The swine will pay for their murder of those fine, costly animals!"

"Indeed, sire. They were not simple thieves, or they would have spared the horses."

"Ah well, there is no telling what incites these turbulent types to revolt and take up heinous religions." Baldomer wheeled his horse impatiently. "But come, let us get back to the road and on our way. Drive this wagon out of here if you can, Favian; follow us closely. Squire Ulf will be able to tell us more about these rebels once we reach Edram Castle."

CHAPTER 8

River of Blood

"And so you see, it was a costly skirmish on both sides." Baldomer paused in his account to sip wine from a silver goblet. "We lost a dozen of our troops and some of our best horses to their first arrow-flight. Yet in turn we routed the ambushers and slew most of them. Even my son, in his disguise as a commoner, took some small part in the fray." The baron spared a glance across the littered board toward Favian, who sat within an arched window of the circular dining hall.

The lordling, resting taciturn with one foot propped before him on the brick sill, did not return the look, nor did he make reply. Nursing his wine-cup, the young aristocrat continued gazing out across the slow-rolling river. He cut a dashing figure even in the office of a common cavalryman.

His double, Conan, sat easily at the broad oaken table, tearing at the remains of a roasted boar the others had long since lost interest in. The Cimmerian had recently accomplished a brief, stiff masquerade before the rural populace. He had passed from his chariot through Edram Castle's yard and up into the keep, suffering no further attempts on his life. Now he remained with the nobles* decked in his borrowed armor but with no pretense at nobility.

Their host, the rotund Squire Ulf, shifted his leather-armored body in his capacious chair to face Baldomer. "Aye, Milord, your grave inconvenience is a sorrow to me. 'Tis a shame, I fear, to this entire district. Would that my men and I had ridden forth earlier and met your party higher in the hills. Would that I myself had taken the arrow that slew your noble steed!" He clutched the flesh of his broad belly as if it had been pierced by a clothyard shaft. "But the infamy is done. I promise to initiate harsh measures against the rebels at once!"

"We might assist you in that," Baldomer said, with a glance aside at Marshal Durwald. "You have some idea, I take it, as to a local source of this mutiny?"

"Oh, aye, Milord!" Ulf nodded vigorously, setting his stubbled jowls aquiver. "Heresy and treachery lurk in many quarters these days, especially since the resurgence of the snakecults; I have more to tell you on that score later." The stout squire shook his long, unwashed blond locks in fervent commiseration with his baron before continuing.

"Even locally there are nests of viperish disloyalty. One village in particular, a mere half-day's ride from here, I have long yearned to chastise myself, even before this latest offense. If you could send part of your elite force to help in the task, Milord, 'twould be most welcome. I can say with some certainty that these miscreants had a hand in the cowardly attack on your party."

"Ah, that is what I like to hear!" The baron nodded approvingly, with another sidelong glance at Durwald. "A plan of action, without posing endless riddles and hypotheses. We would be glad to assist you, Squire."

"Aye, Milord, but we should act carefully." Durwald regarded the fat squire with some doubt. "If you recall, we noticed that the weave of the ambushers' cloaks had the look of city workmanship, perhaps from Dinander or Numalia. It may be that the rebels preceded us here from the west."

"Aye, but undoubtedly they had local support -else why did they not fall on us deep in the hills? And where did they flee?" Baldomer shook his head, a frown setting his mouth askew. "Nay, Marshal, there are times when it is best simply to act, swiftly and decisively, with no hint of hesitation."

He swiveled his vulpine gaze back to Ulf. "I shall send a score of horse-troopers to aid you, Squire. My son, Favian, shall lead them-properly this time, in the uniform of a cavalry officer, with a keen blade in his hand and a strong mount between his legs. You will ride along, Durwald, to oversee the boy. Take the barbarian, of course, to make sure no harm comes to my heir."

"Aye, Baron," Durwald said resignedly.

"Thank you, sirs!" Squire Ulf bowed unctuously, his small eyes calculating swiftly. "We should dispatch the troops before dawn tomorrow. I myself will abide with you here at the castle, so as to ensure your safety and comfort."

Baldomer nodded magnanimously and surveyed the room. If he expected his son to thank him for the boon of a cavalry command, he was disappointed. Favian only glanced briefly at them all with a look of disinterest, then returned his gaze to the river.

After a moment of awkward silence, Durwald spoke. "You said you had further information, Squire, on the activities of the snakecult?"

"Better than that," Ulf gloated. "I have a captive!" He clasped his hands together, savoring the others' earnest attention. "Recently I sent a party of tax gatherers eastward to Varakiel to collect overdue shares from a balky landholder. They found his tracts abandoned and his croft aflame, with no sign of the serf-master himself. But in the forest nearby they spied the marauding rebels, and captured one. A devout snakeworshiper by any measure, though perhaps caught up only recently in the hysteria."

"And where is this prisoner?" The baron rose from his seat, restless for action. "How soon can we see him?"

"This very moment, if you like, Lord Baldomer. We kept him alive especially for you." With a grunt of effort, Squire Ulf hove himself up from his seat. "Though I warn you, he has not proven cooperative; the power of Set is strong within him. Both water and fire have been applied, and each has failed to drive the devils out."

"I hope you have left enough of him for us to question," Durwald muttered. He rose to follow his baron and Squire Ulf toward a side door of the dining hall. Conan went too, taking with him a couple of ripe quinces from a fruit bowl on the table. Behind him, Favian left his window seat to trail along after them.

The hall opened onto a broad parapet stretching between two of the castle's five towers. The sun shone bright on yellow bricks fretted with the black, angular shadow of the battlement. The Sky was clear blue, dotted with white puffs of cloud driven before a fresh breeze; beyond the river stretched fields of emerald green, with the yellow thatches of the town huddled at the bridgehead.

Ulf led them past a large, wheeled ballista, one of several standing ready to sink riverborne boats or drive attackers from the bridge. Waddling past racks of stones and tar pots kept nearby as ammunition, the stout squire approached the next tower. He halted before a pair of sentries standing rigid at each side a bolted, metal-clad door.

"We use the north tower as a guardhouse," Ulf explained to his guests while undoing the latch. "The foundations of Edram Castle are too wet from river floods to provide us a livable dungeon. But I think you will find these facilities well-equipped."

He pushed the door inward on its grating hingepost and ushered them into a room that felt warm with the heat of a brazier. Shards of daylight fell in through arrow-slits in the walls. Stable harnesses and metalworking implements, incongruous here in the guard tower, arrayed the curving walls; other devices of obscure function littered the floor.

At the room's center hung a great spoked wheel, suspended at an angle by a chain from the ceiling; lashed to it, spread-eagled, was a half-conscious peasant youth. Where his rough garb had been cut or torn away, his skin bore marks of scalding, charring and other abuses. His wan boyish face stared upward with a fixed expression, unresponsive to the men's arrival.

"He makes no utterances except that of weird curses," the squire explained. "Yet when he had strength, he fought like a very fiend." He waved a hand invitingly over the brazier of fluttering pink-and-gray ashes. "Here, Milord, try your skill with the hot pincers. Mayhap you will have more success than we did."

The baron ignored Ulf, eying the captive with skepticism and evident disappointment. "A mere child! Not a very formidable rebel."

"Have him say 'Kaa nama kaa lajerama,'" Favian remarked from the doorway. "No follower of the snake-god can utter those words and live."

Marshal Durwald leaned over the prisoner, swiftly assuming the experienced interrogator's role of a succoring friend. "Come, lad, do not fear! I am not here to hurt you." He pinched the boy's cheeks together so as to force open his jaws, and peered inside. Abruptly he released him, and wheeled upon Ulf in outrage. "Here now, how is he supposed to tell us anything? Some fool has disfigured his mouth!"

"Nay, nay, that is part of the snakecult ritual!" Shaking his head anxiously, the squire seized an unheated pair of tongs from the wall and leaned over his captive. "They slit their own tongues, so they can utter the sacred syllables of Set." He delved into the slack mouth for the tongue, but instantly jumped back and dropped his tongs as the victim came snarling to life at the intrusion.

"Hathassa fa Sathan!" the pale face spat at them. "Sa setha efanissa, na!" As the peasant lad cursed, the watchers gained eerie glimpses of his forked tongue, lashing like that of a serpent. Though the voice rasped with startling vehemence at first, the blaze in the pale eyes swiftly faded. The head thumped back weakly on the wooden spokes, and the slim body sagged even lower in its bonds.

"What did he say?" Baldomer asked, gazing around at the others' blank looks. "Does anyone know the language?"

"'Tis no local dialect, Milord. Nor even a human one, I would guess." Ulf shrugged. "I do not know his meaning, but I know one thing: I shall check my boots carefully for vipers in the morning!"

Conan, lingering near the half-open door, had long since lost the appetite for his second quince; now he set it aside on a charred table. He pressed forward behind Favian, a little surprised at the anger tapping in his temples and not sure of just what action it boded. Memories of the lockup in Dinander were rankling at him, renewed by the unmanly doings before him in this smoky cell.

But one glance at the prisoner showed that there was no point in intervening. The last remnant of life had quit the emaciated serf, whose eyes now glared sightlessly upward. Feeling soiled and somewhat queasy, Conan turned and made his way out onto the sun-bright battlement.

The next morning a double chain of horsemen rode abreast across the meadows of the Urlaub Valley. They did not follow the river upstream, for it meandered too widely to mark a sensible route. Nor did they use any road, for their ride had detoured in the first hour after dawn to the fringe of a forest tract. There they gathered twigs and bound them together into faggots, which they tied in bunches behind their saddles.

Conan, by virtue of his noble armor, was exempt from carrying wood, as were the officers. He rode in his cavalry officer's equipage with Durwald and Lord Favian, near the center of the line. The two less-aristocratic riders flanked the young lord to protect him, and Favian in turn was sullen, so there was little conversation.

But the lordling made a show of commanding the others, frequently ordering a brisker pace and savagely rebuking any trooper who failed to stay in line. The twenty cavalry supplied by Baldomer were better at maintaining their ranks than were Ulf's men; these struck Conan as lax and surly, especially the weasel-faced guide who rode beside Durwald.

As the morning sun angled toward noon over the hazy eastern plain, the cow pastures beneath the horses' hooves changed to lush grainfields. A curving line of trees and brush ahead signaled the position of the river. One of the Dinander cavalry, a farmer by origin, voiced dismay at the broad swath of rich oats they were trampling down. At this sentiment the others laughed and hooted.

Harshly, Favian commanded them to silence. But it mattered little; a moment later, at murmured instructions from Durwald and the guide, the lordling called the troop to a halt. He signaled Ulf's men, who carried torches and a firepot, and waited while they set their brands alight. Then he drew his sword and shouted the order to charge.

At first it was impossible to see their goal; the guide reassured the officers at the top of his voice that it lay straight ahead. Conan let his horse dash forward on faith with the others, concentrating on keeping his perch in the awkward, bulky saddle.

The drumming of the hooves was muffled by soft soil and knee-high grain, but there was no real obstacle to their flying advance. The rich fields of river bottomland, lacking hedges and walls, were divided only by low, weedy mounds that flew beneath the horses' swift leaps.

Suddenly, just ahead, roughly clad figures were seen looking up from their labor in the fields at the approaching tumult. The peasants dropped their hoes and fled in panic. Conan, to his surprise, heard the steely whisper of swords being drawn all along the plunging line, amid the baying of vengeful cries. A moment later the unresisting farmers had been cut down or ridden down without so much as a slowing of the horsemen's charge.

Ah well, these Hyborians play rough, Conan told himself. They were even quicker to slay one another than they were to slay strangers, he had observed. He felt relieved that none of the wretches had come before his own steed's churning hooves.

Nevertheless he was in the thick of it, and had better be alert. Having drawn his blade along with the others, he now had to lend more attention to staying astride his plunging steed one-handed.

Soon the riders found themselves among scattered orchard trees and outbuildings. Their formation curved and widened to encompass one flank of the village, which lay ahead on a slightly raised area of ground near the riverside. The surprise of their appearance was total, it appeared, for more frightened figures could be seen ahead scurrying for shelter. The pace of the horses slowed, but their gallop grew rougher and louder on the hard-packed earth.

The center of the column thundered into the main square of the town, with Favian yelling and brandishing his sword in the lead. Conan followed some distance behind, his horse veering to avoid the fallen bodies of villagers cut down by the first wave of attackers. Screams and terror-stricken cries sounded beyond as other peasants were overtaken by horsemen or flushed out of hiding.

Conan knew he had been a fool to expect some sort of baronial proclamation or organized search. This was forthright slaughter, with men, women and children alike tasting the steel. The local squire's troops were particularly zestful at it, even hacking with lusty shouts at tethered, yelping animals. The men of Dinander slew more efficiently, urged on by Favian's shouted commands. Red images of the sack of Venarium flashed before the northerner's eyes, but here the zest was somehow tainted. This wretched place did not even offer the promise of plunder.

Conan would not have imagined that the killing of Nemedians would ever be a source of concern to him; now he felt growing unease. But he did not intend to forfeit his life, either to rebels or to Baldomer's troops. Me dismounted from his horse to reduce his jeopardy and led it through the smoky turmoil, telling himself that this was not his fight.

The torches had finally come into play. The green crops in the fields could never have been set alight, but the parched edges of thatched roofs flared brightly at the merest touch of flame. Under Favian's supervision, a handful of troopers was setting the bundled twig fascines alight, forcing open the doors and shuttered windows of the huts and hurling the torches inside. This brought cries of alarm from those still cowering within; any who emerged were cut down by waiting pillagers or flying horsemen. Conan looked in vain for a sign of armed resistance. He decided that this miserable hamlet could hardly be the den of rebel activity that Squire Ulf had described.

Then his attention was caught by something else: a face glimpsed through the gap between two burning huts. In spite of the smoke, it was eerily familiar.

Abandoning his horse, Conan rushed between the buildings, one arm raised to fend off the hot vapors pouring out of the smoldering eaves. Beyond the row of huts he paused, blinking watering eyes, and then spied several figures disappearing into brushy willows near the riverbank. He followed, holding his sword at the ready.

Only a few paces into the brush, a peasant attacked him. The sandaled, jerkined man wielded only a pitchfork, whose wooden tines Conan battered aside with a swipe of his saber. His blade's recoil caught the man at the base of his skull. As his opponent went down, Conan realized that he had used the flat of his sword, likely doing no permanent injury. Still, the fellow did not stir as Conan stepped over him.

A little way beyond, at the swampy river-edge, four more fugitives were struggling with a tiny boat of wood and hides concealed among the reeds. The eldest of them turned to regard him: a fit-seeming woman clad in a familiar-looking cloak, her cowl thrown back to reveal her long-plaited blond hair. It was yesterday's ambusher, he knew-the one who had escaped him in the forest. She was accompanied by three children of the village.

One of them, a gangling, smudge-faced boy, turned from the coracle and started toward Conan, clutching a broken-bladed knife. The woman grabbed the child by the collar of his serf-shirt and dragged him back to her side. "See to the boat," she told him in firm Nemedian accents. She reached to her waist, drew a long, straight dagger and coolly awaited her pursuer.

A new crashing sounded in the brush nearby; Conan turned to see one of Baldomer's troopers, a middle-aged, mustached veteran, leading his horse through the reeds. "Ah, a country lass, and nearly flown the nest! We shall have her to ourselves, eh, fellow? . . . uuh!"

The man staggered back, his horse whinnying in fright, as Conan's saber struck him beneath the ill-fitted lower edge of his breast armor. The veteran raised his weapon valiantly, showing stoic resistance to the pain of his sundered abdomen; but he had lost any chance of survival at Conan's first, speed-blurred attack. The Cimmerian's second stroke, a deft slash to the unarmored back of his leg, made him topple; then a deep, carefully aimed stab through the neck-hole of his cuirass left him lying in the mud, twitching his last. The horse shied back into the brush, rolling its eyes fearfully at the smell of its master's blood.

Conan turned back to the girl, only to see that she and the others had freed their boat and were pushing off into the open channel, out of his vision. "Wait," he started to call, but the word died in his throat. He strode to a place where the brush sprouted thinner and watched the coracle drift out of sight around a stand of trees downstream. Intent on her steering, the woman in the stern did not look back.

He turned his gaze upstream. Along the pebbled shore where slower currents moved, the clear water was clouded by lazy, red tendrils: blood from the massacre of the town. Looking farther up the curving stream-channel, the view was even grimmer; where the water reflected the red leaping flames and smoke-veiled sky, the whole reach of the river seemed to be stained crimson.

Then another feature of the scene caught the Cimmerian's eye, causing him to stand cursing while almost laughing in bitter disbelief. At either side of the river, low wooden docks had been constructed. Each bore a rude windlass, the one on the village side now brightly aflame. Towropes, probably slashed by the invaders, trailed far out into the rolling current, while in the shallows at the foot of the village there floated a wide, flat-bottomed wood boat, staved in and swamped. A ferry it was, one that must have served farmers in this part of the valley. Doubtless it had accounted for the healthy growth of the place, until now.

Muttering darkly, Conan turned from the river and strode up the bank. As he went, some of the haze of the town's burning seemed to hang before his eyes and tinge his vision redly. He found his way through the weeds and broken sheds near the water's edge, moving toward the cries and fire-roarings of the town.

He paused just once behind a burning cottage; there he dragged one of Squire Ulf's ravagers off of a struggling village girl. He slashed the man's throat with the keenest part of his saber, near the hilt, and left the body in the weeds while the maid scampered away downriver.

Then he strode onward amid smoke and swaggering forms. At the heart of the inferno he found Durwald, still sitting atop his mount, watching Favian hoarsely urge the attackers on. The lordling was telling his troops to heap fresh faggots and debris onto the flaming huts, to make sure they were burned to the ground.

Conan strode to the marshal and glared up at him. "Durwald, I know why we are here!"

The aristocrat gazed down on the Cimmerian and his blood-smeared, restless blade with a melancholy look on his face. His own sword lay ready across the pommel of his saddle.

"A ferry! That was the rebellion Squire Ulf so deplored, the uprising that marked this place for destruction-a wooden boat competing with his bridge and cutting into his tolls and revenues!"

Durwald shook his head in mute annoyance, saying nothing.

"Will you stand for it?" Conan raged at him. "Are you a warrior, or a butcher of innocents?"

The marshal reined his horse away from the shouting Cimmerian, his face betraying no emotion. His eyes were red and streaming, as were the eyes of most of those present, but whether the tears came from the smoke hanging heavy in the air or from bitter shame, none would ever know.

CHAPTER 9

Death's Eager Bride

The city gates of Dinander reared tall on either hand. Built of heavy square timbers bound with black iron straps, they loomed as formidable as the dark stone walls that flanked them. Doubtless they were as efficient at holding unwilling citizens in as they were at keeping invaders out. But today the great doors stood wide, and the main avenue beyond was scattered with townsfolk sporting festive garb in the early afternoon sun. These pressed back swiftly out of the roadway, their faces stiff with respect and habitual fear, as Baron Baldomer Einharson's column of horsemen entered the city.

The baron, riding just behind the four armored cavalry who formed the advance guard, sat imperiously astride a high-stepping sorrel gelding in lieu of his slain stallion. Close after him rolled a chariot carrying Chief Marshal Durwald and driven, as any country lout would openly have declared, by the baron's dashing son, Favian.

But the country lout would have been wrong, for the charioteer was truly a northern barbarian decked in Favian's best armor. Baldomer's real son rode near the head of the main cavalry column, the steel beaver of his helm clamped down across his handsome, mortified features.

The purpose of this double imposture would surely have puzzled the simple-minded countryman. There rode Baldomer, plainly identifiable, a ready target to his ill-wishers. His finely turned and brightly polished armor was scarcely more proof against a skillful bowshot than was the bulky plate of a common cavalryman. Why, then, should he conceal his son's identity, and not his own?

The answer, the simple farmer would have concluded, had more to do with the tortuous, mysterious workings of the noble mind than with plain sense. Aristocracy moves in strange ways, he would have muttered to himself.

And yet Lord Baldomer seemed content-if ever such a tranquil emotion could be read into his craggy, wild-featured face. Sitting straight and tall in his war saddle, he surveyed the sunlit-and-shadowed rows of his subjects. Hampered by the press of watchers, he gradually let his mount fall back alongside the chariot, which was navigating the streets adequately well under the Cimmerian's raw hand. At length Marshal Durwald, speaking from his passenger bench in the rumbling car, addressed the old warrior.

"Word of your early return must have preceded us, Milord, for your subjects to turn out like this." The marshal scanned the lines of citizens thoughtfully, nodding from time to time to a prominent townsman or his rosy-cheeked wife. "Either the courier we sent to Svoretta let it slip or the spymaster made it known through his agents."

"Aye. Would that the chief of espionage were not so shy of public appearances that he could meet us openly at the gate! Even old Lothian would be a welcome source of news." Baldomer kept his face immobile and aloof toward his watchers as he spoke. "Still, 'tis no great harm to be greeted by my subjects. I shall stop in the central square to inform them of the successful provincial tour, and of our decisive stroke against the rebels."

"It might be wise not to make too much of it, Milord," Durwald advised, a bitter smile crossing his face. "It was, after all, a small skirmish, not clearly aimed at any rebel faction."

Baldomer shook his head sharply and deepened his frown. "The death by sword of two of our crack troopers proves a significant military presence. And did your own officers not count the bodies of seventy-eight armed rebel sympathizers, man, woman and child? I call that a formidable victory."

Conan, his attention held by the task of guiding the chariot through the milling crowds, nevertheless gave an ear to the talk. He had been ill-tempered of late, especially today, as the impatient jerking of the reins in his hamlike fists revealed. The press of the street was growing thicker, and he was ever alert for a new ambush or an assassination attempt. The reserve and forced gaiety the Cimmerian sensed in the lines of watchers made him wonder whether the people really celebrated their baron's return, or his absence. For whatever reason, all the folk of the town seemed to be packed into the main street on this day.

To call Baldomer's abbreviated provincial tour a success was a gross lie, or an even grosser delusion, Conan knew. During the week in which their decimated party had lingered at Edram Castle before turning back to Dinander, he had never heard what report the baron had been given of the village massacre. He knew that the luckless river town was no rebel stronghold. And yet he had seen the girl there. ...

"Remember, sire, we found no lair of snake cultists during our assault." Durwald was still arguing with his obtuse baron. "They are the fastest-growing menace, and the one that should be dealt with promptly."

"True enough, Durwald. Now that I am returned, I shall ready a larger force with which to eradicate them." Baldomer paused in his talk, gazing ahead across his horse's tossing mane into the market square. "But what have we here, a wedding?"

Conan gave close attention to the handling of his team as the crowd widened and the avenue opened out before them. He had already driven the chariot past the Temple School, its marble porticoes lined with young male and female acolytes, and moments ago he had cleared the gray, battlemented municipal barracks, from whose murky grilles the stench of the town's dungeons wafted, especially sour in his memory. Now, just ahead of the procession, lay Dinander's cobbled central plaza.

Here tables heavy with food and drink had been set out, and the loiterers affected even more lavish dress, bright with lace and embroidery. Their activity centered about a spired, broadly arched building: the town's guild-hall.

"'Twould appear to be a marriage in the family of one of the chief artisans," Baldomer said from the saddle. "A goldsmith or jewel-tinker, to judge by this costly outlay."

"Yes, my liege." Durwald leaned near the chariot's trundling wheel to address his master more discreetly. "Now I recall that the banns were recently posted for the marriage of Evadne, daughter of old Arl, the silversmith, to a petty landholder."

"Evadne... is she not the one who teaches metalcraft at the priest-school, in defiance of the guilds' ban against females?"

Durwald nodded. "Aye, a headstrong wench."

"Indeed. I think I know what is afoot." Baldomer scanned the plaza grimly from his saddle. "It is an old trick of rich and disloyal families to stage their weddings when their baron is away, and so avoid the exercise of lordly privilege." He turned in his saddle and delivered a curt signal to Favian, leading the main body of cavalry. "Form up, there! You, boys, pull over to the steps," he ordered Conan. "'Twould be unmannerly not to stop and pay our respects at this celebration. Remember, you are my son."

Conan swung the chariot toward the steps of the guild-hall, scattering nervous watchers and toppling a decorative flower stand along the way with his brisk, inexpert handling of the team. Favian, as his cavalrymen clattered past on either hand to form a protective cordon, grumbled a curse at the Cimmerian for this display of poor driving in his name.

Conan, biting back an angry retort, stepped down from the platform and awaited Baldomer. To his surprise, the baron did not dismount, but spurred his steed straight up the low steps toward the building's stately entrance.

Conan strode after the horse's flicking red-brown tail as it passed through the high, intricately sculptured archway; his careless ill-temper, he realized, probably lent him a convincingly noble bearing. Durwald and Favian followed close behind, the latter leaving the visor of his cavalry helm down.

The interior of the guild-hall waited cavernous and dark, with a nest of bright candlelit hues at the depressed center of its floor, where the ceremony was underway. Those gathered in the gallery evinced a short, astonished silence at the baron's clopping invasion, before the obligatory bows rippled through the assembly. These were halfhearted, with some of the celebrants even risking disgruntled whispers to their neighbors or stiff-necked stares at the mounted lord. Others gazed at him with no evident emotion but fear.

The focus of the room's attention was, or had been, the brightly gowned man and woman at its center. They knelt facing one another, undergoing a marriage ritual danced by a garlanded priestess in tribute to the local harvest goddess, Ulla. Now, whether at the baron's intrusion or at the completion of the ceremony, the couple turned to face the warlord. The young, boyishly handsome groom's bearing toward his feudal lord was proud and a little resentful, Conan could see. The woman, although her face was thickly veiled in gem-sparkling lace, showed an impressive, calm resolution as she rose to her feet.

For some reason her bearing held the Cimmerian's attention. His lordly counterpart was likewise attracted to her, as he could tell sidelong from the forward attitude of Favian's visored head.

"Greetings, subjects!" Baldomer sat erect in the saddle, his voice ringing out sharply in the hushed gallery. "A sad thing it is that my travels on urgent state business have made me late for your nuptial feast! Nevertheless, I intend to be the first to wish you a long, fruitful union. Health, too, to your kinfolk gathered here." Shadowy in the candlelight, the baron's face scanned the inner circle of the newlyweds' families with unconcealed contempt, or so it seemed to Conan.

"I assure you that my royal line means to confer on your houses every honor and privilege that our city's customs dictate. My son, Favian, agrees with me in this." Conan started briefly at the weight of Baldomer's gauntleted hand on his shoulder, as the warlord leaned down from the saddle to clasp him in a show of fatherly pride. Uneasily the Cimmerian felt the gaze of the entire assembly shift toward him, not necessarily with affection.

"To this end," the baron resumed, "I proclaim to you: today, upon my homecoming, the doors of the Manse shall be laid open for a continuation of these festivities. My servants will set forth food and drink for all. Come as my guests. The presence of this young fellow and his stately bride is welcomed, nay, commanded!"

Baldomer finished his decree and began reining his horse around in the crowded space; meanwhile, murmurs and halfhearted shouts sounded in the gallery. Given the festive nature of the invitation, the response was far from the enthusiastic one Conan would have expected. The buzzing of the throng spread and deepened as the mounted baron herded his retinue before him through the archway and out into the sunlit plaza.

Once again the noise and bustle of entertainment filled the Manse. Down its stone hallways wafted the smells of cooked food and the tinny, martial-sounding echoes of trumpet music. Again Conan sat excluded from the feast, brooding in young Lord Favian's beshadowed room. He waited with his chair drawn half behind a window curtain, gazing out across the dusty sill. He watched pale ghosts of the festivities in the courtyard below, shadows thrown onto the inside of the outer, wall by the torchlight and candlelight issuing from the Manse's open doors.

The flitting shapes portrayed the indecisive state of his thoughts, dulled by frequent sipping from a wineflask beside his chair. He pondered many things: the loves and the enemies he had found in recent weeks, the splendor and ambition that lurked in the Manse, the wrath and shame of the evils he had witnessed here and elsewhere. Dissolved by wine, the turbid confusion of his brain had finally begun to drain down to hard particulars: how much longer to remain here, how much wealth to take when he left, how many lives to leave intact. ...

His musings were interrupted by a noise in the corridor outside. He placed his hand on his saber-hilt. The weapon was already clear of its sheath, propped against his chair arm. Yet the fumbling at the latch was unguarded, and Conan watched the faint outline of the doorway with no particular dread. If his heart quickened at all, it was only in hope of a repetition of the last tender meeting that had occurred in this chamber.

But when the door swung wide and the fumbler strode in, the candle that wavered in the intruder's hand showed that it was Favian, unhelmeted and clad in his second-best armor. He reacted in a slow, tipsy way to the sight of the outlander sprawled on his bed-furniture, then waved an arm toward the open door behind him.

"Begone, savage! This room's rightful owner has arrived, and he shall scarcely be needing your services tonight. Back to your stinking cellar!"

Hardly warmed by this speech, Conan did not move to obey. "I was told to wait out the night here. With the Manse full of revelers, your father and his spy-chief think the danger too great for you. Better that you crawl off to some other bed."

Instead of taking offense, Favian showed astonishment. "My father told you . . . ? Why, the old demon! He would never stoop so low!" With an air of distracted rage, the lordling took two steps toward Conan and stood lowering at him. "Cimmerian, you may have stolen my place and my name-my chariot, my clothes and my honor as well! But my manhood you shall not have!" He set down his candle and stood unsteadily, waving his fist in the air like a knight's flourished mace. "The oaths are cast, the decree is made, and the bride is commanded here to my pleasure. 'Tis my natural right and privilege-well-nigh the last one remaining to me. I will die rather than relinquish it!"

Faced with imminent assault by the intemperate lord, Conan arose and stepped back. "What mean you, drunken rogue?" He clutched his sword ready at his side, avoiding the empty-handed Favian more for his madness than for his menace. "A bride is to join you here tonight?"

"Aye, barbarian-by my noble right, the right of the seignior. What think you is the occasion of tonight's revel, anyway? Thank the gods there is still one lordly freedom my father cannot deny me, if only because of his own handicap." Favian stood arrogantly straight at the room's center, his gaze fixed scornfully on the Cimmerian. "As sole functioning heir of the Einharson line, I have first claim to each new virgin of the province on her wedding night."

Conan shook his head in astonishment, his sword sagging at his side. "Why, 'tis vile! What young woman would permit such a thing . . . and what groom?"

"Permit? What choice do they have?" Favian laughed disdainfully. "But you would be surprised, barbarian! Most girls yearn for it-the well-bred ones especially. They cherish the brief moment of splendor throughout the remainder of their staid, boring lives. And what commoner does not welcome a royal graft into his stunted family tree, if his bride is lucky enough to be chosen?"

Conan's head still shook, half now in bitter amusement. "A wonder that your father so guards his noble seed in your loins. Likely his heirs are spread over half of Nemedia!"

Suddenly ignoring Conan, Favian harkened to approaching steps and scrapes of armor in the corridor. "Enough prattle now, and away with you! I hear the favored one being brought hither to my tutelage. A proud and surly student, she strikes me to be. But she will learn well under her master's rod." With no further seeming of threat or insult toward Conan, he extended an arm to usher him out. "Come this way; an encounter in the corridor might be ... confusing. This passage leads to the rear postern stair." Drawing his hesitating bodyguard by one arm toward the room's hidden doorway, Favian flung aside the curtain and unlatched the panel.

The Cimmerian, his head buzzing with drink and confusion, let himself be shoved through without protest. In the narrow passageway beyond, as the door slammed and latched behind him, he found himself without light.

Well, no harm; he remembered the place from his earlier visit. With his armored elbows brushing both walls and his still-drawn sword probing before him like a cane, he moved toward the rear of the Manse.

The darkness was not total, he came to realize. A dim thread of light crossed the passage just ahead -from Calissa's door, he knew. On coming to it, he found that the portal was not tightly secured. The inner bolt was wedged only partway home, leaving the panel minutely ajar and allowing light to escape. Sliding his sword-blade into the crevice, he flicked up the hinged metal bar and pushed the door open.

The source of the light, he saw, was a three-branched candelabrum resting on a dressing-table at the opposite side of the room. Its triple radiance was reflected in the hazy, polished silver of a mirror hung beyond the table. Also thus hazily reflected were the pale, rosy charms of Calissa, who stood at the table laving herself from a golden basin. Her flimsy sleeping-gown was thrown down from her shoulders to hang loosely about her waist, and her hair cascaded in a rusty-red plume down her shapely back.

At the faint creak of the door she turned to regard her visitor. Her face showed gentle surprise rather than alarm, and she made no effort to cover herself in modesty. "Favian, dear brother! We have had no chance to talk . . ." Her face reddened then as she realized her mistake. Swiftly she took up an embroidered linen towel with which to cover her bosom, patting her skin dry where it glistened with washwater.

"Your brother is dallying with another beauty tonight, Calissa." Conan sheathed his sword and eased the door shut behind him, taking care to set the bolt securely this time. "He ousted me from my nightwatch in his room."

The noblewoman said nothing. Contriving to keep her towel across herself, she drew up the front of her nightdress and shrugged her arms into the sleeves. Her newfound shyness was not well served by the mirror at her back.

"Why cover up such splendor, girl?" Conan went across the woven carpet toward her. "'Tis nothing I have not seen before, and from a good deal nearer vantage. ..."

"Stop!" Groping behind her, Calissa snatched up a pair of haircutting shears, pointing them meaningfully before her. "Whatever license I may once have allowed you, you do not command me! Remember, you are still a minion in this house!"

"Aye, whatever you say." Conan stopped in the middle of the room, watching her push strands of raven-red hair out of her face. "But then, joinings between lords and their minions seem to be the way of this place."

"Enough!" Calissa stood against the dressing-table, waving her scissors as if to hold him at bay. "Should my brother decide to take every slattern of the town to his bed, what am I to do about it? Women are as nothing here. I am not at fault for his low tastes!"

"Why, girl, you are jealous! I did not know . . ." Conan started toward her again, then thought better of it and stayed in the middle of the carpet. " 'Tis a trial for you, I see, to be joined to such a mad family."

"Madness! Speak not of madness, lest you call it forth from places you did not expect. Remember, I, too, am an Einharson." Her eyes blazed darkly at him from her pale face. "But then, what does it matter, really? Madness is the common thing in the world. 'Tis widely abroad in the land. The madness of war and civil strife eventually sweep over us no matter what we do."

"You have heard more talk of rebellion, then," Conan offered. "Is it whispered here at court?"

Calissa laughed. "Are you so blind that you do not see the stirrings, even amidst all this ghastly merrymaking? The murmurs and the surly looks, the cruel remedies bandied by the nobles, the bridling of the commoners under my father's ever-harsher demands? And now we hear these stories of snakecults gathering power in the east."

"Aye, did they tell you of the ambush? 'Twas a crack company of archers that set on us in the woods," Conan told her gravely. "They might have slain us all, had we rallied less swiftly. ..."

"Fool, they will not stand a chance!" The noble girl was shaking her head in exasperated impatience, her hair thrashing darkly behind her. "My father, and you, and all his other troopers, will crush them, as the warlords of Dinander have dealt with such outbreaks over the centuries." She paused, placing a hand on her forehead. "What I despise most is the turmoil and the suffering, and the way our province will be thrown backward once again, with all the gains of my mother's day lost. The serfs will be as slaves, this city little better than a prison. How I dread it!"

Conan regarded her silently for a moment. "Aye, girl, I understand. I would not want any part of it myself." He paused as if silently debating within himself, then resumed: "Have you ever thought of leaving here? There are other cities than Dinander, most of them comelier and better-smelling."

"Nay, Conan, you do not understand." Wearily she tossed her scissors onto the dressing-table, where they clashed against bottles of ointment. "No matter what happens here, I must see it through and try to salvage something. My father will need me, and after him, my brother, though they would never admit it."

He nodded gravely. "As long as you do not expect me to do the same."

"Oh Conan, no. 'Tis better if you leave. But come here." She raised her arms to him, resting them on his black-plated shoulders as he faced her. "I am sorry I rebuked you so. As you say, these strange alliances are in the tradition of the Manse. All we can do is to make the best of... ummm." Her words were smothered as his mouth moved against hers.

A few moments later she disengaged from him, panting. "This is most awkward. Let me help you remove your armor-part of it at least!" She reached to his waist, her slim hands fumbling at his straps and buckles.

Conan's doze was interrupted by distant cries of wrath and pain. Slumbers in the Manse were never deep, he had learned; in a breath he was awake, squinting in the faint light of the last guttering candle stub. Surely the shouts had been more than an evil dream; surely they had issued from some nearby chamber.

Easing himself from the coverlets and the warm, silky weight of Calissa's limbs, he arose to don his boots and armor. There was no repetition of the blood-chilling yells, yet now he fancied that he heard clanks and footfalls in distant corridors-other sleepers roused by the same disturbance, perhaps. Strapping on his saber, he moved silently to the concealed door of his lover's room.

The narrow passage between the walls was dark, but he quickly located the entrance to Favian's room by touch. Unfamiliar-sounding voices, male and female, clashed faintly beyond it, and something in their tense, sharp accents signaled danger. Bracing his back against a wall of the narrow corridor, Conan placed the sole of his boot upon the door and pushed, forcing the panel inward with relentless, mounting pressure. Finally the bolt gave with a splintering crack, and the door swung open to thump against the wall.

Beyond the half-open curtain, murder glared up at him luridly: on the floor sprawled Favian, shirtless, his kilted, cavalry-booted legs tangled in a silken bedcover, his face and bared chest kissing the crimson pool outspread from his slashed throat. He had died in surprise, clearly, in the midst of his lordly pursuits; one of his slack hands still lay amid the coils of a many-tailed whip. His blood shone fresh in the brightly candlelit chamber, its scent coppery and cloying in the heated air.

Of the three persons standing at the room's far end, two were males: commoners in festive garb, yet armed, their swords drawn but unstained. The third, a woman, was busy wiping her glinting knife, and the red-smeared hand that held it, on the limp rag of Favian's discarded shirt. Clad in a torn yellow robe which Conan immediately recognized, she spoke hurriedly with the others. In spite of her brusque, businesslike manner, she was without a doubt the innocent young bride Favian had earlier awaited so eagerly in his chamber. But as she turned to stare at Conan's figure in the broken doorway, he knew with dawning certainty that she was already well-familiar to him-as the rebel girl he had glimpsed first in the forest ambush, later in the doomed river town.

CHAPTER 10

Succession by Steel

As Conan had burst open the door, the female assassin had turned. Her two companions fell silent to gawp at him, probably thinking him the ghost of the dead Favian. Now one of them started forward reluctantly, lifting his sword, but he let himself be stayed by the woman's swiftly extended hand. She regarded Conan gravely, as if preparing to address him-when he felt a touch at his side and heard a quick, stricken gasp in his ear.

"Ah, Favian, no!"

It was Calissa, who had awakened and crept silently after him along the passage. As she started to push past him into the room, he caught her and pressed her back into the darkness. While she wailed and struggled, he reached out and dragged the door shut after them, jamming it closed on its broken latch.

"Come away, girl, this is no place for you!"

"But my brother-he is slain!" Calissa gasped. "Why do you not arrest those assassins, kill them? I know that woman . . . Evadne . . . she was one of the Temple School rebels. Go back!"

"I would sooner protect your life." He was forcing the distraught noblewoman down the corridor before him. "Red mutiny is afoot tonight, Calissa. I will be surprised if this is the mere extent of it."

"No, stop! Let me go!" she shrieked. "Coward, do your duty!" She raged against him, her red hair lashing his face, her voice breaking roughly with sobs. "Ah, but I see why you refuse to obey me. You are in league with them!"

Conan had borne her back through her dim-lit door with no sound of pursuit behind them; now her face glared up at him, pallid and tear-stained in the wavering candlelight. "You, my brother's trusted bodyguard-you abandoned your post at the vital moment! And then you came here to seduce me, and keep me from his side in his final hour!" She threw herself on him, bruising her fists against his steel-plated chest. "Murderer! Villain!"

"Hush, girl, you are mad! Crom knows I had no love for your brother, but..." Realizing that she was clutching for the dagger sheathed at his waist, he thrust her back into the center of the room. "Calissa, calm yourself!"

"Nay, deceiver! Vile lecher! For all I know, you slew him yourself!" She was on him again, clawing at his eyes. "Guards, come seize this traitor!"

He shoved her back once again, and she tumbled onto the divan. After lying there panting for a moment in her disarranged nightgown, she lunged to the bed-table and rummaged for a weapon. The turbulent sounds coming from other parts of the Manse had increased, although they might not be in response to her outcries.

"As for Favian, he died of his own vices; I had no part in it." The Cimmerian's voice was low and bitter. "But you, Calissa . . . you make yourself too dangerous to protect! Bolt the door after me, and farewell!" He eased the panel shut behind him, hearing bottles smash against it as he closed off the tumult of her curses.

Groping his way down the passage, senses swimming in the darkness, his heart alternately plummeted and soared in his chest. Calissa was just as mad as the rest of her family, sad to see! But he, the Einharsons' pawn, was free of them at last, all his oaths discharged. He could leave now, if only he could carve his way out of this viper's nest.

He bethought himself of the rebels. Certainly, they had his sympathy, against the likes of the baron. And this Evadne . . . now there was a fine figure of a woman! Yet somehow he felt no great desire to kiss her bloody hand. All these Nemedian wenches were too treacherous for his liking; he was best away.

For that matter, should he not, while the Manse was in confusion, try to collect the back pay owed him? -with a comfortable bonus for severance, perhaps? He bethought himself of the money chest he had seen in Baldomer's chamber. His resemblance to Favian might help him in the theft, if he acted soon; yet perhaps 'twas wiser just to fly by night, and avoid even more painful severances.

He came to the door at the end of the passage; working its flimsy latch, he pressed it open and peered through. On the far side hung a curtain, screening the doorway from a sleeping-chamber. This in turn adjoined a lamplit spiral stair.

There was no one to be seen, and still no sound of imminent pursuit; even Calissa's angry cries had subsided. But from below came shouts and the sound of weapons thumping at the doors. He slipped past the curtain and, mentally gauging directions in this unfamiliar corner of the Manse, turned away from the stair to pass through the empty second-level chamber.

The chamber's far door opened onto one of the broad halls, but no sooner had he set out along it than he was opposed. Around the corner ahead of him two men came running, obviously pursued. The first Conan recognized as Svoretta, the chief of espionage, his portly figure black-caped and wearing a soft-brimmed hat that concealed half his face. Close beside him came Eubold, the fencing-master, armored from neck to waist and laboring breathlessly.

"Well, barbarian, you are a welcome sight!" Panting, the spy-chief slowed as he drew near. "Your ward is dead, I am told! But fear not, you still can be of service to us!" He halted, casting an uneasy glance behind him, then turned a guileless look on Conan. "Unless, of course, you have cast your lot in with the traitors ...?"

"Nay, not with traitors." Conan regarded Svoretta stonily as he drew his sword. "Hence, never with you!"

The whistling slash of his saber should have killed the spymaster in his tracks; yet the portly man moved swiftly under his cape. His own unsheathed sword, carried slyly out of sight, gashed forth to meet Conan's; it was a longer, straighter blade than the cavalry weapon carried by the northerner, made slim to pierce the joints of armor suits. In riposte it darted swiftly toward the Cimmerian's unshielded neck, causing him to dodge back.

The fencing-master was quick to draw his sword and join Svoretta, and so the Cimmerian battled the two of them. He did so with a blinding rain of strokes, weaving a clashing, glinting hedge of menace in the yellow light of the hall lamps. A powerful cut drove Eubold's saber down and aside, forcing it out of action for a moment; it was as a follow-up to this, seemingly an afterthought, that Conan's blade licked under Svoretta's cape to emerge red-splashed.

The spy-chief staggered, grunting in guttural pain, his hands clutching at himself beneath his tunic. His eyes widened in horror to discover the extent of his wound. Fumblingly he dropped his sword and with a paralytic sideward lurch, pitched to the floor.

"If I trusted you to die by yourself, I would let you do so," Conan told his fallen foe, who lay straining to breathe, gasping in slow, toiling shudders. "Yet I would rather not live out my years in fear of your poison-cup, or your henchmen at my back." Ignoring the watching Eubold, he raised his saber high over the spymaster's neck, then brought it down, using the arching strength of his entire body. At its chopping crunch, the fallen man's motions ceased and his head rolled free.

Conan looked to Eubold, who had not renewed his attack; the fencing-master stood well clear of Svoretta's spreading gore, gazing back up the corridor where three armed men jostled into view. Rebels they were, sporting the now-familiar combination of wedding-guests' raiment and ready swords. They conferred calmly together, advancing at a walk.

Eubold turned to face Conan. The scrapes and bruises his face had gained during their first encounter had almost healed, although their last yellowing traces lent a jaundiced look to his sweat-gleaming stare. He raised his sword none too heartily; his eyes darted involuntarily to his companion's cloaked, blood-smirched body on the floor.

"Well, fencing-master, I see you are ready to tutor me once again." The Cimmerian lashed his blade forth and back, slicing air audibly. "I have learned much since our last meeting, as you can see."

Spitting a curse, Eubold turned and pounded away toward the three advancing rebels, preferring their mercies to those of his former pupil. Conan watched him go, disappointed but reluctant to follow.

Closing swiftly with his adversaries, the fencing-master drove between two of them with wild slashes and parries, wounding the sword-arm of one; but he failed to break completely through their rank, and the third man ducked and stabbed low to pierce his leg. Then, moving at their leisure, the three surrounded the limping tutor; gradually overwhelming his desperate defenses, their blades scored further cuts.

Conan did not stay to watch the inevitable end; he wanted no more to fight these rebels than to join them. While they were still enthusiastically and bloodily occupied, he turned to sprint in the opposite direction.

That route, as luck would have it, angled directly toward the center of the Manse, whence echoed more cries and clashings of steel. A recklessness blazed in the outlander's heart, fueled in part by the prospect of taking loot amid the havoc. But no stray imaginings could have prepared him for the encounter that awaited him then: mere paces ahead, Baron Baldomer Einharson strode forth into the corridor through a side door of his apartment.

The baron may have understood the feral hatred that blazed from Conan's steel-blue eyes; whether he did or not, he was followed by a fully armored man of the Iron Guard, who clearly knew no qualms as to Conan's identity or allegiance. At a gesture from the old warlord, the helmeted trooper blocked the passage and swung his sword in a level stroke, meeting the Cimmerian's upraised weapon with a ringing clang.

Thus battle was joined. The two warriors hovered an arm's length apart and hacked resolutely at one another. The guardsman's blade dashed time and again toward the youth's unhelmeted, black-tousled head, only to be ducked beneath or beaten aside; Conan's saber struck repeatedly at the neck and groin of the guard's cuirass, with no more effect than to brighten the polish of the supple black steel. The trend of the wordless, desperate combat was an unclear as its purpose, and the baron deigned neither to speak nor join in; he watched the contest coolly while buckling on his armor-scaled gauntlets.

Inflamed with battle-lust, Conan soon wearied of the futility of fencing with the armored man. Darting inside one of the ponderous swordswings, he grappled with him chest to chest; an instant later he used the guard's own top-heavy momentum to throw him off balance over his hip. As his foe clattered to the floor, Conan was astraddle him; savagely he wrenched and twisted at the helmeted head, clubbing with his swordhilt at the leather-sheathed joint of the man's spine 'twixt helm and scapular plate. In a few moments the guard lay quiescent, his head cocked aside at an unnatural angle.

"Ah, my son! You have attained mature fighting skill at last." Baldomer, his armor now lacking only a helmet, stood regarding the panting victor, the sane half of his face set in a smile of noble resignation. "It prides me to see you prevail, though my heart is saddened by your bloody rebellion."

"I am not your son," Conan told him, breathing heavily as he rose to his feet. "Favian is dead, slain by the bride he brought to his chamber to ravish."

The baron shook his head, smiling grimly. "Nay, boy, do not tease; that was the northern savage I sent to wait in your place. Now see you the timely unfolding of your father's wisdom? And yet you shake your head. If you wouldst forfeit your noble name and deny your lineage"-Baldomer reached to his belt, drawing his long straightsword from its sheath with surprising smoothness and ease-"then we must fight, resolutely and to the death! Yet be assured, son"-his eyes gleamed madly on his false child -"that whichever one of us pours out his blood on these ancient tiles, it will be noble blood!"

So saying, the baron opened combat with a sideways slash of his blade. It was no great challenge to avoid, yet when Conan replied with a downward stroke, the straightsword was suddenly before him again, turning aside his saber and boring perilously through his defenses. Only an urgent expenditure of his strength blocked the thrust, breaking apart the combatants. Conan realized that he faced a subtle foe, strong with madness and seasoned by countless campaigns. Deliberately he set about stalking the elder man so as to wear down his strength, darting at him only occasionally with swift, forceful strokes.

"Not so easy, stripling, is it, this killing game?" Baldomer gave ground smoothly before Conan's greater exertions, parrying and sidestepping watchfully. His economy of motion left him ample breath for speech as he kept eye and blade trained on his foe. "My sword would far better have been raised in your behalf, son. Yet I knew that someday you would turn on me, however much I tried to set you on the right path." The old warlord let a powerful overhand blow of Conan's slide off his sword and his armor, seeming to stagger under its force, before his blade lashed menacingly close to the younger man's throat.

"In the Einharson blood there courses a turbulent strain," the baron proclaimed, backing away again, "that distills forth every few generations in the darkest crimes-parricide, fratricide, suicide! So it must be, perhaps; a sanguine recklessness is needed for efficient rule. I prayed against it to our holy forebears . . . and yet, since your childhood, Favian, I have sensed an overlarge share of that evil ferment in you!"

The residential corridor was left behind them now, their contest having carried them onto the wide, balustraded mezzanine overlooking the Manse's entry hall. Here the combat was exposed to others' view. The stairhead was held by Iron Guardsmen wielding pikes and sabers, and the lower stairs were crowded with rebels fighting their way upward across scattered corpses. Unsure, perhaps, of which of the aristocratic-seeming duelists to support, none of the nearby defenders came to Baldomer's aid. Yet both sides paused in their fighting to watch the noble passage of arms.

Conan spoke for the first time. "You accuse others of fratricide and black crimes," he said, whirling his blade through air as he edged closer. "But what deed could be viler, old baron, than the murder of your own wife out of the north, your Lady Heldra?"

"Aye, boy, the death of your mother! A great crime indeed." Baldomer glanced swiftly around at the watchers, his voice beginning to rasp with effort or emotion. "Done by the rebels you league with even now in your unnatural treason! But why broach the matter here?"

"Because you lie!" Conan punctuated his words with a saber swipe at the baron's head, stiff-necked and slow to bend, so that the old man's long gray hairs were disarranged by the passing stroke. "After your battle-wounds unmanned you, you had no more use for a wife. You grew to hate her," Conan grated between heavy breaths, "and so you ordered her death. Svoretta carried it out, poisoning her as he tried to poison me. Together you blamed it on rebels!"

"Nay, a calumny! She was unfaithful!" Baldomer's voice spat out the words, his good eye flaring as wildly as his wounded. "I loved her still, but she betrayed me, so the spymaster said. How could I let it be known?" His face, suffused by emotion, clenched so fiercely that for once its battle-wound was invisible. "She betrayed me! Even as you do now, treacherous boy!"

For the first time, the baron lunged onto the offensive, his sword hacking at Conan's flitting shape with lusty abandon. This voided all of the nobleman's crafty webs of defense, and in time, even as he gave back before the relentless assault, Conan saw a chance. As a wild stroke clanged off the railing beside him, the Cimmerian clenched both hands on the hilt of his saber, driving it straight forward and up. The curving blade, which would in less strong, sure hands have been turned aside or broken, pierced through the black steel of the finely turned breastplate. Before its momentum was spent, it traveled half of its slim length into flesh and bone.

The baron's sword, relinquished in mid-stroke, bounded off Conan's backplate to crash to the floor beside him. Meanwhile, the old man's gauntleted hands gripped the blade standing out from his chest. Hanging on to it as if to a lifeline, the baron eased his transfixed body to a kneeling position.

"So it ends." Baldomer's voice, lacking its accustomed timbre, ground onward with bitter strength. "The Einharson line continues after all. Good! May this murder harden you to rulership, son." Still clutching the downturned sword with one gauntleted hand, he fumbled at his neck with the other, withdrawing a gleaming pendant on a heavy chain from inside his pierced armor. It was the gold six-bladed starburst Conan had seen him wear during his necromantic devotions at the nether shrine. "This passes to you . . . and with it, the rule of Dinander and all of our family's divine rights and protections. Be harsh, boy. ..." As small torrents of blood issued from his nostrils, the elder man relaxed his grip on the sword and settled backward to the floor. His craggy face, though pale and crimson-stained, seemed eerily composed, its features in balance at last.

With Baldomer's gold amulet dangling from one hand, Conan felt a sudden, squeamish reluctance to wrench his saber out of the baron's chest. Instead, he let go of the upstanding hilt and stooped to take up the baron's longer, straighter sword. Hanging the pendant around his own neck for safekeeping, he stood and turned to meet the stares of the fighters who, all around the gallery, had halted their combats.

The scene of the interrupted battle was not only bloody, but chaotic. The high, porched entry hall had been designed for the defense of the main doorway by means of arrow-fire, in case the great door was ever breached. Yet the outbreak of the rebellion within the Manse itself had foiled that purpose. Now the doors stood wide, a throng of attackers visible without. The Iron Guard controlled only the head of the stairs and the corridors flanking the baron's suite, standing off the host of motley-clad rebels who held the gallery below and both wings of the mezzanine. The battle lines were frozen as the fighters watched Conan -most of them thinking him Favian, he reminded himself. They were waiting to see which side he would champion.

Beyond the stair waited Durwald and a handful of nobles, including the silver-haired tutor, Lothian; they looked on in silence, as uncertain as anyone else. Abruptly then, from the corridor at their side, hurried a distraught, disheveled Calissa, flanked by two guardsmen. Taking in the scene at a glance, she rushed to her father's counselors, darting an accusing finger at Conan and breaking the -silence with her cries.

"There he is, the traitor! One murder was not enough for him; now he stands over the butchered body of my father! Take him quickly, strap him in irons! No torment is too great. . . ." The rest of her diatribe was lost in a general clatter around the chamber. The waiting combatants, inflamed or alarmed by her-words, braced their weapons in new readiness; a few even flung themselves back into battle, mouthing curses.

Seeing the guards at the stairhead shift their pikes toward him, Conan finally made up his mind. There was no place for him among Dinander's pompous overlords. He strode straightaway from them toward the wing of the mezzanine where the black-armored men stood thinnest, opposed by a dense gang of rebels. At his approach from their rear, his sword raised in undisguised menace, the Iron Guards' cordon broke and scattered apart. The rebels were quick to take advantage of their disarray, pressing forward to seize new ground. Weapons clashed on either hand as Conan, crossing swords briefly with two guardsmen, found himself among the insurgents.

They welcomed him with cheers, clapping hands on his blackmailed shoulders. To his surprise, he found the warrior-woman before him again-the one called Evadne, now wearing a man's kilt and chain vest over her yellow robe. At Conan's stare she only blinked, unsmiling, and addressed him in level, terse accents: "Noble or savage, if you join us, you are one among equals, no more, no less. Remember that." Then she turned and vanished into the press.

The battlefronts were moving now, because the guardsmen, at the death of their baron and the desertion of his apparent successor, fought with flagging spirit. Conan turned to join the attack, yet the defenders gave ground so fast that he stalked back almost to the head of the stair before he reached the skirmishing. Then, ere he could elbow his way among the battling rebels, his attention was drawn by fresh shouts and screams from below, down in the gallery.

He forced his way to the rail and looked over, seeing townsmen scattering back from the inner doors in panic. At the fringes of the crowd, weapons were flailing, swung by armored warriors not yet plainly in view. Conan leaned far out to see who they were. Reinforcements from the municipal barracks, perhaps?

"Flee, they have come!" From the panicking throng below, the cries drifted up to him. "It is the Einharsons! The dead barons are risen to fulfill their curse!"

CHAPTER 11

The Warlords

Staring down from the balcony, Conan felt his scalp tighten with certainty that the frightened shouts were true. Beneath him there stalked, amid the flying shapes of the rebels, gigantic warriors in weird-looking armor, antique fighters whose swords appeared rusted and evil and whose ancient copperplate-and-scale mail blazed leprous green with tarnish: the dead Einharson warlords! With a chill, Conan remembered the ancestral armor laid out on the stone coffins in the crypt beneath the Manse, and the mystical hints that its owners would someday arise to sway the fate of the province.

The attackers were fully suited and helmed, so there was no knowing what lurked inside the decrepit armor. Some of the fighters appeared to be damaged, or oddly incomplete. Yet all swung swords and battleaxes relentlessly, their grim efficiency evinced by the hacked corpses strewn behind them on the patterned floor.

No sooner had the Cimmerian comprehended the threat than it erupted close at hand. Astonished shouts were raised behind him, and he turned to see three of the hoary, sinister warriors issuing from a nearby corridor. In a dreamlike glimpse, he remembered the long stairway leading from the vicinity of Baldomer's apartment directly to the cellar; thence, doubtless, these marauders had crawled. Spitting out a bitter oath, Conan shoved past the scattering rebels to confront the nemesis.

The tall, menacing shape that first came before him was certainly the product of sorcery. Its bronze-sheathed limbs moved with the noiseless, supple ease of an insect's jointed carapace, while the eye-slits of its crested helm revealed only fluid darkness lurking within. The creature's long, notched sword plied air with a swift surety that Conan took diligent care to avoid; and yet the vacancies of the shriveled leathern bindings at the strange warrior's elbows and ankles did not appear to contain any form, not even bones.

Lunging in the wake of one of its long swordsweeps, Conan struck a blow at its green-mottled breastplate. He hoped to knock it over, but instead heard his blade gong hollowly on empty metal. The stabbing force of his stroke did nothing to unbalance his attacker, rather, it left Conan exposed to a recoiling blow that stung his shoulder, buffeting him aside with its casual force.

Angered, he stalked his foe afresh, waiting his turn to feint and strike; this time, though his blade-tip passed between the upper and lower arm-pieces of the ghostly warrior's suit and scattered bits of rotten strapping through the air, the being's sword-slashed arm swung on unimpaired. Its weapon grazed his ear and dented his armored shoulder with a smarting impact.

So, Conan learned, it scarcely mattered what was done to the beings' nonexistent bodies. The power of these phantom Einharsons was in their swords, which clove onward in ravaging arcs, empowered with their own mystic energy. The armor suits seemed to march behind the weapons as mere decorations, with no vital functions within, nothing in need of protection. Conan fought on doggedly, seeking some means with which to halt his phantom adversary; whether the haunted blades could be broken, or even parried, his best fencing could not discover.

As he fell back before the mailed specter's onslaught, a calm, fatalistic part of his mind took in the deteriorating situation around him. A few of the rebels on the balcony were halfheartedly battling the Einharsons, but none managed to hold their ground, and some had already fallen before the tireless threshing of the ancient swords. At first the Iron Guard moved in to exploit the vacancy left by the rebels, assuming to fight alongside the undead warriors-but apparently the weirdlings knew no allies. Conan saw one of the guardsmen stabbed through the groin by a rusty, cobwebbed sword before his blackmailed comrades had the sense to fall back from the monsters.

Whatever the mystical provisions of the animating curse, they did not seem to apply to the unblest, unburied Baldomer, whose transfixed body lay motionless on the balcony a few paces away. Nor did the ancient spell command the baron's fine sword, for the stolen weapon had not sprung to unearthly life in Conan's hand-or not yet, at least.

These minor boons scarcely mattered, for the Einharsons already under arms were more than adequately murderous to clear the entire Manse of living humans. Cut off from the corridors along with a dozen or more of the rebels, Conan gave ground with them, eyeing the central stairway as an escape route.

"See thou, traitor!" A shrill, hysterical voice abruptly sounded close behind Conan. "Learn how the undying spite of my fathers punishes you!" A swift backward glance told him that the taunts came from Calissa, who had crept away from the broken phalanx of loyal guardsmen to advance along the front of the balcony. Clinging to the heavy wooden rail, she watched the one-sided battle with venomous, exultant eyes. "Fight your savage best, Cimmerian, and endure long, for if you do, my kin will hound you all the way back to your northern wastes! Nay, you will not escape them! Nevermore can they be laid to rest, now that you have murdered the last Einharson heir!"

She was mad, Conan knew, totally unhinged by the night's bloody events. How unlike the noble girl who had caressed him mere hours past! His heart flinched even as his body shrank before the blade of his attacker.

And yet, at her ravings, a new thought awakened in his brain. Breaking clear of his undead foe's tireless sword-play, he turned to dart after the noble girl. She sought to flee, but he caught her tightly by the wrist.

"What? Away from me, villain! Do you mean to add me to the list of your murders?" As she writhed in his clutch, Conan sheathed his weapon and reached to his throat. He took the chain with its heavy amulet, removed it and drew it over Calissa's head of tangled red hair. She spat at him in fury, her struggles causing the six-pointed talisman to flail in his face like a chain-mace. But he caught hold of her shoulders and held her fast, letting the pendant settle between her unruly lace-gowned breasts.

In an instant a transformation was evident in the gallery around them. The phantom Einharson warrior that had been stalking Conan promptly ceased its sword-slashing. Exhibiting the proud, erect bearing of a victorious duelist, it pivoted away in the direction of the cellar stair. Its fellow ghosts on the terrace did the same within moments, their weapons held low at their sides. A glance over the rail showed that the combat on the ground floor had likewise ceased.

"What trickery is this?" Calissa demanded shrilly of the room at large. "Who ever said that a woman could wear the baron's sigil? Off with it, I say!" She grasped the gleaming amulet and tried to tear it from her throat, but Conan's fist knotted in its stout chain, drawing it up so snugly that a twist of his arm could easily have throttled her. "Come back, you musty tomb-haunts! Keep on fighting, I say!" But the undead warriors mechanically continued their retreat, disregarding her frantic, half-choked cries.

The surviving rebels, no longer beset, were quick to surround Conan and help him restrain Calissa. Meanwhile, they faced down the Iron Guards, who looked as if they might move to rescue her. The Cimmerian rapped instructions to those motley fighters near him.

"Keep her quiet, and keep this trinket secured around her neck." He knotted the chain at her creamy nape, beneath her wildly lashing tresses. "This is the power that staves off the marching ghosts. Belike their curse requires only that a living Einharson wear the sigil, not that she rule the city grandly. Here, hold her fast, but do not harm her, at your peril! Dru, the blacksmith, can set a rivet through this chain at the first opportunity."

The last of the Einharson forebears shambled out of sight, and rejoicing cries began to sound from the gallery below. Most of the watchers audibly mistook Conan for Favian; they praised the young lord for joining the rebels and turning back his father's curse, where moments before they had sought to wipe out his line. Many who had fled now found their way back into the Manse, and the press in the lower gallery deepened once again.

The rebel force remained scattered and weakened, seemingly easy prey for the close-knit Iron Guard. And yet moments later, to Conan's surprise, a party of nobles came forth from the loyalist line, their weapons sheathed and their empty palms raised to signify a truce.

"Hold your steel, for we would parley!" came the cry. "Whoever claims to lead this uprising, come and treat with us now."

Prominent in the delegation were Marshal Durwald and the elderly chief of protocol, Lothian. Flanked by lesser nobles, they came straight toward Conan's place in the crowd, halting a few paces away for the sake of their dignity and safety. Rebel officers, including the woman Evadne, had gathered on the scene, and now the Cimmerian moved with them as a body to confront the emissaries.

"Before you wear out your tongues with lies and threats, noble rogues, be assured that we will accept nothing but your absolute surrender!" The speaker was a lean rebel youth with short-cropped yellow hair, having more the look of a Temple School acolyte than of a fighter. "The Manse is practically ours, and our followers have risen up throughout the province." Several of his companions nodded in earnest assent, though none spoke to second him.

Durwald, standing at the center of the royalist faction, his helmet laid in the crook of one arm, smoothed his rumpled black hair with his free hand as he gazed on the youth. Finally he answered.

"And so you think you can do without us? You have been pledged the support of the town's leading families and the squires, perhaps? Can you muster an army fit to police and defend this city?" His jet mustache arched in aristocratic disdain. "Or will you merely import priests of Set out of Stygia to run your stolen fiefdom?"

"Set-priests? We have no truck with the snakecult!" This came from a male rebel, gray at the temples and wearing the brown robe of a disciple of Ulla, cinched now at the waist with an unpriestly sword-belt. "Our party is loyal to the true church of Nemedia. I have heard of the snake-frenzy sweeping the east, but our cause here is a pious one."

"Aye, and our Reform Council includes the best families," Evadne declared from the crowd, her stern demeanor silencing others who clamored to speak. "Not the noblest, but the best." She regarded the royalists with a challenging look. "In our council, the voice of the craftsman is heard along with that of the knight, the farmer's as freely as the squire's. We claim this barony for the benefit of all, putting an end to the cruelties and inequities that have worsened daily under Baldomer's rule!"

At her speech, a murmur of assent sounded from the other rebels. She did not acknowledge it, giving attention instead to Durwald's reply.

"Fine-sounding sentiments, Evadne. And fresh ones for this tight-laced, regimented part of Nemedia. I wonder what our neighboring barons will think of them . . . especially the gentle lords Sigmarck and Ottislav?" This time Durwald's mustaches canted upward in amusement. "How long will it be, do you suppose, before they turn on Dinander with sharp swords and sharper pens, to redraw the maps of their baronies and write an end to your little political experiment?"

"But you fail to take account of King Laslo, who owns all the lands," a black-bearded rebel protested. "He holds the barons in check, and he has championed us in the past against unfair decrees and taxes. His armies in Numalia far exceed those that any local lord might muster!"

Durwald laughed. "So that is the fate you would call down on our heads: to be invested and garrisoned by royal legions! Think you that such shame would improve your lot, or that rough mercenaries from the south of the empire would be more sympathetic to your woes than our native guardsmen?" He shook his head broadly. "Be assured that they will strut and steal as ruthlessly as any invaders! Likely as not, King Laslo will appoint some petty officer as satrap over us, with unbridled powers."

The rebels, muttering and expostulating in angry dismay, fell silent as Conan spoke abruptly. "What do you propose, Durwald?"

Before the marshal could answer, frail old Lothian leaned forward at his side to speak with surprising firmness and resonance. "I can, I think, suggest a course of action that will benefit both sides. If you insurgents will decide who among you are leaders, you can withdraw with us to more private surroundings to discuss the matter."

At this the rebels fell back to confer for a moment. Though they muttered suspiciously, they were able to select delegates with a speed and unanimity that surprised Conan. Evadne and the sword-bearing priest were chosen, as well as the black-bearded man and two others. The Cimmerian found himself included without question among the elect party.

The two groups walked to one of the doors adjoining Baldomer's apartment. The rebels went in first, cautiously, to beat the hangings with their swords; then followed the half-dozen nobles. A guard of each faction stayed just outside the door, waiting in a standoff along with the battle lines nearby.

"Well, nobles and rebel . . . officers." Walking slowly across the room, old Lothian seated himself with his back to a dining table opposite the door, although the others continued to stand with hands ready at swordhilts. "'Tis clear, I think, that some form of compromise would be in the best interests of all. As you may know, I differed with the late baron over his more draconian decrees; in fact, I frequently warned him of just such an eventuality as this." The sage adjusted his slender shanks primly in the cushioned chair. "On the other hand, of course I have firm belief in the virtue of aristocratic rule. Speaking as one of the originators of the science of noble precedence-"

"Get on with it, Counselor!" Evadne interrupted him. "If you palaver too long, your troops and municipals all across the city will be whittled away by our armed followers and you will have nothing left to bargain with. Just tell us"-her eyes flashed at Durwald as she spoke-"what interest the people of Dinander can possibly find in common with our recent tormentors."

"Here now," Durwald protested, "I, too, warned Baldomer against his excesses too. There is none here who despises needless cruelty more than I."

"There, you see," Lothian put in good-naturedly. "We are not so far apart as all that. Now if we can just settle on a suitable division of power-"

"Old fool!" interposed the slim, yellow-haired youth. "When has power ever been divided in Dinander, except by the cutting edge of a sword?"

Evadne firmly overruled her fellow rebel. "Rather, when has it not been divided? Tell me, Counselor, who is next in the line of baronial succession after Favian?"

"Why, 'twould be old Eggar, Baldomer's cousin, squire of the Forest Lakes."

"As I thought; a drunken trifler, already infamous for the misrule of his own petty domain. Our folk would never accept such a contemptible tyrant." The strong-featured girl stared challengingly around the company. "He was not in attendance at the Manse tonight?"

"If he was here, he is dead or fled," Durwald replied. "And no great loss. If you are thinking of a puppet, I agree, we need a more attractive palatable than that."

The sword-bearing priest shook his gray-sprinkled head in regret. "A shame that Lady Calissa is a woman . . . and mad, to boot. She was once a voice of moderation in the court. But then, none could expect her to countenance the murder of her kin. Now, methinks, she cannot even safely be put to death." He looked around at the others, who showed melancholy interest. "She will have to be kept under close guard all her days, or at least until our holy exorcists can deal with the Einharson curse."

In the somber silence that followed, the black-bearded rebel spoke up. "If we mean to create a baron, 'twould be best to use some youthful heir, who could easily be controlled. Or else one so old and feeble that he has no ambition left."

"But don't you see, there is no need to look so far!" Lothian rose from his chair impatiently. "We have here the perfect heir. We have Lord Favian himself!"

"Favian is dead, Counselor," black-beard said, "in case your eyesight has failed you. He lies glued to the floor of his chamber in his own clotting blood. As for this look-alike you have rigged out. . . well, he has shown himself a right-hearted sort by killing Baldomer and throwing in with us. But we of the Reform Council saw through your ruse long ago."

"Aye, to your credit." Lothian stroked his gray beard, his eyes twinkling. "And yet Conan is perfect for our shared purpose. Those who know of his imposture could, perhaps, be sworn to silence. It can be held forth that the bodyguard died instead of the noble. The outlander would then command the loyalty of the majority of subjects, those who blindly follow their traditional leader. He is a good lad at heart, and has had the benefit of my tutorship."

"But would the people of Dinander kneel to Favian as a patricide?" The rebel priest's brows were knit in earnest moral concern. "One of our goals in seizing power was to put behind us the bloody irregularities of the Einharson lineage."

"So you see, it is little more than traditional," Durwald assured him with a courtly flourish of his gauntleted hand. "Likely this slaying is the one break with the past that will allow the people to tolerate another Einharson warlord."

"Yes, truly, it might not be hard to pass him off as baron!" The yellow-haired youth stepped forward, rattling his sheathed sword in enthusiasm. "There would be no danger of the barbarian gaining real power. Just parade him now and again before the mob and keep him from blurting out anything in his pebble-mouthed northern accent. He will be baron to them, lackey to us!"

"Watch your jabbering mouth, dog!" Conan squared off on the rebel, who grew abruptly pale and still. "I am no one's lackey, and I like not the notion of playing puppet to such as you." He glared around the company. "If I continue this mummery, it will be on my own terms!"

"Of course, Conan, of course." Durwald laid a hand on the northerner's shoulder, smiling to counter his ill-humored gaze. "We shall see to it that you are paid handsomely and furnished with a comfortable style of living. There may even be a few petty military functions you can direct, to keep up a believable front You need not worry about matters of state; we court counselors will bear the full burden of those."

"Under the direction of the Reform Council, you mean," the black-bearded rebel said warningly, echoed by murmurs from his fellows.

"Yes, yes, we can work all that out." Durwald breezily waved him to silence. "Believe me, we of the court are as glad to be free of Baldomer and his vile monkey, Svoretta, as you are. His unmanageable offspring, too! As long as the legitimate interests of the noble houses are recognized, lords and commoners can flourish together from this moment, and Dinander can look to a happy future."

CHAPTER 12

Milord Barbarian

A lance of sunlight fell through a gap in the curtains, causing stray dust motes to sparkle in the gloom of the chamber. Blazoning the great bed's rumpled satin covers, the narrow ray angled across Conan's face like a saber-slash, its brightness smiting his groggy brain with all the pain of a sword-stroke.

The sleeper, muttering faintly, stirred and tried to turn aside out of the light. When he rolled the wrong way, his legs slipped down the side of the spongy mattress, entangling with his bedclothes and the sheathed sword, which lay beside him as intimately as a wife. Groping blindly for balance, he flung out a heavy arm and toppled a low bedside table, sending its' array of half-drained cups and flasks clattering to the floor.

Moaning in fresh discomfort at the piercing sounds, Conan hauled himself upright on the edge of the bed. He blinked into the sunshot dimness around him, slowly coming to recognize his surroundings.

The room was the bedchamber of the late Baron Baldomer. High and broad, it was well-befitting to lordly dignity, although Conan foresaw that it would prove drafty and chill in winter. Having turned and beaten the great mattress himself, he had ordered the bed's heavy canopies hauled out and burned in hopes of ridding the place of any lingering sour humors. Even so, in spite of all his efforts, the lavish apartment exerted a baleful influence on Conan's nature.

Suddenly there came a brisk rapping at the door. Staggering to his feet, naked but for his cotton underkilt, Conan hastened across the stained parquetry to undo the bolt. When the portal swung wide, a harsh but good-natured bellow greeted him.

"Well, young baron, how goes it?" A burly, broken-nosed man strode into the room carrying a tray of fruit and bread under one arm. "I could tell by the clamor that you were awake-and about time, too, with the sun scraping the roof peaks! How are you feeling this morning?"

"Speak softer, Rudo; I am unwell. I think I have been poisoned." Conan shuffled back to sit on his bed. "That wine last night. ..."

"The wine, yes." Rudo bent over the reeking pool outspread amid the tumbled flasks. "Poisoned, indeed! And by the same decoctions that send half the folk of this city staggering to bed on a feast night!" He righted the table so as to set his burden on it. Then he knelt, seizing a discarded shirt with which to mop up the mess. "Any one of these liquors would lay a healthy man low, but to mingle them in one night's carouse! You tempt the fates rashly, Conan-I mean, Milord Baron."

As Rudo swabbed the floor, he raised a crystal decanter to his lips and swigged deeply from it. "Ah yes, truly," he said in a confidential voice, "when we gnawed bread crusts together in the town dungeon, who would have thought that we would ever again be sipping such nectar as this? I credit your success in worldly affairs, Lord Baron, as well as your faithfulness in remembering old friends!"

Sitting on the bed massaging his aching temples, Conan merely growled in answer. He pretended not to notice as his attendant crushed a goblet of soft gold against the floor with the pressure of one thick hand, to slip it discreetly into the sash of his silken pantaloons.

In a while Rudo had gone, and returned, and gone again, and Conan sat cross-legged on the bed, gingerly chewing his breakfast and drinking from the pitcher of fresh warm milk his valet had brought. The simple fare satisfied him, as had the selfsame food when he was a kitchen drudge; in spite of his earlier complaints, he still trusted his recent associates downstairs not to poison him. But now the day stretched ahead, vacant and uninviting. His duties as mock baron were laughably slight and few, consisting mainly of parading the battlements at sunset in full armor and holding brief "audiences" with the handful of courtiers and rebel officers who really ruled Dinander these days.

Not that he imagined he could run the city any better, things seemed well under control for the nonce. After that first charnel night, the insurrection had taken hold almost bloodlessly by virtue of Baldomer's death and the uneasy accommodation between rebels and nobles. A few lesser officers and functionaries, such as Fletta, the interrogator and executioner, had been dragged before civil tribunals, condemned, and broken on the wheel to appease the vengeful townsfolk; and a few unpopular nobles quit their homes and vanished, either sent into hiding by their fellows at court, or murdered by them. The noble party allowed none of its number to be tried, fearing that the public execution of aristocrats might set a bad precedent.

The nearest thing to a falling-out between the two factions had involved the proposed abolition of the Iron Guard; Conan had dozed through a long meeting where debate on the subject raged hotly between Durwald and Evadne. The proposal had finally been agreed to, but with little impact, since the change of the elite guard's designation to the "Red Dragons" was a token display, after all. It meant the promotion of a few officers, and much labor for Dru, the armorer, who in the coming months would have to change the outfit's armor trappings to the new motif. The troops would still click their heels as smartly, Conan guessed, and obey orders as unquestioningly.

He saw little place for his own efforts in the new Dinander, except to wine, dine and wench like a baron, and fill a suit of armor handsomely, be it of red or black hue. His success in finding a few of his old cronies, those who stood with him during the rebel purge of the prisons, was gratifying; yet his message summoning the serving-maid, Ludya, back to the capital had never been answered. Conan suspected that his employers, none too eager that he find a mate and sire a counterfeit noble line, might have intercepted his courier. He was of half a mind to ride in search of the girl himself.

His musings were interrupted by another opening of the chamber door. He looked up to see a figure more comely than that of the crook-nosed Rudo: the stately Evadne on her daily visit, clad in sandals and a plain, belted tunic. His sudden upward glance sent reverberations throbbing through his still-tender skull, so he only grunted irritably as she entered.

"Good morning, Your Lordship." She scarcely blinked at his state of undress, but her shapely nose wrinkled at the scent of wine-dipped bedclothes. "Recovering from another nightlong debauch, I see. Will you never tire of... the prerogatives of rank?" She settled herself on a lacquered stool a decorous distance away.

"In truth," he grumbled, "I am already weary of these pointless pursuits-as I long ago grew bored with the aged, motherly trollops you send me from the local ale houses. I crave more of life than this musty apartment can provide."

Evadne covered any embarrassment with a shrug of unconcern. "If you are restless, ride to the hunt again. You can decree it for tomorrow, if you like."

"What, and have the gamekeepers loose more tame deer from their cages for me to slaughter, in the company of a dozen sour-faced men-at-arms? Nay, Evadne." Conan gently cradled his forehead on an outspread hand. "In my youth in Cimmeria, hunting had a purpose, a meaning. Here, like everything else, it is hollow."

"Then call for fencing practice in the private courtyard. Fight three or four guardsmen at once, if you must place your life at risk in order to enjoy it." She waved a hand in exasperation, preparing to arise. "There is plenty to do here. Any ordinary citizen would give his nose and ears to be in your place. I must confess, I find it a trial to keep your savage soul entertained!"

"Then why trouble yourself, Evadne?" Conan propped his chin on one hand as he regarded her. "Why do you even bother? Is it true that you have been assigned as my nursemaid, to make sure I keep up lordly appearances?"

"No need for worry on that account; you play the degenerate aristocrat most convincingly." The rebel shook her blond locks reprovingly, sitting poised on the edge of her stool. "But remember, ours is a young, untested provincial government with many ... ill-assorted elements. Our two shakiest props are you and the poor, mad Lady Calissa. It is necessary that someone take the responsibility for your welfare."

"And how fares Calissa?" Conan let his gaze fall away from Evadne with a surge of melancholy. "Does she still rail and struggle at her restraints?"

"Nay, her chafes are healing, and she no longer tugs and worries at the charm fastened around her neck. She is unbound, allowed to rove free in her room, as long as someone stays to see that she does not hang herself by the chain. She no longer raves"-Evadne smiled wanly-"or even speaks. To anyone."

"Hmm. A convenient circumstance for you and me, but an ill one for Calissa." He shook his head miserably. "And yet I wonder, am I less a prisoner than she is?"

"Nonsense." Evadne visibly ruffled, watched Conan warily. "If you decided to leave Dinander to its fate, and to forfeit the golden drams that are daily added to your account, we would have a hard time stopping you."

"But you would try, would you not?" Conan smiled grimly, trading gaze for gaze. "Is that why you venture so boldly into my room? And is that, perchance, what the dagger concealed at your thigh is for?" He let his feet slip to the floor, moving to arise. "Is it the same weapon, I wonder, that you carried for Favian?"

"Stop! I would never wish such a thing!" She stood bolt upright, her proud face pale. "But be warned, if it were for the sake of our province, I would do whatever was necessary. Your fair dealing thus far has earned you a certain indulgence. But a limited one."

"I thought so." He rose smoothly to his feet, no longer showing signs of malaise, and moved toward her. "I understand you, then; we are slayers of a kind! So our time here need not be so glum and joyless after all. Come, Evadne, I am told your recent wedding was a sham." He moved toward her, extending an arm.

"No!" She moved back a step from him, toward the door. "I am no tavern trull to lighten your leisure! Nor am I the next in your chain of conquests at the Manse. I have dealings here that are more important than that." She glared at him. "As for my wedding, it may have been only a formality. I will never know, since my husband was the first one killed by Baldomer's guards in our rising." She strode to the door, bowing curtly before she opened it, and passed through. "Good day to you, Milord Baron!"

Wordlessly, listless once again, Conan shuffled back to the mattress and sat down heavily. His hand roved indecisively for a moment over the array of food and spirit decanters at the bedside; then, with an idle gesture, he tipped the ivory table onto the floor. Amidst the crashing, he sank down onto the blankets and closed his eyes.

It may have been moments or hours later that the chamber door scraped open again. Less bleary this time, Conan rolled onto one elbow. His hand clutched his swordhilt beneath the coverlet as he watched Durwald enter, flanked by Evadne.

"Well, Lord Favian-as you must persevere in being! I am glad to see you living the part so well. Your hair grows a bit shaggy . . . but then, what does it matter, since there is no longer a living counterpart to compare you with?" The leather-kilted noble spoke with brusque humor, pausing a few steps short of the litter surrounding the bed. "But I hope you have fully recovered from your night's merriment. A challenge awaits us that will require our best wit and readiness."

"A fresh basin is being drawn," Evadne added. "We expect you to be washed and dressed soon."

"And what is the occasion?" Conan ran a hand across his forehead, sweeping his black mane out of his eyes. "Is some young bride taking her vows and awaiting a tryst with the lord of the Manse?"

Evadne stiffened at this remark, but Durwald only smiled. "Advance couriers have just arrived, from an armed force of our neighboring barons. The lords are sending a punitive expedition westward against the snake-cultists, and they expect us to join them."

"Against the cultists, you say? A ruse!" Conan bolted up from the bed, dragging his longsword out from beneath the linen. "More likely the warlords are marching against us in our time of weakness, as you foresaw. Will we ready the town for a siege, or meet them on the plain?"

"Nay, fellow, be not so eager to enter the fray!" Durwald shook his head patiently. "To be sure, the barons have heard of our recent change of rulership; doubtless they wish to test our strengths and spy out whether Dinander can still hold her territories. But I would wager that their purported mission is genuine."

The marshal seated himself on the edge of the broad writing table, folding his arms on his chest as he expounded. "The western cults are an intolerable nuisance to them; they raided southward into Baron Ottislav's domain, and he went first to his friend, Sigmarck, for aid. Now the two come here. This is our chance to show them, first, that we have no ties with the snakecult and, second, that we have a firm grip on our province and a good resolve to defend it."

A washbasin and fresh linen had been set out by Rudo as Durwald spoke. Conan submerged his face in it for a long moment, then shook his dripping head like a terrier, spattering water on his unprotected guests. "Mayhap we should join forces with these cultists instead, if the barons are as greedy as you say."

"Take sides with Set-worshipers? Co... Lord Favian, that would scarcely be politic." Evadne glared at him with distaste.

"And how like a rebel you are! Once in power, you take up arms against all your fellow rebels and crush them." Conan splashed water vigorously onto his chest and mopped it with a towel. "If these neighbor barons can set you against your own populace, the scoundrels have won half their fight."

"No, truly, Lord Baron, these cultists are less than savory." Durwald exaggerated Conan's false title archly. "Hardly human, if you ask me. You saw the specimen we interrogated at Squire Ulf's keep."

"That is so, believe me," Evadne seconded. "When we rode east to ambush Baldomer's train, we passed through a valley denuded by their sweep. There have been outbreaks before in these regions. It is not really a faith-more a plague that spreads and spreads, unless it is finally stopped by force of arms." Evadne averted her eyes, either out of emotion or because Conan had set to scrubbing his nether parts.

"Well, if the two of you finally agree on something, it must be true." Conan began toweling himself furiously. "So what must I do to appease these barons? Will they know me by sight?"

Durwald shook his head. "Diplomatic relations have been cool; I would guess that none in their party will have seen Favian in the past dozen years. You can doff your helmet in their presence." The marshal sat easy, exuding confidence for Conan's benefit. "They will surely have heard conflicting rumors. If you keep your peace and appear determined, we should be able to pass you off without question."

"Use the salutes and protocols you have been shown," Evadne added. "You will be well-protected by guards."

"Yes. We, as your counselors, will do the talking," Durwald emphasized. "They will expect no great statesmanship from such a youthful heir."

"The inner hall is being readied," Evadne finished. "The troops will camp downriver, and their officers are expected here by nightfall. We must go and assemble the counselors, for there is much to be discussed."

Lamps flared yellow in the Manse's Hall of State as lords and warriors took their places at tables spread with loaves, salt meats and ale puncheons. Here was not the gala extravagance of one of Baldomer's gatherings; the feast was Spartan by comparison, with shadows brooding in the sparsely lit upper vaultings of the gallery. The intended effect was one of strength and resolve; to this end the crowd of townsfolk filling the courtyard saluted the guests with lusty shouts; the counselors, even old Lothian, wore military costume, and the Manse's guards deployed along the walls of the chamber with extra quickness and precision.

The visiting lords gave no hint of being impressed by the display. Baron Sigmarck, a short, slender man with cruelly handsome features, arched his aquiline nose over his food in distaste and spent the rest of the night regarding the company around him with cynical, dark eyes. Ottislav, a bald, mustached warlord decked in gold chains and bristling with furs, served himself profusely and impartially from all the nearby plates and beakers; but it seemed to his hosts that whenever they sought to address him on any subject, his sole, invariable reply was the word "Haw!" -spoken sharply, with a twitch of his greasy whiskers and an unpleasant leer.

Noting the behavior of these two, Conan took comfort that none would expect him to be very mannerly or forthcoming. Flanked at the table by Durwald and Evadne, with the other counselors seated between him and the noble visitors, he was well-nigh immune to questions. He feigned great interest in his food and drink, then sat taciturn through the interminable program of Nemedian peasant dances that the rebel leaders had furnished as entertainment.

When the milling peasants were finally cleared from the room, discussion of the eastern campaign commenced. In terse, barking statements, the barons' tight-faced, armored marshals decreed their objectives, amounting to nothing less than total extermination of the eastern insurgents, and withdrawal westward before the first fall sleets turned the roads to mud.

Curtly then, the visiting officers answered questions put to them by Dinander's counselors. At first these delegates' remarks were full of gruff hints and insinuations that the snakecult raiders were supported by the new rulers of Dinander. When their hosts protested otherwise, the visitors deftly changed their tune, demanding military support for their own venture.

During the negotiation, Durwald, Evadne and Lothian feigned earnest consultations with their baron. These were actually heated exchanges between the three of them, which Conan could barely follow, though he remembered to mumble and nod occasionally to keep up appearances.

The diplomacy grew tense, with both counselors hurrying down the length of the table to address the foreign barons themselves. At one point there came a bellow that caused the Cimmerian to raise wary eyes to the end of the board: Evadne clutched Ottislav's thumb, bending it back ruthlessly as she detached his hand from her midsection, where it had groped too freely. The bald noble, once she had released him, flared and blustered at her, and his aides gathered close about him. But his display of temper was cut short by a wicked laugh from across the table, where Lord Sigmarck sat stroking his sharp chin.

The diminutive baron was obviously scornful of conducting business through so many intermediaries, with no single one of them clearly in charge; now he leaned across the table toward Conan. "I say, Favian! Enough of this nattering. You provide ten companies -no more, no less. After all, this rebel nuisance arises from your own unruly hinterlands. Ten full companies"-he glanced contemptuously to the aides who crowded anxiously nearby-"that is, if your privy counselors will permit it!"

Before the others could speak, Conan found himself nodding decisively. "Done!" He raised his ale-jack in salute, ignoring the nervous whispers behind him.

"Good, then!" Sigmarck likewise sloshed his cup high and drank on the bargain. "That will enable us to sweep this pestilence all the way to the edge of the Varakiel. Twill be a jolly hunt!" He set down his flagon, smiling slyly across at Conan. "Tell me, Baron, will you be accompanying us?"

This time Evadne was quickest to reply. "Nay, Baron Sigmarck, our liege regrets that he must remain in Dinander at this critical time. Marshal Durwald will command the force on his behalf."

But Conan had heard Sigmarck utter an eerily familiar word: Varakiel, the name of Ludya's home district. "Indeed I'll come!" he thundered over Evadne's equivocations. Banging down his ale-cup, he turned to his startled guard officers. "Pass the word all down the ranks. We ride on the morrow!"

CHAPTER 13

The March into Hell

Like rotting fangs, stark in burning daylight, rose the soot-blackened walls and ruined towers of Edram Castle. The collapsed interior of the keep was a pit of jumbled darkness, gaping all the blacker because it lay open to brilliant blue sky. The devastation was days old, and no smoke or flame lingered, but the musty stench of damp charcoal filled the outlander's nostrils as he turned from the broken archway.

"So they burned Squire Ulf's castle, as he burned the wretched town upriver," he muttered to Evadne. "I cannot blame them; I longed to do it myself. . . and yet, 'tis strange. I would expect any band of rebels to seize this place and use it to gain control of the valley." Pausing on the stone entry ramp, he gazed along the breached wall, half-tumbled now into reedy swamp. "They could have held off a force like ours for days."

Evadne continued down the walk, answering him over her chain-mailed shoulder: "As I told you, we face not a rebellion here, but a plague! The snakeworshipers spread havoc wherever they go. 'Tis lucky for us that they destroyed only one span of the river bridge."

Conan turned his gaze up the road to where the last of their party was crossing the broken causeway, via an unsteady ropeway floored with charred planking salvaged from the castle. While the rest of the column stood waiting in road order, a few men at a time walked horses and carts across the ragged gap in the bridge, moving slowly and cautiously above the swirling river.

At the road junction just outside the castle's tumbled gate, the diminutive Baron Sigmarck stood with a drawing board at the road's junction, sketching a map; his fellow noble, Ottislav, hulked over a nervous-looking cavalry officer at the base of a nearby wall, cursing lengthily and obscenely over a cast of knucklebones. As Conan walked past the barons, the shorter one looked up to him with a bleak smile. "I think we can move forward safely now, noble Favian. I suggest that we retain our former marching order."

Grunting his assent, Conan sprang onto his chariot, feeling Evadne's vigorous step on the platform beside him. As he took up the reins and made the sweeping arm-signal to advance, she tossed her hair impatiently over her shoulder and spoke guardedly. "As usual, your fellow barons are none too eager to ride in the fore."

"Aye." He waited for the dozen cavalry of the vanguard to get under way. "'Tis a relief not to have to keep company with them, and play an impossible charade. But an honor, no doubt, to lead the column." Working the reins smartly, he wheeled the chariot onto the road in front of the loitering body of Dinander infantry; led by Rudo and others of his cronies, they hailed him in Favian's name with a scattered cheer.

"An honor indeed!" Evadne laughed cynically. "The question is, can we trust the scoundrels at our backs? When the forequarter of our column meets the enemy, how prompt will its hindquarter be in joining the fight? And whom will their swords and barbs strike down, our common foe or ourselves?" She shook her head bitterly. "This military junket is a fine pretext for the barons to cripple Dinander's strength!"

"As I said before," Conan growled, adjusting the hilt at his waist. "But fear not; should the knaves try any treachery with me, I'll skewer them both with a single sword-thrust!"

Ignoring his boast, Evadne spoke on. "More vexing to me are our affairs at home. I worry for our party's shaky alliance with the nobles." She adjusted her grip on the rail as the chariot gained speed. "Durwald controls enough of his former Iron Guard to seize the Manse and declare himself baron, should he take the notion. I only pray that my comrades are strong enough to curb his ambition, and keep him from undoing all our reforms."

"Then I ask you this, Evadne: why did you choose to leave Dinander and ride with me?" Conan glanced aside from the road to look at her, watching as the longest strands of her blond hair stirred with the wind of the chariot's rumbling motion. "The marshal was eager enough to come and oversee my command, until you warned him off."

The mailed woman turned her unflinching blue eyes on Conan. "Do you really think that I would let the two of you consort alone with these sneaking barons? That would be putting too much at risk: our city's security, our troops and our counterfeit heir, all at once!" She set her chin firmly. "If the gods allow it, I must see that you and these troopers return safe to Dinander." She swung her gaze back along the roadway. "You in particular, for the sake of the realm.

"Besides, Conan, one might as well ask what made you insist on coming." It was her turn to watch him from the corner of her eye. "Oh, I know that Cimmerians love a battle better than a currant cake . . . but I sense in you some other, hidden purpose. Ambition of your own, perhaps?"

If the northerner's shrug was a little too casual, Evadne did not seem to detect it. "Why, woman," he told her lightly, "another day of languishing in that worm-eaten Manse would have driven me mad as poor Calissa! Better to face grinning death out here. Better to shiver and perish in the Varakiel marshes."

"I see." Evadne eyed him skeptically. "Perhaps, in your rough, barbaric way, you guessed how much more respect and obedience your uncouth grunts and grimaces would command on a battlefield!" She settled back against the seat-plank, her gaze abandoning him once more.

"Well, Conan," she continued at length, "you usurp baronial power too lightly! However bold you may be, however handsomely you pose at the head of this column, you lack the skills of a trained commander. You will do best to remain silent and heed my advice. As here ahead, where the trees come down close to the track." She gestured toward a hill that rose on one hand, forcing the road to ascend out of the low plain and wind through stands of woodland.

"Aye, Evadne, I know. Having once played hare-and-hound with your rebels in such a place, I would not wish to repeat the experience."

Giving a whistle and a broad wave, Conan slowed his team to a halt, while the officers of the van and the infantry passed his signal back down the line. Then, instead of waiting for his counselor to give the order, Conan addressed the cavalry officer in his own rough accents: "Send two scouts forward through the woods at each side of the road, and two up the center. Tell them to trumpet an alarm if they find the enemy."

As the officer dispatched the riders, Evadne shook her blond head in astonishment, rebuking him with a whisper. "You are too bold! Your foreign speech will add credence to the rumors of your imposture, which already undermine our troops' morale!"

Conan shrugged. "Better that they come to believe the rumors now than in the midst of battle."

Waiting for the scouts to draw well ahead of the formation, they heard horsemen approaching from the rear. They turned to see Sigmarck and Ottislav cantering up, each followed by a pair of well-armed retainers.

"Well, Baron, what is this new delay?" Sigmarck spoke haughtily from his saddle, able for once to stare down his thin nose at Conan standing in his chariot, though only by a slight margin. "Did we not lose time enough crossing the river?"

Evadne was quick to reply. "We might lose all the time that remains to us on earth if we ride into an ambush in yon woods."

"Haw!" Ottislav, hulking on his large horse behind the lesser baron, brayed forth his opinion. "One should not give too much rein to one's fears, blondhair!" His mustaches twitched with insinuation. "We have to face the enemy sooner or later at all events! Why not just instruct your young master to press on-"

"I ordered a halt," Conan interrupted with gruff restraint, "as is the lead officer's right. If my pace doesn't suit you, you are free to take your troops past me into the van."

"Nay, Baron-or whatever you are." Sigmarck gazed down at him keenly, almost as if seeing him for the first time. "No sense in disrupting the entire column. We leave the matter to you and your lovely . . . advisor. But remember, as senior lords, we claim precedence in all battle decisions." The aristocrat sat gracefully upright in his saddle, turning an insolent charm on Evadne as he continued. "Your regime in Dinander may be new and somewhat. . . informal in its practices; still, it is bound by the traditions that regulate our Nemedian Empire and keep all its parts working together in harmony."

"Not always in harmony," Evadne corrected him. "As when your father's armies mobilized across the Sharken Hills to seize my city's western lands, and had to be driven back by force of arms. Or when your own provincial troops sought to invest Ruthalia, until banned by King Laslo's decree-"

"Now, now, Milady . . ." but Sigmarck's protest was cut short as Conan signaled the column to advance, lashing his team to join them. As the chariot jolted forward, the nobleman spurred his mount to keep pace alongside.

"If you would read to us from the annals of baronial strife," Sigmarck went on smoothly, "there are faults and injustices I could lay at your own province's door. So, doubtless, could my noble friend here." Sigmarck gestured at Ottislav, whose heavy mount clopped close behind. "There are things to be said on both sides in such affairs. Though I would not judge it in the best interest of a government so young and . . . vulnerable as yours to prosecute these ancient feuds."

"No, indeed, Baron Sigmarck." Evadne spoke coldly, yet forcefully enough to be sure the horseman heard her. "We mean to be steady, unquarrelsome neighbors-speaking for my liege lord, of course." She made a stiff-necked bow to Conan, who stood handling the team as if oblivious to the conversation. "Our Baron Favian is a forward-looking ruler; he does not cherish these old grudges."

"Aye, I can tell." Sigmarck nodded slyly to her. "He would seem to have little concern for your city's past; indeed, little link with it. But say"-the suave baron, showing deft horsemanship, reined his steed as close as possible to the chariot's trundling, jolting wheel -"'tis perhaps because of this very newness that your court, as my confidants tell me, is troubled by factions and petty disputes. Ottislav and I want to suggest, should these internal matters ever become too vexing, that you look to us for military support. Our voices have influence beyond the bounds of our own provinces, you know, and our troops stand ready to aid beleaguered friends and fellow nobles where the need is great and . . . heartfelt."

"A thousand thanks, on behalf of my Lord Favian." Evadne nodded curtly to the horseman. "But I think it safe to say, 'twill be a long time before such aid is needed or requested in Dinander. Just now the main threat to us, as to you, is the snakecult. Hence our support of your present cause; our land has ever been averse to the wiles of the serpent." Her lips flashed a tight, wry smile at the baron. "Once that menace is disposed of, we shall return home to carve out a strong, independent Dinander."

"Haw! For one of your frail sex, you speak with great authority," Ottislav put in with mock approval. "Your baron is lucky to have your protection."

"Aye, though I am a mere woman." Evadne's sarcasm matched the foreigner's. " 'Tis a mistake my enemies have made in the past, to forget that the crucible which smelts cook pots can pour out swordhilts, and that the hand which plucks a loom can also draw a bowstring."

So it went for further leagues through the broadening expanse of the Urlaub Valley, the chain-mailed woman skillfully fending off the threats and blandishments of Baron Sigmarck and his larger, cruder accomplice. When the two nobles finally tired of the pursuit and fell back toward the middle of the column, Conan vented a gusting belly laugh at their thwarted efforts. But Evadne turned on him with a savagery she had spared the foreign nobles.

"Barbaric fool, why must you open your mouth in front of them? You think it a jest, perhaps, to reveal yourself to those schemers? Do you not see that they are subtle foes, whose wiles may yet take a dozen years to unfold to our sorrow?" She grasped the edge of his hauberk with a gloved hand, shoving at his unyielding shoulder in reckless wrath. "I should have known that you were too dangerous, from your stubbornness! And from your habit of promoting your old prison mates, and of arrogating unrighteous authority to yourself!" Her eyes, he was surprised to note, glinted with angry tears. "Well, Lord Conan, I hope your barbaric pride is vindicated. You may have dealt my city her deathblow!"

They rode on in silence, not only because of her smoldering ill-temper, but also because the prospect before them had gradually changed. As the valley broadened, leveling out onto the lush plain where a score of rivers converged to water the Varakiel marshes, the sky ahead had darkened to an eerie grayish-brown.

A pall of smoke, it clearly was, so vast of extent and dark of hue as to signal great devastation in the country ahead. The ominous curtain lay across the eastern sky from pole to pole, scarcely blown before the day's damp, listless breeze. Its crest was formed by towering thunderheads, copper-colored monsters that Conan surmised had flown hither to rut and mate with the dusky, dark billows the earth had spawned. In places the cloud's underside was whorled by darker puffs coiling up from distant conflagrations-the pyres of whole villages and forests, by their size. If this was the work of the snakecult, the sect was indeed a great sower of havoc.

The unfolding evil was equally evident in the country alongside the arrow-straight, deeply rutted road ahead. Before crossing the Urlaub River, they had passed many inhabited farmsteads and cottages. If the dwellers in those crofts were rough and ragged, their crops sparse and their livestock lame and stunted, at least they hinted at the existence of greater wealth lurking in the thickets, concealed along with the womenfolk well back from the foraging army. But here in this lower, richer land were seen only gutted ruins, flame-blackened coppices and orchards, and crops systematically uprooted in trampled fields. The desolation lay heavy in the troopers' hearts, along with the knowledge that they must rely henceforth on the sparse provisions they carted with them.

"Where in Crom's kingdoms are the bodies?" Conan finally demanded of Evadne, breaking the somber silence between them. "Back at Edram Castle I assumed they had been tossed into the river. But here there are no graves, no human bones, only the rotting carcasses of slaughtered animals!"

The warrior-woman shrugged under her glinting mail. "It is said that in past outbreaks of this madness, all were converted to the new faith, even infants and the very old, and led forth from their homes at the beck of a great prophet. Rare indeed, it is said, is the woman or man who can resist the inducements the great Lord Set offers his disciples." Her weary, unemotional voice stayed level as she scanned the ominous horizon to southward. "Whether they lay waste the earth to deny us forage or to prevent desertions from their own ranks, I know not. The tactic is remembered of old, but I never fully believed the stories until now.

"In view of this chaos, you can well imagine what we shall face." Her words clanked flat and gloomy in the artificial dusk. "No ragtag band of heretics, these! Rather, the entire populace of this district, united in arms and consumed by fanaticism, with nothing left on earth to lose. How, I wonder, can we ever hope to prevail against them?"

"How can we dare fail?" Conan lashed the reins to speed the team along, tossing a discreet glance behind; the yellow-lit faces of the foot soldiers following the chariot appeared sour with the acrid wash of smoke, and deep-shadowed by dread. The Cimmerian told Evadne, "Surely this menace threatens the whole province, by an indirect path around the southern hills. As it may peril other Hyborian lands. Even if it ravages whole empires first, it would be our fight too in the end, methinks. This is our best chance to stop it, perhaps the only chance."

The light was sinking low behind them, splashing lurid reds and yellows onto the tainted sky ahead. A courier rode up from the barons at the rear to inquire about making camp; after conferring, Conan and Evadne sent back word that they would march until nightfall to reduce the threat of desertion.

They pressed on through scorched, desolated croplands, halting only when the sun had finally quenched itself in a bloody, smoking cauldron to westward. By torchlight they built a camp hedged with muddy ditches and clumps of briar, since there was no unburned timber remaining with which to form a proper palisade. In the smoky gloom of night, Conan and the barons ordered doubled sentries, as much to keep their troops within as to fend off what might lurk outside.

CHAPTER 14

Dawn of Blood

"Soldiers, loyal retainers! I called you here tonight to remind you of the duty that carries you so far from your homes. You have come these many leagues, across this ravaged country, to serve your barons; never forget that. I, Sigmarck, have sworn a sacred pledge, as has each and every one of you. My oath binds me to a purpose, just as irrevocably as yours binds you to me and to the other lords here assembled.

"Since passing the village of Kletsk this noon, you have been traversing the domains of Baron Ottislav, my noble ally. The village was destroyed, of course, as are the farms and forests around you. The baron's crops are ruined, his serfs and livestock slain or taken in unrighteous bondage. Thus has the harmony of my friend's rule been interrupted, his rulership insulted!

"It is not in the nature of a baron to tolerate an insult, be it to himself or to a fellow baron. Therefore, I have sworn to aid Lord Ottislav in avenging this wrong . . . avenging it to the last drop of blood in my body, to the last inch of steel under my command! That, loyal troopers, is why you are here.

"A hard service it has been, I know; harder still it may be on the morrow. But the harshness of the service is matched by the richness of the reward, both in honor and in your lord's esteem. As you go into battle, remember that! Once we are victorious, glory in it! For victorious we shall be!

"I now make way for my gracious friend himself, Baron Ottislav, who wouldst address you. Afterward, we drink a toast to tomorrow's victory!"

Yellow-lit by the torches raised nearby, Sigmarck was careful to leap down from the seat of the two-wheeled cart before its angle was skewed by the weight of the heavily armored baron heaving himself aboard. Ottislav loomed taller against the sky than his predecessor, even though he stood in the plank bed of the cart and cocked one boot against its seat. He turned his habitual sneer for a long moment around the upturned, dutiful faces of the soldiers crowded near the fires. Then he spoke.

"Haw! Men of the eastlands! Nemedians all! You have seen the wrack of our homeland, the rape of our farms and holdings. A dreadful thing, you say to yourselves. What terrible foe, you ask, could have done this to our fine land?

"Well, Nemedians, I tell you, you are wrong! Put aside such unmanly thoughts. There is no terror here, nothing at all to fear-at least not yet. For nothing can compare with the terror of a Nemedian army on the track of vengeance. You are the menace, my ravening hell-hounds, you the terror!

"This havoc is small compared to that we mean to inflict on the enemy. From this moment onward, their lands and possessions are forfeit, their women our cattle, their lives our playthings. We shall scythe them like new grass and thresh them to pieces like brittle grain. Their guts will grease the points of our sabers, their heads dandle from our saddle-posts like green gourds!

"For know you, the carnage of war is a healthy, natural thing. It purges the blood and strengthens the stomach. Bloodletting reminds a man of what a man is made of. A few of you will die, to be sure; and some will suffer grave wounds. But no true Nemedian would let that stand in his way. I bid you go forth to the slaughter in a spirit of honest sport!

"And now I give you-unless the raw lad is tongue-tied-young Favian, Baron of Dinander! Will you let your subjects hear you, sire? Here-, come on up." Ottislav tramped down the length of the groaning wagon and dropped to the ground, leering at the object of his challenge.

Conan, seated on a cask at the fringe of the torchlight, looked up blankly as Evadne leaped to her feet by his side. "I should have known this was their plan!" she whispered fiercely to him. "Here, stay, I'll speak for you." In a trice she clambered up the wagon to stand before the troopers, whose ranks rustled and twittered with expressions of admiration for the trim figure silhouetted against the dark sky.

"Fellow Nemedians, I address you on behalf of my liege, Lord Favian, heir of Dinander. He does not style himself a fancy orator. But he wishes me to remind you that when you fight for him on the morrow, you will be fighting for yourselves as well, for your homelands and for the loved ones biding there. ..."

Evadne's speech was interrupted by a bulkier shape looming at her side: that of Conan, effortlessly mounting the wheel-spokes and stepping into the cart. As he placed an arm across her shoulders to steady her, whispers flew among the troops at the sight of this handsome couple standing limned in torchlight.

"Troopers," Conan's timbrous voice carried out over the throng, "I come before you not as a baron ..."

At this a buzz of bemused assent issued from his listeners, since rumor held that, indeed, he was not one.

". . . or even as a Nemedian."

Again, at Conan's hesitancy, there sounded earnest agreement from the throng, for the accents of his speech corroborated his words.

"I stand before you as a man."

Although murmurs still coursed through the crowd, there was none who could gainsay this, so the troops stood patiently awaiting his next pronouncement.

"As a man, I know good from evil. Or I try to know it. I surely can recognize a great and growing evil when it tweaks me in the face." He paused uncertainly again as his listeners nodded and murmured, affirming the wisdom of his words.

"I have marched with you in these past days. I know, as you know, that what we face here is wholly, utterly evil. It is the way of the serpent." The muttering of the troopers grew heartfelt, with occasional strident yells of agreement. Conan's next words had to be shouted to be heard.

"As a man, I know enough to set my boot heel on the head of a viper!"

Without further oration, he turned and was gone, helping Evadne down from the bed of the wagon. He left the troops in a turmoil, cheering, jostling and waving fists in the air. A chant of "Favian" was set up somewhere, to die away just as quickly in disputes over the truth of the name.

Whether the soldiers had enjoyed his speech for its sentiment or for its brevity was unclear, even to those who liked it best. The hubbub was due in part, certainly, to the eve-of-battle toasting; tots of rum were promptly dispensed from heavily guarded casks around the camp. The northerner tossed off the one that was handed to him and sat down again in the torchlight, disregarding the thoughtful, resentful stares and whispers of Sigmarck and Ottislav. Evadne, saying nothing, settled down close by his side.

Conan was pensive, pondering recent events. After passing the ruin of Edram Castle and making their first night's camp in the wasted lands, it had taken another day's brisk march to draw near the creeping edge of the devastation. The ashes of cottage and barn had grown gradually warmer, the air darker and fouler with smoke, and then, toward dusk, their scouts had reported finding the enemy. No refugees, no trailing supply lines, just swarms of footborne ravagers bearing crude weapons, torches and firepots through the fields. Even now, by night, distant red-lit underbellies of cloud could be glimpsed where fires flared to southward and eastward.

Conan still hoped to find Ludya, or to send word for her. Yet he was forming the eerie conviction that no living human remained between himself and the Varakiel, long leagues to northward. Nor were there yet any bodies. In the chapel-yard of the ravaged village of Kletsk, even the new graves had been ruptured, their soil upturned and their tenants vanished with the rest of the townsfolk.

At these odd circumstances, superstitious fears beset the troops. Worst was their dread of the vipers that seemed so strangely prevalent in these damp lowlands; fortunately, none of the men had-yet been bitten. Desertions had been surprisingly few, and were less likely this deep in enemy territory. The troops seemed ready to fight-more so, possibly, than were their leaders.

Now they awaited the dawn to face a foe they knew nothing about. The barons, confident of victory, had formed only the vaguest battle plan: march forth at first light, attack from the flank and the rear, and rely on the snake-cultists' relative lack of weapons, armor and training to defeat them. Conan himself knew no better approach. If the Nemedian companies kept their formations tight and mobile amidst a scattered enemy, there was no reason why their few hundred troops could not vanquish ten thousand and more.

And so the Cimmerian sat brooding late into the night, pondering the turbulent events in Dinander and the strange turn of fortune that had brought him to his present station. Of course, he reminded himself, he could still make his escape. Never would it be easier than now; he need merely stray beyond the torchlight on an errand of nature, and fail to return.

But he knew he would stay; he had spoken truth to the soldiers earlier. He found himself confronted with an evil well worth the battling; also, there was the dwindling hope of finding his old love. But even more, he sensed a dawning of unknown potentials; if he survived this battle, where would it leave him situated with the barons and thralls of Nemedia?

So he sat until long after Ottislav and Sigmarck had drunk their fill and retired to their tents, when the only lights remaining were a few dim tapers marking the sentries' routes. Evadne dozed near him, curled on the ground, a horse blanket drawn across her chilly mail; she tended to stay close to Conan and her few faithful guard officers, in this camp full of lusty foreign males. Now, as the outlander sat brooding, she stirred in the starless, smoky dimness and spoke to him.

"Perhaps you were right, Conan. I despised you yesterday, but now I understand you better." Fresh from her rest, and without the tension of public discourse, her voice sounded pleasantly soft. "This battle we face may be more important than any politics, even more important than Dinander itself."

"It will be all-important to us, if we are to die in it." As he spoke, Conan scanned the darkness for any last sign of distant fires; he saw none.

"No, do not think of death. Just lead your troops well." She sat up, hugging the blanket around herself. "You primed them well tonight; now they will follow you more loyally as Conan than they ever would as Favian. Be yourself, do not trouble to play a role."

"The role is outworn anyway." For the tenth time that night, Conan tilted his cup to his lips to make sure it was empty.

"You no longer need it. I have seen you fight fiercely, both for and against our cause. You have the prowess to be a strong leader in battle."

"Aye, if nowhere else!" Conan's gloom lay on him as black and heavy as the night shrouding the camp. "But you, Evadne . . ." he turned to her . . . "you have the wit to govern a land at peace, to steer the destinies of courts and kingdoms. Pray you, take care in battle tomorrow; stand apart with the barons and see that they don't betray us. You are too valuable to be sacrificed in the front line."

At these words Evadne stiffened beneath her blanket. "I am a warrior, remember! I did not bring an end to the Einharson tyranny with honeyed words, but with bloodied steel. My place is among our troops."

She halted abruptly in her speech as a footfall sounded nearby; when one of the officers stepped into the light and saluted, followed closely by an infantryman, her steel dirk winked back into its scabbard. Conan, likewise, laid down his sword and spoke a greeting. "Yes, Rudo. What is it?"

"Co . . . Milord Baron, we sent forth roving patrols as you ordered. Now this sentry"-Rudo pushed the footsoldier forward-"brings a report of enemy movements to eastward."

"Yes? What did you see, then? Speak, man!" Conan admonished him.

"Milord, we saw nothing. They carried no lights, and we dared not show ours. But we heard footsteps -a great many, moving steadily on both sides of us. Also, a strange sound . . . it may have been just their feet sliding through tall grass, but it sounded like . . . like hissing snakes." The sentry choked to a halt, flustered. "We ... we made our way back to camp by following a ditch. They must have seen the camp lights earlier, I think they mean to strike at dawn."

"Crom! I told Sigmarck his torchlight ceremony was a mistake!" Conan reached out to extinguish the flickering taper, then thought better of it. "Rudo, what about the other approaches to the camp?"

"No word yet. The last patrol we dispatched to westward is overdue."

"Hell's gnawing fiends! Rudo, alert the barons! And you, man, make the rounds of the officers' tents. Have them bid the troopers ready themselves quietly, without lights. Full armor. And tell them to lace their buskins up high against serpents!"

Conan strode to his tent, followed closely by Evadne-for they shared the same pavilion, a chaste curtain strung between their cots. As he fumbled for greaves and bassinet with which to complete his armor, her whisper came to him through the cloth: "There is little in this fight for a crack Nemedian legion to fear. The snakeworshipers can scarcely have mastered military tactics and drill."

"Only enough to raze Edram Castle." Feeling for the tent post, he clutched his steel buckler to prevent it from clattering to the floor.

"Well, at least they have lost the advantage of surprise." He heard the soft clink of her chain-mail being arranged.

"Aye. But if they are not utter fools, they have surrounded us by now."

"Conan, do you remember what you once said at the Manse? About us being two of a kind?" Her whisper in the darkness was made even softer by a faint huskiness in her voice. "Tonight I saw that like me, you have a knack for leadership. I know you better now. Perhaps there could be profit in a union between us. ..."

"By Ishtar! You women are seized by lust at the strangest times!" Conan's ill-restrained astonishment gusted through the tent. "I would oblige you, Evadne, but it could scarcely be managed in this armor."

"I didn't mean that!" Her momentary closeness vanished in a long, unmoving silence. "Although," she finally added, "once this battle is past, you could ask me again."

"I shall, depend on it!" The brisk rattling of his armor-stays revealed his exhilaration at the thought.

In another moment both Sigmarck and Ottislav were before the tent, gruffly demanding Conan's presence. With a last click of his sword-buckle, he strode out to meet them. "Hush, you two," he rasped, "or the enemy will be no more surprised than we are."

"So? What does it matter?" Sigmarck's voice issued low in the night gloom. "Neither of us can do aught in this blackness anyway. We make ready, and come morning, we fight them; what more is there?"

"You intend to wait here behind our flimsy barricade and let them come at us, in all their multitudes? What will you do if they decide not to attack us, but merely stand off and throw fire and snakes into our midst? Or build defenses of their own, and starve us out?"

"Aha, I see that the young baron knows the value of discretion!" Ottislav's laugh fell unpleasantly on Conan's ear. "But how do you expect to run, lad, if we are surrounded? 'Twould be disastrous to be caught by the enemy while sneaking away. . . ."

"Run? I said nothing of running. I mean to attack at first light!" Conan's voice throbbed forcefully in the darkness. "That way we can break the encirclement and hold on to the initiative. What are our cavalry for, if not to attack and keep the foe off balance?"

"But attack whom, and where?" Sigmarck demanded. "To attack outward in all directions at once is madness! It would disperse our force."

"When you fight a serpent, where do you strike? At its head! Once the head is destroyed, the body twitches and dies." Conan's words flowed out swift and sure. "So we press toward the enemy's commanders, who will be somewhere to eastward, near their center. That will be easy once dawn comes: we simply order the men to attack into the rising sun. When we've overrun their first perimeter, we can turn our strength where it will do the most good."

Evadne had come out of the tent to stand close beside Conan. "A clever plan, my baron-but remember, we have the burden of a shared command. I think it might be better to stand on the defensive at first."

"No, wait, there is something to be said for his idea." Smoothly Sigmarck took up the thread of the argument. "After all, our elite companies can certainly hold formation against an unruly mob, and the offensive will give us commanders a degree of control we would otherwise lack. If we can ready the men and horses with a minimum of noise. . . ." He muttered orders to one of his officers, who nodded an acknowledgment and turned away.

"My salute to you, young warlord!" Ottislav chimed in. "Your plan embodies the best Nemedian virtues: ferocity and resourcefulness! I too will back you!"

And so the nighted camp stirred with furtive activity, firefly wisps of tapers the only light. Conan saw to the hitching of his chariot and the most essential of the supply carts. By the time he was finished, a faint, half-illusory radiance was mounting in the eastern sky.

The silence intensified then, as troopers knelt in readiness about the camp. Token forces were assigned to hold the north, west and south perimeters, but only until a breakthrough was signaled to eastward; then they would move forth, following the wagons through the gap made in the encirclement.

False dawn faded, and the light seemed to take forever to return. The waiting would have been easier, the men thought, if only they had some idea of what lurked beyond the low barricade of shrubs and outward-pointed snags.

Conan stood vigilant in his chariot as the dimness spread and then deepened into a faint, muddy smear low in the sky to eastward. Evadne waited beside him, quietly at work in the ghost light, bending and stringing her long, slim bow and lashing extra quivers of arrows to the chariot rail. The driver they had chosen stood by the horses, murmuring softly to quiet them.

Finally sunrays pried through the dense, stale layers of sky at the earth's rim, Smoke-tinged, the light blossomed brighter and more luridly by the moment, brushing orange highlights across the undersides of hanging clouds. Conan saw reflections playing redly on the metal curves of the horses' harness; he heard low grunts and scrapings ahead, as troopers toiled to drag aside movable sections of barricade. He raised his arm high, and his driver swung aboard, taking up the reins; then he lowered his hand, and barked an order. Trumpets shattered the stillness at either side as the chariot leaped forward.

CHAPTER 15

The Thousand-Tongued Serpent

At first they saw nothing in the dimness but brush-mottled meadowland spreading before the paling smudge of sunrise. Then the riders felt the muffled jolting of hooves and chariot-wheels laboring over low, unseen obstacles. At last, arising from the knee-high grass all around, a few dim shapes appeared, growing to a swarm and then a host as the camp's besiegers broke from concealment on all sides.

In a moment they loomed so thick before the straining chariot-team that they slowed the battle-car's progress. The horses whinnied with rage and fear as they plunged to obey the charioteer's lashing whip. Conan struck out fiercely with a javelin clutched in either hand, stabbing ahead and sideward at the half-seen, converging figures; the attackers pressed so near that there was no need to cast his weapons. Beside him he heard Evadne's bow twanging steadily, plied with desperate swiftness.

From the rear, the thunder of hoofbeats continued as the cavalry erupted out of camp. Screams, curses and the clang of weapons told how quickly it was engaged. Yet those horsemen who galloped in the body-littered wake of the chariot soon overtook it, veering left and right to broaden the attack front.

Conan, straining and striking from his fighting platform, listened behind him with a worried ear. Finally, on hearing a distant, spreading clamor born of a hundred throats, he smiled in grim satisfaction. The infantry were being ordered forward; at last the battle was fully joined. Plying javelins with remorseless vigor, piercing each dim target as it flashed by, he searched ahead in the dawning light for sign of the enemy commanders.

He saw none, but what he did see almost made him, regret looking too closely. Now that the sun's full intensity broke over the plain, spearing it with violet rays and seeming to kindle the easterly grasses into a band of smoldering orange, it revealed more starkly the nature of the foes he had been striking at. Looming against the sunrise, tall-shadowed in the low, crimson light, these were beings who had long since forsaken their humanity.

He had expected to face gaunt disciples of Set, mad-eyed and tongue-slit like the pitiful youth he had seen in Ulf s tower. But here were veritable demons: hissing, grimacing things leaping at him out of the dawn, knowing no regard for their own lives or those of their comrades. Their picks and scythes were terrible enough, flashing high against the red sky to strike dartingly at men and horses. But many of the attackers also bore snakes as weapons, or wore them as adornment, looped around their necks, writhing in their filthy garments or plaited into their lank, straggling hair.

To compound the menace, the lunges and grimaces of the cultists had a supernaturally fluid, reptilian quality; and Conan swore that some of the wrathful eyes flashing past him bore vertical, slitted pupils, like those of serpents.

But the greatest horror came as one of the reckless attackers transfixed himself on the point of Conan's spear. At the fatal instant, the man's mouth opened in a rage of agony; but instead of a tongue, there darted forth from his lips a green-headed asp, a living snake rooted in the wretch's mouth, striking vainly and repeatedly with its tiny fangs at the shaft of the javelin that transfixed its writhing, gasping host. Conan quickly relinquished the spear and its horrid burden, groping behind him with an unsteady hand for a fresh weapon as more attackers loomed beyond the fallen thing.

Gazing around the wheeling, converging horde of enemies, he glimpsed a new wave of serpent-tongued fighters, and he could tell from Evadne's gasps of consternation that the lurid daylight was revealing hideous sights to her as well. The effect was most telling on the horses, who tended to balk or shy at the sight of snakes. Fortunately, all four of the chariot-team were armor-masked and narrowly blinkered. Herd instinct, or sheer momentum, augmented by their driver's deft handling, kept them moving through the press of battle, if unsteadily. The passengers saw several nearby cavalrymen stopped in their tracks, thrown from their saddles or dragged down by mobs of snake-teeming foes.

The Nemedian infantry, slower in overtaking the main attack front, must needs meet the demonic horde face-to-snarling-face; consequently its ranks suffered the worst from the cultists' jabbing blades and fangs. A favorite tactic of the snake-tongued fighters was to parry or clutch their adversary's weapon with one hand, heedless of injury from its edge, while wresting aside the swordsman's shield or buckler with the other hand. Then, leering hideously and pressing intimately close in the thick of battle, they would open their lips in a venomous kiss. The agile tongue-vipers, long and sufficiently slender to penetrate a breathing-slit or an eyehole, found a tightly visored helm no obstacle. Their bite, to all appearances, was agonizingly fatal.

Conan cursed himself for failing in his battle plan to foresee the extent of the enemy's sorcery. Besides enhancing their deadliness and threatening to devastate his side's morale, their utter inhumanity seemed to exempt the snakeworshipers from the ordinary requirements of command. Even now, having broken through the main ring of besiegers circling the camp, he could see no sign of a central leader-or of generals or reserves, or even of petty officers to marshal the attack. The cultists seemed to throw themselves forward, sustaining their effort with a tireless, unquestioning unanimity; possibly they harked to the voice of immortal Set himself, hissing assurances ceaselessly in their ears.

Whatever their mystical unity, it appeared to leave the counterfeit warlord no place wherein to strike a fatal blow. Ordering his charioteer to wheel back through the thinning straggle of enemies, he reconnoitered toward camp. There he saw the escape corridor widened and the supply train and rear guard finally moving forward-an army intact and mobile, but lacking an objective! Rasping with ill temper, he ordered his charioteer to turn eastward again.

"At least we broke free of the camp," Evadne remarked to him. "With these thousands pressing us, it could have been a death-trap." Her archery had long since diminished to occasional stray shots; now she stooped over her bow to fit a new string to it, using a razored arrow-tip to slice away the loops of the old frayed one.

"Aye. 'Tis best to keep our army on the move, if it prevents the bulk of the enemy from converging on us at once." Conan gazed past the wheeling, skirmishing cavalry toward the southern flank of the army, where cultists still threw themselves against the Nemedians' close-knit line. "But we must find a target worth attacking. We spend our strength too freely against these unending hordes." He stepped up onto the grillwork of the chariot, steadying himself by grasping a harness rope as he scanned the field. "Ah, there, driver! Forward quickly, past those stunted trees. I want that man!"

The momentary splendor of sunrise had faded to a smoky radiance in the east, yellow-brown where the orb's light trickled through a dark, formless ceiling of mist and smoke. The sky's sooty translucence made it seem likely that before another hour had passed, they would no longer be able to tell direction by means of the sun. Yet the jaundiced day permitted visibility a good way across the plain. By its light to eastward, a crowd of figures could be seen straggling through the tall grass. The foremost of them, a stout warrior, moved to meet the chariot with the same numb steadiness the other cultists showed, but his silver-bright armor drew attention.

Evadne stared his way, exclaiming to Conan, "Why, that is Ulf, late the squire of Edram Castle! The old scalawag!" Smoothly she nocked a hard-pointed shaft to her bow, sighting on the breastplate of the distant, shambling figure.

"No, feather him not!" Conan clutched her shoulder to spoil her aim. "We need a captive to guide us to these hell-fiends' leader. Ulf is a recent convert to their cause, and he may not yet be so far gone as the rest. Swing near him, driver-take care not to trample him." .

The fat warrior, tardy for the camp siege, plodded doggedly forward, dragging his long-bladed sword along the ground: As the chariot bore down on him, he perked up, his gait changing to a lumbering trot, his weapon lifted two-handed in readiness. Then the horses thundered by, blowing the nearby grass blades flat with the wind of their passing. As the chariot followed around on one wheel, Conan launched himself from the platform to strike the man full on, body to body, forearm to throat. The squire's raised sword sailed off into a bush as the two armored bodies rolled on the turf, grunting and clanking.

"Ulf! Yield, old tyrant!" Growling with effort, Conan forced his weight atop the struggling squire. "You are my captive, and we will have speech together if you value your nose!" With a convulsive movement, he drew his dagger and held it poised before the supine man's face.

"Sa setha Efanissa!" Ulf spat out the ritual syllables at Conan, his slitted tongue lashing and sibilating against dry, cracked lips. "Hathassa fa Sathan!"

"Enough!" Forcing down a spasm of revulsion at the sight, Conan smote the butt of his dagger against the temple of his enemy's helm, causing the stubble-jowled head to rattle within. "You are Squire Ulf, late of Edram Castle! You may have been a black-hearted rogue, but you were a man! And a man you still are, or shall be-if I have to sew up that forked tongue of yours myself! Now answer me, who is the leader of the snakecult?"

"Laa . . . larthhh! Larrrhhhh!" The eyes of the haggard man seemed to focus somewhat, and his struggles ceased, but his tongue had difficulty in forming its accustomed sounds. Occasionally, between his efforts, it escaped his mouth to lash crazily against his bleeding lips. "Larrrhh isss priessssst!"

"Good, man, that's better." Leaning closer, Conan braced his knife-holding fist against his captive's chin. "And where can I find this priest Larth of yours? Which way do I ride?"

"Easssstt!" Ulf worked an arm free to wave it behind him, indicating the grassland. "Larrrrhh is eassst. Easssssttt. . . ahh! Aieee!"

Startled at his prisoner's convulsive shrieks, Conan glanced down to see with a shock that a small purple viper had wormed its way from beneath Ulf's breastplate and was sinking its fangs into the unwilling informant's neck. He reached down to flick the serpent aside with his dagger blade, only to discover a second snake's emerald body threading up out of the grass. Its fangs went deep into the hapless squire's cheek.

With a spasm of uncontrollable dread, Conan leaped to his feet, spying more serpentine flickers in the grass all around him. Sheathing his knife, he drew his sword to hack fiercely at those nearest. Then, standing over the gasping, blue-faced Ulf, he raised his weapon high and brought it slashing down. The stroke ended the squire's writhing agonies by severing his head.

"Conan! Beware!" He turned to see an ax-wielding cultist rushing at him through the grass; but before he could raise his sword to meet the charge, the form staggered two steps and collapsed, an arrow jutting from its armpit.

"Why bother to warn me at all, Evadne, if you insist on taking the mark every time . . . Crom!" His grim good nature turned to alarm as he swung around to see that the chariot moved at a near stop a few dozen paces away, suddenly beset by attackers. The driver lay thrashing helplessly a dozen paces in its wake, his neck seized in the jaws of a large serpent that had been hurled onto him as he drove. The chariot-team was rendered nearly immobile by the loss of the reins, and by a cultist who had thrown himself onto the starboard horse, clambering back along its harness toward the fighting-platform. Evadne was preparing to launch an arrow into him, but even as she raised her bow, three more attackers overtook the slow-moving chariot.

"Mannannan's black blood!" Pelting through the grass, Conan roared the war-cry to distract the enemy; but the cultists did not trouble to look back. As the arrow-pierced snakeworshiper slipped from the shying horse's trappings to bump briefly under the chariot's rolling wheel, the foremost of the pursuers vaulted onto the platform. Evadne turned and slashed with her bow to club him off, but he ignored the blow, hacking low and viciously at her with his long-handled scythe.

"Bite steel, dog of Set!" Conan's sword-slash laid open the rearmost harrier's back from nape to kidney, driving him to earth. The Cimmerian trod the writhing corpse underfoot without a glance, dashing for the chariot, where Evadne had no chance to avoid her attacker's sickle-strokes.

"Die, worm-spawn!" The second cultist left one arm clutching the chariot-rail, the rest of his body shorn away bleeding as Conan boarded the car. He was too close behind Evadne's attacker to swing his sword. "Wretch! Go find your father in hell!" The man was already choking on one of Evadne's arrow stabbed shallowly into his throat; now Conan jabbed it deeper, twisting it cruelly as he hurled the creature away behind.

"Conan . . . please ..." Evadne slumped to the floor, clasping reddened hands beneath her heart. "I am slain."

"No, girl, lie still." Searching in vain for a whip or the reins, he used the flat of his gory sword to slap the horses' skittish rumps into a trot. Once the chariot was trundling faster than the pace of the converging scatter of enemies, he knelt beside Evadne. "Here, let me bind your wound." His throat clenched to see how much blood washed the chariot floor. "I'll take you back-"

"Conan, listen. . . ." The rebel woman's voice was weak, her face waning paler than her blond tresses. "If you survive, you will return to Dinander. Promise me!"

"Yes, Evadne." He reached underneath her to prop her sagging back. "So shall you; we will ride there in triumph. . . ." But it was too late; her head tilted away sightlessly toward the murky sky.

He knelt with her for a long moment, cradling her slack, almost weightless body against the jolting of the cart. Finally he lay her down gently and climbed to his feet, taking up his sword in blood-grimed hands.

He stood numb in the chariot, scarcely aware of the hissing, grimacing snakeworshipers who jogged after him in pursuit. Far to eastward, a column of smoke rose into the murky sky. Glancing back toward the camp, he saw a few cavalry, all of them blackmailed troops of Dinander, riding down stray enemies. Farther beyond, he could hear trumpets skirling, calling masses of troops together under the raised banners, hanging slack in the airless morning, of Sigmarck and Ottislav.

How like the swinish barons to stop and look after their own interests at the first opportunity, instead of pressing onward as agreed! Perhaps, had they not lagged so far behind, Evadne might yet be alive; he shook his head bitterly, blaming himself nevertheless for her death. At all events, her dying wish still whispered in his brain. He must now turn back to protect the interests of his troops, lest the warriors of Dinander be callously scattered and sacrificed to the enemy.

But as he turned to the front, his chariot suddenly pitched and stopped short, hurling him sharply against the rail. The horses of the team reared and lunged to both sides at once, terrified by the sight of a naked, dancing warrior decked with living snakes, who had sprung out of the low sedges directly in front of them.

Struggling for footing on the blood-slick, heaving platform, Conan abruptly found his arms pinioned as two of the hissing, chattering pursuers hurled themselves simultaneously atop him. He twisted to break free, but a third snake-eyed attacker leaped aboard to straddle all three, wielding high a stone-headed hammer. It plunged swiftly downward, striking the northerner's helm with an odd, stunning silence. Again, silently, it rose and fell; then again, as if Conan's skull were the head of a spike being patiently driven into the chariot timbers. With the hammer's fourth stroke, the numb silence exploded to engulf everything.

CHAPTER 16

The Head of the Serpent

Ravening flame consumed all. It spread and flowed like a mighty cataract, writhed as exquisitely as a tortured animal and sent blazing rootlets and blossoms creeping forth with tireless, plantlike energy. From its fury and withering heat, Conan knew that the Set-cult had triumphed. It's unquenchable holocaust had engulfed not only the Nemedian plain, but the entire world of men. Mad, surging flames now danced their ultimate victory; they would continue to do so for all eternity.

And yet, perhaps not everything was destroyed, for deep within the flames there hovered a ghost. Dim and remote, at times distorted or melted entirely by shimmering heat, the face was nonetheless beautiful. Dark-shadowed, gleaming eyes like dusky wells of dream; delicately round, blush-tinted cheeks; lips stained deeply red, as from tasting the juice of pomegranates. The face gazed forth beatifically from the fire, radiating at once the complacency of total knowledge and the passion of boundless desire.

Was it lost Evadne? No, this visage was framed by black curls that gloomed as night to her day-bright tresses. Yet it was a familiar face, and a loved one. It smiled serenely from the flames as if witnessing the world's fate and accepting it utterly, blissfully.

Ludya.

The shock of the name brought Conan more fully to consciousness as he lay stuck with congealed blood to the bed of the motionless chariot. He shut his eyes, their pupils scorched dry by the heat of the campfire, and learned that even the least flick of his eyelids sent tremors of discomfort throbbing through his skull. When he tried to raise his head from its lolling, crook-necked posture at the edge of the platform, all the unfelt pain and din of the hard-swung stone sledgehammer caught up with him at once.

He lay still then, trying to fix his aching, echoing brain on one certain fact: across the fire-circle from him sat a painted, smiling girl, and that girl was Ludya.

As his misery gradually diminished, he sensed movements nearby. A languid voice drifted toward him.

"Oh, indeed, this is a fine chariot! Better by far than our rickety old haycart." It was a boyish contralto, speaking guilelessly and sweetly, though at times it cracked with the huskiness of approaching manhood. "At long last I can transport you in the fashion you deserve, Milady! We will pile it thick with cushions and soft tapestries for your comfort."

"That will be fine, Lar." The answering murmur caused Conan to stir again with recognition. Consequently he suffered a new wave of pain, though less intensely than before.

"It will have to be cleansed first," the boyish voice said. "One of its riders, a woman, spilled her life's blood into it, so I am told. A sad waste-now she can never join us." The speaker moved closer to Conan's inert form. "But life still lingers in this man. Even if he fails to recover from his wound, he can be reclaimed to our cause."

Feeling a soft, tentative prod at the unarmored skin of his arm, Conan stirred, or tried to. "Wretched scut. . . I'll drag you . . . screaming to hell first!"

His threat was scarcely audible, blurred by his gasps as he slowly heaved himself onto his side. He groped among blinding, pulsating curtains of agony for his dagger. But he found none, and the insolent, piping voice would not retreat. He realized that he was out of doors and that it was day, though the dim lowering of the sky made the fire seem bright.

"For shame, fellow! Your threats do not swerve me. Why must you Hyborians ever practice violence?" Lar shifted impatiently before the flames, his voice cracking as it grew self-righteous. "Your unprovoked attack costs many lives on both sides-taking countless souls who would have rejoiced to serve our cause." He shook his tousled head resignedly. "You will never stop us, of course, but still I mourn the loss. It would be so much easier if you would simply try to understand."

"Understand!" Grasping the chariot rail, Conan dragged himself to a sitting position. "Talking of losses, your host moves through the countryside like a locust swarm-slaying and burning what and whom you do not steal!" He blinked hazily at the frail figure outlined by the licking flames, to see it suddenly joined by the burly silhouettes of two peasant guards.

"A common delusion." Lar cast his voice across the fire to where Ludya sat encushioned as his audience. "Like most people in these decadent times, you overvalue transient, temporal things. You have forgotten the strength of true devotion. Before it, material goods and personal obligations are as nothing."

Conan did not reply. He was occupied in holding himself upright, swallowing the deep draughts of pain that pulsed from his throbbing skull, flexing his fingers and toes to test them for sensation. Then, under the incurious eyes of Lar and his guards, he set about prying the dented, split helmet away from his skull, probing carefully at the broken steel where it was embedded in the clotted mess of hair and scalp. Finally, agonizingly, it came free, and he prodded gingerly above his ear to make certain that his brain did not lie open to the sky.

No, he decided, the wound would heal, if only Crom granted him life for another fortnight. He cast away the shattered husk of helmet and focused his slowly clearing vision on his captors.

The boy had none of the monstrousness that Conan had expected to find in the cult's prophet. He seemed strangely innocent, enough so to disarm the Cimmerian's natural impulse of mayhem toward him. He was, after all, only a child, hovering at the brink of the mystic transformation to manhood. A fine-featured, yellow-haired lad, slightly arrogant perhaps, and looking almost effeminate in his cape of gold-embroidered purple and his heavy gold chaplet. But he moved with a careless lightness of limb that bespoke an easy conscience, boding no conceivable threat to the onlooker. His hulking guardians, one dressed as a smith and the other as a fur-trapper, appeared to be stolid, mindless types. They stood ready to obey, albeit without speed or initiative. Like their leader, they showed none of the bestial marks of Set, though for all Conan knew, their shut mouths might harbor nimble snake-tongues.

They waited with their young master before the fire, in the meadow in the midst of the trackless plain. Overhead stretched a taciturn sky whose cloudy, smoky expanse betrayed neither time nor direction. The camp's appurtenances were few: a tent painted with serpents and other mystic symbols, a battered ox-cart decked with faded pillows and tapestries, an open chest of food and wine-jugs, and Conan's own chariot.

His weary horses were tethered nearby, grazing with several other mounts along a shallow, meandering stream. Across the brushy grassland came no sign of the roving cult-hordes, no echo of battle cries or trumpets. The horrors of the morning could have been a dream, except for the blood that caked the Cimmerian's armor and stained the chariot where he sat.

Finally, tardily, Conan shifted his attention to the other person present. He felt a reluctance to turn his gaze on her, greater even than his disinclination to stare into the blinding heart of the fire. This hesitancy, amounting almost to a fear, came not only from her stunning beauty, but from her inexplicable, evil presence here. He met her sloe eyes cautiously and found them staring back at him with some of the same blithe innocence as the young cult-leader's.

Ludya rested on a litter of pillows spread before Lar's cart. She was carefully groomed and painted, dressed in bits of finery well-calculated to accent her womanly charms without concealing them; she looked as passionately immodest as any courtesan of the king's chambers in Belverus. Her hips and breasts were bound in fringed scraps of embroidery, the tapering curves of her legs veiled by gossamer pantaloons, her feet fitted with the frailest of sandals, her ankles, waist and brow circled by glittering gold chains. Her figure was as full and supple as Conan remembered, but daily exposure to the sun had darkened her skin to a tawny color. He Could not see whether the stripes of Favian's lash still marred her back, but her lithe languor made it clear that her body, if not her mind, had recovered from her ordeal in the Manse.

"I see that you appreciate my Ludya's beauty," Lar piped up beside Conan. "She is a cherished companion, my one indulgence. Go sit by her and make her acquaintance. Here, you will be more comfortable lying on these cushions." Striding to his wagon well in advance of his lumbering guards, the youth dragged forth more pillows from it and spread them on the ground beside the reclining girl. Kneeling before her, he said, "Entertain our guest well, my love. Teach him in your gentle way the wisdom of our beliefs, whilst I attend to some small chores."

After addressing his consort, Lar kissed her, administering only a swift, chaste peck to her cheek. Watching the boy's manner with Ludya, Conan realized that he did not use her as a man would. Rather, he primped her appearance and cared for her as a child dressing a toy doll, lavishing some of the doting affection oh her that boys commonly reserve for a mother or an elder sister.

Striding over and tugging at Conan's arm, Lar raised him up, admonishing him, "Come, do not be shy!" Conan shook off the boy's weak grip; nevertheless he followed his lead, remaining just as dumb as the bodyguards who loomed close on either hand.

"Here are fruit and cheese and wine," Lar said, indicating the food chest that stood open nearby. "Satisfy yourselves; I do not feel like eating on this battle-day; my stomach is all astir. Now come along, you two lackeys! Help me drag this chariot down to the stream." As the three turned away, Conan stood mute over Ludya, reeling with his wounds and numb with a vague dread, expecting at any moment to see snakes squirm from the houri's scented hair or a reptile tongue issue from between her pert, painted lips.

"Conan, do not fear. I know it is you. Come sit by me!" Adjusting her veiled limbs with simple grace, Ludya arose to her knees and beckoned with supplicating hands. "When first they brought you here, I thought you were Favian. You seemed to be dead, and I rejoiced at it. When you stirred and answered Lar in those coarse Cimmerian accents, I thought my heart would burst from my chest with joy!" Smiling up at him, she pressed her hands to her sparsely covered bosom to emphasize her emotion. "But come and rest, my love, and I will tend your wounds. I now see that I have no need of this." Reaching down behind her into a shallow fold of tapestry, she produced a long knife, wickedly curved and razor-tipped. She laid it on the cushion before her.

"Ah, Ludya, more than one wench has carried a sharp dagger for Favian!" Conan could see that his friend was her old self; grating out a painful laugh, he stooped down to seat himself on the velvet beside her. "'Tis no marvel that his life was short."

"What, he is dead? And you have taken his place in Baldomer's affections?" She clutched Conan's shoulder, gazing into his face with eager, mascared eyes while he nearly swooned at the ravishing sight and scent of her.

"Easy, girl, back off and let me breathe!" He pushed her to arm's length, nevertheless keeping a hand on her warm shoulder to steady himself. "The Einharson tyrants are both dead, overthrown by a woman much like you. ..." With frequent halts and backtrackings, and carefully omitting any mention of his tumblings with Calissa, he told Ludya of the events that had unfolded after her exile from the Manse. While he spoke, she fussed over him; though he would not let her probe or bathe his wound, she bound a dry herb compress over it by means of a thong around his head.

". . . and so Evadne died. I could gut those barons for hanging back and not supporting my advance!" He stirred restlessly, drawing her gentle hands away from his brow. "But tell me, what happened after you returned home? How did you fall in with the snakecult?"

"Lar's coach met mine on the road. I never again saw my home or my parents." She shook her head slowly, in uncertain remembrance. "I was half-mad with hatred then, and sick with a brain fever. But Lar did not trouble me with questions or make any demands. He just kept me at his side and cared for me, like a true friend. Our talks are mainly of foolish things-the songs of birds, the waves the wind makes in the grass of the steppe. These clothes . . ." unblushing, she indicated her scanty array . . . "are treasures his followers bring him."

"But what of the marches and the sieges?" Conan prompted her. "Your young boyfriend is a formidable general!" He looked across the meadow to the bank of the stream, where Lar stood overseeing his helpers as they washed the blood and muck from the chariot in its slow waters. "He has conquered a tenth part of Nemedia; by now he must have the Brythunians worrying, too."

Ludya shrugged, dismissing the matter. "I know nothing of all that. He leaves me in the tent when he tours the front lines. He gives few orders, and has fewer officers with whom to carry them out. People follow him willingly; they would sacrifice their lives for his cause."

"Aye, because of the dark grip of his sorcery." Conan peered gravely into her face. "Do not blind yourself, Ludya; there is something far greater than little Lar at work here-something as ancient and evil as the serpent-god himself!" He lowered his gaze from hers, frowning in distaste. "His followers become beings less than human, you know. They bear foul stigmata. ..."

"I know something of it." Ludya nodded reluctantly, averting her eyes. "He has strange powers of transformation. Of all his disciples, I think he keeps me mortal only through a whim."

"Likely you are the only one who ever joined him freely, without being converted by a mystic snakebite." Conan searched her face, seeking agreement. "So you see, girl, he is no bright savior. He is evil, a slave-master!"

"Well, and who is not?" Suddenly Ludya flared back at him, her eyes aflame with the consuming wrath Conan had glimpsed once before. "What leader in this great prison-pit of Nemedia does not rule over abject slaves? Or in all Hyboria, for that matter? What husband does not degrade his wife? What squire allows his serfs free will, except in choosing their own slaves?" She shook her dark ringlets, her mouth twisted in a cynical scar of a smile. "What baron, my Lord Conan, does not cozen his subjects by slicing their veins and lopping off limbs?" She clenched her red-nailed fists angrily before her. "At least Lar's followers think they are happy! At least they are beyond having their hopes thwarted, their dignity violated!"

To Conan's surprise, she threw herself on him then, pressing her tear-streaming face against his armored breast, clutching at him with anguished fingers as great heaving sobs coursed through her.

"There, there, girl, it does not have to be that way." He held her close, watching Lar's slim figure where he stood on the stream-bank, apparently unaware of the hotter streams of tears flowing behind him. "Things have changed in Dinander," Conan murmured. "There is a chance, at least, for something better. You can return there with me."

In a few moments her sobs abated and she lifted her smudged, reddened eyes to him. "I do not know if I will go with you. I have found a place with Lar. ..." Then she clutched his arm urgently. "But Conan, beware of him! He can kill with a touch. I have seen other captives brought before him-foul old shamans and witches, mostly. He tosses something into their faces, they tell him things, then they die ... but take care now, here he comes!"

Conan looked across the dwindling fire. His chariot was being trundled back from the stream by the two bodyguards, with Lar riding proudly behind the now gleaming bright-work. Ludya produced a mirrored wooden chest and busied herself in renewing her makeup, while Conan fished a dried sausage out of the nearby food box and began gnawing at it. The chewing hurt his skull; otherwise his wound no longer pained him unduly. He took up a wineskin and swigged deeply from it as the guards wheeled the car close by. To dry it more efficiently, they immediately began poking the fire and throwing on fresh brushwood.

"See what a splendid conveyance it will make, for myself and my entire household!" With boyish energy Lar leaped down from the platform to face his prisoner. "Oh, Sir Baron, I hope you will not mind my using it, since you will have no further need of it." He gave an impulsive laugh, revealing fine, straight teeth. "Many great cities lie ahead of us on our march; I fear that their lords and ladies might despise my ramshackle old vehicle."

Conan sat munching his sausage, watching his host warily. "You plan to continue moving southward, then?"

"Oh, indeed!" Lar nodded briskly. "To south and west lie the heaviest populations, the most fertile ground for our teachings. Although in time I anticipate sending missions eastward and northward as well, to all the corners of the earth."

"Once you have dealt with my fellow barons, you mean," Conan said guardedly. "How fares the battle, then? Do you know?"

Lar turned his gaze earnestly and slowly across the unfeatured plain, as if the combat raged mere paces away. "Your side is doomed, I fear. For every five of my followers who die, your barons lose one."

"Aye." Conan nodded, believing implicitly in the youth's pronouncement. "Their troops are staunch fighters, vastly outnumbered. But can you afford such losses, even from your huge host?"

"Fear not. If there is an imbalance, it is only temporary." The boy shrugged blithely, stretching himself before the fire. "Daily my minions grow stronger-in their devotion and in their fighting skills. Truly, I should thank you Nemedians . . ." Lar laughed impulsively again . . . "for bringing us weapons, armor and fresh converts, all of which will serve our needs later on."

Conan shifted on his cushion, dispirited by the lad's calm confidence. "And yet the army you face here is tiny, compared to those of the southern kings."

"Aye." Lar nodded thoughtfully, gazing at Conan. "You have traveled in the south, have you not? Doubtless there is much you could tell me that would be useful later." His hand reached absently into a fold of his tunic as he studied the Cimmerian's face. "But no! What could possibly lie before us that is stronger than our faith, stronger than the ancient wisdoms of our sect?" He grinned impulsively, moving away to bask nearer the fire.

"The magic you command is powerful." Taking another pull from the wineskin, Conan pressed on in his resolve to draw the youth out. "It must be very ancient."

"Oh yes, it is." Lar smiled boyishly at Conan, then at Ludya, who sat nibbling dry bread and cheese beside him. "More ancient than the cities that will soon throw open their gates to welcome us, more ancient than the human race itself! Older even than these plains, and the hills that border them, and the ancient mountains that birthed the hills!" As the youth grew excited, his voice cracked and rasped more frequently than before. "When the first creature raised itself out the primordial slime, our faith was here. Its strength remains with us to this day!"

"An elder faith indeed," Conan said, gazing at him thoughtfully. If only he could get a blade next to the lad's throat, he could use him as a hostage with which to stand off the guards. But he must avoid the fellow's magicks. "Does your religion have many shrines and temples?"

"Temples!" Lar obviously found the question comical, for it sent him into a silent spasm of laughter lasting for long moments. Conan, disturbed and irritated by this rambunctious behavior, took a long swig of wine while the boy composed himself. "Indeed," he gasped, "the ancients reared strongholds of our religion in the southern desert: lofty fanes and tombs that grace an ancient land called Stygia. But the real temples of our faith" -here his face contorted again in a grin as he raised his fingertips to his golden chaplet and removed it, scratching his scalp-"why, the oldest temples are here, at the sides of our heads!" His words ended in a falsetto squeak as he stepped to his cart to place the golden ornament out of sight among his possessions.

"For you see, Baron, the worship of our great god lurks unbeknownst in every mortal's brain." Starting in to preach enthusiastically, Lar returned to the fireside. "You may not remember, but the old legends tell it: the serpent is father to the man! In dim past eons, the transformation was made, but the old wisdom still remains. Human hide and hair are but a flimsy integument laid over the gleaming scales of Set's children!"

"What do you mean? That men were first begotten by snakes?" Conan laid aside his wineskin, perplexed and annoyed by the precocious mouthings in the lad's quaint, cracking voice. "Why, that is sheerest folly! Wherever did you learn such rot?"

"I tell you, it is all within us! Brrr, this northern wind blows chill today." Lar stirred the fire with an iron poker as his guardians scurried to throw on more brushwood. "But don't you see, that is why it is so easy to win converts, and why our faith will inevitably triumph!" He turned to Conan, laughing once again, his face caught in the tight rictus of a grin before it smoothed back to handsome regularity. "All that we were is what we now are. The serpent-brain slumbers in us all. Bringing back the old faith is just a matter of waking it up!"

"Curse you, lad, you talk in riddles!" Primed with wine and disliking the trend of Lar's speech, Conan arose to his feet and moved cautiously near the youth as he stood facing the fire. The short bread knife was palmed invisibly in his oversized hand, yet he had not resolved certainly to use it. "Aii, boy, why do you stand so close to this inferno? You'll set your breeches ablaze! Now tell me, how can you possibly say-" His words choked off in mid-sentence as Lar pivoted back to him; for something inexplicable had occurred. The youth was grinning again, convulsively, from ear to ear, this time for no apparent reason, and his face had an odd look of having been scorched or blistered. As Conan watched, Lar's eyes filmed over whitely. His features began to shift eerily just beneath the surface of his face.

Then the youth's skin cracked and split apart, peeling back from a shiny underlying stratum. Dry and brittle, it curled away from his countenance to reveal diamond-shaped, glistening scales, tender and moist like those of a newborn serpent. The strange, violent contortions and grimaces of his features continued as the inner serpent-body squirmed and struggled to free itself of its mortal husk. Reaching up spasmodically to his head, the youth plucked and tore at the ragged remnants of his human" hair and scalp, groping with hands that were themselves blossoming and exfoliating into supple, blue-gray reptile appendages. Meanwhile, a thick, forked tongue flickered from his mouth, spitting out pink shreds of its former skin.

Ludya's full-throated scream vibrated in air at the hideous sight. As she paused for breath with which to renew her shrieks, Conan dropped his short, useless knife and stooped to snatch up the long iron poker, orange-tipped now from the fire's intense heat. Drawing bright curlicues against the sky, its unwieldy length rose and fell relentlessly. He struck again and again at the head of the newborn abomination, crushing and effacing the unholy thing even as it sank hissing and spluttering to earth.

An instant later one of snake-priest's bodyguards, the former hide trapper, came lumbering around the fire. Conan laid the poker across his jaw, knocking him into the flames, where he lay senseless, though his animal furs quickly began to blaze up. Hearing heavy footsteps behind him, Conan turned to see the other guard, the blacksmith, not rushing but staggering toward him.

Ludya, tear-eyed, stood by in a fighter's crouch that ill-suited her erotic raiment. She had struck at the guard with her curving dagger, and a bleeding wound creased the man's shoulder, which was unprotected by his brief leather vest. The cut was clearly not enough to disable him, yet he stumbled weakly, staring blankly ahead, with confusion and pain across his hamlike face. Faltering, he dropped to one knee, then silently flopped to his side on the trampled sod.

Conan watched the unmoving form warily. "Was that blade poisoned?" Ludya's pale, tear-stained face shook slowly in the negative. "Well then, the thrall's death must be caused by that of his master." He cast a glance out across the vacant plain. "Let us hope that Lar's lesser servants will likewise follow his example."

He turned to gaze down at the corpse of the prophet, simmering now at the edge of the fire. The ruined visage was no longer recognizable, either as reptile or as human.

Abruptly, within the ichor-stained folds of the corpse's purple tunic, something stirred, then wriggled out tadpole-like across the ground, seeking to escape. Deftly Conan speared it with the still-smoking tip of his poker and flicked it into the incandescent coals. Its wriggling grew momentarily frantic, then ceased in a hissing burst of steam.

"There may yet be dangers here." Conan moved close to the shivering Ludya and enfolded her in his arms, his eyes roving warily around the camp. "I hope Lar lied and that we are safe from old Set's power. But what has lain waiting so long to awaken can surely do so again. We must prevent the looting of this place, and make sure these remains are properly disposed of."

They set to work. Before long, while day still hung colorless over the plain, they finished hitching the chariot-team and drove the horses forward to find the battle.

CHAPTER 17

Homecoming

"As I predicted, Barons: a swift, successful campaign-and now homeward!" Sitting with one leg cocked along a broken fieldstone wall, Lord Sigmarck raised his cup to his lips. He drank deeply before looking again to his fellow warlords. "Our men acquitted themselves bravely, I think. They deserve a good carouse on their return, with wine and wenches aplenty."

"Haw! I suppose so-although the enemy proved less fierce than I was led to believe." Ottislav, bristling with furs even under the warm noon sun, cast a surly glance back along the tree-lined road where the columns of soldiers had fallen out of formation to rest and take refreshment. "Casualties were not so heavy this time out."

Conan, sitting along the wall with Ludya, shifted so abruptly at this remark that his armor clanked. "Hell's hoary devils you say!" Scowling, he stared down at his depleted segment of the line, which took up little more than half the length of roadway it formerly covered. "I wish the deaths were shared out more evenly amongst our companies! My fighters of Dinander did not earn their victory so lightly," He turned his gaze ominously to the other warlords.

After a moment's disdainful silence, Ottislav answered up tolerantly, even soothingly. "Ah well, Baron" -neither he nor Sigmarck bothered any longer to use the name of Favian- "do not be too hard on yourself. 'Tis no surprise that a young, inexperienced commander should suffer heavy losses in the field while his seniors go unscathed. Even you will learn in time."

"Rascal!" Conan sprang to his feet, clutching his swordhilt. "I hope time never teaches me to skulk behind the lines, shirking the enemy!"

"Now, now, Baron," Sigmarck interrupted, holding up a trim, well-manicured hand to signal restraint. "Do not forget your lordly dignity. And Ottislav, do not provoke the young warlord just now. Can you not see he is distraught over his recent losses? And rightly so." Perched on the wall, the slight, slender man regarded Conan with inscrutable calm. "In particular I offer you condolence on the death of your friend, Evadne; she was a handsome piece of woman."

Before Conan could find words scathing enough to reply, the brutish Ottislav chimed in again: "Haw! I would not mope so much about it if I were he, Sigmarck. He seems to have plenty of luck finding stray wenches along the way!"

If Conan's swordhilt had been a human neck it would have snapped in the swiftly tightening grip of his fist. And yet, feeling Ludya's equally urgent grasp on his arm, and hearing her intense whisper in his ear, he checked himself.

"Stay, Conan, please! Do not start another war, for your weary army's sake!" At her tugging insistence, he shot his fellow barons a last withering glance and stalked away, his lover holding firmly to his arm.

Since leaving Lar's camp, Ludya had clothed herself more modestly in silks and laces, saved from her traveling kit. Her manner was more restrained than it had been in her days at the Manse; her judgments seemed to be cooler now, tempered by experience and hardship. Conan found her lovemaking, too, more deliberate, and less casually sensual. Yet she remained a dazzling spot of warmth and color amidst the faded greens of the countryside, and was a source of life and humor for the weary campaigners. Lightly she acknowledged the many appreciative nods and hails of the resting troopers, as she walked with Conan toward his chariot at the front of the column.

When, after Lar's death, they had finally rejoined the baronial army, the snakecult was, for all intents, defeated. Of the hideous serpent-warriors, those the least human had collapsed uncannily and simultaneously on the death of their leader. Most of them fell into swift, unnatural decay, their mortal flesh apparently unable to bear the stress of the sorcerous changes worked upon it.

Other cultists, those whose reptile-stigmata were only superficial, simply lowered their weapons and wandered about dumbstruck. They were easily cut down by the Nemedians, who soon formed wide skirmish lines in which to sweep across the plain and flush out the demoralized foe.

Still other cult followers, unmarked by sorcery, seemed at the moment of Lar's death to regain a semblance of their former wit. They fought only feebly, usually in self-defense, and fled as circumstances permitted; apparently they sought nothing but a return to their northern farms. On several occasions Conan found himself brandishing his sword, threatening and intimidating his own Nemedian officers lest their companies butcher the pitiful refugees.

By the time the last cultists were dead or scattered, the clouds and smoke began to disperse, and the land came to resemble wholesome earth again. Conan marshaled the surviving troops of Dinander who, though hard-driven and weary, were mindful of their victory and of his pivotal leadership. Like him, they were openly disdainful of the other barons' forces. There had been little communication between the allies thus far on the march homeward and now, as Conan lashed his chariot-team forward, he swore to have even less in the future.

"But after all," Ludya was reassuring him, "we should be in Dinander by dusk. If you can keep the peace until then, it may last a good many years. From what you tell me, the city's shaky new regime can ill afford another war."

"Aye, girl, you're right." Bunching the reins in one hand, Conan threw his free arm around her lush shoulders, squeezing her against him with a warmth he had never shown Evadne. "Of course there is no telling what awaits us ... or whether the wretched city still stands at all. But I swear to you, if there remains but one brick standing atop another, I will be lord of it!" He laughed lustily, causing the nervous horses to flick their tails before him. "I am no longer a mock baron; I have powers I formerly lacked. Willingly or not, along with my gruel and my lessons in bowing and scraping, I have taken in the trick of rulership.

"Now I return to Dinander with an army and a victory at my back. I can see through the posturings of nobles and rebels alike, and weave my way through their snares. I tell you, girl, I will stop these Nemedians from tormenting one another if I have to crack a few skulls to do it!"

Ludya joined him in laughter, their gaiety ringing out across the sunlit meadows. The soldiers behind them soon found the merriment infectious and struck up a spirited marching chant. Against its chorus the two lovers clung together in the chariot, laying out plans and speculations.

"And you, Ludya! I can provide for you grandly, once I am installed in the Manse. Most of the rub of playing baron before was in having nobody to talk to, no one to trust. But with you as my baroness. . . ."

"Conan, wait! I pray you, think before you speak." The young woman touched a red-tipped finger to her even redder lips in order to silence him. "Is that a wise promise to be making so soon?" She gazed up with a wide-eyed, earnest look. "Usually the bedmates of princes and barons are chosen out of political expediency-to weld kingdoms together, and beget titled heirs. Some such alliance may be required of you, to stabilize your own rule . . . such as a marriage to Calissa Einharson! Even if she is mad as you say, perhaps 'twould be a union in outward seeming only. I would be happy to live modestly and consort with you outside of public view. . . ." As she spoke, her hand crept discreetly up his armored leg to demonstrate her point.

"No, girl, do not speak that way! I killed Baldomer, Calissa's father. To wed me to the daughter ... that would be too much of an insult to her, mad or sane." He dismissed the notion with a bitter laugh. "Besides, when I am ruler, I will steer my own destiny as well as that of the province, rather than letting sly courtiers harness and manipulate me." He hugged her close to his side again. "No, Ludya, you are my choice. You are a jolly girl, simple and direct and kind. Strange to think-when you used to lie abed nights, scheming to wed a baron, that your best prospect lay snoring beside you!"

The marchers proceeded down from the hills, the afternoon about them growing warm and lazy, the valley spreading wider ahead until the walls of Dinander finally appeared over low trees. No menacing smokes loomed above the town, only the usual thin plumes arising from the shops of tanners, bakers and smiths. No strange armies roved the countryside, and the serfs laboring near the road knelt to touch their grimy palms respectfully to earth as the war-chariot rumbled past. Soon the broad river curved near to hand, with skiffs and coracles bobbing along its leisurely current.

Then the city loomed before them, the iron-bound timbers of the main gate set impressively tall in the dark, beetling expanse of stone wall. Today the gates stood closed, except for a small sally-port flanked by two municipal guards. There was foot traffic passing through the portal, and there seemed a goodly number of faces atop the parapet, including a group of officers at one side. Clearly the messengers Conan sent ahead had alerted the city of his arrival.

He heard the other barons' officers ordering their troops to a halt behind him. They stopped at a respectful distance from the battlements, well out of longbow range. But Conan kept his company marching onward in a show of confidence, straight up to the foot of the stone defensive ramp that ascended to the massive doors. As he halted his troops with a raised hand, the portals began to part before them. Smoothly the doors swung wide, and cheers from the citizens thronging within rolled out to greet the returning army.

"See, my girl, we are welcome!" Conan pinched Ludya for luck, then raised his arm once again. He gave the signal to advance-but there came none of the expected clattering of arms, armor and harness. He jerked the reins to halt his chariot-team, looking behind to see the cause.

By some prearranged plan, the troops of Dinander remained stiffly in their formations. As he watched, they drew their swords, pointed them skyward and shouted one word, two beats, in salute.

"Co-nan!"

Then the soldiers clashed their blades against gleaming shields and breastplates, adding their metallic clangor to the cheers coming from within the city.

"Crom save you, dogs! Ulla love you too!" Feeling light-headed, freed of weighty doubts for the first time since he had been thrown into Dinander's jail, Conan turned back smiling toward Ludya and the city. "Did you hear, girl? Do you know what that means?" He hugged her crushingly to his chest. "They saluted me openly, in my own name! Now we have nothing to fear in Dinander." Again he raised his arm high; this time the marching column surged forward through the city gates with him.

The victory march was a bold spectacle, grander in every way than Baldomer's homecoming on his death's eve. Rumors and fears of the snakecult's menace had grown fervid in past days, and the total victory against it was a source of great rejoicing. Additionally, it was the first holiday of the city's new reign, unfettered by the oppression and restraint that had so long worn at the people.

In consequence, the revels were wild, with lusty excesses sanctioned by state and church alike. Harlots and debauched wives danced half-clothed for gold drams before taverns, while hardier male and female celebrants splashed naked together in the town's statuary fountains. Bands of drunken revelers linked arms and roamed the streets singing bawdy songs, while troups of folk-dancers stampeded their squares and roundels through narrow intersections and stately buildings.

To be sure, Conan's marching formations were greeted as often with tears of mourning as with tears of joy. The cost of the campaign in lives had been heavy, and widows and loved ones wailed to learn of those who would not be returning, or who lay maimed in the jolting supply wagons.

Nevertheless the overall effect of the merrymaking was seductive. The marchers were strewn with ripe grain, flower petals and knotted scarves, along with select articles of more-intimate women's apparel. From street to street their thirsts were tempted by wine, rum and hot kisses; wherever the parade was slowed by the crowds, many of its marchers were drawn aside by alluring hands.

Conan's officers were not such martinets as to keep their troops rigidly in order in the face of these inducements; rather, as they approached the Manse, the companies gradually dwindled and dispersed. Finally the warlord's chariot was accompanied by only a few wagons, the mounted guard officers from the gate, and a half-dozen surviving cavalry troopers who wanted to see their horses safe into the stable before they joined the wild carnival.

Conan had acquired a wineflask along the march; now he plied it liberally to his own and Ludya's lips as he held the girl to his side. Yet he also tried to keep an ear cocked to the conversation of the officers cantering close behind. "What say you, fellow?" he called back to the nearest one. "What is that you said about Sigmarck and Ottislav?"

"Oh, Milord." The helmeted officer leaned down from the saddle to make himself heard over the tumult. "I am told that the barons have not marched onward toward the border, but are making camp outside our city wall."

"They are?" Conan pondered this news briefly. "Well, the city gates have been closed to them, have they not?"

"Yes, sire. Our standing order is to admit no foreign military personnel."

"Good, then. Doubtless they will depart in the morning." Conan turned to Ludya. "When we reach the Manse, I must see about having refreshments sent out to the Crom-blighted rogues. They are no danger to us, since there are not nearly enough of them to storm the walls."

"No, I suppose not." Ludya shook her head in wine-dazed reflection. "Unless someone were to let them in."

The mobbing of the main thoroughfare went unabated down its length, across the wooden bridge and straight up to the Manse, whose gates stood wide. Even the courtyard beyond had a festive look, adorned to Conan's surprise with potted trees and plants. But the celebrants who loitered amongst them were fewer and less demonstrative, for here order was maintained by the gate guards and sentries. As the last of the campaigners turned their horses aside to the stable, Conan drove his chariot up near the broad front steps in the company of the mounted municipal officers. He stepped out of the car, sweeping Ludya down to the cobbles beside him.

As they strode across the terrace, a courtly retinue came through the open doors of the Manse to greet them: Marshal Durwald, splendid in his newly enameled breastplate of the Red Dragons; gray old Lothian, frail and stooped in his courtly and costly attire; the sword-slinging priest of Ulla, flanked by other rebels brightly garbed in uniforms of the Reform Council; and in their midst, a tall, thin female.

She was clad in a long-sleeved, low-cut, slit-skirted gown neither more lavish nor more modest than the garb of most of the city's festive women, and her head was bound in a silken scarf; yet something about held Conan's eye-Then he recognized her, more from the six-bladed amulet dangling loosely in the hollow of her satin-sheathed breasts than from her face, which had grown pale and gaunt since last he set eyes on it. The woman was Calissa.

Even as his hand wandered to the hilt of his sword, mailed gloves clamped his arms. In another instant, blades were jabbed warningly to his throat and the small of his back, beneath his backplate. Even so, his armor might have enabled him to break loose and fight; but Conan could see that the stern-faced guard officers also held Ludya gasping at steelpoint. Of his own recently loyal troops, there were now only a handful in evidence. These watched his arrest with frank surprise, but without making a concerted rush to his defense.

"At long last the usurper is taken in hand." Addressing the company, Calissa's voice sounded less melodious than he remembered-worn down by prolonged screaming perhaps, or rusty with disuse. Her face wore a grim smile, and her eyes, though dark and hollow, glinted with keen intelligence.

"Here, then, is the false baron who was my family's treacherous bodyguard. And his painted plaything, our former kitchen-slave!" The noblewoman's thinness became even more apparent as she walked close before the captured pair, looking them up and down with obvious distaste. "A shame that the slinking assassin, Evadne, is dead; I had an arrest order drawn up and waiting for her as well."

"I will fight rather than stand and bear your insults, Calissa." Conan shifted amidst the crowd of his captors with a surly, reckless strength that caused them to clutch him all the tighter. "As for Evadne, she died well, fighting for Dinander."

Calissa smiled grimly. "As did my father and my brother! A fitting recompense, then." She shrugged irritably, turning to stalk in another direction. "Very well, Cimmerian, I thank you for destroying the snakecult-as any able commander might have done. But if you think that a single bit of good fortune buys you the city ... if you think Dinander will bow its head to a northern savage, a bloody-handed upstart! . . . Well, you shall have more leisure to think on it chained in the stoutest wardroom of the Manse!"

Throughout Calissa's angry posturings, the coalition of nobles and rebels had stood behind her calmly, watching the scene with what seemed to be their entire approval. Conan scanned the faces in vain for any show of discontent, or for any reassurance or signal to himself. As soon as the noblewoman had recovered her faculties, they struck a bargain with her, he realized. After all, if Dinander could be convinced to accept a female ruler, the Einharson daughter was likely a safer figurehead than was a foreigner. As for her mystical fitness to rule-well, Conan had proven that himself, perhaps unwisely, when he strapped the ancient amulet around her neck to turn back the ancestral warrior-ghosts.

Sure now of her audience, Calissa apparently thought it a good occasion to make a speech; she moved to one side for a better view of the crowd of citizens gathering in the courtyard.

"This day was proclaimed a day of rejoicing, people of Dinander! Never forget it; now it can be doubly so. For as you see, a second and greater threat to our city has just been overcome." She raised a hand, pointing to Conan and Ludya pinioned at her side. "I promise you, this danger shall not be allowed to loom over us any longer!

"I thank Ulla for removing the illness that formerly afflicted me. A happy thing it is for our province that these noble counselors have consented to crown our justice with the splendor of tradition, pledging their loyalty to me as baroness of Dinander. Happier yet that during the recent military crisis, our neighboring barons sent couriers to keep us informed of the vile conspiracy that would have placed us all under the sway of a ruthless Cimmerian adventurer!

No, my people, the lesson of history is clear! My father and brother are dead, but their murderers must not rule Dinander! The reign of the bloody sword is ended!"

Having raised a sallow palm open and empty to the sky, she lowered it to her side. "Of course the foul hoax could scarcely have succeeded; Dinander would never accept a common foreign knave as its ruler. The king in Belverus would not have borne it! Our allied barons could not abide this pretender; even now they are camped before our gate, having pledged their aid in ousting him, had we need of it. Know you that if by some trick he had seized temporary sway, their siege would have been reinforced by a hundred companies. But now that matters are well in hand, you can expect to see our friends march away on the morrow."

Calissa paused in her oration, weaving perceptibly from fatigue before her audience. Yet in a moment she raised a hand to her breast and resumed with dogged determination: "By my ancestry as an Einharson I am your ruler, and by the power of this charm."

The noblewoman's pale hand clutched the now unriveted chain of the six-pointed amulet, as if threatening to draw it off over her head, fling it aside and face the consequences.

"It is an old, unhallowed tradition," she went on, "and I despise it. ... But I am not free of it, nor are you. I assure you, I would use its power in an instant to protect Dinander from anarchy or foreign tyranny!"

She released the chain, letting the spiked ornament dangle freely against her chest again. Conan felt himself exhale his tension as, he sensed, the other watchers did. None, perhaps, was any more certain than he that the charm's removal from a living owner's neck would unleash the avenging Einharsons. But it was plain that none wanted to find out for sure. Meanwhile, the baroness was again pointing and declaiming, singling him out before her cowed listeners.

"You have seen this foreign opportunist enter our city in triumph, blithe in the expectation that we would surrender our freedom to him and the cheap scullion at his side. You have seen him brought into check by rightful authority-my own, with the backing of this council. Is there any, I ask, who would say a word for him?" She scanned the audience fiercely, her eyes burning with distilled menace. "I ask you, is there any here who doubts that a woman can rule Dinander? If so, challenge me now!"

The silence dragged on for long moments-so agonizingly long that Conan finally broke it himself, his half-choking rasp startling his tense captors. "Enough, Calissa! 'Tis clear that you are more ferocious than ever your father was!" He wrenched his shoulders to gain more breath, for the guards were tightening their hold on his arms and neck. "What revenge will you have on me, then? Is my blood to be poured out on these paves, to show that it is not blue enough for a lord of Dinander? And what of innocent Ludya, whom you once saved from death?"

As Calissa turned to Conan, swaying with exhaustion, a smile of triumph finally twisted her ghastly pale features. "I am not cruel, to deprive you of the womanly embraces you crave so much! Chain them together in their prison," she ordered, waving her hand in dismissal as she turned back to her counselors. "Then we can proceed with our celebration."

CHAPTER 18

The Sword of Einhar

"By the harvest-mother's teeming womb! I knew when I agreed to rule this city that it would be a toil!" The baroness, blinking and unkempt, ventured from her darkened sleeping-closet into the antechamber, which already glowed warm with morning light. "But does it have to begin so early, before the first of my subjects is awake?-before the rowdiest of them, I'll wager, has even gone to sleep?"

Hugging her green robe tightly about herself, she sank onto the cushioned divan opposite circled chairs occupied by Durwald, old Lothian, the rebel priest and two other rebels. "Oof!" she gasped, catching the heavy amulet as it swung against her breast. "I feel as decrepit as the brittle remains of my ancestors, who are doubtless stirring and rustling below in the family crypt."

"Now, now, you do not appear so, Milady." Sage Counselor Lothian bowed fragilely from his chair. "Nor did you last night, dancing with the courtiers and merchants. Would that I had dared to risk my old bones as your partner in one of those wild upcountry reels!"

Calissa smiled faintly, starting a silver-inlaid comb through her long, rumpled hair. "Last night I had much to rejoice over, Counselor. My enemies undone, my city at peace-it made me feel like a mere girl again."

"Milady, you are but a girl!" Marshal Durwald, fixed promptly by the baroness's suspicious glance, hastened to continue: "In health and beauty, I mean to say, if not in womanly attainments. You delight your subjects and charm all of us who are privileged to serve you."

Ignoring the personal overtures implicit in the courtier's tone, Calissa gazed coolly on him. "Best to remember that I am also a warlord when the occasion demands, Marshal-and your military commander. I am at present burdened by the cares of state and sorely tried by my recent illness; whether I will ever again be able to abandon myself to ... to the delights of girlhood will be dictated by events." She drew a prematurely gray strand from the red swirl of her hair and plucked it out unflinchingly. "One thing is sure: if I am to serve you and this city well, I must be less swayed by males than any Einharson woman before me."

"A brave and selfless resolve, Milady," the rebel priest interposed. "It seems to have carried us intact through yesterday's crisis."

"Indeed." Durwald, preening his ruffled poise, smiled around the group with satisfaction. "The barbarian was swiftly dealt with; and the city, swept away in revelry as it was, did not seem to mind. My officers have not reported any undue whispering or dissension over it, not even amongst the troopers who campaigned with him."

"No. I feared some unrest when I heard of the cheers they gave him at the gate." Old Lothian shook his head wistfully. "But apparently it came to naught."

"Aye," Durwald laughed. "Sigmarck's spy told me that it was all incited by the officer Rudo, one of the Cimmerian's old prison cronies whom he installed in the army to serve him. Haply, my guard shadowed the rascal last night and caught him looting the till of an ale house. So he is back in the municipal lockup where he belongs." The marshal shook his head knowingly. "I wager that none of the other returning troops cares enough this groggy morning to speak up on the outloander's behalf."

"A lesson well remembered." Calissa regarded them gravely. "My father found it out, now likewise his killer: the mob is nothing if not fickle. Hope that you never learn it so bitterly!"

"In any case, Milady," the priest put in complacently "the city is quiet for now. I can attest that the former rebels find our joint rule congenial; in my judgment, our position is secure."

"Aye," Lothian added reassuringly. "Even the escape of the barbarian, sometime last night, does not pose a significant threat to us. . . ."

"What!" The already scant color, drained entirely from Calissa's face as her comb clattered to the floor. "What are you telling me?" Her look raced around the circle of unsurprised faces. "Conan has escaped! And what of his trollop, Ludya? Is she gone too?"

Durwald nodded earnestly. "Somehow, Milady, they enticed the night sentry into their chamber and thumped him senseless. The eyebolt of their chain was levered out of the wall with a broken table leg." The marshal shook his head in ungainly humility, as if apologizing for his guard's ineptness. "Their route has been traced downstairs into the cellar; apparently they exited the Manse through an old passage under the wall that none knew existed, opening from your family's burial crypt."

"And what alert has been given?" During Durwald's report, Calissa had sprung from her chair to pace feverishly before the window. "Are the Red Dragons mobilized yet? What word from the sentries at the town gates?"

Lothian sat watching her, his withered hands clasped nervously together. "Their flight was only recently discovered, Milady. We thought it best to consult you before sounding an alarm. The gatekeepers have permitted motley revelers to leave the city throughout the night, I am told."

"Well, sound the alarm! And why, pray, have you come creeping here so meekly?" Calissa scorched them with an angry look. "Is it in the belief that I will go mad again? Is this a test?" Livid with rage, she followed Lothian's involuntary glance toward the closed door, beyond which guards undoubtedly waited. "And whom, we wonder, will the army now obey?-the counselors or the mad baroness?"

"Milady," the priest of Ulla urged soothingly, "we merely wished you to consider that an alarm just now might provoke more trouble and unrest among the populace than if we wait and see-"

"Wait and see!" Calissa laughed, her voice ringing with an uncontrolled wildness. "While this usurper again sets in motion his mills of treachery and deceit? While he suborns the city against us? And his prowess -have you not seen him, as I have, toss armored men about like ninepins? This Conan is a force to be reckoned with, I warn you!" She turned and paced again, her robe slashing the air behind her. "If he lurks outside the city, we can send detachments to hunt him through the countryside. Alert Sigmarck and Ottislav's forces to do the same-providing he has not already crept into their tents and slit their throats as if they were spring lambs!"

"Milady!" Frail old Lothian straightened in his seat, speaking up with surprising firmness. "To call for their aid would reveal unseemly weakness in our state. Can we really afford to have the neighbor barons ransacking our province, flaunting military prerogative here?" He shook his gray head. "At last report, Sigmarck and Ottislav were striking camp. If we keep this affair silent, - they may leave us in peace."

"Silent!" Calissa wheeled on them again with red, feverish eyes. "Can you possibly understand what this man has done to my family . . . done to me? How can you let him fly in the night and expect me to keep silent?"

Durwald arose gravely from his chair. "I do not know what your intentions were for this barbarian, Milady. It would have been unsafe to hold him here for long, because of his irrespressible violence and the controversy his imprisonment would cause. We should soon have been forced to kill him, which would only have made him a particularly irksome kind of martyr." He faced the baroness dispassionately. "As it stands, you have stripped him of baronial pretensions. Without noble blood, he can never rule Dinander. He is too unripe to overthrow us, and too shallow a self-seeker to try. He will simply run away, and once he does . . ." the marshal's hand flicked aside an invisible bubble of air ... "our problem is gone."

As Calissa stood silent, her downturned face concealed by a red cascade of hair, the priest arose from his seat and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It is well, Baroness. It will be as you have said; the chain of bloodshed is ended."

"All right, then." She raised her tear-damp, grieving face from the floor to the faces of the counselors and thence to the sunlit window. "Let them go!"

Day shone bright in the southern hills, where Conan and Ludya rested after many hours of flight from Dinander. The sky's blue brilliance reflected up to them from the placid tarn stretching away on one hand. Almost as dazzling was the green of the nearby meadow grass, now cropped peacefully by their stolen, dappled horse.

The couple sat on boulders at the water's edge, only one of them truly at rest. Conan was pounding with a sharp stone at the shackle on Ludya's cloth-wrapped wrist, the dull clanks ringing out across the tarn. When the metal seam parted, he gave a satisfied grunt, then set to work prying at it with the stub of a broken sword.

The Cimmerian was dressed only in a rough kilt, and shed in sandals, one of which he now braced against the shackle to hold it steady. Ludya, having shed most of her satin and lace, reclined tawny-skinned on the sunlit stone, thoughtfully trailing her free hand in the water.

"Conan, you should have told me before of your exploits with the women of Dinander. Had I known the truth about you and Calissa, I never would have ridden so brazenly with you into the city!"

Conan shrugged over his labors. "What was there to tell? She was a warmhearted girl, but then she went mad, blaming me for all her woes." He shook his head in puzzlement. "Perhaps 'tis best that poor Evadne was spared her vengeance; she might have had her tortured, or poisoned."

"No, Conan, she loved you." Ludya shook her head sadly. "If you ever again become a lord, you must learn to manage your women better. You could have ruled Dinander with Calissa-or with Evadne, from what you tell of her. But never with me." She breathed a wistful sigh. "Yet I think Calissa will make a better baron than her father did."

"She will have to if she wants to hold power." Conan forced open the shackle and removed it, unwinding the cloth from Ludya's chafed wrist. "She will not have the weight of her undead ancestors to anchor her in place any longer."

"Conan, what do you mean? Does it have something to do with the ancient relic you took from the crypt?"

"Aye. The sword of old Einhar himself!" He held up his work tool, the broken-bladed bronze hilt with the familiar X-shaped crossguard. Somewhere between the Manse and the lake, its ornamental gems had been prized from their settings, which now blinked empty like blind eyes in the sunlight.

"This is the source of the spell." Conan tossed the corroded hilt confidently in his palm. "Calissa's enchanted amulet is modeled after it, do you see? Old Baldomer worshiped this as a holy idol." Rising smoothly to his feet, the Cimmerian drew back his strong-thewed arm and hurled the object far out into the center of the tarn, where it made a small, bright splash. A moment later the broken shackle and chain followed it, end over end into the water. "The next time old Einhar wants to raise his sword and lead his dead descendants to battle, he'll have to shamble a long way looking for it!"

"Mayhap. But the fear will still be there in the province, for a time." Ludya sat gazing out over the water, her voice sultry as Conan stroked her tan, smooth back, no longer bearing the scars of Favian's whip-their disappearance the only remainder, she had told him, of Lar's magicks. "But I do not think that Calissa will ever need to use the talisman."

"No matter to us, anyway!" Conan clasped the Nemedian's arm, bidding her arise. "Come along, lass, there is much before us. Have you never, then, seen the jeweled cities of the south? There you will find wealth and ease beyond your fondest hopes. A thief can be richer than a baron, and a woman of wit and charm can rise as high as her dreams will take her. Come, girl, I will show you. The world awaits!"

Epilogue: The Chariot

In eastern Nemedia, where the lush meadowlands at the fringe of the Varakiel rise to a high, dry plain, there stretches a trackless district, uncultivated and uninhabited. The nearest farmers and herders shun the tract in the belief that crops will not grow there, or that its tainted grass will cause cattle to sicken and die.

The place is rumored to have been once the site of a vast, portentous battle. Did it not also have something to do with the demonsent plague that depopulated the land in years past? At this question, the superstitious farm folk will turn stolidly away and refuse to speak further, chopping hands against wrists in an odd gesture said to represent a blade striking off the head of a serpent.

None travel in that blighted district, for game is plentiful elsewhere, and the few primitive cart tracks skirt the area widely. But if a traveler were to cross the very center of the desolation, he might find a curious thing: pyres of bones extending in a broad ring of ashy, brush-grown heaps, a dozen and more such mounds, each bedded with enough shards of decaying armor and chalky, crumbling skulls to show that the remains were once human.

If the wayfarer were to disregard or fail to understand the warning signified by this outer circle, and chose to venture inside, he might find at the center a smaller pyre, this one containing the fire-eaten timbers and metal fittings of a rude chariot, and entombing but a single set of deformed, crushed bones. Yet the low, brushy mound would seem to hold little of interest to the traveler-unless, as the soughing wind gusted across the steppe, it turned back a frond of brush to reveal the glint of bright, untarnished gold washed clean of dust by vagrant rain showers, and an unblinking emerald eye.

Thus forgotten bides the serpent-headed chest, the trove of Set, lost once again to the world of men. Pray that it shall remain so.

Rogues in the House

`One fled, one dead, one sleeping in a golden bed'

Old Rime

1

At a court festival, Nabonidus, the Red Priest, who was the real ruler of the city, touched Murilo, the young aristocrat, courteously on the arm. Murilo turned to meet the priest's enigmatic gaze, and to wonder at the hidden meaning therein. No words passed between them, but Nabonidus bowed and handed Murilo a small gold cask. The young nobleman, knowing that Nabonidus did nothing without reason, excused himself at the first opportunity and returned hastily to his chamber. There he opened the cask and found within a human ear, which he recognized by a peculiar scar upon it. He broke into a profuse sweat, and was no longer in doubt about the meaning in the Red Priest's glance.

But Murilo, for all his scented black curls and foppish apparel, was no weakling to bend his neck to the knife without a struggle. He did not know whether Nabonidus was merely playing with him, or giving him a chance to go into voluntary exile, but the fact that he was still alive and at liberty proved that he was to be given at least a few hours, probably for meditation. But he needed no meditation for decision; what he needed was a tool. And Fate furnished that tool, working among the dives and brothels of the squalid quarters even while the young nobleman shivered and pondered in the part of the city occupied by the purple-towered marble and ivory palaces of the aristocracy.

There was a priest of Anu whose temple, rising at the fringe of the slum district, was the scene of more than devotions. The priest was fat and full-fed, and he was at once a fence for stolen articles and a spy for the police. He worked a thriving trade both ways, because the district on which he bordered was The Maze, a tangle of muddy winding alleys and sordid dens, frequented by the boldest thieves in the kingdom. Daring above all were a Gunderman deserter from the mercenaries and a barbaric Cimmerian. Because of the priest of Anu, the Gunderman was taken and hanged in the market-square. But the Cimmerian fled, and learning in devious ways of the priest's treachery, he entered the temple of Anu by night, and cut off the priest's head. There followed a great turmoil in the city, but search for the killer proved fruitless until his punk betrayed him to the authorities, and led a captain of the guard and his squad to the hidden chamber where the barbarian lay drunk.

Waking to stupefied but ferocious life when they seized him, he disemboweled the captain, burst through his assailants and would have escaped, but for the liquor that still clouded his senses. Bewildered and half blinded, he missed the open door in his headlong flight, and dashed his head against the stone wall so terrifically that he knocked himself senseless. When he came to, he was in the strongest dungeon in the city, shackled to the wall with chains not even his barbaric thews could break.

To this cell came Murilo, masked and wrapped in a wide black cloak. The Cimmerian surveyed him with interest, thinking him the executioner sent to dispatch him. Murilo set him at rights, and regarded him with no less interest. Even in the dim light of the dungeon, with his limbs loaded with chains, the primitive power of the man was evident. His mighty body and thick-muscled limbs combined the strength of a grizzly with the quickness of a panther. Under his tangled black mane his blue eyes blazed with unquenchable savagery.

`Would you like to live?' asked Murilo. The barbarian grunted, new interest glinting in his eyes.

`If I arrange for your escape will you do a favor for me?' the aristocrat asked.

The Cimmerian did not speak, but the intentness of his gaze answered for him.

`I want you to kill a man for me.'

`Whom?'

Murilo's voice sank to a whisper. `Nabonidus, the king's priest!'

The Cimmerian showed no sign of surprise or perturbation. He had none of the fear or reverence for authority that civilization instills in men. King or beggar, it was all one to him. Nor did he ask why Murilo had come to him, when the quarters were full of cutthroats outside prisons.

`When am I to escape?' he demanded.

`Within the hour. There is but one guard in this part of the dungeon at night. He can be bribed; he has been bribed. See, here are the keys to your chains. I'll remove them, and after I have been gone an hour, the guard, Athicus, will unlock the door to your cell. You will bind him with strips torn from your tunic; so when he is found, the authorities will think you were rescued from the outside, and will not suspect him. Go at once to the house of the Red Priest, and kill him. Then go to the Rats' Den, where a man will meet you and give you a pouch of gold and a horse. With those you can escape from the city and flee the country.'

`Take off these cursed chains now,' demanded the Cimmerian. `And have the guard bring me food. By Crom, I have lived on moldy bread and water for a whole day and I am nigh to famishing.'

`It shall be done; but remember - you are not to escape until I have had time to reach my house.'

Freed of his chains, the barbarian stood up and stretched his heavy arms, enormous in the gloom of the dungeon. Murilo again felt that if any man in the world could accomplish the task he had set, this Cimmerian could. With a few repeated instructions he left the prison, first directing Athicus to take a platter of beef and ale in to the prisoner. He knew he could trust the guard, not only because of the money he had paid, but also because of certain information he possessed regarding the man.

When he returned to his chamber, Murilo was in full control of his fears. Nabonidus would strike through the king - of that he was certain. And since the royal guardsmen were not knocking at his door, it was as certain that the priest had said nothing to the king, so far. Tomorrow he would speak, beyond a doubt - if he lived to see tomorrow.

Murilo believed the Cimmerian would keep faith with him. Whether the man would be able to carry out his purpose remained to be seen. Men had attempted to assassinate the Red Priest before, and they had died in hideous and nameless ways. But they had been products of the cities of men, lacking the wolfish instincts of the barbarian. The instant that Murilo, turning the gold cask with its severed ear in his hands, had learned through his secret channels that the Cimmerian had been captured, he had seen a solution of his problem.

In his chamber again, he drank a toast to the man, whose name was Conan, and to his success that night. And while he was drinking, one of his spies brought him the news that Athicus had been arrested and thrown into prison. The Cimmerian had not escaped.

Murilo felt his blood turn to ice again. He could see in this twist of fate only the sinister hand of Nabonidus, and an eery obsession began to grow on him that the Red Priest was more than human - a sorcerer who read the minds of his victims and pulled strings on which they danced like puppets. With despair came desperation. Girding a sword beneath his black cloak, he left his house by a hidden way, and hurried through the deserted streets. It was just at midnight when he came to the house of Nabonidus, looming blackly among the walled gardens that separated it from the surrounding estates.

The wall was high but not impossible to negotiate. Nabonidus did not put his trust in mere barriers of stone. It was what was inside the wall that was to be feared. What these things were Murilo did not know precisely. He knew there was at least a huge savage dog that roamed the gardens and had on occasion torn an intruder to pieces as a hound rends a rabbit. What else there might be he did not care to conjecture. Men who had been allowed to enter the house on brief, legitimate business, reported that Nabonidus dwelt among rich furnishings, yet simply, attended by a surprisingly small number of servants. Indeed, they mentioned only one as having been visible - a tall silent than called Joka. Someone else, presumably a slave, had been heard moving about in the recesses of the house, but this person no one had ever seen. The greatest mystery of that mysterious house was Nabonidus himself, whose power of intrigue and grasp on international politics had made him the strongest man in the kingdom. People, chancellor and king moved puppet-like on the strings he worked.

Murilo scaled the wall and dropped down into the gardens, which were expanses of shadow, darkened by clumps of shrubbery and waving foliage. No light shone in the windows of the house which loomed so blackly among the trees. The young nobleman stole stealthily yet swiftly through the shrubs. Momentarily he expected to hear the baying of the great dog, and to see its giant body hurtle through the shadows. He doubted the effectiveness of his sword against such an attack, but he did not hesitate. As well die beneath the fangs of a beast as the ax of the headsman.

He stumbled over something bulky and yielding. Bending close in the dim starlight, he made out a limp shape on the ground. It was the dog that guarded the gardens, and it was dead. Its neck was broken and it bore what seemed to be the marks of great fangs. Murilo felt that no human being had done this. The beast had met a monster more savage than itself. Murilo glared nervously at the cryptic masses of bush and shrub; then with a shrug of his shoulders, he approached the silent house.

The first door he tried proved to be unlocked. He entered warily, sword in hand, and found himself in a long shadowy hallway dimly illumined by a light that gleamed through the hangings at the other end. Complete silence hung over the whole house. Murilo glided along the hall and halted to peer through the hangings. He looked into a lighted room, over the windows of which velvet curtains were drawn so closely as to allow no beam to shine through. The room was empty, in so far as human life was concerned, but it had a grisly occupant, nevertheless. In the midst of a wreckage of furniture and torn hangings that told of a fearful struggle, lay the body of a man. The form lay on its belly, but the head was twisted about so that the chin rested behind a shoulder. The features, contorted into an awful grin, seemed to leer at the horrified nobleman.

For the first time that night, Murilo's resolution wavered. He cast an uncertain glance back the way he had come. Then the memory of the headsman's block and ax steeled him, and he crossed the room, swerving to avoid the grinning horror sprawled in its midst. Though he had never seen the man before, he knew from former descriptions that it was Joka, Nabonidus's saturnine servant.

He peered through a curtained door into a broad circular chamber, banded by a gallery halfway between the polished floor and the lofty ceiling. This chamber was furnished as if for a king. In the midst of it stood an ornate mahogany table, loaded with vessels of wine and rich viands. And Murilo stiffened. In a great chair whose broad back was toward him, he saw a figure whose habiliments were familiar. He glimpsed an arm in a red sleeve resting on the arm of the chair; the head, clad in the familiar scarlet hood of the gown, was bent forward as if in meditation. Just so had Murilo seen Nabonidus sit a hundred times in the royal court.

Cursing the pounding of his own heart, the young nobleman stole across the chamber, sword extended, his whole frame poised for the thrust. His prey did not move, nor seem to hear his cautious advance. Was the Red Priest asleep, or was it a corpse which slumped in that great chair? The length of a single stride separated Murilo from his enemy, when suddenly the man in the chair rose and faced him.

The blood went suddenly from Murilo's features. His sword fell from his fingers and rang on the polished floor. A terrible cry broke from his livid lips; it was followed by the thud of a falling body. Then once more silence reigned over the house of the Red Priest.

2

Shortly after Murilo left the dungeon where Conan the Cimmerian was confined, Athicus brought the prisoner a platter of food which included, among other things, a huge joint of beef acid a tankard of ale. Conan fell to voraciously, and Athicus made a final round of the cells, to see that all was in order, and that none should witness the pretended prison-break. It was while he was so occupied that a squad of guardsmen marched into the prison and placed him under arrest. Murilo had been mistaken when he assumed this arrest denoted discovery of Conan's planned escape. It was another matter; Athicus had become careless in his dealings with the underworld, and one of his past sins had caught up with him.

Another jailer took his place, a stolid, dependable creature whom no amount of bribery could have shaken from his duty. He was unimaginative, but he had an exalted idea of the importance of his job.

After Athicus had been marched away to be formally arraigned before a magistrate, this jailer made the rounds of the cells as a matter of routine. As he passed that of Conan, his sense of propriety was shocked and outraged to see the prisoner free of his chains, and in the act of gnawing the last shreds of meat from a huge beef-bone. The jailer was so upset that he made the mistake of entering the cell alone, without calling guards from other parts of the prison. It was his first mistake in the line of duty, and his last. Conan brained him with the beef-bone, took his poniard and his keys, and made a leisurely departure. As Murilo had said, only one guard was on duty there at night. The Cimmerian passed himself outside the walls by means of the keys he had taken, and presently emerged into the outer air, as free as if Murilo's plan had been successful.

In the shadows of the prison walls, Conan paused to decide his next course of action. It occurred to him that since he had escaped through his own actions, he owed nothing to Murilo; yet it had been the young nobleman who had removed his chains and had the food sent to him, without either of which his escape would have been impossible. Conan decided that he was indebted to Murilo, and, since he was a man who discharged his obligations eventually, he determined to carry out his promise to the young aristocrat. But first he had some business of his own to attend to.

He discarded his ragged tunic and moved off through the night naked but for a loin-cloth. As he went he fingered the poniard he had captured - a murderous weapon with a broad double-edged blade nineteen inches long. He slunk along alleys and shadowed plazas until he came to the district which was his destination - The Maze. Along its labyrinthian ways he went with the certainty of familiarity. It was indeed a maze of black alleys and enclosed courts and devious ways; of furtive sounds, and stenches. There was no paving on the streets; mud and filth mingled in an unsavory mess. Sewers were unknown; refuse was dumped into the alleys to form reeking heaps and puddles. Unless a man walked with care he was likely to lose his footing and plunge waist-deep into nauseous pools. Nor was it uncommon to stumble over a corpse lying with its throat cut or its head knocked in, in the mud. Honest folk shunned The Maze with good reason.

Conan reached his destination without being seen, just as one he wished fervently to meet was leaving it. As the Cimmerian slunk into the courtyard below, the girl who had sold him to the police was taking leave of her new lover in a chamber one flight up. This young thug, her door closed behind him, groped his way down a creaking flight of stairs, intent on his own meditations, which, like those of most of the denizens of The Maze, had to do with the unlawful acquirement of property. Part-way down the stairs, he halted suddenly, his hair standing up. A vague bulk crouched in the darkness before him, a pair of eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunting beast. A beast-like snarl was the last thing he heard in life; as the monster lurched against him, a keen blade ripped through his belly. He gave one-gasping cry, and slumped down limply on the stairway.

The barbarian loomed above him for an instant, ghoul-like, his eyes burning in the gloom. He knew the sound was heard, but the people in The Maze were careful to attend to their own business. A death-cry on darkened stairs was nothing unusual. Later, some one would venture to investigate, but only after a reasonable lapse of time.

Conan went up the stairs and halted at the door he knew well of old. It was fastened within, but his blade passed between the door and the jamb and lifted the bar. He stepped inside, closing the door after him, and faced the girl who had betrayed him to the police.

The wench was sitting cross-legged in her shift on her unkempt bed. She turned white and stared at him as if at a ghost. She had heard the cry from the stairs, and she saw the red stain on the poniard in his hand. But she was too filled with terror on her own account to waste any time lamenting the evident fate of her lover. She began to beg for her life, almost incoherent with terror. Conan did not reply; he merely stood and glared at her with his burning eyes, testing the edge of his poniard with a calloused thumb.

At last he crossed the chamber, while she cowered back against the wall, sobbing frantic pleas for mercy. Grasping her yellow locks with no gentle hand, he dragged her off the bed. Thrusting his blade back in its sheath, he tucked his squirming captive under his left arm, and strode to the window. Like most houses of that type, a ledge encircled each story, caused by the continuance of the window-ledges. Conan kicked the window open arid stepped out on that narrow band. If any had been near or awake, they would have witnessed the bizarre sight of a man moving carefully along the ledge, carrying a kicking, half-naked wench under his arm. They would have been no more puzzled than the girl.

Reaching the spot he sought, Conan halted, gripping the wall with his free hand. Inside the building rose a sudden clamor, showing that the body had at last been discovered. His captive whimpered and twisted, renewing her importunities. Conan glanced down into the muck and slime of the alleys below; he listened briefly to the clamor inside and the pleas of the wench; then he dropped her with great accuracy into a cesspool. He enjoyed her kickings and flounderings and the concentrated venom of her profanity for a few seconds, and even allowed himself a low rumble of laughter. Then he lifted his head, listened to the growing tumult within the building, and decided it was time for him to kill Nabonidus.

3

It was a reverberating clang of metal that roused Murilo. He groaned and struggled dazedly to a sitting posture. About him all was silence and darkness, and for an instant he was sickened with the fear that he was blind. Then he remembered what had gone before, and his flesh crawled. By the sense of touch he found that he was lying on a floor of evenly joined stone slabs. Further groping discovered a wall of the same material. He rose and leaned against it, trying in vain to orient himself. That he was in some sort of a prison seemed certain, but where and how long he was unable to guess. He remembered dimly a clashing noise, and wondered if it had been the iron door of his dungeon closing on him, or if it betokened the entrance of an executioner.

At this thought he shuddered profoundly and began to feel his way along the wall. Momentarily he expected to encounter the limits of his prison, but after a while he came to the conclusion that he was travelling down a corridor. He kept to the wall, fearful of pits or other traps, and was presently aware of something near him in the blackness. He could see nothing, but either his ears had caught a stealthy sound, or some subconscious sense warned him. He stopped short, his hair standing on end; as surely as he lived, he felt the presence of some living creature crouching in the darkness in front of him.

He thought his heart would stop when a voice hissed in a barbaric accent: `Murilo! Is it you?'

'Conan!' Limp from the reaction, the young nobleman groped in the darkness and his hands encountered a pair of great naked shoulders.

`A good thing I recognized you,' grunted the barbarian. `I was about to stick you like a fattened pig.'

`Where are we, in Mitra's name?'

`In the pits under the Red Priest's house; but why-'

`What is the time?'

`Not long after midnight.'

Murilo shook his head, trying to assemble his scattered wits.

`What are you doing here?' demanded the Cimmerian.

`I came to kill Nabonidus. I heard they had changed the guard at your prison-'

`They did,' growled Conan. `I broke the new jailer's head and walked out. I would have been here hours agone, but I had some personal business to attend to. Well, shall we hunt for Nabonidus?'

Murilo shuddered. 'Conan, we are in the house of the archfiend! I came seeking a human enemy; I found a hairy devil out of hell!'

Conan grunted uncertainly; fearless as a wounded tiger as far as human foes were concerned, he had all the superstitious dreads of the primitive.

`I gained access to the house,' whispered Murilo, as if the darkness were full of listening ears. `In the outer gardens I found Nabonidus's dog mauled to death. Within the house I came upon Joka, the servant. His neck had been broken. Then I saw Nabonidus himself seated in his chair, clad in his accustomed garb. At first I thought he too was dead. I stole up to stab him. He rose and faced me. God!' The memory of that horror struck the young nobleman momentarily speechless as he relived that awful instant.

'Conan,' he whispered, `it was no man that stood before me! In body and posture it was not unlike a man, but from the scarlet hood of the priest grinned a face of madness and nightmare! It was covered with black hair, from which small pig-like eyes glared redly; its nose was flat, with great flaring nostrils; its loose lips writhed back, disclosing huge yellow fangs, like the teeth of a dog. The hands that hung from the scarlet sleeves were misshapen and likewise covered with black hair. All this I saw in one glance, and then I was overcome with horror; my senses left me and I swooned.'

`What then?' muttered the Cimmerian uneasily.

`I recovered consciousness only a short time ago; the monster must have thrown me into these pits. Conan, I have suspected that Nabonidus was not wholly human! He is a demon - a were-thing! By day he moves among humanity in the guise of men, and by night he takes on his true aspect.'

`That's evident,' answered Conan. `Everyone knows there are men who take the form of wolves at will. But why did he kill his servants?'

`Who can delve the mind of a devil?' replied Murilo. `Our present interest is in getting out of this place. Human weapons can not harm a were-man. How did you get in here?'

`Through the sewer. I reckoned on the gardens being guarded. The sewers connect with a tunnel that lets into these pits. I thought to find some door leading up into the house unbolted.'

`Then let us escape by the way you came!' exclaimed Murilo. `To the devil with it! Once out of this snake-den, we'll take our chance with the king's guardsmen, and risk a flight from the city. Lead on!'

`Useless,' grunted the Cimmerian. `The way to the sewers is barred. As I entered the tunnel an iron grille crashed down from the roof. If I had not moved quicker than a flash of lightning, its spear-heads would have pinned me to the floor like a worm. When I tried to lift it, it wouldn't move. An elephant couldn't shake it. Nor could anything bigger than a rabbit squirm between the bars.'

Murilo cursed, an icy hand playing up and down his spine. He might have known Nabonidus would not leave any entrance into his house unguarded. Had Conan not possessed the steel-spring quickness of a wild thing, that falling portcullis would have skewered him. Doubtless his walking through the tunnel had sprung some hidden catch that released it from the roof. As it was, both were trapped living.

`There's but one thing to do,' said Murilo, sweating profusely. `That's to search for some other exit; doubtless they're all set with traps, but we have no other choice.'

The barbarian grunted agreement, and the companions began groping their way at random down the corridor. Even at that moment, something occurred to Murilo.

`How did you recognize me in this blackness?' he demanded.

`I smelled the perfume you put on your hair, when you came to my cell,' answered Conan. `I smelled it again a while ago, when I was crouching in the dark and preparing to rip you open.'

Murilo put a lock of his black hair to his nostrils; even so the scent was barely apparent to his civilized senses, and he realized how keen must be the organs of the barbarian.

Instinctively his hand went to his scabbard as they groped onward, and he cursed to find it empty. At that moment a faint glow became apparent ahead of them, and presently they came to a sharp bend in the corridor, about which the light filtered grayly. Together they peered around the corner, and Murilo, leaning against his companion, felt his huge frame stiffen. The young nobleman had also seen it - the body of a man, half naked, lying limply in the corridor beyond the bend, vaguely illumined by a radiance which seemed to emanate from a broad silver disk on the farther wall. A strange familiarity about the recumbent figure, which lay face down, stirred Murilo with inexplicable and monstrous conjectures. Motioning the Cimmerian to follow him, he stole forward and bent above the body. Overcoming a certain repugnance, he grasped it and turned it on its back. An incredulous oath escaped him; the Cimmerian grunted explosively.

`Nabonidus! The Red Priest!' ejaculated Murilo, his brain a dizzy vortex of whirling amazement. `Then who - what-?'

The priest groaned and stirred. With cat-like quickness Conan bent over him, poniard poised above his heart. Murilo caught his wrist.

`Wait! Don't kill him yet-'

`Why not?' demanded the Cimmerian. `He has cast off his were-guise, and sleeps. Will you awaken him to tear us to pieces?'

`No, wait!' urged Murilo, trying to collect his jumbled wits. `Look! He is not sleeping - see that great blue welt on his shaven temple? He has been knocked senseless. He may have been lying here for hours.'

`I thought you swore you saw him in beastly shape in the house above,' said Conan. _

`I did! Or else - he's coming to! Keep back your blade, Conan; there is a mystery here even darker than I thought. I must have words with this priest, before we kill him.'

Nabonidus lifted a hand vaguely to his bruised temple, mumbled, and opened his eyes. For an instant they were blank and empty of intelligence; then life came back to them with a jerk, and he sat up, staring at the companions. Whatever terrific jolt had temporarily addled his razor-keen brain, it was functioning with its accustomed vigor again. His eyes shot swiftly about him, then came back to rest on Murilo's face.

`You honor my poor house, young sir,' he laughed coolly, glancing at the great figure that loomed behind the young nobleman's shoulder. `You have brought a bravo, I see. Was your sword not sufficient to sever the life of my humble self?'

`Enough of this,' impatiently returned Murilo. `How long have you lain here?'

`A peculiar question to put to a man recovering consciousness,' answered the priest. `I do not know what time it now is. But it lacked an hour or so of midnight when I was set upon.'

`Then who is it that masquerades in your own gown in the house above?' demanded Murilo.

`That will be Thak,' answered Nabonidus, ruefully fingering his bruises. `Yes, that will be Thak. And in my gown? The dog!'

Conan, who comprehended none of this, stirred restlessly, and growled something in his own tongue. Nabonidus glanced at him whimsically.

`Your bully's knife yearns for my heart, Murilo,' he said. `I thought you might be wise enough to take my warning and leave the city.'

`How was I to know that was to be granted me?' returned Murilo. `At any rate, my interests are here.'

`You are in good company with that cutthroat,' murmured Nabonidus. `I had suspected you for some time. That was why I caused that pallid court secretary to disappear. Before he died he told me many things, among others the name of the young nobleman who bribed him to filch state secrets, which the nobleman in turn sold to rival powers. Are you not ashamed of yourself, Murilo, you white-handed thief?'

`I have no more cause for shame than you, you vulture-hearted plunderer,' answered Murilo promptly. `You exploit a whole kingdom for your personal greed, and under the guise of disinterested statesmanship, you swindle the king, beggar the rich, oppress the poor, and sacrifice the whole future of the nation for your ruthless ambition. You are no more than a fat hog with his snout in the trough. You are a greater thief than I am. This Cimmerian is the most honest man of the three of us, because he steals and murders openly.'

`Well, then, we are all rogues together,' agreed Nabonidus equably. `And what now? My life?'

`When I saw the ear of the secretary that had disappeared, I knew I was doomed,' said Murilo abruptly, `and I believed you would invoke the authority of the king. Was I right?'

`Quite so,' answered the priest. `A court secretary is easy to do away with, but you are a bit too prominent. I had intended telling the king a jest about you in the morning.'

`A jest that would have cost me my head,' muttered Murilo. `Then the king is unaware of my foreign enterprises?'

`As yet,' sighed Nabonidus. `And now, since I see your companion has his knife, I fear that jest will never be told.'

`You should know how to get out of these rat-dens,' said Murilo. `Suppose I agree to spare your life. Will you help us to escape, and swear to keep silent about my thievery?'

`When did a priest keep an oath?' complained Conan, comprehending the trend of the conversation. `Let me cut his throat; I want to see what color his blood is. They say in The Maze that his heart is black, so his blood must be black too-'

`Be quiet,' whispered Murilo. `If he does not show us the way out of these pits, we may rot here. Well, Nabonidus, what do you say?'

`What does a wolf with his leg in the trap say?' laughed the priest. `I am in your power and if we are to escape, we must aid one another. I swear, if we survive this adventure, to forget all your shifty dealings. I swear by the soul of Mitra!'

`I am satisfied,' muttered Murilo. `Even the Red Priest would not break that oath. Now to get out of here. My friend here entered by way of the tunnel, but a grille fell behind him and blocked the way. Can you cause it to be lifted?'

`Not from these pits,' answered the priest. `The control lever is in the chamber above the tunnel. There is only one other way out of these pits, which I will show you. But tell me, how did you come here?'

Murilo told him in a few words, and Nabonidus nodded, rising stiffly. He limped down the corridor, which here widened into a sort of vast chamber, and approached the distant silver disk. As they advanced the light increased, though it never became anything but a dim shadowy radiance. Near the disk they saw a narrow stair leading upward.

`That is the other exit,' said Nabonidus. `And I strongly doubt if the door at the head is bolted. But I have an idea that he who would go through that door had better cut his own throat first. Look into the disk.'

What had seemed a silver plate was in reality a great mirror set in the wall. A confusing system of copper-like tubes jutted out from the wall about it, bending down toward it at right angles. Glancing into these tubes, Murilo saw a bewildering array of smaller mirrors. He turned his attention to the larger mirror in the wall, and ejaculated in amazement. Peering over his shoulder, Conan grunted.

They seemed to be looking through a broad window into a well-lighted chamber. There were broad mirrors on the walls, with velvet hangings between; there were silken couches, chairs of ebony and ivory, and curtained doorways leading off from the chamber. And before one doorway which was not curtained, sat a bulky black object that contrasted grotesquely with the richness of the chamber.

Murilo felt his blood freeze again as he looked at the horror which seemed to be staring directly into his eyes. Involuntarily he recoiled from the mirror, while Conan thrust his head truculently forward, till his jaws almost touched the surface, growling some threat or defiance in his own barbaric tongue.

`In Mitra's name, Nabonidus,' gasped Murilo, shaken, `what is it?'

`That is Thak,' answered the priest, caressing his temple. `Some would call him an ape, but he is almost as different from a real ape as he is different from a real man. His people dwell far to the east, in the mountains that fringe the eastern frontiers of Zamora. There are not many of them, but if they are not exterminated, I believe they will become human beings, in perhaps a hundred thousand years. They are in the formative stage; they are neither apes, as their remote ancestors were, nor men, as their remote descendants may be. They dwell in the high crags of well-nigh inaccessible mountains, knowing nothing of fire or the making of shelter or garments, or the use of weapons. Yet they have a language of a sort, consisting mainly of grunts and clicks.

`I took Thak when he was a cub, and he learned what I taught him much more swiftly and thoroughly than any true animal could have done. He was at once bodyguard and servant. But I forgot that being partly a man, he could not be submerged into a mere shadow of myself, like a true animal. Apparently his semi-brain retained impressions of hate, resentment, and some sort of bestial ambition of its own.

`At any rate, he struck when I least expected it. Last night he appeared to go suddenly mad. His actions had all the appearance of bestial insanity, yet I know that they must have been the result of long and careful planning.

`I heard a sound of fighting in the garden, and going to investigate - for I believed it was yourself, being dragged down by my watch-dog - I saw Thak emerge from the shrubbery dripping with blood. Before I was aware of his intention, he sprang at me with an awful scream and struck me senseless. I remember no more, but can only surmise that, following some whim of his semi-human brain, he stripped me of my gown and cast me still living into the pit - for which reason, only the gods can guess. He must have killed the dog when he came from the garden, and after he struck me down, he evidently killed Joka, as you saw the man lying dead in the house. Joka would have come to my aid, even against Thak, whom he always hated.'

Murilo stared at the mirror at the creature which sat with such monstrous patience before the closed door. He shuddered at the sight of the great black hands, thickly grown with hair that was almost fur-like. The body was thick, broad and stooped. The unnaturally wide shoulders had burst the scarlet gown, and on these shoulders Murilo noted the same thick growth of black hair. The face peering from the scarlet hood was utterly bestial, and yet Murilo realized that Nabonidus spoke truth when he said that Thak was not wholly a beast. There was something in the red murky eyes, something in the creature's clumsy posture, something in the whole appearance of the thing that set it apart from the truly animal. That monstrous body housed a brain and soul that were just budding awfully into something vaguely human. Murilo stood aghast as he recognized a faint and hideous kinship between his kind and that squatting monstrosity, and he was nauseated by a fleeting realization of the abysses of bellowing bestiality up through which humanity had painfully toiled.

`Surely he sees us,' muttered Conan. `Why does he not charge us? He could break this window with ease.'

Murilo realized that Conan supposed the mirror to be a window through which they were looking.

`He does not see us,' answered the priest. `We are looking into the chamber above us. That door that Thak is guarding is the one at the head of these stairs. It is simply an arrangement of mirrors. Do you see those mirrors on the walls? They transmit the reflection of the room into these tubes, down which other mirrors carry it to reflect it at last on an enlarged scale in this great mirror.'

Murilo realized that the priest must be centuries ahead of his generation, to perfect such an invention; but Conan put it down to witchcraft, and troubled his head no more about it.

`I constructed these pits for a place of refuge as well as a dungeon,' the priest was saying. `There are times when I have taken refuge here, and through these mirrors, watched doom fall upon those who sought me with ill intent.'

`But why is Thak watching that door?' demanded Murilo.

`He must have heard the falling of the grating in the tunnel. It is connected with bells in the chambers above. He knows someone is in the pits, and he is waiting for him to come up the stairs. Oh, he has learned well the lessons I taught him. He has seen what happened to men who come through that door, when I tugged at the rope that hangs on yonder wall, and he waits to mimic me.'

`And while he waits, what are we to do?' demanded Murilo.

`There is naught we can do, except watch him. As long as he is in that chamber, we dare not ascend the stairs. He has the strength of a true gorilla, and could easily tear us all to pieces. But he does not need to exert his muscles; if we open that door he has but to tug that rope, and blast us into eternity.'

`How?'

`I bargained to help you escape,' answered the priest; `not to betray my secrets.'

Murilo started to reply, then stiffened suddenly. A stealthy hand had parted the curtains of one of the doorways. Between them appeared a dark face whose glittering eyes fixed menacingly on the squat form in the scarlet robe.

`Petreus!' hissed Nabonidus. 'Mitra, what a gathering of vultures this night is!'

The face remained framed between the parted curtains. Over the intruder's shoulder other faces peered - dark, thin faces, alight with sinister eagerness.

`What do they here?' muttered Murilo, unconsciously lowering his voice, although he knew they could not hear him.

`Why, what would Petreus and his ardent young nationalists be doing in the house of the Red Priest?' laughed Nabonidus. `Look how eagerly they glare at the figure they think is their arch-enemy. They have fallen into your error; it should be amusing to watch their expressions when they are disillusioned.'

Murilo did not reply. The whole affair had a distinctly unreal atmosphere. He felt as if he were watching the play of puppets, or as a disembodied ghost himself, impersonally viewing the actions of the living, his presence unseen and unsuspected.

He saw Petreus put his finger warningly to his lips, and nod to his fellow-conspirators. The young nobleman could not tell if Thak were aware of the intruders. The apeman's position had not changed, as he sat with his back toward the door through which the men were gliding.

`They had the same idea you had,' Nabonidus was muttering at his ear. `Only their reasons were patriotic rather than selfish. Easy to gain access to my house, now that the dog is dead. Oh, what a chance to rid myself of their menace once and for all! If I were sitting where Thak sits - a leap to the wall - a tug on that rope-'

Petreus had placed one foot lightly over the threshold of the chamber; his fellows were at his heels, their daggers glinting dully. Suddenly Thak rose and wheeled toward him. The unexpected horror of his appearance, where they had thought to behold the hated but familiar countenance of Nabonidus, wrought havoc with their nerves, as the same spectacle had wrought upon Murilo. With a shriek Petreus recoiled, carrying his companions backward with him. They stumbled and floundered over each other, and in that instant Thak, covering the distance in one prodigious, grotesque leap, caught and jerked powerfully at a thick velvet rope which hung near the doorway.

Instantly the curtains whipped back on either hand, leaving the door clear, and down across it something flashed with a peculiar silvery blur.

`He remembered!' Nabonidus was exulting. `The beast is half a man! He had seen the doom performed, and he remembered! Watch, now! Watch! Watch!'

Murilo saw that it was a panel of heavy glass that had fallen across the doorway. Through it he saw the pallid faces of the conspirators. Petreus, throwing out his hands as if to ward off a charge from Thak, encountered the transparent barrier, and from his gestures, said something to his companions. Now that the curtains were drawn back, the men in the pits could see all that took place in the chamber that contained the nationalists. Completely unnerved, these ran across the chamber toward the door by which they had apparently entered, only to halt suddenly, as if stopped by an invisible wall.

`The jerk of the rope sealed that chamber,' laughed Nabonidus. `It is simple; the glass panels work in grooves in the doorways.

Jerking the rope trips the spring that holds them. They slide down and lock in place, and can only be worked from outside. The glass is unbreakable; a man with a mallet could not shatter it. AV

The trapped men were in a hysteria of fright; they ran wildly from one door to another, beating vainly at the crystal walls, shaking their fists wildly at the implacable black shape which squatted outside. Then one threw back his head, glared upward, and began to scream, to judge from the working of his lips, while he pointed toward the ceiling.

`The fall of the panels released the clouds of doom,' said the Red Priest with a wild laugh. `The dust of the gray lotus, from the Swamps of the Dead, beyond the land of Khitai.'

In the middle of the ceiling hung a cluster of gold buds; these had opened like the petals of a great carven rose, and from them billowed a gray mist that swiftly filled the chamber. Instantly the scene changed from one of hysteria to one of madness and horror. The trapped men began to stagger; they ran in drunken circles. Froth dripped from their lips, which twisted as in awful laughter. Raging, they fell upon one another with daggers and teeth, slashing, tearing, slaying in a holocaust of madness. Murilo turned sick as he watched, and was glad that he could not hear the screams and howls with which that doomed chamber must be ringing. Like pictures thrown on a screen, it was silent.

Outside the chamber of horror Thak was leaping up and down in brutish glee, tossing his long hairy arms on high. At Murilo's shoulder Nabonidus was laughing like a fiend.

`Ah, a good stroke, Petreus! That fairly disemboweled him! Now one for you, my patriotic friend! So! They are all down, and the living tear the flesh of the dead with their slavering teeth.'

Murilo shuddered. Behind him the Cimmerian swore softly in his uncouth tongue. Only death was to be seen in the chamber of the gray mist; torn, gashed and mangled, the conspirators lay in a red heap, gaping mouths and blood-dabbled faces staring blankly upward through the slowly swirling eddies of gray.

Thak, stooping like a giant gnome, approached the wall where the rope hung, and gave it a peculiar sidewise pull.

`He is opening the farther door,' said Nabonidus. `By Mitra, he is more human than even I had guessed! See, the mist swirls out of the chamber, and is dissipated. He waits, to be safe. Now he raises the other panel. He is cautious - he knows the doom of the gray lotus, which brings madness and death. By Mitra!'

Murilo jerked about at the electric quality of the exclamation.

`Our one chance!' exclaimed Nabonidus. `If he leaves the chamber above for a few minutes, we will risk a dash up those stairs.'

Suddenly tense, they watched the monster waddle through the doorway and vanish. With the lifting of the glass panel, the curtains had fallen again, hiding the chamber of death.

`We must chance it!' gasped Nabonidus, and Murilo saw perspiration break out on his face. `Perhaps he will be disposing of the bodies as he has seen me do. Quick! Follow me up those stairs!'

He ran toward the steps and up them with an agility that amazed Murilo. The young nobleman and the barbarian were close at his heels, and they heard his gusty sigh of relief as he threw open the door at the top of the stairs. They burst into the broad chamber they had seen mirrored below. Thak was nowhere to be seen.

`He's in that chamber with the corpses!' exclaimed Murilo. `Why not trap him there as he trapped them?'

`No, no!' gasped Nabonidus, an unaccustomed pallor tingeing his features. `We do not know that he is in there. He might emerge before we could reach the trap-rope, anyway! Follow me into the corridor; I must reach my chamber and obtain weapons which will destroy him. This corridor is the only one opening from this chamber which is not set with a trap of some kind.'

They followed him swiftly through a curtained doorway opposite the door of the death-chamber, and came into a corridor, into which various chambers opened. With fumbling haste Nabonidus began to try the doors on each side. They were locked, as was the door at the other end of the corridor.

`My God!' The Red Priest leaned against the wall, his skin ashen. `The doors are locked, and Thak took my keys from me. We are trapped, after all.'

Murilo stared appalled to see the man in such a state of nerves, and Nabonidus pulled himself together with an effort.

`That beast has me in a panic,' he said. `If you had seen him tear men as I have seen - well, Mitra aid us, but we must fight him now with what the gods have given us. Come!'

He led them back to the curtained doorway, and peered into the great chamber in time to see Thak emerge from the opposite doorway. It was apparent that the beastman had suspected something. His small, close-set ears twitched; he glared angrily about him, and approaching the nearest doorway, tore aside the curtains to look behind them.

Nabonidus drew back, shaking like a leaf. He gripped Conan's shoulder. `Man, do you dare pit your knife against his fangs?'

The Cimmerian's eyes blazed in answer.

`Quick!' the Red Priest whispered, thrusting him behind the curtains, close against the wall. `As he will find us soon enough, we will draw him to us. As he rushes past you, sink your blade in his back if you can. You Murilo, show yourself to him, and then flee up the corridor. Mitra knows, we have no chance with him in hand-to-hand combat, but we are doomed anyway when he finds us.'

Murilo felt his blood congeal in his veins, but he steeled himself, and stepped outside the doorway. Instantly Thak, on the other side of the chamber, wheeled, glared, and charged with a thunderous roar. His scarlet hood had fallen back, revealing his black misshapen head; his black hands and red robe were splashed with a brighter red. He was like a crimson and black nightmare as he rushed across the chamber, fangs bared, his bowed legs hurtling his enormous body along at a terrifying gait.

Murilo turned and ran back into the corridor, and quick as he was, the shaggy horror was almost at his heels. Then as the monster rushed past the curtains, from among them catapulted a great form that struck full on the apeman's shoulders, at the same instant driving the poniard into the brutish back. Thak screamed horribly as the impact knocked him off his feet, and the combatants hit the floor together. Instantly there began a whirl and thrash of limbs, the tearing and rending of a fiendish battle.

Murilo saw that the barbarian had locked his legs about the apeman's torso, and was striving to maintain his position on the monster's back, while he butchered it with his poniard. Thak, on the other hand, was striving to dislodge his clinging foe, to drag him around within reach of the giant fangs that gaped for his flesh. In a whirlwind of blows and scarlet tatters they rolled along the corridor, revolving so swiftly that Murilo dared not use the chair he had caught up, lest he strike the Cimmerian. And he saw that in spite of the handicap of Conan's first hold, and the voluminous robe that lashed and wrapped about the apeman's limbs and body, Thak's giant strength was swiftly prevailing. Inexorably he was dragging the Cimmerian around in front of him. The apeman had taken punishment enough to have killed a dozen men. Conan's poniard had sunk again and again into his torso, shoulders and bull-like neck; he was streaming blood from a score of wounds, but unless the blade quickly reached some absolutely vital spot, Thak's inhuman vitality would survive to finish the Cimmerian, and after him, Conan's companions.

Conan was fighting like a wild beast himself, in silence except for his gasps of effort. The black talons of the monster and the awful grasp of those misshapen hands ripped and tore at him, the grinning jaws gaped for his throat. Then Murilo, seeing an opening, sprang and swung the chair with all his power, and with force enough to have brained a human being. The chair glanced from Thak's slanted black skull; but the stunned monster momentarily relaxed his rending grasp, and in that instant Conan, gasping and streaming blood, plunged forward and sank his poniard to the hilt in the apeman's heart.

With a convulsive shudder the beastman started from the floor, then sank limply back. His fierce eyes set and glazed, his thick limbs quivered and became rigid.

Conan staggered dizzily up, shaking the sweat and blood out of his eyes. Blood dripped from his poniard and fingers, and trickled in rivulets down his thighs, arms and breast. Murilo caught at him to support him, but the barbarian shook him off impatiently.

`When I cannot stand alone, it will be time to die; he mumbled, through mashed lips. `But I'd like a flagon of wine.'

Nabonidus was staring down at the still figure as if he could not believe his own eyes. Black, hairy, abhorrent, the monster lay, grotesque in the tatters of the scarlet robe; yet more human than bestial, even so, and possessed somehow of a vague and terrible pathos.

Even the Cimmerian sensed this, for he panted: `I have slain a man tonight, not a beast. I will count him among the chiefs whose souls I've sent into the dark, and my women will sing of him.'

Nabonidus stooped and picked up a bunch of keys on a golden chain. They had fallen from the apeman's girdle during the battle. Motioning his companions to follow him, he led them to a chamber, unlocked the door, and led the way inside. It was illumined like the others. The Red Priest took a vessel of wine from a table and filled crystal beakers. As his companions drank thirstily, he murmured: `What a night! It is nearly dawn, now. What of you, my friends?'

`I'll dress Conan's hurts, if you will fetch me bandages and the like,' said Murilo, and Nabonidus nodded, and moved toward the door that led into the corridor. Something about his bowed head caused Murilo to watch him sharply. At the door the Red Priest wheeled suddenly. His face had undergone a transformation. His eyes gleamed with his old fire, his lips laughed soundlessly.

`Rogues together!' his voice rang with its accustomed mockery. `But not fools together. You are the fool, Murilo!'

`What do you mean?' the young nobleman started forward.

`Back!' Nabonidus's voice cracked like a whip. `Another step and I will blast you!'

Murilo's blood turned cold as he saw that the Red Priest's hand grasped a thick velvet rope which hung among the curtains just outside the door.

`What treachery is this?' cried Murilo. `You swore-'

`I swore I would not tell the king a jest concerning you! I did not swear not to take matters into my own hands if I could. Do you think I would pass up such an opportunity? Under ordinary circumstances I would not dare kill you myself, without sanction of the king, but now none will ever know. You will go into the acid-vats along with Thak and the nationalist fools, and none will be the wiser. What a night this has been for me! If I have lost some valuable servants, I have nevertheless rid myself of various dangerous enemies. Stand back! I am over the threshold, and you cannot possibly reach me before I tug this cord and send you to hell. Not the gray lotus, this time, but something just as effective. Nearly every chamber in my house is a trap. And so, Murilo, fool that you are-'

Too quickly for the sight to follow, Conan caught up a stool and hurled it. Nabonidus instinctively threw up his arm with a cry, but not in time. The missile crunched against his head, and the Red Priest swayed and fell face-down in a slowly widening pool of dark crimson.

`His blood was red, after all,' grunted Conan.

Murilo raked back his sweat-plastered hair with a shaky hand as he leaned against the table, weak from the reaction of relief.

`It is dawn,' he said. `Let us get out of here, before we fall afoul of some other doom. If we can climb the outer wall without being seen, we won't be connected with this night's work. Let the police write their own explanation.'

He glanced at the body of the Red Priest where it lay etched in crimson, and shrugged his shoulders.

`He was the fool, after all; had he not paused to taunt us, he could have trapped us easily.'

`Well,' said the Cimmerian tranquilly, `he's travelled the road all rogues must walk at last. I'd like to loot the house, but I suppose we'd best go.'

As they emerged from the dimness of the dawn-whitened garden, Murilo said: `The Red Priest has gone into the dark, so my road is clear in the city, and I have nothing to fear. But what of you? There is still the matter of that priest in The Maze, and-'

`I'm tired of this city anyway,' grinned the Cimmerian. `You mentioned a horse waiting at the Rats' Den. I'm curious to see how fast that horse can carry me into another kingdom. There's many a highway I want to travel before I walk the road Nabonidus walked this night.'

Conan the Victorious

Prologue

The Vendhyan night was preternaturally still, the air weighty and oppressive. No slightest breeze stirred, leaving the capital city of Ayodhya to swelter. The moon hung heavily in the sky like a monstrous yellow pustule, and most of the few who ventured out to see it shuddered and wished for even a single cloud to hide its sickly malevolence. There were whispers in the city that such a night, such a moon, were omens of plague, or of war, but certainly of death.

The man who called himself Naipal gave no heed to the whispers.

Watching from the highest balcony of a vast palace of alabaster spires and golden domes, his by royal gift, he knew the moon was no omen of any sort. It was the stars that gave the night its promise, the passing of configurations that had blocked his way for months. He laid long, supple fingers on the long, narrow golden coffer held beneath his arm.

Tonight, he thought, there would be one moment of transcendent danger, a moment when all his plans could crumble to dust. Yet there was no gain without risk, and the greater the gain, the greater the danger.

Naipal was not his true name, for in a land noted for its intrigues, those who followed his path were secretive beyond the ordinary. He was tall for a Vendhyan, and they were accounted a tall people among the nations of the East. That height gave him a presence that he deliberately diminished by wearing robes of somber hue, such as the dark gray he now wore, rather than the rainbow silks and satins affected by men of fashion. Also the shade of charcoal was his modestly small turban, with neither gem nor plume to set it off. His face was darkly handsome, seeming calm beyond the ability of any disaster to shatter, with heavy-lidded black eyes that spoke of wisdom to men and of passion to women.

Seldom did he allow himself to be seen, however, for in mystery there was power, though many knew that one called Naipal was court wizard to King Bhandarkar of Vendhya. This Naipal, it was said in Ayodhya, was a wise man, not only for his good and faithful service to the King since the strange disappearance of the former court wizard, but also for his modest lack of ambition. In a place where every man and woman brimmed with ambition and plotting, the lack was considered praiseworthy, if peculiar. But then, his sort did peculiar things. It was known, for instance, that he gave great sums to the poor, to the children of the streets. This was a source of some amusement to the nobles of the court, for they thought he did it to assume a guise of kindness. In truth he had thought long before giving the first coin. He had come from those streets and remembered well wretched nights crouched in an alley, too hungry to sleep. The truth would have showed a weakness; therefore he fostered the cynical rumors of his motives, for he allowed himself no weakness.

With a last look at the sky, Naipal left the balcony, firmly clutching the narrow coffer. Golden lamps, cunningly wrought in the shapes of birds and flowers, lit the high-ceilinged corridors of his palace.

Exquisite porcelains and fragile crystal vases stood on tables of polished ebony and carven ivory. The carpets layered thickly beneath his feet in a welter of color were beyond price, and any one of the delicately-woven tapestries on the alabaster walls could have been exchanged for the daughter of a king. In public, Naipal made every effort to efface himself; in private, he reveled in all the pleasures of the senses. This night, however, after waiting so long, his eye did not touch any of the ornaments of his palace nor did he call for wine, nor musicians, nor women.

Down he went, into the depths of his palace and beyond, to chambers with walls that glowed with a faint pearlescence as though glazed by the hand of a master, chambers hewn from the bowels of the earth by his powers. Few of his servants were allowed to enter those deep-buried rooms and passages, and those few could not speak of what they did or saw for the simple lack of a tongue. The world at large did not know of those chambers, for those servants who did not descend into them, and so were allowed to keep their tongues, fearfully and wisely averted their eyes and would not so much as whisper of them on their sleeping pallets.

A downward-sloping corridor opened into a great square chamber, thirty paces on a side, with softly-gleaming canescent walls that were all of one piece, without join. Above, a pointed dome rose twenty times the height of a tall man. Centered beneath that dome was an arcane pattern in silver, buried in the near translucence of the floor and encompassing the greater part of the room. That silver graving gave off its own unholy radiance of frosty paleness. At nine precisely chosen spots on the perimeter of that figure were tripods of delicately worked gold, no higher than Naipal's knee and placed so that each leg seemed to continue a portion of the pattern. The air seemed sharp with dire forces, and the memories of foulness done.

Incongruously, the sixth part of the length of one wall was taken by a large grille of iron bars, with a locked door, also of iron, set in it.

Near the strange latticework a table of polished rosewood held the implements and ingredients he would need this night, all arranged on black velvet as a gem merchant might display his wares. A large flat box of ornately carved ivory stood atop faceted crystal legs at one end of the velvet. The place of honor on that table, though, was held by a small, finely crafted ebony chest.

Setting the golden coffer beside a silken cushion before which stood another golden tripod, Naipal went to the table. His hand stretched toward the small black chest, but on sudden impulse he raised the ivory lid instead. Carefully he brushed aside layers of blue silk, as soft as the finest down, revealing a silvered mirror, its polished surface showing no image at all, not even a reflection of the chamber.

The mage nodded. He had expected no different, but knew he must not allow his certainties to stop him from proper precautions. This mirror was not so very unlike a scrying glass, but instead of being used to communicate or spy, it had very special properties. That silver surface would show no images save those that threatened his designs.

Once, soon after he became wizard in the court of King Bhandarkar, Mount Yimsha, abode of the dreaded Black Seers, had appeared in the mirror. It had been only curiosity at his ascension, he knew. They saw no threat in him, more fools they. In a day the image was gone, and never since had anything been reflected there. Not so much as a flicker. Such was the efficacy of his planning.

With a feeling of satisfaction, Naipal covered the mirror once more and opened the ebony chest. Within was that which made his satisfaction grow. In carven hollows in the sable wood lay ten stones, smooth ovals of so inky a hue that the ebony seemed less black beside them. Nine were the size of the last joint of a man's thumb, the last twice so large. These were the khorassani. For centuries men had died seeking them in vain, until their very existence became first part of legends, then the stuff of stories for children. Ten years it had taken Naipal to acquire them, a search filled with adventures and trials to make it fit for epics had it been known.

Reverently he placed the nine smaller khorassani, one atop each of the golden tripods that bordered the arcane figure within the floor. The tenth, the largest, he set on the tripod before the cushion. All was in readiness.

Naipal settled cross-legged onto the cushion and began to speak the words of power, commanding forces unseen. "E'las eloyhim! Maraath savinday! Khora mar! Khora mar!"

Again the words repeated, again and again unending, and the stone before him began to glow as though with fires imprisoned in its core.

No illumination did it give, yet it seemed to burn with all light.

Abruptly, with a hiss as of white-hot metal thrust into water, narrow streaks of fire leaped from the glowing stone, one to each of the nine khorassani surrounding the silver pattern. As suddenly as they were born, the blazing bars died, yet now all ten stones blazed with the same fury. Once more the slashing hiss sounded, and the encircling stones were linked by burning lines, while from each tripod another bar of terrible incandescence stretched both upward and downward. Within the confines of that fiery cage neither floor nor dome could any longer be seen, but only darkness stretching to infinity.

Naipal fell silent, studying his handiwork, then shouted, "Masrok, I summon you!"

A rushing came, as though all the winds of the world poured through vast caverns.

A thunderclap smote the chamber, and within the flamebarred cage there floated a huge eight-armed shape, twice as tall as any man and more, with skin like polished obsidian. Its only garb was a silver necklace from which depended three human skulls, and its body was smooth and sexless. Two of its hands held silver swords that shone with an unearthly light. Two more held spears with human skulls hanging below the points for decoration, and another grasped a needle-pointed dagger.

Each weapon shared the glaucous, other-worldly glow. Large leathery ears twitched on the hairless head, and sharply slanted ruby eyes swiveled to Naipal.

Carefully the creature stretched to touch one silvery spear to the fiery bounds. A million hornets buzzed in rage, and lightnings flashed along the candent boundary, ceasing only when the spear point was withdrawn.

"Why do you still seek escape, Masrok?" Naipal demanded. "You cannot break our bargain so easily. Only lifeless matter can cross through that boundary from the outside, and nothing, not even you, can pass it from the inside. As you well know."

"If you make foolish errors, O man, there is no need for bargains." The booming words were pronounced stiffly around teeth that seemed designed for rending flesh, but a touch of arrogance came through. "Still, I will keep our pact."

"Most assuredly you will, and should from gratitude if for no other reason. Did I not free you from a prison that had held you for centuries?"

"Freedom, O man? I leave that prison only when summoned to this place by you, and here I am constrained to remain until commanded by you to return once more to that same prison. For this and promises, I aid you?

I sent the demons to bear away your former master so that you could rise to what you consider power as the court wizard. I shield the eyes of the Black Seers of Yimsha while you attempt that which would draw their wrath upon your head. I do these things at your command, O man, and you dare speak to me of freedom?"

"Continue to obey me," Naipal said coldly, "and you will have your freedom entire. Refuse . . ." He flung open the golden coffer. From it he snatched a silvery dagger like the one the demon carried, even to the glow, and thrust it toward the demon. "When we made our pact, I demanded a token of you, and you gave me this with warnings as to the danger of its merest touch to human flesh. Did you think with a demon-weapon in my grasp I would not seek the secret of its powers? You hold human knowledge in contempt, Masrok, though it was mortal men who chained you in your adamantine prison. And in the knowledge of mere humans, in the ancient writings of human wizards, I found mention of weapons borne by demons, weapons of glowing silver, weapons that cannot miss what they strike at and slay whatever they strike. Even demons, Masrok. Even you!"

"Strike at me then," the demon snarled. "I marched to war beside gods, and against gods, when the highest achievement of man was to turn over a rock to eat the grubs beneath. Strike!"

Smiling thinly, Naipal returned the dagger to the coffer. "You are of no use to me dead, Masrok. I simply want you aware that there is worse I can do to you than leave you in your prison. Even for a demon, imprisonment is to be preferred to death."

The demon's rubescent eyes fixed malevolently on the mage. "What do you wish of me this time, O man? There are limits to what I can do unless you remove the constraints on my journeying."

"There is no need for that." Naipal drew a deep breath; the moment of danger was at hand. "You were imprisoned to guard the tomb of King Orissa beneath the lost city of Maharashtra."

"You have asked before, O man, and I will not tell you the location of tomb or city. I will not betray that if I am bound for all of time."

"I know well the limits of your aid to me. Listen to my command. You will return to that tomb, Masrok, and bring to me one of the warriors buried with King Orissa. Bring me one man of the army that formed his bodyguard in death."

For a moment Naipal thought the demon would accept the command without demur, but abruptly Masrok screamed, and as it screamed, it spun.

Faster and faster it whirled until it was an ebon blur streaked with silver. No part of that blur touched the boundaries of its cage, but the hornets screamed and lightnings slashed walls of fiery lace. The chamber vibrated with the penetrating shriek and a blue-white glare filled the air.

Calm did not desert Naipal's face, yet sweat beaded his brow. He knew well the forces contained in that barrier and the power necessary to make it cry out and flare as it did. It was almost to the point of shattering; almost to the point of unleashing Masrok. Through the thousand deaths he would die when that happened, the greatest pain would be the failure of all his grand designs.

As abruptly as the tempest had begun, it ended. Masrok stood as truly carved from obsidian, crimson eyes glaring at the wizard. "You ask betrayal!"

"A small betrayal," Naipal said blandly, though it took all his reserves to manage it. "Not the location of the tomb. Merely a single warrior out of thousands."

"To escape two millennia of bondage is one thing, to betray what I was set to guard is another!"

"I offer freedom, Masrok."

"Freedom," was all the demon said. Naipal nodded. "Freedom, after two thousand years."

"Two thousand years, O man? The span of a human life is but a moment's dreaming to me. What are years to one such as I?"

"Two thousand years," the mage repeated. For a long moment there was silence.

"Three others guard as I do," Masrok said slowly. "My other selves, all of us created from the same swirl of chaos in the very instant time itself was born. Three to my one. It will take time, O man."

By the barest margin was Naipal able to mask his exhaltation. "Do it as quickly as possible. And remember that when your service to me is done, you will have your freedom. I await your sign that the task is done.

Now go, Masrok! I command it!"

Once more thunder smote the chamber, and the fiery cage stood empty.

With an unsteady hand, Naipal wiped the sweat from his brow, then hastily scrubbed it on his dark robes as though denying its existence.

It was done. Another thread had been placed in a tapestry of great complexity. There were a thousand such threads, many being placed by men-and women-who had no idea of what they truly did or why, but when the pattern had finally been woven ... A small smile touched his face.

When it was woven, the world would bow to Vendhya, and Vendhya, unknowing, would bow to Naipal.

Chapter I

From a distance the city seemed Jeweled, ivory and gold beside a sea of sapphire, justifying the name of Golden Queen of the Vilayet Sea. A closer view showed why others gave Sultanapur's byname as "the Gilded Bitch of the Vilayet."

The broad mole-protected harbor was crowded with the ships that gave Sultanapur cause to call itself Queen to Aghrapur's King, but for every roundship filled to the gunwales with silks from Khitai, for even galley that carried the scent of cinnamon and cloves from Vendhya, another vessel, out of Khoraf or Khawarism, reeked of stale sweat and despair, the odiferous brand of the slaver.

Gold-leafed domes proliferated on palaces of pale marble, it was true, and alabaster spires stretched toward the azure sky, but the streets were cramped and crooked in the best of quarters, for Sultanapur had grown haphazardly over centuries beyond counting. Half a score of times in those numberless years had the city died, its gilded palaces and temples to now-nameless gods gone to ruin. At each death, however, new palaces and new temples to new gods had grown like mushrooms on the rubble of the old, and like mushrooms, they crowded together where they would, leaving only rambling ways between for streets.

The city was dusty in a land that might know rain once in a year, and it, too, had as distinct a smell as the harbor. Without rain to wash the streets, the stenches of years hung in the hot air, a blend of spices and sweat, perfume and offal, a thousand aromas melded together till the parts could no longer be told one from the other. The whole was an ever-present miasma, as much a part of the city as any building.

Baths proliferated in Sultanapur: ornate marble structures with mosaicked pools, served by nubile wenches in naught but their sleek skins; wooden tubs behind taverns, where a serving girl might scrub a back for the price of a drink. It was the constant heat, however, and not the smell that made them a tradition. The wrinkled nose and the perfumed pomander were signs of the newcomer to Sultanapur, for those who dwelt there for any time no longer noticed the smell.

Newcomers there always were, for the Gilded Bitch of the Vilayet drew certain sorts of men from all corners of the known world. In a cool, fig-tree-shaded court or a shadowy tavern, an ebon-faced merchant from Punt might discuss with an almond-eyed Khitan the disposition of wines from Zingara, or a pale-cheeked Corinthian might speak with a turbaned Vendhyan of the ivory routes to Iranistan. The streets were a polyglot kaleidoscope of multi-hued grab in a hundred cuts from a score of lands, and the languages and accents to be heard among the babble of the marketplaces were too numerous for counting. In some instances the goods were honestly purchased. In others the purchase had been from the pirates who plagued the sea lanes, or coin had been passed to raiders of caravans or to smugglers on a dark coast. However obtained, on no more than half of what passed through Sultanapur was the King's custom paid. Sultanapur was a queen that took pride in her infidelity to her king.

For all that he was head and shoulders taller than most of those he passed, the muscular young man drew no special notice for his size as he made his way through streets filled with high-wheeled, ox-drawn wains squeaking on ungreased axles toward the docks. His tunic of white linen was tight across the breadth of his shoulders, and a broadsword swung at his side in a worn leather scabbard, but neither sword nor breadth of shoulders was enough to pick him out in Sultanapur. Big men, men who carried swords, were always sure of hire in a city where there was never a lack of goods or lives to guard.

Beneath a thick mane of black hair, held back from his face by a leather cord, were eyes as blue as the Vilayet and as hard as agates.

Those eyes did cause stares from the few who noticed them. Some made a sign to ward off the evil eye as he passed, but those who did so did it surreptitiously. It was all very well to avoid the curse of those strange eyes, but to anger their possessor was another matter entirely when the leather wrappings of his sword-hilt were worn smooth with use and his bearing and face showed him little loath to add to that wear.

Aware of those who stared and made the sign of the horns, the youth ignored them. Two months in Sultanapur had made him used to such.

Sometimes he wondered how those men would take it if they found themselves in his native mountains of Cimmeria, where eyes of any shade but blue or gray were as rare as his own were in this southern land of Turan. As often since coming to this place where the blue Vilayet mocked with its wetness the dry air, he thought longingly of the windswept, snowy crags of his homeland. Longingly, but briefly. Before coming to Turan he had been a thief, but he found that the gold that came from thievery had a way of trickling through his fingers as fast as he got it. He meant to return to Cimmeria-someday-but with gold enough to scatter like drops of water. And in Sultanapur he had found an old friend and a new trade.

At a stone-walled tavern with a crescent moon roughly daubed in yellow on its front, the Cimmerian went in, cutting off much of the noise of the street as he pulled the heavy door shut behind him. The Golden Crescent was cool inside, for its thick walls kept out the heat of the sun as well as the clatter. Tables were scattered across the stone floor so that talk at one could not easily be heard at another, and the interior was lighted poorly apurpose, for here whom a man talked to or what he said was considered no one's business but his own. The patrons were mainly Turanians, though they seemed a mixed lot. Their garments ranged from threadbare once-White cotton to costly velvets and silks in gaudy shades of scarlet and yellow. Not even the most ragged of them lacked coin, though, as evidenced by the number of doxies seated on men's knees or displaying their wares among the tables in narrow strips of brightly colored silk.

Some of the men nodded to the Cimmerian, or spoke. He knew them by name-Junio and Valash and Emilius-for they followed the same trade as he, but he did no more than acknowledge their greeting for he had no interest in them this day. He peered into the dimness, searching for one woman in particular. He saw her at the same moment she saw him.

"Conan!" she squealed, and he found his arms full of satiny olive flesh. A length of red silk two fingers in width encircled her rounded breasts, and another twice as wide was tucked through a narrow girdle of gilded brass set low on sweetly curving hips. Black hair cascaded down her back to all but bare buttocks, and her eyes shone darkly. "I hoped you would come to see me. I have missed you sorely."

"Missed me?" he laughed. "It has been but four days, Tasha. But to mend your loneliness . . ." He freed a hand to delve into the leather purse at his belt and held up a blue topaz on a fine golden chain. For the next few minutes he was busy being kissed, fastening the chain about her neck, then being kissed again. And being kissed by Tasha, he thought, was more definite than a night in some women's arms. Lifting the clear azure stone from its nest between her breasts, she admired it again, then gazed up at him through long lashes. "You must have had good luck with your fishing," she smiled.

Conan grinned. "We fishermen must work very hard for our coin, casting nets out, hauling them in. Luckily, the price of fish is very high right now." To gales of laughter from men close enough to hear, he led Tasha to an empty table.

All of the men who frequented the Golden Crescent called themselves fishermen, and it was even possible that some few actually were, upon occasion. For the vast majority, however, their "catches" were landed at night on deserted stretches of the coast where none of King Yildiz's excisemen were about to see whether it was fish or bales of silk and casks of wine that were off-loaded. It was said that if all of the so-called fishermen in Sultanapur actually brought fish to market, the city would be buried to the tops of the tallest tower, and the Vilayet would be stripped of its finny denizens.

At a table near the back of the room, Conan dropped to a bench and pulled Tasha on to his lap. A sloe-eyed serving girl appeared at his elbow, wearing little more than the doxies, though in cotton rather than silk. She was as available as the other women, for those who could not or would not pay the trulls' prices, and the smile she beamed at the broad-shouldered Cimmerian said she would take Tasha's place in an instant.

"Wine," he said and watched the rhythmic sway of her almost-covered hips as she left.

"You did come to see me, did you not?" Tasha asked acidly. "Or is that why you did not come yesterday? You said you would return yesterday.

Were you off comforting some thick-ankled serving wench?"

"I did not think her ankles were thick," Conan said blandly. His hand barely caught Tasha's wrist before her slap reached his face. She squirmed on his lap as though to rise, and he tightened his arm around her waist. "Who is sitting on my knee?" he asked. "That should tell you whom I want."

"Perhaps," she pouted, but at least she had stopped trying to get up.

He released her arm carefully. He had been made aware of her temper early on. She was quite capable of trying to rake his eyes out with her nails. But the passion that went into her rages she put into other things as well, and so he continued to seek her out.

The serving girl returned with a clay pitcher of wine and two battered metal cups, taking away the coins he gave her. This time Tasha watched her depart, with a glare that boded ill. It had been Conan's experience that women, whatever they said, preferred men who were not easily bullied, but now he thought a little oiling of the waters might be in order.

"Now look you," he said. "We did not return to Sultanapur until this very morning, for the wind turned against us. From the boat to here I took only a few hours to find that bauble for you. If need be, I will fetch Hordo to vouch for it."

"He would lie for you." She took the cup he filled for her, but instead of drinking she bit her lower lip, then said, "He came looking for you.

Hordo, I mean. I forgot, before. He wants to see you right away.

Something about a load of 'fish.' "

Conan hid a smile. It was a transparent attempt to make him leave on a fool's errand. On leaving their vessel, the one-eyed smuggler had spoken of his intentions to seek out a certain merchant's wife whose husband was in Akif. The Cimmerian saw no reason to share that knowledge, however.

"Hordo can wait."

"But-"

"You, Tasha, I prize above any silk or gems. I will stay here. With you."

She gave him a sidelong glance with bright eyes. "You hold me so dear?"

Lithely she snuggled closer to him and bent to murmur into his ear between teasing nips with small white teeth. "I like your present very much, Conan."

The sounds of the street intruded momentarily, indicating the entrance of another patron. With a gasp, Tasha crouched as though trying to use him as a shield. Even for the Golden Crescent, he realized suddenly, it had become too quiet. The constant low murmur of conversation was gone.

The Cimmerian looked at the door. In the dimness he could barely make out the shape of a man, tall for a Turanian. One thing was plain, however, even in the shadows by the door. The man wore the tall pointed helmet of the City Guard.

The intruder walked slowly into the silent tavern, head swiveling as if searching for someone, the fingers of one hand tapping on the hilt of the curved sword at his hip. None of the men at the scattered tables met his eyes, but he did not appear interested in any of them. He was an officer, Conan could now see, a narrowfaced man, tall for a Turanian, with a thin mustache and a small beard waxed to a point.

The officer's fingers stopped tapping as his gaze lit on Conan's table, then began again as he drew closer. "Ah, Tasha," he said smoothly, "did you forget I said I would come to you today?"

Tasha kept her eyes down and answered in a near whisper, "Forgive me, Captain Murad. You see that I have a patron. I cannot ... I ...

please."

"Find another woman," Conan growled.

The captain's face froze, but he did not take his eyes from Tasha. "I did not speak to you ... fisherman. Tasha, I do not want to hurt you again, but you must learn to obey."

Conan sneered. "Only a fool needs fear in his dealings with women. If you prefer cringing curs, find yourself a dog to beat."

The guardsman's face paled beneath its swarthiness. Abruptly he seized Tasha's arm, jerking her from the Cimmerian's lap. "Leave my sight, scum, before I-"

The threat cut off as Conan leaped to his feet with a snarl. The narrowfaced man's eyes widened in surprise, as though he had expected the girl to be given up without a fight, and his hand darted for his sword hilt, but Conan moved faster. Not toward his own blade, however.

Killing guardsmen was considered bad business for smugglers unless it was absolutely necessary, and in truth usually even then. Soldiers who palmed a coin and looked the other way could become tigers in defense of the King's laws when one of their own was slain. The Cimmerian's fist smashed into the other's chin before a fingerwidth of steel was bared. The officer seemed to attempt a tumbler's back flip and fell against a table, toppling it as he dropped to the floor. His helmet spun across the floor, but the Turanian lay where he had fallen like a sack of rags.

The tavernkeeper, a plump Kothian with small gold rings in the lobe of each ear, bent to peer at the officer. He scrubbed his fat hands nervously on his wine-stained apron as he straightened. "You've ruined my custom for a tenday, northlander. If I'm lucky. Mitra, man! You've killed the perfumed buffoon! His neck's snapped."

Before anyone else could speak or move the door to the street slammed open, and two more guardsmen strode through. They marched into the common room sneering as though it were a barracks square filled with peasant conscripts. The unnatural stillness of the tavern was disturbed by tiny shiftings and rustlings as men marked escape routes.

Conan quietly cursed under his breath. He was all but standing over the accursed fool's body. To move would only draw attention more quickly than it would come already. As for running, he had no intention of dying with a sword in his back. With a small gesture he motioned Tasha from him. He found the alacrity with which she obeyed a trifle disappointing.

"We seek Captain Murad," one of the guardsmen shouted into the silence.

An oft-broken nose gave him a brawler's face. The other tugged at a straggly mustache and stared superciliously about the room. The Kothian tried to scuttle into the deeper shadows, but the broken-nosed soldier froze him with a glare. "You, innkeeper! This smuggling scum you serve seem to have no tongues. Where is Captain Murad? I know he came in here."

The Kothian's mouth worked soundlessly, and he scrubbed his hands all the harder in his apron.

"Find your tongue, fool, before I slit it! If the captain's with a wench, still he must hear the word I bring without delay. Speak, or I'll have your hide for boots!"

Abruptly the straggly-mustached soldier caught the speaker's tunic sleeve. "It's Murad, Tavik!" he exclaimed, pointing.

From the still form of the officer the guards' eyes rose inexorably to Conan, their faces hard. The Cimmerian waited calmly, seemingly unaffected by their stares. What would happen, would happen.

"Your work, big man?" Tavik asked coldly. "Striking an officer of the City Guard will cost you the bastinado. Abdul, see to waking the captain."

They had rested too long under the protection of their position with regard to the smugglers, the big youth thought. Tavik drew his curved sword, but held it casually, lowered by his side, as though he did not believe anyone there would actually make him use it. The other did not even reach for his weapon.

Abdul squatted beside Captain Murad's body, grasped the officer's arms, and stiffened. "He's dead," he breathed, then shouted it. "He's dead, Tavik!"

Conan kicked the bench he had been sitting on at Abdul, who was attempting to leap to his feet and unsheathe his sword at the same time. As the scraggly-mustached man danced awkwardly to avoid falling over the impediment, the Cimmerian's own blade was bared. At his companion's cry, Tavik had raised his blade high to slash, which might have been all very well had his opponent been unarmed. Now he paid for his error as Conan's steel sliced across his exposed belly. With a shrill scream, Tavik dropped his sword, fingers clutching in a vain attempt to keep in the thick ropes of his intestines as he followed the weapon to the stone floor.

Conan leaped back as he recovered from the killing stroke, his broadsword arcing down barely in time to block Abdul's thrust at his side. The force of the blow knocked the guardsman's tulwar wide, and doomed desperation filled his dark eyes in the moment before the Cimmerian's blade pierced his throat to stand out a handspan from the back of his neck. As Conan jerked his sword free from the collapsing corpse, Tavik gave one last kick and died.

Grimly the Cimmerian wiped his sword on Abdul's tunic and sheathed it.

The common room, he realized, now held but half those it had at the beginning of his fight, and more were disappearing every moment through the doors that led to alleys beside and behind the building. No man or wench in the tavern but would want to be able to deny being in the Golden Crescent on the day three of the City Guard died there.

The Kothian tavernkeeper cracked the door to the street enough to peer out, then closed it with a groan. "Guardsmen," he muttered. "Half a score of them. And they look impatient. They'll be in here in a trice to see what's keeping those two. How am I to explain this happening in my tavern? What am I to tell them-" His hand snatched the gold coin Conan tossed him, and he was not too despondent to bite it before making it disappear beneath his apron.

"Tell them, Banaric," Conan said, "of the slavers from Khoraf who killed the captain in a quarrel, and then the guardsmen. A dozen slavers. Too many for you to interfere."

Banaric nodded reluctantly. "They might believe it. Maybe."

They were the last two in the tavern, Conan saw. Even Tasha had gone.

And without a word, he thought sourly. In a matter of moments the entire day had gone rotten. At least he would not have to worry about being hounded by the City Guard. Or he would not if the Kothian told the story he had been paid to tell.

"Remember, Banaric," he said. "A dozen Khorafi slavers." He waited for the innkeeper's nod, then slipped out the back.

Chapter II

Conan hurried away from the Golden Crescent by the network of alleys, barely as wide as his shoulders and stinking of urine and offal, that crisscrossed the area of the tavern. His plans had been for a day in Tasha's arms, but that had certainly gone aglimmering. He slipped in the slime underfoot, barely caught himself, and cursed. Even if he managed to find the jade again, he was not sure he wanted to spend time with a woman who would take his gift and then run away-without so much as a kiss-just because of a little trouble. There were other women, and other uses for his time. Even after buying the topaz for her and tossing a gold piece to Banaric, Conan's purse was far from empty. The "fish" unloaded the night before on a secluded beach had been Khitan silks and the famed Basralla laces from Vendhya, and the prices paid for them were generous. He would spend a little coin on himself.

Deep into the heart of the sprawling city he went, far from the harbor district, yet all parts of Sultanapur had their share of bustling commerce. There were no ox-drawn carts here, but still the narrow streets were filled with humanity, for coppersmith's shop and bawdy house might lie cheek by jowl with rich merchant's dwelling, and tavern and potter's shop with temple. Buyers, sellers and worshipers were all jumbled in the throng.

Sleek ladies in veils of lace, trailed by servants to carry their purchases, jostled with apprentices bearing rolled rugs or stacked bolts of cloth on their shoulders. Filthy urchins with greedy lingers stalked the purses of fat men with velvet tunics and even greedier eves. In a small square a juggler kept six lighted brands in the air at the same time while shouting curses at trulls in girdles of coin and little else who solicited those who paused to watch.

At every street crossing, fruit peddlers sold pomegranates, oranges and figs, some from trays held before them by a strap about the neck, some from wicker panniers on donkeys. From time to time the donkeys added their braying to the general tumult. Geese and chickens in reed cages honked and cackled, pigs tethered by a leg grunted disconsolately.

Hawkers cried a hundred varied wares, and merchants bargained at the top of their lungs, shouting that such a price would ruin them, then going lower still.

A copper bought a large handful of figs that Conan ate as he strolled and looked, and occasionally made a purchase. From a swordsmith, working his forge beneath a striped awning with the ring of hammer on white-hot metal, the Cimmerian purchased a straight-bladed dagger and sheath that he tucked through his swordbelt in the small of his back.

Finely carved amber beads went into his pouch with the thought that they would grace the neck of some other wench than Tasha. Unless, of course, she apologized prettily for running away as she had.

A narrow, shadowed shop, presided over by a skinny man with an unctuous manner and oily countenance, yielded a white hooded cloak of the thinnest wool, not for the cold that never came in Sultanapur, but to keep off the sun. He had looked for such a cloak for some time, but most men in Sultanapur wore turbans, and few cloaks with hoods were sold, not to mention cloaks large enough to fit across his shoulders.

A ragged man passed Conan, bearing on his back a large clay jar wrapped in damp cloths. The handle of a ladle protruded from the mouth of the jar, and brass cups clinked against each other as they dangled on chains along the jar's sides. The sight of him awoke in Conan the thirst that came from eating so many sweetly ripe figs, for the ragged man was a water seller. In a city so hot and so dry as Sultanapur, water had a price as surely as did wine.

Conan motioned the man aside and squatted against a wall while the water seller set down his jar. The chains reached far enough for a Turanian to stand and drink, but Conan must needs either squat or stoop. A copper passed into the water seller's bony hand, and Conan took his cup of water.

Not so cool by far as a mountain stream in Cimmeria, he thought, freshened by the runoff of the spring thaws. But such thoughts were worse than useless, serving only to make the heat seem to suck moisture from a man even faster. He drew up the hood of his new cloak to give himself a little shade. As he drank, fragments of talk drifted to him through the cacophony of the street. Tasha occupied his mind, and but fragments of fragments registered on his ear.

". . . Forty coppers the cask is outrageous . . ."

". . . At least ten dead, they say, and one a general . . ."

". . . A prince, I heard . . ."

". . . If my husband finds out, Mahmoud . . ."

". . . A Vendhyan plot. . ."

". . . While the wazam of Vendhya is in Aghrapur talking peace . . ."

". . . So I seduced his daughter to even the bargain . . ."

". . . The assassin was a northland giant. . ."

Conan froze with the brass cup at his lips. Slowly he raised his eyes to the water seller's face. The man, staring idly at the wall against which the Cimmerian crouched, seemed merely to await the return of his cup, but sweat beaded his dark forehead where there had been none before, and his feet shuffled as though he would be away quickly.

"What did you hear, water seller?"

The ragged man jumped, rocking his jar. He had to catch it to keep it from toppling. "Master? I ... I hear nothing." A nervous laugh punctuated his words. "There are always rumors, master. Always rumors, but I listen only to the babblings of my own head."

Conan slid a silver piece into the man's calloused palm. "What did you hear just now?" He asked in a milder tone. "About a northlander."

"Master, I sell water. Nothing else." Conan merely continued looking at him, but the man blinked and swallowed as though at a snarl. "Master, they say ... they say there are soldiers dead, City Guardsmen, and perhaps a general or a prince. They say Vendhyans hired it done, and that one of the slayers ..."

"Yes? "

The water seller swallowed again. "Master, they, say one of the slayers was a ... a giant. A ... a northlander."

Conan nodded. The tale obviously had its roots in the occurrence at the Golden Crescent. And if so much were common knowledge, in however distorted a fashion, how much else was known also? His name perhaps? He did not worry about the how of the story spreading. Smugglers did not usually turn against their own, but perhaps one in the tavern that morning had been caught and put to the question by the guardsmen who had been in the street. Mayhap Banaric had not felt a gold piece enough for a lie in the face of the guardsmen's certain anger at what they found. At the moment he had quite enough worry in how to avoid capture in a city where he stood out like a camel in a zenanna. His eyes searched the street, and a possibility came to him. At least there were no guardsmen. Yet.

He emptied the cup with a gulp, but held it a moment longer. "It is a good thing to sell, water," he said. "Water and nothing else. Men who sell water and nothing else never have to look over their shoulders for fear of who might be there."

"I understand, master," the water seller gasped. "I sell water and nothing else. Nothing else, master."

Conan nodded and released the cup. The water seller heaved his jar onto his back so quickly that water slopped over the sides, and hurried into the streaming crowd. Before he was out of sight, Conan had already dismissed the ragged fellow from his mind. There would be a reward, likely as distorted as the numbers of guardsmen slain, and the water seller would sooner or later try for part of it, but with luck, he would remain silent for perhaps as much as an hour. In truth, the Cimmerian would settle for a tenth of that.

Drawing the hood of his cloak farther forward, Conan strode hurriedly down the street, searching for a vendor of a particular sort. A sort of vendor who did not seem to be present, he thought angrily. There were sellers of brass bowls and wicker baskets, of tunics and sandals and gilded jewelry, but not of what he sought. But he had seen apprentices carrying ... There it was. A rug merchant's stall, filled with carpets in all sizes and colors, stacked, rolled and hanging on the walls.

As Conan entered, the plump merchant hurried forward, hands rubbing in anticipation and a professional smile on his face. "Welcome, master.

Welcome. Here you may see the finest carpets in all of Sultanapur. Nay, in all of Turan. Carpets to grace the palace of King Yildiz himself, may Mitra bless him thrice daily. Carpets from Iranistan, from-"

"That one," Conan cut him off, pointing to a rug that lay near the front of the stall in a roll thicker than a man's head. He was careful to keep his face down. The sight of blue eyes would bring more than a sign for warding off the evil eye now.

"Indeed, master, you are truly a connoisseur. Without even the bother of unrolling it, you chose the finest carpet in my shop. For the trifle of one gold piece-"

This time the rug merchant's jaw dropped, for Conan immediately thrust a gold piece into the man's hands. It left him with little in his purse, but he had no time for bargaining, however odd that might strike the merchant.

The plump man's mouth worked as he attempted to regain his equilibrium.

"Uh, yes, master. Of course. I will fetch apprentices to bear your purchase. Two should be enough. They are strong lads."

"No need," Conan told him. Sword and swordbelt were hastily stored just inside the folds of the rug. "I will carry it myself."

"But it is too heavy for one. . . ."

The merchant faded into astounded silence as Conan easily hoisted the rolled carpet to his left shoulder, then casually shifted it to a more comfortable position. The thick tube on his shoulder would give him an excuse to walk with back bent and head down, and thus seem not quite so tall. So long as he kept the hood of his cloak well forward, he might be able to pass as just one more of the scores of men bearing carpets through the streets for weavers or rug sellers.

He noticed the open-mouthed merchant staring at him. "A wager," Conan explained, and as he could not think of the possible terms of such a bet, he hurried from the shop. As he left, he could feel the man's popping eyes on his back.

Once out in the narrow street there was a temptation to walk as swiftly as he could, but he forced himself to move slowly. Few laborers or apprentices in Sultanapur moved more quickly than a slow stroll unless under the eyes of their master. Conan gritted his teeth and matched his pace to that of the real laborers he saw. Even so, he impatiently used the rug to fend his way through the streams of people. Most moved from his path with no more than a muttered curse. A growl from beneath his hood answered the few who shouted their curses and shook a fist or caught at his sleeve. Having gotten a closer look at him, each of the latter decided they were needed urgently elsewhere. Surreptitious glances under the edge of his hood told Conan he was almost halfway to the harbor.

A change in the noise of the street slowly came to the Cimmerian's awareness. Leg-tied pigs and tethered sheep still grunted and bleated unabated, and the cackling from high-stacked wicker cages filled with chickens continued unaltered. But a woman bargaining loudly for a shawl of Vendhyan lace paused, then turned her back to the throng and continued more quietly. A peddler of pins and ribbons faltered in his cry and drew back to the mouth of an alley before giving voice again.

Others started or stuttered in their tradings, or cast nervous eyes about.

It was not he who excited them. Of that Conan was sure. There was something behind him, but he could not turn to look. He strained his ears to penetrate the wall of the farmyard babble and market chatter.

Yes. Among the many feet that walked that street were some number that moved to a silent cadence. Marching feet. Soldiers' feet. The Cimmerian moved his right hand to the rolled carpet as though to balance it. The hand rested not a fingerwidth from the hilt of his sword, hidden in those folds.

"I tell you, Gamel," came a harsh voice at Conan's rear, "this big oaf is naught but a laborer. A weaver's man. Let us not waste our time with him."

A second speaker answered in tones smoother and touched with mockery.

"And I say he is big enough, if he stood straight. This could well be the giant barbar the Venehyans hired. Will you forget the reward, Alsan? Can you forget a thousand gold pieces?"

"Gamel, I still say-"

"You there! Big fellow! Stand and turn!"

Conan stopped in his tracks. A thousand gold pieces, he thought. Surely Captain Murad could not be worth so much. But these men said he fit the description of the one for whom that amount would be paid, and he could not imagine that it could be someone else. Matters were occurring in Sultanapur of which he had no knowledge, but it seemed they concerned him all the same.

Slowly the Cimmerian turned, keeping the thick roll between the guardsmen and his face, making no effort this time to hurry people from the path of the swinging rug. The soldiers had continued to approach, apparently satisfied that he obeyed. By the time he was sideways to them, they had reached him.

A hand grabbed his arm. "All right, you," the harsh voice said. "Let's see your face."

Conan let the hand pull him around a handspan farther. Then, jerking his scabbarded broadsword from the rug, he dropped the heavy, roll against the man who tugged. He was only vaguely aware of the thin-mustached guardsman falling with a scream and the snap of a broken leg. His eyes were all for the twenty more filling the narrow street behind the first.

For the merest instant all were frozen; Conan was the first to move.

His hand swept out to topple wicker cages of wildly squawking chickens into the soldiers' midst. Chickens exploded from burst cages. Peddlers and shoppers, shrieking as mindlessly as the birds, fled in all directions, some even trying to trample a way through the soldiers, who in turn attempted to club people from their way. The pigs' grunts had become desperate squeals and sheep leaped and jerked at their bonds.

Conan jerked his blade free of its sheath as a guardsman burst out of the confusion and hurdled the downed man as he drew his tulwar.

Sidestepping, the Cimmerian struck. The Turanian gagged loudly as he doubled over the steel that bit deep into his middle. Before the man could fall, Conan had freed his blade to slash at the cords binding the nearest sheep. Fleeing the flashing blade, the wooly animals darted toward the jumble of soldiers shouting for the way to be cleared and shoppers screaming for mercy, the whole spiced with scores of fluttering, squawking chickens. Two more soldiers struggled clear of the pack only to fall over the sheep. Conan waited no longer. He ran, pulling over more cages of chickens behind him as he did.

At the first corner he turned right, at the next, left. Startled eyes, already turned in the direction of the tumult, followed his flight. He had gained only moments, he knew. Most of those who saw him would deny everything when asked by the City Guard, for such was the way of life in Sultanapur, but some would talk. Enough to make a trail for the soldiers to follow. Ahead of him an ox-drawn, two-wheeled cart, piled high with lashed bales to a height greater than a man, passed his line of sight on a crossing street. Another high-wheeled cart followed behind, the ox-driver walking beside his animal with a goad, then another.

Abruptly Conan stopped before the stall of a potter. Before the potter's goggling eyes, he calmly reached up and wiped the blood from his sword on the man's yellow awning. Hurriedly resheathing his blade, Conan fastened the belt around his waist as he ran on. At the next crossing street he looked back. The potter, staring after him and pointing, stopped his shouting when he saw Conan's gaze on him. This man would certainly talk, even before the guardsmen asked. It was a risk he took, the Cimmerian knew, but if it failed, he would be no worse off than before. But it would work, he told himself. He had the same feeling that he had when the dice were going to fall his way.

Sure that the potter marked his direction, Conan turned in the direction from which the carts had come. As he started down the street, he let out a breath he had not been aware of holding. The feeling of certainty was assuredly working better than it usually did with dice.

Still another ox-cart rumbled down the narrow street toward him.

Moving back against a wall to let the cart pass, he stepped around it to the far side as soon as it was by. When his legs were in line with the tall wheels, he slowed his pace to the trudge of the ox. The potter would tell the guardsmen of the direction he had gone, while he went off the opposite way. It was but another moment gained, but enough moments such as these could add up to a man's life.

As soon as the cart had crossed the street where the potter stood, Conan hurried on ahead. He had to get to the harbor and the jumble of docks, warehouses, and taverns, where he could find safety among the smugglers. And he had to find out why there was a reward of a thousand pieces of gold being offered for him. The first was the most urgent, yet it would not be so easy as simply walking there. He was far from inconspicuous, and the white cloak would soon be added to the description of the man for whom the reward was offered. Without the hood, though, his blue eyes would leave a trail easily followed by guardsmen seeking a big northlander. The question, then, was how to exchange the cloak for one of another color, but also with a hood, while not letting his eyes be seen.

He watched for a cloak he might buy or steal, but saw few with hoods and none large enough to avoid looking ludicrous on his broad shoulders. There was no point in drawing eyes by looking the clown when the purpose was to avoid them. As quickly as he could without gaining attention for his speed, pausing at every street crossing to look for guardsmen, he moved toward the harbor. Or tried to. Three times he was forced to turn aside by the sight of City Guardsmen, and once he barely had time to duck into a shop selling cheap gilded jewelry before half a score of guardsmen strode by. He was going north, he realized, parallel to the harbor district, and certainly not toward it.

Guardsmen's spears above the heads of the crowd before him turned him down a side street packed with humanity. Away from the harbor, he thought with a curse as he pushed through the crowd, then cursed again when shouts for the way to be cleared indicated the soldiers had entered the same street. They gave no sign that they had seen him, but that could not last for long, not with him standing a head taller than the next tallest man on the street. He lengthened his stride, then almost immediately slowed again. A score of spear points, glittering in the sunlight, approached from ahead.

This time he did not waste breath on curses. An alley, smelling strongly of offal and chamber pots, offered the only escape. As he ducked into it, he realized that he had been there before, in company with Hordo during his first days with the one-eyed man's band of smugglers. Stairs of crumbling brown brick, narrow yet, even so, all but filling the width of the alley, led to the floor above a fruit vendor's stall. Conan took them two at a time. A stooped man in robes of brown camel's hair jumped as the Cimmerian pushed open the rough wooden door without knocking.

The small room was sparsely furnished, with a cot against one wall and an upright chest with many small drawers against another. A table that leaned on a badly mended leg sat in the middle of the bare wooden floor, a single stool beside it. A few garments hung on pegs in the walls. All seemed old and weathered, and the stooped man was a match for his possessions. Sparse white hair and olive skin blotched with age and wrinkled like often-folded parchment made the fellow seem able to claim a century. His hands were like knobby claws as they clutched a packet of oilskin, and his dark eyes, hooded and glaring, were the only part of him that showed any spark of vitality.

"My apologies," Conan said quickly. He wracked his brain for the old man's name. "I did not mean to enter so abruptly, Ghurran." That was it. "I fish with Hordo."

Ghurran grunted and bent to peer fussily at the packets and twists of parchment atop the rickety table. "Hordo, eh? His joints aching again?

He should find another trade. The sea does not suit his bones. Or perhaps you come for yourself? A love philtre, perhaps?"

"No." Half of Conan's mind was on listening for the soldiers below. Not until they were gone could he risk putting his nose outside. "What I truly need," he muttered, "is a way to become invisible until I reach the harbor."

The old man remained bent over the table, but his head swiveled toward the big youth. "I compound herbs, and occasionally read the stars," he said dryly. "You want a wizard. Why not try the love philtre?

Guaranteed to put a woman helpless in your arms for the night. Of course, perhaps a handsome young man like you does not need such."

Conan shook his head distractedly. The parties of guardsmen had met at the mouth of the alley. A thin murmuring floated to him, but he could not make out any words. They seemed in no hurry to move on. All of this trouble, and he did not even know why. A Vendhyan plot, those he had overheard had said. "May their sisters sell for a small price," he muttered in Vendhyan.

"Katar!" Ghurran grunted. The old man lowered himself jerkily to his knees and fumbled under the table for a dropped packet. "My old fingers do not hold as once they did. What was that language you spoke?"

"Vendhyan," Conan replied without taking his mind from the soldiers. "I learned a little of the tongue, since we buy so much fish from Vendhyans." Most of the smugglers could speak three or four languages after a fashion, and his quick ear had already picked up considerable Vendhyan as well as smatterings of several others. "What do you know of Vendhya?" he went on.

"Vendhya? How should I know of Vendhya. Ask me of herbs. I know something of herbs."

"It is said that you will pay for herbs and seeds from far lands, and that you ask many questions of these lands when you buy. Surely you have purchased some herbs from Vendhya."

"All plants have uses, but the men who bring them to me rarely know those uses. I must try to draw the information from them, asking all they know of the country from which the herbs or seeds came in order to sift out a few grains that are useful to me." The old man got to his feet and paused for breath, dusting his bony hands on his robes. "I have bought some trifles from Vendhya, and I am told it is a land full of intrigue, a dangerous land for the unwary, for those who too easily believe the promises of a man or the flattery of a woman. Why do you wish to know of Vendhya?"

"It is said in the streets that a prince has been slain, or perhaps a general, and that Vendhyans hired the killing done."

"I see. I have not been out the entire day." Ghurran chewed at a gnarled knuckle. "Such a thing is unlikely at this time, for it is said that wazam of Vendhya, the chief advisor to King Bhandarkar, visits Aghrapur to conclude a treaty, and many nobles of the royal court at Ayodhya visit as well. Yet remember the intrigues. Who can say? You still have not told me why you are so interested in this."

Conan hesitated. The old man provided poultices and infusions for half the smugglers in Sultanapur. That so many continued to trust him was in his favor. "The rumor is that the assassin was a northlander, and the City Guard seems to think I am the man."

The parchment-skinned man tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe and peered at Conan with his head tilted. "Are you? Did you take Vendhyan gold?"

"I did not," Conan replied. "Nor did I kill a prince, or a general."

Assuredly no man he had faced that day had been either.

"Very well," Ghurran said. His lips tightened reluctantly. Then he sighed and took a dusty dark-blue cloak from the wall. "Here. This will make you somewhat less conspicuous than the one you wear now."

Surprised, Conan nonetheless quickly exchanged his white cloak for the other. Despite the dust and folds of hanging, perhaps for years, the dark-blue wool was finely woven and showed little wear. It was tight across the Cimmerian's shoulders, yet had obviously been made for a man bigger than Ghurran.

"Age shrinks all men," the stooped herbalist said as though he had read Conan's mind.

Conan nodded. "I thank you, and I will remember this." The sound of the soldiers had faded away while he was talking. He cracked the door and peered out. The narrow street was jammed with people, but none were guardsmen. "Fare you well, Ghurran. And again, my thanks." Without waiting for the other man to speak again, Conan slipped out, descended the stairs and melded into the crowd. The harbor district, he thought.

Once he reached that, there would be time to consider other matters.

Chapter III

The patrols of guardsmen were a nuisance to the young Turanian who made his way out of the harbor district and into an area that seemed favored, as nearly as he could tell, solely by beggars, bawds and cutpurses. He avoided the soldiers deftly, and none of the area's denizens favored him with a second glance.

A Corinthian mother had given him features that were neither Corinthian nor Turanian, but rather simply dark-eyed and not quite handsome.

Clean-shaven at the moment, he could pass as a native of any one of a half a score of countries and had done so more than once. He was above medium height, with a rawboned lanky build that often fooled men into underestimating his strength, several times to the saving of his life.

His garb was motley, a patched Corinthian doublet that had once been red, baggy Zamoran breeches of pale cotton, well-worn boots from Iranistan.

Only the tulwar at his side and his turban, none too clean and none too neatly wrapped, were Turanian, he thought sourly. Four years gone from his own country and before he was back a tenday, he found himself skulking about the dusty streets of Sultanapur trying to avoid the City Guard. Not for the first time since leaving home at nineteen, he regretted his decision not to follow in his father's footsteps as a spice merchant. As always, though, the regret lasted only until he could remind himself of how boring a spice merchant's life was, but of late that reminding took longer than it once had.

Turning into an alley, he paused to see if anyone took notice. A single footsore trull began to flash a smile at him, then valued his garb in her mind and trudged on. The rest of the throng streamed by without an eye turning his way. He backed down the stench-filled alley, keeping a watch on the street, until he felt a rough wooden door under his fingers. Satisfied that he was still unobserved, he ducked through the doorway into darkness.

Instantly a knife at his throat stopped him in his tracks, but all he did was say quietly, "I am Jelal. I come from the West." Anything else, he knew, and the knife wielder would have used his blade, not to mention the two other men he was sure were in the pitch-black room.

Flint struck steel, light flared, and a lamp that smoked and reeked of rancid oil was held to his face. Two, he saw, beside the one who still held a razor edge to his throat, and even the man with the lamp, a thick half-moon scar curling around his right eye, clutched a bared dagger.

The scar-faced man stepped aside and jerked his head toward a door leading deeper into the building. "Go on," he said. Only then was the knife lowered from Jelal's throat.

Jelal did not say anything. This was not the first such meeting for him, nor even the twentieth. He went on through the second door.

The windowless room he entered was what was to be expected in this quarter of the city, rough walls of clay brick, a dirt floor, a crude table tilted on a cracked leg. What was not to be expected were the beeswax candles giving light, the white linen cloth spread on the table top, or the crystal flagon of wine sitting on the cloth beside two cups of hammered gold. Nor was the man seated behind the table one to be expected in such a place. A plain dark cloak, nondescript yet of quality too fine for that region of Sultanapur, covered much of his garb. His narrow thin-nosed face, with mustaches and small beard neatly waxed to points, seemed more suited to a palace than a district of beggars. He spoke as soon as Jelal entered.

"It is well you come today, Jelal. Each time I must come out into the city increases the risk I will be seen and identified. You have made contact?" He waved a soft-skinned hand with a heavy gold seal-ring on the forefinger toward the crystal flagon. "Have some wine for the heat."

"I have made contact," Jelal replied carefully, "but-"

"Good, my boy. I knew that you would, even in so short a time. Four years in Corinthia and Koth and Khauran, posing as every sort of merchant and peddler, legal and otherwise, and never once caught or even suspected. You are perhaps the best man I have ever had. But I fear your task in Sultanapur has changed."

Jelal drew himself up. "My lord, I request to be reposted to the Ibari Scouts."

Lord Khalid, the man who ordered and controlled all the spies of King Yildiz of Turan, stared in amazement. "Mitra strike me, why?"

"My lord, you say I was never once suspected in four years, and it is true. But it is true because I not only acted the part, I was a merchant, or a peddler as the instant demanded, spending most of my days buying and selling, talking of markets and prices. My lord, I became a soldier in part to avoid becoming a merchant like my father. I was a good soldier, and I ask to serve Turan and the King where I can serve them best, as a soldier once more in the Ibari Mountains."

The spy master drummed his fingers on the table. "My boy, you were chosen for the very reasons you cite. Your service was all in the southern mountains, so no western foreigner is likely to ever have seen you as a soldier. Your boyhood training to be a merchant not only prepared you to play that part to perfection, but also, because of a merchant's need to winnow fact from rumor to find the proper market and price, it made sure that you could do the same with other kinds of rumors and give reports of great value. As you have. You serve Turan best where you are."

"But, my lord-"

"Enough, Jelal. There is no time. What do you know of events in Sultanapur this day?"

Jelal sighed. "There are many rumors," he began slowly, "reporting everything but an invasion. Piecing together the most likely, I should say that Prince Tureg Amal was killed this morning. Beyond that I should say the strongest rumor is that a northlander was involved. As it was not what I came to Sultanapur for, I put no more than half my mind to it, I fear."

"Half your mind, and you get one of two right." The older man nodded approvingly. "You are indeed the best of my men. I do not know where the rumor of a northlander was born. Perhaps someone saw such a man in the street."

"But the guardsmen, my lord. They seek-"

"Yes, yes. The rumors have spread even to them, and I've done nothing to change that state of affairs for the moment. Let the true culprits think they have escaped notice. It is not the first time soldiers have been sent chasing shadows, nor will it be the last. And a few innocent foreigners-if any of them can truly be called innocent-a few such put to the question, or even killed, is a small price to pay if it helps us take the true villains unaware. Believe me when I say the throne of Turan could be at stake."

Jelal managed a nod. He was aware from experience just how coldly practical this soft-appearing man could be, even if the stakes were considerably less than the Turanian throne. "And the prince, my lord?

You said I was half right."

"Tureg Amal," Kalid sighed, "drunkard, wastrel, lecher, and High Admiral of Turan, died this morning of a poisoned needle thrust into his neck. Not by a northern giant, as the rumors say, but by a woman. A Vendhyan assassin, according to reports."

"An assassin?" Jelal said. "My lord, the prince's ways with women are well know. Could he not perhaps simply have driven some wench to murder?"

The spy master shook his head. "As much as I should prefer it so, no.

The servants at Tureg Amal's palace have been questioned thoroughly. A Vendhyan woman was delivered to the palace this morning, supposedly a gift from a merchant of that country seeking added protection for his cargoes on the Vilayet. Within the hour the prince was dead, the keeper of his zenanna drugged, and the woman had disappeared unseen from a heavily guarded palace."

"It certainly sounds the work of an assassin," Jelal agreed, "but-"

"There could be worse," the older man cut him off. "The commander of the prince's bodyguard, one Captain Murad, was also slain this morning, along with two of his men, apparently in a tavern brawl. I do not like such coincidences. Perhaps it was unrelated, and perhaps they were silenced after effecting the woman's escape. And if men of the High Admiral's bodyguard took gold to aid in his death ... well, that scandal could do more harm than the old fool's murder."

"Be that as it may, my lord, the other does not make sense. I understand that the wazam of Vendhya is in Aghrapur to negotiate a treaty with King Yildiz. Surely the King of Vendhya would not countenance an assassination while his chief counselor was in our capital, in our very hands. And if he did, why the High Admiral? The King's death would create turmoil, while the prince's creates only anger toward Vendhya."

"The King's death by a Vendhyan assassin would also create war with Vendhya," Khalid said dryly, "while Tureg Amal's. . ." He shrugged. "I do not know the why of it, my boy, but Vendhyans suck intrigue with their mothers' milk and do nothing without a purpose, usually nefarious. As for the wazam, Karim Singh sailed from Aghrapur yesterday. And the treaty, I was suspicious of it before, now I am doubly so. Less than five years ago they nearly went to war with us over their claims to Secunderam. Now, without a protest, the wazana puts his seal on a treaty that does not so much as mention that city.

And one that favors Turan on several other points, as well. I had thought they sought to lull us while they prepared some stroke. Now I no longer know what to think." He began to roll the tip of his beard between his thumb and forefinger, the greatest outward sign of inner turmoil that he ever showed.

Reluctantly Jelal felt the puzzle catching at him, as it so often had before. The desire to return to soldiering was still there but pushed to the back of his mind. For the moment. "What can I do, my lord?" he asked at last. "The Vendhyan assassin is surely no longer in the city."

"That is true," the spy master replied, and his voice hardened as he spoke. "But I want answers. I need them. The King depends on me for them. What is Vendhya up to? Are we to expect a war? Captain Murad's death may lead to some answers. Use the contacts you have made with the lawless underside of Sultanapur. Find a trail to the answers I need and follow it all the way to Vendhya if you must. But bring me the answers."

"I will, my lord," Jelal promised. But to himself he promised that this was the last time. Whether he was returned to the Man Scouts or not, after this one last puzzle, he would be a spy no more.

Chapter IV

Despite the cloak Ghurran had given him, Conan kept close to the sides of the narrow, bustling streets, on the edges of the continuous flow of people. It was true that the dark-blue cloak would not bring a moment's glance from a guardsman looking for one of white linen, and the hood did hide his face and damning blue eyes, but the sheer size of him was difficult to miss. Few men in Sultanapur came close to his height or breadth of shoulder, and certainly none of them was among the crowds thronging the streets he traveled this day. The big Cimmerian stood out like a Remaira stallion among mules.

Five times after leaving the herbalist Conan was forced to turn aside for patrols of guardsmen, their precisely slanted spears glinting in the bright sun as though to give warning of their coming, but luck seemed at last to be with him. His progress toward the harbor was constant, if zig-zag. High-wheeled ox-carts began once more to be almost as numerous as people. The long stone shapes of warehouses rose about him, and the tall white towers of the city granaries. Men with the calloused hands and sweat-stained tunics of dockers and roustabouts outnumbered all but those with the rolling walk and forked queues of seafarers. Half the women were trulls in narrow girdles of jingling coin and thin silk or less, while most of the rest cast a sharp eye for a purse to cut or a bolt of silk or lace that could be snatched from a cart. Here, too, were people who knew him.

"An hour's pleasure, big man?" cooed a buxom doxy with hennaed hair piled high on her head and gilded brass hoops in her ears. She moved closer and pressed nearly bare breasts against his arm, dropping her voice for his ear alone. "You fool, the City Guard has already taken up three dockers just for being tall. And they are questioning outlanders, so you're doubly at risk. Now, put your arm around me, and we will go to my room. I can hide you till it all quiets. And I'll charge you but-oh, Mitra, I'll not charge you at all."

Conan grinned despite himself. "A generous offer, Zara. But I must find Hordo."

"I've not seen him, Conan. And you cannot risk looking. Come with me."

"Another time," he said, and she squealed as he pinched a plump buttock.

In short order a sailor in a tar-smeared tunic and a bearded warehouseman had repeated Zara's warning. A slender wench with a virgin's face and innocent eyes-and a cutpurse's curved blade with which she constantly toyed-echoed both warning and offer. None knew where Hordo was to be found, however. Conan almost accepted the slender woman's offer. The glass had been turned, he knew, and the sands were running out on him. Did he not find Hordo quickly, he must go to ground.

A short, wiry man, bent under the weight of a canvas sack on his shoulder, suddenly caught the Cimmerian's eye. Conan snagged the man's bony arm with one hand and hauled him out of the stream of people.

"What are you doing?" the Cimmerian's captive whispered between teeth clenched in a wooden smile. His sunken eyes darted frantically above a pointed nose, giving him the image of a mouse searching for a hole.

"Mitra, Cimmerian! I stole this not twenty paces from here, and they'll see it's gone in another moment. Let me go!"

"I am looking for Hordo, Tarek," Conan said softy.

"Hordo? He's at Kafar's warehouse, I think." Tarek stumbled a step as Conan released him, then rotated his shoulder in a broad gesture. "You should not grab a man so, Cimmerian. It could be dangerous. And don't you know the City Guard-"

"-is seeking a big outlander," Conan finished for him. "I know." A shout rose from the direction Tarek had come, and the little man darted away like the rodent he resembled. Conan went the other way, soon passing by a stall where a salt peddler in voluminous robes seemed to dance with his helpers, they jumping about to dodge while he tugged at his beard and kicked at them and shouted that the gods were unmerciful to send the same man blind apprentices and thieves as well. While the salt vendor leaped and screamed, two girls of no more than sixteen years hefted one of his canvas sacks between them and disappeared, unseen by him, into the throng.

Twice more the Cimmerian was forced to turn aside for a patrol of the City Guard, but Kafar's warehouse was not far, and he reached it quickly. It was not one of the long stone structures owned by merchants, but rather a nondescript building of two stories, daubed in flaking white clay, that might once have held a tavern or a chandler's shop. In truth it was a warehouse of sorts. A smugglers' warehouse.

Gold in the proper palms kept the guardsmen away, for the time at least. When the bribes failed, though, because higher authority decided an example must be made, or more likely because someone decided the reward for confiscated contraband outweighed the bribes, the smugglers of Sultanapur would not be slowed for an instant. Scores of such warehouses could be found near the harbor, and when Kafar's was no more, two others would spring up in its place.

The splintery wooden door from the street let into a windowless room dimly lit by rush torches in crude iron sconces. Two of the torches had guttered out, but no one seemed to notice. A small knot of men, dressed in mismatched garb from a dozen countries, squatted in a semicircle, casting dice against a wall. Others sat on casks at a table of boards laid on sawhorses, engrossed in whispered talk over clay mugs of wine.

A Kothian in a red-striped tunic sat off by himself on a three-legged stool near a door at the back of the room, idly flipping a dagger to stick up in the rough-hewn planks of the floor. The air in the room was hot and close, not only because of the torches, but because few of the halfscore men there ever made acquaintance with water and most thought soap a fine gift for a woman, if nicely perfumed, but not a thing to be used.

Only the Kothian looked up at Conan's entrance. "Do you not know-" he began.

"I know, Kafar," Conan said curtly. "Is Hordo here?"

The Kothian jerked his head at the door behind him and returned to flipping his dagger. "The cellar," he said as the blade quivered in the floor once more.

It was the custom in such places to store the goods of each smuggler in a separate room, for no man among them trusted those not of his band to the point of letting him know what kind of "fish" he carried or to where. Closed doors, iron-bound and held shut with massive iron locks, lined the corridor in the rear of the building. At the end of the corridor, beside a wide door leading to the alley behind the warehouse, were stone stairs leading down.

As the Cimmerian started down the stairs, Hordo opened the door at the bottom. "Where in Zandru's Nine Hells have you been?" the one-eyed smuggler roared. "And what in Mitra's name have you been doing?" He was nearly as big as Conan, though his muscles were overlaid with fat and the years had weathered his face. Large gold hoops hung from his ears and a jagged scar ran from under his eye-patch of rough leather down into the thick black thatch of his beard, pulling the left side of his mouth into a permanent sneer. "I leave word with Tasha and the next thing I hear ... Well, get on down here before the Guard seizes you right in front of me. If that fool wench failed to tell you I needed you, I'll have her hide."

Conan winced ruefully. So Tasha had been speaking the truth. If he had not thought she was lying from jealousy, he would have left the Golden Crescent before the captain arrived, and the City Guard would not be seeking his head. Well, it was far from the first time he had gotten into trouble from misreading a woman. And in any case, a man who used pain to frighten a woman to his bed deserved killing.

"It was not her fault, Hordo," he said, pushing past the bearded man into the cellar. "I had a trifle of trouble with-" He cut off at the sight of a stranger in the room, a tall, skinny man in a turban who stood beside a score of small wooden chests, like the tin-lined chests in which tea was shipped, stacked on the dirt floor against a dusty stone wall. Here, too, light came from rush torches. "Who is he?" the Cimmerian demanded.

"He's called Hasan," the one-eyed man replied impatiently. "A new 'fisherman.' Now! Is there any truth to these rumors, Cimmerian? I do not care if you've killed Tureg Amal; that old fool is no loss to the world. But if you have, you must get out of Sultanapur, perhaps out of Turan, and quickly. Even if you killed no one, you had best remain out of sight until they catch who did."

"The High Admiral?" Conan exclaimed. "I heard it was a general, though now that I think of it, someone did say a prince. Hordo, why would I kill the High Admiral of Turan?"

The lanky man spoke up suddenly. "The rumors say it was hired done. For enough gold I suppose a man might kill anyone."

Conan's face became stony. "You seem to be calling me liar," he said in a deadly quiet tone.

"Easy, Cimmerian," Hordo said, and added to the other man, "Are you trying to get yourself killed, Hasan? Offer this man coin for a killing, and 'twill be luck if you escape with no more than broken bones. And if he says he killed no one, then he killed no one."

"I did not say that exactly," Conan said uncomfortably. "There was a Guard captain, and two or three guardsmen." He glared at the turbaned man who had made a sound in his throat. "You have a comment about that as well?"

"You two fighting cocks settle your ruffs," Hordo snapped. "We have a load of 'fish' to carry. The man who wants it shipped will be here any instant, and I'll have no bloodshed, or snarling either, in front of him. He'll seek elsewhere if he thinks we will slay each other before delivering his chests." His bearded head swung like that of a bear. "I need my whole crew if we are to get the accursed things to the mouth of the Zaporoska in the time specified, and the only two who have heeded my call squabble like dockers with their heads full of wine."

"You told me we'd not sail again for three or four days," Conan said, walking over to examine the chests. Hasan moved warily out of his way, but it was the finely crafted boxes that interested him. "The crew are scattered among the taverns and bordellos," he went on, "hip deep in women, and with wine fumes where their wits were four hours gone. I could enjoy a quick journey out of Sultanapur now, but if we find all twenty by nightfall, I'll become an Erlikite."

"We must sail by dark," Hordo said. "The gold is more for being faster than agreed, but less for being slower." The scar-faced smuggler moved Hasan farther away from them with a look, then stepped closer to the Cimmerian and dropped his voice. "I do not doubt your word, Conan, but is it you the guardsmen seek? For this captain, perhaps?"

Conan shrugged, but did not stop his study of the chests. "I do not know," he replied for Hordo's ears alone. "The rumors say nothing of Murad, and my name is not mentioned." The largest dimension of the chests was the length of a man's forearm. Their sides were smooth and plain, and the flat, close-fitting lid of each was held by eight leaden seals impressed with the image of a bird he had never seen before. "The tongues of the street speak of Tureg Amal. Still, somewhere words have been spoken concerning what occurred at the Golden Crescent, or there would be no big northlander in the tale." He hefted one of the boxes, trying its weight. To his surprise, it was light enough to have been packed with feathers. "Men from the northern lands are not so common as visitors in Sultanapur for that."

"Aye," the one-eyed man agreed sagely. "And it is said that when two rumors meet, they exchange words. Also that a rumor changes on each journey from mouth to ear."

"Do you begin to quote aphorisms in your old age, Hordo?" Conan chuckled. "I know not the how or why of what has happened, but I do know that trouble sits on my shoulder until it is all made clear."

"I am not too old to try breaking your head," Hordo growled. "And when was the day trouble did not sit on your shoulder, Cimmerian?" Conan ignored the question; he had long since decided a man could not live a free life and avoid trouble at the same time. "What is in these chests?" he asked.

"Spices," came an answer from the doorway.

The Cimmerian's hand went to his sword-hilt. The newcomer wore a dark gray cloak with a voluminous hood. As soon as he had closed the cellar door behind him, he threw back the hood to reveal a narrow, swarthy face topped by a turban twice as big around as was the fashion in Turan, fronted by heron feathers held by a pin of opal and silver.

Rings covered his fingers with sapphires and amethysts.

"A Vendhyan!" Hasan burst out.

Hordo motioned him to silence. "I was afraid you were not coming Patil."

"Not coming?" The Vendhyan's tone was puzzled, but then he smiled thinly. "Ah, you feared that I was involved with the events spoken of in the streets. No, I assure you I had nothing to do with the very unfortunate demise of the High Admiral. Such affairs are not for me. I am but a humble merchant who must avoid paying the custom both of your King Yildiz and of my King Bhandarkar if I am to make my poor profit."

"Of course, Patil," Hordo said. "And you have come to the proper men to see that Yildiz's excisemen take not a single coin of yours. The rest of my crew is even now preparing our boat for a swift passage. Conan, go see that all is in readiness." He half-turned his back to the Vendhyan and made small frantic gestures that only Conan and Hasan could see. "We must be ready to sail quickly."

Conan knew very well what the gestures meant. He was to go upstairs and intercept any of Hordo's crew who came staggering in with their brains half-pickled in wine. Five or six sots stumbling in and making it clear to this Patil that they were part of the crew would do little to convince him they could make good on Hordo's promise of sailing quickly. But Conan did not stir. Instead he hefted the chest again.

"Spices?" he said. "Saffron, pepper, and all the other spices I could name come across the Vilayet from the east. What spice crosses from the west?"

"Rare condiments from islands of the Western Sea," Patil replied smoothly. "They are considered great delicacies in my country."

Conan nodded. "Of course. Yet despite that, I've heard nothing of such being smuggled. Have you, Hordo?"

The bearded man shook his head doubtfully; worry that Conan was putting the arrangement in jeopardy creased his face. Patil's face did not change, but he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Conan let the box fall, and the Vendhyan winced as it thudded on the packed earth.

"Open it," Conan said. "I would see what we carry across the Vilayet."

Patil let out a squawk of protest directed at Hordo. "This is not a part of our agreement. Kafar told me that you were the most trustworthy of the smugglers, otherwise I would have gone elsewhere. I offer much gold for you to deliver my chests and myself to the mouth of the Zaporoska River, not for you to ask questions and make demands."

"He does offer a great deal of gold, Conan," Hordo said slowly. "Enough to carry kanda leaf?" the Cimmerian asked. "Or red lotus? You have seen the wretches who would choose their pipes over wine, or a woman, or even over food. How much gold to carry that?"

Breathing heavily, Hordo scratched at his beard and grimaced. "Oh, all right. Open the chests, Patil. I care not what they contain so long as it is not kanda leaf or red lotus."

"I cannot!" the Vendhyan cried. Sweat made his dark face shine. "My master would be furious. I demand that-"

"Your master?" Hasan cut him off. "What kind of merchant has a master, Vendhyan? Or are you something else?"

Conan's voice hardened. "Open the chests."

Patil's eyes shifted in a hunted way. Suddenly he spun toward the door.

Conan lunged to catch a handful of the Vendhyan's flaring cloak, and the swarthy man whirled back, his fist swinging at the Cimmerian's face. A tiny flicker of light warned Conan, and he leaped back from the blow. The leaf-shaped blade that projected from between Patil's fingers sliced lightly across Conan's cheek just below the eye. Conan's foot came down on the dropped chest, which turned and sent him sprawling on his back on the dirt floor.

The instant he was free of Conan's grasp, Patil darted to the door, flung it open and dashed through. Straight into three men who seemed each to be supporting the others as they walked, or rather staggered.

The four went down in a thrashing, cursing heap.

Scrambling to his feet, Conan hauled the struggling men out of the tangle, heaving each aside as soon as he saw that it was one of Hordo's crew. The last was Patil, and the Vendhyan lay without moving. His large turban was knocked askew, and it came off completely as the Cimmerian rolled him onto his back. It was as Conan had feared. Patil's dark eyes stared at him emptily, twisted with pain, and the Vendhyan's teeth were bared in a frozen rictus. The would-be killer's fist was jammed against the center of his chest. Conan had no doubt the pushdagger's blade had been just long enough to reach the heart.

He brushed a hand across his cheek. The fingertips came away red, but the cut was little more than a scratch. It was luck, he thought, that the fellow had not simply stabbed at him. He might never have been aware of the small dagger until it found his own heart.

"Not the outcome you expected, is it?" he told the corpse. "But I would rather have you alive to talk."

Hordo pushed past him to grab the Vendhyan's robes. "Let us get this out of sight of anyone who wanders by the stairs, Cimmerian. No need to flaunt matters, especially as I'd not like anyone to think we killed this fool for his goods. Things like that can ruin a man's trade."

Together they dragged the body into the cellar and shut the iron-strapped door. The three smugglers who had inadvertently stopped the Vendhyan's escape lay sprawled against a wall, and two of them stared blearily at the corpse when it was dropped at their feet.

"'S drunker 'n us," muttered an Iranistani wearing a stained and filthy headcloth.

"'S not drunk," replied the man next to him, a Nemedian who might have been handsome had his nose not been slit for theft at some time in the past. "'S dead."

The third man emitted a snore like a ripping sail. "All three of you shut your teeth," Hordo growled.

Conan touched his cheek again. The blood was already congealing. He was more interested in the chest he had dropped, though. He set it upright on the floor and knelt to study the lead seals. The bird impressed in the gray metal was no more familiar now than before. Vendhyan, perhaps, though seemingly the chests went in the wrong direction for that. The seals could be simply a means of keeping the chests tightly closed or a way to tell if they had been opened. He had also seen such used as triggers to launch venom-tipped needles or poisonous vapors at those who pried where they were not wanted. Such were not usually found on smuggled goods, but then again, these were apparently no ordinary "fish."

"I'll take the chance," he muttered. His heart pounded as he pushed the point of his new dagger under one seal.

"Wait, you fool," Hordo began, but with a twist of his wrist, Conan sliced through the soft lead. "Some day your luck will be used up," the one-eyed man breathed.

Without replying, the Cimmerian quickly broke the other seals. The dagger served to lever up the tight-fitting lid. Both stared in disbelief at the contents of the chest. To the brim it was filled with small, dried leaves.

"Spices?" Hasan said doubtfully.

Conan cautiously stirred the leaves with his dagger, then scooped up a handful. They cracked brittlely in his grasp and gave off no aroma. "A man does not try to kill to hide spices," Conan said. "We'll see what is in the other chests."

He half-rose from his knees, swayed and sank back down. The heavy thumping in his chest continued unabated. He touched the cut on his face once more; it felt as though a piece of leather lay between fingers and cheek. "That blade." His tongue felt thick around the words. "There was something on it."

The blood drained from Hordo's face. "Poison," he breathed. "Fight it, Cimmerian. You must fight it! If you let your eyes close, you'll never open them again!"

Conan tried again to rise, to go over to the other chests, and again he almost fell. Hordo caught him, easing him to a sitting position against the wall.

"The chests," Conan said. "If I'm dying, I want to know why."

"Mitra curse the chests!" Hordo snapped. "And you're not dying. Not if we can get Ghurran here."

"I will go for him," Hasan said, then subsided under Hordo's glare.

"And how will you do that, who's never seen the man before? Prytanis!"

Hordo stalked across the cellar, and with a hand the size of a small ham hauled the Nemedian to his feet by a fistful of tunic. His other hand slapped the slitnosed fellow's face back and forth. "Grab your wits, Prytanis! Can you hear me? Listen, Erlik take you, or I'll break your skull!"

"I am listening," the Nemedian groaned. "By all the gods, do not hit my head so. It is breaking already."

"Then listen well if you do not want it shattered," Hordo growled, but he stopped his slapping. "Get you to Ghurran and fetch him here. Tell him it is poison and tell him there's a hundred gold pieces for him if he gets here in time. Do you understand that, you sotted spawn of a camel?"

"I understand," the Nemedian said unsteadily and staggered toward the door under the impetus of Hordo's shove.

"Then run, curse you! If you fail in this, I'll slit your belly and hang you with your own guts! Where do you think you're going?" the one-eyed man added as Hasan made to follow Prytanis from the cellar.

"With him," Hasan replied. "He's so drunk he will not remember what he's about beyond the first pitcher of wine he sees without someone to keep him to the task."

"He will remember," Hordo rumbled, "because he knows I will do as I said. To the word. If you want to do something, put a cloak over Patil so we do not have to look at him."

"You do not have a hundred pieces of gold, Hordo," Conan said.

"Then you can pay it," the smuggler replied. "And if you die on me, I will sell your corpse for it."

Conan laughed, but the laughter quickly trailed off in coughing, for he had no breath to spare. He felt as weak as a child. Even if the others got him to his feet, he knew it would be all he could do to stand. The fear and despair in his friend's voice did not touch him, however.

There was an answer he must have, and it lay there in the chests stacked against the wall. Or at least some clue to the answer must. The question was simple, yet finding the answer would keep him alive a while longer, for he would not allow himself to die without it.

He would not die without knowing why.

Chapter V

0ne by one, five more of Hordo's crew staggered into Kafar's cellar, most as drunk as the first three. Decidedly sickly looks came over their faces as they heard what had happened. It was not the death of the Vendhyan, nor even his attempt on Conan, but rather the means of that attempt. They were used to an honest blade and could even understand the knife in the back, but poison was something a man could not defend against. Cups that changed color when poisoned wine was poured into them were in the realm of wizards, and of princes who could afford to pay wizards.

Their green faces did not bother Conan, but the funereal glances they cast at him did. "I am not dead yet," he muttered. The words came pantingly now.

"Where in Zandru's Nine Hells is Ghurran?" Hordo growled.

As though to punctuate his words, the iron-strapped door banged open, and Prytanis led Ghurran into the cellar by a firm grip on a bony arm.

The slitnosed Nemedian appeared to have sobered to a degree, whether from his exercise in fetching Ghurran or from Hordo's threats.

A leather strap crossed the stooped herbalist's heaving chest, supporting a small wooden case at his side. Freeing his arm with a jerk, he scowled about the room, at the swaying drankards and the still-snoring Iranistani and the cloak-shrouded mound that was the Vendhyan. "For this I was dragged through the streets like a goat going to market?" he grated breathlessly. "To treat men fool enough to drink tainted wine?"

"Tainted wine on a blade," Conan managed. He leaned forward and his head spun. "Once already today you helped me. Can you do it again, Ghurran?"

The old man brushed past Hordo and knelt to peer into the Cimmerian's eyes. "There may be time," he murmured, then in a firmer voice said, "You have the poisoned blade? Let me see it."

It was Hasan who lifted the cloak enough to tug the pushdagger from the corpse's chest. He wiped the leaf-shaped blade on the cloak before handing it to Ghurran.

The herbalist turned the small weapon over in scrawny fingers. A smooth ivory knob formed the hilt, carved to fit the palm while the blade projected between the fingers. "An assassin's weapon in Vendhya," he said. "Or so I have heard such described."

Conan kept his eyes on the old man's parchment-skinned face. "Well?"

was all he said.

Instead of answering, Ghurran held the blade to his nostrils and sniffed lightly. Frowning, he wet a long-nailed finger at his mouth and touched it to the blade. With even greater caution than he had shown before, he brought the finger to his lips. Quickly he spat, scrubbing the finger on his robes.

"Do something!" Hordo demanded.

"Poisons are something I seldom deal with," Ghurran said calmly. He opened the wooden box hanging at his side and began to take out small parchment packets and stone vials. "But perhaps I can do something." A bronze mortar and pestle, no larger than a man's hand, came from the box. "Get me a goblet of wine, and quickly."

Hordo motioned to Prytanis, who hurried out. The herbalist set to work, dropping dried leaves and bits of powder into the mortar, grinding them together with the pestle. Prytanis returned with a rough clay goblet filled to the top with cheap wine. Ghurran took it and poured in the mixture from the mortar, stirring it vigorously with his finger.

"Here," the old man said, holding the wine to Conan's mouth. "Drink."

Conan looked at the offering. A few pieces of leaf floated on the wine's surface along with the sprinkling of varicolored powders. "This will rid me of the poison?"

Ghurran looked at him levelly. "In the time it would take you to reach the docks and return, you will either be able to walk from this room, or you will be dead." The listening smugglers stirred.

"If he dies-" Hordo began threateningly, but Conan cut him off. "If I die, it will not be Ghurran's fault, will it, Ghurran?"

"Drink," the old man said, "or it will be your own fault."

Conan drank. With the first mouthful a grimace twisted his face, becoming worse with every swallow. As the goblet was taken from his mouth, he gasped, "Crom! It tastes as if a camel bathed in it!" A few of the listeners, those sober enough, laughed.

Ghurran grunted. "Do you want sweetness on the tongue, or the poison counteracted?" His eye fell on the opened chest. Face made even more hollow by a frown, he took some of the leaves, stirring them on his palm with a bony finger.

"Do you know the leaf?" Conan asked. He was not sure if his breathing was easier, or if he just imagined it so. "The man who did this told us they were spices."

"Spices?" Ghurran said absently. "No, I do not think they are spices.

But then," he added, letting the leaves fall back into the chest, "I do not know all plants. I would like to look in the other chests. If there are herbs unknown to me in those also, perhaps I will take some of them in payment."

"Look all you want," Hordo said eagerly. "Prytanis, help him open the chests." The Nemedian and the herbalist moved toward the stacked chests, and Hordo dropped his voice to a whisper ranged for Conan's ears. "If he will take herbs rather than a hundred gold pieces, then well enough, I say."

Conan drew a breath; they were coming easier. "Help me to my feet, Hordo," he urged. "He said I would walk or die, and by Mitra's bones, I intend to walk."

The two of them exchanged a long look; then the one-eyed man reached down. Conan pulled himself up, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself. Leaning against a wall would not do, though. He took a tottering step. His bones felt ready to bend, but he forced himself to move the other foot forward.

"It is too late for that one," Prytanis' voice came loudly from where he stood beside the chests, dagger in hand. Three already had their lids pried open. "I found some more of those leaves."

Ghurran let the cloak fall back over the corpse's face. "I was curious as to the sort of man who uses a poisoned blade. But I suppose new herbs are more important than dead men. More of the leaves, you say?"

Conan made another step, and another. The weakness was still on him, but he felt firmer in some fashion, less like a figure made of reeds.

Hordo followed him, looking like an anxious bear. "Are you all right, Cimmerian?"

"Right enough," Conan told him, then laughed. "But moments ago I would have settled for living long enough to know the way of all this. Now I begin to think I may live a bit longer than that after all."

"This body is too frail," Ghurran said suddenly. "Too old!" He knelt, peering into one of the chests. All twenty had been opened, and some of their contents pulled out. There were more dried leaves, exactly like those in the first chest. There were saffron crystals that seemed, from the powder beneath the pile of them on the dirt floor, to crumble almost of their own weight, and tightly corded leather sacks, several of which had been sliced open to spill out what could have been salt except for its crimson color. Two of the chests contained clear vials filled with a verdant liquid and well-packed in linen bags of goose down.

"What ails you?" Conan asked. "I walk, as you said I would, and I will see that you get the gold Hordo promised you." The one-eyed smuggler made a muffled sound of pained protest.

"Gold," Ghurran snorted contemptuously.

"If not gold, then what?" Conan asked. "If any of the herbs or other substances in those chests can be of use to you, take them, leaving only a little for me. It seems we will not be delivering them to the Zaporoska, but I still want to know why a man would try to kill to keep them hidden. A small portion of the leaves and the rest may help me find out."

"Yes," the herbalist said slowly, "you will want to find out, won't you?" He hesitated. "I do not know exactly how to tell you this. If what I gave you had not been successful, there would have been no need to say anything. I hoped to find something in these chests, or more likely on the body. A man who carries a poisoned weapon will betimes also carry an antidote in case he himself is accidently wounded."

"What need is there of antidotes?" Hordo demanded. "You have already counteracted the poison."

Ghurran hesitated again, eying both Hordo and Conan in turn. "The treatment I have given you, northlander, has only masked the poison for a time."

"But I feel no more than a slight ache in the head," Conan said. "In an hour I will wrestle any man in Sultanapur."

"And you will continue to feel so for another day or two perhaps, then the poison will take hold again. A permanent cure requires herbs that I know, but that can be found only in Vendhya."

"Vendhya!" Hordo exclaimed. "Black Erlik's bowels and bladder!" Conan motioned Ghurran to speak on, and the old man did so.

"You must go to Vendhya, northlander, and I must go with you, for a daily infusion prepared by me will be necessary to keep you alive. The journey is not one I look forward to, for this old body is not suited to such travels. You, however, may find the answers you seek in Vendhya."

"Mayhap I will," Conan said. "It will not be the first time my life has been measured out a day at a time."

"But Vendhya," Hordo protested. "Conan, they do not much like folk from this side of the Vilayet in Vendhya. If you with your accursed eyes are thought strange here, how will they think you there? We'll lose our heads, like as not, and be lucky if we are not flayed first. Ghurran, are you sure there is nothing you can do here in Turan?"

"If he does not go to Vendhya," Ghurran said, "he dies."

"It is all right, my friend," Conan told the one-eyed man. "I will find the antidote there, and answers. Why are those chests worth killing for? Patil was Vendhyan, and I cannot think they were destined elsewhere. Besides, you know I have to leave Sultanapur for a time anyway, unless I want to hide from the City Guard until they find Tureg Amal's killer."

"The chests," Hasan said abruptly. "They can still be taken to the Zaporoska. Whoever was to meet Patil will not know he is dead. They will be waiting there, and they may have answers to our questions. They may even have an antidote."

" 'Tis better than Vendhya," Hordo said quickly. "For one thing, it is closer. No need to travel to the ends of the world if we do not need to."

"It cannot hurt to try," Conan agreed. "An easier trip for your bones, Ghurran." The old man shrugged his thin shoulders noncommitally.

"And if Patil's friends do not have what you need," Hordo added, "then we can think about Vendhya."

"Hold there!" Prytanis strode, into the middle of the room, glaring angrily. The other smugglers were listening drunkenly, but he alone seemed sober enough to truly understand what had been said. "Take the chests to the Zaporoska, you say. How are we to find the men we seek?

The mouth of the Zaporoska is wide, with dunes and hills to hide an army on both sides."

"When I agreed to carry Patil's goods," Hordo said, "I made sure he told me the signals that would be given by the men ashore, and the signs we must give in return."

"But what profit is there in it?" Prytanis insisted. "The Vendhyan cannot pay. Do you think his companions will when we arrive without him? I say forget these chests and find a load of 'fish' that will put gold in our purses."

"You spineless dog." Hordo's voice was low and seemed all the more deadly for it. "Conan is one of us and we stand together. How deep is the rot in you? Will you now throw goods over the side at the sight of a naval bireme, or abandon our wounded to the excisemen?"

"Call me not coward," the Nemedian snapped. "Many times I have risked having my head put on a pike above the Strangers' Gate, as you well know. If the Cimmerian wants to go, then let him. But do not ask the rest of us to tease the headsman's axe just for the pleasure of the trip."

The jagged scar down Hordo's left cheek went livid as he prepared a blast, but Conan spoke first.

"I do not ask you to come for the pleasure of the trip, Prytanis, nor even for the pleasure of my company. But answer me this. You say you want gold?"

"As any man does," Prytanis said cautiously.

"These chests are worth gold to the men waiting at the Zaporoska.

Vendhyans, if Patil is a guide. You have seen other Vendhyans, men with rings on every finger and gems on their turbans. Did you ever see a Vendhyan without a purse full of gold?"

Prytanis' eyes widened as he suddenly realized that Conan spoke not only to him. "But-"

The big Cimmerian went on over the attempted interruption like an avalanche rolling over a hapless peasant. "The Vendhyans waiting on the Zaporoska will have plenty of gold, gold due us when we deliver the chests. And if they will not pay. . ." He grimed wolfishly and touched the hilt of his broadsword. "They'll not be the first to try refusing to pay for their 'fish.' But we did not let the others get away with it, and we'll not let the Vendhyans either."

Prytanis looked as though he wanted to protest further but one of the smugglers cried out drunkenly, "Aye! Cut 'em down and take it all!"

"Vendhyan gold for all of us!" another shouted. Others grunted agreement or laughingly repeated the words. The slitnosed Nemedian sank into a scowling silence and withdrew sullenly to a corner by himself.

"You still have the gift of making men follow you," Hordo told Conan quietly, "but this time it would have been better to break Prytanis'

head and be done with it. He will give trouble before this is done, and we'll have enough of that as it is. Mitra, the old man will likely heave his stomach up at every wave. He looks no happier at the prospect of this shorter journey than he did about traveling to Vendhya."

Indeed, Ghurran sat slumped against the chests, staring glumly at nothing.

"I will deal with Prytanis if I must," Conan replied. "And Ghurran can no doubt concoct something to soothe his stomach. The problem now is to find more men." Hordo's vessel could be sailed by fewer than those in the cellar, but the winds would not always be favorable, and rowing against tides and currents would require twice so many at least. The Cimmerian surveyed the men sprawled about the floor and added, "Not to mention sobering this lot enough to walk without falling over their own feet."

"Salted wine," Hordo said grimly. Conan winced; he had personal experience of the one-eyed man's method of ridding a man of drunkenness. "And you cannot risk the streets in daylight," Hordo went on, "I will leave that part of it to you while I try to scrape some more crew out of the taverns. Prytanis! We've work to be done!"

Conan ran his eye over the drunken smugglers once more and grimaced.

"Hasan, tell Kafar we need ten pitchers of wine. And a large sack of salt."

The next hour was not going to be pleasant.

Chapter VI

The harbor quays were quiet once night had fallen, inhabited only by shadows that transformed great casks of wine and bales of cloth and coiled hawsers into looming, fearsome shapes. Scudding clouds dappled a dull, distant moon. The seaward wind across the bay was as cold as it had been hot during the day, and the watchmen paid by the Merchants'

Guild wrapped themselves in their cloaks and found shelter within the waterside warehouses with warming bottles of wine.

There were no eyes to see the men who worked around a trim vessel some sixteen paces long, with a single forward-raked mast stepped amidship.

It was tied alongside a dock that leaned alarmingly and creaked at every step on its rough planks. But then the dock creaked whether there were steps or not. All the boats moored there were draped with nets, but few carried more than the faintest smell of fish. Actual fishermen sold small portions of their catch each day for the maintaining of that smell. King Yildiz's customs collectors would seize a fishing boat that did not smell of fish before they even bothered to search it.

Conan stood on the rickety dock with the dark cloak he had from Ghurran pulled about him so that he blended with the night. He was the only one there besides Hordo who knew that the one-eyed man privately called that boat Karela, after a woman he had not seen in two years, but looked for still. Conan had known her, too, and understood the smuggler's obsession.

While others loaded the ship, the Cimmerian kept an eye out for the rare watchman who might actually be trying to earn his coin or, more likely, for a chance patrol of the King's excisemen. A slight ache behind his eyes was the only remaining effect of the poison he could detect. "The old man's potion works well," he said as Hordo climbed up beside him from the boat. "I could almost think the poison was gone completely."

"It had better work," his friend grunted. "You had to promise him those hundred gold pieces when he was ready to settle for herbs."

"My life is worth a hundred gold pieces to me," Conan said dryly.

Muffled cursing and thumping rose from the boat. "Hordo, did you truly take on every blind fool you could find for this voyage?"

"We may wish we had twice as many blades before this is done. And with half my men vanished into wine pitchers, I had to take the best of what I could find. Or would you rather wait another day? I hear the City Guard cut an albino into dog meat just at twilight, mistaking him for a northlander. And they've set out to search every tavern and bordello in the city."

"That will take them a century," Conan laughed. A soft cooing caught his ear, and he stared in amazement as a wicker cage of doves was lowered onto the boat, followed by another cage of chickens and three live goats.

"One of the new men suggested it," Hordo said, "and I think it a good idea. I get tired of choosing between dried meat and salt meat when we are at sea."

"As long as they are not more of the crew, Hordo."

"The goats are no randier than some outlanders I know, and the-" The bearded man cut off as a light flared on the boat below. "What in Zandru's Nine Hells ... "

Conan did not waste time on oaths. Leaping to the deck, he snatched a clay lamp from the hands of a tall, lanky Turanian and threw it over the side.

The man stared at him angrily. "How am I to see where to put anything in this dark?" He was a stranger to Conan, one of Hordo's new recruits, in the turban and leather vest that was the ubiquitous garb of the harbor district.

"What is your name?" the Cimmerian asked.

"I am called Shamil. Who are you?"

"Shamil," Conan said, "I will just assume you are too stupid to realize that a lamp could also be seen by others." His voice grew harder. "I will not even think you might be a spy for the excisemen, trying to draw their attention. But if you do that again, I will make you eat the lamp." Hordo appeared beside him, testing his dagger on a horny thumb.

"And after he does, I will slit your throat. You understand?" The lanky man nodded warily.

"Blind fools, Hordo," Conan said and turned away before his friend could speak.

The Cimmerian's earlier mirth had soured. Men such as this Shamil might well get them all killed before they ever saw the Zaporoska. And how many others like him were among the newcomers? Even if they were not done in by foolishness like lighting a lamp where stealth was required, how many of the new could be trusted did matters come to a fight on the other side of the Vilayet?

Muttering to himself, Ghurran stumbled his way down the dark deck and thrust a battered pewter cup into Conan's hands. "Drink this. I cannot be sure what effect the pitching of sea travel will have. It is best to have a double dose and be safe."

Conan took a deep breath and emptied the cup in one gulp. "It no longer tastes of camel," he said with a grimace.

"The ingredients are slightly different," the herbalist told him. "Now it tastes as though a sheep was dipped in it." Conan tossed the cup back to Ghurran as Hordo joined them.

"The chests are lashed below," the smuggler said quietly, "and we are as ready as we are likely to be. Take the tiller, Cimmerian, while I get the men to the oars."

"See if they can keep from braining one another with them," Conan said, but Hordo had already disappeared in the dark, whispering muted commands.

The Cimmerian moved quickly aft, wincing at the clatter of oars as they were laid in the thole pins. As the craft was pushed out from the dock, he threw his weight against the thick wooden haft of the tiller, steering the boat toward open water. The sounds of Hordo quietly calling the stroke came over the creak of the oars. Phosphorescence swirled around the oar blades and in the wake.

Scores of ships in all sizes were anchored in the harbor, galleys and sailing craft from every port on the Vilayet. Conan directed a zig-zag course that kept well clear of all of them. The navy's biremes were berthed in the northern-most part of the bay, but some of the merchantmen would have a man standing watch. None would raise an alarm, however, unless the smugglers' craft came too close. The watches were to guard against thieves or pirates-some of whom were bold enough to enter the harbor of Sultanapur, or even Aghrapur-not to draw unnecessary attention to ships whose captains often carried goods not listed on the manifest.

The offshore wind carried not only the smells of the city, but picked up the harbor's own stenches as well. The aromas of spice ships and the stink of slavers blended with the smell of the water. Slops and offal were tossed over the side whether a ship was at sea or in port, and the harbor of Sultanapur was a cesspool.

The vessel cleared the last of the anchored ships, but instead of relaxing, Conan stiffened and bit back a curse. "Hordo," he called hoarsely. "Hordo, the mole!"

The long stone barrier of the mole protected the harbor against the sharp, sudden storms of the Vilayet that could otherwise send waves crashing in to smash vessels against the quays. Two wide ship channels, separated by more than a thousand paces, were the only openings in the great breakwater, and on either side of each channel was a tall granite tower. The towers were not yet visible in the night and would usually be manned only in time of war. What was visible, however, was the gleam of torchlight through arrow slits.

Pounding a fist into his palm, Hordo slowly backed the length of the deck, staring all the while toward the slivers of light. They became less distant by the moment. He spoke quietly when close enough for Conan and no other to hear. "It must be this Mitra-forsaken assassination, Cimmerian. But if they've manned the towers . . ."

"The chains?" Conan said, and the bearded man nodded grimly. The chains were another precaution for time of war, like the manning of the towers. Of massive iron links capable of taking a ramming-stroke blow from the largest trireme without breaking, they could be stretched, almost on the surface of the water, to effectively bar the harbor entrances even to vessels as small as the one the smugglers rode.

Conan spoke slowly, letting his thoughts form on his tongue. "There is no reason for the towers to be manned unless the guard-chains have been raised. In the night they are little better than useless as watch posts. But there is no war, only the assassination." He nodded to himself. "Hordo, the chains are not to keep ships out, but to keep them in."

"Keep them in?"

"To try to keep the High Admiral's assassin from escaping," the Cimmerian said impatiently. "There are no city gates here to close and guard, only the chains."

"And if you are right, how does it aid us?" Hordo grunted sourly.

"Chains or gates, we are trapped like hares in a cage."

"In war there would be a hundred men or more in each tower. But now ...

They expect no attack, Hordo. And how many men are needed just to guard against someone trying to loose an end of the chain? As many as to guard a gate?"

The one-eyed man whistled tunelessly between his teeth. "A gamble, Cimmerian," he said finally. "You propose a deadly gamble."

"I have no choice. The dice will be tossed, one way or another, and my life is already wagered."

"As you say. But do not ask me to like it, for I do not. We will have to try one of the towers on the part separated from land. Otherwise we might have a few score guardsmen to contend with before our business is done."

"Not you," Conan said. "If we both go, how long do you wager the ship will wait for us? The new men will not outstay the old, and the old are not overly eager for this voyage."

"They all know I would follow any man who left me, and in my own ship,"

Hordo rumbled. "Follow him to the end of the world, if need be, and rip out his throat with my bare hands." But he took the tiller from the Cimmerian. "See who will go with you. You cannot do it alone."

Conan moved forward to the mast and stood astride the yard on which the sail was furled, lying fore and aft on the deck. The pace of rowing, already ragged without Hordo to call a stroke, slowed further. Even in the dark he knew every eye was on him.

"The trouble in the city has given us a problem," he said quietly. "The guard-chains are up. I intend to lower one and open a way out of the harbor for us. If it is not done, we have come this far for nothing. We will have a few chests of spices-or so I was told they were-that only the Vendhyans want, and the Vendhyans will keep their gold." He waited.

Gold was always a good place to end, for the word then loomed large in the listeners' minds.

To his surprise, Hasan drew in his oar and stood silently. Ghurran shifted and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself. No one else moved.

Conan ran his gaze down the two shadowy lines of men, and some of those who had been with Hordo before his coming stirred uncomfortably on their rowing benches. It would not be easy convincing them. Outright cowards did not last long among the Brotherhood of the Coast, but neither did those too eager to seek battle. As well to start with the hardest to convince.

"You, Prytanis?"

The slitnosed Nemedian's teeth showed white in what could have been a smile or a snarl. "You want this journey, northlander? You lower the chain then. I'd as soon be back ashore with a mug of ale in my fist and a wench on my knee."

"A much safer place, it is true," Conan said dryly and there was a small laugh from the others. Prytanis hunched angrily over his oar.

Shamil, pulling an oar almost by Conan's side, had made no move to rise, but there was an air of watching and waiting about him that was plain even in the dim-mooned night.

"What of you, lighter of lamps?" the Cimmerian asked.

"I merely waited to be asked," the lanky man answered quietly. His oar rattled against the thole pins as it was pulled inboard.

Abruptly two men stood who had been with Hordo when Conan arrived in Sultanapur. "I would not have you think only the newlings are with you," said one, a Kothian named Baltis. Thick old scars were layered where his ears had been none too expertly removed in the distant past.

The other, a hollow-faced Shemite who called himself Enam, did not speak but simply drew his tulwar and examined the blade's edge.

"Fools," Prytanis said, but he said it softly.

Conan waved his arm in signal to Hordo, only a gray blur in the stern, and the vessel curved toward the mole. The great breakwater reared before them, a granite wall rising from the dark waters, more than the height of a man, higher than the vessel's deck. Even the new men knew enough of boats to know what was needed now. They backed water smoothly; then those on the side next to the mole raised their oars to fend the craft off from the stone.

The big Cimmerian wasted no time on further words. Putting a foot on the strake, he leaped. His outstretched hands caught the top of the mole, and he pulled himself smoothly up onto the rough granite surface.

Grunts and muttered curses announced the arrival of the others, scrambling up beside him. There was no dearth of room, for the breakwater was nearly twenty paces wide.

"We kill them?" Hasan asked in a low voice.

"Perhaps we'll not need to," Conan replied. "Come."

The square, stone watch-tower occupied all of the end of the mole except for a narrow walkway around it. Its crenelated top was fifty feet above them, and only a single heavy wooden door broke the granite walls at the bottom. Arrow slits at the second level showed the yellow gleam of torchlight, but there were none higher.

Motioning the others into the shadows at the base of the tower, Conan drew his dagger and pressed himself flat against the stone wall beside the door. Carefully gauging distance, he tossed the dagger; it clattered on the granite two long paces from the door. For a moment he did not think the sound had carried to those inside. Then came the scrape of the bar being lifted. The door swung open, spilling out a pool of light, and a helmetless guardsman stuck his head through. Conan did not breathe but it was the dagger at the edge of the light that caught the Turanian's eye. Frowning, he stepped out.

Conan moved like a striking falcon. One hand closed over the guardsman's mouth. The other seized the man's swordbelt and heaved. A splash came from below, and then cries.

"Help! Help!"

"The fool's fallen in," someone shouted inside, and in a clatter of booted feet, four more guardsmen rushed from the tower.

Without helmets, one carrying a wooded mug, it was clear they had no presentiment of danger. They skidded to a halt as they became aware of the young giant before them, and hands darted for sword-hilts, but it was too late. A nose crunched under Conan's fist, and even as that man crumpled, another blow took one of his companions in the jaw. The two fell almost one atop the other.

The rest were down as well, Conan saw, and no weapons had been drawn.

"Throw their swords in the harbor," he ordered, retrieving his dagger, "and bind them." The cries for help still rose from the water, louder now, and more frantic. "Then make a rope of their belts and tunics, and haul that fool out before he wakes the entire city."

Sword in hand, he cautiously entered the tower. The lowest level was one large room lit by torches, with stone stairs against one wall, leading up. Almost the entire chamber was taken up by a monstrous windlass linked to a complex arrangement of great bronze gears that shone from the fresh grease on them. A long bar ran from the smallest gear to a bronze wheel mounted on the wall below the stairs. Massive iron chain was layered on the windlass drum, the metal of each round link as thick as a man's arm, and unrusted. It was said the ancient Turanian king who commanded that chain to be made had offered the weight in rubies of any smith who could produce iron that would not rust. It was said he had paid it, too, including the weight of the hands and tongue he took from the smith so the secret would not be gained by others.

From the windlass the chain led into a narrow, round hole in the stone floor. Conan ignored that, examining the gears for the means of loosing the chain. One bronze wedge seemed to be all that kept the gears from turning.

"Look out!"

At the shout Conan spun, broadsword leaping into his hand. Toppling from the stairs, a guardsman thudded to the stones at the Cimmerian's feet. A dagger hilt stood out from his chest and a still-drawn crossbow lay by his outstretched hand.

"He aimed at your back," Hasan said from the door.

"I will repay the debt," Conan said, sheathing his blade.

Quickly the Cimmerian worked the wedge free, tossed it aside, and then threw his weight against the bar. It could as well have been set in stone. By the length of the thick metal rod, five men at least were meant to work the windlass. Thick muscles knotted with effort, and the bar moved, slowly at first, then faster. Much more slowly the windlass turned, and huge links rattled into the hole in the floor. Conan strained to rotate the device faster. Suddenly Hasan was there beside him, adding more strength than his bony height suggested.

Baltis stuck his head in at the door. "The chain is below the water as far out as I can see, Cimmerian. And there is stirring on the far side of the channel. They must have heard the shouting for help."

Reluctantly Conan released the bar. A boat would be sent to investigate, and though it would not likely carry many men, the purpose was escape, not a fight. "Our craft draws little water," he said. "It will have to do."

As the three men hurried from the tower, Shamil and Enam straightened from laying the fifth guardsman, bound and gagged with strips torn from his own sopping-wet tunic, in a row with the four who were still unconscious. Without a word they followed Conan onto the narrow walkway that led around the tower. Hordo's one eye, the Cimmerian knew, was as sharp as Baltis's two. And the bearlike man would not waste precious moments.

Before they even reached the channel side of the tower, the soft creak and splash of oars was approaching. The vessel arrived at the same instant they did, backing water as it swung close to the breakwater.

"Jump," Conan commanded.

Waiting only to hear each man thump safely on deck, he leaped after them. He landed with knees flexed, yet staggered and had to catch hold of the mast to keep from falling. His head spun until it seemed as though the ship were pitching in a storm. Jaw clenched, he fought to remain upright.

Ghurran shuffled out of the darkness and peered at the Cimmerian. "Too much exertion brings out the poison," he said. "You must rest, for there is a limit to how much of the potion I can give you in one day."

"I will find the man responsible," Conan said through gritted teeth.

"Even if there is no antidote, I will find him and kill him."

From the stern came Hordo's hoarse command. "Stroke! Erlik take the lot of you, stroke!"

Oars working, the slim craft crawled away from Sultanapur like a waterbug skittering over black water.

With a roar Naipal bolted upright on his huge round bed, staring fixedly into the darkness. Moonlight filtered into the chamber through gossamer hangings at arched windows, creating dim shadows. The two women who shared his bed-one Vendhyan, one Khitan, each sweetly rounded and unclothed-cowered away from him among the silken coverlets in fright at the yell. They were his favorites from his purdhana, skilled, passionate and eager to please, yet he did not so much as glance at them.

With the tips of his fingers he massaged his temples, trying to remember what it was that had wakened him. From a narrow golden chain about his neck a black opal dangled against his sweat-damp chest. Never was he without it, for that opal was the sole means by which Masrok could signal obedience or ask to be summoned. Now, however, it lay dark and cool against his skin. A dream, he decided. A dream of great portent to affect him so, but portent of what? Obviously it had come as a warning of some ... Warning."

"Katar's teats!" he snapped, and the women cowered from him even farther.

Summoning servants would take too much time. He scrambled from the bed, still ignoring the now-whimpering women. They had many delightful uses, but none now. Hastily he donned his robes, a task he had not performed unaided for years. The narrow golden coffer stood on a table inlaid with turquoise and lapis lazuli. He reached for it, hesitated-no need now to summon Masrok; no need to threaten-then left the coffer and ran.

Desperate wondering filled his mind. What danger could threaten him now? Masrok shielded the eyes of the Black Seers of Yimsha. Zail Bal, the former court wizard and the one man he had ever truly feared, was dead, carried off by demons. If Bhandarkar divined his intent, he might summon other mages to oppose him, but he, Naipal, had men close to the throne, men the King did not know of. He knew what woman Bhandarkar had chosen for the night even before she reached the royal bedchamber. What could it be, What?

The darkness of the high-domed chamber far below the palace was lessened by an unearthly glow from the silver pattern in the floor.

Naipal darted to the table where his sorcerous implements were laid out, crystal flasks and beakers, vials that gave off eerie light and others that seemed to draw darkness. His fingers itched to reach for the ebony chest, for the power of the khorassani, but he forced himself to lift the lid of the ornately carved ivory box instead. With shaking hands he thrust back the silken coverings.

A harsh breath rasped in his throat like a death rattle. A shadowed image floated on the polished surface, silvery no more. Reflected there was a small ship on a night-shrouded sea, a vessel with a single forward-raked mast, making its way by the rhythmic sweep of oars.

Strange devices of crystal and bone trembled as his fist pounded on the table. As it was meant to, the mirror showed him the source of his danger, yet he cursed its limits. What was the danger here? Across what sea did it come? There were seas to the south and far to the east was the Endless Ocean, said by some to end only at the brink of the world.

To the west lay the Vilayet and even farther the great Western Sea. At least Mount Yimsha had been recognizable.

He ground his teeth, knowing it was to keep them from chattering and hating the fact. Like an inky cloud, terror coiled its tendrils around his soul. He had thought himself long beyond such, but now he knew that the years with the mirror standing watch had softened him. He had plotted and acted without fear, thinking he had conquered fear because the emptiness of the mirror had told him his plans were unthreatened.

And now this ship! A tiny speck on the waters, by all the gods!

With tremendous effort he forced his features back to their normal outward calm. Forcefully he reminded himself that panic availed nothing. Less than nothing, for it hindered action. He had agents in many places and the means to communicate orders to them more swiftly than flights of eagles. His eyes marked the craft well and fingers that shook only slightly moved among the arcane implements on the table.

From whatever direction that vessel came, on whatever shore it landed, there would be men to recognize it. Long before it ever reached him, the danger would be purged as though with fire.

Chapter VII

With his feet planted wide against the rise and fall of the deck and one hand on the stay supporting the mast, Conan peered through the night toward the blackness that was the eastern shore of the Vilayet.

The vessel ran as close inshore as its shallow draft would allow. Not far to the west were islands of which the most pleasant thing said was that they were the lair of pirates. Other things were said as well, whispered in dark corners, but whatever lurked there, no one wanted to draw its attention.

The Cimmerian shared his vigil in the bow with only the two remaining goats and the wicker cage of pigeons. The chickens had gone the way of the other goat, into the smugglers' stomachs. Most of the crew were sprawled on the deck, heads pillowed on arms or coils of rope. Clouds covered the moon, and only through brief rents was there even a slight lessening of the darkness. The triangular sail was fullbellied with wind, and the rush of water along the hull competed with the occasional snore. But then, he thought, none of them had his reasons for eagerness to be ashore, to find the men for whom the chests below were bound.

Keen as his eye was, however, he could make out no details of the land.

Worse, there was no sign of the signals Hordo had told him of.

"They must be here," he muttered to himself.

"But will they have the antidote?" Ghurran asked, handing Conan the goblet that had become a nightly ritual.

Conan avoided looking at the muddy liquid in the battered pewter cup.

It did not grow to look more appetizing with repeated viewing.

"They will have it." Holding his breath, he emptied the goblet, trying to pour the mixture down his throat rather than let it touch his tongue. "But if they do not?" the old man persisted. "There seems not even to be anyone there."

The Cimmerian's grimace from the taste of the potion turned to a smile.

"They are there." He pointed to three pinpricks of light that had just sprung into being in the blackness of the shoreline on the southern headland of the river mouth. "And they will have the antidote."

The herbalist trailed after him as he made his way down the deck. Hordo was kneeling beside a large, open chest of iron-bound oak that was lashed to the mast.

"I saw," the one-eyed man muttered when the Cimmerian appeared. "Now to see if they are the ones we seek." In short order he had assembled a peculiar-looking apparatus, three hooded brass lamps fastened to a long pole. There were hooks for attaching more of the lamps if need be, and pegs for crosspieces if other configurations were desired. This was a not-unusual method of signaling among the smugglers.

Once the lamps were alight, Hordo raised the pole high. Those few of the crew not asleep stood to watch. Ashore, the center light of the three disappeared as though suddenly extinguished. Thrice the bearded smuggler lowered and raised the pole of lamps.

The remaining lights ashore vanished and, with a grunt, Hordo lowered the pole and put out his own lamps. Almost with the breath that extinguished the last flame, he was roaring. "Up, you mangy curs! On your feet, you misbegotten camel spawn! Erlik blast your tainted souls, move!" The ship became an anthill as men lurched out of sleep, some aided by a boot from the one-eyed man.

Conan strode to the tiller and found Shamil manning it. He motioned the lanky newcomer aside and took his place. The lower edge of the sail was just high enough for him to watch the coastline ahead.

"What has happened?" Ghurran demanded. "Were the signals wrong? Are we to land or not?"

"It is a matter of trust," Conan explained without looking away from his task. "The men ashore see a ship, but is it the smuggler they expect? Signals are exchanged, but not with the place of landing. If a shipload of excisemen or pirates lands at the signal lights, they'd find no more than a single man, and that only if he is slow or stupid."

Another tiny point of light appeared on the coast, separated from the location of the others by almost a league. "And if we had not given the proper signals in return," the Cimmerian went on, "that would not now be showing us where to come ashore."

Ghurran peered at the bustle among the smugglers. Some eased tulwars and daggers in their sheaths. Others loosed the strings of oilskin bags to check bowstrings and arrow fletchings. "And you trust them as much as they trust you," he said.

"Less," Conan grinned. "Even if those ashore haven't tortured the signals out of the men we are truly here to meet, they could still want what we have without the bother of paying for it."

"I had no idea this could be so dangerous." The herbalist's voice was faint.

"Who lives without danger does not live at all," Conan quoted an old Cimmerian proverb. "Did you think to journey all the way to Vendhya by magic? I can think of no other way to travel so far without danger."

Ghurran did not reply, and Conan turned his whole attention to the matter at hand. The wind carried them swiftly toward the waiting light, but a landing on a night shore was not made under sail. To the creaking of halyards in the blocks, the long yard was lowered and swung fore and aft on the deck, a few hasty lashings being made to keep the sail from billowing across the deck and hindering movement. Men moved to the rowing benches. The rasp of oarshafts on thole-pins, the slow swirl of blades dipping into the black water, and, incongruously, cooing from the cage of pigeons became the only sounds of the vessel.

Conan swung the tiller, and the smugglers' craft turned toward land and the guiding point of light. The vessel began to pitch with the swells rolling to shore, and the faint thrash of breakers drifted to his ear.

That there was a safe beach ahead he did not doubt. Even excisemen wanted a smuggler's cargo undamaged for the portion of its value that was theirs in reward. Of what came after the prow had touched shore, however, there was always doubt.

Sand grated under the keel and without the need of orders, every man backed water. To be too firmly aground could mean death. A splash came from the bow as Hordo tossed a stone anchor over the side. It would help hold the lightly beached craft against the tide, but the rope could be cut in an instant.

Even as the shudder of grounding ran through the craft, Conan joined the one-eyed man in the bow. The point of light that had brought them ashore was gone. Varying shades of darkness suggested high dunes and perhaps stunted trees.

Abruptly a click as of stone striking metal came from the beach. Almost directly before them a fire flared, a large fire, some thirty-odd paces from the water. A lone man stood beside the fire, hands outspread to show they were empty. His features could not be seen, but the turban on his head was large, like those favored by Vendhyans.

"We'll discover no more by looking," Conan said and jumped over the side. He landed to his calves in water and more splashed over him as Hordo landed.

The bearded man caught his arm. "Let me do the talking, Cimmerian.

You've never been able to lie well, except to women. The truth may serve us here, but it must be used properly."

Conan nodded, and they moved up the beach together.

The waiting man was indeed a Vendhyan, with swarthy skin and a narrow nose. A large sapphire and a spray of pale plumes adorned his turban and a ring with a polished stone was on every finger. Rich brocades and silks made up his garments, though there were stout riding boots on his feet. His dark, deep-set eyes went past them to the boat. "Where is Patil?" he said in badly accented Hyrkanian. His tone was flat and unreadable.

"Patil left Sultanapur before us," Hordo replied, "and bv a different way. He did not tell me his route, as you may understand."

"He was to come with you."

Hordo shrugged. "The High Admiral of Turan was slain, you see, and it was said the deed was done by a Vendhyan. The streets of Sultanapur are likely still not safe for one of your country."

The truth, Conan thought. Even, word the truth, but handled, as Hordo would put it, properly.

A frown creased the Vendhyan's brow, though he nodded slowly. "Very well. You may call me Lord Sabah."

"You may call me King Yildiz if you need names," Hordo said.

The Vendhyan's face tightened. "Of course. You have the ... goods, Yildiz?"

"You have the gold? Patil spoke of a great deal of gold."

"The gold is here," Sabah said impatiently. "What of the chests, O King of Turan?"

Hordo raised his right hand above his head, and from the vessel came the grate of the hatch being pushed back. "Let your men come on foot for them," he cautioned, "and no more than four at a time. And I will see the gold before a chest is taken."

Six of the smugglers appeared on the edge of the firelight, bows in hand and arrows nocked. The Vendhyan looked at them levelly, then bowed to Hordo with a dry smile. "It shall be as you wish, of course."

Backing around the fire, he faded into the darkness up the beach.

"I mistrust him," Conan said as soon as he was gone.

"Why?" Hordo asked.

"He accepted the tale of Patil too easily. Would you not have asked at least a few more questions if you were he?"

The one-eyed man shook his shaggy head. "Perhaps. But keep your eyes open, and we will get out of this with whole skins whatever he intends."

A dark band of wet about the bottom of his robes, Ghurran puffed up the sandy shelf. "This mode of travel is uncomfortable, inconvenient and damp," he muttered, holding his bony hands out to the fire. "Have you spoken to that man about the antidote, Cimmerian?"

"Not yet."

"Do not. Hear me out," he went on when Conan opened his mouth. "They will be nervous of a man like you with a sword on his hip. And what reason would you give for asking? I have one, you see." To Conan's surprise, the herbalist produce Patil's pushdagger from his sleeve. "I purchased the weapon from Patil, but he said he had none of the antidote. If you said such a thing, they would assume you took the blade from his body. If I say it ... well, they would sooner believe I had bedded one of their daughters than that these old arms had slain a man." He hastily made the small dagger disappear as Sabah walked into the circle of light.

Two obvious servants followed the Vendhyan, turbaned men in dull-colored cotton, without rings or gems. One carried a dark woolen blanket that he spread beside the fire at Sabah's gesture. The other bore a leather sack, which he upended over the blanket. A cascade of golden coins tumbled to the blanket, bouncing and ringing against each other till a hundred gleaming roundels lay in a scattered heap.

Conan stared in amazement. It was far from the first time he had seen so much gold in one place, but never before offered so casually. If those chests had been filled with saffron, they would not be worth so much. "What is in the chests?" he asked.

The Vendhyan's smile touched only his lips. "Spices."

The tension was broken by Hordo bending to scoop up five of the coins at random. He examined them closely, finally biting each before tossing it back to the blanket. "I will want the sack as well," he said, then shouted over his shoulder, "Bring up the chests!"

Half a score of smugglers appeared from the direction of the ship, each bearing one of the small chests. Hordo motioned, and they set their burdens down off to one side of the fire, then trotted back toward the water. Without a word, Sabah hurried to the chests, the servants at his heels, and two more men ran down the beach to join them. Conan saw Ghurran there as well, but he could not tell if the old man was speaking to anyone. Dropping to his knees, Hordo stuffed coins into the leather sack as fast as he could.

Abruptly a cry of rage rose from the men around the chests. Smugglers coming up the beach with the second load of chests froze where they stood. Conan's hand went to his sword-hilt as Sabah all but hurled himself back into the firelight.

"The seals!" the Vendhyan howled. "They have been broken and resealed!"

Hordo's hand twitched as though he wanted to drop the last coins he held and reach for a weapon. "Patil did it on the day he left," he said hastily. "I do not know why. Check the chests and you will see that we have taken nothing."

The Vendhyan's fists clenched and unclenched, and his eyes darted in furious uncertainty. "Very well," he rasped at last. "Very well. But I will examine each chest." His hands still worked convulsively as he stalked away.

"You were right, Cimmerian," Hordo said. "He should not have accepted that so easily."

"I am glad you agree," Conan said dryly. "Now, have you considered that this fire makes us targets a child could hit?"

"I have." The one-eyed man jerked the drawstrings of the sack closed and knotted them to his belt. "Let us get everyone back aboard as quickly as possible."

Sabah was gone, Conan saw, as well as the first ten chests. Turbaned men waited warily for the rest. Ten, not the agreed-upon four, but the Cimmerian was not about to argue the point now. Ghurran was with them, and talking, by his gestures. Conan hoped the herbalist had found what they sought. There was certainly no more time for looking.

With seeming casualness, Conan drifted to the line of smugglers who still waited well down toward the water. Beyond them some of the archers had half-drawn their bows, but all still held their weapons down.

"What was that shouting," Prytanis demanded.

"Trouble," Conan replied. "But I do not think they will attack until those chests are safely off the beach. Not unless they decide we are suspicious. So take the chests on up, then get back aboard as fast as you can without running. And bring Ghurran."

"And you go back to the ship now?" Prytanis sneered. A ripple of uneasiness ran through the others.

It was an effort for Conan to keep the anger out of his voice. "I stand right here until you get back, as if we trust them like brothers. They are getting impatient, Prytanis. Or do you not want a chance to leave this beach without fighting?"

The Nemedian still hesitated, but another man pushed by him, then another. With a last glare at the big Cimmerian, Prytanis fell in with the file.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Conan tried to give the image of a man at ease, all the while scanning the beach for the attack he was sure must come. The file of smugglers met the clustered Vendhyans, the chests changed hands, and the two groups parted, walking swiftly in opposite directions. The smugglers had the shorter distance to go. Even as the thought came to Conan, one of the Vendhyans looked back, then said something to his fellows, and they all broke into a run made awkward by the chests they carried.

"Run!" Conan shouted to the smugglers, and for once they obeyed with alacrity, two of them dragging Ghurran between them. A rhythmic pounding came to him as he drew his sword, and he stifled a curse to shout to the archers. "War horsemen!"

The archers had only time to raise their bows before half a score of mounted men in turbaned helmets and brigantine hauberks galloped out of the dunes with lowered lances. Bowstrings slapped against leather bracers, and five saddles were emptied. The others, one swaying, jerked at their reins and let the charge carry them back into the dark. There were bowmen among the Vendhyans as well, but their target was not men.

Flaming arrows arched into the night to fall around the ship. Some hissed into the sea, but others struck wood.

Then Conan had time to worry neither about the ship nor about anyone else. Two horsemen pounded out of the night, bent low in their saddles, seeming to race shoulder to shoulder to see which would lance him first. Snarling, he leaped to the side, away from the long-bladed lances. The two riders tried to wheel on him together, but he closed with them, thrusting at the closer of them. His blade struck a metal plate in quilted brigantine, then slid off and between the plates. The movements of his attack were continuous. Even as his steel pierced ribs and heart, he was scrambling onto the dying man's horse, throwing both the corpse and himself against the second enemy.

The second Vendhyan's eyes bulged with disbelief behind the nasal of his turbaned helmet; he dropped the lance and struggled to reach his tulwar. Conan grappled the live man with one hand while trying to pull his broadsword from the dead one with the other, and the two horses, joined by three linked bodies, danced wildly on the sand. In the same instant, Conan's blade and the Vendhyan's came free. The dark-eyed man desperately raised his weapon to slash. Conan twisted and all three men fell. As they slammed into the ground, the Cimmerian sliced his sword across a dark neck as though he were wielding a dagger and rose from two corpses.

The horses' pavane had carried him well down the beach, and what he saw as he looked back did not appear good. Bodies dotted the sand, though he could not make out how many were smugglers, and neither a standing man nor a mounted one was to be seen. Worse, the stern of the ship was a bonfire. As he watched, a man with a bucket silhouetted himself against the flames. Almost as soon as he appeared, the man dropped the bucket, tried to claw at his back with both hands and toppled into the fire. Not Hordo, Conan thought. The one-eyed man was too smart to do something like that with bowmen about.

The fire had lessened the darkness on the beach considerably, Conan realized. He was not so well lit as the man on the boat but neither could he consider himself shielded by the night from the Vendhyan archers. It was always better to be the hunter than the hunted, and the Easterners were not to be found by staying where he was.

Bent almost double, he ran for the dunes ... and threw himself flat against a slope of sand as nearly a score of riders appeared above him.

This, he thought sourly, was a few more than he had hoped to find at once. He was considering whether or not he could slip away unnoticed when the Vendhyans began talking.

"Are the chests on the pack animals?" a harsh, rasping voice demanded.

"They are."

"And where is Sabah?"

"Dead. He wanted to take the one-eyed man alive to see what he said about the seals under hot irons. The smuggler drowned him in the surf and escaped."

Conan smiled at that, at both parts of it.

"Good riddance," the harsh voice snapped. "I said from the start that we should come down on them as soon as the chests were in sight. Sabah always had to complicate matters. I think he was beginning to believe he really was a lord, with his secrets and his plottings."

"No matter. Sabah is dead, and we will soon hunt down the rest of the vermin."

"You propose to wait that long?" the harsh voice said. "How long do you think the caravan will wait?"

"But Sabah said we must kill all of them. And there is the gold."

"You think of a dead man's orders and a hundred gold pieces?" the harsh voice sneered. "Think instead of our reception if those chests fail to reach Ayodhya safely. Better we all join Sabah now than that." The silence was palpable. Conan could almost feel agreement radiating from the listeners. As if no further words were necessary, the Vendhyans reined their mounts around and galloped into the dark. Moments later Conan heard other hooves joining these, and all receded to the south.

There was much in what the Cimmerian had heard for him to consider. For one thing, the accursed chests seemed to take on greater importance every time someone spoke of them. For the moment, though, there were more immediate matters to be concerned with.

Half of the boat was burning by the time he reached it. In the light of the fire, Hordo and three others, waist-deep in the surf with buckets, were picked out clearly as they desperately threw water on the flames and watched the shore with equal desperation.

"The Vendhyans are gone!" Conan shouted. Grabbing the strake, he vaulted to the deck. Rivulets of fire ran forward along the sail. "It is too late for that, Hordo!"

"Erlik blast you!" the one-eyed man howled. "This is my ship!" One of the goats was dead, an arrow through its throat. Food might be in short supply, Conan thought, and tossed the carcass toward the beach. The live goat followed, almost dropping on Hordo's head. "My ship!" the one-eyed man growled. "Karela!"

"There will be another." Conan lowered the cage of fluttering pigeons and met Hordo's glare over it. "There will be another, my friend, but this one is done."

With a groan, Hordo took the wicker cage. "Get off, Cimmerian, before you burn, too."

Instead, Conan began seizing everything he found loose and not burning-coils of rope, water bags, bundles of personal possessions and hurled them shoreward. They were stranded in a strange land, which meant it was best to assume a hostile land, and all they would have by way of supplies was what was saved from the flames. The heat became blistering hot as the fire crept closer. Pitch caulking bubbled and fed the conflagration, giving off foul black smoke. Only when there was nothing left unburning within his grasp, however, did Conan leap from the fiery craft.

Splashing to shore, he sank coughing to his knees. After a time he became aware of Ghurran standing over him. The herbalist's parchment-skinned hands clutched a leather bag with a long strap.

"I regret," Ghurran said quietly, "that none of the Vendhyans had the antidote you seek. Though as they apparently planned to slay us, it may be they lied. I will search their dead in any case. You may be assured, however, that I have what is needed to keep you alive until we reach Vendhya."

Conan ran his eyes over the beach. Dead and wounded dotted the sand. A handful of smugglers were tottering hesitantly out of the dark. Behind him the boat was a pyre.

"Until we reach Vendhya," he said bleakly.

As the last flames flickered out on the ruin of the smugglers' craft, Jelal slipped away into the dunes, a coarse-woven bag under his arm.

The others were too tired to take notice, he knew, so long as he was quick.

By touch he found dead twigs on the stunted trees scattered in the low hills of sand, and in a spot well sheltered from the beach, he built a tiny fire. Flint and steel went back into his pouch, and other things came out. A small brass bottle, tightly capped. A short length of goose quill. Strips of parchment, scraped thin. As rapidly as he could without tearing the parchment, he wrote.

My Lord, by chance I have perhaps stumbled on to a path to the answers you seek. To believe otherwise is to believe in too great a coincidence. I have no answers as yet, only more questions. As you fear, the path leads to Vendhya, and I will follow it there.

Something rustled in the night, and Jelal hastily pushed a handful of sand over the tiny fire, quenching the light. A faint aroma of burned wood lingered in the air but that could easily be mistaken for the smell of the charred remains of the ship. For a long moment he listened, holding his breath. Nothing. But there was no reason to take chances at this point. Signing the message by feel, he stowed his paraphernalia and rolled the strip of parchment into a thin tube.

From the coarse-woven sack he took a pigeon. It had been sheer luck, getting the birds brought along, and greater luck that they were not all eaten. Deftly he tied the parchment tube to the pigeon's leg, then tossed the bird aloft. In a flutter of wings it was gone, carrying all he was really sure of thus far to Lord Khalid in Sultanapur. It was little enough, he knew. But if the indications he had seen so far grew much stronger, he vowed to see that this Conan and this Hordo returned to a Turan ready to put their heads on pikes.

Chapter VIII

Dawn south of the Zaporoska was gray and dull, for heavy clouds filtered the light of the rising sun to lifelessness. From where he crouched in the dunes behind a twisted scrub oak, Conan watched the Bhalkhana stallion cropping scattered tufts of tough grass and wondered if the animal had settled enough for another try. The tall black's high-pommeled saddle was worked with silver studs and a fringe of red silk dangled from the reins.

Carefully the Cimmerian straightened. The horse flicked an ear but munched in seeming unconcern at another clump of grass. Sand crunched underfoot as Conan approached with slow steps. His hand touched the reins ... and the stallion seemed to explode.

Fingers tangled in the bridle, Conan was jerked into the air as the ebon animal reared. Like a cat he twisted, throwing his legs around the horse's neck, clutching its mane with his free hand. The stallion dropped, and the added weight of the man pulled it to its knees.

Scrambling back to its feet, the horse shook its head furiously. With wild snorts and whinnies, the animal leaped and plunged but Conan clung tenaciously. And as he knew it must, his presence in such an unaccustomed place began to take a toll. The leaps became shorter, the rearings farther apart. Then the stallion was still, nostrils flared and blowing hard.

The animal was not beaten, Conan knew. He was all but staring it in the eye, and that eye was filled with spirit. The question was whether or not it had decided to accept a strange rider. He knew better than to let go of the beast. With infinite caution he pulled himself onto its back, then lifted himself over the high pommel and into the saddle. The stallion only shifted as he took up the red-fringed reins. Finally letting himself relax, Conan patted the glossy arched neck and gently kneed the animal into a trot toward the beach.

The charred ribs of the smugglers' craft, awash in the frothy surf, yet with tendrils of gray smoke still rising, spoke eloquently of the previous night's attack. Some three hundred paces to the north, gray kites screamed and circled above the dunes as they contended with the larger vultures for the pickings below. No one among the smugglers had considered digging graves for the Vendhyan dead, not after digging three for their own.

The situation on the beach had changed since Conan's leave-taking that morning. Then the smugglers had been gathered around the fire, where the last of the arrow-slain goat still decorated a spit. Now they were in three well-separated knots. The seven survivors of those who had previously sailed with Hordo formed one group, huddled and muttering among themselves, while the men who had joined on the night they left Sultanapur made a second group. All were bedraggled and sooty-faced, and many sported bandages.

The third group consisted of Hordo and Ghurran, standing by the eight Vendhyan horses the smugglers had spent the morning gathering. Hordo glared indiscriminately at newcomers and oldsters alike, while the herbalist looked as though he wished he knew the location of a soft bed.

As Conan swung down from his saddle beside Hordo, Prytanis limped from the cluster of old crew members.

"Nine horses," the Nemedian announced. His tone was loud and ranting but directed only to his six fellows. "Nine horses for three and twenty men."

The newer men stirred uneasily, for the numbers were plain when considered the way Prytanis obviously intended. If they were left out of the calculation, there were horses to go around.

"What happened to his foot?" Conan said softly.

Hordo snorted. "He tried to catch a horse, and it stepped on him. The horse got away."

"Look at us," Prytanis shouted, spinning to face Conan and Hordo. "We came for gold, at your urging, and here we stand, our boat in ashes, three of our number dead, and the width of the Vilayet between us and Sultanapur."

"We came for gold and we have it," Hordo shouted back. He slapped the bulging sack tied at his wide belt; the clinking weight of it pulled the belt halfway down his hip. "As for the dead, a man who joins the Brotherhood of the Coast expecting no danger would do better to become a real fisherman. Or have you forgotten other times we have had to bury comrades?"

The Nemedian seemed taken aback at the reminder that the gold was still with them. It would be difficult to work up much opposition to Hordo among the smugglers as long as the one-eyed man had gold to hand out.

Mouth working, Prytanis cast his eyes about angrily until they landed on Ghurran. "The old man is to blame," he cried. "I saw him among the Vendhyans, talking to them. What did he say to stir them up against us?"

"Fool!" Ghurran spat, and the coldness of that bony face was startling.

"Why should I bring them down on us? A sword can split my head as easily as yours, and my desire to live is easily as great as yours. You are a fool, Nemedian, and you rant your foolishness because seeking to blame others for your troubles is easier than seeking solutions to those troubles."

Every man there stared at the unexpected outburst, Prytanis the hardest of all. Face pale with rage, the Nemedian stretched, a clawed hand toward the scrawny old man, who stared at him disdainfully.

Conan drew his sword, not threatening anyone, just letting it hang at his side. Prytanis' hand stopped short of the herbalist's coarse brown robes. "If you have something to say," Conan said calmly, "then say it.

Touch him, though, and I will cut your head off." The Nemedian jerked his hand back and muttered something under his breath. "Louder," Conan said. "Let everyone hear."

Prytanis took a deep breath. "How are nine horses going to carry three and twenty men back to Sultanapur?"

"They are not," Conan said. "One horse goes to Vendhya with me, and another for Ghurran."

"A horse each for the two of you, while the rest of us-" The Nemedian took a step back as Conan raised his blade.

"If you want the horses badly enough," Conan said grimly, "then take them. Myself, I want the animals very much indeed."

Prytanis' hand moved slowly in the direction of his sword, but his eyes shifted as though he wished he could gauge the support of those behind him without being so obvious as looking over his shoulder.

"Four horses go to Vendhya," Hordo said quickly. "At least. I will ride one, and we will need one for supplies. Anyone else going with us gets a horse, as well, for we have the longer way to go, and the harder.

What are left over go to those returning to Sultanapur. I'll give each man his share of the Vendhyan gold before we part. That should buy all the horses you need before you reach Khawarism-"

"Khawarism!" Prytanis exclaimed.

"-Perhaps sooner," Hordo went on as though there had been no interruption. "There should be caravans in the passes of the Colchians." The Nemedian seemed ready for further argument, but Baltis pushed by him.

"That is fair enough, Hordo," the earless man said. "I speak for the others as well. At least for those of us who have been with you before.

It is only Prytanis here who wants all this crying and pulling of hair.

As for Enam and myself, we have it in mind to go with you."

"Aye," the cadaverous Shemite agreed. His voice matched his face.

"Prytanis can go his own way and take his wailing with him. Straight to Zandru's Ninth Hell for all I care."

The other group, the newcomers, had been stirring and murmuring among themselves all this time. Now Hasan growled, "Enough!" at his fellows and moved away from them. "I want to go with you, too," he said to Hordo. "I will likely never get another chance to see Vendhya."

Shamil was almost on Hasan's heels. "I, also, should like to see Vendhya. I joined you for gold and adventure, and there seems little of either in trudging back to Sultanapur. In Vendhya, though ... well, we have all heard that in Vendhya even beggars wear gold. Perhaps," he laughed, "some of it will stick to my fingers."

None of the rest of the newlings seemed tempted by tales of Vendhyan wealth and when it came to them that but a single horse was left for those returning to Sultanapur, they lapsed into glum silence, slumping like half-empty sacks on the sand. The experienced smugglers were already seeing to their boots and sandals for the long walk around the Vilayet.

Prytanis seemed stunned by the turn of events. He glared about him at the men, at the ruins of the ship, at the horses, then sighed heavily.

"Very well then. I will go as well, Hordo."

Conan opened his mouth to refuse the Nemedian but Hordo rushed in.

"And welcome, Prytanis. You are a good man in tight places. The rest of you see to dividing the supplies. The sooner we travel, the sooner we all reach our destinations. You come with me, Cimmerian. We have plans to make."

Conan let himself be drawn away from the others, but as soon as they were out of earshot, he spoke. "You were right in Sultanapur. I should have broken his head or slit his throat. All he wants is that last horse to himself instead of having to share it. And mayhap a chance to steal the rest of the gold."

"No doubt you speak the truth," Hordo replied. "At least about the horse. But credit me with the one eye I have. While you and Prytanis stared at each other, I was watching the newlings."

"What do they have to do with the Nemedian? I doubt they trust him as much as I do."

"Less, of a certainty. But they are none too sure of setting out afoot either. It would not take much spark-say you and Prytanis attempting to slay each other-for half of them to try for the horses. Then instead of going to Vendhya, we can all kill each other on this Mitra-forsaken bit of coast."

Conan shook his head ruefully. "You see a great deal with that one eye, my old friend. Karela would be proud of you."

The bearded man scrubbed at his nose and sniffed. "Perhaps she would.

Come. They will be wanting their gold and likely thinking they should have twice as much."

The gold-three pieces laid in each man's calloused palm-caused no squabble at all, though there were a few sharp looks at the leather bag Hordo tied to his swordbelt. The way it tugged the broad belt down less was clear the proof that he had shared out most of the contents.

The division of the supplies was the source of greater friction.

Conan was surprised at how many arguments could arise over dried fruit ruined by heat and immersion, or coils of rope for which no one could think of any use at present. Eventually, however, water bags, blankets and such were parceled out in proportion to numbers. The live goat and the remains of the cooked one would go with the men afoot. The cage of pigeons was lashed to the spare horse, along with a sack of grain for feed.

"Better to give the grain to the horses," Conan grumbled, "and feed ourselves what we can catch." He tossed a stirrup leather up over the silver-studded saddle on the big black and bent to check the girth strap. The two parties had truly become separate now. Those who would ride to Vendhya checked their horses while a short distance away, the men who were returning to Sultanapur bundled and lashed their share of the supplies into backpacks, murmuring doubtfully among themselves.

"Mitra's Mercies, Cimmerian," Hordo told him, "but there are times I think you do your best just to avoid a few comforts. I look forward to a spitted pigeon or two roasting over the fire tonight."

Conan grunted. "If we put less attention to our bellies and more to riding hard, we could catch that caravan by nightfall. The Vendhyans spoke as if it were not far off."

"That," said Ghurran, leading his horse awkwardly by the reins with both hands, "would be a good way to travel to Vendhya. We could journey in safety and in comfort." As though realizing that he intruded on a private conversation, he gave an apologetic smile and tugged his horse on.

"That old man," Hordo muttered, "begins to fray my patience. The Vendhyans nearly kill us, my boat is burned, and through it all nothing seems to matter to him except reaching Vendhya."

"His single-mindedness does not bother me," Conan said, "though I should be glad to be able to do without his potions."

The one-eyed man scratched at his beard. "You know it would be best to forget this caravan, do you not? If the men we fought last night have gone to join it, there will certainly be trouble there for us. We will be strangers, and they members of the caravan already."

"I know," Conan said quietly. "But you must know the antidote is not enough for me. A man has tried to kill me, and perhaps succeeded, over chests that look to be worth more than their contents. I will know the why of it, and the answer lies with those chests."

"But be a little careful, Conan. It will profit you little to be spitted on a Vendhyan lance."

"We tried to be careful last night. From now on, let them be careful of me." Conan swung up into the saddle and had to catch hold of the high pommel as his head spun. Grimly he forced himself erect.

"Let them be careful of me," he repeated and kicked the Bhalkhana stallion into motion.

Chapter IX

Sand dunes quickly gave way to plains of tough, sparse grass and low, isolated hills. Scrub growth and thorn bushes dotted the land, though to the east taller trees could be seen along the banks of the Zaporoska. To the south the grayness of mountains, the Colchians, rose on the horizon. The sun climbed swiftly, a blazing yellow ball in a cloudless sky, with a baking heat that sucked moisture from man and ground. A puff of dust marked each hoof-fall.

Throughout the day Conan kept a steady pace, one the horses could maintain until nightfall. And he intended to maintain it that long and longer, if need be, despite the heat. His sharp eyes had easily located the tracks left by the Vendhyans and their pack mules. No effort had been made to conceal them. The harsh-voiced man had been concerned with swiftness, not with the unlikely possibility that someone might follow his trail. Enam and Shamil proved to be good hands with a bow, making forays from the line of travel that soon had half a score of lean brown hares hanging from their saddles.

The Cimmerian ignored suggestions that they should stop at midday to cook the hares. Stops to give the horses a drink from cupped hands he tolerated, but no sooner had he pushed the plug back into his water bag than he was mounted again and moving. Always to the south, though drifting slightly to the east as if not to get too far from the Zaporoska. Always following the tracks of two score of mounted men with pack horses.

The sun dropped toward the west, showing a display of gold and purple on the mountains, and still Conan kept on, though the sky darkened rapidly overhead and the faint glimmerings of stars were appearing.

Prytanis was no longer the only one muttering. Hordo, and even Ghurran, joined in.

"We will not reach Vendhya by riding ourselves to death," the old herbalist groaned. He shifted on his saddle, wincing. "And it will do you no good if I am too stiff and sore to mix the potion that keeps you alive."

"Listen to him, Cimmerian," Hordo said. "We cannot make the journey in a single day."

"Has one day's riding done you in?" Conan laughed. "You who were once the scourge of the Zamoran plains?"

"I have become more suited to a deck than a saddle," the one-eyed man admitted ruefully. "But, Erlik blast us all, even you can no longer see the tracks you claim to follow. I'll believe much of those accursed northern eyes of yours, but not that."

"I've no need to see the tracks," Conan replied, "while I can see that." He pointed ahead where tiny lights were barely visible through the thickening twilight. "Have you gotten so old you can no longer tell stars from campfires?"

Hordo stared, tugging at his beard, then finally grunted, "A league, perhaps more. 'Tis all but full dark now. Caravan guards will not look with kindness on strangers approaching in the night."

"I will at least be sure it is the right caravan," Conan said.

"You will get us all killed," Prytanis grumbled loudly. "I said it from the first. This is a fool's errand, and you will get us all killed."

Conan ignored him, but he did slow the stallion to a walk as they drew closer to the fires. Those fires spread out like the lights of a small city, and indeed he had seen many respectable towns that covered a lesser expanse. A caravan so large would have many guards. He began to sing, somewhat off tune, a tavern song of Sultanapur, relating the improbable exploits of a wench of even more improbable endowments.

"What in Mitra's name?" Hordo growled perplexedly.

"Sing," Conan urged, pausing in his effort. "Men of ill intent do not announce themselves half a league off. You would not wish a guard to put an arrow in you just because you came on him suddenly in the night.

Sing." He took up the song again, and after a moment the others joined in raggedly, all save Ghurran, who sniffed loudly in disapproval of the lyrics.

The bawdy words were ringing through the night when, with a jingle of mail, a score of horsemen burst out of the darkness to surround them with couched lances and aimed crossbows. They wore Turanian armor for the most part, but mismatched. Conan saw a Corinthian breastplate and helmets from three other lands. He let the song trail off the others had ceased in mid-word-and folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle.

"An interesting song," one of the lancers growled, "but who in Zandru's Nine Hells are you to be singing it here?" He was a tall man, his features hidden in the dark by a nasaled Zamoran helm. At least his voice was not a harsh rasp.

"Wayfarers," Conan replied, "journeying to Vendhya. If you also travel in that direction, perhaps you could use a few extra swords." The tall lancer laughed. "We have more swords than we can use, stranger. A few days past Karim Singh himself, the wazam of Vendhya, joined this caravan with five hundred Vendhyan cavalry sent to escort him from the shores of the Vilayet."

"A great many Vendhyans," Conan said, "to be this close to Turan. I thought they stayed beyond Secunderam."

"I will tell Yildiz of it the next time I speak with him," the lancer replied dryly. A few of his men laughed, but none of the weapons was lowered.

"Do You have other latecomers in your caravan?" Conan asked.

"A strange question. Do you seek someone?"

Conan shook his head as though he had not noticed the creak of leather and mail as the caravan guards tensed. In the long and often lawless passages between cities, caravans protected all of their members against outsiders, no matter the claims or charges. "I seek to travel to Vendhya," he said. "But if there are other latecomers, perhaps some of them need guards. Possibly some of your merchants feel less safe, not more, for the presence of five hundred Vendhyans. Soldiers have been known to have their own ideas of what taxes are due, and how they should be collected."

The lancer's long drawn-out breath told that the idea was not a new one to him. Caravans had paid one tax to the customs men before, and then another to the soldiers supposedly sent to protect them. "Eight swords," he muttered, shaking his head. "Two score and three parties of merchants make up this caravan, stranger, including seven who have joined us since we rounded the southern end of the Vilayet. There are always those-no offense intended-who think to make the journey alone until they see the wastes of the Zaporoska before them and realize the Himelias are yet ahead. Then they are eager to join the first caravan that appears, if they are lucky enough that one does. I will pass the word of your presence, but you must understand that I can allow you to come no closer in the night. How shall I tell them you are called, stranger?"

"Tell them to call me Patil," Conan replied. Hordo groaned through his teeth.

"I am Torio," the lancer said, "captain of the caravan guard. Remember, Patil, keep your men well clear of the caravan until first light."

Raising his lance sharply, he wheeled his mount and led the guards away at a gallop toward the caravan's fires.

"I expect this is as good a spot to camp as any," Conan said, dismounting. "Baltis, if you can find something to burn, we can make a good meal on roast hare before sleeping. I could wish we had saved some wine from the ship."

"He is mad," Prytanis announced to the ebon sky. "He gives a name that will bring men after us with blades in their fists, then wishes he had some wine to go with the hare."

"As much as I hate to agree with Prytanis," Hordo rumbled, "he is right this time. If you had to give a name other than your own-though, by Mitra's bones, I cannot see why-could you not have chosen another than that?"

"The Cimmerian is wily," Baltis laughed. "When you hunt rats, you set out cheese. This is cheese our Vendhyan rats cannot fail to sniff."

Conan nodded. "He has the right of it, Hordo. There must be more than a thousand people in that caravan. Now I do not have to search for the men I seek. They will search me out instead."

"And if they search you out with a dagger in the back? Or a few score swordsmen falling on us in the night?" The one-eyed man threw up his hands in exasperation.

"You still do not see," Conan said. "They will want to know who I am, and what I do here, especially using Patil's name. Think of the pains to which they have gone to keep those chests secret. What do I know, and who have I told? They can learn nothing if I am dead."

"You begin to sound as devious as a Stygian," Hordo muttered into his beard.

"For myself," Ghurran said, lowering himself unsteadily to the ground, "I do not care at this moment if Bhandarkar's Lion Guard descends on us." He knuckled the small of his back and stretched, grunting. "After I find myself on the outside of one of those hares, I may feel different, but not now."

"Well?" Conan said, eying the others. "Even if the first man Torio speaks to is one of those I seek, you still have time to be away before they get here."

One by one they got down, Prytanis last of all, and he still muttering.

By the time the horses were relieved of their saddles and hobbled, Baltis had a fire going, and Enam and Shamil were skinning and spitting hares. Water, Conan discovered, went very well with roast hare when nothing else was available.

The fire burned low, clean-picked bones were tossed aside, and silence replaced the talk that had prevailed while they ate. Conan offered to take the first watch, but no one seemed to have any interest in wrapping himself in his blankets. One by one all but Conan and Ghurran took out oil and stone to tend their blades. Each tried to act as though this had nothing to do with any possible attack but every man turned his back to the dying fire as he worked. There would be less adjustment for the eyes to the dark that way.

Ghurran fussed about his leather sack, at last thrusting the too-familiar pewter goblet at the big Cimmerian. A anticipatory grimace formed on Conan's face as he took it. As he steeled himself to drink, a clatter of hooves sounded in the night. He leaped to his feet, slopping some of the foul-tasting potion over the rim of the cup, and his free hand went to his sword.

"I thought you were sure there would be no attack," Hordo said, holding his own blade at the ready. Every man around the fire was on his feet, even Ghurran, who twisted his head about as though looking for a place to hide.

"If I was always right," Conan said, "I should be the wealthiest man in Zamora instead of being here." Someone-he was not sure who-sighed painfully.

Seven horses halted well beyond the firelight, and three of the riders dismounted and came forward. Two of them stopped at the very edge of the darkness while the third approached the fire. Dark eyes, seeming tilted because of an epicanthic fold, surveyed the smugglers from a bony, saffron-skinned face.

"I hope that your swords are not for me," the man said in fluent, if overly melodious Hyrkanian as he tucked his hands into the broad sleeves of a pale-blue velvet tunic embroidered on the chest with a heron. A round cap of red silk topped with a gold button sat on his shaven head. "I am but a humble merchant of Khitai, intending harm to no man."

"They are not for you," Conan said, motioning the others to put up their weapons. "It is just that a man must be on guard when strangers approach in the night."

"A wise precaution," the Khitan agreed. "I am Kang Hou, and I seek one called Patil."

"I am called Patil," Conan said.

The merchant arched a thin eyebrow. "A strange name for a chengli. Your pardon. It means simply a person with pale skin, one from the lands of the distant west. Such men are considered mythical by many in my land."

"I am no myth," Conan snorted. "And the name suffices me."

"As you say," Kang Hou said blandly. He gave no signal that Conan could see, but the other two figures came forward. "My nieces," the merchant said, "Chin Kou and Kuie Hsi. They accompany me everywhere, caring for an aging man in his dotage."

Conan found himself gaping at two of the most exquisite women he had ever seen. They had oval faces and delicate features that could have been carved by a master striving to show the beauty of Eastern women.

Neither looked at all like their uncle, for which the Cimmerian was grateful. Chin Kou seemed a flower fashioned of aged ivory, with downcast almond eyes and a shy smile. Kuie Hsi's dark eyes were lowered, too, but she watched with a twinkle through her lashes, and her skin was like sandalwood-hued satin.

He was not the only one struck by the women, Conan realized. Baltis and Enam appeared to be mentally stripping them of their silken robes, while Prytanis all but drooled with lust. Hasan and Shamil merely stared as if hit in the head. Even Hordo had a gleam in his eye that spoke of calculation as to how to separate one or both of the women from the company of their uncle. As usual, only Ghurran seemed unaffected.

"You are welcome here," the Cimmerian said loudly. "You and your nieces both. The man who offends any of you offends me." That got everyone's attention, he noted with approval, and dimmed a few amatory fires by the sour looks he saw on their faces.

"I am honored by your welcome," the merchant said, making a small bow.

Conan returned the bow and smothered a curse as he spilled more of the potion over his hand. Emptying the goblet in one long gulp, he tossed the cup to Ghurran, not quite hurling it at his head. "Filthy stuff,"

he spat.

"Men doubt the efficacy of medicine without a vile taste," Ghurran said, and Kang Hou turned his expressionless gaze on the herbalist.

"That is an old Khitan proverb. You have journeyed to my land?" Ghurran shook his head.

"No. I had it from the man who taught me herbs. Perhaps he went there, though he never spoke of it to me. Do you know much of herbs? I am always interested in discovering plants new to me, and the uses of them."

"Regrettably, I do not," the merchant replied. "And now, Patil, if I may rush matters unconscionably, I would speak of business."

"Speak of what you will," Conan said when he realized the other man was going to await permission.

"I thank you. I am a poor merchant, a dealer in whatever I can. On this trip, velvets from Corinthia, carpets from Iranistan, and tapestries from Turan. I joined the caravan but two days ago and would not have done so save for necessity. The captain of the vessel that brought me across the Vilayet Sea, a rogue called Valash, had promised to provide ten men as guards. After putting my goods and my animals ashore, however, he refused to honor his agreement. My nieces and I thus must try to tend half a score of camels with only the aid of three servants who, I fear, are of no use at all as protection against brigands."

"I know of Valash," Hordo said, spitting after the name. " 'Tis Hanuman's own luck he did not slit your throat and sell your goods-and your nieces-in Khawarism."

"He attempted no such," the Khitan said. "I was not aware that you were men of the sea."

"We have all been many things in our time," Conan replied. "At the moment we are men with swords who might be hired as guards if enough coin is offered."

Kang Hou tilted his head as though considering. "I think," he said at last, "that two silver coins for each man would be equitable. And a gold coin each if I and my goods reach Ayodhya in safety."

Conan exchanged a look with Hordo, then said, "Done."

"Very good. Until you are ready to ride to the caravan, I will wait with the guards Captain Torio was good enough to lend me. Come, nieces."

As soon as the Khitans were gone, Baltis let out a low laugh. "A gold and two silvers to make a journey we were making for free. The Khitan must have a king's wealth to pay so. There's luck in you, Cimmerian.

Take that sour look off your face, Prytanis."

"That," Hasan announced, "was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

"Kuie Hsi?" Shamil said jealously.

"The other. Chin Kou."

"That is all we need," Hordo grumbled as he began rolling his blankets, "for those two to lose their heads over this Khitan's nieces. You realize he was lying, do you not? Unless there are two men called Valash captaining ships on the Vilayet, he never got those wenches off that vessel as easily as he makes out."

"I know," Conan said. "I did not hear you refusing him because of it though." The one-eyed man muttered something. "What, Hordo?"

"I said, at least this time you've not gotten us involved with a wizard. You have a bad habit of making wizards annoyed with you."

Shouldering his saddle, Conan laughed. "This time I will not come within a league of a wizard."

Chapter X

The music of cithern, flute and tambour sounded softly in the alabaster-columned chamber, the musicians hidden behind a lacy screen carved of ivory. Golden lamps, hanging on silver chains from the vaulted ceiling, cast a sheen on the olive skins of six veiled, supple women, clothed in naught else but tinkling golden bells at their ankles, who danced with finger-cymbals. The smell of incense and attar of roses suffused the air. Other women, as lovely as the dancers and garbed as they, scurried with dainty steps to proffer silver trays of sweetmeats, figs and candied delicacies to Naipal, reclining at his ease on cushions of brocaded silk. Two of their sisters worked long fans of pale ostrich plumes to cool him. The mage merely picked at the offerings and toyed with his goblet of Shirakman wine. He gave as little heed to the women, for his mind was distant from his surroundings.

Near Naipal's head knelt a soft, round-faced man whose tunic of scarlet silk and turban of gold and blue seemed gaudy beside the wizard's soft grays. He, too, gave no eye to the women as he reported in a soft voice on how the day had seen his master's wishes carried out. "And one thousand pice were handed out in your name, lord, to the beggars of Ayodhya. An additional one thousand pice were . . ."

Naipal stared into his wine, as heedless of its exquisite bouquet as of the eunuch's voice. Five times as the tortuous days passed he had gone to the hidden chamber; twice he actually put his hand on the ornate ivory case. But each time he convinced himself to wait, each time with a new reason. The canker in his bosom was that he well knew the true cause of his hesitancy. To open the case, to gaze on the mirror within, perhaps to see that danger to all his plans was yet reflected there, this was more than he could bear. The fear he had fought off in that night of frenzy was returned a hundredfold to paralyze him. Something whispered in the back of his mind, wait. Wait a little longer, and surely the mirror would again be empty, the danger dealt with by his far-flung minions. He knew the whisper was false, yet even as he castigated himself for listening, he waited.

To take his mind from doubts and self-flagellation, he tried to listen to the eunuch. The fat man now murmured of the day's happenings in Ayodhya, such as he thought might interest his master.

". . . And finding his favorite wife in the embrace of her two lovers, each a groom from his own stables, Jharim Kar slew the men and flogged his wife. He slew as well three servants who were witness, but the tale is already laughed at in the bazaars, lord. In the forenoon Shahal Amir was slain on the outskirts of the city, by bandits it is said, but two of his wives . . ."

Sighing, Naipal let the man's continued burblings pass his ears unheard. Another time the matter of Jharim Kar would have been pleasing, though not of prime importance. A score of deft manipulations to lead a woman to folly and a husband to discovery of that folly, with the result that a man who once gathered other lords around him was now laughed at. A man could not be at once a leader and the butt of bawdy laughter. It was not that Naipal bore Jharim Kar any animus. The nobleman had simply attracted too many others to his side, creating what could have grown into a island of stability in a sea of shifting loyalties and intrigues. The wizard could not allow that. Greater intrigues and increasing turmoil were necessary to his plans.

Bhandarkar guarded himself well against his wizard; kings who trusted too much did not long rule, and this king's toenail parings or hair clippings were burned as soon as cut. But Bhandarkar would die, if not from so esoteric a means as he feared, and without his strong hand, turmoil would become chaos, a chaos on which Naipal would impose a new order. Not in his own name, of course. But he would pull the strings, and the king he put on the throne would not even know he danced at another's will.

Lost in dreams of the future, Naipal was startled by the sudden throbbing warmth on his chest. Not quite believing, he clutched at the black opal beneath his robes. Through layers of silk the stone pulsed against his palm. Masrok signaled!

"Be silent!" he roared, throwing the goblet at the eunuch's head for emphasis. The round-faced man snapped his mouth shut as though fearing for his tongue. "Go to Ashok," Naipal ordered. "Tell him that all I have commanded is to be readied at once. At once!"

"I run to obey, lord." The eunuch began shuffling backward on his knees, bumping his forehead to the floor.

"Then run, Katar take you!" Naipal shouted. "Or you will find there is more than can be taken from a man than you have lost!" Babbling terrified compliance, the eunuch scrambled to his feet, still genuflecting, and fled. Naipal's glare swept from the sleek nudity of the dancers to the ivory screen hiding the musicians. At his command for silence, all had frozen, hardly daring to breathe. "Play!" he barked. "Dance! You will all be beaten for laziness!"

The music burst forth desperately, and the dancers writhed in a frenzy to please, but Naipal dismissed them from his awareness and waved away the serving girls. His heart seemed to beat in time with the throbbing of the opal against his hand. The stone was all his mind had room for, the sign from Masrok that the demon should be summoned, and what that must mean. Ashok, chief among the tongueless ones, would quickly prepare the chamber below. In such terror was the wizard held by those who served the gray chambers that he knew they would literally run themselves to death to obey his slightest wish, let alone a command. It could not be done quickly enough to suit him, however. Impatience bubbled in him like the surface of a geyser before eruption.

Able to wait no longer, Naipal flung himself to his feet and stalked from the chamber. Behind him dancers and musicians continued their vain strivings, fearful now to cease without his express command.

To his bedchamber Naipal went first, to fetch the golden coffer containing the demon-wrought dagger. That must be in Masrok's view, not mentioned this time, but no less a reminder that even a demon could be slain.

When he reached the gray-domed chamber beneath the palace, the wizard nodded in satisfaction without even realizing that he had done so. A large, tightly woven basket, its lid lashed firmly in place, stood near his worktable. A bronze gong with a padded mallet hanging from its teakwood frame had been placed near the iron latticework set in one wall.

Naipal paused by the bars. From the door that was part of the iron mesh a ramp led down into a round pit lit by rush torches set high on the walls. On the sand-covered floor of the pit a score of swords in various patterns made an untidy heap. Directly opposite the ramp a massive iron-bound door let into the pit.

For a single test he had used the fires of the khorassani to carve out the pit and the cells and connecting corridors beyond. A single test but most necessary, for he had to test the truth of the ancient writings. He did not believe they lied, but none knew better than he that there were degrees of truth, and he must know the exact degree of this truth. But other things must be done first. Beneath his robes the black opal still pulsed against his chest.

Denying his own need for haste, Naipal took greater care than ever before in setting the nine khorassani on their golden tripods.

Anticipation burned in him like fanned coals as the tenth stone, blacker than midnight, was placed. He settled on the cushions before it, and once more the ancient incantation rolled against the canescent walls.

"E'las eloyhim! Maraath savinday! Khora mar! Khora mar!"

Once more bars of fire leaped up. The stones blazed like imprisoned suns, and a pathway was opened to realms unknowable to mortal man.

"Masrok," Naipal called, "I summon you!"

The winds of infinity blew. Thunder roared and the huge obsidian demon floated within the fiery cage. And with it floated another figure, that of a man in armor of studded leather and a spiked helm of a kind unseen in Vendhya for more than a thousand years. Two swords of unbelievable antiquity-one long and straight, one shorter and curved-hung at the armored figure's sides. Almost did Naipal laugh with joy. Success! He did not realize he had spoken aloud until the demon replied in tones like a storm.

"Success you call it, O man? I call it betrayal! Betrayal heaped upon betrayal!"

"Surely a small betrayal only," Naipal said. "And freedom is your eventual reward." A shudder passed through the demon, and its eight arms shook until the wizard feared it might attempt to hurl one of its weapons at him, or even try to fling itself through the flaming barrier. He laid a nervous hand on the golden coffer.

"You speak of what you do not know, O man! A small betrayal? To do your bidding I was forced to slay one of my other selves! For the first time since time itself began, one of the Sivani is slain, and by my hand!"

"And you fear the vengeance of the other two? But surely they do not know, or you would not be here."

"And how long before they discover the deed, O man?"

"Fear not," the mage said. "I will find a way to protect you." Before the demon could speak again, Naipal shouted. "Go, Masrok! I command it!"

With a deafening roar the demon was gone, and only the ancient warrior floated within the bars of the fire.

Now Naipal did permit himself to laugh. Demons, it seemed, could indeed be enmeshed as easily as men.

Swiftly he set about lowering the sorcerous barrier, a task more difficult in some ways than erecting it had been. At last it was done, and he hurried to examine the figure that now stood precisely centered on the arcane pattern in the floor. No breath stirred the ancient warrior's chest, and no light shone in his dark, staring eyes, yet his dusky skin seemed to glow with life. Curious, Naipal touched the warrior's cheek and grunted. Despite what seemed living suppleness to the eye, it was like touching leather stretched tight over wood.

"Now," Naipal murmured to himself.

From the myriad of crystal beakers and vials on his worktable, he chose out five, pouring small, precisely measured portions of their contents into a mortar wrought from the skull of a virgin murdered by her mother. Four of those ingredients were so rare that he begrudged even the tiny amounts needed. With the thigh bone of the virgin's mother for a pestle, he ground and mixed until he had a black paste.

The mage hesitated before turning to the large wicker basket. Then, steeling himself, he tore open the lashings that held its lid. Pity rose in him as he looked down on the ragged boy within, bound and gagged, frozen with fear. Forcefully he stifled emotion and lifted the child from the basket. The small form trembled as he laid it before the shape of the warrior. He could feel the child's eyes on him, though he tried to ignore them.

Hastily now, as if to be done with the thing, Naipal fetched the foulmade mortar. Dipping the little finger of his left hand into the black paste, he drew a symbol on the forehead of the bound child, then again on that of the warrior. The residue he scrubbed carefully from his finger with a cloth.

The warrior, the child and the largest of the khoassani lay in a straight line. Naipal lowered himself to the cushions to invoke powers not summoned before.

"Mon'draal un'tar, maran vi'endar!"

The words were softly spoken, yet the walls of the chamber chimed in resonance with them. Thrice Naipal repeated the chant and at the third speaking, rays of light, cold and pale as mountain snow, lanced from the ebon stone, one to strike the dark symbol on the warrior's forehead, the other that on the child's. On and on Naipal spoke the incantation. A third icy beam sprang into being, linking the two symbols directly. The child arched his back and screamed, unable to move his head from beneath the glittering point of that sorcerous triangle. Naipal cried the words loudly to drown out the scream. A whine shimmered from the light like the string of a zither drawn too tight.

Abruptly all was silence; the rays of light vanished. Naipal expelled a long breath. It was done. Getting to his feet, he approached the lifeless body of the child. He had eyes only for that small form.

"You have been freed from a life of misery, pain and hunger," he said.

"Your spirit has gone to dwell in a purer realm. Only life was taken from you. It had to be a young life, not yet fully formed." He paused, then added, "I would use the children of nobles and of the wealthy if I could." Funeral fires fit for a lord, he decided. Such would he give this nameless waif.

Slowly his gaze rose to the leather-armored figure. Still no breath stirred in that body. Was there light in the eyes? "Can you hear me?"

he demanded. There was no reply. "Step forward!" Obediently the warrior took one pace forward and stood again as a statue. "Of course," Naipal mused. "You are without volition of your own. You obey me, who gave you life again, and only me, unless I command you to heed another. Good. It is as the writings said. So far. Follow me!"

Maintaining the exact distance between them, the warrior obeyed. Naipal unlocked the door in the iron latticework and motioned. The other stepped through, and the wizard closed and relocked the barred door. It was good, Naipal thought, that spoken commands were not necessary. The writings had been unclear.

A hollow tone boomed as Naipal struck the gong with the padded mallet.

In the pit the iron-bound door swung open. Moving cautiously, twenty men appeared, eyes going immediately to Naipal and the motionless figure at the head of the ramp. Behind them the door closed silently.

When they saw the swords piled on the sand, there was but a moment's hesitation before they rushed for the weapons. The men were as varied as the blades they seized, wearing garb ranging from filthy rags to some noble's cast-off silken finery. They had not been randomly chosen.

The test would not be complete then. In that pit were brigands, bandits, deserters from the army, each one familiar with a sword.

Freedom and gold had been promised to those who survived. Naipal thought he might even honor the promise.

"Kill them," he commanded.

Even as the words left his mouth, six of the ruffians charged howling up the ramp, blades swinging. His face an expressionless mask, the leather-clad warrior drew his archaic swords and moved smoothly to meet them. The six attacked with a frenzy driven by the promise of freedom; the warrior fought with lightning precision. When the form in ancient armor moved on, a single head rolling down the ramp before it, six corpses littered the way behind.

In the pit two of the deserters hastily chivvied those remaining into two lines as though they were infantry on a battlefield. The warrior neither slowed his approach nor altered his stride. The two ranks of desperate men tensed to meet him. But a pace short of them, the warrior suddenly leaped to his right, attacking. The rogues Naipal had gathered may have thought their formation made them infantry, but they had no shields to protect them. Two fell, bloodied and twitching, before the ranks could wheel under the deserters' shouted instructions. The resurrected warrior did not wait for them, however. As the lines pivoted, he leaped back the other way and dashed into their midst from the flank. The deserters' small order dissolved in a melee of hacking steel, welling blood and screaming men, each fighting frantically for himself alone, each dying as the ancient warrior's flashing blade reached him.

When the leather-armored figure slit the throat of the last kicking wretch, Naipal breathed deep in wondering satisfaction. Twenty corpses littered the crimson-splashed sand, and the reborn warrior stood unharmed. In truth there were rents in the studded leather of his armor, and his teeth could be seen through a gash that laid open his cheek, but not a drop of blood fell from him. He moved among the bodies, making sure that each was actually dead, as though no blade had ever touched him.

Turning his back on the scene below, the wizard sagged against the bars, laughing until he wheezed for breath. Everything the ancient writings had claimed was true. The wounds would heal quickly. Nothing could slay the warrior he had resurrected.

More than two thousand years earlier, a conqueror called Orissa had carved a score of small nations and city-states into the kingdom of Vendhya, with himself as its first king. And when King Orissa died, an army of twenty thousand warriors was entombed with him, a royal bodyguard for the afterlife, preserved so perfectly by intricate thaumaturgies that though they no longer lived, neither were they dead as ordinary men died. With the proper rituals, life could be restored after a fashion, and an army that could not die would march again. All that was necessary was to find the centuries-lost tomb.

"And that," Naipal laughed, loud and mocking, "is all but done, is it not, Masrok, my faithful servant?"

Success so filled him with ebullience that the stupefying fear of the past few days was swept away. Certainly enough time had passed. On whatever waters that vessel rode, if it was near enough to threaten him when he was so close to his goals, it must have made shore by now. And if it had, surely whatever danger it carried had been dealt with by his myrmidons. He would admit no other thought, not when so many victories were already his on this day.

With a firm hand he raised the carven ivory lid and brushed back the silken coverings. Black was the surface of the mirror, and dotted with tiny points of light. It took a moment for Naipal to realize that he saw a vast array of campfires, viewed from a great height. If one small ship had threatened him before, now it seemed that an army did. For his days of fear he was repaid with more fear, and with uncertainty. Had the danger of the ship been disposed of, or had it been transmogrified to this? Was this a new threat, surpassing the old?

Long into the night Naipal's howls of rage echoed in the vast dome.

Chapter XI

When the first paleness of dawn appeared on the horizon, Conan was already up and saddling the stallion. The hollow thunk of axes chopping wood drifted to him from the bank of the Zaporoska, not half a league off and lined with tall trees. He shook his head at the Khitan merchant's camels, sharing the picket line with the smugglers' horses.

Camels were filthy beasts, to his mind, both in habits and smell, and untrustworthy besides. He would rather have a horse at any time, or even a mule.

"Stinking beast," Hordo grumbled, slapping a camel's flank to make it move aside. Coughing from the cloud of dust he had raised, the one-eyed man edged into the space created to reach his own mount. "And dirty too."

"Have you looked at the goods they carry?" Conan asked quietly.

"I saw no chests, if that's what you mean. We cross the river this morning, you know."

"Pay attention, Hordo. It is all carpets and velvet and tapestries, as the Khitan said. But the value of it, Hordo." The big Cimmerian had been a thief in his youth, and his eye could still gauge the price of anything worth stealing. " 'Tis mainly of the third quality, with only a little of the second. I should not think it worth carrying to Arenjun, much less all the way to Vendhya."

"Distance and rarity increase value," Kang Hou said, approaching silently on felt-slippered feet. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of a pale-blue velvet tunic, this one embroidered with swallows in flight. "It is clear you are no merchant, Patil. The Iranistani carpet that will barely procure a profit in Turan will bring fifty times as much in Vendhyan. Do you think the finest Vendhyan carpets go to Turan?

Those grace the floors of Vendhyan nobles, yet a far greater price may be obtained by taking a carpet of the second quality to Aghrapur than by selling one of the first quality in Ayodhya."

"I am no merchant," Conan agreed, backing the black Bhalkhana away from the picket line, "nor wish to be. Yet I am as eager to reach Vendhya as you. If you will excuse me, Kang Hou, I will see when the caravan is to move on. And what else I can discover," he added for Hordo's ears.

Conan rode through the encampment slowly, for though he was indeed eager to travel onward, also did he wish to give his eyes a chance to roam, to see if they might perchance light on some chests like those used for shipping tea.

The caravan was in fact three encampments, though the three camps butting one against the other, and even larger than Conan had supposed.

Three and forty merchants, with their servants, attendants and animal tenders, made up nearly the thousand people he thought the entire caravan contained, numbering among them Vendhyans and Khitans, Zamorans and Turanians, Kothians and Iranistanis. Men scurried to collapse and fold tents, to load bales and bundles and wicker panniers on camels and mules under the watchful eyes of finely-clad merchants, who eyed each other as well with surreptitious suspicion, wondering if some other had cut a sharper bargain or aimed for the same markets. Conan received his own share of speculative glances, and more than one merchant called nervously for his guards as the tall Cimmerian rode past.

Vendhyan nobles who had accompanied the wazam to Aghrapur had the second encampment, and it was odd enough for a second glance even if the chests were not there. Conan's first thought was that he had stumbled onto a traveling fair, for well over half a thousand people surrounded those gaily striped and pennoned pavilions, being lowered now by turbaned servants. Here, too, were men from many lands, but these were jugglers keeping a dozen balls in the air at once, and acrobats balancing atop limber poles. A bear danced to a flute, tumblers leaped and twisted, and strolling players plucked lute and zither. Skull-capped men in flowing robes and long beards moved through the seeming carnival as if it did not exist, talking in twos and threes, though in truth two of them, screaming insults, were being held from each other's throats by one man, stripped to the waist and with bulging muscles oiled, appeared to be a strongman.

The third encampment had already been struck and taken to the river, where axemen were building rafts for the crossing, but Conan had no intention of approaching that one in any case. It was not that he could imagine no way the chests might have ended up in the baggage of Karim Singh, wazam of Vendhya, but five hundred hard-eyed Vendhyan cavalry provided steep odds. Their brigantine hauberks and turbaned helms with mail neck guards were much like those of the Vendhyans on the beach, but these men were very obviously aware of just how far into disputed territory they were. They rode like cats, ready to jump at a sound, and their long-bladed lances swung down if anyone came within a hundred paces.

Abruptly something whistled past Conan's face, close enough for him to feel the breeze. Crossbow bolt, a part of his mind told him even as he instinctively dropped as low as the high pommel would permit and dug his heels into the big black's flanks. The stallion bounded forward and was at a dead run in three strides. Conan sensed rather than saw other quarrels streak by, and once his saddle was jolted by a hit.

As the river drew closer, he finally pulled up and looked back. Nothing in the breaking camp appeared out of the ordinary. No crossbows were in evidence; no one even looked in his direction. Dismounting, he checked the black over. The animal was uninjured and eager to run farther, but in the high cantle of the saddle there was a quarrel thicker than his finger. Conan felt a grim chill. A hand-breadth higher and it would have been in his back. At least there could no longer be any doubt that the chests were in the caravan.

"You there!" came a shout from the direction of the river. "You, Patil!"

Conan looked up and saw Torio, the caravan guard captain, riding toward him. A quick tug pulled the quarrel free. Letting it fall to the ground, he mounted and rode to meet the other man, who began to speak immediately.

"'Twice each year for ten years I have made the journey from Aghrapur to Ayodhya and back, and every time there is something new. Now comes something in its own way stranger than any I have seen before."

"And what is this strange thing?"

"His Most Puissant Excellency, Karim Singh, wazam of Vendhya, Adviser to the Elephant, wishes your presence, Patil. I mean no offense, but you are obviously no noble, and Karim Singh rarely admits the existence of anyone lower. Why should he suddenly wish to see you, of whom it is most unlikely he has ever heard before?"

"Adviser to the Elephant?" Conan said, partly because he could think of no possible answer to the question and partly from amusement. He had heard of the great gray beasts and hoped to see one on this journey.

"One of the King of Vendhya's titles is the Elephant," Torio replied.

"It is no more foolish than Yildiz being called the Golden Eagle, I suppose, or any of the other things kings call themselves."

"Where is this Adviser to the Elephant?"

"Across the river already, and I would watch my tongue around him if I did not want to lose it. That is his pavilion." Torio pointed to a large sprawling tent of golden silk on the opposite bank, encircled by a hundred Vendhyan lancers facing outward. "He cares not at all if we are held up because he wants to talk to you, but his party must be the first in line of march. Karim Singh will breathe no man's dust." The guard captain paused, frowning at nothing, occasionally seeming to study Conan from the corner of his eye. "Mine is a difficult position, Patil. I am responsible for the safety of all in the caravan but must offend no one. What who has said to whom, who seeks advantage and where, these things become important. All the dangers do not come from outside, from Kuigars or Zuagirs. A man can earn silver, and as the sums are not so large as others might offer, only silence as to who was told is required, not total loyalty. Do you understand?"

"No," Conan replied truthfully, and the other man stiffened as though struck.

"Very well then, Patil. Play the game alone if you wish, but remember that only the very powerful can play alone and survive." Jerking the reins viciously, Torio trotted away.

The man belonged with the Vendhyan nobles and the jugglers, Conan thought. He spouted gibberish and was offended when he was not understood.

The tree-lined riverbank was a scene of sweating and shouting. With a crash another thick bole toppled, and laborers rushed with their axes to hew away limbs so it could be lashed to the large raft half-finished at the water's edge. A complement of Vendhyan lancers was leading the horses onto another raft, some fifty feet in length, while a third was in mid-river, making its way along one or a pair of thick cables bowed by the slow current of the Zaporoska. Another heavy cable was already being fastened in place for the raft under construction. Ropes attached to the rafts led to the motive power for the journey in both directions: two score of ragged slaves on either bank for each raft.

The Vendhyan cavalrymen stared at Conan, black eyes unblinking and expressionless, as he led the stallion among them onto the raft. They were tall men, but he was half a head taller than the biggest. Some tried to stand straighter. The only sound on the raft was the occasional stamp of a hoof. Conan could feel the tension in the soldiers. Any one of them would take a direct look as a challenge and being obviously ignored as an insult. As he was not looking for a fight before he even got across the river, the Cimmerian involved himself with pretending to check his saddle girth.

The raft lurched and swayed, swinging out into the current as a strain was taken on the two ropes. It was then that Conan found something to look at in earnest, something on the shore behind them. Well away from the water, Torio rode slowly, peering at the ground. Looking for what he had thrown down, Conan realized. He watched the guard captain until the raft touched the far bank.

Chapter XII

Seen close, the huge tent of golden silk was impressive, supported by more than a score of tent poles. The hundred Vendhyan lancers could have fit inside easily, and their horses as well.

The circle of mounted men opened before Conan, seemingly without command. As he rode through, it closed again. He wished he did not feel that those steel-tipped lances were the bars of a cage.

Turbaned servants rushed to meet the Cimmerian, one to take the stallion's bridle, another to hold his stirrup. At the entrance to the pavilion stood a servant with cool, damp towels on a silver tray, to wipe his hands and face. Still another knelt and tried to lave his sandaled feet.

"Enough," Conan growled, tossing back a crumpled towel. "Where is your master?"

A plump man appeared in the entrance, a spray of egret plumes on his large turban of gold and green. Beneath the edge of his gold-brocade tunic peeked the pointed, curling toes of silken slippers. Conan thought this was the wazam until the man bowed deeply and said, "Pray follow me, master."

Within, a large chamber had been created by hangings of cloth of gold and floors of Vendhyan carpets fit for the palace of a king. Incense lay thick and heavy in the air. Hidden musicians began to play on flute and cithern as Conan entered, and five women, so heavily veiled and swathed in silk that he could see nothing but their dark eyes, began to dance.

Reclining on a rainbow of silken cushions was a tall man, his narrow olive face topped by a turban of scarlet silk. The servant's snowy plumes were duplicated here in diamonds and pearls. About his neck hung a thick necklace of gold set with emeralds as large as pigeon's eggs, and every finger wore a ring of rubies and sapphires. His dark eyes were deep-set and harder than any of the gems he wore.

"Are you Karim Singh?" Conan asked.

"I am." The seated man's deep voice held a note of shock, but he said, "Your lack of the proper forms is strange, but amusing. You may continue it. You are the one called Patil. It is a name of my country and seems odd on one so obviously from distant lands."

"There are many lands," Conan said, "and many names. The name Patil serves me."

The wazam smiled as though the Cimmerian had said something clever.

"Sit. One must endure the deprivations of travel, but the wine, at least, is tolerable."

Seating himself cross-legged on the cushions, Conan ignored silver trays of candied dates and pickled quail eggs proffered by servants who seemed to appear and vanish by magic, so obsequiously silent were they.

He did accept a goblet of heavy gold, ringed by a wide band of amethysts. The wine had a smell of perfume and tasted of honey.

"Word travels quickly," Karim Singh went on. "I soon heard about you, a pale-skinned giant with eyes like.... Most disconcerting, those eyes."

He did not sound in the least disconcerted. "I know much of the western world, you see, though it is a veiled land to many of my countrymen.

Before journeying to Aghrapur to make treaty with King Yildiz, I studied what has been written. While there, I listened. I know of the pale barbarians of the distant north, fierce warriors, stark slayers, ruthless. Such men can be useful."

For the first time in what seemed a very great while, Conan felt he was on ground he knew, if ground he did not particularly like. "I have taken service as far as Ayodhya," he said. "After that my plans are uncertain."

"Ah, yes. The Khitan. He is a spy, of course."

Conan almost choked on the wine. "The merchant?"

"In Vendhya all foreigners are considered spies. It is safer that way."

The intent look in Karim Singh's eyes made the Cimmerian wonder for whom he himself was considered to be spying. "But there are spies, and there are spies. One who spies on a spy, for instance. Not all in my land have Vendhya's best interests in their hearts. It might be of interest to me to know to whom in Vendhya the Khitan speaks, and what he says. It might interest me enough to be worth gold."

"I am not a spy," Conan said tightly. "Not for anyone." He felt a moment's confusion as the wazam gave a pleased smile.

"Very good, Patil. It is seldom one finds a man faithful to the first buyer."

There was a patronizing tone to his words that made Conan's eyes grow cold. He thought of explaining, but he did not think this man would recognize the concept of honor if it were thrust in his face. As he cast about for a way to change the subject, the Cimmerian's gaze fell on the dancers and his jaw dropped. Opaque veils still covered the faces of the five women to the eyes, but the other swathings of silk now littered the carpets beneath their feet. All of them. Supple curves of rounded olive flesh spun across the chamber, now leaping like gazelles with stretching legs, now writhing as though their bones had been replaced with serpents.

"You appreciate my trinkets?" Karim Singh asked. "They are trophies, after a fashion. Certain powerful lords long opposed me. Then each discovered he was not so powerful as he thought, discovered, too, that even for a lord, life itself could have a price. A favorite daughter, for instance. Each personally laid that price at my feet. Are they not lovely?"

"Lovely," Conan agreed hoarsely. He strove for a smoother tone, lest the other take his surprise for a lack of sophistication. "And I have no doubt their faces will be equally as lovely when the final veil is dropped."

Karim Singh stiffened momentarily. "I forget that you are an outlander.

These women are of my purdhana. For them to unveil their faces before anyone other than myself would shame them greatly, and me as well."

Considering the soft nudities before him, Conan nodded. "I see," he said slowly. He did not see at all. Different lands, different customs, but this tended toward madness. Taking a deep breath, he set down the goblet and rose to his feet. "I must go now. Kang Hou will soon be crossing the river."

"Of course. And when you reach Ayodhya and no longer serve him, I will send for you. There is always need for a man of loyalty, for a ruthless slayer untroubled by civilized restraints."

Conan did not trust himself to speak. He jerked his head in what he hoped might pass for a bow and stalked out.

Outside the tent the plump man with the egret plumes on his turban was waiting, a silver tray in his hands. "A token from my master," he said, bowing.

There was a leather purse on the tray. It was soft and buttery in Conan's palm and he could feel the coins within. He did not open it to count them or to see if they were gold or silver.

"Thank your master for his generosity," he said, then tossed the purse back to the startled man. "A token from me. Distribute it among the other servants."

He could feel the plump fellow's eyes on his back as he strode to his horse-the two servants were still there; one to hold the bridle, one to hold the stirrup for him to mount-but he did not care. If Karim Singh was insulted by the gesture, so be it. He had had all of His Puissant Excellency, the Adviser to the Elephant, that he could stomach.

The steel-tipped circle opened once more, and Conan rode toward the water. Cursing camel drivers used long switches to drive their laden charges from a raft held tightly against the bank by the slaves on the tow rope. All three of the rafts were in service now. One, loaded with Vendhyan nobles, was in mid-river, and the last, crammed with camels and merchants, was close behind. Two milling masses, merchants in one, nobles and their odd companions in the other, showed the crossings had begun soon after he had reached this side. The far bank was crowded with those waiting.

The Cimmerian did not see Kang Hou or any of the others. If he crossed back, however, it was just as possible as not that they would pass each other on the river. He drew rein where he could watch all three landing places.

As the black stood flicking its tail at flies, stamping its feet with impatience to run, a Vendhyan cavalryman rode up beside him. The silk and velvet of the Vendhyan's garb marked him as an officer, the gemstudded scabbard of his sword and the gilding of his turbaned helmet as an officer of rank. An arrogant sneer was on his face and his eyes were tinged with cruelty. He did not speak, only stared at the big Cimmerian in fierce silence.

He had sought to avoid a fight once this morning, Conan told himself.

He could easily do so again. After all, the man but looked at him. Only that. Just looked. Lowering, Conan kept his own gaze on the approaching rafts. The Vendhyan was alone, therefore it had nothing to do with the incident of the purse. In his experience, men like the wazam did not reply to perceived insults in such small ways. But then again, this was beginning not to seem so small. Conan's jaw tightened.

"You are the man Patil," the Vendhyan barked suddenly. "You are not Vendhyan."

"I know who and what I am," Conan growled. "Who and what are you?"

"I am Prince Kandar, commanding the bodyguard of the wazam of Vendhya.

And you will guard your tongue or lose it!"

"I have heard a warning much like that once already today," Conan replied flatly, "but my tongue is still mine, and I will not let go of it easily."

"Bold words," Kandar sneered, "for an outlander with the eyes of a pan-kur."

"The eyes of a what?"

"A pan-kur. The spawn of a human woman's mating with a demon. The more ignorant among my men believe such bring misfortune with their presence, and evil with their touch. They would have slain you already had I permitted it."

There was a shifting in the Vendhyan's eyes as he spoke. The more ignorant of his men? Conan smiled and leaned toward him. "As I said, I know who and what I am."

Kandar gave a start, and his horse danced a step sideways, but he mastered his face and his mount quickly. "Vendhya is a dangerous land for a foreigner, whoever, or whatever, he is. A foreigner who wished to have no fear of what lay around the next turning or what might come in the night would do well to seek a shielding hand, to cultivate a patron in high places."

"And what would this seeking and cultivating require?" Conan asked dryly.

The Vendhyan moved his horse closer and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "That certain information, the contents of certain conversations, be passed on to the patron."

"I told Karim Singh," Conan replied, biting off each word, "and now I tell you, I will not spy on Kang Hou."

"The Khitan? What are you saying? The wazam has an interest in him?

Bah! I care nothing for merchants!"

The Cimmerian felt as though the other's confusion were contagious. "If not Kang Hou, then who in Zandru's Nine Hells. .." He paused at a wild thought. "Karim Singh?"

"Aaah," said Kandar, suddenly all urbanity. "That might be pleasing."

"I begin to believe it all," Conan muttered in tones far from belief.

"I begin to believe you Vendhyans actually could sign a treaty with Yildiz on one day and kill the High Admiral of Turan the next."

The smoothness that had come to the Vendhyan was as suddenly swept away. He clutched Conan's arm with a swordsman's iron grip, and his teeth were bared in a snarl. "Who says this? Who speaks this lie?"

"Everyone in Sultanapur," Conan said quietly. "I suspect, everyone in Turan. Now take your hand from my arm before I cut it off." Behind Kandar the raft loaded with nobles had reached the bank, and men were streaming off. Two Vendhyan women riding sidesaddle walked their horses toward Conan and the prince. One was plainly garbed and veiled so that only her eyes showed. The other, riding in advance, had a scarf of sheer red silk over her raven hair, with pearls worked into her tresses, but she wore no veil. Necklaces and bracelets of gold and emeralds adorned her and there were rubies and sapphires on her fingers.

As Kandar, glaring at Conan, opened his mouth, the unveiled woman spoke in a low musical tone. "How pleasant to see you, Kandar. I had thought you avoided me of late."

The Vendhyan prince went rigid. For an instant his eyes stared through Conan, then he rasped, "We will speak again, you and I." Without ever once looking around or acknowledging the women's presence, Kandar kicked his horse to a gallop, spurring toward the wazam's pavilion, which was already being taken down.

Conan was not sorry to see him go, especially not when he was replaced by so lovely a creature as the jewel-bedecked woman. Her skin was dusky satin, and her sloe eyes were large pools in which a man might willingly lose himself. And those dark, liquid eyes were studying him with as much interest as he studied their owner. He returned her smile.

"It seems Kandar does not like you," he said. "I think I like anyone he does not."

The woman's laugh was as musical as her voice. "On the contrary, Kandar likes me much too much." She saw his confusion and laughed again. "He wants me for his purdhana. Once he went so far as to try to have me kidnapped."

"When I want a woman, I do not ride away without so much as looking at her." He kept his eyes on her face so she would know it was not of Kandar he spoke at all.

"He has cause. My tirewoman, Alyna," she waved a negligent hand toward the heavily veiled woman, "is his sister."

"His sister!" Conan exclaimed, and once more she laughed. The veiled woman stirred silently on her saddle.

"Ah, I see you are bewildered that the sister of a prince could be my slave. Alas, Alyna dabbled with spies and was to face the headsman's sword until I purchased her life. I then held a masque to which Kandar came, intending to press his suit yet again. For some reason, when he discovered Alyna among the dancing girls, he all but ran from my palace. Such a simple way to rid myself of the bother of him."

Conan stared at that beautiful, sweetly smiling face, appearing so open and even innocent, and only what he had already seen and heard that morning allowed him to credit her words. "You Vendhyans seem to have a liking for striking at your enemies through others. Do none of you ever confront an opponent?"

Her laughter was tinkling bells. "You Westerners are so direct, Patil.

Those Turanians! They think themselves devious. They are childlike." He blinked at that. Childlike? The Turanians? Then something else she had said struck him. "You know my name."

"I know that you call yourself Patil. One must needs be deaf not to hear of a man such as yourself, calling himself by a name of Vendhyan.

You interest me."

Her gaze was like a caress running over his broad shoulders and chest, even down to his lean hips and thick-muscled thighs. Many other women had looked at him in like fashion and betimes he enjoyed it. This time he felt like a stallion in the auction barns. "And do you want me to spy on someone, too?" he asked gruffly.

"As I said," she smiled. "Direct. And childlike."

"I am no child, woman," he growled. "And I want no more of Vendhyan deviousness."

"Do you know why so many of King Bhandarkar's court accompanied the wazam to Turan? Not as his retinue, as the Turanians seemed to think.

For us it was a new land to be looted, in a manner of speaking. I found jugglers and acrobats who will seem new and fresh when they perform at my palace in Ayodhya. I bring a dancing bear with me and several scholars. Though I must say the philosophers of Turan do not compare with those of Khitai."

"Do none of you speak straight out? What has this to do with me?"

"In Vendhya," she said, "the enjoyment of life is a way of life. Men of the court give hunts and revels, though the last are often no more than drunken debauches. In any case, neither is proper for a woman of breeding. Yet for every decision made by men on horseback while lancing wild boars, two are made in the palace of a noblewoman. You may ask how mere women compete with the lords and princes. We gather about us scholars and men of ideas, the finest musicians, the most talented poets, the best artists, whether in stone or metal or paint. The newest plays are performed in our palaces and there may be found strange visitors from far-off, mysterious lands. Nor does it hurt that our serving wenches are chosen for their beauty, though unlike the men, we require discretion in their use."

Conan's face had become more and more grim as he listened. Now he exploded. "That is your 'interest' in me? I am to be a dancing bear or a montebank?"

"I do not believe the women of the court will find you a dancing bear,"

she said, "although you are nearly as large as one." Suddenly she was looking at him through long kohled lashes, and the tip of her tongue touched a full lip. "Nor can I see you as a montebank," she added throatily.

"Co-Patil!" came a cry, and Conan saw Hordo leading his horse up from the river.

"I must go," the Cimmerian told her roughly, and she nodded as though in some manner she was satisfied.

"Seek my tent tonight, O giant who calls himself Patil. My 'interest'

in you is not done with." A smile swept away the seductress to be replaced by the innocent again. "You have not asked my name. I am the Lady Vyndra." And a flick of her gold-mounted riding whip sent her horse leaping away, the veiled woman at her heels.

Behind Hordo, Kang Hou's servants were driving the merchant's camels ashore, aided by the smugglers. One of the humped beasts knelt on the bank while Hasan and Shamil solicitously helped Chin Kou and Kuie Hsi into tented kajawahs, conveyances that hung like panniers on the animal's sides.

"Pretty wench," Hordo commented, staring after the galloping Vyndra.

"Rides well, too." He looked around to see if anyone was close by, then dropped his voice. "Did you find the chests?"

Conan shook his head. "But they are here. Someone tried to kill me."

"Always a good way to begin a day," Hordo said dryly. "Did you discover anything at all?"

"Three men tried to hire me as a spy and that 'pretty wench' wants to add me to her menagerie."

"Your humor is beyond me, Cimmerian."

"I also found out that my eyes are demonspawned, and beyond that I learned that Vendhya is a madhouse."

The one-eyed man grunted as he swung into the saddle. "The first I've told you before myself. And the second is known to all. It looks as if we were finally moving."

The wazam's party-Conan remembered Torio saying it had to be first in the line of march-was beginning to stretch out in a line somewhat east of due south, with Vendhyan lancers in two columns to either side.

Karim Singh himself was in an ornate litter of ebony and gold, borne between four horses. An arched canopy of gleaming white silk stretched above the palanquin and hangings of golden gossamer draped the sides.

Kandar rode beside the litter, bending low out of his saddle to speak urgently to the man within.

"If they tried to kill you," Hordo went on, "at least you have stirred them up."

"Perhaps I have," Conan said. He pulled his gaze away from the wazam's litter. "Let us join Kang Hou and the others, Hordo. There are hours of light left for traveling yet today."

Chapter XIII

Night and the depths of the earth were necessary for some things. Some doings could not bear the light of day or exposure to witness of the open sky. As it did so often of late, night found Naipal in the gray-domed chamber far below his palace. The air had the very smell of necromancy, a faint, sickly-sweet taint of decay blended with the indefinable yet unmistakable hellish odor of evil. The smell hung about Naipal, a thing it had not done before his last deeds in that chamber, but he did not notice nor would he have cared had he.

He swung from contemplation of the resurrected warrior, standing as still as stone against the canescent wall in the same spot to which Naipal had at last commanded him on the previous night. The wizard's eyes went to his worktable, skipping quickly over the chest of carved ivory. There, in crystal-stoppered flasks, were the five ingredients necessary for the transfer of life, the total quantity of them that he possessed. In King Orissa's tomb beneath the lost city of Maharashtra stood twenty thousand deathless warriors. An undying, ever-conquering army. And he could give life to perhaps twenty.

With a wordless snarl, he began to pace. The ancient mages who prepared Orissa's tomb had complied with the King's commands to set him an ever-lasting bodyguard. But those thaumaturges feared the uses to which that bodyguard could be put if ever it were wakened, and they planned well. Only one of the five ingredients could be obtained in Vendhya.

The others, chosen partly because they were little-used in sorceries, could be found only in lands little more than legend in Vendhya even two thousand years later. He had made arrangements, of course, but of what use were they when disaster loomed over his head? Forcing his eyes to the ornate ivory chest, he clenched his fists and glared as though he wished to smash it, and he was not sure that he did not. When finally he had dragged himself from the chamber on the night before, it had been as one fleeing. Creeping through the corridors of his own palace like a thief, he told himself that this was not the paralysis returning, not the fear. He had conquered that. Merely he needed to rest, to refresh himself. Musicians were summoned, and food and wine, but all tasted like sawdust, and the flutes and citherns clawed at his nerves. He ordered cooks and musicians both to be flogged. By twos and threes the women of his purdhana were brought to him and returned, weeping and welted for their failures to please. Five times in the course of the day he had commanded that ten thousand pice be distributed to the poor in his name, but even that produced no uplifting of his spirits. Now he was back in his sorcery-carved chambers in the earth's bowels. Here he would deal at last with the source of his danger, whatever or wherever it was.

His hands reached toward the flat ivory box ... and stopped at the chime of a bell. Quizzically his head swiveled toward the sound. On one corner of the rosewood table, crowded amidst crystal beakers filled with noxious substances and oddly glowing vials sealed with lead, was another flat chest, this of polished satinwood with a silver bell, scribed about with arcane symbols, mounted atop it. Even as he looked, the bell sounded once more.

"So the fool finally found the courage to use it," Naipal muttered. He hesitated, wanting to see to his own problems, but the bell rang again.

Breathing heavily, he moved around the table to the satinwood chest.

Its lid came off, and he set it aside to stare down at a mirror that showed his image and that of the chamber in quite ordinary fashion. The mirror slid within the box on rails and props so that it could be set at any angle. He raised it almost upright. Eight tiny bone trays came next, atop silver pegs that fitted into holes on the edge of the box, one at each corner, one in the precise middle of each side.

Again the bell chimed, and he cursed. Powders prepared long in advance and stored with the mirror were carefully ladled onto the tiny trays with a bone spatula. Last to come from the box was a small silver mallet, graven with miniscule renderings of the symbols on the bell.

"Sa'ar-el!" Naipal intoned. A blue spark leaped from mallet to bell, and the bell rang. As it did, the powders at the four cardinal points flared in blue flame. Before those tiny berylline fires died in wisps of smoke, he spoke again. "Ka'arel!" Once more the bell sounded untouched, and blue flame leaped at the minor points. "Ma'ar-el!

Diendar!" For the third time the chime came and in the mirror Naipal's reflection swirled and dissolved into a maelstrom of color.

Slowly the polychrome whirling coalesced into the image of a narrowfaced man in turban of cloth-of-gold wrapped about with golden chains set with rubies. "Naipal?" the man said. "Asura be praised that it is you."

"Excellency," Naipal said, suppressing his irritation, "how may I serve the Adviser to the Elephant, soon to be the Elephant?"

Karim Singh started and stared about him as though fearing who might be behind him. The man could not be fool enough, Naipal thought, to have someone with him while he used the scrying mirror. Could he?

"You should not say such things," the wazam said. "Asura alone knows who might overhear. Another wizard perhaps, listening. And now, of all times."

"Excellency, I have explained that only those in the actual presence of these two mirrors . . ." Naipal stopped and drew a deep breath.

Explaining to the fool for the hundredth time was useless. "I am Naipal, court wizard to King Bhandarkar of Vendhya. I plot the death of Bhandarkar and spit on his memory. I plot to place His Excellency Karim Singh on the throne of Vendhya. Your Excellency sees. I would not say these things if anyone could overhear."

Karim Singh nodded, though his face was pasty. "I suppose I must ...

trust you, Naipal. After all, you serve me faithfully. I also trust that you know it would be well to give more faithfulness to me than you have given Bhandarkar."

"I am Your Excellency's servant." Naipal wondered if the man had any inkling of how much of his rise to power was the wizard's doing. "And how may I serve Your Excellency now?"

"I ... do not know exactly," the wazam said. "It could be disaster. The treaty is destroyed, without doubt. Our heads may roll. I warn you, Naipal, I will not go to the block alone."

Naipal sighed irritably. The treaty with Turan followed the simple principles he had led Karim Singh to believe were his own. To seize the throne at Bhandarkar's death required a land in turmoil. Outside enemies tended to unify a country. Therefore all nations that might threaten Vendhya-Turan, Iranistan, the nations and city-states of Khitai and Uttara Koru and Kambuja-must be placated, made to feel neither threatened by nor threatening toward Vendhya. The wizard's preferred method was the manipulation of people in key positions, supplemented by sorcery where needed. It was Karim Singh who thought in terms of treaties. Still, the journey to Turan had kept him safely out of Naipal's way for a time.

"Excellency, if Yildiz would not sign, it is of no import. Assuredly, even if Bhandarkar holds the failure against Your Excellency, he has no time to-"

"Listen to me, fool!" Karim Singh's eyes bulged hysterically. "The treaty was signed! And perhaps within hours of that signing the High Admiral of Turan was dead! At the hands of Vendhyan assassins! Who else but Bhandarkar himself would dare such a thing? And if it is indeed him, then what game does he play? Do we move against him unseen, or does he merely toy with us?"

Sweat dampened Naipal's palms as he listened, but he would not wipe them while the other could see. His eyes flickered to the ivory chest.

An army? With wizards perhaps? But how could such be mobilized without his knowing? "Bhandarkar cannot know," he said at last. "Is Your Excellency sure of all of the facts? Stories often become distorted."

"Kandar was convinced. And this Patil, who told him, is no man for intrigue. Why, he is as devious as a newborn infant."

"Describe . . . this Patil to me," the wizard said softly. Karim Singh frowned. "A barbarian. A pale-skinned giant with the eyes of a pan-kur-. Where are you going? Naipal!"

Before the description was finished, the wizard leaped to the ivory chest. He threw back the lid, brushed aside the silken coverings and stared at exactly what he had seen the night before, a vast array of fires in the night. Not an army. A huge caravan. So many pieces suddenly fell into place, yet for every answer there was a new question. He became aware again of Karim Singh's shouting.

"Naipal! Karat take you! Where are you? Return instantly or by Asura .

. ." The wizard moved again in front of the mirror that contained Karim Singh's now-apoplectic visage. "Just in time to save your head! How dare you leave like that, without so much as craving permission or a word of explanation? I will not tolerate such-"

"Excellency. Please. Your Excellency must listen. This man calling himself Patil, this barbarian giant with the eyes of a pan-kur-"-in spite of himself, Naipal shuddered at that; could it be an omen, or worse?-"he must die, and everyone with him. Tonight, Excellency."

"Why?" Karim Singh demanded.

"His description," the mage improvised. "Various divinations have brought it to me that a man of that description can bring ruin to all our plans. And as well there is another threat to us in the same caravan with Your Excellency, a threat of which I learned only a short time ago. There is a party of Vendhyan merchants. Their leader is a man called Sabah, though he may use another name. They have pack mules rather than camels, bearing what will appear to be bales of silk."

"I suppose these men must die as well," Karim Singh said and Naipal nodded.

"Your Excellency understands well." Commands had been given and apparently not obeyed. Naipal did not tolerate failure.

"Again, why?"

"The arts of divination are uncertain as to details, Excellency. All that I can say for certain is that every day, every hour that these men live, is a threat to Your Excellency's ascension to the throne." The wizard paused, choosing his words. "There is one other matter, Excellency. Within what appear to be the bales of silk of the Vendhyan merchants will be chests sealed with lead seals. These chests must be brought to me with the seals unbroken. And I must add that the last is more important to Your Excellency's gaining the throne than all the rest, than all we have done so far. The chests must be brought to me with the seals unbroken."

"My gaining the throne," Karim Singh said flatly, "depends on chests being brought to you? Chests that are with the very caravan in which I travel? Chests of which you knew nothing until a short time ago?"

"Before Asura, it is so," Naipal replied. "May my soul be forfeit." It was an easy oath to make; that forfeit had been made long since.

"Very well then. The men will be dead before the sun rises. And the chests will be brought to you. Peace be with you." The silver bell chimed in sympathy with the silver bell in the wazam's tent so far away, and the image in the mirror leaped and was that of Naipal.

"And peace be with you, most excellent of fools," the wizard muttered.

He looked at his palms. The sweat was still there. So many new questions, but death would provide all the answers he needed. Smiling, he wiped his hands on his robes.

Chapter XIV

Absolute darkness was pushed back from the night-swathed encampment by hundreds of campfires scattered among a thousand tents. Many of those tents glowed with the light of lamps within, casting moving, mysterious shadows on walls, whether silk or cotton, made less than opaque. The thrum of citherns floated in the air, and the smell of cinnamon and saffron from meals not long consumed.

Conan approached Vyndra's tent with an uncertainty he was not used to.

All during the day's march he had avoided her, and if that consisted mainly in staying with Kang Hou's camels rather than seeking her out, it had not been so easily done as it sounded. It was possible she wanted him only as an oddity for her noble friends in Ayodhya, a strange-eyed barbarian at which to gawk, but on the other hand, a woman did not look at an oddity coquettishly through lowered lashes. In any case, she was beautiful, he was young, and therefore he had come as she asked.

Ducking through the tent's entrance flap, he found himself staring Alyna in the eyes, which was still all he could see of her for thick veils and heavy robes. "Your mistress," he began and cut off as a flash of murderous rage flickered through the woman's eyes.

As quickly as it appeared, though, it was gone, and she bowed him deeper into the tent, which, though smaller than Karim Singh's was divided within in much the same fashion by silken hangings.

In a central chamber floored with exquisite Vendhyan carpets and lit by golden lamps, Vyndra stood awaiting him. "You came, Patil. I am glad."

Conan clamped his teeth firmly to keep from gaping. Gold and rubies and emeralds still bedecked her, but the robes she had worn earlier were now replaced by layers of purest gossamer. She was covered from ankles to neck, yet her position in front of a lamp cast shadows of tantalizing mystery on rounded surfaces, and the scent of jasmine floating from her seemed the very distillation of wickedness.

"If this were Turan," he said when he found his tongue, "or Zamora or Nemedia, and there were two women in a room dressed as the two of you, it would be Alyna who was free, and you who were slave. To a man, without doubt, and the delight of his eye."

Vyndra smiled, touching a finger to her lips. "How foolish of those women to let their slaves outshine them. But if you wish to see Alyna, I will have her dance for you. I have no other dancing girls with me, I fear. Unlike Karim Singh and the other men, I do not find them a necessity."

"I would much rather see you dance," he told her, and she laughed low in her throat.

"That is something no man will ever see." Yet she twined her arms above her head and stretched in a motion so supple it cried dancer, and one that dried Conan's throat. That fabric was more than merely sheer when drawn tight.

"If I could have some wine," he asked hoarsely.

"Of course. Wine, Alyna, and dates. But sit, Patil. Rest yourself." She pressed him down onto piled cushions of silk and velvet. He was not sure of exactly how she managed this since she had to reach up to put her small hands on his shoulders, but he suspected the perfume had something to do with it.

He tried to put his arms around her then, while she bent over him so enticingly, but she slipped away like an eel and reclined on the cushions just an arm's length away. He settled for accepting a goblet of perfumed wine from Alyna. The cup was as heavy as the one in which the wazam had given him wine, though instead of amethysts, it was studded with coral beads.

"Vendhya seems to be a rich land," he said after he had drunk, "though I've not been there yet to see it."

"It is," Vyndra said. "And what else do you know of Vendhya before you have been there?"

"Vendhyans make carpets," he said, slapping the one beneath the cushions, "and they perfume their wine and their women alike."

"What else?" she giggled.

"Women from the purdhana are shamed by baring their faces but not by baring anything else." That brought an outright laugh, though the edges of a blush showed about Alyna's veil. Conan liked Vyndra's laughter, but he was already tired of the sport. "Beyond that, Vendhya seems to be famous for spies and assassins."

Both women gasped as one, and Vyndra's face paled. "I lost my father to the Katari. As did Alyna."

"The Katari?"

"The assassins for which Vendhya is so famous. You mean you did not even know the name?" Vyndra shook her head and shuddered. "They kill, sometimes for gold, sometimes for whim it seems, but always the death is dedicated to the vile goddess Katar."

"That name I have heard," he said, "somewhere."

Vyndra sniffed. "No doubt on the lips of a man. It is a favorite oath of Vendhyan men. No woman would be so foolish as to call on one dedicated to endless death and carnage."

She was clearly shaken, and he could sense her withdrawing into herself. Frantically he sought another topic, one fit for a woman's ears. One of her poets would no doubt compose a verse on the spot, he thought bitterly, but all the verse he knew was set to music, and most of it would made a trull blush.

"A man of your country did say something out of the ordinary to me today," he said slowly, and latched on to the one remark out of several that would bear repeating. "He thought my eyes marked me as demonspawn.

A pan-kur, he called it. You obviously do not believe it, else you'd have run screaming rather than inviting me to drink your wine."

"I might believe it," she said, "if I had not talked to learned men who told me of far-off lands where the men are all giants with eyes like sapphires. And I rarely run screaming from anything." A small smile had returned to play on her lips. "Of course, if you actually claim to be a pan-kur, I would never doubt the man who calls himself Patil."

Conan flushed slightly. Everyone seemed to know the name was not his, but he could not bring himself to say that he had lied about it. "I have fought demons," he said, "but I am none of their breed."

"You have fought demons?" Vyndra exclaimed. "Truly? I saw demons once, a score of them, but I cannot imagine anyone actually fighting one, no matter what the legends say."

"You saw a score of demons?" Despite his own experience seemingly to the contrary, Conan was aware that demons-and wizards, for that matter-were not so thick on the ground as most people imagined. It was just that he had bad luck in the matter, though Hordo insisted it was a curse. "A score in one place?"

Vyndra's dark eyes flashed. "You do not believe me? Many others were there. Five years ago in the palace of King Bhandarkar, he who was then the court wizard, Zail Bal, was carried off in full view of scores of people. The demons were rajaie, which drink the life from their victims. You see, I know whereof I speak."

"Did I say I did not believe you?" Conan asked. He would believe in twenty demons in one place-much less anyone escaping alive from that place-when he saw it, but he hoped devoutly that his luck was never quite that bad.

A small crease appeared between Vyndra's brows, as though she doubted his sincerity. "If you have truly fought demons-and you see I do not question your claim-then you must certainly stay at my palace in Ayodhya. Why, perhaps even Naipal would come to meet a man who has fought demons. What a triumph that would be!"

It might have sounded promising, he thought ruefully, if not for this other man. "Do you wish me there, or this Naipal?"

"I want both of you, of course. Think of the wonderment. You, a huge warrior, obviously from a land shrouded in distance and mystery, a fighter against demons. He, the court wizard of Vendhya, the-"

"A wizard," Conan breathed heavily. Hordo would believe he had done this apurpose, or else he would mutter about the curse.

"I said that," Vyndra said. "He is the most mysterious man in Vendhya.

No more than a handful other than King Bhandarkar, and perhaps Karim Singh, know his face. Women have arranged assignations with him merely in the hope they might be able to say they could recognize him."

"I have never met the man," he said, "nor intend to, yet I do not like him."

Her laugh was low and wicked. "He keeps the assignations, too, with those women pretty enough. They are gone for days and return on the point of exhaustion with stories of passion beyond belief, but when they are asked of his features, they grow vague. The visage they describe could belong to any handsome man. Still, the transports of rapture they speak of are such that I myself have considered-"

With a curse Conan hurled the golden goblet aside. Vyndra squeaked as he pounced, catching her face between his hands. "I do not want you to attract some sorcerer," he told her heatedly. "I do not want you because you are from a country distant from mine or because you would seem strange to the people of my land. I want you because you are a beautiful woman and you make my blood burn." There was invitation on her face and when he kissed her, she tangled her hands in his hair as though it were she who held him, not the reverse.

When at last she snuggled against his chest with a sigh, there was a mischievous twinkle in her big dark eyes, and small white teeth indented her full lower lip. "Do you intend to take me now?" she asked softly and then added as he growled in his throat, "With Alyna watching?"

Conan did not take his eyes from her face. "She is still here?"

"Alyna is faithful to me in her fashion and rarely leaves my side."

"And you do not intend to send her away." It was not a question.

"Would you have me separated from my faithful tirewoman?" Vyndra asked with a wide-eyed smile.

Clearing his throat, Conan got to his feet. Alyna was there, bright eyes glinting with amusement above her veil. "I have half a mind," he said conversationally, "to switch both your rumps till you have to be tied across your saddles like bolts of silk. Instead, I think I will see if there is an honest trull in this caravan, for your games bore me."

He stalked out on that, thinking he had quieted her, but laughing words followed him before he let the tent flap fall. "You are a violent man, O one who calls himself Patil. You will be a wonderment to my friends."

Chapter XV

There were panderers on the outskirts of the encampment, as Conan had known there would be in a caravan so large and going so far. Two of them. Karim Singh might have his own women along, as would the Vendhyan noblemen and even many of the merchants; but for the rest-for guards and camel drivers and mule handlers-from Khawarism to Secunderam was a long way without a woman. Except for the panderers.

They had set out tables made of planks laid on barrels before their tents, with casks to sit on and drink while a man waited his turn for the use of the tents. Cheap wine they gave away to those who bought their other merchandise, sour wine served by sweet women, slender jades and voluptuous trulls, tall wenches and short. Soft, willing flesh. If the gilded brass girdles low on their hips and their strips of diaphanous silk were more than a purdhana dancer wore, all could be removed for a coin, for women were the goods sold here.

And yet, Conan realized, it was not a woman he wanted. He sat on an upended keg before the second panderer's tents, a leathern jack of thin wine in his fist, a slender wench wiggling on his knee as she bit at his neck with small white teeth. He could not pretend disinterest in her, but she seemed a distraction, if a pleasant one. A buxom jade at the first panderer's tent had been the same. Though he was not yet twenty, he had long since learned to curb his anger when need be, but on that day he had held it in check with Karim Singh and lashed it down with Kandar. And then there had been Vyndra. Now he wanted to loose the rage, to strike out at something. He wanted one of the other men fondling a woman to challenge him for the doxy on his lap, or two, or five. Hammering fists, even bloody steel, would drain the anger coiled in his belly like a serpent dripping venom from its fangs.

The slender trull snuggled against him contentedly as he stood with her in his arms, then stared at him in consternation when he plopped her bottom onto the keg. "I am not a Vendhyan," he told her, dropping coins in her hands. "I do not take out my anger on others than those who have earned it." Her look was one of total uncomprehension, but he spoke for his own benefit as much as hers.

The raucous laughter of the panderers' tents followed him into the encampment. Many of the merchants' tents were darkened now, and silence lay even on the picket lines of animals behind each, though the thin sounds of zither and flute, cithern and tambor, drifted from the nobles' portion of the camp. Sleep, he thought. Sleep, then journey on the morrow, then sleep again and journey again. The antidote would be found in Vendhya, and the answers he sought would come, but he would dissipate the tightness of anger with sleep.

The fire burned low in front of the lone tent shared by Kang Hou and his nieces. A Khitan servant poking the embers was all that moved among the blanket-wrapped shapes of smugglers scattered about the merchant's tent. But Conan stopped short of the dim light of that fire, a jangling in the back of his head that he recognized as a warning that something was wrong.

His ears strained for sounds below normal hearing, and his eyes sought the shadows between the other tents. The sounds were all about him now that he listened. The rasp of leather on leather, the soft clink of metal, the pad of softly placed feet. Shadows shifted where they should be still.

"Hordo!" Conan roared, broadsword coming into his hand. "Up, or die in your blankets!" Before the warning was past his lips, smugglers were rolling to their feet with swords in hand. And Vendhyans as well, afoot and mounted, were upon them.

To attempt to make his way to his companions was madness, the Cimmerian knew. They did not fight to hold a piece of ground but to escape, and every man would be seeking to break through the ring of steel. He had no time for thought on the matter. He had killed one man and was crossing swords with a second by the time he shouted the last word.

Jerking his blade free of the second corpse, he all but decapitated another Vendhyan, searching all the while for his path to freedom, ignoring the screams and clanging steel around him as he fought his way away from the Khitan's tent. A turban-helmed horseman appeared in front of him, lance gone but tulwar lifted to slash. The Vendhyan's fierce, killing grin turned to shock as Conan leaped to grapple with him.

Unable to use his sword so close, the horseman beat at Conan with the hilt as the horse danced in circles. The big Cimmerian could not use his broadsword either, merely wrapping that arm about the Vendhyan, but his dagger quickly slid between the metal plates of the brigantine hauberk. The horseman screamed, and again as he was toppled from the saddle. Then Conan was scrambling into the other's place, seizing the reins and slamming his heels into the horse's flanks.

The calvary-trained animal burst into a gallop, and Conan, lying low in the saddle, guided it between the tents. Merchants and their servants, roused by the tumult, jumped shouting from the path of the speeding rider. Suddenly there was a man who did not leap aside, a caravan guard who dropped to one knee and planted the base of his spear. The horse shrieked as the long blade thrust into its chest, and abruptly Conan was flying over the crumpling animal's head. All of the breath was driven from him by the fall, yet the Cimmerian struggled to rise. The guard rushed in for an easy kill of the man on his knees, tulwar raised high. With what seemed his last particle of strength, Conan drove his sword into the other's chest. The force of the man's charge carried him into the big Cimmerian, knocking him over. Still fighting for breath, Conan pushed the man away, extricated his blade, and staggered into the shadows. Half-falling, he pressed his back against a tent.

Wakened merchants shouted on all sides. "What happens?"

"Are we attacked?"

"Bandits!"

"My goods!"

Vendhyan soldiers shoved the merchants aside, beating at them with the butts of their lances. "Go back to your tents!" was their cry. "We seek spies! Go back to your tents, and you will not be harmed! Anyone outside will be arrested!"

Spies, Conan thought. He had found his fight, but there was yet a trickle of his previous anger remaining, a trickle growing stronger.

Moments before, escape from the encampment had been paramount in his mind. Now he thought he would first visit the man who considered all foreigners spies.

Like a hunting leopard, the big Cimmerian flowed from shadow to shadow, blending with the dark. Curious eyes were easily avoided, for there were few abroad now. No one moved between the tents save soldiers, announcing their coming with creak of harness and clink of armor and curses that they must search when they would be sleeping. Silently Conan moved into deeper shadows as the Vendhyans appeared, watching with a feral grin as they marched or rode past him, sometimes within arm's reach, yet always unseeing.

Karim Singh's tent glowed with light within, and two fires blazed high before the canopied entrance. The fires made the dim light filtered through golden silk at the rear seem almost as dark as the surrounding light. A score of Vendhyan cavalry sat their horses like statues in a ring about the tent, facing outward, ten paces at least separating each man from the next.

Like statues they were in truth, or else thought they guarded against attack by an army, for on his belly Conan crawled unseen between two at the rear of the tent. As he prepared to slit an entrance in the back wall of the tent with his dagger, voices from inside stopped him.

"Leave us," commanded Karim Singh.

Conan opened a small slit only, parting it with his fingers. A last Vendhyan soldier was bowing himself from the silk-walled chamber within. Karim Singh stood in the middle of the chamber, a cavalryman's sword in his hand, and before him knelt a Vendhyan bound hand and foot.

The kneeling man wore the robes of a merchant, though they hardly seemed consistent with his hard face and the long scar that crossed his nose and cheek.

"You are called Sabah?" the wazam asked in an easy tone.

"I am Amaur, Excellency, an honest merchant," the kneeling man said, "and even you have no right to simply seize my goods without cause."

The harsh, rasping voice made Conan stiffen in memory. The rider in the dunes. He would listen for a while before killing Karim Singh.

The wazam set the point of his sword against the other's throat. "You are called Sabah?"

"My name is Amaur, Excellency. I know no one called-" The kneeling man gasped as the point pressed closer, bringing a trickle of blood. "An honest merchant?" Karim Singh laughed softly. As he spoke, he increased the pressure of the blade. The kneeling man leaned back but the sword point followed. "Within the bales of silk you carry were found chests sealed with lead. You are a smuggler, at least. Who are the chests destined for?"

With a cry, the prisoner toppled. From his back he stared with bulging eyes. The sword still was at his throat and there was no farther he could go to escape it. The hardness of his face had become a mask of fear. "I ... I cannot say, Excellency. Before Asura, I swear it!"

"You will say or you will face Asura shortly. Or, more likely, Katar."

The wazam's voice became conspiratorial. "I know the name, Amaur. I know. But I must hear it from your lips if you would live. Speak, Amaur, and live."

"Excellency, he ... he will kill me. Or worse!"

"I will kill you, Amaur. This sword is at your throat, here, and he is far away. Speak!"

"N ... Naipal!" the man sobbed. "Naipal, Excellency!"

"Good," Karim Singh said soothingly. But he did not move the sword.

"You see how easy it was. Now. Why? Tell me why he wants these chests."

"I cannot, Excellency." Tears rolled down Amaur's cheeks now and he shook with weeping. "Before Asura, before Katar, I would tell you if I could, but I know nothing! We were to meet the ship, kill all on board and bring the chests to Ayodhya. Perhaps Sabah knew more, but he is dead. I swear, Excellency! I speak truly, I swear!"

"I believe you," Karim Singh sighed. "It is a pity." And he leaned on the sword.

Amaur's attempt to scream became a bubbling gurgle as steel slid through his throat. Karim Singh stared at him as though fascinated by the blood welling up in his mouth and the convulsions that wracked his bound form. Abruptly the wazam released the sword. It remained upright, its point thrust through man and carpets into the ground, shaking with Amaur's final twitching.

"Guards!" Karim Singh called, and Conan lowered the dagger with which he had been about to lengthen the slit. "Guards!"

Half a score of Vendhyans rushed into the chamber with drawn blades.

Staring at the sight that greeted them, they hastily sheathed their weapons.

"The other spies," the wazam said. "The giant, in particular. He has been taken? He cannot be mistaken, for his size and his eyes set him apart."

"No, Excellency," one of the soldiers replied deferentially. "Four of that party are dead, but not the giant. We seek the others."

"So he is still out there." Karim Singh spoke as though to himself. "He seemed a stark man. A slaver born. He will seek me now." He shook himself and glared at the soldiers as if angered that they had overheard. "He must be found! A thousand pieces of gold to the man who finds him. All of you, and ten others, will remain with me until he is dead or in chains. And he who does not die stopping the barbarian from reaching me will die wishing that he had. Have someone dispose of this," he added with a nod toward Amaur's corpse.

The wazam strode from the chamber then, the guards clustering about him, and Conan sagged where he crouched outside. Against a score of guards he might not even reach Karim Singh before he was cut down. He had known men who embraced a brave but useless death; he was not one of them. Death was an old acquaintance to him and had been long before he found himself with Patil's poison in his blood. Death was neither to be feared nor sought, and when he met it, the meeting would not be without purpose. Besides, he now had a name, Naipal, the man who had begun all of this. That was another who must die as well as Karim Singh.

Silently Conan slipped back into the night.

Chapter XVI

A horse and a water bag were what he needed now, Conan knew. In this land a man afoot and without water was a man dying or dead. There were far more camels than horses in the caravan, however, and many of the horses were animals suitable for show but not for a man who needed to travel far and fast. Moreover, word of the reward must have been spreading quickly, for the soldiers were now more assiduous in their searching. Twice he located suitable mounts only to be forced to abandon them by turban-helmed patrols.

Finally he found himself in the nobles' portion of the encampment. Most of the tents were dark and the silence was as complete as in the merchants' part. He wondered if the soldiers had been as brusque here in quieting curiosity as they had been with the merchants.

Something moved in the darkness, a shadow heaving, and he froze. A grunt came from the shadow, and the rattle of a chain. Conan peered more closely and then stifled a laugh. It was Vyndra's dancing bear. On sudden impulse, he drew his dagger. The bear, sitting in a sprawl, eyed him as he cautiously approached. It did not move as he sawed at the leather collar about its neck.

"It is a harsh land," he whispered, "with many ways to die." He felt foolish in talking to an animal, but there was a need, too. "You may find hunters or stronger bears. If you do not run far enough, they will chain you again and make you dance for Vyndra. The choice is yours, to die free or to dance for your mistress."

The bear stared at him as the collar fell loose, and he held the dagger ready. Just because it had not attacked him so far did not mean it would not, and the shaggy creature was half again as large as he.

Slowly the bear got to its feet and lumbered into the dark.

"Better to die free," Conan grinned after the beast. "And I say I saw something move."

Conan stiffened at the words, cursing his impulses. "Take ten men around the other way and we will see."

In an instant the Cimmerian's blade made a long slit in the tent wall behind him, and he went through as footsteps rounded the tent. Within was as deep a darkness as outside, though his keen eyes, already used to the night, could make out shadowy shapes and mounds on the carpet spread for flooring. The footsteps halted on the other side of the thin wall, and voices muttered indistinguishably. One of the mounds moved.

Not again, Conan thought. Hoping it was not another bear, he threw himself on the shifting shape. The grunt that came when he landed was nothing at all like that of a bear. Soft flesh writhed against him beneath a thin linen coverlet, and his hand frantically sought a mouth, finding it just in time to stifle a scream. Bringing his face close, he looked into big dark eyes filled with a mixture of fear and rage.

"Alyna is not here now, Vyndra," he whispered and moved his hand from her lips.

As her mouth opened once more for a scream, he stuffed it with the ball of her hair that he had gathered with his other hand. Quickly he felt around the bed mat until he found a long silk scarf, which he tied across her mouth to keep her from spitting the hair out. Bound and gagged, he thought, she could raise no alarm until he was far away.

With luck, she would not be found until morning.

Stripping off the linen coverlet, he was forced to stop and stare. Even when covered in shadows, the lush curves of her were enough to take his breath away. He found it quickly, though, jerking his head back barely in time to save his eyes from clawing nails.

"This time the sport is not of your choosing," he said softly, catching her flailing arm and deftly flipping her onto her stomach. He found another scarf and used it to bind her wrists behind her. "You may not dance for me," he chuckled, "but this is almost as enjoyable." He felt her quiver and did not need the angry, muffled sounds coming from behind the gag to tell him it was with rage.

As he searched for something to tie her ankles with, he became aware of voices in the front of the tent. Hastily he dragged his struggling prisoner closer to where he could listen.

"Why do you wish to see my mistress?" came Alyna's voice. "She sleeps."

A man answered with weary patience. "The wazam has learned that your mistress entertained a spy earlier tonight. He would talk with her of it."

"Can it not wait until morning? She will be angry if she is wakened."

Conan did not wait to learn the outcome. If Vyndra was found now, the soldiers would know he was close by before her gag was fully out of her mouth. Half-carrying the wriggling woman, he darted to the rear of the tent and peered cautiously through the slit by which he had entered.

The searchers were gone. It was possible they were even the same men now in the front of the tent.

"I am sorry," he told her.

He was glad for the gag as he pulled her through the slit. The violent protesting noises she made were bad enough as it was. Despite her struggles, he lifted her into his arms, running as fast as he could manage while making sure he did not speed into the midst of a patrol or trip over tent ropes.

Well away from her tent, he put her on her feet, careful to keep a grip on one slender arm. If they were discovered, he had to be able to fight without being burdened with her. And there would be no need to prevent her escape then.

Finding a horse was still his first concern, but when he tried to start out again, he found he was dragging a bent-over, crouching woman who seemed to be attempting to make herself as small as possible while simultaneously refusing to move her feet.

"Stand up and walk," he said hoarsely, but she shook her head furiously. "Crom, woman, I've no time to ogle your charms." She shook her head again.

A quick look around revealed no evidence of anyone both near and awake.

All of the surrounding tents were dark. His full-armed swing landing on her buttock produced a louder smack than he would have liked, not to mention the sounds she produced, but it brought her onto her toes and half-erect. When she tried to crouch again, he held his open hand in front of her face.

"Walk," he whispered warningly.

Her glare was enough to slay lions, but slowly she straightened.

Without so much as a glance at the beauties she had revealed, he hurried her on. He was not young enough to be a complete fool over a woman.

Ghosting among the tents, they more than once barely avoided the searching Vendhyan soldiers. At first Conan was surprised that Vyndra made no effort to escape when the turban-helmed warriors were close, nor even to attract them with noise or struggle. In fact, she had become as silent as he, eyes constantly searching for what might trip or betray. Then it came to him. Escaping him was one thing, being rescued while garbed in naught but two scarves quite another. He smiled gratefully, accepting anything that made his own escape easier.

Once more he was in the merchants' area, so deathly still that he knew all there were huddled breathlessly, not daring to make a sound that would attract the soldiers. A destination had come to his mind, a place where there might be horses and a place the soldiers would not be searching if he had but a particle of luck.

Movement in the shadows ahead again sent him to hiding, dragging a compliant Vyndra behind. This was no patrol, he saw quickly, but a lone man padding furtively. Slowly the shadow resolved into Kang Hou, half-crouched with his hands in his sleeves. As Conan opened his mouth, two more shapes appeared behind the first. Vendhyan cavalrymen, afoot and carrying their lances like spears.

"Searching for something, Khitan?" one called.

Smoothly Kang Hou pivoted, hands flickering out of concealment.

Something flew through the air, and the two Vendhyans dropped soundlessly. Hastily the merchant ran to crouch above the bodies.

"You are a dangerous man for a merchant," Conan said softly as he stepped into the open.

Kang Hou spun, a throwing knife in each upraised hand, then slowly slid the knives from sight within his sleeves.

"A merchant must often travel in dangerous company," he said blandly.

He ran his eyes over Vyndra and raised an eyebrow. "I have heard it said that some warriors favor women above all other loot, but under these circumstances, I find it strange."

"I do not want her," Conan said. Vyndra growled through her gag. "The problem is, where can I leave her and be sure she'll not be found before I have gotten a horse and left this place?"

"A quandary," the Khitan agreed. "You have considered where to find this horse? The soldiers check the picket lines constantly and a missing animal will not go long undiscovered."

"At the last place they will look for one of us," Conan replied. "The picket line behind your tent."

Kang Hou smiled. "Admirable reasoning. Having led my original pursuers a way from the encampment, I am now returning there. Will you accompany me?"

"In but a moment. Hold her."

Thrusting Vyndra at the startled Khitan, Conan hurried to the dead Vendhyans. Quickly he dragged them into the deeper darkness beside a tent-no sense in leaving them to be easily found-and when he returned to the others, he carried one of the soldiers' cloaks. Kang Hou wore a small smile, and Vyndra's eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

"What happened?" the Cimmerian asked. He draped the cloak around the woman as best he could with her hands bound. Her eyes flew open, giving him a look of mingled surprise and gratitude.

"I'm not entirely certain," the merchant said, "but it seems that her belief is that if she cannot see me, I cannot see her." Even in the dark her blush at his words was evident.

"We have no time for foolishness," Conan said. "Come."

A thousand gold pieces was a powerful spur when added to the command of a man such as Karim Singh, but even that spur lost its sharpness when the searchers began to believe their quarry had already escaped from the encamped caravan. Patrols of Vendhyans began to grow fewer, and those who still hunted did so in desultory fashion. Many no longer even went through the motions, gathering instead in easily avoided knots to talk in low voices.

Short of the Khitan's camp Conan halted, still hidden in the darkness among the other merchants' tents. Vyndra obeyed his grip on her arm with seeming docility, but he maintained his hold. The fire was only coals now, and bales of velvet lay ripped open among carpets unrolled and scattered about. If anyone had died there-the Cimmerian remembered the report to Karim Singh of four dead-their bodies had been taken away. The picket line was only a murky mass but some of those shadows moved in ways he did not like Kang Hou started forward, but Conan caught his arm.

"Horses move even in the night," the Khitan whispered, "and the soldiers would not hide. We must hurry."

Conan shook his head. Pursing his lips, he gave the call of a bird found only on the plains of Zamora. For an instant there was silence, then the call came back, from the picket line.

"Now we hurry," Conan said and ran for the horses, hauling Vyndra behind him.

Hordo stepped out to meet him, motioning for greater quickness. "I hoped you had made it, Cimmerian," he said hoarsely. "Hell has come to sup, it seems." Two other shadows became men, Enam and Prytanis. "I heard there are four dead," Conan said. "Who?"

"Baltis!" Prytanis spat. "The Vendhyan scum cut him to shreds. I said you brought us all to our deaths."

"He followed me," Conan agreed, to the slitnosed man's evident surprise. "It is another debt I owe."

"Baltis died well," Hordo said, "and took an honor guard with him. A man can ask no more of dying than that. The other three," he added to the Khitan, "were your servants. I have not seen your nieces."

"My servants were not fighting men," Kang Hou sighed, "but I had hoped ... No matter. As for my nieces, Kuie Hsi will care for her sister as well as I could. Might I suggest that we take horses and continue this talk elsewhere?"

"A good suggestion," Conan said.

The stallion was still there; Conan had feared that such a fine mount would have been taken by the Vendhyans. He heaved the saddle onto the animal's back one-handed but fastening the girth would require two hands. Giving Vyndra a warning look, he released her but kept a sharp eye on her as he hastily strapped the saddle tight. To his surprise, she did not move. No doubt, he thought, she still dreaded being found clothed as she was, even if it did mean rescue.

"The wench," Hordo said curiously. "Do you have a purpose with her, or is she just a token to remember this place by?"

"There is a purpose," Conan said, explaining why he could not leave her yet. "It may be I must take her all the way to Vendhya with me, for I doubt she'd survive long if I left her to make her own way on the plain." He paused, then asked with more casualness than he felt, "What of Ghurran?"

"I've not seen the old man since the attack," Hordo replied regretfully. "I am sorry, Cimmerian."

"What is, is," Conan said grimly. "I must saddle a horse for the woman.

I fear you must ride astride, Vyndra, for we have no sidesaddle." She merely stared at him, unblinking.

It was a silent procession that made its stealthy way through the tents of the encampment, leading their horses. The animals could walk more quietly without burdens, and they all would have been more noticeable mounted. The Vendhyan patrols, half-hearted and noisy, might as well not have been there. Conan, first in line, had the reins of his horse and Vyndra's in one hand and her arm firmly in the other. Discovery would end the need for keeping her, as he was sure she must know, and he was not about to trust the odd passivity she had shown so far.

The edge of the caravan encampment appeared before him, and ingrained caution made him signal a halt. Prytanis began to speak, but Conan angrily motioned him to silence. There was a faint noise, almost too low to hear. The soft tread of horses. Perhaps all of the Vendhyans had not given up on the hunt.

A glance told Conan the others had heard as well. Swords were in hand-Kang Hou held one of his throwing knives-and each man had moved alongside his horse to be ready to mount. The Cimmerian tensed, ready to heave Vyndra aside to relative safety and vault into his saddle, as the other horses appeared.

Five animals were in the other party as well, and Conan almost laughed with relief when he saw those leading the beasts. Shamil and Hasan, each with a protective arm about one of Kang Hou's nieces, and old Ghurran hobbling in the rear.

"It is good to see you," Conan called softly.

The two younger men spun, clawing for their swords. Hasan was somewhat hampered by Chin Kou clutching at him, but Kuie Hsi came up with a knife poised to throw. A dangerous family, the Cimmerian thought.

Ghurran merely watched expressionessly as though no fear remained in him.

The two groups joined, everyone attempting whispered conversation, but Conan silenced them with a hiss. "We talk when we are safe," he told them softly, "and that is far from here." Lifting Vyndra into her saddle, he adjusted the soldier's cloak to give her a modicum of decency. "I will find you something to wear," he promised. "Perhaps you will dance for me yet." She stared at him above the gag, the expression in her eyes unreadable.

As Conan swung into his own saddle, a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he had to clutch the high pommel to keep from falling. Ghurran was at his side in an instant. "I'll compound the potion as soon as I can,"

the old herbalist said. "Hang on."

"I've no intention of anything else," Conan managed through gritted teeth. Leading Vyndra's horse by the reins, he kneed his own mount to motion, into the night toward Vendhya. He would not let go.

There were debts to pay, and two men to kill first.

Chapter XVII

Naipal looked at the man facing him, a thin, hard-eyed Vendhyan who could have been a soldier, and wondered at what motivated him. Neither personal gain nor power seemed to impress the other man. He showed no signs of love or hate or pride, nor of any other emotion. It made the wizard uneasy, confronting a man who exposed so little by which he might be manipulated.

"You understand, then?" Naipal said. "When Bhandarkar is dead, the oppression will end. Shrines to Karat will be allowed in every city."

"Have I not said that I understand?" the nameless representative of the Katari asked quietly.

They were alone in the round chamber, its shallow-domed ceiling a bas-relief of ancient heroes. Golden lamps on the walls gave soft illumination. No food or drink had been brought, for the Katari would not eat in the dwelling of one who invoked the services of his cult.

They stood because the Katari did, and the wizard did not want the other looming over him. A standing man had the advantages of height and position over a seated man.

"You have not said it will be done." Naipal was hard pressed to keep irritation out of his voice. There was so much to be done this day, but this part was as important as any and must be handled delicately.

Along with the other things that did not impress or affect one of the Katari was the power of a sorcerer. Spells could destroy a Katari as quickly as any other man, but that meant little to one who believed to his core that death, however it came, meant instantly being taken to the side of his goddess. It all gave the wizard an ache in his temples.

"It will be done," the Katari said. "In return for what you have promised, Bhandarkar, even on his throne, will be dedicated to the goddess. But if the promises are not kept . . ."

Naipal ignored the threat. That was an aspect he could deal with later.

He certainly had no intention of giving additional power to a cult that could, and assuredly would, undermine him. The khorassani could certainly protect him against the assassin's knife. Or a bodyguard of resurrected warriors from King Orissa's tomb.

"You understand also," the wizard said, "that the deed must be done when I signal it? Not before. Not an hour before."

"Have I not said that I understand?" the other repeated.

Naipal sighed. The Katari had the reputation of killing in their own time and their own way, but even if Bhandarkar had not protected himself against spells, there could be nothing of sorcery connected with his death. The appearance of clean hands would be essential to Naipal, for he wanted a land united willingly under the supposed leadership of Karim Singh, not one ravaged by opposition and war. And who would believe a wizard would use the Katari when he could slay so easily by other means?

"Very well," Naipal said. "At my sign, Bhandarkar is to die by Katari knives, on his throne, in full view of his nobles and advisers."

"Bhandarkar will die."

With that Naipal had to be satisfied. He offered the Katari a purse of gold, and the man took it with neither change of expression nor word of gratitude. It would go to the coffers of the Katari, the wizard knew, and so was no cord to bind the fellow, but habit made him try.

When the assassin was gone. Naipal paused only to fetch the golden coffer containing the demon-wrought dagger, then made his way hurriedly to the gray-domed chamber far below the palace. The resurrected warrior stood his ceaseless vigil against a wall, unsleeping, untiring. Naipal did not look at him. The newness was gone, and what was a single warrior to the numbers he would raise from the dead?

Straight to the ivory chest he went, unhesitatingly throwing back the lid and brushing aside the silken coverings. In the mirror there was a single campfire, seen from a great height. For seven days the mirror had shown a fire by night and a small party of riders by day, first on the plains beyond the Himelias, now in the very mountains themselves.

Almost out of them, in fact. They moved more slowly than was necessary.

It had taken some time for him to realize that they actually followed the caravan bringing the chests to him. Salvation and potential disaster would arrive together.

Seven days of seeing the proof of Karim Singh's failure had taken much of the sting away though. It no longer affected him as it had, watching possible doom approach. In truth, except for the pain behind his eyes that had come while talking to the Katari, Naipal felt almost numb. So much to do, he thought as he closed the box, and so little time remaining. The strain was palpable. But he would win, as he always did.

Moving quickly, he arranged the khorasrani on their golden tripods. The incantations of power were spoken. Fires brighter than the sun leaped and flared and formed a cage. The summoning was cried and with a thunderous clap, Masrok floated before him in the bound void, weapons glowing in five of its eight obsidian fists.

"It is long, O man," the demon cried angrily, "since you have summoned me. Have you not felt the stone pulse against your flesh?"

"I have been busy. Perhaps I did not notice." Days since, Naipal had removed the black opal from about his neck to escape that furious throbbing. Masrok had to be allowed to ripen. "Besides, you yourself said that time did not matter to one such as you."

Masrok's huge form quivered as though on the point of leaping at the fiery barriers constraining it. "Be not a fool, O man! Within the limits of my prison have I been confined, and only its empty vastness on levels beyond your knowing has saved me. My other selves know that one of the Sivani's no more! How long can I flee them?"

"Perhaps there is no need to flee them. Perhaps your day of freedom is close, leaving those others bound for eternity. Bound away from you as well as from the world."

"How, O man? When?"

Naipal smiled as he did when a man brought to hopeless despair by his maneuverings displayed the first cracks before shattering. "Give me the location of King Orissa's tomb," he said quietly. "Where lies the centuries-lost city of Maharastra?"

"No!" The word echoed ten thousand times as Masrok spun into an ebon blur, and the burning walls of its cage howled with the demon's rage.

"I will never betray! Never!"

The wizard sat, silent and waiting, until the fury had quieted. "Tell me, Masrok," he commanded.

"Never, O man! Many times have I told you there are limits to your binding of me. Take the dagger that I gave you and strike at me. Slay me, O man, if that is your wish. But I will never betray that secret."

"Never?" Naipal tilted his head quizzically, and the cruel smile returned to his lips. "Perhaps not." He touched the golden coffer, but only for an instant. "I will not slay you, however. I will only send you back and leave you there for all of time."

"What foolishness is this, O man?"

"I will not send you back to those levels vaster than my mind can know, but to that prison you share with your remaining other selves. Can even a demon know fear if its pursuers are also demons? I can only slay you, Masrok. Will they slay you when at last they overtake you? Or can demons devise tortures for demons? Will they kill you, or will you continue to live, to live until the end of time under tortures that will make you remember your prison as the most sublime of paradises?

Well, Masrok?"

The huge demon stared at him malevolently, unblinking, unmoving. Yet Naipal knew. Were Masrok a man, that man would be licking his lips and sweating. He knew!

"My freedom, O man?" the demon said at last. "Free of serving you as well?"

"When the tomb is located," Naipal replied, "and the army buried there is within my grasp, you will have your freedom. With, of course, a binding spell to make certain you can neither harm nor hinder me in the future."

"Of course," Masrok said slowly.

The part about the binding spell was perfect, Naipal thought. A concern for his own future safety was certain to convince the demon he meant to go through with the bargain.

"Very well, O man. The ruins of Maharastra lie ten leagues to the west of Gwandiakan, swallowed ages past by the Forests of Ghendai." Victory!

Naipal wanted to jump to his feet and dance. Gwandiakan! It must be an omen, for the first city at which Karim Singh's caravan would rest once across the Himelias was Gwandiakan. He must contact the wazam with the scrying glass. He would race to meet the chests there and go immediately to the tomb. But no wonder the ruins had never been found.

No road had ever been seen through the Forests of Ghendai, and few had ever tried to cut its tall trees for their wood. Huge swarms of tiny, stinging flies drove men mad and those who escaped the flies succumbed to a hundred different fevers that wracked the body with pain before they killed. Some men would rather die than enter those forests.

"Maps," he said suddenly. "I will need maps so my men will not go astray. You will draw them for me."

"As you command, O man."

The demon's weary defeat was triumphal music to Naipal's ears.

Chapter XVIII

From the hills overlooking Gwandiakan, Conan stared at the city in amazement. Alabaster towers and golden domes and columned temples atop tiered, man-made hills of stone spread in vast profusion, surrounded by a towering stone wall leagues in circumference.

"'Tis bigger than Sultanapur," Enam said in awe.

"'Tis bigger than Sultanapur and Aghrapur together," Hordo said. Kang Hou and his nieces seemed to take the city's size as a matter of course, while Hasan and Shamil had eyes only for the Khitan women. "You judge by the smallness of your own lands," Vyndra mocked. She sat her horse unbound, for Conan had seen no reason to keep her tied once they were away from the caravan. She wore robes of green silk from bundles of clothing the Khitan women had gathered for themselves. They were smaller women than she, and the tightness of her current garb delineated her curves to perhaps greater perfection than she might have wished. "Many cities in Vendhya are as large or larger," she went on.

"Why, Ayodhya is three times so great."

"Are we to sit here all day?" Ghurran demanded grumpily. As the others had grown tired with journeying, the herbalist had seemed to gain energy, but all of it went to irritability.

Prytanis jumped in with still nastier tones. "What of this palace she has been telling us of? After days of living on what we can snare, with naught to drink but water, I look forward to wine and delicacies served by a willing wench. Especially as the Cimmerian wants to keep this one for himself."

Vyndra's face colored, but she merely said, "I will take you there."

Conan let her take the lead, though he kept his horse close behind hers as they wended their way out of the hills. He was far from sure of what to make of the Vendhyan woman or her actions. She had made no attempt to escape and ride to the caravan, even when she knew it was just out of sight ahead of them, with a plain trail showing the way. And he often caught her watching him, a strange, unreadable look in her dark eyes. He had made no advances to her, for it seemed wrong after he had carried her away bodily. She would see a threat behind any words he might say, and she had done nothing to earn that. So he watched her in turn, uneasily, wondering when this strange calm she affected would end.

Their way led toward the city for only a short time, then turned to the west. Before they came out of the hills, Conan could see many palaces in that direction, great blocks of pale, columned marble gleaming in the sun in the midst of open spaces scattered over leagues of forest to the north and south. Still farther to the west, the trees grew taller, and there were no palaces there that he could see.

Suddenly the trees through which they rode were gone, and before them was a huge structure of ivory spires and alabaster domes, with rising terraces of fluted columns and marble stairs at the front a hundred paces wide. On each side was a long pool bordered by broad marble walks and reflecting the palace in its mirror-smooth waters.

As they rode toward the great expanse of deep-run stairs, Vyndra spoke suddenly. "Once Gwandiakan was a favored summer resort of the court, but many came to fear the fevers of the forests to the west. I have not been here since I was a child, but I know there are a few servants still, so perhaps it is habitable." She bounced from her saddle and bounded up the broad stairs, needing two paces to a single stairstep.

Conan climbed down from his horse more slowly, and Hordo with him.

"Does she play some Vendhyan game with us?" the one-eyed man asked.

Conan shook his head silently; he was as uncertain as his friend.

Abruptly a score of men in white turbans and pale cotton tunics appeared at the head of the stairs. The Cimmerian's hand went to his sword, but the men ignored those at the foot of the stair and bent themselves almost double bowing to Vyndra, murmuring words that did not quite reach Conan's ear.

Vyndra turned back to the others. "They remember me. It is as I feared.

There are only a few servants, and the palace is much deteriorated, but we may find some bare comforts."

"I know the comforts I want," Prytanis announced loudly. "The three prettiest wenches I can find. Strip them all and I'll choose."

"My serving women are to be gently treated," Vyndra said angrily.

"You forget you are a prisoner, wench!" the slitnosed man snarled.

"Were the Cimmerian not here, I would-"

"But I am here," Conan said in hard tones. "And if she wants her serving girls treated gently, then you will treat them like your own sisters."

Prytanis met the Cimmerian's iron gaze for only a moment, then his dark eyes slid away. "There are tavern wenches in the city, I'll wager," he muttered. "Or do you wish them treated like sisters as well?"

"Have a care if you go into the city," Conan told him. "Remember, foreigners are all considered spies in this land."

"I can look after myself," the Nemedian growled. Sawing at the reins, he jerked his horse around and galloped off in the direction of Gwandiakan.

"Another must go as well," Conan said as he watched Prytanis disappear.

"I'd not trust him to discover what we must know, but information is needed. The caravan entered the city, but how long will it remain? And what does Karim Singh do? Hordo, you see that none of Vyndra's servants run off to tell of strangers here. There has been nothing to indicate Karim Singh knows we follow, so let us see that that does not change. I will go into-"

"Your pardon," Kang Hou broke in. "It will take long for an obvious outlander such as yourself to learn anything of interest, for talk will die in your presence. On the other hand, my niece, Kuie Hsi, has often passed as a Vendhyan woman in aid of my business. If she can obtain the proper clothing here . . ."

"I cannot like sending a woman in my place," Conan said but the Khitan only smiled.

"I assure you I would not send her if I thought the danger were too great for her."

Conan looked at Kuie Hsi, standing straight and serene beside Shamil.

In her embroidered robes she looked plainly Khitan, but with her dusky coloring and the near lack of an epicanthic fold on her eyes, it seemed barely possible. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "But she is only to look and listen. Asking questions could draw the wrong eyes to her and I'll not let her take that chance."

"I will tell her of your concern," the merchant said.

Servants came-silent turbaned men bowing as they took away the horses, even more deeply bowing men and women, smiling as they proffered silver goblets of cool wine and golden trays with damp towels for dusty hands and faces.

A round-faced, swarthy man appeared before Conan, bobbing quick bows as he spoke. "I am Punjar, master, steward of the palace. My mistress has commanded me to see personally to your wishes."

Conan looked for Vyndra and could not see her. The servants made a milling mass about the Cimmerian's party on the stairs, asking how they might serve, speaking of baths and beds. Momentary thoughts of devious traps flitted through his mind. But Kang Hou was following a serving girl in one direction while his nieces were led in another and Conan had few remaining doubts of the merchant's ability to avoid a snare.

Ghurran, he saw, had retained his horse.

"Do you mistrust this place, herbalist?" Conan asked.

"Less than you, apparently. Of course she is both a woman and a Vendhyan, which means that she will either guard you with her life or kill you in your sleep." Days in the open had darkened and weathered the old man's skin, making it less parchmentlike, and his teeth gleamed whitely as he grinned at Conan's discomfort. "I intend to ride into Gwandiakan. It is possible I might find the ingredients for your antidote there."

"That old man," Hordo grumbled as the herbalist rode away, "seems to live on sunlight and water, like a tree. I do not think he even sleeps."

"You merely grow jealous as you catch up to him in age," Conan said and laughed as the one-eyed man scowled into his beard.

The corridors through which Punjar led him made the Cimmerian wonder at Vyndra's comment that the palace was barely habitable. The varicolored carpets scattered on polished marble floors, the great tapestries lining the walls, were finer than any he had seen in palaces in Nemedia or Zamora, lands noted in the West for their luxury. Golden lamps set with amethyst and opal hung on silver chains from ceilings painted with scenes of ancient heroes and leopard hunts and fanciful winged creatures. Cunningly wrought ornaments of delicate crystal and gold sat on tables of ebony and ivory inlaid with turquoise and silver.

The baths were pools mosaicked. in geometric patterns, but among the multi-hued marble tiles were others of agate and lapis lazuli. The waters were warm in one pool, cool in another, and veiled serving girls in their servant's pristine white scurried to pour perfumed oils into the water, to bring him soaps and soft toweling. He kept his broadsword close at hand, moving it from the side of one pool to the side of the next as he changed temperatures, and this set the women twittering softly to one another behind their veils. He ignored their shocked looks; to disarm himself was to show more trust than he could muster.

Refusing the elaborate silken robes-including, he saw with some amusement, the long lengths of silk to wind into a turban-that they brought to replace his dusty, travel-stained garb, Conan chose out a plain tunic of dark blue and belted on his sword over that. Punjar appeared again, bowing deeply.

"If you will follow me, master?" The round-faced man seemed nervous and Conan kept a hand on his sword-hilt as he motioned the other to lead.

The chamber to which Conan was taken had a high vaulted ceiling and narrow columns worked in elaborate gilded frescoes. Surely such columns were too thin to be meant for support. At the top of the walls intricate latticework had been cut in the marble; the scrolled openings were tiny, Conan noted, but perhaps still large enough for a crossbow bolt.

The floor, of crimson and white diamond-shaped tile of marble, was largely bare, though a profusion of silken cushions was scattered to one side. Placed beside the cushions were low tables of hammered brass bearing golden trays of dates and figs, a ruby-studded golden goblet and a tall crystal flagon of wine. Conan wondered if it were poisoned and then almost laughed aloud at the thought of poisoning a man already dying of poison.

"Pray be seated, master," Punjar said, gesturing to the cushions. Conan lowered himself but demanded, "Where is Vyndra,"

"My mistress rests from her travels, master, but she has commanded an entertainment for you. My mistress begs that you excuse her absence, and begs also that you remember her request that her serving women be treated gently." Bowing once more, he was gone.

Abruptly music floated from the latticework near the ceiling-the thrum of citherns, the piping of flutes, the rhythmic thump of tambours.

Three women darted into the room with quick, tiny steps to stand in the center of the bare floor. Only their hands and feet were not covered by thick layers of many-colored silk, and opaque veils covered their faces from chin to eyes. To the sound of the music they began to dance, finger-cymbals clinking and tiny golden bells tinkling at their ankles.

Even for a Vendhyan, Conan thought, this was too elaborate a way to kill a man. Filling the goblet with wine, he reclined to watch and enjoy.

At first the dancers' steps were slow but by tiny increments their speed increased. In flowing movements they spun and leaped, and with each spin, with each leap, a bit of colorful silk drifted away from them. Graceful jumps in unison they made, with legs outstretched, or they writhed with feet planted and arms twined above their heads. The length and breadth of the floor they covered, now moving away from him, now gliding almost to the cushions. Then all the silks were gone save their veils, and the three lush-bodied women danced in only their satiny skins, gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration.

At the sharp clap of Conan's hands, the dancers froze, rounded breasts heaving from their exertions. The musicians, unseeing and unaware of what transpired, played on.

"You two go," the Cimmerian commanded, indicating his choices. "You stay and dance." Dark eyes exchanged uncertain glances above veils.

"Your mistress commanded an entertainment for me," he went on. "Must I drag the three of you through the palace in search of her to tell her you will not obey?" The looks that passed between the women were frightened now. The two he had pointed out ran from the chamber. The third woman stared after them as though on the point of running also.

"Dance for me," Conan said.

Hesitantly, reluctantly, she found her steps again. Before, the dancers had seemed, more aware of the music than of Conan, but now this woman's head turned constantly, independent of her dance, to keep her dark eyes on his face. She flowed across the floor, whirling and leaping as gracefully as before, but there was a nervousness, too, as though she felt his gaze as a palpable caress on her nudity.

As she came close to him, Conan grabbed a slim, belled ankle. With a squeal she toppled to the cushions and lay staring at him over her veil with wide eyes. For long moments there was no sound but the music and her agitated breathing.

"Please, master," she whispered finally. "My mistress asks that her serving women-"

"Am I your master then?" Conan asked. Idly he ran a finger from slender calf to rounded thigh, and she shivered. "What if I send for Punjar, saying you have not pleased me? What if I demand he switch you here and now?"

"Then I ... I would be switched, master," she whispered and swallowed hard.

Conan shook his head. "Truly, Vendhyans are mad. Would you really go so far to hide the truth from me?" Before she could flinch away, he snatched the veil from her face.

For an instant Vyndra stared up at him, scarlet suffusing her cheeks.

Then her eyes snapped shut, and frantically she tried to cover herself with her arms.

"It did not work with Kang Hou," Conan laughed, "and it does not work with me." Her blush deepened and her eyes squeezed tighter. "This time your playing at games has gone awry," he said, leaning over her. "One chance, and one chance only, will I give you to run and then I will show you what men and women do who do not play games."

The crimson did not leave her cheeks, but her eyes opened just enough for her to look at him through long lashes. "You fool," she murmured.

"I could have run from you any day since my hands were unbound."

Throwing her arms about his neck, she pulled him down to her.

Chapter XIX

As shadows lengthened with the sinking sun, Conan left Vyndra sleeping on the cushions and went in search of more wine. "Immediately, master,"

a servant said in response to his request, adding at his next question, "No, master, the two men have not yet returned from the city. I know nothing of the Khitan woman, master."

Finding a chamber with tall, arched windows looking to the west, Conan sat with his foot on the windowsill and his back against its frame. The sun, violent red in a purpling sky, hung its own diameter above the towering trees in the distance. It was a grim sight, fit for his mood.

The day had been useless. Waiting in the palace, even making love to Vyndra, however enjoyable, now seemed time wasted. At least in following the caravan this far there had been the illusion of doing something about the poison in his veins, of hunting down the men whose deaths he must see to before his own. One of those men, at least, was in the city, not a league distant, and here he sat, waiting.

"Patil?"

At the soft female voice, he looked around. An unveiled Vendhyan woman stood in the doorway of the chamber, her plain robes of cotton neither those of a servant nor of a noble.

"You do not recognize me," she said with a smile, and abruptly he did.

"Kuie Hsi," he gasped. "I did not believe you could so completely-"

Impatiently he put all that aside. "What did you learn?"

"Much, and little. The caravan remained in the city only hours, for the merchants' markets are in Ayodhya and the nobles are impatient to reach the court. Karim Singh, however," she added as he leaped to his feet, "is yet in Gwandiakan, though I could not learn where."

"He will not escape me," Conan growled. "Nor this Naipal, wizard though he be. But why does the wazam remain here rather than going on to the court?"

"Perhaps because, according to rumor, Naipal has been in Gwandiakan for two days. As his face is known to few, however, this cannot be confirmed."

Conan's fist smacked into his palm. "Crom, but this cannot be other than fate. Both of them within my grasp. I will finish it this night."

The Khitan woman caught his arm as he started from the chamber. "If you mean to enter Gwandiakan, take care, for the city is uneasy. Soldiers have been arresting the children of the streets, all of the homeless urchins and beggar children, supposedly on the orders of the wazam.

Many are angered, and the poorer sections of the city need but a spark to burst into flame. The streets of Gwandiakan could run with blood over this."

"I have seen blood before," he said grimly, and then he was striding down the tapestried corridors. "Punjar! My horse!"

But half-awake, Vyndra stretched on the cushions, noting lazily that the lamps had been lit and night was come. Abruptly she frowned.

Someone had laid a silken coverlet over her. With a gasp she clutched the covering to her at the sight of Chin Kou. The Khitan woman's arms were filled with folds of many-colored silk.

"I brought garments," Chin Kou said.

Vyndra pulled the coverlet up about her neck. "And what made you think I would need clothing?" she demanded haughtily.

"I am sorry," Chin Kou said, turning to leave. "No doubt when you wish to cover yourself, you will summon servants. I will leave you the coverlet since you seem to desire that."

"Wait!" Blushing, Vyndra fingered the coverlet. "I did not know. As you have brought the garments, you might as well leave them."

Chin Kou arched an eyebrow. "There is no need to take such a tone with me. I know very well what you were doing with the chengli who calls himself Patil." Vyndra groaned, the scarlet in her cheeks deepening.

After a moment the merchant's daughter took pity. "I was doing the same thing with the chengli who calls himself Hasan. Now I know your secret and you know mine. You fear only shame before your servants. My uncle's switch produces a much greater smarting than mere shame."

Vyndra stared at the other woman as though seeing her for the first time. It was not that she had been unaware of Chin Kou, but the Khitan was a merchant's niece and surely merchants' nieces did not think and feel in the same way as a woman born of the Kshatriya blood. Or did they? "Do you love him?" she asked. "Hasan, I mean?"

"Yes," Chin Kou said emphatically, "though I do not know if he returns my feelings. Do you love the man called Patil?"

Vyndra shook her head. "As well love a tiger. But," she added with a mischievousness she could not control, "to be made love to by a tiger is a very fine thing."

"Hasan," Chin Kou said gravely, "is also very vigorous."

Suddenly the two women were giggling, and the giggles became deep-throated laughter.

"Thank you for the clothing," Vyndra said when she could talk again.

Tossing aside the coverlet, she rose. Chin Kou aided her in dressing, though she did not ask it, and once she was garbed, she said, "Come. We will have wine and talk of men and tigers and other strange beasts."

As the Khitan woman opened her mouth to reply, a shrill scream echoed through the palace, followed by the shouts of men and the clang of steel on steel.

Chin Kou clutched at Vyndra's arm. "We must hide."

"Hide!" Vyndra exclaimed. "This is my palace and I will not cower in it like a rabbit."

"Foolish pride speaks," the smaller woman said. "Think what kind of bandits would attack a palace! Do you think your noble blood will protect you?"

"Yes. And you also. Even brigands will know that a ransom will be paid, for you and your sister as well, once they know who I am."

"Know who you are?" came a voice from the doorway, and Vyndra jumped in spite of herself.

"Kandar," she breathed. Pride said to stand her ground defiantly, but she could not stop herself from backing away as the cruel-eyed prince swaggered into the chamber, a bloody sword in his fist. In the corridor behind him were turban-helmed soldiers, also with crimson-stained weapons.

He stooped to take something from the floor-the veil she had worn while dancing-and fingered it thoughtfully as he advanced. "Perhaps you think you are a noblewoman," he said, "perhaps even the famous Lady Vyndra, known for the brilliance of her wit and the dazzling gatherings at her palaces? Alas, the tale has been well told already of how the Lady Vyndra fell prey beyond the Himelias to a savage barbarian who carried her off, to death perhaps, or slavery."

"What can you possibly hope to gain by this farce?" Vyndra demanded, but the words faded as six veiled women, swathed in concealing layers of silk, entered the room. And with them was Prytanis.

Smirking, the Nemedian leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

"The gods are good, wench," he said, "for who should I find in Gwandiakan but Prince Kandar, who was interested to learn of the presence of a certain woman nearby. A purse of gold he offered for the nameless jade, and I could only accept his generosity."

Annoyance flashed across Kandar's face, but he seemed otherwise unaware of the other man. "Prepare her," he commanded. "Prepare both of them. I will not refuse an extra trifle when it is put before me."

"No!" Vyndra screamed.

She whirled to run, but before she had crossed half the chamber, three of the veiled women were on her, pushing her to the floor. With a corner of her mind she was aware of the other three holding Chin Kou, but panting desperation flooded every part of her. Frantically, futilely, she fought, but the women rolled her this way and that, stripping away her so-recently donned robes with humiliating ease. When she was naked, they would not allow her to regain her feet but dragged her writhing across the floor with kicking legs trailing behind her. At Kandar's feet they forced her to her knees and his gaze chilled her to the bone, turning her muscles to water, stilling her struggles. Chin Kou was knelt beside her, as naked as she and sobbing with terror, but Vyndra could not take her eyes from Kandar's.

"You cannot hope to get away with this," she whispered. "I am not some nameless-"

"You are nameless," he snapped. "I told you, the Lady Vyndra is gone"-slowly he fastened the veil across her face by its tiny silver chain-"and in her place is a new addition to my purdhana. I think I will name you Maryna."

"Your sister," Vyndra panted. She had had no trouble with the veil while dancing; now it seemed to restrict her breathing. "I will free Alyna. I will-" His slap jerked her head sideways.

"I have no sister," he growled.

"What of my gold?" Prytanis demanded suddenly. "The wench is yours, and I want my payment."

"Of course." Kandar took a purse from his belt, tossing it to the slitnosed man. "It is satisfactory,"

Prytanis eagerly untied the purse strings and spilled some of the golden coins into his palm. "It is satisfactory," he said. "If only Conan could see-" His words ended in a grunt as Kandar's sword thrust into his middle. Gold rang on the floor tiles as he grabbed the blade with both hands.

Kandar met the Nemedian's unbelieving gaze levelly. "You gazed on the unveiled faces of two women of my purdhana," he explained. The razor steel slid easily from the dying man's grasp, and Prytanis fell atop his gold.

Face smarting, Vyndra gathered the last shreds of her courage. "To kill your own hirelings and take back the gold is like you, Kandar. You were always a fool and a worm." His dark gaze made her realize it had been the last of her courage. She clenched her teeth with the effort of facing him.

"He saw your face unveiled," the prince said, "and that of the Khitan woman, so he had to die, for my honor. But he earned the gold and I am no thief. You will be beaten once for that and again for each of the other insults."

"I am of the Kshatriya blood." Vyndra spoke the words for her own benefit, as though to deny what had happened, and no one else seemed to notice them.

"This was the last of your strange companions," Kandar continued. "The others are already dead. All of them."

A whimper rose in Vyndra's throat. The vanishing of a small hope she had not known was there until it was gone, the hope that the huge barbarian would rescue her, left her now truly with nothing. "You will never break me," she whispered and knew the emptiness of the words even as they left her lips.

"Break you?" Kandar said mockingly. "Of course not. But there must be some small training in obedience. Some small humbling of your pride."

Vyndra wanted to shake her head in denial, but his eyes held hers like a serpent mesmerizing a bird. "On the morrow you will be placed on a horse, garbed as now, and paraded through the streets of Gwandiakan so that all may see the beauty of my new possession. Bring them!" he snapped at the women.

With all of her heart Vyndra wanted to muster a shout of defiance, but she knew, as she was dragged to the horses, that it was a wail of despair that echoed in the halls of her palace.

Chapter XX

At a crude plank table by himself in the corner of a dirt-floored tavern, Conan was reminded of Sultanapur as he tugged the hood of his dark cloak, borrowed from a groom at Vyndra's palace, deeper over his face. Wondering when he would next be in a city without the need to hide his features, he emptied half the cheap wine in his wooden tank in one long swallow.

The others in the tavern were Vendhyans all, though far from the nobles or wealthy of Gwandiakan. Carters who smelled of their oxen rubbed elbows with masons' apprentices in tunics stained with gray splashes of dried mortar. Nondescript turbaned men hunkered over their wine or talked in hushed tones with black eyes darting to see who might overhear. The smell of sour wine warred with incense, and the muted babble of voices did not quite mask the tinkle of bells at the wrists and ankles of sloe-eyed doxies parading through the tavern. Unlike their sisters in the West, their robes covered them from ankle to neck, but those robes were of the sheerest gossamer, concealing nothing. The jades found few customers, though, and the usual frivolity of taverns was absent. The air was filled with a tension darker than the night outside the walls. The Cimmerian was not the only man to keep his face hidden.

Conan signaled for more wine. A serving wench, her garb but a trifle more opaque than that of the trulls, brought a rough clay pitcher, took his coin and hurried away without a word, obviously eager to return to her cubbyhole and hide.

That tightly wound nervousness had been evident in the entire city from his arrival, and it had grown tighter as the night went on. Soldiers were still arresting homeless waifs and beggar children, such few as had not gone to ground like pursued foxes, carrying them off to the fortress prison that stood in the center of Gwandiakan. But even the soldiers could sense the mood of the sullen throngs. Patrols now often numbered a hundred men, and they moved as though expecting attack at any moment.

The streets had been full of talk earlier, full of rumor, and the Cimmerian had no trouble in hearing of the men he sought. Quickly he learned the location of Prince Kandar's palace, one of the few east of the city, and of that where Karim Singh was said to be staying. Before he had gone a hundred paces, however, he heard of another palace said to house the wazam, and fifty paces beyond that a third, both widely separated from each other and from the first. Each corner brought a new rumor. Half the palaces of Gwandiakan were said to contain Karim Singh.

Tongues could be found to name every palace as housing Naipal, and many spoke of an invisible palace constructed in a night by the mage, while still others claimed the wizard watched the city from above, from the clouds. In the end it was frustration that had sent Conan into the tavern.

A wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with the wine swept over him, not for the first time that night, clouding his vision. Grimly he fought it off, and when his eyes cleared, Hordo was sliding onto a bench across the table from him.

"I have been looking for you for hours," the one-eyed man said. "Kandar attacked Vyndra's palace with a hundred lancers and took Vyndra and the Khitan's niece, Chin Kou. Prytanis was with him."

With a snarl Conan smashed his wooden tankard to the dirt floor.

Momentary silence rolled through the room, and every eye swiveled to him. Then, hastily, talk began again. It was not a night to become involved in a stranger's anger.

"The men?" Conan asked.

"Nicks and cuts. No more. We managed to get to the horses and Kuie Hsi found us a place to hide, an abandoned temple on something called the Street of Dreams, though miserable dreams they must be. A day or two of rest and healing and we'll see what can be done about the wenches."

Conan shook his head, as much to clear it as in negation. "I do not have a day or two. Best you return to this temple. They will need you if they are to make it back to Turan."

"What are you about?" Hordo demanded, but the Cimmerian only clapped his friend on the shoulder and hurried from the tavern. As Conan trotted down the darkened street, he heard the one-eyed man calling behind him, but he did not look back.

The Bhalkhana stallion was stabled near the city gate by which he had entered Gwandiakan, and a coin retrieved the big black from a wizened liveryman. The city gates themselves were massive, ten times the height of a man, and made of black iron plates worked in fanciful designs.

They would not be easily moved, and from the dirt that had accumulated along their bases, it had been years since they were closed. The city's ill ease hung on the turban-helmed gate guards as well, and they only watched him nervously, fingering their spears, as he galloped through.

The one bit of definite information he had learned in his night of listening, the one story that did not change-and the one he had thought least useful even at that-was the location of Kandar's palace. Rage filled him, but it was an icy rage. To die with sword in hand would be much preferable to succumbing to the poison in his veins, but the women must be freed first. Only when they were safe could he allow himself to think of his own concerns.

Short of the palace he rode into a copse of trees and tied the stallion's reins to a branch. Stealth and cunning, bred in his days as a thief, would better serve him now than steel.

Prince Kandar's palace, larger even than Vyndra's, shone in the night with the light of a thousand lamps, a gleaming alabaster intricacy of terraces, domes and spires. Reflection pools stretched on all sides and between them gardens of flowering shrubs reached the very walls of the palace, their myriad blossoms filling the darkness with a hundred perfumes.

Perfumes and blossoms did not interest Conan, but the shrubs served well to cover his silent approach. He was but one shadow among many.

Fingers trained by climbing the cliffs of his native Cimmerian mountains found crevices in the seemingly smooth joining of great marble blocks, and he scaled the palace wall as another man might climb a ladder.

Lying flat atop the broad wall, Conan surveyed what he could of the palace-small courtyards with splashing fountains, intricately friezed towers thrusting toward the sky, colonnaded walks lit by lamps of cunningly wrought gold. Breath caught in his throat, and his hand went unbidden to his sword. Past the fluted columns of one of those colonnades walked a man in robes of gold and crimson with another in what seemed black silk. Karim Singh. And, if the gods were with him, Naipal. With a regretful sigh he released the sword-hilt and watched the two men walk on beyond his sight. The women, he told himself. The women first. Scrambling to his feet, he ran along the wall.

Height was the key, as experience in the cities of Nemedia and Zamora had taught him. A man glimpsed in the upper reaches of a structure, even one who obviously did not belong there, was often ignored. After all, without a right to be there, how could he have traveled so far?

Too, entering on the upper levels meant that every step took a man closer to the ground and his route to escape. Escape was especially important this night, for the two women if not for him.

Cornices, friezes and a hundred elaborate workings of alabaster stone made a swift path for the big Cimmerian. Slipping through a narrow window just below the roof, he found himself in a pitch-dark stuffy room. By touch he quickly ascertained that it was a storeroom for carpets and bedding. The narrow door opened onto a corridor dimly lit by brass lamps. No gold hangings or fine tapestries here, for these upper floors were servants' quarters. Snores drifted from some of the rooms. As silent and grim as a hunting cat, Conan padded into the hall.

Stairs led him down.

Sounds floated from other parts of the palace-an indistinguishable murmur of voices, the thrum of a cithern. Once the single deep toll of a gong echoed mournfully. The Cimmerian let them pass all but unnoticed, his eyes and ears straining instead for the flicker of shadow or hint of a soft footfall that might betray any who could give an alarm.

It was a bedchamber he sought, he was sure of that. From what he knew of Kandar, such would have been his first stop with the women, and it would no doubt suit his fancy to have them awaiting his return were he not still with them. Conan hoped that he was. Karim Singh and Naipal would certainly escape him this night but it would be good to deal with Kandar at least.

The first three bedchambers he found were empty, though golden lamps cast soft light in wait for their eventual occupants. As he stepped into the fourth, only a sense below the levels of understanding threw him into a forward roll an instant before razor steel slashed through the place where his head had been.

Conan came to his feet with broadsword in hand, and a vigorous cut made his attacker leap back. The Cimmerian stared at his opponent, for he had not seen the man's like before, not even in this strange land. A nasaled helm with a thick spike topped his dark expressionless face, and his armor was of leather studded with brass. A long straight sword was in his gauntleted right hand, a shorter curved blade in his left, and he moved as though he knew well the use of each.

"I am here for the women," Conan said in a taunting voice. If he could make the man exchange words with him, the other might not think to give an alarm even while they strove to slay each other. "Tell me where they are, and I'll not kill you." The man's silent rush forced him to throw up his blade in defense.

And it was defense, the Cimmerian realized in shock. His broadsword flashed and darted as swiftly as ever it had, but it was all in a desperate effort to keep the other's steel from striking him. For the first time in his life he faced a man faster than himself. Slashes with the speed of a striking viper forced him back. Snarling, he gambled, continuing the motion of a block with a smash of his fisted hilt to his opponent's face.

The strangely armored man was thrown back, an inlaid table crushed to splinters by his fall, but before Conan could take more than a single step to follow up his attack, the other sprang to his feet. Conan met him in the center of the room, and sparks were struck as steel wove a deadly lace between them. The Cimmerian poured all of his rage-at Kandar, at Naipal, at Karim Singh-into his attack, refusing this time to yield a step. Abruptly a slicing blow of his broadsword sheared through flesh and bone, but even as it did, he was forced to jump back to avoid a decapitating stroke.

Landing on guard and ready to continue, Conan felt the hair on the back of his neck stir. His last blow had stopped his opponent-and indeed it should have, as the short curved sword now lay on the carpet along with the hand that gripped it-but it was obviously only a temporary halt.

That expressionless face had not changed in the least, and the dark flat eyes did not so much as glance at the severed wrist, a wound that gave not a single drop of blood. Sorcery, the Cimmerian thought.

Suddenly the silence in which the other had fought took on eerie quality. And then the murderous assault began anew.

If the sorcerous warrior was accustomed to fighting with two swords, he seemed little less able with only one. Conan met each lightning stroke but his own were met as well. He could match the other now, the Cimmerian knew, one blade against one blade, but could mortal flesh outlast the endurance of sorcery?

Abruptly the severed stump struck the side of Conan's head with a force greater than he would have believed possible, flinging him back as though he were a child. It was his turn to find himself on his back amidst the ruins of a table, but before he could rise, his attacker was on him. Desperately Conan blocked a downward blow that would have split his skull. Among the wreckage of the table his hand closed on a hilt, and he thrust. The other man twisted like a serpent, and the blade cut through his leather armor, slicing across his ribs. As though his bones had melted, the dark warrior collapsed atop Conan.

Quickly the Cimmerian heaved the body from him and sprang to his feet with sword ready, fearing some trick. The leather-armored figure did not move; the flat black eyes were glazed.

In wonder Conan looked at the weapon he had taken up and almost dropped it as he cursed. It seemed a short-sword but the hilt was long enough for two hands, and blade and hilt alike were wrought of some strange silvery metal that glowed with unearthly light.

A smell made his nose twitch and he cursed again. It was the stink of putrefaction. Within the leather armor the corpse of his opponent was already half-decayed, white bone showing through rotted flesh. An ensorcelled warrior slain by an obviously ensorcelled blade. Part of his mind urged Conan to leave the foul thing but another part whispered that such might be useful against a sorcerer like Naipal. Mages were not always so easily slain as other men.

Sheathing his broadsword, he hastily tore silk from the coverlets on the bed and wrapped the silvery weapon, thrusting it behind his swordbelt. As he did so, he heard pounding boots approaching, many of them. The splintered tables, with scattered chests and broken crystal and shattered mirrors, were mute evidence that the battle had not been silent after all. Muttering imprecations, he ran for the windows, climbing through just as a score of Vendhyan soldiers poured into the room.

Once more alabaster ornamentations were his roadway along the wall, but behind him he heard cries of alarm. Upward he climbed, grasping a balustrade to pull himself onto a balcony ... and stopping with one foot over at the sight of another dozen men in turbaned helms. A thrown spear streaked by his head and he threw himself desperately back as other arms were cocked.

Even with knees bent, the force of landing shook him to the bone. More voices took up the cry of alarm, and the thud of running boots came from both left and right. A spear lanced from above to quiver in the ground not a pace from him. He leaped away from the wall, and another spear shivered where he had stood. Bent double, he ran into the garden between the reflecting pools, becoming one with the shadows.

"Guards!" the cries rose. "Guards!" "Beat the gardens!"

"Find him!"

From the edge of the trees Conan watched, teeth bared in a snarl.

Soldiers milled about the palace like ants about a kicked anthill.

There would be no entering that palace again tonight.

Pain ripped through him, muscles spasming, doubling him over. Gasping for breath, he forced himself erect. His hand closed on the silkshrouded hilt of the strange weapon. "I am not dead yet," he whispered, "and it will not be over until I am." With no more sound than the wind in the leaves, he faded into the darkness.

Naipal stared at the ruin of his bedchamber in shocked disbelief, willing himself not to breathe the smell of decay that hung in the air.

The shouts of searching soldiers did not register on his ear. Only the contents of that chamber were real at that moment, and they in a way that turned his stomach with fear and sent blinding pains through his head.

The leather armor held his eye with sickly fascination. A skull grinned up at him from the ancient helm. Bones and dust were all that was left of his warrior. His warrior who could not die. The first of an army that could not die. In the name of all the gods, how had it happened?

With an effort he pulled his gaze from the leather-clad skeleton, but inexorably it fell on the long golden coffer, now lying on its side amid splinters of ebony that had been a table, lying there open and empty. Empty! Shards of elaborately carved ivory were all that was left of the mirror of warning, and naught but a hundred jagged pieces remained of the mirror itself.

Grunting, he bent to pick up half a dozen of the mirror fragments.

Each, whatever its size, was filled by an image, an image that would be on all the other pieces as well, an image that would never change now.

Wonderingly, he studied that grim face in the fragments, a square-cut black mane held back by a leather cord, strange eyes the color and hardness of sapphire, a feral snarl baring white teeth.

He knew who it had to be. The man who called himself Patil. Karim Singh's simple barbarian. But the mirror, even now at the last, would show only what threatened his plans. Could a simple barbarian do that?

Could a simple barbarian seek him out so quickly? Know to break the mirror and steal the demon-wrought dagger? Slay what could not be slain? The pieces fell from Naipal's fingers as he whispered the word he did not want to believe. "Pan-kur-."

"What was that?" Karim Singh asked as he entered the room. The wazam carefully kept his eyes from the thing in leather armor on the floor.

"You look exhausted, Naipal. Kandar's servants will clean this mess, and his soldiers will deal with the intruder. You must rest. I will not have you collapse before you can serve me as king."

"We must go immediately," Naipal said. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. The strain of the past days wore at him, and he would not now take the effort to feign servility. "Tell Kandar to gather his soldiers."

"I have been thinking, Naipal. What will it matter if we wait a few days? Surely it will rain soon, and the stinging flies are said to be better after a rain."

"Fool!" the wizard howled, and Karim Singh's jaw dropped. "You will have me serve you as king? Wait and you will not be king, you will be meat for dogs!" Naipal's eyes went to the scattered fragments of mirror and slid away. "And tell Kandar we must have more soldiers. Tell him to strip the fortress if need be. A simple spell will divert your fearsome flies."

"The governor is uneasy," Karim Singh said shakily. "He obeys but I can tell that he does not believe my reasons for ordering the street children arrested. Given the mood of the city, he might refuse such a command and even if he obeys, he will doubtless send riders to Ayodhya, to Bhandarkar."

"Do not fear Bhandarkar. If you must fear someone . . ." Naipal's voice was soft, but his eyes burned so that Karim Singh took a step back and seemed to have trouble breathing. "Tell the governor that if he defies me, I will wither his flesh and put him in the streets as a tongueless beggar to watch his wives and daughters dragged away to brothels. Tell him!" And the wazam of Vendhya fled like a servant. Naipal forced his gaze back to the fragments of mirror, back to the hundred-times repeated image.

"You will not conquer, pan-kur-," he whispered. "I will yet be victorious over you."

Chapter XXI

Hordo had been right about the Street of Dreams, Conan thought when he first saw it in the gray light of dawn. The stallion picked its way along the dirt roadway between muddy pools of offal and piles of rubble overgrown with weeds. The buildings were skulls, with empty windows for eye sockets. Roofs sagged where they had not fallen in. Walls leaned and some had collapsed, spewing clay bricks across the dirt of the Street, revealing barren, rat-infested interiors. Occasional ragged, furtive shapes appeared in a doorway or darted across the street behind him. The people of the Street of Dreams were like scurrying rodents, fearful to poke their noses into the light. The stench of decay and mold filled the air. Ill dreams indeed, Conan thought. Ill dreams indeed.

The abandoned temple was not hard to find, a domed structure with pigeons fluttering through gaping holes in the dome. Once eight fluted marble columns had stood across its front, but now three had fallen.

Two lay in fragments across the street, weeds growing thickly along their edges. Of the third only a stump remained. Part of the front wall had fallen too, revealing that what must have once seemed to be marble blocks were in truth only a stone facing over clay bricks. The opening widened and heightened the temple door enough for a man to enter on horseback. There was no sign of the smugglers but the gloomy interior could have hidden them easily. Or ten times their number of the area's denizens. Conan drew his sword. He had to duck his head as he rode through the gap in the wall.

Within was a large dim room, its cracked floor tiles covered with dust and broken bricks. The thick pillars here were of wood, all splintered with rot. At the far end of the chamber there was a marble altar, its edges chipped and cracked, but of whatever god it had been raised to, there was no evidence.

Before the stallion had taken three paces into the room, Hordo appeared from behind a pillar. "It is about time you got here, Cimmerian. I was all but ready to give you up for dead this time."

Enam and Shamil stepped out, too, with arrows nocked but not drawn.

Both had bandages showing. "We did not know it was you," the young Turanian said. "There are pigeons roasting on a spit in the back, if you are hungry."

"We try to hide the smell of them," Enam said, spitting. "The people here are like vermin. They look ready to swarm over anyone with food like a pack of rats."

Conan nodded as he stepped down from the saddle. Once on the ground, he had to hold onto the stirrup leather for a moment; the pains and dizziness had not returned, but weakness had come in their place. "I have seen nothing like them," he said. "In Turan or Zamora it is a far cry from palace to beggar, but here it seems two different lands."

"Vendhya is a country of great contrasts," Kang Hou said, approaching from the rear of the ruined structure.

"It is like a melon rotting from within," Conan replied. "A fruit overripe for plucking." The weakness was lessening. It came in cycles.

"Someday perhaps I will return with an army and pluck it."

"Many have said as much," the Khitan replied, "yet the Kshatriyas still rule here. Forgive my unseemly haste, but Hordo has told us you sought Prince Kandar's palace last night. You could not find my niece? Or Lady Vyndra?"

"I could not reach them," Conan said grimly. "But I will before I am done."

Kang Hou's face did not change expression, and all he said was, "Hasan says the pigeons must be taken from the fire. He suggests they be eaten before they grow cold."

"The man must have a heart like stone," Hordo muttered as the other two smugglers followed the Khitan out.

"He is a tough man for a merchant," Conan agreed. He tugged the silk-wrapped weapon from his belt and handed it to his friend. "What do you make of this?"

Hordo gasped as the cloth fell away, revealing the faintly glowing silvery metal. "Sorcery! As soon as I heard there was a wizard in this, I should have turned my horse around." His eye squinted as he peered at the weapon. "This design makes no sense, Cimmerian. A two-handed hilt on a short-sword?"

"It slew a man, or a thing, that my sword did not slow," Conan said.

The one-eyed man winced and hastily rebundled the silk about the weapon. "I do not want to know about it. Here. Take it." He chewed at nothing as the Cimmerian returned the weapon to its place tucked behind his swordbelt, then said, "There has been no sign of Ghurran. How did you pass the night without his potion?"

"Without missing the foul thing," Conan grunted. "Come. I could eat a dozen of those pigeons. Let us get to them before they are gone." There were two large windowless rooms at the back of the temple, one without a roof. In that room was the fire; the other was used as a stable. Enam and Shamil squatted by the fire, wolfing down pigeon. The Khitan ate more delicately, while Hasan sat against a wall, clasping his knees and scowling at the world.

"Where is Kuie Hsi?" Conan wanted to know.

"She left before first light," Hordo told him around mouthfuls of roast pigeon, "to see what she could discover."

"I have returned," the Khitan woman said from the door, "again learning much and little. I was slow in returning because the mood of the city is ugly. Angry crowds roam the streets and ruffians take advantage. A woman alone, I was twice almost assaulted."

"You have a light step," Conan complimented her. He would wager that the men who had "almost" assaulted her rued the incident if they still lived. "What is this much and little you have learned?"

Still in her Vendhyan garb, Kuie Hsi looked hesitantly at Kang Hou, who merely wiped his lips with a cloth and waited. "At dawn," she began slowly, "Karim Singh entered the city. The wizard, Naipal, was with him, and Prince Kandar. They took soldiers from the fortress, increasing the number of their escort to perhaps one thousand lances, and left the city, heading west. I heard a soldier say they rode to the Forests of Ghelai. The chests in which you are so interested went with them on mules."

For an instant Conan teetered on the horns of decision. Karim Singh and Naipal might escape him. There was no way to tell how much time he had left before the poison overtook him completely. Yet he knew there was only one way to decide. "If they took so many soldiers," he said, "few can remain at Kandar's palace to guard Vyndra and Chin Kou."

Kuie Hsi let her eyes drop to the floor, and her voice became a whisper. "There were two women with them, veiled but unclothed, and bound to their saddles. One was Chin Kou, the other the Vendhyan woman.

Forgive me, uncle. I could see her but could do nothing."

"There is nothing to forgive," Kang Hou said, "for you have in no way failed. Any failure is mine alone."

"Perhaps it is," Conan said quietly, "but I cannot feel but that neither woman would be where she is except for me. And that means it is on me to see them safe. I will not ask any of you to accompany me.

Beyond the matter of a thousand soldiers, you know there is a wizard involved, and he will be where I am going."

"Be not a fool," Hordo growled, and Enam added, "The Brotherhood of the Coast does not desert its own. Prytanis never understood that but I do."

"He has Chin Kou," Hasan burst out. "Do you expect me to sit here while he does Mitra alone knows what to her?" He seemed ready to fight Conan if need be.

"As for me," Kang Hou said with an amused smile for Hasan, "she is only my niece, of course." The young Turanian's face colored. "This is a matter of family honor."

Shamil gave a shaky laugh. "Well, I'll not be the only one to stay here. I wanted adventure, and none can say this is not it."

"Then let us ride," Conan said, "before they escape us."

"Patience," Kang Hou counseled. "The Forests of Ghelai are ten leagues distant, and a thousand men ride more slowly than six may. Let us not fail for a lack of preparation. There are stinging flies in the forests, but I know of an ointment that may abate their attack."

"Flies?" Hordo muttered. "Stinging flies; wizards are not enough, Cimmerian? When we are out of this, you will owe me for the flies."

"And returning to Gwandiakan may not be wise," Kuie Hsi offered. "Soon there may be riots. A league this side of the forests there is said to be a well, thought to be a stopping place for caravans in ancient times but long abandoned. There I will await you with food and clothing for Chin Kou and Vyndra. And word if the city is safe. I will draw maps."

Conan knew they were right. How many times in his days as a thief had he sneered at others for their lack of preparation and the lack of success that went with it? But now he could only grind his teeth with the frustration of waiting an instant. Time and the knowledge of the poison in his veins pressed heavily on him. But he would see Vyndra and Chin Kou free-and Karim Singh and Naipal dead-before he died. By Crom, he vowed it.

Chapter XXII

Riding beneath the tall trees of the Forest of Ghelai, Conan was unsure whether Kang Hou's ointment was not worse than the flies it was meant to discourage. There was no smell to it, but the feel on the skin was much like that after wading in a cesspool. The horses had liked having it smeared on them no more than had the men. He slapped a tiny fly that would not be discouraged-the bite was like a red-hot needle stabbing his arm-and grimaced at the glittering-winged swarms that surrounded the meager column. Then again, perhaps the ointment was not so bad.

The forest canopy was far above their heads, many of the trees towering more than a hundred and fifty feet. The high branches were thickly woven, letting little light through, and that seeming tinged with green. Streams of long-tailed monkeys flowed from limb to limb, a hundred rivers of brown fur rolling in a hundred different directions.

Flocks of multicolored birds, some with strange bills or elaborate tail feathers, screamed from high branches while others in a thousand varied hues made brilliant streaks against the green as they darted back and forth.

"There are no such flies on the plains of Zamora," Hordo grumbled, slapping. "I could be there instead of here had I a brain in my head.

There are no such flies on the steppes of Turan. I could be there-"

"If you do not shut your teeth," Conan muttered, "the only place you will be is dead, and likely left to rot where you fall. Or do you think Kandar's soldiers are deaf?"

"They could not hear themselves pass wind for those Mitra-accursed birds," the one-eyed man replied, but he subsided into silence.

In truth Conan did not know how close or how far the Vendhyans might be. A thousand men left a plain trail, but the ground was soft and springy with a thousand years of continuous decay, and the chopping that passed for hoofprints could have been five hours old or the hundredth part of that. The Cimmerian did know the day was almost gone though, for all he could not see the sun. The amount of time they had been riding made that plain, and the dim greenish light was fading. He did not believe the soldiers would continue on in the dark.

Abruptly he reined in, forcing the others behind to do so as well, and peered in consternation at what lay ahead. Huge blocks of stone, overgrown with vines as thick as a man's arm, formed a wide wall fifty feet high that stretched north and south as far as the eye could make out in the dim verdant light. Directly before him was a towered gateway, though the gates that once had blocked it had been gone for centuries by the evidence of a great tree rising in its center. Beyond he could make out other shapes among the forest growth, massive ruins among the trees. And the trail they followed passed through that gateway.

"Would they pass the night in there?" Hordo asked. "Even the gods do not know what might be in a place like that."

"I think," Kang Hou said slowly, "that this might be where they were going." Conan looked at him curiously, but the slight merchant said no more.

"Then we follow," the Cimmerian said, swinging down from his saddle.

"But we leave the horses here." He went on as mouths opened in protest.

"A man hides better afoot, and we must be like ferrets scurrying through a thicket. There are a thousand Vendhyan lancers in this place, remember." That brought them down.

Leaving someone with the animals, Conan decided, was worse than useless. It would reduce their number by one and the man left behind could do nothing if a Vendhyan patrol came on him. All would enter the city together. Conan, sword in hand, was first through the ancient gateway, with Hordo close behind. Enam and Shamil brought up the rear with arrows nocked to their bowstrings. Alone of the small column, Kang Hou seemed unarmed, but the Cimmerian was ready to wager the merchant's throwing knives resided in his sleeves.

Conan had seen ruined cities before, some abandoned for centuries, or even millennia. Some would stand on mountain peaks until the earth shook and buried them. Others endured the sand-laden desert winds, slowly wearing away stone so that in another thousand years or two, unknowing eyes would see only formations of rock and believe chance alone made them resemble an abode of men. This city was different, however, as though some malevolent god, unwilling to wait for the slow wearing away by rain and wind, had commanded the forest to attack and consume all marks of man.

If they crept over the remains of a street, it was impossible to tell, for dirt and a thousand small plants covered all, and everywhere the trees. Much of the city was no more, with no sign that it had ever been. Only the most massive of structures remained-the palaces and the temples. Yet even they fought a losing battle against the forest.

Temple columns were so wreathed in vines that only the regularity of their spacing betrayed their existence. Here the marble tiles of a palace portico bulged with the roots of a giant tree, and there a wall of alabaster, now green with mold, buckled before the onslaught of another huge trunk. Toppled spires lay shrouded by conquering roots and monkeys gamboled on no-longer gleaming domes that might once have sheltered potentates.

The others seemed to feel the oppressiveness of the ruins, but neither Conan nor Kang Hou allowed themselves to be affected, outwardly at least. The Cimmerian would allow no such distractions from whatever time he had left. He ghosted through the fading light with a deadly intensity, eyes striving to pierce the layers of green and shadow ahead. And then there was something to see. Lights. Hundreds of scattered lights, flickering like giant fireflies.

Conan could see little from the ground, but nearby vines like hawsers trailed down from a balcony of what might have once been a palace.

Sheathing his sword and shifting the silk-wrapped sorcerous weapon to a place behind his back, the Cimmerian climbed one of the thick vines hand over hand. The others followed as agilely as the monkeys of the forest.

Crouching behind a green-swathed stone balustrade, Conan studied the lights. They were torches atop poles stuck in the ground, forming a great circle. A knot of Vendhyan cavalrymen clustered around each torch, dismounted and fingering their swords nervously as they peered at the wall of growth surrounding them. Oddly, no insects fluttered in the light of the torches.

"Their ointment is better than yours, Khitan," Enam muttered, crushing one of the stinging flies. No one else spoke for the moment. It was clear enough what the soldiers guarded. The great circle of torches surrounded a building more massive than any Conan had yet seen in the ruined city. Columned terraces and great domes rose more than twice as high as the tallest tree on the forest floor, yet others of the giant trunks rose in turn from those terraces, turning the huge structure into a small mountain.

"If they are in that," Hordo said softly, "how in Zandru's Nine Hells do we find them? It must have a hundred leagues of corridor and more chambers than a man could count."

"They are in there," Kang Hou said. "And I fear we must find them for more than their lives."

Conan eyed the merchant sharply. "What is it you know that I do not?"

"I know nothing," Kang Hou replied, "but I fear much." With that he scurried to the vines and began to climb back down. There was nothing Conan could do but follow.

Once on the ground again, the Cimmerian took the lead. The two women would be with Kandar, and Kandar would certainly be with Karim Singh and Naipal. In the huge building, Kang Hou said, and for all the denials, Conan was sure the man knew something. So be it, he thought.

It was a file of wraiths that flitted through the Vendhyan lines, easily avoiding the few soldiers who rode patrol among the clusters at the torches. Bushes and creepers grew from chinks between the marble blocks of the great structure's broad stairs and lifted tiles on the wide portico at their head. Tall bronze doors stood open, a thick wreathing of vines speaking of the centuries since they had been shifted from their present position. With his sword in advance, Conan entered.

Behind him he heard the gasps of the others as they followed but he knew what caused the sounds of astonishment and so did not look back.

His eyes were all for the way ahead. From the huge portal a wide aisle of grit-covered tiles led between thick columns, layered with gold leaf, to a vast central chamber beneath a dome that towered hundreds of feet above. In the middle of that chamber stood a marble statue of a man, more than half the height of the dome and untouched by time.

Conan's skin prickled at the armor on the figure, stone-carved to represent studded leather. Instead of a nasaled helm, however, a gleaming crown topped the massive head.

"Can that be gold?" Shamil gasped, staring up at the statue.

"Keep your mind to the matter at hand," Hordo growled, "or you'll not live long enough for worrying about gold." His eyes had a glitter though, as if he had calculated the weight of that crown to within a feather.

"I had thought it was but legend," Kang Hou breathed. "I had hoped it was but legend."

"What are you talking about?" Conan demanded. "This is not the first time you have indicated you knew something about this place. I think it is time to tell the rest of us."

This time the Khitan nodded. "Two millennia ago, Orissa, the first King of Vendhya, was interred in a tomb beneath his capital city, Maharastra. For five centuries he was worshiped as a god in a temple built over his tomb and containing a great figure of Orissa wearing a gold crown said to have been made by melting the crowns and scepters of all the lands he had conquered. Then, in a war of succession, Maharastra was sacked and abandoned by its people. With time the very location of the city was lost. Until now."

"That is very interesting," Conan said dryly, "but it has nothing to do with why we are here."

"On the contrary," Kang Hou told him. "If my niece dies, if we all die, we must slay the wizard Naipal before he looses what lies in the tomb beneath this temple. The legends that I know speak vaguely of horrors, but there is a prophecy associated with all of them. 'The army that cannot die will march again at the end of time.' "

Conan looked again at the carved armor, then shook his head stubbornly.

"I am here for the women first. Then I will see to Naipal and the other two."

A boot crunched at one side of the chamber and Conan whirled, his broadsword coming up. A Vendhyan soldier, eyes bulging beneath his turbaned helm, clutched at the throwing knife in his throat and fell to lie still on the floor. Kang Hou hurried to retrieve his blade.

"Khitan merchants seem a tough lot," Hordo said incredulously. "Perhaps we should include him when we divide that crown."

"Matters at hand." Conan grunted. "Remember?"

"I do not say leave the women," the one-eyed man grumbled, "but could we not take the crown as well?"

Conan paid no heed. His interest lay in where the soldier had come from. Only one doorway on that side of the chamber, and that the nearest to the corpse, opened onto stairs leading beneath the temple.

At the base of those stairs he could see a glimmer of light, as of a torch farther on.

"Hide the Vendhyan," he commanded. "If anyone comes looking for him, they'll not think that wound in his throat was made by a monkey."

Impatiently hefting his sword, he waited for Hasan and Enam to carry the corpse into a dark corridor and return alone. Without a word, then, he started down.

Chapter XXIII

In a huge high-ceilinged chamber far beneath the temple once dedicated to Orissa, Naipal again paused in his work to look with longing expectation at the doorway to his power. Many doorways opened into the chamber, letting on the warren of passages that crossed and crisscrossed beneath the temple. This large marble arch, each stone bearing a cleanly incised symbol of sorcerous power, was blocked by a solid mass of what appeared to be smooth stone. Stone it might appear, but a sword rang on it as against steel and left less mark than it would have on that metal. And the whole of the passage from the chamber to the tomb, a hundred paces in length, was sealed with the adamantine substance, so said the strange maps Masrok had drawn.

The wizard swayed with exhaustion, but the smell of success close at hand drove him on, even numbing the ache behind his eyes. Five of the khorassani he placed on their golden tripods at the points of a carefully measured pentagon he had scribed on the marble floor tiles with chalk made from the burned bones of virgins. Setting the largest of the smooth ebon stones on its own tripod, he threw wide his black-robed arms and began the first incantation.

"Ka-my'een dai'el! Da-en'var hoy'aarth! Khora mar! Khora mar!" Louder the chant rose, and louder still, echoing from the walls, ringing in the ears, piercing the skull. Karim Singh and Kandar pressed their hands to their ears, groaning. The two women, naked save for their veils, bound hand and foot, wailed for the pain. Only Naipal reveled in the sound, gloried in the reverberations deep in his bones. It was a sound of power. His power. Eye-searing bars of light lanced from the largest khorassani to each of the others, then from each of those smaller stones to each of its glowing brothers, forming a pentagram of burning brilliance. The air between the lines of fire shimmered and rippled as though flame sliced to gossamer had been stretched there, and the whole hummed and crackled with fury.

"There," Naipal said. "Now the guardian demons, the Sivani, are sealed away from this world unless summoned by name."

"That is all very well," Kandar muttered. Actually seeing the wizard's power had drained some of his arrogance. "But how are we to get to the tomb? My soldiers cannot dig through that. Will your stones' fire melt that which almost broke my blade?"

Naipal stared at the man who would lead the army that was entombed a hundred paces away-at least the man the world would think led it-and watched his arrogance wilt further. The wizard did not like those who could not keep their minds focused on what they were about. Kandar's insistence that the women should witness every moment of his triumph-his triumph!-irritated Naipal. For the moment Kandar was still needed, but, Naipal decided, something painfully fitting would make way for the prince's successor. At least Karim Singh, his narrow face pasty and beaded with sweat, had been cowed to a proper view of matters.

Instead of answering the question, Naipal asked one in tones like the caress of a razor's edge. "Are you sure you made the arrangements I commanded? Carts filled with street urchins should have arrived by now."

"They will come," Kandar answered sullenly. "Soon. I sent my body servant to see if they have come, did I not? But it takes time to gather so many carts. The governor might-"

"Pray he does only what he has been told," Naipal snarled.

The wizard rubbed at his temples fretfully. All of his fine plans, now thrown into a hodgepodge of haste and improvisation by that accursed pan-kur.

Quickly he took the last four khorassani from their ebony chest and placed them on tripods of gold. So close to the demon's prison, they would do for the summoning. He was careful to put the tripods well away from the other five to avoid any interaction. A resonance could be deadly. But there would be no resonance, no failure of any kind. The accursed blue-eyed barbarian, the devil spawn, would be defeated.

"E'las eloyhim! Maraath savinday! Khora mar! Khora mar!"

Conan was grateful for the pools of light from the distantly spaced torches, each only just visible from the last. Seemingly hundreds of dark tunnels formed a maze under the temple but the torches made a path to follow. And at the end of that path must lie what he sought.

Suddenly the Cimmerian stiffened. From behind came the sound of pounding feet. Many pounding feet.

"They must have found the body," Hordo said with a disgusted glare that took in Hasan and Enam.

Conan hesitated only an instant. To remain where they were meant a battle they could not in all probability win. To rush ahead meant running headlong into the gods alone knew what. "Scatter," he ordered the others. "Each must find his way as he can. And Hanuman's own luck go with us all."

The big Cimmerian waited only long enough to see each man disappear down a separate dark passage, then chose his own. The last glimmers of light faded behind him quickly. He slowed, feeling his way along a smooth wall, placing each foot carefully on a floor he could no longer see. With the blade of his sword he probed the blackness ahead.

Yet abruptly that blackness did not seem as complete as it had. For a moment he thought his eyes might be adapting, but then he realized there was a light ahead. A light that was approaching him. Pressing his back against the wall, he waited.

Slowly the light drew closer, obviously bobbing in someone's hand. The shape of a man became clear. It was no torch he carried, though he held it like one, but rather what seemed to be a metal rod topped by a glowing ball.

Conan's jaw tightened at this obvious sorcery. But the man coming nearer looked nothing at all like the one he had seen at Kandar's palace, the man he had thought was Naipal. Recognition came to him in the same instant that the man stopped, peering into the darkness toward Conan was though he sensed a presence. It was Ghurran, but a Ghurran whose apparent age had been halved to perhaps fifty.

"It is I, herbalist," the Cimmerian said, stepping away from the wall.

"Conan. And I have questions for you."

The no-longer-so-old man gave a start, then stared at him in amazement.

"You actually have one of the daggers! How-? No matter. With that I can slay the demon if need be. Give it to me!"

A part of the silk wrapping had scraped loose against the wall, Conan realized, revealing the faintly glowing hilt of silvery metal. With one hand he pushed the cloth back into place. "I have need of it, herbalist. I will pass over how you have made yourself younger, and how that torch was made, but what do you do in this place, at this time?

And why did you abandon me to die from the poison after coming so far?"

"There is no poison," Ghurran muttered impatiently. "You must give me the dagger. You know not what it is capable of."

"No poison!" Conan spat. "I have suffered agonies of it. Not a night gone but the pain was enough to twist my stomach into knots and send fire through my muscles. You said you sought an antidote, but you left me to die!"

"You fool! I gave you the antidote in Sultanapur! All you have felt is your body purging itself of the potions I gave you to make you think you were still poisoned."

"Why?" was all Conan said.

"Because I had need of you. My body was too frail to make this journey alone, but as soon as I saw the contents of those chests, I knew I must. Naipal prepares to loose a great evil on the world, and only I can stop him. But I must have that dagger!"

A widening of Ghurran's eyes warned Conan as much as did the increase in light. The Cimmerian dropped to a crouch and threw himself to one side, twisting and stabbing as he did. A Vendhyan tulwar sliced above his head, but his own blade went through the soldier's middle. The dying man fell, and his two fellows, rushing at his heels, went down in a heap atop Conan. The big Cimmerian grappled with them in the light of their fallen torch. Ghurran and his glowing rod had vanished.

In a struggling pile the three men rolled atop the torch. One of the Vendhyans screamed as the flames were ground out against his back, then screamed again as a dagger found his flesh. Conan's hands closed on the head of the soldier who had slain his companion by mistake. The sound of a neck breaking was a loud snap in the dark.

But it need not be total dark Conan thought as he climbed to his feet.

Without hesitation he unwrapped the strange weapon. A dagger, Ghurran had called it, but what monstrous hand could use it so, the Cimmerian wondered. And it could slay the demon. What demon? But for whatever hand or purpose the silvery blade had been wrought, its faint glow was light of a sort in the blackness of the tunnel, if light of an eerie grayish-blue. By it Conan recovered his broadsword and again began a slow progress through the tunnels. Soon he heard voices, hollow echoes in the distant passages. With difficulty he determined a direction.

Grimly he moved toward the source.

Thunder smote the chamber, and the obsidian form of Masrok floated in the void of its fiery cage. The silvery weapons held in five of its eight arms looked no different, yet in some fashion they had an aura of having been used recently a pulsation that reached into the back of a human mind and whispered of violence and death. Karim Singh and Prince Kandar edged back from the huge figure, no matter that it was confined.

The bound women seemed frozen with shock and fear.

"You slice matters too finely, O man," Masrok boomed. Crimson eyes flickered to the blazing pentagram in what could not possibly have been nervousness. "A delay of but another beat of a human heart and my other selves would have been on me. Who would serve you then, O man?"

"Masrok, I command you-" Naipal began when half a score of Vendhyan soldiers burst into the chamber.

"Prince Kandar!" one of them cried. "Someone has-"

"You dare intrude!" Naipal howled. He spoke a word that made even him shiver, and lightning flared from the largest of the khorassani. A single shriek rent the air, and a cinder, only vaguely resembling the soldier who had shouted, fell and shattered into charred chunks on the stone floor. Turban-helmed men ran, screaming with terror.

Karim Singh and Prince Kandar both tried to speak at once. "My men are not to be slain out of hand," Kandar shouted. "The message could have been important," the wazam cried.

Both men clamped their teeth on further words as Naipal's dark eyes came to rest on them. "He dies whom I wish to die, and what is important is what I say is important. This is important!" The wizard turned his attention back to the demon, which had watched what had happened impassively. "You will open the way to the tomb for me, Masrok. I care not how."

"From within this cage?" Masrok replied with a hint of its former sarcasm.

"Open it!"

For a moment scarlet eyes met those of ebon, then the demon's mouth opened, and the sound that emerged sent shudders through human flesh.

Only for an instant, however. The sound rose with blinding speed to send a stabbing pain in the ears, and beyond. Yet still Masrok's straining jaws told of a cry continuing.

Suddenly that call was answered. Suddenly there were-things in the chamber. What exactly or how many it was impossible to tell, for it pained the eye to gaze on them directly, and under a sidelong glance, the numbers and forms seemed to shift constantly. Impressions were all that could be made out, and they enough to bring a lifetime of nightmares. Fangs dripping spittle that bubbled and hissed on the stone. Razor claws gleaming like steel and needle spines glittering like crystal. Sparkling scales in a thousand hues and leathery wings that seemed to stretch farther than the eye could see, farther surely than the walls of the chamber.

Kandar stood ashen-faced, trembling almost as much as the women, who writhed against their bonds and wailed with frantic despair. Karim Singh's lips moved rapidly and silently, and Naipal realized with considerable amusement that the wazam prayed. The wizard realized as well that those monstrous forms, so terrifying to human eyes, cowered beneath Masrok's gaze. Perhaps, he thought, he had summoned and bound a greater power than he knew. It increased his resolve to see the demon returned to the prison it shared with its other selves.

Human skulls, dangling for ornament, swayed as Masrok raised one silvery, glowing spear and pointed with it to the blocked passage.

Horrific forms flowed to the adamantine substance, clawing, gouging, devouring, a seething mass that slowly sank into the stone, leaving an open way behind it.

"Impressive," said a voice from one of the many entrances to the great room.

Naipal spun, ready to utter the word that drew lightning from the khorassani, and it seemed his heart had turned to ice in his chest.

"Zail Bal," he gasped. "You are dead!"

"You never would believe your eyes, Naipal," the newcomer said, "when you wished to believe other than what you saw. Of course you have reason to believe as you do. You saw me carried off by rajaie while far from my implements." Zail Bal's dark eyes narrowed. "And some of my amulets had been most cunningly tampered with. Still, I managed to slay the demons, though not without cost, it is true. I found myself deposited on the shores of the Vilayet in an age-riddled body, too frail to travel a league." His gaze went from the imprisoned Masrok, once again watching the humans in silence, to the passage into which the summoned beings had now disappeared. "You have done well for me in my absence, apprentice. I had not managed to locate this place before my ... accident."

"I am no longer the apprentice," Naipal snarled. "I am the court wizard! I am the master!"

"Are you," Zail Bal's chuckle was dry. "Karim Singh may have his throne, and Kandar may call himself general, but the army that lies below will march for me, Naipal, not for you. The demon will serve me."

Naipal's eyes flickered to the khorassani. Did he dare? He had never known that Zail Bal sought Orissa's tomb, and that fact raised unpleasant possibilities. Could he risk that the former court wizard did not also know the words of power? Would the other have risked confronting him without that knowledge? So. If either began to speak the words, the other would also. The nature of the stones was to accept only one master at a time. If neither man gained control quickly enough, both would perish, as well as every living thing for leagues.

Naipal had no interest in taking the other man with him as he died. He wanted victory, not death.

"You said your body was age-riddled," Karim Singh said suddenly in a voice that quavered, "yet you appear younger than I. No more than forty. I remember you well, and you were older than that when . . ."

His voice trailed off at Zail Bal's chuckle. It was dry this time as well, like the dust of the grave.

"Yes, I am younger than I was and I will be younger still. But what of you, Naipal? Do you suffer from exhaustion that sleep will not cure?

Are there pains behind your eves, splitting your skull?"

"What have you done-" Naipal whispered, then screamed it. "What have you done?"

The other wizard laughed and as he spoke, his voice never lost its sound of amusement. "Did you think I kept no cords to my apprentice, Naipal? They were useless over the distance from Turan but once I was across the Himelias ... aaah. Now I drain the vitality from you through those cords, Naipal, though not exactly as the rajaie drained it from me. You will not grow old. Merely tired. So tired you cannot stand or even hold your head up. But do not fear that I will let you die, Naipal. I would not do such to my faithful apprentice. No, I will give you eternal life. I will put you in a safe, dry place, with only the endless thirst to distract you from the pains in your head and the nibbles of the rats. Of course the rats will stop their nibbling when you wither sufficiently. You will be a desiccated husk, holding life until it crumbles to dust. And I assure you I will see that it takes a very long time."

Naipal had neither moved nor spoken during Zail Bal's recitation. The fool should have lulled him, he thought. Now he would have to take the gamble. There would come a moment when the former court wizard let his attention lapse and then Naipal would begin the words, in a whisper. By the time Zail Bal realized what was happening, it would be too late. It must be too late.

A gasp from Karim Singh caught a corner of Naipal's mind. The shifting mass of beings that Masrok had summoned had returned, flowing from the mouth of the passage to the tomb.

"They are done, O man," the eight-armed demon announced. "The way is clear."

All eyes went to the passage. Zail Bal stepped by the seething horror without looking at it, not as though the sight pained his eyes but rather as if he simply could not be bothered by it at the moment. Even Kandar and Karim Singh overcame their fear enough to move closer.

Naipal began to whisper furiously.

Crouching near the end of one of the passages that let into the great underground chamber, Conan weighed the silvery weapon in his hand. A dagger, Ghurran had called it. Or Zail Bal, as he now named himself.

And the Cimmerian could see the weapon's twin clasped by the huge eight-armed shape. Much had been said in that chamber that he would ponder later, but it was another thing that Ghurran/Zail Bal had said that was of interest now. The weapon he held could slay the demon, by which Conan assumed he had meant the towering obsidian form. Masrok, he had heard it called. Perhaps it could slay the others as well.

Once more Conan tried to look at the demons and found his eyes sliding away unbidden. Their sudden appearance from the other passage, just when he was on the point of entering while the men argued, had been a shock. But now that all eyes peered into the passage from which the monstrosities had come, it might just be possible for him to reach the women before he was even seen. As for what came then ... With a fatalistic grimness he hefted his broadsword in one hand and large silvery dagger in the other. Then he must bar pursuit long enough for the women to flee. Treading with light swiftness, he moved into the subterranean chamber.

His eyes shifted constantly from the women to the others. Vyndra and Chin Kou, naked and bound at wrists and ankles, lay trembling with eyes squeezed shut above their veils. Naipal appeared to be muttering under his breath, watching the other men, and they in turn had eyes only for the passage. It led to an army, had Ghurran, or Zail Bal, claimed? Kang Hou's army that would come at the end of time perhaps? Warriors like the one he had faced? He could not waste time in worry over that now.

The demons that had come from the tunnel seemed fixed on the huge ebon form floating in nothingness in the center of the chamber, while it-Conan's breath caught in his throat. Those crimson eyes now followed him. He quickened his pace toward the women. If the demon called a warning, he might still ... The massive arms holding glowing spears moved back. Conan snarled silently. He could not dodge two thrown spears at once. Flipping the silvery weapon in his hand, he hurled it at the demon and threw himself toward the women.

A titanic blast rocked the chamber, and Conan landed atop the women as the earth heaved beneath his feet. Stunned, he fumbled desperately for his own dagger as he took in the horrific scene. The humans were staggering to their feet where the blast had flung them. Splintered shards of black stone lay in ten small pools of molten gold. And Masrok stood on the stone floor, the glowing dagger it had already held now mirrored by another.

"Free!" Masrok cried, and with gibbering howls of demonic terror, the beings it had summoned fled, flowing up into the ceiling, melting into the floor. Scarlet eyes that now glittered went to Naipal. "You threatened me with this blade, O man." The booming voice was heavy with mockery. "How I wished for you to strike. From the inside your barriers were impervious but from the outside ... Any unliving thing could cross from the outside easily, and the crossing of this demon-wrought blade, this metal of powers you never dreamed of, shattered all of your bonds.

All!"

The cords on the ankles first, Conan told himself as he found his knife. The women could run with hands tied if need be.

"I always intended your freedom," Naipal said hoarsely. "We made a pact."

"Fool!" the demon snarled. "You bound me, made one of the Sivani your servant. And you!" The furious rubiate gaze pinned Zail Bal, who had been attempting to edge toward one of the passages. "You intended the same. Know, then, the price for daring such!"

Both wizards shouted incantations, but the glowing spears sped from Masrok's hands, transfixing each man through the chest. Almost in the same instant the silvery weapons leaped back to the demons' grasp, bearing their still-living burdens. Shrieks split the air, and futile hands clutched at glowing hafts now staining with blood.

"Know for all time!" Masrok thundered. And the demon spun, blurring into an obsidian whirlwind streaked with silver.

Then it was still once more and the wizards were gone. But a new skull dangled below the head of each spear, a skull whose empty sockets retained a glow of life, and the shrieks of the wizards, echoing faintly as though from a great distance, could yet be heard.

Slicing the last cord binding a wrist, Conan heaved the women to their feet. Weeping, they tried to cling to him, but he pushed them toward the one passage that showed the light of a torch. The marked path lay there, one they could follow even without his aid.

"You also," Masrok growled, and Conan realized the demon's eyes were now on him. Keeping his face to the creature, he began to follow the women, but slowly. If the worst happened, there must be distance between him and them. "You thought to slay me, puny mortal," the demon said. "You, also, will know-"

A sound like all the winds of the world crying through the maze of passages filled the great room, but no breath of air stirred. The rushing howl died abruptly, and at its ending a mirror image of Masrok stood at either end of the chamber.

"Betrayer!" they shouted with one voice, and it was as though a thunderhead had spoken. "The way that was to open at the end of time is opened beforehand!"

Masrok shifted slightly, that monstrous ebon head swiveling from one form to the other.

"Slayer!" they cried as one. "One of the Sivani is dead, by the deeds of a Sivani!"

Masrok raised its weapons. No particle of the demon's attention remained on Conan. The Cimmerian spun to hasten after the women, and he found them halted before the passage entrance, Kandar confronting them with the curved blade of his tulwar.

The Prince's face was pale and sweaty, and his eyes rolled to the tensing obsidian giants with barely controlled terror. "You can keep the Khitan wench," he rasped, "but Vyndra is mine. Decide quickly, barbarian. If we are still here when their battle begins, none of us will survive."

"I have decided already," Conan said, and his broadsword struck. Twice steel rang on steel and then the Vendhyan Prince was falling with a crimson gash where his throat had been. "Run!" Conan commanded the women. He did not look back as they darted into the tunnel. The ground rumbled beneath his feet. The battle of demons was beginning.

Sound pursued them in their flight through the subterranean passages.

The crash of lightnings confined and the roar of thunder imprisoned.

The earth heaved, and dirt and rock showered from above.

Sheathing his sword, Conan scooped up the women, one over each shoulder, and redoubled his speed, fleeing from the pool of light into the debris-filled darkness. The flames on distantly spaced torches wavered as the walls on which they hung danced.

Then the stairs were before him. He took them three at a time. In the vast-domed temple chamber, massive columns shivered and the towering statue swayed. Without slowing, Conan ran past the tall bronze doors and into the night.

Outside, the circle of torches remained, swaying as the ground heaved in swells like the sea, but the soldiers were fled. Trees a hundred and fifty feet high cracked like whips.

Conan ran into the forest until a root caught his foot and sent him sprawling with his burdens. He could not rise again, only cling as the earth shook and rippled in waves, but at last he looked back.

Bolts of lightning burst toward the sky from the temple, hurling great blocks of stone into the air, casting a blue illumination over the frenzied forest. And dome by dome, columned terrace by columned terrace, the huge temple fell, collapsing inward, ever sinking as it leaped like a thing alive. Lightning flashes revealed the ruin no higher then the flailing trees surrounding it, then half their height, then only a mound of rubble.

Abruptly there was no more lightning. The ground gave one final tortured heave and was still.

Conan rose unsteadily to his feet. He could no longer see even the mound. In truth he did not believe it was any longer there. "Swallowed by the earth," he said softly, "and the entrance sealed once more."

His arms filled suddenly with naked, weeping women, but his mind was on other matters. Horses. Whether or not the demons had been buried with the tomb, he did not intend to remain long enough to find out.

Epilogue

Conan rode through the dawn with his jaw set grimly, wondering if perhaps he could not find just a few Vendhyan soldiers who would try to contest his passage or perhaps question the Vendhyan cavalry saddle on his horse. It would be better than the icy daggers of silence being hurled against his back by Vyndra and Chin Kou. Of necessity he gripped the reins of their horses in one hand; the fool women would not have left the forest otherwise.

"You must find us garments," Vyndra said suddenly. "I will not be seen like this."

"It is not seemly," Chin Kou added.

Conan sighed. It was not the first time they had made the demand, though they had no idea as to where he might obtain the clothes. The past hour of silence had come from his retort that they had already been seen by half the populace of Gwandiakan. He twisted in the saddle to look back at them. The two women still wore the veils, if nothing else. He had asked why, since they obviously hated the small squares of silk, but they had babbled incomprehensively at him about not being recognized, and both had gone into such a frenzy that someone might be watching, for all it had been pitch dark in the middle of the forest at the time, that he did not mention it again. They stared at him now with dark, furious eyes peeping over the top of their veils, yet each sat straight in her saddle, seemingly unaware of the nudity of which she complained.

"We are almost to the old well," he told them. "Kuie Hsi should be there with garb for you both."

"The well!" Vyndra exclaimed, suddenly trying to hide behind the high pommel of her saddle. "Oh, no!"

"There might be people!" Chin Kou moaned as she, too, contorted. Before they could slip from the saddles and hide-they had done that once already-Conan kicked his horse to a gallop, pulling theirs along behind, heedless of their wails of protest.

The wall of the old well remained, surrounded by trees much smaller than those of the forest. The well itself had long collapsed. A portion of a stone wall still stood nearby, perhaps once part of a caravansary.

There were people there as well. Conan grinned as he ran his eye over them. Hordo and Enam tossing dice. Hasan and Shamil seated with their backs against the wall. Kang Hou sipping from a tiny cup held delicately in his fingers, while Kuie Hsi crouched by a fire where a kettle steamed. The men looked the worse for wear, sprouting bandages and poultices, but they sprang to their feet with glad shouts at his appearance.

Kuie Hsi did not shout but rather came running with bundles in her arms. The other two women, Conan saw, had slid from the saddles and were hiding behind their horses. He dismounted, leaving them to their flurry of silks, and went to meet the men.

"I thought you were dead for certain this time," the one-eyed man muttered gruffly.

"Not I," Conan laughed, "nor any of the rest of us it seems. Our luck has not been so bad after all." The smiles faded from their faces, producing a frown on his. "What has happened?"

"A great deal," Kang Hou replied. "My niece brought much news with her.

For one thing, King Bhandarkar is dead at the hands of the Katari.

Fortunately Prince Jharim Kar managed to rally nobles to Bhandarkar's young son, Bhunda Chand, who has been crowned as the new king, thus restoring order. On the unfortunate side, you, my chengli friend, have been condemned to death by Royal Edict, signed by Bhunda Chand, for complicit, in the assassination of his father."

Conan could only shake his head in amazement. "How did this madness come about?"

The Khitan merchant explained. "One of Jharim Kar's first moves after the coronation-and that was a hasty affair, it seems-was to ride for Gwandiakan with the young King and all the cavalry he could muster.

Supposedly he found evidence that Karim Singh was a leader of the plot, and thus must be arrested and executed before he could become a rallying point for disaffection. It is rumored, however, that the Prince blames the wazam for an incident involving one of his wives.

Whatever the truth, Bhunda Chand's column met the caravan on which we and the wazam traveled. And one Alyna, a servant of the Lady Vyndra, gave testimony that her mistress and a pale-skinned barbarian called Patil had plotted with Karim Singh and spoken in her presence of slaying Bhandarkar."

A shriek of fury announced that Vyndra had just had the same information from Kuie Hsi. The Vendhyan noblewoman stormed from behind the horses, clutching half-donned silken robes that fluttered after her. "I will strip her hide! That sow will speak the truth, or I will wear out switches on her!"

"I fear it is too late for any such action on your part," Kang Hou said. "Alyna-perhaps I should say the Lady Alyna-has already been confirmed in your titles and estates. The Royal Edict concerning you not only strips you of those possessions but gifts her with your life and person."

Vyndra's mouth worked silently for a moment, then she rounded on Conan.

"You are the cause of this! It is all your fault! What are you going to do about it?"

"I am to blame?" Conan growled. "I enslaved Alyna?" Vyndra's eyes almost started from her head in fury and he sighed. "Very well. I will take you to Turan with me."

"Turan!" she cried, throwing up her hands. "It is a pigsty, unfit for a civilized woman! It-" Suddenly it dawned on her that her gesture had bared her to the waist. Shrieking, she snatched the still-sliding silk and dashed for the shelter of the horses.

"A woman whose temper equals her great beauty," Kang Hou said, and whose deviousness and vindictiveness exceed both."

Conan waved the words aside. "What of Gwandiakan? Will it be safe to hide there for a day or two while we recuperate?"

"That will not be possible," Kuie Hsi said, joining them. "The people of Gwandiakan took the earthquake as a sign from the gods, especially when they discovered that carts had been assembled to take the children from the city to an unknown destination. A wall of the fortress had collapsed. The people stormed the fortress, freeing the imprisoned children. Soldiers who tried to stop them were torn limb from limb.

Jharim Kar has promised justice in the matter, but in the meanwhile his soldiers patrol the streets heavily. I cannot believe any Western foreigner would long escape their notice."

"I am glad for the children," Conan said, "for all it had nothing to do with me, but this means we must ride for the mountains from here. And the sooner the better, I think. What of you, Kang Hou? Are you, too, proscribed?"

"I am but a humble merchant," the Khitan replied, "and so, no doubt, beneath Alyna's notice. To my good fortune. As for your journey over the mountains, I fear that not all who came with you will return to Turan. You will pardon me." Bowing, he left before Conan could ask what he meant, but Hasan took his place.

"I must speak with you," the young Turanian said. "Alone." Still frowning after Kang Hou, Conan let himself be drawn off from the others. Hasan pressed a folded square of parchment into the Cimmerian's hand. "When you return to Sultanapur, Conan, take that to the House of Perfumed Doves and say it is for Lord Khalid."

"So you are the one who will not return to Turan," Conan said, turning over the square of parchment in his hands. "And what message is it you send to Yildiz's spy master?"

"You know of him?"

"More is known on the streets of Sultanapur than the lords of Turan would believe. But you have not answered my question."

The Turanian drew a deep breath. "I was sent to discover if a connection exists between the Vendhyans and the death of the High Admiral. Not one question have I asked concerning that, yet I know already this land is so full of intrigues within intrigues that no clear answer can ever be found. I say as much in the letter. As well I say that I can find no evidence connecting the 'fishermen' of Sultanapur with the matter, and that the rumors of a northland giant in the pay of Vendhyans is just that. A rumor. Lord Khalid will recognize my hand, and so know it for a true report. It is unsealed. You may read it if you wish."

Conan stuffed the parchment into his belt pouch. There would be time for reading-and for deciding whether to visit the House of Perfumed Doves-later. "Why are you remaining?" he asked. "Chin Kou."

"Yes. Kang Hou has no objections to a foreigner marrying into his family." Hasan snorted a laugh. "After years of avoiding it, it seems I will become a spice merchant after all."

"Be careful," Conan cautioned. "I wish you well, but I do not believe the Khitans are much less devious than the Vendhyans."

Leaving the young Turanian, Conan went in search of Kang Hou. The merchant was seated on the wall of the caved-in well. "Soon you will be fleeing Vendhya," the Khitan said as Conan approached. "What of your plans to sack the land with an army at your back?"

"Someday perhaps. But Vendhya is a strange land, mayhap too devious for a simple northlander like me. It makes my thoughts whirl in peculiar fashions."

Kang Hou arched a thin eyebrow. "How so, man who calls himself Patil?"

"Just fragments, spinning. Odd memories. Valash, sitting in the Golden Crescent on the morning the High Admiral died. A very hard man, Valash.

He would never have let two such beauties as your nieces leave his ship except to a slaver's block. Unless someone frightened him into it perhaps. But then, you are a very hard man for a poor merchant, are you not, Kang Hou? And your niece, Kuie Hsi, is an extremely able woman.

The way in which she passed for a Vendhyan woman to seek information in Gwandiakan. And knowing Naipal was among those who rode to the Forests of Ghelai, though I have heard his face was known but to a handful.

Were you aware that a Vendhyan woman was delivered to the High Admiral as a gift on the morning he died? She vanished soon after his death, I understand. But I have never understood why the Vendhyans would sign a treaty with Turan and kill the High Admiral within a day of it. Kandar seemed truly shocked at the news, and Karim Singh as well. Strange, would you not say, Kang Hou?"

All through the rambling discourse the Khitan had listened with an expression of polite interest. Now he smiled, tucking his hands into his broad sleeves. "You weave a very fanciful tale for one who calls himself a simple northlander."

Returning the smile, Conan put his hand on his dagger. "Will you wager you are faster than I?" he asked softly.

For an instant Kang Hou wavered visibly. Then, slowly, he brought his hands into the open. Empty. "I am but a peaceful merchant," he said as though nothing had happened. "If you would care to listen, perhaps I can weave a tale as fanciful as yours. Having, of course, as little to do with reality."

"I will listen," Conan said cautiously, but he did not move his hand from the dagger hilt.

"I am from Cho-Hien," the Khitan began, "a small city-state on the borders of Vendhya. The lifeblood of Cho-Hien is trade, and its armies are small. It survives by balancing its larger, stronger neighbors one against another. Largest, strongest and most avaricious of Cho-Hien's neighbors is Vendhya. Perhaps the land rots from within, as you say, but the ruling caste, the Kshatriyas, are tierce men with eyes for conquest. If those eyes turn to the north, they will fall first on Cho-Hien. Therefore Cho-Hien must keep the Kshatriyas' gaze to the east, or to the west. A treaty with Turan, for instance, might mean that Kshatriyan ambitions would look not toward the Vilayet but toward Khitai. My tale, I fear, has no more point than yours but perhaps you found it entertaining."

"Entertaining," Conan agreed. "But a question occurs to me. Does Chin Kou share Kuie Hsi's talents? That is," he added with a smile, "if Kuie Hsi had any talents out of the ordinary."

"Chin Kou's sole talent is that she remembers and can repeat every word that she hears or reads. Beyond that she is merely a loving niece who comforts an aging man's bones. Though now it seems she will comfort another."

"That brings another question. Does Hasan know of this?"

"Of my fanciful tale? No." A broad grin split the Khitan's face. "But he knew what I was, as I knew what he was, before ever we reached the Himelias. He will make a fine addition to my family. For a foreigner.

Now I will ask a question," he added, the grin fading. "What do you intend concerning my fanciful tale?"

"A tale spun by a northlander and another spun by a Khitan merchant,"

Conan said musingly. "Who in Turan would believe if I told them? And if they did, they would find ten other reasons for war, or near to war.

For there to be true peace between Turan and Vendhya, the Vilayet will have to expand to swallow Secunderam, perhaps enough to separate the two lands for all time. Besides, true peace and true war alike are bad for smugglers."

"You are not so simple as you claim, northlander."

"Vendhya is still a strange land," Conan replied with a laugh. "And one I must be leaving. Fare you well, Kang Hou of Cho-Hien."

The Khitan rose and bowed, though he was careful to keep his hands away from his sleeves. "Fare you well ... Conan of Cimmeria."

Conan laughed all the way to the horses. "Hordo," he roared, "do we ride, or have you grown so old you have put down roots? Enam, to horse!

And you, Shamil. Do you ride with us, or remain here like Hasan?"

"I have had my fill of travel and adventure," Shamil replied earnestly.

"I return to Sultanapur to become a fisherman. For fish!"

Vyndra pushed her way past the men scrambling into saddles and confronted Conan. "What of me?" she demanded.

"You do not wish to go to Turan," Conan told her, "and you cannot remain in Vendhya. Except as Alyna's ... guest. Perhaps Kang Hou will take you to Cho-Hien."

"Cho-Hien! Better Turan than that!"

"Since you have asked so nicely, if you keep me warm on the cold nights in the mountains, I will find a place for you dancing in a tavern in Sultanapur."

Her cheeks colored, but she held out her arms for him to lift her to her saddle. As he did, though, she pressed herself against him briefly and whispered, "I would much rather dance for you alone."

Conan handed her her reins and turned away, hiding a smile as he vaulted to his own saddle. There would be problems with this woman yet, but amusing ones he thought.

"What of the antidote?" Hordo asked. "And Ghurran?"

"I saw him," Conan replied. "You might say he saved all of us with what he told me." Ignoring the one-eyed man's questioning look, he went on.

"But are we to sit here until the Vendhyans put all our heads on pikes?

Come! There's a wench called Tasha waiting for me in Sultanapur." And with a grin for Vyndra's angry squawl, he booted his horse to a gallop, toward the mountains towering to the north.

Conan the Unconquered

Prologue

Storm winds howling off the midnight-shrouded Vilayet Sea clawed at the granite-walled compound of the Cult of Doom. The compound gave the appearance of a small city, though there were no people on its streets at that hour. More than the storm and the lateness kept them fast in their beds, praying for sleep, though but a bare handful of them could have put a finger to the real reason, and those that could did not allow themselves to think on it. The gods uplift, and the gods destroy. But no one ever believes the gods will touch them.

The man who was now called Jhandar did not know if gods involved themselves in the affairs of mortals, or indeed if gods existed, but he did know there were Powers beneath the sky. There were indeed Powers, and one of those he had learned to use, even to control after a fashion. Gods he would leave to those asleep in the compound, those who called him their Great Lord.

Now he sat cross-legged in saffron robes before such a Power. The chamber was plain, its pearly marble walls smooth, its two arched entrances unadorned. Simple round columns held the dome that rose above the shallow pool, but ten paces across, that was the room's central feature. There was no ornamentation, for friezes or sculptures or ornate working of stone could not compete with that pool, and the Power within.

Water, it might seem at first glance, but it was not. It was sharply azure and flecked with argent phosphorescence. Jhandar meditated, basking in the radiance of Power, and the pool glowed silver-blue, brighter and brighter until the chamber seemed lit with a thousand lamps. The surface of the pool bubbled and roiled, and mists rose, solidifying. But only so far. The mists formed a dome, as if a mirror image of the pool below, delineating the limits that contained the Power, both above and below. Within ultimate disorder was bound, Chaos itself confined. Once Jhandar had seen such a pool loosed from its bonds, and fervently did he wish never to see such again. But that would not happen here. Not now. Not ever.

Now he could feel the Power seeping into his very bones. It was time. Smoothly he rose and made his way through one of the archways, down a narrow passage lit by bronze lamps, bare feet padding on cool marble. He prided himself on his lack of ostentation, even to so small a thing as not wearing sandals. He, like the pool, needed no adornment.

The passage let into a circular sanctorum, its albescent walls worked in intricate arabesques, its high vaulted ceiling held aloft by fluted alabaster columns. Light came from golden cressets suspended aloft on silver chains. Massive bronze doors barred the chamber's main entrance, their surfaces within and without worked in a pattern of Chaos itself, by an artist under the influence of the Power, before madness and death had taken him. The Power was not for all.

The forty men gathered there, a fifth part of his Chosen, did need this show of splendor to reflect the glory of their cause. Yet the most important single item in that chamber, an altar set in the exact center of the circle formed by the room, was of unornamented black marble.

Two-score men turned silently as Jhandar entered, saffron robed and shaven of head as the laws of the cult demanded, just as it forbade its women to cut their tresses. Eager eyes watched him; ears strained to hear his words.

"I am come from the Pool of the Ultimate," he intoned, and a massive sigh arose, as if he had come from the presence of a god. Indeed, he suspected they considered it much the same, for though they believed they knew the purposes and meanings of the Cult, in truth they knew nothing.

Slowly Jhandar made his way to the black altar, and all eyes followed him, glowing with the honor of gazing on one they considered but a step removed from godhead himself. He did not think of himself so, for all his ambitions. Not quite.

Jhandar was a tall man, cleanly muscled but slender. Bland, smooth features combined with his shaven head to make his age indeterminate, though something in his dark brown eyes spoke of years beyond knowing. His ears were square, but set on his head in such a fashion that they seemed slightly pointed, giving him an other-worldly appearance. But it was the eyes that oft convinced others he was a sage ere he even opened his mouth. In fact he was not yet thirty.

He raised his arms above his head, letting the folds of his robes fall back. "Attend me!"

"We attend, Great Lord!" forty throats spoke as one.

"In the beginning was nothingness. All came from nothingness."

"And to nothingness must all return."

Jhandar allowed a slight smile touch his mouth. That phrase, watchword of his followers, always amused him. To nothingness, indeed, all must return. Eventually. But not soon. At least, not him.

While he was yet a boy, known by the first of many names he would bear, fate had carried him beyond the Vilayet Sea, beyond even far Vendhya, to Khitai of near fable. There, at the feet of a learned thaumaturge, an aged man with long, wispy mustaches and a skin the color of luteous ivory, he had learned much. But a lifetime spent in the search for knowledge was not for him. In the end he had been forced to slay the old man to gain what he wanted, the mage's grimoire, his book of incantations and spells. Then, before he had mastered more than a handful, the murder was discovered, and he imprisoned. Yet he had known enough to free himself of that bare stone cell, though he had of necessity to flee Khitai. There had been other flights in his life, but those were long past. His errors had taught him.

Now his way was forward, and upward, to heights without end.

"In the beginning all of totality was inchoate. Chaos ruled."

"Blessed be Holy Chaos," came the reply.

"The natural state of the universe was, and is, Chaos. But the gods appeared, themselves but children of Chaos, and forced order-unnatural, unholy order-upon the very Chaos from which they sprang." His voice caressed them, raised their fears, then soothed those fears, lifted their hopes and fanned their fervor. "And in that forcing they gave a foul gift to plan, the impurity that forever bars the vast majority of humankind from attaining a higher order of consciousness, from becoming as gods. For it is from Chaos, from ultimate disorder, that gods come, and man has within him the taint of enforced order."

He paused then, spreading his arms as if to embrace them. Ecstasy lit their eyes as they waited for him to give the benediction they expected, and needed.

"Diligently," he said, "have you labored to rid yourselves of the impurities of this world. Your worldly goods you have cast aside. Pleasures of the flesh you have denied yourselves. Now," his voice rose to a thunder, "now you are the Chosen!"

"Blessed be Holy Chaos! We are the Chosen of Holy Chaos!"

"Let the woman Natryn be brought forth," Jhandar commanded.

From a cubicle where she had been kept waiting the Lady Natryn, wife of Lord Tariman, was led into the columned chamber. She did not look now the wife of one of the Seventeen Attendants, the advisors to King Yildiz of Turan. Naked, she stumbled in the hobble that confined her ankles, and would have fallen had not two of the Chosen roughly held her erect. Her wrists, fastened behind her with tight cords, lay on the swell of her buttocks. Her large brown eyes bulged in terror, and her lips worked frantically around a leather gag. Slender, yet full-breasted and well-rounded of hip, her body shone with the sweat of fear. No eyes there but Jhandar's looked on her as a woman, though, for the Chosen had forsaken such things.

"You have attempted to betray me, Natryn."

The naked woman shook at Jhandar's words as if pierced with needles. She had dabbled in the teachings of the cult as did many bored women of the nobility, but her husband made her different, and necessary to Jhandar's great plan. With his necromancies he had learned every dark and shameful corner of her life.

Most noblewomen of Turan had secrets they would kill to hide, and she, with lovers and vices almost beyond listing, was no different. Natryn had wept at his revelations, and rebelled at his commands, but seemingly at the last she had accepted her duty to place certain pressures on her husband. Instead, the sorcerous watch he kept on her revealed that she intended to go to her husband, to reveal all and throw herself on his mercy. Jhandar had not slain her where she lay in the supposed safety of her chambers in her husband's palace, but had had her brought hither to serve her purpose in his grand design. It was death she feared, but he intended worse for her.

"Prepare her," the necromancer commanded.

The woman flung herself about futilely in the grasp of the men who fastened her by wrists and ankles to the black altar stone. The gag was removed; she licked fear-dried lips. "Mercy, Great Lord!" she pleaded. "Let me serve you!"

"You do," Jhandar replied.

From a tray of beaten gold proffered by one of the Chosen, the mage took a silver-bladed knife and lifted it high above the woman's body. His follower hastily set the tray on the floor by the altar and backed away. Natryn's screams blended with Jhandar's chant as he invoked the Power of Chaos. His words rang from the walls, though he did not shout; he had no wish to drown her wails. He could feel the Power flowing in him, flowing through him. Silvery-azure, a dome appeared, enveloping altar, sacrifice and necromancer. The Chosen fell to their knees, pressed their faces to the marble floor in awe.

Jhandar's knife plunged down. Natryn convulsed and shrieked one last time as the blade stabbed to the hilt beneath her left breast.

Quickly Jhandar bent to take a large golden bowl from the tray. Blade and one quillon of that knife were hollow, so that a vivid scarlet stream of heart's blood spurted into the bowl. Swiftly the level rose. Then the flow slowed, stopped, and only a few drops fell to make carmine ripples.

Withdrawing the blade, Jhandar held knife and bowl aloft, calling on the Power in words of ice, calling on life that was not life, death that was not death. Still holding the bowl on high, he tilted it, pouring out Natryn's heart blood. That sanguinary stream fell, and faded into nothingness, and with it faded the glowing dome.

A senile of satisfaction on his face, Jhandar let the implements of his sorcery clatter to the floor. No longer did a wound mar Natryn's beauty. "Awake, Natryn," he commanded, undoing her bonds.

The eyes of the woman who had just been stabbed to the heart fluttered open, and she stared at Jhandar, her gaze filled with horror and emptiness. "I... I was dead," she whispered. "I stood before Erlik's Throne." Shivering, she huddled into a ball on the altar. "I am cold."

"Certainly you are cold," Jhandar told her cruelly. "No blood courses in your veins, for you are no longer alive. Neither are you dead. Rather you stand between, and are bound to utter obedience until true death finds you."

"No," she wept. "I will not-"

"Be silent," he said. Her protests died on the instant.

Jhandar turned back to his followers. The Chosen had dared now to raise their faces, and they watched him expectantly. "For what do you strike?" he demanded.

From beneath their robes the Chosen produced needle-sharp daggers, thrusting them into the air. "For disorder, confusion and anarchy, we strike!" they roared. "For Holy Chaos, we strike! To the death!"

"Then strike!" he commanded.

The daggers disappeared, and the Chosen filed from the chamber to seek those whose names Jhandar had earlier given them.

It was truly a pity, the necromancer thought, that the old mage no longer lived. How far his pupil had outstripped him, and how much greater yet that pupil was destined to become!

He snapped his fingers, and she who was now only partly Lady Natryn of Turan followed him meekly from the sacrificial chamber.

Chapter I

Many cities bore appellations, 'the Mighty' or 'the Wicked,' but Aghrapur, that great city of ivory towers and golden domes, seat of the throne of Turan and center of her citizens' world, had no need of such.

The city's wickedness and might were so well known that an appellation would have been gilt laid upon gold.

One thousand and three goldsmiths were listed in the Guild Halls, twice so many smiths in silver, half again that number dealers in jewelry and rare gems. They, with a vast profusion of merchants in silks and perfumes, catered to hot-blooded, sloe-eyed noblewomen and sleek, sensuous courtesans who oft seemed more ennobled than their sisters of proper blood. Every vice could be had within Aghrapur's lofty alabaster walls, from the dream-powders and passion-mists peddled by oily men from Iranistan to the specialized brothels of the Street of Doves.

Turanian triremes ruled the cerulean expanse of the Vilayet Sea, and into Aghrapur's broad harbor dromonds brought the wealth of a dozen nations. The riches of another score found its way to the markets by caravan. Emeralds and apes, ivory and peacocks, whatever people wanted could be found, no matter whence it came. The stench of slavers from Khawarism was drowned in the wafted scent of oranges from Ophir, of myrrh and cloves from Vendhya, of attar of roses from Khauran and subtle perfumes from Zingara. Tall merchants from Argos strode the flagstones of her broad streets, and dark men from Shem. Fierce Ibars mountain tribesmen rubbed shoulders with Corinthian scholars, and Kothian mercenaries with traders from Keshan. It was said that no day passed in Aghrapur without the meeting of men, each of whom believed the other's land to be a fable.

The tall youth who strode those teeming streets with the grace of a hunting cat had no mind for the wonders of the city, however. Fingers curled lightly on the well-worn leather hilt of his broadsword, he passed marble palaces and fruit peddlers' carts with equal unconcern, a black-maned lion unimpressed by piles of stone. Yet if his agate-blue eyes were alert, there was yet travel weariness on his sun-bronzed face, and his scarlet-edged cloak was stained with sweat and dust. It had been a hard ride from Sultanapur, with little time before leaving for saying goodbye to friends or gathering possessions, if he was to avoid the headsman's axe. A small matter of smuggling, and some other assorted offenses against the King's peace.

He had come far since leaving the rugged northern crags of his native Cimmerian mountains, and not only in distance. Some few years he had spent as a thief, in Nemedia and Zamora and the Corinthian city-states, yet though his years still numbered fewer than twenty-five the desire had come on him to better himself. He had seen many beggars who had been thieves in their youth, but never had he seen a rich thief. The gold that came from stealing seemed to drip away like water through a sieve. He would find better for himself. The failure of his smuggling effort had not dimmed his ardor in the least. All things could be found in Aghrapur, or so it was said. At the moment he sought a tavern, the Blue Bull. Its name had been given him in haste as he left Sultanapur as a place where information could be gotten. Good information was always the key to success.

The sound of off-key music penetrated his thoughts, and he became aware of a strange procession approaching him down the thronging street. A wiry, dark-skinned sergeant of the Turanian army, in wide breeches and turban-wrapped spiral helmet, curved tulwar at his hip, was trailed by another soldier beating a drum and two others raggedly blowing flutes. Behind them came half a score more, bearing halberds and escorting, or guarding, a dozen young men in motley garb who seemed to be trying to march to the drum. The sergeant caught the big youth's glance and quickly stepped in front of him.

"The gods be with you. Now I can see that you are a man seeking-" The sergeant broke off with a grunt.

"Mitra! Your eyes!"

"What's wrong with my eyes?" the muscular youth growled.

"Not a thing, friend," the sergeant replied, raising a hand apologetically. "But never did I see eyes the color of the sea before."

"Where I come from there are few with dark eyes."

"Ah. A far traveler come to seek adventure. And what better place to find it than in the army of King Yildiz of Turan? I am Alshaam. And how are you called?"

"Conan," the muscular youth replied. "But I've no interest in joining your army."

"But think you, Conan," the sergeant continued with oily persuasiveness, "how it will be to return from campaign with as much booty as you can carry, a hero and conqueror in the women's eyes. How they'll fall over you. Why, man, from the look of you, you were born for it."

"Why not try them?" Conan said, jerking his head toward a knot of Hyrkanian nomads in sheepskin coats and baggy trousers of coarse wool. They wore fur caps pulled tightly over grease-laced hair, and eyed everyone about them suspiciously. "They look as if they might want to be heroes," he laughed.

The sergeant spat sourly. "Not a half-weight of discipline in the lot of them. Odd to see them here. They generally don't like this side of the Vilayet Sea. But you, now. Think on it. Adventure, glory, loot, women."

"Why." Conan shook his head. "I've no desire to be a soldier."

"Mayhap if we had a drink together? No?" The sergeant sighed. "Well, I've a quota to fill. King Yildiz means to build his army larger, and when an army's big enough, it's used. You mark my words, there will be loot to throw away." He motioned to the other soldiers. "Let us be on our way."

"A moment," Conan said. "Can you tell me where to find the tavern called the Blue Bull?"

The soldier grimaced. "A dive on the Street of the Lotus Dreamers, near the harbor. They'll cut your throat for your boots as like as not. Try the Sign of the Impatient Virgin, on the Street of Coins. The wine is cheap and the girls are clean. And if you change your mind, seek me out. Alshaam, sergeant in the regiment of General Mundara Khan."

Conan stepped aside to let the procession pass, the recruits once more attempting unsuccessfully to march to the drum. As he turned from watching the soldiers go he found himself about to trample into another cortege, this a score in saffron robes, the men with shaven heads, the women with braids swinging below their buttocks, their leader beating a tambourine. Chanting softly, they walked as if they saw neither him nor anyone else. Caught off balance, he stumbled awkwardly aside, straight into the midst of the Hyrkanian nomads.

Muttered imprecations rose as thick as the rank smell of their greased hair, and black eyes glared at him as dark leathery hands were laid to the hilts of curved sword-knives. Conan grasped his own sword hilt, certain that he was in for a fight. The Hyrkanian's eyes swung from him to follow the saffron-robed procession continuing down the crowded street. Conan stared in amazement as the nomads ignored him and hurried after the yellow-robed marchers.

Shaking his head, Conan went on his way. No one had ever said that Aghrapur was not a city of strangeness, he thought.

Yet, as he approached the harbor, it was in his mind that for all its oddities the city was not so very different from the others he had seen. Behind him were the palaces of the wealthy, the shops of merchants, and the bustle of prosperous citizens. Here dried mud stucco cracked from the brick of decaying buildings, occupied for all their decay. The peddlers offered fruits too bruised or spoiled to be sold elsewhere, and the hawkers' shiny wares were gilded brass, if indeed there was even any gilding.

Beggars here were omnipresent, whining in their rags to the sailors swaggering by. The strumpets numbered almost as many as the beggars, in transparent silks that emphasized rather than concealed swelling breasts and rounded buttocks, wearing peridot masquerading as emeralds and carbuncle passing for ruby. Salt, tar, spices, and rotting offal gave off a thick miasma that permeated everything. The pleadings of beggars, the solicitations of harlots, and the cries of hawkers hung in the air like a solid sheet.

Above the cacophony Conan heard a girl's voice shout, "If you will be patient, there will be enough to go around."

Curious, he looked toward the sound, but could see only a milling crowd of beggars in front of a rotting building, all seeming to press toward the same goal. Whatever, or whoever, that goal was, it was against the stone wall of the building. More beggars ran to join the seething crowd, and a few of the doxies joined in, elbowing their way to the front. Suddenly, above the very forefront of the throng, a girl appeared, as if she had stepped up onto a bench.

"Be patient," she cried. "I will give you what I have." In her arms she carried an engraved and florentined casket, almost as large as she could manage. Its top was open, revealing a tangled mass of jewelry. One by one she removed pieces and passed them down to eagerly reaching hands. Greedy cries were raised for more.

Conan shook his head. This girl was no denizen of the harbor. Her robes of cream-colored silk were expensively embroidered with thread-of-gold, and cut neither to reveal nor emphasize her voluptuous curves, though they could not conceal them from the Cimmerian's discerning eye. She wore no kohl or rouge, as the strumpets did, yet she was lovely. Waist-length raven hair framed an oval face with skin the color of dark ivory and melting brown eyes. He wondered what madness had brought her here.

"Mine," a voice shouted from the shoving mass of mendicants and doxies, and another voice cried, "I want mine!"

The girl's face showed consternation. "Be patient. Please."

"More!"

"Now!"

Three men with the forked queues of sailors, attracted by the shouting, began to push their way through the growing knot of people toward the girl. Beggars, their greed vanquishing their usual ingratiating manner, pushed back. Muttered curses were exchanged, then loud obscenities, and the snood of the crowd darkened and turned angry. A sailors horny fist sent a ragged, gap-toothed beggar sprawling.

Screams went up from the strumpets, and wrathful cries from the beggars.

Conan knew he should go on. This was none of his affair, and he had yet to find the Blue Bull. This matter would resolve itself very well without him. Then why, he asked himself, was he not moving?

At that instant a pair of bony, sore-covered hands reached up and jerked the casket from the girl's arms.

She stared helplessly as a swirling fight broke out, the casket jerked from one set of hands to another, its contents spilling to the paving stones to be squabbled over by men and women with clawed fingers.

Filth-caked beggars snarled with avaricious rage; silk-clad harlots, their faces twisted with hideous rapacity, raked each other with long, painted nails and rolled on the street, legs flashing nakedly.

Suddenly one of the sailors, a scar across his broad nose disappearing beneath the patch that covered his right eye, leaped up onto the bench beside the girl. "This is what I want," he roared. And sweeping her into his arms, he tossed her to his waiting comrades.

"Erlik take all fool women," Conan muttered.

The roil of beggars and harlots, lost in their greed, ignored the massive young Cimmerian as he moved through them like a hunting beast. Scar-face and his companions, a lanky Kothian with a gimlet eye and a sharp-nosed Iranistani, whose dirty red-striped head cloth hid all but the tips of his queues, were too busy with the girl to notice his approach. She yelped and wriggled futilely at their pawings. Her flailing hands made no impression on shoulders and chests hardened by the rigors of stormy, violent Vilayet Sea.

The sailors' cheap striped tunics were filthy with fish oils and tar, and an odor hung about them of sour, over-spiced ship's cooking.

Conan's big hand seized the scruff of the Kothian's neck and half hurled him into the scuffle near the casket. The Iranistani's nose crunched and spurted blood beneath his fist, and a back-hand blow sent Scarface to join his friends on the filthy stones of the street.

"Find another woman," the Cimmerian growled. "There are doxies enough about."

The girl stared at him wide-eyed, as if she was not sure if he was a rescuer or not.

"I'll carve your liver and lights," Scarface spat, "and feed what's left to the fish." He scrambled to his feet, a curved Khawarismi dagger in his fist.

The other two closed in beside him, likewise clutching curved daggers. The man in the headcloth was content to glare threateningly, ruining it somewhat by scrubbing with his free hand at the blood that ran from his broken nose down over his mouth. The Kothian, however, wanted to taunt his intended victim.

He tossed his dagger from hand to hand, a menacing grin on his thin mouth.

"We'll peel your hide, barbar," he sneered, "and hang it in the rigging. You'll scream a long time before we let you-"

Among the lessons Conan had learned in his life was that when it was time to fight, it was well to fight, not talk. His broadsword left its worn shagreen scabbard in a draw that continued into an upward swing.

The Kothian's eyes bulged, and he fumbled for the blade that was at that moment in mid-toss. Then the first fingerlength of the broadsword clove through his jaw, and up between his eyes. The dagger clattered to the paving stones, and its owner's body fell atop.

The other two were not men to waste time over a dead companion. Such did not long survive on the sea.

Even as the lanky man was falling, they rushed at the big youth. The Iranistani's blade gashed along Conan's forearm, but he slammed a kick into the dark man's midsection that sent him sprawling. Scarface dropped to a crouch, his dagger streaking up toward Conan's ribs. Conan sucked in his stomach, felt the dagger slice through his tunic and draw a thin, burning line across his midriff. Then his own blade was descending. Scarface screamed as steel cut into the joining of his neck and shoulder and continued two handspans deeper. He dropped his dagger to paw weakly at the broadsword, though life was already draining from him. Conan kicked the body free-for it was a corpse before it struck the pavement and spun to face the third sailor.

The Iranistani had gotten to his feet yet again, but instead of attacking he stood staring at the bodies of his friends. Suddenly he turned and ran up the street. "Murder!" he howled as he ran, heedless of the bloody dagger he was waving. "Murder!" The harlots and mendicants who had so recently been lost in their fighting scattered like leaves before a high wind.

Hastily Conan wiped his blade on Scarface's tunic and sheathed it. There were a few things worse than to be caught by the City Guard standing over a corpse. Most especially in Turan, where the Guard had a habit of following arrest with torture until the prisoner confessed. Conan grabbed the girl's arm and joined the exodus, dragging her behind him.

"You killed them," she said incredulously. She ran as if unsure whether to drag her heels or not. "They'd have run away, an you threatened them."

"Mayhap I should have let them have you," he replied. "They would have ridden you like a post horse.

Now be silent and run!"

Down side streets he pulled her, startling drunks staggering from seafarers' taverns, down cross-alleys smelling of stale urine and rotting offal. As soon as they had put some distance between themselves and the bodies, he slowed to a walk-running people were too well noticed-but yet kept moving. He wanted a very goodly distance between himself and the Guardsmen who would be drawn to the corpses like flies.

He dodged between highwheeled pushcarts, carrying goods from harbor warehouses deeper into the city. The girl trailed reluctantly at his heels, following only because his big hand engulfed her slender wrist as securely as an iron manacle.

Finally he turned into a narrow alley, pushing the girl in ahead of him, and stopped to watch his back-path. There was no way that the Guard could have followed him, but his height and his eyes made him stand out, even in a city the size of Aghrapur.

"I thank you for your assistance," the girl said suddenly in a tone at once haughty and cool. She moved toward the entrance of the alley. "I must be going now."

He put out an arm to bar her way. Her breasts pressed pleasurably against the hardness of his forearm, and she backed hastily away, blushing in confusion.

"Not just yet," he told her.

"Please," she said without meeting his eye. There was a quaver in her voice. "I... I am a maiden. My father will reward you well if you return me to him in the same... condition." The redness in her cheeks deepened.

Conan chuckled deep in his throat. "It's not your virtue I want, girl. Just the answers to a question or three."

To his surprise her eyes dropped. "I suppose I should be glad," she said bitterly, "that even killers prefer slender, willowy women. I know I am a cow. My father has often told me I was made to bear many sons and... and to nurse all of them," she finished weakly, coloring yet again.

Her father was a fool, Conan thought, eyeing her curves. She was a woman made for more than bearing sons, though he did not doubt that whoever she was wed to would find the task of giving them to her a pleasurable one.

"Don't be silly," he told her gruffly. "You'd give joy to any man."

"I would?" she breathed wonderingly. Her liquid eyes caressed his face, innocently, he was certain.

"How," she asked falteringly, "is a post horse ridden?"

He had to think to remember why she asked, and then he could barely suppress a smile. "Long and hard," he said, "with little time for rest, if any."

She went scarlet to the neck of her silken robe, and he chuckled. The girl blushed easily, and prettily.

"What is your name, little one?"

"Yasbet. My father calls me Yasbet." She looked past him to the street beyond, where pushcarts rumbled by. "Do you think the casket, at least, would be there if we went back? It belonged to my mother, and Fatima will be furious at its loss. More furious than for the jewels, though she'll be mad enough at those."

He shook his head. "That casket has changed hands at least twice by now, for money or blood. And the jewels as well. Who is Fatima?"

"My amah," she replied, then gasped and glared at him as if he had tricked her into revealing the fact.

"Your amah!" Conan brayed with laughter. "Are you not a little old to have a nursemaid?"

"My father does not think so," Yasbet replied in a sullen voice. "He thinks I must have an amah until I am given to my husband. It is none of my liking. Fatima thinks I am still five years of age, and father sides with her decisions always." Her eyes closed and her voice sank to a weary whisper. She spoke as if no longer realizing she spoke aloud. "I shall be locked in my room for this, at the least. I shall be lucky if Fatima does not...." Her words drifted off with a wince, and her hands stole back to cover her buttocks protectively.

"You deserve it," Conan said harshly.

Yasbet started, eyes wide and flushing furiously. "Deserve what? What do you mean? Did I say something?"

"You deserve to have an amah, girl. After this I shouldn't be surprised if your father takes two or three of them in service." He smiled inwardly at the relief on her face now. In truth, he thought she deserved a spanking as well, but saying so would be no way to gain satisfaction for his curiosity. "Now tell me, Yasbet. What were you doing alone on a street like that, giving your jewels to beggars? It was madness, girl."

"It was not madness," she protested. "I wanted to do something significant, something on my own. You have no idea what my life is like. Every moment waking or sleeping is ruled and watched by Fatima. I am allowed to make not the smallest decision governing my own life. I had to climb over the garden wall to leave without Fatima's permission."

"But giving jewels to beggars and strumpets?"

"The... the women were not part of my plan. I wanted to help the poor, and who can be poorer than beggars?" Her face firmed angrily. "My father will know I am no longer a child. I do not regret giving up the pretties he believes mean so much to me. It is noble to help the poor."

"Perhaps he'll hire six amahs," Conan muttered. "Girl, did it never occur to you that you might be hurt? If you had to help someone, why not ask among your own servants? Surely they know of people in need?

Then you could have sold a few of your jewels for money to help."

Yasbet snorted. "Even if all the servants were not in league with Fatima, where would I find a dealer in gems who would give me true value? More likely he would simply pretend to deal with me while he sent for my father! And he would no doubt send Fatima to bring me home. That humiliation I can do without, thank you."

"Gem dealers would recognize you," he said incredulously, "and know who your father is? Who is he?

King Yildiz?"

Suddenly wary, she eyed him like a fawn on the edge of flight. "You will not take me back to him, will you?"

"And why should I not? You are not fit to walk the streets without a keeper, girl."

"But then I'll never keep him from discovering what happened today," She shuddered. "Or Fatima."

Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she moved closer. "Just listen to me for a moment. Please? I-"

Abruptly she darted past him into the street.

"Come back here, you fool girl," he roared, racing after her.

She dashed almost under the wheels of a heavy, crate-filled cart, and was immediately hidden from view.

Two more carts pressed close behind. There was no room to squeeze between them. He ran to get ahead of the carts and to the other side of the street. When he got there, Yasbet was nowhere in sight. A potter's apprentice was setting out his master's crockery before their shop. A rug dealer unrolled his wares before his. Sailors and harlots strolled in and out of a tavern. But of the girl there was no sign.

"Fool girl," he muttered.

Just then the tavern sign, painted crudely, creaked in the breeze and caught his eye. The Blue Bull. All that had happened, and he had come right to it. Aghrapur was going to be a lucky city. Giving his swordbelt a hitch and settling his cloak about his broad shoulders, he sauntered into the stone-fronted inn.

Chapter II

The interior of the Blue Bull was poorly lit by guttering rush torches stuck in crude black iron sconces on the stone walls. A dozen men, hunched over their mugs, sat scattered among the tables that dotted the slate floor, which was swept surprisingly clean for a tavern of that class. Three sailors took turns flinging their daggers at a heart crudely painted on a slab of wood and hung on a wall. The rough stones around the slab were pocked from ten thousand near misses. A pair of strumpets, one with multi-hued beads braided in her hair, the other wearing a tall wig in a bright shade of red, circulated among the patrons quietly hawking the wares they displayed in diaphanous silk. Serving girls, their muslin covering little more than the harlots' garb, scurried about with pitchers and mugs. An odor of sour wine and stale ale, common to all such places, competed with the stench of the street.

When he saw the innkeeper, a stout, bald man scrubbing the bar with a bit of rag, Conan understood the cleanliness of the floors. He knew the man, Ferian by name. This Ferian had a passion for cleanliness uncommon among men of his profession. It was said he had fled from Belverus, in Nemedia, after killing a man who vomited on the floor of his tavern. But as a source of information he had always been unsurpassed. Unless he had changed his ways he would know all the news in Aghrapur, not only the gossip of the streets.

Ferian smiled as Conan leaned an elbow on the bar, though his small black eyes remained watchful, and he did not cease his wiping. "Hannuman's Stones, Cimmerian," he said quietly. "They say all roads lead to Aghrapur-at least, they say it in Aghrapur-and seeing you walk in here, I believe it. A year more, and all of Shadizar will be here."

"Who else from Shadizar is in the city?" Conan asked.

"Rufo, the Kothian coiner. Old Sharak, the astrologer. And Emilio, too."

"Emilio!" Conan exclaimed. Emilio the Corinthian had been the best thief in Zamora, next to Conan. "He always swore he'd never leave Shadizar."

Ferian chuckled, a dry sound to come from one so plump. "And before that he swore he would never leave Corinthia, but he left both for the same reason-he was found in the wrong woman's bed. Her husband was after him, but her mother wanted him even more. Seems he'd been bedding her as well, and lifting bits of her jewelry. The older wench hired a bevy of knifemen to see that Emilio would have nothing to offer another woman. I hear he left the city disguised as an old woman and did not stop sweating for half a year. Ask him about it, an you want to see a man turn seven colors at once, the while swallowing his tongue. He's upstairs with one of the girls now, though likely too drunk to do either of them any good."

"Then they'll be there till the morrow," Conan laughed, "for he'll never admit to failure." He laid two coppers on the bar. "Have you any Khorajan ale? My throat is dusty."

"Do I have Khorajan ale?" Ferian said, rummaging under the bar. "I have wines and ales you have never heard of. Why, I have wines and ales I have never heard of." He drew out a dusty clay crock, filled a leathern jack, and made the coppers disappear as he pushed the mug in front of Conan. "Khorajan ale.

How stand affairs in the Gilded Bitch of the Vilayet? You had to leave in a hurry, did you?"

Conan covered his surprise by drinking deeply on the dark, bitter ale, and wiped white froth from his mouth with the back of his hand before he spoke. "How knew you I have been in Sultanapur? And why think you I left hurriedly?"

"You were seen there these ten days gone," Ferian smirked, "by Zefran the Slaver, who came through here on his way back to Khawarism." It was the tavernkeeper's major fault that he liked to let men know how much he knew of what they had been about. One day it would gain him a knife between his ribs.

"As for the rest, I know naught save that you stand there with the dust of hard riding on you, and you were never the one to travel for pleasure. Now, what can you tell me?"

Conan drank again, pretending to think on what he could tell. The fat man was known to trade knowledge for knowledge, and Conan had one piece of it he knew was not yet in Aghrapur, unless someone had grown wings to fly it there ahead of him.

"The smuggling is much abated in Sultanapur," the Cimmerian said finally. "The Brotherhood of the Coast is in disarray. They sweat in the shadows, and stir not from their dwellings. 'Twill be months before so much as a bale of silk passes through that city without the customs paid."

Ferian grunted noncommittally, but his eyes lit. Before the sun next rose, men who would try to fill the void in Sultanapur would pay him well.

"And what can you tell me of Aghrapur?"

"Nothing," Ferian replied flatly.

Conan stared. It was not the tapster's way to give less than value. His scrupulousness was part and parcel of his reputation. "Do you doubt the worth of what I've told you?"

"'Tis not that, Cimmerian." The tavernkeeper sounded faintly embarrassed. "Oh, I can tell you what you can learn for yourself in a day's listening in the street. Yildiz casts his eyes beyond the border, and builds the army accordingly. The Cult of Doom gains new members every day. The-"

"The Cult of Doom!" Conan exclaimed. "What in Mitra's name is that?"

Ferian grimaced. "A foolishness, is what it is. They're all over the streets, in their saffron robes, the men with shaven heads."

"I saw some dressed so," Conan said, "chanting to a tambourine."

"'Twas them. But there's naught to them, despite the name. They preach that all men are doomed, and building up earthly treasures is futile." He snorted and scrubbed at his piggish nose with a fat hand. "As for earthly treasure, the cult itself has built up quite a store. All who join give whatever they possess to the Cult. Some young sons and daughters of wealthy merchants, and even of nobles, have given quite a bit.

Not to mention an army of rich widows. There've been petitions to the throne about it, from relatives and such, but the cult pays its taxes on time, which is more than can be said of the temples. And it gives generous gifts to the proper officials, though that is not well known." He brightened. "They have a compound, almost a small city, some small distance north, on the coast. Could I find where within their treasures are kept... well, you are skillful enough to make your fortune in a single night."

"I'm a thief no more," Conan said. Ferian's face fell. "What else can you tell me of the city?"

The fat man sighed heavily. "These days I know less than the harlots, whose customers sometimes talk in their sleep. In these three months past, two thirds of those who have given me bits and pieces, servants of nobles and of those high in the Merchant's Guild, have been murdered. What you have told me is the best piece of intelligence I have had in a month. I owe you," he added reluctantly. He was not one to enjoy indebtedness. "The first thing I hear that you might use to advantage, I will place in your hands."

"And I will hear it before anyone else? Let us say two days before?"

"Two days! As well as a year. Knowledge spoils faster than milk under a hot sun."

"Two days," Conan said firmly.

"Two days, then," the other man muttered.

Conan smiled. Breaking his word was not among Ferian's faults. But this matter of the murders, now....

"It seems beyond mere chance that so many of your informants should die in so short a time."

"No, friend Conan." To the Cimmerian's surprise, Ferian refilled his mug without asking payment. That was not like him. Perhaps he hoped to pay off his debt in free drink, Conan thought. "Many more have died than those who had a connection to me. There is a plague of murder on Aghrapur. More killings in these three months than in the whole year before. Were it not for the sorts who die, I might think some plot was afoot, but who would plot against servants and Palace Guards and the like? 'Tis the hand of chance playing fickle tricks, no more."

"Conan!" came a shout from the stairs at the rear of the common room. The big Cimmerian looked around.

Emilio stood on the bottom step with his arm around a slender girl in gauds of brass and carnelian and a long, narrow strip of red silk wound about her in such a way as almost to conceal her breasts and hips.

She half supported him as he swayed drunkenly, which was no easy task. He was a big man, as tall as Conan, though not so heavily muscled. He was handsome of face, with eyes almost too large for a man.

His eyes and his profile, he would tell anyone who would listen, drew women as honey drew flies.

"Greetings, Emilio," Conan called back. "No longer dressing as an old woman, I see." To Ferian he added, "We'll talk later." Taking his mug, he strolled to the staircase.

Emilio sent the girl on her way with a swat across her pert rump, and eyed Conan woozily. "Who told you that tale? Ferian, I'll wager. Fat old sack of offal. Not true, I tell you. Not true. I simply left Zamora to seek rich-" he paused to belch "-richer pastures. You're just the man I want to see, Cimmerian."

Conan could sense an offer of cooperation coming. "We no longer follow the same trade, Emilio," he said.

Emilio did not seem to hear. He grabbed the arm of a passing serving girl, ogling her generous breasts as he did. "Wine, girl. You hear?" She nodded and sped off, deftly avoiding his attempted pinch; he tottered and nearly fell. Still staggering, he managed to fall onto a stool at an empty table and gestured drunkenly toward another. "Sit, Conan. Sit, man. Wine'll be here before you know it."

"Never before have I seen you so drunk," Conan said as he took the stool. "Are you celebrating, or drowning sorrows?"

The other man's eyes had drifted half shut. "Do you know," he said dreamily, "that a blonde is worth her weight in rubies here? These Turanian men will kill to have a fair-haired mistress. Does she have blue eyes, they'll kill their mothers for her."

"Have you turned to slaving, then, Emilio? I thought better of you."

Instead of answering, the other man rambled on.

"They have more heat in them than other women. I think it's the hair. Gods put color in a woman's hair, they must have to take some of her heat to do it. Stands to reason. Davinia, now, she's hotter than forge-fire. That fat general can't take care of her. Too much army business." Emilio's snicker was at once besotted and lascivious. Conan decided to let him run out of wind. "So I take care of her. But she wants things. I tell her she doesn't need any necklace, beautiful as she is, but she says a sorcerer laid a spell on it for a queen. Centuries gone this happened, she claims. Woman wears it, and she's irresistible. Thirteen rubies, she says, each as big as the first joint of a man's thumb, each set on a moonstone-crusted seashell in gold. Now that's worth stealing." He snickered and leaned toward Conan, leering. "Thought she'd pay me for it with her body. Set her straight on that. I already have her body. Hundred gold pieces, I told her.

Gold, like her hair. Softest ever I tangled my hand in. Softest skin, too. Buttery and sleek."

The serving girl returned to set a mug and wine-jar on the table, and stood waiting. Conan made no move to pay. He had no hundred gold pieces coming to him. The girl poked Emilio in the ribs with her fist. He grunted, and stared at her blearily.

"One of you pays for the wine," she said, "or I take it back."

"No way to treat a good customer," Emilio muttered, but he rooted in his pouch until he came up with the coins. When she had gone he stared at the Cimmerian across the table. "Conan! Where did you come from? Thought I saw you. It's well you are here. We have a chance to work together again, as we used to."

"We never worked together," Conan said levelly, "And I thieve no more."

"Nonsense. Now listen you close. North of the city a short distance is an enclosure containing much wealth. I have a commission to steal a-to steal something from there. Come with me; you could steal enough to keep you for half a year."

"Is this enclosure by any chance the compound of the Cult of Doom?"

Emilio rocked back on his seat. "I thought you were fresh come to the city. Look you, those seven who supposedly entered the compound and were never seen again were Turanians. These local thieves have no skill, not like us. They'd last not a day in Shadizar or Arenjun. Besides, I think me they did not go to the compound at all. They hid, or died, or left the city, and men made up this story. People will do that, to make a place they do not know, or do not like, seem fearful."

Conan said nothing.

Ignoring his mug, Emilio swept up the clay wine-jar, not lowering it until it was nearly drained. He leaned across the table, pleading in his voice. "I know exactly where the-the treasure is to be found. On the east side of the compound is a garden containing a single tower, atop which is a room where jewelry and rarities are kept. Those fools go there to look at them. The display is supposed to show them how worthless gold and gems are. You see, I know all about it. I've asked questions, hundreds of them."

"If you've asked so many questions, think you that no one knows what you intend? Give it over, Emilio."

A fur-capped Hyrkanian stepped up to the table, the rancid odor of his lank, greased hair overpowering the smells of the tavern. A scar led from the missing lower lobe of his left ear to the corner of his mouth, pulling that side of his face into a half-smile. From the corner of his eye the Cimmerian saw four more watching from across the room. He could not swear to it, but he thought he had encountered these five earlier in the day.

The Hyrkanian at the table spared only a glance to Conan. His attention was on Emilio. "You are Emilio the Corinthian," he said gutturally. "I would talk with you."

"Go away," Emilio said without looking at him. "I know no Emilio the Corinthian. Listen to me, Conan. I would be willing to give you half what I get for the necklace. Twenty pieces of gold."

Conan almost laughed. Dead drunk Emilio might be, but he still thought to cheat his hoped-for partner.

"I would talk with you," the Hyrkanian said again.

"And I said go away!" Emilio shouted, his face suddenly suffusing with red. Snatching the wine-jar, he leaped to his feet and smashed it across the Hyrkanian's head. With the last dregs of the wine rolling down his face, the scarred nomad collapsed in a welter of clay fragments.

"Crom!" Conan muttered; a deluge of rank-smelling men in fur caps was descending on them.

Conan pivoted on his buttocks, his foot rising to meet a hurtling nomad in the stomach. With a gagging gasp the man stopped dead, black eyes goggling as he bent double. The Cimmerian's massive fist crashed against the side of his head, and he crumpled to the floor.

Emilio was wallowing on the floor beneath two of the Hyrkanians. Conan seized one by the back of his sheepskin coat and pulled him off of the Corinthian thief. The nomad spun, a dagger in his streaking hand.

Surprise crossed his face as his wrist slapped into Conan's hand. The Cimmerian's huge fist traveled no more than three handspans, but the fur-capped nomad's bootheels lifted from the floor, and then he collapsed beside his fellow.

Conan scanned the room for the fifth Hyrkanian, but could not find the remaining nomad anywhere.

Emilio was getting shakily to his feet while examining a bloody gash on his shoulder. Ferian was heading back toward the bar, carrying a heavy bungstarter. Another instant and Conan saw a pair of booted feet stretched out from behind a table. "You get them out of here," Ferian shouted as he reached the bar and thrust the heavy mallet out of sight. "You dirtied my floor, now you clean it. Get them out of here, I say!"

Conan seized one of the unconscious men by the heels. "Come on, Emilio," he said, "unless you want to fight Ferian this time."

The Corinthian merely grunted, but he grabbed another of the nomads. Together they dragged the unconscious men into the street, shadowed with night, now, and left them lying against the front of the rug dealer's shop.

As they laid out the last of the sleeping men-Conan had checked each to make sure he still breathed-Emilio stared up at the waxing pearlescent moon and shivered.

"I've an evil feeling about this, Conan," he said. "I wish you would come with me."

"You come with me," Conan replied. "Back inside where we'll drink some more of Ferian's wine, and perhaps try our luck with the girls."

"You go, Conan. I-" Emilio shook his head. "You go." And he staggered off into the night.

"Emilio!" Conan called, but only the wind answered, whispering down shadowed streets. Muttering to himself, the Cimmerian returned to the tavern.

Chapter III

When Conan came down to the common room of the Blue Bull the next morning, the wench with the beads in her hair accompanied him, clutching his arm to her breast, firm and round through its thin silk covering, letting her swaying hip bump into his thigh at every step.

Brushing her lips against his massive shoulder, she looked up at him smokily through her lashes.

"Tonight?" She bit her lip and added, "For you, half price."

"Perhaps, Zasha," he said, though even at half price his purse would not stand many nights of her. And those accursed beads had quickly gotten to be an irritation. "Now be off with you. I've business." She danced away with a saucy laugh and a saucier roll of her hips. Mayhap his purse could stand one more night.

The tavern was almost empty at that early hour. Two men with sailors' queues tried to kill the pain of the past night's drink with still more drink, while morosely fingering nearly flat purses. A lone strumpet, her worknight done at last and her blue silks damp with sweat, sat in a corner with her eyes closed, rubbing her feet.

At the bar Ferian filled a mug with Khorajan ale before he was asked.

"Has aught of worth come to your ear?" Conan asked as he wrapped one big hand around the leathern jack. He was not hopeful, since the fat tavernkeeper had once more failed to demand payment.

"Last night," the stout man said, concentrating on the rag with which he rubbed the wood of the bar, "it was revealed that Temba of Kassab, a dealer in gems who stands high in the Merchant's Guild, has been featuring Hammaram Temple Virgins at his orgies, with the result that fourteen former virgins and five priestesses have disappeared from the Temple, likely into a slaver's kennels. Temba will no doubt be ordered to give a large gift to the Temple. Last night also twenty-odd murders took place, that I have heard of so far, and probably twice so many that have not reached my ears. Also, the five daughters of Lord Barash were found by their father entertaining the grooms of his stable and have been packed off into the Cloisters of Vara, as has the Princess Esmira, or so 'tis rumored."

"I said of worth," the Cimmerian cut off. "What care I for the virgins or princesses? Of worth!"

Ferian gave a half-hearted laugh and studied his bit of scrub cloth. "The last is interesting, at least. Esmira is the daughter of Prince Roshmanli, closest to Yildizs ear of the Seventeen Attendants. In a city of sluts she is said to be a virgin of purest innocence, yet she is being sent away to scrub floors and sleep on a hard mat until a husband can be found." Suddenly he slammed his fist down on the bar and spat. The spittle landed on the wood, but he seemed not to see it. "Mitra's Mercies, Cimmerian, what expect you?

Its been but one night since I told you I know nothing. Am I a sorcerer to conjure knowledge where there was none? An you want answers from the skies, ask old Sharak over there. He-" Suddenly his eye lit on the gobule of spit. With a strangled cry he scrubbed at it as if it would contaminate the wood.

Conan looked about for the astrologer he had known in Shadizar. The bent old man, wearing what seemed to be the same frayed and patched brown tunic he had worn in Shadizar, was lowering himself creakily to a stool near the door. His white hair was thinner than ever, and as always he leaned on a long blackwood staff, which he claimed was a staff of power, though no one had ever seen any magicks performed with it. Wispy mustaches hung below his thin mouth and narrow chin, and he clutched a rat's nest of scrolls in his bony fingers.

Ferian gave the bar one more scrub and eyed it suspiciously. "I like not this owing, Cimmerian," he muttered.

"I like not being owed." Conan's icy blue eyes peered into the fulvous ale. "After a time I begin to think I will not be repaid, and I like that even less."

"I pay my debts," the other protested. "I'm a fair man. 'Tis known from Shahpur to Shadizar. From Kuthchemes to-"

"Then pay me."

"Black Erlik's Throne, man! What you told me may be worth no more than the wind blowing in the streets!"

Conan spoke as quietly as a knife leaving its scabbard. "Do you call me a liar, Ferian?"

Ferian blinked and swallowed hard. Of a sudden, the Cimmerian seemed to fill his vision. And he remembered with a sickly sinking of his stomach that among the muscular youth's more uncivilized traits was a deadly touchiness about his word.

"No, Conan," he laughed shakily. "Of a certainty not. You misunderstand. I meant just that I do not know its value. Nothing more than that."

"An you got no gold for that information last night," Conan laughed scornfully, "I'll become a priest of Azura."

Ferian scowled, muttered under his breath, and finally said, "Mayhap I have some slight idea of its worth."

A smile showed the big Cimmerian's strong white teeth. The tavern keeper shifted uncomfortably.

"An you know its worth, Ferian, we can set some other payment than what was first agreed."

"Other payment?" Despite his plump cheeks the innkeeper suddenly wore a look of rat-like suspicion.

"What other payment?" Conan took a long pull of ale to let him steep. "What other payment, Cimmerian?"

"Lodgings, to begin."

"Lodgings" Ferian gaped like a fish in surprise and relief. "Is that all? Of course. You can have room for...

for ten days."

"A fair man," Conan murmured sardonically "Your best room. Not the sty I slept in last night."

The fat man snickered greasily. "Unless I misread me the look on Zasha's face, you did little sleeping." He cleared his throat heavily at the look on Conan's face. "Very well. The best room."

"And not for ten days. For a month."

"A month!"

"And some small information."

"This is in place of the information!" Ferian howled.

"Information," Conan said firmly. "I'll not ask to be the only one to get it, as we first spoke of, but for that month you must keep me informed, and betimes."

"I have not even agreed to the month!"

"Oh, yes. Food and drink must be included. I have hearty appetites," he laughed. Tipping up his mug, he emptied it down his throat. "I'll have more of that Khorajan."

Ferian clutched at his shiny scalp as if wishing he had hair to pull out by the roots. "Do you want anything else? This tavern? My mistress? I have a daughter somewhere-in Zamora, I think. Do you want me to find her and bring her to your bed?"

"Is she pretty?" Conan asked. He paused as if considering, then shook his head. "No, the lodgings and the rest will be enough." Ferian sputtered, his beady eyes bulging in his fat face. "Of course," the Cimmerian continued, "you could continue in my debt. You do understand I'd just want the right piece of information, do you not? 'Twas good value I gave, and I'll expect the same in return. It would be well if you found it quickly." A growl had entered his voice, and his face had slowly darkened. "You know we barbars are not so understanding as you civilized men. Why, if a tenday or two passed with you silent, I might think you wished to take advantage of me. Such would make me angry. I might even-" His big hands abruptly clutched the bar as if he intended to vault it.

Ferian's mouth worked for a moment before he managed to shout "No!" and seized Conan's hand in his.

"Done," he cried. "It's done. The moll and the rest. Done!"

"Done," Conan said.

The fat innkeeper stared at him. "A month," he moaned. "My wenches will spend the whole time in your bed. You keep your hands off them, Cimmerian, or I'll get not a lick of work from the lot of them.

You've taken advantage of me. Of my good nature."

"I knew not that you had one, Ferian. Mayhap if you take a physic it will go away."

"Mitra be thanked that most of you Cimmerians like your god-forsaken frozen wastes. Did any more of your accursed blue-eyed devils come south, you would own the world."

"Be not so sour," Conan said chidingly. "I'll wager you got twenty times so much for what I told you as what my staying here will cost."

Ferian grunted. "Just keep your hands off my serving wenches, Cimmerian. Go away. An I to make up what you cost me, I cannot stand here all day talking to you. Go talk to Sharak."

The young Cimmerian laughed, scooping up his mug of dark ale. "At least he can tell me what the stars say." When he left the bar, Ferian was still sputtering over that.

The astrologer peered at Conan dimly as he approached the table where the old man sat; then a smile creased his thin features. The skin of his visage was stretched taut over his skull. "I thought I saw you, Conan, but these eyes .... I am no longer the man I was twenty years ago, or even ten. Sit. I wish that I could offer you a goblet of wine, but my purse is as flat as was my wife's chest. May the gods guard her bones," he added in the careless way of a man who has said a thing so many times that he no longer hears the words.

"No matter, Sharak. I will buy the wine."

But as Conan turned to signal, one of the wenches bustled to the table and set a steaming bowl of lentil stew, a chunk of coarse bread and a pannikin of wine before the astrologer. The food set out, she turned questioningly toward the muscular youth. Abruptly her dark, tilted eyes went wide with shock, and she leaped into the air, emitting a strangled squawk. Sharak began to cackle. The wench glared at the aged man then, rubbing one buttock fitfully, darted away.

Sharak's crowing melded into a fit of coughing, which he controlled with difficulty. "It never does," he said when he could speak, "to let them start thinking you're too old to be dangerous."

Conan threw back his black-maned head and roared with laughter. "You'll never get old," he managed finally.

"I'm a dotard," Sharak said, digging a horn spoon into the stew. "Ferian says so, and I begin to think he is right. He gives me a bowl of stew twice a day, else I would eat only what I scavenge in the garbage, as many must in age. He is almost my only patron, as well. In return for the stew I read his stars. Every day I read them, and a more boring tale they could not tell."

"But why no patrons? You read the stars as a scribe reads marks on parchment. Never once did you tell me wrong, though your telling was at times none too clear to me."

"'Tis these Turanians," the old man snorted. "Ill was the day I journeyed here. Half the stars they name wrongly, and they make other errors. Important errors. Those fools in this city who call themselves astrologers had the gall to charge me with unorthodoxy before the Guild. 'Twas no more than luck I did not end at the stake. The end result is the same, though. Without the Guild's imprimatur, I would be arrested if I opened a shop. The few who deal with me are outlanders, and they come merely because I will tell their stars for a mug of wine or a loaf of bread instead of the silver piece the others charge. Did I have a silver piece, I would return to Zamora on the instant." With a rueful grunt he returned to spooning the stew into his mouth.

Conan was silent a moment. Slowly he dug into his pouch and drew out a silver piece, sliding it across the rough boards. "Tell my horoscope, Sharak."

The gaunt old man froze with his spoon half raised to his face. He peered at the coin, blinking then at Conan. "Why?"

"I would know what this city holds for me," the young Cimmerian said gruffly. "I hold you better than any Guildsman of Aghrapur, and so worth at least the footing they demand. Besides," he lied, "my purse is heavy with coin."

Sharak hesitated, then nodded. Without touching the coin, he fumbled through his scrolls with his left hand, all the while absently licking traces of stew from the fingers of his right. When those scrolls he wanted were spread out atop the table; he produced a wax tablet from beneath his patched tunic. The side of a stylus scraped the wax smooth. Nose almost touching the parchments, he began to copy arcane symbols with deft strokes.

"Do you not need to know when I was born, and such?" Conan asked.

"I remember the details of your natal chart," the other replied with his eyes on the parchment, "as if it were drawn on the insides of my eyelids. A magnificent chart. Unbelievable. Hmm. Mitra's Chariot is in retrograde."

"Magnificent? You have never told me of any magnificence before."

Sighing, Sharak swiveled his head to gaze at the big youth. "Unbelievable, I called it as well, and you would not believe did I tell you. Then you did not believe anything else I told you, either, and I could do you no good. Therefore I do not tell you. Now, will you allow me to do what you have paid me for?" He did not wait for a reply before turning his eyes back to the scrolls. "Aha. The Bloodstar enters the House of the Scorpion this very night. Significant."

Conan shook his head and quaffed deeply on his ale. Was Sharak attempting to inflate his payment?

Perhaps the habit of trying to do so was too deeply ingrained to lose.

He busied himself with drinking. The common room was beginning to fill, with queued sailors and half-naked trulls for the most part. The wenches were the most interesting, by far. One, short, round-breasted and large-eyed in her girdle of coins and gilded wristlets and torque, made him think of Yasbet. He wished he could be certain she was safe at home. No, in truth he wished her in his bed upstairs, but, failing that, it was best if she were at home, whatever her greeting from Fatima. Could he find her again, it would of a certainty brighten his days in Aghrapur. Let Emilio talk of his blonde-what was her name? Davinia?-as if she were the exotic these Turanians thought her. In his own opinion it was women with large eyes who had the fires smoldering within, even when they did not know it themselves.

Why-

"I am done," Sharak said.

Conan blinked, pulled from his reverie. "What?" He looked at the wax tablet, now covered with scribbled symbols. "What does it say?"

"It is unclear," the old astrologer replied, tugging at one of his thin mustaches with bony fingers. "There are aspects of great opportunity and great danger. See, the Horse and the Lion are in conjunction in the House of Dramath, while the Three Virgins are-"

"Sharak, I would not know the House of Dramath from the house of a rugmaker. What does it mean?"

"What does it mean?" Sharak mimicked. "Always 'what does it mean?' No one wants to know the truly interesting part, the details of how. . . Oh, very well. First of all: there is a need to go back in order to go forward. To become what you will become, you must become again what you once were."

"That's little help," Conan muttered. "I have been many things."

"But this is most important. This branching here, indicates that if you fail to do so, you will never leave Aghrapur alive. You have already set events in motion."

The air in the tavern seemed suddenly chill. Conan wished the old man had not been right so often before. "How can I have set events in motion? I've been here barely a day."

"And spoken to no one? Done nothing?"

Conan breathed heavily. "Does it speak of gold?"

"Gold will come into your hands, but it does not seem to be important, and there is danger attached."

"Gold is always important, and there is always danger attached. What of women?"

"Ah, youth," Sharak murmured caustically. "You will soon be entangled with women-two, it seems here-but there is danger there as well."

"Women are always at least as dangerous as gold," Conan replied, laughing.

"One is dark of hair, and one pale-haired."

The Cimmerian's laughter faded abruptly. Pale haired? Emilio's Davinia? No! That would almost certainly mean aiding Emilio in his theft, and that had been left behind. But he was to 'become what he had been.'

He forced the thought away. He was done with thieving. The astrologer's reading must mean something else.

"What more?" he asked harshly.

"'Tis not my fault if you like it not, Conan. I merely read what is writ in the stars."

"What more, I said!"

Sharak sighed heavily. "You cannot blame me if.... There is danger here connected in some fashion to a journey. This configuration," he pointed to a row of strangely bent symbols scribed in the wax, "indicates a journey over water, but these over here indicate land. It is unclear."

"'Tis all unclear, an you ask me of it." Conan muttered.

"It becomes less clear. For instance, here the color yellow is indicated as of great importance."

"The gold-"

"-is of small import, no matter your feeling on it. And there is more danger tied to this than to the gold."

The big Cimmerian ground his teeth audibly. "There is danger to breathing, to hear you tell it."

"I can well believe it so, to look at this chart. As to the rest, the number thirteen and the color red are of some significance, and are linked. Additionally, this alignment of the Monkey and the Viper indicates the need of acting quickly and decisively. Hesitate, and the moment will be lost to you. And that will mean your death."

"What will come, will come, old man," Conan snapped. "I'll not be affrighted by stars, gods or demons."

Sharak scowled, then pushed the silver piece back across the table. "If my reading is so distasteful to you, I cannot take payment."

The muscular youth's anger dropped to a simmer instantly. "'Tis no blame of yours whether I like the reading you give or no. You take the money, and I'll take your advice."

"I am four score and two-years of age," the astrologer said, suddenly diffident, "and never in all that time have I had an adventure." He gripped his knobbly staff, leaning against the table. "There is power in this, Cimmerian. I could be of aid."

Conan hid a smile. "I've no doubt of it, Sharak. When I need such help, I will call on you, have no fear.

There is one thing you might do for me now. Know you where I might find Emilio at this hour?"

"That cankerous boaster?" Sharak said disdainfully. "He frequents many places of ill repute, each worse than the last." He reeled off the names of a dozen taverns and as many brothels and gaming halls. "I could help you look for him, if you really think he's needed, though what use he could be I do not know."

"When you finish supping you can search the halls."

"I would rather search the brothels," the old man leered.

"The halls," Conan laughed, getting to his feet. Sharak returned grumbling to his stew.

As he turned toward the door, the Cimmerian's eyes met those of a man just entering, hard black eyes in a hard black face beneath the turban-wrapped spiral helmet of the Turanian army. Of middling height, he moved with the confidence of a larger man. The striping on his tunic marked him as a sergeant. Ferian hurried, frowning, to meet the dark man. Soldiers were not usually habitues of the Blue Bull.

"I am seeking a man called Emilio the Corinthian," the sergeant said to Ferian.

Conan walked out without waiting for the innkeeper's reply. It had nothing to do with him. He hoped.

Chapter IV

Conan entered the seventh tavern with never so much as a wobble of his step, despite the quantity of wine and ale he had ingested. The large number of wenches lolling about the dim, dank common room, roughed and be-ringed, their silks casually disarrayed, told him that a brothel occupied the upper floors of the squat stone building. Among the long tables and narrow trestle-boards crowding the slate floor, sailors rubbed shoulders with journeymen of the guilds. Scattered through the room were others whose languid countenances and oiled mustaches named them high-born no less than their silk tunics embroidered in gold and silver. Their smooth fingers played as free with the strumpets as did the sailors'

callused hands.

The Cimmerian elbowed a place at the bar and tossed two coppers on the boards. "Wine," he commanded.

The barkeeper gave him a rough clay mug, filled to the brim with sour-smelling liquid, and scooped up the coins. The man was wiry and snakefaced, with heavy-lidded, suspicious eyes and a tight, narrow mouth. He would not be one to answer questions freely. Another drinker called, and the tapster moved off, wiping his hands on a filthy apron that dangled about his spindly shanks.

Conan took a swallow from his mug and grimaced. The wine was thin, and tasted as sour as it smelled.

As he eyed the common room, a strangely garbed doxy caught his gaze. Sleek and sinuous, she had climbed upon a trestle-board to dance for half a dozen sailors who pawed her with raucous shouts, running their hands up her long legs. Her oiled breasts were bare, and for garb she wore but a single strip of silk, no wider than a man's hand, run through a narrow gilded girdle worn low on the roundness of her hips, to fall to her ankles before and behind. The strangeness was that an opaque veil covered her from just below her hot, dark eyes to her chin. The sisterhood of the streets might paint their faces heavily, but they never covered them, for few men would take well to the discovery that their purchase was less fair of visage than they had believed. But not only was this woman veiled, he now saw no less than three others so equipped.

Conan caught the tavernkeeper's tunic sleeve as he passed again. "I've never seen veiled strumpets before. Do they cover the marks of the pox?"

"New come to Aghrapur, are you?" the man said, a slight smile touching his thin mouth.

"A short time past. But these women?"

"'Tis rumored," the other smirked, "that some women highly born, bored with husbands whose vigor has left them, amuse themselves by disporting as common trulls, wearing veils so those same husbands, who frequent the brothels as oft as any other men, will not recognize them. As I say, 'tis but a rumor, yet what man will pass the chance to have a lord's wife beneath him for a silver piece?"

"Not likely," Conan snorted. "There would be murder done when one of those lords discovered that the doxy he'd bought was his own wife."

"Nay. Nay. The others flock about them, but not the lordlings. What man would risk the shame of knowing his wife had been bought?"

It was true, Conan saw. Each veiled woman was the center of a knot of sailors or dockworkers or tradesman, but the nobles ignored them, looking the other way rather than acknowledge their existence.

"Try one," the snake-faced man urged. "One silver piece, and you can see for yourself if she moves beneath you like a noblewoman."

Conan drank deeply, as if considering. Had he been interested in dalliance, it was in his mind that better value would come from an honest strumpet than from a nobly-born woman pretending to be such. The tapster had none of the fripperies of the panderer about him-he did not sniff a perfumed pomander or wear more jewelry than any three wenches-but no doubt he took some part of what was earned on the mats above the common room. He might talk more easily if he thought Conan a potential patron. The Cimmerian lowered his mug.

"It's a thing to think on," he chuckled, eyeing a girl nearby. A true daughter of the mats, this one, in an orange-dyed wig with her face as bare as her wiggling buttocks. "But I seek a friend who was supposed to meet me. I understand he frequents this place betimes."

The tavernkeeper drew back half a step, and his voice cooled noticeably. "Look around you. An he is here, you will see him. Otherwise...." He shrugged and turned to walk away, but Conan reached across the bar and caught his arm, putting on a smile he hoped was friendly. "I do not see him, but I still must needs find him. He is called Emilio the Corinthian. For the man who can tell me where to find him, I could spare the price of one of these wenches for the night." If Sharak was correct-and he always was-Conan had to find Emilio, and what word he had thus far garnered was neither copious nor good.

The tapster's face became even more snake-like, but his lidded eyes had flickered at Emilio's name.

"Few men must pay for the whereabouts of a friend. Mayhap this fellow-Emilio, did you say his name is?-is no friend of yours. Mayhap he does not wish to meet you. Ashra! Come rid me of this pale-eyed fool!"

"I can prove to you that I know him. He is-"

A massive hand landed on the Cimmerian's broad shoulder, and a guttural voice growled, "Out with you!"

Conan turned his head enough to look coldly at the wide hand, its knuckles sunken and scarred. His icy azure gaze traveled back along a hairy arm as big around as most men's legs. And up. This Ashra stood head and shoulders taller even than Conan himself, and was half again as broad with no bit of fat on him.

For all the scarring of his hands, the huge man's broadnosed face was unmarked. Conan thought few could reach high enough to strike it.

He attempted to keep his tone reasonable. Fighting seldom brought information. "I seek a man this skinny one knows, not trouble. Now unhand me and-"

For an answer the big man jerked at Conan's shoulder. Sighing, the Cimmerian let himself be spun, but the smile on Ashra's face lasted only until Conan's fist hooked into his side with a loud crack of splintering ribs. Shouting drinkers scrambled out of the way of the two massive men. Conan's other fist slammed into the tall man, and again he felt ribs break beneath his blow.

With a roar Ashra seized the Cimmerian's head in both of his huge hands and lifted Conan clear of the floor, squeezing as if to crush the skull he held, but a wolfish battle-light shone in Conan's eyes. He forced his arms between Ashra's and gripped the other's head in turn, one hand atop it, the other beneath the heavy chin. Slowly he twisted, and slowly the bull neck gave. Panting, Ashra suddenly loosed his hold, yet managed to seize Conan about the chest before he could fall. Hands locked, he strained to snap the Cimmerian's spine.

The smile on Conan's face was enough to chill the blood. In the time it took three grains of sand to fall in the glass, he knew, he could break Ashra's neck, yet a killing would of a certainty gag the tapster's mouth. Abruptly he released his grip. Ashra laughed, thinking he had the victory. Conan raised his hands high, then smashed them, palms flat, across the other's ears.

Ashra screamed and staggered back, dropping the Cimmerian to clutch at his bleeding ears. Conan bored after him, slamming massive fists to the ribs he had already broken, then a third blow to the huge man's heart. Ashra's eyes glazed, and his knees bent, but he would not fall. Once more Conan struck.

That never-struck nose fountained blood, and Ashra slowly turned, toppling into a table that splintered beneath him. Once the prostrate man stirred as if to rise, then was still.

A murmuring crowd gathered around the fallen man. Two mere grabbed his ankles, grunting as they dragged the massive weight away. More than one wench eyed Conan warmly, licking her lips and putting an extra sway in her walk, among them those with veiled faces. He ignored them and turned back to the business at hand, to the tapster.

The snake-faced innkeeper stood behind the bar wearing an expression almost as stunned as Ashra's. A bung-starter dangled forgotten in his ham.

Conan took the heavy mallet from the slack grip and held it up before the man's eyes, fists touching in the middle of the thick handle. The muscles of his arms and shoulders knotted and bunched; there was a sharp crack, and he let the two pieces fall to the bar.

The tavernkeeper licked his thin lips. He stared at Conan as if at a wonderment. "Never before have I seen the man Ashra could not break in two with his bare hands," he said slowly. "But then, even he couldn't have...." His gaze dropped to the broken mallet, and he swallowed hard. "Have you a mind to employment? The job held by that sack of flesh they're hauling off is open. A silver piece a day, plus a room, food, drink, and your choice of any wench who has not a customer. My name is Manilik. How are you called?"

"I am no hauler of tosspots," Conan said flatly. "Now tell me what you know of Emilio."

Manilik hesitated, then gave a strained laugh. "Mayhap you do know him. I'm careful of my tongue, you see. Talk when you shouldn't, and you're apt to lose your tongue. I don't waggle mine."

"Waggle it now. About Emilio."

"But that is the problem, stranger. Oh, I know of Emilio," he said quickly, as Conan's massive fist knotted atop the bar, "but I know little. And I've not seen him these three days past."

"Three days," Conan muttered despondently. Thus far he had found many who knew Emilio, but none who had seen the Corinthian these three days past. "That boasting idiot is likely gazing into a mirror or rolling with that hot-blooded Davinia of his," he growled.

"Davinia?" Manilik sounded startled. "If you know of her, perhaps you truly do know...." He trailed off with a nervous laugh under Conan's icy eyes.

"What do you know of Davinia, Manilik?"

The innkeeper shivered, so quietly was that question asked. It seemed to him the quiet of the tomb, mayhap of his tomb an he answered not quickly. Words bubbled from him as water from a spring.

"General Mundara Khan's mistress, bar-, ah, stranger, and a dangerous woman for the likes of Emilio, not just for who it is that keeps her, but for her ambition. 'Tis said lemans have bodies, but not names.

This Davinia's name is known, though. Not two years gone, she appeared in Aghrapur on the arm of an ivory trader from Punt. The trader left, and she remained. In the house of a minor gem merchant. Since then she's managed to change her leash from one hand to another with great dexterity. A rug merchant of moderate wealth, the third richest ship owner in the city, and now Mundara Khan, a cousin of King Yildiz himself, who would be a prince had his mother not been a concubine."

The flow of talk slowed, then stopped. Greed and fear warred on Manilik's face, and his mouth was twisted with the pain of giving away what he might, another time, have sold.

Conan laughed disparagingly and lied. "Can you not tell me more than is known on every street corner?

Why, I've heard strumpets resting their feet wager on whether the next bed Davinia graces will be that of Yildiz." He searched for a way to erase the doubt that still creased the tavernkeeper's face. "Next," he said, "you'll tell me that as she chooses her patrons only to improve herself, she must risk leaving her master's bed for her own pleasures." How else to explain Emilio, and this Davinia so clearly a woman intent on rising?

Manilik blinked. "I had no idea so much was so widely known. It being so, there are those who will want to collect what the Corinthian owes before Mundara Khan has him gelded and flayed. He had better have the gold he has bragged of, or he'll not live to suffer the general's mercies."

"He mentioned gold, did he?" Conan prompted.

"Yes, he...." The heavy-lidded eyes opened wide. "Mean you to say it's a lie? Four or five days, he claimed, and he would have gold dripping from his fingers. An you are a friend of the Corinthian, warn him clear most particularly of one Narxes, a Zamoran. His patience with Emilio's excuses is gone, and his way with a knife will leave your friend weeping that he is not dead. Narxes likes well to make examples for others who might fail to pay what they owe. Best you tell him to keep quiet about my warning, though. I've no wish for the Zamoran to come after me before Emilio finishes him."

"I will tell him," Conan said drily. Manilik was licking his narrow lips, avarice personified. As soon as he could, the tavernkeeper would have a messenger off to this Narxes. Whether it was Narxes or Emilio who survived, Manilik would claim it was his warning that tipped the balance, But Conan did not mean to add to the Corinthian thief's troubles. "So far an I know, the gold will be his, as he claims."

The innkeeper shrugged. "If you say it, then I believe it, stranger." But his voice carried a total lack of conviction.

Conan left with a wry smile, but just outside he stopped and leaned against the doorjamb. The lowering sun was a bloody ball on the rooftop, Moments later a slender, dark-haired serving wench darted from the inn, pulling a cloak of coarse brown wool about her. He caught the girl's am pulling her aside. The wench stared up at him, dark eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

"You are the one Manilik is sending to Narxes," he said.

She straightened defiantly-she came no higher than Conan's chest-and glared. "I'll tell you naught. Loose me."

Releasing his grip, he half pushed her toward the street. "Go then. Never before have I seen anyone run to have her throat slit."

The girl hesitated, rubbing her arm and eyeing the passing carts rumbling over the cobblestones. Sailors and tradesmen thronged between the highwheeled vehicles. A quick dash and she could be lost among them. Instead she said, "Why should Narxes wish to harm me? I've never had a copper to wager at his tables. The likes of me'd never get past the door."

"You mean you don't know?" Conan said incredulously. "That alters matters."

"Know what? What matters?"

"I heard Manilik say he was sending a girl to Narxes for...." He let his voice trail off, shaking his head.

"No, it's no use. Better you do not know. You couldn't escape, anyway."

She laughed shakily. "You're trying to frighten me. I am just to tell Narxes that Manilik has word for him.

What did you hear?" Conan was silent, frowning as if in thought, until she stepped closer and laid a trembling hand on his arm. "You must tell me! Please?"

"Not that it will do you any good," Conan said, feigning reluctance. "Narxes will find you no matter how far you run."

"My parents have a farm far from the city. He'd never find me there. Tell me!"

"Narxes had been selling young girls to the Cult of Doom for sacrifices," he lied, and invented some detail. "You'll be strapped to an altar, and when your throat is cut the blood will be gathered in a chalice, then-"

"No!" She staggered back, one hand to her mouth. Her face had a greenish cast, as if she were about to be sick. "I've never heard that the Cult of Doom makes such sacrifices. Besides, the use of freeborn for sacrifices is forbidden by law."

"How will anyone ever know, once you're safely dead and your body tossed to the sea?" He shrugged.

"But if you do not believe me, then seek out Narxes. Perhaps he will explain it to you on your way to the compound of the Cult."

"What am I to do?" she moaned, taking quick steps first in one direction then another. "I have no money, nothing but what I stand in. How am I to get to my parents' farm?" Sighing, Conan dug a fistful of coppers from his pouch. Emilio would repay him, or he would know the reason why. "Here, girl. This will see you there."

"Thank you. Thank you." Half-sobbing, she snatched the coins from his outstretched hand and ran.

Not even a kiss for gratitude, Conan thought grumpily as he watched her disappear down the teeming street. But with luck Manilik would not discover for at least a day that his plans had gone awry. A day to find Emilio without worrying about finding him dead. The story he had concocted for the girl had sounded even more convincing than he had hoped. With a satisfied smile he started down the street.

In the dimnesses that foreshadowed dusk he did not notice the shaven-headed man in saffron robes, standing in the mouth of an alley beside the inn he had just left, a man who watched his going with interest.

Chapter V

Night filled the ivory-walled compound of the Cult of Doom. No dimmest flicker of light showed, for those of the Cult rose, worked, ate and slept only by command. No coppers were wasted on tapers. In an inner room, though, where Jhandar met with those who followed him most faithfully, bronze lion lamps illumined walls of alabaster bas-relief and floors mosaicked in a thousand colors.

The forty saffron-robed men who waited beneath the high vaulted ceiling knelt as Jhandar entered, each touching a dagger to his forehead. "Blessed be Holy Chaos," they intoned. "Blessed be disorder, confusion, and anarchy."

"Blessed be Holy Chaos," the mage replied perfunctorily. He was, as always, robed as they.

He eyed the lacquered tray of emerald and gold that had been placed on a small tripod table before the waiting men. His hands moved above the two-score small, stone bottles on the tray, fingers waving like questing snakes' tongues, as if they could sense the freshness of the blood within those stoppered containers.

One of the men shifted. "The kills were all made within the specified hours, Great Lord."

Jhandar acknowledged him only with an irritated flick of an eyelid. Of course those killed had died as he had commanded, at the hour he had commanded. Those who knelt before him did not know why the deaths must occur so, nor even why they must collect the blood while their victims' hearts still beat. They believed that they knew a great deal, but what they knew was how to obey. For Jhandar's purposes, that was enough.

"Go," the necromancer commanded. "Food and drink await you. Then sleep. Go."

"Blessed be Holy Chaos," they chanted and, rising, filed slowly from the room.

Jhandar waited until the heavy bronze door had clanged shut behind them before speaking again. "Che Fan," he said. "Suitai. Attend me."

Two men, tall, lean, and robed in black, appeared as if materializing from air. It would have taken a quick eye to see the turning panel of stone in the wall from behind which they had stepped. But then, even a quick eye would have stared so at the men as to miss everything else. Even in Aghrapur, they were unusual. Their black eyes seemed to slant, and their skin was the color of parchment left in the sun till it yellowed, yet so smooth that it gave no hint of age. Like as twins they were, though, the man called Che Fan was perhaps a fingerbreadth the taller. By birth and training they were assassins, able to kill with no more than the touch of a hand.

Suitai took the tray, while Che Fan hurried to open a small wooden door, lacquered and polished to mirror brightness. Jhandar swept through, followed by the two men. The passage beyond was narrow, brightly lit by gold lamps dangling from wall sconces, and empty. The shaven-headed mage kept his tame killers out of sight, for there might be those who would know them for what they were. Even the Chosen saw them but rarely.

The narrow corridor led to a chamber in the center of which was a large circle of bare dirt, with dead sterility. Great fluted columns supported the domed alabaster ceiling, and surrounding the barren earth were thirteen square pillars truncated at waist height.

As he had done many times before, Suitai began setting out the stone bottles on the hard-packed dirt. He made four groups of five, each group forming a cross.

"Great Lord." Che Fan spoke in a hoarse whisper. "We follow as you command, yet our existence is empty."

Jhandar looked at him in surprise. The two assassins never spoke unless spoken to. "Would you prefer to be where I found you?" he asked harshly.

Che Fan recoiled. He and Suitai had been walled up alive within the Khitan fortress where Jhandar had been imprisoned. Accidentally the necromancer had freed them in his own escape, and they had sworn to follow him. He was not certain they believed he could actually return them to their slow death in Khitai, but they seemed to.

"No, Great Lord," the Khitan said finally. "But we beg, Suitai and I, that we be allowed to use our talents in your service. Not since...." His voice trailed off. Suitai glanced up from placing the last of the bottles, then studiously avoided looking at either of the other two men again.

Jhandar's face darkened. To speak of the distant past was one thing, to speak of the near past another.

He disliked being reminded of failure and ignominy. Effort went into keeping his voice normal, but it still came out like the grate of steel on rock. "Fool! Your talents, as you call them, destroy the essence of the man, as you well know. There is naught left for me to summon when you kill. When I need your abilities again, if I need them again, I will command you. Unless you wish to step within the circle and be commanded now?"

Suitai stumbled hurriedly from the patch of dirt. "No, Great Lord," Che Fan replied hastily. "I beg forgiveness for my presumption." As one, the two assassins bowed low.

Jhandar left them so for a moment, then spoke. "Rise. In the days ahead there will be labors to sate even your desires. Now get you gone until I call again. I have my own labors to perform."

As they bowed their way from his presence, he put them from his awareness. There were more important matters which needed all of his attention.

From beneath his robes he produced a piece of black chalk. Atop four of the pillars, equidistantly spaced about the circle, he marked the ancient Khitan ideograms for the four seasons, chanting as he did in a language not even he understood, though he well understood the effect of the words. Next were drawn the ideograms for the four humors, then the four elements, and all the while he intoned the primordial spells. But one of the short, square pillars remained. He drew the symbol for life, then quickly, over it, the symbol of death.

A chill rose in the air, till his words came in puffs of white, and his voice took on a hollow aspect, as though he called from a vast deep. Mist rolled over the circle of earth, blue and flecked with silver, like the mist above the Pool of the Ultimate, yet pale and transparent. The hairs on Jhandar's arms and legs stirred and rose. He could feel the Power flowing through him, curling around his bones.

In the center of the mist light flashed, argent and azure lightning. In silence the air of the chamber quivered, as to a monstrous clap of thunder, Within the circle every stone jar shattered into numberless grains of duet, and the parched dirt drank blood. The tenuous vapors above began to glow.

Never ceasing his incantation, Jhandar sought within himself for the root of the Power that coursed his veins, seized on it, bent it to his bidding. With every fiber of his being he willed a summoning, he commanded a summoning, he forced a summoning.

Blood-clotted earth cracked and broke, and a hand reached up from the crack to claw at the surface, a hand withered and twisted, its nails like claws, its skin a mottled moldy gray-green. In another blood-soaked place the ground split, and monstrously deformed hands dug upward, outward. Then another, and another. A slavering panting beat its way up from below the surface. Inexorably drawn by Jhandar's chant, they dug their way from the bowels of the earth, stumpy misshapen creatures bearing little resemblance to humankind, for all they were the summoned corporeal manifestations of the essences of murdered men and women. There were no distinctions now between male and female. Neuter all, they were, with hairless mottled skin stretched tightly over domed skulls whose opalescent eyes had seen the grave from inside. Their lipless mouths emitted a cacophony of howls and lamentations.

Jhandar stopped his chant, reluctantly felt the Power pour from him like water from a ewer. As the Power went, so did the mist within the circle. The ravening creatures turned to him, seeming to see him for the first time, their cries rising.

"Be silent!" he shouted, and all sound was gone as if cut off with a knife.

He it was who had summoned; they could not but obey, though some glared at him with hellborn fury.

Some few always did.

"Hear you my words. Each of you will return to the house that you served in life." A low moan rose and was stilled. "There, in incorporeal form, you will watch, and listen. What your former masters and mistresses do not want known, you will tell to me when I summon you again. Nothing else will you do unless I command." That last was necessary, he had learned, though there was little they could do without being told to.

"I hear," came the muttering moans, "and obey."

"Then by the blood and earth and Power of Chaos by which I summoned you, begone."

With a crack of inrushing air the twisted shapes disappeared.

Jhandar smiled when he left the chamber. Already he knew more of the secrets of Turan than any ten other men. Already, with a whisper in the proper ear of what the owner of that ear would die to keep secret, he influenced decisions at the highest levels. Nay, he made those decisions. Soon the throne itself would bow to his will. He would not demand that his position as true ruler of Turan be made known to all. That he ruled would be enough. First Turan, then perhaps Zamora, and then ....

"Great Lord."

Reverie broken, Jhandar glared at the shaven-headed man who had accosted him in a main corridor of his palatial quarters. Lamps of gold and silver, made from melted-down jewelry provided by new members of the Cult, cast glittering lights from walls worked in porphyry and amber.

"Why do you disturb me, Zephran?" he demanded. Not even the Chosen were allowed to approach him unbidden.

"Forgive me, Great Lord," Zephran answered, bowing low, "but I had a most distressing encounter in the city near dusk."

"Distressing encounter? What are you blathering about? I have no time for foolishness."

"It was a barbarian, Great Lord, who spoke of sacrifices within the Cult, of the altar and the use of blood."

Jhandar clutched his robes in white-knuckled fists. "Hyrkanian? He was Hyrkanian?"

"Nay, Great Lord."

"He must have been."

"Nay, Great Lord. His skin was pale where not bronzed by the sun, and his eyes were most strange, as blue as the sea."

Jhandar sagged against the wall. In Hyrkania, across the Vilayet Sea, he had first founded the Cult, first created and confined a Pool of Chaos. He would have welded the scattered Hyrkanian tribes of fierce horsemen into a single force that moved at his word. He would have launched such a wave of warriors as would have washed over Turan and Zamora and all to the West until it came to the sea. He would have....

But the spirit manifestations had not been properly controlled. They had managed to communicate to the living what occurred within the compound he was building, and the tribesmen had ridden against him, slaughtering his followers. Only by loosing the Power, turning a part of the Hyrkanian steppes into a hell, had he himself managed to escape. They believed in blood vengeance, those Hyrkanians. Deep within him was the seed of fear, fear that they would follow him across the sea. Ridiculous, he knew, yet he could not rid himself of it.

"Great Lord," Zephran said diffidently. "I do not understand why filthy Hyrkanians should concern you.

The few I have seen in-"

"You understand nothing," Jhandar snarled. "This barbarian. You killed him?"

Zephran shifted uneasily. "Great Lord, I... I lost him in the night and the crowd among the taverns near the harbor."

"Fool! Roust your fellows from their beds! Find that barbarian! He must die! No! Bring him to me. I must find out how many others know. Well, what are you waiting for! Go, fool! Go!"

Zephran ran, leaving Jhandar staring at nothing. Not again, the necromancer thought. He would not fail again. He would pull the world down in ruins if need be, but he would not fail.

Chapter VI

Conan descended to the common room of the Blue Bull taking each step with care. He did not truly believe that his head would crack if he took a misstep, but he saw no reason to take a chance. The night before had turned into a seemingly endless procession of tavern after tavern, of tankard after tankard.

And all he had gotten for his trouble was a head like a barrel.

He spotted Sharak, digging eagerly into a bowl of stew, and winced at the old man's enthusiasm. With a sigh he dropped onto a bench at the astrologer's table.

"Do you have to be so vigorous about that, Sharak?" the Cimmerian muttered. "It's enough to turn a man's stomach."

"The secret is clean living," Sharak cackled gleefully. "I live properly, so I never have to worry about a head full of wine fumes. Or seldom, at least. And it brings me luck. Last night, asking about for Emilio, I discovered that the strumpets of this city fancy Zamoran astrology. And do you know why?"

"What did you find out about Emilio, Sharak?"

"Because it's foreign. They think anything imported must be better. Of course, some of them want to pay in other coin than gold or silver." He cackled again. "I spent the night in the arms of a wench with the most marvelous-"

"Sharak. Emilio?"

The gaunt old man sighed. "If you wanted to boast a bit, I wouldn't stop you. Oh, very well. Not that I discovered much. No one has seen him for at least two nights. Three different people, though-two of them trolls-told me Emilio claimed he would come into a great deal of gold yesterday. Perhaps someone did him in for it."

"I'd back Emilio against any man in this city," Conan replied, "with swords, knives or bare hands." But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was sure now that Emilio was dead, had died while trying to steal the necklace. And while dead drunk, at that. "I should have gone with him," he muttered.

"Gone where?" Sharak asked. "No matter. More than one was counting on his having this gold. I myself heard the gamester Narxes make such dire threats against Emilio as to put me off eating." He shoveled more stew into his mouth. "Then there's Nafar the Panderer, and a Kothian moneylender named Fentras, and even a Turanian soldier, a sergeant, looking for him. As he still lives, he's left Aghrapur, and wisely so."

"Emilio intended to steal from the compound of the Cult of Doom, Sharak. I think me he tried two nights past."

"Then he is dead," Sharak sighed. "That place has acquired a bad name among the Brotherhood of the Shadows. Some thieves say 'tis doom even to think of stealing from them."

"He meant to steal a necklace of thirteen rubies for a woman with blonde hair. He wanted me to aid him."

The old astrologer tossed his spoon into the bowl of stew. "Mayhap your chart..." he said slowly. "These eyes are old, Conan. 'Tis possible what I saw was merely an effect of your association with Emilio."

"And it's possible men can fly without magic," Conan laughed ruefully. "No, old friend. Never have I known you to make a mistake in your star-reading. The meaning was clear. I must enter that compound and steal the necklace."

Conan's bench creaked as a man suddenly dropped onto it beside him. "And I must go with you," he said. Conan looked at him. It was the hard-eyed, black-skinned Turanian army sergeant he had seen asking after Emilio. "I am called Akeba," the sergeant added.

The big Cimmerian let his hand rest lightly on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword. "'Tis a bad habit, listening to other men's conversation," he said with dangerous quietness.

"I care not if you steal every last pin from the cult," Akeba said. His hands rested on the table, and he seemed to take no notice of Conan's sword. "'Twas rumored this Emilio did not fear to enter that place, but I heard you say he is dead. I have need to enter the compound, and need of a man to guard my back, a man who does not fear the cult. If you go there, I will go with you."

Sharak cleared his throat. "Pray tell us why a sergeant of the Turanian army would want to enter that compound in secret."

"My daughter, Zorelle." Akeba's face twisted momentarily with pain. "She was taken by this Mitra-accursed cult. Or joined, I know not which. They will not allow me to speak to her, but I have seen her once, at a distance. She no longer looks as she did before falling into their hands. Her face is cold, and she does not smile. Zorelle wore a smile always. I will bring her out of there."

"Your daughter," Conan snorted. "I must needs go with stealth. The stealth of two men is the tenth part that of one. Add the need to drag a weeping girl along ...." He snorted again.

"How will you steal so much as a drink of water if I summon my men to arrest you?" Akeba demanded.

Conan's fist tightened on his sword hilt. "You will summon no one from your grave," he growled. Akeba reached for his own blade, and the two men began to rise.

"Be not fools!" Sharak said sharply. "You, Akeba, will never see your daughter again if your skull is cloven in this tavern. And Conan, you know the dangers of what you intend. Could not another sword be of use?"

"Not that of a blundering soldier," Conan replied. His eyes were locked with those of the Turanian, blue and black alike as hard as iron. "His feet are made for marching, not the quiet of thieving."

"Three years," Akeba said, "I was a scout against the Ibarri mountain-tribes, yet I still have my life and my manhood. From the size of you, you look to be quiet as a bull."

"A scout?" the Cimmerian said thoughtfully. The man had some skill at quietness, then. Perhaps Sharak had a point. It was all too possible that he could use another blade. Besides, killing a soldier would make it near impossible for him to remain in Aghrapur.

Conan lowered himself slowly back to the bench, and Akeba followed. For a moment their eyes remained locked; then, as at a signal, each loosed his grip on his sword.

"Now that is settled," Sharak said, "there is the matter of oaths to bind us all together in this enterprise."

"Us?" Akeba said with a questioning look.

Conan shook his head. "I still do not know if this soldier is coming with me or not, but I do know that you are not. Find yourself a wench who wants her stars read. I can recommend one here, if you mind not a head full of beads."

"Who will watch your horses," Sharak asked simply, "while you two heroes are being heroic inside the compound? Besides, Conan, I told you I've never had an adventure. At my age, this may be my last chance. And I do have this." He brandished his walking staff. "It could be useful."

Akeba frowned. "It's a stick." He looked at Conan.

"The thing has magical powers," the Cimmerian said, and dropped his eyelid.

After a moment the dark man smiled faintly.

"As you say." His face grew serious. "As to the compound, I would have this thing done quickly."

"Tonight," Conan said. "I, too, want it done."

"The oaths," Sharak chimed in. "Let us not forget the oaths."

The three men put their heads together.

Chapter VII

Leaving Sharak beneath a tree to mind the horses, Conan and Akeba set out through the night in a crouching run for the alabaster-walled compound of the Cult of Doom. Within those walls ivory towers thrust into the night, and golden-finialed purple domes were one with the dark amethystine sky. Scudding clouds cast shifting moon-lit shadows, and the two men were but two shades in the night. A thousand paces distant, the Vilayet Sea beat itself to white froth against the rocky shore.

At the base of the wall they quickly unlimbered the coiled ropes they carried across their shoulders. Twin grapnels, well padded with cloth, hurtled into the air, caught atop the wall with muffled clatters.

Massive arms and shoulders drew Conan upward with the agility of a great ape. At the top of the wall he paused, feeling along that hard, smooth surface. Akeba scrambled up beside him and, without pausing to check the top of the wall, clambered over. Conan's dismay that the other had done so-it was the error of a greenling thief-was tempered by the fact that there were no shards of pottery and broken stone set in the wall to rip the flesh of the unwary.

Conan pulled himself over the wall and, holding his grapnel well out to one side, let himself fall. He took the shock of the drop by tucking a shoulder under and rolling, coming to his feet smoothly. He was in a landscaped garden, exotic shrubs and trees seemingly given life by the moving shadows. Akeba was hastily coiling his rope.

"Remember," Conan said, "we meet at the base of the tallest tower in the compound."

"I remember," Akeba muttered.

There had been more than a little discussion over which man's task was to be carried out first. Akeba feared that, in stealing the necklace, Conan might rouse guards, while Conan was sure the sergeant's daughter could not be rescued without raising an alarm. The women's quarters were certain to be guarded, while Emilio had intimated that the necklace was unguarded. It had been Sharak who effected a compromise: Conan would go after the necklace while Akeba located the women's quarters. Then they would meet and together solve the problem of getting Zorelle out. Agreement had been more reluctant on Akeba's part than on Conan's. The Cimmerian was not certain he needed a companion on this venture, for all Sharak's urging.

With a last doubtful glance at the Turanian, Conan hurried away, his pantherine stride carrying him swiftly through the night. He remember well Emilios description of the necklace's location. The topmost Chamber of the lone tower in a garden on the east side of the compound. They had entered over the east wall, and looming out of the night ahead was a tower, square and tall. He slowed to a walk, approaching it with silent care. A short distance away he stopped. There was enough light from the moon, barely, with which to see.

Of smooth greenstone, surrounded by a walk of dark tiles some seven or eight paces in width, the tower had no openings save an arch at ground level and a balcony around its top. The onion-dome roof glittered beneath the moon as if set with gems.

It was the lack of guards that worried the Cimmerian. True, the avowed purpose of the tower room was to teach the Cult's disciples the worthlessness of wealth, but nothing in Conan's near twenty years led him to believe than any sane man would leave wealth unwatched and unprotected by iron bars and locks.

The tower walls were polished, offering no crevices for fingers or toes, not even those of one familiar with the sheer cliffs of Cimmeria. He looked down. The tiles of the walk were scribed in an unusual pattern of tiny crosshatches. Any one of them could be the trigger to a trap, letting onto pits filled with Kothian vipers or the deadly spiders of the Turanian steppes.

He had seen such before. Yet the place for that sort of device was before the archway. There a marble-laid path led toward the tower, stopping at the edge of the tiles. Kneeling, he examined the joining and smiled. The marble slab stood two fingerwidths higher than the tiles, and its lip was shiny, as if something were often rubbed against it. And from that low angle he could see two lines of wear, spaced at the width of the marble, stretching toward the tower arch. Here was located the trap-it did not matter what it was-and something was laid atop these tiles to make a way for the members of the cult to enter the tower. So much, he thought, for the worthlessness of wealth.

Cocking an ear for sounds elsewhere in the compound, he strode down the marble walk away from the tower, counting his steps. Silence. At least Akeba had raised no alarm as yet. At forty paces he turned around. The tower he could see dimly, but the arch that would be his target was no more than a smudge at its base. Hastily he refastened his sword belt around his chest and over one shoulder, so the nubby leather sheath hung down his back. It would not do to have the blade tangle in his feet at the wrong time.

With a deep breath he began to run, legs driving, broad chest heaving like a bellows in the effort for speed and more speed. The width of tiles was clear, then the archway. Almost on the instant he felt the edge of the marble beneath his boot and sprang, flying through the night air. With a thump his toes landed just inside the arch. He tottered on the edge of toppling back, fingers scrabbling for the rim of the archway. For an infinite moment he hung poised to drop into the trap. Then, slowly, he drew himself into the tower.

Laughing softly, he drew his sword and moved deeper inside. Try to keep a Cimmerian out, he thought.

On the ground level of the tower were several rooms, but the doors to all of them were locked. Still, what he wanted was above, and a spiraling stone stair led up from a central antechamber. Sword questing ahead, he climbed careful step by careful step. The first trap did not mean there were not others.

Without incident, though, he came to the top of the stair and to the chamber atop the tower.

Hammered silver on the domed roof reflected and magnified the moonlight, turning it into palely useful illumination that filtered into the chamber. Half-a-dozen archways, worked in delicate filigree, let onto the narrow-railed balcony. Open cabinets, lacquered over gilded scrollwork, stood scattered about the mosaicked floor, displaying priceless jewels on velvet cushions. A crown of rubies and pearls, fit for any king. A single emerald as big as a man's fist. A score of finger-long matched sapphires, carved in erotic figures. More and more till the eyes of a mendicant priest oath-sworn to poverty would have lit with greed.

And there was the necklace, with its thirteen flawless rubies glowing darkly in the silvery light. Conan appraised it with a practiced eye before slipping it into his pouch. Perhaps it would make the woman who wore it irresistible to men, but then, most women seemed to believe gems of great-enough cost would do that, magic or no. This Davinia would get a bargain for her hundred gold pieces, in any case. His gaze ran around the room once more. Here was treasure worth ten thousand gold pieces. Ten times ten thousand.

Ferian had been right; he could carry enough from this place to make him a rich man.

With difficulty but no regret, he put the thought firmly aside. He had turned from thieving, and what he did this night made no difference in that. But if he looted this chamber of all he could carry, he knew it would not be so easy to leave that life again. And he did not doubt that whatever gold he got for these things would last no longer than the gold he had received for other thefts. Such coin never stayed long.

"I hoped you would not come."

Conan spun, sword raised, then lowered it with a grin. "Emilio! I thought you were dead, man. You can have this Mitra-accursed necklace, and be welcome to it."

The tall Corinthian came the rest of the way up the stairs into the towertop chamber. He had sword and dagger in hand. "'Tis a fit punishment, do you not think, guarding forever that which I intended to steal?"

Hair stirred on the back of Conan's neck. "You are ensorceled?"

"I am dead," Emilio replied, and lunged.

Conan dodged aside, and the other's blade passed him to shatter the treasure-laden shelves of a cabinet.

Snake-like, Emilio whirled after him, but he circled to keep cabinets between them.

"What foolishness is this you speak?" he demanded. "I see a man before me, not a shade."

Emilio's laugh was hollow. "I was commanded to kill all who came to this tower in the night, but naught was said against speaking." He continued to move in slow deadliness; Conan moved the other way, keeping a lacquered cabinet between them. "I was taken in this very chamber, with the necklace in my hand. So near did I come. For my pains a hollow poniard was thrust into my chest. I watched my heart's blood pump into a bowl, Cimmerian."

"Crom," Conan muttered, tightening his grip on his sword. To kill a friend was ill, even one spell-caught and commanded to slay, yet to kill was better than to die at that friend's hands.

"Jhandar, whom they call Great Lord, took life from me," Emilio continued, neither speeding nor slowing his advance. "Having taken it, he forced some part of it back into this body that once was mine." His face twisted quizzically. "And this creature that once was Emilio the Corinthian must obey. It must... obey"

Abruptly Emilio's foot lashed out against the lacquered cabinet. In a crash of snapping wood it toppled toward the young Cimmerian. Conan leaped back, and Emilio charged, boots splintering delicate workmanship, carelessly scattering priceless gems.

Conan's blade flashed upward, striking sparks from the other's descending steel. Dagger darting to slide beneath Conan's ribs, the Corinthian's wrist slapped into his hand and was seized in an iron grip. Locked chest to chest they staggered out onto the balcony. Conan's knee rose, smashing into Emilio's crotch, but the reanimated corpse merely grunted. Risking freeing the Corinthian's sword, Conan struck with his hilt into Emilio's face. Now the other man fell back. Conan's blade slashed the front of his old friend's tunic, and Emilio leaped back again. Abruptly the backs of his legs struck the railing, and for an instant he hung there, arms waving desperately for balance. And then he was gone, without a cry. A sickening thud came from below.

Swallowing hard, Conan stepped to the rail and looked toward a ground that seemed all flitting shadows.

He could make out no detail, but that Emilio had lived through the fall-if, indeed, he had lived before he fell-was beyond his belief. It was ill to kill a friend, no matter the need. There would be no luck in it.

Resheathing his sword, he hurried down the stairs. At the archway he stopped. Emilio's body lay sprawled just outside, and its fall had triggered the trap. From the archway to the marble path, thin metal spikes the length of a man's forearm had thrust up through the tiles. Four of them transfixed the Corinthian.

"Take a pull on the Hellhorn for me," Conan muttered.

But there was still Akeba to meet, and no time for mourning. Quickly he picked his way between the spikes and set out at a dead run for the landmark they had chosen, the tallest tower in the compound, its high golden dome well visible even by moonlight.

Abruptly a woman's scream pierced the night, and was cut off just as suddenly. With an oath Conan drew his sword and redoubled his speed. That cry had come from the direction of the gold-topped tower.

Deep in the compound a gong sounded its brazen alarm, then a second and a third. Distant shouts rose, and torches flared to life.

Conan dashed into the shadows at the base of the tower, and stopped to stare in amazement. Akeba was there, holding a slender sable-skinned beauty in saffron robes, one arm pinning her arms, his free hand covering her mouth. Large dark eyes glared fiercely at him from above the soldier's forgers.

"This is your daughter?" Conan asked, and Akeba nodded, an excited smile splitting his face.

"Zorelle. I could not believe my luck. She was fetching water to the women's quarters. No one saw me."

The shouts had grown louder, and the torches now seemed to rival the stars in number.

"That does not seem to matter, at the moment," Conan said drily. "It will be no easy task to remove ourselves from this place, much less a girl who doesn't seem to want to go."

"I am taking her out of here," the Turanian replied, his voice hard.

"I did not suggest otherwise." He would not leave any woman to the mercies of Emilio's destroyer. "But we must... hsst!" He motioned for silence.

An atavistic instinct rooted deep inside the Cimmerian shouted that he was being watched by inimical eyes, eyes that drew closer by the moment. But his own gaze saw nothing but deceptively shifting shadows. No. One shadow resolved itself into a man in black robes. Even after Conan was certain, though, he found it difficult to keep his eyes on that dim figure. There was something about it that seemed to prevent the eye from focusing on it. The hairs on his neck rose. There was sorcery of a kind here, sorcery most foul and unnatural throughout this place.

"Mitra!" Akeba swore suddenly, jerking his hand from his daughter's mouth. "She bit me!"

Twisting in his loosened grasp, she raked at his face with her nails. At the distinct disadvantage of struggling with his own daughter, he attempted to keep his grip on her while avoiding being blinded.

Under the circumstances it was an unequal fight. In an instant she was free and running. And screaming.

"Help! Outsiders! They are trying to take me! Help!"

"Zorelle!" Akeba shouted, and ran after her.

"Zandru's Hells!" Conan shouted, and followed.

Of a sudden the black-robed man was before the girl. Gasping, she recoiled.

The strange figure's hand reached out, perhaps to brush against her face. Her words stopped on the instant, and she dropped as if her bones had melted.

"Zorelle!" The scream from Akeba held all the anguish that could be wrung from a man's throat.

Primitive instinct, primed now, reared again in Conan. Diving, he caught Akeba about the waist and pulled him to the ground. The air hummed as if a thousand hornets had been loosed. Arrows sliced through the space where they had stood, toward the man in black. And before Conan's astounded gaze the man, hands darting like lightning, knocked two shafts aside, seized two more from the air, then seemed to slide between the rest and disappear.

Close behind their arrows came half-a-score Hyrkanians, waving short horn bows and curved yataghans as they ran. Two veered toward Conan and Akeba, but another shouted gutturally, "No! Leave them!

'Tis Baalsham we want!" The squat Hyrkanians ran on into the night.

Shaking his head, Conan got slowly to his feet. He had no notion what was happening, and was, in fact, not sure that he wanted to know. Best he got on about his business and left the rest to those already involved. Screams had been added to the shouts in the distance, and the pounding of hundreds of panic-stricken feet. Fire stained the sky as a building exploded in flame.

Akeba crawled on hands and knees to his daughter. Cradling her in his arms, he rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his flat cheeks. "She is dead, Cimmerian," he whispered. "He but touched her, yet she ...."

"Bring your daughter," Conan told him, "and let us go. We have no part in what else happens here this night."

The Turanian lowered Zorelle carefully, drew his tulwar and examined the blade. "I have blood to avenge, a man to kill." His voice was quiet, but hard.

"Revenge takes a cool head and a cold heart," Conan replied. "Yours are both filled with heat. Remain, and you will die, and likely never see the man who killed her."

Akeba twisted to face the Cimmerian, his black eyes coals in a furnace. "I want blood, barbar," he said hoarsely. "If need be, I will begin with yours."

"Will you leave Zorelle for the worms and the ravens, then?"

Akeba squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a long, hissing breath. Slowly he returned his blade to its sheath and, stooping, gathered his daughter in his arms. When he straightened his face and voice were without expression. "Let us be gone from this accursed place, Cimmerian."

A score of saffron-robed men and women appeared out of the dark and fled past as if terror driven.

None glanced at the two men, one holding a girl's body in his arms.

Twice more as they headed for the wall they saw clusters of cult members, running mindlessly. Behind them the shouts and screams had become a solid wave of sound. Two fires now licked at the sky.

They ran into the bushes near where they had crossed the wall, and, like a covey of quail, cult members burst from hiding. Some fled shrieking; others tried to dash past the two men, almost trampling them.

Conan cuffed a pair of shaven-headed men aside and shouted, "Go Akeba! Take her on!" He knocked another man sprawling, seized a woman to toss her aside... and stopped. It was Yasbet.

"You!" she shouted.

Without pausing, Conan threw her over his shoulder and scrambled on, scattering the few who remained to try to hinder him. Yasbet's feet fluttered in futile kicking, and her small fists pounded at his broad back.

"Let me down!" she screamed. "You have no right! Loose me!" They reached the wall; he let her down.

She stared at him with the haughtiness of a dowager queen. "I will forget this if you go now. And for the kindness you did me earlier, I'll not tell-" She broke off with a shriek as he bent to cut a strip from her robe with his dagger. In a trice her hands were bound behind her, and before she could more than begin another protest he added a gag and a hobble between her ankles.

Akeba had taken care of the grapnels. Two ropes dangled from the top of the wall. "Who is she?" he asked, jerking his head toward Yasbet.

"Another wench who should not be left to this cult," Conan replied. "Climb up. I'll attend to your daughter so you can draw her after you."

The Turanian hesitated, then said, "The live girl first. There may not be time for both." Without waiting for a reply he scrambled up one of the ropes.

Despite her struggles, Conan fastened the end of the rope about Yasbet beneath her arms. In moments her muffled squeals were rising into the air. Hurriedly he did the same to Zorelle's body with the other rope. As he was pulled up, he waited, watching and listening for Hyrkanians, for cult members, for almost anything, considering the madness of the night. He listened and waited. And waited. Akeba had to climb down on the outside, he knew, and free one of the girls before he could return atop the wall and lower a rope to Conan, but it seemed to be taking a very long time.

The rope end slapped the wall in front of his face, and he could not stop a sigh of relief. At the top of the wall he found himself face to face with Akeba. "For a time there," he said, "I almost thought you'd left me."

"For a time," Akeba replied flatly, "on the ground outside with my daughter, I almost did."

Conan nodded, and said only, "Let us go while we can."

Dropping to the ground they picked up the women-Conan Yasbet and Akeba Zorelle-and ran for Sharak and the horses. The cacophony of conflict still rose within the compound behind them.

Chapter VIII

The red glare of fire in the night glinted on Jhandar's face as he turned from the window. The shouts of initiates carrying water to fight the blazes rang through the compound, but one building, at least, was too far gone in flame to be saved.

"Well?" he demanded.

Che Fan and Suitai exchanged glances before the first-named spoke. "They were Hyrkanians, Great Lord."

The three men stood in the antechamber to Jhandar's apartments. The austerity of decoration that the necromancer invoked for his garb was continued here. Low, unadorned couches dotted the floor that was, if marble, at least plain and bare of rugs, as the walls were bare of tapestries and hangings.

"I know they were Hyrkanians!" Jhandar snarled. "I could hear them shouting, 'Death to Baalsham!'

Never did I think to hear that name again."

"No, Great Lord."

"How many were there?"

"Two score, Great Lord. Perhaps three."

"Three score," Jhandar whispered. "And how many yet live?"

"No more than a handful, Great Lord," Che Fan replied. "Well over a score perished."

"Then perhaps a score still live to haunt me," Jhandar said pensively. "They must be found. There will be work for the two of you, then, you may be sure."

"Great Lord," Suitai said, "there were others in the compound tonight. Not Hyrkanians. One wore the helmet of a Turanian soldier. The other was a tall man, pale of skin."

"A barbarian?" Jhandar asked sharply. "With blue eyes?"

"Blue eyes?" Suitai asked incredulously, then recovered himself. "It was dark, Great Lord, and with the fighting I could not draw near enough to see. But they robbed the Tower of Contemplation, taking the necklace of thirteen rubies and slaying the thief you set there as guard." He hesitated. "And they killed one of the initiates, Great Lord. The girl Zorelle."

The necromancer made a dismissive gesture. He had marked the girl for his bed, in time, but her life or death was unimportant. But the necklace, now. The thief had come for that same bit of jewelry. There had to be a link there.

"Wait here," he snarled.

Carefully shutting doors behind him, he made his way to the columnlined outer hall, where waited half a score of the Chosen, Zephran among them. They thought they stood as his bodyguard, though either of the Khitan assassins could have killed all ten without effort. They bowed as he appeared. He motioned to Zephran, who approached, bowing again.

"Go to the Tower of Contemplation," Jhandar commanded. "There you will find the body of the one I set to guard that place. Bring the body to the Chamber of Summoning."

"At once, Great Lord." But Zephran did not move. He wished to ingratiate himself with the Great Lord Jhandar. "It was the Hyrkanians, Great Lord. Those I spoke to you about, I have no doubt."

Jhandar's cheek twitched, but otherwise his face was expressionless. "You knew there were Hyrkanians in Aghrapur?" he said quietly.

"Yes, Great Lord." Sweat broke out on Zephran's forehead. Suddenly he was no longer certain it had been a good idea to speak. "Those... those I spoke to you of. Surely you remember, Great Lord?"

"Bring the body," Jhandar replied.

Zephran bowed low. When he straightened the necromancer was gone.

In his antechamber Jhandar massaged his temples as he paced, momentarily ignoring the Khitans. The fool had known of the Hyrkanians and yet said nothing! Of course, he had set no watch for them, warned none of the Chosen to report their appearance. To guard against them was to expect them to come, and did he expect them to come, then they would. It was the way of such things. The proof was in himself.

He had not been able to destroy his own belief that they would appear. And they had come.

Carefully Jhandar gathered the powders and implements he would need. Dawn was but a few hours distant, now, and in the light of the sun he had few abilities beyond those of other mortals. He could not call on the Power at all while the sun shone. He could not summon the spirit manifestations then, though commands previously given still held, of course. Perhaps he should summon them now, set them to find the Hyrkanians. No. What he intended would sap much of his strength, could it be done at all. He was not certain he would be physically able to perform both rituals, and what he intended was more important. He knew something of the Hyrkanians, nothing of the tall barbarian. The unknown threat was always more dangerous than the known.

He motioned the Khitans to follow. A sliding stone panel in the wall let into a secret passage, dim and narrow, that led down to the chamber containing the circle of barren earth. The Chamber of Summoning.

Quickly the corpse was brought to him there, as if Zephran thought to mitigate his transgressions with haste, and arranged by the Khitans under Jhandar's direction, spreadeagled in the center of the circle. At a word the Chosen withdrew, while the mage studied on what he was about. He had never done the like before, and he knew no rituals to guide him. There was no blood to manifest the spirit of the man; there had been no blood in that body since its first death. After that there had been a tenuous connection between that spirit and the body, a connection enforced by his magic, but the second death, at the tower, had severed even that. Still, what he intended must be attempted.

While the Khitans watched Jhandar chose three pillars, spaced equidistantly around the circle. On the first he chalked the ideogram for death, and over it that for life. On the second, the ideogram for infinity covered that of nullity. And on the last, order covered chaos.

Spreading his arms, he began to chant, words with meanings lost in the mists of time ringing from the walls. Almost immediately he could feel the surge of Power, and the near uncontrollability of it. His choice of symbols formed a dissonance, and if inchoate Power could know fury, then there was fury in the Power that flowed through Jhandar's bones.

Silver-flecked blue mist coalesced within the circle, roiling, swirling away from the posts he had marked.

He willed it not to be so, and felt the resistance ripping at his marrow. Agony most torturous and exquisite. It would be as he willed. It would be. Through a red haze of pain he chanted.

Slowly the mists shifted toward, rather than away from, those three truncated pillars, touching them, then rushing toward them. Suddenly there was a snap, as from a spark leaping from a fingertip on a cold morning, but ten thousand times louder, and bars of silver-blue light, as bright as the sun, linked the posts.

Chaos, forced into a triangle, the perfect shape, three sides, three points-three, the perfect number of power. Perfect order forced on ultimate disorder. Anathema, and anathema redoubled. And from that anathema, from that perversion of Chaos, welled such Power that Jhandar felt at any moment he would rise and float in the air. Sweat rolled down his body, plastering his saffron robes to his back and chest.

"You who called yourself Emilio the Corinthian," Jhandar intoned. "I summon you back to this clay that was you. By the powers of Chaos enchained, and the powers of three, I summon you. I summon you. I summon you."

The triangle of light flared, and within the circle the head of Emilio's corpse rolled to one side. The mouth worked raggedly. "Noooo!" it moaned.

Jhandar smiled. "Speak, I command you! Speak, and speak true! You came to steal a necklace of rubies?"

"Yes." The word was a pain-filled hiss.

"Why?"

"For... Da-vin-ia."

"For a woman? Who is she?"

"Mis-tress... of... Mun-da-ra... Khan."

The mage frowned. He had tried for some time to 'obtain' one of General Mundara Khan's servants, so far without success. The man stood but a short distance from the throne. Could he be taking an interest in Jhandar, as the necromancer took in him? Impossible.

"Do you know a tall barbarian?" he demanded. "A man with pile skin and blue eyes who would also try to steal that necklace."

"Co-nan," came the moaned reply. The head of the corpse twitched and moved.

Jhandar felt excitement rising in him. "Where can I find this Conan?"

"Noooo!" The head rolled again, and one arm jerked.

"Speak, I command!" The triangle of chaotic light grew brighter, but no sound came from the body.

"Speak!" Brighter.

"Speak!" Brighter.

"Speak! I command you to speak!" Brighter, and brighter still.

"I... am... a maaan!"

As the wail came, the light suddenly flared, crackling like lightning and wildfire together. Jhandar staggered back, hands thrown up to shield his eyes. Then the light was gone, and the Power, and the body. Only a wisp of oily black smoke drifting toward the ceiling remained.

"Freeee...." The lone, thin word dissipated with the smoke, and naught remained of Emilio the Corinthian.

Weariness rolled into Jhandar's bones as the Power left. Despite himself, he sagged and nearly fell. There would be no summoning of spirit manifestations this night. That meant a full day must pass before he could send those incorporeal minions searching for the Hyrkanians, and for the barbarian. Conan. A strange name. But there was the woman, Davinia. There could be use in her, both for finding the barbarian and beyond. General Mundara Khan's mistress.

With a tired hand he motioned the Khitans to help him to his chambers.

Chapter IX

The palace of Mundara Khan was of gray marble and granite, relieved by ornate gardens from which rose towers of ivory and porphyry, while alabaster domes whitely threw back the sun. The guards who stood before its gates with drawn tulwars were more ceremonial than otherwise, for an attack on the residence of the great General Mundara Khan was as unlikely as one on the Royal Palace of King Yildiz.

But the guards were numerous enough to cause trouble, especially if a handsome young man should announce that he had come to see the general's mistress.

Conan had no intention of entering by a guarded gate, though. Finding a tall, spreading tree near the garden wall, well out of the guards' sight, he pulled himself up into its thick branches. One, as thick as his leg, ran straight toward the garden, but it was cut cleanly, a bit higher than the wall but well short of it.

The top of this wall was indeed set with razor shards of obsidian. Within the garden, slate walks and paths of red brick wound through the landscaping, and in the garden's center was a small round outbuilding of citron marble, cupolaed and columned, gossamer hangings stirring in the breeze at its windows and archways.

Arms held out to either side for balance, he ran along the limb, leaped, and dropped lightly inside the garden.

Moving carefully, eyes watchful for guards or servants, he hurried to the yellow structure. It was of two stories, the ground level walled about entirely with gauze-hung archways. Within those arches, the glazed white tiles of the floor were covered with silken pillows and rare Azerjani rugs. Face down on a couch in the center of the room lay a woman, her pale, generous curves completely bare save for the long golden hair that spilled across her shoulders. Above her a wheel of white ostrich plumes revolved near the ceiling, a strap of leather disappearing through a hole above.

Conan swore to himself. A servant must be occupying the floor above, to turn the crank that in turn rotated the plumes. Still, he would not turn back. His calloused hand moved aside delicate hangings, and he entered.

For a time he stood enjoying his view of her, a woman of satiny rounded places. "Be not alarmed, Davinia," he said at last.

With a yelp of surprise the blonde rolled from the couch, long legs flashing, and snatched up a length of pale blue silk that she clutched across her breasts. The nearly transparent silk covered her ineffectually to the ankles.

"Who are you?" she demanded furiously. High cheekbones gave her face a vulpine cast.

"I am called Conan. I come in the place of Emilio the Corinthian."

Fury fading into consternation, she wet her full lips hesitantly. "I know no one of that name. If you come from Mundara Khan, tell him his suspicions are-"

"Then you do not know this, either," Conan said, fishing the ruby necklace from his pouch and dangling its goldmounted length from his fingertips. He chuckled to watch her face change again, deep blue eyes widening in shock, mouth working wordlessly.

"How...," she fumbled. "Where...." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Where is Emilio?"

"Dead," he said harshly.

She seemed neither surprised nor dismayed. "Did you kill him?"

"No," he replied with only partial untruth. Emilio's true death had come before their meeting in the tower.

"But he is dead, and I have brought you the necklace you want."

"And what do you wish in return?" Her voice was suddenly warm honey, and her arm holding the strip of blue had lowered until pink nipples peered at him, seeming nestled in the silk. He did not think it an accident.

Smiling inside, Conan replied, "Emilio spoke of one hundred pieces of gold."

"Gold." Her tinkling laughter dismissed gold as trivial. Rounded hips swaying, she moved closer. Then, suddenly, she was pressed tightly against his chest. In some fashion the silk had disappeared. "There are many things of more interest to a man like you than gold," she breathed, snaking an arm around his neck.

"Of much more interest."

"What of he who turns the fan?" he asked.

"He has no tongue to tell what he hears," she murmured. "And no one will enter without being commanded, except Renda, my tirewoman, who is faithful to me."

"Mundara Khan?"

"Is far from the city for two nights. Can you only ask questions, barbarian?"

She tried to pull his head down for a kiss, but he lifted her, kissing her instead of being kissed. When she moaned softly deep in her throat, he let her drop.

"What," she began as her heels thudded to the floor, but he spun her about, and his hard palm flattened her buttocks. With a shrill squeal she tumbled head over heels among the cushions, long, bare legs windmilling in the air.

"The gold first, Davinia," he laughed.

Struggling to her knees, she threw a cushion at his head. "Gold?" she spat. "I'll summon the guards and-"

"-And never see the necklace again," he finished for her. She frowned fretfully. "Either I will escape, taking it with me, or the guards will take me, and the necklace, to Mundara Khan. He will be interested to find his leman is receiving jewelry from such as me. You did say he was suspicious, did you not?"

"Erlik blast your eyes!" Her eyes were blue fire, but he met them coolly.

"The gold, Davinia."

She glared at him a time longer, then, muttering to herself, crawled over the cushions. Carefully keeping her back to him she lifted a tile set in the floor and rummaged beneath.

She need not have bothered, he thought. With the view he had as she knelt there, he would not have looked away to survey the treasure rooms of King Yildiz.

Finally she replaced the tile and turned to toss a bulging purse before him. It clanked heavily when it hit the floor. "There," she snarled. "Leave the necklace and go."

That was an end to it. Or almost, he thought. He had the gold-the amount did not matter-the tellings of Sharak's starcharts had been fulfilled. But the woman had thought to use him, as she had tried to use Emilio. She had threatened him. The pride that only a young man knows drove him now.

"Count it," he demanded. She stared at him in disbelief, but he thrust a finger at the purse. "Count it. It would pain me, and you, to discover you'd given me short weight."

"May the worms consume your manhood," she cried, but she made her way to the purse and emptied it, rondels of gold ringing and spinning on the white tiles. "One. Two. Three...." As she counted each coin she thrust it back into the small sack, as viciously as though each coin was a dagger that she was driving into his heart. Her acid eyes remained on his face. "One hundred," she said at last. Tying the cords at the mouth of the purse, she hurled it at him.

He caught the gold-filled bag easily in one hand, and tossed the necklace to her. She clutched it to her breasts and backed away, still on her knees, eyeing him warily.

He saw no shimmers of magic when she touched the necklace, but by all the gods she was a bit of flesh to dry a man's mouth and thicken his throat.

He weighed the purse in his hand. "To feel this," he said, "no one would suspect that you counted five coins twice."

"It is... possible I made an error," she said, still moving away. "An it so, I'll give you the five gold pieces more."

Conan dropped the purse on the floor, unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall atop the gold.

"What are you doing?" she asked doubtfully.

"'Tis a heavy price to pay for a wench," he replied, "but as you do not want to pay what you agreed, I'll take the rest in your stock in trade."

A strangled squawk rose from her throat, and she tried to scramble away. He caught her easily, scooping her up in his muscular arms. She attempted to fend him off, but he pulled her to him as easily as if she had not tried at all. Her hands were caught inside the circle of his arms, her full breasts flattened against his broad chest.

"Think you," she gasped, "that I'll lie with you after what has passed here? After you've struck me, called me strumpet, manhandled me...." Her angry words gave way to protesting splutters.

"Mundara Khan is old," Conan said softly. He trailed one finger down her spine to the swell that began her buttocks. "And fat." He brought the finger up to toy with a strand of golden hair that lay on her cheek.

"And he often leaves you alone, as now." She sighed, and softened against him. Blue eyes peered into blue eyes, and he said quietly, "Speak, and I will go. Do you want me to go?"

Wordlessly she shook her head.

Smiling, Conan laid her on the couch.

Chapter X

Conan was still smiling when he strolled into the Blue Bull much later in the day. Davinia had been very lonely indeed. He knew it was madness to dally with the mistress of a general, but he knew his own weakness where women were concerned, too. He was beginning to hope the army took Mundara Khan from Aghrapur often.

The common room was half-filled with the usual crowd of sailors, laborers and cutpurses. Sharak and Akeba shared a table in one corner, conversing with their heads close together, but instead of joining them, Conan went to the bar.

Ferian greeted him with a scowl, and began scrubbing the bar top even faster than before. "I've nothing for you yet, Cimmerian. And I want you to get that wench out of here."

"Is she still secured in my room?" Conan demanded. Yasbet had become no more reasonable about being rescued for finding herself in a waterfront tavern.

"She's there," the innkeeper said sourly, "but I'd sacrifice in every temple in the city if she disappeared.

She near screamed the roof off not a glass gone. Thank all the gods she's been quiet since. That's no trull or doxie, Cimmerian. Men are impaled for holding her sort against their will."

"I'll see to her," Conan replied in a soothing tone. "You keep your eyes and ears open."

He hurried upstairs, listening to what suddenly seemed an ominous silence from his room. The latch-cord on his door was still tied tightly to a stout stick. A man might break the cord and lift the latch inside, but for Yasbet it should have been as good as an iron lock. Unless she had managed to wriggle through the window. Surely that small opening was too narrow even for her, but.... Muttering oaths beneath his breath, Conan unfastened the cord and rushed in.

A clay mug, hurled by Yasbet's hand, shattered against the door beside his head. He ducked beneath the pewter basin that followed and caught her around the waist. It was difficult to ignore what a pleasant armful she made, even while her small fists pounded at his head and shoulders. He caught her wrists, forcing them behind her back and holding them there with one hand.

"What's gotten into you, girl? Did that cult addle your wits?"

"Addle my... !" She quivered with suppressed anger. "They thought I had worth. And they treated me well. You brought me here bound across a horse and imprisoned me without so much as word. Then you went off to see that strumpet."

"Strumpet? What are you talking about?"

"Davinia." She growled the name. "Isn't that what she's called? That old man-Sharak?-came up to try to quiet me. He told me you'd gone to see this... woman. And you have the same smug look on your face that my father wears when he's just visited his zenana."

Mentally Conan called down several afflictions, all of them painful, on Sharak's head. Aloud he said,

"Why should you care if I visit twenty women? Twice now I've saved your fool life, but there's naught between us."

"I did not say there was," she said stoutly, but her shoulders sagged. Cautiously he released her wrists, and she sat down dejectedly on the roughly built bed, no more than straw ticking covered with a coarse blanket, with her hands folded in her lap. "You saved my life once," she muttered. "Perhaps. But this other was naught but kidnap."

"You did not see what I saw in that place, Yasbet. There was sorcery there, and evil."

"Sorcery!" She frowned at him, then shook her head. "No, you lie to try to stop me from returning."

He muttered under his breath, then asked, "How did you end up with them? When you ran away from me I thought you were going home." He grinned in spite of himself. "You were going to climb over the garden wall."

"I did," she muttered, not meeting his eye. "Fatima caught me atop the wall and locked me in my room."

She shifted her seat uncomfortably, and the remnants of an unpleasant memory flitted across her face.

Conan was suddenly willing to wager that locking her in her room was not all that the amah had done.

Barely suppressing his chuckle, he said, "But that's no reason to run away to something like this cult."

"What do you know of it?" she demanded. "Women labor on an equal footing with men there, and can rise equally, as well. There are no rich or poor in the cult, either."

"But the cult itself is rich enough," he said drily. "I've seen some of its treasures."

"Because you went there to steal!"

"And I saw a man ensorceled to his death."

"Lies!" she cried, covering her ears with her palms. "You'll not stop me returning."

"I'll leave that to your father. You're going back to him if I have to leave you at his door bound hand and foot."

"You don't even know who he is," she said, and he had the impression that she just stopped herself from sticking her tongue out at him.

"I'll find out," he said with an air of finality.

As he got to his feet she caught his wrist in both of her hands. Her eyes were large with pleading. "Please, Conan, don't send me back to my father. He... he has said I am to be married. I know the man. I will be a wife, yes, honored and respected. And locked in his zenana with fifty other women."

He shook his head sympathetically, but said only, "Better that than the cult, girl."

He expected her to make a break for the door as he left, but she remained sitting on the bed. Retying the latch cord, he returned to the common room. Akeba and Sharak barely looked up when he took a stool at their table.

"... And so I tell you," Sharak said, tapping the table with a bony finger for emphasis, "that any attempt at direct confrontation will be disaster."

"What are you two carrying on about?" Conan asked.

"How we are to attack the Cult of Doom," Akeba replied shortly. His eyes bore the grim memory of the night before. "There must be a way to bring this Jhandar down." His face twisted with distaste. "I am told they call him Great Lord, as if he were a king."

"And the Khitan, of course," Sharak added. "But Jhandar-he is leader of the cult-must have given the man orders. His sort do not kill for pleasure, as a rule."

Conan was more than a little bewildered. "Khitan? His sort? You seem to have learned a great deal in the short time I've been gone."

"'Twas not such a short time," Sharak leered. "How was she?" At the look on Conan's face he hastily cleared his throat. "Yes. The Khitan. From Akeba's description of the man who... well, I'm sure he was from Khitai, and a member of what is called the Brotherhood of the Way. These men are assassins of great skill." A frown added new creases to his face. "But I still cannot understand what part the Hyrkanians played."

"I've never heard of any such Brotherhood," Conan said. "In truth, I no more than half believe Khitai exists."

"They were strange to me, also," Akeba said, "but the old man insists they are real. Whatever he is, though, I will kill him."

"Oh, they're real, all right," Sharak said. "By the time your years number twice what they do now, you'll begin to learn that more exists beneath the sky than you conceive in your wildest flights of fancy or darkest nightmares. The two of you must be careful with this Khitan. They of the Brotherhood of the Way are well versed in the most subtle poisons, and can slay with no more than a touch."

"That I believe," Akeba said hoarsely, "for I saw it." He tilted up his mug and did not lower it till it was dry.

"You, especially, must take care, Conan," the astrologer went on. "I know well how hot your head can be, and that fever can kill you. This assassin-"

Conan shook his head. "This matter of revenge is Akeba's, not mine."

Sharak squawked a protest. "But, Conan! Khitan assassins, revenge, Hyrkanians, and the gods alone know what else! How can we turn our backs on such an adventure?"

"You speak of learning," Conan told him. "You've still to learn that adventure means an empty belly, a cold place to sleep, and men wanting to put a dagger in your ribs. I find enough of that simply trying to live, without seeking for it."

"He is right," Akeba said, laying a hand on the old man's arm. "I lost a daughter to the Gravedigger's Guild this morn. I have reason to seek vengeance, but he has none."

"I still think it a poor reason to stand aside," Sharak grumbled.

Conan shared a smile with Akeba over the old man's head. In many ways Sharak qualified as a sage, but in some he was far younger than the Cimmerian.

"For now," Conan said, "I think what we must do is drink." Nothing would ever make Akeba forget, but at least the memory could be dulled until protecting scars had time to form. "Ferian!" he bellowed. "A pitcher of wine! No, a bucket!"

The innkeeper served them himself, a pitcher of deep red Solvanian in each hand and a mug for Conan under his arm. "I have no buckets," he said drily.

"This will do," Conan said, filling the mugs all around. "And take something up to my room for the girl to eat."

"Her food is extra," Ferian reminded him. Conan thought of the gold weighting his belt, and smiled.

"You'll be paid." The tapster left, muttering to himself, and Conan turned his attention to the astrologer.

"You, Sharak," he said sharply.

Sharak spluttered into his wine. "Me? What? I said nothing."

"You said too much," the Cimmerian said. "Why did you tell Yasbet I was going to see Davinia? And what did you tell her, anyway?"

"Nothing," the old man protested. "I was trying to quiet her yelling-you said not to gag her-and I thought if she knew you were with another woman she wouldn't be afraid you were going to ravish her. That's what women are always afraid of. Erlik take it, Cimmerian, what was wrong with that?"

"Just that she's jealous," Conan replied. "I've talked to her but twice and never laid a hand on her, but she's jealous."

"Never laid a hand on her? You tied her like a sack of linen," Akeba said.

"It must be his charm," Sharak added, his face impossibly straight.

"'Tis funny enough for you two," Conan said darkly, "but I was near brained with my own washbasin.

She...."

As rude laughter drowned Conan's next words, Ferian ran panting up to the table.

"She's gone, Cimmerian!" the tavernkeeper gasped. "I swear by Mitra and Dagon I don't believe she could squeeze through that window, but she did."

Conan sprang to his feet. "She cannot have been gone long. Akeba, Sharak, will you help me look?"

Akeba nodded and rose, but Sharak grimaced. "An you don't want her, Cimmerian, why not leave her for someone who does?"

Without bothering to reply Conan turned to go, Akeba with him. Sharak followed hastily, hobbling with his staff.

Once in the street, the three men separated, and for near a turn of the glass Conan found nothing but frustration. Hawkers of cheap perfumes and peddlers of brass hairpins, fruit vendors, potters, street urchins-none had seen a girl, so tall, large-breasted and beautiful, wearing saffron robes and possibly running. All he found were blank looks and shaken heads. No few of the strumpets suggested that he could find what he was looking for with them, and some men cackled that they might keep the girl themselves, did they find her, but their laughter faded to nervous sweating under his icy blue gaze.

As he returned to the stone-fronted tavern, he met Akeba and Sharak. At the Turanian's questioning glance he shook his head.

"Then she's done with," the astrologer said. "My throat needs cool wine to soothe it after all the people I've questioned. I'll wager Ferian has given our Solvanian to someone else."

The pitchers remained on the table where they had left them, but Conan did not join in the drinking.

Yasbet was not done with, not to his mind. He found it strange that that should be so, but it was. Davinia was a woman to make a man's blood boil; Yasbet had heated his no more than any other pretty wench he saw in passing. But he had saved her life, twice, for all her denials. In his belief that made him responsible for her. Then too, she needed him to protect her. He was not blind to the attractions she had for a man.

He became aware of a Hyrkanian approaching the table, stooped and bowed of leg, his rancid smell preceding him. His coarse woolen trousers and sheepskin coat were even filthier than was usual for the nomads, if such was possible. Two paces short of them he stopped, his long skinny nose twitching as if prehensile and his black eyes on the Cimmerian. "We have your woman," he said gutturally, then straightened in alarm at the blaze of rage that lit Conan's face.

Conan was on his feet with broadsword half-drawn before he himself realized that he had moved.

Akeba grasped his arm. Not the sword arm; he was too old a campaigner for that. "Hear him out before you kill him," he urged.

"Talk!" Conan's voice grated like steel on bone.

"Tamur wants to talk with you," the Hyrkanian began slowly, but his words came faster as he went. "You fought with some of us, though, and Tamur does not think you will talk with us, so we take your woman until you talk. You will talk?"

"I'll talk," Conan growled. "And if she's been harmed, I'll kill, too. Now take me to her."

"Tonight," was the thick reply.

"Now!"

"One turn of the glass after the sun sets, someone will come for you." The Hyrkanian eyed Akeba and Sharak. "For you alone."

The last length of Conan's blade rasped from its worn shagreen sheath.

"No, Conan," Sharak urged. "Kill him, and you may never find her again."

"They would send another," Conan said, but after a moment he tossed his sword on the table. "Leave me before I change my mind," he told the nomad, and, scooping up one of the wine pitchers, tilted back his head in an effort to drain it. The Hyrkanian eyed him doubtfully, then trotted from the tavern.

Chapter XI

Davinia stretched luxuriously as gray-haired Renda's fingers worked perfumed oils into the smooth muscles of her back. There was magic in the plump woman's hands, and the blonde woman needed it.

The big barbarian had been more than she bargained for. And he had intimated that he would return. He had not named time but that he would return was certain. Her knowledge of men told her so. Though it was but a few turns of the glass since Conan had left her, a tingling frisson of anticipation rippled through her at the thought of long hours more in his massive arms. To which gods, she wondered, should she offer sacrifices to keep Mundara Khan from the city longer?

A tap at the door of Davinia's tapestry-hung dressing chamber drew Renda's hands from her shoulders.

With a petulant sigh, the sleek blonde waited impatiently until her tiring woman returned.

"Mistress," Renda said quietly, "there is a man to see you."

Careless of her nakedness, Davinia sat up. "The barbarian?" She confided everything in her tiring woman.

Almost everything. Surely Conan would not dare enter through the gates and have himself announced, yet simply imagining the risk of it excited her more than she would have believed possible.

"No, mistress. It is Jhandar, Great Lord of the Cult of Doom."

Davinia blinked in surprise. She was dimly aware of the existence of the cult, though she did not concern herself unduly with matters of religion. Why would a cult leader come to her? Perhaps he would be amusing.

"A robe, Renda," she commanded, rising.

"Mistress, may I be so bold-"

"You may not. A robe."

She held out her arms as Renda fastened about her a red silken garment. Opaque, she noted. Renda always had more thought for her public reputationand thus her safety-than did she.

Davinia made a grand entrance into the chamber where Jhandar waited. Slaves drew open the tall, ornately carved doors for her to sweep through. As the doors were closed she posed, one foot behind the other, one knee slightly bent, shoulders back. The man half-reclined on a couch among the columns.

For just an instant her pose lasted, then she continued her advance, seeming to ignore the man while in fact she studied him. He no longer reclined, but rather sat on the edge of the couch.

"You are... different than I expected," he said hoarsely.

She permitted herself a brief smile, still not looking directly at him. Exactly the effect she had tried for.

He was not an unhandsome man, this Jhandar, she thought. The shaven head, however, rather spoiled his looks. And those ears gave him an unpleasantly animalistic countenance.

For the first time she faced him fully, lips carefully dampened with her tongue, eyes on his in an adoring caress. She wanted to giggle as she watched his breath quicken. Men were so easily manipulated.

Except, perhaps, the barbarian. She hastily pushed aside the intruding thought, Carefully, she made sure of a breathy tone.

"You wish to see me... Jhandar, is it not?"

"Yes," he said slowly. Visibly he caught hold of himself. His breath still came rapidly, but there was a degree of control in his eyes. A degree. "Have you enjoyed the necklace, Davinia?"

"Necklace?"

"The ruby necklace. The one stolen from me only last night."

His voice was calm, so conversational that it took a moment for the meaning of his words to enter her.

Shock raced through her. She wondered if her eyes were bulging. The necklace. How could she have been so stupid as not to make the connection the moment Jhandar was announced? It was that accursed barbarian. She seemed able to concentrate on little other than him.

"I have no idea of what you speak," she said, and was amazed at the steadiness of her voice. Inside she had turned to jelly.

"I wonder what Mundara Khan will say when he knows you have a stolen necklace. Perhaps he will inquire, forcefully, into who gave such a thing to his mistress."

"I bought-" She bit her tongue. He had flustered her. It was not supposed to happen that way. It was she who disconcerted men.

"I know that Emilio was your lover," he said quietly. "Has Conan taken his place there, too?"

"What do you want?" she whispered. Desperately she wished for a miracle to save her, to take him away.

"One piece of information," he replied. "Where may I find the barbarian called Conan?"

"I don't know," she lied automatically. The admission already made was one too many.

"A pity." He bit off the words, sending a shiver through her. "A very great pity."

Davinia searched for a way to deflect him from his purpose. All that passed through her mind, echoing and re-echoing, was 'a very great pity.'

"You may keep the necklace," he said suddenly.

She stared at him in surprise. He did not have complete control of himself still, she saw. He had continually to lick dry lips, and his eyes drank her in as a man in the desert drank water. "Thank you. I-"

"Wear it for me."

"Of course," she said. There was still a chance.

She left the room as regally as she had entered, but once outside, before the slaves had even closed the doors, she ran-despite the fact that to be languid at all times was one mark of a properly cared-for mistress.

Renda, arranging the pillows on Davinia's bed, leaped, as her mistress dashed into the chamber.

"Mistress, you startled me!"

"Tell me what you know of this Jhandar," Davinia panted, as she dropped to her knees and began rooting in her jewel chest. "Quickly. Hurry!"

"Little is known, mistress," the plump tirewoman said hesitantly. "The cult professes-"

"Not that, Renda!" Tossing bits of jewelry left and right, she came up with the stolen necklace clutched in her fist. Despite herself, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Mitra be thanked. Tell me what the servants and slaves know, what their masters will not know for half a year more. Tell me!"

"Mistress, what has he...." She broke off at Davinia's glare. "Jhandar is a powerful man in Turan, mistress. So it is whispered among the servants. And 'tis said he grows more powerful by the day. Some say the increase in the army was begun by him, by his telling certain men, who in turn convinced the king, that it should be so. Of course, it is well known that King Yildiz has long dreamed of empire. He would not have taken a great deal of telling."

"Still," Davinia murmured, "it is a display of power." Mundara Khan had never swayed the king for all his blood connections to the throne. "How does he accomplish it?"

"All men have secrets, mistress. Jhandar makes it his business to learn their secrets. To keep their secrets, most men will agree to any suggestion Jhandar makes." She paused. "Many believe he is a sorcerer. And the cult does have immense wealth."

"How immense?"

"It may rival that of King Yildiz."

A look of intense practicality firmed Davinia's face. This situation, which had seemed so frightening, might yet be turned to her advantage. "Fetch me a cloak," she commanded. "Quickly."

When she returned to Jhandar, surprise was plain on his countenance. A cloak of the fine scarlet wool swathed her from her neck to the ground.

"I do not understand," he said, anger mounting in his voice. "Where is the necklace?"

"I wear it for you." She opened the cloak, revealing the rubies caressing the upper slopes of her breasts.

And save for the necklace, her sleek body was nude.

Only for an instant she held the cloak so. Even as he gasped, she pulled it closed. But then, rising on her toes, she spun so that her hips flashed whitely beneath flaring crimson. Around the room she danced, offering him brief tantalizing glimpses, but never so revealing as the first.

She finished on her knees before him, the scarlet cloth lowered to bare pale shoulders and the rubies nestled in her sweat-slick cleavage. Masking her triumph with care, she met his gaze. His face was flushed with desire. And now for the extra stroke.

"The man Conan," she said, "told me that he stays at the Blue Bull on the Street of the Lotus Dreamers, near the harbor."

For a moment he stared at her, uncomprehending; then he lurched to his feet. "I have him," he muttered excitedly. "An the Hyrkanians are found ...." All expression fled from his face as he regarded her. "Men have no use for lemans who lie," he said.

She replied with a smile. "A mistress owes absolute truth and obedience to her master." Or at least, she thought, a mistress should make him believe he had those things. "But you are not my master. Yet."

"I will take you with me," he said thickly, but she shook her head.

"The guards would never let me go. There is an old gate at the rear of the palace, however, unused and unguarded. I will be there with my serving woman one turn of the glass past dark tonight."

"Tonight. I will have men there to meet you." Abruptly he pulled her to her feet, kissing her brutally.

But not so well as Conan, she thought as he left. It was a pity the barbarian was to die. She had no doubt that was what Jhandar intended. But Jhandar was a step into her future; Conan was of the past. As she did with all things past, she put him out of her mind as if he had never existed.

Chapter XII

The common room of the Blue Bull grew crowded as the appointed hour drew near, raucous with the laughter of doxies and drunken men. Conan neither laughed nor drank, but rather sat watching the door with his two friends.

"When will the man come?" Sharak demanded of the air. "Surely the hour has passed."

Neither Conan nor Akeba answered, keeping their eyes fastened to the doorway. The Cimmerian's hand on his sword hilt tightened moment by long moment till, startlingly, his knuckles cracked.

The old astrologer flinched at the sound. "What adventure is this, sitting and waiting for Mitra knows how long while-"

"He is here," Akeba said quietly, but Conan was already getting to his feet.

The long-nosed Hyrkanian stood in the doorway beckoning to Conan, casting worried glances out into the night.

"Good luck be with you, Cimmerian," Akeba said quietly.

"And with you," Conan replied.

As he strode across the common room, he could hear the astrologer's querulous voice. "Why this talk of luck? They but wish to talk."

He did not listen for Akeba's answer, if answer there was. More than one man taken to a meeting in the night had never left it alive.

"Lead on," he told the Hyrkanian, and with one more suspicious look up and down the street the nomad did so.

Twilight had gone, and full night was upon the city. A pale moon hung like a silver coin placed low above the horizon. Music and laughter drifted from a score of taverns as they passed through yellow pools of light spilling from their doors, and occasionally they heard shouts of a fight over women or dice.

"Where are you taking me?" Conan asked.

The Hyrkanian did not answer. He chose turnings seemingly at random, and always he cast a wary eye behind.

"My friends will not follow," Conan told him. "I agreed to come alone."

"It is not your friends I fear," the Hyrkanian muttered, then tightened his jaws and looked sharply at the muscular youth. Thereafter he would not speak again.

Conan wondered briefly who or what it was the man did fear, but his own attention was split between watching for the ambush he might be entering and unraveling the twists and turns through which he was taken. When the fur-capped man motioned him through a darkened doorway and up a flight of wooden stairs, he was confident-and surprised-that for all the roundabout way they had gone the Blue Bull was almost due north, no more than two streets away. It was well to be oriented in case the meeting came to a fight after all.

"You go first," Conan said. Expressionless, the nomad complied. Loose steps creaked alarmingly beneath his tread. Conan eased his sword in its scabbard, and mounted after him.

At the top of the stairs a door let into a room lit by two guttering tallow lamps set on a rickety table. The rancid smell of grease filled the room. Including his guide, half a score sheepskin-coated Hyrkanians watched him warily, though none put hand to weapon. One Conan recognized, the man with the scar across his cheek, he over whose head Emilio had broken the wine jar.

"I am called Tamur," Scarface said. "You are Conan?" With his guttural accent he mangled the name badly.

"I am Conan," the young Cimmerian agreed shortly. "Where is the woman?"

Tamur gestured, and two of the others opened a large chest sitting against a wall. They lifted out Yasbet, bound in a neat package and gagged with a twisted rag. Her saffron robes were mud-stained and torn, and dried tracks of tears traced through the dust on her cheeks.

"I warned this one," Conan grated. "If she is hurt, I'll-"

"No, no," Tamur cut in. "Her garments were so when we took her, behind the inn where you sleep. Had we ravaged your woman, would we show her to you so and yet expect you to talk with us?"

It was possible. Conan remembered the narrowness of the window through which she had had to wriggle. "Loose her feet."

Producing a short, curved dagger, one of the nomads cut the ropes at Yasbet's ankles. She tried to stand and, with a gag-mufed moan, sat on the lid of the chest in which she had been confined. The Hyrkanian looked questioningly at Conan, and motioned with the knife to her still-bound wrists, and her gag, but the muscular youth shook his head. Based on past experience he would not risk what she might say or do if freed. She gave him an odd look, but, surprisingly, remained still.

"You were recognized in the enclosure of Baalsham," Tamur said.

"Baalsham?" Conan said. "Who is Baalsham?"

"You know him as Jhandar. What his true name is, who can say?" Tamur sighed. "It will be easier if I begin at the beginning."

He gave quick orders, and a flagon of cheap wine and two rough clay mugs were produced. Tamur sat on one side of the table, Conan on the other. The Cimmerian noted that the other nomads were careful not to move behind him and ostentatiously kept their hands far from swords. It was a puzzlement.

Hyrkanians were an arrogant and touchy people, by all accounts little given to avoiding trouble in the best of circumstances.

He accepted a mug of wine from Tamur, then forgot to drink as he listened.

"Five years gone," the scar-faced nomad began, "the man we call Baalsham appeared among us, he and the two strange men with yellow skins. He performed some small magicks, enough to be accepted among the tribal shamans, and began to preach much as he does here, of chaos and inevitable doom.

Among the young men his teachings caught hold, for he called the western nations evil and said it was the destiny of the Hyrkanian people once more to ride west of the Vilayet Sea. And this time we were to sweep the land clean."

"A man of ambitions," Conan muttered. "But failed ambitions, it seems."

"By the thickness of a fingernail. Not only did Baalsham gather about him young warriors numbering in the thousands, but he began to have strange influence in the Councils of the Elders. Then creatures were seen in the night like demons, or the twisted forms of men-and we learned from them that they were spirits of murdered men, men of our blood and friendship, conjured by Baalsham and bound to obey him.

Their spying was the source of his powers in the Councils."

Yasbet made a loud sound of denial through her gag, and shook her head violently, but the men ignored her.

"I've seen his sorcery" Conan said, "black and foul. How was he driven out? I assume he did not leave of his own accord."

"In a single night," Tamur replied, "ten tribes rose against him. The very spirits that had warned us, shackled by his will, fought us, as did the young warriors who followed him." He touched the scar on his cheek "This I had from my own brother. The young warriors-our brothers, our sons, our cousins-died to the last man, and even the maidens fought to the death. In the end our greater numbers carried the victory. Baalsham fled, and with his fleeing the spirits disappeared before our eyes. To avoid bloodshed among the tribes, the Councils decreed that no man could claim blood right for the death of one who had followed Baalsham. Their names were not to be spoken. They had never existed. But some of us could not forget that we had been forced to spill the same blood that flows in our own veins. When traders brought rumors of the man called Jhandar and the Cult of Doom, we knew him for Baalsham. Two score and ten crossed the sea to seek our forbidden vengeance. Last night we failed, and now we number but nineteen." He fell silent.

Conan frowned. "An interesting tale, but why have you told it to me?"

The nomad's face twisted with reluctance. "Because we need your help," he said slowly.

"My help?" Conan exclaimed.

Tamar hurried on. "When the palace Baalsham was building was overrun, powers beyond the mind were loosed. The very ground melted and flowed like water. That place is now called the Blasted Lands. For three days and three nights the shamans labored to contain that evil. When they had constructed barriers of magic, the boundaries of the Blasted Lands were marked, and a taboo laid. No one of the blood may pass those markers and live. There must be devices of sorcery within, devices that could be turned against Baalsham. He could not have taken all when he fled. But no Hyrkanian may go to bring them out.

No Hyrkanian." He looked at the big Cimmerian with intensity.

"I am done with Jhandar," Conan said.

"But is he done with you, Conan? Baalsham's enmity does not wither with time."

Conan snorted. "What care I for his enmity? He does not know who I am or where I am to be found.

Let his enmity eat at him like foxes."

"You know little of him," Tamur said insistently. "He-"

With a loud crack the floorboards by Conan's feet splintered, and a twisted gray-green hand reached through the opening to grasp his ankle.

"The spirits have come!" one of the nomads cried, eyes bulging, and Yasbet began to scream through her gag. The other men drew weapons, shouting in confusion.

Conan scrambled to his feet, trying to pull his leg free, but those leathery fingers held with preternatural strength. Another deformed hand broke through the boards, reaching for him, but his sword leaped from its sheath and arched down. One hand dropped to the floor; the other still gripped him. But at least, he thought, steel would slice them.

With his sword point he pried the fingers loose from his ankle. Even as that hand fell free, though, the head of the creature, with pointed ears and dead, haunted eyes above a lipless gash of a mouth, smashed up through the floor in a shower of splintered wood. Handless arms stretched out to the hands lying on the floor. The mold-colored flesh seemed to flow, and the hands were once more attached to the arms.

The creature began to tear its way up into the room, ripping the sturdy floor apart as if its boards were rotted.

Suddenly another set of hands smashed through a wall, seizing a screaming Hyrkanian, tearing at his flesh.

Conan struck off the head of the first creature, but it continued to scramble into the room even while its head spun glaring on the floor. A third head broke through the floor, and a hand followed to seize Yasbet's leg. With a shriek, she fainted.

Conan caught her as she fell, cutting her free of the creature that held her. There was naught to do in that room but die.

"Flee!" he shouted. "Get out!"

Tossing Yasbet over his shoulder like a sack of meal, he scrambled out the window to drop to the street below.

Struggling Hyrkanians fought to follow. Screams from that suddenly hellish room rose to a crescendo, pursuing the big Cimmerian as he ran with his burden. As abruptly as it had begun, the screaming ceased.

Conan looked back, but he could see nothing in the blackness.

A low moan broke from Yasbet, stirring on his shoulder. Remembering the tenacity of the hand, he placed her on the ground and bent to feel along her leg. His fingers encountered the lump of leathery skin and sinew; it writhed at his touch. With an oath he tore it from her flesh and hurled it into the night.

Yasbet groaned, and opened her eyes. "I... I had a nightmare," she whispered.

"'Twas no dream," he muttered. His eyes searched the dark for pursuit. "But it is done." He hoped.

"But those demons... you mean that they were real?" Sobs welled up in her. "Where did they come from?

Why? Oh, Mitra, protect us," she wailed.

Clamping a hand over her mouth, he growled, "Quiet yourself, girl. Were I to wager on it, I'd stack my coin on Jhandar's name. And if you continue screeching like a fishwife, his minions will find us. We may not escape so easily again." Cautiously he took his hand away; she scrambled to her feet, staring at him.

"I do not believe you," she said. "Or those smelly Hyrkanians." But she did not raise her voice again.

"There is evil in the man," he said quietly. "I've seen the foulest necromancy from him, and I doubt not this is more of his black art."

"It cannot be. The cult-"

"Hsst!"

The thump of many feet sounded down the street. Pulling Yasbet deeper into the shadows, Conan waited with blade at the ready. Dim figures appeared, moving slowly from the way he had come. The smell of old grease drifted to him.

"Tamur?" he called softly.

There were mutters of startlement, and the flash of bare blades in the dark. Then one figure came closer.

"Conan?"

"Yes," the Cimmerian replied. "How many escaped?"

"Thirteen," Tamur sighed. "The rest were torn to pieces. You must come with us, now. Those were Baalsham's spirit creatures. He will find you eventually, and when he does ...."

Conan felt Yasbet shiver. "He cannot find me," he said. "He does not even know who to look for."

Suddenly another Hyrkanian spoke. "A fire," he said. "To the north. A big fire."

Conan glanced in that direction, a deathly chill in his bones. It was a big fire, and unless he had lost his way entirely the Blue Bull was in the center of it. Without another word he ran, pulling Yasbet behind him. He heard the nomads following, but he cared not if they came or stayed.

The street of the Lotus Dreamers was packed with people staring at the conflagration. Flames from four structures whipped at the night, and reflected crimson glints from watching faces. One, the furthest gone, was the Blue Bull. Someone had formed a chain of buckets to the nearest cistern, Ferian among them, but it was clear that some goodly part of the district would be destroyed before the blaze was contained, most likely by pulling down buildings to surround the fire and letting it burn itself out.

As Conan pushed through the crowd of onlookers, a voice drifted to him.

"I hit it with the staff, and it disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. I told you the staff had magical powers."

Smiling for what seemed the first time in days, Conan made his way toward that voice. He found Akeba and Sharak, faces smudged with smoke, sitting with their backs against the front of a potter's shop.

"You are returned," Sharak said when he saw the big Cimmerian. "And with the wench. To think we believed it was you who would be in danger this night. I killed one of the demons."

"Demons?" Conan asked sharply.

Akeba nodded. "So they seemed to be. They burst through the walls and even the floors, tearing apart anyone who got in their way" He hesitated. "They seemed to be hunting for someone who was not there."

"Me," Conan said grimly.

Yasbet gasped. "It cannot be." The men paid her no mind.

"I said that he would find you," Tamur said, appearing at Conan's side. "Now you have no choice but to go to Hyrkania."

"Hyrkania!" Sharak exclaimed.

Regretfully Conan nodded agreement. He was committed, now. He must destroy Jhandar or die.

Chapter XIII

In the gray early morning Conan made his way down the stone quay, already busy with lascars and cargo, to the vessel that had been described to him. Foam Dancer seemed out of place among the heavy-hulled roundships and large dromonds. Fewer than twenty paces in length, she was rigged with a single lateen sail and pierced for fifteen oars a side in single banks. Her sternpost curved up and forward to assume the same angle as her narrow stem, giving her the very image of agility. He had seen her like before, in Sultanapur, small ships designed to beach where the King's Custom was unlikely to be found.

They claimed to be fishing vessels, to the last one, these smugglers, and over this one, as over every smuggler he had seen, hung a foul odor of old fish and stale ship's cooking.

He walked up the gangplank with a wary eye, for the crews of such vessels invariably had a strong dislike for strangers. Two sun-blackened and queued seamen, stripped to the waist, watched him with dark unblinking eyes as he stepped down onto the deck.

"Where is your captain?" he began, when a surreptitious step behind made him whirl.

His hand darted out to catch a dagger-wielding arm, and he found himself staring into a sharp-nosed face beneath a dirty red-striped head scarf. It was the Iranistani whose companions he had been forced to kill his first day in Aghrapur. And if he was a crew member, then as like as not the other two had been as well. The Iranistani opened his mouth, but Conan did not wait to hear what he had to say. Grabbing the man's belt with his free hand, Conan took a running step and threw him screaming over the rail into the harbor. Sharp-nose hit the garbage-strewn water with a thunderous splash and, beating the water furiously, set out away from the ship without a backward glance.

"Hannuman's Stones!" roared a bull-necked man, climbing onto the deck from below. Bald except for a thin black fringe, he wore a full beard fanning across his broad chest. His beady eyes lit on Conan. "Are you the cause of all the shouting up here?"

"Are you the captain?" Conan asked.

"I am. Muktar, by name. Now what in the name of Erlik's Throne is this all about?"

"I came aboard to hire your ship," Conan said levelly, "and one of your crew tried to put a dagger in my back. I threw him into the harbor."

"You threw him into the ...." The captain's bellow trailed off, and then went on in a quieter, if suspicious tone. "You want to hire Foam Dancer? For what?"

"A trading voyage to Hyrkania."

"A trader! You?" Muktar roared with laughter, slapping his stout thighs.

Conan ground his teeth, waiting for the man to finish. The night before he, Akeba and Tamur had settled on the trading story. Never a trusting people, the Hyrkanians had become less tolerant of strangers since Jhandar, but traders were still permitted. Conan thought wryly of Davinia's gold. When the cost of trade goods, necessary for the disguise, was added to the hiring of this vessel, there would not be enough left for a good night of drinking.

At last Muktar's mirth ran its course. His belly shook a last time, and cupidity lit his eyes. "Well, the fishing has been very good of late. I don't think I could give it up for so long for less than say, fifty gold pieces."

"Twenty," Conan countered.

"Out of the question. You've already cost me a crewman. He didn't drown, did he? An he did, the authorities will make me haul him out of the harbor and pay for his burial. Forty gold pieces, and I consider it cheap."

Conan sighed. He had little time to waste. If Tamur was right, they had to be gone from Aghrapur by nightfall. "I'll split the difference with you," he offered. "Thirty gold pieces, and that is my final offer. If you do not like it, I'll find another vessel."

"There isn't another in port can put you ashore on a Hyrkanian beach," the captain sneered.

"Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, there will be." Conan shrugged unconcernedly.

"Very well," Muktar muttered sourly. "Thirty gold pieces."

"Done," Conan said, heading for the side. "We sail as soon as the goods are aboard. The tides will not matter to this shallow draft."

"I thought there was no hurry," the bearded man protested.

"Nor is there," Conan said smoothly. "Neither is there any need to waste time." Inside, he wondered if they would get everything done. There simply was no time to waste.

"Speak on," Jhandar commanded, and paced the bare marble floor of his antechamber while he listened.

"Yes, Great Lord," the young man said, bowing. "A man was found in one of the harbor taverns, an Iranistani who claimed to have fought one who must be the man Conan. This Iranistani was a sailor on a smuggler, Foam Dancer, and it seems that this ship sailed only a few hours past bearing among its passengers a number of Hyrkanians, a huge blue-eyed barbarian, and a girl matching the description of the initiate who disappeared the night of the Hyrkanians' attack." He paused, awaiting praise for having ferreted out so much so quickly.

"The destination, fool," Jhandar demanded. "Where was the ship bound?"

"Why, Hyrkania, or so it is said, Great Lord."

Jhandar squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his temples with his fingers. "And you did not think this important enough to tell me without being asked?"

"But, Great Lord," the disciple faltered, "since they have fled... that is...."

"Whatever you discover, you will tell me," the necromancer snapped. "It is not for you to decide what is important and what is not. Is there aught else you have omitted?"

"No, Great Lord. Nothing."

"Then leave me!"

The shaven-headed young man backed from Jhandar's presence, but the mage had already dismissed him from his mind. He who had once been known as Baalsham moved to a window. From there he could see Davinia reclining in the shade of a tree in the gardens below, a slave stirring a breeze for her with a fan of white ostrich plumes. He had never known a woman like her before. She was disturbing.

And fascinating.

"I but listen at corners, Great Lord," Che Fan said behind him, "yet I know that already there is talk because she is not treated as the rest."

Jhandar suppressed a start and glanced over his shoulder at the two Khitans. Never in all the years they had followed him had he gotten used to the silence with which they moved. "If wagging tongues cannot be kept still," he said, "I will see that there are no tongues to wag."

Che Fan bowed. "Forgive me, Great Lord, if I spoke out of my place."

"There are more important matters afoot," Jhandar said. "The barbarian has sailed for Hyrkania. He would not have done so were he merely fleeing. Therefore he must be seeking something, some weapon, to use against me."

"But there is nothing, Great Lord," Suitai protested. "All was destroyed."

"Are you certain of that?" Jhandar asked drily. "Certain enough to risk all of my plans? I am not. I intend to secure the fastest galley in Aghrapur, and the two of you will sail on the next tide. Kill this Conan, and bring me whatever it is he seeks."

"As you command, Great Lord," the Khitans murmured together.

All would be well, Jhandar told himself. He had come too far to fail now. Too far.

Chapter XIV

Gray seas rolled under Foam Dancer's pitching bow, and a mist of foam carried across her deck. The triangular sail stood taut against the sky, where a pale yellow sun had sunk halfway from zenith to western horizon. At the stern a seaman, shorter than Conan but broader, leaned his not inconsiderable weight against the steering oar, but the rest of the crew for the most part lay sprawled among the bales of trade goods.

Conan stood easily, one hand gripping a stay. He was no sailor, but his time among the smugglers of Sultanapur had at least taught his stomach to weather the constant motion of a ship.

Akeba was not so fortunate. He straightened from bending over the rail-as he had done often since the vessel left Aghrapur-and said thickly, "A horse does not move so. Does it never stop?"

"Never," Conan said. But at a groan from the other he relented. "Sometimes it will be less, and in any case you will become used to it. Look at the Hyrkanians. They've made but a single voyage, yet show no illness."

Tamur and the other nomads squatted some distance in front of the single tail mast, their quiet murmurs melding with the creak of timbers and cording. They passed among themselves clay wine jugs and chunks of ripe white cheese, barely interrupting their talk to fill their mouths.

"I do not want to look at them," Akeba said, biting off each word. "I swear before Mitra that I know not which smells worse, rotted fish or mare's milk cheese."

Nearby, in the waist of the ship, a few of the sailors listened to Sharak. "... Thus did I strike with my staff of power," he gestured violently with his walking staff, "slaying three of the demons in the Blue Bull. Great were their lamentations and cries for mercy, but for such foul-hearted creatures as they I would know no mercy. Many more would I have transmuted to harmless smoke, blown away on the breeze, but they fled before me, back to their infernal regions, casting balls of fire to hinder my pursuit, as I...."

"Did he truly manage to harm one of the creatures?" Conan asked Akeba. "He has boasted of that staff for years, but never have I seen more from it than support for a tired back."

"I know not," Akeba said. He was making a visible effort to ignore his stomach, but his dark face bore a greenish pallor. "I saw him at the first, leaping about like a Farthii fire-dancer and flailing with his stick at whatever moved, then not again till we had fled to the street. Of the fire, however, I do know. 'Twas Ferian. He threw a lamp at one of the demons, harming the creature not at all, but scattering burning oil across a wall."

"And burned down his own tavern," Conan chuckled. "How it will pain him to build anew, though I little doubt he has the gold to do it ten times over."

Muktar, making his way aft from the necessary-a plank held out from the bow on a frame-paused by Conan. His beady eyes rolled to the sky, then to the Cimmerian's face. "Fog," he said, then chewed his thought a moment before adding, "by sunset. The Vilayet is treacherous." Clamping his mouth shut as though he had said more than he intended, he moved on toward the stern in a walk that would have seemed rolling on land, but here exactly compensated for the motion of the deck.

Conan grimly watched him go. "The further we sail from Aghrapur, the less he talks and the less I trust him."

"He wants the other half of his gold that you hold back. Besides, with the Hyrkanians we outnumber his crew."

Mention of the gold was unfortunate. After he paid the captain, Conan would have exactly eight pieces of gold in his pouch. In other times it would have seemed a tidy sum, but not so soon after having had a hundred. He found himself hoping to make a profit on the trade goods, and yet thoughts of profits and trading left a taste in his mouth as if he had been eating the Hyrkanians' ripest cheese.

"Mayhap," he said sourly. "Yet he would feed us to the fish and return to his smuggling, were he able.

He- What's the matter, man?"

Eyes bulging, Akeba swallowed rapidly, and with force. "Feed us to-" With a groan he doubled over the rail again, retching loudly and emptily. There was naught left in him to come up.

Yasbet came hurrying from the stern, casting frowns over her shoulder as she picked her way quickly among coiled ropes and wicker hampers or provisions. "I do not like this Captain Muktar," she announced to Conan. "He leers at me as if he would see me naked on a slave block."

Conan had declared her saffron robe unsuited for a sea voyage, and she had shown no reluctance to rid herself of that reminder of the cult. Now she wore a short leather jerkin, laced halfway up the front, over a gray wool tunic, with trousers of the same material and knee-high red boots. It was't man's garb, but the way the coarse wool clung to her form left no doubt there was a woman inside.

"You've no need to fear," Conan said firmly. Perhaps he should have a talk with Muktar in private. With his fists. And the captain was not the only one. His icy gaze caught the leering glances of a dozen sailors directed at her.

"I've no fear of anything so long as you are with me," she said, and innocently pressed a full breast against his arm. At least, he thought it was innocently. "But what is the matter with Akeba, Conan?" She herself had showed no effects from the roughest seas.

"He's ill."

"I am so sorry. Perhaps if I brought him some soup?"

"Erlik take the woman," Akeba moaned faintly.

"I think not just now," Conan laughed. Taking Yasbet's arm he led her away from the heaving form on the rail and seated her on an upturned keg before him. His face was serious now.

"Why look you so glum, Conan?" she asked.

"An there is trouble," he said quietly, "here or ashore, stay close to me, or to Akeba if you cannot get to me. Sick or not, he'll protect you. Does the worst come, Sharak will help you escape. He is no fighter, but no man lives so long as he without learning to survive."

A small frown creased her forehead. When he was done, she exclaimed, "Why do you speak as if you might not be with me?"

"No man knows what comes, girl, and I would see you safe."

"I thought so," she said with a warmth and happiness he did not understand. "I wished it to be so."

"As a last resort, trust Tamur, but only if there is no other way" He thought the nomad was the best of the lot, the least likely to betray a trust, but it was best not to test him too far. As the ancient saying held, he who took a Hyrkanian friend should pay his burial fee beforetime. "Put no trust in any of the rest, though, not even if it means you must find your way alone."

"But you will be here to protect me," she smiled. "I know it."

Conan growled, at a loss to make her listen. By bringing her along, for all he had done it for the best, he had exposed her to danger as great as Jhandar's, if different in kind. How could he bring that home to her? If only she were capable of her own protection. Her own....

Rummaging in the bales of trade goods, the Cimmerian dug out a Nemedian sica, its short blade unsharpened. The Hyrkanian nomads liked proof that a sword came to them fresh from the forge, such proof as would be given by watching the first edge put on blunt steel.

He flipped the shortsword in the air, catching it by the blade, and thrust the hilt at Yasbet. She stared at it wonderingly,

"Take it, girl," he said.

Hesitantly she put a hand to the leather-wrapped hilt. He released his grip, and she gasped, almost dropping the weapon. "'Tis heavy," she said, half-laughing.

"You've likely worn heavier necklaces, girl. You'll be used to the weight in your hand before we reach Hyrkania."

"Used to it?"

Her yelp of consternation brought chortles and hoots from three nearby sailors. The Hyrkanians looked up, still eating; Tamur's face split into an open grin.

Conan ignored them as best he could, firmly putting down the thought of hurling one or two over the side as a lesson for the others. "The broadsword is too heavy," he said, glowering at the girl. "Tulwar and yataghan are lighter, but there is no time to teach the use of either before we land. And learn the blade you will."

She stared at him silently with wide, liquid eyes, clutching the sword to her breasts with both hands.

Raucous laughter rolled down the deck, and Muktar followed close behind the sound of his merriment.

"A woman! You intend to teach a woman the sword?"

Conan bit back an oath, and contented himself with growling, "Anyone can learn the sword."

"Will you teach children next? This one," Muktar crowed to his crew, "will teach sheep to conquer the world." Their mirth rose with his, and their comments became ribald.

Conan ground his teeth, his anger flashing to the heat of a blade in the smith-fire. This fat, lecherous ape called itself a man? "A gold piece says in the tenth part of a glass I can teach her to defeat any of these goats who follow you!"

Muktar tugged at his beard, the smile now twisting his mouth into an emblem of hatred. "A gold piece?"

he sneered. "I'd wager five on the ship's cook."

"Five," Conan snapped. "Done!"

"Talk to her, then, barbar." The captain's voice was suddenly oily and treacherous. "Talk to the wench, and we'll see if she can uphold your boasting."

Already Conan was wishing his words unsaid, but the gods, as usual in such cases, did not listen. He drew Yasbet aside and adjusted her hands on the sword hilt.

"Hold it so, girl." Her hand was unresisting-and gripped with as much strength as bread dough, or so it seemed to him. She had not taken her eyes from his face. "Mitre blast your hide, girl," he growled. "Clasp the hilt as you would a hand."

"You truly believe that I can do this," she said suddenly. There was wonder in her voice, and on her face.

"You believe that I can learn to use a sword. And defeat a man."

"I'd not have wagered on you, else," he muttered, then sighed. "I have known women who handled a blade as well as any man, and better than most. 'Tis not a weapon of brute muscle, as is an axe. The need is for endurance, and agility and quickness of hand. Only a fool denies a woman can be agile, or quick."

"But-to defeat a man!" she breathed. "I have never even held a sword before." Abruptly she frowned at the blade. "This will not cut. Swords are supposed to cut. Even I know that."

Conan mouthed a silent prayer. "I chose it for that reason, for practice. Now it will serve you better than another. The point can still draw blood, but you'll not kill this sailor by accident, so I'll not have to kill Muktar."

"I see," she said, nodding happily. Her face firmed, and she started past him, but he seized her arm.

"Not yet, wench," he laughed softly. "First listen. These smugglers are deadly with a knife, especially in the dark, but they are no warriors in the daylight." He paused for that to sink in, then added. "That being so, were this a true fight, he would likely kill you in the space of three breaths."

Dismay painted her face. "Then how-"

"By remembering that you can run. By encouraging his contempt for you, and using it."

"I will not," she protested hotly. "I have as much pride as any man, including you."

"But no skill, as yet. You must win by trickery, and by surprise, for now. Skill will come later. Strike only when he is off balance. At all other times, run. Throw whatever comes to hand, at his head or at his feet, but never at his sword for those objects he will easily knock aside. Let him think that you are panicked.

Scream if you wish, but do not let the screaming seize you."

"I will not scream," she said sullenly.

He suppressed a smile. "It would but make him easier to defeat, for he would see you the more as a woman and the less as an opponent."

"But the sword. What do I do with the sword?"

"Beat him with it," he said, and laughed at her look of complete uncomprehension. "Think of the sword as a stick, girl," Understanding dawned on her features; she hefted the sica with both hands like a club. "And forget not to poke him" he added. "Such as these usually think only to hack forgetting a sword has a point. You remember it, and you'll win."

"How long will you talk to the wench?" Muktar shouted. "Your minutes are gone. An you talk long enough, perhaps Bayan will grow old, and even your jade can defeat him."

Beside the bearded sea captain stood a wiry man of middle height, his sun-darkened torso stripped to the waist. With his bare tulwar he drew gleaming circles of steel, first to one side then the other, a tight smile showing yellowed teeth.

Conan's heart sank. He had hoped Muktar would indeed choose his fat ship's cook, or one of the bigger men of the crew, so as to intimidate Yasbet with her opponent's sheer size. Thus Yasbet's agility would count for more. Even if it meant eating his words, he could not allow her to be hurt. A bitter taste on his tongue, he opened his mouth to end it.

Yasbet strode out to meet the seaman before Conan could speak, shortsword gripped in her two small hands. She fixed the man with a defiant glare. "Bayan, are you called?" she sneered. "From the look of you, it should be Baya, for you have about you a womanish air."

Conan stood with his mouth still open, staring at her. Had the wench gone mad?

Bayan's dark eyes seemed about to pop from his narrow head. "I will make you beg me to prove my manhood to you," he snarled.

"Muktar!" Conan called. Yasbet looked at him, pleading in her eyes, and despite himself he changed what he had been about to say. "This is but a demonstration, Muktar. No more. Does he harm her, you'll die a heartbeat after he does."

The bearded man jerked his head in a reluctant nod. Leaning close to Bayan he began whispering with low urgency.

The wiry sailor refused to listen. Raising his curved blade on high, he leaped toward Yasbet, a snarling grimace on his face and a terrible ululating cry rising from his mouth.

Conan put a hand to his sword hilt.

Bayan landed before her without striking, though, and it was immediately obvious that he thought to frighten her into immediate surrender. His grimace became a gloating smile.

Yasbet's face paled, but with a shout of her own she thrust the sword into the seaman's midsection. The unsharpened blade could not penetrate far, but the point was enough to start a narrow stream of blood, and the force of the blow bulged Bayan's eyes.

He gagged and staggered, but she did not rest. Clumsily, but swiftly, she brought the blunted blade down like a club on the shoulder of his sword arm. Bayan's scream was not of his choosing, this time. His blade dropped from a hand suddenly useless. Before the tulwar struck the deck Yasbet caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, splitting his scalp to the bone. With a groan Bayan sank to his knees.

Conan watched in amazement as the wiry sailor tried desperately to crawl away. Yasbet pursued him across the deck, beating at his shoulders and back with the edgeless steel. Yelping, Bayan found himself against the rail. At one and the same time he tried to curl himself into a ball and claw his way through the wood to safety.

"Surrender!" Yasbet demanded, standing above him like a fury. She stabbed at Bayan's buttocks, drawing a howl and a stain of red on his dirty once-white trousers.

Hand on his dagger, Muktar started toward her, a growl rising in his throat. Suddenly Conan's blade was a shining barrier before the captain's eyes.

"She won, did she not?" the young Cimmerian asked softly. "And you owe me five gold pieces. Or shall I shave your beard at the shoulders?"

Another shriek came from Bayan; the other buttock of his trousers bore a spreading red patch as well, now.

"She won," Muktar muttered. He flinched as Conan caressed his beard with the broadsword, then almost shouted, "The wench won!"

"See that this goes no further," Conan said warningly. He got a reluctant nod in reply. When the Cimmerian thrust out his palm, the gold coins were counted into it with even greater reluctance.

"I won!" Yasbet shouted. Waving her shortsword above her head, she capered gaily about the deck "I won!"

Conan sheathed his blade and swept her into the air, swinging her in a circle. "Did I not say that you would?"

"You did!" she laughed. "Oh, you did! On my oath, I will believe anything that you tell me from this moment. Anything."

He started to lower her feet to the deck, but her arms wove about his neck, and in some fashion he found himself kissing her. A pleasant armful, indeed, he thought. Soft round breasts flattened against his broad chest.

Abruptly he pulled her loose and set her firmly on the deck. "Practice, girl. There's a mort of practice to be done before I grind an edge on that blade for you. And you did not fight as I told you. I should take a switch to you for that. You could have been hurt."

"But, Conan," she protested, her face falling.

"Place your feet so," he said, demonstrating, "for balance. Do it, girl!"

Sullenly she complied, and he began to show her the exercises in the use of the short blade. That was the problem, he thought grimly, about setting out to protect a wench. Sooner or later you found yourself protecting her from you.

Chapter XV

Squatting easily on his heels against the pitching of the ship as it breasted long swells, Conan watched Yasbet work her blunted blade against a leather-wrapped bale of cloaks and tunics. Despite a freshening wind, sweat rolled down her face, but already she had gone ten times as long as she had managed the first day. She still wore her mannish garb, but had left off the woolen tunic, complaining that the coarse fabric scratched. The full curves of her breasts swelled at the lacings of her jerkin, threatening to burst the rawhide cords at her every exertion.

Sword arm dropping wearily, she looked at him with artistic pleading in her eyes. "Please, Conan, let me retire to my tent." That tent, no more than a rough structure of grimy canvas, had been his idea, both to keep her from the constant wetting of sudden squalls and to shelter her sleep from lustful eyes. "Please?

Already I will be sore."

"There's plenty of liniment," he said gruffly.

"It smells. And it stings. Besides, I cannot rub it on my back. Perhaps if you-"

"Enough rest," he said, motioning her back to the bale.

"Slaver," she muttered, but her shortsword resumed its whacking against leather.

Well over half their voyage was done. The coast of Hyrkania was now a dark line on the eastern horizon, though they had yet a way north to sail. Every day since placing the sica in her hands he had forced Yasbet to practice, exercising from gray dawn to purple dusk. He had dragged her from her blankets, poured buckets of water over her head when she whined of the midday heat, and threatened keelhauling when she begged to stop her work. He had tended and bandaged blisters on her small hands, as well, and to his surprise those blisters seemed at once a mark of pride to her and a spur.

Akeba dropped down beside him, eyeing Yasbet with respect. "She learns. An you teach so well, and to a woman, there is need of you in the army, to rain the many recruits we take of late."

"She has no ideas of swordplay to unlearn," Conan replied. "Also, she does exactly as I say"

"Exactly?" Akeba laughed, lifting an eyebrow. At the look on Conan's face he pulled his countenance into an expression of exaggerated blandness.

"Does your stomach still trouble you?" the youthful Cimmerian asked hopefully.

"My head and my legs now ignore the pitching," Akeba replied with a fixed grin.

Conan gave him a doubtful look. "Then perhaps you would like some well-aged mussels. Muktar has a keg of the ripest-"

"No, thank you, Conan," the Turanian said in haste, a certain tautness around his mouth. As though eager to change the subject, he added, "I have not noticed Bayan about today. You did not drop him over the side, did you?"

The Cimmerian's mouth tightened. "I overheard him discussing his plans for Yasbet, and I spoke to him about it."

"In friendly fashion, I trust. 'Tis you who mutters that these sea rats would welcome an excuse to slit our throats."

"In friendly fashion," Conan agreed. "He is nursing his bruises in his blankets this day."

"Good," the Turanian said grimly. "She is of an age with Zorelle."

"A tasty morsel, that girl," Sharak said, sitting down on Conan's other side. "Were I but twenty years younger I would take her from you, Cimmerian."

Yasbet's sword clanged on the deck, drawing all three men's eyes. She glared at them furiously. "I am no trained ape or dancing bear that you three may squat like farm louts and be entertained by me!"

She stalked away, then back to snatch up the sica-her eyes daring them to speak, as she did-and marched down the deck to disappear within her small tent before the mast.

"Your wench begins to develop a temper, Conan," Sharak said, staring after her. "Perhaps you have made a mistake in teaching her to use a weapon."

Akeba nodded with mock gravity. "She is no longer the shy and retiring maiden that once she was, Cimmerian, thanks to you. Of course, I realize that she is no longer a maiden at all, also thanks to you, but at least you could gentle her before she begins challenging us all to mortal combat."

"How can you talk so?" Conan protested. "But moments gone you likened her to your own daughter."

"Aye," Akeba said gravely, his laughter gone. "I was much concerned with Zorelle's virtue while she lived. I see things differently now. Now she is dead, I hope that she had what joy she could of her life."

"I have not touched her," Conan muttered reluctantly, and bridled at their disbelieving stares. "I rescued her. She's innocent and alone, with none to protect her but me. Mitra's Mercies! As well ask a huntsman to pen a gazelle fawn and slay it there for sport."

Sharak hooted with laughter. "The tiger and the gazelle. But which of you is which? Which hunter, which prey? The wench has you marked, Cimmerian."

"'Tis true," Akeba said. He essayed a slight smile. "The girl is among those aboard this vessel who think her your wench. Zandru's Nine Hells, do you think to be a holyman?"

"I may let the pair of you swim the rest of the way," Conan growled. "I tell you...." His words trailed off as Muktar loomed over the three men.

The bull-necked man tugged at his beard, spread fan-shaped across his chest, and eyed Conan with speculation. "We are followed," he said finally. "A galley."

Conan rose smoothly to his feet and strode to the stern, Akeba and Sharak scrambling in his wake.

Muktar followed more slowly.

"I see nothing but water," the Turanian sergeant complained, shading his eyes. Sharak muttered agreement, squinting furiously.

Conan saw the follower, though, seeming no more than a chip on the water in the distance, but with the faint sweep of motion at its sides that told of long oars straining for speed.

"Pirates?" Conan asked. Although there were many such on the Vilayet Sea, he did not truly believe those who followed were numbered among them.

Muktar shrugged. "Perhaps." He did not sound as if he believed it either.

"What else could they be?" Akeba demanded.

Muktar glanced sideways at Conan, but did not speak.

"I still see nothing," Sharak put in.

"How soon before they come up on us?" Conan said.

"Near dark," Muktar replied. He looked at the gray-green water, its long swells feathering whitely in the wind, then peered at the sky, where pale gray clouds were layered against the afternoon blue. "We may have a storm before, though. The Vilayet is a treacherous bitch."

The Cimmerian's eyes locked on the approaching ship, one huge fist thumping the rail as he thought. How to fight the battle that must come, and win? How?

"If we have a storm," the old astrologer said, "then we will hide from them in it."

"If it comes," Conan told him.

"I have counted their oarstroke," Muktar said abruptly, "and they will kill slaves if they do not slacken it.

Yet I do not believe they will. No one cares enough about Hyrkanians to chase them with such vigor.

And Foam Dancer is a small ship, not a dromond loaded to the gunnels with ivory and spices. It must be you three, or the wench. Have you the crown of Turan hidden in your bales? Is your jade a princess stolen from her father? Why do they follow so?"

"We are traders," Conan said levelly. "And you have been paid to carry us to Hyrkania and back to Turan."

"I've gotten no coin for the last."

"You will get your gold. Unless you let pirates take our trade goods. And your ship. Then all you'll receive is a slaver's manacles, an you survive."

Motioning the others to follow, the big Cimmerian left Muktar muttering into his beard and peering at the ship behind.

In the waist of the ship Conan took a place by the rail where he, too, could watch the galley. It seemed larger, now. Tamur joined them.

"It follows us," Conan said quietly.

"Baalsham," the Hyrkanian snarled at the same instant that Akeba, nodding, said, "Jhandar."

Sharak shook his staff at the galley with surprising fierceness. "Let him send his demons. I am ready for them."

Tamur's dark eyes shone. "This time we will carve him as a haunch of beef if he has a thousand demons."

Conan met Akeba's gaze. It seemed more likely that those on Foam Dancer would be meat on a spit.

"How many men does such a vessel carry?" the Turanian asked. "I know little of naval matters."

Conan's own knowledge of the sea was limited to his short time with the smugglers in Sultanapur, but he had been pursued by such vessels before. "There are two banks of oars to a side, but the oar-slaves will not be used to fight. A vessel of that size might carry five score besides the crew."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rigging lines humming in the rising wind. Then Sharak said hollowly, "So many? This adventuring begins to seem ill-suited for a man of my years."

"By the One-Father, I shall die happy," Tamur said, "an I know Baalsham goes with me into the long night."

Akeba shook his head bleakly. "He will not be on this ship. Such men send others to do their killing. But at least we shall find blood enough to pay our ferryman's fee, eh, Cimmerian?"

"It will be a glorious fight in which to die," Tamur agreed.

"I do not intend to die yet," the Cimmerian said grimly.

"The storm," Sharak said, his words holding a new excitement. "The storm will hide us." The clouds were thicker now, and darker, obscuring the lowering sun.

"Mayhap," Conan replied. "But we will not depend on that."

The god of the icy peaks and wind-ravaged crags of Conan's Cimmerian homeland was Crom, Dark Lord of the Mound, who gave a man life and will, and nothing more. It was given to each man to carry his own fate in his hands and his heart and his head.

Conan strode aft to Muktar, who still stood gazing at the galley. The bronze glint of its ram could be seen plainly now, knifing through gray swells. "Will they reach us before night falls?" Conan asked the captain.

"Or before the storm breaks?"

"The storm may never break," Muktar muttered. "On the Vilayet lightning may come from a sky where the sun was bright an instant before, or clouds may darken for days, then lift without a drop of rain. Do you lose me my ship, Cimmerian, I'll see your corpse."

"It was in my mind you were a sea captain," Conan taunted, "not an old woman wanting only to play with her grandchildren." He waited for Muktar's neck to swell with anger and his face empurple, then went on.

"Listen. We may all be saved. For as long as we are able, we must run before them. Then...."

As Conan spoke the dark color slowly left Muktar's face. Once he blanched, and tried to stop the Cimmerian's flow of words, but Conan would not pause for the other's objections. He pressed on, and after a time Muktar began to listen intently, then to nod.

"It may work," he said finally. "By Dagon's Golden Tail, it may just work. See to your nomads, Cimmerian." Whirling with more agility that would have seemed possible, the bulky captain roared, "To me, you whoreson dogs! To me, and listen to how I'll save your worthless hides still another time!"

"What in Mitra's name is that all about?" Akeba asked when Conan was back at the rail.

As Muktar's voice rose and fell in waves, haranguing the crew in the stern, Conan told his companions what he planned.

A grin appeared on Sharak's thin face, and he broke into a little dance. "We have them. We have them.

What a grand adventure!"

Tamur's smile was wolfish. "Whether we escape or die, this will be a thing to be told around the campfires. Come, Turanian, and show us if any remnant of Hyrkanian blood remains in you." With a wry shake of his head Akeba followed Tamur to join the other nomads.

It was done then, Conan thought. Nothing remained but... Yasbet. Even as her name came into his head, she was there before him. Her soft round eyes caressed his face.

"I heard," she said. "Where is my place in this?"

"I will make you a place in the midst of the bales," he told her, "where you will be safe. From archers or slingers, at least."

"I will not hide." Her eyes flashed, suddenly no longer soft. "You've taught me much, but not to be a coward!"

"You'll hide if I must bind you hand and foot. But if it comes to that, I promise you'll not sit without wincing for a tenday. Give me your sword," he added abruptly.

"My sword? No!"

She clutched the hilt protectively, but he snatched the blade from her and started down the deck. She followed in silence, hurt, tear-filled eyes seeming to fill her face.

In front of the mast the ship's grindstone, where the crew sharpened axes and swords alike, was fastened securely to the planking. Working the foot treadle, Conan set the edge of the blunt sica to the spinning stone. Sparks showered from the metal. With his free hand he dripped oil from a clay jug onto the wheel.

The heat must not grow too great, or the temper of the blade would be ruined.

Yasbet scrubbed a hand across her cheek, damp with tears. "I thought that you meant to... that you...."

"You are no woman warrior," he said gruffly. "Not in these few days. But you may have need to defend yourself, an the worst comes."

"Then you will not make me," she began, but he quelled her with an icy glance. The blood of battle was rising in him, driving out what small softness he had within. When steel was bared, the slightest remnant of gentleness could slay the one who bore it. Fiery sparks fountained from steel that was no harder than him who sharpened it.

Chapter XVI

About Foam Dancer's deck men rushed, readying the parts of Conan's plan. The clouds darkened above as if dusk had come two turns of the glass before its time, and wind strummed the rigging like a lute, yet no moisture fell on the deck save spume from wave shattering on the bow.

Bit by bit the galley closed the distance, a deadly bronze-beaked centipede skittering across the water, seemingly unimpeded by the rising waves through which Foam Dancer now labored, wallowing heavily from trough to trough. Foam Dancer seemed a sluggish water beetle, waiting to die.

"They busy themselves in the bows!" Muktar bellowed suddenly.

Conan finished tying the line around Yasbet's waist where she lay between stacked bales, themselves lashed firmly to the deck. "You've no fear of being washed overboard now," he told her, "no matter how violent the storm becomes."

"It's the catapult!" Muktar cried.

Conan started to turn away, but Yasbet seized his hand, pressing her lips to his callused palm. "I shall be waiting for you," she murmured, "when the battle is done." She tugged his hand lower, and he found his fingers inside her leather jerkin, a swelling breast nestled in his hand.

With an oath he pulled his hand free, though not without reluctance. "There is no time for that now," he said roughly. Did she not realize how difficult it was for him already, he wondered, protecting a wench he longed to ravish?

"They prepare to fire!" Muktar shouted, and Conan put Yasbet from his mind.

"Now!" the young Cimmerian cried. "Cut!"

In the stern Muktar raced to the steering oar, roughly shoving aside the burly steersman to seize the thick wooden shaft himself. In the bow two scruffy smugglers drew curved swords and chopped. Lines parted with loud snaps, and the bundles of extra sailcloth Conan had put over the side were loosed. The sleek vessel leaped forward, all but jumping from wave-top to wave-top.

Almost beneath her stern a stone fell, half-a-man-weight of granite, raising a fountain that drenched Muktar.

"Now, Muktar!" Conan shouted. Snatching an oilskin bag, he ran aft. "I said now! The rest of you watch the pots!"

The deck was dotted with scores of covered clay pots, scavenged from every corner of the ship. Some hissed as foaming water swirled around them and ran across the planking.

Cursing at the top of his lungs, Muktar heaved at the steersman's oar, its massive thickness bowing from the strain. Slowly Foam Dancer responded, coming around. The crew dashed to run out long sweeps, stroking and backing desperately to aid the turn.

This was the point that had made Muktar's face pale when Conan told him of it. Turned broadside to the line of waves, the vessel heeled over, further, further, till her rail lay nearly on the surface. Faces twisted with fear, the smugglers worked their oars with feverish intensity. Akeba, Sharak, and the Hyrkanians scrambled to keep the clay containers from toppling or washing over the side. For a froth-peaked gray mountain of water now rolled over the rail, till it seemed that men waded in shallows.

Among those laboring men Conan's eyes suddenly lit on Yasbet, free of her bonds, struggling among the rest of the pots. His curses were borne away by the wind, and there was no time to do anything about her.

Sluggishly but certainly Foam Dancer's bow came into the waves, and the vessel lifted. She did not ride easily, as she had before-there was likely water enough below decks to float a launch-but still she crested that first wave and raced on. Back toward the galley.

On the other ship, the catapult arm stood upright. If another stone had been launched, the splash of its fall had been lost in the rough seas. On the galley's decks, seeing their intended prey turn back on them, men raced about like ants in a crushed anthill. But not so many men as Conan had feared, unless they kept others below. Most of those he could make out wore the twinned queues of sailors.

"We've lost half the pots!" Akeba shouted over the howling wind. "Gone into the sea!"

"Then ready what we have!" Conan bellowed back. "In full haste!" The Hyrkanians took up oilskin sacks, like that Conan carried.

Those on the other ship, apparently believing their quarry intended to come to grips, had now provided themselves with weapons. Swords, spears and axes bristled along the galley's rail. In its bow, men labored to winch down the catapults arm for another shot, but too late, Conan knew; Foam Dancer was now too close.

Undoing the strings that held the mouth of his sack, Conan drew out its dry contents: a quiver of arrows, each with rags tied behind the head, and a short, recurved bow. Near him a Hyrkanian, already holding his bow, knocked the top from a clay crock. Within coals glowed dully, hissing from the spray that fell inside the container. A few quick puffs fanned them to crackling flame, and into that fire Conan thrust an arrow. The cloth tied to it burst into flame.

In one swift motion the big Cimmerian turned, nocked, drew and released. The fire arrow flew straight up to the galley, lodging in a mast. His was the signal. A shower of fire arrows followed, peppering the galley.

Conan fired again and again as the two ships drew closer. Though now the galley tried to veer away, Foam Dancer gave chase. On the galley men rushed with buckets of sand to extinguish points of flame, but two blossomed for each that died. Tendrils of fire snaked up tarred ropes, and a great square sail was suddenly aflame, the conflagration whipped by shrieking wind.

"Closer!" Conan called to Muktar. "Close under the stern!"

The bull-necked man muttered, but Foam Dancer curved away from her pursuit, crossing the galley's wake a short spear-throw from its stern.

Hastily Conan capped the pot of coals, edging it into the oilskin bag with ginger respect for its blistering heat. Once the sack whirled about his head, twice, and then it arced toward the galley, dropping to its deck unnoticed by men frantically cutting away the flaming sail.

"The oil!" Conan shouted even as the sack fell. He seized another jar, this with its lid sealed in place with pitch, and threw it to smash aboard the galley. "Quickly, before the distance widens!"

More sealed pots flew toward the other vessel. Half fell into tossing water, but the rest landed on the galley's stern. The two ships diverged, but now the galley's burning sail was over the side, and her men were turning to Foam Dancer.

Conan pounded his fist on the rail. "Where is it?" he muttered. "Why has nothing-"

Flame exploded in the stern of the galley as spreading oil at last reached the coals that had burned out of the sack. Screams rose from the galley, and wild cheers from the men of Foam Dancer.

In that instant the rains came at last, a solid sheet of water that cut off all vision of the other ship. Wind that had howled now raged like a mad beast, and Muktar's vessel reeled to the hammer blows of waves that towered above her mast.

"Keep us sailing north!" Conan shouted. He had to put his mouth close to Muktar's ear to be heard, even so.

Straining at the steering oar, the bearded man shook his head. "You do not sail a storm of the Vilayet!"

he bellowed. "You survive it!"

And then the wind rose, ripping away even shouted words as they left the mouth, and talk was impossible.

The wind did not abate, nor did the furious waves. Gray mountains of water, their peaks whipped to violent white spray, hurled themselves at Foam Dancer as if the gods themselves, angered by her name, would prove that she could not dance with their displeasure. Those who had dared to pit this cockleshell against the unleashed might of the Vilayet could do naught but cling and wait.

After an endless age, the rains began to slacken and, at last, were gone. The wind that flogged choppy waves to whitecaps became no more than stiff, and whipped away the clouds to reveal a bright gibbous moon hung in a black velvet sky, its pale light half changing day for night. There was neither sight nor hint of the galley.

"The fire consumed it," Sharak gloated. "Or the storm."

"Perhaps," Conan answered doubtfully. An the fire had not been well caught, the storm would have extinguished it. And if Foam Dancer could ride that tempest, then the galley, if well handled, could have too. To Muktar, who had returned the steering oar to the steersman, he said, "Find the coast. We must find how far we've gone astray."

"By dawn," the bearded man announced confidently. He seemed to feel that the battle with the sea had been his alone; the victory had put even more swagger into his walk.

Yasbet, approaching, laid a hand on Conan's arm. "I must speak with you," she said softly.

"And I with you," he replied grimly. "What in Mitra's name did you mean by-"

But she was walking away, motioning for him to follow, stepping carefully among the night-shrouded shapes of men who had collapsed where they stood from exhaustion. Growling fearsome oaths under his breath, Conan stalked after her. She disappeared into the pale shadow of her sagging tent, its heavy fabric hanging low from the pounding of the storm. Furiously jerking aside the flap, he ducked inside, and had to kneel for lack of headroom.

"Why did you leave where I put you?" he demanded. "And how? I made that knot too firm for your fingers to pick. You could have been killed, you fool wench! And you told me you'd stay there. Promised it!"

She faced his anger, if not calmly at least unflinchingly. "Indeed your fingers wove a strong knot, but the sharp blade you gave me cut it nicely. As to why, you have taught me to defend myself. How could I do that lashed like a bundle for the laundress? And I did not promise. I said I would be waiting for you when the battle was done. Did I not better that? I came to find you."

"I remember a promise!" he thundered. "And you broke it!"

Disconcertingly, she smiled and said quietly, "Your cloak is wet through." Delicate fingers unfastened the bronze pin that held the garment, and soft arms snaked about his neck as she pushed the cloak from his shoulders. Sensuous lips brushed the line of his jaw, his ear.

"Stop that," he growled, pushing her away. "You'll not distract me from my purpose. Had I a switch to hand, you would think yourself better off in your amah's grasp."

With an exasperated sigh she leaned on one arm, frowning at him. "But you have no switch," she said. As he stared in amazement, she undid the laces of her jerkin and drew it over her head. Full, rounded breasts swung free, shimmering satin flesh that dried his throat. "Still," she went on, "your hand is hard, and your arm strong. I have no doubt it will suffice for your purpose, did you call it?" Boots and trousers joined the jerkin. Twisting on her knees to face away from him, she pressed her face to the deck.

Conan swallowed hard. Those lush buttocks of honeyed ivory would have brought sweat to the face of a statue, and he was all too painfully aware at that moment that he was flesh and blood. "Cover yourself, girl," he said hoarsely, "and stop this game. 'Tis dangerous, for I am no girl's toy."

"I play no game," she said, kneeling erect again, her knees touching his. She made no move toward her garments. "I know that all aboard this vessel think I am your... your leman." Her cheeks pinkened; that, more than her nudity, made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut. A brief look of triumph flitted across her face. "Have I not complained to you before," she said fiercely, "about protecting me when I did not want to be protected?"

Unclenching white-knuckled fists, he pulled her to him; she gasped as she was crushed against his chest.

"The toying is done, wench," he growled. "Say go, and I will go. But if you do not...." He toppled them both to the deck, her softness a cushion under him, his agate blue eyes gazing into here with unblinking intensity.

"I am no girl," she breathed, "but a woman. Stay." She wore a triumphant smile openly now.

Conan thought it strange, that smile, but she was indeed a woman, and his mind did not long remain on smiles.

Chapter XVII

From a rocky headland covered with twisted, stunted scrub, waves crashing at its base, Conan peered inland, watching for Tamur's return. The nomad had claimed that he would have horses for them all in three or four turns of the glass, but he had left at dawn, and the sun sat low in its journey toward the western horizon.

On a short stretch of muddy sand north of the headland Foam Dancer lay drawn up, heeling over slightly on her keel. An anchor had been carried up the beach to dunes covered with tall, sparse brown grass, its long cable holding the vessel against the waves that tugged at her stern. Cooking fires dotted the sand between the ship and the dunes. Yasbet's tent had been pitched well away from the blankets of the Hyrkanians and the sailors, scattered among their piles of driftwood.

As Conan turned back to his scanning, a plume of dust inland and to the south caught his eye. It could be Tamur, with the horses, or it could be... who? He wished he knew more about this land. At least the sentry he had set atop the highest of the dunes could see the dust, too. He glanced in that direction and bit back an oath. The man was gone! The dust was closer, horses plain at its base. Tamur? Or some other?

Making an effort to appear casual, he walked up the headland to where a steep downward slope led to the beach, dotted with wind-sculpted trees, their gnarled roots barely finding a grip in the rocky soil.

Between the dunes and the plain lay thickets of such growth. He half-slid down that slope, still making an effort to show no haste.

At the fires he leaned over Akeba, who sat cross-legged before a fire, honing his sword. "Horsemen approach," he said quietly. "I know not if it is Tamur or others. But the sentry is nowhere to be seen."

Stiffening, the Turanian slid his honing stone into his pouch and his curved blade into its scabbard. He had removed his distinctive tunic and spiral helmet, for the Turanian army was little loved on this side of the Vilayet. "I will take a walk in the dunes. You can see to matters here?" Conan nodded, and Akeba, taking up a spade as if answering a call of nature, strolled toward the dunes.

"Yasbet!" Conan called, and she appeared at the flap of her tent. He motioned her to come to him.

She made a great show of buckling on her sword belt and adjusting its fit on her hips before making her way slowly across the sand. As soon as she was in arm's reach of him, he grabbed her shoulders and firmly sat her down in the protection of a large driftwood bole.

"Stay there," he said when she made to rise. Turning to the others, scattered among the campfires, he said, as quietly as he could and still be heard, "None of you move." Some turned their faces to him curiously, and Muktar got to his feet. "I said, don't move!" Conan snapped. Such was the tone of command in his voice that the bearded captain obeyed. Conan went on quickly. "Horsemen will be here any moment. I know not who. Be still!" A Hyrkanian drew back the hand he had stretch forth for his bow, and a sailor, who had risen with a look of running on his face, froze. "Besides this, the sentry has disappeared. Someone may be watching us. Choose your place of covet and when I give the word-not yet!-seize your weapons and be ready. Now!"

In an instant the beach seemed to become deserted as men rolled behind piles of driftwood. Conan snatched a bow and quiver, and dropped behind the bole with Yasbet. He raised himself enough to barely look over it, searching the dunes.

"Why did you see to my safety before telling the others?" Yasbet demanded crossly. "All my life I have been wrapped in swaddling. I will be coddled no longer."

"Are you the hero in a saga, then?" Was that the drumming of hooves he heard? Where in Zandru's Nine Hells was Akeba? "Are you impervious to steel and proof against arrows?"

"A heroine," she replied. "I will be a heroine, not a hero."

Conan snorted. "Sagas are fine for telling before a fire of a cold night, or for entertaining children, but we are made of flesh and blood. Steel can draw blood, and arrows pierce the flesh. Do I ever see you attempting to be a hero-or a heroine you'll think your bottom has suddenly become a drum. Be still, now."

Without taking his eyes from the dunes he felt the arrows in his quiver, checking the fletching.

"Will we die then, Conan, on this pitiful beach?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said quickly. "I'll take you back to Aghrapur and put pearls around your neck, if I don't return you to Fatima for a stubborn wench first." Of a certainty the sound of galloping horses was closer.

For a long moment she seemed to consider that. Then suddenly she shouted, "Conan of Cimmeria is my lover, and I his! I glory in sharing his blankets!"

Conan stared at her. "Crom, girl! I told you to be still!"

"If I am to die, I want the world to know what we share."

As Conan opened his mouth, the drumming abruptly became a thunder, and scores of horses burst over the dunes, spraying muddy sand beneath their hooves, roiling in a great circle on the beach. Conan nocked an arrow, then hesitated when he saw that many of the horses had no riders. Tamur appeared out of the shifting mass of riders.

"Do not loose!" Conan shouted, striding out to meet the Hyrkanian, who swung down from his horse as Conan approached. "Erlik take you, Tamur! You could have ended wearing more feathers than a goose, riding in that way."

"Did not Andar tell you who we were?" The scarred Hyrkanian said, frowning. "I saw you set him to watch."

"He was relieving himself," Akeba said disgustedly, joining them, "and did not bother to set another in his place." He was trailed by a narrowjawed Hyrkanian, greased mustaches framing his mouth and chin.

Tamur glared at the man, who shrugged and said, "What is there to watch for, Tamur? These scavenging dungrollers?" Andar jerked his head at the mounted men, who sat their small, shaggy horses in a loose circle about those they herded.

"You did not keep watch as you were told," Tamur grated. He turned and called to the other Hyrkanians,

"Does any here stand for this one?" None answered.

Alarm flashed onto Andar's face, and he grabbed for his yataghan. Tamur spun back to the mustached man, his blade flashing from its scabbard, striking. Andar fell, sword half-drawn, his nearly severed neck spurting blood into the sand.

Tamur kicked the still-jerking body. "Take this defiler of his mother's womb into the dunes and leave him with the offal he thought was more important than keeping watch."

Two of the Hyrkanians seized the dead man by his ankles and dragged him away. None of the others so much as twitched an eyebrow: Behind him Conan could hear Yasbet retching.

"At least you got the horses," Conan said.

"They look more like sheep," Akeba muttered.

Tamur gave the Turanian a pained look. "Perhaps, but they are the best mounts to be found on the coast.

Hark you now, Conan. These horse traders tell me they have seen other strangers. Give them what they ask for the mounts, and they will tell what they know."

"What they ask," Conan said drily. "They would not be blood kin of yours, would they, Tamur?"

The Hyrkanian looked astonished. "You are an outlander, Cimmerian, and ignorant, so I will not kill you.

They are the scavengers and dung-rollers Andar named them, living by digging roots and robbing the nests of seabirds. From time to time they loot a ship driven ashore by a storm." He thrust his blade into the sand to clean away Andar's blood. "They are no better than savages. Come, I will take you to their leader."

The men on the shaggy horses were a ragged lot, their sheepskin coats moth-eaten, their striped tunics threadbare and even filthier than when they were worn by seamen whose luckless vessels had ended on this coast. The leader was a stringy, weather-beaten man with one suspicious, darting eye and a sunken socket where the other had been. About his neck he wore a necklace of amethysts, half the gilding worn from the brass. It seemed one of those ships had carried a troll.

"This is Baotan," Tamur said, gesturing to the one-eyed man. "Baotan, this is Conan, a trader known in far lands and a warrior feared by many."

Baotan grunted and shifted his eye to Conan. "You want my horses, trader? For each horse, five blankets, a sword and an axe, plus a knife, a cloak, and five pieces of silver."

"Too much," Conan said.

Tamur groaned. For Conan's ear alone, he muttered, "Forget the trading, Cimmerian. 'Tis the means to destroy Baalsham we seek."

Conan ignored him. Poor traders were little respected, and a lack of respect would mean poor information, if not outright lies. "For every two horses, one blanket and one sword."

Baotan showed the stumps of yellowed teeth in a grin, and climbed down from his horse. "We talk," he said.

The talk, Baotan and Conan squatting by one of the campfires, was more leisurely than Conan would have liked, yet he had to maintain his pose as a trader. Tamur produced clay jugs of sour Hyrkanian beer and lumps of mare's milk cheese. The beer made Baotan's eyes light up, but the one-eyed man gave ground grudgingly, and often stopped bargaining entirely to talk of the weather or some incident in his camp.

At last, though, the bargain was struck. The sky was beginning to darken; men dragged in more driftwood to pile on the fires. For the pack horses they needed, one sword and one blanket. For the animals they would ride, one axe and one blanket. Plus a knife for every man with Baotan and two pieces of gold for the stringy man himself.

"Done," Conan said.

Baotan nodded and began to produce items from beneath his coat. A pouch. A small pair of tongs. What appeared to be a copy of a bulls horn, half-sized and molded in clay. Before Conan's astonished gaze, Baotan stuffed herbs from the pouch into the clay horn. With the tongs, the one-eyed man deftly plucked a coal from the fire and used it to puff the herbs to a smoldering burn. Conan's jaw dropped as the man drew deeply on the horn, inhaling the pungent smoke. Tilting back his head, Baotan expelled the smoke in a long stream toward the sky, then offered the horn to Conan.

Tamur leaned close to speak in his ear. "'Tis the way they seal a bargain. You must do the same. I told you they were savages."

Conan was prepared to believe it. Doubtfully he took the clay horn. The smoldering herbs smelled like a fire in a rubbish heap. Putting it to his mouth, he inhaled, and barely suppressed a grimace. It tasted even worse than it smelled, and felt hot enough to blister his tongue. Fighting an urge to gag, he blew a stream of smoke toward the sky.

"They mix powdered dung with the herbs," Tamur said, grinning, "to insure even burning."

From across the fire Akeba laughed. "Would you like some aged mussels, Cimmerian?" he called, near to rolling on the sand.

Conan ground his teeth and handed the clay horn back to Baotan, who stuck the horn in his mouth and began to emit small puffs of smoke. The Cimmerian shook his head. He had seen many strange customs since leaving the mountains of his homeland, but, sorcery aside, this was certainly the strangest.

When his mouth no longer felt as if he were attempting to eat a coal from the fire-though the taste yet remained-Conan said, "Have you seen any other strangers on the coast? You understand that I must be concerned with other traders."

"Strangers," Baotan said through teeth clenched around the clay horn, "but no traders." Each word came out accompanied by a puff of smoke. "They bought horses, too. No trade goods. Silver." He grinned suddenly. "They paid too much."

"Not traders," Conan said, pretending to muse. "That is strange indeed."

"Strangers are strangers. Their boat was much charred at the back, and some of them suffered from burns."

The galley. It had survived both fire and storm after all. "Perhaps we might help these men," Conan said.

"How far off are they, and in which direction?"

Baotan waved a hand to the south. "Half a day. Maybe a day."

Far enough that they might not know Foam Dancer had also survived. But if that was so, why the horses? Perhaps there was something here that Jhandar feared. Conan felt excitement rising.

"Use our campfires this night," he said to Baotan. "Akeba, Tamur, we ride at first light."

Yasbet appeared from the dark to nestle her hip against Conan's shoulder. "It grows cold," she said.

"Will you warm me?" Ribald laughter rose froth the listening men, but, oddly, a glare from her silenced them, even Tamur and Baotan.

"That I will," Conan said, and as he rose flipped her squealing over his shoulder.

Her squeals had turned to laughter by the time they reached her tent. "Put me down, Conan," she managed between giggles. "Tis unseemly."

Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose, and he whirled, staring into the dark, at the headland.

"Are you trying to make me dizzy, Conan? What is it?"

Imaginings, he told himself. Naught but imaginings. The galley and those it carried were far to the south, sure Foam Dancer and all aboard had perished in the storm.

"'Tis nothing, wench," he growled. She squealed with laughter as he ducked into the tent.

Che Fan rose slowly from the shadows where he had dropped, and peered at the beach below, dotted with campfires. There was no more to learn by watching. The barbarian was abed for the night. He made his way across the headland and down the far slope, gliding surefooted over the rough ground, a wraith in the night.

Suitai was waiting at their small fire-well shielded by scrub growth-along with the six they had chosen from the uninjured to accompany them. The men huddled silently on the far side of the fire from the Khitans. They had seen just enough on the voyage to guess that the two black-robed men carried a sort of deadliness they had never before encountered. Thus they feared greatly, and wisely, although still ignorant.

"What did you see?" Suitai asked. He sipped at a steaming decoction of herbs.

Che Fan squatted by the fire, filling a cup with the same bitter liquid as he spoke. "They are there. And they have obtained horses from that dungbeetle Baotan."

"Then let us go down and kill them," Suitai said. "It may be more difficult if we must find them again." The six who had accompanied them from the galley shifted uneasily, but the Khitans did not appear to notice.

"Not until they have found what they came to seek," Che Fan replied. "The Great Lord will not be pleased if we return with naught but word of their deaths." He paused. "We must be careful of the barbarian called Conan."

"He is but a man," Suitai said, "and will die as easily as any other."

Che Fan nodded slowly, uncertain why he had spoken such a thing aloud. And yet.... In his boyhood had he learned the art of appearing invisible, of hiding in the shadow of a leaf and becoming one with the night, but there was that about the muscular barbarian's gaze that seemed to penetrate all such subterfuge.

That was nonsense, he told himself. He was of the Brothers of the Way, and this Conan was but a man.

He would die as easily as any other. Yet... the doubts remained.

Chapter XVIII

Tugging his cloak closer about him against the brisk wind, Conan twisted on his sheepskin saddle pad to look behind for the hundredth time since dawn. Short-grassed plain and rolling hills, so sparsely grown with a single stunted tree was a startlement, revealed no sign of pursuit. Disgruntled, he faced front. The pale yellow sun, giving little warmth in the chill air, rose ahead of them toward its zenith. The V layet lay two nights behind. No matter what his eyes told him, deeper instinct said that someone followed, and that instinct had kept him alive at times when more civilized senses failed.

The party rode well bunched, half of the Hyrkanians leading strings of pack horses, cursing. The small beasts, seeming little larger than the hampers and bales lashed to their pack saddles, tried to turn their tails into the wind whenever they found slack in the lead ropes. The men not so encumbered kept hands near weapons and eyes swiveling in constant watch. It was not unknown for travelers to be attacked on the plains of Hyrkania. Traders were usually immune, but more than one had lost his head.

Tamur galloped his shaggy horse between Conan and Akeba. "Soon we shall be at the Blasted Lands."

"You have been saying that since we left the sea," Conan grumbled. His temper was not improved by the way his feet dangled on either side of his diminutive mount.

"A few more hills, Cimmerian. But a few more. And you must be ready to play the trader. One of the tribes is sure to be camped nearby. Each takes its turn guarding the Blasted Lands."

"You've said that as well."

"I hope we find a village soon," Yasbet said through clenched teeth. She half stood in her stirrups then, seeing the amusement that flitted across the men's faces, sat again hastily, wincing.

Conan managed to keep a straight face. "There is liniment in one of the packs," he offered. It was not his first time to do so.

"No," she said brusquely, the same answer she had given to his other offers. "I need no coddling."

"'Tis not coddling," he snapped, exasperated. "Anyone may use liniment for a sore... muscle."

"Let him rub some on," Sharak chortled. The astrologer clung to his horse awkwardly, like a stick figure placed on a pony by children. "Or if not him, wench, then let me."

"Still your tongue, old man," Akeba said, grinning. "I see you ride none too easily yourself, and I may take it in mind to coat you with so much liniment that you run ahead of us the rest of the way."

"You have done well, woman," Tamur said suddenly, surprising everyone. "I thought we would have to tie you across your saddle before the sun was high, but you have the determination of a Hyrkanian."

"I thank you," she told him, glaring at the Cimmerian. "I was not allow... that is, I have never ridden before. I walked, or was carried in a palanquin." She eased herself on her saddle pad and muttered an oath. Sharak cackled until he broke into a fit of coughing. "I will use the liniment this night," Yasbet said stiffly, "though I am not certain the cure won't be worse than the disease."

"Good," Conan said, "else by tomorrow you'll not be able to walk, much less-" He broke off as they topped a rise. Spread before them was a great arc of yurts. More than a thousand of the domed felt structures dotted the rolling plain like gray mushrooms. "There's the encampment you predicted, Tamur. I suppose 'tis time for us to begin acting the part of traders."

"Wait. This could be ill," the nomad said. "There are perhaps four tribes camped here, not one. Among so many there may well be one who remembers that we swore vengeance on Baalsham despite the ban.

Do they realize we have brought you here to break the taboo on the Blasted Lands...." A murmur rose from the other Hyrkanians.

From the tents two score of fur-capped horsemen galloped toward them, lance points glittering in the rising sun.

"It is too late to turn back now." Conan kicked his mount forward. "Follow me, and remember to look like traders."

"For violating a taboo," Tamur said, trailing after the Cimmerian, "a man is flayed alive, and kept so for days while other parts important to a man are removed slowly. Burning slivers are thrust into his flesh."

"Flayed?" Sharak said hollowly. "Other parts? Burning slivers? Perhaps we could turn back after all?"

Yet he followed as well, as did the others, Yasbet riding with shoulders back and hand on sword hilt, Akeba in an apparently casual slouch above the cased bow strapped ahead of his saddle pad. The rest of the Hyrkanians came more slowly, muttering, but they came.

Tamur raised his sword hand in greeting-and no doubt to show that he did not intend to draw the weapon-as they approached the other horsemen. "I see you. I am called Tamur, and am returned to my people from across the sea, bringing with me this trader, who is called Conan."

"I see you," the leader of the mounted nomads said, lifting his right hand. Squat and dark, mustaches thick with grease dangling below his chin, he eyed Conan suspiciously from beneath the fur cap pulled down to his shaggy brows. "I am called Zutan. It is late in the year for traders."

Conan put on a broad smile. "Then there will be no others to compete with me."

Zutan stared at him, expressionless, for a long moment. Then, wheeling his horse, he motioned them to follow.

The riders from the encampment spread out in two lines, one to either side of Conan and his party, escorting them-or guarding them, perhaps-into the midst of the yurts, to a large open space in the center of the crescent. People gathered around them, men in fur caps and thick sheepskin coats, women in long woolen dresses, dyed in a rainbow of colors, with hooded fur cloaks held close about them. Those males who had reached an age to be called men were uniformly surrounded by the rankness of rancid grease, and those of middle years or beyond were so weathered and leather-skinned as to make their ages all but impossible to tell. The women, however, were another matter. There were toothless crones among them, and wrinkled hags, but one and all they seemed clean. Many of the younger women were pretty enough for any zenana. They moved lithely to the tinkle of ankle bells beneath their skirts, and more than one set of dark, kohled eyes followed the young giant above full, smiling lips.

Sternly Conan forced himself to ignore the women. He had come for a means to destroy Jhandar, not to disport himself with nomad wenches. Nor would the need to kill father, brother, husband or lover help him. Nor would trouble with Yasbet.

As he swung down from his wooly mount, Conan leaned close to Tamur and spoke softly. "Why do the women not grease their hair also?"

Tamur looked shocked. "'Tis a thing for men, Cimmerian." He shook his head. "Hark you. I have meant to speak on this to you for some time. Many traders adopt this custom while among us. It would aid your disguise to be seen to do so. Perhaps you could grow a mustache as well? And this washing you insist on is a womanly thing. It saps the strength."

"I will think on these things," Conan said. He noticed Akeba, a wry smile on his dark face, peering at him over his horse.

"Long mustaches," the Turanian said. "And mayhap a beard like that of Muktar."

Conan growled, but before he could reply a sharp cry broke from Yasbet. He spun to see her half fall from her saddlepad in attempting to dismount. Darting, he caught her before she collapsed completely to the ground.

"What ails you, wench?"

"My legs, Conan," she moaned. "They will not support me. And my... my...." Her face reddened. "My...

muscles are sore," she whispered.

"Liniment," he said, and she moaned again. The crowd about them stirred. Hastily he lifted her back to her feet and put her hands on her sheepskin saddle-pad. "Hold to that. You must keep your feet a moment longer." Half-sobbing, she tangled her hands in the thick wool; he turned immediately from her to more pressing matters.

Zutan pushed his way to the forefront of those watching. Four squat, bow-legged elders followed him, and the murmurs of the onlookers were stilled. "I present to you," Zutan intoned, "the trader called Co-nan. Know, Co-nan, that you are presented to the chiefs of the four tribes here assembled, to Olotan, to Arenzar, to Zoan, to Sibuyan. Know that you are presented to men who answer only to the Great King. Know this, and tremble."

It was near impossible to tell the age of any man above five-and-twenty in those tribes, but these men had surely each amassed three times so many years, if not four. Their faces were gullied rather than wrinkled, and had the color and texture of a boot left ten years in the desert sun. The hair that straggled from under their filthy fur caps was as white as bleached parchment, beneath a coating of grease, and their mustaches, just as pale, were long and thin. One had no teeth at all, muttering through his gums, while the other three showed blackened stumps when they opened their mouths. Yet the eight black eyes that peered at him were hard and clear, and there was no tremor in the bony hands that rested lightly on the hilts of their yataghans.

Conan raised his right hand in the greeting Tamur had used. What did traders say at these times, he wondered. Whatever he said, though, it had best come fast. Zutan was beginning to tug at his mustache impatiently. "I see you. I am honored to be presented to you. I will trade fairly with your people."

The four stared at him unblinkingly. Zutan's tugging at his mustache became more agitated.

What else was he supposed to say, Conan thought. Or do? Suddenly he turned his back on the chiefs and hurried back among the pack animals. Mutters sounded among the tribesmen, and the Hyrkanians who held the guide-ropes eyed him with frowns. Hastily he unroped a wicker hamper and drew out four tulwars, their hilts ivory and ebony. The blades had been worked with beeswax and acid into scenes of men hunting with bows from horseback, with silver rubbed across the etchings hammered till the argentine metal shone. Conan had raised a storm when he found the blades among the trade goods-he was still of a mind that Tamur had meant them for himself and his friends-but they had already been paid for. Now he was glad of them.

As the Cimmerian returned, two swords in each huge fist, Tamur groaned, "Not those, northerner. Some other blades. Not those."

Conan reached the four chiefs and, after a moment, awkwardly sketched a bow. "Accept these, ah, humble gifts as a, ah, token of my admiration."

Dark eyes sparked avariciously, and the blades were snatched as if the squat men expected them to be withdrawn. The etched steel was fingered; for a time Conan was ignored. At last the chief nearest him-Conan thought he was the one called Sibuyan-looked up. "You may trade here," he said. Without another word the four turned away, still fingering their new swords.

Akeba put a hand on Conan's arm. "Come, Cimmerian. We traders must display our wares."

"Then display them. I must see to Yasbet."

As he returned to her, Conan ignored the bustle of hampers being lifted from pack saddles, of pots and knives, swords and cloaks being spread for eager eyes. The throng pressed close, many calling offers of furs, or ivory, or gold as soon as items appeared. Some of Tamur's followers began gathering the horses.

Yasbet had sagged to her hands and knees on the hard-packed ground beside her mount. Muttering an oath Conan stripped off his cloak and spread it on the ground. When he had her lying on it, face down, he removed the sheepskin saddle-pad from her horse and put it beneath her head.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Can you stand at all?"

"I do not need to be wrapped in swaddling," she replied between clenched teeth.

"Hannuman's Stones, wench! I do not swaddle you. You must be able to ride when it is time to go."

She sighed, not looking at him. "I can neither stand nor ride. I cannot even sit." She laughed mirthlessly,

"It is possible we may have to leave suddenly," he said slowly. "It may be needful to tie you across a saddle. And again I do not mean to mock you by that."

"I know," she said quietly. Suddenly she grasped his hand and pulled it to her lips. "You have not only my body," she murmured, "but my heart and soul. I love you, Conan of Cimmeria."

Brusquely he pulled his hand away and stood. "I must see to the others," he muttered. "You will be all right here? It may be some time before your tent can be put up."

"I am comfortable."

Her words were so soft he barely heard them. With a quick nod he strode to where the trade goods were displayed. Why did women always have to speak of love, he wondered. The most calloused trull would do it, given a fingerbreadth of encouragement, and other women took even less. Then they expected a man to act like a giddy boy with his first hair on his chin. Or worse, like a poet or a bard.

He glanced back at Yasbet. Her face was buried in the sheepskin, and her shoulders shook as if she cried. No doubt her rump pained her. Growling wordlessly under his breath, he joined his fellows acting the trader.

Sharak bounced from nomad to nomad, always gesticulating, here offering lumps of beeswax, there pewter cups from Khauran or combs of tortoise shell from Zamboula or lengths of Vendhyan silk. Akeba was more sedate in his demonstrations of the weapons, tulwars bearing the stamp of the Royal Arsenal of Turan, glaives from far Aquilonia, and even khetens, broad-bladed battleaxes from Stygia. Tamur and his men, on the other hand, squatted to one side, passing among themselves clay jars of the ale they had gotten from men of the tribes.

Conan walked among the goods, stopping from time to time to listen to Akeba or Sharak bargain, nodding as if he agreed with what was being done. A merchant who had two men to do the actual peddling surely was not expected to do more.

The trading was brisk, but Conan was soon thinking more of quenching his thirst with a crock of ale than of his playacting. It was then that he noticed the woman.

Past her middle years, she was yet a beauty, tall and well-breasted, with large dark eyes and full red lips.

Her fur-trimmed blue cloak was of fine wool, and her kirtle of green was slashed with panels of blue silk.

Her necklace of intricate links was gold, not gilded brass; the brooch that held her cloak was a large emerald; and the bracelets at her wrists were of matched amethysts. And she had no eye for the perfumes or gilded trinkets that Sharak bartered away. Her gaze never left the muscular Cimmerian. An interested gaze.

Conan judged her to be the woman of a wealthy man, perhaps even of a chief. That made her just the sort of woman he should avoid, even more so than the other women of the tribe. He made sure there was nothing in his expression that she could read as invitation, and turned away to make a show of studying the goods laid out on a nearby blanket.

"You are young to be a trader," a deep female voice said behind him.

He turned to find himself face to face with the woman who had been watching him. "I am old enough," he said in a flat tone. His youth was a touchy point with him, especially with women.

Her smile was half mocking, half... something more. "But you are still young."

"A man must begin at some age. Do you wish to trade for something?"

"I would think you would be demonstrating the swords and spears to the men, youngling." Her gaze caressed the breadth of his shoulders, trailed like fingers across the tunic strained by the muscles of his deep chest.

"Perhaps kohl for your eyes." He snatched a small blue-glazed jar from the blanket and held it out to her.

His eyes searched the crowd for a man taking an unfriendly interest in their conversation. This woman would have men after her when she was a grandmother.

"From the way that sword sits on your hip, I would name you, not merchant, but..." she put a finger to her lips as if in thought "... warrior."

"I am a trader," he said emphatically. "If not kohl, perhaps perfume?"

"Nothing," she said, amusement in her eyes. "For now, at least. Later I will have something from you."

She turned away, then stopped to look at him over her shoulder. "And that is perfume. Trader." Her laughter, low and musical, hung in the air after she had disappeared into the crowd.

With a sudden sharp crack the small jar shattered in Conan's grip.

"Erlik take all women," he muttered, brushing shards of glazed pottery from his hand. There was nothing to be done about the smell of jasmine that hung about him in a cloud.

Grumbling, he resumed his pacing among the trade goods. Occasionally a man would glance at him in surprise, nose wrinkling, or a woman would eye him and smile. Each time he hurried furiously elsewhere, muttering ever more sulphurous oaths under his breath. A bath, he decided. When their camp was set he would bathe, and Mitra blast all the Hyrkanians if they thought it unmanly.

Chapter XIX

Throughout the day the trading continued briskly, goods from the west for goods looted from eastern caravans. As twilight empurpled the air Zutan returned. The bargaining tribespeople began to trail away at his appearance.

"I will show you to your sleeping place," the greasy-mustached Hyrkanian said. "Come." And he stalked off in the rolling walk of one more used to the back of a horse than to his own feet.

Conan set the others to repacking the trade goods, then scooped Yasbet into his arms. She was in an exhausted sleep so deep that she barely stirred as he carried her after Zutan, to a spot a full three hundred paces from the yurts.

"You sleep here," the nomad said. "It would be dangerous to leave your fires after dark. The guards do not know you. You might be injured." That thought apparently caused no pain in his heart. Traders might be necessary, his expression said, but they warranted neither the hospitality of shelter nor trust.

Conan ignored him-it was better than killing him, though less satisfying-and commanded Yasbet's tent to be erected. As soon as the stakes were driven and the ropes drawn taut, he carried her inside. She gave but a sleepy murmur as he removed her garments and wrapped her in blankets.

Perhaps sleep would help her, he thought. His nose twitched at the scent of jasmine that was beginning to fill the tent. Sleep would not help him.

When he went outside, Zutan was gone. The sky grew blacker by the moment, and fires of dried dung cast small pools of light. The yurts could have been half a world away, for their lamps and fires were all inside, and the encampment of the tribes was lost in the dark. The horses had been tied to a picket line, near which the hampers of trade goods were shadowy mounds.

Straight to those mounds Conan went, rummaging through than until he found a lump of harsh soap.

Thrusting it into his belt pouch, he hefted two water bags in each hand and stalked into the night. When he returned an odor of lye came from him, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering in the chill wind that whipped across the plain.

Settling crosslegged beside the fire where a kettle of thick stew bubbled, he accepted a horn spoon and a clay bowl filled to the brim.

"I am not certain that lye improves on jasmine," Akeba said, sniffing the air pointedly.

"A fine scent, jasmine," Sharak cackled. "You are a little large for a dancing girl, Cimmerian, but I do believe it became you more than your new choice." Tamur choked on stew and laughter.

Conan raised his right hand, slowly curling it into a massive fist until his knuckles cracked. "I smell nothing." He looked challengingly at each of the other three in turn. "Does anyone else?"

Chuckling, Akeba spread his hands and shook his head.

"All this washing is bad for you," Tamur said, then added quickly as Conan made to rise, "But I smell naught. You are a violent man, Cimmerian, to act so over a jest among friends."

"We will talk of other things," Conan said flatly.

Silence reigned for a moment before Sharak spoke up. "Trade. We'll talk of trade. Conan, it is no wonder merchants are men of wealth. What we bargained for today will bring at least three hundred pieces of gold in Aghrapur, yet a full two-thirds of the trade goods remain. Mayhap we should give up adventuring and become traders in truth. I have never been rich. I think I would find it pleasing."

"We are here for more important matters than gold," Conan growled. He set aside his bowl; his hunger had left him. "Know you that we have been followed since the coast?"

Tamur looked up sharply. "Baotan? I thought he had an eye for more than he received for the horses."

"Not Baotan," Conan replied.

"You looked back often," Akeba said thoughtfully, "but said nothing. And I saw no one."

Conan shook his head, choosing his words with care. "Nor did I see anyone. Still, someone was following. Or something. There was a feel... not human about it."

Sharak laughed shakily. "An Jhandar, or Baalsham, or whatever he chooses to call himself, has come after us to these wastes, I will think on journeying to Khitai. Or further, if there is any place further."

"Baalsham is a man," Tamur said nervously. He eyed the surrounding darkness and edged closer to the fire, dropping his voice. "But the spirits-if he has sent dead men after us...."

A footstep sounded beyond the small pool of light from the fire, and Conan found himself on his feet, broadsword in hand. He was somewhat mollified to see that the others had drawn weapons as well.

Even the old astrologer was shakily holding his staff out like a spear.

Zutan stepped into the light and stopped, staring at the bared steel.

Conan sheathed his blade with a grunt. "It is dangerous to leave your fires in the dark," he said.

The Hyrkanian's mustache twitched violently, but all he said was, "Samarra will see you now, Co-nan."

"Samarra!" Tamur's voice was a dry speak. "She is here?"

"Who is this Samarra?" Conan demanded. "Mayhap I do not wish to see her."

"No, Conan," Tamur said insistently. "You must. Samarra is a powerful shamaness. Very powerful."

"A shamaness," Sharak snorted. "Women should not be allowed to meddle in such matters."

"Hold your tongue, old man," Tamur snapped, "else you may find your manhood turned to dust, or your bones to water. She is powerful, I say." He had turned his back to Zutan and was grimacing vigorously at Conan.

The young Cimmerian eyed him doubtfully, wondering if Tamur's fear of this woman was enough to unhinge him. "Why does Samarra wish to see me?" he asked.

"Samarra does not give reasons," Zutan replied. "She summons, and those she summons come. Even chiefs."

"I will go to her," Conan said.

Tamur's groan was loud as Conan followed Zutan into the dark.

They walked to the yurts in silence. The nomad would not deign to converse with a trader, and Conan had his own thoughts to occupy him. Why did this Samarra wish to speak with him? Her sorcerous arts could have told her the true reason for his presence in Hyrkania, but only if she had purposely sought it out. In his experience of such things nothing was found unsought, and nothing was sought casually.

Knowledge had its price when gained by thaumaturgical means, and though he had met sorcery and magic in many forms, never had he known it used to satisfy mere curiosity.

Had this Samarra been a man he could have first explained, then, an that did not work, slain the fellow.

But it was not in him to kill a woman.

Lost in the workings of his mind, Conan started when the other halted before a huge yurt and motioned him to enter. The structure of felt stretched on wooden frames was at least twenty paces across, fit for a chief. But then, he told himself, a shamaness who could summon chiefs would certainly live as well as they. Without another glance at Zutan, he pushed open the flap and went in.

He found himself in a large chamber within the yurt, its "walls" brocaded hangings. The ground was covered by Kasmiri carpets in a riot of colors, dotted with cushions of silk. Gilded lamps hung on golden chains from the wooden frames of the roof, and a charcoal fire in a large bronze brazier provided warmth against the chill outside.

So much he had time to note, then his eyes popped as eight girls burst from behind the hangings. From lithe to full-bodied they ranged, and their skins from a paleness that spoke of Aquilonia to Hyrkanian brownness to the yellow of well-aged ivory. Gilded bells tinkled at their ankles as they ran giggling to surround him; such was the whole of their costume.

His vision seemed filled by rounded breasts and buttocks as they urged him to a place on the cushions before the brazier. A scent of roses hung about them.

No sooner was he seated than two darted away to return with damp cloths to wipe his face and hands.

Another set a chased silver tray of dates and dried apricots by his side, while a fourth poured wine from a crystal flagon into a goblet of beaten gold.

The music of flutes and zithers filled the chamber; the remaining girls had taken up the instruments and, seating themselves cross-legged, played. The four who had served him began to dance.

"Where is Samarra?" he asked. "Well? Answer me! Where is she?" The music soared, and the dancers with it, but none spoke.

He picked up the goblet, but put it down again untouched. Strong powders could be put in wine; he wagered that this shamaness knew of them. Best he neither eat nor drink till he was gone from Samarra's dwelling place. And best he not eye the girls too closely, either. Mayhap the shamaness had a reason for wishing his attention occupied. He kept a close watch on the hangings, and a hand on his sword.

But despite his intentions he found his eyes drifting back to the dancing girls. Graceful as gazelles they leaped, legs striding wide on air, then rolled to the carpets, hips thrusting in abandon. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he wondered if perhaps the fire in the brazier made the yurt too hot. Did this Samarra remain away much longer, he might forget himself. Even though they would not talk, these girls might be willing to disport themselves with a young northerner.

A single sharp clap sounded above the music. Immediately the girls left off playing and dancing, and dashed behind the hangings. The grin that had begun on Conan's face faded, and his hand returned to his sword as he sprang to his feet. The hangings parted, and the woman who had taunted him earlier appeared. The cloak was gone now, and long hair as black as night hung in soft waves about her shoulders. Her long kirtle clung to her curves.

"I prefer the dancing of young men," she said, "but I did not think you would share my taste."

"You?" Conan said incredulously. "You are Samarra?"

She gave a throaty laugh. "You are disappointed that I am not an aged crone, with a beak of a nose and warts? I prefer to remain as I am for as long as the arts of woman and magic combined can keep me so."

Her hands smoothed the bosom of her kirtle, pulling it tight over full round breasts. "Some say I am still beautiful." Delicately wetting her lips, she moved closer. "Do you think so?"

The woman had no need of sorcery for distraction, Conan thought. The musk of her perfume seemed to snare his brain. With no more than what was known to every woman she had his blood inflamed, his throat thick with desire. "Why did you send for me?" he rasped.

Her dark eyes caressed his face more sensuously than hands might have done, slid lingeringly across his broad shoulders and massive chest. Her nostrils flared. "You washed the scent away," she said, a touch of mocking disappointment in her tone. "Hyrkanian women are used to men who smell of sweat and horse and grease. That scent would have gained you many favorable looks. But even so you are an exotic, with your muscles and your size and that pale skin. And those eyes." Her slender fingers stopped a hair's breath from his face, tracing along his cheek. "The color of the sky," she whispered, "and as changeable. The spring sky after a rain, the sky of a fall morning. And when you are angry, a sky of thunder and storms. An exotic giant. You could have your pick of half the women in this encampment, perhaps three or four at a time, if such is your taste."

Angrily he wrapped an arm about her, lifting her from the ground, crushing her softness against his chest.

His free hand tangled in her hair, and the blue eyes that stared into hers did indeed have much of the storm in them. "Taunting me is a dangerous game," he said, "even for a sorceress."

She stared back unperturbed, a secretive smile dancing on her lips. "When do you mean to enter the Blasted Lands, outlander?"

Involuntarily his grip tightened, wringing a gasp from her. There was naught of the sky in his gaze now, but rather ice and steel. "It is a foolish time to reveal your sorceries, woman."

"I am at your mercy." With a sigh that smacked of contentment she wriggled to a more comfortable position, shifting her breasts disturbingly against his hard chest. "You could break my neck merely by flexing your arm, or snap my spine like a twig. I can certainly perform no magic held as I am. Perhaps I have made myself helpless before your strength to prove that I mean you no harm."

"I think you are as helpless as a tigress," he said wryly. Abruptly he set her heels on the carpets; there was a tinge of disappointment in her eyes as she patted her hair back into place. "Speak on, woman.

What suspicions caused you to bend your magic to the reason of my coming?"

"No magic except that of the mind," she laughed. "You came in company with Tamur and others who I know crossed the Vilayet to find and slay Baalsham. I know well the horror of those days, for I was one of those who laid the wards that contain what lies within the Blasted Lands."

Conan realized why Tamur had been agitated at hearing her name. "Perhaps I, wishing to trade in Hyrkania, merely took Tamur into service."

"No, Conan. Tamur has many faults, but he, and the others, swore oaths to defy the ban on Baalsham's memory and avenge their blood. That they returned with you merely means that they think to find success in the Blasted Lands. Though their oaths led them to defiance, they know that violating the taboo means death for one of Hyrkanian blood, and so sought another to do the deed."

"Then why am I not fighting for my life against your warriors?"

She answered slowly, her voice tense, as if her words held import below the surface. As if there was danger in them for her, danger that she must carefully avoid. "When the barriers were erected, I alone among the shamans believed that they were not enough. I spoke for pursuing Baalsham and destroying him, for surely if he managed to establish his evil elsewhere it would eventually return to haunt us. The others, fearing another confrontation with him, forced me-" She stopped abruptly.

"Forced you to what?" he growled. "Swear oaths? What?"

"Yes," she said, nodding eagerly. "Both oath and geas. Do I break that oath, I will find myself the next dawn scrubbing pots in the yurt of a most repulsive man, unable to magic the pain from a sore tooth or think beyond a desire to obey. Many take it ill that there is a line of women who use the powers, and they would as soon see it end with me." Again her words halted, but her eyes begged him to question further.

"What holds your tongue, woman? What oath did you swear?"

"It took long enough to bring you to it," she sighed, tightness draining visibly from her face. "Firstly, I can speak to no one of the oaths unless asked, and no Hyrkanian but another who, like me, sits Guardian on the Blasted Lands would ask. Betimes one or another of them likes to taunt me with it."

"So you must trick me into asking," Conan muttered.

"Exactly. For the rest, I can aid no Hyrkanian to enter the Blasted Lands or act against Baalsham, nor can I seek out any man to do those things."

A broad smile spread over his features. "But if a man who is not a Hyrkanian seeks you out ... ."

". . . Then I can help him. But he must be the right man, outlander. I will not risk failure." Her mouth twisted as at a foul taste. "Anator, the repulsive toad of whom I spoke, waits for me to fall into his hands.

Death I would risk, but not a life with him till I am old and shriveled."

"But you will help me?" he asked, frowning.

"If you are the right man. I must consult the Fire that Burns Backwards in Time. And I must have a lock of your hair for that."

In spite of himself, he took a step back. Hair, spittle, nail parings, anything that came from the body could be used in thaumaturgies that bound the one from whom they came.

"Do you think I need magicks to bind you?" Samarra laughed, and swayed her hips exaggeratedly.

"Take it, then," he said. But a grimace crossed his face as she deftly cut a few strands from his temple with a small golden knife.

Swiftly then she opened a series of small chests against a hanging, removing her paraphernalia. The hair was ground in a small hand-mill, then mixed in an unadorned ivory bowl with the contents of half a score of vials-powders of violent hue and powerful stench, liquids that seethed and bubbled-and stirred with a rod of bone. Setting up a small golden brazier on a tripod, Samarra filled it with ashes, smoothing them with the bone rod. Chanting words unintelligible to Conan, she poured the contents of the bowl onto the dead ash, and set the bowl aside.

Her voice rose, not in volume, but in pitch, till it pierced his ears like red-hot needles. Strange flames rose from the ash, blue flames, not flickering like ordinary fire, but rolling slowly like waves of a lazy sea.

Higher that unnatural fire rose with Samarra's words, to the reach of a man's arm. Unblinking she stared into its depths as she spoke the incantations. A rime of frost formed on the outside of the golden dish that held the flames.

The other fires in the chamber, the flickering lamps and blazing charcoal, sank low, as if overawed, or drained. The Cimmerian realized that his fingernails were digging into his palms. With an oath he unclenched his fists. He had seen sorcery before, sorcery directed at him with deadly intent. He would not be affrighted by this.

Abruptly Samarra's chanting stopped. Conan blinked as he looked into the golden dish; half-burned pieces of wood now nestled among ash that was less than it had been. Then Samarra set a golden lid atop the brazier, closing off the blue fire.

For a long time she stared at the brazier before turning to him. "An you enter the Blasted Lands, scores will die," she said bleakly, "among them perhaps Baalsham. And perhaps you, as well. Your bones may feed the twisted beasts that dwell trapped in that accursed place."

"Perhaps?" he said. "What means of divining is this? Even Sharak does not so hedge his star-readings about."

"The fire shows the many things which can be. Men choose which will be by their decisions. What is, is like a line, but at every decision that line branches, in two directions or ten, and each of those will also branch until numbers beyond counting are reached. I will tell you this: if you enter, you, or Baalsham, or both, will stare Erlik's minions in the eyes. But if you do not, you will surely die. A hundred lines I examined, hoping to find an escape for you, and a hundred times I saw you die, each time more horribly than the last. And if you do not enter, not only will you die. Tens upon tens of thousands will perish fighting the spread of Baalsham's evil, and every day hundreds more will walk willingly to their deaths for his necromancies. Kings and queens will crawl on their bellies to worship at his feet, and such a darkness will cover the earth as has not been seen these many thousands of years, not since the attainted days of foul Acheron."

Conan laughed mirthlessly. "Then it seems I must try to save the world, whether I will or no." His blade leaped into his hand; he tested the edge carefully. "If I must wager my life, the odds will grow no better for waiting. I will go to these Blasted Lands now."

"No," she said sharply. He opened his mouth, but she hurried on. "Nigh is best, it is true, but not this night. Think of the girl with you. When you have done this thing, you must go immediately, for others sit Guardian besides me, and they will soon know what has been done. But she cannot stand, much less sit a saddle."

"Then I'll tie her across it," he answered roughly. Already the battle rage was rising in him. If he was to die this night, he would not die easily.

"But if you let me bring her here, I can cure her sore flesh in a day. She will be able to ride by tomorrow night." Samarra smiled. "Many women have asked me to take the pain from a smarting rump, but this will be the first time I have used my powers for so low a purpose."

"The longer I wait, the greater the chance that someone else will remember Tamur."

"But you still cannot enter the Blasted Lands without any help. The barrier of the Outer Circle will slay only those of Hyrkanian blood, but that of the Inner Circle, where you must go if you are to find what you seek, will destroy anything that lives. I must give you special powders to spread, and teach you incantations, if you are to survive."

"Then give them to me," he demanded.

Instead she untied her silk sash and tossed it aside. "No Hyrkanian man," she said, staring him in the eye,

"will look at a shamaness as a woman. I have slaves, young men, full of vigor, but full of fear, too." She began to undo the silver pins that held her garment. "They touch me because I command it, but they do so as if I might shatter, afraid of hurting or angering. Until you put your hands on me, no man in my entire life has touched me as a woman, who will not break for a little roughness in a caress. I can wait no longer." The long kirtle slid to the carpets and she stood in lush nudity, all ripe curves and womanly softness. Feet apart she faced him, defiance in her eyes, fists on the swelling of her hips, shoulders thrown back so that her breasts seemed even fuller. "There is a price for my aid. If that makes me a harlot, well, that is something I have never experienced. And I want to experience everything that a man and a woman can do to each other. Everything, Conan."

Conan let his sword fall to the ground. Battle rage had changed to a different sort of fire in his blood.

"Tomorrow night will be time enough," he said hoarsely, and pulled her into his embrace.

Chapter XX

Early the next morning Conan sent a message to Akeba that the Turanian was to see to the trading that day. Soon after, Yasbet was brought to the shamaness's yurt on a litter borne by two of Samarra's muscular young male slaves. Samarra scrambled red-faced to her feet, hastily pulling a silk robe around her nudity. The slaves glared at Conan with covert jealousy.

"Conan, why am I here?" Yasbet almost wept. Lying face down on the litter, she winced at every movement. "I hurt, Conan."

"Your pain will soon be gone," he told her gently. "Samarra will see to you."

Still blushing furiously, the shamaness led the litter-bearers to another part of the yurt. Half a turn of the glass later she returned, with high color yet in her cheeks. Conan lay sprawled on the silken cushions, occupying himself with a flagon of wine.

"I gave her a sleeping potion as well," she said. "The spell took her pain away immediately, but she needs rest, and it is best if that does not come from magic. If I relieved her fatigue so, she would repay it ten times over, later. The powers always demand repayment."

All the while she spoke she remained across the chamber from him, rubbing her hands together as if in nervousness. He motioned her to him. "Come Sit, Samarra. Do not make me play host under your roof."

For a moment she hesitated, then knelt gracefully beside him. "Everything, I said," she murmured ruefully,

"but I did not mean to have my own slaves enter while I lay naked in a stupor of lust. Not to mention the woman of the man I am lying with. I feel strange to have your lover but a few paces away."

Her ardor had surprised Conan in its fierceness. "What she does not know will not harm her," he said, tugging her robe from a smooth shoulder.

She slapped his hand away. "Is that all women are to you? A tumble for the night, and no more?"

"Women are music and beauty and delight made flesh." He reached for her again. She shrugged him away, and he sighed. So much for poetry, even when it was true. "Someday I will find a woman to wed, perhaps. Until then, I love all women, but I'll not pretend to any that she is more to me than she really is.

Now, are you ready to remove that robe?"

"You know not your own vigor," she protested. Attempting to stretch, she stopped with a wince. "I am near as much in need of aid for sore muscles as that poor girl."

"In that case, I might as well return to Akeba and the others," he said, getting to his feet.

"No," she cried. Ripping the robe from her, she scrambled on her knees to throw her arms around his legs. "Please, Conan. Stay. I... I will keep you here by brute force, if I must."

"Brute force?" he chuckled.

She gave a determined nod. Laughing, he let her topple him to the pillows.

By two glasses after sunfall he was ready to go. Briefly he looked in on Yasbet. She slept naturally now; the potion had worn off. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, and she smiled without waking.

When he returned to the large chamber Samarra had donned her kirtle, and put on a somber mien as well. "You have the powder?" she demanded. "You must take care not to lose it."

"It is here," he replied, touching the pouch that hung from his belt along with sword and dagger. Within were two small leather bags containing carefully measured powders that would weaken the barrier of the Inner Circle enough for him to pass it, one portion for entering and one for leaving.

"The incantation. You remember the incantation?"

"I remember. Do not worry so."

He tried to put his arms around her, but she stepped back out of his embrace, her face a mask. "The gods be with you, Conan." She swallowed, and whispered, "And with all of us."

There was more help in steel than in gods, Conan thought as he went into the night. The moon hung bright in a cloudless sky, bathing the countryside in pale light, filling the camp with shadows. It seemed a place of the dead, that camp. No one was about, and even the guard dogs huddled close to the yurts, only lifting their heads to whine fretfully as he passed. He gathered his cloak against the chill of the wind, and against a chill that was not of the wind.

Akeba, Sharak and Tamur were waiting, as they had agreed, east of the crescent of yurts. The rest of the Hyrkanians remained in their small camp, so that it should not be found empty. The horses remained in camp as well; the sound of hooves in the night might attract unwanted attention.

Tamur peered beyond Conan nervously and whispered, "She did not come with you, did she?"

"No," Conan said. Tamur heaved a heavy sigh of relief. "Let's do this and be done," he went on. "Tamur, you lead."

Hesitantly, the Hyrkanian started to the east. Akeba followed, horsebow in hand and arrow nocked, to one side of Conan. Sharak labored on the other, leaning on his staff and muttering about the footing despite the bright moonlight.

"Tamur almost did not come," Akeba said quietly, "so afraid is he of Samarra. Did he hate Jhandar one iota less, he would have ridden for the coast, instead."

"But he does hate Jhandar," Conan replied. "He will lead us true."

"I wonder you have energy for this night, Conan," Sharak snickered, "after a day and a night with this witch-woman. I saw little of her, not nearly so much as you," he paused to cackle shrilly, "but I'd say she was a woman to sap a man's strength."

"Watch your step, old man," the big Cimmerian said drily. "I've not seen you read your own stars of late.

This could be the night you break your neck."

"Mitra!" Sharak swore, stumbled, and almost fell. "I have not," he went on in a shaken voice. "Not since Aghrapur. The excitement, and the adventure, and the...." He stumbled, peered at the sky and muttered,

"The brightness of the moon blinds me. I cannot tell one star from another."

They traveled without words, then, following the dim shape of Tamur until abruptly the Hyrkanian stopped. "There," he said, pointing to two tall shadows ahead. "Those are the marks of the barrier. I can go no closer."

Samarra had described the shadowy objects as well as telling Conan what she knew of what lay beyond them. Around the perimeter of the Outer Circle huge pillars of crude stone had been set, thrice the height of a man and four times as thick. To pass those stelae meant death for one of Hyrkanian blood.

"There is no need for me to accompany you, Conan," Sharak said. "My eyes. I would be more hindrance than help. No, I must remain here and learn what I can of our prospects from the stars." He suddenly clutched the arm of a surprised Tamur, and though the Hyrkanian tried to shake himself free, Sharak clung tightly, pulling on the other man. "Can you tell one star from another, Hyrkanian? No matter. I will tell you what to look for. Come." The two moved off to the side, Tamur still jerking futilely at his arm.

"I, at least, will come with you," Akeba said, but Conan shook his head.

"Samarra told me that any who enters other than myself will die." She had said no such thing, but what she did say convinced him that two men, or fifty, would have no better chances of survival than one, and perhaps less.

"Oh. Then I will await your return, Cimmerian. You are an odd fellow, but I like you. Fare you well."

Conan clapped the slighter man on the shoulder. "Take a pull at the Hellhorn, an you get there before me, Akeba."

"What? 'Tis a strange thing to say."

"Other countries, other customs," Conan said. "It is a way of saying fare you well." His amusement faded abruptly as he eyed the stone pillars. It was time to be on with it. His blade slid from its scabbard, steel rasping on leather.

"Strange, indeed, you pale-eyed barbarians," Akeba said. "Well, you take a pull at the... whatever it was you said."

But Conan was already moving forward. Without pausing, the Cimmerian strode by the crude pillars, sword at the ready. As he did, a tingle passed through his body, as if nails and teeth had all been dragged across slate at once. The greatest tingle was at his waist, beneath the pouch at his belt. Samarra had warned him of this, and told him to ignore it, but he fumbled for the two smaller sacks anyway. Both were intact.

There was no growth of any kind, not even the tough grass that covered the plains of Hyrkania. The ground was smooth, yet ridged, as if it had flowed then hardened in waves. He had seen such before, where fissures had opened and the bowels of the earth had spewed forth molten rock. The moonlight here was tinged with the xanthous color of flesh gone to mold. Shadows moved furtively in that nacreous light, though no clouds crossed the moon.

Had he been the hero of a saga, he thought, he would seek out those creatures and hack his way to the Inner Circle. But the heroes of sagas always had the luck of ten men, and used it all. He went on, deeper into the Blasted Lands, moving with pantherine grace, yet carefully, as if avoiding seeking eyes. That eyes were there, or something that sensed movement, he was certain. Strange slitherings sounded from the rocks around him, and clickings, as of chitinous claws on stone. Once he did indeed see eyes, three unblinking red orbs, set close together, peering at him from the dark beside a boulder, swiveling to follow his passage. He quickened his pace. The sound of scraping claws came closer, and more quickly. A piping hiss rose, behind and either side, like the hunting cry of a pack.

Abruptly there was silence. Did the shadow creatures attack in silence, he wondered, or had they ceased their pursuit? And if they had, why? What could lie ahead that would frighten ....? The answer came as he skidded to a halt, a bare pace from a pillar marking the deadly Inner Circle.

Despite himself he let out a long breath. But he still lived, and perhaps fear of the barrier would hold whatever followed at bay for a time longer. Behind he heard the hissing begin again. Hastily he pulled one leather sack from his pouch and sprinkled the scintillating powder in a long line by the stone pillar. With great care he spoke the words Samarra had taught him, and a shimmering appeared in the air above the line, as wide as a man's outstretched arms and reaching nearly as high as the stone marker. Within that shimmer the barrier was weakened, not destroyed, so Samarra said. A strong man could survive passing through it. So she said.

The scraping claws were louder, and the hissing. Whatever made those sounds was almost to him.

Taking a deep breath, he leaped. The hisses rose to a scream of frustrated hunger, and then he struck the shimmer. Every muscle in his body knotted and convulsed in agony. Back arched, he was hurled into the Inner Circle.

Head spinning, he staggered to his feet. Somehow he had retained his sword. If that was a weakened barrier, he thought, he wanted no part of it at full strength. He checked his pouch again. The second sack was still safe.

Whatever had hunted him had gone, sucked back into those writhing shades outside the Inner Circle. The shimmer in the barrier yet held, but by the time he could count to one hundred the force of its protection would be gone. That second portion of the powder was his only way of crossing the barrier again, unless he went now. Turning his back on the shimmer, he went deeper into that twisted country.

Blasted Lands they were indeed. Here hills were split by gaping fissures, or stood in tortured remnants as if parts had been vaporized. Fumaroles bubbled and steamed, and the air was heavy with the stench of a decay so old that only sorcery could have kept it from disappearing long since. Foul vapors drifted in sheets, like noxious clouds hugging the ground; they left a feel of dampness and filth on the skin they touched.

Samarra had told him where Jhandar's unfinished palace had stood on that day when nightmares were loosed. What he might find there she could not say-the forces unleashed had been more than even the shamans could face-but it was the only place she could suggest for his search. In the midst of these hills the land had been leveled for the palace. Ahead he saw the hills end. It must be the location.

He hurried forward, around a sheer cliff where half a hill had disappeared, out onto the great leveled space... and stopped, shoulders sagging in defeat.

Before him marble steps led up to a portico of massive, broken columns. Beyond, where the palace should have stood, a huge pit opened into the depths, a pit that pulsed with red light and echoed with the bubbling of boiling rock far below.

There could be nothing there, he told himself. And yet there must be. Samarra had foretold that his entry into the Blasted Lands would bring at least the chance of Jhandar's destruction. Somewhere within that blighted region something must exist that could be used against the necromancer. He had to find it.

A slavering roar spun him around, an involuntary, "Crom!" wrenched from his lips.

Facing him was a creature twice the height of a man, its gangrenous flesh dripping phosphorescent slime.

A single rubiate eye set in the middle of its head watched him with a horrifying glimmer of intelligence, but with hunger as well. And that gaping fanged maw, the curving needle claws that tipped its fingers, told what it chose to eat.

Even as the creature faced him, Conan acted. Waving his sword, he screamed as if about to attack. The beast reared back to take his charge, and Conan darted for the cliff. A being of such size could not be his equal at scaling sheer heights, he thought.

Thrusting his blade into its scabbard as he ran, he reached the cliff and climbed without slowing, fingers searching out crevices and holds with a speed he had never matched before. Chances he would have eschewed if men had pursued him he now took as a matter of course, hooking his fingernails in cracks he could not even see, planting his feet on stone that crumbled at his weight, yet moving with such desperate quickness that he was gone before its crumbling was complete. Catching the top of the cliff, he heaved himself over, lay with chest heaving.

A slime-covered, clawed hand slammed down a handsbreadth from his head. Cursing, Conan rolled to his feet, blade whispering into his grip. Its eye above the rim of the cliff, the beast saw him and roared, clawing with its free hand for him instead of securing its hold. Burnished steel blazed an arc through the air, severing the hand that held the ground. With a scream like all the fiends of the pit the beast toppled back, and down, into the fetid mists. The crash of its fall sent a shiver through the cliff that Conan could feel through his boots.

The clawed hand, faintly glowing, still lay where he had severed it. Glowing slime oozed from it like blood. He was relieved, after the sendings in Aghrapur, to see that it did not so much as twitch by itself.

With the tip of his sword he flipped it into the vapors below.

Even through the clouded gloom Conan could yet see the broken pillars of Jhandar's palace; from his vantage point they were outlined in the fiery glow from the pit. No use could he see in returning there, however. His search must lead elsewhere. He started down the steep slope that backed the cliff, leaping to cross the fissures that slashed and re-slashed the terrain, dodging among boulders, crazed with a thousand lines like ill-mended pottery, abruptly lost in fetid gray curtains of drifting mist then as suddenly revealed again.

Stone clattered against stone behind him, toward the top of the precipitous slope. Weighing the broadsword in his hand, Conan peered back, attempting in vain to pierce the sheets of fog. He could have missed seeing some small creature on the clifftop in the mists. A thud, as of heavy body falling, drifted down to him. He could not have missed something large enough to .... Then the one-eyed beast was rushing at him out of the vapors, clawed hand and the stump of its severed wrist both raised to strike.

Conan leaped back. And found himself falling into a gaping fissure. Twisting like a great cat he caught the rock rim, slammed against it supported only by a forearm. Dislodged stone rattled into the depths of the broad crack, the sound dwindling away without striking bottom, as if the drop went on forever.

The beast was moving too fast to stop. With a roar of frustrated rage it leaped for the far side of the fissure, its lone red eye glaring at the big Cimmerian. Awkwardly Conan thrust up at the creature with his broadsword as it passed over him. Snarling, the beast curled into a ball to avoid the blade, hit heavily on the other side of the wide crack, and went rolling down the steep slope, its cries of fury ripping through the fog.

Hurriedly Conan pulled himself out of the fissure. Silence descended abruptly, but he took that for no sign of the beast's demise. Not now.

As if to confirm his dire suspicions came the sound of scrabbling claws and hungry panting. The creature yet survived, and was climbing toward him.

Being above on the slope might give him slight advantage-perhaps-but the young Cimmerian had not come to this hellish place to slay monsters. He began to run down the length of the crevice, cursing under his breath at every stone that turned beneath his boot and clattered downhill. Sheer distance from where the thing had last seen him would be his safeguard. At least, it would be so long as the beast did not hear him and follow. Had he half the luck of those ill-begotten heroes of the thrice-accursed sagas, the creature would make bootless search of the hill while he completed his own quest.

Halting, he pricked his ears for sounds of the one-eyed beast... and heard it still directly below him, but nearer now. Black Erlik's Bowels and Bladder! He wished he had half a score of those feckless spinners of tales there with him, to see what trials men of flesh and bone faced when confronted with the monsters so easily despatched with words in a market square. He would have fed two or three of them to the beast, feet first.

An he was forced to face the creature-and he could see no other way-the time and the place were as any others. Did he continue to run, the facing would merely be at another place, perhaps when he had run himself to exhaustion. Mayhap it would be off balance for a moment, leaping across the fissure from down slope. If he attacked then .... At that moment he noticed that the fissure he had followed had dwindled to a handspan crack.

For a moment the Cimmerian was too angry even to curse. For a simple lack of keeping his eyes open he had placed himself in worse danger. The great beast was no more than fifty paces straight down the slope, with only the steepness to slow it and naught between it and .... Straight down the slope. He peered toward the climbing beast. Its red eye was visible, glowing, as was the pale, leprous phosphorescence of its body; and it was making better going of the shattered hillside than any human could have. It seemed to move with the speed and tenacity of a leopard.

Conan knew he needed a long headstart on the creature if he was to escape it long enough to carry out his search; still, the merest breath of a chance had come to his brain, as fresh air in the foulness about him.

He cast about hurriedly for what he needed, and found it but ten paces away, a shadowy bulk near as tall as he, but seeming squat for its thickness, obscured by a curtain of fog that clung rather than drifted.

Quickly his eyes sought the beast. Some forty paces below, the glowing mass edged sideways until it was once more directly below the Cimmerian. Forty paces. Conan waited.

The slavering beast clawed its way nearer, nearer. Thirty-five paces. Thirty. Conan could hear its rasping pant now. Ravenous hunger was in it as well, and in that sanguinary eye was something else, a pure desire to kill divorced from the need for meat. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. Twenty-five paces. Twenty. Conan drifted back, through the sheet of filthy gray mist behind him. Screaming with rage, not to be denied, the creature quickened its climb.

Knees bent, Conan set his broad back to the uphill side of the boulder he had chosen and heaved.

Shrieks of primordial rage echoed over the hills. The Cimmerian's every thew strained, great muscles corded and knotted till they seemed carved from some more obdurate substance than the stone with which he fought. The boulder shifted a fingerwidth. The howls came closer. In moments the foul creature would be upon him. The sweat of effort at the limits of human ability rolled down Conan's face and chest.

The great stone moved again. And then it was rolling free.

Conan spun in time to see the boulder strike the now narrow crack in the hillside, bound into the air, and catch the monstrous creature full in the chest. Even as the beast was borne backward down the slope, screaming and clawing at the massive stone as if it were a living enemy, Conan set off at a dead run diagonally down the hill, leaping crevices with reckless disregard for the dangers of falling, racing toward the barrier.

He did not intend to leave the Inner Circle yet, but neither did he believe the boulder would slay the one-eyed beast. He would not believe that being could die until he had seen it dead. Or perhaps it already was; he had seen stranger things. But in the Outer Circle, the unseen things with claws had feared to approach the barrier. Could he reach those deadly wards before the one-eyed creature freed itself, it was possible the monstrous being would not search for him there.

Through curtains of noxious mist Conan ran like a ghostly panther past pools of bubbling, steaming mud and geysers that sprayed boiling fountain' into the night. The columns marking the barrier appeared ahead in the sickly sallow moonlight.

In a silent rush the one-eyed beast hurtled from the fog, lunging for Conan. Desperately the Cimmerian threw himself aside; scythe-like claws ripped across the front of his tunic, slashing it to tatters. He rolled to his feet, broadsword at the ready, facing the towering creature. Rumbling growls sounded deep in the beast's throat as it edged toward him. It had learned respect for the steel that had taken its hand.

Blood trickled down Conan's chest from four deep gashes, but that was not what concerned him at the moment, nor even the fangs that hungered for his flesh. Fumbling at his belt with his free hand, he swallowed hard.

The pouch was gone, torn away by those dagger claws, and with it the powder he needed to cross the barrier. With the thought his eyes drifted toward the marking columns... and there, at the base of a rough-hewn monolith, lay the pouch and his hope of escape.

Slowly, keeping the point of his sword directed at the glowing beast, Conan began to edge sideways toward the crude pillar. The creature hesitated, and a twisted intelligence shone in its eye as it, too, saw the pouch. As if divining the importance of what lay within, the slime-covered giant dared to stand over the small leather sack, almost touching the deadly barrier. Its fanged mouth twisted in what seemed almost a mocking smile.

Thus for the beast fearing the barrier, Conan thought. An it could reason so, it would not leave the pouch for him to find, even did he manage to lead it away. It seemed that Erlik was enfolding his Cloak of Unending Night about him, yet a man was not meant to accept his own death meekly.

"Crom!" Conan roared and attacked. "Crom and steel!"

Fangs bared in a snarl the creature dashed to meet him, but Conan did not mean to come to grips with the foul beast. At the last instant he dropped into a crouch, still moving, blade slashing across a belly of deathly argentine flesh covered with glowing slime, and ducked beneath slicing claws that struck only his cloak. For an instant Conan was snubbed short, then cloth ripped, and he was beyond the beast with the tatters of the garment dangling down his back.

Barely slowing, Conan bent to snatch his pouch from the ground, pivoted on one foot, and raced down the line of barrier stones. Stones grated close behind, and the Cimmerian whirled, broadsword striking at a clawed hand descending toward his head. Three cruel-tipped fingers fell, severed, but the mutilated hand slammed into Conan, driving him dazed to his knees.

Then he was enveloped in adamantine arms, being drawn toward the great flesh-rending teeth. Only Conan's sword arm was free of the unyielding grip, and with it he thrust his blade into that fanged mouth, the point knifing through flesh, grating on bone, bursting through the back of the beast's great head.

The creature snarled and snapped at the blade, trying with unabated fury to reach the Cimmerian, the stench of its breath flowing into Conan's nostrils. Like the iron bands of a torture device those huge arms tightened, till Conan thought his spine would snap. No longer could he feel his legs, or his trapped hand.

He did not even know if he still held the pouch that contained his sole hope of leaving the Blasted Lands.

All he could do was fight with his last measure of strength to keep that ravenous mouth from his throat.

Suddenly there was a greater worry than the beast in Conan's mind. Over the creature's shoulder he could see the marking pillars; its struggles were carrying them closer to that deadly shield. And closer. At least he would die with sword in hand, and not alone. Uncertainty flickered in the beast's blood-red eye as grim laughter burst from Conan's mouth. Contact with the barrier.

Pain ripped through the Cimmerian, pain such as he had never known. Skin flayed from muscle, muscle torn from bone, bone ground to powder and the whole thrown into molten metal, then the torturous cycle began again. And again. And....

Conan found himself on the ground, on hands and knees, every muscle quivering with the effort of not falling flat on his face. Through blurred eyes he saw that he still clutched his pouch in a death-grip. He still had his means of escape from the Inner Circle, and in some fashion he had survived touching the barrier, but one thought dominated his swirling brain, the desperate need to regain his feet, to be ready to face the monster's next attack. His broadsword lay before him. Lurching forward, he grabbed the worn leather hilt, and almost let the blade fall. The leather was cracked and blistering hot.

Abruptly sound crashed in on him, crackling and hissing like a thousand chained lightning bolts, and Conan realized that he had been deaf. Shakily he scrambled to his feet... and stood staring.

The beast lay across the barrier, twitching as scintillating arcs of power rose from one part of its body to strike another. Flames in a hundred hues lanced from the already blacking hulk.

A grin began on the Cimmerians face, and died as he stared at the barrier. He was no longer within the Inner Circle. How he had survived crossing the barrier-perhaps the monstrous vitality of the beast had absorbed the greater part of the deadly force, partially shielding him-did not matter. What mattered was that he had but enough of the required powder to cross that boundary once. Did he enter again, he would never leave.

In silence he turned his back on the still-jerking body of the beast, on the Inner Circle, a dark light in his eyes that boded ill.

Chapter XXI

Akeba and the others were huddled around a tiny fire when Conan strode out of the Blasted Lands, wiping glittering black blood from his blade with the shredded remnants of his cloak. The Cimmerian announced his presence by tossing the bloody rag into the fire, where it flared and gave off thick, acrid smoke.

All three men leaped, and Sharak wrinkled his nose. "Phhaw! What Erlik-begotten stench is that?"

"We will return to the yurts," Conan said, slamming his sword home in its shagreen sheath, "but only briefly, I must get Samarra's help to reenter the Inner Circle."

"Then you found nothing," Akeba said thoughtfully. He eyed the dried blood on Conan's tattered tunic, the pouch crudely tied to his swordbelt, as he added, "Are you certain you want to go back, Cimmerian?

What occurred in there?"

Tamur spoke. "No!" Everyone looked at him; he scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking further. "It is a taboo place. Do not speak of what happened within the barriers. It is taboo."

"Nonsense," Sharak snorted. "No harm can there be merely in the hearing. Speak on, Conan."

But the Cimmerian was of no mind to waste time in talk. The night was half gone. With a curt, "Follow me," he started off into the night. The others kicked dirt over the fire and hurried after.

As soon as they arrived at Samarra's yurt, Conan motioned the rest to wait and ducked inside.

The interior was dark; not so much as a single lamp was lit, and the big charcoal fire was coal ash.

Strange, Conan thought. Samarra, at least, would have remained awake to hear what he had found. Then the unnatural silence of the yurt struck him. There was a hollow emptiness that denied the presence of life.

His broadsword eased into his hand almost of its own accord.

He started across the carpets, picking his way among the scattered cushions. Suddenly his foot struck something firmer than a cushion, yet yielding. With a sinking of his stomach, he knelt; his fingers felt along a woman's contours, the skin clammily cold.

"Conan! Look out!" Akeba shouted from the entrance.

Conan threw himself into a diving roll, striking something that bounced away with a clatter of brass, and came up in a wary crouch with his sword at the ready. Just as he picked out the shadow of what could have been a man, something hummed from the entrance and struck it. Stiffly the dim shape toppled to the ground with a thud.

"It's a man," Akeba said uncertainly. "At least, I think it's a man. But it did not fall as a man falls."

Conan felt around him for what he had knocked over. It was a lamp, with only half the oil spilled.

Fumbling flint and steel from his pouch, he lit the wick. The lamp cast its light on the body he had stumbled over.

Samarra lay on her back, dead eyes staring up at the roof of the yurt. Blended determination and resignation were frozen on her features.

"She knew," Conan murmured. "She said if I entered the Blasted Lands many would die."

With a sigh he moved the light to the shape that had fallen so strangely. Akeba's arrow stood out from the neck of a yellow-skinned man in black robes, his almond eyes wide with disbelief. Conan prodded the body with his sword, and started in surprise. The corpse was as hard as stone.

"At least she took her murderer with her," Conan growled. "And avenged your Zorelle."

"'Tis not he, though he is very like," Akeba said. "I will remember to my tomb the face of the man who killed my daughter, and this is not he."

Conan shifted the light again, back to Samarra. "I could have saved her," he said sadly, though he had no idea of how. "Had she told me... Yasbet!"

Leaping to his feet, he searched furiously through the other curtained compartments of the yurt. The structure was a charnel house. Slaves, male and female alike, lay in tangled heaps of cold flesh. None bore a wound, any more than did Samarra, but the face of each was twisted in horror. Nowhere did he find Yasbet.

When he returned to Akeba, Conan was sick to his stomach. Many would die if he entered the Blasted Lands. Samarra had said there were many branchings of the future. Could she not have found one to avoid this?

"Jhandar sent more than this one to follow us," he told the Turanian. "Yasbet is gone, and the others are dead. All of them."

Before Akeba could speak, Tamur stuck his head into the yurt. "There are stirrings...." His eyes lit on Samarra's body in the pool of lamp light. "Kaavan One-Father protect us! This is the cause! We will all be gelded, flayed alive, impaled-"

"What are you talking about?" Conan demanded. "The cause of what?"

"The yurts of the other shamans," Tamur replied excitedly. "Men are gathering there, even though none like to venture into the night this close to the Blasted Lands."

Akeba grunted. "They must have sensed the death of one of their own."

"But they'll not find us standing over the bodies," Conan said, pinching the lamp wick between his fingers.

The dark seemed deeper once that small light was gone. He started for the door flap.

Outside, Sharak leaned on his staff and peered toward the distant torches that were beginning to move toward Samarra's yurt. The mutters of the men carrying those lights made a constant, angry hum. The old astrologer jumped when Conan touched his shoulder. "Do we return to the Blasted Lands, Conan, we must do it now. This lot will take it unkindly, our wandering their camp at night."

"Yasbet is gone," Conan told him quietly, "taken or slain. Samarra is dead." Sharak gasped. Conan turned away, and Sharak, after one quick glance at the approaching torches, fell silently in behind the others.

As four shadows they made they made between the dark yurts, out onto the plain, and hurried toward their camp, ignoring as best they could the rising tumult behind them. Then a great shout rose, a cry of rage from a hundred throats.

Akeba quickened his pace to come abreast of Conan. "They have found her," the Turanian said, "but may not think we slew her."

"We are strangers," Conan laughed mirthlessly. "What would your soldiers do if a princess of Aghrapur were murdered, and there were outlanders close to hand?"

The Turanian sucked air between his teeth. "Mitra send us time to get to our horses."

With no more words the four men broke into a run, Conan and Akeba covering the ground with distance-eating strides. Tamur ran awkwardly, but with surprising speed. Even Sharak kept up, wheezing and puffing, and finding breath to complain of his years.

"Awake!" Tamur cried as they ran into their dark camp. The fires had burned low. "To your horses!"

Nomads rolled instantly from their blankets, booted and clothed, seized their weapons, and stared at him blankly. "We must flee!" Tamur shouted to them. "We stand outside the laws!" Leaping as if pricked, they darted for the horses. Tamur turned to Conan, shaking his head. "We shall not escape. We ride reedy coastal stock. Those who pursue will be astride war mounts. Our animals will drop before dawn, while theirs can maintain a steady pace all the way to the sea."

"The pack horses," Conan said. "Will they carry men?"

Tamur nodded. "But we have enough mounts for everyone."

"What if," Conan said slowly, "when our horses are about to fall, we change to horses that, if tired somewhat from running, have at least not carried a man? And when those are ready to fall...." He looked at the others questioningly. He had heard of this in a tavern, and tavern tales were not always overly filled with truth. "We have several extra mounts for each man. Even these war mounts cannot outrun them all, can they?"

"It could work," Tamur breathed. "Kaavan One-Father watch over us, it could work."

Akeba nodded. "I should have thought of that. I've heard this is done on the southern frontier."

"But the trade goods," Sharak complained. "You'll not abandon-"

"Will you die for them?" Conan cut him off, and ran for the hobbled pack horses. The others followed at his heels, the old astrologer last and slowest.

The nomads wasted no time once Conan's idea was explained to them, hastily fumbling in the dark with bridles, finishing just as roaring horsemen burst from among the Hyrkanian yurts. Conan wasted but a single moment in thought of the gold from their trading, and the greater part of his own gold, hidden in a bale of tanned hides, then he scrambled onto his mount with the others, lashing it into a desperate gallop.

Death rode on their heels.

As they entered the tall, scrub-covered sand dunes on the coast, four men rode double, and no spare horses were left. The sweat-lathered mounts formed a straggling line, but no man pressed his horse for fear of the animal's collapse. In the sky before them the sun hung low; the two-days' journey had consumed less than one with the impetus of saving their lives.

Conan's shaggy mount staggered under him, but he could hear the crash of waves ahead. "How much lead do we have?" he asked Akeba.

"Perhaps two turns of the glass, perhaps less," the Turanian replied.

"They held their animals back, Cimmerian, when they saw they would not overtake us easily," Tamur added. His breath came in pants almost as heavy as those of his mount. He labored the beast with his quirt, but without real force. "Ours will not last much longer, but theirs will be near fresh when they come up on us."

"They'll come up on empty sand," Conan laughed, urging his shaggy horse to the top of a dune, "for we've reached the ship." Words and laughter trailed away as he stared at the beach beyond. The sand was empty, with only the cold remains of fires to show he had come to the right place. Far out on the water a shape could be seen, a hint of triangularity speaking of Foam Dancer's lateen sail.

"I never trusted that slime-spawn Muktar," Akeba muttered. "The horses are played out, Conan, and we're little better. This stretch of muddy sand is no fit place to die, if any place is fit, but 'tis time to think of taking a few enemies with us into the long night. What say you, Cimmerian?"

Conan, wrestling with his own thoughts, said nothing. So far he had come in his quest for a means to destroy Jhandar, and what had come of it? Samarra dead, and all her slaves. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. Even in small matters the gods had turned their faces from him. The trade goods for which he had spent his hundred pieces of gold-and hard-earned gold it was, too, for the slaying of a friend, even one ensorceled to kill-were abandoned. Of the gold but two pieces nestled in his pouch with flint, steel, Samarra's pouch and a bit of dried meat. And now he had fallen short by no more than half a turn of the glass. Muktar had not even waited to discover that Conan lacked the coin to pay for his return voyage.

Though, under the circumstances, a show of steel would have disposed of that quibble.

"Are you listening?" Akeba demanded of him. "Let us circle back on our trail to the start of the dunes.

We can surprise them, and with rest we may give a good account of ourselves." Muttering rose among the Hyrkanians.

Still Conan did not speak. Instead he chewed on a thought. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. There was something of importance there, could he but see it. A faint voice within him said that it was urgent he did see it.

"Let us die as men," Tamur said, though his tone was hesitant, "not struggling futilely, like dungbeetles seized by ants." Some few of his fellows murmured approval; the rest twitched their reins fretfully and cast anxious backward glances, but kept silent.

The Turanian's black eyes flicked the nomad scornfully; Tamur looked away. "No one who calls himself a man dies meekly," Akeba said.

"They are of our blood," Tamur muttered, and the soldier snorted.

"Mitra's Mercies! This talk of blood has never stayed one Hyrkanian's steel from another's throat that I have seen. It'll not stay the hands of those who follow us. Have you forgotten what they will do to those they take alive? Gelded. Flayed alive. Impaled. You told us so. And you hinted at worse, if there can be worse."

Tamur flinched, licking his lips and avoiding Akeba's gaze. Now he burst out, "We stand outside the law!" A mournful sigh breathed from the other nomads. Tamur rushed breathlessly on. "We are no longer shielded by the laws of our people. For us to slay even one of those sent by the shamans would be to foul and condemn our own spirits, to face an eternity of doom."

"But you didn't kill Samarra," Akeba protested. "Surely your god knows that. Conan, talk to this fool."

But the Cimmerian ignored all of them. The barest glimmerings of hope flickered in him.

"We will face the One-Father having broken no law," Tamur shouted.

"Erlik take your laws! You were willing to disobey the edict against revenging yourself on Jhandar."

Akeba's thin mouth twisted in a sneer. "I think you are simply ready to surrender. You are all dogs!

Craven women whining for an easy death!"

Tamur recoiled, hand going to the hilt of his yataghan. "Kaavan understands revenge. You Turanians, whose women have watered your blood for a thousand years with the seed of western weaklings, understand nothing. I will now teach you!"

Steel slid from scabbards, and was arrested half-drawn by Conan's abrupt, "The ship! We will use the ship."

Akeba stared at him. Some of the Hyrkanians moved their horses back. Madmen were touched by the gods; slaying one, even in self-defense, was a sure path to ill luck.

Sharak, clinging tiredly to his mount with one hand and his staff with the other, peered ostentatiously after Foam Dancer. The vessel was but a mote, now. "Are we to become fish, then?" he asked.

"The galley," Conan said, his exasperation clear at their stupidity. "How much before us could Jhandar's henchmen have left the camp? And they had no reason to ride as we did, for no one was pursuing them.

Their galley may still be waiting for them. We can rescue Yasbet and use it to cross the sea again."

"I'd not wager a copper on it," Akeba said. "Most likely the galley is already at sea."

"Are the odds better if you remain here?" Conan asked drily. Akeba looked doubtful. He ran an eye over the others; half the nomads still watched him warily. Sharak seemed lost in thought. "I'll not wait here meekly to be slaughtered," Conan announced. "You do what you will." Turning his horse to the south, he booted it into a semblance of a trot.

Before he had gone a hundred paces Sharak caught up to him, using his staff like a switch to chivy his shaggy mount along. "A fine adventure," the astrologer said, a fixed grin on his parchment face. "Do we take prisoners when we reach the galley? In the sagas heroes never take prisoners."

Akeba joined them in a gallop; his horse staggered as he reined back to their pace. "Money is one thing,"

the Turanian said. "My life I'm willing to wager on long odds."

Conan smiled without looking at either of them, a smile touched with grimness. More hooves pounded the sand behind him. He did not look around to see how many others had joined. One or all, it would be enough. It had to be. With cold eyes he led them south.

Chapter XXII

0ne horse sank to its knees, refusing to go on, as they passed the first headland, and another fell dead before they were long out of sight of the first. Thick scrub grew here in patches too large to ride around.

There were no paths except those forced by the horses.

Conan grimaced as yet another man mounted double. Their pace was slower than walking. Keeping their strength was important if they were to face the galley's crew, or Jhandar's henchmen, but the horses were at the end of theirs. And time was important as well. They must reach the ship before Yasbet's captors did, or at least before they sailed, and before the pursuing Hyrkanians overtook them. The nomads would have little difficulty following their tracks down the coast.

Reaching a decision, he dismounted. The others stared as he removed his horse's crude rope bridle and began to walk. Sharak pressed his own mount forward and dropped off beside the big Cimmerian.

"Conan," Akeba called after him, "what-"

But Conan strode on; the rest could follow or not, as they chose. He would not spend precious moments in convincing them. With the old astrologer struggling to keep up he plunged ahead. Neither spoke.

Breath now was to be saved for walking.

Where the horses had struggled to pass there were spaces where a man might go more easily. Akeba and the Hyrkanians were soon lost to sight, had either chosen to look back. Neither did.

There was no smooth highway for them, though. Even when the sandy ground was level, their boots sank to the ankles, and rocks lay ready to turn underfoot and throw the unwary into thornbushes boasting black, fingerlong spikes, that would rip flesh like talons.

But then the ground was seldom level, except for occasional stretches of muddy beach, pounded by angry waves. For every beach there were a pair of headlands to be descended on one side and scaled on the other, with steep hills between, and deep gullies between those. Increasingly the land became almost vertical, up or down. One hundred paces forward took five hundred steps to travel, or one thousand. The horses would have been useless.

Of course, Conan reasoned, sweat rolling down his face, grit in his hair and eyes and mouth, he could move inland to the edge of the plain. But then he would not know when he reached the beach where the galley lay. He would not let himself consider the possibility that it might no longer be there. Too, on the plain they would leave even clearer traces of his passage for their hunter, and most of the time gained by traveling there thus would be lost in struggling to the beaches when they were sighted.

A crashing in the thick brush behind them brought Conan's sword into his hand. Cursing, Akeba stumbled into sight, his dark face coated with sweat and dust.

"Two more horses died," the Turanian said without preamble, "and another went lame. Tamur is right behind me. He'll catch up if you wait. The others were arguing about whether to abandon the remaining horses when I left, but they'll follow as well, sooner or later."

"There is no time to wait." Resheathing his blade, Conan started off again.

Sharak, who had no breath for speaking, followed, and after a moment Akeba did as well.

Three men, the young Cimmerian thought, since Tamur would be joining them. Three and a half, an he counted Sharak, the old astrologer would be worth no more than half Akeba or Tamur in a fight, if that much. Mayhap some of the other nomads would catch up in time, but they could not be counted on.

Three and a half, then.

As Tamur joined them, plucking thorns from his arm and muttering curses fit to curl a sailor's hair, fat raindrops splattered against the back of Conan's neck. The Cimmerian peered up in surprise at thick, angrily purple clouds. His eyes had been of necessity locked to the ground; he had not noticed their gathering.

Quickly the sprinkling became a deluge, a hail of heavy pounding drops. A wind rose, ripping down the coast, tearing at the twisted scrub growth, howling higher and higher till it rang in the ears and dirt hung in the air to mix with the rain, splashing the four men with rivulets of mud. Nearby, a thick-rooted thornbush, survivor of many storms, tore lose from the ground, tangled briefly in the branches around it, and was whipped away.

Tamur put his mouth close to Conan's ear and shouted. "It is the Wrath of Kaavan! We must take shelter and pray!"

"'Tis but a storm!" the Cimmerian shouted back. "You faced worse on Foam Dancer!"

"No! This is no ordinary storm! It is the Wrath of Kaavan!" The Hyrkanian's face was a frozen mask, fear warring plainly with his manhood. "It comes with no warning, and when it does, men die! Horses are lifted whole into the air, and yurts, with all in them, to be found smashed to the ground far distant, or never to be seen again! We must shelter for our lives!"

The wind was indeed rising, even yet, shaking the thickets till it seemed the scrub was trying to tear itself free and flee. Driven raindrops struck like pebbles flung from slings.

Akeba, half-supporting Sharak, raised his voice against the thundering wind and rain. "We must take shelter, Cimmerian! The old man is nearly done! He'll not last out this storm if we don't!"

Pushing away from the Turanian, Sharak held himself erect with his staff. His straggly white hair was plastered wetly to his skull, "If you are done, soldier, say so. I am not!"

Conan eyed the old man regretfully. Sharak was clinging to his staff as to a lifeline. The other two, for all they were younger and hardier, were not in greatly better condition. Akeba's black face was lined with weariness, and Tamur, his fur cap a sodden mass hanging about his ears, swayed when the wind struck him fully. Yet there was Yasbet.

"How many of your nomads followed, Tamur?" he asked finally. "Will they catch up if we wait?"

"All followed," Tamur replied, "but Hyrkanians do not travel in the Wrath of Kaavan. It is death, Cimmerian."

"Jhandar's henchmen are not Hyrkanian," he shouted against the wind. "They will travel. The storm will hold the galley. We must reach it before they do and they put to sea. They, and Yasbet, will surely be aboard by then. If you will not go with me, then I go alone."

For a long moment there was no sound except the storm, then Akeba said, "Without that ship I may never get Jhandar."

Tamur's shoulders heaved in a sigh, silent in the storm. "Baalsham. Almost, with being declared outlaw, did I forget Baalsham. Kaavan understands revenge."

Sharak turned southward, stumping along leaning heavily on his staff. Conan and Akeba each grabbed one of the old man's arms to help him over the rough ground, and though he grumbled he did not attempt to pull free. Slowly they moved on.

Raging, the storm battered the coast. Stunted, wind-sculpted trees and great thornbushes swayed and leaned. Rain lashed them, and grit scoured through the air as if in a desert sandstorm. The wind that drove all before it drowned all sound in a demonic cacophony, till no man could hear the blood pounding in his own ears, or even his own thought.

It was because of that unceasing noise that Conan looked back often, watching for pursuit. Tamur might claim that no Hyrkanian would venture abroad in the Wrath of Kaavan, but it was the Cimmerian's experience that men did what they had to and let gods sort out the rights and wrongs later. So it was that he saw his party had grown by one in number, then by two more, and by a fourth. Rain-soaked and wind-ravaged, the grease washing from their lank hair and the filth from their sheepskin coats, the rest of Tamur's followers staggered out of the storm to join them, faces wreathed in joyous relief at the sight of the others. What had driven them to struggle through the storm-desire for revenge on Jhandar, fear of their pursuers, or terror of facing the Wrath of Kaavan alone? Conan did not care. Their numbers meant a better chance of rescuing Yasbet and taking the galley. With a stony face that boded ill for those he sought, the huge Cimmerian struggled on into the storm.

It was while they were scaling the slope of a thrusting headland, a straggling file of men clinging with their fingernails against being hurled into the sea, that the wind and rain abruptly died. Above the dark clouds roiled, and waves still crashed against cliff and beach, but comparative silence filled the unnaturally still air.

"'Tis done," Conan called to those below, "and we've survived. Not even the wrath of a god can stop us."

But for all his exuberant air, he began to climb faster. With the storm done the galley could sail. Tamur cried out something, but Conan climbed even faster. Scrambling atop the headland, he darted across, and almost let out a shout of joy. Below a steep drop was a length of beach, and drawn up on it was the galley.

Immediately he dropped to his belly, to avoid watching eyes from below, and wriggled to the edge of the drop. The vessel's twin masts were dismounted and firmly lashed on frames running fore and aft. No doubt they had had time to do little more before the storm broke on them. Two lines inland to anchors in the dunes, to hold the ship against the action of the waves, and the galley had been winched well up the beach, yet those waves had climbed the sand as well, and still clawed at the vessel's sides. Charred planks at the stern, and the blackened stumps of railing, spoke of their first meeting.

As each of the others reached the top of the headland they threw themselves to the ground beside Conan, until a line of men stretched along the rim, peering at the ship below.

"May I roast in Zandru's Hells, Cimmerian," Akeba breathed, "but I did not think we'd do it. The end of the storm and the ship, just as you said."

"The Wrath of Kaavan is not spent," Tamur said. "'That is what I was trying to tell you."

Conan rolled onto one elbow, wondering if the nomad's wits had been pounded loose by the storm.

"There is no rain, no wind. Where then is the storm?"

Tamur shook his head wearily. "You do not understand, outlander. This is called Kaavan's Mercy, a time to pray for the dead, and for your life. Soon the rain will come again, as suddenly as it left, and the wind will blow, but this time it will come from the other direction. The shamans say-"

"Erlik take your shamans," Akeba muttered. The nomads stirred, but were too tired to do more than curse. "If he speaks the truth, Cimmerian, we're finished. Without rest, a troupe of dancing girls could defeat us, but how can we rest? If we don't take that ship before this accursed Wrath of Kaavan returns...." He slumped, chin on his arms, peering at the galley.

"We rest," Conan said. Drawing back from the edge, Conan crawled to Sharak. The aged astrologer lay like a sack of sodden rags, but he levered himself onto his back when Conan stopped beside him. "Lie easy," the Cimmerian told him. "We'll stay here a time."

"Not on my account," Sharak rasped. He would have gotten to his feet had Conan not pressed him back.

"This adventuring is a wet business, but my courage has not washed away. The girl, Conan. We must see to her. And to Jhandar."

"We will, Sharak."

The old man subsided, and Conan turned to face Akeba and Tamur, who had followed him from the rim.

The other nomads watched from where they lay.

"What is this talk of waiting?" the Turanian demanded. "Seizing that galley is our only hope."

"So it is," Conan agreed, "but not until the storm comes again."

Tamur gasped. "Attack in the face of the Wrath of Kaavan! Madness!"

"The storm will cover our approach," Conan explained patiently. "We must take the crew by surprise if we are to capture them."

"Capture them?" Tamur said incredulously. "They have served Baalsham. We will cut their throats."

"Can you sail a ship?" Conan asked.

"Ships! I am a Hyrkanian. What care I for...." A pole-axed expression spread over the nomad's face, and he sank into barely audible curses.

In quick words Conan outlined his plan. "Tell the others," he finished, and left them squatting there.

Crawling back to the rim, he lowered himself full-length on the hard, wet ground, where he could watch the ship. The vessel could not sail until the storm had passed. With the patience of a great cat watching a herd of antelope draw closer, he waited.

The rain returned first, a pelting of large drops that grew to a roaring downpour, and the wind followed close behind. From the south it screamed, as Tamur had predicted, raging with such fury that in moments it was hard to believe it had ever diminished.

Wordlessly, for words were no longer possible, Conan led them down from the height, each man gripping the belt of the man ahead, stumbling over uneven ground, struggling against the wind with grim purposefulness. He did not draw his sword; this would be a matter for bare hands. Unhesitatingly Conan made his way across the sand, through blinding rain. Abruptly his outstretched hand touched wood. The side of the ship. A rope lashing in the wind struck his arm; he seized the line before it could whip away from him, and climbed, drawing himself up hand over hand. As he scrambled over the rail onto the forepart of the galley he felt the rope quiver. Akeba was starting up.

Quickly Conan's eyes searched the deck. Through the solid curtain of rain washing across the vessel, he could see naught but dim shapes, and none looked to be a man, yet it was his fear that even in the height of the storm a watch was kept.

Akeba thumped to the deck beside him, and Conan started aft with the Turanian close behind. He knew the rest would follow. They had nowhere else to go.

A hatch covered the companionway leading down into the vessel. Conan exchanged a glance with Akeba, hunched against the driving rain. The Turanian nodded. With a heave of his arm Conan threw the hatchcover back and leaped, roaring, down the ladder.

There were four men, obviously ship's officers, in the snug, lantern-lit cabin, swilling wine. Goblets crashed to the deck as Conan landed in their midst. Men leaped to their feet; hands went to sword hilts.

But Conan had landed moving. His fist smashed behind an ear, sending its owner to the deck atop his goblet. A nose crunched beneath a backhand blow of the other fist, and his boot caught a third man in the belly while he still attempted to come fully erect.

Now his sword came out, its point stopping a fingerbreadth from the beaked nose of the fourth man. The emerald at his ear and the thick gold chain about his neck named him captain of the vessel as surely as their twin queues named all four sailors of the Vilayet. The slab-checked captain froze with his blade half drawn.

"I do not need all of you," Conan snarled. "'Ts your choice."

Hesitantly licking his lips, the captain surveyed his fellows. Two did not stir, while the third was attempting to heave his guts up on the deck. "You'll not get away with this," he said shakily. "My crew will hand your hearts in the rigging." But he slowly and carefully moved his hand from his weapon.

"Why you needed me," Akeba grumbled from a seat on the next-to-bottom rung of the ladder, "I don't see at all."

"There might have been five," Conan replied with a smile that made the captain shiver. "Get Sharak, Akeba. It's warm in here. And see how the others are doing." With a sigh the soldier clattered back up the ladder into the storm. Conan turned his full attention on the captain. "When are those who hired you returning?"

"I'm a trader here on my own-" Conan's blade touched the captain's upper lip; the man went cross-eyed staring at it. He swallowed, and tried to move his head back, but Conan kept a light pressure with the edged steel. "They didn't tell me," the sailor said hastily. "They said I was to wait until they returned, however long it might be. I was of no mind to argue." His face paled, and he clamped his lips tight, as if afraid to say more.

While Conan wondered why the galley's passengers had affected the captain so, Akeba and Tamur scrambled down the ladder, drawing the hatch shut on the storm behind them. The Turanian half-carried Sharak, whom he settled on a bench, filling a goblet of wine for him. The astrologer mumbled thanks and buried his face in the drink. Tamur remained near the ladder, wiping his dagger on his sheepskin coat.

Conan's eyes lit on that dagger, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Putting a hand on the captain's chest, he casually pushed the man back down in his seat. "I told you we need these sailors, Tamur. How many did you kill?"

"Two, Cimmerian," the nomad protested, spreading his hands. "Two only. And one carved a trifle. But they resisted. My people watch the rest." A full dozen remain."

"Fists and hilts, I said," Conan snarled. He had to turn away lest he sty too much. "How do you feel, Sharak?"

"Much refreshed," the astrologer said, and he did seem to be sitting straighter, though he, like all of them, dripped pools of water. "Yasbet is not here?"

Conan shook his head. "But we shall be waiting when she is brought."

"Then for Jhandar," Sharak said, and Conan echoed, "Then for Jhandar."

"They resisted," Tamur said again, in injured tones. "There are enough left to do what they must." No one spoke, or even looked at him. After a moment he went on. "I went down to the rowing benches, Conan, to see if any of them were hiding among the slaves, and who do you think I found? That fellow from the other ship. What is he called? Bayan. That is it. Chained to a bench with the rest." Throwing back his head, the nomad laughed as if it were the funniest story he had ever heard.

Conan's brow knitted in a frown. Bayan here? And in chains? "Bring him here, Tamur," he snapped.

"Now!" His tone was such that the Hyrkanian jumped for the ladder immediately. "Tie these others, Akeba," Conan went on, "so we do not have to worry about them." With his sword he motioned the captain to lie down on the deck; fuming, the hooknosed seaman complied.

By the time the four ship's officers, two still unconscious, were bound hand and foot, Tamur had returned with Bayan. Other than chains, the wiry sailor from Foam Dancer wore only welts and a filthy twist of rag. He stood head down, shivering wetly from his passage through the storm, watching Conan from the corner of his eye.

The big Cimmerian straddled a bench, holding his sword before him so that ripples of lantern light ran along the blade. "How came you here, Bayan?"

"I wandered from the ship," Bayan muttered, "and these scum captured me. There's a code among sailors, but they chained me to an oar," he raised his head long enough to spit at the tied figure of the captain, "and whipped me when I protested."

"What happened at Foam Dancer? You didn't just wander away." The wiry man shifted his feet with a clank of iron links, but said nothing. "You'll talk if I have to let Akeba heat his irons for you." The Turanian blinked, then grimaced fiercely; Bayan wet his lips. "And you'll tell the truth," Conan went on.

"The old man is a soothsayer. He can tell when you lie." He lifted his sword as if studying the edge. "For the first lie, a hand. Then a foot. Then.... How many lies can you stand? Three? Four? Of a certainty no more."

Bayan met that glacial blue gaze; then words tumbled out of him as fast as he could force them. "A man came to the ship, a man with yellow skin and eyes to freeze your heart in your chest. Had your... the woman with him. Offered a hundred pieces of gold for fast passage back to Aghrapur. Said this ship was damaged, and he knew Foam Dancer was faster. Didn't even bother to deny trying to sink us. Muktar was tired of waiting for you, and when this one appeared with the woman, well, it was plain you were dead, or it seemed plain, and it looked easy enough to take the woman and the gold, and-"

"Slow down!" Conan commanded sharply. "Yasbet is unharmed?"

Bayan swallowed hard. "I... I know not. Before Mitra and Dagon I swear that I raised no hand against her. She was alive when I left. Muktar gave a signal, you see, and Tewfik and Marantes and I went at the stranger with our daggers, but he killed them before a man could blink. He just touched them, and they were dead. And then, then he demanded Muktar slit my throat." He made a sound, half laughter, half weeping. "Evidence of future good faith, he called it. And that fat spawn of a diseased goat was going to do it! I saw it on his face, and I ran. I hope he's drowned in this accursed storm. I pray he and Foam Dancer are both at the bottom of the sea."

"An ill-chosen prayer," Conan said between clenched teeth. "Yasbet is on that vessel." With a despairing wail Bayan sank groveling to his knees. "Put him back where he was," Conan spat. Tamur jerked the wiry seaman to his feet; the Cimmerian watched them go. "Is this galley too damaged to sail?" he demanded of the captain.

The hook-nosed man had lain with his mouth open, listening while Bayan talked. Now he snorted. "Only a dirt-eater would think so. Once this storm is gone, give me half a day for repairs and I'll sail her anywhere on the Vilayet, in any weather."

"The repairs you need, you'll make at sea," Conan said levelly. "And we sail as soon as the storm abates enough for us to get off this beach without being smashed to splinters." The captain opened his mouth, and Conan laid his blade against the seaman's throat. "Or mayhap one of these other three would like to be captain."

The captain's eyes bulged, and his mouth worked. Finally he said, "I'll do it. 'Tis likely we'll all of us drown, but I'll do it."

Conan nodded. He had expected no other decision. Yasbet was being carried closer to Jhandar by the moment. The storm drumming against the hull seemed to echo the sorcerer's name. Jhandar. This time they would meet face to face, he and Jhandar, and one of them would die. One or both. Jhandar.

Chapter XXIII

Jhandar, lounging on cushions of multicolored silk spread beside a fountain within a walled garden, watched Davinia exclaiming over his latest gifts to her, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. Three days more and, as matters stood, all his plans would come to naught. Could the wench not sense the worry in him?

"They are beautiful," Davinia said, stretching arms encircled by emerald bracelets above her head.

Another time he would have felt sweat popping out on his forehead. Her brief, golden silks left the inner slopes of her rounded breasts bare, and her girdle, two fingerwidths of sapphires and garnets hung with the bright feathers of rare tropic birds, sat low on the swelling of her hips. Sultry eyes caressed him. "I will have to think of a way to show my gratitude," she purred.

He acknowledged her only with a casual wave of his hand. In three days Yildiz, that fat fool, would meet with his advisors to decide where to use the army he had built. Of the Seventeen Attendants, eight would speak for empire, for war with Zamora. Only eight, and Jhandar knew that Yildiz merely counted the number of those who supported or opposed, rather than actually weighing the advice given. Jhandar needed one more to speak for war. One of the nine other. Who could have believed the nine lived lives which, if not completely blameless, still gave him no lever to use against them? One more he needed, yet all the nine would speak for peace, for reducing the numbers of the army. Short of gaining Yildiz's own ear, he had done all that could be done, yet three days would see a year's work undone.

It would take even longer to repair matters. He must first arrange the assassination of an Attendant, perhaps more than one if his efforts to guide the selection of the new Attendant failed. Then it would take time to build the army again. If things were otherwise, three days could see the beginnings of an empire that would be his in all but name. Kings would journey to him, kneel at his feet to hear his commands.

Instead, he would have to begin again, wait even longer for that he had awaited so long.

And that wait added another risk. What had the man Conan sought in Hyrkania? What had he found that might be used against the Power? Why did Che Fan not return with the barbarian's head in a basket?

"You will let me have them, Jhandar?"

"Of course," he said absently, then pulled himself from his grim ruminations. "Have what?"

"The slaves." There was petulance in Davinia's voice, a thing he had noticed more often of late. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Certainly I've been listening. But tell me about these slaves again."

"Four of them," she said, moving to stand straddle-legged beside him. Now he could feel sweat on his face. Sunlight surrounded her with nimbus, a woman of golden silk, glowing hot. "Well-muscled young men, of course," she went on. "Two of blackest hue, and two as pale as snow. The one pair I will dress in pearls and rubies, the other in onyx and emeralds. They will be as a frame for me. To make me more beautiful for you," she added hastily.

"What need have you for slave boys?" he growled. "You have slaves in plenty to do your bidding. And that old hag, Renda, to whom you spend so much time whispering."

"Why, to bear my palanquin," she laughed, tinkling musical notes. Fluidly she sank to her knees, bending till her breasts pressed against his chest. Her lips brushed the line of his jaw. "Surely my Great Lord would not deny my bearers. My Great Lord, who it is my greatest pleasure to serve. In every way."

"I can deny you nothing," he said thickly. "You may have the slaves."

In her eyes he caught a fleeting glimpse of greed satisfied, and the moment soured for him. She would leave him did she ever find one who could give her more. He meant to be sure there could never be such a one, but still .... He could bind her to him with the golden bowl and her heart's blood. None who saw or talked with her would ever know she did not in truth live. But he would know.

Someone cleared his throat diffidently. Scowling, Jhandar sat up. Zephran stood on the marble path, bowing deeply over folded hands, eyes carefully averted from Davinia.

"What is it?" Jhandar demanded angrily.

"Suitai is returned, Great Lord," his shaven-headed myrmidion replied.

Instantly Jhandar's anger was gone, along with his thoughts of Davinia. Careless of his dignity, he scrambled to his feet. "Lead," he commanded.

Dimly he noted that Davinia followed as well, but matters not of the flesh dominated his mind once more.

Suitai waited in Jhandar's private audience chamber, its bronze lion lamps unlit at this hour. A large sack lay on the mosaicked floor at the Khitan's feet.

"Where is Che Fan?" Jhandar demanded as he entered.

"Perished, Great Lord," Suitai replied, and Jhandar hesitated in his stride.

Despite his knowledge to the contrary, Jhandar had begun to think in some corners of his mind that the two assassins were indestructible. It was difficult to imagine what could slay one of them.

"How?" he said shortly.

"The barbarian enlisted the aid of a Hyrkanian witch-woman, Great Lord. She, also, died."

That smile meant that Suitai had been her killer, Jhandar thought briefly, without interest. "And the barbarian?"

"Conan is dead as well, Great Lord."

Jhandar nodded slowly, feeling a strange relief. This Conan had been but a straw in the wind after all, catching the eye as it flashed by, yet unimportant. Suitai's smile had faded at the mention of the barbarian, no doubt because Che Fan had actually slain the fellow. At times he thought that Suitai's thirst for blood would eventually prove a liability. Now he had no time for such petty worries.

"The crew of the galley was disposed of as I commanded. Suitai? I wish no links between myself and Hyrkania." Not until he was able to control that region the shamans had blasted, thus containing whatever might be of danger to him within. Not until his power was secure in Turan.

The tall Khitan hesitated. "The galley was damaged, Great Lord, and could not put to sea. I left its crew waiting for me. Without doubt the coastal tribes have attended to them by now. Instead I hired the vessel the barbarian used, and came ashore well north of the city."

"And the crew of this ship?"

"Dead, Great Lord. I slew them, and guided the ship to the beach myself." An unreadable expression flickered across the assassin's normally impassive face, and Jhandar eyed him sharply. Suitai shifted uneasily beneath that gaze, then went on slowly. "The captain, Great Lord, a fat man called Muktar, leaped into the sea, surely to drown. I have no doubt of it."

"You have no doubt of a great many things, Suitai." Jhandar's voice was silky, yet dripped venom like a scorpion's tail.

Sweat appeared on Suitai's brow. The mage had a deadly lack of patience with those who did not perform exactly as he commanded. Hurriedly the Khitan bent to the large sack at his feet.

"I brought you this gift, Great Lord." The lashings of the sack came loose, and he spilled a girl out onto the mosaicked floor, wrists bound to elbows behind her back, legs doubled tightly against her breasts, the thin cords that held her cutting deeply into her naked flesh. She grunted angrily into her gag as she tumbled onto the floor, and attempted to fight her bonds, but only her toes and fingers wriggled. "The girl the barbarian stole from the compound, Great Lord," Suitai announced with satisfaction.

Jhandar snorted. "Don't think to make up for your shortcomings. What is one girl more or less to-"

"Why, it's Esmira," Davinia broke in.

The necromancer scowled irritably. He had forgotten that she had followed him. "That's not her name.

She is called...." It took a moment, though he did remember marking the wench for his bed, long ago it seemed. ". . . Yasbet. That's it. Now return to the garden, Davinia. I have matters to discuss here that do not concern you."

Instead the lithe blonde squatted on her heels by the bound girl, using both hands to twist the struggling wench's gagged face around for a better look. "I tell you this is the Princess Esmira, Prince Roshmanli's daughter."

Jhandar's mouth was suddenly dry. "Are you certain? The rumors say the princess is cloistered."

She gave him a withering look that would have elicited instant and painful punishment for anyone else.

From her, at this moment, he ignored it. The prince was Yildizs closest advisor among the Attendants, of the nine, a man who seduced no woman with a husband and gambled only with his own gold. Yet it was said his daughter was his weakness, that he would do anything to shelter her from the world. For the safety of his Esmira, would Roshmanli send Turan to war? He had had men slain for casting their eyes upon her. If handled carefully, it could be done.

Then his eyes fell on Davinia, smiling smugly as he examined the bound girl, and a new thought came to him.

He pulled the blonde to her feet. "You say you want only to serve me. Do you speak the truth?"

"To you," she replied slowly, "I speak only truth."

"Then this night there will be a ceremony. In that ceremony you will plunge a dagger into the heart of this girl." He gazed deeply into her eyes, searching for hesitation, for vacillation. There was none.

"As my Great Lord commands me," Davinia said smoothly.

Jhandar felt the urge to throw back his head and laugh wildly. She had taken the first step. Once she had wielded the knife, she would be bound to him more firmly than with iron chains. And by the same stroke he would gain the ninth voice among the King's Attendants. All of his dreams were taking shape. Empire and the woman. He would have it all.

Chapter XXIV

Dark seas rolled beneath the galley's ram, phosphorescence dancing on her bow wave, as the measured sweep of three score oars drew it on. Ahead in the night the darker mass of the Turanian coast was marked by white-breaking waves glinting beneath the pale, cloudchased moon.

Echoes of those crashing breakers rolled across the waters to Conan. He stood in the stern of the galley, where he could keep close watch on both captain and steersman. Already they had attempted to take the ship other than as he directed-perhaps into the harbor at Aghrapur, so that he and the rest could be seized as pirates-and only the scanty knowledge he had gained with the smugglers had thus far thwarted them. The rest of the vessel's crew, sullen and disarmed, worked under the watchful eyes of Akeba, Tamur, and the nomads. Sharak clung to the lines that supported the foremast, and gazed on the heavens, seeking the configurations that would tell their fates that night.

Conan cared not what the stars foretold. Their destinies would be as they would be, for he would not alter what he intended by so much as a hair. "There," he said, pointing ahead. "Beach there."

"There's nothing there," the captain protested.

"There," Conan repeated. "'Tis close enough to where we're going. I'd think you would be glad to see our backs, wherever we wanted to be put ashore."

Grumbling, the slab-checked captain spoke to his steersman, and the galley shifted a point to larboard, toward the stretch of land at which the big Cimmerian had pointed.

With scanty information had Conan made his choice. The distant glow of lamps from Aghrapur to the south. A glimpse at the stars. Instinct. Perhaps, he thought, that last had played the most important part.

He knew that on that shore stood the compound of the Cult of Doom, Yasbet's place of imprisonment, and Jhandar, the man he must kill even if he died himself.

Sand grated beneath the galley's keel. The vessel lurched, heeled, was driven further forward by the motion of long sweeps. Finally motion ceased; the deck tilted only slightly.

"It's done," the hook-nosed captain announced, anger warring with satisfaction on his face. "You can leave my vessel, now, and I'll give burnt offerings to Dagon when you're gone."

"Akeba!" Conan called. On receiving an answering hail he turned back to the captain. "I advise you to go south along the coast, you and your crew. I do not know what will happen here this night, but I fear powers will be unbound. One place I have seen where such bonds were cut; there nightmare walked, and some would count death a blessing."

"Sorcery?" The word was a hiss of indrawn breath in the captain's mouth, changing to shaky, blustering laughter. "An sorceries are to be loosed, I have no fears of being caught in them. I will be clear of the beach before you, and I will go south as fast as whips can drive my oar-sl-" Hatch covers crashing open amidships cut him off, and the clatter of men scrambling on deck, whip-scarred, half-naked men falling over themselves in their eagerness to dash to the rail and drop to the surf below. The hook-nosed man's eyes bulged as he stared at them. "You've loosed the oar slaves! You fool! What-" He spun back to Conan, and found himself facing the Cimmerian's blade.

"Three score oars," Conan said quietly, "and two men chained to each. I have no love for chains on men, for I've worn them around my own neck. Normally I do not concern myself with freeing slaves. I cannot strike off all the chains in the world, or in Turan, or even in a single city, and if I could, men would find ways to put them back again before they had a chance to grow dusty. Still, the world may end this night, and the men who have brought me to my fate deserve their freedom, as they and all the rest of us may be dead before dawn. You had best get over the side, captain. Your own life may depend on how fast you can leave this place."

The hook-nosed captain glared at him, face growing purple. "Steal my slaves, then order me off my own vessel? Rambis!" He bit it off as he stared at the vacant spot by the steering oar. Conan had seen the man slip quietly over the railing as he spoke.

Discovery of the defection took what was left of the captain's backbone. With a strangled yelp he leaped into the sea.

Sheathing his sword, Conan turned to join his companions, and found himself facing some two dozen filthy galley slaves, gathered in a different knot amidships. Akeba and the Hyrkanians watched them warily.

A tall man with a long, tangled black beard and the scars of many floggings stepped forward, ducking his head. "Your pardon, lord. I am called Akman. It is you who has freed us? We would follow you."

"I'm no lord," Conan said. "Be off with you while you have time, and be grateful you do not follow me. I draw my sword against a powerful sorcerer, and there is dying to be done this night." A handful of the former slaves melted into the darkness, splashes sounding their departure.

"Still there are those of us who would follow you, lord," Akman said. "For one who has lived as a dead man, to die as a free man is a greater boon than could be expected from the gods."

"Stop calling me lord," Conan growled. Akman bowed again, and the other rowers behind him. Shaking his head, Conan sighed. "Find weapons, then, and make peace with your gods. Akeba! Tamur!

Sharak!"

Without waiting to see what the freed slaves would do, the big Cimmerian put a hand to the railing and vaulted into waist-deep seas that broke against his broad back and sent foam over his shoulders. The named men followed as he waded to shore, a stretch of driftwood-covered sand where moon-shadows stirred.

"They'll be more hindrance than help, those slaves," Sharak grumbled, attempting to wring seawater from his robes without dropping his staff. "This is a matter for fighting men."

"And you are the stoutest of them all," Akeba laughed, clapping the old astrologer on the shoulder and almost knocking him down. His laughter sounded wild and grim, the laughter of a man who would laugh in the face of the dark gods and was doing so now: "And you, Cimmerian. Why so somber? Even if we die we will drag Jhandar before Erlik's Black Throne behind us."

"And if Jhandar looses the magicks that he did when he was defeated before?" Conan said. "There are no shamans to contain them here."

They stared at him, Akeba's false mirth fading. Sharak held a corner of his robes in two hands, his dampness forgotten, and Conan thought he heard Tamur mutter a prayer.

Then the men from the galley were clambering up the beach, the half score who had not succumbed to fear or good sense, led by Akman with a boarding pike in his calloused hands. The Hyrkanian nomads came too, cursing at the wet as they waded through the surf. A strange army, the Cimmerian thought, with which to save the world.

He turned from the sea. They followed, a file of desperate men snaking into the Turanian night.

"Must I actually put a knife in her heart?"

Davinia's question jangled in Jhandar's mind, which had been almost settled for his period of meditation.

"Do you regret your decision?" he demanded. In his thoughts, he commanded her: have no regrets.

Murder a princess in sorcerous rites. Be bound to me by ties stronger than iron.

"No regrets, my Great Lord," she said slowly, toying with the feathers of her girdle. When she lifted her gaze to his her sapphire eyes were clear and untroubled. "She has lived a useless life. At least her death will be to some purpose."

Despite himself he could not stop the testing. "And if I said there was no purpose? Just her death?" Her frown almost stopped his heart.

"No purpose? I do not like getting blood on my hands." She tossed her blonde mane petulantly. "The feel of it will not wash away for days. I will not do it if there is no purpose."

"There is a purpose," he said hastily, "which I cannot tell you until the proper time." And to forestall questions he hurried from the room.

His nerves burned with how close he had come to dissuading her. Almost, he thought, there would be no joy in achieving all his ambitions without her. Some rational corner of his mind told him the thought was lust-soaked madness. The fruition of his plans would hold her to him, for where would she then find one of greater power or wealth? With the taking of Yasbet-if she chose to call herself so, so he would think of her-all would be in place. His power in Turan would be complete. But Davinia....

He was still struggling with himself when he settled in the simple chamber, before the Pool of the Ultimate.

That would not do. He must be empty of emotion for the Power to fill him. Carefully he focused on his dreams. War and turmoil would fill the nations, disorder hastened by his overgrowing band of the Chosen. Only he would be able to call a halt to it. Kings would kneel to him. Slowly the pool began to glow.

From the branches of the tree, Conan studied the compound of the Cult of Doom. Ivory domes gleamed in the dappled moonlight, and purple spires thrust into the sky, but no hint of light showed within those high marble walls, and no one stirred. The Cimmerian climbed back down to the ground, to the men waiting there.

"Remember," he said, addressing himself mainly to the former galley slaves, "any man with a weapon must be slain, for they will not surrender." The Hyrkanians nodded somberly; they knew this well.

"But the black-robed one with the yellow skin is mine," Akeba reminded them. Time and again on the short march he had reiterated his right to vengeance for his daughter.

"The black-robe is yours," Akman said nervously. "I but wish you could take the demons as well."

Sharak shook his staff, gripping it with both hands as if it were a lifeline. "I will handle the demons," he said. "Bring them to me." A wind from the sea moaned in the treetops as if in answer, and he subsided into mutters.

"Let us be on with it," Tamur said, fidgeting whether with eagerness or nervousness, Conan could not tell.

"Stay together," the Cimmerian said by way of a last instruction. "Those who become separated will be easy prey" With that he led them down to the towering white wall.

Grapnels taken from the galley swung into the air, clattered atop the wall and took hold. Men swarmed up ropes like ants and dropped within.

Once inside the compound Conan barely noticed the men following him, weapons in hand, falling back on either side so that he was the point of an arrow. His own blade came into his hand. Jhandar. Ignoring other buildings, Conan strode toward the largest structure of the compound, an alabaster palace of golden onion-domes and columned porticos and towers of porphyry. Jhandar would be there in his palace. Jhandar and Yasbet, if she still lived. But first Jhandar, for there could be no true safety for Yasbet until the necromancer was dead.

Suddenly there was a saffron-robed man before him, staring in astonishment at the intruders. Producing a dagger, he screamed, "In the name of Holy Chaos, die!"

A fool to waste time with shouts, Conan thought, wrenching his blade free so the man's body could fall.

And in Crom's name, what god was this Chaos?

But the noise produced another shaven-headed man, this with a spear that he thrust at Conan, sounding the same cry. The Cimmerian grasped the shaft to guide the point clear of his body; the point of his broadsword ended the strange shout in a gurgle of blood.

Then hundreds of saffron-robed men and women were rushing into the open. At first they seemed only curious, then those nearest Conan saw the bodies and screamed. In an instant panic seized them by the throat, and they became a boiling mass, seeking only escape, yet almost overwhelming those they feared in a tide of numbers.

Forgetting his own instructions to stay together, Conan began to force his way through the pack of struggling flesh, toward the palace. Jhandar, was the only thought in his head. Jhandar.

"Great Lord, the compound is under attack."

Jhandar stirred fretfully in his communion with the Power. It took a moment for him to pull his eyes from the glowing pool and focus them on Suitai, standing ill at ease in the unnatural glow that filled the chamber.

"What? Why are you disturbing me here, Suitai? You know it is forbidden."

"Yes, Great Lord. But the attack...."

That time the word got through to Jhandar. "Attack? The army?" Had disaster come on him yet again?

"No, Great Lord. I know not who they are, or how many. The entire compound is in an uproar. It is impossible to count their numbers. I slew one; he was filthy and half-naked, and bore the welts of a lash."

"A slave?" Jhandar asked querulously. It was hard to think, with his mind attuned to the communion and that communion not fully completed. "Take the Chosen and dispose of these interlopers, whoever they are. Then restore order to the compound."

"All of the Chosen, Great Lord?"

"Yes, all of them," the necromancer replied irritably. Could the man not do as he was told? He must settle his mind, complete his absorption of the Power.

"Then you will delay the ceremony, Great Lord?"

Jhandar blinked, found his gaze drifting to the Pool of the Ultimate, and jerked it back. "Delay? Of course not. Think you I need those fools' rapturous gazes to perform the rite?" Desperately he fought to stop his head spinning, to think clearly. "Take the Chosen as I commanded you. I will myself bring the girl to the Chamber of Sacrifice and do what is necessary. Go!"

Bowing, the black-robed Khitan sped away, glad to be gone from the presence of that which was bound in that room.

Jhandar shook his head and peered into the pool. Glowing mists filled the limits of the wards, an unearthly dome that seemed to draw him into its depths. Angrily he pushed that feeling aside, though he could not rid himself of it. He was tired, that was all. There was no need to complete the communion, he decided.

Disturbed as he was, completion might take until dawn, and he had no time to wait. The girl must be his tonight. As it was the Power flowed along his bones, coursed in his veins. He would perform the rite now.

Gathering his robes about him, he left to fetch Yasbet and Davinia to the Chamber of Sacrifice.

Chapter XXV

Warily, sword at the ready, Conan moved along one wall of a palace corridor, with no eye for rich tapestries or ancient vases of rare Khitan porcelain. Akeba stalked along the other, tulwar in hand. As a pair of wolfhounds they hunted.

The Cimmerian did not know where the others were. From time to time the clash of steel and the cries of dying men sounded from outside, or echoed down the halls from other parts of the palace. Who won and who died he could not tell, and at that moment he did not care. He sought Jhandar, and instinct told him he drew closer with every step.

Silent as death three saffron-robed men hurtled from a side corridor, scimitars slashing.

Conan caught a blade on his broadsword, sweeping it toward the wall and up. As his own blade came parallel to the floor he slipped it off the other in a slashing blow that half-severed his opponent's head.

Flashing swiftly on, his sword axed into the second man's head a heartbeat before Akeba's steel buried itself in the man's ribs. Twice-slain, the body fell atop that of he who had faced the Turanian at the first attack.

"You work well," Akeba grunted, wiping his blade on a corpse's robe. "You should think of the army if we live to leave this. . ." His words trailed off as both men became aware of a new presence in the corridor. The blackrobed Khitan assassin.

Unhurriedly he moved toward them, with the casual confidence of a great beast that knows its kill is assured. His hands were empty of weapons, but Conan remembered well the dead in Samarra's yurt, with no wound on any but looks of horror on every face, and Zorelle, dead from a touch.

Conan firmed his grip on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword, but as he stepped forward Akeba laid a hand on his arm. The soldier's voice was as cold as frozen iron. "He is mine. By right of blood, he is mine."

Reluctantly Conan gave way, and the Turanian moved forward alone. Of necessity the big Cimmerian waited to watch his friend do battle. Jhandar was still uppermost in his mind, but the way to him led deeper into the palace, past the murderously maneuvering pair before him.

The Khitan smiled; his hand struck like a serpent, and, like a mongoose, Akeba was not there. The assassin flowed from the path of the soldier's flashing steel, yet the smile was gone from his face. Like malefic dancers the two men moved, lightning blade against fatal touch, each aware of the other's deadliness, each intent on slaying. Abruptly the Khitan deciphered the pattern of Akeba's moves; the malevolent hand darted for the soldier's throat. Desperately Akeba blocked the blow, and it struck instead his sword arm. Crying out, the Turanian staggered back, tulwar falling, arm dangling, clawing with his good hand for his dagger. The assassin paused to laugh before closing for the kill.

"Crom!" Conan roared, and leapt.

Only the Khitan's unnatural suppleness saved him from the blade that struck where he had been. Smiling again, he motioned the Cimmerian to come to him, if he dared.

"I promised to let you kill him," Conan said to Akeba, without taking his eyes from the black-robed man,

"not the other way around."

The Turanian barked a painful laugh. He clutched his dagger in one hand, but the other twitched helplessly at his side and only the tapestry-covered wall kept him from falling. "As you've interfered," he said between clenched teeth, "then you must kill him for me, Cimmerian."

"Yes," the assassin hissed. "Kill me, barbarian."

Without warning, Conan lunged, blade thrusting for the black-robed one's belly, but the killer seemed to glide backward, stopping just beyond the sword's point.

"You must do better, barbar. Che Fan was wrong. You are just another man. I do not think you truly entered the Blasted Lands, but even if you did, you survived only by luck. I, Suitai, will put an end to you here. Come to me and find your death."

As the tall man spoke Conan moved slowly forward, sliding his feet along the marble floor so that he was at no time unbalanced. His sword he held low before him, point flickering from side to side like the tongue of a viper, light from the burnished brass lamps. on the walls glittering along the steel, and though the Khitan spoke confidently, he kept an eye on that blade.

Abruptly, as the assassin finished his speech, Conan tossed his sword from right hand to left, and Suitai's gaze followed involuntarily. In that instant the Cimmerian jerked a tapestry from the wall to envelop the other man. Even as the hanging tangled about the Khitan's head and chest Conan lunged after, steel ripping through cloth and flesh, grating on bone.

Slowly the assassin heaved aside the portion of the tapestry that covered his head. With glazing eyes he stared in disbelief at the blade standing out from his chest, the dark blood that spread to stain his robes.

"Not my death," Conan told him. "Yours."

The Khitan tried to speak, but blood welled from his mouth, and he toppled, dead as he struck the marble floor. Conan tugged his blade free, cleaning it on the tapestry as he might had it been thrust into offal.

"I give you thanks, my friend," Akeba said, pushing unsteadily away from the wall. His face gleamed with the sweat of pain, and his arm still dangled at his side, but he managed to stand erect as he looked on the corpse of his daughter's murderer. "But now you have hunting of your own to do."

"Jhandar," Conan said, and without another word he was moving forward again.

Like a great hunting cat he strode through halls lit by glittering brass lamps, but bare of life. The gods smiled on those who did not meet him in those passages, for he would not now have slowed to see if they bore weapons or not. His blood burned for Jhandar's death. Any who hindered or slowed him now would perish in a pool of their own blood.

Then great bronze doors stood before him, doors scribed with a pattern that seemed to have no pattern, that rejected the eye's attempt to focus on it. Setting hands against those massive metal slabs, muscles cording with strain, he forced the portals open. Sword at the ready, he went through.

In an instant the horror of that great circular chamber engraved itself on his brain. Yasbet lay chained and gagged on a black altar, to one side of her Davinia, knife upraised to plunge into the bound girl's heart, to the other Jhandar, an arcane chant rising from his mouth to pierce the air. Over the entire blood-chilling tableau a shimmering silvery-azure dome was forming.

"No!" Conan shouted.

Yet even as he dashed forward he knew he would not reach them before that knife had done its terrible work. He fumbled for his dagger. Davinia froze at his cry. Jhandar's incantation died as he spun to confront the man who had dared interrupt the rite; the glow disappeared as his words ceased.

Desperately Conan hurled his dagger-toward Davinia, for she still held her gleaming blade poised above Yasbet-but Jhandar turning, moved between them. The mage screamed as the needle-sharp steel sliced into his arm.

Clutching his wound, blood dripping between his fingers, Jhandar turned a frightful glare on Conan. "By the blood and earth and Powers of Chaos I summon you," he intoned. "Destroy this barbarian?" Davinia shrank back, as if she would have fled had she dared.

The floor trembled, and Conan skidded to a halt as chunks of marble erupted almost beneath his feet.

Leather-skinned and fanged, a sending such as those he had faced before clawed its way clear of dirt and stone. With a wild roar, the Cimmerian brought his blade down with all his might in an overhead blow, slicing through the demoniac skull to the shoulders. Yet, unbleeding and undying, it struggled to reach him, and he must needs chop and chop again, hacking the monstrous thing apart. Even then its fragments twitched in unabated fury. More creatures tore through stone between him and the altar, and still more to either side of him, snarling in bloodlust. As a man might reap hay Conan worked his sword, steel rising and falling tirelessly. Severed limbs and heads and chunks of obscene flesh littered the floor, yet there were more, always more, ripping passage from the bowels of the earth. Cut off from Yasbet and the altar, it was but a matter of time before he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

A smile, pained, yet tinged with satisfaction at the Cimmerian's coming doom, appeared on Jhandar's face. "So Suitai lied," he rasped. "I will settle with him for it. But now, barbar, pause a moment in your exertions, if you can, to watch the fate of this woman, Esmira. Davinia! Attend the rite as I commanded you, woman!"

Terror twisting her face, Davinia raised the silver-bladed dagger once more. Her eyes bulged when they strayed to the deformed creatures battling Conan, but her hand was steady. Jhandar began again his invocation of the Power.

Raging, Conan tried to clear a path to the altar with his sword, but for each diabolic attacker he hewed to the floor, it seemed that two more appeared.

There was a commotion behind the Cimmerian, and a saffron-robed man staggered into his view, blood streaming down his face, weakly attempting to lift his sword. After him followed Sharak. Conan was so amazed that he hesitated with sword raised, staring. In that momentary respite the creatures tightened their circle about him, and he was forced to redouble his efforts to stop their advance.

Sharak's staff cracked down on his opponent's head; blood splattered from that shaven skull, and its owner fell, his sword sliding across the floor to stop against the altar. Irritably Jhandar looked over his shoulder, but did not stop his chant.

Conan lopped off a fang-mouthed head and kicked the headless body, now clawing blindly, into the path of another creature. His sword took an arm, then a leg, sliced away half of a skull, but he knew his sands had almost run out. There were just too many.

Abruptly Sharak was capering beside him, waving his staff wildly.

"Be gone from here," Conan shouted. "You are too old to"

Sharak's staff thumped a leathery skull, and the creature screamed. At the altar Jhandar jerked as if he had felt the blow. Even the other beings froze as sparks ran along the struck creature's blue-gray skin.

With a clap, as of thunder, it was gone, leaving only oily, black smoke that drifted upward.

"I told you it had power!" the old astrologer cried wildly. He struck out again; more greasy smoke rose toward the vaulted ceiling.

Now those hell-born backed warily from Conan and Sharak rolling fearsome red eyes at Jhandar. For that moment at least, the way to the altar was clear, and Conan dashed for the black stone.

For but a heartbeat Jhandar faced that charge, then howled, "There are Powers you have not seen in your nightmares! Now face them!" and darted across the floor and down a small arched passage. With his departure the creatures, yet whole, seemingly freed of his command, vanished also.

Indecision racked Conan. For all he had sworn the necromancer would be dealt with first, Yasbet lay chained before him, with Davinia....

As his gaze fell on her, the lithesome blonde backed away, wetting her lips nervously. "I heard you had sailed away, Conan," she said, then quickly abandoned that line as his face did not soften. "I was forced, Conan. Jhandar is a sorcerer, and forced me to this." She held the dagger low in the thumb-and-forefinger grip of one who knew how to gut a man, but she did not move toward Conan.

One eye on Davinia, Conan stepped up to the altar. Yasbet writhed in her chains. Four times his blade rang against her bonds, and steel conquered iron.

Ripping the gag from her mouth, Yasbet scrambled from the altar and plucked the dead Cult member's sword from the floor. Her hair lay wildly on her shoulders and breasts; she looked a naked goddess of battles. "I will deal with this...." Words failed her as she glared at Davinia.

"Fool wench," Conan snapped. "I did not free you to see you stabbed!"

"'Tis a Cimmerian fool I see," Sharak called. He still leaped about like a puppeteer's stick figure, disposing with his staff of the portions of creatures that littered the chamber floor. "The necromancer must be slain, or all this is for naught!"

The old man spoke true, Conan knew. With a last look at Yasbet, closing grimly in on a snarling Davinia, he turned into the small passage Jhandar had taken.

It was not long, that narrow corridor. Almost immediately he saw a glow ahead; the same silver blue that had shone about the altar, yet a thousand times brighter. Quickening his pace, he burst into a small, unadorned chamber. In its center, surrounded by plain columns, a huge bubble of roiling mist burned and pulsed. Barely, through the brightness, Conan could make out Jhandar beyond the pool, arms outspread, his voice echoing like a bronze bell in words beyond understanding. Yet it was the brilliantly shining mass that held his eye, and hammered at him as it did. From those pulsating mists radiated, neither good nor evil, but the antithesis of being, beating at his mind, threatening to shatter all that was in him into a thousand fragments.

Pale images, washed out by the blinding glow, moved at the edge of his vision, then resolved themselves into two of the leather-skinned beings from the grave, sidling toward him along the wall as if they feared that shining. He knew that he must deal with the creatures and reach Jhandar, reach him quickly, before he completed whatever sorceries he was embarked upon, yet within the Cimmerian there was struggle.

Never had he given in while he had strength or means to resist, but a thought strange to him now crept into his mind. Surrender. The mist was overpowering. Then, as if the words were a spark, rage flared in him. As a boy in the icy mountains of Cimmeria he had seen men, caught in an avalanche, hacking at towering waves of snow and dirt as they were swept away, refining to accept the thing that killed them.

He would not surrender. He-would-not surrender!

A wordless scream of primal rage burst from Conan's throat. He spun, swinging his sword like an axe.

Head and trunk of the foremost creature toppled, sliced cleanly from its hips and legs. Jhandar, rang in the Cimmerian's brain, and he was moving even as his steel broke free of that unnatural flesh.

But such a creature could not be slain like a mortal. The upper portion twisted as it fell, seized Conan about the legs, and together they crashed to the stone floor. Jagged teeth slashed Conan's thigh, yet in the beserker rage that gripped him he was as much beast as that he fought. His fisted hilt smashed into the creature's skull, again and again, till he pounded naught but slimy pulp. Yet those mindless arms gripped him still.

And Jhandar's chant continued unabated, as if he were too enmeshed in the Power to even be aware of another's presence.

Claws clattering on marble warned the Cimmerian that the second creature drew near. Wildly, half-blinded by the everbrightening glow, Conan struck out. His blade caught but an ankle, yet the thing stumbled, flailed for balance... and fell shrieking against the shining dome. Lightnings arced and crackled, and the creature was gone.

The way to Jhandar was open. Grim determination limning his icy eyes, Conan crawled. Animal fury burned in his brain. Now the sorcerer would die, if he had to rip out his throat with bared teeth. Yet in a small, sane corner of his mind there was despair. Jhandar's ringing incantation was rising to a crescendo.

The necromancer's foul work would be done before Conan reached him. Powers of darkness would be loosed on the land.

Something about the way the last beast had disappeared tugged at him. It reminded him of... what? The barrier to the Blasted Lands. Feverishly he dug into his pouch-it had to be there!-and drew out the small leather bag of powder Samarra had given him. Almost did he laugh. If nightmares were loosed to walk, still this time Jhandar would not escape. Undoing the rawhide strings that held the bag closed, he carefully tossed it ahead of him, toward the oblivious, chanting sorcerer. On the very edge of the burning dome the bag fell, open, contents spilling broadly. It had to be enough.

"Your vengeance, Samarra," Conan murmured, and slowly, coldly, spoke the words the shamaness had taught him. As the last syllable was pronounced, a shimmer sprang into being above the powder.

Jhandar's words of incantation faltered. For a brief moment he stared at the shimmer. Then he screamed.

"No! Not yet! Not till I am gone!"

Through that shimmer, that weakened area of the wards that held the Pool of the Ultimate, flowed something. The mind could not encompass it, the eye refused to see it. Silver flecks danced in air that was too azure. No more did it seem, yet an ever-deepening channel was etched into the marble floor as it came from the pool. It touched pillars about the circumference of the pool; abruptly half pillars dangled in the air. The ceiling creaked. It washed against a wall, and stones ceased to exist. The wall and part of the ceiling above collapsed. The rubble fell into that inexorable tide of nonexistence, and was not.

Some measure of sanity returned to Conan in the face of that horror. Part of it moved toward him, now.

Desperately he sliced with his broadsword at the undying arms that gripped his legs.

Jhandar turned to run, but as he ran the fringes of that flowing thing touched him. Only the fringes, the outer mists, yet full-throated he screamed, like a woman put to torture or a soul damned. Saffron robes melted like dew, and on his legs flesh disappeared at every touch of that mist. Bone gleamed whitely, and he fell shrieking to match the cries of all the victims he had ever laid on his black altar.

With a groan the far end of the chamber collapsed into vapor, though with less sound than Jhandar's screams. Conan redoubled his efforts, hacking at the tough flesh. The last sinew was severed; the unnatural grip was gone.

As the Cimmerian rolled to his feet and dove for the entrance passage, the invisible silver-flecked tide washed over the spot where he had been. Ignoring his gashed thigh, Conan ran, the sounds of Jhandar shrieking to the gods for mercy echoing in his ears.

When the Cimmerian reached the altar chamber, Sharak was peering down the passage. From a safe distance. "What was that screaming?" the astrologer asked, then added thoughtfully, "It's stopped."

"Jhandar's dead," Conan said, looking for Yasbet. He found her slicing the dead cult member's robes into some sort of garment, using the very dagger Davinia had intended for her heart. The blonde knelt fearfully nearby, bruised but unbloodied, gagged with the remnants of her own golden silks. A strip of the same material bound her hands; another circled her neck as a leash, with the end firmly in Yasbet's grasp.

Suddenly the earth moved. The floor heaved, twisted, and sagged toward the chamber from which Conan had fled.

"It's eating its way into the bowels of the earth," he muttered.

Sharak eyed him quizzically. "It? What? Nothing could-"

Again the ground danced, but this time it did not stop. Lamps crashed from the ceiling, splattering patches of burning oil. Dust rose, beaten into the air by the quivering of the floor, a floor that was tilting more with every heartbeat.

"No time," Conan shouted, grabbing Yasbet's hand. "Run!" And he suited his actions to his words, drawing Yasbet behind him, and perforce Davinia, for the dark-eyed woman would not loosen her grip on the blonde's leash. With surprising swiftness Sharak followed.

Down crumbling halls they ran, past flame-filled rooms, priceless rugs and rare tapestries the fuel. Dust filled the air, and shards of stone from collapsing ceilings.

Then they were outside, into the night, but there was no safety, The rumblings of the ground filled the air as if Erlik himself walked the face of the earth, making it tremble beneath his footsteps. Great trees toppled like weeds, and tall spires fell thunderously in ruin.

Here there were people, hundreds of them, fleeing in all directions, furcapped Hyrkanians mixed with saffron-robed cult members. But safety did not always come with flight. Ahead of him, Conan saw a rift open in the earth beneath the very feet of four running men, three with shaven heads, one in a bulky sheepskin coat. When the Cimmerian reached the spot the ground had closed again, sealing all four in a common tomb.

Other fissures were opening as well, great crevasses that did not close. A tower tilted slowly, shaking with the earth, and slid whole into a great chasm that widened and lengthened even as Conan looked.

At the wall there was no need to climb. Great lengths of it had fallen into rubble. Over those piled stones they scrambled. Conan would not let them slow. Memories of the Blasted Lands drove him on, away from the compound, into the forest surrounding, further and further, till even his great muscles quivered with effort and he half-carried and half-dragged Yasbet and Davinia.

With shocking abruptness the land was still. Dead silence hung in the air. A new sound began, a hissing roar, building.

Hanging onto a tree, Sharak looked a question at Conan.

"The sea," Conan panted. The women stirred tiredly in his encircling grasp. "The fissures have reached the sea."

Behind them the sable sky turned crimson. With a roar, fiery magma erupted, scarlet fountains mixed with roaring geysers of steam as the sea sought the bowels of the earth. The air stirred, became a zephyr, a gale, a whirlwind rushing in to battle with the ultimate void.

Conan tried to hold the women against the force of that wind, but the strength of it grew seemingly without end. One moment he was standing, the next he was down, his hold on the women gone, clutching the ground lest he be sucked back toward the holocaust. Dirt, leaves, branches, even stones, filled the air in a hail.

"Hold on!" he tried to shout to them, but the fury of the wind drove the words back in his teeth.

Then the earth began to heave again. The Cimmerian had only an instant to see a broken branch flying toward him, and then his head seemed to explode into blackness.

Epilogue

Conan woke to daylight. The flat coastal forest had become rolling hills, covered with a tangle of uprooted trees. Yasbet. Scrambling to his feet, he began to pick his way among trees tossed like jackstraws, calling her name without reply. Then, as he topped a hill, he fell silent in amazement.

The hills were not the only change that had been wrought upon the land. A bay now cut into the land, its surface covered thickly with dead fish. Wisps of steam rolled up from that water, and he was ready to wager that despite all of the sea to cool it the waters in that bay would remain hot for all time.

"The compound stood there," a hoarse voice said, and Sharak limped up to stand beside him. Somehow, he saw, the astrologer had kept his staff through all that had occurred. Now he leaned on it tiredly, his tubes torn and his face muddy.

"I do not think fishermen will often cast their nets in those waters," Conan replied. Sharak made a sign against evil. "Have you seen Yasbet?"

The astrologer shook his head. "I have seen many, mainly cult members leaving this place as fast as they can. I have seen Tamur and half a dozen of the Hyrkanians, wanting only to be gone from Turan, yet unsure of their welcome at home. I wager we'll find them in a tavern in Aghrapur. I saw Akman, hurrying west." His voice saddened. "Yasbet, I fear, did not survive."

"I did, too, you old fool," the girl's voice called.

A broad smile appeared on Conan's face as he watched her clamber up the hill, still leading Davinia on her leash, and Akeba following close behind. All three were streaked with mud, a condition the Cimmerian realized for the first time that he shared.

"I lost my sword," she announced when she reached them. A narrow length of saffron was her only garment, affording her little more covering than the tavern girls of Aghrapur, but if anything her costume seemed to add to her jauntiness. "But I'll get another one. You owe me more lessons, Conan." Her smile became mischievous. "In the sword, and other things."

Akeba coughed to hide a grin; Sharak openly leered.

"You'll get your lessons," Conan said. "But why are you still pulling Davinia about? Set her free, or kill her, if that's your wish. You have the right, for she would have killed you."

The blonde's knees buckled. She crouched weeping at Yasbet's feet, her beauty hidden by layers of filth.

"I'll do neither," Yasbet said, after studying the cringing woman. "I'll sell her to a brothel. 'Tis all she's fit for, and a fitting place for her." Davinia moaned into her gag; the horror in her eyes indicated she might rather be slain. "And thus," Yasbet added, "will I get the wherewithal for my sword."

"I am as glad as any to see the rest of you," Akeba said, "but I would as soon be gone from this place."

"Yes," Sharak said excitedly. "I must return to Aghrapur. With the powers of my staff proven, I can double, no, triple my fees. You will attest to it, will you not, Akeba?"

"Attest to what?" the soldier demanded. "Are you making claims about that stick again?"

Offering a helping hand to Yasbet, Conan started down the hill, away from the bay, toward Aghrapur.

"Jhandar called you by another name than Yasbet," he said as she scrambled after him. "What was it?"

"You must have misheard," she told him blandly. "Yasbet is all the name I have." Davinia pressed forward, making urgent sounds at Conan through her gag. Yasbet glared over her shoulder. "Do you want a sound switching before you're sold?" Eyes wide with shock, the blonde fell silent, and thereafter would not even meet the Cimmerian's gaze.

Conan nodded to himself. Clearly Yasbet was lying, but some said that was a woman's right. He would not press her on it.

Snatches of conversation drifted forward from the two men behind.

"If Conan saw it, let him attest to it. I saw nothing."

"But you are a sergeant, an official as it were. Can you not see how much better your word would be?

I'm certain Conan will tell you what he saw."

The smile Conan had worn since seeing Yasbet alive widened even further. For all the days before, there was much to be said for this day. He was alive, with a little gold-he checked his pouch to see if the two coins still rested there; they did-good friends, and a pretty woman. What more could any man ask for?

What more?

The Hand of Nergal

Conan has enjoyed his taste of Hyborian intrigue. It is clear to him that there is no essential difference between the motives of the palace and those of the Rats' Den, whereas the pickings are better in higher places. With his own horse under him and a grubstake from the grateful―and thoughtful―Murilo, the Cimmerian sets out to look over the civilized world, with an eye to making it his oyster.

The Road of Kings, which winds through the Hyborian kingdoms, at last leads him eastward into Turan, where he takes service in the armies of King Yildiz. He does not at first find military services congenial, being too self-willed and hot-tempered to submit easily to discipline.

Moreover, being at this time an indifferent horseman and archer, in a force of which the mounted bowman is the mainstay, he is relegated to a low-paid, irregular unit. Soon, however, a chance arises to show his true mettle.

1. Black Shadows

"Crom!"

The oath was torn from the young warrior's grim-set lips. He threw back his head, sending his tousled shock of black hair flying, and lifted his smouldering blue eyes skyward. They widened in sheer astonishment.

An eery thrill of superstitious awe ran through his tall, powerfully-built body, which was burnt brown by fierce wasteland suns, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, lean of waist, long of leg, and naked save for a rag of cloth about his loins and high-strapped sandals.

He had entered the battle mounted, as one of a troop of irregular cavalry. But his horse, given him by the nobleman Murilo in Corinthia, had fallen to the foemen's arrows at the first onset and the youth had fought on afoot. His shield had been smashed by the enemy's blows: he had cast it aside and battled with sword alone.

Above, from the sunset-smouldering sky of this bleak, wind-swept Turanian steppe, where two great armies were locked in a fury of desperate battle, came horror.

The field was drenched in sunset fires and bathed in human blood. Here the mighty host of Yildiz, king of Turan, in whose army the youth served as a mercenary, had fought for five long hours against the iron-shod legions of Munthassem Khan, rebellious satrap of the Zamorian Marches of northern Turan. Now, circling slowly downwards from the crimson sky, came nameless things whose like the barbarian had never seen or heard of before in all his travels. They were black, shadowy monsters, hovering on broad, arch-ribbed wings like enormous bats.

The two armies fought on, unseeing. Only Conan, here on this low hill, ringed about with the bodies of men his sword had slain, saw them descending through the sunset sky.

Leaning on his dripping blade and resting his sinewy arms for a moment, he stared at the weird shadow-things. For they seemed to be more shadow than substance―translucent to the sight, like wisps of noisome black vapor or the shadowy ghosts of gigantic vampire bats. Evil, slitted eyes of green flame glared through their smoky forms.

And even as he watched, nape-hairs prickling with a barbarian's dread of the supernatural, they fell upon the battle like vultures on a field of blood―fell and slew.

Screams of pain and fear rose from the host of King Yildiz, as the black shadows hurtled amongst their ranks. Wherever the shadow-devils swooped, they left a bloody corpse. By the hundred they came, and the weary ranks of the Turanian army fell back, stumbling, tossing away their weapons in panic.

"Fight, you dogs! Stand and fight!" Thundering angry commands in a stern voice, a tall, commanding figure on a great black mare sought to hold the crumbling line. Conan glimpsed the sparkles of silver-gilt chain mail under a rich blue cloak, and a hawk-nosed, black-bearded face, kingly and harsh under a spired steel helm that caught the crimson sun like a polished mirror. He knew the man for King Yildiz'

general, Bakra of Akif.

With a ringing oath, the proud commander drew his tulwar and laid about him with the flat of the blade. Perhaps he could have rallied the ranks, but one of the devil-shadows swooped on him from behind. It folded vaporous, filming wings about him in a grisly embrace and he stiffened. Conan could see his face, suddenly pale with staring, frozen eyes of fear―and he saw the features through the enveloping wings, like a white mask behind a veil of thin, black lace.

The general's horse went mad and bolted in terror. But the phantom-thing plucked the general from his saddle. For a moment it bore him in mid-air on slowly beating wings, then let him fall, a torn and bloody thing in dripping rags. The face, which had stared at Conan through shadowy wings with eyes of glazing terror, was a red ruin. Thus ended the career of Bakra of Akif.

And thus ended his battle, as well.

With its commander gone, the army went mad. Conan saw seasoned veterans, with a score of campaigns under their belts, run shrieking from the field like raw recruits. He saw proud nobles fly screaming like craven serfs. And behind them, untouched by the flying phantoms, grinning with victory, the hosts of the rebel satrap pressed their weirdly-won advantage. The day was lost―unless one strong man should stand firm and rally the broken host by his example.

Before the foremost of the fleeing soldiers rose suddenly a figure so grim and savage that it checked their headlong, panic-stricken flight.

"Stand, you fatherless curs, or by Crom I'll fill your craven bellies with a foot of steel!"

It was the Cimmerian mercenary, his dark face like a grim mask of stone, cold as death. Fierce eyes under black, scowling brows, blazed with volcanic rage. Naked, splattered from head to heel with reeking gore, he held a mighty longsword in one great, scarred fist. His voice was like the deep growl of thunder.

"Back, if you set any value on your sniveling lives, you white-livered dogs―back―or I'll spill your cowardly guts at your feet! Lift that scimitar against me, you Hyrkanian pig, and I'll tear out your heart with my bare hands and make you eat it before you die. What! Are you women, to fly from shadows? But a moment ago, you were men―aye, fighting-men of Turan! You stood against foes armed with naked steel and fought them face to face. Now you turn and ran like children from night-shadows, faugh! It makes me proud to be a barbarian―to see you city-bred weaklings cringe before a flight of bats!"

For a moment he held them―but for a moment only. A black-winged nightmare swooped upon him, and he―even he―stepped back from its grim, shadowy wings and the stench of its fetid breath.

The soldiers fled, leaving Conan to fight the thing alone. And fight he did. Setting his feet squarely, he swung the great sword, pivoting on slim hips, with the full strength of back, shoulders, and mighty arms behind the blow.

The sword flashed in a whistling arc of steel, cleaving the phantom in two. But it was, as he had guessed, a thing without substance, for his sword encountered no more resistance than the empty air. The force of the blow swung him off balance, and he fell sprawling on the stony plain.

Above him, the shadowy thing hovered. His sword had torn a great rent through it, as a man's hand breaks a thread of rising smoke. But, even as he watched, the vapory body reformed. Eyes like sparks of green hell-fire blazed down at him, alive with a horrible mirth and an inhuman hunger.

"Crom! Conan gasped. It may have been a curse, but it sounded almost like a prayer.

He sought to lift the sword again, but it fell from nerveless hands.

The instant the sword had slashed through the black shadow, it had gone cold, with an aching, stony, bone-deep chill like the interstellar gulfs that yawn blackly beyond the farthest stars.

The shadow-bat hovered on slowly beating wings, as if gloating over its fallen victim or savoring his superstitious fear.

With strengthless hands, Conan fumbled at his waist, where a strip of rawhide bound his loincloth to his middle. There a thin dagger hung beside a pouch. His fumbling fingers found the pouch, not the dagger hilt, and touched something smooth and warm within the leathern bag.

Suddenly, Conan jerked his hand away as a tingling electric warmth tore through his nerves. His fingers had brushed against that curious amulet he had found yesterday, when they lay encamped at Bahari. And, in touching the smooth stone, a strange force had been released.

The bat-thing veered suddenly away from him. A moment before, it had hovered so close that his flesh had crawled beneath the unearthly chill that seemed to radiate from its ghostly form. Now it tore madly away from him, wings beating in a frenzy.

Conan dragged himself to his knees, fighting the weakness that pervaded his limbs. First, the ghastly cold of the shadow's touch―then the tingling warmth that had seethed through his naked body. Between these two conflicting forces, he felt his strength draining away. His vision blurred; his mind wavered on the brink of darkness. Fiercely, he shook his head to clear his wits and gazed about him.

"Mitra! Crom and Mitra! Has the whole world gone mad?"

The grisly host of flying terrors had driven the army of General Bakra from the field, or slain those that did not flee fast enough. But the grinning host of Munthassem Khan they had not touched―had ignored, almost as if the soldiers of Yaralet and the shadowy nightmare-things had been partners in some unholy alliance of black sorcery.

But now it was the warriors of Yaralet who fled screaming before the shadowy vampires. Both armies broken and fled―had the world indeed gone mad, Conan wildly asked of the sunset sky?

As for the Cimmerian, strength and consciousness drained from him suddenly. He fell forward into black oblivion.

2. Field of Blood

The sun flamed like a crimson coal on the horizon. It glowered across the silent battlefield like the one red eye that blazes madly in a Cyclops's misshapen brow. Silent as death, strewn with the wreckage of war, the battlefield stretched grim and still in the lurid rays. Here and there amidst the sprawled, unmoving bodies, scarlet pools of congealing gore lay like calm lakes reflecting the red-streamered sky.

Dark, furtive figures moved in the tall grasses, snuffling and whining at the heaped and scattered corpses. Their humped shoulders and ugly, doglike snouts marked them as hyenas from the steppes. For them, the battlefield would be a banquet table.

Down from the flaming sky flapped ungainly, black-winged vultures, come to feast on the slain. The grisly birds of prey dropped upon the mangled bodies with a rustle of dusky wings. But for these carrion-eaters, nothing moved on the silent, bloody field. It was still as death itself. No rumble of chariot wheels or peal of brazen trumpets broken the unearthly silence. The stillness of the dead followed fast on the thunder of battle.

Like eery harbingers of Fate, a wavering line of herons flapped slowly away down the sky toward the reed-grown banks of the river Nezvaya, whose turgid flood glinted dully crimson in the last light. Beyond the further shore, the black, walled bulk of the city of Yaralet loomed like a mountain of ebony into the dusk.

Yet one figure moved through that wide-strewn field of ruin, pygmylike against the glowing coals of sunset. It was the young Cimmerian giant with the wild black mane and the smouldering blue eyes. The black wings of interstellar cold had brushed him but lightly; life had stirred and consciousness returned. He wandered to and fro across the black field, limping slightly, for there was a ghastly wound in his thigh, taken in the fury of battle and only noticed and crudely bandaged as he had recovered consciousness and moved to arise.

Carefully yet impatiently he moved among the dead, bloody as were they.

He was splashed with gore from head to foot, and the great sword he trailed in his right hand was stained crimson to the hilt. Bone-weary was Conan, and his gullet was desert-dry. He ached from a score of wounds―mere cuts and scratches, save for the great slash on his thigh―and he lusted for a skin of wine and a platter of beef.

As he prowled among the bodies, limping from corpse to corpse, he growled like a hungry wolf, swearing wrathfully. He had come into this Turanian war as a mercenary, owning naught but his horse―now slain―and the great sword in his hand. Now that the battle was lost, the war was ended, and he was marooned alone in the midst of the enemy land, he had at least hoped to loot the fallen of some choice pieces of gear they would no longer need. A gemmed dagger, a gold bracelet, a silver breastplate―a few such baubles and he could bribe his way out of the reach of Munthassem Khan and return to Zamora with a grubstake.

Others had been here before him, either thieves slinking from the shadowy city or soldiers who crept back to the field from which they had fled. For the field was stripped; there was nothing left but broken swords, splintered javelins, dented helms and shields. Conan glared out across the littered plain, cursing sulphurously. He had lain in his swoon too long; even the looters had left. He was like the wolf who lingers so late at his blood-letting that jackals have stripped the prey; in this case, human jackals.

Straightening up from his fruitless quest, he gave over the search with the fatalism of the true barbarian. Time now to think of a plan. Brows knotted, scowling in thought, he glanced uncertainly afar off across the darkening plain. The square, flat-roofed towers of Yaralet stood black and solid against the dying gleam of sunset. No hope of refuge there, for one who had fought under the banners of King Yildiz! Yet no city, friend or enemy, lay nearer. And Yildiz's capital of Aghrapur was hundreds of leagues south…

Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the approach of the great black figure until a faint, shuddering neigh reached his ears. He turned swiftly, favoring his injured leg, lifting the longsword threateningly―then relaxed, grinning.

"Crom! You startled me. So I am not the only survivor, eh?" Conan chuckled.

The tall black mare stood trembling, gazing at the naked giant with wide, frightened eyes. It was the same mount that General Bakra had ridden―he who lay somewhere on the field, sprawled in a puddle of blood.

The mare whinnied, grateful for the sound of a friendly human voice.

Although not a horseman, Conan could see that she was in sad condition.

Her sides heaved, lathered with the sweat of fear, and her long legs trembled with exhaustion. The devil-bats had struck terror into her heart, too, Conan thought grimly. He spoke soothingly, calming her, and stepped gingerly nearer until he could reach out and stroke the panting beast, gentling her into submission.

In his far northern homeland, horses were rare. To the penniless barbarians of the Cimmerian tribes from whose loins he was sprung, only the chief of great wealth owned a fine steed, or the bold warrior who had taken one in battle. But despite his ignorance of the fine points of horsemanship, Conan quieted the great black mare and vaulted into the saddle. He sat astride the horse, fumbling with the reins, and rode slowly off the field, now a swamp of inky blackness in the darkness of night. He felt better. There were provisions in the saddlebags, and with a strong mare between his thighs he had a good chance of making it alone across the bleak and barren tundras to the borders of Zamora.

3. Hildico

A low, tortured moan reached his ears.

Conan jerked the reins, drawing the black mare to a halt, and peered about him suspiciously in the deep gloom. His scalp prickled in superstitious dread at the eery sound. Then he shrugged and spat an oath. No night-phanton, no hunting ghoul of the wastes; that was a cry of pain. This meant that still a third survivor of the doomed battle yet drew breath. And a living man might be presumed to be unlooted.

He swung from the saddle, wrapping the reins about the spokes of a broken chariot wheel. The cry had come from the left; here at the very edge of the battlefield, a wounded survivor might well have escaped the cunning eye of looters. Conan might ride into Zamora with a pouchful of gems yet.

The Cimmerian limped toward the source of the quavering moan, which came from the margin of the plain. He parted the straggling reeds that grew in shaggy clumps along the banks of the slow river and glared down at a pale figure, which writhed feebly at his very feet. It was a girl.

She lay there, half-naked, her white limbs cut and bruised. Blood was clotting in the foaming curls of her long, black hair, like a chain of rubies. There was unseeing agony in her lustrous dark eyes, and she moaned in delirium.

The Cimmerian stood looking down at her, noting almost absently the lithe beauty of her limbs and the rounded, lush young breasts. He was puzzled―what was a girl like this, a mere child, doing on a battlefield? She had not the sullen, flamboyant, sullied look of a camp trull about her. Her slim and graceful body denoted breeding, even nobility. Baffled, he shook his head, black mane swinging against brawny shoulders. At his feet, the girl stirred.

"The Heart…the Heart… of Tammuz … O Master!" she cried softly, her dark head turning restlessly from side to side, babbling as one in a fever.

Conan shrugged, and his eyes clouded momentarily by what, in another man, would have been an expression of pity. Wounded to the death, he thought grimly, and he lifted his sword to put the wench out of her misery.

As the blade hovered above her white breast, she whimpered again like a child in pain. The great sword halted in mid-air, and the Cimmerian stood for an instant, motionless as a bronze statue.

Then, in sudden decision, he slammed the sword back in its sheath and bent, lifting the girl effortlessly in his mighty arms. She struggled blindly, weakly, moaning in half-conscious protest.

Carrying her with careful tenderness, he limped toward the reed-masked riverbank and lay her down gently on the dry, cushioning reeds. Filling his cupped palms with river water, the barbarian bathed her white face and cleansed her cuts as gently as a mother might tend her child.

Her wounds proved superficial, mere bruises, save for the cut on her brow. And even that, although it had bled heavily, was far from mortal.

Conan grunted with relief and bathed the girl's face and brow with cold, clear water. Then, awkwardly pillowing her head against his chest, he dribbled some of the water between her half-parted lips. She gasped, choked a little, and came awake―staring up at him from eyes like dark stars, clouded with bewilderment and the shadows of fear.

"Who―what―the bats!"

"They are gone now, girl," he said gruffly. "You have naught to fear.

Came you hither from Yaralet?"

"Yes―yes―but who are you?"

"Conan, a Cimmerian. What is a lass like you doing on a battlefield?"

he demanded.

But she seemed not to hear. Her brow frowned a little, as one in thought, and half under her breath she repeated his name.

"Conan―Conan―yes, that was the name!" Wonderingly she lifted her gaze to his scarred, brown face. "It was you I was sent to seek. How strange that you should find me!"

"And who sent you to seek me, wench?" he rumbled suspiciously.

"I am Hildico, a Brythunian, slave to the House of Atalis the Far-seeing, who dwells yonder in Yaralet. My master sent me in secret to move among the warriors of King Yildiz, to seek one Conan, a mercenary of Cimmeria, and to bring him by a private way to his house within the city. You are the man I seek!"

"Aye? And what does your master want with me?"

The girl shook her dark head. "That I know not! But he said to tell you that he means no harm, and that much gold can be yours, if you will come."

"Gold, eh?" he mused, speculatively, helping her to her feet and steadying her with a brawny arm about her slim white shoulders as she staggered weakly.

"Yes. But I came not to the field in time to seek you before the battle. So I hid in the reeds along the river's edge to avoid the warriors. And then―the bats! Suddenly they were everywhere, swooping upon the fallen, killing― and one horseman fled from them into the reeds, trampling me under his hooves unawares―"

"What of this horseman?"

"Dead," she shuddered. "A bat tore him from the saddle and let his corpse fall into the river. I swooned, for in its panic, the horse struck me…" She lifted one small hand to her gashed brow.

"Lucky you were not slain," he growled. "Well, lass, we shall visit this master of yours, to learn what he wants of Conan―and how he knows my name!"

"You will come?" she asked breathlessly. He laughed and, vaulting astride the black mare, lifted her to the saddlebow before him with powerful arms.

"Aye! I am alone, amid enemies, in an alien land. My employment ended when Bakra's army was destroyed. Why should I scruple to meet a man who has picked me from ten thousand warriors, and who offers gold?"

They rode across the shallow ford of the river and across the gloom-drenched plain towards Yaralet, stronghold of Munthassem Khan.

And Conan's heart, which never beat more joyously than when thrilled with the promise of excitement and adventure, sang.

4. The House of Atalis

A strange conclave was taking place in the small, velvet-hung, taper-lit chamber of Atalis, whom some men called a philosopher, others a seer, and others a rogue.

This figure of mystery was a slender man of medium height, with a splendid head and the ascetic features of a dedicated scholar, yet in his smooth face and keen eyes was something of the shrewd merchant. He was clad in a plain robe of rich fabric, and his head was shaven to denote devotion to study and the arts. As he talked in low tones with his companion, a third viewer―had any been present―might have observed something strange and curious about him. For Atalis, as he conversed, gestured with his left hand only. His right arm lay stretched across his lap at an unnatural angle. And from time to time his calm, clever features were hideously contorted with a sudden spasm of intense pain, at which time his right foot, hidden under his long robes, would twist back excruciatingly upon his ankle.

His companion was one whom the city of Yaralet knew and praised as Prince Than, scion of an ancient and noble house of Turan. The prince was a tall, lithe man, young and undeniably handsome. The firm, clean outline of his soldierly limbs and the steely quality of his cool gray eyes belied the foppishness of his curled and scented black locks and jewelled cloak.

Beside Atalis, who sat in a high-backed chair of dark wood carven by intricate skill with leering gargoyles and grinning faces, stood a small table of ebony inlaid with yellow ivory. Upon this rested a huge fragment of green crystal, as large as a human head. It flickered with a weird inward glow, and from time to time the philosopher would break off his low conversation to peer deeply within the glitterinp stone.

"Will she find him? And will he come?" Prince Than said, despairingly.

"He will come."

"But every moment that passes increases our danger. Even now Munthassem Khan may be watching, and it is dangerous for us to be together…"

"Munthassem Khan lies drugged with the dream lotus, for the Shadows of Nergal were abroad in the hour of sunset," said the philosopher. "And some danger we must risk, if ever the city is to be freed of this bloody-handed scourge!" His features knotted sickeningly in an involuntary grimace of intolerable pain, and then smoothed out again.

He said grimly, "And you know, O Prince, how little time is left to us.

Desperate measures for desperate men!"

Suddenly the prince's handsome face contorted with panic and he turned upon Atalis with eyes suddenly gone dead as cold marble. Almost as swiftly, light and animation returned to his gaze, and he sank back in his chair, pale and sweating.

"Very―little―time!" he gasped.

A hidden gong rang softly, somewhere within the dark and silent house of Atalis the Far-seeing. The philosopher raised his left hand to check the prince's involuntary start.

A moment later, one of the velvet wall-hangings drew aside, revealing a hidden door. And within the door, like a bloody apparition, stood the giant form of Conan with the half-fainting girl leaning on his arm.

With a little cry, the philosopher sprang to his feet and went toward the grim Cimmerian. "Welcome―thrice welcome, Conan! Come, enter. Here is wine―food―"

He gestured to a tabouret against the further wall and took the fainting girl from Conan. The Cimmerian's nostrils widened like those of some famished wolf at the scent of the food; but also, like a wolf, suspicious, wary of a trap, his smouldering blue eyes raked the smiling philosopher and the pale prince, and pried into every corner of the small chamber.

"See to the wench. She was trampled by a horse but brought me your message," he growled, and without ceremony he swaggered across the room, and poured and drained a goblet of strong red wine. Tearing a plump leg from a platter of roast fowl, he chewed hungrily. Atalis tugged a bell-rope and gave the girl into the keeping of a silent slave, who appeared from behind another hanging as if by magic.

"Now, what is this all about?" the Cimmerian demanded, seating himself on a low bench and wincing from the pain of his gashed thigh. "Who are you? How do you know my name? And what do you want of me?"

"We have time for talk, but later," Atalis replied. "Eat, drink, and rest You are wounded―"

"Crom take all this delay! We shall talk now."

"Very well. But you must let me cleanse and bind your wound while we talk!"

The Cimmerian shrugged impatiently and yielded with poor grace to the philosopher's swift ministrations. As Atalis sponged his gashed thigh, smeared the gaping wound with a scented salve, and bound it with a strip of clean cloth, Conan appeased his hunger by wolfing down the cold spiced meat and drinking deeply of the red wine.

"I know you, although we have never met," Atalis began in a smooth, soft voice, "because of my crystal―there, on yonder stand by the chair.

Within its depths I can see and hear for a hundred leagues."

"Sorcery?" Conan spat sourly, having the warrior's contempt for all such magical mummery.

"If you like," Atalis smiled ingratiatingly. "But I am no sorcerer―only a seeker after knowledge. A philosopher, some men call me―" His smile twisted into a terrible grin of agony, and with prickling scalp Conan watched the philosopher stagger as his foot bent horribly.

"Crom! Are you sick, man?"

Gasping from the pain, Atalis sank into his high-backed chair. "Not sick―cursed. By this fiend who rules us with a dread sceptre of hell-born magic…"

"Munthassem Khan?"

Atalis nodded wearily. "That I am no sorcerer has spared my life―thus far. For the satrap slew all wizards in Yaralet; I, being but a humble philosopher, he let live. Yet he suspects that I know something of the Black Arts and has cursed me with this deadly scourge. It withers up my body and tortures my nerves, and will end in a convulsion of death, ere long!" He gestured at the unnaturally twisted limb that lay lifeless across his lap.

Prince Than gazed with wild eyes at Conan. "I, too, have been cursed by this hell-spawn, for that I am next to Munthassem Khan in rank and he thinks I may desire his throne. Me he has tortured in another way: a sickness of the brain―spasms of blindness that come and go―which will end by devouring my brain and leaving me a mindless, sightless, mewling thing!"

"Crom!" Conan swore softly. The philosopher gestured.

"You are our only hope! You alone can save our city from this black-hearted devil that torments and plagues us!"

Conan stared at him blankly. "I? But I am no wizard, man! What a warrior can do with cold steel, I can do; but how can I combat this devil's magic?"

"Listen, Conan of Cimmeria. I will tell you a strange and awful tale…"

5. The Hand of Nergal

In the city of Yaralet (said Atalis) when night falls, the people bar their windows, bolt their doors, and sit shuddering behind these barriers, praying in terror with candles burning before their household gods till the clean, wholesome light of dawn etches the squat towers of the city with living fire against the paling skies.

No archers guard the gates. No watchmen stride the lonely streets. No thief steals nimbly through the winding alleys, nor do painted sluts simper and beckon from the dark shadows. For in Yaralet, rogues and honest folk alike shun the night-shadows: thief, beggar, assassin, and bedizened wench seek haven in foul-smelling dens or dim-lit taverns.

From dusk to dawn, Yaralet is a city of silence, her black ways empty and desolate.

It was not always thus. Once this was a bright and prosperous city, bustling with commerce, with shops and bazaars, filled with happy people who lived under the strong hand of a wise and gentle satrap―Munthassem Khan. He taxed them lightly, ruling with justice and mercy, busy with his private collection of antiquities and in the study of these ancient objects which absorbed his keen, questing mind. The caravans of slow-pacing camels that wound from the Desert Gate bore always with them, amongst the merchants, his agents seeking for rare and curious oddities to purchase for their master's private museum.

Then he changed, and a terrible shadow fell over Yaralet. The satrap was like one under a powerful and evil spell. Where he had been kind, he became cruel. Where generous, greedy. Where just and merciful, secretive, tyrannical, and savage.

Suddenly, the city guard seized men―nobles, wealthy merchants, priests, magicians―who vanished into the pits beneath the satrap's palace, never to be seen again.

Some whispered that a caravan from the far south had brought to him something from the depths of demon-haunted Stygia. Few had glimpsed it, and of those one said shudderingly that the thing was carven with strange, uncouth hieroglyphs like those seen on the dusty Stygian tombs. It seemed to cast an evil spell over the satrap, and it lent him amazing powers of black sorcery. Weird forces shielded him from those despairing patriots who sought to slay him. Strange crimson lights blazed in the windows of a tall tower of his palace, where men whispered that he had converted an empty suite into a grim temple to some dark and bloody god.

And terror walked the streets of nighted Yaralet, as if summoned from the realm of death by some awesome, devil-purchased lore.

Exactly what they feared at night, the people did not know. But it was no vain dream against which they soon came to bolt their doors. Men hinted at slinking, batlike forms glimpsed from barred windows―of hovering, shadowy horrors alien to human knowledge, deadly to human sanity. Tales spread of doorways splintered in the night, of sudden unearthly cries and shrieks torn from human throats―followed by significant, and utter, silence. And they dared to tell of the rising sun illuminating broken doors that swung in houses suddenly and unaccountably empty…

The thing from Stygia was the Hand of Nergal.

"It looks," said Atalis softly, "like a clawed hand carven of old ivory, worked all over with weird glyphs in a forgotten tongue. The claws clasp a sphere of shadowy, dim crystal. I know that the satrap has it: I have seen it here" ―he gestured―"in my crystal. For, although no enchanter, I have learned some of the Dark Arts."

Conan stirred restlessly. "And you know of this thing?"

Atalis smiled faintly. "Know of it? Aye! Old books speak of it and whisper the dark legend of its bloody history. The blind seer who penned the Book of Skelos knew it well… Nergal's Hand they name it, shudderingly. They say it fell from the stars into the sunset isles of the uttermost west, ages upon ages before King Kull rose to bring the Seven Empires beneath his single standard. Centuries and ages beyond thought have rolled across the world since first bearded Pictish fishermen drew it dripping from the deep and stared wonderingly into its shadowy fires! They bartered it to greedy Atlantean merchants, and it passed east across the world. The withered, hoary-bearded mages of elder Thule and dark Grondar probed its mysteries in their towers of purple and silver. The serpent men of shadow-haunted Valusia peered into its glimmering depths. With it, Kom-Yazoth whelmed the Thirty Kings until the Hand turned upon and slew him. For the Book of Skelos says the Hand brings two gifts unto its possessor―first, power beyond all limit―then, death beyond all despair."

Only the calm voice of the philosopher droned through the hushed room, but the black-headed warrior thought he could hear, as in a dream, the faint echo of thundering chariots, the clash of steel, the cry of tormented kings drowned in the clangor of collapsing empires…

"When all of the elder world was broken in the Cataclysm and the green sea rolled in restless fathoms above the shattered spires of lost Atlantis, and the nations sank one by one in red ruin, the Hand passed from the knowledge of men. For three thousand years the Hand slept, but when the young kingdoms of Koth and Ophir awoke and slowly emerged from the murk of barbarism, the talisman was found. The dark wizard-kings of grim Acheron plumbed its secrets, and when the lusty Hyborians broke that cruel kingdom beneath their heel, it passed southwards into dusty Stygia, where the bloody priests of that black land set it to terrible purposes in rites of which I dare not speak. It fell, when some swarthy sorceror was slain, and was buried with him, sleeping away the centuries… but now tomb robbers have roused the Hand of Nergal again, and it has come into the possession of Munthassem Khan. The temptation of ultimate and absolute power, which it holds out to all, has corrupted him, as countless others have been corrupted, who fell beneath its insidious spell. I fear me, Cimmerian, for all these lands, now that the Demon's Hand wakes and dark forces walk the earth again…"

Atalis' voice died away in whispering silence, and Conan growled uneasily, bristling.

"Well… Crom, man, what have I to do with such matters?" he rumbled.

"You alone can destroy the influence of the talisman over the satrap's mind!"

The smouldering blue eyes widened. "How?"

"You alone possess the counter-talisman."

"I? You are mad―I hold no truck with amulets and suchlike magical trash―!"

Atalis stilled him with a lifted palm. "Did you not find a curious golden object before the battle?" he queried, softly. Conan started.

"Aye, that I did―at Bahari, yestereve, as we lay in camp―" He plunged one hand into his pocket-pouch and drew out the smooth, glowing stone.

The philosopher and the prince stared at it, drawing in their breaths.

"The Heart of Tammuz! Yes, the counter-talisman in very truth―!"

Heart-shaped it was, and large as a child's fist, worked in golden amber or perhaps rare yellow jade. It lay there in the Cimmerian's hand, glowing with soft fires, and he remembered with a prickling of awe how the healing, tingling warmth of it had driven from his body the supernatural chill of the bat-winged shadows.

"Come, Conan! We shall accompany you. There is a secret passageway from this my chamber into the satrap's hall―an underground tunnel like that by which my slave, Hildico, led you under the city streets into my house. You, armed with the protection of the Heart, shall slay Munthassem Khan, or destroy the Hand of Nergal. There is no danger, for he lies deep in a magical slumber, which comes upon him whenever he has need to summon forth the Shadows of Nergal, as he has already done this night to overwhelm the Turanian army of King Yildiz. Come!"

Conan strode to the table and drained the last of the wine. Then, shrugging, muttering an oath to Crom, he followed the limping seer and the slim prince into a dark opening behind an arras.

In a moment they were gone, and the chamber lay empty and silent as a grave. The only motion came from flickering lights within the green, jagged crystal beside the chair. Within its depths one could see the small figure of Munthassem Khan, lying in a drugged sleep within his mighty hall.

6. The Heart of Tammuz

They strode through endless darkness. Water dripped from the roof of the rock-hewn tunnel, and now and then the red eyes of rats gleamed at them from the tunnel's floor, gleamed and were gone with squeaks of rage as the small scavengers fled before the footsteps of the strange beings who invaded their subterranean domain.

Atalis went first, trailing his one good hand along the wet, uneven cavern wall.

"I would not set this task on you, my young friend," he was saying in a low whisper. "But it was into your hands the Heart of Tammuz fell, and I sense a purpose―a destiny―in its choice. There is an affinity between opposed forces, such as the Dark Power we symbolize as 'Nergal' and the Power of Light we call Tammuz.' The Heart awoke and, in some manner beyond knowledge, caused itself to be found; for the Hand was also awake and working its dread purpose. Thus I commend you to this task, for the Powers seem to have singled you for this deed― hush! We are beneath the palace now. We are almost there―" He drew ahead and stroked one delicate hand over the rough surface of rock that closed off the passage. A mass of rock swung silently aside on secret counterweights.

Light burst upon them.

They stood at one end of a vast, shadow-filled hall whose high, vaulted roof was lost in darkness overhead. In the center of the hall, which was otherwise empty save for rows of mighty columns, stood a square dais, and upon the dais, a massive throne of black marble, and upon the throne―Munthassem Khan.

He was of middle years, but thin and wasted, gaunt to the point of emaciation. Paper-white, unhealthy flesh and shrunken upon his skull-like face, and dark circles shadowed his hollow eyes. Clasped across his chest as he lay sprawled in the throne, he held an ivory rod, like a sceptre. Its end was worked into a demon's claw, grasping a smoky crystal that pulsed like a living heart with slow fires. Beside the throne, a dish of brass smoked with a narcotic incense: the dream lotus whose fumes empowered the sorcerer to release the shadow-demons of Nergal. Atalis tugged at Conan's arm.

"See―he still sleeps! The Heart will protect you. Seize the ivory Hand from him, and all his power will be gone!" Conan growled reluctant consent, and started forward, his naked sword in one hand. There was something about this that he did not like. It was too easy…

"Ah, gentlemen. I have been expecting you."

On the dais, Munthassem Khan smiled down at them as they froze in astonishment. His tones were gentle, but a fury of mad rage flamed in his sick eyes. He lifted the ivory sceptre of power, he gestured…

The lights flickered eerily. And suddenly, shockingly, the limping seer screamed. His muscles contorted in a spasm of unendurable agony. He fell forward on the marble flags, writhing in pain.

"Crom!"

Prince Than plucked at his rapier, but a gesture of the magic Hand stayed him. His eyes went blank and dead. Icy sweat started from his paling brow. He shrieked and sank to his knees, clawing frantically at his brow as pangs of blinding pain tore through his brain.

"And you, my young barbarian!"

Conan sprang. He moved like a striking panther, burly limbs a blur of speed. He was upon the first step of the dais before Munthassem Khan could move. His sword flashed up, wavered, and fell from strengthless hands. A wave of arctic cold numbed his limbs. It radiated from the cloudy gem within the ivory claw. He gasped for breath.

The burning eyes of Munthassem Khan blazed into his. The skull-like face chuckled with a ghastly imitation of mirth.

"The Heart protects, in very truth―but only him who knows how to invoke its power!" the satrap gloated, chuckling as the Cimmerian strove to summon strength into his iron limbs again. Conan set his jaw and fought grimly, savagely against the tide of chill and fetid darkness that poured in black rays from the demonic crystal and slowly blurred his mind. Strength drained from his limbs as wine from a slashed wineskin; he sank to his knees, then slumped at the foot of the dais. He felt his consciousness shrink to a tiny, lone point of light lost in a vast abyss of roaring darkness; the last spark of will wavered like a candle-flame in a gale. Hopeless, yet with the fierce, indominable determination of his savage breed, he fought on…

7. Heart and Hand

A woman screamed. Startled, Munthassem Khan jerked at the unexpected sound. His attention flickered away from Conan―his focus broke―and in that brief instant the slim white form of a nude girl with dark flashing eyes and a black torrent of foaming curls ran on swift feet across the pave from the shadow of a column to the side of the helpless Cimmerian.

Through the roaring haze, Conan gaped at her. Hildico?

Swift as thought, she knelt by his side. One white hand dipped into his pouch and emerged, clutching the Heart of Tammuz. She sprang lithely to her feet and hurled the counter-talisman at Munthassem Khan.

It caught him full between the eyes with an audible thud. Eyes filming, he sank bonelessly into the cushioned embrace of his black throne. The Hand of Nergal slid from nerveless fingers to clank against the marble step.

In the instant the talisman fell from the satrap's grip, the spell that bound Atalis and Prince Than in webs of scarlet agony snapped. Pale, shaken, exhausted, they were whole. And Conan's mighty strength poured back into his sprawled body. Cursing, he leapt to his feet. One hand caught Hildico's rounded shoulder and spun her away, out of danger, while with his other he snatched up his sword from the marble pave.

Poised, he was ready to strike.

But he stopped, blinking with astonishment. At either side of the satrap's body lay the two talismans. And from both arose weird shapes of force.

From the Hand of Nergal, a darkly shimmering web of evil radiance spread―a glow of darkness, like the sheen of polished ebony. The foetor of the Pit was its unholy breath, and the bone-deep chill of interstellar space was its blighting touch. Before its subtle advance, the orange glare of the torches faded. It grew larger, fringed with writhing tentacles of radiant blackness.

But a nimbus of golden glory strengthened about the Heart of Tammuz and rose, forming a cloud of dazzling amber fire. The warmth of a thousand honey-hearted springs flowed from it, negating the arctic chill, and shafts of rich gold light cleaved the inky web of Nergal. The two cosmic forces met and fought. From this battle of the gods, Conan retreated with reluctant steps, joining his shaken comrades. He stood with them, staring with awe at the unimaginable conflict. Trembling, the nude form of Hildico shrank into the shelter of his arm.

"How did you get here, girl?" he demanded. She smiled wanly, with frightened eyes.

"I awoke, recovering from my swoon, and came into the Master's chamber, Ending it empty. But within the Master's crystal of seership I saw your simulacra enter the satrap's hall and watched as he awoke and faced you. I, I followed―and finding you in his power, chanced all on a try for the Heart…"

"Lucky for all that you did," Conan acknowledged grimly. Atalis clutched his arm.

"Look!

The golden fog of Tammuz was now a giant, flashing figure of intolerable light, dimly manlike in configuration but huge as those Colossi hewn from the stone cliffs of Shem by age-forgotten hands.

The dark shape of Nergal, too, had swelled into giant proportions. It was now a vast, ebon thing, brutal, hulking, misshapen, more like to some stupendous ape than manlike. In the foggy hump that was its brutlelike head, slitted eyes of malignant fire blazed like emerald stars.

The two forces came together with a thunderous, shattering roar like colliding worlds. The very walls shook at the fury of their meeting.

Some half-forgotten sense within their flesh told the four that titanic cosmic forces strove and fought. The air was filled with the bitter stench of ozone. Foot-long sparks of electric fire crackled and snapped through the roiling fury as the golden god and the shadowy demon came together.

Shafts of unendurable brilliance tore through the clotted, struggling shadow-form. Bolts of blazing glory ripped it into shreds of drifting darkness. For a moment the dark web enshrouded, and dimmed, the golden flashing shape ―but for a moment, only. Another roar of earth-shattering thunder, and the black one dissolved before the embrace of intolerable brightness. Then it was gone. And for a moment the figure of light towered above the dais, consuming it like a funeral pyre―then it, too, was gone.

Silence reigned in the thunder-riven hall of Munthassem Khan. Upon the blasted dais, both talismans had vanished ―whether reduced to atoms by the fury of the cosmic forces that had been released here, or transported to some far place to await the next awakening of the beings they symbolized and contained, none could say.

And the body upon the dais? Naught of it was left, save for a handful of ashes.

"The heart is always stronger than the hand," Atalis said softly, in the ringing silence.

Conan reined the great black steed with a rough but masterly hand. It trembled, eager to be off, hooves ringing on the cobbles. He grinned, his barbaric blood thrilling to the might of the superb mare. A vast cloak of crimson silk belled from his broad shoulders, and his coat of silvered iron mesh mail glittered in the morning light.

"You are determined, then, to leave us, Conan?" asked Prince Than, resplendent in his robes as new satrap of Yaralet

"Aye! The Satrap's Guard is a tame place, and I hunger for this new war King Yildiz is mounting against the hill tribes. A week of inaction, and I've had a bellyfull of peace! So fare you well, Than, Atalis!"

He tugged sharply on the reins, drawing the black mare about, and cantered out of the courtyard of the seer's house, while Atalis and the prince watched benignly.

"Odd that a mercenary like Conan would accept less in payment than he could get," the new satrap commented. "I offered him a chest full of gold―enough to support him for life. But he would take only one small sack, together with the horse he found on the battlefield and his pick of arms and garments. Too much gold, he said, would only slow him down."

Atalis shrugged―then smiled, pointing to the far end of the courtyard.

A slim Brythunian girl with long mane of black curls appeared in a doorway. She came up to Conan, who drew the mare to a halt; he bent to speak with her. They exchanged a few words; then he reached down and caught her supple waist and swung her up before him onto the saddle.

She sat sideways, clinging with both arms to his burly neck, her face buried in his breast.

He swung about, flung up one brawny arm, grinned back at them in farewell, and rode off with the lithe girl clasped before him.

Atalis chuckled. "Some men fight for things other than gold," he observed.

The City of Skulls

Conan remains in Turanian service for about two years, becoming an expert horseman and archer and traveling over the immense deserts, mountains, and jungles of Hyrkania, as far as the borders of Khitai.

One such journey takes him to the fabled kingdom of Mem, a comparatively unknown land between Vendhya to the south, Hyrkania to the north and west, and Khitai to the east.

1. Red Snow

Howling like wolves, a horde of squat, brown warriors swept down upon the Turanian troop from the foothills of the Talakma Mountains, where the hills flattened out into the broad, barren steppes of Hyrkania. The attack came at sunset. The western horizon streamed with scarlet banners, while to the south the invisible sun tinged the snows of the higher peaks with red.

For fifteen days, the escort of Turanians had jogged across the plain, fording the chill waters of the Zaporoska River, venturing deeper and ever deeper into the illimitable distances of the East. Then, without warning, came the attack.

Conan caught the body of Hormaz as the lieutenant slumped from his horse, a quivering, black-feathered arrow protruding from his throat.

He lowered the body to the ground; then, shouting a curse, the young Cimmerian ripped his broad-bladed tulwar from its scabbard and turned with his comrades to meet the howling charge. For most of a month, he had ridden the dusty Hyrkanian plains as part of the escort. The monotony had long since begun to chafe him, and now his barbaric soul craved violent action to dispell his boredom.

His blade met the gilded scimitar of the foremost rider with such terrific force that the other's sword snapped near the hilt. Grinning like a tiger, Conan drew his sword in a back-handed slash across the bowlegged little warrior's belly. Howling like a doomed soul on the red-hot floors of Hell, his opponent fell twitching into a patch of blood-spattered snow.

Conan twisted in his saddle to catch another slashing sword on his shield. As he knocked the foeman's blade aside, he drove the point of his tulwar straight into the slant-eyed, yellowish face that snarled into his, watching the enemy's visage dissolve into a smear of ruined flesh.

Now the attackers were upon them in force. Dozens of small, dark men in fantastic, intricate armor of lacquered leather, trimmed with gold and flashing with gems, assailed them with demoniac frenzy. Bows twanged, lances thrust, and swords whirled and clashed.

Beyond the ring of his attackers, Conan saw his comrade Juma, a gigantic black from Kush, fighting on foot; his horse had fallen to an arrow at the first rush. The Kushite had lost his fur hat, so that the golden bangle in one ear winked in the fading light; but he had retained his lance. With this, he skewered three of the stocky attackers out of their saddles, one after another.

Beyond Juma, at the head of the column of King Yildiz's troop of picked warriors, the commander of the escort, Prince Ardashir, thundered commands from atop his mighty stallion. He wheeled his horse back and forth to keep between the foe and the horse-litter which bore his charge. This was Yildiz's daughter, Zosara. The troop were escorting the princess to her wedding with Kujula, the Great Khan of the Kuigar nomads.

Even as Conan watched, he saw Prince Ardashir clutch at his fur-cloaked chest. As if conjured up by magic, a black arrow had sprouted suddenly from his gemmed gorget. The prince gaped at the shaft; then, stiff as a statue, he toppled from horseback, his jewel-crusted, spiked helmet falling into the blood-spotted snow.

Thereafter, Conan became too busy to notice anything but the foes that swept howling around him. Although little more than a youth, the Cimmerian towered several inches above six feet. The swarthy attackers were dwarfed by comparison with his clean-limbed height. As they whirled around him in a snarling, yelping ring, they looked like a pack of hounds attempting to pull down a kingly tiger.

The battle swirled up and down the slope, like dead leaves whirled by autumnal gusts. Horses stamped, reared, and screamed; men hacked, cursed, and yelled. Here and there a pair of dismounted men continued their battle on foot. Bodies of men and horses lay in the churned mud and the trampled snow.

Conan, a red haze of fury thickening before his eyes, swung his tulwar with berserk fury. He would have preferred one of the straight broadswords of the West, to which he was more accustomed. Nevertheless, in the first few moments of the battle, he wreaked scarlet havoc with the unfamiliar weapon. In his flying hand, the glittering steel blade wove a shimmering web of razor-edged death about him. Into that web no less than nine of the sallow little men in lacquered leather ventured, to fall disemboweled or headless from their shaggy ponies. As he fought, the burly young Cimmerian bellowed a savage war chant of his primitive people; but soon he found that he needed every last bit of breath, for the battle grew rather than lessened in intensity.

Only seven months before, Conan had been the only warrior to survive the ill-fated punitive expedition that King Yildiz had launched against a rebellious satrap of northern Turan, Munthassem Khan. By means of black sorcery, the satrap had smashed the force sent against him. He had―so he thought―wiped out the hostile army from its high-born general, Bakra of Akif, down to the lowliest mercenary foot soldier.

Young Conan alone had survived. He lived to penetrate the city of Yaralet, which was writhing under the magic-maddened satrap's rule, and to bring a terrible doom on Munthassem Khan.

Returning in triumph to the glittering Turanian capital of Aghrapur, Conan received, as a reward, a place in this honor guard. At first he had had to endure the gibes of his fellow troopers at his clumsy horsemanship and indifferent skill with the bow. But the gibes soon died away as the other guardsmen learned to avoid provoking a swing of Conan's sledgehammer fists, and as his skill in riding and shooting improved with practice.

Now, Conan was beginning to wonder if this expedition could truly be called a reward. The light, leathern shield on his left arm was hacked into a shapeless ruin; he cast it aside. An arrow struck his horse's rump. With a scream, the beast brought its head down and bucked, lashing out with its heels. Conan went flying over its head; the horse bolted and disappeared.

Shaken and battered, the Cimmerian scrambled to his feet and fought on afoot. The scimitars of his foes slashed away his cloak and opened rents in his hauberk of chain mail. They slit the leathern jerkin beneath, until Conan bled from a dozen little superficial wounds.

But he fought on, teeth bared in a mirthless grin and eyes blazing a volcanic blue in a flushed, congested face framed by a square-cut black mane. One by one his fellows were cut down, until only he and the gigantic black, Juma, stood back to back. The Kushite howled wordlessly as he swung the butt of his broken lance like a club.

Then it seemed as if a hammer came up out of the red mist of berserk fury that clouded Conan's brain, as a heavy mace crashed against the side of his head, denting and cracking the spiked helm and driving the metal against his temple. His knees buckled and gave. The last thing he heard was the sharp, despairing cry of the princess as squat, grinning warriors tore her from the veiled palanquin down to the red snow that splotched the slope. Then, as he fell face down, he knew nothing.

2. The Cup of the Gods

A thousand red devils were beating against Conan's skull with red-hot hammers, and his cranium rang like a smitten anvil with every motion.

As he slowly clambered out of black insensibility, Conan found himself dangling over one mighty shoulder of his comrade Juma, who grinned to see him awaken and helped him to stand. Although his head hurt abominably, Conan found he was strong enough to stay on his feet.

Wondering, he looked about him.

Only he, Juma, and the girl Zosara had survived. The rest of the party―including Zosara's maid, slain by an arrow―were food for the gaunt, gray wolves of the Hyrkanian steppe. They stood on the northern slopes of the Talakmas, several miles south of the site of the battle.

Stocky brown warriors in lacquered leather, many with bandaged wounds, surrounded them. Conan found that his wrists were stoutly manacled, and that massive iron chains linked the manacles. The princess, in silken coat and trousers, was also fettered; but her chains and fetters were much lighter and seemed to be made of solid silver.

Juma was also chained, upon him most of the attention of their captors was focused. They crowded around the Kushite, feeling his skin and then glancing at their fingers to see if his color had come off. One even moistened a piece of cloth in a patch of snow and then rubbed it against the back of Juma's hand. Juma grinned broadly and chuckled.

"It must be they've never seen a man like me," he said to Conan.

The officer in command of the victors snapped a command. His men swung into their saddles. The princess was bundled back into her horse litter. To Conan and Juma the commander said, in broken Hyrkanian: "You two! You walk."

And walk they did, with the spears of the Azweri, as their captors were called, nudging them with frequent pricks between their shoulders. The litter of the princess swayed between its two horses in the middle of the column. Conan noted that the commander of the Azweri troop treated Zosara with respect; she did not appear to have been physically harmed.

This chieftain did not seem to bear any grudge against Conan and Juma for the havoc they had wrought among his men, the death and wounds they had dealt.

"You damn good fighters!" he said with a grin. On the other hand, he took no chances of letting his prisoners escape, or of letting them slow down the progress of his company by lagging. They were made to walk at a brisk pace from before dawn to after sunset, and any pause was countered by a prod with a lance. Conan set his jaw and obeyed for the moment.

For two days they wended over a devious trail through the heart of the mountain range. They crossed passes where they had to plow through deep snow, still unmelted from the previous winter. Here the breath came short from the altitude, and sudden storms whipped their ragged garments and drove stinging particles of snow and hail against their faces. Juma's teeth chattered. The black man found the cold much harder to endure than Conan, who had been reared in a northerly clime.

They came forth on the southern slopes of the Talakmas at last, to look upon a fantastic sight―a vast, green valley that sloped down and away before them. It was as if they stood on the lip of a stupendous dish.

Below them, little clouds crept over leagues of dense, green jungle. In the midst of this jungle, a great lake or inland sea reflected the azure of the clear, bright sky.

Beyond this body of water, the green continued on until it was lost in a distant purple haze. And above the haze, jagged and white, standing out sharply against the blue, rose the peaks of the mighty Himelias, hundreds of miles further south. The Himelias formed the other lip of the dish, which was encircled by the vast crescent of the Talakmas to the north and the Himelias to the south.

Conan spoke to the officer: "What valley is this?"

"Meru," said the chief. "Men call it, Cup of Gods."

"Are we going down there?"

"Aye. You go to great city, Shamballah."

"Then what?"

"That for rimpoche―for god-king to decide."

"Who's he?"

"Jalung Thongpa, Terror of Men and Shadow of Heaven. You move along now, white-skinned dog. No time for talk."

Conan growled deep in his throat as a spear prick urged him on, silently vowing some day to teach this god-king the meaning of terror.

He wondered if this ruler's divinity were proof against a foot of steel in his guts… But any such happy moment was still in the future.

Down they went, into the stupendous depression. The air grew warmer; the vegetation, denser. By the end of the day they were slogging through a land of steaming jungle warmth and swampy forest, which overhung the road in dense masses of somber dark green, relieved by the brilliant blossoms of flowering trees. Bright-hued birds sang and screeched. Monkeys chattered in the trees. Insects buzzed and bit.

Snakes and lizards slithered out of the path of the party.

It was Conan's first acquaintance with a tropical jungle, and he did not like it. The insects bothered him, and the sweat ran off him in streams. Juma, on the other hand, grinned as he stretched and filled his huge lungs.

"It is like my homeland," he said.

Conan was struck silent with awe at the fantastic landscape of verdant jungle and steamy swamp. He could almost believe that this vast valley of Meru was, in truth, the home of the gods, where they had dwelt since the dawn of time. Never had he seen such trees as those colossal cycads and redwoods, which towered into the misty heavens. He wondered how such a tropical jungle could be surrounded by mountains clad in eternal snows.

Once an enormous tiger stepped noiselessly into the path before them―a monster nine feet long, with fangs like daggers. Princess Zosara, watching from her litter, gave a little scream. There was a quick motion among the Azweri and a rattle of accouterments as they readied their weapons. The tiger, evidently thinking the party too strong for it, slipped into the jungle as silently as it had come.

Later, the earth shook to a heavy tread. With a loud snort, a huge beast burst from the rhododendron thickets and thundered across their path. As gray and rounded as a mountainous boulder, it somewhat resembled an enormous pig, with thick hide folded into bands. From its snout, a stout, blunt, recurved horn, a foot in length, arose. It halted, staring stupidly at the cavalcade from dim little pig's eyes; then, with another snort, it crashed off through the underbrush.

"Nose-horn," said Juma. "We have them in Kush."

The jungle gave way at length to the shores of the great blue lake or inland sea that Conan had seen from the heights. For a time, they followed the curve of this unknown body of water, which the Azweri called Sumeru Tso. At last, across a bay of this sea, they sighted the walls, domes, and spires of a city of rose-red stone, standing amid fields and paddies between the jungle and the sea.

"Shamballah!" cried the commander of the Azweri. As one man, their captors dismounted, knelt, and touched their foreheads to the damp earth, while Conan and Juma exchanged a mystified glance.

"Here gods dwell!" said the chief. "You walk fast, now. If you make us late, they skin you alive. Hurry!"

3. The City of Skulls

The gates of the city were fashioned of bronze, green with age and cast in the likeness of a gigantic, horned human skull. Square, barred windows above the portal made the skulls's eye sockets, while below them the barred grill of the portcullis grinned at them like the teeth in fleshless jaws. The leader of the little warriors winded his twisted bronze trumpet, and the portcullis rose. They entered the unknown city.

Here, everything was hewn and carved from rose-pink stone. The architecture was ornate, cluttered with sculp ture and friezes swarming with demons and monsters and many-armed gods. Gigantic faces of red stone glared down from the sides of towers, which dwindled tier upon tier into tapering spires.

Every where he looked, Conan saw carvings in the form of human skulls.

They were set into the lintels over doorways. They hung on golden chains about the yellow-brown necks of the Meruvians, whose only other garment, both for men and for women, was a short skirt. They appeared on the bosses of the shields of the guards at the gate and were riveted to the fronts of their bronze helmets.

Through the broad, well-planned avenues of this fantastic city the troop pursued its course. The half-naked Meruvians stepped out of their way, casting brief, incurious glances at the two stalwart prisoners and at the horse litter containing the princess. Among the throngs of bare-breasted city-dwellers moved, like crimson shadows, the forms of shaven-headed priests, swathed from neck to ankle in voluminous robes of gauzy red stuff.

Amid groves of trees, covered with flowers of scarlet, azure, and gold, the palace of the god-king loomed up before them. It consisted of one gigantic cone or spire, tapering up from a squat, circular base. Made entirely of red stone, the round tower wall climbed upwards in a spiral, like that of some curious, conical sea-shell. On each stone of the spiral parapet was graved the likeness of a human skull. The palace gave the impression of a tremendous tower made of death's heads. Zosara could scarcely repress a shudder at this sinister ornamentation, and even Conan set his jaw grimly.

They entered through another skull-gate and thence through massive stone walls and huge rooms into the throne-room of the god-king. The Azweri, dirty and travel-stained, remained in the rear, while a pair of gilded guardsmen, each armed with an ornate halberd, took the arms of each of the three prisoners and led them to the throne.

The throne, which rested atop a dais of black marble, was all of one huge piece of pale jade, carven into the likeness of ropes and chains of skulls, fantastically looped and interwoven. Upon this greenish-white chair of death sat the half-divine monarch, who had summoned the prisoners into this unknown world.

For all the seriousness of his plight, Conan could not repress a grin.

For the rimpoche Jalung Thongpa was very short and fat, with scrawny bow legs that scarcely reached the floor. His huge belly was swathed in a sash of cloth-of-gold, which blazed with gems. His naked arms, swollen with flabby fat, were clasped by a dozen golden armlets, and jeweled rings flashed and winked on his pudgy fingers. The bald head that lolled on top of his misshapen body was notably ugly, with dangling dewlaps, pendulous lips, and crooked, discolored teeth. The head was topped by a spired helmet or crown of solid gold, blazing with rubies. Its weight seemed to bow its wearer beneath it.

As Conan looked more closely at the god-king, he saw that Jalung Thongpa was peculiarly deformed. One side of his face did not match the other. It hung slackly from the bone and bore a blank, filmed eye, while the other eye was bright with the glint of malicious intelligence.

The rimpoche's good eye was now fixed upon Zosara, ignoring the two gigantic warriors who accompanied her. Beside the throne stood a tall, gaunt man in the scarlet robes of a Meruvian priest. Beneath his shaven pate, cold green eyes looked out upon the scene with icy contempt. To him the god-king turned and spoke in a high, squeaky voice. From the few words of Meruvian that Conan had picked up from the Azweri, he pieced together enough to understand that the tall priest was the king's chief wizard, the Grand Shaman, Tanzong Tengri.

From scraps of the ensuing conversation, Conan further guessed that, by his magic, the shaman had seen the approach of the troop escorting the Princess Zosara to her Kuigar bridegroom and had shown this vision to the god-king. Filled with simple, human lust for the slim Turanian girl, Jalung Thongpa had dispatched the troop of his Azweri horsemen to seize her and fetch her to his seraglio.

That was all that Conan wanted to know. For seven days, ever since his capture, he had been pushed and prodded and bedeviled. He had walked his feet off, and his temper was at the breaking point.

The two guards that flanked him were facing the throne with respectfully downcast eyes, giving their full attention to the rimpoche, who might at any instant issue a command. Conan gently helfted the chains that bound his wrists. They were too stout for him to break by main force; he had tried in the first days of this captivity and failed.

Quietly, he brought his wrists together, so that the length of chain hung down in a loop for a foot. Then, pivoting, he suddenly snapped his arms up past the head of the left-hand guard. The slack of the chain, swung like a whip, caught the guard across the face and sent him staggering back, blood gushing from a broken nose.

At Conan's first violent movement, the other guard had whirled and brought down the head of his halberd to the guard position. As he did so, Conan caught the head of the halberd in the slack of the chain and jerked the pole arm out of the guard's grasp.

A slash with the slack of the chain sent another guard reeling back, clutching the bloody ruin of his mouth and spitting a broken tooth.

Conan's feet were chained too closely together to permit a full stride.

But from the floor in front of the dais he leaped with both feet together, like a frog. In two such grotesque bounds, Conan was up on the dais, and his hands were locked about the fat neck of the slobbering little god-king, squatting on his pile of skulls. The rimpoche's good eye goggled in terror, and his face blackened from the pressure of Conan's thumbs on his windpipe.

The guards and nobles fluttered about, squealing with panic, or stood frozen with shock and terror at this strange giant who dared to lay violent hands upon their divinity.

"One move toward me, and I crush the life from this fat toad!" Conan growled.

Alone of the Meruvians in the room, the Grand Shaman had shown no sign of panic or surprise when the ragged youth had exploded in a whirlwind of fury. In perfect Hyrkanian, he asked:

"What is your will, barbarian?"

"Set free the girl and the black! Give us horses, and we will quit your accursed valley forever. Refuse―or try to trick us―and I'll crush your little king to a pulp!"

The shaman nodded his skull-like head. His green eyes were as cold as ice in the masklike face of tight-stretched, saffron skin. With a commanding gesture, he raised his carven staff of ebony.

"Set free the princess Zosara and the black-skinned captive," he ordered calmly. Pale-faced servitors with frightened eyes scurried to do his bidding. Juma grunted, rubbing his wrists. Beside him, the princess shivered. Conan swung the limp form of the king in front of him and stepped from the dais.

"Conan!" bellowed Juma. "Beware!"

Conan whirled, but too late. As he had moved to the edge of the dais, the Grand Shaman acted. Nimble as a striking cobra, his ebony staff flicked out and lightly tapped Conan's shoulder, where his naked skin bulged through the rents in his ragged clothing. Conan's lunge toward his antagonist was never completed. Numbness spread through his body, like venom from a reptile's fang. His mind clouded; his head, too heavy to hold up, fell forward on his chest. Limply, he collapsed. The half-strangled little god-king tore free from his grasp.

The last sound Conan heard was the thunderous bellow of the black as he went down under the wriggling swarm of brown bodies.

4. The Ship of Blood

Above all, it was hot and it stank. The dead, vitiated air of the dungeon was stale. It reeked with the stench of close-packed, sweating bodies. A score of naked men were crammed into one filthy hole, surrounded on all sides by huge blocks of stone weighing many tons.

Many were small, brown Menivians, who sprawled about, listless and apathetic. There were a handful of the squat, slant-eyed little warriors who guarded the sacred valley, the Azweri. There were a couple of hawk-nosed Hyrkanians. And there were Conan the Cimmerian and his giant black comrade, Juma. When the Grand Shaman's staff had struck him into insensibility and the warriors had pulled down the mighty Juma by weight of numbers, the infuriated rimpoche had commanded that they pay the ultimate penalty for their crime.

In Shamballah, however, the ultimate penalty was not death, which in Meruvian belief merely released the soul for its next incarnation.

Enslavement they considered worse, since it robbed a man of his humanity, his individuality. So to slavery they were summarily condemned.

Thinking of it, Conan growled deep in his throat, and his eyes blazed with smouldering fires out of his dark face, peering through the shaggy, matted tangle of his uncut black mane. Chained beside him, Juma, sensing Conan's frustration, chuckled. Conan glowered at his comrade; sometimes Juma's invincible good humor irritated him. For a free-born Cimmerian, slavery was indeed an intolerable punishment.

To the Kushite, however, slavery was nothing new. Slave raiders had torn Juma as a child from his mother's arms and dragged him out of the sweltering jungles of Kush to the slave marts of Shem. For a while he had worked as a field hand on a Shemite farm. Then, as his great thews began to swell, he had been sold as an apprentice gladiator to the arenas of Argos.

For his victory in the games held to celebrate the victory of King Milo of Argos over King Ferdrugo of Zbgara, Juma was given his freedom. For a time he lived in various Hyborian nations by thieving and by odd jobs. Then he drifted east to Turan, where his mighty stature and skill in combat won him a place in the ranks of King Yildiz's mercenaries.

There he had come to know the youthful Conan. He and the Cimmerian had struck it off from the first. They were the two tallest men among the mercenary troops, and both came from far, outlandish countries; they were the only members of their respective races among the Turanians.

Their comradeship had now led them to the slave pits of Shamballah and would shortly lead them to the ultimate indignity of the slave block.

There they would stand naked in the blinding sun, poked and prodded by prospective buyers while the slave dealer bellowed praises of their strength.

The days dragged slowly past, as crippled snakes drag their tails painfully through the dust. Conan, Juma, and the others slept and woke to receive wooden bowls of rice, stingily shared out by their overseers. They spent the long days fitfully dozing or languidly quarreling.

Conan was curious to learn more about these Meruvians, for in all his wanderings he had never encountered their like. They dwelt here in this strange valley as their ancestors had done since time began. They had no contact with the outside world and wanted none.

Conan became friendly with a Meruvian named Tashudang, from whom he learned something of their singsong language. When he asked why they called their king a god, Tashudang replied that the king had lived for ten thousand years, his spirit being reborn in a different body after each sojourn in mortal flesh. Conan was skeptical of this, for he knew the sort of lies that kings of other lands spread about themselves. But he prudently kept his opinion to himself. When Tashudang complained mildly and resignedly of the oppression of the king and his shamans, Conan asked:

"Why don't you and your fellows get together and throw the whole lot into the Sumeru Tso, and rule yourselves? That's what we would do in my country if anybody tried to tryannize over us."

Tashudang looked shocked. "You know not what you say, foreigner! Many centuries ago, the priests tell us, this land was much higher than it now is. It stretched from the tops of the Himelias to the tops of the Talakmas―one great, lofty plain, covered with snow and whipped by icy winds. The Roof of the World, it was called.

"Then Yama, the king of the demons, determined to create this valley for us, his chosen people, to dwell in. By a mighty spell, he caused the land to sink. The ground shook with the sound of ten thousand thunders, molten rock poured from cracks in the earth, mountains crumbled, ard forests went up in flame. When it was over, the land between the mountain chains was as you now see it. Because it was now a lowland, the climate wanned, and the plants and beasts of the warm countries came to dwell in it. Then Yama created the first Meruvians and placed them in the valley, to inhabit forever. And he appointed the shamans as leaders and enlighteners of the people.

"Sometimes the shamans forget their duties and oppress us, as if they were but greedy common men. But Yama's command, for us to obey the shamans, still holds good. If we defy it, Yama's great spell will be nullified, and this land will rise to the height of the mountain tops and again become a cold waste. So, no matter how they abuse us, we dare not revolt against the shamans."

"Well," said Conan, "if that filthy little toad is your idea of a god―"

"Oh, no!" said Tashudang, his eyeballs glistening white in the dimness with fear. "Say it not! He is the only begotten son of the great god, Yama himself. And when he calls his father, the god comes!" Tashudang buried his face in his hands, and Conan could get no more words out of him that day.

The Meruvians were an odd race. Theirs was a peculiar lassitude of spirit―a somnolent fatalism that bade them bow to everything that came upon them as a predestined visitation from their cruel, enigmatic gods.

Any resistance to fate on their part, they believed, would be punished, if not immediately, then in their next incarnation.

It was not easy to drag information out of them, but the Cimmerian youth kept doggedly at it. For one thing, it helped to pass the unending days. For another, he did not intend to remain in slavery long, and every bit of information that he could gather about this hidden kingdom and its peculiar people would be of value when he and Juma came to try for freedom. And finally, he knew how important it was in traveling through a strange country, to command at least a smattering of the local language. Although not at all a scholar by temperament, Conan picked up languages easily. He had already mastered several and could even read and write some of them a little.

At last came the fateful day when the overseers in black leather strode amongst the slaves, wielding heavy whips and herding their charges out the door. "Now," sneered one, "we shall see what prices the princes of the Sacred Land will pay for your unwieldy carcasses, outland swine!"

And his whip raised a long weal across Conan's back.

Hot sun beat down on Conan's back like whips of fire. After being so long in darkness, he was dazzled by the brightness of day. After the slave auction, they led him up the gangplank to the deck of a great galley, which lay moored to the long, stone quays of Shamballah. He squinted against the sun and cursed in a growling undertone. This, then, was the doom to which they had sentenced him―to drudge at the oars until death took him.

"Get down in the hold, you dogs!" spat the ship's overseer, cuffing Conan's jaw with the back of his hand. "Only the children of Yama may stride the deck!"

Without thinking, the Cimmerian youth exploded into action. He drove his balled fist into the burly overseer's bulging belly. As the breath hissed from the man's lungs, Conan followed the blow with a hammerlike right to the jaw, which stretched the shipman on the deck. Behind him, Juma howled with joy and struggled to get up the line to stand beside him.

The commander of the ship's guard rapped out an order. In a flash, the points of a dozen pikes, in the hands of wiry little Meruvian marines, were leveled at Conan. The Cimmerian stood in the circle of them, a menacing growl rising to his lips. But he belatedly controlled his rage, knowing that any move would bring instant death.

It took a bucket of water to revive the overseer. He laboriously climbed to his feet, blowing like a walrus, while water ran down his bruised face into his sparse black beard. His eyes glared into Conan's with insane rage, then cooled to icy venom.

The officer began to issue a command to the marines: "Slay the―" but the overseer interrupted:

"Nay, slay him not. Death were too easy for the dog. Ill make him whimper to be put out of his misery ere I've done with him."

"Well, Gorthangpo?" said the officer.

The overseer stared over the oar pit, meeting the cowed gaze of a hundred-odd naked brown men. They were starved and scrawny, and their bent backs were criss-crossed by a thousand whip scars. The ship carried a single bank of long oars on each side. Some oars were manned by two rowers, some by three, depending upon the size and strength of the slaves. The overseer pointed to an oar in the waist, to which three gray-haired, skeletal old men were chained.

"Chain him to yonder oar! Those walking corpses are played out; they are of no more use to us. Clear the oar of them. This foreign lad needs to stretch his arms a bit; well give him all the room he needs. And if he follow not the pace, I'll open his back to the spine!"

As Conan watched impassively, the sailors unlocked the manacles that connected the wrist chains of the three old men to rings on the oar itself. The old men screamed with terror as brawny arms heaved them over the rail. They hit the water with a great splash and sank without a trace, save for the bubbles that rose one by one to the surface and burst.

Conan was chained to the oar in their place. He was to do the work of all three. As they fastened him to the filth-slimed bench, the overseer eyed him grimly.

"We'll see how you like pulling an oar, boy. You'll pull and pull until you think your back is breaking―and then you'll pull some more. And every time you slack off or miss a boat, I'll remind you of your place, like this!"

His arm swung; the whip uncoiled against the sky and came whistling down across Conan's shoulders. The pain was like that of a white-hot iron rod against his flesh. But Conan did not scream or move a muscle.

It was as if he had felt nothing, so strong was the iron of his will.

The overseer grunted, and the lash cracked again. This time a muscle at one corner of Conan's grimly set mouth twitched, but his eyes looked stonily ahead. A third lash, and a fourth. Sweat formed on the Cimmerian's brow; it trickled down into his eyes, stinging and smarting, even as the red blood ran down his back. But he gave no sign of feeling pain.

Behind him, he heard Juma's whisper: "Courage!"

Then came a call from the afterdeck; the captain wished to sail.

Reluctantly, the overseer gave up his pleasure of lashing the Cimmerian's back to pulp.

The sailors cast off the ropes that moored the ship to the quay and shoved off with boathooks. Aft of the oar benches but on the same level, in the shade of the catwalk that ran the length of the ship over the heads of the rowers, sat a naked Meruvian behind a huge drum. When the ship had cleared the quay, the coxswain lifted a wooden maul and began to thump the drum. With each beat, the slaves bent to the oars, rising to their feet, raising the looms, and leaning back until their weight brought them down on the benches; then pushing the looms down and forward and repeating. Conan soon caught the rhythm, as did Juma, chained to the oar behind him.

Conan had never before been on a ship. As he heaved at his oar, his quick eyes peered around him at the listless, dull-eyes slaves with whip-scarred backs, who worked on the slimy benches in the frightful stench of their own waste. The galley was low through the waist, where the slaves labored; the rail was only a few feet above the water. It was higher in the bow, where the seamen berthed, and in the carved and gilded stern, where the officers had their quarters. A single mast arose amidships. The yard of the single triangular sail, and the furled sail itself, lay along the catwalk over the oar pit.

When the ship had left the harbor, the sailors untied the lashings that held the sail and its yard to the catwalk and raised it, heaving on the halyard and grunting a chantey. The yard went up by jerks, a few inches at a time. As it rose, the gold-and-purple striped sail unfurled and shook out with snapping, booming sounds. Since the wind was fair on the quarter, the oarsmen were given a rest while the sail took over.

Conan noted that the entire galley had been made from some wood that either by nature or by staining was of a dark red color. As he gazed about, eyes half shut against the glare, the ship looked as if it had been dipped in blood. Then the whip sang above him and the overseer, on the catwalk above, yelled down:

"Now lay to, you lazy swine!"

A lash laid another welt across his shoulders. It is indeed a ship of wood, he thought to himself; slaves' blood.

5. Rogue's Moon

For seven days, Conan and Juma sweated over the massive oars of the red galley as it plodded its way around the shores of the Sumeru Tso, stopping overnight at each of the seven sacred cities of Meru: Shondakor, Thogara, Auzakia, Issedon, Paliana, Throana, and then―having made the circuit of the sea―back to Shamballah. Strong men though they were, it was not long before the unremitting labor brought them to the edge of exhaustion, when their aching muscles seemed incapable of further effort. Yet still the tireless drum and the hissing whip drove them on.

Once a day, sailors drew buckets of cold, brackish water up over the side and drenched the exhausted slaves. Once a day, when the sun stood at the zenith, they were given a heaping bowl of rice and a long dipperful of water. At night they slept on their oars. The animal-like round of unvarying drudgery sapped the will and drained the mind, leaving the rowers soulless automata.

It would have broken the strength of any man―save for such as Conan.

The young Cimmerian did not yield to the crushing burden of fate as did the apathetic Moravians. The unending labor at the oars, the brutal treatment, the indignity of the slimy benches, instead of sapping his will, only fed the fires within him.

When the ship returned to Shamballah and dropped anchor in the wide harbor, Conan had reached the limits of his patience. It was dark and still; the new moon―a slim, silver scimitar―hung low in the western sky, casting a wan, illusive light. It would soon set. Such a night was called a "rogue's moon" in the nations of the West, for such poorly-lit night were wont to be chosen by highwaymen, thieves, and assassins to ply their trades. Bent over their oars, ostensibly asleep, Conan and Juma discussed escape with the Meruvian slaves.

On the galley, the feet of the slaves were not fettered. But each wore a pair of manacles joined by a chain, and this chain was strung through an iron ring loosely looped around the loom of the oar. Although this ring slid freely along the loom, its travel was stopped at the outer end by the oarlock and, at the inner, by a collar or ferrule of lead.

This collar, securely fastened to the butt end of the oar by an iron spike, acted as a counterweight to the blade of the oar. Conan had tested the strength of his chain and of the manacles and the ring a hundred times; but even his terrific strength, hardened by seven days of rowing, could not strain any of them. Still, in a tense, growling whisper, he urged schemes of revolt upon his fellow slaves.

"If we could get Gorthangpo down on our level," he said, "we could tear him to pieces with our nails and teeth. And he carries the keys to all our bonds. While we were unlocking the manacles, the marines would kill some of us; but once we got loose, we should outnumber them five or six to one―"

"Do not speak of it!" hissed the nearest Meruvian. "Do not even think of it!"

"Aren't you interested?" asked Conan in astonishment.

"Nay! Even to talk of such violence turns my bones to water."

"Mine, too," said another. "The hardships we suffer have been inflicted upon us by the gods, as a just punishment for some misdeed in a former life. To struggle against it were not only useless but a wicked blasphemy as well. I pray you, barbarian, hush your unholy talk and submit with becoming humility to your fate."

Such an attitude went against Conan's grain, nor was Juma a man to bow without resistance to any threat of doom. But the Meruvians would not listen to their arguments. Even Tashudang, unusually loquacious and friendly for a Meruvian, begged Conan to do nothing that would enrage Gorthangpo, the overseer, or bring down upon them a worse punishment from the gods than that which their divinities had already inflicted upon them.

Conan's argument was cut short by the song of the whip. Aroused by the murmur, Gorthangpo had crept out on the catwalk in the darkness. From the few whispered words he overheard, he divined that mutiny was brewing. Now his whip hissed and cracked on Conan's shoulders.

Conan had had enough. In one surge of motion, he bounded to his feet, seized the lashing end of the whip, and tore it out of Gorthangpo's grip. The overseer yelled for the marines.

There was still no way for Conan to get the iron ring off the loom of his oar. In his desperation, an inspiration struck him. The construction of the oarlock limited the vertical motion of the loom to a height of less than five feet above the deck on which he stood. Now he pushed the butt end of the oar up as far as it would go, climbed to the bench, and crouching, placed his shoulders beneath the loom. Then, with a terrific heave of his long, powerful legs, he straightened up.

The oar broke in its oarlock with a rending crash. Quickly, Conan slipped his ring off the broken end. Now he had a serviceable weapon: a club or quarterstaff nine feet long, with a ten-pound mass of lead on one end.

Conan's first terrific swing caught the goggling overseer on the side of the head. His skull shattered like a melon, spattering the benches with a bloody spray of pulped brains. Then Conan hauled himself to the catwalk to meet the charge of the marines. Below on the benches, the scrawny, brown Meruvians crouched, whimpering prayers to their devil-gods. Only Juma imitated Conan's act, breaking his oar at the oarlock and slipping his slave ring loose.

The marines were Meruvians themselves, lax and lazy and fatalistic.

They had never had to fight a slave mutiny; they did not believe such a thing possible. Least of all had they expected to have to face a burly young giant armed with a nine-foot club. Still, they came on bravely enough, although the width of the catwalk allowed them to approach Conan only two abreast.

Conan waded in, swinging wildly. His first blow hurled the first marine off the catwalk and into the benches with a broken sword arm. The second dropped the next man with a shattered skull. A pike was thrust at his naked breast; Conan knocked the pike out of its welder's hand, and his next blow hurled two men at once off the catwalk; the one whom he had struck with crushed-in ribs, and his companion jostled off the walk by the impact of the first victim's body.

Then Juma climbed up beside him. The Kushite's naked torso gleamed like oiled ebony in the dim moonlight, and his oar mowed down the advancing Meruvians like a scythe. The marines, unprepared to face two such monsters, broke and ran for the safety of the poop deck, whence their officer, just aroused from slumber, was screeching confused commands.

Conan bent to the corpse of Gorthangpo and searched his pouch for the key ring. Swiftly he found the key to all the manacles on the ship and unlocked his own, then did the same for Juma.

A bow twanged, and an arrow whistled over Conan's head and struck the mast. The two freed slaves did not wait to pursue the battle further.

Dropping off the catwalk, they pushed through the cowering rowers to the rail, vaulted over the side, and vanished into the dark waters of Shamballah's harbor. A few arrows sped after them, but in the dim light of the setting crescent moon the archers could do little more than shoot at random.

6. Tunnels of Doom

Two naked men hauled their dripping bodies out of the sea and peered about them in the murk. They had swum for hours, it seemed, looking for a way to get into Shamballah unobserved. At last they had found the outlet to one of the storm sewers of the ancient stone city. Juma still trailed the length of broken oar with which he had fought the marines; Conan had abandoned his on the ship. Occasionally a faint gleam of light came into the sewer from a storm grating set into a gutter in the street overhead, but the light was so feeble―the thin moon having set―that the darkness below remained impenetrable. So, in almost total darkness, the twain waded through the slimy waters, seeking a way out of these tunnels.

Huge rats squeaked and fled as they went through the stone corridors beneath the streets. They could see the glimmer of eyes through the dark. One of the larger scavengers nipped Conan's ankle, but he caught and crushed the beast in his hands and flung its corpse at its more cautious fellows. These quickly engaged in a squealing, rustling battle over the feast, while Conan and Juma hurried on through the upward-winding tunnels.

It was Juma who found the secret passage. Sliding one band along the dank wall, he accidentally released a catch and snorted with surprise when a portion of the stone gave way beneath his questing fingers.

Although neither he nor Conan knew where the passage led, they took it, as it seemed to slope upward toward the city streets above.

At last, after a long climb, they came to another door. They groped in utter darkness until Conan found a bolt, which he slid back. The door opened with a squeak of dry hinges to his push, and the two fugitives stepped through and froze.

They stood on an ornamental balcony crowded with statues of gods or demons in a huge, octagonal temple The walls of the eight-sided chamber soared upward, past the balcony, to curve inward and meet to form an eight-sided dome. Conan remembered seeing such a dome towering among the lesser buildings of the city, but he had never inquired as to what lay within it.

Below, at one side of the octagonal floor, a colossal statue stood on a plinth of black marble, facing an altar in the exact center of the chamber. The statue dwarfed everything else in the chamber. Rising thirty feet high, its loins were on a level with the balcony on which Conan and Juma stood. It was a gigantic idol of a green stone that looked like jade, although never had men found true jade in so large a mass. It had six arms, and the eyes in its scowling face were immense rubies.

Facing the statue across the altar stood a throne of skulls, like that which Conan had already seen in the throne room of the palace on his arrival in Shamballah, but smaller. The toadlike little god-king of Mem was seated on this throne. As Conan's glance strayed from the idol's head to that of the ruler, he thought he saw a hideous suggestion of similarity between the two. He shuddered and his nape prickled at the hint of unguessable cosmic secrets that lay behind this resemblance.

The rimpoche was engaged in a ritual. Shamans in scarlet robes knelt in ranks around the throne and the altar, chanting ancient prayers and spells. Beyond them, against the walls of the chamber, several rows of Memvians sat cross-legged on the marble pavement. From the richness of their jewels and their ornate if scanty apparel, they appeared to be the officials and the nobility of the kingdom. Above their heads, set in wall brackets around the balcony, a hundred torches flickered and smoked. On the floor of the chamber, in a square about the central altar, stood four torcheres, each crowned by the rich, gplden flame of a butter lamp. The four flames wavered and sputtered.

On the altar between the throne and the colossus lay the naked, white, slender body of a young girl, held to the altar by slender golden chains. It was Zosara.

A low growl rumbled in Conan's throat. His smouldering eyes burned with blue fire as he watched the hated figures of King Jalang Thonpa and his Grand Shaman, the wizard-priest Tanzong Tengri.

"Shall we take them, Conan?" whispered Juma, his teeth showing white in the flickering dimness. The Cimmerian grunted.

It was the festival of the new moon, and the god-king was wedding the daughter of the king of Turan on the altar, before the many-armed statue of the Great Dog of Death and Terror, Yama the Demon King. The ceremony was proceeding according to the ancient rites prescribed in the holy texts of the Book of the Death God. Placidly anticipating the public consummation of his nuptials with the slim, long-legged Turanian girl, the divine monarch of Mem lolled on his throne of skulls as ranks of scarlet-clad shamans droned the ancient prayers.

Then came an interruption. Two naked giants dropped from nowhere to the floor of the temple―one a heroic figure of living bronze, the other a long-limbed menace whose mighty physique seemed to have been carved from ebony. The shamans froze in mid-chant as these two howling devils burst into their midst.

Conan seized one of the torcheres and hurled it into the midst of the scarlet-robed shamans. They broke, screaming with pain and panic, as the flaming liquid butter set fire to their gauzy robes and turned them into living torches. The other three lamps followed in rapid succession, spreading fire and confusion over the floor of the chamber.

Juma sprang toward the dais, where the king sat with his good eye staring in fear and astonishment. The gaunt Grand Shaman met Juma on the marble steps with his magical staff lifted to smite. But the black giant still had his broken oar, and he swung it with terrific force.

The ebony staff flew into a hundred fragments. A second swing caught the wizard-priest in the body and hurled him, broken and dying, into the chaos of running, screaming, flaming shamans.

King Jalung Thongpa came next. Grinning, Juma charged up the steps toward the cowering little god-king. But Jalung Thongpa was no longer on his throne. Instead, he knelt in front of the statue, arms raised and chanting a prayer.

Conan reached the altar at the same time and bent over the nude, writhing form of the terrified girl. The light golden chains were strong enough to hold her, but not strong enough to withstand Conan's strength. With a grunt, he braced his feet and heaved on one; a link of the soft metal stretched, opened, and snapped. The other three chains followed, and Conan scooped up the sobbing princess in his arms. He turned―but then a shadow fell over him.

Startled, he looked up and remembered what Tashudang had told him: "When he calls his father, the god comes!"

Now he realized the full extent of the horror behind those words. For, looming above him in the flickering torchlight, the arms of the gigantic idol of green stone were moving. The scarlet rubies that served it for eyes were glaring down at him, bright with intelligence.

7. When the Green God Wakes

The hairs lifted on Conan's nape, and he felt as if the blood in his veins had congealed to ice. Whimpering, Zosara pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder and clung to his neck. On the black dais that upheld the throne of skulls, Juma also froze, the whites of his eyes showing as the superstitious terrors of his jungle heritage rose within him. The statue was coming to life.

As they watched, powerless to move, the image of green stone shifted one of its huge feet slowly, creakingly. Thirty feet above their heads, its great face leered down at them. The six arms moved jerkily, flexing like the limbs of some gigantic spider. The thing tilted, shifting its monstrous weight. One vast foot came down on the altar on which Zosara had lain. The stone block cracked and crumbled beneath the tons of living green stone.

"Crom!" breathed Conan. "Even stone lives and walks in this mad place!

Come, girl―" He picked Zosara up and leaped down from the dais to the floor of the temple. From behind him came an ominous scraping sound of stone on stone. The statue was moving.

"Juma!" yelled Conan, casting a wild eye about for the Kushite. The black still crouched motionless beside the throne. Upon the throne, the little god-king pointed an arm, thick with fat and bright with jewels, at Conan and the girl.

"Kill―Yama! Kill―kill―kill!" he screamed.

The many-armed thing paused and peered about with its ruby eyes until it sighted Conan. The Cimmerian was nearly mad with the primitive night-fears of his barbarian people. But, as with many barbarians, his very fear drove him into combat with that which he dreaded. He put down the girl and heaved up a marble bench. Sinews creaking with the effort, he strode forward towards the lumbering colossus.

Juma yelled: "No, Conan! Get away! It sees you!"

Now Conan stood near the monstrous foot of the walking idol. The stone legs towered above him like the pillars of some colossal temple. His face congested with the effort, Conan raised the heavy bench over his head and hurled it at the leg. It crashed into the carven ankle of the colussus with terrific impact. The marble of the bench clouded with a web of cracks, which shot through it from end to end. He stepped even closer, picked up the bench again, and again swung it against the ankle. This time the bench shattered into a score of pieces; but the leg, though slightly chipped, was not materially damaged. Conan reeled back as the statue took another ponderous step toward him.

"Conan! Look out!"

Juma's yell made him look up. The green giant was stooping. The ruby eyes glared into his. Strange, to stare into the living eyes of a god!

They were bottomlessly deep―shadow-veiled depths wherein his gaze sank endlessly through red eons of time without thought. And deep within those crystalline depths, a cold, inhuman malignancy coiled. The god's gaze locked on his own, and the young Cimmerian felt an icy numbness spread through him. He could neither move nor think…

Juma, howling with primal rage and fear, whirled. He saw the many mighty hands of stone swoop toward his comrade, who stood staring like one entranced. Another stride would bring Yama upon the paralyzed Cimmerian.

The black was too far from the tableau to interfere, but his frustrated rage demanded an outlet. Without conscious thought, he picked up the god-king, who shrieked and wriggled in vain, and hurled him toward his infernal parent Jalung Thongpa whirled through the air and thudded down on the tessalated pave before the tramping feet of the idol. Dazed by his fall, the little monarch stared widly about with his good eye. Then he screamed hideously as one titanic foot descended upon him.

The crunch of snapping bones resounded in the ringing silence. The god's foot slid on the marble, leaving a broad, crimson smear on the tiles. Creaking at the waist, the titanic figure bent and reached for Conan, then stopped.

The groping, green stone hands, fingers outspread, halted in mid-air.

The burning crimson light faded from the ruby eyes. The vast body with its many arms and devil's head, which a moment before had been flexible and informed with life, froze into motionless stone once more.

Perhaps the death of the king, who had summoned this infernal spirit from the nighted depths of nameless dimensions, cancelled the spell that bound Yama to the idol. Or perhaps the king's death released the devil-god's will from the domination of his earthly kinsman. Whatever the cause, the instant the Jalung Thongpa was crushed into bubbling gore, the statue reverted to lifeless, immobile stone.

The spell that had gripped Conan's mind also broke. Numbly, the youth shook his head to clear it. He stared about him. The first thing of which he was aware was the princess Zosara, who flung herself into his arms, weeping hysterically. As his bronzed arms closed about her softness and he felt the feathery touch of her black, silken hair against his throat, a new kind of fire flared up in his eyes, and he laughed deeply.

Juma came running across the floor of the temple. "Conan! Everybody either is dead or has ran away! There should be horses in the paddock behind the temple. Now is our chance to quit this accursed place!"

"Aye! By Crom, I shall be glad to shake the dust of this damned land from my heels," growled the Cimmerian, tearing the robe from the body of the Grand Shaman and draping it over the princess's nakedness. He snatched her up and carried her out, feeling the warmth and softness of her supple young body against his own.

An hour later, well beyond the reach of pursuit, they reined in their horses and examined the branching roads. Conan looked up at the stars, pondered, and pointed. "This way!"

Juma wrinkled his brow. "North?"

"Aye, to Hyrkania." Conan laughed. "Have you forgotten that we still have this girl to deliver to her bridegroom?"

Juma's brow wrinkled with greater puzzlement than before, seeing how Zosara's slim, white arms were wound around his comrade's neck and how her small head was nestled contentedly against his mighty shoulder. To her bridegroom? He shook his head; never would he understand the ways of Cimmerians. But he followed Conan's lead and turned his steed toward the mighty Talakma Mountains, which rose like a wall to sunder the weird land of Mem from the windy steppes of Hyrkania.

A month later, they rode into the camp of Kujula, the Great Khan of the Kuigar nomads. Their appearance was entirely different from what it had been when they fled from Shamballah. In the villages on the southern slopes of the Talakmas, they had traded the links from the golden chains that still dangled from Zosara's wrists and ankles for clothing suitable to snowy mountain passes and gusty plains. They wore fur caps, sheepskin coats, baggy trousers of coarse wool, and stout boots.

When they presented Zosara to her black-bearded bridegroom, the khan feasted and praised and rewarded them. After a carousal that lasted for several days, he sent them back to Turan loaded with gifts of gold.

When they were well away from Khan Kujula's camp, Juma said to his friend: "That was a fine girl. I wonder you didn't keep her for yourself. She liked you, too."

Conan grinned. "Aye, she did. But I'm not ready to settle down yet. And Zosara will be happier with Kujula's jewels and soft cushions than she would be with me, galloping about the steppes and being roasted, frozen, and chased by wolves or hostile warriors." He chuckled.

"Besides, though the Great Khan doesn't know it, his heir is already on the way."

"How do you know?"

"She told me, just before we parted."

Juma made clicking sounds from his native tongue. "Well, I will never, never underestimate a Cimmerian again!"

Conan the Hero

Chapter 1

The Shikhara

The jungle pond spread murky and stagnant, shaded by dense foliage. A few ripples glided across its green-scummed surface to lap against the slimy shoreline. Then, close above the black water, the tangled thicket of rushes parted and a face peered through.

Dark it was, shadowed and obscure as the muzzle of a stalking beast.

Yet from its dimness glinted eyes blue as brooding northern skies, a color seldom seen in these rank jungle depths.

The pale foreign eyes searched the tree-filtered daylight of the pond bank. Seeing no exceptional danger, the watcher parted the reeds and eased out from between them: a massive man, sword-bearing and grotesquely painted, wading thigh-deep in the stagnant water.

He moved topheavy with a sun-darkened breadth of chest and shoulder, supple as an acrobat poised for swift, forceful action. The colors on his face were muddy tones of lampblack and umber; for further concealment, his headband and lank black mane trailed fern fronds, leafy stems, and other spoor of the forest.

The remainder of his costume was sparse, a brief leather breech-wrap anchoring knifebelt and swordbelt crisscrossed on his bare chest and back. Except for the sheen of his fine steel weapons and their bronze-studded fittings, he might have passed for a savage child of the jungle.

He paused in the pond scum, extending the long, double-curved blade of his yataghan to redirect the course of a yellow-green water serpent away from his naked thigh. Then he glided forward, his muscle-corded legs and sandaled feet draining the slime and yellow bottom-muck of the pool.

Once ashore he paused, bending to pluck red leeches from the glistening calves of his legs. Straightening, he beckoned behind him with his sword to others yet unseen.

The next man to emerge from the reeds needed no lampblack, since his skin was already dark as jungle night. His face had been daubed instead with white clay to break up its full-featured symmetry. He stood fully as large as the first warrior, armed and armored with light mail and an identical S-curved blade. And he might have moved just as gracefully through the mire, if his attention had not been taken up by others toiling behind him.

The half-dozen who followed were less grandly-sized men, with the olive skins and hawk noses of Turanians evident beneath their daubed makeup.

They wore bewildering variations of Turanian military garb, with here a spiked metal cap, there a short purple tunic or chain-mail vest. In further defiance of common uniform, their outfits were threaded with jungle fronds, bright blossoms, and long, iridescent plumes of tropical birds. The blades they bristled with clanked often, and their progress through the marsh occasioned low splashes and muttered curses. These sounds invariably caused the black officer to wheel on them, hissing fiercely for silence.

Their pale-skinned scout, meanwhile, moved higher up the pond's steepening bank. He sank in places to all fours, his yataghan sheathed now on his back. From a distance, his progress was visible only by the faint play of jungle light on flexing limbs and the occasional flicker of a disturbed branch or a frightened, upward-spiraling moth. There was no larger animal life to be seen; though one might expect the dense overgrowth to be alive with the rustlings and twitterings of small creatures, a watchful silence reigned.

From the creeping warrior's own vantage, the way was by no means effortless. His course lay through clinging, dripping foliage, beneath and around slack vines whose thorns could gouge and poison the skin. Yet he dared not stop long to find his way, lest the hovering flies and blood-seeking gnats should settle on his skin to bite and suck their fill.

Near the crest above the pond, the foliage opened out. The creeper braced his hands on the littered earth to haul himself up and peer over the top. Then, with a sudden twist and a muttered oath, he wrenched his hand back and rolled away to one side. Squinting in the green dimness, he stared at what he had touched: the face of a fanged, snarling monkey carved from stone, its round head furred over with damp moss.

"Conan, are you all right?" Feather-soft, the whisper drifted up to him from where the black man crouched a few man-lengths downslope.

"Aye, Juma," the scout mouthed in response, raising a hand to silence the mutters and thrashings that were occurring along the line of men behind him. "'Tis nothing."

"Good. But Conan, thrice-curse it!" The black officer's hiss was faint but intense. "Next patrol I scout ahead, and you take charge of these unruly louts!"

Grimly smiling, Conan nodded and turned back to the evil-looking carving. Considering it, he judged it part of a railing or a free-standing statue buried by jungle growth across the course of centuries; probably it meant that their goal was near. Renewing his grip on the carven monkey's furry pate, he dragged himself upward to peer across the brushy crest, into the leafy void beyond.

The monument rising there was too vast for even the greedy jungle to swallow completely. Hewn from solid stone, formed of what must have been a towering natural monolith, the great shrine tapered onionlike from its broad, swelling base to a slender, lofty pinnacle. Conan could see the pointed shikhara gleaming in hazy daylight high above, piercing to the sky through the many layers of dense foliage. And every cubit of the temple's surface was decorated with intricate carvings―from the wide, porched galleries overhanging the jungle cauldron where Conan lay, to delicate friezes that chased each other in bands around its distant spire.

The subject matter of those carvings was difficult to make out, even from this short remove. Seen through the screening branches, a few tangles of life-sized human shapes seemed to Conan to resemble fierce combats; other twinings of bodies looked more amorous and sensuous. He guessed that, like most sculptures he had seen, the statues depicted the diverse cruelties and pleasures of kings and humanlike gods. Tracing these forms was especially hard, because everywhere the jungle's greedy green
tentacles invaded and obscured them. Many of the heroic forms looked bound or strangled by parasitic vines, and often it was impossible to tell the carved human contours from the monstrous windings and swellings of ancient roots.

But the shrine was still habitable… and inhabited, it would seem.

Ahead and a little to one side rose a curving entry stair, weed-choked and crumbling. In the thick-pillared shadows of the terrace at its end, Conan glimpsed a single pale flicker: the play of daylight, surely, on a burnished metal blade. Peering closer, he made out above it the round paleness of a face scanning the temple's surroundings. To confirm the impression, there came to his jungle-keen nostrils a faint scent of smoke sweetened by ceremonial incense, drifting unquestionably from the direction of the shrine.

To Juma and the Turanians who crept up close behind him, Conan spoke in whispers and quick gestures. He dispatched them toward the base of the stair, indicating that they should await his signal before overcoming any guards there. Then, writhing snakelike, he was off through the roots and stems of the downward slope.

For long moments his progress was stealthy and swift, measured only by the shiver of a branch or the momentary deepening of a green shadow.

Then at the base of the temple he emerged into plain view, nimbly mounting the side of the stone edifice. At first there was little challenge apparent in the climb, for the building's massive base shelved inward, with plenty of handholds and footholds in its ornamentation. But he soon enough faced the overhang of the shrine's main body, where its bulbous shape swelled out overhead. Though just as deeply carved and ribboned with vines, this out-jutting face would have been judged by most men impossible to scale, the more so without a rope and in total silence.

But Conan, only pausing at the angle of the slope to tie his sandals to his belt, assaulted the overhang fearlessly. He hauled himself up monkey-like, clutching with bare toes and fingers at carved niches and elbows of vine. Often his legs thrashed in empty air as he forced himself upward hand over hand; at other times, his lithe body clung close amid sculptured shapes both sacred and profane. He appeared almost to take part in their murderous and orgiastic writhings, as just another hero or godling carved in paler stone and deeper relief.

At long last he mounted to the balcony rail at the widest level of the
shrine. Once there, he was free to hug the grainy stone, panting shallowly so as not to betray his presence by deep gasps. His climb had brought him up a few paces from the head of the stair, with the broad, gadrooned bulk of one ornate pillar standing between him and the shadowy roost of the guard he had seen.

Now he tried to verify the man's presence, first by peering through the gaps of the thick, carved railing, then by raising his head cautiously over its edge. From this distance, the interior gloom was easily penetrated, with nothing in sight but a lavishly decorated walkway strewn with rock fragments and plant debris. He stood up to lean inward over the rail; then, at the sound of feet shifting restlessly within, he jerked back to his precarious crouch outside. No one passed near, so Conan judged that the lone guard still loitered in his place at the stairhead. He stood upright, stretched himself prone on the rail, and eased across it on his belly.

Edging around the spiral-ridged curvature of the pillar, he spied the guard's arm, bare and muscular, banded with colored cords at shoulder and elbow in the style of the savage Hwong tribe. The man's bronze cutlass was stuck in his waistband, his hands resting on the rail as he watched the jungle.

Drawing a deep, silent breath, Conan moved up close behind him. His massive arms were poised, knife gripped tightly in one hand, ready to seize the sentry's face from behind and lay open his throat. His shoulders tightened for the gruesome deed; but instead, feeling a sudden kinship with the simple tribesman, he turned the knife in his hand and struck the man over the temple with its silver hilt. Catching the collapsing body under the chin with his free arm, he lowered the sentry quietly to the ground.

Just then a yell rang out behind him, followed by a shrill jabber of Hwong speech. Conan turned to see a second sentry come charging from an inner passage, wielding a saw-edged hardwood club. With no time to draw his sword, the northerner raised his dagger to fend off the stroke.

The downswing was knocked aside, but its force drove the knife out of Conan's hand and shaved skin from his knuckles in passing.

Before the attacker could swing the club again, Conan lunged against him barehanded. Seizing him by the throat and the crotch of his brightly woven breech-clout, he lifted the man and flung him headfirst over the rail. The Hwong's cry of rage and alarm sounded lingeringly this time, to
end in a faint bleat of expelled air as he struck the stone outworks below.

Cursing at the noise and at the racking pains in his knuckles, Conan found his knife and sheathed it. Drawing his yataghan from behind his back, he stepped out onto the narrow stairway and waved it high in silent summons. His companions were already halfway up, their legs racing over the small, worn steps as Juma silently waved them along with his sword.

Conan turned to the inner archway, which was a narrow descending stair.

No more defenders came out, but he heard a panicked jabbering below and glimpsed a face peering up at him, quickly to vanish in shadow.

Conan cast swiftly about the temple porch. The farther gallery and ascending rampways looked long-deserted and weed-choked; likely there was no benefit to be gained exploring there. It was from below that scented smoke issued; as his companions arrived on the terrace, he plunged into the downward corridor.

Conan took four or five of the tiny stairsteps with each stride. Mentally he cursed the tightness of the corridor, which was miserly in comparison with the vast outer, dimensions of the monument. Its narrowness would permit only the first man in line to face the enemy, and even then it afforded no room to swing a sword. Worse, as he descended, his own bulky shadow and those of the men scuffing behind him quickly cut off the daylight. He was forced to slow his headlong rush and prod the scented darkness before him with his swordblade.

Squinting to pierce the dimness, he found himself at the base of the stair in a T-branching corridor; there, suddenly, he was attacked. An unseen club-wielder at one side beat down his extended sword, while the lurker in the other arm of the T stabbed up at his chest with a short, bronze-tipped spear. Catching sight of the razored spearpoint's glint, Conan jerked back, retaining a desperate grip on his yataghan; an instant later his blade lashed out and struck off the menacing speartip―cleanly, like severing the head of a striking serpent. Then, with his fellow-warriors pressing forward at his back, Conan leaped into the level passage to engaged the club-swinger.

Sparks flew from the stone walls as Conan drove at his half-seen enemy.

Metal chimed shrilly as his blade tried to stab past the man's desperate parries. In a trice the club's deep-notched edge caught the steel blade of the yataghan, twisting it down and aside out of action. The tribesman bore down savagely on the swordblade, trying desperately to snap it… even
as Conan's knife, plied in his free hand, buried itself to the hilt in the man's side.

The Hwong collapsed with a moan, and Conan finished him with a quick, chopping swordstroke. No more enemies stood before him in the dimness. From the rush of feet behind him, he guessed that his fellow attackers had broken through in the other direction. He stepped over the corpse and pressed forward. A yellowish, indirect light outlined the curving passage ahead.

With a couple of Turanians panting at his back, Conan came to the end of the corridor. It opened into a shadowy room, broad and low-ceilinged, with a fire burning on the floor at its center. About the chamber dim shapes of ancient idols, stone pillars, and human figures reflected its glow.

At the room's far end cries and weapon-blows sounded, where a pair of spearmen held the other wing of the attacking party at bay in the cramped entry; but this door was unguarded. Conan and his companions were well into the room before a youthful Hwong came pelting around the fire to face them. The young brave was attacked at once by the Turanians, giving Conan time to take in the dim scene.

Outlined by firelight was a bent figure in a stiff, flaring gown. From the cloak's bristling feathers and winking ornaments, Conan judged it to be that of a shaman or magic-maker. In the crook of his arm the wizard supported a tall wooden staff crowned by a glittering, jewel-encrusted skull, whether real or cast of shiny metal Conan could not tell, so dense was the ornamentation. Its stooped owner, busy mumbling and tossing powders into the fire, glanced briefly up, and the dim backlight showed Conan a wizened, shriveled face of unguessable age. Calmly, then, the sage turned back to continue his chant unbroken, as if unconcerned by the intrusion of armed men.

Pinioned upright beyond the fire stood another remarkable figure, a slender female much harder to ignore. Naked but for some small adornment about her neck, she displayed strikingly the almond-eyed, saffron-skinned beauty which Conan found so alluring in the women of this southern clime. Shimmering full-lit before the fire, her body wavered above it like a shapely yellow flame. At her sides, two Hwong braves held her arms, forcing her so near the embers that her skin gleamed with perspiration. Her face, dark-eyed and tight-lipped in the gloom, gazed down into the flames in desperate resignation.

Whether the fire itself was the object of her fear, Conan could not guess; yet there was certainly something odd about it. The blaze was knee-high and arm-wide, a brisk conflagration, yet no supply of fuel was visible nearby. Where stubs of burned logs should have protruded, lazy fumes and smoky tendrils wove about the base of the flames. The whole fire came, perhaps, from the glistening dust the old priest sprinkled, grains of acrid incense whose pungency filled the room. The colors of the fire were strangely bright and varied; at times its glow almost seemed to take organic shape, like the swell and clutch of a carnivorous sea-flower bathed in restless ocean tides.

In the few racing heartbeats required to take in the scene, Conan's companions struck at the lone tribesman from two directions at once.

While they chopped him down with a flurry of merciless blows, Conan veered toward the captive woman. Meanwhile Juma, bellowing fierce Kushite curses, broke through the archway at the far side of the chamber.

The two guards who opposed him were scattered like tossed knucklebones before his roaring charge.

The pair of warriors holding the yellow-skinned woman flinched back at these threats, the nearer one releasing her to draw a long, barb-bladed knife from his belt. Once, twice, it clashed against Conan's flailing yataghan, until a powerful backhanded slash laid open the man's neck and cast him sprawling into the fire. The other guard, meanwhile, had begun to drag his captive toward the shadowy rear of the chamber; now, at Conan's instant pursuit, he hurled her to the floor and turned to dash away into the shadows himself. The northerner bent over the woman, seized her arm, and hauled to her feet. Swiftly he ascertained that her lithe, straight limbs and supple body bore no wound and no weapon. With her sweat-damp hands clutching at his arm for protection, Conan turned to face the cacophony of shouts echoing around him.

The magician had finally retreated from the fire, having disabled the two troopers who had accompanied Conan into the room. One danced weaponless, howling and slapping at several small gouts of colored flame which blazed from his tunic and even from his bare flesh; the other Turanian rolled screaming on the floor, beating at his garments, from which billows of thick smoke curled. The maker of these uncanny fires was scuttling nimbly away, dragging his skull-topped stave along with him, aided by one of the surviving guards from the far door. His trail was marked by flaming sparks of fire-dust, which still dripped from his
withered hand.

"After him, Imperials! It is Mojurna! Come, you Turanian dogs, slay him!" Yell as Juma would to summon his troops in pursuit, they were slow to follow; some hung back to subdue wounded but still-fighting Hwong; others bent to help their agonized fellow warriors extinguish the gnawing flames, pinning the men down while scraping at their smoldering scars with keen knifeblades.

Conan's impulse to dash after the fleeing wizard was hampered by the grip of his liberated captive at his arm. Rather than drag an unclothed, unarmed female back into danger, he stopped to pry himself loose from her.

"By Astoreth's sacred dugs, woman," he roared at last, "let me go slay your tormentors!"

As he shook her off, he was unable to tell from her blank stare whether she clung to him out of fear for herself, or for him, or to protect the wizard. Regardless, he broke free and lunged after Juma and a pair of less eager Turanian troopers, who dogged the Mojurna's flame-speckled track.

Their pursuit was short. As they closed with the ancient shaman, he scuttled between a grimy altar and a hulking statue of a lion-headed warrior, into a deep crevice at the back of the gallery. Juma bent nearly double to follow him into the cranny, then darted suddenly backward as a heavy, dusty scraping sounded overhead. An instant later a massive slab thudded down in the entryway, striking sulfurous sparks from the lintel where it came to rest.

A few moments' inspection showed that the trick door, whether mechanical or magical in its workings, had effectively sealed off the escape passage.

"By Otumbe and Ijo!" Juma swore fiercely, kicking the patterned face of the slab with his sandaled heel and probing at it with his sword. "The old one has escaped! 'Twas Mojurna, the rebel chieftain we sought, Conan, I am sure of it!" Squinting at the impenetrable stone in the dim, fading firelight, he shrugged and turned back to the watching soldiers. "Come on, perhaps we can pick up his trail in the forest."

"Aye." Conan turned away with him. "In any case, we should not tarry
here. If the wizard can make stones fall, he may try to seal us up in this chamber."

He detoured back to his female prize, who stood watching where he had left her. Taking her by the wrist, he led her toward the entry. Still unclothed, she walked without apparent shame before the Turanian troopers. The men left off kindling torches, binding the Hwong captives, and aiding the burned troopers, turning to stare and mutter covetous remarks. Even the moaning wounded fell silent at her approach. But to the looks and gruff comments she gave no apparent heed.

Passing near the dying fire, Conan. halted with his ward to gaze at the remains of the man he had knocked into it. Considering the small size of the blaze and the short time which had elapsed, the body had been consumed with uncanny totality. Only a few tarnished metal trappings and stubs of bone remained, outlining the man's shape in a sooty, sprawling X superimposed across the still-winking ashes.

"Dangerous sorcery, by Crom!" Conan muttered as he passed the incinerated remains.

"No, not by Crom, but by our ancient goddess Sigtona," the woman declared at his side in smooth, liltingly accented Turanian. "Such is the Shining One's power." She shook her stately head, averting her eyes from the smoking remains. "I am glad it was not I who fed the goddess."

Chapter 2

Mqjurna's Sign

"Make way! I go on the emperor's business!"

Hiking his caftan up around his knees to keep it from flapping unbecomingly, Azhar the acolyte hurried along the tiled corridor. He shoved through a company of shaven-headed, bare-chested eunuchs and silk-wrapped female slaves bearing linens and water-jugs. These yielded scant way to him, forcing him to brush against their sleek, oiled bodies as he scurried past. Behind his back they flashed ribald, ironic grins at this self-important young man, not truly of a high caste. He was, after all, the slave of mere wizards, not of a mighty king.

Azhar, meanwhile, rounded the corner at the end of the passage. He
emerged onto a long, roofed balcony patterned by bright daylight beaming through the filigreed stone railings. He maintained his brisk pace, sandals slapping the intricate mosaic tile. On his left, framed by the slender, graceful pillars supporting the balcony's vaulted canopy, spread Aghrapur, capital city of Turan. Golden under noon sun, the jumble of tiled roofs and glittering domes stretched away out of sight, the view fading swiftly into a smoky, coppery haze born of ten thousand kilns, cookfires, and forges.

If not for the smothering haze, Azhar knew, the balcony would have commanded an even more breathless view of distant plains and mountains. Yet piously he reminded himself that the lord of the palace, the resplendent Emperor Yildiz of Turan, held sway over more of the earth than could possibly be glimpsed from the tallest mountaintop, even on the clearest day.

At length the porch rejoined the domed mass of the central palace.

Azhar reentered cool, scented shadow, turning down a curving corridor in the direction of the emperor's apartments. Finally, before a pair of gold-inlaid doors he halted, panting. Two red-cloaked Imperial Guards barred his way, their double-bladed axes meeting at the level of his chest.

"Let me pass!" he gasped to them. "I bring word to His Resplendency from the Court of Seers. I am to tell Emperor Yildiz―"

"Enough!" The ranking guard's craggy, battle-scarred face was too stern to betray even contempt. "Go below to the common chamber and petition the eunuch, Dashibt Bey. If your business is of any merit, he can arrange an audience."

"But sir… I mean, Guardian! Ibn Uluthan, the chief mage, told me…"

Breathless and confused, the acolyte faltered. Struck then by a sudden recollection, he reached to the neck of his caftan and fished anxiously inside it. The guard waited motionless before him, showing no fear of any weapon the scrawny lad might produce.

What he brought forth from his richly embroidered garment was a heavy signet ring, a glinting golden lump on a loop of silken cord. He pinched it waveringly in the air for the guard to inspect.

"The horned conch… symbol of the Khitan Seers." The guard-commander looked coolly from Azhar to his younger comrade, who
nodded understandingly. The Guild had entry where others were denied, even into the imperial presence.

Without further words, the officer retracted his ax. Hooking its weighty head on a catch at his belt, he turned to unlatch the ornate door. When one of the portals swung slightly ajar, he passed through, with Azhar treading cautiously at his heels. The second guard secured the door behind them.

Azhar, following the heavy footsteps of the armored warrior, scarcely dared crane his neck to marvel at the sumptuousness of the royal apartments about him. A dazzling rainbow of rugs and cushions littered the black and white tiled floor, their lush softness strewn between massive columns of varicolored marble and heavy tables of gold and onyx. Here and there amidst the lavish appointments, immaculately groomed servants waited still and silent as human furniture, with none of the insolence of the lesser palace slaves. And this, Azhar told himself with a thrill of awe, was only the Great One's vestibule.

His escort halted to exchange muttered words with a bearded slave whose splendid turban betold high rank. Then he led the way through one of several nobly arched doorways into a high-ceilinged room. It resembled a ballroom, except for its floor; this fell away toward the center in broad, shallow stairsteps resembling those of an arena.

Around the upper edge of the depression, adorned in lavish silks, lounged eunuchs and courtiers of the highest rank. At the far side of the room, the Resplendent One himself sat on a padded couch, fanned by two kneeling servants. And yet at first, Azhar found himself unable to lavish his eyes on the divine sight, so peculiar was the nature of the entertainment underway in the shallow pit.

There crouched two women, young and athletic-looking, facing each other in bizarre combat. One was armed with twin pairs of broad-tipped pincers, the other with blunt horn-hooks grasped in either hand. Though barefoot, both women wore blouses and pantaloons of thin, gossamer-like fabric, flimsy at best and now badly rent and ribboned by their exertions.

Each, it appeared, was trying to strip the clothing away from her opponent.

As the acolyte watched wide-eyed, the raven-haired girl lashed out with her tongs, snatching away a streamer of fabric to lay bare a shapely
expanse of her red-headed rival's thigh. But the Circassian was quick to retaliate, hooking the neck of the other's blouse and shredding it down the front, so that half its cloth streamed in tatters from the wearer's supple shoulder. At this triumph, a patter of faint, polite applause passed around the circle of watchers.

Abruptly the combat halted. Azhar, following the obedient gaze of watchers and contestants alike, looked to the emperor, who had snapped his fingers sharply at his elite guard's approach. The two women, bobbing their heads obediently, jogged and jiggled to the side of the arena where they sat together on the bottom step.

Emperor Yildiz the Resplendent, whom the acolyte had never been privileged to view so closely, was a small, chubby, olive-skinned man.

Azhar, as the guard led him forward, searched in vain for some sign of imperial distinction: certainly his silken robe and pointed-toed slippers were of the rarest quality, his nails and his fringe of hair well-trimmed.

But his olive-skinned face, and indeed his whole bearing, had a tame look about them, an air of intense ordinariness quite at odds with the grandeur Azhar had expected.

"Well, messenger?" The emperor turned his small, dark, bored eyes from the kneeling guard to the stricken-faced acolyte. "What news does the Court of Seers offer me now? Sorcerous warning of some new disaster in the southern campaign? Or just another incomprehensible wrinkle of my astrological destiny?" Yildiz examined Azhar's expressionless face with the faintest hint of annoyance.

"Oh, Resplendent One!" Lightheaded with awe and penitence for his first, blasphemous thoughts, and smitten by the great ruler's mild voice like a reed before a mighty gale, Azhar found himself collapsing to the floor to grovel on knees and elbows before the emperor's padded couch.

"Great Lord, forgive this interruption!" His fingers scrabbled numbly on the patterned tile, venturing almost to touch the upcurled toes of the ruby-crusted imperial slippers. "My arcane masters bade me bring word of this morning's event… but I scarcely dare trouble you, Sire…" His voice quivered to silence, a last tremor of dread animating his hunched shoulders.

"Yes, yes, I know. And what is the news? You may rise." Yildiz gestured impatiently to the attending guard. "Help him up, will you?"

"Oh, Your Resplendency!" Struggling with his own unruly limbs and feeble voice, Azhar felt himself hauled upright by a strong hand at the scruff of his neck. "My master Ibn Uluthan is in audience with Your Splendor's military liason before the Crystal Window." He choked out the words through the constricted collar of his caftan, still not daring to meet the Great One's eyes. "Emperor, they told me to ask… they beg your divine presence, O Lord of all Turan!"

"Is that so?" Yildiz arose energetically to his feet. "Then they may be making some progress at last, Tarim willing! If they are, I shall be happy to see it." A golden-haired male servant came forward from the wall to place a massive, bejeweled turban on the emperor's head, which added considerably to his height and grandeur. Then he flicked a finger at Azhar and the guard officer. "Come, boy, we shall take the inner way. Meanwhile, let the combat continue for the edification of my guests."

As the warrior-girls arose to face one another again, Yildiz led Azhar forth from the room. A diminishing series of archways and double-guarded doors brought the three at last into a long, angling hallway. Windowless it was, lit by oil lamps suspended from the ceiling at the junctions of cross-corridors. Azhar knew of this nominally secret inner passage reserved for the emperor's private use, but he had not guessed its extent. It seemed to run the whole length of the vast palace, with stairways and branchings penetrating to the building's remotest wings.

Taking down a lamp from a hook to light their way, the guard led them up a long spiral stairway to a brassbound door. Here Yildiz produced from his silken garments a many-pronged key, which he plied in a concealed aperture. With a faint click, the door swung open on the broad atrium of the Court of Seers.

The high, domed chamber echoed with the shadowy, musty silence elder sages require for their meditations. The octagonal room's corners, lined with shelves of dusty fetishes and scrolls, cowered well back from the light; but its center was bright with dusty sunrays streaming down through glazed slits in the vaulted dome, within which a wooden mezzanine had been installed for stargazing.

The floor level of the room contained several arched entrances, but only one window. Before this stood two men, a senior seer and a military officer, who turned solicitously toward the open door. As Yildiz walked forward, flanked by the bashful Azhar, the high-ranking men offered deep,
lingering bows.

"O Gracious One, welcome!" The speaker, Ibn Uluthan, was a tall man wearing the dark burnoose of a court sage, with the hood thrown back from his gray-tousled head. "We requested your presence, my Lord, because of great matters in the offing. Now Your Excellency can see our spells at work."

"Indeed, O Emperor; Uluthan and his fellow magicians have not misled us this time, it would seem." The black-clad officer, General Abolhassan, nodded a grudging smile at the wizard, his strong yellow teeth gleaming in a hawk-nosed, dark-mustached face. "It appears that we finally have intelligence from the southern campaign." Military cordons and insignia winked from the black mound of his turban as he wheeled toward the bright window.

The object of his attention stood out strikingly, since its light was a blue-green glare, strangely out of keeping with the pale golden rays pouring from the window slits overhead. Outlined by its eerie radiance, the newcomers moved closer with an air of fascination. The prospect it looked out on they found even more surprising: not the hazy cityscape Azhar had recently witnessed from the terrace, but a jungle profusion of trees and brush simmering beneath a hazy tropic sky, with mounds and spires of ancient, crumbling architecture looming in its midst, and human figures fleeing in its depths.

However vast the imperial palace, it was clearly impossible for such an immensity to be enclosed within its walls. Even the stoic guardsman, swallowing a silent oath, knew that he was witnessing formidable sorcery.

The window itself was nothing more than a sturdy black-tiled ceramic casement set in a south-facing wall, and glazed over with marvelously smooth crystal. Yet its view opened, not on some lavish indoor garden, but on an alien place far removed from this teeming northern city.

"Fascinating, indeed! Good work, Ibn Uluthan." The emperor, moving closer to the casement, nodded at the smiling wizard. "I have but glimpsed the power of your spell before; never was it so satisfactory as this!" He pointed down to the human figures visible in the jungle depths. "The trackless jungles of Venjipur! And those, I take it, are our expeditionary troops carrying out a military operation?"

The beaming sorcerer nodded. "Yes, Your Resplendency. To achieve
this effect, we simply intensified the projections of astral force we have been making for months now. As you know, we were plagued with false images caused by the enemy's mystic emanations. But this morning, for reasons that are not entirely clear to us, the Venji spell began to weaken.

By following its emanations back to their fading source, we were able to pinpoint this activity."

"You don't know why the resistance stopped?"

"No, Emperor; we hope it means the death of the arch-wizard Mojurna.

Without his powers, the Venji rebels can never again resist our sorceries."

As Ibn Uluthan spoke, the view from the window swept breathtakingly forward and down, making the watchers reel and clutch at the sill for support. The light wavered and dimmed, tree-fronds melting into the casement as it magically pushed through the forest. But the sense of motion was only an illusion; from Ibn Uluthan's subtle motions, it became clear that the sorcerer was varying the angle and direction of the window's view by swirling his fingers in a small bowl of black oil on a podium before him.

General Abolhassan moved close beside Yildiz, pointing down at the moving figures who were now nearer and clearer in the prospect. "Those men are Turanians, one of our elite jungle patrols. A fortnight ago I sent orders southward designating Mojurna as a target of priority; these troopers may just now have slain the old scoundrel and cleared the way for us. If this kind of contact with the Venjipur front can be maintained, as Ibn Uluthan says it can, it will relieve our command problems, quicken our responses, make possible an almost limitless expansion of our empire…"

"Indeed, I could direct such a war myself, with little need for your intercession, General!" Sparing but a brief glance for Abolhassan, Yildiz gazed down intently on the supernatural vista before him―which, under the wizard's deft manipulation, was following the Turanian band swiftly through jungle depths. Nearest to their aerial vantage loped the last trooper, a large, tigerish man who seemed to be purposefully lagging behind the rest, scanning the jungle for signs of pursuit.

"That giant is a northern barbarian, is he not?" Yildiz asked of no one in particular. "A Vanir, by his looks. They make such splendid figures in uniform; I wish I could recruit more of them!"

The lurking man's expectations of pursuit were soon rewarded: out of the leafy shadows flitted three dim shapes, near-naked warriors racing to encircle him. The lone trooper's blade flicked once, twice in the dimness, causing half-seen thrashings on the jungle floor; then the yataghan swept in a glinting circle, sending the third and last of the pursuers sprawling back across the writhing bodies of the other two. Scarcely pausing, the lone skirmisher turned to follow his band.

"There, you can see," Abolhassan proclaimed to the others, "these Hwong rebels are poor fighters. Our imperial troops vanquish them easily, with or without sorcerous aid! Spells like this are diverting, true―but even this window is of little use, lacking a swift means to communicate with the battlefront." He glanced at the wizard, whose eyes gleamed green in sorcerous daylight as he guided the moving window through the forest.

"Carrier pigeons have served us so far; they will continue to be the best means, unless some better magic is devised."

Yildiz gave no indication whether he heard the general. He gazed intently on the jungle scene, his eyes reflecting some of the satisfaction they had shown during the entertainment in his private arena. "How wondrous it is, Ibn Uluthan, to have a direct view of the action! It strikes me that we can use this magic to involve more of our own priests and nobles in our frontier campaigns, and promote more warlike zeal at court.

We need something dramatic like this to get the people's fighting spirit up!" He smiled at the others, then shrugged complacently. "Of course, we shall assert our territorial rights in Venjipur in any case; it is of no great consequence. But having this link to our successes there could help to rally the court behind us."

"Indeed, your Resplendency, an excellent idea," said General Abolhassan, sounding unconvinced. He nudged Ibn Uluthan. "Now, Mage, since this jungle detachment has done its work―and in any case, the fate of such a small unit hardly matters―can you possibly conjure us a view of the gate at Venjipur City proper, to check the trim of the imperial sentries there? Believe me, nothing reveals the morale of a fighting force better…

but say, what is this?"

All five men turned to stare at the glowing window, as from the edges of the casement wisps of pale mist intruded on the jungle greenery.

Spreading rapidly, the fog not only obscured the scene, but seemed actively to eat away and dissolve the slowing images of branches and
drooping jungle vines. Before their eyes, the entire view soon melted to a formless void of white shot through diagonally with indistinct, sleeting droplets.

In the misty center of this limbo something small and gray appeared.

Clarifying and growing swiftly, it seemed to hurtle toward them.

Just as the acolyte Azhar scuttled back, and the others gathered themselves to spring away, the projectile halted. It now filled most of the window: a brightly ornamented skull, cast or plated in purest silver and lavishly inlaid with crystals and precious stone. Its teeth were chisel-pointed diamonds and its sinister eye-sparks smoldering rubies, while green jade and yellow topaz framed the hard, fleshless planes of its face.

"Bismillah!" The wizard Ibn Uluthan, giving vent to the oath, left off fumbling in his mortar of black liquid. "That skull is Mojurna's emblem, his personal fetish, may Tarim wither him! Emperor Yildiz, my deepest apologies!"

"Hmm… does that mean our enemy is back in control of the sorcerous aether, Mage? And so soon?" Yildiz glanced from window to wizard with an air of mild disappointment.

The sorcerer hesitated, watching Yildiz. All present knew that the emperor's disappointment, though understated, could easily prove fatal in one commanding such vast power.

Azhar the acolyte, who had been yearning to speak, finally dared to anticipate his master. "It is a strong spell, Your Resplendency, cast either by Mojurna or some very formidable apprentice of his, I would say."

"Probably the warlock himself," Ibn Uluthan added, "since he is known to be jealous and unsharing of his powers. The general's detachment must have failed to kill him."

"Damn your insinuations, wizard!" Abolhassan, by contrast with the emperor's mildness, lashed out suddenly. "There is no reason to assume that my troops failed; anyway, is your power so feeble that a toothless old witch-man scattering parched herbs and moth-wings can overmaster you anytime it doesn't happen to slip his doddering mind?"

"You speak too hastily, General!" Ibn Uluthan, still standing by his podium, glanced apologetically over his shoulder at the garish skullface.

"Remember, the Gulf of Tarqheba is far, far south of Aghrapur. Our mystical powers are rooted here, in our people's faith in the god Tarim, the holy temples and imperial relics we worship, even in the sacred stones of this palace. Those powers are vast, but not absolute. Each mile further from Turan, across the Colchian Mountains and into the southern jungles, our own power weakens and our enemy's grows stronger!"

"Fah, lame excuses!" The general shot a self-righteous glance at Yildiz, then turned again to upbraid the sorcerer. "You have been given all the wealth and authority you requested, Ibn Uluthan… and more, against the counsel of some of us. That should enable you to do your part! Are you saying that the mightiest empire in the world cannot impose its mystic will on a band of jungle savages and ignorant rice-puddlers?"

"General Abolhassan." Yildiz's voice, soft but resonant, restrained the warrior. "It ill befits you to be so wroth when I, your emperor, am not.

Surely we are well on our way to victory in Venjipur in any case? All my counselors have assured me of this, including you." The emperor nodded at the seer, then turned toward the door. "When I see fit to administer a rebuke to Ibn Uluthan, I will do so. Meanwhile, I hope that he will continue his most able efforts."

"Certainly, Your Resplendency!" Scowling, the general nodded curtly at the sorcerer, then turned to follow Yildiz and his guard to the inner passage. Azhar and Ibn Uluthan watched them depart. As they left, their backs were lit by the window's surreal glow and the jeweled skull's eerie, radiant smile.

Chapter 3

Fort Sikander

As the tropic sun climbed higher its hot weight increased; the ruthless orb mounted the sky like the sweaty bulk of a wrestler, slowly strangling his opponent and forcing him down to the hot, dry earth.

Since his arrival in Venjipur, Conan had often wondered at the sharpness of the contrast between steaming jungle miasmas and the parched heat of the compounds. Here, where the invaders had cleared
away trees and vines to build an encircling palisade, the bare earth was ridged into furrows and stump-holes, baked rock-hard by sun… at least until afternoon, when rain squalls off the Gulf of Tarqheba would surely melt them back to slimy mud.

As noon approached, even the sunrays reflecting off the yellow earth were scorchingly hot; Conan shifted back underneath the frayed awning of the mess tent to avoid them. Jostling inward among huddled, muttering soldiers and sloe-eyed Venji camp girls, he nevertheless lingered near enough to the entry to have an unobstructed view of the staff officers'

compound across the yard. Leaning against a tentpost, he endured the flat taste of his beaker of kvass and the smelly companionship of the field canteen.

Juma edged close up beside him, grumbling as was the universal custom. "Small thanks Captain Murad gave us for raiding the demon temple! Conan, you were too honest, telling them the old wizard escaped!"

The black trooper smiled, his teeth and eyes glinting yellowish in the shadows. "We should have taken off the head of his ugliest warrior and kicked it a few leagues through the jungle. Then we could have passed it off as Mojurna's, and they would have granted us a week's leave in the capital!"

Conan shook his head, laying a good-natured hand on Juma's shoulder.

"Nay, fellow, that old lizard-splitter is too dangerous a foe to trifle with. If our commanders thought him dead, 'twould make them all the more lax and reckless. And who bears the brunt of their half-hatched schemes?" He drained his cup of sour beer, grimacing. "By all the gods of the snowy mountains, Venjipur is a vile place! I joined this war because southern duty sounded easy; now I count myself lucky to survive another day!"

"Aye, Conan, too true. Remember when the Venji campaign seemed a good chance to make rank?" Juma's grin flashed again, wistfully. "But here all the commissioned officers are eagle-beaked aristocrats born to command." He scowled morosely. "If they never expose themselves to danger, how will vacancies occur? Aii it is too dismal to think about!" The Kushite gazed moodily around at the troopers loitering near them.

Settling on the largest one, who overtopped even himself and Conan, he confronted him and asked, "What of you, Orvad? How did you find your way here to Fort Sikander?"

The trooper he addressed was truly a massive man, so tall that his
straggling hair brushed the grubby canvas overhead. The lank black strands hung unnaturally close to his skull on one side, denoting the loss of an ear―probably on some northern battlefield or civic maimer's block; none had ever dared ask him where. His remaining facial features, though overlarge and hideously battered, identified him as a native of Turan or Hyrkania. He was slow to speech, knitting his scar-seamed forehead and peering at Juma a long time before answering.

"I killed a tavern-keeper in Sultanapur," he rumbled finally. "The fellow tried to drug my wine and steal my pay. Then I killed some of the taverner's kin, and a few city guards." Orvad frowned thoughtfully. "When I went back to the garrison, the commandant called me before him. He said if I enjoyed killing so much, Venjipur was the place for me. So I came here." The giant lowered his eyes, shaking his head in childish disappointment. "But the commandant didn't tell me I'd only be killing Hwong, these little jungle monkeys! That's not the same as killing men!"

His observation was greeted by guffaws from the others in the tent. The gruff male outburst was soon joined by shriller female tones, as troopers translated the joke for the camp slatterns. Orvad looked around at them all, his brow knitting in suspicion at their levity, his big fists slowly knotting―until Juma ventured near enough to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, Orvad, you are certainly right! Everyone here feels the same! Luckily the Hwong are not easy to kill, so that gives us all some sport."

At Orvad's slow smile and nod, the watchers laughed heartily again.

Juma, after placating the giant further and ordering him another drink, returned to Conan's side. The Cimmerian, somewhat detached from the merriment, was gazing out from under the pavilion at a log-walled, canvas-roofed building opposite.

"Even dull-witted Orvad is not content!" Juma muttered at his side.

"Was there ever a soldier so dim that he enjoyed serving in Venjipur?"

"Maybe." Conan nodded at a corner of the pavilion where a cluster of rough-looking troopers sucked vapors out of long, yellow-fuming pipes.

"Remember, for lovers of lotus, this land is paradise," he observed to his friend. "All the old Venji hands develop the taste eventually, they say, making them useless for other kinds of service. Someday you and I, Juma, may learn to love Venjipur too!"

A level, earnest voice joined in from beside them. "Ofttimes, brothers, I
think that we are here only because of the lotus trade." The lean, desert-brown soldier, known to Conan as Babrak, joined them with easy familiarity. "The red and purple lotus extracts command vast prices in the Hyborian lands. Together with the other narcotic strains, the vile stuff is one of Turan's prime trade-goods. A shameful thing for a land that professes to follow Tarim's law!"

"Aye, truly." Conan kept his gaze trained outside the pavilion, over the other troopers' heads. "My own encounters with lotus have been mostly unwilling, and some of them near-fatal. I put no trust in that kind of city-bred slackness."

"Nor I," Juma assured them, though his good-natured smile may have held an ironic glint. "In my native Kush, the black lotus was tabu. But that did not keep foreign mystics and wizards from risking their lives in the deep jungle to gather it."

"A sad thing," Babrak assured them. "As you may know, true followers of the prophet disdain all narcotics and unmanly indulgences." He waved in one hand a pocket-scroll he had been holding at his side. "In a heathen land like this, it is essential to have a strong faith to protect one's spirit from decay. If ever you wish to learn Tarim's way―"

"Aye, 'tis a good way, a way of fierce fighters," Juma answered quickly.

"Would that you could persuade more of your fellow Turanians to follow it―including our soft-bellied officers. For myself, I still pray and swear by the gods of my ancestors."

"And you, Hyborian?" Babrak's cool gray eyes fixed on Conan. "What god do you follow?"

"My oaths are to Crom and his fierce, frosty cousins," Conan answered shortly. "But hold, I must go; they have ended the interrogation!"

The others followed his intent gaze across the compound, where two spike-helmeted officers stood outside one of the tent barracks. As Conan pushed forward out of the pavilion, his two friends edged after him.

Others drifted in their wake, sensing a diversion to speed the dreary morning.

Outside under the baking sun, a pair of native troops dragged forth two scrawny, blood-smeared bodies, recognizable in their dusky nakedness as
the Hwong captives from the jungle shrine. As the Venjis tossed the victims onto a cart behind a slack-eared mule, their torturer and slayer emerged―a thick-muscled, copper-skinned man with dark tattoos patterning his cheeks and the shaven top of his head. Conan knew him as Sool, one of the eunuchs of the local warlord Phang Loon.

From the shadows of the tent Sool dragged forth a slender arm, around which his blunt fingers were clamped, followed by a shapely shoulder and the staggering form of the woman Sariya. She wore a cotton shift her captors had given her to cover her nakedness; but it proved scanty enough as Sool propelled her violently forward, to stagger onto one bare knee in the dirt of the compound. As she arose, blinking in the sun's brightness and trying to dust off her shift, the beauty of her long, straight limbs and fine-boned face drew low comments and hisses from the watching men.

The slave Sool paid the girl no further heed, turning to join the departing Turanians.

Sariya seemed well in control of herself. She did not appear to have been tortured―as indeed, she had assured Conan she would not be because of her rank. Obviously the interrogators had finished with her, and to Conan's relief, none of the staff officers seemed to take a personal interest. He strode swiftly forward, calling out, "Sariya! Come, girl, I'll find you a place."

But as she raised her dark eyes to him, another figure interposed―a tall, lean trooper, brown and hard beneath sweat-stained leather field-vest and breeches. Dark hair straggled from beneath his grimy turban, fringing a seamed, sun-toughened face. A long, curved dagger hung sheathed at his belt, and the coil of red cord tucked beside it marked him as one of an elite corps of lone killers, whose duty took them on long forays into enemy territory.

Conan did not know the man, but the reputation of his unit was all anyone needed to know. He took another firm step forward, and the trooper moved between him and Sariya. "Why so eager, petty officer?

Have you not learned that, excepting only the Emperor and his High Counselors, we Red Garrotes get first pick of all the women?" The man's drawl was ironic and confident, his face dangerously calm as he sized up Conan's height and fitness.

"Be warned, fellow." The Cimmerian's voice grated low but clear as he moved near his challenger. "I took this captive yesterday, and she remains
in my charge. I will brook no interference."

"Is that an order, northling? Think twice before you move to enforce it!

My rank is the equal of yours―and my manhood the greater." The lean assassin flashed a look at the growing straggle of onlookers, who laughed appreciatively. "You must be the raw foreigner I heard of, Captain Murad's newest petty―if so, Sergeant, be warned that your men despise you! 'Tis said you run a suicide squad at the gray one's bidding; learn your place, or you'll not last long in Venjipur."

Reaching behind him, the garroter laid a brown, wiry hand on the unflinching Sariya's saffron shoulder, caressing her under Conan's eyes.

Most of the watchers laughed at the spectacle, eager to see the comeuppance of an officer, and a barbarian at that. The boldest moved up beside the challenger to leer at Conan.

"Do not worry about the girl, Cimmerian," a voice called from their ranks. "In time she will go among the camp followers; then you too can have your turn!"

A murmur of laughter following this remark, and in its midst Conan moved. His action was too swift to be traced by the eye, except as a change from utter stillness to utter speed, traced by a single flash of steel. His lunge carried him between Sariya and the elite trooper, sending the unprepared woman staggering with the glancing force of his rush. In the shocked stillness ensuing, amidst the puff of hanging yellow dust, every eye peered blinking to assess the damage, and count the toll of the dead. All marveled to see that, swift as the attack had been, it had not been swift enough.

Conan crouched in a fighting stance, hands poised ready in air. One held steel, the other, blood―and not his adversary's. Rather the red drops marking the dust of the compound fell from his own palm, slashed open by the curved dagger clutched in his opponent's raised hand.

"So you see, northling, things happen swiftly in these tropical lands.

The hooded snake strikes fast, the mongoose faster yet! Had you watched patiently and learned, you might have lived to acquire the necessary quickness yourself." The garroter leered at his audience. "Now, alas, 'tis too late for you to gain wisdom."

His speech had served the purpose of covering his actions as he raised
first one foot, then the other in front of him, deftly inserting something into the toe of each sandal. Foot-knives, Conan realized, too late to do anything about it. There would be no choice but to fight on the enemy's terms.

Conan had heard of these weapons, flat-handled blades inserted between the ball of the foot and the sole of the sandal, with narrow necks to be gripped by the first and second toes. Their use was a deadly art of the southern lands. Those glinting from his opponent's feet were of bronze, leaf-bladed and deeply grooved. Conan did not doubt that they were poisoned.

The watchers formed a tight circle in anticipation of the duel, some murmuring together in groups and presumably laying bets. Conan noticed that Juma and Babrak took up protective stances on either side of Sariya, slapping their hilts menacingly at any who edged too near her. Vowing silent thanks to them, he turned to meet the red strangler's rush.

The jungle trooper had unsheathed a second curved dagger from behind his back, providing him a steel fang on each limb. Bending suddenly like a bow, he launched himself at Conan in a gleaming pinwheel of death. He kicked out first one foot, then the other, then spun forward, his daggers slashing high and low simultaneously. While fighting he ceased his taunts, intent on the intricate motions, his brown-knotted throat issuing only sharp gasps and grunts of exertion.

The Cimmerian, with points flying at him from a dozen angles in blinding succession, gave way generously before his foe. In the human dust-devil's whirling, slicing course it was virtually impossible to see the next deadly stroke coming. Swiftly he fell back and aside, letting his foe measure the ground with acrobatic leaps and prancings. The moves were flamboyant, more likely perfected in taverns and alleys than in any jungle fight.

Conan thought of letting his attacker tire himself out―but an oddly narcotic gleam in the man's eye warned that his wiry vitality might endure, even increase over the course of the fight, depending on his drug of preference. So he set out to balk the man's attacks in small ways, shifting sidewise at intervals and striking gingerly at the metal-scything limbs as they flashed by. Each rush brought them closer to the chanting, jeering line of watchers.

A change in the jungle-fighter's rhythm caught Conan off-balance; desperately he dropped to all fours as a midair leap sent his attacker scything straight over him, daggers and toe-knives whizzing past his ears and kidneys. This raised lusty shouts from the spectators; yet the blood they bayed for did not spurt or trickle. The only wound, made earlier to Conan's hand, had ceased flowing, clenched inside his massive, dusty fist.

But as the lithe assassin instantly renewed his attack, that same gory fist flew open to dash blinding, red-spattered dust into his face. A simultaneous kick of Conan's sandal struck the back of the Red Garrote's hurtling thigh, amplifying his spin and sending him careening into the shouting onlookers.

As he disentangled himself roughly from two victims, one cursing, the other yelping with wounds, Conan saluted the crowd with a raised dagger, winning a lusty cheer from Juma―and from the others, feverish murmurs of bets being revised.

The two fighters squared off again, both panting this time, with no inessential flourishes or feints. Their grim intensity hinted that the match might be settled in one more swift, deadly pass. In the blinding noon sun their shadows made two hovering knots on the earth, each extending a curved talon toward the other. These dark blots gave the only real contrast to the sunwashed scene, blacker than the weathered hues of either man's harness, deeper than the tan of dusty, sun-browned limbs.

In a pulse the black shadows rushed together, tangling indistinguishably, the red strangler's kicking assault blocked by Conan's forward lunge. Blades scraped harshly and bodies met crosswise, tight inside the vicious orbit of hand-and foot-driven knives. The duel closed to a tight grapple marked by short, sharp stabs and desperate kicks. In this earth-rooted struggle, body to body and hand to throat, the warrior whose straining toes were encumbered by metal knife-hasps discovered a disadvantage.

The fighters strained together, crouching low over the ground, and a pair of crescent daggers fell to earth. Slowly, inexorably the red assassin's slimmer torso was borne uppermost in the knot of striving flesh, arching skyward even as it bent sharply back on itself. A surge of effort tightened the human knot, and a pair of brittle snaps sounded, loud as whipcracks across the dwindling circle of onlookers. There followed a flurry of directionless kicks and twitches, then the strangler's body flopped to
earth, rebounding there with unnatural limpness. A black shadow fell across its lifeless disarray as Conan flexed upright, panting and bleeding, scanning the crowd for any other ill-wishers.

The soldiers' frenzied excitement at the fight's outcome threatened to cause a brawl or draw high-ranking attention; as they stood milling and haggling over bets, Conan shook off the lingering pain of the fight and moved deliberately. Striding to Sariya, he clasped an arm across her sun-warm back and pressed a long, probing kiss on her upturned mouth, marking her publicly as his own. Whoops and catcalls from the onlookers told him that his claim had been duly noted. Sweeping the crowd with his defiant gaze, Conan drew the slender girl alongside him. Flanked by his friends, they started away.

"Go carefully from this hour, Conan." Babrak's warning was low and grim in his ear. "You have not finished your business with the Red Garrotes; they would slay any outsider to avenge even the least-regarded member of their band."

"Aye, Conan." Juma shook his head in mock consternation. "Did you really have to kill him in public like that? Now I hardly feel safe strolling with you."

Conan led them around the end of a barrack where, out of the mob's sight, they quickened their pace. "The fight was necessary to serve notice.

That fool's death bought Sariya's life. Now any who covet her know they must answer to me first." He led the group toward the timber gate of the inner palisade. "We can take a hut in the village compound, where the officers live with their women." He kept Sariya close by his side as they walked. "Like it or not, girl, we are together―but I swear I will not force myself on you."

She was inspecting his injured palm, cradling it between her slim hands. Her accent was as exotic and lilting as he recalled. "My poor, great mongoose, we must be sure that this heals well!" She met his eyes with a frank look. "In all Venjipur there could be no better champion, Conan. I will show you my gratitude."

Chapter 4

The Silver Pool

The gong sent ripples of brazen sound shimmering from the mosaic vaultings of the imperial chamber. The armed guard who had struck it waited until he saw the emperor's perfunctory wave of dismissal, then turned and vanished outside the curtained archway. General Abolhassan, whom the still-chiming stroke had heralded, stepped reluctantly forward.

"Your Resplendency, the news I have is not of surpassing urgency. I did not realize that you were… occupied. If it pleases, I can attend you later―"

"Nay, not at all, General! I bid you stay." Yildiz addressed his visitor from his bed at the center of the chamber, where he lay disporting with harem concubines. "Step forward and state your business."

"Lord, I wished only to furnish you the latest intelligence from Venjipur; it confirms our suppositions in the matter of the wizard Ibn Uluthan's recent failure. 'Tis of no great timeliness, and could easily be postponed…" As he moved nearer, casting reluctant eyes on his emperor's lush relaxations, his voice trailed off indecisively.

The imperial bed was a thin velvet bolster afloat on a broad, marble-curbed pool of quicksilver. The shining metal lay smooth and unsullied, supporting Yildiz's considerable weight evenly and without so much as a ripple. It bore with equal ease the pair of dark-haired, dark-eyed houris lying alongside and atop the emperor. These two carried on their leisurely caresses as if the high-turbaned, black-clad general had not entered the room at all. Plump they were, veiled by mere vestiges of their customarily scant harem garb. The emperor himself, mercifully, was mostly clad, and partly draped by a silken coverlet.

"Do not worry, Abolhassan; I am not the least indisposed to your presence here." Yildiz craned his neck slightly so as to address the general from his reclining posture. "The demands of leadership sometimes force me to entertain a number of projects at once―equally true of yourself, no doubt." Yildiz reached across the ruffled edge of his mattress with one pudgy arm. "Just be seated and help yourself to wine, if you wish." So saying, he shoved toward Abolhassan a metal-borne golden tray containing crystal cups and an ewer. It skated across the silver liquid, to bump lightly against the curb and float there, spinning slowly.

"I thank you, Sire." Abolhassan seated himself on the edge of a marble bench at the poolside, not deigning to reach for the wine-ewer. "To be brief, O Emperor: Fort Sikander confirms that our raiding party did not
succeed in killing the Arch-Mage Mojurna. They interrupted some dark ritual he was performing in an ancient Venji temple, but the wretch escaped, whether by cunning or by means of his spells." As he spoke, the general forced his eyes discreetly to trace the intricacies of the tiled floor.

"Unfortunately, Sire, it is therefore to be expected that his mystic emanations will continue, and that the poison of mutiny against your Resplendency's righteous rule will persist in Venjipur. A regrettable state of affairs, Sire! Many thanks for your attention."

Abolhassan arose to leave, only to be halted by his emperor's voice.

"The raiding party, then… was it the one we spied through Uluthan's magic window?"

Reluctantly the general turned back and nodded. "Indeed, Resplendency. Commanded by two petty field officers, Juma and Conan."

He found it awkward to speak, noting that one of the imperial houris was regarding him speculatively from kohl-darkened eyes while she nuzzled and nibbled at her emperor's stout, hairy belly. "That was my error, Sire,"

he added distractedly. "I should have specified that the command be given to someone of noble rank."

"Conan, yes―a Vanir name, that. Probably the oversized trooper we saw in the magic window." Yildiz shifted beneath and between his servants like a sow rearranging itself among shoats in a crowded pen.

"Truly, that glimpse of military valor was stirring! We need more of that kind of savagery here at court, to inspire new interest in the foreign war.

As you may know, General, I often feel that the eunuchs, as a whole, do not faithfully support our southern enterprise. Do you not share that impression? And some of the sharife and their senior wives have spoken out forthrightly in opposition to the war! What can one say about such a lack of spirit?"

"Might I suggest, Resplendency, that since your power is absolute, you simply compel them to change their views?" Detained unwillingly before his master, Abolhassan felt irritated at having to say the obvious. "A few high-placed exiles, floggings, lopped heads, or a dance or two with the strappado can work wonders for a country's fighting spirit!"

Although his harem girls did not visibly flinch at such violent talk, Yildiz stirred impatiently. "Yes, of course, that is so, Abolhassan. But I would rather have things continue running smoothly here at court. We do depend on the eunuchs as administrators, you know; any disruption in
their ranks would sow dissatisfaction in diverse quarters." Yildiz rolled onto his belly, positioning his back to be kneaded by two pairs of scarlet-nailed hands. "And the nobles too have their rightful powers and prerogatives. I certainly do not want a larger war in my capital than the one in Venjipur." He grunted, adjusting his posture before his captive audience. "If I am indeed all-powerful, then does it not behoove me all the more to prevail by reason?"

"By reason, Sire, or by any other means, as you wish! Now, if you have no further need of me…"

"Nay, Abolhassan, linger a moment or two more. My dear General, I apologize for my thoughtlessness in taking my pleasure before you without offering you similar diversion. Just be seated, man, and feel free to call for any refreshment you may desire." From his prone position on the floating mattress, with a snap of his fingers and a flick of his wrist, Yildiz brought a harem-girl scurrying from a curtained alcove to the bench at Abolhassan's side. She was younger and slimmer than the emperor's two companions, barefoot in filmy pantaloons and a brief, jeweled-embroidered vest. Her ruby lips and antimony eyes were half-concealed by auburn curls clasped in a circlet of purest gold. She seated herself beside Abolhassan, lavishing on him a lingering caress, which he shook off uncomfortably.

Meanwhile Yildiz cleared his throat. "Now, General, back to business!

In my efforts to explain and justify the southern war, I have come up against certain complaints which you, in your military expertise, might help me to address." Although his handmaidens lavished careful affections on every part of his portly frame, Yildiz seemed to have no difficulty organizing his thoughts; in fact his concentration was quite remarkable.

"One such quibble," he began, "is an allegation of graft: that the bulk of money and provisions dispatched to Venjipur never even find their way there―or else, once they arrive, are diverted to profiteering and high living by unscrupulous functionaries in my service. Of course, you and I know that there is always a certain amount of graft necessary to keep the wheels of any state enterprise turning. I have tried to explain that, yet the critics seem to feel that substantially more is involved here."

"Outrageous, Sire! Who dares make such irresponsible charges? The lying traitor should be broken on the wheel! I can personally guarantee that no such abuses take place. But I will launch an investigation―" The
general found himself momentarily interrupted as the harem-maid, sidling next to him, blew into his ear, fondling the short hairs at the back of his turban. Valiantly he pushed her off, continuing, "If such things are taking place, I shall have the offenders remanded for the harshest penalties."

"Excellent, General! Henceforth I will speak with more assurance on the subject. Another vexing charge―a related one, perhaps―regards the nature of the diplomatic ties we have formed in Venjipur. It is said that the factions we sponsor there are shallow opportunists or downright criminals, careless of our interests, who will be incapable of ruling the district competently once we secure it for them. What is your analysis of that?"

"Impossible, Sire!" Abolhassan was still fending off his persistent bench-mate; finally he elicited a smothered sob from the girl by means of a remorseless pinch to the flesh of her upper arm. "I myself, of course, have never been to Venjipur. But I can vouch that our allies there are impeccably chosen. They are the land's hereditary warlords, descendants of past conquerors, embodying the same sound principles of aristocracy and autarchy by which Your Resplendency rules our sacred empire."

"Very good, Abolhassan! I will remember that argument." Supine under the intensifying ministrations of his harem women, Yildiz twisted around to flash the general an approving glance. "But I see that you do not avail yourself of the fleshly comforts I have offered―is the wench unsatisfactory? Shall I send her off and fetch you a woman of fuller shape, perhaps, or of more worldly experience?"

"No, Sire!" Abolhassan arose from the bench, flushed with irritation at the shameless questioning. "It is only that I am accustomed to harsh military regimen, Sire―a hard, narrow bed, as they say, and pleasure taken only rarely, in a caravanserai on the eve of battle, or amid the flames and ruins of a conquered city."

"I see." Yildiz nodded understandingly. "You would prefer a boy, then?"

Observing his general's pale, clenching face, the emperor resumed swiftly, "Very well, Abolhassan, please yourself." He gestured the cringing maidservant out of the room and continued speaking.

"The last and most farfetched rumor whispered by my informants is that the entire Venji campaign is an unwarranted distraction, a mere
excuse of self-seeking officers to strengthen their hand at the expense of more homely needs―roads, canals, and so forth. The implication seems to be that this heightened military power is somehow to be used to weaken my reign." Yildiz paused a moment to redirect the efforts of his browsing concubines. "Of course, the devotion of my staff officers is unquestioned.

Therefore, I am puzzled; can you tell me how such a misconception might have arisen? Could it have anything to do with the foreign regiments we have taken into our ranks in the course of imperial expansion? Or with regional rivalries, perhaps? Are there rumblings of revolt in any of the home provinces?"

Abolhassan, standing pike-straight, glared down at his supine inquisitor. "Naturally, Emperor, such damaging allegations are too serious to be regarded lightly, or dismissed in a single interview! I give you my sacred oath to explore any hint of these offenses further and, if there is truth to them, take the necessary action. I thank my gracious commander for raising this concern, along with the other problems we discussed. I bid milord good day!" The general spun on his heels, heading for the exit with strides whose tremors set the mercury pool shimmering, and whose velocity scarcely allowed for a further recall.

As it happened, Yildiz's voice drifted after the departing general in offhanded farewell. "Good day, General. Oh, and Abolhassan, keep me apprised of the fortunes of that young foreigner Conan! He seems the sort who might someday be put to a higher use."

That same night the general attended another audience, this one in less lavish surroundings. It was in a small, anonymous chamber buried somewhere in the vast warren of the palace, lacking windows, pillars, or hangings―notable, indeed, for its bare functionality and absence of any concealment for prying eyes and ears. There were only the dark blue-plastered walls, a single door, smooth-paneled and tightly bolted, a low table, cushions, an oil lamp. Yet the words spoken here were at first so low and guarded, and the sidelong glances so furtive and frequent, that the room might as well have been the earhole of Emperor Yildiz himself; such was the rumor-bearing reputation of the Imperial Court at Aghrapur.

The monarch of the scene, by his size and splendor if not by rank, was the eunuch, Dashibt Bey. He sat by necessity at the center of one long face of the rectangular table, nearly spanning its length with his own breadth,
spreading his bulk across two of the thick cushions. Golden lamplight picked out highlights in the numerous gems and clasps of his costume; it played along the iridescent folds of silken turban, sash, and cummerbund, making their wearer seem a greater source of light than the feeble, wavering flame itself. Though the great functionary would doubtless have preferred a full meal, the privacy and secrecy of the gathering had restricted him to bringing along only a gilded basket, from which he periodically plucked ripe fruit to devour while he listened to General Abolhassan's low-voiced tirade.

"The vile imp! The pudgy, bespangled vulgarian! There he lay, making me wait attendance on him while he was stroked by his fat trollops―I, his ablest general, reduced to the status of a mere towel-boy! Worse, he then tried to foist off his stable of pawed-over strumpets on me! A good thing his downfall is imminent; otherwise I might have been moved to drown him in the mercury pool of his sybaritic bed!"

Dashibt Bey stirred in place, sending refracted highlights dancing about the walls. "Sometimes Yildiz seeks to outrage his supplicants in the hope of throwing them off guard. That tactic never worked with me, because I am unmoved by the carnal passions." The eunuch belched discreetly, tossing aside a gnawed fruit-pit. "But tell me, General, what was the tone of his interrogation? Do his suspicions come even remotely near the truth?"

Abolhassan stroked his sharp-stubbled chin, preened his black mustache, and shook his head. "Nay, I cannot think it! He made one insinuation which took me aback at first, about my entertaining more than one purpose at a time. But I must conclude that he is pathetically ignorant, chattering just to hear the sound of his own voice. Court gossips have ingratiated themselves with him by pointing out the obvious; now he tries to overawe me by throwing it back in my face. He struts and postures to make it appear that he is in control, when in truth all know he is not."

"Aye, General," a rasping voice added, "great Tarim knows, the complaints which the hated one mouths are the selfsame moanings of the effete noble faction at court―those who would parcel out the rule of empire and shackle the power of the True Faith!" The brown-robed speaker, bald and waxy-pale, was the high priest Tammuraz, known to all as a fanatic, yet secure as the emperor himself in the church's time-honored hierarchy. "All such quibblers will be justly dealt with," the
holy man continued, "once righteousness is enthroned again in Aghrapur.

Yildiz is weak because he places more trust in courtiers, soothsayers, and black magicians than in the Shining Prophet himself!"

"Truly, the nobles and courtiers of Aghrapur are not to be feared,"

Dashibt Bey said, taking a pomegranate from his basket, "except to the extent they can enlist Yildiz's aid. Their household troops are weak, and the real allegiance of city and army alike is to the church."

"And to the eunuchs," Abolhassan added with an ironic smile. "Do not forget your own ubiquitous sect, Dashibt Bey! That pompous fool Yildiz was most emphatic about not offending your brothers and disrupting the smooth running of his empire."

"He is right to that extent only, in saying the real power lies with us."

Smiling, the courtier tore the dark-rubied flesh of the pomegranate, twisting its innards outward with his beringed, stubby-fingered hands.

"Fortunately, I can guarantee that my brethren will follow my lead staunchly, with only the standard amount of haggling and intriguing among ourselves. I defer to you, General, because even deft administrators need a plausible figurehead. The hour is not yet ripe for us eunuchs to raise up our own champion and follow him to mastery of the empire."

Dashibt Bey's declaration was received by the others as a bold jest, with condescending laughter all around. Smiling, Abolhassan proceeded to list the various military units that could be counted on to shift their loyalty to him, ticking off factions on the dusky fingers of one hand: the southern and eastern expeditionary legions, the Aghrapur city garrison, most of the civil guard, the armies of the rural shahs, and miscellaneous troops under arms in the Ilbarsi province and Hyrkania. He finished by hooking his thumb back with a forefinger, displaying to the others a broad, battle-scarred hand capable of considerable grasp. "That leaves us to face the sharife of Aghrapur, the Imperial Honor Guard, a few deluded loyalists and courtly fops―no one of consequence. And yet, regrettably, our forces are scattered, and mobilization for civil war is always chancy. It will require careful planning."

"Is it realistic, then, to think that the land will be ripe for revolt in the near future?" This question was posed by a richly arrayed nobleman, Philander by name.

"Without a doubt!" Abolhassan replied, looking dangerously ruffled.

"Time favors us in that wise. Remember, the same colonial wars and uprisings which strengthen our military hand in the provinces make conditions gradually worse here at home. Yildiz takes the blame for levying more troops and taxes, and being a greedy ruler or an inept one, while we reap the bounty in men and equipment."

"Truly, 'tis so," the priest Tammuraz chimed in, "or so my agents tell me! Only pray to Tarim that this war drags on longer, and that Yildiz continues to sustain it."

"Have no fear; he dotes on these petty wars, especially the Venjipur campaign!" Rubbing his hands together, Abolhassan smiled triumphantly around at the group. "He justifies us to his critics, blandly denying our treacheries and iniquities. Most recently he has grown enamored of one of the troopers he saw in Ibn Uluthan's window―a hulking northern oaf called Conan. My plan is to cultivate this barbarian, feed Yildiz stories of his prowess, false or true, and so play on his weaknesses, until our plans have ripened sufficiently. If we are careful, if we remain sly, we can lead the fatuous tyrant to his doom!"

Chapter 5

Court at Arms

"Did it ever enter your thick northern skull that you were sent here to kill your emperor's sworn enemies, not your fellow Turanian officers?"

Pacing beneath the palm-leaf awning of the staff barrack, Jefar Sharif halted abruptly to keep within the limit of the shade. He pivoted to glare at Conan, who stood waiting in the open yard. Beyond the young sharif loomed Conan's immediate superior, Captain Murad, gray and motionless in the dark doorway.

Sharif resumed his stalking. "And all in a fight over a woman, one of these low Venji slatterns. Three days past―you were lucky I was away when it happened! And thank your birth-stars that you are of officer rank, and so cannot be flogged!" The hereditary officer's golden spurs scraped the hard earth, his rolled cavalry gloves slapping the leg of his riding-breeches as he paced. His thin-mustached lip curled up in a sneer.

"I have always said that, because of ill habits like this brawling, foreign troops should not be allowed rank in Turanian units. A shameful
incident!" He wheeled on Conan again. "Well, fellow, have you anything to say for yourself?"

Conan, standing in the hot sun, with murderous impulses surging the length of his sword-arm, searched for some way to translate them into civil speech. When first summoned to this dressing-down, he had not been disarmed by Jefar's subalterns; now the two guards stood at separate corners of the barrack, too far away to intervene if he should decide to take personal offense. And yet, he reminded himself, he was a military officer.

The Cimmerian, with his yataghan hanging heavy at his side, decided at last that this foppish sharif could hardly understand what danger his curt language placed him in. Conan forced his rebellious gaze down to dusty earth. "I killed the swi… the trooper, in my own defense, Sharif." He managed to speak acceptably, ending with the officer's correct title, though it nearly gagged him.

"You did, did you? Well, at least I can see that you are repentant."

Ceasing to pace, Jefar flashed a righteous look from the older, wary-eyed Murad back to Conan. "But tell me, did it ever pass through your dim barbarian consciousness that―"

"Sergeant, what is your age?" Stepping forward from the deeper shadow, the captain came to Conan's rescue―or, perhaps, to his rash commander's. Murad's gray-bearded face crinkled in a hard squint beneath his weathered gray-green turban. "And where do you hail from?"

A hot, airless moment passed in the courtyard as Conan fought down his ill-temper and resorted to hasty mental calculations. "Nineteen winters, by my reckoning, sir. I am Cimmerian."

"Nineteen, a mere boy!" exclaimed Jefar Sharif, who had at best a year or two more than that to his own earthly sum.

"And already warranted an officer," Murad continued purposefully.

"Most unusual! I see that you survived this duel with but slight damage."

His eye moved to Conan's injured hand, poulticed and bound with long, fibrous leaves of a medicinal jungle plant. "How else, Sergeant, have you distinguished yourself under Turanian arms?"

Conan leveled blue eyes at his questioner, speaking with careful
frankness. "Captain, I was the last survivor of the battle of Yaralet. I saw the rebellious satrap Munthassem Khan destroyed by his own sorcerous dabblings, and the city restored to Turan's rule."

"So I heard." Murad stroked his sleet-tinged beard. "Yaralet―a bloody encounter, was it not, with thousands slain in both hosts?"

"True, good Captain, perhaps!" Jefar Sharif silenced his elder subordinate with a wave of an imperious hand. "But if this northerner was really the sole survivor―why, then, we have only his account of the affair.

A trooper who manages to outlive all his comrades can safely be adjudged one of two things: a fighter of exceptional prowess, or else a slinking, sneaking―"

"Whatever the case, he volunteered for Venjipur duty," Murad said, sharply interrupting his commander, flashing a warning look at the scowling Cimmerian. "And until this incident, he struck me as a capable soldier. Understand me, Conan: A good officer is a valuable item, a piece of property the Turanian Army would rather not see wasted in brawls and agonizing punishments. Nor in insubordination and mutiny." This last he said with a pointed glance at Conan's side―and in response, the Cimmerian's hand reluctantly, longingly relinquished its grip on his yataghan's flared hilt. "We need men like you alive in the field, Sergeant,"

the captain finished, "ready to slaughter the enemy!"

"Aye, fellow!" Jefar Sharif still, apparently, felt it necessary to add his counsel. "If this affair had been somewhat more dignified―say, a duel between noble officers, or a summary execution in the heat of battle, intended to prevent desertion or bolster morale―why, that would be another matter! There is seldom any problem with the killing of an enlisted man, or even a noble, if one is of creditable birth oneself. But a brother warrant officer of an elite unit… you must learn to be more careful of appearances, Sergeant!" Jefar concluded, bestowing on Conan a fatherly look that ill befit his stripling age.

"Enough―I mean excellent, Sharif. Now remain here a moment, Sergeant, while we decide the disposition of your case." Murad turned with the young noble to step inside the shaded doorway. Conan waited in sweltering heat, feeling the tropic sun scorching through his thin-shirted shoulders all the way to his gizzard, or so it seemed.

The only sound in the midafternoon doldrums was the swishing of palm
leaves in the nearby stables, where Venji servants fanned the Turanian officers' steeds. The desert-bred beasts had to be ventilated to survive the damp noon heat, and even so they performed sluggishly on the mildest of days. But the half-dozen staff officers, cavalrymen all, continued to regard horses as necessary appurtenances of command, practically a part of their uniform.

The captain and Jefar Sharif, nodding together and stepping back outside, regarded Conan solemnly. "Sergeant, here is our finding," Murad announced at last. "Your punishment will be reflected in a harsher schedule of duties, beginning with a hill patrol tomorrow morning. That will benefit not only our beloved emperor but also, perhaps, your own unruly spirit."

The sharif would not allow Murad the last word. "We would levy a harsher penalty on you, Sergeant, if we thought it could possibly satisfy the wrath of those you have offended by this ill-advised murder. But the Red Garrotes will seek vengeance regardless of our verdict. And I wager you'll find their methods more discreet; learn from them if you can."

"Jefar Sharif is right, Conan." Murad nodded gravely from the porch.

"We will issue a stern warning to the stranglers, but I cannot guarantee their obedience. Now go forth, give sober thought to the responsibilities of your command, and watch your back!"

With a nod and grunt of salute, Conan turned to exit the staff compound. The punishment had, indeed, been fiendishly cruel; at his side he felt his sword fist slowly unclenching. Passing the guard dozing at the gate, he slowed to take stock of those waiting outside.

There were loungers aplenty, ubiquitous idlers who guaranteed the fast spread of news through the fort. Gossip was the coin of the invading army, and betting was its commerce. As Conan watched, a pair of troopers detached themselves from fence-rails and strode off in opposite directions, doubtless to spread the word of his release. Others eyed him speculatively, whispering between themselves and probably setting stiff odds against his longevity. To Conan, the most welcome watcher proved to be Juma, who strode from beneath an awning, hailing him loudly and fearlessly before the watchers. In his enthusiasm, the black giant dragged along a couple of half-willing troopers to meet him.

"Conan! Well, Sergeant, how went the court-martial?" He relinquished
one of his companions' necks to clap Conan's shoulder resoundingly. "If Sergeant is still your rank, after this affair?"

"Aye, it is." Conan grinned back at him. "Extra duty and a few hill patrols, Murad has decreed. Nothing severe―at least not yet."

"Sergeant, sir." One of the troopers, a fresh-faced boy, interrupted them. "Will they really transfer you back to Aghrapur for punishment, as Sergeant Juma was telling us?"

Conan laughed resoundingly. "Nay, Hakim!―and do not spread that false rumor, lest half the garrison murder the other half in hope of suffering the same penalty!"

Their noisy gesticulating gathered a few more watchers to them, some even offering Conan guarded congratulations. But most seemed to shun him, aware that he now possessed dangerous enemies. And after a few moments of banter, the Cimmerian took his leave, drawing Juma along and promptly asking him about Sariya.

"I left her at the hut with Babrak, Conan. I came because there is surely more danger to you than to her. Now we must go back, so the child of Tarim can return to his camp duties."

Together they headed for the main gate of the fort. Conan insisted on going by way of the mess tent, braving baleful stares and ironic whispers for the sake of openly advertising his freedom. They walked on to the main formation of troopers' tents, stopping by the campfire of Conan's detachment. Announcing the next morning's patrol, he was greeted by anonymous groans and curses from beneath the bleaching canvas canopies. But it was not his practice to try to enforce morale. He and Juma passed on out the gate of the compound, heading for the unfortified village and the scatter of makeshift dwellings along the jungle's fringe.

Two days of grumbling exertion by Conan's and Juma's troopers, aided and bullied by their sergeants' burly arms, had raised a good-sized bungalow at the edge of the trees. Split hardwood timbers borrowed from the fort's supply squared up its corners; the walls were lattices of bamboo and bough, interlaced with tough palm fronds. A frame of elbow-thick bamboo trunks formed a basis for the shaggy, palm-thatched roof.

Sariya's graceful fingers taught the resting troopers to weave mats of split bamboo for the floor; her simple jests and childish laughter even made
them enjoy it.

While gathering bamboo in the jungle, the warriors scared up a wild pig. At cost of a deep gore to one man's thigh, the raging sow was speared to provide a feast for the night of the hut's completion. The wounded soldier, doctored and pampered by Sariya, lived to share the animal's succulent flesh with the others; she made him eat its heart, so that its vengeful spirit would not haunt him and sicken his wound. Now the grimacing, razor-tusked skull bleached atop the roof-peak of the bungalow, warding off ghosts and other evils.

Beneath its protection, they found Babrak studying one of his many scrolls of Tarim's teachings. As Conan and Juma approached from the fort road, they could see him lounging in the shade of the open porch, which was already more lived in than either of the hut's two rooms. Sariya, wrapped in a length of blue cloth from the village market, knelt over a smoking fire in the middle of the yard. She arose to greet her protectors with eager embraces. Upon Conan she lavished kisses, but no questions.

"You walk proudly, and I see no stripes of the lash. Well enough, then!"

Babrak, leaving the porch, pressed up beside Sariya to administer a stiff, formal embrace to Conan, though his field-green turban barely brushed the taller man's chin. "You have weathered your court-martial well, by grace of the One God."

"And by sufferance of them all, it would seem." Conan returned his friend's clasp wholeheartedly, making Babrak grunt. "My officers have resolved to leave my punishment to the Red Garrotes."

"Fear not, Conan," Babrak told him. "If need be, I will stand with you against a whole regiment of those assassins! Tarim teaches us to protect the righteous."

"I do not ask it. I can protect myself." Conan moved with them into the shade of the porch. "But if aught happens to me, I leave it to you, my friends, to care for Sariya. She has no family and no other home than this, so she tells me."

"Is that so, lass?" Juma asked, showing frank concern. "What of your tribe and your clan?"

"I have none." The maid seated herself beside the hut's bamboo door,
doubling her trim knees on the rough matting before her. "Since earliest memory, I have been raised in jungle camps of Mojurna's devotees. Mere months ago I learned, to my horror, that I was destined for sacrifice." She told the story with affecting frankness. "Now that I have escaped my ordained fate, my old teachers and sister acolytes would only mock or revile me."

"Even so," Conan said, "'tis a good thing you were spared." He settled down beside her, his bandaged hand finding its way around her waist.

"Oh, yes, Conan! It is far better to live!" She twined against him, pressing a kiss on the side of his neck. "I have seen so little of life! There is much more I want to see, much good that I can do." She fell silent abruptly, glancing at the fire; then she arose and left the porch, kneeling to tend the covered copper and clay pots steaming on smokeless coals.

"A fine girl," Juma said, gazing after her with the others.

"Truly, she must have put an enchantment on me," Conan whispered earnestly. "Already she has emptied my purse, and I do not even mind!

The trifles she buys for the hut are of use, or at least pretty. She has a way of making life comfortable."

"Aye, yours is a house blest by heaven, I can see." Babrak arose from his cross-legged crouch. "But forgive me, I must return to my duty. The half-bell struck long since, and I dare not be late for drill. I leave you to your repast." He turned away, smiling. "I trust you will enjoy it, or at least pretend to your woman that you do." With a passing farewell to Sariya, he left the yard.

Conan, reaching for an earthen decanter and sloshing it to gauge its reserve of date wine, raised it to his lips and swigged deeply of the syrupy liquid. "We are lucky Babrak sought us out," he said, passing the flask to Juma. "I wonder what he sees in us."

"Who can say? Perhaps that we accept his faith, yet do not proclaim it hollowly ourselves. He is a good man." Juma drank, then handed the decanter back to Conan. "Too good a man for Venjipur."

By the time Sariya called out that the meal was ready, the buzzing of the forest insects seemed distinctly louder in the men's ears. The graded clay floor of the porch did not seem so level either; Conan reeled slightly as
he arose to go to the fire. He burned his fingers carrying a hot kettle back to the house between dry palm fans, but did not drop it or reveal his discomfort to the others. They set the pots on a thick mat in the hut's front room, and Sariya opened them, releasing pungent steam clouds that rose like djinni of the eastern deserts.

"A fine feast!" Juma proclaimed. "Looks like something from my boyhood hearth in Kush."

Even so, Conan thought the black warrior eyed the food a little dubiously. "Smells sweeter than the boiled mule-meat and groats they serve us in the fort," he said heartily, himself kneeling down unsteadily at the mat. "What is it made of, girl?"

"The meat is marinated eel from the village market. Here are baked tsudu root and boiled swamp-thistle."

Sariya plied a bamboo spoon as she spoke, scooping the viands onto fresh banyan leaves. "And stuffed, steamed locusts! Very fresh, I bought them alive this morning."

"Mmm… unusual." Conan accepted a dripping, burdened leaf from his smiling housemate and set it down gingerly in front of him, to be observed awhile from a distance. "Are these all native foods of Venjipur?"

"Yes, part of the bounty of Mother Jungle. And very good for you. The eel-meat gives you the strength of the eel, and the locusts are an aid to"―she blushed slightly, averting her eyes―"male vigor."

"Well, then, I cannot pass them up," Juma proclaimed good-naturedly.

Accepting his own heaped banyan leaf and laying it on the mat before him, the Kushite reached into its midst to pluck forth one of the gray-green, bristling lumps. With a flash of eyes and teeth that bespoke either good humor or rash courage, he popped it into his mouth.

"Mmm―umf." A moment later, he was gulping steaming-hot tea from a clay cup. "Well-spiced, I will say, Sariya!" he coughed. "But tasty, girl, tasty."

"A rare treat it is, doubtless." Not to be outdone, Conan took up one of the pink-filled insects. He perused it just closely enough to see that the largest, toughest legs had been trimmed off. Then, shutting his eyes, he shoveled it into his mouth and chewed. The crunchy flesh reassuringly
resembled Vilayet Sea shrimp, only sweeter; but the filling was peppery, seasoned with some jungle herb or hot radish. Tears sprang to his eyes as he swallowed the morsel half-chewed, rinsing his mouth with wine that only seemed to scorch his tongue the more.

Sariya, meanwhile, had commenced eating in a methodical way, daintily spooning up her food with a small bamboo scoop. Conan and Juma imitated her, finding the other dishes more palatable. The eel was tender and candy-sweet, the vegetables soft-cooked and mildly flavored.

Conan even crunched more of his deviled locusts, squeezing out their hot stuffing first into an inconspicuous fold of his leaf-plate.

"Good, coarse, wholesome food," was Juma's comment. "Very like that of my home village on the seacoast of Kush, which I left so many years ago."

"Aye. Wild food was what we ate in Cimmeria." Conan sniffed the pungent fumes of his tea, sipping it tentatively. "Our Venji armies would be more mobile if they could live off the land and barter with the natives, instead of relying on unwieldy elephant trains for supplies."

"True, the supply lines are vulnerable to attack." Juma plucked a thistle-stem from between his teeth. "But just try, sometime, to make these northerners eat swamp-rice, the local mainstay―'tis a hopeless task.

Some spew it up or sicken on it; all revile it. I have no objection to it myself." He scraped up mashed yellow root-pulp from his wrinkled plate and sucked it from his bamboo spoon. "The main trouble is, these desert folk do not belong here in Venjipur. Their horses grow sluggish and sickly in the heat, their steel blades rot with rust, and they themselves fall and rave every summer with the quaking chills."

"Aye. And not only the weapons rust." Conan sweetened his tea with wine before sipping more of it. "Men's toes drop off from wet-rot and leprosy, even without a festering wound to poison them. An arrow-nick alone is enough to do for a man in this clime. Lucky am I that this scratch of mine heals so well." He waved his poulticed hand before his companions. "This devil-blighted heat, rain, and mud sap a man's strength as surely as the sucking flies do! By the time he has been here two seasons, a civilized northerner is dull and slow-witted, unable to feel a thumb-sized yellow ant gnawing his neck."

"And what of you, Conan?" Juma asked him. "Will you still be hard and
keen after two years of Venjipur?" The Kushite eyed him bemusedly.

"What is your plan to preserve yourself from these dangers? A fast camel west to Iranistan?"

Conan laughed. "Nay, Juma, you and I will flourish here. Do you not see, the ills we have spoken of, each and every one, are equally our chances for betterment! The more amiss with this campaign, the more opportunity to advance oneself by setting it right." He crumpled his near-empty leaf plate and tucked it into one of the scraped, gaping pots. "What is needed here are bold, clear-sighted officers not too bound up in Turanian imperial claptrap―men like ourselves to take hold of things, thrash out victories, and gain rank and fame by them. That is what a war like this is all about, is it not?"

"So… suppose it is?" Juma belched amply and stroked his full belly, all the while eyeing his host with the cool skepticism of a career officer.

"What would you do to improve the running of the war?"

"What would I do? Why, many things!" Warming to his subject, Conan waved his cup airily beside his head, spattering tiny drops on his guest.

"As we were just now saying, I would use local foods in the army mess to make our force self-sufficient. Get the best native cooks, like Sariya here―and local healers, to find out how the Hwongs avoid the ills that beset our troops. Change the uniforms, first of all, and the drill! What place do cavalry tactics have in swamp and jungle, I ask you?" The Cimmerian knit his broad brow in a nearly comic attitude of concentration. "We could create a force that would not only win the war, but stay on afterward to enforce the peace, and even enjoy doing it! But those changes would only be a small part―"

It was Juma's turn to laugh, and he did so heartily. "Stop, Conan. Can you hear what you are saying? How would you work these wonders, with every trooper and officer fighting you with all the ferocity they spare the Hwong? Not a one of them but has interests and prejudices running the other way! The food, for instance―what Turanian would touch the meal we have eaten tonight? They would call it unclean and spit on it―no offense to you, Sariya, but it is so." He flashed an apologetic look at his hostess, who sat at ease beside them, watching and listening with an attitude of interest.

"Nay, Conan," Juma continued, "there are some bad things in this world that can only make themselves worse. I fear this campaign is one of
them. Instead of seeking fame, I caution you to be as small and invisible as you can while in Venjipur. Obey the rules and, less zealously, your orders.

Never take chances, never volunteer." The Kushite faced his host earnestly.

"This is the sum of my experience here; now you have seen some of the cost of calling attention to yourself." He shook his head. "Of all things, the worst thing to be in this war is a hero!"

Conan laughed, shaking his head good-naturedly. "Juma, Juma! If I thought that you yourself could live one moment by those craven rules, I would love you the less for it! But I know it is not so―and you know it, even though you mean me well in saying it." He reached around the mat to lean heavily and confidingly on his friend's shoulder. "For men like us, Juma, there are no limits. Tell me, have you ever played imperial draughts as the Stygians do?" He winked intimately at his fellow trooper. "In their version of the game, a pawn can advance to become a king!"

"Conan, I do not jest." Juma glanced uneasily at the open doorway.

"You know the danger of even speaking that way, so let us talk of other things. Do you not see that Venjipur's hunger for human suffering is greater than all the armies of Yildiz can satisfy? We must take care not to be swallowed along with the others."

They continued their conversation, failing to resolve many greater and lesser topics. During their talk, the afternoon rain fell. They laid their pans out in the yard to be scoured by heavy, pelting drops. They sat out on the porch enclosed by a dripping, transparent liquid curtain, watching rain-pitted water running and pooling across the yellow clay.

At length the shower retreated into a mountainous jumble of misty cloud, pink-tinged in sunset over the Gulf. Juma took leave of them and returned to the fort, treading on flat stones spaced across the muddy yard.

Conan, passing inside the hut, bolted the tough bamboo door, then turned to follow Sariya through the curtained inner archway.

Their sleeping-room was bedecked with flowers. Twined into the palm thatching of the walls, braided between the rafters, gathered in clusters on the mat floor, the blossoms shone almost luminous in the dimming light of the bamboo-framed window. Their fragrance hung heavily in air already rich with the smell of rain-soaked earth. Conan knew that some of the flowers, like the drooping pink lotuses wound into the lashings of the room's broad hammock, gave off fumes that were mildly narcotic. Their effect only increased the faint swimming of his senses as he watched

Sariya unpin and unwind herself alluringly from her dusky-blue garment.

Her body shone amber in the dusk, more radiant than the blossoms all around her, graceful as the slenderest lily.

When he moved to embrace her, she turned her face up to his. He saw that she had twined a pink lotus in her black tresses, above one delicate ear. The flower's heady aroma mingled with her own subtle scent as he caressed her, then lifted her bodily onto the yielding canvas of the hammock. The swaying of the airborne bed merely added to the plunging, reeling exhilaration of his own senses, as the two joined in a consuming rush of passion.

Sariya, for her part, abandoned herself to the arduous labors and equally arduous pleasures of her new existence. Though little-traveled, secluded from the world throughout her youth, she guessed that no man could make her feel the fullness of life's simple round better than Conan.

She cherished their time together, using her well-learned skills to reward him and make things better, for however long it might last.

There were dangers, of course; but Sariya believed that Conan could cope with the immediate, tangible ones. She knew that by night in their hammock, even after exhausting bouts of lovemaking, he slept no more deeply than any panther draped across a forest limb. She often heard him waken in response to faint noises outside the hut, sometimes slipping from beside her and out the window with inhuman stealth and silence.

Once, on his return, she saw a gleam of steel as he wiped his dagger-blade clean, and smelled the coppery scent of blood when he crept back to her side. She sensed that his savage devotion would save her, or else it would call down forces too violent for either of them to control.

Either way, she loved him.

Chapter 6

The Elephant Patrol

Wet foliage slapped the riders' faces, rubbery leaves shedding tepid drops that gathered in rivulets down the men's necks and torsos. The wetness tickled like insect-tracks, unscratchable beneath breast and scapular armor; otherwise it scarcely mattered, for it neither cooled nor warmed their skin in the stifling jungle heat.

Meanwhile, beneath the troopers' folded legs, the elephant's thinly padded back rolled and rippled patiently like a living sea. From time to time the beast's sinuous trunk snaked upward among the branches to tear off a tasty-looking limb, shaking the riven tree and showering brackish droplets on the passengers.

"Driver, more room overhead!" Irritably, Conan prodded the hunched shoulder of the elephant-guide Than. The small man sat low astride the elephant's neck, and so he scarcely felt the turmoil of thrashing branches.

"Steer the brute wider around the trees," Conan admonished him, "or I'll brain you!"

Just possibly, the northerner's guttural rendering of the singsong Venji dialect was understood by the guide. If so, he showed it only by a shrug of his diminutive shoulders and a wave of his bronze-hooked elephant goad.

The ponderous rhythm of the beast continued inexorably under them, and foliage continued to lash past their ears without any noticable improvement.

"There is little hope of change, Sergeant." The archer Kalak, sitting beside Conan in the low-rimmed howdah, spoke in deep, well-modulated Turanian. "The elephants rove beneath the trees to cool themselves and to forage leaves for their ravenous bellies." Peering from under bushy brows, he gazed knowingly at his commander. "Their drivers can scarcely change their ways; the venerable creatures have minds of their own."

Conan scowled, peering ahead. "Good for them, but what about the enemy? How will we ever see their traps and ambushes?" He raised an arm to protect his face against lashing green fronds. "I would expect these all-knowing elephants to be concerned about that too!"

"They?" Kalak arched his black eyebrows. "Why, they pay no more heed to human strife than they do to wars waged by fleas across their leathery backs!" He laughed immoderately at his own fancy, with a third trooper, Muimur, joining in from the rear of the howdah. Gradually Kalak resumed his straight-faced demeanor. "Truly, Sergeant, traps are not to be feared here. As I said, the elephant has a mind of his own."

Conan grunted acknowledgment, fixing a sidelong glance on the warrior. He respected Kalak, yet he knew the man to be a chewer of lotus-root. Sensing that some of the fellow's levity was at his expense, he nevertheless saw little to be done about it, short of heaving the crack
archer down their elephant's steaming flank. So he settled back to watching the jungle, enduring the tension and discomfort of the journey.

The men wore a minimum in the heat, offering bare arms and legs to mercies of sting-flies and enemy darts, all for the sake of coolness and mobility. They trusted to helmets and chest armor to protect their vitals, relying too on the lofty bulk of their mammoth steed to intimidate the Hwong. Mounted at either side of the howdah were pivots for crossbows, which could be cocked and fired swiftly by means of long, overslung levers.

Ivory clips kept the arrows from slipping out of their nock, so that the weapons might be pointed sharply downward to wreak death at ground level.

Their giant war-elephant was the first and largest of three, followed by Conan's twoscore spear and sword-wielders slogging along on foot, followed in turn by four couriers leading horses probably half-dead by now with heat. If they encountered a sizeable enemy force, the plan was to hem them in with elephants and pin them down with infantry. Meanwhile, the horsemen would gallop back to Fort Sikander for reinforcements that would probably decide the battle.

But even the elephant riders, squatting behind the low wooden bastions of the howdahs and hedged in by points of sheathed spears and bundles of arrows, could scarcely feel safe. Conan briefly caught himself hoping that the enemy would not find them, and that no battle would be joined on these bizarre, unequal terms―particularly since there was no clear purpose to be served by it. A small body of Hwong might be slain or routed, true; but any small group of rebels could almost certainly elude them. The real function of this middling force was to scout the hills and show off the emperor's strength in a few remote villages. Conan doubted even elephants' ability to surround and pin down savage Hwong in a forest; rather, he feared the kind of sniping, strike-and-run attack that this ill-planned maneuver exposed them to.

And yet so far the jungle had shown them no hostility. Forested hillsides and stream-gushing hollows rolled steadily beneath their steed's trundling stumps. The blinding smother of bamboo, brush, and tree-fronds occasionally parted to reveal steamy jungle vistas, flower-carpeted galleries ablaze with sloping sunrays. The patrol passed villages too―clusters of straw shanties dozing amid rice-fields in the marshy valleys. The yellow-brown farm folk observed their passing with
sullen stares from beneath their wide-tented straw hats.

The troopers had been directed to follow a network of jungle trails in a curving radius north of the fort. Lacking bearings, Conan trusted his elephant driver to find the way, occasionally and vainly checking a scrolled map furnished by the captain. At times he could discern a trodden path winding ahead of them through the jungle; at other times not. At one place, he peered downward to see the inlaid stones of an ancient, overgrown highway passing underfoot; ahead in the brush, grouped like blind sentinels, stood crumbling columns of ancient statuary. Conan glanced around suspiciously, reassuring himself that this was nowhere near the jungle temple he had previously assaulted.

As the column arrived at a turning in the antique road, the foremost elephant halted. Its long trunk probed at a carved monolith heavily shrouded by vines. The driver made no effort to goad the beast forward, but sat patiently; meanwhile the second elephant in the column drew up behind them, glowering like a jungle demon in its giant mask of quilted, copper-bossed armor. Its pink nostrils craned forward to probe curiously at the lead animal's hindquarters.

"What are these creatures up to? Why have we stopped?" Casting around suspiciously, Conan switched his guttural queries from the Turanian tongue to the Venji one. Meanwhile, the lead elephant brushed aside pendulous vines to reveal symbols graven deeply in the weathered stone of the monolith. The Cimmerian watched as the moist finger at the end of the trunk carefully traced one of the carvings, a looping, three-lobed figure with down-trailing ends.

"Remember, Sergeant, this beast is probably many times older than you or I," Kalak's voice whispered solemnly at Conan's side, without apparent irony. "The elephant folk too have their gods, and they remember the ways of past dwellers in this forest. Best to let them pay their ancient homages."

Uncertain whether he was being made a fool of, Conan posed no further questions. In a while, his elephant turned to shuffle onward along the ancient track―if such it still was, for the pavement was no longer visible.

Conan glanced back to see the next elephant take its place before the pillar, raising its trunk to snuffle at the same carved sign.

He bade his driver stop their beast and wait, lest the column be
dangerously scattered by the delay. He knew his foot soldiers would welcome the rest, for the elephants, even heavily armed and armored, set a brisk pace. He stood up in the padded howdah to stretch his own cramped limbs―and with instant watchfulness saw motion ahead: a line of burdened Venji natives winding toward them, their heads and pack-baskets barely visible a hundred paces further up the jungle path.

Instantly Conan clasped each of his companions on the shoulder in silent warning and commenced whispering orders. He sent Muimur clambering down the elephant's armored side, with orders for the other pachyderms to move forward on both flanks of the trail, and for the spear phalanx to fill in the center. Muimur's final order would be to the horsemen, dispatching two of them to alert the fort. The others would follow as closely behind the elephants as their skittish steeds might be induced to go, awaiting further messages.

Kalak mounted and primed the crossbows, while Conan kept up a tense vigil forward; he urged Than to trundle their beast off the trail, closer underneath the damp, concealing foliage. But it did little good―for even as the front of the approaching party came into open view, the crashing of the elephants in the jungle on either hand alerted them.

Rebels they were―naked Hwong tribesmen guiding armed peasants in jungle-green jerkins. With surprised shouts they threw down their burdens and drew weapons, falling back along the trail in practiced order.

At their rear sounded the fluting of a shrill-toned pipe, doubtless a warning signal.

"Forward, men of Turan! Kill our enemies!" Conan's shouts were cut off by foliage lashing in his face as Than urged the elephant ahead; nevertheless the spearmen along the trail heard and broke into a charge, answering with spirited cries. Goaded by their drivers, the striding elephants began to trumpet with deafening effect. The brassy tones vibrated palpably under Conan's doubled knees and ripped through jungle galleries, the very trees seeming to wilt and tremble in their blast. At the shock of the din, many of the retreating bearers dropped their weapons and began to claw away through the forest in panic.

Now Conan's elephant reached the abandoned cargo, its trunklike limbs bursting and scattering rice-sacks and bales of green cloth. The Turanian spearmen, unable to match the animal's ponderous gait, lagged well behind. Soon the beast overtook the first of the staggering, stumbling
fugitives, a farm lad in green jerkin and pantaloons; the peasant's brief scream ended in a thudding yelp as he vanished beneath scuffing, trundling limbs. Just beyond him the central group of rebels ran and staggered, to be scythed aside and flung headlong by bronze-sheathed tusks, or else snatched up by the massive, nimble trunk and dashed against trees.

In the thick of the slaughter the behemoth trumpeted again, its deafening bellow transforming the screams of its victims to dumb, terror-stricken pantomimes. All the while, astride the neck of this vast engine of death sat the diminutive Than with his comically sloping shoulders, guiding the beast gently and murmuring singsong encouragements into its leathery ears.

Through all the carnage, Conan drifted as on a racing cloud, high above jungle shrubs and the scattering rebels, surging past curtains of flowered vines and gnarled, garlanded tree-boles. The supple smoothness of the giant animal's movements barely tossed its passengers, though the creature ramped and slaughtered madly. Time and again Conan tried to bring his crossbow to bear, only to see his chosen target trodden under or flung aside by the greedy brute.

"Better to use the side-mount for your bow, Sergeant," Kalak said, waiting patiently next to him. "Aiming forward, you risk shooting our beast's trunk or its flapping ears―and our driver."

"Aye, 'tis so." The Cimmerian, bracing his knees against the roll of the howdah's padded floor, eased his weapon down on its metal-capped pivot.

"In any event we shall soon have targets aplenty."

He was looking ahead to where the enemy column thickened into a double file of half-naked Hwong warriors. These troops appeared to lack either the room or the inclination to fall back on their fellows. Armed with spears, bronze axes, and quivers of darts, they deployed smoothly into the greenery on either side of the trail; unlike their surprised forward party, they showed no great aspect of fear.

"Seasoned fighters, these," Conan added. "We had best order a concerted attack." Conan's elephant, although slowed by the carnage, was nevertheless closer to the enemy than the other two now lumbering up noisily on the flanks. At the Cimmerian's command, Than halted the panting beast, allowing the spearmen running along the trail to catch up.

Obeying their commander's arm-signals, the other behemoths stopped and waited as well.

"Now, men―for Tarim and Yildiz, attack!" With the spearmen fanning into the low greenery behind him, Conan bellowed the order and felt his own massive steed lurch forward. This time enemies were sheltered at either side of the trail; Conan heard Kalak's crossbow twang an instant before his own released. The two arrows drove forcefully into the bright foliage, shearing off stems to strike with audible impact, but not before Conan was levering back the taut cord and nocking a new projectile into the hardwood groove. His second shot sent a Hwong rolling out from behind a tree, coughing and clutching at a shaft embedded in his ribs.

A dozen and more times swift, twanging death rained out from the turrets of the converging elephants. Then, just as suddenly, the battle became too desperately close for arrow-play. Long spears began to jab up from the bushes at the elephants' trunks and armored faces, to be splintered and hurled back at their wielders by the impatient, snorting beasts, and Conan's foot soldiers pressed forward on either hand, making projectile fire too risky. Than drove their trumpeting mount relentlessly forward along the trail to avoid crushing friendly troops, and all at once they were among milling foes.

Abandoning their crossbows, Conan and Kalak arose to their feet and plied long spears, stabbing relentlessly to keep Hwongs and armed peasants from scaling the elephant's sides or hacking with their bolos at its soft underparts. Axes and darts were thrown high, to clash against their breastplates or go whizzing past their ears. At the fore, Than clubbed attackers with his elephant goad, while his frenzied beast used one rebel's limp body as a flail to belabor others. Yelling Turanians pressed forward from behind, fighting to surround the beast and protect its vulnerable hamstrings.

Hemmed in partway by their adversaries, the rebels did not break and run; some regrouped in a denser hedge of spears blocking the trail, while others faded back into the jungle to harry the ends of the attackers' line.

"Bismillah!" Kalak exclaimed. "I have never seen such hordes of the accursed monkeys!" Conan followed his pointing finger to see heads and shoulders bobbing among the ferns, those of several hundred more rebels streaming along the trail toward the fray.

"Crom! We must have blundered into a massing army." Conan turned to look for his second. "Muimur, dispatch the remaining couriers to the fort―have them tell the captain we need all of his cavalry, and more elephants―infantry too, since it may be a long fight."

Muimur, following a line of skirmishers to the side of the embattled elephant, shouted up to his commander. "The horsemen are already gone, Sergeant! They rode in accordance with the sharif's standing order for cavalry, to depart as soon as we met strong resistance."

"Asura's gnawing devils! Those worthless hay-chompers… then send back runners!" Availing himself of an assuredly temporary lull in the battle-tide, Conan laid down his spear across the howdah's rim. "Find men who know the shortest path to Sikander. Make sure they tell Murad we are engaging a thousand Hwong at least."

"Aye, Sergeant!" Muimur turned away. Before Conan could watch him carry out the order, a new hedge of enemy spears pressed near. He turned back to the fight, stabbing and parrying at the mobs of foemen who managed to circumvent the elephant's flailing trunk and tusks.

The battle on the ground was even fiercer, with the advantages of Turanian drill and maneuver virtually canceled out by tree-trunks and thorny shrubs. Hwong skirmishers had a way of falling back into brush, waiting for the oncoming line to split around an obstacle, then lashing out savagely with spears and bolo-knives at the exposed troopers, massing several fighters against one. The northerners' armor usually saved them, but inevitably one was cut down from time to time; and the rebels seemed careless of losing several casualties to their opponents' one.

Conan watched three of his men charge beneath a pink-flowered tree, spears shaking, and only two come staggering back out. "By Mitra, we must support the attack!" he told Kalak, who was steadfastly recharging his bow. "These elephants are no good at retreating. They would rout and trample our own men, once the cursed Hwong start pricking their nether parts with spears. We must push forward!"

"Aye, that was the plan." Kalak sped his arrow into a milling mob of enemies, then reached forward to ply the crossbow's lever. "But these monkeys refuse to scatter! They rally and fight as never before, Tarim wither their yellow hides!"

"Their closeness may yet cost them dearly," Conan answered grimly.

Laying aside his spear, he leaned forward to address the driver Than carefully in the Venji dialect. "Guide, we are stalled here while the enemy mounts an attack. Can you drive this beast into their midst?"

Turning in his seat with a cryptic smile, the scrawny driver reached to the front bulwark of the broad timber elephant-saddle. He loosened a pair of lashing-cords, then pulled down a canvas cover to expose a broad-bladed bronze weapon whose presence there Conan had not even suspected. Reaching forward with his hooked goad, Than guided his elephant's massive trunk around and back over its shoulder; the supple limb snaked though a velvet-padded ring at one end of the weapon, grasped its long, leather-bound haft, and raised the flashing blade up high into the air. A murmur of surprise sounded from onlookers on both sides of the skirmish line. The great beast bellowed, lumbering forward beyond its screen of friendly troops.

The rebels might have scattered at the sudden onslaught, but they found they had no room. Hwongs and armed peasants pressed up the trail, blocking their backward impulse. Straight at them the elephant drove, raising its new weapon.

The press of men and spears was thick, yet the first rank was thinned easily by a swipe of the great battle-ax. Long as a tall man, its broad double blades standing wide apart as a warrior's cocked elbows, the implement cut through limbs and spearshafts as smoothly as a scythe through straw. Its first stroke sundered men and set their comrades screaming in fountains of blood. Before the rest could react the brute was atop them, trundling over dead and living alike, hacking and threshing the survivors with its crimsoned, gargantuan blade.

Meanwhile, from their swaying perch on the monster's back, its riders stabbed wildly with their long, unwieldy spears, piercing victim after victim, like frenzied fishers spearing salmon from a barge. In all the dreadful carnage, hardly a weapon was raised against them. Meanwhile over the din could be heard fainter cries as the other elephants closed in, threshing the jungle with angry tusks.

"We must break free of this press!" Panting, Conan abandoned a spear which had become too deeply lodged in human sinew and gristle. He lunged back to extract another from its sheath along the elephant's side.

"If we keep the elephants circling ahead of the infantry line, the enemy will
not reform, and our men can cut them down."

As he spoke, the ambling elephant beneath him slid and stumbled across a pile of gory bodies. Lurching forward among fleeing men, it staggered headfirst against a small tree, which nearly gave way with the force of the collision. Exhausted, the animal dropped its heavy ax to stand over the half-uprooted trunk, its great flanks heaving and trembling, its frontal armor a gruesome, red-dripping mask. Before them the central mass of rebels continued to fall away, those on the trail streaming backward or aside into the jungle even as the Turanian phalanx marched chanting up from the rear.

"We cannot use the trail until the forest alongside it is clear of rebels,"

Conan announced to those on the ground. "When this brave beast is rested, we will scatter the enemy ahead of you, crossing and recrossing the trail as you advance. Beware of enemy counterattacks; it may be a long fight before reinforcements find us!"

Hours later Conan watched Muimur die, pierced through by a spear driven in sidewise between his breastplate and backplate. Kalak was already dead, shot in the eye by one of the short, unreliable Hwong arrows―probably a poisoned shaft. Tossing the bodies overside, Conan continued alone with Than atop the plodding elephant, leading a directionless assault, expending his last, precious arrows on shapes that flitted darkly and anonymously among the tree-shadows.

He knew not how many men he had slain this day―scores, hundreds perhaps, using the strength of his own hand, without trying to count the elephant's vast depredations. His troopers' tight, disciplined line had shrunk rapidly, and at least one of the other two elephants had fallen to spears. There was no safe defensive ground nearby, nor enough men and beasts left to fortify a camp. Perhaps, he told himself numbly, the time had come to form a square with the remaining elephants at the center, and wait for nightfall.

For the dozenth time that day, his weary steed paused to drink at a shallow stream. It sucked up water noisily, seemingly by the barrel. Then the beast hooked its trunk high in the air and emitted a thick spray, drenching itself and Conan with a sudden, forceful downpour. Amidst the blinding torrent, he saw Than suddenly driven from the neck of the elephant by the sweep of a long spear.

With a shout, he seized his sword and leaped from the howdah after the driver, only to meet the point of a second spear thrusting upward in midair. Hard-driven, the blade pierced his thigh, scraping agonizingly against bone before it sliced out through the back of his leg.

At the bottom of his fall, his yataghan clove the face of the spear-wielder. An instant later he struck hard earth, shrieking in agony as the grounded spearshaft pushed and twisted in his leg. While he writhed in the jungle filth, he was dimly aware of the elephant spewing out the last of its water and trundling after one of the attackers with an angry scream, to catch him up and dangle him from a bulging, furiously knotted trunk.

Of Than he saw no more. He could spare little heed, for pain clutched him, gnawing at him as a snarling, ravening wolf gnaws a hapless hare caught in its jaws.

Pain overmastered his every impulse, surging and swelling like hot acid in his veins and venting from his throat in racking, moaning gasps. He fought to regain control, dragging his paralytic frame through mud and leaf-litter in an effort to ease the torturing pressure of the spearshaft in his riven flesh.

Fighting oblivion, he managed to sit up and brace the spear across the dead or dying body of his attacker. A dozen pain-wracked blows of his yataghan were enough to hack through the tough bamboo pole. That left him free to topple onto his back with a cubit of the knuckled green shaft, cord-wound and bronze-tipped, still transfixing his leg. He hesitated at trying to draw it out through the wound, lest it increase his blood's steady trickle to a spurting torrent. Fumbling at his waist, he undid his swordbelt and looped it around his blood-slimed thigh.

He passed the end of the strap through the buckle-loop and cinched it tight, then tighter yet, knotting it clumsily when he began to feel light-headed with pain. Then, reaching around his half-bent leg with both hands, he laid hold of the corded shaft just behind the spearpoint. He pulled mightily, hearing a grating moan escape his own taut lips as he did so. Under steady pressure the spear-haft gradually shifted, its last flaring bamboo joint slipping deeper into the swollen, gory lips of his wound.

Then black pain billowed up from the center of Conan's being, obscuring his vision as he plunged out of the conscious realm.

Jefar Sharif waited restlessly beside the parapet, watching the dark fringe of jungle grow even dimmer and more impenetrable under the
purpling sky. He would have paced to and fro, had there been adequate room on the uneven bamboo treadings over the gate. But there was not, so he vented his nervousness in idle comments to Murad at his side.

"No movement out there, friendly or otherwise. And no more couriers."

He glanced at his elder subordinate, looming gray and still in the twilight.

"Perhaps we should dispatch an elephant battery mounted with torches, to seek out any lost troops and guide them back?"

"I would not recommend it. Such a small force would be prey to ambush." The captain's voice, though low and discreet, scraped with weary exasperation in the evening stillness. " 'Tis an ill practice to send forth units piecemeal; better we had sent our main force out at noontide to support the embattled patrol, as I counseled."

"That would have been over-reacting, I still say!" The young sharif shook his head stubbornly, his crimson turban bobbing darkly in the gloom. "Our returning couriers advised us of no such need. The thirty fresh horsemen we sent were surely enough to defeat any foe the barbarian's patrol blundered into."

"Perhaps―assuming they managed to find him in the jungle." Murad spoke restrainedly, without inflection. "But what of the runner who staggered up to the gate bleeding, telling us that Conan's band faced five thousand Hwong?"

"Nonsense! The fellow was maddened by the same arrow-poison that killed him! Yet even so, that insubordinate black officer―Juma is it?―insisted on marching his whole troop off to their aid. I should not have permitted it." The sharif did not bother to pitch his self-justifications in a low voice. "Remember, Captain, we face other dangers than jungle ambushes! This skirmishing may only be a ruse to draw our strength out of the fort."

"How could there be a ruse, when you yourself did not fix the route of the patrol until this very morning?" Murad shook his head in long-suffering exasperation. "Do you not understand the virtue of a fort, that a few troops may defend it against many? You should have backed up your probe with full regimental force, as planned. Likely they met a Hwong army there in the jungle and were wiped out, along with the few cavalry and infantry you sent. 'Tis poor strategy to do things by half-measures."

Jefar Sharif turned a supercilious eye on the captain.

"You display even less sound strategy, Captain, by addressing your superior officer thus. True, you have gained a certain fitness through long experience. But my fitness is greater, I remind you, for it comes as the natural result of my noble birth!" He posed arrogantly before the older man, confident in large part because the captain's solemn gray stare was obscured by gathering dusk.

A moment later, appeased by the lack of any further response from his minion, the sharif turned back to the rail. "At any rate, supposing the brawling brute and his handful of troops are dead, with a few elephants to boot―small risk, small loss! You yourself told me that an officer must learn to spend lives freely."

The captain nodded, watching Jefar solemnly. "True enough. And what of the secret orders that arrived today?"

Frowning, Jefar lowered his tone to a rueful laugh. "Could you have imagined it? We are instructed to take special care of the barbarian, because of some unlikely interest he commands at court! I ask you, could a despatch be more astonishing, or more ill-timed?" He cleared his throat raggedly. "Still, 'tis no great loss. We can tell Abolhassan that his exotic pet died a hero. It makes me feel safer, indeed; I would have hated to show that unwashed savage special consideration. But say, what moves yonder?" He turned his gaze across the adzed tops of the palisade's timbers. "Halt, there, you! Stand and declare yourself!"

At the sharif's nervous hail, men stirred atop the watchtowers. Likewise came shouts and bustlings from within the fort enclosure; the garrison had been kept alert for a siege all afternoon, with the villagers and camp followers summoned inside. In moments, Jefar and Murad were joined from below by torch-bearing sentries, whose lights revealed an armored elephant approaching in the gloom. Ragged and blood-spattered, it shambled forward with steps that thudded slackly on the packed earth, shaking the parapet underfoot.

"It is our beast," Murad announced, "unless the rebels have draped one of their own in Imperial trappings. I see no driver, so beware of tricks and sorcery. Bring your ballistas to bear on the animal, but keep watching the jungle rim all the same!"

From somewhere beyond the elephant a deep, resonant voice hailed the wall. "Captain, do not shoot!" The watchers began to discern another figure approaching, whose black skin matched the jungle gloom.

"Who comes?" a dozen sentries cried, leveling their crossbows.

"Sergeant Juma, sir! With my troop, plus survivors of the battle." His voice was broken by panting, his weapons clanking as he slowed his trot.

"We met the beast in the forest and followed it back here, though we were never able to halt it." As the black man approached, other dim, turbaned figures became visible in a straggling line behind him. "It saved us from being lost in the jungle by night."

"Sire, men are riding in the howdah!" cried a sentry on the palisade, looking down on the animal as it trundled to a stop before the gate. "Two of them. Dead, by the look of them."

Jefar's voice grated sharply over the murmurs which immediately arose. "You, Sergeant―if such you really are! Form up your companions there in the torchlight. Then we can decide whether or not to admit you."

In a matter of minutes the gate had been thrown open and the survivors brought inside. The elephant was calmed by a guide and induced to kneel beside a cargo ramp in the entry-yard. Jefar and Murad supervised as the bodies were lifted out and laid on the wooden dock, to be inspected under brilliant torchlight.

"This is the driver, Than, one of our best." Somberly Murad tilted up the sallow face. "Pierced through the chest by a spear, as you can see. The beasts are loyal; they often pick up their fallen drivers and try to rescue them. And here"―the captain reached out to brush lank black hair aside from a death-pale face―"here is Conan, the patrol officer himself! Bled dry by this wound in his thigh, perhaps―or more likely, poisoned by it. He must have died in his place of command on the howdah."

"A sad loss." Jefar Sharif moved up beside the dock to face the troopers gathered around. "And yet, I am told, it was in the course of a fierce fight, resulting in the slaughter of a small but spirited enemy force. A harsh price, yet not too much to pay for the greater glory of―"

"Wretched slacker… coward!" A sepulchral voice arose eerily behind the sharif. Suddenly it took tangible form―a pale hand clutching at his
shoulder.

"You promised to relieve us! We fought the day through… I watched my men die!"

Those nearest stood stunned, seeing the terror-stricken sharif dragged back against the platform. The spectral handgrip doubled abruptly, shifting to his neck; meanwhile, a skull-white face, scarcely recognizable as human, snarled into his ear. "Where were our reinforcements, rogue?

Why did you betray us?"

"Enough! Restrain him at once!" Murad leaped to Jefar Sharif's side, gesturing troopers up onto the dock to lay hold of the vengeful, undead sergeant and pry his hands from his gasping commander. One of them was Juma, who murmured urgent, soothing phrases to the half-delirious Conan while forcing him back onto the planks.

"Hold him down, and shut up his raving!" Murad supported the red-faced sharif, slapping his back to help him draw breath. "The man is wild with spear-poison! Tend to him; save him if he can be saved."

"Aye, we will try," Juma said, clasping Conan's shoulders.

"Aarghhauh!" Waving an arm, Jefar tried to shout in wrath or fear from a throat still too constricted to form sounds.

"Take him to the infirmary―the Cimmerian, not the sharif," Murad added, keeping hold of his frenzied superior officer. "And guard him carefully. Though doubtless he will lose that leg!"

Chapter 7

Wizard's War

"So, Ibn Uluthan, how go your divinations?" General Abolhassan strode officiously among the chests and tables cluttering the star-patterned tiles of the Court of Seers. "The eunuchs say that the Venji magic still defies your best efforts." Stopping at the center of the echoing dome, the black-turbaned warrior folded his arms across his chest in an imperious, mocking pose. "Can you and your apprentices yet foresee a day when you will be of any real value to the war effort?"

Azhar and the lesser acolytes, meekly apprehensive, kept their heads bent over scrolls and magical paraphernalia. But their master, Ibn Uluthan, looked up with an air of irritated righteousness from his carved lectern and the sheaf of yellowed pages on it.

"No, Abolhassan, I confess that we have made negligible progress, to your lord and land's regret." Pale and hollow-eyed from his nightlong vigils, the mage squinted skeptically at his military visitor, whom he equaled in height if not in robustness. "Although we, unlike some, labor selflessly and whole-spiritedly for our emperor's aims, using every conceivable means"―Uluthan swept one arm wide, indicating the array of materials and workbenches assembled to deal with the Venji riddle―"I cannot always claim that our exertions are blessed with quick or easy success. Nor do I see why our misfortune, and your emperor's, should be a source of noxious levity."

"Nay, Wizard, I meant you no insult." Smiling, Abolhassan shifted his broad, black-draped shoulders easily without actually changing position.

"Even if at times I have said the support of our imperial treasury for your arcane tampering may be… excessive… still, I would not want you to think that I question your sincerity." The general's smile became placid, tolerant. "I meant only to express my surprise that a seer as illustrious as yourself could fail to triumph over old-fashioned jungle taboos and dried lizard fetishes!"

"My good General." Ibn Uluthan's reply was patient. "Age can hardly be said to weaken a religion or a spell. And the Venji have possessed powerful empires of their own, as their temple ruins clearly show. In the remote past, some of their dynasties may even have rivaled or exceeded our modern Turanian splendor." The sage shook his turbaned head. "But these influences have faded; our great obstacle is still Venjipur's distance from here."

Drawn once again to consider the problem, he spoke thoughtfully.

"Supreme as our power is in Aghrapur, it scarcely bears exportation to a wild land of few folk and fewer Faithful, lacking true shrines or relics, and never even traversed by the holy feet of our mystics. A savage place it is, gripped by degraded, elemental deities, with foul Mojurna as their croaking prophet."

"Of course, such a pagan cult poses little danger to us here; you see no jungle demons prowling the streets of Aghrapur. Our star-castings have a
high rate of accuracy, and our various prognostications within the settled empire are of unquestioned value. Our power, in fact, remains unchallenged―except when we try to channel it southward to the devil-plagued Tarqheban coast!"

The sorcerer's gaze, leaving the general's ironic face, wandered absently across the room to the tall, black-silled window, where hung gloom relieved by only the palest radiance. Through the casement, if one peered deep into the dim obscurity, could be seen the faint, half-illusory image of a jewel-bedecked skull.

"Very well, Ibn Uluthan," Abolhassan said in his deep, faintly amused voice. "I thank you for rendering me a more thorough accounting than I could have wished. I only wondered whether Mojurna's magic has been overcome―whether it will soon be possible, as you once showed us, for our beloved Emperor Yildiz to stand in this chamber and see with his own eyes the events transpiring in far-off Venjipur."

"In answer to your question: no." Ibn Uluthan turned a sullen shoulder to his visitor, moving back behind his lectern. "But with the blessings of Tarim and gracious Emperor Yildiz, our efforts will continue. Some aspect of the problem must inevitably yield to our scrutiny, and in time you may expect a breakthrough. But for the moment, no."

"Thank you, Mage. I expected as much." Showing no great dissatisfaction, Abolhassan spun on his heel and left the hall.

Of course, he told himself as he crossed the outer balconies, the spells would have been a convenience. Oversight of the battlefront, even direct command, would benefit all concerned with the campaign, especially that detestable busybody Yildiz. But the present situation, with all its delays and indirections, afforded advantages he was in a unique position to exploit.

Leaving the shade of a filigreed trellis, Abolhassan strode through blazing sun to a gilded, onion-pointed archway. The cool, perfumed halls of the palace swallowed him again, its smoothly descending rampways taking him to the judicial galleries.

There murmured and echoed the business of state, proceeding as it did every day and late into the night. Merchant squabbles, family vendettas, pleadings of law, tax, and troth―those interminable questions, nominally
the domain of the emperor, were now adjudged and enforced by eunuchs.

Abolhassan was careful to skirt the public corridors with their mad assortment of chained felons, unkept clans of litigating goatherds, and clusters of dicing advocates. There a general's noble garb and exalted bearing would be met by fatuous looks or cries of beseechment. Happily, the meeting for which he was now overdue lay in the Court of Protocols, a large inner gallery reserved for ceremonies involving His Resplendency and His highest satraps.

A pair of household guards at the Court's double doors bowed him through. Once inside, he was surprised by the strident tone of the interview already underway.

"You beguile our sons and brothers into your armies, or else impress them outright! You send them to die far away from their homes and families! You teach them to murder and pillage, so that their hearts can never be at peace in the grace of Tarim!" The speaker, holding forth at full pitch, was female, a comely woman expensively garbed. From her head waved an unruly banner of pale yellow hair which Abolhassan thought he recognized from previous petitionings and civil delegations. The target of her diatribe, sitting alone on a stool and looking distinctly ill-at-ease, was the medium-sized, pudgy Emperor Yildiz.

Seemingly heedless of his divinity, the woman railed on. "I ask you, Resplendency, is any thought given to the cost of these excursions to savage lands like Venjipur? Not only the cost in lives, but in suffering and ill-will here at home? And what of the public works that are set aside, the temples and roads that go unbuilt? Are these crying needs less important, I wonder, than horsy heroics in some far-off wilderness?"

Her pale hair had always been striking, Abolhassan remembered; it shone now in bright contrast to the prim black and brown tresses of the five other court wives seated by the speaker. Irilya's youthful form, erect and mobile in her blue silk gown and gold-threaded shawl, both emphasized and softened the force of her arguments. As he watched, the general felt a stirring deep within his breast, and began to regard this young woman in a new light. He examined her with attentive, intimately interested hatred.

"But wait, milady―ah, General, at last you come!" Yildiz turned in his seat, leaning toward Abolhassan in obvious, pathetic relief. "I have been
trying to assure the Lady Irilya here of the wisdom, and indeed, the long-term necessity of our southern policy. She and these other court wives are deeply concerned. Knowl-edgable too, I must say." The emperor laughed nervously, with a hint of thankfulness at seeing Irilya sink back down onto her cushioned stool. "I was explaining to them the hydraulics of empire, that the tides of conquest must always either flow or ebb. The mighty ocean never rests between its rocky shores, I told them, nor do we!

We keep up our momentum, not just to gain fresh territory but to maintain our toughness and fighting spirit here at home, in the very fiber of our staunch Turanian hearts."

"I see no lack of fighting spirit here." Abolhassan, with a smooth bow and a measuring gaze at Irilya, took his place beside the emperor. "But what these gentle ladies may not fully appreciate, through their finely cultured understanding of world events, is the continual, pervasive threat that faces us, the menace of barbarism! Those who have not made a lifelong study of map-reading can scarcely appreciate the hazard of Turan's position in the world." The general's gray eyes flashed from Irilya's to those of her delegation with a sober, warning glint. "On every side, ladies, are barbarous hordes who eagerly await a first sign of our weakness, the smallest chink in our imperial armor. All the great empires of history, once they have forgotten this menace, have been overrun―their cities broken, their temples profaned, their thrones and altars besquatted by vile, hairy hides! If we do not keep up unrelenting pressure against this eternal threat, why, even the sacred virtue of Turanian womanhood will be imperiled―"

"Enough, General! I have heard this speech before." Irilya, rising up again on her silk-slippered feet, showed none of the fluttery nervousness of her courtly sisters at the officer's remarks. "Myself, I do not need to look so far for a threat to our welfare; I worry about the growing power of the military caste in our own land." Her eyes and Abolhassan's met with a nearly audible clash, like blades ringing together in air. "So far as foreigners are concerned, is there not a danger that one of these petty wars will bring us into conflict with a hungrier or fiercer race, provoking their greed and inviting Turan's own downfall? Such also has befallen great, rapacious empires of the past."

Abolhassan smiled coldly. "All the more need for Turanians to hone their fighting skills and test them in war, milady! That way we ensure that no enemy can stand against us."

"Ladies," Emperor Yildiz announced, "you are the favorite wives of some of my principal shahs; I beg you, heed me." His smooth, ingratiating tone seemed well calculated to capture their attention. "You are all knowledgeable in statecraft, offering vital and trusted assistance to your mates. Lady Irilya's husband, Shah Faharazendra, is eminent in rulership and commerce alike, leading rich fleets and caravans forth to spread Turan's fame across the world. Would that he were here now, Irilya, to…

console you in your concerns about state affairs."

Yellow-hair pursed her berry-stained lips skeptically at this comment, yet remained silent. The emperor smiled confidingly, leaning nearer the court wives.

"Since you understand the high aims of rulership, you will appreciate a story I have to relate." Yildiz rested a hand on the pantalooned knee of one of the women, whose comely olive complexion deepened in a blush at this lofty honor. "Of those who serve their emperor in provinces like Venjipur, some, as you say, are your noble kinsmen, others mere humble subjects. A few sacrifice greatly for their beloved god and homeland; others gain as greatly in strength and wisdom, winning the high regard of their fellows, or even advancing to the status of heroes!" His eyes searched the women's earnestly, causing all but Irilya to turn their gazes demurely down. "An empire needs heroes if it is to survive," he assured the bold-eyed girl with a steady, kingly glance.

"One such soldier in Venjipur has recently come to my attention… an obscure sergeant in one of the outlying forts, commanding a troop of frontier-hardened infantry. Conan, they call him." Yildiz shrugged eloquently. "Not even a native Turanian, but a foreign enlistee. A Vanir, I am told."

"Tarim's grace!" Irilya interrupted, arching her pale brows at Yildiz and Abolhassan in feigned astonishment. "Can this be one of those fierce barbarian plunderers we have been warned about?"

"Truly, milady," the general parried smoothly, "but when such can be persuaded to follow the true faith, there are no better fighters. That is why we say, send barbarians to fight barbarians!"

"Indeed," Yildiz picked up the thread briskly, "this man first came to my attention not long ago, during the rebellion of our key outpost, Yaralet." He shook his head in sad recollection. "Word came that our
entire relieving force had been wiped out, not by honest combat but by some heinous heathen sorcery. Soon afterward, a messenger arrived from the northern marches, saying that one unnamed trooper had survived the battle and, practically singlehanded, had returned the city of Yaralet to my rule. That man, I now know, was Conan. Before long he had been transferred at his own insistence to the southern front."

The emperor shook his head in frank admiration, kindling faint responsive gleams in the eyes of the court women. "No surprise that, since men like Conan need an arena, a bold undertaking in which to unleash their talents." Sitting well forward in his chair, Yildiz patted the knees of several of his smiling listeners as he spoke―not including Irilya, who kept well out of his reach. "Of such human material, skillfully shaped and tempered, is a strong empire forged."

"Most impressive." Level-eyed, Irilya feigned the same credulity her companions showed. "With one such warrior, capable of defeating whole armies, you will hardly need more legions to conquer Venjipur! Doubtless his exploits there have been of equal magnitude?"

"Aye, they have," Yildiz nodded, unruffled. "Of late he led a force of hand picked raiders in storming a vital enemy outpost, a heathen temple.

In the fight he himself came near to slaying Mojurna, the witch-man who is prime instigator of the Venji rebellion." The emperor beamed into the wide eyes of his dark-haired listeners, his beringed hands busy patting and stroking where they could. "But that is not all; I am told that we received, just today, news of a further exploit, which General Abolhassan has joined us here to relate."

"With pleasure, Your Resplendency." The general, already edgy from his clashes with Irilya, watched Yildiz's physical communion with the other court wives in growing discomfiture. In his mind lingered a germ of doubt whether this casual patting and handholding might not at any moment blossom into the shameful kind of scene Yildiz was fond of subjecting him to in the imperial bedchamber. With an effort, he forced his thoughts to the business at hand.

"We have just received word of a successful action by a territorial elephant brigade, backed by massed cavalry and Imperial regulars. Our force overran an enemy camp, destroying approximately ten thousand rebels and routing the survivors, with negligible losses to our own side.

The officer Conan spearheaded the attack―and himself suffered a grave
wound from which his recovery is unlikely." Abolhassan shook his head soberly. "In all, the battle represents a signal victory for Turan."

"Truly, General!" Irilya said archly. "I am amazed that any rebels are left, since their army, by your accounts, was always so small and scattered."

"Indeed, milady," Abolhassan assured her with a venomous smile. "We have anticipated and blunted their main stroke against us. The end of the campaign cannot be far off now."

"Wonderful news, surely." Yildiz sat with brow knit beneath his jeweled turban, his hands for once idle at the sides of his chair. "Yet I worry about my officer Conan; he is the best man to come out of the frontier marches in years, possibly ever. Can you send a swift message southward to guarantee him the best of care?"

"Certainly, Your Resplendency." After listening thoughtfully to his seated ruler, the general nodded his smiling assent. "Assuming that he still lives, I will direct that he receive very special treatment."

"Excellent!" Yildiz clapped his hands on his silk-wrapped thighs. "Now, ladies, if there are no further points to be discussed, I suggest that we end our interview. This latest news from the front is so significant, I intend to take the dispatch into the map-room and study the details." Leaning forward in his chair, he patted several rounded knees in farewell. "Be assured that your proposals have been heard and that your emperor will use every suitable means to address them. I look forward to having another meeting with you soon… perhaps a more convivial gathering in my chambers, with a small feast set forth? When it is arranged, I will summon you. It has been a great pleasure."

Arising with the emperor, Irilya stepped forward to grip his hand firmly in both of hers. "Resplendency, the concerns I voiced will not cease of themselves. I warn you to weigh my words carefully against the counsel of others in your court." Her glance at Abolhassan was expressive, but Yildiz's attention was already diverted by the other wives' more simpering farewells.

"Thank you all, ladies! We are pleased to have this opportunity to elucidate our imperial aims. Tarim bless and provide you!"

The door-guards moved near to assist Yildiz in shooing away the covey of silk-decked, spangled women. Meanwhile Abolhassan bowed deeply to the emperor, holding forth his rolled copy of the Venji dispatch. "Here it is, Resplendency. Most inspired, the way you handled those biddies"―he glanced aside to be sure that they were gone―"but I would beware that insolent, pale-haired one. Remember my past warnings on that score, sire; you may yet have need for the strap and the knife to gain compliance with your wishes." He bowed perfunctorily once more, backing away. "I shall be eager to discuss these matters with you further, Lord, after a nagging afternoon engagement of which my secretary only lately informed me.

Thank you, Resplendency. Good day!"

Leaving Yildiz to devour the preposterous Venji dispatch, Abolhassan made his way quickly through back corridors to yet another quarter of the vast palace, the eunuchs' apartments. Here, the general was soon sickened by the scents of patchouli and sandalwood hanging heavy in the air. Yet he steeled his eagle-hooked nostrils, dismissing the odors as just another pathetic overindulgence by those who had treacherously been denied life's greatest overindulgence.

Even the gilded door which he sought out was ornate to the point of offense. Yet it did not repel him so much as what lay beyond.

"Greetings, General. You are late." The eunuch Dashibt Bey squatted on a tasseled cushion behind a low, lacquered table strewn with remnants of his midafternoon meal. The obese figure squatted at the center of a vast carpet, whose patterns blazed arabesque in the yellow lamplight, effectively concealing any food morsels and wine-stains scattered by the feast. "I would have bidden you partake also―but now, it appears, there is nothing left!" He surveyed the desolation of smeared platters, gnawed bones, nutshells, and gouged crusts. "Unless, of course you want some fruit," he added with a belch, pushing his omnipresent gilded basket to the center of the table with one stubby hand.

"No, Dashibt Bey. I come straight from Yildiz, and I must presently return to him." Abolhassan shut the door tightly behind him. "Frankly, I do not cherish this meeting; I thought we agreed to avoid such needless risks. What business can be so pressing as to require my presence here?"

"Why, General, are not high treason and royal usurpation pressing matters? The bedazzlement of an emperor and the theft of an empire?"

Dashibt Bey laughed deeply, his fingers fumbling among table crumbs.

"Nay, General, do not gape so fearfully! There are no windows here, no spyholes or lip-readers in my private dining-chamber. We are alone and safe from prying eyes and ears. We may speak frankly, without the need to deceive Yildiz, or, more subtly, our fellow conspirators." His smile was evil, his beady eyes glinting from the gleaming expanse of his face. "There are some matters which need to be discussed openly, between equals."

"Equals." Abolhassan took a long moment to swallow the word, his face imperfectly concealing the effort. "Of course we are equals, Dashibt Bey!

Equal partners, sharing equal risks. Though I daresay, should our conspiracy fail, you will be cut up into more and larger pieces than I!"

"You reassure me, General! You jest!" The eunuch laughed. "You lie!"

His eyes did not leave Abolhassan's face. "But you lie cleverly, as skillfully as anyone like myself could wish, whose ambitions also hinge on your powers of deceit." Dashibt Bey shook his head broadly, ignoring his guest's scowl of insult.

"But do not think for one moment, General, that I am deceived! Do not imagine that I, like the others, heed your talk of ruling councils and shared powers. You will predominate; you are a natural leader of the common herd and, more significantly, of their herders, the cavalry." Dashibt Bey nodded approvingly. "Your personal ascendancy will be the last fact many fools learn in their shortened lives. The seizure of the throne will be only the start of the bloodbath." Complacency shone from his round, oily features.

"But as you are pruning the top of the slender, lofty tree of state, lopping off limbs and heads"―here the eunuch fumbled in a jade bowl, mopping up the last smear of pink sauce with a shred of crust―"do not think to dissever me! My position is too strong to allow it, and my function too vital, whether you appreciate it or not." He popped the smeared crust into his mouth, chewing in undisguised satisfaction.

"Very well, Dashibt Bey." The general hovered before the table, gazing down on the eunuch with only the faintest flare of his nostrils hinting his distaste. "I shall ignore your insults, for the time. Of course I need you, conciliating and expediting, keeping the court functioning smoothly. With you to ease the transfer of power, we can proceed quickly from this simple rebellion to greater military triumphs―"

"That is what I mean, General," Dashibt Bey interrupted. "If you think
that Turan is a military state, to be led by a general into war against Hyborian nations, you err sadly. As a militarist, you ignore our predominance in commerce, diplomacy, politics―in graft, as well." The eunuch shook his head patiently on its thick padding of neck. "Why, real war would deprive our country of its best advantages! Rather, Turan's greatness requires that you act as figurehead only. Oppress the realm, by all means! Defend it, and chip away at its borders. But defer to me in all important things, especially international ones." He scowled. "And let there be no more whispers in the city garrison of a red night of slaughtering eunuchs."

The administrator, showing no reaction to the officer's surprise, continued. "Yes, I know of that scheme, General. Its instigators, by the way, have already received their transfer orders and taken ship for the Hyrkanian wilds. My eunuchs, my children―nay, do not laugh, General―my eunuch-children tell me of all that transpires in Aghrapur.

We are the real power in Turan. Thus it has always been under Yildiz, and thus it shall continue. Be thankful that I have warned you; another time might have been… too late."

The immense man turned his head a little aside, yawning. "But you see, it is not so bad. Every king must compromise. I offer you sole rulership, after all, with as much sway as Yildiz, and considerably more. No ruler ever realizes the full, overweening scope of his dreams… luckily for the world and its inhabitants."

Abolhassan moved back and forth before the table, shuffling listlessly as he digested what he had heard. A long silence ensued. When he turned back to Dashibt Bey, a gray deadness was in his face. "What, then, of the arms caravan Yildiz ordered for Venjipur? Has it been processed?"

The eunuch nodded. "Half of it dispatched southward by river, the other half laid aside in warehouses south of the docks. It will be ready at our day of need." He glanced up at his guest. "General Abolhassan, you must not take this so hard. I know it is trying for you. Here, have a piece of fruit." He reached out and nudged the heaped basket forward again.

"Thank you, I will." Abolhassan bent over the choice globes and ovals, taking some time to select one for size and firmness. He chose a ripe mango, its leathery skin shading from green through yellow into blazing scarlet, like a tropical sunset. Wordless, then, he strode up onto the table and across it, kicking dishes aside roughly with his cavalry boots.

Dropping on both knees onto Dashibt Bey's broad chest, he crammed the oval fruit into his interviewer's startled, wide-open mouth. With one hand clutching the back of the eunuch's neck, he forced the slimy, rupturing fruit down between the man's distended jaws until its wide, sharp stone lodged in the capacious throat. There he held it with an iron grip.

"Aagahh―ahk!" Dashibt Bey made faint utterances as his scrabbling fingers shifted ineffectually from his dagger-bearing cummerbund to Abolhassan's clenched arm, thence to his own fast-purpling throat. A series of upheavals began as his massive legs kicked at the table, flipping it upward in the air, and then scuffed at the tiled floor. His convulsions propelled him lurching backward off his silken cushion, his huge body spasming amid the shattered debris of the meal. The general inched forward along with him, his powerful arms clenched in a vengeful grip, maintaining his hold until he was sure the fruit would not be expelled.

Then he shrugged free, stepping back from his victim's final convulsions just in time to hear a latch rattle and see the gilded door swing inward.

It was Euranthus, Dashibt Bey's eager second administrator. The sleek youth came running around the inverted table to kneel at his master's side. "I heard the dreadful crashing―General, what happened?"

"The poor man choked to death on a fruit-pit," Abolhassan said, his hand drifting to the dagger concealed in his own sash. "Now you will have to take his place at court, I fear, and in his numerous other profitable pursuits." Abolhassan knew that Euranthus was privy to the conspiracy; how much the eunuch might have heard outside the door, he could only guess.

"Yes, it is so!" Though Dashibt Bey's outflung limbs still clutched and shivered futilely, his junior stared down at his clogged, blue-black face as if he were already dead, not daring or deigning to offer help. "What a tragedy… an untimely accident!" Damp-faced and trembling with warring feelings, Euranthus grimaced up at Abolhassan. "Lucky that I am here to carry on his work!"

"'Tis by Tarim's grace that you are fit for the task, Euranthus! Pray, do not worry, I will assist and direct you in it." Abolhassan let his hand slip away from his dagger-hilt. "Perhaps, after all, this was inevitable; the fellow's greedy appetites were too large for his own good."

"Carefully, Azhar! Balance the mirror on edge to follow the motion of
the sun smoothly." Ibn Uluthan looked up from his sorcerous preparations, scowling across a low table set before the tall, black-covered window in the south wall of the Court of Seers.

"I pray that I can support its weight, Master!" The thin young man wrestled heroically with the oblong mirror, whose height overtopped his own. "The frame is massive, Sire, and lapped with heavy gold."

"Indeed! When we asked for the emperor's largest mirror, his eunuchs served us lavishly." The chief mage nodded over his worktable in satisfaction. "It proves that we still have His Resplendency's favor in some matters, at least!" Looking up again, he exhorted his acolyte, "Fear not, Azhar! I know you can manage this simple task. You merely need to reflect the solar rays straight into the window at the proper time… in just a few moments now, when that patch of sun enters the court's centermost circle."

The turbaned wizard pointed near his acolyte's feet, amid the broad tile outline of a white pentagram enclosed in a black pentagon, girdled in turn by a white circle. "I am sure that my measurements were correct." For the hundredth time he squinted up at the curvature of the dome, where workers had widened one of the star-viewing slits, crudely, by means of crowbars. Sunlight, in volumes unprecedented in these arcane precincts, now poured down in a broad, dusty beam to the polished floor. "It should require only a few moments of celestial radiance to achieve our ends."

Azhar rested the mirror on its flat bottom-edge. "Again, Sire, what exactly are we going to achieve by this irradiation?"

Ibn Uluthan smiled sallowly from beneath the gray circles of his eyes.

"Why, Azhar, I shall overwhelm our enemy and destroy Mojourna's devilish emblem, thus clearing our path of power to far-off Venjipur. His skullface may melt away to mist, or it may explode into a million brittle shards!" With one hand he patted the folds of heavy black curtain covering the mystic window. "After all, we have the greater strength here in Turan; our prayers and talismans are vastly enriched by the fullness of our faith and the godly might of our land."

Bending to his worktable, he took up the object he had been ritually preparing. "Here is our most potent holy symbol, the sacred Hawk of Tarim." He turned the heavy golden statuette so that its outspread wings flared wide as a man's shoulders, its tawny head craning sidewise in
heroic profile. "The writhing snake clasped in its beak represents the foul Cult of Set, so the priests say; but its power should serve just as well against rude jungle witchery." The mage glanced behind him, to where the bird's dim shadow struck the curtain. "When this noble silhouette is cast through the window by the full, pure light of northern day, it will be more than enough to vanquish our enemy's foul token.

"Mojurna's skull-symbol is tenuous and tenebrous, remember: a mere concentrated illusion. Have no doubt, our enemy is poised as intently on this contest as we are, this test of sorcerous will―but over a much shorter range, since he is far, far weaker. He is pressed already to the limit of his feeble endurance, and this will overwhelm him." Ibn Uluthan shook his head in weary triumph. "Mere hours ago I conceived of this means of projection, and already we are poised to put it into effect. Using the strength of Tarim's blessed sun, we shall superimpose our magical pattern over Mojurna's weaker one, even as mighty Turan imposes its national will on puny Venjipur!"

Braced against his heavy mirror, Azhar nodded dutifully. " 'Twill be a noteworthy thing, Master, to see our wizardry foe defeated with mirrors!"

Ibn Uluthan smiled. "Aye, such was ever the magician's way. But look lively, lad, the sun pierces the inner circle!"

Squinting into the dusty light for long, patient minutes, the two watched the jagged patch of radiance slowly light up one corner of the pentagram with its brilliance. As its main part bypassed the gleaming white tiles of the circle, Azhar began inching his mirror into the light. The intense, reflected beam flashed crazily at first over the walls and pillars of the domed court, brightening them with stark, fleeting daylight. Finally it settled on the curtain, wavering full-length in the arched outline of the mirror, making the black fabric blaze white in contrast with the chamber's interior gloom.

"Excellent, Azhar!" The chief mage adjusted the hawk effigy on the low table, making its spreadeagled shadow play full against the curtain. "Be sure to follow the sunray with the mirror as it moves; I will stand here and follow with the sacred emblem. Now there remains only… the unveiling!"

As he spoke, he reached beside him to a knotted cord and pulled it, causing the black curtains to jerk apart and reveal the silvery crystal of the far-seeing window.

The skull was there, maintaining its unceasing vigil on the far side of the pane. The light cast by the mirror picked out its hideous visage in livid detail, kindling sparks in the many-colored gems of its brows and cheekbones and making them blaze in their polished settings. The shadow of the Hawk of Tarim was somehow difficult to trace, lost in the many-faceted and disturbingly massive physiognomy of the evil talisman.

For a moment, it almost seemed to Azhar that the jeweled visage was the source of the light, beaming its blinding intensity back through his mirror and up into heaven.

Then, as he watched, the skull grew larger―or nearer, he realized an instant later when his accustomed sense of isolation from things beyond the window was suddenly and horribly violated. For the skullface pushed in through the glass with a rending crash, scattering silver shards and splintering the tile casement as its jewel-crusted jaws gaped wide. The giant face, radiant in sun-pierced gloom, drove onto Ibn Uluthan like the prow of a vast, grounding ship, smashing his golden idol and seizing him by one hip in its grinning, diamond-toothed bite.

Amid the sorcerer's screams, with the light from Azhar's unsteady mirror veering and darting wildly over the scene, the greedy skull retreated, dragging its struggling victim back through the window and beyond the rightful confines of the Court of Seers. Clouds of dust, debris, and arcane papers flurried after them, lashed by unnatural winds. Inward through the anomalous breech in the wall flapped likewise the black, desolate billows of the ragged curtains. Ibn Uluthan's shrieks dwindled rapidly across an echoless abyss of distance, then were cut off, leaving the dust to settle lazily before the bare stone wall where the window had stood.

Azhar the acolyte, staggering under the weight of his toppling mirror, was flung backward as it finally fell and splintered. He struck his head against the base of a pillar, there to lie motionless and senseless.

Chapter 8

City of Iniquity

"Come, you parched desert dogs! This is no time to collapse in a stinking hostel." Conan halted on the worn threshold of the inn where the cart had deposited its passengers and their meager traps. Clamping hamlike hands on the shoulders of his two friends, he drew them back out
into the teeming street. "The city of Venjipur awaits us in all its wicked glory!"

"What say you!" Juma turned to Conan, straightening up from the crouch he had assumed in order to pass beneath the low lintel. "You were fool enough to risk the cart ride here from Sikander with your injured leg; now you want to rove the alleys of Venjipur by night?" Scanning the twilit street, he stood above die dusky currents of its dwellers like a black snag in a swirling yellow river.

On all sides the city crowded close, its ancient stone buildings crumbling behind their gaudy, ramshackle facades. Awnings, lean-tos, cupolas, and false minarets, all had been added to seduce free-spending troops and catch the inflow of foreign coinage. Now, in the fading light, the street's odd angles and gaudy trappings lured the eye. In spite of Juma's denials, his ebony features barely concealed his yearning. "Nay, Conan, 'tis out of the question. You are still too lame."

"Aye. Hence the need for exercise." Conan yoked his friend's burly, leather-vested shoulders under a heavy forearm. "I must stretch the scar-flesh and keep the limb from growing stiff." He gathered in the half-willing Babrak on his other side. "And our devout friend here… surely he must experience at least one night of carousing, so that his repentances before Tarim will have weight later on!"

"Nay, truly, Conan, I would be poor company on such an excursion!"

Babrak braced himself upright under the burden of the Cimmerian's arm.

"Anyway, the kvass they serve in the street taverns is no less sour than what is poured in this hostelry."

"He is right, Conan." Glumly Juma watched the jostling, shoulder-high streams of walkers passing in the street. "Remember, this is Venjipur! You know the countless snares and dangers that lurk here."

Conan, leaning on the tall black man so as to pry him further from the inn door, spoke intensely in his ear. "Surely I do, Juma, and I crave them.

As would you, if you had just spent an eternity on your back watching lizards gulp flies on the ceiling! Weeks of that recreation, then a full day of lying prone in a jolting elephant cart―and now you expect me to go flop into some moldy hostel bed?"

Conan's argument had its desired effect, forcing Juma several steps
further along the stone paves. Babrak had little choice but to move along with his larger, grappling companions against the hurrying tide of pedestrians.

"As for danger―why, man, we came to this country to tweak danger! I am in a foul mood, as you may have noticed. I will be in a worse one if I do not crack some heads together or otherwise disport myself by tomorrow sunrise."

Cleaving to the others more for compulsion than support, Conan moved with them down the grimy street. Peddlers, handcarts, furtive citizens, and feral-eyed urchins flowed around them in a torrent seldom topping the larger men's shoulders. The only other things tall enough to stand out above it were slave-drawn chair-coaches and the pointy, helmeted heads of other northern troopers. These were conspicuous as well by their disheveled uniforms decked with souvenir beads, garters, and silk scarves, and their noisy, drunken aimlessness.

In all the bustle, the three companions traveled only a dozen steps before ducking through the odiferous, brightly lamplit doorway of a crowded kvass-house.

"Jugboy! A pitcher of mule-milk and three noggins here! Hey, jambee!

Run up three totees kumish quick-quick!" Conan's gruff rendering of the local pidgin was adequate, within moments, to quench their thirst. But when Juma slapped down a silver ounce on the narrow table, the aproned serving-boy pocketed it and turned away, nodding and grinning idiotically. The Kushite had to grab and shake him like a weasel's prey to get him to render up change.

The establishment was crowded with knee-high tables and ankle-high stools. Around them stood or squatted patrons of widely varying races.

The dim, red-lit air bore scents of sandalwood incense and headier perfumes, doubtless intended to cover the reek of the near-rancid kumiss, among other smells.

Not savored locally, the fermented mare's milk was imported or counterfeited to please the occupying horse-troops, and the beverage did not thrive well in the tropic heat. Nevertheless, it served its purpose; after a few beakers, the heads and stomachs of the three friends were awash in its queasy tide. One of its effects was frankness.

"You are lucky, Conan," Babrak observed, "to be on your feet so soon."

He pursed his lips to belch discreetly. "Of the stragglers from the jungle fight, fully half those with lesser wounds have perished of the blood-rot.

And many of your troop's survivors will be missing limbs and other valued parts."

"Aye, my friend." Conan nodded solemnly, gazing into his tankard.

"Crom bless the both of you dogs for taking me out of that stinking infirmary and into Sariya's care, back at our hut. That bone-chopping Imperial surgeon should be turned loose against the enemy, curse his foul breath! But Sariya…" He shook his head profoundly. "The woman has a way about her… I was weak unto death, but she nursed me to life."

"Weak is not the word I would have used, Conan." Juma looked ruefully to Babrak. "We know, because it took all our strength as well as Sariya's to hold you down during your raging fevers."

"Indeed," the smaller man nodded. "You refought all your battles then, with foes both earthly and unearthly!"

"She is an angel. I would doubt our wisdom in leaving her at Sikander."

Ignoring them, Conan frowned over his foamy cup. "But she wished a rest.

The village folk all befriend her now, and the guards I assigned are able men."

"Aye, righteous pillars of Tarim, every one! Do not worry, Conan."

Babiak nodded with a smile of utter confidence. "Lucky we are, indeed, to be given so many privileges lately. Rumor around camp has it that your exploits gain you lofty favor, perhaps among the officer staff in Aghrapur!"

He laughed easily, scanning the crowded room. "That is what made it possible for us to nursemaid you, you know; we now get extra rations, abbreviated duties, even furloughs like this one!" A spangled Venji girl-trollop minced past them to a nearby table, and the youth averted his eyes chastely. "Not that it means much to a strict follower of Tarim's law,"

he added resolutely.

"Indeed, Conan," Juma said with a sterner look. "You should be careful of this curious favor that has descended on you. We must not leave Sariya alone more than a day or so. Having known the pains and perils of the hero's game, you now enjoy its rewards… but beware." The Kushite glanced narrow-eyed around the room, then leaned closer to his friend.

"Know you, these very enjoyments mark you and set you apart. They goad
jealousy in dangerous quarters, and are seldom as benign and freely given as one thinks." He pursed leathery black lips in a frown. "Heed me in this, Conan: I have known more dead heroes than live ones."

Before the Cimmerian could dispute his friend's dismal outlook, all three troopers were distracted. A youthful Venji, pockmarked and crooked-toothed, bowed before their table in his tight uniform and began extolling the virtues of his alleged sister. She posed at his side: a red-lipped, sloe-eyed, smoldering girl-child, sheathed in a green silk gown slit almost to her armpits. At their trio of stares she settled back against one of the tiny tables, spreading her knees and seeming almost ready to offer them an immediate sampling of her talents.

"I think not," Juma announced to his friends with a broad grin. "The fruit looks a bit underripe to me. Babrak, now, he needs a more motherly type to initiate him into the conjugal mysteries. And Conan… but of course, you have Sariya as your consort."

The Cimmerian shifted his thick shoulders restlessly. "Now, now, Juma, I am not wed to the wench! I am still my own man. Nevertheless, I do not relish this stripling, whose vital places probably have hair pasted on! Nor do I care for her grinning tout―be off, you two!"

Feigning anger at the insult, the Venji youth jabbered threats in pidgin, demanding payment for damages. Finally he had to be propelled away by an armlock and a boot in his scrawny buttocks. The tart spat copiously at her tormentors' feet before flouncing off after him.

"They will be at us again if we get drunk enough in this place, rely on it!" Conan refilled his companions' battered cups. "And beware, fellows―even that raw fillet of monkey-meat may begin to look tempting after a few more pitchers of this swill! That is why it is always wise to move on."

The entertainment in the house had so far been limited to a bored, bead-draped girl twitching on a dais at the end of the room, accompanied by the incessant chiming and tweeting that passed thereabouts as music.

Now a more elaborate show commenced, with an older, buxom actress directing and assisting in vulgar tricks performed by trained, silk-costumed jungle apes. The time was ripe for departure, so the troopers passed out into the street, which was dimmer now and less thronged. The ancient pavement and stone doorposts were also less
obviously filthy, with paper lanterns and glowing, bead-curtained windows and doors giving the shopfronts a festive look.

Conan, striding with a limp he could almost conceal, led the way down a narrow side-passage. After some turns and branchings, it took them to a tavern whose low-arched entry spilled an inviting puddle of light on the pavement and the wall opposite. Just outside its healthy glow, a pair of Venji civilians stood muttering. As the three troopers approached, one of the loiterers leaned forward, revealing a long knife-scar on one pockmarked cheek.

"Lotusss!" he whispered sibilantly. "Banghee Palace have many good kind of lotus. Good girls too!" He rolled his yellow eyes suggestively. "We send you and girls to happy jade paradise."

"Ignore him, Conan," muttered Juma into his friend's other ear. "His palace is doubtless some riverside tent, and his girls really crones or ill-shaven boys. To a real lotus-lover, such details matter not at all. Duck in here, and we will be rid of them… but wait!"

Upon his failure to detain Conan and Juma, the scarred man accosted Babrak more insistently, seizing his arm and tugging at it. Meanwhile, the second loiterer could be seen edging around behind the Turanian―for a grab at his belt-purse, possibly, or at his weapons, or for worse mischief.

The two troopers turned swiftly to their friend's aid.

Conan arrived in time to see the brass butt of Babrak's dagger sweep upward, to glance from the scarred man's chin; a low blow from his own balled fist sent the second loiterer rebounding, grunting, from the stone wall. Juma moved in with a kick to the staggering lotus-seller's ribs; a moment later the two toughs were scuttling away down the silent alley.

"Huzzah! The night has begun at last!" Juma grinned broadly, spreading his pale palms wide to clap his companions' backs. "We will raise your glum spirits yet, Conan! Good roughhousing!"

"Our friend Babrak here is not tardy with his knife," Conan observed, turned back toward the lit doorway. "He had no real need of us, except as his audience! Tavern brawling must not be one of the vices barred by Tarim's holy law."

The interior of this second tavern was broader and lower, with bamboo
tables and wickerwork seats that a northerner could almost fit into. Food, as well as drink, was in evidence here; after conferring with an elderly male taverner, the three called for portions of a safe-sounding stew of fish, vegetables, and swamp-rice.

"Those alley toughs are a good reason to watch our backs tonight,"

Juma said, making his wicker stool strain and creak under his rangy weight. "If they were Phang Loon's bullies, they can always summon more of their kind."

"What―those gutter-snipes?" Conan's laugh faltered slightly as he felt the arm of his chair break loose from the seat due to a careless twist of his hips.

"'Tis true, Conan." Juma's shift in his own seat was accompanied by a symphony of bending, straining wicker. "The lotus trade hereabouts is controlled by Phang Loon―except, naturally, that sold by the rebels. The warlord is more powerful than any northern monarch, though he lacks the blessing of church or dynasty. That is one true cause of the strife in Venjipur―and if you ask me, we Turanians have made it worse, by uniforming his private army as the Venji Imperial Guard!"

"Not the best ones to have at your back in a fight, I am told." Babrak frowned over his stew bowl. "Juma is right, though; Phang Loon is not a man to cross." His speech trailed off with an air of distraction, his brown eyes flitting across the room toward the right-angled counter where drink was dispensed.

The focus of his gaze, the others soon determined, was a woman: a trim Venji matron clad in expensive imitation of northern female garb. Her sheath of dark blue silk, unbroken from ankle to neck, showed her off less immodestly in the smoky lamplight than did the shreds and bangles worn by the tavern-girls who flitted between tables. Iridescent silk was gathered loosely about her shoulders and bosom, revealing only the smallest sliver of bodice, while a high, stiff collar enfolded her black tresses and all but concealed her face from either side. Her slim hands languished in loose sleeves, their red-lacquered fingertips toying with a dainty, steaming teacup as she sat surveying the room.

"A man of lofty taste, our Babrak," Juma declared after a moment's appreciation. "He has chosen a noblewoman as the object of his desire."

Reaching across the table to the limit of his chair's protesting tolerance,
he jostled Conan to redirect his attention.

The Cimmerian, busy raking stew from his platter to his lips with the thin sticks provided for this purpose, put down the mess at his friend's behest. "Hmmm. From her modest garb, there is no guessing her age or nimbleness. Yet from the cost of her finery and her regal bearing, I would judge her owner of this place, and its madam as well!"

Babrak's olive face darkened in a blush as he lowered his gaze to the woven tabletop. "You need not chide me," he protested faintly. "I merely find it refreshing to see a Venji woman showing public decorum for once―"

"Yes." Juma chortled wisely. "And now, no doubt, you would like to learn what her private decorum consists of!" His grin flashed brightly in the dimness. "But Babrak, old friend, we do not mean to scold you! On the contrary, we support your enterprise, and we swear to do all we can to advance it! Do we not, Conan?" he asked, to the Cimmerian's answering grin.

"Nay, nonsense." The Turanian youth shook his head in embarrassed irresolution. Yet he was unable to resist a further glance at the stately woman, who may or may not have been returning their looks. "I have no enterprise in mind; my interest was purely aesthetic. As I have told you, I abide by Tarim's strictures for warriors of the True Faith."

"Now, now, Babrak," Conan said in the flustered youth's other ear, "if you follow those rules too strictly, there will be no more knights to carry on the faith."

"Aye, lad," Juma chimed in gaily. "If Tarim wanted his followers to remain totally pure, he would have preached only to eunuchs!"

"Kushite, curb your reckless tongue!" At Babrak's indignant straightening and quick-flashing gaze, the blue-clad woman across the room could be seen to stir on her high-backed stool and glance their way with what might have been interest.

"Now, now, Babrak, he spoke in jest." Conan leaned coolly in from his side of the table, keeping the Turanian off balance. "Yet there may be substance in all this… for I ask you, is it not true that those same fleshly pleasures that True Believers swear to forgo in this life are promised as
rewards to the Faithful in the next?"

Babrak nodded dubiously, his eyes straying inevitably back across the room. "Yes, that is so."

"Then tell me, disciple." Conan spoke slowly and reasoningly. "If you never sample the delights of paradise, how are you to reckon their true value in the next world? How can they spur you to full zeal in serving your god?" His questions drew no immediate response from the youth's poised lips or his unblinking, distracted eyes. "If you obey the holy laws too narrowly, will your feet not be the less swift for it, your sword less keen in defense of the faith? Should you not first savor the bounties promised by Tarim, so that you can hold paradise clearly in view forever after?"

This argument Babrak obviously found compelling, for he turned his eyes to Conan with a light of comprehension in them. That was enough―indeed, more than enough for his two friends. At the first hint of assent in the youth's manner, they were on their feet, linking their arms in his, shoving aside the flimsy straw table and marching him across the room toward the wicker throne and its resplendent occupant.

"Greetings, your ladyship." Juma was first to address the stately woman, speaking Turanian with a formal salute and exaggerated bow―without, however, unlinking his arm from that of the half-resisting Babrak. "Ma'am, we could not help noticing… our friend, here, wishes to express his admiration for your exquisite grooming and most refined bearing."

At this, the woman did not answer; she merely shifted her gaze to her other two besiegers. Her dark-red lips pursed demurely, neither frowning nor smiling. Upon her brow there may have been faint lines of maturity; but if so, they were carefully smoothed and powdered over. Her eyes, dark-rimmed and almond-shaped, had a force of penetration, and her face held austere symmetry in its Eastern cast. Furthermore, to Conan's critical inspection, the glimpses of cleavage and ankle-trim that her dress allowed gave sufficiently lush promise.

"Truly, milady," the Cimmerian said to cover Babrak's embarrassed silence, "for us battered fighters, the sight of such beauty is enough to fire our blood and… send us back to war boldly, to cleave and rend the enemy!"

Unused to polite conversation, he looked aside at Babrak for help. But the lad stood silent with downcast eyes, visibly blushing.

"Of course, madam," Juma volunteered again, "there is no telling what miracle of rejuvenation a soldier might gain from a longer sojourn within the compass of your charms." He flashed a near-wink at Conan, who stood marveling at the Kushite's unguessed power of flattery.

The mysterious woman too blinked. "Sirs, you are very kind and… very bold to address me thus." At the firmness of her voice, pitched clearly in gracefully accented Turanian, Conan felt Babrak at his side brace up slightly and renew his furtive stare at the exotic woman.

"Happily for you," she continued with narrowed eyelids, "I am not averse to taking company this evening." This statement may have been meant less for Babrak and his companions than for the several scowling Venji cooks and servants who had moved near on both sides of the counter; at their mistress's discreet glance, they began to ease away. "But I beg you, sirs"―her lips pursed in a smile whose seductive curve was experienced―"the attentions of all three of you warriors are far too kind for my humble self." She glanced from Conan to Juma with exquisitely polite disinterest. "I would hope to entertain one of you, no more."

"Why, then, that would be our young friend here," Juma said unhesitatingly, shoving Babrak forward. "For though we are a loyal band, traveling under one another's protection"―this with a glance around at the servants still lurking within earshot―"we desire most of all that each of us enjoy an agreeable tour of leave! We would not stand in each other's way. Is that not so, friend?" He nudged the mute Babrak.

"Mmm-ah, yes. It is." The Turanian's croak barely evolved into speech, after which he stood dumb and gaping within the woman's spell.

"Very good," she said, having waited in vain for further words to complement the youth's frank gaze. "That leaves only the question of price."

Juma nodded, taking this too in stride. "No doubt we can arrive at a sum that is not too excessive."

"No matter, I am not impoverished," the woman said levelry. "How much do you require?"

At this, it was Juma's turn to gape. Conan's sense of insult was for once slow to blossom; but he saw Babrak stiffen in consternation.

"Madam, you mistake me! I am not…! That is, I meant…" Anger and embarrassment warred in the youth, ennobling his features even as he stood tongue-tied in their midst.

"No, be not wrathful, trooper! Compose yourself. There will be no price." The woman, calm in the face of his turbulence, renewed the force of her attraction with the faintest of smiles. "I merely intended a jest, to bring you to life and… to let us be as equals."

Babrak stood uncertain; but Juma, as always, came to his aid. "Only a jest, a mere misunderstanding! Here, now, you see―all this beauty, and wit too! Your taste is impeccable, fellow!" Moving closer, the Kushite deftly pushed Babrak down into a chair brought forward by one of the manservants. "There, take a seat and become better acquainted! We shall watch for you later, here or back at the inn. My heartiest congratulations, and may you both have a festive night!"

Withdrawing to their table, Conan and Babrak watched ongoing events in the tavern, which swiftly became uninteresting. Babrak and his patroness conversed earnestly, leaning ever closer together, ignoring their drinks. When the woman arose to lead their friend through a bead-curtained doorway at the back of the house, it came as no surprise.

They had switched to drinking kvass, a sour beer which, while more palatable than the fermented mare's milk kumiss, made their minds reel less drolly. Nevertheless, the effects were cumulative, and the ripening evening brought more life into the establishment, which had begun to seem sedate. The obligatory chiming and tweeting struck up somewhere in back, with twanging added in for good measure. War followers, both Turanian and Venji, crawled through the place in search of pleasure and profit. Past the troopers' table paraded a string of underfed whores of assorted sexes and talents; enthusiastic offers of lotus distillates to be chewed, sucked, inhaled, sipped, or smeared in shallow gashes on the skin; and one grinning merchant offering strings of shriveled, blackened human ears for sale as proof of the buyer's fictitious prowess in jungle combat.

Many of these panderers were tripped or booted out of the two foreigners' sight, and all were subjected to insults of increasing coarseness and hilarity. Retaliation was discouraged by the subtly favored treatment the two now received from the tavern's staff, as well as by their size and obvious roughness. Yet oddly enough, chaos, when it did come, erupted around someone even larger and more rugged than themselves.

Juma and Conan recognized Orvad, the giant northern trooper, when he lumbered in to slouch over the bar. They did not hail him because they had no need of his dull wit to furnish amusement this gala night, and because to both men he was an unpleasant reminder of the garrison duty they had temporarily escaped. Perhaps they should have foreseen something; yet his bellow of outrage from across the room came as a surprise.

They looked up to see Orvad's gap-toothed mouth twisting in a snarl, his bushy eyebrows meeting above his beady eyes in anger, one hand fumbling amid the straggling black hairs at the side of his head, retracing a too-well-remembered vacancy; then he seized hold of his foe.

It was the unlucky vendor of ears, a wiry middle-aged man. They saw him lifted above the crowd's shoulders, shaken and twisted in air, then slammed neck-first against a stout wooden pillar where it supported the ceiling. Severed ears sprinkled the tavern like a light snowfall. Orvad immediately became the center of a knot of struggling bodies, a shouting swarm that fought itself in the process of sorting itself out between attackers and escapers. With a swift, mutual nod of agreement, Conan and Juma rushed to their fellow trooper's aid.

In deference to their friend Babrak and his kind hostess, they did not draw knives. That meant dodging the blades wielded by panicked fugitives, or else fending them off with raised stools. Conan quickly learned the reason for the wicker furniture: it could not effectively be used to club an opponent to death. Shouldering into the core of brawlers who were busy fighting Orvad and one another, he was forced to hurl men aside or smite at them with his fists. And these slight Venjis refused to stand solidly before a blow as a northerner would; instead they staggered back scarcely harmed, dodged aside, or tried to cling to his fists. In all, he found it unsatisfying, like battling children in a room full of cushions.

Orvad was more successful, hurling foes bodily against walls and ceiling, using unconsious ones as clubs to smite down others. In fact, he was rapidly clearing the room, and scarcely in need of help from two more veterans nearly his own size. Seeing this as they fought their way to his side, Juma and Conan exchanged fresh glances of assent. Promptly they undertook the more difficult task of calming the giant.

This was hazardous because Orvad, never very submissive to reason in his daily life, was far beyond it now. Their friendly grips on his shoulders
he shook off with savage jabs of his elbows, sending them staggering and gasping like two of his lesser foes. To Conan's exhortations, shouted earnestly in his face, he responded with a bear hug, roaring and gnashing his teeth in an effort to bite off the Cimmerian's nose. Fortunately, an earthenware kumiss-jar applied to the back of his neck by Juma had a timely soothing effect. Blows and kicks to his midsection and nether regions produced further calm, as did elbow-strokes to his temples, once he bent low enough for that method of persuasion to be possible.

In time, crouching and moaning, he grew placid enough to be led to a bench near the door; or at any rate he seemed so. Unfortunately, before Conan and Juma could force him to sit, he fell prey to another bout of unreason, flinging his rescuers over tables and bolting out the doorway like a bull fleeing the slaughter-pen.

His friends picked themselves up from a plank floor awash in stale drink and blood, mutually dismissing the idea of pursuit. They eyed the Venjis remaining in the place, unsure whether to expect profuse thanks or a fresh assault; but the servants were busy dragging out bodies and righting furniture as if nothing had happened. The two troopers finished their kvass, taking time enough to show their unconcern and allow Orvad a healthy lead; then they departed.

"Otumbe and Ijo!" Juma stopped just outside the light of the tavern entry. "That Orvad is a mountain of muscle! And he knows some nasty tricks." The black man rubbed his neck with one big hand as he glanced up and down the lane for signs of danger. "If only there was a brain driving it all, he could be as considerable a fighter as you, Conan, or I!"

His grin flashed bright in the alley shadows.

"Ahum. I am less a man than I was an hour ago." Conan shifted ungracefully on the cobblestones, cautious of the pain plucking at the deepest fibers of his thigh. "Methinks it was too soon to use my leg as a bludgeon on that hulking moron's scalp! Crom, it pains so much, I misdoubt I can hide it!"

"Here, let me bear some of your weight." Juma moved to the Cimmerian's affected side, offering his shoulder. "Go ahead, lean as heavily as you want. Pretend you are drunk―if you need to pretend!" They started back toward the main street, managing a fairly swift gait between the two of them. "The best thing for you now is your bed at the inn―a quiet, solitary bed if I have anything to say about it!"

"Nay, the night is only begun." Conan's speech was punctuated by soft gasps in the same rhythm as his steps. "I was craving just another pitcher or two, to lighten the pain―"

"Another pitcher! Precisely what I had in mind!" The unexpected voice and shadow loomed ahead of them so suddenly in the darkness, they had to stumble to a halt to avert a collision. "I would gladly buy the drink, just to gain a chance of talking with the hero Conan and his boon friend, Sergeant Juma." The speech was in native Turanian, firm and hearty without any noticeable slur of intoxication.

"I think you have the advantage, fellow," Juma answered guardedly, edging back and aside from Conan to clear their weapon-arms. "Do we know you?"

"Know me? Not by face or name, I would think… only as a fellow fighter in a holy cause. And as one whose offered drink it might profit you to imbibe."

As the stranger spoke, Conan strained his eyes to make out some detail of the silhouette that diminished the wedge of light from the street ahead.

He swore he recalled this murky stretch of alley as being lit by an oil lamp when first they passed here. Could it have burned out, or its owner removed it? He remembered branchings of the way as well, which now seemed subtly confirmed by alley echoes and the faint loom of light overhead. The Turanian had almost certainly intercepted them from a side-passage; yet his prompt recognition of them could hardly be explained by keen eyesight.

"Well, man…" Juma's voice was ragged with the last shreds of his patience. "If you have a name, speak it, and pray that it is not on the long roll of my enemies! Be warned, I find it hard to believe that any well-wisher would detain us in this dark, treacherous place."

Over Juma's sharp utterances, Conan thought he detected faint sounds in the darkness. The scrape of a weapon, perhaps… or the grinding of broken glass underfoot: a shattered lamp-chimney? The noise seemed to come from behind, though Conan was certain that no shape had moved in the faint tavern-light at their backs.

"Well, fellow: as for a name, mine is Rabak." The shadow's voice rang loud and self-conscious in the darkness―drawling, perhaps to cover the
advance of unseen allies. "As for this place, I agree with you most heartily.

I would suggest that you accompany me to a more hospitable site down this side-avenue…"

Conan's eyes, sharpened by desperation, finally picked out a detail of the blocking figure he could recognize: a faint tracery of starlight reflected on steely metal unmasked by fabric. Silently Conan reached a hand aside to Juma, tracing the pattern on the trim, unarmored flesh of his friend's shirtwaist. A quick clasp of the Kushite's hand over his wrist told him that the signal was recognized: a tight, coiled circle of wire, emblem of the Imperial shock troops known as Red Garrotes.

"… a house where heroes like yourselves are known and welcomed… yes, even coddled a bit," the unseen trooper proclaimed at undue length. "I have a proposition that would be well worth talking about―"

"Rather, talk about it with your ancestors in Hell!" Conan's sword leaped into his hand, then lashed forth into the deeper darkness. An agile side-twist by his target did not prevent the stranger from taking half the blade through his abdomen. His dying scream heralded an onrush of feet from several sides; swiftly Conan shook the collapsing victim off his blade, turning to face the half-seen attackers.

"Juma, we are circled! Backs together!" As he spoke, Conan heard the hiss of steel, a crunch, and a moan as the Kushite's sword came into play.

An instant later a rushing body caromed into his, spinning him half around; he realized he had lost track of his friend in the clatter and stamp of warring feet. He struck out among shadows, meeting elusive resistance at best, and at once began pulling his strokes for fear of hitting the Kushite. His favored tactic of a howling charge was ruled out by his leg, which wobbled weakly beneath him from the strain of the paltry fighting done so far. His recent pain was gone, washed out of his veins by the heady wine of combat.

"Juma, I am here! Do not call out!" He knew that his friend may have been stalking foes in the dark, a tactic for which his black skin suited him well. But his own outcry brought such a rush of attackers that he vowed not to repeat it. A blade came slashing down at neck-level, too sudden to duck and almost too swift to parry; then a muffled shape struck him, bearing his weapon aside and down. Finally something whipped over his head from behind, scraping his nose and chin painfully―a wire loop.

Luckily it encircled one wrist as well as his neck; even so it drew cruelly
tight at once.

By Crom, at least these phantoms were known enemies! Stabbing and hacking one assailant back out of his way, he turned the point of his yataghan up to saw at the garrote, risking cuts to his own face and his imprisoned arm. His sword failed to sever the wire; however, a desperate backward thrust pierced its owner's hand or face, eliciting a yelping cry.

The noose slipped free, but at once more bodies struck Conan's, driving him back against a hard stone wall and bearing down on his limbs with their ruthless weight.

He felt a ragged groan escaping his throat as his unsteady leg twisted beneath him and gave way. He toppled, feeling a shock to his head that turned blackness into blossomings of vivid color.

And yet paralytic, pain-burdened consciousness clung to him, sharpened by the prick of a cold, razor-edged knife at his throat. Someone had unmasked a lamp; now its yellow beams wavered demonically on a constellation of gloating faces that hovered close before his eyes. Most were twisted in spiteful, cynical leers, the scarred, leathern visages of jungle and gutter killers―garroters and street toughs.

He felt the steel bite his neck more deeply and lovingly. Then he saw one impassive face, the largest of them all, rolling ponderously in denial like a vast planet. It was―dimly, impossibly―a countenance he recognized: that of Sool, the hulking torturer oft seen at Fort Sikander.

From beneath the vast face, a round, massive hand drifted forward to ease the pressure of the blade against Conan's neck.

As he watched helpless, the thick, frowning lips parted to form sounds―two deep, resonant words only: "Phang Loon."

Chapter 9

Castle of the Warlord

Reality was a single throbbing note, pulsing faintly at first, then expanding rapidly to a vast, unimaginable volume. Abruptly it burst and flew apart into flocks of scattering echoes. Some of the shards tangibly grazed Conan's head, flurrying past him and fluttering around his ears like soft-bristled bats.

Groaning, enmired in silky, yielding cushions, Conan raised his arms to ward off the disturbance. Groggily he blinked open his sleep-encrusted eyes. Before him in an arching, lacquered frame hung a brazen gong, man-high and still shimmering with concentric waves of diminishing sound. Before it stood the stocky torturer Sool, just setting down a pair of velvet-covered hammers. He turned. Acknowledging Conan's stare with a tight, contemptuous smile, he folded his arms and waited in silent attendance beside the reverberating gong.

Around them arched windowless walls of polished stone adorned with silken hangings and fragile, lacy carvings of ivory and teak. Lacquered tables about the room bore oil lamps, their flames mercifully screened to cast a shadowy light.

"Where… and what… is this place?" Straining to sit upright, Conan succeeded only in rolling onto his side amid the spongy cushions. His head felt as woozy as his body did feeble. "Curse you, where am I? And where is Juma?"

A steady tug of pain warned of dangerous weakness in his leg; yet the feeling was faint somehow, unnaturally mild. Leaning against a silken bolster, he raised tingling fingertips to his neck. Dry encrustations surrounded a long slit in the skin, yet there was no sensation. "You have drugged me," he said thickly, restraining his voice lest the cut burst open to gush forth his lifeblood.

"Do not worry; the lotus is wearing off." The firm, Venji-accented voice came from one who had entered the room unseen―a swaggering officer, commandingly large and robust for a yellow-skinned southerner. He affected a Turanian-style military tunic and turban, both cut of an unlikely bright blue fabric made more costly with gold thread and ornament. His smile flashed thin and white between his sleek mustache and goatee.

"You will forgive my lackey Sool for not announcing me by name, Sergeant." He waved a hand at the torturer, whose thick middle was doubled over in a deep bow to his master. "I am Phang Loon, Lord of Venjipur."

Conan hauled himself up straighter where he sat, aware of the indignity and vulnerability of wallowing among cushions. "You are no Venji," he grated, eyeing the warlord guardedly.

"By ancestry no, thank the gods―any more than you are a Turanian."

Phang Loon's smile was tighter even than his servant's, betraying a dangerous dislike for the remark and its maker. "By birth, however, I am of Venjipur." Smoothly he seated himself on a lacquered stool at the edge of Conan's sea of cushions. "My race sailed west from Khitai when the overblown Venji empire was collapsing of its own weight. We have prospered here ever since―by conquest, by commerce and deft diplomacy, or by whatever means necessary. Now our dominance enters a new phase."

Crossing his ankles beneath his seat, the warlord smiled complacently.

"Your leader Yildiz is wise to recognize my fitness to rule Venjipur. Others, like your General Abolhassan, have placed even higher faith in me."

Conan shifted his cramped position, trying to move his sound leg beneath him inconspicuously. "If my employer declares you his satrap because of your skill at piracy and drug-pandering, I have no objection."

Unable to avoid stretching his wounded thigh, he stifled a grunt at the steadily returning pain. "I do not know this Abolhassan; but if he is Yildiz's general, I am subject to his command. What I want to know is, where am I? Why am I here, and where is my friend?"

With an air of taxed patience, Phang Loon arose from his seat to stride a few paces across the polished flagstone floor. "Simple questions, Sergeant, simply answered―since you obviously mean to test the limits of my charity. We now enjoy the comfort of my palace on the Gulf of Tarqheba, well outside the city's squalor. Of this friend of yours I have temporarily lost track; but be assured, I have instructed my agents to scour the taverns and brothels for him so that he too can relish my hospitality." Phang Loon pivoted back to Conan, smiling less graciously than before. "As for you, Sergeant: You were brought here by secret order of your highest staff officers. They feel that your usefulness to the Turanian army has ended―perhaps because of your wound, your miserable lack of breeding, or some past indiscretion… or perhaps through no fault of your own." The warlord shook his head tolerantly.

"Because, you know, the loftiest commanders must daily weigh considerations their petty subordinates could never understand."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Phang Loon turned and strutted a few more steps, his northern-style cavalry boots tapping a precise cadence on the polished flags. He stopped again and turned, making a garish silhouette against the brazen face of the gong. "Normally, such an order would result in death―the sad waste of a minion who might, but for his
damning knowledge or offense, have served some further use." He shook his head in disapproval.

"Luckily, we here in the East are not so wasteful as in your northern lands. Ancestral knowledge brought from my family's Khitan home, combined with the availability here in Venjipur of rare mystic substances, provides us with a means of scouring the human soul and removing any taint of resentment or disloyalty. Why do you think I have tolerated your insolence so far? Because I have an infallible way of reorienting your deepest needs and desires to my loyal service." The warlord pivoted back to Conan with easy confidence. "Infallible in that, for those few who are not cured by my methods, death remains a cure."

Conan's sudden effort to heave himself up onto his feet served only to betray his weakness; a spasm of pain and unresponsiveness in his leg left him teetering on his knees before his captor, spitting curses.

"Devils gnaw you, Satrap! Go on, unleash your torturous servant on me if you dare! Crom knows, I have seen him pinch and scorch enough hapless victims. But I warn you―"

"No, Sergeant, torture is not an issue here." Phang Loon loitered just outside the range of his captive's most desperate possible lunge, wearing a look of wry amusement. "Do not call down your heathen gods on me, nor your own futile rage." The sleek rooster of a man turned to depart, with Sool hulking close behind him. "I offer you only… the freedom of my house.

Enjoy it at your leisure, and know that I am ever watchful, ever in control of what may befall you. But as for pain, fear it not."

The warlord, in apparent afterthought, turned back to wave an arm at a low table at the center of the room, arrayed with small enameled boxes, unguent jars, and a smoking censer. "As a good host, I offer you respite from pain, the renewal of that ease you have already enjoyed for some hours. Or else―grapple with your wounds and your past sins unaided. The choice is yours."

With those words, Phang Loon and his servant disappeared through a heavy, jade-inlaid door. The portal boomed shut after them, its closure followed immediately by the thud of a bolt. Conan knelt alone in scented silence.

Muttering profanities, he braced himself to rise to his feet. But his
curses became a grunt of agony as his scarred leg again collapsed beneath him, sending him sprawling among the cushions. Fiercely he nerved himself to ignore the pain, which thrummed increasingly now, even when he did not use the limb. He dragged himself forward on his hands and one bruised knee toward the nearest goal the room offered, the cluttered table.

Reaching it, cursing breathlessly in resentment and shame, he drew himself up onto its edge. There he rested, his useless limb extended stiffly before him. Recovering his breath, he scanned his surroundings from this new vantage.

Of windows there were none; in spite of its luxuriance, the room surely lay in the depths of a sizeable castle. For ventilation, he could see only narrow vertical slits between the fitted, polished stones high up under the vaulted ceiling; these might also allow for observation of the room from without. The lush appointments included rugs, padded stools, a silk-draped sleeping-couch, and a glazed chamber-pot, the latter looking too delicate to provide a usable edge if shattered. Conan's eye found nothing which could be swung as a weapon; even the short, round-headed gong hammers had been taken away by Phang Loon's servant. The only thing he saw of interest was another door in the room's far wall.

Conan, in his weakened state, had no wish to try the strength of the stone portal used by the warlord; it had looked and sounded massive enough to daunt him even in his full strength and health. But this smaller panel, made of brassbound wood, might be easy to pry or batter open.

The problem at the moment was how to make his way through it and beyond. Although the deep scars of his wound had not reopened, tearing pains in his thigh told of inner damage; any attempt to put weight on the limb brought sweat to his forehead and a fevered curse to his lips.

Meanwhile, all his other pangs seemed to be growing worse; the gash at his throat burned uncomfortably now, oozing slippery fluid, while his whole body felt leaden with bruises and other miseries of his fights and nocturnal transport. Even the damp tropic heat, which he thought he had grown used to, oppressed him; as he sagged against the table, the sluggish air seemed close and cloying. The only hint of relief lay in the thin thread of smoke that curled up from the incense burner at his side.

Lotus fumes they were. He bethought himself of what Phang Loon had said: Here, in the jars and coffers arrayed on the tabletop, lay an end to pain, yes, and a invitation to bliss. Feeling the unfamiliar craving take
shape in his innards, he was surprised at its intensity.

The drug could not have been in his system more than a few hours. But then, no telling how swiftly the various essences and quintessences refined by skillful Venji chemists could take hold. Whatever dose the warlord's men had given him, it must have been powerful. He knew that if the tides of misery continued to surge and suck in his veins, he might come to learn that he was already a cringing slave to the lotus.

In any event, his course now was clear. Taking up a beaded glass jar and unsealing its cap, Conan sniffed at the waxy-looking pink salve inside.

Its subtle perfume made bright-hued pinpricks of exhilaration flash inside his skull. He blinked, feeling his nostrils flare wide open with reaction.

Experimentally, he gathered a dollop of the soft ointment on a fingertip and applied it to his neck. Tracing the length of his dagger-slash, he felt warmth and well-being spread rapidly upward and downward from the wound. Next he raised the skirt of his Imperial tunic and dabbed the unguent on the still-tender scars of his thigh. He smeared it too along the swollen thews at the front of his leg, where the pain had tugged worst as he crawled.

Within a few breaths he had to force himself to stop and recap the jar, hands atremble with pleasure. He placed the container carefully, fumblingly, in the belly pouch of his tunic. By that time, his vision swam in pale, floral-colored afterimages, his breath welling in his chest like warm mulled wine. He scarcely wished to move, discovering worlds of fascination in the artful shapes and soft-lit hues of the room around him.

Along with this new, boundless well-being came strength; and some part of his mind still signaled faint urgency, which the drug transformed into sprightly, reckless energy. He pushed himself up from the table, aware that his leg remained numb and unresponsive. Yet standing on it no longer brought pain; reminding himself to brace the limb straight and stiff beneath him, Conan was able to stilt across the room in nearly unbroken strides to the smaller door. When he reached it and palmed the latch, he found that it was not locked; the panel yielded silently to his touch.

The freedom of my house, Phang Loon had said. Well, whatever trial lay beyond the door, he would never be more ready to face it than now.

Shoving the portal wide and clutching the jamb for support, the Cimmerian stepped through.

The room beyond was much like the first, though darker and less well-kept. Three or four lamps guttered low in corners, revealing the fact that some of the furniture and ornaments were broken or overturned. The place looked littered too, and the air bore a musty smell distasteful even to Conan's lotus-perfumed nostrils. Again no windows; but he thought he saw another door in the far wall, visible through long, sagging rents in an embroidered screen. After glancing around to be sure no peril was near, Conan stepped forward for a better view.

Behind him sounded a thud, which was the signal for a cacophony.

Conan spun awkwardly on his numb leg to see that the entry door had slammed shut. The cause of this he searched dazedly for in the dim light, and finally saw: a forest monkey attired in glittering ornaments, capering at the top of the sill. No, there were two of the creatures. No four… no, a dozen and more, the fact borne to him all too clearly by their spreading, derisive chorus of chatters and shrieks. Spiderlike, they scampered up and down the walls, even, impossibly, through the air overhead.

The room, Conan realized, was traversed from wall to wall by thin wires, stretched just out of reach but serving as ideal perches and runways for the agile apes. They swung and cavorted along them, but with less playful energy and more purpose, seemingly, than their tree-dwelling brothers: for each of these monkeys was outfitted in a small gold helmet and breastplate, and from each tiny waist swung a gleaming finger-long crescent of steel. These were monkey-warriors, Conan saw; the slamming of the door behind him had been the first stroke of an ambush. As he watched, three of the fighters lowered themselves nimbly down the wall beside the door, turned to him, and advanced, unhooking their doll-sized scimitars and fanning out widely as they came.

Kicking would have been the best defense against these grounded arboreans, but Conan knew it was beyond the power of his wounded leg.

He caught himself starting to back away from them; then realizing the indignity of it, he shifted his balance and hobbled stiffly forward.

Weaponless, he bent to seize the centermost monkey, but the beast was elusive, sidestepping and slashing his arm viciously with its razored sword. As Conan lunged after the tiny warrior, its companions closed in from either side to hack and scrape at him with their own short, sharp blades. Finally, Conan laid hold of the first creature's middle and snatched it up, intending to hurl it against the wall. But the beast kept fighting, snarling at him with its little hairy devil-face, flicking its gleaming sword
at his eyes and finally sinking its small, sharp fangs into his wrist.

Then at once a heavy, screeching, clinging weight struck Conan's shoulders―a whole horde of armored monkeys, dropping onto him in unison from the overhead wires. The floor attack had been nothing more than a ploy to distract him from this aerial maneuver, he realized in furious panic. Now he spun and staggered madly, thrusting and shaking off the hairy vermin while trying vainly to keep his face and loins clear of their needle-like fangs and tiny, gouging blades.

Seizing one squawking creature by the neck, he flailed wildly with it, flagellating his own back and managing to drive off most of the clinging assassins. He gave up his rush for the entry door and staggered back into the center of the room, away from the thickest swarm of shrieking, dangling attackers. Flinging aside the limp corpse of his monkey-flail, he tore and battered savagely at the two or three jabbering fiends who still clung to his neck and trunk. But other vermin were quick to pursue him; the overhead wires were strung low enough that, swinging down by leg, arm, or tail, the monkeys could deliver flying saber-slashes to his head and shoulders, and even use his reeling body as a springboard for return leaps.

The sluggishness of Conan's leg made it too dangerous to stoop low; he feared falling prone, to be overrun or dragged about the floor by his teeming foes.

There came at last the moment when no more of the beasts clung to him, and the flying attacks subsided. Conan could not tell whether he was badly hurt, for he sensed no pain, only the tickle of blood flowing from many small wounds. His leg was rotten timber beneath him; he dragged it hurriedly across the floor, taking care not to slip in pools of monkey blood and offal. He was vaguely certain that the hairy fiends were regrouping overhead for another attack. And with the thought came the event, but in an unexpected form.

The creatures converged from all sides, swinging beneath the wires in a swiftly closing circle. This time the knives did not slash, dangling harmlessly at their owners' waists. Instead, as the dozens of tiny manlike hands and feet found Conan, they clutched at his arms, at his hair, at the ragged bloody scruff of his tunic, and lifted. To his horror, he felt his sandals scuffing ineffectually on the flagstones, his weight shifting slowly upward. As more and more of the shrieking demons laid hold of him, the overhead wires sagged under his weight and theirs, enabling them to
reach lower and lower on his anatomy―to his chest, his belt, the pleats of his tunic-waist. He was swung slowly horizontal, the tree-fiends drawing him relentlessly aloft to be better fought with or toyed with in their airy element.

Red wrath seized him, overwhelming even the lingering narcosis of the drug. He flailed out with all four limbs, screaming in the voice of a rabid forest ape himself, biting and rending as savagely as his tormentors and with more deadly effect. Shaken by his frenzy their hold on him faltered, then failed. Conan plummeted, twisting in air, to crash shoulder-first on a low table which collapsed partly under his weight. Around him pattered fallen or wounded monkeys, quick to scamper away from his snarling clutch.

Staggering, lurching, he hove himself to his feet. He lay hold of the broken table, lifted it and swung it wildly overhead. It reached high enough to strike the wires, grazing some monkeys and driving the rest back from its tremors. When a squad of sword-wielders flew at him, the table shielded Conan from their blades and knocked down two, who hit the floor chittering and running.

"There, you miserable tree-lice!" he raged, smiting the table against the thrumming wires like a plectrum against a harp. "Come at me now, you slinking cowards!" His adversaries responded by scolding and shrieking from a safe distance, pelting him spitefully with dung and fruit-pits.

Feeling his mad strength rapidly dissipating, Conan saw that there was no glory to be had from this fight. He turned abruptly, not giving his enemies a chance to change their minds, limped to the room's far door, and pushed against it. Seeing it swing inward, he dropped the ruin of the heavy table and passed through. Once on the other side he leaned against the panel, gasping, and pressed it shut.

The room ahead was utterly unlike the previous one: oval-shaped, fitted out lavishly as some sort of gallery or music chamber with brass gongs and bells. No threat was evident, so he sank panting to the floor.

He hardly dared take stock of the damage done by the monkey-fight. He had no will to either, because his berserk rage seemed to have used up most of the unnatural vitality lent him by the lotus balm. His body tingled with the drug-dulled pain of a hundred gashes and of new injuries to his neck and shoulder, as well as his throbbing leg. Reaching into the pocket
of his shredded tunic, unstoppering the ointment jar with shaking hands, he applied the pink salve to his mangled, blood-slimed chest and neck.

Less sparingly this time he dabbed it on his tortured thigh. Its effect was not so blissful as before, but the pangs did subside. His heart pumped more steadily behind the wall of his ribs, and he was able to turn dim attention to the room before him.

Lamps hung down from the ceiling, lighting the gallery brightly but to no clear purpose; the only other furnishings hung likewise from the vaultings above. Gongs they were, cymbals, and other metal chimes: a dozen or more sizeable ones spaced in a regular pattern about the room.

They hung from linkages of brass chain, some supported on pivots though their centers, others held from the edges in slings or padded brackets.

No two were alike. The centermost one was also the largest, broader even than the great instrument that had awakened him in the first chamber. This one had its edge scalloped in the form of flaring, radiating flames, so that it resembled a great golden sun around which all the lesser discs floated. It had one other noteworthy feature, a long bronze clapper suspended before it, apparently controlled by a slack chain angling down from an aperture in one wall. This striker might make a serviceable cudgel, Conan thought, if it could be pried loose from instrument's harness.

Feeling no stirrings of pursuit against the door, he hauled himself to his feet and tugged at the handle. Though he had seen no sign of a latch, and heard none, it was now locked securely. Just as well, he told himself; whatever ordeal lay ahead, he would be better able to face it without any chattering pursuers from the last room. His survey of this one satisfied him that another door lay at its far end; he resolved to exit that way.

No sooner did he stride forward, however, than the great gong struck.

The effect was unsettling; possibly the drug or the oval shape of the room intensified the sound, for it smote Conan's ears tangibly and shook him to the very soles of his feet. The working of the clapper-chain, whether by automata or by someone outside the room, set the heavy disc swaying; a further blaring stroke sounded, then another, each action of the chain accentuating its motion until it moved in a ponderous arc from wall to wall.

To lessen the shattering intensity of the noise Conan moved further out into the open, where the sound seemed more diffuse. Now other gongs
were in motion, set swaying ever wider by action of their own supporting chains. The movements must be man-powered, Conan realized, caused by slaves working the chains from outside the room. New tones began to sound―a pair of cymbals dashed together by flexing levers, and a cracked, discordant chime tolled by a dangling, rebounding leaden ball. But most of the gongs had no clappers; they were made simply to swing more and more violently until they clashed against the stone walls, or against one another. Conan cursed the unseen bell-ringers―silently, since cursing aloud would have added nothing to the growing din.

As more and more gongs began striking, the tumult in the room swiftly became intolerable. Conan moved through its midst with hands covering both ears. He gauged the sounds not by their loudness, but by which of his vital organs they seemed to pierce, and how deeply.

He gave up the notion of catching the scalloped sun-gong and prying loose its clapper; it was swinging and twisting too erratically, its jagged metal flames threatening to rip the flesh from his bones if he ventured too close. Now there seemed small chance even of reaching that part of the room, because the other chimes described wider and swifter arcs, making it unsafe to move injudiciously. Conan sidestepped one screaming, razor-edged disc, kept spinning by a ratcheted chain-lever, only to feel another, heavier gong smite his shoulder as it thrummed past at an angle.

He staggered aside, then carefully timed a rush to get out from between them; but on the next swing they collided, making a brain-splitting clangor and sending both wildly spinning. Mercifully, it was not the razor wheel but the blunt chime that struck him again, knocking him sprawling.

The floor offered no protection; by some fiendish geometry of the chains, the height of the gongs' sweeps varied. The instruments sometimes clattered or scraped across the flags, scything even into the remotest angles of floor and wall. Worse, the swinging chains tangled with the lamps overhead, sending them careening in long, flaring arcs. Besides raining down hot oil, their motions made it nearly impossible to judge the speed and direction of the gong-sweeps. The place became a hell of thunderous sound, swooping shadows, screaming, hurtling metal, and shattering collisions. Each new tolling warned of a deadly rush by one of the howling gongs; but there were never any certainties. Rules and trajectories, obscure at best, changed without warning.

Through it all Conan crept, huddling low for illusory safety, no longer
daring or caring to shield his ears. Carefully he timed his snail-like progress, scuttling or diving aside when the mad ballistics of the place threatened to destroy him. Reaching the room's center at last, he sidestepped a whirling gong whose tone dropped from a shriek to a moan as it grazed him. He heard a strident clanging and looked around―to see the sun-edged disc jerked sharply off its course by its rigid clapper-chain, spinning and hurtling toward him in a wide arc. Before he could move, it was upon him―and past him, its polished, oscillating face brushing him on three sides gently as a lover's embrace before it spun away.

Vowing not to waste this god-given luck, he flung himself forward along the scraped, battered floor through a momentarily clear space. Panting, he advanced with redoubled pains, relying on sound as well as sight, trying to judge the speed and direction of each gong-stroke by the way it smote his throbbing ears and quivered in his guts. For every three lunges forward he gave back two, peering around desperately in the flaring, plummeting light, cowering in the meager cover of the room's edge. Seeing at last the opportunity to dash for his goal, he balked without knowing why; an instant later, two careening gongs crashed together before him, lacerating the air where his body should have been. The collision altered the patterns, placing him instantly at risk; desperately he leaped to one of the reeling gongs, grabbed its chain, and clung there, spinning giddily with it to the far end of the room, where it dashed him breathless against the long-sought door.

Gasping, croaking, he scrabbled at the door-handle and dragged it open. Racing to avoid being demolished by a final gong-stroke, he flung himself through and collapsed on the other side.

Chapter 10

Blood and Lotus

He awoke to a silence that thundered in his ears like the mightiest cataract of the River Styx. Yet it was true silence, with no trace of the gonging and pealing he had left behind in the oval chamber. How long since that din had ceased, and how long he had lain huddled and stiff in near-darkness, his half-seen surroundings gave no hint. This room appeared to be one of dim smokes and eerie radiances; it might hold new perils, but he hardly cared.

Drawing himself up to a sitting position, he took from his pouch the jar of lotus ointment. He repeated the applications that had brought him this far, treating his neck and thigh, smearing the salve also around his earholes in the hope of offsetting the damage done by the clamor of the gongs. This time the balm produced no noticeable sensation; his mind remained slack and jaded, with barely enough will to drive his nerveless body forward. Yet when he crawled to his feet, he found that his leg would again haltingly support him. He limped ahead, not bothering to stop and try the door at his back.

The limits of the room were invisible in smoky gloom. The fumes seemed to rise from the floor, from pans or braziers whose reddish glow faintly illumined the spreading, billowing columns. They must find some outlet in the darkness above, he reasoned, else the air of the place would be unbreathable; but even so, his nostrils tingled with the pungency of burning wood and of more aromatic substances laid over it. Not lotus, Conan judged―at least, not lotus alone.

He made for the nearest group of braziers, thinking he saw some object in their midst. As he came near, tears blurred his sight; his head clogged and grew near-opaque with fumes. Yet, by stooping through the leaning smoke-columns and fanning his hands to clear the air before his face, he was able to advance between the fires. He confronted the grotesque thing that stood limned by their glow: a body broken on a bamboo rack.

The male figure, once splendid, now lay torn and gashed by patient, exhaustive torture; no shred of costume or uniform was left to clothe his violated dignity. Death had been inflicted by a means Conan had seen used before by Hwong warriors against their Turanian captives: in preparation, a leg-thick joint of thungee thorn-tree was straightened by a soaking in brine. Lashed behind the sloping rack, it was made fast to the victim by means of a braided yoke across his chin. As the thorn limb dried slowly, resuming its natural curve, its daggery hide was forced forward into the sufferer's spine; meanwhile his head was drawn steadily backward until, with any luck, he strangled or his neck snapped.

The drying of this spiky limb had been speeded by the heat of the braziers, Conan guessed―if indeed the torture had been carried out here.

Still, the end could not have been quick in coming.

Viewing the stretched, distorted corpse, Conan realized abruptly that the dark obscurity of its outline might not be due alone to the faintness of
the brazier's glow. Leaning closer, he saw that the smudged, blood-crusted skin was neither yellow nor desert-dusky but of a rarer, blacker hue. From where he stood, the victim's face was invisible, bent back sharply over rim of the rack; full of foreboding, Conan shuffled stiffly around the makeshift frame. The inverted features, though swollen and distended, confirmed his deepest fear, leaving no room for doubt: The man was Juma.

Unbelievingly, Conan extended a hand to brush the skin of his dead friend's, cheek. It was dusty-dry, as unnaturally warm as the brazier-smoke billowing all around.

Reeling backward, choking suddenly on bitter smoke and bitterer wrath, Conan blundered away from the horrid scene. He lurched blindly, stumbling against red-hot firetrays without noticing the pain, shambling off into darkness with scorched, streaming eyes. But the flash of murderous anger he felt was quickly drowned by despair; what could he do, alone and weaponless in the unguessed expanse of this prison?

He must, he told himself, have lain in his stupor for hours. During that time Phang Loon had seized Juma―perhaps because of Conan's own thoughtless questions―and brought him here, to suffer the most agonizing death conceivable. Unless, of course, the warlord had lied to him in the first chamber, having already trapped the Kushite, already slain him…

But then, what of it? He had no means of retaliation in any case. If he cried out now, shouted his defiance to the unseen watchers who surely lurked above, what could it possibly accomplish? What would it seem but a plea for mercy, a laughable admission of weakness? Never that!

Instead Conan clenched the sorrow within his breast, determined to dull its pain and save it along with the last vestiges of his strength.

Regaining his vision, yet still disoriented in the darkness, he cast about to find his friend's body once again. Here, just ahead, was a group of smoking braziers; but were these the same ones? He doubted it; the color of their faint, vaporous flames was not reddish but yellow, and their fumes spicier, almost cloying. Yet some dim object did lurk in their midst…

Gripped by curiosity, Conan shielded his face against heat and smoke and ventured forward.

The figure limned by the flickering yellow light was not a dead man, but a living one. Dressed in a loose-sleeved robe of embroidered gold silk, a
white silken loin-wrap, delicately pointed slippers, and a loose silk cap, he reclined at ease―but on bed ill-suited to his finery: it was a grimy cot of rough bamboo, stretched with the coarsest canvas. Fumes shrouded the figure's head, seeping from a long, narrow-bowled pipe whose stem lingered near his lips; through this smaller cloud of smoke a familiar, aquiline face could be seen.

"Babrak!" With elation almost matching his despair of a moment before, Conan stepped haltingly forward. "Glad I am to see you, my friend!

At least you are alive… did Phang Loon's men drag you here too?" Unable to kneel on his injured leg, Conan stooped down awkwardly in front of his reclining friend. "Babrak, know you: They have murdered Juma! Or given him to the Hwong to kill, it makes no difference; I'll have their living guts for it, either way! He died cruelly―his body lies over yonder, have you seen it? Babrak, fellow, are you in your senses?"

To Conan's queries the young Turanian responded only with vacuous looks and vacant, open-mouthed half smiles. His face, sheened faintly in the firelight by perspiration, wore a lax, uncharacteristic expression. His eyes had dilated to deep brown voids, eerily unfocused. His only positive act was to touch his parted lips at intervals with the pipe's ivory mouthpiece and draw between them a visible, twining torrent of gray smoke.

"Come, lad―you are drugged even more hopelessly than I! You have learned to crave lotus, in dishonor to your faith!" Hovering before his friend's cot, Conan tried to make a jest of it. "We should never have given you to that fancy tavern-trollop; like as not she was Phang Loon's aging mother!" His laugh barked hollow, lacking true spirit and eliciting no reaction from Babrak. "But never mind, lad, this stupor will pass. We will get you away from here, out of those unmanly clothes and out of the clutches of the drug, somehow! Come, help me escape this hellish place and avenge Juma!" He extended a hand to the supine youth.

Babrak's face signaled no comprehension. That the Turanian even saw his friend was evidenced by one thing and one thing only: In response to Conan's beckoning hand, the reclining one drew the pipe out of his mouth, so slowly that a trail of smoke braided visibly from its yellowed, cracked tip to his moist lips. In languid generosity he held forth the lotus pipe, offering it to Conan.

From this gesture Conan recoiled, stricken with horror. Rather than
snarling in rebuke or dashing the pipe out of his friend's hand, he stumbled off between the fires. He must restrain his anger, he told himself; if he really meant to bring Babrak out of this place, it would have to be done gently. Though Crom knew, he could barely drag himself through this maze; burdened by another drugged victim, his hope of survival would be scant.

A deeper sorrow clenched his gut. True, he had watched others fall beneath the spell of the lotus, but never one so dear to him as Babrak! And never had he seen any escape who lay so deep in its grip as the waif of Tarim seemed to have sunk overnight. Surely, 'twould be better to come back for him later at the head of an armored troop… or perhaps, just take the added price of his loss out of Phang Loon's entrails! In truth, the lad might be deader to him now than Juma was. And he himself might already be facing the same forlorn death.

His despair had set him wandering off in the smoky dark, and long moments passed before he resolved to turn and try dragging the youth bodily from his cot of stupor. But the drifting smokes continued to play strange tricks; the billows floating nearest did not look like the ones he had most recently left. The transparent flames shooting from the beds of the braziers seemed too tall and ghostly, their color too pallidly, spectrally blue. Conan edged nearer to find out.

The shape reposing among these sultry fires tantalized his gaze. And although an eerie intuition told him what to expect, he had to press into the domain of the hot, choking smoke to be sure. Only then, through blinking, tear-rimmed eyes could he affirm that Phang Loon's third captive was his lover Sariya.

She lay on the padded satin of an exquisitely carved and painted couch, contoured long and low for sleep and for less passive relaxations. Her attire in the braziers' suffocating heat was well-suited to either pastime: a glossy silk ribbon of skirt, whose disarray succeeded in covering only her navel; a trifling shoulder-cape which, although perfectly arranged, concealed nothing at all; ear-bangles, chest-bangles, ankle bracelets, and a pair of tight jeweled slippers, which appeared only to imprison and constrict her shapely feet rather than clothing them.

She yet lived and desired, as the lazy sinuousness of her movements showed. Whether she lay in the grip of narcotics or of more native ecstacies was uncertain, for she languished like a harem-slave awaiting
her pasha, her eyes distractedly roving the drifting vapors overhead. Her slim hands idly stroked and plucked the velvet couch and the softer velvet of her own skin, which shone lushly agleam with perspiration in the dim blue glare.

All her womanly warmth, all her loving frankness and freshness were lost in this bizarre tableau. Yet Conan's male desires were stirred; he had to remind himself to hail her with words, not stumble forward and try to address her earthier cravings with his drugged, battered body.

"Sariya! So the fiend has fetched you here as well―doubtless on my account!" His voice rasped hoarse with passion and with more debilitating emotions. "Come, girl, we will fight our way out of this place and return to our little hut. 'Tis a night of sore tragedy, but the best can yet be saved, I swear to you."

The woman heard his voice, that was plain; her self-caresses promptly ceased. Yet, instead of a thrill of recognition, her lovely face showed confusion as her almond eyes flicked aside to penetrate the drifting smoke.

Her rubied, moistened lips pouted nervously, as if in apprehension. Then her eyes found the speaker and widened in a gaze of fear.

"Sariya, girl, 'tis I, Conan! Come, let us escape from here! I need your soft shoulder as my crutch."

Croaking the words hoarsely, he reached for her. Yet he clutched only emptiness as she shrank away to the far corner of her couch. Trying pathetically to cover her nakedness with slim red-nailed hands, she regarded him wild-eyed, with her painted mouth agape, her supple throat convulsing in a shrill, terrified scream.

"Girl, what is wrong? Hush, child." As he stood unnerved, her screams continued dinning in his numb ears, rasping painfully on the indrawings as well as the outpourings of her heaving breath. At last they grew monotonous, threatening to cross the border from terror into madness; at that, Conan turned and flung himself away past the fires, out into wider darkness.

What vile devilment ruled here? By all the gods, how could Phang Loon so easily snatch what was dearest to him and defile it, or crush it to nothing? Was it real, or was it all drug-crazed illusion? How, by blessed Crom, how could he live on after this? Better that he should die; his soul
was already dead, entombed in this cold clay breast! Only lotus drove him on, keeping his guts pumping, his dead limbs twitching beneath him…

Before him in the darkness loomed the dim outline of another door; he staggered forward through it without stopping.

As the oiled portal slammed first open, then shut behind him, he noted absently that he was in an oblong room, yellow-lit by lamps in wall brackets and scented foully by smoking censers in shallow alcoves. The sole furniture of the place, its ornament and, Crom grant, its death-snare, was a tall black frame carved in figures of twining serpents: a full-length wardrobe mirror. Unhesitatingly Conan heaved himself up before it and peered deep within.

Horror upon horror: the ultimate, soul-chilling evil! For beyond the glass there slouched a foul, decrepit, lifeless thing… its tunic a funeral cerement, its flesh more tattered than the shroud's rotting fabric, the only hint of life on its sagging bones the thriving purulence of decay. Not only was it loathsome, unspeakable―without a doubt it was he himself, as proven by the hand he stretched forth to test the solidity of the glass barrier: the withered, putrefying hand so faithfully reflected by the deformed claw which the framed abomination stretched out to him!

Here, then, was why Sariya had screamed so, even to the point of losing her poor mind. Conan prayed fervently that the girl had not recognized him as himself, her lover and rescuer―because she could scarcely fail to recognize him also as a monster, a hideous perversion cloaked and enfolded by death, able to bring only death and despair to those hapless ones it embraced.

Standing before the mirror, paralyzed with self-loathing, he traced with crumbling fingers the myriad proofs of his dissolution: the countless rips and gashes in his face and scalp where slack, unhealing skin peeled away from grisly bone; the grinning scar across his neck, gnawed and eroded so monstrously by decay that his head threatened to topple forward at any moment over exposed vertebrae and lank strings of sinew; the slashed, collapsed ruin of his torso, draped loosely by leather and torn fabric like a staved-in coffin matted with cobwebs; the knotted twigs of his arms, and his blighted trunks of legs, one weak and wasted, the other bulging and sagging with the weight of corruption, ready to burst and spew forth its noxious essence…

True! It was all utterly true and real to his sight and his horridly
fascinated touch. Phang Loon had poisoned him; instead of soothing his wounds with a palliating drug, the warlord had befouled and polluted him from the start. Foolishly he had consented to besmear himself with decay's potent essence; he had been made to wallow in a sorcerous death that denied him true, blissful extinction. Now he was transformed, doomed to exist as a monster or as Phang Loon's slave, until this rotting, miserable corpse finally crumbled into fragments too small to twitch and suffer…

"And yet I hold the cure, wretch." The voice was firm, resounding from the room's far end, where Phang Loon stood flanked by the burly, competent Sool. "The horror you see is but a final phase of the drug, a condition which can be arrested, even reversed, by further medicament."

Sool, at his lord's gesture, held forth a lotion-pot considerably larger than the one Conan had been sampling from. "What confronts you is but your true nature, from which all delusion has been purged by the lotus, scoured away as if by cleansing acid! This privilege I have bestowed on you, that you may see the hollowness of self and the virtue of submission to a greater will." As the warlord spoke, he strolled forward with his servant around the side of the mirror.

"Remember, slave: your former complacence, the blindness you so crave, is something only I can restore to you. If you want peace, if you want to don once more the garment of illusion"―he swept a hand toward the level flagstones underfoot―"you need only fall to the floor and beg for it. Henceforth I rule you, and I shall provide for you. Be assured, fool, I will turn your petty hate and resentment against those who are really to blame for your miserable state: our rebel foes, and their collaborators in your own ranks. Submit to me, wretched one, and enjoy the blessings of peace."

"Warlord…" Speaking in a voice that seemed to bubble out of the front of its riven throat, the thing before the mirror swung around to face its tormentor. "Phang Loon… as you say, you have stripped me of everything.

You have taken my freedom, my rank, my love, my very flesh and life."

Croaking, the undead horror that had been a man shuffled slowly forward.

"How much of it is true, and how much your fiendish illusion, I know not; but I know that my loss is real. You have left me only pain." The abomination shambled nearer, satrap and servant neither flinching nor falling back before it. "Pain is now all I possess; I will not let you take that from me too!"

"Very well then; you do not choose to submit." As the rotting thing
loomed close within reach, Phang Loon turned away in brisk impatience.

"As I told you, my method is infallible. Sool, end him!"

The servant's instant rush bore Conan over backward in his drugged, infirm state. The pain that slammed through him as he struck the floor nearly made him regret his bold pronouncements. Yet he was surprised to find his ravaged body not only holding together under the impact, but responding with willed and instinctive motions of defense. His good knee found the Venji's crotch in a thudding thrust; unfortunately, it found it heavily wrapped and padded. His forearm smote the attacker's neck and chest with a force that would have weakened a less massive opponent.

But the Venji was obviously a trained wrestler. His weight remained atop Conan, bearing down remorselessly to control and weaken his victim.

His thick hands clenched like iron, gripping and throttling the neck it should have been easy for him to rend apart, head from rotting shoulders.

Apparently Conan's frame retained more cohesiveness than Phang Loon's mirror had shown. A shame, Conan thought, since it was his real, un-illusory life that was ebbing now, being choked slowly out of him by Sool's relentless grip.

His numb spirit rallying briefly, Conan thrashed and strained sideways; but his strength was too depleted by drug and ordeal to avail against this taut, fit killer. Though his flesh did not tear like rotted parchment, still it pained hideously. He heaved upward to throw off the Venji's weight and felt his weak leg give way with a sickening twist. In desperation he reached out to gouge at his strangler's eyes; but the frantic clawing, he saw through his own dimming orbs, did not even disturb the fierce smile set in his killer's face.

No strength, no voice left for a final curse, no weapon… but wait; scrabbling, fumbling with dying fingers in the sweaty crevice between his belly and Sool's, he managed to find his pouch, and in it, the near-empty jar of ointment. Withdrawing it, he smashed it blindly on the flagstones, feeling its glass stopper fall away among shattered fragments. Then he groped upward with the thick, jagged-edged base and jammed it into the Venji's face.

Against the sweaty, muscular skin he ground and twisted it, upon the cheekbone, just at the point of the clenched smile. He kept on and on, twitching in eternity; the repetitive action was all that remained in a dwindling, blackening universe. Oblivion… was.

Then remotely, miraculously, the grip on his throat began to loosen. Air seeped back into his lungs, charging his blood like liquid fire. His whole body pumped, straining to draw in more breath.

Returning vision showed him his adversary's face, slackening now in an idle, pensive expression. The smile remained, but with a new, beatific aspect. Clearly there was no pain from the gashed, blood-oozing crater that gaped now in Sool's face like a third, lopsided eye. Smears of lotus ointment mingled with the Venji's blood to provide ever headier sensations, reflected in his widening pupils. The world was lost to him; when Conan pried off his thick hands and eased out from beneath his bulk, the wrestler remained stooping on all fours, gaping in wonderment at the riddle of the blank stone floor.

Phang Loon stood watching with abstracted interest, making no move to interfere, so it was easy: Step across the torturer's broad back and reach down, one hand under the shoulder and behind the sweaty neck, the other across the chest to clasp his own clenched forearm. Conan's shoulders convulsed, and the Venji's neck gave with a thick snap. The torturer flopped to the floor, drowning at last in his lotus dream.

Conan stepped clear and started for the room's far door. An oath from Phang Loon drew his attention; the warlord was moving to block his path, and so Conan veered forward to meet him in grinning anticipation. He must not have appeared entirely decrepit to his captor either; for Phang Loon faltered, groped at his belt for a sword and, finding none, retreated.

He ran to a side-wall and reached high to jerk at a concealed cord. A loud chime, bell-like and shriller than any of the death-gongs, broadcast the alarm. Conan continued for the exit, knowing he could not hope to catch the nimble lordling.

The door stood half-open; lunging through, Conan found himself at last in a proper corridor that stretched away on two sides, lit yellow by wall-lamps and containing a series of doors and archways. Hearing footsteps slapping toward him from one direction, he loped away in the other and turned through the widest arch. It led into an unlighted storeroom heaped high with crates and bundles.

Even in the dimness, hobbling the length of the room, Conan recognized the contents as Turanian military stores―the ones needed, and missed so sorely of late, by his fellow-troopers. Likely these goods had been diverted by Phang Loon for his own use, or for sale on the black market. A
shame, truly; if there were more time, Conan would forage among the crates for a weapon. But he lacked the strength for a search, much less for a fight; his many sore wounds were tightening painfully for want of lotus, and the undamaged parts of his body wobbled with fatigue. Though he no longer saw a shambling monstrosity when he gazed down at himself, his ragged, blood-caked form was gruesome enough in the gloom.

Now another door loomed in front of him; before he could touch it, it opened, and a body blundered through into his arms.

The servant wore the tunic of a Venji Imperial; lacking any weapon, he yet struggled desperately. Conan, overriding his own pain and weariness, stifled the smaller man's yells, crushing him against the door-jamb; whether he broke the fellow's neck or merely stunned him, he was not sure. Closing the door, he dragged the slack body along with him and dumped it behind a pile of broken baskets.

This cavernous room, damp with smells of manure and fodder, must be the stable; good, then, it communicated with the outer gate! Seeing no more guards coming in the light of the single dim lamp, Conan limped ahead across the straw-covered cobblestones. He passed stalls whose snufflings told him that they contained horses, listless and ill-sounding in the noisome heat. Coming between rows of larger, heavier-timbered stalls, he heard more ponderous shiftings inside and smelled the riper stench of elephants. He slowed lest these more intelligent creatures smell the blood that seeped wetly from his neck, or otherwise take alarm and reveal his presence.

Yet he knew that, weak and tormented as he was, he could not stagger much further. Might it not be wiser to hide in a heap of straw―and there try to bear silently the pangs and cravings he could already feel crowding in to fill the vacuum left by the lotus? Or else, he might goad one of these mighty animals in its pen and be stamped to death; better that than to let Phang Loon retake him. He doubted whether the warlord would be as charitable now about letting him die a drugged, painless death.

All at once he heard shouts behind him, along with the scraping of the storeroom door. Stumbling aside out of open view, he availed himself of the only shelter at hand―by lying down on his back and rolling under the heavy half-door to one of the elephant stalls.

As luck would have it, the pen was occupied. His roll brought up him
against a titanic hind leg, stumplike and stiff-bristled in the dimness. By its owner's prompt, irritable shifting, Conan knew his presence was ill-regarded. The beast was quite obviously male, probably a war steed; now it shuffled back and sideward toward the intruder, threatening to squash him like a flea against the sturdy timber wall. Conan had no choice but to edge forward toward the monster's trunk and tusks.

After all, he reasoned, the beast was trained to obey men as well as kill them; it might not fear a lone man whom it could clearly see. With any luck, if he could keep the brute from trumpeting or crushing him, the very danger of this hiding-place might keep the guards from seeking him here.

Squeezing past the great foreleg an instant before it scraped the timber wall, Conan crept forward into the corner of the pen. The end wall was of irregular mortared stone, and he felt safer in its angle; still, he could not repress a shudder as the great, leathery mask of the face swung toward him―high, scalloped ears outflaring, bronze-pointed tusks curving wide, the massive trunk snaking down to sniff his face. Its wet, pliant tip brushed his brow and chin, then snuffled down along his trunk to his legs, searching perhaps for weapons or edible offerings. Finding none, it writhed back up and smote his shoulder roughly, insistently.

Outside, the scatter of voices spread through the stable. Running footsteps had passed the stall and could now be heard returning. Rays of a lantern flashed in beneath the stone door, and gruff Venji accents barked at one another.

"This is the stall where the noises came from."

"Yes, and look, the beast is restless!"

Restless because of your yammering, Conan felt like rasping at them.

Meanwhile he crouched stone-still in the corner, letting the elephant's massive proboscis continue its search. As the long, moist finger snuffled about his chest and collar, the creature snorted and twitched its ears, seeming excited by the scent of blood from his neck.

"We must take the elephant out and search the stall!"

"Yes, fetch a goad. But use it with care, this is a dangerous beast!"

Daring to glance left and right, Conan saw no exit to the adjoining
stalls. Before him, the elephant was sidling and swaying nervously; its eyes rolled back in its head, distracted by the commotion behind it. Pushed to the last limit of desperation, Conan crept out of his corner. He reached to his oozing neck and took a smear of slimy blood on his fingers. With it, on a flat stone in the wall, he drew a half-remembered pictogram, a three-lobed figure with two dangling tails, that could be formed by a single line: Snorting, the elephant followed his motion with its eyes and raised its trunk to the stone. Its sensitive nose-finger traced the shape accurately; then, to Conan's shock, it sucked in a great draft of air and trumpeted shatteringly.

The tearing noise shook the very fabric of the wall, driving Conan to his knees. Quivering with pain and shock, expecting to be seized and dashed against the stone, he struggled up… only to find the great beast kneeling, its trunk looped at one side to make a foothold for a passenger to mount.

Not pausing to question, Conan lurched forward, stepped up onto the trunk with his good leg and, aided by the uprising creature's trunk, dragged himself up onto the vast, hairy back.

Fortunately the elephant wore a studded collar, which also looped around its forehead in a sort of cap. Conan seized hold and soon had need of it, as the beast reared around in its stall and butted the door. The Venji Imperial who had begun to drag it open was now trying to close and bolt it again, but did not succeed; instead he was hurled across the stable with the force of the massive gate's swing, to fetch up limply against the far row of stalls. A second guard, approaching and waving an elephant goad high as a sign of authority, quickly fell under the creature's trundling feet.

The elephant trumpeted again, moving forward and gathering speed; the next moment it passed through the half-open doors of the stable, sending one of the twin portals banging wide as it went. Behind them the place became a zoo of shrieks and crashes, its inmates lashed to frenzy by their fellow-prisoner's rebellion. Conan clung to the broad leather strap for his life; happily, in spite of the animal's frantic musth, its broad back provided its rider a fairly soft, level platform.

About them now lay the courtyard, aflare with torches and ascamper with men under a crescent moon. Most of the guards and servants who
had been drawn by the rogue's shrieks were now able to scatter out of its path; those who could not paid in the cheap token of their lives. A few ill-aimed arrows struck near Conan, none even sticking in the animal's thick hide. The only real obstacle ahead was the castle's drawbridge.

This opened between two flanking stone towers, a broad ramp of studded timbers crossing a ditch of unknown depth. In response to the alarms, the bridge was being raised; Conan heard chains clanking and saw men bending their backs to windlasses on the tower-tops. Heavily counterweighted, the ramp was clearly massive; as it yawned near, the helpless passenger saw it rise slowly to a height from which no lumbering pachyderm could leap. Instinct made him tug back on the heavy collar; but the elephant did not come to rein as a horse would. Instead it charged onward, straight toward the impossibly steep obstacle. Conan clenched both arms beneath the leather strapping as the elephant struck the bridge.

Momentum carried them upward, the mad brute's feet thundering on the wooden planks. At either side Conan heard the agonized stretching of chains and the stripping of ratchet-pawls. Then, inexorably, the angle of the ramp began to flatten. Wails and shrieks sounded as men were batted down or flung off the tower-tops by the fast-unwinding winches. The elephant strained upward along the creaking, rattling timbers and, just as the ramp thudded to earth underfoot, lunged forward onto solid roadway.

Staggering, the beast found its stride and loped forward into the night.

The courtyard behind was a chaos of shrieks and wails; of pursuit there was no sign. Ahead lay rice-fields fringed by jungle, and a white road winding away under the moon.

Chapter 11

The War of Gods and Kings

"So the outlander Conan still lives!" Emperor Yildiz squirmed with elation on his embroidered sofa. "He can survive not only battles and maimings, but a three-day carouse in a southern port town! That is the best news I have heard in days."

The Lord of All Turan relaxed in his Court of Protocols, which was empty but for a handful of functionaries; he inched himself up straighter beside the harem-slave who was busy feeding him peeled grapes. Shorter
than he, she had to strain her ample body against his to pop the purple globules between his lips. Yildiz, visibly enjoying her efforts, continued, "Once he is fit enough for the journey, he can be recalled to Aghrapur! I shall make a great show of declaring him a hero."

"Declare him hero…" General Abolhassan digested his commander's words, his frown ill-concealed beneath his healthy brown mustache. "I counsel Your Resplendency against such a move." The general's sidelong glance toward Euranthus at his side was meant to warn the eunuch which way to tend. "Why would you want to exalt a lowly trooper thus, Sire? A foreign savage, to boot?"

Yildiz turned his head aside to nip a grape morsel out of his concubine's plump, gold-nailed fingertips. Chewing, he looked back at Abolhassan. "It may not be part of your duties to notice, General, but of late our military efforts are a cause of dissatisfaction at court. Dashibt Bey's death was a blow to us all, and we could not reasonably expect to keep Ibn Uluthan's fate from being whispered of as well. I need some excuse to declare a holiday, stage a feast, and win back popular support for our aims. This could be it."

"Emperor, I beg to protest! Your subjects are not so grossly disloyal, after all." Abolhassan broached the topic with careful solicitude. "I saw you most ably defuse the stirrings of dissent among the court women, Sire, by your interviews and… luncheons with them. I was privileged to assist you at the first meeting when the Dame Irilya was so openly seditious.

Without her―"

Yildiz laughed. "Yes, Irilya Faharazendra, that vixen! Do not think for a moment that she has ceased to badger me. She was not won over like the other wives, and is still busy undoing my careful diplomacy." Yildiz paused to receive another grape. This one the harem-wench had prepared by placing in it her own mouth, expertly biting off the bitter skin and sucking out the seeds, and then, with gentle fingers, transferring its sweet, slimy flesh to her emperor's lips.

In a moment Yildiz resumed. "Now Irilya heads something called the First Wives League, which not only cavils at imperial policy, but questions our very traditions of wife ownership! What do you think of that, my little peach blossom?" He pinched the rosy cheek of his houri, who responded with a jiggle of her fleshy bosom and a pout of pretended indignation.

"Irilya holds luncheons of her own, meets with foreign envoys, invokes
church law… a whirling dervish of a girl! Would that she were less seniorly wed, and to someone other than my richest shah!"

"Why, the woman is blatantly treasonous, Sire!" The eunuch Euranthus eagerly seized an obvious turn for the conversation. "Even among subjects as loyal as yours, such a shameless slut is bound to cause trouble…"

General Abolhassan was well aware of Irilya's transgressions, having ordered a special study of her movements and meetings since his first open clash with her. So far, fortunately, her meddling had served to undermine Emperor Yildiz in ways helpful to his own plans. Abolhassan now watched carefully, anxious to steer his ruler, yet inevitably nervous lest this interview degenerate into another disgraceful orgy of fondling and stroking between Yildiz and his floozy. There was no sure safeguard against his whims.

But the younger, less expert Euranthus had put Yildiz in a mood of unwhimsical pique directed at himself. "It is not only Lady Irilya who petitions, I remind you, Master Eunuch," the emperor now admonished him. "And not merely women either. Courtiers, merchants, my rural shahs, even some of your own eunuch brethren whisper against our Venjipur campaign. And with reason!" The emperor turned his gaze upon Abolhassan. "The cost of the war grows burdensome; I find it necessary not just to increase taxes, but to levy new tithes on our land tenants. A vast expense of weapons and stores depart up the Ilbars River, not to mention the recruits―with no clear result except a glut of widows and orphans, crippled beggars, lotus addicts and pedlars, and a host of other evils! Where are the slaves, the plunder and tribute, the rich trade routes that were promised my subjects at the outset? How am I to answer their complaints? 'Tis enough, General, to make me question my own wisdom in prosecuting this war, and your efficacy in winning it!"

"My Resplendent, All-Knowing Emperor." No sooner had the damage been done than Abolhassan diligently set about repairing it. "If your concerns lead you to doubt yourself, in your abiding wisdom, Sire, then I can safely say they are misplaced. Rather, Lord, doubt the doubters―those who undermine your programs and place their own petty welfare above your clear-sighted aims." He stood straight and proud, a loyal soldier defending his emperor. "Sire, may I suggest that you are overly generous in your sufferance of all this petitioning and civil turmoil?

"Rather, I submit, the situation you describe calls for fire and steel. The
scourge and the rod, nothing less, can assert the full authority of your rule and bring these intransigents into line." His dark eyes glinted righteously at Yildiz, warningly at Euranthus. "No widespread purge is needed at this stage, Sire; merely a few highly visible examples, starting with the woman Irilya."

"Abolhassan, will you never understand?" Strangely Yildiz seemed restored to equanimity, as he so often was by the general's speeches.

Smiling, he rested against his sofa-arm, hugging the harem-girl closer with her painted bowl of grapes. "What I command is not a war of knives and sticks, General. I wage a broader war, one of beliefs―fought not in a jungle swamp, but on the fields of men's minds and hearts. A war of kings, and of the very gods."

Distracted momentarily, Yildiz paused; from her new, more intimate position his concubine was able to transfer grapes directly from her own lips to the emperor's, without the untidy intercession of fingers. Now she performed this trick, leaving her hands free to pursue other errands upon her lord's silk-clothed body. A moment more, and Yildiz turned back to Abolhassan, gulping contentedly.

"As I was saying, General: I need causes and heroes, ceremony and pageantry to fight my war. Such tools can be more valuable than any victory in the field, in their effect on unity and spirit here in Aghrapur. By decorating this barbarian, we promote the idea of extending our imperial sway far beyond Turan's present borders. Let me steer the court and the city rabble, General, and you marshal the troops! Then there will be recruits aplenty, and ample use for your talents on distant battlefields."

"Thy will be done, Sire." Abolhassan bowed, aware that his face burned slightly. It infuriated him to see such grossness alloyed by such dangerous statecraft… but he must be careful to let this imperial swine think his blush was due to modesty. "Thank you. My last caution, Resplendency, is this: When you create heroes, you also create hazards. The barbarian might speak out unwisely, or perhaps too wisely. He might gather a rebellious following or cause other trouble for us here. There is no knowing the potential of this rude foreigner."

"Precisely, General; there is no knowing." Yildiz looked up with an air of afterthought from his new pastime of nibbling his slave-girl's ear. "Why, he might even rise through the ranks to become as valuable an officer as yourself, Abolhassan. I hope the threat of competition is not what you hold
against him! But if he does not serve our ends… well enough." The emperor shrugged airily. "One happy fact about fractious military officers: They can always be disposed of by assignment to remote frontier outposts.

Another benefit of empire!" His look at his questioner had a subtly pointed nature. "Tarim bless you, sirs." He waved, dismissing his retainers.

"Health, Sire. Tarim preserve your rule." Abolhassan turned with Euranthus and strode out into the echoing corridor. The two did not commence their murmured conversation until they were well away from the guarded door.

"Curse that purient old fool! First we use some nameless savage to distract him from the real ills and purposes of the war, and now he wants to enthrone the lout! I saw this coming." Abolhassan strode the geometric tiles briskly, making his shorter-legged companion scurry to keep abreast of him.

"I fear the emperor's plan may be sound, General," Euranthus panted.

"He could yet undo our efforts and win back a following at court."

"Indeed." Abolhassan mulled silently a moment, striding along with downcast eyes. "I would say, let him bring this clod-lumper to the capital so that we can continue using him as our own catspaw. But the northern nature is unpredictable."

Bobbing down the empty corridor, Euranthus nodded in doubtful assent. "We have already tried to dispose of the barbarian once, have we not?"

"Aye. He is loose-tongued, my spies say, and now he can reveal even more about our conduct of the war. He will have to be stopped; it should be no great matter. Once Yildiz has announced the fete, the loss will serve as one more setback to him."

Euranthus nodded, smiling as best he could while hurrying along, gasping for air. "You were wise to counsel atrocious measures against the dissenters, General. That might undermine Yildiz further and turn more even courtiers against him."

Abolhassan came to an abrupt halt, glaring at the eunuch, who staggered on a few steps down the corridor before turning. "You thought I
lied? The measures I advocated are no harsher than I myself would use!"

He shook his head sternly, then smiled. "And yet, eunuch, perhaps you are right; even if Yildiz tried them, they would not work for him. True tyranny requires a tyrant!"

Euranthus smiled, eager to placate his brooding fellow conspirator.

"True, General, he lacks the strength for that."

Abolhassan nodded, satisfied. "Haply for us. But come, our plans must go forward all the faster now."

Atop the palace in the Court of Seers, Azhar the sorcerer directed a half-dozen acolytes in the preparation of an elaborate spell. His new position as chief mage had bestowed on him not only the rank and prestige, but also the haggard look of his predecessor. The spectacle of Ibn Uluthan's death, to which he was closest witness, had made a lasting mark on him. And more recently, nightlong star-readings and daylong porings over his departed mentor's tomes and notes left him time for only brief snatches of sleep in the hot, bright afternoons. In consequence, some of the night had come to rest in his face, its purple shadows bracketing his eyes like clouds gathering over the grave of a spent sunset.

But today he directed the sorcerous preparations with determined, restless energy. This was the decisive effort; it would right the balance. All the materials had been checked, the precautionary spells recited, the astrological alignments carefully chosen. Shipyard engineers had been summoned to construct the giant arbalest which now stood ready on its cross-shaped pedestal, the steel bow cranked back in a taut curve, the varnished silk cable forming a gleaming V in the noon light, streaming down from the roughly repaired slits of the great dome overhead.

The arrow laid along the crossbow's sturdy stock was the main ingredient: hewn of toughest ash, carefully formed, and painted with astrological runes. Its tip was forged of tough, porous metal from a sky-fallen star. The shaft had been blest on Tarim's holy altar before being steeped for potency in aconite and viper's blood.

The target of the bow was the other critical component, looming broad and massive where the enchanted window had stood: a black millstone set in heavy masonry, its hollow center bored out laboriously to a size adequate for the passage of the giant projectile. In its middle, shards of the silvery crystal left from the window were mounted, no single one large
enough to fill the small space. But they ringed the aperture, and in their midst sheened a gray radiance like that which had filtered through the void onto Ibn Uluthan's conjurations.

Azhar knew he had restored enough of the former spell to open a loophole to Venjipur. He judged that the heavy stonework would provide a defense against the kind of invasion Mojurna had wrought against Ibn Uluthan. This mystic gap, though smaller, should be adequate for his purpose. Through it he could direct the bow's killing force against the jeweled skull―or better, its owner. Now it remained only to check the aim and see whether Mojurna's sorcerous barrier had been thrown up once again.

"Stand ready at the trigger," he told one of his apprentices. "Do not loose the shaft until I command it." The burnoosed man gave a reverent nod. He gripped the hand-lever projecting upward and backward from the base of the arrow, whose shaft was fletched with the black pinions of giant cliff-condors.

Azhar stepped forward with his mortar full of oily ink and his charmed pestle. These would allow him to steer the window, in the unlikely event that the enemy's defenses were down.

He hesitated to place his head into the deadly swath of the great bow; but the duty was his alone. After a final, silent prayer to Tarim, he moved past the weapon and knelt before its loophole, holding the magical implements ready in his hands. Squinting against the shimmering glare, he looked into the aperture.

What he saw there, none of the onlookers could ever say. They watched him peer inside with a rapt expression, the gray light of the aether reflecting dimly on his face. A moment later the light darkened, and something shot through the opening―an immense spider, some said later, but most agreed that it was a dark, hairy hand clutching at Azhar's face.

The sorcerer drew back with a cry, causing the evil thing's grip to slip down to his shoulder, then to his arm.

The demon-hand withdrew into the eye of the millstone and was not seen again; but catastrophically, it drew with it Azhar's arm. The slightly built man, in trying to break free, dashed his mortar and its oily contents to the floor. Thrash and cry out as he might, he could not get loose; instead his arm was drawn deeper into the hole. His assistants ran to his
aid, seizing his other arm and hauling on it, all the while shouting and slipping in the spilled oil. In spite of their efforts, the chief mage was pulled inexorably into the millstone. First his elbow, then his shoulder disappeared into the fist-sized hole, causing lacerations to his arm and dislodging some of the embedded glass. Then, relentlessly, the wizard continued to be drawn in, his head forced back by the stone's rough embrace, his neck bending aside to the agonized accompaniment of his shrieks and the crack of ribs.

Seeing his regally turbaned head double back hideously against his spine, and hearing his screams silenced at last by strangulation or death, the others released their grip on his arms and legs. They backed away, watching with horrified fascination as his head disappeared, impossibly, into the blood-slimed hole, followed by his collapsed chest. And then his hips, folding in upon themselves with ghastly crunching sounds before the dread, inexplicable suction.

One of the gaping watchers must have murmured "Loose!" or else the still-waiting acolyte's trembling hand slipped on the lever; for the arbalest discharged its arrow, driving Azhar's vanishing shins and sandaled feet ahead of it into the foreign void.

After the weapon's twang, the stone itself split with a thunderous crack.

Its fragments sagged to the floor in a mass of rubble, closing the mystic window for the last time.

Chapter 12

The Imperial Summons

From pale morning dreams Conan woke with a start. A monkey's shrill scolding, it must have been―enough to cause him a chill ever since his sojourn in Phang Loon's castle. But the play of sunbeams through the leaf-screened window of the hut, the gentle twittering of birds, and the fragrance of flowers were enough to soothe his fears gradually. He stretched, causing the broad hammock to shift beneath him and confirming, to his immense satisfaction, that his leg offered him no pain.

Sariya stirred beside him on the tightly stretched canvas, murmuring softly even though she was not fully awake. Her hip, half-draped by the filmy coverlet, made a luscious curve against the blazing-green radiance of
the window, while her long black hair cascaded wantonly from her small, silk-covered pillow. After appreciating her beauty, Conan linked his fingers behind his head and lay back, enjoying the morning peace.

The room was no longer decked with cut blossoms. Sariya had adorned it with living plants gathered for diverse uses: snare-leaved and sticky-petaled blossoms for catching vexatious insects, shrubs and ferns to sweeten and enrich the air, thorny vines outside the window to discourage thieving by apes, birds, and children, and aromatic herbs valued as medicine and seasoning. The hut's main room had become a show-place, furnished with rare bits of Venji wickerwork, weaving, and earthenware, all on Conan's middling sergeant's pay. And Sariya's boar-skull talisman still adorned their roof-pole, garlanded now by jungle vines decked with multicolored blossoms.

The hammock shifted beneath him, and a delicate saffron hand slid across his chest. "Mmm, you are awake. And you are well today…" Her question was really a statement, made with the gentle force of suggestion.

"Yes, I am well. I think I will return to my duties at the fort. But I must be careful of my wounds."

Sariya laughed softly, caressing him. "That is not what you said last night! I feared that you would shake the hut down."

"True. I am regaining my strength… mmm." They rolled together, bodies nesting together on the shifting canvas.

Their morning's trysting was gentle, although Conan sensed in Sariya an earnest seeking that belied her casual jests. Afterward, they wrapped themselves in bright sarongs, took woven buckets in hand, and walked forth into the jungle. Making separate detours, they met by the nearby stream at a waist-deep pond Conan had dammed off. There they bathed, sporting and splashing one another in the cool water. They returned to the hut with buckets brimming, to find a burly figure seated cross-legged in the shade of the porch.

"Juma! 'Tis long I have waited to see you!" Setting down his water buckets, Conan strode to the uprising trooper and embraced him roughly.

"How have you fared, old friend?"

"Busily, with your command as well as my own to look after!" Juma
grinned and held his friend away at arm's length. "But 'tis good to see you striding so boldly, Conan. Even in a woman's wrap"―the Kushite's smirk was tolerant―"you look ten times the man who came crawling from the jungle a fortnight ago."

"Aye." Conan nodded good-naturedly, setting his buckets down by the fire-ring. "The trek from the ruined shrine was hellish hard, though it would have been less than an hour's jog for a healthy man." Moving to the porch, he dropped his sarong on the matting and walked onward to the door, unabashedly naked. "Have you heard the tale? I could not make the thrice-blasted elephant carry me any farther than the ruins." He took his leather sword-breeks from inside the hut door, stepped into them, and buckled them across the flat of his belly. "I had to throw myself down from the creature's back while he nuzzled and slobbered at the ancient carvings.

Lucky it is that I found my way back to the fort." Returning to the fireplace, he settled down on a stone beside the ashes.

"To find you here, after ransacking the taverns and brothels of Tarqheba and giving you up for dead…!" Juma shook his head, squinting in dubiety. "Still, Conan, I would think your story of the elephant as mad as your other ravings of those first days, if I did not know that one of the beasts had saved you before."

"No, his account is to be believed." Sariya, coming from the garden with an armful of melons and tubers, laid them on a flat stone and began washing them from a bucket. "The long-nosed ones' friendship with mankind is based on mutual respect. They have their gods and customs, and were themselves worshiped by humans in Venjipur's past centuries.

Sometimes they aid one who honors the ancient faith, as you have seen."

"My mate is steeped in the ancient mysteries," Conan said. He began tenting tinder and dry twigs together from separate covered baskets to build a fire. "If I did not know her so… personally, I would think her a sorceress."

"She must have some magic about her, to have brought you back from gasping death two times now." Juma looked from his host to his hostess with simple frankness. "Even your much-boasted barbaric fitness could not have pulled you through those scrapes all by itself."

Sariya did not meet Juma's gaze, but spoke with a veiled smile. "My training as priestess of Sigtona was to care for the sick with medicinal
herbs, as well as prayers and rituals." She knelt beside Conan as he struck the flint and cupped his hands to blow the faint spark to life. "But my talents would have meant little without you and Babrak to guard Conan and restrain him during his fevers."

Juma nodded. "Aye, 'twas worse than the last time. Even bound hand and foot, your lover was no kitten in his fits of lotus-craving!" He shook his head in grim recollection. "But your herb concoctions helped to soothe him even then, Sariya. If he is truly free of the drug, then he is living, breathing proof of your wizardry!"

Conan, alerted by their talk, had been scanning the surroundings of the hut as he stoked the flames to crackling vigor. Now he arose and walked near Juma, reaching up to the ragged thatching. "Did you bring this?" he asked, taking down a small, leaf-wrapped packet that dangled from the eaves.

"No, I did not. Is it one of Sariya's fetishes?"

Conan shook his head, unwrapping the dry, papery leaves. He sniffed their contents cautiously, his nostrils flaring at their pungency. Frowning, he strode to the fire and threw the packet in, stepping away briskly to avoid the pale smoke that went feathering skyward.

"Lotus," he told Juma, walking over to take a seat beside him. "Left for me by a well-wisher―Phang Loon's agent, no doubt. I find such presents about the place frequently. But no matter." He shrugged, his face shaded by some faint cloud of memory. "I will catch the scoundrel someday." He smiled and reached around to clap a hand on Juma's broad back. " 'Tis as good to see you well, old friend, as to be well myself! Tell me, what is the news from the fort?"

Juma kept silent a moment. He watched Sariya's knife flash, as, kneeling gracefully before a plank, she sectioned the tubers. Then he spoke. "You are the news, Conan. But I did not want to tell you until I was certain you were fit to hear it. You have been recalled to Aghrapur." He continued watching Sariya, whose knife paused in midair. "Not for punishment, though; and not permanently, I am told. The dispatch says they want to proclaim you a hero and pin a bauble to your turban in a public ceremony. The order is signed by Staff General Abolhassan, issued in the name of the emperor himself."

"Proclaim me hero… Yildiz himself." Conan sat inert a moment, watching the middle distance. Then he stirred where he sat, restlessly.

Then he swung back his arm and dealt Juma a clap on the shoulder that sent the big man rocking forward, choking and sputtering.

"A hero, by Crom! Now I will have some say around here!" Conan swung to his feet with an effortlessness that remembered no spear-wound.

"Now I will hound Phang Loon to the gallows, and keep the weak-livered Jefar Sharif from playing hob with our war! I will advance to the rank of Staff General myself! Hmm, Abolhassan, I have heard that name before… but no matter! Sariya, I will keep you in noble style and dress you in costlier, scantier garb!" He strode to meet her uprising form and clasp her in a smothering embrace.

"This is a great day for us all!"

"A day of peril, you mean." Still clearing his throat, Juma arose to lean against a bamboo pillar. In response to the others' surprised looks, he frowned more sternly. "In my view, Conan, 'twould be hard to imagine a greater catastrophe befalling you! Now you are exposed, and exposure in war means danger." The burly black grimaced with unease that would have been difficult to feign. "Bethink yourself, Conan―'twould be safer to lead the point of a light infantry phalanx against archers, cavalry, and fire-throwing elephants. But above all, since you may not be able to squirm out of it, this threat calls for caution―if your wild northern nature includes such a trait!"

"Juma, why rave so?" Conan moved toward his friend, drawing Sariya along at his side in an enfolding arm. "Who am I supposed to be in such pallid fear of, anyway?"

"Why, the very ones you named before! Jefar Sharif, whom you nearly strangled, the warlord Phang Loon, the garrotes, and a dozen others right up to the emperor himself! Is there any Turanian you have not given cause to crave seeing your guts shredded? Can you not understand that for all these enemies, and for as many more imagined rivals, this proud distinction, this great honor our emperor seeks to bestow on you, ahem…"

Juma leaned against the pillar, gagging momentarily on his own bitter sarcasm, before he resumed. "Why, it lends urgency and purpose to all their old grudges! They must act swiftly to destroy you, before you unleash your newly empowered wrath on them!" The Kushite thrust himself from the pillar, striding the porch in agitation.

"Worse, it takes you away from your friends on a long, hazardous journey to hostile territory, the treacherous capital! And it leaves Sariya here in jeopardy…"

"Nay, she will travel with me! Won't you, love…?" Conan looked to the woman he clasped at his side, his speech trailing off at the sorrowful look she turned up to him.

"Oh, Conan, this is a great opportunity for you! You must not let me hold you back―but I cannot leave my duties here. There are sick villagers who need my care for weeks to come, and more needs that will arise later."

"Aye, I know," Conan sighed. "And your church school―as before, when I wanted you to come with me to the city."

"Yes, I must go on teaching the children."

"So that they can teach their parents, no doubt! Sometimes I wonder what it is that you teach them." He shook his head, loosening his grip on her shoulders. "The two of you surely know how to turn a triumph into a sorrow." He looked to Juma, who was sunk too deep in thought to heed his reproach. "But Sariya, will you be safe here without me?"

"Yes." Gravely, the girl kissed Conan's shoulder, then knelt to resume her meal preparation. "As before, I can stay with families in the village.

They will watch out for me―hide me, if need be. But the rebels have not attacked near here lately."

"Nay." Conan moved heavily back to his place on the porch and sat down. "Nor have my enemies. But take care, girl; remember, the ancient shaman Mojurna tried to kill you once! Juma or Babrak can help watch over you if I go north alone." He turned to the Kushite. "And what of Babrak? I have not seen him in days." He tried to lighten their glum mood with a smile. "Is he still silent about his adventures in the city?"

"Aye. The code of Tarim forbids him to boast of his exploits with the softer sex." Juma grinned back heartily. "But he still looks as smug as the fox who ate the pheasant; the tavern matron must have been kind to him."

Continuing to speak in this light-hearted vein, they dined on the juicy yellow flesh of the melons and a spiced, sweet mash of boiled roots. Juma pitched in alongside host and hostess, content to eat a second breakfast
and stay on as bodyguard. After belching politely, Conan donned his tunic, turban, and weapons. Making a tearless parting with Sariya, he went to Fort Sikander.

He chose the main gate and the most frequented ways, striding with aggressive confidence in the day's mounting heat. After Juma's warnings, he was keenly aware of the looks every eye flashed at him―some friendly, a few of the watchers even stopping him to exchange pleasantries. But the majority eyed his passing with mute surprise, or with more veiled feelings.

As he passed the black, yawning tent-mouths, he fancied he could hear the feverish murmur of odds being laid for and against his survival.

Rounding the end of the palm-fringed staff barrack, he nodded a half salute to the guards, stepped up into the shade of the porch, and waited. A grunt from Captain Murad summoned him inside. He saw that Jefar Sharif was also seated in the dimness, busy having his cavalry boots polished by a kneeling lackey.

"Reporting for duty, sir!" He kept his tone blunt, avoiding any courtly flourishes, while praying to the god of fools that the sullen Sharif would keep his mouth closed. "I am fit for action."

"Good, Sergeant." The captain's voice was equally restrained. "We have fresh orders for you. You can take charge of the assigned troops at once, and march by noon."

Conan felt his throat clenching, yet he had to speak. "So… so soon, Captain? Aghrapur is many leagues away, it will take me time to prepare…"

"Aghrapur!" Jefiar Sharif's voice rang out from the corner of the room in wry amusement. "Nay, that order is not passed down yet. When it is, I will be pleased to accompany you north to the capital as your superior officer! But not just now; the order your captain refers to is a battle command."

"Aye, Sergeant." Gray-turbaned Murad finished scribbling on a stub of parchment and pushed it across his map-table, as if the Cimmerian could read it. "Our scouts have located an enemy camp at the base of the Durba Hills, here!" The captain kept his eyes on his stubby finger as it point at the stained, tattered map, refusing to look up and meet Conan's gaze. "A probative assault is ordered. You will command two companies of heavy
foot."

"Aye, barbarian!" Jefar's laugh scratched in Conan's already buzzing ears. "Here is a chance for you to earn the title of hero!"

Chapter 13

The Suicide Command

Battle surged along the jungle ridge, breaking in a shouting, red-foaming tide against low promontories of clanking shields. On all sides arrows flocked through air like swooping seabirds, while green, drooping fronds and flower-vines thrashed and toppled like sea-wrack, driven relentlessly by weapon-strokes and swirling attacks.

"Reform the square! You, trooper, move up and fill that gap! We must hold our formation at all costs―and keep advancing!"

Conan's shouts, already grating out hoarsely, were in this instance wasted; for the trooper he harangued tumbled to earth, plucking at an arrow lodged in the unarmored flesh of his calf. His commander muttered an oath; the rebel bowmen were loosing their arching shafts high overhead, or straight downward from the trees. They might spell the Turanians' end, Conan knew, unless the armored troop somehow managed to seize higher ground.

The Cimmerian himself strode forward to fill the embroiled gap, not bothering to pick up the fallen soldier or his shield. He drew and swung his yataghan swiftly to hack off a spearpoint that probed inside the marching square; then he slashed the arm of its owner, and the face of another knife-wielding Hwong who pressed dangerously close. Abruptly the shield-walls on either side of him closed once more against the yelling crowd of rebels, and Conan was swallowed back inside the scant breathing-space of the square formation.

"Keep up the advance, Turanians! Close ranks behind," his voice grated doggedly above the battle-din. "Ahead are ruins, where we can hold off these monkeys until the tolling of Set's black doom! Steady, men, and forward!"

Fluidity was an advantage of the moving formation, even among the obstructing tree-boles and jungle shrubs; another boon was the chance of
escaping the most concentrated arrowfire. Conan tried not to dwell on the sole disadvantage of movement: the brutal choice it called for, whether to drag their wounded with them or leave them behind, mercifully slain as time permitted.

"Conan, what of our reinforcements?" Babrak jostled up behind his sergeant, keeping his eye on the rear of the formation, which was his own newly designated command. "If we march too far through this jungle, will they be able to find us?"

"Reinforcements! Two hundred Venji Imperials…!" Conan's laugh was bitter, his voice low to keep from spreading bad morale. "Even if our courier reaches them, I would be surprised to see them come running to our aid. Methinks whoever assigned us such a paltry reserve was the same fool who under-reckoned the number of our foes by forty score!" He stepped forward, swinging his sword to cut down a fallen rebel who appeared to be stirring and groping for a weapon underfoot; after wiping his blade clean on the man's bright green sash, he veered back to Babrak's side. "Nay, if we survive, 'twill be by our own grit and discipline! Then I shall have a word to say about it to our commanders." His voice abruptly swelled above the yells and moans to a raw shout, a battle cry to cover his own gloom. "Fight on, Turanians! Know you, each man of you is worth ten of these howling rebels!"

His cry raised but scattered, breathless shouts in answer. True, an armored infantryman, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder in line, might account for ten naked attackers and more. But as every veteran trooper knew, once their formation broke up into a disorganized retreat through the forest, their armor would slow them fatally, making them easy prey for their jungle-swift foes. So they braved the sleets of arrows and the yelling hordes, hacking their way onward along the crest toward the brushy jumble of stones and tents that had been pointed out from the hilltop as their objective.

"Ahead, sir, lies the gate of the ruined town!" Babrak muttered in his commander's ear. "See there, the wall is but a brushy hillock! Thank Tarim they have not repaired the defenses! But who is that, standing atop the broken tower?"

Conan followed Babrak's pointing finger, shading his eyes to pinpoint a figure stooping beneath a long cloak bright with colored feathers. Leaning on a tall stave, whose upper end terminated in a familiar, glinting sphere,
the ancient-seeming one glared down at the battle a long moment before yielding to the insistent tugs of two half-visible rebels behind him. Then he shuffled down out of sight beyond the gap-toothed battlement.

"Mojurna! So this is where the devil has been lurking!" Conan clutched Babrak's shoulder, loosening his grip only after his friend's face registered real pain. "That was the old witch-man himself, high priest of all the Hwong; I have seen him before this! We must storm the camp without delay!"

"Aye, Sergeant―if you say so." Though disciplined enough not to show undue fear, the junior officer pressed close to offer his counsel. "Know you, Conan, there is a risk in breaking our square amidst a superior enemy."

"A risk indeed, old friend; we must weigh it against the chance of winning this war with a single swordstroke!" Conan wasted no more time in deliberation. "Our best strength must go to the fore―you fight on my left, Babrak!" Raising his bloody yataghan high, he forced his rasping voice once again to a husky bellow. "Turanians, form a wedge! Follow me to take the camp! A year's extra pay to the man who slays the warlock Mojurna!"

Conan's shouts raised a furor among the embattled troops. Drawing fearful looks from some, blood-lusting shouts from others, the giant northerner strode swiftly to the center of the reforming line. "Kill Mojurna, troopers! Let no rebel live! For Tarim and Yildiz… charge!"

A threshing, slaying machine was then set in motion through the jungle. Swords hacked through flesh and foliage, spears plowed up their moist red tilth, and shields breasted the lashing jungle to part its green waves like the prow of a racing war-galley. The line chanted now as it moved―a deep, throaty song older than Tarim or the land of Turan itself, primal as a heartbeat, setting a savage rhythm for step and thrust, slash and shield-stroke. The Turanians' line moved faster than before, fast enough to keep the press of enemies ahead of them off balance and retreating, briskly enough to outrun attacks on their vulnerable rear and the worst of the arrowfire.

Conan, striding at the center of the human wedge, fought like an enraged demon. His sword slashed and thrust in a mad, blinding frenzy, stitching death across the ranks of faceless mortality that pressed up before him. Its remorseless metal trailed screams and bright ribbons of
gore in the air as it dashed through unprotected enemy flesh and bone.

Some few rebels, especially the green-jerkined peasants, were thrust helplessly to the fore of the battle by the mere pressure of the milling ranks behind. Not guessing the steel-clad savagery of their adversaries until too late, and never even raising their blades against Conan and his hewing slaughter-mates, they died in terror, trying to push and claw back out of harm's way.

Other rebels, in particular the lean, wiry Hwong hunters, chewed lotus leaves to increase their willingness to face pain. Their bolo knives were sharp and lovingly familiar, tied to their wrists even in sleep; and their very adornment was for death―for the multicolored cords binding their sinewy elbows, shoulders, and thighs served as tourniquets. Ready to be shrugged instantly tighter in battle, the constricting cords diminished pain and blood loss from weapon-strokes, letting their wearers fight on with wounds that would have turned other men into helpless, mewling casualties.

To these fierce warriors, Conan often found it necessary to deliver two, three, and more death-blows in quick succession, lashing out with sword in one hand and long, needle-pointed dagger in the other. He hewed away limbs and vitals deftly and ruthlessly, leaving the fallen tribesmen thrashing and jabbering underfoot. Even so, they clutched at discarded weapons or at the boots of the striding Turanians, unwilling to admit the fact of their own dismemberment.

Conan's bloodletting fury was well-matched by the gruesome efficiency of his fellow troops; even Babrak at his side plied spear and shield with a frenzy seldom seen. On both wings of the flying wedge, Turanians strove valiantly to keep pace with their leaders' swift, bloody progress along the jungle trail. But these troops, fighting through denser growth with defenders pressing in from side and rear, could scarcely keep the same pace. The advancing wedge inevitably deepened and narrowed into an elongated spear-blade. The raging Cimmerian made its flashing, gouging tip, but it was from the trailing ends that the casualties were taken: armored troopers gradually outflanked or drawn off in a separate combat with fleet-footed skirmishers. One after another, inevitably, they turned to defend their own backs and those of their comrades―sometimes with too great success. Once they let themselves be cut off from the fast-striding line, their deaths followed swiftly.

Yet the momentum of the heavy phalanx carried the survivors in among the ruins. The last fringe of rebels, faltering at the sight of the blood-caked marauders, scattered before their onslaught.

"Hold the gate," came Conan's voice, croaking between heaving gasps, "and search yon mounds and tents! Mojurna is old and slow; he must be somewhere within."

Reeling with exhaustion, letting his weapons dangle low to rest his throbbing shoulders, the Cimmerian led the way down the vine-hung lane beyond the broken gate. Babrak panted at his side; though both men staggered visibly, the rebels flitted back before them; few sought to defend the low, brushy mounds of weathered stone as the Turanians moved in to occupy them.

"Conan… what of Mojurna's magic?" Babrak's voice too was broken and gasping. "Will he use some fiendish spell to turn the battle against us?"

"No, I think not." Conan lifted the now-ponderous weight of his sword and swung it once again to lay open the green fabric of a lean-to pitched against a crumbling wall; it was empty, with only a crumpled blanket within. "The wizard threw handfuls of sorcerous fire at my men, when we nearly cornered him before… but he has never fought in a real battle. They say his true power lies in fighting foreign magicians, such as your priests of Tarim."

"Can such a devil be slain with steel?" Keeping pace with Conan, Babrak scrambled after him over briary stones into a weedy canyon that might once have been an avenue or marketplace. "Does anyone really know?"

"We'll find out soon now. Look." Raising his blade, Conan pointed it toward a handful of rebel farmers hurriedly transfering goods from tents into tall pack-baskets. Nearby, another pair lifted a rude litter, one pole of which was the skull-headed staff; on it lay a brightly robed figure.

"Dogs, hither!" Conan bellowed, forgetting his mortal exhaustion and breaking into a run. "Here is Mojurna!" he proclaimed with an effort that almost belched his laboring heart into his dry throat. He heard Babrak's steps clattering at his heels, but any other answering cries and clanks of shields were remote, the bulk of his men having fallen behind or spread out to the sides. Now just ahead more Hwong came running, crowding
together in the narrow ravine between him and the escaping wizard.

The first one dashed at him with an ill-aimed spear; Conan's blade severed the knuckles that held it, then demolished the man's throat on the backswing. A second rebel leaped forward, slashing with a bolo in either hand; neither knife was bulky enough to turn the yataghan, which clove open his forehead, masking him instantly in a red torrent of blood. Even so, it took a lethal body thrust to check his blind, drug-dazed rush and topple him; by then, two more tribesmen had closed in. Conan charged between, slashing one as he rushed past, confident that Babrak would engage the other.

He found himself on a jungle trail that dropped steeply through a gap in the ruined wall. The basket-bearers, finally underway with their burdens, blocked the narrow path; Conan bowled them aside, pelting after the two who jogged with the litter between them a dozen paces ahead. The rearmost one heard Conan's approach and looked back in fear, only to crumple helplessly beneath the Cimmerian's ravaging sword, letting the foot of the stretcher drop to earth as he fell. When Conan stepped across the blood-streaming body, the passenger reclining on the rude conveyance looked up to him, raising one hand.

The old eyes crinkled without apparent fear; was it possible, even, that the myriad wrinkles of the yellow, ancient face mapped mild amusement?

Conan stood, his sword dripping gore on the lush leaves by the trailside, watching the litter dragged pathetically forward by its single, toiling bearer. He made no move, but only stared, trying to decide whether or not an enchantment was being worked on his astonished brain. But it appeared to him that, strangely… it really seemed…

A moment later, the wizard was drawn out of sight in engulfing foliage, while hurried footsteps pounded at Conan's back; it was the unarmed basket-bearers. Turning, he kicked them aside again and strode up the trail. A racing Hwong confronted him, receiving the point of the yataghan in his throat―a wound no lotus or tourniquet could soothe. Shoving past the gurgling soon-to-be corpse, Conan broke out of the jungle foliage and found Babrak.

His friend was on the trail at the center of a yelling rebel band. They danced furiously around him, hacking and piercing his slender half-armored body with knives and spears even as he rolled lifeless on the torn, bloody earth. Beyond him, a handful of battle-weary Turanians
closed in, arriving too late to help. The rebels gave Babrak's corpse a last kick, then turned to face their live enemies.

The harvest Conan's blade wrought among them was ripe and red. His howling, tormented fury burned hot enough to sear away any remnant of pain or fatigue. Even so, as he smote and slew, one question scorched his brain, unquenched by blood or wrathful tears: had he been ensorcelled or slyly deceived, or was the wizened, smiling Mojurna really an aged woman?

Night stalked the jungle, crouching like a panther above its frightened prey. The few, rare sounds were hurried scuffs of footsteps, low hails or muttered curses, and the occasional meaty thud of weapon-strokes. Only a faint glimmer of moonlight penetrated the forest canopy, barely enough to reveal the glint of steel or the shiver of a glossy leaf marking the passage of something deadly.

"Troopers, to me! Here, by the water―we go downstream!" Moving three silent paces from where he had spoken, Conan waited, listening warily to the nearby footfalls to judge their intent. The ones he heard behind him sounded friendly, heavy with armor and fatigue; Hwong moved with faint rustlings that would scarcely be audible over the gurgling of the brook.

"Hsst, men! Stay close together, and beware of rebels in our midst! The land levels out here." Even as he spoke, Conan heard the swish of a weapon swung against some real or imagined lurker on their flank. A moment later, a coughing moan told him someone had died, probably one of their own; the sound was followed by rapid steps and swishing blows as others struck blindly at the attacker.

Conan heard the men's murmurs and curses as they resumed plodding; his own heart flagged with dismay. A dozen or so survivors, perhaps; surely not more than a score left of the twelvescore he had started with.

That meant two hundred deaths like Babrak's―and for what purpose? He himself had let the battle go to waste! His hand tightened spasmodically on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"Who comes? Halt, and speak up!"

The hail, accompanied as it was by a flurry of skirmish-sounds and a Hwong war-whoop somewhere in the rear, caused some fugitives to freeze,
and others to blunder into them in the dark. But the voice spoke Turanian familiarly, which reassured them all.

"Are you friend or foe?" Conan craned his neck, trying to fix the sources of the various sounds. "Be warned, we are pursued!"

"Turanians, be sure you kill only rebels!" The voice was muffled, as if turned away; then it came more strongly. "Sergeant, lead your troops to the sound of my voice."

"Aye, watch for us! We are here by the stream!" Groping forward through the brushy gloom, Conan saw flickers of distant torches and heard the shouts of fresh troopers setting out after rebels. His own men jostled and panted close behind him, eager to avoid last-minute death when rescue was in sight. A moment later they faced the sudden, blinding beacon of an unveiled dark-lamp.

"Where are the rest? Is this all?" The gruff voice showed concern as it moved nearer. "Conan, your Venji reserve returned to the fort claiming they could not find you, but I did not believe the dogs! So we came hither, found the rebels, and followed them; we have been killing stray ones for an hour now."

Conan turned to watch the blood-caked, ghastly faces of his men as they staggered into the light. He felt his voice growling deep in his chest.

"We were sore outmanned; the officers must have meant us to die!

Someone will pay for this."

"Whom do you mean, Sergeant?" The gray figure, visible as he set down his light, was Captain Murad, flanked by two veteran troopers. In his free hand he held a blooded yataghan. "If you mean Jefar Sharif, Conan, then let me warn you, it goes much higher than that."

Conan, helping a wounded trooper climb over a log, regarded the captain grimly. "It was you I meant, Murad―had you not come to aid us.

And know, blackguard, you should have come sooner than this!" His pale, blood-smudged stare wavered away from the elder officer. "But thanks for the warning; I will heed it."

Murad nodded, looking sour and rueful in the lamp's steady light.

"There is evil afoot in Venjipur, too much evil for one man to mend."

"Aye, sir." The wounded soldier at Conan's side spoke up unexpectedly, clutching at his sergeant's arm. His pale, hollow-eyed face looked close to the brink of death. "But promise one thing, Conan―that when you go to Aghrapur, you will tell them what it is really like here!"

Chapter 14

Heroes and Traitors

"Curse the benighted Turanian army!" Conan shifted wearily on his bench in the jolting wagon. "Why must the quartermasters assign us sickly horses and a creaking wain, instead of elephants? Two or three long-noses would carry us in good comfort. They'd hardly mind these few paltry wares." The Cimmerian gestured behind to the wagon's cargo: a potted dwarf tree, a few bundles of wicker furniture, and some chests of provisions and assorted rarities, most sent northward as gifts for the emperor and his courtiers in Aghrapur. "This Turanian passion for horses in tropic climes must be a physical thing, like a Kothian's love of sheep!"

"Ah, well," Juma replied from beside him, "as they say, the expeditionary legion sucks hind teat on a gelded mule!" He shook his head stoically. "Only lately, at great cost in lives, have our fighting officers learned an elephant's value in battle. It may take years for their usefulness to get through the thick skulls of the supply staff. Count yourself lucky that they haven't given you an ostrich to ride through this foreign waste."

Juma's gesture swept wide enough to take in the populous, irrigated valley about them. The main road north from Venjipur followed the broadest river fork, meandering between curtain-like jungle ridges toward the lofty Colchian Mountains and oft-snowy Kasmar Pass.

Beyond the peaks lay high, arid hinterlands of Turan and Iranistan; the travelers' way would be grueling until they left their wagon and dray team in the hill fort of Tamrish. There they would board riverboats for a descent down the swift-flowing Ilbars River, to the very dock of the royal palace in Aghrapur.

As yet, however, the riders had not left the Venji heartland. Their road was little more than a grassy dike between flooded rice-swamps, wherein the flow of the stream was dammed again and again, re-used a thousand times before seeping its way wearily to the Gulf of Tarqheba. Each field
was tended patiently by a half-dozen or more peasants: men, women, and children stooping bare-legged to their toil beneath wide straw hats.

Arising in turn to watch the wagon as it trundled past, they made no obeisance, nor waved any encouragement to their conquerors and protectors; they merely watched in silent resignation.

"Ah, well, we will soon be clear of all this!" Conan swung his gaze over the slouched shoulders of their Venji driver and the sway-backs of his wagon team along the road ahead―to Jefar Sharif, astride his white charger in the midst of the four-horse cavalry guard. "Not every so-called fighting officer is quick of wit either," Conan observed. Glowering darkly to where jungle slopes pressed down near the road, he added, "Soon we shall escape these endless farm fields and prying eyes, and enter remote, desolate country."

"You will fight him, then…?" Juma began, only to be silenced by Conan's abrupt gesture, as the Cimmerian inclined a meaningful nod toward the hunched form of the wagon-driver on the bench in front of them. The shaven-headed Venji had professed to understand, beyond his unintelligible native dialect, only pidgin trade-talk; nevertheless, Conan was understandably reluctant to blurt secrets out before him in Turanian, the one language he held in common with Juma.

"This driver of ours," the Cimmerian proclaimed at last, "is not a man, but a stinking heap of elephant-flops! The elephant negligently dropped him in his mother's lap―whereupon she, being an imbecile, thought him a human child and raised him up thus!"

The driver never looked back; his hunched shoulders did not stir, nor did the wrinkles on the back of his bald dome even twitch. It was evident to both passengers that he did not understand Turanian.

"You will challenge Jefar Sharif, then?" Juma glanced warily to the backs of the cavalry riding ahead. "What of his horse-guard?"

"Yes, I will challenge him, the moment there are no more watching peasants to bear the tale. When he refuses, as you know he will, I will shame him and then kill him anyway." Conan patted his sheathed sword, which was propped on the bench beside him. "The guards are seasoned jungle hands; they will allow a fair duel. If not, I leave them to you."

"A thousand thanks for your faith in me!" Juma glanced up at the
jungled hillside, which encroached ever nearer the river channel and the road. "You are sure, then, it was Jefar Sharif who ordered the fatal mission?"

"Aye. He suborned false scout reports, acting on secret orders from some staff officer named Abolhassan. Captain Murad is a whipped old dog, I know, but he was once a good officer; he would not knowingly throw away Turanian lives." Conan shook his head, scowling in grim perplexity.

"It would seem, truly, that the sole aim of the mission was to have me killed!"

Juma nodded, unsurprised. "Remember, I warned you of the danger of playing hero. Now they are letting me accompany you to the capital; perhaps it means that I too am marked for death."

"Likely so, the both of us! Mayhap 'tis best that Sariya chose not to come." Conan's scowl deepened, unpleasant to behold. "Even so, I will ensure that my friendship is healthier for you than it was for Babrak."

Juma's melancholy silence showed respect for the dead, but after a time he resumed speech. "What puzzled me about it all was the presence of the priest Mojurna so far down-country. Are you sure it was he that you saw?"

The Kushite frowned. "When last we found him, it was at a remote shrine in enemy territory; and even then, he had come down but briefly from the hills for some unholy ritual. What murky business brought him so near Fort Sikander this time? I wonder."

Conan sat pensive a moment. "Juma, I must tell you, I learned something about Mojurna… that is, I cannot be sure I learned it… but I thought it was so at the time. It made me waste my chance to strike a fatal blow, the one I had risked… everything for―"

"There, now, Conan," Juma broke in solicitously and a little uncomfortably, "you are bound to be confused! I have seen men mazed by wizards many times before in my native Kush. There is no shame in it, though it may take months for the spell to lift entirely. But say, by Otumbe―who approaches?"

A flurry of splashes had arisen in a swamp paddy beside the road, a field strangely devoid of peasant laborers. From behind a fringe of jungle trees, a rank of horsemen advanced―seven riders, clad in Venji armor of an antique kind rarely seen except in curio stalls.

Above the centermost warrior fluttered the black and yellow tiger-striped banner of the Venji resistance. The mounts, hock-deep in water, kicked up a foaming, spraying tide that approached across the paddy like a supernatural ocean wave. But as the wagon-riders watched, the body of horsemen split up―three to engage the cavalry, who had halted some fifty paces ahead, and four veering back toward the wagon.

"Tarim strike me a eunuch if these be rebels!" Conan said, unsheathing his sword. "I have never yet seen a Venji rebel who could afford more armor than a rice-pot helmet, much less a rebel straddling a horse!" As he spoke, he worked the empty sheath into the belt of his tunic and tied it in place. "See how they split their force; these weary nags and this potted tree must be highly valued prizes to them! Nay, teamster, do not lash your sluggish jades, stop the wagon! Angle it across the road, here, and make it hard for them to gallop past. Good, now hold the team quiet!" Conan had switched to the rough Venji patois to command the driver. The latter, having obeyed him, sank down to the wagon bed, there to cower beneath the plank seat.

Swiftly the attackers were upon them. Juma and Conan leaped to the threatened side of the wagon, the Kushite wielding a long-staved ax he had procured from beneath the bench, Conan swinging his sword. There rang forth at once the din of a farrier's shop as clanging metal strokes, shouts, whinnies, and the stamping of hooves surged about the wagon.

The riders veered by in quick succession, crossing weapons smartly with the defenders, yet suffering some disadvantage due to the height and stability of the wagon platform. The first attacker was knocked half out of his saddle by an ax-stroke from Juma, the second was fended off and belabored by Conan's lashing blade. One marauder leaped aboard the plank bed of the wagon, only to be knocked back over the side by chiming, concerted blows from both defenders. The mounted standard-bearer, obviously the leader, hung back from the fight at first, rallying his troops to fresh efforts with arm-waving and gruff shouts.

But the attackers' second pass fared even worse, leaving one man prone and motionless in the field, one dragging himself painfully up the embankment, and a third trying to stay astride a weakened, bleeding horse while engaging in an ax-duel with Juma. The leader wheeled his mount on the far side of the roadway, having failed to skewer the agile Cimmerian in a lance-charge straight past the wagon.

Yet Conan, massaging his well-exercised sword arm, did not wait for the lancer's next pass. Sheathing his sword and striding back along the bed of the wagon, he leaped from its edge straight onto the back of one of the riderless cavalry mounts waiting in the field.

He felt the animal start and stagger under his robust weight and then rear high, pawing the air with a whinnying scream of protest. Conan lashed the reins fiercely and dug his rough boot-heels into the animal's ribs, urging the stallion forward and downward. Reluctantly the beast complied, whickering as it leaped up the embankment. This placed the wagon's bulk between Conan and the spearman, gaining him time to get the animal under control.

"Juma, I know yon flag-carrier," he shouted to his friend, who was still locked in a murderous grapple with the man on the bleeding horse. "I go to face him down while you finish here."

The Kushite, busy dragging his foe from the saddle, would have been hard-pressed to answer, and the Venji wagoneer cowered useless in his place beneath the seat. But it hardly mattered, for Conan had already urged his steed around the wagon toward the fourth rider―who, in turn, lowered his bannered lance. He spurred his mount forward to spear his challenger.

The horsemen met in a mud-splashing flurry of hooves and weapons, too swift and turbulent to be seen clearly. But one stroke must have told, for amid the jabbing of blades and the glinting arcs of spray, the flag-bearing tip of the cavalry lance fluttered down into the mire, shorn off by a powerful blow. At this, the armored man suddenly broke off combat, spurring his horse in a wide curve back toward the jungle. The unarmored rider, screeching out a savage war-whoop, was quick to wheel his mount in pursuit.

The remaining three harriers of the original seven did not follow; though still in the saddle, they were occupied with the wagon's cavalry guard further up the road. The Turanians, maneuvering under Jefar Sharif's strident commands, engaged the putative rebels in a series of drillyard cavalry passes. These clashes were rendered picturesque, if comically slow and ineffective, by the muddy field and the high-spraying arcs of water.

Meanwhile Conan, crouching low against his laboring horse's spine, ate
flying mud; he spat it from his mouth and shook it out of his eyes with every plunge of his galloping steed. His horse, less burdened because of its rider's lack of armor, slowly overtook the fleeing horse and rider; the only question was whether steed or man could see to find their quarry in the spume of foul water kicked up by its flying hooves.

The racers drew together soon after the armored rider reentered the jungle at the reedy edge of a field; his mount was slowed by the sudden upward slope, enabling the pursuer to close. Conan's horse thundered alongside, forcing the other steed to edge away in its headlong flight. The shift took the fleeing animal too close beneath an ancient tree; a leaf-screened limb knocked its passenger from the saddle onto the weedy earth, where he struck with a brazen clank of armor. His riderless steed galloped off into the forest; Conan, meanwhile, reined in sharply, forcing his animal to halt a dozen paces further on.

Leaping down from the horse's back, he ran to the fallen rider. The man's crested helm had been knocked from his head by the collision; he lay gasping on the ground, groping vainly for his sword, which had been knocked out of its sheath. His face, though bloodied and disfigured by a mashed nose, bore a familiar cast; the slope of his eyes, as they narrowed on Conan's looming shape, was definitely Khitan.

"Well, Warlord, I expected to see you again." The Cimmerian's sword was raised upright as he halted over his enemy. "I would go through the nicety of a duel with you, if there were time… but there is not. My apologies." His sword slashed down, cleaving the suddenly wide-eyed face and the skull behind it.

Leaving the body twitching its last, Conan returned to his winded horse and swung himself up onto its back. No sooner had he done so than a splashing sound drew near and ceased, to be supplanted by the swish of jungle fronds and scuff of hooves through forest litter. Conan urged his horse forward to meet the approaching rider, a wary-looking Jefar Sharif.

"Ah, Conan, so you have survived." The Turanian officer's face creased in a smile to hide his initial look of crestfallen surprise. "A creditable feat, fighting on a stolen horse against an armored foe." The sharif cast his gaze around the jungle foliage. "Where is the rebel leader―he escaped you, I take it? A shame, since my men are busy killing the last of his cohorts.

There will be none left for questioning… Tarim!" His banter ceased as his searching eyes found the armored body lying prone among the weeds.

"Nay, Sharif, he did not escape." Holding his sword down out of sight by his side, Conan sidled his mount ahead through the brush. "I do not think there is any need to tell you who it is, since you and he planned this ambush and my death! But that is the least of your treachery."

"What mean you, Sergeant? We fight on the same side…" Jefar's pretense ended abruptly with the scrape of his drawn sword, as Conan raised his ready weapon. "Curse you to hell, barbarian!" Yet the sharif, instead of meeting his subordinate officer's rush, wheeled his mount around toward the rice field.

The horse, winded and listless in the heat, did not turn quickly; in a trice Conan was upon its rider. Instead of smiting the sharif's armored, lavender-cloaked back, the Cimmerian launched himself atop the lordling and bore him bodily from the saddle. The two plunged into a red-flowered bush and rolled there in a savage, thrashing fight, sinking from view in the greenery. The plant's pendulous blossoms continued shaking in a spastic frenzy which dwindled gradually to stillness.

At length the bush shivered once again, its twigs cracking with the burden of shifting weight. From it Conan arose, holding Jefar Sharif's red-streaked dagger in one hand. Breathing heavily, he flung the knife away into the forest and stepped from the bush. Then he turned to face another flurry of hoof-splashes approaching from the nearby field.

It was Juma, hugging another of the attackers' unmanned horses between his black, blood-streaked knees. He reined the animal roughly to a stop and took in the scene, glancing knowingly from Conan to the purple-clad body crumpled in the brush. "Our beloved sharif… killed cruelly by rebels, no doubt."

"Aye," Conan breathed wearily. "But fear not, I have already avenged his death on their leader, who lies yonder." Stooping to recover his sword, he pointed with it into the trampled undergrowth. "It was Phang Loon, as I guessed―though none, I am happy to say, will recognize him now." He turned and strode off to collect the riderless horses from among the trees.

Juma tugged his mount around to face the other three troopers who now cantered up from the rice field. They reined in and raised their mud-splashed visors, regarding the scene with looks ranging from astonishment to suspicion.

The Kushite addressed them in gruff tones. "Good work, men; I see that the rebels are all slain. Jefar Sharif's heroic death leaves me, as senior sergeant, in command. All that remains is to strip the bodies and continue our trek to Aghrapur!"

Chapter 15

The Triumph

In trackless reaches of the Colchian Mountains the Ilbars River had its source, brewed of snowmelt on lofty, jagged peaks and of rain-squalls on the broader slopes. Down barren ravines and chasms the numberless torrents flowed, lapped along their courses by goat and bear, lizard and panther. Hence onward the waters wound their way, through broader ponds and streams where sheep sucked, and steel-eyed hillmen reined their horses to drink, through silver-blue forests and braided, gleaming cataracts.

Where the tributaries joined to form the mighty Ilbars, the land stretched level in fertile valley and steppe. Here the river rolled slowly and deliberately, finding the leisure and the unopposable will to meander through lush meadowlands. Along its broad, smooth artery coursed the lifeblood of an empire: trade, plunder, and migration, flowing past thriving cities from walled Samara through caravan-rich Akif, to Aghrapur itself, the pulsing, glittering heart of Turan.

The river swarmed with many types of craft: fishing-boats, coracles, reed rafts, and oared galleys, even tall-masted galleons ghosting upstream under shallow sail from the weedy mains of the Vilayet. One of the strangest vessels, square and cumbersome-looking as it poled clear of Akif's busy dock, was a low-sided, boxy-cabined raft, built of sturdy planed timbers which would have floated high in the water even if they had not been roughly joined and caulked with pine-gum and oakum.

The unwieldy barge traveled a one-way journey downriver from Tamrish in the wooded hills. Such craft were fated to be broken up when they reached the capital, their timbers planed as roof-beams for the city's burgeoning tenements, or perhaps as stout keels for more weatherly ships.

Though slow and ungainly, the barge scattered the less massive boats or jostled them aside as it wallowed out into the main river channel.

Across its deck, amid curses and the thumping of poles wielded more as weapons than as navigational tools, one specially notable figure flitted: a slim, perfumed, resplendent eunuch of the royal palace, looking decidedly out of place on the raft's broad stern―for the aft deck resembled a barnyard in its assortment of lowing animals and crops baled and basketed for the city markets. In those rough surroundings, the official's silk robes and effete bearing drew stares and murmured comments, muted only because of the presence of a large, oiled, capable-looking slave close behind the functionary, bearing the various sacks and baskets of his equipage.

The eunuch was engaged in a search, plainly. He moved haltingly along the raft's low bulwark, sometimes venturing a question to the rustic passengers seated there, sometimes only wrinkling his nose in impatient disdain and passing onward. At one place, near the chained muzzle of a fly-swarming, cud-chewing bullock, he received an answer to his query.

The animal's rag-turbaned owner sucked thoughtfully on his toothless gums, then pointed further aft. There, a handful of steersmen plied broad-bladed oars, directing the motion of the keel-less craft and keeping its stern from swinging around to become its bow.

"Conan?" The eunuch, lifting his robe daintily to protect it from water and other substances washing the rough deck, minced toward the stern bulwark. "Is Sergeant Conan of the Expeditionary Guard among you, sailors?" Flanked closely by his burly slave, the functionary stopped a safe distance away to regard the line of ragged idlers.

The steersmen received him with snorts and scornful smiles, their white teeth gleaming in rough, sun-darkened faces. A few spat contemptuously―yet the largest one of all remained sober-fiaced. This was a turbanless rogue, lank and black of hair, clad in the shredded, scarcely recognizable remnant of an expeditionary tunic. Handing his thick oar to another worthy, he stepped forward and replied in a barbaric accent.

"I am Conan, late of Venjipur. This is my brother officer, Sergeant Juma." He waved one hand to the hulking, half-uniformed black who sat on a crate beside him, tilting to his lips an earthenware flask of some upstream vintage. "Are you the Emperor Yildiz's delegate?"

The question brought hoots and guffaws from the other steersmen. But their amusement soon gave way to raised eyebrows and murmurs of astonishment. For promptly, at a nod from his master, the slave opened
one of his baskets and released a white carrier pigeon. The bird fluttered tentatively upward, then flapped away into the low sun to eastward. The eunuch regally ignored the event, addressing the steersman with a deep, brisk bow.

"Greetings; I am Sempronius, First Assistant Secretary of the Imperial Chancery. I was told that you were aboard this… vessel, but I did not expect to find you riding… back here." The eunuch was a slender, fine-featured man dressed all in silk, from turban to vest, to pantaloons and pointed slippers. He moved with an energetic, supercilious air, his glance around the crowded deck hinting at boundless distaste for the raft and the rowdy-looking group he confronted. After speaking, he raised a lavender-scented kerchief to his finely sculptured nose to mask the stench of the cows and other livestock.

"Aye, well," Conan answered him plainly, "we took regular passage as your dispatch advised. But strong hands were needed to help navigate the rapids, and fight off river pirates." Stepping away from the stern transom, Conan reached down to haul Juma to his feet. The Kushite hove up wistfully, surrendering his sloshing jug to one of the steersmen. He waved the others a drunken farewell as he and Conan followed Sempronius forward. "quickly and the gifts for the emperor are stowed yonder." The Cimmerian pointed to the roof of the squat, boxy cabin, where perishable cargo had been lashed to keep it dry.

"Gifts―from the southern lands?" Sempronius eyed the bales and bundles heaped on the upper deck as he approached the cabin, licking his thin lips with interest. "Did you bring along anything good… lotus, say, or hemp?"

"Nay," Conan replied absently, with hardly a glance aside to Juma. "We brought a potted jungle tree for Yildiz, as well as some wickerwork and assorted smaller gifts."

"Oh." Sempronius swiftly lost interest in the cargo. "Well, my task is to prepare you for the public triumph and banquet, and to introduce you to His Resplendency and the court"―he turned around to eye them dubiously―"both of you, I suppose, since you make an impressive pair.

Though we need a native Turanian officer to round out the group and inspire fellow feeling in the crowd."

"One did start the journey with us." Juma, speaking in drink-slurred

Turanian, joined the conversation for the first time. "Unfortunately, he died in a rebel attack the first day. Poor Jefar Sharif!" he concluded with a maudlin, overdone sigh.

"No matter." Sempronius shrugged in profound unconcern. "The dead are of no use to us. It would hardly serve our purpose to parade heroic corpses before the mob. General Abolhassan can appoint some good-looking Turanian to play the role, or else fill it himself." Already moving as if he owned the raft, among passengers who parted respectfully before him, the eunuch conducted them around the cabin and onto the less crowded foredeck. "We will have much to occupy us, what with the reception, the palace tour, and your decoration." As he spoke, Sempronius signaled his voiceless slave to set down his baggage in a vacant place along the raft's bulwark. The servant immediately began opening parcels.

"Tell me," Conan asked with some interest, "will we get to see the emperor's pearl-lined baths? I have heard much about them, and of the skill of the masseuses employed there―"

"You will need to bathe sooner than that! I will have my slave rub you down with scented oil." Sempronius turned back to Conan, holding a piece of iridescent silk that might have been intended as raiment. "When we were astern with the cattle, I did not notice it so much"―the eunuch wrinkled his nose primly―"but frankly, Sergeant, you smell."

"Smell, do I?" Conan shot an angry glance aside at Juma. "Hardly more than yourself, foppish gelding, with your stinking pomade and courtly fragrance! In the jungle, indulgences of that sort would get you quickly tracked and killed." He bunched a heavy fist, flourishing it before his detractor's face; the eunuch and his slave only edged closer together, confronting him stubbornly. "If your nose were mashed flat against your pretty face, I do not think my smell would bother you so much!" Conan glanced again at Juma, who, beneath the dull passiveness of intoxication, looked vaguely concerned.

"But―ah, well, what matters it? No need for an oil-rub by a scented steer!" Abruptly, Conan relaxed his belligerent posture. Shaking off the miserable rag of his vest and stepping out of his torn breeks, he strode up onto the bulwark, then over the side of the raft into the water, splashing the startled watchers with the spray of his plunge.

Swimming was not really necessary, since the river current rolled at the
same resolute speed as the raft. An occasional kick was enough to keep Conan alongside, bobbing and cavorting in the water. Beyond him the nearer riverbank rolled by, bushy with reeds and screened by a few low-hanging trees. Amused passengers offered to watch out for crocodiles; they shouted many spirited warnings, most of them unjustified.

Meanwhile, passing sailboats steered close to the barge to see the cause of the commotion.

Before long Juma too had stripped and leaped in. Shedding most of his winy stupor in the brisk morning coolness of the water, he proved that he too possessed the rare knack of swimming. Whilst the two ruffians sported and strove to drown each other, Sempronius leaned overside and emptied a gleaming blue glass jug over their heads, anointing them with soapy, perfumed oil.

Their frolicking went on a considerable time before the chancery assistant persuaded both men to climb back on board, remain there long enough to dry off, and don some of his silken finery. When this was accomplished, the two had a decidedly gaudy, imposing look. Yet Sempronius's costly silver-gray version of the standard expeditionary tunic contrasted strangely with the wearers' unshorn heads and bestubbled, jungle-scorched faces. To remedy this, the eunuch bound their wet scalps in supple violet turbans. He then made each man in turn submit to the gleaming razor of his mute, solemn slave.

With their faces freshly shaven and oiled, the two looked merely splendid. Iron-trim bodies and bright, sharp gazes lent both a dashing, aristocratic appearance. Their fellow passengers, mostly farmers and merchants, watched every step of the transformation and applauded its result; afterward they dispersed politely as dates and palm wine were produced from one of the baskets to reward the troopers' obedience.

The only real disagreement was over the veterans' battered, disreputable jungle knives, which they would not surrender. The sweat-grimed shagreen hilts, Sempronius insisted, jutted too obscenely from the pleated sashes of the bright new outfits. To settle the matter, he finally had to barter the weapons for his own and his servant's gemmed, gold-hilted daggers; these, on careful inspection, the warriors found to be of equal keenness to the mute slave's steel razor.

The mighty Ilbars straightened its course to eastward, rolling now at a swifter rate toward the capital and the sea. The croplands on either bank
showed the change, looking steadily tamer and more populated. Yet progress was still too slow for Sempronius, who grew more and more restless as the sun approached its zenith. "Where is that boat?" he muttered distractedly to the others. "'Twould be an ill omen if my pigeon were downed by a hawk! The rabble would hardly care for that, nor would the emperor."

But at last a gilded canoe appeared, gliding upstream through shady shallows on the river's southern bank. It raced smoothly under the expert paddles of eight kneeling oarsmen, their pace set by a red-turbanned drummer seated astern. In graceful response to the hails of the eunuch, who waved imperiously from the raft's bulwark, the canoe circled out amidstream. No sooner had the rowers sculled to a halt alongside, than Sempronius was stepping aboard and beckoning to his charges. "Come, we must not be late! You," he told his slave, "bring down that quaint tree!

But stay aboard the raft yourself and see to the rest of the baggage!" The man turned silently away to comply.

In moments the canoe raced ahead with Conan and Juma in its waist, waving farewell to their cheering admirers. The potted tree had been placed in the bows for balance; the three passengers squatted amidships on polished benches set athwart the wooden hull. The speed of the oarsmen redoubled that of the river, as was apparent whenever the craft angled near the bank. There reeds, trees, and rude cottages flashed by at a breathtaking rate, faster than the fastest courser could gallop.

Yet for the most part they stayed out in midstream. The oarsmen effortlessly skirted larger, slower ships that were likewise availing themselves of the swiftest currents. Small, maneuverable vessels kept a careful distance, respecting the gold Imperial plaque affixed below the eagle-headed prow of the canoe.

Once only, Conan laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the paddlers, offering to relieve the man and try out his own skill. But the naked rower, scarcely breaking stroke, glanced back haughtily; he shook his head in obvious resentment at the interruption. So Conan squatted idle with the others, sipping syrupy palm wine, a new flask of which Sempronius had produced. Lulled by the oars' liquid whisper, the throb of the hardwood drum, and the low chant the rowers occasionally hummed to match its rhythm, they sat watching the passing scenery.

In an amazingly short time, the eastern sky had begun to color with the
coppery haze of ten thousand city smokes; simultaneously, more buildings and stone quays began to appear on either bank. River traffic increased, yet posed no hindrance to the expert crew―particularly since the river broadened here. More islands lay in its midst, some surmounted by walled, domed villas of the high-ranking rich. On the now-swampy southern bank, communities of small, decaying boats abounded, the leaky dwellings of poor river-folk.

Then, looming above the graceful droop of willows, Conan spied the city wall of Aghrapur. Crenellated and curving, it stretched away southward, its slim, minaretted towers piercing the smoke-tinted haze at stately intervals.

To Conan's surprise, the canoe landed before the city wall, at a broad stone quay abristle with masts. 'Twas a thriving port, clearly, for the pier abutted a stone plaza ringed with custom-houses and merchants' stalls.

Yet the bustle of the place, as the Cimmerian could not help noticing, seemed particularly intense this afternoon; at first, though lulled by wine, he experienced mild alarm, imagining that a siege was underway. But as Sempronius led him and Juma through milling crowds of cavalry troopers and their prancing, brightly harnessed mounts, he realized that a parade was forming up.

"Make way! Move aside, there, I bring the heroes!" Sempronius's commands were officious and sharp, delivered in the high-pitched voice his boyhood mutilation had left him. "Where, under the gods, is the chariot of honor? Spatulus, you miserable eunuch, who commands this mess? Ah, yonder is the general! Hail, great sir, we are arrived! The triumph can now proceed."

Conan was dragged before a tall, black-turbaned officer, whose eye passed over him briefly and incuriously. By the time he heard the name "Abolhassan" muttered somewhere nearby and realized who the man was, Conan's rumored enemy had turned away to mount a gold-trimmed chariot. Meanwhile, Sempronius led him and Juma up to a broad, low, rectangular box decked with embroidered pillows. The enclosure was obviously meant to be sat in.

"What is it, a raft?" Conan asked of no one in particular, letting himself be ushered inside and deposited on a pillow. "Or is it a howdah?" he asked Juma as the Kushite climbed in opposite him. "If it is one, how do we get up on the elephant's back?"

Sempronius, afire with his official duties, hurried off without answering; Conan's curiosity was satisfied only when four pairs of silk-shirted slaves marched up. Each pair bore a long, polished pole, all four of which they fitted under brackets in the sides of the platform, two transversely and two lengthwise. Suddenly, seemingly without effort, the box was borne up to shoulder height: a plush, open-topped sedan carriage.

Conan did not feel exactly comfortable at being trundled aloft thus, like a trussed pig on its way to a feast. On the other hand, the motion of the ride was even smoother than an elephant jaunt, the litter-bearers seeming to maneuver every bit as skillfully as the rowers of the royal canoe.

Striding between cavalry and infantry columns, they crossed the busy courtyard to arrive at the road. There, the city's eastern gate loomed open before them, its entry festooned with flower chains and bunting.

An interminable wait ensued, with the bearers stooping in stylized, ready submissiveness like well-trained dogs around the grounded litter.

But finally a trumpet salute blared ahead, and drums rattled an answer.

The litter was borne aloft and the march began.

"I do not see the need for this armored escort," Conan observed to Juma, "when the canoe could have taken us straight to the dock of the Imperial Palace."

"You think all this is for our benefit?" The Kushite, though drunker and more complacent than Conan, was not too drunk to smile cynically.

"Butchering far-off enemies is only one of the uses they have for us, you will come to learn. Our greatest service to the empire, possibly our last and fatal one, still lies ahead!"

Meanwhile the litter, moving near the front of the procession, passed through the city gate. For Conan it was an odd feeling to travel supine, gazing up at the slits and loopholes of the overarching gatehouse and the sharp metal teeth of the cullises. Trumpets blared from the battlements, whence, instead of stones and hot oil, flowers rained down on the marchers.

Arriving at the plaza inside the gate, the litter drew up smartly, the whole column halting likewise before and behind it. A gray-bearded city official in a gleaming gold turban stepped up onto a platform to place garlands over both the passengers' necks. Then, to the heroes' surprise, a pair of lush-hipped harem-maids in diaphanous, flowing costumes
clambered into the litter, there to wriggle down cozily in place beside the passengers. The watching crowd, consisting of little more than a backing-up of the normal gate traffic plus a few market idlers, whistled and hooted appreciatively as the procession moved on.

"Well, maidens, you are a welcome reward for weary soldiers!" Conan squirmed close against his plump, pleasing wench, patting her soft olive flank as she turned to wave to the cheering onlookers. The litter was moving along smoothly once again, its bearers apparently not overburdened by the added weight of the women; the only noticable differences were a bit more sluggishness starting out, and some additional sway on the turns.

"Nay, sir, behave yourself We are meant only as adornments for your journey, like your flower wreaths!" The harem maid turned her pert, carefully painted smile on Conan and lifted his hand from her thigh. "Pray do not disarrange my gown so."

"Do not worry yourself about it, child." Conan clasped an arm about her dimpled shoulders. "If you are chilled in this scanty garb, I'll cover you and keep you warm."

"Nay, sir, not here!" she answered primly. "Just wave to the crowd and enjoy yourself." Disengaging his hand from her soft skin, she raised it above his head and waggled it high in a limp salute. "There will be ample time for sport later, at the palace."

Juma was evidently meeting similar, skillful rebuffs from his squirming companion. By calling their attention to the onlookers outside the litter, the wenches could unerringly dampen the men's ardor, Conan realized.

While giving the appearance of passionate wantons, the houris actually directed all their seductive charms to the crowd, with little more than polite professionalness left over for their seatmates. Discouraged at last, Conan contented himself just sitting up among the cushions in what he hoped was a dignified posture, watching his surroundings race by.

The procession moved down a broad, straight avenue of high-walled estates, with ample room along either side for onlookers. These were few, estate slaves mainly, stretched beside the road in two narrow, broken lines; but the procession seemed well-equipped to attract more. Led by a phalanx of brightly clothed, fez-hatted heralds whose incessant trumpet-blasts echoed sourly down the street, the column promptly
widened to a quadruple rank of drummers; Conan could see their tassles and drumsticks bouncing in the air far ahead.

Behind them came threescore crack garrison infantry, followed by their arrogant commander: General Abolhassan, standing alone at the reins of a splendid four-horse chariot. Its black-and-gilt colors matched those of the stallion team, whose glossy ebon backs were set off by gilded harness.

Conan, watching the general's own black-robed, gold-plated back as the officer postured before the crowd, could not help feeling a twinge of jealousy. He observed how much more the hero Abolhassan contrived to look than himself, plumped in an unmanly litter, foppishly dressed, armorless, and blithely ignored by a pair of crowd-teasing harlots.

Yet things could have been much worse. Behind the general's chariot, and just ahead of Conan's striding sedan, trooped another necessary part of this mock military triumph: a gaggle of prisoners, limping along in their rags and their bare, whip-striped skins, burdened with shackles especially weighted to make the wearers look weak and miserable.

Hyrkanians they were, grimy and straggle-haired, doubtless captured in some imperial skirmish far to the eastward. Not of Venjipur, and not even dressed like Venji rebels, they had nothing to do with Conan and, quite likely, little to do with Abolhassan. But the ignorant city folk would hardly know this; they needed some object on which to pour out their contempt.

As the luckless prisoners passed, lashed forward by mounted Turanian overseers, the watching crowd hissed and reviled them. Some pelted the captives with stones and offal too, as universal Hyborian custom dictated.

Behind the captives came a happy change of mood: Conan and Juma, the heroes of Venjipur―a doughty-looking pair, even if they were obviously foreign. So, after all, were many of the city's merchants, soldiers, and valued slaves. In any case, die crowd's sympathetic interest was caught instantly by the smiling, waving concubines, who leaned far over the sides of the litter to display their buxom charms. Thus attended, and obviously bashful and ill-at-ease because of it, the two giant westerners, one fair and the other jet-black, were greeted with good-natured applause, even cheers.

Just beyond the litter, pulled by a single donkey, trundled a cart containing the potted Venji tree. Pathetic as it was, this exhibit furnished the sole authentic touch of Venjipur and of the war blazing in its jungle depths. To the watchers, no doubt, it seemed but a first, faint token of the
vast wealth that would pour northward to reward the Turanian Empire's military prowess.

Furthermore, behind and around it galloped a rousing demonstration of that prowess: trick cavalry riders. They trotted and wheeled their nimble horses from side to side across the avenue, standing up in the saddle, leaping from horse to horse and performing acrobatics atop, alongside, and beneath their running mounts. All these riders wore Turanian military tunics; they were somewhat smaller and more elegant, perhaps, than any cavalry the empire would have thrust into the forefront of a battle, as were their steeds. But again, the unschooled crowd could scarcely tell the difference between these circus pranksters and real soldiers, or know how little their antics had to do with grim warfare. They received the act enthusiastically, applauding and strolling alongside to watch more of the daring feats.

Beyond them paced regular cavalry of the city garrison. They carried brightly bannered lances, whose waving folds blocked Conan's view of any further contingents of the parade. Yet from well behind came more trumpet blasts and drum cadences, proving that the procession extended a good way back. And all the tumult had its desired effect, for as the march proceeded into a district of denser, double-storied buildings, the crowds thickened, closing in along narrow sidestreets. Turbaned, fezzed, and shaven-headed men, women both veiled and less modestly robed, and above all, swarms of naked, shouting children gathered in the avenue, drawn to the spectacle this brassy tumult heralded.

Conan, watching their reactions, sensed their less-than-total acceptance of the display. There was a strong cast of skepticism in those faces, even of resentment―more, it seemed, than hardened city-dwellers'

customary wariness against selling their goodwill too cheaply. Aside from the leers of the men at the shapely women, the winks and kisses thrown his way and Juma's by ribald wives and tavern-girls, and the awed gape of ragged youths at the glittering military regalia, there ran a deeper current of discontent. Some watchers sneered or mouthed curses, even waved fists; most showed flagrant unconcern or sly self-interest. The Cimmerian, his eye trained by years of thievery, spied more than one cutpurse working the crowd to his advantage. A polyglot, healthy city mob after all, he decided.

As the procession moved on past taverns and open marketplaces into a
more lavish quarter of temples and civic buildings, other forms of enterprise prevailed. Hawkers plied the avenue, holding aloft sticks of knotted pastries and sheaves of smoked fish, trading their wares for copper coins. Possibly the efficient eunuchs had managed to spead word of the march in advance; or else these vendors, like the thieves, were quick to respond when a crowd formed. Among the various flowers, coins, twigs, and other debris flung at the marchers, came flying a whole smoked fish, which smote Conan on the chest. Unsure whether it implied adoration or disapproval, he nevertheless ate it and found it tasty.

In this teeming temple quarter the crowds soon grew thick enough to block the avenue, and files of infantry and horsemen were dispatched forward along the flanks of the procession to clear the way. Abolhassan, who gave the order, showed no inclination to slow the march, so the troops hurried forth at a trot, pushing back spectators with brisk efficiency.

Yet Conan hardly expected, as a vast, minaretted temple of Tarim loomed on one side, to see a flock of black-clad mourners, men and women alike, pouring out of its open archway to beset the passing troops. These petitioners, wailing loudly and wringing their clenched hands in the air, met the procession just ahead of the general's chariot. Their cries of "Give us back our sons!" and "Where are our children?" apparently were meant to bemoan offspring of theirs who had been impressed or killed in the imperial wars.

The troopers were quick to close ranks, but unable to head off all the bereaved, so fighting erupted. Stray mourners were thrown to the cobbles by footsoldiers or clubbed down by horsemen's spear-butts. In the melee, the Hyrkanian prisoners also tried to scuttle away; these were dealt with more bloodily, and some confusion between the two sorts of victims unavoidably occurred. Yet the march continued too swiftly past the scenes of conflict for Conan to form any clear idea whether he should leap from his seat and take part. The litter-bearers bore their burden smoothly forward, not even swerving or breaking step when they had to clamber over writhing, bleeding bodies.

After that, the mood of the onlookers grew distinctly hostile; word of the skirmish was spread through the crowd by indignant shouts, easily outrunning the pace of the march. With the Hyrkanian prisoners absent, the clods and offal intended for them now pelted the troops instead―this
despite the fact that the hurlers were beaten with sheathed swords whenever they could be caught. In its disapproval, strangely, the crowd pressed closer than ever it had in good fellowship. The triumphal parade threatened soon to become an armed excursion, its trumpets blaring in warning rather than festivity, its bannered lances couched in deadly earnest.

Yet of what happened next, there was no warning; it came as the marchers wound into a neighborhood of tall tenements inside the old city wall, with the very towers and domes of the palace looming not far ahead.

The first unusual thing Conan noticed was Juma's sudden movement, dragging his female escort down into the litter and rolling atop her in what seemed a sudden excess of passion. Then the pillows all around them began to sprout short, feathered shafts, and Conan felt the conveyance falter and sag as some of its bearers went down. Without conscious refection, he clapped a hand on his own seatmate's arm and rolled out of the sedan, hauling her after him. He forced her down to keep her concealed beneath the litter, but the slaves kept pacing doggedly, stepping over their wounded brethren to carry the vehicle past danger. So the harem girl had to run stooping along the street, protesting angrily as Conan held her in the shadow of the moving platform.

They stopped when General Abolhassan wheeled his chariot to a halt, brushing arrow-shafts from his own harness. At the general's shouted order, a file of troops went running into a decaying brick warren of dwellings, whence he declared the volleys had been fired. Other soldiers drafted fit-looking bystanders out of the crowd to replace the fallen litter-slaves, whose bodies were now dragged off in litters of their own.

While Conan's harem-wench, complaining about her sore shoulder, straightened her mussed hair and garments, the Cimmerian peered into the sedan chair to see whether his friend had been hurt.

Juma, still face-down among the cushions, seemed untouched by arrows. In response to Conan's insistent pummeling he finally looked up, his rugged black features smudged with kohl and rouge. Beneath him the slave girl also seemed unharmed, if somewhat flushed and breathless.

"By Otumbe, is the ambush over already? For me it has been the best part of the ride!" The Kushite made no move to assume a more decorous posture.

"Hmmph, Juma, look here!" Conan spared no humor for his friend's
reckless ardor. "This fellow Abolhassan says the arrows came from yon building, but look at the angles!" He pointed to the fletched shafts protruding from the cushions in the litter. "Any fool can see that they flew from the other side."

"Ah, well, what matters it, anyway?" Shrugging his bulky shoulders, Juma lay down close beside his escort, who nuzzled his neck with frank interest. "The assassins are long since fled."

"Perhaps." Already outdistanced by the clopping chariot team, the litter resumed moving, with Conan pacing restlessly beside it. "But I saw the arrows striking Abolhassan's chariot; if you ask me, the heads were already broken off." He snatched one of the skewered pillows from the sedan chair, holding it up to reveal the razor-pointed arrow tip protruding from the underside. "The shafts that struck near the general were not as deadly as these!"

"You think not?" Juma narrowed his eyes at the cruel brass point, then laughed. "You could be right; if so, then likely you are learning more about the ways of power, and the perils we heroes have to face."

Turning from Conan, Juma resumed cuddling his pliant harem wench.

The other girl sat bored among the cushions, regarding the embracing pair a little jealously. Conan, for his part, would not climb back into the litter, but stalked watchfully alongside it. The march went faster now, with the troops ruthlessly clearing the road ahead. The few remaining onlookers stood in doorways, windows and alleys, watching solemn-faced as the procession threaded its way toward the imperial palace and safety.

Chapter 16

Court of Protocols

From the broad, bustling stableyard of the Imperial Palace, Conan and Juma were conducted to a well-guarded door of the vast edifice. There they met Sempronius, who must have traveled ahead of the parade either by boat or carriage. He ushered them past the scowling, motionless guards into a long corridor of arabesque tiles.

"Your reception feast lies ahead, in the Court of Protocols," the eunuch announced, striding before them with officious quickness. "No special
ceremony is planned, because His Resplendency will not be present until tomorrow. You need only mingle with the crowd and try to make a favorable impression. Watch your manners, eat and drink as the courtiers do, and you will be well received."

"In sooth," Conan muttered, "I shall eat and drink most carefully to avoid taking poison! Our fine reception so far has included an ambush, did you know? Or did you arrange that too, Sempronius?"

"Nay, nay, Sergeant! 'Twas a regrettable mischance, for which I apologize―and a terrible blow to our emperor's plans for this festive day."

Slowing his pace and lowering his voice, Sempronius turned a worried look back at them. "Rumors of rebellion and conspiracy have been rife for some time―but who would have thought the malcontents would go so far?" He shook his finely sculptured head in dismay, making the tassel of his fez wag limply. "The emperor has already been apprised, I assure you.

In leniency, His Graciousness has decided not to sound a general alarm yet. The decoration ceremony tomorrow is to proceed as planned." The eunuch had paused in the hallway, his voice sinking to an earnest whisper.

"It could be the last chance to win public support for the Venji campaign, you know, without resorting to sterner measures. I pray that you will help as best you can."

"I see," Conan nodded thoughtfully. "Rebels, you say? And what of Abolhassan, do these ambushers have some special liking for him?"

Sempronius's face closed off abruptly. "Of that I can say nothing. Both my eunuch chief Euranthus and the general himself have denied those seditious rumors! They still pledge unstinting loyalty to our Resplendent Emperor Yildiz."

"I see―eternally loyal, for the nonce." Flashing a skeptical glance at Juma, Conan pressed Sempronius further. "Is General Abolhassan at this banquet? Mayhap I should take it up with him directly!"

The eunuch turned and started off down the hall, speaking sharply over his shoulder. "I do not know, but I warn you, he would be a formidable adversary. Pray, do not spoil the evening with more bloodshed or insubordination!"

As they drew near the open double door with its two frozen, red-cloaked guards, Sempronius kept silent. Beyond the high, fluted arch lay a
glittering swarm of talking, laughing aristocrats―a world apart, seemingly, from the turmoil of the streets. As the three entered, trumpet notes rippled from an alcove at one side, and a white-haired eunuch announced Conan and Juma's names. Guards relieved them of their sabers, to be returned later, they were told; from that moment Sempronius disappeared, and his wards were beset by sleek, fashionable courtiers.

"At last, here come the heroes! What fine, strong specimens they are!"

"Truly! Are the two of you natives of Venjipur, or some other primitive land?"

"Nay, nay, the pallid one comes from Vanaheim; it was in the dispatch!

But he knows civilized speech, they claim."

"Tell us, warrior, how many men have you killed? Too many to count, I'd wager! But just in the past year, say, how many?"

"Yes, tell us! Do you kill the women and children too, or merely make them slaves?"

"What fierce-looking brutes they are! I can see why we use barbarians to enlarge our empire!"

The questions were posed with a mixture of fatuous awe and condescension, and were too numerous to be answered at once, fortunately. More fortunately, a servant distributing beakers of fine kumiss stood close at hand; the more one drank, Conan found, the longer one could postpone answering.

"You must be good men to have in a tight place. If you grow tired of slaughter in far-off lands, the slaves on my date plantation, a few days'

ride north and east of here, need a firm hand. 'Tis an easy job; you need not even speak their language―in fact, our late overseer was a mute!

When your term of enlistment is past, Sergeant, look me up: Craxus of Kezank-March, at your service!"

The women were the most persistent. Males seemed obliged to confront the heroes and prove themselves, but they usually sheered off judiciously before the warriors' guarded grunts and surly looks; but the females found their dour aspect enticing. To Conan's astonishment, Juma played
expertly to their fascination, mingling his gruffness with tantalizing hints of war experience and personal prowess.

"Oh, Sergeant Juma, I can just imagine what it would be like to be princess of a village stormed by your troops!" A svelte matron, whose silk turban had more fabric in it than her brief, clinging gown, drew the willing Kushite down beside her on a pillowed ottoman. "You look so virile and strong! Now confess to me, you don't always slay the women, do you?"

Conan himself fell as prey to a leaner, hungrier courtesan, a dusky Turanian, auburn-haired from some trace of western blood. "I envy you troopers your travels to exotic lands and your adventures in strange ports!

We women have to be content with homier pleasures." She sank onto the cushioned seat, clinging to the Cimmerian's horny hand with both of hers as he loomed over her. "In Venjipur, they say, rare and exciting potions are to be found. Did you bring back any such mementoes for us city-dwellers? Lotus elixirs, say, or other foreign delights?"

"No." Conan shook his head gravely. "Such potions steal the soul. I have tasted their evil power and seen too many others die or go mad from them. 'Tis foolhardy even to use them to soothe the pain of a wound, you know; some troopers learn to crave them ever more, gashing themselves over and over again for the sake of applying the balm, until they sicken and die of the creeping blood-rot."

Conan's frank speech made the woman flinch and relinquish his hand uncomfortably. Yet at the same time, the tale seemed to engage her deeper interest. She stared thoughtfully into his eyes for a few heartbeats, then whispered something to her turbaned companion, who still cooed over Juma.

"Officers," the women announced, "your appetites must be… simply ravenous after your long journey! Let us go and bring you drink and dainties from yonder table. You wait here; we shall return at once to hear more of your fascinating stories."

As the two bustled away through the crowd, Conan sank down on the ottoman beside his friend. "Come, Juma, let us get away from here. I cannot bear this morbid questioning; it brings back too many evil memories."

Laying his empty kumiss-jar on the tile-blazoned floor, Juma shrugged.

"Just sit here and play along, Conan, and I guarantee you a soft bedmate tonight. Know you, these courtly females will love you less curtly and wearily than Venji campgirls. Unless, of course, you miss your Sariya…"

Impatiently Conan shrugged his remarks aside. "Juma, how you can take your leisure so calmly with arrows drawn at our backs, and our enemies conniving against us? You, who warned me of the perils of the capital…"

"Did I not also say that a hero's life is a short, intense one? We have no choice now but to relax and enjoy it." Juma eased back onto the cushion, a living example of pantherine calm. "This is the best way to spin out our lives another day, by doing what is expected. Tomorrow you meet Yildiz; by then, some course of action may present itself."

"Aye, perhaps―but even the Sunrise Throne looks shaky these days.

Methinks I should warn Yildiz before the night is over, or seek out the source of the threat directly!"

Juma raised his hand to Conan's arm in a cautionary gesture, his voice sinking to a stockade-whisper. "Put no faith in Sempronius's guesses and innuendos; that eunuch is as sly as any of his brethren. Above all, do not hint at any weakness in this Yildiz's reign, unless you are ready to take the blame for undermining it!"

"My thanks for your counsel." Conan clasped the Kushite's wrist, detaching his friend's grip from his arm. "But I cannot bide here tamely now. Take both wenches with my compliments, Juma, but be wary."

Before the courtesans had returned, he slipped away through the crowd.

Abolhassan was nowhere to be seen―an annoyance, since Conan was half-minded to confront him and settle their real or rumored differences without delay. Watchfully he scanned the thronging, lofty-arched hall, from his vantage a head above most of the idlers. He met dozens of glances, some conveying distaste, others a pathetic eagerness to make closer contact. He had to sweep his gaze ruthlessly free of them all, wishing that his height, coloring, and garish dress did not make him so conspicuous.

Maddeningly, he felt himself unable to move smoothly through the crowd; though he would have navigated a night jungle without stirring a
twig, he could not seem to bypass a single babbling, gesticulating courtier without colliding with him or her, and then having to extricate himself from their voluble courtesies and protestations. Inching past an especially raucous, close-packed group, he found himself the target of a municipal officer with a strident, sharply pitched voice.

"Ah, here is Conan, the pride of Venjipur, soon to receive the benison of the mighty! I have been wanting a word or two with you, fellow." Failing to snatch Conan's dagger-hand in his earnest grasp, he pummeled him on the shoulder instead.

"Oof! Back off, man! Who are you?" Stepping away, Conan made forcible room in the crowded surroundings; he wanted to be able to see his challenger's hands and have adequate time to react to a sudden blow or a knife-thrust.

"I? I am Omar, Captain of the Civil Horse-Guard. You may have seen me earlier today, leading a saber detachment to save you from a mob of your… admirers." The medium-sized, red-tunicked man smiled and added his own bray to a spate of appreciative laughter from watching courtiers.

His brown-mustached face, rubicund with drink and temerity, had a pursed look about the lips, making them seem well-suited to uttering slights and slanders. "Come, let us talk man-to-man. Even though I am your senior in both rank and years, I would not let that stand between us."

"Nor would I, since civil guards have no sway over fighting officers."

Standing with his hands loose at his sides, Conan courteously reminded himself not to clutch at his dagger-hilt.

"No, perhaps not. What I meant to take up with you"―Omar paused, visibly playing to the audience of watching courtiers―"was to congratulate you on your victory at… where was it… Sikander! I read the official reports, and I agree that your conduct was most valiant. A dozen-hundred enemy dead at least, allowing for double counting, and impressive losses on our own side as well, to prove your courage. Well done, soldier!" Omar beamed around at the group as if the putative credit were his own.

"Yes, truly," he finally resumed in the face of appreciative nods and murmurs, "after reviewing your conduct of the battle, there is only one small criticism I can make: Where were your cavalry, fellow?" With raised eyebrows and outspread palms, Omar invoked the judgment of the watchers. "Why, a good horse charge might have doubled the enemy
dead-count, with but a fewscore more losses among our own ranks.

Elephants and so forth may be traditional down south, but there is still no substitute for the old hack-and-trample!"

Conan, regarding his critic narrowly, nevertheless lowered his eyes as he answered, for he felt slightly put off by the number and intensity of the watching stares. "If by Sikander, you mean the battle of the Elephant Shrine―why, the cavalry was far behind us at the fort. They never even found the fight. But that is just as well, since I see little use for horses in jungle combat."

"Ah, but there, you see!" Omar crowed triumphantly. "Your attitude is at fault there, Sergeant! To leave the cavalry in the rear of battle is like setting the horse behind the plow and lashing the yoke to your own weary neck. Once the enemy has been put to rout and is fleeing through level forest, that is where a horse troop can shine, outrunning the pitiful fugitives, riding and slashing them down mercilessly! If you entertain a prejudice against cavalry, sir, may I suggest that it is only because you have not tried them."

"Crom blight your impudence, man! With my friends being butchered all around me, I would have been happy to see help coming, whether astride horse, camel, or goat! But come they did not; your saddle-brothers shirked the fight! Whether because of the torpor of their sickly nags or their own miserable cowardice, they left us for dead." In spite of his earlier resolve, Conan found himself not only clutching his dagger, but sawing it angrily in and out of its sheath.

"Sir, I am insulted! This offense to me and my brothers in service can be redeemed only by blood!" Omar's demeanor had changed abruptly; he spoke low now, standing pike-straight, his eyes flashing righteously around at the company. Conan, sizing him up as rangy and trim in spite of a slight swag-belly, decided he might be a capable fighter.

"I would invite you into the stableyard now," the glaring captain went on, "except that I see you are not prepared." Glancing down at Conan's gem-crusted knife, he slapped his own long, straight scabbard. "Therefore, may I suggest the municipal barracks at midnight, where swords are plentiful."

The silence of the nearby onlookers was eerie against the continued babble and clink of the party in the room at large. Conan, flushed and
irritated, did not bother to restrain his voice, and so drew more shocked stares. "Damn you, rogue, I will be happy to meet you this midnight―provided it means I do not have to bear more of your insolence now! Fry in Tarim's deepest hell!" he concluded, turning and shoving away through the crowd.

The buzz of voices behind him, though intense, was still not loud enough to divert the attention of the entire broad hall; and so Conan found refuge in the crowd around the banquet table. This hollow square of trestles, cluttered with food of all descriptions, was besieged on every side by hungry guests. Some of the viands were dispensed by bloused, pantalooned servants moving within the enclosure and by bolder menials who made forays among the revelers.

Conan shouldered his way to a table, plucking up handfuls of grapes and raspberries to cram into his mouth. Looking diagonally across the festive board, he was surprised to see another figure looming tall above the loiterers―Abolhassan, still caped and armored from the parade, accepting a smoking skewer of fruit and meat from a cringing servant.

Well enough, then, Conan told himself; the strident Captain Omar might yet be denied his quarry, if his antagonist and his general fell to blows first. Muttering gruff pardons and warnings to those he pushed past, he began working his way around the table toward his goal.

Halfway there, an even more striking figure intercepted him. She was tall and lavishly built, short-caped and kilted in a costume as splendid as any of the courtiers' gowns, if slightly mannish in cut. More conspicuous than her dress was her pale blond hair, which flowed like a banner in the wake of her brisk movements. She was further distinguished by an entourage: three or four courtly women, more typically Turanian in their dusky looks. Nevertheless they seemed to share the alert, directed gleam that played in their leader's eye.

"Might you be Conan, the hero of Venjipur?" Her voice, in keeping with her appearance, was bold enough to draw the attention of those nearby.

"Are you the valiant officer soon to be decorated by the emperor, in honor of your prowess in his southern campaign?"

"Aye." Meeting her eye, Conan savored the appealing flash of daring.

"That I am."

"Good, then; let me be the first to decorate you!" With scarcely a pause she took up a silver trencher from the table and slung its contents onto Conan, spattering his face and his silken garb with pink, creamy sauce dotted by unidentifiable lumps. "That for all you warmakers and child-butchers, who march our brothers and sons off to distant battles, and who squander the wealth of our land in cruel, vainglorious war!"

When she had finished, her stridency echoed in a silence more resounding than any uproar. The entire room turned to regard the towering, besmirched hero; the sudden rustle of their attentiveness was punctuated only by gasps and cries of astonishment. It was left for Conan to answer―which he did by taking up a wooden vat of oiled, spicy fruit pieces. "This," he proclaimed, "is for sleek Turanian wives who fatten on trade and tribute from abroad, but scorn its procurers!" So saying, he emptied the vessel in the general direction of his assailant.

The pale-haired woman, quick on her sandaled feet, sidestepped the slimy torrent; only one shapely, darting leg and the hem of her skirt were besmeared. Instead, a pair of innocent eunuchs behind her caught the cataract's full force. These two, angrily spluttering and expostulating, shook themselves free of the oily fruit as best they could. Then, instead of assaulting Conan with blades or fists, they laid greedy hold of bread, sausages, melon chunks, and other assorted viands and began hurling them at him.

Promptly the pale-haired maid rejoined the fray, exuberantly calling on her followers to do the same. The Cimmerian, oversized and practically immobilized by the press of the crowd, made an easy target; nevertheless, many of their projectiles flew high and wide. Invariably these struck others in the throng, who in turn joined Conan, laying hold of more foodstuffs or snatching them out of the air to return the treacherous bombardment. In no time the entire throng near the feast-table was embattled, and the room became a flying banquet of fruit, loaves, cutlets, stuffed squab, cheeses, and pastries, with dollops of sauce and pudding of all sorts.

In spite of the melee's rapid spread, Conan's attention remained fixed on its blond, brazen initiator; yet the heavy barrage of condiments raining down at the heart of the fray made her difficult to reach. Breaking free of grasping, flailing throwers, he made a headlong lunge, only to slip in a welter of spilled chowder and fall to his knees. His long-haired adversary's
next offering of stuffed shrimp, still nested within a heavy faience bowl, struck him above the eye with an impact that set his brain reeling. Several thundering pulsebeats sounded in his skull before he found the equilibrium to stagger once again to his feet. He plunged into the crowd after his vanished quarry, who had clearly been headed for the door.

Some distance from the table, standing calm amid the howls and taunts, two warriors conversed: General Abolhassan and the cavalry captain, Omar. The latter was unscathed by the rain of edibles; but the general, using a finely embroidered silk kerchief, carefully mopped pale green liquid from the lapel of his elegant black cape. His mustached lip was pursed in a fastidious, unpleasant expression.

"The vixen Irilya has gone far enough," he observed icily. "A brilliant fiasco this, most destructive to the emperor's order; but here ends her usefulness to our plan. The army is now on the brink of revolt and the court is far past caring, as this disgraceful scene shows." He gestured around the banquet, which had rapidly assumed an orgiastic air of abandon, with some few pairs of drunken revelers rolling in combat or in open lust on the food-littered floor. "In the next stage, Irilya would only pose a danger. Pass the word to have her brought to me."

Omar smiled understandingly. "You plan to interrogate her―and perhaps celebrate the eve of our coup? I would not mind putting such a lively maid to the question myself!" Abruptly, glancing up and seeing Abolhassan's dark look, he grew prim-faced. "I will have her sent here as you command. And of course, I will deal with the barbarian."

"Aye, slay him as publicly as possible. But first, humiliate him further."

Abolhassan's scowl twisted into a grudging smile at the notion. "That should not be difficult for an expert wag and duellist such as yourself. If he does not show up for the fight, spread the news of his cowardice abroad and leave him to me. In either event it will end Yildiz's laughable attempt to create a hero." The general pivoted on Omar, who clicked his heels and nodded a salute. "To tomorrow, then, and mutiny!"

Chapter 17

Night Pursuits

Down filigreed corridors, across jade floors and lapis-lazuli terraces,

Conan pursued the fleet-footed Irilya. It had not taken long for her attempted departure to become a chase at full speed. The lower level of the palace's spacious west wing was laid open for festivity that night, so the red-liveried guards posted along the halls stood stiffly immobile as the two darted past them.

The race was close and fast, with the female's slender build and lithe, horsy legs challenging Conan's hard-hewn fitness. The only true advantage he enjoyed was the pursuer's age-old privilege of seeing the course unfold clearly before him, and of cutting corners to avoid the costly delay of uncertainty.

Yet it was not until both runners sped through a yawning archway, out into a moonlit garden of hedges and geometric ponds, that Conan drew near enough to hear the steady pant of Irilya's breaths and smell her musky, overheated scent as she ran. His heart surged strong within his chest, and to his senses the night air tasted cool as wine; he knew he could keep up the pace.

He ran with the steady sureness of a leopard on the track of a supple, tender gazelle.

The mazelike garden might serve either as a refuge or a trap. Irilya, hearing her pursuer's steps thudding near, sought to elude him by making a sudden, sidelong dash down an aisle between rectangular fountains. This created an opportunity Conan was quick to seize: veering swiftly as his prey, he launched himself into air above the corner of the nearer fountain.

Completed, this leap cut the last few paces off Irilya's lead, enabling Conan to catch her shoulder in his extended arm. Predictably, though, it left him little room to stop; so, skidding across the narrow tile apron between the fountains, he plunged into the farther one. His quarry was borne along with him, to fall atop him in a spraying flurry of tangled limbs.

Splashes and curses resounded for a few moments, drawing no particular attention in the deserted garden. The turmoil gradually subsided, giving way to a forlorn, steady dripping. Hunter and hunted faced each other knee-deep and motionless, separated by a single, curving length of steel: a dagger gripped in Irilya's taut, wet hand.

"Enough, wench; back off!" Conan declared self-righteously. "If I wished to fence with you, why, I have a weapon of my own. But I am a forgiving sort!" The Cimmerian shook his now-turbanless head, sending drops of
water scattering from his soggy mane like a wet mongrel shaking itself. "I consider that I have repaid your earlier affront with this dousing―which we both needed, in any case, to wash off the remains of this night's banquet! Now take that pig-skewer out of my face!"

"I may, barbarian"―Irilya lowered her blade and prepared to give ground, or rather pond, to him―"if you will give more thought to whom you call wench!"

All at once an arc of water sprayed up as Conan's foot swung wide, sweeping his adversary's legs from beneath her. Both figures went down in a new flurry of splashes, resolved forcibly this time in a tight clinch. Then a wet impact sounded, and the combatants broke apart. Steel shone once again, making a gleaming hyphen to their sundering.

"Off me, you raping, murdering brigand! Next time the damage will be permanent!" Irilya's blade flickered meaningfully at waist level.

"All right, by Crom! I only sought a kiss, as honest recompense!"

Conan's voice sounded slightly impaired, and his step faltered a little as he squared off against the maiden. "Methought you were enjoying it too, until you struck me a foul blow!"

"I enjoyed the blow more," she said, turning away. Unhurriedly she waded to the edge of the pond and climbed out. "I save my kisses for real men, not for the marching, slaughtering minions of General Abolhassan!"

Sheathing her dagger and taking her pale hair in handfuls, she wrung and twisted it, letting its moon-silvered brightness pour in long rivulets down to the rippled surface of the pond.

"Abolhassan? I am no friend of his." Conan bent to splash his tunic with water and slough away the last traces of pudding and chowder. "I have reason to question his loyalty to the realm."

"Loyalty!" Irilya's laugh was clear and bell-like. "What is loyalty in Aghrapur? Mere self-promotion! Doubtless you envy Abolhassan, and mean to take his place and become a worse tyrant! I have pled causes before the emperor often enough to know that there is no real difference between power-seeking males… or power-seeking eunuchs, for that matter!"

"When I plead my case, Yildiz will listen." Conan, having finished his
ablutions, was now wringing his shirttails into the fountain. "He would be a fool to ignore a general who appropriates military stores to his own secret uses, and who stages false assassinations in the capital."

Irilya laughed again. "Tell Yildiz what you will, at your own peril; he and Abolhassan are thick as thieves. But do not pretend for my sake that you are some high-minded reformer!"

Though scornful, the maid could not help being beautiful as she bent to press water out of her skirt with a knife-edged hand. She continued speaking without looking directly at Conan. "You dance to the emperor's tune, and promote his pet wars; you are part and parcel of a corrupt order soon to be overturned. Your safest chance would be to leave our city―but why do I even bother to tell you this? Good riddance!" Straightening, looking only vaguely disheveled in the crescent moon's radiance, she strode off along the causeway in the direction of the palace's soft-lit arches.

"Wait, do not leave!" Conan called, wading after her to the pond's margin. "I need to hear more about your cause, and of the situation here in Aghrapur."

"Oh, really?" Irilya did not slow her determined pace. "And why should I pour out secrets to you, my political enemy? Why waste time with you at all?"

"Why?" Conan followed her along the fountain's edge. "Perhaps because worse enemies wait in the offing."

"What―you mean, those?" Turning the corner of the fountain walkway, Irilya paused to regard three shadowy figures moving toward them from the direction of the palace. "Why, they are only banquet guests made curious by our struggles―or my friends from court, come to see to my welfare!" She drew breath for a shout. "Hello, sisters, is it you?"

Her cry echoed starkly in the silent courtyard, unanswered. The three dim, turbaned shapes seemed to be moving in concert, having fanned out to cover a wide area of the garden. More menacingly, when Irilya strode boldly across the central plaza toward an empty path skirting more ponds, all three hurried sideward to cut off her route of escape.

"'Twould seem they are the agents of some enemy of yours," warned

Conan, who had hauled his dripping bulk out of the pool behind her. "But go, confront them if you want; I will back you."

Whether Irilya had greater mistrust of the three shapes slouching ahead of her or the one hulking behind, she strode forward, staying well clear of Conan. Her aspect was one of boldness, her hand visibly clutching the dagger stuck in the waistband of her skirt. "Here, you three, identify yourselves! And give a lady some protection against this rogue who pursues me."

Her words were disregarded, coaxing forth no reply; and there was nothing friendly in the way the three mufti-clad men converged on her, two of them reaching to take hold of her arms, the third turning to head off the approaching Cimmerian. "Stay clear," he murmured gruffly. "This is no business of yours."

His face wore a surprised look as Conan's hand shot out and grasped his neck. When, an instant later, the northerner's other hand rapped a dagger-hilt against his temple, his expression slackened from one of strangulation to one of oblivion, and he dropped senseless to earth.

Irilya was fending off one of the other two men with her dagger; the third, shifting his attention from her to Conan, stiffened before a stroke of the Cimmerian's malleted fist and toppled over backward. His body splashed into a fountain, where he drifted motionless.

By then, Irilya had the third attacker whimpering from a dagger-slash to his arm; nursing it, he turned and scuttled off toward the palace. Conan started after him―until, looking back, he realized that Irilya was pelting away in the other direction. Cursing, he abandoned the one pursuit and took up the other.

"What, no thanks for me?" he called, drawing near her jouncing shanks and damp, flapping garments. "Where are you bound now?"

"Leave me alone, will you?" she tossed back over her shoulder. When he continued to gain on her, she added, "If you keep company with me, I want no more of your vile attentions. I warn you―try anything, and one of us will die!" Rounding a hedge onto a broad walkway leading to the outer wall, she slowed her pace to swift walk.

"Whatever you may think of Imperial troopers, I am not a wholesale
ravisher of women and killer of babes." Conan drew up beside her, keeping a decorous distance. "Who were those men?"

"I recognized them as palace agents," she breathed heavily. "I have seen them watching me before, but now things must have come to a more desperate pass. They want me silenced, it seems, and my husband's rank will no longer protect me."

"Your husband?" Conan blurted out, his mind suddenly overwhelmed by imponderable complications.

"Nay, he is far from here, with no great concern over me and no lack of foreign women to occupy him." She patted her damp skirt as she walked, straightening it where it clung to her striding thighs. "But I…! I am now an outlaw, unsafe even in my own manor house, I would venture. Yet I do not care; I welcome it, if it means that the crisis is finally at hand!"

She cut off her speech as they neared the outer gate. Its portals stood wide, flanked by two frozen-faced pairs of guards; these let the couple pass without question. Outside, in the cobbled city street, beggars and indigents loitered; they eyed the departing pair but did not crowd forward to beseech them, whether because of their wet, bedraggled looks or because of Conan's dangerous size and more dangerous scowl.

When once again they drew clear of listening ears, he spoke. "I seem to have come to the capital at a time of political upheaval."

Irilya laughed bitterly. "Aye! If this rotten, despised regime lasts another day, 'twill be by special dispensation of all-seeing Tarim himself.

Or herself!" She turned aside, forcing Conan to follow her along a cobbled residential lane that trended uphill, away from the lights of the palace.

"You do not fear the horrors of civil war, then?" Conan pressed her.

"Can it be worse than the horror of civil tyranny? When sharife and satraps impress our young into foreign wars and kidnap innocent subjects off the streets?" Irilya spoke in a practiced way, speeding her steps to keep slightly ahead of Conan. "Noble rank has allowed me and my few friends at court to be the sole voices of protest―until now. Now at last I say, down with the established order! Any change will surely be a change for the better."

"But you have never seen true anarchy." Conan gestured to the blank-walled dwellings on either side, lit by moonglow dimly suffused across the hazy sky. "These houses all burned, their tenants beggared or slain, the cry of havoc loose in the town…"

"Nay, Sergeant, we need never fear real anarchy here, except perhaps from such as yourself! Turan is a civilized land, the will of her people alloyed together as one." Irilya shook her gradually drying hair, spreading it across her shoulders like a mantle of silver threads. "The citizens crave only wise, peaceable rule; their hearts will tell them what to do when the time comes.

"Most of the city garrison is already on our side, so any violence and turmoil will be but temporary, toward a nobler end. Understand: Things must get worse before they can get better!"

"Hmm, I know nothing of that." Conan shook his head doubtfully, his natural skepticism softened by satisfaction at having drawn this splendid creature into earnest conversation. "Remember, girl, players like Abolhassan do not wager their high-ranking necks for nothing! I would guess that he plans to gain much from any reshuffling, perhaps a throne!"

"But do you not see, the general is discredited, as is Yildiz himself! They cannot win the support of the people―any more than they can win their puny war in Venjipur, which drags on year after year. Their best hope there, the sorcerous power of the Court of Seers, has been thwarted and stalemated; that is open knowledge! Even with the aid of mighty heroes like you"―here her voice skipped on the rough edge of laughter―"they are powerless, and the court and the people know it!"

"Mayhap so, mayhap not," Conan demurred carefully. "But might it not be that the southern war is only a blind? 'Tis whispered among my troopers that most of the provisions meant for Venjipur are taken as graft, or set aside for use here in Turan, against Yildiz himself―"

"A good thing, then!" Irilya said abruptly. "I never imagined they were put to such a worthwhile end! Death to all these fools and tyrants!" She laughed then in earnest, glancing aside lingeringly at him for the first time. "Strange to hear myself say it! Once I was a woman of peace, seeking nothing but an end to this mad war. But since those days I have garnered so much frustration and pain, and seen so many evils…"

"I can sympathize with you, Irilya!" Debating silently whether to put an arm about her shoulders, Conan decided only to risk patting her lithe back. "After killing so many in Venjipur, I find many here in the capital who are far more in need of killing!"

They had emerged at the top of the hill, where had been decreed a treeless park surrounding a graceful, domed temple. To eastward and southward city lights glimmered. On the northern side, moving beacons of ships traced the Ilbars River's winding course, with the torches and fire-urns of the palace providing a grandiose centerpiece. The mild air of Persian night, warm and jasmine-scented, was fast restoring the walkers'

hair and garments to comfortable dryness.

"You know, Conan," Irilya declared, turning to him more charitably than she had yet done, "as I said before, your wisest course would be to leave this place and hie back to your northern wastes. But if you are ambitious, as I suspect, and not too slavish a dog of your imperial masters, there is another avenue open to you. You could join us rebels, turn your fighting skills to our cause, even use your quaint status here to become a leader! Of course, you would have to place your own will second to that of the people."

"Irilya, it sounds as if your cause has too many leaders already."

"Nay, but it could be most opportune! Think on it." She clasped his upper arm in her respectably sized hands, applying gentle force to silence him. "The rebels are set to strike any day now―tomorrow, if chance permits. And tomorrow, if all goes as planned, you will be on a dais, as close to the emperor as I am now to you. Abolhassan will also be nearby, doubtless. If, when Yildiz reaches up to pin his medal on your turban, you would but draw your dagger and plunge it into his breast, thus…!" Her swift, sudden motion had enough of reality in it to make Conan flinch aside from her flashing blade. "Then, for justice's sake, you might kill Abolhassan too." Stabbing the night air, she grinned up at him, looking as wild beneath her blond tresses as any Aesir warrior-maid.

Yet the creeping chill he felt was of the here and now. "Nay, girl," he protested, "you do not know what you are asking! Abolhassan is my enemy―only Abolhassan! Why? Do not ask me; my bones tell me so!"

Stubbornly he lashed his damp black hair across his shoulders.

"Tomorrow, when I receive my decoration, I will denounce him before

Yildiz and tell the truth about the war in Venjipur, as I have promised my fellow troopers I would. I will explain it all―and mayhap kill the general, if time permits. Explaining may not have worked for you, but it will work for me, I swear! It must work!"

He found that, in his zeal, he had been gripping her shoulders forcibly and shaking her; now she pried herself loose and turned away, angrily rubbing the sore spots. "Very well, then, Sergeant! It appears that we have nothing in common, so we may as well part. I can make my way alone from here."

"No, wait, Irilya!" Shaking his pounding head again to clear it, Conan strode after her. "I have an appointment at the city barracks at midnight.

Can you show me the way?"

She turned back to regard him coolly. "What a coincidence; that is where I am bound. I will take you there―if I can trust you not to betray my friends!"

Chapter 18

Night Pairings

In Aghrapur's central district the day's bustle had subsided, as had the stamp and scuffle of marching feet. The crowds were abed and the blood-runnels long since dried, yet there remained furtive traces of life.

Foreign merchants mumbled over campfires smoldering redly before their stalls, and idlers lounged in the porticoes of brokerages, singing ballads and passing around slack wineskins. Elsewhere about the plaza, small bands of restless youths roved, excited by the day's events, angry and uncertain about what might ensue.

As Conan escorted Irilya across the littered cobblestones, he saw her wave and call out more than once, greeting familiar faces, bandying catch-phrases or bits of news, but never names. "Hail, brother! Make ready for the morrow! Citizen, have you heard, the port guards refused to charge the crowd―they stand with us! Strength to our cause!"

As the spike-topped wall of the civil barrack loomed ahead, loiterers grew scarce and Irilya became more discreet. But to Conan's surprise, as soon as they drew nigh the postern gate, she strode straight up to it and
knocked boldly. A light winked in the peephole, and the portal opened inward. She entered to the sound of murmured greetings, with Conan crowding in close behind her.

"You see, these are soldiers faithful to the people's will. And my escort, here"―Irilya introduced Conan to three troopers who wore looks of mingled suspicion and recognition―"is an officer pledged to secrecy, who may yet learn the merit of our cause."

"Well enough, sister, if you vouch for him. Now come―the captain has heard our demands, and is about to render his answer!"

The troopers, leaving one of their number posted at the door, led the visitors to the archway of an inner chamber. It was overflowing with garrison troops strangely alert and ready-looking for this time of night; the armored crowd extended out into the hallway, blocking the entry.

From within the room, a firm voice could be heard addressing them.

"… I have read your petition and I agree that, after this day's slaughter, such a thing must not be repeated. I am prepared, therefore, to review any future orders of my superiors in the light of what I consider to be the public good―my stipulation being, of course, that you men will continue to obey me personally and unquestioningly. But I promise to heed the spirit of your protest; never again will the civil guard be turned against innocent citizens, in the service of an unrighteous cause!"

The shouts and cheers that greeted this statement demonstrated the troopers' renewed commitment to their leader. Promptly they were hushed as the speaker continued, "Many forces have been at odds during the recent, troublous days. Tomorrow bodes to be specially turbulent, in view of the ceremonies and public meetings planned. Therefore, I order that all troops remain armed and mobilized from this hour forward."

This speech was greeted with more cheers, and Irilya clasped Conan's shoulder excitedly. "Did you hear, he is with us, and tomorrow is the day!"

But the Cimmerian, brows knit in suspicion, pressed forward through the crowd of grinning, departing troopers. Shoving into the doorway, he gained a look at the speaker lounging on the edge of table on the far side of the briefing-room. It was, as he had guessed, Captain Omar.

Glancing up unsurprised at Conan, the captain calmly finished
addressing a turbaned functionary beside him. "I have passed the order; now make sure the mounts are fed and readied by dawn. Before I take my place in the staff room, there is an errand I must attend to. Go, and I will meet you there shortly."

As his flunky hurried from the room, Omar's voice shifted to a more courtly, insinuating tone. "Well, barbarian, my suppositions about your cowardice were too hasty, perhaps." He glanced around with arch humor to the few who remained in the place. "Being late to a fight, after all, is not quite so dishonorable as shirking it entirely. Trooper, lend our guest your sword!"

The guards and civilians looked from him to the Cimmerian sharply, showing by their abrupt, retreating movements that they knew or guessed what was afoot. The soldier whom Omar had commanded drew his yataghan, handed it hilt-first to Conan, and hurriedly stepped aside. The Cimmerian slashed the sword before him, finding it to be of standard infantry balance, reliable enough, perhaps.

"I do not understand, Sergeant," Irilya demanded at his elbow. "You have already met Captain Omar, then? What is the matter?"

Ignoring her, Conan strode among benches toward the lamplit head of the room. Omar had drawn his own sword and now held it ready before him. "More honorable if we met at lance-point, perhaps―but this will teach you that a cavalry officer is no coward, afoot or in the saddle!" So saying, he lunged, sending his point darting at Conan's throat. His entire body arched behind the thrust, which Conan needed all the strength and quickness of his arm to deflect and send clanging past his ear; from that instant, he knew he faced a deadly opponent. Omar's swift, tidy grace left no opportunity for a riposte. The two blades slithered together twice again, each smoothly neutralizing the other's murderous tendings; then the fencers stepped apart to breathe.

"Conan, what are you trying to do?" Irilya, instead of keeping clear of the fight, complained shrilly at the Cimmerian's back. "Captain Omar is an ally of ours, a friend of the cause! We cannot afford to lose him in some childish brawl―come, end this fracas at once!" Suddenly, to his alarm, the Cimmerian felt her hands clutching at his elbow, tugging his sword-arm back out of action. Omar, quick to see the opening, danced forward, his blade raised in a slash well aimed to take off that same arm at the shoulder.

By an impossible duck-and-twist, Conan stepped forward into the stroke. Simultaneously, levering his weapon up with both hands, he deflected the hard-swung sword and sent it skating a hairsbreadth from his shoulder. Shaking off the still-protesting Irilya with a snarl, he spun to parry two more swift cuts. As Omar stalked him further, the Cimmerian froze in a defensive crouch, striving to regain his former, icy calm; he knew he could not allow himself the luxury of anger against this enemy.

"Sergeant, cease this duel, or I will kill you myself." Wild-eyed, Irilya had drawn her dagger. Conan edged away from her, his eyes darting uneasily between his two foes.

But to his gut-churning surprise, the captain's next stroke was sideward, toward Irilya. The flat of his blade lashed forth deftly, striking the woman's cheek with an audible slap; from it she staggered back, fingering the pale welt where the steel had crossed her delicate skin.

"Madam," Omar proclaimed then to the whole company, "need I inform you that this is an affair of honor? Your importunings on my behalf are unwelcome―nay, insulting, and so I suggest that you leave here.

In fact, messengers, our confederate―the highly placed one who cannot be named―has requested to see the Lady Irilya tonight. You two may as well take her to the palace… at once!"

Before Irilya could turn and bolt, the two turbaned aides Omar had commanded stepped forward, seized her arms, and marched her toward the door. The troopers in the room stood watching uncertainly. They were cowed by the spectacle of the duel, no doubt, and by their captain's capable, steel-edged authority.

But Conan could restrain himself no longer; growling curses, he sprang to attack the hypocritical Omar. His sword volleyed blows, chiming and grating against the captain's infallibly raised steel, slashing and flailing at his foe in savage, murderous cuts.

The Turanian's blade countered the strokes by a seemingly magical omnipresence. Weaving a web of invulnerability in vacant air, the swordsman unfailingly met the hazards from each new angle. Elegantly the captain paced, sidestepped, retreated, conserving strength in the face of his attacker's angry, profligate efforts. The wave of every attack must peak, as expert fencers knew―and afterward topple and dissipate, in a seethe of vulnerability a clever fighter knew how to exploit.

The climax came as Conan's whistling brand drove downward in a mighty overhand stroke. Omar, penned between table and wall, could not evade it; only a brute parry was possible. The two blades met overhead with a clash that could have shattered one or both; instead, they locked in air, grating and grinding together in a pointless stalemate. No fine fencing here, and no elegant resolution possible, either; just brute effort… until Conan disengaged his sword and turned easily away, leaving the jeweled hilt of his dagger protruding from Omar's belly.

As the captain crumpled, the watching troopers rushed forward to his side. Conan strode to the doorway, pausing only to tell them, "You may keep the dagger, since it is lodged in your commander's ribs. Would that I could use it to carve the lies out of his gullet, the way pearls are cut from an oyster! But I must go now and undo a small part of his mischief!"

Conan overtook Irilya and her captors in a deserted lane a short distance from the barrack. The three were already engaged in a scuffle; one of the men came stumbling back, propelled by a kick, to fall on the Cimmerian's all-too-ready sword. Conan, once he had shaken off the writhing body, sprang to Irilya's side―only to find the second man already kneeling before her, choking on the dagger she had stuck in his throat.

The woman, trembling with reaction, clutched Conan's arm tearfully to steady herself. After long, panting moments she addressed him, rough-voiced. "Captain Omar is dead, then?"

"Aye, or soon to be! He was no true friend of your rebels; more likely a pawn of our common foe."

"Perhaps." Irilya sighed raggedly, letting Conan lead her away from the reeking, trickling bodies. "With so many plots and deceits afoot this night, how can we be sure of anything? It all seems so wild… maybe chaos will descend tomorrow, after all!"

"Who can say? We are not gods." Conan clasped her shoulder. "'Tis hard even to know whether a single mortal can make a difference."

After walking some distance, keeping to dim, deserted lanes, they came to a broad, softly splashing public fountain. To Conan's surprise, Irilya let go his arm, stepped across the sculpted rim, and waded into the moon-silvered water.

Turning, she smiled at him for the first time, alluringly. "We are both soiled again, this time with evildoers' blood." Undoing her gown at the neck, she let it slip from her creamy shoulders into thigh-deep water, then stepped out of its floating folds. "We would be wise to wash it off," she said, stretching her ivory arms to him. "Come, hero, let me cleanse you!"

"What say you, eunuch? Captain Omar, dead?" General Abolhassan paced his chamber, his black cape and turban casting a lurid shadow on the room's scarlet hangings. "Strange to say, the consummate duellist, outdone by jungle savagery! Somehow I did not expect it." The bemused shake of the warrior's head made the gems in his turban glint in the lamplight. "The captain's death will be an inconvenience to us; see that he is replaced by a trustworthy subordinate." The general wheeled, fixing his gaze on his visitor. "What of the barbarian, was he scathed?"

"Nay, sir." Euranthus stood before the general, obviously uneasy at being the bearer of ill tidings. "By report of my spies, he was last seen naked in a public fountain, coupling with the woman Irilya."

Abolhassan's face darkened and he spun away, striding another dozen paces in his spurred, clinking boots. "I see," he finally answered on his return, wearing a forced, unpleasant smile. "Perhaps it is a boon that my enemies consort together, making it easier for me to watch them. But remember, as soon as the girl is alone, I want her taken!"

"Yes, General." The young eunuch chief stood not quite at attention, his hands nervously clasping and unclasping behind his back. "And the barbarian…?"

"Just make sure that he attends his ceremony; this puts me in mind of a new plan of action." Turning and stalking the floor like any commander on the eve of his greatest battle, Abolhassan dictated briskly to his minister.

"Tomorrow, when our emperor fulfills his fatuous dream of proclaiming a hero, I will be standing beside them both to present the golden bauble. I once regarded that menial task as beneath me, but now I see its value: 'Twill be a simple matter to slay Yildiz, then cry out that the assassin was Conan and skewer him as well! None will know the difference, or dare to tell it; in any case, those at the forefront of the assembly will in the main be our friends." He came to a jingling halt before his guest. "Well, Euranthus, what think you?"

The slim youth stood frozen, his eyes widening to take in the enormity of the deed. "A daring plan, Lord Abolhassan! 'Tis brilliant!"

The general grinned as broadly as any man would ever see him do.

"Aye, eunuch, and a sound one! This way, we shall have no need of civil upheavals or ultimata, and no humiliating dependence on the rabble. 'Tis my foolproof path to kingship! Now we need only work out the details…"

Chapter 19

Reward of Valor

During the hours before dawn, through the efforts of the invisible, industrious horde of slaves and eunuchs ever waiting to work the Resplendent Emperor's will, the Court of Protocols underwent another transformation. Spent bodies and foodstuffs were removed from its floor, the spattered tiles and inlays were scrubbed and polished, banners and bunting strung high from the room's carved vaultings, and silk cushions set forth to pamper the seats of Aghrapur's mighty. Lastly, around the chamber's high walls and broad, lofty dome, the vents and lancet windows were opened, letting golden sunrays stream in to illumine the splendors of the place for the gathering celebrants.

These worthies straggled in throughout the morning, displaying a trepid uncertainty that ill matched the lavish preparations on their behalf.

Some were haggard from the previous night's debauch; others looked oddly wary and doubtful whether they ought to be present. Uneasy at mutterings of discontent and rebellion, they weighed the risk of a public appearance in such parlous times against the greater risk of non-appearance, a too-conspicuous absence from a ceremony ordained by the omnipotent Emperor Yildiz.

Afraid of missing the event, in compromise, they came late. What they failed to realize was that, as always at these lofty functions, lateness was a measure and a privilege of rank, with the highest functionaries arriving much later, and the emperor last of all.

As the guests trickled in they sat on pews or cushions carefully chosen, with reference to the seating of rival factions, the emperor's probable line of sight, and the exits. Primly each noble tidied his robes and retainers around him, conversing in discreet murmurs, genteely ignoring the
servants. As the morning advanced these nonentities glided forth with trays of drink and foodstuffs unappetizingly like those which had flown about the courtiers' ears the previous evening.

Yet in one quarter of the spacious court, food and drink were briskly in demand. In that small corner, in a railed box close alongside the dais reserved for the more public phases of state business, there reigned a mood contrary to the prevalent atmosphere of bored resolution. There sat Conan with Irilya, now obviously and unabashedly his intimate. These two were among the earliest arrivals, certainly the noisiest. Around them flitted servants attending to their needs, bowing and smirking politely at their jests and antics; around them too flitted the eunuch Sempronius.

"I am glad to see you enjoying yourself here at court, Sergeant, and that you have found yourself an… admirer." With an air of dubiety, Sempronius eyed Irilya's abandoned posture as she lay against the sprawling Conan, both arms and one leg tangled among his own disheveled limbs. "I hope you will appreciate, too, the solemnity and dignity of this event, as Aghrapur and her immortal emperor honor a hero."

"Aye, in sooth, I do appreciate it," Conan rumbled good-naturedly, meanwhile twining the fingers of one hand through his lover's blond tresses and making her purr in contentment. " 'Tis truly a hero's welcome, one that any of my brother troopers would crave! I thank you for it heartily, gelding!" He adjusted his posture on the low-backed couch, drawing Irilya closer. "Now, you mentioned something about finding us new tunics to replace these damp, shredded ones?"

"Yes, to be sure! That would improve your appearance, and perhaps make it less necessary for you to… huddle together for warmth. I will see to it at once!" Officiously the eunuch turned away, sending servants scattering left and right before him.

When Sempronius had gone, Irilya drew herself up at Conan's side.

With a languorous sigh she watched him drain his silver beaker of kumiss and replace it on a lacquered tray for refilling by attentive slaves.

"He is right, you know," she murmured in his ear. "Though we delight in one another, and though I cannot keep my hands from you"―this she demonstrated with a gesture rendered invisible by the rumpled pleats of his tunic―"we must remember the seriousness of the day and the perils
that range around us." Coolly her glance swept the gallery, the servants, the still-arriving courtiers, and the guards standing rigid by the archways.

"I credit your good faith in wanting to warn Yildiz, Conan, though likely your plan will not work. In any event, we must not become too drunk or too lovestruck to seize the moment―or at least, save ourselves."

"Aye, Irilya, you are right; I will drink only kvass henceforth." Conan waved accordingly, dismissing one pair of servants and beckoning another. Then he looked around to her with a smile. "But I warn you, I cannot vouch for my friend Juma, yonder; judging by his bleary look, he may require the strongest liquor."

As Irilya took in the black warrior, he approached the box, not in fact seeming even slightly fatigued. On either hand clung his two courtly escorts of the previous evening, both looking distinctly contented, even radiant. Juma, after stepping over the wooden railing of the box, assisted the women across, with much patting and giggling. Irilya accepted the three with equanimity, and so they seated themselves beside the couple on the curving, upholstered couch.

Their arrival renewed the festive atmosphere of the booth and drew more stares from idle watchers elsewhere in the hall―especially when Sempronius arrived with new garments for Conan and Irilya to try on.

They did so with hilarity, screened from general view by a silk canopy held upright by servants. Afterward the small party set the slaves scurrying even faster for food and drink, while exchanging droll anecdotes of the previous night's food battle.

"Tell me then, Juma," Irilya asked the Kushite, "does Conan have a woman in Venjipur?" Her sudden question brought giggles from the other females, instant silence from the men.

"Truly, milady," Juma answered with hardly a stumble, "there is no shortage of women in Venjipur! Camp followers, tavern girls, peasant daughters whose kisses can be had for a brass arrowpoint. But Conan, as you know, is a man of rectitude, a steadfast warrior who would not squander himself on such―"

"Yes, I have a Venji woman," Conan said, interrupting his friend with a frank look at Irilya. "Her name is Sariya; I rescued her from death in a pagan rite."

"You keep her safe, then?"

"Yes, we live together in a bamboo hut. Sariya is a wise, able girl, schooled far beyond my own meager learning… but I confess, at times I do not know her heart."

Irilya's answering gaze was quiet and deep, her bearing steady. Juma and his companions quickly raised a distraction, pointing to new activity at the front of the dais.

But this was of slight importance, just another of the innumerable false starts which attend such gatherings. Four male slaves carried in a litter containing the Venji potted tree; having set it down on the dais, they slid the earthenware pot clear, took up their litter, and departed. It was not, after all, a final prelude to the ceremony; the tree was left there by itself, looking slightly ridiculous. Its potbellied trunk and glossy, bedraggled leaves drew a few disparaging comments from the assembly.

Nevertheless, this bit of preparation kindled expectations and seemed to reawaken everyone's doubts and fears regarding the gathering. Talk in the slowly filling chamber murmured low and earnest. Conan confided his own intentions and misgivings to Juma, and both men surreptitiously checked the readiness of their gold-hilted ceremonial sabers. They watched the arrival of more lofty court personages, some of whom Irilya named to them or waved greetings to from afar.

With more forebodings, they saw the arrival of a special contingent of twenty Imperial Honor Guards, whom General Abolhassan marched in a file before the dais and stationed there, rigidly outward-facing. The general, tall and imposing in his black uniform, did not greet Conan's party, nor even glance their way. But he spent much time elsewhere in the gallery, clasping shoulders and whispering in the ears of petty functionaries and potentates alike.

Conan saw much around him to unease his spirit: the taut, wary looks on the most noble faces; the fact that the eunuchs, almost equaling the guards in number, went armed with long daggers; and the sudden, awkward restraint of their guide Sempronius, evident only after his private conversation with the chief eunuch he called Euranthus. The Cimmerian had sensed that his attendant's frequent, noisy pronouncements of loyalty to the emperor did not sit well with his fellows; now, abruptly, these protestations ceased. The eunuch uncharacteristically
left off fretting over his heroic charges and stood well apart from them.

Abruptly, an exultation of trumpets thrilled the room. In the hush that ensued came the shuffling of boots and the rattling of scabbards; then in through the tall central door strode Emperor Yildiz. Resplendent as his imperial title implied, he nevertheless looked squat and plump between General Abolhassan and another towering, gray-turbaned officer. Behind them, fetchingly caped and pantalooned, trooped two smiling harem maids whose height and robustness also tended to dwarf their emperor; obviously, Yildiz did not select his attendants for scantness of size or physique.

The two officers parted from their emperor on the dais, marching away to either side as Yildiz proceeded toward the front. His pair of houris followed, to sink down adoringly at either hand. Seating themselves on the floor, they left their resplendent lord standing as the foremost, loftiest object before the crowd, taller even than the potted Venji tree.

"Loyal subjects," Yildiz began in a grandiloquent, surprisingly resonant voice, "I have decreed these feast days and commanded your presence here to honor a hero! Nay, more than just a single hero, a whole host of them: the brave, able Turanian sons and converts who fight for our Imperial cause in far-off Venjipur and elsewhere along our restless borders."

"Doubt not that they are heroes, each and every one; for they spread the light of empire to obscure corners of the map. They broaden our sources of trade and tribute, helping to make Aghrapur the principal city of the known world! They kindle the bright dawn of civilization amid the murky night of barbarism. Above all, remember, they fight a religious war, for a holy cause―the struggle of our enlightened, all-embracing Turanian faith against ancient and primitive idols, of whose evil rites and manifestations you have heard. In doing so, these heroes face perils, even death―but remember, in the words of the Prophet Tarim, the death of the body can mean the birth of the soul into righteousness!"

"They fight for Tarim, and for our greatness; nevertheless, there are those among my subjects who bridle and fret at the burden of this holy war. They mourn the loss or removal of their beloved sons; they cry and rail against the inexorable force of destiny, as all bereaved kin must. To them I offer this reminder, again in Tarim's immortal words, that a man is judged by the worth of his enemies as well as by that of his friends. Of what merit, I ask you, is a man without foes, or an empire without wars?

"For all of you, I intended this day of heroes to be a renewal of spirit, a fresh inspiration toward our Imperial cause. I hope that my subjects will begin to ask less of their empire and more of themselves, in advancing our mutual destiny. And now"―at the casual gesture of his hand, a servant hurried forward bearing a gold goblet on a golden tray―"for those of you who have drink ready to hand, I commend a toast!" He raised his cup to the crowd in salute, across the rigid backs and red-swaddled heads of the line of guards. "To Conan, the hero, and Juma"―Yildiz pivoted where he stood, doffing his drink toward the box containing the two foreigners―"and to all the heroes who serve our empire, in Venjipur and other far climes!"

He sipped sparingly from the goblet, or pretended to, certainly mindful of the risk of poison. "And after the toast, a libation"―glancing around the patterned floor of the dais, immaculate beneath the dimpled knees of his harem maids, Yildiz quickly settled on the pot of the jungle plant as the only handy receptacle―"to our mighty god, and to the soil of Venjipur that cradles this tree, which we now declare to be part of our own land. Hail, Tarim!" So saying, he emptied his goblet over the tree's roots, then tossed the cup aside on the dais.

All across the gallery the toast was reciprocated, though not the libation, except by a few who unintentionally splattered their draughts as they raised them high. Conan heard his name and Juma's given back in a scattered murmur by scores of throats; in all, the crowd's reaction to their emperor's speech seemed tolerant. Yildiz, in his personable, plain-spoken way, had evidently won over some of his listeners and soothed others' fears of civil turmoil. In the babble of comment exchanged by the audience, Conan sensed for the first time a note of acceptance and relief.

"And now," His Resplendency was saying, "if the heroes will come forward so that we may honor them in person…" Signaled by Sempronius, Conan and Juma arose and stepped to the gate of their railed enclosure.

"The good General Abolhassan bears tokens of our favor―but what is this, a miracle?"

Conan had been watching the scowling general march forward, aglitter with gold trim and weaponry, holding before him a tasseled pillow to which a pair of gleaming trinkets were pinned. But Yildiz's sudden exclamation diverted the Cimmerian's attention; looking to the center of the dais, he saw with surprise an odd, unnatural agitation in the leaves of
the potted jungle tree. It moved squirmingly, shudderingly, its limbs and glossy foliage shifting in a restlessness no earthly wind could have induced.

An agony of sudden growth it seemed to be, massive and impossibly accelerated; in the time it took Conan's jaw to sag in wonder, the tree nearly doubled its height and width, jostling and overshadowing Yildiz and his concubines as it swelled greedily into the sunrays streaming down from the overhead vents.

The growth looked eerily natural, except for its uncanny speed; Conan could see branches extruding at the ends like blind, questing worms, and baby-green foliage exploding from fresh buds along the way. Yet there was a devious directionality to it; as the Cimmerian watched, frozen in his tracks, long shoots propagated out and downward from the thickening shoulders of the tree's main limbs. Widening in a parody of long, grasping fingers, these branches managed to seize sudden hold of Emperor Yildiz and one of his quailing concubines. It happened impossibly fast, before the gaping monarch could even flinch; the second maiden escaped only by throwing herself flat on the floor. Squirming and wriggling, using all her skills as a harem-dancer, she managed to evade the fronds and tendrils that groped forth to ensnare her.

The clutching growth was lightning-swift and deceptive; in the space of a single, startled breath, Yildiz and his houri were hoisted clear of the floor to hang helpless, struggling in the tree's twining grip. New tendrils snaked forth to enfold their necks and faces; yet once they had been snared, the darting urgency of the first growth was gone―transferred outward, it seemed; for the tree still grew on all sides, expanding ever faster.

So it went; one moment the wild-eyed harem wench was clawing past Conan, to pelt away on bare feet; the next, nearly all the guards along the front of the dais were entangled with grasping branches, their weapons half-drawn, their orders and military decorum forgotten in a clawing struggle for survival. That same moment Abolhassan threw aside his spangled pillow and drew his saber, to hack furiously at fast-spreading limbs; Conan, for reasons he scarcely paused to examine, found himself advancing with sword drawn, stalking toward the tree's center and its slowly strangling victims.

By the time he had taken two steps he was embattled, greedy tendrils snaking down at him from the ever-thickening mass overhead. He hacked them off with the skill of an old jungle hand, plying his gold-hilted sword
like an oversized brush knife. Yet the silent, insidious creepers also snaked down behind him, entwining his neck and shoulders in their rough, leafy clutch before he could twist free. Their grip was surprisingly tight, and Conan soon felt the reach of his sword-arm dangerously hampered.

Struggling vainly against the tough, constricting foliage, he watched supple vines race the length of his extended sword-arm, there to branch upward toward new fronds threading down from above.

Of a sudden, a blade flickered near the corner of his eye, and heavy chopping noises sounded about his ears, together with gasps and curses.

"Blast this weed, 'tis an abomination under Ito, a sending of the fierce jungle itself!" Juma's gruff voice panted in his ear.

Feeling the tight, dragging restraint on his body suddenly loosen, Conan tore free, muttering half-choked thanks at the Kushite.

To his surprise, as he shook off the last of the clinging fronds, he blundered up against Irilya; she stood close beside Juma, slashing at the tree's leafy overburden with a hook-headed pike she must have retrieved from one of the dangling guards.

"Woman, what are you doing here?" Conan demanded of her, even as he raised his sword to prune back new, probing tendrils of the demon tree.

"What? Why, rescuing you, you thankless clout!" Her bill-hook slashed perilously close to his face as it chopped down an insinuating frond. "Why, where should I be?"

"You… uh…"Conan was about to order her off to safety, but a glance around the hall showed him that safety did not exist.

Everywhere, even among the frenzied crowds clawing toward the archways, the devilish fronds and creepers plucked and insinuated themselves freely. From its puny original size the tree had burgeoned impossibly wide, filling the entire Court of Protocols; its height beneath the spacious dome was unguessable, except by the leaf-filtered dimness of jungle light trickling down from above. Many of the onlookers, especially those in favored places on or near the dais, already depended from the tree's crooked limbs, furiously battling or slowly strangling. Vine-swathed, they resembled frantic insects wrapped in spider-silk or strange, writhing fruit.

Whether such a death was worse than a fatal trampling in the exits, Conan was no judge. So, slashing tirelessly at the menacing vines, he turned to Irilya and Juma. "Come, stay together then, and follow me! We will fell this sorcerous tree like a worm-eaten forest snag!"

The task did not promise to be an easy one, for the tree's trunk had grown almost in proportion to its girth. Its planting-pot had long since shattered to fragments; now the massive overhead limbs radiated from a knotty labyrinth above a rough, potbellied trunk. Thick, gnarled roots plunged downward into the very stones of the palace, clenching its foundation like talons and forcing up long ridges of inlaid tile that mapped their tortuous windings beneath the floor. Hard as thick-knotted cables, the roots seemed almost to pulsate with the strength of their grip on the stony substrate.

"Ah well, at least we jungle hands are better at hewing shrubbery than city or desert troops!" So saying, Conan protected the others' backs as they slashed at the tough vines enwrapping Yildiz and his houri, suspended close before the trunk. Soon the latter's faces hung visible once again, blue and fish-mouthed with strangulation, yet thirstily gasping in air.

Then Conan and Juma attacked the trunk of the tree, swinging sharp-bladed axes dropped by the illfated household guards. They alternated strokes in swift, expert rhythm, hacking through the tough outer bark and its oozing green underlayer, then deep into the tree's damp, pale flesh. In unspoken agreement they concentrated on the widest part of the trunk: the swollen, sinister belly. From its gravid fullness they sent thick chunks of wood flying with tireless blows. They trusted to Irilya to chop and slash away encroaching vines with her bill-hook, which she plied at their backs with desperate energy.

"Watch beneath―beware the roots!" Conan heard Juma grunt between ax-strokes.

He looked down to see the tree, in diligent self-defense, sending up pale, hairy tendrils from beneath the shattered floor-tiles. These grew swiftly, threading snakily up over the men's ankles. Yet Conan scarcely shifted his footing as Irilya desperately alternated her chopping above and below, slicing perilously close to his feet with her halberd. Instead, in silent accord with Juma, he leaned harder into his ax-strokes, hewing rhythmically at the great trunk, whose bulbous belly now echoed thuddingly with each blow.

"Hollow, by Crom!" Conan exclaimed, prying out blackened splinters of wood from the heart of the trunk with a twist of his ax. "And, faugh, smell that stench! Can it be rotten already?"

"Look, there is treasure within!" Kneeling before the splintered cavern their axes had opened, Juma pointed to gems glittering from the interior darkness like winking eyes.

"No, do not reach inside!" Irilya, shoving the Kushite's hand away, thrust her hooked weapon into the fecund aperture and probed there, raking forth the sizeable lump of riches it contained.

"Why, 'tis a human skull, thick with silver and gems!" Juma exclaimed.

He started to reach for it, but jerked back his hand as Conan's ax hurtled down. The blow smashed the sinister ornament into flying fragments of silver, gem, and bone.

"'Twas the emblem of Mojurna, leader of the Hwong rebels," Conan said to the others' questioning stares as he disentangled his ankles from the suddenly brittle rootlets. "I should have guessed that this accursed tree was Mojurna's, sent to wreak vengeance on the Emperor Yildiz and the whole court!"

At mention of the emperor, they turned back to him where he hung enwrapped with his concubine. Both were semiconscious, their labored breaths constricted as in a python's hug, yet still alive; it was Juma who drew his dagger and undertook the task of cutting them free and easing them to the floor.

With the smashing of the jeweled skull, the hellish vitality of the jungle plant seemed to depart. Now Conan and Irilya saw leaves withering before their eyes, fluttering to the floor in what must soon become a deep carpet.

Branches in far-flung corners of the court groaned and sagged low, laden heavily with their mortal harvest. The last humans free to move had fled the room some time before; for most of those in its toils, the tree's death had come too late.

Conan and Irilya roved the place, cutting loose the lucky few―the guard-captain who had been saved by his helmet and breastplate, the courtesan fortunate enough to have donned heavy neck-clasps that morning.

As they went, Irilya pointed out many illustrious faces empurpled by choking death: diverse eunuchs, including both Sempronius and Euranthus, the fanatic high priest Tammuraz, a young, foppish aristocrat named Philander, and countless others known to her. General Abolhassan they found in a tangle of braid and armor not far from the tree's trunk, dangling head downward, his tongue protruding almost as blackly as the loops of his disarrayed turban.

By the time they returned to the emperor's side, he breathed steadily, his gaze slowly refocusing under Juma's careful ministrations. He even ventured dry, rasping speech.

"What a horror! Our pageant ruined…" Yildiz rolled his eyes and lolled his bald-topped head weakly aside. "What of my little turtledove, is she all right?" His Resplendency squinted closely at the fleshy, heaving bosom of his houri. "Tarim bless her, she lives! But many have died, I fear."

"Most of the court, Sire." Irilya stooped low over him. Conan knelt close beside her, unsure of her intentions, and watchful lest her hand creep to her dagger. " 'Tis a day of great sorrow for our city," she continued. To Conan's surprise, he caught the gleam of tears in her eyes. "But the worst menace is past. We can survive all this, Sire, and your rule can be sustained peacefully, if only Your Resplendency will end our foreign campaigns and concentrate on improving things here at home."

"Aye, Emperor," Conan added gruffly. "Among the dead are those who plotted against you; now you can revamp your court. As for the war in Venjipur―well, that can still be won, but it must be run differently. The present command system is rotten with greed and misrule―"

As Conan had feared earlier, Irilya's hand flew to her dagger, forcing him to clutch her wrist and restrain her.

But her lunge and her tearful glare of hatred, he found with surprise, were directed not at Yildiz but at himself. After a tense moment, their standoff was interrupted by an anguished croak from beneath.

"Venjipur! Tell me not of Venjipur," the emperor moaned, waving a hand at the vast, wilting tree of death above them. "Was not this horrid doom another curse of their vile witchcraft, meant to strike me down in the peaceful heart of my empire? Venjipur! Oh, how I rue ever hearing the wretched name, and curse the greedy whim that made me wish to rule it! I
relent―do you hear, O gods, I want no more of it!"

The survivors knelt distraught, staring at one another as their ruler's oaths rasped out across the court. Meanwhile, from the entryways sounded thumps and hails as the outer world overcame its fear and ventured to return.

Chapter 20

Return to Venjipur

"There is smoke on the wind from the gulf." Sitting beside Conan in the swaying howdah, Juma stated aloud what had been evident to both men for some time. " 'Tis not the season for burning rice husks, so there must fighting along the river delta. See, even our elephant knows something is amiss!"

The Kushite nodded toward the huge animal's trunk, which curved aloft cobra-like, sampling the breeze in various aspects. In this matter of tasting the air, their lumbering steed was privileged to be at front of the column, free of the dust and stink of the four more elephants and five hundred border infantry tramping close behind.

To Juma's observation Conan made no answer, merely flaring his own nostrils and thoughtfully scanning the hazy expanse of farm fields and jungle ridges ahead. This return to a land he despised as he would death itself, but which he had nevertheless found himself yearning for in recent weeks, stirred up poignant, indefinable feelings in his breast. Part of his emotion was the desire for his lover Sariya; yet he knew there was also more than that, and less.

"Ha!" Juma observed to nobody in particular. "Even I underestimated the perils of playing the hero game, it would seem. Now we are saddled with the job of calling off this war and extricating the Imperial legions, all with the aid of a mere token force! Do you think old Mojurna and his Hwong tribesmen will feel charitably inclined and let us all go home in peace?"

After a moment the Kushite, tolerant of Conan's silent moods, barked another laugh and continued the onesided conversation. "But then, after all, who could have refused Yildiz's offer? His decree, rather: a field
promotion for you to the rank of captain, and guaranteed berths for both of us in the Imperial Honor Guard once we return―if we return! And that will hardly be the limit of your success with His Resplendency, I think, if you do nothing to foul it up!"

Turning his gaze aside to Conan's cross-kneed, pensive form, the Kushite frowned a little petulantly. "I could confess to having some jealousy over that; why should he choose to promote you, the junior of us two, after it was I who cut him down from the devil-tree and nursed him back to life?" Juma shook his head resignedly. "You are his pet, it would seem, Conan; welcome to the privilege, and good luck surviving it!" He sighed mightily. "But 'tis no matter―once we deliver his Imperial proclamation and return to Aghrapur, life will be pullets and gravy for both of us."

Juma rattled on good-naturedly, patting the scroll-case lying in the fighting-box before both of them. The ornate metal tube contained Yildiz's decree that the war would cease and the Turanian forces be withdrawn. As his friend touched the case, Conan also did so protectively; turning to face his friend, he opened his mouth to speak at last. But just then there came a shout from their elephant-driver and they turned to see their mount's bat-winged ears fluttering in warning. Squinting ahead, they spied horsemen approaching on the road.

The riders were some two hundred troops, Turanian by their costume, weary and ragged astride mud-spattered mounts. They reined in gratefully just ahead of the halted infantry column, although their faces were too grim to show much rejoicing at the friendly reinforcements. Conan recognized their commander and called down to him from the howdah.

"Greetings, Shahdib, what news?"

"The worst, Conan―Captain, I mean," he amended, eying his questioner's gold-medalled turban with respect. "The rebels are up in arms, more of them than we have seen before. The city of Venjipur fell in a single day! The smaller outposts have all been wiped out, and the forts are heavily besieged. Yesterday we escaped the fall of Karapur―"

"What of Sikander?" Conan asked abruptly.

"Sikander has been embattled for days. If it still exists, 'tis by a miracle; in any case it cannot hold for long." The officer cast his head down as he shook it, seeming reluctant to meet Conan's eyes. "The main rebel activity
has been in that area; we dared not try to relieve the fort―"

"Then dare to do it now," Conan told him, waving a signal to his infantry officers. "Fort Sikander is where we are going."

The column started forward with a weary scuffing and stamping, the horse troops reluctantly turning their mounts to march at the fore.

"Otumbe's lightnings!" Juma muttered grimly at Conan's side. "Affairs have come to a sorry pass since we left! You are right, we have no choice but to venture into the tiger's jaws, and try to save what few of our friends have not yet been chewed up and swallowed. I hope the rebels will accept our withdrawal; peace is our only hope."

"Perhaps." Conan sat cross-legged once again, watching the smoky valley unrolling ahead. "On the other hand, our force is a seasoned one, and may grow larger with stragglers from other battles. Revolutions have triumphed before in a single day, only to go down in defeat the next."

"Conan, you would not dare to defy the emperor?" Juma glanced at Conan's hand, which held the scroll-case containing the imperial decree.

In his massive grip, with its flaring, bronze-capped ends, it resembled, more than any peace treaty, a sceptre of royal rank.

"Would Yildiz complain if Venjipur were handed to him on a platter?"

Conan's face, stern and a little haggard-eyed, flashed his friend an icy look.

"This war has been poorly waged from the start; you and I can correct that. As for the rebels―if they have harmed Sariya, I will not feel much inclined to offer them peace!"

The road to Sikander was strangely free of armed resistance. In places the muddy track streamed with refugees, and with larger groups of Venjis who seemed purposeful and organized. Possibly these bands were rebels, yet they yielded the road to Conan's troop and made no threatening gesture; in any case they were too numerous to attack, so the troopers passed them by. The distinction between rebels and friendly peasants had always been a chancy one at best.

Later, even when the scarred palisades of Fort Sikander loomed in sight, the rebels did not contest the road. Conan marched his column past the site of his cottage, which now existed only as a litter of charred timbers beneath felled forest trunks. The village outside the fort likewise
had been burned, its rubble converted to makeshift offensive bastions facing the gate. Conan had his men take up positions there as he and Juma ambled their elephant up to the main approach. The gate stood half-open, with Venjis and weaponless Turanian troopers milling before it.

Conan recognized some of the men by the half-closed portal: one-eared Orvad and a handful of Conan's other fellow-troopers, who saluted him with guarded nods and smiles; yet he noticed that all the faces along the rampart were Venji, and none too trusting. Ordering his elephant halted, he swung down its precipitous flank and confronted the familiar, gray-haired senior officer.

"Murad, what has happened here? Has Fort Sikander fallen, then?"

The Captain's gray eyes met Conan's only briefly, and with brooding suspicion. "Ask your girlfriend!" he replied, shrugging.

"Why? Is she within?" Conan shot a quizzical glance at Juma, who stood by his side seeming equally puzzled. They both looked up then to see the fort's double-valved gate swinging the rest of the way open before them. Within, before a wooden altar heaped high with palm fronds and flowers, stood an assembly of brightly clad Venjis: chieftains, priests, Hwong warriors and maidens, with a remarkable-looking female standing at the fore.

She was taller than any of the others, wrapped in a white robe belted with spangled snakeskin. Garlands of jungle flowers draped her hair, and from her neck dangled charms that looked more mystical in purpose than ornamental. One of her beringed hands gripped a tall wooden stave topped with a bulky emblem: the skull of a forest pig, its razored tusks entwined with flower-vines. Ruby pinpoints twinkled from the eyeholes, and small bits of silver and gemstone had been inlaid elsewhere about it.

Remembering the talisman from the roof-pole of his ruined hut, Conan's eyes traveled back down the staff to recognize its owner.

"Sariya, girl, 'tis you! Are you a captive? But no matter, I see they have not mistreated you!" Conan strode forward, extending an arm to embrace her. "It warms my heart to see find you here."

"No, do not touch me," the woman replied with a remote, regal air.

Though she remained steadfastly facing him, two frightened-looking Venji maidens, one on either hand, edged forward as if to protect her. "I am now
priestess, and yours no longer, Conan of Hyboria! For know you, Venjipur has but one Priestess! Our time together is past."

"Sariya, what…?" Conan halted in his tracks, speechless with amazement, scanning the stiff faces and ceremonial dress of the tribesfolk and elders arrayed behind his stately lover. Abruptly his hand closed on his sword-hilt. "If this is something they mean to force on you, Sariya…!

Some new enchantment of Mojurna's―"

"Mojurna is dead, Captain." Her words foreclosed coldly on his. "When her magic died she could not live on for long―for Mojurna was a woman, as you have learned." Raising her free hand, she gestured aside her to the flowered altar; it was a pyre, Conan realized. In its midst, lying amid fronds and blossoms, he spied the wizened face and shriveled breasts of an ancient crone.

"And now," Sariya was saying, "the time has come for me to take her place… the role I was trained for, yes, and conceived for…"

"Sariya, when I first saw you, Mojurna wanted to kill you!" It was Conan's turn to interrupt, pointing angrily at the funeral bier. "Or else sacrifice you alive to a deathless demon! That vile old witch―"

"Yes, 'tis true, she would have broken with our age-old custom."

Sariya's voice rang firm, clearly intended for other listeners besides Conan.

"For Mojurna was a harsh priestess, strong-willed and ruthless when commanding her followers in battle. Perhaps she thought the war would never end, or that I was too weak to win it. For my own part, I still hope someday to be priestess over a land at peace." Her lustrous almond-shaped eyes scanned the watchers with remote, inhuman calm.

"She sought to steal my youth and, with the goddess Sigtona's help, prolong her own life. If she was fanatic, even maddened at the end by the awful burdens she bore, still I must forgive her―knowing that she was my mother."

To this horror there was no possible reply. Conan stood slackly before the gate, reeling with the magnitude of it all as from a hammer-blow to his brain. Juma moved up beside him and laid an arm across his shoulders to steady him. Meanwhile Sariya spoke gravely on.

"Whatever the cruelty of her methods, they have led us near victory―though none knows what the morrow may bring. My own way
was more subtle, yet it was chosen just as carefully for the good of our land. I defied Mojurna, led my own faction among the faithful, and spread my beliefs. No other Venji than I could have resisted her magic or shielded the heretics. For my own protection in a violent time, I clung to one who was invincible in battle, a natural leader. I counseled him, healed his wounds and strengthened him further." For the first time, as Sariya's gaze returned to Conan, he heard the merest quaver of sentiment in her firm, level voice. "We learned the ways of the home together. And the ways of love, as every Priestess should. But those days are gone."

A long silence ensued, eerie under the smoke-yellowed sun. At last Conan, searching in his taut throat, found a ragged, grating voice.

"Mojurna's magic was strong enough for your purpose, Sariya―almost too strong. Yildiz sues for peace." Reaching to his belt, he drew forth not his sword, but the tube containing the imperial decree. He stepped clear of Juma's comforting arm and held the proclamation out to Sariya.

"No surprise, I confess," the priestess answered. "Venji magic was always stronger than the smug faith of Turan." She nodded to one of her chieftains, who came forward and accepted the scroll. "I will call a halt to the various sieges and set your men free. That will lessen the suffering, but not end it; the Venjis who served your cause will have to decide whether to go with you, or risk staying. It may bring peace―if your soldiers will obey you and follow you from Venjipur, never to return."

"A more welcome order could not be given"―Conan lingered, facing Sariya―"for most of them." He searched her eyes. "For myself, I still wonder if this is truly your wish."

"Fear not, Conan." She met his gaze with utter composure. "I desire nothing more than to live out my destiny as Priestess. Be assured that after me, the line will continue." She leaned on her heavy, skull-headed staff, waving a slim hand toward the defeated Turanians. "For you and these others, there is no longer any place here."

"Well enough then, Sariya. Goodbye!" Raising a hand to her cheek, he touched her dark hair and her smooth, amber skin a final time. Then he turned to address his troops before the gate. His words, though brittle and rasping, were repeated throughout the ranks, and a cheer began to build, spreading to every throat within and without the wall.

"Send word to the embattled outposts: all expeditionaries are to ride
forth and join us here. Then we head northward, dogs, and home!"

The Curse of the Monolith

1.

The sheer cliffs of dark stone closed about Conan the Cimmerian like the sides of a trap. HE did not like the way their jagged peaks loomed against the few faint stars, which glittered like the eyes of spiders down upon the small camp on the flat floor of the valley. Neither did he like the chill, uneasy wind that whistled across the stony heights and prowled about the campfire.

It caused the flames to lean and flicker, sending monstrous black shadows writhing across the rough stone walls of the nearer valley side.

On the other side of the camp, colossal redwoods, which had been old when Atlantis sank beneath the waves eight thousand years before, rose amid thickets of bamboo and clumps of rhododendron.

A small stream meandered out of the woods, murmured past the camp, and wandered off into the forest again. Overhead, a layer of haze or high fog drifted across the tops of the cliffs, drowning the light of the fainter stars and making the brighter ones seem to weep.

Something about this place, thought Conan, stank of fear and of death. HE could almost smell the acrid odor of terror on the breeze. The horses felt it too. They nickered plaintively, pawed the earth, and rolled white eyeballs at the dark beyond the circle of the fire. So was Conan, the barbarian warrior from the bleak hills of Cimmeria. Like his, their senses were more delicately turned to the aura of evil than were the senses of city-bred men like the Turanian troopers he had led into this deserted vale.

The soldiers sat about the fire, sharing the last of this night's ration of wine from goatskin bags. Some laughed and boasted of the amorous feats they would do in the silken bagnios of Aghrapur upon their return. Others, weary from a long day's hard ride, sat silently, staring at the fire and yawning. Soon they would settle down for the night, rolled in their heavy cloaks. With their heads pillowed on saddlebags, they would lie in a loose circle about the hissing fire, while two of their number stood guard with their powerful Hyrkanian bows strung and ready. They sensed nothing of the sinister force that hovered about the valley.

Standing with his back to the nearest of the giant redwoods, Conan wrapped his cloak more closely about him against the dank breeze from the heights. Although his troopers were well-built men of good size, he towered half a head over the tallest of them, while his enormous breadth of shoulder made them seem puny by comparison. His square-cut black mane escaped from below the edges of his spired, turban-wound helmet, and the deepset blue eyes in his dark, scarred face caught glints of red from the firelight.

Sunk in one of his fits of melancholy gloom, Conan silently cursed King Yildiz, the well-meaning but weak Turanian monarch who had sent him on this ill-omened mission. Over a year had passed since he had taken the oath of allegiance to the king of Turan. Six months before, he had been lucky enough to earn this king's favor; with the help of a fellow-mercenary, Juma the Kushite, he had rescued Yildiz's daughter Zosara from the mad god-king of Meru. HE had brought the princess, more or less intact, to her affianced bridegroom, Khan Kujala of the nomadic Kuigar horde.

When Conan returned to Yildiz's glittering capital of Aghrapur, he had found the monarch generous enough in his gratitude. Both he and Juma had been raised to captain. But, whereas Juma had obtained a coveted post in the Royal Guard, Conan had been rewarded with yet another arduous, perilous mission. Now, as he recalled these events, he sourly contemplated the fruits of success.

Yildiz had entrusted the Cimmerian giant with a letter to King Shu of Kusan, a minor kingdom in western Khitai. At the head of forty veterans, Conan had accomplished the immense journey. He had traversed hundreds of leagues of bleak Hyrkanian steppe and skirted the foothills of the towering Talakma Mountains. He had threaded his way through the windy deserts and swampy jungles bordering the mysterious realm of Khitai, the easternmost land of which the men of the West had heard.

Arrived in Kusan at last, Conan had found the venerable and philosophical King Shu a splendid host. While Conan and his warriors were plied with exotic food and drink and furnished with willing concubines, the king and his advisers decided to accepts King Yildiz's offer of a treaty of friendship and trade. So the wise old king had handed Conan a gorgeous scroll of gilded silk.

Thereon were inscribed, in the writhing ideographs of Khitai and the gracefully slanted characters of Hyrkania, the formal replies and felicitations of the Khitan king.

Besides a silken purse full of Khitan gold, King Shu had also furnished Conan with a high noble of his court, to guide them as far as the western borders of Khitai. But Conan had not liked this guide, this Duke Feng.

The Khitan was a slim, dainty, foppish little man with a soft, lisping voice. He wore fantastical silken garments, unsuited to rugged riding and camping, and drenched his exquisite person in heavy perfume. He never soiled his soft, long-nailed hands with any of the camp chores, but instead kept his two servants busy day and night ministering to his comfort and dignity.

Conan looked down upon the Khitan's habits with a bard-bitten barbarian's manly contempt. The duke's slanting black eyes and purring voice reminded him of a cat, and he often told himself to watch this little princeling for treachery. On the other hand, he secretly envied the Khitan his exquisitely cultivated manners and easy charm. This fact led Conan to resent the duke even more; for, although his Turanian service had given Conan some slight polish, he was still at heart the blunt, boorish young barbarian. He would have to be careful of this sly little Duke Feng.

2.

"Do I disturb the profound meditations of the nobly born commander?", purred a soft voice.

Conan started and snatched at the hilt of his tulwar before he recognized the person of Duke Feng, wrapped to the lip in a voluminous cloak of pea-green velvet. Conan started to growl a contemptuous curse. Then, remembering his ambassadorial duties, he turned the oath into a formal welcome that sounded unconvincing even in his own ears.

"Perhaps the princely captain is unable to sleep?" murmured Feng, appearing not to notice Conan's ungraciousness. Feng spoke fluent Hyrkanian. This was one reason for his having been dispatched to guide Conan's troop, for Conan's command of the singsong Khitan tongue was little more than a smattering. Feng continued:

"This person is so fortunate as to possess a sovereign remedy for sleeplessness. A gifted apothecary concocted it for me from an ancient recipe: a decoction of lily buds ground into cinnamon and spiced with poppy seeds..."

"No, nothing," growled Conan. "I thank you, Duke, but it's something about this accursed place. Some uncanny premonition keeps me wakeful when, after a long day's ride, I should be as weary as a stripling after his first night's bout of love."

The duke's features moved a trifle, as if he winced at Conan's crudity or was it merely a flicker of the firelight? In any case, he suavely replied, "I think I understand the misgivings of the excellent commander. Nor are such disquieting emotions unusual in this ah this legend-fraught valley. Many men have perished here."

"A battlefield, eh?" grunted Conan.

The duke's narrow shoulders twitched beneath the green cloak.

"Nay, nothing like that, my heroic Western friend. This spot lies near the tomb of an ancient king of my people: King Hsia of Kusan. He caused his entire royal guard to be beheaded and their heads buried with him, that their spirits should continue to serve him in the next world. The common superstition, however, avers that the ghosts of these guardsmen march in review, up and down this valley." The soft voice dropped even lower. "Legend also states that a magnificent treasure of gold and precious jewels was buried with him; and this tale I believe to be true."

Conan pricked up his ears. "Gold and gems, eh? Has it ever been found, this treasure?"

The Khitan surveyed Conan for a moment with an oblique, contemplative gaze. Then, as if having reached some private decision, he replied, "No, Lord Conan; for the precise location of the trove is not known save to one man."

Conan's interest was quite visible now. "To whom?" he demanded bluntly.

The Khitan smiled. "To my unworthy self, of course."

"Crom and Erlik! If you've known where this loot was hidden, why haven't you dug it up ere now?"

"My people are haunted by superstitious fears of a curse laid upon the site of the old king's tomb, which is marked by a monolith of dark stone. Hence I have never been able to persuade anyone to assist me in seizing the treasure, whose hiding place I alone know."

"Why couldn't you do it all by yourself?"

Feng spread his small, long-nailed hands. "I needed a trustworthy assistant to guard my back against stealthy foe, human or animal, that might approach whilst I was rapt in contemplation of the booty. Moreover, a certain amount of digging and lifting and prying will be required. A gentleman like me lacks the thews for such crude, physical efforts.

"Now harken, gallant sir! This person led the honorable commander through this valley, not by happenstance but by design. When I heard that the Son of Heaven wished me to accompany the brave captain westward, I seized upon the proposal with alacrity. This commission came as a veritable gift from the divine officials in Heaven, for Your Lordship possesses the musculature of three ordinary men. And, being a Western-born foreigner, you naturally do not share the superstitious terrors of us of Kusan. Am I correct in my assumption?"

Conan grunted. "I fear neither god, man, nor devil, and least of all the ghost of a long-dead king. Speak on, Lord Feng."

The duke sidled closer, his voice dropping to a scarcely audible whisper. "Then, here is my plan. As I have stated, this person guided you hither because I thought you might be he whom I have sought. The task will be light for one of your strength, and my baggage includes tools for excavation. Let us go upon the instant, and within an hour we shall be richer than either of us has dreamed!"

Feng's seductive, purring whisper awoke the lust for loot in Conan's barbaric heart, but a residue of caution restrained the Cimmerian from immediate assent.

"Why not rouse a squad of troopers to aid us?" he grumbled. "Or your servants? Surely we shall need help in bringing the plunder back to camp!"

Feng shook his sleek head. "Not so, honorable ally! The treasure consists of two small golden caskets of virgin gold, each packed with exceedingly rare and precious gems. We can each carry the fortune of a princedom, and why share this treasure with others?

Since the secret is mine alone, I am naturally entitled to half.

Then, if you are so lavish as to divide your half amongst your forty warriors...well, that is for you to decide."

It took no more urging to persuade Conan to Duke Feng's scheme.

The pay of King Yildiz's soldiers was meager and usually in arrears. Conan's recompense for his arduous Turanian service to date had been many empty words of honor and precious little hard coin.

"I go to fetch the digging implements," murmured Feng. "We should leave the camp separately, so as not to arouse suspicion.

Whilst I unpack the utensils, you shall don your coat of mail and your arms."

Conan frowned. "Why should I need armor, just to dig up a chest?"

"Oh, excellent sir! There are many dangers in these hills. Here roam the terrible tiger, the fierce leopard, the churlish bear, and the irascible wild bull, not to mention wandering bands of primitive hunters. Since a Khitan gentleman is not trained in the use of arms, your mighty self must be prepared to fight for two. Believe me, noble captain, I know whereof I speak!"

"Oh, all right," grumbled Conan.

"Excellent! I knew that so superior a mind as yours would see the force of my arguments. And now we part, to meet again at the foot of the valley at moonrise. That should occur about one double hour hence, which will give us ample time for our rendezvous."

3.

The night grew darker and the wind, colder. All the eery premonitions of danger, which Conan had experience since first entering this forsaken vale at sundown, returned in full force.

As he walked silently beside the diminutive Khitan, he cast wary glances into the darkness. The steep rock walls on either side narrowed until there was hardly room to walk between the cliffside and the banks of the stream which gurgled out of the valley at their feet.

Behind them, a glow appeared in the misty sky where the heads of the cliffs thrust blackly up against the firmament. This glow grew stronger and became a pearly opalescence. The walls of the valley fell away on either hand, and the two men found themselves treading a grassy sward that spread out on both sides. The stream angled off to the right and, gurgling, curved out of sight between banks clustered with ferns.

As they issued from the valley, the half moon rose over the cliffs behind them. In the misty air, it looked as if the viewer were seeing it from under water. The wan, illusive light of this moon shone upon a small, rounded hill, which rose out of the sward directly before them. Beyond it, steep-sided, forest-crested hills stood up blackly in the watery moonlight.

As the moon cast a powdering of silver over the hill before them, Conan forgot his premonitions. For here rose the monolith of which Feng had spoken. It was a smooth, dully glistening shaft of dark stone, which rose from the top of the hill and soared up until it pierced the layer of mist that overhung the land. The top of the shaft appeared as a mere blur.

Here, then, was the tomb of the long-dead King Hsia, just as Feng had foretold. The treasure must be buried either directly beneath it or to one side. They would soon find out which.

With Feng's crowbar and shovel on his shoulder, Conan pushed forcefully through a clump of tough, elastic rhododendron bushes and started up the hill. HE paused to give his small companion a hand up. After a brief scramble, they gained the top of the slope.

Before them, the shaft rose from the center of thinly convex surface of the hilltop. The hill, thought Conan, was probably an artificial mound, such as were sometimes piled up over the remains of great chiefs in his own country. If the treasure were at the bottom of such a pile, it would take more than one night's digging to uncover it...

With a startled oath, Conan clutched at his shovel and crowbar.

Some invisible force had seized upon them and pulled them toward the shaft. HE leaned away from the shaft, his powerful muscles bulging under his mail shirt. Inch by inch, however, the force dragged him toward the monolith. When he saw that he would be drawn against the shaft willy-nilly, he let go of the tools, which flew to the stone. They struck it with a loud double clank and stuck fast to it.

But releasing the tools did not free Conan from the attraction of the monument, which now pulled on his mail shirt as powerfully as it had on the shovel and the crowbar. Staggering and cursing, Conan was slammed against the monolith with crushing force. His back was pinned to the shaft, as were his upper arms where the short sleeves of the mail shirt covered them. So was his head inside the spired Turanian helmet, and so was the scabbarded sword at his waist.

Conan struggled to tear himself free but found that he could not.

It was as if unseen chains bound him securely to the column of dark stone.

"What devil's trick is this, you treacherous dog?" he ground out.

Smiling and imperturbable, Feng strolled up to where Conan stood pinned against the pillar. Seemingly impervious to the mysterious force, the Khitan took a silken scarf from one of the baggy sleeves of his silken coat. HE waited until Conan opened his mouth to bellow for help, then adroitly jammed a bunch of the silk into Conan's mouth. While Conan gagged and chewed on the cloth, the little man knotted the scarf securely around Conan's head. At last Conan stood, panting but silent, glaring venomously down into the courteous smile of the little duke.

"Forgive the ruse, O noble savage!" lisped Feng. "It was needful that this person concoct some tale to appeal to your primitive lust for gold, in order to allure you hither alone."

Conan's eyes blazed with volcanic fury as he hurled all the might of his powerful body against the invisible bonds that held him against the monolith. It did no good; he was helpless. Sweat trickled down his brow and soaked the cotton haqueton beneath his mail. He tried to shout, but only grunts and gurgles came forth.

"Since, my dear captain, your life approaches its predestined end," continued Feng, "it would be impolite of me not to explain my actions, so that your lowly spirit may journey to whatever hell the gods of the barbarians have prepared for it in full knowledge of the causes of your downfall. Know that the court of his amiable but foolish highness, the king of Kusan, is divided between two parties. One of these, that of the White Peacock, welcomes contact with the barbarians of the West. The other, that of the Golden Pheasant, abominates all association with those animals; and I, of course, am one of the selfless patriots of the Golden Pheasant. Willingly would I give my life to bring your so-called embassy to destruction, lest contact with your barbarous masters contaminate our pure culture and upset our divinely ordained social system.

"Happily, such an extreme measure seems unnecessary. For I have you, the leaser of his band of foreign devils, and there around your neck hangs the treaty the Son of Heaven signed with your uncouth heathen king."

The little duke pulled out from under Conan's mail shirt the ivory tube containing the documents. HE unclasped the chain that secured it around Conan's neck and tucked it into one of his voluminous sleeves, adding with a malicious smile, "As for the force that holds you prisoner, I will not attempt to explain its subtle nature to your childish wits. Suffice it to explain that the substance whereof this monolith was hewn has the curious property of attracting iron and steel with irresistible force.

So fear not; it is no unholy magic that holds you captive."

Conan was little heartened by this news. He had once seen a conjuror in Aghrapur pick up nails with a piece of dark-red stone and supposed that the force that held him was of the same sort.

But, since he had never heard of magnetism, it was all equally magic as far as he was concerned.

"Lest you entertain false hopes of rescue by your men," Feng went on, "I have thought of that, also. In these hills dwell the Jagas, a primitive headhunting tribe. Attracted by your campfire, they will assemble at the ends of the valley and rush your camp at dawn. It is their invariable procedure.

"By that time I shall, I hope, be far away. If they capture me, too well, a man must die some time, and I trust I shall do so with the dignity and decorum befitting one of my rank and culture. My head would make a delightful ornament in a Jaga hut, I am sure.

"And so, my good barbarian, farewell. You will forgive this person for turning his back upon you during your last moments.

For your demise is a pity in a way, and I should not enjoy witnessing it. Had you had the advantages of a Khitan upbringing, you would have mad an admirable servant say, a bodyguard for me. But things are as they are."

After a mocking bow of farewell, the Khitan withdrew to the lower slope of the hill. Conan wondered if the Duke's plan was to leave him trapped against the shaft until he perished of starvation and thirst. If his men marked his absence before dawn, they might look for him. But then, since he had stolen out of the camp without leaving word of his going, they would not know whether to be alarmed by his absence. If he could only get word to them, they would scour the countryside for him and make short work of the treacherous little duke. But how to get word?

Again he threw his massive strength against the force that held him crushed against the column, but to no avail. HE could move his lower legs and arms and even turn his head somewhat from side to side. But his body was firmly gripped by the iron mail that clothed it.

Now the moon brightened. Conan observed that, about his feet and elsewhere around the base of the monument, grisly remains of other victims were scattered. Human bones and teeth were heaped like old rubbish; he must have trodden upon them when the mysterious force pulled him up against the shaft.

In the stronger light, Conan was disquieted to see that these remains were peculiarly discolored. A closer look showed that the bones seemed to have been eaten away here and there, as if some corrosive fluid had dissolved their smooth surfaces to expose the spongy structure beneath.

He turned his head from side to side, seeking some means of escape. The words of the smooth-tongued Khitan seemed to be true, but now he could discern pieces of iron held against the curiously stained and discolored stone of the column by the invisible force. To his left he sighted the shovel, the crowbar, and the rusty bowl of a helmet, while on the other side a time-eaten dagger was stuck against the stone. Yet once more he hurled his strength against this impalpable force...

From below sounded an eery piping sound a mocking, maddening tune. Straining his eyes through the fickle moonlight, Conan saw that Feng had not left the scene after all. Instead, the duke was sitting on the grass on the side of the hill, near its base.

HE had drawn a curious flute from his capacious garments and was playing upon it.

Through the shrill piping, a faint, squashy sound reached Conan's ears. It seemed to come from above. The muscles of Conan's bullneck stood out as he twisted his head to look upward; the spired Turanian helmet grated against the stone as he moved.

Then the blood froze in his veins.

The mist that had obscured the top of the pylon was gone. The rising half moon shone on and through and amorphous thing, which squatted obscenely on the summit of the column. It was like a huge lump of quivering, semitranslucent jelly and it lived.

Life throbbing, bloated life pulsed within it. The moonlight glistened wetly upon it as it beat like a huge, living heart.

4.

As Conan, frozen with horror, watched, the dweller on the top of the monolith sent a trickle of jelly groping down the shaft toward him. The slippery pseudopod slithered over the smooth surface of the stone. Conan began to understand the source of the stains that discolored the face of the monolith. The wind had changed, and a vagrant down-draft wafted a sickening stench to Conan's nostrils. Now he knew why the bones at the base of the shaft bore that oddly eaten appearance. With a dread that almost unmanned him, he understood that the jellylike thing exuded a digestive fluid, by means of which it consumed its prey.

HE wondered how many men, in ages past had stood in his place, bound helplessly to the pillar and awaiting the searing caress of the abomination now descending toward him.

Perhaps Feng's weird piping summoned it, or perhaps the odor of living flesh called it to feast. Whatever the cause, it had begun a slow, inching progress down the side of the shaft toward his face. The wet jelly sucked and slobbered as it slithered slowly toward him.

Despair gave new strength to his cramped, tired muscles. He threw himself from side to side, striving with every last ounce of strength to break the grip of the mysterious force. To his surprise, he found that, in one of his lunges, he slid to one side, partway around the column.

So the grip that held him did not forbid all movement! This gave him food for thought, though he knew that he could not long thus elude the monster of living jelly.

Something prodded his mailed side. Looking down, he saw the rust-eaten dagger he had glimpsed before. His movement sideways had brought the hilt of the weapon against his ribs.

His upper arm was still clamped against the stone by the sleeve of his mail shirt, but his forearm and hand were free. Could he bend his arm far enough to clasp the haft of the dagger?

He strained, inching his hand along the stone. The mail of his arm scraped slowly over the surface; sweat trickled into his eyes. Bit by bit, his straining arm moved toward the handle of the dagger. The taunting tune of Feng's flute sang maddeningly in his ears, while the ungodly stench of the slime-thing filled his nostrils.

His hand touched the dagger, and in an instant he held the hilt fast. But, as he strained it away from the shaft, the rust-eaten blade broke with a sharp ping. Rolling his eyes downward, he saw that about two thirds of the blade, from the tapering point back, had broken off and lay flat against the stone. The remaining third still projected from the hilt. Since there was now less iron in the dagger for the shaft to attract, Conan was able, by a muscle-bulging effort, to tear the stump of the weapon away from the shaft.

A glance showed him that, although most of the blade was lost to him, the stump still had a couple of apparently sharp edges.

With his muscles quivering from the effort of holding the implement away from the stone, he brought one of these edges up against the leathern thong that bound the two halves of the mail shirt together. Carefully, he began to saw the tough rawhide with the rusty blade.

Every movement was agony. The torment of suspense grew unbearable. His hand, bent into an uncomfortable, twisted position, ached and grew numb. The ancient blade was notched, thin, and brittle; a hasty motion might break it, leaving him helpless. Stroke after stroke he sawed up and down, with exquisite caution. The stench of the creature grew stronger and the sucking sounds of its progress, louder.

The Conan felt the thong snap. The next instant, he hurled his full strength against the magnetic force that imprisoned him.

The thong unraveled through the loopholes in the mail shirt, until one whole side of the shirt was open. His shoulder and half an arm came out through the opening.

The he felt a light blow on the head. The stench became overpowering, and his unseen assailant from above pushed this way and that against his helmet. Conan knew that a jellylike tendril had reached his helmet and was groping over its surface, seeking flesh. Any instant, the corrosive stuff would seep down over his face...

Frantically, he pulled his arm out of the sleeve of the unlaced side of the mail shirt. With his free hand, he unbuckled his sword belt and the chin strap of his helmet. Then he tore himself loose altogether form the deadly constriction of the mail, leaving his tulwar and his armor flattened against the stone.

He staggered free of the column and stood for an instant on trembling legs. The moonlit world swam before his eyes.

Glancing back, he saw that the jelly-beast had now engulfed his helmet. Baffled in its quest for flesh, it was sending more pseudopods down and outward, wavering and questing in the watery light.

Down the slope, the demoniac piping continued. Feng sat cross-legged on the grass of the slope, tweedling away on his flute as if absorbed in some inhuman ecstasy.

Conan ripped off and threw away the gag. He pounced like a striking leopard. He came down, clutching hands first, upon the little duke; the pair rolled down the rest of the slope in a tangle of silken robe and thrashing limbs. A blow to the side of the head subdued Feng's struggles. Conan groped into the Khitan's wide sleeves and tore out the ivory cylinder containing the documents.

Then Conan lurched back up the hill, dragging Feng after him. As he reached the level section around the base of the monolith, he heaved Feng into the air over his head. Seeing what was happening to him, the duke uttered one high, thin scream as Conan hurled him at the shaft. The Khitan struck the column with a thud and slid unconscious to the ground at its base. The blow was merciful, for the duke never felt the slimy touch of the haunter of the monolith as the glassy tentacles reached his face.

For a moment, Conan grimly watched. Feng's features blurred as the rippling jelly slid over them. Then the flesh faded away, and the skull and teeth showed through in a ghastly grin. The abomination flushed pink as it fed.

5.

Conan strode back to camp on stiff legs. Behind him, like a giant's torch, the monolith stood against the sky, wrapped in smoky, scarlet flames.

It had been the work of moments only to strike fire into dry tinder with his flint and steel. He had watched with grim satisfaction as the oily surface of the slime-monster ignited and blazed as it squirmed in voiceless agony. Let them both burn, he thought: the half-digested corpse of that treacherous dog and his loathsome pet!

As Conan neared the camp, he saw that the last of his warriors had not yet retired. Instead, several stood staring curiously at the distant firelight. As he appeared, they turned upon him, crying out: "Where have you been, Captain? What is that blaze?

Where is the duke?"

"Ho, you gaping oafs!" he roared as he strode into the firelight.

"Wake the boys and saddle up to run for it. The Jaga headhunters caught us, and they'll be here any time. They got the duke, but I broke free. Khusro! Mulai! Hop to it, if you do not want your heads hung up in their devil-devil huts! And I hope to Crom you've left me some of that wine!"

Conan the Valiant

Prologue

SUNSET TINTED GOLD and crimson the snows of the Lord of the Winds, monarch of the Ibars Mountains. Twilight had already swallowed its lower slopes, while night shrouded the valleys.

Bora, son of Rhafi, lay behind a boulder and studied the valleys before him.

Three stretched away from the foot of the Lord, like the spokes of a cartwheel.

Mist rose from all. Had he been citybred, given to such fancies. Bora might have discerned monstrous shapes already forming out of the mist.

Instead, Bora's family had been shepherds and wolf-hunters in the village of Crimson Springs, when the forebears of King Yildiz of Turan were petty lordlings. These mountains held no strangeness for him.

Or rather, they had not, until two moons before. Then the tales began. In one valley, the mists turned green each night. Those who ventured into the valley to see why did not return, except for one who returned mad, babbling of demons unleashed.

Then people began to disappear. Children at first―a girl filling water jugs by a lonely stream, a shepherd boy taking food to his father in the pasture, a baby snatched while his mother bathed. Never was there any trace of the reavers, save for a foul stench that made the dogs turn away howling and sometimes a footprint that might have been human, if humans had claws a finger long.

Then grown men and women began to vanish. No village was spared, until people dared not leave their houses after dark and went about even in daylight in
stout, armed bands. It was said that caravans struggling over the passes and even patrols of Yildiz's soldiers had lost men.

Mughra Khan, Yildiz's military governor, heard the tales but doubted them, at least where the villages were concerned. He saw nothing but rebellion looming and his duty clear: to put it down.

He was not such a fool as to arrest men at random and try to persuade the Seventeen Attendants that they were rebels. The Seventeen were not fools either.

Mughra Khan strengthened his outposts, arrested the few men who protested, and waited for the rebels to either strike or skulk back into their lairs.

Neither rebels nor anything else human did either. But entire outposts began to disappear. Sometimes a few bodies remained behind, gutted like sheep, beheaded, dismembered by more than human strength. Once, two men reached safety―one dying, both mad and babbling of demons.

This time, the tales of demons were believed.

Of course Mughra Khan continued to believe in rebels as well. He saw no reason why both could not be menacing the peace and order of Turan. Messengers rode posthaste to Aghrapur, with requests for advice and aid.

What fate those messengers might meet, Bora did not know, and hardly cared. He was more concerned about the fate of his father, Rahfi. Rahfi accused some soldiers of stealing his sheep. The next day the soldiers' comrades arrested him as "a suspected rebel."

What fate suspected rebels might meet, Bora knew too well. He also knew that pardons often came to those whose kin had well served Turan. If he learned the
secret of the demon reavers, might that not procure his father's release?

It would be good if Rahfi could be home in time to attend his daughter Arima's wedding. Though not as fair as her younger sister Caraya, Arima would bear the carpenter of Last Tree many fine sons, with Mitra's favor.

Bora shifted slightly, without dislodging so much as a pebble. It might be a long wait, studying these nighted valleys.

Master Eremius made a peremptory gesture. The servant scurried forward, holding the ornately-shaped chased silver vials of blood in either hand. Thos hands were filthy, Eremius noted.

Eremius snatched the vials from the servant and plunged them into the silk pouch hanging from his belt of crimson leather. Then he struck the rock at his feet with his staff and threw up his left hand, palm outward. The rock opened. Water gushed, lifting the servant off his feet, then casting him down, gasping and whimpering for mercy. Eremius let the water flow until the servant was as clean in person and garments as was possible without flaying him.

"Let that be a lesson to you," Eremius said.

"It is a lesson, Master," the man gasped, and departed faster than he had come.

The wet rock slowed Eremius not at all as he descended into the valley. His long-toed feet were bare and hard as leather, seeking and finding safe holds without the least spell bringing light. At the foot of the path two more servants stood holding torches. The torches were of common rushes, but burned with a rubicund light and a hissing like angry serpents.

"All is well, Master."

"So be it."

They followed him as he climbed the other side of the valley to the Altar of Transformation. He wished to arrive in time to correct whatever was not indeed well. The assurances of his servants told him little, except that the Altar had not been carried away by vultures or any of tonight's Transformations escaped.

Ah, would that Illyana was still friend and ally, or that he had snatched the other Jewel of Kurag from her before she fled! Then it would have mattered little whether she escaped or not. Before she found any way to oppose him, the twin Jewels would have given him irresistible power, both in his own right and through human allies.

Eremius nearly thought a curse upon Illyana. He quickly banished the impulse.

The magic he used in a Transformation was unforgiving of anything less than total concentration. Once, he had sneezed in the middle of a Transformation and found its subject leaping from the Altar, partly transformed and wholly beyond his control. He had to summon other Transformations to slay it.

The Altar seemed part of the hillside itself, as in truth it was. Eremius had conjured it into being out of the very rock, a seamless slab as high as a man's waist and twelve paces on a side. Around the edge of the slab ran in high relief the runes of a powerful warding spell.

Like the runes on the great golden ring on Eremius's left forearm, these runes were an ancient Vanir translation of a still more ancient Atlantean text. Even among sorcerers, few knew of these or any of the other spells concerning the

Jewels of Kurag. Many doubted the very existence of the spells.

Eremius found this to his advantage. What few believe in, fewer still will seek.

He stepped up to the Altar and contemplated the Transformation. She was a young village woman, fully of marriageable age and exceedingly comely, had Eremius been concerned about such things. The whole of her clothing was a silver ring about her roughly-cropped dark hair and silver chains about her wrists and ankles. The chains held her spread-eagled on the slab, but not so tightly that she could not writhe from side to side in an obscene parody of passion. In spite of the night chill, sweat glazed her upthrust breasts and trickled down her thighs. Her eyes held shifting tints that made them look now ebony dark, now silver gray, then the fiery tint of a cat's eyes seen by firelight.

Indeed, all seemed well. Certainly there was nothing to be gained by waiting.

Eight more Transformations awaited him tonight, nine more recruits for his army.

Soon he could bargain from strength, with the ambitious or the discontented at the court of Turan. No court ever lacked for such, and the court of Turan had more than most. Once they were his allies, he could set them in search of the other Jewel. Illyana could not hide forever.

Then the twin Jewels would be his, and bargaining at an end. It would be time for him to command and for the world to obey.

He raised his left hand and began to chant. As he chanted, the Jewel began to glow. Above the Altar the mists took on an emerald hue.

Bora's breath hissed between his teeth. The mist in the westernmost valley was
turning green. It was also the nearest valley. In daylight he could have reached it in an hour, for he was as keen-sighted by night as by day. Tonight, speed was not his goal. Stealth was what he needed, for he was a wolf seeking prey―an odd fate for a shepherd, but Mitra would send what Mitra chose.

Bora sat up and unwrapped the sling from around his waist. In the dry mountain air, the cords and leather cup had not stretched. In the mist-shrouded valley, it might have been otherwise; still, he could face anything but heavy rain. He had practiced almost daily with the sling, ever since he was no taller than it was long.

From a goatskin pouch he drew a piece of dry cheese and five stones. Since he was fourteen, Bora could tell the weight and balance of a stone by tossing it thrice in either hand. He had studied and chosen these five stones as carefully as if he were going to wed them.

His fingers told him that none of the stones were chipped. One by one he eased them back into the pouch, along with the last crumb of cheese. Then he tied the pouch back at his waist, picked up his staff, and started down the mountain.

It was no marvel that the mist turned the color of emeralds. The light pouring from the great stone in the ring was of such a hue. The stone itself might have been taken for an emerald the size of a baby's fist. Some men had done so. Two had been thieves; both would have preferred King Yildiz's executioners to what actually befell them.

Whether the Jewels of Kurag were natural or creations of sorcery, no living man
knew. That secret lay beneath the waves, among the coral-armored ruins of Atlantis. For Master Eremius, it was enough to know the secrets of the Jewels'

powers.

He chanted the first spell in a high-pitched singsong that might have been mistaken for the tongue of Khitai. As he chanted, he felt the vials of blood grow warm against his skin, then cool again. Their preservation spells were set aside. Now to make them his instruments of Transformation.

He set the first vial on the Altar beside the young woman. The herb-steeped cloth forced into her mouth had sapped her will but not destroyed it. Her eyes rolled back, wide with terror, as she saw the blood in the vial begin to glow. A faint moan forced its way through the cloth.

Eremius chanted three guttural monosyllables, and the lid of the vial flew into the air. He struck the Altar, five times with his staff, and chanted the same syllables twice more.

The vial floated into the air and drifted over the girl. Eremius' staff rose like an asp ready to strike. The light from the Jewel became a single beam, bright enough to dazzle any mortal eye unshielded by magic.

With a flick of his wrist, Eremius directed the beam straight at the vial. It quivered, then overturned. The blood rained down on the girl, weaving a pattern like silver lace across her skin. Her eyes were now wider than ever, but no thought now lay behind them.

Holding his staff level, Eremius passed it and the beam of light over the girl's body, from head to toe. Then he stepped back, licked his dry lips, and watched
the Transformation.

The girl's skin turned dark and thick, then changed into scales, overlapping like plates of fine armor. Great pads of muscle and bone grew across her joints.

Her feet and hands grew hard edges, then ridged backs, and claws a finger long.

The spell did not alter the structure of the face as much as the rest of the body. Scaly skin, pointed ears, pointed teeth, and eyes like a cat's still turned it into a grotesque parody of humanity.

At last, only the eyes moved in what had been a woman. Eremius made another pass with his staff alone, and the chains fell from wrists and ankles. The creature rose uncertainly to its hands and knees, then bowed its head to Eremius. Without hesitation or revulsion, he laid his hand upon the head. The hair fell away like dust, and the silver ring clattered upon the stone.

Another Transformation was accomplished.

From the darkness beyond the Altar stalked three more of the Transformed. Two had been purchased as slaves, one a captured caravan guard; all had been men. It was Eremius's experience that women fit for a Transformation were seldom found unguarded. Girls to yield up their blood for the Transformation of others were easier to come by.

The three Transformed lifted their new comrade to her feet. With a wordless snarl she shook off their hands. One of them cuffed her sharply across the cheek. She bared her teeth. For a moment Eremius feared he might have to intervene.

Then a familiar recognition filled the new

Transformed's eyes. She knew that for better or for worse, these beings were her chosen comrades in the service of Master Eremius. She could not deny them.

Whatever she had worshipped before, she now worshipped only Eremius, Lord of the Jewel.

Eyes much less keen than Bora's could have made out the sentries at the head of the valley. Although no soldier, he still knew that they would bar entry that way. Nor was he surprised. The master of the demon light in the valley would not be hospitable to visitors.

With sure, steady paces, Bora passed along the ridge to the south of the valley.

He reached a point halfway between the mouth and the source of the light. It seemed to lie in the open, not within one of the caves that honeycombed the valley's walls.

Below Bora's feet now lay a cliff two hundred paces high and steep enough to daunt the boldest of goats. It was not enough to daunt Bora. "You have eyes in your fingers and toes," they said of him in the village, for he could climb where no one else could.

To be sure, he had never climbed such a cliff in the dark, but never had he hoped to win so much or had so little to lose. The family of a convicted rebel would be fortunate indeed if Mughra Khan did no worse than to exile them.

Bora studied the cliff as far as he could see, picking out the first part of his route. Then he lowered himself over the edge and began his descent.

By the time he was halfway down, his hands were sweating and all his limbs had
begun to tremble. He knew he should not be so tired so soon. Was the sorcery of the light-maker sapping his strength?

He drove the thought away. It could only bring fear, which would sap his strength and wits alike. He found a foothold, shifting first his right and then his left foot to it, then sought the next.

Below, the emerald light came and went. It now seemed to be a beam, like a lantern's. When it shone, he thought he saw dim figures in a ragged circle.

Their form seemed other than human, but that might be the mist.

At last he reached a ledge of rock wide enough for sitting. To the right, toward the light, the cliff plunged straight to the valley floor, and the ledge vanished. Only a bird could find its way down there.

To the left, the slope was much easier. A carrion reek hinted of a lion's den, but lions were hard to rouse at night. Halfway down the slope, a sentry paced back and forth, a short bow on his shoulder and a tulwar in his hand.

Bora unwound the sling from inside his shirt: That sentry had to die. Unless he were deaf, he would hear Bora climbing down behind him. Even if Bora passed him going down, he would be well-placed to cut off retreat.

A stone dropped into the cup. The sling rose and whirred into motion, until no human eye could have seen it. Nor could any human ear more than fifty paces away have heard its sound.

The sentry was thrice that far. He died between one heartbeat and the next, never knowing what flew out of the night to crush his skull. His tulwar flew out of his hand and clattered down the slope.

Bora stiffened, waiting for some sign that the sentry's comrades might have heard the clatter. Nothing moved but the mist and the emerald light. He crept along the ledge, half-crouching, the loaded sling in one hand.

The carrion reek grew, clawing at his nose and chest. He took shallow breaths, which helped little. There was more than carrion in that reek. Ordure and filth he dared not name lay behind it. No lion laired here. The thought of sorcery returned, this time not to depart.

Perhaps that thought saved his life by sharpening his ears. He heard the clawed feet on the rocks while their owners were still inside their cave. He was already recoiling when they burst into the open.

There was nothing dim about those shapes, for they shone with their own light.

It was the same emerald demon-light that had drawn Bora into the valley. Now it showed monstrous travesties of men―taller, broader, scaled and clawed, their eyes blazing and fanged mouths gaping wide.

They neither spoke nor made any sound as they rushed toward Bora. They did something far worse, reaching into his very thoughts.

Stay a while, lad. Stay a while, and have the honor of serving us who serve the Master. Stay, stay.

Bora knew that if he obeyed for even a moment, he would lose the will to leave.

Then he would indeed serve the servants of the Master, as the lamb serves the wolf.

His sling moved as if his arm had its own will. The being's skull was of more than human thickness, but then, the range was short. The stone drove in deep
above the right eye, flinging the being into the arms of the one behind it. They toppled together.

The rearmost leaped over his fallen comrades. Bora felt his will attacked once more:

Obey me, or lose pleasures and treasures undreamed of by those who do not serve the Master.

In truth, Bora had never dreamed that being eaten alive could be a pleasure. He saw no cause to think otherwise now. His feet and hands carried him up the cliff as if they were wings.

The being hissed like a snake. Raw rage tore at Bora's mind. Almost, his fingers abandoned their search for holds.

The being leaped high, its clawed hands searching for Bora's ankles, its clawed feet scrabbling for a hold. It found neither. The being slid down, overbalanced, and toppled backward off the ledge. A final desperate hiss ended in a thud and the sliding of a body on stone.

Bora did not stop, and barely breathed until he reached level ground. Even then, he only stopped long enough to reload his sling. He had heard in tales the words "as if demons were after him." Now he knew their meaning far too well.

If he lived to return home and find anyone to believe his tale, he would have the secret of the mountain demons.

Unseen behind him, the beam of emerald light abruptly died.

When Eremius stood at the Altar, he closed his ears. He remained deaf to the
falling tulwar. Only the call of the Transformed reached him, appealing to whomever they saw before them. Their appeal, then the death cries of first one, then the second.

Eremius shivered as if he were standing naked in the wind from a glacier. The syllables of the Transformation Spell grew muddled. On the slab, the nearly-complete Transformed writhed. Muscles writhed and heaved, strengthened by magic and driven by madness.

The ankle chains snapped first. Flying links scattered like sling stones. The Transformed rolled, freeing first one wrist, and then the other. It was on its hands and knees when Eremius launched his staff like a spear, smiting the Transformed across the forehead.

Eremius flinched at the cry in his mind. The Transformed sprang to its feet in one convulsion, then toppled off the Altar. It rolled over on its back, kicking and writhing. Then its outlines softened, as scales and claws, muscle and bone sagged into red-and green-streaked jelly. The jelly turned to liquid, and the liquid sank into the rock, leaving a greenish-black stain. Even with his human senses dulled, Eremius gagged at the stench.

He turned from the Altar, letting his arms fall to his sides. His concentration was broken, his spells uncontrolled, the night's Transformations ended.

A captain of sentries hurried forward and knelt. "Revered Master, Kuris has been found slain. A stone fell from the cliff and struck him on the head. Two of the Transformed are also slain, one by another stone and the other by a fall."

"A stone―?" Rage and contempt drove Eremius beyond speech. Those dead

Transformed were pursuing some intruder when they died. One now probably beyond reach, thanks to this witling's blindness.

The staff came down on the captain's shoulders, twice on each side. He only flinched. Unless Eremius willed it so, the staff held no magic. The captain would still have bruises.

"Go!"

Alone, Eremius raised both hands to the sky and shrieked curses. He cursed the sorcerers of ancient Atlantis, who found or made the Jewels of Kurag so strong together and so weak apart. He cursed the weakness of his Jewel, that forced him to use such human servants. If they were not witlings by nature, they had to be made such lest they escape his control.

Above and beyond all else, he cursed Illyana. Had she been more loyal to him, or less shrewd in her escape―Such thoughts were as futile now as ever. Bossonia was ten years gone and as unchangeable as the Ibars Mountains. It was the future that held hope―hope of human allies, who might still crown his quest with victory.

Bora stalked out of the gray dawn and into Crimson Springs before anyone was awake to see him. Before his own house, he stopped. Did he hear the sound of lamentation from within?

He knocked. The door opened a crack. His sister Caraya appeared. Red eyes and a puffy, tear-streaked face marred her beauty.

"Bora! Where have you been?"

"In the mountains. Caraya, what is it? Have they executed―?"

"No, no! It is not Father. It is Arima. The demons took her!"

"The demons―"

"Bora, have you been out all night? I said, the demons took Arima!" Suddenly she was pressing her face into his shoulder, weeping again.

He patted her hair awkwardly and tried to urge her inside. It finally took both him and Yakoub: Bora helped her to a chair, while Yakoub shut the door. From the other room, the sound of lamentation began again.

"Your mother mourns," Yakoub said. "The other children―the neighbors have taken them in."

"Who are you, to play host in this house?" Bora asked. He had never quite trusted Yakoub, who was too handsome and too clearly citybred, although a good man with the stock. He had come to Crimson Springs two years before, speaking of enemies in Aghrapur. His skill with the animals had made him welcome enough, and not only in Crimson Springs. Nor had he gone against the customs of his hosts.

"Who are you, to turn away help?" Caraya snapped. "Will you play master in this house, if it takes bread from the mouths of your kin?"

Bora raised his hands, feeling more helpless than usual in the face of his sister's tongue. It was not the first time he agreed with Iskop the Smith, who said that Caraya's tongue was deadlier than any weapon he had ever forged.

"Forgive me, Cara. I―I have not slept this night, and my wits are dulled."

"You look weary," Yakoub said. He grinned. "I hope she was worth it."

"If you spent the night with―" began Caraya, her voice tight with rage.

"I spent the night learning the secret of the demons," Bora snarled.

After that he lacked no attention. Caraya heated water and wiped his face, hands, and feet while Yakoub listened intently.

"This is not easy to believe," Yakoub said finally.

Bora nearly choked on a mouthful of bread. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Nothing of the kind. I but state an important truth. What good does it do you to have seen this, if no one believes you?"

Bora felt ready to weep. He had thought of that as he left the valley, but had somehow forgotten it during the long walk home.

"Do not fear. I―I do not know if I have friends in Aghrapur, after two years. I am sure that my enemies will have enemies, who may listen to me. May I bear word of this to the city?"

Bora gathered his wits. He still did not wholly trust Yakoub. Yet who with the power to send the army into that demon-haunted valley would believe the son of a suspected rebel? A citybred man with knowledge of Aghrapur the Mighty's mightier intrigues might be heard.

"By the bread and the salt I have eaten in this house," Yakoub said, "by Erlik and Mitra, and by my love for your sister Caraya―"

Again Bora nearly choked. He stared at Caraya. She smiled defiantly. Bora groaned.

"Forgive me," Yakoub said. "I could not make an offer for Caraya until Arima was wed. Now you are a troubled house, in mourning. I will wait until I return from―wherever I must go, to find those who will believe. I swear to do nothing
to dishonor the name of the House of Rahfi, and to do everything to secure his release and your reward. Has it struck you, Bora, that you are blessedly lucky to be alive and sane?"

The only reply was a snore. Bora had fallen asleep on the rug, with his back pressed against the wall.

One

AGHRAPUR BEARS MANY names. Some are fit to be written down. Among these are "Aghrapur the Mighty."

"Aghrapur the Splendid," and "Aghrapur the Wealthy." None is a lie, but none is the whole truth, either.

Among men who know this royal city well, one name is thought the most truthful.

It is a translation from the tongue of Khitai, for the man who first uttered it was a Khitan. He called Aghrapur "The City Where Anything That Cannot Be Found Does Not Exist Under Heaven."

An unwieldy name, as even its inventor admitted. But also the most truthful name ever given to Aghrapur.

The sun was long down, although the warmth of the day still clung to the stones and tiles. Those who could strolled in their courtyards or opened shutters to catch the breeze from the Vilayet Sea. Few were on the streets, save for the
watch or those who had urgent business.

Much of that urgent business was less than lawful. Anything that could be found in Aghrapur could be found by day or by night, but if it was unlawful, it was easier to find it by night.

The captain of mercenaries, known as Conan the Cimmerian, sought nothing unlawful as he loped through the dark streets. He sought only a tavern called the Red Falcon, some of its best wine, a meal, and a wench for the night. Among them, they should take away the sour taste of the day's work.

To himself, Conan admitted that High Captain Khadjar had the right of it, when he said, "Just because you travel to Khitai and escort royal ladies doesn't mean your stones are rubies. You've a company to train. That means taking your share of the new recruits."

"Is a full score of witlings, ploughboys, and thieves really my share, Captain?"

"If you think yours are witlings, talk to Itzhak." Khadjar pushed the wine jug across the table to Conan. "By Black Erlik's beard, Conan, I show my trust in you! I know no captain twice your age who could knock more sense into recruits in less time. You owe it to those poor wretches to teach them what will keep them alive in the face of a Kozaki charge or an Iranistani ambush! Now drink up, hold your tongue, and go pay your debt."

Conan obeyed. He owed Khadjar not only obedience but respect, even when the Captain spoke as if Conan himself were but a recruit. It was Khadjar who had urged his promotion, put him forward for the secret journeys that made his name, and taught him much of what he knew about civilized warfare.

Cimmeria did not breed men who gave their loyalty easily. Its chiefs led by their own prowess and by the consent of the warriors who chose to follow them.

Only the valor of those warriors and the remoteness and harsh climate of Cimmeria had kept it free of the rule of some more disciplined race. Cimmeria also did not breed fools who refused loyalty where it was deserved and earned.

Khadjar had earned Conan's loyalty, but there was an end to it―for all that, Conan took as much pleasure in drilling recruits as he did in cleaning stables.

The Red Falcon stood near the top of the Street of the Twelve Steps, on the Hill of Madan. Conan climbed the hill with the ease of a hillman on a slope and the sinewy grace of a panther on the prowl. His eyes never ceased to roam from shadowed doorway to alley to rooftop, seeking lurkers. Twice he saw them; each time they let him pass. Robbers might take their chances with the watch; only fools challenged a man they could neither slay nor flee.

Conan's rank would have entitled him to a palanquin, but he never used them, save for when duty required it. He trusted neither the legs nor the tongues of slaves. Besides, he had been a slave himself on the winding road that brought him to Aghrapur.

A patrol of the watch trotted out of the shadows.

"Evening, Captain. Have you seen any trouble abroad?"

"None."

Another profession Conan had followed was that of thief. Thief-catchers, he believed, should do their own searching.

The patrol tramped off. Conan took the stairs at the Eleventh Step in two
bounds, splashed water from a fountain on his hands and face, then turned in at the door of the Red Falcon.

"Ho, Conan! You look like a man who lost gold and found brass!"

"Moti, you've drunk too much of your own camel sweat to see anything clearly.

Have you never spent a day breaking in new recruits?"

The scarred former sergeant of cavalry grinned. "Enough so that I pray to be an officer in my next life as a soldier."

Conan crossed the room, skirting the center where a pale-skinned Iranistani girl danced to tambourine and drum. She wore only a black silk loinguard, a belt of copper coins, and a shimmering coat of jasmine-scented oil. The rythmic swirling of her hips seemed about to divest her of even these scant garments. Watching her appreciatively, Conan noticed that the nipples of her firm young breasts were rouged. She also seemed able to move those breasts independently of one another.

Moti thrust a massive silver cup in the Vanir style at Conan. It came to the Red Falcon as a pledge for its owner's debt, which he never returned to pay. He was bones bleaching on the Hyrkanian shore, and the cup was Conan's when he drank at the Red Falcon.

"To worthy opponents," Conan said, lifting the cup. Then he pointed at the girl.

"New, isn't she?"

"What of our Pyla, Conan?"

"Well, if she's free―"

"I am never free," came a cheerful voice from the stairs. "You know my price, and stop trying to beat it down, you son of a Cimmerian bog-troll!"

"Ah, the beautiful Pyla, as gracious as ever," Conan said. He raised his cup to the raven-haired woman swaying down the stairs. She wore crimson silk pantaloons and carved mother-of-pearl plates over her breasts. Only the ripe curves of those breasts hinted that she was any older than the girl.

"I hardly know why I am gracious, either," Pyla said, with a mock pout.

"Everyone insults me, claiming that I am worth no more than a wharfside trull."

"You are worth more, of course," Moti said. "But not as much as you think.

Indeed, you would be far richer if you charged much less. I doubt not that thinking of your price unmans half of those who would otherwise knock on your door―"

Moti broke off as five men entered from the street. Four wore leather tunics and trousers, with mail glinting at throats and wrists. Their heavy bronze-studded belts carried swords and short clubs.

The fifth man also wore tunic and trousers, but his were dark green silk, richly embroidered in gold. Gold likewise covered the hilt of his sword. Conan dismissed the party as some young nobleman and his bodyguards, wandering the city in search of pleasure. He doubted they would spoil an honest soldier's drinking if they did not overstay their welcome.

Moti and Pyla seemed to think otherwise. Pyla vanished like smoke, and when Conan turned around it seemed she had taken the dancing girl with her. Moti pulled out his own cure for unruly customers, a shipyard maul that even Conan
needed two hands to swing easily. Then he poured wine into Conan's cup until it slopped over the edge.

Very surely the five were not what they seemed to Conan. Just as surely, nothing short of torture would loosen Moti's tongue. Conan moved until he could see the whole room while he spoke to Moti, then drank until the cup no longer overflowed.

"You said you hoped to be an officer the next time?," he prompted the innkeeper.

"If I remember what I learned this time, yes. Otherwise, small honor in being like him." Moti made a silent and subtle gesture at the silk-clad man.

"Best hope you serve under High Captain Khadjar in his next life," Conan said.

"He could teach a shark or a hyena."

"I thought he was the one who had you sweating the recruits."

"So he is. He says it's a compliment. Perhaps it is." Conan drank again. "Is there food to be had tonight? Or has your cook been carried off by demons? I'll not take kindly to gnawing oats with your horses―"

As if in answer, Pyla and the Iranistani appeared with loaded trays for the newcomers. Conan saw that both wore loose, nearly opaque robes covering them from throat to ankles, and did not take their eyes off the five men. Neither did Moti, until they were served. Without moving more than his hand, Conan made sure that his sword rested lightly in its scabbard.

"There is no 'perhaps' about it," Moti said. "Conan, if Khadjar thinks you worth teaching, the gods have been generous. Too generous to an outlander, by my way of thinking."

"Yes, yes, O son of a Vendhyan dancing girl," Conan replied. Moti's voice was as brittle as an ill-tempered sword. A sense of danger crept up the Cimmerian's spine like a spider.

"My mother was the greatest dancer of her day," Moti said, "as Khadjar is the greatest soldier of ours." He looked at Conan. "You are―how old?"

"By the Turanian reckoning, twenty-two."

"Ha. The same age as Khadjar's bastard son. Or the age he would have been, had he not died two years ago.

Perhaps Khadjar seeks another son in you. He had no other kin and few friends, save for the boy. It was said, too, that the boy―"

The door opened and a woman entered. She could hardly have drawn more eyes had she risen from the floor in a cloud of crimson smoke, to the blare of trumpets.

She was tall and of a northern fairness, with wide gray eyes and scattered freckles under a tan. In age she was clearly a woman rather than a girl, and her figure could contest honors with Pyla's. Conan's eyes followed the line of her thigh up to the slender waist, then marched across the breasts that strained the brown woolen tunic and rested on the long fine neck.

When he had done this, he saw that the eyes of every other man in the room had marched with his.

The woman took no notice. She strode across the room with a grace that few dancers could have equalled. The men's eyes followed her, but they might have been the eyes of mice for all she seemed to care. Conan doubted that this woman would have broken stride crossing the room even if she had been as bare as a
babe.

She reached the bar and said, in accented Turanian, "Honorable Motilal, I would have business with you." Bawdy laughter rippled around the room. She went on, as if blushing was beneath her. "I would buy a jug of wine, bread, cheese, and smoked meat. Any you have ready will do, even horse―"

"Do not insult Moti by thinking he serves horsemeat, good lady," Conan said. "If your purse is somewhat scant…"

The woman's smile did not reach her eyes. "And how am I to repay you?"

"By drinking some of that wine with me, no more."

This woman looked like a goddess in disguise, and could hardly be given to sporting with Cimmerian mercenary officers. She would give no pleasure save to his eyes, but that would be enough.

"If your purse is empty, girl, we can fill it before dawn," a bodyguard said.

His comrades joined in the bawdy laughter. Few others did, least of all Conan.

They saw the ice in the woman's eyes.

Moti struck the bar with the handle of his maul. The drummer pulled his drums into his lap and began pounding out a sensuous Zamoran beat. "Pyla! Zaria!" Moti shouted. "To work!"

The women whirled onto the floor. The shouting and clapping rose, until the drummer was sweating to make himself heard. First Pyla, then Zaria, threw off their robes. The man in green silk drew his sword and caught Zaria's on the point, without taking his eyes off the northern woman.

Conan considered the man anew. A fop he might be, but likely enough a dangerous
one.

A kitchen girl appeared with a rush basket of food and a jug of fine Aquilonian wine. Moti handed them to the woman, counted the coins she drew from inside her belt, then slapped the girl on the rump.

"No more cooking tonight, Thebia. Dancers are what we need!"

In spite of the din, Conan heard in Moti's voice the tone of a man ordering a rearguard to stand and die. The tickling spider-legs of danger on Conan's spine became sharp hooves. Two years ago he would have drawn his sword.

Pyla cast aside her breast plates. They clattered to the floor amid cheers, as the northern woman turned for the door. Conan followed her with his eyes, and saw that the silk-clad man was doing the same. Pyla, Zaria, and Thebia might have been carrion birds pecking at ox bones for all he saw of them.

The woman could avoid the dancers only by passing close to her watcher and his guards. The man saw that in the same moment as Conan. His fingers did a dance of their own. Conan had taken two steps when one of the guards thrust a thick leg into the woman's path.

In the next moment Conan knew she was a warrior. She dropped both jug and basket to free her hands and save her balance. When she knew that her balance was lost, she twisted in midair and crashed down with both hands free. Rolling, she drew a dagger from one boot and uncoiled like a snake.

The lordling leaped from his chair, one hand on his sword hilt and the other held out in what Conan much doubted was friendship. As his guards also rose, the
woman gripped the lordling's hand, then held on as she twisted again. The man's pearl-sewn shoes were no aid on the wine-slick floor. He sat down with a thump.

Conan was now close enough to hear the woman say, "Forgive me, my lord. I only wished―" Two of the guards turned toward him. Conan's instinct to draw his sword seethed and bubbled beneath a skin of civilization.

The lordling contemplated the ruby stains on his clothes, then he contemplated the woman. His voice rose to a screech. "She attacked me! My clothes are ruined!

Do your duty!"

The woman had her back to one of the guards. As his comrades drew swords, he drew a club. It came down to meet the flat of Conan's outthrust sword. Conan's massive right arm easily .held the sword, as the club slid down to strike the woman a glancing blow to her shoulder, instead of a stunning one to her head.

The woman rolled again, giving Conan fighting room. For a moment he had no need of it. The lordling and his guards seemed bemused at being opposed. Conan shot a quick glance at Moti. Sweat streamed from the innkeeper, and his white-knuckled hands gripped the handle of the maul.

Conan much doubted that he would drink again at the Red Falcon. The lordling had put Moti in such fear that he would see an honest customer attacked. Conan would call no man a coward without proof, but neither would he be bound by his host's fears.

"This woman no more attacked you than a she-mouse," Conan growled. "If we're to talk of attacks, what about that great barge of a foot I saw thrust at her?"

The woman unwisely turned to smile at Conan. One guard had recovered his wits.

His sword rasped free, thrusting clumsily but hard at the woman. She whirled, enough so that steel intended to pierce her belly only raked her ribs. A red stain spread across the side of her tunic.

The guard nearest to Conan owed his life to the Cimmerian's scruples about cutting down a man who had not yet drawn. A stool, flung like a stone from a catapult, took the guard's legs out from under him. Conan's boot crashed into his ribs, then into his belly. The guard doubled up, trying to spew and breathe and scream all at the same time with precious little success.

By now, more than half of Moti's customers had recalled urgent business elsewhere. One guard retreated among the empty tables and benches. Two others and their master charged Conan, staying close together rather than spreading out. They also took their eyes off the woman.

Bloody ribs and all, the woman sprang onto a vacant table. The closest guard turned on her, his sword snaking toward her thigh.

"Don't kill her, you fool!" the lordling screamed.

The guard's reply was hardly respectful. Conan knew a moment's sympathy for the man. No order could be harder to obey than to take a shelion alive. No man but a fool gave it, save for better cause than wounded vanity.

The woman drew a second dagger from her boot, then sprang down. She landed so close to the guard that he lacked room to use his sword. Before he could open the distance she locked his sword arm with one dagger, then thrust the point of the other up under his chin. His outraged scream turned into a gurgle as blood sprayed from his nose and mouth.

"Look out, woman! Behind you!"

The guard who had retreated was advancing as his dead comrade took all the woman's attention. Conan could only shout a warning. The lordling and one guard were coming at him. Both seemed to know the curved Turanian sword well enough to demand the Cimmerian's full attention. Greater speed and longer reach could too easily be set at naught by ill-luck.

His warning to the woman might still have been too late. By the gods' favor, the guard tried to obey his lord's orders to take the woman alive. He closed and grappled her from behind, one arm around her throat, one gripping her right arm.

She wriggled like an eel, trying to stab backward. His mail turned away one dagger, and he hammered her wrist against the edge of a table until she dropped the other.

Conan's own fight of two against one would have been easier if the three women of the Red Falcon hadn't gone on dancing. They had no one to dance for now, or at least none with eyes to spare for them save for Moti behind the bar and the drummer on his stool. Pyla and Zaria were now wholly nude. The kitchen girl Thebia was bare to the waist Her skirt slid farther down her thighs with each wriggle of her hips. They had been commanded to dance, and would do so until the command came to stop.

"Crom, women! Either give me room or give me help!"

Suddenly the girl's skirt slipped its moorings, slid to the floor, and tangled around her feet. She stumbled and would have fallen, save that she stumbled against the lordling. He thrust her back savagely, forgetting that his free hand
now held a dagger. The keen edge scored a long, bloody furrow across her thigh.

She gave a high, shrill wail, clapping one hand to the wound while she cast the skirt wholly aside with the other. This drew the lordling's attention again, a mistake for which his guards paid dearly.

Conan closed with the first and slashed his arm off at the elbow. The second had the woman disarmed and was discovering that was only half the victory when Moti charged out from behind the bar. His maul swung, striking the guard with a glancing blow on the hip. That broke the guard's grip on the woman, freeing her to ram an elbow into his throat. The guard reeled back, clear of another swing of the maul, fell backward over a chair, and crashed to the floor at the feet of the drummer. The drummer lifted one of his drums―Kushite ebony bound with brass―and slammed it down on the fallen man's head. He lay still.

"Now, son of more fathers than you could count with your shoes on―" Conan began.

The lordling looked at Conan as he might have at a horde of demons, dropped his dagger, and bolted out the door. The northern woman stayed just long enough to retrieve her daggers, then also vanished into the night. Still nude, Pyla and Zaria set themselves to binding Thebia's wounds, then turned to the guards.

"No doubt the watch will catch him, if she does not," Conan said.

Moti shook his head. He was now as pale as the Iranistani. The maul thudded to the floor, his hands suddenly unable to grip it.

Conan frowned. The expression had made new recruits tremble. Moti turned paler, if such was possible. "Or is our departed friend in the green silk a royal prince or some such?"

"He―he is not far from that," Moti stammered. "He is the son of Lord Houma."

That name was not altogether unknown to Conan. Houma was one of the Seventeen Attendants, a proven soldier and a great partisan of a larger army and an expanded Turanian empire.

"Then he needs to thrash some manners into that little cockerel. That, or else geld him and sell him for a eunuch, to get some profit from him."

"Conan, I had to be sure the matter was past settling peacefully. It―"

"It was past settling peacefully the moment they laid hands on that woman!"

Conan growled. "I'll say so to the watch and anyone else who'll listen, up to King Yildiz himself! If Thebia hadn't been attacked, I might be chasing Houma's pretty pimp of a son through the streets now, hoping to finish him off before the woman did!"

Moti drew in breath like a frog. "That was no attack," he said slowly. "She deliberately drew that stroke, so that I would have to fight.

"By Hanuman's stones, girl, I'll have you out on the streets with a name to make you stay there! And you, Pyla! She'd never have thought of it without you.

You're no longer―gkkkhhhh!"

Conan lifted Moti to the top of the bar, picked up the maul, and held the handle in front of the innkeeper's nose.

"Moti, my former friend and host, you have two choices. I can ram this up your arse sideways and leave you that way to explain tonight's matters to the watch.

I can also leave you intact and help explain them, in return for a few favors."

Moti licked his lips. "Favors?"

"Your best room free whenever I want it, with food and wine as well. Not the best wine, I'll allow, but enough for me and any company I keep. Oh, yes―and any woman I entertain doesn't have to pay you a single brass piece!"

Moti squalled as if he were already being impaled. Conan's frown and the women's giggles silenced him. He tried to throw up his hands in disgust, but they were shaking too hard to make the gesture convincing.

"Well?"

"As you wish, miner of my name and destroyer of my house. May you have much joy in it, before Lord Houma's men burn it over your head."

"Lord Houma may have fewer but wiser men if he tries that," Conan said. "Now, I want a room tonight, and food and wine for―" He looked at the women.

"One," with a nod to Pyla.

"Two," smiling at Zaria.

Thebia grinned and put her hands behind her back. Her young breasts rose, quivering. Conan pointed at her bandaged thigh. "You want to be the third, with that? Oh, very well. I'm no great hand at arguing with women."

"Just as well, then, that our northern friend took herself off," Pyla said.

"Otherwise, she might be joining us. I much doubt that even a Cimmerian can do justice to four!"

Two

"THAT'S A BOW in your hands, you son of a cull!" Conan snapped. "It's not a snake. It won't bite you. Even if it did, that's not half of what I'll do to you if you don't string it now!"

The gangling youth turned the color of the dust underfoot. He looked at the cerulean sky overhead, as if imploring the gods for mercy. Conan drew breath for more advice. The youth swallowed, gripped the bow, and managed to string it, gracelessly but without dropping it again.

One by one, Conan took his recruits through the art of stringing the powerful curved Turanian horsebow. Certainly, some were destined to be midden-sweepers.

Others already knew everything that Conan proposed to teach them.

He would not ask how they had learned the bow. Among the mercenaries of Turan, the life of a soldier began the day he took the copper coin of enlistment. What he had been before, no one asked. It was a custom that Conan thought wise, and not only because his own past would not have borne the weight of too much curiosity.

At last Conan spat into the dust and scowled at the men. "Why the gods addled your wits, making you think you could be soldiers, they only know. I don't. So I have to do what King Yildiz pays me for. That's turning you into soldiers, whether you like it or not. Sergeant Garsim! Take them on a run, ten times around the range!"

"You heard the Captain," shouted Garsim, in a voice that could have been heard in King Yildiz's palace. "Run!" He flourished his stick until it whistled, then fell in behind the recruits with a wink to Conan. Although Garsim could have
been grandfather to some of the recruits, he could easily outrun any of them.

As the recruits vanished through the gate, Conan sensed someone behind him.

Before he could turn, he heard Khadjar's voice.

"You talk to those men as though you have heard your own words from others."

"I have. Captain. Sergeant Nikar said much the same when he was teaching me archery."

"So old Nikar was your instructor? I thought I saw his touch in your draw. What happened to him, by the way?"

"He went home on leave, and never reached it. A band of robbers disappeared that same month. I'd wager Nikar won a fine escort."

"Would you wager on your archery against mine? Five arrows a turn, three turns?"

"Well, Captain―"

"Come, come, oh defender of dancing girls. Did I not hear of your winning free hospitality at the Red Falcon two nights ago? Your purse should be ready to burst with the weight of unspent coin!"

Conan was ready to burst with curiosity, as to how the Captain had learned so much so soon. He only said, "It was no dancing girl I defended, at least at the start. It was a northern woman, and a fine fighter if a trifle overmatched against four."

Khadjar laughed. "Most would be, save yourself. I trust the lady was grateful?"

"Not so a man would notice it," Conan said. He grinned. "The dancing girls were, though. So grateful that I much doubt I am fit to shoot against you."

"Conan, you say a mere three dancing girls have drained your strength? Go back
to your hills, then, for Turan is making you old before your time!"

"Take a bow, Captain. Then we shall see who may call whom 'old'."

"As you―Mitra! Who let her in?"

Conan whirled at Khadjar's words. The woman from the Red Falcon was striding toward them from the gate. She walked as she had that night, although the gate guards were openly stripping her with their eyes. If her wound hurt, none could have told it from her gait She wore the same cut of tunic and trousers, in fine blue linen with vines and trees embroidered in red at the wrists and throat. She also wore a well-sheathed broadsword and a dagger just too short to be called a second sword. A headdress of white silk in the Turanian manner shielded her northern fairness from the sun.

"You look as if you know the wench, Conan," Khadjar said "No wench she, Captain. That's the woman from the Red Falcon."

"Oho! Well and good. You learn what brought her here. I shall learn why those camels' bastards at the gate let her in!"

Conan unstrung his bow and waited impassively for the woman's arrival. By the time she was within speaking distance, Khadjar was shouting at the guards.

"He will learn that I showed them this," the woman said calmly. Dark against her freckled palm and long fingers lay an ancient gold coin, cast in the reign of King Ibram two centuries ago. Over Ibram's fork-bearded face were stamped three letters in the Zamoran script.

Such stamped coins were the mark of Mishrak, lord of King Yildiz's spies, and
those who went about his business. It did not occur to Conan to doubt the sign, curious as it might be for this woman to be carrying it. Those who disobeyed the command of Mishrak were wise to be far from Aghrapur by sunrise of the next day.

"So Mishrak sent you. Why?"

"To bring you, Captain Conan."

"To bring me where?"

"To Mishrak, of course."

"I see your tongue is as well guarded as ever."

"Give me one reason why it should be otherwise."

Perhaps this woman knew little, which would be much like Mishrak. The spy lord never told any of his servants enough to let them piece together any of his secrets. Whether she knew much of little, she would clearly tell Conan nothing.

At this moment Khadjar returned, in an evil temper. A look at the coin did nothing to soothe him. He growled like a winter-waked bear and jerked a hand toward the gate.

"Go, Conan. Neither of us is the kind of fool to quarrel with Mishrak. I'll have Garsim finish the day's drill."

"As you wish, Captain. Now, woman, if you'll let me wash and arm myself―"

"Arm yourself as you wish, Captain Conan. Otherwise, Mishrak says that you will lack nothing if you make haste."

"Nothing?" Conan said with a laugh. His eyes ran lightly over a figure that lacked only garb fit to display it properly. Or perhaps lacking all garb would display it best?

The woman blushed. "Nothing that his hospitality can supply."

"I will not be long." No longer than it would take to don mail under his clothes and secrete a few daggers in unexpected places, at any rate.

"Mishrak lies in the Saddlemakers' Quarter," the woman said, as she led Conan out the gate. The Cimmerian was a head and more taller, but found the pace she set no child's play to match. Hillfolk blood in her, perhaps?

In the Coopers' Square Conan started to turn south. The woman planted herself by the fountain, ignoring a cartload of staves that all but ran her down.

"Captain, the Saddlemakers lie to the north."

"Anyone would think you were no stranger to Aghrapur."

"Anyone who thinks would know that a stranger can learn if she meets those willing to teach."

"Then teach me what you learned," Conan growled. The Saddlemakers' Quarter did in truth lie to the north. He'd hoped to lead the woman some distance by devious routes, where none could easily follow or lay ambushes.

If she would not follow where he led, though, there was nothing to do but follow where she led. Otherwise he'd earn her wrath, lose her guidance, fail Mishrak, and thereby earn a wrath more to be feared than any in Turan save perhaps that of King Yildiz.

Besides, any ambush was most likely to come within the rat's warren of the quarter itself. Conan trusted to his sword and mail to make that ambush a most unhappy affair for any who took part, beginning with the woman herself.

"One moment," the woman said. She lifted her headdress, drank from the fountain, then darted into the nearest alley.

Alleys and byways and reeking dark flights of stairs where Conan had to stoop were their road deeper and deeper into the quarter. Conan followed three paces behind and to the right, hand on the hilt of his sword. Eyes and ears searched for signs of danger, meeting only the din of fifty saddlemakers' shops hard at work. Turning leather and wood and metal into saddles made one din. Masters roaring at their apprentices made a second.

Another turn. Conan had a good view now of the woman's dagger. The pommel was a silver-washed iron apple, and the quillions were double, set at right angles to each other. He resolved to ask the woman to show him the dagger's use, if the laws and customs of steel ever allowed.

They came forty paces from the last turn when the attackers swarmed out of an alley to the left and a window to the right.

Conan counted six opponents as his sword leaped into his hand. One was the guard who'd fled the Red Falcon. Odds enough to make the best careful, unless the woman was better than she'd been that night Right now she seemed struck witless by fear as the three from the alley closed.

At least she was no foe, if a poor friend. Conan cut down the odds a trifle by hamstringing the last man out of the window. The man dropped farther and harder than he'd planned, going to hands and knees. A Cimmerian boot in the belly lifted him like a dog, hurling him against a comrade. The second man was rising when a Cimmerian broadsword split his skull from crown to the bridge of his
nose.

A scream danced off the stones. The guard reeled back, blood streaming from blinded eyes. The same blood dripped from the woman's dagger. Conan grinned as he realized the woman's craft. She'd feigned fear, to draw the three men close.

There she had two blades against their three, one more agile than any of theirs.

Two more men darted from the alley. The woman had the wall to guard her left and two opponents at her front. The newcomers ran to take her from the right. Conan faced the last man from the window.

Taking his opponent's measure, Conan feinted high. He took the man's riposte on his mail, then followed the same line again. The second cut tore into the side of the man's neck. His half-severed head lolled on his shoulders. He reeled backwards into his comrades, drenching them in his blood.

They were men of stout nerve, casting the dying man aside without breaking stride. This took just long enough for Conan's sword to fall like an executioner's ax. The righthand man gaped as his swordarm dangled ruined and bloody. Conan freed his sword and gave ground with a backward leap that took him clean over the fallen men behind him.

He landed in a half-crouch. The cut aimed by an upright opponent whistled over his head. His own cut took the man's right leg off just below the knee. The man contrived one more desperate slash, then toppled.

With time at last to think of the woman, Conan saw she needed little thought and hardly more help. She'd thrust one opponent through the throat. He sat against the wall, fingers laced around his neck. As Conan watched, the fingers unlaced
and the eyes rolled up in the pale face.

The woman no longer used her dagger as a weapon. Instead she'd made it into invisible, swift-moving armor, catching every cut on the quillions. Her opponent wore mail, so her own slashes had shredded his coat but not his flesh.

"Mine!" she shouted, as fierce as if Conan were another foe.

"Yours," Conan replied. That pride demanded more than a nod. So did those sharp, ready, deadly-swift blades.

The woman stepped back, freeing her dagger and her opponent's sword. Doubtless she expected an attack. Instead he turned and plunged into the alley. In a moment he was only the fading sound of pounding feet.

"Gods, woman! Why did you do that? You think he'd have done as much for you?"

"I suppose not. There's still time to remedy matters, if you choose."

"Chase a man through this maze when he may have been born here? Every time you open your mouth, more of your wits seem to fly out of it!"

"If you're afraid―" She blanched at Conan's face, as she had not at the ambush.

"Forgive me. Truly. I merely thought to give him an honorable end, not butcher him like a hog." *

"Shake off your whims about honor, woman, if you want to live long in Turan.

Mishrak will tell you that, if you won't listen to me."

"He did. But―Master Barathres taught me well. Gratitude to him, old habit―they will make me think of honor when perhaps I should not." For the first time a smile lit her whole face. "You are not so free of honor yourself. Else why did you take my part at the Red Falcon?"

"I hate to have a quiet night's drinking spoiled. Besides, I took your part only after I saw that Moti was too afraid of that lordling's kin to lift a finger for you. That's the first time I had to brawl at the Red Falcon. If it isn't the last, Moti will pay more than he did that night!"

"What did he pay, if you think it fit to tell me?"

No woman likes to hear of a man's exploits in bedding others. Learning that lesson had nearly cost Conan his manhood. "He paid dearly enough, but I'd rather tell you when we've put a few streets between us and our late friends. The man you let flee may be summoning help."

"I pray not."

"Pray all you wish, but the sooner Mishrak's door closes behind us, the better."

The woman nodded, grimaced at the nicks in her dagger, then sheathed it. Conan knelt, to examine the bodies, frowning as he recognized another. The man whose leg he'd slashed off was a soldier in Captain Itzhak's company. He'd seen the man at the Red Falcon once or twice, gambling and losing. Had he hired out his sword to pay his debts, or did his secret lie deeper than that?

Well, the woman was leading him to the man in all Turan most likely to know, if least likely to tell. She was already turning down the alley, sword in hand.

Conan followed, considering that this was twice he'd fought shoulder to shoulder with the woman without knowing her name.

Three

"WHO SEEKS ENTRANCE to this House?" said a soft voice. It seemed to come from the air above the great iron gate in the whitewashed stone wall.

"Captain Conan and she who was sent for him," the woman replied.

They waited, while the owner of that voice studied them. At last Conan heard a series of clangs like a blacksmith at work, then a faint scrape of metal on metal as the gate slid open.

"You may enter this house," came the voice again.

Entry was through a gateway more deserving of the name of tunnel. The walls of Mishrak's house were two men thick and solid stone every finger of the way.

Conan counted four arrow slits and two dropholes in the walls and ceiling. At the far end lay another gate, this one of Vendhyan teak, lavishly carved with dragons and tigers in the Khitan style.

Beyond the second gate they entered a guardroom. Two of the guards were black, one of Vanaheim, and the last clearly a native of Shem. None but the Shemite was as small as Conan, and that one wore enough knives to let out the blood of six men before his own flowed.

The four exchanged looks, then elaborate gestures. Conan judged them all to be mutes. At last one of the blacks nodded and pointed to a door in the far wall, plated in mirror-bright silver. It swung open, as if the black had cast a spell on it.

A distaste for sorcery lay deep within all Cimmerians, and Conan was no exception. Moreover, his experience with the breed of magic-wielders had taught
him that magic ate at a man's honor and judgment faster than gold. Most of that breed he'd met had ended in seeking to rule all who would obey them and ruin all who would not. Being little inclined to be ruled or ruined at another's whims, Conan could hardly be other than a foe of such wizards.

Reason told him that if Mishrak had magic at his command, he would hardly need the guards. The lord of spies clearly had other resources, beginning with a house built like a fortress.

How like a fortress, Conan began to learn as he and the woman penetrated deeper into it. Their route seemed to have as many turns and windings as the Saddlemakers' Quarter. At every turn was some display of splendor―Aquilonian tapestries, Vendhyan statues of dancing gods, rich ebony carvings of asps.

Conan's danger-sharpened senses picked out spy holes in the tapestries, the sharpened daggers held ready in the hands of the gods, the live asps nesting among the carved ones.

From time to time they passed iron-bound doors set in deep recesses. Conan pitied any man foolish enough to think they offered a safer way to the heart of Mishrak's kingdom. They would lead any stranger nowhere except to death―and probably not a quick one.

At last the way grew straight. No longer was the floor alone tiled. Walls and ceiling shone with gilded mosaic work or dripped with tapestries done in cloth of silver and the finest silk. They ended in another guardroom, with an open arch beyond it and the sounds of splashing water and a flute.

"Who conies?" demanded the chief guard.

This room held six instead of four, one another Shemite and the rest with an Iranistani cast to their features. Neither mutes nor giants, the six all wore silvered mail and helmets and the plainest and most-used swords Conan had seen in Turan.

"Captain Conan of the King's mercenaries and a lady sent to bring him to Mishrak," Conan said before the woman could speak. She started.

"I am no mute, like our friends at the first gate," Conan went on. "I am a Cimmerian and a soldier, and both have a certain quaint custom. When we have twice fought side by side with someone and they owe us their lives, we enjoy knowing their names. I know not what barbarous land you call home, but―"

The woman's nostrils flared and she had the grace to flush. "I am Raihna of the Stone Hill in the Marches of Bossonia. I serve the Mistress Illyana."

Which, Conan reflected, answered his question without telling him much.

He set his wits to devising a new question. Before he found words, a voice like a bull's bellow filled the room.

"Come and let us be about our business. We do not have the whole day!"

Conan took Raihna firmly by the arm and led the way into Mishrak's innermost refuge.

From the splendor of the way in, Conan expected more of the same beyond the arch. Instead everything was bare, whitewashed stone walls and ceiling. Only on the floor did rich Iranistani carpets and dyed Hyrkanian fleeces offer softness to both the eye and the foot. On the floor―and around the pool in the middle of
the room.

Five women and a man sat on benches around the pool. Four of the women were a pleasure to any man's eye, the more so as they wore only sandals, gilded loinguards, and silver collars set with topazes. It took nothing from Conan's pleasure in the women to detect small daggers hidden in the sandals and loinguards. He wondered what weapon might lurk in the collars. Like much else in Mishrak's house, the women were both a delight to the senses and a menace to unsuspecting enemies.

The fifth woman had the air of a guest rather than a guard. She wore a white robe, held a wine cup, and seemed older than the others.

Before Conan saw more, the bull's bellow came again. "Well, Captain Conan? Will you be once more a thief, and of women this time?"

The bellow came from the man on the bench. Conan doubted that he could rise from it unaided; below the knees his legs were shrunken nightmares, seamed and ravaged with scars. Above the waist, he was as thick as the mast of a galley, with arms like tree-roots. The hair of arms and chest was gray shot with white.

So were the few strands of beard and hair that escaped the black leather mask covering Mishrak from crown to chin.

Conan grinned. "Keeping stolen gold is hard enough. Keeping what has legs to run with, if it likes not your company or your manner in bed… Do I look so great a fool?"

"You've been gaping about you like one, I must say."

"Call it gaping if you will, Lord Mishrak. I call it admiring fine work. I know
now why you have so many enemies, yet live to serve King Yildiz so well."

"Oh? And what magic do I have to perform this miracle?"

"It's neither magic nor miracle. It's making ready to kill your enemies faster than their courage can endure. Most men can be brave if they have some hope of life or victory. Losing all hope of either would turn most into cowards."

"Save yourself, no doubt, Cimmerian?"

"I have not tested the defenses of your house, Mishrak. Nor do I have any cause to do so. I am not yet your enemy, and I doubt you plan to make me so. Killing me here might do injury to your rugs and ladies."

"So it would. Yet I would suggest that you learn why I have summoned you, before you call me friend."

"It will be a rare pleasure to be told something, for once," Conan said.

"I predict the pleasure will be brief," Mishrak said, in a tone that told of a grim smile under the mask. "Yet your life might be even more so, if you do not accept what I offer you."

"No man lives as long as he wants to," Conan said. "That's the way of the world, just as no man can have every woman he desires," he added, grinning at Raihna.

She flushed again. "What is going to shorten my days this time?"

"Lord Houma. Ah, I see I have finally driven a dart deep enough in that thick Cimmerian skull to gain your attention."

Conan wasted no breath denying it. "I understand he's rather fonder of his son than the young witling deserves. You should understand that Raihna and I met his first band of hired swords on our way here. Only one of them left alive, and he
only because he fled." Conan would have sworn Raihna threw him a grateful look for not mentioning her mistake.

"As you say, they were the first band sent against you. They will not be the last. Your eye is keen, but can it stay open forever? Who will guard your back when you sleep?"

Almost imperceptibly, Raihna shook her head. Conan shrugged. "I could take leave for a time. Or are you going to tell me that Lord Houma is one of those men with short tempers and long memories? Such have sought my life before, with what success you can see."

"You could not be away from Aghrapur long enough to foil Lord Houma without breaking your oath of service. Are you ready to give up your captaincy?"

"Out of fear of Houma? Lord Mishrak, you can make your offer or not, as you choose. Do not insult me in the bargain."

"I would insult you more by implying that you are too stupid to be afraid. Houma has not the strength he once had, but he is still more than a match for you."

Conan did not doubt the first part of that statement. Houma had owed some of his former strength to his friendship with the Cult of Doom. Conan himself had cast the Cult down to utter and final destruction the best part of two years ago.

As for the rest―"Granting that Houma might be my match, how would you change that?"

"If you will leave Aghrapur on―a task―for me, I will find ways to change Lord Houma's mind. The task. should not take you more than a month. By then you can return to Aghrapur and sleep in peace."

"And this task?"

"In a moment. While you are traveling, I will also protect those you leave behind, who might also feel Houma's vengeance. I do not imagine that you care much what happens to Sergeant Motilal, but―would you see Pyla's face turned into something like my legs?"

Conan cursed himself for a witling. Houma was clearly the kind of coward who would hurt a foe however he could, whether honorably or not. He should not have forgotten the women.

"I would not like that at all," Conan said, then grinned at the look in Raihna's eyes. So let the swordwench be jealous! He owed Pyla and her friends more than he owed Raihna of Bossonia! "If you can protect them, it would indeed make your offer worth hearing."

"Although," Conan added more calmly than he felt, "I imagine you have plans for Lord Houma whether I'm part of mem or not. You might be keeping him too busy to worry about taverns and their girls anyway. He has more in hand than letting his son misbehave, doesn't he?"

In the silence that followed, Conan clearly heard the snik of a crossbow being cocked. He laughed. "Best tell that archer to cock his bow while people are still talking. When everyone's gaping like dead fish, it's too easy to hear―"

The white-robed woman broke the silence with warm if high-pitched laughter.

"Mishrak, I told you several times. I have heard Raihna speak of this man and I have studied his aura. He is not one to be led by the nose, or by any other part of his body. Lead him by his sense of honor, and he will go where you will.

Otherwise do not waste your breath."

A choking noise crept from under the leather hood. Conan suspected that if Mishrak could have strangled anyone, he would have started with Conan and gone on to the woman. Beside Conan, Raihna was pressing her face into a pillar to hide her blush and what looked remarkably like laughter.

"May I deserve your praise, lady," Conan said. "Would I be speaking to Mistress Illyana?"

"You would."

The woman also seemed to have northern blood in her, but her hair was brown with tints of auburn. She wore a simple flowing gown of white silk with saffron borders and silver-decorated sandals. The gown was too loose to show much of her body, but from the lines in the long face Conan judged her to be upwards of thirty. A trifle thin-flanked for his tastes, but not unhandsome.

Illyana accepted Conan's scrutiny in silence for a moment, then smiled. "With Lord Mishrak's permission, I will tell you what is asked of you. But first I will thank you for saving Raihna from death or shame. She began as a hired sword, but the years have made us spirit-sisters."

Conan frowned. "Auras" and "spirit-kin" were things of priestcraft if not wizardry. What was this woman?

"I ask your aid in a search for the missing Jewel of Kurag. It is a thing of ancient Atlantean magic, set in an arm-ring of Vanir work―"

She went on to describe the history of the Jewels, as much as was known of it, from their mysterious origins in Atlantis to the present day. It seemed they had
a long and bloody history, for the spells needed to use them safely were hard to learn even for the most accomplished sorcerers.

"Then why bother with the Jewels at all?" Conan asked.

"Even separately, they confer great power on a skilled user. Together, no one knows what limits there might be on the magic of their possessor."

Conan reflected that he had learned nothing about sorcerers he had not long since known.

Illyana continued with the possession of the Jewels by her master Eremius, his growing ambition to use the powers of the Jewels to rule the world, their quarrel, her flight with one of the Jewels, and much else. She ended by saying that the tales of demons coming out of the Ibars Mountains hinted of Eremius's presence.

"With all in fear of him, his strength will grow steadily. Soon it will make him a valuable ally to ambitious men like Lord Houma. They will aid him, thinking to use his powers against their enemies. They will only be buying themselves the strongest chains of all, forged by the most ancient and evil magic."

"Ancient and evil magic…" Conan heard those words with icy clarity, although he had heard most of what went before with only half an ear.

Mishrak was not only asking him to flee like a thief from Aghrapur and Lord Houma's vengeance. He was asking a Cimmerian to guard the back of a sorceress on a quest for a menace no honest steel could face. He would also have wagered his sword that Illyana was telling less than the whole truth about the Jewels.

No honor in any of this. But even less in leaving Pyla and Zaria and young

Thebia (who might grow no older) to the mercy of those who had none, either.

Curse all women and whatever god created them as a joke on men! They might be a mystery themselves, but they certainly knew how to bring a man to them, like a trainer with a half-grown hunting dog!

"By Hanuman's stones!" Conan growled. "I never thought listening could be as dry work as talking. Bring me and Raihna some wine, and I'll promise to fly to the moon and bring back its queen's loinguard!"

Two of the guardswomen sprang up without an order and vanished like hares fleeing the wolf. Conan sat down cross-legged and drew his sword. Sighting along the blade for nicks, he concluded he'd best put it in the hands of a smith before setting out on serious business.

When he knew he had everyone's attention, he laughed. "You want me to run off to the Ibars Mountains, with a half-mad swordwench and a more than half-mad sorceress. Then we hunt for a magic jewel and steal it from a completely mad wizard, fighting our way through whatever magic-spawned monsters we find. If we snatch the jewel, you'll win, whether we live or die."

Mishrak laughed for the first time since Conan mentioned Houma. "Conan, you should be one of my spies. I have none who could say half as much in twice as many words."

"I'd rather be gelded!"

"Why not do both? A fighting eunuch would be a valuable ear and eye in Vendhya.

I'm sure you would rise high in my service."

Raihna gave up trying to stifle her laughter and buried her face in Conan's
shoulder. He put an arm around her and she did not resist, only shaking the harder until tears streamed down her face.

By the time she was sober, the guardswomen had returned with the wine. Mishrak poured out the first cup, drank from it, and then watched in silence until the others were served.

"Well, Conan?" he said at last.

"Well, Mishrak. It's not to my taste, running like a thief because I didn't want my drinking spoiled by seeing a woman mishandled. It's less to my taste going anywhere in the company of a wizard.

"But you don't have the name of a fool, Mishrak. If you want me for this nonsense, I suppose you can have me."

Raihna threw her arms around Conan. From the look on Illyana's face, she would have liked to do the same. From under the black leather hood came only a harsh laugh.

Four

"Now HERE'S A finer mount than I'll wager you thought I had," the horse dealer said exuberantly. "Look at those legs. Look at that depth of chest. Look at that noble―"

"How is his wind?" Raihna said.

"He's no colt, I'll not deny that. He's better. A seasoned, trained mount fit to
carry either of you wherever you might want to go. Begging your pardon, Captain, my lady, but neither of you has the look of dwarfs to these old eyes. To be sure, I'm a better judge of horses than of men, but―"

Raihna ignored the dealer and stepped up to the horse. He gave her what seemed to Conan a wary look, but showed no obvious skittishness or signs of mistreatment. He stood patiently for Raihna's examination, then tossed his head and whinnied when she patted his neck.

"No colt indeed," Raihna said. "Were he a man, I'd say he was most fit to sit in the sun until his days were finished."

"My lady!" The dealer could hardly have seemed more outraged if Raihna had questioned his lawful birth. "This fine, long-striding beast has many more years―"

"A few more years, perhaps. Not enough to be worth half what you ask for him."

"Lady, you insult both my honor and this horse. What horse so insulted will bear you willingly? If I reduce the price by a single brass piece, I will be insulting him. Mitra strike me dead if I wouldn't!"

"I'm surprised that someone you sold a vulture's dinner disguised as a horse hasn't saved Mitra the trouble!" Conan said. He was far from sure why Raihna was spending so much time bargaining for a huge gelding clearly at home only on level ground. He did know that if the dealer thought he could appeal to Conan, he would do so and all would waste more time.

The bargaining waxed hot and eager. Conan was reminded of a game he had seen among the Iranistani, where men on ponies batted a dead calf about with
long-handled mallets. (He had heard tales that sometimes a dead enemy's head took the place of the calf.) At last the dealer cast up his hands and looked much as if he would gladly go and hang himself. "When you see me begging for alms in the Great Square, remember that it was you who made me a beggar. You will offer no more?"

Raihna licked dusty lips. "By the Four Springs! I will have precious little to put in your begging bowl if I pay more! Would you have me selling myself in the streets because you know not the true value of a horse?"

The dealer grinned. "You are too fine a lady for the likes of those you would meet in the streets. The watch would also demand their share. Now, if you wished some time to come privily to me, I am sure―"

"Your wife would notice what was missing, the next time she bedded you," Conan growled. "Shape more respectful words on your tongue, or carry it home in your purse!"

"There will be little else in that purse," the dealer grunted. "Oh, well and good. For what you're offering, I can hardly throw in much beyond the bridle and bit."

That was no loss. Mishrak had ordered Conan and Raihna to scatter his gold widely about Aghrapur. They would purchase their remaining horses from other dealers, their saddles and tack from still others, and so on.

Conan was prepared to obey. Reluctantly, because he knew little of Mishrak's reasons and those he suspected he much disliked. But he would obey. To make an enemy of both Mishrak and Houma would mean leaving Aghrapur with more haste than
dignity.

Conan was footloose enough not to mourn if that was his fate. He was proud enough to want a worthier foe than Houma to drive him forth.

The dealer was still calling on the gods to witness his imminent ruin when Conan and Raihna led the horse out the gate. In the street beyond, she stopped, gripped the bridle with one hand and the mane with the other, and swung herself on to the horse's back.

"So you can mount unaided and ride bareback," the Cimmerian growled. Raihna had managed no small feat, but he'd be cursed if she'd know it from him! "Small help that will be, when we take this great lump into the mountains. He'll starve in a week, if he doesn't break a leg or maybe his rider's neck sooner."

"I know that, Conan."

"Then why take him at all?"

"There's a good long ride across open country before we reach the mountains. If we took mountain horses all the way, it would take longer. Time is something we may not have.

"Also, mountain horses would tell those watching us too much about where we are going. We would be followed and perhaps run down, because those who followed would surely ride heavy mounts! Do you deny that we are being watched?"

"I think that fruitseller over there―and don't look, for Erlik's sake!―is the same man as the painter who followed us yesterday."

"You told me of neither."

"Crom! I didn't think you needed telling!"

Raihna flushed. "You were hiding nothing from me?"

"I'm not that big a fool. You may not know Aghrapur, but you'll be fighting beside me until this witling's errand is done!"

"I am grateful, Conan."

"How grateful, may I ask?" he grinned.

The flush deepened, but she smiled. "You may ask. I do not swear to answer." She sobered. "The next time, remember that what I know of Aghrapur, I know from Mishrak. Anything you can teach me about this city will be something I need not learn from the lord of spies!"

"Now I'll listen to that. I'd teach a serpent or a spider to spare him needing to learn from Mishrak!"

Raihna reached down and gripped Conan's massive shoulder. Her grip was as strong as many a man's, but no man could have doubted that those fingers were a woman's.

They passed on down the street in silence for another hundred paces. At last Conan lifted his water bottle, drank, then spat the dust from his mouth into the street.

"I'd lay a year's pay on Mishrak having it in mind to use us as bait," he said.

"What think you?"

"Much the same," Raihna replied. "I would be less easy if Illyana were not so determined to come to grips with Eremius. It is not just ending the danger of the Jewels of Kurag that she seeks. It is vengeance for what she suffered at his
hands." Her tone made it plain she would not speak of those sufferings.

"If your mistress is going to join us on Mishrak's hook, she'd best be able to ride anything we put under her. This is no stroll in a country garden!"

"My mistress is a better rider than I am. Remember that Bossonia is in great part hill country." That explained her stride, so familiar and so pleasing to Conan's eye.

Raihna's voice hardened. "Also, her father was a great landowner. He kept more horses than I saw before I left home." Her voice hinted of a tale Conan would have gladly heard, if he'd dreamed she would tell him a word of it.

Conan sought a subject more pleasing to both of them. "Will bringing the Jewels together end the danger? Perhaps they'll be safer apart."

"There is no corruption in Illyana!" Raihna snapped.

"I didn't say it was her I doubted," Conan replied. At least he doubted her no more than any other wizard, and perhaps less than some. "I was thinking of other wizards, or even common thieves. Oh well, once we have the Jewels they'll be a boil on Mishrak's arse and not ours!"

"Hssst! Ranis!" Yakoub whispered.

"Tamur!" The guard called him by the name under which Yakoub had dealt with him.

"Softly, please. Are you alone?"

Ranis shrugged. "One man only. I could hardly travel alone to this quarter without arousing suspicion."

"True enough." Yakoub covertly studied Ranis's companion. Given no time to flee
or call for help, he would be even less trouble than his master.

"So, Ranis. What brings you here? I already know that you failed."

Ranis could not altogether hide his surprise. He had the sense not to ask how Yakoub knew this. Indeed, he suspected Yakoub would not have needed Houma's aid to hear of a fight that left seven men dead or maimed in an alley of the Saddlemakers' Quarter.

"I want to try again. My honor demands that I try again."

Yakoub swallowed blistering words about the honor of those who flee and leave comrades dead behind them. Instead he smiled his most charming smile. "That speaks well of you. What think you will be needed, to once more face the Cimmerian? Remember, the tale in the streets runs that any man who faces him is cursed for self-destruction!"

"I can believe that. I've seen him fight twice. But by all the gods, no barbarian is invincible! Even if he were, he's insulted my lord and me twice over!"

So Ranis had enough honor to recognize an insult when it was given? A pity he had not enough to recognize the need of dying with his men, thereby saving Yakoub a trifle of work. Not that the work would be dangerous, save for the odd chance, but there was always that.

Part of Yakoub's disguise as a crippled veteran was a staff nearly his own height. A single thrust crushed the throat of Ranis's companion before he knew that he faced an armed foe.

The staff whirled, then swept in a low arc as Yakoub sought to take Ranis's legs
out from under him. Ranis leaped high and came down on Yakoub's unguarded left side. Or at least, the side he thought unguarded. The staff seemed to leap into his path and that of his sword. The blade sank into wood, met steel, and rebounded. Before Ranis could recover, one end of the staff smashed against his temple. He staggered, sword hand loosening its grip but desperation raising his arm once more to guard.

He was too slow to stop the lead-shod end of the staff from driving into his skull squarely between his eyes. Ranis flew backward as if kicked by a mule, striking the wall and sliding down to slump lifeless in the filth of the tavern's rear yard.

Yakoub saw that Ranis's companion had died of his crushed throat and would need no mercy steel. Kneeling beside each body in succession, he closed their eyes and placed their weapons in their hands. Such was honorable treatment. Also, to any who did not look too closely at the wounds, it would seem that they had slain each other in some petty quarrel.

Doubtless Mishrak would be suspicious, when word reached him. By that time, however, the bodies would be too far gone to tell anyone without magic at his command very much. Not less important to Yakoub, he himself would be some distance on the road back to the mountains and his work there. His saving Bora's father Rhafi should assure him, if not a hero's welcome, at least freedom from awkward questions.

"You know what to do," Conan said to the four tribesmen. "Have you any
questions, besides when you will be paid?"

The men grinned. The eldest shrugged. "This is no matter for pay, as you well know. But―we cannot kill those who would steal what is yours?"

"He whom I now serve wishes live prisoners, who may tell him what he needs to know."

"Ah," the man said. He sounded much relieved. "Then you have not grown weak, Conan. Those who live may yet be killed afterward. Do you think your master will let us do the work for him?"

"I will tell him all that the gods will permit me to say," Conan replied. "Now, is anything else lacking?"

"This food of the city folk is hardly food for men," the youngest man said. "But I do not suppose it will turn us into weaklings or women in a few days."

"It will not. And if you are needed for longer than that, I shall see that you have proper food. By what is known but may not be talked of, I swear it!"

The tribesmen made their gesture of respect as Conan turned and led a mystified Raihna out of the stable. In the courtyard between the stable and the inn, she turned to him with a bemused expression.

"Those were Hyrkanians, were they not?"

"Your eye improves each day, Raihna."

"They look as likely to steal our goods as to guard them."

"Not those, nor any of their tribe. We owe each other blood debts."

"The Hyrkanians honor those, or so I have heard."

"You have heard the truth."

Much to Conan's relief, Raihna did not seem disposed to pursue the matter further. His battle against the Cult of Doom in company with the tribesmen was not for the ears of anyone who might tell Mishrak.

Raihna strode across the courtyard and into the inn with her back even straighter than usual. As they climbed the stairs, Conan heard the jingle of her purse.

"How much have you left?" She told him. "I'd be happier with more, if we're going to buy horses for the mountains."

"Mishrak expects us to find them at the army outposts."

"Meaning he has his own men in the outposts? Likely enough. I'd still much rather have a second choice, one that won't take us close to the outposts. If Mishrak can put his men into them, why can't Houma do the same?"

"You see clearly, Conan."

"I'm still alive, Raihna. I've always thought being alive has it over being dead. If Mishrak will spend a little more of his gold, we may not have to spend our blood. Tell that to your mistress, since she seems to have his ear!"

They were at the door of her room. Mishrak's gold had bought them not only horses and gear, but separate rooms at one of Aghrapur's best inns. Of a certainty their enemies would hear of their presence, but could hope to do nothing. Between the watch and the inn's own guards, nothing could be attempted without a pitched battle.

Why attack a bear in his den, when you knew he would soon have to leave it?

"Sleep well, Raihna." She turned to unlock her door. As always, Conan's blood
stirred at the swell of breasts and hips, the long graceful lines of back and leg. Well, the inn did not ask a man to sleep alone―Raihna gripped his hand and led him through the door. She kicked the door shut, and before he could speak had lifted her tunic over her head. The upper slopes of her breasts were lightly freckled; their firm fullness seemed to cry out for a man's hand.

Conan's blood no longer stirred. It seethed, on the verge of boiling over.

"You wished me a sound sleep, Conan. Well, come here and let us both find it. Or must I disrobe you as well as myself? I warn you, if I must do that I may be too weary for bedsport―"

"Hah!" Conan said. His arms went around her, lifting her off her feet. Desire thundered in him, and he felt the same in her. "If it's weary you want to be, Raihna, then I can give you the soundest sleep of your life!"

Five

"ENTER IN MITRA'S name," Ivram said. Hinges long unoiled screamed as the priest opened the door for Bora. Bora followed Ivram inside. In the center of the chamber a hearth of bricks was at work on Ivram's dinner. Pungent smoke tickled Bora's nostrils, as did the more appetizing odors of baking bread and bubbling stew. They reminded Bora that he had eaten not a bite since morning.

Around the hearth lay dyed fleeces and rugs of simple design but exquisite
workmanship. More rugs hung on the wall above a richly-carved chest. The figure of Mitra on the lid had eyes of amber and coral.

From beyond the door to an inner chamber floated the soft murmur of a flute. The priest's "niece" Maryam was playing for the night's devotions and for whatever else might be expected of her during this night. Few in Crimson Springs could name her "niece" without smiling, at least when Ivram was elsewhere. Most suspected that she had learned the art of the flute in the taverns of Aghrapur.

"Sit, son of Rhafi," Ivram said. He clapped his hands and the flute was silent.

"Maryam, we have a guest."

The woman who emerged from the inner room was barely half the priest's size or age. She bore a brass tray covered with a piece of embroidered linen. On the linen rested honeycakes and bits of smoked lamb. She knelt gracefully before Bora, contriving to let her robe fall away from her neck and throat. The neck was slender and the dark-rose throat firm and unlined. Bora knew other sensations than hunger.

"Wine?" Maryam asked. Her voice was rich and soothing. Bora wondered if this was another art of pleasing she had learned in taverns. If so, she had learned it well.

"Forgive me if I seem ungrateful for your hospitality," Bora said uneasily. "I need wise counsel more than anything else."

"My ears are open and my heart at your service," Ivram said. In another priest's mouth the ritual words might have rung hollow. In Ivram's, they could hardly be doubted. The villages around his shrine forgave him gluttony and a "niece" and
would have forgiven him far more, because he listened. Sometimes he also gave wise counsel, but as often, the mere knowledge that he listened eased those who came to him.

"I know the secret of the mountain demons," Bora said. "Yet none will believe me. Some call me mad, some a liar. A few have sworn to have my blood if I do not cease to put them in fear.

"They say it is their women and children they do not wish frightened, but I have seen their faces. They think that if they do not know what the danger is, it will not come near them!"

"They are fools," Ivram said. He laughed, so that his jowls danced. "They also do not care to have a boy be more of a man than they are."

"Do you believe me, ihen?"

"Something stalks these mountains, something reeking of uncleanness and evil magic. Any knowledge of that is more than we have had before." He took a honeycake between thumb and forefinger. It vanished in two bites.

Bora looked at the plate, to discover it half-empty already. "Maryam, I will be grateful for that wine."

"It is our pleasure," she replied. Her smile made Bora's head spin as though he had already emptied a cup.

Now that he had found someone of the hills ready to believe him, Bora could hardly credit his good fortune. Nor could he muster the courage to speak, without strengthening himself with drink.

Ivram scanted neither his guests nor himself in the matter of wine. By the time
the second cup was half-empty, Bora had done more than tell his story. He had begun to wonder why he had ever been reluctant to tell it. Maryam was looking at him with wide, worshipful eyes. He had never dreamed of having such a woman look at him so.

"If you saw half what you describe, we are in more peril than I had dared imagine," Ivram said at last. "I almost understand those who did not care to hear you. Have you told anyone outside the village? This is not our secret, I think."

"I―well, there is one. Not quite outside the village, although he has gone to Aghrapur―" The wine now tangled Bora's tongue rather than freeing it. Also, he did not much care to talk of his sister Caraya's unmaidenly passion for Yakoub.

"It is Yakoub the herdsman, is it not?" Ivram said gently. Bora nodded without raising his eyes, from the floor.

"You do not trust him?" Bora shook his head. "Who else do you know who would both listen to you and bear your tale to Aghrapur? Mughra Khan's soldiers have arrested your father. They will be slow to listen to you.

"The friends of Yakoub may not be in high places. Yet they will not be the men of Mughra Khan. Yakoub is your best hope."

"He may be our only one!" Bora almost shouted. The wine on a nearly empty stomach was making him light-headed. "Besides the gods, of course," he added hastily, as he remembered that he was guest to a priest of Mitra.

"The gods will not thank us for sitting like stones upon the hillside and waiting for them to rescue us," Ivram said. "Yakoub seems a better man than
those who seek only rebels when they should seek wizardry. Perhaps he will not be good enough, but―"

"Ivram! Quickly! To the south! The demon fire burns!"

Maryam's voice was half a scream and wholly filled with terror. She stood in the outer doorway, staring into the night. Bora took his place beside her, seeing that her dark-rose face was now pale as goat's milk.

Emerald fire climbed the slopes of the Lord of the Winds. The whole mighty peak might have been sinking in a lake of that fire. At any moment Bora expected to see the snowcap melt and waft away into the night as green-hued steam.

Ivram embraced Maryam and murmured to her. At last she rested her head on his shoulder in silence. He looked beyond her, to the demon light. To Bora he seemed to be looking even farther, into another world.

When he spoke, his voice had the ring of prophecy. In spite of his wine-given courage, Bora shuddered at the priest's words.

"That is the light of our doom. Bora, I will join my words to yours. We must prepare ourselves, for what is about to come upon us."

"I cannot lead the villages!"

"Cannot, or will not?"

"I would if they listened to me. But I am a boy!"

"You are more of a man than those who will not hear you: Remember that, speak as you have spoken to me tonight, and the wise will listen."

A witling's thought passed through Bora's mind. Did Ivram mean that he should stay drunk until the demons had passed? The idea tempted him, but he doubted
that there was so much wine in all the villages!

Eremius flung his arms toward the night sky, as if seeking to conjure the stars down from the heavens. No stars were to be seen from the valley, not through the emerald mist around the Lord of the Winds.

Again and again his arms leaped high. Again and again he felt the power of the Jewel pour from them like flames. Ah, if he could unleash such power with one Jewel, what might he do with both?

Tonight he would take a step toward possessing both. A long step, for tonight the Transformed would pour out of the mountains to strike far and wide.

Thunder rolled down the sky and echoed from the valley walls. The ground shuddered beneath Eremius's feet.

He took a deep breath and with the utmost reluctance reined in the power he had conjured. With his senses enhanced by the Jewel, he had seen the flaws and faults in the walls of the valley. One day he would cast it all down in rubble and ruin to show the world his power, but not tonight.

"Master! Master! Hear me!" It was the captain of the sentries.

"Silence!" A peremptory gesture held menace.

"Master! You put the men in fear! If they are to follow the Transformed―"

"Fear? Fear? I will show you fear!" Another gesture. Eremius's staff leaped into his hand. He raised it, to smite the captain to the ground in a pile of ashes.

Again he took a deep breath. Again he reined in the power he would have gloried in unleashing. Near witless as they were, his human fighters had their part in
everything he did until he regained the second Jewel.

The Transformed could be unleashed only when Eremius was. awake to command them.

When he slept, so did they. Then the spellbound humans must do the work of guarding and foraging, however badly.

With both Jewels, one like Eremius could command the loyalty of the finest soldiers while leaving their wits intact. With only one, he could command only those he had made near-kin to simpletons.

The thousandth curse on Illyana shrieked through his mind. His staff danced in the air, painting a picture between him and the captain. Illyana appeared, naked, with nothing of the sorceress about her. Rather, it was her younger self, ready to receive a man as the real Illyana never had (though not for want of effort by Eremius).

The staff twitched. Illyana's image opened its mouth and closed its eyes. Its hands curved into claws, and those claws began to twist in search of the man who had to be near.

At Eremius's command, the image did all that he had ever seen or imagined a woman doing in the grip of lust. Then the image surpassed lust, entering realms of blood and obscenity beyond the powers of most men even to imagine.

They were also beyond the powers of the captain to endure. He began by licking his lips at the display of lust. Then sweat glazed his face, except for dry lips. Under the sweat the face turned pale.

At last his eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed to the ground. He lay as senseless as if Eremius truly had smitten him with the staff. Eremius waved the
staff, now to conjure sense back into the captain instead of out of him. The man lurched to his knees, vomited, looked wildly about him for the image, then knelt and kissed the ground at Eremius's feet.

For the moment, it seemed to Eremius that the man had learned enough of fear.

"Go and send your men up to the valley mouth," Eremius said. "They are to hold it until the last of the Transformed are past. Then they are to fall in with the pack animals."

The human fighters were not as the Transformed, able to endure for days between their meals of flesh. They would need rations until the raiders reached inhabited farms. Pack horses would serve, their scents altered by magic so that they would not rouse the hunger of the Transformed.

"I go in obedience to the Master of the Jewel," the captain said. In spite of his fear, he vanished swiftly into the darkness. Or perhaps his fear gave wings to his feet. Eremius hardly cared, as long as he was obeyed.

Oh, for the day when he would hear "I go in obedience to the Master of the Jewels" from a soldier worthy of the name! A soldier such as High Captain Khadjar or even his obedient son Yakoub.

The thought that this day drew closer hardly consoled Eremius. To punish only an image of Illyana instead of the real woman reminded him of how far he had to go.

So be it. Only a fool feared to unroll the parchment, lest he miscast the spell!

Eremius cast his thoughts up and down the valley, in a silence more complete than the tomb's.

Come forth. Come forth at your Master's command. Come forth and seek prey.

The Transformed came forth. A carrion reek rode the wind ahead of them, thickening until the stench seemed a living, palpable entity. Eremius conjured a bubble of clean air around himself. As an afterthought he added the scent of Illyana's favorite bath oil to the air.

The Transformed filed past. They shambled, lurched, and seemed perpetually about to stumble. This was as Eremius wished it, when they were close to him.

Unleashed and ranging free, the Transformed could overtake a galloping horse.

Emerald light glowed on scales and red eyes. Here and there it shone on the spikes of a club slung from a crude rope belt or on a brass-bound cestus encasing a clawed hand. Even after the Transformation, the Transformed were not wholly alike. Some had the wits to chose and wield weapons. Others lacked the wits, or perhaps were too proud of their vast new strength.

At last the Transformed were gone into the night. Eremius chanted the words that would bind the spell of control into the staff. For some days to come, he would need no other magic, unless matters went awry. Even if they did, a single Jewel of Kurag was no mean weapon in the hands of a sorcerer such as Eremius. Those who doubted this might find themselves learning otherwise before long, although they would hardly live to profit by this lesson.

Six

To THE EAST, the foothills of the Ibars Mountains crept upward toward the blue
sky. Somewhere among them the Shimak River had its birth. In those hills it swelled from a freshet to a stream. Flowing onward, it turned from a stream to a river before it reached the plains of Turan. Here it was halfway to its junction with the Ilbars River. Already its width and depth demanded a ferry rather than a ford.

The ferry herald blew the signal on a brass-bound ivory horn the length of Conan's arm. Three times the harsh blast rolled across the turbid waters. Three times the pack animals rolled their eyes and pecked uneasily.

Raihna dismounted to gentle them, leaving Conan to tend to her mount. Illyana remained mounted, eyes cast on something only she could see. Without looking closely, a man might have thought her half-witted. After looking closely, no man would care to do so again.

She rode as well as Raihna had promised and made little extra work, for all that she did less than her share of what there was. No one called sorcerer was easy company for Conan, but Illyana was more endurable than most.

It did not hurt that she was comelier than most sorcerers Conan had met! She dressed as though unaware of it, but a handsome woman lay under those baggy traveling gowns and embroidered trousers.

A handsome woman, whose magic required that she remain a maiden even though of an age to have marriageable daughters. It was wisdom for her to be companioned by another woman―who was no maiden.

Indeed, Raihna was enough woman for any man. After a single night with Raihna, Conan could hardly think of Illyana as a woman without some effort. Doubtless
this was Raihna's intent, but Conan hardly cared.

Three hundred paces away, the ferry left the far bank and began its return across the Shimak. To describe the craft as bargelike would have insulted any barge Conan had ever seen in Aghrapur's teeming port. Amidships a platform allowed human passengers to stand clear of their beasts and baggage. On either side slaves manned long sweeps, two on each.

Behind Conan other travelers assembled―a peasant family loaded with baskets, a solitary peddler with his mule and slave" boy, a half-dozen soldiers under a scar-faced sergeant. The peasants hardly looked able to buy a loaf of bread, let alone ferry passage, but perhaps they would trade some of their baskets.

The ferry crept across the river until what passed for its bow scrunched into the gravel by the pier. Conan sprang on to the pier, which creaked under his weight.

"Come along, ladies. We were first at the landing, but that won't count for much if we're slow off the mark!"

Raihna needed little urging. She helped her mistress dismount, then led the three riding mounts on to the ferry. It had two gangplanks, and the one for beasts was stout enough to support elephants, let alone horses.

Conan stood on the pier until Raihna had loaded and tethered all five animals.

No one sought to push past him, nor did he need to draw his sword to accomplish this. The thickness of the arms crossed on the broad chest and the unblinking stare of the ice-blue eyes under the black brows were enough to daunt even the soldiers.

Illyana sat down on the platform under the canopy. Conan and Raihna stood in the open. The soldiers and the peddler watched Raihna appreciatively.

Conan hoped they would confine themselves to watching. He and the women were traveling in the guise of a merchant's widow, her younger sister, and the merchant's former captain of caravan guards. That deception would hardly survive Raihna's shedding the blood of even the most importunate fellow-traveler.

The peasants and the peddler joined Conan's party aboard the ferry. Two deckhands heaved the animals' gangplank aboard. Then the soldiers tramped onto the pier, leading their mounts. The ferrymaster gasped in horror and turned paler than the muddy river.

"By the gods, no! Not all of you! The ferry cannot bear the weight. The gangplank still less. Sergeant, I beg you!"

"I give no ear to beggars," the sergeant growled. "Forward, men!"

Conan sprang off the platform. The planks of the deck groaned as if a catapult stone had struck. He strode to the edge of the deck and put his foot on one end of the passenger gangplank. The sergeant put his foot on the other end. He was only a trifle shorter than Conan, and quite as broad.

"Sergeant, the ferrymaster knows what he can carry and what he can't."

"Well and good. You can get off. Just you and the livestock, though. Not the ladies. My men and I will take care of them. Won't we, lads?"

A robust, lewd chorus of agreement drowned out sulphurous Cimmerian curses.

Conan spread his arms wide.

"Sergeant, how well can you swim?"

"Eh?"

"Perhaps you should take a swimming lesson or two, before you try overloading a ferry."

Conan leaped, soaring half his own height into the air. He came down on the gangplank. He was out of swordreach of the sergeant, but that mattered not at all.

The gangplank writhed like a serpent. The sergeant staggered, fighting for balance, then lost the fight. With a mighty splash he plunged headfirst into the river. It was shallow enough that he landed with his legs waving frantically in the air.

Conan pushed the passenger gangplank clear of the ferry, to discourage the soldiers from taking a hand. Then he bent, grasped the sergeant by both ankles, and swung him back and forth until he coughed up all the water he had swallowed.

When the coughs gave way to curses, Conan set the sergeant down. "You need more lessons, sergeant. No doubt of that. My lady's younger sister will be glad to teach you, if you've a mind to be polite to her. Swimming only, mind you, and nothing else―"

More curses, this time on "the lady's younger sister" as well as Conan. The Cimmerian frowned.

"Sergeant, if I can't mend your manners with water, I'll try steel the next time. Meanwhile, do you want to cross with us or do your men need you to change their smallclothes―?"

The sergeant threw out a final curse, then lurched off the deck into the water.

This time he managed to land on his feet. Finally too breathless to curse, he splashed to the pier. His soldiers helped him up, glaring at Conan all the while.

"Ferrymaster, I think we'd best push off," Conan said.

The ferrymaster, even paler than before, nodded vigorously. He waved to the drummer amidships, who raised his mallet and began pounding out a beat for the slaves. Gravel scraped and growled under the ferry, then she was once more afloat and underway.

Compared to the ferry, a snail had wings. In the time needed to reach the middle of the river, Conan could have eaten dinner and washed it down with ale worth savoring.

The ferrymaster stood on the platform, eyes roaming between the slaves and the receding bank with its cursing soldiers. Instead of fading, his pallor seemed to be growing on him. Had he taken a fever?

"Hi, ha, ho, hey!"

Frantic shouts erupted from aft Conan whirled, to see half of one of the steering oars vanish over the side. A deckhand made to strip and swim after it, but it vanished before he could leap.

"Vendhyan teak," the ferrymaster said, as if the words were a curse. "Heavy as iron and sinks like it too. An ill-favored day, this one. We must turn about in midstream and make our bow our stern. I hope you are in no great haste, you and your ladies."

Nothing in those words made other than good sense. They still rang strangely on the Cimmerian's ears. Since he could put no name to that strangeness, he watched the ferrymaster hurry aft, calling to the hands.

"How long do we spend out here because some sailor was fumble-fingered?" Illyana snapped.

"As long as it takes to turn this drunken sow of a ferry," Conan said. "How long that will be, the gods know. Maybe the ferrymaster, too. Best not look at me.

I'm no sailor."

"Perhaps. But can you at least ask the master?"

"As you wish, my lady."

Conan turned to head aft, where the master and two hands were now wrestling with the ferry's light skiff. Raihna put a hand on his arm in what to all eyes would seem a gesture of affection. Her whisper was fierce but unheard by anyone else, including her mistress.

"Be careful, Conan. I would go with you, but Illyana's back needs guarding more than yours."

"That's the truth. But who from?"

"I don't know. But what the master said―I've seldom heard a speech that smelled more of long practice. He spoke like an old beggar who's been asking for alms on the same temple steps for twenty years."

"Maybe this happens every third crossing," Conan grunted. "With this floating lumberpile, anything's possible."

"I need no reassurance!" Raihna's whisper was fiercer yet. "I need to know that
you're not a fool."

"Woman, you can warn me without insult. If the master's plotting anything, he's outnumbered."

"How so?"

"You're worth two of him, and as for me―" He shrugged. "You be the judge."

"You great Cimmerian oaf―" Raihna began. Then she laughed softly. "The gods be with you."

"With all of us, if the master has any friends aboard," Conan said. He was ruefully aware of the help the soldiers might have given. Well, only the gods had foreknowledge, and they only if the priests told the truth, which likely as not meant mat no one knew what lay before him!

Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Conan strode aft to join the master.

By the time Conan reached the stern, the two hands were lowering the skiff into the water. The master, paler than ever, stood watching them. Watching the master, Conan saw that his hand did not stray far from his dagger. Nor did his eyes stray far from the peasant family. In their turn the peasants had their eyes on the master, with the attention of a cat watching a bird's nest. Gone were the dull-witted stares with which they had come aboard.

Conan felt more than sweat creeping down his spine. Raihna had most likely seen clearly. Something was afoot.

The skiff splashed into the river. One of the hands set the oars into their locks, while the other held the line. The master turned to Conan.

"With two stout fellows at the oars, the skiff will turn us about in good time.

Then we can steer again, and seek a landing."

In the shallows by either bank the Shimak had hardly more current than a millpond. Here in midstream matters were otherwise. The ferry was already well downstream from the pier on the far side.

Not far downstream, Conan saw that the banks rose steep and high on either side.

A man landing there would have a fine scramble before he reached open ground. In that time he would be an easy target for archers on the river. Farther downstream still, if Conan remembered rightly, lay rapids, their fangs mostly drawn at this season of low water but not harmless to this ferry…

The second hand climbed into the skiff and took his oar. The master reached into the shadows beneath the platform. He came out with a stout purse in one hand. A hooded peasant woman stepped forward, hands raised as if to beg for alms.

Conan drew his sword and raised it hilt-first. He and Raihna had agreed on that signal to be ready for a fight but let others begin it. The master scurried for the edge of the deck, thrusting his purse into the bosom of his shirt as he ran.

At the edge of the deck he drew his dagger and leaped.

As he leaped, so did the peasant woman. The hood flew back, revealing a gap-toothed, hook-nosed brown face whose curling black beard no woman had ever grown. A long knife leaped from under the robes to slash at Conan.

It reached only where Conan would have been. A backward leap took him clear of danger. He tossed his sword. It came down with hilt cleaving to his hand as if it had grown there.

From over the side came the crunch of wood and shrill curses. Eager to escape, the master had leaped too swiftly and come down too heavily. One foot had gone straight through the bottom of the skiff.

"I hope you swim better than the sergeant," Conan shouted. Then it was time to think of his own opponents, three "peasants" advancing with the air of trained fighting men.

Not only trained but trained to fight together. Conan saw this in their movements and in that saw danger. Three men were not enough to overcome him swiftly, or indeed at all. They were doomed. They could also well take long enough dying to let their comrades reach Illyana and Raihna.

First of all, let us make this one and not two. Again Conan leaped backward, his sword cleaving the air to discourage too close a pursuit. He hoped for no more; a swordsman could hardly strike accurately without his feet firmly planted.

The arcing gray steel did its work. The three let Conan open the distance. One tried to close, drawing a second dagger. A desperate parry brought the dagger up as Conan's sword descended. The dagger flew with a clang and a clatter. A moment later the man sagged to his knees, clutching at his useless arm. Clear sight left his eyes as the blood left his body.

One of the man's comrades used his death well. He slipped past Conan to block the Cimmerian's passage forward. Another "peasant" joined the remaining man. If Conan tried to pass the first man, the other two would have time to come up behind him.

A sound stratagem, against any other man than Conan. They should have learned
more about hillfolk before they tried to fight one, was his thought.

Conan leaped to the edge of the deck, then dropped onto the first sweep. The slaves' eyes grew round and their hands loosened their grip. The sweep slanted down and trailed, but Conan had already shifted his weight to the next one.

The man who'd thought to block Conan waited too long to believe what the Cimmerian had done. Raihna came leaping aft, like a shelion upon prey. Her sword split the man's skull and her dagger drove into his bowels. He collapsed without a sound, dead too swiftly even to foul himself. Conan heaved himself back aboard, to stand beside Raihna.

"Leave these to me," she cried. "Look to Illyana!"

Frantic braying and the drumming of hooves sounded on the far side of the ferry.

Hard on their heels came curses, then a shrill scream from Illyana.

Another cry hammered at Conan's ears as he pushed through the baggage and animals underneath the platform. He reached the open in time to see a "peasant"

leap overboard, frantic to flee the peddler's mule. The beast was thrashing about madly, panic-stricken out of what wits he had. In another moment the panic would spread through all the animals aboard. Then Conan and his ladies would have more than Lord Houma's hired swords to concern them.

Illyana was backed against one of the platform's supporting posts, facing three foes. In his mind Conan both cursed her for coming down from comparative safety and praised her courage. She held a long dagger, the twin of Raihna's, with a trained grip. Her slow movements would still have done little against even one opponent, had they been free to come at her. For Illyana, the mule was as good
as another guard. The men feared to come within reach of its hooves and teeth.

That fear gave Conan time he put to good use. One man died with his skull split before he knew a foe stood behind him. The second whirled, sword leaping up to guard. He was both subtle and strong. Conan knew that he had the edge on the man, but would have to take care.

The meeting of two expert swordsmen drove the maddened mule back. The last man found a gap and slipped through it. He had no sword, but his two knives danced with swift assurance against Illyana's clumsy parries. He might have been playing with her, seeking to put her in fear and see her cringe and sweat before taking her life.

Conan cursed and shouted for Raihna, neither of which he expected to do much good. Something that Illyana could do, on the other hand―"Put a spell on him, can't you?" he roared. "Or what good is your magic?"

"Better than you would dare to believe, Cimmerian!" Illyana shouted. A lucky parry held one knife away from her left breast. She gripped the man's other arm and held on with desperate strength.

Conan knew that neither her strength nor her desperation would be enough for long. If either failed before he could deal with this opponent―"Then if it's so cursed good!―"

"It―is―not swifter―than―uhhh!" as the man tore his arm free. Illyana drove her knee up toward his groin but he shifted his footing so that she only struck his hip. A moment later one hand was wound in her hair while the other raised a knife toward her throat.

In that same moment Conan's sword found his opponent's life. Shoulder and chest poured blood onto already-stained robes. The man neither cried out nor fell.

Instead he lurched toward Conan, still a barrier between him and Illyana, who had only a few heartbeats of life left to her.

As the knife blade touched Illyana's throat, a loop of iron chain tightened around the knife wielder's foot.

He kicked to clear his foot, sending himself off balance. The chain tightened again, pulling him away from Illyana. He threw out an arm to save himself― and Conan's sword came down on that arm. Severed arm and knife wielder fell to the deck at the same time.

Illyana stood, gripping the post with one hand. The other she held to her throat, stroking it as if she could scarcely believe it was not gaping from ear to ear. Her dagger lay unheeded on the deck. Conan picked it up and handed it to her.

"Don't ever let loose of your steel until the last enemy's dead!"

She swallowed and licked full lips. Her face would have made fresh milk look brightly colored, and a vein pulsed in the side of her long neck. She swallowed again, then sagged forward into Conan's arms.

It was not fainting. She babbled words that would have made no sense even in a language Conan understood and gripped him with arms seemingly turned to iron.

Conan freed his sword arm and put the other around her, holding her as he might have held a puppy or a kitten.

Under the sorceress was enough woman to crave a man's touch when she needed
assurance. Conan would leave matters there. To steal her maidenhood would be the kind of theft he had always disdained even as a new-fledged thief in Zamora. It was still not unpleasant to find in Illyana more kinship with ordinary folk than he'd ever expected to find in a sorceress.

"Come," he said at last. "Embracing men is like dropping your steel. Best save it until we've heard from our last enemy." Gently he pushed her away, then followed the chain around the dead man's leg to the edge of the deck and looked down.

One of the slaves stood on tiptoe, staring over the edge of the deck. There had been just enough slack in the chain that held him to his sweep to let him use it as a weapon.

"My friend," Conan said. "I don't know if you've earned yourself freedom or impalement." From the slave's gaunt face and lash-marked back, it seemed unlikely that he cared greatly.

The eyes in the gaunt face were still steady. So was the voice. "The master was plotting, and I owed him nothing. You be the judge of your debt to me, you and your woman."

"I'm not―" Illyana began indignantly, then found the strength to laugh. She was still laughing when Raihna appeared, wiping blood from her sword.

"The two you left me are both down, Conan. One may live to answer questions if you have any. Oh, our friend speaks the truth about the master. He was to join the fight, too, but lost his courage at the last moment."

"Where is he?"

"Clinging for his life to the end of the skiff's line," Raihna said with a wicked grin. "The two hands threw him overboard and cut it loose. They were still well short of the bank when it sank under them. One of them could swim. I saw him clambering up the bank."

Conan wished sunstroke, snakebite, and thirst upon the treacherous hand and strode aft. The master was no longer pale, but red as if scalded with the effort of hanging to the line.

"For the love of the gods, don't let me drown!" he wheezed. "I can't swim."

"The gods don't love traitors and neither do I," Conan said. "Nor does Lord Mishrak."

The master nearly lost his grip on the line. "You serve Mishrak!"

"I can make him interested in you or not, as I choose. It lies in your hands."

"Then have mercy! To name me to Mishrak―would you slay me and all my kin?"

"I'd see you drown without blinking," Conan said brusquely. "Your kin may be worth more. Tell me what you know about these knifeman and I may hold my tongue."

For a man nearly at his last gasp, the master managed to tell a great deal in a short time. It appeared that the knifeman were indeed Lord Houma's. The master had never heard of Master Eremius or the Jewels of Kurag, nor did Conan choose to inform him.

At last the master began to repeat himself. Conan decided that there was little more to be heard worth the danger of losing the man to the river.

He reached down, heaved the man aboard, then shook him over the side like a wet
dog. When he finally set the master down, the man's knees buckled. Conan tied his hands behind his back with his own belt.

"You swore―" the master began.

"I didn't swear a thing. You don't need hands to give orders. All you need is a tongue you had best shape to something like respect. Or I may kick you overboard and not trouble Mishrak with the work of learning any more from you."

The master turned pale again and sat mute as a stone, watching Conan turn forward and stride away.

It was a while before they could bring the ferry to a safe landing on the far bank of the Shimak. The master could barely speak at all. The peddler and his boy seemed concerned only that their mule was unhurt.

"Demons take you!" Conan swore at their fifth refusal to help handle the ferry.

"Will it help your precious pet if he dies of thirst or drowns in the rapids?"

"When we know Lotus is well, then you can call on us," the peddler said. "Until then, leave us."

"Please, lady," the boy added, addressing Illyana. "If you can do magic, can you do a healing on Lotus? We couldn't pay very much, but we'd miss him a lot."

Conan wrestled notions of spanking the boy or throwing the mule overboard. It helped that Illyana was smiling at the boy.

"My magic isn't the kind that can help animals," she said. "But my sister was raised around horses. Perhaps she can help you."

Conan strode away with a curse, as Raihna knelt to take the mule's left hind
foot in both hands.

It was Massouf, the slave who'd saved Illyana, who finally brought them to safety. Freed from his chains with a key Conan found in the master's purse (along with a good sum in gold that he decided the master had no further use for), Massouf put his comrades to some sort of regular stroke. With Conan to lend strength if not skill to the steering oar, they eventually crunched ashore some ways downstream.

"We're in your debt once more," Illyana said, as she emerged from behind a boulder in clean garb. "You already have your freedom. Is there more we can give? We are not ill-provided with gold―"

"Best not say that too loudly, my lady," Massouf said. "Even the rocks may have ears. But if you have gold to spare―" For the first time he seemed to lose his self-assurance, so unlike a slave's.

"If you have gold, I beg you to take it to the house of Kimon in Gala and buy the slave girl Dessa. They will ask much for her, comely as she is. But if you free her, I will be your slave if I can repay you no other way."

"What was she to you?" Raihna said. "We are not unwilling―"

"We were betrothed, when―what made us both slaves came about. It was ordered that we be sold separately, and each serve as hostage for the other. Otherwise, we would long since have fled or died together."

Conan heard an echo of his own thoughts as a slave in the young man's words.

"What made you turn against your master this time? If Dessa is still a slave―"

"If you perished, Captain, I would not long outlive you. All the slaves would
have been impaled as rebels. That is the law. With no hold over Dessa, Kimon might have sold her to Vendhya, or slain her outright." He straightened. "I had nothing to lose by aiding you."

"Mishrak didn't send us out here to rescue slave girls," Conan growled.

"He didn't send you out here to be rescued by slaves, either," Massouf said cheerfully. "But that's been your fate. Take it as a sign from the gods, Captain."

"You may take this as a sign to hold your tongue," Conan said, raising one massive fist. "I'm a good deal closer than the gods, too. Never fear. We'll pay a visit to Gala and free your Dessa. We'll even pay for her out of your master's gold." Conan hefted the master's purse. "If Kimon thinks this isn't enough, I'll show him reason to change his mind.

"But don't think you can jaunt along with us beyond Gala! Or I'll send your name to Mishrak, for keeping us from going about his business!"

Seven

THEY RODE INTO Gala as sunset flamed in the west. The Three Coins, where Dessa had worked, lay shuttered and silent, its garden a rank tangle of weeds.

Inquiries of passing villagers took them to the Horned Wolf at the far end of the village. Illyana's nostrils flared in distaste as she contemplated the second inn.

"Is that the best we can hope for?"

"That depends, mistress," Conan said. Tales of the battle at the ferry might well have reached Gala already. It still seemed best to continue their masquerade until they knew it was useless.

"On what?"

"On how comfortable you find sleeping in open fields among sheep turds. The Horned Wolf may offer only lice-ridden straw, but―"

"You lie! Not the smallest louse ever found a home in my inn!"

A broad, florid face topped by a haystack of gray hair thrust itself out the nearest window. The woman shook her fist at Conan and drew in breath for another accusation.

"Mistress," Conan said, in a chill voice. "Perhaps the sheep will offer better hospitality. Turds and all, they'll not call us liars."

Ruddiness turned to pallor at the prospect of losing a customer.

"Forgive me, my lord and ladies. I meant no insult, You'd have a cold hard bed with the sheep. I swear I can offer better than that."

"We're neither lords nor ladies," Raihna snapped. "We're honest merchants, who know what a thing's worth. We can also recognize lice when we see them. Now, what are your prices?"

Conan let Raihna do the bargaining, with accustomed skill. He used the time to study the village, with an eye to where the houses might let foes wait in ambush. He also took a moment to counsel Massouf to stop fidgeting.

"You'll make the whole village remember you without freeing Dessa a moment
sooner. She'll not thank you if that keeps her captive."

From Massouf's horror-stricken gape, this was clearly a new idea. Conan's curses were silent; they owed Massouf too much.

At last Raihna struck a bargain that Conan suspected was nothing of the kind, from the glee on the old woman's face. Louse-ridden straw still offered more comfort than stones. Perhaps the woman also knew where Dessa was.

They ate their own food but drank the inn's wine, near kin to vinegar. Two women brought it, both looking old enough to be Pyla's mother.

At last Conan felt he could cease insulting his stomach without insulting their hostess.

"Goodwife," he called. "The last time I was here I stayed at the Three Coins.

They had a fine dancing girl who went by the name of Dessa. She wore rose scent and precious little else. It would be worth much, to see her dance again."

"Ah, you'll have to guest with Lord Achmai. Not that he's much of a lord, but he does have the Hold. He'd long had his eye on Dessa too. When Master Kimon died, he left so many debts that his kin were glad to sell all they could. Dessa went up to the Hold, and Mitra only knows what happened to her then."

Conan ignored strangled noises from Massouf. "What's this 'Hold'? I saw no such thing, the last time."

"Oh, perhaps you did. But it was only a ruin then. Achmai's put it to rights.

Even in the old days it couldn't have been half so fine. Lord Achmai struts around now, like he was one of the Seventeen Attendants."

Conan made some ill-natured sounds of his own. This part of Turan was dotted
with the old forts of the robber lords who'd infested the countryside before the early kings put them down. From time to time some lordling would bribe a governor to let him move back into one of them.

Doubtless Achmai would overreach himself one day. Then Mughra Khan would descend on the Hold with an army and an executioner. That would help neither Dessa nor those who wished to rescue her tonight.

"Well, I shall see if Lord Achmai's hospitality is worth having," Conan said, feigning doubts. "Who knows? If he's open-handed, perhaps I'll come back to serve him when my mistress and her sister are safe with their kin."

"Oh, he'll not refuse a fine stout young soldier like yourself," the innkeeper said. She giggled lewdly.

"Nor will the women he keeps, I'll wager. Half the men in his service are old enough to be father to such as you."

"How can you stand here talking, when Mitra only knows what Dessa may be suffering?" Massouf shouted. "Mistress, you owe me―ukkkh!"

A massive Cimmerian hand closed on the neck of Massouf's tunic. An equally massive arm lifted him until his feet were kicking futilely in the air two hands above the floor.

With a harsh ripping, the filthy tunic gave way. Massouf thumped in a heap on the floor. He glared at Conan but the look on the Cimmerian's face froze the words on his lips.

"Outside!" Conan snarled. Massouf regained his feet and bolted as if the inn had caught fire. The women followed at a more dignified pace.

Conan said only the smallest part of what he wanted to say, nor did he raise his voice. He still left Massouf looking much like a recruit caught stealing. At last the young man fell to his knees, not to beg mercy but because his legs would no longer support him.

Illyana turned her gaze from the sable sky above to Conan. "I wonder now about the wisdom of trying to rescue Dessa."

Massouf leaped up, with a choking cry. "Lady, for the love of all the gods―!"

"Leave the gods in peace, and us as well," Illyana snapped. "Because I say I wonder about something, does not mean I will not do it. I use my wits before I use my tongue. Do not think that I have as little honor as you have discretion!"

"What will you do if I think otherwise?" Massouf said uneasily. "Turn me into a frog?"

"Turn you into something useless to Dessa or any other woman, more likely,"

Illyana said. Her smile grew wicked. "If you spend less of your few wits on women, you will have more to spend on other matters.

"Now be silent. You can hardly help us rescue your Dessa. Have the goodness not to hinder us. Now, I must seek something in my baggage. I shall return as swiftly as I can."

Conan much doubted that anything short of stuffing Massouf into a sack would silence him. Nonetheless, he and Raihna took places where they could see each other, Massouf, and all approaches to Horned Wolf. They would also have a quick and safe way to the stables.

The last glimmers of light died in the village and the west. Even the cries of the night birds fell silent, as one by one they found their nests. In the stables a horse stamped restlessly; another whickered softly.

"Raihna,?"

"You fear for Illyana?"

"She's been inside a good while. Our innkeeper may have decided to settle matters herself."

"Her and what army, Conan? I've seen only lads and women inside. Illyana's no fool. If she's to be taken, it will need more than our hostess―"

The inn door creaked open and a woman appeared. She moved with the gliding step of an accomplished dancer and the sway of a woman who knows everything about exciting men. She was of Illyana's height but a trifle less slender in those places where it mattered, fairer of skin and with hair that fell in a crimson cascade over freckled shoulders. Conan could see all the freckles, for the woman wore only a brief silk garment that covered her from breasts to loins.

Massouf stared as if he had indeed become a frog. At last he closed his mouth and stepped forward, reaching for the woman. Her hand leaped toward his, then batted it playfully aside.

"Come, come, Massouf. Have you forgotten Dessa so swiftly?"

Massouf swallowed. "I have not. But if she is in the Hold, perhaps I should.

Will you help me forget her? I have―"

"Massouf, my friend," the woman said again. "I will do better than that. I will help her escape from Lord Achmai and all his old soldiers. She deserves a―"

"By Crom!" Conan growled. He'd finally recognized the voice and set aside the evidence of his eyes. "Mistress Illyana, or have my ears been spelled as well as my eyes?"

"Ah, Conan, I thought you would not be long in seeing through the glamouring. I do not imagine that Lord Achmai or his men will be as keen of ear or wits.''

"Very likely not," Conan said. "But what good is that going to do us?"

"Conan, we do not know what we face in the Hold. I much doubt that even you could snatch Dessa from within it unaided."

'That doesn't mean your help will be better than none. If I had Raihna's―"

"Oh, we both will. I will go with you and use this glamouring. When Achmai and his men are thoroughly bemused, you will seek and rescue Dessa. Raihna and Massouf will await us outside, to help us if we need it and cover our retreat."

Raihna had her mouth open to protest, but Massouf silenced her by falling on his knees before Illyana. He threw his arms around her waist and pressed his face into her supple belly.

"Mistress, oh, mistress, forgive me that I doubted you! Forgive me―"

"I will forgive you much and that swiftly if you stop blubbering and stand like a man. Dessa will need one when she is free, not a whimpering child." Slowly Massouf obeyed.

"I've heard worse schemes," Conan said. "I'll go as a soldier looking for work.

You can enter the Hold disguised as a man. Or will that glamouring hold for a whole day?"

"Not without more effort than I could make and still be fit for other work,"

Illyana admitted. "I am not using the Jewel for this. Not unless all else fails.

Together, the Jewels build each other's strength. Apart, each Jewel must be rested between spells."

"I'll leave the magic to you," Conan said, resting a hand on his sword hilt.

"Now I'd best find out where the Hold lies. If it's close enough, I can spy it out tonight and return before dawn. If we know beforehand―"

"Oh, you have no need to trouble yourself, Conan." Illyana's smile held a sensuousness that Conan much doubted was all the glamouring.

"How is that? Did you read our hostess's thoughts?"

"Just so. She came by and asked what I wanted in our chambers. While she was close, I read in her thoughts that she would send warning and where she would send it. Then I altered her thoughts. She will send warning only of those who will come to the Hold tomorrow night―you and I."

"Well and good." That sounded grudging and mean, even to Conan's ears. By Crom, good work was good work, even if a sorceress did it! Why complain about your sword because the smith was loose-living?

"I'm grateful, Mistress Illyana. Now, let's agree on a place to meet if you must flee this inn. Then I'll be off to the Hold―"

"You have little need to roam this nighted land, Conan. The innkeeper has been at the Hold. What I took from her mind, I can show you."

Ice filled Conan's bowels. Put himself at the mercy of a spell reaching into his mind?

"It is my spell, Conan. Surely you can trust me? And no, I did not read your
thoughts. You spoke aloud without knowing it."

"Captain Conan, if I might speak―" began Massouf.

"Would you care if I said no?"

Massouf laughed. "It is only that you do not know what you may face there. I am sure Mistress Illyana will do all that she can. But unless she can conjure up dragons and trolls, you will have much hard work. Why not save your strength for it?"

"I suppose your first post as a free man will be advising King Yildiz on strategy," Conan growled. "There may be some sense in what you say, if our hostess can tell a gate tower from a privy!"

"Trust her, Conan," Raihna said. "Everything the innkeeper has ever seen, you will see as clearly as if you were there yourself. You can learn enough and still sleep tonight."

All three of them were right, much as Conan disliked admitting it. Rescuing Dessa at all was crackbrained enough; why make matters worse?

His eyes met Raihna's, and she smiled. Conan had no art of reading thoughts, but hers were plain on her face. She was not saving his strength entirely for fighting, and as for sleep, she did not intend to allow him much.

Eight

GRAVEL RATTLED UNDER the hooves of the hired horses as Conan and Illyana reined
in before the frowning gate of Achmai's Hold. The stout timbers were yet unweathered and the massive iron hinges showed only a faint tinge of rust.

Otherwise the ruddy stone walls stood much as they had for centuries. Conan had seen a few of these old bandit-lords' strongholds and heard tales of many. This seemed larger than most. When it rose on the hill, the looting must have been good.

From a tower to the right of the gate, a voice hailed them.

"Who comes?"

"Two soldiers, seeking speech with Lord Achmai."

"Why should he speak with soldiers?"

"Does he then hire men unseen and unheard?"

"You wish to enter his service?"

"If his service seems fit for us, yes."

Two heads thrust out of the tower. One was shaven, the other wore an old cavalry' helmet Under the scrutiny, Conan saw unease in Illyana's eyes. He could see nothing else, so thoroughly did her man's garb conceal her. Had he not known she was a woman, he himself would have taken her for a youth.

"Is this wise?" she whispered. "Speaking as though we do Achmai a favor by seeking his service?"

"No soldier with pride in his sword does otherwise," Conan assured her. "If I spoke otherwise, they grow suspicious."

Before Illyana could reply, the voice hailed them again.

"Enter, and be welcome."

The size of the courtyard within the walls told Conan that indeed this had once been a mighty fortress. Now the courtyard was half-filled with outbuildings, stout but roughly-built stables, sheds, and. barracks. Only the keep had been restored to its original strength, and the Great Hall to at least some of its original splendor.

Six men met them in the center of the courtyard. Their arms were well-kept and their clothes clean, if ragged. Their features bore the stamp of more different races than Conan could have numbered on the fingers of both hands.

"We'll take your horses," one said. He seemed to be mostly a Shemite, with a hint of Vanir in the fairness of his beard.

"Show us the stable, and we'll lead them there ourselves," Conan said. Like the horses, the saddles were hired. The saddlebags bore certain items best not closely examined.

The fair-bearded Shemite seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. "As you wish."

The quick yielding made Conan more suspicious than a long argument. He signed Illyana to stay mounted. The gate was still open. If the worst came, she'd have a hope of flight.

The Cimmerian swung lithely from his saddle and strode to the head of the horses. As he took the reins, he felt a hand on the hilt of his sword.

The reins flew from Conan's hands as he whirled. One hand seized the sword hilt and the intruder's hand, imprisoning it as if a boulder had fallen upon it. The
other hand paused only long enough to clench into a fist. Then it crashed into a beardless jaw. The intruder flew backward to spread-eagle himself on the stones.

Conan glared down at him. "Learn to keep your hands off other men's swords, my young friend. The next lesson may cost more than a sore jaw."

Only then did the Cimmerian notice that Fairbeard and the rest were watching him with catlike attention. He almost drew his sword. Then Fairbeard laughed.

"Well done, my friend. It will be worth Lord Achmai's while to speak with you."

"That's as may be," Conan said. "Now, what test shall I set him, to be sure it's worth my speaking with him?"

Again the sky outside held only stars. The men gathered in the Great Hall had better light. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the walls, and lamps filled with scented oil glowed on the high table.

Lord Achmai grinned at Conan and arranged his oily black beard with a beringed hand.

"You should have come to me at once, after your old master's death. You'd have been high in my service long since."

"I had to see the widow and her sister safe to their kin," Conan replied. His fingers were making short work of a fat quail, slow-roasted and stuffed with succulent fruit and herbs. "My oath would have bound me, if common sense had not."

"Ah yes. You Cimmerians put much stock in your oaths, when you bother to take them."

Conan knew a chill along his spine. To be recognized as a Cimmerian was not a common experience. Was Achmai playing with him again?

"Will you tell me that I was mistaken, in calling you Cimmerian?" the man added.

"If that blood shames you―"

"Ha! I know my forefathers and kin as well as you do."

Probably better, in truth. The innkeeper said that Achmai's family had been lords for five generations. Perhaps they had, if one counted lordship of another's kitchen or stables.

"Doubtless. It is only that one seldom sees a man of your coloring who is not a Cimmerian. And one sees few Cimmerians in Turan."

"Most of us have the sense to stay at home, where we need not listen to insults," Conan growled, with a grim smile to set Achmai at ease.

"Well, if you have the greater sense to come to me, when you have no more duty to your ladies, there will be a place for you. Likewise for your comrade.

"As for Dessa, whom you sought―-you need seek no further."

Once more Conan contemplated the serving girls, clad only in nearly transparent trousers with bells on wrists and ankles. Once more he saw none who could be the Dessa Massouf had described.

Then a drum began a swift, insistent beat, and a girl danced into the room. She wore only a short robe of transparent red silk, and that cut so that it flew out like wings as she whirled. Otherwise she wore only bells, not just at wrists and ankles but at her throat, in her ears, and on a silver chain at her waist. The torchlight played on her oiled skin, sometimes wreathing her in light, sometimes
revealing her more clearly.

Back and forth across the room she wove a path of tinkling bells, light, and lush beauty. Conan had seen fairer women, but never one so likely to make a man forget them.

Her path wove closer to the high table. Closer still―and Achmai's arm shot out like a javelin. The beringed fingers snatched the robe from Dessa's shoulders, waving it like a trophy.

The men cheered. Dessa grinned and executed a somersault that slapped her feet down on either side of Conan's plate. Then she leaped up, flowed down, and flung her arms around Conan.

Two perfumed breasts enveloped his face, but his ears were free to hear the roars of laughter. He also caught a glimpse of Illyana. Again he could see only her eyes, but they told him clearly enough that she was in a cold rage. The Cimmerian contemplated what might happen if that rage turned hot.

Conan wondered if it would have been wiser to come here openly, invoking Mishrak's name to gain Dessa's release. Most likely, disguise had been the best course. Achmai had gold from somewhere far beyond this province, perhaps beyond Turan. He would not enjoy having Mishrak learn where, and he had two-score well-trained and well-armed men to guard his secrets.

Dessa turned a back somersault off the table, landing on the piled rugs, flaming scarlet and orange with threads of gold woven into their swirling patterns.

Almost as easily as if she'd risen to her feet, she stood on her hands, waved a foot at the drummer, and began once more to sway to his beat.

As Dessa's gleaming body blazed against the rugs, Conan felt as if he sat between two blazing hearths.

A strangled cry burst from Illyana. She leaped up from the table, knocking her plate to the floor. She clutched her wine cup as she fled, but dropped it as she vanished out the door of the Hall. The guards were too bedazzled by Dessa to stop her.

"What means this?" Achmai said. His voice was even, but his hand was close to his sword hilt. "Is your companion so young he cannot bear the sight of a woman?"

"Or would he prefer the sight of a man?" shouted someone. "No doubt Pahlos could oblige him―"

"Oh, bite your tongue out and your cods off," snarled someone else, likely enough Pahlos.

"Silence!" Achmai roared. His eyes drifted back to Conan.

"Oh, you will find little to complain of in my companion," Conan said. "Perhaps the flux he had last year is returning. We shall doubtless learn soon enough. If you have any potions―"

"Oh, we know how to ease the flux," Achmai said. His smile did not reach his eyes. "We also know how to cure liars and fools."

"You will not need those cures tonight," Conan said, with an ease he did not altogether feel. Erlik take the woman, what is she planning? Or have the wits to plan deserted her now, of all times?

"I hope not," Achmai said. "Dessa has given us all too much pleasure, to have
the evening end in a quarrel."

Dessa had indeed given pleasure. Conan began to doubt that returning the girl to her betrothed was going to be half as simple as he'd expected.

Dessa knew the power her dancing gave her over men. Knew it and savored it like fine wine. Conan could not imagine her putting all that behind her to settle down as the wife of a clerk and the mother of a pack of squalling brats.

Well, that was Massouf's problem. Conan had his own, a well-formed one named Illyana. Where had that magic-wielding wench taken herself, and how long would it take before Achmai sent his men in search of her?

At least Dessa was still dancing. If Achmai ordered his men out of the hall before she stopped, he'd have a mutiny on his hands!

Dessa's dancing now grew slower, as her strength at last began to flag. She knelt, swaying her torso back and forth until it was almost level and her breasts rose almost straight up. Her belly rippled, her arms curved and recurved, her bells made wicked music, and the light gleamed still brighter as sweat joined the oil on her skin.

At last she found the strength to execute a final somersault. She landed on her back, feet resting on the high table. Achmai pushed a cup of wine between them.

The long toes curled, then gripped. Slowly, without spilling a drop, Dessa rocked back on her haunches. Still more slowly, using her hands only for_
balance, she brought the cup to her lips. Silence as thick as a fog on the Vilayet Sea filled the room.

Then the silence shattered, as the door guards sprang aside and Illyana
returned.

She returned with the glamour upon her, so that she seemed as she had when first Conan saw it. He was proof against the surprise that stunned every man in the room.

He was not proof against the sensuality wafting like perfume from Illyana's magical image. No woman he had ever bedded had so heated his blood. He gulped wine, and found it odd that the wine did not boil in his throat!

All this, with Illyana only standing in the doorway. To be sure, she was clad only in a gilded loinguard and a silver ring about her red hair, from which flowed a long red veil. Firm young breasts with rouged nipples, a faintly curved belly, legs that seemed to go on without end―all lay bare to the eye, all glowed with oil or magic or both.

"You rogue!" Achmai growled. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing, for it was some moments before he could say more. Then he added, "Were you traveling with that?"

"Kindly refer to the woman as her," Conan said with a broad grin. "Or do you think she is some wizard's creation?"

"Ah―well, there's magic in her, more than in most women. But―to think of hiding her!"

"Does a wise man show a purse of gold to a band of robbers?"

Achmai was too bemused by Illyana to reply for a moment. Conan used that moment to study the room. If Illyana truly needed her maidenhood to work her magic,
she'd best have ready to hand either mighty spells or a fleet pair of heels.

"Such a woman―it's an insult to compare her to gold," Achmai said at last.

Something seemed to be stuck in his throat. He was trying to clear it with wine when Illyana began dancing.

Clearly there was only Illyana's own suppleness and skill under the glamouring.

She did not vie with Dessa in somersaults and other feats. Nor did any music follow her, except the beat of the drum when the drummer stopped gaping like a thirsty camel.

Instead she whirled across the floor, her feet moving too fast for even Conan's eye to follow. She wove a complex path among the rugs, over and around the piles, swaying from head to toe like a blade of grass in a spring breeze. Her head swung from side to side, tossing the veil. Not that it concealed anything even in those rare moments when it hung straight.

Conan felt his head pounding with more than the fire in his blood and the beat of the drum. He turned his wine cup mouth down and searched for Dessa. She stood by the doorway, ignoring one of the guards' arms resting lightly across her shoulders. She stared at Illyana with the look of a barely-fledged journeyman watching a master display her art.

Now Illyana bent down, one leg thrust out gracefully for balance, swaying as she gripped a rug. A howl of outrage rose as she lifted the rug and wrapped it around herself from neck to knees. Then it died as she whirled across the room again.

Far from concealing her movements, the thick rug seemed to make them more
provocative. Crimson and wine patches leaped like flames under the thrust of hips and breasts.

A spearlike thrust of Illyana's head cast the veil aside. It floated across the hall as if a breeze blew it. Conan knew magic lifted it. No one else knew or cared. Tables tilted, spilling their loads, or toppled entirely as men leaped for the veil. A half-score reached it in the same moment. Without drawing steel, they rent it into a piece for each man.

Or had the veil rent itself, before the men reached it? Conan could not have sworn one way or the other.

Illyana now essayed a somersault. The rug stayed almost in place. Magic, of a certainty. Again Conan saw none who seemed to either understand or care.

The headring leaped free of Illyana's flame-hued hair. It rolled across the floor, chiming with an insistent, maddening music, avoiding all the rugs. It rolled almost to Achmai's feet before anyone thought to catch it.

Before any could move, Achmai's hand snatched up the ring. Conan noted the sureness and grace of the man's movement. He would still be clear of wit and swift of sword if matters came to a fight.

Then everyone surged to his feet as Illyana cast off the rug and the loinguard in the same movement. The rug rolled itself up as it crossed the floor. The loinguard flew like an arrow to Conan's outthrust hand.

"Cimmerian, my friend," Achmai said. "I offer you and your―friend―a place in my service. Now, next year, five years from now. What me gods allow me to give you, you shall have!

"Only―that woman..I want her for a night. Just one night. By all that either of us holds sacred, I will not force her or hurt her. No other shall so much as give her an unseemly look―"

"I call you friend too," Conan said, laughing. "But I also call you mad, if you think your men will cast no longing looks. Indeed, the lady would be much offended if they did otherwise. Only promise what the gods will allow you to do, and one thing more."

"Anything―if the gods allow it," Achmai said, without taking his eyes from Illyana's sinuous writhings.

She now lay on the rugs, describing a serpentine path toward the high table.

"Dessa, for tonight."

For a moment both wine and desire left Achmai's eyes and a shrewd bargainer looked out at Conan. Then the man nodded.

"As you wish." He clapped his hands. The guard removed his arm from Dessa's shoulder, patted her, and gave her a little shove. She strode across the room, head high, too proud to show that she knew every man's eye was on Illyana.

"Tonight, be a friend to this new friend of mine," Achmai said. "I did not think you found him unpleasing, and certainly no man ever found you so."

"As you wish, my lord," Dessa said, with a smile that widened as she saw Conan now had eyes only for her. "Since it is no secret that this is my wish too…"

She vaulted over the table and settled on Conan's lap. Illyana showed no sign of ending her dancing. Still less did she show any sign of telling Conan what her plans were―if any.

Conan had asked for Dessa with the notion that the closer she was to him, the easier their escape would be if matters went awry. Of course they might now go awry from Illyana's jealousy, but Conan knew no cure for jealous women and expected to find none tonight!

He shifted Dessa to a more comfortable position on one knee and picked up Illyana's discarded loinguard. As his fingers tightened on it, he felt a tingling. Surprised, he nearly dropped the garment. His fingers would not obey his will. The chilling presence of sorcery drove out both wine and pleasure in Dessa's company.

Then a familiar voice spoke in his mind: Be at ease, Conan. I have other glamourings besides this one. One of them will make Achmai think he has taken more pleasure from me than he could have imagined from six women. Neither of us will lose anything we yet need.

When I am done, I shall come to you. Be ready, and Dessa likewise.

The voice fell silent. The tingling ceased. Conan's fingers obeyed his will, and he stuffed the loinguard into his tunic.

Dessa ran her fingers up his arm and across his cheek. "Ah, you will soon forget her. That I swear."

Conan tightened his grip. Illyana seemed to have her wits about her, he had a willing bedmate for the night, and the rest could be left to chance.

Nine

DESSA LAY SNUGGLED on Conan's shoulder like a kitten. Had they been elsewhere, her gentle breathing might have lulled him as deeply asleep.

Instead he was as alert as if he had been standing sentry on the Hyrkanian frontier. Only a fool slept in the house of a man who might swiftly become an enemy, in spite of good wine and willing women.

A faint knocking sounded at the door. Conan listened for the rhythm until he heard three strokes, then one, then two. He pulled his sword out from under the blankets, padded catlike to the door, and drew the bolt.

Illyana stood in the doorway. She wore her man's clothing save for the headdress. Deep indigo circles beneath both eyes made them look twice as large as before, and her face was pale.

She stepped into the room, pushed the door shut, then slumped onto the chest beside the bed. Conan offered her wine. She shook her head.

"No. I am only a trifle weary. I would like to sleep, but not as soundly as our friend Achmai. He will have sweet dreams of what he thinks happened between us, as sweet any man could wish."

"How does a maiden sorceress learn of men's dreams after bedding a woman?"

Illyana shivered, then bowed her head. Her throat worked. For a moment Conan thought she was about to spew.

The moment passed. She drew in a rasping breath and stared at him without seeing.

"I have learned. That is all I can tell you."

With that look on her face, Conan would not have asked her more for the Crown of Turan. After a moment he drank the wine himself, donned his clothes, and set about waking Dessa.

From the wall outside, a sentry called.

"The fifth hour, and all's well!"

The sentry could barely be heard over the drunken snores of the men in the Great Hall. He also sounded a trifle drunk himself. He was still on duty, though, ready to give the alarm.

Conan led the way to the outer door of the hall, to find the door locked from the inside. Illyana stepped forward, holding up the arm bearing the Jewel of Kurag.

The Cimmerian shook his head. He had never studied under the master thieves of Zamora, men to whom no lock held many secrets for long. He could still open a crude lock such as this in less time and with less uproar than any spell.

Outside, the courtyard was deserted and seemingly lifeless. Only the faint glow of a brazier outside the stables showed a human presence. Conan gave the ruddy glow a sour look. Well, it was a soldier's luck, to find that the only place guarded was the one he wanted.

The cool night air awoke Dessa from her near-sleepwalking. She looked about her, and her dark eyes widened.

"What―where are you taking me? This is not the way to Lord Achmai's―"

"You will not be going back to him," Conan said. "We have come to take you to Massouf, your betrothed. He is wailing for you."

"Massouf? I thought he was long dead!"

"You received no messages from him?" Illyana asked. "He sent all he could."

"Oh, some reached me. But how could I believe them?"

Illyana looked bewildered.

"Believe me," Conan said. "It's easy to believe everyone's lying to you when you're a slave. Most do."

Dessa smiled, as if he had praised her dancing or beauty. Then her face changed to a mask of determination. She opened her mouth and drew in breath for a scream.

None but the Cimmerian could have silenced Dessa without hurting her. His massive arms held her as gently as an eggshell, but she could make no more sound than a man entombed.

As Conan shifted his grip, Illyana stepped close. One hand rested on Dessa's forehead. Conan felt a tingling in his arms, his head swam, and Dessa slumped boneless and senseless against him.

"What―what did you do?" The effort to stand and speak made his voice grate harshly. As through a mist, he saw light fading from within the Jewel.

"A simple sleeping spell."

"Cast so quickly?"

"Against Dessa, yes. Against someone alert and strong-willed, it would not be so easy. I would not care to cast it against you at all."

"So you say."

"Conan, you still see evil in my magic? What can I do to persuade you otherwise?"

The Cimmerian smiled grimly. "If your magic made me King of Aquilonia, I wouldn't call it good. I wouldn't call you evil, though."

Illyana contrived a smile. "With such crumbs I must be content, I suppose."

The brazier still glowed before the stable door when Conan's party reached it.

The stable guards were nowhere to be seen. Illyana vanished into the stable to retrieve their mounts, while Conan laid Dessa on a bale of straw and drew his sword.

He had begun to think of searching for Illyana when the stable guards returned.

Neither was quite sober, and they supported between them a giggling girl, less than half-clad and rather more than half-drunk.

"Ho, Cimmerian," one man called. "Come to join our sport?"

"It will be better sport if there's some wine," Conan replied.

"In truth," the second man said. "Faroush, go and find that jug you―"

"You go and find your jug," the first man began indignantly.

"What, and leave you alone with Chira?" the second man growled.

Faroush was about to reply when Illyana emerged from the darkness, leading the horses.

"Ho, ha, sweet lady. Have you come to dance for us?" said Faroush.

"In truth, no," Illyana said. "I beg you to excuse me." Her voice was steady,
but to Conan her eyes had the look of a trapped animal's.

"Beg all you want," the second man said. His voice was all at once level, and his hand on the hilt of his sword. Conan marked him as the more dangerous.

"Again, I must say no," Illyana went on. "I am far too weary for any dancing that would please you."

"That I much doubt," said the second man. "It's the kind of dancing best done lying down, and―"

The man had talked a moment too long and not drawn his sword fast enough. A Cimmerian fist hammered into his jaw like a boulder. He flew backward, crashing into the stable door and sliding down to sprawl senseless in the dung-laden straw.

Faroush drew his sword, apparently sobered by his comrade's fate. Conan saw fear in his eyes, but in his stance and grip a determination to fight even against such an opponent.

Mishrak will want to know how Lord Achmai commands such men, was Conan's thought. For that matter, so do I.

Meanwhile, the girl had been swaying as she pulled her clothes into order. At last she drew a deep breath, and Conan cursed. From where he stood, he could only silence the girl by cutting her down, and that he would not do.

A moment later, the girl let out all her breath in a wild shriek.

"Help! Help! Guards! Thieves in the stables! Help! Help!"

Then she turned and ran. Faroush seemed to consider the alarm given and did the same, sword in hand.

Conan turned to Illyana. "Do you have a spell to speed our way out of here, by chance?"

Illyana frowned. "I cannot fly us all. Not the horses, certainly, and we will need them to outstrip―"

"Curse you, woman! Is this a time for bantering? Yes or no?"

"Yes. If you can give me a trifle of time and find some way to slow the pursuit."

Conan looked at the stable door. It looked stout enough to defy anything short of a battering ram or fire. Achmai's men would hardly burn the stable over the heads of their own horses.

Conan bent to pick up Dessa and jerked his head toward the stable. "Inside, and be quick about it."

The door crashed shut. Darkness embraced them. Conan fumbled for the bar. As he slid it into place, fists began pounding on the outside.

A dim emerald glow swelled behind him. He turned, to see the Jewel glowing on Illyana's wrist. She was taking off her tunic.

"What in Erlik's name―?"

Illyana drew her tunic off and bared all her teeth in a grin. "Have you never heard that one must be unclothed to cast a spell?"

"I've seen a good many women who could indeed cast spells unclothed, but they weren't your kind."

"Well, Cimmerian, you learn something new of magic every day you are in my company."

"Whether I wish it or not!"

Conan listened to the din outside the door, the shouts, the curses, the rasp of drawn swords, and a" few men trying to make their orders heard. By the time he knew they faced no immediate danger, Illyana was bare save for the Jewel on one wrist and a rune-carved ivory bracelet on the other.

The emerald light from the Jewel flowed over her fair skin, turning the hue of bronze long under the sea.

She might have been some Atlantean goddess, risen from the waves to strike at those who overthrew her city.

Conan drew his dagger and stalked down the line of horses, cutting their tethers or opening their stall doors. By the time all were free, Illyana was standing by her mount, wearing an impatient look as well as the Jewel and bracelet.

"All that I can do here has been done. It is time to ride."

Conan heaved Dessa over the neck of his horse and swung into the saddle. Illyana lifted the Jewel and chanted.

"Chaos, thrice-cursed, hear our blessing―" followed by something about twice as long in a tongue Conan neither knew nor wanted to know.

A whirlwind burst the straw and hay bales apart. The loose straw and hay rose above Conan's head, then fell back into a corner, piled as high as a man. As if kicked, the brazier toppled over, scattering burning coals into the straw and hay. Flames ran up the pile, touched the pitch-laden walls, and leaped toward the ceiling.

Then Illyana made a fist of the hand bearing the Jewel and brought it down like
a blacksmith's hammer. The stable door burst apart as if a battering ram had indeed struck it.

"Hiyaaa!"

Conan screamed the war cries of half a dozen races as he spurred his horse into the ranks of Achmai's men. His broadsword leaped and flashed in the firelight, slashing to either side.

He still made poor practice. His mount was hardly war-trained, besides carrying double. It mattered little, since his foes were scattering even as he reached them. A good many had fallen to the scything timbers of the stable door. The rest might have fought against men, but not against magic. Illyana's appearance, nude and blazing with emerald light, finished them.

It was as well that the courtyard was swiftly clear. Illyana had to ride thrice in a circle, chanting more arcane words, before flame leaped once more from the Jewel. It struck once, twice, at each hinge and fastening of the gate. At each stroke of fire, metal smoked, then melted and ran. A final stroke pushed the gates down altogether, like a child pushing down a sand castle.

Over the smoldering ruins of the gates, Conan and Illyana rode into the night.

They stopped about halfway back to the meeting place with Raihna and Massouf, to rest the horses and listen for sounds of pursuit. Conan heard none, nor was Illyana much surprised.

"Few of the horses will take much harm, if the men lead them out of the stable in time. Fewer still will be fit for work tonight."

"They won't be coming after me?" Dessa sounded half-outraged, half-relieved.

"With no horses and their chief so sound asleep an earthquake couldn't wake him?

Those are men, not wizards!" Conan growled.

"She's a wizard," Dessa said, pointing at Illyana. "And you're some kind of soldier. Why did you take me away from the Hold?"

"We told you. We are returning to your betrothed."

Illyana burrowed into her saddlebags and started pulling out clothes. She had ridden naked from the Hold, uncaring of the night chill.

Dessa was less enduring. She snatched the clothes from Illyana, then dropped them as if they were an armful of nettles.

"Now what?" Conan growled.

"I won't wear her clothes. They might be tainted with her magic."

"Then wear mine," Conan said. One of his tunics came down nearly to Dessa's knees, but it did more or less clothe her.

"I suppose I should thank you," Dessa said at last. "But―did you ever think I might have wanted to stay? I did, you know."

Conan's and Illyana's eyes met above Dessa's head. The sorceress was the first to find her tongue.

"Dessa, Massouf loves you. Or so he says," she added.

"What he says and what he does are two different things, lady. His real love is gold. That's why he was enslaved. Even if he'd succeeded at his schemes, he wouldn't have given me half as much as Achmai and his men. I was better off even at the Three Coins, for Mitra's sake!"

She looked beseechingly at Conan. "Captain, if I might have something for my feet, I'll trouble you no more. I can make my own way back to―"

"Crom!" The oath flew out of Conan's mouth like the flame from the Jewel. Both women flinched. Conan drew breath.

"Dessa, we swore an oath to bring you back to Massouf. We're somewhat in his debt. The gods do not love unpaid debts." Dessa opened her mouth but a glare from Conan pushed the words back into it unuttered.

"You won't find yourself welcome back at the Hold, either," Conan went on. "They can't be sure you didn't want to escape. You'll be scrubbing the pots and being scrubbed out by the potboys if you go back."

Dessa still looked obstinate. "If you don't fear the gods or Achmai's men, try fearing me," Conan finished. "Dessa, if you take one step toward the Hold, you'll have to meet Massouf standing. I'll leave you in no state to sit down!"

Silently consigning all women to a place as far as possible from him, Conan unhooked the water bottles and went in search of a spring.

Ten

THEY RODE OUT at dawn, as the Iranistanis measured it―when a man could tell a black horsehair from a white one.

For a while Conan and Raihna led their mounts, to ease their way across the broken ground. With the two hired horses for Dessa and Massouf, no one needed to
ride double for lack of mounts.

Lack of riding skill was another matter. Dessa rode like a sack of grain and Massouf hardly better. If it came to swift flight, Conan and Raihna would be taking their saddle-shy charges up on their own mounts.

So far they had seen no sign of pursuit, and Conan aimed to put off that moment as long as possible. They kept away from the main roads and indeed from the greater part of the mountain byways. Sheep tracks or bare hillside saw them pass, and of men only an occasional herdsman and once a hermit.

"They are a close-mouthed breed, these mountain folk," Conan said. "Oh, gold or torture can open their mouths like any man's. But it takes a while. Besides, torturing free Turanians is a fine way for Achmai to lose whatever good will he has in Aghrapur."

"Their flocks can see anything the herdsmen see," Illyana said.

"All the sheep and goats I've known were even more close-mouthed than the herdsmen," Conan replied, with a grin. It was a fine fair morning and although tired he was in high good humor. A battle fairly fought and splendidly won always left him so.

"There are ways to make even the dumb speak," Illyana said soberly.

"How?" Conan laughed. "I can just imagine Achmai shouting at a ram―'Who passed this way yesterday? Answer, or I'll roast you for our dinner!' I can't imagine him getting an answer."

"Not that way, no."

Conan's grin twisted. "Are there spells for making animals speak?"

"For learning what they have seen, yes."

"Does Achmai command them?" The upland morning suddenly seemed as cold as a Cimmerian autumn.

"Neither he nor anyone who serves him commands any magic. But if he wished vengeance enough and knew of Eremius―the Master of the other Jewel knows all the spells. He might even have learned to cast them over such a distance. It has been ten years since we met. I no longer can be sure I know everything he does."

She forced a smile. "At least there is one consolation. He can no longer be sure that he knows everything I know. And I have not spent those ten years in idleness or debauchery."

The smile widened. "Why, Conan, I truly begin to think you are curious about magic. Are you becoming willing to live with it?"

"Maybe, when I can't live without it," Conan growled. "Of course, I can live with the kind of magic you danced up, any day or night. I wonder if your whole scheme came from wanting to show yourself like that―"

The smile vanished and the fair skin flushed. Illyana dropped back to ride beside Dessa and Massouf. Conan spurred forward, to ride level with Raihna, muttering rude remarks about women who could be neither chaste nor unchaste.

"That was an ill-spoken jest," Raihna said, when the Cimmerian fell silent.

"Am I to learn why, or must I guess?"

"You will learn if Illyana chooses to tell you. Not otherwise. It is not my secret to tell."

"Not telling me all I need to know is sending me into this fight blind."

"Ah, Conan. Surely not that. One-eyed at worst."

"That's bad enough, against an opponent with two eyes. Or didn't Master Barathres teach you that? If he didn't, you should go back to Bossonia and get your fees back from him, at the point of a―"

Raihna's hand leaped at his cheek so swiftly he had no time to seize it. Instead he blocked the blow, then gripped Raihna's arm just above the elbow.

"Another ill-timed jest?"

"Let me go, curse you!"

"I've been cursed by a good many men and women, and I'm healthier than most of them."

Then he saw that tears were starting from her eyes. He released her and guided his horse to a safe distance, while she reined in and sat in silence, shaking and weeping silently.

At last she pushed her fists into her eyes, sighed, and faced Conan once more.

"Conan, forgive me. That was a cruel jest indeed, but you could not have known how much so. I am an exile from Bossonia. I have no home save where Illyana chooses to lead me. Illyana or someone worse.

"So I owe her silence about her secrets and perhaps a trifle more. Tell me, my Cimmerian friend. What would you say to a jest, that High Captain Khadjar was in the pay of Lord Houma?"

Conan felt the blood rush to his face. Raihna laughed, pointing at a fist he'd raised without realizing it.

"You see. I owe Illyana as much or more as you owe Khadjar. Let's follow an old

Bossonian saying―'if you won't burn my haystacks, my cattle won't befoul your well.'Truce?"

Conan guided his horse close again and put an arm around her. She nestled into it for a moment.

"Truce."

From the ravine, the last frantic bellowings had died. So had the last of the herd of cattle. Even Master Eremius heard only the gobbling, tearing, and cracking as the Transformed dismembered the bodies. From time to time he heard growls and squeals as they quarreled over some particularly succulent piece.

He did not fear the quarrels would turn bloody. The Transformed were no disciplined army, but the elders among them had ways of keeping the peace. At times, Eremius suspected, those ways meant the disappearance of one or two of their number. A waste, but not a great one.

Today nothing of that nature would happen. The Transformed had a feast under their claws. They also had foreknowledge of a greater feast tonight, with human flesh to rend and human terror to savor.

Captain Nasro scrambled up to Eremius's perch and knelt.

"Master, the stream at the foot of the ravine grows foul. Blood and ordure make it unfit for drinking."

"It matters not at all to the Transformed. Or have you forgotten that?"

"I remember, Master." He swallowed, sweat breaking out on his face. "Yet―do you―I also remember ―that our men, those not Transformed―they need clean water."

"Then let them go upstream from the ravine and drink there!" Eremius snarled.

The force of his anger made his staff lift from the ground and whirl toward the captain's head. Eremius let the staff come so close that the man flinched, then made it tap him lightly on the cheek.

"Think, man. Would I have let your men go thirsty? I have left you and them alike enough wits to find food and water. Go use them, and leave me in peace!"

Nasro flinched again, bowed again, and retreated.

Alone save for his thoughts and the din of the Transformed feeding, Eremius sat down, staff across his knees. It was a pity he could not hope that Nasro and all his men would perish in tonight's battle among the villages. The villagers would hardly offer enough resistance.

Besides, he still needed Nasro and the rest of his witlings. Only when both Jewels were at his command could he amuse himself by disposing of them.

That promised to be a most agreeable day. So did another, the day he made the Transformed able to breed and breed true. Transformed and commanded by the powers of a single Jewel, they were barren. When Eremius held both Jewels, matters would be otherwise. Then he would also command a regular tribute of women to be Transformed and bear more such.

It was said that the children of those Transformed by both Jewels reached their full growth in a single year. Eremius would most assuredly put that to the proof at the earliest moment. If it was true, he would have one more irresistible gift to offer his allies.

Of course, with Illyana's aid or at least her Jewel he could have proved the
matter and offered the gift ten years ago! That thought no longer ruled his mind, as the day of open battle and victory drew closer. It still lurked in his spirit, snarling like a surly watchdog and able to darken the brightest day.

"The stream's turned all bloody!"

"The demons have cursed it!"

"Who brought their wrath upon us?"

"Find him!"

At those last words Bora broke into a run. He wanted to reach the stream before the crowd decided he was the one they should find and turned into a mob searching for him.

The shouting swelled. Bora had never run so fast in his life, save when fleeing the mountain demons. He burst out of the village and plunged through the crowd.

He was on the bank of the stream before anyone saw him coming.

There he stopped, looking down into water commonly as cool and clear as his sister Caraya's eyes. Now it was turning an evil, pustulant scarlet. Bits of nameless filth floated on the surface and an evil reek smote Bora's nostrils.

Around him the villagers were giving way. Did they fear him or was it only the stink of the stream? He laughed, then swallowed hard. He feared that if he began laughing now, he would not easily stop.

Holding his breath, he knelt and scooped up a bit of floating filth. Then he smiled.

"Now we know what became of Perek's cattle!" he shouted. "They must have fallen
into some ravine upstream. Hard luck for Perek."

"Hard luck for us, too!" someone shouted. "Can we all drink from the wells, until the stream runs clear again?"

"What else is there to do?" Bora asked, shrugging.

This reasonable question made some nod. Others frowned. "What if the cattle died―in a way against nature?" one of these said. None dared say the word "demons," as if their name might call them. "Will the water ever run clean again?"

"If―anything against nature―had a hand in this, it will show in the water," Bora said. He had to take a deep breath before he knew he could say the next words in a steady voice. "I will step into the water. If I step out unharmed, we need fear no more than rotting cattle."

This speech drew both cheers and protests. Several arguments and at least one fight broke out between the two factions. Bora ignored both and began stripping off his clothes. If he did not do this quickly, he might well lose the courage to do it at all.

The water was chill as always, biting with sharp, angry teeth that began on his toes and ended at his chest. He would not sink his face and head in that filthy water.

Bora stayed in the stream until numbness blunted the water's teeth. By then the crowd was silent as the mist in the demons' valley. He stayed a trifle longer, until he began to lose feeling in his toes and fingers. Then he turned toward the bank.

He needed help to climb out, but enough villagers rushed forward to help a dozen men. Others had brought towels. They surrounded him, to chafe and rub until his skin turned from blue to pink and his teeth stopped chattering.

Caraya came, with a steaming posset cup and a look he had seldom seen on her face. Her tongue was no more gentle than usual, however. "Bora, that was a foolish thing to do! What would have become of us if the demons took you?"

"I didn't think there were any demons. But I could hardly ask anyone to believe me, unless I proved it. If I hadn't―what would have become of you if they thought I'd brought the demons and stoned me to death!"

"They wouldn't dare!" If her eyes had been bows, half the crowd would have dropped dead with arrows in them.

"Caraya, men in fear will dare anything, if it lets them strike back at that fear." It was one of Ivram's pieces of wisdom. Now seemed a good time to bring it forth.

Another charitable soul brought a bucket of hot water and a sponge. Bora sponged himself into a semblance of cleanliness, then pulled on his clothes. The crowd still surrounded him, many gaping as if he were a god come to earth.

Anger sharpened his voice.

"Is there no work that needs doing? If nothing else, we must bring water from Winterhome if our wells cannot give enough. Doubtless they will share if we ask.

Not if we stand about gaping until the birds build nests in our mouths!"

Bora half-feared that he had finally said too much. Who was he, at sixteen, to order men old enough to be his grandfather?

Instead he saw nods, and heard men offering to walk to the other village with a message. He refused to decide who should go. He took one of the towels, dipped it into the stream, then wrung it out and tied it around his left arm.

"I will take this to Ivram," he shouted, raising the arm. "The demons were too weak to harm me, so there is little to fear. There may be much to learn, and Ivram will know how to learn it."

Bora hoped that was true. The priest was said to know many odd bits of arcane lore, without being truly a sorcerer. Even so, Ivram might not be able to answer the most urgent question.

How close were the demons? To send men out to seek them would be murder. To wait and let them come at a time of their own choosing would be folly. What else could be done? Bora did not know, but Ivram could at least help him hide this ignorance.

Also, Ivram and Maryam were the two people in the whole village to whom Bora could admit that he was frightened.

By mid-afternoon Conan judged it safe to leave the hills and press on to the next town. He would have felt safer pressing all the way to the garrison at Fort Zheman, but that would have meant riding by night.

Also, Dessa and Massouf were near the end of their strength.

"They might go farther if they hadn't spent so much time quarreling," Conan told Raihna. "I won't turn that young lady over my knee, but I'll pray Massouf does and soon. For all our sakes, not just his!"

"I much doubt he'll find it in himself to do that," Raihna said. "He sounds like a man who isn't quite sure now he wanted his dream to come true."

"If he doesn't know what he wants, then he and Dessa will be well-matched,"

Conan growled. "I'll even pay for their wedding, if they have no kin left.

Anything, just so we don't have to carry those witlings into the mountains!"

Unmoved by Conan's opinion, the reunited lovers were still quarreling when the party rode into Haruk. They fell silent while Conan found rooms at an inn with stout walls, a back door, and good wine. Then their quarreling began again, when Illyana announced thatlthey would share a room to themselves.

"I won't!" Dessa said simply.

"I won't touch you, Dessa," Massouf said. He sounded genuinely contrite. "Don't be afraid."

"Afraid! Of you? A real man I'd fear, but―"

Glares from Illyana, Raihna, and Conan silenced her, but not soon enough. An angry flush crept up into Massouf's face and his voice shook as he spoke.

"I'm not man enough for you? What are you, Dessa? Did you find a trull's heart in―"

The slap Dessa aimed would have floored Massouf if Conan hadn't stepped between them. He held one hand over Dessa's mouth while he opened the door of her room with the other. Then he shifted his grip, to the collar and hem of her borrowed tunic, swung her back and forth a few times, and tossed her neatly on to the bed.

"Now, Massouf," Conan said with elaborate courtesy. "Would it be your pleasure
to walk into the room? Or would you prefer to imitate a bird?"

Massouf cursed but walked. Conan kicked the couple's baggage in after them, then pulled the door shut and bolted it from the outside.

"Here," Illyana said. She held out a cup of wine. Conan emptied it without taking it from his lips.

"Bless you," he said, wiping his mouth. He stopped short of adding that she knew well what a man might need. Such jests clearly reached some old, deep wound. If he could give her no good memories, he could at least not prod the scabs and scars.

"I don't know if they'll have a peaceful night," Raihna said. "But I intend to."

She put an arm around Conan's waist.

"If it's peace you want, Raihna, you may have to wait a while for it."

"Oh, I hope so. A long, long while." Her attempt to imitate a worshipful young girl was so ludicrous that even Illyana burst out laughing.

"If you're that hot, woman," Conan said, "then let's see what this inn has for dinner. Man or horse, you don't ride them far on an empty stomach!"

Eleven

SOMEWHERE NEARBY A woman was screaming. Pleasantly entangled with Raihna, Conan
was slow to spare the woman a single thought. Even then, his thought was that Dessa and Massouf had finally come to blows. Dessa, in Conan's opinion, could
well take care of herself without help from people who had more important matters at hand―The screams grew louder. Raihna stiffened, but not in passion. She stared at the door.

"Woman―!" the Cimmerian muttered.

"No. That―it's Illyana. She is in pain or fears danger."

Raihna flung herself out of bed and dashed to the door. She stopped only to snatch up sword and dagger. Similarly clad, Conan followed.

In the hall, Dessa and Massouf stood before Illyana's door. Dessa was clad as Conan and Raihna, without the weapons. Massouf had a blanket wrapped around his waist. As Conan reached them, the screaming ceased.

"Don't just stand there!" Conan snarled.

"We tried the door," Massouf said. "It is bolted from within, or perhaps spellbound." His voice was steady, although his eyes ran up and down Raihna.

Thank the gods the lad isn't so besotted with Dessa that he sees no other woman!

From behind Illyana's door came the mewling of someone in pain or fear, now fighting to hide it.

"Give me room!" Conan snapped. "And Massouf― find the innkeeper if he isn't already summoning the watch!"

Conan drew back as far as the hall would allow. When he plunged forward, he was like an avalanche on a steep slope. The bolt was made to resist common men, not Cimmerians of Conan's size and strength. The bolt snapped like a twig and the door crashed open.

Conan flew into the room, nearly stumbling over Illyana, who knelt at the foot of the bed. She clutched the bedclothes with both hands and had a corner of the blanket stuffed into her mouth.

She wore only the Jewel of Khurag in its ring on her left arm. The Jewel seared Conan's eyes with emerald flame.

"Don't touch her!" Raihna cried.

"She needs help!"

"You will hurt, not help, if you touch her now!"

Conan hesitated, torn between desire to help someone clearly suffering and trust in Raihna's judgment. Illyana settled the question by slumping into a faint. As.

she fell senseless, the flame in the Jewel died.

Raihna knelt beside her mistress, listening for a heartbeat and breath. Conan mounted guard at the door, while Dessa pulled blankets off the bed to improvise garb for everyone.

"You've your wits about you, girl," Raihna said grudgingly.

"You think a witling could have lived as I have?"

"No," Conan said, laughing harshly. If Dessa truly wanted to queen it over a tavern, best send her to Pyla. In Aghrapur, any friend of Pyla had few enemies.

If that friend was a woman, she was off to a fine start in the taverns.

At this moment Massouf returned. The innkeeper and two stout-thewed manservants either followed or pursued him. Conan showed them steel and they halted, while Massouf darted into the room.

"What is this din?" the innkeeper bellowed. He contemplated everyone's
improvised garments and Illyana's lack of any. "I'll have you know I keep a quiet house. If it's a woman you want―"

"Oh, go play with your women!" growled Conan. "If you're man enough, that is. My lady mistress has been having a nightmare. She's a widow, and her husband met a hard death."

The landlord seemed mollified. He was turning, when Illyana began to mutter, "The Transformed. No hope―stopping them―this far away. Try to―weaken ―power over
them. Try―everyone (something wordless) doomed―"

"Witchcraft!" one of the servants screamed. He clattered off down the stairs.

His comrade followed. Raihna ran to her mistress's side, dropping her blanket in her haste. The innkeeper remained, his mouth agape, whether at Raihna or the witchcraft Conan didn't know.

"The watch!" the man finally gasped. "I'll call the watch. If they won't come, I'll raise the town. There'll be no witcheries done in my house. No, not by all the gods―"

"Go raise the town and much good may it do you!" Raihna shouted. Her sword nearly slit the innkeeper's nose. He backed away, reached the top of the stairs, and would have fallen backward down them if Conan hadn't gripped his arm.

"Look you, my witless friend," the Cimmerian said. He would have gladly flung the man after his servants, but a small chance of peace remained. "My mistress does have some magic at her command. That's true. She can also sense others casting spells. The one she's sensed is old and evil. Leave her be, and perhaps
she can protect you!"

The man frowned, but some of the panic left his face. When Conan released him, he walked down the stairs, instead of running.

"I may have won us time," Conan said. "Then again, I may not. Those fools of servants will have the town here before you can spell a pot of soup to boiling!"

"I must do what I can," Illyana said, shaking her head. "Horror is on the march, and I must do what I can to fight it."

"If it's not close―" Conan began.

"That matters not," Illyana said, drawing herself up with a queen's dignity.

"When I fled from Eremius, I swore to fight Eremius whenever I had the slightest hope of doing so. Now I have more than a hope, if you will give me time, you and Raihna."

She clearly had her mind made up, and Raihna would stay, fight, and if needs be die whether Conan stayed or not. The matter was settled.

"As you wish," Conan said. "Get on with it, while Raihna and I pack what can't be left behind. Dessa, you and Massouf need not come with us. I much doubt they'll blame you―"

"Before this, perhaps not," Dessa said. "But as you said last night―now it's too late. I'll be accused whether I deserve it or not." She grinned wickedly, then stuck out her tongue at Conan.

The soft night wind carried the carrion reek, the growls, the shuffling feet of the Transformed to Eremius. Ears sharpened by magic judged that they were close
to the village's sentries.

Those sentries had not long to live. Doubtless they would not die silently, but that would hardly matter. In fact, their dying would begin the sowing of fear in the village. Enough of that, and Eremius would hardly need to―A horse's scream sundered the night. The Transformed howled in triumph. Raw with fear came a human cry.

"Demons! Demons! The demons are upon us! Fly, fly―yaaaagggh!" as claws and teeth tore the man's life from him.

Eremius allowed himself a frown of displeasure. Had the village contrived to mount their sentries? Or had the Transformed stumbled upon a man riding out on some entirely different matter? Yet once more, Eremius would have sworn to guard Illyana's maidenhood, to have the services of a good war captain at his command!

At least he needed no captain's advice to know that the village had been warned too soon. The villagers would have more time to flee. The Transformed could pursue them only so far before they escaped from Eremius's command.

A village hurled into panic-stricken flight would send a powerful message to would-be allies. A village reduced to rubble and corpses would send one still more powerful.

Eremius raised his staff. For tonight, the Jewel flamed from its head, bound there by a silver ring and carefully-hoarded strands of Illyana's hair. Eremius had proven several times over that the Jewel was not bonded to the ring. He had long known the spells for removing it from the ring and returning it, but tonight was the first time he had removed it for serious work.

Eremius began to chant, calling on every craftsman of ancient Atlantis whose name was known. It was a long list. He then passed on to all the Atlantean gods and demons, a list nearly as long.

One day he would receive a clear sign of who had made or found the Jewels, and what had aided him. Perhaps it would even happen before the other Jewel came into Eremius's hands. For now the sorcerer knew only that this invocation wearied him exceedingly and could make the spell uncertain―or vastly more powerful.

"Chyar, Esporn, Boker―"

Over and over again, more than two-score names of power. As he chanted, Eremius thrust the staff and Jewel alternately to the left and to the right. On either side of him a space in the air began to glow with emerald fire.

The Spell of the Eyes of Mahr could enthrall a dozen men even at its common power. Enhanced, it would hold the village as motionless as the stones of their huts while the Transformed descended upon them.

"Boker, Idas, Gezass, Ayrgulf―"

Ayrgulf was no Atlantean, but he had a place in the history of the Jewels.

History, not legend, named him the first Vanir chief who had possessed the Jewels. More history and much bloody legend told of what befell him, when the Jewels filled him with dreams of power he had no art to command.

History and legend alike would speak otherwise of Eremius the Jewelmaster.

To left and right, the glowing green spheres began to flatten into the oval shapes of immense eyes.

Bora saw the eyes take form as he ran from Ivram's house. As he reached the head of the path downhill, the eyes seemed to stare directly at him.

His legs seemed to have a will of their own, and that will was to turn and flee.

It would be so easy―much easier than descending the path to the doomed village and dying when the demon behind the eyes swooped.

But―what would men say of him? What would he think of himself, for that matter?

Bora had never known before so much of the truth about courage. Little of it was-freedom from fear. Some of it was mastering your fear. A great part was fearing other men's tongues more than whatever menaced you, and the rest was wishing to sleep soundly at night the rest of your days.

Not that he would have many more days or nights if he went down that hill.

Bora descended the four steps Ivram had carved into the rock at the top of the path. As his feet struck bare ground, he realized that the eyes seemed to be following him. Moreover, they were drawing him on down the hill.

He had not fled because he was being ensorceled not to flee! Like a snake charming a bird, the eyes were drawing him, a helpless prey, toward what awaited at the bottom of the hill.

Feet thumped on the stairs behind him. A pungent powder floated about him. ft stung nose and mouth like pepper. Bora's face twisted, he clapped hands over his face, his eyes streamed tears, and he sneezed convulsively.

"Go on sneezing, Bora," came Ivram's voice. "If you need more―"

Bora could not speak, half-strangled as he felt. He went on sneezing until he
feared that his nose might leap from his face and roll down the hill. His eyes streamed as they had not since he wept for his grandfather's death.

At last he could command his breath again. He also discovered that he could command his feet, his senses, his will―"What spell did you put on me, Ivram?" he shouted. The shout set off another fit of coughing.

"Only the counterspell in the Powder of Zayan," Ivram said mildly. "The Spell of the Eyes of Hahr is one of those easily cast on an unsuspecting, unresisting subject. It is just as easily broken by the Powder. Once broken, it cannot be recast on the same subject―"

"I'm grateful, Ivram," Bora said. "More than grateful." In his worst nightmares, he had not imagined that what menaced the village would wield such powers. "But can we help the whole village in time?" He was fidgeting to be off down the hill, half-afraid that the urge to flee would rise again if he waited.

"There is ample Powder. I have been making it since you told me of the demons."

"Then give it to me!"

"Patience, young Bora―"

"Oh, the demons devour patience and you too!

Crimson Springs is dying, priest! Can't your Mitra tell you that much, you―!"

"Bora, never abandon patience. I was about to say, that many in the village may well have been sleeping or had their eyes averted when the Eyes appeared. The spell will not bind them.

"Also, I am going down to the village with you. Two of us casting the Powder―"

"Ivram!" Maryam squalled like a scalded cat. "You're too old to die fighting demons―!"

"Life or death are in Mitra's hands, sweetling. No one is ever too old to pay a debt. Crimson Springs has sheltered us for many years. We owe them something."

"But―your life?"

"Even that."

Bora heard Maryam swallowing. "I should have known better than to argue with you. Am I losing my power to understand men?"

"Not at all, and Mitra willing, you'll have many years to practice it on me. For now, I'd rather you loaded up the mules. Take the shrine, but don't forget clean clothing in your haste."

Now Bora heard a faint sigh. "Ivram, I've fled in more haste, and from places I was happier to leave. I've had a traveling pack ready since Bora warned us."

"Mitra bless you, Maryam, and keep you safe."

After that Bora heard only an eloquent silence. He hastened down the hill, having already heard too much of the farewell for his peace of mind.

Ivram caught up with him halfway down the hill. For the first time Bora saw the man clearly. He carried his staff of office in his right hand and a straight-bladed short sword on his belt. Over his shoulder hung a bag of richly-worked leather, with images of Mitra sewn in semi-precious stones.

"There's enough Powder in this sack to unbind the whole village, if we just have time," Ivram said. "We may. If whoever is casting this spell thinks he has all the time in the world―"

"I once heard Yakoub say that 'if is a word never to be used in war," Bora said.

"In that much, Yakoub is wise," the priest said. "If this is not war, the gods only know what it is." He lengthened his stride, until for all his youth and strength Bora had to strain to keep pace with him.

The Spell of the Eyes of Hahr took all of Eremius's strength and attention.

Unguided, the Transformed milled about short of the village, squabbling over the last scraps of the horse and its rider.

Before those squabbles could turn bloody, their Master took command again. The human guards had already pressed on beyond the village, to cut off the retreat of any not bound by the Eyes. Eremius sent a firm message to them, not to enter the village.

If you do, you are at the mercy of the Transformed, and you know how much of that they possess!

As he finished that message, he heard one of the Transformed howl in rage or pain. Into his mind flooded all it felt―the pain of being struck in the eye by a flung stone. No, by a volley of them, as though a score of men were throwing.

Eremius felt outrage equal to his creation's. There could not be so many people in the village so free of the Eyes that they could throw a straw, let alone a stone! He opened his mind wider, likewise the senses of his body.

His hearing gave him the first clue, and the only one he needed. The streets of Crimson Springs were thronged with people, hurrying away from the Transformed or standing and sneezing violently.

Who among these wretched villagers could know the arcane secret of the Powder of Zayan? Who? He almost screamed the word aloud, at the unsympathetic sky.

It mattered little. Clearly the intruder to the valley some days ago had done more than escape. He had warned the maker of the Powder. Crimson Springs was defended in a way Eremius had not expected.

That also would matter little. If they thought they could fight the Master of even one Jewel, it would be their last mistake.

Eremius cast his mind among the villagers, counting those bound by the Eyes of Hahr. Enough of those, and he could still sow chaos by sending yet another spell into their minds.

Unnoticed by an Eremius intent on his counting, the strands of Illyana's hair binding the Jewel to his staff began to writhe, then to glow with a ruby light.

Twelve

EMERALD LIGHT CREPT around the edge of the door to Illyana's chamber. The light held no heat, but Conan could not rid himself of the notion that he stood with his back to a blazing furnace.

That was still better by far than seeing such magic with his own eyes. He would have refused to do so, even had not Illyana and Raihna both warned him that it was no sight for eyes unaccustomed to sorcery.

"If this seems to be doubting your courage―" Illyana had begun.

"You're not doubting my courage. You're doubting that I'm the biggest fool in Turan. Go do your best with the magic. I'll do my best to keep anyone from ramming a sword through your―" Conan sketched a gesture that made Illyana blush.

The door rattled. Conan took a cautious step away from it. As he did, the innkeeper stamped up the stairs, puffing and red-faced.

"Has your lady witch set my house afire, besides everything else?" the man muttered. He looked as if no answer would surprise him.

"Not that I know," Raihna said. She had clothed herself in trousers and tunic.

The landlord's eyes said this was no improvement over her previous attire.

"Has the cursed spell worked?"

"I don't know that either."

"Mitra and Erlik deliver us! Do you know anything about what's going on in there?"

"As much as you do."

"Or as little," Conan added.

The innkeeper looked ready to kill everyone in sight, including himself. His hands clutched at the remnants of his hair. His bald spot and the rest of his face shone with sweat.

"Well, I know that there's a mob on the way, to burn this inn if your lady witch doesn't!"

Conan and Raihna cursed together. Even Dessa added a few rough jests about some people's manhood.

"If your servants had the courage of lice, no one would have known of our work
until it was done," Raihna snapped. "As it is, I'll be cursed if I let my mistress work in vain."

Her hand darted toward her sword but Conan halted her draw. "No reason to harm this man. He did warn us."

"That won't save us if the mob gathers before we can flee," the swordswoman replied.

"No, but our friend can do more." Conan turned to the innkeeper. "I much doubt this inn has no hiding places or secret ways out. Keep the mob out until Illyana's done, let us use the secret way, and we'll make it seem you were our prisoner. If they think you're afraid of us―"

"They'll know the gods' own truth!" the man blurted. "I don't know why I'm doing this. Really I don't."

"Either you're too brave to betray guests or too cowardly to want your throat slit," Raihna said. "I care little. Now go downstairs and do your work while we finish ours!"

"Yes, and have some food sent up," Conan added. "Cold meat, bread, cheese―travelers' fare."

"I'll do my best," the innkeeper said, with a shrug. "If the cooks haven't all run off as well!"

From inside the house a child screamed like a mad thing. Bora tried the door and found it locked.

"To me! Zakar, try your axe!"

The village woodcutter was one of the first men Bora had freed with the Powder.

His head was clear and his body at his command. He came running, swinging an axe as if he would cleave not just the door but the house.

A few strokes shattered the door. Bora and Zakar dashed inside. Bora snatched up the abandoned child, to find it a girl unhurt but witless with fear. As he ran to the door, he saw a basket of bread and smoked goat meat, also left behind in the family's panic.

"Zakar, take that as well. The gods only know where we'll next eat."

"Not in this world, likely enough," Zakar replied, shouldering his axe. "But I won't go alone, because my friend here will eat first. I don't care if we face every demon in creation. There's no demon can do much harm with his skull split!"

Bora could only hope Zakar was right. Something was holding back the demons from the village, giving its people a reprieve. Most of them were now free of the spells and fleeing west. Could they flee far enough before the demons were unleashed again? Bora knew how fast the demons could cover ground.

Outside, Bora looked for someone to care for the child. It was a long search, for the village was now all but deserted. Those who remained were more likely to be held by fear than by magic, and against that the Powder had no strength.

At last two girls a trifle younger than Caraya appeared, leading an aged man between them. "Here," Bora said without ceremony. The little girl began squalling again as she was handed over, but Bora took no heed.

"Your own home's not far now," Zakar said. "We could be there and back before
anyone missed you."

"Ivram said he freed them at once." Everything in Bora cried out to be Rhafi's son and not the village's leader, just for a little while. "What he did will have to be enough."

"The gods keep me from―what in Mitra's name is that?"

A cloud of dust danced at the far end of the street, where the village gave way to orchards. Out of the dust loped a stooped figure, a monstrous caricature of a man. In the green light its thick limbs shimmered.

One of those arms snatched at a branch. Thick as Bora's arm, the branch snapped like a twig. A second branch armed the demon's other hand. Brandishing both clubs, it broke into a shambling run.

Zakar met it halfway down the street. One club flew into the air, chopped in half by the axe. The second swung. It crashed into Zakar's ribs as his axe came down on the demon's head.

Came down, and bounced off. Not without effect― the demon staggered, and Bora saw blood run. But without slaying―or saving Zakar. One clawed hand drove into his belly and ripped upward. He barely had time to scream before the demon's fangs were in his throat.

The demon threw the dying woodcutter down and looked about for fresh prey. For a moment Bora would gladly have sold his whole family for a spell of invisibility.

Then heavy footsteps thudded behind him. A robed arm flung a small clay vial down the street. It landed at the demon's feet, shattering and spraying the Powder of Zayan.

"I don't know if it will work against whatever spells bind those―creations,"

Ivram muttered. "A good pair of heels might work better."

"But―there must be―"

"Only the gods can help them now," Ivram said. "Your kin are safe. The village needs you as a live leader, not a dead memory!"

"As you wish," Bora said. He recognized in his own voice the same note he'd heard in the priest's. They both spoke lest chattering teeth otherwise betray their fear. The demon was kneeling, snuffling at the Powder on the ground, as they turned and ran for the other end of the village.

With a sharp ping, the strands of Illyana's hair parted. The Jewel arched down from the head of Eremius's staff.

Never in all his years of sorcery had Eremius cast a spell so quickly. The Invisible Hand gripped the Jewel halfway to the ground and lowered it the rest of the way as lightly as a feather.

To slow his heart and breathing, Eremius told himself that the Jewel would not have shattered in a fall from such a height. The message accomplished nothing.

Heart and lungs knew that it was a lie. He had contrived a narrow escape from disaster as well as defeat.

He reached for the Jewel, to rebind it with strands of his own hair. His fingers seemed to strike invisible glass a hand's breadth on all sides of the Jewel. He prodded the barrier with his staff, and felt the same sensation.

As he considered his next counter to Illyana's spells, his staff suddenly flew
from his hand. Before he could regain his grip, it plummeted down to the Jewel, into it, and into the earth beneath the Jewel!

Eremius was still gaping when the ground erupted with a crash and roar of shattering stone. Dust and rock chips stung as his staff flew into the air, part of a geyser of stone and earth. Eremius lunged for the staff, plucked it out of the air, and hastily backed away from the Jewel.

The Jewel itself now seemed to dissolve into a pool of emerald light, flowing like some thick liquid in an invisible bowl. A disagreeably high-pitched whine rose from it. Eremius cringed, as he would have at an insect trapped in his ear.

Then he sighed, stepped back, and began to test the fitness of his staff for use. As it passed one test after another, his confidence began to return.

With the staff alone, he could still command the Transformed well enough to doom Crimson Springs. He could not command the Jewel, for Illyana had bound his Jewel and hers into a spell of mutual opposition. She also could not command her Jewel, and had no more power against him than he against her.

Did that matter to her? Had she sought to destroy his Jewel, even at the risk of her own? She had always seemed as ambitious as himself to possess both the Jewels. Was she now ready to abandon supreme power for a modest prize? Being known as she who destroyed the Jewels of Kurag would certainly bring little, compared to what might come from possessing them both!

Enough. The Transformed awaited his commands. Eremius composed himself and began forming a picture of the village in his mind.

The door of Illyana's chamber quivered, then fell off its hinges. Conan and Raihna leaped back. Raihna nearly knocked the innkeeper back down the stairs he had just mounted.

The innkeeper looked at the ruined door, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then handed Raihna a basket.

"Mostly bread and cheese. The cooks not only fled, they took most of the larder with them!" The innkeeper sat down and buried his head in his hands.

Illyana staggered out of her chamber and nearly fell into Conan's arms. After a moment she took a deep breath, then knelt and tore the cover off the basket.

Without bothering to don any garments, she began wolfing bread and cheese.

Conan waited until she stopped for breath, then handed her a cup of wine. It vanished in two gulps, followed by the rest of the basket's contents. At last Illyana sat up, looked ruefully at the empty basket, then stood.

"I'm sorry, but―Cimmerian, what are you laughing at?"

"You're the first sorceress I've ever seen who'd admit to being hungry!"

A brief smile was the only reply. Raihna went to gather Illyana's clothes, while Conan handed the empty basket to the innkeeper.

"Again? I suppose I can expect to be paid by the time King Yildiz's grandson ascends the―"

A furious pounding on the street door broke into the man's speech. The innkeeper rose and handed the basket to Conan.

"Time to go down and play my part. Ah well, if I can no longer keep an inn, there are always temple pageants needing actors! Best make haste, though. I
heard some outside say that Lord Achmai had reached town. If he takes a hand, I will not make an enemy―"

"Achmai?"

"So they said. He's a great name in these parts. I've heard―"

"I've heard all the tales told of him, and more besides," Conan snapped. "Now―is there a place on the roof where I can overlook the town without being seen?"

"Yes. But what―?"

"Show me."

"If this is against Lord―"

"It's for all of us! Now choose. Show me to the roof, keep the rest of your promises, and take your chances with Achmai. Or be stubborn, fear him more than me, and die here."

The innkeeper looked at Conan's drawn sword, measured his chances of escaping it, and judged wisely.

"Down the hall and to the right. I'll show you."

From downstairs, the pounding redoubled, and curses joined it.

Bora's own rasping breath drowned Out the struggles of those around him to climb the hill. He was younger and stronger than most, but tonight he had run five times as far as any.

Any, that is, except the demons, and they knew not human limits. Most of them, at least―the demons could be slain, hurt, or made cautious. Otherwise, they seemed as insensate as an avalanche or an earthquake.

Stopping to look downhill, Bora saw most of the laggards had somebody helping
them. Thank Mitra, the Powder had done its work well. The people of Crimson Springs might be homeless, but they were still a village, not a mob ready to fight each other for the smallest chance of safety.

Bora waited until most of the laggards had passed him. Then he walked downhill, to meet the half-dozen strongest youths and men who'd formed themselves into a rearguard. To his surprise, Ivram was among them.

"I thought you were long gone," Bora nearly shouted.

"You thought an old fat man like me could outstrip a youth with winged feet like yours? Truly, Bora, your wits are deserting you."

"He came back down to join us," Kemal said. "We spoke as you doubtless will, but he would not listen."

"No, so best save your breath for climbing the hill again," Ivram added. "I confess I had hopes of taking one more look at a demon. The more we know―"

"He hoped to make one senseless with the last of the Powder, so we could carry it to Fort Zheman!" one of the men shouted. "Ivram, have you gone mad?"

"I don't think so. But―would anyone but a madman have imagined those demons, before―?"

"For the Master!"

Four robed shapes plunged down the hill toward Bora and the rearguard. Their human speech and their robes told him that they were not demons. The swords gleaming in their hands showed them to be dangerous foes.

Bora's hands danced. A stone leaped into the pouch of his sling. The sling
whined into invisibility, then hurled the stone at the men. Darkness and haste baffled Bora's eye and arm. He heard the stone clatter futilely on the hillside.

Then the four swordsmen were among the rearguard, slashing furiously at men who had only one sword for all seven of them. The man who had complained of Ivram's plans was the first to fall, face and neck gaping and bloody. As he fell, he rolled under the feet of a second swordsman. His arms twined around the man's legs and his teeth sank into a booted calf. The swordsman howled, a howl cut off abruptly as a club in Kemal's hands smashed his skull.

A second swordsman died before the others realized they faced no easy prey.

Tough hillmen with nothing to lose were not a contemptible foe at two to one odds.

The third swordsman's flight took him twenty paces before three villagers caught him. All four went down in a writhing, cursing tangle that ended in a choking scream. Two of the villagers rose, supporting the third. The swordsman did not rise.

The fourth swordsman must have thought himself safe, in the last moment before a stone from Bora's sling crushed his skull.

Bora was counting the stones in his pouch when a faint voice spoke his name.

"Bora. Take the rest of the Powder."

"Ivram!"

The priest lay on his back, blood trickling from his mouth. Bora held his gaze on the man's pale face, away from the gaping wounds in belly and chest.

"Take it. Please. And―rebuild my shrine, when you come back. You will, I know
it."

Bora gripped the priest's hand, wishing that he could at least do something for the pain. Perhaps it had not yet struck, but with such a wound, when it did―As if Bora's thoughts had been written in the air, Ivram smiled. "Do not worry, Bora. We servants of Mitra have our ways."

He began to chant verses in a strange guttural tongue. Halfway through the fourth verse he bit his lip, coughed, and closed his eyes. He contrived a few words of a fifth verse, then his breathing ceased.

Bora knelt beside the priest until Kemal put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come along, Bora. We can't stay here until the demons get hungry."

"I won't leave him here for them!"

"Who said we would do anything of the kind?"

Bora saw now that the other unwounded men had taken off their cloaks. Kemal was taking off his when Bora stopped him. "Wait. I heard a horse on the hill. Did you save Windmaster?"

"I freed him. The rest he did himself. I always said that horse had more wits than most men!"

Not to mention more strength and speed than any other mount in the village.

"Kemal, we need someone to ride to Fort Zheman. Can it be you?"

"Let me water Windmaster, and I'll be off."

"Mitra―" The words died in Bora's throat. He would not praise Mitra tonight, not when the god had let his good servant Ivram die like a dog.

Conan crouched behind the chimney of the inn. Enough of the mob now carried torches to show clearly all he needed to see. Too many, perhaps. If he could see, he might also be seen, for all that he'd blacked his skin with soot from the hearth in Illyana's chamber.

Both the mob and Achmai's men were where they had been the last time he looked.

Most likely they would not move further―until he made them move.

Time to do just that.

Conan crawled across the roof to the rear of the inn and shouted, "All right! We hold the stables. They won't be in any danger from there!"

As he returned to the front, Conan heard with pleasure a shout from Achmai's ranks.

"Who said that? Sergeants, count your men!"

Conan allowed the counting to be well begun, then shouted, imitating a sergeant's voice, "Ha! I've two missing."

Then, imitating the captain: "These town pigs have made away with them. Draw swords! That's two insults to Lord Achmai!"

Angry, confused shouting ran along the line of Achmai's men. Conan raised his voice, to imitate a youth.

"Achmai's hired swords want to save their witch friends. Well, take that, you sheep rapers!"

A roof tile placed ready to hand flew over the heads of the mob, driven by a stout Cimmerian arm. It plummeted into the ranks of Achmai's riders, striking a
man from his saddle.

"Fools!" the captain screamed. "We're friends. We want―"

His protests came too late. Stones followed Conan's tile. A horse reared, tossing his rider from the saddle. Comrades of the fallen men drew their swords and spurred their mounts forward. When they reached the edge of the mob, they began laying about them.

The mob in turn writhed like a nest of serpents and growled like a den of hungry bears. One bold spirit thrust a torch at a swordsman's horse. It threw its rider, who vanished among dozens of hands clutching at him. Conan heard his screams, ending suddenly.

The fight between Achmai's men and the mob had drawn enough blood now. It would take the leaders on either side longer to stop it than it would take Conan and his people to flee Haruk.

Conan ran to the rear of the inn, uncaring of being seen. "Ride!" he shouted at the stable door. It squealed open, and Raihna led the others toward the street.

Illyana came last. As she reached the gate, curses and shouts told Conan that the street was not wholly deserted. Illyana waved, then put her head down and her spurs in.

Conan leaped from the roof of the inn to the roof of the woodshed and landed rolling. He let himself roll, straight off the woodshed on to straw bales. His horse was already free; he flew into the saddle without touching the stirrups.

He had the horse up to a canter and his sword drawn as he passed the gate. To the people in the street, it must have seemed that the blackfaced Cimmerian was
a demon conjured up by the witch. They might hate witchcraft, but they loved their lives more. They scattered, screaming.

Conan took a street opposite to the one Illyana had used and did not slow below a gallop until he was out of town. It was as well, for he had not gone unseen by men with their wits about them. Torches and fires showed half a dozen men riding hard after him.

Conan sheathed his sword and unslung his bow. Darkness did not make for the best practice. He still crippled three horses and emptied one saddle before his pursuers saw the wisdom of letting him go.

Conan slung his bow, counted his arrows, then dismounted to let his horse blow and drink. His own drink was the last of the innkeeper's wine. When the leather bottle was empty, he threw it away, mounted again, and trotted away across country.

Eremius raised his staff. The silver head bore gouges and scars from its passage through rocks and earth, but its powers seemed undiminished.

From his other wrist the Jewel glowed, its fire subdued by the dawn light but steady as ever. Once again he considered whether Illyana sought harm to his Jewel, even at cost to her own? That was a question he would surely ask, when the time came to wring from her all her knowledge.

This morning, it was only important that his Jewel was intact. Now he could regain some part of his victory. Not all, because too many of the villagers yet lived. But enough to give new heart to his human servants and even the

Transformed, if their minds could grasp what they were about to see.

Eremius rested the head of his staff on the Jewel. Fire blazed forth, stretched out, then gathered itself into a ball and flew across the village. It flew onward, up the hill beyond the village and over its crest.

"Long live the Master!"

Human shouts mingled with the raw-throated howls of the Transformed. The crest of the hill shuddered, heaved itself upward, then burst apart into a hundred flying boulders, each the size of a hut.

The end of that thrice-cursed priest's shrin!

If the man lived, he would have an end nearly as hard as Illyana's. He and the youth who helped him cast the Powder and free the villagers!

Eremius would recognize them if he saw them again, too. He had torn their faces out of the prisoners' minds before letting the Transformed tear their bodies.

Slowly, too, with both minds and bodies. The Transformed had not learned to love the agony of their prey, but they could be taught.

Meanwhile―Staff and Jewel met again. Once, twice, thrice balls of emerald fire leaped forth. They formed a triangle encompassing the village, then settled to the roofs of three houses.

Where they settled, flames spewed from the solid stone. Eremius lifted staff and Jewel a final time, and purple smoke rose above the flames.

Stonefire was smokeless by nature. Eremius wanted to paint Crimson Spring's fate across the sky, for all to see.

Maryam lifted her eyes from Ivram's dead face to the eastern sky. Those eyes were red but dry. Whatever weeping she had done, it was finished before Bora came.

"A child," she said in a rasping voice.

"Who?" Bora knew his own voice was barely a croak. Sleep had begun to seem a thing told of in legends but never done by mortal men.

"The demons' master. A vicious child, who can't win, so he smashes the toys."

"Just―just so he can't smash us," Bora muttered. He swayed.

Two strong arms came around him, steadying him, then lowering him to the ground.

"Sit, Bora. I can do well enough by a guest, as little as I have."

He heard as from a vast distance the clink of metal on metal and the gurgle of liquid pouring. A cup of wine seemed to float out of the air before his face. He smelled herbs in the wine.

"Only a posset. Drink."

"I can't sleep. The people―"

"You must sleep. We need you with your wits about you." One hand too strong to resist gripped Bora's head, the other held the cup to his lips. Sweet wine and pungent herbs overpowered his senses, then his will. He drank.

Sleep took him long before the cup was empty.

Conan reached the meeting place as dawn gave way to day. Raihna was asleep, Dessa and Massouf had found the strength for another quarrel, and only Illyana
greeted him.

She seemed to have regained all her strength and lost ten years of age. Her step as she came downhill was as light as that of her dancer's image, and her smile as friendly.

"Well done, Conan, if you will accept my praise. That was such good work that even a sorceress can recognize it."

In spite of himself, Conan smiled. "I thank you, Illyana. Have you any new knowledge of our friend Eremius?"

"Only that he once more commands his Jewel, as I do mine. That is not altogether bad. Some part of―of what I sensed last night―told me his Jewel had been in danger."

"Wouldn't smashing Eremius's Jewel be winning the battle?"

"At too great a price. The Jewels are among the supreme creations of all magic.

To grind them to powder as if they were pebbles, to lose all that might be learned by using them wisely together―I would feel unclean if I had a hand in it."

Conan would not trust his tongue. He already felt unclean, from too long in the company of too much magic. Now he felt a sharp pang of suspicion. Perhaps the Jewels could teach much, to one fit to learn. Likely enough, though, it would be what their creators or discoverers wanted learned.

Something of Conan's thoughts must have shown on his face. Illyana feigned doubt.

"Also, it is said that destroying one Jewel without destroying the other makes
the survivor far more dangerous. No one can command it."

"A fine mess of 'it is saids' the Jewels carry with them! Didn't you learn a little truth while you studied with Eremius?"

Illyana's face turned pale and she seemed about to choke. Conari remembered Raihna's advice and started to apologize.

"No," Illyana said. "You have the right to ask, a right I grant to few. I also have the duty to answer. I learned as much as I could, but Eremius gave me little help. What he wished me to learn was―other matters."

She shook herself like a wet dog, and the nightmares seemed to pass. "Where do we go now, Conan?"

"Fort Zheman, and swiftly."

"A garrison may show us scant hospitality, unless we use Mishrak's name."

"Time we did that anyway. We're close to country where we need mountain horses.

Besides, we owe it to Dessa to leave her among enough men to keep her happy!"

At Illyana's laugh, Raihna stretched catlike and began to waken.

Thirteen

THE WESTERING SUN glowed a hand's breadth above the horizon. Fingers of blue shadow gripped the commander's garden in Fort Zheman. Beside one of his predecessor's rose bushes, Captain Shamil turned to face Yakoub.

"There has to be more than you're telling me, my young friend," Shamil growled.

Yakoub spread his hands in a gesture of dismay that was not altogether feigned.

Was this fool about to seek wisdom at a most inconvenient time?

"Why should I lie to you? Even if I did, is not a fair woman in your bed worth much?"

"If she's as fair as you say. I remind you that I haven't yet seen the woman, even clothed."

A whiplash of anger cracked in Yakoub's voice. "Must I need to remind you of how long you've served us? Of how this would seem to Mughra Khan? Of how easy it would be for him to learn?"

The reply was not what Yakoub expected. It was a dour smile, spread hands and a shrug.

"I have forgotten none of these things. There is something you may have forgotten. My under-captain Khezal is not of our party. If I were removed, he would command Fort Zheman."

"Who cares what a well-born lapdog like that may do or leave undone?"

"Khezal's less of the lapdog and more of the wolf than you think. The men know it, too. They'd follow him where he led, even if it was against us."

If I could only be sure he was telling the truth!

Khezal seemed no more than a nobleman's foppish son doing a term on the frontier before returning to a more comfortable post close to court. Having such a man commanding Fort Zheman would be no small victory. Under him the fort would surely fall to Master Eremius's servants.

Then the whole province would be ablaze with rebellion or fleeing in fear. The
greater the menace, the larger the army sent to deal with it. The larger the army, the more men under Lord Houma's command. The more men, the more power in Lord Houma's hands on the day he chose to act. If Shamil told the truth, however, Khezal would lead Fort Zheman well enough, besides being no part of Lord Houma's faction. Yakoub pretended to contemplate a creamy yellow rose with a deep russet heart while he weighed risks. He remembered his father's words, "Remember that decision in war is always a gamble. The difference between the wise captain and the foolish one is knowing how much you're gambling."

Yakoub chose to be a wise captain. He could not gamble away power over Fort Zheman.

"I won't command or beg. I'll just offer my help in keeping Raihna's guardians away. Once she knows they're looking the other way, she'll be hot for your bed."

"Now you begin to talk sense. What kind of help? If you're trying to make me think you can fight off a whole merchant family―"

"Am I a fool? Have I seemed to think you one?"

"Better if I didn't answer that, I think."

Yakoub sighed. The fear of failure was giving way to weariness at dealing with such as Shamil. Caraya was so different, so clean in heart and mind and body. It was impossible not to love her.

It was impossible, also, not to wonder. When victory crowned Houma's banners, he could offer her more than she could have ever dreamed of. Would she forgive what he had done, to reach the place where he could offer it?

Yakoub shook off the forebodings. "Well, I don't think you a fool, and the gods
grant I am none either. I can make free with my purse. That should keep the lady's guards looking the other way for a night and silent afterward. Can you have some of your men ready to hand, in case my gold does not do all that it should?"

"If you'll pay them."

"That's within reason."

The price they finally negotiated was not. Yakoub considered that if matters went on in this way, Lord Houma might face taking the throne as the only alternative to being imprisoned for debt!

To be sure, Shamil's price had to be considered in the light of what the men would face. Yakoub did not expect many of the men to survive the Cimmerian's sword. This did not matter, as long as the Cimmerian himself did not survive either.

With Conan dead and Raihna the plaything of the garrison, Illyana would be easy prey. To gain the Jewel of Kurag and deliver it to Eremius would be at least imaginable for one swift of blade, foot, and wit. Even if Yakoub could not himself snatch the Jewel and earn Eremius's reward, victory would be far closer.

The shadow fingers gripped almost the whole courtyard when Yakoub left the garden. He turned toward his quarters under a darkening sky and a rising wind.

By the time he pulled the shutters of his room, he could hear it whining above.

On the keep, the banner of Turan stood stiff and black against the flaming hues of sunset.

"All's well," came Raihna's voice from behind Conan.

The Cimmerian finished his turn more slowly than he had begun it. "Don't slip up behind anyone else here, Raihna. They might finish their turn with sword in hand, ready to push through your guts."

"The men wouldn't be such fools."

"The veterans, no. The others, I don't know. Not the kind to listen to tales of demons on the march without seeing enemies everywhere. And even the veterans lost friends in those outposts that vanished."

"I'll take care." She stood on tiptoe and kissed Conan in a way that might have looked chaste from a distance. It set the Cimmerian's blood seething. With a will of their own, his arms went around her.

Self-command returned. "Come, my lady's sister," he said with a grin. "We must not make anyone suspicious."

"Indeed, no. The family's pride―it would not countenance a caravan guardsman's suit."

"I shall not always be what I am, Raihna," Conan said, still grinning.

"That's as certain as anything can be," Raihna replied. She gently pushed him away, with hands not altogether steady in spite of the smile on her face.

Both knew that being welcomed at the fort without having to mention the name of Mishrak was either unexpected good fortune or a subtle trap. Until they knew, they were all determined to play out their masquerade as long as possible. If they could play it out for their entire sojurn at Fort Zheman, it might even confuse those who had set any trap, until they sprang it too late.

With the garrison under strength, this wing of the barracks was nearly deserted.

Conan and Raihna met no one on their way to her room. From the stairway floated the sound of crude revelry, as the soldiers' drinking hall on the ground floor began its evening's work.

Conan threw the bolts on Illyana's room and likewise that of Dessa and Massouf.

Then he shifted one of his knives from boot to belt.

"I'm going down for a cup of wine or two. It's what I'd be expected to do. I may also learn more about the demons."

"Learn more about where to find mountain horses, if you can. I'd rather buy them somewhere else than the fort. It's easier to silence tongues with gold."

"You have your wits about you, Raihna.'•'

"Alas, he praises only my wits. Yet I have heard not one word of complaint about―"

"I wouldn't dare complain about the other matters, woman. You'd leave me fit only for that work Mishrak promised me, in the Vendhyan harems!"

He slapped her on the rump and gave her a kiss without the least flavor of chastity. She returned it in the same manner, then unbolted her door and slipped inside.

The barracks roof rose higher than the walls of the fort. That it held no sentries was a pleasant surprise to Yakoub. Either the garrison was even more slack than he had expected, or Shamil had removed the sentries to ease his own
way to Raihna.

Yakoub would be the victor, in either case.

Black clothing and a soot-blackened face made Yakoub one with the night as he crouched at the edge of the roof. Setting the hook took little time; unrolling the knotted rope took less. From his belt he hung the tools he hoped he would not need. They had been made for him and others like him by a master thief, as payment for a gold-paved road out of Aghrapur.

Entering the chambers of a sorcerer could be a chancy undertaking. Always in legend and often in truth, they used their arts to defend themselves and their possessions in ways difficult to imagine and impossible for common men to defeat. Sometimes the defenses gave intruders a horrible death.

Just as surely, sorcerers had this in common with ordinary men: they could grow forgetful or careless. If tonight Yakoub could at least learn what Illyana might have left undone…

And if she has left so much undone that you may snatch the Jewel tonight?

Then Captain Shamil and his men need not look for reward or protection.

Hope lifted Yakoub for a moment. He fought it down. He would not climb down that rope with a head full of dreams. That would only end with him shattered on the stone of the courtyard, with the flies fighting for space on his eyelids.

Conan joined the soldiers with the resolve to drink little and listen much. The wine was better than his resolve and the tales he heard were equal to either.

Rumors of demons swarmed like flies on a dungheap, and some tales went beyond
rumor. There could be no doubling green lights in the sky and a pillar of smoke where there was neither forest nor volcano.

Conan drew out of his fellow drinkers the times of both. The hour of the green lights was the same as Illyana's battle against her old Master's demon-conjuring.

No patrols had gone out from the fort, to seek what lay behind these portents.

The greater part of the recruits seemed relieved, not to be facing demoncraft without the aid of stone walls.

Conan was tempted to tell them how little the walls would aid them, if half of what Illyana said was true. He recognized the temptation as a child of the wine and held his tongue.

The veterans seemed less content with the decision about patrols. They also seemed to blame it more on Shamil than on Khezal. That the veterans should trust an elegant lordling of the same stamp as Lord Houma's son was curious. It was also a matter on which Conan could think of no questions subtle enough to be safe.

It was then that he knew he had drunk enough. Best to seek his bed and a trifle of sleep, if Raihna was not to watch all night!

Besides, the veterans were outnumbered two to one by the recruits. Fort Zheman would stand or fall on what the recruits could do or be led into. Conan resolved to give whoever led them as much help as he would accept, emptied his cup in a final toast to King Yildiz, and marched out.

Conan took no pleasure in being awakened by a barnyard din in the hall. It seemed that he had barely closed his eyes. He dashed water in his face as the din swelled. He was fully clothed save for boots and sword. Snatching his blade from under the blankets, he flung the door open.

As he did, Raihna's door crashed open. Captain Shamil seemed to fly through it, sword in hand but otherwise helpless. Had Conan not caught him by the sleeve as he shot past, Shamil would have bashed his head into the opposite wall.

"Unhand me, you Cimmerian dog!" the man snarled. "I have somewhat to settle with your mistress's oh-so-chaste sister!"

Conan frowned. "Perhaps I should have let you knock yourself against the wall.

Then you wouldn't be speaking in riddles."

"You know what I mean!" the captain shouted, loud enough to raise echoes. "Or are you a eunuch without knowledge of when a woman will open her bed to a man?"

Conan was not too drunk to know a question best left unanswered. Also, he would have had to outshout Raihna had he wished to speak.

"He is no eunuch, and I can―give you the names of a half-score women who know it!"

Conan was glad of Raihna's discretion. He would have been gladder still, had she not been standing in the doorway of her room, wearing only her sword and a look of fury.

"He is no eunuch, any more than I am a toy for such as you!" she went on. "Be off, Captain. Be off, and I will call this only a misunderstanding and say no more of it. Otherwise―"

"Otherwise what, you brazen bitch? Your Cimmerian ape may be no eunuch, but I am no witling. I know that you play the chaste woman only when he may bear tales.

Let me settle with him, and you will not call this night ill-spent."

Conan had his sword drawn before the captain's speech was half-uttered. The Cimmerian crouched, parrying with flat against edge while drawing his dagger.

The subtleties of Raihna's two-blade style were beyond him; he simply thrust his dagger upward into Shamil's arm. A howl, a momentary loosening of grip, broadsword smiting tulwar like the wrath of six gods ―then the captain's sword clanged on the floor and he was holding his bloody forearm.

He was also cursing a great many things and people, not least someone unnamed who had misled him about Raihna's willingness to share a bed. He only stopped cursing when Raihna stepped up behind him and rested the point of her sword on the back of his neck.

"As the lady said, it seems there's been a misunderstanding," Conan said soothingly. "No harm to her and little to you. If we leave it―"

Four soldiers pounded up the stairs. Had they been elephants, they could not have given Conan more warning or been clumsier in their attack. He gave ground, letting them crowd together around their captain. Their efforts to both fight Conan and aid the man left Raihna with time to dart into her chamber.

She returned wearing loinguard and mail shirt over arming doublet, with dagger added to sword. Conan laughed. "I thought you would fight as you were. You might have distracted these donkey's sons."

"Slashes in my skin might have distracted me't't" Raihna replied, tossing her
head. Then she lunged at the nearest man, driving him away from both captain and comrades.

Conan noted that she seemed to be fighting to defeat without killing. He had hoped she would do this, for killing these fools would be no victory. They might be the only four soldiers loyal enough to their captain or sufficiently well-bribed to come to his aid. If they died, though, their comrades would all be called on to avenge them. Not all of Illyana's spells together could stand off the whole garrison of Fort Zheman.

Conan chose a piece of wall to guard his back, stood before it, and raised his sword. "Ho, children of Fort Zheman. Who wants to be the first to become a man by facing me?"

The shutter swung open and Yakoub peered over the windowsill. Illyana's room lay exposed to his gaze.

So did Illyana. She wore no bedgown, and the blankets had slipped down to her waist. The curves of her breasts were subtle but enticing. They cried out for the hands of a man to roam over them.

Between those breasts shone a great emerald. For a moment, Yakoub wondered at her wearing such a jewel to bed. Then the breath left him in a single gasp as he realized what he beheld. The Jewel of Kurag lay within his grasp, as defenseless as its mistress.

Seemingly as defenseless. Yakoub reminded himself of sorcerous defenses, to quell a rising sense of triumph. He climbed over the windowsill and crouched in
the shadowed corner. Illyana did not stir.

From the hall outside rose the uproar spawned by Captain Shamil's visit to Raihna. If that did not wake Illyana, no sound Yakoub intended to make would do so. He rose to his feet and stalked toward the bed.

Five paces from the bed, a fly seemed to creep into his ear. He shook his head angrily, resisting the urge to slap it. The buzzing grew louder, then faded into silence.

Yakoub looked at the woman on the bed and shook his head. He had been deceived about her wealth. That was no emerald on a gold chain gently rising and falling with her breasts. It was a mere piece of carved glass, cleverly mimicking an emerald to the careless eye. Its chain was only brass, no richer than the pommel of a common sword.

Such a woman would hardly pay well for a night of pleasure. Nor indeed would she have need to. The tales of her being fat and ugly were even less truth than the tales of her wealth. She was past youth, but not past fairness, even beauty. She would hardly be buying men for her bed. Rather would she have them seeking to buy her for theirs!

Best leave now, and seek her again knowing what she was and how slender his hopes were. As slender as the long fingers of the hands that rested lightly on the edge of the blanket, or the fine hair that flowed across the pillow.

The desire to leave with dignity filled Yakoub. He drew a silver ring from a finger of his left hand and placed it next to the green glass. It rolled down between the woman's breasts, to rest on her belly just above the navel. The
curves of that belly were also subtle and exquisite.

Boldly, Yakoub rested one hand on the curves of belly. Bending over, he kissed both nipples. They filled his mouth with sweetness, as if they were smeared with honey.

Illyana sighed in her sleep, and for a moment one hand crept across her belly to rest on his. Yakoub knew no fear. Had he seen his death approaching in that instant, he would not have moved from its path.

Another sigh, and the hand rose. Yakoub withdrew five paces, half-expecting to hear the fly again. He heard nothing. In silence he retraced his steps to the window, gripped the rope, and began to climb.

Between them, Conan and Raihna dealt with Shamil's four loyal friends or fellow plotters in as many minutes. All were disarmed and only one wounded.

By then some dozen or more additional soldiers had mounted the stairs. Few were fully sober, fewer still eager to close with Conan and Raihna. Some seemed full of zeal for tending the wounded, at a safe distance from the fight. Most contented themselves with standing about, swords raised and ferocious looks on their bearded faces.

"If black looks could kill, we'd vanish like a puddle in the noon sun," Conan taunted them. "If that's all you can muster, what are we fighting about? If you have more in your arsenal, let's see it!"

This brought a couple of the laggards forward, to be disarmed swiftly and painlessly. Conan spared a glance for the doors to his comrades' chambers. Both
remained shut and bolted.

Conan hoped Dessa and Massouf would have the wits to stay inside and Illyana to not only stay inside but cast no spells. He would not see honest soldiers enmeshed in magic without good cause. Besides, the smallest smell of magic about the party would lead to more questions than Conan was happy about answering.

The lack of any will to press the fight was becoming plain. Some of the veterans Conan remembered from the evening's drinking appeared, to lead away the wounded and some of those befriending them. As long as they felt their captain's eye on them, however, a few soldiers were determined to make at least the appearance of fighting.

Conan was now prepared to meet and disarm every one of them if it took until dawn. The wine was entirely out of him. Raihna, on the other hand, had worked herself into a fine fighting passion.

"What do we face here, my friend?" she shouted at Conan. "If this is the best Fort Zheman can do, we'll only die from stumbling over their fallen swords!"

Taunted into rage, a man slashed at Raihna. She twisted clear and his rage blinded him to his open flank. Conan's fist took him behind his right ear and he crashed to the floor.

"This will soon pass beyond a jest," Conan said. "I have no quarrel with any of you save your captain and not much with him. He's been led astray―"

"No woman lies to me without paying!" Shamil roared, waving his bandaged arm.

"Who says otherwise?" Conan asked. "But I wonder. Is it Raihna who lied? Or is it someone else?"

Caught off-guard, Shamil let his face show naked confusion for a moment. He could have no notion that he had been overheard, cursing his deceiver. Then the arm waved more furiously.

"The woman lied, and so did this man! They may not be the only ones, but they're here! Avenge the Fort's honor, you fools, if you can't think of mine!"

The veterans, Conan observed, were altogether unmoved by this argument. The recruits were not. Six of them were pushing forward to within sword's reach of the Cimmerian when a voice roared at the foot of the stairs.

"Ho, turn out the guard! Captain to the walls! Turn out the guard! Captain to the walls!"

A leather-lunged veteran mounted the stairs, still shouting. Behind him ran Under-captain Khezal, sword belted on over an embroidered silk chamber robe that left his arms and chest half-bare.

The scars revealed made Conan think anew of the man, for all his silk clothes and scented beard. It was a wonder he still had the use of his arm, or indeed his life. Conan had seen men die of lesser wounds than the one that scarred Khezal's chest and belly.

"What in the name of Erlik's mighty member―?" Shamil began.

"Captain, there's a messenger outside, from Crimson Springs. He says they were attacked by demons last night. Some of the villagers died. Most fled, and are on their way here."

"Demons?" The captain's voice was a frog's croak.

"You'd best go ask him yourself, Captain. I can settle matters here, at least
for now."

Duty, rage, wine, and pain seemed to battle for Captain Shamil. Duty at last carried the field. He stumbled off down the stairs, muttering curses until he was out of hearing.

With a few sharp orders, Khezal emptied the hall of all save himself and Conan.

Raihna had returned to her room, to finish clothing herself. The others still slept or hid.

"Will you keep the peace from now on?" Khezal asked.

"It wasn't us who―" Conan began.

"I don't care a bucket of mule piss who began what!" the man snapped. "We're facing either demons or people in fear of them. Either is enough work for one night. I'll not thank anyone who gives me more."

"You'll have no trouble from us," Conan said. "By my lady's honor I swear it."

Khezal laughed. "I'm glad you didn't swear by your―maid's―honor. That little brazen's been eyeing everyone in the garrison, from the captain on down. I'd ask you to keep her leashed too, if there was any way to do so with such a woman."

"When the gods teach me one, you'll be the first I tell," Conan said.

As Khezal vanished down the stairs, Raihna emerged from her chamber, fully clothed and more than fully armed.

"Is that all the satisfaction we have, being asked to keep peace we didn't break?" Her face twisted, as if she had bitten a green fig.

"It's all we'll have tonight," Conan said. "Khezal's not what I thought him.

He's not on Shamil's side. That's as good as being on ours. Besides, we do
indeed have enough work for one night."

Raihna nodded. "I'll go waken Illyana."

"I'm going down to the gate. I want to hear this tale of demons myself, not what somebody says somebody else said they heard!"

Fourteen

CONAN REACHED THE gate as the messenger from Crimson Springs began the retelling
of his nightmare tale. The Cimmerian heard Kemal tell everything, from Bora's foray into the valley of the demons to the flight of the villagers.

"They'll need shelter when they come," Kemal added.

This messenger could be scarcely more than eighteen. A man, though. Conan remembered what he had survived by the time he was eighteen. War, slavery, escape, treachery, and battles with a score of opponents, human and otherwise.

"Shelter? Here? What do you think we are, the Royal Palace of Turan?" Captain Shamil's temper seemed little improved. "Even if we were, no pack of smelly hillmen will overrun―"

Kemal glared. The captain raised a hand to the archers on the wall. Conan sidled to the left, ready to fling the messenger clear of the arrows. He would happily have flung Shamil over the walls like a dead goat from a siege engine. Had he and his charges not so direly needed peace with Fort Zheman and all in it―"Captain, I'd wager we can bring at least the women and children inside," Khezal
said. He must have conjured his armor on to his body by magic, for he was now fully dressed for the field. His helmet and mail were silvered, but both showed an admirable array of patches and dents.

"We have room," Khezal continued. "Or at least we will, once we have formed a column to march upcoun-try. If we guard their women and children, will the men of the village join us? We shall need guides, and all the stout arms we can find."

Conan observed that Khezal said nothing of the garrison being well under strength. His opinion of the man's wisdom and prudence rose further.

"By Mitra and Erlik, I swear to ask." Kemal swallowed. "I cannot swear that all will follow. If Bora lends his voice, however―"

"We don't need to bribe cowards with our own roof and rations!" Shamil shouted.

It seemed to Conan that, foiled in his designs against Raihna, the captain sought someone to bully.

Conan was equally determined to defeat him. "Are the other villages in the area in flight as well?" he asked Kemal.

"I rode to none, for Bora's orders were to come here at once. I am sure Bora has sent messengers on foot or on lesser horses than Windmaster to all he thinks in danger."

"Mitra! We are to follow the whims of a stripling, who may be mad or a traitor for all I know. Indeed, isn't he the son of the Rhafi who lies in Aghrapur, suspected of―"

"Rhafi is innocent of everything except quarreling with your greedy louts of
soldiers!" Kemal shouted. His hand leaped to the hilt of his knife. Shamil's hand rose to signal the,archers.

Neither hand completed its motion. Conan gripped both wrists and twisted, until he had the complete attention of both men.

"Are you demons in disguise, or what? If there are demons, we're fools to fight among ourselves. If there are none, something besides too much wine is frightening people!"

"Exactly so," Khezal said, like a mother seeking to calm fractious children. A second glance told Conan that the man was balanced and ready to draw his sword, against whoever might need it.

"If all the villages come down, we can pick the best men to march with us. The rest can help garrison the fort, or escort those who travel on to Haruk."

"They'll find scant hospitality in Haruk, after last night's riot," Shamil said.

"Scanter here, though, unless we feed them all the rations we'll need for the march." He shrugged. "Do as you wish, Khezal. You speak with my voice. I go to see to my armor and horses."

The captain turned away. Before he could depart, a dulcet voice spoke up.

"Captain, permit me to help you. I know it is not easy to garb oneself with a wounded arm. I have some experience in helping men in such trouble."

It was Dessa, standing between and slightly in front of Illyana and Raihna.

Massouf stood behind the women, wearing trousers and a ferocious look. The girl wore an ankle-length robe, but, Conan judged, not a stitch under it. Certainly Shamil could not have been staring at her more intently had she been naked.

Then he smiled. "Thank you―Dessa, is it not? If you will help me arm, I have some wine too fine to jounce about in a saddlebag. We can share it before we march."

"All I can do for you, shall be done." Dessa said. She slipped her arm through Shamil's and they walked off together. Massouf's glare followed them, and the man himself would have done so but for Conan's grip on his arm and Raihna's dagger pointed at his belly.

"You filthy panderers," Massouf hissed, struggling vainly to escape the Cimmerian's iron grip.

"We send Dessa nowhere she does not gladly go," Raihna replied.

Conan nodded. "Use your wits and not your tool, Massouf. The gods made Dessa a free-spirited wench. You won't make her a .quiet little wife. There's a woman somewhere fit for that, if you really want her. Spend your time seeking her, not trying to change Dessa."

Massouf shook himself free and stalked off, muttering curses but at least traveling in the opposite direction to Dessa and Shamil. Khezal looked after him.

"I'll have a watch kept on that young man," he said. Conan grinned. Khezal was probably a year or more younger than Massouf, but seemed old enough to be his father. "Best you keep a watch on your own backs, too. At least until Captain Shamil's been so well bedded he'll not be thinking of women for a while."

"Dessa's the one to do that," Raihna said.

"I believe you," Khezal said. "She puts me in mind of a younger Pyla."

"You know Pyla?" Conan exclaimed.

"Did she never speak of the young officer she spent a week with, last year?"

Khezal's scarred chest seemed to swell with pride and pleasurable memory.

"No. She's never been one to bed and brag. But if she endured your company for a week―" Conan made a parody of the court bow.

Khezal nodded, his smile fading. He stepped closer to Conan and said, voice pitched barely above a whisper, "In truth―what are you? I'll not say you told us tales without reason, but…"

"Raihna?" Conan said.

The swordswoman nodded and drew from between her breasts the coin badge of Mishrak's service. Khezal studied it for a moment, then nodded again, his face still more sober.

"As well you told us tales. Nor will I tell the captain, unless it's life or death. I've heard things of him―no, I'll hold my peace on that, too, unless it's life or death. But I would ask you to give whatever help you can, all three of you. We're scantily supplied with leaders even for the trained men. With the recruits and Mitra knows how many villagers thrown in…"

"We'll help," Conan said. "I've served―the owner of that coin―just long enough to want a good fight, sword in hand!"

By night, stonefire could be turned to any color, none, or a hideous travesty of a rainbow. It all depended on the spell.

Eremius chose a spell that would make the stonefire in Winterhome not only
colorless but invisible. Until he felt the heat, anyone who wandered close would have no idea what he faced. If he drew back in time and fled, he would flee with his mind reeling with fear and run until his body reeled with exhaustion.

The more fear, the better. Too many villagers had already fled beyond the reach of the Transformed. Only fear would keep them fleeing, until they brought the garrison of Fort Zheman out to destruction. Then the land would be defenseless and the villagers could be rounded up at leisure. Their fear would feed what the Transformed used in place of souls, before their flesh fed the Transformed's hunger.

Eremius held his staff at waist height and swept it in a half-circle, across the whole front of the village. Five times he stopped the movement. Each time, a globule of stonefire leaped from its head, soared across the hillside, and plunged into the village. Each globule glowed briefly, then settled down to invisibly devour all in its path.

By dawn Winterhome would be smoking rubble like Crimson Spring. So would the other three villages denuded of their inhabitants by fear of the Transformed.

Eremius turned and snapped his fingers at his Jewel-bearer. The prisoner had knelt throughout the firecasting, eyes wandering mindlessly. Nor had Eremius called on the power of the Jewel. He had mastered stonefire years before he had touched either of the Jewels of Kurag.

The prisoner now lurched to his feet. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he began to toss his arms and flap his hands. Like some impossibly clumsy bird, he actually rose a finger's breadth into the air. Eremius raised his staff in front
of him and hastily gave ground.

The Jewel-bearer rose higher. Smoke boiled from either edge of the great arm ring. The stench of burning flesh assaulted Eremius. Only iron will kept him from spewing like a woman newly with child.

The Jewel-bearer now floated a man's height above the ground. His mouth gaped so wide that it seemed his jaws could hardly remain in their sockets. His eyes had turned the color of sour milk.

Suddenly his body arched, lungs and chest and mouth together hurled out a single gurgling scream, and the Jewel-ring burned through the arm holding it. It clattered to the rocky ground. Eremius's heart seemed to leap from his breast in the moment before he saw that the Jewel was intact. He knelt and hooked the ring clear of danger with his staff.

Barely had he done this when the Jewel-bearer crashed to the ground. He sprawled as limp as an eel, every bone in his body save for the severed arm seemingly broken. Eremius hastily left off his prodding of the Jewel-ring and once more gave ground.

Only when he saw the man still dead and the Jewel still intact did he approach either. Not for some minutes after that did he venture to pick up the Jewel.

Some minutes after that, he found courage to call his human servants to attend.

As they scrambled up the hill toward him, he contemplated the Jewel glowing on the ground at his feet. All sorcerers who knew of the Jewels also knew the tales of what they had seemingly done (and whom they had seemingly slain) of their own will.

Eremius was no exception. Until tonight, like most sorcerers, he had also believed the tales were mostly that. Now he wondered. Had Illyana contrived the fate of the Jewel-bearer, he would have sensed her efforts, perhaps defeated them. He had sensed nothing.

What did soldiers do, when they found their swords coming alive in their hands?

Eremius doubted that even such as Khadjar would be equal to that question.

By dawn Conan had finished his work. The last pack mule had been loaded with ration bread and salt pork and led to the corral just beyond the north gate.

The Cimmerian broke his fast with wine and a stew of onions and smoked goat's meat. Time enough to burden his belly with field rations! As he poured a second cup of wine, he considered how little he would have cared for his present work a few years ago.

Cimmerian war bands could live off the land for a month. Conan had despised the men of civilized lands for needing to bring food with them. Khadjar and experience alike had taught him the error of that.

Illyana took shape out of the grayness, so subtly that for a moment Conan wondered if she'd come by magic. At the look on his face, she laughed softly.

"Fear not, Conan. I use no arts where they might put men in fear. I would ask you, though―have you seen anyone wandering about as if mazed in his wits?

Besides Captain Shamil?"

"Ha! That's nothing to what he'll be, when Dessa lets him out of bed!" Conan frowned. "Not that I can remember. But I've had other work at hand, and in the
dark it's enough to tell man from woman!"

"Ah well. You and Raihna were the only ones I could ask, except perhaps Khezal.

Raihna had seen no one."

Conan sensed an explanation forthcoming, if he would give Illyana time to find the words for it. He hoped she would be swift. The column had to be on the road before midmorning, to have the smallest hope of reaching the villagers before the demons did.

"You are right to suspect a plot last night. Someone sought to enter my chamber and steal the Jewel."

"None of us heard any sound."

"You were not expected to. I contrived a spell in the Jewel, to make whoever entered my chamber lose all memory of why he came. He might not have regained all his wits yet. He was confused enough to leave this ring."

She held out a ring of finely-wrought silver, but Conan had never seen it on the hand of anyone in the fort. He shook his head.

"Why not contrive a spell to kill or stun him?"

"Conan, I think as do you and Raihna. The fewer who know what I truly am, the better. Not even Khezal has been told, has he?"

"No. But I'd not wager a cup of poor wine on his remaining ignorant. That's a very long-headed man we'll have leading us."

"Two long-headed men, Conan. If Khezal allows you to do all you can, as he must if he's no fool."

Conan smiled politely at the flattery, but no more. He sensed things still
unspoken, and perhaps best left so. Except that if you went ignorant into battle you might as well cut your throat beforehand and save your enemies the trouble―"I did work another spell. It was to make the Jewel hold a picture of who sought to steal it. From that picture, I could have recognized the man at a glance."

"That would have meant revealing your powers, but I suppose one less enemy is never a bad thing. Am I to take it that the spell didn't work?"

Illyana colored slightly. "It did not. I thought I was past making such a foolish mistake. I believe I am. Yet the spell was not wrought as I intended.

Was it my failure―or the Jewel's own will?"

The dawn sky seemed to darken and the dawn wind grow cold. No gesture of aversion Conan could think of seemed adequate. He emptied his cup at a gulp, poured it full again, and held it out to Illyana. After a moment, she took it.

Although she only seemed to sip, when she handed the cup back it was two-thirds empty.

The wine gave more color to Illyana's cheeks. It also seemed to strengthen her own will, to say no more of what might be happening to her Jewel―still less that held by Eremius.

Conan set the wine cup down and rose. If Illyana wished to say no more, it was not a whim. He would honor her judgment that far.

For no sorcerer before her would he have done this. Illyana, though, had her wits about her more than any other sorcerer, besides a true sense of honor.

It was still a cold thought to take to war, that sorcerers might not truly be masters of all the magic they called to their service.

Fifteen

IN THE TWILIGHT behind Bora, a child wailed. Was it the same one he had rescued in the village, after her parents fled in panic? Bora was too weary to care.

Indeed, he was now too weary to flee even if being the new leader of his village had not chained him like an ox to a millstone. It was a burden to put one foot in front of another swiftly enough to stay ahead of the women and children.

To slough off that burden, to sit upon a rock and watch the village file past―he was almost ready to pray for it. Almost. Each time he was ready for that prayer, he thought of the whispers of the villagers. Bora knew he was one of those men who became heroes because they feared whispers behind them more than swords and bows in front.

The twilight crept up from the valley, deepening from blue to purple. Even finding good footing would be hard work before long, Yet they could not stop.

With darkness, the demons' master might unleash them again. Even now they could be on the prowl along the villagers' trail, thirsting for blood―"Hoaaa! Who approaches?"

The shout came from the archer sent ahead to strengthen the scouts. The other archers of the village marched in the rear, where the demons were most likely to attack.

Bora was loading his sling when the reply came, in an unexpectedly familiar
voice.

"Kemal here. I'm with soldiers from Fort Zheman. You're safe!"

Anything else Kemal said was lost in the cheers and sobs of the villagers. Bora himself would have danced, had he possessed the strength. He had just wit enough to walk, not run, down the path to Kemal.

His friend sat astride a strange horse. "Where's Windmaster?" was Bora's first question.

"He was too blown to make the return journey. Captain Conan procured him a stall and fodder, and a new mount for me."

Bora saw that his friend was not alone. A massive dark-haired man sat astride a cavalry mount, and behind him a fair-haired woman in male dress, with a warrior's array of weapons openly displayed. Beyond them, the hoof-falls and blowing of horses told of at least part of a troop at hand.

Relief washed over Bora like a warm bath, leaving him light-headed and for a moment wearier still. Then he gathered from somewhere the strength to speak.

"I thank you, Captain Conan."

The big man dismounted with catlike grace and faced Bora. "Save your thanks until we're well clear of this hill. Can your people march another mile to water? Have they left anyone behind on the road? How many armed men do you have?"

"I―"

"Curse you, man! If you're leading them, it's your duty to know these things!"

"Conan, be easy with him," the woman said. "This is his first battle, and
against no human foe. You've no call to behave like your chief Khadjar with a drunken recruit!"

Even in the twilight, Bora recognized the looks passing between Conan and the woman as those between bedmates. He blessed the woman for giving him at least a chance not to make a fool of himself. Captain Qonan could hardly be more than five or six years older than Bora, and his accent showed him no Turanian. Bora still felt a greater desire to win the approval of this man than he had felt with any other, save his father Rhafi.

"We certainly will march on to water. We have few waterskins and those mostly empty. We also need food. At sunset, all those who left the village last night were still with us. Above forty of our men and some half-score women are armed.

Only a dozen or so have bows or good swords."

Conan jerked his head in what Bora hoped was a nod of approval. "Good. Then we won't be having to send patrols up the hills into the demons' jaws, to save your laggards. What of the other villages in your land?"

"What―oh, will they need rescuing?"

"Of course!" The captain bit off something surely impolite.

"Here." The woman handed Bora a waterskin. The water was cool with evaporation and pungent with unknown herbs. Bora felt the dust in his mouth dissolve and the fog blow from his head.

"Bless you, my lady."

"I am hardly a lady. Calling me Raihna the Bossonian will be enough. My Cimmerian friend is plain-spoken but right. We need to know the fate of the
other villages."

Water or herbs or both seemed to be filling Bora with new strength, with tiny thunderbolts striking each limb in turn. "I sent messengers to all the villages I thought within reach. Three returned, three did not"

"What of the demons?" The way the man said the word, he seemed to know that they were something quite different.

"They burned our village with their magic. We saw the smoke. They did not pursue us. That proves little about the other villages, though. We would have been on the road many hours before they were."

"If they believed your messengers at all, before it was too late," Conan said.

His lips curled in a smile that to Bora seemed better suited to the face of a demon.

Then the smile warmed. "Bora, you've done well. I'll say so, and I'll say it where I'll be heard."

"Will you speak for my father Rhafi, against those who accused him of rebellion?

Our carpenter Yakoub went to Aghrapur to speak also, but he has not yet returned."

"What did your father do? Or was it something he left undone?"

Bora retold the tale briefly. The Cimmerian listened, with the air of someone smelling a midden-pit. Then he looked at the Bossonian woman. She seemed to be smelling the same pit.

"Our friend Captain Shamil has a real art of charming people," she said. "Bora, can you ride?"

He wanted to say "Of course." Prudence changed his words to, "If the horse is gentle enough."

"I think you will find Morning Dew's gait pleasing. Mount and ride among your people, urging them onward. Captain Conan and I will post our men here until you have passed, then join your rearguard."

"Why can't you join them now?" Bora knew he was nearly whining, but could not help himself.

Conan stared hard at him. Perhaps it was meant to be only a curious look, but the Cimmerian's eyes were an unearthly shade of ice-blue. Bora had never imagined, let alone seen, eyes of such a shade. Their regard made him feel about ten years old, standing before his father ready for a whipping.

"Simple enough, Bora," the' captain said at last. "There's scarcely room on this trail for your people, let alone them and my troop. Would you rather have them taking to the fields in the dark, or trampled by our horses?"

"Forgive me, Captain. As you said, it is my first battle. I still don't know why the gods chose me, but―"

"If the gods want to answer our questions, they'll do it in their own good time.

Meanwhile, Raihna's offered you a horse. Are you fit to ride?"

Bora stretched and twisted. All his limbs pained him, but each had enough life to make riding a possibility if not a pleasure.

"If I am not, we shall learn soon enough." He reached for the reins the Bossonian woman held out to him.

As Bora's fingers touched the leather, he stopped as if conjured into stone.

Borne by the night wind and perhaps more, a nightmare chorus of screams tore at his ears.

Screams, from the throats of men, women and children in mortal agony.

Screams―and the howls of the demons.

Bora bit his lip until he tasted blood, to keep from screaming himself.

Conan and Raihna might also have been statues guarding the gates of a temple.

When they finally spoke, however, their words held a calm courage that seemed to flow out of them like water and wash away Bora's fear.

These folk could be put to death. They could not be put in fear. Bora started to thank the gods for sending them. Conan had to shake him to gain his ear.

"I said, the demons must have overtaken a band of your neighbors! Either they were closer than we thought, or someone is―sending―the sounds of that battle to us. Raihna has a―friend―who can learn which."

"With the help of the gods, yes. I'm sorry, Bora, but I'll have to ask for my horse back."

Without further words or touching the stirrups, Raihna was in the saddle. In another moment she had turned her mount and was trotting off downhill.

"Bora," Conan said. "Get your people off this trail. All except the rearguard.

My men are coming up. Move, by Erlik's beard!"

Bora was already striding back uphill. He would have hung by his fingers from the top of a cliff, if it offered the smallest chance of shutting out those screams.

Two of the Transformed were quarreling over a man from Well of Peace. Over the body of a man, rather. No one could live with his bowels laid open and a leg sundered from his trunk.

One of the Transformed brandished the leg like a club. It cracked hard against his opponent's shoulder. The other Transformed howled more in rage than in pain and sought some other part of the victim to use as his own weapon.

A guard ran up to the Transformed, thrusting at them with his spear. Eremius could not hear his words, but saw his mouth working as he doubtless tried to make them hear reason. He looked down at the Jewel, lying on the ground at his feet. Only with the aid of the Jewel could he hope to save that fool of a guard.

In the next moment, the guard's fate passed beyond even a sorcerer's power to alter. The lunge of a taloned hand sent the spear flying. The guard halted, eyes now as wide as his mouth. The second lunge reduced those eyes and the face around them to bloody ruin. The guard had time for only one scream before the other Transformed rent open his chest and began feeding on the heart and lungs laid bare by shattered ribs.

Eremius shrugged. His guards were not so numerous that he could cast them away like worn-out sandals. Neither were they so few that he needed to keep such utter witlings among their ranks. Anyone who had not learned by now to stand clear of the Transformed while they fed needed no spells to render him mindless.

He had never possessed a mind to begin with!

The two quarreling Transformed now seemed loyal comrades as they devoured the guard. When they turned back to their previous victim, they seemed almost
satiated. All around them, other Transformed were reaching the same state.

Nor was Eremius surprised. The Transformed had fed on most of the men, women, and children of Well of Peace. It was hard to imagine that any had not fed full.

With their bellies packed to repletion, the Transformed were like any great flesh-eater. Their one thought was sleep. Eremius watched them drifting away from the field of carnage in twos and threes, to seek comfortable sleeping places. When he was not watching them, his eyes were on the Jewel at his feet.

He was unsure of the safest course to follow with it, other than to wear it as little as possible and use it still less. Tonight he had used it only to send the sounds of Well of Peace dying across the miles to all those who might hear and be frightened. Then he had laid it down, ring and all, and kept close watch upon it without so much as thinking of using it.

Slowly dawn laid bare the little valley, splashed halfway up either side with blood and littered with reeking fragments. The carrion birds circled high overhead, black against the pallid sky, then plunged. Their cries swiftly drowned out the full-bellied snores of the Transformed.

When the red valley had turned black with the scavengers, Eremius sought his own sleeping place. His last act was to cautiously pick up the Jewel, ring and all, and drop it into a silk pouch. The spells cast by the runes on that pouch should at least give him time to snatch it from his belt and fling it away!

Eremius did not know which will, other than his, was now at work in his Jewel.

He would have given his chance of vengeance against Illyana to know.

Sixteen

CONAN UNSLUNG HIS bow and nocked an arrow from the quiver on his back. For his target he chose a vulture feeding on some unidentifiable scraps of carrion. The smears of blood on the vulture's sable breast showed that it had long been feeding here.

Shot from a Turanian horsebow drawn by massive Cimmerian arms, the arrow transfixed the vulture. It squawked, flopped briefly, and died. A few of its mates turned to contemplate its fate, then resumed feeding. Others lacked even the will to notice. They sat as motionless as the blood-spattered stones, too gorged even to croak.

Conan turned away, resisting the urge to empty his quiver. Even the gods could now do no more than avenge the people of the sadly misnamed village, Well of Peace. When the time came for men to avenge them, there would be better targets than vultures for Conan's arrows.

From behind a boulder came the sounds of Bora spewing. Hard upon his silence came booted feet crunching upon the gravel.

Khezal emerged from behind the boulder. "Your lady Illyana says that this was demon work. Has she―arts―to learn this?"

Conan would rather not have answered that question. With a man of Khezal's shrewdness, a lie would be even worse. The death of Well of Peace had taken the matter out of his hands.

"It takes no art to see who must have done this," Conan said, sweeping his arm over the valley. "All the tigers of Vendhya together couldn't have done it. But to answer you―yes, she has certain arts."

"I confess myself hardly surprised," Khezal said. "Well, we shall place the lady in the middle of the column. There can be no safety, but there may be less danger. Also, Raihna can guard Illyana's back when she isn't guarding her own."

"Did Dessa leave your captain still hungry for a woman? Or is he only short of wits?"

Khezal's answer was a silent shrug. Then he said, "If my father still lived, I might long since have arranged matters better at Fort Zheman. With no resources save my own…" He shrugged again.

"Who was your father?"

"Lord Ahlbros."

"Ah."

Ahlbros had been one of the Seventeen Attendants, and in the eyes of many the shrewdest of them. As soldier, diplomat, and provincial governor, he had served Turan long and well. Had he lived a few years longer, he might have discerned the menace of the Cult of Doom and left Conan with no battles to fight against it.

"Your father left a mighty name," Conan said.

"But you are on the road to making one yourself, I judge."

"If I live through tonight, perhaps. And if I do, I will owe much to High Captain Mekreti. In his days as a soldier, my father was Mekreti's favorite
pupil."

Conan nodded, his opinion of Khezal rising still higher. Mekreti had been to his generation of Turanian soldiers what Khadjar was to this one, the teacher, mentor, and model for all. Had he not fallen in battle against the Hyrkanians, he would doubtless have commanded the whole army of Turan. Anyone whose father had passed on to him Mekreti's teachings had been well taught indeed.

They looked once more at the scene of carnage, then Conan walked behind the boulder to slap Bora on the shoulder. He found him companioned by a man of Conan's own age, whom the Cimmerian had seen about the fort last night.

"Bora―?"

"My name is Yakoub," the young man said. "How may I serve you, Captain?"

"If Bora is finished―"

"At least until my next meal," Bora said, with a travesty of a smile. "And that next meal may be a long time away."

"Well, then. Bora, return to those of your people who march with the soldiers.

Everyone who's not fit to face the demons in a pitched battle, send back to guard the women and children."

"No one will admit that they are other than fit, Conan. Not even the women.

Besides, are not some of the Fort's recruits also to be sent back?"

"Turanian soldiers go where they are ordered!" Khezal snapped.

"Yes, but if he is not a fool, their captain will order the weak ones out of the battle. Is that not so?"

Khezal looked upward, as if imploring the gods for patience. Then he cast a less
friendly look at Bora, which suddenly dissolved into a grin.

"Trained to arms, you would be a formidable foe. You have an eye for an opponent's weak spots. Yes, the recruits will be going back. But there are too many women and children for my men alone. Each village will need to send some of its fighters with their kin, and some forward with us."

He gripped Bora by both shoulders. "Come, my young friend. If you dispute with me, you will only give Captain Shamil the chance to make mischief and leave your friends and kin weakly defended. Is that your wish?"

"Gods, no!"

"Then it is settled."

"What of me, noble Captains?" Yakoub said.

"Yakoub, if it will not shame you―please go with the women and children," Bora said. "I―my family lives yet. With you watching over them…"

"I understand. It does not please me, but I understand." Yakoub shrugged and turned away.

Conan's eyes followed him. Did his ears lie, or had Yakoub only pretended reluctance to seek safety? Also, Conan now remembered seeing Yakoub wandering about Fort Zheman at dawn after the attempt on Illyana's Jewel. Wandering about, as if astray in his wits.

His wits, or perhaps his memory?

Conan saw no way to answer that, not without revealing more than he could hope to learn. Seen by daylight, however, he noticed that Yakoub showed signs of soot or grease in the creases of his neck and behind his ears.

Men who blacked their faces often found the blacking slow to wash off.

More intriguing still was Yakoub's profile. It was a youthful rendering of High Captain Khadjar's, complete even to the shape of the hose and the cleft chin.

Coincidence, or a blood tie? And if a blood tie, how close―if Yakoub was as he seemed, about the age that Khadjar's dead bastard son would have been―A horseman rode up. "Captain Khezal, we have met the people of Six Trees. Their armed fighters wish to join us." He looked at the ground and seemed reluctant to speak further.

"Captain Shamil resists this, of course?" Khezal said.

"Yes, Captain."

"Well, it seems we have duties too, Captain Conan. Shall we go down and do them?"

Conan followed Khezal. Yakoub was a mystery but not a menace. He could wait.

Captain Shamir and his follies were no mystery but a dire menace. They could not.

Yakoub would gladly have run like a fox, to escape the eyes of that Cimmerian wolf. By the utmost effort of will, he held his feet to a brisk walk until he was out of Conan's sight.

Then he ran most of the way back to the improvised camp of the villagers and dog-trotted the rest. On passing the sentries, he went straight to Bora's fam-ily.

"I greet you, Mother Merisa."

"Where is Bora?"

"He will march with the soldiers. All those not fit to fight are returning to Fort―"

"Aiyeee! Is it not enough that the gods have taken my Arima and may take my husband? Will they tempt Bora to his doom also? What will become of us without him?"

Merisa clutched the two youngest children to her as she wailed. She did not weep, however, and in a minute or so was silent, if pale. Yakoub was about to ask where Caraya was, when he saw her returning from the spring with a dripping waterskin.

"Yakoub!" Burdened as she was, she seemed to fly over the ground. Merisa had to snatch the waterskin to safety as Caraya flew into Yakoub's arms.

When they could speak again, they found Merisa regarding them with a mixture of fondness and indignation. Yakoub's heart leaped. Now, if Rhafi would be as kindly disposed toward his suit, when he was free―"Yakoub, where is Bora?"

"Your brother is so determined to prove himself to the soldiers who took away his father that he will march with them tonight," Merisa said.

Yakoub nodded. "We tossed pebbles, to see who would go and who would not. Bora won the toss." He prayed this lie would not be found out. If the gods ever allowed him to wed Caraya, he would never again tell her a lie.

"A good thing, then, that I went for the water," Caraya said practically. "If the younglings can go to the jakes, we'll be ready to march."

Yakoub kissed Caraya again and blessed the gods. They had sent good blood to both Rhafi and Merisa, and they had bred it into their children. Saving such a man was a gift to the land. Marrying his daughter was a gift to himself.

Eremius raised both staff and Jewel-ring to halt the mounted scout. The man reined in so violently that his mount went back on its haunches. Forefeet pawing the air, the horse screamed shrilly. The messenger sawed desperately at the reins, his face showing the same panic as his mount.

The sorcerer spat. "Is that how you manage a horse? If that is your best, then your mount is only fit to feed the Transformed and you hardly better."

The scout went pale and clutched at the horse's neck, burying his face in its ill-kept mane. The release of the reins seemed to calm the frantic beast. It gave one final whinny, then stood docilely, blowing heavily, head down and foam dripping from its muzzle.

Eremius held the staff under the scout's nose. "I would be grateful if you would tell me what you saw. I do not remember sending you and your comrades out merely to exercise your horses."

"I―ah, Master. The soldiers come on. Soldiers and the fighters of the village."

"How many?"

"Many. More than I could count."

"More than you cared to count?"

"I―Master, no, no―!"

The Jewel blazed to life, flooding the hillside with emerald light dazzling to
any eyes not shielded by sorcery. With a scream, the scout clapped both hands over his eyes. The movement unbalanced him, and he toppled from the saddle, to thump down at Eremius's feet.

Eremius contemplated the writhing man and listened to his cries and wails. The man seemed sure he was blinded for life.

Capturing a few horses in the village and saving them from the Transformed now seemed a small victory. The horses could move farther and faster than the Transformed, save when Eremius was using the Jewel to command his creations. The Jewel seemed less self-willed of late, but save when rage overwhelmed him, Eremius continued to be prudent in using it.

As always, however, the human servants he could command with only a single Jewel lacked the resourcefulness, courage, and quick wits heeded for scouting. They were better than using the Jewel promiscuously, wearying the Transformed, or marching in ignorance. No more could be said for them.

Eremius allowed the Jewel's light to die and raised the scout to his feet. "How many, again? More than a thousand?"

"Less."

"Where?"

"Coming up the Salt Valley."

Eremius tried to learn more, but the man was clearly too frightened of blindness to have his wits about him. "By my will, let your sight―returnl"

The man lowered his hands, realized that he could see, and knelt to kiss the hem of Eremius's robe. The sorcerer took a modest pleasure in such subservience. He
would a thousand times rather have had Illyana kneeling there, but a wise man took those pleasures that came to him.

At last he allowed the man to rise and lead his horse away. Forming a picture of the countryside in his mind, Eremius considered briefly where to send the Transformed. Victory would not really be enough. The utter destruction of everyone marching against him would be better.

Could he achieve that destruction? The Transformed were neither invulnerable nor invincible. Enough soldiers could stand them off. Still worse might happen, if Illyana (or the Jewels themselves, but he would not think of that) struck back.

The Transformed had to be able to attack together, and retreat together. That meant attacking from one side of the valley―

Bora was kneeling to fill his water bottle at a stream when he heard voices. He plugged the bottle and crept closer, until he recognized the voices.

A moment later, he recognized a conversation surely not meant for his ears. An argument, rather, with Lady Illyana, Shamil, and Khezal arrayed against one another.

"My lady, if you're sure the demons are coming, why don't you use your magic against them?" Shamil was saying.

"I am not complete master of all the arts that would be needed." As if it had been written across the twilight sky, Bora understood that the lady was telling less than she knew.

"You mean you don't have any arts worth more than pissing on the demons, if
there are any!" Shamil growled. "All we'd have is a lot of shrieking and dancing that'd scare the men." He contemplated Illyana in a manner Bora recognized even in the fading light. "Of course, if you were to dance naked, it wouldn't matter what else you did."

Bora hoped that Illyana really did have the power to transform Captain Shamil into a pig. From the look on her face, she wished the same. Khezal sought to play peacemaker.

"Captain, if Lady Illyana needs privacy, she needn't stay in the middle of the column. I can take a troop back a ways, to guard her while she works. Or Captain Conan can take some of the villagers―"

Shamil spat an obscenity. "The villagers would run screaming if Lady Illyana sneezed. And I won't spare any of our men. What do you think this is, the Royal Lancers? We'll set sentries and build watchfires as usual, and that's the end of it. You do anything more without my orders, and you go back to Fort Zheman under arrest."

"As you command, Captain."

Shamil and his second in command walked away, stiff-backed and in opposite directions. Bora was about to creep away, when he heard more people approaching.

He lay still, while Conan and Raihna emerged into the glow of the fire. The woman wore short trousers, like a sailor's, that left her splendid legs half-bare. The Cimmerian wore nothing above the waist, in spite of the chill upland air. Illyana, Bora realized, had tears in her eyes. Her voice shook as she gripped Conan by one hand and Raihna by the other.

"Is there nothing we can do about Captain Shamil?"

"Watch our backs and hope the demons will come soon to keep him busy," Conan said. "Anything else is mutiny. Bad enough if we do it, twice as bad if Khezal does it. We split the men, and we're handing the demons' master victory all trussed up and spiced!"

"You listen too much to lawbound men like Khadjar and not enough to―"

"Enough!" The one word from Conan silenced Illyana. After a moment, she nodded.

"Forgive me. I―have you never felt helpless in the face of danger?"

"More often than you, my lady, and I'd wager more helpless too. Mutiny is still mutiny."

"Granted. Now, if I can have my bedding―?"

"Not your tent?" Raihna asked.

"I think not. Tonight a tent is more likely a trap than a protection."

"I'll pass that on to anyone who'll listen," Conan said.

The talk turned away from matters Bora felt he needed to know. Staying low, he crossed the stream, then trotted back to the camp of the villagers.

Bora now led only the men of Crimson Springs, and Gelek of Six Trees had done everything necessary by way of posting sentries and the like. With a clear conscience if an uneasy mind, Bora wrapped himself in his blankets and sought the softest rocks he could find.

Sleep would not come, though, until he swore a solemn oath. If Captain Shamir's folly slew the men he led, and the gods spared the man, Bora would not.

Unless, of course, the Cimmerian reached Shamil first.

Seventeen

CONAN HAD SLEPT little and lightly. Now he inspected the sentries under a star-specked sky. Somewhat to his surprise and much to his pleasure, he found them alert. Perhaps Khezal's discipline counted for more than the laxness of Captain Shamil. Or did the ghosts of comrades dead in vanished outposts whisper caution?

Toward the end of his inspection, Conan met Khezal on the same errand. The young officer laughed, but uneasily; Illyana's warning was in both their minds. Even without it, Conan had the sense of invisible eyes watching him from deep within the surrounding hills.

"Let us stay together, Captain," Khezal said. "If you inspect the men with me, none will doubt your authority. Except Shamil. He would doubt the difference between men and women!"

"I'll wager your friend Dessa taught him better!"

"She's hardly a friend of mine."

"I've never seen a woman look at an enemy the way she looks at―"

"Captains!" came a whisper from beyond the campfire. "We've seen something moving on the crest of that hill." Conan saw a soldier, pointing with his drawn sword into the night.

Conan stepped away from the fire and stared into the darkness until his eyes
pierced it. The sky held no moon, but as many stars as he had ever seen. On the crest of a hill to the south of the camp, something was indeed obscuring the stars. More than one, indeed, and all of them moving.

The Cimmerian drew his sword. Khezal sought to stop him. "Conan, we may need you―"

"You do indeed need me, to scout that hill. There's no demon yet conjured who can outfight a Cimmerian. Or outrun him, if it comes to that."

He left no more time for argument, but stalked away into the darkness.

Eremius sat cross-legged atop a boulder on the far side of the valley from his Transformed. With the Spell of Unveiling, he could see them crouching, ready to swoop upon the soldiers like hawks upon quail. He also saw one man already climbing the hill toward the Transformed, as if eager to embrace his doom.

Eremius would do nothing to deny the man his last pleasure.

Looking toward the head of the valley, he sought a glimpse of the human fighters sent there. He saw nothing. Had the men lost their way, gone too far, or merely found places to hide in until they saw the Transformed attacking? It would do little harm if the humans stumbled on the villagers―at least little harm to Eremius's cause. What it would do to the villagers was another matter.

It would still be better if the men could take the soldiers in the rear, as Eremius planned. With the Transformed on one side and the humans in their rear, the soldiers would feel themselves mightily beset.

With Eremius's spells on the other side, they might well feel themselves
surrounded. Oh, they would have one road open, one that led into a waterless wilderness of hills. They would learn this only too late, and at the same time they would also learn that the Transformed were on their trail.

Eremius contemplated the coming hours with a pleasure almost as great as he could have gained from contemplating a suppliant Illyana. If his plan gained the victory it deserved, perhaps he would have no need of a captain for his wars. A few underlings, to spare him the tedious work of training the men, but none to command in battle. He would be equal to that task himself!

Eremius scrambled down from the boulder and stepped behind it, then drew the Jewel from its pouch. It would be best if he began the necessary spells now.

They gave off a trifle of light, though, and for a little while longer the soldiers would not have a horde of demons to draw their attention.

The staff resting against the boulder quivered, straightened, then floated into its master's hand. Three passes of the silvered head over the Jewel, and Eremius stood in a circle of emerald light as wide as he was tall.

He thrust the staff into the ground and began to chant softly.

Conan mounted the slope standing upright. Haste was needed. Also, it was for once desirable that he be seen by the enemy, perhaps to draw them into attacking too soon. He trusted Bora's judgment that the demons did not know archery.

Halfway up the hill, Conan scrambled to the top of a large flat boulder that let him see in all directions. The crest of the hill now seemed empty of movement.

He would not have sworn that all the rocks on that crest had been there at
sunset, but none moved.

Lighted torches did move in the camp. Conan saw two men joining the nearest sentry post, then two more. Had Khezal awakened his captain over this reinforcing of the sentry posts, or was he leaving the man to dreams of Dessa?

The hills on the north side of the valley were lower than those on Conan's. The Cimmerian could look down upon the crests of several. On one, he saw a faint glow, more like a dying campfire than anything else. He watched it, waiting for it to fade.

Instead it grew brighter. Nor had Conan ever seen coals glowing with the emerald hue of the Jewels of Kurag.

Conan realized he had made a mistake, climbing the hill alone. With a companion, he could have sent a silent warning to the camp, that the magic of the Jewels was about to be unleashed. Alone, he could only alert both sides at once.

"Camp ho! Magic at work on the crest of the white hill! This is Conan the Cimmerian!" He turned toward the crest of his own hill. "You heard me, you spawn of magic and camel dung! Come down and let's see if you have the courage to fight a man who's ready for you!"

Torches danced in the camp as men began to run. A hum of voices rose, like bees from a disturbed hive. Before Conan heard any reply, he saw the crest of his hill sprout dark shapes. For the space of a single deep breath they remained motionless.

Then they spread their arms, howled like lost souls, and plunged downhill toward Conan. A carrion reek rode the night breeze before them.

Nature had given the Cimmerian the art of being able to move backward nearly as fast as he could move forward. Since he had learned that retreating was not always the act of a coward, it had saved his life several times.

Tonight it did so again. Before the onrush of the demons was well begun, Conan had reached the boulder. He leaped over it and landed on the downhill side. The two foremost demons ran past the boulder, one on either side. Conan slashed at one's legs, with a strength that would have amputated any human leg.

The demon howled, stumbled, clutched at a gaping wound, but did not fall.

Instead it came at Conan from the front. In the same moment the Cimmerian sensed the other demon coming at him from behind.

He leaped clear, felt his feet slip on loose stone, and turned the fall into a roll. He came up in the perfect position for two quick slashes. One took the second demon in the groin, the other disabled the first one's other leg. Once again Conan would have expected one or both to go down, but drew only howls of agony.

The demon struck in the groin clapped one taloned hand to its wound. The other lashed out at Conan as he closed, with terrible speed and strength. Conan twisted so that the talons only cut the air. His twisting lent extra force to his riposte. The demon's arm should have flown from its shoulder; instead it only sagged limp and torn.

Seeing that arm from close at hand, Conan ceased to be surprised at the slight damage he was doing. The arm was armored thickly in overlapping scales. His sword had hewn flesh, but barely touched bone or sinew. As for blood, only now
was it flowing into the wound.

Fear swept through the Cimmerian like a gust of winter wind. It was not fear of the demon itself. Hideously transformed though its flesh might be, no flesh could stand up against a well-wielded sword. Archery, too, should have its effect, if the archers' hands were steady and their eyes clear.

Conan feared the magic that had conjured these creatures into being. It stank of ancient evil, for all that Illyana also used it. Must use it tonight, if the soldiers and villagers were not to die screaming under talons and teeth.

The demon wounded in the groin now hurried off down the hill, crouching low but moving at the pace of a man walking briskly. The demon with the two disabled legs had finally toppled to the ground. It lay hissing and growling at Conan's feet. Clearly it was past fighting for tonight, and too many demons in rude health had already passed between Conan and the camp.

He gave the fallen demon one last look, and his stomach writhed as he saw the shape of its groin and chest. Whatever this demon was now, it had been born into the world a woman.

Conan disliked torturing enemies as much as he disliked killing women. As he passed his sword over the fallen she-demon, he knew it would take an iron will for him to give Eremius an easy death.

From downhill, the howls of the demons now mingled with the voices of soldiers, shouting the alarm, crying out in fear, or screaming as teeth and talons rent their flesh. Conan looked to either side, then plunged downhill like a boulder unleashed in a land-slide.

Bora had heard any number of soldiers' tales and survived the demons' attack on Crimson Springs. He had still never imagined that a battle was so loud.

The war cries and death cries of both men and demons, the clash of weapons, the hiss of arrows from those few archers who had unlimbered their bows and found targets―all smote his ears savagely and endlessly. He forced both the sounds and the sights of the battle out of his awareness, turning all his attention to rallying the men of Crimson Springs.

Only a few needed rallying. This handful had exhausted their courage in the first battle and were now empty wineskins. They might have fled, had they not encountered Iskop the Smith.

"You puling jackal-spawn!" he roared. "Choose now! The demons or me!" He flourished a hammer in either hand.

One man tried to brush past Iskop. He misjudged the length of the smith's arm. A hammer lunged, catching him on the side of the head. He threw up his arms and fell as if pole-axed.

The rest of the would-be fugitives chose the demons as the lesser danger.

"My thanks, Iskop!" Bora shouted.

Then there was no time for speech, as the demons closed all along the lines of the villagers. Arrows thrummed, axes and swords rose and fell, spears leaped and thrust. A handful of the demons fell. More had flesh torn and pierced, but came on. Far too many bore no wound at all when they reached the line of the villagers.

The men of Crimson Springs still held their ground.

Some died, but few as easy victims, and more of the demons suffered. When three or four men faced one demon, they might all take wounds. Sooner or later one would slash or thrust hard enough to pierce even the scaly armor.

Bora ran back and forth behind the line, sling in hand. As clear targets offered themselves, he launched stones. Quickly he exhausted his supply of picked stones and was reduced to scrabbling on the ground for more. Few of these flew truly.

He shifted his aim to the demons coming downhill behind the ones fighting the villagers. They were a target that even the most misshapen, ill-balanced stone could scarcely miss.

Once while he sought fresh stones Bora wondered why he did not feel fear clawing at his mind. In the battle at the village, only the Powder of Zayan had lifted the burden of fear. Now he and his people seemed to be fighting the demons with no more fear than if they had been misshapen men.

A quick look behind him told Bora that if he felt no fear, it was not for lack of someone's efforts. On the north side of the valley, a man-high wall of green fire danced along the crests. Sometimes long tongues licked downward, almost reaching the camp.

The flames were dazzling and terrible, but were they doing what their master intended? To Bora, it seemed that they were filling the men around him with an iron will to stand and fight. Better the demons who could be slain than the fire that could not!

Three demons flung themselves in a wedge at the men of Six Trees. The line
sagged, bent, came apart. Headman Gelek ran to rally his men. A demon leaped completely over the head of the men in front of Gelek. It landed before him, as he thrust with his spear. A taloned hand snapped the spear like a straw. A second raked across Gelek's face. His scream turned Bora's bowels to water.

Its victim disarmed and blinded, the demon gripped him with both hands. Gelek rose into the air, and there he was pulled apart like a rag doll. Stopping only to gnaw on a piece of dangling flesh, the demon flung the body into the ranks of the villagers.

Gelek's death was beyond enduring, for many of those who witnessed it. They broke and ran screaming, throwing away weapons and boots.

Bora felt his own courage beginning to fray. Desperately he sought to calm himself by seeking another stone and a target for it.

Again Iskop the Smith saved the villagers. "On the left, there! Pull back. Pull back, I say, or the bastards'll be behind you. Oh, Mitra!"

Still cursing, Iskop flung himself into the ranks of the demons. Their armor of scales served well enough against swords and spears, not ill against arrows.

Smitten on the head by hammers wielded by a man who could lift a half-grown ox, the demons were as helpless as rabbits.

Iskop smote four of them to the ground before he went down himself. Bora and an archer killed two more out of those tearing at Iskop's body. By then the men of Crimson Springs no longer presented a naked flank to the foe.

The demons still came on. They were fewer, though. At their rear, Bora now saw a towering figure, taller and broader than any demon. A bloody sword danced in his
hand, and he roared curses in half a score of tongues and invoked thrice that many gods or what Bora hoped were gods.

"Hold! Hold, people, and we have them! Mitra, Erlik, defend your folk!" Bora cried. He knew he was screaming and did not care. He only cared that the Cimmerian was driving at least some of the demons straight into the arms of the villagers.

The gods willing, it would be the demons' turn to feel doomed and terror-stricken.

Conan knew that he must be making a splendid show in the eyes of the villagers.

The mighty warrior, driving the demons before him!

The mighty warrior knew better. Few of those demons had taken serious hurts. Too many remained not only alive but fighting. If enough passed through the lines to reach Illyana, all would know how little the demons had been hurt. Also what magic their master could bring to bear, where his servants failed!

Conan's legs drove him forward. He hurled himself through the demons without stopping to strike a blow. A wild cut here and there was all he allowed himself.

Even the preternatural swiftness of the demons did not allow them to strike back.

As Conan passed the ranks of Crimson Springs, he saw Bora unleash his sling. The stone flew like an arrow from a master archer's bow. A demon clutched at its knee, howling and limping.

"Go on, go on!" Conan shouted, by way of encouragement. He had seldom seen a boy
becoming a man more splendidly than Bora son of Rhafi.

Conan heard no reply. Stopping only to cut at the head of a demon sitting alone, he reached the little rise where Illyana stood.

Had stood, rather. Now she knelt, one hand supporting herself, fingers splayed across the rock. The other hand clutched at her bare breast, as though the heart within pained her.

Two paces in front of her, the Jewel glowed in its ring. Glowed, and to Conan's eyes seemed to quiver faintly.

"Illyana!"

"No, Conan! Do not approach her! I tried, and look at me!"

Raihna came over the rise, sword in one hand, the other hand dangling at her side. Conan looked, and saw that the dangling hand was clenched into a fist, with the muscles jumping and twisting like mice under a blanket. Sweat poured off Raihna's face, and when she spoke again Conan heard the agony in her voice.

"I tried to approach her," Raihna repeated. "I thrust a hand too close. It was like dipping it in molten metal. Is it―do I yet have a hand?"

"It's not burned or wounded, that I can see," Conan said. "What did Illyana mean by casting such a spell, the fool?"

"She―oh, Conan. It is not her spell that commands here now. It is the Jewel itself―perhaps both of them together!"

What Conan might have said to that remained forever unknown. The demons he had outrun reached the foot of the rise and swarmed up it. At the same moment, so did Captain Shamil and a half-score of his veterans, seeking to cut off the
demons.

Demons and men alike died in uncounted numbers in the time needed to gulp a cup of wine. Conan shouted to Raihna to guard her mistress and plunged down into the fight. He was not in time to keep one demon from gutting Shamil. The captain screamed but kept flailing with his sword, until a second demon twisted his head clean off his shoulders.

Conan caught the first demon as it bent over Shamil, to feed on his trailing guts. Even beneath the scale armor, the spine gave way to a Cimmerian sword-stroke. The demon slumped on top of its prey as its comrade dashed up the rise.

Conan knew that he would be too late to save Raihna from having to meet the demon one-handed. Prudently, Raihna did not try. She leaped back, losing only most of her tunic and some skin from her left breast. The demon lunged again, and this time Raihna feinted with her sword to draw its gaze, then kicked it hard in the thigh.

Its clutching talons scored Raihna's boot deeply. A trifle closer, and it would have gained a death-grip on her leg. Raihna had made no mistake, however. Off balance, the demon staggered and fell, within a pace of Illyana.

It never reached the ground. A child's height above the ground, an invisible hand caught it. A spasm wracked the demon's body, as if every muscle and sinew was being twisted and stretched at once. It screamed, then flew through the air, landing among its comrades just as they overcame the last of Shamil's men. Conan turned to face the demons, suspecting this might be his last fight.

Instead the demons turned and ran. They ran back through the gap in the line before anyone could think to close it and cut them off. Bora sent a final stone after them, but hit nothing.

Wiping sweat and blood from his eyes, Conan gazed about the valley. Everywhere the Jewel-fire or campfires let him see clearly, the demons were retreating.

They were not running, save when they needed to evade enemies. They were retreating, some limping, others supporting comrades who could not walk, fpr the most part in good order.

Conan turned his eyes back to Illyana. She now lay curled up like a child, eyes closed. After a moment he held out his hand for Raihna's tunic. He knelt beside the sorceress and cautiously thrust a hand toward her. A faint tingle ran from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder, but that was all.

He thrust the hafld farther. The same tingle was his reward. He gripped Illyana's hair with one hand, lifted her head, and pushed the tunic in under it.

Then he had to hold Raihna, while she wept on his shoulder. It was not until life returned to her hand and Khezal's voice sounded from the bottom of the rise that she realized she was half-naked and her mistress wholly so.

"Best think of some clothing, yes?" she said.

"Unless you're hurt―" He fingered the red talon-weal on her left breast. She smiled and pushed his hand away.

"Not hurt at all. Quite fit for whatever your hands do, when we're alone." She swallowed. "As long as my mistress is not hurt. If you can find some clothing while I see to her―"

"Conan, there's a time for fondling wenches and a time for taking counsel!"

Khezal shouted.

"Coming, Captain," the Cimmerian replied.

Eremius allowed the Jewel-fire to burn on the hillside until the Transformed were safely clear of the valley. He needed to see the battle out to the end. Had the soldiers the will to pursue, they might put the Transformed in some danger.

They might also worsen their own defeat, letting the Transformed turn on small bands of pursuers.

Magic could have pierced any darkness, but such magic meant drawing still more on the Jewel. This seemed unwise. Indeed, Eremius could not avoid wondering if his quest to reunite the Jewels was a fool's undertaking. Their will apart was becoming worrisome. Their will together―No. He was the master of Jewel-magic. He might not make slaves of the Jewels, but surely he would not allow them to make slaves of him!

Nor did his own fate bear contemplation, if by abandoning his quest to reunite the Jewels he allowed Illyana success in hers. Consummating his desire for her, and avenging her theft of the Jewel, were goals he could abandon without feeling that his life was at an end. It was otherwise, with Illyana's desire for vengeance on him.

The last of the Transformed fled over the crest of the far side of the valley.

Eremius cast his mind among them and rejoiced at what he learned.

Fewer than a score of the Transformed were slain. Thrice that many had greater
or lesser hurts, but nothing that could not be healed in a few days. They had taken no captives to strengthen their ranks, but they had slain several times their own strength.

He had not won the sort of victory that ends a war at a stroke, but he had made a good beginning to the campaign. With this, Eremius was prepared to be content for one night.

He willed the Jewel-fire to blaze higher yet for a moment, then allowed it to die. Then he set about calling the Jewel to him. He had not quite mastered the art of casting a mighty spell in the form of a polite request to a greater than he. Indeed, it was not an art he had ever expected to need!

He still contrived well enough. The Jewel rode peacefully in his pouch as he hurried down the far side of his hill. He sensed no magic on his trail, but human foes were another matter. If that towering Cimmerian who rode with Illyana were to stalk him, even the Jewel might not be enough!

Yakoub cast his gaze to the right and the left. As cat-eyed as Bora, he could still make out no other enemies flanking the man he faced.

Either the man was a fool who had strayed apart from his comrades or he was the bait in a trap. Yakoub much doubted it was the second. From all he knew of the demon-master's human servants, they lacked the wits for such subtleties.

Yakoub lowered himself over the edge of the little cliff until he hung by his fingers, then dropped. His feet slid on the gravel. The man whirled at the sound, but too late. Yakoub clamped a hand over his mouth and drove the knife up
under his guard and his ribs. His heels drummed frantically on the stones for a moment, then he went limp.

The man did have comrades, close enough to hear his fate if not to prevent it.

They shouted, and one rose into view. The shouts alerted the other sentries around the villagers' camp. Feet thudded on stony ground and arrows hissed in high arcs, to fall as the gods willed.

Yakoub crouched in such shelter as the cliff offered. He feared the demon-master's men little, the wild shooting of "friendly" archers rather more.

Screams hinted of arrows finding their marks. Scurrying feet interspersed with shouts told Yakoub plainly that the demon-master's men were fleeing. He remained below the cliff until the guards reached him.

The old sergeant in command looked at the body, then grunted approvingly. "Good work, knife against sword."

"It would have been better, if I hadn't had to kill him so soon. That may have warned the rest."

"Maybe. Maybe his friends would've got in close, too. Then half the recruits and all the hillfolk would've been wetting themselves and screaming their heads off.

No way to fight a battle. You saved us that. Sure you don't want to take King Yildiz's coin?"

"Not when I'm betrothed."

"Ah well. A wife's an old soldier's comfort and a young soldier's ruin."

They walked back to the camp together, under a sky bleached gray in the east with hints of dawn. Once parted from the sergeant, Yakoub made his way straight
through the sleeping villagers to where Bora's family lay.

Like most of the villagers, they were too exhausted to have awakened during the brief fight. Caraya lay on her side, one arm flung over her two younger brothers. Yakoub knelt beside her, and he neither knew nor cared to what gods he prayed when he asked that she be kept safe.

Prayers or not, she was likely to be safer than he was, at least for some days.

The Transformed had not swept all before them, that was certain. Otherwise fleeing soldiers would long since have awakened the camp. As they were, Eremius's human witlings could not stop the march of a column of ants. The villagers would have a safe journey to Fort Zheman.

Yakoub, son of Khadjar, on the other hand, would be marching in the opposite direction. If he survived the march, he would then have to persuade Eremius that he was the man to lead the human fighters and turn them into soldiers.

In silence, he allowed himself another prayer, that Eremius might be easier to persuade than the normal run of sorcerers. Then he kissed Caraya, forcing himself not to take her in his arms. With eyes stinging from more than the dawn breeze, he rose and turned his face toward the mountains.

It took the rest of the night to put the camp in order, count the dead, care for the wounded, and scout the surrounding hills. Only when all the scouts brought back the same report, of a land empty of demons if not of their traces, did Khezal call his council of war.

"I'd say we won a victory, if we hadn't lost three to their one," he said.

"Perhaps they carried off more dead and hurt, perhaps not. Also, I'd wager that was a retreat ordered by whoever gives those monsters orders, not being driven off."

"You see clearly, Captain," Illyana said. She was paler than Conan cared to see, and from time to time a spasm would shake her body. Her voice was steady as she continued. "The orders were given, because of the fight we gave the Transformed.

Had the full powers of our enemy been unleashed, we could not have done so well."

"Then we have you to thank for a fair number of lives, if you set bounds on the master of the Transformed."

Illyana shuddered. "Forgive me, Captain, but I cannot accept that praise. I did what I could, and I know I had some effect. Yet I could not use all the strength of my Jewel. We owe our lives in great part to the fact that neither could Eremius."

Khezal looked at the ground as if he expected monsters to erupt from it at any moment. Then he stared hard at Illyana. "I feel I am being told other than the truth. That is not well done."

"There are matters you and your soldiers could not understand without―" Raihna began. Conan laid a hand heavily upon her shoulder and Khezal glared. Between them she fell silent.

"Captain, I do not know as much as I might in a day or two," Illyana said. "When I know it, or learn that I shall not know it, then will be the time for us to
speak frankly. I shall hold nothing back. By the Seven Shrines and the bones of Pulaq I swear it."

"A cursed lot of good your hesitation will do us if the Transformed attack again!"

"They will not, if we return to Fort Zheman."

"Retreat with our tails between our legs! Who's the captain here, Lady Illyana?

I don't remember seeing your commission from King Yildiz―"

"You may remember seeing one from a certain Lord Mishrak," Conan growled. "Or did some buffet on the head last night take your memory?"

The silence gave Conan time to reach for his sword, time to fear he might need to draw it. Then all Khezal's breath left him in a gusty sigh.

"Don't tell anyone, but I've been thinking of returning to the Fort also. There are too cursed many villagers to guard in the open field. Behind walls, at least those monsters will have to climb to come at us!"

Eighteen

THE TOWER OF Fort Zheman had thrust itself above the horizon, when Bora rode up on Windmaster.

Raihna patted the gray's neck. "A fine steed. I am glad he is in fettle again.

Also, that he still has a master worthy of him."

All were silent for a moment. Kemal had survived the battle, but with wounds
that took his life before dawn. He had some measure of good fortune; he was senseless and felt no pain.

"Thank you, Raihna," Bora said. "But I did not ride up here to seek praise for Windmaster. I seek Yakoub. He seems to have vanished."

Conan and Raihna exchanged looks that did not include Illyana. This was no matter for her, they had both agreed. Moreover, she was in the saddle at all by sheer force of will. The less she was troubled without cause, the better. "I thought you did not much care for him," Conan said.

"I did not and I do not," Bora replied. "My sister Caraya thinks otherwise."

"You're the head of the family, until your father is freed," Conan said. "I thought that gave you the right to say yea or nay to anyone's courting your sister."

Bora laughed harshly. "You do not know Caraya. She can smite as heavily with her tongue as Mistress Raihna can with her blades." He frowned. "Also, Yakoub has labored to secure my father's release. He has not yet succeeded, but who knows if this is his fault?"

"You have a great sense of justice in you, Bora," Raihna said. "The gods love such."

"Best pray the gods keep you alive long enough to practice that justice," Conan said. "And spare a prayer or two for Yakoub as well. He may have left the villagers once the demon master's scouts were driven off, hoping to join the soldiers. If he met some of those scouts on the road―well, I am sure the scouts are fewer, but I'd not wager on your sister marrying Yakoub."

"Yes, and that means you do not ride about alone, either," Raihna said. "We have some cheese and bread, if you have not eaten."

Bora devoured half a cheese, then took his place in the column behind Raihna.

Conan mused on the mystery of Yakoub. Could he really be what his face hinted, Khadjar's bastard son? If so, one mystery lay behind his being alive, another behind what he was doing. Best if honest folk like Bora and Caraya kept well clear of either mystery, particularly with a father already arrested as a suspected rebel.

Best also to say nothing of that to Bora. And best of all for Conan not to think too much on the matter himself. If the mystery was deep enough for High Captain Khadjar to be part of it―Very surely, best to think of other matters, such as how to make some of the Powder of Zayan and how to contrive a night with Raihna.

Again Yakoub lowered himself down a small cliff. This time he landed silently, on firm ground, behind those he sought. He also left his knife and sword sheathed and held out his empty hands.

"Hssst! Servants of the master."

Had he stabbed them, the two scouts could not have whirled faster. Both drew their swords, but did not advance. Instead they stood in silence, gape-jawed and dull-eyed.

The silence went on so long that Yakoub half-expected to see the sun touching the western horizon. At last one of the men spoke. His words were slurred and
indistinct, as though he spoke with a mouthful of nutmeats.

"We serve the master. You do not."

"I wish to serve him."

This brought on another long silence. Yakoub began to consider whether decent fighting men could be made out of such dullards. Perhaps they were only tired, or some had more wits than others?

"Show us a sign," one said at last.

What they would take as a sign, Yakoub could only guess. It hardly mattered, as he had only one thing that might serve. He opened the secret pouch in his belt and held out the ring with his father's seal.

The scout who had spoken took the ring, with such fumbling hands that Yakoub half-expected him to drop it. At last he returned it to Yakoub.

"We do not know this sign."

"Your master will know it."

"Our master is not here."

"Is there some reason I cannot go to him?"

"We would have to lead you."

"Is that forbidden?" Yakoub knew that to shout at these wretches would gain little and might lose much. He still felt his patience being rubbed thin.

The two scouts looked at each other. At last they shook their heads together, like two puppets with the same master.

"It is not forbidden."

"Then I ask you, in the name of the master's victory, to take me to him."

Yet another long silence followed. This time it ended without words. The two scouts grunted and together turned away eastward, beckoning Yakoub to follow.

Khezal pushed himself back from the table and began to pace up and down the chamber. Outside, the villagers camped in Fort Zheman had begun to lose their fear and find their tongues. Women quarreled over a place in the line for water, children shrieked in delight or wailed for their parents, dogs barked and howled.

"Thank the gods we were able to keep what livestock they brought outside,"

Khezal said. He strode to the window and slammed the shutter. "They may not survive the coming of the de―the Transformed. But this is a fort I have to defend, not the Royal Menagerie!

"I'll have to send them on to Haruk when I've called in all the outpost garrisons. There won't be room and we'd be courting fevers and fluxes. The gods have spared us that, so far."

"What does Mughra Khan say to all this?" Illyana asked. "Not that I complain, you understand. You are a gift from the gods, compared to Captain Shamil."

Khezal's face twisted. "I have looked into Shamil's letters. He was so deep in the toils of those who plot with Lord Houma, the gods themselves could not have pulled him out! Hie Transformed gave him a more honorable end than he deserved.

"As for Mughra Khan, anything he says will be said after I have done what I know is needed. I have sent the messengers to the outposts this very afternoon. A messenger to Mughra Khan will follow tomorrow."

Conan laughed. "I'd wager you'll one day command an army, Khezal. If not, then Turan's wasting a good man."

"I could do with less praise and more weapons fit to stand against magic,"

Khezal said. "But the Powder of Zayan will be better than nothing. How long will Lady Illyana need, to make enough of it?"

"I will need two days, to enspell sufficient bowls for mixing the Powder,"

Illyana said. "Once the bowls are fit, I must then mix the first bowlful and test it. If that proves fit, I can leave matters in other hands for a month or more. I would urge Maryam, the niece of Ivram, as the best hands."

"So you cast the spells on the cooking pots, not on the food?" Khezal said.

"Well put. The spell of the Powder is little-known, otherwise we would have much less peril from evil magic. Also, to place it upon the bowls will call less heavily upon the Jewel."

"What if it doesn't play at all?" Conan put in. The four in the chamber had no secrets, including the self-will of the Jewels.

"Then Fort Zheman must trust to the valor of its men under the leadership of Captain Khezal," Raihna said.

"Remember what I said about less praise and more weapons?" Khezal shrugged. "How long do you need after the Powder is done, before you march into the mountains?"

"A day for the Jewel to regain its strength, another day for gathering mounts and supplies," Illyana said.

"Tell me what you will need and I will see about gathering it now," Khezal said.

"The faster you move, the better your chances of catching Eremius before he
returns to his stronghold. If that makes any difference in this kind of war?"

"It does. Thank you, Captain."

"I'm also sending ten picked veterans with you. Yes, I know the smaller the party, the less chance of discovery. Once you reach the mountains, you can order them to stay behind. But Eremius's scouts, bandits, starving villagers, wild animals―you need guarding against all of these."

"We do?" Conan growled.

"You do, and more of it than even a Cimmerian can offer," Khezal said. He rang a bell on the table. From outside the door came a girl's voice.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Wine and four cups. Then go heat me a bath, with enough water for two."

"At your pleasure, Captain."

This time Conan recognized the voice as Dessa's. He looked a question at Khezal.

The man grinned.

"I've inherited Shamil's responsibilities. Why shouldn't I inherit a few of his comforts as well?"

Bora shifted the sack of charcoal to his left arm and knocked on the door.

"Maryam, it is Bora. I have the charcoal."

The sound of bare feet gave way to a bolt being drawn. Maryam peered out. She wore only a chamber robe of scarlet silk, belted lightly about her with a gold-tasseled cord. The color went well with her dark skin, Bora noticed. He also noticed how much of that skin was revealed. He knew he should not savor
such an immodest display, but found it hard to turn his eyes away.

"Come in, come in. Put the charcoal by the north wall."

Bora nearly stumbled over the dyed fleeces on the floor as he entered. Crimson, indigo, a rich green horribly like the emerald fire of the Jewels, they dazzled the eye but laid traps for unwary feet.

At least he needed no guidance to the north wall. It was piled high with sacks of charcoal and salt, pots of spices and herbs, and stacks of brass bowls. He dropped the charcoal on top of the nearest pile and straightened up, stretching to untwist his muscles.

"How much Powder do they plan to make? This looks like enough to baffle every spell from here to the Iranistani frontier!"

Maryam smiled. "Mistress Illyana keeps her tongue between her teeth, as well she should. Certainly no one will have an easy time, sending magic against Fort Zheman."

She knelt to open a small chest. As she did, her robe dropped away, to expose yet more skin, halfway down the ripe curves of her breasts. Bora twisted again, to look away.

When he looked back, Maryam was holding out two cups of wine. "Shall we drink a toast, to your victory?"

"Best make it to my safe return."

She embraced him, clumsily because she was still holding the wine cups. Her lips nuzzled the side of his neck and caressed his throat.

"So they have the sense to take you with them? The gods be praised!"

"I never thought they were fools, Maryam. That big Cimmerian above all. I'm the best guide they could find, without using magic."

They drank. It seemed to Bora that Maryam was using a trifle of magic of her own, for a single cup seemed to make his head lighter than usual. He noted that she only sipped her wine, and had yet to finish her first cup when he was nearly done with his second.

He would have drunk a third, but she put a hand over the mouth of his cup. "No more, Bora. No more. Young as you are, wine can still do you harm."

She set down her own cup and put her other hand over Bora's mouth. She drew her fingers along his lips and across his cheek, then thrust a hand into the open throat of his shirt.

"Maryam. This is not proper."

At least those were the words that formed themselves in Bora's mind. They seemed to stick in his throat, so that only a croak came out. Then he gasped as if he had run miles as Maryam undid the sash of her robe.

As she stood, she shrugged herself out of it. Bora had never imagined that a woman's breasts could be so splendid. Breasts, and all the rest of the dark lushness now revealed.

"Bora," she said, and the word itself was a caress. "Bora, you have never lain with a woman, have you?"

He had no words, but his eyes seemed to speak clearly. Maryam moved to him and pressed herself against him, from shoulder to knee.

"Then you must have a chance, before you ride into the mountains." She continued
to press herself against him, while her hands went deftly to work on his clothes.

Presently he had the wits to help her with that work, and at last to follow her to the bed.

Raihna rolled over in the bed as Conan entered. Bare shoulders alone showed above the blankets. He sat on the bed and ran his hand along the curves under the blankets. He knew that Raihna usually slept naked.

His hand ran back up to the edge of the blankets and started to dive under them.

Raihna rolled on her back, letting the blankets slide down to her waist. Before Conan could touch what this movement exposed, she caught his hands and held them against her breasts.

"You're all but healed, from that gash at the Red Falcon," Conan said.

"I heal quickly, Conan. I wish the same could be said of Massouf."

"His wound is elsewhere. Has he been whining again?"

"I would not call it that, Conan. He wants to come with us, into the mountains."

"He does?"

"He spoke to both me and Illyana."

"Supposing that he did, what will I hear that you said to him?"

"We will let him come."

"Crom! Where's the Powder?" Conan started to rise.

Raihna shifted her grip, so that he could not do so without some discomfort. She looked at his discomfited expression and laughed.

"Raihna, this is a poor jest. Massouf wants to kill himself."

"So we surmised. Since Dessa jumped lightly into Khezal's bed, he has known she is not for him."

"Then why, by Erlik's yard, can't he find another woman? That little trull isn't the only bedmate in the whole world for a lad like Massouf. He's a fool. It's like my pining away because I can't bed Illyana!"

Something passed over Raihna's face at those words. Jealousy? No, something different, more complicated, and likely to be revealed only in Raihna's own good time. Conan gently disengaged himself from Raihna's grasp and sat down at the foot of the bed.

"You don't love Illyana," Raihna said at last. "Massouf―well, he would not believe what you just said. He loves Dessa too much."

"Conan, Illyana and I―we have never been allowed love. It is our fate. How could we spit in Massouf's face? How, I ask you?" She turned her face to the pillow and wept softly.

Conan cursed under his breath. He could not imagine a world without women, and he would hardly want to live in it anyway. Certainly, though, such a world might be a trifle simpler!

All the sympathy in the world didn't make a man who seemed determined to die a good companion on a dangerous journey. Conan vowed he would do everything in his power to send Massouf back with the soldiers, when they left.

He also vowed that he would do everything in his power to make Raihna remember this night. Gripping her by the shoulders, he turned her over. Her tear-filled
eyes widened, but when his lips came down on hers her arms rose. Strong, sword-calloused hands locked behind his neck and drew him to her.

Nineteen

THE MOUNTAIN STREAM plunged from the little cliff, splashed on a flat rock, then flowed into a deep still pool. Where it went after that Conan neither knew nor cared. He knelt by the pool and lifted a cupped hand to his lips.

"Good and clean. Drink up, people, and refill your waterskins too."

"If it is so clean, I think we should bathe as well," Illyana said. She sat down, pulled off her boots, and flexed her long toes with a look of bliss.

"We had no chance to bathe while we marched with the soldiers. Nor will we have any between here and the valley, I fear."

Conan looked beyond the little valley, toward the peaks of the Ibars Mountains.

Well to the fore, the Lord of the Winds rose silver-helmeted, its snowcap blazing in the noonday sun.

The Cimmerian sensed no danger lurking close by, but knew that it could not be far away. Precious little they could do about it, either. These mountains could hide enough enemies to overcome them had they still been guarded by a thousand soldiers instead of ten. The sergeant commanding their escort had swiftly realized this, and made no protest against his dismissal two days before. He had made none against their leaving their horses, either. Hillborn himself, he knew
a horse in such country gave neither speed nor stealth.

Speed, stealth (all were masters of it save Massouf, and he was learning), the mountains, and Illyana's magic―together these gave them a chance of reaching Eremius and defeating him.

How good that chance was, Conan would not have cared to wager.

"Well enough. Women first, then Bora and Massouf, then me."

The two young men hurried to posts at opposite ends of the pool. Raihna was the first to strip and plunge in. She vanished completely, then rose spluttering and cursing like a drillmaster.

"Gods, this is cold!"

Illyana laughed. "Have you forgotten our Bossonian streams? They were not quite Vanir bathhouses, as I remember."

Raihna ducked under again. This time when she came up, she was in reach of Illyana's bare legs. A mighty splash, and water cascaded over Illyana. She yelped and jumped up.

"You―!"

"I had not forgotten, mistress. But I thought you had, so I would remind you."

Illyana uttered what Conan suspected was an impolite description of Raihna in an unknown tongue. Then she stood up and drew off her tunic, her last garment. Clad only in sunlight and the Jewel-ring, she started to bind up her hair with her neck ribbon.

Conan sat sword across his lap, contemplating both women with pleasure but without desire. Apart from being younger, Raihna was definitely the comelier.

Yet had Illyana not been obliged to remain a maiden, she would not have had to sleep alone more often than she wished.

Certainly she could have had Massouf for snapping her fingers. He was trying so hard not to stare that it was more evident than if he had been doing so openly.

Bora was finding it easier to be a gentleman, or at least an alert sentry. Conan would have wagered a month's pay that the toothsome Maryam had something to do with this.

Illyana finished binding up her hair and started to pull off the Jewel-ring.

Conan reached for it, to put it in his belt pouch. Illyana looked down at his left hand and drew back.

"No, Conan. Your other hand. You've cut this one."

"So I have," the Cimmerian said. He held up the bleeding hand. From the look of the cut, it must have been an edged stone, so sharp that he had not felt it.

"I'll wash it out and bind it up. I've cut myself worse shaving. It will be healing before we reach the mountains."

"That is not so important. Even were it far deeper, I could heal it with little use of the Jewel. No, the danger is letting blood fall on the Jewel."

"Does it get drunk if that happens, or what?" Conan's light tone hid fear crawling through him. Illyana had spoken in a deadly sober tone.

"One might call it getting drunk. It is certain that when blood falls on it, a Jewel becomes much harder to control. It is said that if a blood-smeared Jewel then falls into water, it cannot be controlled at all."

Conan shrugged and reached for the ring with his right hand, then stuffed it
into his pouch. It was in his mind to ask how Illyana proposed to keep the Jewel free of blood while they were battling the Transformed or whatever else Eremius might send against them.

The words never reached his lips. Illyana sat on the edge of the pool, thrusting her long legs over the edge until her feet dabbled in the water. She raised her arms to the sun and threw her head back. Her breasts and belly rose and tautened, as fine and fair as a young girl's.

She held the pose and Conan held desire for a long moment. Then she slipped into the pool, to bob up on the far side, next to Raihna.

Conan rose and began to stride back and forth along the edge of the pool.

Another such display by Illyana, and he was going to find it a burden to be a gentleman!

As desire left Conan's mind, an idle thought entered it. Suppose the Jewels were indeed living beings, with their own wills? And suppose they offered Illyana magic and bedmates, in return for her obedience?

Never mind the Jewels. Suppose Master Eremius had the wits to offer such a bargain?

Conan's thoughts ceased to be idle, and the mountains about him ceased to look peaceful. Uneasily and suspiciously, he pondered whether he had just guessed Illyana's price.

"Now follow me. Run!" Yakoub shouted.

The twelve men obeyed more swiftly than they would have even two days ago. Once
more Yakoub knew that until now Eremius's captains had been the one-eyed leading the blind. By himself, he could do only so much to change this.

But if he taught twelve men everything he knew, then each of them taught it to six more and they to six beyond that―well, inside of two months all of Eremius's men would be decent soldiers. Not the equals of the Golden Spears or other crack units of foot, but as good as most irregulars.

If only he could train them with the bow! But Eremius had passed judgment on that idea.

Yakoub writhed within as he remembered Eremius's words. The sorcerer had been surprised to see Yakoub appearing and offering to train his men. He had even allowed his pleasure to show, when the training started to bear fruit.

Gratitude was beyond him, however. So was what Yakoub considered military wisdom.

"In these mountains, Master, an archer is worth three men without a bow."

"We shall not be in the mountains much longer."

"Even in the plains, an archer has value against horsemen."

"No horsemen will dare close with the Transformed."

"Perhaps. But if you have to retreat, a rearguard of archers―"

"There shall be no retreats when we march again."

"You are―you have high hopes, Master."

"As indeed I should. You have brought me your own skills, which are considerable. You have also brought me news which is still better. The Jewels of Kurag are about to be reunited."

Eremius turned his back, in a manner that told Yakoub the matter was settled.

Not wishing to provoke the sorcerer into using magic to frighten him, Yakoub departed.

He had wondered then and he wondered now what afflicted Eremius. Was it as simple as not wishing to give his human fighters a weapon that could strike down the Transformed from a distance? If so, what did that say about Eremius's trust in the humans, even when he had made them nearly witlings to keep them from rebelling?

Or had Eremius given over thinking like a captain of human soldiers, and become entirely a sorcerer who might soon have the Jewels of Kurag in his power? If half of the tales about the Jewels Eremius told were true, it was no surprise that Eremius had fallen into this trap.

A trap it was, however, and one that Yakoub son of Khadjar must dig him out of!

Yakoub looked back at the running men. Most were pacing themselves as he had taught, rather than exhausting themselves in a swift frenzy. He increased his own pace, to put himself well out in front.

When he had done this, he suddenly whirled, staff raised. Without waiting for him to single out a man, the nearest five all raised their staves to meet him.

He darted in, striking shoulders, thighs, and shins in rapid succession.

Doggedly, the men fought back. Yakoub took a thrust to his knee and another close to his groin.

I would do well to wear some padding the next time. These men are indeed learning.

Then a staff cracked him across the shoulders. He whirled and leaped. The other runners had come up behind him.

For a moment fear and rage twisted his face. Those fools could have killed him by accident!

Then he realized that the men who had come up behind were smiling.

"We did as we would have done with a real enemy," one of them said. "We came up behind him while others fought him in front. Is that not what is to be done?"

"Indeed it is." Not just padding, but a helmet as well. He clapped the man who had spoken on the shoulder. "You have done well. Now let us finish our run."

Yakoub waited for all the men to pass before he began to run again. For today at least, he would be happier without any of them behind him!

For the days to come, though, he saw much pleasure. He had often heard his father speak of how the gods gave men no greater joy than teaching the arts of the soldier. He had not understood how true this was, until today.

"Conan, will Dessa come to any harm―as she is now?" Massouf still could not bring himself to say "as a tavern girl."

Conan shrugged. The truth would depend on what she was made of. He did not suppose Massouf would enjoy hearing it. The young man had not given up Dessa so completely that he refused to worry about her.

Even for a man not careless of his life, being worried about someone else was a good way to get killed. As he was, Massouf was less than ever someone Conan cared to have at his side in a fight.

"If she lived as well as she did at Achmai's Hold, I doubt that anywhere in Turan will hold many terrors for her." A thought came to him. "I have a friend in Aghrapur by the name of Pyla. She is also a friend to Captain Khezal. If we both urge her to help Dessa find her feet in her new life, I am sure that help will come."

It might need a trifle of silver, because Pyla did little even for friends without asking payment. Besides, launching Dessa properly would not be cheap.

Worth it, though. If Dessa began her career known as a friend of Pyla, she would have few enemies. The rest could be left, as he had said several times, to the girl's natural talents.

Remembering those talents made Conan's blood race. He muttered a polite farewell to Massouf and returned to the pool. The stone where he had been sitting was wet and dark. There was no sign of either woman.

Either they were playing ill-timed jests, or―Conan was standing on the edge of the pool when Illyana burst from the water.

She rose half her height out of it, like a water sprite seeking to fly. Her arms wrapped around Conan's knees and she flung herself backward.

She might as well have tried to upset the Lord of the Winds. When she realized her mistake, Conan had already gripped her by the shoulders. He lifted and she rose, until her long legs were twined around Conan's waist. She lay back in his arms and smiled invitingly. His lips crushed hers.

For a long moment nothing existed for the Cimmerian, save Illyana in his arms, naked, wet, and beginning to writhe in pleasure. Pleasure was not a sufficient
word for what he felt. Madness would have been closer.

Even when Illyana untwined her legs and stood, she pressed against Conan. His hands ran down her back, pressing her tighter. He felt her breasts against his chest, as delightfully firm as they had seemed―"No," Illyana said, or rather gasped. Her voice was husky with desire. She stepped back, forgetting that they were on the edge of the pool. With a splash and a shriek she plunged into the water again, to come up coughing.

Conan helped her out of the pool, careful to grip only her hands. Illyana herself kept a pace away from him as she began to dry herself with her clothes.

"That is not a no for all time, the Jewels―the gods willing. It is only for now, that we cannot―" Her voice was still unsteady, and her eyes seemed glazed. The desire was leaving Conan, but he still judged it wise to turn his back until Illyana was dressed.

It was not until Conan had finished his own bathing that he had a chance for words alone with Raihna.

"Are my wits straying, or was your mistress trying to make me desire her?"

"Trying?" Raihna's laugh was harsh, both frightened and frightening. "I judged she was succeeding admirably. That's as well. The gods only know what she might have done, if she had thought she was undesirable."

"If she ever thinks that, I hope some man will have a chance to prove how wrong she is!"

"Not you?" Raihna asked, with a twisted grin.

"I think I was safer as a thief in the Tower of the Elephant than I'd be in

Illyana's bed. Less pleasure there, but less peril."

Raihna stood close against him, and ran one hand lightly down his back. "But she did make you want a woman?"

Conan did not need the message carved in stone. He returned the embrace.

"Yes. I hope it also made you want a man!"

Raihna's happy cries echoed from the walls of the valley. Nonetheless, Conan could not shake off the memory of Illyana's eyes and voice, still less her mention of the Jewels.

Twenty

THEY REACHED THE Valley of the Demons so early in their last day's march that Conan ordered them back.

"We want a place beyond the reach of Eremius's scouts, to lie up for the day.

Everybody should try to sleep."

"Indeed. It may be our last," Massouf said. He sounded rather as if he welcomed the prospect.

Conan's urge to shake some wits into the man rose again. He forced it down.

Massouf might want to die, but he had proved himself hardy and careful, not to mention a good hand with the bow and the spear. If he died, he would likely enough take some of the enemy with him.

Bora found them a refuge that Conan himself could not have bettered. It had a
spring of clear water, shelter from the sun, and concealment from the enemy. It even offered a safe way of flight, if needed.

"Bora, if you ever join the army, I'll wager you're a captain before you can turn around," Conan said.

"You are not the first to say so, and I thank you all," Bora said soberly. "But I cannot think of that until I know my father is pardoned and safe. Even then, I will be needed for the rebuilding of Crimson Springs."

Conan found himself exchanging looks with the two women. Bora's optimism was easier to hear than Massouf's grim despair. It altered not a whit their slim chances of both winning and surviving to enjoy their victory.

The night mists swirled up from the valley in their natural silver-gray. No magic or at least no Jewel-spells were at work. Conan crawled to the crest and looked at the scree-strewn slope plunging away into the mist.

"If this is the best way down," he whispered, "Erlik spare me seeing the worst!"

"I am not a god, to arrange these mountains to make our task easier," Bora said.

"I can only tell you how they are arranged."

"Without any thought for us, that's certain," Raihna said.

The banter kept their spirits up, but it took time. Conan signed for silence, then one by one led the party to the crest.

"Can you climb down that?" he whispered to each one. "Can you climb up it again, with the Transformed at your heels?"

He did not ask Bora, who could have taught climbing to goats. The others all
nodded, save Massouf, who shrugged.

"If you can't climb, we may not be able to carry you," Conan said, in a final effort to wean Massouf from his dark intent.

"If I am not climbing, I can make better practice with spear and bow," Massouf replied. His eyes dared Conan to press him further.

"Likely enough there will be places we can defend lower down," Bora said. "If the sentries are alert, they will give the alarm before we reach the heart of Eremius's domain."

"Pray that it is not too soon," Illyana said. "The necessary spells must be cast with the two Jewels as close as we can contrive."

"You've persuaded us of that," Conan said. "Otherwise why would we be sticking our head into a wasp's nest to count the wasps?"

What they were doing was in fact many times worse than that. It was also utterly necessary. Illyana had said a wearying number of times that she could no longer fight Eremius's magic from a distance. Before the Jewels' will grew in them, it might have been otherwise. Now, however, they had to draw Eremius close.

Otherwise she might exhaust her strength and her Jewel with nothing accomplished, leaving them with no magical protection against Eremius.

"Besides, if Eremius unleashes the Transformed, he must use some of his power to command them. I will have no such burden."

"No, you've a band of thick-witted sword-wielders to save you from it!" Conan had growled. "Proof that my wits are thicker than the mist is that I'm here!"

"Thank the gods for that," Illyana said, softly but with unexpected passion.

Even Massouf managed the climb down with little trouble. Conan was sure they had made enough noise to awaken sentries in Stygia, but no one barred their path.

"Could Eremius be resting his men while he heals the Transformed?" Illyana asked.

"Perhaps," was Conan's whispered reply. "I'd wager he's resting them by patrolling a smaller area. Sooner or later, we'll find somebody ready to welcome visitors."

They moved on in silence. No more words were needed, and the mist seemed to eerily distort speech. It was also thick enough to make their bows and Bora's sling tar less useful.

Conan no longer despised the bow as a coward's weapon, but it was still not his favorite. He would gladly have given up his sword, however, in return for not having to trust to Illyana's spells. If he could have been altogether certain they would be hers alone, it would have been different. With the Jewels friends or foes in their own right―"Hssst!" came from Bora, in the lead. "Somebody ahead."

Before Conan could reply, he heard the whirr of the sling winding up, then a hiss, a thump, and a faint clatter.

"That's one―" Bora began.

"Hoyaaaa! Guard! Turn out the guard!" came a scream from the left. Whoever was screaming was frightened nearly witless, but giving the alarm like a soldier.

Conan cursed. It was all very well to speak of drawing the enemy after you, but
when you could not see each other in this cursed mist―Half a dozen human fighters stormed out of the mist, spears and swords raised.

Conan and Raihna met them head-on, to keep them from Illyana. In the flurry of steel that followed, Conan had no eyes for anyone save those in sword's reach of him. Two men went down before his blade, then suddenly the mist lay empty before him. Silence returned, save for the diminishing hammer of panic-stricken feet.

"I had one," Raihna said. "Bora picked off another with that sling of his. Will you teach me to use it?"

"The gods willing. How is Massouf?"

The young man raised a bloody spear. He looked as if he did not know whether to sing in triumph or spew in horror. At least first-kill fright was better than black despair!

"Let's be on our way back," Conan said.

"The Transformed are not yet unleashed," Illyana said. She had one hand pressing the other arm where the Jewel-ring sat. It let her make some use of the Jewel without revealing herself with its emerald light.

"They will be, when somebody finds these bodies," Conan said. "Come along. Best we don't let ourselves be surrounded."

"That's putting it delicately," Raihna began.

Then the whole world seemed to turn an eye-searing green, of no hue Conan had ever seen or imagined. A moment later the mist vanished, as if a giant mouth had sucked it out of the valley. The light turned the familiar emerald of the Jewels.

As the vanishing mist revealed the valley around Conan's party, it also revealed at least fifty of the Transformed swarming down the north side.

"Eremius comes!" Illyana screamed.

"Set to devour Eremius!" growled Conan, unsling-ing his bow. "Stop talking and start shooting, woman. We've a chance to improve the odds!"

Raihna was already unleashing arrows. The range was long even for her stout Bossonian bow, but the target was hard to miss. Every arrow from her bow, then from Conan's, then from Illyana's and Massouf's, struck Transformed flesh.

Struck, but did not pierce. At this range the scales of the Transformed were as good as the finest mail. Conan saw human fighters running downhill on the flanks of the Transformed and shifted to them. He killed four of them before their courage broke. By then he was nearby out of arrows.

The Transformed reached level ground. With arrows jutting from them, the Transformed looked even more monstrous than before. Jewel-light seared Conan's eyes again, as Illyana slung her bow, flung back her sleeves, and began wielding her magic.

When he could see clearly again, the Transformed had ceased their advance.

Instead they huddled together, glaring in all directions. Some snatched arrows from their hides, others bit their taloned hands and whimpered like starving dogs.

"I have turned the fear back against them," Illyana cried exultantly. "I did not think to do this!"

"Well, start thinking what comes next!" Conan shouted. "Make them run around in
circles until they're all too dizzy to fight, for all I care!"

Raihna sent her last two arrows into the motionless target. One struck a Transformed in the eye. His dying scream made Conan's flesh leap on his bones.

Not all the fear was returning to the Transformed!

The light diminished, until it flowed from a single source, glimmering like a giant bonfire behind the Transformed. It seemed that the Master of the Jewel had indeed come forth.

"Back, and they will follow!" Illyana cried.

Conan turned to see her fleeing with a doe's grace and swiftness, breasting the slope with ease. Was the Jewel giving her strength and speed, and if so at what price?

Meanwhile, the Transformed were rallying and starting across the valley, in no particular order but at a good pace. Even the wounded ones moved as fast as a man could walk.

Their carrion reek marched ahead of them. So did a hideous cacophony of hisses, growls, whimpers, clawed feet on stones, even belches and gulpings.

Conan had seen more than his share of unclean magic in his life, but the Transformed were a whole new order of nightmare. Once more he knew he might not easily find it in him to give Eremius a clean death.

Then he had to think about his own death and how to prevent it. His comrades were all on their way up the slope. Two of the Transformed hurled themselves forward. Perhaps they hoped to overtake Bora or Massouf.

Instead, they faced Conan. He hewed at a hand, slashing deep into the webbing
between the fingers. Whirling, he slashed the second Transformed across the face, taking its sight. A thrust between the ribs with his dagger reached vital organs.

Conan had to leap backward to avoid the grip of the first Transformed. With sword and dagger at the guard, he watched it stop and stand over its fallen comrade. Then it knelt beside the fallen, trying to stanch the blood from the belly wound and the ruined face.

So the Transformed were not lower than the beasts. Conan thought no better of Master Eremius, but he vowed to give the Transformed warriors' deaths whenever possible.

Conan retreated again. He had nearly overtaken his comrades before the Transformed started mounting the slope. Bora was casting back and forth like a dog for a trail. "I smell a cave around here somewhere."

"If you smell it, perhaps the Transformed are already at home," Conan said. "I doubt if they will welcome us to dinner."

"No. For dinner, perhaps," Massouf said. He was limping but held his spear jauntily on one shoulder.

"There it is!" Bora shouted. He pointed uphill to the right. Conan had just time to see a dark mouth, before the Transformed broke into a run.

Light from both Jewels at once seared Conan's eyes. Dimly, he saw Massouf seemingly turned to a statue of jade. Even his eyes glowed green, as though he had become a creature of the Jewel.

Had he in truth become one? Were the Jewels reaching out for others besides
their wearers?

Those uneasy thoughts had barely left Conan's mind when Massouf stripped off his quiver and bow, tossing them to Conan. The Cimmerian caught mem as Massouf charged downhill toward the Transformed.

"Crom!"

The Transformed were giving way before Massouf's charge. They hissed and cringed and cried as if Massouf had been a whole army.

Massouf actually contrived to spit one of the Transformed like a chicken, before they regained their courage. A moment of clawing and trampling, and Massouf was gone.

From first to last, he had not made a sound.

Conan stormed up the slope, to where Illyana stood before the cave mouth. Raihna was already piling stones to narrow it "Conan!" the hill boy cried. "There will be room inside for me to use my sling.

If you will stand to either―"

"Did you kill Massouf?" Conan roared.

Illyana had been drawing off her boots. Now she flinched and stood barefoot, a boot in either hand.

"Did you? Answer me, woman!"

"Conan, I did not command him. I heard no command from the Jewels. I can only say that under the spell cast, the Transformed might be more easily frightened."

"Massouf couldn't have known that!"

"I may have told him without remembering it. Or―"

"Or the Jewels might have told him," Conan finished for her.

Illyana shook her head, as if beset by stinging insects. Suddenly she flung herself into Conan's arms.

"I beg you, Conan. Believe me, that I meant Massouf no harm. He came here seeking death and found it."

That at least was the truth, and for the moment Conan was ready to be content with it. Not that he had any choice, either. The Transformed were halfway up the hill, some still gnawing fragments of Massouf.

Illyana contemplated them, all her unease of a moment before gone. "Good. We have them closing swiftly. If we can hold until they have closed just a trifle more―"

"And how long will that be?" Conan asked.

Illyana stripped off her tunic and waved it like a flag. "Look, Eremius. Look and dream, but know that you will die before you touch!"

"Haw long?"

"I do not know," Illyana said. Then she ran toward the cave, with Conan at her heels.

Twenty-one CONAN LOWERED A rock the size of a newborn calf onto the pile in the cave mouth.

Then he stepped back, dusting off his hands and looking into the cave for any
more loose stones.

He had all the light he could wish, pouring from Illyana's Jewel. Unclothed save for the Jewel, the sorceress stood forty paces inside the cave, chanting in an unknown tongue. The world beyond her duel with Eremius might have ceased to exist.

Conan saw no more stones worth adding to their barricade. He was about to tell Raihna when a stone went wheeet between them. Conan whirled, glaring at Bora.

The boy was reloading his sling and grinning. "As I said, there is room to send a stone between you."

"Warn us the next time, you young―"

"Captain, I might not be able to warn you. What if you and Raihna are close-grappled with the Transformed? Best you trust me to hit them and not you."

Conan couldn't help laughing. The boy was right, of course. And anyone who could grin like that, in what might indeed be his last minutes of life―"Bora, perhaps you shouldn't join the army after all. In five years, you would be giving me orders!"

"They would never make a hillman―" Bora began soberly. Raihna's shout interrupted him.

"Here they come!"

Conan sprang to his post by the barricade. Eremius had taken longer than they expected to form up his creations for battle. What Illyana had done with that time, Conan did not know. He and Raihna had narrowed the cave mouth so that only two or three of the Transformed could attack at once. He had also placed a few
throwing stones ready to hand.

The Transformed stormed up the hill in two ragged lines. At Raihna's signal Bora sent a stone hurtling low through the cave mouth. It struck a Transformed in the chest, without so much as knocking him down. Conan flung a fist-sized stone. He aimed for eyes and struck a forehead. Again the Transformed did not even fall.

It howled in rage and pain and seemed to climb faster.

"I think we have the pick of the Transformed coming up," Conan said.

"The pick of Bossonia and Cimmeria stand here," Raihna replied. She tossed her head. The Jewel-light shimmered on her hair as it flowed about her shoulders.

Then she tossed her sword and caught it by the hilt.

A Transformed flung a stone. It drove chips and dust from the barricade into Conan's face. As he blinked, Bora replied. The slingstone struck a Transformed in the knee, hard enough to leave it limping.

Then the spearhead of the attack reached the defenders. Conan and Raihna had practiced together since the return to Fort Zheman. Now Conan's training in the rude school of surviving and Raihna's training from Master Barathres merged as easily as their bodies did in love.

Conan feinted high to draw the attention of a Transformed upward. His sword crashed into a scaly arm. That upraised arm left an armpit exposed. Raihna's dagger leaped upward into the armpit, finding the expected weak spot where the scales were thin to allow free movement.

The Transformed reeled back, holding a crippled arm. A human would have been dead, and this one at least was out of the fight.

Another Transformed gripped the top of the barricade. Conan hewed at the nearest hand, three, four, five cuts, as if chopping firewood with his sword. At the fifth stroke, the hand flopped limply. At the sixth it fell off entirely, landing on Conan's side of the barricade. Reeking blood sprayed into Conan's face, neither looking nor smelling anything like human gore. The Transformed's howls echoed around the cave.

Conan's fight against the climbing Transformed left Raihna to hold the opening single-handed. Two Transformed who came at her jammed in the opening, letting her slash and thrust until they reeled away bloody and daunted. The next enemy was swifter.

Conan turned to find Raihna in the clutches of a Transformed, being drawn toward it. She had blinded it and thrust deep into its chest, without reaching its unnatural life. The talons were already gashing her flesh. The fangs would reach her throat before the creature died.

They had not done so, when Conan's sword came down across the bridge of the creature's nose. Under the scale armor, the bones there were still thin enough to be vulnerable. Shattering under the Cimmerian's sword, they drove splinters into the Transformed's brain. It convulsed, arching backward. Raihria leaped free, kicking out. The Transformed crashed into an approaching comrade. Both went down.

Raihna stripped off her tunic, used it to roughly wipe her oozing wounds, then tossed it aside. Bare to the waist, she raised her weapons again.

"You won't distract them that way," Conan said, laughing. "You might distract

Bora, though."

Bora certainly seemed not to mind fighting in the presence of two splendid and nearly unclothed women. His eye for targets was still keener than his eye for the women. As the Transformed knocked down by the latest kill struggled to its feet, a stone caught it in the eye. The stone was sharp and reached the brain.

The Transformed fell, kicked wildly, but did not rise. Other Transformed held back until the kicking ceased.

"That's five down or out against your scratches and tunic," Conan said. "How many left?"

"Oh, not more than forty or so."

"Then we should be finished by breakfast."

"Yes, but whose breakfast?"

With howls and scrabbling feet, the Transformed came on again.

Eremius suspected that his face was streaming sweat, as if he had been in a steam bath. He knew that pain racked his joints so that it needed real effort to stand.

Nearly all his magic was pouring into the duel with Illyana. The little he could spare for the Transformed was barely enough to keep them attacking without turning on one another. Those who took wounds or lost their courage had to do without his help.

This should not be. It could not be, unless Illyana had become greater than he.

That was impossible. She did not have it in her to become so.

Eremius turned against Illyana even the little magic he was sparing to ease the pain in his joints. He almost cried out, like a man on the rack. He eased his pain with the thought that this addition of strength might be enough to let him try piercing the veil around Illyana's Jewel.

He tried and failed.

Only after he abandoned the effort, when he could barely stand, did he realize that the failure had told him what he wanted to know. Illyana's Jewel was utterly in harmony with her, defending both her and itself against him. How had she achieved this harmony?

Eremius thought he knew the answer. When he allowed himself to contemplate it, he knew fear as well, for the first time in many years.

Both Conan and Raihna were bleeding from a dozen minor wounds. Their muscles twitched and ached, their breaths rasped, and neither of them had enough intact clothing to garb a tavern dancer.

They fought on, because the Transformed did so. Illyana chanted and the Jewel-light danced and flickered. Bora's sling flung stone after stone, always swiftly, often with effect.

It was still mostly Conan's fight and Raihna's. Neither any longer kept count of the Transformed maimed or slain. Neither kept count of the times they had saved the other's life.

These matters were of small importance, compared with the oncoming Transformed.

There had to be an end of them, to be sure, but would that end come before Conan
and Raihna reached the end of their strength?

Already Raihna's dagger was blunted from thrusting through scales, and her sword was kinked. Conan's sword showed as many nicks as if he had been chopping wood with it. They might soon lose the power to harm the Transformed even if they still possessed the strength.

It seemed to Conan that the Transformed were somewhat thinner on the ground. It also seemed that the intervals between attacks were growing longer. It was not impossible that the tide of battle was flowing their way.

Would it flow fast enough? They could still lose everything, if the Transformed broke through in sufficient strength to slay Illyana.

Another Transformed―no, two of them―charged the opening. Conan dashed the sweat from his eyes. Matters were not well, when he could hardly count the number of his opponents!

The Transformed facing Conan bore several wounds and an arrow, relics of previous exchanges. It stumbled against the barricade, flinging all its more-than-human weight against the stones. One of them shifted, then another.

With a rattle and a crash, the barricade subsided in a cloud of dust. The second Transformed leaped through the dust. Raihna met him with a desperate lunge. Her sword bent almost double. Conan hewed at the Transformed's neck, but it had the speed to elude him. It leaped between the two defenders, shrugged off a stone from Bora's sling, and lunged at Illyana.

The talons were only an arm's length from the sorceress when she leaped up and back. Conan would have sworn that she floated into the air. He did not doubt
what he saw leaping from the Jewel―emerald fire, a spearthrust of eye-searing light.

It struck the Transformed. One claw raked Illyana's shoulder, without drawing blood. Then the flesh was boiling off the Transformed's bones, like stew in an untended pot. A wave of indescribable stench swept over Conan, making him blink and reel. When he saw clearly again, only smoking bones on the cave floor remained of the Transformed.

Illyana stood, fingering a shoulder that Conan knew should have been gaping nearly to the bone. The smooth flesh was unmarred. Unbidden and unwelcome, the thought of how he had held that flesh close to him entered his mind.

As if she shared the thought, Illyana smiled.

"I should not have been able to do that. The Jewels―" Whatever she might have wanted to say about the Jewels went unuttered. Instead her face turned grim. "I do not know how often I can do that. I can certainly do it often enough to let you and Raihna attack."

"With what?" the swordswoman exclaimed, holding out her crippled weapons.

Illyana seemed uncaring. "Eremius has drawn closer and the Transformed are weaker. If you attack now, with Bora and me guarding your backs, you may slay Eremius. The second Jewel will come to us. Victory will be ours."

Conan wanted to shake the sorceress. "We'll win no victory with blades too dull to cut butter!"

For the first time, Illyana seemed to notice the weapons in her friends' hands.

Her eyes clouded for a moment. Then she rested a hand on Conan's sword,
stretching out the other with fingers spread so it touched both Raihna's sword and dagger.

Conan fought the urge to snatch his blade out of Illyana's hands. Sorcery had been too close for too long already. To fight with an ensorceled blade―Illyana chanted, and Raihna's sword straightened. The nicks vanished from the edge of Conan's sword. A point returned to her dagger. Bright sharp edges gleamed on all of them.

"Crom!"

The Cimmerian god was not one to answer prayers or hear them with patience. For once in his life Conan almost regretted this.

Conan raised his sword, testing the balance and sighting along the magically-restored edge. It seemed as good as new, Ensorceled or not, it was also the only weapon at hand.

He still felt nearly as much fear of Illyana as of the Transformed when he led Raihna out of the cave.

Eremius struggled to understand what had come to pass in the cave. Illyana lived and the Transformed had died in a way that even the power of her Jewel should not have allowed.

He abandoned the struggle when the Cimmerian burst from the cave. Understanding he did not need, when life itself was in peril. Withdrawing his power from the duel against Illyana, he sought to shield, then rally the Transformed.

For a moment he thought he had succeeded. Emerald fire blazed along the thin
line of the Transformed. Two were not swift enough to leap clear; the flesh flew from their bones amid howls.

The other Transformed recoiled at those howls. They did not recoil far. They saw that the fire held their enemies away from them, and began to regain their courage. Eremius cast his thoughts at them furiously, forming them into a solid mass, then urging them forward.

They were approaching the line of fire when Illyana appeared at the mouth of the cave. Eremius's thoughts leaped from battle to her awesome beauty, every bit of it revealed to him.

A moment later, he saw his doom revealed as well. Illyana raised a hand, and the line of fire vanished. She gripped Bora's arm with the other hand, then let him wind up with his sling.

Only one stone flew, but the Transformed howled as if each saw a stone flying straight at it. Their solid line broke up. The Cimmerian and the swordswoman plunged into the fleeing remnants.

At first they had to fight a way. Then the Transformed realized that their foes would attack only those in their path. To leave the path of humans who seemed invincible was a simple matter, a few steps, then a few steps more, each step taken more swiftly.

Not all of the Transformed fled like dead leaves before a gale, but few enough fought. The Cimmerian and the Bossonian came down the hill like avenging gods.

Eremius tore the ring from his arm. He still would not dare the spells that offered the last chance with the Jewel so close to his flesh. He cast it to the
ground. The gold rang on the stones, and the ringing seemed to go on, filling his ears like the tones of. a mighty gong.

The sorcerer clapped his hands to his ears. Shutting out the sound, he tried to array his thoughts once more, for the last spells.

If he succeeded, no more would be needed.

If he failed, no more would be possible.

Conan had never run so fast in his life, at least after a long battle. Hillman though he was, he feared his legs would betray him. To stumble now would be worse than fatal, it would be humiliating.

At last he felt level ground under his feet. Ahead he saw Eremius, Jewel-ring at his feet and hands clasped over his ears. What the sorcerer heard that Conan did not, the Cimmerian neither knew nor cared.

He only knew that in another score of paces, he could snatch up the Jewel-ring.

Conan had covered half the distance when the Jewel-ring leaped into the air. It did not glow, not with the dazzling emerald fire of before. It did something far worse.

It sang.

It sang with a sad, plaintive note in a voice that uttered no words but somehow held enormous power to paint pictures in Conan's mind. Conan saw a deep-bosomed Cimmerian wench and himself grappled in love before a blazing fire. He saw a snug hut, with children playing before that same fire. He saw dark-haired boys, their features stamped with his own, learning the art of the hunt and the blade
from their father. He saw himself with grizzled hair, passing judgments in village disputes.

All that he had turned his back on, the Jewel seemed to say, could be his. He need only turn his back on Eremius.

Conan slowed his pace. He had turned his back on Cimmeria with open eyes, but now those eyes were threatening to blur with sorrow for what he had lost. He knew this was no natural sorrow, but the power of it was sweeping away the last of his knowledge.

Another presence hammered its way into Conan's mind. Illyana's Jewel was crying out a song of triumph.

Equally dazzling pictures entered his mind―riding at the head of an army through a city of towering buildings with gilded roofs, under a sky of northern blue.

White clouds shone, flowers showered down upon him, clinging to the mane of his steed, the cheers and chants of the crowd drowned out the babble of the Cimmerian village meeting.

As if slamming a door in the face of intruders, Conan willed both Jewels out of his mind. It did not matter which offered what rewards. Both alike seemed to think that he could be bought. Both were wrong, and their masters with them.

Conan needed no urging to overthrow the creator of the Transformed. What he might see fit to do with Illyana could be left until later.

Conan's sword lunged. Its point darted through the ring. The sharp blade leaped toward the sky, where the mist was gathering again. The ring and its Jewel slid down the blade to the hilt.

"Run, people!"

The last thing Conan saw as he himself turned to run, was Eremius slumping to the ground, his face in his hands.

Twenty-two THEY WERE HALFWAY out of the valley when Illyana stumbled and fell, to all appearances senseless. Conan laid an ear next to her lips and felt her breathing. Then he handed the Jewel-ring to Raihna, who slipped it on her left arm. Sheathing his sword, the Cimmerian lifted the sorceress and continued the climb.

"Let me go on ahead and find an easier path, Captain," Bora said. "You are hillborn like me, but I have not fought hand to hand with the Transformed this night."

"Not yet," Raihna said. "We may well have heard the last of Eremius. About his creations―"

From the swirling mist in the valley came wild cries, inhuman in their quality but clearly from a human throat. Rage, terror, and pain blended horribly in the cries.

Then the howls of the Transformed rose in a nightmare chorus, swallowing the human cries.

"What in Mitra's name was that?" Bora gasped.

"As Raihna said, we've heard the last of Master Eremius," Conan said. "I'd wager that was him, making a light supper for some of his Transformed."

Bora shuddered. "Keep your sling loaded and ready," Conan added. "It's the only weapon we have left for striking from a distance."

"It's also the only weapon we have that Illyana didn't ensorcel," Raihna said, almost meditatively. Conan stared at her in dawning surprise.

"That matters to you?"

"After what I've seen these past few days―even Illyana's magic smells other than it once did. And anything flowing from the Jewels…" She shook her head. "I will think on it, when I have wits to spare."

They scrambled out of the valley in silence. They also moved in darkness, for which Conan was grateful. Darkness and the resurgent mist hid them from the Transformed, and the Jewels slept. They might have been as exhausted as their rescuers, or even their new mistress.

They left the mist behind in the Valley of the Demons. By the time Bora saw the Lord of the Winds towering against the stars, Illyana could walk again. She was also shivering, naked against the night wind.

Bora realized that whatever her magic had done to keep her warm was passing. He stripped off his shirt and handed it to her. She donned it eagerly, then inclined her head as graciously as a queen.

"We are grateful," she said. Conan frowned and seemed about to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Once again they moved on in silence.

The endurance of his companions surprised Bora.

The Cimmerian and Raihna had to be close to the end of their strength. Illyana had battled Eremius, no less formidable an opponent than the Transformed, and could hardly be accustomed to walking barefoot across mountainsides.

At dawn, they were almost in sight of where they left their baggage. They emptied their waterskins, slung them again, and turned on to the last slope.

All at once Conan held up a warning hand.

"Stop. Everyone hide. I'm going on alone." He spoke softly, as if hostile ears might be close.

"We wish to know―" Illyana began.

Again Conan frowned. Then he said with elaborate courtesy, "You shall know the moment I do. Until then, I ask your good will."

Raihna and Conan exchanged glances. Then Raihna put her hand to the small of Illyana's back and gently pushed her toward a stand of scrubby bushes. As Bora followed the women, Conan was already scrambling down the slope by a route that hid him from below. Once more Bora was amazed at how silently so large a man could move.

Bora had barely time to become impatient before Conan returned as silently as he went. The first knowledge Bora had of his return was a soft bird whistle. Then the black-maned head thrust into the bushes.

"Six of those half-witted humans Eremius used as scouts. They're sitting around our baggage. Swords and spears, no bows. They look a bit more alert than most, but no match for us."

"Must we slay more of the Master's servants?" asked Illyana. She sounded almost petulant.

Conan shrugged. "I suppose we could leave them to the army, like the Transformed. But do you want to walk all the way back to Fort Zheman clothed as you are?"

"That might not be necessary."

"By Erlik's beard! How―?"

"Do not blaspheme."

If Illyana had spoken in Stygian, Conan could not have looked blanker. This time it was Raihna who frowned, then spoke.

"Forgive us, mistress. We think only of your comfort."

"That is honorable. Very well. We give our consent." Illyana waved a languid hand downhill. "Do your duty."

Once again Bora had the notion he was listening to a queen. A queen―or at least a ruler, consisting of a woman and one of the Jewels.

Not both Jewels. Please, gods, not both.

Bora cudgeled his thoughts into order and began seeking slingstones under the bushes.

A Cimmerian battle cry seemed to stun half the men. The rest leaped up. That made them the first to die, as their attackers struck. Conan hewed down two, and Raihna the third.

One of the sitting men fell over, ribs crushed and heart stopped by a
slingstone. His comrades now rose, one to run, the other to thrust at Conan with his spear. The Cimmerian had to give ground for a moment, then hacked through the spearshaft with his sword.

The man had enough of the shaft left to raise it like a fighting staff. He caught Conan's first slash, then tried to kick the Cimmerian in the knee.

This display of skill and courage neither altered nor greatly delayed the man's fate. Raihna slipped under the guard of his improvised staff with her dagger. He reeled back, thigh pouring blood, and did not look up as Conan's sword descended.

Bora looked for the man who had fled, and saw him already far enough to make a kill chancy. Then he looked around him. Conan would doubtless have noted any sentries, who indeed could not have been very alert. A second pair of eyes never harmed the chances of victory, as Conan's Captain Khadjar said.

Had Bora seen Master Eremius walking up the hill, he could hardly have been more surprised.

"Yakoub!"

The Cimmerian whirled. Bora pointed. The Cimmerian's sword leaped up.

"Good morning, Captain Conan," Yakoub said. He sounded as calm as if they were meeting to visit a tavern. Then he looked at the bodies of his men. For a moment the calm broke and his face showed naked grief.

"I did not teach them enough," was all Yakoub said. Then he drew his own sword.

"I can still avenge them."

"Small chance of that," Conan said. After a moment he sheathed his own sword.

"Yakoub, I'd rather not face your father with your blood on my hands. I have no more quarrel with you."

"If you meant that, you wouldn't have killed my men."

"Your men?" the Cimmerian snorted. "Master Eremius's tame dogs? What do you owe them?"

"My death or yours," Yakoub said.

"That dung-spawned―" Bora began. He reached for his sling. A moment later he knew that speaking had been a mistake. A muscular Bossonian arm took him across the throat from behind. Raihna's free hand snatched the sling from his grip.

Freed suddenly, he whirled to face the swordswoman. "You―! Whose side are you on?"

"I'm against your dishonoring Conan. Yakoub―"

"Yakoub dishonored my sister! He dishonored my family!"

"Are you willing to fight him hand to hand?"

Bora measured Yakoub's suppleness, the grace of movement, the easy grip on the sword. "No. He'd cut me to pieces."

"Then stand back and let Conan settle matters. Yakoub is the bastard son of High Captain Khadjar. His being out here may mean that Conan's commander is a traitor. Conan's honor is caught up in this too. If Yakoub won't run, he has to be killed in a fair fight."

"And if Conan is killed―?"

"Then I'll face Yakoub. Either swear to keep your sling on your belt, or I'll slice it apart with my dagger now."

Bora would have cursed, if he'd known words adequate for his rage. At last he spat. "Keep it, you Bossonian trull―!"

The slap aimed at Bora never landed. Conan and Yakoub sprang toward each other, and the dawn light blazed from their uplifted swords.

Afterward Bora confessed that he had thought of using his sling to save Conan, as well as avenging his own family's honor. He could not believe that the Cimmerian would be fit to meet a strong opponent blade to blade, not after the night's fighting.

He did not realize that Conan also knew the limits of his strength. The Cimmerian's leap into sword's reach was his last. For the rest of the fight, he moved as little as possible, weaving an invisible armor of darting steel around himself. Yakoub was fresher and just as swift if lacking the Cimmerian's reach.

He might have won, had he been allowed a clear line of attack for a single moment.

The deadly dance of Conan's blade denied him that moment.

At some time in the fight, Illyana came down to watch. After a few moments, she turned away, yawning as if she found this battle to the death no more interesting than swine-mating.

Sitting down, she opened the bags and garbed herself. Bora knew a moment's regret at seeing that fair body at last concealed. Raihna was still next to naked, but her face made Bora doubt whom she thought the enemy, Yakoub or himself.

Bora was as surprised as Yakoub by the ending of the fight. He had expected Conan to stand until Yakoub wearied himself. Instead Conan suddenly left an opening that even Bora could recognize, for Yakoub to launch a deadly stroke.

Neither Bora nor Yakoub recognized Conan's intent. The first either knew of it was when Conan dropped under Yakoub's blade. It still came close to splitting his head; hanks of blood-stiffened black hair flew.

Now Conan was inside Yakoub's guard. Knee rammed into groin, head butted chin, and hand gripped swordarm. Yakoub flew backward, to land disarmed and half-stunned. He rolled, trying to draw a dagger. Conan brought a Toot down on his wrist and lowered his sword until its point rested against the other's throat.

"Yakoub, I know you owed a debt to your men. I owe one to your father. Go back to him and urge him to go where he need not pretend you are dead."

"That will mean giving up his Captaincy," Yakoub said. "You ask much of both of us."

"Why not?" Conan asked. Sweat ran down him, in spite of the morning chill. For the first time, Bora noticed that the Cimmerian's left shoulder bore a fresh wound.

Yakoub seemed to be pondering the question. What he would have answered was never to be known. As Conan stepped back, green fire of a familiar hue surrounded Yakoub. His body convulsed, arching into a bow. His mouth opened in a soundless scream and his hands scrabbled in the dirt.

Then he fell back, as limp as if every bone in his body had been crushed to
powder. Blood trickled briefly from his gaping mouth, then ceased.

Bora turned, not knowing what he would see but certain it would be something fearful.

Instead he saw Illyana sitting on a blanket, as regally as if it had been a throne. One arm was raised, and the Jewel-ring on it glowed softly.

Conan knew that Illyana had declared war. Illyana and the Jewels, rather.

Whatever she did, it was no longer wholly as her own mistress.

He was surprised to feel this much charity toward a sorceress. But a sorceress who was also a battle comrade was something new.

"Raihna, give me the other Jewel," Illyana said, holding out her hand. "It is time to let them unite."

Raihna looked down at her Jewel-ring as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly she drew it off and dangled it from her right hand.

Conan willed his body and his mind to avoid any movement or even thought that might betray him.

What powers the Jewels had given Illyana or themselves, he did not know. He was certain that he would have only one slender chance of defeating the Jewels.

Unless Raihna was ready to turn her back on ten years of loyalty to Illyana, and Conan would rather wager on King Yildiz's abdicating the throne to become a priest of Mitra―Raihna's right arm flashed up, as swiftly as if it were thrusting a dagger into a mortal enemy. The ring flew into the air.

Conan barely contrived to catch it before it struck the ground. Rolling, he rubbed the Jewel across his bleeding shoulder. Then he sprang to his feet and flung the Jewel-ring with all his strength toward the spring.

Neither a sorceress nor the power of the Jewels were as swift as the Cimmerian's arm. The Jewel-ring plummeted into the spring and vanished.

Conan drew his sword. He did not suppose it would be much use against whatever the Jewels might be about to unleash. Somewhere in his thoughts was the notion of dying with it in hand, like a warrior.

Somewhere, also, lay the notion of giving Illyana a cleaner death than the twisted power of the Jewels might intend.

Conan had barely drawn when he suddenly felt as if he had been plunged into frozen honey. Every limb seemed constrained, nearly paralyzed. Cold gnawed at every bit of skin and seemed to pierce through the skin into his vitals. From somewhere near he heard Raihna's strangled cry, as if the honey was flowing into her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath.

It would be so easy to stand here or even lie down. So easy to let Raihna the traitoress perish, and live on, satisfying Illyana's desire and his every night and sometimes every day. Satisfying a queen and leading her armies was enough for any man.

Was it not so?

"I know you," Conan growled. "Whatever you are, I know you. You don't know me."

He twisted desperately. One after another, his limbs came free. The cold remained, but now he could move his feet. As if through a frozen marsh, he
lurched toward Raihna.

She could move only her eyes, but now they turned toward him. She tried to lift an arm. As her hand came above her waist, her face contorted in pain.

The Jewels might have nothing left but vengeance, but they would have that. Or was it Illyana?

"Bora!" Conan shouted. Or tried to shout. It was as if one of the Transformed was gripping him by the throat. He tore at the air in front of his face, but the grip was stronger than he was after a night's fighting.

Conan felt his neck beginning to twist and strain. He fought harder, and the twisting stopped. He even sucked in one deep treath before the grip tightened further.

How long Conan stood grappling with the invisible, he never knew. He knew only that in one moment he was on the brink of having his windpipe crushed. In the next moment the spring began bubbling and seething, spewing foul steam―and the death grip eased.

Conan still felt as if he was wading through a deep stream against a swift current. Compared with what had gone before, it was easy to overcome it, easier still to reach Raihna. The pain still racked her, but she let herself be drawn after him, one torturous step at a time.

At every moment Conan expected the Jewels to return to their vengeance and complete it. Instead the steam from the spring only rose higher, until no water flowed and the gap in the rock looked near-kin to a volcano.

At last Conan felt his limbs moving with their normal ease. All his wounds were
bleeding again as he drew Raihna out of the magic. She fell against him, clad only in sword and Bora's sling.

"Run!" Conan shouted. It was an order to both of them. For Raihna it was also to gain her attention. Her eyes were vacant and her mouth slack. It seemed as if it would not take much for her to collapse and die with her mistress, letting the Jewels have their vengeance after all. Conan swore to unknown powers that he would not let this happen, if he had to carry her all the way to Fort Zheman.

Raihna had a warrior's will to abandon no fight until she was dead. Her first steps were stumbling, as if the ground was hot. The next steps were cautious, as if she could not altogether command her limbs. Then Bora took her other arm and with support on both sides she broke into a clumsy run.

They plunged down the hill to the bottom of the next valley, then began climbing the opposite slope. Conan did not know where they were going, or how long they could keep running. He only knew that he wanted as much distance as possible between him and whatever the Jewels were brewing up. Otherwise they might take their vengeance purely by chance!

Behind Conan, steam hissed and the grind and clash of moving rocks joined it. He did not dare turn around to be sure, but it also seemed that a green glow was spreading across the land.

They reached the crest of the hill with barely a single breath left between them. Conan contrived to stand, holding his comrades upright. He could not have done that and also kept running, not to save himself from all the Transformed at once.

It was then that he finally heard Illyana scream. He had never heard such a sound from a human throat. He had never imagined that a human throat could make such a sound. He did not enjoy knowing that it could.

Then the whole landscape turned green and the ground underfoot heaved.

"Down!"

Conan hurled himself and his comrades down the far slope of the hill. They rolled halfway to the foot, bruising and gouging already battered skins. What little remained of Conan's garments remained behind, as did Raihna's dagger.

Unable at last to rise, they lay and saw a vast cloud of smoke towering into the sky. It swirled and writhed and flashed lightning. Dreadful shapes in gray and green seemed to form themselves in the cloud, then vanish. The sound was as if the whole world was tearing itself apart, and the shaking of the ground made Conan wonder if this hill too was about to dissolve in magic-spawned chaos.

The shuddering of the ground and the thunder in the sky died away. Only the smoke cloud remained, now raining fragments of rock. As Conan sat up and began to count his limbs, a fragment the size of a man's head plummeted down barely ten paces away.

Raihna flinched, then looked down at herself.

"Conan, if you are going to embrace me in this state, let us seek a―a―ahhhhh!"

All her breath left her in a long wail. Then she began sobbing with more strength than Conan had thought she had in her.

Bora discreetly withdrew. When Raihna's weeping was done, he returned, wearing only his loincloth and carrying his trousers in his hand.

"Raihna, if you want some garb, I'll trade you this for my sling."

Raihna managed a smile. "Thank you, Bora. But I think it would be better cut up into strips and bound around our feet. We have some walking to do."

"Yes, and the sooner we start the better," Conan growled. Another rock crashing to earth nearby gave point to his remarks. "I think my sword has a better edge than my―Crom!"

A bladeless hilt rattled to the ground from Conan's scabbard. Raihna clutched at her own belt, to find both dagger and sword gone.

"The Jewels' magic has a long arm, it would seem," she said at last. "Well, Bora, I was right about your sling being free of magic. Would you care to try it?"

Conan reached into his boot and drew his spare dagger. "Illyana didn't touch this either." He stood. "Now, my friends, I am starting for Fort Zheman. I don't propose to stand around here gaping until a rock cracks my skull."

"At your command, Captain," Bora said formally. He offered a hand to Raihna. "My lady?"

The Bossonian woman rose, and together they turned away from the smoke cloud that marked the grave of Lady Illyana, briefly mistress of the Jewels of Kurag.

Twenty-three "So THERE YOU were, deep in the Ibars Mountains, with one pair of trousers, a
dagger, and a sling among the three of you. How did you contrive a way out?"

Mishrak sounded more amused than suspicious.

"We found help," Conan said. "Not that they wanted to help us, but we persuaded them."

"Them?"

"Four bandits," Raihna put in. "They were holding a mother and daughter captive.

The women were from a village destroyed by the Transformed. They fled the wrong way in the darkness and ran into the bandits."

"They must have been grateful for your help," Mishrak said.

"They helped us too," Conan added. "Bora and I crept close to the camp. Raihna stayed back, then stood up. Clothed as she was not, she made a fine sight. Two of the bandits ran out to win this prize.

"Bora killed one with his sling. I took the other with my dagger. One of the others ran at me but I knocked him down with a stone and Raihna kicked his ribs in.

The mother hit the last one with a stick of firewood. Then she pushed him face down into the campfire, to finish him off."

The delicate faces of Mishrak's guardswomen showed grim satisfaction at that last detail.

"And then?"

"Does it need telling? We took the bandits' clothes and everything else that we could carry and left the mountains. We saw no sign of the Transformed or Eremius's human fighters.

"On the third day we met the soldiers from Fort Zheman. They mounted us and took us back to the fort. We told Captain Khezal the whole tale. You may hear from him any day."

"I already have." The voice under the mask sounded meditative. "You left Fort Zheman rather in haste, did you not? And you took the tavern wench named Dessa with you."

"We heard that Lord Achmai was bringing up his men, to help scour the mountains for the last of the Transformed. Considering what happened at our first meeting with Lord Achmai, we decided it would serve the peace of the realm if we did not meet again."

Mishrak chuckled. "Conan, you almost said that as though you meant it. How is Dessa taking to Aghrapur?"

"She's in Pyla's hands, which are about the best to be found," Conan said.

"Beyond that, she's a girl I expect can make her own way almost anywhere."

"More than equal to the task, if you describe her truly. Is it the truth, by the way, that Pyla is buying the Red Falcon?"

"I'd hardly know."

"And if you did you wouldn't tell me, would you, Conan?"

"Well, my lord, I'd have to be persuaded it was your affair. But it's the truth that I don't know. Pyla can keep a secret better than you, when she wants to."

"So I have heard," Mishrak said. "You are no bad hand at telling tales, either.

Or rather, leaving tales untold."

Conan's fingers twitched from the urge to draw his sword. "It is not well done,
to say that those who have done you good service are lying."

"Then by all means let the truth be told. Did you intend to spare Yakoub?" A laugh rolled from under the mask, at Conan's look. "No, I have no magic to read your thoughts. I only have long practice in reading what is not put into letters, as well as what is. I could hardly serve King Yildiz half so well, did I lack this art.

"But my arts are not our concern now. I only ask―did you intend to spare Yakoub?"

Conan judged that he had little to lose by telling the truth. "I asked him to go back to his father and suggest they flee together."

"You thought High Captain Khadjar was a traitor?"

"His son was. Had Khadjar been innocent, would he have told everyone that his son was dead?"

"True enough. Yet―the son might also have hidden his tracks from his father. Did you think of that?"

Conan knew he was staring like a man newly risen from sleep and did not care.

Was Mishrak trying to argue for Khadjar's innocence? If he was not, then Conan's ears were not as they had been, thanks to Ulyana's magic.

"I did not."

"Well, let us both consider that possibility. If I need either of you again, I shall summon you. For your good service, my thanks." One gloved hand rose in dismissal.

At such brusqueness, Conan's first urge was to fling his reward money into the
pool at Mishrak's feet. Raihna's hand on his arm arrested the gesture, giving wisdom the time to prevail.

Why offend Mishrak, if he was in truth going to seek justice for Khadjar, rather than merely drag him to the executioner? Nor was there much Conan could do about it, if Mishrak was determined otherwise.

Others might have use for Mishrak's gold, even if the Cimmerian did not care to let the blood-price for Yakoub soil his fingers. Dessa, Bora and his family, the Hyrkanians who had guarded so faithfully and so carefully―he could find ways for every last brass of Mishrak's money if he wished.

Conan thrust the heavy bag into his belt pouch and held out his arm to Raihna.

"Shall we take our leave, my lady?"

"With the greatest of pleasure, Captain Conan."

They did not ask Mishrak's leave to go, but his guards made no obstacle to their leaving. Conan still did not feel his back safe until they had left not only Mishrak's house but the Saddlemaker's Quarter itself behind them.

Raihna drank from the same well she'd used as she led Conan toward Mishrak's house, what seemed months ago. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled for the first time since they reached Aghrapur.

"Conan, did I once hear you say you preferred to embrace me unclothed?"

The Cimmerian laughed. "When there's a bed ready to hand, yes."

"Then let us spend some of Mishrak's gold on that bed!"

They spent all of two nights and much of the day between in that bed, and little
of that time sleeping. It was still no great surprise to Conan when he awoke at dawn after the second night, to find the bed empty.

It was some days before Conan had time to think of Raihna or indeed any woman.

There was gold to be sent to Bora, Dessa, Pyla, Rhafi, and a half-score of others. There was a new sword to be ordered. There was a good deal of laziness to be purged from his company, although the sergeants had done their best.

When all this was in train, he had time to wonder where Raihna might have gone.

He also had time to consider what might have become of High Captain Khadjar. In the time Conan had known the man, Khadjar never let more than three days pass without a visit to his men. Now it was close to six days. Was there a way to ask, without betraying the secrets of his journey into the mountains?

Conan had found no answer by the morning of the eighth day. He was at the head of his company as they returned from an all-night ride, when a caravan trotted past. Through the dust, Conan saw a familiar face under a headdress, bringing up the rear of the caravan.

"Raihna!"

"Conan!" She turned her horse to meet him. Conan slowed his men to a walk, then reined in.

"So you're a caravan guard in truth. Where bound?"

"Aquilonia. I still cannot return home to Bossonia, until there is a price paid in blood or gold. But in Aquilonia, I might earn some of that gold, selling my sword. Also, Illyana's father has kin among the nobility of that realm. Some might feel that Illyana's friend for ten years had some claim on them."

"You'll still need luck."

"Who knows that better than I? If I don't have it, perhaps I can still find a home in Aquilonia. Some widowed merchant must be in need of a wife."

"You? A merchant's wife?" Conan tried to keep his laughter within the bounds of manners. "I won't say that's as against nature as Dessa's being faithful, but―"

"I've had ten years on the road with Illyana, and more of them good than bad.

Now―well, I find I want to know where my bones will lie, when it comes time to shed them."

"That's a desire that never troubled me," Conan said. "But the gods know, you deserve it if you want it. A swift and safe journey, and―"

"Oh, Conan!" She slapped her forehead, already caked with road dust. "The sun must have already addled my wits. Have you heard about Houma and Khadjar?"

Conan's horse nearly reared as his grip on the reins tightened. "What―what about them?"

"Houma is no longer one of the Seventeen Attendants. He has resigned because of ill-health and given large donations to the temples."

"Large enough that he'll have to sell some of his estates, I'd wager."

"I don't know. I only heard what the criers said in the streets this morning.

But it would surely make sense, to cut the sinews of Houma's son as well as Houma."

Conan thought that Houma's son would need cutting in other and more vital places before he was worth anything. But his company was almost past, and he had yet to hear about Khadjar.

Raihna read the question in his eyes. "This I only heard in the soldiers'

taverns, but all were saying the same thing. Khadjar has been promoted to Great Captain of Horse and goes to Aquilonia, to see how they fight upon the Pictish frontier. Some of the soldiers were angry, that the Aquilonians or any other northerners can teach the riders of Turan anything."

"I'd not wager either way." Conan also would not wager either way about the truth of the rumor. Khadjar might have been sent to Aquilonia, but would he reach it alive? If he did, would he survive learning how to fight Picts?

Still, it counted for something that Mishrak wanted men to think Khadjar had been honored and sent on a mission of trust. Perhaps Khadjar really had gone to Aquilonia―while Mishrak carefully removed all of his and Houma's allies from power, if not from the world. Perhaps promotion would keep Khadjar loyal hereafter, so that his gifts need not be lost to Turan.

Nothing certain anywhere, but that was no surprise. The world seldom was, at the best of times.

No, one thing was certain.

"Raihna, a bed doesn't feel quite the same without you in it."

"How long do you expect that to last, Cimmerian?"

"Oh, as much as another ten days―"

She aimed a mock-buffet at his head, then bent from her saddle and kissed him with no mockery at all.

"Whatever you seek, may you find it," she said. She put spurs to her mount and whirled away up the road toward her caravan.

Conan sat until Raihna was altogether out of sight. Then he turned his own mount's head the other way and spurred it to a canter. It would never do for the new High Captain of mercenaries to think that Conan the Cimmerian would neglect his men as soon as Khadjar's eye was no longer upon him!

The Bloodstained God

Conan continues his service as a soldier of Turan for a total period of about two years, traveling widely and learning the elements of organized warfare. As usual, trouble is his bedfellow. After one of his more unruly episodes―said to have involved the mistress of the commander of the cavalry division in which he was serving―Conan finds it expedient to desert from the Turanian army. Rumors of treasure send him seeking for loot in the Kezankian Mountains, along the eastern borders of Zamora.

It was dark as the Pit in that stinking alley down which Conan of Cimmeria groped on a quest as blind as the darkness around him. Had there been anyone to witness, they would have seen a tall and enormously powerful man clad in a flowing Zuagir khilat, over that a mail shirt of fine steel mesh, and over that a Zuagir cloak of camel's hair. His mane of black hair and his broad, somber, youthful face, bronzed by the desert sun, were hidden by the Zuagir kaffia.

A sharp, pain-edged cry smote his ears.

Such cries were not uncommon in the twisting alleys of Arenjun, the City of Thieves, and no cautious or timid man would think of interfering in an affair that was none of his business. But Conan was neither cautious nor timid. His ever-lively curiosity would not let him pass by a cry for help; besides, he was searching for certain men, and the disturbance might be a clue to their whereabouts.

Obeying his quick barbarian instincts, he turned toward a beam of light that lanced the darkness close at hand. An instant later he peered through a crack in the close-drawn shutters of a window in a thick stone wall.

He was looking into a spacious room hung with velvet tapestries and littered with costly rugs and couches. About one of these couches a group of men clustered―six brawny Zamorian bravos and two more who eluded identification. On that couch another man was stretched out, a Kezankian tribesman naked to the waist. Though he was a powerful man, a ruffian as muscular as himself gripped each wrist and ankle. Between the four of them they had him spread-eagled on the couch, unable to move, though the muscles stood out in quivering knots on his limbs and shoulders. His eyes gleamed redly and his broad chest glistened with sweat. As Conan looked, a supple man in a turban of red silk lifted a glowing coal from a smoking brazier with a pair of tongs and poised it over the quivering breast, already scarred from similar torture.

Another man, taller than the one with the red turban, snarled a question Conan could not understand. The Kezankian shook his head violently and spat savagely at the questioner. The red-hot coal dropped full on the hairy breast, wrenching an inhuman bellow from the sufferer. In that instant Conan launched his full weight against the shutters.

The Cimmerian's action was not so impulsive as it looked. For his present purposes he needed a friend among the hillmen of the Kezankian range, a people notoriously hostile to all strangers. And here was a chance to get one. The shutters splintered inward with a crash, and he hit the floor inside feet-first, scimitar in one hand and Zuagir sword-knife in the other. The torturers whirled and yelped in astonishment.

They saw a tall, massive figure clad in the garments of a Zuagir, with a fold of his flowing kaffia drawn about his face. Over his mask his eyes blazed a volcanic blue. For an instant the scene held, frozen, then melted into ferocious action.

The man in the red turban snapped a quick word, and a hairy giant lunged to meet the oncoming intruder. The Zamorian held a three-foot sword low, and as he charged he ripped murderously upward. But the down-lashing scimitar met the rising wrist. The hand, still gripping the knife, flew from that wrist in a shower of blood, and the long narrow blade in Conan's left hand sliced through the man's throat, choking the grunt of agony.

Over the crumpling corpse the Cimmerian leaped at Red Turban and his tall companion. Red Turban drew a knife, the tall man a saber.

"Cut him down, Jillad!" snarled Red Turban, retreating before the Cimmerian's impetuous onslaught "Zal, help here!"

The man called Jillad parried Conan's slash and cut back. Conan avoided the swipe with a shift that would have shamed the leap of a starving panther, and the same movement brought him within reach of Red Turban's knife. The knife shot out; the point struck Conan's side but failed to pierce the shirt of black ring mail. Red Turban leaped back, so narrowly avoiding Conan's knife that the lean blade slit his silken vest and the skin beneath. He tripped over a stool and fell sprawling, but before Conan could follow up his advantage, Jillad was pressing him, raining blows with his saber.

As he parried, the Cimmerian saw that the man called Zal was advancing with a heavy poleax, while Red Turban was scrambling to his feet.

Conan did not wait to be surrounded. A swipe of his scimitar drove Jillad back on his heels. Then, as Zal raised the poleax, Conan darted in under the blow, and the next instant Zal was down, writhing in his own blood and entrails. Conan leaped for the men who still gripped the prisoner. They let go of the man, shouting and drawing their tulwars.

One struck at the Kezankian, who evaded the blow by rolling off the bench. Then Conan was between him and them. He retreated before their blows, snarling at the Kezankian:

"Get out! Ahead of me! Quickly!"

"Dogs!" screamed Red Turban. "Don't let them escape!"

"Come and taste of death yourself, dog!" Conan laughed wildly, speaking Zamorian with a barbarous accent.

The Kezankian, weak from torture, slid back a bolt and threw open a door giving upon a small court. He stumbled across the court while behind him Conan faced his tormentors in the doorway, where in the confined space their very numbers hindered them. He laughed and cursed them as he parried and thrust. Red Turban was dancing behind the mob, shrieking curses. Conan's scimitar licked out like the tongue of a cobra, and a Zamorian shrieked and fell, clutching his belly. Jillad, lunging, tripped over him and fell. Before the cursing, squirming figures that jammed the doorway could untangle themselves, Conan turned and ran across the yard toward a wall over which the Kezankian had already disappeared.

Sheathing his weapons, Conan leaped and caught the coping, swung himself up, and had one glimpse of the black, winding street outside.

Then something smashed against his head, and limply he toppled from the wall into the shadowy street below.

The tiny glow of a taper in his face roused Conan. He sat up, blinking and cursing, and groped for his sword. Then the light was blown out and a voice spoke in the darkness:

"Be at ease, Conan of Cimmeria. I am your friend."

"Who in Crom's name are you?" demanded Conan. He had found his scimitar on the ground nearby, and he stealthily gathered his legs under him for a spring. He was in the street at the foot of the wall from which he had fallen, and the other man was but a dim bulk looming over him in the shadowy starlight.

"Your friend," repeated the other in a soft Iranistanian accent. "Call me Sassan."

Conan rose, scimitar in hand. The Iranistani extended something toward him. Conan caught the glint of steel in the starlight, but before he could strike he saw that it was his own knife, hilt first.

"You're as suspicious as a starving wolf, Conan," laughed Sassan. "But save your steel for your enemies."

"Where are they?" Conan took the knife.

"Gone. Into the mountains, on the trail of the bloodstained god."

Conan started and caught Sassan's khilat in an iron grip and glared into the man's dark eyes, mocking and mysterious in the starlight.

"Damn you, what know you of the bloodstained god?" Conan's knife touched the Iranistani's side below his ribs.

"I know this," said Sassan. "You came to Arenjun following thieves who stole from you the map of a treasure greater than Yildiz's hoard. I, too, came seeking something. I was hiding nearby, watching through a hole in the wall, when you burst into the room where the Kezankian was being tortured. How did you know it was they who stole your map?"

"I didn't," muttered Conan. "I heard a man cry out and thought it a good idea to interfere. If I had known they were the men I sought… how much do you know?"

"This much. Hidden in the mountains near here is an ancient temple which the hill folk fear to enter. It is said to go back to Pre-Cataclysmic times, though the wise men disagree as to whether it is Grondarian or was built by the unknown pre-human folk who ruled the Hyrkanians just after the Cataclysm.

"The Kezankians forbid the region to all outsiders, but a Nemedian named Ostorio did find the temple. He entered it and discovered a golden idol crusted with red jewels, which he called the bloodstained god. He could not bring it away with him, as it was bigger than a man, but he made a map, intending to return. Although he got safely away, he was stabbed by some ruffian in Shadizar and died there. Before he died he gave the map to you, Conan."

"Well?" demanded Conan grimly. The house behind him was dark and still.

"The map was stolen," said Sassan. "By whom, you know."

"I didn't know at the time," growled Conan. "Later I learned the thieves were Zyras, a Corinthian, and Arshak, a disinherited Turanian prince. Some skulking servant spied on Ostorio as he lay dying and told them. Though I knew neither by sight, I traced them to this city.

Tonight I learned they were hiding in this alley. I was blundering about looking for a clue when I stumbled into that brawl."

"You fought them in ignorance!" said Sassan. "The Kezankian was Rustum, a spy of the Kezankian chieftain Keraspa. They lured him into their house and were singeing him to make him tell them of the secret trails through the mountains. You know the rest."

"All except what happened when I climbed the wall."

"Somebody threw a stool at you and hit your head. When you fell outside the wall they paid you no more heed, either thinking you were dead or not knowing you in your mask. They chased the Kezankian, but whether they caught him I know not. Soon they returned, saddled up, and rode like madmen westward, leaving the dead where they fell. I came to see who you were and recognized you."

"Then the man in the red turban was Arshak," muttered Conan. "But where was Zyras?"

"Disguised as a Turanian―the man they called Jillad."

"Oh. Well then?" growled Conan.

"Like you, I want the red god, even though of all the men who have sought it down the centuries only Ostorio escaped with his life. There is supposed to be some mysterious curse on would-be plunderers―"

"What know you of that?" said Conan, sharply.

Sassan shrugged. "Nothing much. The folk of Kezankia speak of a doom that the god inflicts on those who raise covetous hands against him, but I'm no superstitious fool. You're not afraid, are you?"

"Of course not!" As a matter of fact Conan was. Though he feared no man or beast, the supernatural filled his barbarian's mind with atavistic terrors. Still, he did not care to admit the fact. "What have you in mind?"

"Why, only that neither of us can fight Zyras' whole band alone, but together we can follow them and take the idol from them. What do you say?"

"Aye, I'll do it. But I'll kill you like a dog if you try any tricks!"

Sassan laughed. "I know you would, so you can trust me. Come; I have horses waiting."

The Iranistani led the way through twisting streets overhung with latticed balconies and along stinking alleys until he stopped at the lamplit door of a courtyard. At his knock, a bearded face appeared at the wicket. After some muttered words, the gate opened. Sassan strode in, Conan following suspiciously. But the horses were there, and a word from the keeper of the serai set sleepy servants to saddling them and filling the saddle pouches with food.

Soon Conan and Sassan were riding together out of the west gate, perfunctorily challenged by the sleepy guard. Sassan was portly but muscular, with a broad, shrewd face and dark, alert eyes. He bore a horseman's lance over his shoulder and handled his weapons with the expertness of practice. Conan did not doubt that in a pinch he would fight with cunning and courage. Conan also did not doubt that he could trust Sassan to play fair just so long as the alliance was to his advantage, and to murder his partner at the first opportunity when it became expedient to do so in order to keep all the treasure himself.

Dawn found them riding through the rugged defiles of the bare, brown, rocky Kezankian Mountains, separating the easternmost marches of Koth and Zamora from the Turanian steppes. Though both Koth and Zamora claimed the region, neither had been able to subdue it, and the town of Arenjun, perched on a steep-sided hill, had successfully withstood two sieges by the Turanian hordes from the east. The road branched and became fainter until Sassan confessed himself at a loss to know where they were.

"I'm still following their tracks," grunted Conan. "If you cannot see them, I can."

Hours passed, and signs of the recent passage of horses became clear.

Conan said: "We're closing on them, and they still outnumber us. Let us stay out of sight until they get the idol, then ambush them and take it from them."

Sassan's eyes gleamed. "Good! But let's be wary; this is the country of Keraspa, who robs all he catches."

Midafternoon found them still following the trace of an ancient, forgotten road. As they rode toward a narrow gorge, Sassan said:

"If that Kezankian got back to Keraspa, the Kezankians will be alert for strangers…"

They reined up as a lean, hawk-faced Kezankian rode out of the gorge with hand upraised. "Halt!" he cried. "By what leave do you ride in the land of Keraspa?"

"Careful," muttered Conan. "They may be all around us."

"Keraspa claims toll on travelers," answered Sassan under his breath.

"Maybe that is all this fellow wants." Fumbling in his girdle, he said to the tribesman: "We are but poor travelers, glad to pay your brave chief's toll. We ride alone."

"Then who is that behind you?" demanded the Kezankian, nodding his head in the direction from which they had come.

Sassan half turned his head. Instantly the Kezankian whipped a dagger from his girdle and struck at the Iranistani.

Quick as he was, Conan was quicker. As the dagger darted at Sassan's throat, Conan's scimitar flashed and steel rang. The dagger whirled away, and with a snarl the Kezankian caught at his sword. Before he could pull the blade free, Conan struck again, cleaving turban and skull. The Kezankian's horse neighed and reared, throwing the corpse headlong. Conan wrenched his own steed around.

"Ride for the gorge!" he yelled. "It's an ambush!"

As the Kezankian tumbled to earth, there came the flat snap of bows and the whistle of arrows. Sassan's horse leaped as an arrow struck it in the neck and bolted for the mouth of the defile. Conan felt an arrow tug at his sleeve as he struck in the spurs and fled after Sassan, who was unable to control his beast.

As they swept towards the mouth of the gorge, three horsemen rode out swinging broad-bladed tulwars. Sassan, abandoning his effort to check his maddened mount, drove his lance at the nearest. The spear transfixed the man and hurled him out of the saddle.

The next instant Conan was even with a second swordsman, who swung the heavy tulwar. The Cimmerian threw up his scimitar and the blades met with a crash as the horses came together breast to breast. Conan, rising in his stirrups, smote downwards with all his immense strength, beating down the tulwar and splitting the skull of the wielder. Then he was galloping up the gorge with arrows screeching past him. Sassan's wounded horse stumbled and went down; the Iranistani leaped clear as it fell.

Conan pulled up, snarling: "Get up behind me!" Sassan, lance in hand, leaped up behind the saddle. A touch of the spurs, and the heavily-burdened horse set off down the gorge. Yells behind showed that the tribesmen were scampering to their hidden horses. A turn in the gorge muffled the noises.

"That Kezankian spy must have gotten back to Keraspa," panted Sassan.

"They want blood, not gold. Do you suppose they have wiped out Zyras?"

"He might have passed before they set up their ambush, or they might have been following him when they turned to trap us. I think he's still ahead of us."

A mile further on they heard faint sounds of pursuit. Then they came out into a natural bowl walled by sheer cliffs. From the midst of this bowl a slope led up to a bottleneck pass on the other side. As they neared this pass, Conan saw that a low stone wall closed the gut of the pass. Sassan yelled and jumped down from the horse as a flight of arrows screeched past. One struck the horse in the chest.

The beast lurched to a thundering fall, and Conan jumped clear and rolled behind a cluster of rocks, where Sassan had already taken cover.

More arrows splintered against boulders or stuck quivering in the earth. The two adventurers looked at each other with sardonic humor.

"We've found Zyras!" said Sassan.

"In an instant," laughed Conan, "they'll rush us, and Keraspa will come up beehind us to close the trap."

A taunting voice shouted: "Come out and get shot, curs! Who's the Zuagir with you, Sassan? I thought I had brained him last night!"

"My name is Conan," roared the Cimmerian.

After a moment of silence, Zyras shouted: "I might have known! Well, we have you now!"

"You're in the same fix!" yelled Conan. "You heard the fighting back down the gorge?"

"Aye; we heard it when we stopped to water the horses. Who's chasing you?"

"Keraspa and a hundred Kezankians! When we are dead, do you think he'll let you go after you tortured one of his men?"

"You had better let us join you," added Sassan.

"Is that the truth?" yelled Zyras, his turbaned head appearing over the wall.

"Are you deaf, man?" retorted Conan.

The gorge reverberated with yells and hoofbeats.

"Get in, quickly!" shouted Zyras. "Time enough to divide the idol if we get out of this alive."

Conan and Sassan leaped up and ran up the slope to the wall, where hairy arms helped them over. Conan looked at his new allies: Zyras, grim and hard-eyed in his Turanian guise; Arshak, still dapper after leagues of riding; and three swarthy Zamorians who bared their teeth in greeting. Zyras and Arshak each wore a shirt of chain mail like those of Conan and Sassan.

The Kezankians, about a score of them, reined up as the bows of the Zamorians and Arshak sent arrows swishing among them. Some of them shot back; others whirled and rode back out of range to dismount, as the wall was too high to be carried by a mounted charge. One saddle was emptied and one wounded horse bolted back down the gorge with its rider.

"They must have been following us," snarled Zyras. "Conan, you lied!

That is no hundred men!"

"Enough to cut our throats," said Conan, trying his sword. "And Keraspa can send for reinforcements whenever he likes."

Zyras growled: "We have a chance behind this wall. I believe it was built by the same race that built the red god's temple. Save your arrows for the rush."

Covered by a continuous discharge of arrows from four of their number on the flanks, the rest of the Kezankians ran up the slope in a solid mass, those in front holding up light bucklers. Behind them Conan saw Keraspa's red beard as the wily chief urged his men on.

"Shoot!" screamed Zyras. Arrows plunged into the mass of men and three writhing figures were left behind on the slope, but the rest came on, eyes glaring and blades glittering in hairy fists.

The defenders shot their last arrows into the mass and then rose up behind the wall, drawing steel. The mountaineers rolled up against the wall. Some tried to boost their fellows up to the top; others pushed small boulders up against the foot of the wall to provide steps. Along the barrier sounded the smash of bone-breaking blows, the rasp and slither of steel, the gasping oaths of dying men. Conan hewed the head from the body of a Kezankian, and beside him saw Sassan thrust his spear into the open mouth of another until the point came out the back of the man's neck. A wild-eyed tribesman stabbed a long knife into the belly of one of the Zamorians. Into the gap left by the falling body the howling Kezankian lunged, hurling himself up and over the wall before Conan could stop him. The giant Cimmerian took a cut on his left arm and crushed in the man's shoulder with a return blow.

Leaping over the body, he hewed into the men swarming up over the wall with no time to see how the fight was going on either side. Zyras was cursing in Corinthian and Arshak in Hyrkanian. Somebody screamed in mortal agony. A tribesman got a pair of gorilla-like hands on Conan's thick neck, but the Cimmerian tensed his neck muscles and stabbed low with his knife again and again until with a moan the Kezankian released him and toppled from the wall.

Gasping for air, Conan looked about him, realizing that the pressure had slackened. The few remaining Kezankians were staggering down the slope, all streaming blood. Corpses lay piled deep at the foot of the wall. All three of the Zamorians were dead or dying, and Conan saw Arshak sitting with his back against the wall, his hands pressed to his body while blood seeped between his fingers. The prince's lips were blue, but he achieved a ghastly smile.

"Born in a palace," he whispered, "and dying behind a rock wall! No matter―it is fate. There is a curse on the treasure―all men who rode on the trail of the blood stained god have died…" And he died.

Zyras, Conan, and Sassan glanced silently at one another: three grim tattered figures, all splashed with blood. All had taken minor wounds on their limbs, but their mail shirts had saved them from the death that had befallen their companions.

"I saw Keraspa sneaking off!" snarled Zyras. "He'll make for his village and get the whole tribe on our trail. Let us make a race of it: get the idol and drag it out of the mountains before he catches us.

There's enough treasure for all."

"True," growled Conan. "But give me back my map before we start."

Zyras opened his mouth to speak, and then saw that Sassan had picked up one of the Zamorians' bows and had drawn an arrow on him. "Do as Conan tells you," said the Iranistani.

Zyras shrugged and handed over a crumpled parchment "Curse you, I still deserve a third of the treasure!"

Conan glanced at the map and thrust it into his girdle. "All right; I'll not hold a grudge. You're a swine, but if you play fair with us we'll do the same, eh, Sassan?"

Sassan nodded and gathered up a quiverful of arrows.

The horses of Zyras' party were tied in the pass behind the wall. The three men mounted the best beasts and led the three others, up the canyon behind the pass. Night fell, but with Keraspa behind them they pushed recklessly on.

Conan watched his companions like a hawk. The most dangerous time would come when they had secured the golden statue and no longer needed each other's help. Then Zyras and Sassan might conspire to murder Conan, or one of them might approach him with a plan to slay the third man. Tough and ruthless though the Cimmerian was, his barbaric code of honor would not let him be the first to try treachery.

He also wondered what it was that the maker of the map had tried to tell him just before he died. Death had come upon Ostorio in the midst of a description of the temple, with a gush of blood from his mouth.

The Nemedian had been about to warn him of something, he thought―but of what?

Dawn broke as they came out of a narrow gorge into a steep-walled valley. The defile through which they had entered was the only way in.

It came out upon a ledge thirty paces wide, with the cliff rising a bowshot above it on one side and falling away to an unmeasurable depth below. There seemed no way down into the mist-veiled depths of the valley far below. The men wasted few glances in this direction, for the sight ahead drove hunger and fatigue from their minds.

There on the ledge stood the temple, gleaming in the rising sun. It was carved out of the sheer rock of the cliff, its great portico facing them. The ledge led to its great bronzen door, green with age.

What race or culture it represented Conan did not try to guess. He unfolded the map and glanced at the notes on the margin, trying to discover a method of opening the door.

But Sassan slipped from his saddle and ran ahead of them, crying out in his greed.

"Fool!" grunted Zyras, swinging down from his horse. "Ostorio left a warning on the margin of the map; something about the god's taking his toll."

Sassan was pulling at the various ornaments and projections on the portal. They heard him cry out in triumph as it moved under his hands.

Then his cry changed to a scream as the door, a ton of bronze, swayed outward and fell crashing, squashing the Iranistani like an insect. He was completely hidden by the great metal slab, from beneath which oozed streams of crimson.

Zyras shrugged. "I said he was a fool. Ostorio must have found some way to swing the door without releasing it from its hinges."

One less knife in the back to watch for, thought Conan. "Those hinges are false," he said, examining the mechanism at close range. "Ho! The door is rising back up again!"

The hinges were, as Conan had said, fakes. The door was actually mounted on a pair of swivels at the lower corners so that it could fall outward like a drawbridge. From each upper corner of the door a chain ran diagonally up, to disappear into a hole near the upper corner of the door-frame. Now, with a distant grinding sound, the chains had tautened and had started to pull the door back up into its former position.

Conan snatched up the lance that Sassan had dropped. Placing the butt in a hollow in the carvings of the inner surface of the door, he wedged the point into the corner of the door frame. The grinding sound ceased and the door stopped moving in a nine-tenths open position.

"That was clever, Conan," said Zyras. "As the god has now had his toll, the way should be open."

He stepped up on to the inner surface of the door and strode into the temple. Conan followed. They paused on the threshold and peered into the shadowy interior as they might have peered into a serpent's lair.

Silence held the ancient temple, broken only by the soft scuff of their boots.

They entered cautiously, blinking in the half-gloom. In the dimness, a blaze of crimson like the glow of a sunset smote their eyes. They saw the god, a thing of gold crusted with flaming gems.

The statue, a little bigger than life size, was in the form of a dwarfish man standing upright on great splay feet on a block of basalt.

The statue faced the entrance, and on each side of it stood a great carven chair of dense black wood, inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl in a style unlike that of any living nation.

To the left of the statue, a few feet from the base of the pedestal, the floor of the temple was cleft from wall to wall by a chasm some fifteen feet wide. At some time, probably before the temple had been built, an earthquake had split the rock. Into that black abyss, ages ago, screaming victims had doubtless been hurled by hideous priests as sacrifices to the god. The walls were lofty and fantastically carved, the roof dim and shadowy above.

But the attention of the men was fixed on the idol. Though a brutish and repellant monstrosity, it represented wealth that made Conan's brain swim.

"Crom and Ymir!" breathed Conan. "One could buy a kingdom with those rubies!"

"Too much to share with a lout of a barbarian," panted Zyras.

These words, spoken half-unconsciously between the Corinthian's clenched teeth, warned Conan. He ducked just as Zyras' sword whistled towards his neck; the blade sliced a fold from his headdress. Cursing his own carelessness, Conan leaped back and drew his scimitar.

Zyras came on in a rush and Conan met him. Back and forth they fought before the leering idol, feet scuffing on the rock, blades rasping and ringing. Conan was larger than the Corinthian, but Zyras was strong, agile, and experienced, full of deadly tricks. Again and again Conan dodged death by a hair's breadth.

Then Conan's foot slipped on the smooth floor and his blade wavered.

Zyras threw all his strength and speed into a lunge that would have driven his saber through Conan. But the Cimmerian was not so off balance as he looked. With the suppleness of a panther, he twisted his powerful body aside so that the long blade passed under his right armpit, plowing through his loose khilat. For an instant, the blade caught in the cloth. Zyras stabbed with the dagger in his left hand.

The blade sank into Conan's right arm, and at the same time the knife in Conan's left drove through Zyras' mail shirt, snapping the links, and plunged between Zyras' ribs. Zyras screamed, gurgled, reeled back, and fell limply.

Conan dropped his weapons and knelt, ripping a strip of cloth from his robe for a bandage, to add to those he already wore. He bound up the wound, tying knots with fingers and teeth, and glanced at the bloodstained god leering down at him. Its gargoyle face seemed to gloat. Conan shivered as the superstitious fears of the barbarian ran down his spine.

Then he braced himself. The red god was his, but the problem was, how to get the thing away? If it were solid it would be much too heavy to move, but a tap of the butt of his knife assured him that it was hollow. He was pacing about, his head full of schemes for knocking one of the carven thrones apart to make a sledge, levering the god off its base, and hauling it out of the temple by means of the extra horses and the chains that worked the falling front door, when a voice made him whirl.

"Stand where you are!" It was a shout of triumph in the Kezankian dialect of Zamoria.

Conan saw two men in the doorway, each aiming at him a heavy double-curved bow of the Hyrkanian type. One was tall, lean, and red-bearded.

"Keraspa!" said Conan, reaching for the sword and the knife he had dropped.

The other man was a powerful fellow who seemed familiar.

"Stand back!" said the Kezankian chief. "You thought I had run away to my village, did you not? Well, I followed you all night, with the only one of my men not wounded." His glance appraised the idol. "Had I known the temple contained such treasure I should have looted it long ago, despite the superstitions of my people. Rustum, pick up his sword and dagger."

The man stared at the brazen hawk's head that formed the pommel of Conan's scimitar.

"Wait!" he cried. "This is he who saved me from torture in Arenjun! I know this blade!"

"Be silent!" snarled the chief. "The thief dies!"

"Nay! He saved my life! What have I ever had from you but hard tasks and scanty pay? I renounce my allegiance, you dog!"

Rustum stepped forward, raising Conan's sword, but then Keraspa turned and released his arrow. The missile thudded into Rustum's body. The tribesman shrieked and staggered back under the impact, across the floor of the temple, and over the edge of the chasm. His screams came up, fainter and fainter, until they could no longer be heard.

Quick as a striking snake, before the unarmed Conan could spring upon him, Keraspa whipped another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Conan had taken one step in a tigerish rush that would have thrown him upon the chief anyway when, without the slightest warning, the ruby-crusted god stepped down from its pedestal with a heavy metallic sound and took one long stride towards Keraspa.

With a frightful scream, the chief released his arrow at the animated statue. The arrow struck the god's shoulder and bounced high, turning over and over, and the idol's long arms shot out and caught the chief by an arm and a leg.

Scream after scream came from the foaming lips of Keraspa as the god turned and moved ponderously towards the chasm. The sight had frozen Conan with horror, and now the idol blocked his way to the exit; either to the right or the left his path would take him within reach of one of those ape-long arms. And the god, for all its mass, moved as quickly as a man.

The red god neared the chasm and raised Keraspa high over its head to hurl him into the depths. Conan saw Keraspa's mouth open in the midst of his foam-dabbled beard, shrieking madly. When Keraspa had been disposed of, no doubt the statue would take care of him. The ancient priests did not have to throw the god's victims into the gulf; the image took care of that detail himself.

As the god swayed back on its golden heels to throw the chief, Conan, groping behind him, felt the wood of one of the thrones. These had no doubt been occupied by the high priests or other functionaries of the cult in the ancient days. Conan turned, grasped the massive chair by its back, and lifted it. With muscles cracking under the strain, he whirled the throne over his head and struck the god's golden back between the shoulders, just as Keraspa's body, still screaming, was cast into the abyss.

The wood of the throne splintered under the impact with a rending crash. The blow caught the deity moving forward with the impulse that it had given Keraspa and overbalanced it. For the fraction of a second the monstrosity tottered on the edge of the chasm, long golden arms lashing the air; and then it, too, toppled into the gulf.

Conan dropped the remains of the throne to peer over the edge of the abyss. Keraspa's screams had ceased. Conan fancied that he heard a distant sound such as the idol might have made in striking the side of the cliff and bouncing off, far below, but he could not be sure. There was no final crash or thump; only silence.

Conan drew his muscular forearm across his forehead and grinned wryly.

The curse of the bloodstained god was ended, and the god with it. For all the wealth that had gone into the chasm with the idol, the Cimmerian was not sorry to have bought his life at that price. And there were other treasures.

He gathered up his sword and Rustum's bow, and went out into the morning sunshine to pick a horse.

Conan the Valorous

One

In the City of the Plain

Through the narrow window, with its pointed apex and ornate plaster molding, could be heard the sound of the huge drum that hung from poles of bronze above the Great Gate of Khorshemish. The deep reverberations were taken up by other, lesser drums above the city's eleven smaller gates, serving notice to all that the massive oaken doors were about to shut for the night. Any now outside who did not scurry within ere the gates closed must remain through the dark hours upon the grassy plain, and not seek to enter the city upon pain of death.

The woman who sat behind the massive table looked up from the fine parchment upon which she was writing in the tortuous hieroglyphs of Stygia. The last red rays of sunlight streaming through the lancet window glittered upon the serpent bracelets circling her bare arms and on the cobra-headed band of gold that rested above her straight black brows. At a slight beckoning of her hand a tall man strode from the corner of the room in which he had been standing. His dress was that of a desert man from east of Shem.

"Moulay," the woman said, "it is time. Go and find this man of whom
we have been told, and bring him here. As you go, tell our host to send up more lamps. I would see the man when he arrives."

The man called Moulay bowed with hand to breast. "As you command, my lady."

He descended the broad stairway to the tessellated floor of the small courtyard, which surrounded a marble pool. After delivering the order for lamps, he walked out through the pointed archway, which gave onto the narrow street.

At this time of evening the street was devoid of all except foot traffic.

The animals of farmers and caravaneers were banished to pens and stables without the city walls during the night hours, and the small merchants of the marketplaces were folding up their mats and awnings.

Stopping occasionally to ask directions of local residents, Moulay made his way into the oldest part of the city, where the streets were even narrower, the buildings shabbier, and the noise much louder. If the rest of the city were shutting down for the night, this district was just beginning to open up. Heavily painted women in revealing dress called to him as he passed. Moulay ignored them, his carriage and stride bespeaking his heritage as a proud desert man, his swarthy, scarred face and fierce gaze discouraging any thoughts of violence from the minds of lurking footpads.

The inn he sought was a dilapidated place; great chunks of whitewashed plaster had fallen away from its walls, exposing the ugly brown mud brick beneath. Moulay stooped low as he passed through the doorway into the dim, smoky interior of the common room. A short fat man came up to him, wiping his hands upon his soiled apron.

"Welcome, sir," the innkeeper said above the sound of a few musicians'

tuneless, wailing music. "Would you have food? Wine? Lodging? All is to be had at this house."

Moulay held up a silver coin and said a few words to the man, whose face took on a look of wonderment.

"The Cimmerian? Yes, he is here, but what use have you for that rogue?"

"My business with him is none of your concern. Just lead me to him."

Moulay looked about the room for a man who answered the description his mistress had given him.

"These Cimmerians breed to type," she had said. "He will be tall, and dark-haired. His eyes will probably be blue. His skin will be pale or dark, depending upon how much he has been in the sun of late. He will almost certainly be stronger and quicker than most men. Like all northern barbarians, the Cimmerians are known for uncertain moods and quick tempers. Take care with him."

Moulay saw no man in this room who answered that description. A few tables held small parties of townsmen or foreigners, most of them caravaneers. The slow rattle of the dice bespoke the earliness of the hour.

Later, after the wine had flowed freely, things might well get raucous, culminating in a brawl broken up by the city watch.

Seeing the direction of Moulay's gaze, the innkeeper said: "No, he is not here, although he has been making this room a living hell all month. Come with me."

Moulay strode across the common room and up a flight of rickety wooden stairs. The loft above had been divided by thin partitions into a multitude of tiny, dark cubicles. The innkeeper took a lantern from a wall hook, and going to the last and smallest room, held the lamp high. The doorway had not so much as a curtain, and Moulay looked inside.

The desert man's thin lips curved into a contemptuous smile. " This is the great Cimmerian warrior?" he demanded.

The occupant of the room, half-sitting, his back against the wall, was snoring faintly, his massive arms folded across his breast. The man's shaggy head was sunk upon his chest, and his only clothing was a ragged white loincloth. On his feet were sandals with holes worn in their soles.

The room's only furnishing was a thin carpet.

"He calls himself Conan, and he arrived here a month ago looking like a Turanian general at the very least," the innkeeper explained. "He had a fine horse and saddle, a sword, armor, bow―everything. He had money, too, and he spent it freely. Every night he drank and gambled with his friends and bought them wine. When his money was gone he wagered his weapons and horse and his other belongings. What he has left is what you see now. I tried to throw him out this morning, but he threatened to break
my neck. I was waiting for the watch to make their first rounds for the night to have them take him away."

"Then he is just a thief," Moulay said, "and a stupid one. He must have stolen those things he came here with. This can be no warrior. Well, I must bring him nevertheless. You may go, but leave the lantern." With an expressive shrug the innkeeper did as he was bidden.

Moulay hung the lantern on a peg, squatted by the sleeping Cimmerian, and reached out to shake his shoulder. The instant Moulay's fingers touched the bronzed skin a massive hand shot out and gripped him by the neck. Moulay reached for his dagger, but his fingers found a big-knuckled hand gripping its haft. The eyes that glared at him were bright and unclouded. An ordinary man woke slowly, bleary-eyed and befuddled. Yet Moulay knew that the man had not been shamming sleep.

"Do you think I'm that easy to rob, dog?" growled the Cimmerian. His voice was deep, and his accent grated upon the ear.

"Have I any use for your filthy loincloth or your foul sandals, fool?"

Moulay managed to choke out.

The grip on his throat eased somewhat. "Then why do you disturb my sleep, dog?"

"I am here," Moulay said, "to bring you to my mistress. She has a commission to be performed for which she will pay you well."

The Cimmerian released Moulay and rose. He was taller than the desert man had expected. "What commission? I'll fight for pay, but I am neither assassin nor bravo. Nor a fool to be gulled."

Outraged at this cavalier handling, Moulay straightened his robes. "She will tell you what she wants. Come with me."

The Cimmerian stretched. "I haven't eaten in two days and I'm famished. Your mistress will get little from me if I drop from hunger before I see her."

Fuming, Moulay said, "I'll buy your dinner, barbarian. Come downstairs and feed until you can hold no more."

Conan grinned. "That takes more than you would think."

Moulay scratched at the door to his lady's chamber. True to his promise, Conan had eaten enough for three men and had lost much of his surliness, even though Moulay had refused him any wine prior to his interview.

As the two had entered the most expensive inn in Khorshemish, the innkeeper had regarded the towering, nearly-naked barbarian with a dismay that bordered on horror. Conan cared little about the thoughts of a mere townsman, but he knew that his appearance might not favorably impress a prospective patron.

At Moulay's signal a woman's voice called, "Enter."

The two men went inside. "My lady, this is the Cimmerian you wished to see. His name is Conan."

Moulay stepped aside and Conan stared at the woman. She was beautiful, with square-cut black hair, a dark complexion, and fine, aristocratic features. Her eyes were large and black, rimmed with heavy kohl. The kohl, her serpent-decorated jewelry, and her severe black robes proclaimed her a Stygian. He had no love for Stygia, nor for its ancient evils and sorceries.

"I am Hathor-Ka," she said. "Come closer."

Reluctantly, Conan obeyed. Starting at his toes, the woman studied every inch of his body, pausing to take note of the powerful thighs, the lean waist and broad chest, his heavy arms and thick, swordsman's wrists.

"Turn around," she ordered. Not sure why he did so, Conan obeyed and she gave his back the same careful scrutiny. "You seem fit," she pronounced at length.

Conan turned to face her. She had the impassive Stygian countenance that made age difficult to judge. She might have been in late youth or early middle age; and although her beauty was great, it left him unstirred.

"You are a Cimmerian," she said. "I have need of a Cimmerian."

"Why a Cimmerian?" he asked. "I've been hired for my good sword arm
before, and even for my skill as a thief, but never for the land of my birth."

She leaned back slightly and gazed up at him with unfathomable eyes.

"I wish you to undertake a mission for me to your homeland. You must deliver something for me, to a certain mountain cave in Cimmeria. In return"―she reached beneath her robe and drew forth a leathern bag which she dropped to the table with a loud klink―"this shall be yours.

Open it."

Conan picked up the bag and loosened its drawstrings. Fine gold Aquilonian coins sparkled in the candlelight. His heart exulted but he let nothing show in his face or voice. "What are the terms? Half now and half when I've made your delivery?"

"No. If you agree to undertake this mission, it is yours now."

"You are trusting," the Cimmerian said. "How do you know I won't toss your parcel into the nearest bush when I ride from here?"

"I am many things, Cimmerian," Hathor-Ka said, "but trusting I am not. You Cimmerians are said to be people who do not give their word lightly. Swear that you will do my bidding in this without fail."

"So be it." Conan tossed up the bag and caught it as it fell. "I swear I will take whatever it is to Cimmeria, and deliver it to this mountain cave you speak of."

"That is not enough!" she said.

"Why not?" he said, nettled. "I do not break my word."

"You must swear by Crom!" she demanded.

Rashly, wanting the gold and not pausing for thought, Conan said, "Very well, then. I swear by Crom to do your bidding." As soon as the words were off his tongue he would have given the whole bag of gold to have them back. What knew this woman of Crom, and what was her purpose?

Hathor-Ka leaned back again with a cruel smile upon her lips. "That word you must not break, Cimmerian. In Stygia we have knowledge of all the gods, and your pitiless Crom will not suffer his name to be used
lightly."

"You have the truth of it," Conan admitted.

The woman nodded to Moulay, and he went to a rich chest that stood in a corner. Taking a heavy key from within his sash, the desert man unlocked the chest. He threw back the lid, and from its depths withdrew a small flask of silver, sealed with lead. The seal was stamped with an oddly disturbing hieroglyph. Hathor-Ka accepted the flask from the hand of her servant and held it out to Conan. Reluctantly, he took it and felt its surprising lightness.

"It feels empty," Conan said.

"It is not," Hathor-Ka assured him. "Your duty is simple. When you enter the cave, you must build a fire. Then you must unseal the flask and pour its contents on the flames, calling my name three times in a loud voice. Is that clear?"

The hairs on the back of Conan's neck prickled. This was sorcery, and he wanted nothing to do with it, but he had given his word. Crom curse me for a fool! he thought. "And then?" he asked.

"Then your duty is discharged and you may do as you like," she said.

"Well," he growled, "it seems simple enough. Which mountain is this cave in? Cimmeria is full of mountains, and most of them have caves."

"This cave you should have no trouble finding," she assured him. "You are familiar with a mountain called Ben Morgh?"

Now Conan's heart sank into his worn-out sandals. "Ben Morgh?" he said in an awed whisper.

"Exactly. The flask must be emptied on a fire as the sun rises upon the morn of the autumnal equinox in the great cave in the east face of the mountain called Ben Morgh." She smiled at the dismay writ large on the face of the Cimmerian. "What ails you, Conan? You seem to fancy yourself a hero. Have you no stomach for a hard journey and a climb up a mountain?"

"You Stygian bitch!" Conan said, ignoring Moulay's hasty grab at his
dagger, "Ben Morgh is the home of Crom! That cave is the home of my people's god!"

The man who dangled outside, just above the window, heard those words with much interest. He was supported only by a thin rope, one end of which was looped about the battlement surrounding the inn's flat roof, the other end terminating in a broad leather strap buckled about the man's ankle. When speech within the room concluded, he hoisted himself back to the roof, set about detaching his tackle, and looped it about his waist.

He was a small man, quick and deft in his movements. He sat atop a merlon as he performed his task and watched the street below. It was full dark now, but his eyes were as sensitive as a cat's; he recognized the Cimmerian, who emerged from the building and turned to walk dejectedly toward the poorer quarter of the city.

The little man crossed over several tight-packed rooftops until he reached a house near the goldsmith's quarter. Here he descended through a trap leading from the roof garden into the house proper. In a large room he found a corpulent man sitting cross-legged on a cushion, his hands folded limply in his lap, his eyes closed.

"Jaganath?" the small man said hesitantly. "I have returned." His speech was that of the highest caste of Vendhya.

The seated man's eyes opened, and he smiled benignly. "And did you learn anything of note, Gopal?" Quickly, the younger man described what he had heard outside the room of Hathor-Ka. The fat man's smile increased. "The Double-goer's Spell of Tuya! The Stygian woman is indeed clever. She has saved herself an arduous journey."

"Why did you not utilize that spell yourself, uncle?" the younger man asked.

Jaganath turned his gaze upon his inquisitive young kinsman with little favor. "Because, Gopal, it requires an extraordinarily trustworthy person to make the delivery certain, and I trust nobody but myself." He smiled benignly again. "Not even you."

He contemplated the parchment laid out before him. "Now, at least, there can be no doubt. Hathor-Ka has stumbled across the same lost text
from the Book of Skelos as I did so many years ago. I wonder how many others are making the same journey at this very moment?"

"Uncle," said Gopal, "do you not think that it is now time for you to tell me the meaning of this journey we have undertaken? It has been so many long, weary leagues from Vendhya to this barbarous place. Surely, it is not only for the sake of knowledge that we have endured such hardships."

"Not knowledge," Jaganath said, "but power."

"Power?" said Gopal, his eyes alight.

"Exactly. When I was a very young man, little older than you are now, I studied in many strange lands. One day, in the library of a wise man of purple-towered Aghrapur, I found a book, a frivolous book of poetry. I was about to put it away when I noticed that the parchment lining the inside of the cover was peeling loose, and there was strange lettering on the inner surface. I cut it free carefully and returned the book to its place. This parchment before me is the very one I found that day. Can you read it?"

Gopal craned his neck to look, but the script was utterly alien to him.

Even though the letters meant nothing they seemed to draw and twist his thoughts down paths unwelcome even to a Vendhyan apprentice wizard.

"No, uncle, I cannot," he admitted.

"And neither could I in those days; yet, even as you feel it now, I felt this was a thing of unsurpassing importance. Years later, after much study under great masters, I gained knowledge of this language and remembered the parchment I had acquired. I found that this was a fragment from a lost chapter of Skelos, written in the original tongue. It is in the form of obscure quatrains, but the burden of the message from the ninth line to the twentieth is this: A new star shall appear between the horns of the Bull. Upon the morn of that year when day and night are of equal length, after the blaze of summer, before the chill of winter, a new Master shall arise to command all the wizards of the Earth. That one shall reign without peer or rival. On the morn of that year when day and night are of equal length, as the sun rises and casts its rays into the cave of the mountain of Ben Morgh, in the land of Cimmeria, the wizard who is to be master of all others will chant the Great Summoning of the Powers. That one shall gain the ultimate power of sorcery, and shall not die until struck down by an Arrow of Indra. So prophesieth Skelos."

Gopal sat silent for a moment, jaw slack with awe. "What does it mean 'an Arrow of Indra'?" he asked.

"The Arrows of Indra are falling stars, which are seen to drop from the constellation called Indra's Chariot only once in every thousand years.

There is a rumor that the palace of the King of Valusia was destroyed by such eight thousand years past. The Arrows of Indra were last seen to fall a mere hundred years ago. Thus he who reaches that cave on the appointed morn, and chants the Great Summoning, will rule as supreme wizard of the Earth for at least nine hundred years!" The assumed mantle of serenity fell from the Vendhyan, leaving the naked mask of power-lust.

"The text says 'master,' " Gopal said. "How can the Stygian woman hope to gain this power?"

"The ancient tongue makes no distinction between male and female,"

Jaganath answered. "And Hathor-Ka is among the elite of adepts who can chant the Great Summoning. No more than ten of us have mastery of that spell. Of those, how many have found this prophecy? Two I am certain of.

If there are more than two others I shall be very much surprised."

"And what of this Cimmerian?" Gopal asked.

"The road to his homeland is a long one, fraught with perils. Something may happen to him. In fact, I am sure that some ill thing will befall him."

The younger man nodded understanding. "But, just suppose he should survive this something. What then?"

"He will travel overland," Jaganath explained patiently. "He must go through Ophir, then through Nemedia or Aquilonia and across Gunderland or the Border Kingdom before he can reach Cimmeria. Even then it will be a long journey from the border to Ben Morgh."

"But, uncle," Gopal persisted, "what is to keep the barbarian from going to the coast and taking ship?"

Jaganath smiled with pleasure. "That is most perceptive, nephew. In fact, that is exactly what I intend to do. We shall travel east until we reach the Tybor River in Argos, take a barge to the port of Messantia, and thence ship north. Thus shall we travel in relative comfort to Vanaheim, where we will find men to escort us to Ben Morgh. The Cimmerian cannot
take this easy route, for to reach Cimmeria from the sea he must cross the Pictish Wilderness or Vanaheim, and both Pict and Van are deadly enemies of the Cimmerians."

"Then," Gopal said, "if we win the race, as seems certain, you shall be the greatest sorcerer who has ever lived." He was awed and eager at the same time.

"I shall be as powerful as a god," Jaganath said, "and you shall be second only to me."

Conan sat brooding over his wine in a tavern, a much finer establishment than the one at which he had lodged. From a tall Aquilonian mercenary he had purchased a patched but clean tunic which would serve to keep him acceptable in better surroundings until the markets opened on the morrow. Glumly, he ignored the strains of wild music and the posturing of the dancers. He was not yet hungry, and he could not savor his wine. For lack of a purse or other personal furniture, the bag of gold hung from his neck on a thong, hidden in his tunic. He had paid the tavern keeper for three days lodging with one of the gold coins: a heap of copper and silver now lay on the table before him, brought by his host in change..

"Tell your fortune, master?" Conan looked up to see an ancient, ragged Khitan standing by the table.

Even in such a cosmopolitan caravan center as Khorshemish, men of the distant east were a rare sight. The man's shredded tunic did not even cover his skinny shanks, and he wore a bizarre headdress of feathers and bells. Strings of bones and shells and coral and other nameless things hung around his neck. He grinned ingratiatingly at the barbarian, nodding with senile glee that made his thin goat-beard flutter. "Tell you good fortune, very cheap."

"Is this what attracted you?" Conan said, gesturing toward a little pile of coins before him. He picked up the smallest―a thick, ill-stamped copper shekh from Shem―and tossed it to the ancient. "Here. Now, be gone with you." He turned his attention to his neglected wine.

The mountebank caught the coin and studied it. "You get no good fortune for this," he said. "For this, all you get is a quotation. Duke Li said: 'Each piece on the player's board thinks that it moves by its own sovereign
will from one square to another.'"

"Eh?" Conan said, mystified. "What kind of fortuneteller are you?"

"Good one," the old man said. "Give me one piece silver, I tell you good fortune."

Reluctantly, Conan grinned. The crazy little old man was amusing, and right now he needed distraction. He hated sorcery, but he had no fear of the petty magics of mountebanks. "Sit down," Conan said, gesturing hospitably. "Have some wine."

The ancient cackled gleefully and plunked his skinny backside onto a stool opposite Conan. He snatched a cup from another table, and dumping the lees on the straw-covered floor, filled it from the pitcher that sat before the hulking Cimmerian. "You Northman, not so?" he asked.

"From Cimmeria, yes. Now you're drinking my wine, so I want a favorable fortune."

The old one dipped his fingers into the wine and spattered drops in the cardinal directions, drawing curses from tavern patrons who were struck by droplets. He drank all but a few drops from his cup and studied the lees swirling in the bottom while he muttered incomprehensibly. Grinning, he looked up. "Very good fortune! What you do, the gods direct. You think you decide your own actions, but in reality you do only the bidding of higher powers, like Duke Li's gaming pieces." Once again the old man switched from foolish chatter to sensible speech.

"You call that a fortune?" Conan said. "I always hear that kind of nonsense from easterners. The gods don't direct me; I am my own master."

"Yes, yes," said the Khitan, nodding and grinning furiously, "but sometimes you do something a little strange, not so? Something you do not understand?"

About to retort sharply, Conan remembered his ill-considered oath to Hathor-Ka earlier that evening. "Yes," he admitted at last, "sometimes I do."

"See?" said the Khitan, as if that explained everything. "Soon you go on
long trip, not so?"

"That takes a little gift of prophecy," Conan grumbled. "Of course I'm going on a journey. Nobody stays in Khorshemish if he can help it."

"Well, you do things now, you do things soon, they are important. They seem like little things, unimportant things, but they are part of the gods'

plans. Nothing you can do about it, all for good anyway." The old man poured himself another cup.

"Crom take you," Conan said, now bored with the mad old fool and disgusted as always with eastern fatalism.

"Soon enough," said the old man, laughing and nodding.

Two

The North Gate

In the great market of Khorshemish, as in markets everywhere, the people gathered in the morning to buy and sell, to trade the latest gossip, and to talk politics. Women waited in long lines at the central fountain with empty water jars to fill, taking the opportunity to socialize with their neighbors. In a corner of the market, the local astrologers were met to discuss the same phenomenon about which they had been heatedly arguing for months: the new star that had appeared between the horns of the Bull. No agreement was reached except that it was either significant or otherwise, and, if significant, it meant something either good or bad.

Conan entered the market at midmorning, having just come from the clothiers' quarter. He was now dressed in a decent tunic and trousers, with leather boots. None of his garments was of excellent quality except the boots, for he knew he would be trading the clothes for cold-weather gear as he traveled northward. He strode across the market, drawing admiring looks from the women who stood by the fountain. His mind was not on women, but on weapons. Khorshemish was not noted for its metal work, but many caravan routes met here and consequently there were weapons of many nations to be found among the wares of its merchants.

Conan examined the goods displayed before the shop of an arms merchant. He picked up each sword and hefted it, running a critical eye
over each piece while the merchant supplied a continual commentary in praise of his stock.

"A Turanian sword, master? Curved like the crescent moon, its hilt rich with pearls and gold. The weapon of a prince, my lord."

"You don't kill with the hilt," Conan said. "You do it with the blade."

"Exactly, master," the merchant agreed. "Do but examine this pilouar of Vendhya. The blade is inlaid with potent spells in gold and silver."

"I don't believe in spells," Conan said. "I believe in a good sword arm.

Have you any western or northern blades? I prefer a straight, broad blade to these curved slicers."

"Then this is exactly the sword my lord wishes," purred the merchant, pulling a cloth cover from a splendid straight sword with a short guard and heavy pommel of carved steel. "From Vanaheim, master."

Conan's eyes blazed with pleasure. The Vanir made fine swords, at least. He picked it up and tried its balance. The high polish flashed in the morning sun. That was wrong. The Vanir preferred the pearly gray luster of steel in the first polish, which displayed the fine grain and pattern of their intricately welded blades. They never polished a sword to mirror brightness. Suspiciously, he ran a thumbnail along one edge from hilt to point, then turned the blade over and tried the other edge. Halfway up he felt a slight unevenness in the, steel. He held the blade close to his eye, out of the direct sunlight, where the polish could not hide a flaw. There was a hairline crack running from the edge almost to the central fuller. He tossed the sword to the table in disgust. "Worthless," he said. "Haven't you anything better?"

Fuming at the barbarian's obstinacy, the shopkeeper waved him toward the shop behind him. "There are some old blades in there, if you want to look at them."

Inside the shop Conan waited for a few minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, then examined a pile of swords, and daggers on a table. He found a plain, heavy dirk, single-edged and broad-spined, and stuck it in his sash. None of the swords was to his liking. He was about to pay for the dirk and leave, when he saw a big pottery jar standing in a corner with a cluster of swords protruding from it. He pulled out several, but most of
them were ancient, notched, and rusty, their grips broken or rotted away.

On the point of leaving to seek out another shop, he drew forth a sword that felt different from the others. In the dimness he could tell little except that the blade was broad and straight, and the grip had long since deteriorated, leaving only a stretch of thin tang between hilt and pommel.

He took it outside for a better look. In the sunlight he saw that the blade had turned purple-black with age, but bore no trace of rust. The curiously wrought hilt and pommel were of bronze long since turned green.

To get a feel of its balance, Conan borrowed a strip of leather from a nearby stall, wrapped the tang, and swung the brand a few times. Even with the inadequate grip he knew that this sword had a balance as fine as any he had ever felt. He returned the leather strip to its owner and asked the merchant what he wanted for sword and dirk.

"A very rare old sword, sir," the merchant said, "no doubt possessing many hidden virtues."

"Well-hidden at that," the Cimmerian said. "You bought it from some tomb-robber for a trifle."

Conan's time in the eastern lands had taught him the art and entertainment of haggling. The argument continued occasionally threatening to escalate into open violence, and idlers passing by paused to contribute views and opinions. Eventually, Conan walked away with the sword wrapped in a length of cloth and the dirk tucked into his sash, certain that he had paid a pittance for so fine a blade. The merchant was equally sure that he had unloaded a worthless item on an ignorant outlander for an outrageous price.

In the jewelers' quarter Conan found a sword dresser sitting before his workshop, surrounded by polishing stones of varying grit, bowls of sand and other powders, and sheets of rough sharkskin. Conan handed the man his new purchase.

"Can you clean this up and sharpen it? It needs a grip as well. Plain wood will do, or staghorn or bone."

The sword dresser examined the weapon minutely, and the way he handled it told Conan he had come to the right man. This one knew weapons, if not with the arm of a warrior, at least with the eye of a
craftsman.

"A fine weapon," the artisan pronounced at last. "Most unusual, but I think I can do something with it. It will look much handsomer than you'd think when it is cleaned, and it deserves an exceptional grip. I have something you will like.

"Nothing fancy," Conan said, "I prefer plain wood or bone." But the craftsman had already disappeared into his shop.

Conan fretted, suspecting mat the man would try to sell him a handle of solid jade or crystal or other splendid, useless material.

When the man returned, though, he was holding a thin box of fragrant sandalwood. "I had this from a Hyrkanian trader two years ago," he explained. "I've been waiting to find a wormy sword." He opened the box, revealing a sheet of thin, parchmentlike material. It was as white as new ivory, and covered with tiny irregular bumps. Intrigued, Conan ran his fingertips over the knobbly surface. His experienced hand told him that this exotic stuff, beautiful as it was, would afford a fine grip.

"What is it?" Conan asked, mystified. "Some kind of shagreen?"

"It is the backskin of the giant ray fish, from the isles east of Khitai. It is said to make the finest swordgrips in the world. I will fashion you a handle of plain hardwood, then glue this rayskin over it. It's a long hilt, big enough even for both your hands, with a little crowding, but I think there will be enough left over to make a matching grip for your dirk."

"Then I'll have this stuff," Conan said, not even asking the price, which he knew would be steep. He was willing to pay well for fine weaponry, or take exceptional risks to steal the best. "Can you make sheaths as well?"

"My apprentices will see to that. What kind do you wish?"

"Plain leather for the dirk. For the sword, thin wood, the strongest you have, with oil-treated leather glued over it. Bronze chape and throat. I want the wood lined inside with close-sheared lamb fleece, and the bronze throat cut away lest the edge touch metal in drawing or sheathing."

The craftsman nodded. "You are a man who understands weapons, sir.

It is always a pleasure to deal with such. Return in two days and all will be
ready."

Conan continued on his way, this time to look at horses and saddles.

Knowing that he faced a long journey, he ignored the splendid chargers and coursers the horse-traders tried to sell him, though at another time he might have spent days testing them all. He settled on a strong bay gelding, sound of wind and limb. Since he wanted to travel light, and make the last part of his journey on foot, he did not bother with a pack animal.

His last purchase was a voluminous cloak that would serve as garment and blanket, and in which he could keep his few belongings rolled up and tied across his saddle during the journey. He decided against purchasing armor and helm, both because he must travel light and because his fellow Cimmerian countrymen considered armor to be effeminate.

That evening he sat in the same tavern, this time in a far better mood.

He had made his decisions, and he was not one to brood over mistakes or lost opportunities. Already he was looking forward to the northlands again. It had been too long since he had seen his kinsmen and breathed the free air of the mountains. Perhaps he would pay a visit to his old friends the Aesir, and go a-raiding with them for a while.

"Amulets, master?" Conan looked up to see the ancient Khitan holding forth a mass of indescribable pendants dangling from leather thongs.

"Protect you from, harm, from Evil Eye, from drowning, from snakebite."

The old man grinned encouragingly.

"More gloomy predictions for me, old crow?" Conan said with a grudging smile. He would not let the elderly doom-monger shake his mood of elation. "Here." He flipped the shaman a heavy silver coin from Koth.

The old one caught the coin in his free hand and bit it. Cackling, he secreted the coin in his rags and held out a thong from which dangled an oddly carved bit of green stone.

"Take this," the old one urged. "Good protection."

"Against what?" Conan said dubiously. "Drowning, snakebite? I believe in my own strength."

"Sometime strength no good. Then need first-rate amulet and charm.

This one save life when strength all gone."

Reluctantly, Conan took the thing and hung it from his neck, more to silence the old man than for any other reason. It would make a gift for some pretty girl along the way, at any rate.

The old man kept grinning and cackling. "Keep inside of shirt. Magic no good if too many people see." He started to walk away, then turned back and waggled an admonitory finger. "Remember, only playing pieces on board of gods."

"If we're moved about by other powers," Conan demanded, "what use are amulets?"

The old man cackled gleefully. "Sometimes even gods have need of amulets!"

Two days later Conan stood before the sword dresser's shop. In his hands he held the splendid sword. Its blade now shone bright, an odd pale blue color such as he had never seen in sword steel. The bronze guard and pommel had been polished to a warm luster, and were perfectly set off by the pearly-white ray skin grip. Best of all, though, was the marvelous balance and design which seemed to make the sword swing itself with little effort from the wielder.

In his enthusiasm Conan set the blade flashing through the air in a series of intricate maneuvers he had learned from a Turanian swordmaster. His impromptu display drew frightened squawks and curses from passersby who wandered too near. At last, satisfied, he sheathed the brand in its new scabbard. Balancing the sword on the other side of the belt was the refurbished dirk with its now-matching hilt.

"I needed twice the usual time to put an edge on it," the craftsman said, "so hard is the steel. But you can shave with either edge now. And the blue color―that I have seen only in a few very ancient blades. It is a style of steel making long lost. Look closely and you will see a slightly paler color along the edges. They were made of a different quality of steel welded in with the softer metal, and tempered separately." The man sighed. "Such secrets the ancients knew. The finest Turanian blades are trash compared to this. I hope it serves you well, my friend."

Conan paid the high price gladly; he would have paid more. Gold was nothing, and it always seemed to trickle through his fingers like water.

Steel a man could trust. With the reassuring weight at his waist, making
him feel lighter instead of heavier, he strode to the inn where Hathor-Ka stayed.

This time the keeper of the inn was obsequious. Conan was not splendid in his plain clothing and boots, but he was every inch a warrior, and such men always command respect.

He climbed the stairs and rapped on the door. It was opened by Moulay, who ushered him inside. Conan saw Hathor-Ka seated at her table with a large chart spread out before her.

"I leave at dawn tomorrow," Conan announced without preamble. "Give me the flask and I'll be on my way."

"You are too hasty," Hathor-Ka chided him.

"Would you prefer a slow messenger?" Conan asked.

"Come here," she ordered. "Show me the route you plan to use."

Conan walked around the table to study the chart. He had seen maps before, but at the best of times he had difficulty relating these drawings on parchment to real land. "I can't read these scratchings," he said.

Hathor-Ka named the principal nations for him, and the most prominent rivers. Thus oriented, the map began to make sense. He could see that the central, civilized nations were clearly delineated, with many cities marked, while the barbaric nations of north and south were vaguely and sketchily indicated. With a blunt finger Conan traced the route he planned to take.

"I'll go straight north through Ophir, then up through Nemedia. I may stop in Belverus if nobody's besieging the place, then up to the Border Kingdom. They'll hang me there if they catch me; but it's only a narrow bit of land I have to cross. Then I'll be in Cimmeria."

"Why not go up through Aquilonia?" Hathor-Ka asked. "There are far more cities and settlements. You could travel north to Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches, and it would be civilized country most of the way."

Conan shook his head. "The eastern route is open plain most of the way.

It's fairly well-watered, but with no big rivers to cross. It's the best way to
travel by horse. In Aquilonia the land's all cut up by rivers, and they all flow south, so boat travel would be slower than riding. All those settlements mean traveling by road, and the traffic and towns slow you down. Also, it would mean entering Cimmeria in Murrogh territory, and the Murrogh clan have been waging a blood feud with my own for five generations, ever since one of my ancestors stole all their horses."

"Excellent," Hathor-Ka said. "I have no interest in your route, but I wished to be sure that you are a man who knows how to think ahead and plan." She turned to Moulay and nodded.

Once again he opened the chest and drew forth the flask. Hathor-Ka held it for a moment, then handed it to the Cimmerian.

"Upon your oath," the woman said, "let nothing happen to this vessel or its contents before the last step of your mission is carried out."

"You don't have to remind me," Conan grumbled. "I will get it done."

Without further pleasantries the Cimmerian left.

Moulay watched Conan leave. "My lady, I have no wish to see the cold north, but I think the two of us should have undertaken this task."

She crossed to the narrow window and looked down into the street. The Cimmerian was walking away with his lengthy hillman's stride. "No, Moulay, you are wrong. Even if the two of us could endure the journey, we would never arrive by the autumnal equinox. I would have to employ my mightiest sorceries to speed our way, and would arrive too exhausted to face the struggle that might ensue. This man is perfect. He is strong and simple, and he will honor his word."

Moulay snorted through his beaked nose. "What does a savage know of honor?"

"More than you would think. Honor is a barbaric virtue, of which civilization retains only the empty forms. Besides, the greatest advantage of using this man is that he is a Cimmerian, and he will be in his own country." She turned for a last glimpse of Conan's broad back disappearing around a corner. "No, I could not have chosen better."

The next morning Conan rode out through the North Gate of Khorshemish. The rising sun was just staining the east wall of the city red,
and here on the north side all was still in shadow, retaining the faint chill of night. Conan's horse was through the opening valves as soon as they were wide enough to pass its sturdy barrel. The guards atop the wall were yawning, yearning for their relief to arrive so they could collapse into their empty bunks at the barracks.

Early as the hour was, however, they were not alone atop the wall over the North Gate. Beside the green-flecked bronze poles which supported the gate's drum stood a skinny, ragged figure rattling his strings of bone and shell. As Conan rode away from the city of the plain, the ancient Khitan mountebank waved to his unseeing back.

Three

Five Riders

Conan had been on his journey for seven days. For six of those days he had known that he was being followed. It was very difficult to trail a man unseen on open plain, and even more difficult when the man in question was experienced, suspicious, and Cimmerian. From long habit, every few hours Conan would ride to the nearest rise of ground and scan all around, paying special attention to his back trail.

On his second day he had descried the five riders wfio followed. They were well behind, and could not close the gap quickly. At the same time, he knew that he would eventually have to turn and give battle. There was no way that a lone man could keep ahead of five indefinitely except on the most favorable ground. Clever pursuers would divide the chase, with some riding fast to make the quarry stay ahead, others catching up at a more leisurely pace, then taking the fast chase in their turn, gradually wearing out the mount of the pursued while keeping their own horses relatively fresh.

On the other hand, Conan knew that his horse was a good one. He also was not lacking in personal confidence, and had no doubt that his own stamina was greater than that of his pursuers. The fighting ground would be his choice. High ground was always best, but there was precious little of that hereabout.

On the eve of the seventh day he found a mound several paces high and settled on that as a good place to conquer or die. He picketed his horse by
a small stream a quarter mile away from the mound, where the grass was good. First he watered the beast, then curried its glossy hide. He made sure that the picket cords were such that the horse would take no more than a few hours to gnaw them through. Should he and all his enemies be slain today, he did not wish the beast to be left to a lingering death on the empty plain.

When all was ready he ate a handful of dried fruit and jerked meat, and walked to the mound. From its crest he could see that the five horsemen were still an hour away. He sat down to await them.

He did not want to signal his presence from afar, lest they pause and approach him slowly, catching their breath and regaining their full strength. At five-to-one odds even Conan knew that he needed every advantage he could wrest from the situation. As the men neared, he drew his sword and admired its beauty. Since the fight could not be avoided, it cheered him to have a chance to try out his new blade, and such a fight as was coming would surely test it to the full.

When the five were no more than a hundred paces away, he stood, brandished the sword above his head, and shouted: "I am Conan of Cimmeria! If you would slay me, here I am! Come and try me, lowland swine!"

The horsemen reined in and stared up the mound in wonderment. Of all things, this was the last they had expected. Such challenges rightly belonged to the age of heroes, and everyone knew that that age was long gone. After a hurried conference as to who should go first, they very sensibly decided to charge all at once.

Conan grinned when he saw five horses spring forth as one. This was just what he had hoped for. Only in a well-disciplined army could five men fight as a well-drilled team, and these men showed no sign of such training. They were clearly of different nations, each armed and armored in his own fashion.

As the ragged line approached him, Conan darted to his left to engage the last man on that side, putting the rider between himself and the others. While to his opponents he seemed bent on suicide by dismounting thus to fight, in reality he had gained an advantage. Without a horse to manage he could concentrate on killing, and this suited his headlong style of combat.

The lefthand rider was a man of Shem, with curly beard and billowing trousers. He wore no armor and rode without stirrups, a slender lance held low at his right side and a small buckler on his left forearm. With a gobbling war cry he lowered his point, intent upon skewering the Cimmerian.

Conan ran down the mound and reached his range just as the horse changed gait to negotiate the rise in ground. The sudden change in motion threw the rider slightly off balance for a moment, and that was all the time Conan needed. As the point wavered he slapped it aside with his blade and leaped upward, holding his sword at full extension and turning his whole body into a spear. The Shemite tried to bring his buckler across, but with so much weight and momentum behind the sword, the act was futile. The point caught the man beneath the jaw and he all but flew backward over his cantle, spraying blood in a crimson arc.

Immediately, Conan ran back to the crest of the mound. The others circled in confusion, trying to decide just what had happened. First to see Conan was a Turanian in spired helm, and that one set spurs to his mount, waving a heavy, curved talwar as he sought to ride the Cimmerian down. Conan darted to the man's shield side at the last possible instant and swung his sword as he did so, hewing the Turanian's left leg off. The man toppled screaming from his saddle.

Before Conan could regain his balance after the mighty blow, two more horses were upon him, and he was knocked sprawling to the ground. As he tried to scramble up, a Zamoran leaped onto Conan's shoulders and sought to wrestle him to the ground while stabbing at him with a long, curved dagger. Conan dropped his sword to deal with the man, and managed to seize the Zamoran with both hands just as he felt the dagger burn like a hot iron across his shoulder.

From the corner of his eye Conan saw a sword swinging at his back, and with a speed and strength unknown among civilized men, he swung the Zamoran around, using him as a shield to intercept the whistling blade. The Zamoran screamed thinly as the sword cleft his spine, and Conan heaved the body into the face of the Argossian swordsman, whose visage still bore a look of confusion. Both bodies thudded to the ground as Conan darted to the Argossian, seized him by his wide helmet, and twisted until a faint snap informed him that further effort was unnecessary.

Quickly, he looked for the fifth.

The man was perhaps twenty paces away, sitting his horse with grim patience. The rider wore a cuirass of hardened leather straps, studded with iron, and on both forearms bracers of stiff leather. The sword at his waist was straight, its handle long enough for both hands. Beneath his nasaled black helmet spilled locks of tawny hair, and his eyes were as blue as Conan's own. Except for his clean-shaven face, the man might have been Aesir, but Conan knew that he was from farther south.

"You've had a good morning's sport, Cimmerian dog," the man said as he dismounted. "But the men of Gunderland are harder to kill than these eastern weaklings."

Conan found his sword and picked it up, first making sure that its grip was not slippery with dew or blood. "Gundermen die as easily as other men. I slew many at Venarium, and I was only fifteen then."

"Venarium!" spat the Gunderman. "I've sworn to kill a dozen Cimmerians for every kinsman I lost in that slaughter. Their blood calls out for appeasement. I will send them another blackhaired servant this day!"

The two northerners met atop the mound. They fought without art or subtlety, swinging their broad blades two-handed. Blue sword and gray met and rang, shedding sparks with each terrific impact. Boasting and challenge were over now, and the only sounds they made were snarls of rage and grunts of effort wrenched from their bodies with each massive chop. It was swing and block without pause, but the fight was not slow nor ponderous despite the size of the men and the weight of their weapons.

The swords licked out to cut or block too swiftly for any but the most experienced eye to see.

Conan broke into a profuse sweat and breathed like a blacksmith's bellows. It had been years since he had tested himself against a fellow northerner, and the hard-living men of Aquilonia's Gunderland frontier grew up every bit as swift and powerful as any Nordheimer or Cimmerian.

But Conan was mighty even for a Cimmerian. Preparing a terrible overhand slash, the Gunderman swung the blade a fingersbreadth too far back, giving Conan an instant in which to step aside. As his blade met no resistance, the Gunderman leaned forward, fighting to regain his balance, but it was too late for that. The Cimmerian's sword came across horizontally, biting into the man's side through the hard leather. Yanking his blade free, Conan raised it and sent it in a great half-circle, splitting
cuirass and flesh from shoulder to waist, shearing bones and entrails relentlessly.

Sheer animal unwillingness to die kept the Gunderman standing for a moment; then he toppled like a falling tree. Conan, panting like a winded horse, ripped a scrap of cloth from one of the bodies and began carefully cleaning his sword. The others were all dead, the man he had unlegged having bled to death during his fight with the northerner. Conan walked back to the Gunderman, who was still breathing faintly.

"Who hired you, Gunderman?" the Cimmerian asked when he once again had breath to speak.

"Are we friends that I owe you such a favor?" the man gasped. "I do not betray those who hire me."

"Well, what is your name, then?" Conan asked.

"Is it not enough you have slain me, but you want power over my spirit as well?"

"You know Cimmerians better than that!" Conan said angrily. "We slay our foes in fair battle and leave the demons of Hell to any further vengeance. I want your name for the song I shall make when my wanderings are at an end. That was a good fight, and it will be remembered in the song my women shall sing around my funeral pyre."

"I am Hagen," the man wheezed. "Now ask me no more. What little breath I have left I wish to expend in cursing you."

Not wishing to deny the man this final pleasure, Conan examined his sword, and was gratified to see that it bore no slightest nick, and the edges were still shaving-keen. Re-sheathing the blade, he rounded up the five mounts, then bound up the knife wound on his shoulder. In searching the bodies he found on each of them three heavy, square coins of gold stamped with strange script. He had seen such coins before; they came from Vendhya. He chuckled to think that what had been intended as the price of his life would instead enrich his purse.

The five horses he took with him to sell in Belverus. He left the rest with the bodies. Any man might sell five horses, but the personal effects of five men would arouse unwelcome official attention. Behind him he left the
bloody mound. In a year's time the gnawed bones would be scattered abroad, cloth and leather would have rotted, and there would be nothing to mark the battle except some rusting bits of iron and a slightly greener patch of grass. Later, even those would be gone, leaving only the limitless plain, which had drunk the blood of uncounted thousands.

Conan was feverish and reeling in his saddle as he arrived within sight of the walls of Belverus. Happily, he noted that there was no besieging army encamped outside its walls. Just now he had no time for such things.

It was midday, and the gates of the city stood wide. A guard held up a restraining hand as Conan rode through the gate. The guard held a wooden tablet bearing a panel of wax, and a bronze stylus was tucked behind his ear.

"What is your name and your business, stranger?" the guard demanded.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I need lodging for the night, and a horse market to sell my stock." His face was flushed and his voice unsteady.

"What ails you?" the guard asked suspiciously. "You may not enter the city if you bear any contagion."

Wordlessly, Conan let his cloak fall, exposing the raw and angry cut which festered upon his shoulder. Fierce streaks of red and black radiated from the puckered, swollen wound, and it seeped an unhealthy fluid.

"Mitra!" swore the guard. "You need a leech, man, else you'll lose that arm, if not your life. Leave your beasts here the nonce, I'll give you a receipt for them, then get you to the house of Doctor Romallo. It is but two streets distant."

It galled Conan to have to seek the aid of a leech. In normal times he preferred to let his body heal itself. On the few occasions that he had sought such professional services, it had been to have a bad wound stitched. He harbored a suspicion that leeches did far more harm than good. This time, though, he knew he had no choice.

An oversized bleeding knife over the entrance proclaimed the house of Romallo. Conan pounded on the door and an elderly, bearded man opened it. "You desire treatment?" he asked.

"I need something, by Crom!" Conan said, baring his wound once more.

"Hmm. A most interesting injury. Come in, young man, and we'll see what's to be done." The leech's house was full of strange objects. Stuffed beasts dangled on cords from the rafters, and vaguely obscene marine creatures were preserved in jars of spirits. Instruments of bronze and glass abounded, and the air smelled of herbs. Strange as the place was, Conan at least felt no sorcery here. The leech directed him to a bench near a window, and Conan sat, bearing his pain in stoic silence as the man poked and prodded.

"I can lance and clean this wound," the leech announced at last, "bind it with a stitch or two, and put a healing poultice on it, but I fear that these things might not prove to be sufficient."

"Why not?" Conan groused. "Is that not your art?"

"It is. However, this infection is not of natural origin. I can tell by the tone of your flesh how rugged is your constitution, and such a gash as this should not be causing you such agony."

"True," Conan agreed, "I've been wounded far worse without trouble.

Have I been wounded with an envenomed weapon?"

"No, in that case the characteristics of the inflammation would be quite different. I think you lie under the influence of some baleful spell, and I can only wonder that it has not killed you long since."

Chills ran through Conan's powerful frame, chills that were not part of his fever. Who had cursed him? And what was protecting him? Then he understood. In spite of his ills, he began to laugh.

"Odd time for mirth," the leech said, frowning.

"I've just realized that I'm paying for my own greed. Do what you can, and leave the rest to me. I'll need a moneychanger when you are through."

Mystified, the leech set to his task. Despite his pain, Conan wore a grim smile. How subtle was his enemy! Not content merely to set five killers on his trail, the man had paid them with cursed money, knowing that should Conan survive the attack, he would surely take their gold and doom himself.

What had protected him? From beneath his tunic he fished the talisman the ancient Khitan had given him. He was not sure, but the color seemed subtly altered. In stony silence he sat enduring the doctor's painful ministrations. More and more he felt like the playing-piece of the game board of a god the old Khitan had spoken of.

By the time he had exchanged the unclean gold for other money and sold the five horses, the day was almost over. Conan stabled his mount and, exhausted, collapsed into a bed at an inn. His wound was less virulent, but he was still in a weakened condition. He knew that he would have to wait for several days in Belverus until his full strength returned.

The delay did not fret him. After all, he would still be able to reach Ben Morgh by the equinox. It was a mission he had undertaken, not a race.

The waterfront tavern was filled with voices speaking boisterously in many languages. Most of one wall was open, revealing the serried masts crowding the great harbor of Messantia. Through the huge window blew a salt-scented offshore breeze, causing the torches to flicker.

Messantia sprawled along the mouth of the Khorotas River, where it joined the Western Sea. It lay on the Zingaran side of the river, but it was as international as most seaports. The fact that Argos claimed this piece of land concerned the inhabitants not at all. Hemmed in by the bulk of the Rabirian Mountains to the north and the river to the south, the bulk of the city lay on a wide floodplain that constituted a minor nation in itself. At any given time, at least half the population was transient, consisting mainly of sailors from the multitude of nations and islands that drew a living from the sea.

The occupants of the tavern were a cross-section of the maritime life of the area: besides the local Zingarans and Argossians, there were Shemites with hooked noses and curling beards; quiet Stygians, who wore black silk; sinister Barachans, whose belts were festooned with the daggers and short swords favored for combat at sea. One table held a party of Kushites, feathers woven into their elaborate hairdos, their black skins glossy with the scented palm oil which they prized. Two red-haired Vanir seamen had already passed out in a corner. The torchlight glittered on earrings, nose rings, and other ornaments favored by seagoing men.

On a small platform in the center of the room a Zamoran girl was performing one of the lascivious dances of her nation to the music of a flute and a tabour. Her clothing consisted of a great many bangles and a
single small veil. Many of the sailors clapped in time to the music and shouted their appreciation of her performance.

"I had thought," Gopal said, "that we had reached the nadir of civilization in Khorshemish. I see now that it was the epitome of culture compared to this place." The young man and his uncle sat at a tiny table as near as they could get to the window.

"You must enjoy this cosmopolitan atmosphere while you can, nephew," said Jaganath with his usual complacent smile. "Where we are going, there has never even been a word for civilization. After all, there are booksellers in this town. There are some scholars of small repute and even a few second-rate sorcerers. Our destination is a howling wilderness of barbarians and savages as primitive as those Kushites over there."

"The very thought fills me with dismay," Gopal said. He took a sip of the wine which he had watered heavily. A platter of spicy meats wrapped in vine leaves lay before them, but the tedious, inactive journey by barge down the river had left him with little appetite.

"If you would be a mage," said Jaganath, "you must tread some very strange paths indeed. No man who quails at hardship or danger can succeed in the quest for knowledge and power." He picked up a tidbit and popped it into his mouth. "At least their cooking is tolerable here. A port like this affords access to spices of variety and high quality." Like most Vendhyans of high caste, Jaganath and Gopal ate meat but rarely, and then only in small quantities, highly spiced.

A newcomer entered the tavern and scanned the room for a moment.

Spotting the two Vendhyans, he crossed to their table. His boots and short tarry breeks identified him as a seaman, and his arrogant stride bespoke authority. His features were scarred and badly pockmarked, but they bore an aristocratic cast. Jaganath quickly typed him as the scion of decayed Zingaran nobility.

"You are the two who seek passage northward?" asked the newcomer.

"We are," said Jaganath. "Please join us."

The man sat and poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the table. He ignored the pitcher of water that stood beside it. After draining the cup he refilled it and picked up a handful of the stuffed vine leaves. He
stuffed three into his mouth and said around the mouthful: "I am Kasavo, from the Barachan Isles, captain of the Songbird. I heard on the wharf today that two Vendhyans sought passage north, and that they were to be contacted here at the Sailor's Delight."

"We must travel in haste to Vanaheim," Jaganath said. "Do you go so far north?"

Kasavo laughed. "To Vanaheim? Nobody sails that far from here. In any case, it is late in the year to be traveling north. I can take you to Kordava, the last civilized port before the Pictish Wilderness. From there, if luck is with you, you may find a Vanir merchant who has stayed until the very end of the season, braving the storms for the sake of picking up late-season goods at bargain prices. I warn you, though, that a northern passage at this time of year can be very dangerous. Best to winter in Kordava. It is a very wicked port. Most diverting." He grinned and toyed nervously with a large, fiery, teardrop-shaped ruby that dangled from his earlobe on a short chain.

"I do not fear storms," Jaganath said. "When do you sail?"

"With the morning tide, about an hour after sunrise to take advantage of the inland winds. Have your belongings aboard by sunrise. I have a cabin you can use. There is the matter of payment for your passage."

Jaganath waved a pudgy hand in dismissal. "We can settle that during the voyage. I have abundant funds."

The man's eyes sparkled for a moment with greed, which he tried to cover with a feigned curiosity. "Why do you wish to go to a place like Vanaheim? From the look of you, you've little love for cold climes."

"We are scholars," Jaganath told him. "I am writing a book about far lands for the king of Vendhya."

"Vanaheim should satisfy you, then," Kasavo assured him. "It is about as far as you can go. You are with the court of Vendhya, then?"

"Yes. While not a true ambassador, I have a certain semi-official standing and I bear gifts from my liege to the great men of that land. He wishes to establish cordial relations with all nations, however remote."

Once again, at the mention of gifts, Kasavo's eyes glittered. As always
when dealing with outsiders, Gopal remained silent and kept his ears open, ready to back his uncle's story.

"Then I shall expect you at sunrise tomorrow. I must return to my ship now, and I'll have my men prepare your quarters. The Songbird lies alongside the Lesser Wharf. Her hull is painted red, with green eyes at the prow, just above the waterline." He drained his cup and left, not weaving despite the considerable amount of wine he had drunk in so short a time.

"Unless I am much mistaken, uncle," Gopal said when the man was gone, "this fellow is no more than a common pirate. Did you see the way his face changed at every mention of gain to be had?"

"Exactly. And these Barachan Isles of which he speaks form a notorious nest of cutthroats, so I am told. That is why I stressed that we travel with valuable goods. Several masters have already told us that they will not sail north at this time of year, but a pirate will take on passengers of wealth, to rob or to hold for ransom."

"Surely, uncle, they will seek to murder us and give our bodies to the sea gods?"

Jaganath smiled broadly and picked up another snack. "Are you not happy, Gopal, that our voyage north shall not be as dull as our barge journey hither?"

Despite her lyrical name, the Songbird had the predatory lines of a shark. Low, lean, and sleek, she was built for speed, with a shallow draft and sides that rose no more than two cubits from the waterline. She had no capacious hold for transporting bulk cargoes, and the men working or idling on her deck were far more numerous than would ever be needed to sail her. They wore few clothes and many weapons. The single mast bore a long, slanting yard which would support an enormous lateen sail. With that sail spread in a following wind she would speedily overtake any vessel built for utility, say, a fat, lumbering merchantman. Along her sides were tholes for a dozen long oars, handy for working into position around a crippled victim or rowing up shallow creeks and rivers to raid or unload contraband.

Jaganath was most pleased with what he saw. They would be able to make good time in this vessel. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the multitudinous smells of the waterfront. From the hold of one ship rose the
aroma of sweet spices, from another the reek of the slaver. Over all were the odors of tarred cordage and the sea. The timbers beneath his feet creaked as the wharf shifted to the receding tide.

Jaganath turned to the porters who stood behind them. "Take our belongings aboard that ship," he said, pointing to the Songbird. The men looked at the ship, looked back at him in amazement, shrugged, and shouldered the few chests and bales. Precariously, they made their way down the steeply pitched gangplank to the deck.

Kasavo emerged from a tent set on the fantail and grinned up at them.

"Come aboard, my friends. Your cabin is ready and the tide is running."

His tone was faintly mocking and his men looked up from their work or their idling and grinned as well. Gopal negotiated the gangplank with effortless grace and Jaganath descended with magisterial dignity and an astonishing sense of balance for so fat a man.

"Haul in the gangplank and cast off!" Kasavo bellowed. "We sail!" The porters scrambled back up the plank and cast the mooring lines loose from their bollards. The ship began to drift away from the pier and men clambered aloft to begin loosing the great sail.

Satisfied that preparations were well started, Kasavo turned to his passengers. "Come, let me show you your cabin. I moved out two of my mates to make room for you. No matter, they can bed down on the deck with the rest. The weather should be fair for this voyage."

"You are most kind," said Jaganath. Their "cabin" turned out to be little more than a lean-to set up near the stern, with a thatched roof and canvas sides. The interior was barely adequate to accommodate both men and their belongings.

"It will be a bit cramped," Kasavo said with mock apology. "If you wish, we can store some of your belongings in the hold, where they will be out of your way."

"We shall keep them here," Jaganath said. "From what I can see, you have little enough cargo space as it is."

"Yes, this is not a bulk carrier. As you have noticed, the Songbird is built to transport small luxury cargoes. Spices, for instance. Speed is of the essence when transporting spices. From the time they are picked and
dried they begin to deteriorate. A fast ship like this can get them to the market early in the season and turn a good profit."

"Say you so?" said Jaganath, feigning both credulity and interest. As if a westerner could teach a learned Vendhyan anything about the spice trade. "Is condition more important than bulk?"

"Very much so," said Kasavo, enjoying the sport of taking in an ignorant foreigner. "The spice merchants of the North will pay far more for a chest of spices still fresh than for one spoiled by weeks at sea."

"Yet I smell no spices aboard," Jaganath said in seeming puzzlement.

"The spice season is over," Kasavo assured him smoothly. "Now we sail to Kordava in ballast, there to take on a cargo of fine glassware for shipment south. That is another low-volume, high-profit cargo. The black nobles of the southern coasts pay handsomely for it in ivory and fine skins and feathers."

"This is most fascinating," Jaganath said. "My king will be most interested in these matters. We must speak of these things during the voyage. His majesty wishes me to withhold nothing concerning travel and commerce from my book."

"I shall be at your service," said Kasavo with a friendly smile. "And now I must see to my ship. You may wish to secure your goods with rope.

When we pass the seawall, the water will be far rougher. If you begin to feel ill, remember to use the lee rail. That is the one where the wind does not blow in your face." With an insolent grin he left the shanty.

"Spices!" Gopal said in their own tongue. "As if anyone with a nose could not tell that this ship has never carried more than their cook's pepperpot! I yearn to tread upon that arrogant fool's insolent mouth."

"Peace, nephew," Jaganath soothed. "What matter the slights of ignorant foreigners? For now, we are no more than silly scholars who believe everything we hear. Smile at them, laugh at their jokes on you. Let them have their sport." He smiled serenely. "Soon we shall have a great deal of sport with them."

By the next morning Gopal was very seasick, to the merriment of the sailors. Jaganath borrowed the cook's tiny stove and brewed a potion of
herbs that quickly restored the younger man's health. The sailors were a little disappointed that their sport had been so short-lived. In the ensuing days they continued to bait the passengers, at first with the mild jokes traditional at sea when landlubbers take passage, then with rougher, more malicious jests. Soon Kasavo dropped his mask of affability and treated his passengers with barely veiled contempt. It was clear that soon the corsairs would tire of their sport and consign two Vendhyan bodies to the sharks prior to dividing up their belongings. The voyage turned out to be longer than expected, with much tacking and wearing against contrary winds. Tempers were not improved by this, but the Vendhyans continued to smile obsequiously and made no protest at being the butt of the crew's rough jests.

At last the Songbird weathered the dangerous Baracha Strait between the islands and the mainland, and fair weather and winds prevailed. No more than two days remained before they reached Kordava. The sun was lowering sedately over the yardarm after a leisurely half day of sailing when Jaganath addressed his nephew: "Gopal, it is no longer necessary to abide the insolence of these subhumans. Do as your spirit bids you." With these mild words the great mage loosed the bonds of his young kinsman.

"As you say, uncle." Gopal grinned ferociously, then calmed himself and exited the little cabin. Despite the advancing season, the weather was very mild, even balmy, and Gopal wore only his turban and a clean linen loincloth. Tucked into the loincloth he carried a short, curved dagger with a jeweled hilt. He went to the rail, where a bucket was tethered by a long rope to a belaying pin. He cast the tarred leather bucket into the sea and drew it forth brimming with seawater. Squatting by the bucket, Gopal began his ablutions, splashing the water into his face, under his arms, and over his chest and shoulders.

Nearby, a knot of sailors lounged. They were typical of the crew of this or any other pirate vessel, a polyglot pack of sea sweepings united only in viciousness. A shaven-headed black of some Kushite tribe stood next to a hooknosed Shemite. At their feet sat a quiet, deadly Stygian next to a yellowhaired Gunderman, somehow strayed from his landlocked frontier district. Several others made up the group, most prominent among them a tall, lean Poitainian who wore knee-length breeks of red silk and a wide sash of Kothian cloth-of-gold. The group watched Gopal with broad grins until Kasavo emerged from his quarters with a predatory gleam in his eye.

The Poitainian caught the look and Kasavo nodded, jerking his head
toward the squatting Vendhyan. With a vicious grin the Poitainian strode on bare feet toward Gopal.

Gopal, still squatting, was drying his hands on a scrap of cloth when a pair of silk-draped knees appeared at his eye level. Before he could stand, a bare foot kicked over his bucket, drenching his legs and loincloth. Slowly, Gopal stood, smiling as obsequiously as ever. "Was my pail in your way? I am so sorry, my friend. I must be more careful."

The Poitainian grinned as Gopal stood and he poked a grimy forefinger into the Vendhyan's hairless chest. "Sorry, are you? Well, sorry isn't good enough. Vendhyan, how would you like to play a game?" He turned toward his friends and smiled viciously, happy to be the center of attention.

"A game, master?" Gopal said with a toothy smile. "A game like king-is-dead? I can play that. We can make a playing board here on the deck, and use fishing sinkers for men."

"No, no," said the Poitainian, shaking his head and speaking with broad mock gravity. "What I have in mind is a more active game."

"Active, master?" Gopal said with a look of mystification.

"Yes. Can you dance, foreigner?"

"Dance, master?"

"Yes, dance, you fool!" the Poitainian shouted impatiently. From his sash he drew a broad-bladed poiniard of Zamoran design, etched upon the blade with prayers to Mitra, but with an edge of irreligious keenness.

Playfully, he poked the point toward Gopal's bare belly.

"Master, what does this mean?" Gopal pleaded.

"It means I want you to dance!" The Poitainian lunged and Gopal saved himself only by a nimble leap backward. Jaganath emerged from the cabin and surveyed the proceedings serenely. By now everyone except the steersman had gathered around the main deck to watch the fun.

"Oh, I see!" said Gopal. "You mean to dance like this?" He drew his small dagger and held it as if he were about to hand it to the Poitainian. It was thin and slightly curved, keen on both edges.

"Like what?" said the Poitainian, slightly disconcerted. Then, seeing the smallness of the Vendhyan's dagger: "Very well, landlubber, if you'd like to match blades, let us dance!"

He crouched slightly, belly sucked in and dagger held out before him, with his thumb on the crossguard against the flat of the blade. This was the guard position taught by Poitainian weaponmasters, and his left hand was raised slightly above the position of the right, ready to block or grip his enemy's weapon hand. This, too, was in accordance with the Poitainian theory of dagger fighting.

Gopal, still smiling, held his little knife so tentatively that he seemed almost on the point of dropping it. "I am most ignorant of your dances, master," Gopal said. "Please, of your goodness, give me a lesson."

The Poitainian, suddenly aware that he was in mortal danger, was more than a little nonplused. Still, the eyes of his comrades were upon him, and he did not want to appear intimidated by this little eastern book scholar. "Well, first, you must look to your throat!" Abruptly, he lunged, the blade licking out toward Gopal's neck, but the Vendhyan was no longer there.

Delicately, Gopal stepped in under the blade. To the other crewmen the Poitainian's lunge had been blindingly swift. In any other shipboard brawl it would have spelled the end to the fight. To Gopal, trained by the best of Vendhya's master assassins, the lunge was impossibly slow and clumsy. He evaded it so easily that he felt a keen sense of disappointment, then he slipped in and swept his blade across the exposed belly before him. Then he stepped back.

The Poitainian looked down stupidly as the thin red line at his waist widened and his intestines began to emerge. Gopal reached out delicately and grasped a handful of entrails. "Now we can dance, my friend!" Gopal pulled, and a ghastly coil of bowels tumbled to the deck. The Poitainian, as if in a trance, tried to follow Gopal and dropped his dagger, trying to use both hands to stuff his entrails back into his belly. Gopal laughed and continued to lead him around the deck, laughing and encouraging him. In the end, Gopal stood by the rail and cast the huge loop of intestines into the sea. The Poitainian, now totally mindless, dived in, as if by that expedient he might repair his destroyed body.

Gopal laughed loud and long. "I like these games!" He looked around
the deck, to be met with the bleak stares of the crew. "Will no one else play with me? Surely, someone else must wish to teach the foolish outlander a lesson!"

The shaven-headed Kushite sprang forth, holding the short-handled spear of his nation. "You slew my shipmate! Die, landsman!" He thrust mightily, but Gopal stepped lightly around the broad spearpoint and thrust delicately. The curved blade went in just below the Kushite's ear, cutting in no more than an inch, but it was sufficient. From the small cut emerged a fountainmg torrent of blood. The black tried to cover the fount with his hand, but it was futile. Within seconds he collapsed onto the deck, with his blood staining the wood in a widening stream.

Others now rushed in. An ugly Argossian blundered in, swinging a short club. Gopal sidestepped nimbly and slit the man's throat in passing.

A Zingaran thrust with a long, narrow sword of curious design. Gopal avoided it adroitly by turning slightly and sucking in his belly. A swift stab beneath the chin and into the brain killed the Zingaran instantly.

Now the pirates were drawing back toward the rails, leaving as much distance as possible between themselves and Gopal. The only one to stand his ground was Kasavo himself. The captain drew his short sword and advanced warily, balanced on the balls of his feet. "Try your eastern tricks on me, little man," he hissed. "See how much good they do you!" He feinted toward Gopal's face, then lowered his point to plunge his steel into the Vendhyan's bowels.

Gopal ignored the feint and stepped forward, twisting his body slightly, allowing the point to pass through empty air. His blade swept delicately across the captain's wrist and the sword clattered to the deck. Kasavo jumped back, gripping his wrist to stop the bleeding. His fingers would not move. Gopal had severed the tendons. "No one man can fight a whole crew!" Kasavo snarled. "Kill them both!"

With a howl all of his men drew steel and began to close in. Gopal stood where he was, unafraid.

"Hold!" The order crackled through the air with immense authority.

Helplessly, the men stopped their advance and stared with fear-widened eyes at Jaganath, who now stood upon the fantail. He seemed to have gained a cubit in height, and an aura of sorcerous light shone around him.

From his mouth emerged a stream of low, guttural words, oddly cadenced.

The faces of the men grew slack, and their weapons fell clattering to the deck.

"Bind them, nephew," Jaganath instructed. "Leave four or five free to handle the ship."

While the crew stood apathetically, Gopal collected short lengths of rope and trussed them up securely. The five who were to handle the ship received special attention from the mage. With the blood of the fallen he traced certain symbols upon their brows, muttering incantations the while. He then freed the others of his spell. Immediately, they began howling in demented fear, tugging at their unyielding bonds. To no avail, for Gopal was as clever with ropes as he was with his dagger.

"Peace, gentlemen, peace," said Jaganath, his beatific smile restored. "I have selected you for a signal honor. This very night you are to make the acquaintance of certain very powerful beings. I know that you must look forward to this with keen anticipation, for men in your profession seldom have the opportunity to mix with the great ones of this world. Or any other, for that matter." At this he laughed until his huge belly shook.

Throughout the rest of the day Jaganath made his preparations, assisted by Gopal. The crew sat stupefied by horror as the Vendhyans took one of their number and cut his still-living body into several pieces, using the selected portions of his anatomy for rites conducted at various parts of the ship, where Jaganath had drawn complicated designs upon the deck with fresh blood. All was in readiness by the setting of the sun.

"It annoys me to have to do this, nephew," said Jaganath. "These complicated rites and the calling up of the powers of the deep are trivial things, suited to a novice sorcerer. I had thought that I had done with these things many years ago, when my studies advanced into the truly great realm of wizardry. However, we must have fair winds and calm seas for the next step of our journey. To be sure of those, I must summon He Who Dwells in the City Beneath the Sea." He pronounced this title in the secret tongue of the highest order of wizards, and the timbers of the ship shuddered to the reverberations of the name.

As the gibbous moon rose above the waves, Jaganath stood in the prow of the ship, arms raised and voice chanting horribly in a language never meant for human tongue. The captain and crew of the Songbird huddled wretchedly amidships as the sea all around the-hull began to glow an
unearthly green.

From time to time immense humped forms broke the surface within a few yards of the ship, then sank beneath the water once more, leaving behind only a hideous stench, the essence of all the foulness and corruption upon the ocean floor. Great tentacles, slimy and iridescent, coiled and looped over the waves, slapping the surface before slithering below. Once, a long, serpentlike form swam around the ship, half a league of serrated back rising and plunging before it disappeared. Its head and tail never became visible.

Although the sea was turbulent and foamy as far as vision could reach, the ship floated placidly in an unnatural patch of calm water. Gradually, the green glow of the water was transformed to a lurid blood red. The lesser beings of the deep ceased to appear and the waves became quiet.

A shadow darkened the glowing water, shapeless and vast. Slowly, it grew larger, as if some unthinkably huge creature were arising from the farthest depths of the sea. The shadow widened until it seemed impossible that it could be made by any living thing.

Then it broke surface. A titanic, humped shape arose from the water, and the sea cascaded from its sides in foaming torrents. Big as an island, it continued to rise until its crest was far higher than the tip of the mast.

The rounded bulk was corrugated like an eroded hill, and it was splotched and rough, with dense growths of barnacle and coral. Smaller creatures crawled or scuttled amid its growths and protuberances.

A cluster of insanely glaring eyes appeared, and below them a wide, toothless mouth mat slobbered a foaming green scum. Last of all appeared a cluster of hundreds of tentacles that seemed to completely encircle the thing's horrid bulk. Coming from it was a stench so awful that all that had gone before was trivial by comparison. The prisoners who had not yet passed out from fear retched helplessly upon the deck.

Jaganath's chanting continued, and after a few minutes the thing from the bottom of the sea began to respond, its flabby lips working in an obscene parody of human speech, its voice a rumble so deep that it did not register upon the human ear as sound but rather was felt in the flesh and bones. In its horrible fashion it was speaking the same words as Jaganath.

This unnatural communication continued until the moon was high, then it stopped abruptly.

In silence the thing came closer to the ship until its cluster of eyes stared down into the knot of insanely gibbering men who writhed helplessly against their bonds in a futile effort to get away from this horror.

"You now have the privilege," Jaganath said, "of entertaining my guest at dinner."

A tentacle slipped over the rail and wrapped itself about the waist of a shrieking man. It raised him high, holding him close to the eyes, like a man examining some exotic delicacy before tasting it. Other tentacles took him by the limbs and, one at a time, tore them off, thrusting them into its gaping mouth. Last of all it twisted his head off, ending his sufferings, and held up the limbless carcass like an obscene wineskin, squeezing it dry of blood and then popping it, too, into its mouth.

One by one it consumed the rest of the crew in the same fashion, last of all taking the unfortunate Kasavo. Gopal had given the man a drug to ensure that he would not pass out from the horror of the proceedings, but his face was perfectly mad even before the creature began to dismember him.

When all was done, the thing from the deep spoke a single word to Jaganath, then slowly sank beneath the surface. A broad, churning whirlpool marked its passing, then the red glow faded as the shadow shrank in its descent. Soon all was calm again, and the moon shone down placidly upon the ship that sailed the calm waters. Mindlessly, the spared ones continued to work the vessel, having taken no notice of the past hours.

"I had never thought to see the great god of the deep," said Gopal when he felt he could trust his voice to be steady. Never before had his uncle allowed him to witness such a thing.

"That was not the great one," Jaganath corrected. "This was one of his minions. The great god sleeps in his city beneath the sea. Even I, as I am now, could not bear the sight of him! Soon, though, I may be able to speak to him as an equal. Surely, the events which lie before us shall rouse him from his age-long slumber."

"If this was, as you say, a trivial matter for such as you," Gopal said in wonderment, "then my mind reels at the thought of the power you
command already."

"Yes," Jaganath said complacently, "I am already one of the greatest of mages. Soon I shall be greatest of all, and infinitely more powerful than I am now. 1 am somewhat fatigued, nephew. Let us sleep now. These slaves will sail the ship safely. Tomorrow we shall be near Kordava."

The next morning, within sight of the city, the mage and his nephew lowered a ship's boat into the water and deposited their belongings into it.

As they rowed away from the ship, the automatons hauled the yard around and set sail to the west.

"What will they do now?" Gopal asked.

"They will sail until they are far from sight of land. Then, in obedience to my instructions, they will fire the ship and burn or drown with her.''

Gopal set himself to the oars and began pulling strongly for shore.

"What shall be our story when we reach the port?"

"We need none. I shall simply render us invisible as we enter. Kordava is a large port, and there will be much shipping there. All will assume that we have come in on one of the vessels. That way we do not need to make up a story of a disaster at sea to explain our arriving in a small boat. After all, we wish to take passage on another ship, and we do not want to arrive with a reputation for bad luck at sea, do we?" At this both men laughed loud and long.

In the great hall of Starkad, the Vanir chieftain was holding revel for his fighting men. Along the benches the Vanir warriors sang and drank ale or mead from silver-mounted oxhorns and ripped great dripping hunks of half-raw meat from the bones of boar and stag with their strong teeth.

They were big men, and their hair and beards ranged in color from bright orange to reddish-brown, but always the red tint proclaimed their Vanir ancestry, just as gold hair identified their kinsmen and deadly foes, the Aesir. Behind each man's place on the bench hung his round shield, his horned helm and shirt of scales or mail, and his sword, spear, and bow.

At the head of the long trestle table, elevated on a dais, sat Starkad and his guests. The Van was studying the two arrivals who had come off the ship that had put into the fiord of Starkadsgarth this very morning. They were as odd a pair as he had laid eyes on in many a year. Dark they were,
and beardless. One was large and fat, the other small and delicate. They were from some far eastern land he had never heard of, and there was something strange about the fat one that proclaimed him a wizard. More to the point, the man was rich and seemed to desire some service of the Van.

"That is a most interesting cup you drink from, King Starkad," said Jaganath.

"I'm not a king," Starkad grumbled. "I'm a chief. If my men hear you name me a king, they will wax angry and kill you." He raised his cup and looked at it. It was a human skull, the top of which had been removed and the braincase lined with gold. The eye sockets had likewise been filled with gleaming gold, and it had a stem and base of the same precious metal.

"Yes, it is fine, is it not? This was Hagmund of the Aesir, and he slew my father, wherefore I was obliged to put him to death in a leisurely fashion.

Whenever I drink from it, my father's spirit is comforted. Somehow, wine is always sweeter when drunk from the skull of an enemy."

"So I presume," Jaganath said.

Starkad was a little disappointed that the Vendhyan was not more impressed or intimidated. The reason, though, was simple: Jaganath's sorcerous studies had led him into practices compared to which the simple brutalities of the Vanir were the merest child's play. Although Starkad knew naught of this, the easterners made the chieftain uncomfortable in some obscure fashion. He thought of simply killing them and taking their gold, but he wanted no curse laid on him and his house.

The Vendhyans sat picking daintily at their food, now and then tugging loose a small morsel of bread or piece of fruit while ignoring the steaming slabs of meat laid before them on trenchers of flat, twice-baked bread.

Their eyes were reddened from the abundant smoke of the fire that burned in a long trench down the center of the hall. Chimneys were unknown in Nordheim, and the smoke was left to find its own way out through the holes left in the gables at either end of the longhouse. Despite the presence of the fire, both men were bundled in heavy woolens and furs, being unaccustomed to the biting weather of the northern autumn.

At the far end of the hall two Vanir were having some sport, tugging at a wet sheepskin stretched over the fire pit at a spot where the flames had burned down to glowing coals. With a shout of dismay the slightly drunker
loser was tugged into the pit. The victor, in traditional fashion, then threw the sheepskin over the loser and jumped up and down on the unfortunate man before allowing him to scramble out, scorched and singed. All around the board the men roared with laughter at this sport.

"I'll wager you have no such amusements down in the soft lands of the South," Starkad said when his laughter had subsided.

"I fear not," said Jaganath. The stench of singed hair and burning fleece was overpowering. "But then, you have probably never seen a losing army of some ten thousand staked out and stamped to death by elephants."

"Hmm," Starkad said, "I've never even seen an elephant, for that matter." He thought of sending south for an elephant so he could have his enemy prisoners trampled.

"You have spoken of your Aesir enemies," Jaganath said, "but do you not also raid among the Cimmerians?"

"Yes, by Ymir, we do! It's a trading of hard swordstrokes with them too."

"Do you raid them to take wealth?" Jaganath queried further.

"Wealth, no. The Cimmerians are a poor folk, with little silver or gold.

The poorest As or Van is a chieftain compared to the richest Cimmerian."

"Then what is the advantage of warring with such redoubtable foes when they have nothing worth taking?"

"Did I say they had nothing? We raid their villages to take their children! A grown Cimmerian is useless as a slave. Men and women, they fight to the death or kill themselves rather than be enslaved. But Cimmerian children bring a high price in the South. Properly brought up, they make the best of slaves. Work them as hard as you like, on short rations, and beat them to your heart's content. Nothing seems to kill them. Why, I've seen a Cimmerian householder, with his hut surrounded, slay his wife and children before running out to meet us with his bloody sword. Yes, they're a hard people." He sat back in his great chair and took a long drink from his skull goblet. "But we Vanir are harder."

"Then," Jaganath said, "you will not fear to make a little expedition into Cimmeria?"

"Fear?" roared Starkad, outraged. "We Vanir fear nothing!" Then, more quietly: "However, we venture nowhere if there's no profit to be had, especially this late in the year. This is the feasting time, when we hold revel in our halls. Soon, I will take the hospitality of my fellow chieftains, and they mine, until the great feast of midwinter. We shall need strong persuasion to leave the warmth and the hall joys and go death harvesting among the Cimmerians."

At this unsubtle cajolery Jaganath opened the bag at his side and let Starkad see the massive golden coins therein. Idly, Jaganath's fingers wandered among the shining, clinking pieces. "Is this not a splendid bag?"

he said.

Starkad's mouth went dry, and his palms began to itch. He was already rich in gold, but greed was as much a part of him as blood lust, and as the glittering metal he could never have enough of. "What is the nature of this journey which you wish to undertake?"

"A mere trek to a certain mountain. It need not involve the shedding of Vanir blood. We must have an escort, and we must be upon this mountain by the coming equinox."

Starkad chuckled mirthlessly. "We'll not walk on Cimmerian soil without a fight. What mountain is it you wish to find?"

"In the Cimmerian tongue, it is called Ben Morgh."

Starkad went pale beneath his windburn. "Ben Morgh," he half-whispered. "Why in the name of Ymir do you want to go there?"

"My business there is my own concern. Is it so fearsome a place?"

"It is the Cimmerian's sacred mount, where dwells Crom, their god. I care nothing for Crom; Ymir is my god. But to get to the foot of Ben Morgh we must go up Conall's Valley and cross the Field of the Dead. All the great war-chiefs of Cimmeria are buried in the Field of the Dead. If they know that we are coming, there could be a gathering of the clans. To protect the bones of their ancestors they will put aside the feuds of generations, as they did when they put Venarium to the sack."

"But," Jaganath protested, "we will do their graves no injury. We will just pass between them."

"The ground itself is sacred to them," Starkad told him. "Besides, once we were there I could never prevent my men from toppling the cairns of the Cimmerians any more than the Cimmerians will spare our sacred groves when they invade our land. The hatred is bred too deep."

"Well," Jaganath said, closing his bag, "if you cannot do this thing, I will not impose further on your generous hospitality. I have heard of a chieftain, farther up the coast, named Wulfstan. Perhaps he will have more stomach for a little adventuring among the mountains."

"Be not so hasty," Starkad said as he saw the bright glimmer of gold disappear. "Perhaps a few of my bolder lads would not mind a bit of brisk work among the blackhairs." He looked down at the paunch that was beginning to bulge over his broad belt. Slapping the hill of flesh, he said, "I myself could use a little exercise. I have not plied my ax this year. Let us see."

Starkad roared for silence, and gradually the noise in the hall abated.

"Our honored guests," he bawled, "have come from afar. They have heard that we Vanir are the mightiest and bravest people in all the world!" His statement was greeted with a roar of approval and agreement. "They have a journey to make, and for an escort of fearless Vanir, they are willing to pay rich golden treasure!" This time the roar was even louder. "Who is with me for a little tramp inland and perhaps a bit of ax play?" There was much cheering and many volunteers, but then a broad-bearded warrior stood and addressed the chief.

"Where do these outlanders want to go?"

"To Cimmeria," answered Starkad. The cheering abated somewhat.

"Who would go into those misty hills this time of year?" demanded the standing warrior. "The snows will be coming soon, the blackhairs will be down out of their mountain pastures and all together in their villages.

Nothing there but hard fighting and no captives." Others nodded and muttered that these were true words.

Starkad leaned forward. "Gurth," he said, his voice dangerously quiet and low-pitched, "this is an escort I propose, not a raid. Every man here is
free to have his say, but if you would rather be sitting in this chair, my ax is here." He gestured toward a magnificent silver-inlaid weapon propped against his seat. "And there is yours." He pointed to a similar weapon hanging from a peg behind Gurth. 'This chair is always open to a man bold enough to take it.''

Among the fierce Vanir, a chieftain held his position so long as he could defend it with the strength of his arm. Abashed, the man named Gurth resumed his seat on the bench. Starkad smiled with amusement but no humor.

By ones and twos and in small groups men came forward to volunteer for the undertaking. Mostly, they were younger men, eager to seek adventure and prove their courage. The chief praised them and promised them gold and gifts. When all had finished giving their oath of service, he said to Jaganath, "Tomorrow I will send to the outlying holdings, and we'll get more men. I wouldn't set foot in Cimmeria without at least a hundred."

"Very well," Jaganath said, "but we have little time if we are to be there by the equinox." Then, after a little thought: "I will pay you well, but you will pay your own men. Even this much gold will not go far when spread among a hundred men."

Starkad slapped his knee and roared with renewed mirth. "Fear not, stranger. There will not be a hundred when we return!"

Four

In the Border Kingdom

Belverus lay far behind Conan. He was fully recovered from his injury and rode effortlessly through the last hot days of early autumn. His bronzed skin shone glossily in the full sunlight, for he rode clad only in boots, loincloth, and swordbelt. A headband of scarlet leather kept his unshorn mane out of his eyes as he scanned the horizon restlessly. At any moment the nearby ridges could be aswarm with strangers of unclear intent.

Ten days' riding had taken him from the plain surrounding Belverus into the hilly land that would eventually rise into the great mountain
ranges of the northern lands. The grasslands of the south lay behind him, and the hills all about him were clad in a verdure of open forest, most of it hardwood, that would give way to pine as he journeyed northward.

Already, leaves were changing color and beginning to fall, presaging an early winter.

This was the Border Kingdom, an area bordered by Nemedia, Brythunia, Hyperborea and Cimmeria, with a finger of land thrust into Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches. It was a land too diffuse and primitive for the strong kingship of the south, and although it was termed a kingdom, it could seldom be determined just who was king of the place.

Frequently, there were several claimants to the title, leading to inevitable warfare. The eastern sector through which he now rode was the domain of petty chieftains and he hoped to avoid their squabbles if he could.

The sun of noon looked down upon him as he came to the ruins of a village. Its wooden stockade was little but a circle of charred stumps, and all the huts within had been burned to the ground. There was no smoke, but Conan's nose informed him that the burning had taken place no more than two days past. His mount shied at the smell of blood-soaked ground.

A litter of broken arrows and several sword-hacked shields told him that this place had put up a fight. He cursed silently. This was just the kind of thing he had hoped to avoid. His comfortable lead on the solstice was already narrowing, and he wanted no more delays.

Whoever the people of this place had been, they were now dead, scattered, or led away into captivity. And what of the attackers? He made a circuit of the ruined stockade, but could make nothing of a hash of old tracks further obscured by a recent rain. A trail of droppings told him that the village's livestock had been led away to the northeast, but the savagery of the destruction showed that this had been no mere cattle-raid. This was the work of warring clans or a foreign invader. He determined to proceed with utmost caution.

Unfortunately, it is not easy for a man on horseback to avoid detection when riding through strange hills, especially when those he seeks to avoid are keen-eyed men who know the land intimately. A few miles from the village he heard the blast of a horn. Immediately, he saw the mounted picket who was stationed on a nearby hillcrest, keeping watch on the small valley through which Conan was riding. Within minutes the horn blast was followed by the drumming of horsemen.

Conan leaned upon his pommel and waited patiently. He could flee, but that would mean selecting another route and losing far too much time.

Best to allow the riders to examine him and to state his business honestly.

If the worst happened, he would cut a way through them and bolt for Cimmeria. If he had to flee, best to flee in the direction of his mission.

The file of horsemen heaved over a ridge and poured into the little valley. There were a score of them, hard-faced men in helms and short cuirasses of mail or scale. By the look of them he judged them to be cousins of the Gundermen to the west. The majority were fair-haired and blue-eyed. He noted one peculiarity about them: Each wore the horns of a bull upon his helm. There was no individual variation in the ornamentation of their headgear. Their shields likewise were decorated with the heads of bulls, and one rider bore a tall standard upon which were the skull and several tails of the same beast.

He kept his hands well away from his weapons as the riders circled him. Their manner was wary but not overtly hostile. His eyes widened as one of the riders rode toward him. This was not a man, but a woman dressed for war. He studied her with open admiration, for she was well worth looking at.

Her face was obscured by a horned helmet which left only a Y-shaped slot for vision and breath, but her body was as splendid as that of a warrior-goddess of Vendhya. Her full breasts were protected by cups of polished bronze, and her wide, powerful shoulders tapered to a small waist cinched by a broad belt covered with silvered scale. Bronze greaves covered her shins and knees, leaving her thighs bare except for a dagger strapped to the right. Except for her armor and the straps that held it in place, she wore nothing except for a narrow loincloth of black silk, not even sandals.

The woman loosened her chin strap and lifted the heavy helm from her head. A mane of tan hair spilled from the helm and hung as low as the woman's elbows, and Conan was pleased to see that her face was as beautiful as her form. It was a strong face, with a brow that was low and wide, and cheekbones that were wider still. Her jaw was square and firm, her nose straight. Many would have considered her features too strong and heavy for true beauty, but the hard planes and angles of the face were softened by a wide mouth with full, sensual lips. In any case, Conan thought the face perfect for her woman-warrior's body. The exceptional
development of her neck and shoulders proved that this was no king's daughter dressed up as a soldier for play, but a woman who was accustomed to wearing armor, probably from childhood. He judged her age at somewhere in the mid-twenties.

Meanwhile, the woman was studying him as frankly. Her cool blue eyes registered approval as they took in Conan's powerful, heavily muscled frame, his big, scarred hands with their calluses from his years of weapon work.

"I am Aelfrith, chieftainess of Cragsfell," the woman said. Her voice was low, almost husky. "You are a Cimmerian, by your look. What is your business in my land?" As Conan had expected, she spoke a dialect of the Gunder tongue, which he understood.

"My name is Conan. I go to my home in Cimmeria, which I have not visited in many years. I travel alone and 1 mean no harm to you or your people. May I pass through your land unhindered?"

"That may not be easy to grant. I would not interfere with your homefaring, but there is war here."

"So I have noticed," Conan said. "Earlier I passed through a village, or rather a place where a village had been. There was not enough left of it for the crows to fight over."

"That was Atzel's work," the woman said, her face paling with rage.

"Many of the folk escaped to my fortress at Cragsfell. We reached the place yesterday, in time to carry off the dead for burial, though there was naught else we could do. Atzel's men left nothing but the bodies of the dead.

He slew all the men he could catch, and carried off the women and children to sell to Nemedian traders."

"Who is this Atzel?" Conan asked. "Is he a bandit or an enemy chief?"

Aelfrith spat upon the ground with a short curse Conan had never heard before. "There are no good words for what he is." She gazed for a moment at the sword at Conan's waist, with its long white handle. "Since you are a stranger here, and mean no harm, I offer my hospitality. We ride for Cragsfell now, so ride with us. You must pass it on your way, so you
may as well get a night's lodging and a good dinner before moving on. You can hear all about Atzel and my woes over a pot of ale."

Conan would have been content to sleep beneath the stars again, but it was a deadly insult to refuse hospitality that had been offered. Besides, this regal warrior-woman intrigued him. "I accept, and gladly."

"Good. We shall be there before nightfall. It may be that we shall be attacked on the way, but you are now under my protection. That is something you would not get from Atzel. He would have killed you by now for your horse and sword, and whatever else you have."

"He might have tried," Conan said grimly. "Many men have tried ere now. They keep one another company in Hell now, plotting what they would do to me when I join them."

Aelfrith regarded him with a measuring gaze. "Yes, I think you would take many with you before setting out on that road yourself. Come, let us ride." She rehelmed and wheeled her horse. Conan kept close behind, admiring the view thus afforded. He strove to hide his broad grin from Aelfrith's, men. The rear of her loincloth was no more than half a handsbreadth wide, and rendered this view very nearly as interesting as the front had been. Such scantiness of garb was common enough in Zamora or Nemedia, but it was not at all common among northern women. He guessed shrewdly that this was a way she chose to emphasize her difference from the common run of women. She rode as expertly as any cavalryman, her supple body moving as one with her mount. Conan found himself regretting that his mission would not allow him to stay in this place and get to know her much better.

A long afternoon's ride through the wooden hills brought them within sight of a craggy tor surmounted by crude battlements of heaped stone.

Aelfrith pointed to the hill fort. "Cragsfell," she said. By the time the sun was a handsbreadth lower in the sky, they were riding through cultivated land where the harvest was being taken in and swineherds were driving their beasts into the woods to fatten upon the fallen acorns. Conan noted that every man kept a spear handy even at these rustic labors, and many had sword or bow.

The road rose to wind around the tor like a serpent, circling so that approachers must always keep the unshielded side toward the fort.

Archers and crossbowmen studded the battlement, casting speculative
glances toward the blackhaired stranger who rode behind their chieftainess. A dozen men worked a great windlass which raised a bronze-strapped gate of thick timber, and the small cavalcade rode inside.

The fort was small by southern standards, no more than a village surrounded by a dry stone wall. At its center was a long, timber hall, elaborately carved and painted. The whole place swarmed with people, most of them women and children sent there by their menfolk to be out of harm's way in these troubled times. They smiled and waved as Aelfrith rode in. She seemed to be popular with her people.

They dismounted, and boys took their horses. Most of the men stretched, their bodies stiff from riding, but Aelfrith merely unhelmed and strode gracefully toward the great hall. Conan stayed close behind her.

Inside the hall she tossed her helm to a boy and announced: "We have a guest!" She pointed at two tow-headed boys. "You and you, see to his needs. Show him to the bathhouse and find him clean clothes. He is to receive the courtesies due a visiting thane." Suspiciously, Conan wondered why a mere wandering warman such as he should warrant this kind of courtesy.

A tousle-haired girl of no more than five years ran from a curtained alcove at the rear of the hall, and Aelfrith gathered her up in her arms. She turned to Conan. "This is Aelfgifa, my only child." The little girl looked at Conan with distrust. Young as she was, she knew that this blackhaired stranger was no kinsman or friend of hers.

"She will be the mother of fine warriors," Conan said. It was a customary way to praise a host's girl children in the northern lands, but Aelfrith seemed to take exception.

"She'll be a warrior herself if I live long enough to raise her properly."

She smiled at the child in great wide. "Already she can ride and use a little bow I have had made for her. When she has enough strength of arm, she shall learn the sword and spear."

Conan wondered what had become of the child's father, but he knew better than to ask questions of a ruler, even a ruler of a small realm such as this chieftainess. If she thought fit, she would tell him in the course of the evening. If not, he was riding out in the morning in any case, and curiosity would not kill him.

"Bathe and rest," Aelfrith advised him. "When darkness falls you shall sit beside me at table. I have matters to discuss with you, but not until you have rested and eaten and cut the road dust with some ale." She turned to one of the boys she had designated as his attendants and rapped him on the skull with her knuckles. "Why have not not brought our guest a horn?

He thirsts." The boy ran off, rubbing his scalp. She turned back to Conan.

"The lads will take you to the men's bathhouse. I go now to wash and find out what new bad habits my daughter has learned. We shall speak at dinner." She walked toward the curtained alcove. A pair of young women came out and began to unbuckle her harness before she was through the curtain.

"I shall lead you to the bath, sir," said one of the boys with great self-importance. The other ran in with a horn of foaming ale. Conan noted that it was a common oxhorn, before he emptied half of it at a single swallow.

"Are you really a Cimmerian, sir?" asked the boy who had brought the horn. "Cimmerians sometimes come down out of their mountains to steal our cattle." The boys led him outside and toward a wooden building that was larger than the dwelling houses.

"That would be the Murrogh," Conan said. "They are the enemies of my clan. I am your friend. My clan never raided in the Border Kingdom that I ever heard of. We do most of our fighting with the Picts and the Vanir.

And, of course, with our fellow Cimmerians." This seemed to reassure the boys.

They entered a single large room, most of which was taken up by a huge wooden tub, in which several of the men he had ridden with that day were already splashing. The room was filled with steam, and water slopped all over the flagstoned floor. Conan unbelted his sword and dirk and bade one of the boys take it outside, away from the damp, The other helped pull off his boots. He stepped from his loincloth and climbed into the great tub.

The hot, steaming water soothed the aches from his mighty but tired muscles, and he luxuriated in its caress. He greeted his fellow bathers and sought to engage them in conversation. They were courteous but curt in their speech. Clearly, they would remain cautious with this stranger until their chieftainess's intentions toward him became clear.

A boy brought him a full horn of ale and Conan sat back, blissfully
relaxing from the rigors of his trip. One small doubt gnawed at his contentment: Obviously, the chieftainess had a proposal to make, and she wanted him to be in a receptive mood before she broached it. He might find himself in the delicate, dangerous position of having to say no to a woman who was accustomed to being obeyed, and who had scores of tough fighting men at her command.

His musings were interrupted by a cry of "Hot stone!" A stout woman came in through a back entrance. In her hands she held a pair of tongs which gripped a glowing-hot stone the size of a man's head. The men in the tub pulled hastily back as she cast the stone into the water. It sank with a loud hiss and a burst of steam, and the water bubbled furiously over the spot where the stone disappeared.

He stepped from the tub and the boys scrubbed him down with stiff brushes and crude soap. He felt as if a layer of his skin were being peeled off before the boys doused him with a bucket of water. He climbed back into the tub to soak and had almost dozed off when one of the boys brought him a clean tunic. He climbed from the tub and dried himself with a coarse towel, then put the tunic on and went outside to don his weapons. He felt rested and refreshed and ready for a fight against stiff odds.

Mostly, though, he was ready for dinner. The long day's ride, the rough fare he had been living on, and the relaxation of the bath had brought on a ravening hunger. Good food and strong drink were always high on Conan's list of the important things in life, and the more of both he got the better he liked it.

In the hall he found preparation for the meal almost complete. Trestle tables had been erected down both sides of the hall, and platters of bread and fruits were laid at intervals, with pitchers of ale and mead plentifully supplied. He could smell meats roasting in a nearby cookhouse. His mouth watered and he put aside his doubts in anticipation of the feast. First things first.

The hall began to fill as the more important inhabitants of Cragsfell took their places at the benches. At the head of the two long tables was a small dais upon which stood a smaller table and a tall, richly carved chair.

Ranking warriors and their wives sat nearest the dais, lesser people sat farther down. A steward took charge of Conan and led him to the dais, where a second chair was being placed next to the high seat of Aelfrith.

When Aelfrith entered the hall the diners stood respectfully, then resumed their seats at her signal. She had exchanged her armor for an ankle-length robe of thin green silk that was slit to the waist at both sides and had a neckline that plunged to her belt in front. Conan noted that she still wore the dagger strapped to her thigh.

Aelfrith sat and Conan sat beside her as the first platters of meats were brought in. He decided to let her speak first. He tore loose a chicken leg and cleaned it within seconds.

"You have seen much of war, have you not, Cimmerian?" she asked.

"Aye, since my fifteenth year I've fought, from clan squabbles to great wars. In recent years I've earned my bread in the armies of the great nations of the South, first as a common footman, then as a cavalry trooper, then as an officer of cavalry.''

"That is good to know," she said. She cut into a slab of beef and began to eat almost as ravenously as Conan. "I said that I would tell you of my troubles with Atzel, and why my country is at war."

"Yes, I would like to hear about that." As long as she was feasting him like this, Conan was content to listen. He pulled a meat pie toward him and smashed in its top crust with the butt of his dirk. As Aelfrith spoke he scooped up meat with bits of crust and devoured them, washing the food down with drafts from his horn. The boys stood behind his chair at a respectful distance to see to it that his horn was never emptied and to fetch any viands he might call for. He intended to eat as mightily as possible, for there would be lean pickings in Cimmeria unless his nation had changed greatly in his absence.

"Atzel is a chieftain to the north of here who likes to style himself a king. He would like to take my lands in order to look like something greater than a robber-chief. He plunders other neighbors as well, but his grudge against me is personal. I slew his son."

"By your own hand?" Conan asked.

"I had no help," she confirmed. "Three years ago I was the wife of Rulf, who was chieftain of Cragsfell. He was young and handsome, and a mighty warrior. He was much like you, although his coloring was fair. We had loved each other from childhood.

"In the fall of that year we went to the Great Festival, where we pay honor to the King Bull, the most sacred of our holy symbols. At that time all the peoples are supposed to be at peace, and any may travel to the festival unmolested. My husband and I, as persons of highest birth, took part in the customary rituals. Atzel and his son, Rorik, also took part.

"There is a certain ritual performed on the second evening of the Festival by a small group of highborn women. I am forbidden to describe it to any man, or to any other who is not initiate, but I may tell you that it is performed naked and that it is forbidden by ancient law for any man to look upon this rite upon pain of execution."

Conan was sure he knew what was coming next, and her words proved him right. "Rorik, a very depraved young man, concealed himself in the grove where the ritual is performed and spied upon us. When he saw me unclothed he was smitten with an unquenchable lust to possess me."

"That is understandable," Conan said by way of compliment.

She went on as if he had not spoken. "That evening I lay down to rest in our tent, and my husband went out to drink with friends. Soon Rorik came and entered my tent unbidden. He babbled on about the great love he had conceived for me, and how he had spied upon the women's rite and that now he must possess me. I was more horrified at his sacrilege than frightened at his threatened outrage. My father had trained me as a warrior from childhood, saying that being born female was no excuse to allow my honor to be impugned, and that a woman had more need than a man to be able to defend herself. I had no doubt that I could handle Rorik, although he was a sturdy youth and armed with a sword.

"In my rage I ordered Rorik from my tent, telling him that I would inform all the chiefs of his violation of sacred law. He said that if I would not yield to him willingly, he would take me by force. I laughed in his face.

"At that moment my husband returned to our tent. Whether he had forgotten something or decided not to carouse with his friends I never learned. Not understanding, hearing only my laughter as he entered, he began to greet Rorik peaceably. Rorik spun around and when he faced my husband there was a dagger in his hand. In a fair fight Rorik would have had no chance against such a warrior as Rulf, but Rulf was taken completely unawares. Before he could so much as blink in amazement, the dagger of Rorik pierced his heart.

"I saw my husband lying dead upon the ground and his murderer standing over him. My hot anger was transformed to a cold rage. When Rorik approached me once more I pretended submission to him. In his haste to tear my garments off he neglected to remove his sword. I grasped it in one hand and shoved him from me with the other. Before he could comprehend what had happened, I hewed his head from his shoulders. It was poor compensation for the loss of my husband, but I took satisfaction in a task of vengeance accomplished so swiftly."

"Most commendable," Conan said. "So now this Atzel wants his own vengeance?"

"He does. He could do nothing at the time. He charged me with committing a crime of violence within the sacred precincts, but the chiefs judged that Rorik had already committed a sacrilege meriting death, and in any case he had murdered my husband and was the instigator of the bloodshed. Atzel tried to charge that Rulf and I had tried to murder his son, and that he had slain Rulf in self-defense. This the chiefs would not credit, for Rulf was loved by many of them, and they knew that he was no murderer. Besides, none would believe that the likes of Rorik could have killed Rulf when my husband was prepared for a fight. In the end I swore the truth of my story in the very presence of the King Bull. None doubted me after that.

"Since that day there has been unceasing war between my people and Atzel's. He has more men than I, but he does not dare open battle. Instead, he attacks villages such as the one you saw."

"Yours is a sad tale," Conan commiserated. "I wish you well in your struggle with Atzel, for you are clearly in the right." He cut a slab of bread and laid a slab of steaming venison upon it.

"I would like to have more than your good wishes, warrior, welcome as those are." She signaled to a boy to refill Conan's ale horn.

"How so, lady?" Conan asked warily.

"I know warriors when I see them, having been raised as one and married to the greatest in the Border Kingdom. I can see that you are a fighter better than any I have in my following, experienced at command as well. You live by hiring out your sword. Let me hire it. I would give you a place at the head of my warriors, second only to me. My final struggle with

Atzel must come soon. He has whittled and gnawed at my strength until he has now almost nerved himself for an all-out attack. I know that he wants to take me alive, to put me to death in some public and humiliating fashion. I shall not allow that, of course. I shall kill myself and my child before I would allow such a thing. But with you leading my men, I may still prevail. My men would follow one such as you into battle as a natural leader. Much as they love me," she said ruefully, "my warriors have never fully accepted the idea of a woman leading them in battle."

Conan stared moodily into his ale, his appetite suddenly fled. At any other time he would have accepted gladly. The woman had been wronged, and it is never unpleasant to take up a just cause, especially for a beautiful woman. War was his trade, and he did not doubt that he could fight her enemies to a standstill, or even gain a victory. He just did not have the time. He sought a face-saving way out.

"I am an outlander, lady," he demurred. "Would your men accept a foreigner as their war leader?"

"Certainly. As a foreigner you could have no ambitions of installing yourself as chieftain in my place, so that suspicion would be at rest. It is customary here for women whose menfolk are dead to appoint a champion to take care of whatever violence must be performed on their behalf. They would accept you naturally."

"I cannot accept," Conan said. "Believe me, it would delight me to take up your fight, but I am on a journey which I may not interrupt."

"Stay the fall and winter, at least," she urged. "Cimmeria will still be there in the spring."

"My journey is not merely a homefaring. I have a mission to perform, undertaken upon my most solemn oath. I must be in the very depths of Cimmeria by the autumnal equinox upon forfeit of my honor." It galled him to say this, but he felt that he owed the woman an explanation at the very least.

Her warm gaze turned cold. "Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are not the warrior that I thought."

Conan refused to be drawn. "Judge as you will, lady. I have told you the truth. I give you this promise: When my mission is accomplished, I shall
immediately return here and take up your standard."

"If you did not leave until after the equinox," she said bitterly, "you would not be here until early winter, at least. Atzel is on the move now. It shall all be over by then, one way or the other. But go your way, Cimmerian, I'll not stand in your path." She turned from him and sipped her wine, glaring toward the far wall of the hall and seeing nothing.

Conan sat sullenly, mortified at having to appear the coward. He continued to eat and drink, fortifying himself against the hardships to come, but the food and the ale had lost their savor.

Aelfrith's manner was remote, but she took her duties as hostess seriously. In the morning she saw Conan on his way, after making sure that he had a good store of preserved food to sustain him. Once again she was dressed in her armor and little else. "Your path will take you north,"

she said, pointing to a distant notch in the nearest range of mountains.

"That is Ymir's Pass, and through it you must go if you would see your homeland before midwinter. Once you leave my land, you leave my protection."

"I have protected myself for many years now, lady," Conan said.

"You may well have need of your skill. Ymir's Pass lies in Atzel's land.

He has built a fortress directly across it, from cliff to cliff."

"I was born to the mountains," Conan maintained. "I'll have no trouble avoiding him."

"Afoot, perhaps," she said, "but it may not be so easy mounted. Take care."

"I shall. Good day, lady, and I thank you for your hospitality. I shall not forget it."

All day he rode through the little mountain vales. He saw no people and very few animals. It appeared that Atzel had been busy in this area, for he passed several burned-down villages and many overgrown fields and unpruned orchards. This had once been a prosperous, productive land, and it was being turned into a wilderness.

Well, it was not his problem. At least, so he kept trying to tell himself.

He rode befogged in sour thoughts, but he did not let his vigilance relax.

Once, a small troop of horsemen appeared on the road, far ahead of him.

Conan pulled off the road and led his horse well into the woods, where its sounds could not betray him. Cautiously, he made his way back to the road to observe the riders. He wanted to know whom he shared the road with, and he was mystified that they had not noticed him as soon as he had spotted them.

He found a substantial tree overlooking the road and climbed it. He lay along a great branch that would shield his form from observation and he waited. One passing below would have to look directly upward and be searching for watchers in order to notice him. Conan lay perfectly still, barely breathing. An ordinary man could not have held this pose more than a few minutes. Conan could maintain it for hours.

He heard the faint jingle of harness and clopping of hooves, and soon the first rider was passing beneath him. His eyes widened in wonderment, but he made no other motion. These were not local people, but Zamorans.

He recognized them by their dress and by their horse-trappings. They were small, furtive men with dark faces and beards. What were a party of Zamorans doing here? There were five of them, and they were headed in the direction from which he had come, toward Aelfrith's land. He did not like that, but there was little he could do about it. At least, now he knew why they had not seen him. Men bred to the plains and the bare rocky hills of Zamora, they were alien to the wood-clothed foothills of the Border Kingdom. When they were gone, Conan climbed carefully down and went to fetch his horse. He did not like the look of the Zamorans. They had the aspect of thieves. Almost, he turned to follow them. Then, remembering his oath and his mission, he turned back toward Ymir's Pass.

The sun of late afternoon-found Conan within a short distance of Atzel's fortress. The crude stone pile stretched across the valley as Aelfrith had described, and he was faced with the problem of finding a way around it. On foot he could have scaled the cliffs easily, but he could not be sure of finding a good horse on the other side. If he was to keep to his timetable, he would have to stay with the beast as long as possible. Darkness was coming on apace and he would have to stop and camp soon. He decided to find a good place to hide his mount and go on a reconnaissance of the fortress. He knew that it is never amiss for a man in danger to learn as much as possible about the nature and circumstances of his enemy.

With his horse picketed inside the forest, well away from any villages, Conan set out for the fortress. He stayed off the road but paralleled it within the cover of the second-growth brush flanking it. He found the ashes of an old campfire and rubbed soot in patches and streaks over his face and body, breaking up its outline and dulling the bronzen sheen of his flesh, the better to avoid detection. As for sound, he made none at all.

Dressed only in loincloth and weapon belt, he glided through the woods as silently as a ghost.

It was fully dark when he reached the fortress. His eyes had adjusted to the dimming of the light, and the half-moon overhead cast plentiful light for a man with Conan's sharp senses. Most men would have floundered about near-blind in the forest obscurity, but Conan was as wood wise as a Pict, a people among whom he had lived, despite his nation's historic antipathy to that race.

Like Aelfrith's fort, this one was crudely constructed of roughly hewn stones, piled without benefit of mortar. The wall provided adequate finger and toe purchase for Conan, who had climbed walls that would have been rejected as too smooth by a Zamoran housebreaker. A childhood spent among rugged cliffs came in handy to a man like Conan, whose life had been devoted largely to breaking into or escaping from places specifically designed to discourage such activities.

Inside the fort, Atzel sat with his cronies, drinking ale by the light of a small fire built upon a stone hearth in the center of the arms room. The light glinted on the heads of spears ranked about the walls, each spear alternating with a short wooden bow and its attendant quiver of arrows.

Higher on the walls were hung axes and cheap swords, of the type bought by small rulers by the hundreds to arm their common soldiery. Such blades, sold in bundles by the merchants of Nemedia and Turan, though plain of design and ornament, would kill a man quite as sufficiently dead as the finest champion's sword made by a master smith.

Atzel was a huge man wrapped in a bearskin robe despite the warmth of the evening. His once-golden beard was shot with gray, and his face was deeply lined. Features formerly handsome were marred with purple blotches, and dark bags hung beneath his pale-blue eyes, their whites turned red and yellow. He was the ruined hulk of what had been a stalwart warrior, broken down by age and excesses of every kind. As his body had been destroyed by immoderation, his mind was bent by greed, hatred, and
lust for self-aggrandizement and vengeance.

Just now he was in a jubilant mood, swigging his ale with a gusto he had not felt in many years and laughing with his comrades. "We'll have that haughty bitch now!" the self-styled king proclaimed. "My bought Zamoran kidnappers will see to it. She'll pay for the murder of my Rorik at last! I'll have her stripped of every stitch and sacrificed to the King Bull for all to see. Then who will deny that Atzel is the greatest ruler of the North?"

"None, lord," said a follower with sycophantic zeal. The man grinned lasciviously at the mental picture of the chieftainess of Cragsfell stripped and bound for sacrifice.

"A masterstroke, my king," said another. "If we merely defeated her in warfare and slew her, as is our right in just vengeance for our beloved prince, still many would take up arms against us. But when the King Bull accepts her as a proper sacrifice, who can dispute with his divine will?"

"Who, indeed," Atzel chuckled. He turned to a cadaverous man who wore no weapons, his cattle master. "Are you sure that your Bossonians truly have the King Bull penned in that little valley?"

"It is he, lord," the man answered. "All has been done according to your wishes. The Bossonians are all master cattlemen, and to them he is merely another bull. None of them speaks our tongue, so no word will leak out that you now control the divine beast." Atzel was uncommonly astute in hiring foreigners to perform tasks his countrymen would have balked at.

"But will he attack?" Atzel urged. "He will attack another bull, as any bull will. He will attack a man trespassing into his herd. But it is important that the beast will gore and trample a tethered woman in front of the assembled people."

"All has been taken care of," the man assured him. "Each day a captive woman has been stripped and tied to a stake, and the bull has been tormented by men standing behind her. He has learned to attack them.

Now he will attack such a woman on sight."

"My lord," said a grizzled warrior uncomfortably, "is this right? Your demand for vengeance is just, but I mislike this handling of the sacred beast. All the folk hold him to be a god upon earth, and the embodiment of our luck, and the fertility of our flocks and herds."

Atzel snorted past his moustache. "He is just a bull like any other. In time, the King Bull is always killed by a younger bull, or by the worshippers at the Festival when his virility flags. Then there is a new King Bull. Is this any different? So what if I decide to use the King Bull for my own purposes? Am I not a king, and may I not do as I wish? Besides, it may take a divine beast to kill this witch." His eyes grew wild and his voice strident as spittle flecked his lips. "For that is what she is, mark me. She cast her spell upon my Rorik and caused him to conceive an unnatural lust for her. She bewitched the council of chiefs to find against Rorik after his murder! Surely the gods themselves must crave vengeance against the sorceress! It is only justice that the King Bull should execute her, since she defiled his Festival with her plot to destroy my son!" His voice had risen to a shriek.

"As you say, lord," said the grizzled warrior, who now regretted having brought up the subject.

"That will all be set aright soon, master," soothed a courtier. "The witch will die with the great bull's horn buried in her belly, and his hoofs trampling upon her face. The Zamoran woman-stealers will bring her to you. Soon your son's spirit will be at rest, lord."

"I trust so," said Atzel, his good humor restored somewhat. He sat back in his chair and drank from a beaker of southern wine. "Sometimes, his spirit appears to me, in dreams. He is all covered with blood, as he was when the witch murdered him. Sometimes, he carries his head beneath his arm. He demands vengeance, and by Ymir, he shall have it! He was my only legitimate son." His followers affected not to notice the great tears that rolled down the drink-blotched cheeks. In a life of utmost depravity, Atzel had experienced only one of the redeeming virtues common to most men: the great love which he had borne for his unworthy son. They all considered it to be his only weakness.

"I shall have her!" he went on triumphantly, the tears still streaking his cheeks. "As this first moon of autumn moves into its waxing phase, it is proper for any chief to call for a sacrifice to the King Bull. Already, my messengers have summoned my fellow chiefs from all over the west of the Border Kingdom. All of them shall witness the humiliation and death of Aelfrith, and who among them shall protest?"

"Her men might pursue," said a senior warrior. "There might be a rescue attempt."

Atzel snorted laughter through his nose. "Ancient custom forbids that any man shall raise weapon against the King Bull. After proper tedious ceremony, an old King Bull may have his throat cut with the old flint knife, but what man will face the current King Bull with no weapon? He is in his prime, and fierce beyond all measure. If a few of Aelfrith's men decide to try the task out of misguided loyalty, what of it? He will make short work of them and whet all our appetites for the main event, which shall be the death of Aelfrith!" He laughed uproariously at the prospect, and his men joined him in chorus.

High above them all, Conan perched motionlessly in the rafters. He had heard enough. Carefully, he began to make his way out of the fortress. His thoughts were in turmoil as he exited the stone pile. He had been tempted to simply cast his dirk into the heart of Atzel and end matters right there.

However, the angle and distance would have made such a cast difficult. In any case, by now Conan was wise enough in the ways of men to realize that wars and other great matters were seldom averted by the mere killing of a single man. Atzel was surrounded by men whose importance was linked to his, and who would undoubtedly carry out his plans in order to legitimize their own succession to his power.

In addition to all this, he wanted to get to Cimmeria as soon as possible. His honor was at stake. He trekked through the woods in silence, watching for enemies, making no sound but carrying on a furious, internal argument.

He found his horse placidly munching grass where he had left it. As he reached for the picket rope, a voice spoke behind him: "What kind of painted savage has blundered into our trap, Ulf?"

Conan whirled to see two armored men advancing upon him.

"When a thrall told us that he had found an unattended horse," said the one called Ulf, "we had hoped to catch a sneak-thief. I think that we have found one of Aelfrith's spies instead."

"Tell us who sent you, fellow," said the first. He held his sword extended, its point leveled at Conan's belly. "If you spill all you know, we may be merciful and kill you swiftly."

"Aye," said Ulf, "you would not like to be turned over to our master. He has never questioned a prisoner who did not talk in time, be he never so
hardy."

Conan grinned with genuine delight. His internal debate had been a torment. This was something he could handle. "You are Atzel's men, are you not?" he said.

"That is King Atzel to you, oaf," said Ulf. He looked at Conan in puzzlement. "What kind of outlander are you? You're too big for a Pict, for all your paint and strange manner of speech.''

"This is a Cimmerian," growled the other. "I have seen his like before, in many a cattle-raid. Be careful, they are dangerous, and do not be deceived just because he can speak almost like a man. Cimmerians are half-demon and half-wolf." The man held his sword well extended, as if to keep the maximum of space between himself and Conan.

"I am happy to hear that my people have not lost their good reputation," Conan said. "Am I to understand that you two intend to hinder me on my way?"

"We intend to take you to our liege," said U!f.

"Then," Conan said, drawing his sword, "let us see who shall walk from this place, and who shall feed the crows. Come, dogs, taste Cimmerian steel!"

With a howl the two slashed at Conan simultaneously. One swung high from the left, the other low from the right. Most men would have been stymied by the well-timed double attack. Conan ignored both blades and simply waded in. His sword flashed up and then down in a huge half-circle. It took Ulf beside the throat, shearing through collarbone, ribs, and beastbone, ripping from his flank and catching the other man across the waist, gutting him in its course past his hipbone, tearing free of his body to scratch the earth with its point. The men made strangling noises as they fell, their weapons flying across the little glade. They lay drumming their heels upon the sward for a few moments, then they stiffened in death.

Conan grunted a satisfied chuckle as he cleaned and then sheathed his sword. It was not the first time he had slain two men with a single blow, but there was always a certain contentment in carrying out a dangerous move well planned and perfectly executed.

He was satisfied in more ways than one. At some point during the brief, brutal fight, his internal argument had been settled. He untied his horse and mounted. Before he rode from the glade, he addressed the corpses: "You were no match for the great Gunderman I fought and slew a few weeks agone, but you helped me with a decision. For that, I thank you, and I will pray that the devils of Hell torment you a little more gently for that assistance."

He wheeled his horse and trotted through the moonlight to the road.

When he reached the road he turned south, away from Cimmeria and toward the land of Aelfrith.

"A horseman coming from the north!" shouted the lookout who stood in the tower that stood on the north wall of Cragsfell.

Aelfrith came out of the long house, wrapping her robe around her against the chill of early morning. Her face was grim. "Is it some parlayer from Atzel?" she demanded.

"No, lady," said the watchman. "I think it is the foreigner come back."

In spite of her circumstances, Aelfrith almost smiled. "Open the gate, then."

Conan rode through the gate and great was his relief when he saw Aelfrith still safe and unharmed. "I rejoice to see you, Aelfrith," Conan said. "I had not expected to. It seems that I have arrived in time. You must take care. I spied upon Atzel last night. He has brought up a pack of Zamoran woman-stealers to bring you to him. The old degenerate is not brave enough to try you in battle, but must hire these slavers to deliver you. I passed them on the road and they look competent." He dismounted and handed his reins to a boy. "Double your guards. I have reconsidered. I am still bound by my oath, but I cannot let this befall one who has behaved so fairly toward me. I have a few days to devote to other matters before I must be on my way. Perhaps we may settle things here in that time." He was alarmed by the paleness and haggardness of her appearance. Something had put years upon her face.

"I am pleased that you have reconsidered, Conan," said Aelfrith. "But you are already too late. The Zamorans have already struck. It was not me
that Atzel sent them after. It was my daughter. They have taken my little Aelfgifa!"

Five

The King Bull

Conan sat in Aelfrith's hall, absently stroking the edge of his blade with a barber's fine whetstone. It was already keen, but he wanted it sharper.

Around him sat Aelfrith's senior warriors, and they waited in respectful silence for their instructions. Aelfrith had told them to follow the Cimmerian's lead, and they were ready to obey their chieftainess. Men of the north did not follow blindly, but these could see that the Cimmerian was no common warrior.

For the moment Conan was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Primarily, he cursed himself for not following his first instinct and taking up Aelfrith's cause as soon as it was offered. He might have blamed Hathor-Ka's baleful sorcery, or the Khitan's game-playing gods, but Conan was not accustomed to blaming others for his actions. He held himself responsible. Had he followed the dictates of his heart, there would be five Zamorans lying dead in the courtyard now instead of a terrified child out there somewhere.

As he brooded, his rage grew. The Cimmerian's code of ethics was rough by civilized standards, but it was uncompromising and it was fair, by his lights. A man who faced his enemies in fair fight, be he never so evil, deserved to be slain in fair fight. One who brutalized or exploited women, or the old or the weak, was contemptible. For those who made war upon children was reserved Conan's deadliest hate. His Cimmerian kin fought their enemies with incredible ferocity, but never would they slay children, or women or those too old to raise a weapon in defense. They took no slaves and held effeminate a man who would order others to do work too dirty for his own hands. Conan would kill Atzel, and save Aelfgifa if the child still lived. If this stole too much of his time, and brought down upon him the vengeance of Crom, then so be it.

His belief in the terrible and remote old god of his ancestors held none of the complicated theology of the South. He could not believe that Crom would punish a man for doing what a warrior must do in good conscience.

Up to the north were men who must die. Conan would not rest if he had to
breathe the same air as they. He sighted along the edges of his blade and found them to be perfect.

"This is what we must do," he announced. The others sat forward eagerly, hoping to hear words which would send them into action, to defend the life and honor of their liege-lady. Conan did not disappoint them.

"It is no good crouching behind stone walls," he said. "You may beat off an attack that way, but you cannot win a war. I have studied under some of the great war masters of Nemedia. Man for man, they may not be warriors as great as we of the North, but they have devoted much time and thought to this business of winning wars. One thing they all agree on: To win a war, you must carry the fight to the enemy. That is what we shall do."

The men growled their eagerness. This was what they had been waiting to hear. Their lady was a true warrior, and a brave and skillful defensive fighter, but she had no knack for taking the offense, at which Atzel excelled, although he avoided open battle. Aelfrith, wise in the ways of warriors, recognized this limitation in herself. The moment she had laid eyes upon the Cimmerian she had known that he was the man who could lead her forces against her enemy. Now he was ready to take up the task.

"Atzel sends small detachments out unceasingly to raid against his neighbors' villages," Conan said. "We will go out today and meet them.

They'll not be expecting fighting men to come against them. We'll make Atzel hurt and then he will come out against us."

"He is powerful," said a warrior whose chin was cleft by a livid scar.

"He has more men than we have."

"I've seen the man close," Conan said. "He makes war on unarmed peasants, on women and children. True warriors cannot fear him."

The warriors mumbled assent. To a southern strategist his reasoning would have made no sense at all. To these northern warriors it was eminently sagacious. They gathered up gear and weapons and prepared to ride out. Conan went to find Aelfrith.

The chieftainess was in the hall, directing the storage of food in anticipation of a siege. Conan paused a moment to admire her cool
deliberation, then announced himself: "I go to slay your enemies, my lady."

She glanced up at him, her eyes dark-circled from care. "I care not if you kill anyone, champion," she said. "Just bring my daughter back whole, and I'll reward you with land and titles and a place in my bed if you want that."

Conan bristled. "I want only one thing: to honor my given word. I have taken your service because my heart cries out that it is the right thing to do. I ask no reward."

The steel seemed to melt out of Aelfrith, and she laid a hand upon his rocklike arm. "Forgive me, friend. My care for my child makes me forget who are my true companions." She looked up at him and took his face between her palms, turning it slightly, as if to discern some imperfection.

"No, I can see here no greed for land or fame. You will do as your heart bids. As for a place in my bed"―she paused, eyeing the Cimmerian with the same speculation she had used when judging him as a warrior―"I have wanted no man since Rulf died. I have seen no man his equal. It may be that you are that equal." She let her hands drop and she turned from him. "These things lie in the future. Now my only thoughts are taken up by my child and what might happen to her."

"My lady," Conan said, "do not give up hope. The swine cannot kill her without losing his lever against you. He will want to keep her whole for a while, and I will bring her back to you. I ride out today against your enemies. Stay you here and hold this fort. Above all"―he leaned close to emphasize his point―"do not move from this place. Atzel's emissaries may come to you with a proposal. Do not listen to them! If you wish, pole their heads above the gate, but do not believe their words. Do not budge from this place until I get back, do you understand?"

She nodded, but then said: "I know in my heart what is right, but whether the warrior or the mother in me shall prevail, I know not."

Conan nodded. "Just stay here. That is all I ask. If this matter can be brought to a conclusion satisfactory to you, I can do it."

"I believe you, warrior," she said. "Ymir watch over you."

"Crom is my god," Conan said. "I've had trouble with him lately, but I
think he still watches over me. He may not help, but he is a warrior's god, and he'll punish unwarriorly conduct."

"I shall guard this place," she said. "Come back victorious."

Conan needed no further instruction. He found his men assembled in the courtyard and ordered them to mount. There were not quite one hundred of them, but he deemed the number sufficient for his purposes.

He would not destroy Atzel with a single blow, but he would make him hurt this day. They rode out through the gate and went in search of prey.

Conan had a good notion of where they would find some. He had quizzed Aelfrith and the men about districts as yet unplundered. By comparing them with the areas which had already been struck, he was able to predict those most likely to be struck next. He was proven right when one of his pickets rode into camp to announce a pack of Atzel's men descending upon an undefended village.

"Let's give these swine a surprise," Conan said, donning a borrowed bull-horned helm. His followers growled a rabidly eager assent.

They mounted and went in search of the raiders. Scarcely had Atzel's men chance to set fire to a few huts when Conan and his followers were upon them. A screaming rogue turned to face Conan, swinging a torch.

His face disappeared in a crimson mist as Conan swung his great sword.

Others went down beneath the savage fury of Aelfrith's men. They were repaying years of uncompensated raiding and brutality, and the payment was not easy.

"Let us go," Conan said, wiping his sword when all the attackers were dead. The villagers were streaming in from the nearby forests, crying their praises of the warriors who had saved them, but Conan was in no mood for such praise. "There are many bands such as this harrying your lands.

They must be dealt with."

"Lead us!" said an eager young warrior. "Show us where they are, lord, and we shall take care of the rest."

Conan smiled grimly at the young man's eagerness. "You'll have bloodshed aplenty where I lead."

For two more days they taught and ambushed raiding parties of Atzel's men. Conan was looking forward to the glowing progress report he would
tender when he reported to Aelfrith. By surprise and clever tactics they had slain many times their own number. Atzel would be more determined than ever to avoid an open fight, and more inclined to negotiate a settlement.

On the eve of the third day they returned to Cragsfell. They would catch no more prey, for by now Atzel would have called in all his men, lest he lose more. His men had taken the left ear of each man they had slain, and now they were arranging these souvenirs on strings for the admiration of their families and friends.

He sensed there was something wrong before they were within bowshot of the gate of Cragsfell. A few paces nearer, and he knew that Aelfrith was not there. Always before, she had been the first out the gate to greet arrivals. Spurring his horse to a gallop, he dashed for the gate. Worried faces turned to face him as he rode in.

"Where is Aelfrith?" he demanded of a woman whom he recognized as one of her attendants.

"She left last night, lord," said the woman, wringing her hands. "From the time you left with the warriors, she sat and brooded. She was distracted with fear for little Aelfgifa. We tried to comfort her, but to no avail. In the darkest hour of the night she donned her warrior's gear and rode away through the postern."

Conan ripped out a curse that made his mount's ears twitch. "Did no one ride forth to fetch her back?" he demanded.

"Those men who did not ride out with you saddled their mounts and pursued her, but they have not returned, lord."

"We must find her before Atzel has her, Conan," said a young rider beside him.

"Aye," Conan agreed, "but I doubt we shall be in time. Still, we must try. I know that he does not plan to slay her swiftly. We might get her back, if not all in one piece. Damn the woman for a fool! Why could she not have waited?" He fumed and gripped his saddle pommel hard enough to tear the leather from the wood.

"You cannot expect a mother to reason coolly when her child's life is in
danger," said the woman. "By now she has made herself believe that she can trade her life for Aelfgifa's."

"We solve nothing by jabbering here," Conan said. He turned to his following. "To the stables and saddle fresh mounts. We ride within the hour!"

Atzel sat in his throne room with the child seated upon his knee. From time to time he idly stroked her hair. She cringed at each touch of his hand. His chin rested on the knobby knuckles of his other hand as he considered his woes. His followers were silent, waiting for him to speak first.

"Where is Aelfrith?" the chieftain grumbled. "She should have been here within the first day. What kind of mother is she? Has she no love for her daughter? And how is it that she has suddenly taken the offensive against me? And, most of all, who is this blackhaired foreigner who leads her men in battle?"

He tore at his beard in distraction. The ambushes had wiped out scores of his men. He had lost plunder and horses into the bargain. Worst of all, he was being made to look like a fool, and people might cease to fear him.

That was intolerable.

"Aelfrith is a witch, lord," said his steward. "It may be that she has found some spell which has rendered her forces invincible."

"Yes," said another. "The foreigner may be a sorcerer from Hyperborea."

"The Hyperboreans are not blackhaired, you dolt!" said a rival for royal favor.

"A Stygian, then." The speaker glared daggers at his rival. "In any case, it is clear that no natural force is at work here." It was always safe to remind the king of Aelfrith's supposed sorcerous proclivities.

There was a commotion at the entrance to the chamber and a warrior came striding in, beaming immoderately. "See what we have brought you, my king!" he shouted importantly. Two more warriors entered. Between them, in chains, walked Aelfrith.

Beneath his hand, Atzel felt the child's spine stiffen in horror. Aelfrith was still in her warrior's garb, but a spearshaft had been placed across her lower back and her arms and her hands bound before her so that the spearshaft lay in the crook of her elbows, arching her spine and throwing her breasts into prominence. A bronzen ring was locked about her neck, and from it depended two chains fastened to fetters which bound her ankles. She could move only awkwardly and with difficulty, but her head was held erect.

Atzel's mouth sagged with the intensity of his satisfaction, so long delayed. "Greeting, Aelfrith," he said at last. "It has been too long since we have seen each other. Now you shall be my guest. Have you any idea what I will do to you?"

"You will do as you wish, Atzel," she said. "I ask only that my daughter not be made to witness it." Her voice was angry and undefeated.

"A just request, lord," murmured a counselor who stood at his elbow.

"You do not want a reputation for unreasonable cruelty."

"Very well," Atzel said. "It was the mother I wanted all along, in any case. Take the child away and keep her under guard." The child broke away from him and ran to her mother, but a guardsman snatched her up as she kicked and squalled.

"Hush, Aelfgifa," said Aelfrith gently. "Remember that your mother died like a queen and avenge me."

Atzel saw many dark looks directed his way and he grew wroth at this spoiling of his moment of triumph. He wanted no sympathy shown for this woman. She was too queenly, and it was time to put an end to that.

"Be not so haughty, you murdering slut! It is time to display you for what you truly are." He signaled to the guards and they grasped the spearshaft, forcing Aelfrith to her knees. Atzel rose from his throne and strode to her. He drew his dirk and began cutting the straps of her harness. Savagely, he jerked free her breastplates and cast them across the room. Armored belt, greaves, and underpadding went next, leaving her only her narrow hip belt and loincloth. Atzel twisted the belt in his fist until it snapped, leaving red weals on the fair skin. He placed a foot against her back and thrust her to the floor, now wearing only her bonds.

"That is better. Now everyone can see what you used to ensorcel my son

Rorik. Behold, my people, that the chieftainess of Cragsfell is nothing but a common harlot with a talent for witchcraft.''

Her cheek was pressed against the floor, but Aelfrith's words were clear: "Do you think you humiliate me? Naked as I am, I am still ten times the chieftain you are, you degenerate swine. How long do you think you will last, when it is seen how you treat royal blood?"

"Royal blood?" shouted Atzel. "Is that what flows in your veins? Well, let us see some of it!" He strode to his throne and came back with a long lash of cunningly plaited black leather. With a swift motion of his arm it hissed through the air and slashed across Aelfrith's back. Her muscles jerked but she did not scream. With a demented howl Atzel laid two more stripes beside the first, then he was seized by his counselors.

"Restrain your just wrath, my king," shouted one so all could hear. "Let her death be according to ritual and carried out before the assembled chiefs." He leaned close and whispered: "If the King Bull kills her, you are safe, Atzel. If you flog her to death here, all your neighbors will unite to destroy you."

Atzel needed several minutes to calm himself. His courtiers saw with relief that his color gradually faded from apoplectic crimson to its usual unhealthy pallor. "Very well.

That is how it must be." He looked down at the bare, bleeding chieftainess and nudged her with his toe. "Chain her to my dais. I need a footwarmer. Prepare the holy enclosure. She shall be sacrificed upon the morrow."

They had been riding hard for half the day when Conan and his men came upon a small group of warriors sitting despondently by the side of the road. He recognized them as the men who had been left behind to guard Cragsfell while he rode forth with the others. He reined in near them, knowing that they would have ill news.

"We almost had her," said one mournfully. "We rode so hard, half our horses are foundered. We were almost within bowshot of her when she rode into a party of Atzel's guards. We charged them, but they were on fresh horses and outdistanced us easily. What is to become of our chieftainess?"

"I'll not bend the knee to that ancient swine!" swore a young warrior of no more than seventeen years. "I'll turn outlaw first, and I'll know no rest until Atzel's head decorates our standard!" The others shouted assent.

Despite the desperate situation, Conan had to smile his approval of this show of spirit.

"That's for later," he said. "For now, all is not yet lost. First we must try to get Aelfrith out of that place. I've been in there already, and it is not too difficult for a skilled climber. Who among you is clever in the woods, and good at climbing, and game for a little raid and some dirty dirk-play?"

Several limber young men strode forward, their faces wreathed in broad grins. The prospect of action and vengeance was bringing the men out of their despair.

"We go in at nightfall," Conan said. "Atzel's men will be out in force on the roads, but they'll not be patrolling the woods. Get some rest in the meantime. Let us find a good camp well away from the road and set up guard. Tonight we make Atzel bleed."

They found a favorable spot within an hour, and Conan dismounted to lie on the ground. He was asleep almost immediately. He woke as the moon rose and went to where a small, smokeless fire was burning. The volunteers were already assembled and smearing one another with soot.

Conan did the same.

"No swords," Conan directed. "Just dirks or short-handled axes. It's cramped inside that fort. If we need swords on our way out, we will take them from dead men." He saw teeth flash white in the darkened faces at the prospect of killing Atzel's men. "Is all ready?" he asked. He was answered by curt nods. "Then let's go."

They moved swiftly and quietly through the woods. Although, to Conan's keen ear, the men rustled noisily, he knew that most men would not hear them if they were to pass within ten feet. The moon was high by the time they reached the fort. He could just make out the shapes of two guards above them on the battlement. He tapped the youth who had vowed outlawry and vengeance rather than submission. They drew their knives and placed them carefully between their teeth. Warily, they began to climb.

On Conan's last entry to this fortress he had easily evaded the guards.

This time they would have to be eliminated. The guards seemed to be
scanning the approaching road rather than the walls below them. So much the better. Conan and the young warrior climbed to within five feet of the top of the battlement; then they waited. The guards were directly above them, talking in low voices. Soon the sound of shuffling footsteps and the fading of the voices told them that the guards had turned and were walking toward the opposite side of the roof.

Swiftly, the two raiders swarmed over the battlement. Their bare feet made no sound upon the timber roof. Their loincloths, belts, and dagger sheaths could make no rustle or click. Silent as ghosts, the two fell upon the guards. It was the quick, brutal work of a moment to jerk the two heads back and plunge steel into the exposed throats. In the supposed safety of the fort, neither man had bothered to come on duty with helm or gorget. Now they paid for their complacency with their blood.

The bloody dirks were quickly cleaned, and Conan went to the battlement to signal the others. Soon they were joined by the rest. Conan detailed two men to impersonate the guards and to deal with any guard relief that might appear, thus keeping their principal line of retreat open.

Conan led the way into the bowels of the fortress, feeling his way carefully in the dimness. Only the main rooms of the fort would have torches or candles at night. This upper floor was divided into rooms by timber walls, and a system of trusses supported the roof over all of them.

It was possible, by crawling along the trusses, to go from room to room without having to touch the floor.

Like rats, the men progressed from one place to another, seeing little and hearing nothing but snores. A faint glow against the ceiling told Conan of a room in which a fire burned, so he crawled toward it. He found a system of beams above a very large room, and guessed that he had found the main hall of the fort. His guess was confirmed when he looked down upon the throne of Atzel. He heard a strangled noise beside him and he clamped a hand hard on the man's shoulder to keep him silent.

Below them, Atzel was contentedly resting his feet on Aelfrith's bloody back. Her hands and feet were bound to bronze rings sunk into the stone of the dais, and her luxuriant tan hair was so tumbled about her face that it was impossible to tell whether she was conscious. At least, she was still breathing. Of the child there was no sign.

Conan examined the room carefully. There were two guards at the door.

He could hear voices from without that door which meant that at least five more guards waited there. It was probably a guardroom, which meant that there might be as many as a score more of the guardsmen within easy call. Surprise might make up for bad odds, but there was a more difficult matter: How to get Aelfrith out. She appeared to be in seriously weakened condition, and it might be impossible to get her up to the roof. She was a substantial woman for a man to carry while fighting. That meant fighting their way downward through the fort to freedom. He tapped the men nearest him and began to belly-crawl backward into the next room. It galled him to admit it, but there was no way to rescue her without putting her in even greater danger.

They were making their way back the way they had come when the youth who had first ascended with Conan came crawling along a beam, signaling frantically for the others to follow him. Silently, they went with him until they were looking down into a smaller room.

By the light of a candle two men were dicing desultorily to pass the time. In a corner of the room, upon a heap of straw, slept Aelfgifa. A ferocious grin split Conan's countenance, and he could see the same expression on other faces. This, at least, they could do something about.

They crawled along carefully until they were directly above the two men.

The guardsmen did not even glance up as death dropped upon them from above. Conan landed upon his man like a thunderbolt. Seizing him by a shoulder with one hand and by the jaw with the other, he broke the man's neck with a single, savage wrench. Two of Aelfrith's men landed upon the other and sank their dirks into his body. All was over in an instant. The child did not even waken. Conan picked her up gently and mounted a table, handing her up to the outstretched arms above.

The raiders crawled back along the beams and out onto the roof, where their two comrades still patrolled the parapet. Descending the wall was a trickier business than climbing it had been, especially while carrying a child who might wake up at any moment and give them away. They made it down safely in time, and the moon was still well above the horizon, lighting their way conveniently as they trotted through the woods, back to their camp.

There were sounds of joy when those at the camp saw that they had rescued Aelfgifa, and sounds of rage when word spread of the indignity being inflicted upon Aelfrith. Conan went down to a little stream to wash
off the soot he had rubbed over himself. He was full of a seething rage, unable to wipe from his mind the picture of Aelfrith, stripped and bound, flogged and forced to grovel at the feet of a pig like Atzei.

He vowed silently but sincerely that he would rescue Aelfrith if that were in any way possible, and if it were not, he would slay Atzel, as the man deserved to die.

Aelfrith returned to consciousness slowly, and discovered herself to be inhabiting a world of pain when she was fully aware. Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly, the ropes biting into her flesh, her shoulders and hips stretched to near-dislocation. Worst of all was her back. From neck to buttocks it felt as if molten iron had been poured over it. She was stretched facedown against the rough stone, and her cheek rested in a puddle of her own blood. Her mental torment was, if possible, everr worse.

What were these swine doing to her daughter? Had they killed her already, since she had served her purpose as bait?

There was a sudden increase in the agony of her back and she knew that Atzel was, indeed, using her as a footstool. The pain increased as he dug in his toes. She would not satisfy him by screaming, but burning tears of rage flowed down her cheeks.

"Are you awake, Aelfrith?" Atzel crooned. "Good. How can you suffer properly when you are asleep. Let us see―what shall we try next? My counselors insist that I should not damage you further. We must keep you beautiful for your sacrifice, you know. Can't have my fellow chiefs thinking that I mistreat noble ladies. On the other hand, it is truly amazing how much pain may be inflicted without leaving a mark on the body. For instance, with a simple cow's horn, open at both ends, and a hot iron, one may cause incredible agony, and the body must be cut open in order to see the damage."

Aelfrith shut her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth as the insane litany went on, Atzel detailing with relish the obscene torments he planned to inflict upon her. A child of the North, she was accustomed to lust for vengeance, but this went beyond even the most excessive of ancient legends. When he began on his plans for Aelfgifa, she was sure she would go mad before a merciful death could overtake her.

The demented voice ceased when there was a commotion from without.

There was a moment of superlative agony when Atzel trod upon her to
cross to the door, then she had a few seconds of relative peace.

Atzel's voice came sharp and incredulous. "The child gone? Four of my guard dead? Fools! How did you let this happen?" There was a sound of slapping and kicking, then Atzel stormed back into the throne room.

Aelfrith laughed into the puddle of blood full and heartily. "Thank you, Conan! If I were to live, I would make you a king, but now at least I shall die happy, no matter how great the pain. Thank you for my daughter's life!" She laughed once more, happier than she could remember ever having been. Then Atzel's whip descended and she drowned in a scarlet tide of pain.

With break of day Conan and his followers rode down to the path which led to Atzel's fort. There was a good deal of traffic on the road, all of it headed for the fort. At first Conan thought it might be Atzel's men searching for them, but he soon saw by the designs on their shields that the men of numerous tribes were assembling, mostly petty chieftains with small entourages. Conan and the others fell in with them casually. Conan reined in beside a chief in fine armor. "Pardon me," he asked, "but I am a stranger here. Why do so many of you great folk journey thither?"

The chief eyed the big outlander curiously. "Our fellow chieftain, Atzel, has summoned us to witness a great sacrifice to the King Bull. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why, though. It is early for the Great Festival. But it is his right, and so we come."

"What kind of sacrifice will it be?" Conan asked innocently.

The chief shrugged. "Ordinarily, it would be firstfruits of the harvest, but it is too early for that. Sometimes it is fine cattle or horses. Perhaps the old man has finally gone mad. That would not surprise me. He has been behaving as if he were a king for years, and there is not a chief among us who does not have better blood, or command a following as large or larger."

They passed a row of adler poles surmounted by the skulls of bulls, and Conan asked the significance of this. "Those are the skulls of King Bulls of years past. It means that this is sacred ground for the duration of the ceremony, and no man may raise weapon to another without committing sacrilege."

That, thought Conan, was very convenient for Atzel. Should Aelfrith's
men make a desperate attempt to rescue her and cut their way free, they would bring down upon themselves the wrath of the gods and the armed fury of all the neighboring tribes. He would have to come up with a plausible scheme, and he knew that time was growing short.

He spoke in a low voice to two of Aelfrith's men who rode near him.

"Pass the word: disperse among this throng. Do not stand all together when we reach the sacrifice ground; give Atzel and his men no target to aim for. Make sure you stay in clear view of these chiefs. As I understand it, Atzel dare make no armed move against us within the sacred ground.

Be sure that the horses are held by trusty men, ready to bring them to us at an instant's notice. We may have to run without a proper leavetaking."

The men nodded and dropped back to pass Conan's instructions.

They were within sight of Atzel's fortress when the cavalcade turned from the main road onto a small path which led into a grove of gigantic trees. From most of the branches dangled figures of plaited straw, and around the trunks were tied ropes of various colors. In the center of the grove was a wide natural amphitheater. Around its periphery stood poles bearing more skulls of bulls, facing inward, into the arena. A gateway had been cut into one side of the amphitheater and closed by a wooden gate.

In the center of the arena stood a fresh-cut stake, eight feet high and with a stout bronze ring fastened near its top.

The ground around the arena was filling up with the chiefs and their followers, muttering among themselves in their mystification. Many pointed at the stake, which was obviously never intended for tethering a sacrificial ox or horse. As Conan gathered from eavesdropped conversations, human sacrifice was extremely rare, undertaken only in times of famine or other natural disaster. Recent years had been fair, though.

Conan looked for Atzel, but there was no sign of him, nor of any of his men. He did not doubt that they were nearby. In all likelihood they were scattered throughout the woods, ready to fend off attack or prevent escape on the part of Aelfrith's men. He turned at the sound of a hunting horn being winded. The members of the throng were descending the sides of the amphitheater and taking seats on the grassy slopes surrounding it.

Conan went down the slope as well, finding himself a place as near to the arena as he could get. Here nature had been improved upon. Around the oval arena the ground had been excavated so that a sheer wall ten feet
high surrounded it, lined with cut stone. The only way in or out was through the single gate, or by climbing down from the seating area.

In the distance Conan heard a monstrous bellow, and the conversation around him stilled for a second, then resumed. He did not like the sound of that bellow. If it was a bull, then it was one that exceeded ordinary bulls as a dragon exceeds a crocodile.

Then conversation stilled again as the gate opened and Atzel strode into the arena. Most of the chiefs sat at the farther end, and when Atzel passed the upright stake he paused to pat and stroke it gloatingly. Then he continued until he stood a few yards from his audience. He looked up at them and grinned, savoring the moment.

"Three years ago," he began in a bellowing voice, "I petitioned this assemblage for my just vengeance and the punishment of an act of bloody sacrilege, and I was refused. My own outrage is a small thing, but the offense to our sacred King Bull was intolerable. I have called you here to witness this great wrong set aright." The chiefs talked excitedly among themselves as he turned to face the gate. "Bring in the sacrifice!" shouted Atzel.

The great gate creaked open once more, and a small, naked figure was led forth by a halter around her neck. The crowd was silent as she neared the center of the arena, then a great shout of rage went up as Aelfrith was recognized. The guardsmen passed the rope that bound her wrists through the ring at the top of the stake and hoisted her until she was almost forced to her toes. Then they bound her ankles likewise.

The chief who had spoken to Conan on the road leaped to his feet and jabbed an accusing finger at Atzel. "Explain yourself, Atzel! What cause have you to treat a noble lady in such a fashion? Make your explanation a good one or, by Ymir, as soon as we are off this sacred ground I'll have your head hanging from my saddlebow!" A savage collective growl of assent showed that these sentiments were widely held.

"Aye," shouted another. "If vengeance for your son was in your heart, why have you not attacked her in force these three years past? Even then, had you prevailed, you owed her a clean and quick death. This is an outrage against all custom!"

Atzel made a calming gesture with both palms held outward. "I come
here not for my own vengeance, although it is just, but to defend the honor of our totem beast, the King Bull." The others calmed and resumed their seats, curious to hear his proposal. "Although Aelfrith was slightly injured in her capture, I swear that neither I nor any other man shall raise a hand to slay her. She shall be sacrificed to the King Bull, yet her throat shall not be cut by the ancient stone blade, nor her heart pierced." He had their full attention now, and a great silence had fallen between his words.

"Instead," he went on, "the King Bull himself shall perform the rite. He shall come in through yonder gate"―he turned and pointed dramatically toward the wooden valve―"and he shall plunge his great horns into that witch in his righteous wrath!" Now he was pointing to Aelfrith, who hung in her bonds, her chin regally high, but tightly gagged.

Another chief rose and spoke, his harsh face framed by the cheekplates of his silver-gilt helm. "Ungag her and let her speak.. It is not right that a chieftainess should be unable to speak in her own defense."

"No, my lords!" shouted Atzel. "This woman is a vicious sorceress!

Would you have me free her tongue so that she can deceive your minds once more with her spells?" There were voices in the audience agreeing that this was a valid objection.

"The King Bull lives in the deep woods and comes here only at the time of his great Festival," said the first chief. "How shall he be here to accomplish this feat which you predict, Atzel?"

"Already, he comes," Atzel said. "Did you not hear his mighty bellow a few moments ago? He knows that the witch is here, and he comes apace to slay her!" As if in answer to his words, the great bellow was heard once more, this time much closer. "You hear? He comes scenting revenge for the wrong done him, for the profaning of his Festival, for what man among us has ever dared to drive the King Bull like a common animal?"

Several of the chiefs put their heads together and conferred. Then the chief in the silver helm stepped to the edge of the arena. "Very well, Atzel.

We shall let the King Bull decide. After all, he would not attack an unoffending woman, only a man who would intrude among his harem.

But, if he stands so much as ten heartbeats without attacking Aelfrith, then by Ymir's icy beard you shall die this day."

"That is all I ask, my lords, a chance for long-overdue justice to be
done."

Conan would stand for no more. He rose to his full, towering height and stretched his arms wide for attention. "My lords!" he bellowed. "This man is a liar and a cowardly swine! He plans to murder this innocent woman before your eyes and hold the beast to blame! This is a plot as foul as any I have ever known. Do not allow him to hoodwink you!"

"He lies!" screamed Atzel, foam flecking his lips in his rage. "Will you listen to the words of this foreign dog?"

The silver-helmed one turned to Conan. "Who are you, fellow, to speak to the assembled chiefs?"

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I am this lady's champion." Now Aelfrith's head turned in the direction of the familiar voice. Her eyes locked with Conan's, and her face, formerly a stoic mask, began to show a faint glimmer of hope.

"You are too late to do her any good," said the chief. "We have already taken counsel and have agreed to let the King Bull decide her fate or Atzel's."

"I'll fight your sacred beast," Conan challenged. "This pig has brought in Bossonian cattlemen to train the bull to attack women. Let me fight in her defense."

The chief turned an icy glare upon Atzel. "Is this true, what the stranger says?"

"Lies! All lies concocted by the witch! Would you take the word of a foreigner against that of a chief of your own blood?"

"I might," the chief said, "when the chief is you. However, we have made our decision." He turned to Conan. "In any case, young man, it is forbidden for any man to raise weapon against the King Bull."

"Then I'll fight him barehanded, by Crom!" Conan shouted. "And if you would slay me, do it now, for I go into that arena now!"

Atzel heard the many shouts of admiration and knew he must change his tack. "My lords, I am perfectly content to let this fool impale himself on
the horns of the King Bull. How can it happen otherwise, when divine justice is at stake? By all means, let this blackhaired rogue try his puny strength against the mightiest beast of the North!" He whirled and stalked toward the gate, pausing to spit upon Aelfrith one last time. Then the arena was empty except for the suffering woman. The great bellow sounded again, now only a few yards outside the enclosure.

Conan unbelted his sword and dirk and tossed them to one of Aelfrith's men who stood nearby. He pulled off his boots for better footing and then yanked his tunic over his head. Naked except for his loincloth, he stood balanced upon the wall of the arena. There were murmurs of admiration at the sight of his steely, hard-chiseled body covered with its many scars.

The silver-helmed chief came to him.

"I wish you well, young man, and I honor your courage, but you have chosen only to die with your lady. No man has ever faced the King Bull barehanded and lived. Even when an old one is taken to be sacrificed when his time has come, many are slain in the capturing of him."

"If that is how I am to die, then so be it," Conan said. "I'll not see this woman further shamed with none to defend her."

The chief saluted him and returned to his seat. Conan stood balanced on the balls of his feet for a moment, then he sprang lightly into the arena.

He took the shock of landing on slightly bent knees and showed no more effort in taking the ten-foot drop than a man stepping off a low stair.

There were cheers as he strode to the center of the arena.

Gently, he untied the gag which confined Aelfrith's mouth painfully. In spite of her great pain, she smiled warmly at him. "I thought it would be impossible for me to feel more gratitude toward you than when I learned that you had saved my daughter. Now I feel it even more keenly. No woman ever had a more splendid champion. But, I regret that you have done this thing. The bull shall kill us both."

"Do not borrow trouble, Aelfrith," Conan said. "I have fought many a battle with man and beast, and I live yet. And I feel certain that I have a destiny to fulfill. I will meet your beast and we shall test which of us is stronger.''

"Then kiss me, Conan, and I will give to you what little strength I have left."

Conan took her face between his palms and kissed her fiercely, and it seemed to him that an even greater strength flowed through his limbs than before. Then he turned away from her and faced the gate, folding his mighty arms across his chest. He was ready for a fight, be the enemy man, demon, god, or wild beast. Then the terrific bellow sounded once more, and an immense black shadow filled the gateway.

Conan blinked, trying to see into the darkness of the passageway.

Surely, no natural bull could be so huge! Then the animal trotted into the full sunlight, and Conan's heart sank somewhat at the task he had undertaken. This was no domestic beast. It was not even one of the fierce fighting-bulls such as were raised for the bullrings of Zingara. This was one of the rare wild bulls of the northern forests, the ancient ancestor of common cattle. Conan had once killed a Cimmerian wild bull barehanded.

That bull had been a relative of this one, but where the Cimmerian bull had stood perhaps five feet at the shoulder, this one stood at least seven.

It stood for a moment, blinking its reddened eyes in the sudden sunlight, surveying its surroundings. Its head was low-slung, and the back of its neck was a towering hump of muscle that looked iron-hard. The great muscles stood out in sleek lumps over every part of its body, and its astounding virility was apparent even at a considerable distance. Most terrifying of all was its head. There was a space as wide as a tall man's forearm between its eyes, and a great, shaggy beard depended from its chin, and over all stretched the tremendous horns. Gleaming like ivory, they spread in a complex, symmetrical curve like that of a Nemedian bow.

Fully five feet separated the needle tips.

Even in this extremity, Conan, characteristically, was filled with admiration for so magnificent a creature. Its glossy black hide was scarred all over from a thousand battles fought in defense of its pastures, of its harem, of its godhood. Truly, Conan thought, if cattle had a god, this must be it.

The bull caught sight of Conan and Aelfrith and its nostrils flared. It began to snort thunderously, and it lowered its head as it began to paw the ground with a forehoof. Great clods of earth with grass and roots attached tore from the ground and showered the beast's back.

Abruptly, the great head raised. It began to walk, going in an arc perhaps fifty feet from the two humans, staring at them with one reddened eye. Then it turned and circled the other way, this time studying
them with the other eye. Conan realized that with such wide-spaced eyes the creature had to use one at a time to get a good idea of what these two-legged things were. As it circled, Conan unfolded his arms and sidestepped steadily, always keeping his body between Aelfrith and the bull.

A deathly silence had descended upon the amphitheater. This was the stuff of legends: a battle between god and hero, with the life of a beautiful and brave queen at stake. The bards in the audience were already composing their verses. Only one among them was frantic: Atzel chewed at his moustache in frustration. He longed to see Aelfrith's body rent to bloody fragments by the terrible horns, and this Cimmerian bravo was delaying his pleasure.

Now the bull stopped its circling and turned to face them again. It lowered its head and pawed the earth, this time more fiercely. The clods flew many yards behind the bull. It tensed and prepared to charge. Then it was hurtling like a black stone from a catapult.

Every instinct told Conan to sidestep, but that would leave Aelfrith's body unprotected against the horns. The bulk grew with unbelievable speed, and he knew that this was the moment of his greatest danger. He had spent his youth herding cattle in Cimmeria, and he knew the ways of bulls. A bull will favor one horn over the other, and always seek to gore with that horn first. Would this one hook right or left? If he dodged the wrong way at the last possible second, he would end his life impaled upon that horn.

Then he felt the bull's hot breath, and the right horn was lancing at his left side swifter than an arrow. Conan pivoted on the ball of his left foot and stepped forward into the gap between the horns. The wide brow slammed into his hard belly with a force that seemed impossible, but he managed to lean far forward and wrap his long arms around the neck at its narrowest point, just behind the head. He squeezed with all his might, seeking to cut off the beast's wind. It roared and shook its head from side to side, trying to dislodge the maddening creature that blinded and choked it.

The bull dug in its forelegs and tried to press the man against the ground, but the points of its horns created enough space to prevent Conan from being crushed between brow and earth. Then, with a mighty flex of its immense neck muscle, the bull flung its head back. Conan's grip broke
and he flew through the air, turning end-for-end twice before slamming down hard on his back upon the solid earth. He was breathless and half-stunned, but he dared not let that keep him down for a moment. He arched his back, kicked out, and was on his feet in an instant. A mighty cheer greeted this seeming return from death, and he was relieved to see the bull turning this way and that in search of him. At least he had accomplished his primary goal: He had distracted the bull's attention from Aelfrith.

The bull saw Conan and spun to face him. Down went the head, leveling the fearsome horns. To the great amazement of all who watched, Conan did not prepare to dodge. Instead, he took a wide stance, with his left foot toward the beast, his right well to the rear. His left arm was stretched out full-length, fingers extended toward a point between the bull's eyes. The right hand was clenched into a great knotty fist, cocked beside his ear. He stood unmoving as a statue, awaiting the charge.

Again, the bull flexed back slightly, dug in its hooves, and shot forward with a speed that seemed unbelievable in so large an animal. Before the horn could begin its deadly hook, Conan's fist shot forward, too swift to see. In the seats the men heard a sound like an ax sinking into a hard tree.

The bull's charge halted and it stood, trembling slightly. Then Conan's fist came up again and descended like a hammer, smashing into the bull's neck just behind the skull. The animal's knees buckled and it went down.

In the past Conan had won many tankards of ale from army companions with those two blows. When bullocks were brought in for slaughter, he had bet that using only his fist he could smash the beast's skull and break its neck before it fell. An ordinary bull would have keeled over dead. The King Bull lurched back to its feet and swept its head sideways. Conan was just swift enough to keep from getting the point in his side, but the horn hit him like a mace swung two-handed by a powerful man. He staggered back twenty paces, managing to keep his feet beneath him, knowing that above all he must not fall.

The bull continued to shake its head from side to side, no doubt trying to clear its vision after the two incredible blows. It gave Conan time to catch his breath and plan his next move. The cheering was frantic now.

Aelfrith watched him raptly, filled with fear for him but equally full of pride. Conan, her champion, a mere human, had survived two deadly encounters with the King Bull. Each time he had received blows that would have killed most men, yet he was on his feet and ready to renew the
fray.

In the stands Atzel was beginning to experience doubt along with his frustration. Why was the man still alive? Had he truly hurt the bull with those blows? No man could be that strong! Then he sat back. Surely, the next encounter must see the Cimmerian slain, and then the death of Aelfrith.

Now Conan was eyeing the beast warily, and it was regarding him with equal caution. After the usual pawing it drew itself up and charged toward Conan once more.

And Conan turned and ran.

A loud groan went up from the spectators. The Cimmerian's great courage had cracked. He was just a mortal man after all. He ran until he was stopped by the wall, and there he whirled and spread his arms, pressing backward as if trying to burrow into the solid stone, eyes wide and staring, the picture of terror.

Atzel barked out a raucous laugh. "Ha! See the coward run like a whipped dog! It shall not be long now."

The silver-helmed chief turned and stared down his nose at Atzel. When he spoke there was limitless contempt in his voice. "Show me the man who has tried the King Bull even once, much less twice. My own courage would have snapped at the first charge. So what if this man's nerve has fled at the third pass? Speak not to me of courage and cowardice you foul nithing! Atzel chewed his gall and kept his silence at receiving the greatest spoken insult in the northlands. One vengeance at a time. First he would see Aelfrith dead, then there would be time to settle accounts with his rivals.

Aelfrith was in despair when she saw Conan run, and as the horns neared him she shut her eyes tightly.

The bull was almost upon the Cimmerian. At the last possible instant, when the horns were almost upon him, he moved. He did not dodge, but instead rose onto his toes and spun just as the right horn was lancing for his belly. Instead of taking him squarely, the tip whistled past his narrow profile, missing his abdomen by less than an inch. The horn struck the stone wall and there was a crack like that made by a bow snapping from
being overdrawn. When the bull staggered back from the wall, a full three inches of the horn was broken clean away.

Conan backed slowly toward the center of the arena, always facing the animal. The cheering was truly thunderous as the watchers understood his sham and the incredible calculated gamble he had taken. Aelfrith opened her eyes at the cheer, and great was her joy when she saw Conan alive and seemingly in control of the situation. She would have collapsed with relief if she could have moved at all.

The bull began to trot toward Conan, its legs a little shaky now, its movements no longer so swift and sure. In all its life it had never known defeat, nor even been resisted for very long. Its dim, savage brain could not comprehend how this little creature could cause it so much pain and difficulty.

This time Conan did not wait for a charge. With a light, springy step he trotted toward the animal. There was a gasp of anticipation from the watchers. They were past all amazement. The bull, startled, just stood still as Conan reached out and grasped the horns. He placed a foot on the bull's forehead and leaped as the creature instinctively tossed its head. Conan curled himself into a tumbler's ball and did a triple somersault, landing on his feet and trotting toward Aelfrith.

"I still live," he said when he reached her.

"As do I," she said warmly. "Perhaps we shall both see sunset this day."

"Perhaps," he said. "But make no bets." Now he turned and strode toward the bull. It was time to try conclusions. The bull was weakening, but so was he. The next encounter would be the last. Then he stood and awaited the bull.

The beast seemed to understand as well. It stood breathing heavily, its sides heaving, trying to store up its remaining strength for one final effort.

It snorted and pawed, then it charged. Down upon the tiny, seemingly frail man-figure it bore. Then they were together in the final embrace of death from which only one would escape alive.

As the right horn hooked in, Conan sidestepped again, but this time he did not lean away as far. A bull cannot see the tips of its horns. It only knows where they are by constantly gouging the ground, the trees, or other
objects. As the King Bull hooked its right horn toward Conan, it automatically timed the move from the habit of years. But, three inches had been broken from the horn tip, and the hook that should have gutted Conan missed his belly by a hair. Swiftly, it hooked back with the left, but the tiny advantage which had allowed the Cimmerian to work closer to the horns had been the chance he needed. Seizing a horn in each hand, Conan took an iron grip and dug in with his feet.

There were moments of quiet over the amphitheater as the spectators realized that the incredible struggle was entering its final phase. The bull dug in its hooves and began to push, forcing Conan back toward the wall, heading for a spot just below where most of the chiefs sat. Conan's feet gouged a twin path in the turf as he resisted every inch of the animal's progress. The bull's breathing became labored and his tongue lolled from his mouth as he strove to drive the man against the wall and crush him like a fly. Two paces short of the wall, Conan stopped the bull.

They stood like a bronzen statue for long moments, Conan's arms spread wide toward the ends of the horns for leverage, muscles chiseled into rigid prominence, face empurpled with effort, sinews creaking audibly with the titanic strain. Sweat poured from him in pails as he put forth more strength than any mortal man could be expected to. Slowly, remorselessly, the bull's head began to turn. Conan's left arm raised one horn as the right forced the other down. Moving barely perceptible inches at a time, the great head came around as the neck twisted.

The wide horns were almost vertical now, and it seemed impossible that man or beast could stand an ounce more strain. The limit had been reached, and something had to give way. There was a faint crackling sound, and Conan released the horns, stepping back as the great beast collapsed, its neck broken. One great eye rolled in its socket for a moment, then it was darkened by death. The animal's last breath went from it in a long sigh, then it was inert upon the ground.

Conan stood trembling with exhaustion, not hearing the frantic cheers, his eyes upon the great bull he had slain. Then he looked up at the sound of an inarticulate scream. It was Atzel, pointing down at him and yammering curses so garbled that none could understand him.

Rage spread its red mantle across Conan's face. From some deep reservoir within him he found a last store of strength. With a tigerish leap he scrambled up the arena wall and onto the sloping turf of the spectator's
area. His great hand shot out and grasped Atzel by the throat. The crazed old chiefs eyes bulged with terror as he saw the death he had brought upon himself.

"Damn you to Hell for a torturer of women and children!" Conan bellowed. "Crom curse you for a nithing!" He grasped Atzel's belt and hoisted the big man, kicking and squalling, over his head. None sought to hinder him as he strode to the edge of the arena. "And demons gnaw your guts forever for making me kill this noble beast!" He accompanied the final malediction with a mighty heave, and Atzel sailed screaming through the air to land on the upthrust horn of the King Bull. With a sickening crunch the horn pierced his back and burst out through his breastbone.

Atzel saw the foot of bloody horn that stood out from his chest and opened his mouth to scream, but produced only a great fountain of blood that soon stopped pulsing from his mouth.

Conan leaped back down into the arena, but this time his knees buckled and he fell heavily to the ground, his great strength drained at last.

Shouting and cheering, others followed. They made a litter of shields and spears and rolled Conan onto it, then raised the litter to their shoulders.

Aelfrith's men cut her bonds and lowered her gently to another litter while a chief wrapped her in a magnificent cloak.

"Bring them hither!" shouted the chief Conan had spoken to on the road. The two were brought to the edge of the arena wall and the chief looked down upon them in deep perplexity. "A thing has happened here today, and for the life of me I cannot decide whether it was a heroic feat out of the old legends or a terrible sacrilege. The King Bull is dead. A chief is dead. Blood has been shed in the sacred precincts. How shall we resolve this matter, my fellow chieftains?"

"What has Utric the Lawspeaker to say?" said the silver-helmed chief.

A gray-bearded elder rose and walked to the edge of the wall, where he looked down at the man and woman, the corpse of Atzel. the carcass of the great bull. He closed his eyes and stood in deep thought for several minutes while the assemblage maintained a respectful silence. At last his eyes opened.

"This is my judgment: Atzel was the evil behind these happenings. In his madness for vengeance he accused the innocent Aelfrith and went so far as to seize her person for purposes of revenge. To save himself from
suspicion, he committed the hideous sacrilege of suborning the King Bull himself for his purposes. The gods have been angered at this, and decreed that because this King Bull was defiled he must die before his time. To that end they sent this mighty champion to slay him in the only lawful way: with his own strength, using no weapon. In this way he was the triple instrument of justice: He slew the defiled King Bull, he saved the unjustly persecuted Aelfrith, and he executed the vile Atzel. In recompense for his sacrilegious treatment and untimely death, the gods allowed the King Bull's own horn to be the ultimate instrument of Atzel's death.

"Let no man interfere with or offer violence to these just people. I have spoken."

Laughing and cheering wildly, Aelfrith's men bore their chieftainess and her champion out of the arena and back toward Cragsfell. Conan was only half-conscious, and those bearing his litter heard him mutter some words none of them could understand. He was speaking his native Cimmerian, and he was saying: "Damn you, Khitan, and your game-playing gods."

When Conan awoke upon his bed in Cragsfell he found himself unable to move. He felt, it seemed to him, very much like a man who has-accidentally fallen into a mill and has now emerged after spending an hour or two between the great grinding stones. After an hour of wakefulness he was able to raise his head on neck muscles that screamed with agony. His body, as he had suspected, was near as black as a Kushite's, a single, solid bruise from chest to toes. He let his head fall back and thought of other great battles he had fought. None had been more desperate, more demanding of strength, intelligence, and courage than this conflict with the King Bull.

Later, a woman came in to feed him broth, and soon he was demanding stronger food. He asked after Aelfrith and the woman told him that the chieftainess was sleeping deeply, and might not wake that day.

"And the child?" Conan asked.

"Playing with her dolls as if nothing had happened," the woman said.

"Praise Ymir, she is too young to understand what happened, and she slept through the butchery you and the lads accomplished in rescuing her.

It has passed like a bad dream for her, to be forgotten in the morning.

Besides, she has the blood of warriors in her veins."

The next day Conan was able to stand and walk about his bedroom, and then into the great hall to take his place at the tables. All were amazed to see him on his feet so soon. He paid a visit to Aelfrith's chamber, and found her barely able to sit up in bed and speak.

After four days of recuperation he was able to mount his horse and ride a mile or two, and he knew that very soon he would be hale. Increasingly, he cast his gaze northward. He had intended to be in Cimmeria by this time. By his calculation he was nearing the last day of departure upon which he might have some confidence of arriving at the slopes of Ben Morgh in time.

On the eve of the day he had chosen for his departure, Conan took to his bed early, after a meal at which he had eaten hugely and drunk uncharacteristically little. He was about to snuff the candle when he heard a scratching at the door of his chamber. Aelfrith entered, still moving a little stiffly. This night she wore a long gown of green silk, bought from some Zamoran trader. She crossed to the side of his bed and looked down upon him.

She did not waste words. "Do not go, Conan. Stay with me. I will make you a king. Be my husband and we will breed children such as the northlands have never seen, strong and beautiful. Since Rulf was slain, I have desired no man, but you I will serve all my days."

If he could not be kind, at least he could be brief. "No, Aelfrith.I must be away upon the rising of the sun. I have sworn my most solemn oath to complete my mission, and by now you know that I honor my given word.

The days grow shorter already. I must be on my way on the morrow or violate my trust."

"Will you not return to me when your duty is done?" she asked despairingly.

"I cannot. From boyhood I have been a wanderer, and I must wander all my days until I fulfill my destiny. That destiny does not lie here; I can feel it in my bones. I shall know what my destiny is when I meet it. I am sorry, Aelfrith. I have never met a worthier woman than you, but our fates are not linked after this night."

She drew herself to her full height. "So be it. I am a chieftainess and you are a hero. I'll not beg and you'll not yield." She leaned forward and
pinched out the flame of the candle. In the sudden darkness Conan heard the faint rustle of silk as the green robe whispered to the floor. Then she slid into the bed and their arms were around each other.

"I do not recover as swiftly as you, Conan," she breathed. "Be careful of my back." Then they spoke no more.

Six

The hand of Mist and Stone

Two men sat upon an outcropping of stone, keeping watch over a small herd of shaggy, longhorned cattle. One man was middle-aged, with grizzled beard and hair, the other young and beardless, but there was a strong family resemblance in their craggy, powerful features.

Their hair was black, hacked off crudely at shoulder length and square cut above their level brows. Their eyes were identical sapphire blue. Both men had rangy, muscular builds, and despite the biting wind they wore only brief tunics of rough homespun and short cloaks of wolfskin, with sheepskin wrappings on their feet, cross-gartered below the knee.

They held spears, and each had a dirk and a long, heavy sword sheathed at his belt. These were Cimmerians, and no Cimmerian went unarmed after earliest childhood. These weapons were severely plain, but finely made, for weapon-smithing was the only craft practiced with devotion in Cimmeria.

"There's a man coming up the mountain," said the younger man.

The older shaded his eyes and looked down the slope. He saw a tiny figure making its way slowly up the rugged slant of rocky land. "You've good eyes, lad. He'll be here before the sun's much lower."

"Enemy?" the young man asked. He drew his sword and tested its edge.

"What enemy comes alone onto Canach land? He's a Cimmerian, anyway. No lowlander walks with that stride in the mountains."

This meant nothing in itself. The mountain clans fought unceasingly among themselves. The new arrival was still so far away that eyes
untrained by the vast distances of the mountains would never have seen him, much less been able to judge his stride.

"Who might it be?" the younger mused. "I know of no clansman who has been away in the lowlands. Not in that direction, at any rate."

"Not since you can remember, lad, but I think I know who that one is."

Far below, the growing figure was leaping from one rocky outcrop to another rather than scrambling around them. "Yes, that's Conan, the blacksmith's son."

"Conan?" the boy said. He knew the name. The smith's unruly son had made a name for himself before seeking his fortune in the lowlands. "I'd thought him dead long ago."

"As did I," agreed the elder. "He was with us when we took Venarium.

Only fifteen years old in those days, younger than you are now, but a proven warrior."

"Venarium," breathed the younger enviously.

The story of that great fight was sung around the fires throughout the mountains. The Aquilonians had pushed a settlement across the Bossonian Marches and on to land held by the mountain clans for a hundred generations. Settled by the Aquilonian's tame Gundermen and Bossonians, the frontier town of Venarium had reared its crude ramparts against the marauding raiders. But when the Cimmerians came, it was not as raiding clansmen, but as a whole race gone to war. Clan enmities were put aside for one screaming day and night of incredible ferocity, and the howling, blackhaired horde had swept aside the disciplined courage of the lowlands like chaff before the arctic wind.

Prominent amid the struggling had been the young Conan. Envy grew bitter in the youth's heart. There had been no such notable battling in the few years since he had been old enough to go to war, and he could take little pleasure in the knowledge that Cimmerian cattle now grazed where the city of Venarium had stood. Besides, he had a deeper sorrow gnawing at his heart.

Conan saw the cattle on the mountainside above him, and soon he spotted the two men keeping watch over them―and over him as well, he knew. He had left his horse in the keeping of a homesteader three days
before. This steep, rocky land was death to a plains-bred horse. Only mountain goat and stag and the tough little Cimmerian cattle could live on these slopes. And, of course, the Cimmerians themselves. Mist blew in wisps and skeins across the fells, for it was almost always misty and drizzly in the Cimmerian uplands. The abundance of rock, the thin soil, and the great amounts of rain fathered many springs; since setting foot in the mountains he had never been out of earshoj of falling water. He had almost forgotten that.

Conan wondered who the men above might be. Kinsmen, most likely.

He was on land held by his own clan, if his clan had not been utterly destroyed.

He had not yet found a village, but that was not unusual. The Cimmerians were semi-nomadic, wintering in a different mountain glen each year, returning to the same site perhaps only one year in ten. Many such deserted sites lay behind him, with roofless walls of piled dry stone.

The villagers took their precious roof poles with them when they moved from place to place, for Cimmeria was a treeless land.

Conan drew his cloak closer about him. There was a cutting wind blowing out of Hyperborea; and unless he was much mistaken, they were in for an early snow tonight. He had found kinsmen none too soon. Now, at least, he could see that these were indeed his kin. Even at a distance the craggy features of the Canach were unmistakable. In these inbred upland valleys, each clan had a distinctive physiognomy, and the square jaw of the Murrogh was as recognizable as the high forehead of the Tunog or the long nose of the Raeda.

"Greeting, Conan," the older man said when he was close enough.

"Greeting, Milach," Conan said. For all the excitement the two showed, they might have parted days before. "You've grown some silver in your hair since last we met. Who's the lad?"

"I'm Chulainn, your kinsman, and I'm a grown man." He said this not with the windy posturing of the city-bred adolescent, but as a simple statement of fact.

Conan acknowledged it with a curt nod. Henceforth, he would treat Chulainn as a warrior.

"My sister's son," Milach said. "And blooded in brushes with the Vanir and the Murrogh."

"That is good," Gonan said. "A young man needs exercise for his weapons."

He did not ask how many kills Chulainn had, for such things were irrelevant. Cimmerians did not take heads or hands or any of the other ghastly trophies prized by other northern peoples. When a clansman was old enough to bear arms for the clan, it was assumed that he would do what had to be done, and if an exceptional feat of arms drew praise around the council fires, yet it was assumed that every blooded man was a competent warrior. Proven cowards were rare in the mountains, and they were not tolerated.

Now the faint drizzle was being replaced by huge flakes of snow. Conan looked up at the lowering clouds. "First snow of the season. Is there shelter hereabout?"

"There's a good place a short way from here," Milach said. "Plenty of shelter from a storm. Chulainn, let's drive the kine down into the Broken Leg Glen."

Conan helped the men drive the twenty or so shaggy, surefooted little cattle the mile separating them from the small valley. When the beasts were driven into the skimpy pasture, the men retired to Milach's "shelter,"

which turned out to be a mere rock overhang, which shielded them slightly from the snow that was falling ever thicker. They made no attempt to build a fire, for fuel was too precious to waste on the mere comfort of herdsmen in winter pasture.

Conan drew his cloak more closely about him against the growing cold.

The other two did no such thing, but they politely refrained from making any remark at this unwonted display of sensitivity.

"Does my father's brother, Cuipach, still live?" Conan asked.

"Dead in a Vanir ambush, these three years," Milach said.

"And my cousins Balyn and Turach?"

"Dead in the feud with the Nachta," Milach told him.

"The Nachta?" Conan said. "I thought we'd slain all their fighting men years agone."

"We did," Milach confirmed. "But the boys grew into more, and they're breeding another batch of them, last I heard."

Conan nodded. It was an old story in these mountains. In the fierce feuding many a clan had been pared down to a single male to carry the name. The Cimmerians married young and bred many children, though, and such a clan could be strong and numerous again in two or three generations.

"How did you find the southern lands?" Chulainn asked.

"I found them much to my taste," Conan said. "They glitter with gold and the folk wear silk instead of sheepskin. The food is rich and spicy, and the wine is sweet. The women are soft and smell of perfume instead of peat smoke and cattle."

"Men have no need of such things," snorted Milach. "Things like that soften a man."

"Best of all," Conan pressed on, "they fight all the time, and a man who's handy with his weapons can make something of himself."

"Fighting?" Milach said. "Is that what you call it? I'll wager they've taught you to fight from the back of a horse, as if a man's legs were not good enough, and to wear armor into a fight instead of your own good skin." His tone was one of unbounded contempt for such effete warmaking.

"That's the way of it in the South," Conan said. "What do you know of it? I've been on battlefields swept with the thunder of ten thousand horsemen, when the drums beat and the trumpets snarl and the banners blind you, so bright are they. These mountains see nothing of real war. I've been on a sea full of burning ships and smashing oars and hulls split in twain by bronzen rams. That is real fighting."

Milach snorted his contempt again. "Only fools and cowards need beasts to make themselves taller. And who would want to fight over a stretch of water? Once you've taken it, what do you have? Is not one bit of water much like another?"

"You've seen the sea?" Chulainn said. "I have always wanted to travel and see such marvels."

Conan was pleased to see Chulainn rouse from whatever melancholy held him, for he seemed to be gloomy even by Cimmerian standards.

"Aye, I've seen sea and desert and steaming jungle. I've been in cities so huge that all the clans of Cimmeria would not fill one of the smaller quarters. There are temples of marble reared so high you'd think they were built by gods instead of men." His eyes took on the faraway look of a man in a dream. "It is there that a man can test himself. There you are not bound by clan and custom. A wanderer without a coin in his purse but with a good sword and a strong arm and a brave heart can win for himself a kingdom."

"Do not listen to him, nephew," Milach said. "There's nothing for one of us down there. A man should stay by his kinsmen. Where is your kingdom, Conan? To my eye you have little more than when you left to go live with the Aesir years ago."

"I've won fortunes and lost them," Conan said. "And I'll win more.

Perhaps one day I'll sit on a throne, if it suits me. Meantime, there's much of the world still left for me to see."

"Is the South not full of sorcery?" Chulainn asked. "I have heard there are magicians thick as a ram's fleece down there."

"Aye, there are a plagued lot of them," Conan admitted uncomfortably.

"Never content to leave men to their own follies and always stirring up some mischief with gods and demons and such."

"You see?" Milach said.

"Still," Conan went on imperturbably, "I'll accept them as part of the price of a life that's worth living. I'd rather be dodging some wizard's spells than watching cattle and sheep, or breeding a pack of brats and huddling around peat fires for the rest of my life." Conan lay down on the stony ground and rolled into his cloak. After a moment he sat up and reached out a long arm to scoop up an armload of snow, which he packed into a large, hard ball. When its shape suited him he lay back, rested his head on the snowball, and was soon asleep.

Milach watched Conan gloomily. "You see?" he said to Chulainn in a voice of great sadness. "This is what living in foreign parts can do to a man. This was once a mighty warrior, but so soft has he grown that now he must have a pillow to sleep!"

The woman stepped from the doorway of her peat-roofed stone hut to see the three men coming down the hillside, driving the cattle before them. A layer of white coated the higher slopes, but the snow had not reached this lower glen. She was curious to know who the third man might be, for only two of her men had gone up days before to give the kine the last of their summer pasturing before being taken down to the winter's village.

"Wife," Milach said as they drew near, "we've brought a kinsman to visit."

"So I've seen," she said. "Good day, Conan. You've grown since I saw you last, but you still favor your father." She was a tall, gaunt woman, as gray and hard as the stone of her native mountains.

"Greeting, Dietra. Your gray hairs do you honor." This was a compliment in a land where the great bulk of the people died young.

"Come inside. There's food on the hearth." She pushed aside the hide curtain, and Conan followed her in.

The hut was full of peat smoke, and there was a pot steaming on the hearthstone. His mouth watered. So famished was he that his stomach was drawn into a tight knot. The eve before, he and his two kinsmen had shared a few lumps of hard cheese, and he had brought out the last shreds of dried meat from his pouch.

The clansmen found this no hardship. On the contrary, they found the dried meat a veritable feast. Conan, on the other hand, had become accustomed to gorging himself frequently. He had eyed the cattle hungrily, but slaughtering beeves before killing time was unthinkable, unless they be stolen from an enemy.

"Are you home for good now?" Dietra asked. "It's long past time you wed and increased the clan. Jacha Onehand has a pair of strong, unwed
daughters not far from here."

"Nay, I only visit this time. I've much left to do, and I want no wife or child to slow me."

"Then I see the years have not improved you," she said.

She took some crockery bowls and began spooning food into them with a long-handled wooden ladle. She passed the steaming bowls to the men, who scooped the mush into their mouths with their fingers. Conan made a wry face. It was oat porridge, almost tasteless. He had forgotten about oat porridge.

Dietra caught the look. "Surely you did not expect wheaten bread?

Wheat grows in the lowlands, oats in the mountains. In hard years we live on naught else."

"Do not be too hard on our kinsman," Milach said innocently. "He's grown accustomed to better things down in the soft lands."

Conan glowered at him. "You'd have gone there, too, years ago, had you the spirit."

Dietra cracked him across the back of the head with her ladle. "Have you forgotten the manners you were raised with, that you insult your kin beneath his own roof?"

Conan rubbed the back of his head and wiped off the spattered porridge. "Nay, I've not forgotten," he said ruefully, "but I am beginning to remember why I left."

"If you're not here to settle down," Dietra said, "then why did you come?"

"Is it not enough for a man to want to visit his home and his kin?"

Conan demanded.

"No," she said. "Another man, perhaps, but not you. Something's drawn you back here, and I fear it's a thing that bodes no good for the clan."

Conan reflected that there was no gulling a Cimmerian woman of one's own blood. They could follow their men's thoughts with an accuracy a
necromancer would envy.

"I have a mission," Conan said. "It need not involve the clan, but I'll want to talk to the headmen before I set out on the last stage of it."

"On the morrow," Milach said, "we take the roof poles and drive the kine down to the wintering place. Most of the clan should be there within a few days. What's the nature of this mission?"

"Time enough to tell when the chiefs meet," Conan said. "But it's on my own head, not that of any other."

Chulainn gave his clean-licked bowl to Dietra. "I'll go see to the kine,"

he said. He nodded to Conan and pushed through the hide curtain.

"What ails the lad?" Conan asked when Chulainn was outside and out of earshot. "Some sorrow gnaws at his heart, that's plain."

"There was a girl," Dietra began, "a girl of the Murrogh. They met at the midwinter fair down by the border when the clans were at truce. He wanted her to wife"―she shot a glare at Conan―"like any good clansman."

Conan affected to ignore this.

"He got a band of cousins together and they set out for Murrogh land to bring her back," she continued.

"A feud-wiving, eh?" Conan grinned. When two clans were at feud, it was an ancient and honorable tradition for young men to make forays into enemy land to get women. This way, a man gained both a wife and honor, and the clans were prevented from growing too inbred. "And what happened? Did her father and brothers thrash them and send them back home empty-handed?"

"That they did not," said Milach, taking up the tale. "They arrived at the girl's steading unseen, for Chulainn's been schooled well in the lowland forest; but when they reached the main house, they found it devastated.

The walls were torn down, and the bodies of men lay all about, and some of the womenfolk as well, but the younger women and the children were gone."

"So," Conan grunted, "a Vanir raid. It's unfortunate, but doubtless he'll
find another lass."

"Not Vanir!" Milach protested. "Nothing was taken but the girls and children. Good weapons were left where they fell. The Murrogh trade down on the border, so they have more silver than most. The lads saw silver coins and ornaments scattered about along with the other rubble, Vanir never would have left them."

"Worst of all were the bodies, though," muttered Dietra.

"What about them?" Conan asked.

"They were torn asunder," Milach said in a low voice, "as if by great beasts. The young men had seen bodies beast-rended before, by wolf and bear, but this was done by no clean creature. Its claws and teeth were not those of any animal we know…" His voice trailed off as if he were unwilling to say more.

"Tell him the worst," Dietra said grimly.

"Some of the bodies were partly eaten," Milach said.

"Eaten?" Conan said, still mystified. "Well, even so, if it were wild beasts, it is not unlikely that―"

"Not eaten as a wolf will eat a man," Milach insisted. "The flesh had been cooked over fires, and there were still half-gnawed limbs on wooden spits! What creature but man cooks his food?"

Involuntarily, Conan's hand went to the amulet that hung from his neck. "Cannibalism! Crom!" Such a thing was unheard of in these mountains. Not even the oldest legends spoke of such. "Was this the only such incident?"

"The only one we know of," Milach said. "By the time Chulainn got back it was mid-spring, and time to take the cattle to high pasture. We've been here since, and have seen nobody from below. Heard you nothing as you traveled hither?"

Conan shook his head. "Until I reached clan territory I avoided people, not knowing how the feuds were going. I saw men from time to time, but I did not seek them out. The man I left my horse with, down where our
lands start, was a tight-lipped old fool. I doubt he'd have told me if the seat of my trews were aflame."

"That must be old Chomma," Milach said. "He's addle-pated, all right, but trustworthy. Well, we'll hear more of this soon enough, when we get to the wintering place."

Conan brooded upon what he had heard. Surely, this had nothing to do with his task here! Somehow he could gain little confidence in this thought. Much as he tried to avoid them, evil and sorcerous doings had a way of seeking him out. No wonder, he thought, the boy had a sad face.

Seven

In the Kingdom of the Great River

The barge plying the broad river bore a single tall mast, but its triangular sail hung slack from the long, slanting yard. As the wind had died, the barge was propelled by long sweeps driven by the brawny arms of slaves. So wide was the river at this point that its current was scarcely apparent, and it lay like a glittering silver shield beneath the relentless southern sun.

The banks of the river were lined with palms, and the fertile land along both sides was intensively farmed by peasants who toiled in the benevolent climate to bring in two or even three crops per year. The peaceful aspect of the scene, and the gleam of temples visible in the distance, belied the essentially primitive nature of this land, Stygia. The women who washed out laundry along the banks in the noonday sun would be well away from the riverside by dark, for then it became the haunt of the great crocodiles of the Styx, and huge hippopotami would come lurching ashore to ravage the crops the peasants had toiled so hard to plant and cultivate. The people had to accept this, even with the consequent loss of life, for these beasts were protected by the priest-kings of the land, as were the omnipresent vulture and cobra. In the homeland of the serpent cult of Set, it was a capital offense for a peasant to kill any serpent, though it threatened his own child.

The woman who sat beneath the awning that protected the stern of the barge thought of none of these things, for they were so much a part of her life that anything else seemed barbarous and alien. In any case, her mind
was on more important matters. The plans of years were coming to fruition, and she had much work to do before she could be assured of utter success. She knew well the unwisdom of impatience, though, and the only sign of restlessness she showed was a slight tapping of her fingertips against the arms of her chair.

The master of the barge walked astern and bowed before Hathor-Ka.

He was a short, swarthy man dressed only in a brief white kilt and headcloth. "My lady, we shall reach your landing around the next bend of Father Styx."

She nodded and turned to the man who stood beside her. "Is all ready, Moulay?"

The desert man nodded to her. "All is packed below. Shall I raise your standard?"

"Yes. I want no delay when we reach the landing."

Moulay took a rolled cloth amidships and attached one end of it to a rope that hung from the mast. As he hoisted it up the mast, the cloth unrolled into a long black banner. Embroidered on the cloth with golden thread was Hathor-Ka's personal device: a scorpion whose tail was a serpent forming a circle around the desert arachnid. This would signal her servants ashore that their mistress was arriving on this barge.

Around the bend they caught sight of the great stone pier that thrust out into the river. As they approached, a small crowd gathered on the dock, awaiting the arrival of the barge. This was part of Hathor-Ka's huge estate, and all who gathered were her slaves, servants, the serfs who worked her land, and the priestly staff of her temple and shrines.

A long-armed black man cast a mooring line onto the dock. The rope was made fast to a bollard carved in the likeness of a crouching scarab beetle while the rowers skillfully worked the purple-sailed vessel alongside the gleaming marble pier. Slaves came aboard to transport Hathor-Ka's goods ashore just as a team of panting men arrived, bearing a pole-suspended litter. These men were not slaves but shaven-headed acolytes from the temple maintained by Hathor-Ka.

The priestess stepped ashore, mounted the litter, and seated herself on a throne of ivory and fragrant wood beneath its cloth-of-gold canopy. The
lean but brawny acolytes hoisted the litter to their shoulders and set out for the temple palace, walking in a skillful, broken step that made for a smooth ride. Moulay stood behind the throne with his hand on his sword hilt, even though they were on Hathor-Ka's own land.

A man ran up and made his obeisance, then fell into step beside the litter. He wore the dress of a farm servant, but his plain white kilt was of the finest silk, and his headcloth was striped with gold thread. In his hand was the whip of an overseer.

"My lady," he reported, "since you left us we have brought in a fine harvest of wheat, along with the usual lentils and onions, and we have planted another crop. There were three thousand two hundred eighty-four slave deaths, and five thousand seventy-five live births, most of which will probably survive. Of other livestock, the cattle―"

"Excellent, Ptah-Menkaure," his mistress interrupted. "Submit a full accounting in writing this evening. I especially want to see the figures on the stone quarried for the new temples at Khemi. The priests there are eager to begin construction."

"It shall be done, mistress," the steward said, prostrating himself in the dust. Unlike many of her colleagues in the sorcerous hierarchy of Stygia, who were mainly virtual ascetics, Hathor-Ka was among the most powerful landowners of the nation. Her wealth was as vast as her wizardry was potent, and through one or the other she controlled much of the land of the great river.

The litter was carried along a slightly raised road paved with white limestone, which slanted from a far escarpment down to the river, cutting through fertile and well-cultivated fields where peasants were even now hard at work. At intervals the road was flanked by figures of greenish-black stone crouching on pedestals, figures that had characteristics both human and animal, and which bore a disturbing aspect. The workers here did not like to look at these sculptures directly, for if studied too closely, they often seemed to have moved when one gazed at them again.

In a land of soaring, if oppressive, temples, that of Hathor-Ka was of surprisingly modest dimensions. The god she served was not a deity who required grandeur. The temple palace itself was surrounded by smaller buildings, in which lived Hathor-Ka's servants, slaves, priests, and
acolytes. She alone lived in the palace.

The acolytes bore the litter into the hypostyle hall of the temple portion, flanked by rows of columns with lotus-shaped capitals, dim in the overhead gloom. The thick walls had only narrow slots for windows, set high to prevent profane eyes from observing the rites performed therein.

The purpose of these slot windows was mainly to disperse the smoke of the incense as well as the less agreeable smells that sometimes rose from the altar. Most illumination came from torches and lamps and from the great fire basket before the high altar.

The litter was lowered to the polished pave, and Hathor-Ka alit. She was greeted by a shaven-headed priest, distinguishable from the acolytes only by the cloak of leopard skin which cascaded from one shoulder, leaving the other bare. The priest knelt and touched his forehead to the floor, almost touching Hathor-Ka's sandals.

'O Lady-Who-Sits-by-the-Right-Hand-of-Father-Set," he intoned, "welcome to your home. We who are your servants wish you ten thousand years of life."

"Rise, SenMut," she said. "Even I do not hope for ten thousand years; but if our plans bear fruit, I may have nine hundred, and so shall my servants. Is all well?"

The priest arose. "Quite well, my lady." No longer speaking in ritual tones, the man had a soft and pleasant voice. "We have carried out the rituals you prescribed to the very letter, and we have kept close watch on your colleagues."

"There is only one who troubles me," she said. "What of Thoth-Amon?"

"Our spy in his household says that in recent weeks he has spent much time in the trance of the black lotus. It is clear that he is engaged in the preliminary stages of some mighty wizardry, but he shows no sign of knowledge of the missing Skelos fragment."

"Has he been in contact with Turan, or Vendhya, or Khitai?"

"He received a communication from the great Vendhyan mage, Jaganath, just days after you left," SenMut told her.

Hathor-Ka bristled at the name. "What was the nature of this communication?"

"Just an exchange of pleasantries," the priest assured her, "apparently in answer to some enquiry of Thoth-Amon's concerning the properties of a certain Vendhyan strain of the blue lotus. Jaganath promised to send samples at the plant's next blooming, along with seeds and a soil sample.

The message appeared to have been months upon the road."

"I am much reassured," said the priestess. It was the kind of thing great sorcerers traded only when they were not discussing their greatest lore.

"Reward our spy. And, SenMut―"

"Yes, mistress?"

She gave him a look that might have killed a cobra. "Better you had never been born than that I should find such a spy in my own household."

The priest folded his hands across his breast and bowed deeply. "You need have no fear, mistress. The security of your secrets is ever my dearest concern, as the safety of your blessed person is looked after by Moulay."

Hathor-Ka, trailed closely by Moulay, walked around the altar and through the square doorway into the living quarters beyond. A small group of slave girls greeted her and conducted their mistress to her bath.

The hot water had been conveyed hither the instant Hathor-Ka's standard was seen from the landing, the event relayed to the palace by burnished bronze shields flashing in the Stygian sun, the same signal that had brought her litter to the shore.

Moulay followed even into the bathing room. The slave girls aided their mistress in undressing, and she stepped into the steaming water, fragrant with exotic oils.

Unlike many of Hathor-Ka's house servants, Moulay was not a eunuch.

He watched the slave girls in their steam-dampened shifts with interest, but no lewd thoughts crossed his mind at the sight of his naked mistress, beautiful as she was. To Moulay she was an object of fear and adoration, in whose service and protection he would gladly lay down his life, but he could never look upon her as a man looking upon a woman. To any who might suggest to him that Hathor-Ka was a beautiful and desirable female, Moulay would have accorded an instant's incredulous wonder at
such unprecedented insanity before slaughtering the man without mercy.

To consider his mistress as an ordinary mortal was to Moulay little more than sacrilege.

"This business of Jaganath disturbs me, Moulay," Hathor-Ka said. "The communication with Thoth-Amon seems innocent enough, and I am satisfied that Thoth-Amon knows nothing of my plans. If such a one so nearby were planning anything, I should feel it. Jaganath, though, is subtle. It would be just like him to send prattling letters to his sorcerous colleagues to distract suspicion from his true activities. You are sure that there was a party of Vendhyans in Khorshemish while we were there?"

"Just two of them," Moulay said. "The fabric merchant I spoke to said he knew Vendhyans by sight, especially by the cloth they wore upon their bodies. There was a fat, middle-aged man, and a small, slender youth.

There may be no connection. They might have been merchants."

"Trading what?" demanded Hathor-Ka. With a sponge and scented oil she was cleansing her body with the dispassionate deliberation of a man washing a chariot. "Did these men have goods to offer? Were they scenting out trade routes? Had they approached city officials with bribes to receive favorable treatment in the markets?"

"As you know, my lady," Moulay protested, "there was neither time nor opportunity to carry out an investigation of these itinerant Vendhyans."

"I know, Moulay," Hathor-Ka said. "And I may be exercising myself over nothing. However, with the stakes of this game so high, I cannot but be suspicious. Vendhyans are most rare so far west, and to find two of them in the same city where we are carrying out a crucial task smacks of more coincidence than I am prepared to swallow. I would not know Jaganath by appearance, as I have never seen him, although there are ways that those of us who practice the Art have of recognizing one another. It seems, though, that this Vendhyan 'merchant' was careful to keep out of sight, something unique among merchants, to my experience."

"But if it was your rival," Moulay said, "what was his purpose? He did nothing to interfere with our actions that I could detect."

"He might have been spying," Hathor-Ka posited. "He might have been spying on me, tracking me to find out what I was doing. He might have been trying to hire the Cimmerian himself. If so, he was unsuccessful, for I
would have known any such subversion from that unsubtle savage. I suppose it might have been coincidence. That is the most untrustworthy of propositions, but Khorshemish is one of the crossroads of the world, and two persons on similar missions may meet at such places. Whatever the reason, however, I do not like it. Of all my sorcerous rivals, after Thoth-Amon this man Jaganath is the most dangerous, and the one I would least like to see in possession of the Skelos fragment."

"How could he have come across it?" Moulay asked. These subtleties of the sorcerous arts repelled him, for he was a desert man of direct action, yet he would not criticize his lady's doings.

"These things do not go by the common rules of chance," Hathor-Ka said. She stepped from the bath, the steaming water cascading from her shapely body and her thick hair. As her maids began toweling her, she explained: "Many times, a document or artifact will seem to thrust itself under a mage's nose, as if by a will of its own. This means that there are higher powers involved, and that they seek to play us like pawns. If Jaganath has stumbled across the fragment, and Thoth-Amon has not, it is because those powers have wished it so."

"But, my lady," Moulay said unhappily, "if these powers have taken a hand, how may you and your rivals and colleagues hope to prevail? Surely you will not wish to compete against the gods?"

"Fool!" Hathor-Ka barked. Then, more gently: "No, you are just ignorant in these things. If I were content to acquiesce to the will of the gods, I would be a mere priestess. Instead, I have chosen to be a sorceress, to control events and even to compel the very gods to my will! If these gods or powers seek to play a deep game with me, then I shall seek to play better."

Moulay was willing to obey his mistress no matter what happened, but the thought of crossing swords with the gods brought forth sweat on his usually undampened brow. "And what of this northland god, this Crom, of which the barbarian spoke? Has Crom any power?"

"I have read somewhat of these northern deities," Hathor-Ka said as she donned the light robes held out by her chamber slaves. "They are real gods, if minor ones, but nothing to compare with our Father Set." She made the Sign of the Serpent, which was echoed by the others in the room.

"Ymir of the Northlanders and Crom of the Cimmerians are little more than giants who have attained godhood through millennia of being the strongest beings in their cold northern wastelands. They have no sorcerous secrets, and they take little interest in the doings of men. They pay scant attention even to their worshippers. The true gods, the gods of the South, connive and plot ceaselessly to gain yet more power over the Earth. It is through manipulation of this power lust among the great gods that we sorcerers gain our power."

Talk like this made Moulay uncomfortable. "But," he said, "if these northland gods are weak, why is this most important of events to take place upon Crom's mountain?"

Hathor-Ka was silent for a while. Then: "I have wondered that myself.

There are many more fitting locations here in the South. However, the gods no doubt have some reason for choosing this place. There must have been a good cause for that chapter of Skelos to be lost even from the few known volumes thought to be complete. It is as if the gods wish that only sorcerers of the first rank could find the writings, then make their way to the remote corner of the Earth, where they could try their skill at gaining ultimate power."

"Then why not Thoth-Amon?" said Moulay, greatly daring. "He is held by all to be a wizard of the first rank."

To his relief, instead of growing wroth, Hathor-Ka merely wrinkled her brow in thought. "It may be that the powers have some other fate planned for Thoth-Amon."

Eight

The Gathering of the Clans

For the first time since he was a boy, Conan drove the cattle down to the wintering place. Instead of a sword he bore a wand in his hand to whip the recalcitrant kine down from the high pastures, where the lowering clouds promised snow. With his kin, Milach and Dietra and Chulainn, he carried his portion of the roof poles on a brawny shoulder down to their new quarters.

Strangely, these things he had chaffed under and hated as a youth felt
proper and even reassuring now, and he did not even resent it when his elders from time to time treated him like a child. This, too, was Cimmerian custom. If a fight portended, then he and Milach and Chulainn would draw their weapons and be fellow warriors together. Otherwise Milach and Dietra might treat Conan and Chulainn like youths.

Conversely, Conan and Milach might behave like contemporaries while Chulainn became the inept child. And always, within the household Dietra would treat all the menfolk as infants, whereas on the battlefield she would be sent back to the high glens while the men, from striplings to oldsters, plied their weapons among the foemen.

They found themselves to be among the last clansmen who had gathered to make up the winter village. This wintering's gather of the clan was as large as any Conan could remember, some three or four hundred clansmen all in one place. The Cimmerians were not a numerous folk as the southerners reckoned such things, but they made up in quality what they lacked in numbers. Every man was a fighting man, even the one-handed artisan who was quite willing to use that hand to wield a weapon. The women were tall and strong; their children were active and grew up young.

Despite the Nordheimer appelation of "blackhairs," not all Cimmerians had hair of that somber hue, though dark hair predominated. While most had eyes of gray or blue, brown eyes were not completely unknown. What distinguished the Cimmerians from their neighbor tribes was their strength, their sturdy physique, their language, and, above all, their relentless willingness to fight to the last drop of blood.

Conan and his kin drove their cattle into the common ground among the other livestock and closed the gate poles behind them. There they would graze all winter, if the snows were not too severe. In the spring they would be sorted out according to their brands. This had been Cimmerian custom from time out of mind.

When the cattle had been attended to, Conan and his kinsmen picked up the roof poles from where they had stacked them and found the hut shell Dietra had staked out. For the rest of the day they put up the poles, cut turf for the roof, and stacked peat and dried cow dung outside the door for fuel. Compared to the life Conan had grown accustomed to in the South, this was primitive beyond belief, but he could feel himself gaining strength from it. Milach was right; this was the proper life for a man, even
if a steady diet of it would be too much for one with Conan's wanderlust.

As he set the last of the turves on the roof, Conan looked down and saw a group of men assembling before the door of the stone hut. Some of them he recognized. After unhurriedly packing the last turf into place, Conan slid to the ground. His weapons he had left piled with those of his kinsmen inside the hut, but for the first time in years, in the presence of fierce armed men, he did not feel threatened when unarmed. These were, after all, his kinsmen, even if they did not approve of him.

Conan brushed the dirt from his hands as he walked up to the tall, graying, bearded man who stood before the others. This man looked very much like Conan himself, except for his long, dark beard. His weapons were plain but of the very best quality. In dress he looked like an ordinary clansman, but something set this man apart.

"Greeting, Canach," Conan said. While he and all the others belonged to the Clan Canach, this man was the Canach, the Canach of Canach, chieftain of the clan.

"Greeting, Conan," said Canach. "It has been many winters since we have seen you. Your sept has almost died out. Have you returned to join us once more?"

"For a while, at any rate," Conan answered him. "I've a mission to accomplish here in these hills, and I must speak of it before the chiefs."

"That you shall," said Canach. "But you must wait your turn, for there is much to be spoken of when all are gathered. I rejoice to see you, Conan, though there have been hard words between us in the past. This winter we may need all of the clan's best fighting men."

"Is it to be a spear-wetting, then?" Conan asked. "It seems a strange season for it."

"Everything about this business is strange," Canach said. "You will hear about it at the gathering this evening." The chieftain and his sidemen turned and left.

Conan resumed his weapons and walked about the little village, renewing old acquaintances and inquiring after friends and kinsfolk.

Without surprise he found that most of his old friends were dead.

Mortality was always high in the mountains, and Conan's companions had been wild youths like himself, inviting an end to their careers ere they had fairly begun.

Fires were being built all about, for here in the lowland near the Pictish Wilderness, wood was relatively plentiful in this glen that had not been occupied for ten years. Not until late winter would they have to resort to peat for fuel. Around the fires, pots of beer brewed in the lowlands were passed around, and people sang the eerie, dirgelike songs born of this wild land.

As the sun set, its afterglow shone luridly upon the snowcapped crests of the higher elevations. Down in the valley, though, the usual autumn mist and drizzle prevailed, and it would be the passing of another moon before snow blanketed the lowlands. Hunting parties had brought in a few wild boar and stags from the nearby wood-clothed hills, and now the sharp odor of the roasting meat filled the air of the village. Among the men impromptu contests were in progress in leaping, foot-racing and stone-throwing. Unlike their Nordheimer or Pictish neighbors, the Cimmerians did not contend among themselves in swordplay or even in stick-fighting, for fighting was a serious matter among them. Cimmerians drew their weapons against another man only with intent to kill.

Before the bonfire in the center of the village the chiefs and elders sat on the ground, gnawing on beef bones and passing beer jars among themselves. A place was made for Conan at this fire, and a joint of stag was thrust into his hand by a shock-headed girl of fifteen or so, whose fierce gray eyes took in his massive frame from scalp to toes with the unmistakable calculation of a woman sizing up a prospective husband.

Word had gone out that Conan was back, and that he was yet unmarried.

Cimmerian males in their prime were always in short supply.

Conan wrapped a chunk of smoking stag flesh in a flat oatcake and bit into it, chewing the tough but delicious meat and reliving a hundred other highland feastings, when he had fought with the other boys over the leavings of their elders. He washed the good food down with a long draught of Pictish barley beer.

A gray-haired elder sitting next to him said, "Greetings kinsman. I knew your father and grandfather."

"And I remember you, Anga," Conan said.

The old man frowned slightly. "You've picked up an odd accent, living in foreign places."

"They say much the same of me in the South," said Conan with a shrug.

"It seems I'm destined to speak no tongue to perfection!"

Unlike their Aesir and Vanir neighbors, who were boisterous to the point of insanity in their feastings, the Cimmerians remained solemn even on the most joyous occasions. The warriors did not stand up and boast, nor did they fight, no matter how freely the beer flowed.

As soon as his immediate appetite was satisfied, Conan found himself longing for a good brawl, but no blood flowed. "At an Aesir feasting," he told his neighbors, "there would be steel drawn by now, and the songs would shake the rafters, and the fighting men would be proclaiming the names of chiefs they had slain."

Unimpressed, Anga said, "It is good, then, that you have come back to a place where men know how to comport themselves."

"Yes," said a man with a long, sad face, who sat on Conan's other side, "who but a fool or a coward boasts of the men he has slain? What boots it that the dead foeman be a chief? Friend or foe, the measure of a fighter is in his arm and heart. I have engaged many a lowland swineherd who wounded me sorely, and I have seen chiefs fall to the sword of a youth on his first bloodletting." Others nodded and complimented the wisdom of these words.

"Still," Conan persisted, "in other lands they know the value of merriment. There is song and the music of harp and flute. There are dancing girls and jugglers and beast trainers. Here, our songs sound as if we were mourning the dead."

The others looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

"Never mind," he said disgustedly, "you would never understand."

Conan saw Chulainn walking about at the edge of the firelight, and he excused himself, taking a pot of beer from the circle. He walked to the young man and thrust the pot into his hand.

"Here, cousin," Conan said, "drink some of this. A man should not be
long-faced on the first night in winter quarters."

Chulainn took a brief drink and handed the vessel back. "My thanks, cousin," he said shortly.

"Look, kinsman," Conan said, "I have heard somewhat about the lass.

You are not the first to lose one. Gather your friends together, and we'll go get you another."

"I want only Bronwith," Chulainn said levelly. "We plighted our troth."

"Well," Conan grumbled uncomfortably, "from what I heard, your vow is canceled. Even Crom will not hold you to a pledge made to the dead."

"I do not know that she is dead," Chulainn insisted. "Her body was not among those at the steading."

"Are you certain?" Conan asked. "They say the bodies were in no condition―"

"She was not there!" Chulainn said vehemently. "I would have known!"

"Still, she is lost to you. You might as well give her up."

"Never," said the young man. "I swore to her by Crom that I would come for her, and neither her kinsmen nor the demons of the sky or the mountains can keep me from bringing her home."

Conan was about to comment on the unwisdom of lightly making oaths in the name of Crom, but the memory of his own recent indiscretion stayed him. "How will you find her? Once they have been led to the coast in chains, captives never come back; you know that well."

"They were not led to the coast this time. This was no slave raid of the Vanir. It was some work of demons or madmen. The captives were herded northeast."

"Northeast?" Conan pondered, drinking deeply of the beer as he considered the geographical possibilities of his country. "Toward Asgard, then? Or Hyperborea?"

"No. There are many good low roads and passes to those lands, or to the Border Kingdom. We tracked them for days, and their way led always
higher, into the loftiest crags, where only the white goats live."

"Up near Ben Morgh," Conan muttered, his scalp crawling.

"Yes. We were within sight of the peak of the sacred mount, just below the Field of the Dead, when a dense cloud descended. We could not see so much as a hand before our noses. It was no natural mountain mist, but a cloud black as a Van's heart, yet there was no smell of smoke. I would have gone on, by feel alone if need be, but my companions would have none of it. They bore me bodily back."

"Well," Conan said, "it may be that you and I shall soon have work to do together. Wait until I have spoken with the chiefs."

"Work?" said Chulainn. "What work?"

Before Conan could answer, an elder rose and, standing in the firelight, sounded a long, deep blast on an ancient horn. This was the great summoning horn, a cherished treasure of the Canach. It was carved in one piece from the long, curled horn of some great beast unknown to these mountains, and was wrought with curious figures and runes over its whole surface. Clan legend had it that the horn had belonged to the first Canach.

Conan and Chulainn moved closer to the fire, where the clan chiefs sat.

Canach was there, along with the heads of the largest septs and families, and the oldest and most prestigious warriors, although many of these were but simple householders whose fame and position in the clan were due to their skill and prowess rather than to clan position. Others were there as well, and these drew Conan's surprised attention. One, seated next to Canach, was a middle-aged man with hair braided in the long temple plaits of the Raeda. Another's face was painted battle-ready blue, as was the custom of the Tunog. Conan wondered what brought these chieftains to this gathering, for among the ever-feuding clans of Cimmeria, peaceful meeting ordinarily took place only at the midwinter fair or the fair held in early spring.

Canach rose to his feet and held both hands high. The great horn blasted twice and all fell silent.

"Clansmen of Canach!" the chieftain shouted. "All of us, not just Clan Canach, but all the clans of Cimmeria, face a grave new danger. Not since Veharium have we stood in such peril. We must stand together and fight
together lest we perish one by one. It is decreed that all feuds must cease during this time of mutual danger. There must be no vengeance-slaying, no feud-wiving, and no cattle-raiding until the clan chieftains declare the peril past."

A babble of dismay swelled like a wind among the audience, for in the long, dull months of winter these were the principle diversions of the clansmen. The great horn blew once more for silence.

"You have all heard by now of the feud-wiving undertaken by young Chulainn and his cousins, my own son among them, and of what they found in Murrogh land. After my son told me of what they found, I traveled among the clans, bearing the white shield of peace, to learn whether there had been other such incidents." As he paused his listeners waited silent and enthralled. It had been many years since a chief had borne the white shield. "I learned of many … at least a hundred steadings wiped out. These who sit beside me will tell you their stories." He turned to the man with the long temple plaits and spoke the accustomed formula: "Rorik of Clan Raeda, I bid you speak to my clansmen."

The man stood. "I am Rorik," he began, "brother of Raeda of Raeda, and I come bearing the white shield. In the ten moons past, six households of Clan Raeda were annihilated. Forty men and women were slain, and at least as many children borne away into the high mountains. Clan Raeda will not raise sword against other Cimmerians until this danger is gone from among us." With these simple words Rorik sat down.

"Twyl of Tunog," Canach said, "speak to my clansmen."

The blue-faced man stood and leaned upon the shaft of his spear. "I am Twyl, a senior war counselor of Tunog, and I come bearing the white shield. In this summer four homesteads of the Tunog were destroyed, with the loss of thirty slain or abducted. Across our border two households of the Lacheish were destroyed. We men of Tunog have painted our faces for war, and we will not wash it off until this danger is no more. Until that time we make peace with all the clans." The Tunog chief resumed his seat.

"From what Chulainn and my son and the others have said," Canach intoned, "this danger comes from the high mountains near Ben Morgh. It is not enough that these unclean creatures slay the living, but they also defile our dead, for only through the Field of the Dead can they enter or leave that area. It matters little what manner of creatures these are. They
are our enemies. They walk on Cimmerian land, and they must die."

"Have any caught sight of these demons and lived?" asked a grizzle-bearded warrior.

"A boy of Raeda was herding sheep near one of the houses when it was struck," Rorik said. "He ran to see what the commotion was about. From a high cliff he saw the steading cloaked in a strange black mist, such as he had never before seen. He lay on his belly to watch until, in time, the black cloud moved away, to the northeast. He heard from within the cloud the wails of the young. Later he saw the ruined huts and corpses left behind.

In that steading died Chamta, our greatest champion. His heart had been torn from his breast and devoured. On the sword of Chamta were found scales clotted thick with black blood. These were not metal scales, such as the Vanir wear for armor, but more like the scales of giant fish or serpents. As no one would touch such unclean things, they were burned where they lay."

"Tomorrow," Canach went on, "we shall send out the Bloody Spears to summon the fighting men of all the clans to the Standing Stone in the Field of the Chiefs." He pointed to the half-disk of the moon, perched on the shoulder of the mountain to the east. "When the moon shines full once more, all the fighting men of the clans shall be assembled before the Standing Stone."

"Not all!" said Conan as he strode forward into the full light of the fire.

"I'll not be with you. I have other matters to attend to."

There were expressions of dismay and disgust from the assembled men.

Several of those nearest him drew back, as if avoiding defilement. Canach glared at him in mixed anger and disbelief. "You were always a wild one, Conan, but you were never a coward ere now!"

"I am not afraid," Conan growled, "but I have a previous commitment."

In as few words as possible he described the mission he had undertaken for Hathor-Ka. "So you see," he concluded, "if I wait for a gathering of the clans and a march through the Field of the Dead, I will not reach the peak of Ben Morgh before the equinox. I go thither on the morrow."

Canach spat. "Would I had died before I saw the day when a kinsman of mine held loyalty to a foreign witch higher than the good of his clan."

"My loyalty is to my word!" Conan bellowed. "I swore by Crom, and if any man seeks to make me false to my oath, he'll eat steel, though he were my own brother!" Conan clapped a hand to his hilt and a hundred men drew their weapons and the rasp of a hundred swords clearing their sheaths echoed through the glen.

"Hold!" Canach shouted. The clansmen froze where they stood. The chieftain continued to glare at Conan. "You are a mighty fool, Conan, and you always were; but a coward you are not. It takes a man of heart to challenge the whole armed strength of Clan Canach. Go on your cursed mission, which I doubt not is part and parcel of the woes that have befallen us. If you learn anything of use to us, make haste to join the clans on the march. And if you are captured "―he pointed a finger at Conan and spoke in a voice as grim as doom―"you shall die under torture without speaking of our gathering."

"I'll not talk," rumbled Conan. "When did this clan ever breed weaklings? And Canach, I charge you, when you send around the Bloody Spears, to send one to Wulfhere of the Aesir, if he still lives. Tell him to fetch his band to fight beside us. Say Conan summons him. It is a debt of long standing between us."

A warrior stood to speak. A great scar slanted from brow to chin, the knotted scar tissue almost closing one of his eyes. "When did we ever need help from the yellowhairs?" he demanded.

"Now," said Twyl of Tunog. "Now we need all the aid we can get, by Crom. With what we face, I would accept aid from the Vanir!"

A tall youth strode from the shadows into the firelight. "Conan does not go alone upon the morrow," Chulainn said. "I go with him."

"You had better have a good reason," Canach said. "If you seek the glory of being first to strike against our foe, you disgrace your house. Your place is with your kinsmen."

"I, too, swore an oath," said the youth with simple dignity. "I have waited too long to honor it. Conan's words have reminded me of my duty.""

"Ah, well," Canach sighed, "go if you must. I cannot fault a man for standing by his word." His stern eyes pierced the gloom beyond the circle
of firelight. "But these two only! All other men of fighting age shall go with me to the Standing Stone!"

Then, pointing to a young man far back from the fire, he ordered: "My son, take your younger brothers and a few cousins and seek the three families who have not yet arrived. See if these monsters have done away with them. The rest of you"―he stared fiercely about him―"prepare for a hard march and a harder fight!"

In the darkness of midnight Conan, Chulainn, and Milach walked silently to their hut at the far edge of the encampment. At the door they turned and looked back over the village, faintly illuminated by the dying fires before many of the dwellings. To them came a sound like the steady droning of a swarm of insects. It was a scraping, singing sound, and they, knew that no insects made it. It was the grinding of whetstones upon the edges of sword and dagger, ax and spear. Fierce at their most peaceful, the Cimmerians prepared for war with a deliberation that was truly awesome.

"There will be blade-wetting in plenty for all," Milach said. He turned to Chulainn. "Are you sorry now that you missed Venarium, lad?"

"At least you fought a human enemy that time," Chulainn said. "I would sooner face ten thousand men than these nameless creatures on Ben Morgh."

"We know from Chamta's sword that they bleed when cut with steel,"

said Conan. "And if they cut and bleed, they'll die, by Crom! Now let's get some sleep. Before the sun is over the mountain, we'll be on our way to Ben Morgh."

Nine

In the Field of the Dead

Starkad slapped his arms for warmth, for even his great cloak of wolf and marten fur did not serve to keep out the highland chill. His breath streamed out upon the morning air as steam between the cheekplates of his polished iron helm, embossed with plates of silver. Cold it was on the mountain. When Starkad's freebooters had awakened that morning, every man's armor was gray with frost.

The chieftain stared up past his noseguard at the form seated on a bare rock high overhead. It was Jaganath, up to some devilment, Starkad did not doubt. Ordinarily, the Vendhyan was far more sensitive to the cold than any Nordheimer, but there he was, sitting cross-legged on ice in the teeth of the bitter wind, dressed only in a loincloth and turban. His obscenely fat body was exposed to weather as evil as any Starkad had ever known.

The younger Vendhyan, Gopal, wrapped in furs so thick he might have been a small bear, came sidling up to Starkad. "My uncle works powerful magic, northman," he said.

"He looks asleep," Starkad replied. "Why does he not chant and shout?

He is making no sacrifices. I see no flames or smokes."

"Those things are for simple children," Gopal said. "The truly great feats of magic are performed here." He tapped a gloved forefinger against his fur-hatted temple. "Truly great mages, such as my uncle, can spend many months in a trance, communing with the gods and working mighty sorcery."

Starkad looked down at the little man and snorted, sending twin streams of vapor to either side of his noseguard. "At our great festivals we hang as many as a hundred prisoners in the sacred groves, and cut the thoats of others over the holy stones. That is what pleases Ymir, and brings us victory in war. That is the kind of magic I trust, none of this mumbling and meditating." The younger man just kept his superior smile.

Starkad's mind was not eased by his own words. How did the man stand the cold?

"This cold is unnatural," Starkad said, to change the subject. "Even this high in the mountains the air should not be so cold. It is not yet midautumn, and the cold is that of the depths of winter."

"There are great sorcerous matters afoot," said Gopal. "The gods are uneasy; the powers of heaven and Earth and the underworld struggle for supremacy. At such times the great wheel of eternity pauses in its turning, and accustomed things are no longer as they were."

Gopal waved his arm skyward. "Behold! In the heavens have appeared ten new stars this year. Comets have flared in the constellations of the

Scorpion and the Dragon, only to disappear without warning. Strange creatures are seen in the sea, and winters of exceptional severity are followed by summers of great heat and dryness. Twice this year heavy rains have flooded Stygia, something not seen in generations. The very Earth has shaken with the battles of restless dragons in its depths."

Starkad shuddered. "Say no more. I regret that I ever agreed to escort you and your mad uncle on this fool's mission."

"Can it be," Gopal taunted, "that the mighty warriors of Vanaheim know fear after all?"

Starkad reached out to seize the little man, then thought better of it and let his heavy arms drop. "Every warrior fears black sorcery, you fool.

There is no dishonor in that. To buy the favor of a god with sacrifice is one thing. This playing with powers beyond human ken is another. I like it not."

"But you do like gold." Gopal smiled.

"Aye, I like gold very much. If you had not so much of it, I would not be here, but back in my hall like any sensible chief. It is a good thing for you that I fear your uncle's sorcery, else I should have long since slain the two of you and gained your treasure."

Gopal laughed. "And well for you that you fear him so. Think you that such a mage has aught to fear from a petty pirate chieftain? The great Jaganath has sent great armies down to bloody ruin."

"Then why does he need an escort?" asked Starkad triumphantly.

"Not because he has aught to fear from your savage Cimmerians," said Gopal haughtily. "But because he has great magic to perform when we reach our destination, and he does not wish to be distracted in the midst of his rites."

Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a glowering group of Vanir, led by the huge warrior who had questioned this expedition in Starkad's hall. "Starkad, we must speak," he said.

Starkad turned his back on the apprentice sorcerer and leaned casually on his ax. "What must we speak of, Gurth?"

"The men and I have been talking together," Gurth rumbled. "This is no natural weather we have come upon. This is a false winter caused by demons. And it is bad luck to travel with sorcerers. So we have decided to kill these outlanders, take their gold, and go back to our hall."

"So, we have decided, have we?" Starkad said with a murderous gleam in his eye. "And were these discussions so important that your chieftain could not be allowed to take part in them?" He glared at his men, but none save Gurth would meet his eye.

Without warning Gurth raised his ax, aimed to split Gopal's skull. As the Vendhyan stood in shock, mouth open and eyes wide, Starkad swung his own ax across and caught Gurth's descending weapon in the angle between the head and the haft of the chieftain's ax. In almost the same move the chieftain swung the butt of his weapon into the side of Gurth's helmet. Gurth sprawled on the ground in a rattle of scales, and Starkad raised his ax to split him on the ground, but the downed man rolled swiftly aside and the blade rang against the frozen earth.

Then Gurth was on his feet again and the two men circled, each with one hand near the butt of his weapon, the other near its head. The rest of the hirelings maintained a diplomatic silence, knowing that a cheer for the loser would be long remembered by the winner. They formed a wide circle around the struggling warriors, for ax fighters required much room; With a howl of demented rage Gurth swung at Starkad as the chieftain was backed against a crag of rock; but Starkad leaped nimbly aside, and the ax head struck sparks from the stone. In that instant, while Gurth was off balance, Starkad's ax came around in a hard, vicious arc and bit into the scales that protected Gurth's spine. Gurth cast up his hands, his ax flying away. As Starkad wrenched his weapon free, Gurth toppled stiffly to lie facedown upon the cold ground. Starkad stepped forward and swung his ax a final time. Gurth's head rolled away from his body, the red beard severed just below the chin. Tufts of red whiskers were carried away on the chill breeze.

Starkad hefted his bloody weapon and spoke with deceptive casualness to the watchers. "If there are others who wish to dispute my leadership, I am warmed up now, and this is a good time to settle the matter." He looked around, but none of his men seemed inclined to challenge him.

"Good. We shall resume our march into Cimmeria."

Jaganath, now dressed in his heavy furs, stepped around the corpse, fastidiously avoiding the widening pool of blood. "Have we been set upon by enemies while I meditated, Starkad?"

"Just a small dispute concerning our course of action," said the Vanir chief. "All is now settled. Are you ready to march?"

"I am," Jaganath assured him.

"Today we will cross into Cimmerian land," Starkad said. "From here on, the hand of every man we see will be turned against us. With luck we'll get close to Ben Morgh without being seen, for Cimmeria is thinly settled compared to Vanaheim. We may even reach our destination without trouble. But we shall not leave without a fight."

To his surprise, Jaganath laughed. It was a huge rumble that came from deep within his vast belly. "Just get us there, Starkad, and have no fears about our return." His nephew joined in his laughter, and the Vanir stood mystified, sure that both were mad.

Conan and Chulainn set out before first light. They took nothing with them save their weapons and heavy cloaks, flint and steel for making fire, and a bag of black bread, dried meat, and slabs of hard cheese. They did not bother with water bottles, since a traveler in the Cimmerian highlands was never more than a few paces from fresh water. They walked with the hillman's long stride that covered the miles more efficiently than a horse's uncertain hooves yet left them unfatigued at the end of a day's travel.

They had plotted the straightest possible line of march, and were able to use the best routes and all the daylight hours because of the truce with the other clans. Even so, it was a long and arduous journey, taking them ever higher into the fastness of the mountains.

Late in the afternoon of the fifth day they saw, silhouetted against the lowering sun along a mountain ridge, men marching in single file.

Instinctively, Chulainn started to dive for cover. Then, remembering the truce, he sheepishly rejoined Conan.

"Old habits are hard to break." Conan grinned. "Those must be the Galla, by the look of their topknots."

"Perhaps we had better take cover anyway," Chulainn said. "They are a
distant clan, and the Bloody Spear may not have reached them yet."

At that moment the men on the ridge caught sight of the travelers and waved their spears overhead as a sign of peaceful intentions. Had they meant harm, they would have howled a war cry and charged. "Let's go talk to them," Conan said. "They may have seen or heard something of use."

The two men trotted to the ridge.

The Galla were considered wild and primitive even among Cimmerians.

Their warriors were tattooed all over their bodies in intricate whorls and spirals, and the hair knotted high on their heads was ornamented with carved bone amulets and charms. They bore long, flat shields of wood, and, alone among the Cimmerian tribes, their favored weapon was a knotty-headed club, made from the stone-hard wood of a stunted tree native to their clan territory. A few bore iron-headed spears. Their only garments were brief kilts of wolfskin, and their tattooed feet were bare.

Without preamble the leader of the Galla said, "Why are you not going to the Standing Stone?"

"We have another mission," Conan said. "We go to Ben Morgh."

"What business have you on the sacred mountain?"

"Business of our own," Conan said gruffly. "How long have you been on the march?"

"A runner came to us with the Bloody Spear two nights gone. We have been on the path since first light yesterday."

"Most armies would take a week to cover the distance between here and Galla land," muttered Conan.

"Have these demon-things struck in Galla land?" Chulainn asked.

"Four families wiped out," answered the leader. "We are eager to see if they have brains to scatter." He shook his fearsome club, whipping the massive weapon about his head as easily as if it were a wand.

"We'll not keep you from the gathering of spears, then," Conan said.

Without a further word the Galla set off at a steady trot, which they
could maintain all day. Late as it was, they would put many more miles behind them before darkness forced a halt.

"Those will be good men to have beside us when the battle comes,"

Conan said as he and his companion resumed their march.

"I am sorry to miss the gathering," Chulainn said wistfully. "Never have I seen a great army in one place. It would be something to tell my grandchildren."

"You'll see them, if we survive our mission," Conan assured him. "If not, then no sense worrying about armies and grandchildren."

That night they rested beneath a rock overhang while a light snow began to fall. Beneath the sheltering rock they found a few turves of peat left from some herdsman's store, and they quickly struck a fire with flint and steel. The cheering flames pressed against the dark. The two men stared brooding into the fire for a while, each occupied with his own dark thoughts.

"Conan," Chulainn asked at last, "what do you think we may be up against? What will we find on Ben Morgh?"

"How should I know? Monsters, demons, tribal spirits out of Kush, for all anybody has seen of them."

"But why do they take prisoners?" Chulainn persisted.

"For slaves, maybe," Conan said. "Or for food."

"Then why only women and children?"

"Perhaps they make better eating," Conan hazarded. "Grown Cimmerian men may be too tough for them."

Chulainn stared into the fire, a picture of despondency. He did not want to picture his Bronwith as a feast for some nameless horror from a madman's nightmare.

As they approached the Field of the Dead they could see a lurid glow in the sky above the hulking form of Ben Morgh. In the dimness they could just make out the stark outlines of cairns raised to Cimmerian chieftains
and heroes in ages past. A light dusting of snow still lay on the ground, but the sides of the cairns were bare and dark.

"What is the cause of that glow?" Chulainn said. "Can it be fire? There is neither wood nor peat on Ben Morgh."

"You ask a great many questions," Conan said, "and you ask them of one with no more answers than you have yourself. Were I you, I would save my breath for more important things, such as fighting."

"And who might we be fighting?" Chulainn asked.

"To begin with, the lurking swine on the other side of this cairn." With this, Conan sprang up the mossy-side of the pile of stones next to them.

Chulainn, Cimmerian to the bone, spent not an instant in standing dumbfounded, but scrambled up the cairn behind his companion before Conan's sword was fully drawn. At the crest of the cairn they saw two crouching forms waiting with polearms ready to hew down unwary passersby. These scarce had time to look up as the two blackhaired Cimmerians descended on them.

The shapes below seemed roughly human albeit misshapen; but the hiss loosed from the throat of the first came from no human larynx. Conan was swinging as he leaped down, and his sharp blade plowed through the skull of his chosen target before his feet touched earth.

Chulainn landed too far from his foe, and the creature lunged at him with a broad-bladed glaive on a short pole. Chulainn sidestepped the clumsy weapon and replied with a thrust of his spear, which barely penetrated the scaly hide over the monster's chest. With an enraged hiss the creature spun unexpectedly, and a long, thick tail lashed around, caught Chulainn in the side, and sent him tumbling against the cairn. The glaive came up for a deathblow, but Chulainn rolled aside and Conan's sword skewered the creature from back to front. With a vicious hiss the serpent-thing expired.

"Crom!" Conan said, wiping his blade. "It takes some real force to push a blade through these things. They grow their own armor."

Chulainn staggered painfully to his feet. "I am sorry, Conan," he wheezed. "I know we needed one for questioning. I thought I had that one, but my spear would not go in."

"We'd have had no answers from these beauties," Conan said. With his dirk he pricked forth the tongue of one. It was long, thick, and forked. "If these things have a language, it is one no man understands, I'll wager.

Tongues like this could form no human words, save, perhaps, the secret speech of the serpent priests of Set."

"Set?" Chulainn said. "Is that a god?"

"Aye, and an evil one. Set may be behind these things, for all the sorcerers of Stygia are minions of that vile god." Chulainn could sense behind Conan's steady-spoken words a deeply ingrained horror of the supernatural.

"Surely this Set cannot challenge Father Crom on his own mountain,"

Chulainn said.

"Wager no coins on what gods and demons can or cannot do," Conan observed. "At least we know this lot die if you strike hard enough.

Remember that trick with the tail, though. That kind of blow can take an honest fighting man by surprise. I'd like to get a better look at these things. But we dare not strike a light this close to Ben Morgh."

"I wonder if these were posted here," Chulainn said, "or if they were sent to intercept us."

"I would give a great deal to know that myself," Conan said. Did their enemy know that they were coming? The thought was unsettling.

Abruptly, Conan turned and began walking so fast in the direction of the mountain that Chulainn had trouble keeping up with him. "Now, about that light in the sky," he continued as if the incident with the two lizard-things had never transpired. "In the South I have seen a kind of black stone burned for fuel. It comes from the ground, where there is no wood or peat, but a thick and stinking smoke comes from it, and I see no smoke up there."

They had almost reached the upper end of the Field of the Dead when they saw a figure seated atop a small cairn, perhaps one of the oldest monuments in the ancient burial place. The trespasser sat motionless, a cold breeze fluttering what appeared to be tattered garments, but the travelers could see only its outline against the bloodred sky. Two swords hissed snakelike from sheaths as the Cimmerians strode to within ten
paces of the cairn.

"Speak swiftly if you do not want your blood to feed some old chief of our race," Conan demanded.

The creature shifted on its seat and cackled. "Say, northerner, you like to buy another amulet? I sell, very cheap."

For several seconds Conan stood speechless, rooted in one spot. "Crom!"

he said at last.

"No, just Cha the fortuneteller. Crom live higher up." The Khitan mountebank jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Ben Morgh.

"You know this oldster, Conan?" Chulainn asked. He had not been able to understand the exchange.

Cha turned his face to the younger Cimmerian. "Conan and I old friends," he said in mangled Cimmerian.

"Is it human?" Chulainn asked. "It talks worse than a Pict."

"He's human," Conan told him. "In his own way." He turned back to the Khitan. "Why did you pretend to be a mere seller of amulets and charms, Khitan?"

"What the matter?" demanded Cha in tones of hurt outrage. "You not like my amulet? Bet you not be here right now if not for my amulet!"

Conan thumbed the keen edge of his sword. "I do not like being played with, Khitan," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "That bitch Hathor-Ka played me for a fool, and now I find you have done the same."

"From the start I tell you you just playing-piece for the gods," Cha said.

"You mad now because it true?"

"True or not," Conan growled, "I feel like killing somebody for it, and you're handy." He started to ascend the small cairn.

"Wait," the Khitan said hastily. "You need me, and I need you."

Conan paused. "Why do I need you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because I very great magician, while you just fighter. Up there"―he pointed toward the glowing crest of Ben Morgh―"is great magic. Bad magic. You need more than swords to fight magic."

"From the look of this," Conan growled, "we'll need more than your piddling amulets."

"No fear," the Khitan said, smiling teeth showing in the dimness, "my magic plenty powerful. How you think I get here?"

"I was about to ask that." Conan looked puzzled. "Chulainn, I last saw this little beggar in Khorshemish, a city many weeks of travel to the south, yet here he is ahead of me. How did you do it, mountebank?"

"Easy," the Khitan said, descending from the cairn and adjusting his rags. "I flew on a dragon. Now, you want to go up the mountain?"

Mystified, the two Cimmerians trudged on uphill alongside the shabby Khitan sorcerer.

The Field of Chiefs lay silent and deserted in the first gray light of dawn. No clan farmed here, and none grazed its cattle and sheep amid the eerie, strangely carven stones of the field. So mossy were they grown that one could stand in their midst for a great while before noticing the geometric patterns wrought upon their surfaces, and even longer before realizing that the geometry thus represented was not the same as that taught by the wise men of Aquilonia. The Cimmerians knew nothing of geometry, canny or uncanny, and had never noticed that particular strangeness.

The stones lay scattered about the little plain―odd, humped forms, upon which the moss seemed to grow equally upon all sides, unlike ordinary moss. In the center of the field towered the Standing Stone. It was a stark shaft of black rock and no such stone was native to these mountains. Its surface was rough and pitted, but no moss grew upon its surface. According to immemorial legend, this stone had been a missile in a long-ago war between Crom and Ymir. Ymir, god of the Nordheimers, had challenged Crom for the suzerainty of the North. Ymir, who was lord of storms and king of the frost giants, had sent a terrible, freezing winter, and many thousands of Crom's subjects had died. When he thought that Crom was sufficiently weakened, Ymir and his giants had marched upon Cimmeria. Crom, unweakened, had torn the great stone from a
mountaintop in Hyperborea, still glowing from the heat of the internal flames of that mountain. It had arced for many leagues through the air and landed in this spot, directly before the advancing army, so close that it singed Ymir's beard. The Nordheimer god, seeing that Crom was in no way weakened, had turned in his tracks and gone home. After that time Crom had made sure to imbue his people with the extraordinary endurance of extremes of cold and heat that so characterized the Cimmerians.

The boy thought of this legend as he climbed the Standing Stone, his fingers and toes finding easy purchase on the rough surface. Cimmerians are climbers from birth and this one swarmed up the side of the vertical stone as swiftly as a civilized youth would have climbed a stair, and he reached the top without the slightest trace of breathlessness. He was the first to arrive. He had awakened in the dark of night and had stolen from the camp in order to arrive here ahead of his kinsmen. Now he would be able to tell his grandchildren that he was first among the clansmen to reach the Standing Stone upon this hosting. If he survived the fighting.

The youth wore the blue face paint of Clan Tunog and little else. Despite the biting wind he did not trouble himself with a cloak and only a wolfskin loincloth eased the bite of a wide belt heavy with the weight of sword and dagger. He had left his spear leaning against the base of the stone. His long black hair streamed like a banner in the breeze as he stood in the alert half-crouch of the mountain-bred warrior. Had he known it, an artist of the civilized lands would have considered him to be the very picture of the savage, warlike north, but he neither knew nor cared about such things. He slitted his gaze against the wind and awaited the coming of the clans.

The boy's keen eyes caught the first movement just as the rising sun peered over the mountain crest to the east, flooding the Field of Chiefs with a bloody light. From several directions he saw lone runners converging upon his point of vantage. These were the best runners of each clan, bearing their Bloody Spears ahead of the main body. Within minutes the field was black with dark-haired warriors, for the Cimmerians do not march stolidly to battle like civilized armies, but instead run at the mile-eating trot of the high valleys.

As they neared, each runner cast his spear at the great stone in accordance with an ancient custom no longer understood but still
practiced at such times. "Greeting, warriors!" called the youth atop the stone.

A Raeda with plaited hair looked up and grinned. "I had hoped to be first. You arose early this morning, I'll wager."

''You would win," the youth called. "Come on up and see such a sight as few men ever behold in a lifetime!" The young runners scaled the stone with the agility of monkeys and soon crowded together on the treacherous footing as casually as Aquilonian loungers in the great square of Tarantia.

"They come!" said one. "Raeda, Tunog, Canach, Lacheish, Dal Claidh, all the clans in one place. Was there ever such a sight?"

One pointed to the northeast, where a long file of men were trotting through a narrow pass, their spearbearer at their head. "Yonder come the wild Galla, by the look of their topknots. I have never laid eyes upon a man of that clan. They are said to be uncommonly fond of battle." This was an awesome pronouncement coming from a Cimmerian.

"Ahh," exulted a youth whose temples were shaven in the fashion of Clan Lacheish, "does not the light of morning glitter most fairly upon the spearpoints of such a host?"

Now a grizzled chieftain reached the base of the stone and he stood with fists on hips, staring up at the boys. "You've gazed your fill, now come down from there. There's little fighting to be found atop the Stone, and much work to be done down here."

As the young men descended the stone several other chiefs joined the one who had hailed them. Among them was Canach. As the chief who had called for the hosting, he was leader of the clansmen, at least as far as any one man could lead the wild tribes of Cimmeria, even in time of peace.

"We gather quickly," he said with approval. "We'll not have long to wait before we set forth. Even the Galla have arrived early on the first day."

"The Galla travel faster than most," said Raeda. "Others will be arriving throughout the day. Some of the lowland clans may not arrive until the morrow."

"I hope that they do not take longer than the midday to arrive," Canach said. "I feel that time is important now. We must set off before the sun is
much past its zenith tomorrow, with or without all the clans."

Throughout the day the men gathered. There was no making of speeches. All knew why they were there and they were ready to fight. No more need be said. They sat talking around small fires, some of them eating from their scant supply of marching rations. By nightfall the last of the clans had arrived. All the able fighting men of Cimmeria, save only Conan and Chulainn, were present for the hosting at the Standing Stone.

Canach was sitting at a fire with his fellow chiefs when a final group arrived, and these were not Cimmerians. "Foreigners come," a man said quietly. Canach stared into the dimness outside the circle of firelight. He heard the faint click and jingle of arms, sounds that the Cimmerians did not make even when fully armed. Ordinarily, these sounds would have had him reaching for his weapons, but this time he was certain that those who approached were not foes.

Three men stepped within the firelight. "I was told that I would find the chieftains here," said the tallest. Like the others, the speaker had long yellow hair and beard. Unlike the Cimmerians this man and his followers wore helmets adorned with horns short enough to be clear of a sword blow, and coats of iron or bronze scales. They also wore many ornaments of gold set with gems.

Canach and the others stood, but their hands did not stray near their weapons. "We are the chieftains of Cimmeria," said Tunog, oldest of the chiefs. His snowy hair and beard contrasted weirdly with his blue-painted face.

"You are the Aesir warband Conan spoke of?" asked Canach.

"We are," said the leader. "I am Wulfhere, son of Hjalmar, and a prince among the Garlingas when I am not an outlaw. Just now I am under outlawry for a manslaying. My men are outlaws as well. I left most of them at the edge of your camp."

"Sit," said Canach, gesturing graciously toward the bare ground. "We would offer you food and drink, but we came with but little by way of refreshment."

"We came better prepared," said Wulfhere. He reached back and one of his men handed him a bulging skin of wine. Wulfhere upended jt and took
a long pull, then offered it to the Cimmerians.

Canach shook his head, as did the other chiefs. "Thank you, but we'd not have our kinsmen see us drinking while they went dry."

They sat for a while in silence. Unlike their cousins the Vanir, the Aesir were not unceasingly hostile to the Cimmerians. Aesir and Cimmerian fought only most of the time. Indeed, there had been spans as lengthy as a year when the two peoples were at peace. Each looked upon the other with a certain disdain, but with a wary respect for the fighting prowess of the other. The Aesir were as tall as the Cimmerians on the average, but they often had a somewhat heavier build. Like all northern peoples they were strong and fierce, but unlike the Cimmerians they were fond of feasting, revelry, and drunkenness. They loved adorning themselves with bright ornaments, preferably stolen from someone else. The Cimmerians considered them to be shamelessly self-indulgent. There was an old Cimmerian proverb about these people: "The only good thing about the Aesir and the Vanir is that they kill so many of each other." Indeed, where enmity between Cimmerian and. Vanir was ferocious, that between Aesir and Vanir was maniacal. This was in spite of the fact that the Aesir and Vanir worshipped the same gods, spoke the same tongue, and had almost identical customs. In fact, the only noticeable difference between the two was the color of their hair―Vanir red and Aesir yellow. But then, civilized men have fought over differences less significant.

"Have these demons plagued you as they have us?" asked the shaven-templed chief of Lacheish.

"They have," Wulfhere confirmed. "Three steadings that I know of wiped out, all of them in the border country up near your folk. At first some thought it was your raiding, but we soon saw that this was no work of Cimmerians. Until your runner came, though, we had no idea where to go to get our vengeance. Were you willing to wait, you could have the whole Aesir race here to aid you."

"We'd as soon not have the whole Aesir nation on our land," said Canach with a faint smile, "even in alliance."

"We'll have to make do, then," said Wulfhere. "Whatever our numbers, this threat must be eliminated and we must have vengeance."

All the others nodded. This was the language that all northerners
understood.

Ten

On the Mountain of Crom

"Why do they take my people prisoner?" demanded Conan of the slight magician who walked through the snow beside him.

"He who do this preparing great sorcery, great spell, want maybe great sacrifice."

"Like the Vanir?" Chulainn asked. "They buy the favor of Ymir with sacrifices in their sacred groves."

"Maybe so," Cha said, "but I think much more. Not buy favor of god, but give evil spell much force. Earth, sky, stars, planets, all in strange order. Many spells, not used in thousand years, possible now."

"I understand nothing of this," Conan said, "but you say you, too, know nothing."

"Mortal man know nothing for sure," Cha agreed, "all is illusion. Duke Li say―"

"Enough of your eastern maunderings!" Conan barked. "From now on, if you have no plans to contribute, keep your thoughts to yourself. Warn us if some sorcerous danger lies ahead. We will take care of the rest without your aid."

"You not trust me?"

"I trust nobody who claims to fly on dragons," Conan said.

They continued to climb, forced to breathe deeply in the thinning air.

As their path wound higher, Conan noticed that the snow disappeared from the ground, and the air seemed distinctly warmer. Soon he saw that his companions' breath no longer steamed from mouth and nostril.

"It's getting warmer," Conan said.

"Even a northern barbarian has powers of perception," Cha said,
chuckling. "Am I not good teacher, to bring this out in you?"

"Will your amulets cure a split skull, Khitan?" Conan asked, grasping his hilt.

"You true barbarian, all right," Cha mumbled. "One answer for everything."

"One answer is all you need for most questions," Conan said.

"Do all Khitans talk as much as this one?" Chulainn asked.

"I think so," Conan replied. "People who live in cities have little to do but talk."

"At least we Khitans have somebody worth talking to," Cha said, "and things worth talking about. What you Cimmerians got to talk about?

Cattle? Snow? We…"

Conan silenced him with a sharp wave and hiss. The three stood frozen and silent. There was nothing to see except the lurid glare in the sky, but faint sounds were drifting down from the mountain, hellish sounds of raucous chanting and screaming, underscored by a deep, rhythmic thunder of drums.

"It sounds like the lamentations of damned souls," Chulainn said.

"Maybe that what you are hearing," Cha told them.

"We'll never know unless we get closer," Conan said.

They advanced, but very cautiously now, keeping to the deepest shadow, and silent as shadows in their movement. Conan noted with approval that Cha moved with the same silent assurance as the Cimmerians and did not seem to be using magic to do it. The Khitan was perhaps as large as a twelve-year-old Cimmerian child, and he was in a foreign land and approaching an unknown, dreadful danger, but he did not seem to be afraid.

Chulainn came close to Conan and whispered, "I think that some civilized people are not as soft as I have heard." Conan just nodded.

Jaganath examined the corpse on the frozen ground. It was that of a
very young man, features fixed in a snarl of rage and hate. He was beardless, with black hair and gray eyes that now stared at nothing. The right hand was still clenched around the grip of a long, straight sword, somewhat narrower than the weapon favored by the Vanir. In the other hand was a spear. Jaganath looked up to see the three wounded who stood talking to Starkad.

"This lone boy did so much damage?" the Vendhyan asked the chieftain.

"I told you they were doughty fighters," Starkad said. "And this one had a mission he thought was so important that he chose to fight his way through a hundred Vanir rather than run like any sensible man."

"What mission?" asked Jaganath.

In answer Starkad stooped and grasped the spear in the youth's left hand. He had to step on the wrist and twist strongly to wrench the weapon loose. He held it up for Jaganath's inspection. It was brown-black from the point to the socket of the spearhead.

"It is filthy," Jaganath said. "Do these Cimmerians not clean their weapons?"

"This is a Bloody Spear. It means a gathering of the clans. Runners go out to all the clans bearing these spears and those who receive them gather at a place called the Field of Chiefs."

"What kind of blood is it?" Jaganath asked with professional interest.

"If the cause of war is the killing of Cimmerians by foreigners, they use the blood of the victims. Otherwise, the clan that sends out the call assembles its warriors and they cut their arms to bloody the spears."

"Why are the clans being called together?" Jaganath said.

Starkad looked down at the corpse. "He does not seem inclined to tell us, but I doubt that our little incursion is sufficient cause. We are still far from the Field of the Dead, and they have no way of knowing that is our destination. For a sally by a hundred men, the blackhairs would send out the fighting men of one clan, no more. They must be facing some serious threat, perhaps another invasion from Aquilonia."

"If that is so," said a Van, steam coming from the midst of his red beard, "then they may be too busy to bother us." The others nodded eager assent.

"So I am hoping." Starkad smiled. "They are being called from a spot far from here."

"How do you know that?" Jaganath asked.

"The blood on that spear is three, perhaps four days old. You would not believe me if I told you how far one of these mountain goats can travel in three days."

"We have runners in the mountains of Vendhya too," Jaganath said.

"So now this little escort duty does not look so onerous, eh?" The mage smiled tauntingly.

"We were never afraid," Starkad maintained. "But who wants a hard fight if none is needed?

"I thought you Vanir enjoyed fighting," Gopal said.

"For honor, yes"―Starkad shrugged―"or for vengeance, or sport. But when it is for gold, we prefer the gold without the fight. Fame lives after a man is dead, and is worth bleeding and dying for. Gold is something passing. It may be worth risk, but only a fool dies for it."

"So, northern barbarians are philosophers," Jaganath said. "Truly the age of miracles is upon us."

*

Two Cimmerians and one Khitan lay upon a rocky outcrop, peering down into a vast pit from which came a hellish illumination. Only their heads as far as the eyes protruded over the lip of the stone. High on the east face of the mountain above them gaped the entrance to the huge cave called the House of Crom. Conan had seen the entrance once as a boy, when the clan had come to the Field of the Dead to bury the old Canach, slain at Venarium. The pit they now gazed into had not been there at that time.

The thunder of the drums was a constant cacophony now, and the screams and groans of those below formed a discordant harmony to the
steady drumming. The pit was filled with mist and steam, from which sprang occasional tongues of unnatural, smokeless flame. Vague shapes could be made out within the fog, some human, others hunched and shambling and unfit to share the clean air of the mountains with true men.

"Whence come those flames?" Conan asked in a whisper.

"They are ignited vapors," the Khitan said, "which come from inside the earth, and are like the breath of dragons of Khitai. I know of a place where it comes to the surface by the sea, and the peasants use it to boil down sea water for salt."

"Nobody is making salt down there," Conan said.

"The sky lightens to the east," Chulainn said. "We had better find a place to hide before we are seen."

Conan looked up the face of Ben Morgh. The ice that crowned its summit reflected the earliest rays of the morning sun. He looked back down into the pit. "I want to get a better view of what goes on down there," he said.

"Your friend is right," Cha urged. "Best be away from here. Come back when dark again."

"A few more minutes," Conan said, his calm tone masking the inner horror he always felt in the presence of wizardry. "I want but a glimpse of it. How can we fight what we do not understand?"

Then they heard a new sound. It was a rumbling even deeper than the tone of the drums, and somehow they knew that its origin was in no artificial object, but was rather some huge, unthinkable creature in the mist below. For a moment, against a new flaring of the unnatural flames but still obscured by the mist, they could just discern the awesome shape of a moving creature so immense that the mind rejected it. Then, most horrible of all, the rumbling voice, so low-pitched as to hang on the threshold of human hearing, began to form alien but unmistakable words.

"Let us leave this place, Conan," urged Chulainn with a faint tremble in his voice.

"That sounds like a good―wait." Conan held up a hand to delay his two companions, who were about to beat a fast retreat. They paused, and their gazed followed his.

The monstrous form was sinking out of sight, and the flames were gradually lowering, as if the infernal fires were dying. The tormented screaming continued, but it seemed to recede, as if into a great distance.

The shadowy forms no longer moved against the wall of mist. Last of all went the drumming, which became fainter for a while, then ended abruptly in mid-beat. For a while all below was silence. Then a thin breeze began to whip the lingering mist to tatters, revealing a huge open pit to the early morning light. There were no creatures in it, human or inhuman, living or dead. The craggy floor was carved into strange, uncanny shapes unpleasant to look upon, but there were no openings anywhere to indicate how or where the pit's late inhabitants had gone.

"Now let's get out of here," Conan said.

The three slid backward on their bellies until they were well away from the pit, in the bottom of a narrow, rocky gully identical to a thousand others radiating from Ben Morgh. They descended until they found a tiny, cramped cave just big enough for the three of them, and there they huddled as the first rays of the rising sun streamed into the mountain valleys.

They plucked some scrubby shrubs and brushed away tracks that might lead searchers to their hiding place. Then they piled the brush against the entrance.

"Tell us, great magician," Conan said, "what did we just see?"

Momentarily, the Khitan sat with eyes closed, mumbling to himself. At last he came out of his self-induced trance. "I think it is a thing from the most ancient legends. It is from before the Book of Skelos, before Python of Acheron." The ancient shook his head. "Nay, those things are recent compared to what we saw in the pit this night."

"Then you saw more than I did," Conan said dryly, "for I saw nothing but fog and flame, though I'll own I heard some hellish sounds I'd not care to hear again."

"You have not eyes of a magician. I see more than you, I hear more; I
understand more." The Khitan had lost his half-intelligible chatter and spoke with clarity. "This thing is an evil so ancient that it existed before storied Atlantis rose from the sea only to be swallowed again. This Earth is ancient beyond the dreams of philosophers, yet the thing in the pit is more ancient still. Many times have the wizards of mankind driven it away to the gulfs outside the time and space that spawned it, yet always has it found a way to return, called back by the overweening ambition of foolish mages who dreamt of absolute power.''

"Where did it go when the sun rose?" Conan asked.

"Below. The thing has bent the creatures of the underworld to its bidding, and they have hewn it tunnels to reach the surface, as they carved that pit. They can close these tunnels so cunningly that no ordinary man may find them."

"How long until the equinox?" Conan asked.

"Six days," the Khitan answered.

"How may I get into the tunnels?" Chuiainn asked. "I must find Bronwith if she lives."

The Khitan looked from one man to the other, his slit eyes wide with amazement. "You mean you both will go through with your plans, knowing what you know now?" He eyed the two stony faces and broke into his maddening cackle. "If I know you barbarians so interesting, I come here long time ago!"

Eleven

In the House of the Sorcerer

For a day and a night Hathor-Ka had been performing the longest and most delicate ritual she had ever attempted. The Demon Star was in the eye of the constellation called the Serpent for the first time since the fall of Python more than one thousand years before. That last juxtaposition had coincided with the destruction of the terrible empire of Acheron by the barbaric Hybori. Hathor-Ka intended to use this opportunity to bring about an equally devastating change in the order of the world.

Only the closest of her acolytes assisted her in this rite. The less experienced would have been killed or driven insane by the sorcerous forces unleashed within the temple. Even the faithful Moulay had to stand guard outside the gate.

The walls and floor were covered with hieroglyphs, and the air was thick with incense as Hathor-Ka chanted shrilly in a tongue never intended to be spoken by human voice. Red streams dripped thickly from the altar onto the marble floor and Hathor-Ka's hands, bare arms, and heavy robe were likewise stained red. Behind her the acolytes chanted and played curious instruments that made rhythmic sounds that were not quite music.

Above the altar a wavering cloud formed a shimmering, shifting veil that for brief moments clarified to reveal sickening gulfs of space that the mind could not encompass while retaining sanity. Gradually, a hideous shape came into view. Against the void its size was impossible to calculate, but the inescapable impression was of overpowering immensity. Its colors were not such as the eye felt easy in gazing upon, and its unstable shape bespoke an origin far removed from the narrow band of time and space known to man.

As the thing neared the window to another world which Hathor-Ka had created, the sorceress chanted with renewed intensity. Her face was impassive, but sweat poured from beneath her diadem to stream down her face and soak her robe. The acolytes, now terrified, did not pause in their duties.

The being called forth by Hathor-Ka's spell extruded a limb like a tentacle and reached through the veil. Instantly, the temple was filled with a stench so vile that all the energy the acolytes possessed was required to keep them at their tasks.

At strange places along the tentacle were jointed claws and sucking mouths with circular rows of teeth. Though the limb was studded with jewellike eyes, they seemed blind in earthly light. It groped blindly, stopping as if at an invisible barrier when it encountered the rows of hieroglyphs that surrounded the altar. At last the tentacle touched one of the streams of blood that flowed from the altar and followed it to the stone. More of the limbs came into the room. Horrible, obscene sounds arose as the blood and fragments of the sacrificial victims were consumed.

Hathor-Ka's chant changed tone, and the tentacles withdrew, leaving no trace that there had ever been a sacrifice. Deep, rhythmic sounds came from beyond the veil, as if those in the temple were hearing a distant echo, swelling into an unearthly counterpoint to the chant of the sorceress and the acolytes. Slowly, the shape withdrew into the unthinkable gulfs that had spawned it. The window shrank and dispersed.

Hathor-Ka let her arms fall and she almost collapsed, but the strong arm of SenMut saved her from falling. "You must rest, mistress," he said.

"Even the strongest of mages would be exhausted by the pace you have kept."

"I shall, SenMut," she said, wearied beyond all previous experience.

"Purify the temple and store the tomes and devices securely. Double the guard. There is great danger of detection now."

"It shall be done, mistress."

Hathor-Ka retired to her chambers to bathe and rest.

She awoke from a deep and dreamless sleep to find Moulay standing by her bed, gently shaking her shoulder. "Awake, mistress. Your house has been broken into and despoiled."

"What?" She flung back the silk coverlet and arose. Her bed stood on a dais carved in the likeness of a coiled serpent, and she descended the tiers of its immense body to a small table. "Explain instantly." From the table she took a pitcher that contained a potion of herbs steeped in water. It was specially mixed to help her wake quickly.

"The crypt below your temple, where you keep your sorcerous screeds and instruments, has been entered. One of my men passed by the temple entrance on his rounds and smelled something amiss. It was blood. He ran to fetch me since he is forbidden to enter the temple. I went inside and saw corpses in the crypt. Even I dared not enter that room, so I came straightaway to wake you." His mistress was already striding from the chamber.

Hathor-Ka descended the steps to the crypt behind an acolyte who held high a lantern. Behind her came Moulay, with drawn sword. "Where is SenMut?" she asked.

"He was in the crypt, mistress," said the acolyte, whose hand made the lantern tremble slightly. "He and three others had the second watch this night. He seemed most eager to guard your possessions well."

"How so?" she asked, frowning.

"He bore with him a sword, something he had never done before."

With trepidation the acolyte stepped within the crypt. The lantern luridly illumined the ghastly scene inside. From the top of the steps, they had been able to glimpse only inert arms and legs. Now they saw three corpses, their blood carpeting the floor. One pale hand still pointed at an obscene statue set in a niche in the wall.

Moulay turned two of the bodies over with a foot. "Stabbed in the throat," he reported. "Done quickly. They were taken completely unawares. He must have had the blade in the third one's throat before the first struck the floor." None of the bodies was SenMut. "But how did he get past my guards?"

Hathor-Ka stepped past the dead, pointing hand to the niche. She turned to the acolyte. "Leave the lantern and go. Say nothing to the others before I return." When the acolyte was gone she twisted certain of the perverted excrescences upon the statue in the niche. A section of the wall swung away to reveal a dark tunnel. "This is where he went," she said.

"This crypt was the tomb of a high priest before my family built the temple and villa atop it. The tunnel was made by tomb robbers in ages past. It emerges in the fields not far from the river, beneath a small shrine.

One of my ancestors hid both entrances as a convenient escape route in times of danger.''

"How knew SenMut of this?"

"Never has the secret been outside my family," she said. "It must have been Thoth-Amon. Through his arts he has discovered this passage and suborned one of my acolytes." She was pale and shaking with fury. Moulay had never seen his mistress so overwrought. "How long? For how long has Thoth-Amon had free access to my house?"

"Why did he not come himself?" Moulay asked, "I have set sentries which he and his creatures cannot pass. But none of
them would prevent an acolyte of mine from leaving with stolen goods."

"What was taken?"

"Need you ask? The Skelos fragment, of course. He may have taken other things, but that is the important one. I must get it back."

"If Thoth-Amon has it in his possession, will it do any good to have it back?"

"Yes. The fragment is not like a schoolboy's lesson, to be memorized and used at will. The physical possession of such things adds great force to the sorcerer's spells. That is why the great books of magic are so valuable, while later copies with the same text are far less so." She made further adjustments to the statue, and the passage closed again. "On the morrow I shall have workmen fill the tunnel with stone. Now get some of your best men together, desert men adept at night raiding. We shall pay my colleague Thoth-Amon a visit tomorrow night."

For the rest of the night and through the next morning, Hathor-Ka rested. Then she began making preparations. With draughts and spells she fortified herself, gaining strength, speed, and endurance for the night's work. She would pay dearly for this in the days to come, but the stakes were such in this game that considerations of mere pain and exhaustion were trivial. She assembled arcane devices of crystal and bone, and studied occult spells, the mere reading of which chilled the air. As the sun lowered she entered her courtyard, where Moulay and his men were assembled.

Moulay had chosen a dozen warriors, all of his own tribe and fanatically loyal to Hathor-Ka. Each was muffled to the eyes in the cowl and veil of their tribe, and dressed in close-fitting trousers and tunic covered by a flowing robe. Their garments were dyed gray and tan to blend well with the desert. They bore swords, daggers, and short bows. Each man wore beneath his tunic a jerkin of fine mail sewn down to a silken vest so as to make no sound. Their black eyes gleamed with eagerness, for they were raiders by temperament and found their sentry duties here tedious.

"All is ready, my lady," Moulay said. Grooms led in their horses, bridled with rope and shod with rawhide for the sake of quiet. She signaled and they mounted.

"We climb the eastern escarpment to the high desert," Hathor-Ka announced. "By the time the moon stands high above the river we shall arrive at the sphinx of King Rahotep. We leave the horses there and proceed afoot. When we reach the house of Thoth-Amon you are to remember two things above all: No one is to offer violence to Thoth-Amon, and I want the traitor SenMut alive."

They sped from the gate and climbed the road toward the great escarpment that separated the fertile valley of the Styx from the high desert. Peasants trudged toward their hovels with tools shouldered, and they looked up curiously to see the horsemen pass. Horses were little used in Stygia, where most travel was by foot or by river. Only caravaneers rode camels, and few but the desert raiders rode horses.

The road that slanted up the escarpment has been carved from the solid rock in ages past as a means of moving troops quickly from the river landings to the border forts where they might be needed. Stygia had faced no enemies from that direction in many centuries, but it was still Hathor-Ka's duty, as owner of the adjacent land, to keep the road in good order against future need.

The desert atop the escarpment was all but uninhabited, yet it was dotted here and there with the ruins of ancient forts, temples erected to forgotten gods, the hovels of long-dead hermits and desert mystics, and the enigmatic statues and monuments that stand in every corner of Stygia. Despite the concentration of the vast bulk of the population in the narrow, fertile strip bordering the great river, the priest-kings felt it necessary to make their mark wherever they claimed sway over the land.

Moulay rode in the lead, unerringly finding their path through the desert night, while Hathor-Ka scanned the moonlit sky for sign of flying minions of her sorcerous rival. Should she catch sight of a batwinged form, she had spells ready to render it invisible to the watcher, or to bring it crashing to the desert. The drugs she had brewed and consumed caused her vision to reach farther than mortal eyes should see, and everything she perceived was bathed in shimmering silver light.

The sphinx of King Rahotep reared its immense bulk against the starry sky, and they reined their horses in the shadow between its great paws. No man now could say for what purpose it had been erected, or, rather, carved, for it had been hewn from a single outcropping of sandstone. So ancient was it that little now was known of Rahotep except for his name
and a reputation for abominable practices. Above the lion's body, with its dragon's wings, the face of the wizard-king glared into the desert as it had for uncounted centuries.

"I saw no watchers as we rode," Hathor-Ka said.

"There were none on the desert," Moulay told her. She removed her robe and stowed it in a saddlebag. Beneath it she wore garments similar to those of the men, save hers were made of fine black silk. She wore no mail and bore no weapons, but slung from her shoulder was a bag containing items of great potency.

Before setting out on the last leg of their journey, Moulay sent out two men to screen their flanks and another to travel a hundred paces ahead.

Then they set off, not at a walk but at a loping run. As they ran, the men chewed on the petals and leaves of the blue lotus for strength and stamina.

Mile after mile they covered, until they came to the crest of a ridge that overlooked a small oasis fringed with palms. Near the dark pond stood a featureless house surrounded by a high wall.

"Guards?" Hathor-Ka whispered.

"I see three atop the wall," Moulay said.

One of the desert men came to them and stretched forth an arm, pointing to a movement just north of the house. "Roving patrol," he reported. "They come this way."

"We can deal with them," Moulay told Hathor-Ka. "And we can gain the top of the wall undetected. Know you the way into the house?"

"I have had a spy there for many years," she said, "but now I do not know whether she has been sending me true information."

"Give us our orders, mistress, and we shall do your bidding," Moulay said.

"First, remove that patrol. Then, get me atop that wall. A glance should tell me whether my intelligence is correct. I shall have further orders for you at that time."

Creeping along the ground, keeping to the shadows painted on the
desert by moonlight, rock, and bush, Moulay and several of his men reached unseen a spot beside the track that Thoth-Amon's guards were treading. There was a faint clicking of harness as the guards drew nearer, and Moulay's men readied themselves, some drawing daggers, others holding bowstrings between their hands.

The approaching footsteps slowed and then stopped. The lead guardsman, wearing a helm never meant to encase a human head, turned this way and that, as if sensing something. It emitted a loud hiss but no more as a bowstring whipped around its neck and was drawn taut. At the same instant the other guards were suffering the same fate as a desert man garrotted each from behind while another man in front gutted it with a curved dagger. Sounds of struggle were brief and faint.

Hathor-Ka came close to examine the corpses as her men cleaned their weapons. "Lizardmen from the isles east of ancient Lemuria," she said.

"Thoth-Amon cast his net of conjury wide to find these."

With the same uncanny silence and swiftness, the raiding party approached the wall guarding the house. The guards atop the wall were oblivious of the recent slaughter and spoke to one another in the unmistakable voices of men. At the base of the wall one of the desert dwellers knelt on all fours and another stood atop him, back to the wall and cupped hands held before. A third sprang lightly up and his foot was caught by the second man, who boosted him to the top of the wall. In this fashion six men gained the walk inside the wall unseen and unheard.

Within the space of a few heartbeats one of the men was waving to those below and the rest ascended the wall. The sentries lay dead at their posts.

Hathor-Ka surveyed the courtyard with slitted eyes. There were no more guards in evidence, but that did not mean that the house was without protection. With her enhanced vision she could see a circle of strange runes investing the house in a narrow band on the ground.

"All of you follow me closely," she ordered.

They descended to the ground and followed Hathor-Ka until they stood in a small group next to the magical barrier.

"We must not interrupt the magical circle," Hathor-Ka said.

Moulay nodded, although he could see nothing on the ground to which
his mistress pointed.

She arranged the men in a tight huddle and took a short wand from her pouch. Starting at a point to one side of the band of men, she began to draw a loop of similar runes encircling them, rejoining the great circle on the other side. As she drew she saw the runes glow with a weird greenish light, though the others saw nothing. When the second circle was complete she erased the runes before them and led her men across the barrier. Behind them, the circle, now with a peculiar loop, continued to glow in a fashion only Hathor-Ka could see.

The great door stood open. Thoth-Amon apparently believed his human, unhuman, and sorcerous defenses to be more than adequate. The band entered the house, which was silent except for the sound of a small fountain that tinkled in the vestibule. No candle or lamp relieved the darkness, and Hathor-Ka muttered a spell. She could see, but her men needed light if they were to be of any use. A point of light appeared by her head and grew into a softly glowing sphere that drifted to the ceiling, revealing bizarre frescos of strange worlds and beings.

A single door opened from the vestibule, revealing only a rectangle of blackness. Hathor-Ka walked past the fountain and entered the room. The ball of sorcerous light followed, as did the men. She signaled for the others to halt. At the far end of the chamber, seated on a throne atop a low dais, was Thoth-Amon. The great mage wore an enveloping black robe, and all that was visible of him was his ascetic, shaven head and his hands.

"Is this what you seek, Hathor-Ka?" he asked, holding up a large ragged-edged piece of parchment.

"You know that well. Give it back to me, and all shall be as though naught has passed between us."

"Let us not bandy foolish words, Hathor-Ka. Would I have subverted your acolyte and revealed my knowledge of your hidden tunnel if I had intended to return what I took from you?"

"No. And you would not now be speaking if you had not some offer to make. Name your price."

"It is true," the wizard said, "that you entered so easily because I willed it so. What I have for you is not a price, but an offer of alliance."

"Alliance?" she said suspiciously. "Why should I wish to ally myself with you?"

"Because you have no chance of making yourself supreme mage otherwise." He held up the parchment once more. "This is useless to you without the full text of the Great Summoning of Powers."

"I command that spell!" Hathor-Ka insisted.

"You do not. Only two mages in all the world have the full knowledge of the greatest of all spells. I am one. The other is the Vendhyan, Jaganath.

Nine others have the incomplete version which you learned from Khepteh-Sebek, whom you seduced and then murdered."

Hathor-Ka bristled and glared, but she did not try to deny the accusation.

"Your efforts were wasted," Thoth-Amon continued. "Six lines of verse are missing from this version, along with five important gestures. To attempt this spell at the great conjunction would result only in a death unsurpassingly hideous. By Father Set I swear this."

"What is your proposal?"

"I shall instruct you in the proper ritual of the Great Summoning.

When you travel by the Double-Goer spell to Ben Morgh upon the equinox, you shall take with you my own spirit-double. When the ceremony is complete we shall be equally powerful and shall rule jointly."

''Trust him not, mistress," hissed Moulay. "If he has this spell, as well as the fragment, why does he not take all and become sole ruler?"

"Because he has no way of traveling to Ben Morgh by the equinox," she answered. "Had he found the Skelos fragment first, he would not be bargaining with me now."

"Do you accept?" Thoth-Amon demanded.

She considered the possibilities. Without the true Summoning she faced a horrible death. What if Thoth-Amon were to teach her a false spell? He had nothing to gain from that, as it would mean only that Jaganath would become supreme mage instead of her. Besides, there
would be plenty of time to betray Thoth-Amon later. "I accept. But I want the traitor SenMut."

"Agreed. I have no use for him. He would betray me as easily as he did you." Thoth-Amon gestured, and two of his human servants entered with SenMut bound between them.

Hathor-Ka stared at the traitor with reptilian eyes, and he shrank beneath her gaze. "There is yet one ceremony to perform," she said. "It requires a sacrifice. You will do nicely, SenMut." His eyes widened as he realized what she meant, and the servants dragged him away screaming.

Twelve

In the Caverns of the Demon

"There must be an opening somewhere," Chulainn said. The sun had been up for an hour or more, and they were combing the bizarre pit in search of an entryway to the subterranean lair of the evil beings they had seen.

Conan rapped at the stone futilely, using the pommel of his dirk.

Everything sounded and felt solid. Cha was examining the strange and grotesque formations scattered about the pit. Some of them were carved from the natural rock, others seemed to have been molded from melted stone. Still others were of no stone from this area and seemed in some odd way to have grown there.

"Khitan!" Conan called out. "Come help us find a way in. You can see the sights later."

"You too impatient," Cha said. "Much of interest here. Maybe never get opportunity to study such things again." He kicked one of the organic-looking stone objects lightly. "This thing not from this world. It is from the empty spaces beyond our planets. Never see its like before."

Conan, who was not sure what a planet was, refused to be impressed.

"No time for that. We must go in there and find our people and be out before the sun sets and they are on the mountain again."

The Khitan made a circuit of the walls and studied the floor of the pit.

"No way in here," he reported at last. "I think I know how they doing it, but we cannot use their way. We go higher up, into Crom's cave, maybe find a way there."

Chulainn shook his head. "We go in there only for the most important ceremonies. Few but chiefs ever enter that cave. We do not want to earn the disfavor of Crom."

Conan noted paths worn in the loose stone and soil, as if there had been a good deal of traffic between the cave and the pit.

"With the houseguests he been getting lately," Cha assured them, "two unwashed barbarians, one Khitan wizard, he probably never notice." He led the way up the mountainside toward the gaping mouth of Crom's cave.

Inside, the cave was foul-smelling, its floor littered with wreckage and refuse, like a site where an ill-disciplined army has camped. The Cimmerians bristled at this further desecration of their god's sanctuary, but they said nothing. Conan nudged a pile of burned wood aside with his foot and uncovered several well-gnawed human bones.

They passed farther inside, where the weak sunlight scarcely reached.

Ahead was an immense rock formation and the cavern expanded, its ceiling rising to disappear into the gloom overhead. Then they could see that the rock formation was actually the carved likeness of a pair of colossal feet. As their eyes adjusted to the dimness they saw that the sculpture towered out of sight overhead. It was in the form of a giant seated upon a throne, but they could see no higher than its chest. The head was lost in the obscurity.

"This is Crom," Conan said. "Nowhere will you see another likeness of him. Who carved his image I know not, for my people do not have that art."

"Once they did," Cha said quietly. "Your people are far more ancient than you can imagine, Conan. They were not always savages living in stony mountains."

Chulainn stared up in reverent awe, overcome by the gloomy majesty of his god. Then he lowered his gaze and saw a great rent in the stone just before the huge feet of the statue. He pointed, calling out: "What is this?

The chiefs never said anything of a cave at Crom's feet."

"There was none," Conan said, striding over to look. "Mitra! They've carved stairs down to their lair!"

Cha examined the stairs slanting down into the darkness. "No, they did not carve them down. These stairs carved up from below. Look at tool marks." The Cimmerians had no knowledge of stonecarving, but they were willing to take Cha's word for it.

"Gather some of this wood and brush," Conan told Chulainn. "We will need torches." They found enough of the refuse to make several crude torches when bound together with withies. "They must have made the prisoners carry this up from below," Conan said, taking a flint from his pouch.

"I light," Cha said.

The others expected him to recite a spell to make fire. Instead, he reached into his rags and drew forth an odd mechanical contrivance of steel and stone, with a small bowl of oil-soaked tinder. Cocking a spring, he snapped it a few times, shedding sparks until the tinder burst into flame.

"Must be careful about using magic now," he explained. "These things maybe feel our presence if I disturb the ether with spells."

Conan stepped onto the stair and a warm breeze from below ruffled the flame of his torch. The breeze carried the taint of ancient evil and they could hear a faint sussuration, like the breathing of some vast animal.

Each Cimmerian kept his free hand on his sword hilt as they descended, with Cha tiptoeing behind the two barbarians. The steps were not only wide but high, as if they were made for beings other than men.

Against all expectation the cavern grew perceptibly warmer as they descended. At the bottom of the steep stair they entered a long, smooth-floored tunnel that still continued to descend, but far more gently.

Cha called for the others to stop for a moment while he took a close look at the walls. Instead of the bare stone of the higher tunnel, these were covered with a thin, hairlike growth of moss. He shook his head. "This place very, very old. Not like stair above. Either these creatures make way to surface from ancient cavern, or else they been digging for a very long time."

They continued the descent. Now they began to encounter smaller side tunnels meeting with the main one. "Keep to the big tunnel," Conan said.

"That way we'll not get lost."

"What if our people are down one of these?" Chulainn pointed to one of the side tunnels.

"We can do only our best," Conan said. "We'll do nobody any good by getting lost."

The cavern began to widen, and the floor became less smooth and more like that of a natural cave. The warmth of unknown origin continued to grow. In the lower spots water had collected. The fine growth of moss on the walls became rank, and larger forms of sunless growth began to appear: huge toadstools, great ledges of thick, leprous fungus, hanging growths curled like a ram's horns, many other things far less describable.

In the distance, out of the light from their torches, they could see that some of the growths glowed with a sickly luminescence.

"What kind of foul place is this?" asked Chulainn. The others had no answer for him. Now they could hear distinct sounds ahead of them. There was light coming from ahead too. They extinguished the burning torches and left the others beneath an especially hideous mushroom, where they could be sure of finding them again.

Ahead was a wide-arching entrance opening onto what appeared to be a very large chamber. Stealthily, they approached it. Lurid glares flickered across the ceiling of the tunnel, as if great fires were burning somewhere below the level of the entrance.

"Will there be sentries out?" Chulainn whispered.

"What they be guarding against?" Cha said. Nevertheless, the Cimmerians drew their dirks. They walked swiftly, in a half-crouch, wary as hunted animals. Despite the considerable amount of metal exposed about their persons, they made not the slightest clink or rattle. This skulking about beneath the surface of the ground repelled them, but they were prepared to endure anything, even death in the dark instead of in the pure mountain air beneath the sun. All that mattered was the rescue of their kin.

There was a great deal of noise coming from the chamber beyond,
rumblings and croakings and screams of pain. Their tunnel ended in a ledge above a great sunken cavern, one larger perhaps than the throne room of Crom. The men lowered themselves to their bellies and crawled forward, silent as snakes. At the edge they peered over carefully onto a scene from a wizard's nightmare.

This time there was no obscuring smoke or fog to cover the hideous activities of the creatures below. The beings were of many types, all of them engaged in frantic if incomprehensible activity: herding human prisoners at the point of cruel-looking polearms, performing strange rites before ugly shrines, committing acts of seemingly pointless torture or violence, not only on their prisoners but upon each other.

Many of the things were of the reptilian sort that Conan and Chulainn had encountered in the Field of the Dead, but there were other types as well. There were vaguely humanoid things with jointed bodies like insects, and crawling giant slugs trailing slime. Huge, hairy spiders clung to the walls. Crouching ape-things pounded mindlessly on peculiar drums and creatures with batwings flitted silently through the cavern, apparently blind. Those were the creatures to which they could assign some degree of recognition. Others were so bizarre, with shapes so unstable and alien, that the sane and stable mind automatically rejected them. They were plainly of no world acceptable to humans.

The human prisoners, most of them children or young women, were herded and abused in a condition of abject degradation. Many behaved with mute apathy, some were clearly mad from horror, a few were belligerent and rebellious. The rebellious ones showed the marks of scourge and worse. The bulk of the prisoners seemed to be Cimmerian, although other peoples were represented: Aesir and Vanir and Hyperborean among them, along with races unknown to Conan, who had traveled more than most.

In an obscure corner of the immense chamber, walled off in a pen of piled stones, sat a steely-eyed group of captive youngsters, most of them Cimmerians. At sight of them Chulainn started to rise, but Conan's hand on his shoulder kept the young warrior in place.

"Bronwith?" whispered Conan.

"It is she. In the corner, with the blue mantle."

Conan saw her immediately―a handsome, strong-looking girl of marriageable age, with black hair and large brown eyes. The blue mantle thrown over one shoulder was the only article of clothing she retained.

The others were in no better state. What clothing they had was so whip-shredded as to be no more than bloody rags. The girl's face was fearless, but her eyes darted about continually, not in panic but in ceaseless search for an escape. For an instant her gaze rested on the ledge where the eyes of three men peered over the rock rim, then she resumed her frantic search.

Conan touched the other two and they crawled back into the cave among the mushrooms. "You made a good choice, lad," Conan said. "That girl is pure Cimmerian. She saw us and gave no sign. The others with her are not as panicked as the rest of the prisoners. I'll wager she's been keeping them in hand."

"Aye," Chulainn said, pride fighting with fear in his voice. "And we must free her. The others in the pen are younger than Bronwith, and it will not be easy to get them all out of here."

"You speak the truth," Conan agreed. "And she'll not leave them behind.

From the look of them they're mostly Murrogh, probably her kin, taken in the same raid she was."

"How you know the clan of naked children?" muttered Cha. The Khitan was strangely subdued.

"No other clan has so many brown-eyed bairns among them," Conan said.

Cha shrugged. "All look alike to me."

"How can we get them free?" Chulainn persisted. "There is no night here. Those things down there may never sleep, and there are far too many of them."

Conan turned to Cha. "Earn your keep, wizard. If you are such a great enchanter, use your skill and make us a way to rescue our folk. We will take care of the sword work ourselves."

For the first time the Khitan seemed agitated, even angry.

"You want me give myself away so you can free a few of your kin?" He swept out a skinny arm and pointed toward the hellish chamber. "You see that place? You think that is evil? That is one place, under this mountain.

I fail here, then whole world be like that!"

"One problem at a time, wizard," Conan said imperturbably. "First, we get our people out of here and to a place of safety. Then, we see about your task. And I must finish my mission. I'll not be forsworn."

"Barbarians!" Cha grumbled. "Get hold of one idea, no room for anything more."

Chulainn looked puzzled. "We value our kin and our word. What else is there?"

Cha hissed in disgust. "So be it. I give you a chance, but you must be quick."

"All we need is a chance," Conan said. "And we are always quick."

"I no use sorcerer's weapons. Must save those for later. I make illusion.

Distract demons down there. You have only moments to get your people free, up to this cave. Then you must run faster than the demons. I not able to help you then."

"Do it," Conan said. "Just tell us when you are ready."

Bronwith sat on the hard stone with her arms around her knees, waiting. She did not dare inform the others of what she had seen, for fear that some of the younger might give way to hope and accidentally reveal to their captors that something had changed. She drew the scant cloak closer about her shoulders, although the cavern was warm.

She had seen the eyes of three men looking over the stone lip. Two heads bore tousled black hair, the third was mostly shiny scalp. Was one of them Chulainn? If so, who was the other Cimmerian? And who might the third man be? Of course, it might be her own kinsmen. That seemed to be more likely. Chulainn might come for her alone, braving any terror to rescue her and honor his given word, but what clansman of his would risk his neck for the sake of a Murrogh woman?

Time enough to answer these questions later. Now she would hold
herself in readiness to take whatever opportunity came to win freedom for herself and her young kinsmen. She was the eldest, and she felt responsible for them.

Bronwith was a tall young woman, sturdy and little wasted from her long captivity, despite the scant fare they had been given. The others were surprisingly healthy as well. Cimmerian children were accustomed to deprivation. They were not used to captivity, however, and did not make model prisoners. All of them were heavily striped with the marks of the barbed whips carried by the reptilian guards. Bronwith bore more stripes than many of the others. She had tried as well as she could to protect her younger kin, and she had paid for it.

As she waited she sang one of the sad songs of her race. Above the blue mantle her face was broad-boned, handsome, and intelligent. Best of all, her face was sane. Sanity had not been easy to hold on to in the last weeks.

Or had it been months? It was difficult to keep track of days here in the caverns. They were taken to the surface sometimes to work in the pit for some incomprehensible purpose, but there was no way of knowing whether the nights when they worked were successive or widely separated.

Her strong example had helped the others to stay sane as well, and keep them from despair.

That had not been easy either. They had been taken from their steadings by demons from hell. Some had seen older kinsmen slain and eaten by the monsters. Knowing the dietary preferences of their captors, they had refused to eat the few scraps of meat given to them in captivity.

Worst of all was not knowing. Why had they been brought here? What was in store for them? Until now Bronwith had thought that slavery was the worst fate that could befall her. Mere death was common and nothing to fear greatly. Like all Cimmerians old enough to make decisions, she had long since resolved to die before allowing herself to be carried off to some foreign land to be enslaved by an alien people. Awful as this was, at least captivity near home held the prospect of escape. She wondered when they would come.

Bronwith was almost dozing when she was jerked awake by a sudden lessening of the noise in the cavern. The stilling of the pandemonium was as shocking as the noise itself had once been. Those of the creatures that had necks were craning them to stare upward, where something untoward was happening.

Above them some new creature was materializing. As it took on form, it appeared to be roughly human, although gigantic. Its face was majestic and serene, and its body and legs were finely proportioned. It seemed to have dozens of arms, all of them in motion as it trod the measures of some intricate dance to unheard music. The whole apparition was bright blue.

A jabber of excitement broke out as the demons expressed their disconcertion in a cacophony of croaks, hisses, and screeches. Bronwith did not connect this with the men she had seen, but she was ready to make use of it to help effect their escape. "Be ready," she said to the others in a low voice, "this may be our chance." Quietly, the others shifted, stretching cramped limbs surreptitiously lest they hinder a quick dash for freedom.

Bronwith heard a low, warbling whistle and turned to see two men crouched to one side of the stone pen. One was Chulainn, and her heart leaped like a mountain stag in spite of her stony discipline. The other she did not know, save that he was a kinsman of Chulainn's from the look of his craggy Canach features. Chulainn beckoned and she signaled the others. Silently, all rose and moved in a limber crouch to the two men, who helped them over the wall. The sentries near the pen continued to stare stupidly at the dancing figure overhead. Luckily, it seemed that none of their adversaries were overburdened with brains.

Skirting the side of the immense chamber, the two men led the escapees to a narrow ledge that made a tortuous way up the wall to the cave mouth where Bronwith had first seen them. Even the youngest of the children were as surefooted as mountain goats and trod the treacherous ledge with ease. When the last was on the ledge, the two men followed.

Miraculously, it seemed as if they had not yet been noticed. Overhead, the hypnotic dance continued.

They gained the cave entrance without being seen. "Chulainn,"

Bronwith said, but the older man interrupted.

"No time," he growled. "Run! You'll find a lighted torch up ahead, and a stack of unlit ones. Take them and stay to this cave. You'll find yourself in Crom's cave. Get out and head downhill, through the Field of the Dead. If you run fast enough, you'll find friends before these demons catch you."

"This is my cousin, Conan," Chulainn said.

"Conan," Bronwith said. She had heard the name before.

A tousle-headed boy of perhaps twelve spoke up. "Why should Murrogh trust a dog of the Canach?"

Conan grinned, spun the boy around, and kicked his backside in the direction of escape. "The Bloody Spear has been sent about, boy. We can fight at some more peaceful time."

"Forgive him," Bronwith said, "he is my brother and headstrong like all the men of my clan. What will you two be doing?"

"We'll stay a little behind to cover your retreat," Conan told her. "That dancing Vendhyan idol is just a conjurer's trick, and the demons will catch on soon, so go."

Bronwith gave Chulainn a quick, fierce kiss and then ran. The others went with her, except for the boy who had wanted to defy Conan. "Should a Murrogh flee and let the Canach protect him? I'll stay with the warriors." The boy thrust out his thin chest and picked up a jagged rock.

Conan spoke solemnly, all mockery gone. "We are the rear guard, Murrogh warrior. Who knows what lies ahead of them in these tunnels?

Do not leave them without an advance guard."

The boy thought a moment. "Aye, you have the right of it. Good fortune, men of Canach." Clutching his rock, the boy ran toward the flickering light of the torch.

Conan grinned again. "You're marrying into good stock, kinsman.

Those two would do credit to any clan."

Chulainn smiled, a man at peace. "I've come for her, as I swore. Now I can die and face Crom without shame." There was a change in the noise from the cavern behind them. "That's liable to happen soon, now. The foreigner's trick has been found out."

"Come," Conan said.

They trotted toward the escaping prisoners, careful in the dimness. It was not long before they heard the sounds of pursuit. There was a single reassurance to be had from this: their pursuers had not seen the escape
and had no way of knowing which of the multitude of caves they had taken from the great chamber. They must split up and search all of them. Conan and Chulainn would not have to face the whole force of the demons.

They were not able to make the best time in the dimness and the unfamiliar environs of the caverns, and the sounds of pursuit grew closer behind them. Without breaking stride the Cimmerians drew their swords.

When the first challenge came, it was not from behind but from in front.

From one of the small side tunnels a pair of insectoid creatures sprang out to confront them. The beings were at least seven feet tall, angular, and shiny. In their multiple pairs of limbs each bore odd-looking weapons, with which they attacked.

Conan ducked a saw-toothed sword aimed to split his skull and hacked at the attacking creature's thorax, chipping away a chunk of horny chitin.

The thing hissed and made a grab for him with its free claw. The pincer closed agonizingly around Conan's left arm. Its strength was terrible, and he knew he must slay it quickly. Desperately, he wedged the tip of his blade against the spot where he had chipped away the natural armor and thrust with all his might. Abruptly, the thorax gave way and the blue brand crunched through. With a hideous screech the insect man released him and sought to pull away. With both hands on his hilt Conan wrenched the sword free, releasing a yellow acid-smelling fluid. The creature fell to the floor and its shell rattled on the stone as it writhed in its death convulsions.

Swinging his fine blade in a great circle to clear it of the foul fluid, Conan turned to see that Chulainn had his enemy backed against a wall of the cave, vainly seeking to defend itself with a bizarre polearm. Chulainn bore in like an avenging fury, first shearing away an arm at its elbow joint, then hewing through a knee, and finally hacking off the misshapen head as the creature toppled. Conan watched with interest as the head sailed for many yards toward the great cavern. It made a faint thunk when it landed, far out of sight.

"Those were no easier than the lizards," Chulainn commented.

"They know these caves as well," Conan said. "Pray we meet no more of them."

They reached the long stair and began their climb. They could hear pursuit close behind, and with it the loud hissing of the tough
lizard-things. They put on a little more speed. The high steps were awkward but they were mountain bred and were only slightly winded as they reached the top.

Crom's cave was filled with sunlight as they entered it, and the sound of ascending demons ceased behind them, with much frustrated hissing. The Cimmerians paused to catch their breath.

"Will the sunlight stay them?" Chulainn asked.

"For a while," Conan said. "But they were in daylight sometimes when they raided the steadings. We'd best be away from here before they gather another of their clouds and come after us."

They walked toward the entrance and Chulainn pointed to the still-burning remnants of the torches dropped by the prisoners as they fled. "Bronwith and the others made it safely this far. They must be halfway down the mountain by now."

They stepped through the entrance. "Let's catch up with them. I'll not feel―" Then he saw what was waiting for them. "Crom's bones!" he swore as he jerked out his sword once more.

"Two more for our net," Starkad said. "But I'll wager we'll not take these two alive."

Thirteen

Wolves of Vanaheim

Conan took in the scene even as he drew his sword. The mouth of the cave was faced by a great half-circle of armed Vanir. There looked to be nearly a hundred of them. To one side stood a man in rich armor, probably a chief. Near him were two odd-looking foreigners. One Van lay dead, with his head crushed by a jagged, bloody rock. Stretched by him was Bronwith's brother, blood matting his tousled black locks. Bronwith and the others were herded between the Vanir and the cave. All this Conan's mind registered before his sword cleared his sheath.

"Vanir on Ben Morgh!" Chulainn shouted, his look growing crazed. To Cimmerians, the presence of Vanir on their sacred mountain was as
intolerable as that of demons.

"Do as I do," Conan muttered.

He had been in this type of situation before. The Vanir were stretched into a wide semi-circle before the cave. At no point was the line of men more than two deep. It would be useless to take on all the Vanir, but it was just possible to carve a hole in their line and escape. The line was thinnest near the chieftain, but Conan selected a spot near the recaptured prisoners.

"Kill these two dogs," Starkad ordered.

The men began to close in, grinning. They had not yet advanced more than one step when, howling a wild Cimmerian war cry, Conan charged. A Van stepped from the line, ax raised high and shield held before his body.

Conan came in low and chopped at the lower edge of the shield. The blue blade was not even slowed, but bit into the man's side, showering those standing nearby with bloody iron scales.

Conan put a foot against the man's chest and shoved the body away, tearing his sword free with a sucking sound. Spinning on one foot, he turned that movement into a blow at a Van closing in from his right.

Striking backhanded and off balance, the blow was still powerful enough to split the Van's horned helm from temple to nasal, hewing through the haft of his ax in the process.

Two Vanir tried to close in on Chulainn, but he dived forward at them, going into a tumble that bewildered the attackers. As he rolled between them, Chulainn cut beneath the shield of the righthand Van, chopping his left thigh to the bone. The Van fell howling as Chulainn sprang to his feet behind them and struck at the lefthand man's neck below the helm. The head toppled to the stone and Chulainn was turning to engage more of his enemies before the body fell.

They had opened a gap in the Vanir line several yards wide. Conan turned to the prisoners. "Run!" he barked.

Bronwith stooped and hauled her brother to her shoulders as if the boy weighed no more than a sack of meal, and leading the others, she made for the gap. A Van made to grab at her, but Chulainn turned from the man he was fighting and sheared the Van's arm away before he could touch

Bronwith. The moment's distraction cost Chulainn a shallow cut across the chest from the tip of the other man's sword, but he returned the blow with one of his own which bit through nasal and skull.

As the prisoners were escaping, Conan pressed against the Vanir line, driving it back a little farther. The Vanir were brave but a bit disconcerted by this whirlwind of ferocity in their midst. He splintered a shield, chopped a decorative wing from a helmet, then whirled and ran.

"Flee!" he shouted at Chulainn.

The younger man broke off from his fight as abruptly as Conan and followed. It took the Vanir a moment to realize what was happening, then they began to pursue. It was hopeless. The Cimmerians were unencumbered except for their weapons, and were fleet and surefooted as mountain goats. The armored Vanir, unaccustomed to mountain terrain and thin air, could only lumber ineffectually after.

Starkad snorted with disgust as he saw his men panting to a halt a short way down the slope and turn back. The blackhairs were almost out of sight already. "This is the last time I set foot in Cimmeria with a pack of untried young fools. From now on I risk action against the blackhairs only with seasoned warriors."

Jaganath smiled slightly at the expression "the last time." Starkad did not see this. "If these two are typical of the Cimmerians," the Vendhyan said, "I do not wonder that you prefer to surround isolated farmsteads at night with overwhelming superiority of numbers."

"We were not expecting them," Starkad growled, "and my men were fools. It is easy enough for a man to get around behind a busy foe while two others engage him from in front. Then he can be hewn down with no risk to anyone. These men were idiots to charge in for single combat as if some skald were standing by to make a poem." He walked over to the group of dead and dying men. "What a slaughter to be wrought by a pair of blackhairs without helm nor byrnie between them."

Starkad stooped by the corpse of the first man Conan had slain. The split shield was still on the outflung arm. A huge rent in the scale shirt revealed a body split to the spine and the entrails steamed slightly in the chill air.

The Van chieftain straightened. "That taller blackhair, the older one, he must be some great champion of theirs. I would not have believed that any man living could strike such a blow. The younger one fought shrewdly, striking unarmored limbs when he could. The older man, though"―Starkad shook his head in disbelief―"he struck as if shield and armor were no more than smoke." He turned and glared at Jaganath. "Is this more wizardry? I have never seen a sword like the one he bore. Was it an enchanted blade?"

Jaganath shook his head. "I know little of swords, but I felt no aura from the one he used. Do not try to excuse your men's inadequacy by giving your enemy a supernatural helper. More than one ruler has made that mistake."

Starkad was stung by the rebuke, but felt too humiliated to answer.

"Let us go inside," Jaganath said. He and Gopal walked through the towering archway, and Starkad followed.

They stopped at the feet of the colossus and Starkad gazed upward, a little awed by the immense statue. "So this is old Crom of the Mountain,"

he said. "I shall have my men build a great fire so we can see his face."

For the first time Jaganath spoke with a tinge of uneasiness in his voice. "I do not think you would want to look upon his face." He was looking up into the obscurity as if he could see that face perfectly well.

Starkad looked down at the ragged pit in the floor, with its enigmatic steps leading downward. There were faint, shuffling sounds coming from down there. "Now, wizard, I mink it is time you gave me some information. Why were those Cimmerians here? Except for the warriors they were all children and a few young women. They were fleeing from this cave and had the look of prisoners long-held. There is something down in that cave that I don't like the sound of. What errand have you in this place?"

Jaganath answered with his customary haughtiness. "You have no need to know of my business here. Have no fear of what is below. My powers will protect you. As for the Cimmerians, these are matters of interest only to the most powerful of sorcerers, and you would not understand them.

Rest assured that all is according to my plans." With a flick of his hand he dismissed these things as trivial. "Tomorrow we shall rest, and I shall
make my preparations. The morrow after that is the equinox, when I shall perform my rites. By the end of the first hour after sunrise my business here shall be concluded."

Starkad had a strong suspicion that this wizard was not half as knowledgeable as he pretended, that he was as mystified as any about the presence of the Cimmerians. "Until the morning of the morrow after next, then," Starkad agreed. "An hour after sunrise we leave for home. We dare stay no longer. When those blackhairs we just saw reach their villages, every armed Cimmerian within three days march will be heading for this mountain."

Jaganath nodded, smiling thinly. "That will be satisfactory. I shall have no further need of you, then." Starkad went out to rejoin his men.

Gopal spoke to his uncle as soon as the Van was out of earshot. "Is this truly as you had expected, uncle?"

Jaganath frowned. "There have been other mages at work here, nephew. Powerful ones, of the first rank. Some foolish one has prepared a way for the demons beneath the earth and those of other dimensions to enter here. Those creatures should be left alone, until one has the full power. But who is doing this? Thoth-Amon? Hathor-Ka? Ming Tzu? I can think of none so powerful but so foolish." He looked about. "But I am the one who is here on the spot, and all their machinations must come to naught if they be not present on the equinox. But yet I smell some strange sorcery here, and I know not whose it is, save that it is not part of these workings." He pointed down into the pit. Then he looked up once again at the towering figure on the carven throne. "And this Crom. He is not what I had expected."

Gopal was deeply disturbed. Never had he heard his uncle speak except with perfect self-confidence. The fact that some rival could shake that confidence caused the very earth to shift beneath Gopal's feet. "But you shall prevail, uncle," Gopal said shakily. "Surely you shall prevail!"

Jaganath shook off his foreboding and smiled once again. "Have no fear, Gopal. Upon the equinox I shall be the most powerful mage who has ever lived."

When they reached the bottom of the valley called the Field of the Dead, Conan, Chulainn, and the former prisoners paused for rest. Many of the
younger children were not in the best of condition after their long captivity. Chulainn ran to the top of the cairn and looked back the way they had come. "No pursuit," he reported.

"I thought as much," Conan said. He sat on a rock and began cleaning his blade carefully. "What Van was ever worth anything in the mountains?" Satisfied that his blade was clean and free of nicks, Conan sheathed it and stood. Bronwith was bending over the inert form of her brother. She had carried the boy the whole way.

As Conan approached Bronwith rearranged what was left of her cloak somewhat more modestly. "He is alive," she said.

Conan bent and ruffled the boy's dark hair, which was clotted with blood. There was a ragged gash in the lad's scalp, but Conan felt no movement of bone beneath his hand. "He'll be all right. The Murrogh were ever a hardheaded clan."

Chulainn joined them. "What became of your foreign friend?"

Conan shrugged. "I know not. He has some business in the mountain, and I doubt not that he is about it now. He's able to take care of himself."

"What should we do now?" Bronwith asked. "Some of the children are not fit to travel yet."

"The demons may be out when dark comes," Chulainn said. "We met two here not long past."

"We stay," Conan said. "I'll not leave our people here to the demons or the Vanir. Not one more Cimmerian child will they have while I draw breath. We wait. The great host should be here soon."

"And if our enemies should fall upon us before then?" Bronwith asked.

Conan looked about him, surveying the surrounding cairns. "If so, then there are far worse places to die than among the great chiefs of our people."

They scoured the valley for enough fuel to last them the night. Conan took first watch at the upper end of the valley. As the sky darkened he saw Bronwith's brother climbing toward him. The boy's head was still
bloodied, but his eyes were clear and his walk was steady.

"Greeting, warrior," Conan called.

"Greeting," the boy said. He sat by Conan. "My name is Bodhrann. I am sorry I did not get to see you slay the Vanir today. My sister says you fought well, for a Canach man."

"High praise from the Murrogh," Conan acknowledged.

"What were the Vanir doing on Ben Morgh?"

"I would give much to know the answer to that. I saw two foreigners with them, though. I doubt not they're the ones who brought the redbeards here. Wizards are getting thick as a ram's fleece on this mountain. They were easterners of some sort, and up to some sorcery, no doubt."

The boy shrugged. "No matter, they are foreigners, and we shall kill them for profaning our dead. Is it true what my sister says, that there has been a great hosting?"

"Aye. The clans were called to the Standing Stone and they'll be here soon. By tomorrow, I hope. They'll waste no time. Then there will be a fight such as none of us has ever seen."

Chulainn came up to them from the camp. "They are all bedded down, as well as can be managed. Cold, hungry, injured, and tired, but happy."

"Would you not be?" Conan asked.

"I have a matter to discuss with you," Bodhrann said to Chulainn.

"Speak on," Chulainn said.

"You wish to wed my sister?"

"And I shall," Chulainn assured him.

"I'll not permit it! Our clans are at feud. You may have her only by taking her from her menfolk by force!" The boy thrust out his jaw belligerently.

"The Bloody Spears have been sent around," Chulainn said. "Feuds are at rest and there may be no feud-wivings."

"Oh." Bodhrann looked perplexed. "But who ever heard of man and woman of feuding clans being wed under a White Shield?"

"It may never have been done before, but it is what we intend to do as soon as we have enough witnesses assembled."

"It is not proper!" Bodhrann insisted. His outrage at being cheated out of a good fight was plain.

"I am happy that it is turning out this way," Chulainn said. "I might have had to kill you in carrying her off."

The boy snorted. "You might have tried!" He walked away, his thin back rigid with dignity. Conan watched him and smiled, but he did not laugh.

"What is our course if the host does not arrive by tomorrow?" Chulainn asked.

"You've fulfilled your vow. Before dark tomorrow you may take the others down the mountain. I doubt not you'll encounter the host before long. I must stay here to fulfill my mission upon the next morning."

"I'll stay with you," Chulainn said calmly. "No Canach goes to his enemies alone while a kinsman is close by."

Conan gave him no argument, knowing that it would be useless.

The demons kept to themselves that night, and the first rays of the rising sun glinted from the tips of hundreds of spears, advancing up the valley below. The children cheered and waved as the army of wolfish men approached, devoid of flag, banner, or standard. Although offensive weapons were there in plenty, no man wore helm or armor, nor any other protective gear save the light shield borne by some. Such effete things did not suit the headlong style of attack favored by the Cimmerians. Some men had casting javelins, but there were no archers. The art of the bow was unknown in Cimmeria, where no suitable wood grew to make the weapons.

"Was ever there so fine a sight?" Chulainn said. "Have you ever seen so many fighting men all in one place?" The young man's face glowed with enthusiasm.

"I've seen more," Conan grunted. "But none better."

Indeed, the whole aimed might of Cimmeria would not have amounted to a good-steed regiment in some armies Conan had seen. Few clans could muster more than a hundred fighting males of adequate years, and the clans of Cimmeria were not numerous. But Conan would not have rated highly the chances of any civilized army, however great its number, against this host. The legendary ferocity of the Cimmerians more than made up for their lack of numbers.

They wore the paints and tattoos, the braids and topknots of all the clans. They were of all ages, from boys little older than Bodhrann to gray-bearded elders with gaunt limbs still ready to wield sword. Their weapons ranged from the fine swords of the chiefs to the crude clubs of the wild Galla.

Uniting them was a fierce pride and independence, the spirit that had kept the Cimmerians a free people for all of their long history.

The chieftains were in the van, and they came forth to meet Conan and Chulainn. "So," began Canach, "you still live. And I see you have found our people."

"Some of them," Conan said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"There are many more up there."

Canach addressed Bronwith, who stood by Chulainn. "There will be food and blankets for the children. You must take them below to safety as soon as they are fed."

Bodhrann stepped forward. "I stay with the host!"

The chieftains frowned at him for this unseemly interruption, but Conan said: "He killed a Van up there. With a stone."

Wild-bearded old Murrogh looked at Bodhrann with approval. "Go join the warriors of our clan, then."

"Here," Conan said. He took the sheathed dirk from his belt and tossed it to the boy. "There may be no spare weapons for you. This should do until you can find a dead man's sword after the fighting starts."

"He should receive his first man's weapon from the hand of a kinsman,"

objected Murrogh, glaring.

Conan grinned at the old chief. "We're almost kin already. My cousin here is about to wed his sister." The old man clucked over such improprieties.

"Vanir on Ben Morgh," said Canach. "That is something strange."

"It is far from the strangest of what I have to report. But we have work to do. The Vanir have damaged many of our cairns. As soon as you have set up camp we should repair them, before night falls."

"They shall pay," said the war leader of the Galla, who had no hereditary chieftain. "I think our ancestors will find the taste of Vanir blood pleasing."

That afternoon they struggled to restore the toppled stones of their cairns, storing up yet another chapter of hatred for the Vanir. That night, as the peat fires burned low, they heard the strange tales told by Bronwith, Conan, and Chulainn.

In conclusion Conan told them of what he had learned of the demons'

way of fighting and their weaknesses. "Remember, they look terrifying, but they die as dead as men. The scaly ones have tough skins, like Vanir armor, and you must hit hard to pierce them. They have wicked tails and use them in fighting. The things like big insects are easier to kill. Just crack them open. Killing Vanir I need tell you nothing of. There are others we did not fight, but doubtless they are as mortal as the rest. We saw something in the pit, something big as a dragon, but so strange I cannot describe it. I doubt we could do it much damage. Best to leave it to the Khitan sorcerer."

"Saw you any gold down there?" asked Wulfhere, the yellow-bearded leader of the little contingent of Aesir, come at Conan's summons in payment of a debt neither man would discuss with the others.

"I saw none." Conan shrugged. "In truth, I was not looking. I think only
a fool would go down in those caves to look for gold. Let the demons come out and fight us in the open." He looked about and gave his last instructions. "Tomorrow is the equinox, when I must carry out my mission. I think that all these sorcerous doings come to a head then. The demons do not like daylight, so if they want to deal with us, they may attack tonight. You have brought plenty of wood and peat. Keep it close by the fires and be ready to build them up at sound of attack. Let each man get what rest he can now, and sleep with your weapons in your hand."

Fourteen

In the Realm of the Gods

Hathor-Ka felt like an acolyte again. It was not pleasant for one of the world's most powerful mages to occupy again a subordinate position after so many decades. Her youthful appearance was due to her arts, for she was more than a century old. Yet, only now did she realize how ignorant and faltering she had been.

In recent days Thoth-Amon had taken her into his house to put the final polish on her sorcerous education, and she was staggered by the breadth and depth of his knowledge. Until now she had considered herself and several other mages to be very nearly Thoth-Amon's equals in the sorcerer's arts. Now she knew how laughable her presumption had been.

The strange beings from other dimensions that she had established halting contact with after long experimentation were Thoth-Amon's communicants. He was more ancient than she had dreamed, and he controlled forces she had been unaware even existed. In the few days since her abortive raid, Hathor-Ka had learned more of the wizard's arts from him than she had known in all her previous years.

Thoth-Amon had guarded well the secret of his full power. Over his centuries he had changed his name and appearance many times in order never to give a hint of the true extent of his power. Thus he had an unparalleled advantage over any potential rival. Many a foe had fallen to Thoth-Amon's wiles by mistakenly assuming himself to be the great sorcerer's equal.

"Are there others as powerful, as knowledgeable, as you?" Hathor-Ka had asked him.

"None," Thoth-Amon assured her. "Jaganath thinks he is, but his skill is no greater than was yours before you came to me. In far Khitai the Order of the Silver Peacock may rival me in knowledge, but they are a brotherhood, and no single one of them rivals me in puissance."

"I know them only by a few writings," she said. "Is there any possibility that they might band together as one to wrest power from us?"

"None. They are as much philosophers as wizards, and while their scholarship is vast, they foolishly will not indulge in certain of the more powerful forms of magic and demon-summoning. They deem these things evil or too dangerous to mankind. They sit and contemplate and dream, but they have no wish to dominate the world through their arts." He waved a hand in one of his rare dismissive gestures. "All other wizards are as nothing now. We shall be masters of them all when this rite is accomplished."

Hathor-Ka remembered this conversation as she went to Thoth-Amon's meditating room for her final instruction before embarking upon the Great Summoning of the equinox. The frame of the door was covered with hieroglyphs of great power. Without the proper counterspell, to cross the threshold would have meant her doom. She muttered the spell Thoth-Amon had given her and the door swung open silently.

Inside, the great sorcerer sat upon the floor. The room was perfectly plain and unfurnished; its walls, ceiling, and floor were unrelieved black.

Before Thoth-Amon was a plain basin of carved obsidian which contained only pure Styx water.

Not for the first time Hathor-Ka wondered at the simplicity of Thoth-Amon's thaumaturgy in contrast to the elaborate props and rituals of her own practice. So refined and perfect had his technique become that he needed little more than his own mind to carry out his spells. The basin of water was merely a focusing device of his powers.

He did not look up. "Come, Hathor-Ka. Sit across from me and look into the water of Father Styx. This night we go on a journey so far that distance is not even a concept. We go past the limits of our very universe.

You have had some success in attracting a few minor denizens of that universe to the site of your temple by tempting them with sacrifices. You have done this by establishing an interface between that universe and ours above your altar. These things have been made possible by the millennial
juxtaposition of the heavenly signs foretold by Skelos. Now we shall go into that universe ourselves and you shall see some of the real powers of that world, and have some idea of the forces you have unwittingly been playing with. Come, gaze into the waters."

She sat and stared at the nearly invisible water. It was a simple thing; one of the first exercises given to a new acolyte. The meditation upon water was as ancient as Stygian sorcery. But just as a master musician practices every day the simple exercises he first learned as a student, so a sorcerer must return to the basic mind-concentrating rituals. His centuries of practice had taught Thoth-Amon that this was the most profound technique in all the art of sorcery.

As she stared into the bowl, gradually both water and bowl disappeared. Hathor-Ka found herself sitting amid the firmament. All around her was naught but black emptiness aglow with the tiny lights of myriad stars. She had been here before innumerable times, but only by herself. This time Thoth-Amon was with her, although he was no more visible than was she herself.

"We are now at a place far from our world, but nearby as one reckons the vastnesses of space," he said. "The stars you see are familiar. Now we shall go far, toward the very edge of the universe." The stars before her seemed to lengthen, then to shift and glow fiery red. Soon she was aware of them only as streaks of red. This went on for a limitless time, for time here had no meaning. Eventually, the red streaks became thinner and fewer. At last the remaining ones shortened and became once again points of blue-white light. There were very few of them, and all were in a direction she knew was behind them.

"Each point of light you see," Thoth-Amon said, "is not a star, but a cluster containing billions of stars. Gaze now upon infinity."

She looked and saw only blackness of a perfection she had never dreamed.

"Here, at the edge of reality," he went on, "we cross over into another reality."

There was a shifting about them. The blackness remained the same, but she knew that it was different. Thoth-Amon turned them, and now she was looking upon distant lights. They were not the star clusters of the
world she knew, but weird shapes that glowed with unnatural colors. The two began to move toward the lights, and this time there was no color-changing, although Hathor-Ka felt that the distances and speeds were comparable.

Up to and past the glowing things they went. Only her sorcerer's training and experience kept Hathor-Ka's mind from snapping beneath the strain of what she saw. Some of them were living creatures of unthinkable immensity, existing in tortured geometries that an ordinary mind would have rejected at once. On worlds distorted inside out she perceived flocks of creatures doing things that shocked even her hardened senses.

Once, briefly, Thoth-Amon took them down to the surface of what might have been a planet. It was almost normal compared to some others she had seen, save that its shape was a disk of changing thickness and its size was easily a thousand times that of her own world. All on it was perfectly visible despite the absence of any light source. In a city of purple crystal, atop a tower many miles high, Thoth-Amon conferred at some length with a wizard of this universe, a thing made up of crystal shards of many colors and a solid manifestation of musical tones together with a stench that had physical presence. It was performing a ritual intended to destroy its world and all in it, apparently as a combination poem and practical joke.

Onward they went toward the center of this universe. Eventually, the lights and manifestations became fewer and she was aware of a form before them that was so vast that she had not noticed it. It was a concentration of all the blackness in this universe, and yet she could perceive its form in bits and increments.

She was at first reminded of the tentacled, formless horror she had managed to call to her temple through her grisly sacrificial rites. This thing bore some relation to it, but its scale was unthinkably more vast. It was infinitely more evil, more horrible. Slowly, she gained more awareness of the thing's form, its aspect and nature. Then it was as if she had become blind. The horror of this thing was too much even for her, and her mind shut it out.

"You must encompass even a thing like this if you are to become a mage of the first rank, Hathor-Ka." Thoth-Amon's soundless voice was relentless. "This is a god of this universe, and it is one of the least of them.

I confer frequently with the greatest of them. And this is one of the least alien of the universes. There are many far more terrible than this."

When Hathor-Ka emerged from this journey it was as if she awakened from a dream. This dream, though, had none of the soft edges of real dreams, and it remained firm in the memory without fading like a real dream. Had it been a true experience? Was Thoth-Amon as all-powerful as he seemed? Or had this all been a form of mummery, implanted in her mind by the wizard's powerful hypnotic suggestion?

She thought long and hard on this. The experience had been dreamlike in its unreality, in the lack of a true sense of scale, in the ability to see in the absence of light. Yet, that could be explained if the mage was truly able to travel to other universes.

It was important to solve this riddle, because she had no intention of sharing power with Thoth-Amon. But if he were truly so mighty, did she dare betray him? The Skelos fragment said nothing about a joint rule by two mages. If she performed the ritual alone, she would become ultimate ruler, and all other wizards would be subordinate to her. Thus, be he ever so powerful, Thoth-Amon would be her servant. She determined to stake all on this belief. She realized the chance she was taking, but one who would not take great risks had no business seeking high power.

Starkad was worrying, something he seldom did. Encamped before the mouth of the cave, which none of his men would consent to enter, he sat regretting that he had ever undertaken this escort. He loved gold, but these foreigners did not have gold sufficient to balance the risk they were running. He had foreseen a brief incursion into Cimmerian territory, perhaps a few brisk encounters with the blackhairs, with the Vanir holding great numerical superiority, of course. A little blooding was good for the younger men, and gold was always welcome.

Now the whole foray was turning into a disaster. Already they had lost several men, and with nothing to show for it. The fine batch of prisoners they had bagged was gone, and they had not slain a single blackhair to salve their pride. Now, behind them, was a cave full of unholy wizardry and frightful demons the Vanir had only glimpsed. Far below them he could see the fires of the Cimmerian encampment, surely the largest Cimmerian army assembled since the sack of Vanarium. It would be strange indeed if even a handful of his band survived to return to the halls of Vanaheim again. He intended to be one of those, but many a chieftain
had been deposed in the aftermath of undertakings less ill-starred than this one. A leader of the Vanir held position by the might of his own arm, but also by the example of his skill and luck. Men would not follow a man who had proven himself unlucky.

All around him his men were thinking the same thoughts. Some glared at him as they idly gnawed the rims of their shields. Starkad was roused from his gloomy thoughts at the approach of two men he had sent on a scout. One was Alfgar, one of his oldest and most trusted companions. The other was Hilditon, a youth noted for his skill in climbing, learned in his native cliff village, where all men scaled the rocky faces in search of eiderdown. The two squatted by him and spoke in whispers.

It is no good, Starkad," Alfgar said, shaking his grizzled head. "We have been all over this mountaintop, and it is all sheer cliffs to both sides of us.

The only way down is through that valley before us, the way we came."

Starkad turned on Hilditon. "There is no chance?"

"I might be able to make it," the young man said, "in daylight, with good ropes. But not the rest. It takes much skill and experience."

Starkad gestured behind him. "And if we climbed up over the crest?

Might we find a better slope on the other side?"

"It is too rugged and too icy," Hilditon said. "And we would not know what we faced until we reached the other side of the mountain. The risk would be great, we would lose many men on the slopes, and it might all be for naught."

"Starkad," Alfgar said, "the time has come to speak of what we must do before the sun rises. The whole blackhair nation is down there in arms, and upon the morrow they will move against this mountaintop. It were best we were not here when that happens. The fat foreigner has some business tomorrow, upon the equinox. I know little of sorcerous things, but I would wager all my gold, all my land and cattle and wives and slaves that he means us no good. Let's be away from here, and quickly."

"You speak wisely, old friend. If it were any enemy but the blackhairs down there, I would say let us go down and bargain with them. Even the Aesir will behave as reasonable men when there is nothing to be gained by battle. But the hatred of Cimmerians is as black as their hair and their
hearts. They care nothing for gold and little for their lives. Besides, we have desecrated their holy place, and they will be more than a little annoyed. I warned the men about that."

Alfgar shrugged. "We did not know there was a whole blackhair army after us then. Besides, what warrior can resist defiling the ancestors of his enemies?"

"It is done," Starkad said. "Not that the Cimmerians need much encouragement to thirst for Vanir blood."

"Those two blackhairs cut their way through us," Hilditon said. "Might we not do the same? If we can carve a way through them, the bulk of us may escape. The blackhairs did not come all this way just to deal with us.

We slew the messenger with the Bloody Spear almost as soon as we crossed into Cimmeria. They were gathering for this hosting even then. If we run for home, they may not pursue, being intent upon their business here on the mountain."

Starkad nodded. "You speak wisely for a young man. This has been much my own thought as well. If we can get through, we might pick up many slaves on our way back, since the fighting men will not be guarding the steadings and villages. Thus we need not return empty-handed."

"Whatever we do," Alfgar said, "we must do it before first light."

"Very well," Starkad said, relieved to have his mind made up. "Get the men ready, and be sure they're quiet about it. We fight, and we run."

The two men, old and young, went around the camp and spoke in low voices to the little clumps of men. At their report the men ceased their discontented muttering and their lowering scowls changed to grins of anticipation. Whatever the odds, Northlanders would always rather right than wait.

They arose and quietly prepared for a night march and battle. Many tied cloaks or blankets about their bodies to muffle somewhat the rattle of the metal scales and to prevent the clink of weapons and shields against armor.

Starkad thought of having them blacken their metal with soot from the fires, but decided against it. They might be willing to muffle their gear for
the sake of stealth, but no Van going into what might well prove his last fight would want to make less than his finest display.

In all, Starkad was well content. If he had little chance, at least it was better than none. It was always good to be leading men into a battle. His only real grief was that they might all die and the story of this fight never be sung in the halls of Vanaheim. Songs and poems were the immortality of a hero. He whistled idly as he thumbed his ax, making sure that the edge was keen. His thoughts were interrupted by Jaganath, who had appeared soundlessly behind him.

"Are you going somewhere, Starkad?" he asked.

"Yes. We have decided to take a little stroll down the hill and have some exercise with the blackhairs. Then we will go home. You may keep your gold. I have a feeling I would have precious little use for it were I to wait for it."

"It grieves me to part company with you, but if this is your wish, of course I shall not stand in your way. However, I have something for you all which may be of help."

Starkad narrowed his eyes. "What might that be?" This foreigner was accepting his defection with strange equanimity.

"I have made up protective amulets for you all. They contain a sacred power that will protect you from the detection and the weapons of your enemies. Gopal, help me distribute these."

"This is generous of you," Starkad said as the wizard hung around his neck a tiny bag on a silken string. The younger Vendhyan was passing the amulets out among the other men.

"It is the least I can do." Jaganath smiled.

When all was ready the Vanir began their slow, quiet trudge downhill.

When they were gone, Gopal turned to Jaganath. "Uncle, are these Northmen truly as stupid as they seem?"

Jaganath smiled and nodded, setting his many chins aquiver. "Is their simplicity not sublime, nephew? They are so unsubtle that it is possible to
outwit oneself in dealing with them by feinting and dodging an obvious counterploy that never even occurs to them. Now they are properly consecrated and ready for sacrifice. There is no sacrifice more pleasing than a willing one, and no sheep ever went to the altar more willingly than these fools.

"Now, come. These men shall not slow down that mob below, and among them is the Cimmerian hired by Hathor-Ka, if my pursuers and even my cursed gold failed their task. We must not chance it with the stakes so high. I am not yet sure who brought the demons here, nor for what purpose save stirring up the countryside, but I have a plan. There is a spell known to me that shall send the demons against those men camped in the valley. Thus will the Cimmerians be eliminated as a threat while at the same time the caverns will be vacated so that I may perform these important rites in privacy and uninterrupted."

"You always plan with such elegance, uncle," said Gopal with fawning admiration.

Far below them, in the bowels of the mountain, a skinny, ragged figure sat cross-legged in a dark side tunnel. From time to time it murmured some ancient chant. Then, in the dimness, it smiled.

Fifteen

The Battle Among the Cairns

The Cimmerian camp spread across the Field of the Dead to the flanking slopes that defined its limits. The mossy stones of the cairns had been restored to their proper order, and the worst of the defilement cleared away. A true purification was not yet possible. That could be done only with the blood of the defilers.

Conan walked through the camp, smelling the smoke of the peat fires and hearing the low talk of the warriors. In other armies the young and untried men would be chattering nervously of what was to come. Those with a little experience would be boasting of their past feats. True veterans would be holding their own counsel, seeing to their fighting gear and trying to get some rest. In this, as in most things, Cimmerians were different. In the snatches of conversation as he was passing the fires, Conan heard them talking of the everyday things of their lives: of their
wives and children, of cattle and feuds and farming. It was as if they were gathered for a trading fair instead of a battle. Once again Conan knew he was an alien in his own land.

Only in the camp of the Aesir did he find the kind of congenial fellowship that he liked among fighting men. Here the yellowhaired warriors laughed and sang and passed around a huge skin of wine from the South while a few young Cimmerians stood around and gazed upon them as upon some strange animals. Conan strode into the circle of men and intercepted the wineskin as it was being passed. He upended it and poured a long stream of the yellow juice into his mouth.

"Hey, Conan, leave some for the rest of us!" Wulfhere had hair and beard so pale that it was almost white. He was a little older than Conan, but was already a famous chief among the Aesir.

He and his men were a startling contrast to the somber Cimmerians.

Like their cousins the Vanir, the Aesir delighted in gaudy display. Their armor was of polished iron or bronze, and their helmets were crested with horns or wings or fantastic animal figures, often overlaid with silver or gold. Their arms glittered with bracelets and armlets of fancifully wrought gold, and many a swordhilt blazed with jewels. With mirrors of polished silver, many of these warriors were taking advantage of the firelight to comb and braid their beards or shape their long moustaches into dashing curves. Several songs were going at once. Like the Vanir, the Aesir were merry in hall or camp, wild in battle, and sad at home among their families.

Conan took a final swallow and passed the skin on to the next man.

"Why did you not bring ale if this stuff is so precious?"

"Ale takes up too much space," Wulfhere said. "We wore out three slaves carrying this wine as it was. This had better be a good fight, Conan.

We abandoned a promising raiding party against the Hyperboreans to come here."

"You'll enjoy it," Conan promised. "There shall be Vanir to kill, along with the demons."

"That will be good," Wulfhere approved. "And these creatures have raided into Asgard as well, this last year, but we had no idea where they had disappeared to until your messenger came. Whatever befalls, there
will be many songs sung in the halls of Asgard about this fight."

A one-eyed man with gapped teeth handed the wineskin back up to Conan. "Come raiding with us when this is done," he said. "It has been long years since you took the wolfs path with us. I should like to see what tricks you have learned in your wanderings."

"That I may well do, Ulf. I make no promise, though. Tomorrow I may be dead, or you may be dead. Best to make no plans until the shield-cleaving is done."

"Now you speak like a Cimmerian," grumbled Wulfhere.

Conan grinned. "I've been with my relatives too much."

He left the camp of the Aesir and walked up the valley to the upper watchpost. Here no fire burned, lest the guard's night vision be ruined.

Chulainn stood here with another young man, who wore the Galla topknot.

"All quiet, cousin," Chulainn reported.

"It will not be for long," Conan predicted. "We've no more than an hour until first light. I am sure they will strike us before that." They stood for a while in silence, their ears, eyes, and noses trained uphill, where danger lay.

It was the Galla warrior who raised his head first, his nostrils flared.

"They come," he said. Then the other two heard the sounds of men descending, still far up the slope.

"Fools," Chulainn said. "To think they could sneak past Cimmerians in our own mountains."

"Are demons among them?" asked the Galla, lifting his long shield and swinging his terrible club.

Conan shook his head. "The Vanir. Trying to escape is my guess. They'll serve to warm us up for the real fight."

"You two have already killed some of them," the Galla said. "You go rouse the others. I will stay here." His eyes blazed with eagerness to kill his enemies.

"No," Conan said, "we'll all walk back into the firelight. No sense fighting in the dark." Grumbling, the Galla obeyed.

As they stepped into the light of the first fire, Conan said simply, "Vanir coming."

Quietly, without fuss, the men picked up sword and spear and waited.

The quieting of their conversation was the only sign that they were ready for combat.

When the Vanir were fifty paces away they cast off their muffling cloaks, raised their battle cry, and rushed into the Cimmerian camp. Their only chance was to plow through the camp in a solid mass, so they came in a wedge, with Starkad at its point. The Cimmerians rushed to meet them joyfully, all their solemnity gone in the frenzy of mortal combat.

The momentum of the wedge pushed the Vanir well into the camp, but as each succeeding wave of blackhaired avengers broke against it, the wedge slowed and at last stopped. Then it was a desperate battle that broke up into a multitude of single combats. The Vanir sought desperately to hold a shield wall, while the Cimmerians, innocent of all strategic thought, rushed upon them screaming like madmen.

At the first rush of the wedge Conan was pushed back like the rest, able to strike only intermittently. Only his great strength and his superb sense of balance kept him on his feet while others fell and were pulped beneath the weight of the Vanir swine's-head array. Conan found a low rock behind him and he leaped nimbly atop it. The wedge split to pass the rock and he managed to split a skull as they passed. Then men within the wedge were stabbing at him with spears and Conan gathered his legs beneath him.

With a spring that would have awed a Zamoran tumbler, he cleared two ranks of Vanir and landed outside the wedge once again. The Aesir who were fighting there saw and cheered the feat.

Conan ran to the top of the cairn and scanned the battlefield, The Vanir were desperately holding their tight formation, but their forward impetus had been lost. They had not as yet taken many losses, and they would not as long as they held together. The Cimmerians were far more numerous, but they could not make the weight of their numbers felt against the tight knot of men behind their shield wall. Once the Vanir lost their cohesiveness, it would be over swiftly. He looked uphill, but there was no sign of reinforcements yet.

The fires had been built up, and they provided a lurid light for the ferocious goings-on among the cairns. Men cursed and sang and struck, Cimmerian swords rang on Vanir scale, Vanir ax split heads and unarmored bodies. Over all rose the unmistakable stench of blood. Conan could almost hear the satisfied mutter of Cimmerian chiefs as the blood of their enemies trickled down to them.

Conan ran down the side of the cairn and launched himself at the knot of Vanir below. Splitting a shield and the arm behind it, he finished the redbeard with his second blow. A Vanir tried to take the place of the fallen man, only to have his head crushed by a Galla club. Conan shouldered his way into the gap thus made and hewed to both sides, each blow sending a Van howling to the ground. Grimly refusing to let the Vanir advance men to close the gap, Conan worked his way farther in, widening it. Others forced their way in behind him, and the Vanir wedge began to break up.

The clamor of striking weapons and screaming men was deafening, and the ground was growing slippery. As the fighting grew more and more desperate, men became truly insane with fury. Conan saw an As throw away his shield, tear off his mailshirt, and dive headfirst into the midst of the Vanir. He was hewn to pieces within moments, but he died with his teeth buried in the throat of a Van. The Vanir howled and foamed, biting the rims of their shields and stamping, each impact of their feet raising a spray of blood from the soaked ground.

The Vanir broke into small knots, then into pairs standing back to back, finally into single warriors with no thought except to take as many enemies with them as they could.

Conan saw the chief he had seen upon leaving Crom's cave and rushed to fight him. There was no thought in any mind of sparing the remaining Vanir. Centuries of hate and vengeance forbade it, and the Vanir would have considered the offer an insult in any case. Once battle was joined, it was always fought to the bitter last in the North.

The Van chieftain grinned mirthlessly as he saw Conan. His armor was still whole, and his elaborate helm bore only a few shallow nicks. He had been busy, though, for his ax was bloody from head to butt, and his hands and arms were bloodied to the shoulders. "Come play with me, blackhair!"

he called to Conan. He shook his ax. "Come kiss the maid who has spurned so many of your kin. Perhaps she will like you better!" If Starkad was exhausted from the fight, he showed no sign of it.

"More Vanir blood for our fathers!" Conan shouted, rushing to the fight.

Starkad dodged his first blow and sent back another that Conan avoided only by a desperate dive to the ground. The follow-up ax blow rang against the ground an inch from Conan's back as he rolled. Then Conan was on his feet and his blade rang against Starkad's helm. As the chieftain staggered back Conan hewed a leg from under him. Before Starkad could fall, Conan's third blow split him from shoulder to belt.

Standing over the fallen man, Cohan spun his sword overhead in a great circle, shedding blood and scales in a wide arc.

Around him the fighting was over, and men stood panting from the terrible exertion. Canach approached Conan. "That was well done, kinsman," the chief said. "It is good for the young men to see a real warrior at his work."

"The battle was ill done, though," Conan said, glaring at the heaps of dead. "We lost too many just to kill so few Vanir, not even a hundred of them. They must have taken at least as many of us. There are ways to handle such a situation without such losses.

Canach shrugged. "That is not our way of fighting, and the Vanir are doughty fighters, not like your soft southerners. Besides"―the chief managed a faint smile―"I did not notice you holding back and pondering stratagems."

Conan grinned ruefully. "You have the right of it. In the end I am as Cimmerian as the rest. Do not let the men relax. I think there will be more fighting before the sun rises."

"Good," said Canach. "Many had no chance to wet their blades. I would not like to take them home discontent."

The sky to the east was beginning to turn gray when old Milach came to him, accompanied by Chulainn. Neither man was badly wounded, but their notched weapons proclaimed they had been in the thick of the fighting.

"I am sorry I thought you had become soft, Conan," said Milach. "I have been watching you in the fighting. You are not too far off your best speed and power even now."

"It must be the oat porridge," Conan said. "It makes a man lose the fear of death."

A glimmer up the slope caught Conan's eye. The sun was still below the horizon, but its earliest rays were shining at the very crest of Ben Morgh.

Inexorably, the light would descend the slopes of the mountain, eventually reaching Crom's cave. He had to be in the cave when that happened.

Conan went to a cairn and found the bundle of belongings he had cached there. Within a cloak was the flask given to him by Hathor-Ka. In one of the little encampments he found a fire pot, a small jar pierced with holes for bearing glowing coals in a bed of ashes. He did not want to waste time striking flint against steel when he reached the cave.

As Conan climbed the slope from the Field of the Dead, he found that others were falling in behind him. The sky was paling, and they no longer needed the light of the fires to fight by. All wanted to drive the demons from Crom's mountain home, and they would enter the caverns to do so should it prove necessary. Conan had expected the demons to strike ere now. Soon it would be light. Then he remembered the unnatural cloud they sometimes took with them.

There was a rising mutter when the warriors saw the gaping pit that had not been there before. This was a desecration as great as the Vanir defilement of the cairns. They were almost at the lip of the pit when all the horrors of Hell came boiling out of it. One instant, the field before the pit was empty. The next, Conan was fighting desperately for his life against something that looked like a cross between a moth and an ape.

The thing had long reddish hair and withered wings and gigantic compound eyes. Conan was more concerned with the wide-bladed glaive with which it was trying to kill him. It fought with no art he could interpret, but sliced at him with a clear intent to slay. It took him a few moments to determine its timing, then he stepped in and pulped its skull with his sword. The thing continued to flail away blindly until Conan hewed away its head, then it fell, still struggling futilely.

All around Conan was a demented battle being carried on by screaming men and things from a nightmare. The insect-creatures were dying easily, but the lizard-things were exacting a toll. Conan felt a fierce pride swelling in him. Any civilized army he had seen would have fled in terror from this unearthly force, and all their polish and discipline would have availed them naught. But this little horde of Cimmerians with their Aesir allies
rushed to do battle as if they had no other purpose on Earth.

A howling horror of tentacles and batwings bore down on Conan, and he hacked it in twain, burying his blade half its length in the soil in the process. He wrenched the sword free and sunlight glimmered on its bluish length. Conan looked up the slope and saw that the light of the morning sun was almost to the level of the cave.

He had no worry over the progress of this fight. The things died, and if they could die, the Cimmerians would kill them all. He began to climb.

Twice he was attacked by unclean creatures. Twice he shook their blood from his sword. Then he stood in the mouth of the cave.

The whole cave shook to strange vibrations. Far to the rear, near the feet of Crom, he could see two tiny figures capering about some sort of altar. He walked toward the rear, collecting firewood as he went. As he had suspected, he now saw that the two were the foreigners he had first spied with the Vanir. One of them, the smaller, saw Conan, and his eyes widened. Drawing a long dagger from his sash, the younger foreigner came at Conan.

Conan dropped his bundle of wood and smashed the fire pot down upon it. The dry wood caught quickly.

"Filthy barbarian!" squealed the young man, whom Conan now recognized as a Vendhyan. "How dare you interfere!"

The man darted in expertly, like a trained assassin. The dagger was a blur as it lanced toward the Cimmerian's belly. With an almost casual flick of his sword Conan sent the Vendhyan staggering back, hands clasped to his bloodied head, screaming.

The fire was going well now, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to stream into the cave. Conan pried the stopper from the flask he had borne so far and poured a fine dust, like ashes, upon the flame.

"Hathor-Ka! Hathor-Ka! Hathor-Ka!" Conan's voice boomed through the cave like thunder, and his scalp prickled at the sorcerous forces being unleashed here.

His mission had been carried out. His vow was fulfilled and he could leave if he wished. Something kept him from making his escape, much as
he wished to be away from these doings. A thick cloud of smoke formed over the flames of the fire he had built. Gradually, as if from far away, he began to hear a voice singing in a language never meant for human tongue. The smoke took shape and solidified, and the voice grew nearer, and he saw the beautiful, evil Stygian sorceress before him in the cave.

Her feet amid the flames were not burned, and her garments stirred to a wind that Conan could not feel. She ignored Conan, and he watched awestruck as she walked toward the back of the cave. Drawn by a force he could not have named, Conan followed.

She stopped by the edge of the pit before the feet of Crom. Jaganath stood a few paces from her, sweat pouring down his fat face as he shrieked his spells. The two mages carried on each as if the other were not there. A deep rumbling came from the pit at their feet and the light within the cavern altered subtly. Conan stood in silence. His sword was clenched in his white-knuckled fist, but what use was a sword against the sorcerous forces being unleashed here?

Then yet another figure appeared. From behind the statue of Crom, a stately form emerged from shadowy obscurity into the light. It wore long, elaborate robes into the sleeves of which its hands were tucked. A towering headdress crowned the apparition. Although Conan did not know it, the latest wizard to appear wore the regalia of a Khitan Wizard of the First Rank, with the special attributes of the Order of the Silver Peacock.

"You have changed, Cha," Conan said.

"You look much the same. What you see before us is the spectacle of two foolish, presumptuous mages who think they can become gods."

"Can they?"

"It is possible." Cha removed a hand from a sleeve and stroked the long, snowy beard and dangling moustaches that spread over his breast. "But all shall take place as the gods wish."

Now the rumbling was all-pervasive. The chanting of the two wizards had become so high-pitched that it almost left the realm of human hearing. An unthinkable shape began to ooze from the pit leading to the caverns below. Conan remembered it from the other pit. It was a writhing horror of tentacles and jointed legs and sucker pads and fanged mouths. It
had eyes like jewels and in all was so unnatural that Conan could bear to look upon it for only a moment. Most horribly, it bore an unmistakable air of terrible intelligence.

"This is the thing they have called from another universe," Cha said as calmly as if he were commenting upon the evolutions of a country dance.

"It is a sort of god which they think will strengthen their spell. They are wrong. These things give no help to this world. From that same world Hathor-Ka brought the beings you thought of as demons. She wanted them to round up prisoners and have them here, ready for sacrifice. You and your Cimmerians foiled that. The Vendhyan brought his own men for sacrifice, but they cheated him and died cleanly. No advantage to either now."

Suddenly, Hathor-Ka's voice faltered while Jaganath's continued steadily. Her eyes widened with some awful knowledge. Lovingly, the monstrous thing reached out a tentacle and wrapped it about her waist. It raised her slowly while she chanted madly. Her chant broke into a shriek as it drew her into one of its clusters of mouthlike orifices.

Jaganath's voice swelled to a triumphant climax and then stopped abruptly. All was silent in the cavern. Then Jaganath began to grow. He swelled and gained bulk and majesty until he towered above the two little figures on the cavern floor.

"I fulfill the prophecy of Skelos!" he shouted ecstatically. "I am master of all the sorcerers of Earth, until the next fall of the Arrows of Indra!"

"No foreign wizard reigns in Crom's House!" Conan bellowed. Striding to the huge figure, Conan took his sword in both hands and, with all his weight and bulk behind it, thrust the blue steel into the belly before him.

To his own astonishment, it went in easily and stayed there. He released the hilt and backed away.

Jaganath looked down in puzzlement, then smiled. "Think you that any weapon made by mortal hands can harm me?" He enveloped the hilt in his huge hand and tugged, but it would not pull free. Now Cha raised his arm and pointed at the sword protruding from Jaganath's vast belly.

"Behold the sword of the Kings of Valusia, forged more than four thousand years ago from a fragment of a meteor―one of the Arrows of Indra!"

Jaganath's face became transformed with rage. Frantically, he wrenched at the sword, widening the great rent in his belly. Blood, smoke, and flame poured from the wound, and Jaganath's demented howling reverberated through the cave, causing stones to fall from the ceiling.

Slowly, the wizard-demigod began to shrink.

"This cannot be!" Jaganath shrieked, his voice dwindling as did his body. "I am a god! I am the king of sorcerers!"

Conan stepped forward and gripped the sword. With a powerful heave he pulled the blade loose from the obese body with a hideous wet sound.

Jaganath collapsed to the floor, a mere fat man once again. Soon he was a fat corpse.

An unearthly sound came from the back of the cave. Conan looked to see the pit-thing coming toward them. Cha took Conan by the shoulder.

"Time to go now!"

Cha's massive dignity disappeared as he gathered his long robes up around his skinny knees and dashed for the cave entrance. Conan wasted no time in following. Behind them a great rumbling began, and the whole mountaintop trembled.

They had gained the entrance when Conan stopped and looked back.

The evil thing was still there, but something was different about the scene.

Then he saw it. The throne of Crom was vacant. His mind just had time to register mis fact, then he saw a gigantic stone foot descend upon the squirming horror and the body of Jaganath, grinding them relentlessly into the stone floor.

Sixteen

Farewell to Cimmeria

Conan sat upon a rock outcropping with his cloak drawn close about him. Snow had been falling since he and Cha had come out of the cave.

Winter had come to Ben Morgh, but any Northlander preferred the clean privations of winter to the unnatural warmth they had found on Ben Morgh. All day and all night the clans had scoured the caves beneath Ben Morgh, bringing out what captives they could find alive. Many were Cimmerians or other northern people, but some were of nations nobody
could identify, not even Conan or Cha. The tunnel entrances of the lower pit gaped wide now, but nobody had been able to work up the nerve to look into the House of Crom.

Cha came up to Conan. Once again he was a ragged mountebank. "All out now. Lower caverns caving in. Soon this pit collapse as well. Your Crom not want them."

"Why did Hathor-Ka fail?" Conan asked.

"She ally herself with Thoth-Amon. He very great wizard, evil but very wise. He know better than to fool with these powers. He pretend to give her whole spell of Great Summoning, but he leave out crucial verse. He could have put an end to this thing long ago, but he think it good way to get rid of rivals."

"I hope I never encounter him," Conan grumbled.

Cha held out a hand, palm up. "Now, you give me back amulet? One of my best. I may need it."

Conan took the thing in his hand. "I paid for this. What will you give me for it?"

Cha grinned. "Tell you good fortune?"

"It had better be a good one, not like last time."

"Very well. How you like this? Someday you be king of Aquilonia. Good, not so?"

"Weil, I suppose that's worth an amulet." Conan took it off, not believing a word. He tossed the thing to Cha, who caught it, chuckling.

"Good-bye now. Got to go catch my dragon." The old man disappeared among the rocks, and Conan shook his head, sorry to see the last of him.

At the bottom of the Field of the Dead he found the host assembled. A new cairn marked the burial place of the men who had fallen in the battle.

The Cimmerians had completed their simple funeral rites and were ready to depart. Conan found Canach with the other chiefs. "What shall we do with these?" he said, gesturing toward the group of freed prisoners who shivered in the cold.

"Give them provisions and send them on their way, I suppose," said Canach. "Some of the women might make good wives. A little new blood now and then does not come amiss."

"After the caves," said Wulfhere, grinning, "even Cimmeria might seem tolerable."

They descended the slopes of Ben Morgh, and into the hills beyond.

From time to time the fighting men of a clan would split off from the main group to return to their lands. All would be at peace until the last clan had returned home, then the feuds would begin once more. Once they all halted and looked up. Overhead, above the clouds, they could hear a sound, as of the beating of great wings.

By the time they reached Canach land all had gone except Conan's closest kin and the little band of Aesir. Near the winter village they halted for a last time. Conan and Chulainn stood together. Chulainn with his arm about Bronwith. "Will you stay the winter with us, Conan?'' Chulainn asked.

"No, my place is not here. It was good to come back and see my kin, but it will be good to be away again. I go with Wulfhere's band, to winter in the halls of Asgard."

"Then good fortune to you, kinsman," Bronwith said.

Conan turned to go but something stopped him. The great sword at his waist did not feel right somehow. It had been his sword. Now it was not.

He took it from his waist and handed it, sheathed, to Chulainn. "For your son," he said. With the Aesir, he mounted one of the little mountain ponies.

"Don't ride naked, Conan," said Wulfhere. The As tossed him a Vanir blade taken in the battle and Conan belted it on.

"Conan!" called Chulainn. Conan wheeled his pony to face his kinsman.

"To which son shall we give this? We intend to have many. To the first?

That one we shall name for you."

Conan thought for a moment, then said: "To the strongest." He turned again and, with the Aesir, he rode from the land of his people.

Look for the Next

Original Conan―

Conan the Fearless

―Coming From Tor in January The sun had made but a small part of its journey across the morning sky when Conan entered the city of Mornstadinos. From a distance the Cimmerian had been unable to perceive the convolutions of the narrow streets. He now traversed myriad alleys, cul-de-sacs, and cobbled roads, which appeared to have been laid out by someone besotted, blind, or mad.

If a pattern existed to the maze, Conan was unable to discern it. Here sat a stable, full of horses and stinking of dung; next to the stable stood a temple, replete with cowled oblates; beyond that edifice, an open air market dealt in fruit and baked goods.

The barbarian's stomach rumbled, insistent in its hunger. He strode to the market, attracting more than a few stares at his muscular form. From a woven basket Conan extracted a loaf of hard black bread. He poked the loaf with one finger, then waved the bread at an old woman. "How much?"

he said.

The woman named a figure: "Four coppers." Conan shook his head.

"Nay, old one. I do not wish to buy your house and grandchildren, only this loaf of stale bread."

The old woman cackled. "Since it is obvious you are a stranger, I shall make you a bargain. Three coppers."

"Again, I have no desire for the entire basket of these rocks you would sell as bread, only the one." Conan waved the loaf and scowled.

"Ah, you would cheat an old woman of her hard labor? Very well then, I will accept two coppers and the loss, so that you may think us hospitable in the Jewel of Corinthia."

"Where is your dagger, old woman? Surely a cutpurse who would steal my money must need a blade. Though I will allow that your tongue and wit are sharp enough."

The woman cackled again. "Ah, you're a handsome boy; you remind me of my son. I could not see you starve for want of a copper. One will buy you the best bread on the street."

"Done, grandmother."

Conan reached into his pouch and retrieved one of his few coins. He handed it to the old woman, who nodded, smiling.

"One other favor," Conan said. "You are right in calling me a stranger.

Where might a man find an inn and some wine with which to wash down the best bread on the street?"

"A man of means might find a number of places. But a man who would haggle over a few coppers with an old woman has fewer choices, meseems.

Down this road, two turnings to the right and one to the left such a man could find the Milk of Wolves Inn. And, if this man was some outlander who might not be able to read civilized writings, he might look for a picture of a wolf salient above the door."

"A wolf what?"

"Standing on her hind legs about to leap," the old woman said, cackling again.

"Well-met, then, mistress Baker. And farewell."

Conan located the Milk of Wolves Inn with no difficulty, and bearing his loaf of black bread, strode inside. The youthful hour seemed no barrier to the fair-sized crowd standing or seated at long wooden tables around the room. Most of the men appeared to be locals, judging from looks and clothing; several women were serving steaming bowls, and others offered hints of pleasures other than food or drink. He had been in many such places, passable, for the most part, and cheap.

The Cimmerian found a vacant place at one end of a table and seated himself. He looked around the room, scrutinizing the patrons. Most of the men were probably poor but engaged in some honest trade: coopers, smiths, tradesmen, and the like. To his left Conan saw a group of four men who looked more unsavory, probably cutpurses or strong-arm thieves. The largest of the four was of medium height, but very broad and heavily muscled, with dark eyes and blue-black hair; further, he had an enormous hook nose, which resembled a bird's beak. Conan had seen men with similar countenances before, men bearing a mix of Shemite and Stygian blood. This beak-faced one looked dangerous, not a man to turn one's back on.

Seated near the four were an odd pair: an old man with white hair and the weight of a good sixty or seventy winters 'riding his stooped shoulders and, a girl, a child of twelve or thirteen. The old man was dressed in a long robe with full sleeves. The girl, auburn-haired, wore blue hose and boots and a short jerkin of supple leather; additionally, she carried a short sword under a broad belt, in the Turanian style: "Your pleasure, sir?"

Conan looked up at the speaker, a fat wench draped in a shapeless dress much stained by food and drink. He fetched out one of his last three coppers and held it up. "Would this buy me a cup of decent wine?"

"It will buy you a cup of wine. How decent such a beverage is I leave to your judgment."

"That bad, eh? Well, I am in no positon to be choosy. I shall risk the vintage."

The girl left, taking Conan's coin. The latter half-turned, to study the old man and the girl.

Conan quickly became aware that he was not the only person regarding the pair. The four he had marked as strong-arm thieves were also taking an uncommon interest. Such did not bode well for them, the Cimmerian figured. Well, it was not his business. He turned his gaze back toward the serving girl, who approached bearing an earthen mug brimming with dark red liquid. Some of the wine sloshed over the lip of the cup as she set it onto the table. Without saying anything, the girl moved off to see to other patrons.

Conan tasted the wine. In truth, it was not bad; certainly, he had drunk both better and worse. It would wash the bread down and help fill his belly, for now. Later, he could worry about his next meal. He broke a chunk of the black bread and tore off a mouthful of it with his strong teeth. The bread, too, was passable. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

Nearby, beak-nose gestured at the old man and girl with a quick movement of his head. Two of his companions rose from the table and began to sidle toward the pair. One of the men toyed with the handle of his dagger; the other man merely scratched at his scraggly beard.

Beneath drawn brows Conan watched, interested. He took another bite of the bread.

When the two men were a few steps away from the old man, several people seated or standing near the inn's doorway gasped. Conan glanced toward the door and saw men scrambling to get out of the way of something. He could not see what caused the commotion, but it was as if a wind cut a path through a field of tall grain. As the crowd rippled aside, the cause became apparent.

Scuttling across the sawdust-covered floor was a spider. This creature was like none the Cimmerian had ever gazed upon before. It was the size of Conan's fist, covered with fine hair, and glowed like a lantern inlaid with rubies: indeed, the thing pulsed, as might a throbbing heart.

Without hesitation the spider ran to the table at which the old man sat; in an eye blink it scuttled up a table leg; another second saw the glowing arachnid leap in a graceful arc to land squarely in the mug of wine the old man held in one gnarled fist. The wine emitted a loud sizzle, a pop, and a small cloud of red vapor suddenly floated above the mug.

With every eye locked into a stare upon him, the old man calmly smiled, raised the cup to his lips, and drank.

Beak-nose's two minions suddenly decided they had business elsewhere, that they were late for such business, and that further delay would be disastrous. At least it seemed that way to Conan as he watched the two men scramble over each other in order to be first to reach the door.

Behind the Cimmerian someone uttered an oath and muttered, "Magic!"

At that moment the girl seated next to the old man leaped up. She tossed a moldy sunfruit into the air. Conan saw her set and guessed what would happen. A heartbeat later the girl pulled the short sword from its sheath smoothly and slashed it back and forth at the falling fruit. At first it might have appeared she had missed with her strokes, but Conan's sharp eyes beheld the truth and he grinned even as the fruit continued its fall―now in four pieces instead of one.

The Cimmerian chewed another bite of bread. Here was a message for all who chose this particular morning to breakfast at the Milk of Wolves

Inn: this old man and girl were not so helpless as they might appear; best to tread elsewhere for easy pickings.

Beak-nose was not amused. He glowered at the old man, his own cup of wine clutched so tightly that the knuckles of his dark hand were chalk-white.

Someone at the door gasped again. A second spider appeared, this time heading for the foot of the beak-nosed man's table. Without preamble the hairy arachnid scrambled up onto the rough wood and leaped into beak-nose's wine.

Conan laughed. A challenge! Would beak-nose dare to drink?

Uttering a cry of wordless rage, beak-nose leaped up and tossed the mug away with a backhanded flinging motion. The mug and its contents flew straight at Conan's face.

There was no danger, the Cimmerian knew. He raised one muscled arm to bat the mug away; unfortunately, the hand he chose contained the loaf of bread, the better part of which was as yet uneaten. The wine drenched the bread as the mug struck it, knocking Conan's breakfast onto the filth of the much-trodden sawdust floor. He stared at the bread as it rolled over three times, covering itself with a layer of grime.

In better times such an occurrence might be amusing, especially were it to happen to someone else; but at the moment Conan failed to see the humor. First his horse and all his gold had been lost; now, his food. The young giant took a deep breath, and the air fed his quick rage as wind feeds a hot fire.

Beak-nose had drawn his own blade and was advancing upon his intended victim. The child bravely pulled her own small sword and moved to cover the white-haired man, who tried to pull her back to safety.

Conan's broadsword hissed as the leather sheath stroked it in its passage. He raised his blade and clenched the handle with both hands.

"You―you scum!" he roared.

Beak-nose turned in surprise. What he saw must have surely alarmed him, for he spun and tried to position his sword for a block or parry. At the same time the dark man tried to backstep away. He managed neither.

Conan's sword caught him in the middle of the breastbone and a hand's span of sharp steel sliced its way downward, opening the man as might a vivisectionist, from sternum to crotch. The man's face contorted in shock as his entrails spilled through the massive rent in his body. He fell backward, his spirit already on its way to join his ancestors.

Conan's rage was only partially spent. He looked around for the fourth member of the band. This one, however, was not in evidence. The Cimmerian glared at the inn's patrons, who all shrank away from the big youth with the bloody sword. All save one.

The young girl approached Conan, smiling. She had sheathed her sword and when she drew near he saw that the girl barely reached his chest in height. With great reluctance he lowered his broadsword. He stared at the child. "Well?"

"Thank you, sir, for saving us." Her voice was warm. Indeed, the very air seemed to grow warmer as she stood there staring up at the Cimmerian.

"Do not thank me," Conan said, his voice still rough and angry. "The scum destroyed my breakfast. Would that he had put up a better fight, so that I might have made him suffer for it."

The girl's mouth opened into an O as Conan spoke, her face filled with shock and puzzlement.

The murmur of voices began to rise, to fill the inn.

"―you see that strike? Such power―!"

"―split him like a chicken―"

"―foreigner from some backwoods―"

A thin man with a jagged scar that lifted both his lip and left nostril came closer, warily watching the Cimmerian's unsheathed blade. He wore a splattered apron that might have once been white but now displayed the remains of too many spilled wine cups and meals to be more than a splotched gray. Likely the owner of the inn, Conan judged.

The innkeep glanced down at the dead man. His perpetual sneer
seemed to increase a bit. "So, Arsheva of Khemi has finally picked the wrong victim." The man looked up at Conan. "Few men deserve such an exit from this life so much as he; he shall not be missed, and no mistake about that." He pulled a rag from the pocket of his apron and tendered it to Conan. "Here, wipe your blade, sir, lest Arsheva's gore chew with teeth of rust upon the steel."

Conan took the greasy rag and methodically cleaned his sword.

"Still," the man said, "the Senate's Deputation will no doubt eventually arrive for an investigation of Arsheva's passing. I trust you had sufficient reason to dispatch him to the next world?"

Conan slid his sword into his leathern home. "Aye," he began, "my reasons were just. This offal―"

"―intended to attack myself and my assistant," the old white-haired man said. "This man is our bodyguard; he was merely performing his job in protecting us."

Conan stared at him. What was he about? He started to speak, but the old man interrupted again.

"We shall finish our breakfast whilst awaiting the deputies. If you would bring my friend here a tray to replace the meal he lost, along with a bottle of your better wine, I should be most grateful." Here the old man raised a wrinkled and age-twisted hand bearing a small coin of silver.

"And the balance of this for your trouble in this matter."

Scar-face took the coin, and nodded. "Aye. Obviously, a gentleman of means such as yourself will have no difficulties convincing the Senate's Deputation of your position in this matter." He drew back a chair for Conan at the old man's table. "I'll tend to your meal, sir."

Seated with the old man and girl, Conan waited for answers to his unasked questions. Earlier, he had held his tongue, reasoning that the old man had some purpose in coming to his aid. Perhaps it was merely to thank him for splitting the blackguard who would have attacked the girl.

While unintentional, Conan had served them, certainly. But the barbarian now suspected there was more to be said than words of thanks.

The old man waited until the inn's patrons focused their attention
elsewhere before he spoke. "I am Vitarius and this"―he waved his arm in its voluminous sleeve toward the girl―"this is Eldia, my assistant. I am a conjurer of small talent, an entertainer of sorts. We wish to thank you for taking our part in this matter."

Conan nodded, waiting.

"I sensed you were about to speak of your true reason for slaying our would-be assassin―he who slew your loaf of bread―which is why I injected my remarks."

Conan nodded again. The old man was not without sharpness of sight and wit.

"The deputies who will come to speak with us are corrupt for the most part. A few pieces of silver will expedite the resolution in our favor without a doubt; still, carving a man for knocking a loaf of bread to the floor is hardly considered just punishment in the minds of the Mornstadinosian Senate. Protecting a patron from attack by a cutthroat thief is sufficient reason to draw steel, however."

The young giant nodded. "I am Conan of Cimmeria. I have done you a favor and you have thus returned it; let us then consider the scales balanced."

"So be it," Vitarius said. "After breakfast, at least."

"Aye, that I will allow."

A serving girl arrived with a tray of hard rolls, fruit, and a greasy cut of pork, along with another cup of wine of a vintage better than the first drink Conan had partaken of. He ate with gusto, and washed the food down with gulps of the red liquid.

Vitarius watched Conan intently. When the barbarian was done with his meal, the conjurer spoke. "We are quits on debts; still, 1 have a proposition in which you might find some merit. Eldia and I demonstrate our simple illusions at street fairs and market gatherings and we could use a man such as yourself."

Conan shook his head. "I truckle not with magic."

"Magic? Surely you do not think my illusions are magic? Nay, I work with the simplest of the arts, no more. Would I be in such a place as this were I a real magician?" Conan considered that. The old man had a point.

"Still, of what use could I be to a conjurer?" Vitarius glanced at Eldia, then looked back at Conan. "That blade of yours, for one. Your strength, for another. Eldia and I are hardly capable of protecting ourselves from such as the one you slew. She is adept with her own sword, for demonstrating speed and skill, but hardly a match for a fully grown man in a duel. My illusions might scare the superstitious, but in the end can hardly sway a determined assassin, as you have just seen."

Conan chewed on his lower lip. "I am bound for Nemedia."

"Surely such a considerable journey would be easier were you mounted and well-appointed with supplies?"

"What makes you think I lack such things?" Vitarius peered around the inn, then back at Conan. "Would a man of property be spending his time in such a place?"

That reasoning was sound, but Conan followed the line a step further.

"Then, good conjure artist, why are you in such a place?"

Vitarius laughed, and slapped his thigh. "Ah, forgive me for underestimating you, Conan of Cimmeria. That a man is a barbarian does not mean he lacks wits. As it happens, we are conserving our money for supplies; we, too, intend to leave this fair city, to travel westward. Our path will veer southward, toward Argos. We wish to―ah―travel in some style, in an armed caravan, and thus avoid possible encounters with the bandits along the Ophir Road."

"Ah." Conan studied Vitarius and Eldia. He had been a thief, to be sure, but he had nothing against honest work for a brief enough time. Besides, he was in no great hurry to reach Nemedia. In any event, the journey would be a great deal easier astride a good horse than on foot.

"A silver coin a day," Vitarius said. "We shall be ready to leave within the month, I should think, and surely such a short diversion would not inconvenience you greatly?"

Conan considered the sorry state of his money pouch. A good horse and supplies could be had for twenty or thirty pieces of silver, certainly. And
such work, guarding a conjurer and his assistant from sneak thieves for a moon or two, could not be too taxing.

Conan smiled at Vitarius. "Master of glowing spiders, you have engaged a bodyguard."

The Frost Giant's Daughter

The clangor of the swords had died away, the shouting of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the red-stained snow. The bleak pale sun that glittered so blindingly from the ice-fields and the snow-covered plains struck sheens of silver from rent corselet and broken blade, where the dead lay as they had fallen. The nerveless hand yet gripped the broken hilt; helmeted heads, back-drawn in trie death throes, tilted red beards and golden beards grimly upward, as if in last invocation to Ymir the frost-giant, god of a warrior-race.

Across the red drifts and mail-clad forms, two figures glared at each other. In that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty sky was over them, the white illimitable plain around them, the dead men at their feet. Slowly through the corpses they came, as ghosts might come to a tryst through the shambles of a dead world. In the brooding silence they stood face to face.

Both were tall men, built like tigers. Their shields were gone, their corselets battered and dented. Blood dried on their mail; their swords were stained red. Their horned helmets showed the marks of fierce strokes. One was beardless and black-maned. The locks and beard of the other were red as the blood on the sunlit snow.

"Man," said he, "tell me your name, so that my brothers in Vanaheim may know who was the last of Wulfhere's band to fall before the sword of Heimdul."

"Not in Vanaheim," growled the black-haired warrior, "but in Valhalla will you tell your brothers that you met Conan of Cimmeria."

Heimdul roared and leaped, and his sword flashed in a deathly arc. Conan staggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the singing blade crashed on his helmet, shivering into bits of blue fire. But as he reeled he thrust with all the power of his broad shoulders behind the humming blade. The sharp point tore through brass scales and bones and heart, and the red-haired warrior died at Conan's feet.

The Cimmerian stood upright, trailing his sword, a sudden sick weariness assailing him. The glare of the sun on the snow cut his eyes like a knife and the sky seemed shrunken and strangely apart. He turned away from the trampled expanses where yellow-bearded warriors lay locked with red-haired slayers in the embrace of death. A few steps he took, and the glare of the snow-fields was suddenly dimmed. A rushing wave of blindness engulfed him and he sank down into the snow, supporting himself on one mailed arm, seeking to shake the blindness out of his eyes as a lion might shake his mane.

A silvery laugh cut through his dizziness, and his sight cleared slowly. He looked up; there was a strangeness about all the landscape that he could not place or define - an unfamiliar tinge to earth and sky. But he did not think long of this. Before him, swaying like a sapling in the wind, stood a woman. Her body was like ivory to his dazed eyes, and save for a light veil of gossamer, she was naked as the day. Her slender bare feet were whiter than the snow they spurned. She laughed down at the bewildered warrior. Her laughter was sweeter than the rippling of silvery fountains, and poisonous with cruel mockery.

"Who are you?" asked the Cimmerian. "Whence come you?"

"What matter?" Her voice was more musical than a silver-stringed harp, but it was edged with cruelty.

"Call up your men," said he, grasping his sword. "Yet though my strength fail me, they shall not take me alive. I see that you are of the Vanir."

"Have I said so?"

His gaze went again to her unruly locks, which at first glance he had thought to be red. Now he saw that they were neither red nor yellow, but a glorious compound of both colors. He gazed spell-bound. Her hair was like elfin-gold; the sun struck it so dazzingly that he could scarcely bear to look upon it. Her eyes were likewise neither wholly blue nor wholly grey, but of shifting colors and dancing lights and clouds of colors he could not define. Her full red lips smiled, and from her slender feet to the blinding crown of her billowy hair, her ivory body was as perfect as the dream of a god. Conan's pulse hammered in his temples.

"I cannot tell," said he, "whether you are of Vanaheim and mine enemy, or of Asgard and my friend. Far have I wandered, but a woman like you I have never seen. Your locks blind me with their brightness. Never have I seen such hair, not even among the fairest daughters of the JEsir. By Ymir"

"Who are you to swear by Ymir?" she mocked. "What know you of the gods of ice and snow, you who have come up from the south to adventure among an alien people?"

"By the dark gods of my own race!" he cried in anger. "Though I am not of the golden-haired yesir, none has been more forward in sword-play! This day I have seen four score men fall, and I alone have survived the field where Wulfhere's reavers met the wolves of Bragi. Tell me, woman, have you seen the flash of mail out across the snow-plains, or seen armed men moving upon the ice?"

"I have seen the hoar-frost glittering in the sun," she answered. "I have heard the wind whispering across the everlasting snows."

He shook his head with a sigh.

"Niord should have come up with us before the battle was joined. I fear he and his fighting-men have been ambushed. Wulfhere and his warriors lie dead.

"I had thought there was no village within many leagues of this spot, for the war carried us far, but you cannot have come a great distance over these snows, naked as you are. Lead me to your tribe, if you are of Asgard, for I am faint with blows and the weariness of strife."

"My village is further than you can walk, Conan of Cimmeria," she laughed. Spreading her arms wide, she swayed before him, her golden head lolling sensuously, her scintillant eyes half shadowed beneath their long silken lashes. "Am I not beautiful, oh man?"

"Like Dawn running naked on the snows," he muttered, his eyes burning like those of a wolf.

"Then why do you not rise and follow me? Who is the strong warrior who falls down before me?" she chanted in maddening mockery. "Lie down and die in the snow with the other fools, Conan of the black hair. You cannot follow where I would lead."

With an oath the Cimmerian heaved himself up on his feet, his blue eyes blazing, his dark scarred face contorted. Rage shook his soul, but desire for the taunting figure before him hammered at his temples and drove his wild blood fiercely through his veins. Passion fierce as physical agony flooded his whole being, so that earth and sky swam red to his dizzy gaze. In the madness that swept upon him, weariness and faintness were swept away.

He spoke no word as he drove at her, fingers spread to grip her soft flesh. With a shriek of laughter she leaped back and ran, laughing at him over her white shoulder. With a low growl Conan followed. He had forgotten the fight, forgotten the mailed warriors who lay in their blood, forgotten Niord and the reavers who had failed to reach the fight. He had thought only for the slender white shape which seemed to float rather than run before him.

Out across the white blinding plain the chase led. The trampled red field fell out of sight behind him, but still Conan kept on with the silent tenacity of his race. His mailed feet broke through the frozen crust; he sank deep in the drifts and forged through them by sheer strength. But the girl danced across the snow light as a feather floating across a pool; her naked feet barely left their imprint on the hoar-frost that overlaid the crust. In spite of the fire in his veins, the cold bit through the warrior's mail and fur-lined tunic; but the girl in her gossamer veil ran as lightly and as gaily as if she danced through the palm and rose gardens of Poitain.

On and on she led, and Conan followed. Black curses drooled through the Cimmerian's parched lips. The great veins in his temples swelled and throbbed and his teeth gnashed.

"You cannot escape me!" he roared. "Lead me into a trap and I'll pile the heads of your kinsmen at your feet! Hide from me and I'll tear apart the mountains to find you! I'll follow you to hell!"

Her maddening laughter floated back to him, and foam flew from the barbarian's lips. Further and further into the wastes she led him. The land changed; the wide plains gave way to low hills, marching upward in broken ranges. Far to the north he caught a glimpse of towering mountains, blue with the distance, or white with the eternal snows. Above these mountains shone the flaring rays of the borealis. They spread fan-wise into the sky, frosty blades of cold flaming light, changing in color, growing and brightening.

Above him the skies glowed and crackled with strange lights and gleams. The snow shone weirdly, now frosty blue, now icy crimson, now cold silver. Through a shimmering icy realm of enchantment Conan plunged doggedly onward, in a crystalline maze where the only reality was the white body dancing across the glittering snow beyond his reach - ever beyond his reach.

He did not wonder at the strangeness of it all, not even when two gigantic figures rose up to bar his way. The scales of their mail were white with hoar-frost; their helmets and their axes were covered with ice. Snow sprinkled their locks; in their beards were spikes of icicles; their eyes were cold as the lights that streamed above them.

"Brothers!" cried the girl, dancing between them. "Look who follows! I have brought you a man to slay! Take his heart that we may lay it smoking on our father's board!"

The giants answered with roars like the grinding of icebergs on a frozen shore and heaved up their shining axes as the maddened Cimmerian hurled himself upon them. A frosty blade flashed before his eyes, blinding him with its brightness, and he gave back a terrible stroke that sheared through his foe's thigh. With a groan the victim fell, and at the instant Conan was dashed into the snow, his left shoulder numb from the blow of the survivor, from which the Cimmerian's mail had barely saved his life. Conan saw the remaining giant looming high above him like a colossus carved of ice, etched against the cold glowing sky. The axe fell, to sink through the snow and deep into the frozen earth as Conan hurled himself aside and leaped to his feet. The giant roared and wrenched his axe free, but even as he did, Conan's sword sang down. The giant's knees bent and he sank slowly into the snow, which turned crimson with the blood that gushed from his half-severed neck.

Conan wheeled, to see the girl standing a short distance away, staring at him in wide-eyed horror, all the mockery gone from her face. He cried out fiercely and the blood-drops flew from his sword as his hand shook in the intensity of his passion.

"Call the rest of your brothers!" he cried. "I'll give their hearts to the wolves! You cannot escape me"

With a cry of fright she turned and ran fleetly. She did not laugh now, nor mock him over her white shoulder. She ran as for her life, and though he strained every nerve and thew until his temples were like to burst and the snow swam red to his gaze, she drew away from him, dwindling in the witch-fire of the skies, until she was a figure no bigger than a child, then a dancing white flame on the snow, then a dim blur in the distance. But grinding his teeth until the blood started from his gums, he reeled on, and he saw the blur grow to a dancing white flame, and the flame to a figure big as a child; and then she was running less than a hundred paces ahead of him, and slowly the space narrowed, foot by foot.

She was running with effort now, her golden locks blowing free; he heard the quick panting of her breath, and saw a flash of fear in the look she cast over her white shoulder. The grim endurance of the barbarian had served him well. The speed ebbed from her flashing white legs; she reeled in her gait. In his untamed soul leaped up the fires of hell she had fanned so well. With an inhuman roar he closed in on her, just as she wheeled with a haunting cry and flung out her arms to fend him off.

His sword fell into the snow as he crushed her to him. Her lithe body bent backward as she fought with desperate frenzy in his iron arms. Her golden hair blew about his face, blinding him with its sheen; the feel of her slender body twisting in his mailed arms drove him to blinder madness. His strong fingers sank deep into her smooth flesh; and that flesh was cold as ice. It was as if he embraced not a woman of human flesh and blood, but a woman of flaming ice. She writhed her golden head aside, striving to avoid the fierce kisses that bruised her red lips.

"You are cold as the snows," he mumbled dazedly. "I will warm you with the fire in my own blood"

With a scream and a desperate wrench she slipped from his arms, leaving her single gossamer garment in his grasp. She sprang back and faced him, her golden locks in wild disarray, her white bosom heaving, her beautiful eyes blazing with terror. For an instant he stood frozen, awed by her terrible beauty as she posed naked against the snows.

And in that instant she flung her arms toward the lights that glowed in the skies above her and cried out in a voice that rang in Conan's ears forever after: "Ymir! Oh, my father, save me!"

Conan was leaping forward, arms spread to seize her, when with a crack like the breaking of an ice mountain, the whole sky leaped into icy fire. The girl's ivory body was suddenly enveloped in a cold blue flame so blinding that the Cimmerian threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the intolerable blaze. For a fleeting instant, sky and snowy hills were bathed in crackling white flames, blue darts of icy light, and frozen crimson fires. Then Conan staggered and cried out. The girl was gone. The glowing snow lay empty and bare; high above his head the witch-lights flashed and played in a frosty sky gone mad, and among the distant blue mountains there sounded a rolling thunder as of a gigantic war-chariot rushing behind steeds whose frantic hoofs struck lightning from the snows and echoes from the skies.

Then suddenly the borealis, the snow-clad hills and the blazing heavens reeled drunkenly to Conan's sight; thousands of fire-balls burst with showers of sparks, and the sky itself became a titanic wheel which rained stars as it spun. Under his feet the snowy hills heaved up like a wave, and the Cimmerian crumpled into the snows to lie motionless.

In a cold dark universe, whose sun was extinguished eons ago, Conan felt the movement of life, alien and unguessed. An earthquake had him in its grip and was shaking him to and fro, at the same time chafing his hands and feet until he yelled in pain and fury and groped for his sword.

"He's coming to, Horsa," said a voice. "Haste - we must rub the frost out of his limbs if he's ever to wield sword again."

"He won't open his left hand," growled another. "He's clutching something"

Conan opened his eyes and stared into the bearded faces that bent over him. He was surrounded by tall golden-haired warriors in mail and furs.

"Conan! You live!"

"By Crom, Niord," gasped the Cimmerian. "Am I alive, or are we all dead and in Valhalla?"

"We live," grunted the Msir, busy over Conan's half-frozen feet. "We had to fight our way through an ambush, or we had come up with you before the battle was joined. The corpses were scarce cold when we came upon the field. We did not find you among the dead, so we followed your spoor. In Ymir's name, Conan, why did you wander off into the wastes of the north? We have followed your tracks in the snow for hours. Had a blizzard come up and hidden them, we had never found you, by Ymir!"

"Swear not so often by Ymir," uneasily muttered a warrior, glancing at the distant mountains. "This is his land and the god bides among yonder mountains the legends say."

"I saw a woman," Conan answered hazily. "We met Bragi's men in the plains. I know not how long we fought. I alone lived. I was dizzy and faint. The land lay like a dream before me. Only now do all things seem natural and familiar. The woman came and taunted me. She was beautiful as a frozen flame from hell. A strange madness fell upon me when I looked at her, so I forgot all else in the world. I followed her. Did you not find her tracks? Or the giants in icy mail I slew?"

Niord shook his head.

"We found only your tracks in the snow, Conan."

"Then it may be I am mad," said Conan dazedly. "Yet you yourself are no more real to me than was the golden-locked witch who fled naked across the snows before me. Yet from under my very hands she vanished in icy flame."

"He is delirious," whispered a warrior.

"Not so!" cried the older man, whose eyes were wild and weird. "It was Atali, the daughter of Ymir, the frost-giant! To fields of the dead she comes, and shows herself to the dying! Myself when a boy I saw her, when I lay half-slain on the bloody field of Wolraven. I saw her walk among the dead in the snows, her naked body gleaming like ivory and her golden hair unbearably bright in the moonlight. I lay and howled like a dying dog because I could not crawl after her. She lures men from stricken fields into the wastelands to be slain by her brothers the ice-giants, who lay men's red hearts smoking on Ymir's board. The Cimmerian has seen Atali, the frost-giant's daughter."

"Bah!" grunted Horsa. "Old Gorm's mind was touched in his youth by a sword cut on the head. Conan was delirious from the fury of battle - look how his helmet is dented. Any of those blows might have addled his brain. It was an hallucination he followed into the wastes. He is from the south; what does he know of Atali?"

"You speak truth, perhaps," muttered Conan. "It was all strange and weird - by Crom!"

He broke off, glaring at the object that still dangled from his clenched left fist; the others gaped silently at the veil he held up - a wisp of gossamer that was never spun by human distaff.

The Lair of the Ice Worm

Haunted by Atali's icy beauty and bored with the simple life of the Cimmerian villages, Conan rides south toward the civilized realms, hoping to find a ready market for his sword as a condottiere in the service of various Hyborian princelings. At this time, Conan is about twenty-three.

Chapter One

All day, the lone rider had breasted the slopes of the Eiglophian Mountains, which strode from east to west across the world like a mighty wall of snow and ice, sundering the northlands of Vanaheim, Asgard, and Hyperborea from the southern kingdoms. In the depth of winter, most of the passes were blocked. With the coming of spring, however, they opened, to afford bands of fierce, light-haired northern barbarians routes by which they could raid the warmer lands to the south.

This rider was alone. At the top of the pass that led southward into the Border Kingdom and Nemedia, he reined in to sit for a moment, looking at the fantastic scene before him.

The sky was a dome of crimson and golden vapors, darkening from the zenith to the eastern horizon with the purple of oncoming evening. But the fiery splendor of the dying day still painted the white crests of the mountains with a deceptively warm-looking rosy radiance. It threw shadows of deep lavender across the frozen surface of a titanic glacier, which wound like an icy serpent from a coomb among the higher peaks, down and down until it curved in front of the pass and then away again to the left, to dwindle in the foothills and turn into a flowing stream of water. He who traveled through the pass had to pick his way cautiously past the margin of the glacier, hoping that he would neither fall into one of its hidden crevasses nor be overwhelmed by an avalanche from the higher slopes. The setting sun turned the glacier into a glittering expanse of crimson and gold. The rocky slopes that rose from the glacier's flanks were dotted with a thin scattering of gnarled, dwarfish trees.

This, the rider knew, was Snow Devil Glacier, also known as the River of Death Ice. He had heard of it, although his years of wandering had never before chanced to take him here. Everything he had heard of this glacier-guarded pass was shadowed by a nameless fear. His own Cimmerian fellow-tribesmen, in their bleak hills to the west, spoke of the Snow Devil in terms of dread, although no one knew why. Often he had wondered at the legends that clustered about the glacier, endowing it with the vague aura of ancient evil. Whole parties had vanished there, men said, never to be heard of again.

The Cimmerian youth named Conan impatiently dismissed these rumors.

Doubtless, he thought, the missing men had lacked mountaineering skill and had carelessly strayed out on one of the bridges of thin snow that often masked glacial crevasses. Then the snow bridge had given way, plunging them all to their deaths in the blue-green depths of the glacier. Such things happened often enough, Crom knew; more than one boyhood acquaintance of the young Cimmerian had perished thus. But this was no reason to refer to the Snow Devil with shudders, dark hints, and sidelong glances.

Conan was eager to descend the pass into the low hills of the Border Kingdom, for he had begun to find the simple life of his native Cimmerian village boring. His ill-fated adventure with a band of golden-haired AEsir on a raid into Vanaheim had brought him hard knocks and no profit. It had also left him with the haunting memory of the icy beauty of Atali, the frost giant's daughter, who had nearly lured him to an icy death.

Altogether, he had had all he wanted of the bleak northlands. He burned to get back to the hot lands of the South, to taste again the joys of silken raiment, golden wine, fine victuals, and soft feminine flesh.

Enough, he thought, of the dull round of village life and the Spartan austerities of camp and field!

His horse picked its way to the place where the glacier thrust itself across the direct route to the lowlands. Conan slid off his mount and led the animal along the narrow pathway between the glacier on his left and the lofty, snow-covered slope on his right. His huge bearskin cloak exaggerated even his hulking size. It hid the coat of chain mail and the heavy broadsword at his hip.

His eyes of volcanic blue glowered out from under the brim of a horned helmet, while a scarf was wound around the lower part of his face to protect his lungs from the bite of the cold air of the heights. He carried a slender lance in his free hand. Where the path meandered out over the surface of the glacier, Conan went gingerly, thrusting the point of the lance into the snow where he suspected that it might mask a crevasse. A battle-ax hung by its thong from his saddle.

He neared the end of the narrow path between the glacier and the hillside, where the glacier swung away to the left and the path continued down over a broad, sloping surface, lightly covered with spring snow and broken by boulders and hummocks. Then a scream of terror made him whip around and jerk up his helmeted head.

A bowshot away to his left, where the glacier leveled off before beginning its final descent, a group of shaggy, hulking creatures ringed a dim girl in white furs. Even at this distance, in the clear mountain air, Conan could discern the warm, fresh-cheeked oval of her face and the mane of glossy brown hair that escaped from under her white hood. She was a real beauty.

Without waiting to ponder the matter, Conan threw off his cloak and, using his lance as a pole, vaulted into the saddle. He gathered up the reins and drove his spurs into the horse's ribs. As the startled beast reared a little in the haste with which it bounded forward, Conan opened his mouth to utter the weird and terrible Cimmerian war cry―then shut it again with a snap. As a younger man he would have uttered this shout to hearten himself, but his years of Turanian service had taught him the rudiments of craftiness. There was no use in warning the girl's attackers of his coming any sooner than he must

They heard his approach soon enough, however. Although the snow muffled his horse's hoofs, the faint jingle of his mail and the creak of his saddle and harness caused one of them to turn. This one shouted and pulled at his neighbor's arm, so that in a few seconds all had turned to see Conan's approach and set themselves to meet it

There were about a dozen of the mountain men, armed with crude wooden clubs and with stone-headed spears and axes. They were short-limbed, thick-bodied creatures, wrapped in tattered, mangy furs. Small, bloodshot eyes glared out from under beetling brows and sloping foreheads; thick lips drew back to reveal large yellow teeth. They were like leftovers from some earlier stage of human evolution, about which Conan had once heard philosophers argue in the courtyards of Nemedian temples. Just now, however, he was too fully occupied with guiding his horse and aiming his lance to spare such matters more than the barest fleeting thought Then he crashed among them like a thunderbolt.

Chapter Two

Conan knew that the only way to deal with such a number of enemies afoot was to take full advantage of the mobility of the horse―to keep moving, so as never to let them cluster around him. For while his mail would protect his own body from most of their blows, even their crude weapons could quickly bring down his mount. So he drove toward the nearest beastman, guiding his horse a little to the left.

As the iron lance crushed through bone and hairy flesh, the mountain man screamed, dropped his own weapon, and tried to clutch at the shaft of Conan's spear. The thrust of the horse's motion hurled the sub-man to earth. The lance head went down and the butt rose. As he cantered through the scattered band, Conan dragged his lance free.

Behind him, the mountain men broke into a chorus of yells and screams.

They pointed and shouted at one another, issuing a dozen contradictory commands at once. Meanwhile Conan guided his mount in a tight circle and galloped back through the throng. A thrown spear glanced from his mailed shoulder; another opened a small gash in his horse's flank. But he drove his lance into another mountain man and again rode free, leaving behind a wriggling, thrashing body to spatter the snow with scarlet.

At his third charge, the man he speared rolled as he fell, snapping the lance shaft. As he rode clear, Conan threw away the stump of the shaft and seized the haft of the ax that hung from his saddle. As he rode into them once more, he leaned from his saddle. The steel blade flashed fire in the sunset glow as the ax described a huge figure-eight, with one loop to the right and one to the left. On each side, a mountain man fell into the snow with a cloven skull. Crimson drops spattered the snow. A third mountain man, who did not move quickly enough, was knocked down and trampled by Conan's horse.

With a wail of terror, the trampled man staggered to his feet and fled limping. In an instant, the other six had joined him in panic-stricken flight across the glacier. Conan drew rein to watch their shaggy figures dwindle― and then had to leap clear of the saddle as his horse shuddered and fell. A flint-headed spear had been driven deep into the animal's body, just behind Conan's left leg. A glance showed Conan that the beast was dead.

"Crom damn me for a meddling fool!" he growled to himself. Horses were scarce and costly in the northlands. He had ridden this steed all the way from far Zamora. He had stabled and fed and pampered it through the long winter. He had left it behind when he joined the AEsir in their raid, knowing that deep snow and treacherous ice would rob it of most of its usefulness. He had counted upon the faithful beast to get him back to the warm lands, and now it lay dead, all because he had impulsively intervened in a quarrel among the mountain folk that was none of his affair.

As his panting breath slowed and the red mist of battle fury faded out of his eyes, he turned toward the girl for whom he had fought. She stood a few feet away, staring at him wide-eyed.

"Are you all right, lass?" he grunted. "Did the brutes hurt you? Have no fear; I'm not a foe. I am Conan, a Cimmerian."

Her reply came in a dialect he had never heard before. It seemed to be a form of Hyperborean, mixed with words from other tongues―some from Nemedian and others from sources he did not recognize. He found it hard to gather more than half her meaning.

"You fight―like a god," she panted. "I thought―you Ymir come to save Ilga."

As she calmed, he drew the story from her in spurts of words. She was Ilga of the Vininian people, a branch of the Hyperboreans who had strayed into the Border Kingdom. Her folk lived in perpetual war with the hairy cannibals who dwelt in caves among the Eiglophian peaks. The struggle for survival in this barren realm was desperate; she would have been eaten by her captors had not Conan rescued her.

Two days before, she explained, she had set out with a small party of Virunians to cross the pass above Snow Devil Glacier. Thence they planned to journey several days' ride northeast to Sigtona, the nearest of the Hyperborean strongholds. There they had kinsmen, among whom the Virunians hoped to trade at the spring fair. There Ilga's uncle, who accompanied her, also meant to seek a good husband for her. But they had been ambushed by the hairy ones, and only Ilga had survived the terrible battle on the slippery slopes. Her uncle's last command to her, before he fell with his skull cleft by a flint ax, had been to ride like the wind for home.

Before she was out of sight of the mountain men, her horse had fallen on a patch of ice and broken a leg. She had thrown herself clear and, though bruised, had fled afoot. The hairy ones, however, had seen the fall, and a party of them came scampering down over the glacier to seize her. For hours, it seemed, she had run from them. But at last they had caught up with her and ringed her round, as Conan had seen.

Conan grunted his sympathy; his profound dislike of Hyperboreans, based upon his sojourn in a Hyperborean slave pen, did not extend to their women. It was a hard tale, but life in the bleak northlands was grim.

He had often heard the like.

Now, however, another problem faced them. Night had fallen, and neither had a horse. The wind was rising, and they would have little chance of surviving through the night on the surface of the glacier. They must find shelter and make a fire, or Snow Devil Glacier would add two more victims to its toll.

Chapter Three

Late that night, Conan fell asleep. They had found a hollow beneath an overhang of rock on the side of the glacier, where the ice had melted away enough to let them squeeze in. With their backs to the granite surface of the cliff, deeply scored and striated by the rubbing of the glacier, they had room to stretch out. In front of the hollow rose the flank of the glacier―clear, translucent ice, fissured by cavernous crevasses and tunnels. Although the chill of the ice struck through to their bones, they were still warmer than they would have been on the surface above, where a howling wind was now driving dense clouds of snow before it.

Ilga had been reluctant to accompany Conan, although he made it plain that he meant the lass no harm. She had tugged away from his hand, crying out an unfamiliar word, which sounded something like yakhmar. At length, losing patience, he had given her a mild cuff on the side of the head and carried her unconscious to the dank haven of the cave.

Then he had gone out to recover his bearskin cloak and the gear and supplies tied to his saddle. From the rocky slope that rose from the edge of the glacier, he had gathered a double armful of twigs, leaves, and wood, which he had carried to the cave. There, with flint and steel, he had coaxed a small fire into life. It gave more the illusion of warmth than true warmth, for he dared not let it grow too large lest it melt the nearby walls of the glacier and flood them out of their refuge.

The orange gleams of the fire shone deeply into the fissures and tunnels that ran back into the body of the glacier until their windings and branchings were lost in the dim distance. A faint gurgle of running water came to Conan's ears, now and then punctuated by the creak and crack of slowly moving ice.

Conan went out again into the biting wind, to hack from the stiffening body of his horse some thick slabs of meat. These he brought back to the cave to roast on the ends of pointed sticks. The horse steaks, together with slabs of black bread from his saddle bag, washed down with bitter Asgardian beer from a goatskin bottle, made a tough but sustaining repast.

Ilga seemed withdrawn as she ate. At first Conan thought she was still angry with him for the blow. But it was gradually borne upon him that her mind was not on this incident at all. She was, instead, in the grip of stark terror. It was not the normal fear she had felt for the band of shaggy brutes that had pursued her, but a deep, superstitious dread somehow connected with the glacier. When he tried to question her, she could do nothing but whisper the strange word, "Yakhmar! Yakhmarr while her lovely face took on a pale, drawn look of terror. When he tried to get the meaning of the word out of her, she could only make vague gestures, which conveyed nothing to him.

After the meal, warm and weary, they curled up together in his bearskin cloak. Her nearness brought to Conan's mind the thought that a bout of hot love might calm her mind for sleep. His first tentative caresses found her not at all unwilling. Nor was she unresponsive to his youthful ardor; as he soon discovered, she was not new to this game.

Before the hour of lovemaking was over, she was gasping and crying out in her passion. Afterwards, thinking her now relaxed, the Cimmerian rolled over and slept like a dead man.

The girl, however, did not sleep. She lay rigid, staring out at the blackness that yawned in the ice cavities beyond the feeble glow of the banked fire. At last, near dawn, came the thing she dreaded.

It was a faint piping sound―a thin, ullulating thread of music that wound around her mind until it was as helpless as a netted bird. Her heart fluttered against her ribs. She could neither move nor speak, even to rouse the snoring youth beside her.

Then two disks of cold green fire appeared in the mouth of the nearest ice tunnel―two great orbs that burned into her young soul and cast a deathly spell over her. There was no soul or mind behind those flaming disks― only remorseless hunger.

Like one walking in a dream, Ilga rose, letting her side of the bearskin cloak slide to her feet. Naked, a slim white form against the dimness, she went forward into the darkness of the tunnel and vanished.

The hellish piping faded and ceased; the cold green eyes wavered and disappeared. And Conan slept on.

Chapter Four

Conan awoke suddenly. Some eery premonition―some warning from the barbarian's hyperacute senses―sent its current quivering along the tendrils of his nerves. Like some wary jungle cat, Conan came instantly from deep, dreamless slumber to full wakefulness. He lay without movement, every sense searching the air around him.

Then, with a deep growl rumbling in his mighty chest, the Cimmerian heaved to his feet and found himself alone in the cavern. The girl was gone. But her furs, which she had discarded during their lovemaking, were still there. His brows knotted in a baffled scowl. Danger was still in the air, scrabbling with tenuous fingers at the edges of his nerves.

He hastily donned his garments and weapons. With his ax in his clenched fist, he thrust himself through the narrow space between the overhang and the flank of the glacier. Outside on the snow, the wind had died.

Although Conan sensed dawn in the air, no gleam of morning had yet dimmed the diamond blaze of thousands of throbbing stars overhead. A gibbous moon hung low above the western peaks, casting a wan glow of pale gold across the snow fields.

Conan's keen glance raked the snow. He saw no footprints near the overhang, nor any sign of struggle. On the other hand, it was incredible that Ilga should have wandered off into the labyrinth of tunnels and crevasses, where walking was almost impossible even with spiked boots and where a false step could plunge one into one of those cold streams of ice-melt that run along the bottoms of glaciers.

The hairs on Conan's nape prickled at the weirdness of the girl's disappearance. At heart a superstitious barbarian, he feared nothing mortal but was filled with dread and loathing by the uncanny supernatural beings and forces that lurked in the dark corners of his primeval world.

Then, as he continued to search the snow, he went rigid. Something had lately emerged from a gap in the ice a few strides from the overhang.

It was huge, long, soft, and sinuous, and it moved without feet. Its writhing track was clearly visible in the curving path that its belly had crushed in the soft whiteness, like some monstrous serpent of the snows.

The setting moon shone faintly, but Conan's wilderness-sharpened eyes easily read the path. This path led, curving around hillocks of snow and outjutting ledges of rock, up the hillside away from the glacier―up, toward the windswept peaks. He doubted that it had gone alone.

As he followed the path, a bulky, black, furry shadow, he passed the place where his dead horse had lain. Now there was little left of the carcass but a few bones. The track of the thing could be discerned about the remains, but only faintly, for the wind had blown loose snow over them.

A little further on, he came upon the girl―or what was left of her. Her head was gone, and with it most of the flesh of her upper body, so that the white bones gleamed like ivory in the dimming moonlight. The protruding bones had been cleaned, as if the flesh had been sucked from them or rasped off by some many-toothed tongue.

Conan was a warrior, the hard song of a hard people, who had seen death in a thousand forms. But now a mighty rage shook him. A few hours before, this slim, warm girl had lain in the mighty circle of his arms, returning passion for passion. Now nothing was left of her but a sprawled, headless thing, like a doll broken and thrown away.

Conan mastered himself to examine the corpse. With a grunt of surprise, he found that it was frozen solid and sheathed in hard ice.

Chapter Five

Conan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She could not have left his side more than an hour ago, for the cloak had still held some of the warmth from her body when he awoke. In so brief a time, a warm body does not freeze solid, let alone become encased in glittering ice. It was not according to nature.

Then he grunted a coarse expletive. He knew now, with inward loathing and fury, what had borne the sleeping girl from his side. He remembered the half-forgotten legends told around the fire in his Cimmerian boyhood. One of these concerned the dread monster of the snows, the grim Remora―the vampiric ice worm whose name was an almost forgotten whisper of horror in Cimmerian myth.

The higher animals, he knew, radiated heat. Below them in the scale of being came the scaled and plated reptiles and fishes, whose temperature was that of their surroundings. But the Remora, the worm of the ice lands, seemed unique in that it radiated cold; at least, that was how Conan would have expressed it. It gave out a sort of bitter cold that could encase a corpse in an armor of ice within minutes. Since none of Conan's fellow-tribesmen claimed to have seen a Remora, Conan had assumed that the creature was long extinct.

This, then, must be the monster that Ilga had dreaded, and of which she had vainly tried to warn him by the name yakhmar.

Conan grimly resolved to track the thing to its lair and slay it. His reasons for this decision were vague, even to himself. But, for all his youthful impulsiveness and his wild, lawless nature, he had his own rude code of honor. He liked to keep his word and to fulfill an obligation that he had freely undertaken. While he did not think of himself as a stainless, chivalrous hero, he treated women with a rough kindness that contrasted with the harshness and truculence with which he met those of his own sex. He refrained from forcing his lusts upon women if they were unwilling, and he tried to protect them when he found them dependent upon him.

Now he had failed in his own eyes. In accepting his rough act of love, the girl Ilga had placed herself under his protection. Then, when she needed his strength, he had slumbered unaware like some besotted beast.

Not knowing about the hypnotic piping sound by which the Remora paralyzed its victims and by which it had kept him―usually a light sleeper―sound asleep, he cursed himself for a stupid, ignorant fool not to have paid more heed to her warnings. He ground his powerful teeth and bit his lips in rage, determined to wipe out this stain on his code of honor if it cost him his life.

As the sky lightened in the east, Conan returned to the cave. He bundled together his belongings and laid his plans. A few years before, he might have rushed out on the ice worm's trail, trusting to his immense strength and the keen edges of his weapons to see him through.

But experience, if it had not yet tamed all his rash impulses, had taught him the beginnings of caution.

It would be impossible to grapple with the ice worm with naked hands.

The very touch of the creature meant frozen death. Even his sword and his ax were of doubtful effectiveness. The extreme cold might make their metal brittle, or the cold might run up their hafts and freeze the hand that wielded them.

But―and here a grim smile played over Conan's lips― perhaps he could turn the ice worm's power against itself.

Silently and swiftly he made his preparations. Gorged, the gelid worm would doubtless slumber through the daylight hours. But Conan did not know how long it would take him to reach the creature's lair, and he feared that another gale might wipe out its serpentine track.

Chapter Six

As it turned out, it took Conan little more than an hour to find the ice worm's lair. The dawning sun had ascended only a little way above the eastern peaks of the Eiglophians, making the snow fields sparkle like pavements of crushed diamonds, when he stood at last before the mouth of the ice cave into which the writhing snow track led him. This cave opened in the flank of a smaller glacier, a tributary of the Snow Devil. From his elevation, Conan could look back down the slope to where this minor glacier curved to join the main one, like the affluent of a river.

Conan entered the opening. The light of the rising sun glanced and flashed from the translucent ice walls on either side, breaking up into rainbow patterns and polychrome gleams. Conan had the sensation of walking by some magical means through the solid substance of a colossal gem.

Then, as he penetrated deeper into the glacier, the darkness congealed around him. Still, he doggedly set one foot before the other, plodding onward. He raised the collar of his bearskin cloak to protect his face from the numbing cold that poured past him, making his eyeballs ache and forcing him to take short, shallow breaths to keep his lungs from being frosted. Crystals of ice formed like a delicate mask upon his face, to shatter with each movement and as quickly to reform. But he went on, carefully holding that which he carried so gingerly inside his cloak.

Then in the gloom before him opened two cold green eyes, which stared into the roots of his soul. These luminous orbs cast a gelid, submarine light of their own. By their faint, fungoid phosphorescence, he could see that there the cavern ended in a round well, which was the ice worm's nest. Coil on undulating coil, its immense length was curled in the hollow of its nest. Its boneless form was covered with the silken nap of thick white fur. Its mouth was merely a jawless, circular opening, now puckered and closed. Above the mouth, the two luminous orbs gleamed out of a smooth, rounded, featureless, eel-like head.

Replete, the ice worm took a few heartbeats to react to Conan's presence. During the countless eons that the thing of the snows had dwelt in the cold silences of Snow Devil Glacier, no puny man-thing had ever challenged it in the frozen depths of its nest. Now its weird, trilling, mind-binding song rose about Conan, pouring over him in lulling, overpowering, narcotic waves.

But it was too late. Conan threw back his cloak to expose his burden.

This was his heavy steel horned Asgardian helm, into which he had packed the glowing coals of his fire, and in which the head of his ax also lay buried, held in place by a loop of the chin strap around the handle. A rein from his horse's harness was looped around the ax helve and the chin strap.

Holding the end of the rein in one hand, Conan whirled the whole mass over his head, round and round, as if he were whirling a sling. The rush of air fanned the faintly glowing coals to red, then to yellow, then to white. A stench of burning helmet padding arose.

The ice worm raised its blunt head. Its circular mouth slowly opened, revealing a ring of small, inward-pointing teeth. As the piping sound grew to an intolerable pitch and the black circle of mouth moved toward him, Conan stopped the whirl of the helmet on the end of its thong. He snatched out the ax, whose helve was charred, smoking and flaming where it entered the fiercely glowing ax head. A quick cast sent the incandescent weapon looping into the cavernous maw. Holding the helmet by one of its horns, Conan hurled the glowing coals after the ax. Then he turned and ran.

Chapter Seven

Conan never quite knew how he reached the exit. The writhing agony from the thing of the snows shook the glacier. Ice cracked thunderously all around him. The draft of interstellar cold no longer wafted out of the tunnel; instead, a blinding, swirling fog of steam choked the air.

Stumbling, slipping, and falling on the slick, uneven surface of the ice, banging into one side wall of the tunnel and then the other, Conan at last reached the outer air. The glacier trembled beneath his feet with the titanic convulsions of the dying monster within. Plumes of steam wafted from a score of crevasses and caverns on either side of Conan, who, slipping and skidding, ran down the snowy slope. He angled off to one side to get free of the ice. But, before he reached the solid ground of the mountainside, with its jagged boulders and stunted trees, the glacier exploded. When the white-hot steel of the ax head met the frigid interior of the monster, something had to give way.

With a crashing roar, the ice quivered, broke up, hurled glassy fragments into the air, and collapsed into a chaotic mass of ice and pouring water, soon hidden by a vast cloud of vapor. Conan lost his footing, fell, tumbled, rolled, slid, and fetched up with bruising force against a boulder on the edge of the ice flow. Snow stuffed his mouth and blinded his eyes. A big piece of ice up-ended toppled, and struck his boulder, nearly burying him in fragments of ice.

Half stunned, Conan dragged himself out from under the mass of broken ice. Although cautious moving of his limbs showed no bones to be broken, he bore enough bruises to have been in a battle. Above him, a tremendous cloud of vapor and glittering ice crystals whirled upward from the site of the ice worm's cavern, now a black crater. Fragments of ice and slush poured into this crater from all sides. The whole level of the glacier in the area had sunk.

Little by little the scene returned to normal. The biting mountain breeze blew away the clouds of vapor. The water from the melting of the ice froze again. The glacier returned to its usual near-immobility.

Battered and weary, Conan limped down into the pass.

Lamed as he was, he must now walk all the way to far Nemedia or Ophir, unless he could buy, beg, borrow, or steal another horse. But he went with a high heart, turning his bruised face southward―to the golden South, where shining cities lifted tall towers to a balmy sun, and where a strong man with courage and luck could win gold, wine, and soft, full-breasted women.

Conan The Relentless

PROLOGUE

Night in the wilderness of the Border Kingdom was not only the absence of light. Darkness was a presence in itself, which reached out to suck a man in until he could never return to the world of light.

In that darkness, the man who called himself Lord Aybas awoke slowly and reluctantly. In another life, under another name, he had been fit to drink and wench until dawn tinted the sky, then rise to do a day's work.

Now he was older. His name was different. The chief he obeyed was likewise different, and was harsher than any Aybas had served back in Aquilonia. Also, it was more often than not an uneasy sleep Aybas had here in the wilderness, on beds of cut branches or piled reeds, or even of leaves strewn on the sullen rock of the mountains.

Yet the true reason for Aybas's slow awakening lay elsewhere. It was a sound that he heard, riding the night wind as harshly as a troop of cavalry in a stone courtyard. He knew what followed on the heels of this sound. If he could sleep, he would not hear it and memories of what he heard would not trouble his dreams.

The sound grew louder. It was not a roar, or a growl, or a hiss, or a rumble like that of a great grindstone hard at work. It had something of all of these in it, but more that was its own.

It also had much in it that was not of the lawful earth or of any of its gods. Called on to put a name to these unearthly sounds, Aybas might have called them slobberings, or suckings.

He would also have prayed not to be asked to tell more. He could not, without revealing that he knew what those sounds meant. That was knowledge cursed alike by gods and men, neither of whom seemed to care much what happened in this wilderness.

At last Aybas threw off his sheepskin and stood. He would not sleep again tonight, unless the cause of the sounds did. The wizards might send it back to sleep, or at least silence it before dawn. They might also keep it awake and at its work until the sun shone even into the deepest parts of the gorge and the valley.

Even if he could sleep through the grisly uproar, it would not be an untroubled sleep. He had seen too much of what those sounds meant to ever forget any of it. Aybas's memories of what he had seen since he came among the Pougoi tribe would die only with him.

Even if it would cleanse his mind, death was not something he sought.

To avoid it, he had fled his native Aquilonia, changed his name, sold sword, honor, and everything else for which he could find a buyer, to end here in the Border Kingdom.

In tales told to Aquilonian children, the Border Kingdom was next to Stygia as a place where anything might happen, little of it clean or lawful. Aybas had long since learned that too much truth lay behind the tales told of Stygia. He was now learning the same about of those told of the Border Kingdom.

Boards creaked as Aybas walked to the door of his hut. Like most of the huts in the village, it was built on a slope so steep that one side had to be braced by entire tree trunks. Otherwise, anything left on the hut floor would roll merrily down to the low side. One fine night the hut itself might even leap wildly down the hill to its ruin.

The door also creaked as it opened on leather hinges, letting Aybas into the main street of the village. The street was actually a flight of steps, some carved from the rock itself, others rough-hewn planks pegged in place. What level ground the tribe called its own lay on the valley floor at the foot of the slope. Such rich bottomland was too precious to use for huts and storehouses.

Aybas had long since decided that if he stayed much longer with the Pougoi, he would find himself growing a tail for the better climbing of hills and trees. Then, if he survived the service of his present master, he could find work as a performing ape such as the Kushite merchants showed at fairs!

The village was lit only by the odd torch burning before a hut here and there. Clouds had veiled the moon since Aybas had retired. The wizards who called themselves Star Brothers did their work in darkness, save when they wanted to sow even more terror by showing what they did.

Aybas's breath caught in his throat as he saw the door open in a hut just downhill. A girl stood there, the shadowy figure of a man behind her. The girl wore nothing above the waist and only a leather skirt from supple waist to dimpled knees. The hut's torch spilled harsh yellow light on coppery hair and firm young breasts, and on muscular legs that Aybas had often imagined locked around him¦

As if Aybas's thoughts had been an unwanted touch, the girl turned.

Green eyes met his brown ones, and it was the Aquilonian who finally looked down. He was still staring when he heard a gruff voice say, "Come within, Wylla. There is naught to do, standing here to be gawped at."

"It was not that which I came for, Father. I thought”I hoped that if I was out here, the¦ the folk up yonder might know it. Even take comfort from it."

"Hsshht! No gabbling about that where he can hear!" The "he" was as plain as a pointing finger in meaning Aybas.

The Aquilonian waited until the door thumped shut behind Wylla, then let his breath out in a long, gusty sigh. So Wylla was losing her fear of the Star Brothers, at least enough to show pity for their victims?

This was more common among the Pougoi than either the wizards or Aybas's master cared to admit. Indeed, if all who had doubted the Star Brothers' virtue”if not their power”had been sacrificed, the Vale of the Pougoi would be very scant of inhabitants.

Perhaps it was time to make another example? If it was Wylla, could Aybas come forward and make a great show of asking for mercy? In return for certain long-craved favors, of course¦

The thought made the chill mountain night suddenly seem warm. Aybas felt sweat on his brow and wiped it away with a greasy hand. A gust of wind blew down the street, and sparks flew away into the darkness from the torch outside Wylla's hut.

As if the sparks had kindled it, a light shone forth from across the valley. A pinpoint at first, it swelled until it was a harsh blue glow, reaching out to strip the softness of night from the rocky bones of this mountain land.

It came from beyond a high dam of rocks, logs, and rammed earth. The dam blocked the entrance to the gorge across the valley and held within it a deep lake. On one side of the gorge's mouth, the cliffs leaped upward, to form themselves into a jutting crest shaped like a dragon's head.

On the dragon's head, two human figures stood, one tall and one short.

The blue wizard-fire glowed on their oiled skins and on the chains that bound them. Bound them for what would soon be climbing up from the lake, to seize them at the Star Brothers' command.

Aybas decided that it was time for him also to be inside his hut. His stomach was not always fit to endure seeing the wizards' pet feed, and the Star Brothers might see this weakness as enmity.

Then, to let Aybas keep the wizards' favor, it would take more gold than his master could afford. With no friends and many foes in this land, it would be time to journey again. Otherwise, he might end up on that dragon-headed rock, waiting for the mouth-studded tentacles to claim his blood and his marrow”

Aybas gagged at the thought and all but spewed. He staggered into his hut and collapsed on his pallet without closing the door. So he heard on the wind the splashing as the Star Brothers' pet heaved itself out of the water, heard the sucking and slobbering as it gripped the rock face and began to climb.

He had stuffed rawhide scraps into his ears before he heard the faint high call of pipes.

The fisherman and his son atop the dragon's head were more fortunate.

The pipes came to their ears with a sound clear and exciting, like war trumpets summoning cavalry to the charge.

The fisherman knew that the pipes could not really be making such a sound. Marr the Piper had magic at his command, as much as the Pougoi wizards had.

This did not surprise the fisherman. He had known that he risked much when he and his son went beyond Three Oaks Hill into a land where the man-hunting Pougoi warriors roamed. He had also known that in this land lay pools and streams rich in fat fish; salmon, trout, pike, even fresh-water oysters.

Nothing was ever won without danger in this life. Such was the gods'

will. The greater the victory, the greater the danger a man had to face to win it. The fisherman did not mourn his own shortened days. He would have given much to have refused his son's pleas to accompany him.

Now the boy stood in chains beside him, his days about to end before he had seen his fourteenth year. He bore himself like a man in spite of the weight of the chains and the agony of the raw welts across his back. He had been plain-spoken to the wizards, and they did not care for that. Or perhaps they thought to frighten the father by flogging the son.

No matter. That and all other questions would go forever unanswered as soon as what was climbing the cliff reached them.

It was hard to see it clearly. The wizards' magical light had turned the water of the gorge into blue fire, the mist swirling above it into blue smoke. The creature was larger than any riverboat that the fisherman had ever seen. It had tentacles where no creature outside a madman's dream would have them, and neither legs nor eyes.

Its color was that of a fish rotting on a sand spit in the sun; its sounds would have made the fisherman empty his stomach had it not already been empty.

It was then that the magic of the piping joined battle with the spells of the Star Brothers. The chains that bound father and son writhed like snakes. Then they snapped in the middle, leaving lengths dangling from wrists and ankles.

The piping also seemed to give the wizards' creature pause. It halted halfway up the cliff. Its call turned to a rumbling hiss, and its tentacles also writhed.

The fisherman looked about. There was no way down from the rock; a crevice”too wide to jump” sundered it from the hill. The Pougoi warriors had brought the sacrifices to their rock across a bridge of reeds and branches. Now the warriors had drawn the bridge back, and they stood beside the crevice, bows and spears ready.

Down was the only way, and death the only fate, for father and son. The fisherman still called the blessing of his people's gods and the rivers' spirits on Marr the Piper. His spell had given them the choice of a clean death.

"My son, it will be upon us soon. Will you come with me?"

The boy saw his fate in his father's eyes. The father saw knowledge, obedience, and love in his son's.

"Where you lead, I follow."

"I knew your mother and I had made a man."

The fisherman gripped his son's hand and they turned toward the valley.

Two short steps, a long third one, and then the final leap out into space.

The fisherman heard the wind in his ears. Its call seemed to him the river spirits welcoming him and his son home. He heard the outcry from the wizards. It seemed that his balking their pet of its prey was not to their liking.

Then the rock of the valley leaped up to smash him from the world, and he heard nothing more.

Aybas heard a great deal during the remaining watches of the night. He did not even try to sleep. Indeed, it seemed likely that the din must be waking babies and distracting lovers in Iranistan! Between the howling of the creature, the gabbling of the Star Brothers, the murmur of the Pougoi, and the uproar of stock from cattle down to cats, the valley echoed until past dawn.

The one sound that Aybas”and, he judged, others as well”were listening for did not come. It seemed that the piper had done his night's work and taken his leave.

This did not surprise Aybas. Marr the Piper had been a legend in the Border Kingdom for a generation, even before Aybas had left his native land. It was only in the last year or so that Marr had seemed ready to contend with the Star Brothers of the Pougoi. There had to be limits to the piper's magic, although Aybas did not imagine that he himself would be the lucky man to reap the reward for discovering them¦

As the sun rose, the Pougoi drifted away to their huts and pallets or to their day's labors. The first among the Star Brothers, the man Aybas called Forkbeard, climbed the street to accost the Aquilonian.

"This is the third time that Marr has befouled our rites," the wizard said.

"The other times must have been before I came among you," Aybas replied.

"You doubt my word?" Forkbeard asked sharply.

"You put words in my mouth," Aybas said, seeking to mix humility with firmness. "I only wish to remind you that I am newly come among the Pougoi. For what happened more than three moons ago. I must trust to you and your brothers."

"Our folk still will not speak to you?"

Aybas shook his head. "About many matters, such as hunting and ale, they are hospitality itself. About your work Aybas nodded toward the dam and the gorge "”they are less forthcoming."

Aybas waited, praying that the next question would be, "Do these silent ones seem to have a leader?" Instead, the Star Brother only twisted the brass wires that bound his graying beard into its three plaits.

The man seemed genuinely uneasy in mind and weary in body. Perhaps there was more to Marr the Piper than Aybas thought. Certainly it was not the time to enlist Forkbeard in his quest for Wylla. Aybas prayed that the time would come, before he forgot what to do with a woman when he had one in his bed!

When Forkbeard spoke again, it was not as Aybas had expected. "We must beat the hills and forests about the valley to find the piper or his lair," the Star Brother said.

"That will take many men."

"I see that you have eyes in your head to know the lay of our land. If your master can send more soldiers, archers above all, it will aid us greatly."

Aybas was torn between surprise and fear. Surprise that one of the hill tribes would gladly invite strangers into their homeland. Fear of what Forkbeard would say or do if Aybas confessed that the men were not to be had.

His master did not lack fighting men, but for the work he had in hand, he needed every one of them. He would have none to spare for chasing magical pipers up hill and down valley this far into the wilderness.

Forkbeard was frowning when inspiration touched Aybas. "My master would gladly send every man he can spare. But what use is even the best warrior when he does not know your land? I have been among you for three moons, and your children still know the land better than I do!"

"There is truth in what you say," Forkbeard conceded. "But our young men who know the land have other work. If they must leave it¦" He seemed to reach a decision. "Can your master send gold, so that we may fill our needs that way? Then our young men will be free to hunt the piper."

They would also be free to join with the men of Aybas's master when his master's plans came to full bloom. That plain truth might open coffers, if they were not already empty.

If the coffers were empty, Aybas knew that his time in the Border Kingdom was drawing to a close. He had served lords who tried to make fair words and silken promises serve in place of gold and silver. It was poor service, and more often than not, it led unwary folk to unwelcome meetings with the headsman.

If that lay in his future, Aybas would wait among the Pougoi until whatever his masters sent reached him. Then he would be sure that enough of somebody's gold found its way into his own purse, to buy him a safe passage out of the Border Kingdom.

"My masters will gladly send gold or goods, as you wish," Aybas said.

"You have only to say what you need and my message will depart at once."

"No man could do more."

Few would do as much, Aybas knew. The Star Brothers could thank their gods that Count Syzambry had sent them a man who had already closed doors against himself in too many lands!

Chapter 1

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Dawn touched a pool of clear, cold water at the edge of the trackless dark forests of the Border Kingdom. Dark water turned briefly rose-hued, then sapphire.

A man slipped from the shadows of the forest and crept to the edge of the pool. He moved as silently as a stalking cat, and his wide eyes ceaselessly studied the land about him. Those eyes were of an even colder blue than that of the pool, an odd match with his black hair, at least to those who did not know the look of Cimmeria.

The man's name was Conan. He had willingly used no other name in all his travels. A name was a potent thing in chill, barren Cimmeria, where life and death marched hand in hand. For the son of a blacksmith, closer to the gods than most, a name was best left untouched.

Conan had traveled far from his native village, learning in many lands the skills of slave, thief, warrior, and captain. Now he was bound southward from his native land after sundry adventures that had left him wishing to taste civilization again. Women, wine, and gold were hard to come by in Cimmeria. Selling his sword in Nemedia might bring him each in abundance.

But to reach Nemedia from Cimmeria, a man who did not wish to cross Brythunia had to brave the mountains and brawling tribes of the Border Kingdom. Conan, a hill man born and never one to shy from a fight, had chosen the straightest route south.

At this dawn, he had been four days within the Border Kingdom. He had seen little to make him wish to tarry, and last night he had witnessed something that made him wish to hasten onward. What could only have been witch-fire had blazed above the hilltops. It had been a long way off, but had it been in distant Khitai, it could not have been far enough for Conan's taste. He loathed sorcery with a passion.

At the edge of the pool Conan knelt to thrust a leather water bottle beneath the surface. It bubbled briefly as it filled. Then he tied it once more to his belt and returned to the forest by a different path than the one by which he had come.

Only when he was safely within the shadowy ranks of the forest giants did he rise to his full height. That was well over six feet, with muscles and sinews to match. A wise man would have given Conan a clear path even had the Cimmerian not carried a well-used broadsword.

His garb was a bearskin, leather breeches and boots, and a jacket of mail as well-used as the sword. A dagger rode on one hip, and a pouch of well-greased cloth held salt, nuts, and the remains of a rabbit he had snared the previous night.

Being no fool, Conan would not gladly walk when he could ride, and he had begun his journey south well-mounted. But he had lost his horse, and nearly his life, in a desperate battle against the monstrous yakhmar, the ice worm he had thought a creature of legend. It had been no legend, as the bones of a girl and his horse proved. Now at least one of the monsters lay dead beneath Snow Devil Glacier, brought down by a gulletful of red-hot coals flung by a muscular Cimmerian arm.

Conan was not a man to trouble uncaring gods with pleas for help, but he hoped they had no plans to match him with a yakhmar again!

Being otherwise well-accoutred for his journey, Conan had set off for the south on foot. He had sought a chance to trade for a mount in the villages on the northern frontier of the Border Kingdom, but found few openings. None would have given him a mount up to his weight, either.

Chances to earn a mount were fewer still, and as for stealing one, the villagers guarded their horses as if each was worth its weight in silver. Also, the folk were by blood more Cimmerian than not. Conan had little wish to steal from his own people, and no wish at all to do anything that might give him an evil name among them.

The deeper he passed into the Border Kingdom, the less he missed a horse. The entire land seemed to be built at a slant. Thrice he saw a patch of level ground large enough to maneuver his former squadron of Turanian horsemen. The rest of the land seemed to consist of hills either rising to peaks or sloping into valleys, rushing streams with a few quiet pools, and endless forests. In such a land, a hill man like the Cimmerian could make better time afoot. Also, in a land not without men but seemingly without law, he was rather harder to see. Twice he had seen the leavings of bandit attacks, once near-skeletons, the other time both living and dead. The living were two men so covered with flyblown wounds that they begged for the mercy of Conan's dagger. He had granted it.

Conan looked up through the treetops at the position of the sun. He had a good half day free for traveling before he needed to think about food. In this forest, those few hours would not take him as far as a man might wish, but the sun would guide his steps southward. The more he saw of the Border Kingdom, the less he wanted to tarry in it.

By mid-morning Conan had learned that the forest he traveled was neither as endless nor as uninhabited as he had thought. Twice he came upon well-worn foot trails, and once he passed a cluster of huts too few to deserve the name of village. A vegetable garden and racks for smoking meat told of how the folk here lived.

Conan's belly was reminding him that his next meal really ought to be more than half of a rabbit. His belly did not command his wits, however, which told him that he would be quickest out of the Border Kingdom if he passed through it like smoke on the wind, leaving no trace of his coming and no one to say that he had ever been there.

This resolution grew firmer about noon, when he left the trees and saw a wooded valley ahead. High on a crag to the left of the valley's mouth stood a ruined castle. At the foot of the same rocky eminence there straggled an abandoned village.

Before the least-ruined hut of the village stood a gallows, the long kind, fit for hanging a half score of men at a time. Three nooses dangled in the breeze now, and only two of these held bodies.

Well-ripened ones, too, Conan judged as a shift of the breeze brought a whiff of the corpses.

He wrinkled his nostrils, both at the stench and at the message he read in the dangling bodies. If two bandits were all that the local lord could bring to justice, it was one more proof that law sat lightly on this land. Conan was not one to worship the law when it stood between him and easy wealth, but the Border Kingdom seemed to have neither gold nor law.

It doubtless had archers, though, so Conan took care not to make an easy target of himself as he crossed to the mouth of the valley. The bow was not his weapon of choice, but he had learned its ways well enough in Turan to judge where an archer might lurk.

No arrows or other signs of life came his way before he reached the valley. At the bottom, a stream that almost deserved the name of a river flowed downhill. Beside it was a trail that clearly had borne shod mounts as well as booted feet, and not long ago.

Conan scrambled up the side of the valley as if the trail had been alive with serpents. He would use the trail if the lay of the land forced him to, but otherwise he would leave it to those who wished to make targets of themselves. He had long since learned that he would probably not die in bed from the onset of years. Likewise, he had learned how not to die young from witlings' mistakes.

By mid-afternoon he was well down the valley. He had devoured the rabbit and some wild mushrooms by a small stream. As he washed his hands, he thought he heard a distant bell chiming, but afterward judged it a trick of the wind.

A jagged spur of reddish rock plunged down from the crest across his path. It seemed an impassable barrier, and Conan reluctantly decided that he must at last strike downhill toward the trail.

He had covered perhaps half the distance when he heard the bell sound again. This time it was no trick of the wind. Indeed, it seemed to come from beyond the spur.

A moment later, he heard a bird calling. Or, rather, a man imitating a bird, not so well that Conan's woods-wise ears could not discern the fakery. Then an answering bird call came from the trees in front of Conan and not more than a hundred paces away.

Conan's sword leaped into his hand. Then he looked at the thick-grown trees and sheathed it again. For close work here, his dagger would serve better. There would be such work, he was certain, and he'd wager against the bird-callers.

But he'd not put the wager down, though, without asking a few questions first. Dropping to hands and knees, Conan began a slow downhill crawl.

He was as he had been by the pool: a stalking cat would have been loud by comparison.

Before he'd covered half of the hundred paces, he heard the bell chiming again. This time he knew the sound for what it really was: a horseshoe striking on rock. Listening intently as the breeze came and went, Conan heard the clinking shoes of several horses. These mounts, too, were beyond the spur of rock, but the volume of their chiming was growing steadily louder.

Had the horses been his, Conan would have muffled their hooves before taking them through this bandit-haunted forest. A grim smile crossed his face briefly. Perhaps some of the steeds would be his after this fight.

The approaching horsemen might well have no better claim to their mounts and goods than did whoever was stalking them. If the Cimmerian chose, he might assist in a change of ownership. He might depart the Kingdom afoot, but with the price of more than one mount in his purse.

Then he could begin his career in Nemedia rather less like a beggar and more like a man whom warriors would trust to lead them aright.

Conan was still cat-silent as he crept down the slope to where he had heard the birdcall. No rolling pebble or snapping twig alerted the men he sought. When he found them, he saw that three of them still had their eyes fixed to the front, as though they had no backs that might be vulnerable. The archer among them was looking to the side as he thrust his arrows point-first into the soil.

None of the men looked as if they had bathed or eaten properly for half a year. Their beards and hair would have done to stuff a mattress, and all of their garb together would barely have made one man fit to appear on the streets of a town. Yet their eyes and weapons were bright, and the Cimmerian knew that he faced no easy foes here, if foes they were to be.

The archer”rising from placing his last arrow to unsling his bow”was the first to see Conan. His eyes widened as he saw the Cimmerian loom over him, and he hastened his movement. Unslinging his bow brought it within Conan's reach. A muscle-corded hand, well-furnished with sword calluses, gripped the curved ash. The archer tried to free his weapon.

He might as well have tried to loose it from the grip of a troll. His eyes widened more.

"Easy, man," the Cimmerian said. He spoke in a low voice, one clearer than a whisper but carrying no farther. "Who comes?"

"A caravan for the king," the archer replied. This drew a glare from one of the others, which faded swiftly as Conan returned it.

"What king?" There were some rulers whom Conan had no wish to turn into enemies. There were also some who had long since put a price on his head.

"The Border king, of course," the archer said as if addressing a witling.

That told Conan little, but perhaps that little was enough. If he would be shaking the dust of the Border Kingdom from his feet within days, did it matter if he took some of its king's goods with him?

"How many are you, and how set?" Conan asked.

The bandits looked at one another. The sound of the approaching horsemen was now an almost continuous ringing, like tiny forges hard at work.

"I'll not be your enemy unless you give me cause," the Cimmerian said.

"But I'll be no kind of friend until I know if you're worth befriending."

The bandits looked Conan up and down. One of them shifted position, until a look from both Conan and a comrade nailed his feet to the ground. "Your backs are safe from me as long as mine is safe from you,"

Conan added.

The sturdiest of the bandits seemed to reach a decision. "Four men on either side of the trail, on this side of the spur," he said. He jerked a thumb toward the spur.

"No more?"

"Half again as many to the other side of the spur. Runs across the valley, it does, with a gap for the trail. The others, they jump out, drive the caravan through the gap. 'Stead o' safety, they find us, blocking the trail."

Then the first bandits would pour through the gap, taking the caravan in the rear. Unable to move, mounted men lost their greatest advantage in fighting those on foot. Conan himself had learned as much in Turanian service, where light-armed foot frequently overmatched mounted nomads if the foot could chose their ground.

"Well and good," Conan said. "Where do you want me?"

The bandit leader jerked a thumb again, this time toward the left.

Conan understood. That flank would trap him between the other bandits and the spur. If he had thoughts of treachery or flight, he might not live to act upon them.

Or so the bandits intended. Conan would not quarrel with their folly, or with anything else about them, unless they gave him cause. Before he took his leave of them, though, he might teach them a lesson or two about judging Cimmerians.

The bandits now spread out in a line some forty paces long. The farther end of the line was out of Conan's sight in the underbrush. The bandit leader was just barely in view, and Conan knew it meant that the man probably could not see him. A glance also showed Conan several places where, with a few steps, he could become as invisible as the air. One of the places, he judged, would not only hide him from his new and dubious comrades, but would allow him to see clearly what lay on the trail.

It was no part of Conan's plan to follow the bandits into a fight against impossible odds or against folk he might not wish to have as enemies.

The Cimmerian had just finished settling into place when the bandits beyond the spur launched their attack. Bloodcurdling shrieks rose, echoed by the screams of horses torn by sharp steel or arrowheads.

Those men not shrieking hurled war cries at one another, and more than war cries. Conan heard stones cracking hard against shields.

Then he caught a single word in one of the war cries. It was a name, and at the sound of it, Conan's blood leaped in his veins.

"Raihna! Raihna! Raihna!"

Chapter 2

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Conan had never known the woman by any name save "Raihna," the name a score of leather-lunged men were now shouting as a war cry. But he had known her well as battle comrade, shrewd judge of horseflesh, cheerful bedmate”and companion on an adventure into the Ibars Mountains that had been the stuff of nightmares.

If this was the same Raihna. It was not an uncommon name in Bossonia and several other lands. Conan felt no call to bare steel in defense of a total stranger.

He dropped his bearskin, shifted his sword so that it would not clatter against the rock, and flung himself at the face of the spur. Fingers with an iron grip and booted feet found holds, and the Cimmerian swiftly mounted the height. As he climbed, he drew steadily to the right, to where he could catch a glimpse through the gap.

The bandits had once again forgotten that they had backs that might be vulnerable, and this time they also forgot that they had flanks. Conan scrambled up to his intended perch without so much as a glance from below.

It was his Raihna. The woman who sat a scrubby but strong-limbed mare in the middle of the fight wore a helmet that covered a good part of her face. Her breasts now strained a much-repaired hauberk. Conan recognized the wide, gray eyes, the freckles on the uptilted nose, and the long, fine neck.

Then she shouted a string of orders, and certainty became more certain still. The voice had roughened a trifle since they had parted, but dust and winters on the road would leave their traces on a throat of brass.

A man leaped from a tree onto the rump of Raihna's mount. The mare staggered under the assault, but her rider was equal to the situation.

Unable to swing her sword for fear of hitting comrades, Raihna drove the pommel into the man's face. His short sword grated on her mail; then its point caught in a broken link and drove through. Conan saw Raihna's lips tighten.

He also saws her hand rise, holding a stout Aquilonian dagger drawn from her boot. The bandit was so busy trying to press home his sword thrust that he never saw the steel that opened his throat. His eyes were wide but unseeing as he toppled off the horse, leaving both Raihna and the mare drenched in another's blood.

Conan sought a foothold with which to begin his descent. He had no bow, nor was he the most accomplished archer. Indeed, it would have taken an archer of miraculous gifts to send an arrow into that tangled fight without hitting friend rather than foe.

One bandit exchanging swordcuts with a guard saw Conan. His eyes widened and he shook his head, then opened his mouth to shout. It seemed he could not decide what the Cimmerian might be about. This moment of doubt ended when the guard grappled him and rammed a short sword up between his ribs. The bandit died with his mouth and eyes wide open, his questions about Conan forever unanswered.

As Conan sought his next foothold, an arrow cracked into the rock next to him. He looked down and saw that he could drop the rest of the way in safety. He landed with a force that would have broken the bones of a lesser man, but he rolled and came up into a crouch. He heard shouting from the bandits, with the leader calling the archer the son of more fathers than a dog has fleas and other pleasant names.

Perhaps the archer had not waited for his chief's orders before shooting. If so, the quarrel between the bandits would give Conan his best opportunity to strike.

He would strike, too, for Raihna and her men. Nothing that the Cimmerian believed in, neither honor nor gods nor the simple courtesy due a bedmate, would allow him to do otherwise.

He must also strike swiftly. The bandits on the other side of the gap were doing as they intended, herding Raihna's caravan forward”forward through the gap to what she might be thinking was safety, but to what would instead be more like a killing pen.

The caravan guards would sell their lives dearly when they learned the truth, of course. There would be fewer bandits by the time the survivors of the band laid hands on the caravan. Conan intended that there would be still fewer, and none of them grasping the king's goods.

The quarreling bandits were now making as much of a din as they would in a wineshop in Aghrapur. If the fight beyond the gap had not been making more, they would have given warning of their planned ambush.

As it was, the archer was not too distracted to miss Conan's reappearance. He whirled, nocked an arrow, and shot just as the leader clutched his arm. This sent the arrow flying wildly; Conan's leap behind a tree was hardly needed to save his skin.

It proved useful, though, in surprising the bandits. They stared about them as if the Cimmerian had vanished into the air. They were looking the other way when Conan burst from behind the tree, sword in one hand and bearskin in the other.

The bearskin flew through the air, wrapping itself about the archer's head and shoulders. He fought himself clear of it quickly enough to give him a shot at most men.

The Cimmerian was not most men, as the archer swiftly and direly learned. As he nocked another arrow, Conan's broadsword slashed at his bow. The string parted, splinters of ash flew from the wood, and the archer leaped back, dropping his weapon.

He also leaped back squarely into the path of his leader. For a moment, the two men were as one, and that one incapable of moving against Conan. The leader seemed to believe that no man so large could move fast enough to gain from this situation.

In the next heartbeat, he died of that misjudgment. Conan's sword hissed in a deadly arc, ending with a solid chunk! as it clove the man's head. He wore a stained leather cap reinforced with rusty iron bars, but Conan's blade sliced through it as if it were parchment.

Indeed, it sank so deep into the leader's skull that for a moment the Cimmerian was not master of his own blade.

With desperate courage, the archer drew his dagger and sought to grapple and stab. He grappled, but the stab ended in futility against the Cimmerian's mail. Then Conan's free hand slammed into the archer's jaw hard enough to snap the man's neck and fling him backward into a tree, thereby cracking his skull as well.

Conan freed his sword, stepped free of the bodies, and faced the next bandit. The man had no weapon fit to face the dark-haired giant he saw before him, and no wish to die before his time. Judging from the crashing in the bushes, his comrade felt likewise.

Much to Conan's pleasure, neither of the surviving bandits thought to shout a warning to their comrades on the far slope. The Cimmerian was free to move against those comrades as he wished.

He knelt and examined the bow. It had suffered more than a trifle when his sword knocked it out of the archer's hands, but the dead man had a spare bowstring wound about his waist. With swift and supple fingers, Conan restrung the bow, then drew one of the arrows from the ground and nocked it.

The weapon would do well enough. It was not the curved horsebow Conan had learned to use in Turan, nor the stout Bossonian longbow. With the horsebow, a man could put five arrows into a man-sized target at two hundred paces from the back of a galloping horse, with the last arrow in flight before the first struck. With the longbow, Bossonian yeomen could drive a shaft as long as a man's arm through Aquilonian mail and a hand's breadth into the man under the mail.

Conan had no need to do either today. All he had to do was to persuade the bandits across the trail that enemies now stood where they had thought friends to be. Their own fear would do the rest, as the Turanian High Captain Khadjar had so often told those he thought worth teaching among the captains of the realm's irregulars.

"He who rules his mind on a battlefield will be the victor in the end,"

Khadjar once said. "He who lets fear rule it will be either a dishonored fugitive or fare for the vultures."

Wise words from a wise man, now chasing Picts on the Aquilonian border”if no one had sent assassins after him. Perhaps Raihna had heard something?

Perhaps, but she needed to survive this battle to tell it. Conan jerked the string of the bow to his ear, then shot. The arrow darted through a gap in the trees to vanish in the forest across the trail.

It needed two more arrows before anyone over there so much as cried out. Even then, it was a curse on a friend for ill-aimed archery. It was not until the sixth arrow that a scream told Conan of drawn blood.

Two more arrows flew, and he was nocking yet another when the bandits did what he least expected. They attacked.

Not four, but at least twice that many, charged out of the woods. Conan sent the nocked arrow into one man's chest and he fell, writhing. The others came on. It seemed that they had the wits to know how to set their trap anew. Drive off this foe who had sprung from the earth and they would once more command both sides of the trail.

The bandits had more than courage. They had luck, at least at first.

Conan had no time to even think of picking his ground before the vanguard of the caravan spilled through the gap.

In a moment, bandits, pack animals, and guards” both mounted and dismounted”were as mingled as a nest of serpents in the Vendhyan jungles. Conan did not dare shoot another arrow. He had worked upon those bandits' minds, but not as he had intended. If this tangle of fighting men and frightened animals lasted for more than moments, it would block the gap as tightly as ever the bandits could wish.

When one road to victory was blocked, the Cimmerian never hesitated to take another. He flung himself downhill, leaping bushes and rocks, darting around trees, both sword and dagger gleaming in his hands.

Seeking surprise, he uttered no war cry, but the sound of his passage gave warning nonetheless.

Fortunately, it was warning to friend and foe alike. The bandits on the trail turned to face him. The guards had the wits to see this. When Conan burst onto the trail, the guards already thought him likely to be a friend.

This doubtless saved his life in the next moment. He thrust with his dagger at one opponent, but the man lunged for the Cimmerian's legs.

The dagger thrust passed over the man, and Conan's sword was occupied with another opponent. Caught off balance, Conan reeled.

Then a guard vaulted over a pack mule and landed on the back of the bandit gripping the Cimmerian's legs. The guard drew no weapon and needed none. Above the din of the battle, Conan heard the man's spine crack and felt his arms ease their grip.

Conan stepped clear of the dying bandit and held his other opponent at arm's length for a moment with deft swordplay. Then his instincts warned of new danger. He feinted at the first man, whirled, and sliced from a bare, hairy shoulder an arm wielding a tulwar. The man shrieked, tried vainly to stanch the blood, then stopped shrieking as his strength failed him.

By the time Conan could return to his first opponent, the man was dead.

He had backed into easy reach of the guard, who had no lack of weapons or dearth of skill to use them. The bandit lay with a gaping neck wound that half severed his head.

By now the outpouring of blood was turning the rocky ground of the path into a ruddy ooze that offered precarious footing. Conan leaped onto a boulder, then down onto drier ground. This not only gave him better footing, it put him closer to the foremost edge of the battle.

A bandit who thought no foe was within reach learned otherwise as he bent to slit the saddlebags of a dying horse. He died before the horse did as Conan gripped a greasy pigtail with one hand and rammed his dagger into the man with the other. The bandit fell on saddlebags already half-open and spilling vials and pots whose seals bore runes Conan did not recognize.

The guard who'd already fought beside Conan came to join him, and now each man had a safe back as he faced the bandits. One of the bandits who had fled emerged from under a tangle of bushes, his courage renewed, or perhaps hoping for easy pickings.

Whether from courage or greed, his return to the battle brought him only swift death. Conan was ready for the bandit's leap into the middle of the fight. A stoutly booted foot shot up like a stone from a siege engine to catch the man in mid-leap. He doubled up with a sound that was half gasp, half scream. As he toppled to the ground, Conan's sword split the back of his skull.

After that the battle swiftly took on the common shape of such affairs: a confused blur of steel flashing and clanging, men shouting and screaming, and bodies writhing or lying still. It began to seem to Conan that he had far more opponents than the bandits could have furnished. He had a moment's chilling thought, that new bandits were indeed rising from the ground, or that those he had slain were coming back to life.

A moment later he realized that the abundance of foes was owing to the bandits trying to flee past him. Raihna, or someone with his wits about him, had blocked the gap and thus the retreat of every foe who had passed through it. The gap was now working against the very men who had thought to use it. Their one remaining, thought was to flee, an endeavor that led them past Conan.

This, in turn, led to butcher's work for the Cimmerian. When he finished, he awoke as from a daze to find himself standing in the trail. He was bloody from chin to boots, his weapons hardly less so, and the ground around him a mosaic of blood and bodies.

As the battle rage ebbed, he noticed that the surviving guards were keeping their distance from him. One archer had not slung his bow, although he had not yet nocked an arrow. Another, a dark-faced, bearded man, was making what Conan recognized as a sign against the evil eye, over and over again.

"Raihna!" Conan shouted. The name came out like the croak of a giant frog. The Cimmerian realized then that he must have been fighting like an Aesir berserker. Small wonder that even those he had aided were wary of him!

"Raihna!" This time the name came out as if spoken in a known human tongue. The guards recognized it and stared at him. The bearer of the name also recognized it but did not stare. Under the helmet, her fair, freckled face had its own share of bloody smears. Now her features were drawn together in an intent frown.

Conan laughed. He could almost hear her wondering, "When in my travels did I meet this giant berserker, that he calls my name as if we were old friend?"

"Raihna of Bossonia," Conan said more quietly. "I am Conan the Cimmerian. I swear this, by the gods of my own people and by anything else you want me to swear by."

He knew much about her that would remove all questions of who he was¦
and he doubted that she would much care for having these matters talked of in broad daylight before her men.

Raihna's frown trembled, then vanished. Her full lips trembled also, before curving into a smile. In a single fluid series of movements, she sheathed her sword, slid from her saddle, and crossed the bloody ground to the Cimmerian.

"Conan?" She sounded delighted and wondering at the same time.

"I've no twin brother that I know of, and no sorcerer has ever done much with an image of me. Trust me, Raihna. I am here."

"Oh, Mitra!"

For a moment it seemed to Conan that Raihna would swoon. He raised a hand, ready to save her from this indignity. It would cost her some obedience from her men, that he did not doubt. Without the battle haze in his eyes, he saw them for a stout band who would not readily take orders from a woman. No, better said: would not take orders from most women.

But Raihna was not most women. It hardly surprised Conan to see her with her own band of caravan guards in less than two years after she had left Turan as a simple guard in another's band.

What did surprise him was that their paths should cross again here, in this dreary wilderness that called itself the Border Kingdom. Yet that was most probably another tale best saved until later.

Raihna now seemed to have regained command of herself. She reached up and tugged at a stray lock of Conan's black hair.

"Gods, it is no bad thing to see you again. Better still, when you have put me”us”so much in your debt. I swear that I will find some way to

"Pay that debt?" Conan said with a grim smile. Again thinking of her authority, he lowered his voice. "Best pay it by rallying your men and moving on." He told of his own battle in the trees in a few words, leaving out altogether his first notions about joining the bandits.

"You have the right of it, Conan. If these wretches have friends, that one you put to flight may send them warning. And we are hardly in a fit state to meet them if they come."

Raihna seemed to grow a hand's breadth in height, and Conan would have sworn that her eyes glowed. When she turned their gaze on her men and snapped out a half-score of commands, they leaped to obey as if a warrior goddess was among them.

Conan resolved to worry less about Raihna's authority among her men and more about his own welcome. He would have her favor, but many in the southern lands did not know Cimmerians. Some of those, like fools everywhere, feared what they did not know.

Seeing that Raihna had matters well in hand, Conan strode off uphill.

He returned with the leader's body and the discarded weapons of the bandits he had slain.

"Best not to leave anything lying about that some witling can pick up,"

he said of the weapons. Raihna nodded, then looked a silent question about the body.

"He has some rank among these mongrels," Conan said. "There's also a public gallows a bit farther on, at the foot of a hill with a ruined castle atop it. Hang this fellow up and it might send a message to any friends who think of trying us again."

Raihna nodded. "You were always a longheaded man for one of your years."

Conan laughed. "You make me sound like a green lad!"

"No," she said, and both her voice and her eyes held memories that made Conan's blood leap. "No lad."

Then she was the war captain again, calling to her men to contrive a pack animal or a litter for the bandit's body.

Conan stood apart, smiling. The promise had been made and returned. Now they needed only darkness.

Chapter 3

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A few of Raihna's men wanted to track the fleeing bandits.

"Keep 'em from warnin' their friends, be there any," one man said.

"And loot anything the friends stole from other caravans, I'll be bound?" Raihna smiled as she spoke, but her voice was as hard as the rock where she sat.

"Well”I'll not deny that, Mistress."

"Good. You're truthful, if not wise. We have four dead and six hurt past fighting again today. This forest is no place to be dividing our strength against foes who likely know it well."

The man took the rebuke with a shrug and a smile and set to work mending the harness of a pack mule.

In less time than Conan needed for a meal at a good wineshop, the caravan was on the march again. As they retraced Conan's path from the ruined castle and gallows, the Cimmerian rode in the van. Raihna rode in the center, well out of earshot, which denied Conan the chance for a discreet word with her.

Not that he would have taken it had they been riding side by side.

Every eye and every ear would be needed until they left the forest, and every mouth had best remain closed.

Clouds and the passing of the day had brought twilight to the land before they reached the gallows. It was then that Raihna drew rein beside the Cimmerian and studied the ruined village.

"I like not the looks of that place, Conan. Know you anything of it, for good or for ill?"

"You have no one from this realm among your men?"

"Folk of the Border Kingdom who have won free of it seem not overeager to return, I have learned. I had good men of my own, and no wish to burden them with fainthearts."

Conan nodded. One willing man was worth three dragged into an undertaking. Moreover, a native of this land could well have been in league with the bandits.

"Castle or village?" Conan asked.

"The path up to the castle's too steep for the beasts, and I'll not be dividing the men here, either," Raihna said.

"Then it's the village or sleep wet and cold tonight," Conan said, looking at the sky. It had grown yet more sullen in the time they sat their mounts, watching the bandit's body rise to the gallows.

"That would ill serve our wounded," Raihna said. She cupped her hands.

"Ho! We camp in the village tonight. Find the softest stones and the driest mud it offers, and see to the animals. Blue Watch takes first guard."

She turned to Conan. "That means me. The sergeant of Blue Watch is among the wounded. But I will not be awake all night."

Conan grinned. "You mean, you'll not be standing guard all night.

Whether you sleep or not

"You seem sure of your prowess, Cimmerian!"

"Have I no reason?"

Raihna returned Conan's grin. "If you press me for an answer, I would not deny it. But before I see to the men”what brought you from Turan?

The service of spylord Mishrak again?"

Conan suggested that Mishrak defiled he-goats and pissed in wells, then laughed. "Not Mishrak, nor anyone in Turan, bade me here. Indeed, the farther the better from Turan for a few years."

He told of his final year in the Turanian service and of how it had ended in flight when a high-ranking officer took offense at the Cimmerian's ways with the man's mistress. He told more briefly of his travels afterward, north to Cimmeria and then south again.

"I doubt not that Mishrak had a finger in one or two of my journeys before I dusted Turanian soil from my boots," Conan said. "But Crom spare me from ever having to serve him again as we once did."

A shadow passed over Raihna's face, and she gripped Conan's hand. Then she smiled again and dismounted. "I must be about my work. You see to our mounts and baggage, and I will join you in good time."

Conan watched Raihna stride toward where her men were tethering the pack animals and unloading them. She was as fair as ever to a man's eye, but it seemed that far more years than before sat upon her shoulders.

No, it was not the years. It was the weight of being a captain, a weight the Cimmerian had come to know rather better than he wished.

If Raihna was southward bound after finishing her work here in this godless wilderness, perhaps he should join her. A captain's burden could be lighter if borne on two sets of shoulders.

Aybas had slept much of the day, for the night before had been as hideous as ever a night of sacrifice could be. It seemed to him that the Pougoi wizards were in fear of something mightier than themselves, or of their sworn foe, or of both. In their fear, they were sending the warriors farther and farther abroad to snatch victims for their beast.

Last night there had been no less than five victims - one a girl-child years from womanhood. Five victims, and no piper playing in the night to give the chained wretches a chance at a clean death. No piper to unsettle the Star Brothers”and Aybas realized more and more that it pleased him to see those bearded bloodsuckers rolling their eyes with fear of the unknown!

The gods only knew that he himself had been doing enough of that since he took the service that had led him here. What kept Aybas at his work now was the knowledge that he might be near to finishing it. He also knew that if he fled without finishing the work, he was unlikely to leave the Border Kingdom alive. He had come too far to leave his bones in the wilderness out of fear or whim.

The knocking on the door of his hut was loud enough to awaken a dead man, so Aybas listened to the voices with his senses alert. He had his sword drawn before he undid the latch to admit a Star Brother. Before he slammed the door behind the man, he saw that the guards standing outside wore long faces.

"What has the piper done now? Frightened your pet into a fit?"

The Star Brother glared and made what Aybas hoped were useless gestures of aversion. Aybas decided to guard his tongue. True, Count Syzambry needed the Pougoi warriors, but he needed the wizards to keep the warriors willing to do his bidding. For that the wizards needed their pet”and their pet needed its horrid food.

"Lowlander, we rejoice in the gold your master sends. But as for you, we can ill-speak you more easily than you might imagine."

Aybas was not sure whether the wizard meant that he would carry tales to the count or cast a spell. The Aquilonian decided not to hazard either.

"Forgive me. I slept ill and have not a fever, he would not say that for fear the wizards would try to heal him "”a flux." Yes, a flux. Even here in this wizard-haunted wilderness, they healed fluxes with herbs and wise women's simples, not with spells passed down from places and times far better lost to the memory of man!

"Have you summoned the wise woman?" the wizard asked.

"No, but I will do so at once when you have spoken. The ills of my flesh are of small importance if you bring great news."

The flattery ended the rites of aversion without gaining a smile. The Star Brother inclined his head in what he no doubt thought was a gracious gesture.

"The news is not yet great, but soon will be. The first band is ready and will do its work tonight, at the hunting lodge."

"Is it known if both Princess Chienna and her son are in residence?"

"Of the princess, we can be certain. Of the babe, my Brother seems less sure."

Aybas would have prayed that old King Eloikas's grandson Prince Urras was absent from the lodge where his mother lay. Prayers rising from this land, however, seemed more likely to draw the wrath of the gods than their favor.

So he merely hoped that the babe would be absent and that only his mother princess Chienna would be abducted tonight. That would be enough to either bring the old king to heel and win Chienna's hand for Count Syzambry or to force Eloikas into open warfare against the count. In either case, Aybas would be done with wizards, if not with the Border Kingdom!

But that happy time was yet to come. Now Aybas could not ask even one Star Brother to leave his hut. Indeed, the man seemed to have more news, if one could read as much of his countenance as showed above his beard.

"Has aught gone ill elsewhere?"

"A band of the Free Friends the name the bandits of the realm gave themselves "”sought to while away the time by taking a royal caravan.

It would have been a shrewd blow had they done the work and lived to guard our folks' path homeward."

"But they did not?"

"All but a handful who fled died. Those who fled spoke of a giant, conjured from stone and set loose among them. Our foes seem to have more spells at their command than we had thought."

"Or more men?" Aybas withheld a sigh. "Look you, Brother. All the gods be witness, you and your comrades know more of magic than I had thought mortal men had it in them to apprehend. But I know rather more of war and battle as they are waged outside these hills. Rather than fear sorcery, fear lest the caravan has taken some of the Friends prisoner and forced them to reveal what they know of our plans. Bid the men who take the princess to retreat by a different route, to hide by day and march by night, to speak to no one, and to delay for nothing save the end of the world!

"That will do as much against our enemies as any spell you can cast or any score of folk you might¦"” he would not say, "let your pet slaughter"take up."

"Will you never be done with insolence, Lowlander?"

It was in Aybas's mind to say that his insolence was a child's compared to that of Count Syzambry. But he held his peace. Let the wizards find out what manner of man they had bound themselves to when the count ruled in this land. It would be a harsh lesson, and by then Aybas would be well-hidden, far from the Border Kingdom.

"Forgive me again if I give offense. It is not my wish to do so. But it is very much my wish that work so well begun should not fail now through simple mischance."

"The message you set forth will be sent, Aybas. Will that content you?"

"Entirely." Aybas knew that he would not have won more had he offered the wizards the treasury of the priests of Set!

The clouds that had loomed overhead through the twilight passed on without dropping more than a cupful of rain. Conan saw lightning and heard the crash of thunder to the west as the storm moved on, but the caravan made a dry camp.

Although Conan had no duties once he had unpacked Raihna's baggage, he took his share of the camp duties nonetheless. It was plain that some among the men had guessed that he and Raihna were once lovers. It was plainer still that all wished to know more about this man to whom they most likely owed their lives.

So Conan drank as much as he wished and could have drunk more than was wise. He brought his sword to the armorer to be examined for nicks.

Cimmerian work was not often seen by armorers from the south, and Cimmerian swords wielded with deadly effect by the sons of Cimmerian smiths hardly ever. Conan and the armorer had a pleasant enough chat over the wine.

He helped a groom oil leather saddlebags that showed signs of cracking.

He helped two newly hired boys repack vials of herbs and simples nastily scooped up from the ground where they had fallen during the fight. He helped another boy with a potter's deft hands for clay mend a broken jug that held something foul-smelling beyond all belief.

"This will give King Eloikas a great power against his enemies, or so it is said," the potter explained.

"Phaugh!" Conan said, yearning for fresh air or, at least, the closing of the jug. "What will he do? Invite them all to dine and then unstopper this jug at the banquet? Surely enough, the stink will slay them all."

The potter frowned and did not reply. Conan felt a chill of unease deep within. Was King Eloikas dabbling in sorcery? Even if he did so because his enemies had begun it, Conan wanted no part of such duels of magic.

If Raihna was going toward the place of such a duel, he was honor-bound to follow her as far as she went. But he would hope that it was not too far, or that if it was, a stoutly wielded sword could win him free again.

In twenty-three years of life, the Cimmerian had learned that sorcerers seldom made a good end. They also made an even worse end for far too many other folk before they came to their own.

"Forget that I asked," Conan said. "I bear King Eloikas no ill will. I will even bear his ill-smelling gifts, if I must."

The potter's frown eased. They chatted briefly, and then Conan moved on to the hut where the wounded lay. There were five of them now, for one had died since reaching the village. As Conan entered, the leech was kneeling beside a man who was clearly taking his last breaths.

Man? Boy, rather; hardly older than Conan had been when he first felt the lash of the slaver's whip. A boy, dying far from home and clearly fearing that he had not done well in his first and only battle.

Conan knelt beside the lad's pallet. "Easy, there. What is your name?"

"Rasmussen, Cap¦ tain."

"Aesir or Vanir?"

"Vanir!" Even dying, the boy had the strength for indignation. Conan smiled.

"Did you¦ did you see me fighting? Did I do well?" Rasmussen gasped.

His northern fairness had turned the color of fresh-fallen snow. Only his eyes held color now.

"Twice, when I had time to look about." Conan said. He had not in fact laid eyes on the boy until this evening, but this was one of those lies that any honest man would tell and any god forgive.

"I did well?"

"Rass, your strength the leech began.

"I¦ tell me, Captain!"

"You paid your way, Rasmussen," Conan said. "Few can do more in their first fight, and many do not do as much."

"Conan tells the truth," came Raihna's voice from behind Conan. "I made a good bargain when I took you on."

But she was talking to a set face and staring eyes. After a moment, she joined the two men beside the pallet and with her sword-callused thumbs, closed the boy's eyes. Then she swayed, and Conan contrived to keep her from falling without appearing to do so.

Presently Raihna was in command of herself again. No words were needed as they walked back to the hut Conan had chosen for them. Still in silence, they sat across from each other while Conan poured the last wine from a skin into two wooden cups.

"To old comrades," Raihna said. They clicked cups, then drank. When her cup was empty, Raihna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and regained something of her old manner. Then she shook her head with a rueful grin.

"Conan, I wish I had half your skill in telling lies to soothe the dying."

"What lies?" the Cimmerian growled. "I said the lad had done as well as any man does in his first fight. He did not run, and all of his wounds were in front. That is as well as most men do."

Raihna shook her head again. "Conan, you were born a hundred years old."

Conan threw his head back and his laughter raised echoes in dusty corners. "Tell that to the thieves of Zingara. It was said, when I was learning their craft, that a wise thief would not be caught in the same quarter of the city with Conan the Cimmerian. The great lout would warn his prey, the watch, all soldiers sober or drunk, and even the fleas on the watchdogs!"

"They said that of you?"

"Not to my face, I grant you. But, in their cups, some forgot that I was hearing. I let it pass."

He pulled off his boots. "But telling tales of my past will be dry work with the wine gone. What of you? Caravan guarding seems to have done well for you."

Raihna's men seemed well-seasoned, save for the lads, and they were certainly well-armed. They were also well-furnished with things like purgative herbs and spare boots. Conan had known the lack of such small matters to leave great gaps in the ranks of a company, even if it had no enemy to face.

Raihna wore baggy leather trousers”unable to disguise the long, supple legs within”that hung down over the best sort of Argossean riding boot.

The dagger on her belt was of good Aquilonian work, as was the mail now lying in the corner. Her tunic was red Khitan silk, tight enough to set off breasts that seemed as fine as ever.

"I have been one of the lucky ones," she said. Her tale followed swiftly, for it was a short one. Caravan guarding drew many men, but kept few. They fell to bandits, to disease, and hardship, to the temptation to steal from the caravans. If they survived all those, they sometimes fell prey to mere disenchantment at discovering that the distant cities of their dreams had no towers of ivory or women clinking with gold.

"I survived all the perils and thereby learned to keep others alive as well," Raihna concluded. "After that it was a simple matter to win my own band. It was not so simple to win it a reputation."

"Is that why you're here?"

She nodded. "King Eloikas had a fair selection of goods to bring home but only ten of his own men to guard it. His steward would not make a free gift to the bandits. Most guards would not give the steward a civil answer. The Border Kingdom has a reputation as a place of hard rocks and still harder men."

"I've seen nothing to make me doubt that."

"Nor have I. But I grew up poor in Bossonia. A land such as this holds few terrors for me, and where I would go, my men would follow."

"Where are the king's men?"

"They rode on ahead this morning to warn the captain-general of our coming."

"Or so they said," Conan growled under his breath. The unknown captain-general might not be the only one they had warned. And there was the matter of the stuff of sorcery he had seen in some of the bags.

The Cimmerian rose and turned away. Before her men he would uphold Raihna's authority with the last drop of his blood and the last stroke of his sword. Alone with her, he had to ask a few blunt questions, the gods grant without making her fling the wine jug at him”

He turned back to the woman, and thoughts of serious matters fled his mind like rats from a burning barn. Raihna had pulled off her tunic, and above the waist she wore only the dressing over the cut on her ribs.

As Conan watched, she kicked off her boots, then pushed the riding breeches down those long legs. The breeches were a more practical garment than a tavern dancer's silks, but somehow they came off as swiftly.

"You are as fair as ever," Conan said.

Raihna mimed a kick at his manhood. "Shape your tongue to wiser words, Cimmerian. Few women turn into wrinkled hags in a year. Or spare your words and speak to me without them."

She held out her arms. The invitation could not be denied, nor did Conan refuse it.

It was long before they slept, and when they did, it was the kind of sleep that is near-kin to death. They did not hear thunder without lightning roll through the hills. Nor did they hear, closer to hand, the soft but insistent call of pipes.

Aybas heard the thunder. He also heard the cry of the Star Brothers'

pet. Where he was, a dead man might have heard it. He was standing at the very foot of the dam.

It was a cry unlike any he had ever heard, even from a creature that seemed able to make the sounds of every earthly animal. It was a long, whistling moan, with an ugly bubbling note beneath the whistle and the moan. It was a sound that no human ears should have heard, a sound from another world, where evil reigned crying out to the world of men. Evil for which no human tongue had words, but which Aybas feared he might soon be meeting.

That fear took away much of his pleasure at the news that Princess Chienna and her captors were safely away from their pursuers. He did not know if the babe was also captive, but from the wizards' refusal to speak of it, he judged not. That made the news even better. Or did, until the thunder rolled and the beast cried.

It was some consolation for his own fear that the Star Brothers seemed quite as fearful. Perhaps it was not only Aybas who harbored thoughts of evil reaching out from a world beyond the world, an evil hungry and yearning to feed that hunger, an evil perhaps soon to slip past all restraint.

Aybas spoke more sharply than usual when he addressed the Star Brother who seemed to have the most command of himself. "What is this? Is your pet sick?"

"It is in fear," the other replied. Aybas did not even bother to turn away before making the gestures of aversion. Whatever could put the wizards' pet in fear was something no man in his senses should not also fear.

Thunder rumbled again, and Aybas and the wizards cringed. But the creature beyond the wall made no reply to the thunder. Searching the dark sky, Aybas saw lightning flash beyond a distant peak that bore a rounded bare summit horribly resembling a skull.

It was natural thunder, the gods be praised! Aybas stopped his gestures before the wizards noticed them and took offense. Then he saw that they were too busy jabbering among themselves to notice him even should he begin beating a drum and chanting war songs!

Aybas slipped away and crossed the valley floor toward the village.

Halfway across, he saw two figures half-hidden in a stand of spiceberry bush. The next flash of lightning showed him Wylla's coppery hair and long-fingered hands lifted in prayer. Beside her rose the familiar massive bulk of Thyrin, her father.

Prayer, or some woman's rite? The Star Brothers might be interested to know that Wylla could be doing that which they had forbidden. This might be Aybas's long-sought opportunity to win Wylla's gratitude for saving her.

Yet somehow the idea no longer drew Aybas onward as strongly as it had, even though thoughts of Wylla still did. Having unnecessary dealings with the Star Brothers was too great a price to pay for any woman!

With victory so close, it was best to bide his time, then speak to Count Syzambry. The count could deal with the unruly among the Pougoi should any protest at seeing one of their clanswomen sold away from the valley.

Of course, the count might refuse his acquiescence. But even then, Aybas would be dealing with a mortal man”an ambitious man, to be sure, one who would stop at little to rule in this wretched land” but not with a wizard, one who sent messages without a messenger and tamed creatures from beyond the world.

"Mistress Raihna, Mistress Raihna!"

The shouting slowly penetrated Conan's ears. He sat up and willed sleep from his muscles and wits. In two swift strides he was at the hut door.

Behind him he saw tanned limbs flash as Raihna scrambled into her garments. Conan unbarred the door and allowed the man pounding on it to open it a hand's breadth.

"Mistress Raihna! Mistress Raihna!" the man repeated.

"Are we attacked again?" Raihna called.

The man made no answer. Instead his mouth opened slightly as he stared at the Cimmerian looming in the crack. The Cimmerian, in the same hut as Mistress Raihna, and not fully garbed.

Conan heard that thought as if the man had been shouting it. He saw the man bend to peer through a crack between the door's weathered planks.

Then the man straightened abruptly as a large hand gripped the collar of his much-mended shirt.

Jerking the man to his feet, Conan opened the door wider but stood to block any view into the hut. "Your captain has asked you a question, my friend," he said with dangerous softness. "Is it your habit to ignore commands from her?"

"Ghhh the man replied. Conan realized that his hand on the man's collar was depriving him of speech, and he loosened his grip. The man rubbed his neck, started to glare at the Cimmerian, then seemed to think better of it.

"There's a Count Syzambry outside the village, ah

"Conan of Cimmeria, once of the Turanian service," Raihna said. She was only just decently clad as she stepped into the doorway, but she wore sword, dagger, and helmet over scanty garments.

"Ah, Mistress, Captain Conan. Count Syzambry says that the Princess Chienna was abducted last night. He wants to question all of us and search the camp and the baggage."

"I'll see him buried in camel dung first!" Raihna snapped.

"Mistress, he has fifty men with him."

"Has, or says he has?" Conan asked.

The man looked dubious about Conan's authority to ask, then cringed at Raihna's look and shrugged. "No one has seen more than twenty, and they are still outside the village."

"Good. Keep them there until I come," Raihna said.

"Yes, Mistress."

The door slammed behind the man and they heard his feet running off.

Conan and Raihna looked at each other.

Even if Count Syzambry had no more than twenty men, that was more than Raihna had. If he had the fifty he claimed to have, he might be a worse menace than the bandits.

Raihna threw her arms around Conan and let him hold her against his massive chest for a moment. Then she kissed him and stepped back.

"Guard my back and your tongue, friend. We haven't brought King Eloikas's goods this far to lose them now to some son of a she-ass calling himself a count!"

Chapter 4

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Syzambry was a small man who sat on a square-built roan stallion as if he had grown in the saddle. He wore a plate back-and-breast, an open-faced helm plumed in scarlet, and a well-used broadsword ready for a left-handed draw.

The helmet hid most of his face but left exposed a bushy dark beard shot with gray, a jutting red nose, and large dark eyes. The count was staring about as if he wished to make folk believe those eyes could see into a man's soul.

Conan, remembering some of the mortal men and other-than-mortal beings he had faced, was not much bothered by the count's playacting.

"Temple pageants are this one's talent, not leading fighting men," the Cimmerian muttered.

Raihna was close enough to squeeze his arm, feel the rock hardness of its muscles, and whisper in his ear. "For your life”and mine, Conan”be silent until I give you leave to speak."

Conan jerked his head in a nod. Speaking out of turn might provoke Count Syzambry to folly. Or it might make a shrewder man wonder if he faced dividing foes, whose quarrels he could turn to his advantage.

Conan now stepped back and studied the count's men without seeming to do so. They were a good twenty and more. None of them was as well-mounted as the count, nor as well-armored. Conan saw much mail among the men and noted a few unfortunates with no more than boiled-leather jacks sewn with iron rings.

Their weapons were better fitted for battle. All had swords, and most of them had either short horsebows or crossbows. Conan could only guess at their stock of arrows and quarrels. He feared that they had sufficient to win any fight Raihna's men were foolish enough to provoke.

Conan was not the only one to see that. Raihna's men took one look at their visitors, a second at their captain's gestures. Then they seemed to vanish into the air, to put stout walls between themselves and the count's men.

A man darted out from behind Raihna's hut and came close enough for Conan to hear his whisper. "We are gathered in the heart of the village. Shall we start blocking the streets?"

Raihna shook her head. "Put the archers where they can see and shoot in all directions. Don't forget the castle side of the village, either. If His Bearded-ness has any more men, he may well send some of them over the hill to take us in the rear."

"The gods be with you, Mistress."

"And with all of you, too."

The man vanished. Raihna struck her left arm with her right hand. "I wish we had gone up to the castle. It would be easier to defend."

"We'd still be getting the pack animals up the path¦ if they hadn't fallen off and squashed themselves like grapes," Conan muttered. "Small use to worry about what might have been."

"Another saying of Captain Khadjar?"

"Any man with his wits about him learns that before he's been in five battles, or he's vulture's fodder."

Raihna folded her arms across her breasts. "Count Syzambry. I am Raihna the Bossonian, captain over this caravan and its guards."

"So I have been led to believe. I was also led to believe that you had royal men with you. Where are they?"

Raihna repeated what she had told Conan. Syzambry's laugh was mirthless. Raihna flushed, and it was Conan's turn to grip her arm.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, once of the hosts of Turan, and under-captain to Mistress Raihna. I ask, what is the jest?"

Syzambry stared at Conan. His laughter this time was forced as the Cimmerian stared back. Ice-blue eyes caught and held dark ones. It was the dark ones that looked away and a gloved hand that twitched as if it sought the hilt of a sword.

"I do not say that you lie," the count said. "But without the royal men watching you, much might have happened against the king's good. Against your good, Mistress Raihna, if you value your reputation as an honest captain."

"Nothing happened," Raihna said. "Certainly nothing that bears on the matter of Princess Chienna's abduction. The first we knew of it was when your man summoned my guard."

"Yes, and if he had let my men into your camp, we would not be standing here glaring at each other like two packs of wolves over a scrawny stag." The count's eyes gave the lie to the soft-seeming words.

"The guard had my orders, and I have orders from King Eloikas. One of them is to let no one question the men or search the baggage unless he bears a royal writ."

Count Syzambry sniffed. "A nobleman such as I bears such a writ by birth. You need have no fear of disobeying the king by obeying me."

"Forgive me, my lord, if I seem doubtful," Raihna said. "We are strangers in this land. We know not its laws or customs, so we cannot judge the truth of what you speak."

Conan saw that she wanted to add, "And we cannot judge whether you are a count or not," but drew back from such an insult.

"I am the judge here," the count said. It was next to a snarl. The fingers writhed again. Conan eyed the distance between himself and the count. The man had made a serious mistake, perhaps without realizing it. He stood between where Conan and Raihna stood and those of his archers who had good shots at the opposing captains.

With only a trifle of luck, Conan could have the little man off his horse and down in the dust before the archers could shoot. If that came to pass, the fight would take a very different path.

The count glanced at Conan again. The Cimmerian tried to look as harmless as a lamb and to stand as motionless as an oak tree. From the rider's change of countenance, Conan thought he had succeeded.

The count opened his mouth to speak. His intended words died unuttered as a pack mule brayed in the village. Shouts echoed the mules, some of them in voices Conan recognized. Others were the voices of strangers shouting "Steel Hand!"

Conan looked to Raihna. She nodded. He whirled toward the village. The count gave a wordless yell, and Conan heard crossbows cocking.

Conan continued to whirl, scooping up a stone as he did. He flung the stone with the force of a sling, driving it into the flank of Count Syzambry's horse. The roan squealed and reared, catching the count unready. He clutched frantically at the saddle, the mane, the reins, anything that would keep him from tumbling to the ground.

Meanwhile, Conan's free arm looped around Raihna's supple waist.

Snatching her off the ground, he ran for the cover of the village.

Behind him, the count was still struggling to keep his saddle, never mind control his mount.

"If that little jackal in man's shape shields us for a moment longer

Conan began. The whistle of arrows cut into his words. Arrows and bolts began sprouting from walls and kicking up dust.

Count Syzambry screamed curses. His mount screamed in pain. Conan judged that some ill-aimed shot had struck home in the roan. The archery slackened but did not cease.

Ahead, a vacant hut offered a gaping window. Conan flung Raihna through it like a wharf man flinging a bale aboard ship. Then he followed, landing almost on top of her.

"Ekkkh, Conan!" Raihna gasped. "Watch my fingers if you want my sword in this battle!" Conan stepped back as Raihna sprang nimbly to her feet and drew her blade. Outside, the archery had ended and the count's curses were dying away.

The din from the rear of the village had redoubled. It was still more the hurling of insults and war cries than the clashing of steel. Conan set his shoulder against the sagging door of the hut. Wood and leather gave with a ripping crack, nearly tumbling the Cimmerian onto the ground. Recovering himself, he led Raihna toward the rear of the village.

Conan allowed himself only a glance at the fight there, sufficient to tell friend from foe. The men who had come down the hill numbered at least a dozen; enough to hold Raihna's at bay, not enough to press home an attack.

The attackers also lacked the wits to post flank guards. Conan and Raihna took full advantage of this error. They hurled themselves against the flank of the enemy, wielding the flat of their swords like berserkers. All of Conan's instincts told him to leave foes dying, not merely stunned. But everything he had learned of warcraft since his youth told him that Count Syzambry would stop at nothing to bring him down were he to slaughter the count's men.

Himself and Raihna and Raihna's men. Alone, Conan knew that he could show all the counts of the Border Kingdom a clean pair of heels. He doubted that any Border Kingdom lordling's writ ran far into Nemedia or Aquilonia!

But with duties to Raihna and her men, Conan was not free to wreak bloody havoc among the count's men. He had to use his strength and speed to put them in fear without littering the village streets with their corpses.

This he did with terrifying skill. At least it terrified the count's men, who gave way as quickly as if Conan had actually butchered half of them. He cracked heads, broke sword arms, kicked men in the stomach, and punched them in the back of the neck. Beside him, Raihna did the same with somewhat less strength, but hardly with less speed or effect.

Together they rolled up the enemy's line as quickly as thieves rolling up a stolen tapestry. Those of the count's men who had time to see the fate of their comrades did not wait to meet their own. They turned and fled out of the village and up the hill.

Raihna's archers on the roofs began shooting. Raihna screamed at them to stop. They heard, but they did not obey at once.

"No more blood, you witlings!" Conan roared. "No more blood and we can still win free of this!"

"Tell that to someone began.

Conan did not spend time in arguing. He leaped high, clutched the ankles of the nearest archer and brought him down with a crash on the hut's roof. Rotten timbers and thatching gave under the man's weight and he plunged through the roof in a cloud of dust. From inside, Conan heard curses that proved the man was shaken rather than hurt.

"Mistress," a man called in a more moderate tone. "Garzo is hurt to death, and two others have shed blood. That says nothing of the pack animals hurt or slain. We owe the bastards for that!"

"We owe King Eloikas the safe arrival of his goods!" Raihna snapped.

"We will fight or not as it will help us honor our bond. You swore to obey me in that. Will you stand foresworn in the face of the enemy and before a man who knows how to use strength and wits?"

This speech drew an eloquent silence. Conan knew that Raihna's power over her men was fraying. He hoped that the last few strands would hold until either Count Syzambry saw reason or the fight began in good earnest.

A whistling warned Conan in time. He flung himself one way, Raihna the other, as arrows from the hill sprinkled the village. More pack animals screamed. A mule cantered down the street, blood gushing from its throat. At the corner, it collapsed. A scrubby but stout-legged pony broke into a gallop, toward the count's men. Arrows jutted from its flanks and rump. As it passed the dying mule, more arrows sprouted from it and it reared, then also collapsed.

"I'd wager they're trying to keep us here if they can't beat us down,"

Conan told Raihna.

"Keep us here until they can bring up more men?"

"Why not? I'd also wager that if none come before nightfall, we can win clear then. For now, they seem to lack the stomach for a close fight."

"We can hardly win free with the animals to consider."

"There are times

"There are times when you are too free in telling me how to do my work, Conan!"

"Truth is truth, whether I speak or stay silent."

Raihna shook her head as if that could make matters otherwise. Then she wiped her eyes with a tattered sleeve. The movement lifted breasts that her garb hardly hid. Bruised, grazed, and dusty as she was, Raihna could have walked into any tavern and danced her way to a purseful of silver.

The archery now slackened from both the hill and the valley side of the village. Conan swung himself onto a roof and lay low enough to be invisible, high enough to see clearly.

The count was waving his arms so wildly that he seemed to have more than two. After a moment Conan realized that Syzambry had the wits to know what he faced here: men who could defend themselves well enough if they had warning of an enemy's plans. Commanding his men by silent hand signals, Syzambry must be hoping for surprise.

That he was planning on attacking at all raised Conan's hopes.

Syzambry's men from the hill had lost half of their strength and were past fighting, or they were still fleeing. The count had barely the means with which to attack a foe standing on familiar ground, well-armed and under captains who knew their work.

Conan remained on the roof for some time. The vermin swarming in the thatch left their customary haunts for tastier prey. They drew no response from the Cimmerian, not even a twitch. He had learned the art of silence and stillness while fighting the mountain tribes of the Turanian frontier. Against them, to move was to die.

A whistle, a thump, and the smell of smoke at last made Conan move.

Looking to the right, he saw smoke curling up from the thatch of the next hut.

Fire arrows!

Briefly, Conan cursed Count Syzambry's wits and the scantiness of last night's rain. If the ancient thatch of the village had been well-soaked, the count could never have used this trick. As Conan finished cursing, three arrows plummeted into the thatch of his own hut. All three of them must have struck a dry patch; for flames rose almost at once, then leaped toward the Cimmerian fast enough to singe his hair;

Conan rolled toward the edge of the hut. The thatching sagged under him, and he heard a muted crack of wood. Then a roof beam gave way, and burning thatch, unburned thatch, timbers, and Conan crashed to the floor of the hut.

The Cimmerian leaped to his feet, beating out smoldering patches on his clothes and in his hair. As he finished the work, Raihna appeared. Her light linen trousers now covered less than did most loinguards, and her shirt consisted of rags that threatened to part company with one another at any moment.

Her garb might be in disarray, but her wits were not. "I have the men gathering the most important goods now. They know what those are." For a moment, her lips trembled. "You were right. We shall appear before King Eloikas as little more than beggers and pray

She could not go on. Conan wanted to hold her but doubted that they had the time, or that she would take comfort from it.

"Raihna. We'll need a rear guard to hold the village while the rest of the men go over the hill. That will have to be the way, so that Syzambry's mounted archers can't follow. Give me two or three men, one an archer, and I'll make that rear guard."

"Conan . . ." She stared at him as if he had started speaking in Khitan, or had turned into a dragon.

"In Crom's name, we haven't the time for arguing!" he almost shouted.

"I'm the best man for the work. Give me some good men at my back and flank and I'll do it."

Raihna's hand came up. For a moment, Conan braced himself for a slap.

Then her hand came the rest of the way and lightly brushed his cheek.

They were standing there, knowing that time and foes pressed, when deep-toned war trumpets sounded outside. First, one in the far distance, beyond the hill. Then another, answering it from closer by.

Finally, two more, which grew louder as they sounded.

By the time the last trumpet blast died, Conan heard the sound of many horses, swelling rapidly. He pushed Raihna lightly on one bare shoulder.

"Time for you to run and for me to fight. I think the count's friends are coming."

Decius, captain-general of the Hosts of the Border, knew what might come of sounding the trumpets. If Count Syzambry was at the village and had the wits to heed the warning, his men could show Decius's men a clear pair of heels.

The captain-general prayed to every lawful god, however, that Syzambry would be driven to desperation instead of to flight. If the count hurled his men into the village so that Decius could catch them red-handed”

King Eloikas would not much care for a battle if Syzambry escaped. But if the battle put an end to the count and his scheming and treachery, the king would forgive his captain-general much more than that.

Decius leaned forward in his saddle, then drew himself upright. A captain-general could not appear uneasy, not when he led no more than a score of men toward battle against perhaps twice their number. The villager who had warned of Syzambry's march might have miscounted, but Syzambry could indeed have fifty men.

As the trumpets sounded again, Decius nodded to his banner bearer. The banner of the Silver Bear rose and stood out in the wind. Decius nodded to his squire, riding almost boot to boot with him, and the lad handed over his master's shield.

The stout oval of metal-rimmed oak settled on Decius's arm like a familiar friend. He did not draw his sword. It was not yet. time to be reduced to guiding his horse with his knees, not over such rough ground.

A final blast on the trumpets echoed from the hillside. The captain-general's men spurred their horses to a trot as they rounded the final bend in the trail.

Before them stood Castle Dembi and the equally ruined village at the foot of its hill. Half of the huts in the village seemed to be aflame.

On the hillside sprawled the bodies of men and animals. A column of heavily burdened men on foot was scrambling past the bodies.

Decius reined in before the ruins of the village shrine. The ground about him showed the traces of many shod horses. A cloud of dust on the trail leading into the forest showed where the horsemen had gone.

"Who comes here?" a rough voice shouted from the village.

Decius was not accustomed to being so addressed, not since he had won his spurs at seventeen. But if whoever shouted had just survived a fight against Syzambry's minions, he had good cause for suspicion.

"Servants of King Eloikas," Decius replied. He would not name himself lest it provide Syzambry's rear guard an easy victory.

"Advance and be recognized." The voice was still harsh, but now it sounded like a seasoned captain's.

Decius dismounted, threw his shield in front of himself, drew his sword, and advanced past the shrine. He had taken five steps beyond that when the voice came again.

"Far enough, thank you."

"Easy, Conan," came a second voice, which Decius would have sworn was a woman's. "He bears Decius's Silver Bear, quartered with the arms of the kingdom. I'd wager it's Decius himself."

What sounded like a brief dispute followed, too low-voiced for Decius to understand. Then two men” no, one was a woman”strode from a hut to face him.

The man overtopped Decius by nearly a head. He wore a sooty shirt and breeches, boots, and a serviceable broadsword. The woman”

"Mistress Raihna! It was you, then?" The villager had also spoken of a caravan sheltering for the night at Dembi village. Catching Count Syzambry looting any caravan could mean the end of the man. Catching him looting the long-awaited royal caravan guarded by Mistress Raihna's company”

"It is," the woman said. "Does that displease you?"

Decius realized that his disgust at driving Syzambry into flight must show on his face. "It does not displease me at all, Mistress Raihna."

He wanted to add, "Nor do you," which would have been the truth, but perhaps one best left to another time. The description of Raihna he had from the steward had said that she was fair to the eye, but not how fair. That was easy to judge now, considering how little she wore.

As Raihna had the reputation of a captain with her wits about her, Decius was certain that this was not her common fighting garb. But there was no denying that in it she both drew and pleased the eye. For a moment, Decius wished the black-haired giant standing at Raihna's shoulder anywhere but here.

"I only wish that Count Syzambry had not fled at our trumpets. I had hoped to drive him into a final, desperate attack. Then

"Well, the gods be thanked you didn't," the giant growled. "You'd be laying out our bodies how, as well as our men's."

"Who are you?" Decius asked. Ceremony seemed wasted on this man.

"Forgive me, my lord," Raihna said. "This is Conan the Cimmerian¦ in this band, captain under me."

The last words drew a few bawdy laughs from Decius's men. Neither Conan nor Raihna replied, although Decius saw Raihna's nostrils flare. Her nose, he observed, was as well formed as was the rest of her.

"Well, Captains," Decius said, "I trust that it was Count Syzambry who fled?"

"If he's a small man with large pride whose men shout 'Steel Hand" as a war cry Raihna began.

"You have met Syzambry. Tell me more."

The tale went swiftly, and Decius found himself listening carefully to Conan even while he observed Raihna. The Cimmerian seemed to have his wits about him more than most, for all that he could not have seen twenty-five summers. But then, it was battles rather than years that seasoned a captain. Decius knew that well”indeed, better than a reasonable man could wish.

When they finished talking, Decius saw that his men were looking at Conan and Raihna with open admiration. He would have done the same had he not had duties to his king.

"Well, call your hill-climbers back," Decius said. "I think we can be out of here before noon."

"We no longer have all of our mounts or pack animals," Raihna said.

"You just told me that," Decius said, letting impatience creep into his voice. "If some of your men, as well as mine, can walk, we shall be able to carry all the packs."

"And the wounded?" It was the Cimmerian who spoke, in a voice like a grindstone sharpening a war ax.

"They can wait until I reach a castle that has men to spare. There are several on the

"No," Conan said, more politely than before. "Raihna, if Decius insists, I will stay behind with the wounded. Otherwise, Syzambry will be sending men back to cut their throats or to torture knowledge from them."

Decius decided that the Cimmerian had passed the test. The man could have proposed that the packs stay behind, perhaps with himself as guard. Or he could have been careless of the wounded.

He had done neither. He had not only his wits about him, but some notions of honor. Raihna had not brought a cuckoo or, still worse, a serpent, into the Border realm. Too many men had come wearing fairer guises than the Cimmerian and left red ruin behind them.

"If most of us walk, your wounded can ride as well," Decius said. "This will mean camping tonight rather than reaching a castle."

"I am sworn to my men and they to me," Raihna said firmly.

"And I am sworn to Captain Raihna," Conan added.

Decius would have given a good sword to know by what oaths the two were sworn to each other. No look had passed between them to hint that they were lovers, but the captain-general would have wagered the same sword that they were. This displeased him, although he could not have said why.

Conan and Raihna walked in the rear of the united bands when they marched out well before noon.

"King Eloikas made no bad choice when he gave Decius his banner," Conan said.

"You think so?" Raihna replied. "When his eyes were on me as they were?"

"A man can be a good captain and also a good judge of women," Conan told her. He did not quite touch her. "Otherwise, where were we last night?" he added softly.

Raihna colored briefly, then laughed. "I stand rebuked. But truthfully, King Eloikas must have made some bad choices”or else had bad luck”to be afflicted with folk like Count Syzambry."

"Had you heard of him before you came north?"

Raihna colored again, and this time her calm did not quickly return.

"I”we were eager to start. Eager to make our name. We were told that¦
that the Border Kingdom had powerful robber lords. But we did not think¦ we did not think that they were more than what is commonly found in wild lands."

Conan saw pain and shame on Raihna's face. She would not make that error again. Besides, he wanted no more rebukes for telling her how to do her work.

"If I make no mistake, Syzambry is one who fears neither god nor man nor King Eloikas," Conan said. "That sort is less common, and always worse."

Raihna's face twisted briefly into a mask that might have frightened children into fits. Or the mask of a child who had been that frightened”by what, Conan did not care to ask.

He knew that Raihna had left Bossonia in haste for reasons of which she did not care to speak. He had met her when she served as bodyguard to the sorceress Illyana on their quest for the Jewels of Kurag. What she had done between leaving Bossonia and taking service with Illyana was a mystery that she chose to leave dark.

So be it. Raihna was bedmate, battle comrade, and captain fit to follow. That was enough to tell Conan that whatever happened to her had not turned her wits. More than that he would not ask of man, woman, or god.

But he would ask a few questions of King Eloikas, or of someone close enough to him to know the answers. As long as he was sworn to Raihna, Conan cold not return to the road south. He was bound to the Border Kingdom, and if need be, to the fight against Count Syzambry.

Such a fight was always chancy, more so than a pitched battle by daylight against an open foe. Out of such a fight, though, a shrewd man might snatch something worth having.

Conan knew that he could rise again in the south if he entered the southern realms as a beggar. He would rise faster if he entered with a clinking purse.

Chapter 5

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The coming of Princess Chienna to the Pougoi village did not awaken Aybas. He had been unable to sleep since he had seen the Star Brothers preparing for a sacrifice to their beast.

He lacked the courage to ask if they intended to sacrifice the princess herself. He told himself that even if he possessed the courage, it would make no difference in the end. He had made clear Count Syzambry's wishes many times over. If the Star Brothers ignored both him and the count, there was nothing to do but bear word to the count.

Bear word to the count, and then swiftly take himself out of Syzambry's reach. The little lord would not thank the bearer of bad news any more than would most ambitious men.

Gongs, drums, and that hideous wooden trumpet signaled the coming of the warriors. The common battle trumpet of the Border Kingdom was an offense to the ears. What the warriors of the Pougoi used was beyond Aybas's powers to describe.

Would he ever hear an Argossean flute-girl or a Nemedian lyre-maid again? Would he even hear the wailing pipes and thudding drums beating for the march of the Aquilonian foot on a bright autumn day? He doubted it.

He also doubted that he would accomplish much by feeling sorry for himself, save to fuddle his wits at a time when he needed them clear.

Taking a deep breath, Aybas pulled his cloak about him and stepped into the village street.

Heads were thrusting out of doors all the way down to the valley. A few folk even stood in their doorways, staring into the darkness. Aybas saw some of these make gestures of aversion as he passed. He wondered if the gestures were against him, against the Star Brothers, or simply against whatever ill luck might come to the Pougoi through meddling in the affairs of kings and counts.

Aybas had long since realized that these hill folk were more longheaded than Count Syzambry realized. No amount of gold could silence their tongues or blind their eyes. If the count gained what he sought, he would have a reckoning with the Pougoi as well as with the other hill tribes they had preyed on for a generation to feed their wizards' pet.

A stand of spiceberry hid Aybas, as it had hidden Wylla and her father two nights before. From within it, he stared out across the rocky fields of barley as distant fireflies grew into crimson-hued torches.

The pungent reek of the herbs the Pougoi used in steeping their reed torches made Aybas sneeze.

This drew no attention. The warriors of the Pougoi marched up to the wizards, and the leader raised his spear crosswise in both hands.

"Hail, Brothers of the Stars. We bring what we have sought. Bless us now."

It did not sound like a suppliant coming before a priest. It sounded more like a captain commanding something he would take if it were not given freely.

Aybas would not pray that the Star Brothers take offense and quarrel with the warriors. Such a brawl would end Count Syzambry's hopes by ending the life of the princess, if indeed it was she within the covered litter. Aybas's reward would die with her, and so might he.

The fall of the Star Brothers might also unleash the beast. The creature might rampage through the hills, devouring all in its path, with neither men nor magic able to bind or slay it.

One by one, the Star Brothers nodded. As the last bearded head bobbed on the last thin neck, the principal Brother raised his hands. A globe of fire, vermilion flecked with gold, sprang into being between them.

It turned wizards and warriors alike into figures of blood and shadow.

The Brother with the globe raised his hands higher. The other Brothers began a chant that Aybas had never heard, and he liked it even less than the rest of the wizards' music.

The globe leaped into the air and rose higher than the top of the dam, higher than the uppermost pinnacle on the tower of the greatest temple in Aquilonia. It screamed as it soared, a scream that seemed to come from a living throat, a scream that the beast echoed.

Then the globe was no more, and fire was raining down on the warriors.

Gold and vermilion mingled in the fire, and the warriors raised their faces and weapons to it.

The fire descended upon the warriors. It turned their eyes and mouths to pools of fire. To Aybas, it seemed that the Pougoi warriors were now some man-shaped breed with cat or dragon blood, or both.

Their weapons did not turn to fire. They rose from their wielders'

hands, as gently as soap bubbles, glowing softly. Aybas watched, breathless, as they ascended, rising almost as high as the globe of fire had done.

When the weapons finished rising, they bobbed about for a moment like twigs in a swift-rushing stream. Some of the spears turned end over end. Some of the swords danced as if sorcerous hands wielded them.

One sword clashed in midair with a battle-ax. The sparks they struck from each other poured down upon the torches. As if the sparks had been water and not fire, the torches died.

Crouching like an animal on all fours, Aybas briefly shut his eyes. He did not see the glow die from the weapons and all of them plunge out of the sky and into their masters' hands.

He did hear the crunch, like a rotten melon bursting, as the battle-ax clove the skull of its owner. He also heard the scream as another warrior's spear plunged through his outstretched hands and drove into his belly.

Every mortal ear in the valley must have heard that scream, and likewise the beast's reply. Aybas would have sworn that the sounds of slobbering and sucking could not roll like thunder if he did not hear them do just that. A moment later he realized that he was also hearing witch-thunder, which had come without lightning several times before and considerably frightened the wizards.

Both wizards and warriors seemed stricken mute and motionless by the uproar. One warrior finally broke into movement, bending over his screaming comrade and silencing him by cutting his throat. As silence returned, another warrior opened the curtain of the litter.

The woman who stepped forth moved with the grace of a queen, for all that she was barefoot and wore only a soiled nightshift. Her dark hair would have flowed down upon her shoulders under other circumstances.

Now it made a bramble-bush tangle. Bloody streaks on neck and ears told where jewelry had been savagely wrenched off.

On one slim arm rode a swaddled bundle. Aybas uttered a short prayer that the bundle was only clothing that Chienna had been allowed to bring away. Then the bundle wailed and the princess changed her grip that she might soothe her baby.

Aybas felt strangely calm. Prince Urras's crying was the first wholly natural, wholly human sound that he had heard in this valley in many days.

Then the drums and that hideous raw-throated trumpet raised their din again. Aybas realized that it was time that he make himself seen, even at the side of the Star Brothers. It would not do to let the wizards wonder if Count Syzambry truly valued the princess. Death would come to her very swiftly if they began to doubt that.

Aybas rose, brushed dirt and the dust of spiceberry flowers from his clothes, and strode toward the Star Brothers with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Princess Chienna took no comfort from seeing a man in civilized garb approaching her. She had two causes for this.

One lay in heeding Decius's wisdom, likewise that of her father and of her late husband, Count Elkorun. All three had said that false hope in a desperate situation brings deeper despair. Since despair would slay her child as well as herself, she would fight it as long and as fiercely as possible.

The other reason for denying herself hope came from no one's counsel.

It came from knowing that a man such as she saw before her could only be serving her enemies. Count Syzambry, most likely, or another lordling in the tumbledown alliance the count had raised against her father.

Their alliance would fall, the princess was sure. She was not sure that she would see its fall with living eyes, but she swore now to all the gods that she would see it from beyond death if she had to.

As his mother's rage touched him, Prince Urras forgot that he had been soothed into silence and began squalling again. With a fierce will, Chienna calmed herself and began rocking the baby in her arms.

He went on squalling. She decided that he was probably hungry.

"Is there a wet-nurse among you?" she asked. She wanted to say, "in this accursed pesthole of a village."

"I will inquire, Your Highness," the man said.

Chienna hid surprise. By the Great Mother's Girdle, the man knew the forms of courtesy!

"Do you that," Chienna said graciously. She bounced the baby up and down. "He hungers, and I am sure it is no part of your plan to encompass his death."

"None of mine," the man said. He was clad in a mixture of new hill-folk shirt and cloak and the ruins of civilized breeches and boots. His sword seemed a new one that had seen much hard service in little time.

And was there a slight emphasis on the word "mine"? Chienna dared a look at the¦ the Star Brothers, they called themselves. The hill wizards, the villains of tales that had been old when her nurse was a babe.

Yes. They seemed to be displeased with the man, as if he had spoken out of turn.

A dispute between them? Not likely that it was open enough to give her any advantage, but it might be made worse. Not at once; all those who had taught her war craft had counseled against attacking before knowing the battlefield or the foe.

Afterward, though¦ She remembered Decius saying, "Nothing is worse than sitting and letting the foe do as he pleases. Even if you can strike only the smallest of blows against his weakest part, strike it!"

The captain-general would in time know that he had taught her well, although it was unlikely that she would tell him herself.

The man raised his voice. "Ho, summon a wet-nurse for the babe! At once!"

The princess noted that the wizards again looked displeased. But their displeasure did not stop the man, nor several warriors. The warriors ran off toward one side of the valley as if the ground was spewing flames at their heels.

The man stepped forward. Closer at hand, he showed a pinched, pale face above a scraggly brown beard shot with gray. Yet there were good bones in the face and in the hand he raised in greeting. A nobleman who had come by long and sorry roads to this wretched place, she would wager.

"I am Aybas, formerly of Aquilonia." The accent was not only Aquilonian. but courtly. "The warriors will see to it that your babe suffers for nothing. Can I do aught for your comfort?"

Short of releasing her, or at least taking the hobbles from her ankles, she could think of nothing. Chienna shook her head.

"Then I might suggest. Your Highness, that you sit on the softest rock you can find." He smiled faintly before his face and voice alike turned hard. "The Star Brothers wish to show you the powers they command to punish those who disobey them or make themselves enemies."

Aybas pointed upward, toward the dam of rock and earth that blocked the mouth of the gorge to the left. As he did, something rose above the top of the wall. Something that writhed like a snake but was longer than any snake Chienna had ever seen.

A second writhing thing joined it, then a third, then too many too quickly to count. A body not meant to be described in human tongues followed, climbing the vertical cliff above the wall. Water poured from it as it rose, and it made sounds even less fit to describe.

Prince Urras sensed his mother's fear by her quickened heartbeat and wailed louder yet. The princess sat down, forswearing dignity for the sake of her babe. She rocked and dandled and bounced him, but nothing soothed the infant.

Yet all was not lost. She did not dare to close her eyes to shut out the scene on the rocky crag that was shaped like a dragon's head. She knew that to do so would mean punishment, and punishment so soon would take strength she might need later.

She was not forced to hear the cries of the sacrifices, however. Her babe's wailing drowned them out.

Wylla heard the end of the sacrifice from her perch on a branch high above the valley. Once again she thanked the gods that she had told no one of this dead tree and the view it gave her. She could see much, without ever being seen.

One day a strong wind would bring the tree down, and then she would need to seek another vantage point for spying on the wizards. Until that day, she would use this perch, with the knowledge of no one else in the village, not even her father.

She waited until the last trace of the beast vanished in the mist gathering over the gorge. That mist always seemed to come after the beast fed. Was it part of the Brothers' star-spawned magic?

She did not know. She could not even be sure that the woman and babe she had seen were Princess Chienna and her son. She only knew that she had to bear the news of what she had seen swiftly out of the valley, to where Marr the Piper waited.

She would not have to go far. The pipes had not sounded tonight, but the thunder and the havoc wrought on the weapons told of Marr's near presence.

Wylla wore a warrior's cloak, the shapeless dress of the Pougoi women, and hard-soled leather shoes beaded with colored stones from mountain streams. She cast aside the cloak, then drew the dress over her head.

Under the dress she wore only a birdskin belt, with a dagger of finely shaved mammoth ivory thrust into it. The starlight played delicately over her body as she stood for a moment naked in the night.

Then she bound her cloak about her loins, knelt, and took several deep breaths. As Marr had taught her to expect, the life force flowed into her, making her blood tingle.

When it seemed that her limbs would take fire in the next moment, she leaped up and began to run.

From far ahead in the darkness, the pipes called softly.

Chapter 6

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Close to the time that Wylla met Marr the Piper, Conan met King Eloikas's Palace Guard.

The caravan and Decius's men had camped for the night about double bowshot beyond a small village in the lee of a thickly forested ridge.

The village was inhabited, but it was hardly less ruined than the Dembi village where they had fought two days before.

The villagers' surly looks would have told Conan of years of hard living had their rough huts and scanty garb not done so. A few chickens and some half-ground barley were the best that Decius's coins could pry loose from them.

If this was the common run of folk in the Border realm, Conan decided, he was not going to profit much from it. King Eloikas's gratitude would feed no horses and burnish no armor. That needed gold, something that the Border Kingdom seemed unlikely to offer.

So be it. Honor bound him to Raihna's side as long as she needed him.

He could contrive some other way of filling his purse or take his luck in Nemedia with an empty one. He had wrested gold out of poorer lands after entering them with no more than his sword and the clothes upon his back.

Conan was inspecting the sentries when the Palace Guard appeared.

Decius trusted the caravan men to share the watch with his men, but not Conan to keep a watch by himself. The Cimmerian had judged it best to hold his peace on the matter.

Decius's men were clearly masters of their craft. Conan was advising one of Raihna's archers to hide himself better when the wind had borne to the Cimmerian's ears the clatter of hooves and the thud of boots. He had waved both pairs of sentries into hiding, seen both obey, and strode up the path toward the sound.

A hiding place in the roots of a great gnarled oak offered itself.

Conan crouched there, cupped his hands, and hailed the newcomers.

"Halt! Who is there?"

"The Palace Guard, Captain Oyzhik commanding."

"Advance and be recognized."

Conan heard one of Decius's men scuttling off to summon his chief. He also heard the hooves and boots fade raggedly into silence.

The Cimmerian's keen night sight pierced the darkness. He recognized the royal banner, a sadly tattered one drooping from a crooked lance.

He also recognized a company that numbered a handful of veterans and a great many new recruits. He had seen enough of both in Turan to be able to tell the one from the other, even in the darkness.

The man who had replied, naming himself Captain Oyzhik, was also a type that Conan recognized. Too bald and too fat for his years, he wore fine armor and sat a horse worth as much as three of Decius's. But the armor was undented and the sword slung across his back showed gilding and jewels that could not have survived a single real battle.

"Captain Oyzhik," Conan shouted. "Captain-General Decius has been summoned. I ask you to hold where you are until he comes."

"My men have traveled fast and far on urgent orders from the King's majesty," Oyzhik replied. His voice was as round as the rest of him.

"They must have their shelter at once."

Conan doubted that such a mob of old men and boys could have traveled fast or far had a god commanded it. Oyzhik no doubt wanted to get his plump arse out of the saddle and into something more comfortable.

The Cimmerian laughed softly. Oyzhik had a surprise coming if he thought the caravan's camp offered what could be called "comfort" in any tongue Conan knew.

The sound of a firm stride coming up the trail warned Conan that Decius was at hand. The Cimmerian rose to greet the captain-general, then fell behind him as Decius went to meet the Palace Guard.

"What brings you here, Oyzhik?" Decius asked.

"Tales came of Count Syzambry's friends and allies gathering men. We did not know what strength the caravan might have. So King Eloikas decreed that the palace would bar its gates and send forth the Guard to be your shield at the end of your journey."

Conan hoped that King Eloikas had been speaking for the ears of the doubtful rather than out of any real belief that this Guard could defend an apple orchard from a band of small boys. Serving a master who had neither silver nor wisdom in war could end in filling a rocky grave in this godless land.

"We thank you, Oyzhik," Decius said. "Captain Conan, return to the camp and wake Raihna and my second. We break camp and march at once."

"At¦ night?" Oyzhik's question came out more squeak than words, as high-pitched as if he had been gelded.

"We are now in good strength, Oyzhik," Decius said. "The trail is clear, or you would not be with us. And our foes will not be expecting us to march by night, so it is the wisest thing we could do."

To Conan, struggling to choke back laughter, a night march seemed to have another virtue. It might cause the plump Guard captain to fall down in a fit, or at least to faint from weariness.

The Cimmerian held his peace, though, until Decius dismissed him. Then he hastened down the trail toward the camp. When he finally saw the campfires glowing ahead, he let out such a roar of laughter that half the men jerked awake at once.

Raihna thrust her head out of the tent they shared. "Share the jest, Conan, if it is so fine."

Conan merely shook his head and laughed harder. It would not do to insult the Palace Guard before the captain-general's men.

"An old tale, Raihna. But the new one tonight is that Count Syzambry's friends may be waiting for us. The Palace Guard has come out, and Decius wants us on the march before he can take a deep breath!"

Raihna's head bobbed and vanished, and all around him Conan saw and heard men garbing and arming themselves.

Conan's first sight of the palace of King Eloikas made him wonder if it was worth guarding.

He had seen mere noblemen keep larger hunting lodges, and not only in wealthy lands such as Turan. He had known of Vendhyans who would not have housed their tiger-hunters in something so wretched.

The gates hung ajar. The outer wall crumbled so that in some places an agile man might have walked over it upright. Holes gaped in every roof that Conan could see, and he did not doubt that under each hole was a puddle of muddy water from every rain in the last ten years.

A beaten-down patch of earth set about with thorn hedges might have been a drill ground. A collection of huts that a swineherd would have disdained might have been a barracks. Otherwise, Conan had no idea of where the Palace Guard lived, or of where Raihna's men might find quarters.

Since Decius's men joined them, he had heard muttered tales of "the secret hoard" of the Border kings. Some folk, it appeared, believed that the palace was so wretched because Eloikas was saving his gold for a time of need.

Conan would believe in that hoard, as he would believe in the will of the gods, when he saw it with his own eyes. For now, he suspected that the cache was so secret that even King Eloikas had forgotten where to lay hands on it.

Oyzhik hurried into the palace to report their arrival to the king.

Conan and Raihna busied themselves with their men and beasts. They were careful to avoid the boggy fields and wretched hovels stretching downhill from the palace. They were likewise careful to keep the caravan beyond bowshot of the brooding forest uphill. The forest held trees Conan had never seen before, in shapes he did not wish to see again, and no birds sang within it.

Conan let Raihna stand close to him, but he laid no hand on her. Both were aware of Decius's eyes upon them, more especially upon Raihna.

"This land pleases me less with each new turn of the trail," Raihna said. "Will you come with me and my men if we choose to leave at once?"

"Best wait for your pay if you want”forgive me, that's telling you your work again."

It was also not noticing her unease, bordering on fear. Gratitude for that shone in her smile. "Unless that means waiting so long that it will buy nothing but a burial shroud, and a poor one at that!" she said.

Then, "Conan," Raihna went on, raising her hands as if to grip his shoulders, "if we leave, would you come with us as far as the nearest civilized land? I think you have hopes to win something in this land

"An empty belly and an untimely grave? That's what this land seems to promise. Raihna, I said in plain words that I would be at your side wherever you went. Does a shield jump off of a man's arm because it thinks he's overmatched?"

Raihna might have embraced him in spite of Decius's presence, but at that moment a palace servant appeared in the gateway, Oyzhik behind him.

"Captain-General Decius. Captain Raihna, Conan of Cimmeria. You are summoned to audience with His Sacred Majesty, Eloikas, King of the Border. Fifth of That Name."

The outer parts of the palace were much as Conan had expected: courtyards where weeds sprouted as high as a man's waist and trees overtopped what was left of the walls; chambers all but open to the sky, with stagnant marshes where once gentlefolk might have taken their pleasure on silk-swathed couches, drinking perfumed wine from gilded cups. One chamber still had much of its fine tile floor intact, and Conan had to call his men away from gaping at it as though it were a rare and wondrous treasure from a distant land.

How much of this they passed, Conan did not know then or afterward. He knew that he was beginning to feel an itch between his shoulders that no scratching would soothe. With every step he was farther from even the modest protection that Raihna's men might offer him and deeper into a place where foes, human and magical, might wait.

Some of them at least, he vowed, would live only as long as he needed to teach them not to lay traps for a Cimmerian. Or a Bossonian swordswoman, he added, taking in how Raihna's face also grew more somber with each step.

A final step took them around a corner, and both Conan and Raihna stopped as if they faced a pit of fire. Beyond them lay a courtyard clean of dust and weeds alike. Opening off of it were chambers that seemed at least fit to belong to a decent merchant's home.

Every door of these chambers was guarded, and the guards were also unlike what Conan had seen so far in Eloikas's palace. Most of them were past youth, but not past bearing good armor and stout swords or bows, with an occasional halberd to season the mix. Conan judged them with a soldier's eye. He would wager that most of them were of a type he had met before, those who might have lost swiftness but had gained experience and would not be opponents to take lightly.

The guard with the most ornate halberd brought it up in salute.

"Hail, Decius. His Majesty awaits."

The captain-general nodded and fell back. Guards took their place around Conan and Raihna, so close that the two could not have drawn a weapon freely had they wished to. Thus hemmed in, they entered the throne room of King Eloikas.

The throne room was about the size of the dining room in a good inn, and so clean that one might have eaten off the floor. One could see that here, at least, silver was spent to keep the dust away, the tapestries mended, the paint of the murals fresh, and the gilding of the bronze throne unscarred.

One could also see, as Conan did at once, a strong resemblance between the man who sat on the throne and the captain-general who knelt before it. Conan and Raihna followed Decius's example, but the Cimmerian did not take his eyes off their two hosts.

If they were not father and bastard son, Conan swore, he would drink nothing but water for a year. Both were of medium height but of soldierly bearing. The king was somewhat scanter of hair, and that more gray than black, but the chisel-shaped nose, high cheekbones, and wide gray eyes were common to both.

Conan was so intent on discovering further resemblances between Eloikas and Decius that the command to rise caught him unaware. Raihna had to dig at his ribs with her elbow to bring him to his feet, a gesture that drew a royal laugh.

It seemed the laugh of a man who had found little to laugh about for far too long but who had not altogether lost the habit. In spite of his suspicions, Conan found himself warming to Eloikas.

Decius presented Conan and Raihna in a few soldierly words. They knelt again. Eloikas greeted them in still fewer words, then bid them rise.

"Mistress Raihna, you have Our gratitude, and you will have your promised fee and more. You have not only brought Us what We put in your charge, which will strengthen Our blows against those who have taken Our daughter and heir¦ but you have struck shrewd blows yourselves against Our common foes. It is Our wish, Mistress Raihna, that you and your men remain within Our realm to aid us in striking further blows.

We expect to be able to reward such service most generously."

Eloikas then folded his hands across a belly remarkably flat for a man of his years and clad in a robe of Brythunian style much patched and dyed over many years. His gaze passed over Conan's head and seemed to fix itself on some detail of the mural on the wall behind the Cimmerian.

Conan could tell that Raihna would have given half of her pay to be alone with him, able to speak freely. She also seemed to be gazing at something far away, then drew herself up.

"Your Majesty, I am honored by your confidence. But I beg you to answer two questions."

Captain Oyzhik hissed like an outraged goose, but Decius waved him to silence. The captain-general did not, however, take his eyes off the king. Nor did he fail to make certain subtle gestures to the guards.

The guards held their places, but their hands crept closer to their weapons.

Eloikas nodded, and Conan saw Raihna quiver like a released bowstring.

"Our gratitude to you extends to answering many questions. But let Us hear your first two."

Raihna wasted no words. She wanted to know if her caravan fee would be paid at once so that she could divide it among her men. Some had not been paid since long before they joined her company, save in clothing with which to make themselves decent and weapons with which to make themselves fit for battle.

"I would judge also that some may not wish to remain in Our service and that you wish them to travel safely," Eloikas said.

This time Raihna's reply was as swift as a runner's start. "I cannot swear to that, Your Majesty. But if there are such men, would you ask me to hold them in your realm against their will?"

"We would not. We suspect that if We did, We would hear plain words on the matter from Lord Decius."

The only word for Eloikas's look at his captain-general was "fatherly."

"Your Majesty is gracious," Raihna said. "I would also beg that you consider taking my under-captain, Conan of Cimmeria, into your service."

This time Eloikas's look was that of a king asking advice of a trusted counselor. The captain-general shrugged.

"Conan might have my voice in less troubled times. As matters stand, when a stranger might have more than one allegiance

Now it was Conan's elbow that prodded Raihna's ribs. Her outraged look did not turn into outrageous words.

"Your Majesty, if I may speak for myself¦ ?" Conan said.

Oyzhik hissed again. "Who asked you”?" he began.

"Peace, Oyzhik," Eloikas said. "Even a condemned man may ask one final favor of the judge."

"Your Majesty, before you condemn me to leaving Mistress Raihna's service, to which I am sworn until she sets me free, please hear from my own lips what I did."

"You may speak."

Conan obeyed. His account of his deeds since entering the Border Kingdom was as plain as a halberd head. No gilding that he could give it would make it more convincing. He could hope for no more or no less than persuading the king that he was not in Count Syzambry's service and never would be.

When Conan finished, the king nodded. "You speak very freely before a king."

"Your Majesty, I've faced men, and more than men, far more to be feared than just a king."

"And learned flattery from them?"

"Call it what you will, Your Majesty. I call it the truth."

Eloikas laughed softly, but it seemed that his eyes were not altogether dry. The silence lasted some good while until the king spoke again.

"We think that this Cimmerian can be trusted sufficiently to be offered a post in Our service. Oyzhik, you have spoken often of needing more seasoned soldiers in the Guard to instruct the recruits."

Oyzhik was silent. He looked ready to deny that he had ever said any such thing until he saw Decius's eye upon him. The captain-general might have been shouting, "Lie at your peril!"

"It is true that I can instruct the recruits only by plucking the ranks of the veterans," Oyzhik said sullenly.

"Then We think the favor of the gods is evident in sending Conan the Cimmerian to Our realm. Conan, if it pleases Mistress Raihna, would you become Sergeant of the Second Company of Our Guard?"

Conan looked a question at Raihna. She nodded.

Conan knelt again. "I accept with pleasure, Your Majesty. By all the lawful gods of this and other lands, I swear that you'll not regret this decision."

"Then rise, Sergeant Conan."

The gods might keep King Eloikas from regretting his decision. One look told Conan, however, that the same could hardly be said of Captain Oyzhik. Had he been able to conjure the roof down on his king and his new sergeant alike, he might well have done so.

As Conan expected, his quarters and those of the Guard lay outside the palace, while Raihna's men would seek a dry room within it, if such existed. It was hard upon sunset before they had a chance to speak without fear of eavesdroppers by dint of taking a light supper out onto the drill ground and eating it while sitting on a blanket.

"I wish we could serve together," Raihna said.

"Missing a bedmate already?" Conan jested. "Cast one of your languishing looks at Decius and you'll not”ufffl"

He broke off as she punched him urgently in the ribs. "I am not blind to his desire for me. I am also not blind to his kinship with Eloikas."

"I wonder. Could Decius have something to do with Princess Chienna's abduction? Bastards have won thrones before this when there were no legitimate heirs."

"My gratitude to you overflows, Conan. You know perfectly how to give me a sound sleep at night."

"Yes, and I'll have no chance to use it tonight, or for many nights to come. If Decius is no enemy, best we not make him one."

"I fear Oyzhik more."

"An open enemy's easier to watch than one biding his time. Turan taught me that, if nothing else. Moreover, I'd wager all the wine in this realm that Eloikas or Decius have men among the Guards to watch Oyzhik.

Unless his chiefs want me dead, Oyzhik might find a few obstacles in his path."

"Wager more than this wine," Raihna said. She spat into the dust and rinsed her mouth from the water bottle. "In some lands, this would not pass even as vinegar."

"I've heard a score of tales of the Border Kingdom," Conan said, "but none of them ever claimed that it was a great land for fine living."

He did not add what most of the tales did say: that the Border Kingdom reeked of ancient and unwholesome sorcery. Or sorcery even more unwholesome than that commonly found, at least since the fall of the nighted realm of Acheron.

Was this the secret truth about the Border Kingdom? That when the tide of the dark hosts of Acheron drew back from civilized lands, some of its leavings remained here among the sharp-peaked mountains and the forests as dark as a death-spell?

It was, as such things went, a warm night for the Border Kingdom. But the Cimmerian felt more than an itch between his shoulder blades at the thought of Acheron yet living here. He felt a chill, as from the breath of the wind off of a Hyperborean glacier.

Chapter 7

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Conan began his new undertaking as Sergeant of the Second Company of the Palace Guard the next day.

Indeed, he began it before the roses of sunrise touched the eastern sky and the fanged peaks jutting against it. This was not much to the liking of some of the recruits, who had been accustomed to rising when whim or wine allowed.

"From this day forth, you've no whims unless I order you to have them,"

Conan roared at the staggering, bleary-eyed men. "I'll not give that order."

He spat on the ground in disgust. "Or at least I won't give it until you sons of flea-ridden wolves are closer to being soldiers than you are now. From the looks of you, I'll have a long gray beard before that happens!"

He put his hands on his hips and raked the line with his eyes. No one laughed, no one flinched, and several men looked him in the eye as if daring him to put them to the test.

Good. They might lack training but perhaps not spirit. Seen by the dawn's light, indeed, they looked a trifle closer to being soldiers than they had when he first met them.

"Very well. Now, let me see your weapons."

Conan remained silent until it became clear that fewer than half of the men had brought their weapons. That, and the condition of many of those that were displayed, drew another sulphurous blast from the Cimmerian.

He eloquently described the ancestry of soldiers who went about without their weapons. He added predictions of the fate awaiting them, barring the favor of gods sometimes charitable to fools.

When Conan told the unarmed to run back to their quarters and bring their weapons, most of them actually ran.

The first day was a tale of errors and omissions, intermingled with minor catastrophes and follies. By the second day, the Second Company had mustered its wits and concluded that its new sergeant was serious.

By the third day, it dawned upon them that neither Captain Oyzhik nor the captain of the Second Company was going to lift a finger to save them from the Cimmerian. The choice was either mutiny or obedience.

Somewhat to Conan's relief, those who favored obedience outnumbered those who favored mutiny. He suspected that a reluctance to face Decius's seasoned veterans had something to do with the matter.

After the third day, Conan's work with the Second Company marched forward swiftly and, for the most part, steadily. It was work he knew well, having learned it from a master, High Captain Khadjar in Turan.

It was work that needed doing if the Second Company was to be worth even its scanty rations.

Most of all, it was work that Conan enjoyed and that the men of the company came to enjoy also. They were not so lost to pride that being a company of soldiers instead of a rabble did not put heart into them. By the fifth day, Conan had appointed four under-sergeants from their ranks. Three of them were men who had on the first day brought clean weapons to muster; the fourth was the one who had first returned from quarters with his.

By now, Conan had concluded that nothing could be expected for good or ill from either Oyzhik or the company's captain. The latter spent most of his time in his quarters and most of that time either drunk or sleeping. It passed belief that anyone could stomach enough of the Border wine to fuddle his wits, but it seemed that the man was made of stout stuff.

As for Oyzhik, it was said that he was being kept busy strengthening the palace's defenses against an attack by Count Syzambry. This left the captain-general's men free to take the field against the count and on the trail of the lost princess.

Conan might have believed those tales except that Decius seemed to be present at the palace almost every day. He seldom missed spending at least a moment with Raihna, either”or so the Bossonian told Conan.

"I no longer wonder why you suspect Decius," Raihna added. "I sleep no sounder because of it, but that is hardly your fault."

Conan grinned, and as they were alone, slapped her smartly on the rump.

Raihna was no woman for sleeping alone unless she had to. But with so many doubtfully friendly eyes around and about, a cold and narrow bed was also the safest.

Some of the village girls had eyed the Cimmerian's massive frame with open approval. But Conan had soon thereafter seen soldiers of both the Guards and Decius's troops eyeing him in a rather less-than-friendly fashion. Clearly, bedding one of the girls would be poaching. Conan could live with a cold bed if it meant a safe back.

He also kept a watchful eye and a keen ear for any opportunity to win enough gold to free Raihna's company from any need to remain in this land. Once the need for gold no longer bound her men to Eloikas's service, they would hardly let another sun set before they marched south.

It was the eighth day of Conan's service in the Border Kingdom. The sun was well up, and he was watching over an archery match. Not all of the Guards had bows, and not all of those who had bows had any skill with them.

Conan, however, had gone to Turan barely knowing the point of an arrow from the fletching. Little more than two years later, he was an archer fit for the battlefield. He vowed that every man of his company could achieve at least that much mastery of the bow. Then the company could hurl forty arrows at a single command, two hundred paces in any direction.

That would be no small gift to King Eloikas, Conan judged. Archers would be useful in every kind of fighting the king faced, beginning with the defense of the palace against Count Syzambry.

The contest was not yet half done when Kalk, the senior sergeant, approached Conan. "Sergeant Conan, I have sighted men skulking up toward the ridge. I am sure they are none of ours."

Conan turned his eyes toward the hillside, which sloped up toward a knife-edged ridge. The slope was covered with small trees or large bushes. Call them what one would, they were abundant enough to hide a company.

"We need not raise the alarm yet," Conan said. "Pick five men and tell the rest to continue the contest. Then meet me here, and we'll go teach these uninvited guests better manners."

Kalk nodded, then remembered to raise his hand in acknowledgment and respect. He also seemed to be smiling as he turned away.

Kalk was like many of the recruits of the Guard, fit to learn the arts of the soldier if someone was ready to teach him. Oyzhik never had been, and Conan wondered how many Guards had died through Oyzhik's sloth. Their kin would owe Oyzhik a blood-debt, that he knew.

Conan led the six men toward the hill as the sun finished burning off the mist. When they struck the steepest part of the slope, he allowed Kalk to take the lead. Careful not to be noticed, he dropped back to the rear. From there he could study the ground both uphill and down. He also had no man at his back.

The recruits set a good pace in mounting the slope. The Border Kingdom was home to all. As children, they had climbed its hills, and as men, they could teach even a long-limbed Cimmerian something about moving on rough terrain.

Beyond the line of the ridge, the ground plunged away into a cliff.

Only a bird, or perhaps an ape, could descend the drop. The cliff was so high that the stream below was a silver thread winding through gray rocks dwarfed to pebbles and dark green trees that might have been flowers in a garden.

The slope behind Conan lay silent in the sun. If the skulkers were not Kalk's fancy, they had either departed or lain quiet as the Guards passed them.

Conan frowned at Kalk. The sergeant spread his hands. "It was not the sun," he said mildly.

"I didn't say it was," Conan replied. "We'll spread out as we go down.

Grow eyes in the backs of your heads and ears in your arses and we may find something."

Six men was a jest for a real search of the slope. Sixty would not have been too few, and three times that many might not have been wasted.

The men had finished spreading out along the ridge line when Kalk shouted.

"Sergeant Conan! I was not deceived. Come and look just below the top of the cliff!"

Conan thought of drawing his sword but realized that he would need both hands for a secure grip. He stepped cautiously toward Kalk, but no caution could have saved his ankle from the snare Kalk had set the night before.

What caution could not prevent, strength and speed did. As he felt the leather thongs coil serpent-like around his ankle, Conan flung himself backward, away from the cliff. With his sword still at his waist, he had both hands free to break his fall.

The Cimmerian landed, rolled, then lashed out with his feet. The savage lunge of powerful legs snapped the thongs like twine before Kalk could draw his steel. The sergeant's blade was still coming clear when Conan's feet lashed out again.

This time one boot drove against Kalk's knee. He screamed at the pain of his ruined kneecap, then toppled sideways over the cliff. Kalk went on screaming all the way down, until the scream ended in a distant sound, like a ripe melon flung down on a stone floor.

Conan did not wait to listen to the would-be assassin's fate. Kalk had friends, and the Cimmerian had other matters at hand.

He dealt with two of the friends in a flurry of steel striking sparks from steel, then slicing flesh. Both men were down and bleeding when a shout made Conan turn.

One of the Guards was grappling with an archer who had an arrow nocked to his bow. Conan hurled himself at the men as his ally drew a dagger and stabbed the archer in the thigh. The man screamed but lashed out with his bow. The other man fell backward, to land on the very edge of the cliff.

Then he was over the edge as the stone under him crumbled. Conan was barely in time to grab the hand that was the only part of the man visible. The man's bloody fingers made Conan's grip uncertain, and he shifted to using both hands. Thus he pulled the man up until he could firmly grip a wrist. Then the sound of boots in dry grass drew Conan's attention to his rear.

The archer had retrieved his bow and arrow and lurched to a sitting position. Well beyond the reach of Conan's sword, he was trying to draw and shoot. If he succeeded, the arrow could hardly miss a vital spot.

Conan knew that his death might be no more than a few score heartbeats away. But he did not have it in him to send the man who had saved him plunging after Sergeant Kalk. That might not save him either.

What saved Conan was a man who burst from undergrowth the Cimmerian would have sworn could not hide a squirrel. The man jumped on the archer, lashing out with hands and feet. The archer seemed to leap upright, then to topple. When he came down, he landed squarely on Conan's rib cage. The Cimmerian's breath came short, and for a moment he had to fight for his grip. Then he saw, with staring eyes and doubting mind, who had come to save him.

The man wore sun-bleached leather leggings and a sweat-stained linen jerkin. He looked twenty years younger than usual, but he was nevertheless Captain-General Decius.

"If dangling your friends over the edge of a cliff is sport to you, Conan, no wonder you walk alone."

Decius knelt and caught the loyal Guard's free arm. The double pull had him safe in another moment, whereupon he fainted.

Conan rose cautiously and retrieved his sword. "So this is where you've been in days past, when you were not flattering Raihna?"

"Here and there and other places like it," Decius said. "My men are out and about, however. I mean no insult, Conan, but I can trust my sergeants more than yours."

Conan remembered his glimpse of Kalk's body, bent backward over a blood-spattered stone. "By Erlik's brass tool, I should hope so!"

While they spoke, Decius tore strips from the archer's shirt and bound his bloody thigh. Now he wiped his hands on the remnant of the shirt and stood.

"He will do long enough for questioning. I doubt that we will learn many of Oyzhik's secrets from him, but Kalk is silent forever."

"I didn't send him Conan began, then realized that Decius was smiling. The smile broadened, and Conan knew that his own face must have said more than he wished.

"I have shared your doubts about Oyzhik, Conan, if you were wondering.

As for your doubts about me Decius shrugged.

"I'm done with those," Conan growled. He thrust his sword back into its scabbard with a thump. "What of your doubts about me?"

"I have none," Decius said. "Not anymore. But¦ I do have a favor to ask of you."

The words came out strangely, and Decius's look was stranger still. He was sweating even more than the sun could explain and seemed unsure of what to do with his hands.

Conan knew a moment's unease at not knowing what the favor might be.

Then he decided that the gods forbid he should be ungrateful to the man who had saved him from joining Sergeant Kalk on the rocks below.

"You can ask, although I don't promise to grant," the Cimmerian replied.

"What lies between you and Raihna?" The words came out in a rush as if Decius feared his voice would betray him otherwise.

Conan wanted to laugh. Decius was not much younger than the Cimmerian's father would have been were he alive. He was also a widower who had buried three sons as well as his wife. Yet the captain-general was asking as if he were a love-stricken youth.

He would also be as easily hurt as any such youth, and he would not forget such an injury. That thought made it easier for Conan to find words.

"By all the lawful gods of this realm and my homeland, I swear that Raihna and I are not bonded, hand-fasted, betrothed, dedicated, wed, married¦ have I left anything out?"

Deeius smiled uncertainly. "Not to my knowledge. But¦ you are bedmates?"

Conan swallowed a peevish reply to the question. Decius had not only saved him from Kalk's fate, he had done so at the risk of meeting it himself. Decius might not have come to the hill alone, but he had surely hidden himself far beyond help by any companions. That courage called for at least a civil reply to the man's uncivil question.

"We have been, and may be again. It was the choice of both of us."

"Well, then," Decius said. Relief seemed to leave him speechless and unsteady on his feet for a moment. "Then”it is much to ask you, Conan”-but will you press my suit with Mistress Raihna?"

Conan silently invoked the names of a number of gods of love and desire. All of them seemed to have led Decius's wits astray. He hoped they would shortly lead them home again. Meanwhile, he could at least answer this question from sure and certain knowledge.

"I will not, and for two good reasons. One is that the lady would not think the better of you for lacking the¦ for not speaking for yourself.

The second is that I doubt you saved my head today so that Raihna could break it tonight!"

"I suppose that is the best I can hope for," Decius said. He cupped his hands and gave a war cry that had either no words or none that Conan understood.

Three heads popped up from the scrub and three hands rose beside them.

Conan judged distances and saw that Decius had not in fact put himself beyond help. His men had stayed hidden while their captain-general inquired if Raihna was a free woman!

So Decius was not altogether foolhardy. Conan still muttered another prayer that the love gods would undo their work on Decius's wits. The Cimmerian had never heard of good coming of mixing love and war, least of all for captains with other men's lives in their hands!

"So Oyzhik has fled," Raihna said grimly. "Do we have much to fear from those he may have left behind?"

"Oyzhik was a fool and likely to choose other fools to do his work. We have more to fear if Count Syzambry chose them," Conan said. He drained half his cup of wine at a gulp, as if this could wash the words from his mouth.

At least it was wine good enough for a man's tongue and belly instead of for scrubbing the jakes! The wine was one of the fruits of Conan's work the day before, along with the furs on Raihna's bed and the embroidered Khitan-silk chamber robe she wore.

"We'll learn more in the next day or two," Conan added. "My company has the work of studying all those traps Oyzhik promised to set. We know that he planned to either make them harmless to Syzambry's men or to turn them against us. Beyond that, we've yet to learn."

Conan poured more wine into Raihna's offered cup. "Decius simply wanted to ruin all the traps. He said they were no honorable way of fighting.

I told him that Syzambry had already pissed into the wind what honor he had. Didn't we owe the king and the princess at least the knowledge that we gave the son of a hundred fathers a decent fight?"

"Decius seems to know what

"In Turan, Decius would be called a child! Pitied or ignored until he offended someone who'd squash him like a cockroach!"

"Conan, I think the wine speaks now, not your heart. I was going to say that Decius seems to know what will let him sleep of nights. So do you.

Or was it another Cimmerian named Conan whom Decius snatched from death today?"

Conan confessed his guilt and begged for mercy. Raihna laughed. "I will grant it if you pour yourself more wine and join me in a toast." He obeyed and she raised her cup.

"To Captain Conan and the Second Company of the Palace Guard of the Border Kingdom! May they both continue to rise!"

Conan drank, but not without some doubts. Giving him the Second Company was just and wise, if the men would obey him. Making the company's old captain chief over the Guard in Oyzhik's place was not so wise, unless one believed that the honor would sober the man.

Decius would surely end having to be captain over the Guard as well as his own men. As good a captain as he was, he still lacked the art of being in three places at once, or of doing without sleep, food, and visits to the jakes! The best captain could not defy nature without someone paying a price, most commonly in blood.

It was also somewhat in Conan's mind that Decius was following in an ancient tradition. If you wished to court a woman, and had it in your power, you advanced, honored, or enriched her kin.

Well, Decius would learn that he could not follow that path very far before he ran afoul of worse dangers than any of Oyzhik's traps.

Raihna's tongue would be the first, but hardly the last.

Raihna had stood beside Conan while they drank. Now she rested one hand on his right arm and leaned gently against him. Not much to Conan's surprise, it seemed that she wore nothing beneath the chamber robe. He slipped a hand under the garment and found that he'd judged rightly.

The hand wandered up across a firm flank, then climbed a supple back.

Raihna turned, opened the robe, and slipped out of it. It made a blue and gold pool as she climbed onto Conan's lap. Then she let out a yelp of mock fear as the Cimmerians' massive arms caught her up and flung her across the room onto the bed.

"I think it's lying down that was on your mind, woman!" Conan said.

Raihna laughed, and she was still laughing when her arms and lips welcomed him to her bed.

Chapter 8

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Good wine and long loving meant late sleep for both Conan and Raihna.

It was as well that the summons to an audience with King Eloikas came well into the morning and that the audience itself was not before noon.

The Cimmerian and the Bossonian alike were able to break their fast and garb themselves in their best without haste.

King Eloikas greeted them with something very like a smile. Decius, standing beside the throne, had his face set in a blank mask, but Conan judged that he was not displeased either. The captain-general's eyes followed Raihna, however, from the moment she entered to the moment that Eloikas bid her step back while Conan knelt before the throne.

Decius handed the king a linen rag. Swift movements told of strength in the royal hands as they opened the bag and drew forth an elaborate necklace. It was made of links of heavy gold, with a medallion in the center in the form of a comet. The head of the comet was a great polished blue stone, set about with fresh-water pearls.

"This is the ceremonial necklace of a captain in Our Guards," Eloikas said. "Oyzhik fled with his, and I would not shame you by giving it to you even had he left it behind."

For a moment Conan would have sworn that the king's eyes glistened.

"This was the necklace of my son, Prince Gulain, when he had a company of the Guards. It was not buried with him, because the gods sent me a vision that it might be needed for a worthy man."

The royal eyes were definitely moist now, and Conan noted that Eloikas had dropped the royal "we." The Cimmerian had heard more than a few tales of the valor and wisdom of Prince Gulain, Chienna's brother, who had met his death in a riding accident. So Conan replied with an easy mind and a clear voice.

"Your Majesty, I pray that I may be worthy of this honor. I know that I walk in the footsteps of a better man. But I think I can give your enemies some sleepless nights and busy days, with the help of some other good men”and women." He nodded at Decius and Raihna.

This speech went over well, although Raihna had to stifle giggles when they were alone. "Anyone would think you had been raised at some court and were a royal page in your childhood," she said at last.

Conan snorted like a mired ox. "Say rather that I know what will help keep daggers out of my back. The fewer tongues that wag about my new rank, the fewer daggers behind me. We'll have all we can handle with the ones in front!"

It would not do to tell Raihna some of his other thoughts. Such a necklace told its own tale. The hoard of the Border kings might not be altogether wine-flown babbling. Good service might bring more of that hoard into the Cimmerian's hands.

Nor might that be the only gold to be won in these mountains. Conan would not steal a rusty horseshoe nail from Eloikas or anyone sworn to him, but Count Syzambry and his friends were another matter. Their coffers were fair game and might repay a visit, if the chance came.

What might happen if the little count had all that the sorcerous allies' rumor gave him was another matter, of course. But Conan would think of that when he had to. Sorcerers appeared more often in tales than in truth, and quick wits and a well-wielded sword lost little power even when a sorcerer did appear.

Aybas did not bow before Princess Chienna. That was against the custom of the Star Brothers for their prisoners. In vain Aybas had railed at them, pointing out that the princess was more Count Syzambry's prisoner than theirs.

Worse than in vain, Aybas realized. He had made the wizards yet more suspicious of him. They would be less charitable toward him now in other matters”such as that of Wylla.

If Aybas wanted the wench, he would have to hunt her down himself. The Star Brothers would now most likely send her straight to the beast and be done with her. If he offended them further, Aybas would be lucky not to follow her!

Meanwhile, Aybas's not bowing clearly offended the princess. "I hear Aquilonia in your voice, Aybas," she said. "I was taught that Aquilonia was a land of civilized manners. Before a princess, a common man, or even a noble, showed more courtesy than seems to be in you."

Drawn up to her full height, she was as tall as he and hardly less broad across the shoulders. That she was fair to look at did not make Aybas less reluctant to step too close to her. Her ankles were still hobbled, but he did not care to test the strength of those arms, for all that scant rations had thinned them and dirt caked their skin.

"Your Highness," Aybas said. The title at least had not been forbidden, or if it had been, then for once he would say curse the Star Brothers!

"I fear that those who rule here in the Vale of the Pougoi recognize no rank save their own."

"Not even that of Count Syzambry?"

"Why do you name the count, Your Highness?"

"Because I am not such a fool as to think that you and the wizards contrived to bring me here without his help. You both serve him. The wizards because they think he will enrich the Pougoi, you¦ the gods only know your reasons."

That was too close to the truth for Aybas to keep his countenance. The princess pressed her advantage, "I think you can trust neither the Pougoi wizards nor the count to keep any promises they have made to you. My father and I, however, are more honorable. What

"Enough!" Aybas's hand came up as if it had a will of its own. Had the princess spoken another word, he might have actually struck her.

"There will be no punishment for this rebellion," Aybas said, praying that this was a promise he could keep. "But I will not come here alone again." That was a promise he would have to keep, or he would be closer to the chains on the rock and the sucking mouths of the beast's tentacles than he cared to think about.

The princess tossed her head like a fly-beset horse and looked meaningfully at the door. Aybas was through it and bolting it behind in between two heartbeats.

Outside, he found himself sweating, even in the chill of the mountain evening. At least he would have proved his loyalty to any unseen eyes or ears. Beyond that, no good would come of making an enemy of Princess Chienna.

"But what other path is there for me, oh gods?"

Neither the skies, the wind, nor the rocks beneath, answered Aybas's cry.

Conan had hopes of taking the Second Company out into the field to put a final polish on its new skills. Decius had other plans.

"If Syzambry has half the men we think he does," the captain-general said, "we have no hope against him in the open. The more we guard the palace, the less harm he can do."

"The more we guard the palace, the more we leave the count a free hand everywhere else," Conan replied. "I'm a stranger here. I don't know how many friends Eloikas has outside the palace

"That's King Eloikas to you, Cimmerian," Decius snapped. "And you say truly, you are a stranger here."

"A stranger who's seen his share of battles and intrigues," Conan reminded the older man. "Such a share that His Majesty made me captain over a company of his own Palace Guard. Did you argue against that, or are you regretting it now?"

That was pushing a man of higher rank rather hard, but not harder than necessary, or so it seemed to Conan. If Decius was letting a boy's passion for Raihna addle the man's and the captain's wits”

Decius shook his head. "I spoke for you then, and I will speak for you now whatever you say to me. Just think before you speak, if you have it in you to do so."

Conan gave Decius a tiger's grin. "Well enough, my lord. I think that His Majesty must have some friends in this realm. Otherwise, Syzambry would have plumped his arse down on the throne years ago."

"Not unlikely."

"Cursed near certain, I'd say. Now, what will these friends say if they see us hiding in the palace like a mole in its burrow? I know the king's no coward. You know the king's no coward. What about our friends? Even if they think that the king's worth helping, what will they do if Syzambry's men are free to roam the land? If any of our friends so much as give the count a sour look, they'll be dead, or running for their lives. Running to us for help, when we've enough to do for ourselves."

Decius looked the Cimmerian over with great care, as if the younger man had just grown bright-blue scales or a long, spiked tail. Then he shook his head again.

"Conan," he said, "if you ever 'plump your arse' down upon a throne, I would not like to be the man called on to move you from it."

Conan shrugged. "I've seen a few men win thrones or lose them. I'd be a fool not to learn from that. One thing I've learned is that a throne makes a man a big target, and a sitting one. The day my arse and a throne do make friends, you can call me a fool!"

"Small chance that either of us will ever have the chance," Decius said. "But it is more than likely that Count Syzambry will be visiting us soon. Your company's work for now is to make sure that our hospitality is worthy of him. We will speak later of taking the field again."

"Later," it seemed, might be in the next age of the world for all Conan heard of the matter in the next few days. He had little time to concern himself with it, however, for the work given to the Second Company kept captain and men alike as busy as galley slaves.

Oyzhik's traps were many, but for the most part they were poorly made, and too often poorly concealed. Conan wondered if Oyzhik had planned this to be sure that his master's men would not spring the traps even if he could not wreck them on the night of the attack.

Be that as it may, one cunning and well-concealed trap was worth a dozen that any child could avoid. Conan made sure that no child would find any of the ones he set. Some were Oyzhik's deadfalls”pits, hidden crossbows and the like”done over with greater skill and bloody intent.

Others were altogether new. Conan had to be cautious there. The palace was vast, built in days when the Border Kingdom bore another name and its main defense lay with armies that marched where other realms now held sway. It was also ancient, and it had been several generations since the Border kings had had the gold to pay masons to repair sagging arches and cracking walls.

There were parts of the palace unvisited by any living man. Conan judged that the count would seek entry by these long-unused paths, and he gave most of his attention to them. Care was needed to avoid leaving suspicious traces. Still more care was needed to avoid bringing entire corridors or chambers down on the heads of the workers instead of on the count's men.

Raihna visited Conan one day during the noon meal. She found him stripped to a loinguard, sword, and a liberal coating of dust and plaster, sitting with a company of Guards similarly clad. The fruits of their morning's labor yawned before her, a pit with a spiked log in the bottom.

"When we've closed the pit, we'll lay on another surprise," Conan said, pointing toward a side hall. "An old catapult cord with a trip release and a barrel of tar. We'll have a lighted candle in a clay pot set into the barrel. When the barrel breaks and spills the tar, the candle falls into the tar and the whole chamber's ankle-deep in flames."

Several of the Guards cheered at the picture. Others called greetings to Raihna, inviting her to join them at their work”

"”'specially if you get into our workin' garb," one added.

Raihna clapped her hand to her sword hilt and stepped back, nostrils flaring in mock fury. She set a boot heel into a pile of rubble, and dust flew up like smoke from a fire. She took in a good breathful, coughed, then began sneezing.

Near the ceiling, a crack appeared in the wall to the left. It ran as swiftly as a hare fleeing a fox, down the wall to the floor. Then a slab of wall gave a mighty groan and topped outward, crumbling as it fell. Part of the ceiling followed, but only after Conan and Raihna and the workers were safely clear of the fall.

As the dust settled, Conan looked at the pile of rubble, then spat to clear his throat. "Well, men," he said, "I've been warning you that a sneeze could bring this ruin down on our heads. Now you see that I was speaking the gods' own truth."

Some of the men still made gestures of aversion, but most of them laughed. Since none of them were under the rubble, they could turn it to a joke.

The men salvaged such of their food as wasn't buried or too dusty to eat and resumed their meal. Conan led Raihna aside into an empty chamber with a stone bench built into one crumbling wall. The bench creaked as they sat down on it but did not tumble them to the floor.

"I'd best see Decius about going on with this work," the Cimmerian said. "We've already laid traps in every part of the palace that's not this ruined or worse. If we go on into the old warrens, we'll have the place down on our heads before Syzambry comes to take them!"

"Let me speak to Decius first and see how the land lies," Raihna said.

"He has heard enough about your notions of going into the field against our enemies. He will not be gracious if he thinks you are putting the matter forward again."

Conan cursed”softly, out of fear of provoking another collapse. When he spoke, it was also softly, but more out of fear of listening ears.

"Mitra bury Decius in mule dung!" he said. "There's as much sense in striking first as ever there was. And as little sense in waiting like rats in burrows for the ferrets to come down and snatch us!"

Raihna put a hand on Conan's arm. "I think you do him an injustice, Conan."

The Cimmerian shot Raihna a sharp look but said nothing. With another woman, he would have reasoned that Decius had begun to turn her head.

With Raihna, he knew that he would hear what she believed to be sense, even if he did not agree with it.

"How?"

"The Palace Guards are not fit for the field. He would be taking his own men and them only on any such raid. That would make the Guards stronger."

Conan nodded slowly. He had seen enough intrigues in Turan to know that Decius was not starting at his own shadow. But”

"Does he fear the captains, me among them, or the men, or what?"

"The men Oyzhik may have left behind and whom you might not discover in time. He trusts your sword and your honor, Conan, but he also knows that you are a stranger here."

"Yes, and men who might have been loyal before they saw a stranger made captain can turn to treason overnight." Conan wished greatly for some wine to wash both dust and the taste of plots from his mouth. He had to content himself with spitting again.

Then he rose. "Perhaps Decius has the right of it. But I still won't put my company at hazard from this tumbledown palace. Loyal men or not, they don't deserve to be squashed like grapes in a winepress!"

Raihna squeezed his hand. "I'll say as much, and you'll lose nothing with Decius by his hearing it. That I can swear."

She strode off, as graceful as ever, leaving Conan to ponder briefly how she could be so sure of Decius's goodwill. Of course, women had their ways”

And if he gave way to jealousy over that, he'd deserve to have the next piece of ceiling drop on his head, for all the use he was making of it!

Raihna would go where she pleased, and he could no more chain her than he could command the mysterious thunder that had now begun to roll through the hills at least once a night.

That thunder was worth a thought or two, for it reeked of sorcery. What Raihna might do to soothe Decius had naught to do with such matters.

Conan walked back to his men. They were already at work again, although slowly and casting doubtful looks at the walls and ceiling.

"Good news, men. We're done for the day. Decius is thinking about putting the rest of the traps where they'll take Syzambry's men, not us!"

"I'd work here a moon and more if it'd build a trap for the count himself!" one man shouted. Others nodded.

"You may get that chance, but tomorrow," Conan said. He set the example by starting to bundle up pry bars and hammers.

As the tools clinked into the baskets, it came to the Cimmerian that Decius might have another reason for not taking the field. Eloikas's handful of good men might chase the count's retainers all over the hills for many days without ever coming up against the count himself.

If the little man with the great ambitions escaped, he could find another army. If he died, his cause was finished. And what better way to kill him than to let him come to the palace, as he must if he wished the final victory?

Perhaps there was nothing wrong with either the captain-general's wits or his loyalty. It did not make Conan any happier to think about being immured in this crumbling palace against all of his instincts for taking the fight to the foe.

Outside the chief's hut, thunder rolled. Aybas, peering through the chinks between the logs, saw no lightning, so he knew it was the witch-thunder again.

Had he doubted, the sounding of horns and drums from the village would have ended his doubting.

Count Syzambry let the thunder”and the din of the Pougoi trying to fight it”die away before speaking. He did not take his eyes off of Aybas and Oyzhik, sitting together-on the straw at his feet.

If Aybas had not long since given over flinching at the witch-thunder, he would have nerved himself to sit still under the count's scrutiny.

Oyzhik was clearly as uneasy as a man on hot bricks, and the chill of the mountain night did not keep the sweat from his brow. Rather than seem less brave than Oyzhik, Aybas would have climbed the dam and cast himself into the slime-dripping grip of the beast.

"The Pougoi can be trusted?" Oyzhik asked for the third time.

Something that had no name flickered across Syzambry's face. In the dimness, Aybas could not read the little count's countenance, nor did he really wish to try.

"They can be trusted for all that I have asked them to do," Syzambry replied.

Aybas had the sense not to ask Syzambry what the Pougoi were expected to do to help lift the count onto the throne. In any case, there would not have been time for an answer even had Syzambry wished to give one.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the beaten earth outside, and the door opened with squeals and groans. Half a score of Pougoi warriors marched in, with one of the Star Brothers bringing up the rear. The warriors carried spears and stone-headed axes, the wizard a leather sack.

"Him," Syzambry said. The warriors surrounded the seated men. The count motioned Aybas to rise and step forward. Aybas commanded his legs to uphold him and his knees not to rattle together, and obeyed.

Oyzhik's mouth opened, but before he could cry out, four warriors were upon him. A leather gag stifled his cries, while leather thongs bound his wrists and hobbled his ankles. Then the warriors gripped the thongs and Oyzhik's travel-stained clothing and dragged him out of the hut.

Aybas remained motionless until the heavy tread of the warriors faded into the night. Stepping back and looking nowhere and everywhere, he said quietly: "Decius would have given much to see that."

"Pah!" Count Syzambry moved nothing except his mouth. Then he crossed his thin legs in their dyed riding leathers and shrugged. "If our lord captain-general had blood instead of milk in his veins, he would long since have taken his rights. Had he done so, I would have served him gladly."

Aybas thought that Count Syzambry would gladly serve another man the day vultures gave over their lives to fasting and prayer.

"Is Oyzhik to go to the beast?" Aybas asked.

"You presume to question my judgment?" Syzambry purred.

"I question nothing," Aybas said, "least of all your judgment. Were it not sound, we would hardly be so close to your victory. I merely remind you that too many among the Pougoi are uneasy about the sacrifices to the beast."

"They are cowards," Syzambry snapped.

It could be said that with enough cowards, the best army might become a rabble. It could also be said that any man who had watched the princess's coming to the valley could be excused for wishing himself elsewhere.

Neither could be said to the count's face by one who wished to see another sunrise. So the Aquilonian merely shrugged.

"They will not release Oyzhik, that I can promise you," he said. "His kin played no small part in driving the Pougoi from their ancestral lands and into this valley. These folk have a long memory."

"But the lowlanders have a short one," Syzambry said. He seemed to be almost grinning. "When they see Oyzhik go to the beast for his treasons, they will forget how I gained the throne. They will think there may be some truth in what I say, that I stormed the palace to save it from Decius and Oyzhik, that the king died and the princess needed consoling. These are matters of ill fortune, of the gods' doing and not mine."

Aybas thought of men he had seen and heard in his long journey from his father's estate to this wretched valley. Compared to some of them.

Count Syzambry's intrigues were those of a child cheating at a game of toss-pebble. Yet this child had the power of life or death over Aybas, and would toss him away like a pebble if he ever guessed the Aquilonian's thoughts. Aybas feigned good cheer when he next spoke.

"May it be so, my lord. Now, how may I next serve you?"

"I shall depart to join my men at cock crow. Is it prudent to find me a woman?"

"None you would think pleasing, I fear," Aybas replied, praying that the gods had not granted Syzambry a glimpse of Wylla.

"I supposed as much," the count said. "Very well. Then guard this bag with your life until I come for it. Farewell, and my thanks for good service."

Syzambry spoke as if "my" should in truth have been the royal "Our."

Aybas bowed and remained bowing until the door slammed, then knelt to study the bag.

It was of plain leather, bound shut with an iron band. The runes on the band were such that Aybas did not care to look at them too closely.

Even in the dim light of the single oil lamp, he could see that they were kin to the runes on the face of the dam. He could also feel that the bag held something heavy, as stone, but he would not even think of opening it.

Count Syzambry was now quite without restraint in using the Pougoi wizards' magic to lift him to the throne. The Aquilonian was also sure that the count was quite without real knowledge of what he was using”or of what its real masters might ask of him as their price.

Chapter 9

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Conan awoke in darkness, at first not sure why he had awakened. It might be only the bed, which was stoutly built but overly generous in size. It might have been comfortable for the Cimmerian when he first left his native land. For him now, it was a minor torture, and only his ability to sleep anywhere allowed him to endure it.

Before retiring tonight, he had sworn a solemn vow to see the palace carpenter about a new bed. He was even prepared to endure the man's witless jests about who Conan might be planning to share the bed with.

Conan set feet to the cracked tile of the floor, drew on breeches, belted on his sword, and listened. Nothing uncommon reached his ears. A slop-pot gurgled, then banged against stone; someone cried out in a nightmare or in passion; mice or rats scurried in a corner.

The knowledge that he had awakened for some good reason remained with Conan. All of the instincts that had kept him alive now called warnings. They would tell him no more, so it was best to seek out true knowledge of the danger.

He drew on his shirt and thrust both daggers into their sheaths. He thought of taking his bow, but in the end, he left it with the bearskin and riding cloak piled at the foot of the bed.

Conan knew that danger stalked the palace. Others did not. Seeing him roaming about full-armed would only raise questions he could not answer. Ignorance and fear together were the sparks to ignite a panic, which could leave the palace defenseless.

Conan's grim thoughts went no further. Horns and drums sounded in the distance and were echoed closer at hand from within the palace. Also from within the palace, shouted messages and war cries reverberated.

Conan heard too many screams as the weaker among the palace folk let fear master them.

The Cimmerian had no need to wake the portion of his company lying in the next chamber. The first sergeant was already cursing, kicking, and as needs be, dragging the men off their pallets and into their war harness.

The sergeant raised a hand as Conan appeared. "I have sent a messenger to the barracks. The men there are to rally on the palace," he said.

"Good. But send a second man in case the first meets with ill luck. I am going to Decius. Our rallying point is the Chamber of the Red Fish."

"So be it, Captain Conan."

Conan thought of giving a second rallying place, outside the palace.

But that would be admitting doubts about the outcome of the battle before it had even begun, an admission that stuck in his throat.

In silence the Cimmerian stalked toward the Chamber of the Red Fish.

Taking its name from the mosaic in what had once been an ornamental pool, the chamber could be defended by a handful against a stout band.

It also had a staircase, battered by the years but still fit to let a nimble man climb to the roof and look about him.

Conan reached the chamber to find that half of Raihna's men were already there. Leaving them to build barricades of stone and ancient furniture, Conan scrambled up the stairs.

The horns and drums in the distance were silent now. Darkness hid whatever they had been rallying, be it men or monsters. Conan looked at the sky, where lowering clouds veiled the moon more often than not. He half-expected to hear the witch-thunder.

Instead, he saw a pinpoint of ruby-tinted light spring to life in the darkness downhill from the palace. The pinpoint grew into a ball of fire, and its color changed from that of rubies to that of old wine.

By that light Conan saw what seemed a mighty host drawn up before the palace. A second look showed him that it was not mighty, and indeed barely a host.

Count Syzambry was well to the fore, mounted on his roan stallion and surrounded by some two-score riders. Many more men stood behind the horsemen, most of them archers, bearing scanty armor and few weapons save their bows. A final band of perhaps three-score had surrounded the huts and the remainder of the Palace Guard there. From the way they kept their distance from the huts, it seemed that the Guards were neither asleep nor yielding.

That was enough for Conan. Syzambry might command sorcery, but all it had done so far was to reveal how few men he had. They were no band of beardless boys, but neither were they the predestined victors of tonight's battle.

Now, if only the Guards in the barracks could strike into Syzambry's rear at the moment his men went forward”

The globe of light had turned the hue of old blood. It spread so far that Conan could barely make out the count. Then the little man flung his hands wide apart and something fell smoking from the globe of light.

A vagrant breeze brought the Cimmerian the smell of heated metal and burned grass. An angry hiss rose, along with clouds of smoke and steam, as what had fallen struck a puddle.

Then the globe of light shrank back to barely more than a pinpoint. The smoke curled up to form a stalk swaying in the breeze, the light bobbing at the end of it like a flower.

The earth quivered. Smoke and blood-hued light began to move toward the palace as if drawn inexorably forward by something just out of human sight.

Not quite out of sight, either, as Conan saw in the next moment. What drew the fire-flower after it was also making a furrow in the earth, an arm's length wide. Smoke poured out of it, stones and earth flew to either side, and the quivering of the earth doubled and redoubled.

Conan abandoned thoughts of rallying the Guards to surround Syzambry's men. The first task for all of the king's captains now had to be keeping their men clear of this sorcerous monstrosity rumbling toward the palace. If that meant leaving the palace so that it would not topple on their heads and bury them in the ruins”

One of the barracks huts did collapse, the sound lost in the rumble of the ravaged earth. Dust and smoke swirled up, and Guards poured out like ants from a kicked hill. They came with their weapons in hand, though, and dragging or carrying wounded comrades.

Conan forced himself down the stairs. For better or worse, the Guards caught in the barracks would have to make their own way tonight. His battle would be here, so far as a man could fight sorcery.

The Cimmerian was three steps from the floor when the earth heaved fiercely. The steps cracked. So did a section of wall and several sections of roof. Conan leaped as the stairs sagged under him, leaped again to avoid falling stones, went down, caught himself on his hands, and ended kneeling at Raihna's feet.

She had a grin for him, but he could see that she was trying to hearten herself as well as her men. He returned the grin and sprang to his feet.

Most of the men who'd been in the chamber when Conan climbed up were there when he came down. Few had fled, and Raihna had brought the rest of her band with her. But there was more than one man who had remained because falling stone pinned him to the floor.

Conan gripped the nearest such stone, wrapped his massive arms around it, and heaved it clear. In the last moment of silence before the fallen men began screaming, Conan heard his own breath coming hard.

He also heard, so faint that it might have been a trick of the night wind, the distant trill of pipes.

The pipes were indeed distant and faint. But to Count Syzambry, they might have been shrilling in his ear.

He knew what they meant. He also knew what the Pougoi wizards had said, so many times that he had become weary of hearing even the truth.

"Let fear break your will, and your will drags down our power with it.

Wield what we have given you without fear, and it will do what must be done. We cannot keep our promises to a man who lets fear rule him."

That was as close as any man had come to calling Syzambry a coward since he had been old enough to know that he could have blood for such an insult. He let it pass, for he did not doubt that the wizards spoke the truth and that all of his schemes would fail if his courage faltered.

So the count willed himself to shut the piping out of his mind even if he could not close his ears to the distant, silvery voice. He would not let it surround him, enwrap him like swaddling clothes on a baby, echo within his skull until all awareness of anything but the pipes fled”

Between one moment and the next, Count Syzambry knew that he had won the first victory. The pipes now seemed a long, wailing lamentation for the dead and the dying, for the doomed who knew not their fate. They did not master the count's thoughts.

Instead, the power flowing from the pipes turned against the Pougoi magic unleashed against the palace. The furrow had almost reached the outer wall of the palace when the earth itself heaved up into another wall. Stones poured down from the new wall and into the furrow.

The furrow vomited smoke, so thick that it seemed almost solid. The stones flew out as fast as they fell in, and so violently that some of them nearly struck Syzambry's men. Horses reared, their panicky squeals lost in the din of the tormented earth, and even men began to turn pale faces toward one another.

Syzambry once more found himself battling fear that threatened to eat not merely his magic, but his very wits from within.

Furrow and earthen wall now seemed to fling themselves at each other like maddened monsters. Stones flew high over the ranks of Syzambry's men, dropping among the Guards' huts.

One smashed a hut to rubble, and the count thought he heard the cries of men trapped within. He would have prayed that the stones bury the rest of the Palace Guard, except that praying to god, or even to demon, seemed unwise in the presence of the star-magic.

Syzambry forced himself to look beyond the duel of magic, trying to pierce the palace's veil of dust. In places, the night breeze had torn the veil, and there the count saw what made his heart leap.

The palace was crumbling before his eyes. It could hardly have been crumbling faster had it borne the full weight of the sky-magic. Walls sagged, roofs gaped, whole chambers opened themselves to the sky in the moment before they crumbled into rubble. More dust streamed up, renewing the veil until the count's eyes could no longer penetrate it.

They had no need. There must be defenders ready within the palace. But those defenders would have to fear peril not merely at their flanks and rear, but from the sky above and the earth below. They would be in no condition to make a determined fight.

The wizards had said that the count's will was all that mattered, not where he stood. What better way to steel his will and that of his men than to lead the way into the palace?

Count Syzambry flung the reins of his mount to the horse-holder and scrambled from the saddle. The earth rocked under his feet like the deck of a boat in a flood-swollen river, but he would not let himself fall.

Instead, he drew his sword with both hands, tossed it, caught it by the blade, then raised the point toward the palace.

"The gods themselves cast down Eloikas and all his men! Follow me!"

For a heart-stopping moment, Syzambry heard nothing save the roar of the embattled earth. Then, behind him, blades rasped from their scabbards and the war cries rose.

"Steel Hand! Steel Hand! Forward, the Steel Hand!"

In the palace of King Eloikas, chaos reigned. Chaos past description of belief, even for seasoned warriors such as Conan and Raihna.

Not that either of them gave a thought to describing what was happening about them. Their thoughts were wholly aimed at keeping their men from being caught under the falling rubble.

Then they heard the war cries, louder even than the rumble and crash of stone and the roar of the tormented earth. Out of the thundering darkness, out of the blood-tinted clouds of dust, Count Syzambry's men swarmed to the attack.

If they had begun in any sort of order, they had little or none by the time they came within sword's length of Conan. Their order had not survived scrambling over the upheaved ridge of earth. From the screams heard even over the war cries, it seemed that some of the men would not survive either.

Conan wished that the palace's unknown ally were not using sorcery nearly as dreadful as Count Syzambry's. Defending a place by casting it down upon its defenders was to Conan neither honorable nor wise.

At least the sight could leave the men under Conan and Raihna no doubt that any chance of safety, let alone victory, lay to the fore. To the rear lay only a palace sinking into ruins even as they watched. To the fore lay a human foe, and above that foe, the open sky.

"Eloikas!" Conan roared, his voice rising over the battle din. He hurled himself forward. As a lode-stone draws iron, so the Cimmerian drew after him the men who saw him. Raihna was not far behind Conan, and she did as well with those who saw her.

Count Syzambry's men were scattered, unsure of their footing, and, in places, actually outnumbered. They had better armor and weapons, and more skill, but at first these were not enough.

Nothing save massed archery or overwhelming numbers would have been enough against the Cimmerian. His broadsword hummed through the air, clanged against armor and other blades, and tore flesh and bone with slaughterhouse sounds. When the fighting grew too tangled or opponents too close for proper sword work, it was the turn of his dagger or massive fist.

Together, the Cimmerian's weapons stretched half a dozen foes helpless on the ground before any of the men following him reached an enemy.

When they did, it was with hearts raised by the sight of Conan's work, against foes equally cast down.

The count's men were actually withdrawing when their lord scrambled over the ridge and saw what seemed to be rout and ruin. He heard war cries giving way to shouts of warning, even to stark terror.

He saw the Cimmerian storming forward like an elemental force of nature.

He shouted an order, and the top of the ridge sprouted his archers.

They cocked or drew, and arrows and bolts sleeted down into the ranks of the palace's defenders. Now the warnings and screams were not only from the count's men. Beneath his dust-caked beard, he smiled.

Conan had hoped that in the dust and confusion, the count's archers would be holding back for fear of hitting comrades. They were doing this, to be sure, but they were also bringing down too many of the Guards. The Guards would be spent and broken before "friendly" archery wasted the count's ranks.

The Cimmerian judged as best he could the distance to the count. If a man could just cross the broken ground and scale the slope to bring the count down”

Arrows thudded into the earth and tinged off chunks of rubble by way of a warning. The archers had picked the Cimmerian out of the ranks of his men. If he tried to grapple the count, he would be an arrow-sprouting corpse long before he covered half the distance.

Conan withdrew, more slowly than he had advanced in spite of the arrow hail. It was against his nature to retreat at all, ten times over to start a panic among his men.

The Guards' archers went to work as their comrades retreated. Caught standing in the open, with only luck and armor between themselves and steel-tipped shafts, many of the count's archers quickly lay sprawled on their high ground. The rest hastily sought the protection of the reverse slope, and not all of the count's curses and entreaties could bring them back.

Thus Conan and Raihna, and more than half of their men, returned to such safety as the palace still provided. In the swirling din of the fight, Conan had not noticed that the duel of earth-magic seemed to have ended. But as he helped Raihna bandage an arrow gash in one of her arms, he realized that the earth was both still and silent. Also, the palace was no longer raining stones and tiles!

"What now?" Raihna asked, gritting her teeth as Conan tightened the bandage to hold the lips of the wound together. "We've barely won a skirmish, let alone a battle."

"I'll wager that's more than Syzambry expected," the Cimmerian grunted.

He would have given half the hoard of the Border realm, if he'd possessed it, for some wine to rinse dust and grit from his mouth.

"If the lads in the barracks have held their ground, they're in the count's rear," Conan went on. "Curse it! I'd deal with a sorcerer myself, if he could just take a message to

Raihna put a hand on the Cimmerian's arm and pointed. One of Decius's under-captains was picking his way cautiously through the rubble. He kept looking up to see what was about to tumble on him, and each time he looked up, he stumbled on something that had already tumbled down.

At last Raihna took pity on him, scurried down the hall, and led him the rest of the way. Behind what had once been the wall of a sculpture gallery, the three leaders took counsel.

"Decius wishes you to bring your men back to join his so that we may retreat as one the messenger began. He said no more before a Cimmerian roar interrupted him.

"Has Decius turned”lost his wits, or sent a coward as his messenger?"

Conan thundered the question loud enough to raise echoes and bring down loose pebbles from half-ruined walls.

Raihna gripped his arm again, and this time she put her other hand over his mouth. "Conan, for the love of the gods! You want to tell Decius, not the count!"

The messenger had turned pale at the Cimmerian's look, and he still had a corpse's hue as he continued.

"Captain Conan, the lord captain-general did not ask. He commanded."

"I don't care if Mitra and Erlik together are commanding it," Conan snarled. "We've a good part of the Guard out there, and the gods only know how they're faring. If they could break out into Syzambry's rear

"King Eloikas cannot move as fast as one might wish," the under-captain said doggedly. "He must leave the palace now, to escape the men Count Syzambry is bringing against our rear."

Perhaps it was just his blood being roused, or the fact of the sorcery so close at hand. Conan still thought that the man knew something he was not saying about Eloikas's reasons for this hasty departure.

"I wasn't asking the king to lead our charge himself," Conan said.

"Only to remember men sworn to him, and to make one last try for victory. We can still bring down the count. If we can't do that, we can hurt his men and slow their pursuit."

"Perhaps The messenger seemed torn between fear of Decius and the king and fear of Conan. Or was it knowledge that the Cimmerian's counsel held wisdom?

"Raihna," Conan said. "Gather a half score of archers and hold them ready. I'm going to climb as high as I can to see how the men in the barracks fare. If they've fallen or fled, we'll do as Decius wishes."

The messenger opened his mouth to argue, then saw Raihna's hand rest lightly on her sword hilt. His mouth shut again, with an audible click.

Conan saw on Raihna's face a wish that he send someone else. He also saw the knowledge that nothing she said would lead anywhere, save perhaps to a quarrel in their last moments of life. Conan would not readily ask a man under him to go where he would not, still less when the man was barely fledged as a soldier.

Conan dropped his bearskin and slung on a quiver and bow. He kicked off his boots, to bring toes as well as fingers to his climb. Then, as the archers gathered, he picked his stretch of wall.

As Raihna raised her hand, he stepped to the base of the structure. The hand came down, arrows hissed into the night, and Conan began to climb.

Chapter 10

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Count Syzambry was no man to admit failure, let alone defeat. He could alter his plans if they went too plainly awry.

The way in through the front of the palace would need more men than he had in hand. He must not only beat down the king's men, including that black-haired giant who seemed to be worth half a company by himself. He must also face losing men to falling walls, traps, ambushes, and the gods only knew what else as he made his way through the palace.

If he held the defenders he faced, the men he had to the rear of the palace would close the trap. Even holding where he was promised stout fighting, but not beyond what he could ask of his men.

Syzambry's decision had come swiftly. His orders were swifter still..

"Bring half the men from the Guards barracks into line. Move the rest so they stand between our rear and the Guards. Then every man prepare to advance."

Some thought him mad, or at least foolhardy. He could see it in their eyes. But they remained silent, so he need not fear losing any fighting man by summary execution for disobeying orders.

Weakening the watch on the Guards' barracks might let their survivors escape. Every servant of the king who lived through this night would be one more to hunt down later. The Pougoi warriors had refused to march with him against the palace, but they would not scruple at hunting down royal soldiers. If they did, the Star Brothers would remain them of the need to feed the beast.

Conan was perched as securely as the wall allowed before Raihna's archers had time to shoot three times. As the third flight of arrows whistled toward the enemy, he saw that Syzambry's archers were not shooting back.

Indeed, it seemed that the count's men had abandoned the fight, though not the field. Conan strained even his excellent night sight, trying to make out what might be happening beyond that magic-spawned earthen bank.

The dust was still settling, but the magical light was altogether gone and the moonlight turned fitful and dim. Conan would not have light at the price of another duel of sorcery, but he misliked planning his battle like a blind man groping in a rat-infested cellar.

The Cimmerian realized that what his eyes could not provide, his ears might. Cautiously he stood upright, unslung the bow, and nocked an arrow. Drawing back to the ear, he sent the shaft whistling toward the Guards' barracks.

Five arrows drew enough noise to tell Conan that the count still had men watching the barracks. The Guards must yet be there, or perhaps had left so cunningly that the count's men had not heard them.

The count was also moving men toward Conan's right. Had fresh men joined him, or was he drawing men from before the barracks, or both? In either case, the count's men would not likely be thinking of attacking, but of keeping up with their comrades.

Now would be a good time to surprise them, and surprise could be half of victory.

Conan waved Raihna and the under-captain who'd brought Decius's message over to where they could hear the faintest of whispers. They listened to him in silence, although doubt showed on the man's face even in the darkness.

"What of Syzambry coming behind us, between us and Decius?" he asked when Conan was done.

Conan decided that he had thought worse of the man than he deserved.

"You should return to Decius and warn

The under-captain shook his head. "One of your men can take the message as well. I will not run from this fight. Also, I know where we are to meet Decius and the royal party, if we both win free of the palace."

Conan was certain now that he had doubted the man's courage without cause. "Very well, then. But if you want to test your steel against the count's, then tell me and Raihna of the meeting place. Then you can go to the gods leaving everything behind you fine and tidy!"

The under-captain grinned as Conan tossed down his bow and quiver, then followed them in a panther-like leap.

Count Syzambry cursed the unknown archer, but did so silently. More silently than his men had endured the arrows plunging among them, at any rate. Two men had died screaming, and the unhurt were more than a trifle shaken.

Useless to tell them that the dead were unlucky, victims of a man who could no more see his hand in front of his face than they could. Too much sorcery wielded by friend and foe alike had unsettled his men.

Nothing but a hard, close fight with honest steel against opponents of flesh and blood would bring them back to their manhood”

A whisper crept along the ranks of the count's men, to reach the count where he crouched behind the crest of the earthen bank.

"The king's men are moving. They know we are coming. They are setting a trap. If we advance, it will be to our death."

Count Syzambry replied with a whispered threat of horrible punishment for cowards.

Silence fell on his ranks. The count turned his eyes to the front. The palace lay before him, a maze of shadows that might conceal anything and certainly hid a determined foe. His men would need torches to shed light as they fought their way into the palace.

The maze of shadows seemed to be even more tangled now. Indeed, some of the shadows were” moving?

"Steel Hand! Cry!" The count kept his voice from screeching like a woman's. But he had to take a deep breath before he could shout again.

"Up! Up and on guard! They're coming out!"

The enemy's giving the alarm did not slow Conan. Nor did recognizing Count Syzambry's voice. The Cimmerian had time for a brief thought that the count must be almost within reach if his words came so clear.

Then chaos erupted again.

Half of Conan's men were not as battle-seasoned as the Cimmerian. Some stood gaping, others cried out, a few began to run. Altogether, they brought the advance to a noisy halt.

At the same time, fire arrows began to plummet onto the Guards' huts.

The uppermost layers of the thatch were as dry as tinder and took fire as readily as straw. In moments, flames were creeping across the roofs of half the huts that had survived the shaking of the earth.

Somewhere among the count's men was a captain who wanted light at all costs. He was gaining it, but the cost included revealing his own men to Conan and the archers at his command.

These archers needed no orders to begin shooting at the men who menaced their comrades. They shot, in fact, with such zeal and so little aim that they were as great a menace to friend as to foe.

Conan left to Raihna the task of bringing the archers to order. He sought to form his men into a solid band that could strike a shrewd blow. The light from the burning huts had shown him what he hardly dared believe: the count at the near end of the earthen bank, with barely a handful of men about him.

"Haroooo!"

It was the under-captain shouting as he plunged forward up the bank. He continued his wordless cries until he was almost within sword's reach of Count Syzambry. Then his steel blazed in the firelight.

"I am Mikus, son of Kiyom, and I am death to traitors and rebels against King Eloikas Fifth of” aarrgghh!"

The count had stood as death closed with him. Not so one of his guards with a short lance slung across his back. Its blade sparkled in the firelight, vanished into Mikus's belly, then burst forth bloody from his back.

Ere the sword fell from Mikus's limp fingers, Conan was charging up the slope. Before he reached the top, the count vanished, and in his place stood a dozen of his men. They made a wall of steel, armor and blades alike, between Conan and Syzambry.

Still, Conan hacked three of them out of the fight, two dying on the ground and the third withdrawing with a useless arm and dragging leg.

But the others were hemming him in, and arrows began to fly as the count's archers found a target.

The archers did not cease shooting as Conan plunged downhill. Indeed, they did not cease shooting after Conan reached safety and the count's men came downhill in pursuit of the Cimmerian. The archers made better practice against their friends than against their foe, or perhaps the nine men made a larger target than a single Cimmerian.

Regardless, it seemed for a while that the next battle would be between the count's archers and the count's men-at-arms. While the count's captains sought order, Conan was doing the same among his own men. Only then could he study his intended battlefield.

The huts were now well ablaze, and the count's men who had watched them were now falling back on their comrades. From the far end of the huts, figures darted off into the darkness, the last of the Guards taking to their heels.

Conan cursed, not much caring who or what heard him. If the Guards had not been fleeing, they could have given him the strength for an attack.

As it was, by the time the Guards rallied and returned to the attack, Syzambry's men would be in the palace.

The Cimmerian cursed again, this time softly. He was cursing himself more than anything else. Decius might well have had the right of it, and Mikus had shown both sense and courage. Compared to them, Captain Conan of the Second Company had not made such a great name tonight!

Little to be done about it, either. If only the united strength of King Eloikas could face Syzambry, then best unite that strength as quickly as possible. The palace could always be retaken once Syzambry's host was gone. If the king lost his fighting men, however, he lost everything.

"Where now, Conan?" It was Raihna, and for a moment the Cimmerian's tongue could not shape itself to the only sensible words.

"To the meeting place with Decius. He may not thank us for this night's work, but we'll be there for him to say so!"

"As the gods will. Who takes the lead?"

"I'll take the rear. My night sight's the keenest and we'll need it against pursuers."

Raihna loped off toward the front of the line. Conan waited until the last man was past the midpoint of the huts before he rose from his hiding place to join the retreat.

As he did so, he heard the rumble and crash of falling masonry from well within the palace. A moment later he heard shouts and screams.

He did not know if the commotion was due to one of the traps or merely to a careless warrior leaning against a weakened wall. It did not matter. Every one of Syzambry's men who found a grave inside the palace would be one less to fight the next time battle was joined.

The scream from within the palace echoed in Syzambry's mind. He wanted to echo it.

He bit his lip, and the scream died unborn. The swordcut he had suffered from that young fool Mikus's blade was not the first battle wound he had taken. It would not be the last, even though victory was dawning before him. No usurped throne was ever held without fighting.

But gods, the pain! No wound had ever hurt so much. The count would have prayed that no wound would ever hurt so much again, but he doubted that his prayers would be answered. He could not even shape his lips to the proper names of the lawful gods.

Chills gripped his heart and belly, almost making him forget the pain.

Had magic entered into him so much that he was unclean in the sight of the gods? Had he done what was forbidden and now was cursed with this dreadful pain from a simple swordcut, and might he be cursed with worse”?

Count Syzambry still did not scream, but he groaned.

From what seemed a vast distance away, a voice that might have been a ghost's uttered sounds without words. Count Syzambry thought he heard what might have been "sleeping draught." and even "Pougoi magic."

Pougoi magic. Yes. That was it. The magic of the tribe's wizards was making him hurt so much. The same magic would take away the pain.

It would take away the pain or he would not be the friend the Pougoi expected. It had been his intention to arm the Pougoi and use them to uphold his throne. He would still do that if their wizards would heal him. If they did not, he would say nothing.

But he would heal himself, or seek the aid of the leeches and surgeons.

The healing would take longer that way, but vengeance lost no sweetness with the passing of time.

Yes, the time would pass, his wound would be gone, and he would use the power of the throne to arm all the enemies of the Pougoi. Then those enemies would fall upon them and cast them down, even their beast.

It would not do, after all, to leave the beast alive and a prey to someone who might think he was meant to rule in the Border Kingdom.

A voice spoke again, with nothing remotely like sensible words. A rim of cold metal pressed against the count's battered lips. He smelled herbs and strong wine, then tasted them as the cup was tilted to trickle the potion into his mouth.

For a moment he thought he would choke. He did not, and the cup was empty almost before he became used to the harsh taste. He was already sliding down into sleep as the cup left him, although even after he slept, it was a while before the pain no longer troubled his dreams.

The last sounds from the battle of the palace were long since left behind. Nothing but the sounds of the night disturbed the march of Conan's band of survivors. The night breeze whispered across the bare hillsides, and in the forests below, the night birds called to one another.

Once a wolf howled, long and harsh. The reply came not from another wolf but from something that seemed as vast as a mountain and growled like the heaving earth during the battle. Conan saw the fear-stricken looks on his men's faces and growled curses under his breath.

As they skirted a field of straggling grain, Raihna dropped back to walk beside the Cimmerian.

"The gods seem far away tonight," she said. Her face was such a mask that it seemed the movement of her lips would crack it.

Conan lifted a hand to wipe blood-caked dust from her cheek. "They're never as close as the priests seem to think. We're alive without their help, so I'm wagering on our

"Hsstt!"

Raihna did not grip Conan's arm this time. There was no need for it.

Both had seen alike: a line of shadowy figures straggling out of the forest. The faintest of moonlight was enough to reveal swords and spears, as well as ragged clothes, scanty armor, and no banner or device that Conan recognized.

Raihna ran like a doe up to the head of the line, waving the men to a halt as she went. They halted, not without a clattering of weapons and thumping of boots that would have alerted trained men below.

The men below, Conan judged, were even less battleworthy than the recruits of the Second Company had been. He saw them staggering with weariness, sometimes falling out of line to drink from leather jacks.

He saw them alternately gathered into ragged clumps like bunches of grapes or strung out like a serpent. He saw all of this as he walked along the line of his band, warning the men to be silent, but ready.

"I'm going down when they're all in sight," he told Raihna at last.

"When you see me draw my sword or hear me shout Count Syzambry's war cry, come at a run!"

"Count Syzambry's”?" Raihna began, but she was talking to the Cimmerian's broad back as he strode downhill.

Conan was not so foolhardy as to walk up to the newcomers without marking each rock and stump that might hide him as he went. There were enough of those, so that with the favor of the gods”

"How goes the fight at the palace?" someone called, sounding as if he had already emptied more than one leather jack of something stronger than water.

Conan was silent for another moment as he studied the hundred-odd men before him. Most of them were the rabble they had seemed, but here and there, he noted, was a man who carried himself like a seasoned free lance.

King Eloikas had hired no free lances. Count Syzambry, however”

Conan's sword rasped free and leaped high, opening the throat of the nearest free lance. At the same time, he roared, "Steel Hand! Steel Hand! Steel Hand!"

From uphill, Raihna replied, her voice as shrill as any she-demon hovering over a battlefield to snatch the spirits of the dead and dying. After a moment other voices took up the cry, and with their enemy's war cry on their lips, Conan's men thundered downhill to join him.

They arrived just as the foe realized that they were in a battle, even if they were a good way from the palace and the attackers had feigned friendship! Whoever was in command began shouting orders, and some of his men seemed to obey him.

The real peril to Conan was the free lances. They were rallying around the body of his first victim, half a dozen or more. Conan had a busy time of it, working hard with both sword and dagger to keep the free lances from creeping around his flank.

Then Conan's men struck the ranks of their foes, which in a moment ceased to deserve the name. Eloikas's men had speed, the slope, and an ordered line on their side. They also had a king slain, or driven into the wilderness, to avenge, and their own reputation to restore.

Syzambry's rabble vanished like a dancer's silken veil flung into a blacksmith's forge. Flight did not save a good many of them. A score or more died in the first shock, and as many more died with wounds in their backs. The Guards' blood was up, and they were a pack that no hunter could easily call off from their prey.

Conan did not try to. He held the free lances in play until Raihna joined him, turning their flank as they had sought to turn Conan's. Two men died with Raihna's steel in their back before the rest knew of the fresh danger. Then the four survivors divided, two against each opponent.

Two skilled free lances was no light matter even for the Cimmerian.

When one of them was almost as big as he, it was a serious affair.

Conan had the edge in speed, though, and he used it to hold both men at a distance while he sought an opening.

It came when the larger free lance crowded his comrade away from Conan, jealous of the right to deal the Cimmerian what he thought would be the final stroke. This left a gap between the two men. Conan hurled himself into it, feinting with his dagger to draw the smaller man still farther out of position.

The feint succeeded. Facing only one dangerous opponent now, Conan beat down the larger man's guard, hammered his sword from his hand, then chopped the hand nearly from the wrist. The man reeled back, gaping at his spouting arm and dangling hand. He was still gaping as Conan slashed him across the face, and he fell back screaming and spitting blood and teeth.

Conan whirled, certain that the smaller men would have returned to the fight. Instead, he saw a tangle of arms and legs as four of his Guards swarmed over the free lance.

"Don't the Cimmerian began.

"Conan!" It was Raihna, putting into his name the cry for help she was too proud to utter.

Conan wasted no time in joining Raihna and her opponents. Nor did he waste the opportunity one foe's back gave him. He leaped, jerked the man's head back, and heaved him off his feet. The man went down with a thud and a clatter of armor, and Conan finished the hapless fellow's fighting by hammering his head on the ground.

By the time Conan knew that they had a prisoner, Raihna had opened a safe distance from her surviving foe. The man had a longer blade than she, though, and seemed to have no purpose left in life but to sink it into Raihna's flesh.

He signally failed in that purpose. At the sound of Conan's footsteps, he left an opening for Raihna. Her sword opened his neck, and his head wobbled as strength left him. Then he toppled, and Raihna's dagger ended his last writhings.

The mask was gone from Raihna's face as she rose to face the Cimmerian, her expression like a she-wolf that had just brought down the finest stag in the forest. Rents in her clothing showed more blood-smeared skin than before, and her breasts rose and fell with her panting.

She stepped forward and for a moment stood in the circle of Conan's arms, sword still in hand. Then she threw her head back and brushed sweat-matted hair out of her eyes.

"Time enough when we make camp, my friend. Now tell me, why did you shout Syzambry's war cry?"

"If they were his men, as I thought, they'd lose time guessing who we were. I reckoned that the men could put that time to use."

"You reckoned right. But what if they'd been friends?"

"Then they'd have offered proof and joined with us. Either that or run off, and if they ran, at least they'd be clear of the palace. There's nothing there for any man loyal to King Eloikas save a hard death."

Conan felt Raihna shiver as the truth of his words struck home. Then she kissed him, stepped free, and cupped her hands.

"Ho, the Second Guards! Rally to Captain Conan! We've not done with this night's work!"

They had not, Conan knew, and the end might yet be death for all. But Count Syzambry had lost a hundred men, dead or taken or driven into flight. They were a rabble, but even a rabble could be a loss a usurper might not bear easily.

Chapter 11

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At most times, Conan would not have asked of his Guards an all-night march after two battles. Moreover, some of the Guards bore wounds that would have commonly put them in bed. Others were borne on crude litters by comrades who would not abandon them to wolves, bandits, or the scanty mercy of any men Count Syzambry might have still roaming the palace precincts.

So the march continued until dawn, although it ended with some of the men stumbling along more asleep than awake; a hand on the shoulder of the man ahead was enough guidance. And by the gods' mercy, they were out of the worst hills.

In an empty village on the edge of a wilderness of virgin forest looming higher than temple towers, they met the Guards who had fled the burning huts. They were some seventy strong”most of them armed and only few wounded”under the command of the veterans.

The sergeant of the First Company raised a hand as Conan strode up.

"Hail, Captain Conan. I await your orders. You are the only captain of Guards here."

Conan wanted to order the sergeant to put his men on guard so as to let the Second Company sleep, captain and all. He judged it more prudent to listen to the man's report.

It was simple. Once away from the palace, the sergeant had looked about for a captain to rally the men. Not finding one, he had taken the command himself. The men had formed up and marched in fairly good order until about the hour of false dawn, when they came upon the village.

"It was already deserted, so we saw no harm in settling down."

"It was?" Conan had little stomach for a quarrel with a man who might be valuable help in days to come. He also had little stomach for serving with a man who had robbed his own countryfolk.

"By the Red Rock, I swear it."

The ancient throne of the Border Kingdom was something that few men would invoke to uphold a lie. It seemed best to leave the matter.

"Truly, Captain Conan, they had gone with just what they could carry on their backs, and not much of that," the sergeant added. "We saw some men with spears who might have been the rear guard, but they weren't after staying to answer questions. I would not send the men running about the forest after them, either."

"Wise of you."

Returning favor for favor, Conan told the story of the Second Company's adventures. "I'd wager that the village folk ran when the rabble we fought came by. We'll have some more of the truth out of the prisoners, with luck."

The sergeant led Conan to a hut that had a straw-stuffed mattress in one corner. "Fear it's rat-ridden, too, but

Conan lifted the sergeant's jaw with one hand to cut off the flow of apologies. "Sergeant, if the rats aren't bigger than I am, I can face them."

The Cimmerian remained on his feet until the two companies of Guards had divided sentry duty. Then he kicked off his boots and crawled under the molting sheepskins on the bed.

His sleep was sound, though not unbroken. He awoke to find that he was sharing the bed with Raihna. She had taken off rather more than her boots, and as if that message might be too subtle, she then embraced him and drew him hard against her.

Both slept even more soundly afterward, but when the pipes sounded again, the notes were so faint and distant that even the sentries doubted that they heard anything. The sergeant heard nothing at all, and he misliked waking weary captains at the best of times. Conan and Raihna were allowed to sleep until the sun was far toward the west.

Aybas wished that last night's dream would depart from his memory. Even more, he wished that he had never had it in the first place.

Both wishes, he knew, were futile. His wish to be of service to Princess Chienna was not so futile, if he did not let the dream unman him.

It still would not leave him. Random fragments of it would return unbidden, no matter what he was doing. Now he was standing at the princess's door, and he was reliving the moment of the dream when he leaped from the cliff after her falling baby.

He remembered the wind bearing him up, but also blowing him away from the babe. He reached out his arms to grip one tiny foot, but the tentacles of more beasts than all the wizards of the world could keep were also reaching out, clambering from livid swamp and flames the colors of burning rubies and solid rock blacker than a starless night”

"The Princess Chienna bids you enter."

The voice and accent were a hill woman's, but the words were those of a royal maid of honor. Aybas had fought fear. Now he fought laughter. The princess exacted proper service and obedience so firmly that the idea of refusing never came to anyone's mind.

Anyone's, that is, except the Star Brothers”and Aybas was here tonight in the hope that he could make even the wizards' whims miscarry.

The door swung open on its leather hinges. Rush tapers cast a fitful light but showed the princess seated on her usual stool. She wore Pougoi dress now, even to the leggings and the bird-bone combs thrust into her long black hair. But she sat as if in her father's hall, receiving a guest of state while clad in silk and cloth of gold.

"I would bid you welcome, Lord Aybas, if I thought anyone coming in the service of your master deserved such a greeting."

"Your Highness, I Aybas looked at the serving woman, who made no move to leave.

"I would have her tell you her own story if we had time," the princess said, "but, in brief, she is kin to a warrior who died on the night of my arrival. Who died of the miscarrying of the wizards' magic. You may speak freely."

This command rendered Aybas briefly mute. If it had reached the princess that he was no great friend to the wizards, had it reached other ears as well?

If one could be hanged for stealing a cup of wine, why not steal the whole barrel? Aybas nodded.

"I understand that your son has been wet-nursed by women of this tribe.

Now, by the customs of the lowland, that makes him nurse-brother to the Pougoi. By the customs of the Pougoi, a nurse-brother is next only to a blood-brother in kinship."

"So I have heard," the princess said. Aybas was sure that she was hiding ignorance, since few of the lowlanders thought it worth learning much about the mountain tribes. The Border Kingdom might be more peaceful if it was otherwise, Aybas thought.

But ignorant or not, the princess was playing her part well. Aybas judged it time for the next scene of the pageant.

"A nurse-brother of the Pougoi is under Pougoi laws in many ways. Among these laws is one that even the wizards have obeyed since the first days of their star-magic. Man, woman, or child, one of the Pougoi may not be sacrificed unless he gives consent or has committed a great offense."

"A babe at the breast can consent to nothing!" the princess snapped.

Then she smiled. "Except perhaps to go to sleep before driving his nurses and mother distracted with his crying."

Aybas held his peace until he was sure that no more would follow. The princess was silent, but he saw her face grow taut as she struggled to hide her fear for her babe.

Then the struggle to hide fear turned into a struggle of another kind.

Aybas could read her thoughts, almost as if they had been carved out of the air in runes of glowing fire: If I admit that Prince Urras is bound by any laws of the Pougoi, this may cause some to doubt his right to the throne. There are already many who fear the reign of a babe. There will be more if they think he must do the bidding of a louse-ridden, rock-scrabbling mountain tribe. Yet if I call my son one of the Pougoi, the wizards cannot sacrifice him without defying their own laws. Their own folk will draw back from them. And if my son cannot be sacrificed, then the wizards' greatest strength against me is a broken reed!

"Indeed," Aybas whispered in agreement to the princess's unspoken wisdom. She herself was safe as long as the count intended to wed her.

Her son, heir to the realm, had always been in a different and worse circumstance.

Without words, Aybas prayed that she would see the way to what must be done.

"The customs of the Pougoi have always been held in honor by me and my kin," the princess said as if speaking to the whole court. "Therefore it is only fit and proper that my son be proclaimed a nurse-brother of the Pougoi. He shall have the rights of any Pougoi male child of his age, and he shall assume his lawful duties when he is of age."

The servant appeared to be ready to fall down in a fit, and for a moment Aybas grew fearful. Then he realized that she was only trying to hold in wild laughter. The idea of a royal princess claiming to honor the hill tribes was too much for her.

"Mistress”ah?"

"Myssa," the woman said as she realized that Aybas was addressing her.

"I bear witness to this oath. I will stand, speak, and shed blood to uphold it."

Aybas wondered whose blood she was swearing to shed but decided that his ignorance was best not revealed. He had not inquired too closely into the customs of the Pougoi after he had learned of the one that might save Prince Urras.

"Very well," Aybas said. "I swear to lay this matter before the lawful men of the tribe, for hearing this oath according to custom. I also swear to regard Prince Urras as a nurse-brother of the Pougoi from this moment forth."

That could prove an unfortunate promise should a direct command concerning the prince come from Count Syzambry. Aybas, however, had little fear of such a command being issued at any time soon. He had overheard enough about the count's wound to doubt that the man would be ordering more than an empty chamberpot for some while. The man might even die.

Then it would be well for Aybas if he had Chienna's goodwill. Count Syzambry would have merely cast the realm into chaos rather than usurping its throne, and an exile who wished to survive that chaos could not have too many powerful friends.

With some of his most courtly phrases, Aybas bowed himself out. It was full dark now, and he stumbled twice before his night sight returned.

The dream did not return, however. This was a blessing Aybas had not expected. Perhaps he had found favor in the gods' sight?

Perhaps. But the Star Brothers were closer than the gods, and they would need much more persuasion than Chienna. As he ascended the village street toward his hut, Aybas began to rehearse in his mind a speech to the wizards.

He was so caught up in it that he stumbled twice again. He also passed Wylla as if she were invisible, and he did not hear a single peal of the witch-thunder that rolled across the sky as he reached his hut.

Conan marched his men and Raihna's hard for the next two days. He turned a blind eye to the Guards who slipped off during each night, and sometimes by day, when forest or rough ground hid them swiftly.

Raihna fretted both at the deserters and at Conan's apparent complaisance. "If this continues, we will have none but a handful of veterans in ten days."

"We will still have your men."

"Of course." But she was near to biting her lips as she said it. Conan would not press her, since the truth would be out sooner rather than later if their roaming the hills continued.

"We've no place to go until we know if the king and Decius won free of the palace," Conan said. "The men understand that. They also know that if Syzambry wins, anyone still mustered as a Guard will have a short life and a long death. A man who has drifted homeward to get in a crop and be a peaceful farmer”he may save his kin, if not himself."

The Cimmerian did not add that Raihna should have known this herself.

The daughter of a Bossonian yeoman (at best) must have lived all her girlhood knowing that an extra pair of hands at the harvesting could mean life or death for a family through the winter.

After a moment, Raihna knew what Conan had not told her. She blinked, then rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Forgive me, Conan. I fear that I am too ashamed of how I have misled my men to have all my wits."

"Well, chase them down and bring them back," he said, slapping her on the rump. "You muster a pretty fair strength of them when they're all present."

Conan did not look the other way when some of the Guards talked openly of looting villages and farms.

"There'll be none of that, for three reasons. One is that we want the villagers' friendship. Or at least we don't want them running to Syzambry with tales of our whereabouts. The second is that we can scrape by with game, fish, and berries for a while longer."

"Long enough to find the king?" someone asked, from safely back in the ranks.

"The king or his grave," Conan said. "As long as King Eloikas lives, our oath as Guards binds us to his service. If he's dead, our oath binds us to rescue his heir and put him on the throne."

The silence that last vow produced was so complete that a snapping twig sounded like a falling tree. Conan rested a sooty hand on the hilt of his broadsword.

"The third reason for leaving the villagers in peace is that anyone who doesn't answers to me, and to my friend here." The sword leaped from its scabbard, flashed in the sunlight, and returned to rest in a single fluid motion.

The band resumed its march in a more sober mood. Even Raihna seemed to have been affected by the Cimmerian's words when she dropped back to walk with him in the rear guard.

"Will you really”?" she began.

"Hsst!" He put a finger to her lips, and they slowed their pace until the last of the rear guard was beyond hearing.

"Why not, by Crom? If Eloikas is dead, the babe is king of the Border Kingdom. He deserves a better court than the Pougoi. If Eloikas isn't dead, Syzambry still has a hold over him as long as the princess and babe are in the hands of the wizards."

Conan did not add that he would have risked his life to snatch a scullery maid or a spitboy from the hands of the Pougoi wizards. Being in their toils seemed something an honest man shouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

"And if Syzambry's dead?"

Conan jerked his head, dismissing that rumor.

"But if he is alive, wouldn't his men be scouring the countryside for us?"

"We don't know how many men he has left," Conan said. "Besides, I hate to speak well of that misbegotten son of a Kushite camel thief, but he'll be a hard man to kill."

Raihna grimaced. "You're full of cheery counsel this

The reproof died on her lips. Faint and far, but beyond mistaking, they heard it.

The pipes.

Conan's hand went to his sword again. He did not draw. He took a deep breath instead, then let it out with the curses in his mind unuttered.

But they echoed within his skull as loudly as they could ever have echoed from the hills.

"Show yourself, you whistling jester. Show yourself, you goat's-kin.

Show yourself, and show your true colors if you bear any!"

The Star Brother Forkbeard stared at Aybas. The wizard's face held every emotion that Aybas had ever seen on a human countenance¦ save one: it showed no surprise.

Aybas did not pray. Prayers to lawful gods seemed themselves unlawful in this damp grotto, with the smell of the beast hanging heavy in the air. He only commanded his stomach firmly not to disgrace him.

If Aybas had doubted before that the wizards ate flesh from their star-beast, he doubted it no longer. What he had seen in the shadowy corners of the grotto and what he smelled with every breath he took could not be explained in any other way.

Aybas's throat contracted and his stomach twitched. The gods showed some mercy, even if unasked. Forkbeard was looking down at the rough-hewn oak table before him and saw nothing of Aybas's struggle for self-command.

When the wizard looked again at the Aquilonian, he looked with a face twisted by fury and frustration. His hands slapped the table, making a bronze bowl topple over and roll until it clanged on the floor. It rolled again until it reached Aybas's foot. The Aquilonian forced himself not to flinch when the bowl touched his skin.

"Aybas," the wizard said. No "lord," and the name itself sounded like a curse.

"I am here, Star Brother, and at your command."

"At¦ at¦ my”?" Forkbeard's fury altogether took possession of his tongue, and he sputtered into silence. Aybas thought of asking forgiveness for unintended offenses, but he also lapsed into silence.

He much doubted that he could utter such words and still command his face.

With neither man able to break it, the silence drew on. It began to seem to Aybas that the rocks overhead would crumble with the passage of the years and allow the lake and the beast to come roaring into the grotto.

"Aybas," Forkbeard snapped then. "Did you speak to anyone of this notion that Prince Urras is nurse-brother to the Pougoi?"

"Other than to the princess and her servant, I spoke no word to any living creature, or even to the air. I do not know what the women may have said, where, or to whom. But my tongue has been guarded, and I will swear it by whatever you hold most sacred."

"That would not be lawful, since you are not a Star Brother." The wizard seemed to be speaking merely to avoid looking witless. Then he sat down abruptly and twisted his beard with the fingers of both hands.

"Perhaps you are blameless. But your¦ the scheme¦ this truth¦ it has escaped to the warriors of the Pougoi. They think it the truth. They think well of a future king of the Border being nurse-brother to the Pougoi."

Forkbeard did not add, "They think ill of sacrificing him to the star-beast." He did not need to. The very air shouted it in Aybas's ears. He was hard put not to grin in triumph.

To give his mouth some occupation, Aybas inclined his head and spoke.

"I rejoice that there is peace between the Star Brothers and the warriors of the Pougoi. Great will be the Pougoi when their strong right hand and their strong left hand wield the same weapon."

Forkbeard shot Aybas a look that made the Aquilonian wonder if he was suspected of jesting. Then the wizard rose.

"You speak the truth. The warriors are our right hand, and the left and the right hands cannot quarrel without leaving the Pougoi helpless in the face of their enemies."

Those might just be the words flung together to sound well, but Aybas thought he heard more in them. Certainly he had not had any messages from Count Syzambry since the night the palace fell and the king fled.

Indeed, he had not even heard of any messages.

Had Syzambry perhaps not survived the moment of his victory? Or was it merely that some aspect of the piper's magic kept messages from passing between the count and the Star Brothers? How much magic did that cursed Marr have at his command?

"Prince Urras is nurse-brother to the Pougoi," Forkbeard said. "This shall be proclaimed so that all may know it. Go in peace, Aybas, but guard your step and your tongue. You are no nurse-brother to anyone, save perhaps a flea-ridden bitch weaned on¦"

The wizard went on at some length in describing all the various unlikely and unclean animals that were near-kin to Aybas. Aybas submitted to the insults with dignity and did not laugh aloud until he was far across the valley toward his hut. Then he laughed until he had to lurch to a stump and collapse upon it until his breath returned. As it did, so did a clear mind.

Who had spread word of his strategem among the warriors of the Pougoi?

He knew none whom he could trust with the matter, and he doubted that the princess did either. She was a shrewd woman, notwithstanding that she was young enough to be Aybas's daughter. But shrewd enough to understand the ways of the Pougoi after only a few days' captivity among them? Aybas doubted that miracle.

Then the name burst into his mind like a thunderclap.

Wylla!

She had heard, perhaps by magic, perhaps by being in the right place with a ready ear. Her father was not least among the Pougoi warriors, in spite of his advanced years. He would surely listen to her, would know warriors whom he could trust with anything, and would speak to them. With law and custom giving them a weapon against the Star Brothers, the warriors could be counted on to finish the work that Wylla had begun.

Aybas knelt and rested one hand on the stump, placed the other over his heart. For the first time since he left Aquilonia, he swore an oath by the gods of his childhood, in the manner he had been taught as a boy.

He would speak no word and do no deed to harm Wylla, and he would guard her from the words and deeds of others as best he could. He would not touch her without her consent, nor allow others to do so.

If he was forsworn in this, might he end his life here in this valley, without name or honor or any fit prayers and sacrifices.

It was the fourth day after the fall of the palace and the flight of the king.

Rumors flew now like geese bound south in the autumn. It was said that Syzambry was ensorceled, dying, dead, sick abed, or all of these at once. Conan wondered aloud how much truth there might be behind all these words, thinking to keep his men from hoping for too much.

To Raihna, he spoke his mind more freely. "Something has gone awry with Syzambry or his plans or both. I'd wager my manhood on that. But what it might be, and what good we can take from it He threw his hands into the air,

Raihna slipped down off the boulder where she had been perched whetting her dagger. "I'll pray you do not lose the wager, if that is the stakes."

"What, no thoughts of Decius?"

"A woman can think of a score of well-looking men, Conan. But she can only bed one who is present."

Conan put an arm across Raihna's shoulders, but she slipped from under it and darted down the path. "There's a pool down there where the stream makes a bend. Race you to a bath."

Raihna had a head start, but Conan's long legs quickly made up the distance. They finished the race running side by side, with Conan's arm around Raihna's waist.

They were splashing in the pool when Conan thought he heard a footfall.

He took his eyes from Raihna's sun-dappled shoulders and freckled breasts and studied the trees around them.

The mountain wind gave a stately motion to the branches high aloft.

Conan did not think he'd heard the sound of either wind or forest. A deer, perhaps, since he and his companion were farther from the main camp than usual, and upwind of it as well.

Nevertheless, Conan reached down to be sure that the well-greased dagger on his ankle was still there and drawing freely. As he did, Raihna popped up directly before him and threw her arms around his neek. She not only pulled his head down between her breasts, she pulled him off balance. He tumbled forward, and they both went down to the bottom of the pool in a warm tangle.

When they rose, Conan could see in Raihna's eyes the thought that they were now clean enough. He drew her against him, then looked beyond her for a soft patch of ground. He found it, but he also found something that drove all thoughts of bed sport out of his mind.

A man was standing on the patch of needles. He was not a man easy to describe, save that he was shorter than Conan and slighter of build.

But then, so were most men.

His garb was more uncommon. He wore a loose tunic and looser trousers, homespun and dyed in motley green and brown. A leather sack swung from one shoulder, and he held a long staff of well-seasoned wood in his left hand. He seemed to be unarmed, but wore on his belt what drew and held the Cimmerian's eyes: a set of pipes, seven of them, the shortest no longer than Conan's thumb, the longest nearly half the length of his forearm. Pipes carved with vast care and cunning from some dark wood, then given silver mouthpieces and silver bands. Bands of silver spun as fine as thread and then braided and knotted”

"I crave pardon if I surprised you," the man said. "I am Marr the Piper."

"Tell me something my own eyes can't," Conan growled. He was edging toward the bank of the pool, moving slowly, refraining from any sudden gesture that might surprise or alarm this visitor. He wished that Raihna had not kept him from drawing the dagger from his ankle.

He could not wish more of Raihna. She was standing waist-deep in the pool, making no effort to cover herself as she wrung water out of her hair. She bore no weapon, but a woman like her was well-armed enough without steel as long as she was also without clothing. A man's body might be safe from her, but his mind”

Conan reached the bank. With a single lunge he was out of the water and gripping his sword. Marr looked his way. "That will not be needed."

"Needed, or useful?"

"Why do you think it might not be useful?"

"If you aren't a sorcerer or near-kin to one

"Whatever else I may be, I arn no enemy to you or your friends." Conan did not lower the sword, but when he spoke, his voice was less harsh.

"That will take some explaining."

"If we have the time

"We'll take the time, my friend. Either that or you'll take your leave."

The piper looked from Conan to Raihna, found no more mercy in her face than in the Cimmerian's, then nodded. "Very well. You have been witness to much of my work. Then I heard you, Conan, summoning me to show my colors

"What!" The word shot like an arrow from both Conan and Raihna's lips.

It raised echoes from the rocks. Marr shook his head.

"If you break in on my speech at every other word, we shall be here too long. Far too long, when I can lead you to Decius and the king."

This time neither Conan nor Raihna said a word. They merely stared at each other, then at Marr. When it seemed to Conan that both he and Raihna were seeing and hearing the same thing, he nodded to her. She climbed out of the water, silver drops beaded on her skin from forehead to toes. Conan cast her sword down to her and bent to don his clothes while she stood guard, then returned the favor.

When they were both garbed, they turned to find the piper sitting as if he had been turned to wood. Only the play of a thin smile on his face told them that he lived.

Conan sheathed his sword and glared at Marr. "As you can see, we'll not tarry here. You say Decius and the king are safe?"

"Alive, I said. I did not say safe. I do not know what dangers might beset them, either."

"Be that honest with one more question and we can strike a bargain, sorcerer or no."

"What kind of bargain?"

"Answer the question first," Conan growled. He liked men who talked in riddles about as much as he liked sorcerers.

"Ask, and I shall answer." The piper's voice itself had a musical quality to it that made it unlike any human voice that Conan had ever heard”man's, woman's, or child's.

"Can you read a man's thoughts?"

"When he wishes me to read them, as you did when you asked me to show myself, I can read them at some distance."

"But not when he wants to keep them to himself ?"

"No."

Something in the man's tone hinted that it was a matter of "would not"

rather than "could not." Yet” curse it, trust had to begin somewhere!

The closer and the sooner the better, if indeed this woodland wizard could pipe them along a path to Decius and Eloikas!

Conan ran fingers through his mane of black hair, wringing out the last water. "If you told the truth, here's my bargain. You guide us to the king and Decius. Guide us as if you were a common hunter or charcoal burner who knew the land. Not a breath, not a blink, about magic, and that means keeping those pipes out of sight!"

"You bargain hard, Cimmerian."

"I've more than a hundred good men that I don't want scared into flying for their lives. Them I know. You could be much or little. Even if you're much, we haven't forgotten the chaos you sowed at the palace."

"I will prove that I am much before we find Decius and Eloikas. What will you do when I have led you to them?"

"Speak for you to them, and leave the rest to them."

It was clear that the answer did not altogether content Marr. Conan wondered if Decius and Eloikas knew something about the man that he did not. Most likely they did. But they could not tell him what it was unless he put himself in the piper's hands long enough to find them.

After a moment, the piper nodded. He swung his pack down from his shoulder, drew out a dagger, some bread, and a linen bag with runes embroidered on it in blue thread. He thrust the pipe into the bag and the whole affair into the sack, then cut the bread with the dagger and handed each of the others a piece.

"If this is to be binding Raihna began.

"Of course. Salt." The piper held out both hands, palm upward. In an eyeblink, his palms turned white with salt. He shook it on the pieces of bread, then motioned the others to eat.

Conan ate, but the bread kept wanting to stick in his gullet. If the man could conjure salt out of the air, did it matter if his pipes were hidden?

Chapter 12

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Count Syzambry awoke to pain that was hardly greater than what he had endured several times before. He still lacked the strength to do more than mutter answers to the surgeon's questions. He contrived not to cry out, or even to groan, when rough hands heaved him about like a sack of barley as they changed his bedclothes and dressings.

Cleaned and somewhat restored by a cup of broth and a draught of poppy syrup, the count lay as if senseless. He feared there was no other way of bringing those about him to talk freely. The surgeons and guards had ignored a direct order to do so.

What he heard was less than soothing. It seemed that nearly five days had passed while he lay unwitting. His wound was grave, and it was not healing entirely as the common run of such wounds did.

No one said the word "magic." Syzambry hoped that this came from having found no traces of it rather than from fear of the word. If he needed to seek the aid of the Pougoi wizards, he did not want the fears of his men standing between him and the cure he needed to reach for the Border throne.

Even when he was healed, the battle would be longer than he had expected. King Eloikas, Captain-General Decius, and a good company of fighting men had fled the palace in two bands. The earth-magic had bought them that much time.

To be sure, the two bands together were only a few hundred men. But they had already cut to pieces one company of free lances that Syzambry had expected to be ready to hand for harrying the countryside. Now his men were hard-pressed to hold the ruins of the palace and the land about it.

Beyond where the count's writ ran, the countryside was not rallying to Eloikas. It was not rallying to the count, either.

He could not strengthen his hand, to be sure. He could strip not only his own lands, but the lands of every man who had sworn or promised or even hinted allegiance. Strip them of even the boys and the graybeards, strip them of even rotten bows and rusty swords that might avail against bandits.

Strip them, indeed, so that they would be naked to any blow that Eloikas or Decius might chose to strike.

Another source of strength lay in free lances. Word could go out that there were rich pickings in the Border Kingdom for those who would come to follow Count Syzambry's road to the throne. The free lances would come.

They would also come expecting ready gold, and unless he found Eloikas's hoard, Syzambry would have no such thing.

The groan that he had been holding back finally escaped Syzambry's lips. It was not the pain of his wound, but fury at what that wound might do to his ambitions. It would keep him chained to a bed or, at most, a litter, when swift movement alone would save him. How else to save his cause with his loyal handful but to lead them swiftly against his foes, sword in hand?

He groaned again, but more softly, even to his own ears. Perhaps the sleeping draught was taking hold, easing the poisonous thoughts from his mind¦

He fell asleep wishing that it could leech the poisons from his body as easily.

Captain-General Decius awoke in his tent to hear the sentries bawling like branded calves. His first thought was that Syzambry had found the royal camp and was hurling his men at it in a final desperate effort.

Decius rolled out of his blankets, jerked on breeches over his loinguard, and left the rest of his harness save for helmet and sword.

He plunged out of the tent, nearly sprawled on his face as a toe caught a rope, but saved his skin if not his dignity.

He thereafter walked a trifle more cautiously, though not less swiftly.

His men and the handful of Guards and armed servants were turning out as if half of them had not spent the night on sentry duty. His place was at their fore.

Decius reached the head of the path immediately behind the first half-dozen men. He waited long: enough to be aware of the chill dawn breeze on his bare chest, then ordered one of the sentries to take a message to the king.

"Tell him that a strong band of strangers is close at hand. Scouts will go out to learn more. All of the men are on duty and ready for battle."

He did not add that he would lead the scouts himself. Eloikas would most likely forbid it. That would waste the time needed to choose another man, when they might have no time at all to spare.

"That all, lord?" the messenger asked.

"Isn't that”?" Decius snarled, then caught himself. "Tell the king that the moment we know more, he shall know it

Decius broke off because his jaw had sunk onto his chest. Nor was his the only jaw agape.

Captain Conan of the Second Company was striding up the path, looking weather-worn and leaner than before, but alive and ready for battle.

Behind him, shapes in the dawn and clatters and clangs farther down the path told Decius that Conan had a following.

Decius mustered his wits. "Well, Captain Conan. You He decided that "you finally stopped running" would be a mortal insult, and possibly a false accusation as well. "You have come, I hope, to give some explanation of your conduct?"

"That, and more," Conan said. He seemed as impervious to Decius's scorn as a castle keep to a child's arrows. "My conduct includes chopping a band of Syzambry's free lances to rags, as well as some other matters best not talked of before everybody. When you've heard them, I think you'll say I've explained enough."

Decius began to believe that the Cimmerian spoke the truth, and not only because of his assured tone. The royal party had heard rumors of the shattered free lances, as they had heard tales of Syzambry's having been wounded almost to death.

A figure behind Conan removed a helmet and shook the tangles out of fair hair. Decius's heart leaped within his breast, and he could no longer command his face.

"Welcome, Mistress Raihna."

Her smile made the captain-general's heart leap again. Then a man clad in green and brown, with a sack over one shoulder and a staff in hand, stepped through the ranks of Conan's men. From the manner in which they gave way for him, Decius judged him to be one who had served them well.

"This man is a woodcutter who guided us to your camp," Raihna said.

"He knew where we were?" one of the sentries growled. His hand was not far from his bow.

"Peace," Conan said. "The woodcutter's a loyal man. Hot pincers and the rack together wouldn't give his knowledge to Syzambry."

Decius was willing to take that on faith. What he doubted was that this man was a woodcutter, or anything else that it was wise to speak of before others. Conan and the "woodcutter" were indeed going before the king, although they might not care for what came of it.

Decius called the eager sentry over. "Go to His Majesty. Tell him that Captain Conan has returned with survivors of the Second Company and knowledge he wishes to lay before the king."

As the man scurried off, Decius resumed his contemplation of the "woodcutter." This was not as pleasant as the contemplation of Raihna would have been, but duty before pleasure. The woodcutter stood as if it was nothing new for him to be inspected like a pack mule or a bale of cloth.

He continued to stand under Decius's scrutiny until the messenger returned with the summons of the king. By then, Decius had decided that the man would reveal nothing he did not choose to¦ which meant that it would be well to deal generously with Captain Conan, unless he had done something altogether disgraceful. Generous dealing might open his mouth, at least!

The tent of King Eloikas had three walls and a roof, made of stout cloth dyed with herbs until it shared the color of the forest floor.

The rear of the tent was the solid rock of the base of a cliff. In that rock was a narrow cleft: the king's path to Safety in the last extremity should the camp be falling to his enemies.

To Conan, the rock cleft seemed more like a path to a quicker and more merciful death for Eloikas. The Cimmerian doubted that the king could survive a long scramble through the bowels of the hill.

Eloikas had looked a hale sixty when Conan had last seen him. Now he looked a feeble and sickly seventy, and his hands were so thin they seemed almost transparent. His lips held a bluish tinge, and his breath came with a painful effort.

He still commanded, for which Conan was grateful. The Cimmerian told the tale of his journey from the palace briefly, so as not to tire the king. Whatever Conan had done, or what might be done to him, he suspected that what Marr the Piper had to say would prove of importance.

Decius, he suspected, was not of the same mind. The Cimmerian no longer doubted the captain-general's loyalty. He had, by all accounts, fought too hard and endured too much in Eloikas's cause to be any kind of traitor.

But a man smitten by Raihna and seeking a chance to disgrace a rival”the captain-general might still be so described. Men could make as great mischief out of jealousy as out of treason, as Conan knew all too well. Were matters otherwise, he might still be a captain in the Turanian service instead of climbing the hills of the Border Kingdom.

The captain-general heard Conan out in silence, then waited while the king asked a few shrewd questions. Etoikas's body might be failing him, but his wits were not.

"It seems to Us that you have done good service, and that your skill and loyalty are not in doubt," Eloikas said at last. "Lord Decius, do you have aught to add to what We have said to this worthy Cimmerian?"

In his mind, the worthy Cimmerian performed rites of aversion to keep Decius's mouth shut. The rites, the tone of the king's voice, or perhaps merely Decius's good sense, did the work.

"No, Your Majesty. Few men could have done as well as Captain Conan.

Fewer still could have done better."

"Thank you, my lord," Conan said with elaborate politeness. "The woodcutter who guided us here is without, along with Mistress Raihna.

May I have the king's leave to bring them within? I believe that the king himself should hear the woodcutter's tale."

That tale was shorter than Conan had feared it might be, for Marr entered the tent with his pipes on his belt. Conan heard Decius suck in his breath, and the king's eyes widened.

"I had thought I was unknown," the piper said calmly, sitting down without asking leave. "It seems that my knowledge was not complete."

"Your pipes have been a legend in the land since before my daughter was born," Eloikas said. He was trying to seem at ease, but Conan noticed that he said "my" instead of the royal "Our."

"You yourself are not much less of one," Decius added. "What brings you here, piper? Consider that your magic shook down the palace and slew a good number of the king's men, and give a civil answer!"

"He will give no answer at all unless you are silent," Raihna said. Her eyes locked with the captain-general's, and it was not the woman who looked away.

Marr sighed. It was the most human sound Conan had heard from him yet.

"I have walked a long road to come to a place I had hoped never to see.

I beg you not to make the road longer."

He touched his pipes. "May I play a trifle? I think I know a tune or two that will make matters easier among us."

"A spell-weaving tune?" Decius muttered. But Eloikas looked at the Cimmerian and Raihna rather than at his captain-general. The two outlanders shook their heads. Eloikas nodded, and Marr began to play.

Afterward Conan remembered few of the sensations that flowed through him like an underground stream as the piper played. One was surprise that the music sounded so much like common piping that any shepherd lad might have played to soothe himself when twilight drew near and the wolves approached.

Another was an amazing sense of being at peace with himself and every other creature in the world. He would not have embraced Count Syzambry as a brother, but the count would have been safe from the Cimmerian's steel while the music played.

Much beyond that, Conan could not have found words to name what he felt. He only remembered clearly that when the music ended, all of the people in the tent looked as if they had just waked from a healing sleep.

Marr wrapped his pipes and returned them to their bag. "I have done as much as I can for now," he said. "I would rather hear Captain Conan speak. I am sure that on the road here he has devised a plan to rescue Princess Chienna and Prince Urras."

Conan muttered something best not said aloud in the presence of either kings or sorcerers. Trust a sorcerer to call for a miracle and then lay the burden of its performance on a common man's shoulders, with royal wrath awaiting failure!

Yet it seemed to Conan that he had more thoughts on the matter than he had suspected. It also seemed that they came to his lips more swiftly than usual. Had Marr put them there? Or had the piper merely made it easier for Conan to say what was already in his mind?

The smells of woodsmoke, heating stew, and pine needles reached Decius's nostrils as he strode through the camp. As he approached the Cimmerian's tent, the aroma of leather and oil joined the others.

"Captain Conan," Decius said. "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Then I wish”may I enter?" Decius chose prudence over rank and turned an order into a question.

The tone of the Cimmerian's reply told him that he had chosen wisely.

"You may."

Conan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing only a loinguard.

He was rubbing oil into the various leather items of his harness. His sword, already sharpened and oiled, lay on a linen cloth beside his sleeping pallet.

"Greetings, my lord Decius," Conan said. "I fear that my hospitality is poor. But what I have is yours."

Decius took that as an invitation to sit. "Captain Conan, I will be brief. What I would most like from you is for either you or Raihna to remain behind. Both of you going into the jaws of the Pougoi”I like it not."

"Does it matter which of us remains?" Conan asked. His tone made Decius wary; then understanding dawned. The captain-general laughed.

"I wasn't planning on courting you, Cimmerian!" Decius said. "Nor will I be courting Mistress Raihna until I can be sure I have something to share with her besides an unknown grave in the hills."

"Decius, I don't envy anyone the work of burying you," Conan said.

"Your corpse might bite the grave digger."

"I thank you," Decius said. "Now, a little plain speaking. Both you and Raihna are seasoned captains. We have few. To put each of you in danger imperils the king's very cause."

"We've the best chance of winning through and bringing out the princess and the babe," Conan said with a shrug. "If it can be done at all, we're the best to do it. If it can't be done, does it matter how many captains the king has?"

Decius sighed. "No. The doctors say that he will be lucky to see the first snow at best. If he loses hope of seeing his daughter again¦"

Silence said the rest.

"I'd not complain about taking one of your veterans and leaving Raihna behind," Conan said. "But Marr says that it must be she and I, and no others."

Decius frowned. "Does this mean that either of you¦ has¦ is¦ ?"

"I'm no more a sorcerer than I'm a tavern dancer, and Raihna likewise,"

Conan said. "What the piper sees in us¦ it's one of the things he doesn't speak of. What it would take to make him speak, I don't know, and I'm not going to spend time in searching for it."

Decius wanted to curse the gods, the Pougoi, their wizards, Count Syzambry, and everything else that had brought matters to this pass. He had the sense of throwing a better man than himself into a pit of venemous serpents, with scant hope of seeing the man climb out again.

"Eh?" the Cimmerian said.

"I was thinking that there ought to be a farewell for the three of you.

Wine, meat, music, anything else you desired."

"Don't tempt the gods," Conan said. He stood up and stretched. His head nearly touched the roof of the tent, and his outflung hands did touch either side. "Save the feasting for when we're safe in the palace again. But if there's any wine in the camp”?"

Decius remembered a jar of the best Nemedian vintage that he had saved for the departure of men on desperate ventures. It was buried, and probably shattered by now, beneath the ruins of the palace, along with so much of the past.

Chapter 13

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Among them, Conan, Raihna, and Marr had faced every peril that a land such as the Border Kingdom could offer. Had they provided themselves against every one of them, they would have needed a pack train for their baggage.

"We'll see about a riding mule for the princess when we come out,"

Conan said. "Best we go in traveling light and fast. Syzambry may still die, but he may also heal. By his own strength, perhaps, or with the help of the Star Brothers."

"The Pougoi wizards have no healing magic," the piper said. "Their star-magic is

"Who asked you?" Decius said. He was sitting by the tent entrance as the three travelers packed. Conan judged that this was to avoid the king, and also perhaps in hope of Raihna's defying Marr and remaining behind.

He was hoping that pigs would fly, Conan knew.

Nothing save a threat to her guards would force Raihna to turn back.

Decius was too honorable to use that trick.

"No one asked me," Marr said. "But then, does a wise man wait to be asked when there is truth to be spoken?"

It was in Conan's mind that a man who wanted his teeth in his mouth and his bones unbroken might know that truth was not always welcome. He remained silent and studied the stitching of his sword scabbard. It would not last beyond this journey, but it would do for that.

In time, all the work was done, some of it twice over. Conan stepped outside to permit Decius and Raihna to say what they wished. He bid Marr to follow him.

It was nearing twilight, for the three would-be saviors of the princess and her son intended a night departure. If any unwanted eyes or ears were close at hand, the night and Marr's pipes should make them blind and deaf.

"Who are you, Cimmerian?" the man asked. In the fading light, his face might have been that of a youth or an ancient. Only the eyes denied the youth. They were wide and dark, and clearly had seen much commonly hidden from men.

"My true name is the same as I am called," Conan said. "If sorcerers have tried to use this against me, nothing has yet succeeded. Are you hoping to better them?"

"That was not my question," Marr said. "Who are you, to be here now, embarking on this venture laden with risk?"

Conan shrugged. "I suppose no more than a man who won't run from a fight when his friends are already in it."

"On the rock of such strength, mountains have broken and kingdoms fallen. Am I one of those friends?"

"You will be if you stop talking in riddles and stop asking questions you don't need answered."

"Who are you to judge which questions need no answers?"

"Crom! I'll certainly be no friend if you talk like a sorcerer or a priest, full of mystical wind that blows you where no one can follow.

At least no one with his wits about him. Now, for the last time”what do you need to know for this journey?"

"Nothing that I do not know already, in truth. Forgive me. I did not mean to give offense. I was only looking beyond this journey."

"The time for that, my musical friend, is when we've done with the journey and are safe home with Princess Chienna! Now, instead of tempting the gods, do you want to join me in a hunt for some wine? I'll not leave with a dry throat, even if I have to wet it with that vinegar they call wine hereabouts!"

They traveled throughout the first night and lay up during the day, keeping no watches and building no fires.

"If Syzambry has put so many men on our trail that they can find three people with no smoke to guide them, the king's cause is already lost,"

Conan said. "I'll wager it needs us rested and fit when we reach the valley."

It was in Conan's mind that they would need more than strength when they reached the Vale of the Pougoi. They would need a wonder or two from Marr's magic or somewhere else.

Until now, the piper had been so unlike the common run of sorcerers that Conan could have doubted he was one were it not for the pipes. Yet even the most honorable intentions had not kept Lady Illyana from becoming the slave of magic, rather than its mistress.

A sharp eye and sharper steel might still be needed against Marr the Piper and all his works.

The second night and second day repeated the pattern of the first.

Breaking camp in the twilight, they heard the sound of men on the march, and Conan went to scout. He returned to report that they were a band of peasants.

"They made enough noise that I could have ridden up on a dragon before they saw me," Conan said. "So I lay close and watched. They were forty or more, but wearing only their work clothes and armed only with their farming tools. Oh, a man or so had a sword that his grandfather might have carried as a free lance. But nobody had provided them arms or harness."

"That gives hope," Raihna said. "If Syzambry had called them out, surely he would not have left them a rabble."

"If he had spare arms, perhaps not," Conan said. "But they could be rallying to Syzambry of their own will. Hoping to spare their villages, likely as not."

Raihna spat. "They are fools, then. They rush to embrace a man who will be as grateful as a hungry bear."

"They do not know that," Marr said. "They are desperate, and that fogs the wits. Or have you come so far from your village that you forgot that?"

Raihna gasped and glared. Conan stared hard at the piper. The Cimmerian's look said plainly: "I have told you nothing about Raihna's birth. Have you been reading her thoughts against her will, as you said you could not do?"

Marr looked away, then lifted his pipes. Conan raised a hand, ready to snatch them. Now the Cimmerian's look said, "Earn your pardon with words, not with your magic."

"Mistress Raihna, forgive me for calling you a witling," the piper said. "You are no such thing. But I hear Bossonia in your speech, and I know something of that land."

"If you thought it bore witlings, you did not know enough," Raihna muttered, but she seemed eased.

Presently the sound of the marching peasants died away, and they resumed their own march through the silent forest as night came down.

The would-be rescuers neither heard nor met any further bands on their journey to the valley. This was not altogether by chance. Marr knew every hill, every valley, and it sometimes seemed to Conan, every tree in the forests. He knew which drew hunters and woodcutters, even in troubled times like these, and which were left to the birds and the wolves.

"There was once a good number of bears in these forests," the piper added. "But most of them were hunted out some generations back. I know of two villages where they go in fear of the beasts, so a few may still den up and live off deer and the odd sheep."

"So? We're not here to hunt animals for the royal menagerie," Raihna said.

"I do not babble without cause," the piper said. "One of those villages is close to our path."

"Then take us wide of it, for Crom's sake!" Conan snapped. It was the fifth day of their journey. Marr talked less in riddles than he formerly had, but when he did, Conan had less patience with him. He would gladly match steel against half of the warriors of the Pougoi, or strength against the wizards' beast, simply to end this skulking about in an inhdspitable land.

"I cannot lead you too wide of it," the piper said, "unless you wish to pass through the Blasted Land."

"From what I have heard of that land, I'd take my chances with the bears and the villagers both," Raihna said. Conan nodded in agreement.

"Wise," Marr said. "The Pougoi watch the farther side of the Blasted Land, and few escape their sentries, if they cross the Land at all without taking the bone-burning sickness."

"We'll fight neither beasts nor wizards with our bones turning to water within our flesh," Conan growled. "Lead as you wish."

The floor under Count Syzambry's feet was shaking. Had unfriendly magic conjured up an earthquake?

No, it was his body swaying and his legs threatening to give way under him so that he would topple like a tree overborne by a high wind. He gripped the bedpost with one hand and held out the other.

"My sword!"

Zylku, the surgeon's apprentice, stared. One of the men-at-arms lifted the count's blade from the bench at the foot of the bed.

"No. We cannot be sure that steel

"I am sure that steel in my hand will do much good," the count said.

His voice rasped and croaked, but he still forced some authority into it. It was another gift that was returning, like being able to stand on his own feet.

"Much good," the count repeated. "Beginning with ending your babble."

His hand gripped the sword. For a moment, the grip was firm. Then the weight of the sword jerked it from his fingers, nearly overbalancing him at the same time.

Syzambry's blade clattered to the floor. He did not dare meet Zylku's eyes. He would see triumph in them, and Zylku might see tears of rage in his.

"Steel in my hand will do much good when I can wield it as I once did,"

the count said. "It seems that the time is not now." He commanded himself to stare at Zylku. "Summon your master and bid him prepare an answer. How long will I be lame and halt, unable to lead my men against my enemies?"

"A horse litter Zylku murmured.

"I said lead!" the count thundered. The strength of his voice surprised himself as well as those in the bedchamber. "A horse litter is for women, babes, and others who must remain behind when battle is joined.

A leader rides or he does not deserve the name!"

"I will obey," Zylku said. "I will also ask certain folk I know who have arts other than those of common surgeons."

"Indeed," the count said. "And what do you ask in return for this, as I doubt not you risk the wrath of your master?"

"Your silence about my asking, yours and your men's," Zylku replied.

"Also, such reward as you consider fit should Ilearn anything that serves to restore your health. I will trust to your justice."

"You may do that," the count said. "Only remember that my justice can mean a sharp sword for those who have deceived me."

"Dead or alive, my Lord Count, I will not deceive you," Zylku said. "By anything you hold sacred, I will swear it."

The count was not sure that he held anything sacred within his heart of hearts, save well-wielded steel. Steel that, the gods willing, he would one day soon be able to hold again. If Zylku brought that day more swiftly, he could name his own reward!

It was the sixth night of the journey, and if Marr knew one rock from another, it was the last night. Conan would be glad if Marr's knowledge proved true, even if it made the man prouder than ever.

The Cimmerian did not care to tarry long here; the place was too close to the Blasted Land for comfort. Even in the darkness, he could see that the trees had unnatural shapes. The bird sounds were few and furtive, the insects altogether silent. Nothing else was to be heard, not even the sigh of a night breeze.

All three travelers were walking catfooted, trying not to dislodge a single pebble or break the smallest twig. The Pougoi did not watch this land, Marr had said. The villagers themselves drove strangers away. Yet any place so close to the Blasted Land had its watchers, who were neither wizard nor human.

That was all the piper would say. Nothing that Conan dared do would move him to speak further. He would not even say if these watchers could be dangerous, although in that matter Conan needed no advice. He would reckon on the worst and advance steel in hand.

The piper was leading. Now he was bearing to the right, past a vast twisted oak tree that seemed to be lifted half off the ground by a dozen-roots thicker than a man's body. Enough moonlight crept through the clouds to show that fallen acorns lay about the base of the tree.

Among the acorns lay the skeleton of what might have been a wild boar, except that no boar ever had such splayed hooves or such a bulging skull¦

Conan remembered the tales of the Blasted Land.

It came to be in a single night, when the Star Brothers' beast rode down from the sky in a giant stone. Fire and shards of the sky-stone cut a swathe across the land, wider than a man could ride in a single day. Within a year, the beasts and growing things returned, but they were horribly changed and misshapen.

The piper raised his hand. Raihna and the Cimmerian stopped and waited while their guide vanished into the darkness ahead. Enough time seemed to pass for Prince Urras to grow to manhood before the piper returned.

"I can see nothing," he whispered, "but I sense the thoughts of one who watches. He either cannot shield his mind or does not care to," Marr added at Conan's frown.

"Man or beast?" Raihna asked.

The piper shrugged. "I would wager that it has some of each in it. One thing is certain: it has sensed our thoughts and is tracking us by them."

"I am in ecstasy," Raihna said. She tested the draw of her sword and dagger. "Do we wait for him”it” to come, or do we go to meet it?"

Conan studied the ground. "Unless our friend can fly, here's as good as any. Better than some”no stumps or potholes that I can see."

The piper seemed about to speak when part of the darkness ahead began to move. At first it was only a small part, and without shape. It grew rapidly, however, and took on a familiar and terrible form almost as swiftly”that of a gigantic bear, brown with a ruff of silvery fur almost as thick as a lion's mane. The moonlight showed that its muzzle was grizzled as if with age, yet its coat was thick and showed no wounds or bald spots. The muzzle was shorter and the skull broader than Conan had ever seen in a bear.

Conan and Raihna unslung their bows. The piper fell back, to stand behind them. He drew his pipes but did not put them to his lips.

As Conan and Raihna nocked their arrows, the bear plunged off the trail. When it found no shadows large enough to hide itself altogether, it became a moving, difficult target. Conan tried to judge its path by the sound of its footfalls, but he heard too little. It seemed that the bear had the cunning to walk lightfooted on uncertain ground.

Had Conan and Raihna carried more arrows, they would have shot anyway, trusting to wound the beast. Decius had been able to find barely two dozen shafts apiece for them, however. Some of those had already been spent in bringing down meat for the pot.

Conan had faced enraged bears and seen what they could do. He had also seen how many arrows they could take without mortal hurt. He would shoot if the bear offered a vital spot, but not otherwise.

Now only the faintest of scrapings and the swiftest of moving shadows told Conan of the bear's progress. It seemed that it was moving around toward their rear, perhaps cutting across the trail toward the oak tree.

For a long moment the silence was complete. Then the crackle of splintering wood rent the night. Conan tried to pierce the darkness, but the moonlight refused its aid. He could only make out the oak tree shaking, as if a strong wind were blowing.

Then the moon came out, Raihna gasped, and even Conan gritted his teeth. The bear had torn a branch from the oak tree, as long as two men and as thick as Conan's arm. Now the beast rose on its hind feet, holding the branch in its forepaws.

In its hands. The moonlight showed unmistakable thumbs, for all that they bore claws as long as Raihna's dagger.

Creature of magic or creature of twisted nature, the bear was still offering Conan that long-sought vital target. An arrow leaped to his string, then flew straight at the beast. It pierced deep through the shaggy brown coat and into the left shoulder.

The bear's roars filled the night as if there had been no such thing as silence since the world began. It shifted its grip on the branch to pluck the arrow from its flesh. Conan put two more arrows into the beast; then it lowered its head, shuffled its feet about like a runner seeking the best start, and lunged forward.

The bear's three human opponents scattered like chaff in a whirlwind.

They had no choice. Even Conan could no more match the bear's strength than he could that of an avalanche. Against such an opponent, he had to keep his distance and wear the beast down, giving as many wounds as possible and taking none. Many slight wounds could sap the strength of any creature. There could be no such thing as a slight wound for any human, not from this monster.

Raihna was bolder. She lunged in under the bear's guard and slashed at its hind legs. The broken branch hummed and the end crashed down.

Raihna leaped back and to one side, avoiding a stroke that would have shattered her skull.

She did not avoid a patch of rough ground that threw her off balance.

The bear stepped forward, raised the branch high, and struck again.

Raihna went down, but in going down, she landed on her rump, legs raised.

Those long legs were made for more than wrapping around a man during bedsport. They held fine, hard muscle, and all that muscle now drove Raihna's boots into the pit of the bear's stomach. The beast outweighed her ten to one, but even its stout hide could not altogether cushion such a blow.

The bear grunted and the branch wavered. Raihna rolled away, cutting at the bear's left ankle as she did so. Her eye was true. Her blade caught the hamstring. The leg gave under the bear's weight, and the beast toppled onto all fours. The branch came down with it, catching Raihna across one ankle. She did not cry out, but Conan saw her wince.

He also saw that opportunity was knocking. For a moment, the bear was torn between the weapons of a thinking creature and those of a beast.

Instinct overwhelmed thought. It lunged for Raihna with its jaws.

As it did, the branch lifted, freeing Raihna. She rolled and slashed again. This time her sword caught the bear across the muzzle. The creature roared to make the hills shake and turned toward Raihna as she leaped to her feet.

As she did, Conan leaped onto the bear's back. His free arm curled around the shaggy throat, squeezing like a great snake of the Vendhyan jungles gripping a particularly succulent pig. His sword slashed down.

Fur and flesh gaped, and the bear's right forepaw dangled limply.

The roars the bear had uttered before seemed like silence compared to the thunder now.

It needed more than noise to disquiet the Cimmerian when he was grappling with a foe. When the bear tried to shake off the impudent nuisance clinging to its neck, it was too late. Conan had his dagger drawn, and he thrust it deep into the bear's throat. Blood flowed. He thrust again; more blood flowed, and Raihna took the opportunity Conan had given her. She ran in, thrusting hard, and her sword found the bear's heart.

The slayers barely had time to leap clear before the creature toppled.

The massive paws scrabbled at the rocky ground a few times as blood pooled under the throat and chest. Then it lay still.

Before he stood up, Conan counted and flexed his limbs to be sure that all of them were still attached and fit for use. He had grazes, bruises, and sore spots all over from this briefest of grapples with the bear.

Raihna looked in much the same case, with the addition that her trousers were largely gone, and also one sleeve of her shirt. One cheek was going to be a single giant bruise by morning, and she favored one ankle.

Conan caught her by both hands, then embraced her and lifted her off her feet. "Thank the gods that it was a short fight," she said when her breath returned. "A long battle against that creature and we'd none of us been fit to fight again, or even to travel."

"Save Marr," Conan said, looking about for their companion. He was nowhere in sight, but Conan thought he heard a distant trill of pipes.

Had the piper fled after leading them into a trap? That was Conan's first thought, and an ugly one, too. Raihna seemed to read that thought on the Cimmerian's face.

"Is it worth searching for him?" she asked. She sheathed her sword with a vigorous thrust. Conan judged that it would be drawn as swiftly if she met the piper again.

"Not at night," Conan said. "We'd do better to find a place to sleep.

Without a guide, we'll have to cover the last of the journey by day, or risk going astray."

"At least we can have bear meat for breakfast," Raihna said.

"That would not be wise," came a familiar voice, seemingly from the air above them. Conan whirled, sword flying clear.

"By Erlik's brass tool”!"

Marr slipped down from the oak tree and almost sauntered toward them.

He might have taken a Cimmerian fist in the teeth but for Raihna. She gripped Conan's arm and pointed. Conan followed her gesture, and stared.

A youth”no, a woman hardly more than a girl” was following the piper.

She wore her hair in Pougoi braids, and her face was either filthy beyond belief or smeared with dirt to make her harder to see in the dark. Even in the darkness, Conan noted her easy grace of movement and the fine figure under the tunic.

"Forgive me," Marr said. "Captain Conan, Mistress Raihna, meet Wylla.

She is of the Pougoi, and a friend to us."

"Then she can share the bear meat, after you explain where you were during the fight," Raihna snapped. "We are waiting." She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared.

"To eat the flesh of that bear is not proper," the piper said. "The bear has a man's cunning. Therefore it would be as eating human flesh

Raihna gagged, and Conan nodded. "I see you agree with me, Captain,"

Marr said. "Good. As for where I was”I had to play my pipes. Otherwise, the bear's thoughts might have reached the Star Brothers. That could have been like sending a letter warning them of our coming. By the time I knew I had blocked the sending of the bear's thoughts, I sensed Wylla's approach. I had to go on playing so as to guide her safely to us and to shield her from the bear's knowledge."

Conan nodded, feigning more understanding than he actually felt. Still, it began to seem that the piper's magic might be of a kind he had never heretofore met, or even heard of. It was magic to prevent what might otherwise happen rather than to cause unnatural events such as rivers flowing backward, mountains splitting, or dead gods waking up to ravage the world of men.

No doubt such magic could in time corrupt its wielder, as with any sorcerer. But the corruption might come more slowly. Slowly enough, perhaps, for Conan and Raihna to use Marr's aid in rescuing the princess and making a safe escape.

"We had best move to a safer place, as you suggested," the piper continued. "Then, before we move on, we must consider fresh ways of rescuing the princess. Wylla has brought news that I did not expect."

"I thought that our old scheme was good enough," Conan said. "Unless your ankle will keep you from climbing the valley walls," he added, turning to Raihna.

"Climbing down, no. Climbing up She shrugged. "That monster on my trail may count for more than a sore ankle."

"We may need to do much less climbing than we expected," the piper said. "Wylla thinks that we have a friend among the Pougoi." The woman whispered to the piper, and he nodded. "Or at least a man who is no enemy to the princess, even if he serves Count Syzambry."

"What?" Conan would have bellowed louder than the bear had Raihna not put a hand over his mouth. More quietly, he said, "This demands even more explaining than your climbing trees to make music while we fought the bear!"

"I shall explain when we are a safe distance from here," Marr said.

"The thoughts of the bear may not have reached the Star Brothers.

Indeed, I believe they did not. I am less sure about the bear's kin. Do you fancy a fight against them?"

By the time Wylla and Marr finished telling of "Lord Aybas" and his curious conduct, it was too late to reach the valley before daylight.

The four travelers covered some two thirds of the distance, then found a sleeping place in a stand of fir trees so dense that an army might not have discovered them.

The tale would have been longer still and much less convincing had Wylla not decided that Conan and Raihna could be trusted. So she revealed her knowledge of the lowland speech and told most of the tale herself. This, in turn, left Conan and Raihna more willing to believe it.

Not that the tale was easy to believe at best, as Raihna made plain when she and Conan were clearing a place for their blankets. "Aybas may be playing some game too deep for Wylla to understand, it seems to me,"

she said.

"Then it would be too deep for our musical magician, and if he's not a master of intrigue, I'm a Stygian," Conan said.

"He may know only what Wylla has told him," Raihna suggested.

"True enough," Conan replied. "But we can't turn about and run for home with our tails between our legs after coming this far. We'll go on down. If it's a trap, we can at least cut Aybas's throat in due time."

"Yes, and Wylla's." Raihna embraced him. "It does you honor that you'll not harm a woman. But I've sworn no such oath, and if Wylla betrays, us, she'll go with us. I've always fancied having a serving maid, in this world or some other."

Conan returned the embrace, but he could not entirely avoid the thought that any man who made an enemy of Raihna would be lucky to live long.

Did Decius know this small truth about the lady he was courting?

Chapter 14

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Aybas awoke, at first certain that a new nightmare afflicted him. A giant loomed over him, so black that he seemed to devour light except for his eyes, which gleamed an icy blue. Others were present in the nightmare, but Aybas could make out only little of them.

Then he sensed cold steel against his skin and a sharp point at his throat. Either the demons who rode by night had new powers over the minds of men, or he was no longer asleep.

Aybas chose to think himself awake, and he asked a question that could at least do no harm: "What do you want of me, friends?"

"Hah!" the giant said. "Leave the last word off your tongue or give over pandering for a usurper."

That made it evident who the visitors were: folk loyal to King Eloikas.

And that told him that they were no friends of his, and most likely why they were here.

In spite of the steel at his throat, Aybas smiled. The night had brought one surprise to him. Now it was about to bring one to his visitors.

"If you seek the freedom of Princess Chienna, I am yours to command."

The giant grunted something wordless that might have indicated surprise. Aybas could barely make out his face in the dark hut, and in any case, he was no longer looking at the giant.

Behind the giant stood a fair-haired woman of mature but still great beauty, for all her warrior's garb and appearance. Beside her”and here Aybas had to swallow”stood a man who seemed small beside the giant but who exuded a power that had little to do with his stature.

A set of silver-adorned pipes dangled at his waist. Aybas did not need a second look at those pipes for them to tell him more than he wanted to know about the man.

Marr the Piper, who had toyed with the spells of the Star Brothers like a playful cat with a mouse, had come in the service of King Eloikas.

"Then we command you to rise and guide us to the house of the princess," the giant said.

"I will do as much or more on one condition," Aybas said.

The sword point pricked harder. Another twitch of the giant's wrist and Aybas's life blood would stream over his pallet. "Wait! Hear the condition first! It may be worth the hearing."

"It may," Marr said. Aybas almost smiled. He had heard the legend that the piper of the mountains was mute save for his music. So much for the legend.

"We must rescue Captain Oyzhik," Aybas said.

The giant's sword point drew back, but the look on his face was more frightening than the sharp steel. With his eyes now fully waking, Aybas saw that the giant had the look of Cimmeria about him. Perhaps he was the new captain of the Guards of which rumor had spoken? If so, he would have no reason to love Oyzhik.

"You are here out of loyalty to King Eloikas, to save Chienna from the Star Brothers and from Count Syzambry alike. Save Oyzhik and you may do the king another service."

"How?" The Cimmerian, it seemed, was not one to waste words.

"Oyzhik is a traitor to the king, to be sure. He also knows a good many of Syzambry's secrets. He has not been rewarded for his treason, either. The Star Brothers hold him close captive, ready to sacrifice him to the beast at a whim. If saved, might he not reveal much of what he knows, out of gratitude?"

"Oyzhik has as much gratitude in him as a turnip," the woman said. "But if the king pardoned him as well

"Raihna!" the giant growled. "Have your wits flown after this one's?"

"No," the woman called Raihna replied. "Merely thinking that if we can win a second victory without losing our first

She seemed to have decided. From the look on his face, the piper was of the same mind. The Cimmerian was not, and he seemed ready to argue.

The hut door swung open, and Wylla entered as silently as smoke. "I have warned my father. He trusts no one else enough to bring them, but he will meet us at the house of the princess."

"Is anyone suspicious?" Conan asked.

"I saw none of the Star Brothers or their faction," Wylla said. "I think that if they suspected aught, they would be abroad."

"Likely enough," Conan agreed. He looked upward, apparently calling on the gods for patience with fools, and wisdom to tell fools from wise men. Then he looked at Aybas with a face that made the Aquilonian wish that this were a nightmare.

"We'll take your oath to aid us. Break it, or even bend it, and you'll die ten times over before the Pougoi take you."

"I expect no less."

The rescuers certainly had not expected the oath that Aybas swore. He swore at length and by many gods, partly to ease their minds, but more to ease his own. This was the first time he had used some of the sacred names since he was a child, and why not? This was likely enough the last oath he would swear as a living man, and the first in twenty years that he had no intention of breaking.

Of course, if the tales of Syzambry's being dead, or at least crippled, were false, this change of allegiance held peril. A fleet pair of heels could still take him to safety, however. The count would have ample occupation while dealing with enemies closer at hand even if he did gain the throne.

Much to Conan's disgust, Oyzhik and the princess were held as far apart as the valley allowed. The rescuers would have to divide their forces and meet at the foot of the cliff for the final scramble to safety.

Aybas and Marr had to go for Chienna. Without Aybas, she might need calming by the piper's music, as her babe surely would. Without the piper, there would be no calming either of them.

Oyzhik, however, was held so closely that a single man”even Conan”could fail. Wylla swore to find her father and bring him to the wizards'

prison instead of to the princess's hut.

Conan would have cursed Aybas, Oyzhik and the Star Brothers alike had he not feared delay or noise. It might have been simpler to refuse Aybas's oath and to silence him. But they had chosen to take that oath, and now, to Conan's mind, they were bound as closely as their new friend. A world where oaths could be cast out with the chamberpots onto the middens was a world doomed to the rule of the likes of Count Syzambry and the Star Brothers.

As silent as a falling rose petal, at one with the shadows, the Cimmerian made his way down across the valley toward the Star Brother's lodge. Mist curled over the edge of the dam, and a faint breeze brought the reek of the beast to Conan. His face twisted at the foulness, and he would have known then, had he not been told before, that the creature was not of the world of men.

"Hssst!"

"Five?" Conan asked. If the reply made ten, he had met Wylla's father.

"Five," came a gruff voice. Then a shadow that Conan had taken for a bush began to move toward him. At length it turned into a man nearly as large as the Cimmerian himself. Grizzled hair and a short beard made him resemble a patriarch, but the Cimmerian's eye made out a warrior's muscles and sinews under the man's scarred skin.

"Well met, Conan of Cimmeria," the man said. "I am Thyrin, father to Wylla."

"I am Captain Conan of the Second Guards, father to none that I know of," the Cimmerian replied. "Is your daughter with you?"

"She wished to join us, but I bid her join the others. She can tend the babe if no more, and with them, she will be closer to safety.

"I like not this care for Captain Oyzhik, Cimmerian. Did my daughter not say that he will do our enemies more harm alive than dead, I would spear him in a moment. It will be a chancy affair, making our way to safety with a man such as Oyzhik."

"I am of your mind. At least Marr will try to keep the alarm from being raised. Lead on, Thyrin."

Aybas was prepared to march straight up to the princess's lodgings, trusting to his standing with the guards. Raihna counseled greater caution.

"If I were the Star Brothers

"You could never render yourself so ugly of either body or spirit,"

Aybas said.

Raihna seemed to be glaring and smiling at the same time. "There is a place for the gallantries of the Aquilonian court, and this is not it.

If I were the Star Brothers, I would have my most trusted men about the princess now, especially with the tales being rumored of Syzambry's troubles."

"It is the habit of the Star Brothers to have their most trusted men guarding the sacrifices," Aybas said. "Conan and Thyrin are the ones most in need of caution."

"You did not tell us that!" Raihna exclaimed.

"You did not ask it of me," Aybas replied blandly.

"If you have the wits of a louse, you should know what to tell us without being asked!" Raihna said.

"Here, now, Mistress Aybas began, swallowing indignation as he saw Raihna reaching for her sword.

"Peace," Marr said. "I can work against the wits of any or all of the guards as needs be. Also, no doubt the Star Brothers think that the princess needs less guarding, being a mere woman."

Raihna mimed running the piper through, and Wylla, recently rejoined with the other three, pulled a long face. Then she stuck out her tongue at both men. The unease dissolved in soft laughter.

It was good tidings that Oyzhik was lodged in a hut apart from the common lodgings for the sacrifices. No doubt the Star Brothers did not wish anyone to bear reports of his being ill-treated to Count Syzambry or the captain's friends.

No doubt, too, that the Star Brothers intended to keep Oyzhik captive until his fate was decided. His hut was backed against the cliff, and four guards stood before it. Two had bows, two had spears, all bore swords”uncommonly complete arming for the Pougoi, even among the Star Brothers' chosen warriors.

It did not help matters, either, that the hut was less than a hundred paces from the principal longhouse of the Star Brothers' guards. If the four on duty did not die silently and swiftly, they would have help from a score of their comrades before Conan and Thyrin could free Oyzhik.

"Are the sacrifices fettered?" Conan whispered.

Thyrin shook his head. "Only for punishment, and they would not dare punish Oyzhik in any way that left marks."

The underbrush and shadows could have hidden a score of men the size of Conan and Thyrin. Only guards making the rounds could have discovered them, and these guards stood before the door like temple images.

Conan's night sight, with a trifle of help from the moon, soon revealed a climbable path up the cliff. It did not offer a road out of the valley, not when they would have Oyzhik as a burden. It could take a good climber like the Cimmerian to the roof of the hut.

"I'll climb," Conan said. "When I'm nearing the hut, I'll wait for moonlight, then wave. You go forward and keep the guards busy while I reach the roof. Then you can hide so that the Star Brothers

Thyrin's glare would have shattered stone. "Doubt not that my honor equals yours, Cimmerian. If you must doubt my honor, at least do not doubt my wits. Wylla and I will face outlawry at best for this night's work, whether anyone sees us or not."

There seemed no more to be said, so Conan faded into the shadows until he reached the foot of the cliff, where he waited for the moonlight to give him a good view of his first few hand and footholds. Then he began to climb.

"What, ho, friends," Aybas said. "Is the princess within?"

The two spearmen at the door laughed coarsely. "Where'd she go without passing us? She knows what'd happen if she tried, too. Too fine-bred to have a taste for our kind, she is, like all the lowlanders."

One of them caught sight of Raihna. "Or maybe there's some lowlanders as might fancy a hill man?"

Raihna's smile was feigned, but only her comrades knew it. "I am sent from the lowlands, indeed. I serve Count Syzambry, and I am come to examine the princess with a woman's knowledge of her fitness to bear his sons."

Aybas strangled laughter. Any woman less resembling a midwife than Raihna, he had yet to see. Before the guards could voice doubts, Raihna added, "I am also come to reward those who have served the count well."

The sway of her hips as she spoke would have made most tavern dancers jealous. The guards could not but see what reward she was promising, and Aybas doubted that they were eunuchs.

While the spearmen stared at Raihna, Aybas and Marr moved. Each stepped behind a guard, each drew a short club from his belt, and each struck their man a shrewd blow where the skull joins the neck. The guards dropped as if poleaxed.

"Lift them onto the bench here," Aybas ordered. "They often sit down while on duty. Wylla, you remain here as sentry. Make it seem that you and the guards are¦ ah, enjoying each other's company."

Wylla stuck out her tongue again, but she also drew off her tunic and pushed her trousers low on her hips. The splendid breasts and supple waist thus revealed made Aybas pray that Wylla at least would live through the night. She was not for him, that was certain, but still, she was too young to die for the folly of others.

While Marr and Raihna heaved the guards onto the bench, Aybas knocked on the door. As Wylla sat down on the bench with her arms about the two guards, Aybas heard a noise from within the hut.

"Who is there?"

"By Mitra's beard, it is Lord Aybas. I bear dire news."

A squeak like a trapped mouse was all that Aybas had of reply. He cursed softly.

"Must I tell it for all the Pougoi, and perhaps the Star Brothers, to hear? Or may I enter and speak privily?"

After a moment that seemed to pass like the melting of a glacier, Aybas heard the bar lift. He thrust the door open and strode in, past the waiting woman. She let out another squeak, then was silent as Raihna put a hand over her mouth and showed her the dagger in the other.

The princess was still awake. The babe was sleeping, until the moment when strange folk burst into his mother's chamber, at which he awoke with a wail fit to rouse sleepers all over the valley.

The piper's music whistled softly. Then it seemed to sing with no words, but soft and soothing nevertheless. The wails diminished, and at last ceased. As the princess picked up the babe, his eyes drifted shut and he slept again.

"He has taken no harm?" Chienna said, shifting him to one arm. The other was clenched at her waist, and she seemed to wish it held steel.

"Here, Your Highness," Aybas said. He drew his second dagger from his boot and handed it to the princess. She stared at it, then at Raihna, and nearly dropped the sleeping baby.

"He will come to more harm from being dropped than from my music," Marr said. "He only sleeps, and will sleep until it is safe for him to wake."

"Safe¦ ?" Princess Chienna appeared to be mazed in her wits. Aybas gritted his teeth. Why did women of sense seem to lose that sense at precisely the worst time?

"Your Highness, I¦ we are come to take you and Prince Urras to your father. The king is alive and well, although in hiding. With you and your son by his side, the realm will rally to his banner."

The princess shook her head, making her long black hair dance about her shoulders, white and gleaming where the bedgown revealed them. The gesture seemed to end her confusion.

"Allow me to don suitable apparel, then, good people," she said with regal dignity. "It will be neither seemly nor safe to walk through the mountains in my night shift."

With an imperious gesture, she summoned her waiting woman. Raihna released the servant, and the two women vanished into the bedchamber, leaving Raihna holding the baby. As if by instinct, she began gently rocking him, and her face as she looked at the sleeping prince told Aybas a whole tale of matters that would never reach the Bossonian's lips.

The princess and her waiting woman were out of the bedchamber in less time than Aybas would have given to carving a joint of good beef. It only seemed like sufficient time for the moon to set and dawn to break across the mountains.

The princess was dressed in a Pougoi warrior's attire, with an arrangement of leather thongs and fleeces across her back for the babe.

Aybas had not known that she possessed either, and his opinion of her and her house rose further.

Very surely, he had wagered on the wrong horse whilst serving Syzambry.

If he gained no other reward from his change of allegiance, he would at least die with a better opinion of his own judgment.

Aybas stepped to the door. Wylla now had one of the guards' heads lolling on her breasts. The other had fallen off the bench. She had undone his trousers to give him a more convincing appearance of revelry.

"Is all well?"

Wylla shrugged, which lifted her breasts most interestingly. It also sent the guard sprawling off the bench to join his comrade.

Aybas took the shrug for "yes" and motioned the others to come out. The princess held back. The Aquilonian started to address her in terms unfit for royal ears when he saw that she was pointing at her waiting woman. The piper nodded and began to play.

The music could not have reached even into the bedchamber, but Aybas felt it in his bones. They were turning soft and warm, like fresh porridge, within him. His eyelids were vastly heavy; he needed to grip a post of the porch to uphold himself”

The music ended abruptly. Aybas stood unaided, opened his eyes, and saw the waiting woman sprawled on the floor. He made a gesture of aversion.

"It was either my music or a blow," the piper said. "Or leave her to face sacrifice to the beast."

Aybas swallowed whatever he had begun to say. He held out a hand to Wylla, and she took it. He realized that this was the first time he had ever touched her.

Then such thoughts flew from his mind as he heard the drums and trumpets of the Star Brothers sounding the alarm to the valley.

Conan covered the last few paces of his path along the cliff in a brief space of darkness as clouds hid the moon. When light returned, he lay on the roof of the hut, watching Thyrin approach the guards.

"Ho, friends. How fare you this night?" Thyrin greeted the men.

"Well enough," one of the archers grunted. "What of you, to be about the camp at this hour?" The suspicion in his voice shouted to the Cimmerian.

Suspicion had not yet led to drawn weapons when Conan struck. His first weapon was a fist-sized stone, flung hard at the back of the archer's head. The man wore a helmet, but the force of Conan's throw would have cracked an oak plank. It pierced the helmet, shattered the skull within, and flung the archer forward against a comrade.

Thyrin's sword whirled. The second guard's chest gaped. He dropped his spear and clutched at the wound with both hands. His mouth was still open in a soundless scream when a second swordcut swept his head from his shoulders.

Conan leaped from the roof onto the remaining guards. They were standing so close that he drove them both to the ground with force enough to leave them half-stunned. He finished them with his dagger.

Conan's dagger also made quick work of the knotted thong that held the bar of the hut door in place. As he heaved the door open, it groaned.

Conan wrinkled his nose at the reek from within.

"Stinks like the Aghrapur stews in here," he muttered as his eyes tried to penetrate the mephitic gloom and reach Oyzhik. When they did, the Cimmerian muttered again, and in soldier's language.

Oyzhik lay sprawled on foul straw, an empty wine cup by his outflung hand. All the smells told a plain tale of how he had been spending his captivity. At least he would give no trouble; Conan only hoped that the man had not altogether drunk away his wits.

The Cimmerian had to stoop to enter the hut, stoop further to lift the drink-sodden Oyzhik onto his massive shoulders. As he rose and turned toward the door, he saw Thyrin pointing with one hand and gesturing for silence with the other.

From the doorway, Conan saw the danger. A band of guards was marching from the longhouse, past the watchfire. Conan counted at least four of them, no doubt the relief for the guards just slain.

There was no way past the men without a fight. So best to begin it on his own terms and at his own time. Without ceremony, Conan slid Oyzhik to the ground and drew his sword.

"Hayaaaaahhhhh!"

The guards heard a war cry more dreadful than any they had ever imagined. They saw a giant figure hurling itself at them, and panic chained their limbs. Then the giant was among them, wielding a sword that seemed longer than a man was tall, at least to those who lived long enough to see it at all.

Two of the guards did not. They died at once, their skulls split from crown to eyebrows. The other two were killed as they ran. One of them screamed as he died. It was the scream, joined to Conan's war cry, that brought other guards to the longhouse door.

They did not advance into the open, however. To their sleep-muddled vision, the enemy seemed more than human. They were certain that the Hairy Man of the Mountains had come out of legend to avenge their abandoning his cult.

"The Star Brothers lied!" one man screamed.

"Forgive us, oh Great Hairy Lord!" another wailed.

Conan did not stop to correct their mistake. He lunged at the door, slammed it in the faces of the bemused guards, and wedged a long of firewood under it. Then he caught up a burning brand from the watchfire, whirled it about his head, and flung it high into the dry thatch of the longhouse.

By the time he rejoined Thyrin and Oyzhik at the hut door, the roof was well alight. The crackling of the flames mounted as Conan heaved Oyzhik onto his shoulders again.

When he straightened, the thunder of drums and the cry of trumpets had overwhelmed the crackle of flames. Thyrin cursed.

"I prayed for silence, but the gods

"Leave the gods well enough alone," Conan snapped. "How fast we can run matters more now."

"I am no cripple, Cimmerian," Thyrin said. "But I warn you. The paths through the village or to the way you entered the valley will be guarded now. There is another way out, and indeed an easier one for women or those carrying burdens

"Then lead me to it," Conan growled. He thought of handing Oyzhik to Thyrin to silence the man, then thought better of it. Conan was younger, and also less likely to drop the prisoner into a well "by mischance."

"I will, but I will also pray to the gods that Marr the Piper knows of the way and is bound for it even now."

"One more riddle Conan said.

"No riddle," Thyrin said. "Simply the truth. The way is easy enough once one is on it. But to reach the foot of it, one must cross the dam that holds in the beast's lake. The top of the dam is but a man's height above the water, well within the reach of the beast."

Conan's horror of sorcery made his heart leap for a moment. Then he shrugged, settling his burden into a more bearable position.

"I've been in reach of worse than your star-beast and cut my way out again," he said. "Lead where you must, my friend."

Chapter 15

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It was not long after the alarm was raised that Aybas knew their retreat was cut off. At least the princess would not have to struggle with the cliff while carrying the babe on her back.

When he learned of the other way out of the valley, Aybas nearly lost hope altogether. Now they faced an easy climb, but to reach it, they had to pass close to the worst of all possible foes. The beast of the Star Brothers would surely be awake and hungry before they could be out of its reach.

"Perhaps," Marr said. "But think on this. If we are beyond the beast before it wakes fully, it will be a good rear guard to us. Not even the Star Brothers can altogether master the beast when it is fully awake, hungry, or enraged."

"How do we keep it from awakening before we are safely past?" the princess asked.'

"I have knowledge that may help us," the piper said, touching the pipes at his waist.

The look on Chienna's face reminded Aybas of the Cimmerian's countenance when magic was mentioned. It was dawning on her just how wholly at the mercy of sorcery they were on this night. Aybas did not doubt that his own face mirrored the princess's.

For two moons he had dreamed of finding a place beyond the reach of the Star Brothers and their evil magic. Now he might be on his way to such a place. But the road to it would lead through still more magic”magic that might in the end be as unclean as the Star Brothers'. So be it.

The alternative was to remain in the valley until the Pougoi killed him. Aybas believed that he had some punishment yet to come for serving Count Syzambry, but he would rather it did not come tonight.

"Very well," he told Marr. "You take the lead. Raihna, guard Marr.

Wylla, guide us as needed. Princess, see to your babe before all else.

I will guard the rear."

How easy it was to once again give orders instead of take them. Aybas knew that if he lived through the night, he would be fit for at least a captaincy in the hosts of the Border Kingdom.

The dam loomed against the stars, ten times Conan's height. He studied the dam's face, finding no stairs but sufficient hand and footholds for swift climbing.

"By Erlik's beard, how did the Pougoi find the hands to build this?"

"The Star Brothers found their beast," Thyrin said. "It gave them knowledge. They used that knowledge to raise the stones of the dam, and more knowledge to bind the stones together."

The near presence of so much magic made the night seem even colder.

Conan rested his hand on his sword hilt for the reassurance that honest steel could give.

"It is also said that the beast itself labored on the dam," Thyrin said. "But that is a tale at best. None but the Star Brothers were close to the dam while it rose¦ or at least none who lived to tell of what they saw."

"Sorcerers like their secrets to die with them," Conan said. "Even if that's not one of the laws of magic, they all act as if it were!"

The two men fell silent in their hiding place behind a pigsty. It smelled no sweeter than any other pigsty, but that would drive away the odd passerby. The pigs were awake, grunting and squealing in unease at the alarm. Their noise would hide any small sounds that Conan and Thyrin might make as they waited.

Conan hoped that the waiting would not be long. They were in a race with the warriors, the Star Brothers, the beast, and the princess and her rescuers, all of them striving for victory”which meant life itself.

The mist over the dam swirled thickly. Conan heard the surging of mighty waters against the dam and thought he saw something rise into the mist. It might have been a trick of the vapor. It might also have been a tentacle.

If it were a tentacle, it was as long as a small ship and as thick as a man's body. It also seemed to have gaping, sucking mouths scattered all along its length.

Darkness hid Aybas's party most of the way to the dam, and they hardly needed silence. The walls of the valley caught the sounds of the drums and the trumpets, to say nothing of the cries and screams of the Pougoi. They cast the noise back and forth, raising echoes that thundered among the rocks until it seemed that they were thundering in Aybas's very head.

Aybas ceased to worry about being heard. Two-score oxen could have marched across the valley unnoticed amid this uproar.

He began, rather, to worry about the valley itself. Behind the dam, he knew, was a lake large enough to drown the whole valley if the dam ever released it. He had heard of loud sounds shattering rock and unleashing snowslides, unaided by any magic.

He hastened forward to speak to Marr, passing Chienna on the way. The princess was striding along with grim determination, for all that sweat sheened her face and matted her hair. She might not be bred to the hill life, like Wylla, but she would be no burden tonight!

As Aybas overtook Marr, he saw the man lift the pipes to his lips.

Their music went unheard in the din filling the valley, but Aybas felt every hair of his head and beard prickle like the quills of a hedgehog.

They were still prickling when the piper led them up to the base of the dam. They rose even higher when two vast figures loomed out of the darkness, until Aybas recognized Conan and Thyrin.

Wylla gave a faint cry and hurled herself into her father's arms.

Raihna looked as if she wanted to do the same to Conan, but the Cimmerian appeared as grim as his cold northern god Crom.

"Best save the greetings and tales until we're safe away," he said.

"We've seen no warriors on our trail. What of you?"

Aybas and Raihna shook their heads. Conan seemed to ease a trifle.

"Friend Marr, if you can tame the beast, now's the time to prove it.

Raihna, you stand with me and Thyrin."

Aybas began to protest against having laid upon him the burden of taking Chienna to safety if the rear guard fell to the beast. He did not think himself equal to it.

Yet he had given his oath to the Cimmerian. The Cimmerian, in turn, was giving his trust to Aybas, trust in the Aquilonian's prowess as well as his honor. Aybas had betrayed much in his life, but he would not of his own will betray that trust. The Cimmerian, Aybas decided, could have given lessons to many of those whom Aybas had served on how to be a captain in war.

Marr nodded, then looked at the sprawled figure lying beneath a bush.

"Is Oyzhik fit to walk?"

"With a barrel of wine in him?" Thyrin growled. "We have no time for jests."

"As you say." The piper began to play again. This time Aybas heard the music: sharp little notes with a weird tone to them, sounding as if they came from a vast distance.

Whatever they were, they had power over Captain Oyzhik's limbs. They writhed, then lifted him to hands and knees, and finally onto his feet.

His eyes were wide open but unseeing, and he lurched like an ill-constructed puppet in the hands of an ill-taught puppeteer.

The piper stopped playing, and Oyzhik sank to his knees. But it was only to spew, which he did thoroughly and foully. Aybas stepped back to save his boots and saw the Cimmerian doing the same. It was hard to judge which disgusted Conan more, the drunken Oyzhik or the piper's magic.

As Aybas heaved the pale Oyzhik to his feet, the drums and trumpets suddenly died. Then a single triumphant, brazen call rolled down the valley. Aybas heard shouts and saw Raihna pointing. His eyes followed her hand.

The longhouse of the Star Brother's guards was still blazing, and the fire lit the path leading toward the dam. On that path a score of figures ran, the light glinting on spearheads and drawn blades.

"They've rallied!" Conan exclaimed. "Marr, start Oyzhik climbing.

Raihna, Thyrin, we form the rear guard."

The piper spoke sharply in Oyzhik's ear. Oyzhik almost raised a hand, then turned and all but threw himself at the face of the dam. He fell twice before he found his balance, then swarmed up the rocks and logs with the skill of an ape.

Chienna and Wylla followed. A jutting stub of branch ripped one leg of the princess's trousers from thigh to ankle, but she ignored it. Conan noted the fine limb so exposed, and also that the princess was as tall as Raihna and not much less broad across the shoulders.

A trifle thin-flanked for his taste, perhaps, but she would have been a daunting bride for a little man like Count Syzambry. Indeed, Conan wondered if the count would have survived his wedding night.

Aybas, Wylla, and the piper began their climb, Marr gripping his pipes with one hand and seeking handholds with the other. He made heavy going of the dam face that way, and Aybas and Wylla finally dropped back to help him along.

Now the vanguard was away, safe from all but the beast. Conan nodded to Raihna. She leaped onto a boulder, an arrow already nocked. The shaft whistled toward the line of running men. Before it struck, another was in the air.

Then a huge hand gripped Raihna's shoulder. Conan glared at Thyrin and drew his sword. The other man shook his head.

"Forgive me, Mistress Raihna, Captain Conan. But these are my folk, some of them warriors I have taken into battle. If the Star Brothers have led them astray, perhaps I can lead them aright."

"And perhaps mares will give wine instead of milk," Raihna snapped.

"Let go

"Speak, Thyrin," Conan said. "But swiftly."

Thyrin cupped his hands, and his voice made the drums and trumpets seem like a hush.

"Warriors of the Pougoi! Tonight's work means no harm to you or any of yours. We mean to end the unclean work of Count Syzambry among the tribe, and nothing more. What that demands, we shall do. More than that, we shall not do. Go from this place to your homes, guard them, and leave us to cleanse the honor of the tribe."

The line of running men slowed. Thyrin roared on, telling more of the wickedness of Count Syzambry and the shame brought on the Pougoi by their taking his gold. He did not mention Marr the Piper, the Star Brothers, or much else about what was afoot.

By now the line of running men was writhing like a broken-backed snake.

Some of the men were standing still, others advancing at a walk. A few seemed to be arguing.

Conan also had his bow drawn and an arrow nocked. If Thyrin's notion of talking wits into witlings failed, he and Raihna could have ten arrows into their ranks before they moved again.

Suddenly the shouting was from the warriors, not from Thyrin. Two of them were grappling standing; others were down on the ground. Steel flashed, and someone thrust a spear down from over his head into another man's belly. A bubbling scream split the night.

Thyrin grunted, then slapped Conan and Raihna each on the shoulder.

"Fare you well, if we do not meet again," he said.

Raihna's mouth opened into a silent circle. Conan understood. "Bring any men you can rally to a dead man-bear by a many-rooted oak tree hard by the Blasted Lands," he said. "We'll lead them to Eloikas."

"You'll lead them nowhere unless Her Mightiness pardons the whole tribe," Thyrin said. "It's out of dishonor that I lead them, not into Eloikas's service." Then he was running toward the brawling warriors before Conan could think of any more advice, let alone give it.

Raihna cursed Thyrin as she and the Cimmerian began their climb to rejoin their comrades. Conan said nothing. He knew more than she did of what Thyrin might think he owed his tribe, for all that they had wandered down many dark paths lit only by the false light of sorcery.

They were less than halfway up the dam when the witch-thunder rolled across the valley. Confined between the rock walls, it might have been the world cracking apart. Raihna clapped her hands over her ears, and Conan felt as if hot needles were being thrust into his ears.

They reached the top of the dam, however, just as the witch-thunder sounded again. This time it found an echo. From the water beyond the dam there began a long, low hissing.

It went on as Conan and Raihna ran along the top of the dam, which was three hundred paces long; their comrades were barely halfway across.

As they overtook the others, the hiss turned into a scream. The scream turned into a roar, and the lake seemed to catch fire, spewing out shades of crimson and sapphire, emerald and topaz. Its surface heaved and bubbled, then began to steam like a boiling cauldron.

Marr was playing his pipes through all of this, as Conan saw. But his music would have been as a child's cry against the shouting of an army when matched with the roaring of the beast.

Unheard though it might be, the piping seemed to be fulfilling some of its promise. The beast was awake, aware, and furious. That the lake was turning into a cauldron proved that.

Yet the tentacles”indeed, as long as a ship and as thick as a man's body”came nowhere near the people scurrying across the top of the dam.

They reached high enough into the air to have plucked men from the top of pine trees or temple towers. They could easily have swept Conan and his little band into death in any eyeblink.

They did not, and Conan began to feel almost at ease with the presence of Marr and his spells. It was not a feeling that he expected to last.

No doubt the piper would turn against them in the end, or be turned against them by his magic. Also, Conan would feel still more at ease when they were safe away from the beast, for all that the piper's magic had mastered it for now.

Conan and Raihna overtook the others fifty paces from the end of the dam. Wylla stared at them.

"Where is my father?"

"He hoped to win the Pougoi away from Count Syzambry," Conan said.

Wylla crammed one fist into her mouth to stifle a cry and struck Conan in the chest with the other. Aybas put an arm around her shoulders.

"He saw his duty and we see ours," he said. "Both see clearly, even if not alike."

Seen from close at hand, the piper appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Oyzhik looked like a walking corpse. Only the princess was bearing up well, she and her still-sleeping babe. Conan had to lay a hand across the babe's chest to be sure that he was still breathing.

Then, beneath them, the dam shuddered. Conan felt more than heard stones moving, and saw nothing at all. He had been in too many earthquakes, however, to ignore the sensation.

"Run!" he shouted, loud enough to pierce even the outcry of the beast.

"Run for your lives! The dam is breaking!"

He did not need to repeat the warning. The next shuddering joined his words to give wings to everyone's feet. Even Oyzhik reached the far end of the dam at a stumbling run, and the princess might have been racing for a purse of gold.

The path up the cliff lay before them. It was indeed as easy as promised. A child of six could have found a way up it.

So could any number of Pougoi warriors if Thyrin could not keep them off of his friends' trail. Conan studied the cliff, seeking a place where he and Raihna could make a stand against greater numbers. With bows, they could even make their stand beyond reach of the beast's tentacles¦ at least until their quivers were empty, or until the Star Brothers' spells overcame the piper's and sent the beast climbing up the cliff, as it did on the nights of sacrifice”

The dam shuddered for a third time, and this time the shuddering did not end. Conan not only felt but saw rocks moving, and some the size of a man tore entirely loose and crashed down the face of the dam. Dust poured up from long cracks forming amid the stones.

"What keeps you, Conan?" a voice shrieked. "Are you going to spit the beast and roast it for trail rations?"

It was Raihna, all but screaming in his ear. Conan flung her up onto the path, then leaped himself. The solid rock of the cliff was now shaking under his feet, and he nearly fell as he landed.

He did not fall, however, and both he and Raihna overtook the others in moments. None of them paused until they were halfway up the path. Then they stopped to look back.

No one would be pursuing them across the top of the dam any too easily, even should the beast die in the next moment. A gap wider than a royal road lay open in the top of the dam, and water was foaming through it.

Mist seemed to rise even from the foam, and the lake itself was all but invisible.

The fires beneath the water tinted the mist in rainbow hues. Conan thought the beast seemed less fierce now, but certainly the ghostly shapes of monstrous tentacles still danced through the mist at intervals.

Conan turned to speak to Marr. He did not expect an answer, or even wish the man to cease whatever magic he was working against the beast.

He did want to assure himself that the piper still heard human voice, thought. Conan opened his mouth, but before words reached his tongue, the piper staggered as if struck on the head. Then he toppled sideways.

Only Conan's hand gripping his tunic kept him from falling, and had he fallen, he would have rolled off the path and down the cliff toward the lake.

Screams told Conan that others had not been so fortunate. He clutched Wylla's ankle as she sprawled face down, then held on until she dug in fingers and toes so as to keep her place.

Raihna needed no help, and Aybas had fallen sitting. He was cursing and rubbing his rump, but no man cursing so loudly could be hurt.

Oyzhik was doomed. Barely aware of the world around him, sensible only through the piper's magic, he had no hope when that magic ceased. Conan saw the traitorous captain roll down the hill toward a vertical drop, arms and legs outflung like those of a child's doll.

The captain never took the final plunge. A tentacle lunged out of the mist. Even its tip was enough to wind around Oyzhik three times. Conan saw blood spurt as the appendage crushed his chest and belly. Mouths opened in the tentacle to suck in the blood. Then tentacle and prey vanished into the mist.

As Oyzhik vanished, Conan realized that he had not seen the princess or her babe. He braced himself against a stunted tree and examined the slope. At least there was no place where falling rocks could have crushed them. The Cimmerian also saw no place where they could have fetched up safe once they began rolling”

A dark-haired head seemed to rise from the ground, and a long, shapely arm waved frantically. Conan thanked the gods that his eyes had deceived him, and he plunged down the slope.

He reached the princess only a few paces ahead of Raihna. They were both ready, swords drawn, when another tentacle took shape out of the mist. The beast roared almost as loudly as before, sensing prey. Then it roared louder as both Conan and Raihna slashed at the tentacle. The beast was flesh and blood. It could feel pain and cry out.

Conan and Raihna gave the creature a good deal of pain in the next few moments. Conan had never swung a blade so fast or so hard in his life, for all that each blow jarred his arm from wrist to shoulder.

The tentacle was writhing now, in rhythm with the roars of the beast.

Greenish ichor spurted from the wounds, and yellow foam drooled from the mouths, inundating the Cimmerian's arm, making his grip on the sharkskin hilt of his sword uncertain. The stench made the pigsty seem like a lady's perfumed dressing chamber.

Then the last rag of flesh that held the end of the tentacle to the main body gave way under a furious stroke from Raihna. The main body of the tentacle drew back, and not only mist but foam spewed up from the lake as the beast roared.

The princess was handing something up over the edge of the drop, a fleece-wrapped bundle that Conan realized carried Prince Urras, awake now that Marr's spells no longer held him asleep.

"Hold on to him and I'll pull you both up!" Conan shouted.

"Mistress Raihna! Take the babe!" The princess was adamant, and Raihna responded to her appeal. Before Conan could reach for Chienna's hands, Raihna knelt, picked up the babe, and darted up the slope.

Conan knelt in turn, gripped long-fingered hands, and heaved. The princess was no dainty court lady, and it burdened even the Cimmerian's muscles to haul her bodily onto more level ground.

It also did Chienna's attire no good. Conan had seen tavern dancers at the end of their dance wearing less than she wore now. He had also seen tavern dancers less worthy of being so clad. With the greater part of her clothes in rags, she no longer appeared so thin-flanked.

The princess seemed to want to throw herself into the Cimmerian's arms, but she only gripped his shoulders with both hands and laid her head on his chest. They were standing thus when Raihna's voice shrilled from above.

"It's coming again!"

Conan contemplated the tentacle reaching for them. He contemplated the battered sword in his hand. He contemplated the princess and gave her a firm shove on the rump with his free hand. She scrambled up the slope toward where Wylla held her babe as Raihna leaped down for a last stand beside Conan.

Then the ground upended both Conan and Raihna as if they were children tossed in a blanket. They fell and landed sprawling, but not rolling.

The tentacle waved in the mist, groping, then stretched out its tip toward them. Conan lurched to his feet, shouting curses and calling on every god he thought might let him die like a warrior.

The rainbow colors in the mist and the fire in the lake died. A vast roar that made the beast's cry seem a pitiful mewling filled the night.

The mist rose higher yet, but not as thickly as before. Through the base of the cloud of mist, Conan saw the dam crumble.

The water of the lake thundered into the valley in a solid white wall.

It moved faster than a galloping horse, as fast as a flying hawk. Conan knew trial fie was seeing the death of the Pougoi.

He also saw the beast, although dimly because of the mist. A vast, carapaced shape festooned with tentacles swept into view, then washed through the remains of the dam and down into the valley.

Conan did not see the beast after that, although he knew the moment of its death¦ knew it because the ground shuddered again, and a roar that was almost a scream tore at his ears and a stench like all the graves of the world opened at once filled the night.

How long the Cimmerian gazed into the mist that shrouded the dying valley, he did not know. He was recalled to knowledge of the world and work to be done by Raihna's hand on his arm.

"Conan. The rock has crumbled to within an arm's length of your feet.

If any more falls, you may well fall with it."

Conan looked down and saw that Raihna was right. He shook off both her arm and his bemusement and began to climb.

"That settles the matter of pursuit, to be sure," he said when halfway up the cliff. "I only wish I knew if the Star Brothers drowned along with their tribesmen."

"Pray that they did," Raihna said. "I doubt if Marr could spellbind a stray puppy, and we've not heard the last of Syzambry's men."

The piper was at least in his right senses and sitting up when Conan and Raihna rejoined their comrades. He held Wylla close to his chest while she alternately wept and keened for the dead.

Aybas was wrapping his cloak about the princess. Above the waist, she was still more unclad than not, but below the waist, she had made herself seemly, if not regal. She was letting the babe suck on one or her fingers, and that seemed to have soothed his cries.

"Best we find a milch goat or a ewe and soak a rag in the milk," the princess said. "Urras has thrived on becoming a nurse-brother to the Pougoi. He may not do so well on the road home."

"Milch goat?!' Conan echoed. He realized that he was still a trifle bemused. He hoped that it was only from being too close to such a mighty duel of magic.

"Conan," the princess said, "I could hardly ask you to carry off a wet-nurse. But every patch of hillside about here has its goats. Any who are not good for my babe's milk will surely be good for our rations, will they not?"

"Certainly, my lady”I beg your pardon, Your Highness."

"No pardon needed, Conan. You and your comrades”I would not have asked of anyone sworn to me what you have done of your own will." She looked up at the sky, where stars now shone dimly as a rising wind blew away clouds and mist alike.

"The night is half gone, I fear," she added. "Best we use what is left of it to put some distance between ourselves and any of the Pougoi who may yet live."

Conan hoped that the princess would leave the swordplay to those better fitted for it. Otherwise, he would not quarrel with her apparent wish to command on the march homeward!

He looked down into the valley. Mist still rose in random wisps, but a great sheet of water gleamed beneath it. Here and there, huts and high ground jutted above the flood, and on one patch of high ground, Conan saw tiny figures moving.

Of the beast, the Star Brothers, or Thyrin, there was no sign.

Conan rose, stretched to ease cramped muscles, then turned to Raihna.

"Raihna, which of us is the better goatherd, do you think?"

Chapter 16

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A pallid dawn found Conan and his companions a fair march on their way home.

"The palace is no more, Your Highness," Conan said. "Your father makes shift with a tent in the wilderness. I fear it is a poor homecoming we offer you."

"Captain, anyone would think that you had spent as much time about courts as Aybas here," Chienna said. Free of the Pougoi, she smiled more readily. That smile made her face more than a trifle comely, with its high cheekbones and straight nose.

"I know how to tell the truth to princes," Conan said. "Or at least the kind of princes who care to hear it. Some don't, and those I don't speak to at all if I can avoid it."

"Our house has always kept an ear open for the truth," Chienna said.

"And we have always called the whole Border Kingdom home. We will not be homeless until we set foot in another realm, and both my father and I will die before we do that."

It seemed to Conan that Count Syzambry might yet have something to say about the royal family's going or staying, let alone living or dying.

But the quicker the princess and her son returned to Eloikas, the quicker the king would rally such allies as he might yet have. Had he enough, Syzambry might have nothing whatever to say about anything, including his own life or death.

Conan earnestly hoped so. Falling to Syzambry would be like being stung to death by vipers, or even being gnawed to bloody shreds by rats.

'Twas no death for a warrior, no death for anyone”man, woman, or child”who could feel shame.

Conan's band was two days on its homeward journey when they saw the traces of a fair-sized company of men.

"Pougoi," Marr said after studying the footprints. "Warriors in some number, but not all warriors. I see women and children among them."

He rose and contemplated the wooded ridges rolling away to the west.

"Trying to put a good distance between themselves and their valley, I should judge. But not going toward the royal camp, unless they should stumble on it by accident."

"If they do, we can leave them to Decius," Raihna said. "What danger are they to us?"

"If they've women and children to lead to safety, they may not fight unless we force them," Conan said.

"They might also be readier to fight us than most," Chienna said.

"Vengeance can make wiser folk than the Pougoi”forgive me, Mistress Wylla”forget good sense."

Wylla was so stunned at an apology from a princess of the house that had been long an enemy to her tribe that she could only stand slack-jawed. Marr put an arm around her and bowed to the princess as thanks for both of them.

"I can contrive with my magic that they do not come near us," the piper said. "But the Star Brothers may yet live, some of them, and march with their tribesmen."

"Would not their power have died with their beast?" Aybas asked. From his voice, it was clear that he most earnestly hoped so. He could not have hoped so more earnestly than Conan, but hope sharpened no swords.

"What could live Star Brothers do without their beast?" Conan asked.

"At the very least, sense that my magic was at work," Marr replied. "If they know that, they might find ways to let Pougoi scouts search for us with clear eyes and ears."

"Then let us trust to woodcraft and swift marching," the princess said decisively. "I have no more quarrel with the Pougoi, if they find none with me."

In that, she spoke for all of them. She spoke, indeed, loud enough that an unseen listener heard. He heard clearly, but they did not hear his bare feet on the forest floor as he returned swiftly to his comrades.

They met the listener and half a score of his comrades toward mid-afternoon. Prince Urras was sucking a rag dipped in the last of their goat's milk when Raihna's shriek brought them to their feet and to arms.

"Pougoi!"

Conan was the first to join Raihna at her sentry post. She was already behind a well-placed tree, bow ready, and the Cimmerian found another such from which to watch the warriors approach.

He counted ten of them, all with swords or spears in hand, the points held downward. The archers had their bows strung but over their shoulders, and at the rear of the line”

"Father!"

Wylla's shriek made Raihna's seem a whisper. The Pougoi girl dashed down the path and flung herself into the arms of the tall man at the rear of the warriors. He bent to kiss her forehead, but Conan saw that the seamed, leathery face and grizzled, shaggy beard were not quite dry.

Conan stepped from his hiding place. "Greetings, Thyrin. It's good to see you and to know that not all of your folk died along with the Star Brothers and the beast."

Thyrin gently pushed Wylla away, and his look of joy gave way to a bleaker face. "Would that the Star Brothers were dead. Two of them live, their powers yet in them, and they still have warriors at their command. Not as many as I did when I defied them, but enough so that if they find other friends

"Such as Count Syzambry?" came the voice of the princess.

Thyrin and Chienna stared, each trying to take the measure of the other. Neither the green eyes nor the brown ones fell, but it was the princess who spoke first.

"I do not know whether it is fit and lawful by your customs for you to have a pardon from my house. But if it is, you shall have it. Indeed, you have it now. Moreover, you shall have land to call your own, better land than you lost, if you do my house this one service."

The Pougoi were so silent that the faint breeze in the high pines sounded to Conan like the roar of a gale. Thyrin coughed.

"Where is that land to come from?"

"When Syzambry falls, his friends will fall with him. Their lands will be the gift of the throne to our friends who have stood by us. I do not know where your new lands will be. I only say that if you stand by us, and if I live, you will have them."

This time the silence was swiftly broken by a warrior asking the question that Conan saw on all faces.

"Stand by you, Lady Princess? That means we fight your enemies? Fight the little count?"

"What greater enemy does my house have? What greater enemy can it have?

If you live to see the sons of your sons' sons, you will not see a more evil man than Syzambry!"

Thyrin asked that the warriors be allowed to draw apart and take counsel with one another. This was granted. They soon returned, and most of them were smiling.

"Do we swear all together, or each man alone?" the warrior who had asked the great question wondered.

"As your laws and customs bid you," Chienna replied. "I will have no friend swearing an oath that comes strangely to his lips."

That drew cheers, which lasted until Raihna could endure them no more.

"Be silent!" she cried. "Or would you let the whole realm know where we are?"

These words drew no cheers but, instead, a few sour looks and some muttered curses from those who still had breath to utter them. Conan stepped forward.

"Lady Raihna and I are both captains in the Palace Guard," he said. "By your oath to the royal house, you also swear to obey Captain-General Decius and any captain speaking for him. Yet no captain of the royal service will ever command you save through chiefs you choose yourselves." The Cimmerian ended by making suitable gestures of honor at Thyrin.

The princess beckoned Conan to her. Tall as she was, she needed to rise on tiptoe to put her mouth to his ear. "I think I have just been told how to lead the Pougoi, Captain Conan. Is that not so?"

"Forgive me if I presumed, Your Highness, but

"You were in haste and could not wait for my permission? My father and Decius have told me how often this excuse is given, by both good captains and bad."

Conan was silent, keeping his gaze turned toward the Pougoi. Then he heard a soft laugh.

"You are a good captain, Conan of Cimmeria," the princess said, "and therefore much may be allowed you. Bring the Pougoi forward and let us have the oath-taking. Then they can go and bring up their comrades and kin and we can all sleep at ease tonight."

The oath-taking went swiftly. Conan had expected nothing else. Nor did he doubt that the rest of the Pougoi who followed Thyrin would be as swift in declaring their new allegiance.

Some, doubtless, were of the faction Aybas had described, and always kept apart from the intrigues of Syzambry and the Star Brothers. Some might be seeing the world with fresh eyes. None could doubt that the Pougoi had little future unless they sought new allies. Homeless, their war strength shrunken, their women and children helpless prey, they could not hope to face the other tribes whom they had made into mortal enemies. The raiding for sacrifices had gone on for too long to be easily forgiven.

Conan only hoped that the Pougoi would not use their new place as upholders of the throne as yet another weapon against their enemies. If they did, the throne would have peace with one mountain tribe and blood-feud with half a dozen others.

The Cimmerian thanked the gods that it would be Eloikas and Chienna who faced that problem, not himself or Raihna. If Aybas wanted to stay and be embroiled in it, good luck to him”and, indeed, the Aquilonian exile's experience of intrigues might make him a wise counselor to the Border throne.

First, however, came the task of being sure that there was a Border throne for Aybas to counsel!

A band of more than a hundred, with fifty fighting men, was harder to hide than Conan's handful. It also had less need to hide. Nothing save Count Syzambry's host”if he yet had one”or Decius and the Guards could meet them in open battle.

Ambushes were another matter, and the Star Brothers' magic was another still. So Conan decided that the newly united, newly sworn allies would move by day and sleep by night. Since it was near sunset by the time the last oath was taken, that meant they would begin the last part of their journey on the next day.

A cluster of huts too small to deserve the name of village offered shelter to the women and children and the princess. The huts were filthy but intact, and they had the look of having been abandoned only a few days before. Why the inhabitants had fled, and whither, Conan did not know. Nor did he care to speak of these questions where anyone less clearheaded than Raihna or Thyrin might hear.

At the end of the oath-taking, Thyrin gave chief's gifts to Conan's party. One gift was the use of a wet-nurse for Prince Urras for as long as he needed one.

The other was a tent for the use of Conan and Raihna.

"You may share it if you wish," Raihna told Aybas. "One or the other of us will always be on watch tonight."

Conan said nothing but considered that Raihna might have told him first if it was her notion that they sleep apart. They would be doing that enough when they rejoined Decius. Raihna was too much woman to let slip away without one final, hot tumble.

Aybas shook his head. "Thyrin has offered me the hospitality of his tent as a peace offering." He lowered his voice and looked toward Wylla, standing close to the piper. "Also, she is sleeping under the stars with him, so it matters little where I sleep."

"Not so," Raihna said. "Sleep where you will wake with a clear head. We need your wits untouched. Aquilonia's loss has been our gain."

Aybas's face told plainly of how long it had been since he heard such praise, but he was equal to the occasion. He bowed, kissed Raihna's hand, and withdrew.

"Who takes first watch?" Conan asked.

"Let it be me," Raihna said. "For one night, you should spare yourself."

"When has a woman ever made me weak, Raihna? Even you, and I have known few women

She punched him lightly in the ribs. "As you say, you have known few women if you think that none can weaken a man for serious business. Go and sleep, Conan."

Conan raised his hand in mock respect. "I think I should never have named you 'Lady.' What next? Wedding Decius, so that you have the rank in truth?"

Raihna turned away quickly, still smiling. Yet it seemed to Conan that the smile was thinner than common for her.

Neither Raihna's smile nor anything else kept the Cimmerian from plunging into a deep sleep the moment he lay down. He had lightly oiled his blades and sworn to find the Pougoi smith at first light. The sword, at least, would not be fit to cut mutton without some skilled work.

Then he had removed his boots, wrapped himself in his bearskin, and lain down on the pine branches covering the floor of the tent. The heady smell of fresh-crushed needles was the last sensation he remembered¦ before he awoke to discover that he was no longer alone on his bed. Indeed, he was no longer alone within the furs. Someone had thrown them back and crawled under them with him.

The "someone" was a woman, and she was not asleep. She was feigning sleep, but Conan's ears were too keen to be deceived.

She was also clad only in her own skin, and that was not feigned. Conan ran a hand down a smooth back and gently patted firmly muscled hindquarters. It seemed that Raihna had decided against their sleeping apart after all. Having had her jest”

The woman rolled over and drew Conan firmly into her arms.

No man to refuse an invitation so plainly offered, he made quick work of his own garments and returned the embrace as heartily as it had been given. Pressing Raihna down onto the furs, he twined his fingers in her hair and kissed her soundly. Meanwhile, her own hands were at work, making Conan's roar”

Until he felt the hair, which was as fine-spun as silk and flowed down past the woman's shoulders nearly to the small of her back.

Not Raihna's hair. Raihna's thick, fair hair ended hardly lower than the back of her neck.

Conan did not cease his kisses; nor did the woman”he could no longer call her Raihna”cease her pleasant activities. But with a free hand now here, now there, the Cimmerian quickly made himself a picture of his companion.

Beyond doubt, not Raihna. As tall and as broad across the shoulders, but not as well-fleshed. Add these discoveries to the long hair, and who was he holding in his arms?

Conan's knowledge came to him with a laugh that the woman took for a sign of pleasure. She redoubled her efforts, not that any such was needed to make her a welcome bedmate.

So he had Princess Chienna. Very well. He was a man with a fine woman in his bed, and when that was so, there was neither rank nor royalty nor anything else”except for the rites that had begun long before men and women wore crowns, or anything else.

The rites consumed much of the night and gave much mutual pleasure. The princess at last fell asleep, and Conan wondered if he should awaken her and warn her that Raihna might be returning from her watch.

Then it struck him like a thunderclap. Raihna and the princess had contrived this between them, as”a jest, to say no more.

Why? Bedding royal maidens courted death in most realms, but Chienna was no maiden and, indeed, no woman to be told where she might make her bed. Conan had no fear that the jest would turn deadly.

He still would be glad to know whence the intrigue came. Yet it seemed that the answer would need a potent spell, to let him understand the thoughts of women. A potent spell, and like a cloak of invisibility, or an invincible sword, likely to be more perilous than helpful in the end.

At least he need have no more fear of what Raihna might say should she find them together. Conan piled the furs over them again and drew the princess into his arms. She deserved to sleep warm tonight, if on no other night!

Furs and princess together so warmed Conan that his second sleep was as deep as his first. He awoke to find the princess gone and Raihna in her usual place. She looked very fair in the pale light of early dawn, but it was not in Conan to wake her.

The camp began its greetings to the day with the scrape of flint and steel kindling cook fires, the clash of pats and knives, the wails of hungry children. The night sentries came in, the day sentries went out, and Conan heard a familiar voice raised in protest.

It was Aybas, complaining to all who would hear” and some, it seemed, who would not”that he had barely slept last night. Thyrin snored.

It was then that Conan's laughter shook the tent and awoke Raihna.

Chapter 17

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Pain still troubled Count Syzambry day and night, likewise weakness and nightmares. He was not ungrateful to Zylku the apprentice for his work with the potions he had found in the ruins of the palace. Without Zylku, both the pain and the weakness would have been impossible to conceal, and the mustering of men to his standard impossible to accomplish. So in spite of the pain, he slept well the night before the Pougoi came to his camp.

The sentries were among the best of his men-at-arms. They sent word of the coming of the Pougoi, then stood to arms instead of fleeing.

Syzambry resolved to honor them for that, the more so when he learned that among the Pougoi were two of the Star Brothers.

"Star Brothers," he said as they were ushered into his tent. "I hope it is good tidings that you bring me here, on the eve of final victory."

"The tidings could be better, and likewise worse," the elder of the two Star Brothers said. He had a beard bound with brass wire into three plaits and a fluent command of the lowland tongue.

"We have come without our beast, which cannot live away from the lake we made for it. We have also come with only part of the warriors of the tribe. The remainder were needed to guard our women and children from those tribes that would use a time of weakness to avenge themselves for our service to you."

Syzambry had a sense of being told both less and more than the truth.

The courtly manner of the Star Brother did not ease his mind. The wizard seemed to have spent much of his life winning allies by telling them what they wished to hear.

"How many warriors have you brought, and what chiefs?" Syzambry asked.

That should smoke out some of the fleas at least”

"Fifty warriors, among the best of the tribe, but no chiefs whose names you would know."

"Then who will lead the warriors in the final battle?"

"We shall stand close to the forefront of the battle," the younger Star Brother said. "As we shall also be among the warriors, what we say, they will hear easily."

"I am sure they will," Syzambry said. Pain throbbed in his head, not from any wound but from the old sick headache that came from rage at fools. "But will they hear the commands of men wise in war? I doubt not your intent, but have you ever fought in such a battle as this will be?"

The two Star Brothers could do no more than shake their heads.

"I thought as much. Will you grant that I may place one of my own captains over your warriors? It will be prudent for you as well as for them."

"You doubt our courage?" the elder asked, bristling.

"I doubt that the greatest sorcerer in the world can cast a useful spell when he is trying to keep steel from entering his guts," Syzambry said. He tried to keep his voice level. From the look of the Star Brothers, he had not succeeded, but they recognized his authority.

"Good. Then I will chose a captain within days, and you may come to know him before we march. Is there more?"

The wizards shook their heads and withdrew. Syzambry waited for a decent interval, then summoned Zylku and told him of the meeting with the Star Brothers.

The man listened in silence, but his face grew pale. "You want me to spy on these ragged-arse hill men?"

"I want you to sit down with them and some good wine first. Drink lightly, see that they drink deep, and listen. Listen, and what you hear, tell me. You are no soldier, but you are something at times worth more”a man with keen eyes and ears, and a mouth he can keep shut. Also, I think you understand more of magic than you admit."

Zylku's face said nothing to these last words, but he nodded. "Ah. You smell something, too, about the Pougoi coming in like this?"

"You presume greatly to hint that I am a witling."

"Forgive me, my Lord Count."

"Earn your forgiveness, by learning what the Star Brothers are hiding."

It might be risking much for little to offend the Star Brothers, and doing so for no more than satisfying curiosity. Yet Syzambry was certain that more was amiss with the Pougoi than the Star Brothers had told him.

He was almost certain that Eloikas and his minions had a hand in it.

And if it was something that might give new strength to the flagging royal cause and make it more formidable on the day of battle”

Syzambry cursed and smote the tent pole with his open palm. The shock awakened pain in several places; he stifled a cry.

When he was crowned king, the count decided, his first command would be that all who wished the royal favor would wait on him in his bedchamber. Especially Princess Chienna, and she would wait on him in very particular ways.

When Conan returned leading a host of Pougoi, Decius would have sympathized with Count Syzambry. The captain-general did not doubt Conan's tale, marvelous though it was. He did doubt the Pougoi's change of allegiance. Doubted it aloud and often, until at last Princess Chienna summoned him and bid him hold his tongue.

"These folk have no home and no retreat," she said sharply. "They can go forward only to doom at the hands of the tribes they have fought, or to some safety in friendship with us. Safety for those warriors who survive a battle that you yourself tell me will be a slaughterhouse.

Safety, also, for their women and babes."

"You almost persuade me," Decius said. "Yet this matter is so grave that if King Eloikas

For a moment, Decius was sure that Chienna was about to strike him with an open hand. Then her fingers closed on the hilt of her dagger. When she spoke, her voice would have curdled milk.

"Decius, I am neither queen nor regent as yet. But if you trouble my father with this, I will find some way to repay you, outside the law if I find none within it. Go and make sheep's eyes at Mistress Raihna, or grant Lord Aybas his captain's warrant, or do anything that is of use!

But do not trouble my father, or I will do more than trouble you!"

Decius bowed and took his leave. In truth, the princess had the right of it. King Eloikas's heart was weakening. It would be a marvel if he lived to see the day of victory.

If it came. The ruin of the Pougoi, their beast, and the Star Brothers had dealt a shrewd blow against Count Syzambry. It had by no means ended the war.

Men were coming in from towns and villages the count had looted to support his host. But few were well-armed, and fewer still knew their way about a battlefield. Aybas would have his captaincy and more if he wished it, not because Decius altogether trusted him, but because beggars could not choose. A dozen captains and three hundred harnesses would have been more to Decius's liking.

There were tales as well that some of the tribes who no longer feared the Pougoi might take a hand in the war. But on which side? If they did come to the royal camp, would they keep the peace with their enemies for generations ? Perhaps it would be better for the royal cause if the tribes remained in their hills.

A score and more such questions marched and countermarched through Decius's mind as he walked from Chienna's tent. By the time he reached the edge of the camp, he decided that he would indeed visit Raihna. Not to "make sheep's eyes at her"”in his dreams, he was doing far more”but to take counsel from her. Also from her Cimmerian, and even from Lord Aybas and Marr, if they could be brought to speak”

A drum began to beat somewhere behind him. Decius turned and saw Conan himself striding down the slope. His face was hard, and only the icy-blue eyes seemed to live.

"My lord captain-general. You are summoned to Her Highness."

A cold hand gripped Decius's heart. Foreknowledge came, so he felt no surprise when Conan added:

"King Eloikas has just died. As chief among the nobles present, you

"I know the laws and customs of the realm, Cimmerian. Believe me, I do."

Decius's voice nearly broke on the last words. He wanted to cry "Father!" so that the stars and the moon would hear him.

The Cimmerian had the grace to look away until the captain-general regained command of himself. When he had done so, the two warriors began retracing their steps up the hill toward the royal tent.

Count Syzambry shifted restlessly in his padded chair. He had spent the whole day not merely out of bed, but at work, save for the short sleep that his surgeon urged upon him in the afternoon. An afternoon nap, as if he were a child still in smallclothes!

Perhaps he no longer needed that nap. Perhaps it was that which kept him awake now, growing more restless and uneasy as the sun slipped below the mountain peaks. The sunset gilded some of the snowcaps on the highest peaks, turned others crimson. The breeze had died with the coming of twilight, and the count felt as if the world were holding its breath in anticipation.

Anticipation of what? He knew what he awaited, at least. Tonight Zylku should return from among the Pougoi. Perhaps he would even return with the truth about the state of the tribe.

From the scouts who watched the royal camp, Syzambry had learned that at least some of the Pougoi had turned their colors. They were led by a man who might be Aybas”and if Aybas had turned traitor, Syzambry could not think of a death hard enough for him!

At least the turncoat Pougoi had no beasts or Star Brothers with them as far as the scouts could judge. There was no approaching the royal camp closely, by night or by day. The scouts who tried to had never been seen again, save for one who was found gelded, disemboweled, and otherwise turned into a direful warning.

After that, the scouts kept their distance, and much of what they brought back was rumors or, at best, tales. One tale ran so far as to say that King Eloikas was dead. If so, should Syzambry offer peace on terms of being named regent for Prince Urras?

Syzambry looked at that notion now from one side, now from another, as color left the world and night swallowed the camp save where watchfires sparked with saffron flames or crimson coals. It was full dark by the time he judged it best to hold his tongue for now. When he knew his own strength, as well as his foe's weakness, the time might be right for making nimble tongues do the work of sharp steel.

Where was Zylku? The count would not know his own strength until he knew the state of the Pougoi, and he would not know that until the man returned.

Boots scraped rocky ground. Swords and spears clattered and clanged.

The count's guards were alert. The count himself drew his sword and laid it across his knees as his servant opened the tent flaps.

A dark shape emerged into the circle of the watchfire: Zylku, looking much the same as he had three days ago, save for an unshaven countenance and a dark cloak thrown over his garments. He stepped lightly toward the watchfire.

The count leaped from his chair, raising his sword to the guard position. In the fire's light he saw that the agent's feet were bare.

Bare”and bloody, as if he had run barefoot for days over sharp stones.

Syzambry's breath hissed out in alarm. Otherwise, he would have called the sentries. They needed no calling, though. They had seen the same as their lord, and they stepped forward to do their duty.

The first two guards to reach the agent gripped him gently by the arms, as they would have done with a harmless madman. With the strength of ten men, Zylku gripped the guards' throats. With the strength of twenty, he slammed their heads together. The crack of shattered skulls was loud enough to raise echoes. Then, for good measure, Zylku's fingers closed on the men's throats and crushed their windpipes. They were dead twice over when he flung them violently away from him, to crash into their comrades.

The guards' oath to their lord, and perhaps fear of his wrath, held them at their posts. They did not, however, again advance upon Zylku.

As what had been a man ambled toward the fire, they ran hastily to form a wall of flesh and steel before their lord.

"Lift me up, you fools!" the count stormed. He hated any order that would remind others of his lack of stature, but he had no choice. All he could see before him was a line of jerkined backs and helmeted heads.

Two of his servants lifted the chair. They staggered under its weight.

Two guards ran back to join the servants. They were eager to be as far as they could contrive from Zylku.

The four men together bore chair and count out of the tent and raised Syzambry until he could see over the heads of his guards. He swallowed a cry of horror when he saw clearly, and his limbs responded to an urge to leap in panic from his chair. The chair swayed, the men struggled to uphold it, the count clung desperately to both his dignity and the arms of the chair, and the guards tried to look in all directions at once.

Chaos threatened, but it did not quite prevail. The count settled back on the cushions and forced himself to stare at the sight before him.

Zylku stood in the fire, whose flames leaped as high as his knees. They had already burned the boots from his feet, and now they were turning the flesh on his bones to charcoal. He seemed to feel no pain, though, but stood as if his feet had been in a warm bath, scented with healing herbs”

The man's mouth opened and he spoke. Or at least words came forth.

Count Syzambry did not care to think about who in truth had put the words in Zylku's mouth.

"Count Syzambry. This time it is not you who pays the price for seeking unlawful knowledge of our secrets. Nor will it be you unless you further fail to heed such lessons. There will be a lesson each time you seek what you may not know. Each time that lesson will cost the life of a man under you. Think. How many such lessons will the courage of your men endure?"

Then, at last, the spell that had bound Zylku broke. All the pain of being burned alive struck him in a single moment. Count Syzambry would have sworn that no such scream could issue from a human throat.

"Kill him!" the count howled, nearly as shrill as the wretched man himself. The order was not needed. Half a dozen spears were in Zylku's breast before he could scream a second time. There would have been more had several guards not dropped their weapons to clap their hands over their ears. One fell to his knees, spewing.

As Zylku died, so did the fire. The count thanked the gods for the darkness, which hid his own pallid and fear-twisted countenance from his men. He hoped that the gods were still present in this land to be thanked.

At least his guards and servants were present and in command of their limbs and senses. They did their duty so that when the count's wit returned, he was wrapped in furs and in his bed, with a leech attending him.

Syzambry listened with but half an ear to the leech's earnest mutterings about bleeding and purging, green bile and wind. His thoughts were elsewhere, pursuing the mystery of who had ensorceled Zylku and sent him to his dreadful death.

No one but the Star Brothers and the royal house could have secrets they would kill to guard. The royal house had no magic at its command, unless the piper still served them. The Star Brothers had magic more than great enough for this dreadful work, even without their beast.

Yet the Star Brothers were his allies! The count almost choked on the word. Was this a way to treat an ally, one who had promised to raise them and their folk high in the Border Kingdom? Slaughtering a trusted man, sowing fear among the soldiers, and unsettling the count's own mind?

The Star Brothers had done it, though. Perhaps they were like their hill folk after all, with no sense of honor outside the tribes. Perhaps they did not care what they did, because the secret they wished to protect was that they could prevail without Count Syzambry's aid.

With the fire gone, the night could not have been darker. It seemed colder, though, and the count drew the furs more tightly about himself as the chill seemed to strike at his wounds. Amidst the throbbing pain, the thought of offering peace to the royal house came again.

"Tell your master that peace shall come only when he offers his sword to Our service without conditions," Queen Chienna said.

Decius smiled at the look on the faces of the handful of surviving court officials. The royal "We" was the prerogative of a reigning monarch, not of a regent for an underage king. Nor had it escaped their attention that Urras was still called "Prince."

It seemed that the matter of a regency would not arise for some time, mostly likely not until after the decisive battle against Count Syzambry. This did not displease Decius in the least.

To be sure, as captain-general, he would have been a leading member of any Council of Regency. But there would have been others, more each day as nobles with more loyalty than strength rallied to the royal standard.

Some of these nobles considered themselves well-versed in war. They would not seek Decius's office, but neither would they cease to advise him how to conduct it. As for what they would say to Conan being captain of the Guard, or to Raihna and Aybas being captains at all, or Marr the Piper's very presence in the camp”Decius was happy that he would not have to listen to any of it.

All he would have to listen to was Chienna saying, "We wish it done,"

or "We do not wish this done," and then obey. It was enough to make a man not merely believe in the gods, but to be convinced that they had some concern for justice and decency among men.

"May my master not even expect a pardon?" Count Syzambry's messenger queried.

The queen's eyebrows drew together in a way that Decius had seen a hundred times, ever since she was a child. No furious words followed, however. Her dignity was indeed regal as she merely said: "Our words were simple. 'Without conditions.' Are you or your master deaf, that you cannot understand?"

The messenger seemed to at least understand that he would gain no more by staying, and perhaps lose the chance to make a dignified withdrawal.

He made it, and shortly afterward the clatter of hooves told of his departure.

Decius made the rounds of the sentries, told them to keep a watch for the return of Conan's picked men from their training march, then had a brief audience with the queen. She was trimming her toenails with a soldier's knife as they spoke, but it seemed to Decius that she was more graceful than ever.

"We did not ask your advice before refusing the count's offer," she said. "For this, We ask your forgiveness. Do you think it was worth more of a hearing than We gave it?"

Decius's laughter was a harsh bark. "Count Syzambry is trying to enlist your aid to save a lost cause."

"Or the tales may be true, that he has Pougoi allies as well and fears them as much as he does Us," Chienna pointed out.

Decius's dignity would not allow him to gape, but his face revealed enough to make the queen laugh. "Decius, I should be angry at your thinking I am not old enough to hear such things. Remember, I am Queen of the Border, a poor queen, perhaps, but all the realm has”unless you think that Count Syzambry really should rule?"

Try as he would, Decius could not laugh at that jest. "Captain Conan would be ten times fitter for the crown than Syzambry."

"At least," the queen said. She put the knife away and drew her stained robe down over her bare feet. "We are well pleased with your service and value your counsel. May We always be able to trust them as We do today."

Decius bowed himself out, thinking that wishes, even royal wishes, could not bind the gods. He was twice Chienna's age and would be fortunate indeed if he lived to teach Prince Urras the art of war.

Perhaps he should marry again. After burying a wife and three sons, it might be tempting fate, but his children and Urras might grow together.

The prince would need friends and playmates, certainly, and”

"My lord Decius. Do you wish to be alone?"

It was Raihna, who had come out of the darkness beside the path as silently as a cat. Decius started to nod, then knew that in his heart he did not wish to be alone.

"Mistress Raihna, in truth I would enjoy your company."

They walked side by side to the captain-general's tent. They were a sword's length apart, and Raihna's garb was no more revealing than usual, yet Decius had never been so aware of her as a woman.

They sat on furs just inside the mouth of Decius's tent. The captain-general sent away his bodyservant and drew a skin of wine from under the furs.

"Poor hospitality, I fear."

"No hospitality is poor when the host is a treasure."

Decius hoped that the firelight did not reveal him flushing like a boy.

He sensed that there was more than Raihna's nimble tongue in that praise.

Raihna drank deeply, then handed the skin to Decius. In doing so, she let some drops fall on his wrist.

"Forgive me, my lord. Here, let me¦"

She put her mouth to his wrist and began licking off the wine.

That Decius had been long a widower did not make him a fool. He put both hands under Raihna's chin and lifted her face to receive his kiss.

Her mouth bloomed under his, and her arms went around him.

It was amazing how swiftly the lacings of armor could be undone by skilled fingers. There was nothing amazing about what followed, unless it was that Raihna was even fairer to look at than Decius had suspected.

It was not until Raihna was sleeping in his arms that Decius realized they had not closed the tent flaps. They had been tumbling in the furs, clad only in the firelight, in full sight of anyone who wished to wander by. Had Conan chosen to pass along this path”

No. Decius would take the word of both Conan and Raihna that the woman was her own mistress. After that, he would take her into his arms again, if she was willing.

He dared not think about taking her to wife, not until the battle was won. That would be tempting the gods, and for now, they had given him enough and to spare. His thought on leaving the queen had been a true one: the gods did have some care for humans.

Conan returned to the camp at dawn. The men he was taking against Count Syzambry had needed little more training, save at setting ambushes by night. This he had given them, and they now knew as much as he thought necessary.

The Pougoi was masters of them all in the art of night fighting, he knew. But the queen did not care to send the tribesmen far afield and out of reach of her loyal men. Thyrin had borne this with more grace than Conan expected, although no one could call the man pleased. The gods willing, he should even be able to keep the peace among his warriors”

It was no great surprise for Conan to find that Raihna was not in his tent. It was somewhat more of a surprise to see that her clothing and weapons had likewise departed. It was a considerable surprise indeed to find Wylla asleep in the furs.

At least the hair spread out over the furs was the color of Wylla's, and the shapely bare arm that trailed off onto the floor of the tent was that of a woman as young and comely. Conan removed his boots and crept on hands and knees to the furs. Kneeling, he gripped the furs with one hand and poised the other over the arm.

Then he snatched the furs away. The morning light proved what he had suspected. Wylla lay there, as bare as a newborn babe and much more pleasing to look at. She also lay so deeply asleep that Conan realized other measures than removing the furs might be called for.

He bent over, ready to kiss her.

Her arms took on a life of their own, leaping up to twine round his neck. She embraced him so tightly that she lifted herself clear of the furs, pressing her whole length against him. Conan felt every curve, and the heat of her blood flowed into his.

Wylla began to croon softly as Conan returned her embrace. Conan knew a moment's unease at the singing, but he soon passed beyond caring about such matters. Wylla saw to that.

The song ended as Wylla curled against him, taking and giving warmth, one hand still twined in the Cimmerian's black hair. The silence lasted until Conan's laughter broke forth.

"What is the jest, Conan?"

"I hope it ends as a jest, you being here."

"You fear Marr?"

"I fear offending any man who had that power."

"It shames both him and me to say that you need fear anything from this she patted the furs.

"You and Raihna."

"Eh? Oh, that we are both our own mistresses?"

"Yes. Although I do not think that Mistress Raihna will be so free for long. Not if Decius lives

Conan's laugh was louder this time. "I won't ask where Raihna spent the night, because I think I know. But I will ask this. Did she”?"

"Send me? Of course. She said that Decius was not made by the gods to be as alone as he was. You were, but no man should be without a woman on the eve of what might be his last battle. So I came, and you were not."

"Suppose I turn you over my knee for speaking ill-omened words about last battles?"

"Oh, if that is your pleasure She wriggled, raising herself so that he could pull her over his knee if he wished. At the same time, her hands danced along Conan's limbs in a way that could have only one conclusion. This time Wylla fell asleep when they were done.

Conan did not sleep. Quietly he slipped from under the furs, garbed and armed himself, and went to find his rest under a pine tree just inside the sentry line.

He would not ask the gods to let him understand women, even if they could give him that power. But would it be too much to ask that women should not understand him as easily as Raihna seemed to?

Chapter 18

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The scout was looking over his shoulder when his time came, not ahead as he should have been. Small shame to him, however. He was an honest trapper's almost equally honest son, who had taken service with Count Syzambry many years ago.

He had not imagined then that he would end as the scout for a host led only in name by the count. He had not imagined that the Pougoi wizards, the Star Brothers, were even real, let alone that they would come forth from their valley.

As for believing that they could put fear into the count and all his host”a thousand men or more” the scout would have called it madness. He would have suggested that the speaker needed physicking, to restore his wits.

And if by some chance he had believed that he would end serving the Star Brothers, he would have fled the Border Kingdom as fast as his feet would carry him. Indeed, he would have crawled, if need be, to put distance between himself and those monster-worshipers.

Not having fled, or even left the count's service, the scout was now bound to his master and his duty. Bound as with bands of iron by loyalty to his comrades, oaths to the count”and by stark terror of the Star Brothers.

It was that terror that made the scout look back over his shoulder at the wrong moment. He had just decided that no spy for the wizards followed close on his heels when a hand like steel closed on his sword arm.

The scout tried to whirl around, cry out, and draw his sword with his left hand. He accomplished none of these. Another hand clamped itself over his mouth, both hands jerked, and he soared through the air into the bushes as his sword flew out of his hand.

Conan tapped the scout's head gently against a fir trunk, and the man went limp. The Cimmerian listened to the man's breathing, judged him fit to travel, and slung him over his broad shoulders.

Carrying his prisoner as he would the carcass of a deer, Conan loped away from the trail and deep into the woods. Only when he was beyond any human senses did he turn west, toward the royal vanguard that awaited him.

Count Syzambry was short of stature, not of sight. He was also a warrior of great experience and proven courage.

So he rode forward when a messenger from his scouts came to tell of the missing man. He sent the messenger ahead again, with orders for the scouts to hold where they were. Then he rode swiftly with a small escort to join them.

After joining the scouts, Syzambry dismounted. He needed help to do so, which his men gave willingly, but he no longer had to stifle gasps of pain. After he had examined the ground closely, he needed no help in climbing back on his mount.

Some of the aches and pains had to be stiffness from being too long in the saddle. He had not ridden for so long that he had almost forgotten something he learned as a boy!

He laughed, which seemed to hearten his men. Those who served him out of loyalty rather than greed or fear had felt for their lord's pain and weakness. They were glad to see him leading as he had done before.

It gave them more hope of victory and less fear of the Pougoi wizards.

They had no fears of the royal host. What could a ragged band of fugitives half their strength, fighting on behalf of a woman, really hope to do?

The count's laughter ended quickly as another messenger cantered up.

This one was of the Pougoi, and the Star Brothers spoke through his mouth. They also heard through his ears but did not, to the best of Syzambry's knowledge, see through his eyes.

"Hail, Brothers. I wish I had better news," the count said.

"What is it?" The Star Brothers had learned enough of war in recent days to know the value of time.

Syzambry explained what the disappearance of the scout might mean. "Of course, he may simply have fled in fear," the count ended. "If so, I give you leave to hunt him down as you wish."

That was an invitation for the Star Brothers to use their magic to bring the scout to heel. The count had offered such invitations several times since his host marched. Each time, the Star Brothers had refused.

They either had less magic than they claimed, or they feared the spells of Marr the Piper more than they admitted.

It hardly mattered. If the Star Brothers could remove Marr from the balance of the coming battle, the count was sure of victory. Then, before the wizards could become suspicious, it would be time to settle with them.

"We do not wish to spend our strength against a single common man," the messenger replied. "His death would prove nothing, except our presence with this host."

At last, something like a reason for the silence of the Star Brothers!

Syzambry doubted that the royal captains were ignorant of the Star Brother's presence. If they had been, the scout would tell them soon enough, and it would need no magic to loose his tongue. Hot irons would serve as well.

Still, if the Star Brothers wished their presence concealed to the last, it did Syzambry no harm to humor them. The more they thought he did their bidding, the less they would be on their guard after the battle.

"Very well," Syzambry said. "I judge that we should slow our advance, however. The scouts must walk two, even four, in company, with archers close at hand. Also, I think I shall send more scouts out to either flank. A royal captain has thought to snatch a man of our vanguard. His next scheme may be to ambush it. If we can find the rear of those ambushers before they find our flank

"Such matters of war we leave to you," the messenger said.

That was exactly where they belonged, the count considered. If the Star Brothers ever tried to take the command of his host from him, he might have to fight a battle to his rear as well as to his front.

Conan had seen councils of war meet in better heart. Most of those, however, were composed of fools who did not know the chances of the forthcoming battle. A few had met before battles where the odds were so much in their favor that only a fool could waste strength in worrying.

None of the men and women here in the royal tent were fools. All of them knew that tomorrow's battle was one against long odds, and that it could go either way.

They also knew that, win or lose, it would bring a decision in the war in the Border Kingdom. The land would not be harried for years by the contending hosts, until no babe could be born or crop harvested in safety.

"Rather than bring that fate to the land, I would flee to the Black Coast," Chlenna said. "I would even drive my dagger into my own breast and dash Prince Urras's brains out on the nearest rock."

Decius flinched at hearing such words from Chienna, and he shot an anguished look at the woman he might have loved. Would have loved, save for the whim of the gods that made her his half-sister.

Conan hoped for Decius's sake that he would soon grow used to plain-spoken women of iron will. The captain-general seemed resolved to wed one, and she would not change to please him or any man.

"Let's not be burying our cause before it has stopped breathing," Conan said. "With all due respect, Your Majesty."

"How much respect do you think is due a queen, Captain Conan?" Chienna asked. Her face was hard, but Conan thought he saw a hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth and more than a hint of laughter in her wide eyes.

"As much as she earns," Conan said, and this time not only Chienna but the rest of the council laughed aloud.

Talk turned swiftly to the morrow's battle. Knowing that the Star Brothers were among the count's host somewhat confined the scope of their plans now.

Marr the Piper had to be protected. He was confident that he could hold back the Star Brothers' spells; he was not sure that he could leave the Star Brothers helpless against a well-wielded sword.

As for striking down them or anyone else with his magical piping”

"The gods did not make me fit to do that," Marr said firmly.

"Fit, or willing?" Decius asked.

"Peace, my lord Decius," the queen said. "Thyrin, you seem eager to speak."

"Marr is telling no more than the truth," the Pougoi chief said. "His spells are not to be wielded as a sword, like those of the Star Brothers. They are more kin to a shield, or to a good leather helm."

Conan hoped that Marr's piping would be more like iron than leather.

Leather helms had a way of letting the skull within them shatter at a shrewd blow. If he was going to fight with magic as a friend as well as a foe, Conan wanted the friends to overmatch the foes.

He also wanted to know if Thyrin was telling the truth or merely favoring Marr in the hope that he would finally declare for Wylla.

Having his daughter wed to the legendary Marr the Piper could make Thyrin mighty in the land, not just among the Pougoi.

He would certainly be undisputed chief among any Pougoi who lived to see tomorrow's sunset.

As to how they would array the royal host”if five hundred men deserved that title”much would have to wait on the morrow. They could resolve to march in such order that the arraying would be swift. It would also be as well if Queen Chienna were in a safe place, or at least in a well-guarded one.

"Give the queen first claim on any men we can spare from the fighting line," Marr said. Wylla threw him a stricken look, and he patted her hand.

"No, this is not folly. I am no great warrior, but I am fleet of foot.

What my spells cannot turn aside, I wager I can outrun."

This was wagering the fate of the Border Kingdom on Marr's feet, but little save a dry throat would come of stating what all knew. Conan was silent.

As if she had read the Cimmerian's thoughts, Chienna rose. "Good people, We judge this council to have done all it can. Mistress Raihna, will you do Us the favor of pouring the wine?"

Count Syzambry would not have fought on this day, or on this ground, had he been free to choose.

He was not. His scouts had advanced unmolested until they came up against the royal vanguard. That it was the Palace Guard was no surprise. That the giant Cimmerian was captain over it was. That giant would be shorter by a head by sunset, Syzambry resolved.

First, though, he had to win the battle, and to win, he had to fight.

He could not fight on ground that would let him array his whole host, not without retreating. That would dishearten some of the weaklings, and perhaps provoke the Star Brothers. Their silence since dawn was a blessing from the gods; Syzambry would not cast it aside now.

So it would be here”in this vale”where, at best, half of his men could form line at once. This was not altogether to his disadvantage, as his foes would also suffer. The ground would slow any attack, trees protect the count's archers, and a few level patches give his mounted men room to charge.

Syzambry summoned his messengers and watched them ride out. They did not have far to go before they vanished, not only among the trees, but into the mist. Syzambry had cursed the mist without effect, except that it now seemed to lie in patches rather than equally everywhere.

At least the Pougoi and their Star Brothers were safely in the rear. In the middle of a circle of baggage carts defended by their tribesmen, the wizards could conjure as they pleased with what effect they might contrive. They could not distract a man trying to win a realm.

One of the messengers was riding back, faster than he had ridden out.

He reined in his lathered horse and gave a salutation that was all but a wave.

"The royal host is upon the field!"

"Where?"

"There!" At first the count saw nothing save a patch of mist, thicker than most. Then he saw that at the heart of the mist were marching men.

The Palace Guards were taking the field, the giant at their head.

Syzambry recognized the flowing black hair, for the man was bold enough to face him bareheaded!

Well, it would hardly matter whether the head was bare or helmeted once the count had it on a lance outside his tent.

Chapter 19

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This was the kind of battle that Conan liked less than most.

The two hosts were simply flinging themselves upon one another, with less art than pit-wrestlers for all that the combat was deadlier.

Perhaps there was no blame to the captains on either side, for the ground was broken and the mist made seeing what one was about no easy matter.

That was certainly true enough for Conan. He saw the veterans of the Palace Guard with their spears and the newer men with their swords holding their place against Syzambry's levies. He saw Raihna dashing back and forth, encouraging both her men and some of Decius's.

Every man with a bow had brought it to the field, but Conan was allowing only the best of his archers to shoot. Arrows were too few to be flung wildly into patches of mist that might hide enemies.

The Cimmerian thought he saw blue fire dancing from the treetops and in the heart of patches of mist, as Marr and the Star Brothers dueled. He also thought he saw Thyrin and the Pougoi to the right of the Guards instead of to the left, where they belonged. Perhaps they had only lost their way in the mist, not being accustomed to fighting in orderly array.

Thyrin stepped into view from a mist-shrouded clump of fir, but Conan did not ask the man about his tribesmen. How many men were fighting here today, Conan did not know; he only knew how much noise they made.

The host of Turan at the charge could hardly have outshouted them. Any question to Thyrin and any answer from the man would be lost in the din.

"Steel Hand! Steel Hand!"

This time the levies shouted the count's war cry as they advanced, not their own lord's. Conan sought for the count's standard in the misty woods beyond the levies and found nothing. A pity, because putting an end to the count would put an end to the war.

No. The Star Brothers had to meet the same fate as the count, their Brothers, and their beast. They could not be allowed to wreak more havoc.

Their deaths would leave Marr the Piper the only sorcerer in the Border Kingdom, to be sure. That was one sorcerer too many, and a good reason for Conan's being on the way south once the battle was won. But at least Marr was not one to run wild and wreak havoc, unless provoked.

Chienna and Decius would have the task of not provoking the piper.

Conan's own task suddenly presented itself as meeting four of Syzambry's levies. All had swords, two bore shields, and one carried a long dagger that he wielded in combination with his sword. Conan judged him the most dangerous and moved first against him.

The two-blade fighter was a small man who, until his last day, had won as much by swiftness as by skill. He had never faced Conan's combination of speed and length of reach.

The Cimmerian's blade struck his opponent's dagger out of the hand holding it and went on to gash the arm. The man had the courage to close and the speed to make that a wise move.

Conan took the swordcut on his chest and felt mail links drive through his arming doublet into his skin. His reply crashed through the small man's guard and laid open one whole side of his face.

That would have to do for the man, with three other opponents to face.

Conan saw one back away from the fight at the sight of his leader wearing a bloody mask, but the other two came on. They seemed to have fought together before, and both fought well enough that the Cimmerian had a moment's need for caution.

Then his blade crashed through the guard of the man to the right, and he kicked upward at the man to the left. His boot caught the man in the groin and lifted him clear of the ground. At the same time, Conan's steel chopped through the other man's arm just below the elbow.

Screaming, the one-armed man fled into the mist, seeking to spend his last moments among his comrades. Conan faced the small man again just as pain and bleeding drove the other to his knees. The sword stroke that clove his cap and skull together was a mercy.

Conan saw the last of the four men writhing on the ground and a Guard recruit with a spear standing over him. As the Cimmerian watched, the spearhead dipped, then thrust in deep. The man's breath bubbled in his throat, he clutched at the spear shaft and writhed, then his limbs went limp and the life went out of his eyes.

"Back to your place!" Conan shouted at the recruit. "And where did you find that spear?"

"The man who held it before me is dead," the recruit shouted back, eyes wide with battle-rage and defiance. "I will be dead, too, before I put it down."

Conan cursed under his breath. If the line of spears was falling into the hands of the recruits, the Guards might not hold much longer. When they ceased to hold, so would the right flank of the royal army.

It seemed time for a messenger to seek out Decius. This butting of heads like two rams had gone on for a good while, with no great harm to the royal cause. It had drawn the whole royal host into the battle, though, and Conan doubted that Syzambry was in the same case. He might have men to spare with which to seek a flank. Best that the royal army find his flank before he found theirs.

"I will take your place," Conan shouted to the recruit with the spear.

"You run to the captain-general and say to him

Conan's message died on his lips. Wylla ran out of the mist and the witch-fire clad only in her skin belt and ivory dagger. Her face silenced Conan's impulse to fling her over his shoulder and carry her to safety.

"Conan! Marr says that the count has the Star Brothers and their Pougoi to his rear. He wants my father and his warriors to strike them. With his pipes warding off the star-magic

"Crom!"

The Pougoi advance would uncover the right flank of the Guard, already at full stretch. It might sow havoc in the count's rear. It might also slay all of Thyrin's Pougoi, and even Marr.

There was only one way to stave off this disaster. The Palace Guard must charge with the Pougoi. Struck in front as well as in flank, Syzambry's wing might falter and fail. Certainly it would be launching few attacks of its own until the fate of the royal charge was decided.

Conan said no prayers. This was a moment when only one god existed for a Cimmerian, and cold, grim Crom was not one to listen to mortal mewlings. He called a warrior to do his best and to accept his fate if that best was not good enough.

Which was at least as much justice as Conan expected he would receive from Decius. Captains whose battle plans were cast to the four winds by footloose underlings were not often even-tempered.

Conan sheathed his sword, cupped his hands, and ran along the line of the Guards, shouting the rally.

Count Syzambry had no idea of what might be happening on his left. The mist and the ground hid it. What noise he could hear hinted of a royal attack. Perhaps even one in some strength, for a messenger he had sent to learn what might be happening had not returned.

Yet the attack could not have the strength to drive far into his rear.

Even if it did, the Star Brothers and Pougoi together would be a tough nut for any royal handful to crack.

The count's gaze returned to his front, where he could see more clearly. What he saw there was heart-lifting. The royal host was spread thinner than he would have dared believe possible. Decius was no fool; he knew the need to keep a flank strong.

Nor were the royal men”the Palace Guard, it seemed”dead at their posts.

There were too many bodies of Syzambry's men lying among the rocks and bushes, but far fewer of the Guards. In dying, had Syzambry's men broken the Guards?

The count's breath came quickly, for all that it made his ribs ache beneath his blued-steel armor. He had few men in hand save his mounted men-at-arms, and none too many of them. Also, they were scattered and would need summoning were they to charge in a mass behind him.

But if they charged as he knew they could, the battle was won. Won, moreover, with little owing to the Star Brothers.

The count raised the mace topped with the steel hand that was his mark of captaincy. Messengers sitting at the head of their horses leaped up and began to mount.

Now Queen Chienna would see who had the skill in war to rule this land.

Aybas had no particular place in the battle line, being a captain without a company of his own. He had no doubt that he was not yet altogether trusted.

He had made friends with a village head man who led the peasant levies, however. Decius had planned to keep them in the rear of the line, but when the Pougoi ended on the far right flank, the captain-general had to devise a new array. This brought the levies forward into the line, and it was with the levies that Aybas stood when Count Syzambry charged.

It was like no charge that Aybas had ever seen, or even imagined. The fifty or more armored horsemen seemed to trickle forward, like drops of water flowing down the silver face of a mirror. They formed no line, and few seemed to have proper lances to make such a line deadly even if they formed it.

Yet they were coming on swiftly, and if they had few lances, they had swords and maces in abundance. If they reached level ground in the midst of the royal line, they would pierce it like an arrow through silk.

They could also be stopped short of the line and level ground if one could deny them a little hillock a hundred paces ahead. Aybas looked along the line of peasants, saw the fear already in their faces, and knew that he must command a charge.

Whirling his sword over his head, he gave the war cry of the house into which he had been born.

"Wine of Victory!"

Then he charged, one man against fifty. He did not expect to reach the hillock alive, but somehow he did. He did not expect the levies to follow him, nor did he dare to look back, but somehow he was not alone when he started climbing.

Before he could draw breath, he found himself among the boulders with fifty men around him, all of them cheering as if the battle was already won. Two were beating on the helmet of a fallen horsemen with their felling axes.

"Leave be!" Aybas shouted. It was unknightly to abuse a fallen foe, as he had learned in boyhood. It was also foolish to give attention to a harmless foe when there were many still fighting. That Aybas had learned in manhood, from many rough teachers.

His shouting brought the levies around to face their front just in time. A bold horseman was spurring up the hillock. Aybas knew that his reprieve was about to end as he dashed forward.

The man whirled his mace in a fine gesture, then brought it down. He would have been better advised to forgo the gesture.

Aybas leaped up with a speed he had hardly known he had in him and caught the shaft of the descending mace. At the same time, he slashed hard at the man's leg and heaved himself backward.

His blade only clanged on armor, but the rest of Aybas's attack carried through. The man flew out of his saddle, too surprised to even cry. He struck the ground headfirst, sprawling beside Aybas with his helmet flattened and his head at an impossible angle to his neck.

Aybas leaped again and caught the reins of the dead man's horse. The stirrups danced wildly, almost defeating his efforts to mount. At last he succeeded, and the levies greeted him with a wild cheer.

Syzambry's horsemen did not cheer. Indeed, it seemed to Aybas that they were no longer charging and were even looking to their rear. It was hard to make out what they might be looking at between the forest and the mist.

It seemed, however, as if someone had flung himself against Syzambry's rear and was giving it a fight for its life. A moment later, Aybas's ears told him more than his eyes did as a peal of Marr's witch-thunder rolled from the forest.

Within the forest, the witch-thunder made Conan deaf for a moment. He did not care. For now, he needed only his sword, and his eyes to guide the blade. Also, perhaps, his legs to bring him to close quarters with the Star Brothers.

Not that there were no foes ready to hand. As the Guards and the Pougoi hacked their way into Syzambry's rear, they met every sort of soldier the count had not put into his battle line. They also met men who could not be called soldiers by any conceit. Most of these fled, and this was as well. Conan had no love for killing men as helpless as babes. There were enough foes worth a man's steel already, and the day was not yet won.

Conan cast a look behind him. Marr the Piper was running with the soldiers, playing as he ran. His eyes were wide but unseeing, and Conan would have sworn any oath asked of him that those eyes glowed blue.

Magic, surely! But without magic, how could the man both play and run, and without the piper close, how could Conan face the Star Brothers?

The Star Brothers were also close, more so than Conan realized. He burst through a line of dwarfish ash trees to face a circle of baggage wagons swarming with Pougoi warriors. In the middle of the circle stood two Star Brothers, chanting so loudly that Conan heard them even over the piping.

A roaring Cimmerian battle cry eclipsed both piping and chanting.

Guards and Pougoi swarmed through the trees to join Conan.

"Archers!" Conan thundered.

Every one of his men who had a bow seemed to nock and draw in a moment.

Arrows skewered twenty Pougoi and as many baggage animals. The shooting would have won no prizes in Turan, but this was not Turan. Conan's archers had all the skill they needed against the target before them.

Before the Pougoi could recover, Conan was leaping forward. Also, those of his men who bore crossbows had time to nock and shoot. Some of their bolts pierced dead men or baggage animals.

One bolt, unheralded, pierced a Star Brother's thigh. He broke his chanting to scream and lurched against his comrade.

The star-spells did not break, but their masters no longer commanded them. Some of the Pougoi closest to the Star Brothers grew old in an instant, their faces as wizened as babes and their heads either white or bald.

Their comrades stared at them, then stared at one another. The berserk spells were striking wildly and doing worse than aging those within reach.

Conan saw a man with all of his guts, and his heart and lungs as well, on the outside of his body. He saw a man suddenly grow purple scales with green spots, and claws on both hands and feet. He retained his thumbs, however, and came at the Cimmerian with a battle ax.

Conan leaped back before the lizard-man's rush. He wanted space between himself and the spells. He also wanted to give his archers another clear shot. He would ask no man to face these abominations hand-to-hand.

Now some of the baggage animals were also developing scales. Others grew batlike wings, which beat frantically and knocked down most of the Pougoi not ensorceled into something other than human.

The few left human and on their feet leaped from the circle of baggage wagons and ran screaming in mortal terror. Blind with fear, most of them ran straight into the ranks of their fellow tribesmen. Thyrin's men laid on with a berserk fury, as if every servant of the Star Brothers they killed was one more cleansing of the tribe's honor.

The sound of a cracking and crashing rose above the din of magic and fighting men. A huge pine beyond the ring of wagons swayed, jerked roots loose from the rocky soil, then toppled. It came down with a crash that made every other sound before seem like a mother cooing to a babe. It smashed wagons, beasts, men and not-men with blind impartiality.

As the echoes of the forest giant's fall died away, so did the piping.

Conan felt a sharp pang of doubt that he would not yet call fear. Then Marr the Piper thudded down at the Cimmerian's feet as if he'd leaped from a high wall. In one outflung hand he gripped the shattered pipes.

Conan had one moment of seeing his death waiting; then he saw his duty just as clearly. He leaped onto the trunk of the fallen tree, bare for most of its hundred paces. Running as fast as on level ground, he leaped down beside the Star Brothers.

The one with the bolt in his thigh lay twitching feebly in a pool of blood. His comrade was still upright, though ashen-faced and chanting softly.

Conan's sword leaped at the wizard's bearded head. Leaped, then rebounded as if it had struck a castle wall. Five times Conan struck, with the same futile results.

The sixth time, the chanting grew louder and his sword not only rebounded, but flew from his hand. Conan stooped to retrieve it, but as he gripped the hilt, the blade began to smoke. A moment later the whole weapon was too hot to touch, and the sharkskin binding of the hilt was on fire.

Conan did not wait for the sword to turn into a puddle of molten steel.

The last Star Brother was building a new spell, and there was no Marr the Piper to content with him¦ only a Cimmerian ready to trade his life for the lives of those he led.

His sword useless, Conan snatched up the first weapon that came to hand, the shattered tongue of an ox-wagon. Wielding it as he would a quarterstaff, he lunged at the Star Brother. The weapon passed through the spell's barrier and drove hard against the Star Brother's ribs. All the breath hfffed out of him, and he flew backward to lie sprawled and writhing.

Whatever power the spell had against iron, it had none against wood.

Conan lunged again. This time the splintered end of the wagon tongue drove deep into the Star Brother's chest. His last spell died unuttered on his lips as he coughed blood onto the three plaits of his beard, looked for one last time at the sky, and lay still.

Conan had to lean on his weapon for a moment to keep from falling to his knees. He used that moment to look about him.

Pougoi and Guards were swarming all over the wagon circle, making sure that dead men and not-men stayed dead. A few were binding prisoners.

Conan was glad to see that the discipline of the Guards was holding.

Even the newest recruit could call himself a veteran and a soldier after this day.

Thyrin leaped onto a wagon next to Conan, then jumped down beside the Cimmerian. Cleansing his tribe's honor seemed to have taken twenty years from Wylla's father.

"Marr lives!" he shouted. "He will not pipe again, but he lives!"

"Good," Conan said. The word did not come strangely to his lips, even though he was speaking of a sorcerer who was living instead of dying.

"See Marr to safety," Conan said. "When Syzambry learns that we are in his rear, he will be desperate. I want us ready to meet him before then."

Though the new recruits might call themselves veterans and soldiers now, there would be more fighting before they could call themselves victors.

Count Syzambry was bearing more and more to his left. The ground helped him. So did the fight the royal host was making directly to his front.

Most of all, the one messenger who had returned from the left had said that the royal flank was open.

But what was he seeing to his rear? The mist and the trees as before, but also running men. Men garbed like Pougoi warriors, and others like his own levies.

He saw a warrior leap from a stump onto the back of a dismounted man-at-arms. Mail was no proof against strong arms that jerked a head back or a sharp dagger drawn swiftly across a bare throat.

"Treachery!" the count screamed. "The Pougoi are turning against us!

Kill the Pougoi!"

He hoped that enough of the loyal men in his rear yet lived to hear him and obey. Otherwise, he had the tribesmen and”gods deliver him!”the Star Brothers squarely behind him.

Syzambry spurred his horse. He was a light burden so that even after a long fight, the roan bore him forward rapidly.

His swift movement drew the eye of a tall, black-haired man who had stepped unseen from the shelter of the trees.

Aybas needed the boulder at his back that he might stand. Soon he would be unable to stand even with its aid. He had two sword wounds to match against the five men he'd slain this day, and one of those wounds would ere long send him to join the slain.

A bear reared itself before Aybas. Had the magic of the piper or the Star Brothers sent the animals of the forest into the battle on one side or another?

Aybas sat down. He could not run from the bear even if it were a foe.

Sitting gave him a moment's clear vision. He saw that the bear was Captain-General Decius's banner and that Mistress Raihna held it.

"Lord Aybas!" Decius called. "Be at ease. We have brought up men to join yours. The flank is safe. You bought us the time to make it so.

Lord Aybas!"

Decius's voice took on a questioning note as he called the name several times more. The man so addressed did not hear him. He heard instead his mother, calling him by his birth name.

"Peace, Mother," he said. "Peace. I am coming."

Conan measured the space of open ground between himself and Syzambry.

He also counted the archers in sight.

The sum of both was good. Conan flung his sword-belt aside but wasted no time removing his mail. It would not slow him enough to matter.

Then he hurled himself out of the trees, his long legs devouring the ground. He drove into the rear of Syzambry's guards before any of them knew that an enemy was at hand.

Then he leaped. He leaped onto the rump of the count's horse, and one hand snatched at the reins. The other arm went around the little count's throat.

"Ride toward the Silver Bear or I'll have your wind here and now!" he commanded.

Syzambry raised both hands, but one of them held a dagger. Conan dropped the reins and gripped the count's mail-sleeved arm, twisting fiercely. The count gasped and the dagger fell.

But the Cimmerian was alone in the midst of enemies. The disarmed count might be a shield against archery, but the sheer weight of numbers”

It was the sheer weight of numbers that prevailed as the Silver Bear rolled forward. Conan saw Raihna striding beside Decius and holding the banner high above a head as fair as ever, if filthy and drawn from the battle. Behind the banner streamed fifty-odd of Chienna's best fighting men, horse and foot all charging together.

Count Syzambry had no more than twenty men around him. A moment after Decius struck, he had ten. Then those ten were throwing down their weapons and raising their hands, crying for mercy.

"You may have it, but that's for the queen to say," Decius snapped.

"For now, off of your mounts and down on your knees. Conan, need you fear that we would give you no trophy of your valor, that you needed to snatch this one?"

"I've a taste for gifts that will please queens," the Cimmerian said, grinning. "Think you that this will please Chienna?"

Syzambry said something more than rude. Conan tightened his grip, and the count returned to silence.

"More than likely," Decius said. "What else have you done since you and our whole flank vanished into the woods?"

Conan waited to speak, because he saw Queen Chienna riding up with her handful of Guards. She wore armor and leather breeches, and it seemed to Conan that perhaps the Border Kingdom had found its warrior-ruler after all.

Then he told of his day's work, and as he finished speaking, Thyrin came up to say that Syzambry's men were yielding. By the time the work of disarming them was done, it had begun to rain.

The rain did not silence the cries of the wounded and dying. It did hide the chunnnkkkl as an ax took Count Syzambry's head from his shoulders and toppled it into the mud

It was not Conan's hand wielding the ax. He thought headsman's work beneath him but did not say so. Instead, he said that Syzambry should die at the hand of one of those he had offended and of his own land.

The head man of the peasant levies, who had lost half of his family when Syzambry burned his village, did the work well enough.

It was not beneath Conan, however, to lift Aybas's body onto the bier for the dead of the royal host. What sort of name Aybas had left behind on his travels, Conan did not know. The man would leave behind a honorable name in the land where his travels ended.

Chapter 20

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It was just past dawn on the eleventh day after the battle, with the promise of a day perfect for traveling fast and far. Conan's own restlessness had touched his roan stallion, once Count Syzambry's mount. It was pawing the ground gently, but persistently. From time to time it raised its head and snorted at the Cimmerian as if to say, "Will you never be done with your nattering?"

Conan threw a baleful glance at his mount. He would say a proper farewell to Decius and Raihna or the beast could start the journey south without him!

"The queen spoke well of you again lat night," Decius told him.

"Indeed," Conan said. He wondered how much Decius knew of the reasons Chienna had to speak well of the Cimmerian. "I hope she's not still after having me as chief of the Guard?"

"No," Decius replied. "The gods be praised, she understands that after your¦ disobedience, that would be impossible. She suggested that you share the post of royal huntsman with Marr. That will give you quarters in the palace

"What palace?" Conan said. All three laughed, and even the horse nickered softly. The Border Kingdom might be at peace after Syzambry's death, but peace would rebuild no ruined palaces nor pay any royal servants' wages.

That was first among the reasons Conan was departing to resume his journey to Nemedia. It was likewise the reason why he was taking little save the horse, a new sword, enough armor to discourage bandits from thinking him easy prey, and enough silver to purchase food for man and beast.

"Marr seemed willing to share the work," Raihna added. "After the betrothal ceremony, we both swore to carry the queen's offer to you.

What answer shall we carry back?" She smiled as she had so often done before when she already knew what Conan would say.

"Tell her that you last saw me spurring desperately”no, I'll not insult her. Say that I cherish the honor of having served her well, which is enough reward for one like me." To lighten everyone's spirits, Conan changed the matter of their talk. "I trust that the betrothal went well enough. Thyrin held his peace?"

"He did," Raihna said. "I know not if he is truly happy with his daughter marrying merely the royal huntsman, not Marr the Piper. I do know that Wylla had words with her father two nights ago. She said, 'Marr has lost his pipes and with them, their magic. He still has what he needs to make the magic between men and women.' I do not think Thyrin has been speechless for so long since his manhood ordeal!"

"Trust Wylla to see to the heart of things," Conan said. A retired sorcerer and a wild girl from the hills were an odd match, but Conan had seen odder. Such as a warrior noble of the Border Kingdom and the daughter of a Bossonian yeoman who would now be the first lady of the realm next to Queen Chienna¦

"You will not even stay for our betrothal?" Decius asked.

"Could you swear that Queen Chienna would not use the time to scheme some new way of keeping me here?"

"I would rather swear to fly to Dembi Castle by waving my arms," Decius replied.

"Wise of you," Conan said. "I will return for the queen's betrothal if I hear of it in time to make the journey. That I swear. I also advise you to start hunting a suitable husband for her."

"Indeed," Decius said. "We will need a man of proven valor and keen wits to stand beside Chienna. It will also be best if he is tall of stature and black-haired."

Conan's mouth opened. Decius's face was a mask, the mask of a man holding within himself so much laughter that if he let it out, he would laugh himself into a fit. Raihna looked at her betrothed and her face twisted and turned red.

Then the three of them let out all the laughter inside until it echoed from the rocks. By the time the echoes had died, Conan was spurring his horse downhill. On level ground, he let the mettlesome beast out to a full gallop, and by the time he turned to look behind him, Decius and Raihna were gone.

Conan the Defender

PROLOGUE

Sunlight streaming through marble-arched windows illumined the tapestry-hung room. The servants, tongueless so that they could not speak of whom they saw in their master's house, had withdrawn, leaving five people to sip their wine in silence.

Cantaro Albanus, the host, studied his guests, toying idly with the heavy gold chain that hung across his scarlet tunic. The lone woman pretended to study the intricate weaving of the tapestries; the men concentrated on their winecups.

Midmorning, Albanus reflected, was exactly the time for such meetings, though it rubbed raw the nerves of his fellows. Traditionally such were held in the dark of night by desperate men huddled in secret chambers sealed to exclude so much as a moonbeam. Yet who would believe, who could even suspect that a gathering of Nemedia's finest in the bright light of day, in the very heart of the capital, could be intent on treason?

His lean-cheeked face darkened at the thought, and his black eyes became obsidian. With his hawk nose and the slashes of silver at the temples of his dark hair, he looked as if he should have been a general. He had indeed been a soldier, once, for a brief year. When he was but seventeen his father had obtained him a commission in the Golden Leopards, the bodyguard regiment of Nemedian Kings since time beyond memory. At his father's death he had resigned. Not for him working his way up the ladder of rank, no matter how swiftly aided by high birth. Not for one who by blood and temperament should be King. For him nothing could be treason.

"Lord Albanus," Barca Vegentius said suddenly, "we have heard much of the... special aid you bring to our... association. We have heard much, but thus far we have seen nothing." Large and square of face and body, the current Commander of the Golden Leopards pronounced his words carefully.

He thought to hide his origins by hiding the accents of the slums of Belverus, and was unaware that everyone knew his deception.

"Such careful words to express your doubts, Vegentius," Demetrio Amarianus said. The slender youth touched a perfumed pomander to his nose, but it could not hide the sneer that twisted his almost womanly mouth. "But then you always use careful words, don't you? We all know you are here only to-"

"Enough!" Albanus snapped.

Both Demetrio and Vegentius, whose face had been growing more purple by the second, subsided like well-trained animals at the crack of the trainer's whip. These squabbles were constant, and he tolerated them no more than he was forced to. Today he would not tolerate them at all.

"All of you," Albanus went on, "want something. You, Vegentius, want the generalship you feel King Garian has denied you. You, Demetrio, want the return of the estates Garian's father took from your grandfather. And you, Sephana. You want revenge against Garian because he told you he liked his women younger."

"As pleasantly stated as is your custom, Albanus," the lone woman said bitterly. Lady Sephana Galerianus' heartshaped face was set with violet eyes and framed by a raven mane that hung below her shoulders. Her red silk robe was cut to show both the inner and outer slopes of her generous breasts, and slashed to expose her legs to the hip when she walked.

"And what do I want?" the fourth man in the room asked, and everyone started as if they had forgotten he was there.

It was quite easy to forget Constanto Melius, for the middle-aged noble was vagueness personified.

Thinning hair and the pouches beneath his constantly blinking eyes were his most prominent features, and his intelligence and abilities matched the rest of him.

"You want your advice listened to," Albanus replied. "And so it shall be, when I am on the throne."

It would be listened to for as long as it took to order the man banished, the hawk-faced lord thought.

Garian had made the mistake of rebuffing the fool, then leaving him free in the capital to foment trouble.

Albanus would not make the same mistake.

"We seem to have passed by what Vegentius said," Sephana said abruptly, "but I, too, would like to see what help we can count on from you, Albanus. Demetrio and Vegentius provide information. Melius and I provide gold to buy disorders in the street, and to pay brigands to burn good grain. You keep your plans to yourself and tell us about the magicks that will make Garian give the throne to you, if we do these other things as well. I, too, want to see these magicks."

The others seemed somewhat abashed that she had brought the promised sorcery out into the open, but Albanus merely smiled.

Rising, he tugged a brocade bellpull on the wall before moving to a table at the end of the room, a table where a cloth covered certain objects. Cloth and objects alike Albanus had placed there with his own hands.

"Come," he told the others. Suddenly reluctant, they moved to join him slowly.

With a flourish he whisked the cloth aside, enjoying their starts. He knew that the things on that table-a statuette in sapphire, a sword with serpentine blade and quillons of ancient pattern, a few crystals and engraved gems-were, with one exception, practically useless. At least, he had found little use prescribed for them in the tomes he had so painfully deciphered. Items of power he kept elsewhere.

Ten years earlier, slaves on one of his estates north of Numalia had dug into a subterranean chamber.

Luckily he had been there at the time, been there to recognize it as the storehouse of a sorcerer, been there to see that the luckless slaves were buried in that chamber once he had emptied it.

A year it had taken him just to discover how ancient that cache was, dating back to Acheron, that dark empire ruled by the vilest thaumaturgies and now three millenia and more gone in the dust. For all those years he had studied, eschewing a tutor for fear any sorcerer of ability would seize the hoard for his own.

It had been a wise decision, for had he been known to be studying magicks he would surely have been caught up in Garian's purge of sorcerers from the capital. Garian. Thinking dark thoughts, Albanus lifted a small red crystal sphere from the table.

"I mistrust these things," Sephana said, shuddering. "Better we should rely on ways more natural. A subtle poison-"

"Would provoke a civil war for the succession," Albanus cut her off. "I don't want to tell you again that I have no intention of having to wrest the Dragon Throne from a half score of claimants. The throne will be given to me, as I have said."

"That," Vegentius grumbled, "I will believe when I see it."

Albanus motioned the others to silence as a serving girl entered. Blonde and pale of skin, she was no more than sixteen years of age. Her simple white tunic, embroidered about the hem with Albanus'

house-marls, was slashed to show most of her small breasts and long legs. She knelt immediately on the marble floor, head bent.

"Her name is Omphale," the hawk-faced lord said.

The girl shifted at the mention of her name, but knew enough not to lift her head. She was but newly enslaved, sold for the debts of her father's shop, but some lessons were quickly learned.

Albanus held the red crystal at arm's length in his left hand, making an arcane gesture with his right as he intoned, "An-naal naa-thaan Vas-ti noentei!"

A flickering spike of flame was suddenly suspended above the crystal, as long as a man's forearm and more solid than a flame should be. Within the pulsing red-and-yellow, two dark spots, uncomfortably like eyes, moved as if examining the room and its occupants. All moved back unconsciously except for Omphale, who cowered where she knelt, and Albanus.

"A fire elemental," Albanus said conversationally. Without changing his tone he added, "Kill Omphale!"

The blonde's mouth widened to scream, but before a sound emerged the elemental darted forward, swelling to envelop her. Jerkily she rose to her feet, twitching in the midst of an egg of flame that slowly opaqued to hide her. The fire hissed, and in the depths of the hiss was a thin shriek, as of a woman screaming in the distance. With the pop of a bursting bubble the flame disappeared, leaving behind a faint sickly sweet smell.

"Messy," Albanus mused, scuffing with a slippered foot at an oily black smudge on the marble floor where the girl had been.

The others' stares were stunned, as if he had transformed into the fabled dragon Xutharcan. Surprisingly, it was Melius who first regained his tongue.

"These devices, Albanus. Should we not have some of them as well as you?" His pouchy eyes blinked uncomfortably at the others' failure to speak. "As a token that we are all equals," he finished weakly.

Albanus smiled. Soon enough he would be able to show them how equal they were. "Of course," he said smoothly. "I've thought of that myself." He gestured to the table. "Choose, and I will tell you what powers your choice possesses." He slipped the red crystal into a pouch at his belt as he spoke.

Melius hesitated, reached out, and stopped with his hand just touching the sword. "What... what powers does this have?"

"It turns whoever wields it into a master swordsman." Having found that such was the extent of the blade's power, Albanus had researched no further. He had no interest in becoming a warrior-hero; he would be King, with such to do his bidding. "Take the blade, Melius. Or if you fear it, perhaps Vegentius...." Albanus raised a questioning eyebrow at the square-faced soldier.

"I need no magicks to make me a bladesman," Vegentius sneered. But he made no move to choose something else, either. "Demetrio?" Albanus said. "Sephana?"

"I mislike sorcery," the slender young man replied, openly flinching away from the display on the table.

Sephana was made of sterner stuff, but she shook her head just as quickly. "If these sorceries can pull Garian from the Dragon Throne, 'tis well enough for me. And they can not...." She met Albanus' gaze for a moment, then turned away.

"I'll take the sword," Melius said suddenly. He hefted the weapon, testing the balance, and laughed. "I have no such scruples as Vegentius about how I become a swordsman."

Albanus smiled blandly, but slowly his face hardened. "Now hear me," he intoned, fixing each of them. in turn with an obsidian eye. "I have shown but a small sampling of the powers that will gain me the throne of Nemedia, and grant your own desires. Know that I will brook no deviation, no meddling that might interfere with my designs. Nothing will stand between me and the Dragon Crown. Nothing! Now go!"

They backed from his presence as if he already sat on the Dragon Throne.

Chapter I

The tall, muscular youth strode the streets of Belverus, monument-filled and marble-columned capital of Nemedia, with a wary eye and a hand close to the well-worn leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword.

His deep blue eyes and fur-trimmed cloak spoke of the north country. Belverus had seen many northern barbarians in better times, dazzled by the great city and easily separated from their silver or their pittance of gold-though often, not understanding the ways of civilization, they had to be hauled away by the black-cloaked City Guard, complaining that they had been duped. This man, however, though only twenty-two, walked with the confidence of one who had trod the paving stones of cities as great or greater, of Arenjun and Shadizar, called the Wicked; of Sultanapur and Aghrapur; even the fabled cities of far-off Khitai.

He walked the High Streets, in the Market District, not half a mile from the Royal Palace of Garian, King of Nemedia, yet he thought he might as well be in Hellgate, the city's thieves' district. The open-fronted shops had display tables out, and crowds moved among them pricing cloth from Ophir, wines from Argos, goods from Koth and Corinthia and even Turin. But the peddlers' carts rumbling over the paving stones carried little in the way of foodstuffs, and their prices made him wonder if he could afford to eat in the city for long.

Between the shops were huddled beggars, maimed or blind or both, their wailing for alms competing with the hawkers crying their wares. And every street corner had its knot of toughs, hard-eyed, roughly dressed men who fingered swordhilts, or openly sharpened daggers or weighed cudgels in their fists as their gazes followed a plump merchant scurrying by or a lissome shopkeeper's daughter darting through the crowd with nervous eyes. All that was missing were the prostitutes in their brass and copper bangles, sheer shifts cut to display their wares. Even the air had something of the cloying smell he associated with a dozen slums he had seen, a mixture of vomit, urine and excrement.

Suddenly a fruit cart crossing an intersection was surrounded by half-a-dozen ruffians in motley bits of finery mixed with rags. The skinny vendor stood silent, eyes down and care-worn face red, as they picked over his goods, taking a bite of this and a bite of that, then throwing both into the street. Stuffing the folds of their tunics with fruit, they started away, swaggering, insolent eyes daring anyone to speak.

The well-dressed passersby acted as if the men were invisible.

"I don't suppose you'll pay," the vendor moaned without raising his eyes.

One of the bravos, an unshaven man wearing a soiled cloak embroidered with thread-of-gold over a ragged cotton tunic, smiled, showing the black ened stumps of his teeth. "Pay? Here's pay." His backhand blow split the skinny man's cheek, and the pushcart man collapsed sobbing across his barrow.

With a grating laugh the bravo joined his fellows who had stopped to see the sport, and they shoved their way through the crowd of shoppers, who gave way with no more than a wordless mutter.

The muscular northern youth stopped a pace away from the pushcart, "Will you not call the City Guard?"

he asked curiously.

The peddler pushed himself wearily erect. "Please. I have to feed my family. There are other carts."

"I steal not fruit, nor beat old men," the youth said stiffly. "My name is Conan. Will the City Guard not protect you?"

"The City Guard?" the old man laughed bitterly. "They stay in their barracks and protect themselves. I saw three of these scum hang a Guardsman by his heels and geld him. Thus they think of the City Guard."

He wiped his hands shakily down the front of his tunic, suddenly realizing how visible he was talking to a barbarian in the middle of the intersection. "I have to go," he muttered. "I have to go." He bent to the handles of his pushcart without another glance at the young barbarian.

Conan watched him go with a pitying glance. He had come to Belverus to hire himself as a bodyguard or a soldier-he had been both, as well as a thief, a smuggler and a bandit but whoever could hire his sword for protection in that city, it would unfortunately not be those who needed it most.

Some of the street-corner toughs had noticed his words with the peddler, and approached, thinking to have some fun with the outlander. As his gaze passed over them, though, cold as the mountain glaciers of his native Cimmeria, it came to them that death walked the streets of Belverus that day. There was easier prey elsewhere, they decided. In minutes the intersection was barren of thugs.

A few people looked at him gratefully, realizing he had made that one place safe for the moment. Conan shook his head, half angry with himself, half with them. He had come to hire his sword for gold, not to clear the streets of scum.

A scrap of parchment, carried by a vagrant breeze, fetched up against his boot. Idly he picked it up, read the words writ there in fine round hand.

King Garian sits on the Dragon Throne.

King Garian sits to his feast alone.

You sweat and toil for a scrap of bread,

And learn to walk the streets in dread.

He is not just, this King of ours,

May his reign be counted in hours.

Mitra save us from the Dragon Throne,

And the King who sits to his feast alone.

He let the scrap go with the breeze, joining still other scraps swirling down the street. He saw people lift one to read. Some let it drop, whitefaced, or threw it away in anger, but some read and furtively tucked the bit of sedition into their pouches.

Belverus was a plum ripe for the plucking. He had seen the signs before, in other cities. Soon the furtiveness would be gone. Fists would be shaken openly at the Royal Palace. Stronger thrones had been toppled by less.

Suddenly a running man pushed past him with horror-stricken eyes, and on his heels came a woman, her mouth open in a soundless scream. A flock of children ran past shrieking unintelligibly.

Down the street more screams and cries rose, and the crowd suddenly stampeded toward the intersection. Their fear communicated itself, and without knowing why others joined the stream. With difficulty Conan forced his way to the side of the street, to a shop deserted by its owner. What could cause this, he wondered.

Then the torrent of people thinned and was gone, and Conan saw that the street they had fled was littered with bodies, few moving. Some had been trampled; others, further away, were lacking arms or heads. And striding down the center of the street was a man in a richly embroidered blue tunic, holding a sword with an odd, wavy blade that was encarmined for its entire length. A rope of spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth.

Conan put his hand to his sword, then firmly took it away. For gold, he reminded himself, not to avenge strangers on a madman. He turned to move deeper into the shadows.

At that instant a child broke from a shop directly in front of the madman, a girl no more than eight years old, wailing as she ran on flashing feet. With a roar the madman raised his sword and started after her.

"Erlik's Bowels and Bladder!" Conan swore. His broadsword came smoothly from its worn shagreen sheath as he stepped back into the intersection.

The child ran screaming past without slowing. The madman halted. Up close, despite his rich garb, thinning hair and pouches beneath his eyes gave him the look of a clerk. But those muddy brown eyes were glazed with madness, and the sounds he made were formless grunts. Flies buzzed about the fruit the bravos had scattered.

At least, Conan thought, the man had some reason left, enough not to run onto another's blade. "Hold there," he said. "I'm no running babe or shopkeeper to be hacked down from behind. Why don't you-"

Conan thought he heard a hungry, metallic whine. An animal scream broke from the man's throat, and he rushed forward, sword raised.

The Cimmerian brought his own blade up to parry, and with stunning speed the wavy sword changed direction. Conan leaped back; the tip of the other's steel slashed across his belly, slicing tunic and the light chain mail he wore beneath alike as if they were parchment. He moved back another step to gain room for his own attack, but the madman followed swiftly, bloody blade slashing and stabbing with a ferocity beyond belief. Slowly the muscular youth gave ground.

To his shock it came to him that he was fighting a defensive battle against the slight, almost nondescript man. His every move was to block some thrust instead of to attack. All of his speed and cunning were going into merely staying alive, and already he was bleeding from half a dozen minor wounds. It came to him that he might well die on that spot.

"By the Lord of the Mound, no!" he shouted. "Crom and steel!" But with the clash of the blades ringing in his ears he was forced back.

Abruptly Conan's foot came down on a half-eaten plum, and with a crash he went down, flat on his back, silver-flecked spots dancing before his eyes. Fighting for breath he watched the madman's wavy blade go back for the thrust that would end his life. But he would not die easily. From his depths he found the strength to roll aside as the other lunged. The bloody blade struck sparks from the paving stones where he had been. Frantically he continued to roll, coming to his feet with his back against a wall. The madman whirled to follow.

The air was filled with a whir as of angry hornets, and the madman suddenly resembled a feathered pincushion. Conan blinked. The City Guard had arrived at last, a black-cloaked score of archers. They stayed well back, drawing again, for transfixed though he was, the madman still stood. His mouth was a gash emitting a wordless howl of bloodlust, and he hurled his sword at the big Cimmerian.

Conan's blade had no more than a hand's span to travel to deflect the strange blade to clatter in the street. The Guardsmen loosed their arrows once more. Pierced through and through the madman toppled. For a brief moment as he fell, the look of madness faded to be replaced by one of unutterable horror. He hit the pavement dead. Slowly, weapons at the ready, the soldiers closed in on the corpse.

The big Cimmerian slammed his blade home in its sheath with a disgusted grunt. It was unnecessary even to wipe a speck of blood from it. The only blood shed had been his, and every one of those cuts, insignificant as each was, ached with the shame of it. The one attack he had managed to meet cleanly, the thrown sword, could have been met by a ten years' girl.

A Guardsman grabbed the dead man's shoulder and heaved him over onto his back, splintering half a dozen arrows on the stones of the street.

"Easy, Tulio," another growled. "Like as not our pay will be docked for those shafts. Why-"

"Black Erlik's Throne!" Tulio gasped. "It's Lord Melius!"

The knot of mailed men stepped back, leaving Tulio standing alone over the corpse. It was not well to be too near a dead noble, most especially if you had had a hand in killing him, and no matter what he had done. The King's Justice could take strange twists where nobles were concerned.

A livid scar across his broad nose visible beneath the nasal of his helmet, the Guardsmen's grizzled sergeant spat near the corpse. "There's naught to be done for it now. Tulio!" That Guardsman suddenly realized he was alone by the body and jumped, his eyes darting frantically. "Put your cloak over the... the noble lord," the sergeant went on. "Move, man!" Reluctantly Tulio complied. The sergeant told off more men. "Abydius, Crato, Jocor, Naso. Grab his arms and legs. Jump! Or do you want to stay here till the flies eat him?"

The four men shuffled forward, muttering as they lifted the body. The sergeant started up the street, and the bearers followed as quickly as they were able, the rest of the troop falling in behind. None gave a second look to Conan.

"Are you slowing that much, Cimmerian?" a gruff voice called.

Conan spun, his angry retort dying on his lips as he saw the bearded man leaning against a shop front.

"I'm still faster than you, Hordo, you old robber of dogs."

Nearly as tall as Conan and broader, the bearded man straightened. A rough leather patch covered his left eye, and a scar running from beneath the leather down his cheek pulled that side of his mouth into a permanent sneer, though now the rest of it was bent to a grin. A heavy gold hoop swung from each ear, but if they tempted thieves the wellworn broadsword and dagger at his belt dissuaded them.

"Mayhap you are, Conan," he said. "But what are you doing in Nemedia, 'side from taking a lesson on bladesmanship from a middle-aged noble? The last I saw of you, you were on your way to Aghrapur to soldier for King Yildiz."

Hordo was a friend, but he had not always been so. The first time they met, the one-eyed man and a pack of bandits had pegged Conan out on the Zamoran plains at the orders of Karela, a red-haired woman bandit known as the Red Hawk. Later they had ridden together to the Kezankian Mountains to try for treasure stolen by the sorcerer Amanar. From that they had escaped with naught but their lives.

Twice more they had met, each time making a try at wealth, each time failing to gain more than enough for one grand carouse in the nearest fleshpots. Conan had to wonder if once again they would have a chance at gold.

"I did," Conan replied, "but I left the service of Turan a year gone and more."

"Trouble over a woman, I'll wager," Hordo chuckled, "knowing you."

Conan shrugged his massive shoulders. He always had trouble over women, it seemed. But then, what man did not?

"And what woman chased you from Sultanapur, Hordo? When last we parted you sat in your own inn with a plump Turanian wife, swearing never again to smuggle so much as a sweetmeat, nor set foot outside Sultanapur until you were carried out to your funeral pyre."

"It was Karela." The one-eyed man's voice was low with embarrassment. He tugged at his thick beard. "I could not give up trying to find word of her, and my wife could not cease nagging me to stop. She said I made a spectacle of myself. People talked, she said, laughed behind my back, said I was strange in the head. She would not have it said she married a man lacking all his brains. She would not stop, and I could not, so I said goodbye one day and never looked back."

"You still look for Karela?"

"She is not dead. I'm sure she lives." He grabbed Conan's arm, a pathetic urgency in his eyes. "I've heard never a whisper, but I'd know if she was dead. I'd know. Have you heard anything? Anything at all?"

Hordo's voice carried anguish. Conan knew that the Red Hawk had indeed survived their expedition into the Kezankians. But to tell Hordo would entail telling how last he saw her-naked and chained in a slave coffle on her way to the auction block. He could explain that he had had but a few coppers in his pouch, not even close to the price of a round-breasted, green-eyed slave in Turan. He could even mention the oath she had made him swear, that he would never lift a hand to save her. She was a woman of pride, Karela was. Or had been. For if Hordo had found no sign of her, it was more than likely the strap had broken her, and that she now danced for the pleasure of a dark-eyed master. And if he told the tale, he might well have to kill his old friend, the man who had always called himself Karela's faithful hound.

"The last I saw of her was in the Kezankians," he said truthfully, "but I'm sure she got out of the mountains alive. No pack of hillmen would have stood a chance against her with a sword in her hand."

Hordo nodded, sighing heavily.

People were venturing back into the street, staring at the bodies that still lay where they had been slain.

Here and there a woman fell wailing across a dead husband or child.

Conan looked around for the sword the madman had been carrying. It lay before an open-fronted shop piled high with colorful bolts of cloth. The proprietor was gone, one of the dead or one of those staring at them. The Cimmerian picked up the sword, wiping the congealing blood from the serpentine blade on a bolt of yellow damask.

He hefted the weapon, getting the balance of it. The quillons were worked in a silver filigree that spoke of antiquity, and the ricasso was scribed with calligraphy that formed no words he had ever seen before.

But whoever had made the weapon, he was a master. It seemed to become an extension of his arm.

Nay, an extension of his mind. Still he could not help thinking of those it had just killed. Men. Women.

Children. Struck from behind, or however they could be reached, as they fled. Slashed and hacked as they tried to crawl away. The images were vivid in his brain. He could almost smell their fear sweat and the blood.

He made a disgusted noise in his throat. A sword was a sword, no more. Steel had no guilt. Still, he would not keep it. Take it, yes-a sword was too valuable to be left behind-it would fetch a few silver pieces for his too-light purse.

"You're not keeping that?" Hordo sounded surprised. "The blade's tainted. Women and children." He spat and made the sign to ward off evil.

"Not too tainted to sell," Conan replied. On impulse he swung his furtrimmed cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around the sword. Its archaic pattern made it easily recognizable. Perhaps it would not be smart to carry it openly so soon after the death it had brought to Belverus.

"Are you that short of coin, man? I can let you have a little silver, if you need it."

"I've enough." Conan weighed his purse again in his mind. Four days, if he stayed at an inn. Two weeks if he slept in stables. "But how is it you're rich to the point of handing out silver? Have you taken back to the bandit trade, or is it smuggling again?"

"Hsst!" Hordo stepped closer, casting his lone eye about to see if any had heard. "Speak softly of smuggling," he said in a voice meant for the big Cimmerian's ears alone. "The penalty now is slow impalement, and the crown pays a bounty for information that'd tempt your grandmother."

"Then why are you mixed in it?"

"I didn't say...." The one-eyed man threw up his gnarled hands. "Hannuman's Stones! Yes, I'm in it. Have you no ear or eye that you don't know the prices in this city? The tariffs are more than the cost of the goods. A smuggler can make a fortune. If he lives."

"Maybe you need a partner?" Conan said suggestively.

Hordo hesitated. "'Tis not as it was in Sultanapur. Every cask of wine of length of silk that misses the King's Customs is brought in by one ring."

"For the whole of Nemedia?" Conan said incredulously.

"Aye. Been that way for more than two years, so I understand. I've only been here a year, myself.

They're tight as a miser's fist about who they let in, and who they let know what. I get my orders from a man who gets his from somebody I've never seen, who likely gets his orders from somebody else." He shook his heavy head. "I'll try, but I make no promises."

"They can't be as tight as all that," Conan protested, "not if you're one of them after being here no more than a year."

Hordo chuckled and rubbed the side of his broad nose with a spatulate finger. "I'm a special case. I was in Koth, in a tavern in Khorshemish, because I'd heard a rumor... well, that's beside the point. Anyway, a fellow, Hassan, who works the Kothian end of the ring heard me asking questions. He had heard of the Red Hawk, admired her no end. When he found out I'd ridden with her, he offered me a job here in Belverus. I was about to the point of boiling my belt for soup, so I took it. If Hassan was here I could get you in in a fingersnap, but he stays in Koth."

"Strange," Conan mused, "that he wouldn't keep you there, too, since he admires the Red Hawk so. No matter. You do what you can. I'll make out."

"I'll try," Hordo said. He squinted at the sun, already well past its height, and shifted awkwardly. "Listen, there's something I have to do. The ring, you understand. I'd ask you along so we could swap lies, but they do not look kindly on people they don't know."

"We've plenty of time."

"Surely. Look you. Meet me at the Sign of the Gored Ox, on the Street of Regrets, just above Hellgate, half a glass or so after sunset." He laughed and clapped Conan on the shoulder. "We'll drink our way from one side of this city to the other."

"From top to bottom," Conan agreed.

As the one-eyed man left, Conan turned, the cloak-wrapped sword beneath his arm, and stopped. An ornate litter, scarlet-curtained, its frame and poles black and gold, stood a little way up the street, the crowd and even the toughs respectful enough to leave a cleared space about it. It was not the litter that arrested him-he had seen others in the streets, carrying fat merchants or sleek noblewomen-but as he had turned the curtain had twitched shut, leaving him with the bare impression of a woman swathed in gray veils till naught but her eyes showed. And he would have sworn, for all the briefness of that glimpse, that those eyes had been looking directly at him. Nay, not looking. Glaring.

Abruptly the front curtain of the litter moved, and apparently an order was passed, for the bearers set off swiftly up the street, away from the big Cimmerian.

Conan shook his head as he watched the litter disappear into the throng. 'Twas not a good way to begin in Belverus, imagining things. Aside from Hordo he knew no one. Taking a firmer grip on his cloak-wrapped bundle, he set out to wile away the time until his meeting with Hordo. He would learn what he could of this city wherein he hoped to forge some future for himself.

Chapter II

The Street of Regrets was the last street above Hellgate. It was the street where people hung on by their fingernails to keep from sliding down into the cauldron of the slum, people who knew despairingly that even if they managed to stay that one street above for their lives, their children would sink into the morass. A few had crawled there from Hellgate, stopping once they were safe above Crop-ear Alley, afraid to go further into a city they did not understand, ignoring the stench that told them how little distance they had come whenever the wind blew from the south. Those who truly escaped Hellgate did not stop on the Street of Regrets, not even for a day or an hour. But they were fewest of the few.

On such a street all folk desire to forget what lies ahead at the next turning, the next dawning, what lies behind on a thousand nights past. The Street of Regrets was a frantic, frenetic carnival. Corner musicians with lutes and zithers and flutes sent out frenzied music to compete with the laughter that filled the air, laughter raucous, drunken, hysterical, forced. Jugglers with balls and rings, clubs and flashing knives worked their art for the strumpets that strolled the street, half naked in brief silks, burnished brass bangles and stilted sandals, flaunting their wares for whoever had a coin. Their most lascivious wriggles and flagrant self-caresses, however, were offered to those well-dressed oglers from the Upper Town, standing out in the motley crowd as if they bore signs, come to witness what they thought was the depths of Hellgate depravity. And over it all floated the laughter.

The Sign of the Gored Ox was what Conan expected on such a street. At one end of a common room that reeked of stale wine was a small platform where three plumply rounded women in sheer yellow silk gyrated their hips and breasts to the sybaritic flutes. They were largely ignored by the men at the crowded tables, intent on drink or cards or dice. A brassy-haired trull, one strip of dark blue silk wrapped around and around her body in such a way as to leave much plump flesh bare, maintained a fixed smile as a fat Corinthian in striped robes stroked her as if attempting to calculate her price by the pound.

Another prostitute, her hair an impossible red, eyed the breadth of Conan's shoulders and adjusted the gilded halter that supported her large round breasts. She swayed toward him, wetting her full lips suggestively, then stopped with a disappointed frown when he shook his head. He could see Hordo nowhere in the drunken mass; there would be time to find women when they were together.

There was one woman in the tavern who stood out from the rest. Seated alone against the wall, her winecup untouched in front of her, she seemed to be the only one there watching the dancers. Long black hair swirled below her shoulders, and large, hazel eyes and bee-stung lips gave her a beauty that outshone any of the doxies by far. Yet she was not of the sisterhood of the night. That much was certain from the simple robe of white cotton that covered her from neck to ankles. It was as out of place as she, that robe, not gaudy or revealing enough for a denizen of the Street of Regrets, lacking the ornate embroideries and rich fabrics of the women of the Upper Town who came to sample wickedness by sweating beneath one who might be a murderer or worse.

Women came later, he reminded himself. Shifting the cloak-wrapped sword beneath his arm, he looked about for an empty table.

From what seemed rather a bundle of rags than a man, a bony hand reached out to pluck at his tunic. A thin, rasping voice emerged from a toothless mouth. "Ho, Cimmerian, where go you with that strange blade of murder?"

Conan felt the hair stir on the nape of his neck. The old man, too emaciated to be wrinkled, had a filthy rag tied across where his eyes should be. But even had he had eyes, how could he have known that Conan was from Cimmeria?

"What do you know of me, old man?" Conan asked. "And how do you know it, without sight?"

The old man cackled shrilly, touching the bandage across his eyes with a crooked stick he carried.

"When the gods took these, they gave me other ways of seeing. As I do not see with eyes, I do not see what eyes see, but... other things."

"I've heard of such," Conan muttered. "And seen stranger still. What more can you tell me of myself?"

"Oh, much and much, young sir. You will know the love of many women, queens and peasant girls alike, and many between in station. You will live long, and gain a crown, and your death will be shrouded in legend."

"Bull dung!" Hordo grunted, thrusting his head past Conan's shoulder.

"I was wondering where you were," Conan said. "The old man knew I'm Cimmerian."

"An earful of your barbarous accent, and he made a lucky guess. Let's get a table and a pitcher of wine."

Conan shook his head. "I didn't speak, but he knew. Tell me, old man, What lies weeks ahead for me, instead of years?"

The blind man had been listening with a pained expression, tilting his head to catch their words. Now his toothless smile returned. "As for that," he said. He lifted his hand, thumb rubbing his fingertips, then abruptly flattened it, palm up. "I am a poor man, as you can see, young sir."

The big Cimmerian stuck two fingers into the pouch at his belt. It was light enough, filled more with copper than silver, and little enough of either, but he drew out a silver queenshead and dropped it on the old man's leathery palm.

Hordo sighed in exasperation. "I know a haruspex and three astrologers would charge half that together, and give you a better telling than you'll find in this place."

The old man's fingertips drifted lightly over the face of the coin. "A generous man," he murmured. The coin disappeared beneath his rags. "Give me your hand. The right one."

"A palmist with no eyes," Hordo laughed, but Conan stuck out his hand.

As swiftly as they had moved over the coin the old man's fingers traced the lines of the Cimmerian's hand, marking the callouses and old scars. He began to speak, and though his voice was still thin, the cackle was gone. There was strength, even power in it.

"Beware the woman of sapphires and gold. For her love of power she would seal your doom. Beware the woman of emeralds and ruby. For her love of you she would watch you die. Beware the man who seeks a throne, Beware the man whose soul is clay. Beware the gratitude of kings." to Conan his voice grew louder, but no one else looked up from a winecup as he broke into a sing-song chant. "Save a throne, save a king, kill a king, or die. Whatever comes, whatever is, mark well your time to fly."

"That's dour enough to sour new wine," Hordo muttered.

"And makes little sense, besides," Conan added. "Can you make it no plainer?"

The old man dropped Conan's hand with a shrug. "Could I say my prophecies plainer," he said drily, "I'd live in a palace instead of a pigsty in Hellgate."

Stick tapping, he hobbled toward the street, deftly avoiding tables and drunken revelers alike.

"But mark my words, Conan of Cimmeria," he called over his shoulder from the doorway. "My prophecies always tell true." And he disappeared into the feverish maelstrom outside.

"Old fool," Hordo grumbled. "If you want good advice, go to a licensed astrologer. None of these hedge-row charlatans."

"I never spoke my name," Conan said quietly.

Hordo blinked, and scrubbed his mouth with the back of his calloused hand. "I need a drink, Cimmerian."

The scarlet-haired strumpet was rising from a table, leading a burly Ophirian footpad toward the stairs that led above, where rooms were rented by the turn of the glass. Conan plopped down on a vacated stool, motioning Hordo to the other. As he laid the cloak-wrapped sword on the table, the one-eyed man grabbed the arm of a doe-eyed serving girl, her pale breasts and buttocks almost covered by two strips of green muslin.

"Wine," Hordo ordered. "The biggest pitcher you have. And two cups." Deftly she slipped from his grasp and sped away.

"Have you yet spoken to your friends of me?" Conan asked.

Hordo sighed heavily, shaking his head. "I spoke, but the answer was no. The work is light here, Conan, and the gold flows free, but I am reduced to taking orders from a man named Eranius, a fat bastard with a squint and a smell like a dungheap. This bag of slime lectured me-imagine you me, standing still for a lecture?-'bout trusting strangers in these dangerous times. Dangerous times. Bah!"

"'Tis no great matter," Conan said. Yet he had hoped to work again with this bearded bear of a man.

There were good memories between them.

The serving girl returned, setting two leathern jacks and a rough clay pitcher half again the size of a man's head on the table. She filled the jacks and waited with her hand out.

Hordo rummaged out the coppers to pay, at the same time giving her a sly pinch. "Off with you, girl," he laughed, "before we decide we want more than you're willing to sell."

Rubbing her plump buttock she left, but with a steamy-eyed look at Conan that said she might not be averse to selling more were he buying.

"I told him you were no stranger," Hordo continued, "told him much of you, of our smuggling in Sultanapur. He'd not even listen. Told me you sounded a dangerous sort. Told me to stay away from you. Can you imagine him thinking I'd take an order like that?"

"I cannot," Conan agreed.

Suddenly the Cimmerian felt the ghost of a touch near his pouch. His big hand darted back, captured a slender wrist and hauled its owner before him.

Golden curls surrounded a face of child-like innocence set with guileless blue eyes, but the lush breasts straining a narrow strip of red sills named her profession, as did the girdle of copper coins low on her hips, from which hung panels of transparent red that barely covered the inner curves of her thighs before and the inner slopes of her rounded buttocks behind. Her fist above his entrapping hand was clenched tightly.

"There's a woman of sapphires and gold," Hordo laughed. "What's your price, girl?"

"Next time," Conan said to the girl, "don't try a man sober enough to notice how clumsy your touch is."

The girl put on a seductive smile like a mask. "You mistake me. I wanted to touch you. I'd not be expensive, for one as handsome as you, and the herbalist says I'm completely cured."

"Herbalist!" Hordo spluttered in his wine. "Get your hand off her, Conan! There's nine and twenty kinds of pox in this city, and if she's had one, she likely has the other twenty-eight yet."

"And tells me of it right away," Conan mused.

He increased the pressure of his grip slightly. Sweat popped out on her forehead; her generous mouth opened in a small cry, and her fingers unclenched to drop two silver coins into Conan's free hand. In a flash he pulled her close, her arm held behind her back, her full breasts crushed against his massive chest, her frightened, sky-blue eyes staring into his.

"The truth, girl," he said. "Are you thief, whore, or both? The truth, and I'll let you go free. The first hint of a lie, and I'll take you upstairs to get my money's worth."

She wet her lips slowly. "You'll truly let me go?" she whispered. Conan nodded, and her shuddering breath flattened her breasts pleasantly against his chest. "I am no doxy," she said at last.

Hordo grunted. "A thief, then. I'll still wager she has the pox, though."

"It's a dangerous game you play, girl," Conan said.

She tossed her blonde head defiantly. "Who notices one more strumpet among many? I take only a few coins from each, and each thinks he spent them in his cups. And once I mention the herbalist none want the wares they think I offer." Abruptly she brought her lips to within a breath of his. "I'm not a whore,"

she murmured, "but I could enjoy a night spent in your arms."

"Not a whore," Conan laughed, "but a thief. I know thieves. I'd wake with purse, and cloak, and sword, and mayhap even my boots gone." Her eyes flashed, the guilelessness disappearing for an instant in anger, and she writhed helplessly within the iron band of his arm. "Your luck is gone this night, girl. I sense it." Abruptly he released her. For a moment she stood in disbelief; then his open palm cracking across her buttocks lifted her onto her toes with a squeal that drew laughter from nearby tables. "On your way, girl," Conan said. "Your luck is gone."

"I go where I will," she replied angrily, and darted away, deeper into the tavern.

Dismissing her from his mind he turned back to his wine, drinking deep. Over the rim of the leathern jack his eyes met those of the girl who had seemed out of place. She was looking at him with what was clearly approval, though not invitation, just as clearly. And she was writing on a scrap of parchment. He would wager there were not a handful of women on that entire street who could read or write so much as their own names. Nor many men, for that matter.

"Not for us," Hordo said, noticing the direction of his gaze. "Whatever she is, she's no daughter of the streets dressed like that."

"I care not what she is," Conan said, not entirely truthfully. She was beautiful, and he was willing to admit his own weakness for beautiful women. "At the moment I care about finding employment before I can no longer afford any woman at all. I spent the day walking through the city. I saw many men with bodyguards. There's not so much gold in it as in smuggling, but I've done it before, and I likely will again."

Hordo nodded. "There's plenty enough of that sort of work. Every man who had a bodyguard a year ago has five now. Some of the fatter merchants, like Fabius Palian and Enaro Ostorian, have entire Free-Companies in their pay. There the real money is to be made, hiring out your own Free-Company."

"If you have the gold to raise it in the first place," Conan agreed. "I couldn't buy armor for one man, let alone a company."

The one-eyed man drew a finger through a puddle of wine on the table. "Since the trouble started, half of what we smuggle in is arms. Tariff on a good sword is more than the price used to be." He met Conan's gaze. "Unless I miscount, we could steal enough to outfit a company without anyone being the wiser."

"We, Hordo?"

"Hannuman's Stones, man! When they start telling me who my friends can be, I'm not much longer for smuggling."

"Then it's a matter of getting silver enough for enlistment bonuses. For, say, fifty men-"

"Gold," Hordo cut him off. "The going rate is a gold mark a man."

Conan whistled between his teeth. "It's not likely I'll see that much in one place. Unless you...."

Hordo shook his head sadly. "You know me, Cimmerian. I like women, drink and dice too much for gold to stay long with me."

"Thief" someone shouted. "We've caught a thief."

Conan looked around to see the innocent-faced blonde struggling between a bulky, bearded man in a greasy blue tunic and a tall fellow with a weaselly look to his close-set eyes.

"Caught her with her hand in my purse!" the bearded man shouted.

Obscene comments rose amid the tavern's laughter.

"I told her her luck was gone," Conan muttered.

The blonde screamed as the bearded man ripped the strip of silk from her breasts, then tossed her up to the skinny man, who had climbed onto a table. Despite her struggles, he quickly tore away the rest of her flimsy garb and displayed her naked to the tavern.

The bearded man shook a dice cup over his head. "Who'll toss for a chance?" Men crowded round him.

"Let us go," Conan said. "I don't want to watch this." He gathered up the cloak-wrapped sword and started for the street.

Hordo took one regretful look at the barely touched pitcher of wine, then followed.

At the door Conan caught the eye of the young woman in the plain cotton dress once more. She was staring at him again, but this time her face bore disapproval. What had he done, he wondered. Not that it mattered. He had more important concerns on his mind than women. Followed by Hordo, he ducked through the doorway.

Chapter III

Full dark was on the Street of Regrets, and the frenzy of its denizens had grown as if by motion they could warm themselves against the chill of night. Whores no longer strutted sensuously, but rather half-ran from potential patron to potential patron. Acrobats twisted and tumbled in defiance of gravity and broken bones as though for King Garian himself, receiving hollow, drunken laughter in payment, yet tumbling on.

Conan paused to watch a fire-juggler, his six blazing brands describing slow arcs above his bald head. A small everchanging knot of people stood watching as well. Three came and two left even as the Cimmerian stopped. There were better shows that night on the street than a juggler. Conan fingered a copper out of his pouch and tossed it into the cap the quick-handed man had laid on the ground. There were only two in the cap to precede it. To Conan's surprise the juggler suddenly turned toward him, half-bowing as he kept the brands aloft, as if acknowledging a generous patron. As he straightened, he began to caper, legs kicking high, fiery batons spinning now so that it seemed his feet were always in the midst of the circles they described.

Hordo pulled at Conan's arm, drawing the muscular youth away down the street. "For a copper," the one-eyed man muttered disgustedly. "Time was, it'd have taken a silver piece to get that out of one of them. Maybe more."

"This city is gone mad," Conan said. "Never have I seen so many beggars this side of the Vilayet Sea.

The poor are poorer, and more in number, than in any three other cities. Peddlers charge prices that would choke a Guild Merchant in Sultanapur, and wear faces like they were going bankrupt. More than half a silver queenshead for a pitcher of wine, but a juggler does his best trick for a copper. I haven't seen a soul who looks to care if tomorrow comes or no. What happens here?"

"What am I, Cimmerian? A scholar? A priest? 'Tis said the throne is cursed, that Garian is cursed by the gods."

Conan involuntarily made the sign against evil. Curses were nothing to fool with. Several people noticed and shied away from the big man. They had evil enough in their lives without being touched by the evil that troubled him.

"This curse," the big Cimmerian said after a time, "is it real? I mean, have the priests and astrologers spoken of it? Confirmed it?"

"I've heard nothing of that," Hordo admitted. "But it's spoken on every street corner. Everyone knows it."

"Hannuman's Stones," Conan snorted. "You know as well as I do that anything everyone knows is usually a lie. Is there any proof at all of a curse?"

"That there is, Cimmerian," Hordo said, poking a blunt finger at Conan for emphasis. "On the very day Garian ascended the Dragon Throne-the very day, mind you-a monster ran loose in the streets of Belverus. Killed better than a score of people. Looked like a man, if you made a man out of clay, then half melted him. Thing is, a lot of people who saw it said it looked something like Garian, too."

"A man made out of clay," Conan said softly, thinking of the blind man's prophecy.

"Pay no attention to that blind old fool," Hordo counseled. "Besides, the monster's dead. Wasn't those stay-in-the-barracks City Guards who did it, though. An old woman, frightened half out of her wits, threw an oil lamp at it. Covered it with burning oil. Left nothing but a pile of ash. The City Guard was going to take the old woman in, for 'questioning' they said, till her neighbors chased them off. Pelted them with chamber pots."

"Come," Conan said, turning down a narrow street.

Hordo hesitated. "You realize we're going into Hellgate?"

"We're being followed. Ever since the Gored Ox," Conan said. "I want to find out who. This way."

The street narrowed and twisted, and the laughter and the light of the Street of Regrets were quickly lost.

The stench of offal and urine thickened. There was no paving here. The grate of their boots on gravel and the sounds of their own breathing were the loudest things to be heard. They moved through darkness, broken only occasionally by a pool of light from a window high enough for its owner to feel some safety.

"Talk," Conan said. "Anything. What kind of king is Garian?"

"Talk, he says," Hordo muttered. "Bel save us from you...." He sighed heavily. "He's a king. What more is there? I hold no brief for any king. No more did you, last I saw you."

"Nor do I now. But talk. We're drunk, and too senseless to be silent, while walking Hellgate its the middle of the night." He eased his broadsword in its scabbard. A hint of light from a window far above glinted on his face; his eyes seemed to gleam in the dark like those of a forest animal. A hunting animal.

Hordo stumbled over something that made ripe squelching sounds beneath his boots. "Vara's Guts and Bones! Let me see. Garian. At least he got rid of the sorcerers. I like kings better than I do sorcerers."

"How did he do that?" Conan asked, but his ear was bent for sounds from behind rather than the answer.

Was that a foot on gravel?

"Oh, three days after he took the throne he executed all the sorcerers still at court. Gethenius, his father, had had dozens of them in the palace. Garian told no one what he intended. Some few did leave, giving one excuse or another, but the rest .... Garian gave orders to the Golden Leopards three glasses past midnight. By dawn every sorcerer still in the palace had been dragged out of bed and beheaded. Those who fled were true sorcerers, Garian said, and could keep their wealth. These, who couldn't even discover he intended their deaths, were charlatans and parasites. He had their belongings distributed to the poor, even in Hellgate. Last good thing he's done."

"Interesting," Conan said absently. In the dark his keen eyes picked out one shadow from another. There was a crossing alley ahead. And behind? Yes. That was the mutter of someone who had stepped in whatever had fouled Hordo's boots. "Say on," he said. His blade whispered on leather as it eased from its sheath.

The one-eyed man lifted his eyebrow at what Conan had done, then he, too, drew his sword. Both men walked with steel swinging easily in their fists.

"That curse," Hordo continued conversationally. "Gethenius took ill a fortnight after the planting, and as soon as he took to his bed the rains stopped. It rained in Ophir. It rained in Aquilonia. But not in Nemedia. The sicker Gethenius got and the closer Garian came to the throne, the worse the drought grew. The day he took the throne the fields were dry as powdered bone. And they gave about as much harvest. Tell me that's not proof of a curse."

They reached the alley; Conan side-stepped into its shadows, motioning Hordo to go on. The burly one-eyed man shambled on into the dark ahead, his words fading slowly.

"With the crops gone, Garian bought grain in Aquilonia, and raised tariffs to pay for it. Fool brigands on the border starting burning the grain wagons, so he raises tariffs again to hire more guards for the wagons, and to buy more grain, which the fools on the border still burn. High tariffs make for good smuggling, but I'd just as soon he...."

Conan waited, listening. Briefly he considered unwrapping the madman's blade, but he could still feel the taint to it, even through the cloak. He propped it behind him against the wall. The following footsteps came closer, hurrying, yet hesitant. But one set, he was sure now.

A slight, cloak-shrouded shape moved into the alley crossing, pausing in the dark, all its attention on Hordo's faintly receding footsteps. Conan took a quick step forward, left hand coming down on the figure's shoulder. Spinning the shape, he slammed it against the wall. Breath whooshed out of his opponent. Blade across the figure's throat, he dragged it down to the alley to a pool of light. His mouth fell open as he saw the other's face. It was the girl who had seemed so out of place at the Gored Ox.

There was fear in her large, hazel eyes, but when she spoke her voice was under control. "Do you intend killing me? I don't suppose killing a woman would be beyond you, since you abandon them with such ease."

"What are you talking about?" he rasped. "Are you working with footpads, girl?" He found it hard to believe she could be, but he had seen stranger things.

"Of course not," she replied. "I'm a poet. My name is Ariane. If you don't intend to cut my throat, could you take that sword away? Do you know what they were doing when I left? Do you have any idea?"

"Crom!" he muttered in confusion at her sudden torrent. Still, he lowered his blade.

She swallowed ostentatiously, and fixed him with a level gaze. "They were casting dice for who would have the first... turn with her. Every man there intended to take one. And in the meanwhile they were passing her about, beating her buttocks till they looked like ripe plums."

"The blonde thief," he exclaimed. "You're talking about the blonde thief. Do you mean to say-you followed me into Hellgate just to tell me that?"

"I didn't know you were coming into Hellgate," she said angrily. "I do things on impulse. But what business is it of yours where I go? I'm not a slave. Certainly not yours. That poor girl. After you let her go I thought you had some sympathy for her, thought you might be different from the rest despite your rather violent appearance, but-"

"You knew she was a thief?" he broke in.

Her face turned defensive. "She has to live, too. I don't suppose you know about the things that drive people to become thieves, about being poor and hungry. Not you with your great sword, and your muscles, and-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, and immediately dropped his voice, taking a quick look up and down the alley. It was well not to attract attention in a place like Hellgate. When he looked back at her she was staring at him, open-mouthed. "I know about being poor," he said quietly, "about being hungry, and about being a thief. I was all of them before I was old enough to shave my face."

"I'm sorry," she said slowly, and he had the irritating feeling that it was as much for his youthful hunger as for what she had said.

"As for the girl. She threw away the chance I gave her. I told her her luck was gone, and it was, if I caught her, and you saw her."

"Maybe I should have spoken to her when I saw her," Ariane sighed.

Conan shook his head. "What kind of woman are you? A poet, you say. You sit in a tavern on the Street of Regrets, worrying about thieves. You dress like a shopkeeper's virgin daughter, and speak with the accents of a noblewoman. You chase me into Hellgate to upbraid me." He laughed, deep in his chest.

"When Hordo returns we'll escort you back to the Street of Regrets, and may Mitra save the doxies and cut purses from you."

A dangerous light kindled in her eyes. "I am a poet, and a good one. And what's wrong with the way I dress? I suppose you'd rather I wore a few skimpy strips of silk and wriggled like-"

He clamped a hand over her mouth, not breathing while he listened. Her eyes were large and liquid on his face. It came again, that sound that had pricked his ear. The rasp of steel sliding from a sheath.

Shoving the girl further up the narrow confines of the dark alley, Conan spun just as the first man rushed him. The Cimmerian's blade slashed out his throat even while his sword was going up.

The first of the three following on his heels stumbled against the collapsing body, then shrieked as Conan's steel sought the juncture of shoulder and neck. From behind the men came a scream that ended in a gurgle, and a cry of "The Red Hawk!" told the Cimmerian youth that Hordo had joined the fray. The man facing Conan dropped into a guard position, nervously eyeing to see the combat behind him without taking his eyes from the massive youth.

Suddenly Conan shouted, shifting his shoulders as if he intended an overhand blow. His opponent's sword flashed up to block. Conan's lunge brought them face to face, the Cimmerian's blade projecting a foot through the other's back. He stared into the dying man's eyes, even in the darkness able to see the despair that came with the realization of death. Then only death was there. He tugged his blade free and wiped it on the dead man's cloak.

"Are you hurt, Conan?" Hordo called, stumbling past the bodies in the narrow alley.

"Just wiping my-" A foul odor filled Conan's nostrils. "Crom! What is that?"

"I slipped in something," Hordo replied sourly. "That's why I was so long getting back. Who's the wench?"

"I'm not a wench," Ariane said.

"Her name's Ariane," Conan said. He raised his eyebrows as he watched her slide a very efficient-looking little dagger inside her dress. "You didn't draw that against me, girl."

"I had it," she replied. "Perhaps I didn't think to need it with you. Are these friends of yours?"

"Footpads," he snorted.

Hordo straightened from examining one of the corpses. "Mayhap you ought to take a look, Conan.

They're dressed well for Hellgate."

"Some of Hellgate's better citizens." The Cimmerian's nose wrinkled. "Hordo, as soon as we return Ariane to the Street of Regrets, you're going to find a bathhouse. That is, if you intend to keep drinking with me."

Hordo muttered something under his breath.

"If it doesn't have to be a bathhouse," Ariane began, then stopped, chewing her full lower lip in indecision. Finally, she nodded. "It will be all right," she said to herself. "There's an inn called the Sign of Thestis, just off the Street of Regrets. It has baths. You can come as my guests, for the night at least."

"Thestis!" Hordo crowed. "Whoever heard of an inn called after the goddess of music and such?"

"I have," Ariane said with some asperity. "If you are invited, the bed, food and wine are free, though you're expected to contribute if you can. You'll understand when you see it. Well? Do you come, or do you stink until you can pay two silver pieces to a bathhouse?"

"Why?" Conan asked. "You sounded not so friendly a minute or two gone."

"You interest me," Ariane said simply.

Hordo snickered, and Conan suddenly wished the one-eyed man smelled just a little better, so he could get close enough to thump him. Hastily the Cimmerian gathered up the ancient sword in the cloak.

"Let's get out of here," he said, "before we attract more vermin."

Hurriedly they picked their way back out of Hellgate.

Chapter IV

Albanus angrily jerked the cord of his gold-embroidered dressing robe tight about his waist as he stalked into the carpeted antechamber of his sleeping apartments. Golden lamps cast a soft light on the walls, where basrelief depicted scenes from the life of Bragoras, the ancient, half-legendary King of Nemedia from whom Albanus claimed pure and unsullied descent through both his father and mother.

The hawk-faced lord had left orders to be called from his bed whenever the two men now awaiting him arrived. Neither Vegentius nor Demetrio appeared to have slept at all. The soldier's surcoat, worked with the Golden Leopard, was wrinkled and damp with sweat, while the eyes of the slender youth were haggard.

"What have you discovered?" Albanus demanded without preliminary.

Demetrio shrugged and sniffed at his ever-present pomander.

Vegentius stiffened in tired anger at the peremptory tone, and spoke harshly. "Nothing. The sword's gone. Let it be. We don't need it, and you've already gotten Melius killed, giving him the thing in the first place. Though, Mitra knows, the man is little enough loss."

"How was I to know the accursed blade would seize his mind?" Albanus broke out. Hands knotted to keep them from shaking, he managed to regain control. "The sword," he said in a somewhat calmer voice, "must be recovered. Another incident like today, another man going berserk with that blade in his hands, and Garian will know there's sorcery loose in Nemedia again. Even with his dislike of magicks he might well bring his own sorcerer to court, for protection. Do you think I'll so easily let my plans be thwarted?"

"Our plans," Demetrio reminded gently from behind his pomander.

Albanus smiled slightly, a curving of the lips, nothing more. "Our plans," he agreed. Then even that slight softness was gone. "The Guardsmen were put to the question, were they not, Vegentius? After all, they did kill Lord Melius."

Vegentius gave a short nod. "All except their sergeant, who disappeared from the barracks when my Golden Leopards came to make the arrests. 'Twas guilt sent him running, mark my words. He knows something."

"Most likely," Demetrio murmured, "he knew what methods of questioning would be used."

"Unless he took the sword," Albanus said. "What did they say of that under the question?"

"Little enough," Vegentius sighed. "For the most part they begged for mercy. All they knew was that they were ordered to stop a madman who was slaughtering people in the Market District. They found him fighting, a northern barbarian and killed him. When they discovered they'd slain a lord, they were so terrified they had no thought for the sword. They didn't even bring in the barbarian."

"He was still alive?" Albanus said, surprised. "He must be a master swordsman."

Vegentius laughed disparagingly. "Melius barely knew one end of a blade from the other."

"The skill is in the blade," Albanus said. "Six masters of the sword were slain in the making of it, their blood used for quenching, their bones burned to heat it, the essence of their art infused into its metal."

"Slash and hack, that's all Vegentius knows." Demetrio's voice dripped mockery. "But the art of steel...."

His blade whipped from its sheath. Knees bent, he danced across the colorfully woven carpet, his sword working intricate figures in the air.

"That fancy work may be good enough for first-blood duels among the gently born," Vegentius sneered,

"but 'tis a different matter in battle, when your life hangs on your blade."

"Enough!" Albanus snapped. "Both of you, enough!" He drew a ragged breath. One day he would let them fight, for his entertainment, then have the winner impaled. But now was not the time. Thirty years he had worked for this. Too much time, too much effort, too much humiliating terror to allow it all to be ruined now. "That barbarian may have taken the sword. Find him! Find that blade!"

"I've already started," the square-faced soldier said smugly. "I sent word to Taras. He'll have had his alley rats hunting all night."

"Good." Albanus rubbed his hands together, making a sound like dry parchment rustling. "And you, Demetrio. What have you been doing to find the blade?"

"Asking ten thousand questions," the slender noble replied wearily. "From the Street of Regrets to the House of a Thousand Orchids. I heard nothing. If Vegentius had thought to let me know of this barbarian it would have made my searching easier."

Vegentius examined his nails with a complacent smile. "Who'd have thought to look for you in the House of a Thousand Orchids? They provide only women to their customers."

Demetrio slammed his sword back into its sheath as if he were driving it into the soldier's heart. Before he could open his mouth, though, Albanus spoke.

"There's no time for this petty bickering. Find that sword. Steal it, buy it, I care not, but get it. And without attracting attention."

"And if its possessor has discovered its properties?" Demetrio asked.

"Then kill him," Albanus said smoothly. "Or her." He turned to go.

"One more thing," Vegentius said abruptly. "Taras wants to meet with you."

Albanus turned back to face them, his eyes black flints. "That scum dares? He should be licking the paving stones in gratitude for the gold he's given."

"He's afraid," Vegentius said. "Him and some of the others who know a little of what they really do. I can cow them, but even gold won't put their guts back unless they see you face to face and hear you tell them it all will happen as they've been told."

"Mitra blast them!" Albanus' eyes went to the bas-relief on the walls. Had Bragoras had to deal with such? "Very well. Arrange you a meeting in some out-of-the-way place."

"It will be done," the soldier replied.

Albanus smiled suddenly, the first genuine smile the others had ever seen on his face. "When I am on the throne, this Taras and his daggermen will be flayed alive in the Plaza of Kings. A good king should be seen to protect his people against such as they." He barked a laugh. "Now get you gone. When next I see you, bear a report of success."

He left with as little ceremony as he had come, for already he began to feel beyond the courtesies ordinary men offered one another. They were fools in any case, unable to realize that he saw them no differently than he saw Taras. Or that he would deal with them as harshly in the end. And if they would betray one king, they would betray another.

Inside his dimly lit bedchamber he strode impatiently to a large square sheet of transparent crystal hung on the wall. The thin crystal was undecorated save for odd markings around its outer edge, markings that lay entirely within the crystal. In the light from a single, small gold tripod lamp the markings were almost invisible, but from long practice Albanus' fingers touched the proper ones in the proper sequence, intoning words in a language three millennia dead.

As his finger lifted from the last, the crystal darkened to a deep silvery blue. Slowly pictures formed within it. In the crystal men moved and gestured, talking though no sound could be heard. Albanus gazed on Garian, who thought himself safe in the Royal Palace, conferring with long-bearded Sulpicius and bald Malaric, his two most trusted councelors.

The King was a tall man, heavily muscled still from a boyhood spent with the army, but now beginning to show a smooth layer of fat from half a year of inactivity on the throne. His square-jawed face with its deep-set dark eye had lost some of the openness it had once had. Sitting on the throne was responsible for that change as well.

Albanus' hands moved around the rim of the crystal again, and Garian's face swelled until it filled the entire square.

"Why do you do that so often?"

The blonde who spoke watched him with sapphire cat eyes from the satin cushions of his bed. She stretched langorously, her skin gleaming like honeyed ivory in the dimness, her dancer's legs seeming even longer as she pointed her toes. Her large, pear-shaped breasts lifted as she arched her slender back. Albanus felt his throat thicken.

"Why do you not speak?" she asked, her voice all pure innocence.

Bitch, he thought. "It's as if he were here, Sularia, watching his mistress writhe and moan beneath me."

"Is that all I am to you?" Her tone was sultry now, caressing like warm oil. "A means of striking at Garian?"

"Yes," he said cruelly. "An he had a wife or a daughter, they would take their turns with you in my bed."

Her eyes drifted to the face in the crystal. "He has no time for a mistress, much less a wife. Of course, you are responsible for the many troubles that take his time. What would your fellows think, an they knew you took the risk of seducing the King's mistress to your bed?"

"Was it a risk?" His face hardened dangerously. "Are you a risk?"

She shifted in the cushions so that her head was toward him, her hips twisted to emphasize their curve against the smallness of her waist. "I am no risk," she said softly. "I wish only to serve you."

"Why?" he persisted. "At first I meant you only for my bed, but of your own will you began to spy in the palace, coming to kneel at my feet and whisper of who did what and who said what. Why?"

"Power," she breathed. "It is an ability I have, to sense power in men, to sense men who will have power.

I am drawn to such men as a moth to the flame. I sense the power in you, greater than the power in Garian."

"You sense the power." His eyes lidded, and he spoke almost to himself. "I can feel the power inside, too. I've always felt it, known it was there. I was born to be king, to raise Nemedia to an empire. And you are the first other to realize it. Soon the people will take to the streets of Belverus with swords in hand to demand that Garian abdicate in my favor. Very soon. And on that day I will raise you to the nobility, Sularia. Lady Sularia."

"I thank my king."

Suddenly he unbelted his dressing robe and threw it off, turning so that the man in the crystal-if he were actually able to see from it would have a clear view of the bed. "Come and worship your king," he commanded.

Mouth curving in a wet-lipped smile, she crawled to him.

Chapter V

As Conan made his way down to the common room at the Sign of Thestis the next morning, he wondered again if he had fallen into a nest of lunatics. Two lyres, four zithers, three flutes and six harps of assorted sizes were being played, but by musicians scattered about the room, and no two playing the same tune. One man stood declaiming verse to a wall with full gesticulations, as if performing for a wealthy patron. A dozen young men and women at a large table covered with bits of sculpture shouted over the music, telling one another in detail what was wrong with everyone else's work. Three men at the foot of the stairs also shouted at one another, all three simultaneously, about when morally reprehensible action was morally required. At least, that was what he thought they were shouting about. All the men and women in the room, none past their midtwenties, were shouting about one thing or another.

He and Hordo had been made welcome the night before, after a fashion. There had been but a score of people in the inn then. If it was an inn. That was another thing the Cimmerian doubted. The lot of them had stared as if Ariane had brought back two Brythunian bears. And among that lot, with no more weapons than a few belt knives for cutting meat, perhaps they had seemed so.

While Hordo had gone out back to the baths-wooden tubs sitting on the dirt in a narrow court, not the marble palaces to cleanliness and indolence found elsewhere in the city-the odd youths had crowded around Conan, refilling his cup with cheap wine whenever it was in danger of becoming empty and prodding him to tell stories. And when Hordo returned they pressed him, too, for tales. Long into the night and the small hours of the morning, Conan and the one-eyed man had vied to top the other's last tale.

Those strange young men and women-artists, some said they were, others musicians, and still others philosophers-listened as if hearing of another world. Oft times those who called themselves philosophers made comments more than passing strange, not a one of which Conan had understood. It had taken him a while to realize that none of the others understood them either. Always there was a tick of silence punctuating each comment while the rest watched him who made it to see if they were supposed to nod solemnly at the pontification or laugh at the witticism. A time or two Conan had thought one of them was making fun of him, but he had done nothing. It would not have been proper to kill a man when he was not sure.

At the foot of the stairs he pushed past the philosophers-none of the three even noticed his passing-and stopped in astonishment. Ariane stood on a table in the corner of the room. Naked. She was slim, but her breasts were pleasantly full, her waist tiny above sweetly rounded hips.

He swung his cloak from his shoulders-the wavy-bladed sword was safely hidden in the tiny room he had been given for the night-and stalked across the room to thrust the garment up to her.

"Here, girl. You're not the sort for this kind of entertainment. If you need money, I've enough to feed both of us for a time."

For a moment she looked down at him, hands on hips and eyes unreadable, then astounded him by throwing back her head and laughing. His face reddened; he little enjoyed being laughed at. Instantly she dropped to her knees on the table, her face a picture of contrition. The way her breasts bounced within a handspan of his nose made his forehead suddenly grow beads of sweat.

"I'm sorry, Conan," she said softly, or what passed for softly in the din. "That may have been the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I shouldn't have laughed."

"If you want to exhibit yourself naked," he replied gruffly, "why not go to a tavern where there's a bit of money in it?"

"Do you see those people?" She pointed out three men and two women seated near the table, each with a piece of parchment fastened to a board and a bit of charcoal in hand, and each glaring impatiently at the girl and him. "I pose for them. They don't have the money to hire someone, so I do them a favor."

"Out in front of everybody?" he said incredulously.

"There isn't much room, Conan," she said, amusement plain in her voice. "Besides, everyone here is an artist of one sort or another. They do not even notice."

Eyeing her curves, he was willing to wager differently. But all he said was, "I suppose you can do what you want."

"You suppose right."

She waved to the people sketching and hopped down from the table, producing any number of interesting jiggles and bounces. He wished she would stop leaping about like that while she had her clothes off. It was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder and take her back up to his room.

Then he noticed a twinkle in her eye and a slight flush on her cheek. She knew the effect she had on him.

Deftly she took the cloak out of his hands and wrapped it chastely around her. "At the moment I would like to have some wine. With you." He looked at the cloak, raising an eyebrow questioningly, and she giggled. "It's different up there. There I'm posing. Down here I'm just naked. Come, there's a table emptying."

She darted away, and he followed, wondering what difference the distance from the table to the floor made, wondering if he would ever understand women. As he slid onto a stool across a small, rough-topped table from her, someone thrust a clay jug of wine and two battered metal cups in front of them, disappearing while Conan was still reaching for his pouch.

He shook his head. "'Tis the first tavern I've ever seen, where payment was not demanded before a cup was filled."

"Did not anyone explain last night?" she laughed.

"Perhaps they did. But there was more than a little wine being passed around."

"Did you really do all you talked about last night?" She leaned forward with interest, the top of the cloak gaping to expose the upper slopes of her cleavage. A part of his brain noted that that glimpse was almost as erotic as her fully exposed bosom had been. He wondered if she knew that and did it on purpose.

"Some of them," he answered cautiously. In truth he did not remember which stories he and Hordo had told. There had been much more than a little wine. He filled their cups from the clay jug.

"I thought so," she said in tones of satisfaction. "As to the money, you give what you can. Everyone staying here does, though some who only come in the day give nothing. Some of us receive money from our families, and of course we all put that in. They don't approve-the families that is-but they approve less of having us nearby to embarrass them. Whatever we have left over we use to distribute bread and salt to the hungry in Hellgate. It's little enough," she sighed, "but a starving man appreciates even a crumb."

"Some of these have families rich enough to give them money?" he said, looking around the room in disbelief. Suddenly her cultured accents were loud in his head.

"My father is a lord," she said defensively. She made it sound a crime, both being a lord and being the daughter of one.

"Then why do you live here, on the edge of Hellgate, and pose naked on tables? Can you not write poetry in your father's palace?"

"Oh, Conan," she sighed, "don't you understand that it's wrong for nobles to have gold and live in palaces while beggars starve in hovels?"

"Mayhap it is," Conan replied, "but I still like gold, though I've had little enough of it. As for the poor, were I rich, unless I misdoubt me I'd fill many a belly with what I spent."

"What other answer did you expect?" a lanky man said, pulling up a stool. His long face wore a perpetual scowl, made deeper by thick eyebrows that grew across the bridge of his nose. He scooped up Ariane's cup and drank half her wine.

"It is an honest answer, Stephano," Ariane said. Stephano snorted.

Conan remembered him now. The night before he had named himself a sculptor, and been free with his hands with Ariane. She had not seemed to mind then, but now she took back her winecup angrily.

"He is a generous man, Stephano, and I think me he'd be generous were he rich." She shifted her direct gaze back to Conan. "But can you not see that generosity is not enough? In Hellgate are those who lack the price of bread, while nobles sit safe in their palaces and fat merchants grow richer by the day. Garian is no just king. What must be done is clear."

"Ariane!" Stephano said sharply. "You tread dangerous ground. School your tongue."

"What leave have you to speak so to me?" Her voice grew more heated by the word. "Whatever is between us, I am none of your property."

"I have not named you so," he replied, matching heat for heat. "I ask but that you let yourself be guided by me. Speak not so to strangers."

Ariane tossed her pretty head contemptuously, her big eyes suddenly cold. "Art sure there is no part of jealousy in your words, Stephano? No intent to rid yourself of a rival?" The sculptor's face flamed red.

"Stranger he may be," she continued remorselessly, "yet he is the kind of man we seek. A warrior. Have I not heard Taras speak so to you a hundred times? We must needs have fighters if-"

"Mitra's mercy" Stephano groaned. "Have you mind at all for caution, Ariane? He is a northern barbarian who likely never knew his father and would sell his honor for a silver piece. Guard your tongue!"

With his left hand Conan slid his broadsword free of its scabbard, just enough so that the edge of the blade below the hilt rested against the side of the table. "When I was still a boy," he said in a flat voice, "I saw my father die with a blade in his hand. With that blade I killed the man who slew him. Care you to discuss it further?"

Stephano's eyes goggled at the sword, his scowl momentarily banished, He touched his lips with his tongue; his breath came in pants. "You see, Ariane? You see what kind of man he is?" His stool scraped on the floor as he rose. "Come away with me, Ariane. Leave this man now."

She held out her winecup to Conan. "May I have some more wine?" She did not look at Stephano, or acknowledge his presence. Conan filled the cup, and she drank.

Stephano looked at her uncertainly, then took a step backward. "Guard your tongue!" he hissed, and darted away, almost crashing into another table in his haste.

"Will you guard your tongue?" Conan asked quietly.

She peered into her wine a time before answering. "From the stories you told, your sword goes where the gold is. Do you choose only by who can pay the most gold?"

"No," he told her. "I've ridden away from gold rather than follow unjust orders." Sighing, he added truthfully, "But I do like gold."

Clutching his cloak about her, she rose. "Mayhap... mayhap we'll speak of it later. They wait for me to finish posing."

"Ariane," he began, but she cut him off.

"Stephano thinks he has a claim on me," she said quickly. "He has not." And she left almost as quickly as Stephano had.

Conan emptied his cup with a muttered curse, then turned to watch her drop his cloak and climb back to her pose on the table. After a moment her eyes shifted to him, then away, quickly. Again she met his gaze and tore hers away. Her rounded breasts rose and fell as her breathing became agitated. Spots of red appeared on her cheeks, growing, her face flushing hotter and hotter. Abruptly she uttered a small cry and leaped down, snatching up the cloak from the floor without looking again at Conan. She pulled the fur-trimmed garment about her as she ran, darting between the tables, feet flashing up the stairs.

The Cimmerian smiled complacently as he poured more wine from the clay jug. Perhaps things were not as bad as they seemed.

Hordo dropped onto the stool across the table, a frown creasing his eye. "Have you listened to what's said in this place?" he asked quietly. "Was there a Guardsman about, there'd be heads on pikes for sedition before many more dawns."

Conan looked casually to see if anyone was listening. "Or for rebellion?"

"This lot?" the one-eyed man snorted derisively. "They might as well march to the block and ask to have their heads chopped. Not that the city's not ripe for it, mind. But these have as much chance as a babe sucking a sugar-tit."

"But what if they had money? Gold to hire fighting men?"

Hordo raised his cup as Conan spoke; now he choked on the wine. "Where would this lot get gold? If one of them had a patron, you can wager your stones he'd not be living on the rim of Hellgate."

"Ariane's father is a lord," Conan said quietly. "And she told me some of the rest come of rich men, too."

The one-eyed man chose his words carefully. "Do you tell me they actually plan rebellion? Or think they do?"

"Stephano and Ariane, between them, as much as told me so."

"Then let us be gone from here. They may have some talents, but rebellion is not among them. If they met you last night and tell so much today, what have they told others? Remember, our heads can decorate pikes as easily as theirs."

Conan shook his head slowly, although Hordo was right, on the face of it. "I like it here," was all he said.

"You like a round-bottomed poet," Hordo said heatedly. "You'll die for a woman yet. Remember the blind soothsayer."

"I thought you said he was a fool," the Cimmerian laughed. "Drink, Hordo. Rest easy. We'll talk of our Free-Company."

"We've no gold yet that I can see," the other said sourly.

"I'll find the gold," Conan said with more confidence than he felt. He had no idea whence it might come.

Still, it would be well to have his plans in order. A delay of days could mean the difference between being sought after and all who could afford such companies already having hired. "I'll find it. You say we can, ah, borrow weapons from the storehouses of the smuggling ring you serve. Are they serviceable? I've seen smuggled mail so eaten with rust it fell apart in a good rain, and blades that snapped at the first blow."

"Nay, Cimmerian. These are of good quality, and of any sort you want. Why, there are as many kinds of sword bundled in those storehouses as I've ever heard named. Tulwars from Vendhya, shamshirs from Iranistan, macheras in a dozen patterns from the Corinthian city-states. Fifty of this sort and a hundred of that. Enough to arm five thousand men."

"So many?" Conan murmured. "Why would they keep so much in their storehouses, and in such variety?

There's no profit in storing swords."

"I bring what I'm told from the border to Belverus, and I'm paid for it in gold. I care not if they grow barley in the storehouses, so long as I get a fat purse each trip." Hordo tipped the jug over his cup; a few drops fell. "Wine!" he roared, a blast that brought dead silence to the room.

Everyone turned to stare in amazement at the two burly men. A slender girl in the same sort of plain neck-to-ankles cotton robe that Ariane wore approached hesitantly and placed another clay jug on the table. Hordo fumbled in the purse at his belt and tossed her a silver piece.

"The rest is for you, little one," Hordo said.

The girl stared at the coin, then laughed delightedly and dropped a mockingly deep curtsey before leaving. Conversation slowly resumed among those at the tables. The musicians struck up their various tunes, and the poet orated to the wall.

"Pretty serving girls," Hordo muttered as he refilled his battered metal cup, "but they dress like temple virgins."

Conan hid a smile. The one-eyed man had drunk deeply the night before. Well, he would discover soon enough that he did not have to pay for his wine. In the meantime, let him contribute for the both of them.

"Consider, Hordo. Such a motley collection of weapons is just the sort of thing these artists would put together."

"That again?" the other man grumbled. "In the first place, whoever runs the ring, I can't see him wanting Garian overthrown. Those fool tariffs might be starving the poor, but they make good profits for smuggling. In the second place...." His face darkened, the scar below his patch standing out whitely. "In the second place, I've been through one rebellion with you. Or have you forgotten riding for the Venhyan border half a step in front of the headsman's sword?"

"I remember," Conan said. "I've said naught of joining their rebellion."

"Said naught, but thought much," Hordo growled. "You're a romantic fool, Cimmerian. Always were, likely always will be. Hannuman's Stones, man, you'll not mix me in another uprising. Keep your mind fixed on the gold for a Free-Company."

"I always keep my mind on gold," Conan replied. "Mayhap I think on it too much."

Hordo groaned, but Conan was saved having to say more by the appearance of the slender girl who had brought the wine jug. Tilting her head to one side, she favored the big Cimmerian with a look, half shyness, half invitation, that made the room suddenly too warm.

"What's your name, girl?" Hordo asked. "You're a pretty little bit. Get rid of that cotton shift, deck yourself with a little silk, and you could work in any tavern in Belverus."

She tossed her head, laughing gaily, silken brown hair rippling about her shoulders. "Thank you, kind sir, and for your generous contribution." Hordo frowned in uncomprehension. "My name is Kerin," she went on, her soft brown eyes shifting to Conan like a light-fingered caress. "And by those shoulders, you must be the Conan Ariane spoke of. I work in clay, though I hope to have my sculpture cast in bronze some day. Would you pose for me? I can't pay you, but perhaps...." Her mouth softened, full lower lip dropping slightly, and her eyes left no doubt what sort of arrangement she wanted with the muscular barbarian.

Conan had barely listened after the mention of posing. An image flashed in his brain of Ariane, posing on the table, and he was uncomfortably aware of his face growing hot. Surely she did not mean .... She could not want ....

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "You mentioned Ariane. Did she send a message?"

"Why did she see you first?" Kerin sighed. "Yes, she did. She's waiting in your room. To tell you something very important, she said." She ended with a slight smirk.

Conan scraped back his stool.

"Girl," Hordo said as the Cimmerian rose, "what is this posing? I might well do it." Kerin slipped into the seat Conan had vacated.

All the way across the common room Conan waited for Hordo's outraged shout, but when he looked back from the foot of the stairs the one-eyed man was nodding slowly, a delighted grin on his face.

Laughing, Conan ran up the stirs. It seemed his friend would receive more than good value for his silver piece.

Upstairs the narrow hall was lined with many doors, most crudely made, for the original chambers had been roughly partitioned into more. When Conan pushed open his own rude plank door, Ariane was standing below the small window high in the wall. His cloak was still wrapped tightly around her, her fists showing at the neck where she held it together. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it.

"I pose," she said without preamble. Her eyes glinted with something he could not quite read. "I pose for my friends, who cannot hire models. I do it often, and never have I felt embarrassment. Never until today."

"I merely looked at you," he said quietly.

"You looked at me." She uttered a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "You looked at me, and I felt like one of those girls at the Gored Ox, wriggling to a flute for drooling men. Mitra blast your eyes!

How dare you make me feel like that!"

"You are a woman," he said. "I looked at you as a man looking at a woman."

She closed her eyes and addressed the cracked ceiling. "Hama All-Mother, why must I be stirred by an untutored barbarian who thinks with his sword?" A smug smile grew on his face, to be quashed almost immediately by a glare from her large hazel eyes. "A man may take as many women as he wishes," she said fiercely. "I refuse to have less freedom than a man. If I choose to have but one man at a time to my mat, and have no other till he leaves or I do, that is my affair. Can you accept me as I am?"

"Did your mother never tell you a man likes to do the asking?" he laughed.

"Mitra blast your heart!" she snarled. "Why do I waste my time?" Muttering to herself she stalked toward the door, cloak flaring in her haste.

Conan reached out one massive arm, curling it around her waist beneath the cloak. She had time for one strangled squawk before he lifted her, the cloak floating to the floor, to crush her soft breasts against the hard expanse of his chest.

"Will you stay with me, Ariane?" he asked, looking into her startled eyes.

Before she could speak he tangled his free hand in her hair and brought her lips to his. Her small fists bruised themselves against his shoulders; her feet kicked futilely at his shins. Slowly her struggles subsided, and when a satisfied murmur sounded in her throat he released her hair. Panting, she let her head drop onto his broad chest.

"Why did you change your mind?" she managed after a time.

"I didn't change it," he replied. She looked up, startled, and he smiled. "Before you asked. This time I did the asking."

Laughing throatily, she let her head fall back. "Hama All-Mother," she cried, "will I never understand these strange creatures called men?"

He laid her gently on his sleeping mat, and for a long time thereafter only sounds passion-wrought passed her lips.

Chapter VI

The Street of Regrets in the morning hours fit well Conan's mood. The paving stones were littered with the tawdry refuse of the previous night's revelry; those few people to be seen were stumbling home bleary eyed and hollow faced. Conan kicked rubbish from his path as he strode along, and gave growl for growl to the stray dogs that scavenged among the leavings.

The ten nights past had been an idyll at the Sign of the Thestis, wrapped in Ariane's arms, her passions and appetites feeding his own even as they sated them. Stephano brooded much in jealousy and wine, yet the memory of the Cimmerian's anger kept his tongue between his teeth. Hordo, drawn by the attractions of the slender Kerin, had moved his few belongings from an inn three streets away, and of an evening they drank and told each other lies till the charms of Ariane and Kerin parted them. Those were the nights. Days were another matter.

Conan paused at the sound of running boots behind him, then continued on as Hordo joined him.

"Ill luck this morrow, too?" the one-eyed man asked, eyeing the Cimmerian's face.

Conan nodded shortly. "When I had defeated all three bodyguards now in his service, Lord Heranius offered three gold marks for me to take service as their chief, with two more every tenday."

"Ill luck?" Hordo exclaimed. "Mitra! That's twice the usual rate for bodyguards. I'm tempted to give up smuggling. At least there'd be no danger of the headsman's block."

"And I must swear bond-oath before the City Magistrates not to quit his service without leave for two years."

"Oh."

Conan's right fist cracked into the other palm with a sound like a club striking leather. A drunk, stumbling his way home, jumped a foot in the air and fell in a puddle of vomit. Conan did not notice.

"Everywhere it is the same," he grated, "Free-Companies or single blade-fee alike. All demand the bond-oath, and some require three years, if they do not require five."

"Before the bond-oaths," Hordo mused. "Some men changed masters every day, getting a silver piece more each time. Look you. Why not take service with whoever offers the most gold? This Lord Heranius, by the sound of it. When you're ready to go, if he won't release you, just go. An oath that makes a man a slave is no oath at all."

"And when I do, I must leave Belverus, perhaps all of Nemedia." He was silent for a time, his boots kicking broken clay wine-jars and soiled bits of abandoned clothing from his path. At last he said, "At first it was but talk, Hordo, this Free-Company that I would lead. Now it's more. I'll take no service until I ride at the head of my own company."

"It means so much to you?" Hordo said incredulously. He dodged a jar of slops thrown from a second-story window, hurling a curse at the thrower, already gone.

"It does," Conan said, ignoring the other's mutters about what had splashed on his boots. "In the final sum of it all, perhaps a man has no more than himself, naught but a strong right hand and the steel in it. And still, to rise, to make some mark in the world, a man must lead others. I was a thief, yet did I rise to command in the Army of Turan, and did well at it. I know not how far I may rise nor how far the path I follow may take me, yet do I intend to rise as high and go as far as my wits and a good sword will take me. I will have that Free-Company."

"When you do," the one-eyed man said drily, "be you certain they swear the bond-oath." They turned into the street that led to the Sign of Thestis.

As Conan laughed, three men stepped out to spread themselves across the narrow street, broadswords in hand. The sound of boots behind made Conan glance quickly over his shoulder. Two more armed men stood there, cutting off retreat. The Cimmerian's blade whispered from its worn shagreen scabbard; Hordo, sword flickering free, pivoted to face those behind.

"Stand aside," Conan called to the three. "Find you easier meat elsewhere."

"Naught was said of a second man," the one to Conan's left muttered, his thin, rat-like face twitching.

The man to the right, shaven dome gleaming in the morning sun, hefted his sword uneasily. "We cannot take one without the other."

"You'll find but your deaths here," Conan said. With his left hand he unfastened the bronze pin that held his cloak, doubling the furlined garment loosely over that arm.

The leader, for the tall man in the center with his closely cropped beard was clearly so, spoke for the first time. "Kill them," he said, and his blade thrust for Conan's belly.

With pantherine grace the muscular Cimmerian moved aside, his cloak tangling the tall man's blade while his right foot planted itself solidly in the fellow's crotch. In the same move Conan's sword beat aside a thrust of the shavenhead. Gagging, the leader attempted to straighten; but Conan pivoted, his left foot taking the bearded man on the side of the head, knocking him under the feet of onrushing ratface. Both went down in a heap.

The shaven-headed attacker hesitated, goggle-eyed at his companions on the ground, and died for it.

Conan's slashing steel half-severed his throat. Bright red blood fountained as he went to his knees, then toppled onto his face in the muck of the street. Rat-face scrambled to his feet, and he tried a desperate overhead hack. Conan's blade rang against the other, bringing it into a sweeping downward circle, sliding his blade along his opponent's, thrusting it into the villain's chest.

A quick kick next to his blade freed the body to collapse alongside the other; and Conan spun to find the leader on his feet, his narrow, bearded face suffused with rage. He swung while the big Cimmerian was yet turning, staring with surprise as Conan dropped to a squat, buttocks on his heels. Conan's steel sliced a bloody line across his abdomen. The tall man screamed like a woman, dropping his sword as his frantic hands tried vainly to hold his intestines in. His eyes were glazed with death before he struck the filthy paving stones.

Conan looked for Hordo in time to see the one-eyed man's blade decapitate his second attacker. With the head still rolling across the pavement Hordo turned to glare at Conan, blood oozing from a gash on his sword arm and another, smaller, on his forehead.

"I'm too old for this, Cimmerian."

"You always say that." As he spoke, Conan bent to check the pouches of the men he had killed.

"It's true, I tell you," Hordo insisted. "If these hadn't been such fools as to talk and dither while we set ourselves, they might have chopped us to dog meat. As it was, my two nearly sliced my cods off. I'm too old, I say."

Conan straightened from the bodies with six new-minted gold marks. He bounced them on his palm.

"Fools they may be, but they were sent after one of us. By somebody willing to pay ten gold marks for a death." He jerked his head at the two Hordo had killed. "You'll find each of them has a pair of these too."

Hordo muttered an oath and bent to the remaining bodies, straightening up with four fat coins. The one-eyed man closed his fist tightly on them. "Yon rat-face spoke of not expecting two. Mitra, who'd pay ten gold marks for either of us?"

A gangling boy shambled out of an alley not a dozen paces distant. At the sight of the bodies his jaw dropped open, and with a scream of pure terror he dashed away, his wail fading as he sped.

"Let us discuss it at the Thestis," Conan said, "before we gather an audience."

"With our luck," Hordo muttered, "this will be the one morning in a year the City Guard has patrols out."

It was but a short distance down the twisting street to the inn, but obviously no one had heard the fighting. Only Kerin gave them a second glance when they walked in. In those morning hours there were few of the arum about, and none of the noise that would reverberate in the evening.

"Hordo," the slender girl said, "what happened to your arm?"

"I fell over a broken wine-jar," he replied sheepishly.

She gave him a sharp look and left, returning in a moment with a pile of clean rags and a jug of wine.

Uncorking the wine, she began to pour it over the gash on Hordo's arm.

"No!" he shouted, snatching it from her hand.

An amused smile quirked her mouth. "It hurts not that much, Hordo."

"It hurts not at all," he growled. "But this is the proper way to use wine."

And he tipped the clay jug up to his mouth, with his free hand fending off her attempts to take it back.

When finally he stopped for breath she jerked it away, pouring the little wine that remained over a cloth and dabbing at his forehead.

"Hold still, Hordo," she told him. "I will fetch you more wine later."

Across the common room Conan noticed a face strange to the inn. A handsome young man in a richly embroidered red velvet tunic sat at a table in a corner, talking to Graecus, a swarthy sculptor who spent considerable time in the company of Stephano.

After discovering that someone might want him dead, Conan was feeling suspicious of strangers. He touched Kerin's arm.

"That man," he said. "The one talking to Graecus. Who is he? He seems well dressed for an artist."

"Demetrio, an artist?" she snorted. "A catamite and a wastrel. They say he's a great wit, but I've never found him so. Betimes he likes to dazzle those among us who can be dazzled by his sort, when he is not rolling in the fleshpots."

"Think you it's him?" Hordo asked.

Conan shrugged. "Him, or anyone else."

"By Erebus, Cimmerian, I'm too old for this."

"What are you two talking about?" Kerin demanded. "No. I'd as lief not know" She rose, pulling Hordo behind her, a faun leading a bear. "That cut on your arm needs ointment. Wine-jar, indeed!"

"When I return," Hordo called over his shoulder to Conan, "we can begin looking for the men we want.

Courtesy of our enemy, eh?"

"Done," Conan called back, rising. "And I'll fetch that sword. It should fetch a coin or two."

In his room abovestairs the Cimmerian pried up a loosened floor board and took out the serpentine blade. Light from the small window ran along the gleaming steel, and glinted on the silver work of the quillons. The feel of taint rose from it like a miasma.

As he straightened he wrapped his cloak, rent from the tall man's sword, about the blade. Even holding it in his bare hand made his stomach turn as the slaying of his first man had not.

When Conan returned to the common room, the man in the red velvet tunic was waiting at the foot of the stair, a pomander to his aquiline nose, his eyes lidded with languorous indolence, yet the Cimmerian noted that the hilt of his sword showed wear, and the hand that held the pomander had bladesman's calluses. Conan started past.

"A moment, please," the slender man said. "I am called Demetrio. I collect swords of ancient pattern, and I could not help but hear that you possess such a one, and wish to sell it."

"I remember nothing of calling it ancient," Conan replied. The man had a viperish quality the Cimmerian liked not. As if he could smile and clasp a hand, yet strike to the heart while doing so. Still, he found himself listening.

"Perhaps I but imagined you named it ancient," Demetrio said smoothly: "If it is not, I have no interest.

But an it is, well might I buy." He eyed the cloak-wrapped bundle beneath the Cimmerian's arm. "You have it there?"

Conan reached into the cloak and drew forth the blade. "This is the sword," he said, and stopped as Demetrio jumped back, hand to his own sword. The Cimmerian flipped the sword over, proffering the hilt. "Perhaps you wish to try its heft?"

"No." The word was a shaky whisper. "I can see that I want it."

The flesh about Demetrio's mouth was tight and pale. The strange thought came to Conan that the slender man was afraid of the sword, but he dismissed the notion as foolish. He tossed the sword onto a nearby table. His hand felt dirty from holding it. And that was foolish too.

Demetrio swallowed, seeming to breathe more easily as he looked at the blade where it lay: "This sword," he said, not looking at the Cimmerian. "Has it any... properties? Any magicks?"

Conan shook his head. "None that I know" Such might add to the price he could demand, but any such claims would be easily disproved. "What will you give?"

"Three gold marks," Demetrio said promptly.

The big Cimmerian blinked. He had been thinking in terms of silver pieces. But if the sword had some value to this young man, it was time to bargain. "For a blade so ancient," he said, "Many collectors would pay twenty."

The slender man gave him a searching look. "I have not so much with me," he muttered.

Shocked, Conan wondered if the blade was that of some long-dead king; Demetrio had made not even a pretense of haggling. His practiced thief's eye priced the amethyst-studded gold bracelet on Demetrio's wrist at fifty gold marks, and a small ruby pin on his tunic at twice that. The man would be good for twenty marks, he thought.

"I would be willing to wait," Conan began, when Demetrio pulled the bracelet from his wrist and thrust it at him.

"Will you take that?" the fellow asked. "I would not risk another buying while I am gone to get coin. It is worth more than the twenty marks, I assure you. But add in that cloak, for I would not carry a bare blade in the streets."

"Cloak and blade are yours," the Cimmerian said, and quickly exchanged the fur-trimmed garment for the bracelet.

He felt a surge of joy as his fist closed over the amethyst-studded gold. No need to make do now with the few men ten gold pieces would hire. His Free-Company was literally in his grasp.

"I would ask you," he added, "why this blade has such worth. Is it perhaps the sword of an ancient king, or hero?"

Demetrio paused in the act of carefully wrapping the cloak about the sword. Carefully, Conan thought, and as gingerly as if it were a dangerous animal.

"How are you called?" the slender man asked.

"I am called Conan."

"You are right, Conan. This is the sword of an ancient king. In fact, you might say this is the sword of Bragoras." And he laughed as if he had said the funniest thing he had ever heard. Still laughing, he gathered up the sword and cloak and hurried into the street.

Chapter VII

Albanus paused at the door, the crude, fur-trimmed bundle beneath his arm out of place in the tapestry-hung room with its carpetstrewn marble floor. Sularia sat before a tall mirror, a golden silk robe about her creamy shoulders, a kneeling slave woman brushing the honey silk of her hair. Seeing his reflection Sularia let the robe drop, giving him a view of her generous breasts in the mirror.

The hawk-faced lord snapped his fingers. The slave looked around; at his gesture she bowed and fled on bare feet.

"You have brought me a gift?" Sularia said. "It is wrapped most strangely, an you have." She examined her face in the mirror, and lightly stroked rouge onto her cheeks with a brush of fur.

"This is not for you," he laughed. "'Tis the sword of Melius."

With a key that hung on a golden chain about his neck, he unlocked a large lacquered chest standing against the wall, turning the key first one way then the other in a precise pattern. Were that pattern not followed exactly, he had told Sularia, a cunningly contrived system of tubes and air-chambers would hurl poison darts into the face of the opener.

Albanus swung back the lid and, tossing aside the tattered cloak, carefully laid the sword in the place he had prepared for it. The tomes of ancient Acheron, bound in virgins' skin, were there, well layered in silk, and those most vital thaumaturgical implements from the cache. His fingers rested briefly on a bundle of scrolls and rolled canvases. Not yet of any magical significance, they still deserved their place in the chest, those sketches and paintings of Garian. In a place of honor, resting on a silken cushion atop a golden stand, was a crystal sphere of deepest blue within which silver flecks danced and glittered.

Letting her robe drift to the floor, Sularia came to stand naked beside him. Her tongue touched her lips in small flickers as she stared down at the sword. "It was that blade which slew so many? Is it not dangerous? Ought you not to destroy it?"

"It is too useful," he said. "Had I but known what I know now, never would I have put it in the hands of that fool Melius. 'Twas those runes on the blade led me at last to its secret, buried in the grimoires."

"But why did Melius slay as he did?"

"In the forging of this weapon, the essences of six masters of the sword were trapped within the steel."

He let his fingers brush lightly along the blade, sensing the power that had been required for its making.

Such power would be his, power beyond the ken of mortal minds, power far beyond that of earthly kings. "And in that entrapment did madness come." He reached down as if to lift the sword, but stopped with his hand clawed above the hilt, "Let the same hand grasp this hilt but three times to use this blade, and the mind that controls that hand will be ripped away, merging with the madness of those ancient masters of the sword. Escape. Slay, and escape. Slay. Slay!"

Ending on a shout, he looked at Sularia. Her mouth hung open, and she stared at his hand above the sword with open fear in her blue eyes.

"How often have you used the sword?" she whispered.

He laughed and took his hand away. Instead of the sword he picked up the crystal sphere, holding it delicately in his fingers, almost reverently, though he knew no power under heaven could so much as chip its seemingly fragile surface.

"You fear the sword?" he asked softly. His adamantine gaze seemed to pierce to the heart of the cobalt sphere. "Here is that which is to be feared, for by this is summoned and controlled a being-a demon? a god?-I know not, yet a being of such power that even the tomes of Acheron speak of it in whispers full of awe."

And he would be its master, master of more power than all the kings of all the nations of the world. His breath quickened at the thought. Never yet had he dared that summoning, for that act held dangers for he who summoned, dangers that master might find himself slave, a mortal plaything for an immortal monster with eternity to amuse itself. Yet, was he not descended of Bragoras, ancient hero-king who had slain the dragon Xutharcan and bound the demon Dargon in the depths of the Western Sea?

Almost unbidden, the words of summoning began to roll from his lips. "Af-far mea-roth, Omini deas kaan, Eeth far belawn Opbeab cristi.... "

As the words came, the sky darkened above the city as though the sun had dimmed to twilight. Lightning cracked and forked across a cloudless sky, and, rumbling, the earth began to shake.

Albanus stumbled, looked around him in sudden panic at walls that quivered like cloth in the breeze. It was too soon for this. It was madness to have tried. And yet, he had not finished the incantation. There was a chance.

Hastily he returned the sphere, glowing now, to its cushion within the lacquered chest. With great care he blanked his mind. There must be not even the merest thought of summoning. No thought at all. No thought.

Slowly the light in the crystal sphere faded, and the earth ceased to move. The lightnings faded and were gone. Light broke forth over the city as if at a new sunrise.

For a long time Albanus did not look at Sularia. Did she say one word, he thought grimly, but one word of the spectacle of fool he had made himself, he would gut her and strangle her with her own entrails. But one word. He turned to face her with a face dark as that beneath an executioner's hood.

Sularia stared at him with eyes filled with pure lust. "Such power," she whispered. "You are a man of such power, almost I fear me it might blind me to look on you." Her breath came in pants. "Is it thus you will destroy Garian?"

His spirit soared, and his pride. "Garian is not worthy of such," he sneered. "I will create a man, give him life with my two hands. So will I bring the usurper to his doom."

"You are so powerful as that?" she gasped.

He waved it away. "A mere trifle. Already have I done so, and this time the errors of the last will not be repeated." Abruptly he tangled his hand in her hair, forced her to the floor, forced her though she would have gone willingly and more than willingly. "Nothing stands in my way," he said as he lowered himself atop her. She cried out, and he heard in it the cries of the people acclaiming their king, their god.

Sephana raised herself from the cushions of her bed, her lushly rounded body sweat-oiled from love making. Her full breasts swayed with the motion.

The man in her bed, a lean young captain of the Golden Leopards, lifted himself unsteadily on one elbow.

His dark eyes were worshipful as he gazed at her. "Are you a witch, Sephana? Each time I think that I will die from the pleasure. Each time I think that I've had all the ecstacy there is in the world. And each time you give more than I could dream of."

Sephana smiled contentedly. "And yet, Baetis, I think you tire of me."

"Never!" he said fervently. "You must believe me. You are Derketo come to earth."

"But you refuse me such a small favor."

"Sephana," he moaned, "you know not what you ask. My duty...."

"A small favor," she said again, walking slowly back to the bed.

His eyes followed her hungrily. She was no slender girl, but a woman of curves, a callimastean and callipygian marvel to put hunger in any man's eyes. He reached for her, but she stepped back.

"A door left unlatched, Baetis," she said softly. "A passage left unguarded. Would you deny your king a surprise, the same delights you now enjoy?"

The young captain breathed heavily, and his eyes closed. "I, at least, must be there," he said at last.

"Of course," she said swiftly, and moved to kneel astride him. "Of course, Baetis, my love." Her smile was vulpine, the light in her violet eyes feral. Let Albanus make his long, drawn-out plans. She would strike while he still planned. It was a pity that Baetis had to die along with Garian. But that was in the future. Sighing contentedly, she gave herself over to pleasure.

Chapter VIII

The straw butts were each the size of a man's torso. Conan set the last of them in place, and swung into the saddle to gallop the hundred and fifty paces back to the men he and Hordo had gathered in the five days past. He wished the one-eyed man were with him, but Hordo was yet keeping his contacts with the smugglers, and he was seeing to the shifting of goods from a storehouse before the Kings Customs made a supposed surprise inspection. They could never tell, Hordo maintained, when those contacts might prove useful.

The Cimmerian reigned in his big Aquilonian black before the two score mounted men, holding up a short, heavy bow before the men. "This is a horse bow."

The bows had been a lucky find, for mounted archery was an art unknown in the west, and Conan counted on this skill to add to his Free-Company's appeal to patrons. The bows had been lying unstrung in the smugglers' storehouse, thought too short and of too heavy a draw to be wanted. Each of the forty now wore other acquisitions from the storehouse: metal jazeraint hauberks over padded tunics, and spiked helms. A round shield hung at each saddle, and a good Turanian scimitar, bearing the proof-mark of the Royal Foundry at Aghrapur, swung at each hip.

Conan hoped their armor was unfamiliar enough to Nemedia to give them a foreign flavor. Men usually believed that foreigners knew strange tricks of fighting. With the horse bows, they might believe correctly.

As he and Hordo had chosen only men already possessing a horse-they had gold enough only for signing bonuses, not for buying horses-so had they chosen men who knew something of archery. But none knew mounted archery. That was why Conan had brought them to this clearing outside of Belverus.

"You're all accustomed to using a bow-ring on your thumb," he went on, "but when you fight mounted, you must be able to shift from bow to sword to lance and back, quickly. A bow-ring encumbers the grip."

"How do you draw the thing at all?" asked a grizzled man with a livid scar across his broad nose. He held the short bow out at arm's length and attempted to draw it. The cord moved no more than a handspan, producing laughter from some of the others.

The grizzled man's name was Machaon. Though he did not recognize Conan, the Cimmerian knew him for the sergeant who had commanded the City Guards in killing Lord Melius.

"Use a three-fingered grip on the cord," Conan said once the laughter had died, "and draw thusly."

The muscular Cimmerian notched an arrow and, placing the bowstring to his cheek, pushed the short, powerful bow out to draw it. As he did so, he pressed with his knees, bringing the war-trained black around. The straw butts seemed to swing before his eyes; he loosed. With a solid thud the shaft struck square in the center of the middle butt. A surprised murmur went up from the men.

"Thus is it done," Conan said.

"'Tis more than passing strange," a tall, hollow-cheeked man muttered, "this archery from horseback." His black eyes were sunken, and he looked as though he had been ravaged by disease, though those among the company who knew him said he had no sickness but a doleful spirit. "If it is a thing of use, why do we not see it among the armies of Nemedia or Aquilonia or any other civilized land?"

Conan was saved answering by Machaon.

"Open your mind, Narus," the grizzled man said, "and for once let not your mournful mood color what you see. Think you. We can appear, strike and be gone while foot-archers rush to plant their sharpened stakes against the charge they expect, while pikemen and ordinary infantry yet prepare to close ranks against the mounted attacks they know. Enemy cavalry will be but lowering their lances to countercharge when our arrows strike to their hearts. Put off your dolorous countenance, Narus, and smile at the surprise we will give our enemies."

Narus deliberately showed his teeth in a grin that made him look more the plague victim than ever. A ripple of laughter and obscene comment greeted his attempt.

"Machaon has seen the right of it," Conan announced. "I name him now as sergeant of this Free-Company"

A surprised and thoughtful look appeared on Machaon's scar-nosed face, and a murmur of approval rose from the rest. Even Narus seemed to think it a good choice, in his mournful way.

"Now," Conan continued, "let each man take a turn at the butts. First with the horse unmoving."

For three full turns of the glass the Cimmerian kept them at it, progressing to shooting with their mounts at a walk, thence to firing at the gallop. Every man knew horsemanship and the bow, if not together, and they made good advance. By that time's end, they did not use their horse bows so well as Turanian light cavalry, yet was their skill enough to surprise and shock any of these western lands. Machaon, to no one's surprise, and Narus, to everyone's, were the best after Conan.

After that time the Cimmerian led them back into Belverus, to one of the stables that lined the city's wall, where he had arranged for their horses to be tended. After each man had given his mount into the care of a stable slave he left to go his own way until the morrow, when Conan had commanded them to meet again at the stable, for such was the custom of Free-Companies when not in service. It was about that last that Machaon spoke as Conan was leaving.

"A moment, captain," the grizzled man said, catching Conan at the heavy wooden doors of the stable.

Machaon had been handsome as a youth, but aside from the scar that cut across his broad nose his face was a map of his campaigns. On his left cheek was a small tattoo of a six-pointed star from Koth; three thin gold rings from Argos dangled from the lobe of his right ear, and his hair was cut short in front and long in back after the style of the Ophirian border.

"It would be well, captain, if you were to put the company into service soon. Though it's been but a few days since we swore the bond-oath yet have I heard some complain openly that we earn no gold, and speak of the ease of taking a second bond-oath using another name before another Magistrate."

"Let them know that we'll take service soon," Conan replied, though he wondered himself why he had approached none of the merchants who might wish to hire a Free-Company. "I see that I made a good choice for sergeant."

Machaon hesitated, then asked quietly, "Know you who I am?"

"I know who you are, but I care not who you were." Conan met the man's dark-eyed gaze until Machaon finally nodded.

"I'll see to the men, captain."

From the stable Conan made his way to the Sign of Thestis through streets that seemed to have twice as many beggars and three times as many toughs as a tenday past. No plump merchant or stern-faced noble now made his way in even the High Streets without a hard-eyed escort, and no slave-borne curtained litter, whether it contained a noble's sleek daughter or the hot-eyed courtesan who served him, traveled shorn of its bevy of armed and armored guardians. The City Guard were nowhere to be seen.

The Thestis when Conan entered was filling, as it always did of a midday, with youthful artists in search of a free meal from the inn's stewpot. Their arguments and musical instruments blended into a cacophony that the Cimmerian had learned to ignore.

He grabbed Kerin's arm as she rushed past, a clay wine-jug in each hand. "Has Hordo returned?" he asked.

She set one of the jugs down hard enough to crack it, ignoring the wine spreading across the table top and the yelps of those seated there. "He sent a message by a boy," she said coldly. "You are to meet him at the Sign of the Full Moon, on the Street of Regrets, a glass past the sun's zenith."

"Why there? Did he say why he does not come here?"

Kerin's eyes narrowed to slits, and she spoke through clenched teeth. "There was some mention of a dancer, with breasts .... Enough! If you would learn more, learn it from that miserable one-eyed goat!"

The Cimmerian suppressed a smile until she had flounced away. He hoped this dancer was all that Hordo thought, for the one-eyed man was surely going to pay for his pleasures when he again came in reach of Kerin.

He was trying to decide if he had time for a bowl of stew-it was assuredly better than that served on the Street of Regrets-before leaving to meet Hordo, when Ariane approached and put a small hand on his arm. He smiled, suddenly thinking of a better use for his time than a bowl of stew.

"Come up to my room," he said, slipping an arm around her. He pulled her close and tried out his best leer. "We could discuss poetry."

She tried to suppress a giggle, and almost succeeded. "If by poetry you mean what I think you mean, you want to do more than talk about it." Her smile faded, and her eyes searched his face. "There's something more important to speak of now, but I must have your oath never to repeat a word of what is said to you. You must swear."

"I do swear," he said slowly.

Abruptly he knew why he had not hired his Free-Company out. Without a doubt, a company in service to merchant or noble would be expected to support the throne in a rebellion. But he wanted no part of crushing Ariane and her friends. Most especially not Ariane.

"I've wondered," he went on, "when you would speak to me of this revolt of yours."

Ariane gasped. "You know," she whispered. Quickly she put her fingers on his lips to prevent him speaking. "Come with me."

He followed her through the tables into the back of the inn. There, in a small room, Stephano slouched scowling against the flaking wall, and Graecus, the stocky sculptor, straddled a bench, grinning. Leucas, a thin man with a big nose who called himself a philosopher, sat cross-legged on the floor chewing his lower lip.

"He knows," Ariane said as she closed the door, and they all jumped.

Conan casually put his hand to his sword hilt.

"He knows!" Stephano yelped. "I told you he was dangerous. I told you we should have nothing to do with him. This is not our part of it."

"Keep your voice down," Ariane said firmly. "Do you want to tell everyone in the inn?" He subsided sulkily, and she went on, addressing the others too. "It's true that recruiting men like Conan was not part of what we were supposed to do, but I've heard each one of you complain that you wanted to take a more direct part."

"At least you can write poetry taunting Garian," Graecus muttered. "All I can do is copy what you write and scatter it in the streets. I can't do a sculpture to rouse the people."

"King Garian sits on the Dragon Throne," Conan said suddenly. They all stared at him. "King Garian sits to his feast alone. I saw that one. Did you write it, Ariane?"

"Gallia's work," she said drily. "I write much better than that."

"This is all beside the point," Stephano shrilled. "We all know why you trust him, Ariane." He met Conan's icy blue stare and swallowed hard. "I think what we do is dangerous. We should leave hiring this sort of... this sort of man to Taras. He knows them. We don't."

"We know Conan," Ariane persisted. "And we all agreed-yes, you too, Stephano-that we should take a part in finding fighting men, whatever Taras says. With Conan we get not one, but forty."

"If they'll follow him," Graecus said.

"They will follow me wherever there is gold," Conan replied.

Graecus looked a little unsettled at that, and Stephano laughed mockingly, "Gold!"

"Fools!" Ariane taunted. "How many times have we talked of those who claimed that revolution should be kept pure, that only those who fought for the right reasons should be allowed to take part? How many of them went to the impaling stake for their purity?"

"Our cause is just," Stephano grated. "We taint it with gold."

Ariane shook her head wearily. "Time and again we have argued this. The time for such argument is long past, Stephano. How think you Taras gathers fighting men? With gold, Stephano. Gold!"

"And from the start did I oppose it," the lanky sculptor replied. "The people-"

"Would follow us and rise," she cut him off. "They would follow us and, none of us knowing aught of weapons or war, would be cut down."

"Our ideals," he muttered.

"Are not enough." She glared at each of her fellow conspirators in turn, and they shifted uneasily beneath her gaze. Of them all, Conan realized, the strongest will was housed within her sweet curves.

"What I want," Graecus announced, "is a chance to hold a sword in my hand. Conan, can I ride with you on the day?"

"I have not said I would join you," Conan replied slowly.

Ariane gasped, clutching her hands beneath her rounded breasts, her face a picture of dismay. Graecus sat open-mouthed.

"I told you he was not to be trusted," Stephano muttered.

"My men will follow me," the Cimmerian went on, "but not if I lead them only to the headsman's block or the impaling stake. I cannot join you without some idea of your chances of success, and to know that I must know your plans."

"He could betray us," Stephano said quickly.

"Be quiet, Stephano," Ariane said, but she studied the Cimmerian's face without speaking further.

"I am not civilized enough," Conan told her softly, "to betray my friends."

She nodded shakily. Stephano tried to cut her off, but she ignored him. "Taras hires warriors. He says that we need at least a thousand, but he will soon have that many. Our strength, though, is the people.

Their anger is so great now, and their hunger, that they would pull Garian down with their bare hands, could they. Some know they will receive weapons. Others will follow. We have weapons for ten thousand, weapons smuggled across the border. Some no doubt by your friend, Hordo."

"Ten thousand?" Conan said, remembering Hordo's estimate of five.

"Ten," Graecus said. "I've seen them. Taras showed me a storehouse full."

And let him count them, too, Conan thought drily. "It takes a great deal of gold to arm ten thousand, even poorly. And more to hire a thousand already armed. You provided this gold?"

"Some part of it, yes," Ariane said defensively. "But, as you know, we earn no great amounts, and most of what we have from our... our other sources goes to this inn."

"There are some," Stephano said loftily, "who despite their wealth believe that we are right and Garian will destroy Nemedia. They furnish Taras with what is needed to acquire arms and men."

"Who are they?" Conan asked. "Will they support you openly, put their names behind you once you take to the streets?"

"Of course," Stephano said, but almost immediately his loftiness fell into uncertainty. "That is, I suppose they will. You see, they prefer to remain anonymous." He laughed shakily. "Why, not even any of us here has ever seen them. Their money goes directly to Taras."

"What Stephano means," Ariane said as the sculptor sank into silence, "is that they're affrighted we will fail, and fear to find themselves upon the headsman's block. 'Tis likely they think to manipulate us, and the revolution, to increase their own wealth and position. But if they do, they forget that we command the people. And a thousand armed men."

A thousand armed men who had taken gold from these mysterious benefactors, Conan thought wearily.

"But what is your plan? Not just to rush into the streets handing swords out to the people?"

Graecus smiled broadly. "We are not such fools as you might think us, Conan. Those of us who distribute the bread in Hellgate have found men who can be trusted, marked out those who will follow when the word is given. These will receive the weapons. We will lead them to surround the Royal Palace, while Taras takes the thousand to seize the city gates and lay siege to the City Guard in their barracks."

"What of the Free-Companies, and the bodyguards?" Conan asked. "There must be three thousand such in the city, and those who have paid them will most certainly support the king."

"Yes," Ariane said, "but each will also keep his bodyguard close about him till he sees what happens. We can ignore them. If necessary, they can be rooted out later, one by one. A Free-Company of a hundred may be overrun by a thousand from the gutter to whom death is no more than an escape from hunger."

She looked ready to lead such an assault herself, small head erect, shoulders back outthrusting her breasts to strain the fabric of her shift, eyes alight with hazel fire. Conan knew her words were true. Men who welcomed death were fearsome opponents in the assault, though more easily dealt with in the long campaign. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, he must keep his company ready to move at all times with no more than an instant's warning.

What he said, though, was, "What of the army?"

It was Graecus again who answered. "The closest troops are a thousand at Heranium and two at Jeraculum. They would take five days to reach Belverus, once they have been commanded to march, but will be too few to do anything to effect while we hold the city gates. As to the forces on the Aquilonian border, they will still have to decide to abandon the border, worrying all the while of what Aquilonia will do."

"Ten days' march from the border for a sizeable force," Conan said thoughtfully. "Two days hard riding for a message to get there. So you can count on twelve days before you must face siege machinery and soldiers in numbers to assault the city walls. Perhaps it will be longer, but 'tis best to count on no more."

"You have an eye for such things," Graecus said approvingly. "We plan based on twelve days."

"And will have no need for them," Stephano pronounced with a dismissing wave of his hand. "Long before then, the downtrodden of the city will have risen to join us. A hundred thousand men will line the walls of the city, shoulder to shoulder. We will have called on Garian to abdicate-"

"Abdicate!" Conan shouted. The others started, staring at the walls as if they could see them listening. He went on in a lower tone. "You raise a rebellion, then call on Garian to abdicate? 'Tis madness. The Golden Leopards could hold the Royal Palace for half a year of siege, perhaps more. You have twelve days."

"'Tis none of my idea," Ariane said disgustedly. "From the first have I said we must sweep over the Palace in the first hour."

"And slaughter everyone there!" Stephano said. "Then we are no better than Garian, our beliefs and ideals so much rhetoric."

"I do not remember," Graceus said slowly, "who it was first suggested we demand that Garian abdicate.

On first thought, perhaps it seems best to do as Ariane wishes, attack the Palace while the Golden Leopards yet believe it is no more than another disturbance in the streets. But we cannot totally abandon the very ideals for which we fight. Besides," he finished with a smile, as if he had found the solution, "it is well known that the hill on which the Royal Palace sits is riddled with a hundred passages, any one of which will take us inside its defenses."

"Everyone may know of these passages," Ariane said, her voice dripping acid, "but do you know where to find one of them? Just one?"

"We could dig," the stocky man suggested weakly. Ariane snorted, and he subsided.

Conan shook his head. "Garian will not abdicate. No king would. You will but waste time you do not have to waste."

"If he will not abdicate," Stephano said, "then the people will storm the Royal Palace and tear him to pieces with their bare hands for his crimes against them."

"The people," Conan said, staring at the dark-browed man as if he had never seen his like before. "You talk of preventing a slaughter that will tarnish your ideals. What of the thousands who will die taking the Palace? If they can?"

"We compromised our ideals by hiring swordsmen for gold," Stephano maintained stubbornly. "We cannot compromise them further. All who die will be martyrs to a just and glorious cause."

"When is this glorious day?" Conan asked sarcastically.

"As soon as Taras has gathered his thousand men," Graecus replied.

"In effect, then this Taras gives the word for your uprising?" Graecus nodded slowly, a suddenly doubtful look on his face, and Conan went on. "Then I must speak to Taras before I decide whether to join you."

Ariane's eyes grew wide. "You mean that you still may turn aside from us? After we have opened ourselves to you?"

"We have told him all!" Stephano cried, his voice growing more shrill by the word. "He can betray everything! We have given ourselves to this barbarian!"

His face suddenly hard, Conan gripped his sword with both hands, pulling it up so that the hilt was before his face. Stephano stumbled back with a shriek like a woman, and Graecus scrambled his feet. Ariane's face was pale, but she did not move.

"By this steel," Conan said, "and by Crom, Lord of the Mound, I swear that I will never betray you." His icy blue eyes found Ariane's and held them. "I will die first."

Ariane stepped forward, her face full of wonder, and placed a hesitant hand on the Cimmerian's cheek.

"You are like no other man I have ever known," she whispered. Her voice firmed. "I believe him. We will arrange a meeting for him with Taras. Agreed, Stephano? Graecus?" The two sculptors nodded jerkily.

"Leucas? Leucas!"

"What?" The skinny philosopher started as if he had been asleep. "Whatever you say, Ariane. I agree with you wholeheartedly." His eye lit on Conan's bared blade, and his head jerked back to thump against the wall. He remained like that, staring at the steel with horrified eyes.

"Philosophers," Ariane murmured laughingly.

"I must go," Conan said, returning his sword to its scabbard. "I must meet Hordo."

"I will see you tonight, then," Ariane said. Stephano suddenly looked as if his stomach pained him. "And, Conan," she added as he turned for the door, "I trust you with my life."

With her life, the Cimmerian thought as he left the inn. Yet was she involved to the heart in the conspiracy and uprising. It could succeed. If Taras had in fact the thousand trained and armed men he claimed. If the people rose, and followed, and did not flee when faced with the interlocked shields and steady tread of infantry, the armored charge of heavy cavalry and the roof-rending crash of monstrous siege engines. If the rebels in their pride could be convinced to let their ideals wait on victory and seize the Palace while the Golden Leopards yet stood unaware. Too many ifs. Her life was bound with a doomed cause. Yet in the pride of his youth Conan swore another oath, this to himself. While holding to his oath not to betray, he would save her life despite her.

Chapter IX

By one glass past midday the Street of Regrets had begun its revelry, though slowly, yet building for the climax of night. A hundred jugglers tossed balls, batons, rings, knives and flaming wands where a thousand soon would. A hundred strumpets, rouged, perfumed and bangled, lightly draped with brightly colored silks, postured where two thousand would strut at dark. Through them strolled scores of richly tunicked nobles and merchants, each convoyed by his sword-bearing man or pair, vanguard for the multitudes to follow. Litters in dozens, borne by well-muscled slaves, bounded by armored guards, carried sleek, hotbreathed women seeking in advance of their sisters the vices offered by the desperate.

And among them all the beggars wheedled in their rags.

Conan, making his way down the street, indifferent to its sights and sounds, found himself laughing when at last he spied the Sign of the Full Moon. On a slab of wood hanging above the entrance was painted a naked woman, kneeling and bent, her back to the viewer, and her buttocks glowing as if reflecting the sun. This spoke of the raucous delights that Hordo would choose.

Suddenly one of the litters caught his eye, scarlet curtained, its black poles and framing worked with gold. Of a certainty it was the litter he had seen his first day in Belverus, the litter of the veiled woman who had looked at him so strangely. The scarlet curtain twitched aside, and once again he was looking into the eyes of the woman veiled in gray. Over that distance he could discern not even so much as their color, yet those tilted eyes were familiar to him. Hauntingly so; if he could but bring back the memory.

He shook his head. Memory and imagination played tricks. A hundred women he had known and a thousand he had not could have eyes exactly alike. He turned to enter the Full Moon.

From behind, sweeping over the murmur of the street, came a sound, a woman's laugh, half sob. He spun, an icy chill running up his spine. That laugh had seemed so familiar that he was almost sure if he opened his mouth a name would emerge to match it. But no woman was there, save the whores. The litter was swallowed up in the throng.

The Cimmerian eased sword and belt dagger in their sheaths, as if that easing would ease his mind. He was too much on edge for worry of Ariane, he told himself. It would do good to lose himself for a time with Hordo in drink and ogling of this fabulous dancer. He plunged into the Full Moon.

The common room of the Full Moon smelled of sour wine and stele perfume. The rough wooden tables were not more than a third filled at this hour, with men who hunched over their drinks, nursing their wine and their own dark fears together. Seven women danced to two shrill flutes and a zither, each carrying a strip of transparent red silk used now to cover the face, now to conceal bare breasts. From thin gilded girdles worn low on rounded hips depended curved brass plates that covered the juncture of their thighs, each plate marked with the price for which she who wore it could be enjoyed in the rooms above.

Though all the dancers were nicely curved, Conan saw none he believed would have excited Hordo's imagination the way the message indicated. Perhaps they had other dancers, he thought, who would appear later. As he took a table close to the narrow platform where the dancers writhed, a plump serving wench appeared at his elbow, a single twist of muslin about her hips.

"Wine," he said, and she darted away.

As he settled to enjoying the women on the stage he became aware of someone staring at him. Hesitantly the thin philosopher, Leucas, approached his table.

"I need... may I talk with you, Conan?"

The thin man looked about him nervously as he spoke, as though afraid of being overheard. The only other men not concentrating on their wine were three dark-skinned Kothians, their hair braided into metal rings and Karpashi daggers strapped to their forearms. They appeared to be arguing as to whether the dancers were worth the prices they bore. Still, Leucas half fell onto the stool across from Conan, leaning across the table and pitching his voice in an urgent whisper as if he expected someone to stop him, violently, at any second.

"I had to talk to you, Conan. I followed. Your sword. When I saw it, I knew. You're the one. You are the kind of man who can do this sort of thing. I... I am not. I'm just not a man of action." Sweat poured down his narrow face, though the tavern was shadowed and cool. "You do understand, don't you?"

"Not a word," Conan said.

Leucas squeezed his eyes shut, muttering under his breath, and when he opened them he seemed to have gotten a grip on himself. "You agree that Garian must be removed, do you not?"

"That's what you're planning," Conan replied noncommittally.

"But. . ." Leucas' voice rose alarmingly; he pulled it down with visible effort. "But that has to be changed, now. We can wait no longer. What happened these few days past. The sun darkening. The ground trembling. The gods have turned their faces from Nemedia. That was a sign, a warning that we must remove Garian before they remove him, and with him all of Belverus."

Conan's own god, Crom, Dark Lord of the Mound, gave a man life and will and nothing more. Conan had seen little evidence that other gods did any more. As for the darkened sky and the trembling ground, it was his opinion that someone in Belverus worked at sorcery, despite Garian's prohibitions. He had no love of such, but for once he was not involved, and he intended to remain that way.

All he said was, "You think your plans should be advanced, then? But why speak to me of it?"

"No, you don't understand. Not those plans. Something different. More immediate." The thin man's face had a sheen now, from the sweat that covered it, and his voice shook, though he kept it low. "We are to be introduced into the palace, you see. With knives. Garian must die. Immediately. But I cannot. I am not that sort of man. You are a man of violence. Take my place."

"I'm no assassin," Conan growled.

Leucas yelped, eyes darting frantically. "Keep your voice down," he almost sobbed. "You don't understand. You have to-"

"I understand what you ask," Conan said coldly. "Ask again and I'll give you my fist in your teeth." A sudden thought struck him: "Does Ariane know of this?"

"You must not tell her. You must not tell anyone. I should never have spoken to you." Abruptly Leucas stumbled to his feet. Backing away from the table, he made vague and futile gestures. "Consider it, Conan. Will you do that? Just consider it."

The Cimmerian made as if to rise, and with a yelp the philosopher scrambled away, almost diving into the street.

Conan's mouth twisted angrily. How dare the man consider him so, an assassin, a murderer? He had killed, surely, and likely would again, but because he had to, not because he had been paid to. But more important than his feelings was Ariane. Conan could see no way for a man like Leucas, smelling of fear-sweat, to enter the Royal Palace without being taken. And once given a whiff of hot irons and pincers, the philosopher would babble every name he knew back to his mother. The Cimmerian could escape if worse came to worst, but Ariane would be a fawn in a snare. Would Hordo appear, he decided, they would find Ariane, and he would warn her about Leucas.

Thinking of Hordo reminded him of his wine. Where could that serving girl be? Nowhere in sight, that was certain. In the entire tavern no one was moving except the dancers and the three Kothians, apparently ambling closer for a better inspection of the wares.

Conan started to rise to go in search of the girl, and as he did one of the Kothians suddenly shouted at him, "I told you she is my woman, barbar!"

With practiced moves the three crossed their wrists and drew their forearm daggers. The flutes ceased their play, and the dancers ran screaming as the Kothians plunged at the muscular Cimmerian, a blade in each fist.

One-handed, Conan heaved his table over to crash before them. "Fools," he shouted as he sprang to his feet, "you have the wrong man."

Two of the Kothians danced aside, but one fell, rolling to his knees before Conan, daggers stabbing.

Conan sucked in his belly, and the blades skittered off his jazeraint hauberk, one to either side. Before the attacker could move, Conan's knee had smashed into his bony chin, splintering teeth in a spray of blood. Even as the man's blades fell from nerveless hands, and he followed them unconscious to the filthy floor, Conan's own steel was in his grasp, broadsword and belt dagger held low at the ready.

"You have the wrong man," he said again. The remaining two split, gliding in the feline crouch of experienced knife fighters. Noise picked up at the tables as men took wagers on the outcome. "I've never seen you before, nor your woman."

The two men continued to move, flanking the Cimmerian, blades held low for the thrust that would slip under the overlapping metal plates of hit hauberk.

"You are he," one said, and when Conan's eyes flickered to him, the other attacked.

The Cimmerian had been expecting it, though. Even as his eyes shifted, so had his sword slashed. The attacking Kothian screamed, a fountain of blood where his right hand had been. Desperately clutching the stump of his wrist, the man staggered back, sinking to the floor with the front of his tunic staining deeper red with every spurt.

Conan spun back to face the third man, but that one was of no mind to continue the business. Dismay writ large on his dark face, he stared at his two fellows on the floor, one senseless and one bleeding to death.

The big Cimmerian pointed at him with his sword. "Now. You will tell me-"

Suddenly the door of the tavern was filled with City Guardsmen, a dozen of them, crowding through with swords in hand. The first one pointed at Conan. "There he is!" he shouted. In a mass the Guardsmen surged forward, plowing through onlookers and toppling tables in their haste.

"Crom!" Conan muttered. They looked to have no mind for asking who had begun the fighting, or why.

Springing onto the narrow stage, he dashed for the door the dancers had used. It was latched.

"Take him!" a Guardsman howled. "Cut him down!" Bursting through the tavern's patrons-most of whom would gladly have gotten out of the way had they been given a chance-the Guardsmen rushed for the stage.

Conan took a quick step back and hurled himself against the rough wooden door, smashing through in a shower of splinters. Dancers, shrieking now again, huddled in the narrow passage, at the end of which he saw a doorway letting onto the outside. Hurriedly he forced his way through the scantily clad dancers. At the doorway he paused, then turned, waving his sword overhead, and roared, making the most horrible face he could. Screaming with renewed energy, the dancers stampeded back onto the stage. Shouts of consternation rose as the Guardsmen found themselves caught in a deluge of hysterical female flesh.

That should hold them, Conan thought. Sheathing his steel he hurried out into an alley behind the tavern.

Little wider than his shoulders and twisting like a snake, it smelled of old vomit and human excrement. He chose a direction and started off through the buzzing flies.

Before he reached the first turning, a shout rose behind him. "There he goes!"

A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the Guardsmen were pouring into the alley. The gods must have tainted his luck, he thought, to send him the only Guardsmen in Belverus with a mind for duty.

Perhaps they did not like women. Shouting and slipping in the filth, the black-cloaked squad rushed after him.

Conan set out at a run, keeping his balance as best he could, half falling against the walls at every twisting of the alley, his massive shoulders knocking more stucco from the flaking, mildewed buildings. Another alley serpentined across the one he followed; he dodged down it. Still another passage appeared, winding cramped between dark walls, and he turned into that. Behind the curses of his pursuit followed.

As he ran he realized that he was in a warren, a maze of ancient passages in an area surrounded by more normal roadways. The buildings seemed ready to topple and fill those passages with rubble, for though they had begun long years past with but single stories, as years and needs demanded more room that could not be got by building outward, extra rooms had been constructed atop the roofs, and more atop those, till they resembled nothing; so much as haphazard stacks of stuccoed and gray-tiled boxes.

In such a region, running like a fox before hounds, it would be a matter of luck if he found his way to the outside before his pursuers seized him. And it seemed his luck was sour that day. But there was another option, for one who had been among the icy crags and cliffs of Cimmeria.

With a mighty leap he caught the edge of a roof, and swung himself up to lie flat on the slate tiles. The curses and shouts of the Guardsmen came closer, were below him, were moving off.

"He's up there!" a man shouted below. "I see his foot!"

"Erlik's Bowels and Bladder!" Conan muttered. His luck was not sour. Verily it had rotted.

As the Guardsmen struggled to climb, the Cimmerian darted across the slates, hoisted himself onto a higher level, scrambled over it and leaped to a lower roof. With a great crack the tiles gave way beneath his feet, and he plummeted into the room below.

Dazed, Conan struggled to his feet in a welter of broken slate. He was not alone, he realized. In the shadows against the far wall, face obscured, a large man in an expensive cloak of plain blue uttered a startled oath in the accents of the gutter. Another man, short beard circling a face pocked with the marks of some disease, stared in disbelief at Conan.

It was the third man, though, a gray cloak pulled over his scarlet tunic, who drew the eye. Hawk-faced and obsidian-eyed, his dark hair slashed at the temples with white, he looked born to command. And now he issued one. "Kill him," he said.

Crom, Conan thought, reaching for his sword. Did everyone in Belverus want him dead? The pock-faced man put hand to sword hilt.

"Down there!" came a shout from above. No muscle moved in the room save a twitching of the pock-faced man's cheek. "That hole in the roof! A silver piece to the man who first draws blood!"

Visage dark as death, the hawk-faced man raised a clawed hand, as if he could strike Conan across the breadth of the room. There were thuds above as men dropped to the roof. "No time," the hawk-faced one snarled.

Turning, he stalked from the room. The other two vanished behind him.

Conan had no mind either to greet the Guardsmen or to follow on the heels of those three. His eye lit on a tattered cloth, hung against the wall like a tapestry. As if it hid something. He jerked it aside to reveal a door. That let onto another room, full of dust and empty of else, but from there another door opened into a hall. As Conan closed that one softly behind him, he heard the thumps of men dropping through the hole in the roof.

For a wonder, after the maze of the alleys, the corridor ran straight to a street, and for its length the Cimmerian saw no one save one aging blowze who cracked a door and gave him a gap-toothed smile of invitation. Shuddering at the thought, he hurried on.

When he got back to the Thestis, the first person he saw was Hordo, scowling into a mug of wine. He dropped onto a stool across from him.

"Hordo, did you send a message telling me to meet you at the Sign of the Full Moon?"

"What? No." Hordo shook his head, without looking up from his mug. "Answer me this, Cimmerian. Do you understand any part of women? I walked in, told Kerin she had the prettiest eyes in Belverus, and she slapped my face and said she supposed I thought her breasts weren't big enough." He sighed mournfully. "And she won't say another word to me."

"Mayhap I can illumine your problem," Conan said, and in a low voice he told of the message purporting to come from the one-eyed man, and what had occurred at the Full Moon.

Hordo caught the import at once. "Then 'tis you they're after. Whoever 'they' are. Did the knifemen not take you, the Guardsmen were meant to."

"Aye," Conan said. "When the Guardsmen followed so doggedly, I knew their palms had been crossed with gold. But I still know not who did the crossing."

Hordo drew a line through a puddle of spilled wine with a spatulate finger. "Have you thought of leaving Belverus, Conan? We could ride south. Trouble brews in Ophir, too, and there's no dearth of hiring for Free-Companies. I tell you, this business of someone you know not seeking your death sits ill with me. I knew you should have heeded that blind soothsayer."

"You knew...." Conan shook his head. "An I ride south, Hordo, I lose the company. Some would not leave the gold to be had here, and I have not the gold to pay the rest until we find service in Ophir.

Besides, there are things I must attend to here first."

"Things? Conan, tell me you're not involving us in this... this hopeless children's revolt."

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly," Hordo said hollowly. "Tell me what it is you are doing. Exactly"

"Earn a little gold," Conan replied. "Discover who means to have me dead, and deal with them. Oh, and save Ariane from the headman's axe. You don't want Kerin's pretty head to fall, do you?"

"Perhaps not," the one-eyed man said grudgingly.

Looking around the room until he spotted Kerin, Conan waved for her to come to the table. She hesitated, then came over stiffly.

"Is Ariane here?" he asked her. The first part of saving her head was to let her know about Leucas, so she could stop him.

"She went out," Kerin said. She looked straight at the big Cimmerian as if Hordo did not exist. "She said she had to arrange a meeting for you."

"About that message this forenoon," Hordo said suddenly.

Casually Kerin leaned over and tipped his winemug into his lap. He leaped to his feet, cursing, as she left.

"Beheading's too good for her," he growled. "Since we've both been abandoned, as it seems, let us go to the Street of Regrets. I know a den of vice so iniquitous that whores blush to hear it mentioned."

"Not the Sign of the Full Moon, I trust," Conan laughed.

"Never a bit, Cimmerian." Hordo broke into song in a voice like a jackass in pain. "Oh, I knew a wench from Alcibies, her nipples were like rubies. Her hair was gold, but her rump was cold, and her...." A sudden, shocked silence had descended on the common room. "You're not singing, Conan."

Laughing, Conan got to his feet, and roaring the truly obscene second verse they marched out to horrified gasps.

Chapter X

"Are you certain?" Albanus demanded. Golden lamps suspended on chains from the arched ceiling of the marble-columned hall cast shadows on the planes of his face, making him look the wolf he was fiercer cousin to.

Demetrio bristled sulkily, half at the doubting tone and half for having been made to wait on Albanus in the entry hall. "You wanted Sephana watched," he muttered. "I had her watched. And I'm certain. Would I have come in the night were I not?"

"Follow me," Albanus commanded, speaking as to a servant.

And he no more noticed the young catamite's pale lips and clenched fists than he would have those of a servant. Demetrio followed as commanded; that was all that was important. Albanus had slipped already into his persona of king. After all, it was now but a matter of days. His last essential acquisition had been made that very day.

The dark-eyed lord went directly to the chamber where he so often sported himself with Sularia, but the woman was not there now. He tugged the brocaded bell-pull on the wall in a particular fashion, then went straight to his writing desk.

"When?" he demanded, uncapping the silver inkpot. Taking quill and parchment before him, he scribbled furiously. "How long have I before she acts?"

"I was not privy to her planning," Demetrio answered with asperity. "Is it not enough that she gathers her myrmidons about her this night?"

"Fool!" Albanus grated.

With quick movements the hawk-faced lord sprinkled sand across the wet-inked parchment from a silver cellar, then lit the flames beneath a small bronze wax-pot. A slave entered, his short white tunic embroidered at the hem with Albanus' house-mark. Albanus ignored him, pouring off the sand and folding the parchment, sealing it with a drop of wax and his signet.

"Had all Sephana's conspirators come, Demetrios, when your watcher brought word to you?"

"When the third arrived, he came to me immediately. She would not have three of them together if she did not mean to strike tonight."

Cursing, Albanus handed the parchment to the slave. "Put this in the hands of Commander Vegentius within a quarter of a glass. On pain of your life. Go."

The slave bowed and all but ran from the room.

"If all have not yet come," Albanus said as soon as the slave had gone, "there may yet be time to stop her before she reaches the Palace." He hurried to the lacquered chest, unlocking it with the key that hung about his neck. "And stop her I will."

Demetrio eyed the chest and its contents uneasily. "How? Kill her?"

"You have not the stuff of kings in you," Albanus laughed. "There is a subtle art in shaping punishment to fit the crime and the criminal. Now stand aside and be silent."

The slender young noble needed no second warning. He buried his nose in his pomander-was it not said that all sorceries had great stenches associated with them?-and wished most fervently that he were elsewhere at that moment.

Carelessly sweeping a priceless bowl of Ghirgiz crystal from a table to shatter on the floor, Albanus laid in its place a round silver tray graven with an intricate pattern that pained the eye which tried to follow it.

With hurried movements he pushed back the flowing sleeves of his deep blue tunic, opened a vial and traced a portion of that pattern in scarlet liquid, muttering incantations beneath his breath as he did. The liquid followed the precise lines worked in the silver, a closed rubiate intricacy that did not spread or alter.

A packet containing powdered hair from Sephana's head-her serving maids had been easily bribed to provide the gleanings of her brush-was emptied into a mortar wrought from the skull of a virgin. Certain other ingredients were minutely measured on burnished golden scales and added to the skull, the mixture then ground by a pestle made of an infant's thigh bone.

With this concoction he traced other lines of that scribing on the tray. Powder and liquid each formed a closed figure, yet though no part of one touched the other, some portions of each shape seemed to be within the other. But those portions were not always the same, and the eye that looked on them too long spun with nausea and dizziness.

For a bare moment Albanus paused, anticipating, savoring. There had been the matter of the droughts, but this was the first time that he had struck so at a human being. The power of it seemed to course through his veins, building like the pleasure of taking a woman. Every instant of prolonging made the pleasure greater. But he knew there was no time.

Spreading his arms he began to chant in a long-dead tongue, his voice invoking, commanding. Powder and liquid began to glow, and his words became more insistent.

Demetrio moved back as the arcane syllables pierced his brain, not stopping until he stood against the wall. He understood no single one of them, yet all had meaning in the depths of his soul, and the evil that he cherished there knew itself for a lighted spill beside a dark burning mountain. He would have screamed, but terror had him by the throat; his screams echoed in the sunless caverns of his mind.

Albanus' voice grew no louder, yet his words seemed to shake the walls. Tapestries stirred as if at an unseen, unfelt wind. The glow from the silver tray grew, brighter, ever brighter, till it sliced through closed eyelids like razors of fire. Then powder and liquid alike were no more, replaced by burning mist that still held the shape of that pattern and seemed more solid that those first substances had been.

A clap sounded in the room, as thunder, and the mist was gone, the graven silver surface clear. The glow lingered a moment longer, behind the eyes, then it, too, faded.

Albanus sighed heavily, and lowered his arms. "Done," he muttered. "'Tis done." His gaze rose to meet that of Demetrio; the slender young man shivered.

"My Lord Albanus," Demetrio said, long unattempted humility cloying in his throat, yet driven by his fear,

"I would say again that I serve you to the best of my abilities, and that I wish no more than to see you take your rightful place on the Dragon Throne."

"You are a good servant?" Albanus said, his mouth curling with cruel amusement.

The young noble's face flushed with anger, but he stammered, "I am."

Albanus' voice was as smooth and as cutting as the surgeon's knife. "Then be silent until I have need for you to serve me again."

Demetrio's face went pale; Albanus noted it, but said nothing. The youth was beginning to learn his proper place in the scheme of things. He had his uses in gathering information. Perhaps, an he learned his place well enough, he could be allowed to live.

Carefully the cruel-eyed lord relocked the lacquered chest. "Come," he said, turning from the chest. "We have little time to meet the others."

He saw the question-what others?-trembling on Demetrio's lips. When it did not come, he allowed himself a smile. Such was the proper attitude toward a king, to accept what was given. How sweet it would be to have all of Nemedia so. And perhaps beyond Nemedia. Why should borders decided by others deter him?

In short order they had donned heavy cloaks against the night and left the palace. Four slaves carried torches, two before and two behind. Ten armed and armored guards, mail and leather creaking, surrounded Albanus as he made his way through the dark streets. That they surrounded Demetrio as well was incidental.

They saw no one, although scurrying feet could often be heard as footpads and others who lurked in the night hurried to be out of the way, and from time to time some glimmer of sound from the Street of Regrets came to them as the wind shifted. Elsewhere, those who could not afford to hire bodyguards slept ill at ease, praying that theirs would not be among the houses ravaged that night.

Then, as they approached Sephana's palace, where fluted marble columns rose behind the alabaster wall enclosing her garden, a procession of torches appeared down the street. Albanus stopped some distance from the palace gate, waiting in silence for a proper greeting.

"Is that you, Albanus?" came Vegentius' growl. "A foul night, and a foul thing to have to slit the throat of one of my own captains."

Albanus' mouth twisted. This one would not live, not an he were a hundred times as useful. He waited to speak until Vegentius and his followers, a score of Golden Leopards, their cloaks thrown back to give sword arms free play, half bearing torches, were close enough to be seen clearly.

"At least you managed to dispose of Baetis. Have you yet found the barbarian?"

"Taras has sent no word," the big soldier said. "'Tis likely, pursued as he was, that he's no more than a common thief or murderer. Naught to concern us."

Albanus favored him with a scornful glance. "Whatever disrupts a meeting like that concerns me. Why did the Guard pursue him so? Long time has passed ere they were known for such enthusiasm."

"This matter differs from that of Melius. I have no pretext to ask questions of the Guard."

"Make one," Albanus commanded. "And now force me this gate."

Vegentius spoke quietly to his men. Six of them moved quickly to the wall, dividing into two groups. In each trio two men linked hands to lift the third, who laid his cloak across the jagged shards of pottery set in the top of the wall and scrambled over to drop on the far side. From thence a startled cry was heard, then cut significantly short. With a rattle of stout bars being lifted, the gates swung open.

Albanus marched in, sparing not a glance for the guard who lay in the light spilling from the small gatehouse, surrounded by a spreading pool of blood.

Vegentius told off two more men to remain at the gate. The rest followed the hawk-faced lord through the landscape gardens to the palace itself, with its pale columns and intricately worked cornices, and up broad marble stairs to a spacious portico. Some ran to throw back the tall bronze-hung doors with a crash.

In the columned entry hall, half a dozen men started, and stared as soldiers rushed in to surround them with bared blades.

"Dispose of them," Albanus ordered without slowing. He went straight to the alabaster stairs, Demetrio trailing after.

Behind him men began shouting for mercy as they were herded away.

"No!" a skinny, big-nosed man screamed. "I would not have done it. I-" Vegentius' boot propelled him beyond hearing.

Albanus made his way to Sephana's bedchamber along halls he once had traversed for more carnal purposes. But not, he thought as he opened the door, for more pleasurable ones.

Demetrio followed him diffidently into the room, peering fearfully for the destruction the magick had wrought. There seemed to be none. Sephana lay on her bed, though to be sure she did not move or acknowledge their presence. She was naked, a robe of blue silk clutched in her hand as if she had been on the point of donning it when she decided instead to lie down. Albanus chuckled, a dry sound like the rattle of a poisonous serpent.

The slender youth crept forward. Her eyes were open; they seemed to have life, to see. He touched her arm, and gasped. It was as hard as stone.

"She still lives," Albanus said suddenly. "A living statue. She will not have to worry about losing her beauty with age now."

Demetrio shivered. "Would it not have been simpler to kill her?"

The hawk-faced lord gave him a glance that was all the more frightening for its seeming benevolence. "A king must think of object lessons. Who thinks of betraying me will think next on Sephana's fate and wonder at his own. Death is much more easily faced. Would you betray me now, Demetrio?"

Mouth suddenly too dry for words, the perfumed youth shook his head.

Vegentius entered the room laughing. "You should have heard their crying and begging. As if tears and pleas would stay our steel."

"They are disposed of, then?" Albanus said. "All who were under this roof? Servants and slaves as well?"

The big square-faced man drew a broad finger across his throat with a crude laugh. "In the cesspool.

There was one-Leucas, he said his name was, as if it mattered-who wept like a woman and said it was not he, but one named Conan who was to do the deed. Anything to-What ails you, Albanus?"

The hawk-faced lord had gone pale. l His eyes locked with those of Demetrio. "Conan. 'Twas the name of he from whom you bought the sword." Demetrio nodded, but Albanus, though looking at him, saw other things. He whispered, uttering his thoughts unaware. "Coincidence? Such is the work of the gods, and when they tangle the skeins of mens' fates so it is for cause. Such cause could be murderous of ambition. I dare not risk it."

"It cannot be the same man," Vegentius protested.

"Two with such a barbarous name?" Albanus retorted. "I think not. Find him." His obsidian glare drilled each man in turn, turning them to stone with its malignancy. "I want this Conan's head!"

Chapter XI

Conan poured another dipperful of water over his head and peered blearily about the courtyard behind the Thestis. The first thing his eye lit on was Ariane, arms crossed and a disapproving glint in her eye.

"If you must go off to strange taverns," she said firmly, "drinking and carousing through the small hours, you must expect your head to hurt."

"My head does not hurt," Conan replied, taking up a piece of rough toweling to scrub his face and hair dry. His face hidden, he winced into the toweling. He hoped fervently that she would not shout; if she did his skull would surely explode.

"I looked for you last night," she went on. "Your meeting with Taras is arranged, though he wished no part of it at first. You have little time now. I'll give you directions."

"You are not coming?"

She shook her head. "He was very angry at our having approached you. He says we know nothing of fighting men, of how to choose good from bad. After I told him about you, though, he changed his mind.

At least, he will meet you and decide for himself. But the rest of us are not to come. That is to let us know he's angry."

"Mayhap." Conan tossed aside the toweling and hesitated, choosing his words. "I must speak to you of something. About Leucas. He is putting you in danger."

"Leucas?" she said incredulously. "What danger could he put me in?"

"On yesterday he came to me with some goat-brained talk of killing Garian, of assassination. An he tries that-"

"It's preposterous!" she broke in. "Leucas is the last of us ever to speak for any action, especially violent action. He cares for naught save his philosophy and women."

"Women!" the big Cimmerian laughed. "That skinny worm?"

"Yes, indeed, my muscular friend," she replied archly. "Why, he's accounted quite the lover by those women he's known."

"You among them?" he growled, his massive fists knotting.

For a moment she stared, then her eyes flared with anger. "You do not own me, Cimmerian. You have no leave to question me of what I did or did not do with Leucas or anyone else."

"What's this of Leucas?" Graecus said, ambling into the courtyard. "Have you seen him? Or heard where he is?"

"No," Ariane snapped, her face coloring. "And what call have you to skulk about like some spy?"

Graecus seemed to hear nothing beyond her denial. "He's not been seen since last night. Nor Stephano, either. When I heard his name mentioned...." He laughed weakly. "Perhaps we could stand to lose a philosopher or three, but if they're taking sculptors this time as well...." He laughed again, but his face was a sickly green.

Ariane was suddenly soothing. "They will return." She laid a concerned hand on the stocky man's shoulder. "Why, like as not they wasted the night in drink. Conan, here, did the same."

"Why should they not return?" Conan asked.

Ariane shot him a dagger look, but Graecus answered shakily. "Some months past some of our friends disappeared. Painters and sketchers, they were. But two were never seen again, their bodies found in a refuse heap beyond the city walls, where Golden Leopards had been seen to bury them. We think Garian wishes to frighten us into silence."

"It sounds not like the way of a king," Conan said, frowning. "They frighten with public executions and the like."

Graecus suddenly looked ready to vomit.

Ariane scowled at Conan. "Should you not be making ready to meet Taras?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Graecus, uttering soothing sounds and stroking his brow.

Disgruntled, Conan tugged on his padded under-tunic and jazeraint hauberk, muttering to himself on the peculiarities of Ariane. As he buckled his sword belt about him, she spoke again.

"Do you need to go so, as if armed for war?" Her tone was biting, her annoyance at him still high. "You'll not have to fight him."

"I have my reasons," Conan muttered.

Not for a sack of gold as big as a cask would he have told her that someone in the city was trying to kill him. In her present mood, she would think he was trying to shift her sympathy from Graecus to himself.

Erlik take all women, he thought.

Setting his spiked helm on his head, he said coldly, "Give me your directions for finding this Taras." Her face as she gave them was just as cold.

The Street of the Smiths, whence Ariane's directions took him, was lined not only with the shops of swordsmiths and ironworkers, but also of smiths in gold, silver, copper, brass, tin and bronze. A cacophony of hammering blended with the cries of sellers to make the street a solid sheet of noise, reverberating from end to end. The Guilds made sure that a man who worked one metal did not work another, but so too did they hire the guards that patrolled the street. No bravos lurked on the Street of the Smiths, and shoppers strolled with an ease seen nowhere else in the city.

As he came closer to the place of the meeting-rooms reached by entering a narrow hall next to a coppersmith's shop and climbing the stairs at its end-the less he wished to enter it unprepared. He had no reason to foresee trouble, but too many times of late someone had tried to put a blade into him.

Short of the coppersmith's he began to dawdle, pausing here to heft a gleaming sword, there to finger a silver bowl hammered in an intricate pattern of leaves. But all the while he observed the building that housed the coppersmith with an eye honed by years as a thief.

A pair of Guild guards had stopped to watch him, where he stood before a silversmith's open-fronted shop. He raised the bowl he held to his ear and thumped it.

"Too much tin," he said, shaking his head and tossing the bowl back on the merchant's table. He strolled off pursued by the silversmith's frenzied imprecations, but the guards paid him no more mind.

Just beyond the coppersmith's was an alley, smelling as much of mold and old urine as any other in the city. Into this he slipped, hurrying down its narrow length. As he had hoped, damp air and mold had flaked away most of the mud plastered over the stones of the building.

A quick glance showed that no one was looking down the alley from the street. His fingers sought cracks amid the poorly dressed and poorly mortared stone. Another might have found such a climb impossible, most especially in heavy hauberk and boots, but to one of the Cimmerian mountains the wide chinks in the stone were as good as a highway. He scrambled up the side of the building so quickly that someone who had seen him standing on the ground and looked away for a moment might well have thought he had simply disappeared.

As he heaved himself onto the red clay tiles of the roof, a smile lit his face. Set in the roof was a skylight, a frame stretched with panes of fish-skin. It was, he was certain, situated above the room he sought.

Carefully, so as not to dislodge loose tiles-and perhaps send himself hurtling to the street below-he made his way to the skylight. The panes were clear enough to allow some light through, but not for seeing. It was the work of a moment with his belt dagger to make a slit, to which he put his eye.

The room below was narrow, and ill lit even with the skylight and two brass lamps on a table. In it four men stood, two with cocked crossbows in hands, watching the door through which he was supposed to walk.

The big Cimmerian shook his head, in anger and wonder at the same time. It was one thing to be wary of trouble where none was expected, another to find it waiting there.

"Is he coming, or not?" one of the men without a crossbow asked irritably. He had a deep scar across the top of his head, where someone had caught him a blow that should have killed him.

"He'll come," the other man with no crossbow replied. "The girl said she'd send him right to this room."

Conan froze. Ariane. Could she have sent him here to die?

"What will you tell her?" the horribly scarred man asked. "She has influence enough to cause trouble, Taras."

"That I hired him," Taras laughed, "and sent him out of the city to join the others she thinks I've hired.

That should keep her quiet."

Lying on the roof, the big Cimmerian heaved a sigh of relief. Whatever Ariane had done, she had done unknowingly. Then the rest of what Taras had said penetrated. The others she thought he had hired. It was as he had feared. The young rebels were being duped. Conan had a great many questions for Taras.

His broadsword slipped from its sheath, steel rasping on leather.

"Be you sure," Taras told the crossbowmen, "to fire the instant he steps into the room. These barbars die hard."

"Even now is he a dead man," one of the pair replied. The other laughed and patted his crossbow.

A wolfish grin came to Conan's face. It was time to see who would die in that room. Like silent death he rose, and leaped.

"Crom!" he roared as his feet tore through the skylight.

The men below had only time to start, then Conan's boots struck one of the crossbowmen squarely atop his head, bearing him to the floor with a crunch of snapping vertebrae. The second crossbowman desperately swung his weapon, trying to bring it to bear. Conan kept his balance with cat-like skill, and pivoted, dagger darting over the swinging crossbow to transfix the bowman throat. With a gurgling scream he who had named the Cimmerian a dead man himself died, squeezing the trigger-lever as he did.

Abruptly the scar-topped man, sword half drawn, coughed once and toppled, the crossbow quarrel projecting from his left eye.

Using the dagger as a handle Conan hurled the sagging body of the bowman at Taras, and as he did he recognized that pock-marked face. Taras had been at that other meeting he had interrupted by coming through the roof.

The pocked man staggered, clawing for his sword, as the corpse struck him. "You!" he gasped, getting his first clear look at the Cimmerian's face.

Snarling, Conan struck, his blade clanging against the hilt of the other's partially drawn sword. Taras shrieked, severed fingers dropping to the floor. And yet he was no man to go down easily. Even while blood flowed from his mutilated right hand, his left snatched his dagger from its sheath. With a cry of rage, he lunged.

It would have been easy for Conan to kill the man then, but he wanted answers more than he wanted Taras' death. Sidestepping Taras' lunge, he clubbed his fisted hilt against the back of the pock-faced man's neck. The lunge became a stumble, and, yelling, Taras fell over the scarred man's body and crashed to the floor. He twitched once, emitting a long sigh, and did not rise.

Cursing, Conan heaved the man onto his back. Taras' limp fingers slid away from his dagger, now embedded in his own chest. His sightless eyes stared at the Cimmerian.

"Erlik take you," Conan muttered. "I wanted you alive."

Wiping his blade on Taras' tunic, he returned the sword to its scabbard, thinking furiously all the while.

The man was condemned out of his own mouth of duping the young rebels. Yet he had had that meeting with two who, by their clothing and bearing, were men of wealth and position. He had to assume that that meeting had a related purpose, and that someone did indeed intend to move against Garian, using Ariane and the rest as tools. And tools had a way of being broken and discarded once their use was done.

As Conan tugged his dagger from the crossbowman's throat, the door suddenly swung open. He crouched, dagger at the ready, and found himself staring across the corpse at Ariane and Graecus.

The stocky sculptor seemed to turn to stone as his bulging eyes swept the carnage. Ariane met Conan's gaze with a look of infinite sadness.

"I did not think Taras had the right to exclude us from this meeting," she said slowly. "I thought we should be here, to speak up for you, to...." Her words trailed off in a weary sigh.

"They intended my death, Ariane," Conan said.

She glanced from the shattered skylight franc on tile floor toy tile opening in the roof. "Which of them leapt from above, Conan? It seems clear that one entered that way. To kill. I wondered so when you armored yourself and would not tell me why. Wondered, and prayed I was wrong."

Why did the fool girl have to take everything wrongly, he thought angrily. "I listened at the skylight, Ariane, and entered that way. After I heard them speak of slaying me. Think you they had cocked crossbows to slay rats?" She looked at him, levelly but with eyes lacking hope or life. He drew a deep breath. "Hear me, Ariane. This man Taras has hired no armed men to aid your rebellion. I heard him say this. You must-"

"You killed them!" Graecus suddenly shouted. The stocky man's face was flushed, and he panted as if from great exertion. "It is as Stephano feared. Did you kill him also, and Leucas? Mean you to slay us all? You will not! You cannot! There are hundreds of us! We will slay you first!" Suddenly he glanced down the hall toward the stairs, and with a shrill cry dashed in the other direction. Ariane did not move.

Hordo appeared in the doorway, gazing briefly after the fleeing sculptor.

His lone eye took in the bodies. "I returned to the Thestis in time to hear the girl and the other speak of following you. It looks well that I decided to follow them in turn."

Ariane stirred. "Will you murder me now, too, Conan?"

The Cimmerian rounded on her angrily. "Do you not know me well enough by now to know I would not harm you?"

"I thought I did," she said hollowly. Her eyes traveled from one corpse to the next, and she laughed hysterically. "I know nothing of you. Nothing!" Conan reached for her, but she shied away from his big hand. "I cannot fight you," she whispered, "but an you touch me, my dagger can yet seek my own heart."

He jerked back his hand as if it had been burnt. At last he said coldly, "Do not remain here o'er-long.

Corpses attract scavengers, and those with two legs will see you as more booty." She did not look at him or make answer. "Come, Hordo," he growled. The one-eyed man followed him from the room.

In the street, those who saw Conan's dark face and the ice of his blue eyes stepped clear of his sweeping strides. Hordo hurried to keep up, asking once they were clear of the clangor of the Street of the Smiths,

"What occurred in that room, Cimmerian, to turn the girl so against you?"

Conan's look at Hordo was deadly, but in swift, terse sentences he told of how he had gone there, of what he had heard and what deduced.

"I am too old for this," Hordo groaned. "Not only must we watch for Graecus and the others to put knives in our backs, but, not knowing who among the nobles and merchants is embraced in this, with whom can we take service? Where do we go now, Cimmerian?"

"To the only place left for us," Conan replied grimly. "The King."

Chapter XII

0n the wide marble steps of the Temple of Mitra, a startled man dropped a cage of doves as the Free-Company made its way down the narrow, winding street. So surprised was he to see mounted and armed men in the Temple District that he watched them open-mouthed, not even noticing that his cage had broken and his intended sacrifices were beating aloft on white wings.

Hordo's saddle creaked as he leaned forward and whispered fiercely to Conan. "This is madness! 'Twill be luck if we are not met atop the hill by the whole of the Golden Leopards!"

Conan shook his head without answering. He knew full well that approaching the Royal Palace unannounced with two score armed men was far from the proper way to appeal for entry into the King's service. He knew, too, that there was no time for more usual methods, such as bribery, and that left only enlistment in the Nemedian army. Or this.

In truth, it was not the Golden Leopards who troubled him so much as the young rebels. Desperate, believing he had betrayed them or was on the way to do so, they might try almost anything. And these winding streets that climbed the hill to the Royal Palace were a prime place for ambush.

Those streets were a remnant of ancient times, for once in the dim pact what would become the Royal Palace had been a hilltop fortress, about which a village had risen, a village which over the centuries had grown into Belverus. But long after the hilltop fortress had become the Royal Palace of Nemedia, long after the rude village huts had been replaced by columned temples of alabaster and marble and polished granite, the serpentine streets remained.

The Palace itself retained much of the fortress about it, although its battlements were now of lustrous white marble, and towers of porphyry and greenstone rose within. The portcullises were of iron beneath their gilt, and drawbridges spanned a drymoat bottomed with spikes. Round about it all a sward of grass, close cropped as if in a landscaped garden, yet holding not the smallest growth that might shelter a stealthy approach, separated the Palace from the Temple District that encircled the hill below.

At the edge of the greensward Conan halted the company. "Wait here," he commanded.

"Gladly," Hordo muttered.

Alone, Conan rode forward, his big black stallion prancing slightly. Two pikemen in golden cloaks guarded the drawbridge, and a man in the crested helmet of an officer stepped out from the barbican as the big Cimmerian drew rein.

"What seek you here?" the officer demanded. He eyed the rest of the Free-Company thoughtfully, but they were distant and few in number.

"I wish to enter my company in the service of King Garian," Conan replied. "I have trained them in a method of fighting new to Nemedia, and to the western world."

The officer smiled in mockery. "Never yet have I heard of a Free-Company without some supposedly secret art of war. What is yours?"

"I will demonstrate," Conan said. "It is better in the showing." Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. His one real fear beyond reaching the Palace had been that they would not so much as listen.

"Very well," the officer said slowly, eyeing the rest of the company once more. "You alone may enter and demonstrate. But be you warned, an this secret is something every recruit in the Nemedian army is taught, as are most Free-Company tricks, you will be stripped and flogged from the gates to the foot of the hill for the edification of your company."

Conan touched boots to the big stallion's flanks. The horse pranced forward a step; the pikemen leveled their weapons and the officer looked wary. The Cimmerian allowed a cold smile to touch his mouth, but not his eyes. "'Tis nothing known to any Nemedian, though it may be taught to recruits."

The officer's mouth tightened at his tone. "I think others might like to see this, barbar." He stuck his head back into the gatehouse and muttered an order.

A golden-cloaked soldier emerged, gave Conan an appraising glance, and sped into the Palace. As Conan rode through the gate following the officer, other soldiers appeared from the barbican, some following behind. The Cimmerian wondered if they came to watch, or to guard that he did not take the Palace single-handed.

The Outer Court was paved in flagstone, four hundred paces in each direction, and surrounded by arcaded walks to the height of four stories.

Beyond those walks directly opposite the gate could be seen the towers that rose in the gardens of the Inner Court, and the Palace proper, wherein King Garian and his court lived.

The soldiers who had followed dropped back deferentially as a score of officers, led by one as large as Conan himself, appeared. The officer who had brought Conan in bowed as this big man came near.

"All honor to you, Commander Vegentius," he said. "I hoped this barber might provide some entertainment."

"Yes, Tegha," Vegentius said absently, his eye on Conan. And a strangely wary eye, the Cimmerian thought. Abruptly the big officer said, "You, barber. Know I you, or you me?" His hand tightened on his sword as he spoke.

Conan shook his head. "I know you not, Commander." Though, as he thought on it, this Vegentius did look familiar, but vaguely, as one seen but briefly. No matter, he thought. The memory would come, an it were important.

Vegentius seemed to relax as the Cimmerian spoke. Smiling vigorously, he said, "Let us have this demonstration. Tegha, get the barber what he needs for it."

"I need a straw butt," Conan told the officer, "or some other mark."

Laughter rose among the officers as Tegha chose out two soldiers to fetch a butt.

"Archery," one of them laughed loudly. "I saw that bow at his saddle, but thought it for a child."

"Mayhap he shoots it with one hand," another replied.

Conan kept his silence as the comments grew more ribald, though his jaw tightened. Removing the short weapon from its lacquered saddlecase, he carefully checked the tension of the string.

"A harp," someone shouted. "He plays it like a harp."

Conan fingered through the forty arrows in the quiver strapped behind the cantle of his saddle, making sure once again that each fletching war sound.

"He must miss often, to carry so many shafts."

"Nay, he uses the feathers to tickle women. Take her ankle, you see, and turn her...."

The laughing comments droned on, some measure of silence falling only when the soldiers returned with a straw butt.

"Set it there," Conan commanded, pointing to a spot some fifty paces away. The soldiers ran to comply, as eager as their superiors to see the barbarian's discomfiture.

"Not a great distance, barbar."

"But it's a child's bow."

Breathing deeply to calm himself, Conan rode away from the bunched officers, stopping when he was a full two hundred paces from the butt. Nocking a shaft, he paused. This demonstration must proceed perfectly, and for that his concentration must be on the target, not clouded by anger at the chattering baboons who called themselves officers.

"Why wait you, barbar?" Vegentius shouted. "Dismount and-"

With a wild cry Conan swung the bow up and fired. Even as the shaft thudded home in the butt he was putting boot to the stallion's flanks, galloping forward at full speed, sparks striking from the flagstones beneath the big black's drumming hooves, firing as quickly as he could nock arrow to bowstring, shouting the ululating warcry that oft had wrung fear from the warriors of Gunderland and Hyperborea and the Bossonian Marches.

Arrow after arrow sped straight to the butt. At a hundred paces distant he pressed with his knee, and the massive stallion broke faultlessly to the right. Conan fired again and again, mind and eye one with bow, with shaft, with target. Again his knees pressed, and the war-trained stallion pivoted, rearing and reversing his direction within his own length. Still Conan fired, thundering back the way he had come.

When at last he put hand to rein there were four arrows left in the quiver behind his saddle, and he knew, did anyone count the feathered shafts that peppered the butt, they would number thirty and six.

He cantered back to the now silent officers.

"What sorcery is this?" Vegentius demanded. "Have your arrows been magicked, that they strike home while you careen like a madman?"

"No sorcery," Conan replied, laughing. For it was, indeed, his turn to laugh at the stunned expressions worn by the officers. "'Tis accounted a skill, though not a vast one, if a man can hit a running deer with a bow. This is but a step beyond. I myself had no knowledge at all of the bow when I was taught."

"Taught!" Tegha exclaimed, not noticing the glare Vegentius gave him. "Who? Where?"

"Far to the east," Conan said. "There the bow is the principal weapon of light cavalry. In Turan-"

"Whatever they do in these strange lands," Vegentius broke in harshly, "'tis of no matter here. We have no need of outlandish ways. A phalanx of good Nemedian infantry will clear any field, without this frippery of bowmen on horses."

Conan considered telling him what a few thousand mounted Turanian archers would do to that phalanx, but before he could speak another group approached, and the officers were all bowing low.

Leading this procession was a tall, square-faced man, the crown on his head, a golden dragon with ruby eyes and a great pearl clutched in its paws proclaiming him to be king Garian. Yet Conan had no eyes for the king, nor the counselors who surrounded him, nor the courtiers who trailed him, for there was among them a woman to seize the eye. A long-legged, fullbreasted blonde, she was no gently born lady, not wearing transparent red silk held by pearl clasps at her shoulders and snugged about her slender waist by entwined ropes of pearls set in gold. But an she were someone's leman, he paid her not the attention he ought. For she returned Conan's stare, if not so openly as he, yet with a smoky heat that quickened his blood.

Conan saw that Garian was approaching him, and doffed his helm hoping the King had not seen the direction of his gaze.

"I saw your exhibition from the gallery" Garian said warmly, "and I have never seen the like." His brown eyes were friendly-which meant he had not noticed Conan's gaze-though not so open as the eyes of one who did not sit on a throne. "How are you called?"

"I am Conan," the Cimmerian replied. "Conan of Cimmeria." He did not see the blood drain from Vegentius' face.

"Do you come merely to entertain, Conan?"

"I come to enter your service," Conan said, "with my lieutenant and two score men trained to use the bow as I do."

"Most excellent," Garian said, clapping a hand against the stallion's shoulder. "Always have I had an interest in innovations of warfare. Why, from my childhood I as much as lived in the army camps. Now,"

a trace of bitterness crept into his voice, "I have not even time to practice with my sword."

"My King," Vegentius said deferentially, "this thing is no better than trickery, an entertainment, but of no use in war." As he spoke his eyes drifted to Conan. The Cimmerian thought, but could not believe, it was a look of hatred and fear.

"No, good Vegentius," Garian said, shaking his head. "Your advice is often sound on matters military, but this time you are wrong." Vegentius opened his mouth; Garian ignored him. "Hear me now, Conan of Cimmeria. An you enter my service, I will give each man of yours three gold marks, and three more each tenday. To yourself, ten gold marks, and another each day you serve me."

"It is meet," Conan said levelly. No merchant would have paid more than half so well.

Garian nodded. "It is done, then. But you must practice the sword with me for a full glass each day, for I see by the wear of your hilt that you have some knowledge of that weapon as well. Vegentius, see that Conan has quarters within the Palace, and let them be spacious."

In the way of kings, having issued his commands Garian strode away without further words, soldiers bowing as he left, courtiers and counselors trailing in his wake. The blonde went, too, but as she went her eyes played on Conan's face with furnace heat.

From the corner of his eye Conan saw Vegentius moving away. "Commander Vegentius," he called, "did not the King say my company was to be quartered?"

Vegentius almost snarled his reply. "The King said you were to receive quarters, barbar. He said naught of that ragtag you call a company. Let them quarter in the gutter." And he, too, stalked away.

Some of Conan's euphoria left him. He could not run whining to Garian, asking that Vegentius be made to quarter his men. There were inns aplenty at the foot of the hill, but in even the cheapest of them, he would have to supplement the men's pay from his own purse. That would strain even his newfound resources. Yet it was not the worst of his worries. Why did Vegentius hate him? He must discover the answer before he was forced to kill the man. And he would have to keep the blonde from getting him beheaded. While enjoying her favors, if possible. But then, when had one born on a battlefield sought a life free of troubles?

Laughing, he rode to the gate to tell the others of their fortune.

Chapter XIII

The high domed ceiling of plain gray stone was well lit by cressets brass-hung about the bare walls, in which there was no window and but a single door, and that well guarded on the outside. Albanus would allow no slightest risk to that which the room housed. Even but gazing on it, he felt the power that would come to him from it. Centered in the room was a circular stone platform, no higher than a step from the floor, and on it sat a large rectangular block of peculiarly beige day. It was that clay that would give Albanus the Dragon Throne.

"Lord Albanus, I demand again to know why I am brought here and imprisoned."

Albanus schooled his face to a smile before turning to the scowling, bushy, browed man who confronted him with fists clenched. "A misapprehension on the part of my guards, good Stephano. I but told them to fetch to me the great sculptor Stephano, and they overstepped themselves. I will have them flogged, I assure you."

Stephano waved that last away as unimportant, though Albanus noted he did not ask for the guards to be spared their promised flogging.

"You have heard of me?" the sculptor asked instead, his chest puffing.

"Of course," Albanus replied, hard put not to laugh. This man was read as easily as a page of large script.

"'Tis why I want you to sculpt this statue for me. As you can see, your implements are all provided." He gestured a low table that held every sort of sculptor's tool.

"'Tis all wrong," Stephano said, with overbearing condescension. "Clay is used for small figures. Statues are of stone or bronze."

Albanus' lips retained their smile, but his eyes were frozen coals. "The clay is brought all the way from Khitai." He could think of no more distant land to serve as a source. "When fired, it has the hardness of bronze, yet is lighter than the damp clay. On the table are sketches of he whom the statue is to portray.

Examine them."

Looking doubtfully at the block of clay, Stephano took up the parchments, unrolled them, and gasped,

"Why, this is Garian!"

"Our gracious king," Albanus agreed unctuously, though he near choked on the words. "'Tis to be a present for him. A surprise."

"But how is the work to be clothed?" the sculptor asked, ruffling through the drawings. "In all of these is he naked."

"And so is the sculpture to be." Albanus forestalled the surprise on Stephano's face by adding, "Such is the custom of Khitai with statues of this clay. They are clothed in actual garments, this raiment being changed from time to time so that the figure is clothed always in the latest fashion." He was pleased with himself for that invention. He wondered if it might not be amusing to have a statue done so of himself once he ascended the throne.

Stephano laughed suddenly, a harsh sound like the scraping of slates. "And what would be done with a naked statue of Garian, were Garian no longer on the throne?"

"An unlikely event," Albanus said blandly.

Stephano looked startled, as if not realizing he had spoken aloud. "Of course. Of course." His face hardened, thick brows drawing down. "Yet why should I accept the offer of this commission, following as it does a night spent locked in your cellars?"

"A grievous error for which I have apologized. Shall we say a thousand gold marks?"

"I have no interest in gold," the sculptor sneered.

"To be distributed to the poor," Albanus continued smoothly. "I have heard much of the good charities you do in Hellgate." Stephano's face did not soften, but the hawk-faced lord saw the way. His voice became a mesmeric whisper. "Think of all the good that you could do with a thousand pieces of gold.

Think of your fellows following you as you distribute it. I would wager none of them has ever had the hundredth part so much to give." Stephano nodded slowly, staring at the wall as if he saw a scene there.

"How they would laud you, following in your steps with their praises. How great you would be in their eyes." Albanus fell silent, waiting.

Stephano seemed to stand straighter. Abruptly he shook himself and gave an embarrassed laugh. "Of a certainty, great good could come from so much gold. I was lost in thought of those I could help."

"Of course." The cruel-faced lord smiled, then his voice became brisker. "This must be a surprise to Garian. To that end, none may know that you are here. Food and drink will be brought to you. And women, should you desire. Daily will you have leave of the gardens, an you remember your caution.

Now get you to your labor, for time presses."

When Albanus left that room, he stood, trembling, between the guards who stood with bared swords to either side of the door. His stomach roiled with nausea. That he should have to treat one such as Stephano as near an equal! It was ill to be borne. Yet such could not be driven to their work by threat or even torture, as he had discovered to his regret, for the works they then produced were fatally flawed.

A deferential touch on the sleeve of his tunic brought him erect, teeth bared in a snarl.

The slave who had touched him cowered back, his head bent low. "Forgive me, master, but Commander Vegentius awaits, much exercised, and bids me beg your presence."

Albanus thrust the man aside and strode down the hall. He had every detail planned. Had the soldier contrived to foul some part of the scheme, he would geld him with his own hand.

Vegentius was in the columned entry hall, pacing, his face beaded with sweat. He began to speak as soon as Albanus appeared.

"Conan. The barbar who fought Melius and took his sword after. He whom Leucas named part of Sephana's plot. Now one of that name has caught Garian's eye, and taken service with him. And I recognize him; it is he who broke into our meeting with Taras. Four times has he tangled himself in our planning, Albanus, and I like it not. I like it not. 'Tis an ill omen."

"Do the gods join in my affairs?" Albanus whispered, not realizing that he spoke. "Do they think to contend with me?" Louder, he said, "Speak not of ill omens. This very morning a soothsayer told me that I would wear the Dragon Crown at my death. I had him slain, of course, to still his tongue. With such a prophecy of success, what omen can one barbarian be?"

The square-faced soldier bared a handspan of his blade. "Easily could I dry him. He is alone in the Palace, with none to guard his back."

"Fool!" Albanus grated. "A murder within the Palace, and Garian will think strongly to his safety. We do not need him on his guard."

Vegentius sneered. "His safety lies in my hand. One in three of the Golden Leopards answers to me, not to the Dragon Throne."

"And two in three do not. Nor does any part of my plan call for blades to be drawn within the walls of the Palace. I must be seen to save Nemedia from armed rabble rising in the streets."

"Then he is to live?" Vegentius blurted incredulously.

"Nay, he dies." Could this Conan be some weapon of the gods, lifted against him? No. He was destined to wear the Dragon Crown. He was born to be a king, and, with the power of the blue sphere, a living god. "Taras has been so commanded," he continued. "But make it known to him that the man must die well away from the Palace, in some place where his death may be placed to a drunken brawl."

"Taras seems to have vanished, Albanus."

"Then find him!" the cruel-eyed lord snapped irritably. "And remember, within the Palace walls let this barbarian be watched but inviolate. When he ventures out, slay him!"

Chapter XIV

Steel rang in the small courtyard as Conan blocked the descending blade and smoothly moved back to a guard position. Sweat oiled his massive chest, but his breathing was controlled, his eye firm, his blade steady.

Garian circled to his left about the big Cimmerian. He also was stripped to the waist, and but slightly smaller, though his muscles were covered by the fat of recent inactivity. Sweat rolled down his sloping shoulders, and his blade wavered, if but a hair's breadth.

"You are good, barbar," the king panted.

Conan said nothing, moving only enough to keep his face to the other man. Fighting, even in practice, was not the time to talk.

"But you say little," the king continued, and as he spoke his sword darted for the Cimmerian's middle.

Conan barely moved. His mighty wrists pivoted, his blade arced down to clash against the king's, carrying it safely to one side. Instead of forcing taking the other's blade further out of line, as was the favored tactic, Conan dropped suddenly, squatting on his right leg with his left extended to the side. His steel slid off the other blade, swung forward and stopped as it touched Garian's stomach. Before the startled king could react, Conan flowed back to his feet and to guard.

A disgusted expression on his face, Garian stepped back. "Tis enough for today," he said grimly, and strode away.

Conan picked up his tunic and began to wipe the sweat from his chest.

When Garian had disappeared through the arched courtyard gate, Hordo stepped out from the shadows beneath a balcony, shaking his shaggy head. "Tis well he knew not that I was here, Cimmerian, else we both might find ourselves in the dungeons beneath these stones. But then, kings dislike being bested, even when there are no others to see."

"Did I accept defeat in practice, then soon defeat would find me when it was not practice."

"But still, man, could you not hold back a little? He is a king, after all. No need for us to be dismissed before we get as much of his gold as we can."

"I know no other way to fight, Hordo, save to win. How fare the men?"

"Well," Hordo replied, seating himself on a coping stone. "'Tis an easy life, drinking and wenching away their gold."

Conan pulled his tunic over his head and scabbarded his sword. "Have you seen any sign that Ariane and the others are ready to call their people into the streets?"

"Not a whisper," the one-eyed man sighed. "Conan, I do not say betray them-Kerin's shade would haunt me, an I did-but could we not at least say to Garian that we have heard talk of uprising? He'd give us much gold for such a warning, and there'd be no rising were he on his guard. I like not to think of Kerin and Ariane dying in the gutters, but so they will an they rise. I... I could not ride against them, Cimmerian."

"Nor I, Hordo. But rise they will, if Garian is on his guard or no, or I misread the fire in Ariane. To stop them we must find who uses them. That man who met with Taras could tell me much."

"I've given orders, as you said, to watch for a hawk-face man with white at his temples, but 'twill be a gift of the gods an we find him so."

Conan shook his head disgustedly. "I know. But we can do only what we can. Come. Let us to my chamber. I've good wine there."

Palaces far more opulent stood in Turan and Vendhya, but this one was no mean place. Many were the courtyards and gardens, some small, holding perhaps a marble fountain in the form of some fanciful beast, others large, in which rose alabaster towers with gilded corbeled arches and golden cupolas. Great obelisks rose to the sky, their sides covered with hieroglyphs and telling the legends of Nemedian kings for a thousand years and more.

While walking down a cool arcade beside a garden where peacocks cried and golden-feathered pheasants strutted, Conan suddenly stopped. Ahead, a woman swathed in gray veils had come out of a door and, seemingly not noticing them, was walking the other way. The Cimmerian was certain it was the woman he had twice seen in her litter. Now, he decided, was a good time to discover why she had looked at him with such hatred. But as he started forward, Hordo grabbed his arm, pulling him aside behind a column.

"I want to speak to that woman," Conan said. He spoke softly, for voices carried in those arcades. "She does not like me, of that I'm sure. And I have seen her before, without those veils. But where?"

"I, too, have seen her," Hordo replied in a hoarse whisper, "though not without the veils. She is called Lady Tiana, and 'tis said her face is scarred by some disease. She will not allow it to be seen."

"I'll not ask to see her face," Conan said impatiently.

"Listen to me," the one-eyed man pleaded. "Once I followed Eranius when he left us to get his orders.

Always, I knew, he went to the Street of Regrets, each time to a different tavern. This time he left the city entire, and in a grove beyond the wall met this Lady Tiana."

"Then she is part of the smuggling," Conan said. "That may provide a lever, if she proves difficult about answering my questions."

"You do not understand, Cimmerian. I was not close enough to hear what was said, yet did I see Eranius all but grovel before her. He would not do so unless she were high, very high, in the ring. Bother her, and you may find ton score smugglers in this city, hard men all, seeking your head."

"Mayhap they do already." Assuredly someone did; why not a woman who seemed to hate him, for whatever reason? He shrugged off Hordo's hand. "She will be gone if I do not go now."

But Conan paused, for as the Lady Tiana reached the end of the arcade, the blonde who had accompanied Garian appeared before her. Sularia, he had learned her name was, and she was indeed Garian's mistress. The veiled woman moved to go past, but Sularia, in golden breastplates and a golden silk skirt no wider than a man's hand front or rear, sidestepped in front of her.

"All honor to you, Lady Tiana," Sularia said, a malicious smile playing over her sensual lips. "But why are you covered so on such a bright day? I know you would be lovely, could we but persuade you into bangles and silks."

The veiled woman's hand flashed out, cracking across Sularia's face on a backhand blow that sent the blonde crumpling to the ground. Conan was stunned at the blow; it had taken no common woman's strength.

Sularia stumbled to her feet, rage twisting her face into a mask. "How dare you strike me?" she spat. "I-"

"To your kennel, bitch!" a third woman snapped, appearing beside the other two. Tall and willowy, she was as beautiful as Sularia, but with silken black hair and imperious dark eyes in a haughty face. Her blue velvet robe, sewn with tiny pearls, made the blonde look a tavern girl.

"Speak not so to me, Lady Jelanna," Sularia answered angrily. "I am no servant, and soon...." She stopped suddenly.

Jelanna's mouth curled in a sneer. "You are a slut, and soon enough Garian will decide so for himself.

Now, get you gone before I summon a slave to whip you hence."

Sularia trembled from head to foot, her face venomous. With an inarticulate cry of rage, she sped away from the two women, past where Conan and Hordo stood behind the column.

Conan watched her go; when he turned back, Jelanna and Tiana were gone. Scowling, he leaned against the stone.

"In this place I could search a tenday and not find her," he growled. "I should have spoken straight off, instead of letting you draw me away like a frightened boy."

"Mitra, Conan, let us ride from this city." Hordo's single eye fixed the Cimmerian with entreaty. "Forget Lady Tiana. Forget Garian, and his gold. There's gold in Ophir, and when we take blade-fee there, at least we'll know who wants to kill us."

Conan shook his head. "Never have I run away from my enemies, Hordo. 'Tis a bad habit to form. Go you on to the taverns. I go to my chamber to think on how to find this Tiana. I'll find you later, and match you two drinks to one."

As the Cimmerian started away, Hordo called after him. "Always before you knew who your enemies were!"

But Conan walked on. A wise man did not leave an unknown enemy behind him, but rather sought that enemy out. Better to die than flee, for once flight began how could it end? The enemy would come at last, and victory or death would be decided then at a time and place of the foe's choosing. While there was yet life and will, the enemy must be sought.

Reaching his chamber, Conan put his hand to the door; it shifted at his touch. The latch had been drawn.

Warily he drew his blade and stepped aside. With swordpoint he thrust the door open. It swung back to crash against the wall, but there was no other sound, no hint of movement within.

Snarling, the big Cimmerian threw himself through the open door in a long dive, tucking his shoulder under as he hit the floor to roll to his feet, sword at the ready.

Sularia sat up on his bed, crossing her long legs sensuously beneath her and clapping her hands with delight. "Horseman, bowman, swordsman, and now tumbler. What other tricks have you, barbarian?"

Keeping a tight rein on his anger, Conan closed the door. He was no man to enjoy making a fool of himself before a woman, most especially not a beautiful woman. When he turned back to her his eyes were blue glacier ice.

"Why are you here, woman?"

"How magnificent you are," she breathed, "with the sweat of combat still on you. You defeated him, didn't you? Garian could not stand against one such as you."

Hastily he searched the room, flipping aside each tapestry on the wall, putting his head out of the window to make sure no assassin clung to the copings. Even did he look under the bed, before her amused smile made him throw the coverlet back down with an oath.

"What do you look for, Conan? I have no husband to jump out accusing."

"You have a king," he growled. One look at her, golden breastplates barely containing her swelling orbs, narrow strips of golden silk tangled about her thighs, proved she could carry no weapon greater than a pin.

"A king who can talk of nothing but tariffs and grain and things even more boring." A sultry smile caressed her lips, and she let herself fall backward on the bed, breathing deep. "But you, barbarian, are not boring. I sense power in you, though afar as yet. Will you become a king, I wonder?"

Conan frowned. That sequence of words seemed to touch some deep buried memory. Power. That he would be a king. He thrust it all from his mind. A fancy for children, no more.

He laid his sword across the bed above Sularia's head. It would be close to hand there, let come who would. The blonde twisted to gaze at the bare blade, wetting her lips as if its closeness excited her.

Conan clutched the golden links that joined her breastplates in his fist and tore them from her. Her eyes darted back to him, the icy sapphire of his commanding the smoldering blue of hers.

"You have played a game with me, woman," he said softly. "Now 'tis my turn to play."

Neither of them saw the door move ajar, nor the woman in gray veils who stood there a time, watching them with eyes of emerald fire.

Chapter XV

As Conan walked through the Palace the next afternoon, Hordo ran to join him.

"'Tis well to see you, Cimmerian. I had some niggling fears when I did not meet you in the taverns last night."

"I found something else to do," Conan smiled.

Hurrying slaves thronged the corridors, keeping near the walls to leave the center free for strolling lords and ladies, of which there were some few in richly embroidered velvets and satins, hung about with gold chains and emeralds and rubies on necks and wrists and waists. Nobles gave the warrior pair curious looks, men haughtily disdainful, women thoughtful.

Hordo eyed them all suspiciously, then dropped his voice and leaned closer to Conan as they walked.

"Mayhap you took time last night to reconsider what occurred yesterday. Even now Garian's torturers may be heating their irons. Let us to horse and away while we can."

"Cease this foolish prattle," Conan laughed. "Not two glasses ago I exercised at swords with Garian, and he said no ill word to me. In fact, he laughed often, except when his head was thumped."

The one-eyed man's stride faltered. "Cimmerian, you didn't .... Mitra! You do not crack the pate of a king!"

"I cracked no pate, Hordo. Garian's foot slipped on leaves blown by the breeze, and he struck his face with his own hilt in falling. A bruise, no more."

"What men like you and me account a bruise," Hordo said, raising a finger like one of the philosophers at the Thestis, "Kings account a mortal insult to dignity."

"I fear you are right," Conan sighed. "You do grow old."

"I am too," Hordo began, and snapped his mouth shut with a glare as he realized what the big Cimmerian had said.

Conan suppressed the laughter that wanted to escape at the look on the bearded man's face. Hordo might call himself old, but he was very ready to thump anyone else who named him so. Then the Cimmerians mirth faded.

They had come on a courtyard in which a score of the Golden Leopards stood in a large circle about Vegentius, all including the Commander stripped to the waist. A small knot of nobles stood discreetly within an arcade on the far side, watching. Apart from them, but also among those columns so she should not seem to watch, was Sularia.

Vegentius turned within the circle, arms flexing over his head. "Who will be next?" he called to the men around him. "I've not worked up a sweat as yet." His bare chest was deep, his shoulders broad and covered with thick muscle. "Am I to get no exercise? You, Oaxis."

A man stepped forward, dropping into a crouch. As tall as Vegentius, he was not so heavily muscled, though no stripling. Vegentius laughed, crouching and circling. Oaxis circled with him, but not laughing.

Abruptly they rushed together, grappling, feet shuffling for position and leverage. Conan could see that the slighter man had knowledge, and agility. Even as the Cimmerian thought, Oaxis slipped an arm free, his fist streaking for Vegentius' corded stomach. Perhaps he remembered who it was he struck, for at the last instant the blow slowed, the impact bringing not even a grunt from the grinning Vegentius.

The bigger man was under no such restraints. His free hand axed into the side of Oaxis' neck with a sound like stone striking wood. Oaxis staggered and sagged, but Vegentius held him up yet a moment.

Twice his fist rose and fell, clubbing the back of the other's neck. The first time Oaxis jerked, the second he hung limp. Vegentius released him to crumple in a heap on the flagstones.

"Who comes next?" the huge Commander of the Golden Leopards roared. "Is there none among you to give me a struggle?"

Two of the bare-chested soldiers ran out to drag their companion away. None of them seemed anxious to feel Vegentius' power. The big man continued turning, smiling his taunting smile, until he found himself facing Conan. There he stopped, his smile becoming grim.

"You, barbar. Will you try a fall, or has that northern cold frozen all the guts out of you?"

Conan's face tightened. He became aware of Sularia's gaze on him. The arrogance of a prideful man under the eyes of a beautiful woman spurred him. Unfastening his swordbelt, he handed it to Hordo. A murmur rose among the nobles; wagers began to be made.

"You've more courage than sense," the one-eyed man grumbled. "What gain you, an you defeat him, except a powerful enemy?"

"He is my enemy already," Conan replied, and added with a laugh, "One of them, at least."

The Cimmerian pulled his tunic over his head and, dropping it to the ground, approached the circle of men. The nobles measured the breadth of his shoulders, and the odds changed. Vegentius, sure that the barbarian's laughter had held some slur against him, waited with a snarl on his face. The soldiers moved back, widening the circle as Conan entered.

Abruptly Vegentius charged, arms outstretched to crush and destroy. Conan's massive fist slammed into the side of his head, jarring him to a halt. Crouching slightly, the Cimmerian dug his other fist under the big soldier's ribs, driving breath from him. Before Vegentius could recover Conan seized him by throat and belt, heaving him into the air, swinging the bulk of the man over his head to send him crashing to his back.

Awe grew in the eyes of the watching soldiers. Never had they seen Vegentius taken from his feet before. Among the nobles the odds changed again.

Conan waited, breathing easily, well balanced on his feet, while Vegentius staggered up, shock writ clear on his face. Then rage washed shock away.

"Barbar bastard!" the big soldier howled. "I spit on your mother's unmarked grave!" And he swung a blow that would have felled any normal man.

But Conan's face was painted now with rage, too. Eyes like icy, windswept death, too full of fury to allow thought of defense, he took the blow, and it rocked him to his heels. Yet in that same instant his fist splintered teeth in Vegentius' mouth. For long moments the two huge men stood toe to toe, giving and absorbing blows which would have been enough to destroy an ordinary man.

Then Conan took a step forward. And Vegentius took a step back. Desperation came on the soldier's face; on Conan's eyes was the cold glint of destruction. Back the Cimmerian forced the other. Back, fists pounding relentlessly, toward the arcade where an ever-growing crowd of nobles watched, dignity forgotten as they yelled excitedly. Then, with a mighty blow, he sent the brawny man staggering.

Struggling to remain on his feet, Vegentius stumbled back, nobles parting before him until he stopped at last against the wall in the shadows of the arcade. Straining, he pushed himself erect, tottered forward and fell at the edge of the arcade. One leg moved as if some part of his brain still fought to rise, and then he was still.

Cheering soldiers surrounded Conan, unheeding of their fallen Commander. Smiling nobles, men and women alike, rushed forward, trying to touch him diffidently, as they might reach to stroke a tiger.

Conan heard none of their praise. In that brief instant when Vegentius had stood within the shadows of the arcade, he had remembered where he had seen the man before. He pushed free of the adulation and acclaim, gathering his tunic and returning to Hordo.

"Do you remember," he asked the one-eyed man quietly, "what I told you of first seeing Taras, when I fell through the roof into his secret meeting, and the big man who stood in the shadows?"

Hordo's eye darted to Vegentius, now being lifted by his soldiers. The nobles were drifting away. "Him?"

he said incredulously.

Conan nodded, and the bearded man whistled sourly.

"Cimmerian, I say again that we should ride for Ophir, just as soon as we can assemble the company."

"No, Hordo." Conan's eyes still held the icy grimness of the fight, and his face wore the look of a wolf on the hunt. "We have the enemy's trail, now. It's time to attack, not run."

"Mitra!" Hordo breathed. "An you get me killed with this foolishness, I'll haunt you. Attack?"

Before Conan could reply, a slave girl appeared, bending knee to the Cimmerian. "I am to bid you to King Garian with all haste."

The one-eyed man stiffened.

"Be at ease," Conan told him. "Was it my head the King sought, he'd not send a pretty set of ankles to fetch me." The slave girl suddenly eyed him with interest.

"I trust no one," Hordo grumbled, "until we find out who wants you dead. Or until we leave Nemedia far behind."

"I'll tell you when it is time to ride for the border," Conan laughed. "Lead on, girl." She darted away, and the Cimmerian followed.

King Garian waited in a room hung with weapons and trophies of the chase, but his mind was not on the hunt. Scrolls and sheets of parchment littered the many tables that dotted the room, and even the floor.

As Conan entered, Garian hurled a scroll across the room with a sound of disgust. The bruise on his cheek stood out against the angry flush of his countenance.

"Never ask to be a king, Conan," were his first words.

Taken aback, Conan could only say. "And why not?"

Garian's bluff face was a picture of loathing as he swept his arms about to indicate all of the scrolls and parchments. "Think you these are the plans for some grand campaign? Some magnificent ceremony to honor my father's name and memory? Think you so?"

Conan shook his head. More times than one his life had been altered by the plans and strategies of one king or another, but he had never been party to those plannings. He eyed a parchment, lying almost at his feet. The sheet seemed covered with columns of numbers.

Garian stalked about the room lifting scrolls from tables, hurling them to the floor. "The city drains must be cleared or, so the Physicians' Guild claims, the miasmas will bring on a plague. It is recommended the ancient passages beneath the Palace be located and filled, to make the Palace more secure. Part of the city wall must be rebuilt. The army's pay is in arrears. Grain to be bought. Always more grain." He stopped, scowling at the spreading antlers of a great stag on the wall. "I took that in the wilderness on the Brythunian border. How I wish I were back there now."

"Can your counselors not deal with those things?" Conan asked.

The King laughed bitterly. "So they could, were it not for the gold. Gold, Conan. I am reduced to grubbing for it like a greedy merchant."

"The Treasury-"

"-is well nigh bare. The more grain I must buy in Ophir and Aquilonia, the higher the price goes, and I must try to replace an entire crop, with insane brigands burning those wagons that do not travel under army escort and many that do. Already have I ordered some ornaments to be melted, but even an I strip the Palace bare it would be barely enough."

"What will you do?" Conan asked. Always had he imagined the wealth of kings to be limitless. This was a new thing for him, that a king might have to worry about gold no less than he, if in greater amounts.

"Borrow," Garian replied. "A number of nobles and merchants have wealth to rival my own. Let them take a hand in preventing our nation from starving." He rooted among the parchments until he found one folded and sealed with the Dragon Seal of Nemedia. "You will carry this to Lord Cantaro Albanus. He is among the richest men in Nemedia, and so will be among the first to be asked to contribute." Face hardening, he handed the parchment to Conan and added, "Or be taxed if they will not lend."

The King motioned for Conan to go, but the big Cimmerian remained where he stood. It was a delicate thing he was about to do, but he was not a man used to delicacy, and he felt an unaccustomed awkwardness. Garian looked at him in obvious surprise that he did not leave.

"How well do you trust Vegentius?" Conan blurted finally.

"Well enough to retain him as Commander of the Royal Bodyguard," Garian replied. "Why ask such a question?"

Conan took a deep breath and began the tale he had planned on his way to this room. "Since coming here I have thought that I had seen Vegentius before. Today I remembered. I saw him in a tavern in the city in close converse with a man called Taras, one who has been known to say that some other would be better on the throne than you."

"A serious charge," Garian said slowly. "Vegentius has served me well, and my father before me for many years. I cannot think he means me harm."

"You are the king, yet one lesson of kingship I know. A man who wears a crown must be ever wary of others' ambitions."

Garian threw back his head and laughed. "A good swordsman you may be, Conan, but you must leave being king to me. I have somewhat more experience with wearing a crown than you. Now go. I would have that message to Lord Albanus quickly."

Inclining his head, Conan left. He hoped that he had planted some seed of suspicion, yet this fighting with words pleased him not at all. To face an enemy with steel was his way, and he hoped that it came soon.

Chapter XVI

When Conan reached the Palace gate, he found Hordo waiting with his horse. And twenty men, among them Machaon and Narus. The Cimmerian looked at Hordo questioningly, and the one-eyed man shrugged.

"I heard you were to carry a message to some lord," he told Conan. "Mitra! For all you know he could be the other man at that meeting with Taras. Or the one who wants you dead. Or both."

"You grow as suspicious as an old woman, Hordo," Conan said as he swung into the saddle.

Vegentius, battered but in full armor and red-crested helmet, appeared suddenly in the gate with half-a-score Golden Leopards at his heels. When his eyes fell on Conan's mounted men, he stopped, glaring. Abruptly he spun and, angrily pushing through the soldiers, stormed back into the Palace.

"Mayhap I am suspicious," Hordo said quietly, "but at least I've sense enough to remember that some of your enemies have faces we know. Besides, you'll find the city changed in the last few days."

As Conan led his twenty into the empty streets, the changes were evident. Here and there a dog with ribs protruding sniffed warily around a corner. Occasionally a man could be seen hurrying down a side street, as if pursued, though no one else was about. Windows were shuttered and doors were barred; no shop was open nor hawker's cry heard. A deathly silence hung palpable in the air.

"Soon after we rode to the Palace it began," Hordo muttered. He looked around and hunched his shoulders uneasily, as if riding among tombs. "First people abandoned the streets to the toughs, the beggars and the trulls. The last two went quickly enough, with none to give or buy, and the bravos had the city to themselves, terrorizing any who dared set foot out of doors. Yesterday, they disappeared too."

He looked at Conan significantly. "All in the space of a glass."

"As if they had orders?"

The one-eyed man nodded. "Maybe Taras hired armed men after all. Of a sort."

"But not for the purpose Ariane believed." The big Cimmerian was silent for a time, staring at the seemingly deserted buildings. "What is the news of her?" he asked finally.

Hordo had no need to ask who he meant. "She's well. Twice I've been to the Thestis; the others look at me as they'd look at a leper come to their dinner. Kerin has taken up with Graecus."

Conan nodded without speaking, and they rode in silence to the gates of Albanus' palace. There Conan dismounted, pounding on the barred gate with his fist.

A flap no bigger than a man's hand opened in it, and a suspicious eye surveyed them. "What do you seek here? Who are you?"

"My name is Conan. Open the gate, man. I bear a message to your master from King Garian himself."

There was a moment's whispered conversation on the other side of the gate. Then came the rattle of a bar being drawn, and the gate opened enough for one man to pass.

"You can enter," the voice from inside called, "but not the others."

"Conan," Hordo began.

The Cimmerian quieted him with a gesture. "Rest easy, Hordo. I could not be safer in a woman's arms."

He slipped through the opening.

As the gate closed behind him with a solid thud, Conan faced four men with drawn swords; another snugged the point of his blade under the Cimmerian's ribs from the side.

"Now, who are you?" rasped the swordsman who pricked Conan's tunic.

Wishing he had had sense enough to don his hauberk before leaving the Royal Palace, Conan turned his head enough to make out a narrow free with wide-set eyes and a nose with the tip gone. "I told you." He reached beneath his tunic, and froze as the sword point dug deeper. "I want only to show you the message. What trouble can I mean with a sword in my ribs?"

To himself, he thought that clip-nose stood too close. The man should never have touched blade to tunic unless he meant to thrust. One quick sweep of the arm would knock that sword aside, then clip-nose could be hurled at his fellow, and .... The big Cimmerian smiled, and the others shifted uneasily, wondering what he found to smile about.

"Let me see this message," clip-nose demanded.

From beneath his tunic Conan produced the folded parchment. Clip-nose reached, but he moved it beyond the man's grasp. "You can see the seal from there," he said. "It's meant for Lord Albanus, not you."

"'Tis the Dragon Seal, in truth," clip-nose muttered. His sword left Conan's ribs with obvious reluctance.

"Follow me, then, and do not stray."

Conan shook his head as they started up the stone walk toward the palace proper, a massive structure of fluted columns, with a great gilded dome that hurled back the sun. Suspicion on the guards' part had been warranted, given the state of the city, but the surliness should have faded when they learned he was a Royal Messenger. That it had not spoke ill for Garian's plans. Often men absorbed the attitudes of their master without either man or master realizing.

In the many-columned entry hall, clip-nose conferred, well out of Conan's hearing, with a gray-bearded man whose tunic was emblazoned with Lord Albanus' house-mark backed by a great key. Clip-nose left, returning to his post at the gate, and the gray-bearded man approached Conan.

"I am Lord Albanus' chamberlain," he said, giving neither name nor courtesy. "Give me the message."

"I will place it in Lord Albanus' hands," Conan replied flatly.

He had no real reason not to give it to the chamberlain, for such a one was his master's agent in all things, yet he was irked. A messenger from the King should have been given chilled wine and damp towels to take the dust of the street from him.

The chamberlain's face tightened, and for a moment Conan thought the man would argue. Instead he said curdy, "Follow me," and led the Cimmerian up marble stairs to a small room. "Wait here," he commanded Conan, and left after casting an eye about as if cataloguing the room's contents against a light-fingered visitor.

It was no mean room for all its smallness. Tapestry-hung and marble-floored, its furnishings were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli. An arch led onto a balcony overlooking a garden fountain. But still there were neither towels nor wine. It boded ill indeed for Garian, such insult to his messenger.

Muttering to himself, Conan walked to the balcony and looked down, Almost he cried out in surprise, slights forgotten for the moment. Stephano staggered drunkenly through the garden, half supported by two girls it skimpy silks.

The sculptor bent to dabble his fingers in the fountain and near fell in "No water," he laughed at the girls, as they drew him back. "Want more wine, not water." Giggling together, they wound a shaky way from the fountain and into the exotic shrubs.

Someone cleared his throat behind Conan, and the Cimmerian spun.

A plump man of middling height stood there, one hand clutching his ill-fitting velvet tunic at the neck.

"You have a message for me?" he said.

"Lord Albanus?" Conan said.

The plump man nodded shortly and thrust out his hand. Slowly Conan gave him the sealed parchment.

The plump man's hand closed on it like a trap. "Now go," he said. "I have the message. Go!"

Conan went.

The gray-bearded chamberlain was waiting immediately outside to conduct him to the door, and there clip-nose waited with another man to escort him to the gate.

As he emerged, Hordo brought his horse forward, a relieved grin wreathing his scarred face. "Almost was I ready to come over that wall after you."

"I had no trouble," Conan said as he mounted. "I carried the King's message, remember. When next you see Ariane, tell her that Stephano is not dead, as she feared. He dwells within, sporting himself with serving girls."

"I mean to see her this day," Hordo replied. He stared at the gate thoughtfully. "'Tis odd he sent no message to his friends that he is well."

"Not so odd as a lord with broken nails and work-calloused hands," the Cimmerian said.

"A swordsman-"

"No, Hordo. I know work-wrought calluses when I see them. Still, 'tis none of our concern. Vegentius is, and this very night I mean to have private conversation with the good Commander." Grimly he rode from the gate, the others galloping in two columns behind.

Albanus thrust the plump man, now dressed in nought but a filthy breeehclout, to his knees, face to the marble floor.

"Well, Varius?" Albanus demanded of his chamberlain, his cruel face dark with impatience. He snatched the parchment, crumpled it in his fist. "Did he seem suspicious? Did he accept this dog as me?" He prodded the kneeling man with his foot. "Did he think you a lord, dog? What did he say?"

"He did, master." The plump man's voice was fearful, and he did not lift his face from the floor. "He asked only if I was Lord Albanus, then gave me the parchment and left."

Albanus growled. The gods toyed with him, to send this man whose death he sought beneath his very roof, where he could not touch the barbarian, lest suspicion be drawn straight to him, and where he must hide to escape recognition. Beneath his own roof! And on this, the first day of his triumph. His eye fell on the kneeling man, who trembled.

"Could you not have found someone more presentable to represent me, Varius? That even a barbarian should take this slug for me offends me."

"Forgive me, my lord," the chamberlain said, bowing even more deeply in apology. "There was little time, and a need to find one who would fit the tunic.

Albanus' mouth curled. "Burn that tunic. I'll not wear it again. And send this thing back to the kitchens.

The sight of it disgusts me."

Varius made a slight gesture; the kneeling man scurried from the room, hardly rising higher than a crouch.

"Will that be all, my lord?"

"No. Find that drunken idiot Stephano, and hasten him to the workroom. But sober him first."

Albanus waved Varius from the room, and turned to the message from Garian. Curious as to what it could be, he split the seal.

Our Dear Lord Cantaro Albanus,

All honor to you. We summon you before the Dragon Throne that you may advise Us on matters near Our heart. As one who loves Us, and Nemedia, well, We know you will make haste.

GARIAN NEMEDIA PRIMUS

A feral gleam lit Albanus' black eyes as he wadded the parchment in clawed hands. "I will come to you soon enough," he whispered. "My love will show with chains and hot irons till on your knees you will acknowledge me King. Albanus, First in Nemedia. You will beg for death at my hand."

Tossing the crumpled sheet aside, he strode to the workroom. The four guards before the door stiffened respectfully, but he swept past them without notice.

On the stone circle in the center of the room stood the clay figure of Garian, complete at last. Or almost, he thought, smiling. Perfect in every detail, just slightly larger than the living man-Stephano had made some quibble about that, saying it should be either exactly life size or of heroic proportions-it seemed to be striding forward, mouth open to utter some pronouncement. And it contained more of Garian than simply his looks. Arduously worked into that clay with complicated thaumaturgical rituals were Garian's hair and parings from his fingernails, his sweat, his blood, and his seed. All had been obtained by Sularia at the dark lord's command.

A huge kiln stood a short distance behind the stone platform, and a complicated series of wooden slides and levers designed to move the figure linked platform and kiln. Neither kiln nor slides were ever to be used, however. Albanus had allowed Stephano to construct them in order to allay the sculptor's suspicions before they arose.

Climbing onto the platform, Albanus began pushing the wooden apparatus off onto the floor.

Unaccustomed as he was to even the smallest labor, yet he must needs do this. Stephano would have had to be chivied to it, his questions turned aside with carefully constructed lies, and Albanus had long since tired of allowing the sculptor to believe that his questions were worth answering, his vanities worth dignifying. Better to do the work himself.

Tossing the last lever from the platform, Albanus jumped to the door, one hand out to steady himself against the kiln. With an oath he jerked it back from the kiln's rough surface. It was hot.

The door opened, and Stephano tottered in, green of face but much less under the sway of drink than he had been. "I want them all flogged," he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. "Do you know what your slaves did to me, with Varius giving the orders? They-"

"Fool!" Albanus thundered. "You fired the kiln! Have I not commanded you to do nothing here without my leave?"

"The figure is ready," Stephano protested. "It must be put in the kiln today, or it will crack rather than harden. Last night I-"

"Did you not hear my command that you were never to handle fire within this room? Think you I light these lamps with my own hands for the joy of doing a slave's work?"

"If the oils in that clay are so flammable," the sculptor muttered sullenly, "how can it stand being placed-"

"Be silent." The words were a soft hiss. Albanus' obsidian gaze clove Stephano's tongue to the roof of his mouth and rooted him to the spot its if it were a spike driven through him.

Disdainfully Albanus turned his back. Deftly he set out three small vials, a strip of parchment and a quill pen. Opening the first vial-it held a small quantity of Garian's blood, with the admixture of tinctures to keep it liquid-he dipped the pen and neatly wrote the King's name across the parchment. A sprinkling of powder from the second vial, and instantly the blood blackened and dried. The last container held Albanus' own blood, drawn only that morning. With that he wrote his own name in larger script, overlaying that of Garian. Again the powder dried the blood.

Next, murmuring incantations, Albanus folded the parchment strip in a precise pattern. Then he returned to the platform and placed the parchment into the open mouth of the clay figure.

Stephano, leaning now against the wall, giggled inanely. "I wondered why you wanted the mouth like that." At a look from Albanus he swallowed heavily and bit his tongue.

Producing chalks smuggled from Stygia, land of sorcerers far to the south, Albanus scribed an incomplete pentagram around the feet of the figure, star within pentagon within circle. Foul black candles went on the points where each broken shape touched the other two. Then, quickly, each candle was lit, the pentagram completed. He stepped back, arms spread wide, uttering the words of conjuring.

"Elonai me'rotb sancti, Urd'vass teoheem.... "

The words of power rolled from his tongue, and the air seemed to thicken in silver shimmers. The flames of the unholy candles flared, sparking a seed of fear in the dark lord's mind. The flames. It could not happen again as last time. It could not. He banished the fear by main force. There could be no fear now, only power.

"... arallain Sa'm'di com'iel mort'rass.... "

The flames grew, but as they grew the room dimmed, as if they took light rather than gave it. Higher they flared, driven by the force of the dark lord's chant, overtowering the clay figure. Slowly, as though bent by some impossible and unfelt wind, the silent flames bent inward until the points of fire met above. From that meeting a bolt, as of lightning, struck down to the head of the statue, bathing it in glow unending, surrounding it in a haloed fire of the purest white that sucked all heat from the air.

Frost misting his breath, Albanus forced his voice to a roar. "By the Unholy Powers of Three, l conjure thee! By blood and sweat and seed vilified and attainted, I conjure thee! Arise, walk and obey, for I, Albanus, conjure thee!"

As the last syllable left his mouth the flames were gone, leaving no trace of the candles behind. The figure stood, but now it was dried and cracked.

Albanus rubbed his hands together, and put them beneath his arms for warmth. If only it had all gone correctly this time. He glanced at Stephano, shivering against a wall that glinted from the myriad ice droplets that had coalesced from the air. Terror made the sculptor's eyes bulge. There was no point in delaying further. The hawk-faced man drew a deep breath.

"I command you, Garian, awake!" A piece of clay dropped from one arm to shatter on the stone.

Albanus frowned. "Garian, I command you awake!"

The entire figure trembled; then crumbling, powdering clay was spilling to the platform. And what the figure had moulded, stood there, breathing and alive. A perfect duplicate of Garian, without blemish or fault. The simulacrum brushed dust from its shoulder, then stopped, eyeing Albanus quizzically.

"Who are you?" it said.

"I am Albanus," the dark lord replied. "Know you who you are?"

"Of course. I am Garian, King of Nemedia."

Albanus' smile was purest evil. "To your knees, Garian," he said softly. Unperturbed, the replica sank to its knees. Despite himself Albanus laughed, and the commands poured out for the sheer joy of seeing the image of the King obey. "Face to the floor! Grovel! Now up! Run in place! Faster! Faster!" The duplicate King ran. And ran.

Tears rolled down Albanus' cheeks, but his laughter faded as his eye lit on Stephano. Slowly the sculptor pushed himself erect from his crouch. Uncertainty and fear chased each other across his face.

"Be still, Garian," Albanus commanded, not loosing Stephano's gaze from his own. The simulacrum ceased running and stood quietly, breathing easily.

Stephano swallowed hard. "My... my work is done. I'll go now." He turned toward the door, flinching to a halt at the whipcrack of Albanus' voice.

"Your gold, Stephano. Surely you're not forgotten that." From beneath his tunic Albanus produced a short, thick cylinder, tightly wrapped in leather. He hefted it on his palm. "Fifty gold marks."

Cupidity warred with fear on Stephano's countenance. He licked his lips hesitantly. "The sum mentioned was a thousand."

"I am unclothed," the simulacrum said suddenly.

"Of course," Albanus said, seeming to answer them both.

From the floor he picked up a length of filthy rag that Stephano had used while sculpting, and with it carefully scrubbed away part of the pentagram. Many things, he knew, could happen to one attempting to enter a closed pentagram charged with magicks, and each was more horrible that the last. Stepping up onto the platform, he handed the rag to the simulacrum, which wrapped the cloth about its waist.

"This is but a first payment, Stephano," Albanus went on. "The rest will come to you later." He thrust the leatherwrapped cylinder into the simulacrum's hand. "Give this to Stephano." Leaning closer, he added whispered words.

Stephano shifted uneasily as the image of the King stepped down from the platform.

"So many times," Albanus murmured, "have I been forced to endure the babble that spills from your mouth."

The sculptor's eyes narrowed, darting from Albanus to the approaching figure, and he broke for the door.

With inhuman speed the simulacrum hurled itself forward. Before Stephano had gone a single step it was on him, a hand with the strength of stone seizing his throat. A scream tore from him as obdurate fingers dug into the muscles on either side of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Futilely Stephano clawed at the hand that held him; his fingers might as well have scraped at hardened leather. With that single hand, as if the sculptor were but a child, the replica forced him to his knees. Too late Stephano saw the cylinder descending toward his mouth, and understood Albanus' words. Desperately he clutched the approaching wrist, but he could as easily have slowed a catapult's arm. Remorseless, the construct forced the gold deeper, and yet deeper, into the sculptor's mouth.

Choking rasps came from Stephano's throat as the simulacrum of Garian dropped him. Eyes staring from his head, face empurpling, the sculptor clawed helplessly at his throat. His back arched in his struggles till naught but head and drumming heels touched the floor.

Albanus watched the death throes dispassionately, and when the last twitching foot had stilled, he said softly, "Nine hundred fifty more will go with you to your unmarked grave. What I promise, I give." His shoulders shook with silent mirth. When the spasm had passed, he turned briskly to the likeness of Garian, still standing impassively over the body. "As for you, there is much to learn and little time.

Tonight...."

Chapter XVII

Ariane sat despondently, staring at nothing. Around her the common room of the Thestis murmured with intrigue. No musicians played, and men and women whispered as they huddled together over their tables.

Reaching a decision, Ariane got to her feet and made her way through the tables to Graecus.

"I must talk to you, Graecus," she said quietly. That deathly silence had contaminated her also.

"Later," the stocky sculptor muttered without looking at her. To the others at his table he went on in a low, insistent voice. "I tell you, it matters not if Taras is dead. I know where the weapons are stored. In half a day I-"

Ariane felt some of her old fire rekindle. "Graecus!" In that room of whispers the sharp word sounded like a shout. Everyone at the table stared at her. "Has it not occurred to you," she continued, "that perhaps we are being betrayed?"

"Conan," Graecus began, but she cut him off.

"Not Conan."

"He killed Taras," a plump, pale-skinned brunette said. "You saw that yourself. And he's taken Garian's coin openly, now."

"Yes, Gallia," Ariane said patiently. "But if Conan had betrayed us, would not the Golden Leopards arrest us?" Silent stares answered her. "He has not betrayed us. Mayhap he spoke the truth about Taras.

Perhaps there are no armed men waiting for us to lead the people into the streets. Perhaps we'll find we are no more than a stalking horse for some other's plan."

"By Erlik's Throne," Graecus grumbled, "you speak rubbish, Ariane."

"Perhaps I do," she sighed wearily, "but at least discuss it with me. Resolve my doubts, if you can. Do you truly have none at all?"

"Take your doubts back to your corner," Graecus told her. "While you sit doubting, we will pull Garian from his throne."

Gallia sniffed loudly. "What can you expect from one who spends so much time with that one-eyed ruffian?"

"Thank you, Gallia," Ariane said. She smiled for the first time since entering the room where Conan stood above Taras' body, and left the table to get her cloak. Graecus and the others stared at her as if she were mad.

Hordo was the answer to her problem, she realized. Not as one to talk to, of course. An she mentioned her doubts to him, he would gruffly tell her that Conan betrayed no one. Then he would pinch her bottom and try to inveigle his way into her bed. He had done all of those things already. But he had visited her earlier that afternoon, and had told her that Stephano lived, and was at the palace of Lord Albanus. The sculptor had had a good mind and a facile tongue before his jealousy of Conan soured him. Either he would dispel her doubts, convincing her of the big Cimmerian's guilt, or, convinced himself he would return with her to the Thestis to help her convince the rest. She wrapped her cloak about her and hurried into the street.

When she reached the Street of Regrets she began to rue her decision to leave the Thestis. That street, always alive with flash and tawdry glitter, lay bare to the wind that rolled pitiful remnants across the paving stones. A juggler's particolored cap. A silken scarf, soiled and torn. In the distance a dog howled, the sound echoing down other empty streets. Shivering, though not from the wind, Ariane quickened her pace.

By the time she reached Albanus' palace, she was running, though nothing pursued her but emptiness.

Panting, she fell against the gate, her small fist pounding on the iron-bound planks. "Let me in!"

A suspicious eye regarded her through a small opening in the gate, swiveling both ways to see if she was accompanied.

"Mitra's mercy, let me in!"

The bars rattled aside, and the guard opened a crack barely wide enough for her to slip through.

Before she had taken a full step inside an arm seized her about the waist, swinging her into the air with crude laughter. She gasped as a hand squeezed her buttock roughly, and she looked down into a narrow face. The nose had the tip gone.

"A fine bit," he laughed. "Enough to keep us all warm, even in this wind." His half-score companions added their jocularity to his.

The mirth drained from his face as he felt the point of her short dagger prick him under the ear. "I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian," she hissed coldly. Mitra, how long had it been since she had used that name?

"An Lord Albanus leaves anything of you, I've no doubt my father will tend to the rest."

His hands left her as though scalded; her feet thumped to the ground. "Your pardon, my lady," he stammered. The rest stared with mouths open. "All honor to you. I did not mean...."

"I will find my own way," she announced haughtily, and swept away while he was still attempting to fit together an apology.

Arrogance, she decided as she made her way up the flagstone walk, was her only hope, arriving at a lord's palace without servants or guards. When one of the great carven doors was opened by a gray-bearded man with chamberlain's seal on his tunic, her large hazel eyes were adamantine.

"I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian," she announced. "Show me to the sculptor, Stephano Melliarus."

His jaw dropped, and he peered vaguely past her down the walls as if seeking her retinue. "Forgive me...

my lady... but I... know no man named Stephano."

Brusquely she pushed by him into the columned entry-hall. "Show me to Lord Albanus," she commanded. Inside she quivered. Suppose Conan had been mistaken. What if Stephano were not there?

Yet the thought of returning to those barren streets spurred her on.

The chamberlain's mouth worked, beard waggling, then he said faintly, "Follow me, please," adding, "my lady," as an afterthought.

The room in which he left her, while going "to inform Lord Albanus" of her presence, was spacious. The tapestries were brightly colored; flickering golden lamps cast a cheery glow after the gloom of the streets.

But the pleasant surroundings did naught to stem her growing apprehension. What if she was seeking one who was not there, making a fool of herself before this lord who was a stranger to her? Bit by bit, her facade of arrogance melted. When Lord Albanus entered, the last vestiges of it were swept away by his stern gaze.

"You seek a man called Stephano," the hard-faced man said without preamble. "Why do you think he is here?"

She found herself wanting to wring her hands and instead clutched them tightly in her cloak, but she could not stop the torrent of words and worries. "I must talk to him. No one else will talk with me, and Taras is dead, and Conan says we are being betrayed, and...." She managed a deep, shuddering breath. "Forgive me, Lord Albanus. If Stephano is not here, I will go."

Albanus' dark eyes had widened as she spoke. Now, he fumbled in a pouch at his belt, saying, "Wait.

Have you ever seen the like of this?"

His fingers brought out a gemstone of almost fiery white; he muttered words she could not hear as he thrust it at her.

Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the gem as iron to lodestone. Suddenly a pale beam sprang from the stone, bathing her face. Her breath came out in a grunt, as if she had been struck. Panic filled her. She must run. But all she could do was tremble, dancing helpless in that one spot as whiteness blotted out all her vision. Run, she screamed in the depths of her mind. Why, came the question. Panic dissolved. Will dissolved. The beam winked out, and she stood, breathing calmly, looking into the pale stone, now more fiery seeming than before.

"'Tis done," she heard Albanus murmur, "but how well?" In a louder voice he said, "Remove your garments, girl."

Some tiny corner of her being brought a flush to her cheek, but to the rest it seemed a reasonable command. Swiftly she dropped her cloak, undid the brooches that held her robes. They fell in a welter about her feet, and she stood, hands curled delicately on her rounded thighs, one knee slightly bent, waiting.

Albanus eyed her curved nudity and smiled mirthlessly. "If you obey that command so readily, you'll tell the truth an you die for it. Taras, girl. Is he in truth dead? How did he die?"

"Conan slew him," she replied calmly.

"Erlik take that accursed barbar!" the dark lord snarled. "No wonder Vegentius could not find Taras.

And how am I to send orders...." His scowl lessened; he peered at her thoughtfully. "You are one of those foolish children who prate of rebellion at the Sign of Thestis, aren't you?"

Her answer was hesitant. "I am." His words seemed in some way wrong, yet the irritation was dimly felt and distant.

Albanus' fingers gripped her chin, lifting her head, and though they dug painfully into her cheeks she knew no urge to resist. Her large eyes met his obsidian gaze openly.

"When I wish the streets to fill with howling mobs," he said softly, "you will carry my words to the Thestis, saying exactly what I command and no more."

"I will," she said. Like the bite of a gnat, something called her to struggle, then faded.

He nodded. "Good. This Conan, now. What did he say to you of betrayal?"

"That Taras hired no armed men to aid us. That another used us for his own purposes."

"Did he name this other?" Albanus asked sharply.

She shook her head, feeling tired of talking, wanting to sleep.

"No matter," Albanus muttered. "I underestimated the barbar. He becomes more dangerous with every turn of the glass. Varius! A messenger to go to Commander Vegentius! Quickly, if you value your hide!

Stand up straight, girl."

Ariane straightened obediently, and watched Albanus scribble a message on parchment. She wished only to sleep, but knew she could not until her master permitted. She accepted his will completely now; even the tiny pinpricks of resistance fled.

Chapter XVIII

As the deep tone of a bronze gong sounded the first turn of the glass past full sundown, Conan uncoiled smoothly from his bed in the darkness of his room. Already he was prepared for his night's venture, in bare feet and tunic with a dagger at his belt. Sword and armor would hamper where he went.

On silent feet he moved to the window, climbed onto the stone lip, and twisted with catlike grace to find places for his fingers above. It was not a natural thing for men to look up, even when searching.

Therefore the best way to go unobserved was to travel high. Scudding purple clouds crossed a gibbous moon, casting shadows that walked and danced. Conan became one with the shadows.

Even in that smooth-dressed stone, crevices and chinks were to be found by knowledgeable fingers and toes. Stone cornices and the rims of friezes made a pathway for him to the roof. With swift care he crossed its tiles, dropping on the far side to a rampart walk that bore no sentry, here in the heart of the Palace. Through an embrasure between man-high merlons he lowered himself to the roof of a colonnade three stories above the flagstoned courtyard below.

Within the Palace behind him an alarm bell abruptly began to toll, and he froze there in the shifting shadows. Shouts carried to him, though he could make out no word. He frowned. To such an alarm Vegentius would surely be summoned. And yet the hue and cry was not general, for no sudden lights or tramp of marching men disturbed the outer part of the Palace. Eventually it would subside, and Vegentius would of a certainty return to his quarters. A lupine smile split the Cimmerian's face. He would return to find one waiting to ask questions, and demand answers.

Swiftly Conan hurried on, running along the roof, scaling another wall at its end with ease, then along the length of it uncaring of the dark below him, or the stones that waited if foot should slip or grip fail.

Halting, he lay flat, swiveled his legs and hips over the edge, and climbed down the short distance to the window of Vegentius' sleeping chamber.

Dagger sliding from its sheath, the big Cimmerian entered the room like silent death. Some few brass lamps were lit, casting dim illumination there and in the outer chamber, yet both were empty, as he had feared. Grimly he settled himself by the door of the inner room to wait.

Long was that vigil, yet he kept it with the silent, unmoving patience of a hunting beast. Even when he heard the door of the outer chamber open, only his hand on the dagger moved, firming its grip. But the tread was of a single man. Conan flattened himself against the wall by the door as the footsteps came closer.

A tall shape entered the room, golden-cloaked and wearing the redcrested helmet of the Golden Leopards' commander. Conan's empty fist struck against the back of the man's neck, and with a groan the other fell, rolling onto his back. The Cimmerian stared in amazement. It was not Vegentius.

And then a howling horde in golden cloaks poured through the outer chamber to fall on him. Roaring, Conan fought. His dagger found a throat, and was torn from his grasp as the dying man fell. Teeth splintered and jaws broke beneath his hammer blows. One man he neatly hurled screaming through the window by which he had entered. Yet by sheer weight of numbers did they force him down. He found himself on his back, three men holding each arm and leg, though many of them spat blood. Writhing, he strained every thew, but he could only shift them, not gain freedom.

Vegentius, helmetless and wearing a look of great satisfaction, appeared in the doorway. "You can see that I was right," he said to someone still in the other chamber. "He intended to slay me first, so that if your death were discovered before he could flee, my absence in command might aid his escape."

Wrapped tightly in a cloak, his bruise standing out against the paleness of his cheeks, Garian stepped into the room. He stood gazing down at Conan in horrified wonder. "Even when I heard the others I could hardly believe," he whispered. A shudder went through him. "A score of times has he had me at the point of his blade."

"But then he would have surely been known as your assassin," Vegentius said smoothly.

"Liar!" Conan spat at the massive soldier. "I came here to force you to admit your own foul treachery."

Vegentius' face darkened, and he put a hand to his sword, but Garian stopped him with a gesture. The King moved closer to address the Cimmerian.

"Hear me, Conan. Before dusk began to fall this day, Vegentius arrested those who conspired with you.

A man called Graecus. A woman, Gallia. Some three or four others. Do you deny knowing them, or that they plotted against my throne?"

Conan's brain roiled. Was Ariane among those taken? Yet to ask, naming her, was to give her into their hands if they did not have her. "Foolish youths," he said. "They talk, and will talk till they are gray and toothless, harming no one. Yet there are those who would use them." He cut off with a grunt as Vegentius' boot caught him under the ribs.

Garian waved the soldier back and spoke on. "Vegentius put these you call harmless to the question, and within two turns of the glass he had broken them. He brought them before me, those who could still speak, and from their mouths I heard them admit they plotted my murder, and that you are he who was to wield the blade."

"I am no murderer!" Conan protested, but Garian continued as if he had not spoken.

"The alarm was given; you were sought. And found lying in wait, dagger in hand. Your actions convict you."

"His head will adorn a pike before dawn," Vegentius said.

"No," Garian said softly. "I trusted this man." He wiped his hands on the edge of his cloak, as if ritually.

His eyes were cold on Conan's face. "Long has it been since the ancient penalty for plotting to slay he who wears the Dragon Crown was last invoked. Let it be invoked now" Drawing his cloak about him, he turned his face from the Cimmerian and strode from the chamber.

Vegentius stared after him, then down at Conan. Abruptly he laughed, throwing back his head. "The ancient penalty, barbar. Fitting. To the dungeons with him!"

One of those holding Conan shifted. The Cimmerian saw a descending sword hilt, then saw no more.

Chapter XIX

Albanus smiled to himself as his sedan chair was borne through the night, up the winding streets that led through the Temple District to the Royal Palace. So close now, he was, to his inevitable triumph. He savored each step the bearers took, carrying him nearer his goal.

Ahead two torchbearers strode, and twenty guards surrounded him, though the streets were as empty as a tomb millenia old. Those truly important to him marched on either side of his chair, heavily cloaked and hooded, the woman and the man-shape. So close.

As the procession approached the gate of the Palace, Albanus uttered a command. His sedan chair was lowered to the ground. Even as the hawkfaced man climbed out, Vegentius crossed the drawbridge.

Albanus looked at the guards and raised an inquiring brow.

"As planned," the soldier said quietly. "All men standing guard this night are loyal to me. My best."

"Good," Albanus said. "And Conan?"

"In the dungeons. Garian shouted so about invoking the ancient penalty that I could not kill him out of hand. The alarm had wakened others by then." His red-crested helmet bobbed as he spat disgustedly.

"But he can go to the same unmarked grave as Garian."

The hawk-faced lord laughed softly. "No, Vegentius. I find the ancient ways a fitting end for this barbarian."

"Better to kill him straight out," Vegentius grumbled, but pursued it no further. Stooping, he attempted to look under the hood of the man-shape behind Albanus. "Does he truly look like-"

"Let us go," Albanus said, and strode forward, Ariane and the simulacrum at his heels. Vegentius could do naught but follow.

The dark lord hurried over the drawbridge exultantly, and into the Palace. Often had his feet trod these halls, yet now it was tread of possessor, of conqueror. When a shadow moved and resolved into Sularia, he stared at her with imperious fury.

"Why are you here, woman? I commanded you to remain in your apartments until I sent for you."

Her gaze met his without flinching, and even in the dim light the eager glow of her eyes was apparent. "I want to see him fall before you."

Albanus nodded slowly. There would be pleasure in that. "But make no sound," he warned. Shoulders back and head high, as a king in his own palace, he moved on.

Before the door to Garian's chambers four guards stood, stiffening at the party's approach.

Vegentius stepped forward. "He sleeps?" One of the four nodded. "Who else is within?"

He who had nodded spoke. "Only the serving girl, to bring him wine if he wakes."

"Slay her," Albanus said, and Vegentius started.

"You said you could make her remember nothing, Albanus. Questions may be asked if the girl disappears."

"The method can only be used on one person at a time," Albanus replied, fingers absently stroking the pouch that held the white gem. "Slay her."

Vegentius nodded to the guard who had spoken. The man slipped inside, returning in moments with a bloody blade to resume his post.

Albanus led the others in, sparing not a glance for the crumpled form of a woman lying across an overturned stool. The second room, Garian's sleeping chamber itself, was dim, the lamp wicks trimmed low. Garian lay on his bed amid rumpled blankets.

"Turn up the lamps, Sularia," Albanus commanded quietly. Not taking her eyes from the man in the bed, the blonde hastened to obey. To the two hooded figures, the lord said, "Remove your cloaks."

Vegentius gasped as the simulacrum obeyed. "'Tis Garian's very image!"

Sularia turned from a golden lamp, but her exclamation at the sight of the King's double was cut short, as, with narrowing eyes, her gaze caught Ariane. "Who is she?" the blonde demanded.

Ariane looked straight ahead, unmoving, until another command was given. The simulacrum peered about him curiously.

On the bed, Garian suddenly sat bolt upright. Growing more amazed by the instant, his eye jumped from Albanus to Sularia to Vegentius. "What," he began, but the words died. Mouth open, he stared at the duplicate of himself. Unperturbed, the simulacrum gazed back inquisitively.

Albanus felt like laughing. "Garian," he said mockingly, "this is he who will sit on the Dragon Throne for the last days of your line. For your usurping lineage now ends."

"Guards!" Garian shouted. From beneath his pillows a dagger appeared in his hand, and he leaped from the bed. "Guards!"

"Take him," Albanus ordered the simulacrum, "as I told you." Growing more amazed by the instant, his eye jumped from Albanus to Sularia to Vegentius.

The duplicate moved forward, and Garian's dagger struck with a fighter's speed. To be caught easily by an inhumanly powerful grip on Garian's wrist. Astonishment was replaced on his face by pain as those fingers tightened. The dagger fell from nerveless forgers.

Before that blade clattered on the floor, the simulacrum's other hand seized the true King by the throat, lifting him until his toes kicked frantically above a handspan of air. No sign of strain was on the construct's face as it watched that other like its own turn slowly purple. Garian's struggles weakened, then ceased.

Casually the replica opened its hand and let the limp body fall.

Albanus hastened to bend over the King. Savage bruises empurpled his neck, and another darkened his cheek, though Albanus did not remember seeing the simulacrum strike. But the broad chest rose and fell, if faintly. Garian yet lived.

Vegentius, who had stood staring, sword half drawn, since the instant the duplicate moved, now slammed his blade home in its scabbard and cleared his throat. His eyes never left the simulacrum. "Should you not let him, it, kill him now?"

"I am King Garian," the creature said to Vegentius. The soldier muttered an oath.

"Be silent," Albanus commanded, straightening. "This," he prodded Garian's form with his foot, "will acknowledge my right to the throne before I let him die."

"But the danger," Vegentius protested. "He was to die now."

"Enough!" Albanus snapped. "Deliver him in chains to the dungeon beneath my palace. I'll hear no more on it."

Vegentius nodded reluctantly, and turned to go.

"And, Vegentius," the cruel-faced man added, "see that those who do this task are disposed of after.

Fewer tongues to waggle loosely."

The big soldier stood rigidly in the door, then left without speaking. But he would do it, Albanus knew, even to his beloved Golden Leopards.

"Who is this woman?" Sularia asked again.

Albanus looked at her in amusement, wondering if there were room for two thoughts at once in that pretty head. All that had happened before her eyes, and it was Ariane that concerned her.

"Do not worry," he told her. "In the morning you will be proclaimed Lady Sularia. This," he touched Ariane's expressionless face, "is naught but a tool to build a path to the Dragon Throne. And tools are made to be discarded once used."

His gaze swung to Sularia, a reassuring smile on his face. Tools, he repeated to himself, are made to be discarded once used.

Chapter XX

Conan awakened hanging spreadeagled in chains in the center of a dungeon. At least, he assumed it was the center. Two tall tripod lamps cast a yellow pool of light around him, but he could see no walls in any direction. The chains that held his wrists disappeared into the gloom above. Those holding his ankles were fastened to massive ringbolts set in the rough stone blocks of the floor. His tunic was gone, he wore naught but a breechclout.

Without real hope of escape he tensed every muscle, straining until sweat popped out on his forehead, beaded his shoulders and rolled down his broad chest. There was not slightest give in the chains. Nor in himself. He had been stretched to the point of joints cracking.

Cloth rustled in the darkness, and he heard a man's voice.

"He is awake, my lady." There was a pause. "Very good, my lady."

Two men moved into the light, burly, shaven headed and bare chested. One bore a burn across his hairless chest as if some victim had managed to put hand to the hot iron intended for his own pain. The other was as heavily pelted as an ape from the shoulders down, and wore a smile on his incongruously pleasant round face. Each man carried a coiled whip.

As they wordlessly took positions to either side of the Cimmerian, he strained his eyes to penetrate the darkness. Who was this 'lady'? Who?

The first whip hissed through the air to crack against his chest. As it was drawn back the other struck his thigh. Then the first was back, wrapping around an ankle. There was no pattern to the blows, no way to anticipate where the next would land, no way to steel the soul against pain like lines of acid eating into the flesh.

The muscles of Conan's jaws were knots with the effort of not yelling. He would not even open his mouth to suck in the lungfuls of air his great body demanded in its agony. To open his mouth would be to make some noise, however slight, and from there it would be but a step to a yell, another to a scream. The woman watching from the darkness wanted him to scream. He would make no sound.

The two men continued until Conan hung as limply as the chains would allow, head down on his massive chest. Sweat turned to fire the welts that covered him from ankles to shoulders. Here and there blood oozed.

From the darkness he heard the clink of coins, and the same man's voice. "Very generous, my lady. We'll be just outside, an you need us." Then silence until hinges squealed rustily, stopping with the crash of a stout door closing.

Conan lifted his head.

Slowly a woman walked into the circle of light and stood watching him. The woman veiled in gray.

"You!" he rasped. "Are you the one who has been trying to kill me, then? Or are you the one who uses those fools at the Thestis, the one who put me here with lies?"

"I did try to have you killed," she said softly. Conan's eyes narrowed. That voice was so familiar. But whose? "I should have known there were no men in Nemedia capable of slaying you. Where you hang, though, is your own doing, though I joy to see it. I joy, Conan of Cimmeria."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Her hand went to her face, pushed back the veils. No disease-ravaged skin was revealed, but creamy ivory beauty. Tilted emerald eyes regarded him above high cheekbones. An auburn mane framed her face in soft waves.

"Karela," he breathed. Almost he wondered if he saw a vision from pain. The Red Hawk, fierce bandit of the plain of Zamora and the Turanian steppes, in Belverus, masquerading as a woman of the nobility. It seemed impossible.

That beautiful face was impassive as she gazed at him, her voice tightly controlled. "Never again did I think to see you, Cimmerian. When I saw you that day in the Market District I thought I would die on the spot."

"And did you see Hordo?" he asked. "You must know he is here, still hoping to find you." He managed a wry smile. "Working with the smugglers you now command."

"So you have learned that much," she said wonderingly "None but a fool ever accounted you stupid.

Hordo surprised me almost as much as you did, turning up in Khorshemish while I was there. Still, I would not let him know who I am. He was the most faithful of my hounds, yet others were faithful, too, and even so remembered the gold on my head in Zamora and Turan. Think you I wear these veils for the pleasure of hiding?"

"It has been a long time, Karela," Conan said. "'Tis likely they've forgotten by now."

Her calm facade cracked. "The Red Hawk will never be forgotten!" Emerald eyes flaring, she faced him with fists on hips and feet apart. Almost he could see the jeweled tulwar at her hip as it had been.

"Now that you're no longer being the Lady Tiana," he said grimly, "why in Zandru's Nine Hells do you want me dead?"

"Why?" she screeched in furious astonishment. "Have you forgot so soon leaving me naked and chained, on my way to be sold to whatever man bid highest?"

"There was the matter of the oath you made me swear, Karela. Never lift a hand to save-"

"Derketo blast you and your oaths, Cimmerian!"

"Besides which, I had four coppers in my pouch. Think you to have gone for so paltry a price?"

"You lie!" she spat. "I would not heel at your command, so you let me be sold!"

"I tell you-"

"Liar! Liar!"

Conan snarled wordlessly and clenched his teeth on any further explanation. He would not argue with her. Neither would he plead. That last he had never learned to do.

Pacing angrily, Karela hurled her words as if they were daggers, never looking at him directly. "I want you to know my humiliations, Cimmerian. Know them, and remember them, so the memory will be a blade to prick you constantly when you are in the mines, ever reminding you that when the King proclaims pardons for all who have served a certain time, I will be then to place gold in the proper hands so that one prisoner will be forgotten."

"I knew you would escape," Conan muttered. "As you obviously did."

Her emerald eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and when she opened them her tone was flat. "I was bought by a merchant named Haffiz, and placed in his zenana with two score other women. That very day did I escape. And that very day was I brought back and given the bastinado, the cane across the soles of my feet. I would not cry, but for ten days I could only hobble. The second time I was free for three days. On being returned, I was put to scrubbing pots in the kitchens."

Despite his position Conan chuckled. "A fool he was, to think to tame you so."

She turned to face him, and if her words were soft her eyes held murder. "The third time I was taken while still climbing the wall. I spat in Haffiz' face, told him to slay me, for he could never break me. Haffiz laughed. I thought I was a man, he said. I must be taught differently. Henceforth I was to be allowed no waking hour that I was not dressed as if about to be presented to a master's bed, in the sheerest silks and the finest fragrances, kohl on my eyelids and rouge on my lips and cheeks. I must learn to dance, to play instruments, to recite poetry. Failure in any of these, failure to be pleasing at all times, would be punished immediately. But, as I was like a young girl learning to be a woman, no punishment would I receive not suitable for a child. How he roared with laughter."

Conan threw back his head and roared as well. "A child!"

Raising a fist as if she wished it had strength to knock him senseless, Karela raged. "What do you know of it, fool? Having my buttocks turned up for the switch ten times a day. Spoons of ca'teen oil forced down my throat. A hundred more too shaming even to think on. Laugh, you barbar oaf! For a year was I forced to endure, and how I wish I could make you live a year in the mines for every day of it."

With an effort he managed to control his mirth. "I thought you would escape in half a year, perhaps less.

But the Red Hawk turned to a thrush in a silver cage."

"Day and night was I watched," she protested. "And I did escape, with a sword in my hand."

"Because you tired of being sent to your bed with no supper?" Chuckles reverberated in his massive chest.

"Derketo blast your eyes!" Karela howled. She raced forward to pound her small fists against his great chest. "Erlik take you, you Cimmerian bastard! You... you...." Abruptly she sagged, clutching him to keep from falling. Her cheek was pressed against his chest; he was astounded to see a tear at the corner of her eye. "I loved you," she whispered. "I loved you."

The muscular Cimmerian shook his head in wonderment. Did she act like this when she loved him, he could not imagine anyone surviving her hate.

Pushing herself away, she stepped back from him, refusing to acknowledge the tears that trembled on her long lashes. "There is no fear in you," she whispered. "You are not trembling. Nor will you think, 'if she suffered so, what will she make me suffer?'"

"I have no blame for what happened to you, Karela," he said quietly.

She did not seem to hear. "But if you have no fear, still you are a man." A strange smile played about her lips.

Abruptly her fingers went to the brooches that held her robes; in an instant the gray silk lay in a pool about her slender ankles. Gracefully she stepped from the robes. She was as he remembered, full breasts and rounded thighs, long legs and a tiny waist. Karela was a sensual delight for the male eye.

Slowly, on her toes, she spun, arms raised, head turning to let her silken tresses caress now creamy shoulders, now satin breasts. With a gentle sway to her hips she walked to him, stopping only when her breasts touched him, just below the ribs as he hung in the chains. Touching her full lower lip with her tongue and looking up at him through her lashes, she began in a sultry tone.

"When you are taken into the mines only death can bring you to the surface again. You will live your life in dank, foul air and the dim light of guttering torches. There are women there, if you want to call them women. Their hands are as calloused as any man's." Her fingers stroked across his iron-hard chest.

"Their hair and skin are filth encrusted, their stench foul; their kisses...."

Her slender arms stretched up, her hands hooked behind his neck, and she pulled herself up until her face was level with his.

"They have no sweet kisses such as this," she whispered, and pressed her lips to his. He met her kiss savagely, until at last she broke free with a whimper. Her emerald gaze was tremulous, his the blue of windswept northern skies. "You will never have a kiss like that again," she said breathlessly.

Abruptly she dropped to the stone floor and backed away, biting her full lower lip. There was sudden uncertainty in her green eyes. "Now I will be the only woman in your mind for the rest of your life," she said. "The only woman for the rest of your life." And, snatching her robes from the floor, she ran into the darkness. After a time he heard the door squeak open and clash shut.

She had not changed, he thought. She was still the Red Hawk, fierce and hot-blooded as any bird of prey. But if she thought he would go meekly to the mines, or whatever the ancient penalty Garian had spoken of, then she was also as wrong-headed as she had ever been.

Conan eyed his chains, but did not again attempt to break them. Among the lessons taught by the treacherous snowcovered crags of the Cimmerian mountains was this: when action was not possible, struggle only brought death sooner; waiting, conserving strength, brought the chance of survival. The Cimmerian hung in his chains with the patience of a hunting beast waiting for its prey to come closer.

Chapter XXI

Creaking, the chains that held Conan's arms began to rattle down, lowering him to the stone floor. He could not suppress a groan as his position shifted; he had no idea how many hours he had hung there.

The pool of light and the dark beyond were unchanging, giving no sign of time's passage.

His feet touched the floor, and knees long strained gave way. The full length of his massive body collapsed on the stone. Straining, he tried to get his arms under him, but the blood had long since drained from them. They could only twitch numbly.

The two men who had wielded the whips hurried into the light and began removing the chains. His weakened struggles were useless as they manacled his hands behind him and linked his ankles with heavy iron chains. The man with the burn scar was as silent and expressionless as before, but hairy-chest, he with the oddly pleasant face, talked almost jovially.

"Almost did I think we'd let you hang another day, what with all the excitement of this one. Fasten that tighter," he added to the other. "He's dangerous, this one." The second man grunted and went on as he was, hammering a rivet into the iron band on Conan's left wrist.

"My men," the Cimmerian croaked. His throat felt dry as broken pottery shards.

"Oh, they were part of it," the round-faced man laughed deprecatingly. "Fought off the Golden Leopards sent to arrest them, they did, and disappeared. Might have been made much of, another time, but more has happened since dawn this day than since Garian took the throne. First the King banished all of his old councilors from the city on pain of death. Then he created the title High Councilor of Nemedia, with near the power of the King himself attached, and gave it to Lord Albanus, an evil-eyed man if ever I saw.

And to top that, he named his leman a lady. Can you imagine that blonde doxy a lady? But all those fine nobles walk wide of her, for they say she may be Queen, next. Then there were the riots. Get the rest of it, Struto."

The silent man grunted again and lumbered away.

Conan worked his mouth for moisture. "Riots?" he managed.

The round-faced man nodded. "All over the city." Looking about as if to see if anyone might overhear, he added in a whisper. "Shouting for Garian to abdicate, they were. Maybe that's why Garian got rid of the old councilors, hoping any change would satisfy them. Leastways, he didn't send the Golden Leopards out after them."

Ariane's people had finally moved, Conan thought. Perhaps they might even bring changes-indeed, it seemed as if they already had-but for better or for worse? He forced a question out, word by word.

"Had-they-armed-men-with-them?"

"Thinking of your company again, eh? No, it's been naught but people of the streets, though a surprising number have swords and such, or so I hear. Struto! Move yourself!"

He with the burn scar returned, carrying a long pole that the two of them forced between Conan's arms and his back. Broad straps fastened about his thick upper arms held it in place. From a pouch at his belt, the roundfaced one took a leather gag and shoved it between the Cimmerian's teeth, securing it behind his head.

"Time to take you before the King," he told Conan. "What they're going to do to you, likely you'd rather be in Lady Tiana's gentle care. Eh, Struto?" He shook with laughter; Struto stared impassively. "Well, barbarian, you have some small time to make peace with your gods. Let's go, Struto."

Grasping the ends of the pole, the two forced Conan to his feet. Half carrying, half pushing, they took him from the dungeon, up stairs of rough stone to the marble floors of the Palace. By the time they reached those ornate halls the Cimmerian had regained full use of his legs. Pridefully he shook off the support of the two, taking what short steps the chains at his ankles allowed.

Round-face looked at him and laughed. "Anxious to get it over with, eh?"

They let him shuffle as best he could, but retained their grip on the pole. A grim smile touched his lips.

Did he wish to, he could sweep both men off their feet using the very pole with which they thought to control him. But he would still be chained and in the heart of the Palace. Patience. He concentrated on flexing his arms in their bonds to get full feeling back.

The corridors through which they passed seemed empty. The slaves were there, as always, scurrying close to the walls. But the nobles, sleek and elegant in silks and velvets, were missing. The three men made their way alone down the center of the passages.

As they turned into a broad hall, its high arched ceiling supported by pilasters, another procession approached them from ahead. Graecus, Gallia and three others from the Thestis stumbled along under the eyes of two guards. All five were gagged and had their hands roped behind them. At the sight of Conan, Graecus' eyes widened, and Gallia tried to shy away from the big Cimmerian.

One of their guards called out to the two with Conan, "This lot for the mines."

"Better than what this one gets," the round-faced man laughed.

Joining in his mirth, the guards prodded their charges on. The bedraggled young rebels hurried past, seeming as fearful of Conan as of their captors.

The Cimmerian ignored them. He did not hold them to account for the lies they had told against him. Few men and fewer women could hold out under the attentions of an expert torturer, and Vegentius would have found another way to imprison him, if not through them.

Before them at the end of the hall, great carven doors opened, swung wide by six golden-cloaked soldiers, and Conan passed into the throne room of Nemedia.

Double rows of slender fluted columns held a domed roof of alabaster aloft. Light from golden lamps dangling from the ceiling on silver chains glittered on polished marble walls. The floor was a vast mosaic depicting the entire history of Nemedia. Here was the explanation for the empty halls, for here the nobles had gathered in all their panoply, darkeyed lords in robes of velvet with golden chains about their necks, sleek ladies coruscating with the gems that covered their silk-draped bodies. Through the center of them ran a broad path from the tall doors to the Dragon Throne. Its golden-horned head reared above the man seated there, and jeweled wings curved down to support his shoulders. On his head was the Dragon Crown.

Conan set his own pace down that path, though the two jailors tried to hurry him. He would not stumble in his chains for the amusement of this court. Before the throne he stood defiantly and stared into Garian's face. The men holding the pole tried to force him to his knees, but he remained erect. A murmur rose among the nobles. Rushing forward, guards beat at his back and legs with their spear butts until, despite all he could do, he was shoved to his knees.

Through it all, Garian's face had not changed expression. Now the man on the throne rose, pulling his robe of cloth-of-gold about him.

"This barbarian," he announced loudly, "we did take into our Palace honoring him with our attention. But we found that we nursed treachery at our bosom. Most foully our trust was betrayed, and...."

He droned on, but Conan's attention was caught by the man standing slightly behind the Dragon Throne, one hand resting on it possessively while he nodded at the King's words like a teacher approving a pupil.

The Seal of Nemedia hung on a golden chain about his neck, which marked him as the High Councilor of Nemedia, Lord Albanus. But Conan knew that cruel face, seen in the dark meeting with Taras and Vegentius. Did madness reign in Nemedia, the Cimmerian wondered.

" . . So we pronounce the ancient penalty for his crime," the King intoned funereally.

That brought Conan's mind quickly back. There was on Garian's face none of the sadness he had shown when Conan was taken, only flat calm.

"When next the sun has dawned and risen to its zenith, let this would-be regicide be hurled to the wolves.

Let the beast be torn by beasts."

As soon as the last word was spoken, Conan was pulled to his feet and hurried from the throne room.

Not even the round-faced jailor spoke as the Cimmerian was returned to the dungeons, this time to a small cell, its stone floor strewn with filthy straw. The pole and the gag were removed, but not his chains.

Another was added, linking that between his ankles to a ring set in the wall.

As soon as the two jailors were gone Conan began to explore his new prison. Lying full length on his belly, he could have reached the heavy wooden door were his hands not linked behind him, but there was nothing on which to get a grip even if his hands had been free. Nor did he truly believe he could break the stout iron hinges. The walls were rough stone, close set but with aged mortar crumbling. A man with tools might remove enough of them to escape. In a year or two. The rotting straw held nothing but a half-gnawed rat carcass. The Cimmerian could not help wondering whether the gnawing had been done by its fellows or by the last prisoner. Kicking it into a far corner, he hoped he would not long have to endure the smell.

No sooner had Conan settled himself with his back against the wall than a key rattled in the large iron lock, and the cell door creaked open. To his surprise Albanus entered, holding his black velvet robes carefully clear of the foul straw. Behind him the cloth-of-gold-clad form of the King stopped in the doorway. Garian's face turned this way and that, eyes curiously taking in the straw and the stone walls.

He looked at Conan once, as if the big Cimmerian were just another fixture of the cell.

It was Albanus who spoke. "You know me, don't you?"

"You are Lord Albanus," Conan replied warily.

"You know me," the hawk-faced man said, as if confirming a suspicion. "I feared as much. 'Tis well I acted when I did."

Conan tensed. "You?" His eyes went to Garian's face. Why would this man make such an admission before the King?

"Expect no help from him," Albanus laughed. "For a time, barbar, you were a worry to me, but it seems in the end you are no weapon of the gods after all. The wolves will put an end to you, and the only real damage you have done me is being repaired by the girl you sent seeking the sculptor. No, in the sum of it, you are naught but a minor nuisance."

"Ariane," Conan said sharply. "What have you done with her?"

The obsidian-eyed lord laughed cruelly. "Come, King Garian. Let us leave this place."

"What have you done to Ariane?" Conan shouted as Albanus left. The King paused to look at him; he stared into Garian's face with as close to pleading as he could come. "Tell me what he has done...."

The words died on his lips even as the other turned to go. The door creaked shut. Stunned, Conan leaned back against the stone wall.

Since that first entrance into the throne-room, he had felt some oddity in Garian but put it down to himself. No man sees things aright while hearing his own death sentence. But now he had noticed a small thing. There was no bruise on Garian's cheek. Garian was no man to cover such things with powder like a woman, and he had no court sorcerer to take away such blemishes with a quick spell and a burning candle. Nor had it had time to fade naturally. A small thing, yet it meant that he who had sat on the Dragon Throne and passed sentence on Conan was not Garian.

Mind whirling, the Cimmerian tried to make some sense of it. Albanus plotted rebellion, yet now was councilor to a King who was not Garian. But it had been Garian in Vegentius' apartments only the night before. Of that Conan was certain. He smelled the stench of sorcery as clearly as he did the rotting straw on which he sat.

Patience, he reminded himself. He could do nothing chained in a cell. Much would depend on whether he was freed of those bonds before he was thrown to the wolves. Even among wolves a great deal could be done by a man with hands free and will unfettered. This, Conan resolved, Albanus would learn to his regret.

Sularia lay face down on a toweled bench while the skilled hands of a slave woman worked fragrant oils into her back. Lady Sularia, she thought, stretching luxuriantly. So wonderful it had been standing among the lords and ladies in the throne room, rather than being crowded with the other lemans along the back wall. If her acceptance had been from fear, the smiles and greetings given her sickly and shamefaced, it only added to the pleasure, for those who spoke respectfully now had oft spoken as if she were a slave.

And this did not have to be the end. If she could move from the mistresses' wall to stand with the nobles, why not from there to stand beside Albanus? Queen Sularia.

Smiling at the thought she turned her head on her folded arms and regarded her maid, a plump gray-haired woman who was the only one in the Palace Sularia trusted. Or rather, the one she distrusted least.

"Does she still wait, Latona?" Sularia asked.

The gray-haired maid nodded briskly. "For two turns of the glass now, mistress. No one would dare disobey your summons."

The blonde nodded self-satisfied agreement without lifting her head. "Bring her in, Latona. Then busy yourself with my hair."

"Yes, mistress," Latona cackled, and hurried out. When she returned she escorted the Lady Jelanna.

The willowy noblewoman looked askance at Latona as the serving woman began to labor over her mistress' hair, while Sularia smiled like a cat at a dish of cream. Only when receiving an inferior would servants be retained so. Some of the arrogance had gone from Jelanna with her wait.

Enough remained, however, for her to demand at last, "Why have you summoned me here, Sularia?"

Sularia raised a questioning eyebrow. After a moment Jelanna amended, "Lady Sularia." Her mouth was twisted as if at a foul taste.

"You grew from a child in this Palace, did you not?" the blonde began in a pleasant tone.

Jelanna's reply was curt. "I did."

"Playing hide and seek through the corridors. Gamboling in the courtyards, splashing in the fountains.

Your every wish met as soon as it was made."

"Did you ask me here to speak of childhood?" Jelanna asked.

"I did not," Sularia said sharply. "I summoned. Know you Enaro Ostorian?"

If the imperiously beautiful woman was surprised by the question, she did not show it. "That repulsive little toad?" she sniffed. "I know of merchants, but I do not know them."

Sularia's feline smile returned. "He seeks a wife."

"Does he?"

"A young wife, of the nobility." Sularia saw the dart go home, and pressed to drive it deeper. "He thinks to marry the title he has not been able to buy. And of course he wants sons. Many sons. Garian," she added to the lie, "has asked me to suggest a suitable bride."

Jelanna licked her full lips uncertainly. "I wish, Lady Sularia," she said, a tremor in her voice, "to apologize if I have in any way offended you."

"Do you know the man Dario?" Sularia demanded. "The keeper of Garian's kennels?"

"No, my lady," Jelanna faltered.

"A foul man, I'm told, both in stenches and habits. The slave girls of the Palace hide from him, for his way with a woman is rough to the point of pain." Sularia paused, watching the horror grow on the imperious woman's face. "Think you, Jelanna, that one night with Dario is preferable to a lifetime with Ostorian?"

"You are mad," the slender woman managed. "I'll listen to no more. I go to my estates in the country, and if you were queen you could still choose which of Zandru's-"

"Four soldiers await without for you," Sularia said, riding over the other woman's words. "They will escort you to Dario, or to your wedding bed, and no place else."

The last shreds of haughtiness were washed from Jelanna's face by despair. "Please," she whispered. "I will grovel, an you wish it. Before the entire court on my knees will I beg your forgive-"

"Make your choice," Sularia purred, "else I will make it for you. Those soldiers can deliver you to Ostorian this day. With a note to let him know you think him a repulsive toad." Her voice and face hardened. "Choose!"

Jelanna swayed as if she would fall. "I... I will go to Dario," she wept.

For a moment Sularia savored the words she had waited for, counting hours. Then she spoke them. "Go, bitch, to your kennel!" As Jelanna ran from the room, peals of Sularia's laughter rang against the walls.

How wonderful was power.

Chapter XXII

When next the door of his cell opened, Conan at first thought that Albanus had decided to have him slain where he lay chained. Two men with drawn crossbows slipped through the open door and took positions covering him, one to either side of the cell.

As the Cimmerian gathered himself to make what fight of it he could, the round-faced jailor appeared in the door and spoke.

"The sun stands high, barbarian. 'Tis time to take you to the wolf pit. An you try to fight when Struto and I remove your chains, these two will put quarrels in your legs, and you'll be dragged to the pit. Well?"

Conan made an effort to appear sullen and reluctant. "Take the chains," he growled, glowering at the crossbowmen.

In spite of his words the two jailors kept clear of the crossbowmen's line of fire as they broke open his manacles with repeated blows of hammer on chisel. Did they think him a fool, he wondered. He might well be able to take both jailors and bowmen despite the way they were placed, yet he could hear measured steps approaching the cell, the sound of a middling body of men, Dying was not hard, but only a fool chose to die for naught.

Rubbing his wrists, Conan rose smoothly to his feet and let himself be herded from the cell. In the hall waited a full score of the Golden Leopards.

"Don't need so many," Struto said abruptly.

Conan blinked. He had thought the man without a tongue.

Struto's fellow jailor seemed only slightly less surprised at hearing him speak. The round-faced man stared before saying, "He near escaped from as many the night he was taken. You know I don't like prisoners escaping. I asked for twice as many. Move on, now. The King waits."

Half the soldiers went before him, and half behind, the jailors walking on either side. The crossbowmen brought up the rear, where they could get a shot at him did he run, in whatever direction. So they made their way up into the Palace and through corridors once more bare of nobles.

Conan strode in their midst as if they were an honor guard and he on his way to his coronation. There was no glimmer of escape in his mind. At the wolf pit would most certainly be the impostor Garian and Albanus. Under the circumstances, a man could do worse than die killing those two.

Their way led through the parts of the Palace familiar to the Cimmerian, and beyond. Polished marble and alabaster gave way to plain dressed granite, then to stone as rough as that of the dungeons. Lamps of gold and silver were replaced by torches in iron sconces.

The wolf pit was an ancient penalty indeed, and had, in fact, not been imposed since the time of Bragorus, nine centuries earlier. Nor had any come to this portion of the Palace at all in several centuries, to judge by its appearance. The halls showed signs of hasty cleaning, here a torn cobweb hanging from the ceiling, there dust left heaped against the wall. Conan wondered why Albanus had gone to all this trouble after replacing Garian with the impostor. And then they entered the circular chamber of the pit.

Though of the same rough stone, it was yet as marvelously wrought as any of the great alabaster rooms in the Palace. Like half of a sphere, its walls rose to a towering height unsupported by column or buttress.

Below, a broad walk spotted with huge tripod lamps twice as tall as a man was crowded with the nobility of Nemedia, laughing gaily as men and women at a circus, pressing close about the waist-high stone wall that encircled the great pit.

A path to that wall cleared at their entrance, and the soldiers escorted Conan to it. Not waiting to be told, the Cimmerian leaped to the top of the wall and stood surveying those who had assembled to watch him die. Beneath his icy blue gaze they slowly fell silent, as they sensed that here was a man contemptuous of their titles and lineages. They were peacocks; he was an eagle.

Directly across the stone-floored pit from him stood the impostor King, Albanus to one side in robes of midnight blue, to the other Vegentius, his face still showing bruises beneath his red-crested helmet. Sularia was there as well, in scarlet silk and rubies, and Conan wondered why he had thought she would not attend.

Below the imposter was the man-high gate through which the wolves would be let into the pit. Conan saw no eager muzzles pressed between the bars of the gate, heard no hungry whines and growls. A complicated system of iron chains served to draw the gate aside. Perhaps he need not die.

Albanus touched the arm of the man wearing the Dragon Crown, and he began to speak. "We have gathered you-"

Conan's wild war cry rang from the rocky dome; shouts and screams ran through the nobles as, massive arms raised above his head, the Cimmerian hurled himself into the pit. Soldiers forced their way through the nobles to the wall; the crossbowmen took aim. About the straw-strewn pit Conan strode with all the cocky arrogance of youth that had never met defeat in equal combat, and in a few unequal. Albanus motioned, and the guards moved back.

"Fools!" Conan taunted the assemblage. "You who have not a man among you have come to see a man die. Well, must I be talked to death by that buffoon in the crown? Get on with it, unless your livers have shriveled and you have no stomach for killing." Angry cries answered him.

Albanus whispered to the impostor, who in turn said, "As he is so eager to die, loose the wolves."

"Loose the wolves," someone else shouted, relaying the command. "Hurry!" The gate slid smoothly back.

Conan did not wait for the first wolf to emerge. Before the astonished eyes of the court the Cimmerian ran into the tunnel, roaring his battle cry. Behind, in the pit, yelling nobles dropped over the wall to seize and slay the escaping barbarian who had denied their manhood.

In the dark of the tunnel Conan found himself suddenly in the midst of the snarling wolfpack. Razor teeth ripped at him. He matched them snarl for snarl, his fists hammers that broke bones and knocked beasts the size of a man sprawling. Seizing a growling throat in his hands he dashed the wolf's brains out against the low stone roof.

In the hellish cauldron of that tunnel, the wolves knew the kindred ferocity of the young giant who faced them. As Conan fought his way deeper into their pack, they began to slip past toward the pit, seeking easier meat. The noble lords' angry yells turned to screams as bloody wolves raced among them to slay.

Ahead of him Conan saw a light.

"Accursed wolves," a voice snarled from that direction. "You're to kill some fool barbar, not each-"

The man who spoke faltered as he saw Conan coming toward him. He stood with the iron-barred gate at his end of the tunnel half open, a spear in his hand. Instead of stepping back and slamming the gate shut, he thrust at the Cimmerian.

Conan grasped the spear with both hands and easily wrenched it from the other's grasp. Before the man could do more than gape the butt of his own spear smashed into his chest, hurling him back through the gate, Conan following close behind. The wolf-keeper scrambled to his feet, a curved blade the length of his forearm protruding from his fist, and lunged.

The spear reversed smoothly in the Cimmerian's big hands. He had not so much to thrust as to let the man run onto the point, spitting himself so that the whole blade of the spear stood out from his back. A cry of both pain and horrified disbelief wrenched from the wolf-keeper's throat.

"Your wolves will not kill this barbar," Conan growled, then realized that his words had been spoken to a dead man.

Letting spear and transfixed man fall, he closed the gate, thrust the heavy iron bar that fastened it into its brackets and shoved the latch pins home. It would take time to get that open from the other side, time for him to escape. Though, from the screams and snarls that yet echoed in the tunnel, it might be some while before the soldiers dealt with wolves and panicked nobles and reached that gate.

Little there was in that chamber to be of use to him. Crude rush torches guttered in rusty iron sconces on the walls, illuminating six large, ironbarred cages mounted on wheels. No weapons were in evidence excepting only the long, curved dagger, which Conan retrieved, and the spear. He left that lodged in the wolf-keeper's body; its length would make it a cumbersome weapon in the narrow confines of the old stone corridors. There was not even cloth to bind his gashes unless he tore from his own breechclout or from the filthy, and now blood-soaked, tunic on the corpse.

The wolf-keeper had, however, brought a clay jug of wine and a large spiced sausage on which to sup while his charges did their bloody work. On these Conan fell eagerly, ripping the sausage apart with his teeth and washing it down with long gulps of sour wine. He had had no food or drink since before his imprisonment. No doubt his jailors had deemed it a waste to feed one who was to die soon. Tossing the empty jug aside and popping the last bit of sausage into his mouth, the Cimmerian took one of the rush torches and set about finding his way out of the Palace.

It did not take him long to discover that those ancient corridors were a labyrinth, never straight, crossing and recrossing themselves and each other. He had no wonder in him that the secret passages beneath the Palace had been lost; it would be all men could do to keep track of these.

Suddenly, in crossing another pitch-dark hall, he realized that his footprints had mingled with others.

Other fresh prints. He bent to examine them, and straightened with a curse. Both sets were his own. He had doubled back on himself, and could continue to do so until he starved.

Face grimly determined, he followed his own prints until he came to a forking of the passage. The trail in the dust went left. He went right. A short time later he found himself again staring at his own backtrail, but this time he did not pause to curse. Hurrying on to the next turning, he again took the opposite way to that he had taken before. And the next time. And the next.

Now the passages seemed to slope downward, but Conan pressed on regardless, even when he found himself burning a way through. halls choked with cobwebs that crisped drily at the touch of the flame.

Turning back held no more assurance of escape than going forward, only a greater chance of encountering the Golden Leopards.

Coming to a fork, the Cimmerian turned automatically right-he had taken the left at the last and stopped.

Far ahead of him was a dim glow, but it was no opening to the outside. Bobbing slightly, it was coming closer.

Hurriedly he turned back, ducked into the other side of the fork. On silent feet he ran twenty paces and hurled the torch ahead of him as far to it would go. The flames flared, fanned by the wind of the torch's flight, then winked out, leaving him in blackness.

Conan crouched, facing the direction of the fork, curved dagger at the ready. If those who approached went on, he would be without light but alive. If not....

Diffuse light reached the fork, brightening slowly, resolving into two torch-bearing figures, swords in their free hands. The Cimmerian almost laughed. Hordo and Karela, but the Karela he had known long ago.

Gone were the veils and gray robes of a Nemedian noblewomen, replaced by golden breastplates and a narrow girdle of gold and emeralds, worn low on her rounded hips, from which hung strips of pale green silk. A Turanian cape of emerald green encircled her shoulders.

"Hordo," Conan called, "had I known you were coming I wouldn't have drunk all the wine." Nonchalantly he strolled to meet them.

The two whirled, swords coming up, torches raised. From the other fork men in jazeraint hauberks crowded. Machaon, Narus, more familiar faces from his Free-Company, pushed into the light.

Hordo took in Conan's gashes, but did not speak of them. "'Tis not like you," he said gruffly, "to drink all the wine. Mayhap we could find some more, if we look."

Karela threw the one-eyed man a murderous look and shoved her torch into Machaon's hand. With gentle fingers she touched Conan's wounds, wincing at purpled flesh and dried blood.

"I knew you would change your mind," Conan said, reaching for her.

Her hand cracked across his face, and she stepped back smoothly with blade half raised. "I should throw you back to the wolves," she hissed.

From somewhere in the darkness beyond the armored men, a voice called unintelligibly. Another answered, both fading as the speakers moved further away.

"They hunt me," Conan said quietly. "An you know a way out of here, I suggest we take it. Else we must fight a few hundred Golden Leopards."

Muttering, Karela snatched back her torch and forced her way through the men of the Free-Company to disappear back up the other fork.

"She's the only one knows the way," Hordo said quickly. He hurried after her, and Conan followed.

Machaon and the rest fell in behind, their booted feet grating in the dust of centuries.

"How did you get into the Palace?" Conan demanded of the one-eyed man as they half-trotted after the auburn-haired beauty. "And what made Karela decide to let you know who she was?"

"Mayhap I'd best begin at the beginning," Hordo puffed. "First thing that happened was, after you were arrested, a hundred Golden Leopards came for us, and-"

"I know about that," Conan said. "You got away. What then?"

"You heard about that, did you? I'm too old for this running, Cimmerian." Despite his heavy breathing, though, the bearded man kept pace easily. "I took the company to the Thestis. Hellgate is near the safest part of Belverus these days. Everybody who lives there is up in the High Streets waving a sword and shouting revolution. And maybe breaking into some rich man's house now and again."

"What else did you expect?" Conan laughed grimly. "They're poor, and have riches within their reach. But about Karela."

Hordo shook his shaggy head. "She walked into the Thestis this very morn. No, she strode in, looking as if she was ready for her hounds to follow her against a caravan of gold. From what you said, you knew she was here already, eh?"

"Not until I was in the dungeon," Conan replied. "I will explain later."

Suddenly Karela stopped, stretching on tiptoe to reach a rusty iron sconce. She seemed to be trying to twist it.

"Looks like where we came in," Hordo muttered softly. "Looks like twenty places we passed, too."

Emerald eyes flashed at him scornfully, and he subsided.

Just as Conan was about to step forward to her aid, the sconce turned with a sharp click. A shot distance away on the same wall was another sconce, which Karela treated the same way. It swiveled, clicked, and there was a heavier thunk from deep within the wall. With a grate of machinery long unused, a section of stone wall as high as a man and twice as wide receded jerkily to reveal a descending flight of crude brick stairs.

"If you two can stop chattering like old women for a moment," Karela said bitingly, "follow me. And take care. Some of the bricks are crumbling. It would pain me for you to break your neck, Cimmerian. I reserve that pleasure for myself." And she darted down the steps.

Hordo shrugged uncomfortably. "I told you, she's the only one knows the way."

Conan nodded. "Follow me," he told Machaon, "and pass the word to watch for crumbling steps." The grizzled sergeant began muttering over his shoulder to those behind.

Taking a deep breath Conan followed Karela down the dark stairs, lit only by her torch, now only a glimmer far below. He did not actually believe that she would come just to lead him into a trap of her own devising rather than let him die at someone else's hands. But then, he did not entirely disbelieve it either.

At the bottom of the long stair, Karela waited impatiently. "Are they all in?" she demanded as soon as he entered the light of her torch. Without waiting for him to reply she called up the stair. "Is everyone clear of the entrance?"

There was some scraping of feet on stone, then a voice called back hoarsely, "We're clear, but I hear boots coming."

Calmly Karela placed both feet on one particular stone, which sank a finger's breadth beneath her weight. The grating of machinery sounded again.

"It's closing," the same man's voice shouted incredulously.

Karela's tilted eyes met Conan's. "Fools," she said, seeming to include all men, but most certainly him.

With a quick, "Follow or stay, I care not," she started down a long tunnel, torchlight glinting off damp walls.

Even the air felt moldy, Conan thought as he set out after her.

"As I was saying," Hordo resumed, striding beside the Cimmerian, "she walked into the Thestis ready to take command. Wouldn't tell me where she'd been, or how she knew where I was. Threatened to put a scar down my other cheek if I did not stop asking questions."

His lone eye swiveled to Conan expectantly, but the big youth was watching Karela, wondering what was in her mind. Why had she come to rescue him? "And?" he said absently when he realized that Hordo had stopped talking.

The one-eyed man grunted sourly. "And nobody tells me anything," he grunted sourly. "She had a woman with her. You remember the Lady Jelanna? 'Twas her, but not so haughty this time. Bedraggled and haggard, she was, with bruises on her face and arms, and terrified to tears. 'She will not stop,' she kept moaning, 'not until I am broken.' And Karela kept soothing her and looking at the rest of us like it was us had done whatever had been done to this Jelanna."

"Crom," Conan muttered. "Do you have to be so long-winded? What does Jelanna have to do with anything?"

"Why, it was her told Karela how to find this passage. Lady Jelanna grew up in the Palace, it seems, playing hide-and-seek and such, as children do. Only sometimes they played in the old parts of the Palace, and she found three or four of the secret passages. She got out of the Palace by one herself. She was desperate to get out of the city, Cimmerian, so I told off two men to escort her to her estate in the country. Least I could do, and her showing us how to get in to you. I tell you true, I thought the next time I saw you we'd both be taking a pull at the Hellborn."

"That still doesn't tell me why she would aid me," Conan said, with a jerk of his head at Karela to indicate which 'she' he meant.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth than the auburn-haired woman rounded on him. "The wolves were too good for you, you big Cimmerian oaf. If you are to be torn to pieces, I want to do it with my own hands. I want to hear you beg my forgiveness, you barbar bastard. I get first call at you, before that fool Garian."

Conan eyed her calmly, a slight smile on his lips. "Did you stop because you lost the way, Karela? I will take the lead, an you wish."

With a snarl she drew back her torch as if to strike him with it.

"There it is," Hordo shouted, pointing to a short flight of stairs, barely revealed by the light, that led up to the ceiling and stopped. Relief dripped from every word. "Come on, Cimmerian," he went on, herding Conan quickly past the furious-eyed woman. "We had trouble getting this back in place, in case anybody should take a look at the other side, but you and I should be able to lift it clear." In a fierce whisper he added, "Watch your tongue, man. She's been like a scalded cat ever since Machaon and those other fools told her they'd never heard of the Red Hawk."

Eyeing the fierce scowl with which Karela watched them, Conan managed to turn his laughter into a cough. "This other side," he said. "Where is it? If there's anyone there, will they be likely to fight?"

"Not a chance of it," Hordo laughed. "Now put your shoulder into it."

The stairs seemed to end in one large slab of stone. It was to this Hordo urged Conan to apply himself.

When he did, the thick slab lifted. With Hordo's aid he slid it aside, then scrambled warily up. A heavy smell of incense filled the air. As the others followed with torches, Conan saw that he was in a windowless room filled with barrels and bales. Some of the bales were broken open to reveal incense sticks.

"A temple?" the Cimmerian asked in disbelief. "The passage comes out in the cellar of a temple?"

Hordo laughed and nodded. Motioning for silence, the one-eyed man climbed a wooden ladder fastened to one wall, and cautiously lifted a trapdoor. His head went up for a quick look, then he motioned the rest to follow and scrambled out himself.

Conan was quick to follow. He found himself in dim light from silver lamps, between a large rectangular block of marble and a towering, shadowed statue. With a start it came to him that he was between the altar stone and the idol of Erebus, a place where none but sanctified priests were allowed. But then, what was one death sentence more or less?

Quickly everyone found their way out of the cellar and, by way of narrow halls of pale marble, to a courtyard behind the temple. There two more of the Free-Company waited with the horses. And, Conan was glad to note, with hauberk, helm and scimitar for him. Hastily he armed himself properly.

"We can be beyond the city walls," Hordo said, swinging into his saddle, "before they think to look outside the Palace."

"We cannot leave yet," Conan said quietly. He settled his helm on his head and likewise mounted.

"Ariane is in Albanus' hands."

"Yet another woman?" Karela said dangerously.

"She befriended Hordo and me," Conan said, "and as reward for it Albanus has her. I swore to see her safely out of this, and I will."

"You and your oaths," Karela muttered, but when he galloped out of the courtyard she was first of the company behind him.

Chapter XXIII

Isolated plumes of smoke rose into the bright afternoon sky above Belverus, marking houses of the wealthy that had been visited by revolutionary mobs. The sound of those mobs could be heard from time to time, borne on the breeze. It was a wordless, hungering snarl.

Once in that gallop across the city Conan saw one of those howling packs, some three of four score ragged men and women pounding at the locked doors and barred windows of a house with axes, swords, rocks, their bare hands. In the same instant that he saw them, they became aware of the Free-Company. A growl rippled through them, a sound that seemed impossible to come from a human throat, and like rats pouring from a sewer they threw themselves toward the mounted men. In their eyes was a hatred of any who had more than they, even if it was only armor. Many of the weapons they waved were bloodied.

"The bows will drive them back," Hordo shouted.

Conan was not so sure. There was desperation in those faces. "Ride," he commanded.

Galloping on, they quickly left the mob behind, yet even as it was disappearing from sight its members kept pursuing, their howls heard long after they could no longer be seen.

On reaching Albanus' palace, Conan did not pause. "Every third man stay with the horses," he commanded. "Everybody else over the wall. Bring your bows. Not you," he added, as Karela maneuvered her horse close to the wall.

"You do not command me, Cimmerian," she spat back. "I go where I please."

"Erlik take all hardheaded women," Conan muttered, but he said no more to her.

Standing on his saddle and taking a care where he placed his hands among the pottery shards, he hoisted himself to the top of the wall. As if they had trained for such a thing Hordo, Karela and four and twenty of the others smoothly followed. Below, half a score of men ran from the gatehouse. They had only time to gape before arrows humming like hornets cut them down.

Conan dropped to the ground inside, his eyes blue ice, and ran past the bodies. He half heard the thuds of the others following, but he paid them no mind. Ariane filled his mind. His word had sent her to Albanus. Now his honor demanded he free her if it cost his own life.

With a single heave of his massive arm he threw back one of the tall door of the palace. Before the crash of its striking the marble wall had finished reverberating in the columned hall, a helmeted man in the cloak of the Golden Leopards ran to face the young Cimmerian giant, sword in hand.

"Ariane," Conan shouted as he beat aside the soldier's attack. "Where are you, Ariane?" His blade half-severed the man's head; he kicked the falling body aside and hurried deeper into the palace.

"Ariane!"

More Golden Leopards appeared now, and Conan threw himself at them in a frenzy, his wild battle cry ringing from the arched ceiling, his blade slashing and hacking as if possessed of a demon, or wielded by one. The soldiers fell back in confusion, leaving three of their number dead or dying, unsure of how to face this wildman of the barbarian northcountry. Then Hordo and the others were on them as well. The one-eyed man's fierce mien was matched by the ferocity of his attack. Karela danced among them, blade darting like a wasp, each time drawing back blooded.

Even as the last body fell, Conan was shouting to his men. "Spread out. Search every room, if need be.

Find the girl called Ariane."

He himself strode through the halls like an avenging god. Servants and slaves took one look at the thundercloud of his face and fled. He let them go, seeking only one person. Then he saw another that interested him. The gray-bearded chamberlain tried to run, but Conan seized a fistful of the man's tunic and lifted him till only the other's toes touched the floor.

Conan's voice held the promise of death. "Where is the girl Ariane, chamberlain?"

"I... I know no girl-"

Conan's arm knotted, lifted the other clear of the floor. "The girl," he said softly Sweat beaded the chamberlain's face. "Lord Albanus," he gasped. "He took her to the Royal Palace."

With a groan the Cimmerian let the gray-bearded man drop. The chamberlain darted away; Conan let him go. The Palace. How could he get to her there? Could he return through the secret passage from the Temple of Erebus? He would spend the rest of his life wandering in the ancient labyrinth without ever finding his way into the newer Palace.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to find Hordo bearing down on him, Machaon and Karela close behind.

"Machaon found someone in the dungeons," Hordo said quickly. "Not the girl. A man who looks like King Garian, and even claims he-"

"Show me," Conan said. Hope took life again within him.

The dungeons beneath Albanus' palace were much like any others, rough stone, heavy wooden doors on rusting hinges, a thick smell of stale urine and fear sweat. Still, when Conan looked into the cell to which Machaon led him, he smiled as if it were a fountained garden.

The ragged, dirty man chained to the wall stirred uncertainly. "Well, Conan," he said, "have you joined Albanus and Vegentius?"

"Derketo," Karela breathed. "He does look like Garian."

"He is Garian," Conan said. "That bruise on his cheek names him so."

Garian's chains clanked as he touched the bruise. He laughed shakily. "To be known by so little a thing."

"If this be Garian," Karela demanded, "then who sits on the Dragon Throne?"

"An impostor," Conan replied. "He has no bruise. Fetch me hammer and chisel. Quickly." Machaon disappeared to return in moments with the required items.

As Conan knelt to lay chisel to the first manacle at Garian's ankle, the King said, "You will be rewarded for this, barbarian. All that Albanus possesses will be yours when I regain the throne."

Conan did not speak. One mighty blow with the hammer split the riveted iron band open. He moved to the next.

"You must get me out of the city," Garian went on. "Once I reach the army, all will be well. I grew up in those camps. They will know me. I'll return at the head of ten thousand swords to tear Albanus from the Palace."

"And to start a civil war," Conan said. He freed the other ankle, again with a single blow. "The impostor looks much like you. Many will believe he is you, most especially since he speaks from the Dragon Throne. Perhaps even the army will not be as quick to believe as you think."

Hordo groaned. "No, Cimmerian. This is not our affair. Let us put the border behind us."

Neither Conan nor Garian paid him any mind. The King was silent until Conan had broken off the manacles from his wrists. Then he said quietly, "What do you suggest, Conan?"

"Re-enter the Palace," Conan said as though that were the easiest thing in the world. "Confront the imposter. Not all the Golden Leopards can be traitors. You can regain your throne without a sword being lifted outside the Palace walls." He did not think it politic to mention the mobs roaming the streets.

"A bold plan," Garian mused. "Yet most of the Golden Leopards are loyal to me. I overheard those who guarded me here talking. We will do it. I go to regain my throne, Cimmerian, but you have already gained my eternal gratitude." His regal manner was returning to him. He regarded his own filth with an amused smile. "But if I am to re-enter the Palace, I must wash and garb myself to look the King."

As Garian strode from the cell, shouting for hot water and clean robes, Conan frowned, wondering why the King's last words had been so disquieting. But there was no time to consider that now. There was Ariane to think of.

"Cimmerian," Karela said angrily, "if you think I will ride at your side back to the Palace, you are a bigger fool than I believe you. 'Tis a deathtrap."

"I have not asked you to go," he replied. "Often enough you've told me you go where you will."

Her scowl said that was neither the answer she expected nor the one she wanted.

"Hordo," the Cimmerian went on, "bring the men in from the street. Let all know where we go. Let those who will not follow go. I'll have no man ride with me this day against his will."

Hordo nodded and left. Behind Conan Karela uttered an inarticulate oath. Conan ignored her, his mind already occupied with the problem of gaining entry to the Palace and, more important to him than regaining Garian's throne, getting Ariane free.

When Conan strode from the palace with Garian, now resplendent in the best scarlet velvet he could find to fit him, the Cimmerian was not surprised to find all eight and thirty of his men mounted and waiting, even those who bore wounds from the past hour's fighting. He knew he had chosen good men. He was surprised though, to see Karela sitting her horse beside Hordo. Her green glare dared him to question her presence. He mounted without speaking. There were enough problems to be confronted that day without another argument with her.

"I am ready," Garian announced as he climbed into the saddle. He had a broadsword strapped on over his tunic.

"Let us ride," Conan commanded, and led the small band out of the palace grounds at a gallop.

Chapter XXIV

The approach to the Palace, up the winding streets to the top of the hill and across the greensward to the drawbridge, was made at a slow walk. Garian rode slightly to the front of Conan. A King should lead his army, he had said, even when it was a small one. Conan agreed, hoping the sight of Garian would make the guards hesitate enough to let them get inside.

At the drawbridge they dismounted, and the guards there indeed stared open-mouthed as Garian strode up to them.

"Do you recognize me?" Garian demanded.

Both nodded, and one said, "You are the King. But how did you leave the Palace? There was no call for an honor guard."

Conan breathed a sigh of relief. There were not Vegentius' men. The guards eyed those behind the King, most especially Karela, but kept their main attention on Garian.

"Do you think the King does not know the secret ways beneath this hill?" Garian smiled as if the thought were laughable. As the two guards began to smile as well, though, his face became grim. "Are you loyal men? Loyal to your King?"

The two stiffened as one, and both recited the oath of the Golden Leopards as if to remind Garian of it.

"My sword follows he who wears the Dragon Crown. My flesh is a shield for the Dragon Throne. As the King commands, I obey, to the death."

Garian nodded. "Then know that there is a plot against the Dragon Throne, and its perpetrators are Lord Albanus and Commander Vegentius."

Conan put his hand to his sword as the soldiers started, but they merely stared at the King.

"What are we to do?" one of them asked finally.

"Take those who are in the barbican," Garian told them, "leaving only two to lower the portcullis and guard the gate, and go with them to your barracks. Rouse all who are there. Let your cry be, 'Death to Albanus and Vegentius!' Any who will not shout that are enemies of the Dragon Throne, even if they wear the golden cloak."

"Death to Albanus and Vegentius," one guard said, and the other repeated it.

When they had disappeared into the barbican, Garian sagged. "I did not think it would be this easy," he told Conan.

"It won't be," Conan assured him.

"I still think I should have told them of the imposter, Cimmerian."

Conan shook his head. "It would only confuse them. They'll find out after he's dead, if luck is with us." It mattered little to him when or how they found out, so long as there was enough confusion for his purposes. He eyed the door to the barbican. What took them so long?

Suddenly there was a cry from inside the stone gatehouse, cut abruptly short. One of those who had stood at the gate appeared in the door with a bloody blade in his fist. "There was one who would not say it," he said.

One by one those others who had been on guard slipped out, sword in hand. Each paused long enough to say to the King, "Death to Albanus and Vegentius," then trotted into the Palace.

"You see," Garian told Conan as they led the Free-Company through the gate. "It will be easy."

As the portcullis rattled down behind them, shouts rang out from the direction of the Golden Leopards'

quarters, and the clash of swords. An alarm gong began to ring, then stopped with a suddenness that spoke of the death of him who had sounded it. The sounds of fighting spread.

"I want to find Albanus," Garian said. "And Vegentius."

Conan only nodded. He, too, wanted Albanus. Vegentius he would take if he came across him. He hurried on, the Free-Company deployed behind him. First he would try the throne room.

Abruptly two score golden-cloaked soldiers appeared ahead.

"For Garian!" Conan called, not slowing. "Death to Albanus and Vegentius!"

"Kill them!" came the reply. "For Vegentius!"

The two groups ran together roaring, swords swinging.

Conan ripped the throat from the first man he faced without even crossing swords, and then he was like a machine, blade rising and falling and rising again bloodier than before. The way was forward. He hacked his way through, like a peasant through a field of wheat, chopping and moving forward, leaving bloody human stubble behind.

And then he was clear of the melee. He did not pause to see how his companions fared against those who had survived his blade. The numbers were on the Free-Company's side, now, and he yet had to find Ariane. Of Garian he cared not one way or the other.

Straight to the throne room he ran. The guards that normally stood at the great carven doors were gone, drawn into the fighting that sounded now in every corridor. The door that usually was opened by three men, Conan pushed open unaided.

The great columned chamber stood empty, the Dragon Throne guarding it with a malignant glare.

The King's apartments, Conan thought. He set out still at a run, and those who faced him died. He no longer waited to call out the challenge. Any who wore the golden cloak and did not flee were the enemy.

Few fled, and he regretted killing them only for the delay it caused him. Ariane. They slowed him finding Ariane.

Karela stalked the Palace halls like a panther. She was alone, now. After the first fight she had searched among the bodies for Conan, uncertain whether she wanted to find him or not. There had not been long to look, for other soldiers loyal to Vegentius had appeared, and the fighting that followed had carried all who still stood away from that spot. She had seen Garian laying about him, and Hordo desperately trying to fight his way to her side. The one-eyed man had been like death incarnate, yet she was glad he had not been able to follow. There was that she had to do of which her faithful hound would not approve.

Suddenly there was a man before her, blood from a scalp wound trickling down his too-handsome face.

The sword in his hand was stained as well, and from the way he moved he knew how to use it.

"A wench with a sword," he laughed. "Best you throw it down and run, else I might think you intend to use it."

She recognized him then. "You run, Demetrio. I have no wish to soil my blade with your blood." She had no quarrel with him, but he stood between her and where she wanted to go.

His laugh turned into a snarl. "Bitch!" He lunged, expecting an easy kill.

With ease she beat aside his overconfident attack and slashed him across the chest with her riposte.

Shaken, he leaped back. She followed, never allowing him to set himself for the attack again. Their blades flashed intricate silver patterns in the air between them, ringing almost continually. He was good, she admitted, but she was better. He died with a look of incredulous horror on his face.

Stepping over his body-she hurried on, until at last she came to the chambers she sought. Carefully she pushed the door open with her blade.

Sularia, in the blue velvet robes of a noblewoman, faced her, frowning. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Some lord's leman? Don't you know enough not to enter my apartments without permission? Well, as you're here, what word of the fighting?" Her eye fell on the bloody sword in Karela's hand, and she gasped.

"You sent a friend of mine to the lowest of Zandru's Hells," Karela said quietly. With measured paces she stepped into the room. The blonde backed away before her.

"Who are you? I know none who are friends of your sort. Leave my chambers immediately, or I'll have you flogged."

Karela laughed grimly. "Jelanna would not know your sort, either, but you know of her. As for me, I do not expect you to recognize the Lady Tiana without her veils."

"You're mad!" Sularia said, a quaver in her voice. Her back was almost to the wall.

Karela let her sword drop as she continued her advance. "I need no sword for you," she said softly. "A sword is for an equal."

From beneath her robes Sularia drew a dagger, its blade as wide as a man's finger and no more than twice as long. "Fool," she laughed. "If you truly are Tiana, I'll give you reason to wear your veils." And she lunged for Karela's eyes.

The auburn-haired woman moved nothing but a single hand, which darted to close over the hand that held the dagger. Sularia's blue eyes widened in disbelief as her lunge was stopped by a grip made steel by long hours with a sword. Karela knotted her other hand in those blonde tresses, tight enough to force the woman to meet her hard emerald gaze. Slowly she twisted, forcing the dagger and the hand that held it alike to turn.

"Despite it all," she whispered to the blonde, "you might have lived had not you put your sluttish hands on him." With all her strength she drove the dagger home in Sularia's heart.

Letting the dead woman fall, Karela retrieved her sword and wiped the blade contemptuously on a wall hanging. There was still the Cimmerian.

Her mind whirling with a thousand thoughts of what she would do to him when she found him, she stalked from the room. Almost she had been ready to let him live, but Sularia had brought it all flooding back, all the thousand humiliations she had suffered because of him. That he had lain with such as Sularia was the worst humiliation of all, though when she questioned that strange thought her mind skittered away from answering.

Then, from a colonnaded gallery, she saw him in a courtyard below, lost in thought. No doubt he still wondered how to find this precious Ariane of his. Her beautiful face twisted in a savage snarl. From the corner of her eye she caught a movement below, and her breath suddenly would not come. Vegentius had entered the courtyard, and Conan had not moved. Slowly, like a murderer in the night, the big soldier, as big as Conan, crept forward, ensanguined sword upraised. His red-crested helmet and chain mail looked untouched, though that bloody blade was proof he had seen fighting. At any moment he would strike, and she would see Conan die. Tears ran down her face. Tears of joy, she told herself. It would give her much joy to see the Cimmerian meet his death. Much joy.

"Conan!" she screamed. "Behind you!"

Conan listened to the approaching footsteps, footsteps that grew less wary by the second. The Cimmerian's hand already rested on his sword hilt. He did not know who it was that crept toward him, save that by his actions he was an enemy. Whoever he was, a few steps more and the surpriser would be the one surprised. Just one step more.

"Conan!" a scream rang out. "Behind you!"

Cursing his lost advantage the Cimmerian threw himself forward, tucking his shoulder under as he hit the flagstones, drawing his scimitar as he rolled to his feet. He found himself facing a very surprised Vegentius.

A quick glance upward showed him the source of the shout, Karela, half hanging over the stone rail of a gallery two stories above the courtyard. He knew it had to be his imagination, yet in that brief look he could have sworn that she was crying. It did not matter, in any case. He must concern himself with the man he faced.

Vegentius wore a grin as if what was to come were the greatest wish of his life. "Long have I wanted to face you with steel, barbar," he said. His face yet bore the yellowing bruises of their last encounter.

"That is why you try to sneak up behind me?" Conan sneered.

"Die, barbar!" the big soldier thundered, launching a towering overhead blow with his sword.

Conan's blade rose to meet it with a clang, and immediately he moved from defense to offense. Almost without moving their feet the two men faced each other, blades ringing like hammer and anvil. But it was always Conan's blade that was the hammer, always he attacking, always Vegentius parrying, ever more desperately. It was time to end, the Cimmerian thought. With a mighty swing, he struck. Blood fountained from the headless trunk of the Commander of the Golden Leopards. As the body toppled, Conan was already turning to look for Karela. The gallery was empty.

Still, he could not suppress a complacent smile at the thought that she did not hate him as much as she pretended. Else why had she cried out?

He looked around as Hordo hurried into the courtyard.

"Vegentius?" the one-eyed man asked, looking at the headless body. "I saw Albanus," he went on when Conan nodded. "And Ariane and the imposter. But when I got to where I saw them, they were gone. I think they were headed for the old part of the Palace." He hesitated. "Have you seen Karela, Cimmerian?

I can't find her, and I do not want to lose her again."

Conan pointed out the gallery where Karela had stood. "Find her if you can, Hordo. I've another woman to seek."

Hordo nodded, and the two men parted in opposite directions.

Conan wished the bearded man luck, though he suspected Karela had disappeared once more. But his own concern was still Ariane. He could not imagine why Albanus would go into the ancient portion of the Palace, unless it was to escape by way of one of the secret passages. If Jelanna knew some of them, it seemed reasonable that the hawk-faced lord might also.

Yet the Cimmerian did not think he could find even the one he had escaped through, lost as it was in that maze of pitch-dark corridors. There was only the wolf pit to hope for. And hoping against hope Conan ran.

He thanked every god he could think of that he encountered no Golden Leopards as he sped through the Palace, into the rough stone corridor he remembered so well. He could afford not the slightest delay if he was to reach the wolf pit before Albanus departed. If Albanus had gone to the wolf pit. If Ariane was still alive. He refused to admit any of those ifs. They would be there. They had to be.

Almost to the pit, he heard Albanus' voice reverberating from that domed ceiling. The Cimmerian allowed himself one brief sigh of relief before entering the chamber, his eyes like blue steel.

"With this I will destroy them," Albanus was saying, caressing a blue crystal sphere in his hands as he spoke. The imposter stood beside him, and Ariane, staring unnaturally ahead, but the hawk-faced man appeared to speak only to himself. "With this I will unleash such power-"

Sorcery, Conan thought, yet it was too late to stop his advance. Albanus' dark eyes were on him already, and annoyingly seemed to see him as an irritation rather than a danger.

"Kill him, Garian," the nobleman said, and turned his attention back to the blue sphere. Ariane did not move or change expression.

Did the man truly think he was Garian, Conan wondered as the duplicate advanced. He noticed the sword the other carried, then, the same serpentine blade that he had sold to Demetrio what seemed like so long ago. That it was a sorceled weapon he no longer had any doubt, and his belief was confirmed when the blade was raised. A hungry, metallic whine sounded, the same he had thought he imagined when facing Melius.

Still he set himself. Death came when it would. No man could flee his appointed time.

The false Garian's blade blazed into motion, and Conan swung to block it. The shock of that meeting of blades nearly tore the Cimmerian's sword from his grip. There had been no such strength in Melius'

blows. That force came not from any sorcery, but from the man wielding the blade, yet Conan refused to believe that anything human could have so much strength. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Nothing human. Warily he backed away, wondering what it was he faced.

Cupping the blue crystal, ignoring the two who faced each other not twenty paces from him, Albanus began to chant. "Af-far mearoth, Omini deas kaan ...."

Conan thought he felt a rumble from deep in the bowels of the earth, but he had no time to consider it.

The creature with Garian's face stalked him, the wavy-bladed sword darting with preternatural speed.

Conan no longer attempted to block it, only to deflect it, yet even the glancing blows he felt to his heels.

Once the tip of that ensorceled blade opened a shallow gash in his cheek, sending a thin rivulet of blood trickling. The metallic whine sounded again, but louder, almost drowning out Albanus' chanting.

The creature swung again, a decapitating blow an it landed, but Conan leaped back. The blade smashed into the iron leg of one of the massive tripod lamps, shearing it in two. Slowly the lamp toppled, and Conan saw the first true expression on the creature's face. Terror, as it gazed at the fire in that falling lamp.

As if in mortal danger, the false Garian jumped back. Albanus' voice faltered, then resumed its incantation. The lamp crashed against the wall surrounding the pit, flaming oil pouring down into the pit.

Dry straw crackled alight.

Conan risked a glance at the hawk-faced lord. Above Albanus' head something was forming. A darkness, a thickening of the air. The stones beneath the Cimmerian's feet shifted, and he thought he heard thunder.

There was no time for more than a glance, though, for the creature grasped one leg of the heavy lamp and heaved it into the now fire-filled pit as easily as a man might throw aside a stick of kindling. The ground trembled continuously now, the tremors growing stronger. From the corner of his eye Conan saw the dark amorphous shape above Albanus' head lift higher into the dome, grow more solid. The nobleman's chanting became louder, more insistent. The creature advanced on Conan.

"Run, Ariane!" the Cimmerian shouted, and steadied his feet against the now pitching floor. No man could flee his own death. "Run!"

She did not move, but the simulacrum continued its steady approach, sword lifting for a strike that would smash through the Cimmerian's blade and split the man in twain.

Desperately Conan leaped aside. The tremendous blow struck sparks from the floor where he had stood. In that instant, when the creature tottered off balance from the force of its own blow and the quaking of the earth, Conan struck. Every muscle from his heels up he put into that blow, blade slamming against the creature's side. It was like striking stone. Yet, added to the rest, it was enough, for just that one instant. The simulacrum fell.

Conan had seen the speed of the creature, and had no intention of giving it time to recover its feet. Before it struck the stone floor he had dropped his sword and seized the simulacrum by its swordbelt and its tunic. With a tremendous heave the massive Cimmerian lifted the creature into the air.

"Here's the fire you fear," he shouted, and hurled it over the wall.

As it fell, a scream ripped from its throat. The sword was hurled away as it twisted in an inhuman effort to find some salvation from the flames. As it struck the burning straw there was a whoosh, as of oil thrown on a fire, and flames engulfed the simulacrum, yet even as a statue of flame its horrible screams would not cease.

As Conan raised his eyes from the pit, they met those of Albanus. The dark lord's mouth struggled to form the words of his chant, but from his chest projected the blood-hungry sword that had been hurled with such inhuman strength. Beside him Ariane stirred. Sorcerous spells died with the sorcerer, and Albanus was dying.

Conan hurried to her side. As he took her hand, she looked at him dazedly. Albanus fought still to form words, but blood was filling his mouth.

As the Cimmerian turned to lead Ariane from the chamber, his gaze was drawn by what occupied the height of the dome. He had an impression of countless eyes, of tentacles without number. His own eyes refused to take it all in, his mind refused to accept what he saw. From whatever floated horribly above, a ray of light struck down, shattering the blue crystal. Albanus' eyes glazed in death as the fragments fell from his hand.

Thunder rumbled in the room, and Conan knew it for the laughter of a demon, or a god. The dark shape above gathered itself. Conan scooped up Ariane and ran, as that which was above smashed through the dome. Stones showered down, filling the wolf pit, and dust belched after him. Collapsing walls toppled still other walls. Spreading out in a wave of destruction from the wolf-pit, the ancient portions of the Palace crumbled in on themselves.

Conan was running on polished marble floors before he realized that that floor no longer tossed like a ship in a storm and rubble no longer pelted him. He stopped and looked back through the slowly clearing dust. The corridor behind him was filled from top to bottom with shattered debris, and he could see the sunset sky through a hole in a ceiling that had borne three stories above it. Yet, except for a few cracked walls, there seemed to be remarkably little destruction outside of the ancient parts of the Palace.

Ariane stirred in his arms, and he reluctantly set her down. She was a pleasant armful, even covered in dust and rock chips. Coughing, she stared around her. "Conan? Where did you come from? Is this the Royal Palace? What happened?"

"I'll explain later," the Cimmerian said. Or some of it, he thought with another look at the devastation behind them. "Let's find King Garian, Ariane. I've a reward coming."

Chapter XXV

Strolling down the hall of the palace that had once belong to Albanus-and had for two days now, by decree of King Garian, belonged to him-Conan paused to heft an ivory statuette. Intricately carved, it was light and would fetch a good price in almost any city. He added it to the sack he carried and moved on.

He reached the columned entry hall just as Hordo and Ariane came through the front doors, now standing open. "About time you came back," the Cimmerian said. "What is it like out there?"

Hordo shrugged. "City Guards and what Golden Leopards are left are patrolling the streets against looters. Not that many are left. Seems they thought that earthquake was the judgment of the gods against them. Then, too, some claim to have seen a demon hovering over the Royal Palace at the height of the earthquake." He gave an unconvincing laugh. "Strange what people see, is it not?"

"Strange indeed," Conan replied in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Even if he managed to convince Hordo of what had occurred at the wolf pit, the one-eyed man would only moan about being too old for such any longer. "What about the Thestis?" he asked Ariane.

She sighed wearily, not looking at him. "The Thestis is done. Too many of us saw too much of what our fine talk leads to. Garian is releasing Graecus and the others from the mines, but I doubt we will be able to look any of the others in the face for a long time. I... I intend to leave Nemedia."

"Come with me to Ophir," Conan said.

"I go to Aquilonia with Hordo," she replied.

Conan stared. It was not that he objected to losing her to Hordo-well, a little, he admitted grudgingly, even to a friend-but after all, he had saved her life. What sort of gratitude was this?

She shifted defiantly under his gaze, and put an arm around the one-eyed man. "Hordo has a faithful heart, which is more than I can say for some other men. It may not be faithful to me, but it is still faithful.

Besides, I told you long ago that I decide who shares my sleeping mat." Her voice held an exculpatory note; a tightness at her mouth said that she heard it, and refused to admit that she had anything to excuse.

Conan shook his head disgustedly. He remembered an ancient saying. Women and cats are never owned, they just visit for a time. At the moment he thought he would take the cat.

Then her destination, and Hordo's, penetrated. "Why Aquilonia?" Conan asked him.

The one-eyed man passed him a folded sheet of parchment and said, "I heard a rumor she went east.

There's something in there for you, as well."

Conan opened the sheet and read.

Hordo, my most faithful hound,

When you receive this I will be gone from Nemedia with all my goods and servants. Do not follow. I will not again be so pleased to find you on my trail. Yet I wish you well. Tell the Cimmerian I am not finished with him.

Karela

Below the signature, in red ink, was the outline of a hawk.

"But you follow anyway," Conan said, handing back the sheet.

"Of course," Hordo replied. Carefully he tucked the letter into his pouch. "But why this talk of going to Ophir now? Garian will make you a lord, next."

"I remembered that blind soothsayer in the Gored Ox," the Cimmerian said.

"That old fool? I told you to see one of my astrologers."

"But he was right," Conan said quietly. "A woman of sapphires and gold. Sularia. A woman of emeralds and ruby. Karela. They'd both have watched me die, for exactly the reasons he named. The rest was right, as well. And do you remember how he ended?"

"How?" Hordo asked.

"Save a throne, save a king, kill a king or die. Whatever comes, whatever is, mark well your time to fly.

He also said to beware the gratitude of kings. I'm taking him to heart, if a little late."

The one-eyed man snorted, looking about him at the marble columns and alabaster walls. "I see little enough to beware of in this gratitude."

"Kings are absolute rulers," Conan told him, "and feeling grateful makes them feel less absolute. On that I'll wager. And the best way to get rid of that feeling is to get rid of the man to whom he must be grateful.

Do you see now?"

"You sound like a philosopher," Hordo grumbled.

Conan threw back his head and laughed. "All the gods forbid."

"Captain," Machaon said, entering from the back, "the company is mounted, every man with a sack of loot at his saddle. Though I never heard of a man ordering his own palace looted before."

Conan met Hordo's gaze levelly. "Take whatever you want, old friend, but do not tarry overlong." He held out his hand, and the other grasped it, a custom they had picked up in the east.

"Fare you well, Conan of Cimmeria," Hordo said gruffly. "Take a pull at the Hellborn for me, an you get there before me."

"Fare you well, Hordo of Zamora. And you the same, if you're first."

The Cimmerian did not look again at Ariane as he strode from the hall, She had made her choice.

Behind the palace the Free-Company waited, the score that survived, mounted and armed. Conan swung into his saddle.

A strange end, he thought, riding away from proffered riches in this fashion. And two women, either of whom he would have been pleased to have ride with him, but neither of whom wanted him. That was a strange thing for him in itself. Still, he reminded himself, there would be women aplenty in Ophir, and the rumors of trouble meant there would be blade-fee for his Free-Company.

"We ride for Ophir," he commanded, and galloped out of the gates at the head of his company. He did not look back.

Conan the Triumphant

Prologue

The great granite mound called Tor Al'Kiir crouched like a malevolent toad in the night, wearing a crown of toppled walls and ruined columns, memories of failed attempts by a score of Ophirean dynasties to build there. Men had long since forgotten the origin of the mountain's name, but they knew it for a place of ill luck and evil, and laughed at the former kings who had not had their sense. Yet their laughter was tinged with unease for there was that about the mountain that made it a place to avoid even in thought.

The roiling black clouds of the storm that lashed Ianthe, that sprawling golden-domed and alabaster-spired city to the south, seemed to center about the mountain, but no muffled murmur of the thunder that rattled roof-tiles in the capital, no flash of light from lightnings streaking the dark like dragons' tongues, penetrated to the depths of Tor Al'Kiir's heart.

The Lady Synelle knew of the storm, though she could not hear it. It was proper for the night. Let the heavens split, she thought, and mountains be torn asunder in honor of his return to the world of men.

Her tall form was barely covered by a black silk tabard, tightly belted with golden links, that left the outer curves of breasts and hips bare.

None of those who knew her as a princess of Ophir would have recognized her now, dark eyes glittering, beautiful face seemingly carved from marble, spun-platinum hair twisted about her head in severe coils and bearing a coronet of golden chain. There were four horns on the brow of that coronet, symbol that she was High Priestess of the god she had chosen to serve. But the bracelets of plain black iron that encircled her wrists were a symbol as well, and one she hated, for the god Al'Kiir accepted only those into his service who admitted themselves to be his slaves. Ebon silk that hung to her ankles, the hem weighted by golden beads, stirred against her long, slender legs as, barefoot, she led a strange procession deeper into the mountain through rough hewn passages, lit by dark iron cressets suggesting the form of a horrible, four-horned head.

A score of blackmailed warriors were strange enough, their faces covered by slitted helmets bearing four horns, two outthrust to the sides and two curling down before the helmet, making them seem more demons than men. The quillons of their broadswords were formed of four horns as well, and each wore on his chest, picked out in scarlet, the outline of the monstrous horned head only hinted by the fiery iron baskets suspended by chains from the roof of the tunnel.

Stranger still was the woman they escorted, clothed in Ophirean bridal dress, diaphanous layers of pale cerulean silk made opaque by their number, caught at the waist with a cord of gold. Her long hair, black as a raven's wing, curling about her shoulders, was filled with the tiny white blossoms of the tarla, symbol of purity, and her feet were bare as a sign of humility. She stumbled, and rough hands grasped her arms to hold her erect.

"Synelle!" the black-haired woman called woozily. A hint of her natural haughtiness came through her drug-induced haze. "Where are we, Synelle?

How did I come here?"

The cortege moved on. Synelle gave no outward sign that she had heard.

Inwardly her only reaction was relief that the drug was wearing off. It had been necessary in order to remove the woman from her palace in Ianthe, and it had made her easier to prepare and bring this far, but her mind must be clear for the ceremony ahead.

Power, Synelle thought. A woman could have no real power in Ophir, yet power was what she craved. Power was what she would have. Men thought that she was content to order the estates she had inherited, that she would eventually marry and give stewardship of those landsownership in all but name-to her husband. In their fools' blindness they did not stop to think that royal blood coursed in her veins. Did ancient laws not forbid a woman taking the crown, she would stand next in succession to the childless King now on the throne in Ianthe. Valdric sat his throne, consumed with chiwing his retinue of sorcerers and physicians to find a cure for the wasting sickness that killed him by inches, too busy to name an heir or to see that, for this failure to do so, the noble lords of Ophir struggled and fought to gain the seat his death would vacate.

A dark, contented smile touched Synelle's full red lips. Let those proud men strut in their armor and tear at one another like starving wolfhounds in a pit. They would wake from their dreams of glory to find that the Countess of Asmark had become Queen Synelle of Ophir, and she would teach them to heel like whipped curs.

Abruptly the passage widened into a great, domed cavern, the very memory of which had passed from the minds of men. Burning tapers on unadorned walls hacked from the living stone lit the smooth stone floor, which bore only two tall, slender wooden posts topped with the omnipresent four-horned head. Ornament had been far from the minds of those who had burrowed into a nameless mountain in a now forgotten age.

They had meant it as prison for the adamantine figure, colored like old blood, that stood dominating the grotto, as it would have dominated the greatest place ever conceived. A statue it seemed, yet was not.

The massive body was as that of a man, though half again as tall as any human male, save for the six claw-tipped fingers on each broad hand. In its malevolent, horned head were three lidless eyes, smouldering blackly with a glow that ate light, and its mouth was a broad, lipless gash filled with rows of needle-sharp teeth. The figure's thick arms were encircled by bracers and armlets bearing its own horned likeness.

About its waist was a wide belt and loinguard of intricately worked gold, a coiled black whip glistening metallically on one side, a monstrous dagger with horned quillons depending on the other.

Synelle felt the breath catch in her throat as it had the first time she had seen her god, as it did each time she saw him. "Prepare the bride of Al'Kiir," she commanded.

A choking scream broke from the bridal-clothed woman's throat as she was hurried forward by the guards who held her. Quickly, with cords that dug cruelly into her soft flesh, they bound her between the twin posts on widely straddled knees, arms stretched above her head. Her blue eyes bulged, unable to tear themselves away from the great form that overtowered her; her mouth hung silently open as she knelt, as if terror had driven even the thought of screaming from her.

Synelle spoke. "Taramenon."

The bound woman started at the name. "Him, also?" she cried. "What is happening, Synelle? Tell me! Please!" Synelle gave no answer. One of the armored men came forward at the summons, carrying a small, brass-bound chest, and knelt stiffly before the woman who was at once a princess of Ophir and a priestess of dark Al'Kiir.

Muttering incantations of protection, Synelle opened the chest and drew out her implements and potions, one by one.

As a child had Synelle first heard of Al'Kiir, a god forgotten by all but a handful, from an old nurse-maid who had been dismissed when it was learned what sort of evil tales she told. Little had the crone told her before she went, but even then the child had been enraptured by the power said to be given to the priestesses of Al'Kiir, to those women who would pledge their bodies and their souls to the god of lust and pain and death, who would perform the heinous rites he demanded. Even then power had been her dream.

Synelle turned from the chest with a small, crystal-stoppered vial, and approached the bound woman. Deftly she withdrew the clear stopper and, with its damp end, traced the sign of the horns on the other woman's forehead.

"Something to help you attain the proper mood for a bride, Telima." Her voice was soft and mocking.

"I don't understand, Synelle," Telima said. A breathy quality had come into her voice; she tossed her head with a gasp, and her hair was a midnight cloud about her face. "What is happening-" she whimpered.

Synelle returned the vial to its resting place in the chest. Using powdered blood and bone, she traced the sign of the horns once more, this time in broad strokes on the floor, with the woman at the posts at the horns' meeting. A jade flask contained virgin's blood; with a brush of virgin's hair she anointed Al'Kiir's broad mouth and mighty thighs.

Now there was naught left save to begin.

Yet Synelle hesitated. This part of the rite she hated, as she hated the iron bracelets. There were none to witness save her guards, who would die for her, and Telima, who would soon, in one way or another, be of no import to this world, but she herself would know. Still it must be done. It must.

Reluctantly she knelt facing the great figure, paused to take a deep breath, then fell on her face, arms outspread.

"O, mighty Al'Kiir," she intoned, "lord of blood and death, thy slave abases herself before thee. Her body is thine. Her soul is thine.

Accept her submission and use her as thou wilt."

Trembling, her hands moved forward to grasp the massive ankles; slowly she pulled herself across the floor until she could kiss each clawed foot.

"O, mighty Al'Kiir," she breathed, "lord of pain and lust, thy slave brings thee a bride in offering. Her body is thine. Her soul is thine.

Accept her submission and use her as thou wilt."

In ages past, before the first hut was built on the site of Acheron, now eons gone in dust, Al'Kiir had been worshipped in the land that would become Ophir. The proudest and most beautiful of women the god demanded as offerings, and they were brought to him in steady streams.

Rites were performed that stained the souls of those who performed them and haunted the minds of those who witnessed them.

At last a band of mages vowed to free the world of the monstrous god, and had the blessings of Mitra and Azura and gods long forgotten placed on their foreheads. Alone of that company had the sorcerer Avanrakash survived, yet with a staff of power had he sealed Al'Kiir away from the world of men. That which stood in the cavern beneath Tor Al'Kiir was no statue of the god, but his very body, entombed for long ages.

Two of the guards had removed their helmets and produced flutes. High, haunting music filled the cavern. Two more stationed themselves behind the woman kneeling between the posts. The rest unfastened their scabbarded broadswords from their belts and began to pound the stone floor in rhythm to the flutes.

With boneless sinuosity Synelle rose and began to dance, her feet striking the floor in time with the pounding of the scabbards. In a precise pattern she moved, cat-like, each step coming in an ancient order, and as she danced she chanted in a tongue lost to time. She spun, and weighted black silk stood straight out from her body, baring her from waist to ankles. Sensuously she dipped and swayed from the looming shape of the god to the kneeling woman.

Sweat beaded Telima's countenance, and her eyes were glazed. She seemed to have lost awareness of her surroundings and she writhed uncontrollably in her bonds. Lust bloomed on her face, and horror at the realization of it.

Like pale birds Synelle's hands fluttered to Telima, brushed damp dark hair from her face, trailed across her shoulders, ripped away one single layer of her bridal garb.

Telima screamed as the men behind her struck with broad leather straps, again and again, criss-crossing from shoulders to buttocks, yet her jerking motions came as much from the potion as from the lashing. Pain had been added to lust, as required by the god.

Still Synelle danced and chanted. Another layer of diaphanous silk was torn from Telima, and as her shrieks mounted the chant wove into them, so that the cries of pain became part of the incantation.

The figure of Al'Kiir began to vibrate.

Where neither time, nor place, nor space existed, there was a stirring, a half awakening from long slumber. Tendrils of pleasurable feeling caressed, feeble threads of worship that called. But to where? Once appetites had been fed to satiation. Women had been offered in multitudes. Their essences had been kept alive for countless centuries, kept clothed in flesh forever young to be toys for the boundless lusts of a god. Memories, half dreams, flickered. In the midst of eternal nothingness was suddenly a vast floor. A thousand women born ten thousand years before danced nude. But they were merely shells, without interest. Even a god could not keep frail human essence alive forever.

Petulance, and dancers and floor alike were gone. From whence did these feelings come, so frequently of late after seemingly endless ages of absence, bringing with them irritating remembrance of what was lost?

There was no direction...shield was firmed and blessed peace descended.

Slumber returned.

Synelle slumped to the stone floor, panting from her exertions. There was no sound in the cavern except for the sobs of the midnight-haired beauty kneeling in welted nudity.

Painfully the priestess struggled to her feet. Failure again. So many failures. She staggered as she made her way to the chest, but her hand was steady as she removed a dagger that was a normal sized version of the blade at the god's belt.

"The bowl, Taramenon," Synelle said. The rite had failed, yet it must continue to its conclusion.

Telima moaned as Synelle tangled a hand in her black hair and drew her head back. "Please," the kneeling woman wept.

Her sobs were cut off by the blade slashing across her throat. The armored man who had borne the chest thrust a bronze bowl forward to catch the sanguinary flow.

Synelle watched with disinterest as final terror blazed in Telima's eyes and faded to the glaze of death. The priestess's thoughts were on the future. Another failure, as there had been so many in the past, but she would continue if a thousand women must die in that chamber. She would bring Al'Kiir back to the world of men. Without another glance at the dead woman, she turned to the completion of the ceremony.

Chapter I

The long pack train approaching the high crenellated granite walls of Ianthe did not appear to be moving through a country, officially at peace. Two-score horsemen in spiked helms, dust turning their dark blue wool cloaks gray, rode in columns to either side of the long line of sumpter mules. Their eves constantly searched even here in the very shadow of the capital. Half carried their short horsebows at the ready.

Sweaty-palmed mule-drivers hurried their animals along, panting with eagerness to be done now that their goal was in sight.

Only the leader of the guards, his shoulders broad almost to the point of busting his metal jazeraint hauberk, seemed unconcerned. His icy blue eyes showed no hint of the worry that made the others' eyes dart, yet he was as aware of his surroundings as they. Perhaps more so. Three times since leaving the gem and gold mines on the Nemedian border, the train had been attacked. Twice his barbarian senses had detected the ambush before it had time to develop, the third time his fiercely wielded broadsword smashed the attack even as it began. In the rugged mountains of his native Cimmeria, men who fell easily into ambush did not long survive. He had known battle there, and had a place at the warriors' fires, at an age when most boys were still learning at their father's knees.

Before the northeast gate of Ianthe, the Gate of Gold, the train halted. "Open the gates!" the leader shouted. Drawing off his helm, he revealed a square-cut black mane and a face that showed more experience than his youth would warrant. "Do we look like bandits? Mitra rot you, open the gates!"

A head in a steel casque, a broken-nosed face with a short beard, appeared atop the wall. "Is that you, Conan," He turned aside to call down, "Swing back the gate!"

Slowly the right side of the iron-bound gate creaked inward. Conan galloped through, pulling his big Aquilonian black from the road just inside to let the rest of the train pass. A dozen mail-clad soldiers threw their shoulders behind the gate as soon as the last pack-laden mule ran by. The huge wooden slab closed with a hollow boom, and a great bar, thicker than a man's body, crashed down to fasten it.

The soldier who had called down from the wall appeared with his casque beneath his arm. "I should have recognized those accursed eastern helmets, Cimmerian," he laughed. "Your Free-Company makes a name for itself."

"Why are the gates shut, Junius?" Conan demanded. "Tis at least three hours till dark."

"Orders, Cimmerian. With the gates closed, perhaps we can keep the troubles out of the city." Junius looked around, then dropped his voice. "It would be better if Valdric died quickly. Then Count Tiberio could put an end to all this fighting."

"I thought General Iskandrian was keeping the army clear," Conan replied coolly. "Or have you just chosen your own side?"

The broken-nosed soldier drew back, licking his thin lips nervously.

"Just talking," he muttered. Abruptly he straightened, and his voice took on a blustering tone. "You had better move on, Cimmerian. There's no loitering about the gates allowed now. Especially by mercenary companies." He fumbled his casque back onto his head as if to give himself more authority, or perhaps simply more protection from the Cimmerian's piercing gaze.

With a disgusted grunt Conan touched boot to his stallion's ribs and galloped after his company. Thus far Iskandrian-the White Eagle of Ophir, he was called; some said he was the greatest general of the age-had managed to keep Ophir from open civil war by holding the army loyal to Valdric, though the King seemed not to know it, or even to know that his country was on the verge of destruction. But if the old general's grip on the army was falling ...

Conan scowled and pressed on. The twisted maze of maneuverings for the throne was not to his liking, yet he was forced to keep an understanding of it for his own safety, and that of his company.

To the casual observer, the streets of Ianthe would have showed no sign that nobles' private armies were fighting an undeclared and unacknowledged war in the countryside. Scurrying crowds filled narrow side streets and broad thoroughfares alike, merchants in their voluminous robes and peddlers in rags, silk-clad ladies shopping with retinues of basket-carrying servants in tow, strutting lordlings in satins and brocades with scented pomanders held to their nostrils against the smell of the sewers, leather-aproned apprentices tarrying on their errands to bandy words with young girls hawking baskets of oranges and pomegranates, pears and plums. Ragged beggars, flies buzzing about blinded eyes or crudely bandaged stumps, squatted on every corner-more since the troubles had driven so many from their villages and farms. Doxies strutted in gilded bangles and sheer silks or less, often taking a stance before columned palaces or even on the broad marble steps of temples.

Yet there was that about the throng that belied the normalcy of the scene. A flush of cheek where there should have been only calm. A quickness of breath where there was no haste. A darting of eye where there was no visible reason for suspicion. The knowledge of what occurred beyond the walls lay heavily on Ianthe even as the city denied its happening, and the fear that it might move within the walls was in every heart.

When Conan caught up to the pack train, it was slowly wending its way through the crowds. He reined in beside his lieutenant, a grizzled Nemedian who had had the choice of deserting from the City Guard of Belverus or of being executed for performing his duty, too well, to the fatal detriment of a lord of that city.

"Keep a close watch, Machaon," the Cimmerian said. "Even here we might be mobbed if this crowd knew what we carried."

Machaon spat. The nasal of his helm failed to hide the livid scar that cut across his broad nose. A blue tattoo of a six-pointed Kothian star adorned his left cheek. "I'd give a silver myself to know how Baron Timeon comes to be taking this delivery. I never knew our fat patron had any connections with the mines."

"He doesn't. A little of the gold and perhaps a few gems will stay with Timeon; the rest goes elsewhere."

The dark-eyed veteran gave him a questioning look, but Conan said no more. It had taken him no little effort to discover that Timeon was but a tool of Count Antimides. But Antimides was supposedly one of the few lords of Ophir not maneuvering to ascend the throne at the death of the King. As such he should have no need of secret supporters, and that meant he played a deeper game than any knew. Too, tlntimides also had no connection with the mines, and thus as little right to packsaddles loaded with gold bars and chests of emeralds and rubies. A second reason for a wise man to keep his tongue behind his teeth till he knew more of the way things were, yet it rankled the pride of the young Cimmerian.

Fortune as much as anything else had given him his Free-Company in Nemedia, but in a year of campaigning since crossing the border into Ophir they had built a reputation. The horse archers of Conan the Cimmerian were known for their fierceness and the skill of him who led them, respected even by those who had cause to hate them. Long and hard had been Conan's climb from a boyhood as a thief to become a captain of mercenaries at an age when most men might only dream of such a thing.

It had been, he thought, a climb to freedom, for never had he liked obeying another's commands; yet here he played the game of a man he had never even met, and it set most ill with him. Most ill, indeed.

As they came in sight of Timeon's palace, a pretentiously ornamented and columned square of white marble with broad stairs, crowded between a temple of Mitra and a potter's works, Conan suddenly slid from his saddle and tossed his reins and helmet to a surprised Machaon.

"Once this is all safely in the cellars," he told his lieutenant, "let those who rode with us have until dawn tomorrow for carousing. They've earned it."

"The baron may take it badly, Conan, you leaving before the gold is safely under lock and key."

Conan shook his head. "And I see him now, I may say things best left unsaid."

"He'll likely be so occupied with his latest leman that he'll not have time for two words with you."

One of the company close behind them laughed, a startling sound to come from his sephulcral face. He looked like a man ravaged nearly to death by disease. "Timeon goes through almost as many women as you, Machaon,"

he said. "But then, he has wealth to attract them. I still don't see how you do it."

"If you spent less time gaming, Narus," Machaon replied, "and more hunting, perhaps you'd know my secrets. Or mayhap it's because I don't have your spindly shanks."

A dozen of the company roared with laughter. Narus' successes with women came with those who wanted to fatten him up and nurse him back to health; there seemed to be a surprising number of them.

"Machaon has enough women for five men," laughed Taurianus, a lanky, dark-haired Ophirean, "Narus dices enough for ten, and Conan does enough of both for twenty." He was one of those who had joined the company since its arrival in Ophir. But nine of the original score remained. Death had done for some of the rest; others had simply tired of a steady diet of blood and danger.

Conan waited for the laughter to subside. "If Timeon's got a new mistress, and it's about time for him to if he's running true to form, he'll not notice if I'm there or no. Take them on in, Machaon." Without waiting for a reply the Cimmerian plunged into the crowd.

Other than staying away from Timeon until he was in better temper, Conan was unsure of what he sought. A woman, perhaps. Eight days the journey to the mines and back had taken, without so much as a crone to gaze on. Women were forbidden at the mines; men condemned to a life digging rock were difficult enough to control without the sight of soft flesh to incite them, and after a year or two in the pits the flesh would not have to be that soft.

A woman, then, but there was no urgency. For a time he would simply wander and drink in the bustle of the city, so different even with its taint from the open terror that permeated the countryside.

Ophir was an ancient kingdom; it had coexisted with the mage-ridden empire of Acheron, gone to dust these three millenia and more, and had been one of the few lands to resist conquest by that dark empire's hordes. Ianthe, its capital, might have been neatly planned and divided into districts at some time in its long history, but over the centuries the great city of spired towers and golden-domed palaces had grown and shifted, winding streets pushing through haphazardly, buildings going up wherever there was space. Marble temples, fronted by countless rows of fluted columns and silent save for the chants of priests and worshippers, sat between brick-walled brothels and smoking foundries filled with the clanging of hammers, mansions and alabaster between rough taverns and silversmiths' shops. There was a system of sewers, though more often than not the refuse thrown there simply lay, adding to the effluvia that filled the streets. And stench there was, for some were too lazy even to dispose of their offal in the sewers, emptying chamber pots and kitchen scraps into the nearest alley. But for all its smells and cramped streets, for all its fears, the city was alive.

A trull wearing a single strip of silk threaded through her belt of coins smiled invitingly at the big youth, running her hands through her dark curls to lift well-rounded breasts, wetting her lips for the breadth of his shoulders. Conan answered her inviting smile with one that sent a visible shiver through her. Marking her as likely for later, though, he moved on, the doxy's regretful gaze following him. He tossed a coin to a fruit-girl and took a handful of plums, munching as he went, tossing the seeds into a sewer drain when he saw one.

In the shop of a swordsmith he examined keen blades with an expert eye, though he had never found steel to match that of his own ancient broadsword, ever present at his side in its worn shagreen scabbard. But the thought of a woman rose up in him, the memory of the whore's thighs. Perhaps there was some small urgency to finding a woman after all.

From a silversmith he purchased a gilded brass necklace set with amber.

It would go well on the neck of that curly-head wench, or if not her, about the neck of another. Jewelry, flowers and perfume, he had learned, went further with any woman, be she the most common jade of the streets or a daughter of the noblest house, than a sack of gold, though the trull would want her coins as well, of course. The perfume he obtained from a one-eyed peddler with a tray hung on a strap about his scrawny neck, a vial of something that smelled of roses. Now he was ready.

He cast about for a place to throw the last of his plum pits, and his eye fell on a barrel before the shop of a brass smith, filled with scraps of brass and bronze obviously ready for melting down. Lying atop the metallic debris was a bronze figure as long as his forearm and green with the verdigris of age. The head of it was a four-horned monstrosity, broad and flat, with three eyes above a broad, fang-filled gash of a mouth.

Chuckling, Conan straightened the statuette in the barrel. Ugly it was, without doubt. It was also naked and grotesquely male. A perfect gift for Machaon.

"The noble sir is a connoisseur, I see. That is one of my best pieces."

Conan eyed the smiling, dumpy little man who had appeared in the doorway of the shop, with his plump hands folded over a yellow tunic where it was strained by his belly. "One of your best pieces, is it,"

Amusement was plain in the Cimmerian's voice. "On the scrap heap-"

"A mistake on the part of my apprentice, noble sir. A worthless lad."

The dumpy fellow's voice dripped regretful anger at the worthlessness of his apprentice. "I'll leather him well for it. A mere two gold pieces, and it is-"

Conan cut him off with a raised hand. "Any more lies, and I may not buy it at all. If you know something of it, then speak."

"I tell you, noble sir, it is easily worth-" Conan turned away, and the shopkeeper yelped. "Wait! Please! I will speak only the truth, as Mitra hears my words!"

Conan stopped and looked back, feigning doubt. This fellow, he thought, would not last a day among the peddlers of Turan.

There was sweat on the shopkeeper's face, though the day was cool.

"Please, noble sir. Come into my shop, and we will talk. Please."

Still pretending reluctance, Conan allowed himself to be ushered inside, plucking the figure from the barrel as he passed. Within, the narrow shop was crowded with tables displaying examples of the smith's work. Shelves on the walls held bowls, vases, ewers and goblets in a welter of shapes and sizes. The big Cimmerian set the statuette on a table that creaked under its weight.

"Now," he said, "name me a price. And I'll hear no more mention of gold for something you were going to melt."

Avarice struggled on the smith's plump face with fear of losing a purchaser. "Ten silvers," he said finally, screwing his face into a parody of his former welcoming expression.

Deliberately Conan removed a single silver coin from his pouch and set it on the table. Crossing his massive arms across his chest, he waited.

The plump man's mouth worked, and his head moved in small jerks of negation, but at last he sighed and nodded. "Tis yours," he muttered bitterly. "For one silver. It's as much as it is worth to melt down, and without the labor. But the thing is ill luck. A peasant fleeing the troubles brought it to me. Dug it up on his scrap of land. Ancient bronzes always sell well, but none would have this. Ill favored, they called it. And naught but bad luck since it's been in my shop. One of my daughters is with child, but unmarried; the other has taken up with a panderer who sells her not three doors from here. My wife left me for a carter. A common carter, mind you. I tell you, that thing is . . ."

His words wound down as he realized he might be talking himself out of a sale. Hurriedly he snatched the silver and made it disappear under his tunic. "Yours for a silver, noble sir, and a bargain greater than you can imagine."

"If you say so," Conan said drily. "But get me something to carry it through the streets in." He eyed the figure and chuckled despite himself, imagining the look on Machaon's face when he presented it to him. "The most hardened trull in the city would blush to look on it."

As the smith scurried into the back of his shop, two heavy-set men in the castoff finery of nobles swaggered in. One, in a soiled red brocade tunic, had had his ears and nose slit, the penalties for first and second offences of theft. For the next he would go to the mines. The other, bald and with a straggly black beard, wore a frayed wool cloak that had once been worked with embroidery of silver or gold, long since picked out. Their eyes went immediately to the bronze figure on the table. Conan kept his gaze on them; their swords, at least, looked well tended, and the hilts showed the wear of much use.

"Can I help you?" the shopkeeper asked, reappearing with a coarsely woven sack in his hand. There was no 'noble sir' for this sort.

"That," slitear said gruffly, pointing to the statuette. "A gold piece for it."

The smith coughed and spluttered, glaring reproachfully at Conan. "It's mine," the Cimmerian said calmly, "and I've no mind to sell."

"Two gold pieces," slitear said. Conan shook his head.

"Five," the bald man offered.

Slitear rounded on his companion. "Give away your profit, an you will, but not mine! I'll make this ox an offer," he snarled and spun, his sword whispering from its sheath.

Conan made no move toward his own blade. Grasping the bronze figure by its feet, he swung it sideways. The splintering of bone blended with slitear's scream as his shoulder was crushed.

The bald man had his sword out now, but Conan merely stepped aside from his lunge and brought the weighty statuette down like a mace, splattering blood and brains. The dead man's momentum carried him on into the tables, overturning those he did not smash, sending brass vases and bowls clattering across the floor. Conan whirled back to find the first man thrusting with a dagger held left-handed. The blade skittered off his hauberk, and the two men crashed together. For the space of a breath they were chest to chest, Conan staring into desperate black eyes. This time he disdained to use a weapon. His huge fist traveled more than half the length of his forearm, and slitear staggered back, his face a bloody mask, to pull shelves down atop him as he crumpled to the floor. Conan did not know if he was alive or dead, nor did he care.

The smith stood in the middle of the floor, hopping from one foot to the other. "My shop!" he wailed. "My shop is wrecked! You steal for a silver what they would have given five gold pieces for, then you destroy my place of business!"

"They have purses," Conan growled. "Take the cost of your repairs from-" He broke off with a curse as the scent of roses wafted to his nose. Delving into his pouch, he came out with a fragment of vial.

Perfume was soaking into his hauberk. And his cloak. "Erlik take the pair of them," he muttered. He hefted the bronze figure that he still held in one hand. "What about this thing is worth five gold pieces? Or worth dying for?" The shopkeeper, gingerly feeling for the ruffians'

purses, did not answer.

Cursing under his breath Conan wiped the blood from the figure and thrust it into the sack the smith had let drop.

With a shout of delight the smith held up a handful of silver, then drew back as if he feared Conan might take it. He started, then stared at the two men littering his floor as if realizing where they were for the first time. "But what will I do with them?" he cried.

"Apprentice them," Conan told him, "I'll wager they won't put anything valuable in the scrap barrel."

Leaving the dumpy man kneeling on the floor with his mouth hanging open, Conan stalked into the street. It was time and more to find himself a woman.

In his haste he did not notice the heavily veiled woman whose green eyes widened in surprise at his appearance. She watched him blend into the crowd then, gathering her cloak about her, followed slowly.

Chapter II

The Bull and Bear was almost empty when Conan entered, and the half-dread silence suited his mood well. The curly-haired trull had been leaving with a customer when he got back to her corner, and he had not seen another to compare with her between there and this tavern.

An odor of stale wine and sweat hung in the air of the common room; it was not a tavern for gentlefolk. Half a dozen men, carters and apprentices in rough woolen tunics, sat singly at the tables scattered about the stone floor, each engrossed in his own drinking. A single doxy stood with her back to a corner, not plying her trade but seeming rather to ignore the men in the room. Auburn hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders. Wrapped in layers of green silk, she was more modestly covered than most noble ladies of Ophir, and she wore none of the gaudy ornaments such women usually adorned themselves with, but the elaborate kohl of her eyelids named her professional, as did her presence in that place. Still, there was a youthful freshness to her face that gave him cause to think she had not long been at it.

Conan was so intent on the girl that he failed at first to see the graying man, the full beard of a scholar spreading over his chest, who muttered to himself over a battered pewter pitcher at a table to one side of the door. When he did, he sighed, wondering if the wench would be worth putting up with the old man.

At that moment the bearded man caught sight of Conan, and a drunken, snaggle-toothed grin split his wizened face. His tunic was patched in a rainbow of colors, and stained with wine and food.

"Conan," he cried, gesturing so hard for the big youth to come closer that he nearly fell from his stool. "Come. Sit. Drink."

"You look to have had enough, Boros," Conan said drily, "and I'll buy you no more."

"No need to buy," Boros laughed. He fumbled for the pitcher. "No need.

See? Water. But with just a little . . ." His voice trailed off into mumbles, while his free hand made passes above the pitcher.

"Crom!" Conan shouted, leaping back from the table. Some in the room looked up, but seeing neither blood nor chance for advantage all went back to their drinking. "Not again while you're drunk, you old fool!"

the Cimmerian continued hastily. "Narus still isn't rid of those warts you gave him trying to cure his boil."

Boros cackled and thrust the pitcher toward him. "Taste. 'S wine.

Naught to fear here."

Cautiously Conan took the proffered pitcher and sniffed at the mouth of it. His nose wrinkled, and he handed the vessel back. "You drink first, since it's your making."

"Fearful, are you?" Boros laughed. "And big as you are. Had I your muscles . . ." He buried his nose in the pitcher, threw back his head, and almost in the same motion hurled the vessel from him, gagging, spluttering and spitting. "Mitra's mercies," he gasped shakily, scrubbing the back of a bony hand across his mouth. "Never tasted anything like that in my life. Must have put a gill or more down my gullet. What in Azura's name is it?"

Conan suppressed a grin. "Milk. Sour milk, by the smell."

Boros shuddered and retched, but nothing came up. "You switched the pitcher," he said when he could speak. "Your hands are swift, but not so swift as my eye. You owe me wine, Cimmerian."

Conan dropped onto a stool across the table from Boros, setting the sack containing the bronze on the floor at his side. He had little liking for wizards, but properly speaking Boros was not such a one. The old man had been an apprentice in the black arts, but a liking for drink that became an all-consuming passion had led him to the gutter rather than down crooked paths of dark knowledge. "When sober he was of some use in curing minor ills, or providing a love philtre; drunk, he was sometimes a danger even to himself. He was a good drinking companion, though, so long as he was kept from magic.

"Here!" the tavernkeeper bellowed, wiping his hands on a filthy once-white apron as he hurried toward them. With his spindly limbs and pot belly, he looked like a fat spider. "What's all this mess on the floor? I'll have you know this tavern is respectable, and-"

"Wine," Conan cut him off, tossing coppers to clatter on the floor at his feet. "And have a wench bring it." He gestured to the strangely aloof doxy. "That one in the corner will do."

"She don't work for me," the tavernkeeper grunted, bending to collect the pitcher and the coins. Then he got down on hands and knees to fetch one copper from under the table and grinned at it in satisfaction. "But you'll have a girl, never fear."

He disappeared into the rear of the building, and in short moments a plump girl scurried out, one strip of blue silk barely containing her bouncing breasts and another fastened about her hips, to set a pitcher of wine and a pair of dented tankards before the two men. Wriggling, she moved closer to Conan, a seductive light in her dark eyes. He was barely aware of her; his eves had gone back to the auburn-haired jade.

"Fool!" the serving wench snapped. "As well take a block of ice in your arms as that one." And with a roll of her lips she flounced away. Conan stared after her in amazement. "What is Zandru's Nine Hells got into her?" he growled.

"Who understands women?" Boros muttered absently. Hastily he filled a tankard and gulped half of it. "Besides," he went on in bleary tones once he had taken a deep breath, "now Tiberio's dead, we'll have too much else to be worrying about. . ." The rest of his words were drowned in another mouthful of wine.

"Tiberio dead?" Conan said incredulously. "I spoke of him not too hours gone and heard no mention of this. Black Erlik's Throne, stop drinking and talk. What of Tiberio?"

Boros set his tankard down with obvious reluctance. "The word is just now spreading. Last night it was. Slit his wrists in his bath. Or so they say."

Conan grunted. "Who will believe that, and him with the best blood claim to succeed Valdric?"

"Folk believe what they want to believe, Cimmerian. Or what they're afraid not to believe."

It had had to come, Conan thought. There had been kidnappings in plenty, wives, sons, daughters. Sometimes demands were made, that an alliance be broken or a secret betrayed; sometimes there was only silence, and fear to paralyze a noble in his castle. Now began the assassinations. He was glad that a third of his Free-Company was always on guard at Timeon's palace. Losing a patron in that fashion would be ill for a company's reputation.

"'Tis all of a piece," Boros went on unsteadily. "Someone attempts to resurrect Al'Kiir. I've seen lights atop that accursed mountain, heard whispers of black knowledge sought. And this time there'll be no Avanrakash to seal him up again. We need Moranthes the Great reborn. It would take him to bring order now."

"What are you chattering at? No matter. Who's next in line after Tiberio? Valentius, isn't it?"

"Valentius," Boris chuckled derisively. "He'll never be allowed to take the throne. He's too young."

"He's a man grown," Canon said angrily. He knew little of Valentius and cared less, but the count was a full six years older than he.

Boros smiled. "There's a difference between you two, Cimmerian. You've put two hard lifetimes' experience into your years. Valentius has led a courtier's life, all perfumes and courtesies and soft words."

"You're rambling," Conan barked. How had the other man read his thoughts? A fast rise had not lessened his touchiness about his comparative youth, nor his anger at those who thought him too young for the position he held. But he had better to do with his time than sit with a drunken failed mage. There was that auburn-haired wench, for instance. "The rest of the wine is yours," he said. Snatching up the sack with the bronze in it, he stalked away from the table, leaving Boros chortling into his wine.

The girl had not moved from the corner or changed her stance in all the time Conan had been watching her. Her heart-shaped face did not change expression as he approached, but her downcast eyes, blue as a northland sky at dawn, widened like those of a frightened deer, and she quivered as if prepared for flight.

"Share some wine with me," Conan said, motioning to a table nearby. The girl stared at him directly, her big eyes going even wider, if such were possible, and shook her head.

He blinked in surprise. That innocent face might belie it, but if she wanted directness . . . "If you don't want wine, how does two silvers take you?"

The girl's mouth dropped open. "I don't ... that is, I ... I mean . .

." Even stammering, her voice was a soprano like silver bells.

"Three silvers, then. A fourth if you prove worth it." She still stared. Why was he wasting time with her, he wondered, when there were other wenches about? She reminded him of Karela, that was it. This girl's hair was not so red, nor her cheekbones so high, but she recalled to him the woman bandit who had shared his bed-and managed to disrupt his life-every time their paths had crossed. Karela was a woman fit for any man, fit for a King. But what use raking up old memories?

"Girl," he said gruffly, "if you don't want my silver, say so, and I'll take my custom elsewhere."

"Stay," she gasped. It was an obvious effort for her to get the word out.

"Innkeeper," Conan bellowed, "a room!" The wench's face went scarlet beneath the rouge on her cheeks.

The spidery tapster appeared on the instant, a long hand extended for coin. "Four coppers," he growled, and waited until Conan had dropped them into his palm before adding, "Top of the stairs, to the right."

Conan caught the furiously blushing girl by the arm and drew her up the creaking wooden stairs after him.

The room was what he had expected, a small box with dust on the floor and cobwebs in the corners. A sagging bed with a husk-filled mattress and none-too-clean blankets, a three-legged stool, and a rickety table were all the furnishings. But then, What he was there for went as well in a barn as in a palace, and often better.

Dropping the sack on the floor with a thump, he kicked the door shut and put his hands on the girl's shoulders. As he drew her to him he peeled her silken robes from her shoulders to her waist. Her breasts were full, but upstanding, and pink-nippled. She yelped once before his mouth descended on hers, then went stiff in his arms. He could as well have been kissing a statue.

He drew back, but held her still in the circle of his arms. "What sort of doxy are you?" he demanded. "A man would think you'd never kissed a man before."

"I haven't," she snapped, then began to stammer. "That is, I have. I've kissed many men. More than you can count. I am very ... experienced."

She bared her teeth in what Conan suspected was meant to be an inviting smile; it was more a fearful rictus.

He snorted derisively and pushed her out to arms' length. Her hands twitched toward her disarrayed garments, then were still. Heavy breathing made her breasts rise and fall in interesting fashion, and her face slowly colored again. "You don't talk like a farm wench," he said finally. "What are you? Some merchant's runaway daughter without sense enough to go home?"

Her face became a frozen mask of arrogant pride. "You, barbarian, will have the honor of taking a noblewoman of Ophir to ... to your bed."

Even the stumble did not crack her haughty demeanor.

Taken together with her manner of dress-or undress, rather-it was too much for the Cimmerian. He threw back his head and bellowed his laughter at the fly-specked ceiling.

"You laugh at me?" she gasped. "You dare?"

"Cover yourself," he snapped back at her, his mirth fading. Anger sprouted from stifled desires; she was a tasty bit, and he had been looking forward to the enjoyment of her. But a virgin girl running away from a noble father was the last thing he needed, or wanted any part of. Nor could he walk away from her if she needed help, either. That thought came reluctantly. Softhearted, he grumbled to himself. That was his trouble. To the girl he growled, "Do it, before I take my belt to your backside."

For a moment she glared at him, sky-blue eyes warring with icy sapphire. Ice won, and she hastily fumbled her green robes back into place, muttering under her breath.

"Your name," he demanded. "And no lies, or I'll pack you to the Marline Cloisters myself. Besides the hungry and the sick, they take in wayward girls and unruly children, and you look to be both."

"You have no right. I've changed my mind. I do not want your silver."

She gestured imperiously. "Stand away from that door."

Conan gazed back at her calmly, not moving. "You are but a few words away from a stern-faced woman with a switch to teach you manners and proper behavior. Your name?"

Her eyes darted angrily to the door. "I am the Lady Julia," she said stiffly. "I will not shame my house by naming it in this place, not if you torture me with red-hot irons. Not if you use pincers, and the knout, and ... and . . ."

"Why are you here, Julia, masquerading as a trull, instead of doing needlework at your mother's knee?"

"What right have you to demand ... ? Erlik take you! My mother is long dead, and my father these three months. His estates were pledged for loans and were seized in payment. I had no relations to take me in, nor friends who had use for a girl with no more than the clothes on her back. And you will call me Lady Julia. I am still a noblewoman of Ophir."

"You're a silly wench," he retorted. "And why this? Why not become a serving girl? Or a beggar, even?"

Julia sniffed haughtily. "I would not sink so low. My blood-"

"So you become a trull?" He noted she had the grace to blush. But then, she did that often.

"I thought," she began hesitantly, then stopped. When she resumed her voice had dropped to a murmur. "It seemed not so different from my father's lemans, and they appeared to be ladies." Her eyes searched his face, and she went on urgently. "But I've done nothing. I am still ...

I mean ... Oh, why am I telling any of this to you?"

Conan leaned against the door, the crudely cut boards creaking at his weight. If he were a civilized man, he would abandon her to the path she was following. He would have his will of her and leave her weeping with her coins-or cheat her of them, for that was the civilized way.

Anything else would be more bother than she was worth. The gods alone knew what faction she might be attached to by blood, for all they had not helped her so far, or what faction he might offend by aiding her.

His mouth twisted in a grimace, and Julia flinched, thinking it was for her. He was thinking too much of factions of late, spending too much time delving the labyrinthine twists of Ophirean politics. This he would leave to the gods. And the wench.

"I am called Conan," he said abruptly "and I captain a Free-Company. We have our own cook, for our patron's kitchens prepare fussed-over viands not fit for a man's stomach. This cook, Fabio, needs a girl to fetch and serve. The work is yours, an you want it."

"A pot girl!" she exclaimed. "Me!"

"Be silent, wench!" he roared, and she rocked back on her heels. He waited to be certain she would obey, then nodded in satisfaction when she settled with her hands clasped at her throat. And her mouth shut.

"Do you decide it is not too far beneath you, present yourself at Baron Timeon's palace before sunfall. If not, then know well what your future will be."

She let out one startled squeak as he took the step necessary to crush her to his chest. He tangled his free hand in her long hair, and his mouth took its pleasure with hers. For a time her bare feet drummed against his shins, then slowly her kicking stopped. When he let her heels thud to the floor once more, she stood trembling and silent, tremulous azure eyes locked on his face.

"And I was gentle compared to some," he said. Scooping up the sack containing the bronze, he left her standing there.

Chapter III

Boros was gone from the common room when Conan returned below, for which the Cimmerian was just as glad.

The spidery innkeeper rushed forward, though, rubbing his hands avariciously. "Not long with the girl, noble sir. I could have told you she'd not please. My Selina, now. . ."

Conan snarled, and the fellow retreated hastily. Crom! What a day, he thought. Go out searching for a wench and end up trying to rescue a fool girl from her own folly. He had thought he had out-grown such idiocy long ago.

Outside the street was narrow and crooked, little more than an alley dotted with muddy potholes where the cracked paving stones had been pried up and carried away, yet even here were there beggars. Conan tossed a fistful of coppers into the nearest outthrust bowl and hurried on before the score of others could flock about him. A stench of rotted turnip and offal hung in the air, held by stone buildings that seemed to lean out over the way.

He had not gone far when it dawned on him that the mendicants, rather than chasing after him crying for more, had disappeared. Such men had the instincts of feral animals. His hand went to his sword even as three men stepped into the cramped confines of the street before him.

The leader had a rag tied over where his right eye had been. The other two wore beards, one no more than a straggly collection of hairs. All three had swords in hand. A foot grated on paving stone behind the Cimmerian.

He did not wait for them to take another step. Hurling the bag containing the bronze at the one-eyed man, he drew his ancient broadsword and dropped to a crouch in one continuous motion. A blade whistled over his head as he pivoted, then his own steel was biting deep into the side of the man behind. Blood spurting, the man screamed, and his legs buckled.

Conan threw himself into a dive past the collapsing man, tucking his shoulder under, and rolled to his feet with his sword at the ready just in time to spit one-eye as he rushed forward with blade upraised. For an instant Conan stared into a lone brown eye filling with despair and filming with death, then one of the others was crowding close, attempting to catch the big Cimmerian while his sword was hung up in the body. Conan snatched the poignard from one-eye's belt and slammed it into his other attacker's throat. The man staggered back with a gurgling shriek, blood pumping through the fingers clutching his neck to soak his filthy beard in crimson.

All had occurred so quickly that the man impaled on Conan's blade was just now beginning to fall. The Cimmerian jerked his blade free as one-eye dropped. The first attacker gave a last quiver and lay still in a widening sanguinary pool.

The man with the straggly beard had not even had time to join the fight. Now he stood with sword half-raised, dark eyes rolling from one corpse to another and thin nose twitching. He looked like a rat that had just discovered it was fighting a lion. "Not worth it," he muttered. "No matter the gold, it's not worth dying." Warily he edged backwards until he came abreast of a crossing alley; with a last frightened glance he darted into it. In moments even the pounding of his feet had faded.

Conan made no effort to follow. He had no interest in footpads, of which the city had an overabundance. These had made their try and paid the price. He bent to wipe his sword, and froze as a thought came to him. The last man had mentioned gold. Only nobles carried gold on their persons, and he was far from looking that sort. Gold might be paid for a killing, though the life of a mercenary, even a captain, was not usually considered worth more than silver. Few indeed were the deaths that would bring gold. Except ... assassination. With a shout that rang from the stone walls Conan snatched up the sack-wrapped statuette and was running in the same motion, encarmined blade still gripped in his fist. With him out of the way it might be easier to get through his company to Timeon. And that sort of killing had already begun. His massive legs pumped harder, and he burst out of the alley onto a main street.

A flower-girl, screeching at the giant apparition wielding bloody steel, leaped out of his way; a fruit peddler failed to move fast enough and caromed off Conan's chest, oranges exploding from his basket in all directions. The peddler's imprecations, half for the huge Cimmerian and half for the apprentices scurrying to steal his scattered fruit, followed Conan down the crowded street, but he did not slow his headlong charge. Bearers, scrambling to move from his path, overturned their sedan chairs, spilling cursing nobles into the street. Merchants in voluminous robes and serving girls shopping for their masters'

kitchens scattered screaming and shouting before him.

Then Timeon's palace was in sight. As Conan pounded up the broad alabaster stairs, the two guards he had set on the columned portico rushed forward, arrows nocked, eyes searching the street for what pursued him.

"The door!" he roared at them. "Erlik blast your hides! Open the door."

Hurriedly they leaped to swing open one of the massive bronze doors, worked with Timeon's family crest, and Conan rushed through without slowing.

He was met in the broad entry hall by Machaon and half a score of the company, their boots clattering on polished marble tiles. Varying degrees of undress and more than one mug clutched in a fist showed they had been rousted from their rest by his shouts, but all had weapons in hand.

"What happens?" Machaon demanded. "We heard your shouts, and-"

Conan cut him off. "Where is Timeon-Have you seen him since arriving?"

"He's upstairs with his new leman," Machaon replied. "What-"

Spinning, Conan raced up the nearest stairs, a curving sweep of alabaster that stood without visible support. Pausing only an instant Machaon and the others followed at a dead run. At the door to Timeon's bedchamber, tall and carved with improbable beasts, Conan did not pause. He slammed open the door with a shoulder and rushed in. Baron Timeon leaped from his tall-posted bed with a startled cry, his round belly bouncing, and snatched up a long robe of red brocade. On the bed a slender, naked girl clutched the coverlet to her small yet shapely breasts. Ducking her head, she peered shyly at Conan through a veil of long, silky black hair that hung to her waist.

"What is the meaning of this?" Timeon demanded, furiously belting the robe about his girth. After the current fashion of the nobility, he wore a small, triangular beard on the point of his chin. On his moon face, with his found, protuberant eyes, it made him look like a fat goat. An angry goat, now. "I demand an answer immediately! Bursting into my chambers with sword drawn." He peered suddenly at the blade in Conan's hand. "Blood!" he gasped, staggering. He flung his arms around one of the thick intricately carved posts of his bed as if to hold himself erect, or perhaps to hide himself behind. "Are we attacked? You must hold them off till I escape. That is, I'll ride for aid. Hold them, and there'll be gold for all of you."

"There's no attack, Lord Timeon," Conan said hastily "At least, not here. But I was attacked in the city."

Timeon glanced at the girl. He seemed to realize he had been far from heroic before her. Straightening abruptly, he tugged at his robe as if adjusting it, smoothed his thinning hair. "Your squabbles with the refuse of Ianthe have no interest for me. And my pretty Tivia is too delicate a blossom to be frightened with your tales of alley brawls, and your gory blade. Leave, and I will try to forget your ill manners."

"Lord Timeon," Conan said with forced patience, "does someone mean you harm, well might they try to put me out of the way first. Count Tiberio is dead this last night at an assassin's hand. I will put guards at your door and in the garden beneath your windows."

The plump noble's water blue eyes darted to the girl again. "You will do no such thing. Tiberio took his own life, so I heard. And as for assassins-" he strode to the table where his sword lay, slung the scabbard into a corner and struck a pose with the weapon in hand-"should any manage to get past your vigilance, I'll deal with them myself. Now leave me. I have . . ." he leered at the slender girl who still attempted unsuccessfully to cover herself, "matters to attend to."

Reluctantly Conan bowed himself from the room. The instant the door was shut behind him, he growled, "That tainted sack of suet. An old woman with a switch could beat him through every corridor of this palace."

"What are we to do?" Machaon asked. "If he refuses guards..."

"We guard him anyway," Conan snorted. "He can take all the chances he wants to with us to protect him, and he will so long as there's a woman to impress, but we cannot afford to let him die. Put two men in the garden, where he can't see them from his windows. And one at either end of this hall, around the corners where they can hide if Timeon comes out, but where they can keep an eye on his door."

"I'll see to it." The scarred warrior paused. "What's that you're carrying?"

Conan realized he still had the bronze, wrapped in its sack, beneath his arm. He had forgotten it in the mad rush to get to Timeon. Now he wondered. If the men who had attacked him had not been trying to open a way to the baron-and it now seemed they had not-perhaps they had been after the statuette. After all, two others had been willing to kill, and die, for it. And they had thought it worth gold. It seemed best to find out the why of it before giving Machaon a gift that might bring men seeking his life.

"Just a thing I bought in the city," he said. "Post those guards immediately. I don't want to take chances, in case I was right the first time."

"First time?" Machaon echoed, but Conan was already striding away. The room Conan had been given was spacious, but what Timeon thought suitable for a mercenary captain. The tapestries on the walls were of the second quality only, the lamps were polished pewter and brass rather than silver or gold, and the floor was plain red tiles. Two arched windows looked out on the garden, four floors below, but there was no balcony. Still, the mattress on the big bed was goose down, and the tables and chairs, if plain varnished wood, were sturdy enough for him to be comfortable with, unlike the frail, gilded pieces in the rooms for noble guests.

He tossed the rough sacking aside and set the bronze on a table. A malevolent piece, it seemed almost alive. Alive and ready to rend and tear. The man who had made it was a master. And steeped in abomination, Conan was sure, for otherwise he could not have infused so much evil into his creation.

Drawing his dagger, he tapped the hilt against the figure. It was not hollow; there could be no gems hidden within. Nor did it have the feel or heft of bronze lavered over gold, though who would have gone to that much trouble, or why, he could not imagine.

A knock came at the door while he was still frowning at the horned shape, attempting to divine its secret. He hesitated, then covered it with the sack before going to the door. It was Narus.

"There's a wench asking for you," the hollow-cheeked man said. "Dressed like a doxy, but her face scrubbed like a temple virgin, and pretty enough to be either. Says her name is Julia."

"I know her," Conan said, smiling.

Narus' mournful expression did not change, but then it seldom did. "A gold to a silver there's trouble in this one, Cimmerian. Came to the front and demanded entrance, as arrogant as a princess of the realm.

When I sent her around back, she tried to tell me her lineage. Claims she's noble born. The times are ill for dallying with such."

"Take her to Fabio," Conan laughed. "She's his new pot girl. Tell him to put her peeling turnips for the stew."

"A pleasure," Narus said, with a brief flicker of a smile, "after the way her tongue scourged me."

At least one thing had gone well with the day, Conan thought as he turned from the door. Then his eye fell on the sacking covered bronze on the table, and his moment of jollity faded. But there were other matters yet to be plumbed, and the feeling at the back of his neck told him there would be deadly danger in doing so.

Chapter IV

The sly-faced man who called himself Galbro wandered nervously around the dusty room where he had been told to wait. Two great stuffed eagles on perches were the only decoration, the amber beads that had replaced their eyes seeming to glare more fiercely than ever any living eagle's eyes had. The lone furnishings was the long table supporting the leather bag in which he had brought what he had to sell. He did not like these meetings; despite all the silver and gold they put in his purse, he did not like the woman who gave him the coin. Her name was unknown to him, and he did not want to know it, nor anything else about her. Knowledge of her would be dangerous.

Yet he knew it was not the woman alone who made him pace this time.

That man. A northlander, lirian said he was. From whencever he came, he had slain five of Galbro's best and walked away without so much as a scratch. That had never happened before, or at least not since he came to Ophir. It was an ill omen. For the first time in long years he wished that he was back in Zingara, back in the thieves' warren of alleys that ran along the docks of Kordava. And that was foolish, for if he was not shortened a head by the guard, his throat would be slit by the denizens of those same alleys before he saw a single nightfall.

There were penalties attached to playing both sides in a game, especially when both sides discovered that you cheated.

A light footstep brought him alert. She stepped into the room, and a shiver passed through him. No part of her but her eyes, dark and devoid of softness, was visible. A silver cloak that brushed the floor was gathered close about her. A dark, opaque veil covered the lower half of her face, and her hair was hidden by a white silk head-cloth, held by a ruby pin, the stone as large as the last joint of his thumb.

The ruby invoked no shreds of greed within him. Nothing about her brought any feeling to him except fear. He hated that, fearing a woman, but at least her coin was plentiful. His taste for that was all the greed he dared allow himself with her.

With a start he realized she was waiting for him to speak. Wetting his lips-why did they dry so in her presence?-he opened his bag, spread his offerings on the table. "As you can see, my lady, I have much this time. Very valuable."

One pale, slender hand extended from the cloak to finger what he had brought, object by object. The brass plaque, worked with the head of the demon that so fascinated her, was thrust contemptuously aside. He schooled his face not to wince. Leandros had labored hard on that, but of late she accepted few of the Corinthian's forgeries. Three fragments of manuscript, tattered and torn, she studied carefully, then lay to one side. Her fingers paused over a clay head, so worn with age he had not been certain it was meant to be the creature she wanted. She put it with the parchments.

"Two gold pieces," she said quietly when she was done. "One for the head, one for the codexes. They but duplicate what I already have." A gold for the head was good-he had hoped for no more than coppers at best-but he had expected two for each of the manuscripts. "But, my lady," he whined, "I can but bring you what I find. I cannot read such script, or know if you already possess it. You know not what difficulties I face, what expenses, in your service. Five of my men slain. Coin to be paid for thefts. Men to be-"

"Five men dead?" Her voice was a whipcrack across his back, though she had not raised it.

He squirmed beneath her gaze; sweat rolled down his face. This cold woman had little tolerance for failure, he knew, and less for men who drew attention to themselves, as by leaving corpses strewn in the streets. He had Baraca as example for that. The Kothian had been found hanging by his feet with his skin neatly removed, yet still alive. For a few agonized hours of screaming.

"What have you been into, Galbro," she continued, her low words stabbing like daggers, "to lose five men?"

"Naught, my lady. A private matter. I should not have mentioned it, my lady. Forgive me, please."

"Fool! Your lies are transparent. Know that the god I serve, and whom you serve through me, gives me the power of pain." She spoke words that his brain did not want to comprehend; her hand traced a figure in the air between them.

Blinding light flashed behind his eyes, and agony filled him, every muscle in his body writhing and knotting. Helpless, he fell, quivering in every limb, bending into a backbreaking arch till only his head and drumming heels touched the floor. He tried to shriek, but shrieks could not pass the frozen cords of his throat, nor even breath. Blackness veiled his eyes, and he found a core within him that cried out for death, for anything to escape the all-consuming pain.

Abruptly the torment melted away, and he collapsed in a sobbing heap.

"Not even death can save you," she whispered, "for death is one of the realms of my master. Behold!" Again she spoke words that seared his mind.

He peered up at her pleadingly, tried to beg, but the words stuck in his throat. The eagles moved. He knew they were dead; he had touched them. But they moved, wings unfolding. One uttered a piercing scream.

The other swooped from its perch to the table, great talons gripping the wood as it tilted its head to regard him as it might a rabbit.

Tears rolled uncontrollably down his thin cheeks.

"They would tear you to pieces at my command," the veiled woman told him. "Now speak. Tell me all."

Galbro began to babble. Words spilled from his mouth like water from a fountain. The bronze figure, described in minute detail. How he learned of it, and the attempts to secure it. Yet even in his terror he held back the true description of the giant northlander. Some tiny portion of him wanted to be part of killing this man who had endangered him; a larger part wanted whatever the veiled woman might pay for the piece.

Did she know how to obtain it without him she might decide his usefulness was at an end. He knew she had others like him who served her, and Baraca reminded him of the deadliness of her wrath. When his torrent of speech ended, he lay waiting in dread.

"I dislike those who keep things from me," she said at last, and he shivered at the thought of her dislike. "Secure this bronze, Galbro.

Obey me implicitly, and I will forgive your lies. Fail. . ."

She did not have to voice the threat. His whirling mind provided a score of them, each worse than the last. "I will obey, my lady," he sobbed, scrubbing his face in the dust of the floor. "I will obey. I will obey."

Not until her footsteps had faded from the room could he bring himself to stop the litany. Raising his head he stared wildly about the room, filled with joyous relief that he was alone and still alive. The eagles caught his eye, and he moaned. They were still again, but one leaned forward with wings half raised as if ready to swoop at him from its perch. The other still clung to the table, head swiveled to pierce him with its amber gaze.

He wanted to flee, yet he knew with a sinking feeling that he could not run far enough or fast enough to escape her. That accursed northlander was responsible for this. If not for him everything could have gone on as before. Rage built in him, comforting rage that overlaid his terror.

He would make the northlander pay for everything that had happened to him. That big man would pay.

Synelle waited until she was in her palanquin-unadorned for anonymity-with the pale gray curtains safely drawn before lowering her veil. The bearers carried her from the courtyard of the small house where she had met Galbro without a word needed from her. Tongueless, so they could not speak of where they had borne her, they knew the need to serve her perfectly as well as did the sly-faced thief..

It was well she always went to these meetings prepared. A cloth on which Galbro had wiped his sweat, obtained by another of her minions, a few feathers plucked from the eagles, these had given her the means to quell the thief. She could rest at her ease knowing the man's soul was seared with the need for absolute obedience. And yet for once the gentle swaying of the platform did not lull her as she lolled on silken cushions.

Something about the sly little man's description of the bronze produced an irritating tickle in the back of her mind. She had encountered many representations of Al'Kiir's head, many medalions and amulets embossed with his head or the symbol of the horns, but never before a complete figure. It sounded so detailed, perhaps an exact duplicate of the actual body of the god. Her face went blank with astonishment. In one of the manuscript fragments she had gathered there was ... something.

She was sure of it.

She parted the forward curtains a slit. "Faster!" she commanded. "Erlik blast your souls, faster!"

The bearers increased their pace to a run, forcing their way through the crowds, careless of the curses that followed them. Synelle would do more than curse if they failed to obey. Within, she pounded a small fist against her thigh in frustration at the time it took to cross the city.

As soon as the palanquin entered the courtyard of her mansion, before the bearers could lower it to the slate tiles, Synelle leaped out. Even in her haste hate flickered through her at the sight of the house. As large as any palace in the city, it still was not a palace. The white stuccoed walls and red-tiled roof were suitable for the dwelling of a merchant. Or a woman. By ancient law no woman, not even a princess, could maintain a palace within the walls of Ianthe. But she would change that. By the gods, if what she thought were true she would change it within the month. Why wait for Valdric to die? Not even the army could stand against her. Iskandrian, the White Eagle of Ophir, would kneel at her feet along with the great lords of Ophir.

Dropping her cloak for a serving maid to tend to, she raised her robes to her hips and ran, heedless of servants who stared at bare, flashing limbs. To the top floor of the mansion she ran, to a windowless room where only one other but herself was allowed, and that one with her mind ensorceled to forget what lay within, to die did anyone attempt to force the awful knowledge from her.

Golden sconces on the walls held pale, perfumed candles, yet all their light could not thrust back an air of darkness, the feel of a shrine to evil. Shrine it was, in a way, though there was no idol, no place for votive offerings. Three long tables, polished till they gleamed, were all the furnishings the room contained. On one were flasks of liquids that bubbled in their sealed containers or glowed with eery lights, vials of powders noxious and obscene, the tools of her painfully learned craft. The second was covered with amulets and talismans; some held awesome powers she could detect but not yet wield. Al'Kiir would give them to her.

It was to the third table she hurried, for there were the fragments of scroll, the tattered pages of parchment and vellum that she had slowly and carefully gathered over the years. There was the dark knowledge of sorceries the world had attempted to forget, sorceries that would give her power. Hastily she pawed through them, for once careless of flakes that dropped from ancient pages. She found what she sought, and easily read in a language dead a thousand years. She was perhaps the last person in the world capable of reading that extinct tongue, for the scholar who had taught her she had had strangled with his own beard, his wife and children smothered in their beds to be doubly sure. Death guarded secrets far better than gold.

An eager gleam lit her dark eyes, and she read again the passage she had found.

Lo, call to the great god, entreating him, and set before the image, the succedaneum, the bridge between worlds, as a beacon to glorify the way of the god to thee.

She had thought this spoke of the priestess as bridge and beacon, placing herself before the image of Al'Kiir, but that which lay beneath the mountain was not an image. It was material body of the god. It must be the image that was to be placed before the priestess during the rites. The image. The bronze figure. It had to be. A thrill of triumph coursed through her as she swept from the room.

In the corridor a serving girl busily lighting silver lamps hung from the walls awkwardly made obeisance clutching her coal-pot and tongs.

Synelle had not realized how close the fall of darkness came. Twilight was almost on the city; precious time wasted away as she stood there.

"Find Lord Taramenon," she commanded, "and bid him come to my dressing chamber immediately. Run, girl!" The serving girl ran, for the Lady Synelle's displeasures brought punishments best not thought of.

There was no need to ask if the handsome young lord was in her mansion.

Taramenon wished to be king, a foolish desire for one with neither the proper blood lines nor money, and one he believed he had hidden from her. It was true he was the finest sword in Ophir-she had made a point of binding the best bladesmen of the land to her service-but that counted little in the quest for a throne. He followed Synelle in her own seeking because he believed in his arrogance that she would find it impossible to rule without a husband by her side, because he thought in his pride that he would be that husband. Thus he would gain his crown.

She had done nothing to dissuade him from the belief. Not yet.

Four tirewomen, lithe matched blondes in robes that seemed to be but vapors of silk, paused only to bend knee before hurrying forward, moving as gracefully as dancers, as Synelle entered her dressing chamber. Her agents had gone to great efforts to find the four sisters of noble Corinthian blood with but a year separating each from the next; Synelle herself had seen to the breaking and training of them.

They followed her submissively and silently as she strolled about the room, removing her garments without once impeding her progress in any way. In nakedness more resplendant than any satins or silks, long-limbed, full-breasted and sleek, Synelle allowed them to minister to her. One held an ivory-framed mirror while another used delicate fur brushes to freshen the kohl on Synelle's eyelids and the rouge on her lips. The others wiped her softly with cool, damp clothes, and annointed her with rare perfume of Vendhya, priced at one gold coin the drop.

The heavy tread of a man's boots sounded in the antechamber, and the tirewomen scurried to fetch a lounging robe of scarlet velvet. Synelle refused to hold out her arms for them to slip it on until the steps were at the very door.

Taramenon gasped at the tantalizing flash of silken curves, quickly sheathed, that greeted his entrance. He was tall, broad of shoulders and deep of chest, with an aquiline nose and deep brown eyes that had melted the hearts of many women. Synelle was glad that he did not follow the fashion in beards, being rather clean shaven. She was also pleased to note the quickening of his breath as he gazed at her.

"Leave me," she commanded, belting tight the red satin sash of her robe. The girls filed obediently from the room.

"Synelle," Taramenon said thickly as soon as they were gone, and stepped forward as if to take her in his arms.

She stopped him with an upraised hand. There was no time for such frivolity, no matter how amusing it might usually be to make him writhe with a desire she had no intention of slaking. Her studies told her there were powers to be gained from allowing a man to take her, and dedicating that taking to Al'Kiir, but she knew Taramenon's plans for her. And she had seen too many proud, independent women give themselves to a man only to discover they had given pride and independence as well. Not for her listening breathlessly for a lover's footstep, smiling at his laughter, weeping at his frowns, running to tend to his wants like the meanest slave. She would not risk such an outcome. She would never give herself to any man.

"Send your two best swordsmen after yourself to find and follow Galbro," she said, "without allowing him to become aware of it. He seeks a bronze, an image of Al'Kiir the length of a big man's forearm, but it is too important to trust to him. When he has located it for them, they are to secure it and bring it to me at once. Do you understand, Taramenon? Are you listening?"

"I listen," he said hoarsely, a touch of anger in his voice. "When you summoned me to your dressing chamber, at this hour, I thought something other than an accursed figure was on your mind."

A seductive smile caressed her full lips, and she moved closer to him, until her breasts were pressed against him. "There will be time for that when the throne is secure," she said softly. Her slender fingers brushed his mouth. "All the time in the world." His arms began to come up around her, but she stepped smoothly out of his embrace. "First the throne, Taramenon, and this bronze you call accursed is vital to attaining that. Send the men tonight. Now."

She watched a multitude of emotions cross his face, and wondered yet again at how transparent were the minds of men. No doubt he thought his features unreadable, yet she knew he was adding this incident to a host of others, cataloguing the ways he would make her pay for them once she was his.

"It will be done, Synelle," he growled at last.

When he was gone her smile turned to one of ambition triumphant. Power would be hers. The smile became full-throated laughter. It would be hers, and hers alone.

Chapter V

The night streets of Ianthe were dark and empty, yet near the palace of Baron Timeon a shadow moved. A cloaked and hooded figure pressed itself to the thickly-ornamented marble walls, and cool green eyes, slightly tilted above high cheekbones, surveyed the guards marching their rounds among the thick, fluted columns of alabaster. All very well, those guards, but would he who lay sleeping within remember his own thief's tricks?

The cloak was discarded, revealing a woman in tight-fitting tunic and snug breeches of buttery leather, with soft red boots on her feet.

Moonlight shimmered on titian hair tied back from her face with a cord.

Quickly she undid her sword belt and refastened it with her Turanian scimitar hanging down her back, then checked the leather sack hanging at her side. Strong, slender fingers tested the niveous marble carvings of the wall, and then she was climbing like a monkey.

Below the edge of the flat roof she paused. Boots grated on slate tiles. He remembered. Yet for all the reputation this Free-Company was building in the country, they were yet soldiers. Those on the roof walked regular paths, as sentries in a camp. The measured tread came closer, closer. And then it was receding.

As agile as a panther, she was onto the roof, running on silent feet, losing herself in the shadows of two score chimneys. At the drop of the central garden around which the entire palace was arranged, she fell to her belly and peered down. There were the windows of his sleeping chamber. They were dark. So he did sleep. She would have expected him to be carousing with yet another in a long line of all too willing wenches. It was one of the things she remembered most about him, his eye for women and theirs for him.

Knowledge had been easily come by. Not even bribes had been necessary.

All that had been required was for her to pretend to be a serving woman-though that had been no small a task in itself, given her lush beauty; serving maids with curves like hers soon found themselves promoted to the master's bed-and chat to the women of Baron Timeon's palace in the markets. They had been eager to tell about the great house in which they served, about their fat master and his constantly changing parade of women, about the hard-eyed warriors who had hired themselves to him. Especially about the warriors they had been willing to talk, giggling and teasing each other about returning from the stable with hay covering the back of a robe and stolen moments in secluded corners of the garden.

She would have wagered there were guards in that garden as well as on the roof, but those did not worry her. From the leather sack she produced a rope woven of black-dyed silk, to the end of which was fastened a padded grapnel. The metal prongs hooked on the scrollwork along the roof-edge; the rope fell invisibly into the darkness below.

It was just long enough to reach the window she sought.

A short climb downward, and she was inside the room. It was as black as Zandru's Seventh Hell. A dagger found its way into her hand ... and she stopped dead. What if there were some error in her information? She did not want to kill the wrong man. She had to be sure.

Mentally cursing her own foolishness, she felt in the darkness for a table, for a lamp ... and yes, a coal-box and tongs. She puffed softly on the coal till it glowed, held it to the wick. Light bloomed, and she gasped at the apparition on the table beside the brass lamp. Horned malevolence glared at her. It was but a bronze figure, yet she sensed evil in the thing, and primeval instinct deep within her told her that evil was directed at women. Could the man she sought have changed so much as to keep such monstrosity in his chamber. The man she sought!

Heart pounding, she spun, dagger raised. He still slept, a young giant sprawled in his slumber. Conan of Cimmeria. Soft-footed she crept closer to his bed, her eyes drinking him in, the planes of his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the massive arms that had ...

Stop, she commanded herself. How many wrongs had this man committed against her? She had lived on the plains of Zamora and Turan with the freedom of the hawk till Conan had come, and brought with him the destruction of her band of brigands. For his stupid male honor and the matter of a silly oath she had made him swear in a moment of anger, he had allowed her to be sold into slavery, into a zenana in Sultanapur.

Every time the switch had kissed her buttocks, every time she had been forced to dance naked for the pleasure of the fat merchant who had been her master and his friends, all these could be laid at Conan's feet.

When at last she had escaped and fled to Nemedia, become the queen of the smugglers of that country, he had appeared again. And before he was done she must needs pack her hard-acquired wealth on sumpter animals and flee again.

She had escaped him, then, but she could not escape his memory, the memory of his building fires in her, fires that she came to crave like the smoker of the yellow lotus craved his pipe. That memory had hounded her, driven her into riotous living and excesses that shocked even the jaded court of Aquilonia. Only when all her gold was gone had she known freedom again. Once more she had taken up the life she lowed, living by her wits and her sword. She had sought a new country, Ophir, and raised a new band of rogues.

How many months gone had the first rumors come to her of a huge northerner whose Free-Company was a terror to all who opposed him? How long had she tried to convince herself that it was not the same man who always brought ruin to her? Once more she found herself within the same borders as he, but this time she would not flee. She would be free of him at last. With a sob she raised the dagger high and brought it down.

A strange sound penetrated Conan's dreams-a woman's sob, he thought drowsily-and brought him awake. He had just time to see a shape beside his bed, see the descending dagger, and then he was rolling aside.

The dagger slashed into the mattress where his chest had been, and the force of the missed stab brought his attacker down on top of him.

Instantly he seized the shape-the back of his brain noted a curious softness-and hurled it across the room. In the same motion he leaped from the bed, seized the worn leatherwrapped hilt of his broadsword and slung the scabbard aside. It was then that he saw his assailant clearly for the first time. .

"Karela!" he exclaimed.

The auburn-haired beauty rising warily from the floor near the wall snarled at him. "Yes, Derketo blast your eyes! And would she had made you sleep just one moment more."

His gaze went to the dagger thrust into his mattress, and his eyebrows raised. But all he said was, "I thought you went to Aquilonia to live the life of a lady."

"I am no lady," she breathed. "I am a woman! And woman enough to put an end to you once and for all!" Her hand went to her shoulder, and suddenly she, was rushing at him, brandishing three feet of curved razor-sharp steel.

Anger blazed in Conan's icy blue eves, and he swung his sword to meet hers with a crash. Shock appeared on Karela's face, her mouth dropping open with incredulity as her blade was nearly wrenched from her grasp.

She took a step back, and from that moment was ever defending from his flashing edge. He did not force her back, but every pace backwards she took, he followed. And she could not but move backwards, away from the force of those blows, panting, desperate to attack yet with no slightest opportunity. If he made certain that his sword struck only hers, he also made certain that every blow had his full strength behind it, rocking her to her heels. The cool smile on his face, calm even as he battled her, struck to her heart. It mocked her, wounding more deeply than ever steel could. "Derketo take you, you over-muscled barbar," she rasped.

With a sharp ring her scimitar was hurled from her. For a breath she froze, then dove for the fallen blade.

Conan tossed his broadsword aside and seized the back of her tunic as she leaped. Fabric already strained by more than generous callimastian curves split down the front; her momentum carried her partly out of her tunic, stripping her halfway to the waist. In an instant Conan had twisted his fistful of cloth, trapping her arms at her sides. He found he had caught a spitting, kicking wildcat. But, he noted, a wildcat who still had the finest, roundest set of breasts he had seen in many a day.

"Coward!" she shouted. "Spawn of a diseased goat! Fight me blade to blade, and I'll spit you like the capon you are!"

Easily he pulled her over to the bed, seated himself, and jerked her across his knees. Easily he controlled her frenzied thrashings.

"Oh, no!" she gasped. "Not that! Cimmerian, I'll cut your heart out!

I'll slice your manhood for-"

Her diatribe was cut off with a howl as his big hand landed forcefully on her taut-breeched buttocks.

A fist thumped against the heavy wooden door, and Alachaon's voice sounded from the corridor. "What's happening in there, Conan? Are you all right?"

"All is well," Conan replied. "I'm tending to an unruly wench."

That provoked furious struggles from Karela, futile against his iron grasp. "Release me, Cimmerian," she growled, "or I'll see you hanging by your heels over a slow fire. Unhand me, Derketo shrivel your manhood!"

Conan answered her with a smack that brought another howled curse. "You tried to kill me, wench," he said slowly, punctuating each word with his calloused palm. "You've been untrustworthy from the first day I laid eyes on you. In Shadizar you'd have let me be slain without a word of warning." Karela's shrieked imprecation became incoherent; she kicked frantically at the air, but he did not pause. "In the Kezankian Mountains you betrayed me to a sorcerer. I saved your life there, but in Nemedia you bribed my jailors with gold to torture me. Why? Why a knife for my heart while I lay sleeping? Have I ever harmed you? Is your soul filled with treacherv, woman?"

A half-formed plea among her cries penetrated his rage, killing his anger and staying his hand. Karela pleading? Whatever she had done or tried to do, that was not right. As he could not kill her, neither could he bring himself to break her pride completely. He pushed her off his lap to fall with a thump to her knees.

Her tear-streaked face twisted with sobs, Karela's slender hands stole back gingerly to her buttocks. Then, as if suddenly remembering Conan's presence, she tore them away again; moist green eyes glared daggers at him. "May Derketo blast your eyes, Cimmerian," she said jerkily, "and Erlik take your soul for a plaything. No man has ever treated me as you do and lived."

"And no one," he said quietly, "man or woman, has ever dealt with me as treacherously as you have without incurring my enmity. And yet I cannot find it in me to hate you. But this! Murder was never your way, Karela.

Was it for gold? You've always loved gold above all else."

"It was for me!" she spat at him, pounding a small fist on her thigh.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Your presence turns my muscles to wine. Your eyes on me sap my will. How can I not want you dead?"

Conan shook his head in wonderment. Never had he pretended to understand women, least of all this fierce female falcon. Once more he was convinced that whatever gods had created men had not been the gods who created women.

As she knelt there in disarray, naked to the waist, Conan felt other stirrings than amazement. She was a woman of marvelous curves to brighten the eye, a wonderful blend of softness and firmness to delight the touch. Always she had been able to rouse his desire, though she often attempted to use that to bend him to her will. Abruptly he decided that learning why and how she had come to Ophir could wait.

Gently he drew her between his knees.

Her clear green eyes, still tremulous, fluttered open. "What are you doing?" she demanded unsteadily.

He lifted the tattered tunic from her and threw it aside.

Small white teeth bit into her full underlip, and she shook her head.

"No," she said breathlessly. "I will not. No. Please."

Easily he lifted her to the bed, disposed of her soft boots, peeled the tight breeches from her long legs.

"I hate you, Conan." But there was a curious note of pleading in her voice for such a statement. "I came to kill you. Do you not realize that?" He plucked her dagger from his mattress and held it in two fingers before her gaze. "Take it, if you truly wish me dead."

For the space of three breaths his eyes held hers. Convulsively she turned her face aside. Conan smiled and, casually tossing the dagger to the floor, set about producing cries from her that had naught to do with pain.

Chapter VI

Sunlight steaming through the windows woke Conan. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Karela's dagger, once more driven to the hilt into his mattress. The blade held a fragment of parchment. Karela was gone.

"Blast the woman," he muttered, ripping the parchment free. It was covered with a bold, sprawling hand.

Another debt added to those you already owe me. The next time you will die, Cimmerian. I will not run from another country because of YOU. By the Teats of Dezketo I swear, I will not.

Frowning, he crumpled the parchment in his fist. It was like the woman, leaving before he woke, with threats but without answers to any of his questions. He had thought she was done with threats altogether; she had enjoyed the night as well as he, of that she had left no doubt.

Hurriedly he dressed and headed into the bowels of the palace. He was still settling his swordbelt about his waist when he entered the long room where his company took their meals, near the kitchen Timeon had given over to them. The simple hearty provender Fabio prepared offended his own cooks, so the lord said. Some score and a half of the mercenary, warriors, unarmored but weapons as always belted on, were scattered among crude trestle-tables that had been rooted out of storage in the stables. Wachaon and Narus sat by themselves, their attention to the leather jacks of ale in their fists and the wooden bowls of stew before them not so great that they did not note his entrance.

"Ho, Cimmerian," Machaon called out loudly. "How was that, ah, unruly wench last night?" A sprinkling of rough laughter made it clear he had shared his story with the rest.

Could not the accursed fool keep his tongue behind his teeth, Conan thought. Aloud he said, "Double the guards on the roof, Machaon. And see they keep eyes and ears open. A parade of temple virgins would be undetected up there as it is."

Narus laughed dolefully into his ale as Conan straddled a bench across from them. "The wench was too unruly, was she? 'Tis the way of all women, to be least accomodating when you want them most."

"Do you have to beat all of them?" Taurianus called, a jealous edge to his bantering tone. "I thought her shrieks would bring the roof down."

"Food!" Conan bellowed. "Must I die of hunger?"

"There's a morsel in that kitchen," Machaon chuckled, "I could consume whole." He nudged Narus as Julia hurried from the kitchen, balancing with some difficulty a bowl of stew, a loaf of bread and a mug of ale.

She was much changed from the last time Conan had seen her. Her long auburn hair was tied with a green ribbon, and pulled back from a face bare of rouge or kohl but streaked with sweat from the heat of the kitchen fires. Her long robe of soft white wool, soot smudged and damp with soapy water, was meant to be modest, he assumed, but it clung to her curves in a way that drew the eye of every man in the room.

"You must speak to that man," she said as she set Conan's meal before him. He stared at her questioningly, and she flung out an arm dramatically toward the kitchen. "That man. Fabio. He threatened me . .

. with a switch. Tell him who I am."

Conan scooped up a horn spoon full of stew. In one form or another it served the men of the company for both meals of the day, morning and night. "You work in the kitchens," he said. "That is Fabio's domain.

Did a queen somehow come to scrub his pots he'd switch her an she did it badly. You'd best learn to do as he tells you."

Julia sputtered in indignation, the more so when Machaon laughed.

"You've too many airs, wench," the grizzled veteran chortled. "Besides, you're well padded for it." And he applied a full-fingered pinch to punctuate his claim.

Squealing, the auburn-haired girl leaped. To seize Conan's bowl and upend it over Machaon's head. Narus convulsed with laughter so hard that he began coughing.

"Fool girl," Conan growled. "I was eating that. Fetch me another, and quick about it."

"Fetch your own," she snapped back. "Or starve, if you wish to eat with the likes of him." Spinning on her heel, she stalked into the kitchen, her back rigid.

A stunned Machaon sat raking thick gobbets of stew from his face with his fingers. "I've a mind to take a switch to that conceited jade myself," he muttered.

"Go easy with her," Conan said. "She'll learn in time, whether she will or no. She is used to a gentler way of life than that which faces her now."

"I'd like to gentle her," Machaon replied. "But I'll keep my hands from her as she's yours, Cimmerian."

Conan shook his head. "She's not mine. Nor yours either, till she says she is. There are bawds aplenty in the town, is that your need." The two men stared at him perplexedly, but they nodded, and he was satisfied. They might think he was in truth laying claim to the girl-though doubtless wondering why he wished to make a secret of it-but they would not demand more of her than she was willing to give.

And they would speak it among the company, giving her protection with the others as well. He was not sure why he did not, save for Karela. It was difficult for him to think too much of other women when that fiery wench was about.

In any case, she was likely to give him ten times the trouble Julia did, and without trying half so hard. Karela was a woman who kept her word. If he did not find a way to stop her she would put steel between his ribs yet. Worse, she had a mind for vengeance like a Stygian. It would be like her to destroy the Free-Company, if she could, before killing him.

"Have either of you heard rumors of a woman bandit?" he asked in a carefully casual tone.

"I'll have to bathe to get clean of this," Machaon growled, picking a lump of meat from his hair. He popped it into his mouth. "I've heard no such tales. Women are meant for other things than brigands."

"Nor I," Narus said. "Women are not suited to the violent trades.

Except perhaps that red-haired jade we encountered in Nemedia. She claimed to be a bandit, though I'd never heard of her. The buxom trull was offended I did not know her fame. Remember?"

"She's no trull," Conan said, "and she'll carve your liver does she hear you name her so." Immediately the words were gone he wished he had held his tongue.

"She's here!" Machaon exclaimed. "What was her name?"

"Karela," Narus said. "A temper like a thornbush, that one has."

Machaon laughed suddenly. "She was the wench last night." He shrugged at Conan's glare. "Well, there's no woman in the palace who'd need her bottom warmed to crawl into your blankets. It must have been her. I'd not bed her without my sword and armor, and mayhap a man to watch my back."

"It was her," the Cimmerian said, and added grudgingly, "She tried to put a dagger in me."

"That sounds like the woman I remember," Narus chortled. "From the yells, I'd say you taught her better manners."

"'Twould be sport," Machaon crowed, "to stuff her and our Julia into a sack together."

Tears ran down Narus' face from his laughter. "I would pay coin to see that fight."

"Erlik take the pair of you," Conan snarled. "There's more danger in that woman than sport. She thinks she has a grievance against me, and she will cause trouble for the company if she can."

"What can a woman do?" Narus said. "Nothing."

"I would not like to wager my life on that," Conan told him. "Not when the woman is Karela. I want you to ask questions in the taverns and the brothels. 'Tis possible she's changed her name, but she cannot change the way she looks. A red-haired woman bandit with a body like one of Derketo's handmaidens will be known to someone. Tell the others to keep their eyes open as well."

"Why can you not manage her grievance as you did last night?" Machaon asked. "A smack on the bottom and to bed. Oh, very well-" he raised his hands in surrender as Conan opened his mouth for more angry words-"I will ask questions in the brothels. At least it gives me an excuse to spend more time at the House of the Doves."

"Forget not the House of the Honeyed Virgins," Narus added. Conan scowled wordlessly. The fools did not know Karela as he did. He hoped for the sake of the company that they had time to learn before it was too late. Abruptly he became aware of the horn spoon of stew he still held, and put it in his mouth. "Fabio's cooking horse again," he said when he'd swallowed.

Narus froze with his own spoon half lifted. "Horse?" he gasped. Machaon stared at his bowl as if he expected it to leap from the table at him.

"Horse," Conan said, tossing his spoon to the rough planks. Narus gagged. Not until he was out of the room did the Cimmerian permit a smile to grow on his face. The meat tasted like beef to him, but those two deserved the worrying they were going to do over what Fabio was feeding them.

"Conan!" Julia ran out of the door he had just exited, bouncing off his chest as he turned. Her hands clutched her robe at the waist, twisting nervously. "Conan, you didn't ... that is, last night ... I mean. .."

She stopped and took a deep breath. "Conan, you must speak to Fabio. He struck me. Look." Half-turning she lifted her robe to expose the alabastrine rounds of her buttocks.

Conan was barely able to make out a pink stripe across the undercurve.

He raised his gaze to her face. Her eyes were closed; the tip of her tongue continually wetted her full lips.

"I'll speak to him," he said gravely. Her eyes shot open, and a smile blossomed on her face. "I'll tell him he must strike harder than that to make any impression on a stubborn pot-girl."

"Conan!" she wailed. Hastily she covered herself, smoothing the pale wool over her hips. Her eyes became as hard as sapphires. "You had a woman in your ... your chamber last night. I ... I was passing in the corridor, and I heard."

He smiled, and watched a blush spread over her cheeks. So she had had her ear pressed to his door, had she? "And what concern is that of yours?" he asked. "You are here to scrub pots and stir the stew, to fetch and carry for Fabio. Not to be wandering parts of the palace where you have no business."

"But you kissed me," she protested. "And the way you kissed me! You cannot make me feel like that, then calmly walk away. I'm a woman, curse you! I'm eighteen! I will not be dismissed like a plaything."

For the second time in the space of hours, he mused, a woman was protesting her womanhood to him. But what a contrast between them.

Karela was bold and defiant even as she melted with passion; Julia frightened despite her bluff front. Karela knew well the ways of men and women; Julia was ravaged by a kiss. Karela knew who she was and what she wanted; Julia ...

"Do you want to come to my bed?" he said softly, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face up. Scarlet suffused her face and neck, but she did not try to wrench free. "Say yes, and I'll carry you there this moment."

"The others," she whispered. "They'll know."

"Forget them. 'Tis you must chose."

"I cannot, Conan." She sobbed when he released her, and leaned toward him as if seeking his touch. "I want to say yes, but I fear to. Can you not just ... take me? Men do such things, I know. Why must you put this burden I do not want on me?"

Barely four years seperated them, yet at that moment he felt it could as well be four hundred. "Because you are not a slave, Julia. You say you are a woman, but when you are truly a woman you will be able to say yes or no, and know it is what you mean to say. But till then ... well, I take only women to my bed, not frightened girls."

"Erlik curse you," she said bitterly. Instantly she was contrite, one hand raised to touch his cheek. "No, I didn't mean that. You confuse me so. When you kissed me you made me want to be a woman. Kiss me again, and make me remember. Kiss me, and give me the courage I need."

Conan reached for her, and at that instant a bellow of pain and rage echoed down the halls. He spun, grabbing instead for the leatherwrapped hilt of his sword. The cry came again, from above he was certain.

"Timeon," he muttered. His blade came into his hand, and he was running, shouting as he ran. "Rouse yourselves, you poxed rouges! 'Tis the baron screaming like a woman in birth! To arms, curse you!"

Servants and slaves ran hysterically, shrieking and waving their arms at his shouts. Men of the company knocked them aside without compunction as they poured out of the corners where they had been taking their ease. Helmets were tugged on and swords waved, as a growing knot of warriors followed the big Cimmerian up marble stairs.

In the corrider outside Timeon's chamber the two guards Conan had caused to be set there stood staring dumbfounded at the ornately carved door. Conan slammed into that door at a dead run, smashing it open.

Timeon lay in the middle of a multi-hued Iranistani carpet, his body wracked by convulsions, heels drumming, plump hands clawing at his throat. His head was thrown back, and every time he managed to fight a breath he loosed it again in a scream. Tivia, his leman, stood with her back to a wall, clutching a cloak about her tightly, her eyes, large and dark fixed on the helplessly jerking man in an expression of horror. An overturned goblet lay near Timeon, and a puddle of wine soaking into the rug.

"Zandru's Hells!" Conan growled. His eye lit on Machaon, forcing his way through the men crowding the hall. "A physician, Machaon. Quickly!

Timeon's poisoned!"

"Boros is in the kitchens," the tattoed man called back. Conan hesitated, and the other saw it. "Curse it, Cimmerian, it'll take half the day to get another."

Timeon's struggles were growing weaker; his screams had become moans of agony. Conan nodded. "Fetch him, then."

Machaon disappeared, and Conan turned back to the man on the floor. How had the fool gotten himself poisoned? The answer might mean life or death to him and the rest of the company. And he had to have the answer before the matter was turned over to the King's torturers. Valdric might ignore the great part of what was happening in his country, but he would not ignore the murder of a noble in the very shadow of his throne.

"Narus!" Conan shouted. The hollow-faced man stuck his head into the room. "Secure the palace. No one leaves, nor any message, till I say.

Hurry, man!"

As Narus left Machaon hurried Boros into the room. The former mage's apprentice looked sober at least, Conan was glad to see.

"He's poisoned," the Cimmerian said.

Boros looked at him as he might at a child. "I can see that." Fumbling in his pouch the gray-bearded man knelt beside Timeon. Quickly he produced a smooth white stone the size of a man's fist and a small knife. With difficulty he straightened one of the baron's arms, pushed up the sleeve of his robe, and made a deep cut. As blood welled up he pressed the white stone to the cut. When he took his hands away the stone remained, tendrils of black appearing in it.

"Bezoar-stone," Boros announced to the room. "Sovereign for poison. A physician's tool, strictly speaking, but I find it useful. Yes."

He tugged at his full beard and bent to study the stone. It was full black, now, and as they watched it became blacker, as a burned cinder, as a raven's wing, and blacker still. Suddenly the stone shattered. In the same moment a last breath rattled in Timeon's throat, and the fat baron was still.

"He's dead," Conan breathed. "I thought you said that accursed stone was sovereign for poison!"

"Look at it!" Boros wailed. "My stone is ruined. 'Twould take poison enough to kill ten men to do that. I could not have saved him with a sack full of bezoar-stones."

"It is murder, then," Narus breathed. A murmur of disquiet rippled through the men in the corridor.

Conan's hand tightened on his sword. Most of the three-score who followed him now he had recruited in Ophir, a polyglot crew from half a dozen lands, and their allegiance to him was not as strong as that of the original few. They had faced battle with him often-such was the way of the life they led, and accepted by them-but unless he found the murderer quickly fear of being put to the question would do what no enemy had ever been able to. Send them scattering to the four winds.

"Do you want me to find who put the poison in the wine?" Boros asked.

For a moment Conan could only gape. "You can do that?" he demanded finally. "Erlik blast you, are you sober enough? An you make some drunkard's mistake, I'll shave your corpse."

"I'm as sober as a priest of Mitra," Boros replied. "More so than most.

You, girl. The wine came from that-" He pointed to a crystal flagon, half-filled with ruby wine, on a table near the bed. Tivia's mouth opened, but no words came out. Boros shook his head. "No matter. I see no other, so the wine must have come from there." Climbing to his feet with a grunt, he delved into his pouch once more.

"Is he truly sober?" Conan said quietly to Machaon.

The grizzled man tugged nervously at the three thin gold rings dangling from the lobe of his right ear. "I think so. Fabio likes his company, but doesn't let him drink. Usually."

The Cimmerian sighed. Avoiding the hot irons meant trusting a man who might give them all leprosy by mistake.

With a stick of charcoal Boros scribed figures on the tabletop around the flagon of wine. Slowly he began to chant, so softly that the words were inaudible to the others in the room. With his left hand he sprinkled powder from a twist of parchment over the flagon; his right traced obscure patterns in the air. A red glow grew in the crystal container.

"There," Boros said, dropping his hands. "A simple thing, really." He stared at the flagon and frowned. "Cimmerian, the poisoner is close by.

The glow tells."

"Crom," Conan muttered. The men who had been in the doorway crowded back into the hall.

"The closer the wine is the one who poisoned it," Boros said, "the more strongly it will glow."

"Get on with it," Conan commanded.

Picking up the flask, Boros moved closer to Machaon. The glow remained unchanged. As he moved past the door, briefly thrusting the flask toward the men outside, it dimmed. Abruptly the bearded man pressed the wine-filled vessel against Narus' chest. The hollow-cheeked man started back; the glow did not brighten.

"A pity," Boros murmured. "You look the part. And that leaves only. .

."

All eyes in the room went to Tivia, still standing with her back pressed against the wall. Under their gaze she started, then shook her head vigorously, but still said nothing. Boros padded toward her, holding the flagon of glowing wine before him. With each step the light from the wine became brighter until, as he stopped not a pace from the girl, the crystal he held seemed to contain red fire.

She avoided looking at the luminous vessel. "No," she cried. "'Tis a trick of some sort. He who placed the poison in the wine put a spell on it."

"Sorcerer as well as poisoner?" Boros asked mildly.

With an oath Conan strode across the room. "The truth, girl! Who paid you?" She shook her head in denial. "I've no stomach for torturing woman," he continued, "but mayhap Boros has some spell to force the truth from you."

"Well, let me see," the old man mused. "Why, yes, I believe I have just the thing. Aging. The longer you take to tell the truth, the older you'll become. But it works rapidly, child. I should speak quickly, were I you, or you may well leave this room a toothless crone. Pity."

Tivia's eyes swiveled desperately from the grim-faced Cimmerian to the kindly-appearing man, calmly stroking his beard, who had voiced the awful threat. "I do not know his name," she said, sagging against the wall. "He wore a mask. I was given fifty pieces of gold and the powder, with fifty more to come when Timeon was dead. I can tell you no more."

Sobbing, she slid to the floor. "Whatever you do to me, I can tell you no more."

"What do we do with her now?" Machaon asked. "Give her over to the judges?"

"They'll have her beheaded for slaying a noble," Narus said. "A shame, that. She's too pretty to die like that, and it should hardly count a crime to kill a fool like Timeon."

"Giving her to the judges won't help us," Conan said. He wished he could carry on this conversation with Machaon and Narus in privacy, but the door was open and most of the company had jammed themselves into the corridor. Shut them out now and there might not be a dozen left when the door was opened again. He took a deep breath and went on.

"We've lost our patron to an assassin. Ordinarily that would be the death knell for a Free-Company." Uneasy mutters rose in the hall, and he lifted his voice to a roar. "Ordinarily, I said. But Timeon was a supporter of Count Antimides to succeed Valdric. Perhaps we can take service with Antimides, if I deliver the murderer to his hands." At least it was a chance, he thought. Antimides might well find them employment simply to keep secret his own ambitions.

"Antimides?" Machaon said doubtfully. "Cimmerian, 'tis said he's one of the few nobles who does not seek the throne at Valdric's death." There were murmured agreements from the hall.

"Timeon spoke too freely in his cups," Conan said. "Of how Antimides was so clever he had fooled everyone. Of how he himself would be one of the most powerful lords of Ophir once Antimides took the throne."

"Well enough," Machaon said, "but will Antimides take us in service? If he pretends to be aloof from the struggle to succeed Valdric, how will he have need for a Free-Company?"

"He'll take us," Conan said with more confidence than he felt. "Or find us service. I'll take oath on it." Besides, he thought, it was the only course they had open.

"That aging spell," Narus said suddenly. "It seems a strange sort of spell, even for folk as strange as sorcerers are reputed to be. Why would you learn a thing like that?"

"Cheese," Boros replied with a chuckle. "I had a taste for well-aged cheese when I was young, and I created the spell for that. My master flogged me for wasting time. In truth, I doubt it would work on a human."

"You tricked me," Tivia gasped. "Whoreson dog!" she shrieked, launching herself at the bearded man with fingernails clawed. Conan caught her by the arms, but she still struggled to get to the old man, who stared at her in amazement. "I'll pluck your eyes, you old fraud! You dung beetle's offspring! I'll take your manhood off in slices! Your mother was a drunken trull, and your father a poxed goat!"

"Get me a cord to tie her wrists," Conan said, then added, "And a gag."

Her tirade was becoming obscene to the point where Machaon was listening with interest. The Cimmerian glared at Narus, who looked abashed as he hurried to fetch what Conan required. It was all he needed, to have to carry a shrieking girl through the streets. Narus returned with strips of cloth, and, muttering to himself, Conan bound his writhing prisoner.

Chapter VII

Conan drew few stares as he made his way through Ianthe, even with a wiggling, cloak-wrapped woman over his massive shoulder. Or because of the woman. In the streets of the capital, eaten by fear and riddled with suspicion, no one wanted to interfere in something that might even possibly involve them in the troubles beyond the walls of the city.

They could see a kidnapping take place or murder done and walk by looking the other way. Who the young giant might be, or why he carried a woman like a sack of grain, no one wanted to know. It could be dangerous to know. It could be dangerous even to appear curious.

Therefore none looked too closely at the big Cimmerian or his burden.

He had already been to Antimides' palace. With more than a little difficulty-for the well-fed chamberlain, as proud in his manner as any noble of the land, had seen no reason to give any information whatsoever to a stranger, and a barbarian at that-he learned that the count was a guest of the King. King Valdric liked Antimides'

conversation, claiming it was better tonic than any of his physicians or sorcerers could compound. Lord Antimides would be remaining at the royal palace for several days. It was remarkable how free the chamberlain had become with his tongue once a big hand had lifted him until his velvet shoes dangled clear of the floor.

The royal palace of Ophir was a fortress rather than the marble and alabaster edifices erected in the city by nobles. It was not by chance that the King dwelt behind massive granite walls while his lords spent their days in the capital in manors more suited to pleasure than defense. More than once the throne of Ophir had only been held secure by a King taking refuge behind those walls, betimes even refuge from his own nobles. They, having no strong points within Ianthe, had always been forced to abandon the city to the King. And as control of Ianthe was the key to keeping the crown, it was said that whoever held the royal palace held Ophir.

The guards at the towering barbican gate before the royal palace stirred themselves at Conan's approach. A paunch-bellied sergeant, the small triangular beard that was in favor among the nobles waggling on his chins, stepped forward and raised a hand for the Cimmerian to halt.

"What's this, then? Do you mercenaries now think to give us your leftover women?" He chuckled over his shoulder to the pikemen behind him, enjoying his own wit. "Off with you. The royal palace is no place for your drunken carousing. And if you must bind your women, keep them from sight of the army or we will be forced to take cognizance of it."

"She's a gift for Count Antimides," Conan replied, and managed a conspiratorial wink. "A tasty pastry from my patron. Perhaps he wishes to curry favor with a great lord." Tivia redoubled her squirming; unintelligible noises came from behind the twist of rag gagging her.

"She seems not to like the idea," the sergeant chortled.

Conan grinned back at him. "I wager Lord Antimides will know what to do with her, whether she likes it or not."

"That he will. Wait you here." Belly shaking with mirth, the soldier disappeared through the gate. In a few moments he was back with a slender man, his black hair streaked with gray, in a tabard of gold and green, Antimides' colors.

The slender man turned a supercilious gaze on the big Cimmerian. "I am Ludovic," he said sharply, "Count Antimides' steward. You've come to see the count, Who are you?" He appeared to ignore Conan's burden.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, Captain of the Free-Company in service to Baron Timeon."

Ludovic stroked his beard thoughtfully with a single finger, his eyes traveling to the wriggling girl over Conan's shoulder, then nodded.

"Follow me," he commanded. "Perhaps the count will grant you a brief time."

Conan's mouth tightened. All this obsequiousness and play-acting was enough to turn his stomach. But he followed the slender man under the portcullis and into the royal palace.

If a fortress from the outside, the seat of the Kings of Ophir was still a palace within. Gleaming white marble walls, floors covered with a profusion of many-hued mosaicks, fluted alabaster columns. Golden lamps depending on silver chains from high vaulted ceilings, painted with scenes from Ophir's glorious history. Gardens, surrounded by shaded colonnades and filled with rare blossoms from the far corners of the world. Courtyards, tiled with greenstone, where ladies of the court in diaphanous gowns that concealed little of their curves dabbled pale fingers in the babbling waters of ornate fountains.

Their passage left a wake of giggles and murmurs, and stares at the towering Cimmerian and the burden across his broad shoulder. No fear was there here in noticing the unusual, and commenting on it. Highborn, hot-eyed women speculated loudly on the pleasures to be found in being carried so-without the cords, of course.

The slender man scowled and increased his pace, muttering under his breath. Conan followed and wished the steward would go faster still.

Finally Ludovic stopped before a wide door carved with the ancient arms of Ophir. "Wait," he said. "I will see if the count will give you audience."

Conan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the slender man disappeared through the door, carefully closing it behind him.

Audience, he thought disgustedly. Antimides already acted as if he wore the crown.

The door swung open, and Ludovic beckoned him. "Hurry, man. Count Antimides can spare you but a few moments."

Muttering to himself Conan bore his burden within. Immediately he saw the room, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. Perhaps to the casual observer the room would not seem odd, but to one who knew Antimides'

ambitions it was clearly a small throne room. An arras depicting a famous battle scene, Moranthes the Great defeating the last army of Acheron in the passes of the Karpash Mountains, hung across one wall.

On a dais before the great tapestry was a massive chair with a high back, its dark wood carved with a profusion of leopards and eagles, the ancient symbols of Ophirean Kings.

If the chair seemed not grand enough by itself for a throne, the man seated there made it so. Deep-seated, piercing black eyes flanked a strong, prominent nose. His mouth was hard above a firm chin with its precisely trimmed fashionable beard. Long fingers bearing swordsman's callouses played with a ruby chain hanging across the chest of a robe of cloth-of-gold, slashed to show emerald silk beneath.

"My lord count," Ludovic said, bowing to the man on the dais, "this is the man calling himself Conan of Cimmeria."

" 'Tis my name," Conan said. He lowered Tivia to the thick-carpeted floor, layered in costly multi-colored rugs from Vendhya and Iranistan.

She crouched there silently, fright seeming at last to have stilled her rage.

"Count Antimides," Ludovic pronounced grandly, "wishes to know why you have come to him."

"The girl is Tivia," Conan replied, "late mistress of Baron Timeon.

Until she did poison him this morn."

Antimides raised a finger, and Ludovic spoke again. "But why have you brought her to him? She should be given to the King's justices." Conan wondered why the count did not speak for himself. But the ways of nobles were as strange as those of sorcerers. And there were more troublesome matters to concern him. Time for his gamble had come. "As Baron Timeon supported Count Antimides in his quest to succeed Valdric, it seemed proper to bring her before the count. My Free-Company is now without a patron. Perhaps the count can find-"

"My quest!" Antimides burst out, his face choleric with rage. "How dare you accuse me of. . ." He broke off, grinding his teeth. Ludovic stared at him in obvious surprise. Tivia, her mouth working futilely at her gag, seemed transfixed by his gaze. "You, jade," he breathed. "So you poisoned your master, and were caught at it by this barbar mercenary.

Pray that justice is mercifully swift for you. Take her away, Ludovic."

Desperately and futilely Tivia attempted to force words past the cloth gagging her. She flung herself against her bonds as the steward seized her, but the slender man bore her behind the arras with little effort.

A door opened and closed behind the hanging, and her cries were cut off.

The Cimmerian reminded himself that Tivia was a self-confessed murderer, and for gold. Still, it pained him to have a hand in a woman's death. In his belief women were not meant to die violently; such was for men. He forced himself to stop thinking of her, and put his attention on the hawk-eyed man on the dais. "Count Antimides, there is still the matter of my Free-Company. Our reputation is well known, and-"

"Your reputation!" Antimides snarled. "Your patron assassinated, and you speak of your reputation. Worse, you come to me with vile accusations. I should have your tongue torn out!"

"Pray, Antimides, what accusations are these to put you in such a rage?"

Both men started at the questions; so intent had they been on each other that neither had noticed the entrance of another. Now that Conan saw her, though, he drank her in appreciatively. Long of leg and full of breast, an exotic beauty blending the extraordinary combination of hair like fine, spun silver and large, dark eyes that spoke of deep wells of untapped passion, she moved with sinuous grace, her shimmering scarlet robe, barely opaque and slit up one thigh to a rounded hip, clinging to the curves of breast and thigh.

"Why do you come here, Synelle?" Antimides demanded. "I will not be bothered by your sharp tongue today."

"I have not seen this chamber since you came to the royal palace, Antimides," she said with a dangerous smile. "Seeing it, a suspicious mind might think you sought the crown after all, no matter your public pronouncements of disdain for those who strive beyond the city walls."

Antimides' face darkened, and his knuckles grew white on the arms of the chair; Synelle's smile deepened. "But as to why I came. It is said in the palace that a giant northlander came to you bearing a woman wrapped like a package from a fish-monger. Surely I could not miss seeing that? But where is this gift? She is a gift, is she not?"

"This does not concern you, Synelle," Antimides grated. "Go back to your woman's concerns. Have you not needlework waiting?" Synelle merely arched her eyebrows and moved closer to Conan. "And this is the barbarian? He is certainly as large as was reported. I have a liking for big men." Shivering ostentatiously, she fingered the small, overlapping steel plates on his hauberk. "Are you a mercenary, my handsome northlander?"

He smiled down at her, preening under her sultry look despite himself "I am captain of a Free-Company, my lady. My name is Conan."

"Conan." Her lips caressed the name. "And why do you come to Antimides, Conan?"

"Enough, Synelle," Antimides barked. "That lies between me and this barbar." He had shot a hard look at the big Cimmerian, a warning to silence.

Conan bristled, and glared back. "I came seeking employment for my company, my lady, but the count has nothing for us." Did the fool think he had no sense? Speaking of Timeon, and the baron's connection to Antimides, would gain him naught and perhaps cost much.

"Nothing?" Pity dripped from Synelle's voice. "But why do you not enter my service?" She raised her eyes boldly to his, and he thought he read a promise in them. "Would you not like to ... serve me?"

Antimides snorted derisively. "You outdo yourself, Synelle. Are you not satisfied with Taramenon? Do you need an entire company of rogues to satisfy you? Or do you think to contend for the throne yourself?" He roared with laughter at his own wit, but jealous anger colored his glare at Conan.

Synelle's face hardened, and Conan thought she bit back words. At last she spoke in icy tones. "My house is as ancient as yours, Antimides.

And did the succession depend on blood alone, I would stand first after Valdric." She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and her smile returned.

"I will take your company in service, Conan. At twice the gold Antimides would give."

"Done," Conan said. It was not the sort of service he had sought, but the men of his company would at least be pleased with the gold. The stern-faced count seemed bewildered over what had happened. "Can you be serious, Synelle?" he asked incredulously. "What use have you for such men? You throw your gold away like a foolish girl, on a whim."

"Are not my holdings subject to bandit attacks as others are, now that the army keeps to the cities? Besides," she added with a smouldering look at the Cimmerian, "I like his shoulders." Her voice hardened. "Or do you try to deny me even the right to take men-at-arms in service?"

"Women who need men-at-arms," Antimides replied hotly, "should make alliance with a man who can provide them."

"Why, so I have," she said, her mercurial mood becoming all gaiety.

"Come with me, Conan. We have done here."

Conan followed as she moved from the chamber, leaving a fuming Antimides on his wooden throne.

In the corridor she turned suddenly, her mouth open to speak. Conan, caught by surprise, almost walked into her. For a moment she stood, words forgotten and dark eyes wide, staring up at him. "Never have I seen such a man," she whispered then, as if to herself. "Could you be the one to . . ." Her words trailed off, but she still stood gazing at him as if in a trance.

A woman-wise smile appeared on Conan's face. He had not been sure if her flirting in the other room had been for his benefit or Antimides, but of this he had no doubt. Lifting her into his arms, he kissed her.

She returned his kiss with fiery, lips, cupping his face with both hands, straining her body to him.

Abruptly she pulled back, horror filling her eyes; her hand cracked against his face. "Loose me!" she cried. "You forget yourself?"

Confused, he set her feet back on the floor. She took two quick steps back from him, one trembling hand to her lips.

"Your pardon, my lady," he said slowly. Did the woman play a game with him?

"I will not have it," she breathed unsteadily. "I will not." Slowly her composure returned, and when she went on her voice was as coldy as it had ever been for Antimides. "I will forget what just happened, and I advise you to do the same. I have a house on the Street of Crowns where you may quarter your company. There are stables behind for your horses.

Ask for it, and you will be directed. Go there, and await my instructions. And forget, barbarian, as you value your life."

Did women ever know their own minds, Conan wondered as he watched her stiff back recede down the corridor. How then did they expect men to know them? His consternation could not last long, however. Once more he had managed to save his company. For a time, at least, and that was all a man could ask. All that was left was to convince them there was no disgrace in taking service with a woman. Thinking on that he set about finding his way out of the palace.

Chapter VIII

The massive walls and great outer towers of the royal palace had stood for centuries unchanged, but the interior had altered with every dynasty till it was a warren of corridors and gardens. Soon Conan felt he had visited all of them without making his way to the barbican gate.

Servants rushing through the halls on their duties would not even pause at question from the young barbarian in well-used armor. They were nearly as arrogant as the nobles who lounged in the fountained courts, and inquiries made to richly-clad folk got him little from the haughty men except gibes that brought him close to drawing his sword a time or two. The sleek, languorous women gave inviting smiles and even offers as open as those of any trull on the streets. Such might have appealed had he not been in haste to return to the Free-Company, but even they had only amusement for his ignorance of the palace, tinkling laughter and directions that, followed, sent him in circles.

Conan stepped into yet another courtyard, and found he was staring at King Valdric himself, trailing his retinue as he crossed the greenstone tiles. The King looked worse than Narus, the young Cimmerian thought.

Valdric's gold-embroidered state robes hung loosely on a shrunken body that had once weighed half again as much as it did now, and he used the tall, gem-encrusted scepter of Ophir as a walking staff. His golden crown, thickly set with emeralds and rubies from the mines on the Nemedian border, sat low on his brow; and his eyes, sunken deep in a hollow-cheeked face, held a feverish light.

The retinue consisted mainly of men with the full beards of scholars, leavened with a sprinkling of nobles in colorful silks and soldiers of rank in gilded armor, crested helms beneath their arms. The bearded men held forth continuously, competing loudly for Valdric's ear as the procession made its slow way across the courtyard.

"The stars will be favorable this night for an invocation to Mitra,"

one cried.

"You must be bled, your majesty," another shouted. "I have a new shipment of leeches from the marshes of Argos."

"This new spell will surely cast the last of the demons from you," a third contributed.

" 'Tis time for your cupping, my King."

"This potion . . ."

"The balance of fluxes and humors . . ."

Conan made an awkward bow, though none of them seemed to notice him.

Kings, he knew, were particular about such things.

When he straightened, King and retinue had gone; but one, a whitehaired soldier, had stayed behind and was looking at him. Conan knew him immediately, though he had never met the man. Iskandrian, the White Eagle of Ophir, the general who kept the army aloof from the struggle to succeed Valdric. Despite his age and white hairs, the general's leathery face was as hard as the walls of the palace, his bushybrowed gray eyes clear and sharp. The calloused hand that rested on his sword hilt was strong and steady.

"You're the one who brought the girl to Antimides," the whitehaired general said abruptly. "What is your name?"

"Conan of Cimmeria."

"Mercenary," Iskandrian said drily. His attitude toward mercenaries was well known. To his mind no foreign warrior should tread the soil of Ophir, not even if he was in service to an Ophirean. "I've heard of you. That fat fool Timeon's man, are you not?"

"I am no one's man but my own," Conan said hotly. "My company did follow Baron Timeon, but we have lately taken the Lady Synelle's colors." At least, they would once he drummed the fact into their heads.

Iskandrian whistled between his teeth. "Then, mercenary, you have gotten yourself a problem along with your lady patron. You've a set of shoulders like an ox, and I suppose women account you handsome. 'Twill light a fire in Taramenon's head to have a man like you near Synelle."

"Taramenon?" Conan remembered Antimides mentioning that name as well.

The count had implied this Taramenon had some interest in Synelle, or she in him.

"He is the finest swordsman in Ophir," Iskandrian said. "Best sharpen your blade and pray to your gods for luck."

"A man makes his own luck," Conan said, "and my sword is always sharp."

"A good belief for a mercenary," Iskandrian laughed. "Or a soldier." A frown quickly replaced his mirth. "Why are you in this part of the palace, barbarian? You are far from the path from Antimides' chambers to the gate."

Conan hesitated, then shrugged ruefully. "I am lost," he admitted, and the general laughed again.

"That does not sound like what I've heard of you. But I'll get you a guide." With a wave of his hand he summoned a servant, who bowed low before Iskandrian and ignored Conan. "Take this man to the barbican gate," the general commanded.

"My thanks," the Cimmerian told him. "Yours are the first words I have heard in some time that were neither mocking nor lies."

Iskandrian eyed him sharply. "Make no mistake, Conan of Cimmeria. You have a reputation for daring and tactical sense, and were you Ophirean, I'd make you one of my officers. But you are a mercenary, and an outlander. Do I have my way, the day will come when you'll leave Ophir with all the haste you can muster or have your ashes scattered here."

With that he stalked away.

By the time Conan got back to Timeon's palace, he was uncertain if he had ever had so many opposed to him before. Iskandrian seemed to like him personally, and would see him dead given the chance. Antimides hated him to the bone, and without doubt would like to put him on his funeral fires whether he went to them alive or dead. Synelle he was unsure of; what she said she wanted and what her body said she wanted were opposites, and a man could be shaved at the shoulders for involving himself with such a one as that. Karela claimed that she desired him dead, for all she had not taken the opportunity granted her, and she had a knack of making her desires come true that would make a statue sweat in the circumstances. Then there was the thrice-accursed horned figure. Had the second group of attackers been after it, as those first two had been? If they were, he could wager good coin on future attempts, though he still had no clue as to why.

Of course, he could rid himself of the threat of attack by ridding himself of the bronze, but that smacked too much of fright to suit him.

Let him but discover why it was worth killing and dying for, and he would willingly shed himself of it, but it was not his way to run from trouble. The Cimmerian almost laughed when he realized that the murder of Timeon was the only trouble to come his way of late that had been resolved.

The guards on the white-columned portico looked at him expectantly, and he put on a smile for their benefit. "All is well," he told them. "We have a patron, and gold to tempt the wenches."

He left them slapping each other's back in relieved laughter, but once he was inside his own smile disappeared. Did they know half of what faced them, they would likely throw down their bows on the spot and desert.

"Machaon!" he called, the name echoing in the high-ceilinged entry hall.

Narus, on the balcony above, shouted down. "He's in the garden. How went matters with Antimides?"

"Assemble the men here," Conan told him, hurrying on.

The tattooed veteran was in the garden as Narus had said, on a bench with a girl, his arms wrapped around her and hers around him. Trust Machaon, the Cimmerian thought with a chuckle, even when waiting to see if they must flee the country. It was about time he found something for merriment in the day.

"Leave her be," he said jovially. "There'll be time for wenches lat-"

He broke off as the girl leaped to her feet. It was Julia, cheeks scarlet and breasts heaving.

Clutching her skirts with both hands she looked helplessly at him, turned suddenly tear-filled eyes on Machaon, then ran wailing past the Cimmerian into the palace.

Machaon flung up his hands as Conan rounded on him angrily. "Hear me out before you speak, Cimmerian. She came about me, teasing, and taunted me about kissing her. And she did not try to run when I did it, either."

Conan scowled. He had saved her from a life as a trull, given her honest employment, for this? "She's no camp-follower, Machaon. If you want her, then court her. Don't grab her like a doxy in a tavern."

"Mitra's mercies, man! Court her? You speak as if she were your sister.

Zandru's Hells, I've never taken a woman against her will in my life."

The young Cimmerian opened his mouth for an angry retort, and found that none came. If Julia wanted to be a woman fully-fledged, who was he to say her nay? And Machaon was certainly experienced enough to make her enjoy her learning.

"I'm trying to protect someone who apparently doesn't want it any more, Machaon," he said slowly. His reason for seeking out the grizzled man returned to him. "Events have turned as I said they would. We have our patron." Machaon barked a laugh and shook a fist over his head in triumph. "Narus is bringing some of the men to the entry hall. You fetch the rest, and I'll tell the company."

The wide, tapestry-hung hall filled rapidly, three-score men-less the guards posted, for there was no reason to be foolish-crowding it from wall to wall. All looking expectantly to him, Conan thought as he watched them from a perch on the curving marble stair. Boros was among them, he saw, but after the gray-bearded man had ferreted out Tivia for him, he was willing to let him remain. So long as he remained sober and stayed away from magic, at least.

"The company has a new patron," he announced, and the hall exploded in cheers. He waited for the tumult to subside, then added, "Our payment is twice what we were getting." After all, he thought while they renewed their shouts of glee, Synelle had offered to double Antimides'

best offer; why would she not do the same for Timeon's? "Listen to me,"

he called to them. "Quiet, and listen to me. We'll be quartering in a house on the Street of Crowns. We leave here within the hour."

"But whom do we serve?" Taurianus shouted. Others took up the cry.

Conan drew a deep breath. "The Lady Synelle." Flat silence greeted his words.

At last Taurianus muttered disgustedly, "You'd have us serve a woman?"

"Aye, a woman," the Cimmerian answered. "Will her gold buy less when you clink it on the table in a tavern? And how many of you have worried as to how we'd fare if, when someone does succeed Valdric, it turned out we followed the wrong side? We'll be out of that. A woman cannot succeed to the throne. There'll be naught to do but guard her holdings from bandits and spend her gold."

"Twice as much gold?" Taurianus said.

"Twice as much." He had them, now. He could see it in their faces. "Get your belongings together quickly. And no looting! Timeon has heirs somewhere. I want none of you rogues hauled before the justices for theft."

Laughing again, the company began to disperse, and Conan dropped to a seat on the stair. At times it seemed as much of a battle to hold the company together as to fight any of the foes they had been called on to face.

"You handled that as well as any king," Boros said, creakily climbing the stairs.

"Of kings I know little," Conan told him. "All I know are steel and battle."

The gray-bearded man chuckled drily. "How do you think kings get to be kings, my young friend?"

"I neither know nor care," the Cimmerian replied. "All I want is to keep my company together. That and no more."

Sweat glistened on the body of the naked woman stretched taut on the rack, reflecting the flames of charcoal-filled iron cressets of the dampstreaked stone walls of the royal palace dungeon. Nearby, the handles of irons thrust from a brazier of glowing coals, ready in case they were called for. From the way she babbled her tale, punctuating it periodically with screams as the shaven-headed torturer encouraged her with a scourge, they would not be needed.

She had taken money to poison Timeon, but she did not know the man who paid her. He was masked. She became frightened when the first dose of poison showed no effect on the baron, and had placed all she had been given in his wine at once. Before all the gods, she did not know who had paid her.

Antimides listened quietly as the torturer did his work. It amazed him how the struggle for even a chance at life could continue when the person involved had to know there was no hope of it. Time and again, with men and women alike, had he seen it. As soon as he had spoken and seen the expression on Tivia's face, he was aware that she recognized his voice, that she knew him for the man behind the black silk mask.

Yet even with the rack and the whip she denied, praying that he would spare her if he thought his secret was safe.

It was odd, too, how dangers suddenly multiplied just when he was in sight of his goal. Had the girl administered the poison in daily doses as directed the finest physician would have said Timeon died of natural causes, and he would have been free of a fool who drank too much and talked too freely when drunk. Then there was the barbarian with the outlandish name, bringing her to him, drawing attention to him when he least wanted it. No doubt that could be laid to Timeon's tongue. But what were the chances the man would fail to tell Synelle what he knew or suspected?

He, Antimides, had been the first to learn of Valdric's illness, the first to prepare to take the throne at his death, and all, he was certain, without being suspected by anyone. While the others fought in the countryside, he remained in Ianthe. When Valdric finally died, they who thought to take the throne, those few who managed to survive his assassins, would find that he held the royal palace. And he who held the royal palace held the throne of Ophir. Now all of his careful plans were endangered, his secrecy threatened.

Something would have to be done about Synelle. He had always had plans for that sharp-tongued jade. Prating about her bloodlines. Of what use were bloodlines in a wench, except with regard to the children she could produce? He had planned to take great pleasure in breaking her to heel, and in using those bloodlines she boasted of to make heirs with an even stronger claim to the throne than himself. But now she had to be done away with, and quickly. And the barbarian as well.

He perked an ear toward Tivia. She was repeating herself. "Enough, Raga," he said, and the shaven-headed man desisted. Antimides pressed a gold coin into the fellow's thick-thingered hand. Raga was bought long since, but it never hurt to ensure loyalties. "She's yours," Antimides told the man. Raga beamed a gap-toothed smile. "When you are done, dispose of her in the usual fashion."

As the count let himself out of the dungeon Tivia's shrieks were rising afresh. Lost in his planning for Synelle and the barbarian, Antimides did not hear.

Chapter IX

The house on the Street of Crowns was a large square, two stories high, around a dusty central court, with the bottom floor of the two sides being given over to stables. A wooden-roofed balcony, reached by stairs weakened from long neglect, ran around the courtyard on the second level. Dirty red roof tiles gleamed dully in the late afternoon sun; flaking plaster on the stone walls combined with shadows to give the structure a leprous appearance. An arched gate, its hinges squealing with rust, led from the street to the courtyard, where a dusty fountain was filled with withered brown leaves.

"Complete with rats and fleas, no doubt," Narus said dolefully as he dismounted.

Taurianus sat his horse and glared about him. "For this we left a palace," A flurry of doves burst from an upper window. "See! We're expected to sleep in a roost!"

"You've all grown too used to the soft life in a palace," Conan growled before the mutters could spread. "Stop complaining like a herd of old women, and remember the times you've slept in the mud."

"'Twas better than this, that mud," Taurianus muttered, but he climbed down from his saddle.

Grumbling men began carrying blanket rolls and bundles of personal belongings in search of places to settle themselves. Others led their horses into the stables; curses quickly floated out as to the number of rats and cobwebs. Rotund Fabio hurried in search of the kitchens, trailed by a half-running Julia, her arms full of soot-blackened pots and bundles of herbs, strings of garlic and peppers dangling from her shoulders.

Boros stood at the gate staring about him in amazement, though he certainly slept in little better as a matter of course. Synelle, Conan thought, had much to learn about what was properly provided a Free-Company.

They had attracted entirely too much attention for Conan's taste during their search for the house. Three-score armored men on horseback, laden with sacks and cloak-wrapped bundles till they looked like a procession of country peddlers, could not help but draw eves even in a city that assiduously attempted to avoid seeing anything that might be dangerous.

The Cimmerian would just as soon they could all have become invisible till the matter of Timeon's death was forgotten. And he was none too eager to look into any of those bundles, most of which clinked and seemed heavier than they had a right to be. For all his injunction against looting he was sure they were filled with silver goblets and trinkets of gold. More of those following him than not, the Ophireans most certainly, were light-fingered at the best of times.

Giving his horse over to one of the men, the big Cimmerian went in search of a room for himself, his blanket roll over one shoulder and the sack containing the bronze under his arm. Save for weapons and armor, horse and change of clothes, they were all the possessions he had.

Soon he found a large, corner room on the second floor, with four windows to give it light. A wad of straw in one corner showed that a rat had been nesting there. Two benches and a table stood in the middle of the floor, covered with heavy dust. A bed, sagging but certainly large enough even for his height, was jammed against a wall. The mattress crackled with the sound of dried husks when he poked it, and he sighed, remembering the goose-down mattress in Timeon's palace.

Think of the mud, he reminded himself sternly.

Machaon's voice drifted up from the courtyard. "Conan, where are you?

There's news!"

Tossing his burdens on the bed, Conan hurried out onto the balcony.

"What word? Has Synelle summoned us?"

"Not yet, Cimmerian. The assassins were busy last night. Valentius fled his palace after three of his own guards turned their blades on him.

'Tis said others of his men cut them down, but the lordling now seems affrightened of his own shadow. He has taken refuge with Count Antimides."

Conan's eyebrows went up. Antimides. The young fool had unknowingly put himself in the hands of one of his rivals. Another lord removed from the race, this one by his own hand, in a manner of speaking. Who stood next in the blood-right after Valentius? But what occurred among the contending factions, he thought, no longer concerned him or his company.

"We're done with that, Machaon," he laughed. "Let them all kill each other."

The grizzled veteran joined his laughter. "An that happens, mayhap we can make you King. I will settle for count, myself."

Conan opened his mouth to reply, and suddenly realized a sound that should not be there had been impinging on his brain. Creaking boards from the room he had just left. No rat made boards creak. His blade whispered from its sheath, and he dove through the door, followed by Machaon's surprised shout.

Four startled men in castoff finery, one just climbing in the window, stared in shock at the appearance of the young giant. Their surprise lasted but an instant; as he took his first full step into the room, swords appeared in their fists and they rushed to attack.

Conan beat aside the thrust of the first to reach him, and in the same movement planted a foot in the middle of his opponent's dirty gray silk tunic. Breath left the man in an explosive gasp, and he fell in a heap at the feet of a thick-mustached man behind him. The mustached man stumbled, and the tip of Conan's blade slashed his throat in a fountain of blood. As the dying man fell atop the first attacker, a man with a jagged scar down his left cheek leaped over him, sword hacking wildly.

Conan dropped to a crouch-whistling steel ruffled the hair atop his head-and his own blade sliced across scar-face's stomach. With a shriek the man dropped in a heap, both hands clutching at thick ropes of entrails spilling from his body. A sword thrust from the floor slid under the metal scales of Conan's hauberk, slicing his side, but the Cimmerian's return blow struck through gray-tunic's skull at the eyes.

"Erlik curse you!" the last man screamed. Sly-faced and bony, he had been the last into the room, and had not joined in the wild melee.

"Eight of my men you've slain! Erlik curse all your seed!" Shrieking, he dashed at Conan with frenzied slashes.

The Cimmerian wanted to take this man alive, in condition to answer questions, but the furious attack was too dangerous to withstand for long. A half-mad light of fear and rage gleamed in the man's sweaty face, and he screamed with every blow he made. Three times their blades crossed, then blood was spurting from the stump of sly-face's neck as his head rolled on the floor.

With a clatter of boots mercenaries crowded into the room, led by Machaon, all with swords in hand. "Mitra, Cimmerian," the tattooed man said, scanning the scene of carnage. "Couldn't you have saved just one for us?"

"I didn't think of it," Conan replied drily.

Julia forced her way through the men. When she saw the bodies her hands went to her face, and she screamed. Then her eyes lit on Conan, and her composure returned as quickly as it had gone. "You're wounded!" she said. "Sit on the bed, and I will tend it."

For the first time Conan became aware of a razor's edge of fire along his ribs, and the blood wetting the side of his hauberk. " 'Tis but a scratch," he told her. "Get these out of here," he added to Machaon, gesturing to the corpses.

Machaon told off men to cart the dead away.

Julia, however, was not finished. "Scratch or not," she said firmly, "if it is not tended you may grow ill. Fetch me hot water and clean clothes," she flung over her shoulder, as she attempted to press Conan toward the bed. "Clean, mind you!" To everyone's surprise two of the mercenaries rushed off at her command.

Amused, Conan let her have her way. Muttering to herself she fussed over getting his metal-scaled leather tunic off. Gently she palped the flesh about the long, shallow gash, a thoughtful frown on her face. She seemed unconcerned about his blood on her fingers.

"It seems you are ahead once more," Machaon said ruefully, before leaving them alone.

"What did he mean by that?" she asked absently. "Don't talk. Let the wound lie still. There are no ribs broken, and I will not have to sew it, but after it is bandaged you must take care not to exert yourself.

Perhaps if you lie-" She broke off with a gasp. "Mitra protect us, what is that evil thing?"

Conan followed her suddenly frightened gaze to the bronze figure, lying on the bed and now out of the sack. "Just something I bought as a gift for Machaon," he said, picking it up. She backed away from him. "What ails you, girl? The thing is but dead metal."

"She is right to be affrighted," Boros said from the door. His eyes were fixed on the bronze as on a living demon. "It is evil beyond knowing. I can feel the waves of it from here."

"And I," Julia said shakily. "It means me harm. I can feel it."

Boros nodded sagely. "Aye, a woman would be sensitive to such. The rites of Al'Kiir were heinous. Scores of men fighting to the death while the priestesses chanted, with the heart of the survivor to be ripped from his living body. Rites of torture, with the victim kept alive and screaming on the altar for days. But the most evil of all, and the most powerful, was the giving of women as sacrifices. Or as worse than sacrifices."

"What could be worse than being sacrificed?" Julia asked faintly.

"Being given to the living god whose image that is," Boros answered, "to be his plaything for all eternity. Such may well have been the fate of the women given to Al'Kiir."

Julia swayed, and Conan snapped, "Enough, old man! You frighten her. I remember now that you mentioned this Al'Kiir once before, when you were drunk. Are you drunk now? Have you dredged all this from wine fumes in your head?"

"I am deathly sober," the gray-bearded man replied, "and I wish I were pickled in wine like a corpse. For that is not only an image of Al'Kiir, Cimmerian. It is a necessary, a vital part of the worship of that horrible god. I thought all such had been destroyed centuries ago.

Someone attempts to bring Al'Kiir again to this world, and did they have that unholy image they might well succeed. I, for one, would not care to be alive if they do."

Conan stared at the bronze gripped in his big hand. Two men had died attempting to take it from him in the shop. Three more perished in the second attack, and that that had been for the same thing he no longer doubted. Before he himself died, sly-face had accused Conan of slaying about eight of his men. The numbers were right. Those who wanted to bring back this god knew the Cimmerian had the image they needed. In a way he was relieved. He had had stray thoughts that some of these attacks, including the one just done, were Karela's work.

The men fetching the hot water and bandages entered the room; Conan thrust the image under his blanket roll and signed the others to silence until they were gone.

When the three were alone again, Julia spoke. "I'll tend your wound, but not if you again remove that evil thing from its hiding. Even there I can sense it."

"I'll leave it where it is," the young Cimmerian said, and she knelt beside him and busied herself with bathing and bandaging his wound. "Go on with your telling, Boros," he continued. "How is it this god cannot find his own way to the world of men? That seems like no god to fear greatly, for all his horns."

"You make jokes," Boros grumbled, "but there is no humor in this. To tell you of Al'Kiir I must speak of the distant past. You know that Ophir is the most ancient of all the kingdoms now existing in the world, yet few men know aught of its misty beginnings. I know a little.

Before even Ophir was, this land was the center of the worship of Al'Kiir. The strongest and handsomest of men and the proudest and most beautiful of women were brought from afar for the rites of which I have spoken. But, as you might imagine, there were those who opposed the worship of Al'Kiir, and foremost of these were the men who called themselves the Circle of the Right-Hand Path."

"Can you not be shorter about it?" Conan said. "There's no need to dress the tale like a story-teller in the marketplace."

Boros snorted. "Do you wish brevity, or the facts? Listen. The Circle of the Right-Hand Path was led by a man named Avanrakash, perhaps the most powerful practitioner of white magic who has ever lived."

"I did not know there was such a thing as white magic," Conan said.

"Never have I seen a sorcerer who did not reek of blackness and evil as a dunghill reeks of filth."

This time the old man ignored him. "These men made contact with the very gods, 'tis said, and concluded a pact. No god would stand against Al'Kiir openly, for they feared that in a war between gods all that is might be destroyed, even themselves. Some-Set, supposedly, was one-declared themselves apart from what was to happen. Others, though, granted those of the Right-Hand Path an increase in powers, enough so that they in concert could match a single god. You can understand that they would not give so much to a single man, for that would make him a demigod at the least, nor enough to all of them that they could not be vanquished easily by as few as two of the gods in concert."

Despite himself Conan found himself listening intently. Julia, her mouth hanging open in wonderment, held the ties of the Cimmerian's bandages forgotten as she followed Boros' words.

"In the battle that followed, the face of the land itself was changed, mountains raised, rivers altered in their courses, ancient seas made desert. All of those who marched against Al'Kiir, saving only Avanrakash, perished, and he was wounded to the death. Yet in his dying he managed with a staff of power to sever Al'Kiir from the body the god wore in the world of men, to seal the god from that world.

"Then came rebellion among the people against the temples of Al'Kiir, and the first King of Ophir was crowned. Whole cities were razed so that not even their memory remains. All that kept so much as the name of Al'Kiir in the minds of men was destroyed.

"The earthly body of the god? Men tried to destroy that as well, but the hottest fires made no mark, and the finest swords shattered against it. Finally it was entombed beneath a mountain, and the entrances sealed up, so that with time men should forget its very existence.

"They both succeeded and failed, they who would have destroyed the god's name and memory, for the name Tor Al'Kiir was given to the mountain, but for centuries gone only a scattered few have known the source of that name, though all men know it for a place of ill luck, a place to be avoided.

"I believed I was the last to have the knowledge I possess, that it would go to my funeral fires with me. But I have seen lights in the night atop Tor Al'Kiir. I have heard whispers of knowledge sought.

Someone attempts to bring Al'Kiir back to this world again. I was sure they would find only failure, for the lack of that image or its like, but do they get their hands on it, blood and lust and slavery will be the portion of all men."

Conan let out a long breath when the old man at last fell silent. "The answer is simple. I'll take the accursed thing to the nearest metalworker's shop and have it melted down."

"No!" Boros cried. A violent shudder wracked him, and he combed his long beard with his fingers in agitation. "Without the proper spells that would loose such power as would burn this city from the face of the earth, and perhaps half the country as well. Before you ask, I do not know the necessary spells, and those who do would be more likely to attempt use of the image than its destruction."

"That staff," Julia said suddenly. "The one Avanrakash used. Could it destroy the image?"

"A very perceptive question, child," the old man murmured. "The answer is, I do not know. It might very well have that power, though."

"Much good that does," Conan muttered. "The staff is no doubt rotted to dust long ago."

Boros shook his head. "Not at all. 'Tis a staff of power, after all, that Staff of Avanrakash. Those men of ancient times revered its power, and made it the scepter of Ophir, which it still is, though covered in gold and gems. It is said 'twas the presence of that scepter, carried as a standard before the armies of Ophir, that allowed Moranthes the Great to win his victories against Acheron. If you could acquire the scepter, Conan . . ."

"I will not," Conan said flatly, "attempt to steal King Valdric's scepter on the off chance that it might have some power. Zandru's Nine Hells, the man uses the thing as a walking staff. It's with him constantly."

"You must understand, Cimmerian," Boros began, but Conan cut him off.

"No! I will put the thrice-accursed beneath the floor boards yonder until I can find a place to bury it where it will never be found. Crack not your teeth concerning any of this until I can do so, Boros. And stay away from the wine till then as well."

Boros put on a cloak of injured dignity. "I have been keeping this particular secret for nearly fifty years, Cimmerian. You've no need to instruct me."

Conan grunted, and let Julia lift his arm to finish her bandaging. It was yet another rotten turnip to add to the stew before him. How to destroy a thing that could not be destroyed, or as well as could not, given the lack of trustworthy sorcerer, and such were as rare as virgin whores. Still, he was worried more about Karela than any of the rest.

What, he wondered, was that flame-haired wench plotting?

Chapter X

Karela reined in her bay mare at the edge of the tall trees, thick with the shadows of the setting sun, and studied the small peakroofed hut in the forest clearing. A single horse was tethered outside, a tall black warmount colorfully caprisoned for a noble, though its scarlet and black bardings bore the sign of no house. A lone man was supposed to meet her there, but she would wait to make sure.

The snap of a fallen twig announced the arrival of a man in coarse woolen tunic and breeches of nondescript brown that blended well with the shadows. The sound was deliberate, she knew, that she, being warned, would not strike with the Turanian scimitar she wore on her belt at his sudden appearance; Agorio could move in the woods as silently as the fall of a feather, did he choose. Both the man's ears had been cropped for theft, and his narrow face bore a scar that pulled his right eye into a permanent expression of surprise. "He came alone, my lady, as you instructed," he said.

Karela nodded. They were not so good as her hounds of the Zamoran plains, the men who followed her now. Most had been poachers, and petty thieves if the opportunity presented itself, when she found them, and they had little liking for the discipline she forced on them, but given time, she would make them as good and as feared as any band of brigands that ever rode.

She rode slowly into the clearing, sitting her saddle as proudly as any queen. She disdained to show more caution than she had already. As she dismounted she drew her curved sword, and pushed open the crude plank door of the hut with the blade.

Within was a single room with the rough furnishings to be expected in such a place, dimly lit by a fire on the hearth. Dust covered everything, and old, dried cobwebs hung from the bare, shadowed rafters. A man with a plain scarlet surcoat over his armor stood in the center of the dirt floor, his thumbs hooked casually in the wide, low-slung belt that supported his scabbarded longsword. He was almost as tall as Conan, she noted, with shoulders nearly as broad. A handsome man, with an eye for women from the smile that came to his lips when she entered.

She kicked the door shut with her heel and waited for him to speak. She did not sheath her blade.

"You are not what I expected, girl," he said finally. His dark eves caressed the curves beneath her snug-fitting jerkin and breeches. "You are quite beautiful."

"And you've made your first mistake." There was danger in her voice, though the man did not seem to realize it. "No man calls me girl. I'll have the answers to some questions before we go further. Your message came to me through ways I thought known only to a trusted few. How did you come to know of them? Who are you, and why would you send me fifty golds, not knowing if I'd come or not?" For that was the amount that had accompanied the message.

"Yet you did come," he said, radiating cool confidence. From beneath his surcoat he produced two bulging leather purses and tossed them to the table. They clinked as they landed. "And here are a hundred more pieces of gold, if you will undertake a commission for me, with as many to follow at its completion."

Her tone hardened. "My questions."

"Regrettably I cannot answer," he said smoothly. "You need have no fear of being seized, my inquisitive beauty. I came alone, as I said I would. There are no men in the trees about us."

"Except my own," she said, and was pleased to see surprise flicker across his face.

He recovered his aplomb quickly. "But that is to be expected. When I heard of a bandit band led by a ... a woman, I knew they must be very good indeed to long survive. You see, you're becoming famous. Put up your blade. Eastern, is it not? Are you from the east, my pretty brigand? You have not the coloring of the eastern beauties I have known, though you are as lovely as all of them together."

His smile deepened, a smile she was sure sent he expected to send tingles through every woman favored with it. And likely had his expectations met, she admitted. She also knew that only her danger at his manner-girl, indeed! My pretty brigand. Ha!-armored her against it.

She held hard to that anger, prodded at it. She did, however, sheathe her sword.

"I'll not tell you my history," she growled, "when I get not even your name in return. At least you can tell me what I am to do for these two hundred gold pieces."

His smoldering-eyed study of her did not end, but at least it abated.

"Baron Inaros is withdrawing from his keep to his palace in Ianthe. He is not involved in the current struggles. Rather, he is afraid of them.

'Tis the reason for his move, seeking the safety of the capital. His guards will be few in number, not enough to trouble a bold band of brigands. For the two hundred you will bring me his library, which he brings with him in two carts. And of course you may keep anything else you take from his party."

"A library!" Karela burst out. "Why would you pay two hundred pieces of gold, two hundred and fifty, in truth, for a collection of dusty scrolls?"

"Let us simply say I am a collector of rarities, and that there are works in Inaros' possession I am willing to pay that price for."

Karela almost laughed. This man as a collector of rare parchments was one thing she would not believe. But there was no profit in calling him liar. "Very well," she said, "but I will have two hundred gold pieces upon delivery of these, ah, rarities." It was her turn to smile. "Are you willing to pay that price?"

He nodded slowly, once more eyeing her up and down. "I could almost consider it cheap, though you'd best not press me too far, or I may take my commission to another who, if not so pretty, is also not so greedy. Now let us seal the bargain."

"What," she began, but before she could finish he took a quick step and seized her. Roughly he crushed her against him; she could not free an arm enough to draw her sword.

"I have a special way of sealing pacts with women," he chuckled.

"Struggle if you wish, but you will enjoy it before 'tis done."

Suddenly he froze at the sharp prick of her dagger point against his neck.

"I should slit your throat," she hissed, "like the pig you are. Back away from me. Slowly."

Obediently he stepped backwards, his face a frozen mask of rage. As soon as he was clear of her dagger stroke, his hand went to his sword.

She flipped the dagger, catching it by the point.

"Will you wager your life that I cannot put this in your eye?" His hand fell back to his side.

Desperately Karela fought her own desire to kill him. He deserved it clearly, to her thinking, but how could she keep it secret that she had slain a man come to hire her-Such things never remained buried long.

All who heard the tale would think she had done it for the coins on the table, and there would be no more offers of gold.

"You codless spawn of a diseased camel!" she spat in frustration. "But recently I saw a figure that reminds me of you. An ugly thing to curdle any woman's blood, as you are. All horns and fangs, with twice as much manhood as any man, and like to think with that manhood, as you do, were it alive. If you have any manhood."

He had gone very still as she spoke, anger draining from his face, and there was barely contained excitement in his voice as he spoke. "This figure? How many horns did it have? How many eyes? Was it shaped otherwise like a man?"

Karela stared at him in amazement. Was this some attempt to draw her off guard, it was most surely a strange one. "What interest can you have in it?"

"More than you can possibly know. Speak, woman."

"It was like a man," she said slowly, "except that it had too many fingers and toes, and claws on all of them. There were four horns, and three eyes. And a reek of evil as strong as yours."

His smile returned, but not for her this time. To her surprise it was a smile of triumph. "Forget Inaros," he said. "Bring me that figure, and I will give you five hundred pieces of gold."

"Think you I'd still take your gold," she said incredulously, "after this?"

"I think you'd take five hundred pieces of it if it came from Erlik himself. Think, woman. Five hundred."

Karela hesitated. It was a tempting amount. And to think she could earn it at the Cimmerian's expense made it more so. But to deal with this one. "Done," she was surprised to hear herself say. "How shall we meet again, when I have the thing?"

He tugged off his brilliant red surcoat, revealing gilded armor beneath. "Have a man wearing this over his tunic stand before the main gate of the royal palace when the sun is at its zenith, and on that day at dusk I will come to this hut with the gold."

"Done," Karela said again. "I will leave you, now, and I advise you to wait the time it takes to count one thousand-an you can count-before following, else you will discover whether that pretty armor will avail you against crossbow bolts." With that she backed from the hut, and scrambled into her saddle.

As she rode into the forest she found that she almost felt like singing. Five hundred pieces of gold and another stroke against the Cimmerian, if a small one. But there would be greater, the first already under way. This time it would be Conan who was forced to flee, not her. He would flee, or he would die.

Synelle paced the floor of her sleeping chamber like a caged panther, hating her agitation yet unable to quell it. Silver lamps lit the room against the night at the windows, lending a sheen to the gossamer hangings about her bed. Her pale hair hung damp with sweat, though the night was cool. Normally she guarded her exotic beauty jealously, never allowing a curl to be out of place or the slightest smudging of rouge even when she was alone, but now turmoil filled her to the exclusion of all else.

For the hundreth time she stopped before a mirror and examined her full, sensuous lips. They looked no different than they always had, but they felt swollen. With a snarl of rage she resumed her pacing, her long robe of canescent silk clinging to every curve of her body. She was aware of every particle of the sleek gray material sliding on the smoothness of her skin.

Ever since that ... that barbarian had kissed her she had been like this. She could not stop thinking about him. Tall, with shoulders like a bull and eyes like a winter lake. A crude, unmannered lout. Wild and untamed, like a lion, with arms that could crush a woman in his embrace. She felt like bubbling honey inside. She could not sleep; already this night she had tossed for hours in torment, filled to the brim with feelings she had never before experienced.

Why had she even taken the Free-Company in service? Only to spite Antimides, as had always given her pleasure in the past. There was no reason to keep it, except that Antimides would certainly think he had won in some fashion if she dismissed them. And there was the barbarian.

Desperately she tried to force her mind away from Conan. "I will not give myself to him!" she cried. "Not to any man! Never!"

There were other things to think about. There had to be. The women.

Yes. Of the bronze image of Al'Kiir, she was certain now. The men Taramenon had sent after Galbro would bring it to her. But she needed a woman for the rite, and not any woman would do. This woman must be beautiful above all others about her, proud to the point of fierceness.

Proud women there were, but plain or old or disqualified on a score of other points. Beautiful women abounded, and some had pride, but where was the fierceness? Without exception they would tremble at a man's anger, give way to his will eventually, for all they might resist a time.

Why did they have to be so? Yet she could understand a little now. What woman could resist a man like the barbarian. Him again! She pounded a small fist on her sleek thigh in frustration. Why did he continually invade her thoughts?

Suddenly her face firmed with determination. She strode to a marbletopped table against the tapestried wall, touched her fingers to a twist of parchment there. Within were three long, black, silky hairs, left on her robe when the barbarian ... Her hand trembled. She could not think of that now; her mind must be clear. It must be.

Why did it have to be him? Why not Taramenon? Because he had never affected her as Conan did? Because she had toyed with him so long that only the pleasure of toying remained?

"It will be Conan," she whispered. "But it will be as I wish." Her hand closed on the parchment, and she swept from the room.

Slaves, scrubbing floors in the hours when their mistress was not usually about, scrambled from her path, pressing their faces to the marble tiles in obeisance. She took no more notice of them than she did of the furnishings.

Straight to her secret chamber she went, closing the door behind her and hurriedly lighting lamps. Triumph sped her movements, the certainty of triumph soon to be realized.

At the table covered with beakers and flasks she carefully separated one hair from the packet. One would be enough, and that would leave two in case further magicks must be worked on the huge barbarian.

On a smooth silver plate she painted the sign of the horns, the sign of Al'Kiir, in virgin's blood, using a brush made from the hair of an unborn child and handled with a bone from its mother's finger. Next two candles were affixed to the plate one on either side, and lit. Black, they were, made from the rendered tallow of murdered men, stolen from their graves in blessed ground.

Haste was of the essence, now, but care, too, lest disaster come in place of what she sought. Gripping her tongue between her teeth, she painted the final symbols about the edge of the plate. Desire. Lust.

Need. Wanting. Passion. Longing.

Quickly she threw aside the brush, raised her hands above her head, then lowered them before her, palms up, in a gesture of pleading. In the arcane tongue she had learned so painfully, Synelle chanted, soft spoken words that rebounded from the pale walls like shouts, invoking powers linked to Al'Kiir yet not of him, powers of this world, not of the void where he was imprisoned. In the beginning she had attempted to use those powers to make contact with Al'Kiir. The result had been a fire that gutted a tower of her castle, lying halfway to the Aquilonian border, a burning with flames that no water could extinguish, flames that died only when there was not even a cinder left to burn. For long after that she had feared to try again, not least for the stares directed at her and the whispers of sorcery at the castle of Asmark. To cover herself she had brought charges of witchcraft against a woman of the castle, a crone of a scullery maid who looked the part of a witch, and had her burned at the stake. Synelle had learned care from that early mistake.

Slowly the candles guttered out in pools of their own black tallow, and Synelle lowered her hands, breathing easily for the first time in hours. The painted symbols on the plate, the hair, all were ash. A cruel smile touched her lips. No more was there need to fear her desires. The barbarian was hers, now, to do with as she would. Hers.

Chapter XI

Conan's skin crawled as he walked across the dusty courtyard of the house where his company was quartered. The hairs on his body seemed to move by themselves. Bright sunlight streamed from the golden globe climbing into the mourning sky; chill air seemed to surround him. It had been so ever since he woke, this strangeness, and he had no understanding of why.

Fear the big Cimmerian dismissed as a cause. He knew his fears well, and had them well in hand. No fear could ever affect him so, who had, in his fear years, faced all manner of things that quelled the hearts of other men. As for the image, and even Al'Kiir, he had confronted demons and sorcerers before, as well as every sort of monster from huge flesh-eating worms to giant spiders dripping corrosive poison from manibles that could pierce the finest armor to a dragon of adamantine scales and fiery breath. Each he had conquered, and if he was wary of such, he did not fear them.

"Cimmerian," Narus called, "come get yourself a cloak."

"Later," Conan shouted back to the hollow-faced, who was rooting with others of the company in the great pile of bales and bundles that had been delivered by carts that morning.

Synelle had finally seen to the needs of the Free-Company she had taken in service. Bundles of long woolen cloaks of scarlet, the color of her house, had been tumbled into the courtyard, along with masses of fresh bedding and good wool blankets. There had been knee-high Aquilonian boots of good black leather, small mirrors of polished metal from Zingara, keen-bladed Corinthian razors, and a score of other things, from a dozen countries, that a soldier might need. Including a sack of gold coin for their first pay. The mercenaries had turned the morning into a holiday with it all. Fabio had kept Julia running all morning, staggering under sacks of turnips and peas, struggling with quarters of beef and whole lamb carcasses, rolling casks of wine and ale to the kitchens.

Fabio found Conan by the dry fountain. The fat, round cook was mopping his face with a rag. "Conan, that lazy wench you saddled me with has run off and hidden somewhere. And look, she hasn't swept a quarter of the courtyard yet. Claims she's a lady. Erlik take her if she is! She has a mouth like a fishwife. Flung a broom at my head in my own kitchen, and swore at me as vilely as I've ever heard from any man in the company."

Conan shook his head irritably. He was in no mood to listen to the man's complaints, not when he felt as if ants were skittering over his body. "If you want the courtyard swept," he snapped, "see to it yourself."

Fabio stared after him, open-mouthed, as he stalked away.

Conan scrubbed is fingers through his hair. What was the matter with him? Could that accursed bronze, the evil of it that Julia claimed to sense, have affected him from beneath the floor while he slept?

"Cimmerian," Boros said, popping out of the house, "I've been seeking you everywhere."

"Why?" Conan growled, then attempted to get a hold of himself. "What do you want?" he asked in a slightly more reasonable tone.

"Why, that image, of course." The old man looked around, then lowered his voice. "Have you given any thought to destroying it? The more I think on it, the more it seems the Staff of Avanrakash is the only answer."

"I am not stealing the Erlik-accursed scepter," Conan grated. When he saw Machaon approaching, the Cimmerian felt ready to burst.

The grizzled mercenary eyed the bigger man's grim face quizzically, but said only, "We're being watched. This house, that is."

Conan gripped his swordbelt tightly with both hands. This was business of the company, perhaps important business, and he had worked too long and too hard for that to allow even his own temper to damage it.

"Karela's men?" he asked in what was almost his normal voice. It took a great effort to maintain it.

"Not unless she's begun taking fopling youths into her band," Machaon replied. "There are two of them, garbed and jeweled for a lady's garden, with pomanders stuck to their nostrils, wandering up and down the street outside. They show an especial interest in this house."

Young nobles, Conan thought. They could be Antimides' men, if the count was concerned as to how much Conan was talking of what he knew. Or they could be seeking the image, though nobles hardly meshed with the sort who had tried for it thus far. They might even be this Taramenon, Synelle's jealous suitor, and a friend, come to see for themselves what manner of man the silvery-haired beauty had taken in service. Too many possibilities to reason out, certainly not in his present state of mind.

"If we seize them when next they pass," he began, and the two listening to him recoiled.

"You must be mad," Boros gasped. "'Tis the image, Cimmerian. It affects you ill. It must be destroyed quickly."

"I know not what this old magpie is chattering about," Machaon said, "but seizing nobles ... in broad daylight from a street in the middle of Ianthe ... Cimmerian, it would take more luck than ten Brythunian sages to get out of the city with our heads still on our shoulders."

Conan squeezed his eyes shut. His brain whirled and spun, skittering through fogs that veiled reason. This was deadly dangerous; he must be able to think clearly, or he could lead them all to disaster.

"My Lord Conan?" a diffident voice said.

Conan opened his eyes to find a barefoot man in the short white tunic of a slave, edged in scarlet, had joined them. "I'm no lord," he said gruffly.

"Yes, my lor ... uh, noble sir. I am bid tell you the Lady Synelle wishes your presence at her house immediately."

Images of the sleek, full-breasted noblewoman flickered into Conan's mind, clearing aside all else. His unease was washed away by a warm flow of desire. Sternly he reminded himself that she no doubt wanted to consult with him about the company's duties, but the reminder could as well have been whispered into a great storm of the Vilayet Sea. When first he kissed her, she had responded. Whatever her words said, her body had told the truth of her feelings. It must have.

"Lead on," Conan commanded, then strode through the gate and into the street without waiting. The slave had to scurry after him. Conan gave little heed to the man half-running beside him to keep up as he moved swiftly through throng-filled streets. With every stride his visions of Synelle grew stronger, more compelling, and his breath came faster.

Each line of her became clear in his mind, the swell of round breasts above a tiny waist his big hands could almost span, the curve of sleek thighs and sensuously swaying hips. She filled his mind, clouded his eyes so that he saw none of the teeming crowds nor remembered anything of his journey.

Once within Synelle's great house the man in the short tunic rushed ahead to guide Conan up stairs and through corridors, but the Cimmerian was certain he could have found the way by himself. His palms sweated for the smooth satin of her skin.

The slave bowed him into Synelle's private chamber. The pale-skinned beauty stood with one small hand at her alabaster throat, dark eyes seeming to fill a face surrounded by silken waves of spun-platinum hair. Diaphanous silk covered her ivory lushness, but concealed nothing. "Leave us, Scipio," she said unsteadily.

Conan was unaware of the slave leaving, closing the door behind him.

His breath was thick in his throat; his nails dug into calloused palms.

Never had he taken a woman who did not want him, yet he knew he was at the brink. One gesture from her, one word that he might take as invitation; it would be enough. Battle raged within the giant Cimmerian, ravening lust warring with his will. And for the first time in his life he felt his will begin to bend.

"I called you here, barbarian," she began, then swallowed and began again. "I summoned you to me. .. ."

Her words faded away as he covered the floor between them. His hands took her shoulders gently; how great the struggle not to rip that transparently mocking garment from her. As he gazed down at her upturned face, he read fear there, and longing. Her melting eyes were bottomless pools into which he could fall forever; his were azure flames. "Do not fear me," he said hoarsely. "I will never harm you."

She pressed her cheek to his chest, crushing her full breasts against him. Unseen by him a small smile curved her lips, softening, though not supplanting, the fear in her eyes. "You are mine," she whispered.

"When first I kissed you," Conan panted, "you wanted me. As I want you.

I knew I had not imagined it."

"Come," she said, taking his hand as she backed from him. "My bed lies beyond that archway. I will have wine brought, and fruits packed in snow from the mountains."

"No," he growled. "I can wait no longer." His hand closed on sheer silk; the robe shredded from her ripe nakedness. Careless of her protests of servants who might enter, he pulled her to the floor. Soon she protested no more.

Chapter XII

The sun was rising toward its height once more as Conan left Synelle's house, and he wondered wearily at the passing of unnoticed hours. But she had so occupied him with herself that there had been no room for time. Had she not been gone from her bed at his waking, he might not be leaving yet. For all of a day and a night together, and little sleeping in it, a knot of desire still burned in his belly, flaring whenever he thought of her. Only the need to see to his Free-Company, and her absence, had stirred him to dress and go.

Bemused he strode through the crowded streets as if they were empty of all but him, seeing only the woman who still held his mind in thrall with her body. Merchants in voluminous hooded robes and tarts in little save gilded bangles scurried from his way lest they be trampled; satin-clad nobles and long-bearded scholars abandoned dignity to leap aside when they incredulously saw he would not alter his path. He heard the curses that followed him, but the stream of abuse from scores of throats did not register. It was so much meaningless babble that had naught to do with him.

Suddenly a man who had not stepped aside bounced off Conan's chest, and the Cimmerian found himself staring into an indignant face as the memory of Synelle's silken thighs dimmed, but did not fade. The man was young, no older than he himself, but his tunic of blue brocade slashed with yellow, the golden chain across his chest, his small, fashionable beard, the pomander clutched in his hand, all named him nobly born.

"You there, thief," the youthful lord sneered. "I have you now."

"Get out of my way, fool," Conan growled. "I've no time or desire to play lordlings' games." The man wore a sword strapped around his waist, the Cimmerian noted, unusual with the garb he wore.

Conan tried to step around the brocaded youth, but another young noble, with thin mustachios in addition to his beard, stepped in front of him with a swagger. Jeweled rings bedecked all his fingers, and he, too, wore a sword. "This outlander," he said loudly, "has robbed my friend."

Conan wondered for whose benefit he was speaking so; no one in the teeming street paid the three any mind. In fact, a large space had opened about them as passersby studiously avoided their vicinity.

Whatever sport these two sought, he wanted none of it. He wished only to see that all was well with his company and return as quickly as possible to Synelle. Synelle of the alabaster skin as soft as satin.

"Leave be," he said, doubling a massive fist, "or I'll set your ears to ringing. I've stolen nothing."

"He attacks," the mustachioed lordling cried, and his sword swept from its sheath as his fellow flung his rose-scented pomander at Conan's face.

Even with his brain fogged by a woman's memory the big Cimmerian had survived far too many battles to be taken so easily by surprise. The blade that was meant to take his head from his shoulders passed through empty air as he leaped aside. Anger washed his mind clean of all but battle rage. The sport these fops sought was his death, a killing for which, with the times as they were and the fact that he was an outlander, they would not be brought to book. But they had chosen no easy meat. Even as Conan's own steel was coming into his fist, he booted the first young noble who had accosted him squarely in the crotch; the youth shrieked like a girl and crumpled, clutching himself.

Whirling, Conan beat aside the thrust the mustachioed lordling had meant for his back. "Crom!" he bellowed. "Crom and steel!" And he waded ferociously into the combat, his sword a flashing engine of destruction.

Step by step his opponent was forced back, splashes of blood appearing on his tunic as his desperate defenses failed to turn aside the Cimmerian's blade quickly enough. Disbelief grew on his face, as if he could not understand that he faced a man better with the sword than he.

Recklessly he attempted to go over to attack. Only once more did Conan's steel strike, but this time it split the lordling's skull to his black mustachios.

As the body fell the grate of the boot on pavement gave Conan warning, and he turned to block the first noble's slash. Chest to straining chest they stood, blades locked.

"I am better than ever Demetrios was," his youthful attacker sneered.

"In this hour you will meet your gods, barbar."

With a heave of his mighty shoulders Conan sent the other staggering back. "Run to your mother's breast, youngling," he told him, "and live to do your boasting to women. If you know their use."

With a cry of fury the man rushed at Conan, a blur of steel before him.

Eight times their blades met, striking sparks with the force of the blows, filling the street with a ringing as of a blacksmith's hammer and anvil. Then the Cimmerian's broadsword was slicing through ribs and flesh to the heart beneath.

Once more, for a moment, Conan stared into those dark eyes. "You were better," he said, "but not by enough."

The young lord opened his mouth, but blood spilled out instead of words, and death dulled his eves.

Hastily Conan freed his blade and cleaned it on the tunic of blue brocade. The space about them still was clear, and as if an invisible wall separated him and the two dead from those hurrying by, no one so much as glanced toward them. Given the mood of the city, it was more likely than not that no one of them would admit to what he had seen, short of being put to the question by the King's torturers, but there was no point in standing there until a score of Iskandrian's warriors appeared. Sheathing his sword, Conan melded into the crowd. Within a few paces they had closed around him, cloaking him in their number.

No more did thoughts of Synelle clog his mind. With the death of the second of his attackers he had remembered Wachaon telling him of two young nobles watching the house where the Free-Company was quartered.

That two different lordlings should attack him on the day was beyond his belief. The one had called loudly that Conan had robbed the other, as if inviting witnesses. Hardly the act of one intending murder, but perhaps slaying him had been but part of their plan.

Had they succeeded, who in Ianthe would have taken the part of a dead barbarian over that of two from noble houses? The people rushing by had done their best to ignore what happened, but if collared by a noble and pressed, which of them would not remember that Conan had been accused of theft and had then attacked the two, proving his guilt? With a King's Justice and a column of Ophirean infantry, Demetrios and his friend could have descended on the Free-Company, demanded the object they claimed had been stolen-and which they could no doubt describe as well as Conan-and have the house torn apart to find it. The bronze would have been in the hands of those who sought to use it. Boros might try to speak of evil gods and rites beneath Tor Al'Kiir, or Julia, but no ear would pay heed to the pratings of a drunken former apprentice mage, nor the babblings of a pot-girl.

Conan quickened his pace, brimming with an urgent need to assure himself that the image still lay beneath the floorboards of his sleeping chamber. He had become convinced of one thing. He would not have another night of rest in Ophir until that malevolent figure was beyond the reach of men.

The black candles guttered out, and Synelle lowered her hands with a satisfied sigh. The spell binding the barbarian had been altered. He was still held, but with more subtle desires than before.

With a weary groan she sagged to a low stool, wincing with the movement, and brushed spun silver hair back from her face. She pulled her cloak-that unadorned covering of scarlet wool had been all she had taken time to snatch in her flight, and it had been flight-about her nakedness. Her breasts were swollen and tender, her thighs and bottom bruised by Conan's fierce desires.

"How could I have known what would be unleashed in him?" she whispered.

"Who could have thought a man could be so . . ." She shivered uncontrollably.

In the barbarian's arms she had felt gripped by a force of nature as irresistable as an avalanche. Fires he had built in her, feeding them till they raged out of control. And when the leaping flames had consumed all before them, when he had quenched and slaked what he had aroused, he stoked still new fires. She had tried to bring that endless cycle to a halt, more than once she had tried-memories flooded her, memories of incoherent cries when words could not be formed and reason clung by the slenderest of threads to but a single corner of her passion-drugged mind-but her sorcery had not only wakened lust in him, it had magnified that lust, made it insatiable, overwhelming. His powerful hands had handled her like a doll. His hands, so strong, so knowing and sure of her.

"No," she muttered angrily.

She would not think of his hands. That way led to weakness. She would remember instead the humiliation of crawling weakly from her own bed when the barbarian fell at last to slumber, slinking like a thief for fear of waking him, of waking the desire that would bloom in him when his eyes touched her. On the floor of her secret chamber she had slept, curled on the hard marble with only the cloak for covering and lacking even the mat the meanest of her slaves would have, too exhausted to think or dream. Remember that, she told herself, and not the pleasures that sent tendrils of heat through her belly even in remembrance.

A ragged cry broke from her throat, and she staggered to her feet to pace the room. Her eye fell on the silver plate, black tallow hardening at its edges, the ash of blood and hair lying on its surface. The spell was altered. Not again would she have to face a night where she was a mote caught in the stormwind of the giant barbarian's desires. Her breathing slowed, grew more normal. He was still hers, he would still bring her to rapture, but his lusts would be more controllable.

Controllable by her, that is.

"Why did I fear it so long?" she laughed softly. Taken altogether, this thing of men was quite wonderful. "They must simply be controlled, and then their vaunted strength and power can avail them nothing."

That was the lesson women had not learned, that she had only just come to. If women would not be controlled by men, then they must rather control men. She had always coveted power. How strange and beautiful that power should be the key to safety in this as well!

A knock at the door shattered her musings. Who would dare disturb her there? The rapping came again, more insistent this time. Gathering her cloak across her breasts with one hand, she flung open the door, tongue ready to flay whoever had violated her sanctorum.

A surprised, "You!" slipped out instead.

"Yes, me," Taramenon said. His face was tight with barely controlled anger. "I came to speak to you last night, but you were ... occupied."

Laying a hand gently on his chest, she pushed him back-how easily he moved, even in his rage-and closed the door firmly behind her. No man, not even he, would ever enter that chamber.

"It is well you are here," she said as if he had had no accusation in his words. "There are matters of which we must speak. A woman must be found-"

"You were with him," the tall nobleman grated. "You gave that barbarian swine what was promised to me."

Synelle drew herself to her full height, and flung cold fury at him like a dagger. "Whatever I gave was mine to give. Whatever I did was mine to do, and none with right to gainsay me."

"I will slay him," Taramenon moaned in anguish, "like a dog in the dirt."

"You will slay whom I tell you to slay, when I tell you to slay them."

Synelle softened her voice; shock had driven anger from Taramenon's face. There was still uses for the man, and she had long since learned means of controlling him that had naught to do with sorcery. "The barber will be useful for a time. Later you may kill him if you wish."

The last had been a sudden thought. Conan was a wonderful lover, but why limit herself to one? Men did not limit themselves to one woman.

Yet the young giant would always hold a place in her affections for the vistas of pleasure he opened to her; when she was Queen of Ophir she would have a magnificent tomb erected for him.

"I found the brigand you wanted," Taramenon muttered sullenly. "A woman."

Synelle's eyebrows arched. "A woman bandit. A hardened trull, no doubt, with greasy hair and gimlet eye."

"She is," he replied, "the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Synelle flinched, and her jaw tightened. Why had the fool forced his presence on her before her tire-maids could see to her toilet? "So long as she brings me the scrolls from Inaros' library, I care not what she looks like." He chuckled, and she stared at him.

Suddenly he was more relaxed, as if he thought he was in command. "If you think to make sport of me," she began dangerously.

"I did not send her after Inaros' scrolls," Taramenon said.

Words froze in her throat. When she found speech again she hissed at him. "And pray tell me why not?"

"Because I sent her after the image of Al'Kiir that you speak. She knows where it is. She described it to me. It will be I who provide you with what you so desperately need. Did you think you could hide your impatience, your eagerness beyond that you've ever shown for all the parchments and artifacts you have gathered placed together? I bring it to you, Synelle, not that barbar animal, and I expect at least the reward that he got."

Her pale, dark-eyed beauty became icy still. She let her cloak gap open to the floor; Taramenon gasped, and sweat beaded his forehead. "You will come to my bed," she began softly, but abruptly her words became lashes of a whip tipped with steel, "when I summon you there. You will come, yes, perhaps sooner than you dream, certainly sooner than you deserve, but at my command." Slowly and calmly she covered herself once more. "Now when will the image be delivered to your hand?"

"The signal that she has it," he mumbled sulkily, "will be a man in my red surcoat standing before the main gate of the royal palace at noon.

That night at dusk I will meet her at a hut in the forest."

Synelle nodded thoughtfully. "You say this woman is beautiful? A beautiful woman who does what men do, who leads men rather than belonging to them. She must have great pride. I shall be at that meeting with you, Taramenon." From the corner of her eye she saw a slave creeping down the corridor toward them, and rounded on him, furious at the interruption. "Yes?" she snapped.

Falling to his knees, the man pressed his face to the marble tiles. "A message, my gracious lady, from the noble Aelfric." Without lifting his head he held up a folded parchment.

Synelle frowned and snatched the message. Aelfric was Seneschal of Asmark, her ancestral castle, a man who served her well, but who liked as well the fact that she seldom visited or troubled him. It was not his way to invite her attention. Hastily she broke the lump of wax sealed with Aelfric's ring.

To My Most Gracious Lady Synelle,

With pain I send these tidings. In the day past have vile brigands most cowardly struck at my Lady's manor-farms, burning fields, touching barns, driving oxen and cattle into the forests. Even as your humble servant writes these dire words, the night sky glows red with new fires. I beseech my Lady to send aid, else there will be no crops left, and starvation will be the lot of her people.

I remain obediently, your faithful servitor, Aelfric

Angrily she crumpled the letter in her fist. Bandits attacking her holdings? When she held the throne she would see every brigand in the country impaled on the walls of Ianthe. For now Aelfric would have to fend for himself.

But wait, she thought. With the power of Al'Kiir she could seize the throne, overawe both lords and peasants, yet would it not be even better had she some incident to point to that showed she was more than other women? Did she take Conan's warriors into the countryside and quell these bandits herself ...

She prodded the slave with her foot. "I am leaving for the country.

Tell the others to prepare. Go."

"Yes, my lady," the slave said, backing away on his knees. "At once, my lady." Rising, he bowed deeply and darted down the hall.

"And you, Taramenon," she went on. "Set a man to watch for this woman's signal and bring me word, then ride you for Castle Asmark. Await me there, and this night your waiting will be ended." She almost laughed at the lascivious anticipation that painted his visage. "Go," she said, in the same tone she had used with the slave, and Taramenon ran as quickly as the other had.

It was all a matter of maintaining proper control she told herself.

Then she went in search of writing materials, to send a summons to the barbarian.

Chapter XIII

Conan straightened from checking his saddle girth and glared about him at the assemblage pausing for yet another rest at Svnelle's command.

Three and twenty high-wheeled carts, each drawn by two span of yoked oxen, were piled high with what the Countess of Asmark considered necessary for removing to her castle in the country, rolled feather mattresses and colorful embroidered silk cushions casks of the rarest wines from Aquilonia and Corinthia and even Khauran, packages of delicate viands that might not be readily available away from the capital, chests upon chests of satins and velvets and laces.

Synelle herself traveled in a gilded litter, borne by eight muscular slaves and curtained with fine silken net to admit the breeze yet keep the sun from her alabastrine skin. Her four blonde tirewomen crouched in the shade of a cart, fanning themselves against the midday heat.

Their lithe sleekness drew many eyes among the thirty mercenaries surrounding the carts, but the women were attuned only to listening for the neat command from the litter. Nearly three score other servants and slaves hunkered out of the sun or tended to errands, drivers for the oxen, maids, seamstresses, even two cooks who were at that moment arguing vociferously over the proper method of preparing hummingbirds'

tongues.

"Watch the trees, Erlik take you!" Conan shouted. Abashedly the mercenaries tore their eyes from the blondes to scan the forest that ran along two sides of the broad, grassy meadow where they had halted.

The Cimmerian had opposed halting; he had opposed each stop they had made thus far. Slowed by the ox-carts, they would not arrive at Synelle's castle until the following afternoon did they make the best speed the lumbering animals were capable of. Even one night in the forests with this strange cortege was more than he might wish for, much less risking a second such camp. A pavilion would have to be erected for Synelle to sleep in, another in which she would bathe, and yet a third for her tirewomen's mats. There would be a fire to warm Synelle, fires for the cooks, fires to keep the maids from becoming affrighted of the night, and all no doubt large enough to announce their presence and location to anyone with eyes.

Machaon led his horse over to Conan. "I've word of Karela, Cimmerian,"

he said. "I crossed paths last night at the Blue Bull with a weedy scoundrel, a panderer who lost his women, and thus his income, to another, and whose tongue was free after his third pitcher of ale. I meant to speak of it earlier, but what with our patron's summons arriving hard on your heels this morn I forgot."

"What did you hear?" Conan asked eagerly.

"She uses her own name again, for one thing. She has not been long in Ophir, but already some twenty rogues follow her, and she is making reputation enough that Iskandrian has put twenty pieces of gold on her head."

"Such a small price must anger her," Conan laughed. "I fear not it will remain so low for long. But what of getting a message to her, or finding her? What did he say of that?"

"After a time the fellow seemed to realize he was babbling, and shut his teeth." At the Cimmerian's look of disappointment Machaon smiled.

"But he let fall enough for me to question others. North of Ianthe, an hour's ride on a good horse, part of an ancient keep still stands, overgrown by the Sarelian Forest. There Karela camps her band on most nights. I am sure of it."

Conan grinned broadly. "I'll make her admit she has no grievance against me if I have to paddle her rump until she does."

"A treatment I could recommend for others," the tattooed man said with a significant look at the litter.

Conan followed his look and sighed. "We have been halted long enough,"

was all he said.

As the young Cimmerian walked toward the net-curtained palanquin he tried to make some slight sense of these last two days, not for the first time that morning. The previous day and night seemed like a dream, but a fever-born dream of madness, with lust burning all else from his mind. Had what he remembered-Synelle's sweat-slicked thighs and wanton moans flashed in his mind-actually happened? It all seemed distant and dim.

When he answered her summons this morn, he had felt no such all-consuming desire. He wanted her, wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman, more than he had wanted all the many women of his life together, but there had been a sense of restraint within him, strictures unnatural to his nature holding him in check. He did not lose control of himself with women-were his memories of the day before true?-but neither did he face them feeling bound with stout ropes.

And he had deferred to her! When, as haughty and regal as any queen, she commanded him as to how to order his men on the march, his urge had been to snort and tell her brusquely that such matters were his province. Instead he had found himself almost pleading with her, painfully convincing her that she should leave the command of his company to him. He had met kings and potentates and not acted so. How did this woman affect him in this manner? This time, he vowed, it would be different.

He stopped before Synelle's curtained litter and bowed. "If it pleases my lady, we should be moving on." Inwardly he snarled at himself. He was no man to break vows, and this had gone as swiftly as if it had never been made. What was the matter with him? Yet he could change nothing. "It is dangerous, my lady, to stay still so long with bandits and worse about."

A delicate hand parted the mesh curtain, and Synelle looked out at him calmly, a small smile curling her full lips. Her traveling garb of cool linen clung to her, revealing the curves and shadows of her. Conan's mouth went dry, and his palms dampened, at the sight.

"It would not be so dangerous," she said, "had you obeyed me and brought your entire company."

Conan gritted his teeth. Half of him wanted to tell this fool woman that she should leave the trade of arms to those who knew it; the other half wanted to stammer an apology. "We must be moving, my lady," he said finally. It had been an effort to say only that, and he feared he did not want to know what else he might have said.

"Very well. You may see to it," she said, letting the curtain fall.

Conan bowed again before turning away.

His stomach roiled as he strode back to his horse. Perhaps he was going mad. "To horse!" he roared, swinging into his saddle. "Mount and prepare to move! Oxdrivers to your animals!" Chattering men and giggling women darted along the row of carts. "Keep those maids off the carts!" he shouted. "We need what speed we can manage, and no extra weight for the animals! Move you!"

Harness creaked as massive beasts took up the strain; mercenaries scrambled to their mounts in a rattle of armor.

Conan raised his arm to signal the advance, and at that instant a mass of horsemen in chain-mail charged from the trees. Shrieks rose from terrified women, and the oxen, sensing the humans' fear, bellowed mournfully. This was what the Cimmerian had feared since leaving Ianthe, but for that reason he was ready for it.

"Bows!" he commanded, and short, curved horsebows came into thirty hands beside his own.

Those powerful bows, unknown in the west except for Conan's Free-Company, could not be drawn as ordinary bows were. Nocking an arrow with a three-fingered grip on the bowstring, the huge Cimmerian placed those fingers against his cheek and thrust the bow out from him.

There were close to a hundred of them, he estimated as he drew, wearing the sign of no house and carrying no banners or pennons, yet armored too well for bandits. He loosed, and thirty more shafts flew after his.

They were still too distant to pick individual targets, but the mass of them made target enough. Saddles emptied, but the onrushing men-at-arms, their wordless battle cries rising, came on. By the time Conan let his third arrow fly-the feathered shaft lanced through the eye-slit of the foremost horseman's white-plumed helmet; the man threw his hands to his face and rolled backwards over the rump of his still racing horse-the enemy had closed too much for bows to be of further use.

"Out swords!" he called, thrusting his bow back into its lacquered wooden scabbard behind his saddle. As he drew sword and thrust his left arm through the leather straps of his round shield with its spiked boss, he realized his helm still hung from his pommel. Battle rage was on him; let them see who killed them, he thought. "Crom!" he shouted.

"Crom and steel!"

At the pressure of his knees, the big Aquilonian black burst forward into a gallop. Conan caught sight of Synelle, standing by her litter with her mouth open in a scream he could not hear for the blood pounding in his ears, then his mount was smashing into another horse, riding the lighter animal down, trampling its armored rider beneath steel-shod hooves.

The huge Cimmerian caught a blade on his shield, and his answering stroke severed the arm wielding it at the shoulder. Immediately he reversed to a backslash that cut deep into the neck of another foe.

Dimly he was aware of others of his men about him in the frenzied melee, but such were of necessity a series of individual combats; only when the vagaries of battle drew two comrades together did men of one side or the other stand together against their enemy.

A chain-mailed man rode close with broadsword raised high to chop, and Conan drove the spike on his shield into the man's chest, ripping him from the saddle with one jerk of a massive arm. War-trained, his big black lashed out with flashing fore-hooves at foemen's horses as he hacked deeper into the press with his murderous steel.

From beyond the swirling frenzy of slashing, shouting, dying men came a cry. "Conan! For the Cimmerian!"

About time, a cool corner of Conan's brain thought, and Narus, with twenty more mercenaries following, charged into the rear of the enemy.

There was no time for more thought, for he was trading furious swordstrokes with a man whose chain-mail was splashed with blood not his own. He saw one of his men go down, head half-severed. The killer came galloping past, waving his gory blade and screaming a war-cry.

Conan kicked a foot free of its stirrup and booted the shouting man from his horse. The Cimmerian's blade freed itself from his opponent's and thrust under the other's chin, shattering the steel links of his mail coif and bringing a scarlet gout from his ruined throat. The man Conan had kicked from his saddle scrambled to his feet as his fellow fell, but the young giant's broadsword struck once, battering down his upraised steel, twice, and his headless corpse dropped across his comrade's body. "Crom and steel!"

"Conan! Conan!"

"For the Cimmerian!"

It was too much for the mailed attackers, embattled before and behind, a huge northland beserker in their midst and no knowing in the fog of battle how many it was they faced. First a single man fled the combat, then another. Panic rippled through them, and cohesion was gone. By twos and threes they fought to get away. As they scattered some of the mercenaries set out in pursuit, echoing the halloing cry of hunters riding down deer.

"Back, you fools!" Conan bellowed. "Back, Black Erlik rot you!"

Reluctantly the mercenaries gave over the chase, and in moments the last of the mailed men still able to flee had melted into the forest.

The men of the company who had pursued trotted back, waving gory swords and rasing shouts of victory.

"A most excellent plan, Cimmerian," Narus laughed as he galloped up, "having us trail behind as a surprise for unwelcome guests." His jazeraint hauberk was splattered with blood, no drop of which was his.

The gaunt-faced man, disease-riddled though he appeared, was equal to Machaon with a blade, and none but Conan was their master. "Ten to one in gold they never knew how many hit them."

"A difficult wager to settle," Conan said, but half his mind on the other. "Machaon," he called, "what's the butcher's price?"

"I'm taking a count, Cimmerian." Quickly the tattooed veteran finished and rode to join them. "Two dead," he retorted, "and a dozen who'll need the carts to get back to Ianthe."

Conan nodded grimly. Well over a score of the enemy lay on the hoof-churned ground, meadow grass and soil now seeming plowed, and only a few moved weakly. As many more were scattered back to the trees, sprouting feathered shafts. In the grim world of the mercenary it was little better than an even trade, for enemies were always there and easily found, but new companions were hard to come by.

"See if one of them lives enough to answer questions," the Cimmerian commanded. "I would know who sent them against us, and why." Hurriedly Machaon and Narus dismounted. Moving among the bodies, stopping occasionally to heave one over, they returned supporting between them a bloodstreaked man with a wicked gash down the side of his face and neck.

"Mercy," he gasped faintly. "I cry mercy."

"Then name he who sent you," Conan demanded. "Were you to kill us all, or one in particular?"

The Cimmerian had no intention of slaying a wounded and helpless man, but the prisoner clearly feared the worst. Almost eagerly he said, "Count Antimides. He bid us slay you and seize the Lady Synelle. Her we were to bring to him naked and in chains."

"Antimides!" Synelle hissed. The men shifted uneasily to see her picking her way across the bloody ground; such sights as lay about them, men hacked and torn by the savagery of battle, were not for women's eyes. Synelle did not seem to notice. "He dares so much against me?" she continued. "I will have his eyes and his manhood! I will-"

"My lady," Conan said, "those who attacked us may rejoin and seek you again," And he also, he added to himself, though that did not concern him as much as the other. "You must return to Ianthe, and quickly. You must ride one of the horses."

"Back to the city?" Synelle nodded vigorously. "Yes. And when I get there Antimides will learn the price of an attack on my person!" Her eyes were bright with eagerness for that teaching.

Conan began seeing to preparations, ordering men who hurried to obey.

The warriors, at least, knew their vulnerability should the enemy return, perhaps with reinforcements. "Machaon, tell off ten men to ride with the carts. Unload everything except the Lady Synelle's jewelry and clothes to lighten the oxen's loads. Leave the litter here, so they can see she's no longer with the carts. Crom, of course we bring in our dead! Spread the wounded among the carts so they're not crowded, and have the maids tend them. Yes, their wounded as well."

"No!" Synelle snapped. "Leave Antimides' men! Fetch me naked and chained, will they? Let them die!"

Conan's hands tightened on his reins until his knuckles were white. His temples throbbed like drums. "Load their wounded, too," he said, and drew a shuddering breath. Almost he had not been able to get the words out.

Synelle looked at him strangely. "A strong will," she said musingly.

"And yet there could be pleasure in-" Abruptly she stopped, as if she thought she had said too much, but the Cimmerian could understand nothing of it.

"My lady," he said, "you must ride astride. We have no side-saddle."

She held out a hand to him. "Your dagger, barbarian."

When she took it from him it felt as though sparks jumped from her hand to his. Deftly she slit the front of her robe. Narus led forward a horse, and she mounted with flashing limbs, exposed to the tops of her pale thighs, nor did she do anything to cover them once in the saddle.

Conan could feel her eyes on him as solidly as a touch, but of which sort he could not tell. He tore his gaze from her long legs, and heard a laugh softly, the sound burning in his brain.

"We ride!" he commanded hoarsely, and galloped toward Ianthe, the rest streaming behind.

Chapter XIV

Karela kept the hood of her dark blue woolen cloak pulled well forward; there were those about her in the crowd-filled streets of Ianthe who would put aside their habit of ignoring what occurred around them for a chance at Iskandrian's reward.

She snorted at the thought. Twenty pieces of gold! A thousand times so much had been placed on her head by the Kings of Zamora and Turan. The merchants of those countries had offered more, and would have considered it cheap to rid their caravans of her depredations at the price. High Councils had had debated methods of dealing with her, armies had pursued her, and no man took passage from one city to another without offering prayers that she would spare his purse, all with equal futility. Now, she found herself reduced to an amount of coin that spoke of petty irritation. The humiliation of it was so great that barely could she keep her mind on her purpose for entering the city.

The house where Conan's company of rogues was gathered lay just ahead.

That morning she had watched him ride out with half his company. A short time later another large contingent of his men had departed by another gate and trailed after the first. Wily Cimmerian! She had long since gotten over the foolishness of failing to respect his abilities.

He would be taken in no ordinary trap. But then she was no ordinary woman.

Unbidden, her thoughts went back to that woman of the nobility he had been escorting. Did she know him, he had already visited the wench's bed. He had always had an eye for willing wenches, and few were those who were not willing did he once smile at them. The red-haired woman wished she could get her hands on this Synelle. Lady, indeed. She would not soil her hands with the like of those who called themselves ladies.

Karela would show her what a real woman looked like, then send her back to Conan as a present, stuffed naked into a sack. When someone had offered her gold to burn the jade's farms, she had not stopped to ask why or query who the man with the deep-set, commanding eyes was behind his mask of black silk. It had been a chance to strike at Conan, and his precious Synelle, and she leaped at it. She would prick him and prick him until he was forced to flee, and if he would not ...

Angrily she pulled her mind back to the matter at hand. She no longer cared what women he took, she told herself. Such interest in the man had brought her naught but grief. With the men he had taken to protect his new trull, he could not have left many behind. She looked through the arched gateway as she passed. Yes. There were only a handful to be seen, playing at dice against the side of the fountain in the courtyard. He who had made the cast cursed, and the others laughed as they scooped up his losings.

Karela raised a hand to her face as if brushing away a fly, and two men pushing a handcart toward her, its flat bed piled high with wooden boxes held in place by ropes, suddenly turned it into the alley beside the house. Karela followed them. The men glanced at her questioningly; she nodded, and they turned to watch the street.

One, a dark-faced Zamoran with drooping mustaches, whom she had taken on out of memory of better days, said softly, "No one looks."

In the space of two breaths Karela scrambled up the carefully arranged boxes and into a window on the second floor. It was Conan's room. Her sources of information had discovered that for her easily enough.

Her lip curled contemptuously as she looked around the bare chamber. So this was what he had come to since forsaking a palace in Nemedia. She had never heard the straight of his departing that land when he had been offered honors and wealth by the King, but it brought a measure of continuing satisfaction that he had not profited from the adventures which ended in her flight. It did her good to think of him brought low.

Yet the blankets were folded neatly on the bed. There were no cobwebs on the ceiling, no dust in the corners, and the floor had been freshly swept. A woman, she thought, and not likely it was his fine Synelle.

The Cimmerian gathered a zenana about him like an easterner.

Sternly she reminded herself of her lack of interest in Conan's women.

She had come for that obscene bronze figure, and nothing more. But where to begin searching? There did not look to be many places for hiding. Beneath the bed, perhaps.

Before she could take a step, the door opened and a girl wearing plain white robes walked in. There was something oddly familiar about her face and hair, though Karela could swear she had never seen the girl before.

"Keep your silence, wench," Karela commanded. "Close the door and answer my questions quickly, and you'll come to no harm."

"Wench!" the girl said, her eyes flashing indignantly. "What are you doing here ... wench? I think I'll let you see if you like Fabio's switch. Then you can answer questions for me."

"I told you," Karela began, but the girl was already turning back to the door. With a curse the woman bandit jumped across the room and grappled with her, managing to kick the door shut as she did.

She expected the girl to surrender, or try to scream for help at most, but with a sqawl of rage the other woman buried her hands in Karela's red hair. The two women fell to the floor in a kicking, nail-clawing heap.

Derketo, Karela thought, she did not want to kill the jade, but she had defended herself too long with a sword to remember well this woman-fighting. She almost screamed as the other sank teeth into her shoulder; handfuls of her hair were at the point of being ripped from her head. Desperately she slammed a knee into the girl's belly. Breath left the other woman in a gasp, and Karela wriggled forward to kneel on her arms. Her dagger slipped into her hand, and she held it before the girl's face.

"Now be silent, Derketo take you!" she panted. The girl glared up at her defiantly, but held her tongue.

Abruptly Karela realized what was familiar about the girl. The eyes were different, but the color of her hair, the shape of her face. Conan had found himself an imitation of herself. She could not think whether to laugh, or cry, or slit the wench's throat. Or wait for the Cimmerian and slit his. No interest, she told herself again. No interest at all.

"What is your name?" she grated. That would never do. She made an effort to sound more friendly, if that was possible while brandishing a dagger in the wench's face. "What's your name, girl? I like to know who I'm talking to."

The woman beneath her hesitated, then said, "Julia. And that is all you will get from me."

Karela dressed her face with a smile. "Julia, Conan has a bronze figure that I must have, a filthy thing with horns. An you've seen it, you'll not have forgotten. No woman could. Tell me where it is, and I'll leave you unharmed when I go."

"I'll tell you nothing!" Julia spat. But her eyes had flickered to a corner of the room. There was nothing there at all that Karela could see. Still...... Very well, Julia, I must search without your help then. But I'll have to bind you. Now hear my warning well. Do you try to fight or flee, either one, this," she gestured with her blade, "will find a home in your heart. Do you understand?"

Julia's face was still filled with fury, but she nodded, albeit with obvious reluctance.

Carefully Karela cut away Julia's robe. The girl flinched, but otherwise did not change her hate-filled expression. As Karela was slicing strips from the robe with her dagger she could not help noticing her naked prisoner's body. The Cimmerian always had had a liking for full-breasted women, she thought sourly. But hers were better. That was, if she had still been interested in him in that way, which she was not.

"Roll over," she commanded, nudging Julia with her foot. When the girl obeyed, Karela swiftly tied her hands and feet. The wench groaned through clenched teeth as she pulled the bindings together in the small of the naked woman's back, but the threat of the dagger was enough to keep the protest muted. Not comfortable, Karela thought savagely, but then the girl had not truly answered her question. A wadding of cloth fastened with another strip of cloth did her a gag, but before Karela left she lifted Julia's face by a handful of hair. "Conan likes round bottoms," she said with a biting smile. "You have a bottom like a boy."

Julia jerked wildly at her bonds and made angry sounds behind her gag, but Karela was already studying the corner the girl's eyes had indicated. There was nothing there. Neither crack in the plaster nor new work gave sign that anything had been hidden behind the wall, and no opening in the fly-specked ceiling ... A board sagged beneath her foot, and she smiled.

Swiftly she knelt and levered up the floorboard with her dagger. The malevolent bronze lay beneath, nestled in decades of dirt and rat droppings. Fitting, she thought. She reached for the horned figure, but her fingers stopped, quivering, a handsbreadth awav. She could not bring herself to touch it. The evil she had felt before still radiated from it, twisting her stomach. Contact with it would surely have her wretching. Hastily she fetched a blanket from the bed, folded it around the bronze, and gathered it up like a sack, holding the weighty burden well away from her. Even so she could sense the abomination of the thing, but so long as she did not have to look at it she could stand carrying it.

At the window she paused. "Thank Conan for me," she told the struggling girl. "Tell him I thank him for five hundred pieces of gold." With that she dropped through the window and scampered down the boxes. In the alley she hid the blanket-wrapped figure inside a box on the cart. And the relief it was to get rid of it, she thought, even after so brief a contact.

"We'll meet in one turn of the glass," she told the mustached Zamoran, "at the Carellan Stables."

As she slipped back into the crowded street, the hood of her cloak once more shielding her face, she glanced regretfully at the sun. Too late today to post a man before the royal palace. On the morrow, though, the signal would be sent, and by nightfall she would have her five hundred pieces of gold. She wished fervently that she could see the Cimmerian's face when he learned how much he had lost.

Chapter XV

Silvery hair and slit robe alike flowing behind her, Synelle raced through the wide corridors of her great house, heedless of the horrified cries of servants and slaves at her dusty dishevelment, unhearing of their pleas after her welfare and concern for her precipitate return. Conan had left ten of his archers, now standing watch at the entrances, to protect her, then rode off before she could stop him. To deal with Count Antimides, one of those left behind had told her. But she would not wait for him to deal with the Mitra-accursed wretch. Antimides had struck at her-at her!-and his destruction, utter and complete, was her right and hers alone. The means of it must be exquisite, so that when the truth of it could at last be proclaimed to the world the expunging of that excresence would be told and retold for centuries. His desire for the crown and and chains he had meant to emprison her in, that was it.

From a wall she snatched a mirror of silvered glass. With that under her arm, she swept into her secret chamber. From amidst the scintillant flasks and seething beakers of vile substances she took a vial of Antimides' blood. He had been a useful, if unknowing, tool until now, adding to the confusion and weakening those she would eventually have to cow, but always had she been aware that he might become dangerous to her. That blood had been obtained from an ensorceled serving girl, one who often shared Antimides' bed and passed on to Synelle, for the bewitchment that held her, all she learned of the great lord's plans, and kept against just such a day as this. Necromantic spells that could hold a corpse incorruptible for a thousand years kept it liquid.

With great care she sketched the crown of Ophir on the mirror in the count's blood. Below that she drew a sanguine chain.

"See yourself with the crown you seek upon your head, Antimides," she whispered. "But only for a time. A brief, painful time." Laughing cruelly, she bent back to her dark work.

"We attract attention," Machaon announced to no one in particular.

The file of nineteen armored horsemen in spiked helms with round shields slung on the arms, led by Conan, made its way slowly through the streets of Ianthe, and the crowds who parted before them did indeed stare. Deadly intensity hung about them like a cloud, stunning even those who would have looked away, numbing their reticence to see.

"There will be trouble for this," Narus said dolefully. He rode next in line behind Machaon. "Even can we slay Antimides-and the gods alone know how many guards he has-Iskandrian will not look the other way for our killing of a noble within the very walls of the capital. We shall have to flee Ophir, if we can."

"And if we do not slay him," Conan said grimly, "then still we must flee. Or would you ever be sitting with your back to a wall for protection, ever looking across your shoulder for his next attack?"

And more attacks there would be, the Cimmerian was sure. Whatever Antimides' reason for wanting to seize Synelle, he could only be seeking Conan's death to still his tongue. The attacks would continue until Conan was dead, or Antimides was.

"I didn't say we should not kill him," Narus sighed. "I simply said we must flee afterwards."

"If we must flee in any case," Taurianus demanded, "why should we then take this risk? Let the lord live, and let us be gone from Ianthe with all our blood in us." The lanky man looked more glum even than Warus, and the dark hair that straggled from under his helm was damp with anxious sweat.

"You'll never make a captain, Ophirean," the gaunt-faced mercenary replied. "A Free-Company lives by its name, and dies by it, as well.

Can we be attacked with impunity, then the company is as dead as if we have all had our weazands slit, and we are no better than vagabonds and beggars."

Taurianus muttered under his breath, but spoke no more complaints aloud.

"There is Antimides' palace," Machaon said abruptly. He frowned suspiciously at the sprawling, golden-domed edifice of marble and alabaster. "I see no guards. I do not like this, Cimmerian."

Antimides' palace was second in size within Ianthe only to the royal palace itself, a massive structure of columns and terraces and spired towers, with broad, deep steps leading up from the street. There were no guards in sight on those steps, and one of the great bronze doors stood ajar.

A trap perhaps, Conan thought. Had Antimides learned of his failure already? Was he inside with his guards gathered close about him for protection? Such would be a foolish move, sure to have been protested by any competent captain. Yet a lord with Antimides' arrogance might well have bludgeoned his guard commander into complacent compliance long since.

He turned in his saddle, studying the men behind. The seven besides Machaon and Narus who had crossed the border from Nemedia with him were there. They had followed him far, and loyally.

Long and hard had he labored to build this company, and to keep it, yet fairness made him say, "What numbers we face inside I do not know. Does any man wish to leave, now is the time."

"Speak not foolishness," Machaon said. Taurianus opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking.

Conan nodded. "Four men to hold the horses," he ordered as he dismounted.

With steady, purposeful tread they climbed the white marble steps, drawing swords as they did. Conan stepped through the open door, its broad bronze face scribed hugely with the arms of Antimides' house, and found himself in a long, dome-ceilinged hall, with grand, alabaster stairs sweeping up to a columned balcony that encircled the hall.

A buxom serving girl in plain green robes that left her pretty legs bare to the tops of her thighs dashed out of a door to one side of the hall, a large, weighty bag over her shoulders. A scream bubbled out of her when she saw the armed and armored men invading the palace.

Dropping the bag, she sped wailing back the way she had come.

Narus thoughtfully eyed the array of golden goblets and silver plate that had spilled out of the bag. "A guess as to what happens here?"

"Antimides fleeing our righteous wrath?" Machaon hazarded hopefully.

"We cannot afford let him escape us," Conan said. He did not believe the count would flee, but there was strangeness here that worried him.

"Spread out. Find him."

They scattered in all directions, but warily, swords at the ready. Too many battles had they faced, too many traps had been sprung around them, for complacency. The continued survival of a mercenary lay in his readiness to give battle on an instant. Any instant.

A lord's chambers would be above, the Cimmerian thought. He took the curving stairs upward.

Room by room he searched, finding no one, living or dead. Everywhere there were signs of hasty flight, and of a desire to carry away everything of value. Marks where tapestries had been pulled from the walls and carpets taken up. Tables overturned, whatever they had borne gone. Golden lamps wrenched halfway from brackets that had resisted being pried from the walls. Oddly, every mirror he saw was starred with long cracks.

Then he pushed open a door with his sword, and looked into a room that seemed untouched. Furniture stood upright, golden bowls and silver vases in place, and tapestries depicting heroic scenes of Ophir's past hung from the walls. The one mirror in the room was cracked, however, as the others were. An intricately carved chair was set before it, the high back to the door, but the voluminous, gold-embroidered green silk sleeve of a man's robe hung over one gilded wooden arm.

With the strides of a great hunting cat the giant Cimmerian crossed the room, presented his sword to the throat of the man seated there. "Now, Antimides-" Conan's words died abruptly, and the hairs on the back of his neck stirred.

Count Antimides sat with eyes bulging from an empurpled face and blackened tongue protruding between teeth clenched and bared in a rictus of agony. The links of a golden chain were buried in the swollen flesh of his neck, and his own hands clutched the ends of that chain, seeming even in the iron grip of death to strain at drawing it tighter.

"Crom!" Conan muttered. He would not believe that fear of his vengeance had been enough to make Antimides sit before a mirror and watch as he strangled himself. The Cimmerian had met sorcery often enough before to know the smell of it.

"Conan! Where are you?"

"In here!" he replied to the shout from the hall.

Machaon and Narus entered with a slender, frightened youth in filthy rags that had been fine satin robes not long past. His wrists bore the bloody marks of manacles; the palor of his skin and the thinness of his face spoke of long days in darkness and missed meals.

"Look what we found chained below," the tattooed man said.

Not so much of a youth, Conan saw at second glance; there was that in the man's manner-a petulant thrust of a too-full lower lip; a sulkiness of eye and stance-that gave an air of boyishness.

"Well, who is he?" the Cimmerian asked. "You speak as if I should know him."

The youthful appearing man lifted his chin with almost feminine hauteur. "I am Valentius," he said in a high voice that strained for steadiness, "count now, but King to be. I give you my thanks for this rescue." His dark eyes flickered uncertainly to Narus and Machaon. "If rescue it indeed is."

Narus shrugged. "We told him why we are here," he said to Conan, "but he does not believe. Or not fully."

"There are two guards below with their gullets slit," Machaon said, "but we've seen no one living. There is madness in this place, Cimmerian. Has Antimides truly fled?"

For an answer Conan jerked his head toward the high-backed chair. The other three hesitated, then moved quickly to look.

Shockingly, Valentius giggled. "However did you make him do this? No matter. 'Tis fitting for his betrayal of my trust." His fine-featured face darkened quickly. "I came to him for aid and shelter, and he laughed at me. At me! Then he clapped me in irons and left me to rot and fight rats for my daily bowl of swill. So pious, he was. So unctuous. He would not have my blood on his hands, he said, and laughed. He would leave that to the rats."

"I've seen death on many fields, Conan," Machaon said, "but this is an ugly way to slay a man, for all he deserved killing." His knuckles were white on his sword hilt as he gazed on the corpse. Narus formed his fingers into a sign to ward off evil.

"I did not kill him," Conan told them. "Look at his hands on the chain.

Antimides slew himself."

Valentius laughed again, shrilly. "However 'twas done, it was done well." Moods shifting like quicksilver, his face screwed up viciously, and he spat in the corpse's bloated face. "I but regret I could not see the doing."

Conan exchanged glances with his two friends. This was the man with the best blood claim to succeed Valdric on the throne of Ophir. The young Cimmerian shook his head in disgust. The urge to be rid of the youth quickly was strong, but did he simply leave him the fool would have his throat cut in short order. Perhaps that would be the better for Ophir, but such was not his decision to make.

To Valentius he said, "We will take you to the royal palace. Valdric will give you protection."

The slender young man stared at him, wild-eyed and trembling. "No! No, you cannot! Valdric will kill me. I am next in line for the throne. He will kill me!"

"You speak foolishness," Conan growled. "Valdric has no care for aught but saving his own life. 'Tis likely in a day he'll not even remember you are in the palace."

"You do not understand," Valentius whined, wringing his hands. "Valdric will look at me, knowing that he is dying, knowing that I will be King after. He will think of the long years I have before me, and he will hate me. He will have me slain!" He looked desperately from one face to the next, and finished with a sullenly muttered, "'Tis what I would do, and so will he."

Machaon spat on the costly Turanian carpet. "What of blood kin?" he asked gruffly "What of friends, or allies?"

The cringing man shook his head. "How can I know who among them to trust? My own guards turned on me, men who have served my house faithfully for years." Suddenly his voice quickened, and his dark eyes took on a sly light. "You protect me! When I am King, I will give you wealth, titles. You shall have Antimides' palace, and be count in his stead. You and your men shall be the King's personal bodyguard. Riches beyond imagining I shall grant you, and power. Choose a woman, noble or common, and she will be yours. Two, do you wish them, or three! Name the honor you desire! Give it name, and I shall grant it!"

Conan grimaced. It was true that there could be no better service for a Free-Company than what Valentius offered, but he would sooner serve a viper. "What of Iskandrian?" he said. "The general takes no part in these struggles, follows no faction."

Valentius nodded reluctantly. "If you will not serve me," he said sulkily.

"Then let us leave this place," Conan said, "and quickly. It would be ill to be found standing over Antimides' corpse." As the others hurried from the room, though, he paused for one last look at the dead man.

Whatever sorcery Antimides had enmeshed himself in, the Cimmerian was glad it did not touch him. With a shiver he followed the others.

Chapter XVI

Dusk was falling as Conan returned to the house where his company was quartered, and the gray thickening of the air, the coming blackness, fitted his mood well. Iskandrian had taken Valentius under his protection at the army's barracks readily enough, but the old general had listened to their story with a suspicious eye on the Cimmerian.

Only for Valentius' agreement that Antimides appeared to have strangled himself had the mercenaries left those long, stone buildings unchained, and the petulant glare the young lord gave Conan as he said the words was as clear as a statement that he would have spoken differently could he but be sure he would not himself be implicated.

And then there had been Synelle. Conan had found her in a strange mixture of fury and satisfaction. She already knew of Antimides' death, though he was not aware the word had spread so quickly; that accounted for her contentment. But she had upbraided him savagely for riding away without her permission, and for taking the time to bring Valentius to Iskandrian's care.

The last seemed to infuriate her more than the first. He was in her service, not that of the fopling Valentius, and he would do well to remember it. To his own amazement he had listened meekly, and worst of all had had to fight with himself to stop from begging her forgiveness.

He had never begged anything from man or woman, god or demon, and it made his stomach turn to think how close he had come.

He slammed open the door of his room, and stopped dead. In the dimness Julia, naked and bound hand and foot, frowned up at him with her mouth working frantically at a gag.

"Machaon!" he shouted. "Narus!" Hastily he untied her gag. Her bonds had been tightly tied, and she had pulled them tighter with her struggles. He had to wield his dagger carefully to cut only the strips of cloth and not her flesh. "Who did this?" he demanded as he labored to free her.

With a groan she expelled a damp wad of cloth from her mouth, and worked her jaw before speaking. "Do not let him see me like this," she pleaded. "Hurry! Hurry!"

Machaon, Narus and Boros tumbled through the door, all shouting questions at once, and Julia screamed. As Conan severed the last binding, she jerked free of him and scrambled to the bed, snatching a blanket to cover herself.

"Go away, Machaon!" she cried, cowering back. Rubiate color suffused her cheeks. "I will not have you see me so. Go away!"

"'Tis gone," Boros said drunkenly, pointing to the corner where Conan had hidden the bronze figure.

For the first time the Cimmerian realized the board was lifted aside, and the space beneath it empty. A chill as of death oozed through him.

It seemed meet that this day should end so, with disaster peering at him like the vacant eve-sockets of a skull.

"Mayhap," Boros muttered, "do we ride hard, we can be across the border before it's used. I've always wished to see Vendhya, or perhaps Khitai.

Does anyone know a land more distant?"

"Be quiet, you old fool," Conan growled. "Julia, who took the bronze?

Crom, woman, stop worrying about that accursed blanket and answer me!"

Not ceasing her efforts to make the blanket cover all of her bountiful curves, and less precariously, Julia glared at him and sniffed. "'Twas a trull in men's breeches and wearing a sword." She glanced at Machaon out of the corner of her eye. "She said I have a boy's bottom. My bottom is as round as hers, only not so big."

Conan ground his teeth. "Her eyes," he asked impatiently. "They were green? Her hair red? Did she say anything else?"

"Karela?" Machaon said. "I thought she meant to kill you, not steal from you. But why is Boros so affrighted by this thing she took? You've not got us meddling with sorcerers again, Cimmerian?"

"You know her," Julia said accusingly. "I thought so from what she said about my. . ." She cleared her throat and began again. "All I remember of what she said is that she swore by Derketo and thanked you for five hundred pieces of gold. Have you truly given her so much? I remember my father's lemans, and I'd not think this Karela was worth a silver."

Conan pounded a huge fist on his thigh. "I must find her, Machaon, without delay. She has stolen a bronze figure that came to me by happenstance, a thing of evil power that will wreak destruction undreamed of, does she sell it to those I fear she will. Give me precise directions to find that ruined keep."

Julia moaned. "That is what she meant about gold? She takes the hellish thing to those Boros spoke of? Mitra protect us all, and the land!"

"I understand not a word of all this," Machaon said, "but one thing I do know. An you enter the Sarelain Forest in the night, you'll break your neck. That tangle is bad enough to travel in daylight. 'Twould take a man born there to find his way in the dark."

"I can find her," Boros said, swaying, "so long as she has the bronze.

Its evil is in truth a beacon." He pushed his sleeves up bony arms. "A simple matter of-"

"An you attempt magic in your condition," Conan cut him off, "I'll put your head on a spike over the River Gate with my own hands." The gray-bearded man looked hurt, but subsided, muttering under his breath.

Conan turned to Machaon. "There is no time to waste. Daylight may be too late."

Machaon nodded reluctantly, but Narus said, "Then take a score of us with you. Her band-"

"-would hear so many coming and melt away," the Cimmerian finished for him. "I go alone. Machaon?"

Slowly the tattooed veteran spoke.

Machaon was right. Conan thought as an unseen branch whipped across his face for what seemed the hundredth time. A man could easily break his neck in that blackness. He forced his horse on through the heavy thicket of vines and undergrowth, hoping he moved in the right direction. As a boy he had learned to guide himself by the stars, but the sky was seldom visible, for the forest was ancient, filled with huge oaks whose thick interwoven branches formed a canopy with few openings above his head.

"You've come far enough," a voice called from the dark, "unless you want a quarrel in your ribs!"

Conan put a hand to his sword.

"None of that!" another man said, then chuckled. "Me and Tenio grew up in this forest, big man, poaching the King's deer by night. He sees better than I do, and you might as well be standing under a full moon for all of me."

"I seek Karela," Conan began, but got no further.

"Enough talk," the first voice said. "Take him!"

Suddenly rough hands were pulling the big Cimmerian from his horse, into the midst of a knot of men. He could not even see well enough to count how many, but he seized an arm and broke it, producing a scream.

There was no room to draw his sword, nor light to see where to strike; he snatched his dagger instead and laid about him, bringing yells and curses when he slashed flesh. In the end their numbers were too great, and he was pressed to the dirt by the weight of them, his wrists bound behind him and a cord tied between his ankles for a hobble.

"Anybody hurt bad?" panted the man who had chuckled earlier. "My arm,"

someone moaned, and another voice said, "Bugger your arm! He near as cut my ear off!"

Cursing the dark-not all had cat's eyes-they pulled Conan to his feet and pulled him through the trees, dragging him, when the hobble caught roots and tripped him, until he managed to get his feet under him again.

Abruptly a blanket was pulled aside before him, and he was thrust into a stone-walled room lit by rush torches in rusted iron sconces on the walls. A huge hearth with a roaring fire of logs as big as a man's leg, a great iron pot suspended on pivoting arm above it, filled one wall.

Blankets at the windows-narrow arrow-slits, in fact-kept the light from spilling into the surrounding forest. A dozen men, as motley a collection of ruffians as Conan had ever seen, sprawled on benches at crude trestle tables, swilling wine from rough clay mugs and wolfing down stew from wooden bowls.

Karela got to her feet as Conan's captors crowded in after him, complaining loudly about their wounds and bruises. Her dark leather jerkin, worn over tight breeches of pale gray silk tucked into red boots, was laced snugly, yet gaped enough at the top to reveal the creamy upper slopes of her full, heavy breasts. A belt worn low on her well-rounded hips supported her scimitar.

"So," she said, "you're more fool than I thought you, Cimmerian. You'll force me to kill you yet."

"The bronze, Karela," he said urgently. "You must not sell it. They're trying-"

"Silence him!" she snapped.

"-to raise Al'Kiir," he managed to get out, then a club smashed against the back of his head, and darkness claimed him.

Chapter XVII

The fool, Karela thought as she stared at Conan's huge prostrate form.

Was his masculine arrogance so great that he could believe all he must needs do to retrieve the figure was ride up and take it? She knew him for a prideful man, and knew as well that the pride was justified. By himself, with naught but his broadsword, he was more than a match for ...

Abruptly she cursed to herself. The Cimmerian was no longer the same man who had emprisoned a part of her and carried it away with him. She had been thinking of him as he was when she first knew him, a thief and a loner with naught but his wits and the strength of his sword arm. Now he commanded men, and men who, she reluctantly admitted, were a more dangerous pack than the hounds she led.

"Was he alone?" she demanded. "An you've led his Free-Company here, I'll have your hides for boots!"

"Didn't see nobody else," Tenio muttered. "That means there weren't nobody else." A small, ferrery man with a narrow face and sharp nose, he spat a tooth into his palm and glared at it. "I say kill him." Some of those nursing broken ribs and knife gashes growled assent.

Marusas, her Zamoran, produced a dagger in his long, calloused fingers.

"Let us wake him, instead. He looks strong. He would scream a long time before he died."

Instantly all of the men were shouting, arguing for one course or the other.

"Kill him now! He's too dangerous!"

"He's just a man. Flay him, and he'll scream like any other."

"You didn't fight him out there! You don't know!"

"He cut me to the bone with ten of us on him, and broke Agorio's arm!"

"Silence, you dogs!" Karela roared, and the bickering ceased as they turned to stare at her. "I say who dies, and I say he doesn't. Not yet, at least! Do any of you mangy curs care to dispute me? To your kennels!"

She put a hand to her scimitar hilt, and a dangerous light glowed in her green eyes. One by one they dropped their eyes from hers, muttered, and shuffled back to their drinking or to tend their wounds. Jamaran, a huge, shaven-headed Kushite with shoulders broader than Conan's and the thick fingers of a wrestler, was the last to remain glowering at her, his dark face twisted with anger. A split of his cheek showed where Conan's fist had landed in the struggle.

"Well, Jamaran?" she said. She knew he wanted to replace her, and take her to his bed as well, though he did not know she was aware of his desires. He had thoughts about the proper place for women; sooner or later she would have to show him the error of his ways or slay him.

"Are you ready to dispute my rule?"

Surprise glimmered on his face, and was quickly supplanted by a sneering smile. "Not yet," he growled. "I will tell you when, my red-haired pretty." His black eves ran over her body like a caress, then with incredible lightness on his feet for a man of his size he stalked to the nearest table and snatched up a mug, tossing back his head to drink deeply.

Karela quivered in shocked outrage as she glared at his broad back.

Never before had he been so open. She would have to kill him, she thought, after this. But it could not be done now. The temper of her band was too delicately balanced. As much as she hated admitting it, a wrong move now could wreck all she had labored for. With a snarl she released her sword.

It was not like the days in Zamora, she thought grimly. Then none of her band dared to challenge her word, or to think of her as a woman. It was all Conan's fault. He had changed her in some way she did not understand, some way she did not want to be changed. He had woven a thread of weakness into her fabric, and other men could sense it.

As if her thoughts of him had been a call the Cimmerian groaned and stirred.

"Gag him," she ordered. "Wove, Derketo curse you! I'll not be bothered by his babblings!"

Conan shook himself as Tenio and Jamaran knelt beside him. "Karela," he said desperately, "listen to me. These men are dangerous. They mean to bring an evil-"

Tenio tried to shove a rag into his mouth, and screamed as the Cimmerian sank teeth into his hand. Jamaran smashed a fist into Conan's jaw; the ferret-faced man jerked his hand free, sprinkling drops of blood as he shook it. Before Conan could speak again Jamaran had thrust the wadding home and bound it. As he got to his feet the shaven-headed man kicked Conan in the ribs and pulled back his booted foot for another. Tenio drew his dagger with his undamaged hand, a murderous gleam in his eyes.

"Stop that," Karela commanded. "Did you hear me? Leave him!" Slowly, reluctantly, the two drew away from the Cimmerian.

She could feel those sapphire eyes on her. He shook his head furiously, fighting the gag, making angry noises behind it. Shivering, she turned her back to stare into the fire.

Karela knew she could not afford to let herself listen to the young giant. He had always been able to talk her into anything. Did he put his hands on her, her will melted. This time, she told herself, this time it would be different.

The night went slowly for her, and she was aware that it was because of Conan's eyes on her back. The rest of the bandits took themselves off to sleep, most simply pulling blankets about them on the stone floor, but sleep would not come near Karela. Like a leopard in a cage she paced, and the goad that made her pace was an unblinking icy blue gaze.

She would have had him blindfolded, except that she would not admit even to herself that simply his eyes on her could affect her so greatly.

Finally the titian-haired beauty settled before the great hearth and studied the leaping flames as if they were the most important thing in the world. Yet even then she could not escape the Cimmerian, imagining him writhing in the fire, imagining him suffering all the tortures of the damned, all the tortures he so richly deserved. She could not understand why that seemed to make her feel even worse, or why from time to time she had to surreptitiously wipe tears from her cheeks.

At first light she sent Tenio riding for Ianthe with the scarlet surcoat. The rest of the day she spent in ignoring Conan. Food and drink she denied him.

"Let him eat and drink when I have gone," she commanded.

The men scattered about the room, most devoting their energies to dice or cards, gave her muttered assent and strange looks. She did not care.

Not for the briefest moment would she allow the Cimmerian to be ungagged in her presence. Not until she had the five hundred pieces of gold in her hands to taunt him with. Not until she managed to settle herself, and that seemed strangely difficult to do.

Then the sun was making its downward journey. Time for Karela to leave for the hut. The bronze she had left, still wrapped in the blanket from Conan's bed, outside beneath a tree. There was no one about to steal it, and she would not have it under the same roof with her could she avoid it.

As she was tying the blanket-swathed bundle behind her saddle-and muttering to herself for the sickness it made her feel in the pit of her stomach Jamaran came out of the lone tower that remained of the ancient keep.

"That thing is valuable," he said challengingly. "Five hundred gold pieces, you say."

Karela did not answer him. This morning was no better time to kill him than last night had been.

"I should go with you," the huge man went on when she remained silent.

"To make certain you return safely with the gold. This noble you go to may prove treacherous. Or perhaps something else might delay you, a woman alone with so much gold."

Karela's face tightened. Did the fool think she planned to run off with the coin? Or did he think to take the gold and her both? "No!" she snapped as she swung into the saddle. "You are needed here to help guard the prisoner."

"There are a score to watch him. So much gold-"

"Fool!" She made the word a sneering whiplash. "You must learn to think if you would lead men. That one inside, bound as he is, is more dangerous than any man you've ever seen. I but hope there are enough of you to keep him till I return."

Before Jamaran could speak the furious words she could read plainly on his face, Karela put spurs to her fleet eastern bay, and darted down a narrow path that was little more than a deer track. Many such crossed and criss-crossed in the thick forest, and she was soon gone beyond following.

In truth, she did not think all of her followers were necessary to keep Conan imprisoned. What she had told the big Kushite was true. The Cimmerian giant was dangerous enough to make even her wary, and she prided herself on walking carefully about no man. She had seen him struggle when defeat was inevitable, slay when his own death was certain, win when only doom lay ahead. Bound hand and foot, however, and guarded by twenty men, she did not doubt Conan would be waiting as she had left him when she returned.

Nor did she think Jamaran could take the gold-or what else he wanted from her-without her steel drinking his life in the attempt. But her pride would not allow the nameless noble to see the open disrespect the shaven-headed man now showed her. Besides, this noble would certainly have other commissions-he had already offered one, though changing it to acquiring the bronze-but he would not likely offer them if he thought she could not keep discipline in her own band.

When Karela reached the clearing where the rude hut stood, the sun was a bloody ball half-obscured by the treetops, and long shadows stretched toward the east. The scarlet-and-black caprisoned warhorse stood alone as before. Slowly she made a circuit of the clearing, within the shaded shelter of the trees. It was a desultory search, she was well aware, but she was also aware of the bronze tied behind her. More than once had she found herself riding forward on her saddle to avoid the brush against her buttocks of the rough wool that contained it. She knew a desperate urgency to be rid of the figure.

With a snorted laugh for her own sensitivity, Karela galloped into the clearing and dismounted. She carried the blanket gripped like a sack, and kicked open the rough door of planks. "Well, Lord Nameless, do you have my. . . ." Her words trailed away in surprise.

The tall nobleman stood as he had at the first meeting, but this time he was not alone. A woman with a scarlet cloak pulled around her, the hood pulled well forward, stood beside him, cool dark eyes studying Karela over a veil of opaque silk.

Karela stared back boldly, tossing the blanket to the dirt floor at their feet. "Here is your accursed image. Now where is my gold?"

The veiled woman knelt, hastily pulling aside the folds of coarse wool.

A reverent sigh came from her as the horned figure was revealed. With delicate hands she lifted it to the crude table. Karela wondered how she could bear to touch it.

"It is Al'Kiir," the veiled woman breathed. "It is what I sought, Taramenon."

Karela blinked. Lord Taramenon? If half what she had heard of his swordplay were true, he would be no easy opponent. She let her hand drift to the hilt of her scimitar. "There are five hundred pieces of gold to be handed over before it is yours."

The other woman's eyes swiveled to her.

"Is she what you seek also?" Taramenon asked.

The veiled woman nodded thoughtfully. "She seems so. How are you called, wench?"

"I am Karela, wench!" the red-haired bandit snapped, emphasizing the last word. "Now let me tell your fates, if you have not brought the coin agreed on. You, my fine lordling, I will sell into Koth, where your pretty face may please a mistress." Taramenon's face darkened, but the veiled woman laughed. Karela turned her attention to her. "And you I will sell into Argos, where you may dance naked in a tavern in Messantia, and please the patrons one by one for the price of a mug of ale."

"I am a princess of Ophir," the veiled woman said coldly, "who can have you impaled on the walls of the royal palace. Do you dare speak so to one before whom you should tremble?"

Karela sneered. "I not only dare speak so, by Derketo's Teats, if my gold is not forthcoming I'll strip you on the spot to see if an Argossean tavern will have you. Most Ophirean noblewomen are bony wenches who could not please a man did they try with all their might."

Steel whispered across leather as her blade left its scabbard. "I'll have my gold now!"

"She will indeed do," the scarlet-cloaked woman said. "Take her."

Karela spun toward Taramenon, had an instant to see him watching with a bemused smile on his face, making no move toward her or his sword, then two men in the leather armor of light cavalry dropped from the dark rafters atop her. In a struggling heap she was borne to the packed-earth floor.

"Derketo blast you!" she howled, writhing futilely in their grip. "I'll spit you like capons! Codless jackals!"

Taramenon plucked her sword from her hand and tossed it into a corner.

"You'll not be needing that any longer, girl."

Despite her frenzied striving, the cavalrymen dragged Karela to her feet. Fool! she berated herself. Taken like a virgin in a kidnapper's nets! Why had she not wondered why there was no horse for the woman?

"I suppose it's too much to hope for that she's a maiden," the woman said.

Taramenon laughed. "Much too much, I should say."

"Treacherous trull!" Karela snarled. "Catamite fopling! I'll peel your hides in strips! Release me, or my men will stake you out for the vultures! Are you fool enough to think I came alone?"

"Perhaps you did not," Taramenon said calmly, "thought I saw no one the last time you claimed to have men about this hut. In any case, my shout will bring fifty men-at-arms. Shall we see what your miserable brigands can do against them?"

"Enough, Taramenon," the veiled woman said. "Do not bandy words with the baggage. There was talk of stripping." She eyed Karela's tight breeches and snug-laced leather jerkin, and a note of malicious amusement entered her voice. "I would see that she is not ... too bony for my purpose."

Taramenon laughed, and the three men set to with a will. Karela fought furiously, and when they were done there was blood on her nails and teeth, but she stood naked, heavy round breasts heaving with her effort. Lecherous male eyes probed her beauty, slid along the curves of lush thighs and narrow waist. Dark feminine eyes regarded her more coldly, and with a touch of jealousy lighting them. Pridefully the green-eyed woman stood as erect as the twisting of her arms behind her back would allow. She would not cringe like a shrinking girl on her wedding night for these of any others.

The tall nobleman touched his cheek, now decorated by four parallel sanquinary streaks, and examined the blood on his fingertips. Suddenly his hand flashed out; the force of his slap was such that Karela and the two men holding her all staggered.

"Do not damage her!" the veiled woman said sharply. "Your beauty is not ruined, Taramenon. Now bind her for transport."

"A taste of the strap will do her no damage, Synelle," the darkly handsome lord growled, "and I would teach her her proper place." The name so shocked Karela that she missed the veiled woman's retort.

Conan's patroness! Could the woman have learned of her own connection with the Cimmerian and be thinking to dispose of a rival? Well, she had the Cimmerian to bargain for her release, and if Derketo favored her she would have this treacherous noblewoman to hang by her heels beside him.

Karela opened her mouth to make her offer-Conan's freedom in return for her own-and a wadded rag pushed the words back into her throat. Like a starving panther she struggled, but three men were too much for her.

With ease that seemed to mock her they corded her into a neat package, wrists strapped to ankles, knees beneath her chin, thin straps laced around and around her, digging deep into her flesh. When one of the cavalrymen produced a large leather sack the memory of her plans for Synelle, including her method of returning her to Conan, flooded her face with scarlet.

"At least she can still blush," Synelle laughed as Karela was stuffed into the sack. "From her language, I thought she was lost to all decency. Carry her to the horses. We must hurry. Events proceed more quickly than I would like, and we must meet them."

"I must return to the palace to pay my respects," Taramenon said. "I will join you as quickly as I can."

"Do so quickly," Synelle said smoothly, "or I may put Conan in your place."

As Karela's dark prison was heaved swaying into the air, she felt tears running down her cheeks. Derketo curse the Cimmerian! Once again he had brought her humiliation. She hoped Jamaran would slit his throat.

Slowly.

Chapter XVIII

Conan lay on the dirt-strewn stone floor as he had for a day and a night now, bound and biding his time with the patience of a jungle predator, all of his mind and energies given over to waiting and watching. Karela's injunction to give him food and water had been ignored, and he was dimly aware of hunger and thirst, but they affected him little. He had gone longer without either, and he knew he would have both once the men who guarded him were dealt with. Soon or late a mistake would be made, and he would take advantage. Soon or late, it would come.

Brass lamps had been lit against the deepening night, but with Karela gone no one had rehung blankets to cover the tall, narrow arrow slits.

Rough clay jars of wine had been passed more freely with the red-haired woman's departure, and the four brigands who had not already staggered to one of the upper rooms of the tower for drunken sleep were engrossed in drinking more and gaming with dice. The fire on the long hearth burned low; the last of the thick logs that had been stacked against the wall had long since gone into the flames, and no more had been brought from outside. None of them had thought to tend the iron kettle suspended over the flames, and the smell of burning stew blended with the unwashed stench of bandits.

Abruptly Tenio hurled dice and leather dice-cup aside. "She should have returned by now," he muttered. "What keeps her?"

"Perhaps she keeps herself," Jamaran growled. His black eyes went to Conan, and he bared large, yellow teeth in a snarl. "Leaving us with this one she seems so affrighted of."

Marusas paused in the act of scooping up the dice. "You think she has run away with the gold? It sounds a tidy sum, but her share of our raids has been as much in the last month alone."

"Erlik take you, play!" snapped a man with a slitted leather patch tied over where his nose had been cut off. His pale eyes had a permanent look of suspicious anger, as if he knew and hated what men thought when they saw his disfigurement. "I'm twenty silvers down with coin on the table. Play, curse yo" The three ignored him.

Jamaran slammed a fist the size of a small ham on the table top. "And that's another thing. Why should a woman receive ten times the share that the rest of us do? Let her in our work alone and see what sport the men she tries to rob will have with her. Without us, she'd be no more than a cut-purse, bargaining when she was caught to escape having her cheek branded for a grant of the favors she is so stings with now."

"Without her," Tenio rebutted, "what are we? How much did we get on our own? Now you moan about only fifty golds in a month, but you didn't never get ten before her."

"She's a woman!" the huge Kushite said. "A woman's place is in a man's bed, or cooking for him, not giving orders."

Marusas laughed and tugged at his drooping black mustaches. "I would like riding her myself. Much fun in breaking that one to bridle, eh?"

" 'Tis more than the pair of you could do together," Tenio sneered. "I don't like taking orders from a woman no better than you, but she puts gold in my purse, more than I've seen before. And I know I'd have to keep her tied hand and foot or risk waking with my own dagger in my throat. Or worse."

"No cods at all on you." Jamaran snorted. He nudged the Zamoran with a huge elbow. "I always knew there was more woman than man in him. Likely spends all his hours in Ianthe at the House of the Yearling Lambs." The two of them roared with laughter and patchnose joined in as if despite himself.

All the blood left Tenio's face, and his narrow-bladed dagger flickered into his hand. "I don't take that from nobody," he snarled.

"From me you take what I give." Jamaran said, all mirth gone from his voice, "or I'll use that blade of yours to make since you've no cods."

"Curse the lot of you for chattering old women." patchnose shouted.

"Am I suddenly not good enough to dice with-"

Conan made a sound behind his gag; had his throat not been parched it would have been a chuckle. A while longer and they would kill each other, leaving him only his bonds to worry about.

Flinging his mug across the room in a spray of wine, Jamaran heaved himself from his bench and strode on legs as big around as a normal man's waist to stand over the Cimmerian. Conan's icy azure gaze calmly met the dark glower directed at him.

"Big man," Jamaran said contemptuously, and his foot thudding into Conan's ribs lifted the Cimmerian from the stone floor. "You seem not so big to me." Again his foot drove Conan back. "Why does Karela want you kept safe? Is she afraid of you? Or maybe she loves you, huh?

Perhaps I'll let you watch while I enjoy her, if she comes back." Each sentence he punctuated with a massive booted foot, until Conan lay struggling for breath on the very edge of the hearth. The Cimmerian glared at Jamaran as the shaven-headed man squatted beside him, doubling a heavy fist. "Ten men have I beaten to their death with this.

You will be number eleven. I do not think Karela will return-she's been gone too long already-but I'll wait a bit longer. I want her to see it.

Watching a man killed that way does something to a woman." Laughing, the huge Kushite straightened. With a last kick he turned back to the table. "Where's my mug?" he roared. "I want wine!"

Cursing behind his gag Conan jerked himself out of the coals he had landed in, but his mind was not on his burns. So intent had he been on awaiting his chance for escape that their talk of Karela's lateness had barely impinged on his thoughts. He knew her well enough to be sure she had not fled with the gold. Boros' words came back to him. The most beautiful and proudest women of the land were sacrificed to Al'Kiir.

Few were the women more beautiful than Karela, and to her pride he could well attest. The fool wench had not only taken those who wanted to raise the god the means to do so, she had delivered herself as a sacrifice. He was sure of it. Now he must rescue her from her own folly. But how? How even to free himself?

He shifted to ease his weight on a burn on his arm, and suddenly his lips curled in a smile around his gag. Careless of searing flame he thrust his bound wrists into the fire. Gritting his teeth on his gag against fiery agony, he strained mighty arms against the ropes, massive muscles knotting and writhing. Sweat beaded his face.

The reek of burning hemp came to him; he wondered how the others could fail to be aware of it, but none of the four so much as looked in his direction. They were immersed in their mugs of wine, and patchnose kept up his arguing for a chance to win back his loses. Abruptly, the ropes parted, and Conan pulled his half-cooked wrists from the flames, careful to keep them yet behind his back. His gaze sought his ancient broadsword, leaning against the wall behind the drinking men.

There would be no chance to grasp it before he came to grips with the men between him and his steel.

With a crash patchnose kicked over his bench. Conan froze. Snarling the man snatched up his mug and began to stalk back and forth across the room, muttering angrily about men who won and then would not gamble, and shooting dark glances at the other three, still intent on their drink. His eyes did not stray to the Cimmerian, lying rigid on the hearth-stone.

Slowly, so as to draw no attention, Conan slid his booted feet back until he could feel the heat of flames licking about them. To the smell of burning rope was added that of scorching leather, but the latter was no more noticed than the first. Then those cords were burned through as well. There was no time to waste on the gag. Rolling to his feet the big Cimmerian snatched a long, black fire-iron from the hearth.

Patchnose was the first to see Conan free of his bonds, but the man had only time to goggle before wine sprayed out of his mouth and his skull was crushed by the fire-iron. Shouting, the others scrambled to their feet. Tenio produced his dagger, but Conan drove the fire-iron point-first through the ferret-faced man's chest and caught the blade as it dropped from the transfixed man's nerveless fingers. Marusas'

sword leaped into his hand, then the Zamoran was staggering back, trying to scream around the dagger that had blossomed in fountains of scarlet in his throat.

Roaring, Jamaran leaped to grapple with the Cimmerian, throwing bearlike arms about his waist, heaving him into the air. Conan felt the man's huge fists locked in the small of his back, felt his spine begin to creak. Conan smashed his linked hands down on the nape of the huge man's bull neck, once, twice, thrice, to no effect. Jamaran's grip tightened inexorably. In moments, the Cimmerian knew, his back would snap. Desperately he slammed his palms against the other's ears.

With a scream Jamaran let him drop. Even as his heels hit the stone floor, Conan's bladed hand struck the huge Kushite's throat. Jamaran gagged, yet lashed out with a massive fist in the same instant. Conan blocked the blow, winding his arm around the shaven-headed man's to pull him close. With hammer-like blows the Cimmerian pounded the big man's body, feeling ribs splinter beneath his fist.

In the night a trumpet sounded the Ophirean army call for the attack.

"Company one, ready torches!" a voice called. "Company two, attack!

Take no prisoners!" Feet pounded on the floors above; frantic yells rose.

In his desperate struggle Conan had no time to worry about the new danger. Jamaran smashed his head against the Cimmerian's; Conan staggered, clinging to consciousness. The huge Kushite tried to enfold Conan once more in his crushing embrace, but Conan rammed a knee into his crotch, lifting the man to his toes with bulging eyes. Like thunderbolts the heels of Conan's hands struck Jamaran's chin. The shaven head went back with a loud crack as the Kushite's neck broke, and he fell in a boneless heap.

Conan ripped the gag from his mouth and threw it atop the body of the man who had threatened to beat him to death. A torch was thrust through one of the arrow slits, then another. Putting a hand on the table top Conan vaulted across it to grab his sword hilt, baring the blade by slinging the worn shagreen scabbard away. Then soldiers spoke of taking no prisoners they generally slew whatever moved, without questioning whether it was enemy or captive. Conan did not mean to die easily.

A man darted in at the door, sword ready; Conan swung his steel ... and stopped a handsbreadth away from splitting Machaon's skull. Narus rushed in behind the grizzled veteran, and two more of the company.

"You!" Conan exclaimed. "You are the Ophirean army?"

Narus shrugged and held up a battered brass trumpet. "An odd talent of mine, but useful from time to time." He looked around at the bodies on the stone floor. "Once more you leave nothing for the rest of us."

"There are more above," Conan said, but Narus shook his head. "They lept from breaks in the walls, thinking we were who we claimed, and fled into the night."

"We've still bloody work to do," Conan told him. "Karela has been taken prisoner, and I mean to rescue her." Atop Tor Al'Kiir, he thought.

Boros said he had seen lights there, and he had no other clue. "We must move quickly, if you will come with me."

"Mitra, Conan," Machaon growled, "will you let me say a word? There's no time for wenches, not even her. We came after you because Zandru's Hells have come to sup in Ophir."

"Al'Kiir." Conan's heart sank. "They've raised the god already."

"I know naught of gods," Machaon muttered, "but Valdric lies dead of the sickness that consumed him, and Iskandrian has seized the royal palace."

Conan started in surprise. "Iskandrian!"

"The old general has declared for Valentius," Narus explained. "And that young coxcomb has taken the name Maranthes II, as if a name could make him a great king. I hear he didn't wait for funeral rites or even a priest, but took the crown from Valdric's corpse before it was cold and put it on his own head."

"Will you stop your nattering, Narus!" Machaon barked. "Most of the nobles think as you did, Cimmerian. They gather their forces, but Iskandrian moves to put them down before they can. He marched with most of the Ianthe garrison an hour after he put Valentius on the throne. If that isn't enough, Taurianus is talking loudly that the company should join the nobles. He's telling everyone if Iskandrian wins it means the end of Free-Companies in Ophir." His tattooed face grew grim. "I'll tell you, Conan, he's right on that. Iskandrian will give short shrift to mercenaries."

"We'll worry about Iskandrian later," Conan said. "Karela comes first, and matters even more important than her. How many of the company did you bring, Machaon-"

"Seven, including Narus and myself, all of whom crossed the Nemedian border with us. Two I left to guard Julia. The mood of the others is bad, Cimmerian. You must return now if you mean to hold them together.

Karela can take care of herself for a time if any woman can."

"We found your black picketed with this lot's mounts," Narus added.

"Crom!" Conan muttered. The numbers were not enough if they faced what he feared atop Tor Al'Kiir. "We ride for Ianthe, to gather the company and ride out again. No, not to join the nobles. To Tor Al'Kiir.

There'll be time for questions later. To horse, Erlik blast your hides.

To horse, and pray to whatever gods you can think of that we are in time."

Chapter XIX

Iron-shod hooves struck sparks from paving stones as Conan galloped through the dark and empty streets of Ianthe, seven men trailing behind with their cloaks standing out in the wind of their charge. Atop the malevolent granite hump of Tor Al'Kiir torches flickered, distant points of light in the moonless sky mocking his efforts at haste. He cursed to himself, regretting even the time it had taken to bribe the gate-watch for entry.

He wanted to shout at the sleepers who felt a momentary safety behind their walls of brick and stone. Mourning cloths draped from shuttered windows and shrouded public fountains; sprigs of sa'karian, black and white berries intermixed as symbol of death and rebirth, adorned every door. The capital of Ophir mourned its dead King in fear and uncertainty, yet none in that city knew that what they felt was as a flickering lamp flame to the storm-lashed fire-death of a great forest beside the terror that awaited their wakening.

As he galloped through the archway of the house where his company was quartered, Conan bellowed. "To me! Out with you, and to horse! Move, damn you to Zandru's Hells!" Stillness lay heavily on the blackened building; his words echoed hollowly from the courtyard walls as the others clattered in behind him. "Taurianus!" he called. "Boros!"

A door open with the protest of rusty hinges, showing a tiny light, and four figures moved into the court. Slowly the shadowy shapes resolved into Boros, Julia, and two of his company holding shielded lanterns.

The armored men were the two remaining besides those behind him who had come with him from Nemedia.

"Where are the others?" Conan demanded.

"Gone," Boros answered hollowly. "Taurianus-Erlik roast his soul for eternity-convinced most of them you were dead, since you didn't return.

Half followed him to join the nobles against Iskandrian. The rest?" His thin shoulders shrugged. "Faded away to hide as best they can. Without you, fear corroded their hearts."

Conan fought the urge to rain curses upon Taurianus' head. There was no time; the torches still burned atop the mountain. What must be done, must be done with the men he had. But he would lead no man blind to face sorcerers, and perhaps a god.

"Boros," he said grimly, "tell of Al'Kiir. But briefly, old man. The time of his coming is near, perhaps before first light, if we do not stop it."

Boros gasped and, tugging at his beard, spoke in a quavering voice, filled with all his years, of days before even ancient Ophir existed and the rites of Al'Kiir, of the Circle of the Right-Hand Path and the imprisonment of the demonic god, of those who would bring the abominable worship again into the world and the god whose horror they celebrated. When he was done there was silence, broken only by the call of an owl. Each man's breath was audible, and they all spoke of fear.

"If we go to Iskandrian with this tale," Conan said finally, "he will think it a ruse of the nobles and slay us, or emprison us for madmen until it is too late. But even word is as true and as dire as a spear thrust to the heart. Boros has told you what comes, what fate may lie in store for your sister, or wife or daughter, because she is comely and spirited. I ride to Tor Al'Kiir to stop it. Who rides with me?"

For a long moment only silence answered him, then Julia stepped forward, her chin held high. "If there is no courage among these who call themselves men, at least I will go with you."

"You will go to your sleeping mat," Machaon growled, "or I'll bind you in such a package as Karela made of you, to keep you safe against my return." The girl moved hurriedly behind Boros, eyeing the grizzled mercenary warily as if unsure how much of his threat he meant. Machaon nodded with satisfaction, then turned in his saddle to Conan. "I've seen more of wizards following you, Cimmerian, than one man has a right to expect in a lifetime. But I cannot see that once more will make any difference."

"An owl calling on a moonless night means death," Narus said glumly, "but I've never seen a god. I, too, ride with you, Cimmerian." One by one, then, the other seven mercenaries pledged to follow also, voices cold with humiliation at being surpassed in courage by a girl, with anger and determination to protect some particular woman from the bloody rites. And still with fear. Yet they would come.

Conan eyed their scant number in the pale light of the lanterns and sighed. "We will be enough," he said, as much to convince himself as anything else, "because we must. We must. Caaran, Memtes, get your horses." The two men named set their lanterns on the ground and ran for the stables. "We ride as soon as they return," he went on. "We must needs scale the mountain afoot, for our horses cannot climb those slopes, but-"

"Wait, Conan," Boros broke in. "Make haste slowly, or you but hasten to your death. You must acquire the Staff of Avanrakash."

"There is no time, old man," Conan said grimly. He twisted impatiently in his saddle to peer through the night toward the deeper blackness of Tor Al'Kiir. The torch lights still were there, beckoning him, taunting him to his core. What befell Karela while he sat his horse like a statue?

"Do you go forth to confront a lion," the bearded man chided, "would you then say there was no time to fetch spear or bow? That you must face it with bare hands? You go to face Al'Kiir. Think your courage and steel will avail you against a god? As well slit your own throat right here."

Conan's massive hands tightened on the reins in frustration until his knuckles cracked. He did not fear death, though he sought it no more than any other man, but his death would be of no use if Karela were still sacrificed, if Al'Kiir was freed again. Decision came swiftly, spurred by necessity. He tossed his reins to Machaon and dismounted.

"Take my horse with you to the mountain," he commanded as he tugged his hauberk off over his head. Such work as he had now to do was not best done in armor. He dropped to the ground to pull off his boots. "I will meet you at the crossroads at the foot of the mountain."

"Do you know where this staff the old man speaks of is to be found?"

Machaon asked.

"In the throne room," Boros said. "By ancient law, at the death of a King the scepter and crown must be left on the throne for nine days and nine nights. Valentius has usurped custom by donning the crown so quickly, but he will not dare flout it altogether."

"The royal palace!" Machaon exclaimed. "Cimmerian, you are mad to think you can enter there. Come! We will do the best we can with honest steel."

"I was a thief once," Conan replied. "Twill not be the first palace I've entered by ways other than the door." Stripped now to his breech-cloth, he slung his swordbelt across his massive chest so that his sword hung down his back, dagger and pouch beneath his left arm.

Claran and Memtes trotted their horses from the stable, hooves ringing on the thick slates of the court. "I will be at the crossroads, with the staff," the Cimmerian said, "without fail. Be you there also."

With ground-eating pantherish strides, Conan loped into the night.

Behind him Machaon and the others clattered out of the courtyard and turned their mounts in the other direction, toward the North Gate, but he was already one with the darkness, a deadly ghost racing through unlit streets that were empty of other human forms. Every door was barred, every window shuttered, as the inhabitants of the city cowered in fear of what might come; only occasional scavenging dogs, gaunt-ribbed and half-wild, prowled the moonless streets, and they shied away from the huge shape that shared the way with them. Beneath his leathery-soled feet the paving stones felt like the rocks of his native Cimmeria, and the feel gave wings to his stride as when he raced up mountains as a boy. His great lungs pumped with the effort of his running, for this time he raced not for the pride of winning, but for Karela, and for even, woman who would lose life or more if he failed.

Again an owl cried, and Conan's mind went to Narus' words. Perhaps the cry did mean death, his or someone else's. Crom, the fierce god of the harsh and icy land where he was born, gave a man life and will, but the grim Lord of the Mound never promised that life would be long, nor that will would always prevail. A man could but fight, and keep fighting so long as breath or life remained.

The Cimmerian did not slow until the massive walls of the royal palace loomed before him, crenelations and towertops only shadows against the ebon sky. The thick, iron-sheathed gates were closed and barred, the portcullis down, but he spared not a glance in that direction. Such was not his means of entry this night.

His fingers felt across the surface of the wall, featureless in the blackness. Long centuries past had the great wall been built, of stones each weighing more than twenty times as much as a big man. Only the largest trebuchet could hurl boulders weighty enough to trouble its solidity, but Conan did not mean to batter a way through. Those years had leeched at the mortar between the great stones, leaving gaps that made an easy path for one mountain-born.

With agile sureness Conan climbed, fingers and toes searching out the grooves where wind and rain and time had worn away the mortar, mighty muscles straining to pull him up where there was but room for fingernails to grip. Below was only the long, bone-shattering drop to pavement now swathed in the night, yet he did not slow in his swift ascent of that sheer wall. Time pressed on him too greatly to allow room for caution.

At the top of the wall he paused between two tall merlons topped with stone leopards, ears straining for the scuff of boots on the rampart, the creak of leather and armor. A combat there with guards would surely doom his quest before it had truly begun. There was no sound. Conan drew himself through the crennel. No guards were atop the wall. The palace was silent as a tomb. It seemed Iskandrian had left only men for the gates; the White Eagle would strike hard, as was his wont.

From the rampart a curving ramp led down toward the outer bailey.

There, however, he would surely be seen, no matter how few guards had been left behind or how many servants hid in fear that too-ardent service to him who now wore the crown might be punished if he lost it.

Rooftops must be his path. The nearest, a wing of the palace, lay but an easy jump from the ramp for a vigorous man. Easy if the approaching run could be made on level ground rather than down a steep ramp, and if a three-story drop to the granite paving of the bailey were ignored.

Conan measured distances and angles, then took a deep breath and sprinted down the ramp. At the sixth great stride he flung himself across the chasm. Fingertips caught at the edge of the roof. One tile broke free, spiraling into the dark to shatter on the stones below; for an instant the Cimmerian hung by one hand. Slowly he hauled himself up, swung to hook a leg over the edge. The tile he held to shifted under his hand. Then he was flat on the roof, carefully setting aside the loose tile and quieting his breath as he waited to see if the noise of the first tile's fall drew attention. Still nothing stirred.

Like a jungle beast Conan was up and running, feet sure on the slanting tiles, climbing granite gargoyles to a higher level, leaping from a balcony tiled in black and white marble to clutch at a high peaked gable, edging with chest pressed flat against smooth granite along a ledge wide enough only for the balls of his feet, then climbing again, past mullioned windows and trefoils, until at last he scrambled through a narrow ventilation arch and looked down from great height on the vast throne room of the royal palace.

Great golden lamps hung on thick chains of the same metal from the vaulted ceiling, their bright flames lighting well the floor far below, a floor mosaicked in huge representations of the leopards and eagles that were the royal symbols of Ophir. In the middle of that floor was a black-shrouded bier on which Valdric's body lay in state, clothed in ornate robes of gold embroidered purple set with pearls. No living man was there to keep vigil over the dead King.

Conan's eyes sought the throne. Like unto the great chair in which Antimides had sat it was, covered in leopards and eagles, but larger still and of solid gold. The beasts' eyes were rubies, and claws and talons clutched emeralds as large as the joint of a man's thumb. Of the crown there was no sign. Ancient law or no, the Cimmerian thought, Valentius had not found it in himself to part with the royal diadem for even nine days once he had gained it. Yet what he sought was there.

Across the arms of the throne lay the scepter of Ophir, its golden length glittering with an encrustation of all manner of gems.

Carefully Conan let himself down inside the throne room, using the scrolls and arabesques carved in the marble walls to climb down until he reached their end, some twenty feet above the floor. Here great tapestries hung. He ripped loose a corner of one-a scene of a crowned King hunting deer from horseback-and let himself drop, swinging on it as at the end of a rope. His feet brushed the floor, and he released the tapestry to run to the throne.

Almost hesitantly he hefted the long scepter. So much had he risked on the word of a drunk, and so much depended on it. Hastily he produced his dagger and began prying away soft gold and sparkling jewels, letting them fall to the purple velvet cushion of the throne. At the sight of wood beneath he grunted in satisfaction, but continued until he had stripped away all the outer sheath. He was left with a plain wooden staff as long as his outstretched arms and as thick as his two thumbs together.

Yet could it be in truth the Staff of Avanrakash, he wondered. He felt no magical qualities in it, and it showed no signs of its supposed great age. In fact, had it been a walking staff he would have thought it cut no more than a few days previous.

"But it was within the scepter," he breathed, "and it is all I have."

For luck he scooped a handful of gems from the cushion, not bothering to see what they were, and stuffed them into his pouch.

"A common thief," Taramenon said from the door to the throne room.

"Will not Synelle be surprised when she returns to find your head on a spike atop the River Gate-"

Conan reached over his shoulder; his sword slid easily into his grasp.

The staff clutched in his left hand, he strode toward the tall noble.

He had no words to say, no time for words. Even so in a corner of his mind lust flared at the mention of the woman's name. Synelle. How could he have gone so long without thinking of her? How could he have gone so long without touching her? The frozen rage of battles forced the thoughts down, smothered them.

Taramenon threw aside his fur-trimmed scarlet cape and drew his own blade. "I but stepped in here a moment to spit in Valdric's face. To offer obeisance to a corpse that was half-rotted before even it died turned my stomach. Finding you is a pleasant surprise I did not expect." Abruptly rage contorted his face into an ugly mask. "I will tell her of your death when I see her this night. Your filthy hands will never touch her again, you barbarian swine!" Snarling he rushed forward, swinging his blade in a mighty chop at Conan's head.

The Cimmerian's broadsword met Taramenon's with a tremendous clash. The Ophirean's eyes widened at the force of the blow but on the instant he struck again. Again Conan's blade met his in a shower of sparks.

Taramenon fought with all the deadly finesse of one who was the finest swordsman in Ophir, his longsword as agile and swift and deadly as a Kothian viper; Conan fought with the cold ferocity of a northland berserker, his steel the lightning of the Cimmerian crags. Conan had no time to waste in defense-he must conquer, and quickly, or the noise of the fight would draw others, and he might well be overwhelmed by sheer numbers-but his constant attack left no room to Taramenon for aught but defense.

Sweat rolled down the face of the finest blade in Ophir as he found himself forced back, ever back, by an implacable demon with a face of stone and icy blue eves, eyes in which depths he could read his own death. Panic clouded Taramenon's face, and for the first time in his life he knew fear. "Guards!" he screamed. "A thief! Guards!"

In that brief instant of divided attention Conan's blade engaged that of the tall Ophirean, brought it down, around, thrust under it. Chain mail links snapped, razor steel sliced through muscle and bone, and the Cimmerian's sword hilt slammed against Taramenon's chest.

Conan stared into dark incredulous eyes. "Synelle is mine," he grated.

"Mine!"

Blood bubbled from Taramenon's mouth, and he fell. Conan stared at the body in wonder before remembering to pull his sword free. Why had he said such a thing? Synelle was of no import in this. Karela was important, Al'Kiir and the staff and getting to the crossroads quickly.

Yet images suppressed by events rose unbidden, sleek thighs and satin skin and swelling breasts and ... Shaking his head woozily he halfstaggered to Taramenon's discarded cape to clean his bloody blade and cut strips to bind the staff across his back. Was he going mad, he wondered. Visions of Synelle kept crowding his brain, as if time spent not thinking of her had to be made up. Desperately he forced them back.

The crossroads, he thought. The crossroads, and no time.

Running to the half-torn-down tapestry, he began to climb. Synelle. The crossroads, and no time.

Chapter XX

Karela grunted as the sack in which she was carried was upended, dumping her, still bound and naked, onto cold stone. After the darkness light blinded her, filling her eyes with tears. The tears infuriated her; she would not have those who had taken her prisoner think they had reduced her to crying. Blinking, she was at last able to make out the roughly cut stone walls of what seemed to be a small cave, lit by rush torches in black iron sconces.

She was not alone, she realized. Synelle was there, and four other women, alabastrine-skinned blondes who seemed to wear variations of one face. The noblewoman was not dressed as when last Karela had seen her.

Now she wore bracelets of black iron chain on each wrist, and two narrow strips of ebon silk, before and behind, leaving the outer curves of hips and breasts bare, were all her garb save for a belt of golden links. Karela stared when she saw the buckle. It was the head of the malevolent bronze she had sold-tried to sell, she thought ruefully-but rendered in gold. A chaplet of gold chain encircled Synelle's silvery tresses, severely braided into a coronet, and on that golden band, too, were the four horns of that demonic figure.

The other women were dressed as was Synelle, but the narrow belts cinching their waists were of black iron, and dark metal enclosed their ankles and necks as well. Their hair, neatly coiled about their heads, bore no headdress. With bowed heads their humbly alert eves watched the exotically beautiful noblewoman.

Karela swallowed hard, and was reminded again how dry was her throat.

Had she the use of her mouth she would tell this Synelle she could have Conan. It would be a lie-she would not be driven from her business with the Cimmerian by this pale-haired trull who called herself a lady-but lying seemed much the better part of valor at the moment.

Synelle nodded, and the four women in iron belts produced leather straps. Karela jerked futilely at her bonds despite herself. If only she had a dagger, or but a single hand free, or even her tongue to shout her defiance at them.

"Listen to me, wench," Synelle said. "These women will prepare you. If you fight, they will beat you, but in any event they will carry out my orders. I would have you as little marked as possible, so if you will submit, nod your head."

Karela tried to shout through her gag. Submit! Did this fool woman think she was some milksop maiden to be frightened by threats? Her green eyes hurled all her silent fury at Synelle.

Abruptly Synelle moved, placing a foot on Karela's knees, bound beneath her chin, to roll her onto her back and hold her there. "A taste, then.

Cut well in."

The other women darted forward, their leather straps slicing beneath Karela's corded heels, raining blows on her helpless buttocks, drawn taut by her trying.

Her green eyes bulged in her head, and she had an instant to be grateful for the gag that held back her cries, then her head was nodding frantically. Derketo! There was no use in being beaten while lying trussed like a pig for market.

Synelle motioned the women back. "I was sure you would be reasonable."

Karela tried to meet the dark eyes staring down at her, then closed her own in humiliation. It was clear from the look on Synelle's face that she had never doubted that the red-haired woman could be brought to heel. Let them free her, Karela prayed, and she would show them the worth of pledge wrung from whips. She would ...

Suddenly the cords binding her were severed. Karela caught a flash of a dagger. She moved to grab it ... and sprawled in boneless agony on the stone floor, muscles stiff from long confinement barely able to do more than twitch. Slowly, painfully, she brought a hand up to drag the gag from her mouth. She wanted to weep. The dagger was gone from sight, and she had neither seen who had held it nor where it was hidden.

Even as she dropped the wadded cloth two of the women pulled her to her feet. She gasped with the pain; had they not supported her she could not have stood. One of the others began drawing an ivory comb through her tangled locks, while the last wiped her sweat away with soft, damp clothes.

Karela worked her mouth for the moisture to speak. "I'll not sell you to a tavern," she managed. "I'll tear your heart out with my bare hands."

"Good," Synelle said. "I feared your spirit might have been broken.

Often the journey here, bound, is enough for that. It is well that it was not in your case."

Karela sneered. "You want the pleasure of breaking me yourself, then?

You will not have it, because you cannot do it. And if you want Conan back-"

"Conan!" the noblewoman cut her off, dark eyes widening in surprise.

"How do you come to know of the barbarian?"

"We were once," Karela began, then spluttered to a halt. She was tired, and spoke of things of which she had no wish to speak. "No matter how I know of him. If you want him, you'll cease your threats and bargain."

Synelle trilled with laughter. "So you think I merely attempt to dispose of a rival. I should be furious that such as you could think of yourself as my rival, but I find it merely amusing. I expect he is a man who has known many women in his time, and if you are one of that number I see he has little discrimination in his choosing. That is at an end, now." She held out a slender palm. "I hold the barbarian there, wench. He will crawl to me on his belly when I call him, dance like a bear for a tin whistle at my command. And you think to be my rival?"

She threw back her head and laughed even harder.

"No woman could treat Conan so," Karela snapped. "I know, for I have tried, and by Derketo, I am ten times the woman you are."

"You are suitable for the rites," the silver-haired woman said coolly, "but I am High Priestess of Al'Kiir. Yet were I not, you would still not be woman enough to serve as my bowermaid. My tirewomen were nobly born in Corinthia, and she who draws my bath and rubs me with oils was a princess in far Vendhya, yet to obey my slightest wish is now the whole of their lives. What can a jade of a bandit be beside such as they, who are but my slaves?"

Karela opened her mouth for another retort, and gasped when a black-armored man in a horned helmet appeared in the entrance to the cavern. For an instant she had thought it was the creature the bronze represented. Foolishness, she berated herself. Such a creature could not exist.

"Has Taramenon come yet?" Synelle demanded of the man. "No, my lady.

Nor any message of him."

"He will suffer for this," Synelle said heatedly. "He defies me, and I will see him suffer for it!" Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed the already taut black silk over her rounded breasts. "We will proceed without him. When he comes, he is to be seized and bound. There are rites other than the gift of women."

"Taramenon, my lady," the man said in shocked tones.

"You heard my command!" Synelle made a brusque gesture, and the armored figure bowed himself from her presence.

Karela had been listening intently, hoping for some fragment of information that might help her escape, but now she became aware of how the four women were dressing her, the tiny white tarla blossoms woven into her hair, the diaphanous layers of blue silk meant to be removed one by one for the titillation of a groom.

"What travesty is there?" she growled. "You do think me a rival, but if you mean to rid yourself of me in this way, you are mad! I'll marry no man! Do you hear me, you pasty-faced trull-"

A cruel smile curled Synelle's lips, and the look on her face sent a chill through Karela's blood. "You will marry no man," the haughty noblewoman said softly. "Tonight you will wed a god, and I will become ruler of Ophir."

The tall white marker at the crossroads, a square marble pillar inscribed with the distances to the borders of Nemedia and Aquilonia, loomed out of the night ahead of Conan. No sound broke the silence save his labored breath and the steady slap of his running feet on the paving stones. Beyond the marker reared the dark mass of Tor Al'Kiir, a huge granite outcropping dominating the flat country about it.

The big Cimmerian crouched beside the marble plinth, eyes straining at the blackness. There was so sign of his men. Softly he imitated the cry of a Nemedian nighthawk.

The muted jingle of tight-strapped harness announced the sudden appearance of Machaon and the rest, leading their horses. Memtes, bringing up the rear, gripped the reins of Conan's big Aquilonian black as well as those of his own mount. Bows and quivers were slung on their backs.

"I thought it best to keep from sight," the tattooed veteran told Conan quietly. "As we arrived, two score men-at-arms passed, chasing another band as large, and twice parties of light cavalry have gone by at the gallop. Scouts, the last, no doubt."

"Unless I miss my guess," Narus added in a low voice that would not travel far, "Iskandrian seeks action this night, and the nobles seek to avoid him until their strength is gathered. Never did I think that when the final battle for Ophir occurred, I would be scaling a mountain."

"Go to Taurianus, then," Conan growled, "if you seek glory!" Irritably he shook his black-maned head. Such edginess was not his usual manner, but his thoughts scarcely seemed his own. With a desperation foreign to him he fought to cling to his purpose of mind, struggled against images of Synelle and lust that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Is that the famous staff?" Machaon asked. "It has no look of magic to me."

"It is," the Cimmerian replied, "and it has." He hoped he did not lie.

Unfastening the strips of cloth that held the length of wood, he clutched it in one hand and drew his sword with the other. "This is the last chance to change your minds. Let any man unsure of what he does step aside." The soft and deadly susuration of steel sliding from scabbards was his answer. Conan nodded grimly. "Then hide the horses in yon copse of trees and follow me."

"Your armor," Machaon said. " 'Tis on your saddle."

"There is no time," Conan said, and without waiting for the others he started up the stony slope.

Crom was not a god men prayed to; he gave nothing beyond his first gift. But now Conan offered a prayer to any god that would listen. If he died for it, let him be in time.

A silent file of purposeful men fell in behind him in his climb, on their way to beard a god in his den.

The lash struck across her shoulders again, and Karela gritted her teeth against the howl she wanted to let pass. Bound between posts topped with the obscene head of Al'Kiir, she knelt, all but the last layer of thin blue silk torn away from her sweat-slick body. It was not the pain from the incessant bite of leather that made her want to cry out, or not alone; she would have died before giving her tormentors the satisfaction of acknowledging that. But the burning stripes that made scarlet lattices on her body were as pin-pricks beside the flaming desire the ointment with which Synelle had anointed her brought unbidden. Uncontrollably Karela writhed, and wept for the humiliation of it.

The silvery-haired noblewoman danced before her, spinning and dipping, chanting words that defied hearing in rhythm to haunting flutes and the pounding of scabbarded swords on the stone floor of the vaulting cavern. Between Synelle and Karela stood the bronze she had stolen from Conan, but its evil was overpowered by the waves of horror that radiated from the huge sanguinary image that dominated the chamber.

Three ebon eyes that seemed to drink in light held her own. She tried to tear her eyes from that hellborn gaze, she prayed for the strength to pull away, but like a bird hypnotized by a serpent she had no will left.

The lashes struck, again and again. Her hands quivered in her bonds with the effort of not shrieking, for that demonic scarlet figure had begun to vibrate, giving off a hum that blended with the flutes and wrenched at the core of her that made her a woman. Conan, she cried silently, where are you?

Stirring where neither time nor space existed, where endless nihility was all. Awakening, almost full, as pleasure overwhelming lanced through the impenetrable shield. Irritation, vaster than the minds of all men together could encompass, flared. Would these torments never cease, these returnings of ancient memories near gone and better forgotten? Would not.... Full awareness for the first time in eons, awareness cold enough to freeze suns and stay worlds in their motion.

There was direction. A single pristine strand of crystalline desire and pain stretching into the infinite. Slowly, with a wariness born of long centuries of disappointment, from the midst of nothingness the gleaming thread of worship was followed.

Conan peered around the edge of a huge, moss-covered block of marble which had once been intended for construction. Crickets chirped in the dark, and a nightbird gave a haunting cry. All else was still.

Roofless walls of niveous stone and truncated alabaster columns, never completed and now wreathed by thick vines, covered the leveled top of the mountain. Among the columns were more than a score of men in black armor and horned helms, the torches a third of them carried casting flickering shadows over the weather-beaten ruins. He wanted to sigh with relief at the symbol picked out in scarlet on their chests. It was clearly the head of the image Karela had stolen, the head of Al'Kiir.

Not until that moment had he allowed himself to fear he might be coming to the wrong place.

The black-armored man had to be guarding an entrance to chambers below, Conan thought, where the horrible rite was to take place. Boros had said the tomb lay buried in the heart of the mountain. At least, then were supposed to be standing guard. The sinister reputation of Tor Al'Kiir made it unlikely anyone would come there, most especially in the night, and that made them careless. Some leaned against pale fluted marble. Others sat and talked among themselves. No eye was directed outward to watch for intruders.

Conan signaled with his hands; long practiced, the nine men behind him slid soundlessly away. The Cimmerian counted silently, knowing how long it would take each man to reach his place.

"Now!" he shouted, and burst from concealment to hurl himself at the guards. As he had known it would, his shout and the appearance of a lone man charging froze them for an instant, long enough for nine bowstrings to twang, for nine feathered shafts to drink life.

The guards of Al'Kiir had been chosen for their skill, though, and even as their comrades were falling the survivors darted for cover behind the columns. But then Conan was among them. Thrusting the staff like a lance he took a man under the chin; throat cartiledge snapped loudly, and blood spilled from a mouth that could no longer scream.

"For Conan!" he heard behind him. "Conan!"

A blade thrust at him, and his ancient steel severed the arm that held it. He ducked beneath a decapitating cut and, wielding his broadsword like an axe, chopped through his attacker's mid-section almost to the spine. Kicking the body away, he straightened to find no black-armored man standing. His mercenaries stood among the bodies, gripping bloody swords and warily watching for more of the enemy.

"Are they all dead"' Conan demanded.

Machaon shook his head. "Two managed to run down there." He pointed to a dark opening where steps had led down into the mountain.

"Crom!" the Cimmerian muttered. With quick strides he moved to the opening and started down. Wordlessly the others followed.

Sweat trickling down her sleek form, Synelle moved in the ancient forms and patterns, her body swaying and bending in an exaltation of lust and pain. Time-forgotten words spilled from her mouth, echoed against the walls, supplicating and glorifying her dire god. The monstrous horned malevolence before which she danced pulsated like the string of a harp.

The drone that came from it now drowned out the flutes and the pounding scabbards and even the slap of leather on flesh, yet seemed to merge with and amplify her voice.

A part of her mind noted that the auburn-haired woman, naked now to the lash, sagged in her bonds, but struggled still against surrender. Not once had a cry passed her lips. That was well, Synelle thought, not pausing an instant in either movements or incantation. She was certain that the success she seemed to be having was as much due to the stubborn pride of this Karela as to the bronze image. Much better than any of the haughty noblewomen, who in the end always wept and begged and offered their bodies to the men whipping them in exchange for even a moment's surcease.

One of her guards, his chain-mail rent and bloodied, burst into the chamber. "We are attacked, my lady!" he gasped. "Hundreds of them! They cry, for Conan!"

Synelle faltered, then desperately continued with dance and invocation.

To stop now would mean disaster, doom better undreamed of. Yet her mind spun. Conan? It was impossible. But then it was impossible that any should dare brave the night slopes of Tor Al'Kiir. Then who...

Thoughts and words and movement died as one. All sound stopped as the great horned head turned toward her and three lidless eyes, black as death, regarded her like dark flames of unholy life.

Men in black chain-mail, their horned helmets making them seem more demons than men in the dim light of fires burned low in iron cressets, appeared as if from the walls to defend the rough-cut stone passage.

Demons they might appear, yet they died like men. Into the midst of them Conan waded, his ancient broadsword tirelessly rising and falling in furious butchery, till its length was stained crimson and blood fell from it as if the steel itself had wounds. A charnel house he made, and those who dared confront him died. Many could not face that great blade nor the deathly cold eyes of he who wielded it, and darted past the one man to face instead the nine behind.

The Cimmerian spared no thought for those who refused him combat. What they guarded and what he sought lay ahead, and he did not cease his slaying until he had hacked his way into a huge cavern. The blood chilled in his veins at what he saw.

Twenty more of the black-armored men stood there, but they were as frozen as he, and seemed as insignificant as ants beside what else the chamber contained. Karela, her lush nakedness welted, hanging by her wrists from two wooden pillars. Synelle, oddly garbed in black silk that clung damply to her, a horned chaplet on her brow. And beyond her a shape out of madmen's nightmares, its skin the color of dead men's blood. Al'Kiir awakened threw back his head, and from a broad fanged gash of a mouth came laughter to curdle the heart of heroes.

Even as the evil god's laughter stunned Conan's mind, Synelle's presence filled it. The staff fell from his fingers, and he took a step toward her.

The dark-eyed noblewoman pointed a slender finger at the young giant.

As if commanding more wine she said, "Kill him."

The strange lethargy that had affected him of late when he was about her slowed Conan's hand, but his sword took the head of the first man to turn toward him before that man had his blade half-drawn. Nobles could prate while they lounged at their ease of chivalry in battle, though they rarely practiced it; a son of the bleak northland knew only how to fight to win.

The others came at him then, but he retreated to the entrance, wide enough for only three at a time to get near. With a frenzy-approaching madness he fought, and his steel did murderous work among them. Synelle filled his brain. He would get to Synelle if he must wade to his waist in blood.

A scream drew his eye beyond the men struggling to slay him. Al'Kiir had seized Synelle in a clawed hand that almost encircled her narrow waist, lifting her before that triad of ebon eyes for inspection.

Conan redoubled his efforts, and the fury of his attack, seeming reckless of death, forced the mail-clad men to fall back before him.

"Not me!" Synelle screamed, her face contorted in terror. "I am thy faithful slave, o mighty Al'Kiir! Thy priestess! She is the one brought for thy delight!"

Al'Kiir turned his horned head to Karela, and his lipless mouth curled in a fanged smile. He took a step toward her, reaching out.

"No!" Conan roared, desperation clawing at him. "Not Karela!" His foot struck something that rolled with the sound of wood on stone. The Staff of Avanrakash.

Ignoring the men who still faced him, Conan seized the staff from the floor and hurled it like a javelin. Straight to the chest of the monstrous figure the plain wooden staff flew, struck, and pierced.

Al'Kiir's free hand tugged at the length of wood, but it could as well have been anchored with barbs. Black ichor poured out around it, and the horned god shrieked, a piercing cry that went on without end, shattering thought and turning muscles to water.

Steel clattered to the stone floor as blackmailed men dropped their swords and fled, pushing past Conan as if he held no weapon at all. And he, in turn, paid them no heed, for the scream that would not stop allowed room for awareness of nothing else.

Around the staff drops of ichor hardened like beads of obsidian, and the hardening widened, spreading steadily, through the malevolent shape.

Synelle plucked frantically at the claw-tipped fingers that held her; her long legs kicked wildly. "Release me," she pleaded. "Release thy faithful priestess, o mighty Al'Kiir." Now she struggled with fingers of stone. Slowly, as if it moved with difficulty, the horned head turned to look at her. "Release me!" she screamed. "Release me! No!

Mitra, save me!" Her kicking slowed, then her legs were frozen, her cries stilled. Her pale skin gleamed like polished marble in the light from the torches. There was silence.

Flight. Flight from pain great enough to slay a thousand worlds. Flight back to the hated prison of nothingness. Yet something had been brought along. It was clothed in the flesh it had once worn, and a beautiful, naked woman, dark of eye and silvery of hair, floated in the void, mouth working with screams that were not worth hearing. Evil joy, black as the depths of the pit. Long centuries of delight would come from this one before the pitiful spark that was human essence faded and was gone. But the pain did not end. It grew instead. The crystalline thread that linked this place of nonexistence with that other world was still intact, unseverable. Yet it must be ended, least endless eons of agony follow. It must be ended.

Conan shook his head as if waking from a fever dream, and ran to Karela. Quickly he severed her bonds, caught her as she would have fallen.

The beautiful red-haired bandit turned her sweat-streaked face up to him. "I knew you would come," she whispered hoarsely. "I prayed for you to rescue me, and I hate you for it."

The Cimmerian could not help smiling. Whatever had happened to her, Karela was unchanged. Sheathing his sword, he picked her up in his arms. Sighing weakly, she put her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his chest. He thought he felt the wetness of tears.

His gaze went to the stone shape pierced by the wooden staff, the sanguinary horned monstrosity clutching the alabaster figure of a struggling woman, her face frozen in horror for eternity. All the raging feelings and confusions that had filled him were gone as if they had never been. Bewitched, he thought angrily. Synelle had ensorceled him. He hoped that wherever she was she had time for regret.

Machaon and Narus ran into the chamber, bloody swords in hand, and skidded to a halt, staring in awe. "I'll not ask what happened here,"

the gaunt-faced man said, "for I misdoubt I'd believe it."

"They flee from us, Cimmerian," Machaon said. "Ten of them together, and they ran down a side passage at the sight of us. Whatever you did took all the heart right out of them."

"The others?" Conan asked, and the tattooed mercenary shook his head grimly.

"Dead. But they collected their ferryman's fees and more." Suddenly Narus pointed at the huge stone figure. "It's-it's-" He stammered, unable to get any more words out.

Conan spun. The petrified body of the god was quivering. A hum came from it, a hum that quickly rose in pitch until it pierced the ears like driven nails.

"Run!" the Cimmerian shouted, but could not hear his own words through the burning pain that clawed at his skull.

The other two men needed no urging, though. The three of them sped through the rough-hewn stone passages, Conan keeping up easily despite carrying Karela. In their headlong flight they leaped over the bodies of the dead, but saw no one living. And the mind-killing vibration followed them up sloping tunnels, level after level, up the stone steps to the ruins.

As the Cimmerian dashed out among the overgrown columns, the skull-piercing sound ceased. Birds and crickets had fled; the loudest noise to be heard was their own blood thrumming in their ears. Before a breath could be drawn in the silence, the mountain shook. Half-built columns toppled and mossy walls collapsed, blocks of marble large enough to crush a man splashing dirt like water, but the sound of their fall was swallowed by the rumbling that rose from the granite bowels of Tor Al'Kiir.

Dodging through clouds of dust and flying chips of shattered rock, Conan hurtled down the slope, Karela's naked form clutched to his chest. The side of a mountain in the night was no place to be during an earthquake, but neither was the midst of crumbling marble walls. He had a feeling the only safe place to be in this earthquake was as far from Tor Al'Kiir as it was possible to run. And run he did, over ground that danced like the deck of a ship in a storm, fighting to keep his balance for rocks bouncing beneath his feet and stones flying through the air like hail. He no longer knew if Machaon and Narus ran with him, nor could he spare a thought for them. They were men, and must take their risks. Conan had to get Karela to safety, for some primal instinct warned him that worse was to come.

With a sound like the splitting of the earth, the peak of Tor Al'Kiir erupted in fire, mountaintop and alabaster columns and marble walls alike flung high into a sky now lit by a fiery glow. The blast threw Conan into the air; he twisted so that his own huge frame took the bone-jarring impact of landing. It was no longer possible to gain his feet. He put his body over that of Karela, sheltering her from the stones that filled the air. As he did one image remained burned into his brain, a single flame towering a thousand paces from the destroyed top of Tor Al'Kiir, a single flame that took the form of the Staff of Avanrakash.

Epilogue

In the paleness before full dawn Conan peered toward Ianthe, towers thrusting into the early morning mist, glazed red roof tiles beginning to gleam with the light of a sun not yet risen. An army approached the city, men-at-arms with gaily colored pennons streaming, long columns of infantry with shields slung on their backs, tall plumes of dust rising beneath thousands of pacing hooves and tramping feet. A victorious army, he thought. But whose?

Avoiding looking at the steaming, cratered top of Tor Al'Kiir, he picked his way through the huge, misshapen boulders that now littered the mountain slope. A quarter of its height had the great granite mound lost in the night, and what lay at its new peak the Cimmerian neither knew nor wanted to know.

Narus voice came to him, tinged with a bitter note. "Women should not be allowed to gamble. Almost I think you changed dice on me. At least let my buy back-"

"No," Karela cut him off as Conan rejoined his three companions. She wore Narus' breeches, tight across the curves of her hips and voluminous in the legs, with his scarlet cloak wrapped about her shoulders and his sword across her knees. The inner slopes of her full breasts showed at the gap in the cloak. "I have more need of something to wear than of gold. And I did not switch the dice. You were too busy filling your filthy eyes and leering at the sight of me uncovered to pay mind of what you were doing."

Machaon laughed, and the gaunt man grunted, attempting to pull his hauberk down far enough to cover his bony knees.

"We must be moving," Conan announced. "There has been a battle, it seems, and whoever won there will be mercenaries without patrons or leaders, men to reform the company. Crom, there may be enough for you each to have your own Free-Company."

Machaon, sitting with his back against one of the building stones that had once stood atop the mountain, shook his head. "I have been longer in this trade, Cimmerian, than you have lived, and this night past has at last given me my full. I own some land in Koth. I shall put up my sword, and become a farmer."

"You?" Conan said incredulously. "A month of grubbing in the dirt, and you'll tear apart the nearest village with your bare hands, just for the need of a fight."

"'Tis not quite as you imagine," the grizzled veteran chuckled. "There are ten men working the land now. I will be a man of substance, as such as counted among farmers. I shall fetch Julia from the city, and marry her if she will have me. A farmer needs a wife to give him strong sons.

Conan frowned at Narus. "And do you, too, intend to become a farmer?"

"I've no love of dirt," the hollow-faced man replied, snatching the dice from Karela, who had been examining them idly, "but ... Conan, wizards I did not mind so much, and those men who looked like a snake had been at their mothers were no worse than a horde of blood-drunk Picts, but this god you found us has had my heart in my mouth more than I can remember since the Battle of Black River, when I was a fresh youth without need of shaving. For a time I seek a quiet city, with buxom wenches to bounce on a bed and," he rattled the dice in cupped hands, rolled them on the ground, "young lads with more coin than sense."

"They had best be very young," Karela laughed. "Do you intend to gain any of their coin. Eh, Cimmerian?" Narus glared at her and grumbled under his breath.

As Conan opened his mouth, a flash of white caught his eye, cloth fluttering in the breeze down slope. "Crom!" he muttered. It was Boros and Julia. "I'll wring his scrawny neck for bringing her here," he growled. The others scrambled to their feet to follow him down the mountainside.

When Conan reached the girl and the old man, he saw they were not alone. Julia knelt beside Taurianus, tearing strips from her white robes to try to staunch the blood oozing from a dozen rents in the Ophirean's hauberk. The man's hair was matted with dirt and blood, and a bubble of scarlet appeared at his lips with each labored breath.

Boros flung up his hands as soon as he saw Conan. "Do not blame me. I tried to stop her, but I have not your strength. I thought it best to come along and protect her as best I could. She said she was worried about Machaon."

"About all of them," Julia said, her face reddening. "Conan, we found him lying here. Can you not help him?"

The Cimmerian needed no close examination of Taurianus' wounds to see the man would not survive them. The ground about him was already blackened with his blood. "So the nobles lost," he said quietly. A mercenary fighting on the victorious side would not have crawled away to die.

The Ophirean's eyes fluttered open. "We caught the Eagle," he rasped, and continued with frequent pauses to struggle for breath. "We left our camp-with fires lit-and Iskandrian-fell on it-in the night. Then we took him-in the rear. We would have-destroyed him-but a giant flame-cleft the sky-and the whitehaired devil-shouted the gods-were with them. Some cried-it was the Staff-of Avanrakash. Panic seized us-by the throat. We fled-and his warriors cut us down. Enjoy your time-Cimmerian. Iskandrian-is impaling-every mercenary-he catches."

Suddenly he lurched up onto one elbow and stretched out a clawed hand toward Conan. "I am a better man-than you!" Blood welled in his mouth, and he fell back. Once he jerked, then was still, dull eyes staring at the sky.

"A giant flame," Narus said softly. "You are a man of destiny, Cimmerian. You make kings even you do not mean to."

Conan shrugged off the words irritably. He cared not who wore the crown of Ophir, except insofar as it affected his prospects. With Iskandrian at Valentius' side-perhaps, he thought, it was time to start thinking of the fopling as Moranthes II-there would be no chance to gather more men, and possibly no men left alive to gather. "'Twill be Argos for me," he said.

"You!" Machaon snapped abruptly, and Julia jumped. "Did I not tell you to remain in Ianthe? Must I fetch a switch for you here and now? The life of a poor farmer's wife is hard, and she must learn to obey. Would you have our only pig die because you did not feed it when I told you?"

"You have no right to threaten me," the auburn-haired girl burst out.

"You cannot. . ." Her words trailed off, and she sat back on her heels.

"Wife? Did you say wife?" Taking a deep breath, she said earnestly, "Machaon, I will care for your pig as if it were my beloved sister."

"There's no need to go so far as that," Machaon laughed. His face sobered as he turned to Conan. "A long road we've traveled together, Cimmerian, but it has come to its ending. And as I've no desire to let Iskandrian rummage in my guts with a stake, I'll take my leave now. I wish to be far from Ianthe before this day is done."

"And I," Narus added. "'Tis Tarantia for me, for they do say the nobles of Aquilonia are free with their coin and love to gamble."

"Fare you well," Conan told them. "And take a pull at the hellhorn for me, if you get there before me."

Julia ran to clasp Machaon's arm, and, with Narus, they started down the mountain.

"After that fool wench's display," Karela muttered, "I need a drink, or I'll be sick to my stomach."

Conan eyed her thoughtfully. "Events hie me to Argos, for 'tis said Free-Companies are being hired there. Come with me, Karela. Together, in a year, we'll rule the country."

The red-haired beauty stared at him, stricken. "Do you not understand why I cannot, Cimmerian? By the Teats of Derketo, man, you wake in me longings to be like that simpering wench, Julia! You make me embrace weakness, make me want to let you protect me. Think you I'm a woman to fold your blankets and cook your meals?"

"I've never asked such of you," he protested, but she ignored him. "One day I would find myself walking a pace behind you, silent lest I should miss your words, and I'd plant a dagger in your back for it. Then I would likely weep myself to madness for the doing of what you brought on yourself. I will not have it, Conan. I will not!"

A sense of loss filled him, but pride would not allow it to touch his face. "At least you have gained one thing. This time I flee, and you remain in Ophir."

"No, Conan. The vermin that formed my band are not worth the effort of gathering them again. I go to the east." Her head came up, and her eyes glowed like emeralds. "The plains of Zamora shall know the Red Hawk again."

He fumbled in his pouch and drew out half the gems he had taken from the scepter of Ophir. "Here," he said gruffly. Karela did not move.

"Can you not take a parting gift from a friend?" Hesitantly a slender hand came to his; he let the gems pour into it.

"You are a better man that you know, Cimmerian," she whispered, "and I am a fool." Her lips brushed his, and she was gone, running with the cloak a scarlet banner behind her.

Conan watched until she passed out of sight below.

"Even the gods cannot understand the brain of a woman," Boros crackled.

"Men, on the other hand, rarely think with their brains at all." Conan glared at the bearded man. He had forgotten Boros was still there.

"Now you can return to the taverns and your drinking," he said sourly.

"Not in Ophir," Boros said. He tugged at his beard and glanced nervously toward the ruined mountaintop. "A god cannot be killed as if it were an ordinary demon. Al'Kiir still lives-somewhere. Suppose his body is buried yet up there, Suppose another of those images exists. I will not be in this country if someone else attempts to raise him.

Argos, I think. The sea air will be good for my lungs, and I can take ship for distant lands if I hear evil word from Ophir."

"Not in my company," Conan growled. "I travel alone."

"I can work magicks to make the journey easier," Boros protested, but the Cimmerian was already making his way down the mountain. Chattering continuously the gray-bearded man scrambled after Conan, who refused to respond to his importunings.

Once more he was on his own, Conan thought, with only his sword and his wits, but he had been so often before. There were the gems in his pouch, of course. They would fetch something. And Argos lay ahead, Argos and thoughts he had never entertained before. If chance could bring a fool like Valentius to a throne, why could he not find a path?

Why indeed? Smiling, he quickened his pace.

Queen of the Black Coast

1 Conan Joins the Pirates

Believe green buds awaken in the spring, That autumn paints the leaves with somber fire; Believe I held my heart inviolate

To lavish on one man my hot desire.

The Song of Belit

Hoofs drummed down the street that sloped to the wharfs. The folk that yelled and scattered had only a fleeting glimpse of a mailed figure on a black stallion, a wide scarlet cloak flowing out on the wind. Far up the street came the shout and clatter of pursuit, but the horseman did not look back. He swept out onto the wharfs and jerked the plunging stallion back on its haunches at the very lip of the pier. Seamen gaped up at him, as they stood to the sweep and striped sail of a high-prowed, broadwaisted galley. The master, sturdy and black-bearded, stood in the bows, easing her away from the piles with a boat-hook. He yelled angrily as the horseman sprang from the saddle and with a long leap landed squarely on the mid-deck.

`Who invited you aboard?'

`Get under way!' roared the intruder with a fierce gesture that spattered red drops from his broadsword.

`But we're bound for the coasts of Kush!' expostulated the master.

`Then I'm for Kush! Push off, I tell you!' The other cast a quick glance up the street, along which a squad of horsemen were galloping; far behind them toiled a group of archers, crossbows on their shoulders.

`Can you pay for your passage?' demanded the master.

`I pay my way with steel!' roared the man in armor, brandish the great sword that glittered bluely in the sun. `By Crom, yin, if you don't get under way, I'll drench this galley in the 'blood of its crew!'

The shipmaster was a good judge of men. One glance at the irk scarred face of the swordsman, hardened with passion, and ]he shouted a quick order, thrusting strongly against the piles. The galley wallowed out into clear water, the oars began to clack rhythmically; then a puff of wind filled the shimmering sail, the light ship heeled to the gust, then took her course like a swan, gathering headway as she skimmed along.

On the wharfs the riders were shaking their swords and shouting threats and commands that the ship put about, and yelling for the bowmen to hasten before the craft was out of arbalest range.

`Let them rave,' grinned the swordsman hardily. `Do you keep her on her course, master steersman.'

The master descended from the small deck between the bows, made his way between the rows of oarsmen, and mounted the mid-deck. The stranger stood there with his back to the mast, eyes narrowed alertly, sword ready. The shipman eyed him steadily, careful not to make any move toward the long knife in his belt. He saw a tall powerfully built figure in a black scalemail hauberk, burnished greaves and a blue-steel helmet from which jutted bull's horns highly polished. From the mailed shoulders fell the scarlet cloak, blowing in the sea-wind. A broad shagreen belt with a golden buckle held the scabbard of the broadsword he bore. Under the horned helmet a square-cut black mane contrasted with smoldering blue eyes.

`If we must travel together,' said the master, `we may as well be at peace with each other. My name is Tito, licensed mastershipman of the ports of Argos. I am bound for Kush, to trade beads and silks and sugar and brass-hilted swords to the black kings for ivory, copra, copper ore, slaves and pearls.'

The swordsman glanced back at the rapidly receding docks, where the figures still gesticulated helplessly, evidently having trouble in finding a boat swift enough to overhaul the fast-sailing galley.

`I am Conan, a Cimmerian,' he answered. `I came into Argos seeking employment, but with no wars forward, there was nothing to which I might turn my hand.'

`Why do the guardsman pursue you?' asked Tito. `Not that it's any of my business, but I thought perhaps-'

`I've nothing to conceal,' replied the Cimmerian. `By Crom, though I've spent considerable time among you civilized peoples, your ways are still beyond my comprehension.

`Well, last night in a tavern, a captain in the king's guard offered violence to the sweetheart of a young soldier, who naturally ran him through. But it seems there is some cursed law against killing guardsmen, and the boy and his girl fled away. It was bruited about that I was seen with them, and so today I was haled into court, and a judge asked me where the lad had gone. I replied that since he was a friend of mine, I could not betray him. Then the court waxed wrath, and the judge talked a great deal about my duty to the state, and society, and other things I did not understand, and bade me tell where my friend had flown. By this time I was becoming wrathful myself, for I had explained my position.

`But I choked my ire and held my peace, and the judge squalled that I had shown contempt for the court, and that I should be hurled into a dungeon to rot until I betrayed my friend. So then, seeing they were all mad, I drew my sword and cleft the judge's skull; then I cut my way out of the court, and seeing the high constable's stallion tied near by, I rode for the wharfs, where I thought to find a ship bound for foreign parts.'

`Well,' said Tito hardily, `the courts have fleeced me too often in suits with rich merchants for me to owe them any love. I'll have questions to answer if I ever anchor in that port again, but I can prove I acted under compulsion. You may as well put up your sword. We're peaceable sailors, and have nothing against you. Besides, it's as well to have a fighting-man like yourself on board. Come up to the poop-deck and we'll have a tankard of ale.'

`Good enough,' readily responded the Cimmerian, sheathing his sword.

The Argus was a small sturdy ship, typical of those trading-craft which ply between the ports of Zingara and Argos and the southern coasts, hugging the shoreline and seldom venturing far into the open ocean. It was high of stern, with a tall curving prow; broad in the waist, sloping beautifully to stem and stern. It was guided by the long sweep from the poop, and propulsion was furnished mainly by the broad striped silk sail, aided by a jibsail. The oars were for use in tacking out of creeks and bays, and during calms. There were ten to the side, five fore and five aft of the small mid-deck. The most precious part of the cargo was lashed under this deck, and under the fore-deck. The men slept on deck or between the rowers' benches, protected in bad weather by canopies. With twenty men at the oars, three at the sweep, and the shipmaster, the crew was complete.

So the Argus pushed steadily southward, with consistently fair weather. The sun beat down from day to day with fiercer heat, and the canopies were run up - striped silken cloths that matched the shimmering sail and the shining goldwork on the prow and along the gunwales.

They sighted the coast of Shem - long rolling meadowlands with the white crowns of the towers of cities in the distance, and horsemen with blue-black beards and hooked noses, who sat their steeds along the shore and eyed the galley with suspicion. She did not put in; there was scant profit in trade with the sons of Shem.

Nor did master Tito pull into the broad bay where the Styx river emptied its gigantic flood into the ocean, and the massive black castles of Khemi loomed over the blue waters. Ships did not put unasked into this port, where dusky sorcerers wove awful spells in the murk of sacrificial smoke mounting eternally from bloodstained altars where naked women screamed, and where Set, the Old Serpent, arch-demon of the Hyborians but god of the Stygians, was said to writhe his shining coils among his worshippers.

Master Tito gave that dreamy glass-floored bay a wide berth, even when a serpent-prowed gondola shot from behind a castellated point of land, and naked dusky women, with great red blossoms in their hair, stood and called to his sailors, and posed and postured brazenly.

Now no more shining towers rose inland. They had passed the southern borders of Stygia and were cruising along the coasts of Kush. The sea and the ways of the sea were neverending mysteries to Conan, whose homeland was among the high hills of the northern uplands. The wanderer was no less of interest to the sturdy seamen, few of whom had ever seen one of his race.

They were characteristic Argosean sailors, short and stockily built. Conan towered above them, and no two of them could match his strength. They were hardy and robust, but his was the endurance and vitality of a wolf, his thews steeled and his nerves whetted by the hardness of his life in the world's wastelands. He was quick to laugh, quick and terrible in his wrath. He was a valiant trencherman, and strong drink was a passion and a weakness with him. Naive as a child in many ways, unfamiliar with the sophistry of civilization, he was naturally intelligent, jealous of his rights, and dangerous as a hungry tiger. Young in years, he was hardened in warfare and wandering, and his sojourns in many lands were evident in his apparel. His horned helmet was such as was worn by the golden-haired AEsir of Nordheim; his hauberk and greaves were of the finest workmanship of Koth; the fine ring-mail which sheathed his arms and legs was of Nemedia; the blade at his girdle was a great Aquilonian broadsword; and his gorgeous scarlet cloak could have been spun nowhere but in Ophir.

So they beat southward, and master Tito began to look for the high-walled villages of the black people. But they found only smoking ruins on the shore of a bay, littered with naked black bodies. Tito swore.

`I had good trade here, aforetime. This is the work of pirates.'

`And if we meet them?' Conan loosened his great blade in its scabbard.

`Mine is no warship. We run, not fight. Yet if it came to a pinch, we have beaten off reavers before, and might do it again; unless it were Belit's Tigress.'

`Who is Belit?'

`The wildest she-devil unhanged. Unless I read the signs awrong, it was her butchers who destroyed that village on the bay. May I some day see her dangling from the yard-arm! She is called the queen of the black coast. She is a Shemite woman, who leads black raiders. They harry the shipping and have sent many a good tradesman to the bottom.'

From under the poop-deck Tito brought out quilted jerkins, steel caps, bows and arrows.

`Little use to resist if we're run down,' he grunted. `But it rasps the soul to give up life without a struggle.'

It was just at sunrise when the lookout shouted a warning. Around the long point of an island off the starboard bow glided a long lethal shape, a slender serpentine galley, with a raised deck that ran from stem to stern. Forty oars on each side drove her swiftly through the water, and the low rail swarmed with naked blacks that chanted and clashed spears on oval shields. From the masthead floated a long crimson pennon.

Belit!' yelled Tito, paling. `Yare! Put her about! Into that creek-mouth! If we can beach her before they run us down, we have a chance to escape with our lives!'

So, veering sharply, the Argus ran for the line of surf that boomed along the palm-fringed shore, Tito striding back and forth, exhorting the panting rowers to greater efforts. The master's black beard bristled, his eyes glared.

`Give me a bow,' requested Conan. `It's not my idea of a manly weapon, but I learned archery among the Hyrkanians, and it will go hard if I can't feather a man or so on yonder deck.'

Standing on the poop, he watched the serpent-like ship skimming lightly over the waters, and landsman though he was, it was evident to him that the Argus would never win that race. Already arrows, arching from the pirate's deck, were falling with a hiss into the sea, not twenty paces astern.

`We'd best stand to it,' growled the Cimmerian; `else we'll all die with shafts in our backs, and not a blow dealt.'

`Bend to it, dogs!' roared Tito with a passionate gesture of his brawny fist. The bearded rowers grunted, heaved at the oars, while their muscles coiled and knotted, and sweat started out on their hides. The timbers of the stout little galley creaked and groaned as the men fairly ripped her through the water. The wind had fallen; the sail hung limp. Nearer crept the inexorable raiders, and they were still a good mile from the surf when one of the steersmen fell gagging across a sweep, a long arrow through his neck. Tito sprang to take his place, and Conan, bracing his feet wide on the heaving poop-deck, lifted his bow. He could see the details of the pirate plainly now. The rowers were protected by a line of raised mantelets along the sides, but the warriors dancing on the narrow deck were in full view. These were painted and plumed, and mostly naked, brandishing spears and spotted shields.

On the raised platform in the bows stood a slim figure whose white skin glistened in dazzling contrast to the glossy ebon hides about it. Belit, without a doubt. Conan drew the shaft to his ear - then some whim or qualm stayed his hand and sent the arrow through the body of a tall plumed spearman beside her.

Hand over hand the pirate galley was overhauling the lighter ship. Arrows fell in a rain about the Argus, and men cried out. All the steersmen were down, pincushioned, and Tito was handling the massive sweep alone, gasping black curses, his braced legs knots of straining thews. Then with a sob he sank down, a long shaft quivering in his sturdy heart. The Argus lost headway and rolled in the swell. The men shouted in confusion, and Conan took command in characteristic fashion.

`Up, lads!' he roared, loosing with a vicious twang of cord. `Grab your steel and give these dogs a few knocks before they cut our throats! Useless to bend your backs any more: they'll board us ere we can row another fifty paces!'

In desperation the sailors abandoned their oars and snatched up their weapons. It was valiant, but useless. They had time for one flight of arrows before the pirate was upon them. With no one at the sweep, the Argus rolled broadside, and the steel-baked prow of the raider crashed into her amidships. Grappling-irons crunched into the side. From the lofty gunwales, the black pirates drove down a volley of shafts that tore through the quilted jackets of the doomed sailormen, then sprang down spear in hand to complete the slaughter. On the deck of the pirate lay half a dozen bodies, an earnest of Conan's archery.

The fight on the Argus was short and bloody. The stocky sailors, no match for the tall barbarians, were cut down to a man. Elsewhere the battle had taken a peculiar turn. Conan, on the high-pitched poop, was on a level with the pirate's deck. As the steel prow slashed into the Argus, he braced himself and kept his feet under the shock, casting away his bow. A tall corsair, bounding over the rail, was met in midair by the Cimmerian's great sword, which sheared him cleanly through the torso, so that his body fell one way and his legs another. Then, with a burst of fury that left a heap of mangled corpses along the gunwales, Conan was over the rail and on the deck of the Tigress.

In an instant he was the center of a hurricane of stabbing spears and lashing clubs. But he moved in a blinding blur of steel. Spears bent on his armor or swished empty air, and his sword sang its death-song. The fighting-madness of his race was upon him, and with a red mist of unreasoning fury wavering before his blazing eyes, he cleft skulls, smashed breasts, severed limbs, ripped out entrails, and littered the deck like a shambles with a ghastly harvest of brains and blood.

Invulnerable in his armor, his back against the mast, he heaped mangled corpses at his feet until his enemies gave back panting in rage and fear. Then as they lifted their spears to cast them, and he tensed himself to leap and die in the midst of them, a shrill cry froze the lifted arms. They stood like statues, the black giants poised for the spearcasts, the mailed swordsman with his dripping blade.

Befit sprang before the blacks, beating down their spears. She turned toward Conan, her bosom heaving, her eyes flashing. Fierce fingers of wonder caught at his heart. She was slender, yet formed like a goddess: at once lithe and voluptuous. Her only garment was a broad silken girdle. Her white ivory limbs and the ivory globes of her breasts drove a beat of fierce passion through the Cimmerian's pulse, even in the panting fury of battle. Her rich black hair, black as a Stygian night, fell in rippling burnished clusters down her supple back. Her dark eyes burned on the Cimmerian.

She was untamed as a desert wind, supple and dangerous as a she-panther. She came close to him, heedless of his great blade, dripping with blood of her warriors. Her supple thigh brushed against it, so close she came to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she stared up into his somber menacing eyes.

`Who are you?' she demanded. `By Ishtar, I have never seen your like, though I have ranged the sea from the coasts of Zingara to the fires of the ultimate south. Whence come you?'

`From Argos,' he answered shortly, alert for treachery. Let her slim hand move toward the jeweled dagger in her girdle, and a buffet of his open hand would stretch her senseless on the deck. Yet in his heart he did not fear; he had held too many women, civilized or barbaric, in his iron-Chewed arms, not to recognize the light that burned in the eyes of this one.

`You are no soft Hyborian!' she exclaimed. `You are fierce and hard as a gray wolf. Those eyes were never dimmed by city lights; those thews were never softened by life amid marble walls.'

`I am Conan, a Cimmerian,' he answered.

To the people of the exotic climes, the north was a mazy half-mythical realm, peopled with ferocious blue-eyed giants who occasionally descended from their icy fastnesses with torch and sword. Their raids had never taken them as far south as Shem, and this daughter of Shem made no distinction between AEsir, Vanir or Cimmerian. With the unerring instinct of the elemental feminine, she knew she had found her lover, and his race meant naught, save as it invested him with the glamor of far lands.

`And I am Belit,' she cried, as one might say, `I am queen.'

`Look at me, Conan!' She threw wide her arms. `I am Belit, queen of the black coast. Oh, tiger of the North, you are cold as the snowy mountains which bred you. Take me and crush me with your fierce love! Go with me to the ends of the earth and the ends of the sea! I am a queen by fire and steel and slaughter - be thou my king!'

His eyes swept the bloodstained ranks, seeking expressions of wrath or jealousy. He saw none. The fury was gone from the ebon faces. He realized that to these men Belit was more than a woman: a goddess whose will was unquestioned. He glanced at the Argus, wallowing in the crimson sea-wash, heeling far over, her decks awash, held up by the grappling-irons. He glanced at the blue-fringed shore, at the far green hazes of the ocean, at the vibrant figure which stood before him; and his barbaric soul stirred within him. To quest these shining blue realms with that white-skinned young tiger-cat - to love, laugh, wander and pillage `I'll sail with you,' he grunted, shaking the red drops from his blade.

`Ho, N'Yaga!' her voice twanged like a bowstring. `Fetch herbs and dress your master's wounds! The rest of you bring aboard the plunder and cast off.'

As Conan sat with his back against the poop-rail, while the old shaman attended to the cuts on his hands and limbs, the cargo of the ill-fated Argus was quickly shifted aboard the Tigress and stored in small cabins below deck. Bodies of the crew and of fallen pirates were cast overboard to the swarming sharks, while wounded blacks were laid in the waist to be bandaged. Then the grappling-irons were cast off, and as the Argus sank silently into the blood-flecked waters, the Tigress moved off southward to the rhythmic clack of the oars.

As they moved out over the glassy blue deep, Belit came to the poop. Her eyes were burning like those of a she-panther in the dark as she tore off her ornaments, her sandals and her silken girdle and cast them at his feet. Rising on tiptoe, arms stretched upward, a quivering line of naked white, she cried to the desperate horde: `Wolves of the blue sea, behold ye now the dance - the mating-dance of Belit, whose fathers were kings of Askalon!'

And she danced, like the spin of a desert whirlwind, like the leaping of a quenchless flame, like the urge of creation and the urge of death. Her white feet spurned the bloodstained deck and dying men forgot death as they gazed frozen at her. Then, as the white stars glimmered through the blue velvet dusk, making her whirling body a blur of ivory fire, with a wild cry she threw herself at Conan's feet, and the blind flood of the Cimmerian's desire swept all else away as he crushed her panting form against the black plates of his corseleted breast.

2 The Black Lotus

In that dead citadel of crumbling stone.

Her eyes were snared by that unholy sheen, And curious madness took me by the throat, As of a rival lover thrust between.

The Song of Belit

The Tigress ranged the sea, and the black villages shuddered. Tomtoms beat in the night, with a tale that the she-devil of the sea had found a mate, an iron man whose wrath was as that of a wounded lion. And survivors of butchered Stygian ships named Belit with curses, and a white warrior with fierce blue eyes; so the Stygian princes remembered this man long and long, and their memory was a bitter tree which bore crimson fruit in the years to come.

But heedless as a vagrant wind, the Tigress cruised the southern coasts, until she anchored at the mouth of a broad sullen river, whose banks were jungle-clouded walls of mystery.

`This is the river Zarkheba, which is Death,' said Belit. `Its waters are poisonous. See how dark and murky they run? Only venomous reptiles live in that river. The black people shun it. Once a Stygian galley, fleeing from me, fled up the river and vanished. I anchored in this very spot, and days later, the galley came floating down the dark waters, its decks bloodstained and deserted. Only one man was on board, and he was mad and died gibbering. The cargo was intact, but the crew had vanished into silence and mystery.

`My lover, I believe there is a city somewhere on that river. I have heard tales of giant towers and walls glimpsed afar off by sailors who dared go part-way up the river. We fear nothing: Conan, let us go and sack that city'

Conan agreed. He generally agreed to her plans. Hers was the mind that directed their raids, his the arm that carried out her ideas. It mattered little to him where they sailed or whom they fought, so long as they sailed and fought. He found the life good.

Battle and raid had thinned their crew; only some eighty spearmen remained, scarcely enough to work the long galley. But Wit would not take the time to make the long cruise southward to the island kingdoms where she recruited her buccaneers. She was afire with eagerness for her latest venture; so the Tigress swung into the river mouth, the oarsmen pulling strongly as she breasted the broad current.

They rounded the mysterious bend that shut out the sight of the sea, and sunset found them forging steadily against the sluggish flow, avoiding sandbars where strange reptiles coiled. Not even a crocodile did they see, nor any fourlegged beast or winged bird coming down to the water's edge to drink. On through the blackness that preceded moonrise they drove, between banks that were solid palisades of darkness, whence came mysterious rustlings and stealthy footfalls, and the gleam of grim eyes. And once an inhuman voice was lifted in awful mockery the cry of an ape, Mt said, adding that the souls of evil men were imprisoned in these manlike animals as punishment for past crimes. But Conan doubted, for once, in a gold-barred cage in an Hyrkanian city, he had seen an abysmal sad-eyed beast which men told him was an ape, and there had been about it naught of the demoniac malevolence which vibrated in the shrieking laughter that echoed from the black jungle.

Then the moon rose, a splash of blood, ebony-barred, and the jungle awoke in horrific bedlam to greet it. Roars and howls and yells set the black warriors to trembling, but all this noise, Conan noted, came from farther back in the jungle, as if the beasts no less than men shunned the black waters of Zarkheba.

Rising above the black denseness of the trees and above the waving fronds, the moon silvered the river, and their wake became a rippling scintillation of phosphorescent bubbles that widened like a shining road of bursting jewels. The oars dipped into the shining water and came up sheathed in frosty silver. The plumes on the warrior's head-piece nodded in the wind, and the gems on sword-hilts and harness sparkled frostily.

The cold light struck icy fire from the jewels in Wit's clustered black locks as she stretched her lithe figure on a leopardskin thrown on the deck. Supported on her elbows, her chin resting on her slim hands, she gazed up into the face of Conan, who lounged beside her, his black mane stirring in the faint breeze. Belit's eyes were dark jewels burning in the moonlight.

`Mystery and terror are about us, Conan, and we glide into the realm of horror and death,' she said. `Are you afraid?'

A shrug of his mailed shoulders was his only answer.

`I am not afraid either,' she said meditatively. `I was never afraid. I have looked into the naked fangs of Death too often. Conan, do you fear the gods?'

`I would not tread on their shadow,' answered the barbarian conservatively. `Some gods are strong to harm, others, to aid; at least so say their priests. Mitra of the Hyborians must be a strong god, because his people have builded their cities over the world. But even the Hyborians fear Set. And Bel, god of thieves, is a good god. When I was a thief in Zamora I learned of him.'

`What of your own gods? I have never heard you call on them.'

`Their chief is Crom. He dwells on a great mountain. What use to call on him? Little he cares if men live or die. Better to be silent than to call his attention to you; he will send you dooms, not fortune! He is grim and loveless, but at birth he breathes power to strive and slay into a man's soul. What else shall men ask of the gods?'

`But what of the worlds beyond the river of death?' she persisted.

`There is no hope here or hereafter in the cult of my people,' answered Conan. `In this world men struggle and suffer vainly, finding pleasure only in the bright madness of battle; dying, their souls enter a gray misty realm of clouds and icy winds, to wander cheerlessly throughout eternity.'

Belit shuddered. `Life, bad as it is, is better than such a destiny. What do you believe, Conan?'

He shrugged his shoulders. `I have known many gods. He who denies them is as blind as he who trusts them too deeply. I seek not beyond death. It may be the blackness averred by the Nemedian skeptics, or Crom's realm of ice and cloud, or the snowy plains and vaulted halls of the Nordheimer's Valhalla. I know not, nor do I care. Let me live deep while I live; let me know the rich juices of red meat and stinging wine on my palate, the hot embrace of white arms, the mad exultation of battle when the blue blades flame and crimson, and I am content. Let teachers and priests and philosophers brood over questions of reality and illusion. I know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being thus, the illusion is real to me. I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.'

`But the gods are real,' she said, pursuing her own line of thought. `And above all are the gods of the Shemites -Ishtar and Ashtoreth and Derketo and Adonis. Bel, too, is Shemitish, for he was born in ancient Shumir, long, long ago and went forth laughing, with curled beard and impish wise eyes, to steal the gems of the kings of old times.

`There is life beyond death, I know, and I know this, too, Conan of Cimmeria -' she rose lithely to her knees and caught him in a pantherish embrace - `my love is stronger than any death! I have lain in your arms, panting with the violence of our love; you have held and crushed and conquered me, drawing my soul to your lips with the fierceness of your bruising kisses. My heart is welded to your heart, my soul is part of your soul! Were I still in death and you fighting for life, I would come back from the abyss to aid you - aye, whether my spirit floated with the purple sails on the crystal sea of paradise, or writhed in the molten flames of hell! I am yours, and all the gods and all their eternities shall not sever us!'

A scream rang from the lookout in the bows. Thrusting Belit aside, Conan bounded up, his sword a long silver glitter in the moonlight, his hair bristling at what he saw. The black warrior dangled above the deck, supported by what seemed a dark pliant tree trunk arching over the rail. Then he realized that it was a gigantic serpent which had writhed its glistening length up the side of the bow and gripped the luckless warrior in its jaws. Its dripping scales shone leprously in the moonlight as it reared its form high above the deck, while the stricken man screamed and writhed like a mouse in the fangs of a python. Conan rushed into the bows, and swinging his great sword, hewed nearly through the giant trunk, which was thicker than a man's body. Blood drenched the rails as the dying monster swayed far out, still gripping its victim, and sank into the river, coil by coil, lashing the water to bloody foam, in which man and reptile vanished together.

Thereafter Conan kept the lookout watch himself, but no other horror came crawling up from the murky depths, and as dawn whitened over the jungle, he sighted the black fangs of towers jutting up among the trees. He called Belit, who slept on the deck, wrapped in his scarlet cloak; and she sprang to his side, eyes blazing. Her lips were parted to call orders to her warriors to take up bow and spears; then her lovely eyes widened.

It was but the ghost of a city on which they looked when they cleared a jutting jungle-clad point and swung in toward the incurving shore. Weeds and rank river grass grew between the stones of broken piers and shattered paves that had once been streets anal spacious plazas and broad courts. From all sides except that toward the river, the jungle crept in, masking fallen columns and crumbling mounds with poisonous green. Here and there buckling towers reeled drunkenly against the morning sky, and broken pillars jutted up among the decaying walls. In the center space a marble pyramid was spired by a slim column, and on its pinnacle sat or squatted something that Conan supposed to be an image until his keen eyes detected life in it.

`It is a great bird,' said one of the warriors, standing in the bows.

`It is a monster bat,' insisted another.

`It is an ape,' said Belit.

Just then the creature spread broad wings and flapped off into the jungle.

`A winged ape,' said old N'Yaga uneasily. `Better we had cut our throats than come to this place. It is haunted.'

Belit mocked at his superstitions and ordered the galley run inshore and tied to the crumbling wharfs. She was the first to spring ashore, closely followed by Conan, and after them trooped the ebon-skinned pirates, white plumes waving in the morning wind, spears ready, eyes rolling dubiously at the surrounding jungle.

Over all brooded a silence as sinister as that of a sleeping serpent. Belit posed picturesquely among the ruins, the vibrant life in her lithe figure contrasting strangely with the desolation and decay about her. The sun flamed up slowly, sullenly, above the jungle, flooding the towers with a dull gold that left shadows lurking beneath the tottering walls. Belit pointed to a slim round tower that reeled on its rotting base. A broad expanse of cracked, grass-grown slabs led up to it, flanked by fallen columns, and before it stood a massive altar. Belit went swiftly along the ancient floor and stood before it.

`This was the temple of the old ones,' she said. `Look - you can see the channels for the blood along the sides of the altar, and the rains of ten thousand years have not washed the dark stains from them. The walls have all fallen away, but this stone block defies time and the elements.'

`But who were these old ones?' demanded Conan.

She spread her slim hands helplessly. `Not even in legendary is this city mentioned. But look at the handholes at either end of the altar! Priests often conceal their treasures beneath their altars. Four of you lay hold and see if you can lift it.'

She stepped back to make room for them, glancing up at the tower which loomed drunkenly above them. Three of the strongest blacks had gripped the handholes cut into the stone curiously unsuited to human hands - when Belit sprang back with a sharp cry. They froze in their places, and Conan, bending to aid them, wheeled with a startled curse.

`A snake in the grass,' she said, backing away. `Come and slay it; the rest of you bend your backs to the stone.'

Conan came quickly toward her, another taking his place. As he impatiently scanned the grass for the reptile, the giant blacks braced their feet, grunted and heaved with their huge muscles coiling and straining under their ebon skin. The altar did not come off the ground, but it revolved suddenly on its side. And simultaneously there was a grinding rumble above and the tower came crashing down, covering the four black men with broken masonry.

A cry of horror rose from their comrades. Belit's slim fingers dug into Conan's arm-muscles. `There was no serpent,' she whispered. `It was but a ruse to call you away. I feared; the old ones guarded their treasure well. Let us clear away the stones.'

With herculean labor they did so, and lifted out the mangled bodies of the four men. And under them, stained with their blood, the pirates found a crypt carved in the solid stone. The altar, hinged curiously with stone rods and sockets on one side, had served as its lid. And at first glance the crypt seemed brimming with liquid fire, catching the early light with a million blazing facets. Undreamable wealth lay before the eyes of the gaping pirates; diamonds, rubies, bloodstones, sapphires, turquoises, moonstones, opals, emeralds, amethysts, unknown gems that shone like the eyes of evil women. The crypt was filled to the brim with bright stones that the morning sun struck into lambent flame.

With a cry Wit dropped to her knees among the bloodstained rubble on the brink and thrust her white arms shoulder-deep into that pool of splendor. She withdrew them, clutching something that brought another cry to her lips -a long string of crimson stones that were like clots of frozen blood strung on a thick gold wire. In their glow the golden sunlight changed to bloody haze.

Belit's eyes were like a woman's in a trance. The Shemite soul finds a bright drunkenness in riches and material splendor, and the sight of this treasure might have shaken the soul of a sated emperor of Shushan.

`Take up the jewels, dogs!' her voice was shrill with her emotions.

`Look!' a muscular black arm stabbed toward the Tigress, and Belit wheeled, her crimson lips a-snarl, as if she expected to see a rival corsair sweeping in to despoil her of her plunder. But from the gunwales of the ship a dark shape rose, soaring away over the jungle.

`The devil-ape has been investigating the ship,' muttered the blacks uneasily.

`What matter?' cried Belit with a curse, raking back a rebellious lock with an impatient hand. `Make a litter of spears and mantles to bear these jewels - where the devil are you going?'

`To look to the galley,' grunted Conan. `That bat-thing might have knocked a hole in the bottom, for all we know.'

He ran swiftly down the cracked wharf and sprang aboard. A moment's swift examination below decks, and he swore heartily, casting a clouded glance in the direction the bat-being had vanished. He returned hastily to Belit, superintending the plundering of the crypt. She had looped the necklace about her neck, and on her naked white bosom the red clots glimmered darkly. A-huge naked black stood crotch-deep in the jewel-brimming crypt, scooping up great handfuls of splendor to pass them to eager hands above. Strings of frozen iridescence hung between his dusky fingers; drops of red fire dripped from his hands, piled high with starlight and rainbow. It was as if a black titan stood straddle-legged in the bright pits of hell, his lifted hands full of stars.

`That flying devil has staved in the watercasks,' said Conan. `If we hadn't been so dazed by these stones we'd have heard the noise. We were fools not to have left a man on guard. We can't drink this river water. I'll take twenty men and search for fresh water in the jungle.'

She looked at him vaguely, in her eyes the blank blaze of her strange passion, her fingers working at the gems on her breast.

`Very well,' she said absently, hardly heeding him. `I'll get the loot aboard.'

The jungle closed quickly about them, changing the light from gold to gray. From the arching green branches creepers dangled like pythons. The warriors fell into single file, creeping through the primordial twilights like black phantoms following a white ghost.

Underbrush was not so thick as Conan had anticipated. The ground was spongy but not slushy. Away from the river, it sloped gradually upward. Deeper and deeper they plunged into the green waving depths, and still there was no sign of water, either running stream or stagnant pool. Conan halted suddenly, his warriors freezing into basaltic statues. In the tense silence that followed, the Cimmerian shook his head irritably.

`Go ahead,' he grunted to a sub-chief, N'Gora. `March straight on until you can no longer see me; then stop and wait for me. I believe we're being followed. I heard something.'

The blacks shuffled their feet uneasily, but did as they were told. As they swung onward, Conan stepped quickly behind a great tree, glaring back along the way they had come. From that leafy fastness anything might emerge. Nothing occurred; the faint sounds of the marching spearmen faded in the distance. Conan suddenly realized that the air was impregnated with an alien and exotic scent. Something gently brushed his temple. He turned quickly. From a cluster of green, curiously leafed stalks, great black blossoms nodded at him. One of these had touched him. They seemed to beckon him, to arch their pliant stems toward him. They spread and rustled, though no wind blew.

He recoiled, recognizing the black lotus, whose juice was death, and whose scent brought dream-haunted slumber. But already he felt a subtle lethargy stealing over him. He sought to lift his sword, to hew down the serpentine stalks, but his arm hung lifeless at his side. He opened his mouth to shout to his warriors, but only a faint rattle issued. The next instant, with appalling suddenness, the jungle waved and dimmed out before his eyes; he did not hear the screams that burst out awfully not far away, as his knees collapsed, letting him pitch limply to the earth. Above his prostrate form the great black blossoms nodded in the windless air.

3 The Horror in the Jungle

Was it a dream the nighted lotus brought?

Then curst the dream that bought my sluggish life; And curst each laggard hour that does not see Hot blood drip blackly from the crimsoned knife.

The Song of Belit

First there was the blackness of an utter void, with the cold winds of cosmic space blowing through it. Then shapes, vague, monstrous and evanescent, rolled in dim panorama through the expanse of nothingness, as if the darkness were taking material form. The winds blew and a vortex formed, a whirling pyramid of roaring blackness. From it grew Shape and Dimension; then suddenly, like clouds dispersing, the darkness rolled away on either hand and a huge city of dark green stone rose on the bank of a wide river, flowing through an illimitable plain. Through this city moved beings of alien configuration.

Cast in the mold of humanity, they were distinctly not men. They were winged and of heroic proportions; not a branch on the mysterious stalk of evolution that culminated in man, but the ripe blossom on an alien tree, separate and apart from that stalk. Aside from their wings, in physical appearance they resembled man only as man in his highest form resembles the great apes. In spiritual, esthetic and intellectual development they were superior to man as man is superior to the gorilla. But when they reared their colossal city, man's primal ancestors had not yet risen from the slime of the primordial seas.

These beings were mortal, as are all things built of flesh and blood. They lived, loved and died, though the individual span of life was enormous. Then, after uncounted millions of years, the Change began. The vista shimmered and wavered, like a picture thrown on a windblown curtain. Over the city and the land the ages flowed as waves flow over a beach, and each wave brought alterations. Somewhere on the planet the magnetic centers were shifting; the great glaciers and ice-fields were withdrawing toward the new poles.

The littoral of the great river altered. Plains turned into swamps that stank with reptilian life. Where fertile meadows had rolled, forests reared up, growing into dank jungles. The changing ages wrought on the inhabitants of the city as well. They did not migrate to fresher lands. Reasons inexplicable to humanity held them to the ancient city and their doom. And as that once rich and mighty land sank deeper and deeper into the black mire of the sunless jungle, so into the chaos of squalling jungle life sank the people of the city. Terrific convulsions shook the earth; the nights were lurid with spouting volcanoes that fringed the dark horizons with red pillars.

After an earthquake that shook down the outer walls and highest towers of the city, and caused the river to run black for days with some lethal substance spewed up from the subterranean depths, a frightful chemical change became apparent in the waters the folk had drunk for millenniums uncountable.

Many died who drank of it; and in those who lived, the drinking wrought change, subtle, gradual and grisly. In adapting themselves to the changing conditions, they had sunk far below their original level. But the lethal waters altered them even more horribly, from generation to more bestial generation. They who had been winged gods became pinioned demons, with all that remained of their ancestors' vast knowledge distorted and perverted and twisted into ghastly paths. As they had risen higher than mankind might dream, so they sank lower than man's maddest nightmares reach. They died fast, by cannibalism, and horrible feuds fought out in the murk of the midnight jungle. And at last among the lichen-grown ruins of their city only a single shape lurked, a stunted abhorrent perversion of nature.

Then for the first time humans appeared: dark-skinned, hawkfaced men in copper and leather harness, bearing bows -the warriors of pre-historic Stygia. There were only fifty of them, and they were haggard and gaunt with starvation and prolonged effort, stained and scratched with jungle-wandering, with bloodcrusted bandages that told of fierce fighting. In their minds was a tale of warfare and defeat, and flight before a stronger tribe which drove them ever southward, until they lost themselves in the green ocean of jungle and river.

Exhausted they lay down among the ruins where red blossoms that bloom but once in a century waved in the full moon, and sleep fell upon them. And as they slept, a hideous shape crept red-eyed from the shadows and performed weird and awful rites about and above each sleeper. The moon hung in the shadowy sky, painting the jungle red and black; above the sleepers glimmered the crimson blossoms, like splashes of blood. Then the moon went down and the eyes of the necromancer were red jewels set in the ebony of night.

When dawn spread its white veil over the river, there were no men to be seen: only a hairy winged horror that squatted in the center of a ring of fifty great spotted hyenas that pointed quivering muzzles to the ghastly sky and howled like souls in hell.

Then scene followed scene so swiftly that each tripped over the heels of its predecessor. There was a confusion of movement, a writhing and melting of lights and shadows, against a background of black jungle, green stone ruins and murky river. Black men came up the river in long boats with skulls grinning on the prows, or stole stooping through the trees, spear in hand. They fled screaming through the dark from red eyes and slavering fangs. Howls of dying men shook the shadows; stealthy feet padded through the gloom, vampire eyes blazed redly. There were grisly feasts beneath the moon, across whose red disk a batlike shadow incessantly swept.

Then abruptly, etched clearly in contrast to these impressionistic glimpses, around the jungled point in the whitening dawn swept a long galley, thronged with shining ebon figures, and in the bows stood a white-skinned ghost in blue steel.

It was at this point that Conan first realized that he was dreaming. Until that instant he had had no consciousness of individual existence. But as he saw himself treading the boards of the Tigress, he recognized both the existence and the dream, although he did not awaken.

Even as he wondered, the scene shifted abruptly to a jungle glade where N'Gora and nineteen black spearmen stood, as if awaiting someone. Even as he realized that it was he for whom they waited, a horror swooped down from the skies and their stolidity was broken by yells of fear. Like men maddened by terror, they threw away their weapons and raced wildly through the jungle, pressed close by the slavering monstrosity that flapped its wings above them.

Chaos and confusion followed this vision, during which Conan feebly struggled to awake. Dimly he seemed to see himself lying under a nodding cluster of black blossoms, while from the bushes a hideous shape crept toward him. With a savage effort he broke the unseen bonds which held him to his dreams, and started upright.

Bewilderment was in the glare he cast about him. Near him swayed the dusky lotus, and he hastened to draw away from it.

In the spongy soil near by there was a track as if an animal had put out a foot, preparatory to emerging from the bushes, then had withdrawn it. It looked like the spoor of an unbelievably large hyena.

He yelled for N'Gora. Primordial silence brooded over the jungle, in which his yells sounded brittle and hollow as mockery. He could not see the sun, but his wilderness-trained instinct told him the day was near its end. A panic rose in him at the thought that he had lain senseless for hours. He hastily followed the tracks of the spearmen, which lay plain in the damp loam before him. They ran in single file, and he soon emerged into a glade -to stop short, the skin crawling between his shoulders as he recognized it as the glade he had seen in his lotus-drugged dream. Shields and spears lay scattered about as if dropped in headlong flight.

And from the tracks which led out of the glade and deeper into the fastnesses, Conan knew that the spearmen had fled, wildly. The footprints overlay one another; they weaved blindly among the trees. And with startling suddenness the hastening Cimmerian came out of the jungle onto a hill-like rock which sloped steeply, to break off abruptly in a sheer precipice forty feet high. And something crouched on the brink.

At first Conan thought it to be a great black gorilla. Then he saw that it was a giant black man that crouched ape-like, long arms dangling, froth dripping from the loose lips. It was not until, with a sobbing cry, the creature lifted huge hands and rushed towards him, that Conan recognized N'Gora. The black man gave no heed to Conan's shout as he charged, eyes rolled up to display the whites, teeth gleaming, face an inhuman mask.

With his skin crawling with the horror that madness always instils in the sane, Conan passed his sword through the black man's body; then, avoiding the hooked hands that clawed at him as N'Gora sank down, he strode to the edge of the cliff.

For an instant he stood looking down into the jagged rocks below, where lay N'Gora's spearmen, in limp, distorted attitudes that told of crushed limbs and splintered bones. Not one moved. A cloud of huge black flies buzzed loudly above the bloods-plashed stones; the ants had already begun to gnaw at the corpses. On the trees about sat birds of prey, and a jackal, looking up and seeing the man on the cliff, slunk furtively away.

For a little space Conan stood motionless. Then he wheeled and ran back the way he had come, flinging himself with reckless haste through the tall grass and bushes, hurdling creepers that sprawled snake-like across his path. His sword swung low in his right hand, and an unaccustomed pallor tinged his dark face.

The silence that reigned in the jungle was not broken. The sun had set and great shadows rushed upward from the slime of the black earth. Through the gigantic shades of lurking death and grim desolation Conan was a speeding glimmer of scarlet and blue steel. No sound in all the solitude was heard except his own quick panting as he burst from the shadows into the dim twilight of the river-shore.

He saw the galley shouldering the rotten wharf, the ruins reeling drunkenly in the gray half-light.

And here and there among the stones were spots of raw bright color, as if a careless hand had splashed with a crimson brush.

Again Conan looked on death and destruction. Before him lay his spearmen, nor did they rise to salute him. From the jungle edge to the riverbank, among the rotting pillars and along the broken piers they lay, torn and mangled and half devoured, chewed travesties of men.

All about the bodies and pieces of bodies were swarms of huge footprints, like those of hyenas.

Conan came silently upon the pier, approaching the galley above whose deck was suspended something that glimmered ivory-white in the faint twilight. Speechless, the Cimmerian looked on the Queen of the Black Coast as she hung from the yard-arm of her own galley. Between the yard and her white throat stretched a line of crimson clots that shone like blood in the gray light.

4 The Attack from the Air

The shadows were black around him,

The dripping jaws gaped wide,

Thicker than rain the red drops fell;

But my love was fiercer than Death's black spell, Nor all the iron walls of hell

Could keep me from his side.

The Song of Belit

The jungle was a black colossus that locked the ruin-littered glade in ebon arms. The moon had not risen; the stars were flecks of hot amber in a breathless sky that reeked of death. On the pyramid among the fallen towers sat Conan the Cimmerian like an iron statue, chin propped on massive fists. Out in the black shadows stealthy feet padded and red eyes glimmered. The dead lay as they had fallen. But on the deck of the Tigress, on a pyre of broken benches, spear-shafts and leopardskins, lay the Queen of the Black Coast in her last sleep, wrapped in Conan's scarlet cloak. Like a true queen she lay, with her plunder heaped high about her: silks, cloth-of-gold, silver braid, casks of gems and golden coins, silver ingots, jeweled daggers and teocallis of gold wedges.

But of the plunder of the accursed city, only the sullen waters of Zarkheba could tell where Conan had thrown it with a heathen curse. Now he sat grimly on the pyramid, waiting for his unseen foes. The black fury in his soul drove out all fear. What shapes would emerge from the blackness he knew not, nor did he care.

He no longer doubted the visions of the black lotus. He understood that while waiting for him in the glade, N'Gora and his comrades had been terror-stricken by the winged monster swooping upon them from the sky, and fleeing in blind panic, had fallen over the cliff, all except their chief, who had somehow escaped their fate, though not madness. Meanwhile, or immediately after, or perhaps before, the destruction of those on the riverbank had been accomplished. Conan did not doubt that the slaughter along the river had been massacre rather than battle. Already unmanned by their superstitious fears, the blacks might well have died without striking a blow in their own defense when attacked by their inhuman foes.

Why he had been spared so long, he did not understand, unless the malign entity which ruled the river meant to keep him alive to torture him with grief and fear. All pointed to a human or superhuman intelligence - the breaking of the watercasks to divide the forces, the driving of the blacks over the cliff, and last and greatest, the grim jest of the crimson necklace knotted like a hangman's noose about Belit's white neck.

Having apparently saved the Cimmerian for the choicest victim, and extracted the last ounce of exquisite mental torture, it was likely that the unknown enemy would conclude the drama by sending him after the other victims. No smile bent Conan's grim lips at the thought, but his eyes were lit with iron laughter.

The moon rose, striking fire from the Cimmerian's horned helmet. No call awoke the echoes; yet suddenly the night grew tense and the jungle held its breath. Instinctively Conan loosened the great sword in its sheath. The pyramid on which he rested was four-sided, one - the side toward the jungle carved in broad steps. In his hand was a Shemite bow, such as Belit had taught her pirates to use. A heap of arrows lay at his feet, feathered ends towards him, as he rested on one knee.

Something moved in the blackness under the trees. Etched abruptly in the rising moon, Conan saw a darkly blocked-out head and shoulders, brutish in outline. And now from the shadows dark shapes came silently, swiftly, running low -twenty great spotted hyenas. Their slavering fangs flashed in the moonlight, their eyes blazed as no true beast's eyes ever blazed.

Twenty: then the spears of the pirates had taken toll of the pack, after all. Even as he thought this, Conan drew nock to ear, and at the twang of the string a flame-eyed shadow bounded high and fell writhing. The rest did not falter; on they came, and like a rain of death among them fell the arrows of the Cimmerian, driven with all the force and accuracy of steely thews backed by a hate hot as the slag-heaps of hell.

In his berserk fury he did not miss; the air was filled with feathered destruction. The havoc wrought among the onrushing pack was breathtaking. Less than half of them reached the foot of the pyramid. Others dropped upon the broad steps. Glaring down into the blazing eyes, Conan knew these creatures were not beasts; it was not merely in their unnatural size that he sensed a blasphemous difference. They exuded an aura tangible as the black mist rising from a corpse-littered swamp. By what godless alchemy these beings had been brought into existence, he could not guess; but he knew he faced diabolism blacker than the Well of Skelos.

Springing to his feet, he bent his bow powerfully and drove his last shaft point blank at a great hairy shape that soared up at his throat. The arrow was a flying beam of moonlight that flashed onward with but a blur in its course, but the were-beast plunged convulsively in midair and crashed headlong, shot through and through.

Then the rest were on him, in a nightmare rush of blazing eyes and dripping fangs. His fiercely driven sword shore the first asunder; then the desperate impact of the others bore him down. He crushed a narrow skull with the pommel of his hilt, feeling the bone splinter and blood and brains gush over his hand; then, dropping the sword, useless at such deadly close quarters, he caught at the throats of the two horrors which were ripping and tearing at him in silent fury. A foul acrid scent almost stifled him, his own sweat blinded him. Only his mail saved him from being ripped to ribbons in an instant. The next, his naked right hand locked on a hairy throat and tore it open. His left hand, missing the throat of the other beast, caught and broke its foreleg. A short yelp, the only cry in that grim battle, and hideously human-like, burst from the maimed beast. At the sick horror of that cry from a bestial throat, Conan involuntarily relaxed his grip.

One, blood gushing from its torn jugular, lunged at him in a last spasm of ferocity, and fastened its fangs on his throat - to fall back dead, even as Conan felt the tearing agony of its grip.

The other, springing forward on three legs, was slashing at his belly as a wolf slashes, actually rending the links of his mail. Flinging aside the dying beast, Conan grappled the crippled horror and, with a muscular effort that brought a groan from his blood-flecked lips, he heaved upright, gripping the struggling, bearing fiend in his arms. An instant he reeled off balance, its fetid breath hot on his nostrils; its jaws snapping at his neck; then he hurled it from him, to crash with bone-splintering force down the marble steps.

As he reeled on wide-braced legs, sobbing for breath, the jungle and the moon swimming bloodily to his sight, the thrash of bat-wings was loud in his ears. Stooping, he groped for his sword, and swaying upright, braced his feet drunkenly and heaved the great blade above his head with both hands, shaking the blood from his eyes as he sought the air above him for his foe.

Instead of attack from the air, the pyramid staggered suddenly and awfully beneath his feet. He heard a rumbling crackle and saw the tall column above him wave like a wand. Stung to galvanized life, he bounded far out; his feet hit a step, halfway down, which rocked beneath him, and his next desperate leap carried him clear. But even as his heels hit the earth, with a shattering crash like a breaking mountain the pyramid crumpled, the column came thundering down in bursting fragments. For a blind cataclysmic instant the sky seemed to rain shards of marble. Then a rubble of shattered stone lay whitely under the moon.

Conan stirred, throwing off the splinters that half covered him. A glancing blow had knocked off his helmet and momentarily stunned him. Across his legs lay a great piece of the column, pinning him down. He was not sure that his legs were unbroken. His black locks were plastered with sweat; blood trickled from the wounds in his throat and hands. He hitched up on one arm, struggling with the debris that prisoned him.

Then something swept down across the stars and struck the sward near him. Twisting about, he saw it - the winged one!

With fearful speed it was rushing upon him, and in that instant Conan had only a confused impression of a gigantic manlike shape hurtling along on bowed and stunted legs; of huge hairy arms outstretching misshapen black-nailed paws; of a malformed head, in whose broad face the only features recognizable as such were a pair of blood-red eyes. It was a thing neither man, beast, nor devil, imbued with characteristics subhuman as well as characteristics superhuman.

But Conan had no time for conscious consecutive thought. He threw himself toward his fallen sword, and his clawing fingers missed it by inches. Desperately he grasped the shard which pinned his legs, and the veins swelled in his temples as he strove to thrust it off him. It gave slowly, but he knew that before he could free himself the monster would be upon him, and he knew that those black-taloned hands were death.

The headlong rush of the winged one had not wavered. It towered over the prostrate Cimmerian like a black shadow, arms thrown wide - a glimmer of white flashed between it and its victim.

In one mad instant she was there - a tense white shape, vibrant with love fierce as a she-panther's. The dazed Cimmerian saw between him and the onrushing death, her lithe figure, shimmering like ivory beneath the moon; he saw the blaze of her dark eyes, the thick cluster of her burnished hair; her bosom heaved, her red lips were parted, she cried out sharp and ringing at the ring of steel as she thrust at the winged monster's breast.

'Belit!' screamed Conan. She flashed a quick glance at him, and in her dark eyes he saw her love flaming, a naked elemental thing of raw fire and molten lava. Then she was gone, and the Cimmerian saw only the winged fiend which had staggered back in unwonted fear, arms lifted as if to fend off attack. And he knew that Belit in truth lay on her pyre on the Tigress's deck. In his ears rang her passionate cry: `Were I still in death and you fighting for life I would come back from the abyss-'

With a terrible cry he heaved upward hurling the stone aside. The winged one came on again, and Conan sprang to meet it, his veins on fire with madness. The thews started out like cords on his forearms as he swung his great sword, pivoting on his heel with the force of the sweeping arc. Just above the hips it caught the hurtling shape, and the knotted legs fell one way, the torso another as the blade sheared clear through its hairy body.

Conan stood in the moonlit silence, the dripping sword sagging in his hand, staring down at the remnants of his enemy. The red eyes glared up at him with awful life, then glazed and set; the great hands knotted spasmodically and stiffened. And the oldest race in the world was extinct.

Conan lifted his head, mechanically searching for the beast-things that had been its slaves and executioners. None met his gaze. The bodies he saw littering the moon-splashed grass were of men, not beasts: hawkfaced, dark skinned men, naked, transfixed by arrows or mangled by sword-strokes. And they were crumbling into dust before his eyes.

Why had not the winged master come to the aid of its slaves when he struggled with them? Had it feared to come within reach of fangs that might turn and rend it? Craft and caution had lurked in that misshapen skull, but had not availed in the end.

Turning on his heel, the Cimmerian strode down the rotting wharfs and stepped aboard the galley. A few strokes of his sword cut her adrift, and he went to the sweep-head. The Tigress rocked slowly in the sullen water, sliding out sluggishly toward the middle of the river, until the broad current caught her. Conan leaned on the sweep, his somber gaze fixed on the cloak-wrapped shape that lay in state on the pyre the richness of which was equal to the ransom of an empress.

5 The Funeral Pyre

Now we are done with roaming, evermore;

No more the oars, the windy harp's refrain; Nor crimson pennon frights the dusky shore; Blue girdle of the world, receive again

Her whom thou gavest me.

The Song of Belit

Again dawn tinged the ocean. A redder glow lit the river-mouth. Conan of Cimmeria leaned on his great sword upon the white beach, watching the Tigress swinging out on her last voyage. There was no light in his eyes that contemplated the glassy swells. Out of the rolling blue wastes all glory and wonder had gone. A fierce revulsion shook him as he gazed at the green surges that deepened into purple hazes of mystery.

Befit had been of the sea; she had lent it splendor and allure. Without her it rolled a barren, dreary and desolate waste from pole to pole. She belonged to the sea; to its everlasting mystery he returned her. He could do no more. For himself, its glittering blue splendor was more repellent than the leafy fronds which rustled and whispered behind him of vast mysterious wilds beyond them, and into which he must plunge.

No hand was at the sweep of the Tigress, no oars drove her through the green water. But a clean tanging wind bellied her silken sail, and as a wild swan cleaves the sky to her nest, she sped seaward, flames mounting higher and higher from her deck to lick at the mast and envelop the figure that lay lapped in scarlet on the shining pyre.

So passed the Queen of the Black Coast, and leaning on his red-stained sword, Conan stood silently until the red glow had faded far out in the blue hazes and dawn splashed its rose and gold over the ocean.

Conan at the Demon's Gate

Prologue

The Pictish Wilderness, in the reign of Conan the Second, known as Conn:

My name is Nidaros, son of one who did not care to acknowledge me.

Likely enough he was a noble with a full purse and influence at Court, both of which he used for my advancement. Otherwise I might be in the ranks of the Tenth Black River Guards instead of commanding a company.

On the edge of the Pictish Wilderness, the patrols beyond the outpost line wait for spring. The Picts in their native forests are no easy prey even when one does not have to fight the snow and cold as well.

In the sixth year of the reign of Conn, son of Conan, King of Aquilonia, Great Count of Poitain, Protector of Bossonia, and bearer of too many other titles to burden you with here, spring came early. It was decided (I do not know by whom, and it hardly matters anyway) that we should begin our patrols at once.

I looked from the sky to the face of the messenger (an officer of the elite Black Dragons, the royal bodyguards) and back to the sky.

"At once?"

"At once."

"The ground is not yet dry enough to let a soldier put one foot in front of another."

"That does not seem to stop the Picts. They have already raided farms along Silver Creek."

I wished, not aloud, that demons fly away with Silver Creek and all its Poitainian colonists. I cannot believe that any part of Poitain is so crowded that folk with their wits about them would flee to a land where a Pict can spit in their soup kettles any evening.

The messenger seemed to read my thoughts. He tapped the seal on the parchment. I did not suspect forgery, only the wits of whoever penned the command.

"As it is ordered, so it shall be done," I said. "But the wet ground is a fact that all the generals of ten realms cannot alter. A barefoot Pict can skip lightly where a booted and battle-ready soldier will sink."

"The orders do not say how the patrols shall be equipped," the man said. "Or how far they shall go."

I must have gaped. A Black Dragon with his wits about him was a marvel, like a two-headed calf, or a babe with one arm a bird's wing. The man replied with a grin and a shrug.

"I have kin who fought the Picts when Conan the Great commanded on the border," he said. "Those kin told many tales around the fireside, and I have not forgotten all I heard then."

"Nor have I forgotten what became of friends who sought dry ground and ran into a Pictish ambush," I said. I added a few details, half-expecting the man to turn pale and excuse himself. Since the wars of Conan's early reign, the Black Dragons have mostly stayed close to the palace. Few of this man's apparent years (ten less than my forty) were battle-seasoned.

Instead, he nodded. "I never thought my kin lied, but hearing and seeing are not the same." He frowned. "The next fort is my last duty.

If you have not led out your men when I return, may I come with you?"

"If you are your own master I began.

"I am," he said.

I could hardly put into words my suspicion that he was a spy for one of rank, perhaps even for one at Court. Nor in truth did I feel any great desire to do so. I trusted my men (half Bossonians, half the best sort of Gunderman mercenaries) and my sergeants as I did myself.

Barring ill luck, no bad reports would return to this fellows master.

If ill luck did come, nothing and no one would return from the wilderness at all.

Moreover, this man looked to be a worthy addition to our ranks. I judged he might have had Gunderman, or even Cimmerian, blood himself, from his height and breadth of shoulder. I could not see his hair under a rain-sodden hood, nor his eyes clearly in the dim lamplight of my hut.

The mail I glimpsed at his wrists seemed well-wrought, though, the sword and dagger on his belt were both for use rather than show, and his riding clothes had seen long journeys if not hard fighting. None of these would keep a Pictish arrow from his gizzard if his luck was not in, but they showed he did not trust altogether to luck. Such a man knew the first lesson of border warfare, and so might live to learn others.

"You will be welcome. Make haste, though. If we march swiftly enough, we may catch some of the woodsrunners' hunting parties. No Pict is ever easy prey, but one with an empty belly gives honest men a fighting chance."

As a toast to his safe journey and good hunting afterward, we drank the last wine fit to offer a guest. My second sergeant saw him to his horse while the first and third turned out the men.

***

Battlements of thundercloud rose to the west the morning we at last found the Picts, or they found us.

They found us at a disadvantage, because we were a watering party of twenty. I led, because it was my turn, and Sarabos of the Black Dragons came because he wished it. I did not wish to have two leaders away from the camp at the same time, but one could argue that Sarabos had no real rank.

The men obeyed him readily enough, however, when the Picts struck. This was just after we had picked our next campsite, a stretch of open ground at the foot of a frowning rocky hill.

They came out of the woods howling fit to waken the dead and put the living in their tombs, behind a shower of arrows and throwing-spears.

Knowing that our bows had the range of theirs, they waited until the lay of the ground and the pattern of the trees let them slip close, all in that silence that none except cats and Picts on the hunt can maintain.

Our archers had time for but one flight before five times their number of Picts let loose. The Picts still favor flint for their arrowheads, but try telling a man struck deep by one that it is a child's weapon.

That we suffered little was due more to the stoutness of our armor than the weakness of the Picts' weapons.

The Picts were of two different clans, and as is often the case, one attacked a trifle before the other. So we had warning and escaped being surrounded, although by the margin of the thinnest hair in the mane of a newborn foal. We turned and ran for the best place at hand for defense, that open ground at the foot of the outcrop.

Our archery took some of the heart out of the first clan, not to mention leaving two-score warriors kicking or still among the ferns and rotted logs. We covered some hundreds of paces through tangled second growth with only one man dead, his comrades able to carry him, and no one else hurt past fighting.

Then the second clan attacked, without the warning of an arrow shower but instead charging from cover to reach close quarters almost at once.

As with most Picts, they wore feathers and tattoos, breechclouts and war paint, and precious little else. But more of them than I cared to see had swords and knives of metal, sometimes their own bronze or copper, sometimes captured steel.

I do not know how long the fight lasted. I had my broadsword, a short-handled mace, and good Aquilonian mail with a helm of Zingaran style standing between me and the Picts. All did good service, too. I know I slew a fair hand'sworth and more, and took only two grazes in return.

Others were less fortunate. Six of us died or were hurt past fighting in that brawl at close quarters. It ended in our favor because, as was most often the case, the two clans' war parties had leapt into battle without any common plan. Most Pictish chiefs would sooner serve up their sons in a stew than take orders from another chief.

So there was no one to tell the first clan to hold their arrows until the second had drawn away from us. The first clan began shooting again, and their arrows rained down alike on friend and foe. Foes mostly bore armor, although a Gunderman died with an arrow in the eye. Friends were mostly naked, and another score of Picts died howling or moaning with Pictish arrows through their gizzards.

Sarabos leapt into the midst of this fratricidal slaughter with a broadsword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. I saw him behead one Pict, geld a second, chop the arm from a third, and break the leg of a fourth with a kick like a mule's, all in one continuous flow of movement. A circle grew around him, inhabited only by the dead or those about to die.

At last he sheathed his weapons, hoisted the fallen Gunderman over one shoulder like a miller hoisting a sack of grain, and pointed toward the rocks.

"I thought I heard you bid us withdraw that way," he said to me. "I see at least one cave in that ravine to the south." With a long arm covered in other men's blood, he pointed.

His eyes were keener than mine, and his ears had heard no such orders, but I thanked him with a nod for saving my authority over my surviving men. I put myself with the rearguard while Sarabos and his burden led, and we tramped up the slope.

It was my plan, formed in my mind as we moved, to climb to the crest of the rocks and light our smoke torches. That would tell the camp where we were, and they would be up with us long before the surviving Picts could muster numbers or courage to come at us on the high ground.

Conan the Great had a favorite saying: "A man can think out a battle beforehand as much as he pleases, but Fate will still spit in the beer." (Although he did not say "spit.") He never called it his own invention, and I much doubt that it was. Kull of Atlantis could have coined it in his wars against the Snakemen of Valusia.

What spat in our particular tankard that day was the thunderstorm. The clouds swept over the rocks before we could reach the heights. As Sarabos laid the dead Gunderman down, the first drops of rain fell.

Thunder crashed overhead. I looked up to see a thunderbolt sear the ridge. I spat from an all-but-dry mouth. If we climbed to that crest in our armor and the lightning went on playing, more than torches might be set alight.

I looked downslope to judge the closeness of our pursuers. To my surprise, I saw them running off as if we had turned into a band of demons and were on their heels. They were even leaving the weapons of the dead, and it takes great fear to make a Pict do that.

It struck me that whatever so daunted Picts might also be something Aquilonians could justly fear. I saw the same thought on faces around me, but”and all honor to my men and their kin”no one said a craven word.

We did keep our formation as we searched the slope for that cave. It was well that it was not far, for in about the time it takes to change the guard, the rain was coming down in a deluge. We might have been standing under a waterfall, and neither good leather nor oiled wool nor any armor ever forged could keep us from being sodden to the skin.

We covered the final paces to the cave with more haste than dignity, and with small regard for a proper formation. Once inside, with the rain no longer battering on our helmets until it addled our wits, I quickly arrayed the men. Sentries at the mouth of the cave, sentries toward the rear, the driest and cleanest place for the wounded, and those neither standing sentry nor tending the wounded allowed to strip and dry their weapons, armor, and clothes.

I set myself to counting our resources in the matter of food and water.

Each of us had come out with two days' salt meat and hard bread, and a full water-bottle besides the ones we were to fill. If the Picts did not cut us off from the streams, the rills would be swollen full by the rain, and there might be water toward the rear of the cave, which seemed to lead far into the rocks. Such rocks in Pictland were usually honeycombed with underground springs and”

"Captain! To the rear!"

It was one of the rear sentries, a clear-headed Bossonian who would not have let confusion or fear show in his voice without good cause. I ordered all to their feet and all weapons readied, and went to stand beside the sentry.

At the edge of the torchlight, I saw worked stone. It was far too fine to be Pictish work, and far too fresh to have come down from the time of the old Hyborian invasions. I thought I could make out lintels, doorways, benches of living rock, and unwholesomely sinuous figures.

I lit another torch and remembered that this had best be the last I used, or we might not be able to signal the camp when the rain ceased.

The spread of the light extended. I saw that the sinuousity of the figures was no fancy; the worship of Set had once found a home in this cave. I recognized Stygian hieroglyphs and even more arcane signs, of which I neither knew nor wished to know the meaning.

I strode farther to the rear, saw that the cave made a bend, and moved on until I could look beyond the bend into what appeared to be a chamber. Something tall and upright loomed at the outer edge of the light. I took two more steps”

"Crom!"

It was not an image of the Great Serpent, as I had feared. It was the life-sized image of a warrior of gigantic stature, in a strange mix of weapons and garb, half-Pictish and half-Black Coast, with a stout Hyborian broadsword at his waist.

Nor was it hard to put a name to that warrior. On three different campaigns I had seen the same face, older, weathered, the square-cut mane of hair gray, the face adorned with a mustache and in time, a beard, but none other than the one I beheld on the image.

The soft, swift tread of a hunting-panther sounded behind me, and I turned to see Sabaros. He had removed his hood and undone his hair, and I saw in the torchlight that it was jet black. Nor was there any more doubt about the hue of his eyes. They were blue, the same blue as the ice I had once seen in a cave in Gunderland, and fixed on the image with an intensity that seemed to make them glow with an inner light.

It struck me that I had not been wrong to invoke the chief god of Cimmeria and patron of our late king. It likewise struck me that Sabaros of the Black Dragons could doubtless, far more easily than I, put a name to his father.

None of this told me, however, what an image of Conan was doing here in a cave where no civilized man had ever set foot. Stygian sorcerers were civilized only by courtesy, and rumor named some of them not quite wholly men.

Suddenly the cave seemed less a refuge, and the rain”and even the Picts outside”less a peril.

One

The Black Coast, many years earlier:

The man passed through the shadows beneath the great trees by the Umfangu as silently as a lion on the hunt. Indeed, there was much of the lion in his soft-footed tread, the mane of black hair that swept to wide, bronzed shoulders, and the eyes that searched endlessly about him for either prey or rival.

Those eyes, however, had never graced a lion's face, nor that of a man in the Black Kingdoms. They were chill-blue northern eyes, with an intensity in their gaze that might have made a real lion cautious.

Certainly they had done so with more than a few men, and those who had not learned caution from the ice-blue gaze had mostly died before they'd had time for a second lesson.

Now the man's steps took him away from the riverbank and the stout trees there. He approached a small clearing, where a forest giant had toppled years ago, bearing to the ground all in its path. The robust life of the jungle already had saplings and vines mounting the dead tree, but through the gap overhead, sunlight still reached the jungle floor more freely than elsewhere.

The man was only a spears length from the edge of the sunlight when he halted, studying a patch of ferns. With the woods-wisdom gained by many hard lessons, some few not easily survived, he knew that he must watch from some other place today. The ferns would hold traces of his presence far too long.

Left or right? Left, he decided. That would take him away from the trail that entered the clearing on the far side. Never had he seen more than a handful of the natives”nor any animal he could not face barehanded”come down that trail. Never, likewise, did the jungle cease to hold deadly surprises for the unwary.

Now he moved even more silently than before, and more cautiously. His steps took him from a root that would bear little trace of his passing to dry ground that could be brushed clean of footprints, and from there on to a swinging vine that kept him entirely clear of the ground for six good paces. The vine sagged under his massive weight, but neither broke nor left other traces of his passing.

At last the man reached his goal. The blue eyes narrowed as he studied the clearing, finding no changes and no movement. He settled into the roots of another giant tree, so completely still that his massive limbs might have been part of the roots themselves.

The eyes would have revealed life to anyone drawing close enough. That revelation would have come too late for any foe, however. A broadsword lay across the calloused knees, a stout dagger hung from the thong of a rawhide breechclout, and two handmade spears leaned against one of the roots. Any or all of these weapons would have drunk a foe's lifeblood before the man recognized danger.

In this also, the man was like a lion. Indeed, his name in these lands was "Amra"”the lion. Fairly earned in battle, too, although he did not care to let his thoughts dwell long on those battles.

His birth-name, though, matched those eyes of northern ice. He was called Conan, and his native land was bleak Cimmeria.

***

Kubwande, son of D'beno, bore a headdress as well as a loinguard of zebra-hide. These marked him as an iqako”a Bamula title best translated as "lesser war chief."

He also bore a stout boar-hide shield, two spears with sharp bog-iron points, and a war club carved with signs against witchcraft. He wore anklets of feathers dyed with berries and roots known best to the Bamulas' wizards. He expected that before this day's sunset, he might need all of these weapons and protections.

Not only was this hunting party on the trail of wild boar”nearly as cunning and well-armed as the great cats for leaving empty places in the huts of the Bamulas”but also Kubwande was hunting under the leadership of qamu (greater war chief) Idosso.

The qamu was not Kubwande's mortal enemy, because even Idosso knew that a man must sleep sometime. While he sleeps, it is as well if those who wish his death are too few to overcome those who guard him. It was no secret between the two warriors that Idosso wished to be the next war chief of the Bamulas and that Kubwande wished someone else would be so honored. But this did not make for blood-feud between them, as yet.

Indeed, Kubwande was ready to see Idosso honored by gods and men alike¦
if he would but give ear to Kubwande's advice.

Kubwande still thought it was somehow fitting to hunt boar in Idosso's company. The man was larger than all but a handful among the Bamulas, as strong as he was large, fierce of temper, but not without some cunning. A dangerous man to judge lightly, as two hand'sworth of the bleached skulls of enemies outside Idosso's huts made plain to all but fools.

Being no fool, Kubwande intended that his skull should remain upon his shoulders. This meant giving Idosso no cause for a chiefs' bout unless there was a chance of victory.

Or perhaps that the battle not be to the death? Kubwande knew that Idosso had enemies among the kin of those he had slain. Those kin might not fight Idossa themselves, but some of them had the ear of greater chiefs. Kubwande was no mealie-bearer girl but a seasoned warrior more useful to the Bamulas alive than dead.

It would all be as the gods wished, of course, but Kubwande was one to go about his life as he wished until the gods told him otherwise. Today he wished a good hunt, with a fine boar at the end of it, and a feast of roast pork whose flavor not even Idosso's presence would be able to spoil.

Kubwande licked his lips at that thought, aimed an imaginary spear at an imaginary boar some fifty paces off to the right, and sank the spear deep between the shoulder blades. The boar took two steps, then went to its knees, rolled over on its side, and died kicking in the dead ferns”

"Kubwande!" Idosso called. "Are we at peace with the Fish-Eaters?"

Kubwande did not start, but knew shame, and moreover, that the shame was just. His attention had not been where it belonged.

"The Fish-Eaters are no great peril even when they are enemies,"

Kubwande said. "Nor do I think they have much stomach to be so, after our last battle with them."

Idosso grinned, showing front teeth bearing the ritual carvings of one who had slain a lion with a spear. It was Idosso who had led the last Bamula war party against the Fish-Eaters, and slain with his own hands six of their warriors.

Kubwande thought that any man who could be so easily turned by flattery was not a good choice for war chief, but the vice had its uses. Keeping peace among the hunters today was not the least of them.

It was time to watch behind. Kubwande and six other warriors halted, turned to face back down the trail, and raised spears. One blew a bone whistle. Its eerie call drew equally eerie replies from birds, but none from humans or spirits.

To finish the ritual, Kubwande raised his war club, whirled it three times around his head, and flung it down the trail. It struck a tree so hard that the club bounced back and fell almost at his feet.

The signs were all good. Nothing they need fear was on their trail.

While hunting boar, that was just as well.

***

Conan the Cimmerian could sleep as readily as any cat, but he remained wakeful as he lay among the tree roots, watching the clearing. He was not in one of his regular hiding places, each chosen carefully, then set about with snares and traps that none could pass through without waking him.

He was half a day from the nearest of those refuges, in land claimed by the tribe called the Fish-Eaters. The Fish-Eaters could hardly have been a menace even if they wished to be, but fear can make weaklings deadly.

Also, the Bamulas had taken to wandering in the Fish-Eaters' land as if it were their own. No one on the Black Coast despised the Bamulas.

Conan knew of them only by what their enemies said, but there had been several warriors from tribes hostile to the Bamulas aboard Tigress. The Bamulas had offered a good price for those warriors, or so Belit had said, but she refused.

"I will sell no one to the Bamulas," she added. "If I deal with them at all, I will buy”and at the same price I pay the Stygians."

Blood and steel, death and fear, were the coin Belit used against the Stygians, until her own end. Now the clean seas held her ashes and those of Tigress; the jungles along the Zarkheba River held the bones of her crew, Conan's erstwhile comrades; and the Cimmerians mind held¦
what?

Memories of sharing more than he had ever dreamed he could share with a woman, far more than a shared bed”although those memories alone would have given many men wakeful nights. Memories that made her¦ call her a cherished comrade and one would not be far off the mark.

Nor, the Cimmerian thought, would Belit's spirit disdain the name.

Anymore than her body had disdained his embraces, or her warriors Conan's leadership¦

It had been a good time, and now it was past. No son of Cimmeria spent much time mourning what was gone forever”the harsh northern land allowed few luxuries, and that one least of all. Moreover, Conan had sent Belit home to the ocean aboard the ship in which she took such pride, and of which she had made so fearful a name along the Stygian shores.

The slate was clean. But he had known when he put the torch to Tigress that it would be a good long while before he set foot aboard ship again. With his memories and weapons, his knowledge of the Black Coast gained from his comrades aboard Tigress, and a sailors kitbag slung over one shoulder, he had plunged inland.

A footfall that none but a hunter, human or animal, could have heard ended Conan's brief reverie. He moved only his head, having contrived his position so that he need move nothing else to study the whole clearing.

The footfalls continued, light, sure, and drawing closer. The Cimmerian raised a finger to test the scant breeze. The finger said again what his ears had already told him, that the visitors were coming down the path.

Now he could count their number by ear. More than one, all but certainly. Not enough to fear, even if they were not Fish-Eaters.

Conan waited. If the Bamulas were thrusting their hunting parties this deep into Fish-Eater land, it was worth knowing. It was not worth a fight; only in tales to amuse children did a single hero defeat a whole tribe. But peaceful oblivion in the depths of the jungles of the Black Coast would be as much past as Belit, and”

Three women stepped into the clearing. Each carried a jug on her head and a basket on one hip, slung from the opposite shoulder. The sling thong was all the women wore above the waist, and below it they wore only cloths wrapped from hips to knees. Nor did any of them look the worse for being thus revealed. A well-formed woman never hurt a man's eye, no matter what hue her skin might be.

The women set down their jugs, unslung their baskets, and placed all of them in a rough circle in the middle of the clearing. Then they knelt and prostrated themselves seven times toward the offerings. An earring raw gold dangled from each woman's left ear, and one them had a ring of ivory and gold in her nose.

They rose, breasts bobbing in a manner that would have made a stone statue stare wide-eyed, and looked about them. Conan wondered what they were expecting, awaiting, or perhaps hoping for.

He decided that it was probably not him leaping from his hiding place.

He had yet to meet a woman who warmed readily to a man who began by scaring her out of her wits.

The vigil lasted, as did the silence. Conan had just noticed that the girl with the nose ring also had blue feathers woven into her tightly curled hair, when his instincts warned him of something else.

The silence had lasted too long and grown too complete. The normal din of the jungle had ceased, and it did that only at the appearance of something unknown or hostile.

Neither Conan nor the girls had provoked the jungle life. This said little about the new presence, but what it did say made Conan slide from his watching place, lifting a spear as he moved. A snake might have envied the smoothness and silence of his movement; certainly it drew no response from the women.

Then something unheard even by the Cimmerian made all three of them whirl. A moment later they had vanished up the path, with only the last flicker of the last woman's skirt lingering briefly in Conan's vision.

If it had not been for the jugs and baskets in the clearing, he might have thought the women had been a dream, risen from bad wine or an empty belly.

There was no wine in this jungle, although the native beer was robust enough to satisfy a drinking man's thirst. But an empty belly was another matter. Conan's stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding him to check his snares on the road homeward. In this steaming forest, snared animals died quickly, and more quickly still became unfit to eat.

The thought of beer turned Conan's eyes back to the jugs. It could do no harm to see what the women had left behind, and if it looked doubtful, there were plenty of apes to test it for poison.

Conan's eyes roamed ceaselessly around the clearing as he crossed it to the offerings. His long arms barely bent twigs or disturbed leaves as he reached in for baskets and jugs. With one of each in either hand, he withdrew into the shadows, walking backward as if each step was made on a carpet of spiderweb stretched over a bottomless pit.

Invisible in the shadows again, he drew the bark stopper from the jug.

Its contents smelled like beer, surely enough, and felt like it on the back of his hand. Moreover, when he cautiously licked that hand”

It was then that the Cimmerian noticed the sign on both the jugs and the baskets. It was the Fish-Eaters' sign of an offering to an unknown spirit. The tribe had five chief gods, each with his own sign, and a sixth sign for spirits, good or evil, who came from none of the five.

Beer and mealie-bread, fruit and dried fish, would be a welcome addition to his diet. They would also be stolen from something as near a god as made no difference.

No lover of priests or believer in their babble, the Cimmerian doubted the gods cared much for what men did or left undone. He had also spoken truly to Belit when he said of the gods, "I would not tread on their shadow," and who could say how hard he was treading on whose shadow with this little theft?

There were wise thieves and foolish thieves, and Conan walked the forests of the Black Coast only because years ago in Zingara, he had learned the difference. He would be a wise thief and return the offerings from whence they had come.

He had just risen to take the first return step when a woman's scream sounded from well down the trail. Then Conan heard war cries”some of them Bamula, some in no tongue he recognized”fierce gruntings, and another scream.

As he snatched for weapons, Conan let the offerings fall from his hand; let the spirits pick them up if they so wished. A single leap took him over the other offerings and the tree trunk. Vines looped serpent-like around his legs but he pulled free, without sound and almost without slowing.

He had a spear in his left hand and the broadsword-blazing in his right as he plunged to the trail.

***

Kubwande and the warriors watching the rear whirled at the sudden din, raising spears and shields, waiting for the jungle to sprout enemies, or at least answers. Curiosity might eat at them, but it was the honor of a Bamula warrior to watch only where he had sworn to watch and not let his eyes wander like a woman's.

Only when Idosso shouted, "All men to the fore!" was the rearguard released from its oath. Then curiosity lent wings to Kubwande's feet as he led his men forward to Idosso's aid.

It was not at once clear what aid the senior chief might need. He gripped one Fish-Eater woman by her nose ring and the waist of her skirt, while another warrior was kneeling on the back of a second woman.

The second woman was entirely naked, save for the rawhide thongs now being swiftly looped about her wrists. A hobble hung from the warrior's loinguard, ready to encircle the woman's ankles.

"Idosso, it will be a sad day for the Bamulas when a warrior such as you needs help with two Fish-Eater women!" Kubwande said. He hoped the flattery would take the edge off the statement.

Idosso's woman kicked sharply backward, landing a bare foot in the big warrior's groin hard enough to make him grunt. His hands tightened, ready to twist and tear.

Kubwande's breath caught. He had heard of what Idosso could do to captive women if angered. He did not wish to see it, and indeed wished that it not happen at all, if he could contrive this without a challenge to Idosso.

"There were three women," Idosso said. "All had been making offerings to the unknown spirit. Then something frightened them. They will not tell me what."

"If it is peril for them as well as for us, they will tell without torture. If it is peril only for us, they will die before they warn us."

"That may take a while," Idosso growled.

"Too long, if one has escaped and even now runs to warn her folk,"

Kubwande said. "True, they are only Fish-Eaters

The woman on the ground made a foul suggestion about what Kubwande could do with his manhood. The woman in Idosso's grip looked ready to spit in someone's face. Kubwande hoped she would not.

"”and one Bamula is worth ten of them. But we are so deep in Fish-Eater land that they may come ten times ten for each of us. Then all we will have is a praise-song over our bones instead of an answer."

"True. Also, bones enjoy no woman's flesh." Idosso let go of the nose ring, shifting his grip to the woman's arm. In spite of her kicks, he gripped both wrists in one gigantic hand.

"Now, girl, you earn our being kind to you. What brought you here, and what frightened you?"

Kubwande saw the play of hatred, doubt, and fear on the woman's face, and at last her decision to speak, before Idosso had done more than twist her wrists lightly. That showed wisdom, facing Idosso, or indeed, many Bamulas.

"We¦ we came to offer to the unknown spirit, who has taken a man's form," the woman said.

"A man's form? When? And what kind of man?" Kubwande's questions leapt like spears before Idosso could open his mouth.

Idosso looked a savage curse at the lesser chief, but ere he could gather wits or words for more, a crashing of trampled jungle foliage made everyone snatch weapons. Then the curtain of leaves to the right flew apart, and a thin brown-skinned man clad only in a dirty white loincloth leapt onto the trail. Kubwande saw blood on the mans arms and thighs.

He also saw blood on the tusks of the colossal boar that followed the man into view a moment later. Even Bamula warriors needed a moment to gather courage and wits to face a creature that size, high as Idosso's waist at the shoulders and grizzled with age that brought cunning without taking away strength.

Another man who ran from the shadows down the trail had no such hesitation. His spear flew as swiftly and as truly as if his eye had commanded his arm without the need for thought.

Only a shifting of the boars feet kept the spear from striking a mortal blow. It pierced deep into the beast's flank, but did not reach his life.

Instead, it drew his attention to the newcomer. The boar whirled with a squeal of rage and pain. Then it lowered its head and lunged for the spearman.

Kubwande raised his own spear, but found that he could not throw without risk of hitting either a comrade or the man. As the man flung a second spear, aimed to gouge the boars back, Kubwande had a clear look at him for the first time.

No warrior of this band save Idosso could have looked the man in the eye. His hair was as dark as any jungle dwellers, but long and straight, and the Black Kingdoms had never given birth to such a pale skin. No land that Kubwande knew had ever produced those fierce blue eyes, like a lion's in all but color.

It seemed to the Bamula warrior that they now knew what form the unknown spirit had taken.

Two

Conan had just time to notice something odd about the wounded man, the boar's first victim. Then he had to give all his attention to the beast, lest he become its next one.

An ordinary broadsword was not the best weapon against a boar perhaps slowed, perhaps weakened, but yet with tusks and muscle enough to be deadly if it reached close quarters. That was the problem with the broadsword: only by chance could it keep the boar at arm's length.

By chance, or by a single swift cut.

The boar whuffled. Conan shifted to a two-handed grip, although the sword's hilt barely had room for both his broad hands.

The boar's hooves churned earth as it charged. Conan crouched, swung, and leapt aside in a single flow of movement as swift and smooth as the strike of a viper.

The sword sheared through the boar's forelegs. Sheer momentum carried the beast forward, to ram its snout into a tree. There it thrashed and scrabbled frantically with bloody stumps of forelegs and intact hindlegs.

Then the Cimmerian's sword came down like an executioners axe, on the back of the bristly neck. Flesh and bone parted, a final bellow ended in silence, and the boar lay still.

Conan studied the blade for nicks, then wiped it quickly on the boar's hide. The jungle was as hard as the sea on a good weapon. The broadsword was not his whole arsenal, but it would be his weapon of choice as long as rust did not eat it like a crocodile gulping down a baby.

Only when he was satisfied at the condition of his weapon did the Cimmerian rise from a crouch to face the watching men. He recognized them as Bamulas from their headdresses and tattoos, and as alert and wary from their stances and lifted spears. It seemed best to make a gesture of peace toward them, lest some of those spears fly because of some witling's fear.

Conan thrust the broadsword into its scabbard and crossed both arms on his chest. "I am Conan the Cimmerian. I am here in peace. I make you a gift of this boar."

Most of the spear-points and shields dipped a trifle. The Bamulas seemed to understand him. Now would they believe him? He hoped the pirates' cant he had learned aboard Tigress would be enough. The crew had been of a score of different tribes, and their common tongue was a stew of words from all, flavored with Shemitish and even Stygian words for good measure.

Before Conan could speak again, a woman broke away from the grip of the tallest Bamula and ran toward the Cimmerian. At this, one of the Bamulas flung a spear, and Conan's sword leapt from its scabbard with the speed of thought.

The spear fell harmlessly to the ground, cloven in two as neatly as any butcher ever divided a sausage, and the woman flung herself at Conan's feet. She babbled and wept at the same time, speaking too quickly for him to follow more than one word in five. It seemed likely that she was asking for his protection, and it seemed certain that the Bamulas would be displeased if he granted it.

Nonetheless, no woman had ever called on the Cimmerian for protection without receiving at least some measure of it. He put his foot lightly on the back of her neck, a gesture he had seen Belit make in claiming lordship over certain prisoners.

The tall Bamula who had been holding her frowned. "Is this your woman?"

he asked.

"I could ask you the same," Conan said. "I take no man's woman, but I wonder what a Bamula does here with a Fish-Eater girl."

"I am Idosso, a qamu of the Bamulas, lords of this land," the man said.

"The girl is my prize."

"The last I heard, this was the land of the Fish-Eaters," Conan said mildly.

"The Fish-Eaters have only what the Bamulas allow them," Idosso said.

This drew a glare from a second woman Conan now saw for the first time, lying bound and entirely bare on the ground among the other warriors.

The woman at Conan's feet raised her head. He gently pushed it back down. Idosso seemed a man with a long tongue and a short temper, the sort best not angered without need, in any land.

"Pardon, qamus Idosso and Conan," a Bamula warrior said. "But I think we need to take thought for this man." He pointed at the boar's victim, now sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes closed. "He babbles in no tongue I have ever heard."

Conan saw Idosso frown at the Cimmerian being given the honorific title, and he recognized a cunning trap. The warrior who spoke was no giant like Idosso, who had nearly Conan's own height and thews, but his eyes told of sharp wits that he made useful in place of sheer strength.

"Why do you ask me”?" Conan said.

"Kubwande, son of D'beno, iqako of the Bamulas as was D'Beno before me, is he who speaks," the warrior said, making several gestures of obvious formality whose exact nature Conan did not recognize.

He did recognize, though, the wisdom of taking every chance for politeness when he faced odds of twenty to one, and the twenty all stout fighting men. Judging by his first sight of Bamulas, they were living up to their reputation.

Kubwande was hardly as fair to the eyes as Belit, but he seemed as ready to give Conan a friendly welcome among strangers.

"Kubwande, I will help this wounded man if you will tell me why you think I know his speech. I will also take nothing that any Bamula claims as his, nor shed the blood of any who does not seek mine. By Crom and Mitra, I swear it."

Those last names some warriors clearly recognized; Conan saw gestures of aversion. The two women stared wide-eyed at him.

"The women say you are the flesh of the Fish-Eaters' unknown spirit,"

Kubwande said. "They were on their way from offering to you when we met them."

"They have part of the truth, anyway," Conan said. "I am flesh, and need food. But not as badly as this poor wretch needs help."

Conan knelt beside the wounded man. No, dying”he had the look the Cimmerian had seen too often, on many battlefields. The boar had struck deep enough to reach the man's life, which would flee his body no matter if three kings' doctors did their best for him.

Conan's best was not that good, but he had survived enough wounds of his own and tended more than a few wounded comrades. His hands were firm but light as he bound the man's wounds, listening all the while for some words that would explain the mystery of his appearance here.

For it was a mystery. By garb and appearance, the man was a Vendhyan, and Vendhya was half a years hard journey from the Black Coast! Perhaps he had fled slavery in Stygia, where folk of every race on earth, and (so it was whispered) some not of earth, toiled under the lash of Stygian slavemasters.

But Stygia was also a good long journey from this jungle trail, and the man showed no marks of either a journey or slavery. He was slim but well-fleshed under the brown skin, his hands showed no callouses from years of brutal labor, and his back showed no wounds save those from thorns and the boar.

Then the man began to babble in his dying delirium, calling for his mother, and the mystery deepened. Certainly the man was a Vendhyan; Conan had spent enough time in that land to do more than separate a few jewels from its rich lords. He had warred, wenched, and learned the tongue the dying man was now speaking.

But he was not speaking to much purpose, as was only to be expected of the dying. Conan knew that no shaking or shouting would bring the man to his senses, and held his peace. What the gods wanted the man to say, he would. Otherwise he would take his secret with him”and Conan did not find it in him to blame the man, dying as he was, alone and far from home.

Suddenly the man's eyes widened and he sat up with a shriek of indescribable terror. He flung one arm up so violently that Conan's dressing of his wounds tore free and blood flowed again. The Cimmerian turned to look where the bloody hand was pointing, but saw only air and jungle before it.

"The gate!" the man cried out. "The demon's gate! It opens again. The demon calls. Beware, beware, be

Blood gurgled in the Vendhyan's throat and trickled from the corner of his mouth. His arm fell back limp, and although his eyes remained open, they saw nothing.

Conan was reaching to close those staring eyes when he felt something prod his back. He turned his head, to see a young Bamula warrior holding a spear with two hands, neither of them entirely steady.

Slowly, Conan rose to his full height. Just as slowly, he turned around. The warrior raised the spear until its point touched Conan's chest.

Then two massive arms swung like bludgeons. The first rammed into the pit of the warrior's stomach, doubling and lifting him at the same time to meet the second fist on his jaw. He flew backward through a gap in the Bamula ranks and fetched up in a tangle of vine.

Conan waited to see that the warrior was still breathing, then picked up the fallen spear. Without apparent effort, he snapped the stout shaft in two.

"The next man who prods me, I will feed his own spear," the Cimmerian said. "The Bamulas have no name for being fools, so what ate his wits?"

Kubwande met Conan's eyes without flinching. "He thought you were a demon, for knowing the speech of the stranger."

A demon, and the Vendhyan had spoken of a demon's gate. It seemed that the man had left behind him an even deeper mystery!

Conan looked at the fallen warrior, who was struggling to rise. "I am no more a demon than you are," he growled. He strode to the dead boar and drew his own spears from the carcase. "Have you ever heard of Amra, the pale-skinned warrior, companion to Belit of Tigress?"

Even this far inland, that was a name to conjure with in the Black Kingdoms. The fallen man nodded as two comrades helped him to his feet.

To speak the truth did not avoid peril if the Bamulas had received injury at Belit's hands or at those of one who followed her. Conan knew of no such incident, and he and Belit had sailed, loved, and fought together for so long that he doubted she'd had many secrets from him.

But it was always the one secret a man did not learn that doomed him, and if so, Conan would soon follow the Vendhyan.

At least then he could ask the man what his dying babblings had meant.

But no hostility showed in the chiseled black faces or watchful dark eyes around Conan. Then Kubwande spoke, in accents of surprise and pleasure.

"You are he?"

"The very man. No need to worry about my being a Fish-Eater spirit or a demon."

"Eh," Idosso said. "We heard that Belit was dead and Tigress no more.

Also her warriors."

"You heard the truth," Conan said. He kept his voice level. "She fell afoul of the ugliest sort of magick and died of it, with most of her men. I avenged the dead, sent the living home, and gave Belit and her ship to the sea."

His tongue grew more nimble as he spoke of Tigress's last voyage, and his eyes no longer saw the Bamulas around him. When he finished speaking, it seemed that they too no longer saw what lay around them, but instead, the burning ship carrying the Queen of the Black Coast to her ocean grave.

"Were there any Bamulas among those who lived?" Kubwande asked after a long silence.

"None who called themselves so," Conan said. "Also, some of those who lived were of a mind to seize another ship and go on bedeviling the Stygians. I was not. I had a sign from the gods to go inland and find new friends there."

In truth, he had lacked the heart to look again at the sea, the shroud of a beloved battle-comrade. But he had given the Bamulas all the truth they deserved, and if they still doubted him, they could send him to join Belit!

Whether Conan's tale or what they saw in his eyes and in the calloused hands gripping the spears won over the Bamulas, he saw them lowering spears and unslinging shields. Two of them bent to lift the dead Vendhyan. Others improvised a litter of spears, to bear the dead boar.

"Will you follow us, Amra?" Kubwande asked when the warriors were ready to depart.

Conan shook his head, then handed Kubwande one of the spears. "Take this as a pledge of my friendship for the Bamulas, but do not ask me to come with you. My vision said I must stay apart from all men yet a while longer."

"But the Fish-Eaters”?" asked.the young warrior who'd paid for his spear-prodding with a sore jaw and belly.

Conan laughed at the youths concern. "I am as good a man as any Bamula, and which of you would fear Fish-Eaters?"

The two women's sharp looks and Idosso's raised hand reminded Conan of a last matter. "I wish that these women decide freely whose they shall be. This also my vision has told me to ask."

The two women stared at each other, then at Idosso, and finally at Conan. The one with the nose ornament pointed at Idosso.

Conan had long, since understood that women had no more sense than men, but these women's decision seemed altogether foolish.

"May I ask why?"

"You are god-touched, Amra. We cannot be to you as women to a man.

Idosso is only a warrior at which words the man grunted very like the boar "”and not¦ not¦"

"A speaker of demons' tongues?"

The women looked bleak as Idosso howled with laughter. Conan bit back curses on the women and sharp replies to the big chief.

"So be it. But I owe the women this much for their offerings. If they are ill-treated, I will learn of it, and those who ill-treat them will answer to me."

Idosso's stance said how little he cared about that, and Conan wondered if he should press his claim more vigorously in spite of the women's fancies. Idosso seemed likely to be a harsh master, but also likely to be in a fury over losing the women. Not because they were so rare among the Black Kingdoms, but out of a surfeit of pride.

The Cimmerian had seen rather more such men than he cared to remember, and killed a good many of them. Too swiftly adding Idosso to their number, however, might not win friends among the Bamulas. And unlike the Fish-Eaters, the Bamulas knew who he was, where he was, and how to send enough warriors to drive him into desperate flight, or an equally desperate last battle.

"Let it be so," Idosso grunted. Then he spoke sharply, too fast for Conan to follow his words. The warriors had no such trouble, however; they were formed up in a few heartbeats and hurrying down the trail in a few more.

Conan looked at the bloodstains where the boar had fallen and where the Vendhyan had died, then slung his spears over one shoulder and drew his sword. He returned up the trail as he had come down it, sword in hand, but at a more leisurely pace.

He also had no hesitation about making a meal of the offerings, although when he was done, he knew at least one bread-maker among the Fish-Eaters who should be thrashed!

Three

Far to the north, a sorcerer named Lysenius sat in a cave whose rock he had shaped into the likeness of a Stygian temple, and cursed in a scarlet fury.

No one in the Black Kingdoms heard his curses, nor would they have understood them if they had. Indeed, no one at all heard most of them save his daughter Scyra, who had heard them far too often for them to have any power to either amuse or anger her.

Some Picts heard a few of the curses, borne on the night wind. They made signs of aversion, telling one another that this time the anger of the white shaman was so great that surely it would lead him to make war on the very gods themselves.

If that were to come about, they wished to be a long way from the battlefield.

Conan spent little time after his meeting with the Bamulas wondering if they saw him as friend or foe, man or mage. He commonly left that sort of thing to scholars and scribes with no real work to fill their days.

Here in the Black Kingdoms, Conan was beyond the reach of scribes and scholars. The days settled into an endless flow, with a rhythm of eating, sleeping, hunting, bathing in streams, and tending his weapons and snares. The Fish-Eaters brought no more offerings, but there was ripe fruit and fat game aplenty; only a fool could starve in the Black Kingdoms.

Being no fool, the Cimmerian fed well. Being no fool, he also grew eyes in the back of his head and ears in his elbows and knees whenever he left his refuges. The Fish-Eaters might someday be moved to do more than refuse him offerings, brooding over those wenches whose fancies had led them to go with Idosso. Not likely, and hardly soon, in a land where a single spearman's share of loot from Tigress would buy a harem fit to make Iranistani noblemen jealous, but still, it was a danger to be considered.

A danger, also, that like leopards, crocodiles, wild bees, and poisoned vines, was likely to strike only those who did not consider it at all.

**

Among the warriors of the Bamulas, some talked of the white man the Fish-Eaters thought was a god. They did not talk of him by the name of "Amra," for that name was a secret kept among Idosso's band, who had bound themselves to its secrecy by fearful oaths. Both Idosso and Kubwande had also bound the women by similar oaths, likewise by threats of dire and lingering punishment, and in Kubwande's case, by the promise of gold and a servant of his own from among Idosso's women.

Idosso seemed to think that promising rewards to the women, instead of merely threatening them with punishment, was a madman's whim. It was, however, one that he seemed prepared to allow.

He was likewise curious over Idosso's insistence that Conan's perhaps being the notorious Amra should be kept a secret. So curious, indeed, that he asked Idosso about it, in tones that would brook no silence.

"As simple as a Fish-Eater," Kubwande said, then asked pardon for the insult of calling Idosso by that name.

"One day you will ask pardon for your tongue's nimbleness and I will reply by pinning it to the roof of your mouth with my spear," Idosso said. "I am not a tame ape, to be made to perform until you can sell me to the Stygians. You sell me to anyone, Kubwande, and you will go there with me."

Kubwande assured the chief that buying and selling anyone except a few more women was as far from his mind as the Mountains of the Moon were from the hut where they sat and drank beer served by the Fish-Eater women. Idosso grunted what might have been assent.

The lesser chief took it as such. "Do we know that Tigress and her mistress are gone? Has anyone seen their bones?"

"If Amra tells the truth, he went to some trouble to be sure that no one would."

"If. Or he might be spying on us for her, while she finds new men and readies ships to come upriver."

"We will fill her new men and her old alike with spears if she does that," Idosso said around a mouthful of mealies. "Her, too, if she is as brazen about leading her fighters as the tales have it."

"Should we do that before we know what she wishes in these lands?"

Kubwande asked. "Remember, a dozen tribes have given warriors to her crew. Hardly a single tribe has any feud with her, or she with them.

And we are no better friends to the Stygians than she was. Since either of us were warriors, has a year gone by when their slave-raiders have not needed to be chased back into their own lands, with spears prodding the laggards?"

Idosso laughed at the picture, not least because he had led such war parties more than once, and made much of his reputation thereby. "So.

You think maybe Amra is spying for one who might be a friend of his?"

"I do not know otherwise. Until I do, this man is like a dagger hidden in one's loinguard. Do not bring it out before the right time, when it will strike a single deadly blow."

Kubwande could see Idosso's wits struggling to grasp what the other truly meant. He waited in patience. Better if the man understood it without aid.

"He!" Idosso exclaimed at last, and tossed the beer gourd so high it stuck in the grass of the hut's roof. "We keep Amra's secret, and he may talk to us alone among the Bamulas. If his mistress has friendship to sell, then she will sell it to us. Whoever brings the Queen of the Black Coast to friendship with the Bamulas

He did not finish. There was no need. Kept a secret, Amra would be a dagger to thrust into the bellies of rivals for the ivory stool of the war chief. Thinking that, Idosso was content to let his ambition rule him. And Kubwande, well aware of that ambition, knew that he might rule Idosso.

At least for as long as necessary. One could not keep the peace with such a man forever, even if one pretended friendship for him. He was too quick to anger and too slow to think.

But the blood-feud might be like the concealed dagger or Amra, something to be brought out only at the proper time.

***

Conan knew nothing of the intrigues among the chiefs of the Bamulas.

Had he known, he would have cared much less than Kubwande hoped, at least until someone insulted Belit's memory.

Then doubtless his temper would have got the better of him and it would have been a red day in the history of the Bamulas before the Cimmerian went down under the sheer weight of spears, if indeed he went down at all. Foes as formidable as the Bamulas had in the past thought long odds meant a dead Cimmerian, and had ended as food for the vultures before they could learn greater wisdom.

Conan intended to leave the Bamulas in peace; he hoped they would do the same and not give him any cause to change his mind by mistreating the women. If they were thus amenable, they could fight all their neighbors, none of their neighbors, themselves, demons, or the very gods, without troubling his dreams.

He was more wary of the Fish-Eaters. Doubtless they would learn the truth about the women's disappearance. Doubtless also, they would in time consider avenging themselves on a foe they could overcome, which would not be the Bamulas. Conan added more snares to the paths around his refuges, which began to look like lairs, slept lightly, and kept weapons to hand every moment, waking or sleeping.

He also set fish-traps in certain streams. Tigress had carried away more loot than gold and jewels from her prey”weapons, ships gear, and food among them. The food had often failed between one prize and another, however, and during those long days, nets and lines went over the side. The catch went into the bellies of Belit's sea-wolves, either at once or after some while in barrels of salt brine.

Belit had always jested about fish being food for lovers and insisted that Conan eat his fill to be a fit consort for her. On the whole, he did not think that anything short of starvation could kill a man's interest in a woman like Belit. But while he held her, he held his peace¦ and grew accustomed to fish.

So when he found a stream that ran deep but no more than two lance-length's wide, and abounded in strange but succulent fish, he turned his hand to catching some of the bounty. Saplings and reeds, with thongs of grass and vine coated with plant sap to keep them from rotting, were enough for his purpose.

He soon had three traps set, close enough together that he could visit all of them once at dawn and once at twilight. He had them placed where he thought that both he and they were safe from prying eyes and greedy hands.

***

He was right, at least about human eyes and hands.

On a still night, Conan awakened to the roll of thunder. But his near-animal keenness of instinct found something wrong with the thunder.

It had come not only without rain, but without wind. He would not say that it had come without clouds, for here one could not see the sky without climbing trees taller than the towering pines of the Border Kingdom.

He listened, ears searching the darkness for the slightest sound that might tell him more. He heard nothing but the common night birds and insects of the jungle, with their rasps and shrieks, their whines and chirrs, as they sought food or mates.

The Cimmerian slipped from the hammock that was one of the few comforts he had taken from Tigress before she sailed on her last voyage. His feet made no more sound than that of a leopards, and his hands, guided by night-keen eyes, moved surely as he girded on his weapons.

After the thunderclap, the silence had lasted too long. Natural thunder did not come in single claps.

Something not of nature, or at least not of the jungle, was abroad tonight. Conan did not know whether he could fight it, or even if it would be worth his while to do so. But he knew that it was always better to be the hunter than the hunted.

He stalked rather than strode as he swung in a wide circle around his lair, a circle that took him toward the principal stream in the area.

He disturbed ferns and grass, branches and vines, hardly more than one of the great cats would have done, prowling the jungle in search of prey.

Now he searched the night with every sense alert, one hand on sword-hilt, spear in the other hand, dagger on belt, and two more spears slung over his back. Even a leopard plummeting from above would have found the Cimmerian no easy prey, for besides bearing ample steel, he looked upward with every few breaths.

Halfway around the circle, Conan had found nothing amiss. He had begun to think that his ears, or the jungle, had deceived him, drawing him out into the night on a fools errand.

He kept on, however. As long as he walked this path, it would do no harm to pass by his fish-traps, saving himself the journey in the morning. Also, he knew that the jungles of the Black Kingdoms held much that he did not know of. He had come a long way from the young thief in Zamora, more boy than man, only less clumsy than an ox and so ignorant he did not even know that he was ignorant.

At first, Conan thought the growls ahead did come from one of the great cats, mating or feeding, perhaps wrathful at being disturbed. Then he heard a deepness in the growls that spoke of a beast larger than any of the cats”or indeed, of any other creature of the jungle.

The hippopotamus and elephant grew larger than the cats, to be sure, as did the crocodiles. None of them growled. Conan walked softly now, and his broadsword rode free in a weathered, scar-knuckled hand.

At the last moment, he swerved aside from his usual path to the stream and slipped through the undergrowth to a spot that he knew would let him see without being seen. If this was a natural creature, that is; he remembered the single thunderclap, and the Vendhyan who babbled of "the demon's gate."

It was a natural beast Conan saw from his hiding place, and indeed, one he had seen before. But nothing in nature had ever brought it here.

It was one of the great snowbears of the far north, beyond not only Cimmeria, but the lands of the Aesir and Vanir. The hardiest of northerners, men who could trade blows all day and hoist mead horns all night, walked softly in the presence of the snowbear. It was twice the height and five times the weight of a large man, swift as a ferret, with teeth a finger long, and claws like daggers in all four platter-sized feet.

It was also nothing that the Black Kingdoms had ever seen. Nor, as far as the Cimmerian knew, was there any land within half a year's travel that had seen them, or any mountains closer by to offer one a home of snow and ice.

The bear showed no signs of any long journey. Its thick white fur hung damply from flanks unsunken by hunger, and the gaze in the chill black eyes held no weariness. Conan had fought serpents whose gaze held more warmth than the snowbear's.

From what Conan remembered of northern tales of the snowbears, they were great eaters of fish. So it surprised him hardly at all when the bear ambled to the stream, thrust a paw in and came up with Conan's fish-trap and all the fish within it. The fish-trap slithered onto the bank, the fish twisting and flopping.

The bears paw came down like an axe. Stout reeds and well-tied knots parted like rotten threads, and fish flew everywhere. One flew higher than the rest. The bear reared, opened its mouth, and plucked the fish out of the air with the ease of an Argossean youth playing street-ball.

In that moment, the bear's vitals lay open to a shrewd blow from spear or arrow. It was long range for a spear, but Conan wasted not a single breath regretting that he had no bow.

Propelled by a thick Cimmerian arm, the spear struck with the force of a shaft from the heaviest of Bossonian longbows. A hand'sbreadth left or right and the fight would have been over in the same moment it began.

Ill luck”some fault in Conan's aim, or perhaps a puff of breeze”sent the spear astray. It drove through fur and skin but struck a rib before doing any harm.

The bear reared again, its growl becoming a roar. One swipe of a vast paw plucked the spear from its chest. The shaft flew again, driving its point a finger'slength deep into a stout tree.

Then the bear charged at the Cimmerian, as unerringly as if more senses than natural guided it and as fiercely as any beast the Cimmerian had ever faced.

Conan flung a second spear, thanking Crom as he threw that he had brought three. The bear swerved as the spear left Conan's hand, and the spearhead only gouged fur and skin along one flank.

The Cimmerian thrust with his sword, not made for thrusting but longer than the bear's forelegs. The tales of the snowbears told him of more than their food. They made it plain that no man ever came alive out of reach of those paws.

The point sank in, and the bear twisted, roaring like all the fires of Set's dark abyss. Conan jerked his sword free, hope dawning as he made to thrust again. The beast shuffled forward and batted at the sword.

The blow all but numbed the Cimmerians arm. A trifle more force to it and it would have swept the sword from his hand. He flung his third spear, aiming at the snowbears eyes, and this time his aim was true.

The bear reared up, the spear dangling from the bloody ruins of one eye. Conan could have thrust again, but his awareness of the ground told him that this was folly. The bear had hemmed him in against several stout trees. If his thrust miscarried, he would have nowhere to flee to when the foe charged again.

So he darted to one side, slashing hard at a forepaw. His sword sheared claws from the right paw, making the bear roar again. It was shaking its wounded paw furiously as the Cimmerian leapt through the first gap in the trees large enough for his massive frame.

In among the trees, the bear's greater size would be more burden than blessing in its pursuit of the Cimmerian. He could go where it could not, and strike from hiding places its one remaining eye could not find in the darkness.

He could slay it without coming within reach of those forepaws, Mitra willing! There would be no peace for a man in this land with the snowbear hunting free, and Conan did not think the Fish-Eaters were the folk to put an end to it.

The bear was willing enough to follow the Cimmerian's trail. Its wounds had enraged it; Conan doubted that it had any thought but to rend and tear what had hurt it.

The bear also seemed clumsier at this task than the Cimmerian had expected. Perhaps it had lost the scent of its prey among the unfamiliar odors of this new land. Perhaps, like many northern creatures, it had slept during the Time of Endless Night and so had poor night-sight.

Regardless, the Cimmerian soon found himself at his wits' end for a way to bring the beast into some trap where he could fight and it could not. After what seemed half the night and oaths sworn by all the lawful gods of every land he knew, he saw it evade his fifth (at least) attempt to bring it to bay.

"By Erlik's brass tool, I'll have that beast's hide for a new hammock yet!" he vowed. He gave more ground, and this time he stepped through a wall of vine onto a trail. Moreover, he stepped onto the trail in plain sight of a clearing where at least two-score Fish-Eaters were crouched with spears and war clubs.

Conan cursed again, but his loudest oaths were drowned out by the cries of the Fish-Eaters as they leapt to their feet and waved their weapons.

"The woman-stealer and demon-bringer Amra!"

"Kill the lion-man!"

"Wash the spears! Wash the spears! Wash the spears!"

For a folk commonly called peaceful, the Fish-Eaters seemed to be remarkably zealous for war against the Cimmerian.

Conan had no quarrel with the Fish-Eaters, and indeed wondered why they called him a demon-bringer. "Fear makes folly," was all he could think of.

"Ha!" he thundered. His bull's roar beat down the Fish-Eater's cries.

Heads turned, but for the moment, no spears flew.

"I am no demon, but in those trees is something worse than any demon I ever saw. It could eat lions. It will eat you and your children if we do not slay it now!"

That was as far as Conan went before the Fish-Eaters started shouting again as they had before. The Cimmerian felt a mighty urge to leave those fools and the bear to amuse one another and make his own way to safety.

But he had insulted the Fish-Eaters to make peace with the Bamulas. He owed it to them not to add injury to insult.

In the next moment, the matter was taken out of Conan's hands. The bear lunged and crashed into view, streaming blood and roaring now like a volcano in full eruption. Its growls drowned out the Fish-Eaters and its charge turned their cries at Conan to howls of fear, then of agony.

Two Fish-Eaters died in that first charge. Others were wounded, either by lighter swipes of the paws or by their fleeing comrades knocking them down and trampling them. Spears flew, but few struck and none drove deep.

The bear whirled, striking with left and right paws in succession, like a human adept at the pankration. More bloody furrows opened in black skins, but there were some stout hearts under those skins. Conan saw one man”no, boy”run in with a long-tined fishing trident and thrust it deep into the bear's unhurt leg.

Then the lad died screaming as the creature whirled, bending like a bow to clamp its jaws across his belly. The screams ended as the fangs reached his vitals. The bear tossed its head, then flung the corpse away and turned to seek new victims.

Conan saw that the Fish-Eaters might fight with the courage of despair but had neither weapons nor craft to contend with the beast. Nor would it be easy for him to best it in the open, where it could whirl about in its own length to face and strike seemingly in every direction.

An icy chill ran down the Cimmerian's spine, even in the heat of the jungle night. Had the dying Vendhyan spoken the plain truth, that demons had a gate through which to send men and beasts where nature would not allow them?

Demonsent or no, however, the bear was flesh and blood. It could be slain, and with the battle-fury upon him, Conan knew that if it was not, he would not see another sunrise.

The Fish-Eaters were making a wide circle around the bear, some braver than others darting in to drag away the bodies of their dead. The most courageous of all thrust their spears, but their courage only cost them their lives. The bear still had one eye, much vigor, and a hide too thick for the light spears of the Fish-Eaters.

Conan waited only long enough to be sure that the Fish-Eaters saw him.

Whether they could tell him from the bear, he could not be sure.

Whether they would check their throws even if they could was still more doubtful.

The one thing Conan did not doubt was that a warrior's honor demanded the creatures death.

Spears did fly as he plunged at the bear, but two missed and he plucked one out of the air. A fourth only grazed one shoulder blade. Then he was moving too fast for the Fish-Eaters to follow him as he closed with the bear, sword in one hand, spear raised high in the other.

He was also moving too fast for the bear. It was slow to turn to face him, and Conan let out a roar of triumph. That roar seemed to finally put the beast in fear. It shook its head in confusion and pain, as if its wounds were finally besting its fighting spirit.

Conan dared to close. He flung the spear from just outside touching distance, and it pierced fur and hide. The bear turned, snapping with blood-dripping jaws at the shaft in its side. Doing so, it offered the Cimmerian the back of its neck.

Even a good broadsword driven by both of Conan's arms was unequal to slaying the bear at one blow, and from that, the Cimmerian nearly died.

The bear forgot the spear, remembered his old foe, and spun, both paws striking at Conan, who was leaping backward after his sword-blow. One paw struck him, and fortunately it was the right paw, from which he had already sheared half the claws. Otherwise he would have been gutted like a sheep carcase and flung down upon the bodies of the dead Fish-Eaters.

That was the bear's last blow. Blood gushed from its neck wound, staining the already much-stained white fur. It lay down, then settled its head on its paws. It growled a final defiance as one Fish-Eater drew close, then rolled over on its side.

Conan saw the light go out of the bears remaining eye, and he was all but tempted to sing a death-song for it, as for a vanquished human foe.

Snatched from its own land and flung out here in the stifling jungle, it had done its best to live and had met death with a warrior's courage.

Then the Fish-Eaters were all around the bear, blocking Conan's view of it, thrusting with spears and hammering it with clubs¦ all except one man, older and slighter than most of his comrades, and wearing an elaborate feathered headdress taller than he was.

This one pointed a cunningly wrought stick at Conan and shouted: "The demons war among themselves! Kill Amra and we will be done with them!

He has slain his rebellious servant. Now it is his turn to die!"

At least that was the sense that came to the Cimmerian. It took a while for it to reach the Fish-Eaters, deafened by rage, bloodlust, and triumph.

It took no time at all for Conan to realize that the Fish-Eaters'

gratitude would take the form of spears in his gizzard. That was a reward he had no mind to wait to collect.

"Crom!" he snarled and spat on the ground. The Fish-Eater chief jumped back, as if he expected to see flames arise where the Cimmerian spat.

Then he jumped again as Conan snatched up a spear.

That was not enough. Conan's throw sent the spear clean through the fancy headdress, impaling it like bait on a fisherman's hook. The spear flew on to sink deep into a tree trunk and stand there quivering, with the headdress dangling from the shaft.

Before the Fish-Eaters stopped gaping at the sight, the Cimmerian turned his back on them and strode off toward the stream. If the bear had left any fish at all from the ruined trap, he would carry off a few for food on his journey to the Bamulas.

Before he reached the stream, the thunder came again, a single clap, followed by a long rumble dying away into the ordinary sounds of the jungle night. Conan halted, weapons ready, looking back on his trail for signs of pursuit by Fish-Eaters, bears, demons, or anything else.

He saw nothing and heard no unnatural sounds, nor any further thunder.

The bear might be dead, but whatever had brought it to the Black Kingdoms from the frozen lands of the north was still abroad in the jungle.

Four

"So the Fish-Eaters did not follow you?" a Bamula whom Conan did not recognize asked.

Conan's brows drew together. He fought an urge to loosen a few of the fellow's teeth. Under their dark skin the folk of the Black Kingdoms had every virtue and every vice he had met elsewhere. One vice was asking questions asked ten times before, merely to hear the sound of their own voices.

"Is this a counting-house in Shem or a council hut of warriors of the Bamulas?" the Cimmerian growled. He looked at Kubwande. "Or has someone forgotten to tell others what I told him?"

Kubwande spread his hands in a placating gesture. "I have told as many as have asked."

"Well, the next time hold them down and shout it in their ears, or I will do it for you," Conan said. He grinned, to take the menace from the words.

The Bamula warriors did not relax their guard. Stout fighters every one of them, they knew that none of them could have done half of what Amra had done. This made him the master of any warrior at the council, even if less than half of his tale was true.

"The Fish-Eaters did not follow," Conan went on, measuring the silence.

"But if you think this means they bear me any goodwill or expect me to be their man among the Bamulas, think again. Or use your heads for brewpots, for they hold no wits!"

His look invited anyone who wanted to take the insult seriously to do so, as long as he had mourners enough for proper rites afterward. None of the Bamulas accepted the invitation, and after a moment more of silence, Idosso let out a gusty laugh. Beer-laden breath washed over the Cimmerian as the Bamula chief shook and quivered.

"Of course the Fish-Eaters would not follow this lion among men," he said at last. "They have the courage of she-goats, if that. And to think of a lion obeying the commands of such goats! Sooner think of me doing it!"

That signaled the other Bamulas to join the laughter. Conan looked around at the faces, noting how they watched Idosso. Clearly, these were the warriors and petty chiefs loyal to the big qamu. Just as clearly, both Idosso and his followers expected Conan to join their ranks in return for their offering safety among their tribe.

In that, too, the folk of the Black Kingdoms were like all other men Conan had met and fought.

This time the urge he fought down was to toss his beer in Idosso's face and follow the beer with a good measure of Aquilonian steel. Conan's dagger was much closer to his hand than any of these folk seemed to realize. His patience with their treating him as a witling was also much closer to its end.

No, there was one among them who seemed to see clearly. The one whose name he remembered as Kubwande was nodding. "I doubt that the bear left half the Fish-Eaters fit to walk, let alone fight. And who among us would trail this wounded lion with less than a score of comrades?

Idosso maybe, but who else?"

Everyone seemed to decide that it would flatter Idosso if they agreed with Kubwande. Conan saw heads nodding and hands thrusting gourds and wooden cups of beer toward him. He accepted them all. A man could drink enough of this jungle brew to float Tigress without fuddling his wits, if he had any to begin with.

"More beer!" someone shouted. Others took up the cry, and one man began pounding a drum.

The grass curtain across the door parted and two women entered. Their clothing consisted of heavy ivory earrings and necklaces of scarlet wooden beads. Both were young and slender, just out of girlhood, but one of them moved like a crone of seventy winters.

Looking more closely, Conan recognized the two Fish-Eater women he had allowed Idosso to carry off. The slow-moving one in her turn recognized him. Her look carried a wish that the wrath of all the gods descend on the Cimmerian and the claws and teeth of fifty demons rend him. It was a change from the last time he had seen them, when they seemed to think he might sprout teeth and claws if they yielded to him rather than to Idosso.

"Ho!" Idosso shouted. "Fresh Fish, are you doing as I told you, when you look at a sworn guest that way?"

Conan could recall no guest-oath, but he did not care to call Idosso a liar to his face. The woman clearly recalled much, and none of it agreeable. She knelt, and Idosso surged to his feet, one vast fist clenched to descend in a blow that might have broken the woman's skull or snapped her neck.

The blow never landed. Idosso had touched the Cimmerian's honor too closely already by giving those bruises that Conan now saw on Fresh Fish's otherwise smooth and well-oiled skin. Clearly, the big man's word to treat them well had been worthless, and Conan would not see them suffer further, even to buy peace with the Bamulas. Either the suffering or the peace would end.

Conan's arm shot out and five sinewy fingers clamped on Idosso's wrist.

The Cimmerian let the thrust of Idosso's blow pull him to his feet. In rising, he jerked Idosso off balance. The Bamula would have fallen on his nose at the feet of the women had not the Cimmerian held him in front and Kubwande and others from the rear.

"You dare”!" someone began.

Conan cut him off. "These women came to me. I allowed them to go to you because they seemed to fear me and you promised to treat them honorably. Now it seems that you have given them reason to fear you more than me."

Idosso snarled, shaking himself free of his helpers. "Any man would have done the same. Or is your blood as milky as your skin, Little Lion, that you know nothing of women?"

Conan released his grip and stepped back. The women gaped at him, horror warring with dawning hope on their faces. "If you want to see the color of my blood, Idosso, try to take it," he said. "Or take a Cimmerian at his word, and remember what you promised to these women!"

Idosso looked ready to leap at the Cimmerian, until he caught Kubwande's eye. Then he contented himself with cursing eloquently.

Finally he grabbed each woman by an earring, jerked them to their feet, and all but flung them at Conan. They fell back to their knees, struggling with the pain of their bleeding ears, and each grasped Conan's legs.

"Take them, then, and may you have much joy of a better man's leavings!" Idosso snarled. "Take them, and be out of Bamula lands before nightfall, or

Idosso's threat died unuttered as a sweat-drenched warrior flung himself through the curtain and fell at the chief's feet. The big man gaped at this portent, then Kubwande signed the man to rise.

"What is it?" Idosso demanded.

"The demons struck again," the newcomer gasped. "In Dead Elephant Valley, they have taken a village."

"Taken?" Conan exclaimed. "Carried off, you mean?"

Either the man did not understand him or did not recognize him as one with the right to an answer. Only when Kubwande (again!) signaled did the man begin to speak.

Conan listened to a tale of a village assaulted by beasts out of a nightmare. They had the forms of apes but the scales and sharp teeth of gigantic lizards, as well as the ravenous appetite of starving lions. A score of the villagers were dead, as many more hurt, huts, grain stores, and livestock ruined, and altogether as much harm done as a band of hostile warriors could have contrived.

He also saw the eyes of warriors searching him for some sign of foreknowledge. It seemed that the Fish-Eaters were not the only ones who suspected him of being such an utter fool as to deal with demons!

Conan muttered curses under his breath, wishing himself and the women a long way from the land of the Bamulas. But wishes were not fishes, nor even Fish-Eaters in strength enough to protect the women should he return them to their kin and tribe.

The Cimmerian added curses on the whole race of women, except one whose spirit now walked with the spirits of other valiant warriors. Without the two wenches, there'd be no cause for him to quarrel with Idosso. It would be his choice, to stay among the Bamulas or to set his feet to the nearest trail and blink the smoke of their huts from his eyes for all time.

"Idosso, my friend," Conan said. "It is too great an honor, these two fine women. I must do something more to earn it before I can take them with a good heart."

"So?" Idosso's growl was still that of a bear's, but one disturbed from sleep rather than enraged or hungry.

"So I think we'd best all be on our way to Dead Elephant Valley and see this demon's work," Conan went on. "If I help the Bamulas fight these demon-spawn, then I will take the women for my household. But by Crom, I will earn that household before I take any women to it! Conan of Cimmeria accepts nothing like a bone thrown to a dog, and the Bamulas had best remember that!"

It took much less than Conan's knowledge of men's eyes to read those of the Bamulas. Surely this quest will prove Amra either a great warrior or a friend of demons, all the eyes said.

Only Kubwande's were unreadable. Conan measured the lesser chief, wondering if his life among the Bamulas might be easier if the man was not quick enough to escape one of these demon-spawned lizard-apes.

But to every man his fate. Conan would accept his when Crom sent it, and not push another into death's path when that other had as yet done him no harm.

Then he looked down at the women. Their eyes were even easier to read than those of the warriors. The women's eyes held a wish that Conan be found worthy of some rank that would allow him to protect them. A short while at Idosso's mercy seemed to have left them indifferent to whether he was black or white, brown or purple, yellow like the folk of Khitai or spotted like the Dog Men of old tales, if only he could stand between them and the Bamula chief.

Conan drew the women to their feet and rested one brawny arm lightly across each set of slender shoulders. "Well," he growled to the assembled warriors. "What say the Bamulas? Or are they going to stand gawping, until I have to find my own spears and mealies and make the journey with only these wenches for help?"

After that, it seemed that the Bamulas could not swear to the bargain fast enough.

***

In the Pictish lands of the north, Lysenius had exhausted his curses.

This was as well, as he had likewise exhausted his daughter Scyra's patience. She had even ventured to speak sharply to him about wasting his strength and frightening those Picts within hearing.

"Any Picts that close are weaklings!" was his reply. "Best I frighten them to death, before they breed weakling sons!"

"Some of them are sure to do so," Scyra said, smiling. "How many of them can marry me?"

Then her smile faded as her father cuffed her, not angrily but not lightly either. "No jesting, girl. There're ten clans that would follow us if their chiefs had hopes of getting sons from you."

She held the shadow of the smile on her face until her father turned away. Even then she did not ease her stance or lower her head until she heard his footsteps passing out of the chamber, down the passage¦

Down the passage to the other chamber, where he would wrestle with his Stygian scrolls. Wrestle not altogether in vain, and always with great earnestness, as he sought true mastery of the spell of the world-walker. He wished not to merely use the spell about the world at random, but to master it so that he could pluck anything (or anyone) he wished from one chosen place and send it to another.

The girl shivered from more than the chill of the cave. She had heard in her father's nighttime mutterings hints that blood-sacrifices might help one master this and other spells. The blood of near-kin, by preference”and she was the only kin her father had yet living in all the world, let alone in this cold land to which she had followed him because she would have been doomed as he in the land where they were born.

The blood of near-kin”or the blood of many victims. Would she have to choose between being the sacrifice herself or being wed to some bandy-legged Pictish chief so as to buy the blood of a score of his warriors, wives, and slaves?

The shivering passed. Now what the girl felt was an inner queasiness.

Also, deeper within, a firmer resolve than before to increase her knowledge of her fathers wizardry.

He had said little enough, one way or the other, about her learning magick. What she had learned, she had learned carefully, because even before the quest for the demon's gate began, she knew that magick gone awry was an unforgivable crime.

That care took its price, though. She had to snatch her time with the scrolls and phials from her other work, work that was entirely hers from the time her mother died. Years before the yeomen of the land came with bows and ropes in search of her father's life, no servant would spend a night under the Cave Wizard's roof. She cooked and cleaned, washed and mended, and by candlelight after all was done, scraped up knowledge of a few lesser spells.

That knowledge would no longer be enough. Use those lesser spells to heat the soup or to lure birds into the snares? Why not? Every moment, every drop of sweat, saved from her work meant freedom to spend increasing her own knowledge.

Her father would not notice how she did the work. He would notice only if she failed, as had been his way even before her mother died.

Mother, you could have saved both me and Father, by not dying. He might not have heeded you, but alive, you would not need the vengeance that has consumed him.

But that was a foolish girl's wish, and her time for being either a girl or foolish was rapidly nearing its end. Every day brought her closer to the time when she would be either woman-wise or dead¦ or wishing that she were.

***

Somehow, Kubwande was not surprised when the man who answered to both "Conan" and "Amra" brought the two Fish-Eater wenches with him on the trek to Dead Elephant Valley. Anyone who would risk a quarrel with Idosso over such women was hardly a man to leave them in the very village where Idosso had a dozen sworn friends who would avenge the slight to his honor by killing the women.

Of course, such friends would not have won through. It would have been their blood trailed on the dirt of the village paths, and their hyena-gnawed bodies found on the edge of the forest in the morning.

Some of those Idosso thought were his friends were sworn to Kubwande by still more potent oaths (and many good cows had it cost Kubwande to purchase the binding of those oaths from the wizards and wise-women).

Others were friends only to Kubwande and no other among the Bamulas. A man who feared the fate of those who stole from wizards or lay with their sisters would do far more than guard a pair of Fish-Eater women for the man who held their secret.

Shedding the blood of Idosso's friends to keep Conan among the Bamulas was gambling, of course. But since he first learned of the game of chance, Kubwande had never gambled save with bones he had carved or shells he had painted himself. Now his game-pieces were men, but he still took care that they were of his own making, unlikely to do anything to surprise him.

The only question, in the innermost recesses of his spirit, was whether the white warrior was not even more accustomed to gambling, and for higher stakes, than Kubwande or any other among the Bamulas.

Then, after two days' swift march, warriors and women alike came to Dead Elephant Valley, and there was no more time to play luck-games with men, or even to think about it.

Five

The village was a sight to daunt even the Cimmerian, who had looked on such more times than he had years, and sometimes when friends or allies lay stark and bloody in the ruins. This village at least was one of strangers.

Even from two long spear-casts away, one could tell that more than elephants now lay dead in the valley. Closer to hand, the stench rose like a wall, and the air seemed so thick with the reek of death that one could cut slices from it with a dagger.

Not all the huts were ashes, ruins, or the tombs of their inhabitants.

Some yet stood, and in their shadowed interiors Conan glimpsed still more shadowy figures, furtive and fleeting.

Emboldened by the coming of the Bamula war party, a few of the hardiest villagers crept out into the gray dawn light and began to move about.

They still avoided, as if it were the mouth of the underworld, the center of the village, for there the dead lay thickest.

As the sun climbed higher and burned off the mist, turning the sky from gray to blue, insects began to gather. One sight seared itself into Conan's memory: a babe who could not have seen out his first year, slashed open from throat to belly, and one leg ripped from its socket.

Flies hummed around the eyes of the tiny corpse, and other, less familiar insects crawled over the rest of the blackening body. Nor was the small corpse intact even apart from its wounds; other carrion-eaters had been there before the insects.

In the middle of the human corpses lay the body of one of the lizard-apes. Braving the stench, Conan strode forward to within a spear's length of the dead "demon" and studied it. Rather as he would have noted the armor and weapons of a dead foe from a host he had never met before, he noted the beasts apparent strengths and weaknesses.

It had an ape's long arms but longer legs than most apes Conan had met, as well as a stumpy tail. Short spines ran up its back from the base of the tail to the neck, then resumed on the head as a crest. With the butt of a spear, Conan prodded the scaly hide, more resistant to weapons than any ape's but clearly not impenetrable. Half a dozen spears, as many arrows, and a portion of skull crushed in deeply by a club swung with desperate strength, bore witness to that.

Conan shifted the spear-butt to the beast's mouth, prying open the jaws. Most of the teeth were caked black with dried blood and shreds of human flesh, but Conan saw that they were more like a leopard's than a gorillas. In their native land, these beasts ate flesh.

"But not in this land," the Cimmerian said to himself. "By Crom, not in this land! Not again."

"Eh?" Idosso asked, then covered his confusion with a bellowed war cry.

Carrion birds, feeding on corpses at the fringes of the village, flew up squawking and screaming. The villagers flinched as if Idosso himself had turned into one of the lizard-apes.

"Well, Amra, does all this sniffing and poking tell you anything?" he growled. "It is said you have more than a man's senses."

"Much is said, by those who know nothing," Conan replied. At Idosso's scowl, he added, "Wise men such as you and I do not listen to them."

The diplomacy acheived the effect the Cimmerian had hoped for. Idosso's scowl turned into nothing worse than the frown of a man trying to think what to do next. Conan already knew, and likewise was sure that Idosso would hardly welcome advice.

"The back, guard the women and bearers," the chief shouted. "Chest and belly, ring the village. Arms, to me." It was the Bamulas's custom to divide any large war party into four divisions, each named after a part of the human body. The arms were the vanguard, scouting ahead. The chest and belly were the main body, supposed to be the strongest and fiercest warriors. The back brought up the rear; its warriors were commonly either youths newly given their spears or older men not far from putting their spears into the roofbeams of their huts, the Bamula ritual for declaring oneself an elder.

It had not surprised the Cimmerian to learn that when both chiefs carried spears in another's band, Kubwande had marched with the arms and Idosso in the belly.

Conan held his tongue as the Bamulas moved to obey Idosso. He also stepped back from the center of the village, so that he would not have to hold his nose.

The Bamulas moved in obedience to Idosso. Some were clearly swift, skilled, and alert enough to please any captain. Others were merely trying to pretend the best they could. It was the same mixture that Conan had seen in other hosts, save those who were either handpicked from proven warriors or rabbles snatched from the streets and farms by some lord's sergeants.

The Bamulas would hardly prevail against an equal force of seasoned troops from some civilized land, but then they wouldn't have to. Their warriors did well enough against rival tribes, and they held their own against the occasional slave-raider, darting in from the sea or across the Stygian frontier to pluck a village's worth of live merchandise. It remained to be seen whether they would be equal to the task they now faced, that of fighting demons, or at least creatures hurled into this land by sorcery as vile as any demon.

Conan strode over to Idosso. He made the greetings of one chief to another slightly higher in rank, as well as other gestures of respect he had learned from the Suba warriors aboard Tigress. He hoped that none of these were insults among the Bamula.

"Speak, Amra," Idosso said. He had command of his voice, but when the chief spoke, Conan could hear a hint of weariness”the result of the battle he had fought to become chief.

For once, the huge Bamula had the Cimmerian's sympathy. Conan's own early battles as a captain were not forgotten, nor the indescribable pleasure of facing the unknown and pretending that it was neither frightening nor confusing.

As a pleasure, it ranked just ahead of drinking bad wine or embracing aged serving wenches. It was also quite as common a part of the warrior's life, and Idosso was just going to have to take it as one more of the gods' favorite jests.

"I doubt that I've anything to say that you haven't long since thought of yourself," Conan said. "Have any of the folk of the village come forward to tell the tale of their slaying the beast?"

"No, but what can they teach our warriors?"

Conan almost forgave Idosso's arrogance for his saying "our." Being soft-spoken to pale-skinned strangers was clearly no pleasure to Idosso, but it was an art he was prepared to master if called upon.

If Kubwande thought the big man was too witless to be other than the smaller man's puppet, he might have a rude awakening in store for him.

Probably in the last moments of his life.

"The gods only know, but I cannot help wondering," the Cimmerian said.

"These lizard-apes look like natural creatures, the same as the boar and the bear. Warriors' weapons can take their life. But how many warriors will die in so doing?"

"Do you think Bamula warriors fear death?" Idosso did not raise a weapon. His voice made such a gesture needless.

"Less even than I," Conan said. "But even a Bamula warrior might think twice about dying before all the demons were slain. If we trade our lives for the lives of this band of lizard-apes, what happens when the next band comes through the demon's gate?"

Idosso looked as close to uneasy as his face allowed. Conan pressed his advantage.

"Any man might fear seeing his village used as this one has been”his women carried off, his sons gutted like that babe there."

Idosso looked, and his face worked. "Then let us find the demon's gate and close it."

"Aye, and with our own living flesh if need be. But we shall hunt it with more knowledge if we speak to the villagers first."

Idosso stood like a vast ebony image. Then his head jerked, hard enough to make the crimson feathers of his headdress dance like branches in a gale.

"Let the arms search the village," he shouted. "Bring all fit, to speak to me! At once!"

The warriors of the arms thumped their fists on the earth at Idosso's feet. He spat where they had thumped. They struck their foreheads with their open palms, formed into pairs, and ran off, spears in hand and shields on their arms.

"Am I permitted”?" Kubwande asked. He seemed to have sprung from the earth, but Conan was hardly surprised. The gift of silent movement was one a man like Kubwande would surely need.

"Not alone," Idosso growled. "You have no lizard-scales with which to keep a spear out of your unguarded back."

Conan neither smiled nor shouted for joy. He only said, "Would I be good enough to guard it?"

"Am I worthy of being guarded by Amra”?" Kubwande began, to be interrupted by the Cimmerian.

"Flatter one who will listen to it," Conan said.

The Bamula looked as though he had been slapped. The Cimmerian wondered if he had spoken too plainly, or perhaps said something he had not meant. His command of the Black Kingdoms' tongues grew almost daily, but it was far from perfect.

"I have been a warrior in many lands, and on the seas," Conan said. "I have not been a warrior in this land nearly as long as you have. You must know things I do not, if you are not a babe in arms."

"If he is, then a stranger babe was never born of women," Idosso said.

"Go and seek what you may find, unless you both think I need nursing?"

Neither Conan nor Kubwande stayed to answer that question.

***

Conan and Kubwande found less to do than they had expected, until they reached the farther edge of the village. The folk from the nearer huts had taken the brunt of the lizard-apes' assault, and those who had not died had mostly taken to their heels. Those left were mainly the aged, the young, or those caring for them.

These the other Bamula warrior-pairs were vigorously seizing, dragging out of their huts, and all but beating with clubs to learn what had happened. Kubwande admonished a few warriors who seemed sure to attract more fear than knowledge, just before Conan would have done the same.

That was as well, the Cimmerian knew. The villagers were Lesser Bamulas, whose dialect was somewhat apart from that of the Greater Bamulas whom he had met first. The villagers could have offered to guide him to the demon's gate, and he might have been slow to understand. Also, it was too soon to put to the test the willingness of Bamula warriors to obey his commands.

The two men stalked onward. Each kept his eyes roving over the huts, livestock enclosures, and fields. Out here, the huts were mostly intact, if empty, but too many of the enclosures and fields showed the passage of the lizard-apes. Where the cattle and goats did not lie gutted and fly-blown in patches of dried mud mixed from blood and soil, the fences lay smashed flat and the freshly sprouted grain and yams trampled into the earth.

A few villagers peered out of huts, more boldly than Conan had seen before. Some of them were young women. He thought of sending back to the baggage train for his two maidservants. Perhaps they could get some sense, or even knowledge, out of these village wenches.

No warriors appeared, not even the graybearded or newly fledged. The bodies strewn on blood-hued earth doubtless accounted for a good many of them, and others had surely stayed with the fugitives. But Conan wondered if that was all the warriors that Dead Elephant Valley had boasted on the morning the lizard-apes came.

He said nothing and indeed put the matter almost out of his innermost thoughts. But his eyes now searched the huts with more care than ever.

Also, when he thought the head Bamula was not looking his way, he cast an eye on Kubwande.

***

In the Pictish lands, Lycenius's wrath had long since taken him past cursing, into a morose silence. Before the silence came, however, Scyra had learned that he had a new problem with the world-walker.

Once the problem had been to keep it open. Now it was open at both ends and would not close. The gate ran from a remote part of the jungles south of Khitai to somewhere in the Black Kingdoms. Though this was more knowledge than he had usually possessed before, it was useless as a midwife's pain-charm for closing the gate.

It was not that Scyra cared much for the fate of the jungles and their remnant of a race from before the dawn of man. She cared hardly more for the Black Kingdoms, full (or so she had heard) of fierce warriors to whom a score of monsters could hardly be more than a brisk day's martial exercise.

She did care very greatly that frustration and failure could drive her father ever closer to the edge of madness, or even over it. Nor was there a great deal she could do to prevent it. She might try to heal him if he slipped beyond that edge, or at least care for him, but to do either, she would have to be alive.

It was the knowledge that she might soon be at the mercy of her own resources, which were small, or of the Picts, among whom "mercy" was near-kin to a curse, that kept her at work. The hides were easily filched from the store in the cave; the spells she had largely fixed in her memory.

It was the herbs and unguents that gave her the trouble now. Neither could be easily filched from her father's stores in sufficient quantity without his being warned. Later in the year, if the peace with the Owl Picts held, she might gather the herbs herself, but now the Owls did not guard Lysenius's lands, which were just awakening to the new spring.

With the gods' favor (she had invoked all save Set), she would be apt for a short time of shape-changing. If that short time was not enough, she would face the choice of remaining in animal form forever or turning back to face her father's wrath.

She might even be driven to praying and sacrificing to Set, if she thought the Lord of Serpents could spare her that choice.

***

In time, Conan began to wonder if the "village" of Dead Elephant Valley stretched all the way to the Suba lands, or perhaps to the sea.

Certainly he and Kubwande had already covered ground enough to hold some of Turan's smaller cities, or a merchant prince's estate in Argos.

At least they were leaving the slaughterhouse stench behind, which must be growing riper as the sun climbed higher. Now the orb blazed from above all but the highest treetops, stripping the last shreds of mist from the jungle and awakening those birds and beasts of daylight, who had slumbered until dawn. They added their sounds to the rising din of the jungle, until Conan could no longer hear his own footsteps and had to raise his voice for Kubwande to hear him.

He had noticed that no other Bamula searchers were in sight, and even their footprints were few and sparse. One could tell the Bamula warriors' prints from the villagers'”the villagers wore footgear that spread the great toe wide apart from the other four toes. Kubwande and the Cimmerian were some distance from friends, whom they might need should they meet enemies.

They met neither friend nor foe for about as long as it took a skilled dancer in a good tavern to divest herself of her garments. During that time, they reached a part of the village”or perhaps it was another village”where the huts thrust themselves deep into dense second-growth jungle. Or perhaps it was the jungle growing back among the houses.

However it came about, the few huts were low and rude, almost lost in walls of stunted trees and lank vines. The fields seemed to cower before the onset of the jungle. Only the cattle-pens and the fowl-runs rose stout and well-made, everywhere set about with thorns.

Conan had seen such care taken in other lands, where beasts of prey roamed close to human habitation. A babe or child, even a servant or lesser wife, taken by the leopards was of small moment. Loss of a cow, or even a calf, spelled disaster.

That at least was not the Cimmerian way. For a moment, Conan looked back across the years, as he might have looked down a well, to consider his involuntary leave-taking from his homeland. On the times he had returned, he had found nothing to make him less a wanderer. When he had found Belit, he had thought it might be a good sign that the gods blessed those wanderings.

Now she was gone, and again he wandered alone. He hardly cared where those wanderings ended, or when. But he had more than enough pride, to be sure that neither an oaf like Idosso or a schemer like Kubwande would make an end of him without a fight that storytellers would still remember when the world was old.

Conan shortened his stride until he was level with Kubwande, then a trifle ahead. He had no need to be at Kubwande's back, and indeed that might give offense without cause and bring a quarrel without purpose.

Neither would he give Kubwande a clear look at his back. Enough that the women were a long way behind him, tending the baggage and no doubt well-guarded”as long as Idosso wished them so.

The ground began to slope down, and through leather-tough soles Conan sensed dampness underfoot. They passed a fish-trap that had once been very like the Cimmerians, and was now rent savagely apart, as his had been, by the ice bear. Then the ground dropped away, and they stared down a path that broke the wall of vines, giving passage onto a shingle beach, and beyond the beach, a view of a muddy stream.

The stream was hardly more than thirty paces wide, but judged by the current in the middle, it was too deep to wade. Also, as with most streams in the Black Forest, it was doubtless home to crocodiles and river-horses.

Conan slung his shield and spear to free both hands, then leapt down the last few paces of path to the beach. Gravel hurled by his landing raised spray from the river and sent a swirling rainbow of fish darting for safety.

"What are you doing?" Kubwande sounded truly concerned for the Cimmerians safety.

"Looking for boats. If anyone has gone on from here, they're in a boat.

It may have left traces."

Kubwande's face hinted that searching for anything short of a pile of gold this close to the river was less than wise. Conan kept on with his search, kneeling at times to examine the gravel, being careful to turn his back neither on the water nor on Kubwande.

At last he rose and stared downstream. "Two boats were here, I think.

Both are long gone. All the footprints look to be the villagers'. No signs of crocodiles or river-horses."

"What about the lizard-apes?"

"I'd not wager on recognizing their prints. But do you see signs of any kind of fight?"

Kubwande studied the beach and the path, then the masses of vegetation.

He was plainly determined to prove as skilled a tracker as the Cimmerian, but also unwilling to pretend to see what was not there. An honest streak, or only enemies whom he feared might make common cause with the Cimmerian?

Conan laughed. Honesty in such as Kubwande was as rare as chastity in tavern wenches, whether they were white, black, yellow, purple, or green. The iqako had also mistaken his man if he thought Conan would stoop to making common cause with one set of intriguers against another. If matters came to that pass, he'd shake the mud of the Bamula lands from his feet and fight his battles elsewhere.

"What is the jest, Amra?"

It tempted the Cimmerian to give Kubwande a truthful answer. He might even have yielded had he thought for a moment the man would believe him.

"A thought came to me. Have the villagers fled the lizard-apes only to fall prey to river-horses?"

"Only the river-spirits know, and they seem slow to speak today."

Kubwande shrugged and turned his back on both the Cimmerian and the river as he climbed the bank.

He had just reached the level ground when the vegetation rustled, tore, and disgorged a half-score village warriors. Some of the men of the village had survived demonsent lizard-apes, fear, and any perils of the river, to seek vengeance with spear and shield.

There could be no doubt, either, about the object of their vengeance.

"Slay the demon-master!" one screamed, and flung his spear straight at Conan. The Cimmerians shield leapt up, catching the spear in midflight and knocking it into a wild arc. It soared high over all heads and vanished in the mud-hued river.

The next spear Conan met more boldly. He snatched it from the air, whirled like an Iranistani dervish, and flung the spear butt-first the way it had come. Also butt-first, it struck a warrior, just above his loinguard. He doubled over, dropping shield and remaining weapons, then sat down abruptly, gasping, groaning, and spewing all at the same time.

Three more spears followed, but Conan's feat had dazzled eyes and slowed arms. All three spears sank deep into the thick leather and tough wood of his shield; none of them came anywhere near his flesh.

"I am no demon-lover!" Conan shouted. "Kubwande, you speak their tongue. Tell them that. Tell them that I can give their spears back butt-first, so they can use them against the demons. Or I can return them point-foremost, if they try to kill me."

Kubwande shouted. It slowed a few of the villagers but stopped none.

Four of them half-slid, half-fell, down the bank and came at Conan with spears held low or clubs brandished high. If they could not slay the demon's master from a distance, they were ready to fight, kill, or die at close quarters.

Fighting men who were determined to kill, without shedding their own blood, was the most demanding sort of fighting. It was also an art in which the Cimmerian was not as skilled as he now wished. For most of his years, his battles had been against those who sought his life, and there was no reason not to take theirs.

Matters were otherwise now. The villagers had lost scores of people to the lizard-apes' teeth and claws, and they would lose more to the perils of jungle and river before all the fugitives returned. Conan had no wish to weaken them further, or to make them enemies, when their strength and friendship might help solve the mystery of the demon's gate.

So he wielded shield and spear as he might have done in a tavern brawl, where honor rather than life was at stake. As he had the advantage of reach on all of the warriors, this went well at first.

Conan rammed the shield up under the jaw of one man, while thrusting with the spear-butt into the thigh of another. Both men went down. Then he swung the spear clubwise to the temple of a third man. The man's headdress, shield, and war club toppled, and a moment later he measured his length on the beach among them.

That reduced the number of opponents on their feet, and the ardor of those left standing. Conan saw Kubwande driving two others back up the path, shield and spear dancing almost too fast for the eye to follow.

He hoped the Bamula would have the wits to end the fight without ending his opponents' lives.

Then three more villagers leapt down onto the beach. That restored the enemy's strength, and they began spreading out to either side, seemingly to trap the Cimmerian with his back to the stream. One of the newcomers was young, hardly more than a boy, and with the rash courage of youth, he ran into the water, hoping to outflank the Cimmerian.

Conan was trying to look in all directions at once, when the splashing of the boy ended in a louder splash. The horror in the villagers' eyes told him what made the second splash, even before he heard the bellow of a river-horse.

The Cimmerian whirled and leapt in a single motion, landing clear of the circle of warriors. One obstinate villager thrust at him. Conan's spear danced and came down across the mans wrist. He yelped like a kicked dog and stumbled out of range, cradling his wounded hand in his sound one.

The river-horse had the lad gripped in its massive jaws now. But Conan saw that by some god's whim, the boy was held in a gap between the beasts teeth. None of the tushes, long as a short-sword and razor-edged, had pierced his flesh.

Water fountained as the Cimmerian leapt into the river. His club blurred in an overhand stroke that could have taken a bird on the wing.

Instead, it took the river-horse squarely across the nose. The beast reared back, jaws gaping.

Even Conan's thews protested as he lunged with one arm to grip the boy by the loinguard and snatch him from the jaws. With the other arm, he drove his spear deep into the roof of the beasts mouth.

The river-horse bellowed like a dragon and churned the river like a school of sharks in a feeding frenzy. It tried to snap at the boy, then at Conan, but the firmly embedded spear kept it from closing its mouth.

The Cimmerian held the boy at arm's length, examining him for wounds as he waded to the bank. "Here," he said, setting the boy on his feet.

"Find a wise-woman for him and he'll do well enough. Better than you will the next time I find you naming me demon-master!"

The villager gaped. Then one of them ran forward and embraced the boy, which was all that kept the lad on his feet. Conan saw that the man's hair and beard showed gray, and judged he was the lad's father.

Meanwhile, the river-horse was thrashing about in the shallows, trying to be rid of the spear. Conan had thrust it in too deep for easy dislodging, but not deep enough to reach the beast's brain.

Maddened with pain like this, the creature might roam the river for days slaying many, before death came. Conan knelt to replenish his stock of spears, then turned and waded back into the river.

As the water reached his knees, he heard a mighty shout and a fierce splashing. Before he could turn, a rush of village warriors nearly knocked him off his feet. He had barely regained his balance before the villagers surrounded the river-horse, thrusting with spears, slashing and stabbing with daggers, even pounding on the tough hide with clubs as they might have pounded on signal drums.

The death-cries of the river-horse might have been heard as far as any drum, too. At last they ended, and the beast floated dead in bloody water. It took the united strength of all together, Conan included, to drag the river-horse out of reach of the current.

"Not out of reach of the crocodiles, though," Conan said. "Best we go back to the village and bring up a few more spearmen, and all the women to cut the carcase apart. I didn't wrestle that beast to give the crocodiles a banquet, by Crom!"

He had to speak three times before Kubwande seemed to understand. Even then, the warrior was slow to retrace his steps. The Cimmerian had time to receive the barely coherent thanks of the man whose son he had saved. The man was named Bessu, a lesser chief; his son was Govindue.

Conan hoped both would speak for him in Dead Elephant Valley. There was precious little he could do in their land if he had to fear demons before and spears behind.

Conan also had time to prowl the bushes where the villagers had hidden.

He found little that he had not expected, and only one thing that gave him any unease.

It was footprints leading to and then from the bushes. No villager's footprints, either, from the way the toes stood together. On a bush not far in from the bank was a blue feather. The villagers wore few feathers, and none blue that Conan had seen.

It was a rare Bamula warrior, on the other hand, who did not sport more blue feathers than any other color in the headdresses all were wearing today.

Conan's face was sober as he retraced his steps to the village, but all took it for the look of any man who has just escaped a death-grapple with a river-horse. None asked questions he could not readily answer, and soon the meat from the river-horse was roasting over cookfires and boiling in pots, sending more wholesome odors to war with the carrion stench.

Six

Conan climbed a hand'sbreadth higher on the branch, the height of a temple tower above the jungle floor. The branch swayed and creaked softly.

He climbed another hand'sbreadth. The branch sagged, and now the creaking held a sinister note, like the creaking of the ungreased hinges of a tomb door in the least-frequented part of a graveyard.

Conan considered that from where he was, he could see little. He considered that after a fall to the jungle floor, he would see even less, if he saw anything at all with living eyes.

Belit would not welcome him with open arms if he perished through a boy's folly. And speaking of boys”

"Govindue!"

"Here, Conan!"

"Where is here?"

"On the largest branch on”I think on the far side of the tree, from you."

It sounded to Conan rather as if the boy was in the next tribe's land, but the tree they had climbed was large. Also, the Cimmerian's ears had been accustomed to wide spaces, by land or sea. The jungle had a wizard's power to twist a foot snapping a twig, or even the fall of a drop of water, into something that sounded unnatural, whose distance one could not judge easily or sometimes at all. This made Conan no fonder of the jungle than before, but it was not beyond his power to learn the art of judging the distances in this land.

"Do you see clearly?"

"Yes."

"What do you see?"

"The tops of all the trees in the world, a sky that promises rain, and many birds."

"Any strange ones?"

Conan could almost hear the boy shrug as he replied. "There are many I do not know. But some are so far off that no one could make out their breed. Also, I do not know all the birds of the jungle."

"You see a trifle more clearly than some warriors twice your age, Govindue. You know what you do not know."

"Is this important?"

"Only if you want to live to twice your age, lad."

It sounded almost as if Govindue was laughing. Then Conan heard: "Are you coming higher to join me, Conan?"

"If I do, the next you'll be hearing of me is when I hit the ground and spatter like a ripe melon."

"Tell me when you fall, Conan. I want to watch."

"Your father said I might regret saving you. I begin to see that your father is a wise man."

From safely on his side of the tree, Govindue made a rude noise. Then he laughed, and the Cimmerian judged that the lad was resuming his watch over the roof of the jungle.

***

Conan and Govindue were not the only hunters for the demon's gate who were perched in tall trees, gazing out over sunlit treetops. Many other warriors, Greater and Lesser Bamulas alike, were aloft, not altogether certain of what they looked for but praying that nothing unusual would escape their eyes between dawn and dusk.

When all who sought the demon's gate had taken counsel together and all had spoken and been heard, it became clear that the demon's gate was not open at all times. When it was open, however, it had come to open very nearly the same place each time.

The first task, therefore, was to find this place. And the first suggestion Conan made was to begin the search from the high ground.

"There is no high ground in the jungle," a Bamula of Idosso's faction reminded them all.

"A watcher can do as well from atop a tree as from a cliff or the crest of a hill," Conan replied. "All he needs are sharp eyes and keen wits, which makes me doubt you could do much if we hung you by the heels from a cloud."

All laughed, even the man himself. Conan judged that a good sign. It was not within him to curry favor by meekness.

In Nemedia or Aquilonia (or so Conan had heard), a band of warriors such as the demon-hunters would note each coming of the demon-spawn on a map. The Bamulas knew nothing of maps, however. Conan had used maps in Turan and afterward as a mercenary, and charts while aboard Tigress, but he was not equal to teaching the art of the map to the Bamulas.

What the Bamulas did know was the jungle they had roamed since they were boys, and how to give Conan at least some of that knowledge. It was not hard to make in their minds a picture of a great circle, formed by the appearances of the demon-spawn.

A child could then understand that the gate must open and close somewhere within that circle. All that remained was to watch the circle.

Some of the Bamulas, currying favor with Idosso, and some of the villagers, bent on vengeance, wished to watch from the ground. To hide in trees like a monkey, they said, was for women, and for men with milk instead of blood in their veins. Some were bold enough to look at the pale-skinned Cimmerian as they said that.

Kubwande heaped scorn on those men like coals on a roasting fowl. "The jungle hides so much that all the tribes of the land together could not watch such a circle. Also, the demon-spawn are best not watched far from the ground."

"The ghosts of our kin will haunt us if we flee battle!" a villager snarled.

"If you watch from the ground, you will join your kin without a chance to avenge them!" Conan said. "None of these demon-spawn are fit prey for a single warrior. Face them alone, and you will prove yourself a brave fool. Face them with your comrades, and you will go to your kin with the foes' blood on your spears!"

He looked at the village chief. "Is not that the truth of it, Bessu?

Did you not slay the lizard-ape while working together, after those who sought to be heroes were all dead?"

Govindue's father nodded. "Amra has seen the truth. By the spirit of my daughter, I swear it. These spawn must be fought by many against one.

The many can come together only if they are warned. Only from the high places can the warning come swiftly."

So the watchers climbed aloft, the drummers settled down where they could hear the watchers and speak with their drums, and the warriors waited to hear the summons of both watchers and drums. All that remained was for the gate to again open itself, so that the watchers might see.

The demon-hunters had been watching and waiting now for ten days.

***

Conan had no intention of climbing down the tree and leaving Govindue to watch alone. Instead, he sought a more secure perch that would still let him see something besides a curtain of leaves.

He had just reached a point some five spears' length below Govindue when the boy cried aloud, surprise mingled with fear in his voice.

Conan unslung his spear and gripped a stout branch with one iron-thewed arm. With the other hand, he used the spear to push the leaves aside.

It might have been a small bird close at hand. A hunter's instinct had told the boy, and now told the Cimmerian, that it was a giant far off.

How far, Conan could not judge.

Plain to anyone's eyes, beyond the bird was an unearthly shimmering in the air above the jungle roof. It seemed a waterfall, all but solid with golden-scaled fish”which was impossible.

If this was not the demon's gate, then there were two creations of wizardry abroad in the jungle. Conan stared at the shimmering, squinting against the sun. He gave it his whole attention, trying to fix its position in relation to other visible objects.

It did not help that all those visible objects were the tops of trees.

Conan's jungle lore grew daily, but he was not yet master of the art of telling trees apart at a glance.

He had just noted that one tree had a jutting three-sided crest, when Govindue shouted again. The branches quivered as the boy slid down to dangle beside him.

Conan now saw it also. The bird was sweeping toward them, as if it scented either prey or enemies. Conan had no intention of being the first, nor was he well-equipped to be the second, with only a spear and a dagger.

The bird turned in the air, seeming to stand on one wing. Each wing was the size of a ship's foresail. Turning, the bird revealed a repulsive belly the hue of dried blood, half-bare and surrounded by molting feathers of sickly gray and the green of swamp scum.

It's beak was the hooked weapon of a predator, and if that had not made it's diet plain, a carrion reek wafted over Conan and his companion as the bird flew by.

Govindue lowered himself onto Conan's branch, which creaked but did not sway. With one hand, he gripped a light branch, with the other, he raised his spear.

Conan put a hand on the boy's shoulder and shook his head. "We will never have a better chance," Govindue said. "Warriors do not skulk."

"We are warriors with other tasks than fighting," Conan said. It went against every instinct hammered into him in his years of war to say this, but truth was as plain as the stink of the bird. As long as the bird lived, it might fly back to where it had come from: the shimmer, which might be the demon's gate, or whatever other place unnaturally linked this jungle with the bird's home.

Which "others," the Cimmerian wondered. He had never heard of the jungles of Vendhya harboring birds the size of a war chariot, but even Vendhyans did not know all the denizens of their forests. Vendhya held wide expanses of rank forest where no man ventured lightly, and few of those who ventured at all ever returned.

As the bird flew past for a second time, Conan saw that the neck was even barer than the belly, and scaled as much like a serpent's as like a bird's. The eyes glared a venomous yellow and seemed to drip a pallid ichor.

Then the bird was coming for a third time, and it did not turn.

Instead, it spread its wings wide with a thunder of air and a viler reek than before, and halted itself in midair. Long, claw-tipped toes, four on each foot, reached out for Govindue.

They never touched their goal. Warriors' instincts commanded both Conan and the boy. Each launched his spear simultaneously. A heavier weapon driven by a stouter arm, Conan's spear thrust deep into the bird's reeking breast. Govindue's flew straight to a more vulnerable target, one glaring eye.

Carrion breath nearly stifled the warriors, and the bird's shrieks of rage and pain almost deafened them. They clung like apes to the branches as the great wings thrashed wildly. Leaves, twigs, birds'

nests, and the odd monkey showered down around them.

The bird plummeted away and out of sight, then reappeared farther off, climbing slowly. Blood oozed from one eye and added further hues to its breast. All but holding his breath, as patient as a great cat eyeing its prey, the Cimmerian waited. Waited for the bird to either flee toward that distant shimmering or return to the attack.

It did neither. Instead, it folded its wings and plummeted down into the jungle. Branches crackled and splintered. Then came a mighty blow, making Conan's tree shiver like a fence post struck with an axe.

Smoke poured up through the branches, greasy dark fumes that reeked of burning flesh. Conan drew a scrap of bark cloth from his loinguard and clapped it over his nose. At last the unnatural stench faded. Govindue was trying to look in all directions at once, as if he expected another bird to fling itself at the tree. He gave little care to a secure perch or grip, and Conan made ready to catch him if he slipped.

Then the tree shivered again, worse than before. The shivering passed briefly, only to return. This time it continued.

Suddenly Conan saw the horizon tilting, and heard sharp cracks as wood fibers thicker than a man's arm tore like threads. Somehow severed by the bird's funeral pyre, the tree was toppling.

Conan reached up and grabbed Govindue. "Hold tight, lad. There's no riding this one down. We'll have to leap for it."

Govindue was silent. Limber and agile as he was, he knew his master. He threw his arms around the Cimmerian's massive torso as Conan flexed his legs, stretched out his arms, and leapt.

As their first tree fell away from them, they plunged across open air and landed in a second tree. A branch caught the Cimmerian across the chest, knocking the wind from him and bruising Govindue's hands. The boy used his feet to keep himself from plummeting to the forest floor, then hooked one arm painfully over a branch. The tree under the two swayed and creaked as its falling neighbor tore vines, splintered branches, and crushed everything beneath it into the forest floor.

Smoke and dust streamed up through the gap in the forest roof, as if the bird's funeral pyre had reignited.

Conan and Govindue stared down at the corpse of the tree, seeking some traces of the corpse of the bird.

They saw nothing, save on either side of the severed trunk, a patch of ashes that might have come from wood, flesh, or leaf. Even the smell had vanished with what seemed miraculous speed.

No, with sorcerous speed. The demon's gate was letting greater and viler magick into the jungles each time it opened. This latest trespasser had immolated itself without harming more than trees. The next one might be as deadly as the snowbear, and as tenacious of life as a great serpent.

As Conan clambered down the tree, it struck him that learning where the demon's gate was might not be so great a victory by itself. Not if the gate was defended by creatures such as had come through it thus far, or even by more formidable ones.

There would indeed be grief among the kin of the hunters for the demon's gate before the hunt was done and the gate closed.

***

That night Lycenius cursed softly and fell asleep in his northern cave long before his daughter Scyra.

When she at last also slept, she knew still more about the world-walker, and much of the new knowledge gave her sinister dreams.

The gate was transforming creatures that passed through it, a little more each time. Never in nature would that bird have burst into flames as it had.

Her father had never been fully master of the world-walker's powers.

Now those powers were growing in ways that it was not meant for mortals to understand. It seemed that her father had tried to link the world-walker with the Pictish Wilderness instead of with Vendhya, and then close it. The link was uncertain, but there could be no doubt that the world-walker remained open. Was it to remain thus until it had sown chaos in whatever lands it might link?

Scyra slept then, and dreamed of the gate twisting so that it linked the Black Kingdoms and the Pictish Wilderness. She dreamed of warriors leaping”unchanged, by some sorcerous logic”through the gate and striding up the hill, led by one gigantic in stature, if blurred in features. A broadsword swung at his hip, she knew, and long black hair flowed from a nobly held head.

If he was coming for her, at least he was no Pict. Indeed, he looked fit to fight the warriors of any three tribes of that ill-natured race.

Seven

Conan and Govindue were not the only gate-hunters to see the shimmer above the treetops. Indeed, other watchers had studied it longer, not having to contend with giant birds. (One man was bitten by a tree adder and died of it, but this was an uncommon fate for those who searched the jungle, nor did it smell of sorcery.)

Each of the climbing watchers described what they had seen, some with more care than others. Kubwande listened to all alike with great attention, and beside him sat Idosso, seeming to listen as intently.

Conan also listened, and was pleased to recognize a fair number of places where he had wandered before the demon's gate opened. It was good to know that he had not lost his power to swiftly learn the lay of a battlefield.

Of course, he had intended the jungles to be a refuge from the sea and all the bitter memories it held. It was distant and malignant sorcery that had turned the land into a battlefield, and the demon's gate that held the key to defeating that sorcery.

Now it seemed that the warriors held the key to finding the demon's gate. Or so Kubwande said.

"We should watch the slope dawnwards of River-Horse Crossing on the Afui," he said. "Some should watch aloft, some from the ground. All will need their finest weapons, and hearts girded with courage."

"Then we are ready for the hunt," Idosso said. "All are armed and brave, and let no one doubt it."

Conan could have laughed at Kubwande's face, which was a study in hiding his anger at being chided by his friend. It would have been unwise, however. Plainly, the two chiefs were rapidly becoming as much rivals as allies in the quest for the demon's gate. The honor of closing it would be a warriors dream, and past friendships would be of little account.

Such rivalries were nothing new to the Cimmerian. In many lands over many years, he had snatched everything from pearls to chieftainships.

One day he might snatch a throne, although that was not something he valued as much as some did. A king was not nearly as much his own master as folk thought, and he was a fixed target for his enemies.

What prize Conan might find in the Black Kingdoms he hardly knew and did not much care, as long as it made him no more enemies than those with whom he could contend. That would be more than he had so far, of a certainty.

The Black Kingdoms bred stout warriors. Cimmeria bred still stouter ones.

***

They marched to the banks of the Afui in a dawn that hinted of rain not far distant. Mist rose from the trails and spiraled upward, to veil saffron-hued flowers and clusters of drumfruit, a deep, glossy purple worthy of a royal robe. Insects chirred and whined high and low.

Conan marched in the vanguard with the arms. He had not seen the two women since the night before last, but they had showed no hurt then.

They might have grown a trifle thin-flanked, carrying waterskins and mealie sacks, but their bruises had healed and their eyes rested approvingly on the big Cimmerian.

The party split to move along three trails as it approached the Afui.

Conan judged that this might take the men on each trail out of reach of help from the others. It would also bring more warriors up to the river at one time. Time and the gods would tell which was the greater risk.

Idosso seemed in rare good spirits this morning. He even tried to sing, until Kubwande gently urged him to silence. Conan knew the lesser chiefs prompting was due to the nearness of wild animals, but doubted that was the only reason. The Cimmerian had no great ear for music, but even to his ear, Idosso bellowed as loudly and harshly as a rutting bull.

The ground sloped for the last few hundred paces, the paths winding down toward the riverbank. At last Conan led his warriors out into the open ground, where once there had been a sizable village, but long before the demon's gate opened, a tribal war took it. Now the jungle was taking back even the ruins.

There were plenty of hiding places, but few of the men chose to use them. Most stood on the bank, staring across. Ripples in the water hinted of river-horses, crocodiles, and carnivorous fish lurking in the sluggish depths.

Beyond the water lay a circle of clear ground. Something like the foot of a beast still more gigantic than an elephant had stamped it out, crushing small trees, bushes, flowers, ferns, and vines into an ill-smelling paste.

Conan studied the clearing from the near bank. It was not pressed into the earth at all. Only the vegetation had suffered”and, Conan saw, nearby trees. More than a few of them showed signs of branches lopped and bark peeled with unnatural precision. A great fungus, an unwholesome white”blotched still more unwholesomely with umber and black patches”stood half-whole, half-crushed, with crawling insects further blackening the crushed portion.

When Conan saw the other parties appear in the open, he began studying the bank, looking for a way across. He had no intention of swimming that river, nor of examining the mysterious circle without a line for swift retreat. If that circle was not the demon's gate, it was still something with no rightful place in the jungle.

The Cimmerian cupped his hands. "Ho!" he snouted. "Bearers with axes forward." The heads of Bamula axes were of an iron too easily dulled for Conan's taste, but there were many of them, and the Bamulas were skilled in all manner of woodscrafting. It would not take long to fell a few small trees and bind them with vines into a light bridge.

Not long, after the axes came up¦ so where were they? Conan cupped his hands to shout again; then his hands fell to his waist, clenching into fists as they did.

The axes were coming, bound across the backs of the two women. One of the wenches limped, the other had one eye swollen almost closed.

"Crom!"

Conan's gaze swept the riverbank as he turned in a full circle. His hands remained clenched, but he kept them away from his broadsword. Too many spearmen stood about him, ready to throw before he could reach them.

Idosso met the chill rage in the northerners eyes with a set jaw and level stare of his own. He also kept his hands from his weapons, but challenge was in every muscle and in every feather of his ornate headdress.

Conan knew that Idosso (urged on by Kubwande?) had set him a direct challenge. Moreover, it was one that he would find it hard to meet either way. Fight Idosso and even if he won, the band would be divided and forced to accept a stranger for leader on the eve of battle. (If challenging the demon's gate was not a battle, Conan wished some kindly god would tell him what it was!)

Refuse, and Idosso would preen himself as one whom even mighty Amra dared not challenge. Also, the lot of the women would be even more wretched, and this latest beating far from the last or the worst.

Conan understood that Idosso was the kind of man who needed a firm hand the moment he challenged you. There had been some like him aboard Tigress, until Conan and the mates reduced them to order. Others too, many others, stretching back to Cimmerian villages¦

He should have met Idosso's challenge the first time it was offered and laid him out next to the dead Vendhyan! But”better late than never.

Conan unbuckled his sword-belt and let it fall. A gesture brought the women over, one to pick up the fallen weapon, the other to hand the Cimmerian one of the axes.

Idosso looked bewildered. Good. Kubwande was not whispering in his ear.

Or perhaps this challenge really was no idea of the iqako's?

"I am Amra. I'll not take the advantage of a sword against a spear."

"Ha!" Idosso sneered. "You'll take the edge of my spear, and when you do, no woman will look at you again."

Conan shrugged. "Better than you. No women ever looked at you, save as one who sees a snake in her bed."

Idosso's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The silence told Conan that work on the bridge had also ceased. He rounded on the wide-eyed men by the stream. "Keep at work instead of gaping, you mud-grubbers! Or I'll be after you when I'm done with this overgrown lout!"

Silence replied. Fearing treachery in the silence, Conan turned. His eyes widened. He also found his tongue frozen, and a bitterly cold sense of the presence of ancient evil crept along his backbone.

A golden shimmering was growing in the air over the cleared ground.

Already it was higher than most of the trees, and climbing higher still, in utter silence. The golden light dappled leaves and struck sparks on even the murky water of the Afui.

Conan detected a spiral motion beginning in the golden shimmer, but heard no thunder, and indeed, not the slightest sound. He saw Bamula warriors performing rites of aversion and young Govindue staring, his jaw sagging halfway to his chest. But the lad had his spear raised in one hand and his shield advanced on his other arm. Whatever ancient horrors might be rising along this river, he would meet them like a warrior.

For a moment, Govindue made Conan feel ancient. The Cimmerian himself had been no older than the boy when he first knew war. He wished for Govindue at least as many years and as much luck as he had enjoyed, and shifted his stance. He would not willingly take his eyes off either the apparition across the river or Idosso on the near bank.

The huge Bamula stood with his spear trailing on the ground and his shield halfway down his arm. Either he did not fear treachery from Conan or he was too bemused to think of his weapons.

A moment later, however, everyone had cause to think of their weapons.

Not all had time to use them before death struck.

Death burst from the trees in the form of the most gigantic of all lizard-apes. Its glaring red eyes could have stared into those of an elephant, and its claws and teeth torn out a bull's throat.

It limped, from a festering wound on its left leg that oozed yellow. A spear had left a barely healed gouge across its ribs. One eye was half-closed by the scab over a scalp wound. Clearly, the beast's sojourn in the alien jungle had brought it across the paths of humans more than once. From the brown smears across its muzzle and on its forearms, none could doubt the fate of those humans, dying even as they left their mark.

Its ordeal might have slowed the beast, but it had also taught it cunning. It approached silently, so that it was almost upon the rearmost men before they knew their peril. Then it charged into their midst, kicking and clawing wildly.

Hammer-blows of clawed hands flung bleeding warriors to the ground.

Kicks sent others flying. Some landed rolling and leapt up to rejoin the battle. One, slashed open from throat to belly, landed almost at Conan's feet and did not move. The Cimmerian snatched up his fallen sword, leapt over the body, and closed with the lizard-ape, sword in one hand, axe swinging in the other.

Spears flew wildly, flung by desperate men who had forgotten that friends stood between themselves and the enemy. One spear skewered a village warrior in the buttocks. He leapt and howled, then cried out in a different voice as the lizard-ape ripped open his shoulder.

With the courage of desperation, the warrior reached behind, snatched the spear from his body, and thrust wildly. The spear-point sank through scales into flesh, but a furious buffet from one long arm flung the valiant villager aside. He fell and lay still, his skull crushed out of all human semblance.

A woman's scream checked the Cimmerian's rush into battle. He slowed, searching for the wench without taking his eyes off the lizard-ape. New wounds had slowed the beast further, but those of its ilk seemed to be as tenacious of life as any creature he had ever fought. He thought it had clutched one of the women, but it lumbered forward with bloody paws empty.

Not the lizard-ape, but Idosso had brought forth the scream. The big man held Chira, one of the two women, with his fingers wound in her hair. She struggled and spat at him, but he mastered her as easily as he would a child.

Then he gripped her by loinguard as well as hair, lifted her high, and flung her straight at the lizard-ape. She screamed again. The beast caught her before she struck the ground, and its teeth fastened themselves in her throat. The screaming crescendoed in a welter of blood.

In the next moment, the ghastly meal ended as Conan lunged forward. He plunged the axe's blade in the massive skull, then slashed the beast across the muzzle to force it to turn. Beast's blood and woman's blood both showered Conan as he struck again, this time a thrust through the ribs with all his gigantic strength behind it.

The fine Aquilonian steel was bent and nicked when the Cimmerian withdrew the blade, but the lizard-ape was as dead as the Empire of Acheron.

Conan jerked the axe free next, then glared at Idosso over the two corpses, beast and woman. He lifted the axe, ready to throw, judging its balance. He really wanted to choke the life out of the brute with his bare hands, but anything that left Idosso dead was better than nothing.

The axe never flew. Idosso roared with surprise and pain and whirled.

The other woman”Vuona, Conan remembered”leapt with a gazelle's grace from the reach of Idosso's arms. In her hand she held a small but well-made dagger. It's blade dripped Idosso's blood.

The huge Bamula lunged at Vuona. He only hooked her loinguard, tearing it away. Nudity did not slow her flight.

Idosso flung the spear he had held ready for the lizard-ape, but it only grazed her ankle. Then she was running with the speed of mortal fear down to the river.

Whatever might be in the river terrified her less than Idosso did. She leapt into the water without breaking stride, then splashed furiously across. Bare and dripping, proud and slender, she rose from the water.

Idosso snatched another spear from the nearest warrior. He raised it to throw, but Conan closed and chopped down, wielding his sword left-handed and holding another axe in his right hand. The blade might need a smith's attention, but it could hack through a Bamula spearshaft as through straw.

Conan stepped back and tossed his weapons, snatching the sword out of the air with his right hand, the axe with the left. He spat on the ground, then put his foot on the spittle and rubbed it into the earth.

"Come on, Idosso, brave against women. Come, and end underfoot like that."

Idosso roared a wordless challenge filled with mindless fury. Then a great cry arose, freezing the warrior to the spot and making Conan turn.

Vuona still stood on the opposite bank, but now her hair rippled as if in a strong wind. She stared at the demon's gate with the gaze of a bird ensorceled by a snake. Conan thought he saw sparks of light dancing over her skin.

"Vuona!" he shouted. "Back!"

She seemed to hear”at least he thought he saw her shake her head. Then she took two steps forward, lengthened her stride with a third, and broke into a run.

Ten paces brought her to the edge of the golden spiral. Its light now gilded all her dark skin to the hue of fine bronze. Conan shouted again, and this time she showed no sign of hearing him or anything else.

Without breaking stride, she vanished into the spiral. Conan thought he saw it waver, and he cursed women turned witless by fear as he waited for the gate to vanish behind Vuona.

It did not. Instead, Idosso loomed up at Conan's shoulder. By pure instinct, the Cimmerian whirled, fists clenched. No steel touched the Bamula, but one weathered fist sank deep into the pit of the chief's stomach. As he doubled over, the other fist smashed into his jaw. He fell sideways into the bloody mud around the dead lizard-ape.

Conan now cursed his own temper. He could have slain Idosso with steel and lived with a clear conscience, and not a Bamula would have complained until after their mission was done, if then. Now he had made the man helpless, and it was not in Conan to kill a senseless man in cold blood. Nor, most likely, was it in the Bamulas to peacefully see him do it. Least of all was it in Idosso to learn wisdom from a mere crack on the jaw.

Conan wished Idosso in Crom's nethermost and coldest afterworld, where fools and traitors stood encased in blocks of ice. He wished any Bamula who followed Idosso all the lice of all the ill-kept taverns in Zingara.

Then he sheathed his sword, ran down to the bank, and took a running dive into the water. Shouts rose behind him as his head broke the surface, and he felt something rough scrape his leg. But the crocodile”if it was one”fell short in its first lunge at the Cimmerian.

Before it could turn for another attack, Conan's powerful strokes had carried him across the river.

He scrambled onto the land and gazed at the demon's gate with the care of a hunter seeking the weak points of a beast he has never seen before. A golden spark settled in his hair; he brushed it away as he would a persistent fly. His hand seemed to tingle where the spark struck it, but the tingling faded quickly.

Shouts rose behind him again, louder than before. He recognized Govindue's voice, and thought he heard that of Bessu as well. If they were trying to tell him to stay away from the demon's gate, they were wasting their wind.

The gate had not compelled his will, as it seemed to have done with Vuona. It had done nothing except swallow the woman”who would not have been desperate enough to pass within it had she not been fleeing Idosso.

Nothing compelled Conan except his own honor. An honor he had allowed to be stained by not dealing with Idosso the way the chief deserved, and in the moment he saw what the man was. In honor, he owed Vuona rescue, as well as Idosso's death¦ if he ever returned to the Black Kingdoms.

And if he did not? Well, Crom promised nothing to even the best warriors, but left their fate in their own hands. If no more, he could at least see that Vuona did not die alone.

Conan drew his sword, wiped it on the grass to remove a trifle of water from the blade, and strode forward into the golden spiral of the demon's gate.

Eight

The boy Govindue was the first to follow Vuona and the Cimmerian. He flung his spear across the Afui to free both arms for swimming, then leapt into the water. The head of a crocodile broke the surface just behind him, but the boy reached land before the tooth-studded jaws could close on him.

Spears rained upon the crocodile. Few penetrated the ridged, scaly hide, but one struck an eye and another the sensitive flesh of the nose. The creature hissed like porridge boiling over into the cookfire and sank out of sight.

The boy made a ritual gesture of dedicating himself to conquer or die, hands over heart and head bowed. Then in silence he turned and walked into the golden swirling that had swallowed Vuona and the Cimmerian.

Bessu let out a terrible cry, like a half-score hyenas all at once. The birds not already driven from the banks of the Afui by the demon's gate flew up screeching and chattering. Then he was tugging the one lopped tree trunk forward, toward the narrowest stretch of the river.

Bessu had help from the others toward the end, but he did most of the work himself. His lank frame seemed to have been endowed with a strength greater than that of the vanished Cimmerian. Sweat poured from him and his breath came in gasps, but he was the first across the bridge, running lightly as a monkey to the far side.

"Warriors, I follow my son!" he called. "Join us and battle the demon's gate and its master. Stay, and let all know that you are less brave than a woman, a white-skinned outlander, a boy, and an old man."

Then he ran forward, to become the fourth person swallowed in the golden swirling.

One foolish warrior raised a spear to bring down Bessu, but a wiser head struck that spear out of the wielder's hand. With a shrewd blow of his war club, Kubwande slapped the second man on the shoulder, then ran across the bridge.

He did not rush straight off on the trail of the others, though. He carried over his shoulder lengths of branch hastily hewn into stout pegs. These he drove in on either side of the log bridge with the blunt side of an axe. On the near end of the bridge, others did the same.

The thudding of axes on pegs woke Idosso. He lurched to his feet with all the grace of a beer-swollen river-horse and stared about him as if those he saw had fallen from the sky. Then he shouted at Kubwande.

"Where is that dog of a Conan?"

"No dog," Kubwande said, "but one who has led where we must follow."

"Whaaaaa”?" Idosso's roar would have stunned in the air any birds not already startled into panic flight by the uproar before the demon's gate.

"Yes," Kubwande said. Being no fool, he had seen the look in the other warriors' eyes after Bessu vanished into the demon's gate on the trail of his son. The village chief's appeal to everyone's honor was not one to resist.

Also, Idosso's offenses against Conan's honor, as well as against many taboos, were great. Kubwande recrossed the bridge, stepped close to the large man, and whispered this message into one large scarred ear.

Idosso's nostrils flared, like those of a leopard scenting prey. He raised one fist, then put the other hand to his aching head.

"Of course, if the outlander struck you so fiercely that your wounds demand I summon the village women Kubwande began.

"Shall I tell you what to do with the village women?" Idosso muttered.

Kubwande pretended not to have heard.

The last pegs were driven in, and the first warriors crossed the bridge. They moved slowly, and not only because the log was slippery and the crocodile might be waiting below, wounded and wrathful.

On every man's face was a common look. No one rejoiced that Conan's honor had taken them through the demon's gate on Vuona's trail. No one seemed ready to let his own courage be doubted, by refusing to follow the northerner into whatever lay beyond the demons gate.

Kubwande was of a mind to blame that eager lad, Govindue, more than he blamed the Cimmerian, and perhaps the lad's father likewise. Conan was a stranger, and one could always say he was not worthy to be followed”until a boy said otherwise, then led the way.

There would be a reckoning with son and father, Kubwande vowed. He hoped there would also be no reckoning with Idosso for shaming him into action, but knew Idosso's temper was as certain as a crocodile's hunger.

But Idosso was grasping a spear and strapping his zebra-hide shield to his other arm. He tightened his war belt of crocodile hide set with river-horse teeth. Then he raised his spear and flung it with all the terrible strength of his right arm. It flew across the river, skimming over the heads of the men on the bridge, and bit into the ground just short of the demon's gate.

"Where Conan leads, any warrior must follow!" Idosso shouted.

Kubwande was on the bridge ahead of Idosso. Then the big chief was on the log. It groaned and swayed, in spite of the pegs. Kubwande half-hoped that the gods would spare him a host of burdens by snapping the log like a twig and dropping Idosso into the crocodile's jaws.

Undoubtedly Idosso was not the only war chief of the Bamula who might allow himself to be ruled by Kubwande's advice.

All the men were now across the river, save a few too hurt to fight but able to remain behind and tend the dead and dying. Briefly, Kubwande envied them. Their scars would tell all that they had reason not to go battle demons.

He was almost ready to prod Idosso forward with the point of a spear when the big man leapt ahead, snatching up his spear and flinging it again, straight at the heart of the demon's gate.

It flew into the golden swirling and vanished. A moment later, Idosso was striding forward, and a moment after that, he had likewise vanished.

"We have a chief to lead us into the demon's land," Kubwande called.

"Forward, warriors!"

No one ran at that call, but none dared hold back, and in the time needed to heat a pot of stew, the far bank of the Afui was empty. As the crocodile rose again, its remaining eye and slit nostril alone showing above the water, the swirling of the demon's gate became swifter. The golden light darkened, and a roar as of a mighty cataract battered at the hearing of the wounded.

They clapped their hands over their ears and opened their mouths. As they did, the spiral grew tighter and a wind from beyond nature churned spray from the Afui, drove the crocodile into the depths, and scattered leaves and lengths of vine.

Branches and whole trees snapped, unheard in the roar. Nuts pelted the cowering wounded, and a branch flew down and ended the suffering of a dying man by crushing his skull.

The wounded murmured words they had been taught, but they knew that a score of the greatest wizards of the land would have been powerless.

The demon's gate had gained new strength by devouring those who sought a warrior's reputation by entering it. Soon it would leap across the Afui and devour them, then go on to ravage the land.

Between one breath and the next, the roar and the sinister glare died.

The wind eased, the last few leaves drifted down from the sky, and the log bridge slipped into the Afui with a gentle splash.

Those whose eyes had not been dazzled or ears deafened thus far saw a thin spiral of smoke rising from the circle in the ground, and heard the faint cackle of flames in dried leaves. Little else except the wide eyes and trembling hands of the watchers remained to tell the tale of how the unknown had entered the jungle, then departed with more than a score of warriors.

***

Conan walked at a steady pace through the demon's gate. He would learn what lay on the other side soon enough, if there was another side.

Meanwhile, a wise warrior took care when he could not see the ground under his feet and barely feel it (if indeed it was ground; it felt more like a half-frozen marsh).

The golden light was all around him, and in his ears sounded a low-pitched drone, like an immense swarm of bees the size of pigeons, returning to a hive the size of Aghrapur. Then the light and the drone began to fade, and Conan stood ready to draw his sword to face whatever might await him on the other side of the gate.

Whether he faced demon, wizard, or peasant with a flail and outrage against the stranger trampling his crops, Conan was prepared (although he would rather not kill the farmer, who could not be counted a real foe, and perhaps would be willing to tell him much useful about the local wizard).

Chill wind blew on Conan, the golden light gave way to daylight, without the emerald tint of the jungle, and he seemed to fall the length of his sword. His hillman's swiftness of hand and foot, eye and sinew, would have guarded him, had his sensibilities not been blunted more than he realized by the demon's gate.

As it was, he felt a steep slope under his sandals, and gravel sliding away, taking his balance with it. He threw himself backward, thrusting out his spear like a Gunderman mountaineer's climbing staff. The spear-point met rock and rebounded, not sinking in even the length of the first joint of a child's finger. Conan had the sense of being about to slide over the edge of the precipice, and in his ears roared the unmistakable din of rapids below.

Then something snagged his hair. It gripped so fiercely that for a moment he feared his hair would tear loose from his scalp or his scalp from his skull. Then his slide ended, the pain faded as the golden light had done, and he was able to look about him with a clearer vision.

His hair was tangled in a low, thorn-studded branch of a bush growing seemingly out of the bare rock. Below him, a slope strewn with boulders and patches of gravel dropped sharply to a stream thirty paces beyond.

White foam boiled over more boulders as green water seethed past them, and stunted trees thrust gnarled brown branches toward the sky.

Conan carefully sliced away hair with his dagger until he was free, then stood up. The sky was largely hidden by the sides of the valley, although the slopes were not as steep above as they were below. Seamed and weathered rock sparking with bits of quartz bulged outward to either side of a ravine that gave Conan his best view of the sky.

It had a northern look to it, a hard blue that found a reflection in the Cimmerian's eyes. Under such a sky had he been born, although the clouds marching by on the wind were softer than those of his native sky. It still had to be a long journey to the north from the Black Coast, or from whence came the breeze that crept even down into the valley and blew cool on his bare skin.

The demon's gate might never have existed, for all that Conan could see of it. Nor was there any trace of Vuona. She could not be far ahead of him, but what did the demon's gate do to distance?

Also, what might it have done to her senses? Bare as she was, she could not have passed quickly over this rocky ground even had she been sound of mind and wits. Fuddled by the demon's gate, she might well have fallen down the slope and now be a corpse, battered out of human semblance against the rocks in the rapids.

Conan did not know what gods ruled in this land, nor which of them would help him if petitioned. So he merely asked that cold Crom, if he took care for a warrior's honor, would allow him to return to the Black Kingdoms. That the god would further allow him to find Idosso alive, and to then end the man's life. It was the least he could do for Vuona, he vowed, although he suspected he might have an exceedingly long journey from this land to the lands of the Bamulas.

Having made the vow and seen no signs of disapproval that he recognized, Conan considered how well he was prepared to face this land. He was no worse-clad than he had often been when facing harsher weather. Sandals protected feet, while a belt held weapons and a pouch of pressed meat and beans (hard as wood, as enduring, and tasting hardly better, to Conan's mind).

His weapons were sword and dagger, with the spear now hardly more than a staff or club. Its soft iron head had not met hard mountain rock in friendship or survived intact. He would have given much for a bow, had he thought there was anyone in this land able to accept the offer.

Seeing no bowyers' or fletchers' shops hidden behind the rocks, he resolved to seek out sinew and flint, feathers and branches, to make his own. Also a sling, a weapon he had small use for on the battlefield but one that he had found handy for filling the pot in any wilderness (and for poaching in more civilized lands).

Conan shifted his spear to his left hand and drew his dagger with his right. Then, putting his hillman's knowledge to the test, he began to climb toward the ravine and the sky beyond.

***

Scyra had waited long, but only silence came from her father's chambers. Indeed, the whole cave was more silent than she had ever known it, even when her father had simply fallen asleep in the course of nature.

When he did that, his body at last commanding his sorcery-clouded mind, he always snored. She remembered vividly the snores that raised echoes not only in his chambers, but outside them, when she went in to draw blankets over him.

Scyra's eyes grew moist at the memory, and at other memories from years farther back, before exile, the wilderness, and all that came with it.

Her father had tucked her into bed during the year of her mother's illness. Then she had begun tucking him in, when his grief after Mother's death threatened to unman him.

Had it in fact done so in the end, turning him into what he had become, all but a slave of his own powers? At least she prayed to lawful gods, when she could remember their names, that it was only to his own powers. Had he been grief-stricken beyond common sense, and thought of nothing but avenging his wife (or of at least sending her the message that he loved her, words he had so often left unsaid in life)?

Scyra did not know. She knew only that unless her father called out by voice or spell and said that he was dying, she had to flee this cave for a while. In time, she would return, to be the dutiful daughter while also working along her own paths, to perfect her own magick as well as to master her father's. Not so dutiful as to submit to wedding a Pictish chieftain, but there was much else that she could do before she had to openly refuse that last bargain.

The air in the cave seemed hotter and heavier than usual, and she smelled a pungent hint of sulphur. Eager as she was to flee to the fresh air, she did not do so in foolish haste. She had been spellclad for studying the scrolls, in case she needed to actually cast one to test them. Now she drew on breeches and undertunic, overtunic, belt and dagger, wrapped her auburn hair in a rawhide hood, and pulled over everything a rawhide cloak in the Gunderman style.

Staff in hand, she made her way out of the silence and stink to the outer cave. She paused to salute the votive lamps at the mouth, and to kiss the upheld hilt of her dagger. Then she flattened herself against the wall and sidled toward the daylight.

The Picts were her masters in woodscraft, as they were the masters of most folk, and if they dared to lurk near the cave, they would see her before she saw them. But if the Owls were daring to draw close to the cave, much else had gone awry, and the best she could hope for was to live long enough to bring word of their presence to her father.

If he had not indeed allowed them to close in, echoed in Scyra's mind.

The wind from the cave mouth seemed suddenly to bring more cold than cleansing.

The echo grew louder, and she realized that it was not of the making of her mind. Borne on the wind with it was the sound of Pictish drums.

They were not close, but had the volume of a clan-sized war party at least.

She would still go out, but stay close to the cave. Even a Pict commonly wary of sorcery would lose fear of wizardry and all else in his war-frenzy, and slay what stood before him without caring much what it was.

***

The boy Govindue was glad that everyone believed he was as brave as he wished to appear. Even his father seemed to be deceived. But then, his father had suffered much. He would be slow to believe ill of his only remaining son.

In truth, Govindue (and no doubt the gods) knew that he was both as excited as when he had taken his first woman and as frightened as the first time he had hunted a leopard. He had been fortunate both times, pleasing the woman and killing the leopard. Remembering such good fortune was about all that kept his limbs moving as he trod the road through the demon's gate. It felt like a muddy trail, and adding to Govindue's unease was the feeling that at any moment the mud would turn liquid and he would plunge downward, out of even the golden demon-light and into a darkness without end.

Then the mud seemed to dry and the golden hue faded from the light. A moment later, Govindue sensed something harder and colder under his feet than he had ever before felt. He had heard of walking on bare rock, with wind colder than the winter rains about you, from certain elders who had reached the Mountains of the Moon and returned. He himself had never left the Bamula lands; he could only believe the tales of the elders as a boy must, to show respect.

Govindue went to his knees, then sprang up and ran. He did not know what lay before or behind, except that any foes who lay before should have a moving target. Also, he could seek out any foes laying ambushes for those who might come behind him.

Govindue ran fifty paces before he realized that the ground was turning into a steep slope. Also, he was bumping into the trunks of stout trees, and their lower branches were lashing him across the face. He halted and studied the limbs.

Instead of leaves, they had clusters of fine needles, and instead of nuts, they had clusters of little brown scales. Once he had seen an old warshirt taken from the body of a Stygian slave-raider, a shirt made of iron scales shaped much like this. Also, he had heard of such trees, again from those elders who had walked in the Mountains of the Moon.

Well, even if the demon's gate had taken them no farther than the Mountains of the Moon they would have a long journey home and not all of them would complete it. They would have to fight hostile tribes, to say nothing of the demons servants who were surely close at hand, ready for their master to call them into use”

Drums sounded from up the hill. The drummers were lost in the trees, but Govindue was accustomed to judging the place of a drummer half a day's march away in the jungle. These were five or six of them, beating small drums and no more than ten spear-throws uphill and to the left.

Thunder rolled, although Govindue saw nothing amiss, neither golden light nor indeed any disturbance of the air. He did see a man stagger into the open and go to his knees. More men followed, until there were nearly as many as he could count on his hands and toes.

Might the demon's gate be invisible from its far side? With such powerful wizardry, anything might be possible. If that was the truth, then whoever mastered the demon's gate also had a mighty way to send warriors wherever he wished, into the very hut of an enemy chief”

Govindue swallowed a cry. He had recognized the first man through the gate. It was his father, Bessu. Others of Dead Elephant Valley were with him, likewise some Greater Bamulas. He recognized Kubwande, and less happily, Idosso.

The boy began to work his way down the slope. He was relieved to see that the warriors seemed to have their wits about them. They had fallen swiftly into silence and had readied their shields and weapons in response to the drums.

His relief faded quickly as he saw his father and Idosso quarreling.

They kept their voices low; he heard no words. But he knew his father's face well enough to read it even from this distance. Also, Kubwande was not taking sides, which weakened Idosso but also Bessu, and indeed, weakened the whole band by allowing the quarrel to go on.

Govindue began moving faster. His place was at his father's side, all the more because his father had followed him through the demon's gate.

He moved so swiftly that on the rocky ground his foot turned and he would have fallen had he not been able to brace himself against a tree.

From a bush ahead, a man rose into view. Govindue saw him clearly, although no one unused to hunting in dense forest would have recognized the form of a man. Govindue not only recognized the form of a man, but saw that he was naked except for a loincloth and a necklace of human teeth. Save where he was tattood or painted, he was brown-skinned, about the hue of some Stygians, and carried a bronze-headed war-axe and a short bow with a quiver of flint-headed arrows.

The man's dark eyes quested about, searching other bushes and trees for the source of the drumming noise. Govindue had the eerie sense that the tree he had sought the moment he slipped was no protection from the man's gaze, let alone his arrows. Did the man have potent magick. What if all his people had the same?

But if the man had magick, it was not enough to reveal Govindue to him.

He needed no magick, however, to see the Bamulas gathered in the open, or to signal to what were likely his comrades. The axe rose and fell three times. Only those behind him could have seen it, they and Govindue. The boy also saw more bushes quivering slightly; the man had at least a hand of comrades. If they all had bows”

If they all had bows, Govindue knew what he must do. He would be alone among at least six of the enemy, and he would die there. But if he died giving a warning, his father and others would live. If in time they knew he had given the warning, the ancestors would be told and would honor him.

Also, Idosso would know what kind of son Bessu had, and perhaps accept his leadership. If Idosso did not, Kubwande might.

The man was rising again, with his bow ready and an arrow in his hand.

Standing, he turned his side to Govindue. He was smaller than the boy, but his exposed side seemed as generous a target as the flank of a buffalo.

Govindue's spear flew. As it struck, Govindue cupped his hands and shouted: "Wayo, wayo, wayo! The enemy comes! Wayo, wayo, wayo, the son of Bessu calls!"

***

Conan had been creeping downhill ever since he reached the ridge and heard the drums. He could have used more time on the high ground spying out the land, but even a brief look had been enough.

This was indeed far from the Black Kingdoms, a higher, colder land way to the north. The trees were pines and firs, giving the terrain a darker hue than that of the jungles of the south. The sky was harsher and the sun milder than in the land of the Bamulas. Far away a line of slate-tinted sapphire slashed across the horizon, a sea very unlike the warm blue of the waters Belit had sailed.

For a moment, Belit seemed to die all over again. Conan shook his head, letting the wind whip his hair about his shoulders”a wind such as he had often felt in his native land, but never on the Black Coast.

The sorrow passed, and grim resolve took its place. The demon's gate had brought him not to some other part of the Black Kingdoms, nor to any party of Vendhya. This was an unknown northern land; his first task after finding Vuona was to make it known. Somewhere under one of those crags or in a stand of straight-boled firs might lie the master of the demon's gate.

Conan was looking for any sign of Vuona's passage when he heard the drums. He at once resolved to seek out the drummers and watch them from hiding. If they appeared friendly, he could learn their land and ways around a fire, and over meat and ale seek their help in finding Vuona.

He doubted that any tribe inhabiting such a land as this would refuse help in the hunt, and abundant meat had a way of loosening tongues.

If they were hostile, on the other hand, he would make one a prisoner, then learn as much in a less friendly manner. He might then know Vuona was doomed, but also from whom to take vengeance.

The last of the befuddlement had left the Cimmerian's head. He stalked down the hill with the silent grace of a hillman on the prowl, never bringing his foot down where anything might snap or roll. He passed in silence through gaps between trees one would have sworn would not pass a squirrel, and all this while moving swiftly as well. It was not long before he was in sight of the first of the folk of the drum, and knew his enemy.

They were Picts, which meant "enemy" to any Cimmerian. Conan had learned much from men who had fought in the Pictish Wilderness, both Cimmerians and those of other races. Many of them bore scars, likewise the memories of friends hideously slain; none bore any goodwill toward the Picts.

"Which is something no god would ask anyway," Conan remembered one mercenary in Argos saying. "Because the Picts bear nobody any goodwill, including mostly one another, I think. If they'd better weapons, they might do us all a favor and kill one another off. As it is, they'll be a plague long after my grandson's a graybeard."

Masters of woodscraft, the Picts were, lightly armed, and certainly no match for Conan in single combat. But they would be a hundred to his one in this land, and they had bows.

The drums continued, the rattle and thud shifting as if the drummers or the wind or both were on the move. Conan judged that he was upwind of the main body of the Picts and that the breeze would hide any slight noises he made.

He wanted to close with them unseen and unheard, before they launched their attack. If their intended victims were civilized, he would know who might be grateful for his aid. If this was only a brawl between Pictish clans, neither side would be a friend to strangers, but one side might yield a talkative prisoner. Also, the Pictish prisoner would save Conan the work of making a bow for himself.

He judged where the flank of the Picts would be by where he would have placed hillmen himself when launching such an ambush. Nor was he wrong.

A solid mass of Picts was not slow to appear, well-hidden from below but naked to the keen blue eyes studying them from above.

Conan was about to drop to his knees to crawl closer, when he saw a slim, dark figure rise from cover farther down the slope. Fugitive sunlight sparked on a spearhead as the slim figure threw. A Pict thrashed out his life, and Conan heard a Bamula war cry.

The cry was still echoing on the wind when the Picts close to Conan leapt up and charged downhill. In the next moment, the Cimmerian recognized the village boy, Govindue, as the spear-thrower. Now the lad was facing his last moments of life, with only one who might deserve the name of friend to share them with him.

Conan gave the wildest of all Cimmerian war cries, and his legs were churning even as his sword flew from its scabbard. Then he was on his way downhill, crashing through bushes like a rolling stone, leaping boulders, altogether like an avalanche about to strike the Picts.

Nine

Govindue did not see Conan for some while after the Cimmerian began hammering his way into the rear of the Picts. There were too many trees and not a few Picts between him and Conan. Also, the Picts were busy trying to kill him and he was equally busy trying to stay alive.

The boy's first man-kill had certainly drawn the attention of all the Picts about him. They sprang into the open, snatched up bows, nocked arrows, and shot. Those without bows threw spears. Only his fleetness of foot and a few intervening trees saved Govindue from being brought down at once.

Instead, he opened a gap of thirty paces or more between himself and the Picts. As he ran, he sought a hiding place. It was not in the gods to give him one where these smelly, snarl-haired hillfolk might not see him.

But perhaps he could find someplace that would let him fight them on more equal terms, even killing a few more of them before they brought him down. He had only one more spear besides his war club, but he might be able to capture a weapon from some dead foe.

He had already done better than he would have expected, killing one enemy, drawing others on to him, and still being alive. If he lived only a little longer, the songs they made of his deeds would not console his father for being sonless, but would make his death-rites more pleasing.

A spear rattled against a branch and plunged into a bush an arm's length from Govindue. He risked a look backward, and nearly paid for that look with his life. His foot came down on a branch so rotted that it snapped under even his youthful weight. A broken stub gouged his ankle.

Seeing his prey slowed, the leading Pict slowed in his turn. That mistake cost him dearly, giving the boy just time to snatch up the mis-aimed spear, judge its balance, and throw.

The Pict was snatching his bow from his back when the spearhead drove into his ribs. He threw up his hands and fell across the path of his comrades, blood spurting from his mouth as he choked and coughed out his life. At last his thrashing limbs were still. Four live, full-armed Picts faced a Bamula lad with only spear and war club left to make the songs about him worth hearing.

That they would be sung, Govindue had no doubt. Behind him, the trees gave way to open slopes, with broad spaces where a rat would have trouble hiding. Boulders crowned the hill, but the hillmen would bring him down one way or another long before he reached the rocky shelter.

In boyish bravado, Govindue made an obscene gesture at the hillmen.

"Govindue, son of Bessu, gives you this greeting to take back to your women. Maybe they will regret the better man you slew, and take your parts to put on my grave."

The Picts did not understand a word of the Bamula speech, but they understood that they were being insulted, and they howled with fury.

One nocked an arrow.

Then the odds changed in a moment, as a stone flung seemingly from nowhere crushed the archers throat. A demon's howl made the surviving Picts flinch, even as the dying archer toppled. They were looking about them to see what had risen from the earth when Conan stormed through the trees and into their midst.

Against Conan, three Picts had no more chance than three goats against a lion. None of them ran, so they died all the more swiftly. Conan threw a spear that impaled one Pict through the back of the neck, until the spearhead burst from his mouth in a shower of blood and teeth. He threw another stone that caught a second Pict just above his loincloth.

The Pict stumbled and ran into a tree hard enough to knock himself senseless.

This left the last Pict alone, with nothing to do but fight. He did this with a warrior's courage, but he faced both Govindue's spear and the descending sweep of Conan's sword. The Bamula spear pierced the Pict's thigh in the same moment as the Aquilonian steel sheared through shoulder and ribs into the man's belly.

Conan put his foot on the last Pict's ribs and jerked his sword free.

His grin was a leopards.

"Never throw that close to a swordsman."

"Forgive me, Conan."

"I will, since you didn't hit me. Now let's see what your father and his friends have left of the rest of these ill-smelling rockscrabblers."

"Who are they, Conan?"

"A folk called the Picts. What more I know, I'll tell you all later."

As if to remind them of further work at hand, the drums sounded again from farther down the hill. Only briefly, however”the clash of weapons and the war cries of both peoples swiftly drowned them out. Amidst these sounds, Govindue was sure he heard men's death-cries as well.

He needed no second command to follow Conan.

***

Conan knew enough about the Picts to have some notions about fighting them. He also had his strength, speed, and instincts, all honed like a fine sword by many years' fighting in more than a dozen lands against a score of different enemies. Some of those foes were hillmen like the Picts, although the Pictish Wilderness was more heavily wooded than the Ilbars Mountains or the wastes of northern Iranistan.

Conan led Govindue across the slope just inside the tree line. They could have gone faster in the open, at least until the first Pictish archer made good practice against them. The trees hid them and the Picts from each other, and Conan trusted that he was a match for any Pict they might stumble across at close range. More than a match, with a second pair of eyes and another fighting arm at his back, each ruled by sharp, if youthful, wits.

Dead Elephant Village would be well-led, if no more demons came to further ruin it before Govindue was of age to succeed his father as chief.

Conan judged correctly in thinking that the Picts had a second party opposite the one Govindue found. Thus placed, the Picts could have caught the Bamulas in a deadly hail of arrows from both sides as the warriors came uphill. More than once, Conan had laid such an ambush himself. Just as often, he had fought his way out of one, commonly carrying dead or wounded comrades and, at times, a few holes in his own hide. Ambushes were no mystery to him.

Govindue, however, had drawn the first band of Picts out of their intended position. Then Bamula and Cimmerian together had slain them so swiftly and silently that their comrades below had no idea of what had befallen them. Fierce but ill-disciplined warriors, they were shooting from behind their trees at the Bamulas behind theirs, when Conan and Govindue came down upon them.

Again the attack had the force of a rockfall crashing onto a hut. This time, however, the Picts had greater strength and less courage. Some turned at bay, desperate as wolves, bold in their refusal to retreat from only a handful. Others turned to flee. The two crossed one another's path, hurled curses and stones, and sometimes came to blows.

Conan and Govindue waded into the confusion, slashing, thrusting, and flailing about with total impartiality between the two factions.

Neither courage nor fleetness of foot helped those Picts who found themselves within striking distance of the pair.

The Cimmerian wielded a spear in his left hand and his sword in the right. He thrust an axe-man through the shoulder and split his skull as the man dropped his axe. Reversing the sequence, he hamstrung an archer who had turned his back, then rammed the spear between the man's shoulder blades. The spear stuck in the Pict's ribs. Conan put one foot on the small of the Pict's back, snapping the man's spine in the process, and jerked his spear free.

Then, in a single motion, the Cimmerian whirled, smashing the spear butt-first into a Pict's jaw. As the man reeled back, two of his comrades valiantly tried to close with Conan and give their friend time to flee.

They failed. The Pict stumbled and fell before he completed three steps. At the same time, Conan's sword whistled left, right, left, in three cuts. The neck of one man gaped so that his head lolled like a drunkards. The other screamed and clutched at his thigh, dropping guard and weapon. Conan split his head with a fourth stroke.

Govindue had nothing except a bent-headed spear, but he killed one Pict and drove a second back. A third came on to the attack, shrieking like the spawn of demons and wielding a rude stone-headed axe. Govindue leapt in under the swing of the axe and slammed his spear up against the Picts arms.

The Pict howled and dropped the axe. Govindue shifted his grip and thrust hard before the Pict could draw clear. Blood oozed from around the spearshaft, and sprayed from the Picts mouth as the breath tore from his punctured chest. He jerked until he twisted the spear from Govindue's grasp.

Conan kicked at the Pict but the man fell back, taking the spear with him. The Cimmerian stood guard against two more Picts while the boy picked up the axe and tested its balance.

"Near enough to a war club," Govindue said. He swung furiously, with more energy than skill. One of the Picts chose that moment to lunge forward. The axe caught him across the bridge of his nose and he fell, without even a scowl crossing his ruined face.

By now, Conan and his companion had cleared a respectable space about them, empty of living, or at least of fighting, Picts. Howls and cries from among the trees suggested the nearness of other Picts, and also foretold that the Bamulas downhill were fighting their way toward the Cimmerian.

It was as well, Conan realized, that the demon's gate did not fuddle the wits of those who passed through it, or change them into demons. If the Bamulas had walked through the gate too bemused to fight until after the Picts had sprung the ambush, he might have been facing a long and solitary search of the wilderness for Vuona.

Now he had twenty or more comrades to help him search for the girl, fight the Picts, and seek out the master of the demon's gate. There was loss with the gain: the twenty would be harder to hide than one, few of them were used to northern lands or cold weather, and some might not be wholly trustworthy.

Conan signaled to Govindue to open the gap between themselves, and they worked their way down the hill. The arrows came thicker now that the Picts below had no fear of hitting friends who were either slain or fled. But the Picts were less than polished archers. A score of men in any Turanian band of mounted bowmen would have been their masters. They trusted to showering foes with arrows and had ill success when they needed to rely on sharpshooting.

A tree at a time, Conan and Govindue worked their way into the ranks of the remaining Picts. They slew three, and in time the remainder abandoned their archery, once more afraid of hitting comrades. Conan picked up a bow and used it to good effect. He told Govindue to watch for other bows, and also for fallen arrows still fit for use.

"We will be in this land long enough to need some meat, and the bow outreaches the spear for hunting," Conan said.

"You have fought before in this land?" Govindue asked.

"In ones enough like it that what I remember from them is worth doing here," Conan replied. "Also, men come from many lands to serve the Aquilonians along the Pictish frontier, and talk freely when their service is done."

"The gods grant that is enough," Govindue said. For a moment, he looked close to his age, the courageous boy far from home rather than the seasoned warrior.

Conan slapped him on the shoulder. "Hurry with that arrow hunt," he said. "I'll watch for any Picts fool enough to linger."

***

Before the thud of the Pictish drums faded from Scyra's ears, the unmistakable din of a battle replaced it. The sorcerer's daughter at once went to ground. Picts this far inside her father's lands were rare; a battle was unheard of. Learning who was fighting whom and bringing the knowledge back to her father would go far to earn her a pardon for leaving the caves.

She would balance curiosity with caution, however, lest she die with her knowledge sealed behind her lips. The Picts were her masters in woodscraft, but she was not helpless. One born in the Bossonian Marches knew one tree from another, and ground that hid from ground that revealed.

Scyra formed a picture in her mind of the location of the battle, then judged the best route to follow to see it. She considered casting a spell of invisibility, or at least of confusion, but such a spell would not last long, and might reveal her at the worst possible moment, close to the enemy and defenseless. (The spell of invisibility she had learned needed to be cast spellclad, without so much as a sharp pin from her hair for defense.)

No, the simple prowl of a cat stalking a bird would teach her the most with least danger. She crouched and began to crawl forward on hands and knees, to cross the patch of ground where only bushes offered cover.

Thirty paces farther on, the trees began, reaching all the way up the slope to her goal.

Scyra had covered only fifteen of those paces when she saw something move under a bush. She ceased her crawl and held her breath, waiting for a further movement. It came, and now it seemed unmistakably to have a human source.

She listened for sound from beneath the bush, and also for any sign of lurking Picts. It could be that two tribes of the hillmen were fighting”a band of Snakes or Wolves breaking the taboo against being on the white shaman's land, and a band of Owls defending the holding.

Scyra had no illusion that she would be truly safe with either tribe, but the Snakes would surely kill her, and not mercifully. The Owls might be slow to kill the shaman's daughter, if they recognized her in time.

Quickly she realized that the battle was making too much noise for her to hear any lurking Picts. But this had to be true for Picts listening for her, too. She drew her dagger and crawled toward the bush from which the sounds and movement came.

Branches crackled and gravel sprayed as a dark-skinned figure scrambled frantically into the open. It was just leaping to its feet when Scyra clutched it firmly by both ankles. She was not a trained or accomplished fighter, but she was calm, not terrified, and also sturdily made from birth and strong from years in the wilderness. The figure toppled, almost on top of her. From less than the length of her daggers blade, Scyra stared into the wide, rolling eyes of a dark-skinned young woman.

The sorcerer's daughter would have given ten years of her life now for a spell to both silence the other and persuade her that she faced no enemy. The best Scyra was able to do was to clamp a hand over the woman's mouth and make soothing noises into one ear. The ear, she noticed, showed clotted blood where an earring had been ripped away, and the dark skin bore bruises and grazes. Some of them might be the work of the rocks; others surely were not.

Beyond those minor hurts, the woman seemed unharmed as far as Scyra could judge. She hoped that was far enough, for the woman was of no race she had ever seen, darker than either Pict or Shemite, with rounded features. She was also well-formed”with the look of a girl just come into womanhood”under dust, dead leaves, and bruises.

Was she from the Black Kingdoms far to the south? Most likely, from what Scyra had heard of their folk. But then what was she doing in the Pictish Wilderness, farther from home than Scyra cared to imagine, far even from any shore where a ship might have landed her?

The answer was plain. The world-walker had linked the Black Kingdoms with the Pictish Wilderness, whether by Lysenius's intent or by pure chance. This woman had wandered into it”or been drawn like so many others by the mind-compelling power of the spell. Had she come alone?

The woman wore neither clothing nor weapons. Hardly garb for flinging oneself into the unknown. A madwoman? Scyra looked at her companion's eyes again.

They were still wide and fearful, but no madness as Scyra recognized it showed in them. She pointed at herself. "Scyra," she said.

The other's eyes widened farther. She pointed at her breast. "Vuona,"

she said.

"Vuona," Scyra repeated, pointing at the woman. The dark one nodded vigorously.

All this while, the battle had faded into the back of Scyra's mind. Now it returned to the forefront as a man's death-scream cut through the trees and seemed to soar into the sky like an arrow.

"Wayo, wayo, wayo!" Scyra heard. It came from the direction of the battle, an exuberant chant from a dozen robust male throats. She had heard the victory chants of Picts before, but this was nothing like theirs. Deeper, fuller, and somehow more wholesome, it was like nothing she had ever heard or imagined.

Vuona jumped as if bitten by a serpent.

"Bamula!" she cried. Scyra tried to restrain her. Picts three clans away must have heard that cry, if they had not already heard the battle. Rushing off to where you thought friends were was often a short way to death in a Pictish ambush.

The woman fought with surprising strength, and now Scyra wished for a Pictish war hammer. A good buffet on the head”

"You Bamula?" Scyra asked. Could that be the name of Vuona's tribe? Had a war party come through the demon's gate and fallen among the Picts?

The chant went on, now almost as loud as the battle. Not a Pict could be heard, only the Bamulas. Perhaps it was a case of the Picts falling among the Bamulas?

Silence swallowed the hillside. It lasted long enough for a deep breath, then a new chant was taken up.

"Ohbe Bessu, ohbe Bessu, ohbe Bessu!" The new chant was no softer than the first, but slow and dirgelike. Vuona listened attentively, then scratched a shallow trench in the ground, pushed in a small pine cone, and covered it up.

"Bessu," she said, pointing at the mound.

The victory had not been without cost, it seemed. A warrior named Bessu was honorably dead. Again the chanting sounded more worthy of a warrior than did the Pictish howling.

Vuona pointed up the hill. Scyra sighed. It appeared that the woman wanted to go up there, badly enough to face the arrows of any lurking Picts alone if there was no other way.

Scyra studied her intended path again. At least Vuona would not have to go alone. Then perhaps she might in turn be grateful enough to return to the caves with Scyra, for a hunting smock to cover her skin and lotions for her bruises, if nothing else!

Then, who could know what might follow? Scyra lacked spells for learning Vuona's tongue or teaching her Bossonian, let alone reaching into her thoughts and reading them without words. Those were in scrolls she had never touched, let alone read, if indeed her father had not so firmly embedded them in his memory that he needed no scrolls to cast them.

But if they were embedded in his memory”? Vuona might speak, might see Scyra and Lysenius as friends, might lead the other Bamulas to them”the other Bamulas, who had survived a passage through the demon's gate in a condition to fight Picts!

Scyra had long since vowed to either defeat or win over her father. Old love let her prefer the second. The Bamulas might give her the key.

Ten

Govindue allowed Conan to lead the way down the hill toward the place of the Bamula warriors. The village lad walked proudly, for this day he had won a name that would last even if this was his final fight. He wondered if Conan's tribe”the Kimmerala, was it?”had the custom of praise-songs, and if Govindue of Dead Elephant Village of the Lesser Bamulas would ever be mentioned in the praise-songs about the fires of the Kimmerala.

It was as well for Govindue that he allowed Conan to lead. The Cimmerian was first to see the leaves trembling, revealing a lurking live Pict where others might have seen only the dead. There was no shortage of dead Picts, and from one of them Conan snatched up a short-handled axe. Not well balanced for a swift throw, it still plunged through the concealing bush.

A pantherlike scream froze all except Conan. He was still moving when the mortally wounded Pict leapt into the open. One arm dangled useless, but the other held a spear and retained its strength and cunning. The spear flew toward the oncoming Bamulas.

Most of the men had the wits or the time to fling themselves to the ground or to raise their shields. Bessu had the wit and the swiftness of eye and hand to fling his own spear, but he had no shield, having given it to a warrior who had lost his. Before he could think to defend himself, the Pict's spear was in his throat.

Bessu fell backward, half-flung by the spear, half-falling as strength deserted his legs. His own spear sank clean through the Pict's broad chest, so that the weapon burst out his back. It was slaying a dead man, but the Bamulas shouted as if Bessu had killed the enemy's war chief.

Govindue knelt beside his father while all the rest joined in the chant of "Wayo, wayo, wayo," then moved on to "Ohbe Bessu___"

"Honor to Bessu." Yes, much honor to a man who had followed his son through the demon's gate and into a strange land, to die there in battle. Honor Bessu would not hear except with his spirit ears. His face was set and his eyes wide and staring; he must have died as he struck the ground.

Govindue set his own face into a mask as hard as polished wood over his grief and gripped the spear. It was custom that if a dead warrior had blood-kin in the band, that kin should draw out the death-weapon and do whatever else might be needful for the dead man. If blood-kin was not present, then the eldest living warrior bound to the dead man by a blood-oath had this duty. Either man still received a spirit-burden that needed lifting after the battle, but a lesser one than would some total stranger.

The lifting would be far in the future, Govindue realized. He saw trouble from that, not far in the future, when the other warriors also realized it. They too might be uneasy about the fate of the body of Bessu and of any other dead in this distant, cold land of savage men who seemed near-kin to demons.

"We must also honor Conan," Govindue said. "Without his arm and sword, we would have suffered more. Without his knowledge of this land, we might still be in danger."

Govindue looked at the black-maned warrior, hoping he had kept the desperation out of his voice and eyes alike. Conan shrugged.

"I can't do much about the Picts, for I've heard they swarm like wild bees and are about as hard to kill. But yes, this land is more like my homeland than yours. I know something of what a man needs to live and fight here.

"Also, we're better placed in one way than I expected. This is not some demon's realm from which the only way back is through the demon's gate.

The gate's sorcerous master may not be our friend, but we may not need his friendship. Somewhere at the end of this wilderness is the sea. On the sea are ships, to be hired or, if needs be, taken. Remember that I have sailed as Belit's right hand, and I know ships."

Idosso stepped forward. He was shaking his head. Govindue hoped it was because he was still befuddled by Conan's blows, not because he was working himself up to a fighting rage.

Idosso's first words dashed that last slender hope. "Are you saying that you lead here now, Amradulik?" One did not call a man one wished peace with "Lion Dung," not even as a jest”and it did not seem to Govindue that Idosso was jesting.

"I am saying that I know the ways of this land and you do not," Conan said. "Does anyone care to dispute that? I can find a path out of the wilderness and a ship to warmer lands more easily for myself and Vuona than for all of us together. If it is your wish that I do that, only say so now and plainly, and there is no quarrel among us."

The thought of being abandoned to freeze, starve, or die under Pictish onslaughts clearly appealed to no one. Even Idosso looked a trifle daunted.

He also seemed to find something in certain faces, something Govindue was too young to put a name to, not too young to dislike. "Are we supposed to beat this wilderness for Vuona, until we find her with a Pictish arrow through her___?" the chief challenged.

The obscenity drew faint laughter. Conan shrugged again. "If you think that is the best way to find her, go and seek her yourself. Only, I doubt that you are the man to find her, unless she is dead or too hurt to move. You coming after her will make her run faster, and one day she will run faster than you."

"No woman can fear me," Idosso growled. Govindue saw his fingers begin to twist. He also saw Kubwande begin to look openly uneasy.

Unfortunately, Idosso's back was to the lesser chief. He seemed to read nothing in any of the faces he saw before him that would deter him.

"Truth," he went on, "is that Vuona should welcome a return to me. In Amra, she has had only the kind of man who makes his bed with such as Govindue."

A killing light flared in the ice-blue eyes. Conan took a step forward, fists clenched. Idosso stood with legs apart, waiting for him to strike with hand or steel.

The blow never landed. Conan merely said quietly, "Well, then, if I am supposed to favor Govindue, I will prove it. Lad, you are now second to me. Idosso, you will obey his orders as you would mine."

Conan turned his back on the big warrior. For a moment, Govindue thought the uneasy peace would hold.

Then someone laughed. Kubwande glared around the circle, plainly seeking who had been so foolish as to laugh at Idosso when the big man was in such a temper.

Govindue also sought the laughter. If he was to be leading these men, it would be well to know who was foolish and who wise among them, without learning everything from Conan.

Neither chief nor youth finished their search before Idosso bellowed like a rutting buffalo and flung himself at the Cimmerian.

***

Idosso's bellow of rage was probably intended to slow the wits and limbs of his opponent. Against many other men, it might have done so.

Against Conan it merely gave a warning, and cost Idosso the advantage of surprise. Insofar as he needed every advantage he could gain, this was not the act of a wise warrior. But then, Idosso had never been famous for his wisdom.

Conan knew at once that he faced a formidable opponent. If Idosso managed to get in one shrewd blow with fist or foot, or a firm hold on a limb, let alone on Conan's neck, the fight would bode ill for the Cimmerian. He had seldom faced barehanded an opponent so nearly his equal in size, strength, and speed, with that speed, if anything, increased by the man's rage.

The Cimmerian kept the distance open for a few moments, long enough for him to get rid of his sword. He hoped Govindue would guard it, but had no time to look where the blade fell. He could not wear it in this chief's bout of honor, and not only because it would go against Bamula custom for this sort of fight.

If Idosso once had his massive hands on the blade, the temptation of easy victory might outweigh the fear of public dishonor. It would not be an easy victory, of course, and it might be no victory at all. But Conan doubted he would gain much if he defeated Idosso at the price of being too badly hurt to lead the warriors out of this Pict-ridden land!

These wanderers needed one leader, and he a born northerner who was also fighting-fit.

The sword clattered to earth somewhere. The onlookers hissed and pounded their fists together, the Bamula form of applause at such bouts. Conan hoped they would not be so enthralled by the fight that they forgot to post sentries. He doubted that all the live Picts were gone even from this patch of forest, and knew they must swarm in the forests beyond it.

Idosso came on, and Conan let him close. As the Bamula chief neared within striking distance, it was Conan's turn to leap. A fist buffeted the side of Idosso's head. It was a blow that had it struck full and fair would have stunned an ox.

The Cimmerian's opponent was not without cunning, however, at least in this kind of fight. As the blow was launched, he was moving sideways, swiftly enough that it only bruised his cheek rather than crushing his skull. His reply was a kick that might have shattered Conan's knee, but the Cimmerian also saw the menace and moved so that Idosso's great foot only grazed instead of landing full-on.

Around and around the two men went, neither able to gain any advantage that the onlookers could see. Nor did Conan himself think he had much of an advantage. A single stumble, not impossible on this rough ground, and he might take a blow that would slow him. The first man to be slowed would be the first to die.

Few arts of personal combat were strange to Conan, a warrior since his fifteenth year. If he did not stumble, he had little fear of the outcome. What he wanted was a swift victory that would settle all doubts among those he must lead out of this land. If the fight lasted long enough, they might wonder.

Also, the Cimmerian might take grave hurt in a long battle and be unfit to lead. Nor could the Picts be ignored. The longer the fight drew the attention of the warriors, the more time for the Picts to gather 'round.

Conan could not abandon the fight and flee to the forest. Neither honor nor good sense allowed that. So a swift victory or death were his choices, and he resolved to gamble his life on the swift victory. Not only his life, but the lives he might save by thus winning.

It was a matter of waiting until Idosso gave him an opening. The wait only seemed to last until sunset. In truth, it could not have been more than the time needed for a hungry man to gnaw the meat from a chicken leg, before Idosso offered Conan that opening.

Conan pretended to stumble. Idosso, turned half away from his opponent, whirled. He did not guard himself as the Cimmerian rolled back on his shoulders and kicked out with both legs.

One leather-soled foot caught Idosso where Conan had aimed it. Against such a kick, a loinguard of zebra-hide was no more protection than a lady's silken shift. The steel plate of an Aquilonian knight's guard might have been enough, but even it would have been dented and the wearer uncomfortable for days.

Idosso doubled over, but he still had the determination to clutch at Conan's ankles. Conan broke his hold with a swift half-roll and kicked again. This time a Cimmerian foot caught Idosso's knee, and Conan felt bone give.

He also heard a cry, and not from Idosso.

"Beware, Conan!"

Conan recognized the voice as Kubwande's and the note of warning in it.

He rolled again, and his own sword in Idosso's hand slashed down through the space where he had been. The blade bit deep into the rocky ground, and Conan spared a moments thought for the new nicks it would be taking. Much more of this and he would need either a blacksmith's forge or a good stout club to take the place of a useless blade.

Conan sprang to his feet, and with one foot, kicked the sword from Idosso's hand. It flew, Conan neither knew nor for the moment cared where. Then he brought both hands clenched together down on the back of Idosso's neck. Skull and spine alike gave under the blow. Idosso fell facedown, rolled onto one side, then over onto his back as the light went out of his eyes.

The noise of another fight, or at least of a scuffle, now reached the Cimmerian's battle-sharpened ears. He moved until he had no one at his back and a clear view of Govindue and a village warrior rolling over and over together. Conan bent to pick up his sword, and Kubwande raised a warning hand.

"Ha, Conan! Hold your sword. This is a chief's bout like yours. Iron has no place in it."

Conan considered placing iron, or even steel, in Kubwande's skull or belly, but held his hand. It was not impossible that Kubwande might have the wits to follow the victorious Amra, at least until Amra had led the way out of the Pictish Wilderness. Honor was probably not in the man, but any treachery he contrived back in his homeland, Conan could meet with either sword or a swift pair of heels, as he saw fit.

Meanwhile, Kubwande was a warrior of some prowess, and there were not so many like him in this band that one could be spared merely because of what he might do. That was one of the rules of wise leadership that held true for all men, white, black, yellow, brown, or green with purple stripes if there were any such!

Conan could not put a name to Govindue's opponent, but he determined to ask the man a few sharp questions if he won. If he slew the lad, Conan resolved to make those questions still sharper, with the aid of his sword. It would give any blacksmith an apoplexy to measure the damage to the blade, but it would serve well enough, even for one so thick-skulled as to further divide these lost warriors by a chief's bout.

Strength was equally matched in the contest, but the opponent clearly had more experience. Govindue, however, had youthful swiftness and suppleness. He also seemed more in earnest. He could not have been fighting harder if his victory would have brought his father back to life.

The thought made Conan look toward Bessu, whose body still lay where it had fallen. There had to be other bodies as well. Now that Idosso was no longer among them, it was time to find all the corpses and hold proper rites, lest the Picts carry them off for rites of quite other kinds.

Conan knew little about Pictish ways with their foes' dead, but he doubted they practiced anything he had not already met among his foes.

Any man who had come upon a patrol staked out, gelded, and even more indescribably mutilated in other ways by the fierce warriors of the Afghuli, did not expect to be surprised by anything the Picts did.

Conan was also certain that nothing but proper rites for their dead would ease the minds and hearts of the Bamulas. They were a long way from home, so far distant that even spirits might have a daunting journey to the Black Forest. Anything that eased their minds would ease Conan's task.

As if Conan's thoughts had summoned up new strength in the youth, Govindue wriggled like an eel, breaking his opponents grip. Sweat streamed from him as he leapt up and kicked at the other's throat. The kick landed, not hard enough to crush the windpipe, but hard enough to make the man clutch at his neck with both hands.

Govindue jerked one hand away from the bruised throat and twisted it.

"Give over, Bowenu," he snarled. For a moment, his voice sounded like that of a man ten years older and chief for all of them.

"It is not my place to decide for you, Bowenu," Kubwande said, "but if it was

Bowenu's reply was neither coherent nor polite. Govindue drew the man's other hand away from his throat and pinned him to the ground.

"Now do you give over and swear to follow me as chief over our village?"

"Ah¦ eh¦ over those of the village¦ here, led by Amra. Is¦ enough?"

Conan hoped Kubwande would have the sense to be silent and Govindue to accept. The boy certainly was of an age to succeed his father, and his work on this day would give him a claim going far beyond blood. Asking for everything in one bowl, however, might not be wise.

"Then you accept that Conan leads here?" Govindue demanded.

"I will¦ swear blood-oath¦ offer anything I do not need in this land of monsters!"

"Good sense, Bowenu," Conan said, laughing. "We will all need everything we have with us or can steal from the Picts, to live until we find a way home. Govindue, what say you?"

The boy”no, Conan would not call him that again, the young chief” rose to his feet and looked down at his former opponent. "I accept, Bowenu.

Although I hope you at least do not challenge me again, even when we reach home. I would not gladly fight such a brave warrior and thus weaken our village."

"I will bring birds' eggs for broth for your first-born son," Bowenu said, speaking clearly for the first time in a while.

Conan looked on the young chief with approval. He was showing a brew of skill, mercy, and resolution that should serve him well. The Cimmerian hoped for but few troubles from the six or seven warriors of Dead Elephant Village among the band.

As to the rest¦

"Iqako Kubwande. I ask no oath. I only say that I have no quarrel with you, and I trust you have none with me. Idosso was your friend, but not mine."

"He was friend to none of us for challenging you as he did," Kubwande said. "I will not unsay praise I have given him, before both men and gods. I will say that he lived with more honor than he died. May the spirits reward him for his life and forgive him the way of his death."

That seemed to satisfy the Greater Bamulas. It did not wholly satisfy Conan, but he knew when he would gain nothing more from the man. He resolved to keep a discreet guard against Kubwande and not allow the man any closer to his back than necessary.

"We know who leads," Conan said. "You know the kind of man I am. And I know that our first work is to gather our dead, tend our wounded, and find a safe place for the night."

"Is there one?" someone asked.

"There may be, or there may not," Conan replied. He raised a fist. "But there will be no place safe from me for any man who disobeys."

Kubwande raised his fist, and Govindue did likewise. The ritual gesture served its purpose. No one spoke, but instead, all scattered to relieve the sentries, seek moss and leaves for the wounded, and find any dead not lying in plain sight.

***

Scyra now needed no common language with Vuona to understand what was in the woman's mind. Vuona had only one thought there: to rejoin her people, or such of them as were abroad in the Pictish Wilderness.

It seemed to Scyra that this urge was stronger than it had been, before the two tallest warriors fought and the northerner conquered. Had the black champion been an enemy to Vuona? It did not seem impossible; Scyra could not read thoughts precisely, but she had some art of recognizing evil by what it did to a man's face. The big black warrior had been, if not evil, at least in too much of a rage to either lead or follow.

If this had been as it seemed, a fight over the leaders place, the Bamulas had chosen the better man. The big northerner had a kingly air to him even in his garb as a Bamula warrior, with nothing of it lost to the blood, dirt, and bruises. He would have looked equally well as a greenclad Bossonian archer or an armored Aquilonian knight. Not in any sorcerer's garb, however, for he looked a creature of the open land, or even of the wilderness itself. He also had about him a forthright quality that Scyra once thought only her father possessed among sorcerers, and now knew that even he lacked.

Scyra was so intent upon the tall northerner that she had less attention to spare for Vuona. Vuona, no fool, soon recognized this. The first warning Scyra had was Vuona's leaping up and running toward the Bamulas.

The men were just lifting their dead and wounded on improvised litters of poles and branches when one of them saw Vuona. He shouted and waved.

Vuona let out a shriek of happiness, which turned to a shriek of fear as an arrow struck a tree a hand'sbreadth from her ear.

The tall northerner shouted a single command, and his warriors spread out with the speed and sureness of seasoned fighters. They could not see the Pictish archer, however. He was behind rocks, so close to Scyra that she could have touched him with a long stick.

Instead, she touched him with her knife. She was not a skilled knife-fighter, but she had surprise, fury, and enough strength for the purpose all working for her. The Pict died, and she made sure that he died in silence by clamping a hand over his mouth until his last breath had passed.

Scyra lay motionless beside the Pict until she was certain her kill had drawn no Bamula's attention. She searched the body until she discovered the tattoos of the Red Adder Clan of the Snakes. She was hardly surprised to see her previous suspicions justified. The Snakes had never been entirely happy with her fathers peace with their Owl rivals.

Now it seemed that their unhappiness was driving them to treachery, if not to open warfare.

She began to crawl backward, intending to be well away from this place before the warriors came searching. Then she considered that it might not hurt to let herself be found. If she could speak to the northerner, she might learn more of him and his band of warriors. Such a band might prove useful if they needed to earn their way home and had the prowess to earn it in defense of Lysenius and Scyra.

Scyra's arts of concealment were like her knife-fighting, sufficient for many purposes. They were sufficient to hide her until the Bamulas, called back from the hunt by their leader, gave up the search for the Pictish archer. She was ready to weep in frustration when she saw the slope empty.

She had not meant to be out of the cave this long, and besides, she had given her cloak to Vuona, now marching off with her people. Scyra saw no alternative to following their trail. Let them go, and they might as well be on the moon for all her chances of finding them again without either the Picts or her father knowing. She had to be first here to know what the Bamulas were about, or she would be going to the marketplace with an empty purse.

She took bow and arrows from the body of the Pict, and searched the other dead tribesmen until she found one who also wore a cloak. It was of Bossonian work, stiff with dirt and grease, reeking from long wearing by Picts who never bathed unless they were caught in the rain, and probably the prize of some bloody-handed border raid.

Still, she wrapped it around herself. It was just barely large enough; her Bossonian blood made her as tall as the common run of Pictish men.

But the wool was warm, and from a distance, it might deceive the hasty eye.

There was no food to be found, save the bodies of the dead Picts”and even in jest, the idea made Scyra gag. But some of the edible ferns were green, there were fish in the streams, and the Bamulas could hardly travel too far their first night in this land, no matter how the northerner led (or drove) them.

With those hopes lightening her step, Scyra set off on the trail of the Bamulas.

***

It was agreed on the march that one of the three chiefs would always be on watch. Conan, Govindue, and Kubwande drew twigs for who would begin the night, and Govindue drew the shortest twig.

Not that there was much to see in this nighted forest, either of friend or foe. A cloak from a dead Pict kept out some of the wind, but even the gentlest breeze in this land seemed to pierce like an arrow.

Govindue had never been so cold, not even during his manhood ordeal, which had sent him into the jungle during a particularly severe autumn season of rains.

It was as well that Idosso was dead. He would never have been an honest follower to Conan, the young chief decided. Kubwande might be, if only out of fear of starvation, Picts, and Amra's fist.

More surely still, Idosso would never have had Amra's knowledge of how to live in this land. Live, fight, even win free of it. He had not been so stupid that he would not have learned, but before he learned (or Kubwande taught him), many might have died. Perhaps too many.

Conan had the soul of a great chief, and with such a soul, his skin did not matter to the gods, still less to Govindue, son of Bessu.

The footfall was loud enough to have reached ears much less keen than Govindue's. More seasoned as hunter and tracker than as warrior, he heard the sound as clearly as he might have heard a boulder falling from a cliff. When two more footfalls gave him a sense of the intruder's direction, he had plenty of time to hide where he could see the path.

It seemed as if the intruder either wished to die or thought the Bamulas were friends approaching. In the darkness, it was hard to tell what the oncoming shapeless cloak concealed, and Govindue would have given a year's yam harvest for a trifle of moonlight. Had he been sure it was a Pict, his spear would have pierced the intruder's belly after the third step.

Then the intruder stopped and threw back the cloak. Govindue's breath hissed out, and he began a ritual of aversion. Pale-skinned, pale-haired”a ghost had come upon them!

His hiss found an echo. Then he knew it was not an echo. No echo of his ever spoke in words he had not uttered.

"Bamula? Vuona? Bamula? Vuona?" The questioning note was clear. So was the kind of voice. Not a ghost, after all, but a northern woman. Coming for Vuona? Why not? If the world was mad enough to hold such things as the demon's gate, why not a northern woman coming for Vuona?

Govindue rose, but did not step into the open. The woman might be honorable, but the Picts were not and could be following the woman.

"Ohbe Bamula," he said. "Ohbe Bamula. Ohbe Vuona. Ohbe Vuona." Then he called, "Woman," using the word for an elders wife. If she was one of power, it would please the gods, and if she was mad, they would not care.

"Bamula," the woman said, sounding somewhat like Amra when he spoke his own tongue. Then she stepped forward. Govindue saw that she wore a knife at her belt and a bow and quiver on her back, but held her empty hands out in front of her.

Govindue stepped out to face the woman, holding his hands as she held hers. Then he pointed back over his shoulder toward the camp.

"Bamula! Vuona! Bamula! Vuona!"

She understood his message. Still holding her hands before her, she walked up the hill toward the band's night camp. Govindue had barely time to call one of the other guards to take his place ere he hurried after her, lest she vanish in the darkness.

***

Conan and Vuona sat a trifle apart from the others, without being outside the circle of the guards. The Cimmerian had left no one in any doubt of what he would do to them if they wandered off and the Picts did not save him the work.

Vuona squatted on her haunches and leaned back against a fir bole. The moonlight silvered her bare shoulders. She wore rawhide leggings taken from a dead Pict, but was bare otherwise. She had returned wearing a rawhide Gunderman cloak, but had given that to one of the wounded.

They would have to hunt for both food and garb, Conan knew, and soon, even if all the Picts in the wilderness came at them. For him, this night was as mild as a summer eve in Cimmeria, but the Bamulas only just kept their teeth from clattering loud enough to wake Picts a days march away!

"I ask your forgiveness, Amra."

"If you wish it, ask it of Conan. 'Amra' is a name that sounded well aboard Tigress, or from Belit's lips."

"Is it your true name?"

"Were you thinking to bespell me with it?"

Even in the darkness, Vuona's expression of horror seemed real enough.

"No!"

"That's as well. I've a habit of putting my sword in people's gizzards faster than their spells can slow my arm. I would hate to have to do it to you."

"It would be¦ justice. I¦ if I had not

"Oh, plague take your quaverings of conscience, girl! Leave them to the priests. You're not the first woman to make a mistake about a man.

Since the wrong man's dead and I'm alive, what ails you?"

"Being here, when we could be somewhere safer. It is my fault."

"Very likely it is, but past mending now."

She slipped out of the crouch and knelt before Conan. "Not even by a woman's gift?"

Conan looked her up and down. She needed no darkness to hide faults; her lithe form had none. He realized that he was looking at her as at a woman, and that this was the first time he had done such a thing since Belit's death.

Also, Vuona needed a place in this band, and a chief's woman was the most honorable she could hold. Conan had begun this whole mad affair to save her¦

She climbed into his lap and twined her fingers in his hair, raggedly barbered after his encounter with the thorn bush, but still giving any woman a good grip. Almost too good a grip, for she had strong hands.

Conan ran his own hands from her shoulders down to the small of her back, and beyond. Fingers that had wielded a deadly sword earlier in the day now undid the leggings. Vuona leaned forward; Conan felt youthfully firm breasts”

"Amra!"

"My name is Conan!" he snarled. Vuona slid off his lap. The Cimmerian took a deep breath, then realized that it was not Vuona who had spoken.

"Govindue, you are away from your post." Those were the first words that came into his mind. Had he thought at length, he would doubtless have spoken more sharply.

"Forgive me. Amra

"He wishes to be called Conan."

"You're not a chief's woman yet, girl, so let Govindue speak."

"A woman has come."

"I've heard of Pictish women. Doubtless the guard who saw her fell dead at the sight of her. Take her captive, put another man in the dead one's place, and leave me in peace."

Conan thought the young chief was trying not to look at him or Vuona.

"Am”Conan. The woman is not a Pict. She looks like you. Her name is Scyra, and she knows we are Bamula and that Vuona is among us."

Vuona jumped to her feet as if she had sat on a viper. "It is she, the magick woman!"

Govindue made gestures of aversion. Conan rose, took Vuona under both arms, and gently lifted her off her feet until his nose and hers were a hair'sbreadth apart. She flinched at the look in the blue eyes.

"Vuona, I can forgive you for choosing the wrong man. I will not forgive you for hiding something like this from me he waited until she looked ready to faint, then added "”a second time." When he set her on her feet, her legs quivered and threatened to tumble her into the fir needles.

She found her voice, however, and could hardly talk fast enough. When Vuona was done, Conan donned his sword-belt but drew the blade. It seemed to compel Vuona's gaze.

"Remember what I said about sorcerers with swords through their gizzards? This woman had best prove herself our friend, and quickly.

Govindue, take me to our guest."

"As you wish, Conan."

Interlude

The Pictish Wilderness, in the reign of King Conan the Second:

Sarabos was the first of us to fully regain his wits. To speak more precisely, he had lost the fewest of them at the sight of the cave, and even of the statue. Therefore he had the least ground to cover before he could command his voice.

He still spoke more than a trifle distantly, as though he were recounting something he had experienced in a dream and whose reality he could not altogether trust.

"Let us all believe that what we see here is really here. Believing so, has anyone heard even a faint smell of rumor that might explain it?"

He might have been talking to the statue, and the living men gathered around it made as little answer as if they also had been stone. I was glad to see that this was not wholly because they were standing with eyes wide and staring, jaws hanging and gaping, and their powers of speech quite gone.

Some of them were cleaning and dressing their comrades' wounds. I heard a stifled scream as one man cut down for an arrow in another's thigh.

It was deeply embedded, and I prayed to Mitra that it would not drain the man of blood when it came out.

Others were unpacking supplies and cleaning weapons. As unwholesome as this cave appeared, it was still dryer and freer of Picts than the world outside. Also, these were veterans of the border wars, some of them old enough to have served under Conan at Velitrium, had they been in the Aquilonian service at the time. Unless the ancient Stygian magick”or whatever other spells had produced the image”awoke, I had no fear of my men or for them.

I saw by the torchlight men looking at each other. I held my tongue. I suspected that I was about to learn things that it would have been as well to know beforehand. But there are always things that the soldiers, particularly Marches born, will not willingly tell their officers, especially those born and reared far from the Marches.

"What we hear tonight stays with us," Sarabos said. "No matter what you confess, we will leave it to the gods."

The men continued to look at each other in silence. One or two flinched as the man with the arrow in his thigh let out a scream that was anything but muffled. The echoes were slow to die, and I saw men looking toward the rear of the cave.

Their faces said that they hoped nothing lurked back there to waken at a human presence after so many years, and come forth hungry and horrible. I did not find that hope quite without reason, but I chose to put a better face on the situation.

"This is no very pleasant place, but let us remember it seems to be taboo to the Picts. They will not come in, but our comrades will have no such fear. Remember too that the last time Conan the Great found himself in such a place, he came away with the treasure of the pirate Tranicos and put himself on the throne of Aquilonia with its aid."

Somebody muttered about putting himself in bed with a comfortable wench and a jug of good wine being quite enough. I did not find that without reason either.

One of the men finally spoke up. "There is something that I heard from my mother." He was a Gunderman by his speech, but he looked dark enough for a Shemite¦ or a Pict?

As if he had read my thoughts, the man went on. "Yes, I have Pictish blood. My mother is half-Pict, though my father was all-Gunderman. She had some of their speech and knew some old tales.

"One of these, she said, was taboo among the Picts. There was a curse on anyone who told the tale, almost as great as on anyone who entered the cave. She told me, because she thought I had best know it, and also believing that my Hyborian blood should weaken the curse."

Nobody dared ask one question, and again the man seemed to have the power to read thoughts. "My mother bore five healthy children, the last when she was hard upon forty, and was living yet last fall in her sixtieth year. I have fought in five campaigns, without loot or honors, but also without grave wounds. If there is a curse, I think my mother spoke the truth about it."

"Well, then, speak the truth about what she told you, and we will listen," I said.

"It may not tell you much the man began.

"Anything you tell us will be more than we know now," I said firmly.

"And a storyteller should have a name. Forgive me that I did not learn yours."

"I am Vasilios, son of Ayrik," he said.

"Then speak, Vasilios. We are all listening."

Vasilios cleared his throat; the air was much dryer in the cave than outside, as well as a trifle dusty. He sipped water from his bag. Then he folded his legs, rested his hands upon his knees, and began.

"It was in the time of my mother's father, the Pict, when a sorcerer lived among the Picts and a statue came to life and walked¦"

Eleven

The Pictish Wilderness, many years before:

Conan listened to Scyra with great attention even after she admitted to being the daughter of the sorcerer Lysenius.

"I have never heard of him, not that I make it my affair to count the world's wizards," Conan said. "Nor do you look much like a sorceress.

You're dressed too shrewdly, for one thing."

"We have lived here for five years," Scyra said, voice taut with indignation. "I was barely a woman when we arrived. Assume that I am not a fool and hear me so."

"I ask your pardon, Scyra," Conan said. He translated her remarks for Govindue and Kubwande. They nodded, then frowned when he added that Scyra and her father clearly had either great powers or friends among the Picts.

If Lysenius and his daughter had magick enough to stand off the whole Pictish nation, dealing with them would be a chancy matter. They would be too cursed powerful! And if so powerful, why did they need help?

If they had Pictish allies, helping them would mean fighting alongside Picts. Conan had no blood-debts owed to the Picts, unlike many Cimmerians had, but the ancient feud between Cimmerian and Pict was nothing he could easily forget. Nor did it necessarily matter what he wanted; the Picts might choose to slaughter the Cimmerian in one moment and the Bamulas in the next.

These things were true. It was also true that Conan's band had small chance of fighting their way to anything more than a warrior's death.

They would be twenty-odd men fit to fight against all the Picts in the forests, Picts who knew these forests as they knew their own hands, shot arrows from cover one would swear could not hide a mouse, and did not shiver on a mild summer night!

Conan had walked into the demon's gate because of his duty to Vuona. It should not come hard to do worse than fight beside Picts, to save Vuona and all the rest who had honored him by following in his footsteps.

"Can your father conjure us up some warm clothes and hot food if we enter his service?" Conan asked. "We will expect more, but those we must have before we can do enough to earn it."

"Can your men not hunt, cook, and clean hides?"

"All of these things take time, Scyra. Time the Picts may not allow us.

Do you think whatever friendship you have for them will save us?"

"Do not call the Picts my friends. At best, they are allies."

She sounded as if she expected to be believed, and for Conan not to ask "Against whom?" Conan decided that it did not matter. Anything that took his band closer to safety would help, and to obtain that, he would swear any oath. If Lysenius needed their aid at all, he was not powerful enough to punish them for breaking such an oath, and the band could take its chances with the Picts. Fed and garbed for this wilderness, those chances would be better than they had now.

"As well. I will never call a Pict my friend, but I may take a day off from killing them if they do the same for me."

"That I believe my father and I can promise. We have furs and hides, salt meat and dry nuts, and a part of the cave where you will be safe from the Picts as if you were at home in the Black Kingdoms."

"Also, I'll be bound, where you will be as safe from us." Scyra looked indignant, but Conan held up a hand. "No insult taken and I hope none given. In your place, I'd do the same. We've no need for a Zingaran love-temple feast, as long as we understand each other."

Conan watched Scyra sidelong as he translated for Govindue and Kubwande. She seemed to understand what he was offering and what his doubts were. He hoped he would not have to put into words his intention to end both her and her father at any sign of treachery. That would be a sad waste of a fine woman, apart from everything else.

The two Bamula chiefs each had to go apart and talk to their followers, while Conan and Scyra sat cross-legged facing one another. She assumed that posture as easily as any Pict or Khitan, and seemed as calm as if she had been waiting in a nobleman's hall for the horses to be brought up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw Vuona flatten herself against a tree, as she thought out of his sight. He wanted to go over and shake some sense into her. If she wandered about by night in this land to spy on him out of jealousy, the Picts would be making magick with her skull before three dawns, if they found anything in it.

The other chiefs returned.

"Will the wise-woman swear blood-oath to treat us with honor, even if she must go against her father?" Kubwande asked.

"That demands too much!" Govindue exclaimed. "The gods would frown on

"The gods would spit on us from a high cloud if we did not at least ask," Kubwande said. "Lad”young chief”not all fathers are as yours was.

I learned that before my manhood ordeal."

There was some dark secret about his childhood lurking in Kubwande's voice, one Conan would have given a barrel of good Nemedian wine to know. Doubtless also it was something that torture could not wring from the warrior.

Conan turned to Scyra and translated the question. He saw her flinch, and even in the darkness he could see her face lose some of its color.

"Please. If my father knew

"Does your father not know about your coming here?" Conan wanted to roar loud enough to crack branches and shake birds' nests out of the trees. He had wits enough to realize that would only frighten Scyra out of hers, besides warning Picts half a days march away.

"He doubtless knows by now that I am not in the cave," Scyra said.

Conan heard the effort it took for her to control her voice.

"Then you do not come here by his command?"

"I do not come here against it, either."

"You might have said that."

"You, my friend, might have asked." She had the impudence to grin.

Conan resisted the urge to shake her, then suddenly could not resist the urge to grin back.

"Scyra, I think you'd have the courage to go against your father if needs be. If these chiefs will take my word for it, you need swear no oath."

He translated. Govindue was almost eager to forget the oath, Kubwande reluctant. The older man at last yielded”however, muttering as he did, that he seemed to spend all his time running about on matters begun by women¦

***

About this time, Lysenius's ghost-ear came within hearing of the meeting place by the cliff. Tonight it was carried within an owl, because the Picts most likely to be about were of the Owls and the bird was taboo to their hunters. Lysenius had not forgotten the time he sent a ghost-ear hawk into the land of the Snake Clan and next saw it as feathers on a chiefs headdress.

The sorcerer had enough command of the owls keen night-sight to recognize Scyra. He also saw what proved his judgment about the men of the band with whose leaders Scyra was meeting. Their ghost-voice was that of folk of the Black Kingdoms. The world-walker had finally won him what he wished most of all: warriors with no kin in the Pictish lands or anywhere close enough for them to reach him before he had done his work.

He would brew his vengeance with their blood, and then his daughter would see him as he truly was.

Was she, in her delusions about him, warning them? And if she was, were they believing her? The ghost-ear should warn him of that much, even in the modest brain of an owl. Better by far was a man, even a Pict, but Lysenius had decided against that before he went into his ghost-ear trance. The Owl Clan would not be pleased if these black warriors slaughtered one of their men while he was too bespelled to defend himself.

The owl swooped low, as it might have swooped chasing a squirrel on a low branch. It passed within easy ghost-ear hearing of Scyra and those sitting with her.

The bird should have sent all their secrets across the nighted forest to Lysenius, waiting on his pallet of scented needles. Instead, it heard nothing closer than the warriors by the cliff.

It was as if Scyra and those sitting opposite her had no ghost-voices, which was impossible. Everyone had a ghost-voice, from the gods down to the lowest insects, even to the worms crawling beneath the earth.

Sometimes it was all but impossible for Lysenius to separate the voices of those he wished to hear from the din of all the rest.

Now, however, Scyra and three men might have been outside the common world for all that the ghost-ear could hear them. On his pallet, Lysenius twitched, writhed, bit his lip for self-command, and contrived to avoid losing his mastery of the spell.

He sent the owl past them again, and this time he watched through the bird's bodily eyes. He saw Scyra, he saw two black warriors facing her, he saw a black girl hiding behind a tree.

He also saw in the middle a man taller than all the others by at least a head, of a northern fairness, with cold blue eyes and ragged black hair. The man's muscles were in proportion to his stature, and when he moved, it was with the control and mastery of a warrior. The scars on his tanned skin would have said as much had he remained perfectly still.

Was this the man with no ghost-voice? Did he not only lack one himself, but bind those close to him into the same silence? Mystery piled upon mystery, and none of them to Lysenius's liking.

No, that was not altogether true. The man might have no ghost-voice, but everything else about him suggested a warrior's spirit. A strong warrior's spirit, able to feed the sacrifice more than any other two men put together.

The northern warrior with Scyra might remain a mystery, but he would have his place in Lysenius's plans, as little to his liking as that place might be.

***

Conan was not entirely persuaded that Scyra had merely wished to surprise her father with the gift of the service of the Bamula warriors. His two chiefs were still less so. None of them cared to call her a liar to her face. She still held out a better hope of a passage home than any they could make for themselves. The later the hour, the more the two Bamulas shivered”three, counting Vuona, who had not moved from her place by the tree.

A soft hoot and the thump of a falling body made all turn. An outsized owl lay on the ground, a spear through its breast. Its outspread wings were broader than Conan's shoulders. Its beak clicked twice, its eyes stared about with what seemed to Conan more than a bird's intelligence, then it shuddered and lay still.

"Good throw, eh?" came a cheerful voice from behind a tree. Bowenu stepped into sight, knelt, and retrieved his spear. Only then did he seem to notice that Scyra was regarding him with a face of distaste, even of fear, that needed no translation.

"Why did you kill it?" Conan asked.

"It was swooping so low I could hardly miss, and it is big enough to make a meal after a good plucking and roasting."

Scyra looked as if she wished to spew. Bowenu's gestures had also needed no translation.

"What's dead is dead, Bowenu," Conan said. "But this is a new land. We don't know what's safe to eat and what is not. This wise-woman would rather you had not killed the owl. I will trust her. And if you do not trust her, then trust me to leave bruises everywhere Govindue did not.

And hold your spear!"

Bowenu went through the most elaborate of the four Bamula rituals for craving pardon, and Conan finally granted it. He had some difficulty keeping a straight face, and Vuona behind her tree was struggling to hold in giggles. Conan vowed to spank her soundly if her laughter broke the peace with Bowenu. They needed even warriors whose arms were swifter than their wits.

"We are in the lands of the Owl Picts," Scyra said. "The only worse thing you can do in their eyes than kill an owl is to kill a warrior in hunting paint and hang his head up."

"Just as well we were too busy to take heads this afternoon," Conan said dryly. "Although I seem to remember they were in war paint, if I know anything about Picts."

"They were, and they were of the Snakes, who have a long feud with the Owls. But I did not think they would trespass on our land."

That told Conan more than he had known before about the sorcerers'

friends and foes among the Picts, if not as much as he would have chosen to know. It seemed to him that Scyra was no great hand at hiding secrets, at least not from one who had survived the intrigues of gilded Aghrapur in Turan.

"Well, Scyra. I think we've talked as much as makes any sense when there's neither wine nor beer to wet our throats. I trust you've no plans for returning to your father tonight?"

"The Owls would not

"The Owls may not be able to see in the dark as keenly as their totem.

They might mourn after they feathered you with arrows, but you'd not get up from the bier for all that. I also much doubt that we've seen the last of the Snakes, and they'll be no friendlier to you after today than they were before."

Scyra nodded. "There is truth in that." She sounded both reluctant and gracious.

"Good. Then come share our fire, if you won't share the owl. All the warmth that's about here tonight is with us, and most of your hope of waking up with your throat unslit."

Scyra followed Conan to the camp, but she lay down well away from both the fire and the pile of sleeping Bamulas, huddled together to share the warmth of their bodies. Conan thought she was watching him as he also lay down, with Vuona curled against his chest, but sleep took him before he could be sure.

Twelve

By good fortune, the Bamulas were either dead or fit to march, even to fight. They performed as best they could the rites for their dead, gathered their weapons, and departed camp with Scyra as guide.

Conan's band came to Lysenius's caves on a fine spring evening, after two days of stiff marching for the barefooted Bamulas. The Cimmerian noted the need for footgear in this rock-strewn land; some said a host marched on its stomach, but they were bards, not captains in war.

The frowning rocks made the Bamulas look at one another, and Conan knew that some were looking within themselves to find the courage to continue. A hillman born, he had scaled such cliffs and explored such caves before he had seen his tenth summer. The Bamulas were hardy enough in their own land, but their own land was not as harsh as the north, and they were as their homeland had made them.

"Come along, brothers," he called. "Most of us have crawled into lions'

dens and come out alive, and no sorcerer is worse than a lion."

He did not entirely believe that himself, but the cheerful ring of confidence in his voice inspired the Bamulas. They began climbing the ladder to the mouth of the cave Scyra had said would be their quarters.

Conan and Scyra were the last to go up. They stood briefly side by side, gazing at the forest that lapped like an emerald sea against the foot of the sorcerers hill. Conan knew that Pictish eyes watched them”had been watching them, indeed, all during the two days of the journey.

There had to be some truth in Scyra's tale of peace with the Owl Picts.

In two days, a hostile tribe could have conjured out of the ground a hundred warriors for every Bamula and buried Conan's band alive under arrows and stones. But though black eyes had watched from behind trees and under bushes all along the trail, no arrow or spear had flown, no war cry had risen, and no drum had throbbed except far off toward the sunset, as a signal.

As if Conan's thoughts had called to them, the drums began to thud again, barely heard above the wind even by the Cimmerian's lynx-keen ears. Scyra shuddered, and without thought save to warm her, he put an arm around her. She shuddered again but did not shake off the arm, and after a moment, relaxed into his comfort.

"It is still no easy thing," she said, "to hear those drums and not be afraid. When I grew up, to hear them meant running for the horses if you had them, snatching boots and bread if you didn't. The Picts were never far, or at least not far enough."

"What did your father learn that gives him a hold over the Picts?"

Conan asked. "Or is that a secret?"

"It is. He has not shared all of it with me, and would not be happy if I shared even what I know with you without his permission."

Conan thought the happiness of a sorcerer would never be high among his cares, but then, he was not a sorcerers son, Crom be praised! Also, this sudden reticence aroused a fighting man's suspicion. Scyra had been frank enough before Conan's band had entered her father's domain.

What did she need to hide, to keep them there?

But it was as true as it had ever been that through this domain lay the best road home. A score of stout and wary Bamulas might daunt even a sorcerers urge to treachery, and if worse came to worst, they were as well off dying here as among a howling horde of Picts.

"The more I learn, the happier I will be," Conan said plainly. "And the happier I am, the happier the Bamulas. They expect to leave here bound for home, and will be angry otherwise. Your father may have arts, but are they equal to twenty angry Bamulas?"

"I pray to Mitra that none of us ever need learn that," Scyra said. She climbed onto the ladder and scurried quickly out of sight.

Conan watched her go, then watched briefly as an eagle circled against a western sky rapidly turning blood-hued as the sun sank. He did not tarry long; this land was uncanny enough by day. By night, one did not need a barbarian's fine-honed instincts to sense awful evil creeping about on unwholesome business.

Even a sorcerer's cave had something over the Pictish forests by night.

***

The western hills swallowed the sun. Only stars, and a moon too new to give much light, served the world beyond the illuminated circle around fires.

This was as well for the thing that hunted in the darkness. The chakan had been sent by the shaman of the Owls, to trail the band of demon-men going to the rock house of the white shaman. It had a man's form but an ape's hair and a great-ape's strength, enough to snap most men in two as a boy snaps a twig.

It had no command to kill, however. Or at least not tonight. It was to trail, climb, and if it found a suitable place, to hide. What it heard, saw, and above all, smelled, the shaman Itha Yarag would draw from its mind with his magick.

When he had done that, the Owls would know more of the mage who had served them so well. They might even know if he would continue to serve them as well in the future, or if the coming of the demon-men meant he had found new friends.

If so, it would be time to take all of the loot in the cave, sacrifice the white mage in the old way, and pass his daughter round among the chiefs of the Owls, and even of friendly Picts such as the Lynxes and Eagles.

***

Spring turned into summer, and summer ripened the life of the forest.

Fruits and berries began to show other hues than green. Streams lost their spring fullness, and the hunting around the remaining ponds was bountiful. The Picts gorged on the summer's plenty and lay about, sated and as at peace with the world as it was in the nature of Picts to be.

Conan and his Bamulas were quite content to let sleeping Picts lie, save for those they joined in raids toward the east and south. This they did with some effect, as they were well-furnished from the storerooms of Lysenius's caves.

They saw little enough of the sorcerer himself, which was not altogether good, to Conan's mind. The more they saw of him, the more they would learn. Lysenius had other senses than the common human ones with which to learn about the Bamulas; he could know without seeing.

When first they came to the cave, they heard that Lysenius was ill.

Scyra told Conan that someone had slain the bearer of his ghost-ear and that he had been in a healing trance since.

Conan passed that tidbit on to his band, and Bowenu began to crow about his spearwork. Govindue promptly told him that he would be wrestled into submission again if he did not keep his tongue between his teeth”

"”if he has any left when I'm done with him," the Cimmerian added. "A good warrior's tongue is bold, Bowenu. It does not charge about like an elephant drunk on overripe pears!"

Bowenu held his peace for some days thereafter.

He might well have done so because, like the others, he was too busy accustoming himself to the new clothing, weapons, and food the Bamulas had received so lavishly. Clearly, Lysenius was not stinting his new allies, and had not stinted his former ones.

Just as clearly, he had been gathering more than the loot of Pictish raids in these caves. Magicks, trade, or friends beyond the border?

About the first, Conan would not even hazard a guess; he left in peace sorcerers who did him the same favor.

Trade was possible; there was one chamber so heavily sealed that it practically shouted its name as the treasure-house. With the eyes of a seasoned thief and a prudent captain alike, Conan noted at least three ways of breaking in. But he made no attempt on the chamber now. He wished peace with Lysenius and Scyra, and opted for no encounter with the magickal protections the sorcerer had surely put on his treasure.

Friends beyond the border seemed almost as likely a source of Lysenius's hoard. It was no secret to Conan that there were Hyborians who dealt with the Picts at the expense of their own kind, although there had never been many such in Cimmeria, and fewer still long-lived.

That harsh land had its own harsh punishments for those who went against their blood.

In other lands, such men flourished, or at least were not spied out as readily. They were a kind that made Conan wonder more than once if the southern men had bred true. He would leave them to their intrigues, however, and keep his Bamulas free of them, the gods allowing. The intrigues of the Black Kingdoms would be enough for him for some years to come, if he and his band ever returned thence.

Clothing of rawhide and fur, tanned-leather sandals and woolen leggings, Pictish spears and war-axes, Bossonian bows and Gunderman armor”all came forth in abundance. So did more jerked meat, dried nuts and berries, and a pungent ale. The Bamulas pronounced the ale as good as their native beer, and were not backward about draining a whole barrelful before Conan put a halt to that.

"The Picts are still out there, those who pretend friendship and those who do not even pretend. We are more fit to meet them than we were, but they are still a hundred to our one and they know this land."

The Bamulas learned quickly, being seasoned warriors eager to begin carving a road home through Lysenius's enemies. Thrice Conan led them out on raids, and brought them all back.

They did not march with Picts on these raids, save one or two who acted as guides. This was as well. Conan knew the Pictish way of war, and would not have his Bamulas learn it. His people would return to their land with no screaming girl-children violated before their burning homes, and no graybeards left with skulls broken and unseeing eyes staring at the sky.

Then the day came when they raided across the borders into the Marches, and the Picts marched with them.

***

From a high branch, Govindue's birdcall came. It was the call of a Black Coast bird, not a native of this wilderness. Conan doubted that the caravan guards were woods-wise enough to notice the difference. Or if they were, that they would have the time to put their knowledge to any good use.

Forty Picts lay in wait along one side of the road. Conan's Bamulas lay in wait along the other side. This let both bands attack at once, but kept them apart until the moment of the attack.

That was just as well. The Picts looked askance at the "demon-men" as much as the Bamulas looked askance at the Pictish warriors. Bad blood had been avoided; although Conan and the Pictish chief had not a word in common, each was a seasoned captain who could plan a battle with gestures and scratches in the dirt.

The caravan was well into the trap now. Definitely its guards were not woods-wise, or perhaps the raiders had truly outrun their warning. The Bamulas had attacked nowhere and the Picts set upon only one isolated farmstead on the way across the border, and the forest could hide sixty men from even the most keen border patrol.

Now, if only the Picts would not shoot arrows with their eyes closed (as it sometimes seemed they did), and the Bamulas would remember that even a friendly arrow could kill”

A Pictish war yell gave the signal for the attack. Conan leapt from cover, brandishing his sword. He had smeared his face and other exposed skin with berry juice, darkening his complexion until he did not stand out among the Bamulas. Bad enough to be fighting on the side of the Picts; worse still if tales came that black warriors with a white leader fought in alliance with the Picts. That sort of tale could turn out a host to sweep the borders clean. Conan doubted that this would please Lysenius, and was certain that it would not speed the Bamulas'

homeward journey.

He leapt into the road and snatched at the bridle of the caravan's lead guard's horse with one hand. With the other, he blocked three downcuts by the rider, who had more speed than skill and no strength sufficient to get through Conan's defense.

The horse reared. Conan ducked under its belly and came up on the guard's off-side. He struck with his sword, pulling the blow so that it only stunned through the helmet rather than splitting helmet and skull.

With the other hand, he gripped the riders belt and heaved. The man flew out of the saddle and crashed into the ditch. Conan noted with regret that he fell on the Pictish side; with luck, he would recover his senses before the Picts found him.

Conan reined the horse and thrust a foot into the stirrup. The mount reared again, nearly snatching him off his feet. A guard thrust at him under the horses belly. The point of the blade only nicked Conan instead of sinking deep. He kicked the sword out of the man's hand, swung into the saddle, and slashed down with his sword. This time, skull gave as well as boiled-leather helmet; the man fell, and the horse's hooves finished the work begun by the Cimmerian's sword.

From horseback, Conan had a better view of the battle along the trail than anyone else. The guards to the rear had formed a shield wall, and those forward were retreating toward it. Not all of them reached their goal; Pictish arrows and Bamula spears were thinning their ranks. Conan even saw the one Bamula who had truly mastered the bow find a victim.

It seemed to Conan that the guards had decided to save their lives and let the wagons and packhorses go. Either that or they planned a trap.

Then he saw a flurry of righting around one wagon that clearly had not been abandoned. He raked the horse's flanks with his heels and charged down on the men there. An arrow nicked his neck, the shaft of a spear thrown awry slapped the horse's flank, then he was up to the wagon. The arrows from the trail ceased; either the Bossonian archers feared hitting friends or the Picts had beaten them down.

Three men were struggling against four Picts and a Bamula. The guards had leather corselets and mail caps, and no little skill with their swords, which meant they were holding their own until Conan came up. He kicked one man in the back of the head without reining in, and smashed another across the helmet with the flat of his sword. Both went down.

The third man scrambled into the wagon, thrust his arms under the cover, and came out with an ironbound coffer. Small as it was, it was plainly heavy. The man staggered as he jumped to the ground, then staggered again as a Pict thrust a spear into his thigh. In spite of the wound, the man broke into a run, so swiftly that between one breath and the next, he outdistanced his assailants.

He did not outdistance Conan, on horseback. Before the archers behind the shield wall could draw and loose, the Cimmerian had overtaken the man. One massive Cimmerian arm swooped down like a kingfisher on a minnow and plucked the coffer from the man's hands.

The man squalled like a mating tomcat and stabbed at Conan with a vicious poinard. Steel tore flesh and, weighted with the hilt of his broadsword, Conan's fist stretched the man senseless on the ground.

He wheeled his horse and rode back toward the head of the caravan, to see Govindue on the trail, waving his arms. With only twenty Bamulas, there could be no division into four parts, not without keeping men out of battle in a way that the Picts would call dishonorable. But there could be a young chief with sharp eyes and a cool head perched in a tree unseen by Pictish friend and Bossonian foe alike.

"Horsemen coming!" Govindue shouted. The actual words he used were "six-legged warriors," since horses were unknown in Bamula lands.

Conan thought that he'd either scented a trap or that luck was with the caravan. Just as well, too. Without a fresh enemy to fight, the Picts'

bloodlust might lead them to beat down the shield wall with their arrows and massacre everyone. As it was, anyone from the caravan left alive now might well see tomorrow's sunrise, and as many more as fate allowed.

He waved to the Bamulas. Picts also saw the gesture, but their chief had not signaled them. Drums and shouts held them where they were.

Conan cursed. He had no wish to be impaled on the horns of this dilemma: either desert the Picts or stay until they also saw the Bossonian reinforcements, when that might be too late for the Bamulas, who were closer to the new enemy troops.

Conan shouted for the Bamulas to return to cover on either side of the road. That might give the newcomers a clear path to some of the Picts, but it would let the Bamulas survive long enough to fight back, and perhaps to rescue their northern swozhu. (That was an expressive Bamula word meaning "friends-for-one-raid," and it was not altogether praise.

It was also the most common way the Bamulas had of referring to the Picts.)

The Bamulas had barely regained the shelter of the trees when the Bossonians charged out of the shield wall. Either the rearguard had been stronger than Conan realized or more survivors of the men forward had reached the wall. Regardless, they swiftly reached close quarters with the Picts.

The Picts were not ones to fight at close quarters against armored opponents, unless they had a great advantage in numbers. This they did not have, but they had an open road into the woods, where no horseman could go. They took that road, and in moments there was not a living Pict in sight.

Since the Bamulas had to take the same road, Conan dismounted, slapped his horse on the rump, and sent it cantering off toward the reinforcements. Then he sheathed his sword and gripped the coffer with both hands. Even for the Cimmerian, it was a trifle on the heavy side for one hand in rough country.

***

Conan made sure that there were no Picts within sight, and none hiding close enough to see, before he opened the coffer. He did this by seeking a hollow tree, the last remnants of what must have once been the size of a good temple and older than most such built by the hands of men.

While Kubwande held a tuft of burning moss tied to a stick, Conan attacked the coffers hinges with his dagger. They gave only just before the dagger was too blunt for use. Whoever had contrived this coffer had wanted to keep what lay within exceedingly well-guarded indeed.

The lid opened with a faint and more than slightly eerie scream. Conan at first thought nothing was inside at all. Then he saw that within, the coffer was lined with black velvet and stuffed with black silk. He drew out the silk and noticed a faint reflection from Kubwande's light.

He put in his hand, felt around, and gripped something smooth that had two textures, metal and stone.

He held the object up”a square-cut crystal so transparent that it had looked black against the black velvet, but it was betrayed by the age-darkened gold of its mounting. To Conan's eyes, it looked as if it might once have decorated a sword-hilt or a helmet, but there was something about it that made him uneasy.

"Hunh," Bowenu snorted. "Not enough gold in that to make it worth carrying."

"Not enough wits in your skull to make you a good judge of such matters," Kubwande replied. "If we do not wish to leave it, let us give it to Lysenius. He may find some value in it."

"That he will, from the way the guards were righting to snatch it free," Conan said. "Whoever has lost it may pay a fair-sized ransom."

He felt an urge to have it out of his hands as quickly as possible, but he was not wholly sure that Lysenius was the right destination. The jewel had a smell of sorcery to it, and that meant the farther it was from both honest folk and Lysenius, the better.

What about an honest woman? Scyra seemed to have her doubts about some of her father's schemes. Conan would trust her more if she had concealed less about them, but his trust for her was still as a gold coin to a brass piece compared to his trust for her father. He trusted no sorcerer wittingly, but for the Bamulas' sake, he would give Scyra as much trust as he thought she had earned.

"We have crystals like this in my homeland," Conan said. "They have power, but it is women's magick. Vuona is a woman, but not adept with power. Scyra, however, is both a woman and a mistress of magick. She is fit to receive the crystal."

"What if Lysenius is angered?" Bowenu asked.

"Then," Govindue said in the tone of one instructing a child (although Bowenu had to be five years his elder at least), "we shall hold our tongues about it until Scyra has been given it."

Thirteen

Lysenius did not resemble the usual notion of the sorcerer, but then, Conan had acquaintance with many sorcerers (although liking few) and knew that they were as varied as were common men.

Scyra's father was nearly as tall as Conan, and had he led an equally vigorous life, he might have been nearly the Cimmerians physical equal.

As it was, a stout belly bulged under a silk shirt that could have begun life intended for a Barachan sailor. Other signs of good living thrust out blue hose cut in the latest Aquilonian style. A short green Bossonian foresters cloak hung from broad shoulders, and the curious array was completed by a massive rawhide belt, clearly Pictish, with an equally Pictish bronze dagger thrust through it.

The broad face above the garb was almost too youthful to belong to the father of a woman Scyra's age. Or it would have been save for the altogether bald pate and the splendid beard, mostly gray shot with streaks of black. The eyes were Scyra's, an intense blue that almost seemed the image of Conan's”but the Cimmerian had the same uneasiness about what lay behind those eyes as he did about what lay in a pouch slung to his own belt.

"I am well-served by you," Lysenius said. He spoke with what Conan had come in his wars to recognize as an Aquilonian accent. "Very well-served."

He used that last phrase three more times before Conan started translating for the Bamulas. The Cimmerian translated it only once.

There was no cause yet to share his doubts about Lysenius. His instincts led him to wariness, and he trusted those instincts; had he done otherwise, he would have been long dead. Being neither god nor priest, however, he did not call them unfailing or perfect.

Conan's doubts grew as slowly as moss for some while as Lysenius rambled on. It seemed that he had come to the Pictish Wilderness in flight from first Aquilonia, then from his native Bossonia. In each place he had practiced the magick arts in a way that offended the powerful, and in Bossonia, their wrath had claimed his wife, Scyra's mother.

With nothing but his lawful knowledge of magick, he had come to the Pictish Wilderness. Conan vowed to believe that when he saw ships floating in the air. The Stygian priests had long reaches and much gold with which to buy friends. Lysenius had befriended the Picts by using his magick in ways that did not cast doubts on the powers of their shamans.

Now it was time to take his revenge on those who had exiled him and deprived him of his wife. He would find the Picts a champion. The statue of an ancient warrior lay in a distant cave. Vitalized by Lysenius's spells, the statue would come forth, an invincible protector of the Picts. They would swarm across the border, and those who had wronged Lysenius would rue the day they did so, as they listened to the screams of their kin before their own throats were cut¦

Lysenius went on at considerable length about the red ruin the Picts would leave in their wake. Conan, who had seen more such campaigns than most men twice his age, listened with grave attention. He was not learning much about Lysenius's plans, but he was gleaning a good deal about the sorcerer's mind.

Mostly, he decided, he was recognizing that Lysenius was mad. Whether the mage had been so before (and Conan had even less use for Stygian magick than for most other kinds), he certainly was so now. Mad from loneliness perhaps, and even perhaps with some cause, but there could be no cause for unleashing the Pictish nation on the Bossonian Marches.

Conan was about to ask what part he and his band might play in this scheme, when Lysenius seemed to pluck the Cimmerian's thoughts from his head. It was so uncanny that Conan dared not look at the pouch on his belt to see if Lysenius had also plucked the crystal from it by sheer force of will.

"I cannot give to any one tribe or clan of the Picts the honor of entering the cave of the statue. Not without making all the others jealous enough to fly at my throat, or at least at the throats of the tribe so honored. I am already unfriends with the Snakes more than I could wish, and there would be others in like case."

Again Lysenius rambled, evoking the vision of the Snakes returning to loyalty and trust once the statue walked and victory seemed assured.

Conan began to wish that the Snakes would demonstrate their lack of friendship by raiding the cave in this moment. Fighting Picts would surely be less tedious than listening to a sorcerer with more ambition than sense (the most common kind, in Conan's experience).

"It will fall to you and your warriors of the Bamula to travel to the cave. You are of no nation among the Picts. You are proven in valor and skill. Above all, you have already passed through the world-walker, and what you have done before, you shall do again."

It took Conan a moment to realize that Lysenius was referring to the demon's gate. He used that name when he translated, and he heard hisses of indrawn breath all across the chamber behind him. Lysenius, fortunately, seemed to take these as signs of eagerness, and Conan thanked various minor gods that the sorcerer knew nothing of Bamula customs.

"Let honor be done to Lysenius," Conan said. The Bamulas hissed again and began to chant.

"Ohbe Lysenius. Ohbe Lysenius. Ohbe Lysenius."

Conan rather hoped they would be allowed to continue until they had gone on as long as the sorcerer. However, it seemed that only one man in these caves was allowed to be tedious. Lysenius made an unmistakable gesture of dismissal, and Conan arrayed his men, bowed in the Hyborian style, and led them out.

They passed down three corridors, and on the fourth and final one to their quarters, Conan signaled to Kubwande.

"Yes, Conan?"

Conan tapped his pouch. He had kept the crystal on his person even while in the chamber with Lysenius as he wished no other man endangered for possessing it. Sorcerers had tried to kill him more often than he could count on fingers and toes together; the Bamulas were not so seasoned.

"I am taking this where we have agreed that it belongs."

"Take care, Conan. The Bamulas need you more than they need Scyra. I do not mean only the Bamulas here, either."

"Time enough for the others when we see them again," Conan said. The mans transparent flattery had lost its power to anger him. Kubwande was no fool, and indeed a fine hand in battle, but intrigue was in his blood as much as vengeance was in Lysenius's.

***

Lysenius had not precisely discouraged roaming about the caves, but he had made it clear that it was not without its dangers. He did not describe these dangers, so Conan had no idea whether they were magickal, human, animal or simply holes in the floor ready to tumble the unwary into the abyss.

Being seasoned at skulking in the darkness from his days as a thief, Conan cared little for vague menaces. He was not slow to learn his way around the tunnels. Before the band had been ten days guests of the sorcerer, Conan had learned the tortuous way from the warriors'

quarters to Scyra's private chambers as thoroughly as he had learned the way to the well when he was thirsty.

He did not enter those chambers. Scyra seemed to have told him all that she cared to, and he had no wish to strain her loyalty by asking for more.

He also did not wish to give Vuona cause for jealousy. Well-bedded as she now was, she would have little cause, but women did not always need cause for jealousy. Nor was Vuona powerless to make her jealousy dangerous, if she chose to betray the band to Lysenius. Doubtless some Bamula would spare Conan from having the girl's blood on his hands, but he would rather she returned alive and hale to the Black Kingdoms with her comrades.

Now Conan intended to cover the whole path to Scyra's chambers and meet her there”if needs be, waiting until she returned. In spite of what he had said to Kubwande, he had no plan to give her the crystal without demanding knowledge of what it was. If he had any doubts that she could be trusted with it, he would guard it, with his life if necessary.

He told Kubwande that if he had not returned before dawn, the Bamulas were to seek safety by themselves. He did not instruct the man on how.

Kubwande certainly had fewer scruples than the Cimmerian, and might gladly think his best hope was serving Lysenius. Govindue would most likely not be able to prevail against him.

If it had not been for the mystery of the crystal, Conan might not have risked seeking Scyra. But two duties to his people now weighed in the balance, and the mystery of the crystal was the heavier.

Turning down a side tunnel, Conan quickly came to a crack in the rock.

On the outside, it was large enough to admit him if he slipped through sideways, though not without some scraping of hide. Inside, it broadened into a chimney. The chimney offered only a few cracks as finger and toeholds, but for much of its way, Conan could go up it feet against one side, back against the other. He tied his lantern, a brass casing holding pressed moss soaked in oil, to his belt and began his climb.

He finished it with more care for silence than usual. It was his experience that sentries were always the most alert when you could least afford their attentions. He still made good time and was soon padding along the tunnel above.

This led to a corridor carved by an underground stream, which still flowed waist-deep through the premises. Conan stopped at the hole giving entrance to the corridor, and wrinkled his nose. Smell could tell of danger where eyes and ears failed, and he smelled something rank that had not been there before.

He heard nothing however, and the light of his lantern revealed even less”only the bare rock of the tunnel, eroded by the stream over the eons, and the chill, dark water flowing past at its usual swift pace.

Conan put a finger into the water and tasted it. No trace of anything uncanny, or even foul.

There were several ways to Scyra's chambers beyond this tunnel, but here it was the only path, unless one could burrow through solid rock as easily as a mole through fresh-turned earth. Lacking that power, the Cimmerian slipped into the water and began his advance, breasting the stream that seethed around him. He held the lantern high and his sword in his free hand, and his eyes searched both ahead and behind, while his feet sought firm purchase on the tunnel-bottom with each new step.

It was well he used such caution. The foul odor grew stronger with each step, and now he began to hear what seemed to be breathing that was not his. He held his breath; silence did not return. He advanced; whatever lay in wait suddenly had the wits to halt its own breathing.

Now Conan felt a chill from more than the water. Obviously, what lay ahead had sensed his approach. It could choose the time and place of its attack, and he could only meet it with precious little warning, and possibly with less room. That was still better than having to pursue it through the caves, or worse yet, having it roaming the darkness ready to attack less robust prey.

The Cimmerian passed the narrowest portion of the corridor without incident. He thought he heard a scraping from ahead and well off to one side, and remembered that several dry branches led into the tunnel just beyond.

He stepped forward”and the tunnel rang with a hideous scream as a massive weight surged against him. Water sprayed, the lantern hissed out, and darkness swallowed the battle.

Conan recognized at once that he faced two assailants. One, bolder than its comrade, clutched at his left arm, then tried to twist, claw, and pull all at once, without securing its grip. Conan pivoted from the hips, breaking the enemy's hold and dashing the creature against the wall behind him.

That gave him a respite for a moment only, but all he needed. He rammed his free hand, clenched into a fist, into the darkness where he judged the others throat to be. At the same time, he slashed, clumsily because of the angle, dangerously because of his strength and the newly keen edge of his sword. Aquilonian steel came hard across the back of the neck of the being in front. It howled again, and its fetid breath stifled Conan.

The first attacker now tried to seize him from behind. But once again it was slow to secure its grip, overly eager to do its victim injury.

Conan brought both feet up and kicked hard at the attacker in front, at the same time driving himself backward against the foe behind.

He heard a crack as the rear attackers skull met the tunnel, and felt its grip weaken. Now he had a hand free with which to draw his dagger, and he stabbed furiously into what lay before him. Another scream, and this time a spray of blood mingled with the reeking breath. Conan stabbed again and more blood sprayed, but no scream came. He stepped from between the assailants and brought his sword down, feeling bone give once to the right, once to the left.

Then only the echoes of the death-screams remained, and the gurgle of the water washing over two hairy bodies, carrying away two streams of blood.

Conan sheathed his weapons and climbed out of the water. He thought he had suffered no great hurt, although he felt as if he had been pounded with clubs and flogged with nettles. Whatever he had faced had been strong, quick, not highly intelligent, but far too dangerous to be allowed to roam the tunnels.

That made one more question he was going to put before Scyra, and demand that she answer before he handed over the crystal. He touched his belt to see that it was still in its pouch, and assured of that, began the next stage of his journey.

***

Conan had no way of rekindling his lantern, but no need to either. The last part of the way to Scyra's chambers was so easy to traverse that any apprentice thief could have done it without light. The Cimmerian's scrapes and bruises had barely started to throb before he was at Scyra's door.

He drew his dagger, sheathe and all, reversed it, and tapped on the door with the hilt. He heard movement” faintly, for the door was heavy wood bound with brass, some of the brass forming curious figures that might have been runes in a tongue Conan had never encountered. He heard a faint ting, beyond doubt the opening of a peephole, then a sharp hiss of indrawn breath and the sound of a bolt being drawn.

With a creaking of hinges that seemed as loud as the war cries of an army, the door opened. Scyra stood there, her dagger in one hand, a cloak of supple rawhide thrown hastily about her. It left her feet and lower legs bare”as well-formed as Conan had suspected. It also left him certain that she wore nothing under the cloak.

"Conan! What brings you here?"

"Curiosity."

"About me?" In another woman, that might have been flirtatious. Scyra's sober expression and level voice gave the lie to any such notion.

"About something I took from the Bossonian caravan."

"You fill me with curiosity. The more so, coming here looking as you do. You look as if you have fallen down a cliff. My father said there were dangers in roaming our tunnels." She beckoned him into the chamber and he followed.

"There are more dangers than your father believes, unless he has turned loose giant apes in the caves," he said. Scyra's eyes widened. Conan continued, describing his foes as best he could without having seen them clearly.

Scyra had turned pale before he finished, and was silent for a moment afterward. Then she said slowly, "You met chakans. Pictish wizards tame them and use them for tracking¦ and killing. They are not allowed in our caves."

"Tell that to whoever sent them," Conan said brusquely. "And meanwhile, keep your door locked and barred, and a dagger ready to hand. Or a spell, if you have one potent against those brutes. One of them could tear you limb from limb without breathing hard."

For a moment, Scyra seemed about to faint. The cloak nearly slipped from her shoulders, and she seemed not to notice when Conan rearranged it. She sat down as if her legs had failed her, and hung her head for a moment.

"Is your peace with the Picts breaking?" Conan asked, seating himself beside her. He wanted to shout, but forced himself to speak as to a child. Scyra had wits and courage, but tonight was bringing her much bad news all at once.

"If they have unleashed chakans on us, it may well be," she replied.

"What else did you come for?"

Conan drew out the crystal. Scyra's eyes grew even wider, but her voice was steady as she spoke.

"That was from the caravan?"

"Yes, stoutly coffered and well-defended. Three Bossonians looked ready to sell their lives to keep it."

"I understand why."

"Then if you do, tell me, and I will understand also. I hardly think we have time for riddles."

She shook herself. "No. We do not." She reached for the crystal. Conan hesitated for a moment. If this was something of sorcery and gave her new powers when she held it”

But his sword and dagger were ready and could deal with Scyra”or anything she could turn herself into” well enough. He drew the dagger and rested his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

For a moment, Scyra seemed to have eyes for nothing except the steel, and no power of speech. Then she held out her hand again, and Conan put the crystal in it.

Silence, long enough that Conan feared other chakans would find their dead comrades and come prowling in search of vengeance. Scyra seemed to be in a trance. He hoped she was finding some answers with these delvings into other worlds, and might in time condescend to give them to him.

Before his impatience forced the Cimmerian to speech, however, Scyra stood up. She seemed calmer, although the hand that gripped the crystal was clenched so tightly about it that the knuckles were white.

"This is, by its appearance a Crystal of Thraz," she said.

"That tells me nothing," Conan said.

"Forgive me. Such crystals are very old, said to be Atlantean, but of course everything that old is blamed on Atlantis, even when there is no mention of it in the chronicles of

"Scyra, I have no time to listen to you imitate your father at his worst. What does the cursed thing do?"

"It can increase the power of a sorcerer. It can also clean temples or other holy places of the taint of dark sorcery."

"Useful little device, isn't it?"

"Please. There are only six of them known to exist. I never dreamed that one would come into my hands."

"Then you intend to keep it?"

"Do you mean, to keep it from my father?"

Conan grunted. Scyra was too shrewd by half. He was almost tempted to snatch the crystal back and smash it on the floor. He doubted it was harder than the mountain stone, and a few shrewd cuts with his sword would finish the work. '

"You're the best judge of your father's honesty. Would it help him use the demon's gate”the world-walker”to send us to the cave of that image he's planning to bring back to life? If it will do that, I won't ask you to keep it from him. It's my life and the Bamulas's at stake."

Scyra's eyes widened again. They were very fine eyes, and Conan would not mind seeing them widen on a pillow, but he wished the woman would find words more quickly.

"He is sending your band to the cave?"

"So he said, in words I understood. Which of us is astray in his wits?"

"No one. You heard¦ you heard the truth, but not all of it."

"And the whole truth is?"

Scyra took a deep breath, and now the words came swiftly and clearly.

There was a woman of sense under that fidgety exterior, the gods be praised!

"The statue must be animated by a blood-sacrifice. Either the nearest kin of the sorcerer, or twenty-some other folk. My father considered sacrificing me. He then changed his mind and wished to sacrifice twenty Picts."

"How was he going to persuade them?"

"I was to marry a Pictish chief. My bride-price would be the lives of twenty of the chiefs warriors."

"The chief wouldn't live to the next day's sunset after that. Your father may know magick, but he knows less about Picts than young chief Govindue knows."

"He was desperate. Also, the other Picts might have forgiven him after his magick brought them victory."

"The victory of turning the Marches into a howling wilderness. You wished that?"

"He is my father. He loved my mother, and saw the Marchers as her murderers. Vengeance comes easily when you look at the world thus."

"Madness comes even sooner, and I think it has come to your father." A suspicion buzzed in Conan's mind, like a marsh bug whining in his ear.

It grew louder, then turned into an ugly certainty.

"My band goes to the cave in the world-walker, and then we become the blood-sacrifice? No Picts killed, none turned to enemies, and the statue on the march? Is that your fathers scheme?"

Scyra nodded. "He has not said so plainly, but from what I have heard and what you have said”I can hardly doubt it."

"Nor can I," Conan said. "Scyra, if I give you this crystal, can you keep it out of your father's hands? I think you have need of some defense against him, even if you do not choose to fight him. I would not ask that. But I swear I will destroy it if you do not swear to keep it, and if you betray us, you will join us in death."

It always made sense to arm a friend in the enemy's camp. It was ever a question, though, whether the friend would remain one and any weapons given him stay out of the enemy's hands. Conan's luck in such ventures had been mixed. He wanted to trust Scyra, and if she could be trusted, she might do much good.

If not, she might be the doom of them all, and not only himself and his band. Bossonian corpses would be piled high before the Picts were beaten back across the frontier.

"I will swear, Conan. While I am thinking of the oath, I would like to tend to your wounds. The chakans did not bite, did they?"

"Not so I've noticed, but they have claws and muscles in plenty."

"You were fortunate as well as strong. Their bite festers so that only spells can remedy the wound. Warm water and a herb poultice for the scratches, a potion for the pain of the bruises

"No potions."

"You do not trust me?"

"I need to trust my wits. I've never yet taken a potion that didn't slow them, and my arm as well. Those may not be the only chakans about."

"Very well. Turn your back."

Confident that she could not stab him without warning, Conan perched on a low stool. It creaked ominously under his weight. He heard bare feet padding across the floor, and then warm dampness touched his back. So did something else warm”the bare breasts of a woman.

He spun on the stool, raising his legs as he did. They swept Scyra off her feet. He caught her and dragged her onto his lap. She wore only a Pictish loinguard, and all the rest of her was as fair to look at as were the feet and legs.

She shook her head, making lights dance on her hair. "Is this enough of an oath?"

"For now¦ but I thought sorceresses needed to be maidens."

"A man who has no ghost-voice cannot weaken a woman's magick," she said.

"No what?" Conan asked.

She explained. The explanation was long, but this time Conan did not mind the length. She remained in his lap, kissed him, sponged down his wounds, and in due course, removed her loinguard. They were in the bed shortly after that, and entwined almost at once.

How long they remained thus, Conan never knew. He only knew that Scyra had cried out for the third time, when a fierce shock made the chamber quiver. Earthquake, he thought at first. The bed creaked and swayed, the stool toppled over, sponges and the water basin fell to the floor.

As the quivering faded, Conan heard the rumble of stone, and then a cry that could have come from no human throat.

He rolled from the woman's embrace and bed and snatched for his clothes, steel, and the crystal. All were where he had left them.

Neither Scyra nor any minion of hers had used this moment to steal the jewel. He might ask the woman more, should ask more if there was time.

"Scyra, I will trust you to be no enemy to us even though you be none to your father. The crystal is yours. It is best you and it remain here, though. I am taking my people away. We may be fighting chakans, Picts, and the gods alone know what else."

She looked up at him with eyes that were no longer wide but half closed, even sleepy, with satisfaction. "Conan, for a safer journey, look to the chest over there, by the hanging with the blue castle. It is not locked."

The chest contained a motley array of goods, but only three were of interest. The first was a new lantern. The second was a packet of oiled parchment, holding a map of the wilderness, embroidered on the thinnest of Khi-tan silk. Conan judged that with a little time, he could master it.

The last was a heavy purse. Conan opened it briefly, judged that the coins were gold all the way down, and added it to his load.

Scyra had neither moved from the bed nor donned her clothes. Conan threw her a final admiring look, and she writhed with pleasure as if the look had been a caress.

"Go swiftly, Conan. If you are beyond my father's reach soon enough, he may not punish me."

"You haven't seen swiftness, Scyra. Not until you've seen a Cimmerian and a host of Bamula warriors running for their lives!"

Fourteen

Govindue woke the men when he heard the distant sounds of a battle. In this jungle of stone, it was hard to tell where and how far away the battle was fought, but it seemed to lie on the path Conan had taken.

The men were sleepy, many of them, and not pleased to be awakened. Nor was Kubwande friendly to the young chief.

"Conan said that we had until dawn to await him," the iqako said.

"Until then, we should rest and save our strength."

"Rather than save Conan, if he needs it?" Govindue asked.

The young chief was pleased to note that even some of the most heavy-eyed men nodded at those words. Some among the band had the same notions of honor as he did, which was as well. By now, they all owed their lives to Conan more than once, and Govindue was sure they would owe much more to the man who would not be called Amra before they saw the Bamula lands again.

"We do not know where he is Kubwande began again.

It was Bowenu who interrupted. "We know that where the battle is, Conan will be found. Never was there such a chief for finding the enemy, or they finding him."

This time everybody nodded, even Kubwande, although he seemed uneasy.

Govindue made ritual gestures of gratitude at Bowenu and vowed that when he had it in his gift, the man would have more than gratitude.

"Then some of us should go," Kubwande said. "I will gladly lead them."

Govindue shook his head, and he was glad to see distaste for that idea on most of the other faces. "We will not divide our strength, not in an unknown place and facing an unknown enemy. We will all gather what we wish to take from this place, and when we leave this stone hut, we will leave together. Nor will we divide ourselves on the way to find Conan, or afterward, save by chance.

"We have been together this far, and it has meant life to all of us. If now it means death, then that is as the gods will it, and we will meet the death they send like warriors of the Bamulas. In this land, too, people will cry 'Ohbe, Bamula!'"

It was the longest speech Govindue had ever made in his life, even longer than the one at his manhood ordeal. It also seemed to strike home more than he dared expect, with warriors some of whom were almost old enough to be his father.

The gods touched those whom they wished to lead, it seemed. He would have to be worthy of their trust, as well as that of the men.

Then there was no more speech, only the scrape and rattle of men preparing to strike out for war.

***

Conan moved openly through the tunnels now. Speed was everything, to take him back to his people before anything could happen to them.

Treachery by Lysenius, attack by chakans, another earthquake”anything was possible.

Anything except panic among the Bamulas. Not all of them had showed equal prowess in battle, but all of them had followed him through the world-walker and on after that. It was not in them to give way to fear.

At one point, the roof of a tunnel gaped open, a crack wide enough to swallow a boy running up into nighted depths. Conan could have sworn that the wall was also bulged out. Just as well he was moving openly through the wider tunnels. The narrow passages of the secret route he had taken to Scyra's bed might have become a trifle too narrow for a well-grown Cimmerian warrior.

Conan realized that the way he was following now led past the treasure-room. He also realized that there were smoke and dust in the air, and a foul odor he had no trouble recognizing. Chakans lay ahead.

This time he was ready. He set down the purse and map and advanced burdened only by lantern and weapons. Around the first bend, the smoke and dust swirled thicker, seeming ready to swallow every beam of light from the lantern. Around the second bend, his sandals grated on stones, and a block fallen from the roof lay half-barring the passage.

Conan crouched, listening for any sound from beyond the block. If the chakans were lying in wait, that would be the best place for them.

Only silence came, broken once by the faint, distant clatter of rock falling. The reek of the chakans seemed to be weaker now, and another odor was joining it. That one was even more familiar to Conan. It was the smell of death.

Whose death? The only way to learn was to go on. Conan drew both weapons and sidled past the block, back to the wall, his eyes seeking friend, foe, or even knowledge of what had befallen the treasure-chamber.

The chamber opened off a larger one, and when Conan entered that larger chamber, he found himself on what seemed like a battlefield. Fallen rock was strewn about, likewise gobs of half-melted metal and pieces of charred wood, all still smoking and adding to the choking miasma.

Among the other debris were several corpses. They had almost human shape, but the proportions of the limbs were subtly wrong and no human ever sported such a peaked skull. Conan also saw on those corpses that were not charred black far too much hair for any human being.

Beyond the rubble-strewn floor, the arched entrance to the treasure-chamber gaped. Smoke curled out of it, and more from the remains of the doors still dangling from either side of the arch.

Beyond the entrance, smoke and dust swirled so thickly that the light of Conan's lantern could hardly penetrate farther than into the stone itself.

He had seen enough, however. A band of chakans had come prowling this way, and with their half-bestial intelligence, had found the treasure-chamber. What they had thought it to be, the gods alone knew, but they had surely made some attempt on the doors”vigorous enough to draw the chamber's magickal defenses on them and cause a minor quake.

Or had that been entirely magickal? Lysenius had not seemed to be any master of the mechanic arts, Scyra still less. But these caves and tunnels were too extensive and well-shaped to be altogether natural; what powers had made them in the eons before Lysenius came to the Pictish Wilderness? What had those powers left behind?

Conan knew one thing that he was not going to leave behind”anything portable in the treasure-chamber. Lysenius had no good use for any pickings, and the Bamulas might need more than Scyra's gold to speed their way homeward. He would have to chance confrontation with any remaining mechanical or magickal defenses of the treasure-chamber, but he had taken greater risks with less need when he was far less skilled a thief.

Conan retrieved the purse and map and was crossing the chamber when he heard footsteps mounting the tunnel from below. These were human footsteps, and numerous, moving fast”mayhap the Bamulas, or perhaps Picts following in the wake of their shaman's creatures.

The Cimmerian slipped into the arch of the treasure-chamber's entrance and waited, then doused his lantern. Now he was all but invisible, unless one shone light almost squarely upon him.

The newcomers were carrying lanterns. Good. They would illuminate themselves well before they illuminated him. Then a quick rush, if they were Picts”

More footsteps. These were coming from the tunnel Conan had just followed. They were slower, fewer”and now the Cimmerian heard the click of claws on stone. Chakan, or whatever else they might be; the one thing they were not was human. Did Lysenius have creatures of his own conjuring at his service, to defend his stronghold?

The oncoming men seemed to hear the others almost at the same moment as Conan did. He heard their footsteps stop, then a whispered command to set the lanterns down in front of them. Relief washed through the Cimmerian. The language was Bamula, and he could have sworn the voice was Govindue's.

Three chakans now slipped into view, one of them on all fours, sniffing the floor. From Scyra's description, that had to be the one trailing the Cimmerian. The others were to guard it while it trailed and help it to strike down the prey when they came upon it.

Conan resolved to alter their plans. There seemed to be far too many of these shaman's pets roaming about tonight. He intended that by dawn, there would be far fewer.

He bent carefully, without any betraying scrape of skin on stone or rattle of gear. He picked up a small stone between thumb and forefinger, then tossed it out onto the rubble-strewn floor.

The rattle seemed as loud as a war cry in a temple. It certainly drew the chakans' attention. Whuffling uncertainly, they stopped and looked about them. They had to be able to see the Bamulas' lanterns, but could they see the men beyond?

At least one of them did. With a cry that was part-scream, part-howl, it leapt toward the lanterns. It landed among them, knocking two over.

Darkness redoubled, as did sound, with Bamula war cries, Cimmerian war cries, and the bestial howls of the chakans all vying with one another.

The two remaining chakans sprang to join their comrade, or so Conan judged as best he could by the scant light remaining. If that was so, then all three had their backs to him.

He leapt from his hiding place, landing amid fallen rocks and barely keeping his footing. A charred piece of wood cracked under him, but the sound was lost in the uproar and no chakan turned to face him.

That was fatal to one of the beasts almost at once. Knowing their strength, speed, and tenacity of life, Conan struck with two hands on his sword. The cord of the spine, the bone of the skull, the flesh of the chakan's neck all gave way together. The creature's high-peaked head lolled on its shoulders as its body lurched forward, bounced off its comrades, and fell to the floor. Two spears thrust from above into its back ended its last struggles, and the rank odor of its death filled the chamber.

"Don't close with them!" Conan shouted. "Form a hedge with half your spears and throw the others!" The Bamulas were no weaklings, but Conan doubted their power to come alive out of a chakan's unnatural grip.

For answer, someone threw a spear. It passed wide of both living chakans and nearly struck the Cimmerian. He snatched it up, ready to return it point-first to the fool who had thrown so wildly.

Or had it been wildly? He remembered those footprints on the bank where he fought the river-horse, and Kubwande's taste for intrigue. A "wildly thrown" spear in the darkness could give any man excuse should it slay a friend.

The next moment, the Bamulas brought down the second chakan with spears both thrown and thrust. Conan heard a warrior cry out in pain and fury, and then came the death-rattle of the chakan. The third chakan seemed bemused and astray in its wits; it crouched on the floor and whimpered until Govindue stepped forward and thrust it through the neck.

The young chief had withdrawn his spear and was bending its point back into shape when Conan approached him. They pounded each other on the shoulders, then Conan led Govindue apart and whispered:

"A spear came near to taking me instead of the chakan. Did you see who threw it?"

"Is that their name? We thought them apes. Are they more?"

Conan told him of what he had learned from Scyra. Govindue looked grave. "It is not good, to have two kinds of evil magick against us."

"Tell me what I don't already know, or hold your tongue."

"I know who threw the spear. Need I name him?"

"I have no wish to curse him. Kill him, if needs be, but not curse him."

"Then you need no name. Such as he, I think curse themselves from the day they are born."

"Likely as not." Conan raised his voice. "Ho, Bamulas! We have a treasure-room to loot. Take only what you can carry easily. We must leave here swiftly and keep up a good pace for some days."

"Why are we leaving Lysenius?" That was not Bowenu, as Conan might have expected. He did not recognize the speaker in the darkness, but someone apparently did and spoke up:

"Scobun, do you want to share quarters with these? Or serve anyone who commands them? Better to take our chances with the Picts! A cleaner death, if no more."

"Yes," Conan said. He told briefly of Lysenius's planned treachery. He spent no time explaining how he had learned, although Kubwande did ask where the crystal was.

"Where I intended it to be," Conan replied. "I judged rightly. It is woman's magick, and a good thing for us. Scyra will not make war on her father for us, but she has no love for treachery. What strengthens her works for us."

"Wise words," Govindue said. "Now¦ the treasure-room lies over there."

He pointed with his spear. "Four at a time, and each four only while I count to a hundred. Anyone greedy or stealing from his comrades will not live long enough to fear Lysenius or the Picts!"

The young chief's voice was still a trifle too high-pitched to give him a real air of command, but he had everything else a captain might need.

If luck and the gods spared him, Govindue would leave a mighty name behind him.

If, of course, he did not tonight leave his bones in Lysenius's caves.

***

The looting of the treasure-chamber went swiftly enough. Chests and bags alike had been sundered apart by the chakans and the magick defense against them. Gold and silver coins, some freshly minted Aquilonian crowns, others from realms long lost in the mists of time, jewels, massive necklaces, arms rings and ornaments, and finely decorated weapons, lay strewn wantonly about.

Conan kept a close watch on the men, partly to encourage them to pick the precious rather than the showy, and partly to prevent trickery. He had his sword drawn and even the thought of taking something from a comrade was hard to hold if one sensed those ice-blue eyes boring into the back of one's neck and seeming to read one's innermost thoughts.

The Cimmerian contented himself with a jeweled dagger, which he added to the purse of gold from Scyra.

The blade had never been of the best steel, and now showed signs of rust. The jewels might be worth a manor; the dagger itself was barely fit to cut salt meat in a starveling siege camp.

Everyone had a bulging pouch or bag when he left the treasure-chamber.

No one seemed any the slower for his burden, but the day's march would test the Bamulas far more rigorously. Conan resolved that any man who fell behind from an overabundance of loot would have to divide half of his cache among more prudent comrades. If they also were fully burdened, the man would have to leave his baubles for the Picts and the wolves.

With this decision made, Conan formed his men up and led them down past their old quarters and out into the night. Dawn found them well on their way east, and as yet unpursued.

The Bamulas rejoiced at this, and seemed to regard their escape as a certainty. Conan was silent about his own doubts. They were a long way from the border, Lysenius might have resources not yet used or be letting them go for his own purposes, and the Picts would not be long in coming.

Even if they survived all these perils, the border might be closed to them. They had raided in the Marches, and it might well be that no amount of gold would make Bossonians forgive men who had marched with the Picts.

***

"They are gone! Gone! Gone!" Lysenius thundered.

Scyra hoped that he would not try to cast any spells until his mind was less troubled. Now, if he tried to warm a bowl of herb tea, he was likely as not to set his robe on fire.

She had seen this sort of thing happen before, and it had helped speed his way out of both Aquilonia and Bossonia. In Aquilonia, men paying good gold and silver for spells unlawful even under the decadent Numedides brooked no failures or partial successes. In Bossonia, bungled spells betrayed Lysenius and his family to hard-handed neighbors who might otherwise have not learned who lived among them.

But a tiger who missed his leap three times out of four was no less dangerous to the man under the fourth leap.

"We must raise the Picts and be after the Cimmerian and his men,"

Lysenius groaned. "But what can I do to pay blood-price for the warriors who will die?"

From a brief look at the treasure-chamber, Scyra doubted that her father lacked gold for this purpose. Twenty Bamulas had wrought further havoc after the wardings slew the chakans and shattered the door, but they had by no means stripped the chamber bare.

But offering part of that gold would make the Picts wonder if there was more. Indeed, they might already have learned of it from the chakans.

Neither god nor man nor magick could stand between Picts and that much gold.

Her father would escape as a beggar, if he escaped at all, with no gold, no magick not unlawful in any land they could hope to reach, nothing but her”if her marriage to a Pictish chief was not the price of his escape. There had to be some path out of this that would neither beggar her father nor slaughter Conan and his Bamulas.

If she could save Conan (she shivered at the memory of his lusty embrace) and leave the Bamulas to their fate”

No. Conan would refuse such a solution and die cursing her. His honor bound him to save those who had followed him through the world-walker and into a land that must be as strange to them as the Black Kingdoms would be to her¦ else he would die with them.

But if she could save Conan's band without ruining her father¦

She stepped back and drew from her purse the Crystal of Thraz. Her fathers eyes were fastened on the ceiling when she did so, and he seemed to be talking to some being there, or even in the solid rock beyond. It took some moments before he lowered his gaze.

He started then, and let out a roar that nearly made Scyra drop the crystal. She stepped back two more paces, as he looked ready to snatch at it.

"No, Father. It was a gift from Conan. He took it from the Bossonian caravan, then gave it to me."

"But¦ you know what these can do?"

"Am I not your daughter?"

"Do not, for once, answer a question with a question, Scyra. It is clever, but this is not the time for cleverness."

In that, Scyra thought, her father was very much mistaken. It was indeed a time for her to be clever beyond her wont, or Conan was doomed.

"Wait, Father. I know what this is. I have¦ I have tested it, in small ways. Not great ones, but the small ones have been enough to tell me that this one is bonded to women and women only."

Lysenius frowned. Scyra hoped he was not trying to remember the names of the spells that she might have used. If he interrogated her even aloud, let alone reaching into her mind, betrayal was likely and disaster not impossible.

"This is the truth?"

"By all that I know, yes."

"You cannot swear by more," Lysenius said. His broad shoulders bowed for a moment under the weight of all his years and memories.

Scyra knew how many of those memories were of failure and loss, and wanted to hug her father as she had when she was a child. It had comforted him them; would it comfort him now?

Perhaps, and she would feel even worse a traitor than she did already.

Her father might not scruple at selling her to the Picts to advance his schemes, but when she stood before him, he had not the heart to call her a liar. There remained in him more of the man he had been than she had thought.

Perhaps she could find a way entirely out of this land with Conan's help. Surely the Cimmerian knew the way to some land where she and her father could live out their days, on what they could take from the treasure-room and what she might earn with her healing skills. She also could appeal to that northern iron honor of his.

Again she fought the urge to embrace her father. He looked ready to weep, and she knew that if he began, she would join him. Amidst her tears, the truth would come out, and all that she feared might come to pass.

"Father, I have a plan."

"Do not put yourself in danger for it."

"We must not fear danger, if we are to avoid doom. We both know that Conan has no ghost-voice. We cannot hear his mind across the wilderness. But he can hear my ghost-voice if I fling it toward him through the Crystal of Thraz."

"That is potent magick."

"Then you must teach me what I do not know, and how to use it in safety. If I can speak to Conan, I can subtly guide his band toward the Cave of the Warrior. Meanwhile, we can follow them with a stout band of Picts, enough to seize the Bamulas when they reach the cave. Conan alone has enough spirit in him to raise the statue. If we are able to sacrifice the whole band

"That was my very plan!" Lysenius exclaimed. He grinned down at his daughter. "Truly, you are my daughter of the spirit as well as of the body."

Scyra wanted to scream that she was anything but that. Instead, she went on. "We might well use the world-walker, to pass ahead of Conan's band."

Lysenius shook his head. "The Cave of the Warrior is hard upon the land of the Snakes. We would not last a day without more Owls ready to defend us than I could pass through the world-walker. I also doubt that very many Picts would pass through it even if I could send them. What they have seen of my magick already puts them in fear. The world-walker would drive them mad."

Lysenius drew himself straight. To his daughter, he appeared for a moment almost as kingly as Conan. Then he bent and kissed her on the forehead, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. She stood entirely still, but her stomach churned.

"So be it. Do as you must, to guide Conan. I will reach out to the chiefs of the Owls and assemble the warriors. Shall I ask them to bring litters as well?"

"Unless you think we can match the pace of marching Pict warriors, yes," Scyra said with a wry smile. "No doubt, if I could do so, I would be worth more than ever as a bride for a chief. But I fear we cannot pretend that we are any sort of Pict."

Nor, in the end, even any sort of friend to them.

Fifteen

To Govindue, this land of the Picts would always seem more perilous than his homeland. This was not without reason either, as even Conan granted.

There were the nights so cold that even the strange, all-enveloping clothes made of the hides of furry beasts barely kept shivering at bay.

There was the rocky ground, the streams that held no crocodiles but could rise to a flood after a swift rain. There were storms, as fierce as any in the jungles, if not as frequent. There were animals, not as numerous as those of the jungle, but in their own land every bit as dangerous”and with habits Govindue did not know.

Before and beyond all, there were the Picts. They had to be out there, Govindue knew, even though they had remained quite unseen and nearly unheard since the band left the caves of Lysenius. Any tree in the expanse of sinister green he saw now from a low ridge might hide a Pict. The forest ahead might hide enough to swarm over the Bamulas and bring them down with bare hands, if they were of a mind to capture them alive for Lysenius or for their own purposes.

Govindue could not withhold a shudder at the thought of what Pictish schemes might mean to captives. The Bamulas and their enemies were adept at tests of a prisoner's endurance, but the Picts made them seem like weak-willed children.

Conan scrambled up to the ridge beside Govindue and shaded his eyes against the rising sun. They had been on the march this day ever since all the sky one could see overhead was a sullen gray. Now it promised to be a fine day, in which they could make a good long stride toward safety”or doom.

"You look uneasy, young chief," Conan said.

"How I look only speaks my thoughts," Govindue said. "But I suppose a chief must keep such thoughts from more than his mouth?"

"You do not need to ask, I think," Conan replied. "Had I known half as much about leading when I was your age, I might be a general or a prince today. Well, the gods make our paths rough or smooth as it pleases them, and we can only walk where they will us to. Although I see you seem used to walking paths in sandals, or even in boots now."

Govindue laughed. "They will never feel natural. But in this rock-fanged land, walking barefoot would feel much worse, and that quickly."

"As Vuona discovered. Have her feet healed?"

Govindue felt the blood rush to his face. Conan gave him a sidelong glance, and for a moment he feared his chief was about to strike him.

"I saw you rubbing ointment on her feet and binding them in strips of cloth. Was there more that I did not see, that I should know about?"

"I have not bedded your woman, Amra," Govindue said stiffly.

"I am still Conan here in this band, in this land," the other said sharply. Then he grinned, to take the lash from his words.

"Your sense of honor would not allow it, I know. But is Vuona displeased at the idea?"

"You know her better than I do," Govindue said. "It is as well that her feet are sore, or I might not be able to outrun her."

"No, but you could give her a good long chase so that by the time she overtook you, she'd be too winded for bedsport."

Govindue's face remained hot, and the bigger man saw that he had embarrassed the young chief. "As long as Vuona makes no trouble among the men, I will not chain her. If she makes trouble, I will not chain her either¦ I will run her through. As for the future¦ when we know we'll not end as bones bleaching on a Pictish midden-heap, you might think of a first wife and do worse than Vuona. You know that she is daughter to one of the three highest chiefs of the Fish-Eaters?"

"I did not know."

"Never miss listening to a woman who's willing to talk. Half the trouble women cause is by silence, and Vuona will never have that fault. Others, no doubt, but you as a chief in the Dead Elephant Valley bound by marriage to a chief of the Fish-Eaters

"Yes, and since I am oath-bound to you, it could mean peace between you and the Fish-Eaters. Indeed, you might serve me by advancing my suit."

"Small chance of that. Her father, I judge, is the chief whose headdress I skewered when he was trying to have his people kill me as a demon-lover."

"One can see that he might not love you, nor think well of any suit you brought. As you wish, Conan."

"You have not so much to learn as you think, young chief. Indeed, I've no desire to exchange fleeing the Picts for fleeing the Fish-Eaters."

"All who have followed you here would stand by you to the death."

"Yes, and to the death of a good many Fish-Eaters, which would make war between them and the Bamulas. A man finds enough wars in his path by chance, without going out and seeking more!"

Conan looked about him. "Now let's be down and off. The men should have finished at the stream, and these boulders might hide more than Picts."

***

Conan saw no signs of Picts on his way down the hill or in the trees around the pool where the Bamulas were filling their water bottles. The forest was not short of water, even in high summer, but Conan had warred in deserts that made Hell seem moist and temperate. He would never miss a chance to take on water, and if he and his band never had to stand off Picts on a waterless hill, so much the better.

Indeed, he was beginning to wonder if they might make their way clean out of the Pictish Wilderness without having to stand off any of the tribes. They were still some days from the Marches, and trails, blazed trees, and every so often a fallen feather or discarded moccasin, told of a Pictish presence.

No living Pict had showed so much as a feather-tip however, and even Picts were not such cunning trackers as to remain so completely invisible for so long from eyes as keen as the Cimmerian's. They had also missed more than one chance to slaughter the little band with small danger to themselves.

Conan had been using Scyra's map and his many years as woodsman and warrior to guide his people around the many dangerous passages. But only a god able to lift them into the sky could have taken them past all perils. Half a dozen times, Conan had felt the flesh of his back crawl with the anticipation of an arrow sinking into it, but no arrow ever came.

It was a mystery, and he did not like mysteries. Not in this land, where the Picts were deadly enough when they behaved in their common fashion.

He would have liked to ask Scyra for an answer, those times when she reached out and touched his mind with advice on the best way to go. The first time it had been at night, as he was drifting into sleep after a weary scramble across the worst stretch of hills on their way east. He had thought of Lysenius's magick and resolved to fall on his sword rather than let the sorcerer master him to the harm of his people.

But it had only been the sorcerer's daughter. Her thoughts came in her own voice, which he remembered well (and not only her cries of joy).

Also, she offered as proof of who she was, memories that no one else could have had.

So he came to accept her advice, and more than once tried to send his thanks back, and more than thanks. No answer came, however. In time, the Cimmerian realized that this sending of thoughts might remain from her to him, unless he himself turned sorcerer”which was about as likely as his willingly becoming a eunuch!

Mayhap there was nothing sinister behind the lack of Picts. Scyra might well have been able to dissuade her father from unleashing the Owls.

Now the fugitives were at, or even beyond, the land of the Owls, into land disputed between the Wolves and the Snakes. The Snakes at least were no friends to Lysenius, and the Wolves might have too much on their hands fighting the Snakes to fret over handfuls of curiously hued strangers wandering across their land.

Conan joined the column close to the rear, behind Vuona. He walked beside her as the band left the clearing and saw that she was casting sharp looks at Kubwande.

"Has he been making trouble?" Conan almost said "again," but did not care to discuss the stray spear in the dark during the battle against the chakans.

"What would you have me say?" Vuona replied. "I have no quarrel with him. Have you?"

"Not unless he is fool enough to find one before we are out of the wilderness," Conan said shortly. He also said it loudly enough for others besides Vuona to hear. Kubwande might have friends who would serve his schemes safely at home but could see wisdom until they had left the Picts behind.

"He does not seem that big a fool," Vuona said. "Also, I think you will be a bigger chief than he is."

"As the gods will," Conan said.

"Could they will us a safe place nearer than these Marches?" Vuona asked, almost pettishly. Conan saw that she winced sometimes as she walked, and that dark stains showed on her foot-bindings.

"Not safe from the Picts," Conan said. "Sore feet are better than a slit throat or a cracked skull. Besides, in the Marches they have warm houses with soft furs on the floor."

"Warm? How does anybody keep warm in this land?"

Conan did not say that if Vuona kept more of her clothes about her and showed less of her lithe form, she might stay warmer. Perhaps she would not be so good a match for Govindue after all. The young chief deserved at the very least to know who was the father of the sons born to his wife.

"They build their huts of stone and heavy logs, and put fires in stone boxes inside."

"They must stifle!"

"Not in the winter."

"Winter?"

"A time much colder than this, when there is snow” frozen water”lying as deep as a man's height on the ground. All the streams freeze so that one can walk dryshod across them, and to be caught without shelter is death."

Vuona looked up at the sky with the face of one struggling not to cry out. Conan rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"No snow today, and not for many days. Do not fear."

"Who fears?" she said haughtily. Then, more softly, she added. "I do hope that we are out of this land before the winter."

"Woman, in that we think alike," Conan said.

***

The hoots the Owls used for signals on the march came back from the head of the line, passed Scyra's litter, and faded away to the rear.

The bearers halted, and Scyra climbed out, disdaining the helping hands offered by several warriors.

Perhaps that was giving offense to those who meant well, but Scyra would believe in a well-meaning Pict when she saw the sun stand still in the sky. She also feared in her innermost heart that her flesh would creep and crawl away from a Pictish touch.

All along the trail from the caves, she had been troubled by nightmares in which Picts by the score made free with her body in ways that would have made a Stygian turn away in disgust. Once she awoke so drenched with sweat that she had to quickly change her garments, lest her father suspect that she was fevered and try to cure her in ways that would betray her secret.

Scyra had small doubt that it was that secret that was unsettling her mind and tormenting her spirit, by night and sometimes by day. However, it had not yet kept her from learning the arts of the Crystal of Thraz, nor from reaching Conan with her messages of guidance.

Indeed, she had begun to suspect that if she had the time, she could make her lie the truth. She could bind the crystal, if not to women only, at least so tightly to herself that her father could not use it without risking its destruction. He would not chance that unless he became persuaded that she was lying to him”and it was still not in Lysenius to believe that the daughter who was all that remained to him of his dead wife would betray him and his plans.

And speaking of her father's plans”here came Sutharo, one of the five greatest war chiefs of the Owls. Lysenius had named him most often as Scyra's likely husband among the Picts, and it seemed to the young woman that the Pict had learned of this. Certainly his manner around her was that of one who wished her goodwill. She doubted that this grotesque parody of courtliness would last beyond the marriage circle and the dousing of the torches, but for the moment he was being as civil toward her as it was in a Pict to be toward an outland woman.

Sutharo wore leggings and a wolfskin cloak, as well as a breechclout of the finest deerskin, lavishly embroidered with colored shells and bits of bone. He carried bow and quiver with bronze-headed arrows, a spear likewise bronze-tipped and decorated with heron feathers, and in his belt a hatchet and a well-kept piece of loot from some battlefield, a Gunderman-style short-sword.

Halting before Scyra, he gave his best imitation of a bow. "I trust I find you well, gracious lady," he said. Like nearly all pure-blooded Picts, he spoke no Hyborian tongue, but there were similar modes of address in the Pictish speech used among chiefs or toward shamans.

Scyra recognized that he was using both at once. Considering the common lot of Pictish women, this was near to a Hyborian kneeling at her feet.

"I am well. The journey is not hard, and the hope of victory at the end of it strengthens any warriors spirit." She used the same mode of speech as Sutharo, remembering at the last moment that in Pictish there was no feminine form of the word "warrior."

"Yes. May it also strengthen your regard for one who leads warriors to that victory." At least that was one meaning of the Pictish word for regard. Another meaning was "lust."

Scyra doubted that if Sutharo conquered the whole world and laid it at her feet, she would feel either meaning of the word for him. But that particular truth would help no one and nothing, and she did not feel any of the qualms about lying to Sutharo that she felt in the matter of her father.

"My father and I have always held the warriors of the Owls in high regard. Your friendship strengthens us in all ways."

"That fills me with joy." The word for "joy," like the word for "regard," had other and less polite meanings. Scyra did not doubt that Sutharo was using several meanings at once. The common Pictish chief might not shine at the court in Tarantia, but the common Aquilonian courtier would likewise not find himself well-suited to the intrigues of a Pictish tribe”if he lived long enough to join in them at all.

Scyra walked up and down, stretching her cramped limbs, ready to give everything but the Crystal of Thraz for a hot bath. (Perhaps also for a bundle of scented herbs to stuff in her nostrils against the reek of a thousand Pictish warriors under a sun climbing toward the zenith.)

Instead, she turned her thoughts from the discomforts of her body and toward remembering where Conan had been when she last touched his mind.

He no longer shied like a startled horse from that touch, and so far, her father had not to her knowledge listened to her speaking to Conan.

The Cimmerian might have no ghost-voice, but he had a very keen eye for what lay about him. No doubt his many battles and hunts”and yes, flights for his life”had sharpened his eyes and ears alike. Seeing a tree through Conan's eyes, Scyra could almost count the needles on a branch fifty paces above the ground.

She did not return to the litter to draw out her map, the twin of Conan's. The Picts had no knowledge of maps, and while they respected the arts of the white shaman and his daughter, they grew uneasy seeing them practiced openly.

Instead, she sat on the bole of a fallen oak, feeling the sponginess of the rotted wood, smelling the rich mold, hearing only birdsong and the chirr of an insect just over her head. The human world and all its assaults on her senses faded from her awareness, leaving only nature surrounding her mind as she composed herself to send her ghost-voice out to Conan¦

She returned from her mind's journey just in time to hear the hooting pass by again, from front to rear. Now it meant an end to the halt. The scouts had reported the way clear, the hunters had returned with any game unfortunate enough to encounter them, the water bags had been refilled, and the warriors who swore by the Owl were ready to march again.

So, Scyra had learned, were Conan and his people ready. Indeed, she could let them march the way they intended for the rest of the day.

They were moving almost as she would have wished had she been marching with them and guiding their every turn.

After tonight they would need to bear farther to the south to come upon the cave in good time. They would also need protection against the Snakes, whose lands they approached.

The Snakes had been for some time at odds with the Wolves. It was short of open warfare, but most of their warriors would be facing the Wolves at the other end of the Snake lands. Some would still remain close to the cave”too many for twenty Bamulas, a Cimmerian, and a woman to meet successfully.

She could not trust her father to offer magickal protection. He would ask more questions than she could answer with believable lies, and her masquerade would be ended.

A vanguard of Owl warriors, going on ahead? Yes, and what was to keep them trustworthy? Even if they did no more than fight the Snakes”

Sutharo. If she gave him certain promises she had no intention of keeping, he might swear to bind his warriors to peace with Conan, and even with the Snakes, unless the other tribe attacked first. Snake and Owl were old enemies, but there was no declared war between them now, and the Snakes had the Wolves on their hands.

She would make promises, and pray that he did not ask her to keep those promises until after the battle. She could make some excuse that would keep him away from her; Picts had as many superstitions as any about the business of men and women, and more than most. Afterward, Sutharo's wrath would be something to fear, but his writ could not run beyond the Pictish lands. If she and her father lived, those lands would not see them again.

Sixteen

Scyra's directions had kept Conan's band wandering along ridges and over hills for the best part of two days now. The Cimmerian had no difficulty in finding paths that kept the band concealed, but he was beginning to find it hard to believe that Scyra knew what she was doing.

She said that she wished the band to have ample warning of any attackers, so was sending them high, where the Snakes seldom roamed.

The Picts were creatures of the forest, she said, and the Snakes more so than most. They were uneasy on bare rock, and those who kept to it might pass through Snake lands almost unhindered.

It was much in Conan's mind that high, cold, rocky land was enough hindrance to his Bamulas even without Snakes crawling out from under the boulders. One night it grew so cold that Conan ordered a fire built, fearing detection less than he feared finding half his people in the morning frozen as hard as the rocks around them.

Perhaps it was too strong to say that Scyra did not know what she was doing. She knew Picts and the Pictish Wilderness. She did not know the Bamulas and what was needed to keep their trust”which was not leading them across bare slopes with nothing between them and the naked sky but clouds and perhaps a circling eagle!

Conan even tried once more to return Scyra's mind-message, but received as little reply as before. After that, he held his peace. If by some quirk of fate he did sprout a "ghost-voice" at this time, Lysenius would be as likely to hear it as his daughter. The border was still three days' unimpeded march away, and the spells of any sorcerer as potent as Lysenius could strike from an even farther distance.

It was toward evening at the end of the second day that Conan climbed a tree that rose higher than the nearest crest and offered better concealment. He came down with such a grim look on his naturally harsh countenance that only Vuona was bold enough to ask what he had seen.

"Picts," was all the Cimmerian would say.

"How close?" Govindue asked.

"Close enough that they could move between us and the border if they wished to."

"Then our task is to make sure they do not wish to," Bowenu said.

"How are you going to do that?" Kubwande snapped. "Cloud the minds of their chiefs with magick beer, flung across the hills to their camp by your powers?"

"Let Conan send a few of us in some direction the others are not taking, to show ourselves to the Picts and then hide. A small band can hide easily, and while the Picts seek it in vain, the rest can be away to the border."

"My thanks, Bowenu," Conan said. "But you don't know the Picts. They can track a man if he leaves only two needles out of place on a trail.

Also, they would surround a small band with a few warriors and send the rest on in search of the band's comrades. I honor your courage, and hope all will do so, but it would be wasted.

"We cross the border on our feet and together, or we lie down together.

And if we lie down, it will be among enough dead Picts so that their tribe will be known as the Tribe of Widows and Orphans!"

They would have cheered him gladly then, even as "Conan," but he silenced them and sent out the guards and watering parties. Afterward he walked a little apart and was sitting on a rock when Govindue came up.

"It is now my turn to ask if you are troubled, Conan. I cannot offer as much help as you gave me, but what I can give is yours."

Conan looked at the young chief. Even the smallest lie would be a larger betrayal than he could manage.

"I saw the fire-smoke of two bands of Picts. One is the one I spoke of, doubtless Snakes. They will be looking for Wolves, and might stumble on us only by chance. The other is to the west, and closer. I would not say surely that they are on our trail. I wouldn't wager against it either."

"You think¦ has Scyra betrayed us?"

"Not to her father, I am certain. Otherwise, we'd have his spells splattering about us like hawk droppings. But neither Lysenius nor Scyra may be masters now. The Picts may have tortured our plans out of both, stuck their heads on poles in an Owl village, and set out after us to do the same."

"We shall sing a death-song for Scyra," Govindue vowed. "Even for her father, if you think his spirit would be calmed."

"I've known few sorcerers who could ever have a quiet spirit, no matter how many songs you sang for them. Save your breath to drink your beer, and leave Lysenius to the gods. They've more time than we mortals, or so the priests say."

***

Sutharo, son of Yagan, war chief of the Owls, waited with scant patience for his scout to descend the tree. It would have been swifter for the man to shout from on high, but this was not Owl land.

"Have you seen Snakes? Are they close?"

"Many Snakes. From the fires, I think more than three hands of hands.

Not close. Not between us and the hill the white shaman says is the place."

"You have done well. You may drink first when next we find water."

"I thank the chief."

Sutharo hoped they would find water soon. He and the warriors with him had been traveling swiftly for two days now. They had not overtaken the demon-men and their giant chief. The demon-men seemed as swift as Owls, even on bad ground.

It would be worth all that his warriors endured if they came to the place in time to protect the demon-men from the Snakes. If they did, then the white shamans daughter would lie in Sutharo's bed, and a son of such blood would surely be both war chief and shaman.

Such a son might rule over more than one tribe. His father's tomb would be a place all men would know, and in the aftertime, the father would sit by the fire of the highest gods.

It was as well that his warriors did not know that they were bruising their feet and drying their throats to protect men they would afterward be killing. They might wonder at Sutharo's asking such a thing, and even speak doubt to his face.

Some might even challenge him. They would be fools to do so, in the land of the Snakes and where the white shaman might see the quarrel among the Owls. But there were always fools, even among the Owls. There were also those who would not follow a chief who had lied to them for no better reason than to fill his bed with Scyra.

Sutharo had long wished for another chance to fight the Snakes before he grew too old to lead the Owls in war. But he had begun to think that it was always better to fight as one's own chief, even if the reward for that was not Scyra.

***

Scyra's last message bid Conan bear to the south, around the end of a ridge he could see ahead. That would be all very well if the southern end was not the one closer to the Snakes. Going straight over the ridge would be possible only if he was alone. His eye for ground told him that the far side of the ridge was too steep for the Bamulas to face.

Very well, then. They would go north. It was time to see what disobeying Scyra would bring. If no harm, well and good. If it proved that she was right”well, a man could only die once.

If it drew the sorcerous wrath of Lysenius”again, a man could only die once. But Conan knew he would die with an easier mind if Scyra did not prove treacherous. He had been deceived by more women than some men ever knew in their lives, but he had also met his share of the other kind, and not only Belit. They were something he would regret leaving behind, if indeed his time was at hand.

He pointed his sword toward the north. "We go this way. Be more watchful than ever. Every step takes us deeper into Snake land."

"If the Snakes strike, they will feel that they have bitten stone!"

Kubwande shouted. It was the most worthwhile thing he had said in some time.

***

Scyra cursed under her breath in the Pictish tongue, using words that her father would be astonished she knew. She cursed Conan, invoking parts of his body that would, again, astonish her father.

She did not curse the Crystal of Thraz, although she knew full well that without it, she would never have conceived her plan. As for attempting to put it into execution, sooner would she have tried to spy on a Pictish soul-changing, where a man's soul might enter a snake and a snakes the man.

But it seemed to her, as she sensed Conan swerving farther and farther from the right way, that perhaps the Crystal had made her too ambitious. She had tried to guide, and even to bind, a man who was no more made for that than was a tiger of the Vendhyan jungle, or a wolf of his own native forests. She had known Cimmerians only by their reputation before she met Conan. Now that she knew him, she did not wonder that Cimmeria remained fiercely independent and that Aquilonian intrusions to the north met bloody ends.

Her father stepped up behind her. She felt his breath on the back of her neck, and smelled the Pictish beer on it. Words of reproach almost reached her lips; she swallowed them.

"Conan goes on as you wish?"

"Not altogether. He circles the ridge widdershins."

"Ah. Can you send Sutharo's warriors after him?"

"Even if I could touch Sutharo's mind, I would not. He would call it witchcraft and fear me."

"Any man in his senses would fear you sometimes, Scyra. Just as they would your mother. In that way, there is almost too much of her in you."

Next, he would start rambling about her mother; then he would cry, and then he would drink more Pictish beer and fall asleep. She hoped he would not so unman himself that he could not cast a proper spell when they reached the cave.

No, she had come to hope that he would. If his magick deserted him at the last moment, he might never learn of her betrayal. She would not have to take the final steps of pitting her magick against his. If he could not complete his vengeance, might he not remember that there were other things in the world besides that?

Scyra squeezed her eyes shut and felt them stinging even so. It was hardly likely. Lysenius had lived for his vengeance for too many years to remember much of what life had been like before that.

Also, if his powers deserted him, he would be dead” swiftly if he was fortunate, slowly if he was not, and his daughter with him. It was near to madness already, her scheme to betray Picts while they were all about her. It was not wholly mad, only because she had hopes of concealing the betrayal long enough for her and her father to be beyond the reach of any Pict.

He would forgive her. The Picts would not. Nor would Conan, although if matters went awry, doubtless the Picts would put an end to him before he could take vengeance on her.

Life seemed to be one betrayal leading to another.

Scyra realized that she did not hold such a life as dear as she might have.

***

The Bamulas had learned the art of climbing hills as they had learned archery. A few of them were skilled. Most were better called "determined." Not much to Conan's surprise, Govindue was among the most adept at handling himself on hillsides. Rather more to the Cimmerian's surprise, Vuona was almost as light on her feet. He wondered if she was trying to flaunt her strength before someone, and if so, whether it was him or Govindue.

It happened that the young chief and the woman were the two closest to Conan when he led the band over the north end of the ridge. It wound off to the south, with the side before them bare and rocky, the side behind them thickly wooded. At the foot of the slope, more trees rose, firs and pines, making a sullen darkness that could have hidden enough Picts to sweep away a province, let alone a band of strangers in this land.

Conan went to ground and motioned those with him to do the same. They passed on the message, and no one allowed himself to stand boldly on the rocky spur, in plain sight from below and above alike.

The band had gone its own way, rather than the way Scyra bade them.

Nothing had come amiss”yet. It would still take a better reason than defying Scyra to make Conan lead his people across the bare eastern slope of the ridge.

The Cimmerian had perhaps the time of two or three deep breaths to hold this thought. He had time to wave to those behind him, bidding them move to the north, within the tree line.

Then arrows hailed from the sky. They were numerous enough to warn their targets, but not to do grave hurt. Shooting eagerly, without closing the range, the Picts did not inflict so much as a flesh wound.

Conan knew that such good luck, or the gods' favor, would not last much longer. He also saw from the fall of the arrows that they were coming from the very trees where he had intended to lead his people.

This was not much to his liking. He thought briefly that perhaps Scyra had the right of it, and that he owed her an apology, if he lived to see her again. For a sorceress who had barely seen her twentieth year, she had a wise head on those round, freckled shoulders”

"Run!" he shouted, pointing down the slope toward the trees to the east.

"The Picts”?" somebody shouted.

"That way, and already shooting at long range. If we run, they'll have to run too, to keep us within bowshot. Shooting on the run makes poor practice. The best archers to the rear. If you find a good place to hide and see Picts in the open, give them a little present. But don't fall too far behind. We can't stop to let anyone catch up."

Running was something the Bamulas knew well. Even when their lack of skill on hillsides betrayed them and they went down, they rose again quickly. No one broke bones or sprained muscles, and men whose bruises and cuts left blood trails in the dust on their bodies ran as swiftly as before.

Conan remained in the middle, where he could see and speak to everyone alike, and also be ready to join the rearguard of archers. He bore a stout Bossonian longbow, with a good edge in range over anything Pictish, and a quiver of two dozen arrows, besides his other weapons.

The Bossonian longbow seemed almost clumsy to one who had learned his archery on the subtle but powerful Turanian horsebow, but the Cimmerian despised no weapon that could kill a man.

If the Picts gave him any sort of a chance, he would add a good many of them to his escort from the world, even before drawing steel.

Conan had just seen Picts breaking into the open to the north and unslung his bow when Vuona let out a shriek as if the pits of the netherworld had opened at her feet. Without slowing, Conan turned his gaze toward the woman and saw that she had reason to cry out, for Picts were also sprouting from the trees ahead. Some had already nocked, and the first arrow from them fell almost at Vuona's feet. She dodged sharply to the left with a yelp of surprise.

Conan knew that if his people stopped moving, they would be shot down where they stood, and if they ran, they might be running from one danger into another. The only way to safety seemed to be along the slope, toward the south”toward the way Scyra had bidden them go.

Most certainly, Scyra had seen clearly. The Cimmerian vowed to swallow his pride and admit as much, if he ever saw the witch-girl again.

The gods' hands remained over the band as they ran south, some now staggering and lurching, but all remaining on their feet. Conan heard breath rasping like ill-kept bellows in the forge of a slovenly blacksmith, the kind his father would never have countenanced in their village. It was not his own breath yet, and he knew he had speed and endurance enough to leave his band behind.

He also knew he would do no such thing, Nor would the band abandon the first one who fell. They would form a circle around the fallen comrade and try to stay alive until nightfall. That was too far away to offer much hope, but nothing else offered any at all.

No, that might not be wholly true. Up the slope and ahead lay a shadowy recess that looked very much like the mouth of a cave. Around it, boulders were strewn in a pattern that did not look entirely natural, but that offered as a good a place as any to go to ground.

"That way!" Conan shouted, pointing with his free hand.

It took a few moments for everyone to see where he was pointing, more for everyone to turn. Those moments gave both bands of Picts time to close the distance. The Bamula archers and Conan nocked and shot. The range was long, but the Bamulas and the Cimmerian were shooting more downhill than not. Two Picts fell; two more halted. Most of the returning arrows dropped short, and none did great harm.

Vuona picked that moment to stumble, going down hard enough to furrow one leg on a sharp stone. She rose, bleeding, cursing, and weeping all at once. After a few steps, it became clear to Conan that she could not keep on her feet all the way to the boulders.

He slung his bow and made ready to snatch her up, but it was Govindue who reached the young woman first. He lifted her on his shoulder as if she had been no heavier than a basket of grain or he as strong as the Cimmerian, and ran the rest of the way up the slope with her. Conan was not the last man into the boulders, but he was well behind the young chief.

A final spatter of arrows clattered on the stones. Conan reached out from the recess to pick them up; they would need every weapon they could command. He had just gripped the last arrow when he heard a barely stifled scream from Vuona, and curses from the men.

Only Govindue seemed in command of himself. "Conan, I think you should see this."

The Cimmerian slipped past a boulder that seemed blackened by fire too hot for earthly flame and stared past the next two boulders. He had judged correctly: a cave lay beyond.

It was no longer shadowy, however. A stark blue witchlight glowed within, brightening even as he watched. Two steps closer and he could see that the light came from niches carved in the walls of the cave, which wound back into the hill out of sight.

Two more steps and the witchlight fell on his skin. He waited to see if any other spell came to life at human presence, or only the light. As he waited, he became aware of a murmur of doubtful voices among the Bamulas.

"Easy," he said without turning around. "This kind of light seldom does harm. If it's meant to, it would already have done so. Would you care to take your chances with the Picts on the open hillside?"

"We've Picts to the front and magick to the rear," Bowenu said dubiously. "How is that better?"

"We can retreat into the cave if the Picts, their arrows, or even their stink, grow too thick!" Conan said, hardening his voice. "One man can hold the mouth of a cave against fifty."

"That is true for the Picts as well," Kubwande said. Conan refrained from cursing him or laying him out with a well-placed fist. Instead, he shrugged.

"Only if we have to come out this way. I've never been in a cave yet that didn't have at least two ways out."

That seemed to soothe most, if not Kubwande. Conan saw no reason to say that the Picts might well know of any other ways out and guard them as well.

Sheltering in the cave might end his band's lives swiftly under the power of the magick there, and would likely only delay their end at the hands of the Picts. But Conan was no man to give any foe an easy death, and time and again, staying alive for moments, even for days, longer had turned the battle.

Seventeen

Scyra was as weary as if she had walked all the day, but she could not sleep”it was not because of her father's snores in the rear of the tent either, nor the reek of the scores of unwashed Picts sleeping upwind of the tent. Some of them were snoring too.

She had taken off no more than her boots, and it was easy to draw them back on silently. She considered bringing along bow and arrows as well as her dagger, but decided to leave them. She was an indifferent archer, and anything that made her look as if she wished to leave the camp might make the warriors suspicious. There were enough with unsettled minds already; she had no wish to see more.

The Owls were growing uneasy as their march took them closer to Snake and Wolf lands. The Snakes barely pretended friendship. The Wolf Picts had not fought the Owls in some years, but if the Owls grew weak from a clash with the Snakes, the Wolves might be at their throats before the snows came.

Five hundred Picts were more than any except a major war chief could keep in order. The only such chief on this march was Sutharo, gone off ahead with his clansmen to ward Conan against the Snakes. Scyra found most of the warriors asleep, a few mounting a desultory guard, and the remainder of those awake crouched around a small fire, chanting quietly. Scyra hoped her father's guard-spells would at least wake him if any danger struck the camp.

She leaned against a tree and listened to the chanting until some of those on the outside of the circle noticed her. One called out a bawdy greeting, others laughed, and someone else asked her to step back that her shadow not fall on them.

She replied by gestures. If they were making war-magick, it was a man's rite. A woman's voice could ruin it as easily as a woman's shadow. As she turned and stepped away from the fire, someone called out his thanks.

She had not learned to love the Picts in the years of her exile in the wilderness. But she realized that she had largely ceased to hate them, after seeing them do all that other folk did. Or perhaps not all”their homeland was harsh, and she missed the sight of fat herds and bulging barns.

But something would be gone from her life when she could not wake to hear the drums and the cries of the hunting bands. Something would be gone from the world, too, when high roads pierced the wilderness, and the Picts who yet lived became docile farmers and shepherds.

Too late, she heard the twigs cracking to her left. She had her dagger drawn and was whirling to thrust into the darkness when a hairy hand buffeted her across the temple. The blow flung her off her feet, striking her head a second blow against a tree. The world was suddenly fire-shot darkness whirling about her.

Another hand, vast, hairy, and inhumanly strong, gripped one ankle.

With her free foot, she kicked savagely, and felt her foot strike rock-hard bone. Pain roared up her leg and burst in her skull like a thunderbolt.

She had lost her grip on her weapon and now scrabbled desperately for it. Her enemies were beyond her power, but she could still turn the dagger against herself. These”they had to be chakans”could be sent by no friend of herself, her father, or Conan. She would not be used”

A hairy foot sank into her stomach. Her head snapped back and struck a root. All her senses failed at once, and she swam down into blackness from which the fire slowly faded until there was only an infinity of nothingness all around her.

***

The Picts seemed to have no taboos about the cave or any fear of its magick. They crept so close that a few well-placed arrows were needed to kill the boldest and discourage the rest.

The Picts' boldness would have discouraged the Bamulus, but Conan urged them to look once more at their hopes rather than at their fears. "It could be that the Picts expect the magick here to end us. They also may expect us to find a way to use it against them, and want to end us first."

At least nobody was ready to call this nonsense to his face. In his own mind, Conan could only hope he was right”or at least that nothing more went amiss to prove him wrong. If the courage of the Bamulas snapped, their last hope would be gone, and only a final stand would remain to the Cimmerian and such as chose to make it with him.

That might be all that remained even now, but Conan remained convinced that every moment a man lived was another he was not dead. Dead, nothing changed; alive, who could say?

Meanwhile, there were wounds to be tended, the scanty food (hard biscuit and salt meat) handed around for a few mouthfuls apiece, and sentries to be posted. Conan wanted them both at the mouth of the cave and a little distance inside it, but did not press the matter. He sensed the unease of the Bamulas at being too far within the cave, and was not quite without unease himself. Also, posting sentries inside the cave would say plainly that he feared attack from there, besides dividing his scanty strength and keeping more men awake.

The sentries had barely taken their places when a hideous uproar of Pictish cries made all hope of sleep impossible. Conan stared out into the darkness, then crawled out, risking an encounter with lurking Picts in the hope of learning what might be going on.

He was ten paces beyond the boulders, all his senses sharpened by sheer willpower, when he sensed movement close to his left. He lay still, unable to judge the others distance by sound. If the Pict was making any, it was lost in the uproar from downhill.

Then, in one moment, the Pict was leaping at Conan, and in the next, another shadow was leaping to meet the first. The Cimmerian rolled out from under the collision of the two Picts and sprang to his feet. He clutched a braid with one hand and a feathered headband with the other and slammed the two heads together. The Picts reeled but continued to struggle.

Conan shifted his grip to their greasy hair, tightened it, and slammed their heads together again.

This time he heard bone crack, and both men went limp in his grip. The Cimmerian dragged them like snared deer back to the boulders, then onward into the light.

The light resolved some of the mystery. One of the Picts bore the war paint, feathers, and tattoos of the Owls. The other, it was equally plain to see, was of the Snakes.

"Lysenius's friends the Owls have come to the hill," Conan said.

"You do not call them our friends," Kubwande said. It was not a question.

If it had been, it was not one Conan would have cared to answer. The best thing that could be said for the Owls coming to fight the Snakes was that by the time the fighting was done, there would be fewer Picts around the hill. Whoever won would be nursing wounds and gathering up dead, while Conan's band regained its strength in what had so far been the safety of the cave.

He wished they had no need to wait. In the confusion of a night battle between two ill-ordered bands, neither of them knowing the ground, a band five times the size of Conan's might slip through”if its captain and men had no scruples about abandoning comrades who could not march.

Four of the men and Vuona were past running, at least tonight. Conan would not lead anyone into certain death, least of all at the hands of Picts. He could not leave them, nor kill them with his own hands while any hope remained. That hope grew scanter by the hour, but it was not gone yet.

Angry with everything”including himself for following Vuona through the demon's gate, and the dawn for not coming sooner”Conan paced the cave like a caged lion. The blue witchlight brought a hue to his eyes that led some of the Bamulas to rites of aversion.

Once he thought he heard the grunting of some unnatural beast out of the dark hillside. Another time he was even more certain he heard running water from within the cave, where all had been silent before.

He almost went in search of it, but saw that Kubwande was wakeful and Govindue and Vuona asleep, not yet in each others arms but with their hands almost touching.

The Cimmerian would not leave that rattlejawed intriguer in command if he had to watch all night. Kubwande could not sell to the Picts anything that they would not buy, but his warcraft did not seem what it had been. Conan had brought his band too far to lose them one moment before fate required it of him!

***

It did not take half the night for Sutharo to count his warriors. It only seemed to. When he had finished counting, he was even less happy than when he had begun.

The Snakes had fought well, as they always did. They also knew the ground better than the Owls did, which had not been so the last three times Sutharo led his warriors against the Snakes. This time he had driven off the Snakes as before, but many Owls were dead or too hurt to fight.

Also, this was Snake land. If even one Snake warrior fled to the chiefs with word of the coming of the Owls, the Snakes would return in strength. Sutharo and his remaining warriors would be caught between the hammer of the fresh Snake warriors and the anvil of the hill above them.

In spite of this, Sutharo had no intention of leaving the hill before Lysenius came, and thus abandoning the foreigners to the Snakes. He was a warrior of the Owls. Also, he was a man to whom a beautiful woman (even if not a Pict) had promised herself, if he kept his promise to her.

He only hoped that he would not lose too many more warriors. Then he might seem unlucky, and he would be much less of a chief by the time he and Scyra were married, or perhaps not even alive at all.

Sutharo was sitting cross-legged on the trunk of a fallen tree when he heard a chakan give its warning cry. The hoots of sentries also came back to him. He rose and walked into the forest, in the direction of the chakan's signal.

There was not one chakan but three, and two of them carried on a litter”

"Scyra?"

It was her, but she did not speak. He saw bruises and smears of blood on her face, and her clothes had been torn in several places.

The remaining chakan stepped forward and reached for Sutharo. The chief drew back, then remembered that shamans used these beasts not only to track enemies, but to bear messages. He forced himself to stand waiting while the chakan rested a bristle-haired palm on his forehead.

A message flowed into Sutharo's mind, placed in the chakan by Vurag Yan, chief shaman of the Owls, and carried across the wilderness in such a way that Lysenius could not learn it. Yan seemed angry, and as he listened, Sutharo understood why, and even came to share that anger.

The white shamans, father and daughter alike, were abandoning the Picts. There would be no blood-sacrifice of the Cimmerian Conan and the demon-men, nor even of one of the Picts, to bring the statue to invincible life. Scyra intended that she and her father should flee, deserting the Picts, leaving the Owls at war with the Snakes as well as with the demon-men.

The demon-men were few, but they might have powers Sutharo did not know of, and he did know that the Cimmerian was even more formidable than most of his folk.

. "So what is your command, Vurag Yan?" Sutharo asked. He did not know if the chakan could send a message to the shaman as well as bear one from him, but he thought it best to discover that for himself.

After a moment, a reply passed through the chakan into Sutharo's mind: "See that the blood-sacrifice is Conan and his band. With enough of such strong blood, even I can bring the statue to life and command it!."

It was the first hint of modesty that Sutharo had ever heard in the shaman. He resisted laughter. He also considered the wisdom of bargaining, and decided that it was necessary, if not wise.

"Scyra remains with me."

"You still wish to wed her? Your sons will have tainted

"I will have more sons of purer blood than you ever will, you old woodsrat! I wish to command her father and Conan through holding her.

Much they might do against me could put her in danger, as long as I hold her. Or can you protect me against Lysenius, Conan, and the Snakes all at once?"

"You are defiant and disobedient, Sutharo."

"I lead the warriors who are here now, and whom you will need to finish your work. You need me as much as I need you, Vurag Yan."

The chakan moaned in outright pain; apparently the shaman's wrath at this reply hurt. Sutharo waited, but the night returned to silence, both within his mind and outside his body.

He looked up the hill. It would not be an easy matter, breaking into the cave against the Cimmerian and the demon-men. It would cost warriors' lives. Sutharo hoped it would not cost so many that the Snakes came and finished off those left before Vurag Yan or the warriors left behind could help him.

If it could be done, though¦ the praise-songs would be without end for the warrior who gave the Picts vengeance for their wrongs, and raised the Owls to the highest place among all the folk of the wilderness.

Vurag Yan would no doubt try to seize all the glory himself, but there would be enough who knew about Sutharo to give him his share, too many for the shaman to silence.

He sent messengers to summon his underchiefs. They had best move swiftly, before the enemy had time to regain strength, or worse, to summon any magick from within the cave.

***

The captured Snake Pict was dead when Conan dragged him into the cave mouth. The Owl Pict was senseless and never awoke enough to speak.

Before long, he too died. The Bamulas began to mutter among themselves, fearing the spirits of the dead might walk if the Picts' bodies remained among them.

After all that the band had survived on its journey thus far, Conan thought Pictish ghosts were hardly worth a child's concern. He did not say so, however. Instead, he nodded.

"Let us take them far back into the cave, so its magick will bind the ghosts."

"What if it makes them stronger?" Kubwande asked. To do him justice, he now seemed less calculating than half witless from fear. Conan did not altogether find fault in that”here they were close to treading on the shadows of the gods, or even of less friendly beings¦ as Conan had sworn to Belit he would not do.

But what a man did for himself was one thing, and what he was ready to do for those who had followed him so far and so bravely was another.

"If the magick of the cave was our enemy, it would have struck us down by now. It cannot be a friend to Pictish ghosts. But if you wish, someone can come with me to perform the Bamula spirit-binding on these Picts. It should at least give their spirits too much of a headache for them to come bothering us."

It was Bowenu who stepped forward, even before Govindue, about the last man Conan had expected to volunteer. This was as well. The two lesser chiefs could watch each other, and Bowenu could hardly be a danger to him. Each of the two lifted a body and set out down the tunnel into the hill.

The corridor ran level for some distance, perhaps fifty paces. Then it sloped gently downward, widening as it did. Conan thought he saw weathered reliefs of serpentine shapes on the walls, like decorations in a temple of Set, but not quite the same. Or mayhap they were just natural patterns in the rock and he was seeing what was not there. Too much magick and not enough wine for too long could set a man's fancies in a whirl.

At last they rounded a corner and reached a point where the tunnel both widened and rose into a domed chamber. The rock of the walls, a grayish-purple under the witchlight, was too smooth to be wholly natural, but quite undecorated. Dust lay thick, except for a circle about a spear-length wide in the middle of the chamber, which might have been swept and sponged only moments before.

In the middle of the circle rose a statue. If it was life-size, its subject had been taller and broader even than the giant Cimmerian. It also seemed to have just been thoroughly and lovingly cleaned, and Conan saw a faint pattern of scales on the skin.

There was something vaguely reptilian about the eyes, and memory chilled Conan. Was this one of the legendary serpent-men of Valusia? So ancient they had fought with the Atlanteans, they had been gone even before the long-dead Empire of Acheron rose to wreak its black havoc.

But some of their magick had survived; it was said to lie at the heart of the cult of Set, the Great Serpent.

Conan stepped closer, without venturing into the clean circle. Magick had to be alive here, to make that circle; he would not tempt fate. He walked around the statue, quieting his own cold doubts, and wishing that Bowenu would either command his quaking limbs or fall down in a faint. Ancient magick, like old predators, could scent fear, or so Conan's experience had led him to believe.

Was this a serpent-man? The scales and the eyes said yes. More spoke otherwise. The statue had the air of an aging mercenary, weary from long and thankless service in liege to succession of close-fisted masters, yet faithful to his trust and those who followed him. If this was a serpent-man, then there had been some virtue in at least one of that kind”or else a sculptor able to imagine it, which was far from the same thing. (Once, in Argos, Conan had sat for his portrait. When he saw what the painter had done, he threw the painting out the window and nearly hurled the painter after it.)

What unsettled Conan most was not what the statue showed. It was the statues very existence. Had Scyra been treacherous all along, using her mind-touch to guide him and his band to the cave of the statue her father planned to reanimate? Reanimate as a champion of the Picts, by a blood-sacrifice of Conan and his band?

The thought made the cave seem even colder than the night outside, and the witchlight harsher. Conan felt the urge to step into the circle and push the statue from its base. If it toppled and shattered, all the spells at Lysenius's command could hardly bring it to life”

Conan leapt into the circle and threw his full weight against the statue. He might as well have flung himself against the walls of the cavern. Three times he tried to topple the image, three times he felt nothing unnatural but gained plenty of natural bruises and scrapes, and three times the statue did not so much as quiver.

"Conan," Bowenu said at last, "how long will you tempt the gods?"

"Until they're tired of being tempted and either strike me dead or topple this misshapen stone!" the Cimmerian growled. But he did not leap again. He still felt nothing amiss within the circle, but in the air around him he sensed power, great and old, leashed for now but dreadful if ever loosed.

He looked at the statue. It showed no trace of his efforts to topple it. The dust he had tracked into the circle lay where it had fallen”until suddenly it vanished, with a faint ruddy glow, so fleeting that Conan could have sworn he imagined it. Bowenu's wide eyes and trust in his own senses told him otherwise.

They left the dead Picts lying where they had set them down and returned the way they had come. "It will be a bold ghost that roams about under the eyes of that statue," Conan said.

They were only halfway along their return journey when Conan heard Pictish drums and war cries, then, louder and closer, angry Bamula voices. He and Bowenu looked at one another and broke into a run.

***

Lysenius thanked gods he had not worshipped in many years that the two spells he needed most this night could be cast without giving outward signs.

Outward signs of working magick would alert his Pictish guards. His reputation might daunt them, might hold their spears, arrows, and knives. It would do nothing for the chakan sent by Vurag Yan. He saw the creature sitting on its haunches on the other side of the fire, eyes glowing like the coals of the flames of the underworld. At a command from its master, it would be over the fire and its claws at his throat before he could take a deep breath.

The moment he could risk movement or speech, Lysenius resolved, he would put an end to that chakan and all others of its kind. Without his pets, the shaman would lose much of his power for mischief.

Lysenius gathered his thoughts, and this time his concentration on the statue in the cave did not slip away. "By the power of the Seven Waters and the Five Mountains, by Iblis, Mitra, Crom, and Set, by the Curse of the Unborn Phoenix

The incantation resounded in his mind as though his head had been a cave into which a herald cried messages. He kept his face carefully blank, a mask behind which all the magick in the world might have hidden, and his breathing regular. Even his hands lay in his lap, as motionless as the sleeping puppies he had once shown Scyra when she was a child of five.

In the corner of his mind not given over to magick, Lysenius prayed again. This time it was to no god in particular. It was only a wish that when this night's work was done, he might seem to his daughter as he once had. Not for long, but even a single day of his daughter's former love would be enough.

He could not ask more. Too much lay between them now, and regardless of that, she was a grown woman, no longer a maiden either, if her ghost-voice told the truth. (And had that been the Cimmerians doing?)

But however much lay between them before this night, he now saw clearly. He might yet find a way to take his vengeance for his wife's death. Gentle as she had been, she deserved that at least. But he would no longer put Scyra in harm's way to gain it. He would take her out of danger first, then fight whatever battles might be needed when there was no longer risk of her being one of his enemies' victims.

Would that he could use the Crystal of Thraz! It would make easier, if not less perilous, this work of animating the statue by sheer will, without a blood-sacrifice.

Lysenius knew the gem was in the tent; he had touched it with his mind.

He did not dare bring it out with the grip of that same mind. No outward signs could be allowed to warn the Picts that magick prowled the night.

Also, the Picts did not seem to know the uses of the Crystals of Thraz.

Such uses were not in their magicks. The longer Lysenius kept the gem a secret, the better his hopes of using it to some purpose.

"By the fifth element, commanded by the gods for warriors, which is called mud. By Ishtar and Semiramis

Lysenius stirred enough to lick dry lips and take a deep breath. From far off, something had touched his mind. He opened himself to that touch, and recognized it. He thought a greeting.

In a distant cave in the land of the Snake Picts, a curiously wrought statue quivered on its plinth.

Eighteen

Conan's ears gave him no warning that the statue was on the march. The howling of the Picts drowned out all other sounds, including their Own drums, the screams of their wounded and dying, and the war cries of the Bamulas.

So far, none of the Bamulas were down, and even those wounded in the running battle on the hillside were able to fight. It was not hard for a lame man to fight sitting down, and those with bows were making as good practice sitting as they might have done standing. Indeed, against the wall of flesh the Picts offered as they tried to cram themselves into the cave, a blind man could have made good practice.

Conan burst into the fight with a Cimmerian cry that sent echoes crashing about the cave and for a moment rose even above the Pictish howls. He flung his bow and quiver aside and snatched sword and dagger from his belt as he ran.

A Pict leapt over the first line of Bamulas, escaped being spitted on the spears of the second line, and stumbled into Conan. Conan brought his knee up and the Pict howled in a very different voice and doubled in the middle. A dagger-weighted Cimmerian fist crashed down on the back of the Pict's neck, snapping it as a mastiff would a rat.

Two more Picts who tried to follow the first died on Bamula spears and made the rock underfoot still more slippery with their blood. Conan braced himself as enough Picts surged forward to force the Bamulas of the first line back onto the second, and the second onto Conan. He held the two joined lines by sheer barbaric strength, arms stretched wide and sword and dagger outthrust.

"Hold there, you fools!" he roared. "Don't give them any more room to spread out! Force them to come to us a few at a time!"

Bowenu came up on one side of him, and Govindue joined him on the other. They also braced themselves and set their spears to work, darting the already-dripping iron points through gaps in the Bamulas ahead of them. With a sidelong glance, Conan saw Vuona backed against a wall. She had apparently speared one Pict in the belly and was unmistakably hamstringing a second. The Pict looked on her with stark horror, as if expecting her to begin on his manhood next.

The Picts at last gave way under the spears. Before the next attack surged forward, Conan moved up to the first line, then beyond it. Like a rock in rapids, he stood above the next onrush. In moments, his steel dripped red. He hewed, slashed, kicked, howled, and wove a circle of death around himself that snatched more than a score of Picts from the next attack and strew them across the floor. Some moaned until Vuona cut their throats. A few dragged themselves toward the mouth of the cave, where the archers had clear shots and finished them.

From Conan to its mouth, the floor of the cave was now packed with bodies and all but awash with blood. Very little of the blood came from the defenders, a few of whom had suffered minor wounds but whose fighting strength was undiminished. There would be no retrieving arrows beyond the cave mouth this time, but this fight was not going to be won or lost by archery.

Indeed, it seemed to Conan unlikely that it was going to be won by anything at the command of the Bamulas. The Owls would surely lose so many warriors that in their wrath, they would turn against Lysenius and Scyra, and so avenge Conan and his band, but that seemed about the best a man could hope for now.

It was then that Conan heard a grating sound from within the cave, as of stone on stone. Then he noticed that the witchlight had begun to flicker, as would a lantern in a strong wind.

The grating noise came again, louder. Conan looked down the tunnel and saw a shadow creeping across one wall. It had no shape he could name, or indeed wished to name, but every time he heard the grating sound, the shadow moved.

Then the grating gave way to a long, harsh squeal, and something more solid than the shadow lurched into Conan's sight. It staggered to the wall and leaned against it for a moment, then drew itself upright again and took another grating step.

The statue was walking toward them! It lurched like a drunken pirate, but no pirate ever loomed so tall. Conan saw that what he had taken for a scaly skin was more likely a close-fitting, all-encompassing coat of mail. The face bore no more expression than before, and those eyes still seemed unnatural in any face asking to be called human.

Conan stood his ground. He really belonged in the rear now, facing the statue. Human flesh and steel wielded by a man might be as futile against the animated statue as it had been against the stationary one.

Still, a good push ought to find any weakness in its balance”could the creation rise if it fell?

He saw the staring eyes of the Bamulas. Most of them were looking to their rear rather than to their front. If any of the dead Picts came back to life, they might have an easy victory over his band. The Picts outside might also be victorious if the Bamulas' courage finally broke and the men chose to take their chances with darkness and Picts rather than with this ponderous creation of sorcery.

The Bamulas would have to pass Conan if they ran, and he would not allow that. There were not many things worse than facing death by sorcery, but death at the hands of Picts was among them.

The statue came on. The eyes of the Bamulas could grow no wider. Some of the warriors dripped sweat, in spite of the coolness of the night and the cave. Govindue alone seemed to be keeping his eyes to the front and his spear in his hand.

One of the archers loosed an arrow. It was at such a range that neither the blind, the crippled, nor babes in arms could have missed the target. The arrow struck the statue on its chest”and the arrowhead vanished with a sharp crack and an eye-piercing globe of blue fire. The fire danced on the statues chest for a moment, then vanished.

A sulphurous reek set everyone coughing and sneezing. The shaft of the arrow clattered to the floor, burned entirely away for a third of its length and charred for the rest. Smoke drifted up from it”until the statues next step crushed the arrow into a dark smear on the stone.

Even the Cimmerian's courage did not keep him from shuddering at the thought of what would have happened to any man who had touched the statue with naked steel. It must be that steel warred with the magick in the animated image. What about bare hands?

That thought had hardly entered the Cimmerian's mind when a Bamula seemed to have the same idea. He ran forward, leaping as he reached the statue, arms outstretched, hands poised to grip the images arm. Likely enough, he would try to catch the statue taking a step, off-balance, where even a little extra weight pulling in the wrong direction could topple a man”

The statue was not a man. It proved that all over again in the next moment. The Bamula leapt and gripped one arm. The arm rose, lifting the Bamula with it until the warrior dangled with his feet off the ground, like a child held by a parents arm.

"Let loose, you cursed fool!" Conan bellowed.

His warning came too late. The statue brought its other arm around, too fast for even the Cimmerians eye to follow. Its stone hand smashed into the Bamula's temple, and the man's skull cracked like an eggshell.

Blood, brains, and pieces of bone showered the others.

The statue now gripped the man with both hands. Conan saw that the killing hand was smeared with red”but the red was disappearing as if the blood was soaking into the stone as fast as water into the sands of a desert. The other hand gripped so tightly that the fingertips vanished into the warriors dark skin”but no blood flowed.

A moment later, Conan saw that the Bamula was shrinking, his skin wrinkling like a grape too long in the sun. As his comrades watched in gape-mouthed horror, the dead Bamula shriveled away until he was only a dried sack of skin dangling from the statues hands.

And was it Conan's imagination, or did the statue seem a trifle larger, and was there a light in its eyes that had not been there before?

It was not his imagination, and indeed, it made sense”as much sense as sorcery or madness ever could, and this was both! The statue had been brought to life by some spell, most likely a conjuration by Lysenius, without a blood-sacrifice. That did not mean it could do without one forever. If no sacrifice was offered, it intended to take the blood itself.

At least the statue did not seem to be searching for prey at the moment. Another Bamula ran toward it and without a word from Conan, he darted under the reaching arms and rose to his full height behind the statue, unharmed. What he could do there seemed a mystery, if grappling barehanded was as futile as wielding weapons.

But it showed that they could pass the statue and leave it a clear path to the cave mouth, the hillside, and the waiting Picts. Likely, Lysenius had no more command of the statue than he had of the Snakes.

Running free, the stone image would slaughter Picts and Hyborians with equal strength, feeding on each life it ended. It would have to be brought down sooner rather than later, and Conan's men could do their part.

Tonight, though, he'd lost to the statue the first of his Bamulas so far! He'd be cursed for a Stygian if he was going to lose more men, not when there were half the Picts in the wilderness for the statue's amusement. While it thus amused itself, he and his people were going to break free of the Picts and continue their journey south. Neither Scyra nor Lysenius would have anything to say about that!

The statue seemed too intent on making its way into the open air to spend any effort in seeking victims. One man actually blundered against it as he tried to duck under the arms, and the hand closed on his hair.

The statue made no attempt to draw the man closer, however, nor did it bring the other arm around this time. The man cursed and clawed and ripped his hair from his scalp, but in the end, broke free.

Vuona went, three more men went, and then there was no one at all with Conan save the statue, so close he could almost have touched it with his dagger. He did no such thing; he gathered himself and, like a panther, leapt past it.

He landed rolling on his shoulders, and kicked out with his legs. Both feet slammed into the back of the statue's knees. The image quivered, pain stabbed through the Cimmerian, and the shock jarred him from his toes to the crown of his head. He rolled again and stood, testing first one foot, then the other, to see that they moved properly.

No hurt to him, save the sort of bruises that he could shrug off for now. None to the statue, either. As invulnerable and implacable as ever, it marched over the fallen Picts, pushing aside the low barricade the Bamulas had made of their enemy's bodies. Conan watched to see if it would soak up the blood, bones, and flesh of these Picts, but it only shoved the corpses aside or crushed them under its ponderous weight.

"Too long dead for it, I think," Govindue said. Conan started at the sound of a human voice, and realized that no one had spoken a word since his warning to the now-dead Bamula.

"Be ready to follow me out of the cave the moment that witling wizards toy meets the Picts," the Cimmerian said. "While they're fighting it, we'll have a better chance to break free than we'll ever have again."

None of the Bamulas looked as if they thought the chance was very good, nor did Conan quarrel with them. But judging by the fear the statue put into him and the Bamulas, the Picts would be driven half-mad. That was no fit spirit for meeting a desperate foe at night”and Conan knew that he and the Bamulas would be desperate to the last degree.

The grating and scraping of the statue's footsteps was fading now as it climbed the boulders. It was almost beyond the witchlight, although Conan would have sworn that it had begun to glow with a light of its own. Soon it would be in the open, visible to the Picts.

"Be ready to run as you've never run before. We won't leave anyone alive, but we won't halt for any laggards, either."

Even the lame met his eyes and nodded. By Crom, this was fine company for one's last battle! If they'd been twenty thousand instead of fewer than twenty, he'd have been ready to clear the whole wilderness of Picts and present it as a gift to the Bossonians.

***

Lysenius could not have described in the words of any language known to men how he knew that the statue was animated but uncontrolled. Perhaps uncontrollable, at least from this camp, half a day's march from the cave. If so, certainly a menace to more folk than Picts” and even if a menace only to the Picts, that made Scyra no safer as long as Vurag Yan's chakans held her in the camp of the Owls¦

It was time to go where he was needed. He had never used the spell of the world-walker with so little preparation or so many witnesses. But then, he had never used it to take himself or anything else over such a short distance.

The dangers were two: his being detected while he was raising the spell, and his being followed through the world-walker by any of his guards. The first would catch him helpless; he could only do his best and pray.

As to the second”he much doubted that the statue had brought death to Conan, or indeed to most of the Bamulas as long as Conan was leading them. It occurred to Lysenius that if he wished a war chieftain to wed his daughter, the Cimmerian towered over any Pict”and not only in stature, either. If Conan's band was still alive and fighting-fit, any Picts who followed Lysenius through the world-walker would not live long once they came out at the cave end of the journey.

Lysenius assumed the posture of meditation, which seemed to arouse no suspicion among the Picts. They looked at him casually, then went back to their gambling. One left the circle briefly and returned with several gourds of beer. Its sour reek made Lysenius want to gag.

The names of gods seldom invoked, and never lawfully since the fall of the Empire of Acheron, swirled in his thoughts but did not pass his lips. Nor did any eyes but his see the world about him turn golden”until suddenly the golden spiral was so solid that no one could see Lysenius within it.

A Pict leapt frantically at the golden wall as his comrades flung spears and nocked arrows to bows. The Pict vanished with a cry strangled in midflight. As the echoes of his cry died, thunder boomed across the clearing, making the fire dance, the leaves quiver on the trees, and the mages tent collapse.

Then darkness and silence both returned, leaving a half-circle of gaping Picts staring at the place where Lysenius had been sitting.

***

In the confines of the cave, the thunderclap was deafening. Conan heard the Bamulas screaming with the pain in their ears, and he opened his mouth to ease his own. There was still no telling which way the thunder came from. For a moment, Conan feared that the statue had encountered magick, either Lysenius's or the Picts', and met its doom just when it was about to turn from menace to useful diversion.

Then footfalls, the clattering of metal on stone, and a Pictish war cry rose over the fading echoes of the thunderclap. Rose from within the cave, back toward the chamber of the statue. Conan snatched his sword from its scabbard and ran toward the chamber.

He had expected to see a whole band of Picts, sent by Lysenius to take his people in the rear. Instead, he saw only one Pict, and of all impossible visitors, Lysenius himself, grappling with the savage. The Pict had just drawn a rusty dagger to thrust into Lysenius's ribs when Conan ran him through.

"You can sheathe that sword," the sorcerer said with as much dignity as any man could contrive under such circumstances. He looked at the dying Pict and wiped a trickle of blood from his own upper lip. "I think only one of them followed me through

"I can sheathe that sword in you," Conan growled, "unless you talk fast. What are you doing here? Didn't your daughters treachery”?"

"Scyra's”what?"

The bemusement in the man's voice was either real or consummate artistry. Conan kept his sword drawn but moved back a pace so that it no longer imminently menaced the sorcerer.

"Very well. If there is anything I need to know, best tell me now. That cursed statue has gone out of the cave and will be among the Picts

"Oh, gods! It is as I feared. It will not stop until Scyra is dead or the Picts holding her flee farther than we can pursue."

"Crom! I'm willing to listen to you if you talk sense. If you give me nothing but riddles

"Please. Let me speak."

The Cimmerian saw the effort it was taking the sorcerer to calm himself, and waited, as little as he liked the notion. He was no friend of sorcerers and seldom of anybody who could not offer a well-wielded sword at his side, but matters tonight might have gone beyond what swords could face. If Lysenius had turned his coat”

It seemed that he had, or at least had given over sacrificing his daughter to his lust for vengeance. It was hard to be sure, harder still to understand what he wished Conan to do. The Cimmerians fingers itched to ram his sword into Lysenius so hard that the hilt rang against the sorcerer's ribs and the blade stuck far out from his back.

He resisted it. No woman deserved to end as a Pictish slave or sacrifice, even if she had betrayed him, ten times over if she had not.

Moreover, Conan knew what chance his band had of winning free without more aid than the statue could give. It was somewhere between scanty and none at all.

Lysenius could hardly make matters worse, and might make them better.

"You've persuaded me," Conan said. "But my men and I will be watching both back and front. You hurl one thunderbolt, or whatever you wield, at us and you won't live to hurl a second."

"That is only just," Lysenius said. His empty voice made Conan wonder if the man was too shame-ridden to have about him what wits his sorcery had left. Sorcerers were a chancy lot, even when they called themselves your friend.

"So be it," Conan said. "Do as you think best, and I'll crawl out and see what our stone-headed friend is doing. Don't be surprised by anything you see me and my people do."

Lysenius managed a wintry smile. "I give you the same message."

***

Scyra regained her senses to see Sutharo standing over her. His face showed the fatigue of battle and no regard whatever for her. He was a Pictish chief among his warriors, and no care for a woman would enter his thoughts.

No word of what had happened passed his lips either, but Scyra could now listen with waking ears to the wagging tongues about her. The only ones who did not add to her knowledge were the chakans, being without speech that anyone except a shaman could understand.

Clearly, her father would be at the mercy of the Picts as long as she was a hostage. It did not matter if she ceased to be a hostage through escape or death; either way would end the Picts' hold over Lysenius.

Whether she escaped or died, however, she vowed one thing before any gods that might listen: Sutharo would not see another sunrise.

It was remarkable how that vow eased her mind. Bound to the litter as she was, she was still able to fall into a light sleep soon afterward.

She awoke to hear, all about her in the darkness, Pictish cries that held more terror than warlike spirit. Her first thought was that the Snakes had returned in such great force that the Owls were about to be overwhelmed. The idea of being slaughtered like a salmon, its brains beaten out on a flat rock, made her stomach heave.

She struggled, unnoticed by guards or chakans. Indeed, the chakans seemed to be nowhere in sight, although darkness and the forest could still hide menaces perilously close to her. She loosened one hand and one foot from the thongs binding her to the litter and contrived to turn her head to look uphill.

A blue glow poured from the mouth of the cave now, and against it loomed a towering black shape. For a moment she thought it was Conan himself, then saw that the shape moved too slowly and stiffly for any mortal flesh. The statue had come forth, however animated, seemingly with a will of its own and nothing commanding it.

The night suddenly seemed colder and darker than before, and the trees overhead ready to come to life and reach down branches like clawing hands, to pluck her from the litter, lift her high, and rend her apart like a rag doll in the hands of a willful child¦

Scyra bit her lip to hold back a cry of despair. She also began casting about in her mind for any spells that she could work, unaided by the Crystal of Thraz, herbs and simples, being spellclad, or by anything else except her own wits and memory.

Before this quest yielded consequences, the Picts had regained enough courage to approach the statue. Or at least one did. Scyra saw him close to the image, both figures dark against the blue glow from the cave. She saw the spear rise, and she could riot tell whether in salute or challenge.

Then the statue moved. No longer heavily or slowly, but as swiftly as the Cimmerian himself might have done. One arm gripped the spearhead, and a globe of dazzling blue flame flashed, swallowing both spearhead and hand. The spear shaft burst into flames; the Pictish warrior howled and leapt back.

Not far enough. The statues other arm gripped his free hand. The pict howled again, this time in mortal agony. The statue jerked him off his feet, holding him kicking frantically. His silhouette began to change, twist, shrink. Scyra watched in horror and awe as the Pictish warrior was drained to a limp sack of skin, then tossed away like a fruit sucked dry.

Horror and awe were also in the cries of the Picts. They drew back, and began hurling spears and shooting arrows from what they doubtless hoped would be a safe distance. Blue sparks flashed all over the statue as the spearheads and arrowheads immolated themselves, and a cloud of reeking smoke began to spread about the figure.

The image took no harm, though, and neither retreated nor advanced.

Instead, it suddenly raised both arms, and blue sparks as long as lightning-bolts sprayed from both hands. Its aim was not perfect; some of the sparks left only smoking patches on the hillside.

Others caught fleeing Picts. A blue glow spread around them as they stopped, limbs writhing in convulsion, mouths opened in screams that reached Scyra's ears even through the crackling of the sparks. It was as if each Pict was being burned in a fierce flame at his own stake.

Then the sparks died and only smoke spreading out in a noisome cloud remained. Smoke, and a charred thing on the ground.

Scyra had found her spell now. If she could reach out with her mind as she had done to Conan, and if the Picts had not looted her tent”

There. The mind-touch she had sent across the miles had gripped the Crystal of Thraz. She kept her touch exquisitely delicate; this was as difficult as milking adders for their venom to make certain potions mentioned only in scrolls forbidden (and indeed, seldom found) outside Stygia.

Her concentration on the Crystal of Thraz was so complete that she did not notice dark shadowy figures creeping down the slope to either side of the statue.

***

Conan led his rescue party down the slope in silence, although the statues thunderbolts broke the darkness more often than he cared for.

None came his way. Now he could only hope that the statues increasing power would draw the whole attention of the Picts, without driving them into panic-flight.

That was what he dreaded, next only to treachery by Lysenius. He had too few men to pursue Scyra and her chakans through the nighted forest, even if those few were united. As they were now, they would be divided between his rescue party and those who remained behind to guard Lysenius from wandering Picts, and the Bamulas from Lysenius's treachery.

The Bamulas had learned the art of moving as silently on rocky slopes as in their native jungles. No coughs and hardly a single rattling pebble betrayed the rescue party as it crept downhill. They could have made far more noise and still gone unnoticed amid the thunder of the statues magick and the cries of the Picts.

Beyond the circle of death cleared by the statue, darkness fell again, and Conan's night-sight returned. He saw a single figure standing beside a tree, and behind it, shadows that did not look altogether human. Was it a fancy of the night and the magick, or was there something lying amid those inhuman shadows?

He would start with the standing figure. At least it seemed human and, from the headdress, a chief. Behead a Pictish war-band by killing the chief, after the band had already been shaken by magick, and one had a good chance of driving the foe into flight.

With hands and whispers, Conan guided the Bamulas with him to the left.

There the ground offered more concealment, almost up to the very feet of the standing chief.

Unfortunately, a good number of Picts had also sought the same concealment. Conan found himself at arm's length from a crouching Pict.

As he drew back, his hand came down on a twig. In the brief silence, the crack reached the Picts ears.

He sprang to his feet and the Cimmerian did the same. Conan's dagger swung in a deadly arc, ending in the Pict's chest. Blood and breath sprayed from the man's mouth in silence, and he fell without a cry. But he had a comrade, and that one not only rose but cried out, before a Bamula spear silenced him forever.

Instantly, the slope seemed to grow Picts the way a cave grows mushrooms. All of them seemed to have both wits and weapons with which to meet human foes, and all were between Conan and the chief.

A Cimmerian war yell halted some of the Picts as abruptly as if they had been impaled. Before they could advance again, Conan had seen the thinnest part of their line. He charged it, sword and dagger reflecting unearthly blueness as the statue continued its work. The Bamulas streamed behind and to either side of him, shouting their own war cries and wielding blunted and blood-encrusted spears with the strength of madmen.

The Picts' brief flowering of courage withered. Conan knocked two down by the sheer weight of his massive frame striking at the run. He trampled them underfoot, thrust left with his dagger and slashed right at two more Picts with his sword. The dagger sank between ribs, the sword crippled an arm and laid open a skull. The Pict with the crippled arm died in the next moment as Vuona, of all people, cracked his skull with a Pictish war club.

"What are you doing here?" Conan snarled.

"This is my last chance to be a warrior."

"Or anything else, if the Picts rally while we stand here wagging our tongues!" Conan muttered. The woman seemed unperturbed, and a moment later a swirl of Picts drove between them and both had more important matters on hand.

A Bamula was down, and from the wounds Conan could see, not likely to rise again. But four Picts lay dead around the warrior and a fifth was reeling about with a lamed leg, until Conan's sword cured the mans limp and his every other earthly ill.

Now nothing stood between Conan and the chief. The two men saw this at the same moment”and the chief turned. Conan was up with him in a moment, ready to not only kill the chief, but also to disgrace him forever in the eyes of his warriors and gods by giving him a death-wound in the back.

The chief turned again at the last moment and thrust at Conan with a Gunderman short-sword. The Cimmerian needed to be as nimble as a deer to escape the thrust. By then he was too close to the man to wield a sword, and his dagger was in his other hand.

Conan's fist drove into the chief's face, the sword-hilt weighting the blow like a cestus. The Pict's head snapped back, and his second thrust was wild. It gouged skin over Conan's ribs; he felt blood trickle. He was already moving as the chief drew his sword back for yet another thrust.

This time Conan whirled, dagger in his left hand. The point drove into the Pict's throat, and the third attempt on the Cimmerians life ended in a gurgle. The short-sword clanged on the rocks, a Pict dove for it, and Conan kicked the man in the face hard enough to snap his neck.

Then no merely human foes menaced the Cimmerian. In front, three chakans stood between him and Scyra, bound to a litter. Behind him raged the thunderbolts of the statue, and in the cave, Lysenius was at work.

Even chakans might have quailed at the Cimmerian's war cry. It drew the Bamulas still on their feet to their chief, and in a compact mass like a clenched fist, Conan's rescue party advanced toward Scyra.

Nineteen

Lysenius knew what had to be done, likewise how to do it, as soon as Scyra was no longer among the Picts. The only thing he did not know was the price he would have to pay. He did not expect to know that until the moment of payment, which was more commonly the case in sorcery than any sorcerer ever cared to think about.

Now he could only command his mind, fearing that Scyra might already be dead and he would not know it. Surely she would have sent him some final message?

If she had understood what he was trying to do, perhaps. If she had not, or if she had died too swiftly for any spell¦ And Conan had no ghost-voice from which the truth might be learned another way”

Lysenius groaned. Outside, the statues thunderbolts seemed to echo that groan.

Scyra now had both hands and one foot loose enough to be able to free them in a moment. Perhaps not fast enough to escape the chakans if they had warning, but with magick, darkness, and enemies all about, their slow wits might not perceive her movements.

She clutched the Crystal of Thraz in one free hand. So far, no one had seen it, let alone suspected its nature, but that could change at any moment. She lay still, commanding her breath to be silent and her muscles to end their futile quivering. Fear was in her, more than she had ever felt before, but also a sense of her own power, which allowed her to control the fear.

Picts no longer stood between her and the hillside, but she had no eyes for the statue. All her attention was on the gigantic living figure storming forward, cutting down Sutharo (she did not dare curse Conan for taking away that pleasure) and striding ahead.

Two of the chakans bent to raise the litter. Scyra made ready to jerk hands and foot from the thongs and do battle with the aid of the Crystal when, suddenly, the two bending chakans halted. All seemed to be listening to a silent voice.

Then two chakans advanced on Conan as the third chakan bent, snapping the thongs about Scyra's wrists and ankles as if they were spiderwebs.

Fear and hope warred in her, as she understood. Vurag Yan had summoned the chakans, two to do battle and a third to carry her off. If she struck at the chakans while their minds were linked to the shaman's”

The thought summoned the strength to move. She rolled toward the chakan and slapped the hand holding the Crystal of Thraz against one hairy arm. At the same moment, she summoned all the strength of will she had ever dreamed of possessing into putting a single message into the chakan's mind.

DEATH.

The chakan howled and reared upright. It flung up it's hands and threw back its head, still howling, unseeing eyes aimed at the stars. Blood started from its mouth, eyes, and ears, and it began to tremble in all its limbs.

Then its hair began to smolder, and stinking, greasy smoke poured from its limbs and body. It staggered, fell, pushed itself up onto hands and knees and spewed blood. The smoke grew thicker, and Scyra saw hair curling and frizzing to ashes that blew away on a wind that seemed to come from within the chakan. The stench grew until she turned her head away and gagged, all but ready to spew herself.

With a final gurgle, the chakan fell facedown and lay still. Smoke continued to curl up from the corpse as Conan knelt beside the litter and drew Scyra to her feet. She allowed her head to rest against his massive chest, savoring the pleasure of no longer being alone, but careful to keep the hand with the crystal well away from the Cimmerians body.

She stepped back from him and saw the other two chakans lying dead, their corpses sprouting arrows and spears in profusion. A Bamula lay among them, his head at an impossible angle to his shoulders and one arm torn from its socket.

"I¦ thank you."

"Thank your father, too," Conan told her.

"My

"He's doing some wizardly business with that cursed statue. He'll do more once you're no longer among the Picts," He gripped her hand, then recoiled as his fingers touched the Crystal of Thraz.

"Pardon," she said. "It¦ I think it is awake now."

"What are you using it for, besides ill-wishing chakans'?"

"I was ill-wishing their master, the shaman Vurag Yan. I do not know if the wish reached him through the chakan."

Carefully not touching the crystal this time, Conan lifted her onto one shoulder. "Tell me more later, when we've no Picts within stabbing distance."

"You asked."

"So I did, and that's never wise to do with a witch, when you may not like the answer!"

The next moment he was running up the slope, with the surviving Bamulas laboring hard to keep up with his hillman's pace.

**

Conan carried Scyra all the way to the boulders, then set her on her feet and went to cover the rearguard. This was easy enough, as no Pict dared pass to either side of the statue to approach the cave. A few bold archers were shooting, but making wretched practice against the dazzling thunderbolts from the image.

The reek of sweat joined that of the sulphur and charred flesh as the Bamulas arrived. Conan had just counted the last man in when a new outburst of Pictish war cries split the night.

"Do they never give up?" Vuona asked, trying to put an arm around him.

Conan noticed that she had the other arm around Govindue, who was not protesting.

"Not easily," the Cimmerian said and gently removed the woman's arm.

"Best we three not all stand together. Even arrows can find such an easy target, and they may not have emptied their quivers of spells."

From what Scyra said, the Picts had little magick left in them, at least for tonight. But from the cries, it sounded as if they had so many fresh warriors that they hardly needed the aid of spells.

Scyra came out and listened to the cries. "The Snakes have come again, in strength. They are not attacking, though. I think¦ there. Listen."

Conan heard a peculiar, irregular beat, five or six drums all sounding together. The cries faded, leaving the drums to rule the night, along with the thunderbolts from the statue.

"That is the call to a parley," Scyra said. "I think the Snakes will offer the Owls safe passage from the land, in return for an alliance against us."

Conan spat. "That for Pictish intrigues. Will they be fit to stand against us and the statue both?"

Scyra said nothing, only stood closer to the Cimmerian. By the light of the thunderbolts, however, he read the answer in her face.

"Crom! The next time a woman runs through a wizard's door, I'll let him slam it behind her!" He looked down at Scyra. "I hope your father realizes that he's our best hope now."

"What the gods allow him to do will be done."

"Then let's hope they're feeling generous toward both him and us tonight!"

***

To Scyra, Lysenius seemed to have cast no spells during her absence, except perhaps one on himself. She did not care for the vacant eyes and the slack lips. But with what wits her father had left, he gathered to greet her. His embrace was hearty, though she could feel the chill in his flesh and the trembling in his arms and hands.

"I intend to free us of the Picts," Lysenius said. "With the help of the Crystal of Thraz

"I myself must use it if it is to help us," Scyra said.

"Is that still the truth?"

"It was not the truth the first time I said it," she replied. She could not meet her father's eyes. "Now I believe it to be the truth. If you try to bond with it, you may die, and surely your spell will not take effect."

"Why am I not surprised, Scyra, that you lied to me for my own good?"

her father asked.

"Perhaps because it was not the first time I did so, although never before in so great a matter," Scyra answered. She raised her eyes, and her heart lifted at the wry smile on her fathers face.

"If I cannot use the crystal, then I must find some other means of commanding the statue. For that, I need blood. A warrior's blood, above all."

Conan frowned. It made him look not merely menacing, but terrible.

Scyra put a hand on her father's arm, lest he make matters worse by flinching away from the grim Cimmerian giant.

"Why don't you come right out and ask for my blood?" Conan said in a surprisingly even voice. "I thought the statue had already taken enough for itself."

"Not the blood of a man without a ghost-voice," Lysenius said. "I must ask, and pray that you will not shed my blood in reply. It will do you no harm, save by chance."

"Sorcery seems a pretty chancy business, and I've yet to meet wizard or witch who wouldn't lie to advance themselves. Scyra, what say you?"

"I have no truth-sense."

"I didn't ask that. You know your father better than I."

"Yes, Scyra. Speak freely."

"In your place, Conan, I would give the blood."

He nodded, and Scyra knew that the nod was as good as a solemn oath from a lesser man. "How much?"

Lysenius drew a small silver dagger. "Enough to cover the blade of this knife, but it must be from a fresh cut."

"Hack away, Scyra," Conan said. "But be quick about it. The Picts may gossip all night. They may also attack before we're done with this witchery."

Scyra drew her own dagger, tested the edge on her thumb, then drew a line down the Cimmerian's arm, over bruises, small cuts already clotted over, and half a score of old scars. This man, she realized, had seen more war and battle than any two men twice his age.

The blood welled out, of a normal human color. Somehow, she had been expecting it to be green, or sparkling like certain Nemedian wines, or otherwise apart from nature.

***

Between offering his blood for a sorcerer's tricks and taking his chances with the Picts, Conan would have preferred to be drinking the cheapest wine in the lowest tavern in Aghrapur. Lacking that choice, and his people likewise, he chose to aid the sorcerer. Three of his men had died already tonight. If the Owls and Snakes made common cause against him, he would be lucky to escape the wilderness with three yet living.

Smeared thin, enough blood to cover the dagger was no great loss. He'd lost as much several times in his youth when his beard began to sprout and his mastery of the art of shaving was yet uncertain.

But giving your true name or anything from your body to some sorcerers gave them ultimate power over you. Power that Lysenius might not gain, and if he did, might not use”but who could be sure?

Conan was sure of one thing. He could slay both Lysenius and his daughter before they could unman him or the Bamulas. If wizardry offered a worse death than death among the Picts, he would choose the latter.

The thud of Pictish drums floated into the cave. Bowenu came back to report that the Picts had neither fled nor advanced. They seemed in great strength at the foot of the hill and in the forest around it.

"Excellent," Lysenius said. "The more that are on hand, the fewer to impede your passage afterward."

Bowenu looked from Lysenius to Conan, then made to Conan the Bamula gesture of inquiring about madness. Conan shrugged and returned the Bamula gesture for ignorance. This did not seem to raise Bowenu's spirits.

Scyra was trying not to smile at the exchange. Conan shot her a sour look. "What's so funny, woman?"

"Yes, indeed," Lysenius said. "Dignity, please, Scyra. It honors those about to die."

Conan did not ask who those might be. He would know soon enough.

It did not improve his temper to be sitting and waiting while sorcerers who called themselves his friends finished the battle. He wanted to have a hand in the final victory himself, and with Pictish blood on his sword instead of his own on a sorcerer's dagger.

But what a captain wanted for himself had to give way to what those who followed him needed. That was a lesson he had learned in the rude school of the battlefield, as well as from more civilized teachers”Belit not least among them. He could sit and wait without anger now”but not yet with pleasure.

It seemed for a long while that nothing had happened, natural or magickal, except for louder drumming from the Picts. Conan did not much like that; it now sounded less like a parley than like whipping up the courage of warriors for a desperate charge. The thunderbolts still crashed and sizzled, and the witchfire still glowed, but the statue was not all-conquering. Enough Picts past it and”

The air in the cave turned a familiar golden hue and began to swirl toward the cave mouth as if a giant were sucking it out. Conan went with the golden wind because he had no choice. His strength was as a child's against that wind.

He fetched up hard against a boulder, and for a moment he feared the wind would reach down behind the stone and pluck him out, to carry him onward to the hillside. Instead, he sat with his back braced against the rock, snatching at ankles and wrists as the Bamulas struggled past.

One by one he pulled them from the wind, or they found their own niches, or on some outcropping they took a death-grip that the wind could not break.

Conan did not dare move to look at what was happening beyond. He saw the golden light swamp the blue of the witchfire, so that even the blazing thunderbolts from the statue were lost in the new light. The whole mouth of the cave now seemed the mouth of a giant's forge, whose fire burned stark gold.

Everyone in the cave knew the moment when the golden wind reached the Picts. None could have imagined that such screams could come from human throats, even Picts', and there were hundreds of men screaming at once.

It seemed to Conan that the wind might be rending the warriors limb from limb, or disemboweling them, or crushing them slowly under massive weights”but they would not have been screaming so had they been crushed.

How long the screaming went on, Conan could never afterward say. In time, the golden wind ceased to blow and darkness returned to the mouth of the cave. It was a deeper darkness than before, and the statue had fallen silent. As cautiously as a cat sneaking past fierce watchdogs, Conan crawled farther out into the boulders, then onto the hillside.

It was the hour of false dawn. When he regained his night-sight, he saw a hillside bare of living Picts. The statue's prey still lay there, now cold ashes, and scattered weapons showed where living Picts had been before they departed.

Departed, along with a good part of the forest at the foot of the hill.

The ground there was churned as if by a giant plow, and Conan's eyes made out gaping holes, that looked as if trees two men thick and a hundred years old had been plucked from the ground like carrots.

If Owls or Snakes remained alive, they were either running or, if very hardy, lying in wait on the new edge of the forest. Conan doubted the second. He would not have huddled beside that nightmare of churned ground for the wealth of a kingdom. Besides, if they were there, they were out of bowshot of the cave mouth. The statue remained, now lifeless to all appearances, but it would be a bold Pict who dared approach it tonight.

Conan left Govindue to watch the hill and went back inside the cave. It had been long since he'd heard a sound from Lysenius or Scyra. He no longer feared treachery. Instead he feared that they might not be alive to receive his thanks. He and the Bamulas owed to Lysenius their best chance of seeing another sunrise.

***

Lysenius coughed again. Scyra moistened a clean rag with the last of the water and wiped the fresh blood from his lips.

"It¦ does no¦ good, Scyra. I asked¦ too much of this old body."

"You aren't old, Father."

"It's¦ too late for lies," Lysenius said. His gaze shifted, and Scyra saw a shadow fall on the cave floor. Conan stepped up beside her, then knelt.

"Our thanks, Lysenius. What did you do with the Picts?"

"Oh¦ took them with¦ the world-walker. More power than ever before.

Everyone out there¦ gone."

"You must not talk, Father."

"I¦ suppose not. Be¦ be wiser than I have been."

They waited for Lysenius to speak more, but those were his last words.

After a while, Scyra closed his eyelids and crossed his hands”hideously burned where his rings had melted from the power of the spell”across his chest.

"Scyra, gather whatever you need to take and be ready to move out. We can chant for your father or do whatever other rites he needs when we're beyond reach of the Picts."

"They will not come here soon, Conan." She stood up and leaned against him. His arms went around her with unexpected gentleness, which was her great need now.

"But they will come," she went on, speaking half to herself and half into the Cimmerians chest. "You will not win free of the wilderness on foot. Not with Vuona and the wounded."

"Perhaps not, but the sooner we begin, the better the odds. Come, Scyra. I wouldn't care to waste your fathers death."

"Nor would I. But I know better how that may be avoided." She felt him stiffen. "No trust in sorcerers even now, Conan?"

"It's been a long night, woman. Whatever you wish, say it quickly."

"I can command the world-walker. With the Crystal of Thraz, I can send you back to the Black Kingdoms. You need hardly walk a step."

"Nor did those Picts, and where are they?"

"Scattered the world over, all too far to ever see their homeland again. But that was my father's intent. I intend to see you safely home!"

"The Black Kingdoms”never mind. I must ask the Bamulas. They have more at stake than I do."

"Ask, while I make ready."

***

Conan was never sure afterward if the Bamulas had come to trust Scyra or if they were so desperate to be done with the Pictish Wilderness that they would have mounted dragons bound for the moon to be out of it. Certainly none, even Kubwande, protested strongly against walking once more through the demon's gate.

"Remember, hold on to me but make your minds blank," Conan said. "Scyra says she can send us anywhere that one of us pictures in our mind. I intend to picture the bank of the Afui

"As long as its the bank," Bowenu said. "I've no wish to swim among the crocodiles."

"I've no wish to repeat myself," Conan said. "Hold your tongue. I will picture the bank of the Afui, and the world-walker should take us there. Anyone who pictures something else may end up there himself, or he may end up nowhere¦ or he may kill us all. So think of nothing, not even the beer you'll drink when we get home, and we may just

The harsh grating sound of rock against rock filled the air. Something loomed up in the mouth of the cave. Then a shadow stretched out across the blue-lit floor as the statue walked into sight.

"Crom!"

The statue walked slowly, like a man drunk, weary, or sick almost to death. It was blackened, and even burned in places, from the power it had wielded and the blood it had drunk. It also had a new face”the one Conan saw in any mirror.

As one man, he and the Bamulas stood aside as the statue lumbered past and into the cave. It ignored them, and likewise Scyra, who came hurrying out. She stood beside the Cimmerian, who was scowling down at her. He had just noticed that the walls of the cave now showed carvings unmistakably in the Stygian style.

"That”it was not my doing," Scyra said. "The statue and you”your spirit gave you a bond

"I am bonded by Stygian magick to that slab of rock?"

"That slab of rock is the image of a mighty warrior of times past. Why should it not bond to the spirit of a mighty warrior of today?"

Conan saw no reason why it should not, and did not suspect Scyra of flattering him. He also saw no reason why, the decision made to depart, any of those here should wait longer on the edge of unleashed magick.

Unleashed, and clearly not altogether under Scyra's control.

"You're coming with us he began. Her eyes halted him even before her lips formed words.

"I must remain behind here, to cast the spell properly and command it until you are safely passed. If I do otherwise, it could go as much awry as when my father cast it."

"Can you follow us, or at least take yourself to safety?"

"When I have made this cave and my father's body safe, I will think about it."

"Stubborn woman!" He wanted to use harsher terms, but knew they would not move her.

"I think you do not fear such."

The Cimmerian laughed. "Likely enough. I'd not miss Belit half as much if she'd been some docile lap-kitten." He kissed her soundly. "Remember that you're wasted in a wilderness, Scyra, and get yourself out of it as soon as you can."

"As soon as I can”that I swear."

***

Scyra was as good as her word. The golden wind swirled about them, the cave vanished, and before anyone who remembered the Picts could cry out in fear, they were stumbling along the riverbank they had left. Thunder died away, the dizziness faded, and Conan's band looked about them and saw that they were all present.

All, that is, except for Kubwande. They searched up and down the riverbank until men from the village came and nearly ran away again, thinking they were seeing ghosts. Conan's people proved that they were indeed real and pressed the newcomers into the search parties.

They searched until sunset, when the villagers led them back and filled empty stomachs with porridge, roasted yams, and beer. They asked no payment and were given none; the band had sworn itself to silence about their treasure until they were closer to home.

It was then that Bowenu came over to Conan and made a confession.

"Kubwande, I think, had the notion of going back to the chiefs of the Bamulas before the rest of us. At least he said he was going to put in his mind the picture of their Great Hall."

"The fool!" Conan swore. "Scyra told me, and I told all of you

"Ah, but Kubwande always thought he was wiser than other men. He wanted me to go with him, and put himself ahead of me in the line. But at the last moment, I stepped forward, so that he was last. Wherever he has gone, he has gone alone."

Bowenu poured himself more beer and wandered off.

After a moment, Vuona rose gracefully and followed him. Govindue watched her go.

"Perhaps I do not want her as a wife after all."

"Perhaps you don't," Conan said. "Perhaps you too need more beer."

Govindue drank, but his eyes were old in his young face. "Do you think we will ever see Kubwande again?"

"No, nor Scyra. She”curse it, one of the few witches who's honest enough to pay for her mistakes, and it had to be her!" Although she had probably not begrudged the price, with her father dead. Conan had seldom seen more acceptance of death in anyone's eyes than he had seen with his last look into Scyra's.

"Honesty in women is like a strong will," Govindue said. He stared as solemnly as a temple image at the smoke swirling in the hut. "It lets them do wonders."

"The only wonder I care about right now is more beer!"

"I will have some more brought," Govindue said solemnly. "But there is a price."

"What?"

"You must allow us to call you by the name of Amra."

Conan looked into the smoke. Belit was becoming a fond, warm memory rather than a pain he felt every day. The name no longer felt strange, and these folk meant its use as an honor.

"As you like."

Govindue wasted no time. He leapt to his feet, snatched a gourd of beer from a girl, and raised it high.

"Hear me, warriors who followed Conan! Tonight and afterward, we name him”Amra! Ohbe Amra!"

"Ohbe Amra!" The other warriors took up the chant, then the villagers, first those inside the hut, then those outside, until the jungle night seemed to throb with it.

Conan looked into the smoke and saw a dark-haired woman welcoming an auburn-haired one into the shadows. He wondered what Belit would tell Scyra, not that he would ever have much chance of knowing¦ and here was good beer going to waste!

"Ohbe."

Epilogue

The Pictish Wilderness, many years later:

We listened to Vasilios's tale right through to the end, in a silence broken only by the beat of the rain outside. The last Pictish drums were stilled; the drummers were most likely sheltering from the rain, as much as one wished to believe they had departed.

"How certain is it that the warrior leading the demon-men was Conan?"

someone asked. I thought it was Sarabos, but the Black Dragon was sitting as silent as the statue.

Vasilios shrugged. "My mother said that some of the Picts who saw him survived the casting of the demon's gate. A few lived long enough to fight again at Velitrium, and recognized the Aquilonian general."

It would be a very few. Apart from wars, the life of a Pict had always been harsh and short, perhaps more so since Aquilonia had begun pushing hard through the Marches into the wilderness. Also, memories could play tricks on anyone, Hyborian, Stygian, or Pict.

But it made a good story.

It was not the only story we listened to during the two days we spent in the cave. There was little to do except keep watch for a Pictish attack that never came and search the cave as far as a rope and our scant supply of torches would allow. We found water just beyond the chamber of the statue, so we had little need and less curiosity to know about what might lie beyond in the bowels of the hill.

We were more curious about how soon help would come. Doubtless our company would send for reinforcements when the watering party did not return; we prayed that they would not try to rescue us unaided and fall prey to the Picts.

It was well on into the afternoon of the second day when we heard the Picts drumming again. Then the drums faded, bird and animal calls rose as warriors passed messages back and forth, and the sentries said they could see Picts moving about in the fringes of the trees. (If the story was true, the second growth must have come back thick and fast after the virgin timber was magicked away.)

All this might have heralded an attack, and taboos be cursed, but those with more experience in wilderness fighting said it sounded like the Picts were assembling the warriors for a march. Certainly the noise died away soon enough, and as the silence drew on, the sentries reported that the Picts were gone.

I had just come out to see this for myself when the silence ended in Bossonian war horns. Three times more they sounded, each time closer.

Then half a dozen scouts in their green tunics and trousers scampered out of the trees and raced up the hill to us.

We were saved. With our company and those who had joined it, three hundred men were on the way, a force much larger than the Picts usually cared to face at this time of year. We would need to move on swiftly, and there was no more time for investigating the cave, no matter how many torches our rescuers brought, but that was a small loss.

Not so small was the mystery of how the commander at Fort Nyaro”who had sent our rescuers”had heard we needed rescuing. Scouts, sergeants, and captains all said the same thing: a messenger had come in reporting our party beseiged by the Picts at a place he so carefully described that a child could have found it.

No one, however, had actually seen the messenger. A few said they had seen a man who might have been he, but no two descriptions of the man agreed. Also, all did agree that the message had come during the first night of heavy rain”the very evening we found the cave!

A bird could hardly have flown in that rain. Even if it had, it could scarcely have traveled so fast. Nothing on legs”and above all, nothing human”could have carried a message to Fort Nyaro in a single hour.

After a while, I came to realize that I was raising more questions than receiving answers. I was already uneasy; it seemed futile to make others so. I left gathering the wounded and the remaining supplies for the march to the sergeants and walked back to the statue.

Sarabos was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking at nothing in particular. I stood beside him, and before either of us found words, Vasilios joined us.

"Ah¦ I thought you might be here, Captains. I was hearing of the messenger who wasn't."

"I think the less said about that, the better," I admonished him.

"Well, sir, it's a cat out of the bag and not to be put back in without more trouble than it's worth."

"Judge trouble after I see how much I can make for loose tongues," I said. I wanted to be alone, but Sarabos raised a hand.

"Let him speak his mind."

One did not argue with a Black Dragon of Sarabos's blood, as much as I wished it. "Speak, then, Vasilios, but briefly."

"Oh, it's nothing long. Just that I'm sure I'm not the only one who knows who Captain Sarabos's father is. Others might know, and I didn't want to get their hopes up. I wasn't any too sure myself about that part of the story."

"Which part?" I snapped. "Something you left out?"

"Aye. The story goes that the statue”the statue will come to help when the warrior's blood-kin need it."

I looked at the statue. It showed no signs of having moved a hair'sbreadth, let alone being fully animated. No charred Pictish corpses lay about the cave.

But would it show any traces if all it had done was to send a message that Conan's son Sarabos needed rescuing? That was help, in any sense of the word that gods or men might use.

"I stand by what I said before: the less this is noised about, the better," I said.

"True," Sarabos agreed, rising. "The priests of Mitra are grown rigid and fusty in recent years, not liking magickal mysteries. They might ask us to either cast the statue down or bring it out of the wilderness to one of their temples."

The statue had to weigh as much as two or three warhorses. The idea of hauling that deadweight through the Pictish Wilderness was too appalling to contemplate. I thought impious thoughts about the priesthood of Mitra.

"Except”what if the Picts learn to command it?" I asked.

"If it is bonded to a certain blood, that blood alone commands itself.

It and the other children of my”of that blood. And that includes Conan the Second, a good steward of what he inherited, but one who may need some help to hold it."

We looked at one another and at the statue, standing there as we were in the darkness broken only by Sarabos's single candle and my torch.

Perhaps it was only a trick of that uncertain light, but I thought I saw that the statue's face had changed its expression. Before, it had shown a grim mask to the world. Now I could have sworn it wore a wry smile, not unlike one so often seen on the face of Sarabos's father-who-could-not-be-named.

That was enough for me. "I repeat, let there be silence about this. It is our duty to the House of Conan."

"Our duty," the others intoned, almost keeping their faces blank. We turned and walked away from the statue, out of the chamber, and up the tunnel to the fading daylight of the outer cave.

The Vale of Lost Women

1

The thunder of the drums and the great elephant-tusk horns was deafening, but in Livia's ears the clamor seemed but a confused muttering dull and far away. As she lay on the angareb in the great hut, her state bordered between delirium and semiunconsciousness. Outward sounds and movements scarcely impinged upon her senses. Her whole mental vision, though dazed and chaotic, was yet centered with hideous certitude on the naked, writhing figure of her brother, blood streaming down his quivering thighs. Against a dim nightmare background of dusky interweaving shapes and shadows that white form was limned in merciless and awful clarity. The air seemed still to pulsate with an agonized screaming, mingled and interwoven obscenely with a rustle of fiendish laughter.

She was not conscious of sensation as an individual, separate and distinct from the rest of the cosmos. She was drowned in a great gulf of pain - was herself but pain crystalized and manifested in flesh. So she lay without conscious thought or motion, while outside the drums bellowed, the horns clamored, and barbaric voices lifted hideous chants, keeping time to naked feet slapping the hard earth and open palms smiting one another softly.

But through her frozen mentality individual consciousness at last began to seep. A dull wonder that she was still bodily unharmed first made itself manifest. She accepted the miracle without thanksgiving. The matter seemed meaningless. Acting mechanically, she sat up on the angareb and stared dully about her. Her extremities made feeble beginnings of motions, as if responding to blindly awakening nerve centers. Her naked feet scruffed nervously at the hard-beaten dirt floor. Her fingers twitched convulsively at the skirt of the scanty undertunic which constituted her only garment. Impersonally she remembered that once, it seemed long, long ago, rude hands had torn her other garments from her body, and she had wept with fright and shame. It seemed strange, now, that so small a wrong should have caused her so much woe. The magnitude of outrage and indignity was only relative, after all, like everything else.

The but door opened, and a black woman entered - a lithe pantherish creature, whose supple body gleamed like polished ebony, adorned only by a wisp of silk twisted about her strutting loins. The white of her eyeballs reflected the firelight outside, as she rolled them with wicked meaning.

She bore a bamboo dish of food - smoking meat, roasted yams, mealies, unwieldy ingots of native bread - and a vessel of hammered gold, filled with yarati beer. These she set down on the angareb, but Livia paid no heed; she sat staring dully at the opposite wall, hung with mats woven of bamboo shoots. The young black woman laughed evilly, with a flash of dark eyes and white teeth, and with a hiss of spiteful obscenity and a mocking caress that was more gross than her language, she turned and swaggered out of the hut, expressing more taunting insolence with the motions of her hips than any civilized woman could with spoken insults.

Neither the wench's words nor her actions had stirred the surface of Livia's consciousness. All her sensations were still turned inward. Still the vividness of her mental pictures made the visible world seem like an unreal panorama of ghosts and shadows. Mechanically she ate the food and drank the liquor without tasting either.

It was still mechanically that at last she rose and walked unsteadily across the hut, to peer out through a crack between the bamboos. It was an abrupt change in the timbre of the drums and horns that reacted upon some obscure part of her mind and made her seek the cause, without sensible volition.

At first she could make out nothing of what she saw; all was chaotic and shadowy, shapes moving and mingling, writhing and twisting, black formless blocks hewed out starkly against a setting of blood-red that dulled and glowed. Then actions and objects assumed their proper proportions, and she made out men and women moving about the fires. The red light glinted on silver and ivory ornaments; white plumes nodded against the glare; naked black figures strutted and posed, silhouettes carved out of darkness and limned in crimson.

On an ivory stool, flanked by giants in plumed headpieces and leopardskin girdles, sat a fat, squat shape, abysmal, repulsive, a toad-like chunk of blackness, reeking of the dank rotting jungle and the nighted swamps. The creature's pudgy hands rested on the sleek arch of his belly; his nape was a roll of sooty fat that seemed to thrust his bullethead forward. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, like live coals in a dead black stump. Their appalling vitality belied the inert suggestion of the gross body.

As the girl's gaze rested on that repellant figure her body stiffened and tensed as frantic life surged through her again. From a mindless automaton, she changed suddenly to a sentient mold of live, quivering flesh, stinging and burning. Pain was drowned in hate, so intense it in turn became pain; she felt hard and brittle, as if her body were turning to steel. She felt her hate flow almost tangibly out along the line of her vision; so it seemed to her that the object of her emotion should fall dead from his carven stool because of its force.

But if Bajujh, king of Bakalah, felt any psychic discomfort because of the concentration of his captive, he did not show it. He continued to cram his frog-like mouth to capacity with handfuls of mealies scooped up from a vessel held up to him by a kneeling woman, and to stare down a broad lane which was being formed by the action of his subjects in pressing back on either hand.

Down this lane, walled with sweaty black humanity, Livia vaguely realized some important personage would come, judging from the strident clamor of drum and horn. And as she watched, one came.

A column of fighting-men, marching three abreast, advanced toward the ivory stool, a thick line of waving plumes and glinting spears meandering through the motley crowd. At the head of the ebon spearmen strode a figure at the sight of which Livia started violently; her heart seemed to stop, then began to pound again, suffocatingly. Against that dusky background, this man stood out with vivid distinctness. He was clad like his followers in leopardskin loin-cloth and plumed headpiece, but he was a white man.

It was not in the manner of a supplicant or a subordinate that he strode up to the ivory stool, and sudden silence fell over the throng as he halted before the squatting figure. Livia felt the tenseness, though she only dimly knew what it portended. For a moment Bajujh sat, craning his short neck upward, like a great frog; then, as if pulled against his will by the other's steady glare, he shambled up off his stool, and stood grotesquely bobbing his shaven head.

Instantly the tension was broken. A tremendous shout went up from the massed villagers, and at a gesture from the stranger, his warriors lifted their spears and boomed a salute royale for King Bajujh. Whoever he was, Livia knew the man must indeed be powerful in that wild land, if Bajujh of Bakalah rose to greet him. And power meant military prestige - violence was the only thing respected by those ferocious races.

Thereafter Livia stood with her eyes glued to the crack in the hut wall, watching the white stranger. His warriors mingled with the Bakalas, dancing, feasting, swigging beer. He himself, with a few of his chiefs, sat with Bajujh and the headmen of Bakalah, cross-legged on mats, gorging and guzzling. She saw his hands dipped deep into the cooking-pots with the others, saw his muzzle thrust into the beer vessel out of which Bajujh also drank. But she noticed, nevertheless, that he was accorded the respect due to a king. Since he had no stool, Bajujh renounced his also, and sat on the mats with his guest. When a new pot of beer was brought, the king of Bakalah barely sipped it before he passed it to the white man. Power! All this ceremonial courtesy pointed to power - strength - prestige! Livia trembled in excitement as a breathless plan began to form in her mind.

So she watched the white man with painful intensity, noting every detail of his appearance. He was tall; neither in height nor in massiveness was he exceeded by many of the giant blacks. He moved with the lithe suppleness of a great panther. When the firelight caught his eyes, they burned like blue fire. High-strapped sandals guarded his feet, and from his broad girdle hung a sword in a leather scabbard. His appearance was alien and unfamiliar. Livia had never seen his like, but she made no effort to classify his position among the races of mankind. It was enough that his skin was white.

The hours passed, and gradually the roar of revelry lessened, as men and women sank into drunken sleep. At last Bajujh rose tottering, and lifted his hands, less a sign to end the feast, than a token of surrender in the contest of gorging and guzzling, and stumbling, was caught by his warriors, who bore him to his hut. The white man rose, apparently none the worse for the incredible amount of beer he had quaffed, and was escorted to the guest but by such of the Bakalah headmen as were able to reel along. He disappeared into the hut, and Livia noticed that a dozen of his own spearmen took their places about the structure, spears ready. Evidently the stranger was taking no chances on Bajujh's friendship.

Livia cast her glance about the village, which faintly resembled a dusky Night of Judgment, what with the straggling streets strewn with drunken shapes. She knew that men in full possession of their faculties guarded the outer boma, but the only wakeful men she saw inside the village were the spearmen about the white man's but - and some of these were beginning to nod and lean on their spears.

With her heart beating hammer-like, she glided to the back of her prison but and out the door, passing the snoring guard Bajujh had set over her. Like an ivory shadow she glided across the space between her but and that occupied by the stranger. On her hands and knees she crawled up to the back of that hut. A black giant squatted here, his plumed head sunk on his knees. She wriggled past him to the wall of the hut. She had first been imprisoned in that hut, and a narrow aperture in the wall, hidden inside by a hanging mat, represented her weak and pathetic attempt at escape. She found the opening, turned sidewise and wriggled her lithe body through, thrusting the inner mat aside.

Firelight from without faintly illumined the interior of the hut. Even as she thrust back the mat, she heard a muttered curse, felt a vise-like grasp in her hair, and was dragged bodily through the aperture and plumped down on her feet.

Staggering with the suddenness of it, she gathered her scattered wits together, and raked her disordered tresses out of her eyes to stare up into the face of the white man who towered over her, amazement written on his dark scarred face. His sword was naked in his hand, and his eyes blazed like bale-fire, whether with anger, suspicion or surprise she could not judge. He spoke in a language she could not understand - a tongue which was not a negro guttural, yet did not have a civilized sound.

`Oh, please!' she begged. `Not so loud. They will hear. . .'

`Who are you?' he demanded, speaking Ophirean with a barbarous accent. `By Crom, I never thought to find a white girl in this hellish land!'

`My name is Livia,' she answered. `I am Bajujh's captive. Oh, listen, please listen to me! I cannot stay here long. I must return before they miss me from my hut.

`My brother...' a sob choked her, then she continued: `My brother was Theteles, and we were of the house of Chelkus, scientists and noblemen of Ophir. By special permission of the king of Stygia, my brother was allowed to go to Kheshatta, the city of magicians, to study their arts, and I accompanied him. He was only a boy - younger than myself. . .' her voice faltered and broke. The stranger said nothing, but stood watching her with burning eyes, his face frowning and unreadable. There was something wild and untamable about him that frightened her and made her nervous and uncertain.

`The black Kushites raided Kheshatta,' she continued hurriedly. `We were approaching the city in a camel caravan. Our guards fled and the raiders carried us away with them. But they did us no harm, and let us know that they would parley with the Stygians and accept a ransom for our return. But one of the chiefs desired all the ransom for himself, and he and his followers stole us out of the camp one night, and fled far to the southeast with us, to the very borders of Kush. There they were attacked and cut down by a band of Bakalah raiders. Theteles and I were dragged into this den of beasts. . .' she sobbed convulsively. `. . . This morning my brother was mutilated and butchered before me . . .' She gagged and went momentarily blind at the memory. `They fed his body to the jackals. How long I lay in a faint I do not know . . .'

Words failing her, she lifted her eyes to the scowling face of the stranger. A mad fury swept over her; she lifted her fists and beat futilely on his mighty breast, which he heeded no more than the buzzing of a fly.

`How can you stand there like a dumb brute?' she screamed in a ghastly whisper. `Are you but a beast like these others? Ali, Mitra, once I thought there was honor in men. Now I know each has his price. You - what do you know of honor - or of mercy or decency? You are a barbarian like these others - only your skin is white; your soul is black as theirs. You care naught that a man of your own colour has been foully done to death by these black dogs - that a white woman is their slave! Very well.'

She fell back from him, panting, transfigured by her passion.

`I will give you a price,' she raved, tearing away her tunic from her ivory breasts. `Am I not fair? Am I not more desirable than these soot-coloured wenches? Am I not a worthy reward for blood-letting? Is not a fair-skinned virgin a price worth slaying for?

`Kill that black dog Bajujh! Let me see his cursed head roll in the bloody dust! Kill him! Kill him!' She beat her clenched fists together in the agony of her intensity. `Then take me and do as you wish with me. I will be your slave!'

He did not speak for an instant, but stood like a giant brooding figure of slaughter and destruction, fingering his hilt.

`You speak as if you were free to give yourself at your pleasure,' he said, `as if the gift of your body had power to swing kingdoms. Why should I kill Bajujh to obtain you? Women are cheap as plantains in this land, and their willingness or unwillingness matters as little. You value yourself too highly. If I wanted you, I wouldn't have to fight Bajujh to take you. He would rather give you to me than to fight me.'

Livia gasped. All the fire went out of her, the hut reeled dizzily before her eyes. She staggered and sank in a crumpled heap on an angareb. Dazed bitterness crushed her soul as the realization of her utter helplessness was thrust brutally upon her. The human mind clings unconsciously to familiar values and ideas, even among surroundings and conditions alien and unrelated to those environs to which such values and ideas are adapted. In spite of all Livia had experienced, she had still instinctively supposed a woman's consent the pivotal point of such a game as she proposed to play. She was stunned by the realization that nothing hinged upon her at all. She could not move men as pawns in a game; she herself was the helpless pawn.

`I see the absurdity of supposing that any man in this corner of the world would act according to rules and customs existent in another corner of the planet,' she murmured weakly, scarcely conscious of what she was saying, which was indeed only the vocal framing of the thought which overcame her. Stunned by that newest twist of fate, she lay motionless, until the white barbarian's iron fingers closed on her shoulder and lifted her again to her feet.

`You said I was a barbarian,' he said harshly, `and that is true, Crom be thanked. If you had had men of the outlands guarding you instead of soft gutted civilized weaklings, you would not be the slave of a black pig this night. I am Conan, a Cimmerian, and I live by the sword's edge. But I am not such a dog as to leave a white woman in the clutches of a black man; and though your kind call me a robber, I never forced a woman against her consent. Customs differ in various countries, but if a man is strong enough, he can enforce a few of his native customs anywhere. And no man ever called me a weakling!

`If you were old and ugly as the devil's pet vulture, I'd take you away from Bajujh, simply because of the colour of your hide. But you are young and beautiful, and I have looked at black sluts until I am sick at the guts. I'll play this game your way, simply because some of your instincts correspond with some of mine. Get back to your hut, Bajujh's too drunk to come to you tonight, and I'll see that he's occupied tomorrow. And tomorrow night it will be Conan's bed you'll warm, not Bajujh's.'

`How will it be accomplished?' She was trembling with mingled emotions. `Are these all your warriors?'

`They're enough,' he grunted. `Bamulas, every one of them, and suckled at the teats of war. I came here at Bajujh's request. He wants me to join him in an attack on Jihiji. Tonight we feasted. Tomorrow we hold council. When I get through with him, he'll be holding council in Hell.'

`You will break the truce?'

`Truces in this land are made to be broken,' he answered grimly. `He would break his truce with Jihiji. And after we'd looted the town together, he'd wipe me out the first time he caught me off guard. What would be blackest treachery in another land, is wisdom here. I have not fought my way alone to the position of war-chief of the Bamulas without learning all the lessons the black country teaches. Now go back to your but and sleep, knowing that it is not for Bajujh but for Conan that you preserve your beauty!'

2

Through the crack in the bamboo wall, Livia watched, her nerves taut and trembling. All day, since their late waking, bleary and sodden from their debauch of the night before, the black people had prepared the feast for the coming night. All day Conan the Cimmerian had sat in the but of Bajujh, and what had passed between them, Livia could not know. She had fought to hide her excitement from the only person who entered her but - the vindictive black girl who brought her food and drink. But that ribald wench had been too groggy from her libations of the previous night to notice the change in her captive's demeanor.

Now night had fallen again, fires lighted the village, and once more the chiefs left the king's but and squatted down in the open space between the huts to feast and hold a final, ceremonious council. This time there was not so much beer-guzzling. Livia noticed the Bamulas casually converging toward the circle where sat the chief men. She saw Bajujh, and sitting opposite him across the eating pots, Conan, laughing and conversing with the giant Aja, Bajujh's war-chief.

The Cimmerian was gnawing a great beef-bone, and as she watched, she saw him cast a glance across his shoulder. As if it were a signal for which they had been waiting, the Bamulas all turned their gaze toward their chief. Conan rose, still smiling, as if to reach into a near-by cooking pot; then quick as a cat he struck Aja a terrible blow with the heavy bone. The Bakalah war-chief slumped over, his skull crushed in, and instantly a frightful yell rent the skies as the Bamulas went into action like blood-mad panthers.

Cooking pots overturned, scalding the squatting women, bamboo walls buckled to the impact of plunging bodies, screams of agony ripped the night, and over all rose the exultant 'Yee! yee! yee!' of maddened Bamulas, the flame of spears that crimsoned in the lurid glow.

Bakalah was a madhouse that reddened into a shambles. The action of the invaders paralyzed the luckless villagers by its unexpected suddenness. No thought of attack by their guests had ever entered their woolly pates. Most of the spears were stacked in the huts, many of the warriors already half drunk. The fall of Aja was a signal that plunged the gleaming blades of the Bamulas into a hundred unsuspecting bodies; after that it was massacre.

At her peep-hole Livia stood frozen, white as a statue, her golden locks drawn back and grasped in a knotted cluster with both hands at her temples. Her eyes were dilated, her whole body rigid. The yells of pain and fury smote her tortured nerves like a physical impact, the writhing, slashing forms blurred before her, then sprang out again with horrifying distinctness. She saw spears sink into writhing black bodies, spilling red. She saw clubs swing and descend with brutal force on kinky heads. Brands were kicked out of the fires, scattering sparks; hut thatches smoldered and blazed up. A fresh stridency of anguish cut through the cries, as living victims were hurled head-first into the blazing structures. The scent of scorched flesh began to sicken the air, already rank with reeking sweat and fresh blood.

Livia's overwrought nerves gave way. She cried out again and again, shrill screams of torment, lost in the roar of flames and slaughter. She beat her temples with her clenched fists. Her reason tottered, changing her cries to more awful peals of hysterical laughter. In vain she sought to keep before her the fact that it was her enemies who were dying thus horribly - that this was as she had madly hoped and plotted - that this ghastly sacrifice was a just repayment for the wrongs done her and hers. Frantic terror held her in its unreasoning grasp.

She was aware of no pity for the victims who were dying, wholesale under the dripping spears. Her only emotion was blind, stark, mad, unreasoning fear. She saw Conan, his white form contrasting with the blacks. She saw his sword flash, and men went down around him. Now a struggling knot swept around a fire, and she glimpsed a fat squat shape writhing in its midst. Conan ploughed through and was hidden from view by the twisting black figures. From the midst a thin squealing rose unbearably. The press split for an instant, and she had one awful glimpse of a reeling desperate squat figure, streaming blood. Then the throng crowded in again, and steel flashed in the mob like a beam of lightning through the dusk.

A beast-like baying rose, terrifying in its primitive exultation. Through the mob Conan's tall form pushed its way. He was striding toward the but where the girl cowered, and in his hand he bore a ghastly relic - the firelight gleamed redly on King Bajujh's severed head. The black eyes, glassy now instead of vital, rolled up, revealing only the whites; the jaw hung slack as if in a grin of idiocy; red drops showered thickly along the ground.

Livia gave back with a moaning cry. Conan had paid the price and was coming to claim her, bearing the awful token of his payment. He would grasp her with his hot bloody fingers, crush her lips with mouth still panting from the slaughter. With the thought came delirium.

With a scream Livia ran across the hut, threw herself against the door in the back wall. It fell open, and she darted across the open space, a flitting white ghost in a realm of black shadows and red flame.

Some obscure instinct led her to the pen where the horses were kept. A warrior was just taking down the bars that separated the horse-pen from the main boma, and he yelled in amazement as she darted past him. A dusky hand clutched at her, closed on the neck of her tunic. With a frantic jerk she tore away leaving the garment in his hand. The horses snorted and stampeded past her, rolling the black warrior in the dust - lean, wiry steeds of the Kushite breed, already frantic with the fire and the scent of blood.

Blindly she caught at a flying mane, was jerked off her feet, struck the ground again on her toes, sprang high, pulled and scrambled herself upon the horse's straining back. Mad with fear the herd plunged through the fires, their small hoofs knocking sparks in a blinding shower. The startled black people had a wild glimpse of the girl clinging naked to the mane of a beast that raced like the wind that streamed out his rider's loose yellow hair. Then straight for the boma the steed bolted, soared breathtakingly into the air, and was gone into the night.

3

Livia could make no attempt to guide her steed, nor did she feel any need of so doing. The yells and the glow of the fires were fading out behind her; the wind tossed her hair and caressed her naked limbs. She was aware only of a dazed need to hold to the flowing mane and ride, ride, ride over the rim of the world and away from all agony and grief and horror.

And for hours the wiry steed raced, until, topping a starlit crest, he stumbled and hurled his rider headlong.

She struck on soft cushioning sward, and lay for an instant half stunned, dimly hearing her mount trot away. When she staggered up, the first thing that impressed her was the silence. It was an almost tangible thing - soft, darkly velvet -after the incessant blare of barbaric horns and drums which had maddened her for days. She stared up at the great white stars clustered thickly in the dark blue sky. There was no moon, yet the starlight illuminated the land, though illusively, with unexpected clusterings of shadow. She stood on a swarded eminence from which the gently molded slopes ran away, soft as velvet under the starlight. Far away in one direction she discerned a dense dark line of trees which marked the distant forest. Here there was only night and trance-like stillness and a faint breeze blowing through the stars.

The land seemed vast and slumbering. The warm caress of the breeze made her aware of her nakedness, and she wriggled uneasily, spreading her hands over her body. Then she felt the loneliness of the night, and the unbrokenness of the solitude. She was alone; she stood naked on the summit of the land and there was none to see; nothing but night and the whispering wind.

She was suddenly glad of the night and the loneliness. There was none to threaten her, or to seize her with rude violent hands. She looked before her and saw the slope falling away into a broad valley; there fronds waved thickly and the starlight reflected whitely on many small objects scattered throughout the vale. She thought they were great white blossoms and the thought gave rise to vague memory; she thought of a valley of which the blacks had spoken with fear; a valley to which had fled the young women of a strange brown-skinned race which had inhabited the land before the coming of the ancestors of the Bakalahs. There, men said, they had turned into white flowers, had been transformed by the old gods to escape their ravishers. There no black man dared go.

But into that valley Livia dared go. She would go down those grassy slopes which were like velvet under her tender feet; she would dwell there among the nodding white blossoms and no man would ever come to lay hot, rude hands on her. Conan had said that pacts were made to be broken; she would break her pact with him. She would go into the vale of the lost women; she would lose herself in solitude and stillness . . . even as these dreamy and disjointed thoughts floated through her consciousness, she was descending the gentle slopes, and the tiers of the valley walls were rising higher on each hand.

But so gentle were their slopes that when she stood on the valley floor she did not have the feeling of being imprisoned by rugged walls. All about her floated seas of shadow, and great white blossoms nodded and whispered to her. She wandered at random, parting the fronds with her small hands, listening to the whisper of the wind through the leaves, finding a childish pleasure in the gurgling of an unseen stream. She moved as in a dream, in the grasp of a strange unreality. One thought reiterated itself continually: there she was safe from the brutality of men. She wept, but the tears were of joy. She lay full-length upon the sward and clutched the soft grass as if she would crush her new-found refuge to her breast and hold it there for ever.

She plucked the petals of the blossoms and fashioned them into a chaplet for her golden hair. Their perfume was in keeping with all other things in the valley, dreamy, subtle, enchanting.

So she came at last to a glade in the midst of the valley, and saw there a great stone, hewn as if by human hands, and adorned with ferns and blossoms and chains of flowers. She stood staring at it, and then there was movement and life about her. Turning, she saw figures stealing from the denser shadows - slender brown women, lithe, naked, with blossoms in their night-black hair. Like creatures of a dream they came about her, and they did not speak. But suddenly terror seized her as she looked into their eyes. Those eyes were luminous, radiant in the starshine, but they were not human eyes. The forms were human but in the souls a strange change had been wrought; a change reflected in their glowing eyes. Fear descended on Livia in a wave. The serpent reared its grisly head in her new-found Paradise.

But she could not flee. The lithe brown women were all about her. One, lovelier than the rest, came silently up to the trembling girl, and enfolded her with supple brown arms. Her breath was scented with the same perfume that stole from the white blossoms that waved in the starshine. Her lips pressed Livia's in a long terrible kiss. The Ophirean felt coldness, running through her veins; her limbs turned brittle; like a white statue of marble she lay in the arms of her captress, incapable of speech or movement.

Quick soft hands lifted her and laid her on the altar-stone amidst a bed of flowers. The brown women joined hands in a ring and moved supplely about the altar, dancing a strange dark measure. Never the sun or the moon looked on such a dance, and the great white stars grew whiter and glowed with a more luminous light as if its dark witchery struck response in things cosmic and elemental.

And a low chant arose, that was less human than the gurgling of the distant stream; a rustle of voices like the whispering of the great white blossoms that waved beneath the stars. Livia lay, conscious but without power of movement. It did not occur to her to doubt her sanity. She sought not to reason or analyze; she was and these strange beings dancing about her were; a dumb realization of existence and recognition of the actuality of nightmare possessed her as she lay helplessly gazing up at the starclustered sky, whence, she somehow knew with more than mortal knowledge, something would come to her, as it had come long ago to make these naked brown women the soulless beings they now were.

First, high above her, she saw a black dot among the stars, which grew and expanded; it neared her; it swelled to a bat; and still it grew, though its shape did not alter further to any great extent. It hovered over her in the stars, dropping plummet-like earthward, its great wings spread over her; she lay in its tenebrous shadow. And all about her the chant rose higher, to a soft paean of soulless joy, a welcome to the god which came to claim a fresh sacrifice, fresh and rose-pink as a flower in the dew of dawn.

Now it hung directly over her, and her soul shriveled and grew chill and small at the sight. Its wings were bat-like; but its body and the dim face that gazed down upon her were like nothing of sea or earth or air; she knew she looked upon ultimate horror, upon black cosmic foulness born in night-black gulfs beyond the reach of a madman's wildest dreams.

Breaking the unseen bonds that held her dumb, she screamed awfully. Her cry was answered by a deep menacing shout. She heard the pounding of rushing feet; all about her there was a swirl as of swift waters; the white blossoms tossed wildly, and the brown women were gone. Over her hovered the great black shadow, and she saw a tall white figure, with plumes nodding in the stars, rushing toward her.

'Conan!' The cry broke involuntarily from her lips. With a fierce inarticulate yell, the barbarian sprang into the air, lashing upward with his sword that flamed in the starlight.

The great black wings rose and fell. Livia, dumb with horror, saw the Cimmerian enveloped in the black shadow that hung over him. The man's breath came pantingly; his feet stamped the beaten earth, crushing the white blossoms into the dirt. The rending impact of his blows echoed through the night. He was hurled back and forth like a rat in the grip of a hound, blood splashed thickly on the sward, mingling with the white petals that lay strewn like a carpet.

And then the girl, watching that devilish battle as in a nightmare, saw the black-winged thing waver and stagger in midair; there was a threshing beat of crippled wings and the monster had torn clear and was soaring upward to mingle and vanish among the stars. Its conqueror staggered dizzily, sword poised, legs wide-braced, staring upward stupidly amazed at victory, but ready to take up again the ghastly battle.

An instant later, Conan approached the altar, panting, dripping blood at every step. His massive chest heaved, glistening with perspiration. Blood ran down his arms in streams from his neck and shoulders. As he touched her, the spell on the girl was broken and she scrambled up and slid from the altar, recoiling from his hand. He leaned against the stone, looking down at her, where she cowered at his feet.

`Men saw you ride out of the village,' he said. `I followed as soon as I could, and picked up your track, though it was no easy task following it by torchlight. I tracked you to the place where your horse threw you, and though the torches were exhausted by then, and I could not find the prints of your bare feet on the sward, I felt sure you had descended into the valley. My men would not follow me, so I came alone on foot. What vale of devils is this? What was that thing?'

`A god,' she whispered. `The black people spoke of it - a god from far away and long ago!'

`A devil from the Outer Dark,' he grunted. `Oh, they're nothing uncommon. They lurk as thick as fleas outside the belt of light which surrounds this world. I've heard the wise men of Zamora talk of them. Some find their way to Earth, but when they do they have to take on Earthly form and flesh of some sort. A man like myself, with a sword, is a match for any amount of fangs and talons, infernal or terrestrial. Come; my men await me beyond the ridge of the valley.'

She crouched motionless, unable to find words, while he frowned down at her. Then she spoke: `I ran away from you. I planned to dupe you. I was not going to keep my promise to you; I was yours by the bargain we made but I would have escaped from you if I could. Punish me as you will.'

He shook the sweat and blood from his locks, and sheathed his sword.

`Get up,' he grunted. `It was a foul bargain I made. I do not regret that black dog Bajujh, but you are no wench to be bought and sold. The ways of men vary in different lands, but a man need not be a swine, wherever he is. After I thought awhile, I saw that to hold you to your bargain would be the same as if I had forced you. Besides, you are not tough enough for this land. You are a child of cities and books and civilized ways - which isn't your fault, but you'd die quickly following the life I thrive on. A dead woman would be no good to me. I will take you to the Stygian borders. The Stygians will send you home to Ophir.'

She stared up at him as if she had not heard aright. `Home?' she repeated mechanically. `Home? Ophir? My people? Cities, towers, peace, my home?' Suddenly tears welled into her eyes, and sinking to her knees, she embraced his knees in her arms.

`Crom, girl,' grunted Conan, embarrassed. `Don't do that; you'd think I was doing you a favor by kicking you out of this country; haven't I explained that you're not the proper woman for the war-chief of the Bamulas?'

The Castle of Terror

Before he can bring off his plans for building a black empire with himself at its head, Conan is thwarted by a succession of natural catastrophes and the intrigues of his enemies among the Bamulas, many of whom resent the rise to power in their tribe of a foreigner, forced to flee, he heads north through the equatorial jungle and across the grassy veldt toward the semicivilized kingdom of Kush.

1. Burning Eyes

BEYOND THE trackless deserts of Stygia lay the vast grasslands of Kush. For over a hundred leagues, there was' naught but endless stretches of thick grass. Here and there a solitary tree rose to break the gently rolling monotony of the veldt: spiny acacias, sword-leaved dragon, trees, emerald-spired lobelias, and thick fingered, poisonous spurges. Now and then a rare stream cut a shallow dell across the prairie, giving rise to a narrow gallery forest along its banks. Herds of zebra, antelope, buffalo, and other denizens of the savanna drifted athwart the veldt, grazing as they went The grasses whispered and nodded in the wandering winds beneath skies of deep cobalt in which a fierce tropical sun blazed blindingly. Now and then clouds boiled up; a brief thunderstorm roared and blazed with catastrophic fury, only to die and clear as quickly as it had arisen.

Across this limitless waste, as the day died, a lone silent figure trudged. It was a young giant, strongly built, with eliding thews that swelled under a sun-bronzed hide scored with the white traces of old wounds. Deep of chest and broad of shoulder and long of limb was he; his scanty costume of loincloth and sandals revealed his magnificent physique. His chest, shoulders, and back were burnt nearly as black as the natives of this land. The tangled locks of an unkempt mane of coarse black hair framed a grim, impassive face. Beneath scowling black brows, fierce eyes of burning blue roamed restlessly from side to side as he marched with a limber, tireless stride across the level lands. His wary gaze pierced the thick, shadowy grasses on either side, reddened by the angry crimson of sunset. Soon night would come swiftly across Kush; under the gloom of its world-shadowing wings, danger and death would prowl the waste.

Yet the lone traveler, Conan of Cimmeria, was not afraid. A barbarian of barbarians, bred on the bleak hills of distant Cimmeria, the iron endurance and fierce vitality of the wild were his, granting him survival where civilized men, though more learned, more courteous, and more sophisticated than he, would miserably have perished. Although the wanderer had gone afoot for eight days, with no food save the game he had slain with the great Bamula hunting bow slung across his back, the mighty barbarian had nowhere nearly approached the limits of his strength.

Long had Conan been accustomed to the Spartan life of the wilderness. Although he had tasted the languid luxuries of civilized life in half the walled, glittering cities of the world, he missed them not. He plodded on toward the distant horizon, now obscured by a murky purple haze.

Behind him lay the dense jungles of the black lands beyond Kush, where fantastic orchids blazed amid foliage his way for many weary leagues northward, until he reached the region where the crowding forest thinned out and gave way to the open grasslands. Now he meant to cross Ac savanna on foot to reach the kingdom of Kush, where his barbaric strength and the weight of his sword might find him employment in the service of the dusky monarchs of that ancient land.

Suddenly his thoughts were snatched away from contemplation of the past by a thrill of danger. Some primal instinct of survival alerted him to the presence of peril. He halted and stared about him through the long shadows cast by the setting sun. As the hairs of his nape bristled with the touch of unseen
menace, the giant barbarian searched the air with sensitive nostrils and probed the gloom with smoldering eyes. Although he could neither see nor smell anything, the mysterious sense of danger of the wilderness-bred told him that peril was near. He felt the feathery touch of invisible eyes and whirled to glimpse a pair of large orbs, glowing in the gloom.

Almost in the same instant, the blazing eyes vanished. So short had been his glimpse and so utter the disappearance that he was tempted to shrug off the sight as a product of his imagination. He turned and went forward again, but now he was on the alert. As he continued his journey, flaming eyes opened again amid the thick shadows of dense grasses, to follow his silent progress. Tawny, sinuous forms glided after him on soundless feet. The lions of Kush were on his track, lusting for hot blood and fresh flesh.

2. The Circle of Death

An hour later, night had fallen over the savanna, save for a narrow band of sunset glow along the western horizon, against which an occasional small, gnarled tree of the veldt stood up in black silhouette. And Conan almost reached the limits of his endurance. Thrice lionesses had rushed upon him out of the shadows to right or to left. Thrice he had driven them off with the flying death of his arrows. Although it was hard to shoot straight in the gathering dark, an explosive snarl from the chasing cats had thrice told him of hits, although he had no way of knowing whether he had slain or only wounded the deadly predators.

But now his quiver was empty, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the silent marauders pulled him down. There were eight or ten lions on his track! Now even the grim barbarian felt a pang of despair. Even if his mighty sword accounted for one or two of the attackers, the rest would tear him into gory pieces before he could slash or thrust again. Conan had encountered lions before and knew their enormous strength, which enabled them to pick up and drag a whole zebra as easily as a cat does a mouse. Although Conan was one of the strongest men of his time, once a lion got its claws and teeth into him that strength would be no more effective than that of a small child.

Conan ran on. He had been running now for the better part of an hour, with a long, loping stride that ate up the leagues. At first he had run effortlessly, but now the grueling exertions of his flight through the black jungles and his eight-day trek across the plain began to take their toll. His eyes blurred; the muscles of his legs ached. Every beat of his bursting heart seemed to drain away the strength remaining in his giant form.

He prayed to his savage gods for the moon to emerge from the dense, stormy clouds that veiled most of the sky. He prayed for a hillock or a tree to break the gently rolling flatness of the plain, or even a boulder against which he could set his back to make a last stand against the pride.

But the gods heard not The only trees in this region were dwarfish, thorny growths, which rose to a height of six or eight feet and then spread their branches out horizontally in a mushroom shape. If he managed to climb such a tree despite the thorns, it would be easy for the first lion to reach the base to spring upon him from below and bear him to the ground in one leap. The only hillocks were termite nests, some rising several feet in height but too small for purposes of defense. There was nothing to do but run on. To lighten himself, he had cast aside the great hunting bow when he had spent his last shaft, although it wrenched his heart to throw away the splendid weapon. Quiver and straps soon followed. He was now stripped to a mere loincloth of leopard hide, the high-laced sandals that clad his feet, his
goatskin water bag, and the heavy broadsword, which he now carried scabbarded in one fist. To part with these would mean surrendering his last hope.

The lions were now almost at his heels. He could smell the strong reek of their lithe bodies and hear their panting breath. Any moment, now, they would, close in upon him, and he would be making his last furious fight for life before they pulled him down.

He expected his pursuers to follow their age-old tactics. The oldest male―the chief of the pride―would follow directly behind him, with the younger males on either flank. The swifter lionesses would range ahead on either side in a crescent formation until they were far enough ahead of him to close the circle and trap him. Then they would all rush in upon him at once, making any effective defense impossible.

Suddenly, the land was flooded with light. The round, silver eye of the rising moon glared down upon the broad plains, bathing the racing figure of the giant barbarian with her gaze and drawing lines of pale silver fire along the rippling sinews of the lions as they loped at his heels, washing their short, silken fur with her ghostly radiance.

Coan's wary eye caught the moonfire on rippling fur ahead to his left, and he knew that the encirclement was nearly complete. As he braced himself to meet the charge, however, he was astounded to see the same lioness veer off and halt. In two strides he was past her. As he went, he saw that the young lioness on his right had also stopped short. She squatted motionless on the grass with tail twitching and lashing.

A curious sound, half roar and half wail, came from her fanged jaws. |

Conan dared to slow his run and glance bad. To his utter astonishment, he saw that the entire pride had halted as if at some invisible barrier. They stood in a snarling line with fangs gleaming like silver in the moonlight. Earth shaking roars of baffled rage came from their throats.

Conan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his scowling brows knotted in puzzlement. What had halted the pride at the very moment when they had made sure of their prey? What unseen force had annulled the fury of the chase? He stood for a moment facing them, sword in hand, wondering if they would resume their charge. But the lions stayed where they were, growling and roaring from foam-dripping jaws.

Then Conan observed a curious thing. The place where the lions had halted seemed to mark a line of demarcation across the plain. On the further side grew thick, long, lush grasses. At the invisible boundary, however, the grass became thin, stubby, and ill nourished, with broad patches of bare earth.

Although Conan could not clearly distinguish colors by moonlight alone, it seemed to him that the grasses on the hither side of the line lacked the normal green color of growing things. Instead, the grasses around his feet seemed dry and gray, as if leached of all vitality.

To either side, in the bright moonlight, he could see the region of dead grasses curve away into the distance, as if he stood alone in a vast circle of death.

3. The Black Citadel

Although he still ached with weariness, the brief pause had given Conan the strength to continue his progress. Since he did not know the nature of the invisible line that had halted the lions, he could not tell how long this mysterious influence would continue to hold them at bay. Therefore he preferred to put as much distance between the pride and himself as possible.

Soon he saw a dark mass take form out of the dimness ahead of him. He went forward even more warily than before, sword in hand and eyes searching the hazy immensities of this domain. The moonlight was still brilliant, but its radiance became obscure with distance as if veiled by some thickening haze. So, at
first, Conan could make nothing of the black, featureless mass that lifted out of the plain before him, save for its size and its stillness. Like some colossal idol of primitive devil worship, hewn from a mountain of black stone by some unknown beings in time's dawn, the dark mass squatted motionless amid the dead gray grass. As Conan came nearer, details emerged from the dark, featureless blur. He saw that it was a tremendous edifice, which lay partly in ruins on the plains of Kush―a colossal structure erected by unknown hands for some nameless purpose. It looked like a castle or fortress of some sort, but of an architectural type that Conan had never seen. Made of dense black stone, it rose in a complex facade of pillars and terraces and battlements, whose alignment seemed oddly awry. It baffled the view. The eye followed mind-twisting curves that seemed subtly wrong, weirdly distorted. The huge structure gave the impression of a chaotic lack of order, as if its builders had not been quite sane.

Conan wrenched his gaze from the vertiginous curves of this misshapen mass of masonry, merely to look upon which made him dizzy. He thought he could at last perceive why the beasts of the veldt avoided this crumbling pile. It somehow exuded an aura of menace and horror. Perhaps, during the millennia that the black citadel had squatted on the plains, the animals had come to dread it and to avoid its shadowy precincts, until such habits of avoidance were now instinctive.

The moon dimmed suddenly as high-piled storm clouds again darkened her ageless face. Distant thunder grumbled, and Conan's searching gaze caught the sulfurous flicker of lightning among the boiling masses of cloud. One of .those quick, tempestuous thunderstorms of the savanna was about to break.

Conan hesitated. On the one hand, curiosity and a desire for shelter from the coming storm drew him to the ' crumbled stronghold. On the other, his barbarian's mind held a deep-rooted aversion to the supernatural. Toward earthly, mortal dangers he was fearless to the point of rashness, but otherworldly perils could send the tendrils of panic quivering along his nerves. And something about this mysterious structure hinted at the supernatural. He could feel its menace in the deepest layers of his consciousness.

A louder nimble of thunder decided him. Taking an iron grip on his nerves, he strode confidently into the dark portal, naked steel in hand, and vanished within.

4. The Serpent Men

Conan prowled the length of the high-vaulted hall, finding nothing that lived. Dust and dead leaves littered the black pave. Moldering rubbish was heaped in the comers and around the bases of towering stone columns. However old this pile of masonry was, evidently no living thing had dwelt therein for centuries.

The hall, revealed by another brief appearance of ,the moon, was two stories high. A balustrated balcony ran around the second floor. Curious to probe deeper into the mystery of this enigmatic structure which squatted here on the plain many leagues from any other stone building, Conan roamed the corridors, which wound as sinuously as a serpent's track. He poked into dusty chambers whose original purpose he could not even guess.

The castle was of staggering size, even to one who had seen the temple of the spider-god at Yezud in Zamora and the palace of King Yfldiz at Aghrapur in Turan. A good part of it―one whole wing, in fact ―had fallen into a featureless mass of tumbled black blocks, but the part that remained more or less intact was still the largest building that Conan had seen. Its antiquity was beyond guessing. The black onyx of which it was wrought was unlike any stone that Conan had seen in this part of the world. It must have been brought across immense distances―why, Conan could not imagine.

Some features of the bizarre architecture of the structure reminded Conan of ancient tombs in accursed Zamora. Others suggested forbidden temples that he had glimpsed in far Hyrkania during his mercenary service with the Turanians. But whether the black castle had been erected primarily as a tomb, a fortress, a palace, or a temple, or some combination of these, he could not tell.

Then, too, there was a disturbing alienage about the castle that made him obscurely uneasy. Even as the facades seemed to have been built according to the canons of some alien geometry, so the interior contained baffling features. The steps of the stairways, for example, were much broader and shallower than was required for human feet. The doorways were too tall and too narrow, so that Conan had to turn sideways to get through them.

The walls were sculptured in low relief with coiling, geometrical arabesques of baffling, hypnotic complexity. Conan found that he had to wrench his gaze away from the sculptured walls by force of will, lest his mind be entrapped and held by the cryptic symbols formed by the writhing lines.

In fact, everything about this strange, baffling enigma in stone reminded Conan of serpents―the winding corridors, the writhing decoration, and even, he thought, a faint trace of a musky, ophidian odor.

Conan halted, brows knotted. Could this unknown ruin have been raised by the serpent folk of ancient Valussa? The day of that prehuman people lay an unthinkable interval in the past, before the dawn of man himself, in the dim mists of time when giant reptiles ruled the earth. Or ever the Seven Empires arose in the days before the Cataclysm―even before Atlantis arose from the depths of the Western Ocean―the serpent people had reigned. They had vanished long before the coming of man―but not entirely.

Around the campfires in the bleak hills of Cimmeria and again in the marbled courts of the temples of Nemedia, Conan had heard the legend of Kull, the Atlantean king of Valusia. The snake people had survived here and there by means of their magic, which enabled them to appear to others as ordinary human beings. But Kull had stumbled upon their secret and had purged his realm dean of their taint, wiping them out with fire and sword.

Still, might not the black castle, with its alien architecture, be a relic of that remote era, when men contended for the rule of the planet with these reptilian survivors of lost ages?

5. Whispering Shadows

The first thunderstorm missed the black castle. There was a brief patter of raindrops on the crumbling stonework and a trickle of water through holes in the roof. Then the lightning and thunder diminished as the storm passed off to westward, leaving the moon to shine unobstructed once more through the gaps in the stone. But other storms followed, muttering and flickering out of the east. Conan slept uneasily in a comer of the balcony above the great hall, tossing and turning like some wary animal that dimly senses the approach of danger. Caution had made him suspicious of sleeping in the hall before the wide-open doors. Even though the circle of death seemed to bar the denizens of the plains, he did not trust the unseen force that held the beasts at bay.

A dozen times he started awake, clutching at his sword and probing the soft shadows with his eyes, searching for whatever had aroused him. A dozen times he found nothing in the gloomy vastness of the ancient wreck. Each time he composed himself for slumber again, however, dim shadows clustered around him, and he half-heard whispering voices.

Growling a weary curse to his barbaric gods, the Cimmerian damned all shadows and echoes to the eleven scarlet Hells of his mythology and threw himself down again, striving to slumber. At length he
fell into a deep sleep. And in that sleep there came upon him a strange dream.

It seemed that, although his body slept, his spirit waked and was watchful. To the immaterial eyes of his ka, as the Stygians called it, the gloomy balcony was filled with a dim glow of blood-hued light from some unseen source. This was neither the silvery sheen of the moon, which cast slanting beams into the hall through gaps in the stone, nor the pallid Bicker of distant lightning. By sanguine radiance, Conan's spirit could see drifting shadows, which flitted like cloudy bats among die black marble columns―shadows with glaring eyes filled with mindless hunger―shadows that whispered in an all but audible cacophony of mocking laughter and bestial cries.

Conan's spirit somehow knew that these whispering shadows were the ghosts of thousands of sentient beings who had died within this ancient structure. How he knew this, he could not say, but to his ka it was a plain fact. The unknown people who had raised this enormous ruin―whether the serpent men of Valusian legend or some other forgotten race―had drenched the marble altars of the black castle with the blood of thousands. The ghosts of their victims were chained forever to this castle of terror. Perhaps they were held earthbound by some powerful spell of prehuman sorcery. Perhaps it was the same spell that kept out the beasts of the veldt.

But this was not all. The ghosts of the black castle hungered for the blood of the living―for the blood oft Conan. |

His exhausted body lay chained in ensorcelled slumber while shadowy phantoms flitted about him, tearing at him with impalpable fingers. But a spirit cannot harm a living being unless it first manifests itself on the physical plane and assumes material form. These gibbering shadow hordes were weak. Not for years had a man defied the ancient curse to set foot within the black castle, enabling them to feed.

Enfeebled by long starvation, they could no longer easily materialize into a shambling horde of ghoulthings.

Somehow, the spirit of the dreaming Conan knew this. While his body slept on, his ka observed movements on the astral plane and watched the vampiric shadows as they beat insubstantial wings about his sleeping head and slashed with impalpable claws at his pulsing throat But for all their voiceless frenzy, they could harm him not. Bound by the spell, he slept on.

After an indefinite time, a change took place in die ruddy luminance of the astral plane. The specters were clustering together into a shapeless mass of thickening shadows. Mindless dead things though they were, hunger drove them into an uncanny alliance. Each ghost possessed a small store of that vital energy that went toward bodily materialization. Now each phantom mingled its slim supply of energy with that of its shadowy brethren.

Gradually, a terrible shape, fed by the life force of ten thousand ghosts, began to materialize. In the dim gloom of the black marble balcony, it slowly formed out of a swirling cloud of shadowy particles.

And Conan slept on.

6. The Hundred Heads

Thunder crashed deafeningly, lightning blazed with sulfurous fires above the darkened plain, whence the moonlight had fled again. The thick-piled storm clouds burst, soaking the grassy swales with a torrential downpour.

The Stygian slave raiders had ridden all night, pressing southward toward the forests beyond Kush.

Their expedition had thus far been fruitless; not one black of the nomadic hunting and herding tribes of the savanna had fallen into their hands. Whether war or pestilence had swept the land bare of
humankind, or whether the tribesmen, warned of the coming of the slavers, had fled beyond reach, they did not know.

In any case, it seemed that they would do better among the lush jungles of the South. The forest Negroes dwelt in permanent villages, which the slavers could surround and take by surprise with a quick dawn rush, catching the inhabitants like fish in a net. Villagers too old, too young, or too sickly to endure the trek back to Stygia they would slay out of hand. Then they would drive the remaining wretches, fettered together to form a human chain, northward.

There were forty Stygians, well-mounted warriors in helms and chain-mail hauberks. They were tall, swarthy, hawk-faced men, powerfully muscled. They were hardened marauders―tough, shrewd, fearless, and merciless, with no more compunction about killing a non-Stygian than most men have about slipping a gnat Now the first downpour of the storm swept their column. Winds whipped their woolen cloaks and linen robes and blew their horses manes into their faces. The almost continuous blaze of lightning dazzled them.

Their leader sighted the black castle, looming above the grasslands, for the blazing lightning made it visible in the rain-veiled dark. He shouted a guttural command and drove his spurs into the ribs of his big black mare. The others spurred after him and rode up to the frowning bastions with a clatter of hoofs, a creaking of leather, and a jingle of mail. In the blur of rain and night, the abnormality of the facade was not visible, and the Stygians were eager to get under shelter before they were soaked.

They came stamping in, cursing and bellowing and shaking the water from their cloaks. In a trice, the gloomy silence of the ruin was broken with a clamor of noise. Brushwood and dead leaves were gathered; flint and steel were struck. Soon a smoking, sputtering fire leaped up in the midst of the cracked marble floor, to paint the sculptured walls with rich orange.

The men flung down their saddlebags, stripped off wet burnooses, and spread them to dry. They struggled out of their coats of mail and set to rubbing the moisture from them with oily rags. They opened their saddlebags and sank strong white teeth into round loaves of hard, stale bread.

Outside, the storm bellowed and flashed. Streams of rainwater, like little waterfalls, poured through gaps in the masonry. But the Stygians heeded them not.

On the balcony above, Conan stood silently, awake but trembling with shudders that wracked his powerful body. With the cloudburst, the spell that held him captive had broken. Starting up, he glared about for the shadowy conclave of ghosts that he had seen form in his dream. When the lightning flashed, he thought he glimpsed a dark, amorphous form at the far end of the balcony, but he did not care to go closer to investigate.

While he pondered the problem of how to quit the balcony without coming in reach of the Thing, the Stygians came stamping and roaring in. They were hardly an improvement on the ghosts. Given half a chance, they would be delighted to capture him for their slave gang. For all his immense strength and skill at arms, Conan knew that no man can fight forty well-armed foes at once. Unless he instantly cut his way out and escaped, they would bring him down. He faced either a swift death or a bitter life ofp>
groaning drudgery in a Stygian slave pen. He was not sure which he preferred.

If the Stygians distracted Conan's attention from the phantoms, they likewise distracted the attention of the phantoms from Conan. In their mindless hunger, the shadow-things ignored the Cimmerian in favor
of the forty Stygians encamped below. Here was living flesh and vital force enough to glut their phantasmal lusts thrice over. Like autumn leaves, they drifted over the balustrade and down from the balcony into the hall below.

The Stygians sprawled around their fire, passing a bottle of wine from hand to hand and talking in their guttural tongue. Although Conan knew only a few words of Stygian, from the intonations and gestures he could follow the course of the argument The leader―a clean-shaven giant, as tall as the Cimmerian―swore that he would not venture into the downpour on such a night They would await the dawn in this crumbling ruin. At least, the roof seemed to be still sound in places, and a man could here out of the drip.

When several more bottles had been emptied, the Stygians, now warm and dry, composed themselves for sleep. The fire burned low, for the brushwood with which they fed it could not long sustain a strong blaze. The leader pointed to one of his men and spoke a harsh sentence. The man protested, but after some argument he heaved himself up with a groan and pulled on his coat of mail. He, Conan realized, had been chosen to stand the first watch. |

Presently, with sword in hand and shield on arm, the sentry was standing in the shadows at the margin of the light of the dying fire. From time to time he walked slowly up and down the length of the hall, pausing to peer into the winding corridors or out through the front doors, where the storm was in retreat.

While the sentry stood in the main doorway with his back to his comrades, a grim shape formed among the snoring band of slavers. It grew slowly out of wavering clouds of insubstantial shadows. The compound creature that gradually took shape was made up of the vital force of thousands of dead beings. It became a ghastly form―a huge bulk that sprouted countless malformed limbs and appendages. A dozen squat legs supported its monstrous weight. From its top, like grisly fruit, sprouted scores of heads: some lifelike, with shaggy hair and brows; others mere lumps in which eyes, ears, mouths, and nostrils were arranged at random.

The sight of the hundred-headed monster in that dimly firelit ball was enough to freeze the blood of the stoutest with terror. Conan felt his nape hairs rise and his skin crawl with revulsion as he stared down upon the scene.

The thing lurched across the floor. Leaning unsteadily down, it clutched one of the Stygians with half a dozen grasping claws. As the man awoke with a scream, the nightmare Thing tore its victim apart, spattering his sleeping comrades with gory, dripping fragments of the man.

7. Flight from Nightmare

In an instant, the Stygians were on their feet. Hardbitten ravagers though they were, the sight was frightful enough to wring yells of terror from some. Wheeling at the first scream, the sentry rushed back into the hall to hack at the monster with his sword. Bellowing commands, the leader snatched up the nearest weapon and fell to. The rest, although unarmored, disheveled, and confused, seized sword and spear to defend themselves against the shape that shambled and slew among them.

Swords hacked into misshapen thighs; spears plunged into the swollen, swaying belly. Clutching hands and arms were hacked away to thud, jerking and grasping, to the floor. But, seeming to reel no pain, the monster snatched up man after man. Some Stygians had their heads twisted off by strangling hands.

Others were seized by the feet and battered to gory remnants against the pillars.

As the Cimmerian watched from above, a dozen Stygians were battered or torn to death. The ghastly wounds inflicted on the monster by the weapons of the Stygians instantly closed up and healed. Severed
heads and arms were replaced by new members, which sprouted from the bulbous body.

Seeing that the Stygians had no chance against the monster, Conan resolved to take his leave while the Thing was still occupied with the slavers and before it turned its attention to him. Thinking it unwise to enter the hall, he sought a more direct exit He cimbed out through a window. This let on to a roof terrace of broken tiles, where a false step could drop him through a gap in the pavement to ground level.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle. The moon, now nearly overhead, showed intermittent beams again.

Looking down from the parapet that bounded the terrace, Conan found a place where the exterior carvings, together with climbing vines, provided means of descent. With the lithe grace of an ape, he lowered himself hand over hand down the weirdly carven facade.

Now the moon glazed out in full glory, lighting the courtyard below where the Stygians horses stood tethered, moving and whinnying uneasily at the sounds of mortal combat that came from the great hall.

Over the roar of battle sounded screams of agony as man after man was torn limb from limb.

Conan dropped, landing lightly on the earth of the courtyard. He sprinted for the great black mare that had belonged to the leader of the slavers. He would have liked to linger to loot the bodies, for he needed their armor and other supplies. The mail shirt he had worn as Belits piratical partner had long since succumbed to wear and rust, and his flight from Bamula had been too hasty to allow him to equip himself more completely. But no force on earth could have drawn him into that ''hall, where a horror of living death still stalked and slew.

As the young Cimmerian untethered the horse he had chosen, a screaming figure burst from the entrance and came pelting across the courtyard toward him. Conan saw that it was the man who had stood the first sentry-go. The Stygian's helmet and mail shirt had protected him just enough to enable him to survive the massacre of his comrades.

Conan opened his mouth to speak. There was no love lost between him and the Stygian people; nevertheless, if this Stygian were the only survivor of his party, Conan would have been willing to form a rogues alliance with him, however temporary, until they could reach more settled country.

But Conan had no chance to make such a proposal, for the experience had driven the burly Stygian mad.

His eyes blazed wildly in the moonlight, and foam dripped from his lips. He rushed straight upon Conan, whirling a scimitar so that the moonlight flashed upon it and shrieking, "Back to your hell, O demon!"

The primitive survival instinct of the wilderness-bred Cimmerian flashed into action without conscious thought. By the time the man was within striking distance. Conan's own sword had cleared its scabbard.

Again and gain, steel clanged against steel, striking sparks. As the wild-eyed Stygian swung back for another slash, Conan drove his point into the madman's throat The Stygian gurgled, swayed, and toppled.

For an instant, Conan leaned on the mare's saddle bow, panting. The duel had been short but fierce, and the Stygian had been no mean antagonist From within the ancient pile of stone, no more cries of terror rang. There was naught but an ominous silence. Then Conan heard slow, heavy, shuffling footsteps. Had the ogreish thing slaughtered them all?

Was it dragging its misshapen bulk toward the door, to emerge into the courtyard?

Conan did not wait to find out. With trembling fingers he unlaced the dead man's hauberk and pulled the mail shirt off. He also collected the Stygian's helmet and shield, the latter made from the hide of one of the great, thick-skinned beasts of the veldt He hastily tied these trophies to the saddle, vaulted upon the steed, wrenched at the reins, and kicked the mare's ribs. He galloped out of the ruined courtyard into the region of withered grass. With every stride of the flying hoofs, the castle of ancient evil fen behind.

Somewhere beyond the circle of dead grass, perhaps the hungry lions still prowled. But Conan did not care. After the ghostly horrors of the black citadel, he would gladly take his chances with mere lions.

The Snout in the Dark

1

Amboola awakened slowly, his senses still sluggish from the wine he had guzzled the night before. For a muddled moment he could not remember where he was; the moonlight, streaming through the barred window, shone on unfamiliar surroundings. Then he remembered that he was lying in the upper cell of the prison where the anger of Tananda, sister to the king of Kush, had consigned him. It was no ordinary cell, for even Tananda had not dared to go too far in her punishment of the commander of the black spearmen which were the strength of Kush 's army. There were carpets and tapestries and silk-covered couches, and jugs of wine - he remembered that he had been awakened and wondered why.

His gaze wandered to the square of barred moonlight that was the window, and he saw something that partially sobered him, and straightened his blurred gaze. The bars of that window were bent and buckled and twisted back. It must have been the noise of their rending that had awakened him. But what could have bent them? And where was whatever had so bent them? Suddenly he was completely sober, and an icy sensation wandered up his spine. Something had entered through that window, something was in the room with him.

With a low cry he started up on his couch and stared about him; and he froze at the sight of the motionless figure that stood at the head of his couch. An icy hand clutched the heart of Amboola which had never known fear. That silent, greyish shape did not move nor speak; it stood there in the shadowy moonlight, misshapen, deformed, its outline outside the bounds of sanity. Staring wildly, Amboola made out a pig-like head, snouted, covered with coarse bristles - but the thing stood upright and its diick hair-covered arms ended in rudimentary hands -

Amboola shrieked and sprang up - and then the motionless thing moved, with the paralyzing speed of a monster in a nightmare. The black man had one frenzied vision of champing, foaming jaws, of great chisel-like tusks flashing in the moonlight ... presently the moonlight fell on a black shape sprawled amidst the dabbled coverings of the couch on the floor; a grayish, shambling form moved silently across the chamber toward the window whose broken bars leaned out against the stars.

"Tuthmes!" The voice was urgent, urgent as the fist that hammered on the teak door of the chamber where slept Shumballa's most ambitious nobleman. "Tuthmes! Let me in! The devil is loose in Shumballa!"

The door was opened, and the speaker burst into the room -a lean, wiry man in a white djebbeh, dark-skinned, the whites of his eyes gleaming. He was met by Tuthmes, tall, slender, dusky, with the straight features of his caste.

"What are you saying, Afari?"

Afari closed the door before he answered; he was panting as if from a long run. He was shorter than Tuthmes, and the negroid was more predominant in his features.

"Amboola! He is dead! In the Red Tower !"

"What?" exclaimed Tuthmes . "Tananda dared execute him?"

"No! No, no! She would not be such a fool, surely. He was not executed, but murdered. Something broke through the bars of his cell and tore his throat out, and stamped in his ribs, and broke his skull - Set, I have seen many dead men, but never one less lovely in his death than Amboola! Tuthmes, it is the work of some demon! His throat was bitten out, and the prints of the teeth were not like those of a lion or an ape. It was as if they had been made by chisels, sharp as razors!" "When was this done?"

"Sometime about midnight . Guards in the lower part of the tower, watching the stair that leads up to the cell in which he was imprisoned, heard him cry out, and rushing up the stairs, burst into the cell and found him lying as I have said. I was sleeping in the lower part of the tower as you bade me, and having seen, I came straight here, bidding the guards say naught to anyone."

Tuthmes smiled and his smile was not pleasant to see. "Gods and demons work for a bold man," he said. "I do not think Tananda was fool enough to have Amboola murdered, however she desired it. The blacks have been sullen, ever since she cast him into prison. She could not have kept him imprisoned much longer.

"But this matter puts a weapon into our hands. If the Gallahs think she did it, so much the better. Each resentment against the dynasty is a weapon for us. Go, now, and strike before the king can learn of it. First, take a detachment of black spearmen to the Red Tower and execute the guards for sleeping at their duty. Be sure you take care to do it by my orders. That will show the Gallahs that I have avenged their commander, and remove a weapon from Tananda's hands. Kill them before she can have it done.

"Then go into Punt and find old Ageera, the witch-finder. Do not tell him flatly that Tananda had this deed done, but hint at it." Afari shuddered visibly.

"How can a common man lie to that black devil? His eyes are like coals of red fire that look into depths unnameable. I have seen him make corpses rise and walk, and skulls champ and grind their naked jaws."

"Don't lie," answered Tuthmes. "Simply hint to him your own suspicions. After all, even if a demon did slay Amboola, some human summoned it out of the night. Perhaps Tananda is behind this, after all!"

When Afari had left, mulling intensely over what his patron had told him, Tuthmes drew a silken cloak about his otherwise naked limbs and mounting a short, wide staircase of polished mahogany, he came out upon the flat roof of his palace.

Looking over the parapet, he saw below him the silent streets of the inner city of Shumballa, the palaces and gardens, and the great square, into which, at an instant's notice, a thousand black horsemen could ride, from the courts of adjoining barracks.

Looking further, he saw the great bronze gates, and beyond them, the outer city that men called Punt, to distinguish it from El Shebbeh, the inner city. Shumballa stood in the midst of a great plain, of rolling grass lands that stretched to the horizons, broken only by occasional low hills. A narrow, deep river, meandering across the grass lands, touched the straggling edges of the city. El Shebbeh was separated from Punt by a tall and massive wall, which enclosed the palaces of the ruling caste, descendants of those Stygians who centuries ago had come southward to hack out a black empire, and to mix their proud blood with the blood of their dusky subjects. El Shebbeh was well laid out, with regular streets and squares, stone buildings and gardens; Punt was a sprawling wilderness of mud huts; the streets straggled into squares that were squares in name only. The black people of Kush, the Gallahs, the original inhabitants of the country, lived in Punt; none but the ruling caste, the Chagas, dwelt in El Shebbeh, except for their servants, and the black horsemen who served as their guardsmen.

Tuthmes glanced out over that vast expanse of huts. Fires glowed in the ragged squares, torches swayed to and fro in the wandering streets, and from time to time he caught a snatch of song, a barbaric chanting that thrummed with an undertone of wrath or bloodlust. Tuthmes drew his cloak closer about him and shivered.

Advancing across the roof, he halted by a figure which slept in the shadow of a palm growing in the artifical garden. When stirred by Tuthmes's toe, this man awoke and sprang up.

"There is no need for speech," cautioned Tuthmes. "The deed is done. Amboola is dead, and before dawn, all Punt will know he was murdered by Tananda."

"And the - the devil?" whispered the man, shivering.

"Shh! Gone back into the darkness whence it was invoked. Harken, Shubba, it is time you were gone. Search among the Shemites until you find a woman suitable - a white woman. Bring her here speedily. If you return within the moon, I will give you her weight in silver. If you fail, I will hang your head from that palm tree."

Shubba prostrated himself and touched his head to the dust. Then rising, he hurried from the roof. Tuthmes glanced again into Punt. The fires seemed to glow more fiercely, somehow, and a drum had begun an ominous monotone. A sudden clamor of bestial yells welled up to his ears.

"They have heard that Amboola is dead," he muttered, and again he was shaken by a strong shudder.

Life flowed on its accustomed course in the filth-littered streets of Punt. Giant black men squatted in the doorways of their thatched huts, or lolled on the ground in their shade. Black women went up and down the streets with water-gourds or baskets of food on their heads. Children played or fought in the dust, laughing or squalling shrilly. In the squares the black folk chaffered and bargained over plantains, beer and hammered brass ornaments. Smiths crouched over tiny charcoal fires, laboriously beating out spear blades. The hot sun beat down on all, he sweat, mirth, anger, nakedness and squalor of the black eople. Suddenly there came a change in the pattern, a new note in be timbre. With a clatter of hoofe a group of horsemen rode by, half a dozen men, and a woman. It was the woman who dominated the group. Her skin was dusky, her hair, a thick black mass, caught back and confined by a gold fillet. Her only garment, besides the sandals on her feet, was a short silk skirt girdled at the waist. Gold plates, crusted with jewels, partially covered her dusky breasts. Her features were straight, her bold, scintillant eyes full of challenge and sureness. She rode and handled her steed with ease and certitude, the slim Kushite horse, with the jeweled bridle, the reins of scarlet leather, as broad as a man's palm and worked with gilt, and her sandalled feet in the wide silver stirrups.

As she rode by, work and chatter ceased suddenly. The black faces grew sullen, and the murky eyes burned redly. The blacks turned their heads to whisper in each other's ears, and the whispers grew to a sullen, audible murmur.

The youth who rode at the woman's stirrup grew nervous. He glanced ahead, along the winding street, measured the distance to the bronze gates, not yet in view along the flat-topped houses, and whispered: "The people grow ugly, Tananda; it was foolish to ride in Punt."

"All the black dogs in Kush shall not keep me from my hunting," answered the woman. "If any seem threatening, ride them down."

"Easier said than done," muttered the youth, scanning the silent throng. "They are coming from their houses and massing thick along the street - look there!"

They were entering a broad, ragged square, where the black folk swarmed. On one side of this square stood a house of mud and rough-hewn beams, larger than its neighbors, with a cluster of skulls above the wide doorway. This was the temple of Jullah, which the black folk worshipped in opposition to Set, the Serpent-god worshipped by the Chagas in imitation of their Stygian ancestors. The black folk were thronged in this square, sullenly staring at the horsemen. There was a distinct menace in their attitude, and Tananda, for the first time feeling a slight nervousness, did not notice another rider approaching the square along another street. This rider would have attracted attention in ordinary times, for he was neither Chaga nor Gallah, but a white man, a powerful figure in chain-mail and helmet, with a scarlet cloak whipping its folds about him.

"These dogs mean mischief," muttered the youth at Tananda's side, half drawing his curved sword. The others, guardsmen, black men like the folk about them, drew closer about her, but did not draw their blades. A low sullen muttering rose louder, though no movement was made.

"Push through them," ordered Tananda, reining her horse forward. The blacks gave back sullenly before her advance, and suddenly, from the devil-devil house came a lean black figure. It was old Ageera, clad only in a loin-cloth. Pointing his finger at Tananda, he yelled: "There she rides, she whose hands are dipped in blood! She who murdered Amboola!"

His yell was the spark that set off the explosion. A vast roar rose from the mob, and they surged forward, yelling: "Death to Tananda!" In an instant a hundred black hands were clawing at the legs of the riders. The youth reined between Tananda and the mob, but a stone, cast from a black hand, shattered his skull. The guardsmen, slashing and hacking, were torn from their steeds and beaten, stamped and stabbed to death. Tananda, beset at last with terror, screamed as her horse reared. A score of wild black figures, men and women, were clawing at her.

A giant grasped her thigh and plucked her from her saddle, full into the eager and furious hands which awaited her. Her skirt was ripped from her body and waved in the air above her, while a bellow of primitive laughter went up from the surging mob. A woman spat in her face and tore off her breastplates, scratching her breasts with her fingernails. A stone hurled at her grazed her head. She screamed in frantic fear; a score of brutal hands were tearing at her, threatening to dismember her. She saw a stone clenched in a black hand, while the owner sought to reach her in the press and brain her. Daggers glinted. Only the hindering numbers of the jammed mass kept them from doing her to death instantly. "To the devil-devil house!" went up a roar, followed by a responsive clamor, and Tananda felt herself half carried, half dragged along with the surging mob, grasped by her hair, arms, legs, wherever a black hand could grip. Blows aimed at her in the press were blocked or diverted by the mass; and then there came a shock under which the whole throng staggered as a horseman on a powerful steed crashed full into the press.

Men went down screaming, to be crushed under the flailing hoofs; Tananda got a dizzy glimpse of a figure towering above the press, of a dark scarred face under a steel helmet, of a scarlet cloak unfurled from mighty mailed shoulders, and a great sword lashing up and down, spattering crimson splashes. But from somewhere in the press a spear licked upward, disembowelling the steed. It screamed, plunged and went down, but the rider landed on his feet, smiting right and left. Wildly driven spears and knives glanced from his helmet or the shield on his left arm, while his broadsword cleft flesh and bone, split skulls, scattered brains and spilled entrails into the bloody dust.

Flesh and blood could not stand before it. Clearing a space he stooped, caught up the terrified girl and, covering her with his shield, fell back, cutting a ruthless way. He backed into the angle of a wall and, dropping her behind him, stood before her, beating back the frothing, screaming onslaught.

Then there was a clatter of hoofs and a regiment of the guardsmen swept into the square, driving the rioters before them. The captain approached, a giant negro resplendent in crimson silk and gold-worked harness.

"You were long in coming," said Tananda, who had risen and regained much of her poise. The captain turned ashy, but before he could turn, Tananda had made a sign that was caught by his men behind him. One of them grasped his spear with both hands and drove it between his captain's shoulders with such force that the point started out from his breast. The captain sank to his knees, and thrusts from half a dozen more spears finished the task.

Tananda shook back her long black disheveled hair and faced her rescuer. She was bleeding from a score of scratches on her breasts and thighs, her locks fell in confusion down her back, and she was as naked as the day she was born; but she stared at him without perturbation or uncertainty, and he gave back her stare, frank admiration in his expression of her cool bearing, and the ripeness of her brown limbs.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Conan, a Cimmerian," he answered.

"What are you doing in Shumballa?"

"I came here to seek my fortune. I was formerly a corsair."

"Oh!" New interest shone in her dark eyes; she gathered her hair back in her hands. "We have heard tales of you, whom men call Amra the Lion. But if you are no longer a corsair, what are you now?"

"A penniless wanderer."

She shook her head. "No, by Set! You are captain of the royal guard."

He glanced casually at the sprawling figure in silk and steel, and the sight did not alter the zest of his sudden grin.

Shubba returned to Shumballa, and coming to Tuthmes in his chamber where leopard skins carpeted the marble floor, he said: "I have found the woman you desired. A Nemedian girl, captured from a trading vessel of Argos. I paid the Shemitish slave-trader many broad gold pieces."

"Let me see her," commanded Tuthmes, and Shubba left the room, returning a moment later leading a girl by the wrist. She was supple, her white skin almost dazzling in contrast with the brown and black bodies to which Tuthmes was accustomed. Her hair fell in a curly rippling gold stream over her white shoulders. She was clad only in a tattered shift. This Shubba removed, leaving her shrinking in complete nudity.

Tuthmes nodded, impersonally.

"She is a fine bit of merchandise. If I were not gambling for a throne, I might be tempted to keep her for myself. Have you taught her Kushite, as I commanded?"

"Aye; in the city of the Shemites, and later daily on the caravan trail, I taught her, and impressed upon her the need of learning by means of a slipper, after the Shemite fashion. Her name is Diana."

Tuthmes seated himself on a couch, and indicated that the girl should sit cross-legged on the floor at his feet, which she did.

"I am going to give you to the king of Kush as a present," he said. "You will nominally be his slave, but actually you will belong to me. You will receive your orders regularly, and you will not fail to carry them out. The king is degenerate, slothful, dissipated. It should not be hard for you to achieve complete dominance over him. But lest you might be tempted to disobey, when you fancy yourself out of my reach in the palace of the king, I will demonstrate my power to you."

He took her hand and led her through a corridor, down a flight of stone stairs and into a long chamber, dimly lighted. The chamber was divided in equal halves by a wall of crystal, clear as water though some three feet in thickness and of such strength as to have resisted the lunge of a bull elephant. He led her to this wall and made her stand, facing it, while he stepped back. Abruptly the light went out. She stood there in darkness, her slender limbs trembling with an unreasoning panic, then light began to float in the darkness. She saw a hideous malformed head grow out of the blackness; she saw a bestial snout, chisel-like teeth, bristles - turned and ran, frantic with fear, and forgetful of the sheet of crystal that kept the brute from her. She ran full into the arms of Tuthmes in the darkness, and heard his hiss in her ear: "You have seen my servant; do not fail me, for if you do he will search you out wherever you may be, and you cannot hide from him." And when he hissed something else into the quivering ear of the Nemedian girl, she promptly fainted.

Tuthmes carried her up the stairs and gave her into the hands of a black wench with instructions to revive her, to see that she had food and wine, and to bathe, comb, perfume and dress her for her presentation to the king.

Conan and the Emerald Lotus

Prologue

Ethram-Fal stood in the ancient chamber and looked upon bones. Dark and pitted, they lay strewn in the thick dust of the stone floor. Ruddy torchlight flared, filling the circular room with leaping shadows. A tall soldier in full armor stood motionless beside the single doorway, torch held high in one steady hand.

Ethram-Fal knelt, his gray robes rustling, and pulled an ornate dagger of irregular shape from a concealed sheath. Though he was a young man, the sorcerer's hunched and shrunken form gave the impression of great age. Thin hair of mouse-brown was beginning to grow from a scalp recently shaved clean. He frowned in contemplation, furrowing his bulbous and malformed brow. He probed among the bones and dust with the dagger's tip and felt the slow welling of despair.

It's dead now, he thought. Of course it's dead now, but I had hoped that there would be something remaining, if only husks. The dagger tip disturbed the dust of centuries, revealing nothing. Ethram-Fal stood suddenly, and the soldier with the torch flinched.

"Fangs of Set," he cursed. "Have I come so far for nothing?" His voice was a hollow echo. The sorcerer looked up. The ceiling of the circular room was so high that it was lost in the flickering darkness beyond the torchlight's reach. An even band of engraved hieroglyphics ran around the walls at twice the height of a man. The markings seemed to writhe tortuously in the dim light.

"There is no doubt," said Ethram-Fal dully, "this is the room." He turned, and in doing so set his sandal upon something that gave a muffled crack. Stepping to one side, he looked down and went rigid.

"Ath, lower the torch." The soldier dutifully lowered the torch to illuminate the floor while Ethram-Fal knelt again. He had tread upon what appeared to be a human rib and had snapped it in two. A fine black powder seeped out of the broken bone. Ethram-Fal gave a choked cry of triumph.

"Of course! It's gone dormant. It must have absorbed all nourishment down to the marrow and then spored. Set grant that there is still life!" He gestured with a gray-clad arm. "Ath, bring my apprentice."

The soldier left the room, the light of his torch receding down the empty corridor, leaving Ethram-Fal in darkness. But it was not darkness to Ethram-Fal, who saw his future looming bright and glorious before him. His breathing quickened, the only sound in the stony silence.

In a few moments Ath returned, his hawklike Stygian features stern and impassive. Behind him trailed a slender adolescent boy clad in yellow robes. Though taller than Ethram-Fal, the top of the boy's tousled head came to well below Ath's chin. The boy looked about the room with obvious impatience.

"I was helping the men set up camp in the large chamber," he said petulantly. "Have you finally found something useful for me to do?"

Ethram-Fal did not reply, but fixed his gaze upon the bones at his feet.

"Ath," he said, "kill him."

With a single fluid motion the soldier drew his broadsword, buried it in the youth's belly, twisted it, and withdrew. The apprentice uttered a high-pitched wail, clutched himself, and dropped to lie writhing weakly in the dust. When the boy stopped breathing, Ath wiped his blade upon the body and sheathed it. He looked at Ethram-Fal expectantly. The hand gripping the torch had not faltered.

The sorcerer produced a thick reddish leaf from a leather pouch on his belt. He handed it to Ath, who immediately put it into his mouth. The soldier's eyes closed and his cheeks drew hollow as he sucked upon the leaf.

Ethram-Fal paid this no heed. Bending at the waist, he gingerly picked up the broken rib between thumb and forefinger. Tilting the bone with exaggerated care, he spilled a thin stream of black powder over the sprawled body of his apprentice. He emptied the macabre vessel, concentrating its contents on the dark stain spreading upon the corpse's midriff. When the dust ceased to fall, he tossed the rib aside and stood staring at the body in silence.

An hour passed, during which Ath chewed and swallowed his leaf and Ethram-Fal moved not at all. Toward the close of the second hour, Ethram-Fal cocked his head, as though he sought to hear a soft sound from a great distance. The body on the floor shuddered and the sorcerer clasped his hands together in an ecstasy of anticipation.

A moist crackling filled the still air. The corpse jerked and trembled as though endowed with tormented life. Ethram-Fal caught his breath as fist-sized swellings erupted all but instantaneously from the dead flesh of his apprentice. The body was grotesquely distorted in a score of places, with such swift violence that the limbs convulsed and the yellow robes ripped open.

Green blossoms the size of a man's open hand burst from the corpse, leaping forth in such profusion that the body was almost hidden from view. Iridescent and six-petaled, the blooms pushed free of enclosing flesh, bobbing and shaking as if in a strong wind. In a moment they were still, and a sharp, musky odor, redolent of both nectar and corruption, rose slowly to fill the chamber.

The peals of Ethram-Fal's laughter reverberated from the stone walls like the tolling of a great bell.

Chapter One

The night air was warm and close, but it was of polar freshness compared to the dense atmosphere within the tavern. A stout, sturdily built man in the mail of a mercenary of Akkharia shoved open the door and surveyed the scene within. The main room was spacious, but crowded with a motley variety of locals, mercenaries, and travelers. The visitor ran a callused hand through his graying hair and scanned the gathering for the man he'd come to see. In the closest corner a number of men were throwing dice, alternately crowing in triumph and cursing in defeat. The center of the sawdust-strewn floor was dominated by a huge table bearing the nearly denuded carcass of an entire roasted pig.

Men clustered about it, drinking and stuffing themselves.

"Ho, Shamtare!" a voice thundered over the tavern's clamor. There, in the farthest corner, was the man he sought. Shamtare made his way across the floor, dodging gesticulating drunks and busy serving wenches with practiced ease.

The one who had called his name lounged against the tavern's rear wall with his long muscular legs propped up on a table. He was a hulking, powerful-looking man whose skin had been burnt to a dark bronze by ceaseless exposure to the elements. He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and faded breeches of black cotton. At his waist hung a massive broadsword in a worn leather scabbard. A white smile split a face that seemed better suited to scowl, and piercing blue eyes flashed as he hoisted his wine jug in a rakish salute, gesturing for Shamtare to join him. The scarred tabletop held a loaf of bread and a joint of beef, as well as heaping platters of fruits, cheese, and nuts. From the crusts and rinds scattered about, it would seem that a celebration of sorts had been going on for some time.

"Conan," said Shamtare, "I thought you said your money was running low."

"So it is," answered the other with a barbarous accent. "What of it?

Tomorrow I shall surely be working for one of this cursed city's mercenary troops, and tonight I find that I have missed civilization more than I had realized." The barbarian washed the words down with a great swallow of wine.

Shamtare sat and helped himself to a handful of ripe fruit. "Traveled far, have you?" he asked, popping pomegranate seeds into his mouth.

"Aye, from the heart of Kush across the Stygian deserts. It seems that I'm no longer welcome in the southern kingdoms."

Shamtare raised his thick eyebrows in puzzlement "But surely you are a Northman¦"

"A Cimmerian," said Conan. "But I have done much traveling."

"Indeed," murmured Shamtare, to whom Cimmeria was a chill and distant place of myth. "But about your choice of mercenary employment¦"

Conan took a bite out of the beef joint and chewed enthusiastically.

"Still trying to get me to join your troop?"

Shamtare lifted his hands. "You can't blame me for that. When I saw your performance on the practice field, I knew that you'd be an asset to any troop that signed you on. And you know I'm paid a bounty for each new recruit. I admit that when I asked where you'd be dining tonight, I had more in mind than tipping a jug with you. I say again that Mamluke's Legion could well use a man like yourself."

Conan shrugged, shaking his square-cut black mane. "I've been to see all four troops in this pestilent city, and they all offer the same wages. The king must keep close watch on his mercenary commanders that none of them can outbid the other for an experienced soldier. What in Ymir's name does King Sumuabi need with four troops of sellswords anyway?"

"The king watches over his mercenaries because he has plans for them."

Shamtare's voice dropped to hushed, conspiratorial tones. "Rumor has it that Sumuabi may need all four armies very soon."

"Crom, it seems that all you Shemites do is hole up in your little city-states and venture out once a year to try to conquer your neighbor. It is but a larger version of the clan feuds of my homeland.

You fight a few battles and then slink back home with nothing gained.

And this with Koth hungering at your border."

"True," said Shamtare tolerantly. "But this time it is whispered that we may go to aid a revolt in Anakia. Sumuabi may soon king it over two cities. If this comes to pass, then the plunder should be rich for even the lowliest foot soldier."

Conan thought on this while Shamtare borrowed the wine jug. "That is good news, yet it still matters little which troop I join."

"Come now, Conan." Shamtare set the empty jug down with a hollow thump.

"What do you want of me? I tell you, I'm great friends with the troop's armorer, and I promise you a shirt of the best Akbitanan mail if you sign up with us. The shirt you're wearing looks as though it's been through hell."

Conan snorted with laughter, looking down at his tarnished mail. Long vertical tears in the mesh had been crudely repaired with inferior links that were beginning to show traces of rust.

"Perhaps not hell itself, but a pig-faced demon from thereabouts. You have a deal, Shamtare."

The Shemite grinned in his beard, opened his mouth to ask a question, and then shut it again. The tavern's door had swung wide, and now two figures entered the room. The foremost was almost as tall as Conan and clearly a warrior. He wore a black-lacquered breastplate over brightly polished steel mail. A black crested helmet was held under one thick arm. Blue-black hair fell in a thick mass over his square shoulders. A wide white scar parted his carefully trimmed beard just to the right of his stern mouth. He looked around the room with an almost-tangible aura of scorn. The crowd in the tavern quieted somewhat at the two men's arrival, but those who stopped to gaze at the newcomers did not study the warrior but his companion.

The man who stood in the dark doorway was also tall, but he was somewhat stooped as though ill or injured. From head to foot he was wrapped in a cowl of lush green velvet. His hands, where they emerged from their sleeves, wore green-velvet gloves. His face was hidden in the shadow beneath his hood.

The strange pair hesitated a moment, then walked quickly through the tavern's crowd, which parted easily before them. They passed through a door into a back room and were lost from view.

"Who the hell was that?" asked Conan, reaching for the jug-

"Someone best left unknown," said Shamtare softly.

"No matter. What's this? No wine? Ho, wench!" Conan brandished the empty jug above his head. "More wine! I'm parched!" Spurred by the barbarian's bellow, a serving girl leapt into action. Hefting a full jug onto one shoulder, she made her way toward Conan's table. Her thin cotton shift, damp with sweat and spilt wine, clung to her shapely torso as she moved. The barbarian grinned broadly, watching her approach with frank admiration. Blushing, she thumped the heavy jug down on the table, her eyes seeking the floorboards.

"Five coppers, milord," she murmured.

"A silver piece," said Conan. He tossed her the coin, which she snatched from the air with the effortless speed born of long practice.

"Keep the change," he added needlessly, for she had already turned away. He caught up the fresh jug as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. Conan looked up into the craggy face of the black-armored warrior who had entered With the man clad in emerald velvet.

"My master would speak with you," rasped the warrior. Conan shrugged off his hand and turned to face Shamtare.. But the chair across the table was empty. Conan noticed that the tavern door was just swinging shut.

"Mitra preserve me from civilized comrades," muttered the barbarian.

"You would be wise to do exactly as my master requests." The warrior towered over the seated Cimmerian, the scar in his beard broadening as his lips tightened in a disapproving grimace. Reflected firelight gleamed upon his lacquered breastplate. Conan took several slow, noisy swallows of wine, pointedly ignoring his unwanted companion, then carefully set the jug down on the table.

"Am I a dog that I come when a stranger calls?"

The warrior started slightly, then drew a deep, audible breath in an obvious effort to control himself. His dark eyes glared into Conan's, blazing with pent fury, then flicked away.

"There is," he bit out through clenched teeth, "¦ there is gold in it for you. Much gold."

Conan belched, then stood up casually, still grasping the neck of his wine jug. "You should have said so in the first place. Lead on to your master.

The warrior stood still, his expression betraying an indignant rage held in place by will alone; then he turned stiffly and walked toward the door at the tavern's rear. He looked back over one armored shoulder.

"You won't be needing that," he said, pointing to the jug Conan carried.

The Cimmerian took another drink, walking past the warrior. "I just bought it." He put a hand on the heavy door and pushed through.

Chapter Two

The room beyond the door was long and narrow, dominated by a lengthy rectangular table set with three brass candelabra. All four walls were hung with dark curtains thickly woven with brocade to deaden sound. At the table's far end the man in the green-velvet cowl sat motionless in a high-backed chair. The candle flames danced briefly in the draft from the opened door. Conan strode into the room, stopped at the base of the table, and looked down its length at the man who had summoned him.

"You are Conan of Cimmeria." The voice was strong and masculine, yet possessed a peculiar underlying tremor, as if it took an effort to speak.

"I am," rumbled the barbarian. "And who are you?"

The dark-armored warrior pushed the door closed behind him and stepped up beside the Cimmerian.

"Dog," gritted the bearded warrior, "you are here to answer questions, not to ask them."

"Gulbanda!" The cowled man raised a green-gloved hand and Conan saw that it trembled. "Come stand beside me. I'll make a few indulgences for a simple barbarian." The warrior stalked to his master's side and stood there sullenly, mailed arms crossed over his deep chest.

"Who I am is of little importance to you. It is important only that you know that if you perform a service for me, I shall make you a rich man," said the man in green.

"Why me?"

Hoarse, wheezing laughter came from within the velvet hood. The green man gestured to Gulbanda beside him.

"My bodyguard spotted you coming into Akkharia and recognized you. I have since done some investigating of my own and found that you may well live up to your distinctive reputation."

"Recognized me?" Conan's blue eyes shifted hotly from one man to the other.

"Some years ago I saw you taken by the City Guard of Shadizar. Men knew you as a great thief." Gulbanda spoke with reluctance, apparently finding even secondhand praise of the Cimmerian distasteful. The man in velvet leaned forward intently, placing both hands flat upon the table.

"It is said that you stole the Eye of Erlik and the Hesharkna Tiara. An old Zamoran thief even told me that you had taken the Heart of the Elephant from Yara's tower in Arenjun."

"That's a lie," said Conan flatly.

"No matter," purred the man in green. "No matter. Let us simply agree that you are a thief among thieves and that I need such a man. I will pay you a hundredfold more for one night's work than you would receive for a full month of selling your sword as a lowly mercenary for King Sumuabi."

Conan dragged a chair away from the table and sat down heavily. He drank from his wine jug and leaned back in the chair.

"What is it that you would have me do?"

The green man produced a rolled scroll of parchment from a sleeve and slid it down the length of the table to Conan, who caught and unrolled it.

"That is a precise map of the mansion of Lady Zelandra. Do you know of her?"

"She is a sorceress seeking position in King Sumuabi's court, is she not?" Conan's tone was skeptical.

"That is true. Since the death of King Sumuabi's court wizard, several pretenders to his position have come forward. Lady Zelandra is among them. Be assured that her skills are greatly overrated."

The barbarian frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Talk of magic set him ill at ease.

"Cimmerian," continued the man in green, "tonight you shall break into the house of the Lady Zelandra. There you will slay her and steal for me a silver box. The box is the twin of this one."

A delicately chased silver casket, the size of a man's fists held together, was placed upon the table. It gleamed in the yellow candlelight.

"I am told by a most reliable source that Zelandra's box is like my own in every detail. It is vital that you secure this small casket and bring it directly to me. You may take anything else in the mansion that catches your eye. Anything else is yours. The casket will be kept in her inner chambers, probably beside her bed. I must have it."

As he spoke, the man in green's voice grew louder, and his words tumbled urgently over one another. When he stopped, "his breathing was raggedly distinct in the soundproofed room. His gloved, hands twitched where he held them on the table.

Conan drew himself up straight in his chair. A corded forearm slid slowly along its armrest until the Cimmerian's right hand hung idly over the worn hilt of his broadsword.

"For all your studies you seem to know me not at all," Conan said tersely. "I am not an assassin, nor do I make war upon women. Seek another for this task." The green-cowled man flinched as if slapped.

Beside him, Gulbanda's features hardened into a mask of rage.

"I will pay," croaked the green man in a strangled voice, "a roomful of gold. You'll never need to work again. You could be a rich man, with the leisure to wench and carouse the rest of your life."

Gulbanda's arms dropped to his sides and Conan's hand fell upon his hilt. A deadly tension coiled in the closed room, poisonous as an adder.

"Seek another for this task," repeated the barbarian.

"You would deny me?" The cowled man's tone fell to a caustic hiss. "So be it. Think you that my investigations halted with your career as a thief? I know well your whereabouts these past few years, Amra! There is no city in Shem that would not gleefully hang the bloodiest pirate of the Western Ocean from a gibbet! You will do as I say or I'll see that you spend your last days in the hands of King Sumuabi's Sabatean torturers!"

Conan's response was an explosive burst of action that sent his chair hurtling back against the door as he sprang forward, toward the two men, his blade whistling from its scabbard. The man in green cried out in wordless shock, falling sideways from his chair even as Gulbanda stepped in to shield him from the infuriated barbarian. The bodyguard's blade came out just as Conan's came down. Steel rang on steel as Gulbanda blocked the heavy broadsword's stroke, staggering under the terrific impact. The warrior had barely time to be astonished at his adversary's strength before he found himself frenziedly fending off a flurry of savage blows. Wielding his massive blade as lightly as if it were a slender rapier, the Cimmerian put the bodyguard on a desperate defensive, driving him back against the curtained wall and holding him there. Gulbanda, trapped in a relentless storm of steel, saw Conan's face go grim with intent and felt a chill lance his bowels. The bodyguard blocked each sledgehammer blow by inches, hoping that the barbarian's strength would falter or that the raging attack would flag, if only for a moment.

Abruptly, his wishes were granted as Conan seemed to overextend himself. A hard horizontal slash glanced from Gulbanda's guard and swung wide, leaving the barbarian's torso open to a thrust. As the bodyguard lunged forward to transfix the Cimmerian on his point, Conan's sword reversed itself with impossible speed. The barbarian's blade struck the hilt and the fist that gripped it, tearing the sword and two fingers from Gulbanda's hand on a flying ribbon of blood. The warrior fell back against the wall with a howl of animal agony, clutching his mangled hand and tangling himself in the drapery. With feline suppleness Conan spun about to face his second foe.

The man in the green cowl stood weaponless beside his chair. His right hand made a sudden throwing motion and something tinkled against the mail over Conan's chest. The barbarian recoiled.

He looked down and saw that there was moisture shining on his breast and broken slivers of glass glittering upon the floor. A wave of dizziness swept through his frame and a sharp, sweet odor filled his nostrils. Conan took a staggering step forward, raising a sword grown almost too heavy to hold. His foe had become an emerald blur.

"Damn you," he whispered through lips gone numb. The earth tilted violently beneath his feet, and he never felt himself hit the floor.

Chapter Three

-

Shamtare sat in the corner of a bar he didn't know and drank wine without tasting it. He stared into his chipped ceramic mug, taking no notice of those around him. The mercenary had walked into the first tavern he had found, sat down, and commenced drinking in earnest. Since then his fear had faded, replaced by a searing shame.

Shamtare the Shemite had been a mercenary for almost twenty-five years and feared no combatant who would confront him with muscle and steel.

He had seen violence aplenty in more battles than he could remember.

But ever since he had watched half his troop.swallowed screaming by a black cloud conjured up by a Zuagir shaman, Shamtare had no love of sorcery. It was unnatural, unmanly, and it turned his bones to water.

The mercenary took another deep pull at his wine, feeling a little less than manly himself.

"Ho, white brother." A dark figure sat at his table, pulling up a chair and leaning forward confidentially. Shamtare blinked, setting his cup down. The newcomer was a slim Kushite in the brightly decorated armor of the mercenary company of Atlach the Mace. A thick cluster of fat braids was bound behind his head. Crimson-dyed ostrich feathers were woven into the shoulders of his white cloak.

"Have you looked about yourself, friend?" The black's voice was deep and vaguely amused. 'This tavern is frequented by those riding for Atlach the Mace. Do you see anyone from Mamluke's outfit except yourself?"

Shamtare took in his surroundings for the first time. His stomach clenched.

"Indeed," continued his new companion, "do you see anyone of your color at all?" He waited for the Shemite to shake his head in response. "Now, all's the same to me. We fight for the same king, and against the same enemies, yet there are those who see all freelance troops as rivals. In fact, some of the men here are of such a mind. Thus far only your graying hair has kept you from being accosted by these characters. Be wise, white brother, and take your thirst elsewhere."

Shamtare stood, touched his brow in a salute, and headed for the door.

The night breeze was cool along the dim street. He walked to the corner and found himself looking for a tall barbarian among the passersby. He could stand no more. Setting his teeth, Shamtare walked back to the tavern in which he had met Conan the Cimmerian. He thrust thoughts of the green-clad man from his mind as he strode in the door.

The tavern was quieter now, as the dinner hour was past and the greater revels of the evening were yet to commence. The roast pig was gone from its table, and many of the torches had been allowed to burn low. The gamblers in the corner were still busy, but now they wagered in softer, more earnest tones. Shamtare saw no sign of the barbarian. He hailed the barkeep.

"Good evening. Might I have a word with you?"

"If you don't dally about it. I've a tavern to run." The barkeep mopped at his balding pate with a greasy rag. A tattered yellow beard could not obscure his sagging jowls and sour expression.

"There was a tall, black-haired barbarian in here earlier. Did you see him leave?"

"I saw no barbarian. It's bad business to carry tales about customers."

The barkeep turned as if to walk away from Shamtare, but the mercenary's hand fell upon his shoulder and arrested his progress.

"A moment more," said Shamtare quietly. "What is that room in the back for?"

"Private parties for paying customers. Take your hand off me."

"Who paid for its use tonight?"

"Take your hand off me, mercenary, or I'll tell my sons to call the city guard." Shamtare's hand dropped away from the barkeep's shoulder and fell upon the hilt of his sword.

"I don't know the man's name," continued the barkeep hastily. "I just know that he has had his way in this part of the city for almost three moons. He is said to be a wizard, and his gold is good. These are reasons enough for me to rent him the room and leave him in peace."

Shamtare turned from the barkeep and made his way to the rear of the tavern. His sword whispered from its sheath as he hit the door to the back room. He almost tripped over a fallen chair that lay just within.

Three brightly lit candelabra were set upon the room's central table.

Their warm glow revealed an empty chamber.

Dark blood shone wetly on the carpet, and more spattered the woven curtains. The point of Shamtare's sword lowered to the floor. He made his way quickly across the room, to where the drapes hung awry behind the high-backed chair. A door was concealed there, obscured by the curtains. It swung open at his touch, revealing a black alley, choked with stinking refuse. Shamtare thrust his head into the dark passage, looked about, and swore foully.

"Lose your barbarian friend?" The barkeep had followed him into the chamber. His voice was not unsympathetic. "It wouldn't be the first time that someone had audience with the Green Man and wasn't seen again. I won't even let the serving girls come back here anymore. It is said that the Green Man wishes to become King Sumuabi's new mage and will let nothing stand between himself and his goal. I'm sorry about your friend. A wise man doesn't trifle with sorcery."

"I know that," said Shamtare.

"Come, there is nothing to be done now. Perhaps the Green Man hasn't slain him. I'll buy you a mug of wine."

"Damn." Shamtare sheathed his sword.

"That's better," said the barkeep. "Was the barbarian an old friend of yours?"

"No, a new friend who'll never get to be an old one."

"Forget him, then. His turn today, our turn tomorrow. Come on."

The stout mercenary followed the barkeep from the back room to the bar.

He took a seat and accepted the man's offer of a mug of wine. Shamtare recognized the vintage as one of the best out of Ghaza, yet it seemed, at that moment, strangely bitter.

Chapter Four

The first thing that Conan became aware of was a sultry breeze smelling of moist earth. He blinked and a vortex of nausea roiled in his guts.

He was seated in a heavily built steel chair. Metal bands held his ankles, calves, wrists, and belly tightly in place. Slouched forward, his head hanging, Conan focused his bleary eyes and saw that the chair was bolted to the chamber's glossy marble floor. He had vague memories, little more than disjointed impressions, of being dragged along a noisome alleyway before being tossed bodily into a wagon full of damp straw.

A gust of warm air stirred his hair, and he raised his head with ponderous effort in order to look about. Before him, bronze-bound double doors of glass opened out into the night, revealing a shadowed garden that sloped down and away. Beyond, through a screen of trees, the lights of Akkharia lay spread out like spilled gems on an ebony table. There was no moon, but the stars told him that it was almost midnight.

"Awake, dog?" There were footfalls behind him. It was Gulbanda, his right hand bound in a white bandage. He walked a leisurely circle around the helpless Cimmerian, who silently set all of his strength to testing his bonds. The bodyguard saw the powerful muscles of Conan's arms and legs leap out into ridged relief and laughed humorlessly. His dark eyes flashed in the dim room.

"You cannot break free. Your efforts would be better spent begging me to make your death swift and easy." Gulbanda drew to a halt in front of the.barbarian and pulled a dagger from its sheath with great deliberation. Conan relaxed, staring straight ahead in stoic silence.

The bared blade made a silvery flourish before the Cimmerian's expressionless face.

"Speak." The dagger came forward until its point indented the skin beneath Conan's right eye. "You have nothing to say?"

Gulbanda moved the blade to the barbarian's forearm and lay the cold steel on bronzed skin. "Why don't you beg your heathen gods for rescue?

They might answer if you cried out to them loudly enough."

The razor-sharp edge drew slowly across flesh and a thin scarlet stream broke free in its wake. Conan bared his teeth in a feral snarl, fixing his eyes upon Gulbanda with such elemental hatred that his tormentor withdrew the knife and took an involuntary step backward.

"Gulbanda, you are mistreating our guest." The dagger made a hasty return to its sheath as the warrior retreated to a dark corner of the room.

"I did him no harm," he said in a voice thick with frustration.

"I should hope not," said the man in the green cowl. "He has important work to do tonight." The robed man stood over Conan, inspecting the shallow but painful gash inflicted by his servant. The hood lay in heavy folds about his shoulders, baring his head. He was a black man with sharp, aristocratic features. A high-domed forehead and a strong jaw might have made him handsome, but there was a weathered, weary aspect to his face that belied his obvious youth. The eyes were as rheumy and reddened as those of an old man. The skin of his face appeared to hang on his skull, slack and dull as a mask. Conan noticed a greenish smear beneath his captor's lower lip. Under the barbarian's gaze, he turned away as if ashamed, wiping his mouth on a velvet sleeve.

"You must learn to show restraint, Gulbanda. This man is a valuable tool. If you treat your tools well, they will serve you well." The black man turned back to Conan, pulled a lace handkerchief from his robe, and daubed it gently in the blood on the Cimmerian's forearm.

Folding the cloth with care, he replaced it in his pocket. He gazed down at Conan, his eyes dark wells of fathomless emotion.

"I am Shakar the Keshanian. Do you know me?"

"No, but you must be another who seeks to become King Sumuabi's toy mage. What did you do to me?"

"You have some wit for a barbarian. I broke a glass ball upon your breast. The ball was filled with a weak distillate of the Black Lotus.

The fumes produce unconsciousness but do no lasting harm. You will feel dizzy and ill for a time, though. I hope that this will not inconvenience you on your mission tonight."

Conan spat at Shakar's feet. "Get your lapdog to run your errands." He jerked his head toward Gulbanda. "I'll not serve you."

Shakar nodded absently, pressing gloved hands together and turning away from his prisoner. He strode to a low chest of drawers set against one of the marble walls.

"The priests of Keshia had little liking for me," he said thoughtfully.

"They made my life difficult. So before I left that city I stole much knowledge from them. Much knowledge and several precious items to make my life outside Keshan easier. The glass balls are one thing I acquired. These are another." Shakar arose from the chest and held his hands out to Conan.

Suspended from each fist was an amulet the size and shape of a hen's egg. They were the color of tarnished brass and inscribed in black with a single serpentine rune. Instead of a chain, each amulet dangled from a flexible loop of thin golden wire. With a quick motion, Shakar flipped one wire noose over the top of Conan's head and released it.

The strange pendant fell heavily upon the Cimmerian's breast. The black warlock leaned forward, pulling the barbarian's long hair out from beneath the encircling wire until the metal rested against his flesh.

"There," he murmured. "There." He stroked the amulet lovingly. Then his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened against his teeth, and he bent over to stare Conan full in the face.

"Hie Vakallar-Ftagn," he whispered in a voice like the stirring of dead leaves. Conan went rigid. The wire necklace contracted around his neck until the cold weight of the amulet nestled unpleasantly into the hollow of his throat. A thrill of horror coursed along the barbarian's spine. Shakar stood up straight and grinned in satisfaction. He held the other amulet away from his velvet-clad body.

"Now you shall do as I require, barbarian. You must do it because your life will be forfeit if you do not. This night you will go to the estate of Lady Zelandra, slay her, and steal for me her silver casket.

And you shall have it back here by sunrise, thief, or I will speak to your amulet thus."

Held at arm's length, Shakar's remaining pendant swung slowly on its necklace of wire. The man in green stared at it and spoke.

"Hie Vakallar-Nectos." His voice died and there was an expectant silence. Then the dangling amulet flared with white incandescence and a sharp sizzling sound filled the room. A wave of heat hit Conan's face like the rush of, air from an opened forge. The blaze of light stabbed fiercely at his eyes. For a moment the amulet hung from its wire as a fusing gobbet of nigh-intolerable brilliance; then it fell in a molten stream to spatter brightly on the polished floor. Acrid smoke arose in whorls as the liquid metal gnawed into the marble. It burned out after a long moment, leaving the floor deeply pitted and scarred. A shrill laugh broke from Shakar's lips.

"O Damballah! An ugly way to die, is it not? If you are not back by sunrise, I speak the words. If you attempt to remove the amulet, it will blaze up of its own accord. If you displease me in any way, I shall speak the words. Do you understand?" Mad triumph trembled in the warlock's voice. In the corner, Gulbanda moved uneasily. "Let him loose," Shakar ordered.

"Master?" Gulbanda hesitated and Shakar spun on him in sudden fury, cloak swirling.

"Now, fool!" The warrior hastened to Conan's side and bent to his task.

In a moment the barbarian was free of the steel chair, if not of all bonds. He stretched hugely, bending to chafe his legs where the metal cuffs had cut into his flesh.

"Do you know the Street of the Seven Roses?" asked the black sorcerer.

Conan nodded curtly. "It is where they store the shipments of wine in from Kyros."

"That is the warehouse district. Zelandra's mansion is in the residential district at the opposite end of the street. Across the city from the warehouses. It is a respectable area and often patrolled by the city guard."

"It has a very high wall," said Gulbanda coldly. "A smooth one." Conan met the bodyguard's eyes with a gaze as bleak and stark as the blade of a stiletto.

"I want my sword," he said.

Shakar nodded. "Of course. Fetch it, Gulbanda." For a moment the warrior seemed to pause, then he strode quickly from the room. The black mage looked upon Conan and lifted his gloved hands imploringly.

"Do you need to see the map again?"

"No. Do you give me your word that if I bring you the casket, you will remove this thing?" The barbarian touched the amulet about his neck as though it were a sleeping serpent coiled there.

"I swear it. And if it happens that you do not slay the woman, I shall still free you if you bring me the silver box. I must have it. Do you understand?"

The Cimmerian showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. "I understand that well enough."

"Another thing, barbarian, do you know of a Shemite named Eldred the Trader?" Shakar watched Conan intently for a reaction and was visibly disappointed by his reply.

"No. The name means nothing. Another of your rivals seeking position as the king's court wizard?"

"No. It need not concern you." At that moment Gulbanda returned, bearing Conan's sword and scabbard.

He tossed them roughly to the Cimmerian, who snatched them from the air and affixed them to his belt while moving toward the garden window.

"Remember the amulet. Do not fail me," called Shakar, but Conan had already stepped into the night and disappeared.

Chapter Five

The great wagon lumbered along the Street of the Seven Roses beneath the overarching darkness of a moonless night. Massively spoked wheels ground on the cobblestones as the driver reined his team around a bend.

Two huge wooden casks sat ponderously in the wagon's bed, their weight causing the wagon to sag alarmingly. The driver called encouragement to his straining horses and, thus distracted, did not notice the shadow that detached itself from the murk of an alley to furtively sprint across the cobbles and leap up onto the back of the rearmost cask, clinging to it like a cat. The man held himself to the curved surface of the massive barrel with powerful arms as the wagon continued its laborious progress. In the next block a high wall arose on the left side of the street. Seeing it, the man drew himself lithely atop the cask and crouched with his legs drawn up tightly beneath him. He swiftly removed a light leather helmet tucked into his belt at the small of his back and clapped it onto his head.

The wagon swayed, drawing closer to the wall. Its wheels scraped the stone curb and the man jumped, hurling himself into the air with all the strength of his mighty frame. Like a quarrel from" a crossbow, the man shot up and against the wall. His body met it with bruising impact, hands clapping against the cold stone with the fingertips alone finding purchase and digging in atop the wall. He dangled, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Then he chinned himself, threw over a muscular leg and pulled himself up so that he was lying along the top of the wall. He lay motionless for a moment, waiting for the surging vertigo to pass. It seemed that Shakar's Keshanian drug had not entirely left him. He shook his head like a troubled lion, trying to rid himself of the persistent dizziness and see into the darkness below.

An elaborate garden lay spread out in the shadows beneath him. Dim, tangled outlines of trees and undergrowth led up a gentle, landscaped slope to an expansive villa that loomed as an unlit and angular silhouette against the stars. The perfume of night-blooming flowers floated on the slow breeze.

Conan stood on the narrow top of the wall. Heedless of the height, he ran swiftly along it to where a tall tree thrust leafy branches toward the wall. He squatted, peering intently into the tree, then leapt abruptly from his perch, dropping down and forward to capture a sturdy limb in iron fingers. Leaves shook and rustled as the branch bent and then rebounded, holding his weight. The Cimmerian glanced down, then released the limb. He dropped, hit the ground, and rolled in the dewy grass. Conan came to his feet in a fighting crouch, hand on hilt and eyes raking the darkness for sign of a foe.

He was alone on a well-trimmed greensward. In front of him two dense clumps of shrubbery framed a white gravel path that shone dully in the starlight. The path wound up the hill toward the dark mass of Lady Zelandra's mansion. The barbarian moved parallel with the trail, skulking in the shadows as silently as a prowling wolf. Skirting a tiled courtyard adjacent to the manse, Conan approached a darkened window and froze in midstride.

Footfalls rattled gravel along the path. Conan ducked into the shadow of a manicured hedge, hand once again gripping his hilt. Two uniformed men walked into view along the trail. They conversed softly, voices carrying on the night air. The Cimmerian crouched motionless as the pair came to a halt not ten paces away. The men wore light armor with shortswords belted at the waist, and the larger of the two bore a long, barbed pike on one shoulder. Conan's body tensed, preparing for instant violence. The pike bearer produced a wineskin from beneath his cloak, drank deeply and passed it to his companion. The other took a swallow and returned the skin, clapping his comrade on the back with crude good humor. The pair continued down the path, blithely unaware of how close they had stood to death.

Conan relaxed, once again feeling a slight stirring of vertigo. He cursed vehemently under his breath until it passed, calling down a plague upon all dabblers in the dark arts. Then he stole silently across me grass to the waiting window. The stout shutters were thrown wide to allow the cool air of evening to ease the day's accumulated heat.

There were bars, but they were slender. Inevitably there was some noise, but Conan worked slowly and with great deliberation, bending the bars rather than tearing them from their settings. Soon he had a space wide enough to squeeze through. With a last look behind, he pulled himself through the window and into the mansion of Lady Zelandra.

He dropped into a long hall lit by a single taper. The floor was thickly carpeted, and rich Vendhyan tapestries graced the walls. The faint odor of sandalwood hung on the still air. Silence lay over the house in a heavy shroud.

Recalling the map that Shakar had shown him, Conan took his bearings and then paced soundlessly down the dim hall. He drew his sword, and the taper's soft light glimmered liquidly along its burnished length.

Ahead, the corridor turned right. At the corner a short pedestal held an elegantly fluted vase of Khitan porcelain. Conan rounded the corner and stared down a wood-paneled hall that stretched into the heart of the manse. Another lonely taper lit the corridor with a diffuse amber glow.

A woman stood stiffly in the hallway, looking at him.

"Hush!" Conan lowered his sword and lifted a finger to his lips. "I mean you no

The woman quickly reached a hand behind her dark nimbus of hair, then whipped the hand forward with all the strength of her arm and shoulders. A dagger shot toward Conan as swiftly and directly as a hurled dart.

"Crom!" The barbarian twisted his upper body so that the blade nicked his flapping sleeve in passing rather than burying itself between his ribs. The dagger sank almost half its length into the wooden wall five paces behind him.

Conan lunged forward, covering the distance between himself and the woman in two great bounds. An outstretched forearm struck her across the collarbone, knocking her from her feet and sending her sprawling gracelessly on her back. The Cimmerian's sword made a short, blurred arc that stopped a hairsbreadth from her exposed neck. Cold, sharpened steel lay upon her pulsing throat.

"Hush," said Conan grimly.

"Miserable thief!" hissed the woman. "Damned assassin! Kill me and be done with it!"

The barbarian raised his brows. Here was a beautiful woman. And unafraid. Her thick hair spilled upon the carpet, an ebony cloud surrounding a fine-boned face now sneering in defiance. Her pale eyes shone in the gloom like polished opals.

"I have no wish to harm you or anyone else in this house." Conan stepped back, keeping his sword leveled at the prone woman, but removing it from her throat. She sat up, twisting full lips with disdain.

"You're mad, then."

"No. I am not here of my own choosing. My life is in the balance. If you will aid me, I will be swiftly gone." Conan's hand went to the eldritch amulet wired at his throat. The dark-haired woman drew long legs up beneath her and regarded him steadily.

"I should scream. I am not afraid to die."

"Then why are you whispering?"

She was silent a moment.

"What is it that you seek?" she asked suddenly, her voice slightly louder and more animated than before. "Are you alone? How can I help you?" Her gaze flickered from Conan's face to a point somewhere over his right shoulder. From behind him came the almost inaudible creaking of a floorboard.

Conan spun about and received a blow to the head so savage that it tore off his helmet and sent him reeling blindly across the hall. His shoulder hit the wall with a crash that seemed to shake the building.

Stinging blood sluiced hotly into his left eye. Snarling, the barbarian lashed his sword to the left and right, but the blade met no resistance. He blinked, shaking the blood from his face.

Across the hall stood a giant of a man, naked to the waist. The taper's light gleamed upon his skin, casting yellow highlights over heavy arms and a wide, hairless chest that descended into a broad, firm paunch.

The man's head was shaved and his features were those of a pure-blooded KM tan. In his hands was a short wooden club, its head adorned with iron studs. The man was silent, but he brandished the club with casual purpose, slanted eyes glittering coldly.

Conan struck with furious speed, taking the offensive with such suddenness that the giant Khitan was nearly impaled upon his sword.

With an agile twist of his brawny body, the Khitan battered the barbarian's blade aside so that it scraped its length along the wooden bludgeon, throwing splinters. Unable to halt his headlong thrust, Conan's body slammed into that of his foe. They grappled, and the Khitan sought to seize his sword arm. With an explosive grunt, Conan tore free of the powerful grip and drove his mallet-like left fist home against the side of his enemy's face. Despite the unexpectedness of the move, the Khitan managed to react, attempting to roll with the blow. If he had not, it might well have broken his neck. Even the reduced impact drove him to one knee and started blood streaming from his lips.

As the Cimmerian's sword shot up for the death stroke, a tremendous blow struck the back of his skull. Vision ablaze with flying yellow sparks, Conan went down, his blade thumping on the carpet. In an exhibition of almost superhuman vitality, the barbarian writhed painfully onto his back. Through a thickening haze he saw the dark-haired woman, gaping at him, clutching a sturdy chair. Two of its legs were splintered stumps. The stinging sweet taste of Shakar's potion crept into the back of his throat like bile. Conan tried to rise and felt a sick vertigo, a drugged dizziness that' rose from within to smother him in cloying darkness. He reached for his sword, put his hand on the hilt, and passed out.

Chapter Six

There was stale straw in his mouth. The floor where he lay was strewn with the mildewed stuff. With effort, Conan spat, pushed himself into a sitting position, spat again, and leaned back against a dank stone wall. Though his head throbbed like a blacksmith's anvil, he put his hands first to his throat.

Shakar's lethal amulet was still in place, still promising searing, lingering death. Conan probed his battered skull with tentative fingers. Drying blood matted his hair over two conspicuously swollen lumps. He pressed his fingertips around them and winced, but found no evidence of serious damage. Satisfied, he cast his eyes about his prison.

It was a narrow, windowless slot of a cell, a little longer than the prone body of a tall man and barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. The door was a heavily barred iron grate, scaled with flakes of red rust.

Conan wondered how long he had until morning. A hollowness opened deep in his belly. To be incinerated by magic while locked in a cage like a helpless animal was no way for a warrior to die.

He saw that the iron bars of the grate were far too thick for bending and that the hinges were set too deeply in stone to be wrenched free.

The barbarian rose slowly to his feet, staring at the bars and clenching his fists until the tendons stood out across the backs of his hands. Conan's will for freedom was as elemental as that of a penned wolf. No matter if it would avail him nothing, he would tear at the bars of his prison until the amulet burnt through his throat.

The Cimmerian's nostrils flared as he stepped to the door of his prison, peering through the holes in the encrusted grate into the dimness beyond.

"Who's there?" he growled.

Scarcely visible in the darkened corridor outside his cell was the lissome figure of the woman he had encountered in the halls of the mansion above. She shrank away from the grate, one pale hand at her throat.

"How did you know I was here?" she stammered.

"You wear a scent in your hair. It is out of place in this pit."

The woman fumbled awkwardly at her belt for a moment, then there was a bright spark of flint on steel. A small, golden flame began guttering from an oil lamp that she thrust forward with one hand.

"What is your name?" she asked in a stronger voice.

"Conan," he replied.

The mellow light revealed the woman in full, her skin gleaming dusky ivory. Dark leggings clung to shapely legs.

A simple brown tunic was belted tightly around her trim waist and fell open at her throat.

"Let me out," rumbled the Cimmerian. In spite of the situation, his eyes were drawn to her beauty, captured by the loose fall of her lush black hair and the elegant oval of her face.

"A curious name." Her gaze seemed to pierce the cell's iron door, moving over the Cimmerian with a restless curiosity.

"If you do not set me free before dawn, it will be the name of a dead man," Conan said.

"Then you have a few hours of life remaining. Who are you, thief?" The barbarian heaved an exasperated sigh and gripped the bars of his prison with both hands.

"I am Conan, a Cimmerian."

"What kind of a thief breaks into the home of an accomplished sorceress and yet scruples to kill one who discovers him therein?" The tiny flame of the oil lamp was mirrored in her eyes.

"Listen to me, woman. This amulet around my neck was placed there by Shakar the Keshanian. He charged me with breaking into this house and stealing a small silver chest. If I do not return with the chest by sunrise, his amulet will slay me with hellfire. Set me free and I swear by Crom to do nothing to harm anyone in this house. I will return to Shakar without your silver box and seek to persuade him to remove the amulet at sword's point."

The woman's brow furrowed with interest and skepticism. She held the oil lamp aloft to better study Shakar's amulet, while Conan, dappled by the grate's shadow, stared back intently and awaited a response.

"Silver box," she murmured. "And what does Shakar the Keshanian want with milady's silver box?"

"Hanuman devour all silver boxes!" exploded the Cimmerian. "I neither know nor care what mad designs the Keshanian has upon Zelandra's belongings. I only know that the bastard's sorcerous toy will spell my death unless I can make him take it off. Set me free! Did I not spare you when you lay at my feet with a blade at your throat?"

The woman was silent, staring at him expressionlessly through the iron door. Conan wondered how long she had been standing outside his cell before he noticed her.

The woman reached a hand behind her head and pulled a throwing dagger from its sheath at her nape. She hefted it, flipping the knife in a glittering pinwheel and catching it again by the hilt.

"I am Neesa, scribe and bodyguard to Lady Zelandra. I can throw this dagger with some skill."

"I am well aware of that," growled Conan, feeling the faint stirring of hope.

"Heng Shih wanted to keep you shut up until the morning so as not to disturb milady. But I am of a mind to take you to Lady Zelandra and have you tell her your story. Do you swear by your gods that you will neither attempt to harm me nor escape if I free you from the cell?"

"You have the word of a Cimmerian."

Replacing the throwing dagger in its sheath, Neesa turned and pulled a stout set of manacles from a peg on the wall behind her. She pushed them through a hole in the grate, and Conan received them without comment. The manacles were of oiled steel and separated by a mere three links of heavy chain. The Cimmerian closed the manacles about his thick wrists one at a time. Each fastened with a metallic snap that rang disproportionately loud in the narrow stone cell. When he looked up, his gaze locked with the woman's for a long moment.

What Neesa saw in the barbarian's eyes she could not name, but she produced a jingling ring of keys from another wall peg. The key turned in the lock with a rust-choked rasp and the door swung wide, keening in protest. The hulking Cimmerian paused briefly in the open stone portal, then stepped free into the corridor. Neesa felt a surge of fear that dissipated when she saw Conan's face. He was grinning broadly.

"Lead on," he said. "By Crom, it's good to see I still have some luck left this ill-favored night."

Chapter Seven

-

Shakar the Keshanian paced restlessly within the vaulted marble walls of his bedchamber from the side of his canopied bed, laden with silks and exotic furs, across the exposed marble floor, to a circular table of carved and polished oak. The tabletop was bare except for a small, intricately chased silver cask that sat alone at its center. The black sorcerer halted before the table, staring fixedly at the box. This time he could not wrench himself away to continue his nervous pacing.

Instead, he extended a gloveless hand, webbed with veins as prominent as those of a man twice his age, and laid it reverently upon the lid of the silver casket. A trembling coursed through his body as he opened the box. The inner lining of the cask was seamless and polished to a mirror surface. In one corner was a small pile of powder as deeply green as the needles of a northern pine. Beside it lay a tiny silver spoon of the' kind used to feed infants. Shakar gazed hungrily at the emerald powder, his lips drawing back from yellowed teeth set in receding gums.

"So little left," he breathed. He snapped the box's lid shut with a convulsive movement and turned forcibly away to resume his pacing. He reached the bed and turned, robes hissing on the smooth floor, and felt his resolve crumble. The silver box on the table drew him forward until he found himself standing over it, opening the lid and seizing the spoon in a desperately eager hand.

At that moment, just beyond the circular table, a silent ripple of roseate light danced across the naked wall. Shakar stiffened, fearful that his craving for the emerald dust had addled his mind. Slow streams of multicolored light were running fluidly over the wall of his bedchamber. As he watched, they began lacing themselves together, weaving their glowing fabric into a luminous haze. Soon a rainbow-hued expanse of churning fog covered the full breadth of the wall. Shakar watched in mute astonishment as the colors dimmed, giving way to a brilliant white light. The dark silhouette of a man solidified there, suspended motionless in the pale blaze of phosphorescent mist. The head, as dark and featureless as a shadow, turned toward Shakar and regarded him.

"Sweet Set!" The black sorcerer took a faltering step backward, bringing a spoonful of the green powder to his open mouth and thrusting it beneath his tongue. His body jerked as though struck by a heavy blow, and the spoon dropped to jingle merrily on the marble floor. An incoherent cry of rage burst from his lips and resounded in the still room. Savage strength radiated through his wasted limbs, and his face lit with an unholy glee.

"Invade my chambers and die, fool!" howled Shakar, spittle flying from his lips. His hands described a swift sequence of complex signs in the air before him. At their conclusion, his left hand shot up and twisted into a crooked talon. He extended it toward the figure floating in its luminous cloud and barked a series of guttural syllables, words in a language that was ancient before the oceans drank Atlantis.

An ethereal ring of rolling darkness solidified around his left wrist.

Sharp pinpoints of white light winked in the black coil and a bone-numbing chill radiated from it, turning Shakar's panting breath into plumes of steam. The Keshanian's hand drew back and then lashed forward, casting the black ring as a man might throw a stone. It moved toward the suspended silhouette with easy speed.

The figure lazily raised a shadow-hand amid the bright vapor. The dark coil hit the outstretched hand and shredded into fading black streamers.

Shakar gasped aloud. The invader had just shrugged off the most lethal death-spell in his repertoire. A flat, metallic laugh emanated from the suspended silhouette and a sourceless light shone upon the featureless mask of darkness. A face was revealed, and it was a face that Shakar the Keshanian knew well.

"Eldred!" cried the man in green. "Why do you torment me?" He fell to his knees on the hard floor, hands held out in shaking supplication. "I must have more of the Lotus! Anything I have is yours! What do you want of me? What must I do? Eldred?"

The fog of light upon the wall began to draw in upon itself, fading at its edges, hiding the dark figure from view.

Shakar's voice rose in frantic despair. "Eldred! Don't leave me!" But the sorcerous projection shrank and thinned until it was merely a few stray wisps of dispersing vapor.

Then he was facing a blank marble wall. Hot tears rose in the black warlock's eyes, spilling down his haggard cheeks despite his best efforts to contain them.

There was someone at his door.

"Master! Master, what troubles you?" Gulbanda's voice came muffled through the door's heavy panels. "Are you unwell?" Shakar stood unsteadily, drawing a velvet sleeve across his face.

"Enter, Gulbanda. All is well. I had¦ an ill dream." He faced away from the door as it opened, admitting the bearded bodyguard, who looked quizzically around the bedchamber. Gulbanda's eyes narrowed as they fell upon the open silver box. Shakar composed his features, but did not turn to look upon his servant. He,cleared his throat.

"Has the Cimmerian returned?"

"No, master. I would notify you at once. There are but four hours until dawn."

"The barbarian may still succeed. He does not seem to be a man easily thwarted. Still, go to the house of Lady Zelandra and keep watch over the gates. He may need your assistance in escaping. Go now."

Gulbanda grimaced in disapproval, his scar making a pallid flash in his black beard, but nodded obediently. The dark-armored bodyguard stepped out of the room, then hesitated in drawing the door closed.

"Master, if he returns without the cask, or even with it, may I have him? It will be months before I can wield a sword with any skill. It seems a small favor to grant to one as loyal as I."

"If he does not return, I shall slay him with my amulet.

If he does return to this house, then he is yours, faithful Gulbanda."

The bodyguard grinned with clear pleasure. "Thank you, master. I would have him in the chair again, repenting that he ever took my fingers."

"Good evening, Gulbanda."

The door closed, leaving Shakar alone in his bedchamber. He walked slowly to his bed and sat, his body weighted with a weariness that left his mind free and ablaze with urgent energy. He considered trying to sleep, or at least lying down to rest for a while, but he didn't move.

Shakar simply sat on the edge of the bed with trembling hands clutched tight in his lap. He tried to fix his black eyes on the floor between his feet, but again and again his gaze rose helplessly to fasten upon the open silver cask.

Chapter Eight

-

Conan followed Neesa out of the little dungeon, through a cobwebbed wine cellar and up a worn flight of stone stairs. They made their way silently down taper-lit corridors until they stood before a broad double door inlaid with plaques of carved ivory. Neesa laid a slim hand upon the heavy door and turned to the barbarian.

"Milady is likely awake, but if she still sleeps, you must be silent and allow me to wake her. If startled from sleep she might smite us with some spell." Conan's face went dour and he stroked lightly at Shakar's amulet with one hand.

"By Manannan, it seems the more I strive to avoid sorcery, the more it strives to seek me out," he grumbled. "Lead on."

The doors swung open soundlessly at Neesa's touch, revealing an ornate, painted screen that shielded from view the unlit room beyond. Neesa took a tentative step within and the darkness was abruptly split by a flicker of weird crimson light. The two halted on the threshold as the room was suddenly aglow with a rainbow of brilliant colors. A soft feminine cry, half dismay and half astonishment, came out of the dark.

Hearing it, Conan and Neesa lunged together around the screen and into Lady Zelandra's chamber, where they stopped short in amazement.

Vaporous light coruscated along the wall, illuminating the room with a shifting radiance. A luxurious bed stood against the left wall, flanked by massive shelves crammed with books. Tables were set on either side of the bed, and they too were heaped with books. A woman was sitting bolt-upright in the bed, half wrapped in a white froth of silken sheets. She stared at the wall across from her, where foggy strands of many-hued light were interlocking in a grid of translucent fire. The colors died and the wall became a sheet of phosphorescent mist. An ominous shadow coalesced there.

Conan's instinctive fear of the supernatural seized him in a frigid fist, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Heng Shih!" screamed the woman in the bed. "Heng Shih!"

A door on the opposite side of the chamber burst open and a man charged through, sliding to a stop beside the bed. It was the huge Khitan whom Conan had fought in the corridor. In his left hand was the wooden mace; in his right was a heavy scimitar, its flaring blade reflecting the sinister light that bathed the room. Holding both weapons before him, the Khitan advanced expressionlessly upon the black shadow suspended in light.

"Hold!" cried the woman. "Don't touch him, Heng Shih." The Khitan stopped his advance but moved sideways to put himself between the sorcerous projection and the woman in the bed.

"Oh, Lady Zelandra. You prove that your wisdom is the equal of your beauty." The voice was deep and resonant. It was not loud, yet seemed to reach into every corner of the room. Conan recoiled, his wilderness-bred senses assuring him that what he seemed to hear was not sound at all. It came from no discernible direction. The black figure spoke directly into the mind.

"Who are you? Why do you trespass here?" The woman in the bed seemed more enraged than afraid. The invader, etched starkly against shifting veils of white light, laughed and spoke again.

"You know me as Eldred the Trader."

The woman bristled, coming to her knees on the bed.

"Assassin! Have you come here to gloat over my impending death?" she spat.

"On the contrary, sweet lady, I have come to offer you life. I am the master of the Emerald Lotus. You have tasted its glorious power and felt its mortal demands. I am fresh from a visit to the home of Shakar the Keshanian, and I fear that he will not last another two days. His appetite escalates as his supply dwindles. You seem to be in much better health, so I infer that you have shown greater control than the Keshanian. You may live another week or two, but be aware that without a steady supply of my lotus, you are doomed."

"You have a price?" asked Zelandra bitterly. The shadow figure continued as though she had not spoken.

"The Emerald Lotus is a wondrous gift to sorcerers. You have experienced but a meager fraction of its strength in your own wizardry.

Its power is limitless. With enough of the lotus a mage might become all-powerful, while those seduced by it and then abandoned must die. In the guise of Eldred the Trader, I approached both you and Shakar the Keshanian. Two petty sorcerers locked in a trifling rivalry over which would be privileged to become King Sumuabi's lackey. The lure of the mythical Emerald Lotus proved as strong as I knew it would be. I sold it to you for a pittance, but I would have given it to you for nothing had you chosen not to buy."

"Why?" The rage had faded from Zelandra's voice, leaving only a profound weariness.

"Why?" The veils of stark light throbbed brighter. "Because I wondered how much power such a small amount would grant you. Because I wondered how long you could make it last. But most of all, because I wondered how long it would take you to die once it was gone. I have learned so much from you, sweet lady, and from Shakar the keshanian. It is knowledge I shall use to good effect. I have found the seeds of the Emerald Lotus, lost since the time of black Acheron, and I am its master. It shall strengthen me and slay my enemies. All the mages of Stygia shall soon have the opportunity to sample my lotus, and those who accept it will either obey me as loyal followers or be left to die.

Can you not see it, sweet lady? I will command a legion of lotus-enslaved wizards, while that which holds them in bondage grants me greater and greater power. Who can say what the limits of my dominion might be?" The ebon outline fell silent, pausing as though to savor the moment. "I am destined to become a great force in the world, Zelandra, but you need not fear me. I am not here to slay you; rather I would ask you, lady, would you share this power with me?"

"Who are you?" The woman on the bed spoke without emotion.

The moving curtains of fiery mist drew apart, dimming into the background as the figure became visible: a tall man dressed in a regal gray robe trimmed with ermine. Great dark eyes set in a noble, sharp-featured face surveyed the room with calm intensity. A subtle, golden radiance played about him as he bowed deeply toward the Lady Zelandra.

"I am called Ethram-Fal."

"Ethram-Fal?" Zelandra's voice cracked. "I have heard of you, Stygian.

A reject of the Black Ring. Why do you present yourself as a normal man rather than the twisted dwarf that you are?"

"Bitch!" The invader all but choked in astonishment. "I offer you life and a place by my side and you would mock me?" The sorcerer's words burst inside their skulls with staggering force, scalding with shock and rage. The figure fell in upon itself, its outline collapsing into the image of a much smaller, hunched man in plain gray robes. Bulging eyes glared furiously from beneath a dark and beetle brow. The haze of light around him paled and then vanished entirely, revealing a rocky desert landscape touched by the first pallid rays of dawn. Sharp spires of ruddy stone rose to his immediate left, while on his right a small, unusually regular formation of jagged peaks lay upon the azure horizon.

Ethram-Fal's clenched fists shook by his sides while his thin mouth worked in an uncontrollable fury of outrage.

"I will return to you in three days. By then my lotus will have tightened its grip. I swear by the Crawling Chaos that I shall hear you beg for my acceptance. And then, by Set, then I shall decide if you are worthy!"

The image winked out like a snuffed candle, leaving the four of them staring at a blank wall in a room gone suddenly dark.

Chapter Nine

The Lady Zelandra fell back among her pillows as if in a faint, then sat up abruptly, twisting one hand in the air. Four torches set in wall mounts flared into brilliant orange flame, flooding the room with light. She was still staring at the wall.

"Damn him," she said softly, "and damn me for a fool."

"Milady," cried Neesa as she crossed the bedchamber, towing Conan by one muscular arm. Heng Shih, the Khitan, brandished both of his weapons, the flare-bladed scimitar whistling as it cut the air. He did not speak.

"What's this?" Lady Zelandra swung her fine long legs over the bedclothes and came to her feet. She advanced upon the Cimmerian, her eyes slitted and mouth tight with contempt.

"Milady," said Neesa, "this is Conan. He broke into the house, and Heng Shih and I just managed to overcome him. He has an interesting story to tell. He is

"A pawn of Shakar's," cut in Zelandra. "The Keshanian amulet about his neck reveals the truth. Is that third-rate trickster so desperate that he sends barbarian thieves to rob me? What did you come seeking, oaf?"

Zelandra's hair was black, straight, and shot through with silver.

Though she was well into middle age, her body was still erect and firm, beautiful in her silken nightrobe. Her keen black eyes inspected her uninvited visitor with obvious repugnance.

"I am no friend of Shakar's, lady. If you know the amulet, then you must know its purpose. If I do not return to the Keshanian by dawn, its flame will burn my head from my shoulders. Shakar sent me here to steal from you a silver box. I had no choice in the matter."

"Of course," muttered Zelandra as if speaking to herself, "without more lotus the rascal dies."

"With this damned amulet around my neck, I die in any case." Conan's voice grew louder. "Release me so that I may at least try to force the dog to remove it. Swear to give me that chance, and I shall help you against the Stygian who calls himself Ethram-Fal."

"Derketo, but you have gall," Zelandra grinned briefly in reluctant admiration. "And how might an unwashed savage like yourself be of assistance in a war of wizards?"

Conan tossed his black mane with manifest impatience. "The sorcerer who made himself appear upon the wall, the one who claimed mastery over the thing he called the Emerald Lotus, I know where he is to be found."

Heng Shih slid the scimitar into his wide yellow sash, then fluttered the fingers of his right hand as though drawing quick pictures in the air. Conan recognized the movements as a form of sign language, but had no notion of what message was conveyed.

"Perhaps," said Zelandra soberly, "but who can say?"

She took two swift steps to the Cimmerian's side and laid a cool hand upon his amulet and throat. Conan clenched his teeth. Expecting the thing to blaze into murderous life, he fought an impulse to shrink away.

"Hie Nostratos-Valkallar," she whispered, as her fingers slid between the egg-shaped amulet and Conan's throat. The muscles of the barbarian's frame locked into taut knots, but he held himself in place.

The sorceress smiled lazily into Conan's tense face and spoke: "Hie Nostratos-Nectos."

White fire erupted before the Cimmerian's eyes as Zelandra jerked the amulet free. She stepped back, her hand full of livid molten brilliance. The barbarian clasped both hands around his naked throat as a thick wave of searing heat struck his body.

"Crom and Ishtar!" The curse ripped from Conan's lips.

The sorceress opened her hand and liquid metal streamed down her fingers in bright rivulets, spilling to the floor, It seemed to flee her fingers, every drop shedding itself to sizzle in the carpet. Her hand was unmarked.

"Just a toy," she said. "Now where is Ethram-Fal, and how do you come by such convenient information? If you are lying, I shall devise a death for you that will make the amulet seem most merciful."

"To hell with you and your threats," snarled Conan. "I've been drugged, beaten, and blackmailed all night long. I said I knew where he was and I meant it. I could use a drink."

Heng Shih advanced menacingly, hefting his wooden mace. Conan stood his ground, glaring, and Neesa spoke up.

"I'll get some wine, milady. With your permission?"

"Certainly," said Zelandra, the reluctant smile playing about her lips again. "Being drugged, blackmailed, and beaten does sound like thirsty work."

Neesa bolted from the room, leaving Conan and Heng Shih to glower at one another while Zelandra examined the barbarian as though seeing him clearly for the first time.

"The Khitan is mute, then?" asked Conan, relaxing a little.

"Yes, though his hands and his weapons speak most eloquently when he wishes."

Conan rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "His club spoke to my skull earlier this evening, though I'll wager that if I had not felt the lingering fumes of Shakar's drugs, I would have heard him stealing up behind me." Heng Shih's round face split in a wolfish grin, the fingers of his right hand working in the air before him.

"He says that you have the hardest head of any man he's ever met," said Zelandra wryly.

"Others have said the same," replied the Cimmerian. "Tell him that he's the fastest-moving fat man I've ever seen."

The Khitan frowned darkly, drawing himself up to his full height as Neesa re-entered the room bearing a silver tray set with a jug of wine and a large pewter tankard.

"He understands you perfectly," said Lady Zelandra.

"So I thought." Conan snatched the jug from the platter with manacled hands and tore the cork out with his teeth. Disdaining the tankard, he drank directly from the bottle, taking several deep swallows before pulling it from his lips with an explosive sigh of satisfaction. He strode to the nearest table and, carelessly pushing books aside, sat on its edge. Nursing the bottle, he stretched his long legs out before him and gave every sign of being well pleased with himself.

"As soon as you are adequately refreshed, perhaps you would see fit to tell us where you believe Ethram-Fal can be found," said Zelandra sarcastically. Heng Shih drew his scimitar casually from his sash and absently began to test its edge with a thumb. None of this served to hurry Conan, who took a last, leisurely swallow from the bottle and set it on the table beside him.

"After you taunted the Stygian and he took on his true aspect, the scenery behind him became as clear as if we looked through a window of glass into a desert," said the Cimmerian.

"I angered him and his concentration faltered," said Lady Zelandra.

"What of it?"

"When the desert was revealed," went on Conan patiently, "I saw a ridge behind him. It is a row of small peaks that men call the Dragon's Spine."

"You have seen this ridge before?" asked Neesa in amazement.

"I have seen it twice. The last time was two months ago, when I took a caravan across Stygia from the Black Kingdoms. Before that, I saw it on the way to the dead city of demons called Pteion."

"You have been to Pteion?" Zelandra's eyes were wide in the torchlight.

"I was there once," replied Conan. "It is a place best avoided.

Ethram-Fal is in eastern Stygia, a few days' travel from the Shemitish border. From the position of the Dragon's Spine, he is both west and south of Pteion, though what he is doing in that godforsaken wasteland only Crom knows. I give you my word that all I have said is true. Now, if you will remove these manacles, and give me back my sword, I will return to the house of Shakar the Keshanian. After my visit, I promise that he shall trouble neither you nor anyone else unless it be in hell."

At a gesture from Zelandra, Neesa came forward, drawing from within her tunic a small key which she fitted into the Cimmerian's manacles. In a moment they fell from his wrists, clattering to the floor.

"Barbarian¦" said Zelandra. She hesitated, a rosy tint suffusing her features, then began again: "Conan, that area of Stygia is little known. I have scant time to find a reliable guide. If you lead me into that territory, your reward will be rich."

"But, milady," burst out Neesa in dismay. Zelandra silenced her with an imperious wave of a hand.

"What else is there for me?" she snapped. "Do I sit here passively and wait for madness and death? Or perhaps you would have me submit myself to Ethram-Fal?"

"No, milady," murmured Neesa, lowering her gaze. Heng Shih folded his thick arms impassively; only his bleak eyes revealed his emotion.

"Besides, Conan," Zelandra continued, "Shakar will die shortly for want of the Emerald Lotus. Slaying him would be an act of mercy. I need your aid now and can pay well for it."

The Cimmerian scowled, his blue eyes burning with distrust.

"I have little use for wizards he began, but Zelandra cut him off.

"Conan, I swear by Ishtar and Ashtoreth to do you no harm by sorcery or otherwise. Can you not see that my life is in the balance now? Without your aid, Ethram-Fal will claim my life with his lotus just as surely as Shakar would have claimed yours with his amulet. On the journey you could be guide and guard in one; but when we find his sanctuary, I shall confront Ethram-Fal alone. You needn't deal with him at all¦" A note of pleading desperation had crept into her voice. Conan shifted in discomfort and suddenly felt Neesa's body pressed warmly against his side. In front of him, Lady Zelandra extended a hand in supplication more eloquent than words.

"Please, barbarian."

"What the hell," said Conan gruffly. "I trust that the wages will outstrip those of a mercenary."

"Tenfold," said Zelandra. "By Pteor, Conan, you shall never have reason to regret this." The Cimmerian felt Neesa remove herself from his side.

At the same moment he noticed Heng Shih's face had taken on the expression of a man attempting to swallow a mouthful of spoiled meat.

"I'm damned if I don't regret it already," he grumbled. "When do we leave?"

"After sunrise." Zelandra spun about in a swirl of her silken robe. 'I have many preparations to make, and you could doubtless use a little sleep after a night like this. Heng Shih, show our guest to one of the bedchambers."

The big Khitan thrust his scimitar once more through his sash and brusquely beckoned the Cimmerian to follow him. Neesa slipped out the door just ahead of them, not glancing at Conan, but heading off down the hallway in the direction opposite that taken by Heng Shih and the barbarian.

Conan looked back over a broad shoulder and muttered a curse as he watched the woman round a corner out of sight. When he turned back to Heng Shih, the Khitan's round, yellow face was split by a grin that the barbarian found vexing.

In the mansion's opposite wing, the burning tapers were fewer and the rooms seemed unoccupied and unused. The hallway finally ended in a door that Heng Shih shoved open roughly. Within was a small, windowless, but elegantly appointed bedchamber. Conan stepped inside, and turned to the Khitan.

"My sword," he said. "Bring me my sword. I shall sleep poorly without it at hand." Heng Shih performed an elaborate shrug that seemed to indicate that he found the quality of the Cimmerian's rest of less than paramount concern. With that ambiguous gesture he closed the door upon the barbarian, leaving Conan wondering when he might hold his sword again.

Alone, Conan stretched like a weary panther as fatigue came over him despite what he had said to the Khitan. He examined the door, checked that it could not be locked from the outside, then sat down heavily on the bed. Falling back to sprawl among the velvet blankets, he let himself drift, confident that his senses would awaken him to any danger. He was sleeping soundly when there came a gentle knock at the door.

The Cimmerian snapped from slumber to complete waking clarity with the speed of a wild animal. He sat up on the bed, planted both feet on the floor, and wished that he had a weapon.

"Come," he rasped and waited. The door swung open soundlessly. The first thing that he saw was the proffered hilt of his sword.

"So," Conan began, "you decided..." He fell silent.

It was Neesa who brought him the sword. She stepped tentatively into the room, bare white arms extending from filmy sleeves as she held the hilt of the heavy broadsword out to him. Her only garment was a diaphanous robe that floated about her like a soft cloud of translucent vapor. The room's single taper illumined the long curves of her slender body through the robe's revealing gossamer.

"I Neesa's voice faltered. "I was afraid that Heng Shih would not bring you your sword and that you would think that we mistrusted you. I thought She flushed and thrust the sword out to him. Conan took his blade and held it uncertainly, his gaze fixed upon her. He had come to his feet without thinking and now he became painfully aware of the woman's obvious discomfort.

"Neesa," said Conan hoarsely. "I'll take Zelandra's payment in gold."

"What? They don't know I'm¦" she stammered. Her face twisted in mingled confusion and anger. "Damn me for an idiot!" she exclaimed savagely.

With that she lunged forward, throwing her arms around the barbarian and crushing her mouth against his. The sword was pinned between their bodies. Conan released it, his arms moving automatically around her.

Neesa laid her hands upon his wide chest and thrust him away, breaking the embrace. The sword dropped to the carpet, where it lay unnoticed.

Wild-eyed and panting, Neesa glared at the Cimmerian, who looked on in mute amazement.

"I am not payment," she gritted. "I thought¦ oh, to hell with what I thought!" She whirled and ran from the bedchamber, slamming the door behind her.

Conan stared at the door for a full minute. He glanced down at his sword to be certain that it was really there. Then he sat on the bed again and rubbed his jaw. He reflected that it made little difference how long he lived or how many women he knew, the opposite sex continued to provide surprises. Apparently Neesa had come to him of her own accord and he had managed to drive her off with a few ill-chosen words.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time that he had shown poor judgment where women were concerned.

But there was little point in worrying about it. All and all, this was a superior close to a difficult day. He was employed, free of Shakar's magic, and lying on a fine bed with a belly full of wine. Conan lolled back on the blankets once again and kicked off Ms boots. Things had, indeed, been much worse. In a few moments the barbarian was asleep.

Chapter Ten

Alone in her bedchamber, Zelandra brooded.

The torches burned as ruddy as dying embers, filling the room with a ruby twilight that matched the sorceress's mood. Her long, silken robes whispered on the marble floor as she moved among her books, studying the unwieldy piles on the tables and then methodically examining her shelves. In a corner, she knelt and pulled an armload of long leather tubes from behind a row of books.

Shoving the tomes aside, she piled the leather tubes on a table, peering at each in turn. Zelandra selected one that was pale and slender, and drew from it a rolled scroll of parchment. It was a map, darkened by age and inscribed in a dead language. The sorceress muttered to herself, smoothing the crackling scroll flat on the dusty tabletop.

The map depicted the eastern regions of what was now Stygia, but the highland areas were sketched in with little detail. Zelandra sighed.

The map seemed all but useless; still, it would have to suffice. She thrust the scroll into the tube and set it beside her bed. Then she hesitated, wrapped in indecision.

Resolution came to Zelandra, sending her striding to the far corner of the chamber. She reached for a torch, twisting it in its sconce, and a section of the bookshelf-lined wall swung open like a door. Within was a tiny, circular room hung with curtains of black velvet. A single chair sat at a round, ebony table that all but filled the little chamber. The sorceress stepped into the secret room, and the door swung shut, sealing her in darkness.

Zelandra whispered a soft incantation, and an unearthly silver glow dispelled the gloom. Ten spheres of hematite were set in a circle on the tabletop, and they radiated a chill illumination.

The sorceress sat in the chair, touching each of the stones in turn.

Silver light raked her features, turning them stark and sinister. Her hands danced over the ring of stones, describing intricate patterns, and a patch of light appeared in the air before her. It rolled and seethed, suspended above the circle of silvery stones like a ball of glowing smoke.

"Mithrelle," said Zelandra clearly. "Mithrelle."

The ball of smoky light vanished, and it was as though a distorted mirror suddenly hung before Zelandra. The flattened image of a woman's face peered at the sorceress, floating above the table.

"Mithrelle," said Zelandra. The conjured face blinked as if startled.

It was a face of extraordinary beauty.

"Who dares?" The voice was rich and throaty, sounding as if its owner shared the little room with the Lady Zelandra.

"Who dares, indeed." Zelandra smiled casually, but her hands were clenched into tight fists, and the pulse fluttered visibly in her throat.

"Zelandra!" The woman called Mithrelle smiled in recognition. Black hair hung in heavy coils around her pale face. Eyes like pools of oil gleamed with dark humor. Her lips were stained so deeply red as to appear black. "To what do I own this unexpected pleasure?"

"Greetings, Mithrelle. I'm loathe to disturb you at this hour, but I have need of information. And everyone knows that there is no one so well informed as yourself."

Mithrelle laughed, throwing back her head and baring her white throat.

On her breast, a swollen garnet hung from a necklace of black pearls.

"Flattery! This is not like you, Zelandra."

"I need your help, Mithrelle."

"Even so? You have had little use for me since we studied together."

"Your path is not my path, Mithrelle."

"Oh no." Mithrelle's tones grew heavy with sarcasm. "The lady prefers the quiet life of a scholar. She hides away in Akkharia with her slaves, only venturing out to go to market."

"How is Sabatea, Mithrelle?" Zelandra's voice turned hard.

"Very well. I have performed a few favors for the sorcerers of the Black Ring, and they have been appropriately grateful. My life is full of pleasures. And your own? Is that strapping Khitan slave still keeping you company?"

"I freed Heng Shih long ago," said Zelandra tersely. She fought to control herself. Anger would accomplish nothing.

"Of course you did. I'd expect nothing less. You are the same woman you were a score of years ago. Yet, I have heard rumors as of late that the reclusive Lady Zelandra is seeking a more public position. I couldn't credit it." Mithrelle paused theatrically, lifting a long-fingered hand to stroke her chin. Her nails were sharp and gleamed with black lacquer.

Zelandra shrugged in resignation. She should have known that Mithrelle would ask at least as.many questions as she answered.

"I'm seeking the position of court wizard to the king."

"It's true, then," exclaimed Mithrelle in mock surprise. "And why would the Lady Zelandra demean herself by working for another? Could it be that her inheritance is dwindling and that she must needs earn a living for the first time in her life?"

"I fail to see why you ask so many questions," Zelandra replied stiffly, "since you obviously know all the answers already." Mithrelle laughed in delight, her mirth as sweet and cloying as poisoned honey.

"Indeed. That is why you sought audience with me, is it not? Now, how can I assist my old friend?"

"Tell me of the Stygian sorcerer named Ethram-Fal."

"Phaugh!" Mithrelle grimaced delicately. "What do you want with that one?"

"He has insinuated himself into my affairs. He claims that he can sell me magical talismans of unprecedented power."

"Ah." The Sabatean's eyes lit up. "I see. You wish to know if his goods can assist you in claiming the position of court wizard."

The sorceress nodded ruefully, as if admitting an unwelcome truth.

Inwardly, Zelandra rejoiced that Mithrelle was not as perceptive as she believed herself to be.

"Ethram-Fal is a laughingstock. I presume that you have heard how he came to Sabatea seeking membership in the Black Ring. Even the feeblest student of the dark arts knows that the Black Ring recruits its own members, yet still the dolt came calling. Perhaps he imagined that his greatness had escaped the notice of the Black Ring. They were more merciful than might be expected, however, merely casting him out of the city in disgrace. If Thoth-Amon had been about when Ethram-Fal made his plea, the upstart would probably still be screaming under the Steel Wings."

"Do you know where he dwells?"

"Ethram-Fal was born in Kheshatta, though I believe that he left the City of Magicians in order to take up residence here in Sabatea. The Dark Gods alone know where he has fled since his exile. You have seen him in Akkharia?"

"Yes, but his home is elsewhere."

Mithrelle's eyes grew hooded and lazy. "Why should this be so important to you? Ethram-Fal has little to his credit save his considerable skill in the magic of plants, fungi, and such. Still, I hardly imagined that his rejection by the Black Ring would drive him to become a merchant.

What manner of magical talismans did he offer, that you felt it necessary to call me?"

"Just a handful of potions and philters. Magic intensifiers, mostly."

Zelandra fought to keep the tension out of her voice, smiling sheepishly. "I shall need all the aid I can muster to be chosen as King Sumuabi's court mage."

"Yet you don't seem curious about your rivals. What is it that truly concerns you about Ethram-Fal, Zelandra?"

"It is small wonder that I do not converse with you more often, Mithrelle. You are the most suspicious woman I have ever known."

Zelandra's hands crept across the table toward the shining spheres of hematite. The image of Mithrelle swelled and throbbed brighter.

"Oh no, milady. Don't think to end this audience just yet. I can't abide unanswered questions, and you have made me very curious."

"Goodbye, Mithrelle." Zelandra slipped her hands down on two stones.

The flat image of the Sabatean sorceress flickered and dimmed, then abruptly flared to brilliant life.

"You would desert your old friend?" Mithrelle's voice dropped to a guttural growl. "Come to me, little Zelandra. Come to me and answer my questions and be my slave." The oval image expanded rapidly and acquired depth. Zelandra felt as if she stared into an open portal carved from empty air.

Mithrelle's bare, white arms shot out of the image. Her hands seized Zelandra about the throat. Black nails scored Zelandra's flesh as the Sabatean sorceress reached into the chamber as if leaning over a windowsill.

"You would toy with me, Zelandra? Did you forget that I was always your better? Come!" Mithrelle's long-fingered hands squeezed off her breath, lifting Zelandra from her seat.

The blood roared in the sorceress's ears. She pulled back against the Sabatean's embrace, lifting her hands from the silver-glowing stones and clapping them upon Mithrelle's temples. Crimson lightning crackled from her palms. Mithrelle's mouth fell open like a castle's drawbridge, but no sound emerged. Her hands sprang from Zelandra's throat and clawed spastically at the air.

"You were always overconfident, Mithrelle," said Zelandra hoarsely. She dropped her hands onto the stones. Mithrelle's arms were wrenched forcibly back into the image, which shrank and flattened until it once again resembled a floating mirror.

"You can't!" The Sabatean found her voice. She snarled like a beast, a lank lock of black hair falling across her pale face. "You can't!"

"I can," said the Lady Zelandra. Her hands moved upon the stones and the image winked out in a scarlet flash, like a bursting bubble of blood.

The sorceress stood, stretching wearily and rubbing her bruised neck as the secret room's door swung open behind her. She returned to her bedchamber, where the torches burned ruddy and low. Casting a glance at the forsaken bed, Zelandra shook her head and sighed. There would be no more sleep tonight. She moved silently about the room, gathering her belongings for the long journey ahead.

Chapter Eleven

Broad beams of golden sunlight stretched across the floor of Shakar's study. The black sorcerer stood quietly, staring out the open window into the verdant splendor of his garden. A cooling breeze bore both the songs of birds and the perfume of greenery into the room, but the tranquil pleasures of the garden went unnoticed by the Keshanian mage today. He walked slowly from the window seat across the study, leaned listlessly against his wide mahogany desk, and tried not to think of the silver box mat he had placed within it.

The sound of a slamming door came to him and he started violently, turning eager, sleepless eyes to the study's curtained entrance.

Gulbanda burst in, panting, his crested helmet clutched under one dark-armored arm.

"Master," Gulbanda said between gasps. "The barbarian, Lady Zelandra, and two of her servants have left the city!"

For a moment Shakar looked as though he might fall; then a surge of rage seemed to buoy him up.

"You lie!" screamed the Keshanian. His hands twisted through a series of swift movements, ending with his left hand raised, its fingers crooked into talons. Gulbanda knew the gestures that preceded the death-spell and fell to his knees.

"Master, I swear that it is true. I saw them leave by the caravan gate, and even now they ride the Caravan Road toward Sabatea. The amulet was gone from the barbarian's neck. I swear it." The sweat of fear shone on the warrior's face.

Shakar spun away from the kneeling man, waving his fists in uncontrolled fury.

"By the Black Gods, am I to be thwarted at every turn? Where were they bound?"

"So help me, Master, I know not. I watched the lady's house as you instructed and, when they departed, I followed them to the caravan gate. Then I came directly to you."

Facing the window, Shakar's arms dropped limply to his sides. He turned back to his bodyguard, face haggard but calmed.

"Arise, Gulbanda" he said quietly. "Forgive me for threatening my finest servant and most loyal friend." As Gulbanda faltered to his feet, Shakar took him by the arm and led him to the window seat.

"Here, sit down. You must be tired after your long vigil."

"I slept not a moment last night, master." Heavy lids half veiling his eyes attested to his honesty.

"Nor did I," said the mage. "Come, let me take your breastplate and helmet. We shall relax, eat, drink, and plan what is to be done." The Keshanian helped Gulbanda out of his breastplate, mail shirt, and helmet, setting them on a table across the room. He brought a split loaf of bread and a crystal decanter of wine from a cupboard against the far wall, and set them before Gulbanda as though he were the master and Shakar the servant. The bodyguard hid a grin of bemusement. A surprise until Shakar had turned away again. He reflected that, if his master was losing his mind, then he had certainly picked the right way to go about it.

"Is the wine to your liking?" asked the Keshanian, slipping into the chair behind his desk and silently drawing open a drawer. Gulbanda sipped thirstily from the bottle, finding the wine's taste odd but quite agreeable.

"It is sweet," said the warrior, tearing off a bit of bread. "I've never had its like."

"It is brewed from Brythunian apples and is a bit stronger than it may seem." Shakar's hands were busy in the drawer of his desk. 'Tell me, my friend, how shall we avenge ourselves upon the barbarian and claim the cask from Lady Zelandra?" Gulbanda took another swallow of the sweet wine and found that it snaked a path of heat down into his belly.

"Well, if we move swiftly we could follow them to whatever their destination might be, then ambush and kill them. I would say that we could do it alone if not for my wounded hand and your¦" he faltered, "¦
your sickness."

"Ah," said the Keshanian, "you suggest that I hire more men?" His hand drew the silver-chased casket from the velvet-lined interior of a drawer, set it on the desktop, and flipped open the lid.

"Yes, two or three bravos with ready daggers would even the odds."

Gulbanda washed down a bite of bread with another swallow of wine and found that the sweet stuff was going to his head. Behind him, Shakar lifted a tiny spoon to his mouth twice in rapid succession. "Of course," added the bodyguard, "I would duel the barbarian alone if it were not for my wound."

The sorcerer tensed his body against the shudders that racked it. He blinked back tears and drew a deep breath, shaking off the pain.

"Do you know where such men can be hired?" Shakar's voice had gone hoarse, but his bodyguard paid no heed. Gulbanda was taking another pull on the jug and relishing the warmth blossoming through his body.

"Yes, yes," he said. "I have a few men in mind right now."

"Tell me about them," said Shakar, though he wasn't listening. He was removing a number of distinctive items from the drawer of his desk and setting them before him. First was an eight-inch length of hollow bamboo, cut diagonally so that its base was an enclosed cup and its top a long tapering blade as sharp as broken glass. He stood it on its base. Next was a small vial of black crystal, which he uncorked, pouring a honey-thick, translucent fluid into the base of the bamboo spike. Last was a lace handkerchief baring a darkly crusted stain of dried blood. With a thumbnail Shakar scraped flakes of coagulated blood from the fabric, dropping them into the bamboo receptacle. He then clutched the spike with both hands and muttered a word in a dialect sacred to the priests of Keshia. A thin, almost invisible, curl of smoke arose from the bamboo spike. He palmed it as though it were a dagger and rose from behind his desk.

"Worthy cutthroats all," finished Gulbanda. "A few gold coins will secure their loyalty unto death, Shakar." His voice had taken on a barely noticeable slur.

The Keshanian showed nothing but calm interest, but he bristled inwardly as he advanced upon his bodyguard. The dog had addressed him by name rather than as master. That would make his task easier. He laid a cold hand on Gulbanda's shoulder, studying the thin leather jerkin that was now the only barrier protecting the warrior's full-muscled torso. The bodyguard shifted in his seat to face his employer. His bleary eyes focused on Shakar's expressionless countenance.

"But you, Gulbanda," said Shakar almost tenderly, "you will be loyal to me far, far beyond death." And he slammed the bamboo spike into the center of Gulbanda's chest with all of his strength. The bodyguard cried out, lurching to his feet with Shakar clinging to him like a leech. The Keshanian jammed the length of bamboo into Gulbanda's body, pouring the weapon's contents into the wound. A wild scream tore from the bodyguard's throat and his body spasmed, falling to the floor with Shakar still holding tight.

"Ayah Damballah!" chanted the sorcerer. "Kill Zelandra, bring me the casket, kill the barbarian, bring me the casket! Zereth Yog Ayah Damballah!"

Gulbanda thrashed convulsively on the floor, screaming like a man being flayed alive. His cries and Shakar's chanting mingled in an unholy chorus, each fighting for prominence until the screams died away and Shakar's voice rang alone in triumph.

Chapter Twelve

Ethram-Fal sat alone in a room carved from living rock and toasted his good fortune. His goblet was fashioned of gleaming silver set with lozenges of polished black onyx. It was brimming with an unwholesome-looking greenish liquid: wine blended with a heavy portion of Emerald Lotus powder. The Stygian swirled the thick mixture in the goblet, then tossed it back. He clamped his eyes shut, his thin throat working as he swallowed, guzzling the goblet's full contents. Pulling the emptied vessel from his lips, he gave a soft, shuddering cry. His gaunt, hunched body shivered within its gray robes.

"Hah! Yes, by Set!" Ethram-Fal's lips writhed away from his green-stained teeth, and his eyes blazed with a terrible light. He released the goblet, which remained suspended in mid-air before him.

The Stygian's pupils rolled back and his emaciated frame stiffened with effort. The floating goblet crumpled in upon itself as though in the grip of an invisible vise. A chip of onyx popped free of its setting and fell to the floor, while the rest of the vessel was slowly crushed together into a shapeless lump of metal. Ethram-Fal laughed with delight and allowed the rough ball of crumpled silver to drop.

He had become stronger than he had ever allowed himself to dream. Let Zelandra try to resist him now. The sorcerer sprawled back in the room's only chair, bulbous head lolling on narrow shoulders. Drugged ecstasy pulsed through him, fueling his fantasies. He remembered standing before her in the sorcerous disguise of Eldred the Trader. He remembered the way that her silver-threaded hair fell upon her slim, white neck. How beautiful she was! And a sorceress as well, by Derketo!

Surely here was a woman who could appreciate the true scope of his ambitions. Here was a mature sorceress worthy to stand at his side.

Yet she had rejected him. The memory lashed Ethram-Fal and his eyes flew wide, rolling as he gazed unseeing about the chamber. How could she be such a fool? It was all too obvious that she still had much to learn about him and his Emerald Lotus. But she would doubtless learn her lessons quickly as her supply of the drug dwindled away and her newfound power faded, replaced by the all-consuming hunger that presaged madness and an agonizing death.

The Stygian deliberately slowed his breathing and calmed himself. He needed only to wait and she would be his, crawling and begging for that which she had scorned.

All things that he desired would soon be his. Was he not master of the Emerald Lotus?

The sorcerer rose abruptly and picked his way with exaggerated care through the cluster of tables that stood about the stone room. Each held its own distinctive collection of sorcerous paraphernalia. He shuffled past the large central table whereon sat a glass box enclosing a small bush thickly covered with fat, ruddy leaves. The table he sought bore a darkly stained mortar and pestle, a collection of fluid-filled vials in a metal rack, and a long box of glossy ebony sealed with a small, golden clasp. With shaking hands, Ethram-Fal twisted the clasp. He opened the box and stared within with reverent eyes.

The black box was a little longer than a man's forearm and as wide and tall as a man's hand. It was about half full of deep green powder.

"Half gone," whispered the Stygian, unaware that he spoke aloud. He pursed dry lips as a frown wrinkled his protruding brow. The exuberant confidence that had lifted his spirit a moment ago now seemed a long-dead memory, distant and useless. A chill anxiety tightened his guts. He had been spending too much time experimenting with his new power and not enough tending to that which enabled him to exercise the power in the first place. He must see to the Emerald Lotus, and perhaps harvest more for his personal stock.

He swept aside the blanket that hung over the doorway”there were no doors in the Palace of Cetriss. The dark hall was a smooth shaft cut through solid stone. Ethram-Fal hastened along its length, his sandaled feet raising the dust of centuries. He passed down a spiral stair that coiled through the ancient rock and entered a short,
vaulted room that ended in another hanging blanket. Beyond the blanket stood the Great Chamber, doubtless used as an audience hall by Cetriss in the days of Old Stygia. Now it served as an impromptu barracks for Ethram-Fal's twenty men-at-arms.

The three warriors lounging in the Great Chamber leapt to their feet when Ethram-Fal entered, slapping their right palms over their hearts.

The sorcerer smiled thinly, nodding his approval of their attentive devotion. When he had left Kheshatta in search of the Palace of Cetriss and his dreams, he had taken pains to hire the finest and most expensive squad of free lances that he could find. His riches and the fat, red leaves of the Vendhyan kaokao plant had fostered a powerful loyalty in them.

Threading his way among the cots in the Great Chamber, Ethram-Fal smiled. The wizards of the Black Ring had belittled him for devoting himself to the magics of plants and growing things. Such arrogance!

They had likened him to a Pictish druid, as if he had anything at all in common with those meek and feeble tree-worshippers. Those ignorant savages feared to so much as disturb the delicate balance of nature, much less to seize it and bend it to their will. Surely the pompous fools of the Black Ring would think differently of him now. He, a wizard whom they had mocked and rejected for his youth and unlikely fields of study, had truly come into his own. The specialized researches that they had disdained had finally led him to the lost palace of the mage Cetriss, creator of the mythical Emerald Lotus. Soon enough the Black Ring would learn that the lotus was no mere myth, but an ancient reality that he, Ethram-Fal, had personally resurrected. How they would marvel at his power! How they would beg to sample it! From the dust of three thousand years, he would breed a vengeance such as the world had never known.

Lost in his drugged reverie, Ethram-Fal moved down another hallway into a vast, unlit chamber. The Stygian started when he realized where he was and hastened his stride. To his left towered a sable shadow, a deeper darkness amid the dark. It was a great crouching statue of black stone, a sphinx-like, hulking god-thing whose name and nature were unknown to Ethram-Fal. When he had first found the palace and wandered through its deserted halls”the only visitor in many lifetimes”he had found something in this room as disturbing as the black and nameless idol itself. On the stone altar that lay between the proffered talons of the god was a dusty pile of offal. The tiny, desiccated corpses of dozens of rodents, lizards, scorpions and other even smaller vermin lay in a neat mound before the silent and implacable avatar. Now he hurried through the darkened temple and did not look upon the featureless face of the god of Cetriss where it loomed in the murk, staring blindly into the darkness as it had ever since the distant days of purple-towered Acheron.

Down a final length of hall and around a corner, the sorcerer came upon his captain, Ath, standing guard beside a doorway. A luminous sphere of crystal filled a niche in the wall. It gave off a steady yellow-green glow that painted the soldier's polished armor with warm light.

"My Lord," said Ath, bowing low.

"Light," commanded Ethram-Fal, striding past his tall captain and into the circular chamber. The small room remained as it had ever been, save that light globes had been placed in niches set to either side of the doorway. Ath touched these with his own globe, and they brightened so that the cylindrical room blazed with light.

Above their heads the band of writhing hieroglyphics that encircled the walls was clearly visible. Above that a circular balcony of black metal spanning the room's circumference could now be seen. Higher still arched the chamber's domed roof. But the two men's eyes rose no higher than the floor.

In the center of the room lay the leathery husk of a human body wrapped in a tangle of dry, thorny growths. The withered corpse of Ethram-Fal's luckless apprentice, still clad in yellow tatters, was embedded in the tight embrace of dozens of crooked and browning branches. There were no flowers to be seen.

"Blood of Mordiggian!" Ethram-Fal cursed as fear swelled in his voice.

"It is dying!" A sick horror swept through his body, weakening his limbs and closing his throat. Had he killed his dreams even as they were being born, and done so with stupid negligence? The thought was too much to bear. The little sorcerer swayed on his feet.

"Ath," he rasped, "fetch a pack pony." The soldier turned to the door.

"Hurry!" cried his master, as Ath ran from the room.

The captain was gone long enough for Ethram-Fal to scourge himself a thousand times over because of the foolish and unnecessary nature of his predicament. When he finally heard the scuff of boots and hooves in the outer hall, he felt the relief that comes with action.

Ath led the party's smallest pack pony into the circular room. The horse was dun-colored and long-maned. Saddleless, it stood blinking in the unnatural yellow-green illumination as the soldier bent and hobbled its legs with lengths of rawhide.

"Here," said Ethram-Fal, "bring it here."

Ath cooed softly to the beast, drawing it forward. Suddenly, the pony seemed to notice the overgrown corpse and shied away, eyes rolling whitely.

"Here, Ath!" insisted the sorcerer. The tall soldier pulled helplessly at the horse's reins.

"He's afraid, My Lord."

Ethram-Fal snatched out his irregularly shaped dagger and moved toward the hobbled pony with the abrupt swiftness of a pouncing spider.

Ath drew back involuntarily at the sight of his master advancing with clenched teeth, wild eyes, and bared steel. The sorcerer seized the pony's forelock and slashed its throat with a single quick, brutal stroke. The beast gave a pathetic whinnying cry as its blood splashed on the stone floor. It reared, then fell forward on its knees as Ethram-Fal staggered back, crimsoned knife in one rigid fist.

There was a sound like the dry crumpling of aged parchment, and the fungus-riddled corpse moved. Barbed growths beneath the body stirred, rasping on rock, and the Emerald Lotus scuttled across the floor like a gargantuan crab. It battened onto the pony, climbing the animal's breast to sink thorned branches into its gaping throat.

"Holy Mitra!" Ath stumbled backward out of the room, his face pale as ash; but Ethram-Fal stood his ground, held by an astonished fascination that was stronger than fear.

The horse collapsed heavily with the nightmarish growth clutching it in a loathsome embrace, whipping suddenly animate branches around its body as it fell. The barbed and hooked limbs extended impossibly, lashing the air like the tentacles of an octopus.

Realizing his danger, Ethram-Fal tried to dodge past the monstrosity and out the door. A spiked branch flailed against his right leg in passing, laying open the flesh of his calf and drawing a cry of pain.

The sorcerer reeled, but Ath lunged back into the room, seizing his master's shoulders and dragging him bodily out into the hall. The two fell against the wall opposite the doorway and would have fled had not the Emerald Lotus suddenly ceased to move. The room went silent and the pony's body lay still, half blanketed by the grotesque bulk of the vampiric fungus.

Ethram-Fal bent to nurse the wound in his calf, but Ath could only stare into the circular room with wide eyes.

"That was well done, Ath. There will be an extra leaf for you tonight."

The sorcerer's voice held a satisfaction and pleasure that were lost on his captain, who said nothing.

"I imagined that it might react more swiftly to nourishment since it did not have to revive itself from spores," said Ethram-Fal absently as he tightened a torn strip of his robe around his wounded calf.

"I did not expect it to seek nourishment on its own. I see now why the room was designed as it is. We must feed it from the balcony above or its blood madness, like that of a shark of the Vilayet Sea, may lead it to attack us. You must have the men build some sort of door for the room as well, Ath."

The tall captain wiped his brow and nodded mutely. Then Ethram-Fal caught his breath as the Emerald Lotus and its prey, shuddered briefly and broke into bloom.

Chapter Thirteen

-

A horseman rode through Akkharia's market square. A voluminous caftan swathed his rangy body, as though he and his mount had already traversed the desert wastelands far to the east. The rider sat his horse stiffly, looking neither to the right nor left at the teeming activity of the open-air market around him.

Beneath gaudy canopies, merchants hawked their wares to the interested and the disinterested alike, crying out the merits of their products in lilting, sing-song cadence. Stalls packed with richly woven clothing, worked metals, and medicines crowded others heaped high with Shem's bountiful harvest of dates, figs, grapes, pomegranates, and almonds.

All drew customers willing to haggle for what they sought, filling the dusty afternoon air with the clamor of a thousand disputing voices.

A potter, clad in the spattered robes of his profession, lunged from, his sparsely attended stall brandishing a slender ceramic flask.

"Ho, warrior!" he shouted to the rider. "I have just the wine vessel a traveler needs! Flat enough to strap to your saddlebag and as sturdy as stone, it will outlast a wineskin by years! With Bel as my witness, I fired it myself and it is yours for the meager sum of three silvers!"

The man on the horse rode past as though he heard nothing, not even turning his head to look upon the insistent merchant. The potter's continued declamation of the wonders of his work were soon lost in the tumult as the rider moved on.

The city wall loomed ahead, a massive fortification of sun-bleached brick that rose to four times the height of a tall man. The imposing caravan gate stood wide open, but was clogged with travelers both entering and leaving Akkharia. The arched opening was decorated with inlaid tiles of vivid blue; two golden ceramic dragons struggled above the gate in a time-worn bas relief.

The rider nudged his skittish horse into the slow stream of humanity before the towering gate. He drew the eyes of the guards, for most men led their beasts into or out of the city, and the mounted man overtopped all heads in the seething throng. But the guards took note of the rider's size and said nothing. After all, there was no law against riding from the city; dismounting was merely a courtesy to the thickly packed crowd.

Another man also noticed the horseman and shouldered into the press toward him. He was a stout Shemite with a florid face, dressed in colorful silks that marked him as a wealthy merchant.

"Your pardon, sir," he cried, as he struggled toward the rider. Ducking around a wooden cart bearing stacked cages full of squawking chickens, the merchant drew up beside the mounted man, who did not slow his pace or otherwise acknowledge the merchant's presence.

"You're not traveling the Caravan Road alone are you? It is most dangerous for a single traveler, even a slayer like yourself." The merchant panted as he dodged along beside the rider, his florid face growing even redder. "Take passage with my party and be a guard. I pay as well as any betwixt here and Aghrapur."

The horseman did not respond. The merchant made a wordless sound of exasperation and snatched the horse's reins, drawing the beast up short amid the moving crowd.

"I tell you that the Caravan Road is dangerous for a man alone. Zuagirs roam the plains as well as the hills these days. You should¦"

The rider bent rigidly from the waist, leaning over and thrusting his face into the merchant's. Eyes like frosted balls of black glass stared out of a sunken, yellowed visage. Bearded lips twitched over clenched teeth, throwing a pale scar into bold relief.

"Death," said the rider in a voice like two stones grating together.

The merchant released the reins and the rider put spurs to his mount, plunging forward into the throng, out through the gate and into the open air beyond.

The crowd dispersed along the wide, dirt road as the rider urged his horse to a full gallop. Around him the golden sun fell upon the sprawling, verdant grasslands of Shem, but the horseman was blind to all but his mission. Caftan flapping about him, Gulbanda looked to the horizon, his glazed eyes full of pain and purpose.

"Death," he said again, and the wind tore the word from his yellow lips.

Chapter Fourteen

-

Caravan routes lay across the length and breadth of Shem like an intricate system of arteries, bearing the ceaseless trade that was the mighty nation's lifeblood. From the gleaming ziggurats of the lush western coast to the sprawling tent-cities of the arid east, Shem, in all her contrasts, was united by the continuous flow of commerce. The routes the trading caravans followed ranged from broad roadways of bare, hard-packed earth to vague trails but rarely traversed.

Two days' travel east out of Akkharia, the Caravan Road forked, sending a branch questing north toward prosperous Eruk and ancient Shumir, while the original route continued east toward the ill-regarded city of Sabatea. Countless sub-routes broke south out of the main road,
seeking the smaller cities and villages built along the fertile coast of the world-girdling River Styx.

Along the central route to Sabatea came four riders leading two well-laden pack horses. The party moved at a steady pace upon a dusty road that cleft luxuriant meadows blanketing low, rolling hills. The sun shone down from a cloudless, brassy sky. Off to the north, where the hills rose in slow undulations, a scattered herd of cattle grazed in a sea of waving grass.

Conan of Cimmeria tugged at the throat of his new shirt of white silk, popping stitches in the collar to loosen it around his bull neck. Also new were the blue cotton breeches tucked into the tops of his battered old boots. Heng Shih had reluctantly furnished the barbarian with clothes from his own wardrobe. The size and weight of the two men were similar, but the shape of their frames was so different that Conan found the garments binding where they should have been loose and baggy where they should have been tight. The collar of the shirt emitted another pop as he pulled at it, then ripped jaggedly down across his breast, revealing Conan's weathered and rust-spotted mail beneath.

Heng Shih winced at the tearing sound and let loose a sigh audible even above the clomping of the horses' hooves. Turning in the saddle, Conan gave the Khitan a wide grin of infuriating friendliness. Then the Cimmerian nudged his mount up toward Neesa.

The scribe had never ceased looking about herself in wide-eyed wonder since they had passed through Akkharia's gates. As Conan moved up beside her, she took her eyes from the distant hills, lowered the hand shading her face from the sun and favored him with a shy smile. The barbarian nodded expressionlessly. For the last two days Neesa had taken pains to address him only when necessary, and then to speak only in the most bland and business-like fashion. Now her smile was warm and friendly, if somewhat wary. He wondered once again how long he would have to live before he found the ways of women to be predictable.

He reined up alongside the Lady Zelandra, who led the small caravan on her roan. The sorceress took little note of him, her eyes focused on the hazy, far-off point where the road met the horizon.

Conan noticed a bulky leather pouch attached to her belt. It thumped heavily against her rounded hip with each step her horse took.

"Milady," said Conan roughly, "that looks to be uncomfortable. There is room in my saddlebags. If you wish, you can stow it there."

Zelandra shook her head. "No, Conan, this is my cask of Emerald Lotus.

I must have it on my person at all times in case the craving grows too great." As she spoke, her voice softened with shame and her gaze fell to the road passing beneath the horses' hooves.

"Crom," murmured the Cimmerian, "you are a canny woman and a sorceress in the bargain. How is it that you are enslaved to a magical powder?"

The barbarian's natural bluntness did not seem to disturb the Lady Zelandra. She sat up straight in her saddle. The warm breeze drew her silver-threaded hair out for a moment in a fluttering pennant.

"I have lived on an inheritance for all of my life, Conan. It left me free to indulge in my studies in sorcery and the healing arts. The inheritance is now much depleted. Of almost a score of servants, now only Heng Shih, Neesa, and a pair of drunken guardsmen remain."

Conan, having witnessed the incompetence of her guardsmen firsthand, merely nodded. "With the inheritance gone, you sought employment with King Sumuabi as his Court Wizard."

"Yes, it seemed a worthy way to continue my lifestyle as scholar and sorceress. I should have been granted the position immediately if Shakar the Keshanian had not also offered his services to the king. To think that Sumuabi cannot choose between that jester and me!"

The Cimmerian frowned reflectively. "I have heard rumors that King Sumuabi may soon lead Akkharia to war. If this be so, he would likely seek a wizard with war-like skills. Perhaps he meant to set you and the Keshanian at each other's throats and select the stronger as his sorcerer."

Zelandra looked at the barbarian, her brows raised in surprise. "I hadn't thought of that. How barbaric!" She flushed. "I'm sorry, Conan.

I didn't mean

"It is nothing, though that sort of guile sounds damned civilized to me."

"Well, we were at a stand-off in any case. When Ethram-Fal sought audience with me in the guise of Eldred the Trader, I was pleased to see that he offered a number of rare and exotic magical components for sale. I should have been more wary when he claimed to have acquired a quantity of the Emerald Lotus."

"You knew of this lotus?"

"It is legend, supposedly created by Cetriss, a mage of Old Stygia, who bargained with the Dark Gods for it. It is said that the sorcerous power of the lotus helped the seers of Old Stygia keep the world-hungering empire of Acheron at bay almost three thousand years ago. Legends disagree as to its uses and effect, but all agree that Cetriss saw little value in his lotus or in any of the works of man and that he devoted his life to the pursuit of immortality. Disdaining his fame and power, he disappeared into the wilderness, taking the secret of the Emerald Lotus with him. You see? The Emerald Lotus is like the perfect love philter or the fountain whose waters bestow youth: a fable born of men's wishful imagining."

Conan squinted skeptically in the sun. "Yet you accepted it from a stranger?"

"It was easy to ascertain that it was not a natural lotus and easier still to determine that it was not a poison. When Eldred”I mean Ethram-Fal”told me that he had just sold a casket of it to Shakar the Keshanian, I felt bound to at least experiment with the stuff. How could I know?" She paused, mouth twisting into a wry smile. "He sold it to me at a very reasonable price," she added with measured irony, drawing a gusty laugh from the barbarian.

"I'll wager he did at that. And the next thing you know the powder has you by the throat?"

Zelandra's left hand shot out to seize his thick right forearm in a cold-fingered grasp. She stared at the Cimmerian with darkly imploring eyes.

"You don't know what it's like. When I first sampled it I felt that there was nothing in the world that I might attempt that would not come to success. There was a mad confidence and exhilaration unlike anything I have ever known. My sorcery almost doubled in its potency. Complex spells seemed obvious. Spells I knew increased in power and effectiveness. It was like a wild and glorious dream until it began to fade. Then came the craving, and I knew that I was lost."

Her hand fell from his arm. She blinked rapidly, as though holding back tears. Conan pretended not to notice her discomfiture, looking ahead wordlessly.

"It is like a leech upon the flesh of my soul." Zelandra's voice had dropped to a husky whisper, but she continued to speak as though driven by some grim compulsion. "At first I could think of nothing but the damnable powder and the power it brought, but I held myself in check. I vowed that each dose I took would be smaller than the last, if only by a few grains. And so it has been since the first time I tasted it. I had hoped to lower the quantity until I needed none. It is not so easy.

My supply is running low and there is simply not enough left to safely purge myself of it. If I could get more, then I might be able to taper off completely, but without a greater supply of Emerald Lotus I shall surely die."

For a moment there was a silence, broken only by the scuff of hooves, the creaking of saddle gear, and the soft surge of the summer wind.

"So," Conan said evenly, "we ride into Stygia and maybe into hell itself just to get you more of this cursed powder?"

"No!" Zelandra's head snapped up, her profile hawklike against the clear sky. "No, Ethram-Fal deceived and poisoned me as an experiment.

And now the arrogant bastard would use his drug's power over me to make me his slave. I'll see him die for it."

The Cimmerian grinned fiercely and, digging his heels into his horse's flanks, urged the beast to greater speed.

Chapter Fifteen

Though Shakar the Keshanian was exhausted after slaying his bodyguard and performing necromancy upon the corpse, the sorcerer could not take his rest. Time seemed to slow in its course, evening moving into night with glacial deliberation. All through the following day he meditated in his chambers, striving to stabilize his drugged metabolism and fill himself with strength. At first he was successful. Shakar was proud of the power that he had exhibited in the ensorcellment of Gulbanda.

Without the unnatural augmentation of the Emerald Lotus, he doubted that he would have been able to accomplish it. Pride in his achievement gave him faith and courage.

But into the second day his body weakened and his consciousness fell into a tighter and tighter orbit around the small silver box which lay upon the mahogany desk in his study. Now he sat at his window, staring out through his garden without seeing it and sipping nervously from the crystal decanter of Brythunian wine he had used to lull Gulbanda.

Ignoring a growing tightness in his breast, the Keshanian turned his mind once again to the skilled wizardry he had worked upon his bodyguard, trying to draw comfort from the abomination that he had created and set in motion to accomplish his ends.

"He'll get it," said Shakar to the empty room. "He won't fail. He'll bring it to me or I'll leave his soul sealed within his animated corpse forever. He won't fail because only I can release him into true death."

He paused, then repeated: "He will not fail." His voice trailed off as he began to fear that which he had not even allowed himself to imagine until this moment.

What if Gulbanda did not return in time?

The most impressive feat of sorcery that he had ever performed had been brought about by a great sacrifice. The silver-chased box on his desk was empty. The two spoonfuls that he had taken before slaying Gulbanda with the bamboo spike had been the last, save for a few speckles of green residue.

The tightness in his breast grew more insistent, more difficult to ignore. Shakar turned his eyes away from the west, where the sun set in a bloody welter of tattered clouds, and looked upon the silver box where it gleamed dully in the study's serene twilight. The Keshanian rose from his chair in a halting manner, as though his body were not set on doing that which his mind desired. He walked slowly to the desk and stared down upon the burnished silver casket.

Pain blossomed in Shakar's chest, sending strident bands of tense agony around his torso. The sorcerer cried out and stumbled against the desk, seizing the silver box with hands that shook uncontrollably, hands that pried open the casket to reveal that which he already knew to be true.

"Empty," wept Shakar. "I know that it's empty." Slumping against the desk, he held the cold metal box to his breast and tried to draw a deep breath. The belt of pain that wrapped his ribs loosened a notch.

Through the door the Keshanian saw a flicker of yellow light play along the wall of the hallway outside his study. He blinked in the deepening dusk. A sudden surge of hope drove new vitality through the sorcerer's veins. He pushed himself away from the desk with one hand and stumbled toward the door, still clutching his box. The sinking sun's last rays stained the floor scarlet before him as he half walked, half staggered down the hall. Ahead, flares of multicolored light shone through the open door of his bedchamber.

"Eldred?" The name was a harsh croak. "Eldred, I must speak with you!"

Shakar came into his chamber just as the vaporous haze of colored light finished weaving itself together and faded to white. He stood unsteadily before the supernatural projection as the ebony figure coalesced within its wall of witchfire and regarded him in inscrutable silence. Shakar's teeth ground together in the stillness.

"Speak, Jullah rend your soul! You are Eldred the Trader, are you not?"

The veils of light masking the dark form drew back, exposing a short, bearded Shemite in a merchant's silken garb. The image blurred almost immediately, wavering like a desert mirage.

"Fool," said a voice that was not a voice, "do you imagine that a trader would visit you thus?"

The Shemite merchant faded from view, becoming a hunched Stygian with a bald, misshapen skull. Bulging eyes afire with contempt seemed to sear into Shakar's body.

"Who are you?" cried the Keshanian. "Why do you torment me?"

"I am called Ethram-Fal and I do not torment you. I study you. From your aspect I would hazard that your supply of lotus is gone."

Shakar's mind reeled in a rush of dizzy nausea. A hysterical laugh came through lips drawn back from teeth clenched in a death-like rictus.

"Study?" shouted the Keshanian. "Are you mad? Where is the lotus? I'll give you all I have for more of it!"

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal, "of course you would. Tell me, when did you use the last of it?"

Shakar forcibly calmed himself, drawing in a long, shuddering breath.

The hand that gripped the silver box clung to its burden so tightly that pain rippled through the knuckles.

"Yesterday morning I used it in a feat of great sorcery. I need more to

"Yesterday morning? You are stronger than I had thought. Has the pain begun yet?" The voice of Ethram-Fal was clinical and expressionless.

Shakar could scarcely contain his rage and need.

"Yes!" he cried. "My chest is gripped in a vise of fire. Now give me the lotus!"

"Silence!" Ethram-Fal's command rang in the Keshanian's brain like a struck gong, driving him to his knees with its force.

A roiling cloud of inky blackness poured over the Stygian's scornful features, transforming him once again into an anonymous black figure suspended in a curtain of misty light.

"Who are you to command me, dog? You are too weak and witless to even make a good slave. Take solace in the fact that you have provided a lesson to Ethram-Fal of Stygia and thus aided him in his grand design."

With an inarticulate howl of hate, Shakar opened the silver box and brought it to his face. Thrusting out his tongue, he licked the polished inner surface clean. He hurled the box aside and staggered drunkenly to his feet.

"I'll kill you!" he railed, moving both hands in a swift, arcane series of motions that ceased with both fists extended toward the dark form of Ethram-Fal. A crystalline sphere of azure light shimmered into being before them. It hovered a brief moment, then fell in upon itself, extinguished like a torch in a downpour as Shakar cried out in anguish.

"Your powers fade," said the voice that was not a voice. "You might want to cut your own throat. That would" be both quicker and easier than the death which now awaits you. Goodbye, Shakar."

The Keshanian lunged at the apparition with flailing fists, passed into it without resistance and rebounded from the marble wall. He sprawled on the floor, stunned, with Ethram-Fal's frigid, metallic laughter sounding in his skull. Prone and helpless, Shakar watched the eldritch projection flow into itself and fade until all that remained was an afterimage etched upon his retina.

The Keshanian tried to get up, but his legs felt paralyzed. The tortured nerves of his body jerked spasmodically as pain screwed tightly back around his chest. The effect was spreading, flickering up the sides of his neck to drive nails of agony into his temples. A desperate sanity surfaced in the black warlock's brimming eyes.

Crawling from the room, Shakar dragged himself down the hallway to his study. The labored rasp of his breathing was the only sound in the dim and silent house. His legs were useless and the bands around his chest constricted until he grew dizzy and held to conscious action only through sheer force of will.

In the study he used his arms to draw himself up the front of his desk and jerk open a drawer. It fell from the desk, spilling its contents upon the floor. The black-crystal vial broke with a liquid crunch, spattering the marble with translucent syrup. Shakar let himself fall down beside it, his hands seeking and finding the bamboo spike. He held the bloodstained weapon before rheumy eyes that strained to focus on its razor edge. Both hands gripped the spike firmly by the hilt as he placed its keen length against the flesh of his throat.

Then Shakar the Keshanian took Ethram-Fal's advice.

Chapter Sixteen

Evening slumbered over the darkened mansion of Lady Zelandra. The single iron gate set in the encircling wall was chained and locked against the oncoming night. The two guards lounged in the kitchen, eating little and drinking much, swearing that they would take at least one more turn around the grounds before abandoning themselves to their cups. In time they did this, shuffling off along the garden's paths, passing their wineskin back and forth and speaking in hushed voices.

The stillness of dusky twilight filled the emptied mansion. The halls were dark, the windows curtained and the tapers all unlit. The manse seemed to lie tranquilly in wait for the return of its mistress. Yet amid the darkness and silence came a visitor unsuspected by the besotted guards.

The wall of Lady Zelandra's bedchamber was alight with blazing color.

Wild shadows leapt and capered over the book-lined walls and the opulent, unmade bed. Then a white glare shone from the wall, driving the shadows from every corner of the room.

Ethram-Fal's ebon outline floated in its fog of illumination and regarded an empty chamber. The black, featureless head turned this way and that, as though reluctant to believe that no one was there.

Frustrated, the Stygian sent an emphatic, wordless call through the still mansion.

"Zelandra! I have come for you!"

The sorcerer sensed no response, no activity at all. The dark form hesitated, standing motionless for a time, then moved tenebrous fingers in quick, precise patterns and lifted both arms above its head. Rays of brilliant green light bloomed around Ethram-Fal's image in a dazzling corona. Then with the slow, unnatural movements of a man walking underwater, the black figure stepped down from the wall and stood within the room. It walked across the floor to the doorway and into the hall beyond.

Ethram-Fal passed through the deserted chambers of Lady Zelandra's mansion like a restless ghost, leaving behind him footprints of palely flickering witchfire. After a time he returned to the lady's bedchamber, ascended into his haze of sorcerous light and vanished.

Zelandra's house was empty; its mistress had departed.

Ethram-Fal wondered if he might soon have visitors of his own.

Chapter Seventeen

The travelers crested the summit of a red clay ridge and viewed the broad expanse of the Styx River valley spread out before them. The trail zigzagged down a rolling slope through a thickening welter of vegetation. The land had grown more arid as they moved south and drew closer to Stygia, but the shores of the mighty Styx were anything but desert. Green brush crowded the path as they wended their way through clusters of swaying palms and plush meadows rippling in the slow breeze. Ahead, the land lowered further into irrigated fields that reached to the edge of the river itself. Yellow-brown along its shore and a rich, opalescent blue at its rolling median, the mother of all rivers stretched from horizon to horizon like a jeweled and sorcerous girdle bestowing a luxuriant fertility upon the grateful earth.

Though cultivated along much of its vast length, the shores of the Styx were but sparsely populated this far to the east. Scattered clusters of huts, raised upon stilts, were visible in the distance off to the west.

Directly before them, the party beheld a small, unwalled city squatting upon a low, artificial plateau that lifted gently from the canal-crossed fields. A similarly raised road ran amongst the glittering irrigation ditches and broad, cultivated expanses like a sand-colored snake writhing across a bed of lush emerald moss. The road connected the raised city with the drier uplands, where it merged with the Caravan Road that stretched uninterrupted along the length of the River Styx.

As the four descended the trail into the river valley, they began to encounter the natives of this long-inhabited land. They waited at a crossroads while a herd of lowing cattle was ushered past by herdsmen brandishing stout sticks that they applied vigorously to the flanks of their charges. Farmers toiled in the irrigated fields of emmer wheat and barley that sprang in abundance from the land's black and silty breast.

The trail became an elevated road that soon afforded them a closer view of the white mud buildings of the city. Neesa waved a slender hand in the humid air, fanning herself. At the moment they rode single file, with the Lady Zelandra leading the way. Neesa knit her dark brows in thought, then edged her mount forward until she rode beside the Cimmerian.

"What city is this?" she asked of Conan. The barbarian grinned at her in open admiration, clearly pleased that she had overcome her unwillingness to speak with him. She continued to study the city ahead of them intently, apparently unnoticing of his attention, though her complexion began to grow rosy.

"It is called Aswana. It has a sister city just across the Styx called Bel-Phar. Aswana is a quiet village and should give us a fine place to cross the river without drawing too much attention."

"The Stygians are said to be unfond of visitors."

"Aye, the snake worshippers would deny every foreigner the right to enter their cursed country if they could. Their border patrols are few, but authorized by King Ctesphon to collar any intruder they wish and judge on the spot if he is worthy to stand on Stygian soil."

"And if he is judged unworthy?"

"Well, any merchant whose trade would fatten the land or a fawning scholar come to pay homage to Father Set would be left to his own ends.

The best that most anyone else could hope for would be robbery and a quick kick back across the border. At worst, they'd be crucified at the roadside."

Neesa shivered despite the bright sun, then spat into the ditch.

"And here we come as uninvited visitors," she said. Conan laughed, shaking back his black mane.

"Don't fret, woman. The patrols are few and the land is large. And besides, I'm going with you!"

Laughing, Neesa leaned from her saddle and pressed a swift kiss upon the barbarian's cheek. Then she put her heels to her mount, sending the beast trotting forward and away to Lady Zelandra's side, leaving Conan rubbing his cheek and grinning in bemused fascination. Neither the Cimmerian nor Neesa took notice of Heng Shih, who rode a short distance behind them. His incredulous expression attested that he had missed nothing of their exchange. The Khitan passed a wide hand over his smooth pate and shook his head in wonder.

Lady Zelandra led her band of travelers along the river's flank.

Sweating workers clad only in breechclouts hoisted water from the darkly flowing body of the Styx with the aid of simple mechanisms made of lashed lengths of rough wood. A crude tripod supported an irregular pole with a heavy counterweight on one end, and a large bucket dangled from a rope on the other. The bucket was lowered until it was submerged, then the workers would add their bodies to the counterweight, lifting the full bucket from the river. Finally, the pole would be turned atop the tripod, swinging the bucket over the shore and dumping it into a waiting irrigation canal. To Conan it seemed a tedious way of making one's living.

Once among the white buildings of Aswana, the travelers became objects of much interest. Although the cobbled streets of the city were bustling with activity, Conan's band was conspicuous and exotic enough to draw the attention of the townsfolk. Naked children ran in the dust beside their horses' hooves, crying out to one another in shrill voices. A woman clad only in a diaphanous veil leaned from a second-story window and winked a kohl-darkened eye at the Cimmerian, who raised a hand in salutation, smiling until he felt the sharp and indignant eyes of Neesa upon him. When he turned his smile upon her she looked away, flushing.

Conan slowed in front of a low, windowless building with a crude sign proclaiming it to be a tavern. As he reined in his mount, a lean man in a faded, sweat-stained tunic emerged from the curtained doorway and stood blinking in the afternoon sun.

"Ho, friend," called the barbarian. "Where can I find an honest ferryman in this town?" The man he addressed took on a sour expression as he fingered the dirty headband that confined his tousled, graying hair.

"Well, you won't find one now because Pesouris, may Set gnaw his cod, just took a load of acolytes across this morning. If I know that lazy cur, he shan't be back before nightfall."

"Isn't there another ferryman?"

"No, by the gods. I was a ferryman until the damned Stygians decided that one ferry was enough for Aswana and gave a royal seal to that pig Pesouris. Now he waxes rich, and I am left to test my luck fishing from a ferryboat."

Conan leaned toward the man conspiratorially, fixing him with a knowing gaze.

"What's your name, my friend?"

The fellow peered back at him with faded eyes touched with the bleariness of drink.

"I am Temoten. If you wish to speak further with me, ye'd best buy me a drink."

"Temoten, if you still have your ferryboat, why not take us across the Styx? You'll be plucking enough money from the purse of Pesouris to buy yourself a week's worth of wine."

Temoten drew back at the suggestion, his weathered face creased further by a skeptical frown. He shook his shaggy head.

"Nay. Pesouris would report me to the authorities of Bel-Phar, or even to the border patrol if he could. And if any Stygian soldiers were about when we made landfall, they'd want to see my ferryman's seal. As I have none, they'd behead me there on the docks. No thank you, stranger."

Temoten turned to walk off and almost collided with the Lady Zelandra, who had dismounted and now stood before him dangling a leather pouch from one delicate hand.

"My people and I need to cross the Styx without delay, Temoten," she said, "and I'm willing to pay well for the trip. Would you want this pouch to pass into the hands of Pesouris?"

The ferryman reached for the proffered pouch and poured a glittering stream of golden coins into a grimy palm. At once his eyes grew wider and more sober.

"Sweet Ishtar!" Temoten licked lips that had gone suddenly dry and wished mightily for a drink.

"Besides," continued Zelandra, "what fool in his right mind would contest the passage of my friends Heng Shih and Conan?"

Temoten spared a brief glance at the lady's hulking escorts before returning his gaze to enough gold to keep him living in comfort for the better part of a year.

"Only a very great fool, indeed," he breathed. "To nine hells with it.

Let's go. What right do the stinking Stygians have to command a free Shemite anyway?"

"None at all, I should think," smiled Zelandra. "Now where can we find your ferryboat?"

The boat was moored to a rotting dock behind Temoten's one-room hut on the outskirts of Aswana. It was a once-elegant vessel of sturdy cedar about twenty-four feet from stem to stern. A single, slim mast rose above the deck, bearing a furled sail of faded yellow. A tattered ox-hide canopy mounted just ahead of the long steering oar offered the craft's only shelter from the sun. When Heng Shih came around the corner of Temoten's hut and saw the boat for the first time, he touched Zelandra's shoulder and communicated with her in a swift passage of sign language.

"My friends," called Lady Zelandra, "Heng Shih points out that there is no room in the ferry for our mounts."

Conan, pulling the saddle and saddlebags from his horse, spoke up: "That's just as well, milady. Camels are a superior mount for desert travel, anyway. Perhaps you and Heng Shih would take the horses into the city and sell them."

Zelandra raised dark eyebrows. "Are you leading this company now, barbarian?"

"No offense intended, milady, but we could use the gold earned from their sale to purchase camels in Bel-Phar."

"That sounds suitable," said the sorceress reluctantly, "but I am scarcely a bargain-mongering trader."

"You bargained me into this expedition easily enough. Just have Heng Shih stare at them if they try to swindle you. I'll wager that you'll get an excellent price."

"Very well. Temoten, is there a worthy dealer in horseflesh in the city?"

The ferryman, standing on the dock, nodded vigorously.

"Yes, mistress, my late wife's cousin, Nephtah, deals in horses and mules. You will find him at the northeast corner of the market square.

Tell him that I sent you and he will treat you as his family."

The remaining saddles and packs were removed from the horses. Zelandra and Heng Shih mounted up, leading the string of riderless animals behind them. The Khitan looked back over his heavy shoulder and fixed his narrowed eyes upon the Cimmerian, who was busily loading saddlebags and provisions onto the boat. Conan heaped the stuff on the worn, red-painted planks of the deck beneath the ox-hide canopy as Zelandra and her bodyguard rode slowly out of sight.

Temoten leaned on one of the dock's cracked pilings, studiously examining the dirty fingernails of his left hand and making no effort to assist the Cimmerian.

"So, Outlander, you seem to know your way around a boat."

Conan stacked a packed saddlebag atop the pile he had built beneath the canopy. "I have some acquaintance with such things," he said quietly.

"Then you can steer, raise a sail, and the like?"

"I see that this craft would be difficult to run single-handed, Temoten. Do not fear, I shall help you get us across the river."

The ferryman looked disgruntled, but kept his silence, staring off into the reedy shallows. Neesa struggled down the sagging dock under the weight of a double waterskin, which Conan took from her and heaved into the boat. She then leapt nimbly onto the rear deck, catching the haft of the steering oar. Clinging to it for support, she leaned out over the vessel's side, gazing across the Styx with the wind in her thick, black hair.

In a moment Conan joined her. The broad, sunstruck river stretched away, flecked with distant skiffs full of fishermen plying their trade.

The air blowing in off the water was fresh and invigorating.

"It's beautiful," said Neesa dreamily. "I've never seen the Styx before. I haven't even been out of Akkharia since I was a child."

"Crom," said Conan in a strangely gentle tone, "that's no way to live.

You have but one life and one world to live it in. Surely you should experience both as well as you are able. Ymir's beard, I'd go mad if I were cooped up in a single city all my life."

Neesa looked up at him, her black eyes afire with honesty. "I know it's wrong to say it, Conan, but this journey seems the finest thing I have ever done. All of my life I have been grateful to Lady Zelandra for her shelter from the world, and now I find that I am enjoying myself on a voyage made in the shadow of her death."

Conan turned his grim face to the wind. "All journeys are made in the shadow of death," he said simply. "Live now, and know that you will struggle with death when it comes."

The woman stepped into Conan's arms, pressing her lush body against him with feverish intensity. The barbarian, taken aback by her fervency, cupped a hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Tears glimmered in her dark eyes.

"Kiss me," she whispered, and Conan crushed her mouth beneath his own, drawing her into an even closer embrace. After a moment one iron arm encircled her waist as the other swept under her knees and lifted her free of the deck. The kiss broke as the Cimmerian carried her to the canopy that covered their belongings. Neesa saw that he had built a hollow in the center of the pile and spread a blanket therein.

"Oh," she said huskily, "you think of everything." Conan ducked beneath the canopy and gently placed her in the hidden nest of blankets.

"Why do you think I sent those two to town?" he asked, but he gave her no chance to answer.

Out on the dock, Temoten looked from the boat back to his dirty fingernails. With a wistful sigh he turned toward his hut and went inside, looking for a drink.

Chapter Eighteen

-

The boat surged through the water, foam purling along its prow. The Styx shone a rich blue beneath the clear sky of afternoon. Small fishing boats made from bundles of papyrus reeds traveled in pairs, trolling nets between them. The busy fishermen paid little heed to Temoten's ferry; yet the ferryman seemed to grow markedly less nervous once they left the fishing boats behind and sailed out beyond the river's midpoint. The patched sail bellied full as Temoten leaned into the steering oar. Beside him, on the rear deck, Conan and Heng Shih relaxed, the barbarian sprawling along the gunwale and the Khitan sitting cross-legged, his face to the sun. Beneath the flapping ox-hide canopy, Lady Zelandra and Neesa sat in, the shade and conversed in low tones.

The trio on the rear deck traveled in silence for some time. Temoten's curious gaze returned repeatedly to Heng Shih, sitting shirtless beside him, his yellow skin gleaming with perspiration.

"Does your friend speak at all?" the ferryman finally asked Conan, who grinned and stretched like a cat in the sunshine. Heng Shih did not open his eyes.

"He is a mute, though he speaks to Lady Zelandra with hand-language."

"What¦" Temoten paused, then screwed up his courage. "What manner of man is he?"

Conan thought that he saw Heng Shih's eyes glimmer beneath slitted lids. "A Khitan from the distant east."

"I have never seen his like. Are all men of that country so big and fat?"

Now Conan was certain that Heng Shih's eyes drew open a crack. "Not at all," said the Cimmerian dryly. "He is truly exceptional in that regard."

Temoten said nothing for a time, clinging to the steering oar and looking off to the hazy outline of the far shore. Conan could sense further questions troubling the ferryman and was not surprised when a few moments later Temoten spoke again.

"Why are you in such a hurry to cross the Styx, Conan? And why pay me so much to take you? Are you fugitives? Does the Lady Zelandra flee enemies, perhaps?" The words came quickly until Temoten bit them off.

"Not that it is any of my concern," he added, shamefaced.

"Temoten," said Conan seriously, "Heng Shih is a Khitan and Khitans are cannibals. They eat the curious."

At this Heng Shih opened his eyes and squinted at the barbarian; then he turned to the ferryman. Looking up at him, the Khitan slowly and ominously licked his lips.

"My apologies, friends," stammered Temoten.

The remainder of the crossing was made in silence. Conan napped, a bronzed arm thrown over his eyes, until he was prodded awake by Temoten, who needed help to furl the sail.

The city of Bel-Phar was even smaller than Aswana. Its waterfront lay somnolently along a raised foundation of mammoth stone blocks. The Stygians were fond of cyclopean architecture; and it was a rare city of Stygia that did not show some evidence of this fondness. The stained and eroded stone docks of Bel-Phar thrust out into the eternally passing Styx. Papyrus boats of all sizes, and even a few luxurious wooden dhows, were moored in clusters about them. The center of the waterfront appeared to be an open bazaar full of milling people and animals. Temoten wrenched the tiller about, steering his ferry left and to the east.

"Fewer people around the eastern docks," he said half to himself.

"Conan, can you¦"

But the big Cimmerian was already moving toward the prow of the boat, bending to catch up a long, wooden pole that lay along the starboard gunwale. Heng Shih lifted the pole on the boat's port side and Temoten nodded his disheveled gray head in approval.

The sun had begun its slow fall to the west and shadows appeared in the white city before them. The rolling Styx had gradually dimmed from transparent blue to a murky violet. The docks hove closer as the ferryman steered his vessel to their eastern extremity.

Conan and Heng Shih drove their poles against the oncoming dock, slowing their progress and letting the ferry slide smoothly into place beside a worn stair carved into a solid block of stone. Temoten scrambled forward, snatching a looped line and casting it neatly over a bronze stay set in the dock. The man was suddenly very animated.

"All right, then. Let's move. I've fulfilled my part of the bargain.

Let's see you off." He dragged a bulky pack from beneath the canopy and heaved it over a bony shoulder. With his eager assistance, Conan and Heng Shih soon had all their provisions piled upon the dock.

"We'll have to leave this here and go into the market for camels and water," said Conan. "Temoten, will you stay and watch over our belongings?"

"Stay?" burst out the ferryman incredulously. "I'm leaving as swiftly as I can push off."

"I'll stay," volunteered Neesa. "I feel somewhat poorly after the crossing anyway."

Lady Zelandra, Conan, and Heng Shih headed down the dock, leaving Neesa perched atop the heap of baggage. Temoten hesitated at the top of the stone stair.

"Farewell, mistress," he called hesitantly. "Farewell, Conan and Heng Shih." Zelandra turned without breaking stride and waved.

"A good wind to you," shouted Conan, raising a hand. Heng Shih did not even look back.

Bel-Phar's entire waterfront was paved with wide plates of stone.

Though the buildings were almost identical to those of Aswana, the atmosphere of the city was much more subdued. The quiet warehouses at the base of the dock were soon replaced by open shops and then the central market itself. The market was busy, if not overly crowded; but its customers seemed warier and less outgoing than their counterparts across the Styx. A stable of camels was located shortly, and Lady Zelandra was immediately joined in friendly argument with its wizened, one-eyed proprietor. Conan, who had been prepared to do the bartering, found himself standing to one side while the sorceress examined the proffered beasts and made derisive comments about each one in turn in fluent Stygian. The little proprietor rose to the occasion, rubbing his hands together with unconcealed delight and chattering pained protests of her harsh judgments. It seemed to Conan that this was set to go on for some time, so he cast his eyes about for a likely tavern.

Out of the moving throng of the marketplace Neesa came running. There was such urgency in her movements that Conan froze. She stumbled to a halt before him, her bosom rising and falling as she panted.

"Temoten," she gasped. "Stygian soldiers hailed him just as he was casting off. I walked right past them as they came down the dock. They didn't seem angry, but called out that they needed to see his ferryman's seal. Conan, their captain has a kind of bow

"How many?" said the barbarian in a low voice. His blue eyes kindled with a dangerous light.

"Five, I think. Six?" She lifted ivory hands helplessly. The Cimmerian pushed past her, stepping swiftly into the crowd. A voice rose behind him.

"Conan, no!" It was Lady Zelandra. But he was already running heedlessly through the market toward the docks. People either dodged or were thrust from the path of the tall outlander, who leapt over a vegetable cart in his headlong haste. Protesting outcries rang out in his wake but slowed him not at all.

At the foot of the dock six saddled camels waited restlessly. Out on the dock itself stood six Stygian soldiers of the border patrol, arrayed in gray silk and burnished mail. A pair were at the dock's far end, appraising Temoten's ferry. One of these rubbed a stubbled chin thoughtfully, as if gauging the craft's value. Two other soldiers were closer, bent over and arrogantly rummaging in the pile of provisions on the dock. The last two were closest, accosting Temoten. The taller of this pair wore the gilded gorget of an officer and was berating the ferryman scornfully. A small crossbow hung at the officer's belt. The other was a shirtless hulk of a man who brandished a heavy-bladed sword before Temoten's terrified eyes with sadistic relish.

Temoten made feeble protests, his lean frame trembling visibly. The tall officer seized the front of the ferryman's scruffy tunic in a mailed fist and jerked him forcibly to his knees. Temoten struggled to rise, and the captain abruptly drove a knee into his unprotected midsection, doubling the ferryman up in agony.

The officer stepped back and nodded perfunctorily to the shirtless soldier with the naked sword. The executioner flexed the thick muscles of his arms, raised the blade above his head and heard the sound of rapid footfalls behind him.

A length of silver steel sprang from the center of his bare breast. It caught the sun, throwing it back into his goggling eyes, then disappeared in a gout of bright blood. As the executioner sank down dying, Conan vaulted the body, whirling his stained broadsword, about his head.

The officer scrabbled desperately for his belted scimitar as the Cimmerian bore down upon him with terrible swiftness. He drove a booted foot into the captain's belly with lithe savagery, knocking the man from his feet and sending him skidding over the stones to the dock's edge.

The remaining soldiers scarcely had time to perceive the fate of their companions before the barbarian was among them like a wind hot from the mouth of hell. The first of the two men riffling through the heap of baggage managed to turn and get his sword half drawn before being cut down by a blow that split helmet and head. The other soldier among the packs got his blade free and lunged at Conan as the Cimmerian wheeled from his second kill. The Stygian's hasty, vicious thrust was hammered aside with such force that the sword was nearly torn from his grip.

Conan's return stroke was a blur of speed, bursting his foe's mail at the shoulder, shearing through the collarbone and lodging in the spine.

The barbarian yanked on the hilt, but found that his blade was stuck fast in the sagging body.

Seeing his weapon entrapped in the corpse of their comrade, the last two soldiers advanced toward Conan from their position at the dock's end. As they moved to attack him from two sides, the Cimmerian acted.

Gripping his hilt with both hands, the barbarian hoisted the dead man bodily over his head and hurled him off of his sword with a convulsive heave of his mighty shoulders. The torn corpse flopped on the stone at the soldiers' feet.

"Come join him in hell," snarled Conan in Stygian, his eyes aflame with unfettered bloodlust.

The soldiers were of two minds about this. The stout soldier on the left leapt over the bloody body of his fellow and engaged Conan, while his more gangly companion hesitated a moment before dodging around the combatants and sprinting away down the dock. If the fighter was dismayed by his erstwhile comrade's desertion, he didn't show it. He carried the fight to the barbarian, sending a whistling series of expertly aimed blows at the Cimmerian's head and torso. The strident clangor of steel on steel rang out over the calm river. Their blades flickered and clashed in a dire but elegant dance of death. The Stygian rallied, driving Conan back among the scattered packs with a flurry of skillful cuts and slashes. The heel of the barbarian's boot trod upon the corner of a saddlebag, and he staggered, seeming to lose his balance. His arms shot out to steady himself, and his foe lunged in.

The stumble was a ruse. Conan abruptly dropped to one knee and brought his blade forward point-first. The Stygian's killing thrust drove him directly onto Conan's sword. The man was transfixed, his own blade passing harmlessly beside the barbarian's head.

For a suspended instant the tableau held; then the impaled soldier dropped his sword to clatter loudly on the stone, and Conan sensed movement behind him. Wrenching his weapon free of the, falling body, Conan spun about to see the Stygian captain advancing upon him with a small crossbow held cocked in shaking hands.

"Are you a demon?" choked the ashen-faced officer. "A bolt from my crossbow will send you back, to hell!"

As his fingers tightened on the crossbow's trigger, Conan dove headlong to the side, rolling over packs and saddlebags and sliding into a crouch.

But the captain had not fired. He pointed the crossbow steadily at the Cimmerian's breast. The barbarian's fingers sank into the cool leather of a waterskin. He gripped it, his mind in a split-second debate as to whether he should shield himself with the waterskin or hurl it at his foe.

"You're damned fast," said the officer, "but now

The Stygian's head shot from his shoulders on a jet of liquid scarlet.

It sailed through the summer air like a child's thrown ball, falling into the Styx with a hollow splash. The headless body stood in place for a moment, then collapsed bonelessly. Heng Shih stood behind the corpse. Bending ponderously, he wiped his flare-bladed scimitar upon the captain's silken breeches.

Conan shoved himself to his feet and pointed down the length of the dock with his dripping sword.

"That one escapes," he said grimly.

The gangly soldier who had fled from Conan was now mounted upon one of the camels at the base of the dock. He turned a white face to the men standing among the sprawled bodies of his fallen companions.

"You are already dead!" he shouted in a shrill voice. "I will lead the king's men to you no matter where you hide! I'll see you dead!" His voice broke as Conan suddenly advanced down the dock. Wheeling his camel around, the soldier drove the beast forward and away. The ungainly creature broke into a gallop, passing both Lady Zelandra and Neesa upon the waterfront's stone boulevard.

As the camel and its rider hurtled toward the bazaar, Neesa turned smoothly, watching them go by. With supple grace she pulled the knife from her nape sheath and drew her arm back as though cocking it.

Conan's lips grew tight as the rider moved swiftly away from the woman.

Precious seconds fled, and Neesa stood motionless. Then her body uncoiled, sending the knife flying after the Stygian. It struck square between the man's shoulder blades.

The soldier slouched lifeless over the neck of his mount. The camel slowed to a trot, then a walk, and then stopped altogether. The man's limp body fell to the pavement, where his mount sniffed at it indifferently.

Temoten was crouched cowering on the carven stone stair. His mouth opened and closed several times before words issued forth.

"Ishtar, Ashtoreth, Mitra, and Set! I have never seen such things in all my life!" He stared at Conan as though the barbarian had sprouted antlers. "Where did you learn to fight like that? Who is this woman who can hurl a dagger so? Who in nine hells are you people?"

Conan cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

"Be silent, Temoten, else I shall wish I had let the headsman finish his job."

"Yes, yes," sputtered the ferryman. "I thank you."

A small crowd was gathering at the base of the dock. From their midst came Lady Zelandra, her noble face dark with fury. Heng Shih ran a hand over his bald pate and became interested in the setting sun.

"You great idiots! Now we shall have to fight the entire Stygian army!"

"I doubt it," said Conan easily. "I'm surprised that there were this many soldiers in town. And I couldn't let them behead Temoten and steal our gear, could I?" Zelandra's anger did not abate.

"And how shall we deal with these people?" She waved a hand toward the burgeoning crowd. "Shall we kill them, too?"

"We need not deal with them at all. The soldiers have kindly left us their camels. We shall be gone before the good people of Bel-Phar decide if they wish to fight us or not. Come, let us load our packs onto our new mounts. Temoten, you should get the hell out of here."

The ferryman hurriedly cast off his line and leapt from the dock without another word. Using one of the poles, he pushed his ferry into the river and then poled out beyond the shallows. As the four looked on, his sail unfurled and caught the wind with a resounding snap.

Neesa led back the camel whose rider she had slain, and the party busied itself loading their gear onto the uncooperative beasts. The crowd grew larger, some men even venturing down the dock to examine the bodies, but no one hindered the imminent departure of the travelers.

The soldiers did not seem to have been popular men. When Conan and his comrades rode out of Bel-Phar, the crowd parted to let them pass. The Cimmerian saw curious faces and fearful faces, but none who threatened to bar his passage.

As they rode free of the town's stone foundation out onto the arid soil of Stygia, Conan turned in his saddle and looked back across the Styx.

The sail of Temoten's ferry was a small, sable silhouette moving against the purple breast of the evening sky. For a long moment, Conan watched it surging away, then turned back to the road that lay ahead.

Chapter Nineteen

-

Ethram-Fal and his captain, Ath, rode down from highlands of stone into a measureless desert of sand and gravel. They led eight riderless camels through an oppressive haze of heat. The unrelenting sun blasted the landscape with a merciless glare, hammering the crumbling soil so that waves of dizzying heat were reflected up from the ground to meet those falling from the sky.

The jagged saw-teeth of the Dragon's Spine lay against the horizon behind them. From the rugged, rocky crests of the highland ridges, the land descended gradually in an irregular series of broken foothills and canyon-cracked plateaus until it opened out into level desert.

The pair rode in silence. Ath wore full armor beneath a flowing white cloak but seemed to take little notice of the heat. Ethram-Fal wore a baggy, hooded caftan that was far too large for his stunted body. Every few moments, with mechanical regularity, he brought a goatskin full of watered wine and Emerald Lotus powder to his lips and drank.

As the white sun hove past its apogee in the colorless dome of the sky, the crusted gravel beneath their camels' hooves slowly gave way to rolling dunes of ochre sand. The flowing dunes reached to the shimmering horizon, seeming to stretch to the rim of the world. Only an occasional outcrop of ruddy stone, carved cruelly by erosion, broke the monotony of the vast sea of sand.

It was well into the afternoon when the sorcerer and his soldier crested a massive dune and looked down its long slope at a sight to give a traveler joy. An oasis lay upon the naked desert like a bright broach of emerald and turquoise pinned to the breast of a withered mummy. A cluster of vegetation, impossibly vivid against the sand, surrounded a pool struck radiant by the sun.

"There," said Ath needlessly, lifting a long arm to point. Ethram-Fal merely nodded and urged his camel on.

Only hardy scrub clung to the outer boundaries of the oasis, but close to the pool the growth was lush and plentiful. A tall date palm stood beside the water. At the base of its trunk lay the tattered remnants of a simple lean-to, left behind by some traveler.

The two men rode to the pool's edge and dismounted, falling to their bellies to drink the warm, clear water. Ath finished his drink, splashed his face and went to work. A set of four large ceramic water jugs was strapped across the back of each camel. Ath began filling them one at a time, wading out into the pool to submerge the jug and then climbing out to refasten it to a camel's saddle. Ethram-Fal sat cross-legged in the shade of a date palm and watched.

"Ath," he said after a time, "I have been so absorbed in my researches that I have seen little of the men. Do they grow lax from inactivity?"

"No, milord," panted Ath, hoisting a heavy-laden jug from the pool. "I drill them three times each day in the courtyard, and they entertain themselves sparring with one another or hunting the rest of the day."

Rills of water ran along the captain's arms as he tied the full jug into place upon the disgruntled animal, who shifted unhappily beneath the added weight.

"They hunt? What is there to hunt?"

"Tiny antelope, milord. The men have only caught one and now place bets as to who shall catch the next."

Ethram-Fal scowled in resentment. "If they catch another, I want a portion of its flesh. Fresh meat would be much superior to our tedious provisions."

Ath waded back into the pool, relishing the flow of water over his skin. "Yes, milord." The next jug bubbled as it filled.

"So their morale is good?" The sorcerer drank from his wineskin and gave a barely perceptible shudder. Ath hesitated a moment before replying.

"There were some complaints when you forbade torches within the palace, and the glass balls of light that you gave us to take their place made some of the men nervous."

Ethram-Fal frowned, then waved a hand in dismissal. "There will be no fire of any kind inside the palace. I touched a petal of the lotus to a candle and it burned faster than dry pine. Tell the men that any who break this rule will pay with their lives."

"Yes, milord."

"And why the concern about my light-globes? Are the superstitious fools afraid of them?"

"Some said that they were unnatural and feared to touch them. I proved that they were harmless by holding several at once. All seem to accept them now."

"By Set's shining coils," Ethram-Fal chuckled dryly, shaking his head.

"These warriors are a weak-minded lot. The light-globes are merely a sea plant sealed in crystal. The magical enhancement is minimal. Well then, are they otherwise content? Do they quarrel amongst themselves?"

"No quarrels, milord. But I've added an additional' guard to each shift after nightfall."

"Two men per shift? That's of little consequence. But why? Does the night watch grow lonely?"

"Not lonely enough, milord. The past two nights the sentries of the third shift reported that something was skulking among the rocks at the canyon mouth." Ethram-Fal sat up straight.

"Something or someone?" he demanded, "What did they see?"

"By Derketo's ivory teats, milord, I had hoped not to tell you of this.

I am shamed to say that the men simply grow fearful when left on guard alone after dark, so I added an extra man to each shift."

"What did the guards see or hear, Ath? Answer my question now or know great pain." The sorcerer's voice was taut with displeasure.

"Y-yes," stuttered the soldier, dropping his jug so that it sank into the pool. "I do not mean to displease you, milord. The first night Teh-Harpa thought that he heard something moving in the rocks and, when he went to investigate, thought he saw two shining eyes."

"An animal," declared Ethram-Fal.

"Just so," said Ath, bending to pick up his jug once again. "The second night Phandoros heard sounds of movement and thought that he heard a voice speaking."

"A voice?" The sorcerer came to his feet. "Who was there?"

Ath flinched, holding the water jug before his chest as if it were a talisman against his master's imperious gaze.

"No one, milord. Phandoros scoured the canyon mouth with a torch and found nothing. He was too ashamed to tell me of his fear. I only learned of the matter when I overheard the men discussing it among themselves. All agreed that Phandoros was mistaken and that it was an animal foraging in the dark. I added the second sentry so that these stories would not work upon the imagination of guards left all alone."

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal, sitting down once again. "That was wise, Ath."

The tall soldier breathed easier and went back to the safe business of filling water jugs. He labored without speaking for some time, but the silent scrutiny of his master grew onerous.

"Our supply of water was quite good, milord. Do you need all these extra jugs filled for some great magic?"

Ethram-Fal laughed condescendingly, smoothing his caftan over bony knees. "It is my intention not to return to this oasis for some time. I wish us to be well supplied with water."

Ath hoped that his master would elaborate, but the sorcerer said nothing more. At last the final jug was sealed and lashed into place upon the shaggy back of an unhappy camel. Ath squatted beside the pool, sipping water from a cupped palm and catching his breath.

Ethram-Fal stood and stretched himself in the shade of the date palm.

Hitching the strap of his wineskin over a shoulder, he walked to the pool's edge and pointed into the shallows.

"Ath, use your dagger to dig a small hole in the sand there."

"Milord?" The soldier obediently, drew his dagger, but looked into the water quizzically.

"There," snapped Ethram-Fal impatiently, "beneath the surface before you."

Ath stepped into the pool, splashing diamond droplets in the sun as he hastened forward. Knee deep, he bent and used the blade of his dagger to carve a pit in the sandy mud of the pool's bottom.

"Deeper," commanded the sorcerer, peering over Ath's bent shoulder.

"Not wide, but deep." Swirling particles clouded the water as the soldier worked, obscuring his progress, but in a moment Ethram-Fal seemed satisfied.

"Good enough. Now out of the way." Ath stepped back and climbed out of the pool, thrusting his dagger into the sand to dry. He regarded his master with wary curiosity.

Ethram-Fal waded awkwardly out into the water, his oversize caftan floating out behind him. He stopped beside the hole Ath had dug and pulled something from a pocket. He held it out in an open palm, and Ath saw that it was a flattened, black ovoid with a thick seam running around its edge. It filled the sorcerer's hand and had the organic appearance of a monstrously overgrown seed. Ath had never seen anything like it before.

Ethram-Fal whispered words in a language dead thirty centuries, and the black seed twitched in his palm. Bending slowly and reverently, the sorcerer lowered his hand to the smooth surface of the pool and whispered once again. The words rasped together like dry bones. A tangled network of veins appeared on the glossy, sable surface of the seed. Ethram-Fal thrust it under the water, pushing it into the hole and using his hands to bury it. Then he drew back, lifted his dripping hands from the pool, and moved them in a slow, circular pattern over the planted seed. He whispered a final time, turning his hands over abruptly before him. Lurid crimson glyphs blazed brilliantly upon each palm for an instant and vanished.

The Stygian sorcerer slogged out of the pool with a twisted smile on his face. His captain stared with intent apprehension at the spot where Ethram-Fal had planted the seed, as if expecting something horrible beyond words to burst from the waters at any moment.

"Come then, Ath, let us be gone," said Ethram-Fal jovially. He pulled himself atop his squatting camel and clung to its saddle as it rose to its feet. Ath tore his eyes from the pool and mounted his own beast hurriedly, as his master looked on in apparent amusement.

The camels snorted in distaste as they were forced to file out of the only patch of greenery on the parched expanse of desert. They moved steadily, if reluctantly, up the sifting side of the huge dune that flanked the oasis. A hot wind tore sand from the dune's crest and hurled it into the faces of the two men leading the column of camels.

Ethram-Fal noticed that the sun had already dried his caftan, which had been dripping wet only a moment past. Once over the dune, Ath drew up short, cursing.

"Set's scales! I left my best dagger stuck in the sand back there." The soldier pulled on the reins of his mount and prepared to turn about to retrieve his weapon.

"No," said Ethram-Fal firmly. "You must do without it. The next visitor to that oasis is in for a terrible surprise."

Chapter Twenty

Pesouris the ferryman lounged in a well-padded chair set out upon his dock. At the end of a long day's toil he often found it pleasant to relax here for a time before repairing to his house and the diligent attentions of his concubines. At times like this, when the sun had just dipped below the earth's rim and the breeze came cool and bracing down the twilit Styx, he felt it only proper that he should reflect upon his good fortune and perhaps offer up a discreet prayer of thanks to Father Set. It was the servants of the serpent god, after all, who had made his present prosperity possible. If he had not been granted a ferryman's seal by the Stygian authorities of Bel-Phar, he would still be competing for his livelihood with all manner of motley would-be ferrymen. Now that he alone was authorized to transport travelers across the Styx to Bel-Phar, his wealth and status had exceeded his fondest wishes. A fortnight ago he would have been unable even to rent this dock, and today it belonged to him. Paying even a single full-time concubine would have been beyond his meager means.

Pesouris heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction, his burgeoning paunch straining at his silken girdle. He locked stubby fingers together behind his thick neck and leaned back in the chair. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He wondered which of the two he should select tonight. An idea burst upon him, causing his thickly thatched eyebrows to raise abruptly. Couldn't they be made to compete for his affections?

Of course they could. Why hadn't he thought of this before?

The sudden stream of fantasies unleashed by this new inspiration was cut short by the nearly inaudible scuff of a boot sole on the dock behind him. The interruption displeased Pesouris, who twisted about in his padded chair to face the intruder.

Night and the shadows of two tall palms conspired to make the base of the dock a thick mass of impenetrable shadow. There was someone there, though; Pesouris could just make him out.

"Ahptut? Is that you?" The ferryman called the name of his hired servant and was dismayed at the weak sound of his voice. Bristling a little, he sat up and stared into the darkness.

"You! Who's there!"

The figure of a tall man was barely visible, standing motionless on the dock. A chill fluid seemed to course down the ferryman's back. He fumbled at his waist for the curved dirk on his belt, his mind awhirl with panicked surmise. Was it that drunken fool Temoten come to claim vengeance? Or a thief out to rob him of his hard-won riches?

Pesouris was still groping for his dagger when the man on the dock took two steps forward, emerging from the shadow of the palms into the pale starlight. He was a big man, standing tall and stiffly straight in a loose caftan that rippled gently in the night breeze. He said nothing, but his presence less than ten feet from the ferryman was mutely threatening. Pesouris finally got his hand on his hilt but did not draw the weapon. He looked into the blackness within the caftan's hood.

"What do you want?" he asked through lips gone suddenly dry. The man on the dock thrust out a hand and pointed at the smaller of Pesouris's two ferries, moored along the dock. Then he pointed out across the star-flecked Styx. The hand disappeared into a pocket of the caftan and came out clutching a fistful of coins. The man tossed them onto the dock at the ferryman's feet. There were several coins, and they clashed musically together as they hit the weathered wood of the dock. The weight of their impact and their vague yellow gleam were not lost on Pesouris. Gold.

"Your pardon, my lord, but I cannot ferry you across at this hour. The Stygians, in their wisdom, forbid it. If you come back at daybreak¦"

An uncomfortable moment of silence lengthened until the ferryman felt his pulse quicken with new apprehension. The man on the dock moved, thrusting his hand once again into his pocket and drawing forth another handful of coins. The pile of gold on the dock grew twice as large.

Pesouris looked down upon the spilled coins in sorrow. "I'm truly sorry, master, but it is forbidden for me to take travelers across the river after sundown. Your offer is generous, but if the Stygians caught us they would slay us both." The ferryman spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He did not have to feign regret. That was a lot of gold.

The man on the dock stood still for a long moment, his flowing white garb giving him the appearance of a silently risen ghost. Then he lunged forward and seized Pesouris by the throat and belt.

The ferryman choked as he was drawn effortlessly up out of the chair.

The hand at his throat seemed sculpted from cold granite. The portly ferryman was tossed bodily into the smaller of his ferries. There was a sharp stab of pain as his right knee cracked against the gunwale. If he had not been so full of fear, the pain might well have incapacitated him. As it was, he had the strength to roll over, grasp the slender mast, and pull himself to his feet in the little craft.

"Please," he choked, "I'll take you. Don't¦"

The silent man was lowering himself stiffly into the boat. He sat in the prow and regarded Pesouris impassively. Only the vaguest outline of his features was visible in the darkness. There came the dry whisper of steel on leather as the man drew a heavy-bladed sword and laid it across his knees.

The ferryman busied himself poling first off the dock and then along the muddy bottom of the Styx. The ferry was little more than an outsized rowboat fitted with a miniature sail. Pesouris had Ahptut use it to carry the smaller, less wealthy groups of travelers. Now he scrambled to set the little sail as the craft surged out onto the black breast of the Styx.

Once the ferry was well under way, there was nothing Pesouris could do except squint into the darkness for the lights of Bel-Phar and regard his unlikely passenger. The air was chill upon the nighted river and a cooling draught blew back along the length of the boat. It bore a strange scent to the ferryman's nostrils.

Once, when he was very young, Pesouris had traveled by caravan with his father to Khemi at the mouth of the Styx. One morning he had awakened early and set out into the dunes to relieve himself. In a sandy hollow he had found the corpse of a camel. The beast had been mummified by the relentless arid heat of the desert and resembled a sagging leather fascimile of itself. The warm morning breeze had carried the same scent that he smelled now on the cool evening breath of the Styx.

Of a sudden Pesouris longed to look at anything other than his passenger. Turning his head to one side, he noticed a brief flash of froth out on the dark water. Amazed, the ferryman realized that he had spotted a crocodile. There were more flashes, more signs of movement all around the little boat. Here a black, armored muzzle broke the surface, and there a ridged, lashing tail struck foam from a glossy swell. The hair stood up on the ferryman's arms. Crocodiles did not venture so far from shore. And they did not follow ferryboats. The breeze blew stronger, bearing that scent back to Pesouris once again, and suddenly he understood. Crocodiles are eaters of carrion. They smelled it, too.

By the time that the sparse lights of Bel-Phar's waterfront came into view, Pesouris had completed a long and most sincere prayer to Mitra.

He had briefly considered praying to Set before deciding upon the more merciful god of the Hyborians. If he survived this evening, he promised both a vastly generous donation to a temple of Mitra and a serious change of lifestyle. Looking to either side of the ferry, he felt certain that his prayers were falling on deaf ears. The man sitting in the prow of his boat had not changed position and if he noticed the swarm of crocodiles following them, he gave no sign.

"Master," said Pesouris, hating the shrill sound of his voice, "we are almost across." No response. He mustered his flagging courage. "Master, the water is full of crocodiles."

The man in the prow remained silent.

Pesouris concentrated on bringing his ferry in to a darkened, deserted dock, pointedly ignoring both his somber companion and their reptilian escort. When the little boat grated against the stained stone blocks of the dock, the ferryman felt a surge of relief, immediately followed by a rush of stark terror.

The man in the prow stood up, naked sword in his hand. Pesouris fell to his knees in the bottom of the boat, clenching his eyes shut against the blow he knew would come.

"Please, master," he pleaded. "I'll tell no one of your passage. Spare your poor servant."

A weight lifted from the prow of the ferry. Pesouris opened his eyes to see his passenger standing on the steps carved into the stone of the dock. The waterfront seemed unnaturally silent. On the neighboring pier a lone torch flickered yellowly from a sconce set in stone. The man sheathed his sword with a swift movement and tugged back the hood of his caftan, paying no heed to Pesouris whatsoever. He turned and started up the steps.

"Master," called the ferryman. The tall man stopped, turned, and looked down at Pesouris, who cringed but spoke.

"Master, who are you? What do you seek here?"

The flesh of the man's face seemed impossibly drawn and sunken in the faint torchlight. The mouth opened and closed stiffly, as though its owner had forgotten how to speak. A scar shone pale through the lusterless growth of beard.

"Death," said Gulbanda, and moved away up the stairs into the night.

Chapter Twenty-One

T'Cura of Darfar scrambled down from the jagged rock spur that he had been using as a lookout for most of the morning. Below him, twelve men lolled quietly beside their hobbled horses, clustered in what shade they could find atop the boulder-strewn ridge. Neb-Khot, the small band's leader, squinted in the merciless noonday glare, watching T'Cura descend and wondering what he had seen. He took a swig of warm, brackish Water from a goatskin and motioned for T'Cura to hurry.

Neb-Khot was a thin, wiry man. His dusky Stygian complexion was darkened even further by ceaseless exposure to the desert sun. His burnoose was gray with dust, secured at the waist with a leather girdle that held a scimitar and three cruelly hooked daggers. His sharp brown eyes peered questioningly at T'Cura, who scuffed over the rocky soil toward him. The Darfari approached his chieftain, touched his scarred forehead in a salute, and spoke.

"Hai, Neb-Khot, riders were approaching, but now they have turned off the Caravan Road and ride into the waste."

Neb-Khot stared at his man incredulously.

"Telmesh, awaken and tell me if what T'Cura says is truth."

The one addressed as Telmesh arose from the shadow of a mottled boulder and jogged toward the rock spur at the ridge's edge.

"I speak the truth." T'Cura's lips drew back from filed teeth.

"Are they mad?" The Stygian met T'Cura's bloodshot gaze. The Darfari was a fine tracker and an excellent man in a fight, but he had to be kept in line. Their eyes locked for a moment; then T'Cura looked away, bringing his dark hand up to scratch at his crudely shaven head.

"They ride into the open desert," persisted the Darfari, "and there are but four of them. Two are women."

"Even so?" Neb-Khot clapped a hand onto the man's shoulder to show him that he was still respected. "This grows more interesting by the moment."

The other brigands were stirring, some rising to wander over to hear of what T'Cura had seen. Telmesh dropped from the rock spur and came breathlessly up to Neb-Khot. He was a Shemite outlaw with few friends in the band. Neb-Khot often used him for simple tasks so that he felt appreciated. Now he held up his hand to shield his black eyes from the sun, revealing the faded tattoo of a golden peacock upon his forearm.

"It is as T'Cura says," declared Telmesh. "I say that we leave them be.

Only sorcerers would willingly leave the Caravan Road and ride into the desert."

"Two are women," said T'Cura again, and a murmur of approval swept the lawless band of men gathered atop the rocky ridge.

"I did not notice," said Telmesh, but his words were lost in the growing tumult of eager voices. Neb-Khot lifted his hands for silence.

"My brothers, what manner of travelers leave the Caravan Road to wander in the wastelands? Are they necromancers seeking wisdom amongst the sand and scrub? Or are they witless fools who know nothing of the desert and have made the last mistake of their useless lives?"

Bloodthirsty cries rose from the men, some of whom drew their swords and shook them at the hot, blue sky. Telmesh the Shemite looked dismayed, but held his tongue.

"And eagle-eyed T'Cura says that two of the four are women!" continued Neb-Khot, his voice rising. "So I say, if the women are ugly, perhaps they are ladies worth ransoming. And if they are comely, then we have been lonely men for far too long!"

A savage cheer rang in the bright air and the group turned as one to their horses. Neb-Khot hoisted himself into his saddle and nudged his mount to Telmesh's side. An extended hand helped the Shemite mount his roan.

"Courage," smiled the Stygian. "If they are beauties, I shall see that you get first pick." Telmesh nodded, loyalty burgeoning in his breast.

Neb-Khot reined his horse around, watching his men move into action and reflecting upon how his luck had never deserted him. It had made him the undisputed leader of this strong band of bandits, always kept him a step ahead of the Stygian militia, and seen to it that it was never too long between hapless travelers on the Caravan Road. He spurred forward.

Hooves thundered in the dust as twelve men swept down from the high ridge to rob and rape and slay.

Chapter Twenty-Two

After the gear in the saddlebags of their camels was sorted through and divided, each member of the party acquired a measure of protection against the desert heat. Zelandra and Neesa immediately made use of a pair of cotton cowls, pulling them over their traveling clothes and tugging up the loose hoods against the sun. Predictably, Conan and Heng-Shih had more difficulty. The Khitan found nothing that he could wear as it was meant to be worn, finally wrapping a gray silk tunic around his shaven skull in a crude turban. For an outer garment he produced from his own provisions a golden kimono embroidered with writhing dragons of scarlet silk. Though adequately protected from the harsh sun, he cut an odd figure. The Cimmerian was luckier, finding a cotton burnoose large enough to be serviceable if not entirely comfortable. In motley array, the party moved through an empty landscape, the dry and barren miles passing slowly beneath their camels' feet.

Zelandra .seemed unwell. Again and again she looked back over her shoulder toward the road they had left behind, her face pale within the folds of her hood. When she spoke to Conan, her voice had developed an unsettling tremor.

"Are you certain that we should have left the Caravan Road? Shall we not become lost in this godforsaken waste?"

Conan shrugged his broad shoulders beneath the undersized Stygian burnoose. "The Dragon's Spine is not so easily found. It is near Pteion, remember, and no human road leads to that cursed ruin."

Lady Zelandra's left hand fluttered to her brow and she swayed slightly in the saddle. "And how am I to trust you, barbarian? How is it that I trust you to lead me through this hot and empty hell?"

The Cimmerian turned to fasten his probing gaze on her face. Zelandra's eyes rolled as though she were in the grip of a tropical fever and her jaw worked spasmodically. He saw that she gripped the box at her girdle with such fierce intensity that the tendons stood out rigidly across the back of her hand. Then Heng Shih was riding at their side. The Khitan leaned from his mount and caught the reins of Zelandra's camel.

The party drew up short in the midst of the rocky plain. The sun was so bright that its rays seemed to thicken the air, suffocating the travelers with its heat.

"Heng Shih," sobbed Zelandra, teetering in her seat. "Heng Shih, where are you?" The Khitan moved his mount in close beside the sorceress and laid a thick arm across her shaking shoulders. The woman half fell against his body, leaning against him while a series of visible shudders coursed through her slender frame. Conan drew back, casting a glance at Neesa.

"Crom," he murmured, "is she stricken?"

Neesa shook her dark head. "Her body cries for the lotus."

The barbarian cursed under his breath, feeling a creeping chill despite the cruel sun. He turned away from the little group, scanning the land around them. The ruddy, irregular plain was broken only by a rough ridge to their rear and by a widely separated group of eroded volcanic buttes before them. The wind rose from a dull whisper to a hot howl, drowning Zelandra's sobs. Conan looked back to the ridge behind them, where it rose sharply against the featureless blue of the desert sky.

His brow furrowed.

Heng Shih's hands pulled the silver box from its leather bindings and lifted the lid with gentle care. Within the box's mirrored silver rim lay velvety green shadow. Zelandra tossed her head back against the Khitan's breast, tears bright on her pallid cheeks.

"No, Heng Shih," she said weakly. "No, my love."

The Khitan put a blunt forefinger in his mouth, then thrust it into the open box. It came back out encrusted with emerald dust. He put it to Zelandra's lips.

"Riders!" The barbarian's voice rang with deadly urgency. "Bandits or worse. Follow me!"

Heng Shih carefully re-wrapped the silver box and fastened it securely to Zelandra's belt before looking up. Neesa wheeled about, standing in her stirrups to look behind them. The Lady Zelandra was shaking her head as though shrugging off a spell of dizziness. She wiped away the moisture on her cheeks, blinking quickly and suddenly seeming to focus once more on those around her. When she looked up, her gray eyes were clear.

"Derketo's loins," she cursed hoarsely, "listen to the barbarian."

"Crom and Mitra! Follow me or we're all food for the jackals!" Without looking to see if they heeded his words, Conan urged his camel to a loping gallop. He started off at an angle to their original path, heading toward the stony prominence of the nearest butte. The rest of the party followed.

Neesa stared back at the ridge a moment longer. A thin thread of rising dust was just visible, tracing a line down the ridge's rugged slope.

How the barbarian had noticed this faint sign was beyond her.

Marveling, she lashed her camel and started off after her companions.

The party, moving at top speed, drew nearer to the closest of the buttes, and Zelandra found herself questioning the wisdom of the Cimmerian's path. The butte they approached was the core of an eons-dead volcano, a huge, crumbling shaft of stone that rose almost vertically from the desert floor. Its base was cluttered with shattered boulders torn from the main body of the escarpment by the slow claws of erosion. There seemed to be little advantage in taking refuge among the jagged heaps of broken rock. Would they leave their camels and try to lose their pursuers by hiding in the jumble of boulders? Better to try to fight them off. Zelandra's hand sought and gripped the box that bounced at her hip. She breathed deeply of the wind that lashed her flowing cowl and cleared her mind in preparation for strong and deadly sorcery.

But Conan did not lead the party directly into the butte's base. He kept his camel galloping around the tower of stone, moving west and north until a new feature of the rock unveiled itself. This side of the butte was cleft by a narrow gorge. It was as though an angry god had split the stone with a titanic ax, opening a steep passage up into the body of the butte. Conan rode into the gorge's mouth, dismounting almost immediately as the ground became covered with loose stone. The rest of the party came up behind him and followed suit.

"We can take the high ground here. Lead your mounts; the footing is uncertain." The barbarian's words echoed in the stony passage.

. They hastily moved up the gorge, over gravel and broken, treacherous plates of reddish rock, between looming walls of striated stone. The sun shone directly down into the steep cleft in the butte, filling it with oppressive heat and blinding light. Halfway up the little canyon their passage was almost blocked by a huge boulder.

"Get the camels up behind the rock," directed Conan. "We can hold this position until they're willing to bargain."

As Heng Shih, Zelandra, and Neesa led their mounts to shelter behind the boulder, the hammer of hooves echoed up from the gorge's mouth. The brigands had overtaken them and now moved to seal off the canyon.

Neb-Khot was displeased with the current course of events. His band's fresh horses had caught up with their prey's weary camels easily enough, but the bandit chieftain had not anticipated that they would find such a dangerous place to go to ground. The brigands could only get at the travelers by charging up the open slope. Even though there were only, two warriors in the defending party, he might well lose several men before taking them down. A bit of bargaining might lower their guard, perhaps even intimidate them into throwing down their arms and surrendering. He rubbed his stubbled chin uncertainly. The little party had proved surprisingly skillful in protecting themselves thus far. The Stygian sighed, wondering what other surprises they might have for him. This was not as easy as he had anticipated, but it did not mean that his luck had deserted him.

The brigands dismounted, forming a loose phalanx facing up the passage.

Neb-Khot motioned for the two archers to take up flanking positions on each wall of the gorge and called Telmesh to him. The Shemite, black eyes bright with excitement, clutched his naked scimitar and looked to his leader in anticipation.

"Telmesh, how would you like to bargain with these fools?"

"I?" The bandit seemed stunned. "By the Steel Wings, I've never done such a thing."

"Bah," said Neb-Khot with friendly derision. "You underestimate yourself. Have a word with the dogs. Show them that we can be reasonable men while I ready the others to charge." He turned away before the Shemite could respond.

Up the gorge, Conan. appeared atop the boulder sheltering the camels while Heng Shih stepped out beside it. The Khitan moved a few steps down the slope, finding a niche in the rock wall that would afford cover from arrows. Conan stood in full view, black mane whipping in the hot wind that blew along the canyon.

Forty paces away, Telmesh leapt up on a block of stone and hailed him.

"Ho, travelers! Throw down your weapons, give us your goods, and we shall spare you!" The Shemite's voice rang strongly in the corridor of stone, and he straightened with pride at the sound of it. Conan's response was a harsh bark of laughter.

"We have no riches, dogs. Our mistress seeks medicinal herbs in the desert. We have nothing for you but steel. Come forward if you wish a taste of it."

At this the archers to either side of the gorge surreptitiously set shafts to string and looked to Neb-Khot for the order to loose them.

The Stygian chieftain moved among the eight men on the gorge's floor, speaking to them in low tones.

Neesa struggled up onto the boulder's top beside the barbarian. As she stood, a gust of wind lifted her cowl, exposing her slim legs to the crowd below. A raucous cry of approval swept the bandits.

Telmesh laughed coarsely. "By Ashtoreth, give us a taste of her and you can all go free!"

As Conan turned to admonish Neesa to take cover, the woman's hand darted to her nape in a motion that the barbarian knew all too well.

Her arm snapped forward, sending a throwing dagger streaking down the gorge like a diving hawk. The blade drove into Telmesh's throat just above the collar of his dusty burnoose.

"Taste that!" shouted Neesa as Neb-Khot gave his archers the order to release. Conan swept out an arm, shoving Neesa from the top of the boulder and sending her skidding, cursing, down the far side. An arrow shot through the space where she'd stood, whistling up the gorge. The Cimmerian's sword licked out, clipping a second arrow aside in mid-flight. The eight men on the canyon's floor howled out a wild, discordant war cry and drove forward with blades bared.

Telmesh stood still on his rock, eyes wide with disbelief.

His hands groped for the dagger's hilt and found it just as his legs gave way beneath him.

Neb-Khot watched the Shemite fall and felt his luck running strong within him. The whim that had led him to avoid bargaining with this party had likely saved his life. Surely the gods protected him this day.

Behind the boulder, the Lady Zelandra heard the cries of the attacking bandits as an indistinct and distant murmur. She knelt in the gravel, her entire being focused upon the open box of Emerald Lotus perched in her lap. Inside the mirror-lined casket was a small seashell. She used it to spoon a bit of the deep-green powder into her mouth, pouring it under her tongue. Revulsion at the sharp, bitter taste was swiftly eclipsed by the shudder of raw power through her body. She snapped the box closed, lashed it to her belt, and stood up.

The first bandit up the slope closed on Heng Shih, who lunged from his niche in the rock wall to meet him. The flare-bladed scimitar flashed in the desert sun, driving down to rebound from the bandit's hasty"

block with a resounding metallic clang. T'Cura reeled back from the strength of the blow, his dark face twisting with determination, He moved back in, but this time Heng Shih's swing had all the power of the Khitan's body behind it. Again, T'Cura succeeded in blocking the stroke, but the sheer impact lifted him from his feet and hurled him backward down the gorge. The Darfari crashed to the ground, tumbling down the rocky incline in a series of painful somersaults. Heng Shih ducked back into his sheltering niche as an arrow splintered against the canyon wall beside him.

Another arrow shot past Conan's head as he dropped to a crouch, waiting for the oncoming bandits to climb the boulder to reach him. A moment later a bearded brigand pulled himself up to where the rock adjoined the wall of the gorge. Conan drove forward and met an arrow fired by a canny archer below. The point impacted the barbarian's left shoulder, failing to pierce his mail but delivering a powerful buffet that staggered him and sent pain flaring hotly down his arm. The climbing bandit came sword-first onto the boulder's top, where Conan, struck off balance by the arrow, lashed out at him with a wordless cry of rage.

The Cimmerian's blade tore across the breast of his foe, splitting his ribs and slamming him back over the boulder's lip. The brigand fell from sight with a hoarse cry as Conan's uncontrolled swing drove his sword against the gorge wall, where it broke with a brittle crack.

Cursing sulphurously, he tore his dagger from his belt, crouching low again as yet another arrow whispered past.

In the cover of his niche, Heng Shih gripped his hilt with both hands and prepared to go back out onto the slope to deal with the next set of attackers to struggle up the slope. His slanted eyes flew wide as the Lady Zelandra came from behind the sheltering boulder and strode boldly out in front of it. He hurtled from the niche, golden kimono billowing out behind him, to protect his mistress. He cut down a howling brigand with a single brutal stroke, sending the man flying back among his comrades and momentarily arresting their progress. Then the Khitan looked to Zelandra and froze in place.

The Lady Zelandra's hair blew back from her straining face. Her eyes stretched wide, lit up from within by a weird crimson light. A tortured stream of strange words poured from her lips as she flung her arms out as though to embrace the oncoming bandits.

Every man in the gorge stopped moving. They stared in horror at the sorceress as a fiery illumination gathered and seethed about her outstretched hands. Halfway down the slope, T'Cura turned to run.

"Heeyah Vramgoth Dew!" screamed Zelandra, her voice rising to a wail of supernatural intensity. "Aie Vramgoth Cthugua!"

A towering sheet of red-orange flame rose Up before her, filling the gorge from wall to wall, obscuring Zelandra and her comrades from the bandits. For an instant it stood still, raging like the blaze at the heart of a volcano; then it rolled down the canyon toward Neb-Khot's terror-stricken band. Men turned to flee and were caught in the roaring inferno like insects in a brush fire. Screams of fearful agony were half heard above the flame-wall's thunder.

Neb-Khot was astride his horse the moment that Zelandra began her chant. He tried to spur away, but his horse shied, its hooves slipping on the loose stone of the gorge's floor. The beast fell, sending the Stygian chieftain flying from its back to slide gracelessly down the slope. He dragged himself to his feet, twisting an ankle in the gravel, and ran as if hell were at his heels.

Conan stood on the boulder's crest, watching the flame-wall move away.

It rolled swiftly toward the mouth of the gorge, expanding and contracting to fill the defile. When it reached the end of the little canyon, it faded swiftly from view. The fearsome, ear-filling roar dwindled away to silence. The barbarian saw that three bandits had escaped the gorge and now rode intently away from the butte. Two of the men shared a single mount. None turned to look behind them.

Six brigands lay dead on the floor of the canyon. Their bodies were twisted and contorted as though they had died in terrible pain. There was not a mark upon any of them.

Conan clenched his jaw, feeling the barbarian's instinctive fear of the supernatural welling up in him even as his battle-hardened sensibilities rebelled at the cruel power of Zelandra's sorcery. He glanced down to where the sorceress had stood at the base of the boulder and saw that she now sat cross-legged in the dust, her head in her hands. As he looked on, Heng Shih approached Zelandra and knelt at her side, bending his head to hers.

The Cimmerian lowered himself to the boulder's edge and dropped over it, landing lightly beside the sprawled corpse of the brigand he had broken his sword in slaying. The man still clutched a scimitar. Conan took the weapon from his stiffening fingers and the leather scabbard from his bloody belt. The scimitar was of mediocre workmanship, yet its design was agreeable enough. The blade was curved, but not so much as to make it impractical for thrusting. It was not a broadsword, but it would have to serve.

When he turned, Zelandra was standing again, embraced by Neesa. Heng Shih approached him with a wide grin, his silken kimono bright and incongruously festive in the sun. The Khitan's hands went through a quick sequence of motions, ending by seizing Conan by the upper arms and giving him a vigorous shake. The Cimmerian pulled free of the smiling Knit an.

"He gives you thanks for saving our lives," said Neesa. The Cimmerian grunted in embarrassment, looking off down the gorge. Heng Shih slapped him on the shoulder and turned back to Zelandra, who stood leaning weakly against the boulder. Her posture spoke of enormous weariness.

The Khitan took her hand, and together they walked around the boulder to where the camels waited.

Neesa came to the barbarian where he stood affixing the looted sword and scabbard to his belt.

"I shouldn't have killed that man, should I?" she said. Her dark eyes sought his. "If you had time to bargain, perhaps

"Hell," grinned Conan, suddenly glad to be alive. "They had no intention of letting us go. You heard those dogs howl when they caught a glimpse of you. You don't think that I'd have traded you for safe passage, do you?"

"No," she said, and lifted her lips to his.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The riders allowed their horses, weary and lathered with foam, to stop and rest at the Caravan Road. Neb-Khot lowered himself awkwardly from the mount he shared with T'Cura, lit upon his twisted ankle and swore savagely.

"Yog and Erlik! That was a close thing, brothers."

T'Cura eased off his horse and stood holding the reins while the third survivor remained mounted. The third was one of the archers, his bow now in place over his right shoulder. He was a young Shemite, his shock of black hair in sharp contrast to the pale flesh of his face.

"Telmesh was right," he panted, wiping his brow with a dirty sleeve.

"They weren't human. Did you see the black-haired one knock my shaft from the air?"

"Be still, Nath," groaned Neb-Khot. He gave in to the pain in his ankle and sat down heavily on the hot, hard-packed earth of the Caravan Road.

The sun, just past its median, blazed down. It was still early afternoon. The Stygian chieftain marveled that the illfated pursuit of the travelers and the destruction of his band had taken so little time.

"I need a horse," he declared to no one in particular.

T'Cura was drinking noisily from a waterskin, still gripping the reins of his mount with one hand. He lowered the skin and studied his chieftain in a bemused fashion. The archer, Nath, shifted nervously in his saddle, looking back out across the shimmering expanse of the desert.

"The horses scattered, Neb-Khot," said Nath. "We'll never find one for you now."

"It's a long way to Sibu's oasis. And farther still to Bel-Phar,"

growled T'Cura.

"Ishtar." Neb-Khot rubbed his wounded ankle gingerly. "Give some of that water to your horse, T'Cura. The beast will need it to carry us both back to Sibu's."

The Darfari said nothing. He put the waterskin to his lips and took a long, deliberate pull. Lowering it, he looked upon Neb-Khot and bared his filed teeth in a cold and mirthless smile. Then he shoved the waterskin into a saddlebag with a single contemptuous motion.

Nath's gaze moved from T'Cura to his chieftain and back again, growing ever more apprehensive. Neb-Khot noticed none of this. His fingers probed his wounded ankle while his mind dwelt on this sudden reversal of fortune. He looked up to see that the Darfari had remounted his horse and was now stroking the polished blade of his unsheathed scimitar. For the first time it occurred to Neb-Khot that his luck might have deserted him completely.

"Look!" cried Nath, his voice breaking. "A rider!"

Neb-Khot twisted around, coming to his knees on the hard road. It was true. A single horseman had come into view on the road along the far flank of the ridge. His form rippled liquidly in the haze of heat, a small black mark on the ruddy, sun-blasted landscape; but it was clear that he rode the Caravan Road alone.

"Hah," grinned Neb-Khot, getting to his feet. "The gods haven't forgotten me after all. T'Cura, bring me that fool's horse and I'll give you fifty pieces of gold."

The Darfari eyed his leader with a look of amused disbelief writ upon his dark features. Then he shook his head and spat in the dust.

"Julian must love you, Neb-Khot," he said, and spurred his horse forward, toward the approaching horseman.

The Stygian chieftain laid a hand on the lathered neck of Nath's mount as they watched T'Cura rapidly close on the lone rider.

"Should I began the archer.

"No," said Neb-Khot firmly. "Stay here with me and make ready an arrow." Nath did as he was told, setting a shaft to string.

As they watched, T'Cura confronted the horseman, flourishing his sword threateningly in the brilliant sunlight. The traveler's mount seemed very weary, its head hanging, but it kept plodding toward them even as T'Cura accosted its rider. The Darfari's voice rang commandingly, the words indistinct and distant but unmistakable in intent. The horseman, wrapped in a voluminous caftan, did nothing, and his mount continued unperturbed in its slow, steady gait.

Neb-Khot licked dry lips. Was the man mad?

With a furious cry, T'Cura thrust his blade at the traveler's breast.

What happened next occurred with such speed that neither Nath nor Neb-Khot could immediately grasp it. The rider's left hand lashed out, literally slapping aside T'Cura's killing thrust, and then shot out to seize the Darfari by the throat. T'Cura's blade fell to the road and his horse shied away, pulling from beneath its rider and leaving him dangling at the end of an arm as rigid as the bar of a gallows.

"Mitra save us," gasped Nath.

Impossibly, the rider held T'Cura out at arm's length, kicking, and then gave him a powerful shake. The Darfari's thrashing limbs went abruptly lax, and he was released. He fell in a limp heap on the road as the horseman continued toward Neb-Khot and Nath at the same deliberate pace.

"Oh, Mitra! Mitra!" cried Nath hysterically.

"Be still!" shouted Neb-Khot, slapping the mounted man's leg. "Shoot the dog! Loose, damn it!"

The archer shook with fear, but drew and released with ease born of years' practice. The arrow flew true, slapping into the center of the rider's breast. The man lurched in his saddle with the impact, but stayed mounted. His horse maintained its leisurely gait.

"Excellent," said Neb-Khot. "Now again!"

Nath mechanically drew and loosed another arrow, which found its mark beside the first. The rider was jolted once again, but remained in the saddle as the horse came to within a dozen paces and slowed to a halt.

"Gods," breathed Neb-Khot, "what manner of man have we slain?"

Putting his bow back over a shoulder, Nath drew his scimitar and spurred forward, cautiously approaching the horseman.

Seen up close, the horse was in terrible condition. White foam dripped from slack jaws while its sides heaved in the last extremity of exhaustion. Spurs had torn bloody marks in its flanks and its legs quivered unsteadily beneath the weight of its rider. The man's appearance was obscured by his dust-caked caftan, which was nailed to his broad chest by Nath's arrows. He sat his mount with the breathless silence of the dead.

Nath's horse snorted suddenly, but the Shemite jerked at the reins, pulling it up beside the lifeless rider. The archer poked at the horseman with the point of his scimitar, thinking to shove him from the saddle.

The dead man's hand knocked aside Nath's blade and swung back around in an arc of incredible speed. A fist like the head of a mace cracked into the side of Nath's skull, bowling him off of his horse and sending him sprawling unconscious in the dust.

The horseman swung a leg over his saddle and dismounted. Neb-Khot drew his sword without thinking. Then he was struck motionless, his limbs seeming to lock up in helpless horror. The rider had caught the reins of Nath's horse with one hand and was drawing one of the arrows out of his chest with the other. The shaft came out slowly and with a thick, grating rasp, as though it were being pulled from a wooden beam afflicted with dry rot. Bloodlessly, the arrow was removed and discarded. When the rider grasped at the second arrow, Neb-Khot's reason broke.

"Die, demon!" The Stygian chieftain stumbled forward, bringing his sword down in an overhand cut that should have cleft the crown of the rider's head. But his twisted ankle gave way beneath his weight even as the horseman sidestepped the attack. Neb-Khot fell awkwardly on the road, gravel scoring his palms as he caught himself.

There was no time to recover, to strike upward at his nemesis, or even to roll away. A knee came down solidly in the middle of Neb-Khot's back. A cold hand locked onto each shoulder, iron fingers sinking into his flesh. Struggling, the Stygian was bent backwards with monstrous, irresistible strength.

Gulbanda spoke a single word, then snapped Neb-Khot's spine.

Chapter Twenty-Four

-

Zelandra's band of travelers traversed the waste beneath a molten sun.

Conan led them unerringly across the desert's level floor, over red earth baked by centuries of ceaseless heat until it was the consistency of brick. As the long miles passed, the stony solidity of the soil gave way to crumbling gravel, and then to shifting sand.

The party crested a low rise, and drew to a halt at the Cimmerian's command. Ahead stretched an ocean of rolling dunes, a seemingly endless expanse of ochre sand that reached for the shimmering horizon, raked by the sunlight of late morning and dappled by black shadow. A single band of cloud, burnt transparent by the sun, moved upon the blank blue slate of the sky. "Here the true desert begins," said the barbarian. "Any sane caravan would traverse the dune sea only at night, but we are in haste and have no time for comforts. Drink sparingly. I doubt I'll be able to find another source of water until we've crossed the dunes and reached the highlands."

Zelandra bent in her saddle, digging a hand into her baggage. The sorceress produced a worn tube of pale leather, from which she drew a roll of yellowed parchment. Thrusting the tube beneath an arm, Zelandra unrolled the scroll for Conan to see.

"This is an ancient map of this part of Stygia," she explained. "I found it before we left. It dates back to the days of Old Stygia, and shows the city of Pteion and its environs. I doubt that the map will be of much use, but I noticed that it depicted an oasis near the eastern highlands. Do you think it might still be there, Conan?"

The barbarian squinted at the map, lifting a thick forearm to shade his eyes. "It may be. I have heard of an old oasis in the dune sea, though not from anyone who claimed to have seen it with his own eyes. This part of the world is wisely avoided by most. Only men who wish to travel in secrecy cross these sands." Conan nudged his camel forward, and the travelers started down the gentle slope into the dunes.

Neesa pulled her hood over her tousled locks and said, "Do the caravans fear becoming lost amid the trackless sand? Traveling by night, as you say, could they not steer by the stars?"

"They fear losing their way, as they fear the heat and the absence of water, but they also fear the slumbering sorcery of the dead city of Pteion. These sands are said to be accursed."

"We are not going near Pteion," put in Zelandra. "We shall skirt its evil rains by many miles. Your barbaric superstitions do you little credit, Conan. These sands are no more accursed than the grassy hills of Shem."

The Cimmerian made no reply. His blue eyes smoldered against his bronzed face as he scanned the horizon uneasily.

As the party rode into the sea of sand, the sun lifted into the sky and seemed to halt there, suspended in the heavens like a torch in a sconce. The camels labored over the dunes steadily, if unenthusiastically, occasionally snorting and moaning their distaste for the task.

Neesa followed Conan's example and draped herself in her cloak so that not an inch of skin was exposed to the merciless sun. Closing her eyes against the glare, she settled back in the swaying saddle and tried to doze. Between the movement of the camel and the steady creaking of her gear, she could almost imagine herself back on the deck of Temoten's ferry. A cry from Zelandra snapped the scribe back into full awareness.

"Look there! Is that not a palm?" The sorceress stood in her stirrups at the crest of a tall dune. "Conan, is that our oasis?"

The barbarian pulled at his mount's reins, urging the camel up the dune's face until he was at Zelandra's side. Heng Shih pointed to the southeast, where a fleck of emerald glimmered in the haze of heat.

"It looks like it," agreed Conan, "though it is» nowhere near where it is shown on your map."

Zelandra's high brows knitted in impatience. "Well, one could hardly expect the oasis to be in exactly the same position after the passage of so many centuries. Let us go fill our waterskins and lounge in the shade for a time. It will do us all good."

The Cimmerian said nothing, and the travelers turned from their trail.

The distant palms beckoned, wavering like a green flame on the face of the desert. Conan watched the palms draw nearer, coming into view as his camel slogged up a dune, then dropping from sight as his mount descended into the valleys between each hill of sand. Unlike his civilized companions, the barbarian had never learned to distrust or disregard his instincts. He was troubled by a vague and creeping unease.

The terrain altered as the party proceeded. The dunes flattened, and the sand became a hardened skin that crunched beneath their camels'

feet! Conan stared at the oasis, now close enough for him to discern lazily swaying palms and the thick cluster of ground vegetation that marked the location of the waterhole. His nostrils flared.

"Something is amiss," said the barbarian. "The oasis appears green, yet I smell no water."

"For the love of Ishtar, Conan, would you attempt to contain your barbarian superstitions?" Zelandra sounded exasperated. "Pteion is many miles away. This oasis is a blessing that we shall not overlook. We¦"

A wave of beat rolled over the travelers. Though the sky was clear, the sun brightened as if it had emerged from behind a thick wall of clouds.

Ahead, the oasis blurred like a waking dream, its outlines softening in the harsh glare. The brightness made Conan squint and look down. He saw that he rode over a hardened surface of solidified sand. The sculpted dunes had flattened into an uneven plain of fused glass. The ground resembled the congealed bottom of a glass-blower's forge. Conan jerked his camel to a halt, looked up, and saw that the oasis had vanished.

Where the palms and brush had been was now a stout, flat-topped cone of dark stone, standing almost as tall as a man. Its deep gray hue contrasted sharply with the ochre tones of the desert. The sands around the cone were frozen in concentric whorls of fused glass. It sat at the center of a mile-wide spiral of seared sand, like a gray spider in a web of brittle stone. The earth around it was strewn with dark debris.

A sheet of white fire rippled across the sky, and a cry went up from the party. The camels bellowed and stumbled as the air itself seemed to turn to flame. Conan dismounted, seizing the reins of his reeling mount, and pulled away from the false oasis.

"Come away!" he roared. "Sorcery!"

The heat intensified incredibly, dazzling their eyes and searing their skin. Heng Shih and Neesa could not control their mounts. The camels reared and staggered, with their riders pulling at the reins in vain.

Conan saw Zelandra jump awkwardly from her saddle and fall, rolling on the ground beside her camel's stamping feet.

"Dismount!" bellowed the barbarian. "Leave the camels and flee or we'll be cooked in our skins!" Neesa and Heng Shih tried to obey as Zelandra scrambled away from her frenzied mount. Conan moved to help her. Hell seemed to swallow them all.

Blinding white fire filled the air. Breathing scorched the lips and tongue. The Cimmerian reached for Zelandra, and saw the sleeve of his burnoose was smoldering along the full length of his arm. Blisters sprang up on the back of his exposed hand.

"No!" shouted the sorceress, "Stand away from me!" Conan stepped back, and Zelandra knelt, lifting her hands to the incandescent sky.

"Dar-Asthkoth la Ithaqua!" her voice wailed. "Brykal Ithaqua Ftagn!"

The sky immediately lost much of its brilliance, and the heat waned.

Conan threw back the hood of his burnoose and looked about wildly. The acrid stench of burnt cloth filled the hot, still air. Heng Shih had been hurled from his camel's back. He rose from all fours, and limped to the side of his mistress. The Khitan drew his scimitar, as if his blade might protect Zelandra from the unnatural heat. Neesa had stayed in her saddle and succeeded in calming her mount, while the remainder of the camels milled about in a state of near panic.

Above the beleaguered party arced a translucent dome of azure light.

The Lady Zelandra raised her palms to it, as though holding it aloft.

Her breath came in short, harsh gasps. Outside the dome's circumference, the air blazed with rippling fire. The ominous cone of gray stone wavered in and out of visibility.

"What in the name of the gods is happening?" cried Neesa. She swung her long legs over her saddle and dismounted, hastening to Conan's side.

The barbarian brushed roughly at the smoking hem of her cloak, extinguishing the embers glowing there.

"Some sort of sorcerous sentinel," he rumbled, "trying to burn us to death like insects under a glass. It's a good thing that Zelandra made quick use of her power, else we might all be piles of smoking bone by now."

"Is it a weapon of Ethram-Fal's?" asked the scribe.

"No," rasped the kneeling sorceress, "it is very old. And very hungry."

Her hands trembled, and a hot wind blew over the huddled group. "I can't hold it much longer. Our only hope is that it tires before I do."

"What is it?" Neesa's voice quavered. "What does it want with us?"

Zelandra did not answer. She had clenched her eyes shut and was now a study in stark concentration. Heng Shih knelt beside her, putting a reassuring hand on her slim shoulder.

"I can't say what it is," said Conan, "but I can tell you that it means to slay us. Look." Neesa's gaze followed the barbarian's outstretched arm and fell upon a gruesome sight. Some twenty feet ahead of the travelers was a cluster of blackened bone, lying half-sunken into the fused glass of the desert floor. The jagged ribs of a camel were plainly visible, but more disturbing still was a scattered collection of rounded mounds that appeared to be charred human skulls.

"The cursed thing lures travelers by shamming the appearance of an oasis, and then cooks them to death when they come to drink."

"Why?" burst out Neesa, horror edging her voice with hysteria. "Would it kill us without reason?"

"It is hungry." Zelandra spoke without opening her eyes. The face of the sorceress was tense and drawn, as though she suffered a ceaseless pain she could barely endure. "It wants to burn us to death and feast upon our released souls. My resistance has made it curious. Look to its stone well, I think that it has come out to look us over."

Conan looked, and shuddered as though a spider had scurried down his spine. The space between Zelandra's protective dome and the gray stone well had cleared somewhat. Something hung above the well's dark prominence, floating suspended in the air. It was a shimmering tower of reflective light. It looked as though the desert's common mirage of distant, glistening water had been twisted into a living coil. The demon swayed like a stationary cyclone. Conan felt the distinct and unpleasant sensation of being watched.

The air outside the dome blazed up anew. White fire pressed in upon Zelandra's magical barrier, drawing a low moan from the sorceress.

"Ah, Ishtar, but it's strong! It is some guardian demon of old, freed of its well, yet bound to its guard post. I feel its mind. It knows only hunger and hatred. Ah!" The demon's body swelled suddenly, and the blue dome above the party dimmed and lowered. A flash of infernal heat fell upon the travelers, then dissipated as Zelandra marshaled her strength. "Damn! It means to have us all. Heng Shih, get me some lotus."

The Khitan obediently unlaced the silver box from Zelandra's girdle.

Tilting the lid open, he found the seashell within, and scooped up a bit of the deep-green powder. He held it to his.mistress's face and, when she opened her mouth, poured it under her tongue.

"Derketo," Zelandra cursed, shuddering. Then a terrible smile slowly spread over her features. Her teeth were smeared with green. Above them, the azure dome rose and darkened.

"How's that, old devil?" Zelandra opened her eyes and gazed upon the swaying form of her demon nemesis. Her voice was softer, almost sensual. "You've never met anyone like me before, have you?"

The whirling coil suddenly stretched up to twice its height, shooting skyward in a flash of blue-white light. Zelandra screamed hoarsely as her protective barrier was struck with enough force to drive it down directly over their heads. Neesa cried out and dropped to her knees, involuntarily lifting her arms to shield her head. The azure dome flickered, admitting quick pulsations of fiery heat.

"I can't hold it! I can't hold it!"

"Can steel harm it?" Conan had drawn his scimitar, and crouched beside the kneeling sorceress. His eyes blazed with reckless desperation.

"Strong blows might dissipate it momentarily, but it can't be slain by physical weapons. Don't be a fool! Ah!" Zelandra grimaced with effort as the demon hammered at her shield with all of its eldritch might.

Conan lunged to his camel's side, and pulled a waterskin from its place beside the saddle. He tore it open, then upended the skin over his head. The Cimmerian poured water over his burnoose, trying to soak himself completely.

"Have you gone mad?" cried Neesa, grasping at the barbarian's arm.

Conan shook her off.

"It's our only chance. If I can distract it, flee." Without another word the Cimmerian leapt through Zelandra's barrier into the inferno beyond. Breaking out of the azure dome, Conan felt a flash of sharp chill, as if he had splashed through an icy waterfall, then the demon's heat hit him like a toppling wall. Conan sprinted across the brittle sands with steam bursting from his sodden burnoose. It was like running across a lava flow. White light drove tears from the barbarian's eyes, but he could see the undulating coil of the demon's body ahead. He steered toward it, bounding over the blackened remains of a luckless caravan, and sliding to a stop before the gray cone of rock. It was a well of sorts. The tip of the cone was missing, revealing a shaft dropping away into darkness. A circular plate of gray stone, the size of a wagon's wheel, lay against the side of the well. The demon towered twenty feet above Conan, rising in sparkling, unbroken coils from the well's open mouth. It swung from side to side, then drew itself down, as if to examine the diminutive form of the man who dared approach it.

Conan heard the moisture sizzling from his burnoose, and smelled hair burning. The hilt of his sword seared his palm. He lashed out at the demon with a savage cry. It was like cleaving cobwebs. His blade passed through its insubstantial form, but pulled a trail of glittering shadow-substance after it. The temperature dropped abruptly, though Conan scarcely noticed. With another war cry, he slashed his scimitar across the top of the well again, and yet again. The demon fell in upon itself, telescoping, until it stood only half a man taller than the barbarian. It bent over him, as if in benediction, and Oman's burnoose burst into flames.

The Cimmerian dropped and rolled on the hard ground, trying to smother the fire. Scorching pain bloomed along his shoulders and arms, then ceased abruptly. The flames died. Rolling onto his back, Conan saw the azure dome suspended above him. He jumped to his feet, heard the cries of his comrades, and realized that Zelandra was protecting him at their expense. The barbarian's sword" whipped across the mouth of the well again and again, shredding the demon-thing's substance, drawing its attention back to himself. It dropped lower in the well. Sorcerous heat pressed upon the azure barrier, but could not penetrate. The twisted coil of rippling light shuddered, then dropped from view into the well.

The air was suddenly much cooler, and the sun less bright. The normal, fierce heat of the desert seemed pleasantly temperate after the demon's onslaught. Conan leaned against the faceted stone wall and fought for breath, peering into the well's blackness. A surge of heat billowed up from within and dried his eyeballs.

"Seal it!" Zelandra's voice carried across the blasted sand. "It will gather its strength and come back more powerful than before!"

Conan staggered back from the well. His eyes were drawn to the heavy plate of gray stone that leaned against the well's side. He bent and gripped it The barbarian's arms stretched to their limit, his hands fastening onto the plate's rim and clamping tight. The great disk of stone had been carved, worked, and fashioned to cap the well. Weird runes, half obliterated by time, rose beneath his straining fingers.

Conan heaved up, muscles cracking in his mighty frame. The breath exploded from between his teeth. Balancing the massive plate against his heaving breast, the Cimmerian took a single, unsteady step, and the demon thrust itself from the well again.

The shimmering body of the creature shed a hellish heat and rose, resembling a cyclone of broken mirrors. With a convulsive heave, Conan dropped the lid. It fell across the well's mouth with a hollow boom, like distant thunder. The demon's body was lopped off cleanly. Its upper, half dissipated like smoke on the wind, its luster fading rapidly to shadow. The stone lid rattled once, as if thrust up from within; then it was still.

Conan slumped against the well, drawing breaths that seemed as sweet as the wine of Kyros. His comrades joined him, stumbling across the fused sand.

"Get away from the well," snapped Zelandra. "I'll seal its bonds with magic." The sorceress muttered a brief incantation, then slapped her palms down on the well's cap. The plate of stone glowed a dusky, auroral blue, and a faint keening sound pained Conan's ears. Zelandra turned from the well with a triumphant grin.

"Congratulations, my friends. We have defeated a guardian demon that has haunted this desert since Acheron warred with Old Stygia." The lady's face was pinched with strain, yet lit by an unnatural energy.

She clutched her silver box of Emerald Lotus, gesturing with it. "Our barbarian friend was right again. We must learn to cease underestimating him. That was a creature of Pteion, set to guard its borders more than thirty centuries ago. I could feel its age as I grappled with it. It has a mind of sorts, and intelligence. If only I could stay and study it. What wonders the demon must have known in its youth."

Conan doffed his blackened burnoose, baring flesh scorched scarlet.

Wordlessly, he began rummaging through the pack camel's provisions, looking for new clothing. The barbarian shot a glance at Heng Shih, and smiled. The Khitan had lost his turban when he fell from his camel, and now his pate was reddened and dotted with angry blisters. His golden kimono was worn, dirty, and bore spots of black char. He noticed the Cimmerian's attention and grimaced, touching his blistered scalp ruefully.

"Can it get but of the well now?" asked Neesa.

"No, child," said Zelandra grandly. "My power has sealed the demon away until I see fit to set it free. Originally, all one had to do was open the well to release it, but I have fused the stone with sorcery. Go ahead, Conan, just try to lift the lid now. Even you shan't be able to do it. Ga on. Try it."

"I believe you, milady," said Conan dryly, continuing his search through the provisions.

"But it got out of the well before," murmured Neesa dubiously.

"Some fool must have lifted the lid," said Zelandra. "Probably many years ago, though there is no sure way to tell. Pteor knows why anyone would do such a thing."

"Probably looking for treasure. The poor devils must have thought they had found a Stygian tomb." The Cimmerian finally found another burnoose in a saddlebag, and pulled it over his stinging shoulders. It was too small, but it would have to do.

"They found their deaths. As we might have if not for my lotus."

Zelandra examined her silver box with pride.

"And Conan's courage," said Neesa.

"Yes. Yes, of course," said the sorceress absently. She opened the silver box and stared within. Zelandra's eyes grew vague and distant.

She licked her lips slowly. Her right hand seemed to rise of its own accord, stroking gently around the box's silver-chased rim.

Neesa snatched the box from her mistress's hands, snapping it shut. The scribe backed away from the sorceress, holding the box behind her body.

Her posture revealed fear and determination in equal measures.

"That's mine!" Zelandra snarled, her hands clenching into fists. "Give it back to me, or I'll¦" Her gaze abruptly focused upon the slender form of her scribe. Their eyes met, and Zelandra's face fell.

Bewildered, she looked down at her hands and deliberately unclenched her fists.

"Forgive me, Neesa. You are a fine servant and a better friend. Forgive me." The voice of the sorceress was husky and halting.

"It is nothing, milady," said Neesa softly. "Here." The scribe handed her mistress the silver box, and Zelandra fastened it securely at her girdle, knotting it into place.

"Come then," the sorceress spoke up. "Let us mount and be off. I shall busy myself, as we travel, making a salve to soothe our burns. Lead on, Conan."

The barbarian rejoined his mount and swung into the saddle. His dark face was grim. As the little caravan began its slow crawl across the burning sands, he trained all his senses upon a single object. The Cimmerian had poured much of the party's water supply over his body to protect himself from the supernatural heat of the guardian demon. There was little left. Conan sniffed the air and scanned the landscape, searching for any evidence of a water source. If he did not find the oasis depicted upon Zelandra's ancient map, he had no doubt that the party would perish for lack of water.

Chapter Twenty-Five

-

Except for a. single chair and several empty buckets, the little room was devoid of furnishings. These few things sat in a rough circle around the room's central feature. In the middle of the smooth stone floor was a deep depression now filled with hot water. In this impromptu tub lounged the naked form of Ethram-Fal. The steaming water was dark and thick as syrup with powdered Emerald Lotus. The sorcerer wallowed on his back in the sunken pool, his slight, wizened body half floating as he breathed the perfumed air through flaring nostrils and stared upward with dilated eyes. He leaned his shaven head back upon the sharp rim of the tub and idly created visions to amuse himself.

Suspended in the air above his prone form, a silver flower bloomed, its shining petals gleaming like polished steel. It rotated a moment and then burst into a compact ball of scarlet fire. The flame blazed brightly, then flew outward into a thousand separate pinpoints that immediately contracted, spinning into a miniature galaxy. The revolving disk of brilliant motes coalesced, gradually outlining the tiny, perfect form of a woman. Once complete, the fiery homunculus began to whirl in a wild dance, slowly shedding its flames until it was a diminutive but perfect image of the Lady Zelandra. Naked, the little figure writhed in erotic abandon before Ethram-Fal's greedy eyes.

The sorcerer settled himself more deeply in the hot, lotus-laden water, feeling its power seeping into his bones. Above him, the homunculus caressed itself and thrust tiny hands out to Ethram-Fal in shameless supplication. Then, as he looked on, the figure began to tear at itself, rending its flesh with its own hands until it burst abruptly into a misty cloud of crimson droplets.

Ethram-Fal laughed, his mirth sounding metallic and inhuman in the closed stone room. The sorcerer rolled over, letting the image wink out, and turned his mind to more serious things.

He slouched low, letting the thickened water creep up to his lower lip, allowing a bit to slip into his mouth and savoring the bitter bite of it.

His continuing study of Cetriss's legendary discovery had taught him much about it, but had left him curious on a number of key points. Most notably, he had no idea how it had been conceived. It had no place in nature. The Emerald Lotus was a unique hybrid of plant and predatory fungi. Ethram-Fal believed that he now understood each distinctive stage in its odd life cycle. Thinking to feed it again before it went dormant, he had his soldiers drive a horse over the balcony railing and into the pit. It had taken six men with spears to do the job, and one of them had received a kick that stove in his ribs. The horse had fallen beside the lotus, which had remained motionless until sensing the blood from the beast's wounds. The lotus could be approached at any time, and its blossoms harvested, provided that it did not smell blood.

Exactly how it sensed blood he had yet to determine, but a few moments after the horse, wounded by prodding spearpoints, had landed at its side, the lotus had become violently animate, leaping on the beast and feeding upon it. After nearly draining the animal, it bloomed once again, the newer, brighter flowers almost obscuring the ones left unharvested from the pony that he and Ath had given it. Disturbingly, the lotus had seemed less than satisfied with its second horse, and continued to move about the chamber after flowering. Ethram-Fal wondered if it was possible to give the Emerald Lotus too much sustenance. Its appetite seemed limitless, and the blood it consumed added to its size and strength no matter how much it had already absorbed. The sorcerer had stared down into the cylindrical chamber and realized it would be as foolhardy to overfeed the lotus as it would be to starve it. The Emerald Lotus had to be kept alive and thriving, yet if overfed it might prove difficult to manage. The sorcerer had watched it continue to move after its feeding for almost an hour. The lotus prowled around the walls in a restless circle, dragging the body of the horse with it.

It never gave up its victims. They became a part of it, woven into its grisly fabric. The lotus was bigger now, a tangled mass of hardened branches, razor thorns, and lush, emerald blossoms. The nightmare plant now stood at nearly the height of a man, and fairly blanketed the floor of its chamber. Ethram-Fal knew that, in time, the blooms would dry out and fall away, leaving the bristling bulk of the lotus in a dormant state as it waited patiently for nourishment. Left even longer without blood, it would use the bones of its prey to go to seed, driving black spores into the marrow and letting its outer body fall slowly to dust.

It was fascinating, but frustrating as well. Though he now believed that he knew the lotus and how to control it, he had not developed even a tentative theory as to how Cetriss had created it. Even a sorcerer as skilled and knowledgeable in the ways of growing things as himself could not begin to imagine how such an unnatural conglomeration of plant, animal, and fungus could have been formed. To have created such a thing and have it live for mere moments in the laboratory would have been a triumph; that it was nearly immortal and yielded a powerful drug was practically beyond belief.

Ethram-Fal sat up in the tub, the water making green traceries over his bare shoulders. He mopped his brow and blinked in the steamy heat.

Perhaps the legends were right. Perhaps Cetriss had bargained with the Dark Gods for the lotus. If this was so, then the sorcerer had been a man of great courage as well as great skill. If this was so, then all his own efforts to fit the Emerald Lotus into earthly categories were doomed from the start. It might have been conceived in a place where the laws of nature as men knew them did not exist. Under what strange skies had the Emerald Lotus first blossomed? And who had been the first to harvest it?

Thinking on the accomplishments of Cetriss, Ethram-Fal felt an unaccustomed surge of admiration. No wonder the mage had abandoned all to seek immortality. His greatness had been such that all the brilliant sorcerers of Old Stygia must have seemed little more than insects in comparison. A man like that would have wanted the ages, the god-like power to rise above the paltry world of men.

Ethram-Fal sighed deeply. He, too, wanted the ages, but he would settle for power over the here and now. The lotus had already enhanced his abilities far beyond his expectations and promised to make him stronger still. To seven scarlet hells with its origins as long as he could continue to harvest its blossoms.

The Stygian slouched back in the tub's warm embrace, eyes slitted and glittering. He could wait a while to feed it now. Next time it shouldn't be a horse. That had proved to be much too difficult.

Ethram-Fal thought of the soldier who had been kicked and had his ribs broken, of how he now lay so uselessly in the Great Chamber. The sorcerer smiled.

Heavy footfalls in the hall outside the room woke him from his pleasant reverie. The blanket hanging over the doorway was thrust roughly aside, and Ath came panting into the room.

"Milord, I beg the tall soldier began.

"What is this? Did I not leave explicit orders that I was not to be disturbed?" Ethram-Fal sat up in his bath, a small, shrunken, and naked form that filled the armored warrior with a fear that jellied his guts.

"Milord, please, I would not have come here without reason."

There was a moment's silence while Ethram-Fal thought on this. The yellow-green illumination of the light-globe played along Ath's rangy form, highlighting the nervous tic that leapt beneath his right eye.

"No," said Ethram-Fal finally, "I suppose that you wouldn't. Speak.

What is it?"

A lungful of air escaped from Ath's lips and he realized that he had been holding his breath. A hand went involuntarily to his cheek to quell the tic there.

"There is something that you must see, milord. One of the men has been killed."

"What? How?"

"Please, you must see for yourself, milord. It was one of the guards.

He was found in the room of the great statue."

At that Ethram-Fal was up and out of his bath, scrubbing at his scrawny body with a towel and quickly struggling into his gray robes. He was following Ath down the stone hallway in mere moments, his bare feet leaving damp prints in the dust. They did not speak again until they came into the huge, circular chamber.

A soldier stood at the base of the black statue, thrusting his light-globe feebly at the encroaching darkness. He stared silently at them as they approached. Ethram-Fal hardly noticed the living man at first, his eyes were fixed upon the smooth block of stone between the god-thing's extended paws.

A man lay spread-eagle there, his head close to the black sphinx's glossy breast. His arms and legs were thrown out to each corner of the smoothly worn block, where black rings of untarnished metal were set in the stone. He was not bound. There was a ragged hole in his chest, piercing the mail. Bright blood spattered the sable stone in loops and strings. It pooled, cooling, beneath the body. The featureless oval of the sphinx's face hung above them like a black moon in the darkness, admitting nothing.

"What in Set's name?" Ethram-Fal's voice was a dry croak.

"It is Dakent, milord." Ath's tones were steady and emotionless. "He was on guard with Phandoros when it happened."

Ethram-Fal's gaze fixed on the man with the light-globe, and the slender Stygian flinched as if stabbed. He did not, however, speak until spoken to.

"What happened? How did your partner come to this?"

Phandoros licked his lips and spoke in a reedy voice. "It grew chill in the courtyard, milord. It was nearly dawn and a wind came up the canyon. I left Dakent alone at the portal to go and fetch my cloak. I found it, took a sip of wine, and returned to find him gone." Phandoros hesitated, swallowing audibly.

"What then?" urged Ethram-Fal impatiently.

"I called for him in the courtyard, then came back in to seek him inside. When I didn't find him, I woke Captain Ath and we searched the palace together. When we came to this room¦" The soldier's voice choked off and he seemed unable to go on.

Ethram-Fal turned to his captain, "Ath, continue."

"Outside this room, we heard a voice."

"A voice? Who spoke?" The sorcerer held his hands at his waist, knotting and unknotting his fingers distractedly.

"I don't know, milord. We came in at the far entrance and heard the voice whispering. He spoke no words that I understood. When we lifted our lights and called out, whoever it was fled. We could hear his feet on the stone. We gave chase but hesitated when we saw Dakent. By the time that we started after the intruder again, he had escaped out the portal."

"It's gone? You're sure it left the palace?"

"Positive, milord. I followed outside and heard the sounds of him climbing the canyon wall."

"Climbing that sheer wall?"

"Yes, milord."

"Does anyone else know of this?" demanded Ethram-Fal.

"No, milord. Everyone else sleeps," said Ath.

"Good. No one else shall hear of it. All shall know that Dakent was bitten by an adder while on watch and that his body was given to the lotus. Is that understood?"

"Yes, milord," said Ath.

"Phandoros?"

"Y-yes, milord. It is understood."

The small group of men stood in grim silence for a brief time. The light-globe shed its gently wavering illumination over the sprawled body, lending it the ghastly illusion of movement, while the shadows seemed to press inward and hold the living in place.

"Why didn't he cry out?" asked Phandoros in a small voice.

"Look at his throat," said Ethram-Fal. "His windpipe has been crushed shut."

"You mean he was seized, silenced, and dragged in here to be slain?"

Ath's voice rose in repugnance and horror.

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal in softer tones. "And where is his heart?"

The two soldiers started and looked about themselves as if they might find the organ that had given Dakent life lying at their feet.

But it was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

An ancient lean-to of dry sticks and faded camel-skin tatters waved in the hot desert breeze. It sat forlorn and fallen in upon itself at the base of one of several palms that stood about the oasis like sentries swaying with weariness in the heat. The trees threw inviting splotches of dark shadow upon the sun-bright sand, but the eyes of the weary travelers were fixed on the pool.

Sunken into a sandy depression and half surrounded by grateful shrubs, the water gleamed a vivid blue, reflecting the cloudless sky above.

"Now that, by Crom, is a most welcome sight." Conan slid easily from his camel's back and led the others toward the pool's nearest shore.

His three comrades followed, stretching legs aching from hours in the saddle.

"Is the oasis where the map showed it to be?" Neesa pulled back her hood and shook out her tangled cloud of black hair. The scribe wondered if she could be patient enough to wait until everyone drank their fill before throwing herself headlong into the waterhole.

"More or less," said Conan. "I steered us by the map until I could smell water, then followed the scent."

Zelandra jogged to Conan's side, her silver-threaded hair bouncing with her movements. As they neared the pool's rim, her hand closed on his thick shoulder.

"Hold," she said urgently. "Something here is not right¦"

Conan's eyes caught a trace of movement in the pool's clear shallows. A thin stream of bubbles rippled from a spot in the sand beneath the water. The stream widened as he watched, sending tiny concentric swells rolling across the still surface of the pool. Heng Shih and Neesa shouldered up to where Zelandra and Conan stood staring. The barbarian's skin crawled with a dread so strong and insistent that it was almost a premonition.

"Get back!" he bellowed as an explosive concussion ripped the surface of the pool, hurling white spray far up into the empty sky. Where the stream of bubbles had emerged from the pool's floor, a thick shaft of shining green, like the trunk of a tree, now thrust itself into view.

It shook, jerked, and stretched itself taller than a man, lashing the water to froth. A cluster of pale, bloated, petal-like growths covered the thing's crown. Its body was a densely wrinkled green cylinder, crisscrossed with pulsing veins. A pair of ridged tentacles burst from each side of its midsection, lashing the air. A thick mass of roiling roots formed its base, heaving at the pool's floor, lifting the grotesque thing up out of the water, moving it toward the shore and the stunned human intruders.

A whiplike tentacle whistled toward Conan, snapping itself around his right calf. It pulled forward with incredible strength, jerking his leg up, upending the barbarian's body, so that for a moment he was suspended head down. The Cimmerian's sword leapt into his hands, making a flashing arc that slashed through the hard, ridged arm and dropped him to the sand.

Heng Shih's hands caught Zelandra's waist and tossed her forcefully back. She stumbled out of range even as a tentacle curled around her bodyguard's torso. The emerald arm constricted, sinking sharply into Heng Shih's abdomen, drawing him in toward the hideous thing.

Conan sprang cat-like up off the ground, ducking beneath one flailing tentacle as another struck him across neck and chest like a slavemaster's whip. He twisted away, stumbling in the sand, a line of dripping crimson bright on his bronzed throat.

The unnatural plant proceeded to pull itself out of the pool on its tangled carpet of roots while bone-white thorns began sprouting from the net of wrinkles on its swaying trunk. Wicked, needle-sharp spikes pushed into view, jutting the length of a man's hand. The unladen tentacles lengthened, whipping wildly about as the one gripping Heng Shih pulled steadily, tirelessly at him.

The Cimmerian lunged to his friend's aid. A questing tentacle writhed about the barbarian's left arm, biting into muscle and spoiling a stroke meant to free Heng Shih. The tentacle he had severed snaked clumsily between Conan's legs, seeking an ankle.

The Khitan's boots plowed twin furrows in the sandy soil as he was drawn irresistibly toward the thing. The tentacle sawed through his kimono and into his midsection, sending trickles of brilliant scarlet across golden silk. Clinging to the imprisoning appendage with one hand, Heng Shih managed to draw out his scimitar with the other.

The plant-thing, now well up onto the shore, gave a sudden heave on the tentacle grasping the Khitan. Heng Shih lost his footing and stumbled helplessly forward, toward the thing's body, which now bristled with dagger-like thorns. He made a desperate thrust with his scimitar, and the point of his blade pierced the trunk's thick skin with a moist crunch. The Khitan's body jolted to a stop as he braced the pommel of the sword against his belly. To draw him closer, the monstrosity would be forced to drive his blade deeper into its own body. The length of his scimitar was all that kept Heng Shih from being pulled onto the murderous thorns.

Conan stomped the wounded tentacle into the sand while pulling against the horror gripping his arm. It jerked to and fro in a frenzy, confounding his efforts to hack himself free.

The ghastly thing kept inching forward, thick petals bobbing in the sunlight. Then it leaned back and gave another tremendous heave, nearly unbalancing Conan and driving half the length of Heng Shih's scimitar into its fibrous body. In the instant that it righted itself, the tension on its tentacles went slack and Conan moved. He staggered up to the abomination and, with a swift whirl of steel, struck off at the base the tentacle that gripped his arm. The appendage released him and dropped, writhing in the sand like a maddened serpent. The wounded tentacle, freed from beneath Conan's boot, finally found the Cimmerian's ankle just as the last free tentacle snapped around Heng Shih's chest and added its relentless pressure to that already drawing the Khitan onto the spiked trunk. The ridged arm around Conan's ankle constricted with savage force and wrenched the Cimmerian away from the creature he had wounded. Conan fell heavily on his side and was pulled away, cursing and struggling.

Heng Shih's face was fixed in a grimace of agony as he bore up under the monstrous pressure exerted by the remorseless tentacles. His hands were white on the hilt of his sword, clinging doggedly to the only thing that kept him from embracing the nightmare plant's spined trunk.

The pommel of his scimitar thrust painfully against his belly even as his blade slid an inch deeper into the monster's dense, wooden flesh.

Then a knife hurtled from nowhere, thudding into the horror's emerald trunk a handbreadth from Heng Shih's face. Neesa's aim was as. true as ever; but if the sorcerous abomination perceived her marksmanship, it gave no sign.

The tentacle dragging Conan away from the fray suddenly released him and flew back to whip with vicious force around Heng Shih's shoulders.

The breath was driven from the Khitan's lungs. The plant-thing was willfully impaling itself upon his blade in order to draw him to it.

Heng Shih's scimitar was slowly being driven hilt-deep into its trunk, and now he held himself mere inches above the hungry thorns.

The Cimmerian leapt up and sprang back into the fray. Skidding to a halt in the damp sand, he braced his feet and delivered a terrific roundhouse cut to the plant-thing's body, hewing almost a third of the way through the trunk like a woodsman chopping a tree.

Colorless fluid gushed from the yawning wound, spraying Conan's arms and face. Its blood was cool and, where it touched the barbarian's lips, tasteless. It was water. Realization translated into instantaneous action. Conan hurled himself away from the thing even as the wounded tentacle released its grip on Heng Shih and darted toward the Cimmerian's legs with terrible speed. It dodged over his low slash with unnatural agility and wrapped itself around his throat. The tentacle drew taut and clenched furiously, instantly cutting off Conan's breath, wrenching him from his feet, and dragging him, struggling, across the ground. A choked cry of pain and fury tore from the Cimmerian's throat as his body slid across the sand toward the waiting, wicked thorns. His free hand clutched at the tentacle encircling his throat, prying the cruelly ridged thing from his windpipe, while his sword hand whipped up and down in a convulsive surge of raw strength. The blade hewed through the oppressive arm, freeing him. Rolling, tearing the severed length of tentacle from his neck, Conan scrambled over the ground with the desperate speed of a wounded panther. The barbarian slid to a stop behind the obscene thing as four new tentacles erupted from its body.

From among the writhing nest of roots that formed the abomination's base came a thick cable as black and shiny as oiled leather. It was as big around as a man's thigh and led back across the sunbaked sand into the pool.

As the four new tentacles shot toward him, Conan rose on his knees, lifted his scimitar above his head, and slashed downward with all the remaining power in his body. The blade tore through the black cable and buried itself in the dry earth. Water burst from the sundered taproot like blood from a riven heart.

The plant-thing shuddered, the veins webbing its spiked trunk ceased throbbing, and its tentacles fell limply to the sand. It settled down heavily upon its bed of roots and then toppled sideways with slow grace, like a hewn tree. Its green skin was suddenly thick with dew, water running from its fallen trunk. It shriveled, giving up to the thirsting sand the water that had lent it life.

Heng Shih stood glassy-eyed where it had released him, bands of blood running freely down his torso. He staggered two unsteady steps away from the dead thing and collapsed onto the sand. The breath came loudly from his gaping mouth, and his shaven skull glistened with sweat.

Conan clambered over the corpse of the plant-thing, avoiding the sagging thorns, and fetched it a kick in its flowered crown. The drooping petals burst under his boot's impact, spattering water and vegetable pulp. He looked to Zelandra, who knelt beside Heng Shih, ministering to his wounds.

"I trust that was one of Ethram-Fal's guards," he said, tugging at his torn and bloodied shirt.

"Of course," said Zelandra absently, her attention on her bodyguard, who stared ahead stoically as she daubed at the wound that encircled his midriff. "That was a piece of work befitting a sorcerer dedicated to the magic of plants." She nodded at the toppled abomination, where it lay slowly dissolving into the sand. "A hell of an achievement, actually. The Emerald Lotus must have improved his abilities by no small amount."

"Crom," grunted the barbarian, peeling off his shirt and standing in his tarnished mail. "So we can expect to meet more of his creations?"

"Little doubt of it. I'm fairly certain that he can only send forth his projected self to places that he has already been in the flesh. Even so, I imagine he has paid at least one more visit to my house, found me gone, and drawn his own conclusions. It shouldn't take a great deal of wit to figure that I'm coming for him and his lotus."

The Cimmerian wondered if she felt equal to the task of battling such an accomplished sorcerer. He wondered how she felt about closing in on a powerful enemy who was probably aware of her approach. He wondered, but said nothing.

Neesa dabbed at the gash across his neck and collarbone with a cloth she had dampened in the pool. He let her swab at it and the deeper incision about his left biceps, then pulled away.

"Ymir, woman, I've been hurt worse by a hangover. Help Zelandra tend to Heng Shih before his yellow hide is bled white. I'll gather tinder for a fire and pitch the tents."

By the time that the sun had fallen below the western horizon, a tidy camp of three tents had been set up and a frugal meal of dried beef, hard bread, and oasis water had been served.

The campfire crackled, radiating a pleasant warmth onto sands now chill with the coming of night. Beyond the flaring glow of the fire and the dark ring of undergrowth, the desert receded in waves of sand, black and silver by moonlight, like a frozen sea. The slender scimitar of a quarter moon rode high in the heavens, skirting the icy torrent of the Milky Way.

"I'll take the first watch," said Conan, squatting beside the dying fire. Heng Shih nodded in gratitude as he rose with care from his seat and moved slowly toward his tent. Zelandra pulled her kettle from the red-orange coals and poured herself some tea. The gentle aroma of jasmine rose with the steam from her cup. Neesa's head lay comfortably upon the Cimmerian's shoulder, his arm about her trim waist.

A thin cry echoed through the desert night, diminished by distance and quickly fading. Neesa's body tensed against Conan's.

"What was that?" she whispered uneasily.

"A jackal," grunted the barbarian.

"Perhaps the Yizil," said Zelandra, blowing across the top of her teacup. Firelight turned her eyes to flame.

"Yizil?" asked Neesa, now sitting up stiffly.

"Desert ghouls," said Conan. "Haunters of ruins and gnawers of bones.

They shun the open desert."

"Do they?" Neesa's eyes probed the darkness beyond the campfire's glow.

Conan laughed gustily.

"They do. Go to bed. I promise that if any Yizil come by, I shall feed them to their brethren."

Neesa got to her feet and sidled reluctantly toward the Cimmerian's tent. "Now I shan't sleep until you join me."

Conan watched her disappear through the flap and frowned across the fire at Zelandra. "Did you have to tell her that? You knew that the Yizil are no danger here."

Zelandra grinned at him. She lifted her hands in an innocent shrug and nodded toward his tent.

"You should thank me," she said, and Conan smiled back at her.

"Seriously, my friend." Her voice grew softer as she continued. "I am concerned that we encountered a creature of Ethram-Fal's at such a distance from his lair."

"It is not such a distance. When we were atop the great sand dune beside this oasis, I could see the Dragon's Spine."

"Ishtar," she breathed. "So swiftly? You are truly a fine guide, Conan."

"Well," said the Cimmerian gruffly, "we aren't there yet. We must travel southeast into the foothills surrounding the Dragon's Spine in order to approach it from the angle we saw in Ethram-Fal's sorcerous projection. Tomorrow we should get close enough to tell whether I am a good guide or not."

Zelandra nodded and Conan rose, dusted himself off, and went to walk the perimeter.

In a short time he alone was awake, moving restlessly about the camp as silent as a shadow, disappearing in one direction to reappear in a few moments from another, memorizing the contours of the waste around them.

Conan stood watch, while overhead the moon rose, the stars wheeled, and a flight of meteors slashed the sky with fire.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The desert floor rose gradually, lifting into the rough uplands of rugged rock that held, somewhere in their labyrinthine vastness, the sculpted ridge that was the Dragon's Spine. The seemingly endless ocean of ochre dunes gave way to low hillocks of crumbling soil that gave way in turn to a new wilderness of stone outcrops and towers. Here the surface of the earth had buckled up, as though from unthinkable pressures within, shedding its skin of soil and baring raw and naked bones of mineral.

The party moved With excruciating slowness through this tortuous landscape. High up on the ragged rim of a ridge, Conan pointed off to the east, where the distinct and regular shape of the Dragon's Spine lay shimmering in the distance. From the lofty ridge they descended into even worse terrain”a literal maze of canyons and ravines that split the earth like cracks in the sunbaked bottom of a dry riverbed.

The weary quartet advanced and then retreated down narrow defiles that wound promisingly in the right direction, only to end abruptly in a vertical wall. Canyons that began as broad and as easy to traverse as the Caravan Road shrank along their length until the body of an unmounted man could not squeeze through. Any passage they took initially seemed to lead in the direction that they sought, only to bend or double back until the travelers were riding away from their goal. Time and again the Cimmerian dismounted and climbed to a high vantage point in order to get his bearings. Agile as an ape, he would clamber up a rock wall or scale a stony spire to get a fix on the Dragon's Spine. The party would wait in dogged silence for him to return and order that they turn around, return to a fork, retry a passage that led in the wrong direction, or simply continue along the path that they were on.

It was well into the afternoon when they emerged from the mouth of a narrow gorge into a wide clearing that lay open to the sky. Passing from the cool shadows cast by rock walls into the golden glare of the sun, the party squinted, shaded their eyes and looked about. The clearing formed an irregular hub into which three small canyons opened.

Off to the left a slender cleft ran away to the northeast, its walls rising swiftly and sharply from the floor of the clearing into a high series of jagged pinnacles. To the right a larger defile dropped rapidly away to the southwest, its flattened path strewn with gravel and bracketed by low walls of broken stone. Directly in front of them the ground rose up into a worn hill of eroded rock, obscuring the opposite side of the clearing from view.

To the surprise of all, Conan nudged his camel to a trot and rode straight up the low hill before them. They followed in silence, having long since accepted the barbarian's guidance through this desert maze.

Heng Shih was as expressionless as ever, seemingly unperturbed by the bandaged wound that girdled his broad belly. Neesa rose nervously erect in her saddle, her eyes rarely leaving her mistress. The Lady Zelandra stared forward sightlessly, speaking only when spoken to and clutching the leather-wrapped box in her lap with both hands. She had made herself a turban and tucked her long, silver-shot hair inside it. Her face, sunburned and haggard, looked years older than it had only a few days before.

Once atop the hill, the party drew to a halt, their camels snuffling in gratitude. The far side of the hill descended steeply in a broad swath of loose stones and gravel. It fell away for many yards before ending abruptly at the edge of a precipitous cliff, where it apparently dropped away into an even lower canyon.

"There," said Conan, lifting a bare, bronzed arm. "The Dragon's Spine."

The party stared off to the northeast and saw that he was right. The saw-toothed formation was just visible over the walls of the canyon that opened on their left, and, for the first time, its alignment seemed correct. Its appearance closely matched their first view of it in the background of Ethram-Fal's sorcerous projection.

"At last," whispered the Lady Zelandra in a small, dry voice.

"We make camp here," said the Cimmerian. "I believe that narrow ravine will lead us to Ethram-Fal's lair, but I cannot be certain how distant it is."

"So there is something that you cannot do, barbarian?" said Zelandra.

Her right hand crept up her ribs and pressed there as if stanching a wound. "I am astonished to hear you admit it. This is my expedition and I insist that we proceed down that canyon immediately. We have no time to make camp. We will close with Ethram-Fal and destroy him before this day is done."

"Zelandra," said Conan evenly, "the day is already nearly done.

Darkness falls much swifter at the bottom of a canyon than it does in the open air. There are clouds on the western horizon that may bring a storm, and we have no way of knowing how much farther there is to travel. Moreover, you are tired, milady."

"Tired? You insolent fool, even weary, I have strength enough to do what I must do. I say we go forward!" She wheeled upon her servants.

"Would you follow this insubordinate savage instead of your mistress?

I-I¦" Her voice trailed off as her gaze passed over the concerned faces of Neesa and Heng Shih. Both of her hands clutched her torso as if they could unwind the bands of pain that tightened there. Tears glimmered in her dark eyes.

"Ah, sweet Ishtar's mercy," she said, voice low and choked with shame.

"I'm sorry, my friends. Our comrade Conan is right, we must camp here for I am tired. So very tired."

Heng Shih seemed to appear at her camel's side. No one saw him dismount. His great hands gripped Zelandra gently about the waist and plucked her from the saddle as lightly as if she were a mannequin of silk. He set her on her feet, swept the dirt from the top of a flattened stone, and motioned for her to sit. She did, pressing her face into her hands as though she could not bear to look upon her fellow travelers. Conan spoke again.

"Zelandra, after we set up camp, Heng Shih and I will scout down the narrow canyon. We will go as far as we can before nightfall. We may well find Ethram-Fal's hiding place. If all goes well, we will be planning our method of attack tonight and carrying it out tomorrow morning. Rest, be strong, and you shall have your revenge."

Zelandra nodded, taking her hands from her face but keeping her eyes lowered. The remainder of the party went about setting up camp.

Shortly, the three small tents were up, situated back and away from the hill's leading edge so that they would not be visible from any point in the clearing below. Conan forbade a fire, saying that they could have a cold supper whenever they hungered and that he wouldn't eat until he and Heng Shih returned from their scouting expedition. He balanced this unhappy news by breaking out one of the party's few bottles of wine and passing it around. Looking drawn and shaken, Zelandra took a token sip before retiring to her tent. As soon as she was out of earshot, the Cimmerian turned to Neesa.

"Has she used the last of her lotus?"

"No. I know that she has more, though I'm not certain how much. She does not want to use it. Not even the tiny bit that would ease her pain. She fears that if she does, her resolve will weaken and she will take too much or all of it. She grows desperate. I'm sorry, Conan. You know that she meant you no insult, do you not?"

"Her words do not concern me; her actions do. Will she be strong enough to face the Stygian sorcerer when we finally find him?"

Neesa raised her pale hands in a helpless shrug. "How can I say? I think that she plans to use the last of the lotus to strengthen herself just before engaging Ethram-Fal. It really does seem to empower her sorcery. She took some just before sending the flame-wall against those bandits."

"She goes to battle with a wizard who claims to have an unlimited supply of the cursed drug. I wonder what manner of sorcery he will send against us."

To this Neesa made no reply. At her side, Heng Shih leaned forward and his hands made a series of deliberate motions in the air before him.

Conan looked to Neesa questioningly.

"He asks if you wish to leave. He says that he will hold no grudge against you if you do."

"Hell," Conan grinned wolfishly, tossing back his black mane. "I promised Zelandra my services and will not back out now just because it's getting interesting."

The slightest trace of a smile came to the Khitan's lips and he extended his hand, offering the Cimmerian the wine bottle. Conan accepted it, threw back his head and took a long pull, his throat working as he swallowed.

"Ah," he sighed with satisfaction. "That is a passing good wine. Come now, let us dig out this scorpion's nest. Neesa, you must keep watch on the mouths of the canyons. I doubt very much that anyone will come out of the other two, but watch them anyway. If anyone but Heng Shih and I come out of the one that we're heading into, that means we're probably dead. Keep low and awaken Zelandra. If intruders are about to discover you, flee. If you can't win free, kill as many as you can however you can. Scream like the devil, and if Heng Shih and I still live, we'll hear you, for sound carries very far in this waste. If we can, we'll come to your aid or at least avenge you. Stay alert."

With that the Cimmerian threw an arm around the woman's waist and drew her to him. While they kissed with undisguised passion, Heng Shih fell to studying the sky. He noted that there was indeed a dark mass of clouds swelling on the western horizon. He had time to observe it quite closely before Conan clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on man, the day grows old."

The two men scuffled down the rocky slope and strode purposefully toward the dark slash of the canyon's mouth. Neesa dropped to a crouch at the crest of the hill's rise, nestling into the shadow of a boulder and wiping tingling lips with the back of a hand. As Conan and Heng Shih stepped into the narrow gap and disappeared from sight, she became conscious of a painful lump in her throat and cursed herself softly for a weakling. She reached back into the loose froth of her black hair and pulled the throwing dagger from her nape sheath. She thrust it into the hard ground before her and settled down to wait.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The red sun, bloated and sullen, lay impaled upon the sharp and broken ridges to the west when the thing that had been Gulbanda of Shem came to a halt.

He was a ragged figure now, his garments tattered and stained. His hands, face, and beard were caked with ochre grime that he had made no effort to wipe away. Eyes as glassy and expressionless as chips of black quartz peered into the dim canyon mouth that opened before him.

Gulbanda had been walking for a night and a day without cease. The nearly fresh horse that he had taken from Nath, the archer, had been ridden relentlessly until it collapsed beneath him. Then he had walked, heedless of the killing sun, moving onward because it was all that he was capable of doing.

Now Gulbanda stopped and stared into the impenetrable darkness. A breeze, cool as a spring, blew from within the canyon and stirred his torn cloak.

He felt the pull deep inside his breast. Deep, where Shakar the Keshanian had stabbed to his core. It was as though a strong fist had closed about his pierced and withered heart and pulled steadily upon it in the direction that he must go. The necromantic sorcery that kept Gulbanda moving among the living also gave him his unerring sense of direction.

Standing as silent and motionless as his stone surroundings, Gulbanda searched what remained of his memories. They were vague tatters now, like wisps of dank fog fading on the chill wind of approaching night.

He remembered a dark room and a man bound to a steel chair.

He remembered a dagger sliding over the corded muscles of that man's forearm.

He remembered his sword flying from his fist.

Gulbanda lifted his sword hand and studied the dry stumps of two fingers. The black-haired Cimmerian. It was he who was responsible for all of this. It was he whose blood burned and pulled so deeply within Gulbanda's breast, drawing him onward with an irresistible compulsion that could end only with the barbarian's death. Zelandra's death. The acquisition of the silver box that Shakar craved so terribly.

Shakar the Keshanian”Gulbanda remembered his master, though only as an imperious face making difficult demands of him. He must do the things that Shakar had asked of him so long ago. He would please Shakar and the sorcerer would help him.

How could he help him? Gulbanda groped among the shattered shards of his memory. He lowered his head, the only sign of the torment that surged within as he strove to grasp some small part of his vanished humanity and felt the ceaseless, tidal pull of Conan's blood drawing him forward and away.

Gulbanda remembered, and raised his head. If he did as Shakar wished, then the sorcerer would make the pulling in his breast cease and let him die. That was all that had to be done. If he killed the black-haired barbarian and the sorceress and got the silver box, then he would be allowed to die. There was nothing in all the world to desire except death.

The thing that had been a man and a warrior closed its dead eyes for the first time in days. Gulbanda saw his strong hands falling upon the Cimmerian, rending his flesh and breaking his limbs. He heard the barbarian's bones crack and his agonized cry of defeat.

Death was a most glorious reward for such a slight and agreeable service. ,

Gulbanda stalked into the canyon and was swallowed by darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

-

The canyon walls rose to either side of the two men, hemming them into a defile not ten paces across. Heng Shih fought a moment's claustrophobia as they passed from the open clearing into the shadowy, enclosed space of the narrow cleft.

The first thing he became aware of was the silence. When riding with the party, the desolate and deserted landscape seemed invested with their life and movement. Their speech and the steady sounds of their passage obscured the awesome silence of the wasteland. Walking with quiet caution behind the barbarian, whose cat-like tread seemed not to disturb so much as a pebble, the full weight of the desert's silent emptiness seemed to bear down upon him. The only sound was the occasional rising of the wind, moaning like a ghost through the maze of canyons.

Heng Shih shook his bald head in a deliberate effort to rid himself of such useless thoughts. They were approaching the stronghold of an enemy.

They walked for almost an hour. The ridged walls of the narrow canyon rose slowly until they loomed at five times the height of a man. The path continued straight and the floor fairly even, cluttered only by the occasional pile of stone and sand that marked the site of a rock fall. As they stepped carefully about the base of one of these irregular heaps of debris, the sun broke free of the clouds on the western horizon and spilled its long rays across the empty desert. The stone passageway was immediately filled with a strange roseate illumination. Heng Shih looked about in wonder. The Cimmerian paid no heed, realizing that the sun's last light was rebounding from the red rock walls, tinting the cooling air with a lurid glow.

Conan raised his hand to signal a halt, and the Khitan shouldered up next to him. Ahead, the walls drew together as the canyon bent, turning sharply to the east. The Cimmerian lowered himself into a crouch and drew his scimitar, which in the ruddy light seemed dipped in blood.

Heng Shih left his weapon in its sheath, but bent down beside his leader.

"That," whispered Conan, gesturing with his bared sword, "is a fine place for a sentry. Or an ambush."

Heng Shih nodded to show that he understood, but the Cimmerian was already moving forward. He clung to the shadows at the base of the canyon wall, as silent as smoke on the desert wind. The Khitan followed, slowed by his desire to match Conan's stealth. The red glow of sunset faded abruptly, plunging the canyon into a murky gray twilight.

At the corner the barbarian drew up short, listening. Placing a palm on the cool stone of the canyon wall, he dropped to one knee and peered carefully around the bend. He stared ahead for a moment, then looked back at Heng Shih, who was still advancing with careful steps. When the big Khitan was finally at his side, he sheathed his sword and spoke softly.

"We have found it. Take a look." With that Conan stood and leapt nimbly across the open bend in the passage. He lit soundlessly in the shadow of an ancient rock fall, crouched, and continued his judicious examination of whatever lay around the canyon's corner.

Heng Shih swallowed heavily, went to his knees, and slowly leaned forward until he could see around the bend. His eyes widened in amazement.

Ahead, the narrow canyon continued for another six or eight paces before lowering slightly and opening out into a broad, extended cul-de-sac. Hemmed by sheer walls, the canyon ended in a wide clearing with a floor as smooth and level as the courtyard of a castle. In the clearing's center, not twenty paces away, two men lingered about a circular pit. One squatted beside it, holding his hands toward it as if to warm himself. The other leaned upon a spear, regarding his companion and speaking in low tones. Each wore the gleaming mail and fine silk of a Stygian mercenary. Short swords hung at their belts and their heads were protected by caps of steel.

But it was what lay beyond the sentries that captured the attention of the intruders and had them agape in the concealing shadows. Another twenty paces beyond the smoldering firepit rose the rear wall of the box canyon, and it was carved into the likeness of a great palace facade. Twilight had begun to purple the sky above the clearing and the brilliant pinpoints of the first stars were just flickering into life, but there was still enough daylight to see the wonder that was the Palace of Cetriss.

A row of four massive pillars, each as great in girth as the mightiest tree, reached up from their roots in wide bases set into the clearing's floor to support the overhanging lip of the canyon rim high above.

Though obviously cut directly out of the cliff face, each pillar stood independently. An open black doorway was set between the two central pillars, and a broad flight of stairs descended from the ominous portal to the floor of the natural courtyard. Even at a distance and in the dying light, the carvings that surrounded the frame of the doorway appeared elaborate and passing strange. Spread out above the dark opening was a row of three equally dark windows, each bracketed with worn carvings similar to those that adorned the portal. A second row of open windows was arrayed above that, close to the tops of the towering pillars and the carved crest of the canyon rim.

Conan shivered in the cooling breeze. The palace had at least three stories and had been sculpted from living rock, a feat that would have astounded even the pyramid-building Stygians. Crom alone knew how deeply its halls and chambers bored into the desert's stony breast.

Facing them in the deepening twilight, it projected an overpowering aura of unthinkable age and implacable purpose.

The Cimmerian's blue eyes burned upon the open doorway, narrowing in thought. There was no door or gate that he could discern, though he couldn't rule out some sort of sorcerous barrier. Even without any kind of closure, the passage could be held by very few men against a much more formidable force than the Lady Zelandra's little party. His gaze lifted to the open windows arrayed above the door, and then up to the second row of windows. He frowned as the voices of the sentries around the firepit rose in argument.

"So now we freeze?" demanded the fellow squatting beside the pit. "Why should we be forbidden fires without as well as within the palace? A late watch without hot mulled wine will be a pain in the arse. Come on, the last embers are almost out. Let me add a stick of firewood. No one will be the wiser."

"Hush," said the soldier who stood leaning upon his spear. "Don't be an idiot. Ath said there are to be no fires. The master obviously wishes to avoid showing our location to intruders."

"Intruders? Bah! Who would venture into this hellish land? And how would they find us if they did? I tell you, the master's gone soft in the head."

The spear carrier recoiled at this, shooting a glance at the darkened door of the palace. "Quiet, you fool! If the master hears you talking like that, you'll feed the lotus."

The other went silent, staring glumly into the Tire pit. He drew a small, dried branch from beneath his silken cloak and thrust it down into the pit, working it into the ashes there.

"That will keep the coals alive," he said in sullen tones. "You'll thank me after I've made the mulled wine."

"If it starts to smoke, I'll put it out with your blood," replied the other curtly.

Conan leapt silently back across the canyon floor, landing on all fours beside Heng Shih, who twitched in surprise. He had a tense moment, wondering if the guards had spotted the barbarian, but there was no outcry. Even if they had glanced his way, the Cimmerian had been merely a shadow moving among shadows. He laid a hard hand upon the Khitan's shoulder.

"Come, let us return to camp."

The return journey along the darkening canyon seemed swifter arid easier to Heng Shih. Conan was able to recall every irregularity in the path and led his companion as surely as though he had traversed its length a dozen times. As they drew close to camp, Heng Shih began to relax and stepped up his pace to walk beside the Cimmerian. He had been doing this for only a moment when Conan drew to a sudden stop. The Khitan stumbled to a halt, staring at the barbarian without comprehension. Lifting his face and flaring his nostrils, Conan leaned into the gentle breeze, while Heng Shih looked on in amazement. He reached out a hand to tap the Cimmerian's shoulder, but drew back when the barbarian shot a glance at him and spoke.

"They've built a fire."

Heng Shih's head snapped up, searching the slender slash of cobalt sky that was visible between the canyon's walls. No smoke trail could be seen there. When he lowered his gaze, he saw that Conan had started toward the camp at a dead run. Heng Shih took off in pursuit, wincing as the slap of his sandals on the rocky path was magnified and hurled back at him by the stone walls.

Chapter Thirty

Ethram-Fal lay asleep and dreaming, and in his dream he knew fear.

In his dream he strode across a floor of black marble through pale and densely swirling mists. In his dream it seemed to him that he had been walking for an eternity without encountering anything save the silent mist that moved and roiled without the benefit of a wind to stir it.

Then there arose in Ethram-Fal the absolute certainty that he was not alone in the limitless fog and that something was lurking ahead of him, just out of sight. Along with this certainty came an overpowering dread. Whatever it was that concealed itself in the mists, the Stygian did not wish to encounter it. Ethram-Fal abruptly changed the direction of his steps, swinging to the right and hastening forward.

Almost immediately he felt the foreboding presence once again and this time a huge and shapeless shadow darkened the fog before him. He came to a fearful stop, his breath going ragged in his throat, then spun around and ran in the opposite direction.

In his dream Ethram-Fal had not taken a dozen steps in wild flight before the dark presence came out of the mist, in front of him yet again, as though his desperate drive to escape had only brought him nearer to that which he wished above all to avoid.

It was the idol of Cetriss's temple. The nameless, faceless sphinx of black stone lounged before him so that he ran full between its outstretched paws before sliding to a frantic halt. It was motionless, a thing of carved stone that appeared rooted to the mist-blanketed floor, yet it menaced the Stygian in a way that nothing in his life had ever done. He fell to his knees, his heart swelling painfully in his breast until crying out was impossible. Above him, the smoothly featureless face of the god blurred, losing its glossy sheen and becoming an even darker space: a black portal opening out upon a measureless void.

Ethram-Fal writhed on the marble floor before the god of Cetriss and found his voice. He begged for mercy in raw, shrill tones.

"Tribute," came a sourceless whisper, chill as the gulfs between the stars. "Sacrifice."

"Yes!" screamed the cowering sorcerer. "Yes! All that you desire!"

"Tribute," came the voice again, passionless as the wind. "Sacrifice."

Pain lanced through the Stygian's consciousness and suddenly the black sphinx was gone. Somehow there was a knotted rope around his chest and someone was pulling cruelly upon it, tightening it until it dug into his ribs. He clutched at the rope, drawing a cramped breath and wincing at the stabbing sensation it produced. He looked ahead through tear-blinded eyes and saw that the rope's end was held by the Lady Zelandra. As he watched, she jerked brutally upon it, causing the cord to bite even deeper into his flesh. Her face was an expressionless mask. Ethram-Fal tore at the binding rope with both hands and cursed her.

"Release me, damn you! You are my slave! Release me!"

The Stygian sorcerer snapped awake, prone upon the floor of his laboratory. He was unsure if he had cried out loud.

It took him more than a moment to orient himself. He lifted his face from the cool and dusty stone of the floor. One of his arms was outstretched, the gray sleeve of his robe drawn back almost to his shoulder. He sat up stiffly and looked about himself with rheumy eyes.

He was alone in the room. How long had he lain here? What had he been doing? The muscles of his torso seemed to have been strained somehow. A tight belt of pain throbbed intermittently about his chest. That explained the dream, he thought, or part of it anyway. He lifted a hand to rub his brow and noticed with a start that there was a wound on the inside of his left forearm. He studied it in alarmed amazement.

An open gash about two inches long parted the flesh bloodlessly, resembling nothing so much as a cut in a piece of cooked pork.

Ethram-Fal put his right hand over the wound and stood up with careful deliberation. He leaned heavily against the table closest to him, saw what lay upon it, and immediately remembered everything.

Lying open upon the table was his long, ebony box of Emerald Lotus powder. Beside it, shining dully in the yellow radiance of the light-globes, was his irregularly shaped dagger. He could recall it all now. He had slashed the flesh of his arm in order to pour raw lotus powder into his blood. There was no lotus in or around the wound, so he imagined that he had collapsed immediately after cutting himself.

He felt as though he had just recovered from a long and debilitating illness. What in Set's name had he been doing? Though groggy, Ethram-Fal realized that he was thinking clearly for the first time in many days. He could not remember when he had last eaten or slept. All he had consumed was wine leavened with larger and larger portions of Emerald Lotus. Somehow his measured intake of the drug had become a thoughtless binge that only ended when it had endangered his life.

Ethram-Fal bandaged his forearm and thought dark thoughts.

When had his control over the lotus flagged? How long had he gone without taking any steps toward the completion of his grand design? He had done little but immerse himself in his newfound power when he should have been using it productively. He needed systematic harvesting so that he would have enough lotus to snare the wizards of Stygia into his service. He needed to prepare more traps in case the Lady Zelandra had found some way of locating him and came seeking vengeance.

"Thoughtless," he hissed to himself, jerking the bandage tight around his arm.

That was all over now, he thought. He had known that the lotus was powerful, but he had been incautious and allowed himself to indulge in it without control. It must be used like a tool, he reasoned. He was its master and not the other way around.

Now he must check on the health of the lotus in its chamber and muster his mercenaries. He would discretely ask Ath how long it had been since he had last seen him and warn the soldiers about possible intruders.

Snatching a blue velvet sack full of kaokao leaves from a nearby table, Ethram-Fal started for the door and then came to an uncertain stop. The ring of pain around his breast flickered into being once again, constricting his breathing. What was it? Had he contracted some disease while lying unconscious on the cold stone floor?

A memory came unbidden to the Stygian. It was the memory of Shakar the Keshanian standing wild-eyed in his chambers, making threats that he was too weak and foolish to back up, claiming that his chest was gripped in a vise of fire.

Ethram-Fal turned and looked back upon his ebony box of lotus powder.

He wondered how long he had remained unconscious and if it was possible that his body was already suffering for want of the drug. He squinted at the box, rubbing at his ribs with a cold hand. Surely a little dose would do him no harm. He need not overindulge.

"Milord!" Ath's voice came echoing hollowly down the stone corridor.

"Milord, we have cornered it!"

Footfalls thudded outside the room; then the tall mercenary pushed through the blanket that hung over the doorway and confronted his employer. He hesitated a moment, staring and obviously trying to find his voice. Ethram-Fal became aware of his wrinkled and dusty robes.

"Forgive me for disturbing you," said Ath finally, "but we have cornered the intruder in the room of the great statue. It attacked the guards, knocking one senseless and dragging the other into the temple.

He won free, crying out so loudly that he woke us all. Come quickly, I fear that it will try to escape and the men will be forced to slay it."

"It?" said Ethram-Fal. His captain nodded vigorously, starting to back out the door.

"It is not a man. Come quickly and see for yourself." The soldier waited in the doorway, holding the blanket to one side, looking to his motionless lord.

"Go," murmured the sorcerer. "I'll follow presently."

"But¦" began Ath.

"Go!" shouted Ethram-Fal, and his mercenary disappeared through the blanket and hurried away.

The Stygian turned and walked purposefully to the table with the ebony box. He used three fingers to scoop a mouthful of deep green power from the box to his lips. Shudders coursed through his thin body and the ring of pain around his chest evaporated. He threw back his head in pleasure, sucking the last of the lotus from his fingertips. A surge of bright energy radiated along every nerve. His mind raced, borne up on a crest of superhuman confidence. He passed through the door and down the corridors of the palace in a haze of ecstasy. He muttered a brief incantation and his feet lifted up and away from the floor so that he floated effortlessly along the hallway as quickly as a man could run. A slack grin spread across his wizened features. The spell of levitation usually took hours of preparation. With sudden, shocking clarity he realized what a fool he was to doubt himself or his lotus. He was in control and there was nothing that he could not do, no spell that he could not conjure, no foe that he could not overcome.

As he drew near to the temple of the great sphinx, he allowed himself to slow somewhat. Passing around a corner, the armored backs of four of his mercenaries came into view. The men were crowded into one of the doorways of the temple. They held naked swords and were intent upon whatever lay before them.

"Your pardon," he said with gentle sarcasm, and the little crowd parted in dumbstruck astonishment to let him pass.

Once inside the great chamber, he banished the spell of levitation, allowing himself to settle down to the floor. Each of the huge, circular room's three doors was filled with armed men and each group held aloft a number of brightly glowing light-globes so that the chamber was well illuminated despite its size. Only the high ceiling remained unlit, arching up into a darkness like that of a starless night.

Standing before the black bulk of the statue was a pale man-like form: It stood fidgeting in front, of the flat altar set between the extended paws of the faceless sphinx. Ethram-Fal walked a little closer, stopped, and marveled.

It was naked and shrunken, shorter even than he, but it had the appearance of animal strength. Tendons were wound like wires around its stark limbs. Hunched like a baboon, its skin was the color of the desert, hanging on its emaciated frame in reptilian folds. It twisted long, tapering fingers together, and the dirty talons clicked one against the other. Its brow receded sharply in bony furrows above the lambent yellow glow of its eyes. The nose was little more than two small pits above the lipless mouth, which opened and closed in quick, bestial pants, revealing a pointed, serpentine tongue.

"Id Nyarlathotep," it whined.

"Holy Set!" Ethram-Fal was amazed. "It speaks!"

The soldiers at the doors stirred, murmuring to one another. The creature flinched at this, drawing back toward the statue that loomed behind it, as if seeking protection. It spoke again, and though it sounded much as though a python or some other great reptile were attempting human speech, Ethram-Fal found that he understood the words.

It was speaking an archaic version of his own tongue. It was speaking in Old Stygian.

"You die for Nyarlathotep." Needle talons stroked the air and its eyes burned brighter.

Ethram-Fal spoke haltingly in Old Stygian. "You make sacrifice?" It bobbed its head, bird-like.

"Yes. Yes. Antelope. Scorpion. Man. Man best. You die for Nyarlathotep."

"Die for that?" The sorcerer gestured at the silent statue. The creature looked back and bobbed its head again, pressing long hands reverently to its ridged and reptilian breast.

"Yes! Id NyarlathotepV It took a hesitant, shuffling step toward Ethram-Fal, who seemed to pay it no heed.

"Why?"

"Live!" its thin voice rose. "So I live! So Cetriss lives! You die for Nyarlathotep!" Quivering, it lunged toward the sorcerer, claws reaching for his breast and the heart that beat within. A cry arose from the massed mercenaries and they started forward, but Ethram-Fal halted the creature by merely raising a hand. It lurched to a stop not two paces away from the wizard, who held one palm out toward the thing. He crooked his fingers as if gripping something transparent in the air before him. The creature writhed in invisible bonds, held in place by sorcery.

"This is your immortality?" cried Ethram-Fal. "O Cetriss, mighty necromancer, did you abandon all your powers to live forever as a beast enslaved to a statue?" The sorcerer's face twisted in transcendent rage and his fingers clenched in a loose fist. The desert ghoul that was the mage Cetriss snarled mindlessly as it was lifted, writhing, off the floor.

"I followed you! I thought you a hero! You are a disgrace! You die for Nyarlathotep!" Cetriss's body lifted farther into the air and moved slowly backward until it hovered above the altar that lay waiting between its god's paws.

"Tribute!" screamed Ethram-Fal. "Sacrifice!" He clenched his fist and crushed Cetriss. The bones of the last survivor of Old Stygia broke like dry kindling and his blood spilled down upon the altar in a dark rain. Ethram-Fal gave his fist a last convulsive shake and let the broken body fall. It lay, twisted in upon itself, a discarded bit of offal that had once been one of the world's mightiest sorcerers. For the briefest instant the Stygian thought that he saw a ghostly tendril, a stream of pallid vapor, rising from the body of Cetriss and funneling into the black face of his god. He blinked. It was nothing.

The Stygian turned away from the corpse in disgust and saw that his soldiers were standing uncertainly about the doorways and regarding him with a mixture of astonishment and fear. This pleased the sorcerer.

"Ath," he called, bringing the captain jogging forward out of the cluster of men in the east door.

"Most impressive, milord," said Ath when he stood before his master.

The sorcerer pulled the blue velvet sack of kaokao leaves from his belt and tossed it to Ath, who caught it neatly in one hand.

"Excellent work, Ath. Distribute these among the men. Every man should get one. You may keep all that remain." The tall captain nodded in grateful enthusiasm as Ethram-Fal raised his hands above his head and addressed the rest of his mercenaries.

"I am most pleased with your efficiency. Captain Ath has a reward for each of you. However, I wish to encourage the sentries to even greater vigilance as I suspect that we may soon encounter other, more human, foes. I have reason to suspect that a sorceress may essay an attack on our palace. Capture her alive for me and I shall be greatly pleased."

The soldiers clapped naked swords against their shields and cheered in loyalty and anticipation of their reward of kaokao leaves. When Ethram-Fal turned away, they came forward and gathered swiftly around Ath, hands extended for their bounty. Ath, grinning widely, passed out the leaves as quickly as he could.

As the sorcerer reached the north doorway, a spontaneous cheer rose behind him. When he turned to acknowledge it, the cheer swelled twice more. He lifted a hand in a languid wave, smiling beneficently upon his men as he basked in their approval. The men were his. The Emerald Lotus was his. And now the mantle of Cetriss was his. How could anything stop him now?

A shout cut through the dwindling applause. A single soldier had run into the temple and now stood waving his arms and yelling for attention. Ethram-Fal frowned.

"Silence! Hear me!" The soldier's hands dropped to his sides as the gathering went silent and all eyes fell upon him.

"And where have you been, Phandoros? came a voice from among the milling mercenaries.

"Captain Ath sent me to sentry duty when the beast was cornered," began the man defensively. "I come to tell the master that I saw a column of smoke to the southwest. There are intruders in the canyons."

Chapter Thirty-One

When Heng Shih emerged into the clearing, he saw that Conan was already atop the hill. The Khitan broke into a sprint, his heavy-set form shooting over the ground with surprising speed. Chest heaving, he reached the little grouping of tents just in time to see the Cimmerian kicking dirt over a small fire. Zelandra stood to one side, clutching her teapot and scowling at Conan with exaggerated disgust. Neesa squatted in front of one of the tents, rubbing at her brow in a gesture at once weary and frustrated.

Conan finished burying the fire and commenced packing the soil down upon it with the heel of his boot.

"I trust that you're satisfied now?" Zelandra's voice was so strange that both Heng Shih and Neesa looked at her in surprise. It was thin and rasped in her throat like a file.

"You may have given away our position for a cup of tea," said Conan without expression.

"I need my strength," said Zelandra loudly. "I need the tea to help me rest." She brandished the teapot to emphasize her point. Her left arm was held rigidly across her stomach, gripping her ribs.

Conan looked up into the freshly dark evening sky. The air was strangely still, the sky pellucid and speckled with stars except where the swelling clouds massed to the west.

"We should move the camp," he turned to Heng Shih. "Those guards seemed inattentive, but the smoke would have been easily seen had they but looked around."

"Guards?" Zelandra looked from the Cimmerian to the Khitan and back again. "You found Ethram-Fal's hiding place?"

"Yes, my lady. It is less than two leagues distant. If your smoke was spotted, they could have an armed party here any time now."

"Heng Shih! Was it a palace?" The voice of the sorceress quavered with desperate energy. Her bodyguard's hands passed through a number of signs. The movements were concise and measured, his face betraying no emotion.

"Yes!" cried Zelandra exultantly. "Just as the legends would have it!

We attack first thing tomorrow morning. I'll teach that withered fool to trifle with me. I'll walk into his parlor and tear his bloody heart out!"

"This is madness," said Conan flatly. "We must move the camp. We could be set upon.at any time."

"Be silent, barbarian. The fire lasted only a moment. I must rest now.

Keep watch yourself if you are worried." Zelandra stepped forward and set her teapot down neatly in the center of the smothered fire, as though it might still be warmed thereon. "Awaken me if we are attacked, and I shall smite the fools with sorcery." With that she turned about and ducked into her tent. The flap swung shut behind her.

Conan looked to Neesa, who nodded, came to her feet and strode quickly across the camp. She followed Zelandra into her tent and immediately muted voices rose from it.

The Cimmerian strode to the hill's leading edge, looking down to the canyon that led to the Palace of Cetriss and Ethram-Fal. Heng Shih followed, watching the barbarian as he scanned the clearing below.

"Nothing yet," grumbled Conan. "We must find the swiftest route of escape." He turned and loped back through the camp and on to the hill's far side, where it fell away in a long, gravel slope that ended sharply, far below, in a cliff's edge. The barbarian made his way easily down the loose incline. Heng Shih followed more carefully. Night had fallen and the slope was even more treacherous than it appeared.

Sand and gravel seemed to grease the hillside as it grew ever more steep. Heng Shih staggered, his boots losing purchase as his footing gave way. He caught himself, but not before kicking up a cloud of acrid dust.

The slope finally petered out into a short expanse of level, gravel-strewn stone that was sheared off a few paces away by the sharp edge of the cliff. Conan reached the rim and peered over. There was an almost vertical drop of thirty feet ending in a dry, sandy runoff cluttered with rounded boulders, gleaming as pale as scattered bones in the light of the rising moon.

"Morrigan and Macha," cursed the Cimmerian. "This is no good. We'll be best off if we head back along the canyon that brought us here.

Listen." He turned abruptly and put a hand on Heng Shih's shoulder. "I know little about wizardry and wish that I knew even less, but your mistress seems in poor condition to engage Ethram-Fal in any kind of combat, sorcerous or otherwise. You must convince her to attack by stealth. A frontal attack would be suicide. Tomorrow I can scout along the top of the canyon walls and try to find a way to approach the Stygian's palace from above. If I can find a path, we might be able to lower ourselves down through the open windows of the upper floor and take our enemies by surprise. What do you think?"

Heng Shih lifted his hands as if to sign, then dropped them to his sides with a sigh. He nodded.

"And can you get Zelandra to agree to move the camp?" asked the barbarian. "Her madness could bring death to us all."

The Khitan bristled, his hands becoming fists. He shook his head violently from side to side, scowling darkly.

"Don't be a fool. If you care for your mistress, then save her from herself. Enough jabbering, let's¦"

The Cimmerian fell suddenly silent. A frigid finger traced a line along Heng Shih's spine.

"Did you hear something?" breathed Conan. Heng Shih shook his head and listened. The desert's ponderous silence filled his ears like thick cotton. The Khitan stepped carefully, turned his back to the cliff edge and stared up the slope, alert for any sound or sign of movement.

Conan's body lowered into a fighting crouch, his eyes taking on a feral gleam in the darkness. Heng Shih's breath slowed and thickened, seeming to clog his lungs.

Then came the sharp scrape of a boot on stone.

Heng Shih spun around, heart in his throat, hand scrabbling for his hilt. A black figure shot up over the rim of the cliff, springing from the sheer face like a monstrous spider. The Khitan had his sword half drawn before a fist like a war-hammer slammed into the side of his head. The muscles of his neck screamed in protest as his bald skull was wrenched to one side. Heng Shih reeled, his senses swimming, and stumbled helplessly into Conan. The Cimmerian sidestepped his stricken friend, who crashed to the ground, sprawling and sliding in the gravel.

Conan's sword flashed into his fist, but the black figure moved even faster. He dove in through the Cimmerian's guard, his extended hands locking around Conan's throat. Fingers like blunt daggers sank deeply into flesh, choking off his breath.

"Death," rasped Gulbanda, thrusting his drawn and grimy face into Conan's. The Cimmerian reared back and drove the fist clutching his scimitar into the lich's forehead with all the strength of his arm. The metal pommel crunched on bone and ripped skin the consistency of desiccated leather. The impact tore Gulbanda's hands from Conan's throat and sent him staggering back and away. The barbarian gave his attacker no time to recover, lunging in with a blinding, two-handed cut to the ribs. It was like hewing an oak. The blade thudded into Gulbanda's torso, sank in an inch, and stuck fast.

"Crom!" swore Conan, jerking back on his sword. The blade remained lodged in the dead man's hardened flesh. Retreating a step, the Cimmerian tripped over the prone body of Heng Shih and staggered, ducking low. Gulbanda's bony hands clawed the air where he had stood.

Conan stumbled sideways, still gripping the hilt of the scimitar with both hands, and delivered a savage kick to his opponent's chest. His boot landed with terrific force, slamming Gulbanda back off his steel in a cloud of ochre dust. The dead man reeled backwards, recovered his balance and came forward again without an instant's hesitation. Both sword and dagger swung in their sheaths at Gulbanda's belt. He had forgotten their use.

"Death," wheezed Gulbanda, coming toward the Cimmerian with his claw-like hands held out to grasp and rend. Icy gray moonlight shone full in his face as cracked lips peeled back from broken teeth and a pale scar parted the filthy thatch of beard.

Recognition and horror drove a frigid spike through Conan's belly. His heel slipped on stone and the Cimmerian realized that he was standing on the rim of the precipice. He flourished the scimitar in a moon-glittering figure eight, trying to make Gulbanda keep his distance. But the dead man did not fear his steel. He drew up short a moment, then dove headlong for the barbarian's throat.

Conan braced his feet and lashed the scimitar from right to left in a brutal, vertical cut that struck Gulbanda's outstretched left arm at the elbow. Fibrous flesh and dried bone split under the impact. The severed limb flew from its bloodless stump even as the dead man's body slammed into Conan's, knocking him backward and sending both combatants hurtling over the edge of the cliff.

There was a moment of sick vertigo as the pair dropped into darkness; then Conan twisted in midair, shoving Gulbanda out and away from him.

The barbarian's falling body scraped against the cliff face in a small explosion of dirt and gravel. He clawed frantically at the wall, striving to slow his fall, struck the floor of the dry wash on his side, and blacked out.

There was an indeterminate time of darkness and silence during which Conan's consciousness struggled to rise, like a swimmer trapped beneath the surface of a black lake. At some point came the distant and dream-like sound of feminine screams, but they faded back into the heavy silence and it was as if they had never been.

The Cimmerian sat up carefully, sand spilling from his hair. He had landed in the sculpted sand of the dry wash, which had cushioned the impact somewhat. His ribs ached abominably and his head spun. The scimitar lay at the base of the cliff, a crescent of silver in the gray rubble. Conan lunged for it, grasped it, and stood up unsteadily.

Standing in the shadow of the cliff, he watched the world reel. He shook his head in a leonine fashion, trying to clear it. Though it felt as if every inch of his body had been bruised by hammers, he seemed to have suffered no serious injury.

Gulbanda had fallen only a few paces away. He lay on his back, bent and broken over a small boulder. He writhed weakly but ceaselessly, like an insect on a pin. Bent backwards almost double over the boulder that had snapped his spine, his remaining hand clawed listlessly at the air.

Conan's senses cleared and he stepped forward, gazing in fearful awe at his deathless adversary. Something small crawled from the shadow of the boulder and into the silvery moonlight. Gulbanda's severed left hand groped spider-like across the ground, dragging the dead weight of its forearm behind it. A surge of fresh horror lifted the hair on the back of the Cimmerian's neck. The hand moved blindly away from Gulbanda's helpless body. Conan bent forward and plucked the dagger from the dingy sheath on his foe's girdle. Then he took two quick steps forward, knelt and drove the blade through the thing's wrist, pinning the grisly limb to the earth. The pallid fingers clenched and unclenched in the sand.

"Death," hissed a voice, little more than a feeble whisper, yet as cold and piercing as an arctic blast. "Death."

Conan straightened. The breeze picked up, strangely warm, blowing his dark mane back from his face. He looked down upon the prone and broken form of Gulbanda of Shem.

"Death," sighed the dead man.

"Certainly," said Conan and, lifting the scimitar, hewed off Gulbanda's head. The body jerked and slowed, but never ceased its restless movement. Gulbanda's skull struck the packed sand and rolled behind the boulder. The barbarian turned away and sheathed his sword in one smooth motion. He strode to the base of the cliff and began, with swift and certain movements, to climb it.

Behind him, in the shadow of the boulder, Gulbanda's head lay blinking up at the cold stars, lips twisting soundlessly as he called for a death that would not come.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Conan came over the rim of the cliff in a low crouch. He scanned the long slope rising before him. After assuring himself that there was no one about, he looked to the sky, wondering how long he had lain senseless at the base of the cliff. The night sky was already half obscured by the dense clouds unfurling from the west. The stars wavered and disappeared before their leading edge as they raced across the heavens. An unnaturally warm breeze rolled through the canyons, growing slowly in strength as it moaned among the crags.

The Cimmerian dropped to one knee beside the sprawled form of Heng Shih. The Khitan lay facedown, his bulky body partially covered by dirt and gravel. Conan gave him a firm shake and Heng Shih stirred feebly, then sat up. He looked about himself wildly, eyes wide with panicked surmise.

"By Ymir," rambled the barbarian. "And you said that I had a hard head."

The Khitan ran a wide hand over the side of his shaven skull, touching gingerly above his left ear, where the skin was already beginning to swell and discolor. He stood up slowly, shaking the dirt from his clothing. He fixed his gaze upon Conan.

"That was an old friend of Shakar the Keshanian, come back to settle a score," said Conan, answering the unspoken query.

Heng Shih frowned uncertainly, setting a hand upon his hilt.

"Don't worry about him. He's done. Let's check the camp. I fear the worst." The Cimmerian turned suddenly and started up the treacherous slope with long, quick strides. The Khitan kept pace, though he fought off waves of dizziness with every step. The wind had picked up, throwing dust into their eyes and striving with invisible hands to thrust them back down the incline.

The camp was deserted.

Heng Shih stumbled into the center of the encampment, staring about with grim desperation, dismay apparent in his every movement. All three of the tents were empty and one had collapsed. Its crumpled fabric rippled and flapped forlornly with each fresh gust. The eroded stone of the hilltop showed no sign of struggle, but Conan pointed wordlessly to where the hill dropped away into the clearing. Two pale forms lay still in the darkness there. Heng Shih ran haltingly toward them, then slowed, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that they were not the bodies of Neesa and the Lady Zelandra.

The corpses of two Stygian mercenaries lay not ten paces apart. The nearest of the pair had a charred blot for a face. Curls of steam rose from empty, blackened eye sockets and were torn away by the wind. The second soldier gripped with both hands the hilt of the dagger that had pierced his throat.

Heng Shih stared down at the dead men, then noticed that Conan had knelt beside the fallen tent. The Cimmerian was examining a bit of cloth that bore dark stains. He stood and held it out to the Khitan.

The wind toyed with the discolored fabric, tossing it about, but Heng Shih could see that it was the bloodstained remnants of Zelandra's turban.

He walked stiffly to Conan and tore the scrap from the barbarian's grasp. His face hardened into a mask of stone. The blood on the fabric had not yet congealed, and it came away on his fingers. He let the remains of the turban fall from his hands. The wind whipped the tattered cloth away into the night and the growing storm.

Heng Shih unsheathed his scimitar and started down the hill toward the narrow canyon that led to the Palace of Cetriss.

"Hold!" Conan's voice rang out above the wind like the clangor of steel on steel. "Don't be a fool."

Heng Shih drew to a halt, his back to the Cimmerian, then turned slowly to face him. The Khitan's eyes held a bleakness that was terrible to behold. He placed his right hand on the center of his broad breast, and then held it out in the direction of Ethram-Fal's lair.

"Yes," said the barbarian, "I understand." He bent over, rummaging in the crumpled remains of the fallen tent, and came up with a jug of wine. He plucked out the cork with his teeth, spat it away and offered the bottle to Heng Shih.

"Have a drink and heed me well. Your mistress is alive, else the Stygians would have left her here as they did the bodies of their comrades. If you walk into their stronghold you'll be butchered like a sheep and leave Zelandra alive in the hands of the Stygian wizard. Is that what you want?"

The Khitan shook his head painfully, shoulders slumping as the cruel tension wracking his body loosened its grasp.

"I thought not. Now, look to the sky. This is no ordinary storm that comes upon us, but a sandstorm out of hell itself. I've seen a few in my time on the desert, but never one that filled the heavens like this one. The damn thing probably sprang up around Harakht and has been growing larger over every league it's traveled. It should give us fine cover."

Conan thrust the wine at Heng Shih, who finally accepted it. The Cimmerian ducked into one of the two standing tents, leaving the big Khitan standing alone with the bottle. He squinted at it, took a sip and cast it aside. The crockery shattered on stone. He had no time for such things.

The barbarian emerged from the tent carrying his leather ￠ helmet, a coil of rope, and two of Neesa's silk shirts. As Heng Shih watched, Conan donned the helmet, looped the rope over a brawny shoulder, then tossed one of the shirts to him. The Khitan caught it before the wind snatched the garment away, and stared at it without comprehension.

"We'll do as I said earlier. I'll lead us across the canyon tops to the sorcerer's fortress. The storm will not make it any easier for us, but it is our only real chance. Tie the shirt around your head so that it covers your mouth and nose. Leave a thin space to see through. It will provide a little protection from the sand."

Heng Shih stood in place lifelessly, glancing from the shirt in his hands to the place where the ragged tops of the canyon walls met the lowering belly of the storm. The wind whipped through the camp and rushed away into darkness.

"Come on," said Conan, knotting the shirt at the base of his bull neck.

Heng Shih nodded, then began wrapping the silken shirt around his head.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The moon's last light was quenched before rolling clouds. The wind raged past the climbers, bearing a scourge of sand that tore at their clothing and abraded their exposed skin. Despite the absent moon, an ethereal yellow half-light, vaporous and sickly, illuminated the storm-wracked sky. Heng Shih could just make out the form of Conan silhouetted against it as the Cimmerian drew himself up the irregular stone wall.

Heng Shih stood upon a narrow ledge, embracing the cliff face beneath the climbing barbarian. He scarcely dared move in the ceaseless wind.

Twenty feet below lay a scattered carpet of sharp boulders. The Khitan pressed his forehead against the hard stone, still warm from the sun's rays, waiting for Conan to reach safety and lower the rope.

They had proceeded in this fashion for hours. Heng Shih had entertained hopes that the tops of the canyons would be fairly level, at least allowing for occasional expanses of easy travel. It was not so. The upper portions of the canyon walls broke into a wildly uneven collection of jagged rock formations. They hadn't traveled forward as far as they climbed up and down over the canyon walls.

Conan had chosen an initial approach that took them across the canyon rim at its lowest point, and then dropped them into a gorge packed with huge boulders. Finding a path out of that jumble seemed to have taken half the night. From there they had made their way over a series of steep ridges. Nowhere did the stone afford much in the way of hand or footholds. The two men had developed a pattern: Conan climbed ahead, often disappearing entirely into the swirling sand; then the rope would come trailing down out of the yellow-tinged darkness, and Heng Shih would clamber up its length.

The far side of each ridge was generally shorter and less steep than its leading edge, as the canyons they flanked grew deeper and drew farther back into the highlands. Inevitably, the men would find themselves at the base of another almost sheer wall and be forced to climb once again. Heng Shih's pride goaded him to keep pace with Conan, but he soon discovered that his skill in scaling stone was no match for a Cimmerian hillman's.

Now the Khitan stood panting on his little ledge and waited for the rope. He blinked through the slender gap in sand-crusted silk. His lungs fought for air and his legs throbbed from exertion. The muscles around each knee were defined in every fiber by pain. Steeling himself, he thought of Zelandra and looked up for the rope. Conan had long since vanished into the whirling sandstorm above.

Heng Shih was all but blinded, but when he shifted position against the rock face to ease his cramping knees, his hand brushed against something. It was the rope. Visibility had grown so poor that it had fallen beside him without even being noticed. The Khitan seized the rope, set his teeth, and began to climb.

As he approached the summit, the huge form of the Cimmerian, loomed above him, etched against the tawny darkness of the sky. Heng Shih dragged himself over the rim, grateful that the stone was moderately level. Conan bent over him and yelled above the storm.

"Are you all right?"

The Khitan nodded and stood, resisting an impulse to check the bandages wrapped around his midsection beneath his clothing. The wound throbbed dully from strain, but he did not think he had reopened it.

The pair stood between two natural pillars of crooked and weathered stone that thrust skyward like the broken, skeletal fingers of some buried giant. Heng Shih leaned his weight against the nearest and stared doggedly ahead, trying to get some idea of the nature of the next section of terrain. He felt confident the canyon they had followed to the Palace of Cetriss was located somewhere to their right, and that the palace itself lay more or less in front of them. He couldn't hazard a guess as to how much farther they had to travel.

"Look!" shouted Conan, his voice half smothered by the roar of the wind. "The palace!" The barbarian extended a hand, pointing above and ahead of them. Heng Shih tried to stare through the blowing dust.

A dark mass, huge and angular, faded in and out of view in the weird yellow half-light. It seemed less than a league away, yet the space between the looming phantom and the two men was a sand-lashed void that made estimations of distance impossible.

"We'll go down here, along that ledge, and then up atop the palace.

We're almost there." Conan wrapped the rope in coils around his brawny arm while Heng Shih peered skeptically ahead, trying to identify the features that the Cimmerian had described. He abandoned his efforts when Conan moved forward, off the level top of the ridge, and down its uneven rear slope. The Khitan followed, keeping his comrade's broad back in view while stepping carefully on the treacherous stone.

The slope bottomed out into a narrow crevasse packed with broken slabs of fallen rock. Conan descended, leaping nimbly from one boulder to the next, avoiding the gaps and irregularities that could trap and break an ankle or even a leg. He made his way .along the crevasse floor to their right, with Heng Shih keeping close through sheer force of will.

The narrow passage was abruptly sheared off. The crevasse opened out from a smoothly vertical stone wall into a vast, open expanse seething with windblown sand. Conan crouched on a boulder at the opening's rim, looking down. Heng Shih caught up and stood gasping at his side.

"Below is the courtyard we saw when scouting the canyon!" bellowed Conan. "With luck, that thin ledge running along the courtyard wall will take us to a point where we can scale the palace roof."

The open space of the courtyard was a raging maelstrom of shrieking wind. Airborne sand and dust made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. One look down inspired a strange vertigo. The courtyard's floor might have been thirty feet down or three hundred. Heng Shih could just make out the slender ledge that Conan had indicated. It began six feet from, and six feet below, the opening in which they stood. The natural pathway stretched along the courtyard wall, leading up into the storm. Its width varied, but seemed to afford space enough to walk upon. The Khitan's stomach lurched as he realized that he and his companion would have to jump from the crevasse mouth along the courtyard wall to reach the stone path. The ledge abruptly appeared much narrower to his eyes.

The barbarian set his feet, bent his knees, and then leapt out into open air. He landed cat-like upon the ledge. The Cimmerian put his back to the rock face and walked along the shelf with seeming ease, quickly disappearing from sight.

Heng Shih followed with intense deliberation, perching carefully on the boulder at the edge. He did not look down. It wasn't really much of a leap, he reasoned. A one-legged man could do it if the ground were level. Heng Shih took a deep breath and jumped. He lit on a ledge, but overestimated his leap and struck the canyon wall with force enough to rebound slightly. His hands scrabbled desperately on the stone, miraculously finding a handhold; and seizing it, pulling himself back in tight against the wall.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, for a moment drowning out the sound of the wind. He allowed himself no time to recover, or to think on how he stood unsteadily upon a crumbling bit of stone suspended above a howling abyss. He proceeded along the precarious shelf, following Conan.

The ledge proved easy enough to negotiate for the first twenty or thirty paces; then it narrowed and became a rising series of sharp and irregular steps. Heng Shih half stumbled on the first, stopped to slap the dust from his improvised mask, and then began to climb. At the fifth step the path narrowed to nothing, disappearing into the cliff face. Heng Shih clung to the rock and looked in all directions. The courtyard's natural wall continued ahead, but without the benefit of the slightest foothold. The stone shone smooth as polished crystal.

Where was Conan? The thought battered the Khitan with the force of a blow. He peered frantically into the roiling storm below. Had the Cimmerian fallen? What could he do now?

Something struck him atop the head. He recoiled involuntarily, jerking backwards so that he almost fell from the ledge. His right hand clawed at the air and caught the rope.

Conan was above him. Heng Shih gripped the line and stared up along the cliff face to where it vanished into lashing clouds of grit. The rock was almost featurelessly smooth, devoid of all but the tiniest irregularities. These had apparently sufficed. Conan had scaled the wall to its summit.

Heng Shih gave the rope a yank. It held fast. With repeated grunting and effort, the Khitan went hand-over-hand up the rope. He braced his feet and knees upon the slippery rock face when he could, but depended on the strength of his upper body to draw him to safety. The muscles of his shoulders quivered with effort, and he found himself slowing. Dust and sweat stung his eyes. His boots slid over stone, striving for purchase and finding none. Then the rope began to rise of its own accord, reeling him in like an ungainly fish until he was drawn over the edge of the cliff. Heng Shih scrambled onto level ground, released the rope, and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply.

Conan of Cimmeria unwound the rope from his fists, clapped the Khitan on the back, and unleashed a guffaw audible even above the wind.

"Thought you'd lost me, eh? It takes more than a bit of climbing to stop a Cimmerian. Come, we're almost there."

The canyon wall continued only another dozen paces before it reached the courtyard's corner and angled sharply inward to form the back wall of the natural cul-de-sac. They had climbed to the far corner of the courtyard and now stood a mere spear's cast from the Palace of Cetriss.

The Khitan found that he could discern the massive pillars of the palace's facade, flickering in and out of visibility between veils of windblown sand. Its outlines shifted, giving it the appearance of a sinister mirage created by the ferocious storm.

The footing was blessedly even. Conan and Heng Shih climbed a low ridge of weathered stone, and passed beyond the courtyard. The dark and shadowy mass that they had seen through the storm now rose directly before them. Their harrowing climb had brought them up beside the palace roof. The uppermost portion of the Palace of Cetriss was fashioned from a section of canyon that rose in a promontory, towering above all around it. The palace's flank lifted from the stone at their feet as sharply as a man-made wall sprang from a city's cobbled sidewalk. Gazing up its face almost twenty feet to the tortured sky, Heng Shih found himself wishing that he could see so much as a single star. Conan walked beside the wall, trailing the fingers of one hand along it. He turned to the Khitan, slapping his palm on the wall and shouting above the gusts.

"It's been worked. Leveled and sanded. Long ago."

Heng Shih nodded that he understood, wondering if this meant the Cimmerian would be unable to scale it. They walked for a few more moments, passing over almost-level stone, with Conan staring ceaselessly up at the wall. At length he stopped, pointing high to a single fissure marring the smooth surface. As Heng Shih looked on, the Cimmerian took several steps back, then ran forward and leapt up at the slender split in the stone wall. His body seemed to fly into place and stick, like a dagger hurled into soft wood. Steely fingers dug into the narrow gap, supporting the full weight of his powerful frame. He writhed, clawing his way up the wall with his fingertips alone. After an instant of breathless struggle, his hands found purchase atop the wall. Then his legs swung up and he was over the top, out of sight.

Heng Shih stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head. He reflected upon how reluctant he had been to allow the barbarian to accompany Lady Zelandra's expedition. He grimaced, tugged the wrapped silk away from his lips, and spat downwind. The rope came tumbling down the wall to him. He flexed his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and climbed.

The roof of the Palace of Cetriss was as large as the courtyard, rectangular, and bounded by a low wall that reached to a man's hip. It was as level as a floor beneath their feet and patterned with whirling eddies of sand. In its center lay a wooden board as thick and heavy as a tavern's tabletop. Conan knelt beside this anomaly and, as Heng Shih watched nervously, pressed an ear to the rough wood. He rose quickly and padded to the Khitan's side.

"An entrance," he explained. "Probably guarded. Look here." The barbarian went to one knee again, pointing out a collection of odd items in the blowing sand of the rooftop. Five black candles were set in congealed pools of their own melted wax. Each was positioned at one of the five points of a large star inscribed upon the roof's surface.

Strange symbols and traceries stained the stone on all sides of the great pentagram.

"I'll wager this is where the Stygian cast forth his image to pester your mistress," said Conan.

The mention of Zelandra drove a surge of fresh energy through Heng Shih's tired body. He jogged to the front of the palace, motioning for Conan to follow. Gripping the carved rim of the low wall, the Khitan leaned over the courtyard and peered below. The flattened-facade above the great pillars stretched down about ten feet. Below that he could make out the protruding cornice of one of the pillars. Conan moved toward the facade's center, where another slim fissure split the low wall, and began unspooling the rope.

"We'll go down here. We want to swing in between the pillars."

Heng Shih watched as the Cimmerian tied a heavy knot in the rope's tail. Conan stood on the cord and wrenched upon it to tighten the knot.

Then he fit the rope into the fissure, Wedging the knot flat against the inside of the wall and carelessly tossing the remainder over into the courtyard to dangle in space.

"It should hold, unless our weight tears the knot loose or the stone cuts the rope." Conan stretched like a lazy tiger, seemingly confident and unconcerned. Heng Shih swallowed heavily.

"I'll go first," said the barbarian as he straddled the wall and grasped the line. With a lithe twist, Conan rolled over the edge and began to lower himself down the rope. Sandy gusts tore at him, trying to pluck him loose from the wall and swing his body like a pendulum.

The Cimmerian fought the wind, staying in close to the carved stone face. When Conan reached the base of the facade, he planted the soles of his boots against the wall, kicked back, and slid down the rope.

Then he swung out of sight beneath the facade and between the pillars.

The skin between the Khitan's shoulder blades tingled as the rope stayed taut and Conan failed to reappear. After a long moment the rope went slack and trailed back into view, flailing loosely in the relentless wind. Heng Shih briefly considered that Conan might have fallen, or worse, swung right into a room full of waiting soldiers.

Then he seized the rope and drew himself over the wall.

He slid too quickly down over the facade; its ancient, faded inscriptions rasped his knees and elbows. The rope felt thin and inadequate in his fists. Heng Shih slipped, dropping below the facade and dangling between two of the pillars, which loomed to either side like huge and shadowy sentries. The wind spun him on the rope, swinging him to and fro helplessly. The black square of an open window beckoned to Heng Shih, recessed beneath the overhanging facade less than ten feet away. Hurling his legs forcibly out and away from the palace wall, the Khitan swung himself under the overhang and up to the window.

Deftly hooking a boot over the sill, he pulled himself toward safety.

When one fist released the rope and reached for the window's edge, a strong hand thrust out to catch him and drag him in. Heng Shih tumbled into a darkened room, landing on his much-abused knees. Conan stood beside him, his silken mask discarded, a fierce white grin creasing his hard countenance. His scimitar shone naked in his fist. Heng Shih stood and drew his own sword. He and the Cimmerian were inside the Palace of Cetriss.

Chapter Thirty-Four

-

The armored soldier thrust Neesa through the portal and into the huge stone room. She turned, snarling in hot-eyed defiance and straining at the chains that clasped her hands behind her back. Zelandra, similarly bound, stumbled against the scribe and staggered for balance. A lance of poignant pain thrust through Neesa, undercutting her rage with sorrow. Zelandra was moving like an aged and infirm crone.

"Are you all right, milady?" she asked, trying to sound strong and unafraid. The soldiers pushed into the room behind the women, surrounding them.

"You were told to stay silent. Obey or I'll slice out your tongue,"

said the Stygian who had shoved her. He thumbed the edge of his shortsword with crude suggestion.

The tallest of the soldiers spoke in a voice of calm authority. "Easy, Daphrah. The master wants them in one piece."

"Erlik's fangs," cursed the one called Daphrah. "This one threw a dagger into Teh-Harpa's throat as neat as you please. I hope the master feeds them to the lotus."

Wrenching her gaze from the raw hatred in the eyes of Daphrah, Neesa looked around the room. It was massively vaulted and circular, lighted by a collection of strange globes set around the walls. These crystalline spheres appeared to hold only water and some sort of leafy plant, yet they shone with strong yellow light. The center of the room was dominated by a statue the size of a small house. It was a carven sphinx of the sort occasionally seen in Stygia, but it was exceptionally large, fashioned of glossy black stone, and had no facial features. Between its paws lay a flat slab of similar black stone.

Gazing at the altar and its faceless idol, Neesa felt her blood slow and grow cold. What manner of men worshipped such a god?

The women were herded into the room's center until they stood beneath the overhanging oval of the statue's blank visage. Neesa retreated before the advancing mercenaries, halting when she backed into the altar slab. She sat upon it defiantly, curling her lips in a sneer of disdain. Zelandra shuffled to her side, head bent. The lady's silver-threaded hair was bloodied at the crown by the blow of a sword hilt. A cruel leather gag had been fastened about her head to prevent her from casting any spells. Neesa doubted that Zelandra would have been able to work any sorcery even without the gag. Her mistress, seemed taxed by merely standing upright.

Neesa clenched her eyes shut. She should have physically fought Zelandra to keep her from building the fire.

The camp should have been moved immediately, just as Conan had said.

They had been taken so swiftly. It seemed only a moment ago that she was arguing with Zelandra inside the tent. Her mistress had been so adamant about being safe and only needing some rest, all the while clinging with hands like gnarled talons to that damned silver box. Then there were voices outside the tent, and even Zelandra, for all her illness, could tell that they were not the voices of Conan and Heng Shih. The women burst out of the tent together, and there were Stygian soldiers coming over the rim of the hill. Neesa had taken the foremost with her nape-dagger and Zelandra had just enough time to bark out a single spell. She sent an incandescent bolt of fiery green light from the palm of her hand into the horrified face of the second Stygian.

Then the soldiers were upon them. Zelandra had clawed at her silver box, trying to unwrap it, until the pommel of a sword dashed her turban from her head and sent her sprawling. Neesa drew another dagger, screaming out for Conan and Heng Shih, not quite able to believe that they weren't there. The warriors had encircled her, obviously unwilling to do harm unless it was necessary and wary of the knife she held ready to throw. The blade of a shortsword held to the throat of the stunned Zelandra was sufficient threat to get her to toss her dagger aside.

Then she had been struck down by the mailed fist of the one called Daphrah. The mercenaries had milled about for a short time, looking for her companions, whom they shortly determined had fled. Satisfied that they had captured the sorceress that Ethram-Fal desired, and fearful of the coming storm, the soldiers escorted their captives back along the canyon. En route, the sandstorm fell upon them, railing and screaming in the narrow passage. Neesa had faced it numbly. Her thoughts seemed somehow paralyzed by the fact that Conan and Heng Shih had failed to come to her aid.

Even the marvelous facade of the Palace of Cetriss, wreathed in swirling, windblown dust, had made little impression upon her. The labyrinthine corridors within led them through empty rooms as silent as sepulchers, through a great hall full of neatly arranged cots, and finally to this fearful temple.

Now they waited for the one who ruled here.

Zelandra gave a low moan, grasping at her belt. Dangling leather thongs showed where the silver casket had been cut away. The tall, hawk-faced captain held the box in one hand. He observed Zelandra's distress dispassionately, glancing from her mindlessly grasping hands to the box in his grasp. Rage and helplessness warred in Neesa's breast until it felt as though her heart would be torn asunder.

Footfalls came from the far door. The clustered crowd of mercenaries parted, allowing a small, gray-robed figure to approach. The man was shorter than Neesa and hunched slightly, his head concealed beneath the hood of his robe. His sandaled feet slapped smartly on the smooth stone floor. Drawing to a stop before the women, he considered them for a moment, then crossed his arms over his narrow chest.

"Ah, Zelandra," came a soft voice from within the hood. It held pity and amusement in equal measures. "Your powers of endurance are nothing less than remarkable. I was a fool to underestimate you. But you were the greater fool to underestimate my Emerald Lotus."

Zelandra did not respond, but stared sightlessly forward, one arm crooked about her ribs and the other clutching uselessly at the place on her belt where the box of Emerald Lotus had once hung.

"Ath," called the wizard imperiously. "Loose the lady's companion from her bonds and affix her to the altar."

The tall soldier advanced as commanded, passing Zelandra's silver box to a comrade, and producing a key from within his polished breastplate.

Terror seized Neesa by the throat, sending a shuddering palsy down through her belly. She crouched and showed her teeth, clenching her fists to fight. The captain drew to a stop, his stern face betraying no emotion.

"Now, now," said the robed man gently. "Don't be a fool. You may still survive unscathed. All depends upon your mistress. It will be much the worse for you if you struggle. Think of what might befall you here if you displease me. Imagine."

Neesa went limp, half swooning as Ath unfastened her bonds. The captain put a hand beneath each of her arms and hoisted her easily up onto the altar. She went unresisting, clenching her eyes closed as he used lengths of rawhide to tie wrists and ankles to the black metal rings set in each of the altar's four corners.

"Very good," said the robed man, then louder: "Now, men, leave me. Be vigilant. These two may have friends. Hep-Kahl, give her box to me.

Ath, you may stay."

Subdued grumbles of disappointment came to Neesa's ears. All of her senses seemed heightened to an unendurable pitch. The altar felt much colder against her spine than it should have. She lifted her head and saw the soldiers filtering out the doors. The last stragglers looked behind themselves wistfully.

"Ath, remove the lady's gag. Do not worry, I fear that she is beyond any wizardry at this point."

Neesa kept her head raised to watch even as the muscles of her neck began to ache dully. The gag fell away from Zelandra's mouth, though she seemed to take no notice. Her eyes were dull, staring at nothing.

The tall warrior stepped back uneasily, one hand on the hilt of his heavy, northern broadsword.

The sorcerer lifted his hands and lowered the hood. His countenance wrung an involuntary gasp from Neesa. The bulging brow and shrunken jaw marked Ethram-Fal as a man who would never be called handsome, but the ravages of the Emerald Lotus had transformed him into something that could scarcely be called human. Tufts of mouse-brown hair stood out from his mottled scalp. His complexion had faded from the dusky tone of a healthy Stygian to a grayish pallor better suited to a corpse. The wasted flesh of his face bore an infinitude of tiny wrinkles, giving him the appearance of an animated mummy. The whites of his eyes shone pale green.

"Now, lady, we have so much to discuss."

Zelandra might have been deaf. She stood like a sleepwalker, unaware of the grim tableau that surrounded her.

"Ah, I know what you need," said Ethram-Fal happily. "Look here, milady." With a flourish, he thrust the silver box aloft. Zelandra's eyes focused suddenly, locking onto the gleaming casket.

"Come, a few grains should make you more communicative." He opened the box and held it so that she could see the contents. Zelandra took a hesitant, dragging step forward. Her arms hung lax at her sides.

"Yes, that's very good. You want to feel better, don't you?"

Zelandra took three pained steps toward the Stygian and stretched out her hands blindly.

"So little left," mused Ethram-Fal. "Even so, you shall get only a taste." He used two fingers to scoop a bit of the deep green powder out of the box, and then extended his hand to the Lady Zelandra.

"There will be more if we can reach an agreement. All that you like, in fact."

The sorcerer caught his breath as Zelandra took two more steps toward him, grasped his wrist with both hands, and began to lick the Emerald Lotus from his proffered fingers.

Ethram-Fal threw back his head and laughed like a fiend out of hell.

Chapter Thirty-Five

-

The chamber was square, hewn directly from the canyon wall, and without any furnishings. It was obvious that it had not been occupied, or perhaps even visited, for a very long time. A small, hardened drift of sand stretched across the floor, the accumulation of ages. On the far wall a single portal opened on darkness. The storm raged unabated outside, scouring the window frame with whips of sand.

The two warriors leaned against the wall to either side of the window, resting a moment and taking stock of their situation. The only sound was that of the wind. Conan fumbled beneath his cloak, pulling into view a small, leather backpack that Heng Shih hadn't seen. The Cimmerian opened it and produced a wineskin.

"Here. It is not the finest vintage, and watered besides, but I'll wager that you won't cast it aside now," said the barbarian. Wearing a faintly sheepish expression, Heng Shin took the wineskin. The first swallow seemed to slice through the layer of dust coating his throat.

The second filled his mouth with rich flavor. The wine may have been second-rate and watered, but he could not remember ever appreciating a drink so thoroughly. After they both drank their fill, the skin was returned to the backpack and the men advanced as one to the doorway.

Outside the room was an empty, lightless corridor leading away to both left and right. Conan's eyes adjusted to the darkness at once, and he perceived that vacant doorways flanked the one from which they emerged.

A moment's exploration revealed that both of these rooms had windows opening out onto the pillared facade, and were identical to the one that had admitted them to the palace. To either side, beyond the rooms, the corridor turned inward and tunneled deeper into the rock.

Conan chose the hallway to the right. Once they rounded the corner, the sound of the storm dwindled to a distant whispering and the air grew thick and stale. The stagnant smell of ancient dust filled their nostrils.

The corridor continued in gloom, uninterrupted for a space, then split in a three-way intersection. Ahead, and to the left, the hall went on as before, with no sign of light or another doorway. To their right a spiral stairway coiled downward. A vague yellow glow, faint as a vapor, shone along the stairwell's curving wall.

Conan thrust down with the sickle blade of his scimitar. The Khitan nodded, and the two stole down the stair. Conan led the way, keeping his back to the wall and his sword extended before him. The stairs opened out onto the second floor, where the two men hesitated. The Cimmerian crouched, leaning into the hallway, but all was darkness and silence. The phantom glow of light came from farther below. He withdrew and they continued.

The stairwell ended by opening out upon a broad hall that led away to the left and right. A single light, set in a niche carved into the wall, filled the long chamber with a soft illumination. It was not a torch. The light looked like nothing that Conan had ever seen before.

It appeared to be a hollow ball of glass containing water and a sprig of some leafy plant. The whole gave off a steady, not unpleasant, glow.

The barbarian noted its oddity, then gave it no further thought. Death stalked these corridors and would claim the unwary.

To Conan's right, the hall extended fifteen paces before ending in another open doorway. To his left, the corridor reached a similar length to a similar portal, but this one was covered by a hanging blanket of coarse brown cloth. Faint sounds, echoing and indistinguishable, came from beyond the fabric barrier, which twitched gently, as if touched by a gentle breeze.

Conan came out of the stairwell and padded stealthily toward the covered doorway. His boots made no sound on the stone floor. Heng Shih began to follow about four paces behind, but was struck into immobility when the Cimmerian suddenly thrust an open palm toward him.

A voice spoke in Stygian, startlingly loud in the pervasive silence.

For a terrible instant Conan and Heng Shih both stood stock-still; then the hanging over the doorway rippled and was thrust aside. Two men in bright mail pushed into view. Lights bobbed, and flared behind them.

Conan had a split second of indecision. It was shattered by the rising voices of an unknown number of men, coming up behind the two that now stood, goggling, in the doorway. The Cimmerian lunged across the hallway, snatched the light-globe from its niche, spun and ran straight at Heng Shih. The Khitan took an involuntary step backward.

"Run, damn it!" The barbarian shoved his comrade back into the stairwell as cries of alarm rang out behind them.

The sound of boots on stone filled the stairwell with rebounding echoes. Conan took the steps three at a time, easily driving past the laboring Khitan. At the second level he slid to a halt, bent, and rolled the light-globe down the darkened hallway to the north.

Yellow-white light blazed up eerily, splashing the walls with unnatural radiance as the sorcerous torch rolled swiftly away, scarcely bouncing on the smooth stone floor. Conan didn't stop to watch, but ran past the darkened second level and continued up to the third, bursting into the dim hallway at the three-way intersection with the shouts of his pursuers loud in his ears. Heng Shih followed the Cimmerian as he turned right, sprinting into the inner reaches of the palace's third floor.

They ran through another intersection and passed an open doorway on the right, but Conan did not even slow his pace. Then there was a curtained opening on the left and the barbarian was shoving the fabric aside, charging into the darkness beyond. Heng Shih was at his heels, sliding to a stop in complete blackness as Conan let the blanket fall across the doorway. They pressed their backs to the wall on either side of the door, ready to cut down any who might follow them. Heng Shih strove to muffle his gasps for breath and slow the rapid hammering of his heart.

Voices and footsteps came to them from an uncertain distance, fading and blurring together. Heng Shih wiped sweat from his pate with the dirty sleeve of his golden kimono. Across from him, Conan stood with his scimitar at the ready, as charged with potential energy as a leopard poised to spring.

The sounds of pursuit dwindled and disappeared. Conan grinned savagely, invisible in the gloom, and lowered his blade. His steel clinked softly against something on the wall. Turning, the barbarian reached out. His hand encountered something smooth and spherical sitting in a niche in the wall. When his fingers closed upon and lifted it, a dull pulse of light came from the thing. It was a light-globe like the one he had seized in the hall below. When he picked the thing up, the water within it rolled about and the light came more steadily. Conan gave the glass ball a good shake, and the room was revealed in the resulting yellow glow.

The first thing he saw was Heng Shih, pressed against the wall across from him, sword in hand and an incredulous frown wrinkling his smooth features. The Khitan extended a hand as if to knock the light-globe from Conan's grasp.

"Easy." The Cimmerian stepped away from the door. "They're chasing the light I rolled into the second floor. With any luck, they'll think we dropped it and are hiding down there. Probably wouldn't believe a man of your size could run fast enough to get this far anyway."

Heng Shih lowered his scimitar, but kept his frown, apparently seeing little humor in the situation.

The globe in Conan's fist showed the room to be an eldritch combination of sorcerous laboratory and unnatural greenhouse. The barbarian wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. The chamber smelled more like a humid jungle glade than a stone room in a desert ruin.

A single small chair stood in the center of one wall, overlooking the many tables that all but filled the chamber.

The tables were of varying sizes, each holding a bewildering array of odd paraphernalia, ranging from racks of liquid-filled vials to a set of flat, metal trays that apparently held only moist earth. One of the central tables held a box fashioned of transparent glass panels bound with bronze. Within the box was a round bush, thickly covered with fat, reddish leaves.

. Along the wall across from the chair was a long table covered with a tent-like drape of thick black velvet. Heng Shih approached the shroud of dark fabric. The sharp tip of his scimitar lifted the fabric from the table and a brilliant ray of golden light shone out, stinging his eyes. It was as though he revealed the desert sun itself. The table beneath was set with a number of unrecognizable plants growing from ceramic pots full of soil. The velvet cowl was draped over a framework of thin metal struts that also held, at measured intervals, several extraordinarily bright light-globes.

Heng Shih let the cowl fall back into place and the golden light faded abruptly, like the sun falling behind a storm cloud. He turned to see Conan standing beside a. small table. The Cimmerian had laid the light-globe on the tabletop. He was fastening his backpack and adjusting it beneath his dusty cloak. The barbarian gestured to the black and empty doorway across the room.

"We've tarried long enough."

The portal opened upon yet another dark and deserted hall. Conan held the light-globe muffled beneath his cloak, so that only a dim glow lit their way. They turned to the right, moving deeper into the palace's stone heart. The silence was as heavy as lead, weighting them down.

Ahead, the hallway ended in a high arch unlike anything they had seen thus far. Conan stopped, and drew from his belt the silken shirt he had used as a mask against the storm. He wrapped the light-globe in the shirt and set it against a wall. A gentle, yellow radiance shone faintly through the bundle of cloth. Heng Shih watched with a concealed impatience that the barbarian seemed to sense.

"Come," said the Cimmerian. "This room is different."

Conan passed beneath the open arch, stepping into an even deeper darkness. The stone floor of the hall ended at the arch. Within the circular room beyond there was no true floor, but rather a ring-like balcony made of a lusterless black metal. The balcony ran around the room's perimeter, encircling an open shaft of uncertain depth.

Heng Shih followed Conan into the strange chamber, pacing soundlessly a step behind and to the right. The pair . drew to a halt on the metal balcony, straining their eyes into the dark, trying to see across the room's empty center. Conan laid a hand on the low railing and spoke in a harsh whisper.

"We can reach the other door from either side. But what is that scent?"

Heng Shih frowned in frustration. His dilated eyes could scarcely discern a darker smudge against a featureless background that had to be the far wall. It made sense that both branches of the balcony would meet at a doorway across from the one they had entered, but he could see nothing of it. The Cimmerian's vision was uncanny. Then Heng Shih noticed the scent.

The balcony, only wide enough for two men to walk abreast, bracketed a well of absolute darkness. And from the unfathomed depths below rose a faint odor, reminiscent of stale perfume. After a few breaths, Heng Shih found that its apparent sweetness masked a cloying undercurrent of decay. His hands ached to spell out questions in sign language, but he knew that Conan would not understand.

The barbarian stood rigidly at the balcony's lip, all of his senses focused into the darkness before him. The hair on his forearms prickled. There was something wrong about this room. Heng Shih stared at Conan in dismay, noting the Cimmerian's animal wariness and unable to account for it. The Khitan put his hand on the worn hilt of his scimitar.

Conan's sword lashed from its scabbard, hissing sharply as it cut the air.

"Soldiers. More than four of them, coming to the other door."

Heng Shih started in surprise, drew his sword from his sash and stared in vain across the lightless room. He waited a suspended moment, every sense awakening. A faint and wavering yellow glow illuminated the opposite arch, revealing the room to be about twenty paces across. The scuff of boots on stone came to his ears. He tugged the wooden mace from his belt and looked to Conan. The Cimmerian cocked his head and grinned wolfishly at his comrade.

"No better time to shift the odds in our favor. Here we can take them one at a time. Are you game?"

The Khitan nodded his shaven head, stepping to the right branch of the balcony even as Conan moved onto the left. The pair advanced slowly, weapons at the ready. And then the opposite arch was abruptly full of light and armed men.

"They're here!"

Hands gripping luminous spheres of crystal were thrust into the room's darkness as twelve armored Stygians pushed out onto the balcony. They reacted smoothly, drawing blades and splitting into two groups without orders, moving like professional warriors who had trained long together.

Conan cursed under his breath. There were too many of them, and they were too good. The balcony forced the Stygians to advance in single file. The last man in each line held a light-globe high, so that his comrades could see.

"Intruders," cried the light-bearer on Heng Shih's side, "cast down your blades and be spared!"

Conan's reply was to charge his first challenger. A barbaric war cry resounded in the vaulted chamber as the Cimmerian sprinted forward, closing the distance between himself and his foe with terrible speed.

The Stygian mercenary was astonished by this unexpected tactic, recoiling into the soldier to his rear. Conan brought his scimitar down with all the power of his shoulders behind it. His blow dashed aside the attempted parry, cleaving through the steel helmet to split the Stygian's skull. The man fell back among his fellows, dead on his feet.

The second mercenary stumbled over the sprawling body, an outhrust hand catching at the balcony's rail. Stepping forward, Conan reversed his blade. His return cut brought the sword back up in a murderous swath that passed inside the staggering man's failing guard and up through the breastplate to split his sternum. The shattering impact of the blow lifted the man from his feet and sent him hurtling over the balcony in a shower of blood and a mad flurry of flailing limbs.

"Come ahead, dogs!" roared the barbarian. The battle-madness of the berserker raged through Conan's veins, driving him forward with such raw fury that his more numerous opponents found themselves drawing backward in an involuntary retreat.

Across the pit, Heng Shih feinted with his wooden mace. When the mercenary facing him parried the blow, the Khitan's scimitar lashed out with such strength that the man's head sprang from his shoulders and rebounded from the ceiling. The body collapsed like a dropped wineskin, sending a wash of crimson vintage spilling over the balcony's rim. The next Stygian lunged in, only to find his thrust blocked by a precise movement of the mace, and his belly laid open by a sudden slash of the scimitar.

Conan saw none of this, for his third opponent was a man of some ability. Cursing steadily in the name of Set and Bubastis, the warrior traded cuts with the Cimmerian, closing with him over the sprawled body of Conan's first kill. The barbarian's boot skidded on blood-smeared metal, and the Stygian drove forward, his thrust tearing through the patched portion of Conan's mail and searing along his ribs. Conan grunted in pain and, hooking the point of his scimitar in above his foe's gorget, thrust the mercenary through the throat. The blade burst through the man's neck, splintering his spine and lodging in the bone.

The luckless Stygian reeled backward with a gurgling cry, tearing the blade from Conan's hand and tumbling headlong over the railing to disappear in the darkness below.

The Cimmerian drew his dagger even as he watched his sword go. The fourth mercenary gave a hoarse shout of triumph to see the fearsome barbarian disarmed. The shout's timbre shifted as Conan dove headfirst into his oncoming foes, slamming bodily into the leading Stygian and bearing both of those following to the balcony in a cursing, writhing heap. No sooner had they struck the metal flooring than Conan was struggling up, wrenching his dagger from the entrails of his fourth opponent. The fifth, fighting for position, came to his knees and awkwardly brought his shortsword down on the head of the rising Cimmerian. The leather helmet saved his skull, but couldn't keep his scalp from splitting under the impact. Fire-shot blackness rolled across Conan's vision. Stunned by the blow, the barbarian half lunged and half fell forward, driving a clenched fist into the swordsman's face. The blow landed with a meaty crunch and the man spilled over backward with a broken jaw.

Conan's sole remaining opponent scrambled up from the balcony and turned to flee. Hurling himself forward across the flooring, the Cimmerian caught at the mercenary's flying ankle, snagging a strap of his sandal. With a cry of terror, the man twisted in midstride, desperate to escape the barbarian's grip. The Stygian tore free of Conan's fist, but in doing so spun wildly into the railing, which struck him just below the waist. He upended, all but flying over the rail, and fell into the shaft with a horrible scream. There was a muffled crunch from below, as though the man had fallen into a dry thicket.

Conan seized a fallen shortsword in a bloodied fist. Gripping the railing with his other hand, he pulled himself slowly to his feet. The breath whistled between his clenched teeth, and sweat ran freely along his limbs. He looked across the pit to see how Heng Shih fared.

The Khitan stood splay-legged, holding the hilt of his scimitar against his broad belly with both hands. The point of the scimitar was embedded in the chest of the last Stygian mercenary, whose body hung as limply on the blade as an impaled rag. As Conan looked on, Heng Shih hoisted the body up, and with a powerful heave, hurled it into the pit.

The last soldiers had laid their light-globes on the balcony before engaging the invaders. Now the two men looked at each other in the eerie yellow glow. The Cimmerian bared his teeth in a grotesque approximation of a smile. He drew a hand across his brow to wipe away the blood seeping from his scalp wound.

"Crom and Ymir, that was as touchy a set-to as I have ever

A terrible screaming arose from the shaft and silenced him. A single human voice strained in notes of an unknowable agony. The hair rose on Conan's head. He drew away from the balcony's rim, pressing his broad back to the cool stone wall, as the screaming intensified into an inhuman siren and was suddenly cut off.

A new sound floated up from the hidden depths of the shaft. A subtle rustle that grew steadily in volume until it was a ragged rasping, as if the walls below were scraped by thousands of steel blades.

Conan shot a glance at Heng Shin and saw that the Khitan was moving carefully toward the arch through which the soldiers had come. The Cimmerian stepped in that direction too, moving stealthily, and then hastening as the sounds in the pit grew louder and, horribly, nearer.

Something was rising out of the shaft. It moved faster and faster, tearing at the walls around it, until it shot up past the balcony. To Conan's horrified eyes it resembled nothing so much as a tree of surging darkness, hurling its black branches aloft until they crunched against the domed ceiling. It paused there, suspended in the shaft, a tangled tower of rustling darkness, and then it fell down toward them.

"Crom!" The curse was wrenched from the barbarian's throat. Conan ducked and ran for the door, almost slamming into Heng Shih as the Khitan came through on his heels. They ran for their lives down a darkened corridor, while behind them a soul-searing scream was ripped from the man whose jaw Conan had broken. The cry was mercifully short, but superseded by the even more chilling sound of the swift, rasping progress of the blood-sotted Emerald Lotus as it pursued its prey.

Chapter Thirty-Six

When Zelandra was a girl of twelve, she contracted a fever that came close to ending her life. When the disease reached its critical phase, and her young body was wracked with chills and delirium, her parents wrapped her in woolen blankets and laid her upon a couch on a balcony overlooking the grounds of their estate. There they left her to fight for her life.

The strength of her youth, and the powerful Vendhyan medicines they had given her, gradually won out over the sickness. When she came to herself it was as though she was emerging from a long, winding tunnel of woven dreams. The events of the previous few days blurred into a fantastical skein of unfocused impressions, and she had no real idea of where she was or how she had come to be there. There was only a strong sensation of well-being: the sense that she was well at last and sitting safely in her home.

Now Zelandra felt that old feeling anew, and her stirring consciousness believed that she was back on that balcony in the summer of her twelfth year. The sensation of emerging from a half-recalled maze of unreal events was the same. Zelandra licked her dry lips and opened her mouth to call for her mother, but found that her voice would not respond. As her vision began to clear, she noticed that someone was speaking to her in a familiar voice. It was a hateful voice. It planted a germ of unease that took root within her, growing and spreading until her emerging awareness focused upon a simple and disturbing certainty. She was not on that balcony now.

Zelandra found herself looking down at her feet. There was a bitter, oddly familiar, taste in her mouth. A frown creased her high forehead as she noticed the dismal condition of her fine riding boots. How had they come to be so battered and dirty? The hateful voice droned on, sounding very pleased with itself. Zelandra looked up to see who would speak to her in such an annoying fashion.

"Are you coming back to us now? Yes, I believe that you are. It is a great honor and a greater pleasure to have you as my guest, Lady Zelandra. First of all, you must tell me, how did you manage to use my lotus so slowly? Shakar, the poor fool, was dead within two days of finishing his supply. How is it that you still have some left after all this time?"

Zelandra stood up straight and ran a hand through her tangled hair. She knew where she must be, though she remained uncertain as to how and when she had arrived. Saying nothing, the sorceress looked slowly and carefully around the huge room, taking in her captors, the black statue, and the bound form of Neesa. Her eyes met those of her scribe for a moment; then Zelandra made herself look away. She could not recall the last time that she had seen Heng Shih or the Cimmerian. She wondered if they were dead. Her lips parted again and when her voice came, it was like the creak of a rust-choked hinge.

"Shakar must not have seen your lotus for the poison that it is. Either that or he took too much at once and found himself unable to lower the dosage. I felt the craving from the start and tried to stave it off immediately. I used whatever power the drug gave me to strengthen myself against it. Would that you had done the same."

"Ah." Ethram-Fal was smiling at the spirit and cogency of her response.

His thin lips drew back from green-stained teeth in a loathsome grin that gave his face the appearance of a withered skull.

"Well done, milady. A small triumph of skill and determination. And yet, here you are now, a mere handful of hours from a painful death despite your best efforts. It seems most unjust, does it not? Perhaps this is the time to bargain?"

"Bargain?" Zelandra's eyelids fluttered and she put her left hand to her brow. She had to buy time, both to remember what she could about how she came here and to plan some sort of action, however suicidal.

Pretending greater weakness than she felt, the sorceress closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead.

"Yes, of course," said Ethram-Fal with ill-concealed impatience, "You must remember

"You were Eldred the Trader?"

"Yes, yes, I thought that you understood all of that. I came to both you and Shakar the Keshanian in that guise so as to test the effects of my lotus upon you."

"A spell of hypnotism?"

"Ha! Hardly!" The little sorcerer puffed up like a preening sparrow.

"Nothing so simplistic and easy to expose. It was a full-fledged glamour: a flawless illusion to any who might look upon it. Behold!"

As the Lady Zelandra watched, Ethram-Fal's slight body began to shimmer like a desert mirage. His image blurred over swiftly, then cleared, revealing an astonishing transformation. Where the stunted Stygian in stained robes had been, now stood a plump and stately Shemite dressed in the elegant silks of a successful merchant. His black beard parted in a broad smile. The illusion winked out and there was Ethram-Fal, grinning just as broadly.

"You see? Such mummery is nothing to me now."

"But the time, the preparations¦" Zelandra dissembled. Feeling within for sorcerous strength, she was shocked by her own weakness. The bit of Emerald Lotus given to her by Ethram-Fal had apparently vented most of its strength in merely returning her to rational consciousness. A powerful offensive spell was out of the question. She had to conceive of a simple defensive tactic that would both take her captors by surprise and allow her adequate time to free Neesa and flee. Her mind raced frantically as she felt the borrowed power of the lotus fading, moment by moment.

"You disappoint me, milady. Either you have used my lotus so sparingly as to be unaware of its true strength or you are much less perceptive than I had hoped. Such spells are little more than child's play to me.

The Emerald Lotus has so enhanced my abilities that I daresay I'm more than a match for any of those arrogant, shortsighted pigs of the Black Ring."

Zelandra made her eyes go wide and took on a look of amazement. "As powerful as that?" she murmured. Her aura of awed astonishment served its purpose. Ethram-Fal swelled visibly with pride and continued in more strident tones, while she settled upon a simple spell of blindness and strove to recall the precise and elaborate details of its casting.

"Certainly! You are familiar with the spell called the Hand of Yimsha?

It is a simple manipulator that can be performed by any apprentice of moderate talent to pick up small objects and move them about. It is a fine index of a sorcerer's skill. I have read that the creators of that spell were mighty enough to use it as a weapon, and heard it rumored that Thoth-Amon employed it to build his palace at the Oasis of Khajar.

Understand this well, Zelandra, I no longer even need to conjure it. It is with me always. And I have used it to kill. Thus far I have seen nothing to indicate that there is an upper limit to the power bestowed by the Emerald Lotus. The more I immerse myself in it, the mightier I become. If you join me, milady, all the power I describe and more shall be yours. Do you understand what it is that I am offering you?" The Stygian leaned forward and lifted his hands imploringly, his tainted eyes shining green as a cat's. "We could become as gods!"

Zelandra thrust out both hands as though pushing him away. Thin streams of gray smoke coiled along the pale flesh of her forearms.

"Tieranog Dar Andurra!" her Voice snapped like the crack of a whip, abruptly free of any weariness. .The eldritch spirals of soft gray did not seem to extend themselves from her arms, yet the air was suddenly choked with writhing tendrils of mist. Ethram-Fal cried out in shock as the blunt tips of the smoke trails moved for his eyes like so many trained cobras. Ath stumbled away, shouting incoherently in alarm, both hands covering his face. Zelandra kept her hands extended, her fingers working as if communicating in Heng Shih's sign language. On the altar, Neesa began to writhe against her bonds.

Ethram-Fal backed quickly away, dodging the questing streamers of smoke while muttering sibilant syllables under his breath. Beneath the blank countenance of the black sphinx, with her back to the altar between its paws, Zelandra struggled with her invocation, trying to strike her nemesis blind before he gathered his wits or her strength failed.

Ethram-Fal was forced to retreat all the way to one of the temple's doors, and now he stood motionless before it. He no longer sought to avoid Zelandra's tentacles of smoke. They swarmed into his calm face.

From the halls behind him came the muted sounds of outcry and struggle, distant yet drawing nearer. The Stygian sorcerer had no time for that.

He seemed to relax, his arms hanging limply at his sides, and the chamber was filled with the sound of a raging wind. The strands of the blindness spell were whipped about and shredded in a storm that was felt by no one in the room. Zelandra watched as her desperate bid for freedom disintegrated in a gale that did not so much as stir her hair.

"Clever!" yelled Ethram-Fal. "You led me to underestimate your strength. I salute your power, but this last betrayal is too much to bear. Feel the Hand of Yimsha, milady!"

The last gray streamers thinned and faded, like blood diluting in water, and the Lady Zelandra felt a giant's fist close about her torso.

The pressure was immediate and excruciating. Tears sprang to her eyes as the breath wheezed from her compacted lungs.

"Blame yourself, Zelandra! You might have shared the world with me.

I-I¦" The Stygian appeared almost overcome by a sudden excess of emotion. His wizened face darkened, contorted by hatred and something less easy to identify. "Damn you! Do you think I can't find another to take your place? You're nothing to me! Nothing!"

Zelandra frantically sucked for breath and felt her feet leaving the floor. She was borne upward and back until she hung suspended above the prone form of Neesa and directly in front of the smooth oval of the idol's face. Even through the haze of pain her eyes were drawn to it, fearfully seeking something in its blank and implacable emptiness.

Against the black gloss of its face, a deeper darkness bloomed and grew.

"Tribute!" screamed Ethram-Fal, his body vibrating in every limb.

"Sacrifice!" His fist shook and, away across the chamber, Zelandra's body shook with it. The Stygian readied himself for the final moment, opening his eyes wide so as to miss nothing.

There was a clamor in the hallway behind him. He thought to turn and was dealt a blow that lifted him off his feet and dashed him against the wall. His brow struck stone. Pain and blood blurred his vision as he fell to the floor, stunned.

Neesa saw two figures burst into the chamber behind the Stygian sorcerer. The foremost hurled Ethram-Fal aside with a casual blow of his forearm, sending the little man flying like a discarded doll to rebound limply from the wall. A pulse of excitement slammed through her as she saw that the intruders were Conan and Heng Shih. Then Zelandra, freed from the Hand of Yimsha, fell full upon her.

Ath advanced purposefully from the shadows beside the dark idol, his broadsword whisking from its sheath. He moved directly for Conan, who brandished his recently acquired shortsword and spoke.

"Flee, you fool! We're running from a devil out of hell!"

Ath responded with a swift, overhand cut aimed at splitting the barbarian's skull. Oman's shorter blade licked out to deflect it with an echoing clang.

"I'll take this dog," he bellowed to Heng Shih. "Cut the girl free!"

The Cimmerian presented a picture of starkly primordial savagery. His huge body was entirely spattered with drying blood. A sluggish stream of it split his face like a smear of some macabre war paint. His mail shirt was tarnished and torn, hanging upon his mighty torso in tatters.

Glacial blue eyes blazed volcanically through the crimson streaking his snarling visage, fastening upon the mercenary captain with chilling intent.

As Ath stared at his opponent in growing trepidation, the barbarian lashed out. The silvery sword darted for the Stygian's eyes. With a speed that belied his rangy form, Ath brought his weapon up and caught Conan's sword between the blade and quillion. With a practiced twist, Ethram-Fal's captain snapped the barbarian's sword off three inches above the hilt. The blade of the broken weapon sailed above the heads of the combatants, falling to strike the stone floor and rebound with a jingle. Ath skipped back to slash at his nigh-weaponless opponent, but the Cimmerian lunged forward to embrace him. Their bodies slammed together with a clash of mail. Ath's breath, sickly sweet with kaokao, hissed into Conan's face. They grappled. The Stygian could not bring his weapon to bear at such close quarters. The barbarian twisted his sword arm free, dragged the stump of his broken weapon up inside Ath's guard, and buried it in his throat. Then Conan shoved the Stygian away from him with all his strength. The stricken captain reeled away, falling on his back with a crash. His broadsword rattled across the floor and was intercepted by Conan, who took two quick steps, bent, and caught it neatly by the hilt. He snatched the blade up and turned toward the statue, leaving Ath dying on the stone behind him.

Heng Shih's flare-bladed scimitar had cut the bonds pinning Neesa to the black altar and she now stood beside it. The scribe rubbed at her thigh where Zelandra's knee had struck her. Zelandra herself was locked in an embrace with the brawny Khitan, her slender form almost engulfed in his powerful arms.

A distant series of horrified screams came echoing down the hallway.

They were choked off almost at once, replaced by an indescribable rasping sound.

"Crom! It follows us! Run if you value your lives!"

"You are going nowhere!"

All heads turned to the doorway that had admitted Conan and Heng Shih.

There, Ethram-Fal had struggled to his feet and stood unsteadily, bracing himself against the portal's arch with one hand. The other hand wiped at the unnaturally dark blood streaming from his forehead, then extended, dripping, to point accusingly at the little group.

"Your luck is remarkable, Zelandra. But it will require more than the selfless efforts of your slaves to save you from my wrath. Nothing has changed. I shall

With the instinctive reflexes of the true barbarian, Conan chose that moment to charge his foe. The savage, ululating war cry of a Cimmerian tribesman smote the ears of those in the chamber. It froze the blood.

Ethram-Fal lifted his encrimsoned hand toward Conan and, with a gesture, halted him in his tracks. A guttural grunt was torn from the barbarian's lips as the Hand of Yimsha clenched its sorcerous fist.

"All of your paltry physical strength is as nothing," spat the Stygian.

"I shall crush you like the useless insect that you are." His hand curled into a tighter fist and the Cimmerian jerked like a man stretched rigid on the rack.

"Watch closely, Zelandra! This fate awaits you, too!" The fist began to close.

Conan felt himself in the coils of some vast and invisible python.

Sheets of agony rippled over his straining torso and his skull throbbed, filling his vision with billowing clouds of black and scarlet. His lungs heaved, starving for air and unable to expand. Sweat rolled down his contorted face to drip from his chin. Very slowly, he lifted Ath's broadsword higher and took a faltering step forward.

"Set's mercies!" Ethram-Fal stared in amazed horror as the barbarian took another dragging step toward him.

"Die, dog! Die!" screamed the sorcerer, clenching his fist and squeezing tight. There was a strange sound somewhere in the hallway behind him, but he had confined his attention to the barbarian. This man was damned hard to kill.

Conan felt as if he were walking across the bottom of an ocean.

Pressure from all sides threatened to crush his body like a grape in a wine press. Although his sword weighed more than a mountain and the veins in his neck stood out like writhing serpents, all his besieged senses remained set upon his enemy. He lamented the distance that still lay between them while never wavering from his grim purpose. As he shuffled forward another step, his vision began to dim.

"Now!" shouted the Stygian sorcerer. "Now I have you!"

At that moment the Emerald Lotus burst through the doorway like the flood from a broken dam. It bore Ethram-Fal aloft before it, a mere chip upon its tide. The bristling plant-thing drove its bulk through the narrow gap of the doorway and thrust its thorned and flowering branches into the chamber.

The sorcerer found himself helpless on the forefront of a surging juggernaut. His startled cry became a full-throated scream as thorns like black daggers pierced his struggling body.

Ethram-Fal's sorcerous grip fell away from Conan. The barbarian staggered, looked up at the oncoming colossus, and blindly turned to run.

Heng Shih, Neesa, and Zelandra shook free of the paralysis of horror that had held them motionless. The Khitan seized the dazed Zelandra and spun her toward the closest doorway. Neesa followed, turning her back on the monstrosity that poured into the temple as she ran to grasp her mistress's arm. Heng Shih rushed to Conan's aid as the battered barbarian stumbled past him. The great scimitar lashed out at the first, questing branch of the blood-hungry Emerald Lotus, lopping off a section the length of a man and sending it spiraling away. The huge bulk of the vampiric fungus slowed not at all. It bore down on the Khitan with Ethram-Fal, howling like a dying dog, still fastened to its swelling bosom. Spiked limbs festooned with vivid green flowers clawed their way over the altar that stood between the black sphinx's stone paws.

Conan hesitated in the portal's arch, and saw the women fleeing toward safety down the hallway ahead. Then, turning back, he beheld Heng Shih sprinting straight at him with a towering mass of lotus looming up behind.

"Hurry!" roared the Cimmerian, hefting Ath's broadsword with an arm that still ached from the cruel grip of Ethram-Fal's spell. The Khitan shot past him through the arch and Conan followed. The Emerald Lotus hit the wall around the opening with the sound of a forest splintered by a lightning bolt. Tentacle-like branches whipped through the portal, seeking warm flesh and blood.

Conan and Heng Shih ran down the darkened hallway, chasing the shadows of Zelandra and Neesa, who were headed toward a vague and distant light. Behind them the lotus screwed itself through the doorway and pushed into the hall beyond. Its blood-gorged body almost filled the passage. A thousand thorns and branch-tips sought purchase on the stone walls, floor, and ceiling, pulling the abomination along with frightening speed. Ethram-Fal, driven back into the body of the lotus by its impact against the wall, writhed in his thorny prison and screamed prayers to Set.

The four invaders rounded a corner and fled down the length of a long, straight hall. Ahead loomed a pale arch. Neesa had time to sense a freshening of the air before she ran right out of the Palace of Cetriss. Suddenly there was a dark sky above her and a set of steps beneath her madly running feet. She leapt forward to keep her balance, landing with a clap of heels in the natural courtyard, where two huddled guardsmen rushed to get to their feet.

The blood thundered in Conan's temples and he felt his much-abused body falter. The climb into the palace followed by the pursuit and battle with the guards would have exhausted any ordinary man. Following those trials with Ethram-Fal's agonizing Hand of Yimsha had tested even his iron endurance to its utmost limits. His heavily muscled legs trembled with weariness and breathing filled his breast with flame. Ahead, he saw the running form of Heng Shih drawing away down a hallway that had gone vague and blurred. The floor seemed to pitch and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship in a storm. His balance failed, and his shoulder rebounded painfully from a wall, sending him staggering wildly forward. Behind the barbarian, both the raging rasp of the "lotus and the now-feeble cries of its master drew nearer.

Conan shot through the portal and out of the Palace of Cetriss in a horizontal fall. When he hit the steps, he kicked forward with both feet, sending himself across the courtyard in a headlong dive. As his body struck the polished stone of the clearing's floor with punishing impact, he skidded forward and lay still. The Emerald Lotus exploded through the portal into the outside world. Conan heard muffled shouts and cries. There was a momentary clash of steel against steel; then a woman's voice rose above all.

"Cease, you idiots! The demon has devoured your master!"

Whipping back his sweat-soaked hair, Conan shot a glance over a shoulder and saw the writhing mass of the Emerald Lotus come slithering down the palace steps. The exhausted Cimmerian dragged himself forward, his knees sliding over the smooth stone.

*

Through the flowering tendrils that imprisoned him, Ethram-Fal watched the crawling form of the barbarian. As the Stygian tried to call a last curse down upon his enemy, a great, green blossom bloomed from the sorcerer's open mouth, cutting off sound and breath forever. Rowers burst from his corpse.

Conan lunged forward and fell heavily on his chest, driving both hands into the fluffy, gray ashes of the firepit. He groped desperately as the lotus rose above him in a, tidal wave of deadly thorns, verdant blossoms, and lashing branches. The first limbs fell across his outstretched legs. The Cimmerian seized something from the firepit that seared into his palm. He rolled over and, with a savage howl of rage, thrust the red-hot ember into the body of the Emerald Lotus.

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Scarlet curls of flame erupted around the outhrust ember. It was as though he had torched a dead and dried evergreen. The Emerald Lotus recoiled in a convulsive heave, drawing away from the barbarian and pulling back onto the palace stairs. But a scarlet badge of fire clung to its branches and grew there, coursing over and through its misshapen form. It burned with a sharp, ear-piercing hiss. In a moment its interior was alive with flame and the silhouettes of its victims' bodies were etched in deepest black against the flaring red-orange light. Then the lotus withdrew into the palace like a snake fleeing down its hole. The glow of its burning dwindled down the dark hallway.

Conan the Cimmerian lay on his back, supporting himself on one elbow, and watched the death throes of the Emerald Lotus. From within the Palace of Cetriss came a relentless crashing and rasping as the demonic thing thrashed out its unnatural life within the confines of its creator's lair. Each of the windows shone briefly with fiery light as the lotus rampaged through the palace seeking succor.

In time it was still.

The sandstorm had passed, leaving behind a cloud-swept night sky full of clean, rushing wind. Neesa knelt at Conan's side. The barbarian struggled to rise, and Neesa laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Heng Shih limped close, using his scimitar like a cane. His breathing was audible as his heavy hand joined Neesa's on Conan's brawny shoulder.

"Lie still," she whispered. "You must rest."

"No," growled the Cimmerian. "I want to stand." Conan stood up, his feet spread wide apart. The night wind cooled his burnt hand and pulled his black mane away from his bloodstained face. He looked across the courtyard at the two Stygian guardsmen, who stood in tense silence, swords clutched in rigid hands. He scowled and, wordlessly, they came forward and laid their weapons at his feet.

Exeunt

Tossing back half the remaining flagon of watered wine, Conan wrapped his cloak around himself, leaned against the gorge's wall and immediately dozed off. After a brief conversation in sign language with Zelandra, Heng Shih followed the barbarian's example. Neesa and her mistress spoke in hushed tones for some time. They cast suspicious glances at the two surviving mercenary soldiers of Ethram-Fal, who sat in dispirited silence. With their employer and comrades dead, the pair apparently saw scant reason to quarrel with the invaders. Sleepless, they sat against the canyon's far wall, awaiting the morning and their fate.

In time Neesa fell into an exhausted slumber, leaning against the shoulder of Lady Zelandra, who showed no apparent signs of weariness.

The lady stared straight ahead,
and though her gaze made the Stygian captives cringe and look away, it was not directed at them. She looked ahead to her future and bided her time until the morning. Thus, when the sun drove the stars from the sky, she was the first into the Palace of Cetriss.

The gentle sounds of her rousing woke Conan, who stretched hugely, shook Heng Shih awake, and followed her. He slowed just long enough to cast a baleful glance at the Stygian captives. Behind him, the sun rose with slow inevitability until its fierce golden rays fell into the canyon cul-de-sac.

The interior of the Palace of Cetriss had been scourged by the death throes of the flaming Emerald Lotus. Most of the light-globes had been torn from their niches in the walls and smashed by its passing. Conan picked up one of the few surviving globes and used it to light their way. The cots in the Great Chamber were smashed into scorched kindling.

Ethram-Fal's laboratories and private rooms looked as if a fiery wind out of hell had blown through them, crushing and charring everything into black wreckage. Nowhere did they see a human body. Silence lay thick on the smoke-tainted air.

They found the Emerald Lotus in its chamber, as if in death it had sought out the place of its birth. It had burnt down to its twisted core. The lotus was reduced to a clenched coil of blackened, thorny branches gripping a ghastly collection of contorted skeletons. The incinerated corpses of its victims were crushed together in its death embrace, wound and woven into its shrunken fabric so that Conan and Zelandra found it impossible to tell one body from another. All, human and animal, master and slave, were joined in death. The smoke and intense heat had seared and darkened the chamber, staining the walls as far as the pair could see. The high band of hieroglyphics that encircled the room was obscured by soot.

Conan took the sword that had been Ath's and struck at a curled limb of the lotus. Though it looked as solid as black stone, the burnt branch broke apart more easily than coal, crumbling into loose ash and releasing the skull it gripped to fall and rattle hollowly on the scarred stone floor.

Tearing free a shred of his tattered shirt, the barbarian distastefully wiped the dark ash from his blade. He noticed that Zelandra was staring emptily at the corpse of the Emerald Lotus. She stood still and silent, one arm crooked across her midsection. The sorceress breathed shallowly and did not seem to blink. Conan took her arm and led her away.

The palace's lowest levels seemed to have escaped the insensate fury of the dying lotus. In a crude series of rooms carved out below the desert floor, they found both the stables where the mercenaries kept their camels and ponies and a room full of supplies. There were sacks of provisions, grain for the beasts, and a large collection of tall ceramic jugs of water. They led the animals into the light, where Heng Shih and Neesa anxiously awaited their return.

The Stygian captives were astonished when Conan gave each water and a camel and told them to be gone. The taller of the two stared mutely at the Cimmerian, while the other bowed low, as though he stood before a king. They wasted no time in taking the barbarian's advice and departing down the narrow canyon.

While Conan, Heng Shih, and Neesa prepared to leave by bathing in the plentiful water and eating freely of the mercenaries' provisions, Zelandra quietly disappeared into the palace. When all was in readiness, the three looked about for her. They found Lady Zelandra in the pillar-flanked doorway, her face glimmering as pale as a mask of alabaster against the darkness of the portal. When Zelandra emerged into the morning light, they saw that her body was bent forward and that she used one arm to clutch her ribs. .

"Conan, Neesa," she called, and then more tenderly, "Heng Shih."

"Come along, milady," said Neesa, a faint quaver in her voice. "We've far to go."

"No," answered Zelandra. "I have scoured every inch of this ruin and can find none of the Emerald Lotus. The entire plant has been burnt to useless ash. You must leave me here; I would not burden you with my madness and my death. I have failed and, despite his doom, Ethram-Fal has triumphed."

"Nay," said Conan as he swung his long legs over his camel's back and dismounted. "I must be getting old if a little fighting makes me so forgetful." The Cimmerian bounded up the stone steps of the palace toward the Lady Zelandra, and drew his backpack from beneath a bronzed arm. "I snatched this from the wizard's room of magics when Heng Shih and I hid from his guards."

A long, slender box of polished ebony emerged from the scruffy backpack and gleamed dully in the morning light. Conan twisted the golden clasp, lifted the lid, and held out the open box for Zelandra to see.

The sorceress could not restrain a gasp as she gazed upon a glittering drift of emerald dust.

"The Stygian's private stock, I'll warrant," grunted Conan. "I hope, lady, that this is enough to serve your need."

Zelandra took the box, closed it, and held it to her breast.

"Yes, barbarian, I will make it so."

Together they walked from the shadow of the Palace of Cetriss into the bright sun of Stygia. The Cimmerian lifted the weary sorceress to her camel's back, and the little group moved as one down the canyon that led to the west and away. Conan took the lead, the desert wind tossing his black mane. He did not look back.

Behind them, the Palace of Cetriss returned to the silence in which it had slept for thirty centuries. Its weathered pillars warmed in the rising sun and cooled with the coming of night. Deep within, alone in its high and vaulted temple, the faceless statue of black stone stared into the darkness that it knew so well.

Hawks over Shem

Following the events of the story The Snout in the Dark, Conan, dissatisfied with his accomplishments in the black countries, wanders northward across the deserts of Stygia to the meadowlands of Shem.

During this trek, his reputation stands him in good stead. He presently finds himself in the army of King Sumuabi of Akkharia, one of the southerly Shemitish city-states. Through the treachery of one Othbaal, cousin of the mad King Akhirom of Pelishtia, the Akkharian forces are ambushed and wiped out―all but Conan, who survives to track the renegade to Asgalun, the Pelishti capital.

The tall figure in the white cloak wheeled, cursing softly, hand at scimitar hilt. Not lightly did men walk the nighted streets of Asgalun, capital of Shemitish Pelishtia. In this dark, winding alley of the unsavory river quarter, anything might happen.

"Why do you follow me, dog?" The voice was harsh, slurring the Shemitic gutturals with the accents of Hyrkania.

Another tall figure emerged from the shadows, clad, like the first, in a cloak of white silk but lacking the other's spired helmet.

"Did you say, "dog"?" The accent differed from the Hyrkanian's.

"Aye, dog. I have been followed―"

Before the Hyrkanian could get further, the other rushed with the sudden blinding speed of a pouncing tiger. The Hyrkanian snatched at his sword. Before the blade cleared the scabbard, a huge fist smote the side of his head. But for the Hyrkanian's powerful build and the protection of the camail of ring mail that hung down from his helmet, his neck might have been broken. As it was, he was hurled sprawling to the pavement, his sword clattering out of his grasp.

As the Hyrkanian shook his head and groped back to consciousness, he saw the other standing over him with drawn saber. The stranger rumbled: "I follow nobody, and I let nobody call me dog! Do you understand that; dog?"

The Hyrkanian glanced about for his sword and saw that the other had already kicked it out of reach. Thinking to gain time until he could spring for his weapon, he said: "Your pardon if I wronged you, but I have been followed since nightfall. I heard stealthy footsteps along the dark alleys. Then you came unexpectedly into view, in a place most suited for murder."

"Ishtar confound you! Why should I follow you? I have lost my way. I've never seen you before, and I hope never to―"

A stealthy pad of feet brought the stranger round, springing back and wheeling to keep both the Hyrkanian and the newcomers before him.

Four huge figures loomed menacingly in the shadows, the dim starlight glinting on curved blades. There was also a glimmer of white teeth and eyeballs against dark skins.

For an instant there was tense stillness. Then one muttered in the liquid accepts of the black kingdoms: "Which is our dog? Here be two clad alike, and the darkness makes them twins."

"Cut down both," replied another, who towered half a head above his tall companions. "We shall then make no mistake and leave no witness."

So saying, the four Negroes came on in deadly silence.

The stranger took two long strides to where the Hyrkanian's sword lay.

With a growl of "Here! he kicked the weapon at the Hyrkanian, who snatched it up; then rushed upon the advancing blacks with a snarling oath.

The giant Kushite and one other closed with the stranger while the other two ran at the Hyrkanian. The stranger, with that same feline speed he had shown earlier, leaped in without awaiting attack. A quick feint, a clang of steel, and a lightning slash sheared the head of the smaller black from his shoulders. As the stranger struck, so did the giant, with a long forehand sweep that should have cut the stranger in two at the waist.

But, despite his size, the stranger moved even faster than the blade as it hissed through the night air. He dropped to the ground in a crouch so that the scimitar passed over him. As he squatted in front of his antagonist, he struck at the black's legs. The blade bit into muscle and bone. As the black reeled on his wounded leg and swung his sword up for another slash, the stranger sprang up and in, under the lifted arm, and drove his blade to the hilt in the Negro's chest. Blood spurted along the stranger's wrist. The scimitar fell waveringly, to cut through the silken kaffia and glance from the steel cap beneath. The giant sank down dying.

The stranger tore out his blade and whirled. The Hyrkanian had met the attack of his two Negroes coolly, retreating slowly to keep them in front of him. He suddenly slashed one across the chest and shoulder so that he dropped his sword and fell to his knees with a moan. As he fell he gripped his foe's knees and hung on like a leech. The Hyrkanian kicked and struggled in vain. Those black arms, bulging with iron muscles, held him fast, while the remaining Negro redoubled the fury of his strokes.

Even as the Kushite swordsman drew breath for a stroke that the hampered Hyrkanian could not have parried, he heard the rush of feet behind him. Before he could turn, the stranger's saber drove through him with such fury that the blade sprang half its length out of his chest, while the hilt smote him fiercely between the shoulders. Life went out of him with a cry.

The Hyrkanian caved in the skull of his other antagonist with his hilt and shook himself free of the corpse. He turned to the stranger, who was pulling his saber out of the body it transfixed.

"Why did you come to my aid after nearly knocking my head off?" he asked.

The other shrugged. "We were two men beset by rogues. Fate made us allies. Now, if you like, we'll take up our quarrel again. You said I spied upon you."

"I see my mistake and crave your pardon," answered the Hyrkanian promptly. "I know now who has been skulking after me."

He wiped and sheathed his scimitar and bent over each corpse in turn.

When he came to the body of the giant, he paused and murmured:

"Soho! Keluka the Sworder! Of high rank the archer whose shaft is paneled with pearls!" He wrenched from the limp black finger a heavy, ornate ring, slipped the ring into his sash, and laid hold of the garments of the dead man. "Help me to dispose of this carrion, brother, so that no questions shall be asked."

Tlie stranger grasped a bloodstained jacket in each hand and dragged the bodies after the Hyrkanian down a reeking black alley, in which rose the broken curb of a ruined and forgotten well. The corpses plunged into the abyss and struck far below with sullen splashes. With a light laugh the Hyrkanian turned.

"The gods have made us allies," he said. "I owe you a debt."

"You owe me naught," answered the other in a surly tone.

"Words cannot level a mountain. I am Farouz, an archer of Mazdak's Hyrkanian horse. Come with me to a more seemly spot, where we can converse in comfort. I hold no grudge for the buffet you dealt me, though, by Tarim! my head still rings from it"

The stranger grudgingly sheathed his saber and followed the Hyrkanian.

Their way led through the gloom of reeking alleys and along narrow, winding streets. Asgalun was a contrast of splendor and decay, where opulent palaces rose among the smoke-stained ruins of buildings of forgotten ages. A swarm of suburbs clustered about the walls of the forbidden inner city where dwelt King Akhirom and his nobles.

The two men came to a newer and more respectable quarter, where the latticed windows of overhanging balconies almost touched one another across the street.

"All the shops are dark," grunted the stranger. "A few days ago the city was lighted like day, from dusk to sunrise."

"One of Akhirom's whims. Now he has another, that no lights shall burn in Asgalun. What his mood will be tomorrow, Pteor only knows."

They halted before an iron-bound door in a heavy stone arch, and the Hyrkanian rapped cautiously. A voice challenged from within and was answered by a password. The door opened, and the Hyrkanian pushed into thick darkness, drawing his companion with him. The door closed behind them. A heavy leather curtain was pulled back, revealing a lamplit corridor and a scarred old Shemite.

"An old soldier turned to wine-selling," said the Hyrkanian. "Lead us to a chamber where we can be alone, Khannon."

"Most of the chambers are empty," grumbled Khannon, limping before them. "I'm a ruined man. Men fear to touch the cup, since the king banned wine. Pteor smite him with gout!"

The stranger glanced curiously into the larger chambers that they passed, where men sat at food and drink. Most of Khannon's customers were typical Pelishtim: stocky, swarthy men with hooked noses and curly blue-black beards. Occasionally one saw men of the more slender type that roamed the deserts of eastern Shem, or Hyrkanians or black Kushites from the mercenary army of Pelishtda.

Khannon bowed the two men into a small room, where he spread mats for them. He set before them a great dish of fruits and nuts, poured wine from a bulging skin, and limped away muttering.

"Pelishtia has come upon evil days, brother," drawled the Hyrkanian, quaffing the wine of Kyros. He was a tall man, leanly but strong built.

Keen black eyes, slightly aslant, danced restlessly in a face with a yellowish tinge. His hawk nose overhung a thin, black, drooping mustache. His plain cloak was of costly fabric, his spired helmet was chased with silver, and jewels glittered in the hilt of his scimitar.

He looked at a man as tall as himself, but who contrasted with him in many ways. The other had thicker limbs and greater depth of chest: the build of a mountaineer. Under his white kaffia his broad brown face, youthful but already seamed with the scars of brawls and battles, showed smooth-shaven. His natural complexion was lighter than that of the Hyrkanian, the darkness of his features being more of the sun than of nature. A hint of stormy fires smoldered in his cold blue eyes. He gulped his wine and smacked his lips.

Farouz grinned and refilled his goblet. "You fight well, brother. If Mazdak's Hyrkanians were not so infernally jealous of outsiders, you'd make a good trooper."

The other merely grunted.

"Who arc you, anyway?" persisted Farouz. "I've told you who I am."

"I am Ishbak, a Zuagir from the eastern deserts."

The Hyrkanian threw back his head and laughed loudly, bringing a scowl to the face of the other, who said: "What's so funny?"

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Do you say I lie?" snarled the stranger.

Farouz grinned. "No Zuagir ever spoke Pelishtic with an accent like yours, for the Zuagir tongue is but a dialect of Shemitish. Moreover, during our fight with the Kushites, you called upon strange gods―Crom and Manannan―whose names I have heard before from barbarians of the far North. Fear not; I am in your debt and can keep a secret."

The stranger half started up, grasping his hilt. Farouz merely took a sip of wine. After an instant of tension the stranger sank back. With an air of discomfiture he said:

"Very well. I am Conan, a Cimmerian, late of the army of King Sumuabi of Akkharia."

The Hyrkanian grinned and stuffed grapes into his mouth. Between chews he said: "You could never be a spy, friend Conan. You are too quick and open in your anger. What brings you to Asgalun?"

"A little matter of revenge."

"Who is your enemy?"

"An Anaki named Othbaal, may the dogs gnaw his bones!"

Farouz whistled. "By Pteor, you aim at a lofty target! Know you that this man is the general of all King Akhirom's Anakian troops?"

"Crom! It matters as little to me as if he were a collector of offal."

"What has Othbaal done to you?"

Conan said: "The people of Anakia revolted against their king, who's an even bigger fool than Akhirom. They asked help of Akkharia. Sumuabi hoped they would succeed and choose a friendlier king than the one in power, so he called for volunteers. Five hundred of us marched to help the Anakim. But this damned Othbaal had been playing both sides. He led the revolt to encourage the king's enemies to come out into the open, and then betrayed the rebels into the arms of this king, who butchered the lot.

"Othbaal also knew we were coming, so he set a trap for us. Not knowing what had happened, we fell into it. Only I escaped with my life, and that by shamming death. The rest of us either fell on the field or were put to death with the fanciest tortures the king's Sabatean torturer could devise." The moody blue eyes narrowed. "I've fought men before this and thought no more of them afterwards, but in this case I swore I'd pay back Othbaal for some of my dead friends. When I got back to Akkharia I learned that Othbaal had fled from Anakia for fear of the people and had come here. How has he risen so high so fast?"

"He's a cousin of King Akhirom," said Farouz. "Akhirom, though a Pelishti, is also a cousin of the king of Anakia and was reared at that court. The kings of these little Shemitish city-states are all more or less related, which makes their wars all quarrels within the family and all the bitterer in consequence. How long have you been in Asgalun?"

"Only a few days. Long enough to learn that the king is mad. No wine indeed!" Conan spat.

"There is more to learn. Akhirom is indeed mad, and the people murmur under his heel. He holds his power by means of three bodies of mercenary troops, with whose aid he overthrew and slew his brother, the previous king. First, the Anakim, whom he recruited while an exile at the court of Anakia. Secondly, the black Kushites, who under their general, Imbalayo, yearly gain more power. And thirdly, the Hyrkanian horse, like myself. Their general is Mazdak, and among him and Imbalayo and Othbaal there is enough hatred and jealousy to have started a dozen wars. You saw some of it in this evening's encounter.

"Othbaal came here last year as a penniless adventurer. He has risen partly by his relationship to Akhirom, and partly by the intrigues of an Ophirean slave-woman named Rufia, whom he won at gaming from Mazdak and then refused to return when the Hyrkanian had sobered up. That's another reason for there being little love between them. There is a woman behind Akhirom, too: Zeriti the Stygian, a witch. Men say she has driven him mad by the potions she has fed him to keep him under her government. If that's true, then she defeated her own ends, for now nobody can control him."

Conan set down his goblet and looked straight at Farouz. "Well, what now? Will you betray me, or did you speak truth when you said you would not?"

Turning in his fingers the ring he had taken from Keluka, Farouz mused.

"Your secret is safe with me. For one reason, I too owe Othbaal a heavy debt. If you succeed in your quest ere I find means to discharge it, I shall bear the loss with serenity."

Conan started forward, his iron fingers gripping the Hyrkanian's shoulder. "Do you speak truth?"

"May these potbellied Shemitish gods smite me with boils if I lie!"

"Then let me aid you in your vengeance!"

"You? An outsider, who knows nought of the secret ways of Asgalun?"

"Of course! So much the better; having no local ties, I can be trusted.

Come on; let's make a plan. Where is the swine and how do we get to him?"

Farouz, though no weakling, recoiled a little before the primitive elemental force that blazed in the eyes and showed in the manner of the other. "Let me think," he said. "There is a way, if one is swift and daring…"

Later, two hooded figures halted in a group of palms among the ruins of nighted Asgalun. Before them lay the waters of a canal, and beyond it, rising from its bank, the great bastioned wall of sun-dried brick which encircled the inner city. The inner city was really a gigantic fortress, sheltering the king and his trusted nobles and mercenary troops, forbidden to common men without a pass.

"We could climb the wall," muttered Conan.

"And find ourselves no nearer our foe," answered Farouz, groping in the shadows. "Here!"

Conan saw the Hyrkanian fumble at a shapeless heap of marble. "An ancient ruined shrine,"' grumbled Farouz. "But―ah!"

He lifted a broad slab, revealing steps leading down into darkness.

Conan frowned suspiciously.

Farouz explained: "This tunnel leads under the wall and up into the house of Othbaal, which stands just beyond."

"Under the canal?"

"Aye. Once Othbaal's house was the pleasure-house of King Uriaz, who slept on a down-cushion floating on a pool of quicksilver, guarded by tame lions―yet fell before the avenger's dagger in spite of all. He prepared secret exits from all parts of his houses. Before Othbaal took the house, it belonged to his rival Mazdak. The Anaki knows nothing of this secret, so come!"

Swords drawn, they groped down a flight of stone steps and advanced along a level tunnel in blackness. Conan's groping fingers told him that the walls, floor, and ceiling were composed of huge blocks of stone. As they advanced, the stones became slippery and the air grew dank. Drops of water fell on Conan's neck, making him shiver and swear.

They were passing under the canal. Later, this dampness abated. Farouz hissed a warning, and they mounted another flight of stairs.

At the top, the Hyrkanian fumbled with a catch. A panel slid aside, and a soft light streamed in. Farouz slipped through the opening and, after Conan had followed, closed it behind them. It became one of the inlaid panels of the wall, not differing to the sight from the other panels.

They stood in a vaulted corridor, while Farouz pulled his kaffia around to hide his face and motioned Conan to do likewise. Farouz then led the way down the corridor without hesitation. The Cimmerian followed, sword in hand, glancing to right and left.

They passed through a curtain of dark velvet and came upon an arched doorway of gold-inlaid ebony. A brawny black, naked but for a silken loincloth, started up from his doze, sprang to his feet, and swung a great scimitar. But he did not cry out; his open mouth revealed the cavernous emptiness of the mouth of a mute.

"Quietly!" snapped Farouz, avoiding the sweep of the mute's sword. As the Negro stumbled from his wasted effort, Conan tripped him. He fell sprawling, and Farouz passed his sword through the dark body.

"That was quick and silent enough!" breathed Farouz with a grin. "Now for the real prey!"

Cautiously he tried the door, while the giant Cimmerian crouched at his shoulder, eyes burning like those of a hunting tiger. The door gave inward, and they sprang into the chamber. Farouz closed the door behind them and set his back to it, laughing at the man who leaped up from his divan with a startled oath. Beside him, a woman half-rose from the cushions and screamed. Farouz said:

"We've run the buck to cover, brother!"

For a fraction of a second, Conan took in the spectacle. Othbaal was a tall, lusty man, his thick black hair gathered in a knot at his nape and his black beard oiled, curled, and precisely trimmed. Late as the hour was, he was fully clad in silken kilt and velvet vest, under which gleamed the links of a mail shirt. He dove for a scabbarded sword that lay on the floor beside the couch.

As for the woman, she was not conventionally pretty but still good to look at: red-haired, with a broad, slightly freckled face, and brown eyes sparkling with intelligence.

She was rather broadly built, with shoulders wider than the average, a big bust, and full hips. She gave the impression of great physical vigor.

"Help!" shouted Othbaal, rising to meet the Cimmerian's rush. "I am beset!"

Farouz started across the wide floor not more than a step behind Conan, but then leaped back to the door through which they had come. With half an ear, Conan was aware of a commotion in the corridor and heard the thump of some heavy object rammed against the door. Then his blade crossed that of the Anaki. The swords clanged in mid-air, showering sparks, flashing and flickering in the lamplight.

Both men attacked, smiting furiously, each too intent on the life of the other to give much thought to showy swordplay. Each stroke had full weight and murderous will behind it. They fought in silence. As they circled, Conan saw, over Othbaal's shoulder, that Farouz had braced his shoulder against the door. From the other side came increasingly heavy blows, which had already torn loose the bolt. The woman had vanished.

"Can you deal with him?" said Farouz. "If I let this door go, his slaves will pour in."

"All right so far," grunted Conan, parrying a ferocious slash.

"Hasten, then, for I cannot hold them much longer."

Conan plunged in with fresh ferocity. Now it was the Anaki whose attention was devoted to parrying the Cimmerian's sword, which beat on his blade like a hammer on an anvil. The sheer strength and fury of the barbarian began to tell. Othbaal paled under his swarthy skin. His breath came in gasps as he gave ground. Blood streamed from gashes on arms, thigh, and neck. Conan bled, too, but there was no slackening in the headlong fury of his attack.

Othbaal was close to the tapestried wall when suddenly he sprang aside as Conan lunged. Carried off-balance by his wasted thrust, the Cimmerian plunged forward and his sword point clashed against the stone beneath the tapestries. At the same instant, Othbaal slashed at his foe's head with all his waning power.

But Conan's sword of Stygian steel, instead of snapping like a lesser blade, bent and sprang straight again. The falling scimitar bit through Conan's helmet into the scalp beneath. Before Othbaal could recover his balance, Conan's heavy blade sheared upward through steel links and hip bone to grate into the spinal column.

The Anaki reeled and fell with a choking cry, his entrails spilling out on the floor. His fingers clawed briefly at the nap of the heavy carpet, then went limp.

Conan, blind with blood and sweat, was driving his sword in silent frenzy again and again into the form at his feet, too drunken with fury to realize that his antagonist was dead, until Fafouz called:

"Cease, Conan! They've stopped their attack to bring up a heavier ram, and we can run for it."

"How?" said Conan, dazedly raking the blood from his eyes, for he was still dizzy from the stroke that had cloven his helmet. He tore off the riven, blood-filled headpiece and threw it aside, exposing his square-cut black mane. A crimson torrent descended into his face, blinding him anew. He stooped and tore a strip from Othbaal's kilt to bind up his head.

"That door!" said Farouz, pointing. "Rufia fled that way, the slut! If you're ready, we'll run."

Conan saw an inconspicuous little door to one side of the couch. It had been concealed by draperies, but Rufia in her flight had disarranged these and left the door open behind her.

The Hyrkanian took from his girdle the ring that he had pulled from the finger of the black slayer, Keluka. He ran across the floor, dropped the ring near Othbaal's body, and continued on toward the small door.

Conan followed him, though he had to crouch and almost turn sideways to get through the door.

They emerged into another corridor. Farouz led Conan by a roundabout route, turning and twisting through a maze of passages, until Conan was hopelessly lost. By this means they avoided the main body of household retainers, gathered in the corridor outside the principal entrance to the room where they had slain Othbaal. Once they aroused feminine screams from a room they passed, but Farouz kept on. Presently they reached the secret panel, entered it, and groped in darkness until they emerged once more into the silent grove.

Conan stopped to get his breath and retie his bandage. Farouz said: "How is your wound, brother?"

"A scratch only. Why did you drop that ring?"

"To blind the avengers of blood. Tarim! All that trouble, and the strumpet got away."

Conan grinned wryly in the darkness. Rufia evidently did not regard Farouz as a rescuer. The brief picture that Conan had obtained, in the second before he closed with Othbaal, stuck in his mind. Such a woman, he thought, would suit him very well.

Within the massive wall of the inner city, a stupendous event was coming to pass. Under the shadows of the balconies stole a veiled and hooded figure. For the first time in three years, a woman was walking the streets of Asgalun.

Knowing her peril, she trembled with fear not wholly inspired by the lurking shadows. The stones hurt her feet in her tattered velvet slippers; for three years the cobblers of Asgalun had been forbidden to make street shoes for women. King Akhlrom had decreed that the women of Pelishtia should be shut up like reptiles in cages.

Rufia, the red-haired Ophirean, favorite of Othbaal, had wielded more power than any woman in Pelishtia save Zeriti, the king's witch-mistress. And now, as she stole through the night, an outcast, the thought that burned her like a white-hot brand was the realization that the fruits of all her scheming had been spilt in a second by the sword of one of Othbaal's enemies.

Rufia came of a race of women accustomed to swaying thrones with their beauty and wit. She scarcely remembered her native Ophir from which she had been stolen by Kothian slavers. The Argossean magnate who had bought her and raised her for his household had fallen in battle with the Shemites, and as a supple girl of fourteen Rufia had passed into the hands of a prince of Stygia, a languorous, effeminate youth whom she came to twist around her pink fingers. Then, after some years, had come the raid of a band of wandering freebooters from the half-mythical lands beyond the Sea of Vilayet, upon the prince's pleasure island on the upper Styx, with slaughter, fire, and plunder, crashing walls and shrieks of death, and a red-haired girl screaming in the arms of a tall Hyrkanian chieftain.

Because she came of a race whose women were rulers of men, Rufia neither perished nor became a whimpering toy. When Mazdak enlisted his band under Akhirom in Anakia, as part of Akhirom's plan to seize Pelishtia from his hated brother, Rufia had gone along.

She had not liked Mazdak. The sardonic adventurer was coldly masterful in his relations with women, keeping a large harem and letting none command or persuade him in the slightest. Because Rufia could endure no rival, she had not been displeased when Mazdak had gambled her away to his rival Othbaal.

The Anaki was more to her taste. Despite a streak of cruelty and treachery, the man was strong, vital, and intelligent. Best of all, he could be managed. He only needed a spur to his ambition, and Rufia supplied that. She had started him up the shining rungs of the ladder―and now he had been slain by a pair of masked murderers who had sprung from nowhere.

Engrossed in her bitter thoughts, she looked up with a start as a tall, hooded figure stepped from the shadows of an overhanging balcony and confronted her. Only his eyes burned at her, almost luminous in the starlight. She cowered back with a low cry.

"A woman on the streets of Asgalun!" The voice was hollow and ghostly.

"Is this not against the king's commands?"

"I walk not the streets by choice, lord," she answered. "My master has been slain, and I fled from his murderers."

The stranger bent his hooded head and stood statue-like. Rufia watched him nervously. There was something gloomy and portentous about him. He seemed less like a man pondering the tale of a chance-met slave-girl than a somber prophet weighing the doom of a sinful people. At last he lifted his head.

"Come," said he. "I will find a place for you."

Without pausing to see if she obeyed, he stalked away up the street.

Rufia hurried after him. She could not walk the streets all night, for any officer of the king would strike off her head for violating the edict of King Akhirom. This stranger might be leading her into worse slavery, but she had no choice.

Several times she tried to speak, but his grim silence struck her silent in turn. His unnatural aloofness frightened her. Once she was startled to see furtive forms stealing after them.

"Men follow us!" she exclaimed.

"Heed them not," answered the man in his weird voice.

Nothing was said until they reached a small arched gate in a lofty wall. The stranger halted and called out. He was answered from within.

The gate opened, revealing a black mute holding a torch. In its light, the height of the robed stranger was inhumanly exaggerated.

"But this―this is a gate of the Great Palace!" stammered Rufia.

For answer, the man threw back his hood, revealing a long pale oval of a face, in which burned those strange, luminous eyes.

Rufia screamed and fell to her knees. "King Akhirom!"

"Aye, King Akhirom, O faithless and sinful one!" The hollow voice rolled out like a bell. "Vain and foolish woman, who ignores the command of the Great King, the King of Kings, the King of the World, which is the word of the gods! Who treads the street in sin, and sets aside the mandates of the Good King! Seize her!"

The following shadows closed in, becoming a squad of Negro mutes. As their fingers seized her flesh, Rufia fainted.

The Ophirean regained consciousness in a windowless chamber whose arched doors were bolted with bars of gold. She stared wildly about for her captor and shrank down to see him standing above her, stroking his pointed, graying beard while his terrible eyes burned into her soul.

"O Lion of Shem!" she gasped, struggling to her knees. "Mercy!"

As she spoke, she knew the futility of the plea. She was crouching before the man whose name was a curse in the mouths of the Pelishtim; who, claiming divine guidance, had ordered all dogs killed, all vines cut down, all grapes and honey dumped into the river; who had banned all wine, beer, and games of chance; who believed that to disobey his most trivial command was the blackest sin conceivable. He roamed the streets at night in disguise to see that his orders were obeyed.

Rufia's flesh crawled as he stared at her with unblinking eyes.

"Blasphemer!" he whispered. "Daughter of evil! O Pteor!" he cried, flinging up his arms. "What punishment shall be devised for this demon?

What agony terrible enough, what degradation vile enough to render justice? The gods grant me wisdom!"

Rufia rose to her knees and pointed at Akhirom's face. "Why call on the gods?" she shrieked. "Call on Akhirom! You are a god!"

He stopped, reeled, and cried out incoherently. Then he straightened and looked down at her. Her face was white, her eyes staring. To her natural acting ability was added the terror of her position.

"What do you see, woman?" he asked.

"A god has revealed himself to me! In your face, shining like the sun!

I burn, I die in the blaze of thy glory!"

She sank her face in her hands and crouched trembling. Akhirom passed a shaking hand over his brow and bald pate.

"Aye," he whispered. "I am a god! I have guessed it; I have dreamed it.

I alone possess the wisdom of the infinite. Now a mortal has seen it also. I see the truth at last―no mere mouthpiece and servant of the gods, but the God of gods himself! Akhirom is the god of Pelishtia; of the earth. The false demon Pteor shall be cast down from his place and his statues melted up…"

Bending his gaze downward, he ordered: "Rise, woman, and look upon thy god!"

She did so, shrinking before his awful gaze. A change clouded Akhirom's eyes as he seemed to see her clearly for the first time.

"Your sin is pardoned," he intoned. "Because you were the first to hail your god, you shall henceforth serve me in honor and splendor."

She prostrated herself, kissing the carpet before his feet. He clapped his hands. A eunuch entered and bowed.

"Go quickly to the house of Abdashtarth, the high priest of Pteor," he said, looking over the servant's head. "Say to him: This is the word of Akhirom, who is the one true god of the Pelishtim, and shall soon be the of all the peoples of the earth: that on the morrow shall be the beginning of beginnings. The idols of the false Pteor shall be destroyed, and statues of the true god shall be erected in their stead.

The true religion shall be proclaimed, and a sacrifice of one hundred of the noblest children of the Pelishtim shall celebrate it…' "

Before the temple of Pteor stood Mattenbaal, the first assistant to Abdashtarth. The venerable Abdashtarth, his hands tied, stood quietly in the grip of a pair of brawny Anaki soldiers. His long white beard moved as he prayed. Behind him, other soldiers stoked the fire in the base of the huge, bull-headed idol of Pteor, with his obscenely exaggerated male characteristics. In the background towered the great seven-storied zikkurat of Asgalun, from which the priests read the will of the gods in the stars.

When the brazen sides of the idol glowed with the heat within, Mattenbaal stepped forward, raised a piece of papyrus, and read:

"For that your divine king, Akhirom, is of the seed of Yakin-Ya, who was descended from the gods when they walked the earth, so is a god this day among ye! And now I command ye, all loyal Pelishtim, to recognize and bow down to and worship the greatest of all gods, the God of gods, the Creator of the Universe, the Incarnation of Divine Wisdom, the king of gods, who is Akhirom the son of Azumelek, king of Pelishtia! And inasmuch as the wicked and perverse Abdashtarth, in the hardness of his heart, has rejected this revelation and has refused to bow down before his true god, let him be cast into the fire of the idol of the false Pteor!"

A soldier tugged open the brazen door in the belly of the statue.

Abdashtarth cried:

"He lies! This king is no god, but a mortal madman! Slay the blasphemers against the true god of the Pelishtim, the mighty Pteor, lest the all-wise one turn his back upon his people―"

At this point, four Anakim picked up Abdashtarth as if he had been a log of wood and hurled him feet-first through the opening. His shriek was cut off by the clang of the closing door, through which these same soldiers had, in times past, tossed hundreds of the children of the Pelishtim in times of crisis under the direction of this same Abdashtarth. Smoke poured from the vents in the statue's ears, while a look of smug satisfaction spread over the face of Mattenbaal.

A great shudder rippled across the throng. Then a frenzied yell broke the stillness. A wild-haired figure ran forward, a half-naked shepherd.

With a shriek of "Blasphemer!" he hurled a stone. The missile struck the new high priest in the mouth, breaking his teeth. Mattenbaal staggered, blood streaming down his beard. With a roar, the mob surged forward. High taxes, starvation, tyranny, rapine, and massacre―all these the Pelishtim had endured from their mad king, but this tampering with their religion was the last straw. Staid merchants became madmen; cringing beggars turned into hot-eyed fiends.

Stones flew like hail, and louder rose the roar of the mob. Hands were clutching at the garments of the dazed Mattenbaal when the armored Anakim closed in around him, beat the mob back with bowstaves and spear shafts, and hustled the priest away.

With a clanking of weapons and a jingling of bridle chains, a troop of Kushite horse, resplendent in headdresses of ostrich feathers and lions' manes and corselets of silvered scales, galloped out of one of the streets leading into the great Square of Pteor. Their white teeth shone in their dark faces. The stones of the mob bounced off their bucklers of rhinoceros hide. They urged their horses into the press, slashing with curved blades and thrusting long lances through the bodies of the Asgalunim. Men rolled howling under the stamping hooves.

The rioters gave way, fleeing wildly into shops and alleys, leaving the square littered with writhing bodies.

The black riders leaped from their saddles and began crashing in the doors of shops and dwellings and heaping their arms with plunder.

Screams of women sounded from within the houses. A crash of latticework, and a white-clad body struck the street with bone-crushing impact. Another horseman, laughing, passed his lance through the body as it lay.

The giant Imbalayo, in flaming silk and polished steel, rode roaring among his men, beating them into order with a heavy leaded ship. They mounted and swung into line behind him. In a canter they swept off down the street, gory human heads bobbing on their lances as an object lesson to the maddened Asgalunim who crouched in their coverts, panting with hate.

The breathless eunuch who brought news of the uprising to King Akhirom was swiftly followed by another, who prostrated himself and cried: "O
divine king, the general Othbaal is dead! His servants found him murdered in his palace, and beside him the ring of Keluka the Sworder.

Wherefore the Anakim cry out that he was murdered by the order of the general Imbalayo. They search for Keluka in the Kushites' quarter and fight with the Kushites!"

Rufia, listening behind a curtain, stifled a cry. Akhirom's faraway gaze did not alter. Wrapped in aloofness he replied:

"Let the Hyrkanians separate them. Shall private quarrels interfere with the destiny of a god? Othbaal is dead, but Akhirom lives forever.

Another man shall lead my Anakim. Let the Kushites handle the mob until they realize the sin of their atheism. My destiny is to reveal myself to the world in blood and fire, until all the tribes of the earth know me and bow down before me! You may go."

Night was falling on a tense city as Conan, his head wound now healed, strode through the streets adjoining the quarter of the Kushites. In that section, occupied mostly by soldiers, lights shone and stalls were open by tacit agreement. All day, revolt had rumbled in the quarters.

The mob was like a thousand-headed serpent; stamp it out here and it broke out there. The hooves of the Kushites had clattered from one end of the city to the other, spattering blood.

Only armed men now traversed the streets. The great iron-bound wooden gates of the quarters were locked as in times of civil war. Through the lowering arch of the great gate of Simura cantered troops of black horsemen, the torchlight crimsoning their naked scimitars. Their silken cloaks flowed in the wind, and their black arms gleamed like polished ebony.

Conan entered a cookshop where girdled warriors gorged and secretly guzzled forbidden wine. Instead of taking the first place open he stood, head up, his smoldering eyes roaming the place. His gaze came to rest on a far corner where a plainly-dressed man with a kaffia pulled well down over his face sat cross-legged on the floor in a dim alcove.

A low table of food stood on the floor in front of the man.

Conan strode across, swerving around the other tables. He kicked a cushion into the alcove opposite the seated man and dropped down upon it.

"Greetings, Farouz!" he rumbled. "Or should I say General Mazdak?"

The Hyrkanian started. "What's that?"

Conan grinned wolfishly. "I knew you when we entered the house of Othbaal. No one but the master of the house could know its secrets so well, and that house had once belonged to Mazdak the Hyrkanian."

"Not so loud, friend! How did you pick me out when my own men don't know me in this Zuagir's headcloth?"

"I used my eyes. Well, now that our first venture has paid us so well, what shall we do next?"

"I know not. I should be able to do something with one of your brawn and force. But you know how it is with the dog-brothers."

"Aye," snarled Conan. "I tried to get mercenary service, but your three rival armies hate each other so and strive so fiercely for the rule of the state that none will have me. Each thinks I'm a spy for one of the other two." He paused to order a joint of beef.

"What a restless dog you are!" said Mazdak. "Will you then go back to Akkharia?"

Conan spat. "Nay. It's small, even for one of these little Shemitish fly-specks of a state, and has no great wealth. And the people are as crazily touchy about their racial and national pride as you all are here, so I couldn't hope to rise very high. Perhaps I'd do better under one of the Hyborian rulers to the north, if I could find one who'd pick men for fighting ability only. But look you, Mazdak, why don't you seize the rule of this nation for yourself? Now that Othbaal's gone, you have only to find an excuse for putting a blade into Imbalayo's guts, and…"

"Tarim! I'm as ambitious as the next man, but not so headlong as that!

Know that Imbalayo, having gotten the confidence of our mad monarch, dwells in the Great Palace, surrounded by his black swordsmen. Not that one could not kill him by a sudden stab during some public function―if one did not mind being cut to bits instantly afterward. And then where's ambition?"

"We should be able to think up something," said Conan, eyes narrowed.

"We, eh? I suppose you'd expect a reward for your part?"

"Of course. What sort of fool do you think me?"

"No more foolish than the next. I see no immediate prospect of such an enterprise, but I'll bear your words in mind. And fear not but that you'd be well repaid. Now fare you well, for I must go back into the toils of politics."

Conan's joint arrived as Mazdak left. Conan dug his teeth into the meat with even more than his usual gusto, for the success of his vengeance had made his spirits soar. While devouring a mass that would have satisfied a lion, he listened to the talk around him.

"Where are the Anakim?" demanded a mustached Hyrkanian, cramming his jaws with almond cakes.

"They sulk in their quarter," answered another. "They swear the Kushites slew Othbaal and show Keluka's ring to prove it. Keluka has disappeared, and Imbalayo swears he knows naught of it. But there's the ring, and a dozen had been slain in brawls when the king ordered us to beat them apart. By Asura, this has been a day of days!"

"Akhirom's madness brought it on," declared another in a lowered voice.

"How soon before this lunatic dooms us all by some crazy antic?"

"Careful," cautioned his mate. "Our swords are his as long as Mazdak orders. But if revolt breaks out again, the Anakim are more likely to fight against the Kushites than with them. Men say Akhirom has taken Othbaal's concubine Rufia into his harem. That angers the Anakim the more, for they suspect that Othbaal was slain by the king's orders, or at least with his consent. But their anger is naught beside that of Zeriti, whom the king has put aside. The rage of the witch, they say, makes the sandstorm of the desert seem like a spring breeze."

Conan's moody blue eyes blazed as he digested this news. The memory of the red-haired wench had stuck in his mind during the last few days.

The thought of stealing her out from under the nose of the mad king, and keeping her out of sight of her former owner Mazdak, gave spice to life. And, if he had to leave Asgalun, she would make a pleasant companion on the long road to Koth. In Asgalun there was one person who could best help him in this enterprise: Zeriti the Stygian, and if he could guess human motives she would be glad to do so.

He left the shop and headed towards the wall of the inner city.

Zeriti's house, he knew, was in this part of Asgalun. To get to it he would have to pass the great wall, and the only way he knew of doing this without discovery was through the tunnel that Mazdak had shown him.

Accordingly, he approached the canal and made his way to the grove of palms near the shore. Groping in the darkness among the marble ruins, he found and lifted the slab. Again he advanced through blackness and dripping water, stumbled on the other stair, and mounted it. He found the catch and emerged into the corridor, now dark. The house was silent, but the reflection of lights elsewhere showed that it was still occupied, doubtless by the slain general's servants and women.

Uncertain as to which way led to the outer stair, he set off at random, passed through a curtained archway―and confronted six black slaves who sprang up glaring. Before he could retreat, he heard a shout and a rush of feet behind him. Cursing his luck, he ran straight at the blacks. A whirl of steel and he was through, leaving a writhing form on the floor behind him, and dashed through a doorway on the other side of the room.

Curved blades sought his back as he slammed the door behind him. Steel rang on the wood and guttering points showed through the panels. He shot the bolt and whirled, glaring about for an exit. His gaze found a gold-barred window.

With a headlong rush, he launched himself full at the window. The soft bars tore out with a crash, taking half the casement with them, before the impact of his hurtling body. He shot through space as the door crashed inward and howling figures flooded into the room.

In the Great East Palace, where slave-girls and eunuchs glided on bare feet, no echo reverberated of the hell that seethed outside the walls.

In a chamber whose dome was of gold-filagreed ivory, King Akhirom, clad in a white silken robe that made him look even more ghostly, sat cross-legged on a couch of gemmed ivory and stared at Rufia kneeling before him.

Rufia wore a robe of crimson silk and a girdle of satin sewn with pearls. But amidst all this splendor, the Ophirean's eyes were shadowed. She had inspired Akhirom's latest madness, but she had not mastered him. Now he seemed withdrawn, with an expression in his cold eyes that made her shudder. Abruptly he spoke:

"It is not meet for a god to mate with mortals."

Rufia started, opened her mouth, then feared to speak.

"Love is a human weakness," he continued. "I will cast it from me. Gods are beyond love. Weakness assails me when I lie in your arms."

"What do you mean, my lord?" she ventured.

"Even the gods must sacrifice, and therefore I give you up, lest my divinity weaken." He clapped his hands, and a eunuch entered on all fours. "Send in the general Imbalayo," ordered Akhirom, and the eunuch banged his head against the floor and crawled out backwards. These were the most recently instituted customs of the court.

"No!" Rufia sprang up. "You cannot give me to that beast―" She fell to her knees, catching at his robe, which he drew back from her.

"Woman!" he thundered. "Are you mad? Would you assail a god?"

Imbalayo entered uncertainly. A warrior of barbaric Darfar, he had risen to his present high estate by wild fighting and crafty intrigue.

But shrewd, brawny, and fearless though the Negro was, he could not be sure of the mad Akhirom's intentions from moment to moment.

The king pointed to the woman cowering at his feet. "Take her!"

Imbalayo grinned and caught up Rufia, who writhed and screamed in his grasp. She stretched her arms towards Akhirom as Imbalayo bore her from the chamber. But Akhirom answered not, sitting with hands folded and gaze detached.

Another heard. Crouching in an alcove, a slim brown-skinned girl watched the grinning Kushite carry his captive up the hall. Scarcely had he vanished when she fled in another direction.

Imbalayo, the favored of the king, alone of the generals dwelt in the Great Palace. This was really an aggregation of buildings united into one great structure and housing the three thousand servants of Akhirom.

Following winding corridors, crossing an occasional court paved with mosaics, he came to his own dwelling in the southern wing. But even as he came in sight of the door of teak, banded with arabesques of copper, a supple form barred his way.

"Zeriti!" Imbalayo recoiled in awe. The hands of the handsome, brown-skinned woman clenched and unclenched in controlled passion.

"A servant brought me word that Akhirom has discarded the red-haired slut," said the Stygian. "Sell her to me! I owe her a debt that I would pay."

"Why should I?" said the Kushite, fidgeting impatiently. "The king has given her to me. Stand aside, lest I hurt you."

"Have you heard what the Anakim shout in the streets?"'

"What is that to me?"

"They howl for the head of Imbalayo, because of the murder of Othbaal.

What if I told them their suspicions were true?"

"I had naught to do with it!" he shouted.

"I can produce men to swear they saw you help Keluka cut him down."

"I'll kill you, witch!"

She laughed. "You dare not! Now will you sell me the red-haired jade, or will you fight the Anakim?"

Imbalayo let Rufia slip to the floor. "Take her and begone!" he snarled.

"Take your pay!" she retorted and hurled a handful of coins into his face. Imbalayo's eyes burned red and his hands opened and closed with suppressed blood-lust.

Ignoring him, Zeriti bent over Rufia, who crouched, dazed with the hopeless realization that against this new possessor the wiles she played against men were useless. Zeriti gathered the Ophirean's red locks in her fingers and forced her head back, to stare fiercely into her eyes. Then she clapped her hands. Four eunuchs entered.

"Take her to my house," Zeriti ordered, and they bore the shrinking Rufia away. Zeriti followed, breathing softly between her teeth.

When Conan plunged through the window, he had no idea of what lay in the darkness ahead of him. Shrubs broke his crashing fall. Springing up, he saw his pursuers crowding through the window he had just shattered. He was in a garden, a great shadowy place of trees and ghostly blossoms. His hunters blundered among the trees while he reached the wall unopposed. He sprang high, caught the coping with one hand, and heaved himself up and over.

He halted to locate himself. Though he had never been in the inner city, he had heard it described often enough so that he carried a mental map of it. He was in the Quarter of the Officials. Ahead of him, over the flat roofs, loomed a structure that must be the Lesser West Palace, a great pleasure house giving into the famous Garden of Abibaal. Sure of his ground, he hurried along the street into which he had dropped and soon emerged on the broad thoroughfare that traversed the inner city from north to south.

Late as it was, there was much stirring abroad. Armed Hyrkanians strode past. In the great square between the two palaces, Conan heard the jingle of reins on restive horses and saw a squadron of Kushite troopers sitting their steeds under the torchlight. There was reason for their alertness. Far away he heard tom-toms drumming sullenly among the quarters. The wind brought snatches of wild song and distant yells.

With his soldierly swagger, Conan passed unnoticed among the mailed figures. When he plucked the sleeve of a Hyrkanian to ask the way to Zeriti's house, the man readily gave him the information. Conan, like everyone else in Asgalun, knew that however much the Stygian regarded Akhirom as her personal property, she by no means considered herself his exclusive possession in return. There were mercenary captains as familiar with her chambers as was the king of Pelishtia.

Zeriti's house adjoined a court of the East Palace, to whose gardens it was connected so that Zeriti, in the days of her favor, could pass from her house to the palace without violating the king's order for the seclusion of women. Zeriti, the daughter of a free chieftain, had been Akhirom's mistress but not his slave.

Conan did not expect difficulty in gaining entrance to her house. She pulled hidden strings of intrigue and politics, and men of all races and conditions were admitted to her audience chamber, where dancing girls and the fumes of the black lotus offered entertainment That night there were no dancing girls or guests, but a villainous-looking Zuagir opened the arched door under a burning cresset and admitted Conan without question. He showed Conan across a small court, up an outer stair, down a corridor, and into a broad chamber bordered by fretted arches hung with curtains of crimson velvet.

The softly lit room was empty, but somewhere sounded the scream of a woman in pain. Then came a peal of musical laughter, also feminine, indescribably vindictive and malicious.

Conan jerked his head to catch the direction of the sounds. Then he began examining the drapes behind the arches to see which of them concealed doors.

Zeriti straightened up from her task and dropped the heavy whip. The naked figure bound to the divan was crossed by red weals from neck to ankles. This, however, was but a prelude to a more ghastly fate.

The witch took from a cabinet a piece of charcoal, with which she drew a complex figure on the floor, adding words in the mysterious glyphs of the serpent-folk who ruled Stygia before the Cataclysm. She set a small golden lamp at each of the five corners of the figure and tossed into the flame of each a pinch of the pollen of the purple lotus, which grows in the swamps of southern Stygia, A strange smell, sickeningly sweet, pervaded the chamber. Then she began to incant in a language that was old before purple-towered Python rose in the lost empire of Acheron, over three thousand years before.

Slowly a dark something took form. To Rufia, half dead with pain and fright, it seemed like a pillar of cloud. High up in the amorphous mass appeared a pair of glowing points that might have been eyes. Rufia felt an all-pervading cold, as if the thing were drawing all the heat out of her body by its mere presence. The cloud gave the impression of being black without much density. Rufia could see the wall behind it through the shapeless mass, which slowly thickened.

Zeriti bent and snuffed out the lamps―one, two, three, four. The room, lit by the remaining lamp, was now dim. The pillar of smoke was hardly discernible except for the glowing eyes.

A sound made Zeriti turn: a distant, muffled roar, faint and far-off but of vast volume. It was the bestial howling of many men.

Zeriti resumed her incantation, but there came another interruption: angry words and the voice of the Zuagir, a cry, the crunch of a savage blow, and the thud of a body. Imbalayo burst in, a wild-looking figure with his eyeballs and teeth gleaming in the light of the single lamp and blood dripping from his scimitar.

"Dog!" exclaimed the Stygian, drawing herself up like a serpent from its coil. "What do you here?"

The woman you took from me!" roared Imbalayo. "The city has risen and all Hell is loose! Give me the woman before I kill you!"

Zeriti glanced at her rival and drew a jeweled dagger, crying: "Hotep!

Khafra! Help me!"

With a roar, the black general lunged. The Stygian's supple quickness was futile; the broad blade plunged through her body, standing out a foot between her shoulders. With a choking cry she stumbled, and the Kushite wrenched his scimitar free as she fell. At that instant Conan appeared at the door, sword in hand.

Evidently taking the Cimmerian for one of the witch's servants, the Kushite bounded across the floor, his saber whistling in a fearful slash. Conan leaped back; the sword missed his throat by a finger's breadth and nicked the doorframe. As he leaped, Conan struck backhanded in return. It was incredible that the black giant should recover from his missed cut in time to parry, but Imbalayo somehow twisted his body, arm, and blade all at once to catch a blow that would have felled a lesser man by sheer impact.

Back and forth they surged, swords clanging. Then recognition dawned in Imbalayo's features. He fell back with a cry of "Amra!"

Now Conan knew that he must kill this man. Though he did not remember ever seeing him before, the Kushite had recognized him as the leader of a crew of black corsairs who, under the name of Amra, the Lion, had plundered the coasts of Kush and Stygia and Shem. If Imbalayo revealed Conan's identity to the Pelishtim, the vengeful Shemites would tear Conan apart with their bare hands if need be. Bitterly though the Shemites fought among themselves, they would unite to destroy the red-handed barbarian who had raided their coast.

Conan lunged and drove Imbalayo back a step, feinted, and struck at the Kushite's head. The force of the blow beat down Imbalayo's scimitar and came down stunningly on the bronze helmet―and Conan's sword, weakened by deep notches in the blade, broke off short.

For the space of two heartbeats, the two barbarian-warriors confronted each other. Imbalayo's bloodshot eyes sought a vulnerable spot on Conan's form; his muscles tensed for a final, fatal spring and slash.

Conan hurled his hilt at Imbalayo's head. As the Kushite ducked the missile, Conan whirled his cloak around his left forearm and snatched out his poniard with his right hand. He had no illusions about his chances with Imbalayo in this Zingaran-style fighting. The Kushite, now stalking forward on the balls of his feet like a cat, was no slow-moving mountain of muscle like Keluka, but a superbly-thewed fighting machine almost as lightning-fast as Conan himself. The scimitar whipped up…

And a shapeless mass of cloudy something, hitherto unnoticed in the gloom, swept forward and fastened itself on Imbalayo's back. Imbalayo screamed like a man being roasted alive. He kicked and squirmed and tried to reach back with his sword. But the luminous eyes glowed over his shoulder and the smoky substance lapped around him, drawing him slowly backwards.

Conan reeled back from the sight, his barbarian's fears of the supernatural rising like a choking lump in his throat.

Imbalayo's shrieks ceased. The black body slid to the ground with a soft, squashy sound. The cloudy thing was gone.

Conan advanced cautiously. Imbalayo's body had a curiously pallid, collapsed appearance, as if the demon had extracted all the bones and blood, leaving only a man-shaped bag of skin with a few organs inside it. The Cimmerian shuddered.

A sob from the divan called his attention to Rufia. With two strides he reached her and cut her bonds. She sat up, weeping silently, when a voice shouted:

"Imbalayo! In the name of all the fiends, where are you? It's time to mount and ride! I saw you run in here!"

A mailed and helmeted figure dashed into the chamber. Mazdak recoiled at the sight of the bodies and cried: "Oh, you cursed savage, why must you slay Imbalayo at this time? The city has risen. The Anakim are fighting the Kushites, who had their hands full already. I ride with my men to aid the Kushites. As for you―I still owe you my life, but there's a limit to all things! Get out of this city and never let me see you again!"

Conan grinned. "It wasn't I who killed him, but one of Zeriti's demons after he slew the witch. Look at his body if you don't believe me." As Mazdak bent to see, Conan added: "And have you no greeting for your old friend Rufia?"

Rufia had been cowering behind Conan. Mazdak plucked at his mustache.

"Good. I'll take her back to my house; we have―"

The distant roaring of the mob became louder.

"No," said Mazdak distractedly. "I must go to put down the sedition.

But how can I leave her to wander the streets naked?"

Conan said: "Why not throw in your lot with the Anakim, who will be as glad to get rid of this mad king as are the Asgalunim? With Imbalayo and Othbaal dead, you're the only general alive in Asgalun. Become leader of the revolt, put down the crazy Akhirom, and set some feeble cousin or nephew in his place. Then you'll be the real ruler of Pelishtia!"

Mazdak, listening like a man in a dream, gave a sudden shout of laughter. "Done!" he cried. "To horse! Take Rufia to my house, then join the Hyrkanians in battle. Tomorrow I shall rule Pelishtia, and you may ask of me what you will. Farewell for now!"

Off went the Hyrkanian with a swirl of his cloak. Conan turned to Rufia. "Get some clothes, wench."

"Who are you? I heard Imbalayo call you Amra…"

"Don't say that name in Shem! I am Conan, a Cimmerian."

"Conan? I heard you spoken of when I was intimate with the king. Do not take me to Mazdak's house!"

"Why not? He'll be the real ruler of Pelishtia."

"I know that cold snake too well. Take me with you instead! Let's loot this house and flee the city. With all this uproar, nobody will stop us."

Conan grinned. "You tempt me, Rufia, but it's worth too much to me right now to keep on Mazdak's good side. Besides, I told him I would deliver you, and I like to keep my word. Now get into a garment or I'll drag you as you are."

"Well," said Rufia in a temporizing tone, but then stopped.

A gurgling sound came from the sprawled body of Zeriti. As Conan watched with his hair standing up in horror, the witch slowly rose to a sitting position, despite a wound that any fighter would have said would be instantly fatal. She struggled to her feet and stood, swaying, regarding Conan and Rufia. A little blood ran down from the wounds in her back and chest. When she spoke, it was in a voice choked with blood.

"It takes―more than―a sword-thrust―to kill―a daughter of Set." She reeled towards the door. In the doorway she turned back to gasp: "The Asgalunim―will be interested to know―that Amra and his woman―are in their city."

Conan stood irresolutely, knowing that for his own safety he ought to rush upon the witch and hew her in pieces, but restrained by his rude barbarian's chivalry from attacking a woman.

"Why bother us?" he burst out. "You can have your mad king back!"

Zeriti shook her head. "I know―what Mazdak plans. And ere I quit this body―for good―I will have―my revenge―on this drab."

"Then―" growled Conan, snatching up Imbalayo's scimitar and starting towards the witch. But Zeriti made a gesture and spoke a word. A line of flame appeared across the floor between Conan and the doorway, extending from wall to wall. Conan recoiled, throwing up a hand to shade his face from the fierce heat. Then Zeriti was gone.

"After her!" cried Rufia. "The fire is but one of her illusions."

"But if she can't be killed―"

"Nevertheless, heads do not tell secrets when sundered from their bodies."

Grimly, Conan rushed for the exit, leaping across the line of flame.

There was an instant of heat, and then the flames vanished as he passed through them.

"Wait here!" he barked at Rufia, and ran after Zeriti.

But when he reached the street, there was no witch to be seen. He ran to the nearest alley and looked up it, then to the alley in the opposite direction. Still there was no sign of her.

In seconds he was back in Zeriti's house. "You were right the first time," he grunted at Rufia. "Let's grab what we can and go."

In the great Square of Adonis, the tossing torches blazed on a swirl of straining figures, screaming horses, and lashing blades. Men fought hand-to-hand: Kushites and Shemites, gasping, cursing, and dying. Like madmen the Asgalunim grappled the black warriors, dragging them from their saddles, slashing the girths of the frenzied horses. Rusty pikes clanged against lances. Fire burst out here and there, mounting into the skies until the shepherds on the Libnun Hills gaped in wonder. From the suburbs poured a torrent of figures converging on the great square.

Hundreds of still shapes, in mail or striped robes, lay under the trampling hooves, and over them the living screamed and hacked.

The square lay in the Kushite quarter, into which the Anakim had come ravening while the bulk of the Negroes had been fighting the mob elsewhere. Now withdrawn in haste to their own quarter, the ebony swordsmen were overwhelming the Anakian infantry by sheer numbers, while the mob threatened to engulf both bodies. Under their captain, Bombaata, the Kushites retained a semblance of order that gave them an advantage over the unorganized Anakim and the leaderless mob. Their squadrons clattered back and forth across the square, charging to keep a space clear in the midst of he swarming thousands, so that they could use their horses to advantage.

Meanwhile the maddened Asgalunim were smashing and plundering the houses of the blacks, dragging forth howling women. The blaze of burning buildings made the square swim in an ocean of fire, while the shrieks of their women and children as they were torn to pieces by the Shemites made the Negroes fight with even more than their usual ferocity.

Somewhere arose the whir of Hyrkanian kettledrums above the throb of many hooves.

"The Hyrkanians at last!" panted Bombaata. "They've loitered long enough. And where in Derketa's name is Imbalayo?"

Into the square raced a frantic horse, foam flying from its bit rings.

The rider, reeling in the saddle, screamed: "Bombaata! Bombaata!" as he clung to the mane with bloody hands.

"Here, fool!" roared the Kushite, catching the other's bridle.

"Imbalayo is dead!" shrieked the man above the roar of the flames and the rising thunder of the kettledrums. "The Hyrkanians have turned against us! They have slain our brothers in the palaces! Here they come!"

With a deafening thunder of hooves and drums, the squadrons of mailed lancers burst upon the square, riding down friend and foe. Bombaata saw the lean, exultant face of Mazdak beneath the blazing arc of his scimitar, and then a sword fell and the Kushite with it.

On the rocky spurs of Libnun the herdsmen watched and shivered, and the clangor of swords was heard miles up the river, where pallid nobles trembled in their gardens. Hemmed in by mailed Hyrkanians, furious Anakim, and shrieking Asgalunim, the Kushites died fighting to a man.

It was the mob that first turned its attention to Akhirom. They rushed through the unguarded gates into the inner city, and through the great bronze doors of the East Palace. Ragged hordes streamed yelling down the corridors through the Golden Gates into the great Golden Hall, tearing aside the curtain of cloth-of-gold to reveal an empty throne.

Silken tapestries were ripped from the walls by grimed and bloody fingers. Sardonyx tables were overthrown with a clatter of golden vessels. Eunuchs in crimson robes fled squeaking, and slave-girls shrieked in the hands of ravishers.

In the Great Emerald Hall, King Akhlrom stood like a statue on a fur-strewn dais, his white hands twitching. At the entrance to the hall clustered a handful of his faithful servants, beating back the mob with swords. A band of Anakim plowed through the throng and burst the barrier of black slaves. As the wedge of swarthy Shemitish soldiers clattered forward, Akhirom seemed to come to himself. He dashed to an exit in the rear. Anakim and Pelishtim, mingling as they ran, chased the fleeing king. After them came a band of Hyrkanians with the blood-splashed Mazdak at their head.

Akhirom ran down a corridor, then turned aside to dash up a winding stair. The stair curled up and up until it came out on the roof of the palace. But it did not stop there; it continued on up into the slender spire that rose from the roof, from which Akhlrom's father, King Azumelek, had observed the stars.

Up went Akhlrom, and after him came the pursuers, until the stair became so narrow that only one man could negotiate it, and the pursuit slowed for lack of breath.

King Akhirom came out on the small circular platform at the top of the tower, surrounded by a low wall. He slammed down the stone trapdoor and bolted it. Then he leaned over the wall. Men swarmed on the roof, and below them others gazed up from the main courtyard.

"Sinful mortals!" screeched Akhirom. "You do not believe I am a god! I will show you! I am not bound to the surface of the earth as worms like you are, but can soar through the heavens like a bird! You shall see, and then you will bow down and worship me as you ought! Here I go!"

Akhirom climbed to the top of the wall, balanced an instant, and dove off, spreading his arms like wings. His body described a long, steep parabola downward, missing the edge of the roof and plunging on down, the wind whistling in his garments, until he struck the stones of the courtyard below with the sound of a melon hit by a sledgehammer.

Not even the extermination of the Kushites and the death of Akhirom brought peace to troubled Asgalun. Other mobs roamed the city, incited by a mysterious rumor that Amra, the pirate chief of the black corsairs, was there, and that the Ophirean woman Rufia was with him.

The rumors grew and changed with each retelling until men said that Amra had sent Rufia to Asgalun as a spy for the pirates, and that a pirate navy was waiting off the coast for word from Amra to march overland against the city. But, though they combed the whole town over, no sign did the searchers find of Amra and his doxy.

North from Asgalun, through the meadowlands of western Shem, ran the long road to Koth. Along this road, as the sun rose, Conan and Rufia rode at a canter. Conan bestrode his own horse; the Ophirean woman, a riderless horse which Conan had caught on the streets of Asgalun that night. She wore clothes from the chests of Zeriti― tight for her full figure, but adequate.

Rufia said: "If you had stayed in Asgalun, Conan, you could have risen high under Mazdak."

"And who begged me not to turn her back to him?"

"I know. He was a cold, unfeeling master. But…"

"Besides, I rather liked the fellow. If I had stayed there, sooner or later one of us would have had to kill the other over you." The Cimmerian chuckled and slapped the bag of loot from Zeriti's house, so that the coins and ornaments jingled. "I shall do as well in the North.

Come on there, beat some speed out of that nag!"

"But I'm still sore where she beat me―"

"If you don't hurry, I'll see that you get even sorer. Do you want Mazdak's Hyrkanians to catch us before we've even had breakfast?"

Black Colossus

`The Night of Power, when Fate stalked through the corridors of the world like a colossus just risen from an age-old throne of granite-'

E. Hoffman Price: The Girl From Samarkand

1

Only the age-old silence brooded over the mysterious ruins of Kuthchemes, but Fear was there; Fear quivered in the mind of Shevatas, the thief, driving his breath quick and sharp against his clenched teeth.

He stood, the one atom of life amidst the colossal monuments of desolation and decay. Not even a vulture hung like a black dot in the vast blue vault of the sky that the sun glazed with its heat. On every hand rose the grim relics of another, forgotten age: huge broken pillars, thrusting up their jagged pinnacles into the sky; long wavering lines of crumbling walls; fallen cyclopean blocks of stone; shattered images, whose horrific features the corroding winds and dust-storms had half erased. From horizon to horizon no sign of life: only the sheer breathtaking sweep of the naked desert, bisected by the wandering line of a long-dry river course; in the midst of that vastness the glimmering fangs of the ruins, the columns standing up like broken masts of sunken ships - all dominated by the towering ivory dome before which Shevatas stood trembling.

The base of this dome was a gigantic pedestal of marble rising from what had once been a terraced eminence on the banks of the ancient river. Broad steps led up to a great bronze door in the dome, which rested on its base like the half of some titanic egg. The dome itself was of pure ivory, which shone as if unknown hands kept it polished. Likewise shone the spired gold cap of the pinnacle, and the inscription which sprawled about the curve of the dome in golden hieroglyphics yards long. No man on earth could read those characters, but Shevatas shuddered at the dim conjectures they raised. For he came of a very old race, whose myths ran back to shapes undreamed of by contemporary tribes.

Shevatas was wiry and lithe, as became a master-thief of Zamora. His small round head was shaven, his only garment a loin-cloth of scarlet silk. Like all his race, he was very dark, his narrow vulture-like face set off by his keen black eyes. His long, slender and tapering fingers were quick and nervous as the wings of a moth. From a gold-scaled girdle hung a short, narrow, jewel-hilted sword in a sheath of ornamented leather. Shevatas handled the weapon with apparently exaggerated care. He even seemed to flinch away from the contact of the sheath with his naked thigh. Nor was his care without reason.

This was Shevatas, a thief among thieves, whose name was spoken with awe in the dives of the Maul and the dim shadowy recesses beneath the temples of Bel, and who lived in songs and myths for a thousand years. Yet fear ate at the heart of Shevatas as he stood before the ivory dome of Kuthchemes. Any fool could see there was something unnatural about the structure; the winds and suns of three thousand years had lashed it, yet its gold and ivory rose bright and glistening as the day it was reared by nameless hands on the bank of the nameless river.

This unnaturalness was in keeping with the general aura of these devil-haunted ruins. This desert was the mysterious expanse lying southeast of the lands of Shem. A few days' ride on camel-back to the southwest, as Shevatas knew, would bring the traveller within sight of the great river Styx at the point where it turned at right angles with its former course, and flowed westward to empty at last into the distant sea. At the point of its bend began the land of Stygia, the dark-bosomed mistress of the south, whose domains, watered by the great river, rose sheer out of the surrounding desert.

Eastward, Shevatas knew, the desert shaded into steppes stretching to the Hyrkanian kingdom of Turan, rising in barbaric splendor on the shores of the great inland sea. A week's ride northward the desert ran into a tangle of barren hills, beyond which lay the fertile uplands of Koth, the southernmost realm of the Hyborian races. Westward the desert merged into the meadowlands of Shem, which stretched away to the ocean.

All this Shevatas knew without being particularly conscious of the knowledge, as a man knows the streets of his town. He was a far traveller and had looted the treasures of many kingdoms. But now he hesitated and shuddered before the highest adventure and the mightiest treasure of all.

In that ivory dome lay the bones of Thugra Khotan, the dark sorcerer who had reigned in Kuthchemes three thousand years ago, when the kingdoms of Stygia stretched far northward of the great river, over the meadows of Shem, and into the uplands. Then the great drift of the Hyborians swept southward from the cradle-land of their race near the northern pole. It was a titanic drift, extending over centuries and ages. But in the reign of Thugra Khotan, the last magician of Kuthchemes, gray-eyed, tawny-haired barbarians in wolfskins and scale-mail had ridden from the north into the rich uplands to carve out the kingdom of Koth with their iron swords. They had stormed over Kuthchemes like a tidal wave, washing the marble towers in blood, and the northern Stygian kingdom had gone down in fire and ruin.

But while they were shattering the streets of his city and cutting down his archers like ripe corn, Thugra Khotan had swallowed a strange terrible poison, and his masked priests had locked him into the tomb he himself had prepared. His devotees died about that tomb in a crimson holocaust, but the barbarians could not burst the door, nor ever mar the structure by maul or fire. So they rode away, leaving the great city in ruins, and in his ivory-domed sepulcher great Thugra Khotan slept unmolested, while the lizards of desolation gnawed at the crumbling pillars, and the very river that watered his land in old times sank into the sands and ran dry.

Many a thief sought to gain the treasure which fables said lay heaped about the moldering bones inside the dome. And many a thief died at the door of the tomb, and many another was harried by monstrous dreams to die at last with the froth of madness on his lips.

So Shevatas shuddered as he faced the tomb, nor was his shudder altogether occasioned by the legend of the serpent said to guard the sorcerer's bones. Over all myths of Thugra Khotan hung horror and death like a pall. From where the thief stood he could see the ruins of the great hall wherein chained captives had knelt by the hundreds during festivals to have their heads hacked off by the priest-king in honor of Set, the Serpent-god of Stygia. Somewhere near by had been the pit, dark and awful, wherein screaming victims were fed to a nameless amorphic monstrosity which came up out of a deeper, more hellish cavern. Legend made Thugra Khotan more than human; his worship yet lingered in a mongrel degraded cult, whose votaries stamped his likeness on coins to pay the way of their dead over the great river of darkness of which the Styx was but the material shadow. Shevatas had seen this likeness, on coins stolen from under the tongues of the dead, and its image was etched indelibly in his brain.

But he put aside his fears and mounted to the bronze door, whose smooth surface offered no bolt or catch. Not for naught had he gained access into darksome cults, had harkened to the grisly whispers of the votaries of Skelos under midnight trees, and read the forbidden iron-bound books of Vathelos the Blind.

Kneeling before the portal, he searched the sill with nimble fingers; their sensitive tips found projections too small for the eye to detect, or for less-skilled fingers to discover. These he pressed carefully and according to a peculiar system, muttering a long-forgotten incantation as he did so. As he pressed the last projection, he sprang up with frantic haste and struck the exact center of the door a quick sharp blow with his open hand.

There was no rasp of spring or hinge, but the door retreated inward, and the breath hissed explosively from Shevatas's clenched teeth. A short narrow corridor was disclosed. Down this the door had slid, and was now in place at the other end. The floor, ceiling and sides of the tunnel-like aperture were of ivory, and now from an opening on one side came a silent writhing horror that reared up and glared on the intruder with awful luminous eyes; a serpent twenty feet long, with shimmering, iridescent scales.

The thief did not waste time in conjecturing what night-black pits lying below the dome had given sustenance to the monster. Gingerly he drew the sword, and from it dripped a greenish liquid exactly like that which slavered from the scimitar-fangs of the reptile. The blade was steeped in the poison of the snake's own kind, and the obtaining of that venom from the fiend-haunted swamps of Zingara would have made a saga in itself.

Shevatas advanced warily on the balls of his feet, knees bent slightly, ready to spring either way like a flash of light. And he needed all his co-ordinate speed when the snake arched its neck and struck, shooting out its full length like a stroke of lightning. For all his quickness of nerve and eye, Shevatas had died then but for chance. His well-laid plans of leaping aside and striking down on the outstretched neck were put at naught by the blinding speed of the reptile's attack. The thief had but time to extend the sword in front of him, involuntarily closing his eyes and crying out. Then the sword was wrenched from his hand and the corridor was filled with a horrible thrashing and lashing.

Opening his eyes, amazed to find himself still alive, Shevatas saw the monster heaving and twisting its slimy form in fantastic contortions, the sword transfixing its giant jaws. Sheer chance had hurled it full against the point he had held out blindly. A few moments later the serpent sank into shining, scarcely quivering coils, as the poison on the blade struck home.

Gingerly stepping over it, the thief thrust against the door, which this time slid aside, revealing the interior of the dome. Shevatas cried out; instead of utter darkness he had come into a crimson light that throbbed and pulsed almost beyond the endurance of mortal eyes. It came from a gigantic red jewel high up in the vaulted arch of the dome. Shevatas gaped, inured though he was to the sight of riches. The treasure was there, heaped in staggering profusion - piles of diamonds, sapphires, rubies, turquoises, opals, emeralds; zikkurats of jade, jet and lapis lazuli; pyramids of gold wedges; toecallis of silver ingots; jewel-hilted swords in cloth-of-gold sheaths; golden helmets with colored horsehair crests, or black and scarlet plumes; silver scaled corselets; gem-crusted harness worn by warrior-kings three thousand years in their tombs; goblets carven of single jewels; skulls plated with gold, with moonstones for eyes; necklaces of human teeth set with jewels. The ivory floor was covered inches deep with gold dust that sparkled and shimmered under the crimson glow with a million scintillant lights. The thief stood in a wonderland of magic and splendor, treading stars under his sandalled feet.

But his eyes were focussed on the dais of crystal which rose in the midst of the shimmering array, directly under the red jewel, and on which should be lying the moldering bones, turning to dust with the crawling of the centuries. And as Shevatas looked, the blood drained from his dark features; his marrow turned to ice, and the skin of his back crawled and wrinkled with horror, while his lips worked soundlessly. But suddenly he found his voice in one awful scream that rang hideously under the arching dome. Then again the silence of the ages lay among the ruins of mysterious Kuthchemes.

2

Rumors drifted up through the meadowlands, into the cities of the Hyborians. The word ran along the caravans, the long camel-trains plodding through the sands, herded by lean, hawkeyed men in white kaftans. It was passed on by the hook-nosed herdsmen of the grasslands, from the dwellers in tents to the dwellers in the squat stone cities where kings with curled blueblack beards worshipped round-bellied gods with curious rites. The word passed up through the fringe of hills where gaunt tribesmen took toll of the caravans. The rumors came into the fertile uplands where stately cities rose above blue lakes and rivers: the rumors marched along the broad white roads thronged with ox-wains, with lowing herds, with rich merchants, knights in steel, archers and priests.

They were rumors from the desert that lies east of Stygia, far south of the Kothian hills. A new prophet had risen among the nomads. Men spoke of tribal war, of a gathering of vultures in the southeast, and a terrible leader who led his swiftly increasing hordes to victory. The Stygians, ever a menace to the northern nations, were apparently not connected with this movement; for they were massing armies on their eastern borders and their priests were making magic to fight that of the desert sorcerer, whom men called Natohk, the Veiled One; for his features were always masked.

But the tide swept northwestward, and the blue-bearded kings died before the altars of their pot-bellied gods, and their squat-walled cities were drenched in blood. Men said that the uplands of the Hyborians were the goal of Natohk and his chanting votaries.

Raids from the desert were not uncommon, but this latest movement seemed to promise more than a raid. Rumor said Natohk had welded thirty nomadic tribes and fifteen cities into his following, and that a rebellious Stygian prince had joined him. This latter lent the affair an aspect of real war.

Characteristically, most of the Hyborian nations were prone to ignore the growing menace. But in Khoraja, carved out of Shemite lands by the swords of Kothic adventurers, heed was given. Lying southeast of Koth, it would bear the brunt of the invasion. And its young king was captive to the treacherous king of Ophir, who hesitated between restoring him for a huge ransom, or handing him over to his enemy, the penurious king of Koth, who offered no gold, but an advantageous treaty. Meanwhile, the rule of the struggling kingdom was in the white hands of young princess Yasmela, the king's sister.

Minstrels sang her beauty throughout the western world, and the pride of a kingly dynasty was hers. But on that night her pride was dropped from her like a cloak. In her chamber whose ceiling was a lapis lazuli dome, whose marble floor was littered with rare furs, and whose walls were lavish with golden friezework, ten girls, daughters of nobles, their slender limbs weighted with gem-crusted armlets and anklets, slumbered on velvet couches about the royal bed with its golden dais and silken canopy. But princess Yasmela lolled not on that silken bed. She lay naked on her supple belly upon the bare marble like the most abased suppliant, her dark hair streaming over her white shoulders, her slender fingers intertwined. She lay and writhed in pure horror that froze the blood in her lithe limbs and dilated her beautiful eyes, that pricked the roots of her dark hair and made goose-flesh rise along her supple spine.

Above her, in the darkest corner of the marble chamber, lurked a vast shapeless shadow. It was no living thing of form or flesh and blood. It was a clot of darkness, a blur in the sight, a monstrous night-born incubus that might have been deemed a figment of a sleep-drugged brain, but for the points of blazing yellow fire that glimmered like two eyes from the blackness.

Moreover, a voice issued from it - a low subtle inhuman sibilance that was more like the soft abominable hissing of a serpent than anything else, and that apparently could not emanate from anything with human lips. Its sound as well as its import filled Yasmela with a shuddering horror so intolerable that she writhed and twisted her slender body as if beneath a lash, as though to rid her mind of its insinuating vileness by physical contortion.

`You are marked for mine, princess,' came the gloating whisper. `Before I wakened from the long sleep I had marked you, and yearned for you, but I was held fast by the ancient spell by which I escaped mine enemies. I am the soul of Natohk, the Veiled One! Look well upon me, princess! Soon you shall behold me in my bodily guise, and shall love me!'

The ghostly hissing dwindled off in lustful titterings, and Yasmela moaned and beat the marble tiles with her small fists in her ecstasy of terror.

`I sleep in the palace chamber of Akbatana,' the sibilances continued. `There my body lies in its frame of bones and flesh. But it is but an empty shell from which the spirit has flown for a brief space. Could you gaze from that palace casement you would realize the futility of resistance. The desert is a rose garden beneath the moon, where blossom the fires of a hundred thousand warriors. As an avalanche sweeps onward, gathering bulk and momentum, I will sweep into the lands of mine ancient enemies. Their kings shall furnish me skulls for goblets, their women and children shall be slaves of my slaves' slaves. I have grown strong in the long years of dreaming . . .

`But thou shalt be my queen, oh princess! I will teach thee the ancient forgotten ways of pleasure. We-' Before the stream of cosmic obscenity which poured from the shadowy colossus, Yasmela cringed and writhed as if from a whip that flayed her dainty bare flesh.

`Remember!' whispered the horror. `The days will not be many before I come to claim mine own!'

Yasmela, pressing her face against the tiles and stopping her pink ears with her dainty fingers, yet seemed to hear a strange sweeping noise, like the beat of bat wings. Then, looking fearfully up, she saw only the moon that shone through the window with a beam that rested like a silver sword across the spot where the phantom had lurked. Trembling in every limb, she rose and staggered to a satin couch, where she threw herself down, weeping hysterically. The girls slept on, but one, who roused, yawned, stretched her slender figure and blinked about. Instantly she was on her knees beside the couch, her arms about Yasmela's supple waist.

`Was it - was it-?' Her dark eyes were wide with fright. Yasmela caught her in a convulsive grasp.

`Oh, Vateesa. It came again! I saw It - heard It speak! It spoke Its name - Natohk! It is Natohk! It is not a nightmare -it towered over me while the girls slept like drugged ones. What oh, what shall I do?'

Vateesa twisted a golden bracelet about her rounded arm in meditation.

`Oh, princess,' she said, `it is evident that no mortal power can deal with It, and the charm is useless that the priests of Ishtar gave you. Therefore seek you the forgotten oracle of Mitra.'

In spite of her recent fright, Yasmela shuddered. The gods of yesterday become the devils of tomorrow. The Kothians had long since abandoned the worship of Mitra, forgetting the attributes of the universal Hyborian god. Yasmela had a vague idea that, being very ancient, it followed that the deity was very terrible. Ishtar was much to be feared, and all the gods of Koth. Kothian culture and religion had suffered from a subtle admix ture of Shemite and Stygian strains. The simple ways of the Hyborians had become modified to a large extent by the sensual, luxurious, yet despotic habits of the East.

`Will Mitra aid me?' Yasmela caught Vateesa's wrist in her eagerness. `We have worshipped Ishtar so long-'

`To be sure he will!' Vateesa was the daughter of an Ophirean priest who had brought his customs with him when he fled from political enemies to Khoraja. `Seek the shrine! I will go with you.'

`I will!' Yasmela rose, but objected when Vateesa prepared to dress her. `It is not fitting that I come before the shrine clad in silk. I will go naked, on my knees, as befits a suppliant, lest Mitra deem I lack humility.'

`Nonsense!' Vateesa had scant respect for the ways of what she deemed a false cult. `Mitra would have folks stand upright before him - not crawling on their bellies like worms, or spilling blood of animals all over his altars.'

Thus objurgated, Yasmela allowed the girl to garb her in the light sleeveless silk shirt, over which was slipped a silken tunic, bound at the waist by a wide velvet girdle. Satin slippers were put upon her slender feet, and a few deft touches of Vateesa's pink fingers arranged her dark wavy tresses. Then the princess followed the girl, who drew aside a heavy gilt-worked tapestry and threw the golden bolt of the door it concealed. This let into a narrow winding corridor, and down this the two girls went swiftly, through another door and into a broad hallway. Here stood a guardsman in crested gilt helmet, silvered cuirass and gold-chased greaves, with a long-shafted battle-ax in his hands.

A motion from Yasmela checked his exclamation and, saluting, he took his stand again beside the doorway, motionless as a brazen image. The girls traversed the hallway, which seemed immense and eery in the light of the cressets along the lofty walls, and went down a stairway where Yasmela shivered at the blots of shadows which hung in the angles of the walls. Three levels down they halted at last in a narrow corridor whose arched ceiling was crusted with jewels, whose floor was set with blocks of crystal, and whose walls were decorated with golden friezework. Down this shining way they stole, holding each other's hands, to a wide portal of gilt.

Vateesa thrust open the door, revealing a shrine long forgotten except by a faithful few, and royal visitors to Khoraja's court, mainly for whose benefit the fane was maintained. Yasmela had never entered it before, though she was born in the palace. Plain and unadorned in comparison to the lavish display of Ishtar's shrines, there was about it a simplicity of dignity and beauty characteristic of the Mitran religion.

The ceiling was lofty, but it was not domed, and was of plain white marble, as were the walls and floor, the former with a narrow gold frieze running about them. Behind an altar of clear green jade, unstained with sacrifice, stood the pedestal whereon sat the material manifestation of the deity. Yasmela looked in awe at the sweep of the magnificent shoulders, the clear-cut features - the wide straight eyes, the patriarchal beard, the thick curls of the hair, confined by a simple band about the temples. This, though she did not know it, was art in its highest form the free, uncramped artistic expression of a highly esthetic race, unhampered by conventional symbolism.

She fell on her knees and thence prostrate, regardless of Vateesa's admonition, and Vateesa, to be on the safe side, followed her example; for after all, she was only a girl, and it was very awesome in Mitra's shrine. But even so she could not refrain from whispering in Yasmela's ear.

`This is but the emblem of the god. None pretends to know what Mitra looks like. This but represents him in idealized human form, as near perfection as the human mind can conceive. He does not inhabit this cold stone, as your priests tell you Ishtar does. He is everywhere - above us, and about us, and he dreams betimes in the high places among the stars. But here his being focusses. Therefore call upon him.'

`What shall I say?' whispered Yasmela in stammering terror.

`Before you can speak, Mitra knows the contents of your mind-' began Vateesa. Then both girls started violently as a voice began in the air above them. The deep, calm, bell-like tones emanated no more from the image than from anywhere else in the chamber. Again Yasmela trembled before a bodiless voice speaking to her, but this time it was not from horror or repulsion.

`Speak not, my daughter, for I know your need,' came the intonations like deep musical waves beating rhythmically along a golden beach. `In one manner may you save your kingdom, and saving it, save all the world from the fangs of the serpent which has crawled up out of the darkness of the ages. Go forth upon the streets alone, and place your kingdom in the hands of the first man you meet there.'

The unechoing tones ceased, and the girls stared at each other. Then, rising, they stole forth, nor did they speak until they stood once more in Yasmela's chamber. The princess stared out of the gold-barred windows. The moon had set. It was long past midnight. Sounds of revelry had died away in the gardens and on the roofs of the city. Khoraja slumbered beneath the stars, which seemed to be reflected in the cressets that twinkled among the gardens and along the streets and on the flat roofs of houses where folk slept.

`What will you do?' whispered Vateesa, all a-tremble.

`Give me my cloak,' answered Yasmela, setting her teeth.

`But alone, in the streets, at this hour!' expostulated Vateesa.

`Mitra has spoken,' replied the princess. `It might have been the voice of the god, or a trick of a priest. No matter. I will go!'

Wrapping a voluminous silken cloak about her lithe figure and donning a velvet cap from which depended a filmy veil, she passed hurriedly through the corridors and approached a bronze door where a dozen spearmen gaped at her as she passed through. This was in a wing of the palace which let directly onto the street; on all other sides it was surrounded by broad gardens, bordered by a high wall. She emerged into the street, lighted by cressets placed at regular intervals.

She hesitated; then, before her resolution could falter, she closed the door behind her. A slight shudder shook her as she glanced up and down the street, which lay silent and bare. This daughter of aristocrats had never before ventured unattended outside her ancestral palace. Then, steeling herself, she went swiftly up the street. Her satin-slippered feet fell lightly on the pave, but their soft sound brought her heart into her throat. She imagined their fall echoing thunderously through the cavernous city, rousing ragged rat-eyed figures in hidden lairs among the sewers. Every shadow seemed to hide a lurking assassin, every blank doorway to mask the slinking hounds of darkness.

Then she started violently. Ahead of her a figure appeared on the eery street. She drew quickly into a clump of shadows, which now seemed like a haven of refuge, her pulse pounding. The approaching figure went not furtively, like a thief, or timidly, like a fearful traveller. He strode down the nighted street as one who has no need or desire to walk softly. An unconscious swagger was in his stride, and his footfalls resounded on the pave. As he passed near a cresset she saw him plainly - a tall man, in the chain-mail hauberk of a mercenary. She braced herself, then darted from the shadow, holding her cloak close about her.

`Sa-ha!' his sword flashed half out of his sheath. It halted when he saw it was only a woman that stood before him, but his quick glance went over her head, seeking the shadows for possible confederates.

He stood facing her, his hand on the long hilt that jutted forward from beneath the scarlet cloak which flowed carelessly from his mailed shoulders. The torchlight glinted dully on the polished blue steel of his greaves and basinet. A more baleful fire glittered bluely in his eyes. At first glance she saw he was no Kothian; when he spoke she knew he was no Hyborian. He was clad like a captain of the mercenaries, and in that desperate command there were men of many lands, barbarians as well as civilized foreigners. There was a wolfishness about this warrior that marked the barbarian. The eyes of no civilized man, however wild or criminal, ever blazed with such a fire. Wine scented his breath, but he neither staggered nor stammered.

`Have they shut you into the street?' he asked in barbarous Kothic, reaching for her. His fingers closed lightly about her rounded wrist, but she felt that he could splinter its bones without effort. `I've but come from the last wine-shop open Ishtar's curse on these white-livered reformers who close the grog-houses! "Let men sleep rather than guzzle," they say - aye, so they can work and fight better for their masters! Soft-gutted eunuchs, I call them. When I served with the mercenaries of Corinthia we swilled and wenched all night and fought all day aye, blood ran down the channels of our swords. But what of you, my girl? Take off that cursed mask-'

She avoided his clutch with a lithe twist of her body, trying not to appear to repulse him. She realized her danger, alone with a drunken barbarian. If she revealed her identity, he might laugh at her, or take himself off. She was not sure he would not cut her throat. Barbaric men did strange inexplicable things. She fought a rising fear.

`Not here,' she laughed. `Come with me-'

`Where?' His wild blood was up, but he was wary as a wolf. `Are you taking me to some den of robbers?'

`No, no, I swear it!' She was hard put to avoid the hand which was again fumbling at her veil.

`Devil bite you, hussy!' he growled disgustedly. `You're as bad as a Hyrkanian woman, with your damnable veil. Here - let me look at your figure, anyway.'

Before she could prevent it, he wrenched the cloak from her, and she heard his breath hiss between his teeth. He stood holding the cloak, eyeing her as if the sight of her rich garments had somewhat sobered him. She saw suspicion flicker sullenly in his eyes.

`Who the devil are you?' he muttered. `You're no street-waif - unless your leman robbed the king's seraglio for your clothes.'

`Never mind.' She dared to lay her white hand on his massive iron-clad arm. `Come with me off the street.'

He hesitated, then shrugged his mighty shoulders. She saw that he half believed her to be some noble lady, who, weary of polite lovers, was taking this means of amusing herself. He allowed her to don the cloak again, and followed her. From the corner of her eye she watched him as they went down the street together. His mail could not conceal his hard lines of tigerish strength. Everything about him was tigerish, elemental, untamed. He was alien as the jungle to her in his difference from the debonair courtiers to whom she was accustomed. She feared him, told herself she loathed his raw brute strength and unashamed barbarism, yet something breathless and perilous inside her leaned toward him; the hidden primitive chord that lurks in every woman's soul was sounded and responded. She had felt his hardened hand on her arm, and something deep in her tingled to the memory of that contact. Many men had knelt before Yasmela. Here was one she felt had never knelt before any one. Her sensations were those of one leading an unchained tiger; she was frightened, and fascinated by her fright.

She halted at the palace door and thrust lightly against it. Furtively watching her companion, she saw no suspicion in his eyes.

`Palace, eh?' he rumbled. `So you're a maid-in-waiting?'

She found herself wondering, with a strange jealousy, if any of her maids had ever led this war-eagle into her palace. The guards made no sign as she led him between them, but he eyed them as a fierce dog might eye a strange pack. She led him through a curtained doorway into an inner chamber, where he stood, naively scanning the tapestries, until he saw a crystal jar of wine on an ebony table. This he took up with a gratified sigh, tilting it toward his lips. Vateesa ran from an inner room, crying breathlessly, `Oh my princess-'

`Princess!'

The wine-jar crashed to the floor. With a motion too quick for sight to follow, the mercenary snatched off Yasmela's veil, glaring. He recoiled with a curse, his sword leaping into his hand with a broad shimmer of blue steel. His eyes blazed like a trapped tiger's. The air was supercharged with tension that was like the pause before the bursting of a storm. Vateesa sank to the floor, speechless with terror, but Yasmela faced the infuriated barbarian without flinching. She realized her very life hung in the balance: maddened with suspicion and unreasoning panic, he was ready to deal death at the slightest provocation. But she experienced a certain breathless exhilaration in the crisis.

`Do not be afraid,' she said. `I am Yasmela, but there is no reason to fear me.'

`Why did you lead me here?' he snarled, his blazing eyes darting all about the chamber. `What manner of trap is this?'

`There is no trickery,' she answered. `I brought you here because you can aid me. I called on the gods - on Mitra - and he bade me go into the streets and ask aid of the first man I met.'

This was something he could understand. The barbarians had their oracles. He lowered his sword, though he did not sheathe it.

`Well, if you're Yasmela, you need aid,' he grunted. `Your kingdom's in a devil of a mess. But how can I aid you? If you want a throat cut, of course-'

`Sit down,' she requested. `Vateesa, bring him wine.'

He complied, taking care, she noticed, to sit with his back against a solid wall, where he could watch the whole chamber. He laid his naked sword across his mail-sheathed knees. She glanced at it in fascination. Its dull blue glimmer seemed to reflect tales of bloodshed and rapine; she doubted her ability to lift it, yet she knew that the mercenary could wield it with one hand as lightly as she could wield a riding-whip. She noted the breadth and power of his hands; they were not the stubby undeveloped paws of a troglodyte. With a guilty start she found herself imagining those strong fingers locked in her dark hair.

He seemed reassured when she deposited herself on a satin divan opposite him. He lifted off his basinet and laid it on the table, and drew back his coif, letting the mail folds fall upon his massive shoulders. She saw more fully now his unlikeness to the Hyborian races. In his dark, scarred face there was a suggestion of moodiness; and without being marked by depravity, or definitely evil, there was more than a suggestion of the sinister about his features, set off by his smoldering blue eyes. A low broad forehead was topped by a square-cut tousled mane as black as a raven's wing.

`Who are you?' she asked abruptly.

'Conan, a captain of the mercenary spearmen,' he answered, emptying the wine-cup at a gulp and holding it out for more. `I was born in Cimmeria.'

The name meant little to her. She only knew vaguely that it was a wild grim hill-country which lay far to the north, beyond the last outposts of the Hyborian nations, and was peopled by a fierce moody race. She had never before seen one of them.

Resting her chin on her hands, she gazed at him with the deep dark eyes that had enslaved many a heart.

'Conan of Cimmeria,' she said, `you said I needed aid. Why?'

`Well,' he answered, `any man can see that. Here is the king your brother in an Ophirean prison; here is Koth plotting to enslave you; here is this sorcerer screaming hell-fire and destruction down in Shem - and what's worse, here are your soldiers deserting every day.'

She did not at once reply; it was a new experience for a man to speak so forthrightly to her, his words not couched in courtier phrases.

`Why are my soldiers deserting, Conan?' she asked.

`Some are being hired away by Koth,' he replied, pulling at the wine-jar with relish. `Many think Khoraja is doomed as an independent state. Many are frightened by tales of this dog Natohk.'

`Will the mercenaries stand?' she asked anxiously.

`As long as you pay us well,' he answered frankly. `Your politics are nothing to us. You can trust Amalric, our general, but the rest of us are only common men who love loot. If you pay the ransom Ophir asks, men say you'll be unable to pay us. In that case we might go over to the king of Koth, though that cursed miser is no friend of mine. Or we might loot this city. In a civil war the plunder is always plentiful.'

`Why would you not go over to Natohk?' she inquired.

`What could he pay us?' he snorted. `With fat-bellied brass idols he looted from the Shemite cities? As long as you're fighting Natohk, you may trust us.'

`Would your comrades follow you?' she asked abruptly.

`What do you mean?'

`I mean,' she answered deliberately, `that I am going to make you commander of the armies of Khoraja!'

He stopped short, the goblet at his lips, which curved in a broad grin. His eyes blazed with a new light.

`Commander? Crom! But what will your perfumed nobles say?'

`They will obey me!' She clasped her hands to summon a slave, who entered, bowing deeply. `Have Count Thespides come to me at once, and the chancellor Taurus, lord Amalric, and the Agha Shupras.

`I place my trust in Mitra,' she said, bending her gaze on Conan, who was now devouring the food placed before him by the trembling Vateesa. `You have seen much war?'

`I was born in the midst of a battle,' he answered, tearing a chunk of meat from a huge joint with his strong teeth. `The first sound my ears heard was the clang of swords and the yells of the slaying. I have fought in blood-feuds, tribal wars, and imperial campaigns.'

`But can you lead men and arrange battle-lines?'

`Well, I can try,' he returned imperturbably. `It's no more than sword-play on a larger scale. You draw his guard, then stab, slash! And either his head is off, or yours.'

The slave entered again, announcing the arrival of the men sent for, and Yasmela went into the outer chamber, drawing the velvet curtains behind her. The nobles bent the knee, in evident surprize at her summons at such an hour.

`I have summoned you to tell you of my decision,' said Yasmela. `The kingdom is in peril-'

`Right enough, my princess.' It was Count Thespides who spoke - a tall man, whose black locks were curled and scented. With one white hand he smoothed his pointed mustache, and with the other he held a velvet chaperon with a scarlet feather fastened by a golden clasp. His pointed shoes were satin, his cote-hardie of gold-broidered velvet. His manner was slightly affected, but the thews under his silks were steely. `It were well to offer Ophir more gold for your royal brother's release.'

`I strongly disagree,' broke in Taurus the chancellor, an elderly man in an ermine-fringed robe, whose features were lined with the cares of his long service. `We have already offered what will beggar the kingdom to pay. To offer more would further excite Ophir's cupidity. My princess, I say as I have said before: Ophir will not move until we have met this invading horde. If we lose, he will give king Khossus to Koth; if we win, he will doubtless restore his majesty to us on payment of the ransom.'

`And in the meantime,' broke in Amalric, `the soldiers desert daily, and the mercenaries are restless to know why we dally.' He was a Nemedian, a large man with a lion-like yellow mane. `We must move swiftly, if at all-'

`Tomorrow we march southward,' she answered. `And there is the man who shall lead you!'

Jerking aside the velvet curtains she dramatically indicated the Cimmerian. It was perhaps not an entirely happy moment for the disclosure. Conan was sprawled in his chair, his feet propped on the ebony table, busily engaged in gnawing a beef-bone which he gripped firmly in both hands. He glanced casually at the astounded nobles, grinned faintly at Amalric, and went on munching with undisguised relish.

`Mitra protect us!' exploded Amalric. `That's Conan the northron, the most turbulent of all my rogues! I'd have hanged him long ago, were he not the best swordsman that ever donned hauberk-'

`Your highness is pleased to jest!' cried Thespides, his aristocratic features darkening. `This man is a savage - a fellow of no culture or breeding! It is an insult to ask gentlemen to serve under him! I-'

`Count Thespides,' said Yasmela, `you have my glove under your baldric. Please give it to me, and then go.'

`Go?' he cried, starting. `Go where?'

`To Koth or to Hades!' she answered. `If you will not serve me as I wish, you shall not serve me at all.'

`You wrong me, princess,' he answered, bowing low, deeply hurt. `I would not forsake you. For your sake I will even put my sword at the disposal of this savage.'

`And you, my lord Amalric?'

Amalric swore beneath his breath, then grinned. True soldier of fortune, no shift of fortune, however outrageous, surprized him much.

`I'll serve under him. A short life and a merry one, say I - and with Conan the Throat-slitter in command, life is likely to be both merry and short. Mitra! If the dog ever commanded more than a company of cut-throats before, I'll eat him, harness and all!'

`And you, my Agha?' she turned to Shupras.

He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He was typical of the race evolved along Koth's southern borders - tall and gaunt, with features leaner and more hawk-like than his purer-blooded desert kin.

'Ishtar gives, princess.' The fatalism of his ancestors spoke for him.

`Wait here,' she commanded, and while Thespides fumed and gnawed his velvet cap, Taurus muttered wearily under his breath, and Amalric strode back and forth, tugging at his yellow beard and grinning like a hungry lion, Yasmela disappeared again through the curtains and clapped her hands for her slaves.

At her command they brought harness to replace Conan's chain-mail - gorget, sollerets, cuirass, pauldrons, jambes, cuisses and sallet. When Yasmela again drew the curtains, a Conan in burnished steel stood before his audience. Clad in the platearmor, vizor lifted and dark face shadowed by the black plumes that nodded above his helmet, there was a grim impressiveness about him that even Thespides grudgingly noted. A jest died suddenly on Amalric's lips.

`By Mitra,' said he slowly, `I never expected to see you cased in coat-armor, but you do not put it to shame. By my fingerbones, Conan, I have seen kings who wore their harness less regally than you!'

Conan was silent. A vague shadow crossed his mind like a prophecy. In years to come he was to remember Amalric's words, when the dream became the reality.

3

In the early haze of dawn the streets of Khoraja were thronged by crowds of people who watched the hosts riding from the southern gate. The army was on the move at last. There were the knights, gleaming in richly wrought platearmor, colored plumes waving above their burnished sallets. Their steeds, caparisoned with silk, lacquered leather and gold buckles, caracoled and curvetted as their riders put them through their paces. The early light struck glints from lancepoints that rose like a forest above the array, their pennons flowing in the breeze. Each knight wore a lady's token, a glove, scarf or rose, bound to his helmet or fastened to his sword-belt. They were the chivalry of Khoraja, five hundred strong, led by Count Thespides, who, men said, aspired to the hand of Yasmela herself.

They were followed by the light cavalry on rangy steeds. The riders were typical hillmen, lean and hawk-faced; peaked steel caps were on their heads and chain-mail glinted under their flowing kaftans. Their main weapon was the terrible Shemitish bow, which could send a shaft five hundred paces. There were five thousand of these, and Shupras rode at their head, his lean face moody beneath his spired helmet.

Close on their heels marched the Khoraja spearmen, always comparatively few in any Hyborian state, where men thought cavalry the only honorable branch of service. These, like the knights, were of ancient Kothic blood - sons of ruined families, broken men, penniless youths, who could not afford horses and platearmor, five hundred of them.

The mercenaries brought up the rear, a thousand horsemen, two thousand spearmen. The tall horses of the cavalry seemed hard and savage as their riders; they made no curvets or gambades. There was a grimly business-like aspect to these professional killers, veterans of bloody campaigns. Clad from head to foot in chain-mail, they wore their vizorless head-pieces over linked coifs. Their shields were unadorned, their long lances without guidons. At their saddle-bows hung battle-axes or steel maces, and each man wore at his hip a long broadsword. The spearmen were armed in much the same manner, though they bore pikes instead of cavalry lances.

They were men of many races and many crimes. There were tall Hyperboreans, gaunt, big-boned, of slow speech and violent natures; tawny-haired Gundermen from the hills of the northwest; swaggering Corinthian renegades; swarthy Zingarians, with bristling black mustaches and fiery tempers; Aquilonians from the distant west. But all, except the Zingarians, were Hyborians.

Behind all came a camel in rich housings, led by a knight on a great war-horse, and surrounded by a clump of picked fighters from the royal house-troops. Its rider, under the silken canopy of the seat, was a slim, silk-clad figure, at the sight of which the populace, always mindful of royalty, threw up its leather cap and cheered wildly.

Conan the Cimmerian, restless in his platearmor, stared at the bedecked camel with no great approval, and spoke to Amalric, who rode beside him, resplendent in chain-mail threaded with gold, golden breastplate and helmet with flowing horsehair crest.

`The princess would go with us. She's supple, but too soft for this work. Anyway, she'll have to get out of these robes.'

Amalric twisted his yellow mustache to hide a grin. Evidently Conan supposed Yasmela intended to strap on a sword and take part in the actual fighting, as the barbarian women often fought.

`The women of the Hyborians do not fight like your Cimmerian women, Conan,' he said. `Yasmela rides with us to watch the battle. Anyway,' he shifted in his saddle and lowered his voice, `between you and me, I have an idea that the princess dares not remain behind. She fears something-'

`An uprising? Maybe we'd better hang a few citizens before we start-'

`No. One of her maids talked - babbled about Something that came into the palace by night and frightened Yasmela half out of her wits. It's some of Natohk's deviltry, I doubt not. Conan, it's more than flesh and blood we fight!'

Well,' grunted the Cimmerian, `it's better to go meet an enemy than to wait for him.'

He glanced at the long line of wagons and camp-followers, gathered the reins in his mailed hand, and spoke from habit the phrase of the marching mercenaries, `Hell or plunder, comrades - march!'

Behind the long train the ponderous gates of Khoraja closed. Eager heads lined the battlements. The citizens well knew they were watching life or death go forth. If the host was overthrown, the future of Khoraja would be written in blood. In the hordes swarming up from the savage south, mercy was a quality unknown.

All day the columns marched, through grassy rolling meadowlands, cut by small rivers, the terrain gradually beginning to slope upward. Ahead of them lay a range of low hills, sweeping in an unbroken rampart from east to west. They camped that night on the northern slopes of those hills, and hook-nosed, fiery-eyed men of the hill tribes came in scores to squat about the fires and repeat news that had come up out of the mysterious desert. Through their tales ran the name of Natohk like a crawling serpent. At his bidding the demons of the air brought thunder and wind and fog, the fiends of the underworld shook the earth with awful roaring. He brought fire out of the air and consumed the gates of walled cities, and burnt armored men to bits of charred bone. His warriors covered the desert with their numbers, and he had five thousand Stygian troops in warchariots under the rebel prince Kutamun.

Conan listened unperturbed. War was his trade. Life was a continual battle, or series of battles, since his birth. Death had been a constant companion. It stalked horrifically at his side; stood at his shoulder beside the gaming-tables; its bony fingers rattled the wine-cups. It loomed above him, a hooded and monstrous shadow, when he lay down to sleep. He minded its presence no more than a king minds the presence of his cupbearer. Some day its bony grasp would close; that was all. It was enough that he lived through the present.

However, others were less careless of fear than he. Striding back from the sentry lines, Conan halted as a slender cloaked figure stayed him with an outstretched hand.

`Princess! You should be in your tent.'

`I could not sleep.' Her dark eyes were haunted in the shadow. 'Conan, I am afraid!'

`Are there men in the host you fear?' His hand locked on his hilt.

`No man,' she shuddered. 'Conan, is there anything you fear?'

He considered, tugging at his chin. `Aye,' he admitted at last, `the curse of the gods.'

Again she shuddered. `I am cursed. A fiend from the abysses has set his mark upon me. Night after night he lurks in the shadows, whispering awful secrets to me. He will drag me down to be his queen in hell. I dare not sleep - he will come to me in my pavilion as he came in the palace. Conan, you are strong keep me with you! I am afraid!'

She was no longer a princess, but only a terrified girl. Her pride had fallen from her, leaving her unashamed in her nakedness. In her frantic fear she had come to him who seemed strongest. The ruthless power that had repelled her, drew her now.

For answer he drew off his scarlet cloak and wrapped it about her, roughly, as if tenderness of any kind were impossible to him. His iron hand rested for an instant on her slender shoulder, and she shivered again, but not with fear. Like an electric shock a surge of animal vitality swept over her at his mere touch, as if some of his superabundant strength had been imparted to her.

`Lie here.' He indicated a clean-swept space close to a small flickering fire. He saw no incongruity in a princess lying down on the naked ground beside a campfire, wrapped in a warrior's cloak. But she obeyed without question.

He seated himself near her on a boulder, his broadsword across his knees. With the firelight glinting from his blue steel armor, he seemed like an image of steel - dynamic power for the moment quiescent; not resting, but motionless for the instant, awaiting the signal to plunge again into terrific action. The firelight played on his features, making them seem as if carved out of substance shadowy yet hard as steel. They were immobile, but his eyes smoldered with fierce life. He was not merely a wild man; he was part of the wild, one with the untameable elements of life; in his veins ran the blood of the wolf-pack; in his brain lurked the brooding depths of the northern night; his heart throbbed with the fire of blazing forests.

So, half meditating, half dreaming, Yasmela dropped off to sleep, wrapped in a sense of delicious security. Somehow she knew that no flame-eyed shadow would bend over her in the darkness, with this grim figure from the outlands standing guard above her. Yet once again she wakened, to shudder in cosmic fear, though not because of anything she saw.

It was a low mutter of voices that roused her. Opening her eyes, she saw that the fire was burning low. A feeling of dawn was in the air. She could dimly see that Conan still sat on the boulder; she glimpsed the long blue glimmer of his blade. Close beside him crouched another figure, on which the dying fire cast a faint glow. Yasmela drowsily made out a hooked beak of a nose, a glittering bead of an eye, under a white turban. The man was speaking rapidly in a Shemite dialect she found hard to understand.

`Let Bel wither my arm! I speak truth! By Derketo, Conan, I am a prince of liars, but I do not lie to an old comrade. I swear by the days when we were thieves together in the land of Zamora, before you donned hauberk!

`I saw Natohk; with the others I knelt before him when he made incantations to Set. But I did not thrust my nose in the sand as the rest did. I am a thief of Shumir, and my sight is keener than a weasel's. I squinted up and saw his veil blowing in the wind. It blew aside, and I saw - I saw - Bel aid me, Conan, I say I saw! My blood froze in my veins and my hair stood up. What I had seen burned my soul like a red-hot iron. I could not rest until I had made sure.

`I journeyed to the ruins of Kuthchemes. The door of the ivory dome stood open; in the doorway lay a great serpent, transfixed by a sword. Within the dome lay the body of a man, so shrivelled and distorted I could scarce make it out at first - it was Shevatas, the Zamorian, the only thief in the world I acknowledged as my superior. The treasure was untouched; it lay in shimmering heaps about the corpse. That was all.'

`There were no bones-' began Conan.

`There was nothing!' broke in the Shemite passionately. `Nothing! Only the one corpse!'

Silence reigned an instant, and Yasmela shrank with a crawling nameless horror.

`Whence came Natohk?' rose the Shemite's vibrant whisper. `Out of the desert on a night when the world was blind and wild with mad clouds driven in frenzied flight across the shuddering stars, and the howling of the wind was mingled with the shrieking of the spirits of the wastes. Vampires were abroad that night, witches rode naked on the wind, and werewolves howled across the wilderness. On a black camel he came, riding like the wind, and an unholy fire played about him; the cloven tracks of the camel glowed in the darkness. When Natohk dismounted before Set's shrine by the oasis of Aphaka, the beast swept into the night and vanished. And I have talked with tribesmen who swore that it suddenly spread gigantic wings and rushed upwards into the clouds, leaving a trail of fire behind it. No man has seen that camel since that night, but a black brutish manlike shape shambles to Natohk's tent and gibbers to him in the blackness before dawn. I will tell you, Conan, Natohk is - look, I will show you an image of what I saw that day by Shushan when the wind blew aside his veil!'

Yasmela saw the glint of gold in the Shemite's hand, as the men bent closely over something. She heard Conan grunt; and suddenly blackness rolled over her. For the first time in her life, princess Yasmela had fainted.

4

Dawn was still a hint of whiteness in the east when the army was again on the march. Tribesmen had raced into camp, their steeds reeling from the long ride, to report the desert horde encamped at the Well of Altaku. So through the hills the soldiers pushed hastily, leaving the wagon trains to follow. Yasmela rode with them; her eyes were haunted. The nameless horror had been taking even more awful shape, since she had recognized the coin in the Shemite's hand the night before - one of those secretly molded by the degraded Zugite cult, bearing the features of a man dead three thousand years.

The way wound between ragged cliffs and gaunt crags towering over narrow valleys. Here and there villages perched, huddles of stone huts, plastered with mud. The tribesmen swarmed out to join their kin, so that before they had traversed the hills, the host had been swelled by some three thousand wild archers.

Abruptly they came out of the hills and caught their breath at the vast expanse that swept away to the south. On the southern side the hills fell away sheerly, marking a distinct geographical division between the Kothian uplands and the southern desert. The hills were the rim of the uplands, stretching in an almost unbroken wall. Here they were bare and desolate, inhabited only by the Zaheemi clan, whose duty it was to guard the caravan road. Beyond the hills the desert stretched bare, dusty, lifeless. Yet beyond its horizon lay the Well of Altaku, and the horde of Natohk.

The army looked down on the Pass of Shamla, through which flowed the wealth of the north and the south, and through which had marched the armies of Koth, Khoraja, Shem, Turan and Stygia. Here the sheer wall of the rampart was broken. Promontories ran out into the desert, forming barren valleys, all but one of which were closed on the northern extremity by rugged cliffs. This one was the Pass. It was much like a great hand extended from the hills; two fingers, parted, formed a fanshaped valley. The fingers were represented by a broad ridge on either hand, the outer sides sheer, the inner, steep slopes. The vale pitched upward as it narrowed, to come out on a plateau, flanked by gully-torn slopes. A well was there, and a cluster of stone towers, occupied by the Zaheemis.

There Conan halted, swinging off his horse. He had discarded the platearmor for the more familiar chain-mail. Thespides reined in and demanded, `Why do you halt?'

`We'll await them here,' answered Conan.

"T'were more knightly to ride out and meet them,' snapped the count.

`They'd smother us with numbers,' answered the Cimmerian. `Besides, there's no water out there. We'll camp on the plateau-'

`My knights and I camp in the valley,' retorted Thespides angrily. `We are the vanguard, and we, at least, do not fear a ragged desert swarm.'

Conan shrugged his shoulders and the angry nobleman rode away. Amalric halted in his bellowing order, to watch the glittering company riding down the slope into the valley.

`The fools! Their canteens will soon be empty, and they'll have to ride back up to the well to water their horses.'

`Let them be,' replied Conan. `It goes hard for them to take orders from me. Tell the dog-brothers to ease their harness and rest. We've marched hard and fast. Water the horses and let the men munch.'

No need to send out scouts. The desert lay bare to the gaze, though just now this view was limited by lowlying clouds which rested in whitish masses on the southern horizon. The monotony was broken only by a jutting tangle of stone ruins, some miles out on the desert, reputedly the remnants of an ancient Stygian temple. Conan dismounted the archers and ranged them along the ridges, with the wild tribesmen. He stationed the mercenaries and the Khoraji spearmen on the plateau about the well. Farther back, in the angle where the hill road debouched on the plateau, was pitched Yasmela's pavilion.

With no enemy in sight, the warriors relaxed. Basinets were doffed, coifs thrown back on mailed shoulders, belts let out. Rude jests flew back and forth as the fighting-men gnawed beef and thrust their muzzles deep into ale-jugs. Along the slopes the hillmen made themselves at ease, nibbling dates and olives. Amalric strode up to where Conan sat bareheaded on a boulder.

`Conan, have you heard what the tribesmen say about Natohk? They say - Mitra, it's too mad even to repeat. What do you think?'

`Seeds rest in the ground for centuries without rotting, sometimes,' answered Conan. `But surely Natohk is a man.'

`I am not sure,' grunted Amalric. `At any rate, you've arranged your lines as well as a seasoned general could have done. It's certain Natohk's devils can't fall on us unawares. Mitra, what a fog!'

`I thought it was clouds at first,' answered Conan. `See how it rolls!'

What had seemed clouds was a thick mist moving northward like a great unstable ocean, rapidly hiding the desert from view. Soon it engulfed the Stygian ruins, and still it rolled onward. The army watched in amazement. It was a thing unprecedented - unnatural and inexplicable.

`No use sending out scouts,' said Amalric disgustedly. `They couldn't see anything. Its edges are near the outer flanges of the ridges. Soon the whole Pass and these hills will be masked-'

Conan, who had been watching the rolling mist with growing nervousness, bent suddenly and laid his ear to the earth. He sprang up with frantic haste, swearing.

`Horses and chariots, thousands of them! The ground vibrates to their tread! Ho, there!' His voice thundered out across the valley to electrify the lounging men. `Burganets and pikes, you dogs! Stand to your ranks!'

At that, as the warriors scrambled into their lines, hastily donning head-pieces and thrusting arms through shield-straps, the mist rolled away, as something no longer useful. It did not slowly lift and fade like a natural fog; it simply vanished, like a blown-out flame. One moment the whole desert was hidden with the rolling fleecy billows, piled mountainously, stratum above stratum; the next, the sun shone from a cloudless sky on a naked desert - no longer empty, but thronged with the living pageantry of war. A great shout shook the hills.

At first glance the amazed watchers seemed to be looking down upon a glittering sparkling sea of bronze and gold, where steel points twinkled like a myriad stars. With the lifting of the fog the invaders had halted as if frozen, in long serried lines, flaming in the sun.

First was a long line of chariots, drawn by the great fierce horses of Stygia, with plumes on their heads - snorting and rearing as each naked driver leaned back, bracing his powerful legs, his dusky arms knotted with muscles. The fighting-men in the chariots were tall figures, their hawk-like faces set off by bronze helmets crested with a crescent supporting a golden ball. Heavy bows were in their hands. No common archers these, but nobles of the South, bred to war and the hunt, who were accustomed to bringing down lions with their arrows.

Behind these came a motley array of wild men on half-wild horses - the warriors of Kush, the first of the great black kingdoms of the grasslands south of Stygia. They were shining ebony, supple and lithe, riding stark naked and without saddle or bridle.

After these rolled a horde that seemed to encompass all the desert. Thousands on thousands of the war-like Sons of Shem: ranks of horsemen in scale-mail corselets and cylindrical helmets - the asshuri of Nippr, Shumir and Eruk and their sister cities; wild white-robed hordes - the nomad clans.

Now the ranks began to mill and eddy. The chariots drew off to one side while the main host came uncertainly onward.

Down in the valley the knights had mounted, and now Count Thespides galloped up the slope to where Conan stood. He did not deign to dismount but spoke abruptly from the saddle.

`The lifting of the mist has confused them! Now is the time to charge! The Kushites have no bows and they mask the whole advance. A charge of my knights will crush them back into the ranks of the Shemites, disrupting their formation. Follow me! We will win this battle with one stroke!'

Conan shook his head. `Were we fighting a natural foe, I would agree. But this confusion is more feigned than real, as if to draw us into a charge. I fear a trap.'

`Then you refuse to move?' cried Thespides, his face dark with passion.

`Be reasonable,' expostulated Conan. `We have the advantage of position-'

With a furious oath Thespides wheeled and galloped back down the valley where his knights waited impatiently.

Amalric shook his head. `You should not have let him return, Conan. I - look there!'

Conan sprang up with a curse. Thespides had swept in beside his men. They could hear his impassioned voice faintly, but his gesture toward the approaching horde was significant enough. In another instant five hundred lances dipped and the steel-clad company was thundering down the valley.

A young page came running from Yasmela's pavilion, crying to Conan in a shrill, eager voice. `My Lord, the princess asks why you do not follow and support Count Thespides?'

`Because I am not so great a fool as he,' grunted Conan, reseating himself on the boulder and beginning to gnaw a huge beef-bone.

`You grow sober with authority,' quoth Amalric. `Such madness as that was always your particular joy.'

`Aye, when I had only my own life to consider,' answered Conan. `Now - what in hell-'

The horde had halted. From the extreme wing rushed a chariot, the naked charioteer lashing the steeds like a madman; the other occupant was a tall figure whose robe floated spectrally on the wind. He held in his arms a great vessel of gold and from it poured a thin stream that sparkled in the sunlight. Across the whole front of the desert horde the chariot swept, and behind its thundering wheels was left, like the wake behind a ship, a long thin powdery line that glittered in the sands like the phosphorescent track of a serpent.

`That's Natohk!' swore Amalric. `What hellish seed is he sowing?'

The charging knights had not checked their headlong pace. Another fifty paces and they would crash into the uneven Kushite ranks, which stood motionless, spears lifted. Now the foremost knights had reached the thin line that glittered across the sands. They did not heed that crawling menace. But as the steel-shod hoofs of the horses struck it, it was as when steel strikes flint - but with more terrible result. A terrific explosion rocked the desert, which seemed to split apart along the strewn line with an awful burst of white flame.

In that instant the whole foremost line of the knights was seen enveloped in that flame, horses and steel-clad riders withering in the glare like insects in an open blaze. The next instant the rear ranks were piling up on their charred bodies. Unable to check their headlong velocity, rank after rank crashed into the ruins. With appalling suddenness the charge had turned into a shambles where armored figures died amid screaming, mangled horses.

Now the illusion of confusion vanished as the horde settled into orderly lines. The wild Kushites rushed into the shambles, spearing the wounded, bursting the helmets of the knights with stones and iron hammers. It was all over so quickly that the watchers on the slopes stood dazed; and again the horde moved forward, splitting to avoid the charred waste of corpses. From the hills went up a cry: `We fight not men but devils!'

On either ridge the hillmen wavered. One rushed toward the plateau, froth dripping from his beard.

`Flee, flee!' he slobbered. `Who can fight Natohk's magic?'

With a snarl Conan bounded from his boulder and smote him with the beef-bone; he dropped, blood starting from nose and mouth. Conan drew his sword, his eyes slits of blue bale-fire.

`Back to your posts!' he yelled. `Let another take a backward step and I'll shear off his head! Fight, damn you!'

The rout halted as quickly as it had begun. Conan's fierce personality was like a dash of ice-water in their whirling blaze of terror.

`Take your places,' he directed quickly. `And stand to it! Neither man nor devil comes up Shamla Pass this day!'

Where the plateau rim broke to the valley slope the mercenaries braced their belts and gripped their spears. Behind them the lancers sat their steeds, and to one side were stationed the Khoraja spearmen as reserves. To Yasmela, standing white and speechless at the door of her tent, the host seemed a pitiful handful in comparison to the thronging desert horde.

Conan stood among the spearmen. He knew the invaders would not try to drive a chariot charge up the Pass in the teeth of the archers, but he grunted with surprize to see the riders dismounting. These wild men had no supply trains. Canteens and pouches hung at their saddle-peaks. Now they drank the last of their water and threw the canteens away.

`This is the death-grip,' he muttered as the lines formed on foot. `I'd rather have had a cavalry charge; wounded horses bolt and ruin formations.'

The horde had formed into a huge wedge, of which the tip was the Stygians and the body, the mailed asshuri, flanked by the nomads. In close formation, shields lifted, they rolled onward, while behind them a tall figure in a motionless chariot lifted wide-robed arms in grisly invocation.

As the horde entered the wide valley mouth the hillmen loosed their shafts. In spite of the protective formation, men dropped by dozens. The Stygians had discarded their bows; helmeted heads bent to the blast, dark eyes glaring over the rims of their shields, they came on in an inexorable surge, striding over their fallen comrades. But the Shemites gave back the fire, and the clouds of arrows darkened the skies. Conan gazed over the billowing waves of spears and wondered what new horror the sorcerer would invoke. Somehow he felt that Natohk, like all his kind, was more terrible in defense than in attack; to take the offensive against him invited disaster.

But surely it was magic that drove the horde on in the teeth of death. Conan caught his breath at the havoc wrought in the onsweeping ranks. The edges of the wedge seemed to be melting away, and already the valley was strewn with dead men. Yet the survivors came on like madmen unaware of death. By the very numbers of their bows, they began to swamp the archers on the cliffs. Clouds of shafts sped upward, driving the hillmen to cover. Panic struck at their hearts at that unwavering advance, and they plied their bows madly, eyes glaring like trapped wolves.

As the horde neared the narrower neck of the Pass, boulders thundered down, crushing men by the scores, but the charge did not waver. Conan's wolves braced themselves for the inevitable concussion. In their close formation and superior armor, they took little hurt from the arrows. It was the impact of the charge Conan feared, when the huge wedge should crash against his thin ranks. And he realized now there was no breaking of that onslaught. He gripped the shoulder of a Zaheemi who stood near.

`Is there any way by which mounted men can get down into the blind valley beyond that western ridge?'

`Aye, a steep, perilous path, secret and eternally guarded. But-'

Conan was dragging him along to where Amalric sat his great war-horse.

`Amalric!' he snapped. `Follow this man! He'll lead you into yon outer valley. Ride down it, circle the end of the ridge, and strike the horde from the rear. Speak not, but go! I know it's madness, but we're doomed anyway; we'll do all the damage we can before we die! Haste!'

Amalric's mustache bristled in a fierce grin, and a few moments later his lancers were following the guide into a tangle of gorges leading off from the plateau. Conan ran back to the pikemen, sword in hand.

He was not too soon. On either ridge Shupras's hillmen, mad with anticipation of defeat, rained down their shafts desperately. Men died like flies in the valley and along the slopes - and with a roar and an irresistible upward surge the Stygians crashed against the mercenaries.

In a hurricane of thundering steel, the lines twisted and swayed. It was war-bred noble against professional soldier.

Shields crashed against shields, and between them spears drove in and blood spurted.

Conan saw the mighty form of prince Kutamun across the sea of swords, but the press held him hard, breast to breast with dark shapes that gasped and slashed. Behind the Stygians the asshuri were surging and yelling.

On either hand the nomads climbed the cliffs and came to hand-grips with their mountain kin. All along the crests of the ridges the combat raged in blind, gasping ferocity. Tooth and nail, frothing mad with fanaticism and ancient feuds, the tribesmen rent and slew and died. Wild hair flying, the naked Kushites ran howling into the fray.

It seemed to Conan that his sweat-blinded eyes looked down into a rising ocean of steel that seethed and eddied, filling the valley from ridge to ridge. The fight was at a bloody deadlock. The hillmen held the ridges, and the mercenaries, gripping their dipping pikes, bracing their feet in the bloody earth, held the Pass. Superior position and armor for a space balanced the advantage of overwhelming numbers. But it could not endure. Wave after wave of glaring faces and flashing spears surged up the slope, the asshuri filling the gaps in the Stygian ranks.

Conan looked to see Amalric's lancers rounding the western ridge, but they did not come, and the pikemen began to reel back under the shocks. And Conan abandoned all hope of victory and of life. Yelling a command to his gasping captains, he broke away and raced across the plateau to the Khoraja reserves who stood trembling with eagerness. He did not glance toward Yasmela's pavilion. He had forgotten the princess; his one thought was the wild beast instinct to slay before he died.

`This day you become knights!' he laughed fiercely, pointing with his dripping sword toward the hillmen's horses, herded nearby. `Mount and follow me to hell!'

The hill steed reared wildly under the unfamiliar clash of the Kothic armor, and Conan's gusty laugh rose above the din as he led them to where the eastern ridge branched away from the plateau. Five hundred footmen - pauper patricians, younger sons, black sheep - on half-wild Shemite horses, charging an army, down a slope where no cavalry had ever dared charge before!

Past the battle-choked mouth of the Pass they thundered, out onto the corpse-littered ridge. Down the steep slope they rushed, and a score lost their footing and rolled under the hoofs of their comrades. Below them men screamed and threw up their arms - and the thundering charge ripped through them as an avalanche cuts through a forest of saplings. On through the close-packed throngs the Khorajis hurtled, leaving a crushed-down carpet of dead.

And then, as the horde writhed and coiled upon itself, Amalric's lancers, having cut through a cordon of horsemen encountered in the outer valley, swept around the extremity of the western ridge and smote the host in a steel-tipped wedge, splitting it asunder. His attack carried all the dazing demoralization of a surprize on the rear. Thinking themselves flanked by a superior force and frenzied at the fear of being cut off from the desert, swarms of nomads broke and stampeded, working havoc in the ranks of their more steadfast comrades. These staggered and the horsemen rode through them. Up on the ridges the desert fighters wavered, and the hillmen fell on them with renewed fury, driving them down the slopes.

Stunned by surprize, the horde broke before they had time to see it was but a handful which assailed them. And once broken, not even a magician could weld such a horde again. Across the sea of heads and spears Conan's madmen saw Amalric's riders forging steadily through the rout, to the rise and fall of axes and maces, and a mad joy of victory exalted each man's heart and made his arm steel.

Bracing their feet in the wallowing sea of blood whose crimson waves lapped about their ankles, the pikemen in the Pass mouth drove forward, crushing strongly against the milling ranks before them. The Stygians held, but behind them the press of the asshuri melted; and over the bodies of the nobles of the South who died in their tracks to a man, the mercenaries rolled, to split and crumple the wavering mass behind.

Up on the cliffs old Shupras lay with an arrow through his heart; Amalric was down, swearing like a pirate, a spear through his mailed thigh. Of Conan's mounted infantry, scarce a hundred and fifty remained in the saddle. But the horde was shattered. Nomads and mailed spearmen broke away, fleeing to their camp where their horses were, and the hillmen swarmed down the slopes, stabbing the fugitives in the back, cutting the throats of the wounded.

In the swirling red chaos a terrible apparition suddenly appeared before Conan's rearing steed. It was prince Kutamun, naked but for a loin-cloth, his harness hacked away, his crested helmet dented, his limbs splashed with blood. With a terrible shout he hurled his broken hilt full into Conan's face, and leaping, seized the stallion's bridle. The Cimmerian reeled in his saddle, half stunned, and with awful strength the dark-skinned giant forced the screaming steed upward and backward, until it lost its footing and crashed into the muck of bloody sand and writhing bodies.

Conan sprang clear as the horse fell, and with a roar Kutamun was on him. In that mad nightmare of battle, the barbarian never exactly knew how he killed his man. He only knew that a stone in the Stygian's hand crashed again and again on his basinet, filling his sight with flashing sparks, as Conan drove his dagger again and again into his foe's body, without apparent effect on the prince's terrible vitality. The world was swimming to Conan's sight, when with a convulsive shudder the frame that strained against his stiffened and then went limp.

Reeling up, blood streaming down his face from under his dented helmet, Conan glared dizzily at the profusion of destruction which spread before him. From crest to crest the dead lay strewn, a red carpet that choked the valley. It was like a red sea, with each wave a straggling line of corpses. They choked the neck of the Pass, they littered the slopes. And down in the desert the slaughter continued, where the survivors of the horde had reached their horses and streamed out across the waste, pursued by the weary victors - and Conan stood appalled as he noted how few of these were left to pursue.

Then an awful scream rent the clamor. Up the valley a chariot came flying, making nothing of the heaped corpses. No horses drew it, but a great black creature that was like a camel. In the chariot stood Natohk, his robes flying; and gripping the reins and lashing like mad, crouched a black anthropomorphic being that might have been a monster ape.

With a rush of burning wind the chariot swept up the corpse-littered slope, straight toward the pavilion where Yasmela stood alone, deserted by her guards in the frenzy of pursuit. Conan, standing frozen, heard her frenzied scream as Natohk's long arm swept her up into the chariot. Then the grisly steed wheeled and came racing back down the valley, and no man dared speed arrow or spear lest he strike Yasmela, who writhed in Natohk's arms.

With an inhuman cry Conan caught up his fallen sword and leaped into the path of the hurtling horror. But even as his sword went up, the forefeet of the black beast smote him like a thunderbolt and sent him hurtling a score feet away, dazed and bruised. Yasmela's cry came hauntingly to his stunned ears as the chariot roared by.

A yell that had nothing of the human in its timbre rang from his lips as Conan rebounded from the bloody earth and seized the rein of a riderless horse that raced past him, throwing himself into the saddle without bringing the charger to a halt. With mad abandon he raced after the rapidly receding chariot. He struck the levels flying, and passed like a whirlwind through the Shemite camp. Into the desert he fled, passing clumps of his own riders, and hard-spurring desert horsemen.

On flew the chariot, and on raced Conan, though his horse began to reel beneath him. Now the open desert lay all about them, bathed in the lurid desolate splendor of sunset. Before him rose up the ancient ruins, and with a shriek that froze the blood in Conan's veins, the unhuman charioteer cast Natohk and the girl from him. They rolled on the sand, and to Conan's dazed gaze, the chariot and its steed altered awfully. Great wings spread from a black horror that in no way resembled a camel, and it rushed upward into the sky, bearing in its wake a shape of blinding flame, in which a black manlike shape gibbered in ghastly triumph. So quickly it passed, that it was like the rush of a nightmare through a horror-haunted dream.

Natohk sprang up, cast a swift look at his grim pursuer, who had not halted but came riding hard, with sword swinging low and spattering red drops; and the sorcerer caught up the fainting girl and ran with her into the ruins.

Conan leaped from his horse and plunged after them. He came into a room that glowed with unholy radiance, though outside the dusk was falling swiftly. On a black jade altar lay Yasmela, her naked body gleaming like ivory in the weird light. Her garments lay strewn on the floor, as if ripped from her in brutal haste. Natohk faced the Cimmerian -inhumanly tall and lean, clad in shimmering green silk. He tossed back his veil, and Conan looked into the features he had seen depicted on the Zugite coin.

`Aye, blench, dog!' The voice was like the hiss of a giant serpent. `I am Thugra Khotan! Long I lay in my tomb, awaiting the day of awakening and release. The arts which saved me from the barbarians long ago likewise imprisoned me, but I knew one would come in time - and he came, to fulfill his destiny, and to die as no man has died in three thousand years!

`Fool, do you think you have conquered because my people are scattered? Because I have been betrayed and deserted by the demon I enslaved? I am Thugra Khotan, who shall rule the world despite your paltry gods! The desert is filled with my people; the demons of the earth shall do my bidding, as the reptiles of the earth obey me. Lust for a woman weakened my sorcery. Now the woman is mine, and feasting on her soul, I shall be unconquerable! Back, fool! You have not conquered Thugra Khotan!'

He cast his staff and it fell at the feet of Conan, who recoiled with an involuntary cry. For as it fell it altered horribly; its outline melted and writhed, and a hooded cobra reared up hissing before the horrified Cimmerian. With a furious oath Conan struck, and his sword sheared the horrid shape in half. And there at his feet lay only the two pieces of a severed ebon staff. Thugra Khotan laughed awfully, and wheeling, caught up something that crawled loathsomely in the dust of the floor.

In his extended hand something alive writhed and slavered. No tricks of shadows this time. In his naked hand Thugra Khotan gripped a black scorpion, more than a foot in length, the deadliest creature of the desert, the stroke of whose spiked tail was instant death. Thugra Khotan's skull-like countenance split in a mummy-like grin. Conan hesitated; then without warning he threw his sword.

Caught off guard, Thugra Khotan had no time to avoid the cast. The point struck beneath his heart and stood out a foot behind his shoulders. He went down, crushing the poisonous monster in his grasp as he fell.

Conan strode to the altar, lifting Yasmela in his blood-stained arms. She threw her white arms convulsively about his mailed neck, sobbing hysterically, and would not let him go.

`Crom's devils, girl!' he grunted. `Loose me! Fifty thousand men have perished today, and there is work for me to do-'

`No!' she gasped, clinging with convulsive strength, as barbaric for the instant as he in her fear and passion. `I will not let you go! I am yours, by fire and steel and blood! You are mine! Back there, I belong to others - here I am mine - and yours! You shall not go!'

He hesitated, his own brain reeling with the fierce upsurging of his violent passions. The lurid unearthly glow still hovered in the shadowy chamber, lighting ghostlily the dead face of Thugra Khotan, which seemed to grin mirthlessly and cavernously at them. Out on the desert, in the hills among the oceans of dead, men were dying, were howling with wounds and thirst and madness, and kingdoms were staggering. Then all was swept away by the crimson tide that rode madly in Conan's soul, as he crushed fiercely in his iron arms the slim white body that shimmered like a witch-fire of madness before him.

Shadows in the Moonlight

I

A swift crashing of horses through the tall reeds; a heavy fall, a despairing cry. From the dying steed there staggered up its rider, a slender girl in sandals and girdled tunic. Her dark hair fell over her white shoulders, her eyes were those of a trapped animal. She did not look at the jungle of reeds that hemmed in the little clearing, nor at the blue waters that lapped the low shore behind her. Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed in agonized intensity on the horseman who pushed through the reedy screen and dismounted before her.

He was a tall man, slender, but hard as steel. From head to heel he was clad in light silvered mesh-mail that fitted his supple form like a glove. From under the dome-shaped, gold-chased helmet his brown eyes regarded her mockingly.

`Stand back!' her voice shrilled with terror. `Touch me not, Shah Amurath, or I will throw myself into the water and drown!'

He laughed, and his laughter was like the purr of a sword sliding from a silken sheath.

`No, you will not drown, Olivia, daughter of confusion, for the marge is too shallow, and I can catch you before you can reach the deeps. You gave me a merry chase, by the gods, and all my men are far behind us. But there is no horse west of Vilayet that can distance Item for long.' He nodded at the tall, slender-legged desert stallion behind him.

`Let me go!' begged the girl, tears of despair staining her face. `Have I not suffered enough? Is there any humiliation, pain or degradation you have not heaped on me? How long must my torment last?'

`As long as I find pleasure in your whimperings, your pleas, tears and writhings,' he answered with a smile that would have seemed gentle to a stranger. `You are strangely virile, Olivia. I wonder if I shall ever weary of you, as I have always wearied of women before. You are ever fresh and unsullied, in spite of me. Each new day with you brings a new delight.

`But come - let us return to Akif, where the people are still feting the conqueror of the miserable kozaki; while he, the conqueror, is engaged in recapturing a wretched fugitive, a foolish, lovely, idiotic runaway!'

`No!' She recoiled, turning toward the waters lapping bluely among the reeds.

`Yes!' His flash of open anger was like a spark struck from flint. With a quickness her tender limbs could not approximate, he caught her wrist, twisting it in pure wanton cruelty until she screamed and sank to her knees.

`Slut! I should drag you back to Akif at my horse's tail, but I will be merciful and carry you on my saddle-bow, for which favor you shall humbly thank me, while-'

He released her with a startled oath and sprang back, his saber flashing out, as a terrible apparition burst from the reedy jungle sounding an inarticulate cry of hate.

Olivia, staring up from the ground, saw what she took to be either a savage or a madman advancing on Shah Amurath in an attitude of deadly menace. He was powerfully built, naked but for a girdled loin-cloth, which was stained with blood and crusted with dried mire. His black mane was matted with mud and clotted blood; there were streaks of dried blood on his chest and limbs, dried blood on the long straight sword he gripped in his right hand. From under the tangle of his locks, bloodshot eyes glared like coals of blue fire.

`You Hyrkanian dog!' mouthed this apparition in a barbarous accent. `The devils of vengeance have brought you here!'

'Kozak!' ejaculated Shah Amurath, recoiling. `I did not know a dog of you escaped! I thought you all lay stiff on the steppe, by Ilbars River.'

`All but me, damn you!' cried the other. `Oh, I've dreamed of such a meeting as this, while I crawled on my belly through the brambles, or lay under rocks while the ants gnawed my flesh, or crouched in the mire up to my mouth - I dreamed, but never hoped it would come to pass. Oh, gods of Hell, how I have yearned for this!'

The stranger's bloodthirsty joy was terrible to behold. His jaws champed spasmodically, froth appeared on his blackened lips.

`Keep back!' ordered Shah Amurath, watching him narrowly.

`Ha!' It was like the bark of a timber wolf. `Shah Amurath, the great Lord of Akif! Oh, damn you, how I love the sight of you you, who fed my comrades to the vultures, who tore them between wild horses, blinded and maimed and mutilated them ai, you dog, you filthy dog!' His voice rose to a maddened scream, and he charged.

In spite of the terror of his wild appearance, Olivia looked to see him fall at the first crossing of the blades. Madman or savage, what could he do, naked, against the mailed chief of Akif?'

There was an instant when the blades flamed and licked, seeming barely to touch each other and leap apart; then the broadsword flashed past the saber and descended terrifically on Shah Amurath's shoulder. Olivia cried out at the fury of that stroke. Above the crunch of the rending mail, she distinctly heard the snap of the shoulder-bone. The Hyrkanian reeled back, suddenly ashen, blood spurting over the links of his hauberk; his saber slipped from his nerveless fingers.

`Quarter!' he gasped.

`Quarter?' There was a quiver of frenzy in the stranger's voice. `Quarter such as you gave us, you swine!'

Olivia closed her eyes. This was no longer battle, but butchery, frantic, bloody, impelled by an hysteria of fury and hate, in which culminated the sufferings of battle, massacre, torture, and fear-ridden, thirst-maddened, hunger-haunted flight. Though Olivia knew that Shah Amurath deserved no mercy or pity from any living creature, yet she closed her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears, to shut out the sight of that dripping sword that rose and fell with the sound of a butcher's cleaver, and the gurgling cries that dwindled away and ceased.

She opened her eyes, to see the stranger turning away from a gory travesty that only vaguely resembled a human being. The man's breast heaved with exhaustion or passion; his brow was beaded with sweat; his right hand was splashed with blood.

He did not speak to her, or even glance toward her. She saw him stride through the reeds that grew at the water's edge, stoop, and tug at something. A boat wallowed out of its hiding place among the stalks. Then she divined his intention, and was galvanized into action.

`Oh, wait!' she wailed, staggering up and running toward him. `Do not leave me! Take me with you!'

He wheeled and stared at her. There was a difference in his bearing. His bloodshot eyes were sane. It was as if the blood he had just shed had quenched the fire of his frenzy.

`Who are you?' he demanded.

`I am called Olivia. I was his captive. I ran away. He followed me. That's why he came here. Oh, do not leave me here! His warriors are not far behind him. They will find his corpse - they will find me near it - oh!' She moaned in her terror and wrung her white hands.

He stared at her in perplexity.

`Would you be better off with me?' he demanded. `I am a barbarian, and I know from your looks that you fear me.'

`Yes, I fear you,' she replied, too distracted to dissemble. `My flesh crawls at the horror of your aspect. But I fear the Hyrkanians more. Oh, let me go with you! They will put me to the torture if they find me beside their dead lord.'

`Come, then.' He drew aside, and she stepped quickly into the boat, shrinking from contact with him. She seated herself in the bow, and he stepped into the boat, pushed off with an oar, and using it as a paddle, worked his way tortuously among the tall stalks until they glided out into open water. Then he set to work with both oars, rowing with great, smooth, even strokes, the heavy muscles of arms and shoulders and back rippling in rhythm to his exertions.

There was silence for some time, the girl crouching in the bows, the man tugging at the oars. She watched him with timorous fascination. It was evident that he was not an Hyrkanian, and he did not resemble the Hyborian races. There was a wolfish hardness about him that marked the barbarian. His features, allowing for the strains and stains of battle and his hiding in the marshes, reflected that same untamed wildness, but they were neither evil nor degenerate.

`Who are you?' she asked. `Shah Amurath called you a kozak; were you of that band?'

`I am Conan, of Cimmeria,' he grunted. `I was with the kozaki, as the Hyrkanian dogs called us.'

She knew vaguely that the land he named lay far to the northwest, beyond the farthest boundaries of the different kingdoms of her race.

`I am a daughter of the King of Ophir,' she said. `My father sold me to a Shemite chief, because I would not marry a prince of Koth.'

The Cimmerian grunted in surprize.

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. 'Aye, civilized men sell their children as slaves to savages, sometimes. They call your race barbaric, Conan of Cimmeria.'

`We do not sell our children,' he growled, his chin jutting truculently.

`Well - I was sold. But the desert man did not misuse me. He wished to buy the good will of Shah Amurath, and I was among the gifts he brought to Akif of the purple gardens. Then-' She shuddered and hid her face in her hands.

`I should be lost to all shame,' she said presently. `Yet each memory stings me like a slaver's whip. I abode in Shah Amurath's palace, until some weeks agone he rode out with his hosts to do battle with a band of invaders who were ravaging the borders of Turan. Yesterday he returned in triumph, and a great fete was made to honor him. In the drunkenness and rejoicing, I found an opportunity to steal out of the city on a stolen horse. I had thought to escape -but he followed, and about midday came up with me. I outran his vassals, but him I could not escape. Then you came.'

`I was lying hid in the reeds,' grunted the barbarian. `I was one of those dissolute rogues, the Free Companions, who burned and looted along the borders. There were five thousand of us, from a score of races and tribes. We had been serving as mercenaries for a rebel prince in eastern Korb, most of us, and when he made peace with his cursed sovereign, we were out of employment; so we took to plundering the outlying dominions of Koth, Zamora and Turan impartially. A week ago Shah Amurath trapped us near the banks of Ilbars with fifteen thousand men. Mitra! The skies were black with vultures. When the lines broke, after a whole day of fighting, some tried to break through to the north, some to the west. I doubt if any escaped. The steppes were covered with horsemen riding down the fugitives. I broke for the east, and finally reached the edge of the marshes that border this part of Vilayet.

`I've been hiding in the morasses ever since. Only the day before yesterday the riders ceased beating up the reed-brakes, searching for just such fugitives as I. I've squirmed and burrowed and hidden like a snake, feasting on muskrats I caught and ate raw, for lack of fire to cook them. This dawn I found this boat hidden among the reeds. I hadn't intended going out on the sea until night, but after I killed Shah Amurath, I knew his mailed dogs would be close at hand.'

`And what now?'

`We shall doubtless be pursued. If they fail to see the marks left by the boat, which I covered as well as I could, they'll guess anyway that we took to sea, after they fail to find us among the marshes. But we have a start, and I'm going to haul at these oars until we reach a safe place.'

`Where shall we find that?' she asked hopelessly. 'Vilayet is an Hyrkanian pond.'

`Some folk don't think so,' grinned Conan grimly; `notably the slaves that have escaped from galleys and become pirates.'

`But what are your plans?'

`The southwestern shore is held by the Hyrkanians for hundreds of miles. We still have a long way to go before we pass beyond their northern boundaries. I intend to go northward until I think we have passed them. Then we'll turn westward, and try to land on the shore bordered by the uninhabited steppes.'

'Suppose we meet pirates, or a storm?' she asked. `And we shall starve on the steppes.'

`Well,' he reminded her, `I didn't ask you to come with me.'

`I am sorry.' She bowed her shapely dark head. `Pirates, storms, starvation - they are -all kinder than the people of Turan.'

`Aye.' His dark face grew somber. `I haven't done with them yet. Be at ease, girl. Storms are rare on Vilayet at this time of year. If we make the steppes, we shall not starve. I was reared in a naked land. It was those cursed marshes, with their stench and stinging flies, that nigh unmanned me. I am at home in the high lands. As for pirates-' He grinned enigmatically, and bent to the oars.

The sun sank like a dull-glowing copper ball into a lake of fire. The blue of the sea merged with the blue of the sky, and both turned to soft dark velvet, clustered with stars and the mirrors of stars. Olivia reclined in the bows of the gently rocking boat, in a state dreamy and unreal. She experienced an illusion that she was floating in midair, stars beneath her as well as above. Her silent companion was etched vaguely against the softer darkness. There was no break or falter in the rhythm of his oars; he might have been a fantasmal oarsman, rowing her across the dark lake of Death. But the edge of her fear was dulled, and, lulled by the monotony of motion, she passed into a quiet slumber.

Dawn was in her eyes when she awakened, aware of a ravenous hunger. It was a change in the motion of the boat that had roused her; Conan was resting on his oars, gazing beyond her. She realized that he had rowed all night without pause, and marvelled at his iron endurance. She twisted about to follow his stare, and saw a green wall of trees and shrubbery rising from the water's edge and sweeping away in a wide curve, enclosing a small bay whose waters lay still as blue glass.

`This is one of the many islands that dot this inland sea,' said Conan. `They are supposed to be uninhabited. I've heard the Hyrkanians seldom visit them. Besides, they generally hug the shores in their galleys, and we have come a long way. Before sunset we were out of sight of the mainland.'

With a few strokes he brought the boat in to shore and made the painter fast to the arching root of a tree which rose from the water's edge. Stepping ashore, he reached out a hand to help Olivia. She took it, wincing slightly at the bloodstains upon it, feeling a hint of the dynamic strength that lurked in the barbarian's thews.

A dreamy quiet lay over the woods that bordered the blue bay. Then somewhere, far back among the trees, a bird lifted its morning song. A breeze whispered through the leaves, and set them to murmuring. Olivia found herself listening intently for something, she knew not what. What might be lurking amid those nameless woodlands?

As she peered timidly into the shadows between the trees, something swept into the sunlight with a swift whirl of wings: a great parrot which dropped on to a leafy branch and swayed there, a gleaming image of jade and crimson. It turned its crested head sidewise and regarded the invaders with glittering eyes of jet.

`Crom!' muttered the Cimmerian. `Here is the grandfather of all parrots. He must be a thousand years old! Look at the evil wisdom of his eyes. What mysteries do you guard, Wise Devil?'

Abruptly the bird spread its flaming wings and, soaring from its perch, cried out harshly: `Yagkoolan yok tha, xuthalla!' and with a wild screech of horribly human laughter, rushed away through the trees to vanish in the opalescent shadows.

Olivia stared after it, feeling the cold hand of nameless foreboding touch her supple spine.

`What did it say?' she whispered.

`Human words, I'll swear,' answered Conan; `but in what tongue I can't say.'

`Nor I,' returned the girl. `Yet it must have learned them from human lips. Human, or-'she gazed into the leafy fastness and shuddered slightly, without knowing why.

`Crom, I'm hungry!' grunted the Cimmerian. `I could eat a whole buffalo. We'll look for fruit; but first I'm going to cleanse myself of this dried mud and blood. Hiding in marshes is foul business.'

So saying, he laid aside his sword, and wading out shoulder-deep into the blue water, went about his ablutions. When he emerged, his clean-cut bronze limbs shone, his streaming black mane was no longer matted. His blue eyes, though they smoldered with unquenchable fire, were no longer murky or bloodshot. But the tigerish suppleness of limb and the dangerous aspect of feature were not altered.

Strapping on his sword once more, he motioned the girl to follow him, and they left the shore, passing under the leafy arches of the great branches. Underfoot lay a short green sward which cushioned their tread. Between the trunks of the trees they caught glimpses of faery-like vistas.

Presently Conan grunted in pleasure at the sight of golden and russet globes hanging in clusters among the leaves. Indicating that the girl should seat herself on a fallen tree, he filled her lap with the exotic delicacies, and then himself fell to with unconcealed gusto.

'Ishtar!' said he, between mouthfuls. `Since Ilbars I have lived on rats, and roots I dug out of the stinking mud. This is sweet to the palate, though not very filling. Still, it will serve if we eat enough.'

Olivia was too busy to reply. The sharp edge of the Cimmerian's hunger blunted, he began to gaze at his fair companion with more interest than previously, noting the lustrous clusters of her dark hair, the peach-bloom tints of her dainty skin, and the rounded contours of her lithe figure which the scanty silk tunic displayed to full advantage.

Finishing her meal, the object of his scrutiny looked up, and meeting his burning, slit-eyed gaze, she changed color and the remnants of the fruit slipped from her fingers.

Without comment, he indicated with a gesture that they should continue their explorations, and rising, she followed him out of the trees and into a glade, the farther end of which was bounded by a dense thicket. As they stepped into the open there was a ripping crash in this thicket, and Conan, bounding aside and carrying the girl with him, narrowly saved them from something that rushed through the air and struck a tree-trunk with a thunderous impact.

Whipping out his sword, Conan bounded across the glade and plunged into the thicket. Silence ensued, while Olivia crouched on the sward, terrified and bewildered. Presently Conan emerged, a puzzled scowl on his face.

`Nothing in that thicket,' he growled. `But there was something-'

He studied the missile that had so narrowly missed them, and grunted incredulously, as if unable to credit his own senses. It was a huge block of greenish stone which lay on the sward at the foot of the tree, whose wood its impact had splintered.

`A strange stone to find on an uninhabited island,' growled Conan.

Olivia's lovely eyes dilated in wonder. The stone was a symmetrical block, indisputably cut and shaped by human hands. And it was astonishingly massive. The Cimmerian grasped it with both hands, and with legs braced and the muscles standing out on his arms and back in straining knots, he heaved it above his head and cast it from him, exerting every ounce of nerve and sinew. It fell a few feet in front of him. Conan swore.

`No man living could throw that rock across this glade. It's a task for siege engines. Yet here there are no mangonels or ballistas.'

`Perhaps it was thrown by some such engine from afar,' she suggested.

He shook his head. `It didn't fall from above. It came from yonder thicket. See how the twigs are broken? It was thrown as a man might throw a pebble. But who? What? Come!'

She hesitantly followed him into the thicket. Inside the outer ring of leafy brush, the undergrowth was less dense. Utter silence brooded over all. The springy sward gave no sign of footprint. Yet from this mysterious thicket had hurtled that boulder, swift and deadly. Conan bent closer to the sward, where the grass was crushed down here and there. He shook his head angrily. Even to his keen eyes it gave no clue as to what had stood or trodden there. His gaze roved to the green roof above their heads, a solid ceiling of thick leaves and interwoven arches. And he froze suddenly.

Then rising, sword in hand, he began to back away, thrusting Olivia behind him.

`Out of here, quick!' he urged in a whisper that congealed the girl's blood.

`What is it? What do you see?'

`Nothing,' he answered guardedly, not halting his wary retreat.

`But what is it, then? What lurks in this thicket?'

`Death!' he answered, his gaze still fixed on the brooding jade arches that shut out the sky.

Once out of the thicket, he took her hand and led her swiftly through the thinning trees, until they mounted a grassy slope, sparsely treed, and emerged upon a low plateau, where the grass grew taller and the trees were few and scattered. And in the midst of that plateau rose a long broad structure of crumbling greenish stone.

They gazed in wonder. No legends named such a building on any island of Vilayet. They approached it warily, seeing that moss and lichen crawled over the stones, and the broken roof gaped to the sky. On all sides lay bits and shards of masonry, half hidden in the waving grass, giving the impression that once many buildings rose there, perhaps a whole town. But now only the long hall-like structure rose against the sky, and its walls leaned drunkenly among the crawling vines.

Whatever doors had once guarded its portals had long rotted away. Conan and his companion stood in the broad entrance and stared inside. Sunlight streamed in through gaps in the walls and roof, making the interior a dim weave of light and shadow. Grasping his sword firmly, Conan entered, with the slouching gait of a hunting panther, sunken head and noiseless feet. Olivia tiptoed after him.

Once within, Conan grunted in surprize, and Olivia stifled a scream.

`Look! Oh, look!'

`I see,' he answered. `Nothing to fear. They are statues.'

`But how life-like - and how evil!' she whispered, drawing close to him.

They stood in a great hall, whose floor was of polished stone, littered with dust and broken stones, which had fallen from the ceiling. Vines, growing between the stones, masked the apertures. The lofty roof, flat and undomed, was upheld by thick columns, marching in rows down the sides of the walls. And in each space between these columns stood a strange figure.

They were statues, apparently of iron, black and shining as if continually polished. They were life-sized, depicting tall, lithely powerful men, with cruel hawk-like faces. They were naked, and every swell, depression and contour of joint and sinew was represented with incredible realism. But the most life-like feature was their proud, intolerant faces. These features were not cast in the same mold. Each face possessed its own individual characteristics, though there was a tribal likeness between them all. There was none of the monotonous uniformity of decorative art, in the faces at least.

`They seem to be listening - and waiting!' whispered the girl uneasily.

Conan rang his hilt against one of the images.

`Iron,' he pronounced. `But Crom! In what molds were they cast?'

He shook his head and shrugged his massive shoulders in puzzlement.

Olivia glanced timidly about the great silent hall. Only the ivy-grown stones, the tendril-clasped pillars, with the dark figures brooding between them, met her gaze. She shifted uneasily and wished to be gone, but the images held a strange fascination for her companion. He examined them in detail, and barbarian-like, tried to break off their limbs. But their material resisted his best efforts. He could neither disfigure nor dislodge from its niche a single image. At last he desisted, swearing in his wonder.

`What manner of men were these copied from?' he inquired of the world at large. `These figures are black, yet they are not like negroes. I have never seen their like.'

`Let us go into the sunlight,' urged Olivia, and he nodded, with a baffled glance at the brooding shapes along the walls.

So they passed out of the dusky hall into the clear blaze of the summer sun. She was surprized to note its position in the sky; they had spent more time in the ruins than she had guessed.

`Let us take to the boat again,' she suggested. `I am afraid here. It is a strange evil place. We do not know when we may be attacked by whatever cast the rock.'

`I think we're safe as long as we're not under the trees,' he answered. `Come.'

The plateau, whose sides fell away toward the wooded shores on the east, west and south, sloped upward toward the north to abut on a tangle of rocky cliffs, the highest point of the island. Thither Conan took his way, suiting his long stride to his companion's gait. From time to time his glance rested inscrutably upon her, and she was aware of it.

They reached the northern extremity of the plateau, and stood gazing up the steep pitch of the cliffs. Trees grew thickly along the rim of the plateau east and west of the cliffs, and clung to the precipitous incline. Conan glanced at these trees suspiciously, but he began the ascent, helping his companion on the climb. The slope was not sheer, and was broken by ledges and boulders. The Cimmerian, born in a hill country, could have run up it like a cat, but Olivia found the going difficult. Again and again she felt herself lifted lightly off her feet and over some obstacle that would have taxed her strength to surmount, and her wonder grew at the sheer physical power of the man. She no longer found his touch repugnant. There was a promise of protection in his iron clasp.

At last they stood on the ultimate pinnacle, their hair stirring in the sea wind. From their feet the cliffs fell away sheerly three or four hundred feet to a narrow tangle of woodlands bordering the beach. Looking southward they saw the whole island lying like a great oval mirror, its bevelled edges sloping down swiftly into a rim of green, except where it broke in the pitch of the cliffs. As far as they could see, on all sides stretched the blue waters, still, placid, fading into dreamy hazes of distance.

`The sea is still,' sighed Olivia. `Why should we not take up our journey again?'

Conan, poised like a bronze statue on the cliffs, pointed northward. Straining her eyes, Olivia saw a white fleck that seemed to hang suspended in the aching haze.

`What is it?'

`A sail.'

`Hyrkanians?'

`Who can tell, at this distance?'

`They will anchor here - search the island for us!' she cried in quick panic.

`I doubt it. They come from the north, so they can not be searching for us. They may stop for some other reason, in which case we'll have to hide as best we can. But I believe it's either pirate, or an Hyrkanian galley returning from some northern raid. In the latter case they are not likely to anchor here. But we can't put to sea until they've gone out of sight, for they're coming from the direction in which we must go. Doubtless they'll pass the island tonight, and at dawn we can go on our way.'

'Then we must spend the night here?' she shivered.

`It's safest.'

`Then let us sleep here, on the crags,' she urged.

He shook his head, glancing at the stunted trees, at the marching woods below, a green mass which seemed to send out tendrils straggling up the sides of the cliffs.

`Here are too many trees. We'll sleep in the ruins.'

She cried out in protest.

`Nothing will harm you there,' he soothed. `Whatever threw the stone at us did not follow us out of the woods. There was nothing to show that any wild thing lairs in the ruins. Besides, you are soft-skinned, and used to shelter and dainties. I could sleep naked in the snow and feel no discomfort, but the dew would give you cramps, were we to sleep in the open.'

Olivia helplessly acquiesced, and they descended the cliffs, crossed the plateau and once more approached the gloomy, age-haunted ruins. By this time the sun was sinking below the plateau rim. They had found fruit in the trees near the cliffs, and these formed their supper, both food and drink.

The southern night swept down quickly, littering the dark blue sky with great white stars, and Conan entered the shadowy ruins, drawing the reluctant Olivia after him. She shivered at the sight of those tense black shadows in their niches along the walls. In the darkness that the starlight only faintly touched, she could not make out their outlines; she could only sense their attitude of waiting - waiting as they had waited for untold centuries.

Conan had brought a great armful of tender branches, well leafed. These he heaped to make a couch for her, and she lay upon it, with a curious sensation as of one lying down to sleep in a serpent's lair.

Whatever her forebodings, Conan did not share them. The Cimmerian sat down near her, his back against a pillar, his sword across his knees. His eyes gleamed like a panther's in the dusk.

`Sleep, girl,' said he. `My slumber is light as a wolf's. Nothing can enter this hall without awaking me.'

Olivia did not reply. From her bed of leaves she watched the immobile figure, indistinct in the soft darkness. How strange, to move in fellowship with a barbarian, to be cared for and protected by one of a race, tales of which had frightened her as a child! He came of a people bloody, grim and ferocious. His kinship to the wild was apparent in his every action; it burned in his smoldering eyes. Yet he had not harmed her, and her worst oppressor had been a man the world called civilized. As a delicious languor stole over her relaxing limbs and she sank into foamy billows of slumber, her last waking thought was a drowsy recollection of the firm touch of Conan's fingers on her soft flesh.

2

Olivia dreamed, and through her dreams crawled a suggestion of lurking evil, like a black serpent writhing through flower gardens. Her dreams were fragmentary and colorful, exotic shards of a broken, unknown pattern, until they crystalized into a scene of horror and madness, etched against a background of cyclopean stones and pillars.

She saw a great hall, whose lofty ceiling was upheld by stone columns marching in even rows along the massive walls. Among these pillars fluttered great green and scarlet parrots, and the hall was thronged with black-skinned, hawk-faced warriors. They were not negroes. Neither they nor their garments nor weapons resembled anything of the world the dreamer knew.

They were pressing about one bound to a pillar: a slender white-skinned youth, with a cluster of golden curls about his alabaster brow. His beauty was not altogether human - like the dream of a god, chiseled out of living marble.

The black warriors laughed at him, jeered and taunted in a strange tongue. The lithe naked form writhed beneath their cruel hands. Blood trickled down the ivory thighs to spatter on the polished floor. The screams of the victim echoed through the hall; then lifting his head toward the ceiling and the skies beyond, he cried out a name in an awful voice. A dagger in an ebon hand cut short his cry, and the golden head rolled on the ivory breast.

As if in answer to that desperate cry, there was a rolling thunder as of celestial chariot-wheels, and a figure stood before the slayers, as if materialized out of empty air. The form was of a man, but no mortal man ever wore such an aspect of inhuman beauty. There was an unmistakable resemblance between him and the youth who dropped lifeless in his chains, but the alloy of humanity that softened the godliness of the youth was lacking in the features of the stranger, awful and immobile in their beauty.

The blacks shrank back before him, their eyes slits of fire. Lifting a hand, he spoke, and his tones echoed through the silent halls in deep rich waves of sound. Like men in a trance the black warriors fell back until they were ranged along the walls in regular lines. Then from the stranger's chiseled lips rang a terrible invocation and command: `Yagkoolan yok tha, xuthalla!'

At the blast of that awful cry, the black figures stiffened and froze. Over their limbs crept a curious rigidity, an unnatural petrification. The stranger touched the limp body of the youth, and the chains fell away from it. He lifted the corpse in his arms; then ere he turned away, his tranquil gaze swept again over the silent rows of ebony figures, and he pointed to the moon, which gleamed in through the casements. And they understood, those tense, waiting statues that had been men . . .

Olivia awoke, starting up on her couch of branches, a cold sweat beading her skin. Her heart pounded loud in the silence. She glanced wildly about. Conan slept against his pillar, his head fallen upon his massive breast. The silvery radiance of the late moon crept through the gaping roof, throwing long white lines along the dusty floor. She could see the images dimly, black, tense - waiting. Fighting down a rising hysteria, she saw the moonbeams rest lightly on the pillars and the shapes between.

What was that? A tremor among the shadows where the moonlight fell. A paralysis of horror gripped her, for where there should have been the immobility of death, there was movement: a slow twitching, a flexing and writhing of ebon limbs - an awful scream burst from her lips as she broke the bonds that held her mute and motionless. At her shriek Conan shot erect, teeth gleaming, sword lifted.

`The statues! The statues! - Oh my God, the statues are coming to life!

And with the cry she sprang through a crevice in the wall, burst madly through the hindering vines, and ran, ran, ran blind, screaming, witless - until a grasp on her arm brought her up short and she shrieked and fought against the arms that caught her, until a familiar voice penetrated the mists of her terror, and she saw Conan's face, a mask of bewilderment in the moonlight.

`What in Crom's name, girl? Did you have a nightmare? 'His voice sounded strange and far away. With a sobbing gasp she threw her arms about his thick neck and clung to him convulsively, crying in panting catches.

`Where are they? Did they follow us?'

`Nobody followed us,' he answered.

She sat up, still clinging to him, and looked fearfully about. Her blind flight had carried her to the southern edge of the plateau. Just below them was the slope, its foot masked in the thick shadows of the woods. Behind them she saw the ruins looming in the high-swinging moon.

`Did you not see them? - The statues, moving, lifting their hands, their eyes glaring in the shadows?'

`I saw nothing,' answered the barbarian uneasily. `I slept more soundly than usual, because it has been so long since I have slumbered the night through; yet I don't think anything could have entered the hall without waking me.'

`Nothing entered,' a laugh of hysteria escaped her. `It was something there already. Ah, Mitra, we lay down to sleep among them, like sheep making their bed in the shambles!'

`What are you talking about?' he demanded. `I woke at your cry, but before I had time to look about me, I saw you rush out through the crack in the wall. I pursued you, lest you come to harm. I thought you had a nightmare.'

`So I did!' she shivered. `But the reality was more grisly than the dream. `Listen!' And she narrated all that she had dreamed and thought to see.

Conan listened attentively. The natural skepticism of the sophisticated man was not his. His mythology contained ghouls, goblins, and necromancers. After she had finished, he sat silent, absently toying with his sword.

`The youth they tortured was like the tall man who came?' he asked at last.

`As like as son to father,' she answered, and hesitantly: `If the mind could conceive of the offspring of a union of divinity with humanity, it would picture that youth. The gods of old times mated sometimes with mortal women, our legends tell us.'

`What gods?' he muttered.

`The nameless, forgotten ones. Who knows? They have gone back into the still waters of the lakes, the quiet hearts of the hills, the gulfs beyond the stars. Gods are no more stable than men.'

`But if these shapes were men, blasted into iron images by some god or devil, how can they come to life?'

`There is witchcraft in the moon,' she shuddered. `He pointed at the moon; while the moon shines on them, they live. So I believe.'

`But we were not pursued,' muttered Conan, glancing toward the brooding ruins. `You might have dreamed they moved. I am of a mind to return and see.'

`No, no!' she cried, clutching him desperately. `Perhaps the spell upon them holds them in the hall. Do not go back! They will rend you limb from limb! Oh, Conan, let us go into our boat and flee this awful island! Surely the Hyrkanian ship has passed us now! Let us go!'

So frantic was her pleading that Conan was impressed. His curiosity in regard to the images was balanced by his superstition. Foes of flesh and blood he did not fear, however great the odds, but any hint of the supernatural roused all the dim monstrous instincts of fear that are the heritage of the barbarian.

He took the girl's hand and they went down the slope and plunged into the dense woods, where the leaves whispered, and nameless night-birds murmured drowsily. Under the trees the shadows clustered thick, and Conan swerved to avoid the denser patches. His eyes roved continuously from side to side, and often flitted into the branches above them. He went quickly yet warily, his arm girdling the girl's waist so strongly that she felt as if she were being carried rather than guided. Neither spoke. The only sound was the girl's quick nervous panting, the rustle of her small feet in the grass. So they came through the trees to the edge of the water, shimmering like molten silver in the moonlight.

`We should have brought fruit for food,' muttered Conan; `but doubtless we'll find other islands. As well leave now as later; it's but a few hours till dawn-'

His voice trailed away. The painter was still made fast to the looping root. But at the other end was only a smashed and shattered ruin, half submerged in the shallow water.

A stifled cry escaped Olivia. Conan wheeled and faced the dense shadows, a crouching image of menace. The noise of the night-birds was suddenly silent. A brooding stillness reigned over the woods. No breeze moved the branches, yet somewhere the leaves stirred faintly.

Quick as a great cat Conan caught up Olivia and ran. Through the shadows he raced like a phantom, while somewhere above and behind them sounded a curious rushing among the leaves, that implacably drew closer and closer. Then the moonlight burst full upon their faces, and they were speeding up the slope of the plateau.

At the crest Conan laid Olivia down, and turned to glare back at the gulf of shadows they had just quitted. The leaves shook in a sudden breeze; that was all. He shook his mane with an angry growl. Olivia crept to his feet like a frightened child. Her eyes looked up at him, dark wells of horror.

`What are we to do, Conan?' she whispered.

He looked at the ruins, stared again into the woods below.

`We'll go to the cliffs,' he declared, lifting her to her feet. `Tomorrow I'll make a raft, and we'll trust our luck to the sea again.'

`It was not - not they that destroyed our boat?' It was half question, half assertion.

He shook his head, grimly taciturn.

Every step of the way across that moon-haunted plateau was a sweating terror for Olivia, but no black shapes stole subtly from the looming ruins, and at last they reached the foot of the crags, which rose stark and gloomily majestic above them. There Conan halted in some uncertainty, at last selecting a place sheltered by a broad ledge, nowhere near any trees.

`Lie down and sleep if you can, Olivia,' he said. `I'll keep watch.'

But no sleep came to Olivia, and she lay watching the distant ruins and the wooded rim until the stars paled, the east whitened, and dawn in rose and gold struck fire from the dew on the grassblades.

She rose stiffly, her mind reverting to all the happenings of the night. In the morning light some of its terrors seemed like figments of an overwrought imagination. Conan strode over to her, and his words electrified her.

`Just before dawn I heard the creak of timbers and the rasp and clack of cordage and oars. A ship has put in and anchored at the beach not far away - probably the ship whose sail we saw yesterday. We'll go up the cliffs and spy on her.'

Up they went, and lying on their bellies among the boulders, saw a painted mast jutting up beyond the trees to the west.

`An Hyrkanian craft, from the cut of her rigging,' muttered Conan. `I wonder if the crew-'

A distant medley of voices reached their ears, and creeping to the southern edge of the cliffs, they saw a molly horde emerge from the fringe of trees along the western rim of the plateau, and stand there a space in debate. There was much flourishing of arms, brandishing of swords, and loud rough argument. Then the whole band started across the plateau toward the ruins, at a slant that would take them close by the foot of the cliffs.

`Pirates!' whispered Conan, a grim smile on his thin lips. `It's an Hyrkanian galley they've captured. Here - crawl among these rocks.

`Don't show yourself unless I call to you,' he instructed, having secreted her to his satisfaction among a tangle of boulders along the crest of the cliffs. `I'm going to meet these dogs. If I succeed in my plan, all will be well, and we'll sail away with them. If I don't succeed - well, hide yourself in the rocks until they're gone, for no devils on this island are as cruel as these sea-wolves.'

And tearing himself from her reluctant grasp, he swung quickly down the cliffs.

Looking fearfully from her eyrie, Olivia saw the band had neared the foot of the cliffs. Even as she looked, Conan stepped out from among the boulders and faced them, sword in hand. They gave back with yells of menace and surprize; then halted uncertainly to glare at this figure which had appeared so suddenly from the rocks. There were some seventy of them, a wild horde made up of men from many nations: Kothians, Zamorians, Brythunians, Corinthians, Shemites. Their features reflected the wildness of their natures. Many bore the scars of the lash or the branding-iron. There were cropped ears, slit noses, gaping eye-sockets, stumps of wrists - marks of the hangman as well as scars of battle. Most of them were half naked, but the garments they wore were fine; gold-braided jackets, satin girdles, silken breeches, tattered, stained with tar and blood, vied with pieces of silver-chased armor. Jewels glittered in nose-rings and earrings, and in the hilts of their daggers.

Over against this bizarre mob stood the tall Cimmerian in strong contrast with his hard bronzed limbs and clean-cut vital features.

`Who are you?' they roared.

'Conan the Cimmerian!' His voice was like the deep challenge of a lion. `One of the Free Companions. I mean to try my luck with the Red Brotherhood. Who's your chief?'

`I, by Ishtar!' bellowed a bull-like voice, as a huge figure swaggered forward: a giant, naked to the waist, where his capacious belly was girdled by a wide sash that upheld voluminous silken pantaloons. His head was shaven except for a scalplock, his mustaches dropped over a rat-trap mouth. Green Shemitish slippers with upturned toes were on his feet, a long straight sword in his hand.

Conan stared and glared.

`Sergius of Khrosha, by Crom!'

`Aye, by Ishtar!' boomed the giant, his small black eyes glittering with hate. `Did you think I had forgot? Ha! Sergius never forgets an enemy. Now I'll hang you up by the heels and skin you alive. At him, lads!'

`Aye, send your dogs at me, big-belly,' sneered Conan with bitter scorn, `You were always a coward, you Kothic cur.'

`Coward! To me?' The broad face turned black with passion. `On guard, you northern dog! I'll cut out your heart!'

In an instant the pirates had formed a circle about the rivals, their eyes blazing, their breath sucking between their teeth in bloodthirsty enjoyment. High up among the crags Olivia watched, sinking her nails into her palms in her painful excitement.

Without formality the combatants engaged, Sergius coming in with a rush, quick on his feet as a giant cat, for all his bulk. Curses hissed between his clenched teeth as he lustily swung and parried. Conan fought in silence, his eyes slits of blue bale-fire.

The Kothian ceased his oaths to save his breath. The only sounds were the quick scuff of feet on the sward, the panting of the pirate, the ring and clash of steel. The swords flashed like white fire in the early sun, wheeling and circling. They seemed to recoil from each other's contact, then leap together again instantly. Sergius was giving back; only his superlative skill had saved him thus far from the blinding speed of the Cimmerian's onslaught. A louder clash of steel, a sliding rasp, a choking cry from the pirate horde a fierce yell split the morning as Conan's sword plunged through their captain's massive body. The point quivered an instant from between Sergius's shoulders, a hand's breadth of white fire in the sunlight; then the Cimmerian wrenched back his steel and the pirate chief fell heavily, face down, and lay in a widening pool of blood, his broad hands twitching for an instant.

Conan wheeled toward the gaping corsairs.

`Well, you dogs!' he roared. `I've sent your chief to hell. What says the law of the Red Brotherhood?'

Before any could answer, a rat-faced Brythunian, standing behind his fellows, whirled a sling swiftly and deadly. Straight as an arrow sped the stone to its mark, and Conan reeled and fell as a tall tree falls to the woodsman's ax. Up on the cliff Olivia caught at the boulders for support. The scene swam dizzily before her eyes; all she could see was the Cimmerian lying limply on the sward, blood oozing from his head.

The rat-faced one yelped in triumph and ran to stab the prostrate man, but a lean Corinthian thrust him back.

`What, Aratus, would you break the law of the Brotherhood, you dog?'

`No law is broken,' snarled the Brythunian.

`No law? Why, you dog, this man you have just struck down is by just rights our captain!'

`Nay!' shouted Aratus. `He was not of our band, but an outsider. He had not been admitted to fellowship. Slaying Sergius does not make him captain, as would have been the case had one of us killed him.'

`But he wished to join us,' retorted the Corinthian. `He said so.'

At that a great clamor arose, some siding with Aratus, some with the Corinthian, whom they called Ivanos. Oaths flew thick, challenges were passed, hands fumbled at sword-hilts.

At last a Shemite spoke up above the clamor: `Why do you argue over a dead man?'

`He's not dead,' answered the Corinthian, rising from beside the prostrate Cimmerian. `It was a glancing blow; he's only stunned.'

At that the clamor rose anew, Aratus trying to get at the senseless man and Ivanos finally bestriding him, sword in hand, and defying all and sundry. Olivia sensed that it was not so much in defense of Conan that the Corinthian took his stand, but in opposition to Aratus. Evidently these men had been Sergius's lieutenants, and there was no love lost between them. After more arguments, it was decided to bind Conan and take him along with them, his fate to be voted on later.

The Cimmerian, who was beginning to regain consciousness, was bound with leather girdles, and then four pirates lifted him, and with many complaints and curses, carried him along with the band, which took up its journey across the plateau once more. The body of Sergius was left where it had fallen; a sprawling, unlovely shape on the sun-washed sward.

Up among the rocks, Olivia lay stunned by the disaster. She was incapable of speech or action, and could only lie there and stare with horrified eyes as the brutal horde dragged her protector away.

How long she lay there, she did not know. Across the plateau she saw the pirates reach the ruins and enter, dragging their captive. She saw them swarming in and out of the doors and crevices, prodding into the heaps of debris, and clambering about the walls. After awhile a score of them came back across the plateau and vanished among the trees on the western rim, dragging the body of Sergius after them, presumably to cast into the sea. About the ruins the others were cutting down trees and securing material for a fire. Olivia heard their shouts, unintelligible in the distance, and she heard the voices of those who had gone into the woods, echoing among the trees. Presently they came back into sight, bearing casks of liquor and leathern sacks of food. They headed for the ruins, cursing lustily under their burdens.

Of all this Olivia was but mechanically cognizant. Her overwrought brain was almost ready to collapse. Left alone and unprotected, she realized how much the protection of the Cimmerian had meant to her. There intruded vaguely a wonderment at the mad pranks of Fate, that could make the daughter of a king the companion of a red-handed barbarian. With it came a revulsion toward her own kind. Her father, and Shah Amurath, they were civilized men. And from them she had had only suffering. She had never encountered any civilized man who treated her with kindness unless there was an ulterior motive behind his actions. Conan had shielded her, protected her, and - so far - demanded nothing in return. Laying her head in her rounded arms she wept, until distant shouts of ribald revelry roused her to her own danger.

She glanced from the dark ruins about which the fantastic figures, small in the distance, weaved and staggered, to the dusky depths of the green forest. Even if her terrors in the ruins the night before had been only dreams, the menace that lurked in those green leafy depths below was no figment of nightmare. Were Conan slain or carried away captive, her only choice would lie between giving herself up to the human wolves of the sea, or remaining alone on that devil-haunted island.

As the full horror of her situation swept over her, she fell forward in a swoon.

3

The sun was hanging low when Olivia regained her senses. A faint wind wafted to her ears distant shouts and snatches of ribald song. Rising cautiously, she looked out across the plateau. She saw the pirates clustered about a great fire outside the ruins, and her heart leaped as a group emerged from the interior dragging some object she knew was Conan. They propped him against the wall, still evidently bound fast, and there ensued a long discussion, with much brandishing of weapons. At last they dragged him back into the hall, and took up anew the business of ale-guzzling. Olivia sighed; at least she knew that the Cimmerian still lived. Fresh determination steeled her. As soon as night fell, she would steal to those grim ruins and free him or be taken herself in the attempt. And she knew it was not selfish interest alone which prompted her decision.

With this in mind she ventured to creep from her refuge to pluck and eat nuts which grew sparsely near at hand. She had not eaten since the day before. It was while so occupied that she was troubled by a sensation of being watched. She scanned the rocks nervously, then, with a shuddering suspicion, crept to the north edge of the cliff and gazed down into the waving green mass below, already dusky with the sunset. She saw nothing; it was impossible that she could be seen, when not on the cliff's edge, by anything lurking in those woods. Yet she distinctly felt the glare of hidden eyes, and felt that something animate and sentient was aware of her presence and her hiding-place.

Stealing back to her rocky eyrie, she lay watching the distant ruins until the dusk of night masked them, and she marked their position by the flickering flames about which black figures leaped and cavorted groggily.

Then she rose. It was time to make her attempt. But first she stole back to the northern edge of the cliffs, and looked down into the woods that bordered the beach. And as she strained her eyes in the dim starlight, she stiffened, and an icy hand touched her heart.

Far below her something moved. It was as if a black shadow detached itself from the gulf of shadows below her. It moved slowly up the sheer face of the cliff - a vague bulk, shapeless in the semi-darkness. Panic caught Olivia by the throat, and she struggled with the scream that tugged at her lips. Turning, she fled down the southern slope.

That flight down the shadowed cliffs was a nightmare in which she slid and scrambled, catching at jagged rocks with cold fingers. As she tore her tender skin and bruised her soft limbs on the rugged boulders over which Conan had so lightly lifted her, she realized again her dependence on the iron-thewed barbarian. But this thought was but one in a fluttering maelstrom of dizzy fright.

The descent seemed endless, but at last her feet struck the grassy levels, and in a very frenzy of eagerness she sped away toward the fire that burned like the red heart of night. Behind her, as she fled, she heard a shower of stones rattle down the steep slope, and the sound lent wings to her heels. What grisly climber dislodged those stones she dared not try to think.

Strenuous physical action dissipated her blind terror somewhat and before she had reached the ruin, her mind was clear, her reasoning faculties alert, though her limbs trembled from her efforts.

She dropped to the sward and wriggled along on her belly until, from behind a small tree that had escaped the axes of the pirates, she watched her enemies. They had completed their supper, but were still drinking, dipping pewter mugs or jewelled goblets into the broken heads of the wine-casks. Some were already snoring drunkenly on the grass, while others had staggered into the ruins. Of Conan she saw nothing. She lay there, while the dew formed on the grass about her and the leaves overhead, and the men about the fire cursed, gambled and argued. There were only a few about the fire; most of them had gone into the ruins to sleep.

She lay watching them, her nerves taut with the strain of waiting, the flesh crawling between her shoulders at the thought of what might be watching her in turn - of what might be stealing up behind her. Time dragged on leaden feet. One by one the revellers sank down in drunken slumber, until all were stretched senseless beside the dying fire.

Olivia hesitated - then was galvanized by a distant glow rising through the trees. The moon was rising!

With a gasp she rose and hurried toward the ruins. Her flesh crawled as she tiptoed among the drunken shapes that sprawled beside the gaping portal. Inside were many more; they shifted and mumbled in their besotted dreams, but none awakened as she glided among them. A sob of joy rose to her lips as she saw Conan. The Cimmerian was wide awake, bound upright to a pillar, his eyes gleaming in the faint reflection of the waning fire outside.

Picking her way among the sleepers, she approached him. Lightly as she had come, he had heard her; had seen her when first framed in the portal. A faint grin touched his hard lips.

She reached him and clung to him an instant. He felt the quick beating of her heart against his breast. Through a broad crevice in the wall stole a beam of moonlight, and the air was instantly supercharged with subtle tension. Conan felt it and stiffened. Olivia felt it and gasped. The sleepers snored on. Bending quickly, she drew a dagger from its senseless owner's belt, and set to work on Conan's bonds. They were sail cords, thick and heavy, and tied with the craft of a sailor. She toiled desperately, while the tide of moonlight crept slowly across the floor toward the feet of the crouching black figures between the pillars.

Her breath came in gasps; Conan's wrists were free, but his elbows and legs were still bound fast. She glanced fleetingly at the figures along the walls - waiting, waiting. They seemed to watch her with the awful patience of the undead. The drunkards beneath her feet began to stir and groan in their sleep. The moonlight crept down the hall, touching the black feet. The cords fell from Conan's arms, and taking the dagger from her, he ripped the bonds from his legs with a single quick slash. He stepped out from the pillar, flexing his limbs, stoically enduring the agony of returning circulation. Olivia crouched against him, shaking like a leaf. Was it some trick of the moonlight that touched the eyes of the black figures with fire, so that they glimmered redly in the shadows?

Conan moved with the abruptness of a jungle cat. Catching up his sword from where it lay in a stack of weapons near by, he lifted Olivia lightly from her feet and glided through an opening that gaped in the ivy-grown wall.

No word passed between them. Lifting her in his arms he set off swiftly across the moon-bathed sward. Her arms about his iron neck, the Ophirean closed her eyes, cradling her dark curly head against his massive shoulder. A delicious sense of security stole over her.

In spite of his burden, the Cimmerian crossed the plateau swiftly, and Olivia, opening her eyes, saw that they were passing under the shadow of the cliffs.

`Something climbed the cliffs,' she whispered. `I heard it scrambling behind me as I came down.'

`We'll have to chance it,' he grunted.

`I am not afraid - now,' she sighed.

`You were not afraid when you came to free me, either,' he answered. `Crom, what a day it has been! Such haggling and wrangling I never heard. I'm nearly deaf Aratus wished to cut out my heart, and Ivanos refused, to spite Aratus, whom he hates. All day long they snarled and spat at one another, and the crew quickly grew too drunk to vote either way-'

He halted suddenly, an image of bronze in the moonlight. With a quick gesture he tossed the girl lightly to one side and behind him. Rising to her knees on the soft sward, she screamed at what she saw.

Out of the shadows of the cliffs moved a monstrous shambling bulk - an anthropomorphic horror, a grotesque travesty of creation.

In general outline it was not unlike a man. But its face, limned in the bright moonlight, was bestial, with close-set ears, flaring nostrils, and a great flabby-upped mouth in which gleamed white tusk-like fangs. It was covered with shaggy grayish hair, shot with silver which shone in the moonlight, and its great misshapen paws hung nearly to the earth. Its bulk was tremendous; as it stood on its short bowed legs, its bullet-head rose above that of the man who faced it; the sweep of the hairy breast and giant shoulders was breathtaking; the huge arms were like knotted trees.

The moonlight scene swam, to Olivia's sight. This, then, was the end of the trail - for what human being could withstand the fury of that hairy mountain of thews and ferocity? Yet as she stared in wide-eyed horror at the bronzed figure facing the monster, she sensed a kinship in the antagonists that was almost appalling. This was less a struggle between man and beast than a conflict between two creatures of the wild, equally merciless and ferocious. With a flash of white tusks, the monster charged.

The mighty arms spread wide as the beast plunged, stupefyingly quick for all his vast bulk and stunted legs.

Conan's action was a blur of speed Olivia's eye could not follow. She only saw that he evaded that deadly grasp, and his sword, flashing like a jet of white lightning, sheared through one of those massive arms between shoulder and elbow. A great spout of blood deluged the sward as the severed member fell, twitching horribly, but even as the sword bit through, the other malformed hand locked in Conan's black mane.

Only the iron neck-muscles of the Cimmerian saved him from a broken neck that instant. His left hand darted out to clamp on the beast's squat throat, his left knee was jammed hard against the brute's hairy belly. Then began a terrific struggle, which lasted only seconds, but which seemed like ages to the paralyzed girl.

The ape maintained his grasp in Conan's hair, dragging him toward the tusks that glistened in the moonlight. The Cimmerian resisted this effort, with his left arm rigid as iron, while the sword in his right hand, wielded like a butcher-knife, sank again and again into the groin, breast and belly of his captor. The beast took its punishment in awful silence, apparently unweakened by the blood that gushed from its ghastly wounds. Swiftly the terrible strength of the anthropoid overcame the leverage of braced arm and knee. Inexorably Conan's arm bent under the strain; nearer and nearer he was drawn to the slavering jaws that gaped for his life. Now the blazing eyes of the barbarian glared into the bloodshot eyes of the ape. But as Conan tugged vainly at his sword, wedged deep in the hairy body, the frothing jaws snapped spasmodically shut, an inch from the Cimmerian's face, and he was hurled to the sward by the dying convulsions of the monster.

Olivia, half fainting, saw the ape heaving, thrashing and writhing, gripping, man-like, the hilt that jutted from its body. A sickening instant of this, then the great bulk quivered and lay still.

Conan rose and limped over to the corpse. The Cimmerian breathed heavily, and walked like a man whose joints and muscles have been wrenched and twisted almost to their limit of endurance. He felt his bloody scalp and swore at the sight of the long black red-stained strands still grasped in the monster's shaggy hand.

`Crom!' he panted. `I feel as if I'd been racked! I'd rather fight a dozen men. Another instant and he'd have bitten off my head. Blast him, he's torn a handful of my hair out by the roots.'

Gripping his hilt with both hands he tugged and worked it free. Olivia stole close to clasp his arm and stare down wide-eyed at the sprawling monster.

`What - what is it?' she whispered.

`A gray man-ape,' he grunted. `Dumb, and man-eating. They dwell in the hills that border the eastern shore of this sea. How this one got to this island, I can't say. Maybe he floated here on driftwood, blown out from the mainland in a storm.'

`And it was he that threw the stone?'

`Yes; I suspected what it was when we stood in the thicket and I saw the boughs bending over our heads. These creatures always lurk in the deepest woods they can find, and seldom emerge. What brought him into the open, I can't say, but it was lucky for us; I'd have had no chance with him among the trees.'

`It followed me,' she shivered. `I saw it climbing the cliffs.'

`And following his instinct, he lurked in the shadow of the cliff, instead of following you out across the plateau. His kind are creatures of darkness and the silent places, haters of sun and moon.'

`Do you suppose there are others?'

`No, else the pirates had been attacked when they went through the woods. The gray ape is wary, for all his strength, as shown by his hesitancy in falling upon us in the thicket. His lust for you must have been great, to have driven him to attack us finally in the open. What-'

He started and wheeled back toward the way they had come. The night had been split by an awful scream. It came from the ruins.

Instantly there followed a mad medley of yells, shrieks and cries of blasphemous agony. Though accompanied by a ringing of steel, the sounds were of massacre rather than battle.

Conan stood frozen, the girl clinging to him in a frenzy of terror. The clamor rose to a crescendo of madness, and then the Cimmerian turned and went swiftly toward the rim of the plateau, with its fringe of moon-limned trees. Olivia's legs were trembling so that she could not walk; so he carried her, and her heart calmed its frantic pounding as she nestled into his cradling arms.

They passed under the shadowy forest, but the clusters of blackness held no terrors, the rifts of silver discovered no grisly shape. Night-birds murmured slumberously. The yells of slaughter dwindled behind them, masked in the distance to a confused jumble of sound. Somewhere a parrot called, like an eery echo: `Yagkoolan yok tha, xuthalla!' So they came to the tree-fringed water's edge and saw the galley lying at anchor, her sail shining white in the moonlight. Already the stars were paling for dawn.

4

In the ghastly whiteness of dawn a handful of tattered, bloodstained figures staggered through the trees and out on to the narrow beach. There were forty-four of them, and they were a cowed and demoralized band. With panting haste they plunged into the water and began to wade toward the galley, when a stern challenge brought them up standing.

Etched against the whitening sky they saw Conan the Cimmerian standing in the bows, sword in hand, his black mane tossing in the dawn wind.

`Stand!' he ordered. `Come no nearer. What would you have, dogs?'

`Let us come aboard!' croaked a hairy rogue fingering a bloody stump of ear. `We'd be gone from this devil's island.'

`The first man who tries to climb over the side, I'll split his skull,' promised Conan.

They were forty-four to one, but he held the whip-hand. The fight had been hammered out of them.

`Let us come aboard, good Conan,' whined a red-sashed Zamorian, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at the silent woods. `We have been so mauled, bitten, scratched and rended, and are so weary from fighting and running, that not one of us can lift a sword.'

`Where is that dog Aratus?' demanded Conan.

`Dead, with the others! It was devils fell upon us! They were rending us to pieces before we could awake - a dozen good rovers died in their sleep. The ruins were full of flame-eyed shadows, with tearing fangs and sharp talons.'

`Aye! put in another corsair. `They were the demons of the isle, which took the forms of molten images, to befool us. Ishtar! We lay down to sleep among them. We are no cowards. We fought them as long as mortal man may strive against the powers of darkness. Then we broke away and left them tearing at the corpses like jackals. But surely they'll pursue us.'

`Aye, let us come aboard!' clamored a lean Shemite. `Let us come in peace, or we must come sword in hand, and though we be so weary you will doubtless slay many of us, yet you can not prevail against us many.'

`Then I'll knock a hole in the planks and sink her,' answered Conan grimly. A frantic chorus of expostulation rose, which Conan silenced with a lion-like roar.

`Dogs! Must I aid my enemies? Shall I let you come aboard and cut out my heart?'

`Nay, nay!' they cried eagerly. `Friends - friends, Conan. We are thy comrades! We be all lusty rogues together. We hate the king of Turan, not each other.'

Their gaze hung on his brown, frowning face.

`Then if I am one of the Brotherhood,' he grunted, `the laws of the Trade apply to me; and since I killed your chief in fair fight, then I am your captain!'

There was no dissent. The pirates were too cowed and battered to have any thought except a desire to get away from that island of fear. Conan's gaze sought out the bloodstained figure of the Corinthian.

`How, Ivanos!' he challenged. `You took my part, once. Will you uphold my claims again?'

`Aye, by Mitra!' The pirate, sensing the trend of feeling, was eager to ingratiate himself with the Cimmerian. `He is right, lads; he is our lawful captain!'

A medley of acquiescence rose, lacking enthusiasm perhaps, but with sincerity accentuated by the feel of the silent woods behind them which might mask creeping ebony devils with red eyes and dripping talons.

`Swear by the hilt,' Conan demanded.

Forty-four sword-hilts were lifted toward him, and forty-four voices blended in the corsair's oath of allegiance.

Conan grinned and sheathed his sword. `Come aboard, my bold swashbucklers, and take the oars.'

He turned and lifted Olivia to her feet, from where she had crouched shielded by the gunwales.

`And what of me, sir?' she asked.

`What would you?' he countered, watching her narrowly.

`To go with you, wherever your path may lie!' she cried, throwing her white arms about his bronzed neck.

The pirates, clambering over the rail, gasped in amazement.

`To sail a road of blood and slaughter?' he questioned. `This keel will stain the blue waves crimson wherever it plows.'

`Aye, to sail with you on blue seas or red,' she answered passionately. `You are a barbarian, and I am an outcast, denied by my people. We are both pariahs, wanderers of earth. Oh, take me with you!'

With a gusty laugh he lifted her to his fierce lips.

`I'll make you Queen of the Blue Sea! Cast off there, dogs! We'll scorch King Yildiz's pantaloons yet, by Crom!'

Conan the Champion

The Sea of Storms

For two days and three nights the terrible storm had carved the sea into a clashing army of shifting mountains, battling one another like the giants and the gods in the days when the world was young. Not for nothing was the Vilayet named the Sea of Storms, the Mother of the Tempest, and other titles that expressed the awe of men at the way the usually-placid inland sea could turn without notice into a savage, primeval chaos, the Grave of Sailors.

The man who tossed helplessly upon the waves, lashed to the stump of a mast and a bit of decking, thought none of these things. Since the midst of the second day of the storm, when his ship had broken up under the relentless pounding of the sea, he had been afloat. By now he was nearly senseless from the tossing of the waves and the numbing cold of the water. He was able to keep only a single thought in his mind: The storm was taking him north, and the Vilayet narrowed to the north. Soon he must be tossed ashore, and that
was his only chance for life. When he neared the land, he must cut himself free of the mast or risk being crushed as the heavy timber was dashed against beach or rock. Still in his belt was his long, curved Kothian dagger in its hide sheath. Frequently the man flexed his fingers so that he would be able to grasp its hilt when the time came. This and nothing more occupied his thoughts as the wind howled like demons in agony and the sea writhed beneath the flogging of the wind.

Dawaz rose early on the morning after the storm to find what the sea had left. Many interesting things were yielded by the sea on such occasions, and sometimes they were things that could be turned to profit. Profit was never to be taken lightly. Thus, he wrapped himself warmly in woolen cloaks of local weaving and left his little trading post, the northernmost of many maintained by Kyros Brothers of Aghrapur.

The post was situated in a tiny cove on the western shore of the Vilayet, where the sea was no more than a league in breadth. The water was calm this morning. The Vilayet was a shallow sea, thus a wind that would cause no more than a heavy swell on the Western Ocean could stir titanic waves on the surface of the Vilayet. For the same reason, the cessation of the winds left the tideless sea calm within hours.

Dawaz found a great deal of storm-wrack in the form of tree trunks, seaweed, and shredded vegetation, much of this blown up from the south. There were dead fish and an occasional marine mammal, but he saw no amber, which was among the sea's finest gifts. Finest of all would be a complete shipwreck, with a salvage-able cargo. Dawaz determined to send his servants north and south along the coast to search for such. It must be
done discreetly, of course, for the kings thereabout claimed all such sea bounty as their personal property. He was about to go back to the post for his breakfast when he saw the corpse.

Corpses were among the more common of the sea's yieldings, and had no value whatever. Sailors rarely had more jewelry than an earring, and this loinclothed figure plainly had not been a wealthy passenger. It had been a big man, and Dawaz would need his servants' aid to push the body back into the sea. He did not want this fellow's spirit haunting his post. The ghosts of drowned seamen properly belonged at sea, which was their element.

He was about to turn his steps to the post when the corpse moved and groaned. Dawaz stared, fascinated. This human hulk was battered, savaged by the elements, and blue with cold, yet it lived. The man on the beach began to vomit copious amounts of seawater, and Dawaz went to fetch his servants.

Conan awoke in the dim interior of a low, boothlike building, its walls constructed of flat stones piled without mortar and chinked with moss. The upper half of one long wall was a swinging, top-hinged shutter, designed to be propped outward in better weather so that the whole building might be used as a shop of sorts. Just now the shutter was tied down and draped with rough cloth against drafts. Bales and bundles filled most of the building, kegs and stacks of goods, some of them with Turanian writing upon them. A driftwood fee burned on a low hearth, the salt in the wood making crackling, multicolored sparks.

He lay on a pallet of skins, and over him were rough woolen blankets. The room was heaving as if in a slow
earthquake, but Conan knew that this was caused by his long sojourn among the tossing waves. It seemed that he had survived. He did not find that as surprising as many might have. He had survived more mortal threats than he could readily remember.

There were at least two other men in the room. They could not be too unfriendly, since they had not cut his throat when they had the chance. As the lettering he could see was Turanian, he decided to try that tongue first.

"What is this place?" His voice sounded more like the croak of a crow than the speech of a man, but it brought a heavily-bundled man to his side. The man's features were Turanian, as was his speech.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, friend. I am happy to tell you that it is a dry land, albeit cold."

"Any solid ground is better than the Vilayet in a storm," said Conan. "You are a coastal trader?"

"For Kyros Brothers." The trader placed his fingertips against his breast and bowed very slightly. "I am Dawaz."

"I am Conan of" He was about to say "of the Red Brotherhood," but thought better of it. "of Cimmeria. was serving on a ship somewhere to the south of here when we were caught by the storm." His stomach grumbled loudly, and his host signaled a servant. The servant, a Turanian of low caste, brought a carved wooden cup of steaming spiced wine.

"This should settle your stomach a bit," said Dawaz. "Then we may try some solid food. Doubtless you've not eaten in days, and your belly was quite full of salt water, which I witnessed myself."

"The only thing that's ever kept me from eating," Conan said with a little more life, "is already having a
belly full of food." He took a long drink of the spiced wine, which was wonderfully bracing to a half-drowned man. "What land is this? Our ship had just paid a visit to a settlement near the northern border of Turan when we were struck by the storm." He thought it best not to mention that they had just finished looting the settlement.

"You are far north of there," Dawaz told him.! "We are no more than fifty leagues from the northern'tip of the Vilayet, and beyond that is the land of snow-giants and dragons. Here there are no true kingdoms, just the petty domains of the local kinglets. Each of them claims wide lands, but none truly rules beyond the reach of his sword."

Conan nodded. This was true of most of the North, which was still primitive and tribal in nature.

The servant brought a bowl of thick, fragrant stew aid a stack of flat loaves, tough and leathery.

"You are here late in the year," Conan observed as be ate. "Do you plan to winter here?"

"We may have to," Dawaz admitted. He filled a cup for himself and poured more wine into Conan's. "The last ship of the season was supposed to come for us many days ago, to take us and the year's trade goods back to Agnrapur. Something must have befallen it. Perhaps the storm."

Conan wondered whether that ship might have been ooe that he and the Brethren had looted. "Much can happen to a ship on the Vilayet. Will one of the local bogs protect you through the winter?"

'Perhaps," Dawaz said moodily. "After all, they depend upon the southern trade for many goods they produce. However, they are also greedy, and are many bands of outlaws as well. It shall be a
hard winter, and we shall be fortunate to get through it with our lives and goods intact." "Who rules here?" Conan asked. "The king who claims this stretch of coast is called Odoac. His nation, or more properly his tribe, are the Thungians. They are a crude people, who lust after gold and the silks and other luxuries of the South. For these they trade the furs they trap and the slaves they capture from other peoples."

"Do you trade slaves?" Conan asked suspiciously. It was always possible that the merchant had saved him for other than generous reasons.

"No. We have an agreement with the House of

Yafdal that we trade only for nonliving goods and they have the slave trade. You really must have special ships to transport slaves, so it is not practical to deal in both. The slave compound is now empty, as the factor for Yafdal left a moon ago."

Conan was relieved. There were many other questions he wanted to ask, but sleep overcame him before he could finish one of them.

For the next two days the Cimmerian recovered from his ordeal. By the third day he was as strong as ever and fretting to be away. Dawaz wondered at the man's swift recovery. He had thought that Conan would have to be nursed along for at least a month, but except for a little shakiness in the first two days Conan had showed little effect from his experiences. Dawaz studied the strange barbarian. The man prowled catlike about the compound, eyeing the surrounding, tree-clad hills. Had Dawaz been a slaver, he might have entered Conan on his ledger as: "male, age about thirty, very powerful, black hair, blue eyes, skin fair but darkened by sun and
weather, tall and sturdy, all teeth present and sound, northern in origin, prime stock."

In the rare sunlight of early winter, Dawaz sat bun-died in his woolens, writing with a brush upon a scroll set on a low table before him. Conan strode up to him in the midst of his writing. The Cimmerian wore a wolfskin tunic, which Dawaz had given him, and leggings of wolfskin above his heavy sandals. This left his arms and thighs bare, and that seemed to suit his north-on blood. "What do you write?" he asked.

"I flatter myself that I am a bit of a scholar. Since I seem to be stuck here for a while, I am adding to my writings about my travels, although Mitra knows there is little to write about these northern lands."

"Are there any wars going on?" Conan asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I must have something to do. There shall be no ships this way until spring. When I am not on the sea, I serve as a soldier. As long as there is a war brewing, I can earn my bread."

"Stay here with me," Dawaz said. "I enjoy your company. You have traveled far, and I should like to hear more of the places you have visited. We have plenty of provisions for the winter, and the local fisher-Ben and hunters come often to barter their catch. We'll not go hungry."

"It is good of you to ask," Conan said, "and I thank you. But it is not my way to while (Jie months away in fleness. If you can lend me arms, I can pay you for em from my earnings."

"Very well," sighed Dawaz. On the table before him be began to draw a crude map. "Here we are north of the steppe. The land is hilly and covered with dense forest, most of it pine. There are no great rivers, but are many streams, most of them soon to freeze.

each man in his own place, the lines neatly arranged and the cavalry riding by in rows as if all were on but a single horse. The people here get together on a field and swing their weapons until only the men of one side are left on their feet. I understand that it is not rare for nobody at all to be standing after one of these battles."

"Then they fight like all the other northern people of my acquaintance," Conan said with satisfaction. "That is well, since am a northerner and I like to fight that way too."

One of Dawaz's servants called to him. "Master! Men come riding!" Dawaz looked inland, toward the tree line. A little knot of mounted men were barely visible, black against the dark trees.

"Four men on horseback," reported Conan, his keen eyes glittering. "All armed. Do you think they mean mischief?"

"We shall know when they get here," said Dawaz uneasily. "If they are Odoac's men they will probably not rob me. They could be bandits, though."

"Bandits or king's men," Conan said, "you may rest easy. There are only four."

Dawaz stared at him. "You are nothing if not confident." Conan just smiled.

The bronze-girt warriors rode stocky ponies with uncut manes and tails. The riders were similarly shaggy, with brown or yellowish hair and beards spilling from their helmets over their shoulders and breasts. All wore ar-mor similar to that which Conan now wore. They rode into the little compound, and one with a stylized raven cresting his helmet rode a little forward. He addressed Dawaz, but his eyes were on Conan.

"Greeting, trader. We are Odoac's men, and our
king wishes to know if aught of value was washed ashore during the great storm a few days agone."

"Naught but the driftwood and trash of the sea," said Dawaz [smoothly. "Has there been better picking along the coast?"

The man gestured to the bags tied over the back of one of the horses. "Some fine amber and some coral." He pointed at Conan, who gazed at him unflinchingly. "But who is this? He is no man of our nation, by his look."

Before Conan could speak, Dawaz said: "Just an unfortunate seaman, cast ashore by the storm. Of his ship, nothing came ashore but the stump of a mast, too tar-soaked even to make good firewood."

"Did you not hear me ask if aught of value came ashore? If he washed up then he is part of the sea's bounty and belongs to the king. A fine, strapping rogue tike that will fetch a good price from the slave traders."

There had been a time when Conan would have instantly split the man's skull for these words, but age and experience had taught him to be prudent, especially hi a strange land. He said simply: "I have no desire to depute with you here in the home of my friend. But if you really want to sell me to the slavers, let us go over » yonder field, and I'll carve your guts out and strangle your friends with them." Dawaz paled, but the spokes-man smiled.

"You speak loudly for a man outnumbered four to one."

"I'll kill you first," Conan said, "then it will be fate to one. I've often fought three to one, and it has seldom taken me more than three blows to settle mat-lers." He smiled calmly.

"Boasting fool!" blustered the rider. "It is your
good fortune that this trader enjoys the king's protection. Best for you that we never encounter you away from here." Without giving Conan a chance to answer, he wheeled his mount and rode out of the compound, followed by the others.

"That was a close matter," Dawaz said when he could draw breath again. "They might have slain you out of hand for your words."

"What would you have me do? Surrender myself to them as goods for the slavers? Besides, there was never aught to fear. That one with the raven on his helm was nothing but wind, albeit encased in bronze. And a little wind never hurt anybody." He clapped Dawaz on the shoulder, causing the slight man to stagger a few steps. "Come, friend, let's to dinner. In the morning I'll be off to seek my fortune!"

Che Queen of ttte Snows

Conan trudged in a vaguely northerly direction. Just now King Odoac's court did not seem to be the best place to sell his sword, but that did not bother him. He would give King Totila a try. One employer was much Eke another. He was three days' march from Dawaz's trading post, wending his way through the silent forest aid using his spear as a walking stick. Snow had been Calling heavily since the night before, and he was happy at his friend had pressed upon him a good cloak, a long-sleeved undertunic, and a pair of trews. His recent sojourn in the balmy lands to the south had somewhat oftened his innate resistance to cold weather. His Cimmerian kin would have shaken their heads pityingly to see him so overdressed in this mild weather.

The pines grew thick on every hand in these low Mb, and the quiet of the forest was broken only occa-swoally by the eerie howling of wolves. This caused on no anxiety. It was too early in the winter for the orves to be desperately hungry enough to attack a
man; and an armed warrior, unwounded and possessing his full strength, had little to fear from wolves in any case.

Thus Conan proceeded, perfectly contented and even happy. The Northlands were his home, and although the seductive South had its attractions, he found these cold lands very much to his taste. He knew that by spring he would be half-mad with boredom and yearn-ing for the soft, southern lands, but for now he was ready for a winter of fighting among the little northern kings. It took him several minutes to realize that the sounds of battle he had been hearing were not solely in his head but were real.

Conan grinned and ran toward the sounds. The song of clashing weapons was the peculiar music of his life. Even at a distance he could discern the sound of iron sword crunching into bronze armor, the singing screech of iron spear point glancing from helm, the singular clatter of steel weapons against wooden shield. The shouting was loud and continuous. He knew that it was a small group fighting, or else a large group was letting a few fight. If he knew his northerners, though, there would be few laggards.

Conan crested a rise and saw a road winding through the shallow vale below. In the midst of the road, bronze-girt warriors battled savagely. Conan studied them to see whether it would be worth his while to join one side or the other.

As he descended the hillside he began to see details. One group of fighting men were clustered around two figures, one a graybeard, the other a woman. The surrounding warriors were more numerous, but identical in look to the defenders. Here was where a civilized army's use of standards and uniforms and livery would be of use, Conan! thought.

He was about to sit down and enjoy the show when his gaze sharpened upon one of the attackers. He recognized the raven-crested helm of the man who had dared to consider him as slave material. That decided him.

Conan leaped to his feet, screeched a wild Cimmerian battle cry so blood-freezing that the fighting stopped below, and charged. Some of the attackers turned to face him, and one walked toward him with shield high. Without breaking stride Conan cast his spear. The man raised his shield to block it, but the iron point smashed through the wood and pierced him below the chin, dividing his beard and going through to stand out a handsbreadth past the back of his neck.

As the man toppled, raven-crest spotted Conan. "The foreigner!" he shouted. "I warned you not to stray from the merchant's steading, fool! Now come to your death."

"Deliver it yourself, nithingl" shouted Conan, smiling. "I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I will take any or all of you on!"

The man in the raven helm had to meet this challenge or suffer loss of status in the eyes of his peers, so he strode forward, shaking his sword. "I am Agilulf of the Thungians, and I fear to meet no man!"

Attackers and defenders seemed to find this a good occasion to take a rest from the fighting, so they lowered their arms to watch this rare entertainment.

Conan caught the cool, gray eyes of the woman upon him, and made a sketchy salute with his sword. Then he was fully occupied with the man before him. Agilulf advanced in the fashion of a practiced sword-and-shield fighter: legs bent, spine erect, shield held well before
the body, ready to drop to protect the legs or raise to cover the head. His sword arm was raised high and bent so that the blade slanted across his back. With only a slight shifting of that arm, he could strike with full strength at head, at side, or at the leg below his ene-my's shield.

Conan favored his own highly individualistic style. He fairly ran in, crouched low, shield before him and held almost horizontally. His sword was held low and well to the rear. His opponent could see little except the shield and Conan's eyes above its rim.

Agilulf struck first, for Conan's helm, but the Cimmerian raised his shield slightly and at the same time swept his sword at his opponent's leading leg. The raven-crested warrior dipped his shield to catch the blade and both swords clattered against the shields. Agilulf leaned far over and tried to strike past Conan's shield at the briefly exposed shoulder, but Conan sidestepped and threw a powerful, looping blow at his enemy's flank. Agilulf interposed his shield in time and neither blow found its mark. Both men jumped back at the same time and the watching warriors shouted ac-claim for the excellent exchange.

The two circled warily, now having a bit of each other's measure. Sweat dipped from beneath the rim of Agilulfs helmet, but he was as windy as ever. "Not so easy to defeat the champion of the Thungians, eh, Cimmerian?"

Conan's grin was hard between his cheekplates. Then he struck. The watchers saw only a whirlwind of metal as the Cimmerian's first blow sheared through the tough shield as if it were parchment, breaking the arm beneath with a loud snap.

The second blow divided the raven between the iags, cleaving downward through the helm, .split-obs skull and teeth and finally stopping at the top of the s. Conan needed a powerful wrench to free his from the ghastly wreckage that had been Agilulf, \ champion of the Thungians.

Conan shook the clotted blood and brains from fees blade and glared at the attackers. "Who else ooJd play at swordstrokes? I stand here, dogs, come tome!"

The Thungians were shaken by the sudden demise of rteir hero, but they were brave. Besides, there were any of them. With a mass howl, they converged on kirn. In their preoccupation with him, as he had anticipated, many made the mistake of turning their backs on act erstwhile victims. The encircled men attacked them ram behind and before the more numerous foe could leorganize, the tide had turned and they were at a cad vantage.

This turnabout did not mean an easy fight, though, especially for Conan. He was quickly surrounded by enemies, and only his armor and his amazing quickness nved him. As each man attacked, Conan ducked and dodged, springing over blows or dipping beneath them, iking return blows when he could. Working in his favor was his enemies' lack of coordination and the determination of each to be the sole killer of this alarm-g foreigner.

Then the attacks on Conan abated as most of his opponents were engaged and slain by the defending farce. At length he found himself opposed by only one am: a yellow-bearded swordsman in an elkhide jerkin. A few blows sufficed to splinter his shield, and Conan
finished him with a quick jab to the throat, the most merciful of battle-deaths.

The clangor around him had ceased, and Conan looked to see many bodies lying about in the grotesquely stiff poses of death. There was more red on the ground than white, and survivors went from fallen man to fallen man, tending to their own wounded with bandages and to enemy wounded with daggers.

Conan stuck his sword into the earth, dropped his shield, and untied the chin strap of his helm. As he pulled the helm off, his thick black hair tumbled almost to his shoulders. From the upturned helmet a mist of steam arose. Fighting in armor was always a warm business.

The woman approached him, with the graybeard in tow. She stopped before him and looked him up and down for a few moments.

"I am Queen Alcuina of the Cambres." Her gray eyes were cool to the point of iciness. "How came you here?"

She was as haughty a woman as Conan had come across in a long time, but he sensed that now was no time to take an arrogant pose.

"I was looking for employment for my sword, lady," he said, bowing slightly. "I heard the sounds of battle, and came to investigate. I met that man Agilulf a few days agone, and he spoke ill to me. I was minded to improve his manners."

"So you did. He is not nearly so talkative now."

"Why did these rogues fall upon you, lady?" Conan pulled his sword from the earth and began to clean it carefully.

"Are you my peer that I must satisfy your curiosity? I will hire your sword, stranger. Your counsel I do not
need. Find a mount and ride with my escort." With that she walked away. The graybeard seemed on the verge of speech, then he thought better of it and followed the woman.

Much nonplussed, Conan finished seeing to his weapons and went to look for an undamaged spear. The men were now in the woods, trying to catch their scattered mounts. Apparently, these people did not have the art of mounted combat, and dismounted to fight. With so many dead, there were plenty of spare horses. Conan dimbed aboard one and joined the escort. Perhaps, he bought, he would go look for King Totila after all.

As they rode through the lengthening shadows of afternoon Conan made the acquaintance of the other members of the little guard. As an experienced soldier, Conan was careful to learn all their names.

Like all the folk he had met hereabout, they spoke a vviant of the tongue common to much of the Northled, not much different from that spoken in Asgard and Vanaheim and by the Gundermen of Aquilonia. . Tkey were fair for the most part, with blue eyes more common than brown, their hair ranging from yellow to vt brown. None had truly black hair like his own. All He men who were old enough had flowing beards, ateough some partially shaved their faces the better to off especially fine scars. They did not seem to paint or tattooing. Scalps hung from the bridles of A yellow-haired man with a boar crest like Oman's op beside him. "That was a fine fight, Cimmerian. I far one am glad to have you among our number. I am r." The man held out a gurgling skin. "Here, : scene ale. It has gone stale, but it will have to do we return to our hall."

Conan took a long pull at the ale. It was flat, but of good quality. He tossed the skin back. "Thanks, friend. Tell me, is your queen always so short with those who would take service with her?"

Siggeir smiled ruefully. "That is just her way. She was the only child of the old king and has always been haughty. She is a good queen, though, and she will not let her people become subject to some inferior king." By inferior Conan knew that the man meant a chieftain of another tribe. "But do not worry. Serve her well and fight as you did today, and she shall treat you well and reward you as you deserve. She is open-handed and generous."

"Well, that's something," Conan grumbled. "Why were you attacked by Odoac's men? If I'm going to Fight them, I might as well know why."

"They wanted to capture Alcuina," said Siggeir. Like most northerners he used titles sparingly. "Odoac wants her to wife. They say he has already murdered his last one to make way for her. Many think this is commendable optimism, but I call it presumption."

"Can a king have only one wife among you?" Conan asked.

"That is the law. Concubines and such, he can have as many as he flatters himself he can tend to. Many kings have come to grief in this fashion."

"What of this King Totila of whom I have heard?" Conan pressed. "Does he not court Alcuina as well?"

"Yes, Totila and his pet wizard would have her, but she rightfully disdains the Torman swine."

Conan did not like the mention of a wizard. He had had little joy of that breed in his life and travels. Still, the man did not speak as if the wizard's wiles bothered him overmuch.

con an the champion

"Who is the graybeard?" Conan asked, jerking his dun toward the old man who rode ahead next to AJcuina.

"That is our wizard, Rerin. He is a wise old man, tod he can protect us from the spells of lilma, who brews spells for Totila."

"And has Odoac no wizard?" Conan asked, fearing Ac worst.

"Not that I ever heard. Wizards are rare, and Totila richer than Odoac."

"Which wizard is the stronger?" Conan knew that it d always wise to know the relative strengths of friends and enemies.

" cannot say," Siggeir said, pondering deeply. "It «ms to me that every time one of them tries a spell, to other uses a counterspell, and thus they cancel each Aer. This suits me well."

"Aye," Conan said with the sincerity of experience.

"When these wizards and necromancers and suchlike cddle in the affairs of honest warriors, there is always cable that cannot be set aright with steel." Conan had ; a great dislike of problems unsettleable by steel.

Sight was falling when they rode into the compound t Akuina's hall. The compound sat atop an oddly Solar mound, which stood higher than the surround-*f fields. A wall of gigantic stones encircled the top of At hill, and upon the stones was set a palisade of wpened logs. The massive gate was raised for them to okt and immediately dropped once all were inside. Within was a wide yard dotted with small buildings: s, stables, sheds of various sorts. There was i livestock in evidence. In the center was the queen's a long, low building with a steep-pitched roof with turf. Goats grazed on the roof, and smoke cona

VA>WHE
champion
drifted from its gable ends. A southern king would have smiled to hear such a structure called a royal palace, but to the northerners it was all a palace should be; it was a place where warriors sat and feasted with their lord. They could have no respect for a king they saw but rarely if at all.

The smell of freshly-cut wood filled the place, and Conan could see that these people had not been living in this place for long. He followed Siggeir to a stable built against the stone wall and there left his borrowed mount for the boys to groom and care for. As they left the stable he examined the wall. Even in the dim light he could see that it was ancient, built of huge stones, and heavily grown with lichens.

"Who built this?" he asked.

Siggeir looked uncomfortable and made a sign with one hand. "Giants' work from ancient times. I like it not. Come, let us go eat and find some decent ale."

As they walked back to the hall Conan saw the bodies being taken from the horses. There was some muffled sobbing, but northern women did not mourn their dead with the extravagant, screeching lamentations favored in the South. It was well, he reflected, that if was still early enough in the winter for gravedigging. Soon the ground would freeze solid, and corpses would have to be kept in a shed until spring.

Inside, the hall was far more ornate than its exterior suggested. New though the hall was, artisans had already carved much of the visible wood with fanciful designs; patterns of interlace, deeds of heroes, strange beasts were everywhere abundant, most of them stained with crude but bright vegetable dyes. Horns of stag and elk and other creatures adorned the beams overhead, and hangings covered the walls, brightening the interior while they kept drafts at bay. The floor was paved with fiat stones and strewn with rushes. In its center massive logs blazed and crackled upon a huge hearth. Near the fanes meats turned on spits.

Conan's mouth watered from the smell of roasting meats as his eyes watered from the smoke. Long benches had been set up, and tables were laid across trestles as he warriors divested themselves of armor and weapons. Siggeir showed Conan where he would sleep on the raw next to the wall. Above his sleeping-place were pegs whereon he could hang helm and swordbelt, shield, ad corselet, always to be kept ready against attack. He ta his spear in a rack near his sleeping-place. With his hdongings settled, Conan took his place at the bench. Ewery" man sat opposite his sleeping-place so there was any arguing over seating. Also, should they be Iced in the midst of their feasting, each man had his weapons close at hand. These people gave much thought a* ±e possibilities of hostile action.

No sooner than he was seated, a girl brought Conan a [*assive, pitch-coated wooden tankard of ale. This he aaed in one long pull and slammed down upon the , to be refilled almost instantly. Platters of smok-; joints were laid down, and for some time there was speech as the famished trenchermen made up for time spent on marching rations, hen appetites were somewhat sated, the men fell to of their prowess in that day's battle. Each his own feats and praised what he had wit-of his companions' fighting. Every man was in praising Conan's contribution to the battle, none went so far as to suggest that they might : been annihilated except for Conan's timely arrival. tes turn Conan arose and praised his hosts, now
his comrades-in-arms. He explained some fine points concerning his defeat of the late Agilulf, which his listeners followed closely with the interest of professionals hearing the words of a master. Never overbur-dened with modesty, Conan did not underappraise his effectiveness in the subsequent fighting. He ended with compliments for his new employer and companions, proclaiming his eagerness to fight their enemies. There was loud applause and much thunking of tankards when he resumed his seat.

Finally Alcuina rose and, after the northern custom, lavishly praised her men and distributed gifts among them. Her words of praise for Conan were, he thought, rather sparing when one considered his signal contribu-tions to her defense. He could not fault her generosity in material things, however. His own gift was a massy arm-ring studded with coral and garnets. Its weight in gold alone would have been considered a year's wages for a skilled swordsman in southern lands. Conan slipped the ring above the thick muscle of his right arm and thanked Alcuina courteously. She seemed to take no notice.

As the torches were being taken down, Alcuina announced that the rites for the dead were to be held upon the next eve, as the sun set. All then prepared for sleep. Alcuina disappeared behind the arras that screened off the end of the hall, and her wizard went to seek out the little building where he performed his sorcerous duties. Everyone else slept in the straw, wrapped in their cloaks.

Conan did not feel ready for sleep yet. Taking a fresh tankard of hot, spiced ale, he went outside, not knowing the source of his unease. The yard was quiet, with all the folk abed and the fowl roosting in their sheds.

Only a dog roamed about, doubtless hoping for a late handout from the feast.

The Cimmerian caught sight of a glow coming from the wall above the gate. He crossed the yard and found a stair made of split logs ascending to the top of the stone wall, thence to the wooden platform that ran around the palisade built atop the wall. Over the gate he found a single sentry standing next to a glowing brazier. In the fire's glow he recognized the man as one of his companions from the fighting earlier in the day.

"Greeting, Hagbard," Conan called. "This is a cold night for such duty."

Hagbard drew his cloak more closely about him. "Colder than it should be, Conan."

Indeed, the temperature had dropped considerably since Conan had entered the hall. He handed the tankard to Hagbard, and the man drank the warm ale gratefully. "The frost giants march south early this year," the Cimmerian said.

Hagbard handed back the tankard. "Thanks, friend. Yes. this is the sign of a bad winter. If the cold creases much more, we'll not be able to bury our dead tomorrow."

"Do you never burn them?"

"Never. A warrior is buried with his weapons, a raftsman with his instruments, a wife with her distaff anc spindle. That is the custom. Even the children are §» il with their toys, and the thralls with their field If we cannot bury them tomorrow, we shall have build a lich-house without the walls to hold them the ground thaws."

Conan surveyed the bleak and rather uncanny ground nounding the enclosure. Here they were in a broad, pea field, almost a small plain, in strange contrast to
little stone hut where the wizard lived. With a muttered malediction on all dabblers in magic, Conan went into the hall and rousted the snoring Oswin.

Picking his way among the sleeping forms, Conan found his way to the still-glowing hearth, where he was cheered to find a half-full pitcher of ale still warming by the coals. He poured some into his tankard and drank deep. He wondered whether he had made the right choice in joining Alcuina's band. An air of doom overhung these stark stone ruins. However, he had accepted her gold and her food and her roof, so he would accept whatever might befall. It was not his custom to worry about the future. He found his sleeping-place, rolled himself into his cloak on the straw, and soon was as deep in sleep as any there.

Chree

Che Bail of Coffla King Totila sat brooding on his high seat. He took no joy in the jeweled cup before him, nor in the singing of the harper who sat upon the hearth. His elbow was propped on a great carven arm of the chair, and his chin rested on a knotty fist on which every finger blazed with the gleam of gold and jewels. He was the wealthi-est of the northern kings, but Totila of the Tormanna brooded upon that which he could not have. Queen Alcuina of the Cambres.

He wanted her fair body in his bed almost as much as be wanted her lands annexed to his. With his eastern flank thus secured, he would be able to swallow up Odoac and his Thungians to the south. Thus would Totila become the greatest king of the North. With such a beginning, he would forge a northern empire such as men had not seen since the last great migration of the northern peoples, many generations before.

In dreams such as this did Totila pass his days, but he was not one to confine himself to dreams. He had
the wooded hills that characterized most of this district. In the bright light of the full moon, Conan could see that the plain was dotted with several of the steep-sided mounds, of which the one upon which he stood was the highest. Several of those had similar stone walls atop them. Out in the flat-ground, many standing stones were arranged in straight lines or circles. Some stood in configurations like doorways, with a great stone laid horizontally across two standing ones.

"How long have you folk lived here?" Conan asked. He touched one of the palisade logs, and his hand came away sticky with sap.

"Only since midsummer. We had been living in the old place for ten years, and the fields were worn out. The game was getting scarce as well, and the fish were few in the streams. It was decided that we should move."

Most northern peoples were seminomadic at best. There had been times when entire nations had simply picked up their belongings and migrated for no better purpose than a change of scenery. Great wars often resulted. The most common reason, however, was the simple wearing out of land settled too long by people whose agricultural practices were primitive in the extreme.

Hagbard shook his head. "I wish Alcuina had not picked this place, though. Better we had stayed to the hills and forests."

"I can see why you do not like it," Conan said, sipping at the rapidly-cooling ale. "It is uncanny, with all those mounds and stone circles. Why did she pick mis place?"

"She deems we can better defend ourselves here, behind these giant-wrought walls. I speak no disloyalty," the man said hastily, "but Alcuina is not the
leader her father, Hildric, used to be. He knew the way to deal with enemies was to kill them, not hide behind walls of stone."

"What kind of place is this?" Conan asked, sweep-ing an arm to take in the uncanny plain.

"Long ago," Hagbard said, "even before my grandfather was born, giants lived in this place. It was their stronghold. They fought a war with the gods for many generations, with neither side having the victory. Then the giants hired dwarfs to build them a great wall engirdling this whole plain. The fee claimed by the dwarf master mason was the daughter of the king of the giants. The wall was built, and the wedding was held. But"by now Hagbard's breath was steaming heavily with the cold"on her wedding night, the bride murdered the groom, as what princess would not, given so inadequate a husband? In a single night, the dwarfs tore down the wall and the gods stormed in and slew all the giants, who were still besotted from their feasting. These ruins are all that is left of that ancient slaughter, but I think the spirits of the slain giants linger here still."

Conan pulled his cloak closer around him. The mulled ale was gone, and he was beginning to feel the effects of all the food and drink he had taken on that night. "Well, restless or not, they are dead now," Conan commented. "Good night, friend. I think it is time to seek my bed in the straw."

"Good night, Conan. Would you wake my relief? It is Oswin, who sleeps nearest the door tonight."

Conan assured Hagbard that he would not sleep until Oswin was awake and headed out into the cold. He descended the stair to the courtyard. As he crossed to the hall he noticed a light burning and wondered who stirred so late. Then he saw that the light came from the r
begun as little more than a robber-chieftain, with only the most tenuous claim to royal blood. By dint of iron will and unrelenting savagery he had forged a small but solid kingdom. Fighting men he had in plenty, and what swords could not do would be handled by the man who sat at Totila's right hand: the wizard lilma.

Years ago the man had come to Totila, claiming to be from Hyperborea and claiming as well that the destinies of king and wizard were intertwined. Totila would furnish him with protection, and lilma would strike at those enemies Totila's swords could not reach. The wizard had been as good as his word, and the two had grown fat together, waxing in power and wealth. Totila never stayed content for long, though, and each victory, each kinglet swallowed up, caused his appetite to grow along with his power.

"I would know how it fares with Alcuina, wizard," said the king. Below him, on benches at the long tables, his warriors ate and drank, their mood subdued in recognition of their lord's brooding spirits.

"As my lord wishes," lilma said. "I shall go and prepare the pool. My messengers have told me"he waved toward a pair of large magpies that perched on the back of his chair"that she returns to her hall this day, after touring her lands."

The white-bearded man arose. The skins of reindeer draped him, and the antlers of that beast crowned his headdress. Bones and skulls of small animals rattled on strings about him, and the feathers, claws, and beaks of many birds adorned his crude garments. He took his curiously-wrought staff from its place by the chair and walked rattling from the room. The magpies hopped after him, and conversations stilled as he passed. All men feared the wizard almost as much as they feared the king.

Totila sat for a while in desultory conversation with his counselors, but his mind was elsewhere. In time, he took his helmet from atop the comerpost of his chair. It was the most famous helmet in the realm, and he wore it even when no battle portended, in lieu of a crown. It was of bronze plated with gold and silver, and its hook-beaked nasal was flanked by a pair of lowering silver eyebrows. Long cheek pieces framed his face, and strips of silvered bronze wrought in the semblance of feathers dangled behind to protect his neck. Em-bossed upon plates of silver, a file of warriors encircled me crown, and above all brooded the fierce eagle-crest, its eyes glaring feral hate, beak agape for prey.

With the helmet settled upon his head, Totila donned hb cloak. It hung from his huge shoulders to drag on fe ground, its colors curiously piebald. This cloak was atirely made of the scalps of men Totila had slain with his own hand, and not one of them lower in rank than cfakf or champion. He picked up his great sword and carried it by the sheath as he strode from the hall. Crown and scepter meant nothing in the North. Helmet, doak. and sword spelled kingship in runes the savage OTtherners could read.

King Totila's hall was encircled by no wall or pali-ode It was his boast that he feared no king enough to rther with such defenses. His warriors were wall enough far him, he claimed. He strode past the tilled fields his thralls toiled away their lives to raise the for the free men's bread and ale. Grain was practically the only crop grown in the North. For the a of their food, they depended upon their livestock, e beasts of the forest, and the fish in their streams. A
race of meat eaters, the northerners despised free men who would work upon the land as men did in the South, and taste meat only once or twice in a year.

Taking a little-used forest path, Totila soon reached a small grove, which was warm despite the surrounding cold. The wizard lilma wielded great power over the forces of nature. In the midst of the grove was a small pool, fed by no visible stream, and from which no stream flowed. It never froze, no matter how bitter the weather beyond the grove. lilma stood by the pond with a magpie perched upon each shoulder. Totila placed himself by the wizard.

"This is what took place earlier in this day," intoned the mage. He touched the surface of the stream with his staff, and a bright picture appeared with the widening ripples.

Totila watched with absorption. He was now used to these magical displays, although he had been frightened when first he saw one. Gazing down into the pool he saw a file of men marching through a snowy forest, seen from above as if by a flying bird. Ahead of the marching men were other men, more numerous, lying in ambush. His eyes narrowed as the viewpoint lowered, as if the watching bird were descending to a convenient tree the better to see the coming entertainment.

"Those are Alcuina's men," Totila muttered, "and she among them. Odoac's warriors lie in wait. Had I known she would be traveling away from home, it would have been my own men there to take her." He looked at lilma. "Why did you not inform me that she would be thus vulnerable?" He did not speak angrily, although he felt much anger. He did not dare offend the wizard, even though he lose a queen. Totila possessed a capacity to hide his feelings far in excess of the control owned by most northern kings.

"This journey was hidden from me until this day, my lord. I suspect that the wizard Rerin, whom you see riding beside the queen, erected a screen to foil my farseeing eyes on wings."

Totila snorted noncommittally, unsure how seriously to take the wizard's protestations. "Now they spring the trap!" he said. He watched excitedly as Alcuina's men were surrounded, forming a shield-wall around their queen and preparing to sell their lives at bitter cost. "They cannot protect her long," Totila observed as the snow reddened. "That means I must take her from Odoac." He gnawed at a nail in annoyance. "But what if he gets her with child before I kill him? This is an ill business, wizard."

"Watch what happens now," the wizard said. As suddenly as it had started, the fighting ceased. Now the viewpoint changed, as if the bird were swiveling its bead. A single man stood on a hillside, and he looked to be shouting, although they could hear nothing.

"What is this?" Totila wondered. "A youth? Nay, that is a grown warrior, though beardless. What breed is be?"

"From his look," lilma said, "a Cimmerian. They ire a race my nation knows to its cost. They come from mountain country to the west of Hyperborea. Their god is called Crom, and they have no skill of magic, although they are matchless fighters."

"My own men are matchless fighters," Totila grumbled, "and I the most matchless among them. What does such a one here?"

"Observe this. It is most interesting." They watched one of Odoac's men come to meet the stranger.

"A challenge fight!" Totila said happily. "That is Agilulf, Odoac's champion. He's a fine swordsman but a loudmouth withal." They saw the first exchange played out. "Good fighting on both parts," Totila said judiciously. "Now they have each other's measure. The next clash must tell the tale." They watched the bewildering flurry of blows, and Totila slapped his thigh in delight. "You spoke true words, wizard! That one is a warrior of rare skill."

The rest of the combat was played out for their enjoyment; then they saw the bodies loaded and watched as the stranger mounted and rode off with Alcuina's escort. Then there was nothing but the stiff forms of Odoac's men, the reddened ground, and the gently falling snow. The picture in the water faded.

"So, Alcuina has a new champion," Totila said, tugging at his beard. "I may just have to try that one myself. It has been many years since I have found a man worthy of my steel. Besides," he mused, looking down at his cloak, "black is the only color missing from my cloak of chiefs' hair. Such a mane as that rogue sports will make a collar better than a wolf's winter coat."

"With that brute among her guard," lilma said, "Alcuina will be more difficult than ever to possess. Why do you not forget her for the moment and move against Odoac? He lost many men this day and is weaker than ever."

Totila thought for a moment. "No, it is as have told you before, wizard. When I move south, it shall be in a great push that shall take me to the borders of Zamon and Turan. shall swallow up Odoac and his tribe like a fish snapping up an insect upon the water."

lilma knew that these dreams far exceeded even the
abilities of a man like Totila. The North simply did not contain enough men to hold so much territory for more than a few years. Still, he wanted to make Totila the greatest king of the North. That much he could assure. "If my lord wishes, I have command of certain spells. They are spells that will make use of allies I can cause to do my bidding. My servants are the frost giants of the North, and the dead who lie stiff beneath the snows."

"I care not how you go about it," Totila said, not wanting to hear more. "Just see to it. If you pave the way for me to take that woman and make her my queen, I'll reward you well, as always."

"So my lord shall," lilma said. "Now, return to the hill and feast with your warriors. I shall be busy here Ac rest of the night and tomorrow and tomorrow night. Then, we shall see."

Totila left to make his way back to the hall. Behind Mm lilma stirred the waters with his staff and began a , eerie chant. Outside the grove, the weather grew

?our

Battle with the Dead

When morning came, Conan woke as the hall door opened, admitting a cold wind and a near-frozen sentry. The man shut the door and ran to the hearth, where he held blued arms over the warm ashes of last night's fire. Conan rose, wide awake as always when not sod-den with drink. The others in the hall roused from sleep in a more leisurely fashion, groaning and scratching. Indeed, on so cold a morning it was a hard task to rise at all.

Conan went to the hearth, wondering that a hardened northerner could be so affected by a few hours' sentry-go in the night. "Good morning, Regin," Conan said. "Is it so cold out there?"

Through chattering teeth, the man managed to say, "Go look for yourself!"

Conan went to the door and threw it open. "Crom's teeth!" He slammed it shut again. Snow was blowing on the wind, and the wind was as cold as any Conan had ever felt in all his years in the Northlands. The loud
crack of trees splitting echoed in the distance. A fur-swathed form came to stand by him.

"Open the door," Alcuina ordered peremptorily. Conan obeyed.

The woman stepped through, and Conan was forced to marvel at the way she stood in the stern wind without making the slightest sign of discomfort.

She turned back to the hall and called in a commanding voice, "Get up, you lazy sluggards! We must see to the livestock or they shall all freeze. Build up the fires, and get all the spare hangings on the walls!" She beckoned to her steward and the man came running, pulling up his trews. "Aslauf, get all the stock you can into the stables with plenty of fodder. We cannot afford lose a single horse or cow. Get all the fowl into the stables or the sheds as well. If need be we'll move any beasts that have no place else into the hall with us until tus weather breaks. Better to put up with the smell and fee mess than a winter of hunger."

"Yes, Alcuina," the steward said, and he hurried ff. calling the names of the boys and the thralls who had charge of the stock.

The queen turned to Conan and beckoned. "Come, ranger, we must see whether the old man is well."

For a moment Conan did not understand who she then he remembered the old wizard, Rerin. "A at," he said, and rushed back into the hall. He emerged, buckling on his sword.

"Why do you need that?" she demanded.

"You hired me for my sword, lady," he said with an grin. "I am of precious little use to you with-led the way to the little hut near the stone wall, i admired the way her hair, now braided into a
single plait thick as a maiden's arm, swayed with her purposeful stride. The shape of her body was a complete mystery beneath the swathing gown and fur robe, but her carriage was light and graceful.

"The old man was awake late last night," Conan told her.

"How do you know that?"

"I came out after everyone else was abed and spoke awhile with the gate sentry. As I returned I saw a light in his window."

"He works in my behalf most of his waking hours," she said. "Unlike warriors, who fight once in a great while and spend the rest of their time gorging my food, and swilling my ale, and bragging of their feats."

Conan smiled mirthlessly. This one did not yield an inch. He rapped on the door of the hut, and it was opened almost immediately. The old wizard looked as though he had had no sleep, but he seemed to be strong and alert.

He nodded to Conan and turned to Alcuina. "Come inside. I have unwelcome news."

Alcuina entered and so, unbidden, did Conan. She turned on him.

"Wait without. Who bade you come in?"

"I'm accursed if I'll freeze my backside out there while you warm yours at the wizard's fire, lady. You have hired a warrior, not a lackey." He folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. She grew red in the face and seemed on the point of loosing a scathing tongue-assault when the wizard touched her shoulder.

"Let him stay, Alcuina. I think this outlander may be of great use to us in the trials we face." The queen instantly quieted.

"Very well," she said. She paid no further attention to Conan. "What means this sudden onslaught by the frost giants? It is unnatural."

"Unnatural, indeed, my lady. I am sure that it has been cast upon us by our enemy, lilma."

"Who is lilma?" Conan asked. The name sounded vaguely Hyperborean to him. He had never had pleasant dealings with that race.

The queen turned on him with stormy brow, but once again Rerin quieted her with a gesture. "He is a wiz-ard, young man. He works evil magic for King Totila of the Tormanna. Last night, as I left the hall after the feasting, I could smell his magic in the air. I searched the sky, but I saw no sign of his magpie-familiars. I knew then that his work was in the very air all around. I lemmed to my house, and all night I have sought the mure of his working."

"What have you discovered?" asked Alcuina.

Conan leaned against the jamb, deeply troubled. He Ad not like it when sorcerers were at work. This old mm's cottage was filled with things that disturbed the Gnmerian. Bundles of dried herbs dangled from the of-posts. Small, stuffed animals that were not native North, instruments of bronze and glass that were manufacture he did not recognize lay scattered "He has been rousing the frost giants, as you can for yourself. Beyond that, he is up to some that I cannot fathom yet." "Does he hope to weaken us by freezing our stock Icqppiing our people?"

" do not see how that can be," said the old man. i bear cold must be afflicting Totila's folk fully as s our own. I fear that there is something far i cold in store for us."

Alcuina rose and turned to go. "I must go see to the garth, Rerin. We must be ready before another such night comes upon us. I want you in the hall with the rest tonight. So long as there are evil things abroad at night, I want none of my people sleeping without the walls."

"But, Alcuina, if I am to serve you properly I must"

"Inside tonight," she said in a voice brooking no dispute. The old man bowed assent.

With Conan following, the queen strode outdoors into the teeth of the wind and began giving orders. The Cimmerian grudgingly admitted to himself that she commanded as well as any professional soldier he had ever seen. While the stock were being seen to, and fuel and fodder gathered, Conan was ordered to mount and was sent out with three others, one of several bands whose task it was to seek out and report on the outlying garths and steadings, and the tiny villages in the forest clear-ings, who owned Alcuina as their queen. They were to ride as far as they could, while leaving themselves time to return before nightfall.

It was a long and cold ride, over snowy hills and through dark forests. Here and there they saw the stiff forms of small woodland animals, caught in the open during the night.

"I like it not," said Siggeir as they sat at midday, letting their horses rest. "The creatures of the wood should know when a great freeze comes, even when our dull senses do not tell us. I have seen unseasonable freezes in plenty, but never one that caught the beasts by surprise." Conan nodded but held his own counsel.

The sun was just dipping below the western hills as they rode back into the garth. Alcuina came to hear their report as they stiffly dismounted.

"Most of the farmers and villagers weathered the freeze well enough, my lady," said Siggeir. "In the outlying garths we heard of three men out tending flocks and herds who froze. Perhaps one beast in ten perished in the cold."

The queen heard these words with a grim countenance. "It might have been far worse. Between the fight with Odoac's men and the weather, I have lost more than one hundred of my people. We are weakened, but at least tonight people will be prepared."

At mention of the fight of the day before, Conan glanced at the space beneath the eave that ran around the great hall. A row of blanketed forms lay there, lightly covered by snowdrift. "Were they not buried today?" he asked.

Alcuina followed his gaze. "The men tried to dig, but the ground is frozen solid. Barring a late thaw, we'll not see them properly interred this winter. Tomorrow we shall have a lich-house built for them outside the wall. Doubtless there shall be other winter dead for it to house." She was gloomy but stoical. Death and the pitiless elements were commonplace in the North, and one who would be a ruler there must learn to cope with both. She turned to Conan. "You are the last party to return. Close the gate and see to your mounts, then join the rest of us in the hall."

That night there was a meal, but no feast. Until it was certain that this was a freak storm rather than the harbinger of a terrible winter, they would be kept on short rations. No joints smoked on the fire this night, wd they made do with bread and cheese and hot por-ndge. and each man was restricted to no more than three tankards of the ale.

The hall was far more crowded than it had been the
night before. At the benches, where before only free warriors and their wives had been permitted, there now sat thralls and children and all the other inhabitants of the garth. At the end of the hall where the thralls would be quartered for the emergency, several horses and cattle assured that the atmosphere was noisy and fragrant. Nobody complained of the noise or smell, since the beasts generated more heat than a good-sized fire.

There would be no sentry posted on so bitter a night. Instead, youths took it in turn to perch in the gables and peer out into the yard through the smoke holes at either end of the hall. It seemed unnecessary to post a watch in any case, since an enemy would hardly choose such a night for an attack, but Alcuina insisted that vigilance never be relaxed, whatever the weather.

Finding that two tankards of ale scarcely took the edge off his thirst, Conan wageredhis last tankard with a warrior, the ownership to be settled by an arm wrestle. He won easily and drank his winnings. He was soon challenged again, and in this way won six more tankards before his arm had tired sufficiently for him to be beaten by a burly, red-bearded thrall whose arms were like tree trunks. He took part in some impromptu wrestling matches, which set the men rolling in the straw, scattering piglets and chickens who were sharing the amenities of the hall with their future diners.

Nursing his last tankard of ale, Conan watched with admiration as an old warrior carved a supporting post. First the man drew his design on the wood with a piece of charred stick from the fire. It was a complicated interlace of serpents and vines. He then roughed out the design with a corner of his belt-ax, wielding the crude weapon with the delicacy of a surgeon. His finishing work he performed with the same knife that he used for eating, fighting, and all the other chores a knife is called to do. When the work was finished, Conan ran his fingers over it, feeling no splinters or gouges. In the course of a long winter evening, the old man had performed a task that would have taken a Zamoran wood-carver a week to finish with a shopful of special-ized tools.

To Conan's compliments the man only nodded curtly, saying, "I'll paint it tomorrow, if I can find the pigments."

Throughout the evening Alcuina looked grim but determined. She had done all there was to be done. Conan tried to cheer her, but she was in no mood for it.

"Just keep your sword arm limber, Cimmerian. You may have need of it ere long."

"My sword arm is always ready," Conan said. "And it's at your service. What enemy do you fear?"

"Pray you never have a king's worries, Cimmerian. By this day's work I may have preserved my people through a long, hard winter. It may be that others have not been so foresighted. If the season continues as hard as this, they will grow hungry, and they'll begin looking about for those who have food and fodder to raid."

Conan nodded. "Aye, you've the right of it there. Kinging is not just fighting battles and lolling about on a throne drinking wine from a jeweled goblet."

Soon Alcuina gave instructions for a watch to be posted and the torches extinguished. The fire was banked fcr the night, and the people and livestock bedded down. Alcuina retired to her bower behind the arras, nd soon the hall shook to the snores of its packed habitants.

Conan jerked awake to the shout of the boy perched
in the gable. "Someone stands without!" There was fear in the young voice.

Conan rolled from his bed of straw and snatched his sheathed sword from its peg. A great pounding began upon the door. "Keep the door barred!" he shouted. People stirred and groaned, calling out questions in the darkness.

"Build up the fire!" Conan called. He made his way toward the gable nearest the door, kicking a pig out of his way. He climbed the crude ladder and joined the youth in his perch. "Where did they come from?" he asked, leaning out for a look.

"They must have got in over the wall," the boy said. "I have kept a watch on the gate, but none have come that way."

Below Conan a dozen men cradled a log of wood in their arms, gradually pounding in the door. Oddly, their heads and shoulders were covered with snow. "So few?" Conan wondered.

"The gate!" the boy shouted. Conan looked that way. Two of the invaders were struggling with the gate-bar.

Conan turned back to the hall. "I'm going down there. You warriors follow me as soon as you are armed, but come through the gable. Keep the door barred. Thralls, block the door with benches and whatever else you can find." He turned back and looked down at the men trying to pound the door in.

"You are not going down there?" said the boy, appalled.

"Sooner or later," Conan said philosophically, "a man must do something to earn his bread." He leaned out, balanced briefly on the sill, and jumped. He held his sword well out to his side lest he stumble and fall on it, but he landed lightly, taking the shock on bent knees. Bearing no shield, he took the hilt of his sword in both hands as he called out to the would-be raiders. "You're a hardy pack of rogues to be out on such a night! Who sent you?"

One of the raiders turned to face him, and Conan's blood turned as cold as the night. The man's eyes were turned up so that only the whites showed. His movements were stiff, and he creaked with every motion. His garments were rent to show gaping wounds and they were crusted with frozen blood.

"Crom!" Conan swore. "They are dead men!"

The lich came toward Conan, its movements swift and sure despite a certain stiffness. The others continued their monotonous pounding.

Live men or dead, Conan had only one way of dealing with enemies. As the lich attacked with clawlike fingers outstretched, Conan hewed with all his might at the thing's side. It was like hitting a log. The sword chunked into the flank, biting into frozen flesh and bone and organs, showering Conan with frozen crystals of blood. The thing seemed not to notice. Its claws closed around Conan's neck and commenced to squeeze.

Conan released his hilt and grasped at the thing's wrists with desperate strength. The cold fingers pressed inexorably inward, cutting off his air. Conan was forced his knees, growing dizzy as the undead creature's frozen countenance registered nothing and the log con-traued to thud-thud-thud against the door. With a final, desperate wrench, Conan broke both hands off at the musts. Using all the strength left in his own hands, he grasped the thumbs and broke them off, then tore the half away from his throat. The lich continued to club
at his head with the stumps of its forearms. The door was giving way.

Conan grasped his hilt and hauled his sword free of the frozen corpse. Desperately, he hewed at the icy flesh until the head flew into the snow. His next blows took away one arm at the shoulder. The blade was growing dull with all this unaccustomed ice-chopping.

"They're walking dead men!" he bellowed. "Bring axes and mauls! Swords are no good!"

He became' aware of a warrior standing beside him, gaping at one of the things. "Hrulf!" he said. "That is my friend, Hrulf! But he was slain in the ambush two days ago!"

"Some wizard's raised the dead we could not bury," Conan shouted. "Kill them again, or they'll slay us all!"

He hewed at one of the log-bearers just as the door gave way. Now there were more warriors about, and torches were thrown down to give the men light to fight by. Conan saw a young warrior borne to the ground with cold fingers buried in his throat while the corpse gnawed at his face.

A pandemonium had erupted inside the hall as the doors broke in, with the screaming of women and children, and the frantic cries of the beasts that knew something unnatural was happening. Now several warriors chopped at each frozen corpse with axes and clubs of firewood, slowly battering and hacking the things to crystalline fragments.

"The gate!" someone shouted. Conan turned to see the gate swinging open.

"Go get the gate shut!" Conan looked down to see Alcuina standing beside him, wild-eyed, her hair streaming in the cold wind.

"Get back inside," he growled. "We'll deal with these things."

Not waiting to see how she responded, Conan sprinted for the gate. Dead they might be, but it seemed that they could be killed again. He came to a halt as a ghastly horde stormed through the gate. In hideous silence came a pack of creatures, some missing arms or other members, all bearing wounds, their eye sockets packed with ice, more ice and snow lacing their beards and showing inside their gaping mouths.

"Odoac's men!" Conan said. "The dead we left in the snow after the fight!"

He dropped his sword and picked up a massive stone, fallen from the ancient wall. With muscles straining, he cast it upon the nearest of the walking dead. The lich fell back with a crunch and lay twitching beneath the weight. Conan looked about for another stone and saw the thrall he had arm wrestled smashing a corpse down with a great wooden mallet.

All about men battled the things with improvised weapons, and Conan breathed silent thanks that they had stripped the dead of arms before abandoning them poo the field where they fell. From behind him Conan heard a scream and spun to see Alcuina writhing in error, grasped by one of the ghastly liches. Trying to bear her off, the thing lifted her, now apparently unconsoous. to a shoulder.

Whh inhuman strength and speed, the creature ran tar the gate while its fellows continued their now losing against the living. In the yard, a fear-maddened had broken from its pen and crunched a horn a corpse, tossing its head and casting the thing : hall roof. As Conan raced in pursuit, he saw
that a boy had doused a corpse with a pan of grease; another set it alight with a torch.

"Good thinking," he shouted to them as he passed.

Outside the gate Conan saw the lich running with its burden across the field of standing stones, headed for the forest to the west. Conan loped after it, amazed that a thing with ice for blood could move so swiftly. His breath lay behind him in a streamer of steam as he chased them, his black mane streaming in a wind of his own making. An ordinary man might have slipped in the snow and stumbled in the pale light from the moon, but Conan had been raised in mountains so treacherous that this was as a field at high noon to him.

When they came to a circle of stones gleaming in the moonlight the thing seemed to sense that Conan was near. It stopped and turned, and at that second Conan grasped Alcuina. Half of the queen's robes were left in the lich's hands as Conan wrenched her from the thing's grasp. He, hurriedly set her upon the ground, half-conscious, and whirled to face the creature he had pursued. It made the others look normal, for its head was divided into two parts, with clotted, frozen brains hanging from the division. Its eyeballs lay frozen upon its cheeks, started from their sockets by the blow that had slain it.

"Agilulf!" Conan breathed.

The thing attacked. Conan had no weapon, and he saw no stone within reach small enough for him to lift but large enough to do any damage. A claw-fingered hand reached for him and he grasped the wrist, seeking to bend the arm back. The fiend's other arm wrapped around his back, and his own sought a grip near his other hand. The hard, frozen flesh made a firm grip all
but impossible. It was a good thing, he thought, that the ruined jaws could not get a teeth-lock upon him.

They swayed and tottered, each trying to get a deadly hold, the lich wrestling as cleverly as any living man. Its strength was abnormal, and it rushed Conan back to slam him against a standing stone. The Cimmerian shook stars from before his eyes, but it had given him an idea. If he could not cast a great stone at this thing, perhaps the opposite could be arranged.

Grappling and staggering, the two forms tottered toward a huge slab of stone, one of the rock sentinels that had toppled in ages past. Conan forced an arm away from him and stepped back, giving himself an instant to get his other hand free and grasp the thing's leg. With a sinew-cracking effort, he raised it above his head and brought it smashing down upon the stone. There was a sound of many small fractures, and the thing lay still for a moment. Then it began to move.

Once again he raised it and brought it down, with an incoherent scream. This time the internal crunching was much louder. Still, the thing moved. A third time, Conan, with a superhuman straining of muscles, heaved it above his head. It was like lifting a sack of stones, only its relatively intact skin holding its sundered fragments together.

"Die for good, Crom curse you!" he shouted as he smashed the ruins once again upon the unyielding stone.

This time it lay still. Even a physician would have difficulty in recognizing that this had once been a man.

"Well, Agilulf," Conan said when he once again had breath, "you could not slay me when you were alive. Did you think you would have a better chance dead?"

"You have slain him twice," Alcuina said. "Must you insult him as well?"

Conan turned to see her standing shakily by one of the standing stones. "Of all the masters I have served," he said, "you are the hardest to please. Are you hurt?"

"I am sore all over, but think bear no serious hurts." Her hands clutched together gaps in her tattered robes, which exposed far more of full breast and rounded thigh than was her wont. Even so, she stood pridefully, seeming to ignore the cold. "I came to my senses just as you caught up with that thing. saw the whole fight. I think I did well in taking you into my service."

"I never thought I would live long enough to hear that," he answered.

"Your work is not over, swordsman. I fear that this is merely the opening affray of this war."

"Come, lady," Conan urged, "let us go back to the garth and see what damage is done and who is dead. Even with these things out of the way, it is still possible to freeze."

"You are right," she said. She tottered slightly, ripped garments gaping to expose pale, trembling flesh, and he put a strong arm about her shoulders. She did not object.

As they crossed the moonlit plain they could see the light of small fires coming from the garth, but there were no major blazes to be seen. At least they would have a roof that night.

A cheer went up as they came in under the gate-lintel. "We had thought you lost," Rerin said. "So busy was everyone, nobody noticed you had been borne away until all these creatures were finished." The old man chattered in nervousness and relief. "Then we sought you but could not find you. A boy said he saw a monster run through the gate with someone over his shoulder and the Cimmerian chasing both. We were about to send a party in search."

"Are all done for?" Alcuina asked.

"Yes, it took some time and the efforts of several men for each lich, but they are all dead. Again."

"There is one more out in the great circle of stones. The outlander killed it with his bare hands." Murmurs of admiration arose. "Go send a party to fetch it," Alcuina continued. "Build a great pyre without the wall. We must burn all the dead. How many did we lose this night?"

"Two warriors, lady," said Siggeir. "And three thralls. Had the Cimmerian not taken a hand when he did, the toll would have been far higher."

"Yes," she said distractedly, "he did well. Get plenty of fuel together. I want all the dead reduced to ashes; and the ashes scattered."

"It grows warmer," Conan noted. A wind had sprung up that would have been cold at any other time, but that seemed warm after the last two days.

"So it does," Alcuina said. She turned to her wiz-ard. "What make you of this?"

"It is plain now what lilma has been up to. He brought the great cold upon us to freeze the ground so we could not bury our dead. He used them against us, both to attack us and to let in Odoac's men, or, rather, ihe liches who were once men."

"Let's go pay King Totila a visit," Conan suggested. "I would very much like to kill this lilma."

"First we must put this place aright," Alcuina said. "With the door repaired and the dead safely disposed of, then we can discuss action. To work."

All the rest of the night they toiled to set the house in
order. While the women saw to the hall, the warriors and thrall-men went to the woods and cut trees to build a pyre. They could not spare seasoned firewood, but the winter pine would burn fiercely, even though it was still green. With teams of oxen and horses, they dragged logs back to the garth. Just outside the wall they stacked them into a great heap, upon which was poured all the grease from the kitchen-midden.

The bodies of the freshly slain were cast upon the pyre, along with those of friend and enemy. Even a few beasts that had perished were tossed on. The sun was high in the east when the pyre was set alight. The arms of the slain warriors were thrown into the blaze, since they could not be buried together.

"Look," said Rerin as the flames ascended into the clear sky. He pointed a gnarled finger straight upward. Far overhead a pair of magpies circled.

ftoe

Wizard-Craft

Jilma," said Totila ominously, "you have failed."

The wizard shrugged beneath his reindeer skins. "It was not I who failed you, Totila, but the dead."

"I ask little of the dead, wizard," said the king, barely able to restrain his temper. "From my wizard I expect results, not excuses. First you bring an unnatural cold upon us, costing me dear in livestock and thralls, then your army of dead men fails of its mission." The two men sat in the hall arguing while the men all wound made merry, celebrating the passing of the un-*atural spell of cold weather.

lilma rose to his feet haughtily. "If my lord has no further use for my services, perhaps another king may kc fit to engage me."

The king turned conciliatory. "Oh, sit down, lilma. I spoke overhastily. We must devise a better plan, it is dor. It must be nothing that can devastate the whole eooBtryside, though. Like it or not, a king lives by plows as well as by swords. I would not have thought it
when I was merely a chieftain over a dozen men, but the loss of oxen can hurt a ruler as severely as the loss of fighting men., Even thralls have value." He ran beringed fingers through his luxuriant, red-gold beard. "How may we set this matter aright?"

"Master," lilma said, "let me meditate upon this. There are mysteries I am privy to that might provide the answer for us. Certain powers commune with me. Let me summon them and take counsel with them. Have I your leave to go to my spirit-hut?"

"You have my leave," said Totila graciously.

The men quieted as the wizard rattled from the hall, then fell once more to dicing and wrestling. King Totila himself sat brooding, from time to time running his fingers through the scalps of dead chieftains and champions.

At that same time Alcuina was taking counsel with her warriors and her wizard. "What may we do to counter this threat from Totila? It is plain that he will destroy us all if we do not do something."

"How many warriors has King Odoac?" Conan asked.

"Several hundred, if he calls them all up," she answered. "More than I have. Why do you ask?"

"Why not ally yourself with him? With your combined armies, you could destroy Totila. It would be of profit to you both." He drained his tankard and held it out for more. Since the passing of the freakish cold Alcuina had lifted the rationing.

"I know well what the price for his alliance would be!" she said hotly. "I'll not lie in that pig's bed for a score of kingdoms!"

"So much for that, then," Conan muttered.

"I fear," Rerin said, "that his next attack will be magical as well. After all, why should he risk his men when he has the evil lilma to do his work for him?"

"Is there no way we can kill this wizard?" said Siggeir.

"Aye, I'm for that," Conan said. "Just tell me where to find this spell-caster, and I'll take care of him. He must sleep sometime. Ordinarily I'll not kill a man who has no chance to fight, but one who raises dead men to fight the living has no claim on any man's mercy or justice."

Alcuina turned to her own wizard. "What of it, Rerin? Could Conan steal upon lilma and kill him? That ts an order for murder I'd not hesitate to give."

The old man shook his head. "No wizard has wrought k lilma has without seeing to his defenses. He will be **rounded with traps and warnings. Most especially, Acre are his magpie-familiars. They could be perched in ak eaves, watching us even now." Many heads jerked around, eyes wide with fear and searching the surround-*g shadows. "No, they or some other agency would wn him of an approaching killer, be the man ever so eakhy and crafty."

"Oom take.it!" Conan said, slamming down his . "These are mortal men. There must be some m to deal with them." But none there had an answer 'tarn.

the wizard strode through the forests and across His. Above him flew his magpies, spying out his i. their eyes bright and keen for the sight of ene-l Lima gave no notice to the cold or the snow, t tcun those of a normal winter. The pouch at his tnaaiinrd a little food, which was all he needed.

To a magician, the needs of the flesh were the pettiest of concerns.

Ten years before, he had come to these strange lands, driven from his native Hyperborea by jealous rivals. He might have gone south, to the rich kingdoms he knew were there. He had communed with southern mages in his spirit-trances. But his magic, of which he was a matchless practitioner, was the magic of the snows and the forests. His was the magic of the North, the land of frost giants and fog giants, of the spirits that lived in stone and wood and water. To the south was the magic of other gods, equally ancient, and dominated by the serpent cult of Set. In those lands his power might not be great, and he was too old to learn a new art.

Thus, he had come to this land of squabbling kinglets arid chose one such to bend to his will. Totila was strong and fierce, but he was also crafty and saw no reason to use men and treasure when magic would do his work. He was the perfect instrument for lilma's plans. The wizard would make Totila the greatest king of the North, and lilma would in turn become the greatest of wizards. Lesser mages such as Rerin would be no stop to him, since they feared to traffic with the truly great powers.

On his third day of travel lilma came to a dead heath. Such vegetation as it supported was stunted and withered, and it took strange shapes not pleasant to look upon. lilma journeyed there two or three times each year to find plants that grew nowhere else in the North. Almost everything that grew there had powers and properties that were valuable to him. This time, however, he was not in search of magical plants.

As he progressed into the heath the plants grew fewer, until there were none at all. Here the ground was
frozen and cracked, like a dried lake-bottom in the midst of a drought. In the center of the wasteland towered a mound, curiously regular in shape and crowned with an encircling wail, much like those that dotted the plain where Alcuina had built her hall. Leaning upon his staff, lilma trudged to the top of the mound.

From its crest he surveyed his surroundings. He could see the cracked plain he had crossed, but neither hills nor forests were visible in the distance. Only a waver-ing haze was to be seen. The laws of the ordinary world did not always apply to this demon-haunted place.

The wall was breached by a narrow doorway, and within the top of the mound was empty save for a beehive-shaped hut made of stones piled crudely, without mortar. Ordering his familiars to keep watch outside, lilma ducked through the low doorway into the hut. The inside was dark and smelled of damp, and the wizard quickly kindled a fire from the bundle of sticks he had gathered on the way. As it blazed high the fire revealed a conical chamber with walls of rough stone and a floor of packed earth, nothing more.

Onto the fire lilma cast small objects from his pouch: bones, feathers, clots of dried blood, and certain plants plucked from the withered heath. A thick smoke of many colors arose and gathered thickly in the chamber, for there was no smoke hole at its peak. For reasons peculiar to this place, no smoke found its way out through the door. lilma breathed deep of the murky fumes. Rocking back and forth, he began to chant, occasionally stirring the embers of the fire with his staff. In time with his chant, lilma shook a gourd rattle in a monotonous rhythm. Gradually he lost all sense of where he was. The hut and the smoke disappeared from his senses, and he entered the spirit world.

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He was never sure at what point he would enter that strange realm. The spirit world and the world of men were not like nations, whose borders remain in the same juxtaposition. He had many times entered the spirit realm through this gate, and never had he twice entered the same place. This time he found himself sitting in the midst of a limitless plain, twilit, its sky beginning to display stars that were not those to be seen from the world of men. In the far distance he could just descry the hulking shapes of mountains, which seemed to move subtly, in a disturbing fashion. Sitting in the middle of this plain, lilma continued to rattle and chant. The flames of his fire were still before him, but of the fuel and the smoke there was no sign.

From time to time strange creatures drew nigh him, their forms gaunt and hideous. Great, glowing eyes and long teeth shone in the dim light, and many-jointed fingers were tipped with claws. Bloodlust burned in their eyes, but none ventured within the circle of light cast by the little fire. In time they departed, at the approach of something far larger.

The thing that came to the wizard lilma upon the darkling plain of the spirit world was evil to behold, bloated of body and with a face like that of a toad, if a toad's face were capable of expression and malice. Wartlike growths covered its leprous skin, which hung in loose folds about its repulsive body. It squatted before the wizard and waited with an air of intelligent expectation.

"What would you?" it asked in a hissing voice. The tongue it spoke was one known only to wizards and demons.

"I have an enemy," lilma said, "and I desire that my king should have a certain woman. It is my desire that you attend to my enemy and procure this woman that I may present her to the king."

"The woman is a queen?" the thing hissed.

"Yes, but you may not have her! You must deliver her to me at this place, alive and unharmed. I invoke the pact we made many years ago."

The thing glared at him with hideous amusement, tben said, "I abide by the pact. Now, show me."

Lima's flames flattened and spread into a broad whorl, tike his forest pool. Pictures began to take form. First dry were looking down through a bird's eye upon -ma's garth, the hall looking tiny within its sur-Kwnding wall in the midst of the plain dotted with its aims and stone circles.

"She wrought foolishly in her choice of a dwelling ec." said the demon with obscene glee. "For many s of the gyre we have felt strange vibrations ema-from our point of contact with that place." Tie flames swirled again, and then the form of Alcuina The queen of the Cambres sat in her her robe pooled around her hips, baring the perfection of her upper body, a handmaiden her luxuriant hair. The red-gold tresses fanned over her shapely, white shoulders. The queen pensive, but what thoughts lay behind her level a mystery. She spoke, but they heard is fair, as men judge such things," lilma e flames brought forth the image of Rerin The old man stood upon the walk that ran "This is my enemy. He is a wiz-

"This is where they live," lilma said. "Since mid-has the queen dwelt among the stones of the
ard, but his skill is small compared to mine, and he has no pact with you."

"A trivial business," the demon said in boredom. Then another man joined the wizard, a tall, powerfully-built man, with flowing black hair. "Who is this?"

"That is Alcuina's new champion," lilma said. "A mere adventurer, and of no consequence."

The demon looked upon lilma with a smile so terrible that even the hardened wizard was frightened for a moment. It pointed toward the Cimmerian with a taloned finger. "This one has the aura of destiny about him."

lilma looked, but could see nothing. He shrugged. "Many are born to destiny, yet die before they have any chance to fulfill it."

In the image that floated before mem, the wizard looked up, seeming to stare straight at them. He pointed a finger toward them, and the black-haired man followed the gesture. The warrior snatched a spear from its place against the palisade and cast it upward. The weapon seemed to soar straight at lilma, then the vantage-point shifted and they lost sight of the two.

lilma smiled frostily. "The foolish Rerin has learned to keep watch for my familiars."

"We shall take them," the demon said. "The queen, the wizard, and the warrior."

"The wizard you must kill," lilma said. "The warrior"he made a dismissive gesture with his hand "you may do with as you like. But the queen you must deliver to me unharmed. Her mind, of course, may be slightly damaged by the experiences she shall undergo, but my king is interested primarily in her body, her pedigree, and her ability to produce strong heirs."

"None of those things shall be damaged," the demon promised. "This shall take time to arrange. I shall contact you in the spirit-trance when I have her for you. At that time you must come to the place whence you came here and perform as you have this day. Then shall I deliver her to you, in accordance with the pact between us."

"Be it so," said lilma.

At his gesture the flames were extinguished, and he found himself once more within the beehive-shaped hut of stone. Before him lay the cold ashes of his fire, and outside he could hear the cawing of two magpies.

Conan stood at his guard-post, brooding over the Bony plain. He did not like this place. He liked his companions well enough, and he could not fault Alcuina is an employer, but the ancient stone lines and circles depressed his spirits. The massive posts with their stone feels could never have been the work of men, he was e. The stones were too great to lift by any means he cook) imagine. They squatted in brutish silence, and he «as sure they were haunted by the spirits of the build-as. The old man Rerin agreed with him in this, but .Me in inn insisted that they needed the wall while they ere in so weakened a condition, with so many ene-es all about.

Tie snow fell gently, but Conan, perched above the ik. had had a small shelter built to protect the man on f. k had no sides to restrict his vision, but a thatched ' bqx off the worst of the snow or rain.

iiiiLd at the sound of someone ascending the r. He wondered which of his friends, sleepless this coming up to while away an hour in tale-Great was his surprise to see Alcuina herself.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, sheathing his sword.

"You are a nervous man to draw your weapon even at one coming from within the garth," she said.

"I have not arrived at my present age by assuming a man was my friend merely from the direction of his approach. What's more, many an officer has given me extra duty for not challenging him while on guard, even though I knew him as my own commander. It was a lesson I was slow to learn, but it may be the only sensible one the southern armies use."

"It is rare that I even find one of my sentries awake when I come upon them this late. How do your southern officers deal with sleeping sentries?"

"It depends. Some hang them. Others are content with a mere flogging. I would not recommend that you employ such means. Northern warriors are not like southern soldiers."

"I could not sleep tonight," Alcuina said. She stood by Conan and leaned upon the palisade, looking out over the vista that so disturbed the Cimmerian. "I went to Rerin's hut, but he is abed. You are the only other one wakeful in the garth."

"What disturbs your sleep?" Conan asked, not without a gentle malice. "The feast was a good one, I saw that you put away your share of the ale, the snores within are no louder than usual, the livestock are back in their sheds, and no dead men have come calling"

"Do not mock me!" She turned on him. "I feel uneasy tonight." She looked back out over the plain. "I feel that something out there is stirring. I know now that this is not a good place for us to live. I should have trusted to a timber wall such as we always used."

"Too late to be worrying about that," Conan said
uneasily. He did not like this talk of things stirring in the outer darkness. The fight with the dead had been bad enough. Now that it was past, he hoped there would be no more supernatural doings. An open sally by Totila was what he wanted. He had no unease about an honest fight with real men and real weapons, no matter how bad the odds. "We must make the best of it here until spring. Let me take some men into the hills, then I'll find you a good defensive position in the upland."

"Spring may be too late." Alcuina shivered, but not from the cold. "Perhaps I'll be forced into alliance with Odoac after all."

It occurred to Conan that her sleeplessness might be occasioned by lack of suitable male companionship. Surely she would not be out in the middle of a winter ght talking with Siggeir or any of the other men who, Cooan complacently realized, did not share in his abun-dmce of the qualities women find attractive in a man. Be was about to test this thought when he was inter-aped by the arrival of Rerin. The old man came pacing up the ladder just as Conan had stepped closer ( tie queen.

"I had thought you abed," said Alcuina as she hast-

' aepped away from Conan.

As did I," said Conan sourly.

An evil dream woke me," Rerin said. "I doubt not i is up to some mischief. I came to find whether ry had seen aught. I did not expect to find you has become a popular gathering place," Conan we've not seen those accursed magpies in so why think you that lilma is busy this

"For one thing," Rerin said impatiently, "we've not seen his magpies in many days, young man. Does that not make you suspicious?"

Conan shook his head. "The less I see of wizards," he said pointedly, "the happier I am. The same goes for their familiars. I have seen worse creatures than magpies lurking about magic-mongers, but these birds are bad enough."

"I felt it too, Rerin," said Alcuina, ignoring Conan. "Strange shapes move through my sleeping hours."

"Speaking of which," Conan broke in, "I wonder where my relief is? I feel the need of a few sleeping hours, with or without strange shapes." .

"Come, Rerin," Alcuina said disgustedly, "let us retire to my bower where we may confer without annoying this great warrior." The two descended the ladder and left Conan, arms folded, and sunk in gloom.

After all, he thought, brooding, there were plenty of other women hereabout. Because of the recent increase in mortality, there was a large supply of grieving wid-ows, many who had let him know in no uncertain terms how desperately they were in need of consoling. He had yielded to some of their blandishments, but it was Alcuina who intrigued him.

Small though her kingdom was, she ruled it well, with the good of her people in mind. That was a rare thing in Conan's experience. Her warriors were intensely loyal to her, even though she was not a war-chieftain, and that was even rarer. More to the point, he found her beautiful, and he was frustrated by her seeming indifference to him. Certainly a queen could have no intention of permanent attachment to a penniless adventurer, but surely she owed herself a little pleasurable dalliance. And who better to dally with than Conan? It was hard on a warrior's pride.

He saw a small point of light coming his way from the hall. Had she reconsidered? But then the light be-came a burning faggot borne by Ataulf, his relief. The man made his way up the ladder, yawning and scratching. Beneath the little roof, he tossed his brand into the smoking brazier. "Any sign of foes without?" he asked sleepily.

"You would know if there had been," Conan said shortly. "What took you so long to get here? I've been freezing my"

"Peace, Conan. I am not late. It always feels that way on night sentry. Go find your bed."

Conan grumbled as he descended to the yard. He would show that stuck-up, queenly wench. He wondered which of the women who had been casting longing gazes his way to try first. No, they would all be asleep now, and in no mood for amusement. What he needed was a good fight. No, what he really needed was some sleep. He went into the hall and stumbled among the snoring heaps on the floor. He found his place and was beginning to unbuckle his cuirass when the screams began from behind the arras at the end of the hall.

"Crom's bones, what does a man have to do to get a night's sleep in this place?" He ripped out his sword and dashed for the arras. The glowing coals in the hearth illumined that end of the hall. With no patience for such niceties as formal entrance, he slashed the arras from top to bottom with his sword and leaped through.

Brilliant, unnatural light filled the chamber. Dazzled,

Conan could make out only shifting forms. Screaming came from the midst of animallike growls.

"Alcuina!" he shouted, sword held out before him and eyes squinted against the light. "Where are you?" A loud chanting rose among the other sounds. Behind Conan the hall stirred, but nobody joined him. "Alcuina!" Still no answer.

Gradually the light faded. The screams and the ani-mal growls faded away, but the chanting continued. At last Conan could see. The queen's chamber was utterly wrecked, its furnishings splintered and claw-slashed. The logs that formed its rear wall appeared to have been burned through. Beyond the gaping hole footprints led away through the falling snow.

He looked to the source of the chanting and saw Rerin, his staff held stiffly before him in both hands, eyes tightly shut as he wailed out his chant. A nimbus of blue light surrounded the old man, pulsing and throb-bing to his litany.

"Cease that bawling, old man!" Conan shouted. "Where is Alcuina?"

Rerin's eyes sprang open and his chant broke off. The nimbus faded as he stared wildly about. "The demons came! They came and tried to carry us both off! I cast a protective spell. It saved me, but I could not save Alcuina." His hands trembled as he clenched them in rage and humiliation.

"Then what good are you?" Conan demanded.

He crossed to the gaping hole in the logs, noting that the ends of the logs were blackened; but instead of being charred, they looked as if they had melted. He shook his head. "Wood should not melt." He kept his words steady and offhand, as befitted a warrior; but inwardly he was repelled at the unnatural sight.

"And demons should not bear off queens," Rerin said. "But it has happened. We must pursue." Terrified, gaping faces peered in through the ruined OB.

"Arm yourselves!" Conan ordered. "We're going to gel Alcuina back." Some moved with less alacrity than ey might have had it been human enemies they faced. Conan pointed to a stableman. "You! Saddle some horses, quickly."

"Do not bother," said Rerin. "The beasts will never go near those creatures, nor even follow on their tracks. We must pursue on foot, and we have little time."

Conan pushed his way back into the hall and found his cloak and his helmet. Donning both, he returned to the queen's chamber and grabbed the old wizard by the arm. "Let's go, magician. The trail grows cold."

Out through the ragged hole Conan strode into the snowy night. The footprints in the snow were not quite human, but neither were they those of any beast he knew. He turned at a shout from the sentry. "Something crosses the plain! They go toward the great stone circle."

With the wizard in tow, Conan followed the prints to the base of the stone wall. Through the ancient stone another passage had been melted. His hair rose on the back of his neck, but his urge to rescue Alcuina was stronger. He turned to the mob of people behind him. "We must go get the queen!" he shouted. "Who goes with me?" Siggeir and a few of the hardier souls came forward. "Then curse the rest of you for nithings!" he said. "Come on!"

Out through the unnatural tunnel they went. Snow drifted into the tracks, but the men would remain visi-
ble for some time yet. They held torches aloft and shouted to encourage themselves and each other.

"I spend much time tracking this woman over the same ground," Conan muttered. "What did they look like?"

"Their shape was unclear," said the old man. "Such creatures are not intended to exist in this world, and they cannot hold any form here for long. I think they were man-sized, and almost man-shaped. More than that I could not tell."

"Why did they take her, and why did they want you?" The great stone circle loomed in the distance, and there was an unaccustomed glow about it.

"I can only guess," protested Rerin.

"Guess, then," Conan urged. "It was not for your beauty they wanted you."

"It must be some machination of lilma. Totila wants Alcuina, and I am her only protection from lilma's sorcery.'

"Cursed poor protection, if you ask me," Conan growled. "I want to meet this Totila. A man who is already stronger than his enemies and has plenty of warriors and still would rather use wizardry has lived too long."

As they reached the circle of stone they could see a crowd of odd creatures huddled near a gatelike stone trilithon. Uncanny streaks of light arced between the standing stones and whirlpools of flamelike light filled the entire circle. Borne overhead by the pack of creatures was Alcuina.

"There she is," he said, pointing with his sword. "We must go take her back!" The men behind him stared with fear-widened eyes, and none came forward.

Rerin shook loose from Oman's grasp and gathered
hn shaken dignity about him like a robe. "I shall lead." he said, chin high and only slightly quivering. "Follow me."

With his staff held rigidly before him, the old man flcpped within the circle. The lights whirled about him, tat none touched him. Conan followed close behind, heart pounding. The light formed into small, malevolent beings, fanged and clawed and flapping bat-wings f glittering light. They attacked him and he slashed at tinn with his sword, but it passed through them harmlessly. They circled around him, laughing maniacally.

"Do not waste your strength," the old man said. "They are phantoms of your own mind."

"Then give me something I can cut, damn you!" Conan bellowed.

"They pass through!" said Rerin in a quavering voke.

Conan squinted into the shifting light. Something like daylight gleamed through the gateway formed by the posts and lintel of the trilithon. The things and their burden were passing beneath the lintel.

At the gateway the old man halted. "We dare go no farther," he said. "Beyond is the spirit land."

"By Crom, I'll not return to the hall without her, and neither shall you!" With the wizard's robe knotted in one fist and his sword gripped in the other, Conan strode into another world.

Che Shifting Land
as Conan leaped through the gate he felt a shattering sense of disorientation. For moments that could not be measured in time, he felt suspended in a yawning gulf, with a sickening sensation of falling endlessly in some void between worlds. Such thought as he could muster he devoted to keeping his grip on his sword and upon Rerin.

Abruptly, the transition was over, and he was staggering upon solid ground. His grip on the old man's clothes broke and he whirled, sword outstretched, ready to be set upon by enemies. His dizziness passed, and still there was no attack.

"Alcuina!" he bellowed, but there was no answer.

Raging, he stormed about, seeking any sign of the demons that had borne her off. There were no tracks such as the demons should have made, either. He hoped that the wizard might have some answers for the things that perplexed him. Rerin sat dazed upon the ground,
and the Cimmerian studied his surroundings as he went to the old man.

Instead of the black, snowy night they had left be-hind, it was an oddly dim day here. Conan helped the old man to his feet and said with unaccustomed hesitation, "I'm sorry I was so rough with you, old man. I thought that, with haste, we might save the queen."

"Quite understandable," said Rerin, brushing off his robe. "I do not suppose any more followed us?"

Conan scanned the gateway. The trilithon was identical, but instead of standing in the northern plain it stood a little mountain glade. Nothing was visible through its doorway but more of the glade. "Not one," Conan reported. "I am not surprised. They were brave men to come as far as they did. It is easier to find a new ruler than to enter a demon land."

"And yet you come," said Rerin.

"I want her back," Conan said.

"And you are braver than most men."

"That may be," Conan agreed. "But I was as fright-coed as any."

"It takes a hero to ignore fear in the service of his bege. She did well when she hired you."

"Then it is time for me to earn my pay," Conan barked, weary of talk. "They were only paces before us when they passed through this gate. Why are they not hoe now?"

"The spirit land does not obey the same rules as our own world. They may not have emerged in the same piace as we. It is fortunate that you and I came across m the same place."

"That remains to be seen," Conan said. He looked round at their surroundings. "What manner of land is this?"

If this was truly a spirit land it seemed to be common enough. They stood in a glade cupped in rolling hills. The light of the blue sky was slightly different than it should have been, its blue deeper and the bowl of the sky seeming somehow closer, and there was a haze around them, as if they were under water. Unclear things floated in the haze, but none seemed to be threatening so far.

"It's like the sea," Conan said, "as you see it through the crystal eye-shields worn by the black pearl divers of Rush."

"We have been fortunate, if I may use such a word," Rerin said. "I think we may be in the Shifting Land. The spirit world is really many lands, as is the world of men. I have been to some of these lands in spirit-trance, although never in body. Some of those lands would drive you mad instantly. This is one of the more bearable ones. We came through a gate in the northern part of the world of men, and this place somewhat corre-sponds to that part of the world. Had we entered through the land of Rush you mentioned, we might have come out into a hideous jungle, but there are far worse places even than that in the spirit land."

"Is there some way we may find Alcuina?" Conan asked, cleaving to the subject.

"There may be, but it will require time. And a number of magical substances, plants and minerals for the most part. Let us hope that they exist in this evil place."

"It seems that we have time. We'll find your substances, if they are to be found here. Can you get us back to the real world?"

"Yes, through gates such as this one. The time must be right, and"

"Good," Conan said, dismissing inessentials. "Are there people here?" He gazed up at something that flew overhead on membranous wings. It took no notice of them.

"Of a sort. I have seen them in spirit-trance. They are not true men such as you and I, though. They"

"How long until you know where we should look for Alcuina?" Conan asked abruptly.

The old man looked about. "I see some of the plants I need right here. Doubtless the others will be nearby. Then I must build a fire, perform certain ceremonies and chants"

"Wake me when you know something." Conan dropped his helmet, stripped off his corselet, and flung himself on the ground. Soon he was deep in sleep.

Rerin shook his head in wonderment. Even in slumber the Cimmerian's hand still rested lightly upon his sword hilt.

Conan awoke when the old man touched his shoulder. Rerin jerked back as he exploded to his feet, sword in fist. "It is only me, Conan. I have found a direction where we may look for Alcuina. It is not a definite location, but at least we'll not be wandering about tost."

"Good," Conan said. He sheathed his blade and began to don his armor. "At least it is not too cold here."

Indeed, it was like a mild spring day in the North, just cool enough to know that winter had not wholly departed. Conan folded his cloak and tossed it over one shoulder. His life had taken him to many strange places, ft was a consequence of being an adventurer. This was another strange place, and he could make his way anywhere.

"Let us go find her," he said.

For some time Alcuina thought she was mad. One moment she had been sitting in her bower, quietly talking with old Rerin. The next the log wall began to melt and flow, and a pack of nightmare demons entered in a burst of light, laying their .loathsome hands upon her. She had thought that she called her men in her usual commanding voice, only later realizing that she had been screaming. As she was borne out she heard a bellowing voice that she was sure belonged to Conan. Then there had been a period of scattered impressions, of sounds and sights and concepts so confused that now she was utterly disoriented.

What was this place? For a moment she was afraid to breathe; the air appeared thick, as if it had turned to water. Giving in to the inevitable, she took a deep breath, then shuddered with relief. It was like any other air. Perhaps something had gone wrong with her vision. But then she realized that things nearby were perfectly clear. She could have wished otherwise, for now she saw clearly the nature of her captors.

Before, their outline had been unstable. Now she saw that they were gaunt creatures, vaguely man-shaped but formed as obscene parodies of humankind. No two were quite alike, but bird-beaked faces mocked her. Beaks fringed with stubby tentacles flapped and clacked with obscene laughter. Their eyes were huge, bulging, and lidless, each with two slit irises and pupils. The hands that gripped were many-fingered and their gray skins coarse and pebbly, chafing her fair skin. Their smell was, if anything, worse than their aspect. They had set her upon the ground and seemed .to be conferring among themselves. Their attitude was watchful, but they did not seem threatening just now.

She sat up and examined her surroundings. The turf beneath her felt strange. The grass was blue-green, very short and springy. She had never seen such grass. Some of the trees nearby looked familiar, others had feathery fronds and ringed trunks. Colorful birds flew overhead in panicked flight, pursued by a reptilian thing on membranous wings. Whatever this place was, it was not her familiar Northland. The air was cool, but not bitterly cold like the land from which she had been abducted.

The creatures, deep in their deliberations, ignored her. Their voices croaked and clicked, and multijointed hands gestured excitedly. Something in their furtive aspect told her that this was alien territory to them as well, and that they sought not to draw attention. She wondered who or what they were afraid of. She knew better than to assume that the enemy of her enemy was her friend.

That this was some machination of lilma on behalf of Totila she had no doubt. What it would lead to was another matter. She knew that she was on her own. None of her people could have followed them here. How could they? She fought off a wave of hopeless-ness. She was a queen, and she would not act like a terrified kitchen-girl. Her first priority was escape from these unthinkable creatures.

In the distance, over the trees, she could see hazy mountains. She thought she could descry a hulking shape on the side of one of the nearer mountains, like some unthinkably huge hall. If so, it must be inhabited by giants such as had erected the wall surrounding her own hall. That did not look like a good direction in which to flee.

She was resolved upon flight, and the present seemed to be as good a time as any. Her captors were preoccupied with their own bickering, and their fearful attitude was such that they might be more solicitous of their own safety than zealous in their pursuit of her. Surrepti-tiously, she gathered her legs beneath her.

As the bickering ascended to a crescendo, she sprang to her feet and ran. Behind her rose loud hoots of consternation, but she did not look back. She had spotted the nearest patch of dense forest, and she headed straight for it. Sounds of pursuit grew closer, and something tugged at her fur robe. Shrugging out of her garment, she increased her pace and heard a disappointed screech from behind. Now she could run even faster. She took her fur-trimmed gown in both hands and pulled its hem above her knees as she ran, wishing there was some way for her to strip it off, too. Unfortunately it took the help of a maid just to lace her into the garment.

Then she was among the trees, winding her way among the densest of them in hopes that the demons chasing her would find the terrain bewildering. So far they had shown little sign of intelligence. She darted between the tree trunks as lightly as a barren doe, and the sounds behind her grew frantic as the demons crashed through the undergrowth.

The woods were dark and mysterious, but she limited herself to one fear at a time. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter, but she did not slack her pace, although her lungs burned with the effort. She leaped a small stream in which the water flowed with an odd slowness.

At last, panting raggedly, she collapsed in a heap beneath a busy plant with dense, fleshy leaves. She crawled under it as far as she could go, trying not to
breathe too loudly. She was almost certain that she was far enough ahead of the pursuit that she had not been seen taking cover. With every nerve stretched to the snapping point, she listened for the demons. Once she thought she heard shuffling sounds nearby, then nothing but the noises that apparently were common in this forest, not much different from the woodland sounds she was used to.

Something lumbered by on big, soft feet, jarring her from a half slumber. She wondered how long she had been semiconscious. The light was dimming, and she wondered at this since she had been wide awake when she hid. Perhaps it was the shock catching up with her. She still felt oddly drowsy and lethargic. A bunch of the flowers of the plant she had taken refuge under hung before her face, giving off a heavy perfume. Idly she tried to brush the blossoms aside and found that she could not move her hand. With growing horror she felt her body pinioned by rootlike growths that trailed from the branches of the plant above her. Eyes wide, she realized that the ground beneath the bush was carpeted with the bones of animals.

Trying to make little sound, she struggled for her life. Gradually the roots yielded. They had sent out fine, hairlike rootlets, which penetrated her clothing. The rootlets stung as they pulled away from her flesh. She thanked Ymir that the passing beast had awakened her before the evil plant had had a chance to kill her.

One by one the roots tore away from her as she Aagged herself with her hands toward the open. With a flinging wrench, the roots binding her legs ripped loose. QojckJy she scrambled out from under the bush and lay, pBKing and exhausted, upon the ground.

The darkness increased rapidly even as the fumes
from the plant cleared from her head. A pearly, ambient light remained after the last of the sunlight was gone. What kind of place was this? She had been afraid of the demons. It had occurred to her to fear the beasts or people of this place. She had not expected that she would have to fear the plants as well. For the first time the extent of her isolation and danger was borne in upon her. Never had she been so lost and alone. She shivered upon the ground and not entirely from the cold. Where could she go from here? She was utterly exhausted, yet she dared not sleep, as much as she yearned for it.

Shakily she got to her feet and examined herself. Her fine, fur-trimmed gown was in rags where the roots had torn away, exposing far more flesh than a well-bom northern lady was accustomed to display. Her fair skin was covered with welts where the rootlets had been pulled from her. It was a good thing, she reflected, that the weather here was so mild.

The light grew stronger as the moon rose over the trees. It looked much like the moon she was used to, but it appeared much larger, and its color was greenish. She had never traveled far from her home, but she was fairly certain that people saw the same moon in all lands.

She could neither smell nor hear the demons anywhere nearby, and direction seemed to be purely a matter of convenience, so she decided to go downhill. There were many clear pathways in the forest. She chose one that descended alongside one of the slow-flowing streams. There was little sound in the forest except for the occasional splash of a fish leaping in the stream.

She had been walking by it for some time before she realized that something was odd about the stream. She
stepped closer to the water and squinted at it. Unsure of her sight in the dimness, she found a light-colored leaf and tossed it in. She had been correct. The stream flowed uphill. None of the widely-traveled people she had spoken with had ever mentioned this happening in the far places of the world.

In a half trance she staggered on for some time, until she wandered from the path and walked into a tree. The shock of hitting the unyielding trunk jolted her into wakefulness. It was plain that she must rest, but where could she do it safely? She came to an open glade that had no vegetation except the short, springy grass. She went to its center, as far as she could get from any large plants, and lay down. She was so numb from fatigue that she was unaware of the chill air or anything else. Gratefully she allowed sleep's black wings to enfold her.

She awoke stiff and sore. Her body was bruised and scratched, and she was chilled to the bone, but she was rested and clearheaded. A night such as she had spent would have killed or at least seriously weakened a highborn woman of the more civilized parts of the world, but in the frozen North even the queens were hard as steel.

She looked around her and gasped when she saw that a middling-sized tree stood near her. It had not been there when she had lain down to sleep, and now it was only a few paces from her. It stood upon a mass of tsogled roots, and she now saw that the roots were moving with almost imperceptible slowness. Long, Aorny, vinelike growths hung from its branches, and she had little doubt of their purpose.

She rose hastily and walked away from the menacing ree Now, in daylight, she saw that she was at the foot
of a mountain. Upon its slopes towered the great structure she had seen when she was still in the hands of the demons. That seemed impossible, for at that time it had appeared to be many leagues away, and she could have covered only a fraction of that distance in her flight. Could it be a similar hall on another mountain? And yet she had been sure that there were no mountains nearby when she made her escape. It was another mystery, but she put it from her mind. In any case she had no intention of going near that stronghold. It looked ominous, and she did not want to encounter the folk who might live in such a place.

The rising sun, which at least appeared to be normal, gradually warmed her. She was very hungry, but what did she dare eat? In a place where plants walked and ate living victims, how was she to know which things were poisonous? She had no weapons for hunting and no skill at trapping, no hooks, line, or net for fishing. She could endure much privation, but if she did not eat today, she would weaken, making it harder for her to find food, making her easier prey.

A lengthy, tiring trek brought her to level ground below the mountain when she heard a great commotion behind her. As she crossed a wide clearing she cursed her carelessness. She should have skirted it, keeping close to the tree line. The trees might be dangerous, but at least they seemed to be unable to catch moving prey. She broke into a run, striving to reach the tree line straight ahead, when she looked back to see a panicked beast break into the clearing. It was the size of a horse and had lyre-curved horns. Its hide was dappled white and brown. It ran straight for her but she could tell by its rolling eyes that it did not see her. She knew a hunted animal when she saw one.

She had not reached the far trees when the hunters entered the glade. Flight was now out of the question; she turned to face them. They appeared to be men, and the animals they rode seemed to be horses, but she could not be sure. The riders were clothed in fantastic costumes of leather and cloth and metal, in many col-ors. Masks of fanciful design hid their faces. The mounts were likewise caparisoned gaily in bards of silken cloth, and their heads were adorned with horns and antlers and other outlandish ornamentation, clearly artificial. Little of the beasts was visible but for their hooves, which looked like true horse hooves except for their bright colors.

One of the riders drew a short bow, and an arrow flew from it to plunge feather-deep into the fleeing beast's side. It staggered on a few more steps, then collapsed almost at Alcuina's feet. The riders rode up to her and reined in. Their speech sounded like the twitter-mg of birds, and one of them seemed to address her.

She shook her head. "I do not understand you."

They seemed taken aback. The one who had addressed her wore a hawk-mask covered with feathers, nd now he lifted it from his head, like a helmet. His features were elfin and his hair like spun silver. His eyes were featureless silver balls and his skin pale as "Are you from the world of men?" he asked. His

~ : revealed small, even teeth.

What other world is there?" she asked.

laughed
pitched
masks.

They all seemed to find this highly amusing and uproariously, the sound of their laughter high-and warbling. Now the others removed their and they were so much alike that they might
have been siblings. Some appeared to be women, but in their heavy, fanciful costumes sex was difficult to judge.

A group of dwarfish figures emerged from the tree line, but die riders paid them no attention. The dwarfs ignored her as well and set about cutting up the dead beast with great efficiency.

"What kind of person are you?" asked the one who had spoken before.

"I am Alcuina, queen of the Cambres," she answered. They found this amusing as well.

"What are Cambres?" asked another.

"They are my people, my nation. I do not know what place this is, nor how I arrived here, but I must return home. I crave the boon of your hospitality until I may find a way to return." She had no idea who these people were, but their horses and rich clothing suggested that they were nobles. The tradition of hospitality between persons of high birth was observed everywhere that she had ever heard of, so she presumed that it would be so here as well.

The strange people twittered among themselves for a moment, then the one who seemed to be their spokes-man said, "Very well, you shall be our guest. You shall ride with me."

"I thank you." She reached up to mount behind him.

His stature was not great, and he was slender, but he was inhumanly strong. He took her beneath her arms and lifted her easily to sit before him.

With incredible speed the dwarfs had dismembered the dead animal and were now packing off the joints. One bore the lyre-horned head and another the hide, and only the hooves and a pile of offal remained upon the ground.

The little group of hunters set off, taking a wide trail
that led uphill. Alcuina sat with her spine straight, seeking to maintain her dignity in the midst of these daunting changes in her life. She was ashamed of her ragged condition, now little more than near-nudity. But she made no futile attempt to restore her appearance, knowing that it would only make her look more helpless.

"Who are you?" she asked the man she rode with. "What manner of people are you?"

"I am Hasta, and we are Getae, the masters of this, tbe Shifting Land."

Alcuina thought this an odd name for a place. "How is it that you speak my tongue?"

"Many of us speak the tongues of men. Those of us who practice the great arts need such facility with speech." As if to confirm this, another rider drew even with them. The face was similar to Hasta's but the voice, although husky, was feminine.

"You appear to be in great distress, my dear. When we reach the castle I shall find you more suitable .- ,» Be.

"Alcuina," Hasta said, "this is my sister, Sarissa. She is mistress of many arts."

The two smiled at her. She did not like the way they smiled, but she had never seen such faces, so how could she know how to read their expressions?

"And this," Hasta said, gesturing grandly, "is our home."

Alcuina looked up the mountain path and saw, to her Aead, the great hall she had seen and-had wanted to avoid. It was made of greenish-black stone, and she cooid see no joints between blocks. It was as if the took structure had been carved from a single, massive Hock of stone. The doorway and the windows were rangely irregular, their outlines wavery and vague. It
looked more like something that had grown there of itself than a thing built by human hands.

They rode beneath the lintel of a great, gate way, its stone carved with peculiar and disturbing figures. Alcuina first stared at them, then looked quickly away. More of the dwarfs appeared to lead away the mounts.

She had expected a courtyard inside the gate, but instead they had ridden into a gigantic room illumined only by narrow windows high on the walls. Her entire garth would have fitted into the room.

Sarissa led her up a stairway and through a wide door. The door was flanked by crouching, sculpted figures that bore the lintel of the doorway upon their tortured backs. The whole massive, gloomy aspect of the building was oppressive and daunting.

Taking her hand, Sarissa led Alcuina through mosaic-decorated halls and sumptuously furnished chambers until they came to a door of richly-carved wood, which opened for them without human or even dwarfish aid.

Sarissa entered and began to strip off her colorful, leather garments. "Come, the bath is this way."

She led Alcuina into a room full of thin, fragrant steam with a pool in its center. The room, indeed the entire castle, felt warm despite the apparent absence of fires.

Sarissa had now removed her outer garments, and Alcuina saw that, in spite of her facial resemblance to her brother and the others, Sarissa was indeed a woman. Decidedly so. She now wore only a harnesslike arrangement of straps, buckles, and rings, to which her outer clothing had been attached. It covered nothing but instead framed and emphasized all her feminine attri-butes. Her body was so voluptuous that Alcuina felt like an adolescent girl beside her.

"Remove those rags, my dear," Sarissa said, beginning to peel the rags from Alcuina's trembling body. "You shall feel far better after a bath."

Hesitantly Alcuina complied. She was a little apprehensive of the pool. In her home, bathing had been accomplished in a sweat-room, with hot stones, buckets of water, and a stiff brush. Bathing with another woman did not bother her, since all the free women of the garth had bathed together, but actually submerging herself in die water was a decidedly outlandish idea.

Sarissa freed a few buckles and her harness dropped to the floor, to join the remains of Alcuina's clothing. For a moment she stood, pridefully naked, so challenging in her flaunted womanhood that Alcuina wanted to draw herself up in reply, yet a strange timidity filled her. To her surprise she found herself childishly stretching out a trembling hand. With a cruel smile Sarissa took the proffered hand possessively and drew Alcuina down a series of small steps into the water. As the warm water rose up her legs, it leached the sting from Aicuina's many small injuries. A languorous feeling of well-being re-placed the alien sensations. She had never felt anything so pleasurable. Sarissa seated her on a stone ledge so that the water was just below the level of her chin.

Sarissa clapped her hands, and such was Alcuina's state of lazy contentment that she was not disturbed when several men and women, clad only in silken loincloths, entered bearing trays of gold and silver. As one of the men crouched by her to proffer a goblet of red wine she noticed that he wore a wide collar of plain iron, such as some northern peoples put upon their bondsmen.

"Are these thralls?" Alcuina asked dreamily.

"Slaves," Sarissa confirmed. "Toys, existing for our convenience and pleasure."

Alcuina saw a lovely girl whose back was covered with the red weals of a recent lashing. She pointed to the girl. "Are they often rebellious?"

Sarissa shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps someone desired the pleasure of giving her a good flogging." She sipped at her own wine. "I may have done it myself, but I do not recall it."

At another time Alcuina might have been horrified at this statement, but just now she was curiously unable to feel anything except an idle interest. She raised a pale, shapely leg, hardly aware of the other's smiling, watching, and examined it. The welts left by the carnivorous plant were quickly fading to faint pink marks. Soon they would be gone entirely. She ate from the proffered trays of sweetmeats until the edge was taken from her ravenous appetite, and soon the whole world took on a sort of rosy, restful glow.

The two women left the bath and were dried by slaves with thick, soft towels. Never had Alcuina dreamed of such luxury. This seemed to be the correct way for a queen to live. She wondered how she had lived for so long without this. Still nude, they returned to the outer chamber, which was Sarissa's sleeping-place. The bed it contained was larger than the bower that Alcuina shared with her maids at home. "Now, we must have you properly attired," Sarissa said.

She fired off words Alcuina could not understand, and the slaves began to open chests and bring forth scarves and jewels and cosmetics.

Under Sarissa's direction, Alcuina was adorned and painted, her nails lacquered and her lips stained red.

She was draped with necklaces and bracelets and anklets and waist-chains of gold studded with gemstones, far more delicate and subtle in design than the massive northern jewelry she was used to.

"Now, look at yourself, my dear." Sarissa, still naked, took her to a tall glass.

Alcuina's eyes widened at the transformation wrought in her appearance.

She was richly draped with precious metals and stones, and her face was subtly painted to highlight her great beauty. Something seemed to be missing, though. In an abstracted fashion she realized that, except for waist-chains and a large, glowing red jewel in her navel, her body was still entirely bare. Every bit of the jewelry seemed designed and placed to frame her full breasts and rounded buttocks, to emphasize the curves of thighs and hips. She appeared more naked than if completely unclothed, and every inch of her was flaunted brazenly.

"Perhaps," Alcuina said hesitantly, "some garments now?"

"Not necessary," Sarissa said. "Just one more item."

She took something from a slave and fastened it wound Alcuina's neck. So slow had Alcuina's reactions become that it was some time before her eyes widened horror at the broad iron collar that had been clamped wad her slender white neck.

"My new toy," Sarissa purred.

Seoea

Oie Bell-Scorpion

*ft

Dow can you be sure of your direction in this accursed place?" demanded Conan. He and the old man had been wandering through the Shifting Land for three days, and its bewildering changes of terrain had the Cimmerian utterly baffled.

"The first lesson in this place," Rerin said, "is never to trust the evidence of your senses. Here the voices of the trees and the animals tell me where we are and where we must go."

"I would not trust these trees to tell me my name, even if I could understand their speech!" Idly he lopped a branch from a nearby tree with his sword. "Trees that eat people should not be trusted."

Rerin laughed: a rare thing for him. "Is it so strange that plants should eat men? After all, in the world we come from, men eat plants. Why should the green things not enjoy a turnabout here?"

"It is not natural," Conan maintained. "Man-eating animals I can put up with. I have even encountered
cannibals, but plants should stay rooted properly in the earth, not go about in search of prey." They had spent wakeful nights avoiding the alarming flora of the Shifting Land.

"The beasts here can be worse," Rerin said. "I am surprised that we have encountered so few."

Conan's stomach growled. "I wish we would encounter one soon. I have neither spear nor bow, but I am hungry enough to chase down a deer with nothing but my sword."

In the mild climate Conan had removed all but his wolfskin tunic and leggings. The rest of his clothing and armor was bundled in his cloak and tied across his back. Sword and dagger were belted at his waist.

They were headed toward sunset, whatever that might mean in this place. They were crossing a deep cleft in a mountainside with a stream at its bottom. This stream flowed uphill, as did some others they had seen. Others flowed downhill, and they had even encountered one that had an uphill current on one side and a downhill current on the other. Conan had been in many strange places in his life, but this was the oddest of them all.

"Be still!" Rerin hissed.

Conan did as he was bidden. He listened hard, and soon heard a rumbling, slithering sound. His eye caught a hint of movement upon the ridgeiine they had just crossed. He thought he could make out something like a scaly back, sliding just above the crest of land. The bulk of the thing was below the crest, but from what he could see it looked as if half a league of the thing was going by.

"Crom!" he said when the thing was out of sight. "What was that? It looked like the grandfather of all serpents."

Rerin shook his head. "I know not, but I do not think it is native to the Shifting Land. What called it hither I dread even to contemplate."

"Just as well we got into this valley when we did," Conan said. "If we had been slower crossing the ridge, it might have seen us. If it has eyes, at any rate. If there are more like that hereabout, we may be in for trouble."

"May be?" said Rerin. "We have been in mortal peril since we crossed from the world of men."

With a slight rustling noise, an animal emerged from a clump of bushes. It was piglike, with a snout for rooting, and small, hoofed feet. For a moment it stood and squinted at them nearsightedly, its nostrils quivering at their strange smell. In that moment Conan grabbed up a jagged rock and threw it, all in one motion, almost too swift to see. The stone struck the beast between the eyes with a loud crunch, and it fell over on its side, stone dead.

Conan grinned. "There's our dinner!" He drew his knife and advanced on the dead creature.

"You are as handy with a rock as with a sword," Rerin observed.

Conan began butchering the carcass. "Cimmerian lads are expected to find much of their own food after they have learned to walk. I've spent many a night on a cold mountainside watching over the clan's cattle on short rations. Woe to the rabbit or mountain goat that came within range of my throwing-arm during those lean days. I am even better with a sling, but a simple stone will do."

"So I see. I shall build us a fire, though I fear to attract attention."

"I would rather die fighting than starve," Conan
said. "In any case, I would like to speak with the inhabitants of this land, so let them come."

Soon the joints of the "pig" were sizzling and smoking on spits over the flames. As the meat was lightly cooked Conan carved away chunks and stuffed them into his mouth, thrusting the joints back over the flames to cook some more. Rerin ate somewhat less ravenously, but he managed to put away a goodly portion of the meat as well. From time to time Conan took up his sword and hacked at a hairy root that kept creeping toward them from the nearest tree line.

"It may come from this demon land," Conan said, waving a rib, "but it tastes as good as any wild boar I have eaten in the world of men."

"Pray we find other things as agreeable," Rerin said gloomily.

"Cheer up, wizard. We are alive, we are free, and we are on the track of the lady to whom we both owe allegiance. There are worse things than that." He picked np a large rock, one of a pile he had gathered by them, and threw it. It crushed a small bush he did nqt like the took of. "We could be dead," he went on, "or in chains."

"I envy your ability to be calm in the midst of the nknown, young man."

Conan shrugged. "I have never found any advantage in worrying about things before they happen. If danger teeatens, I can fight it or run from it, but until it is before me there is little I can do about it. Does that not make sense?"

Rerin sighed. "Of a sort." He stared into the flames, and his expression went blank. Conan knew that this meant the old man was in one of his trances, so the

Cimmerian applied himself to his eating until Rerin should come out of it.

After several minutes Rerin blinked and was once more aware of his surroundings.

"Well?" said Conan eagerly, "did you learn aught of Alcuina?"

"She is in some manner of danger, but it is not mortal peril, as if something were about to slay her."

"Eh? What do you mean? Either she is in danger or she is not."

"It was not clear to me. From what could learn, she has escaped from her captors, and they search for her. She has fallen in with others, and these mean her no less harm."

"That does not surprise me," Conan said, "in this place. Do you know yet where she is?"

"There was a veil between me and her whereabouts, and fear that she has fallen in with magic-practitioners of no mean order. However, before I was cut off from her I saw a great building, like a castle. I think she is in that place."

"A castle," Conan mused. "I have dealt with castles before, and border forts, strong-houses, temple treasur-ies, and the like. Any strong place made by men may be broken into, and its treasures despoiled."

"You speak as if from much experience," Rerin said. "However, I fear that this place may not have been made by men."

"That is bad, as is your talk of magic-practitioners. But, we can only do our best." He tossed a bone over his shoulder into the dark beyond. They could hear something pounce upon it. Conan lay down with his head pillowed on his cuirass and drew his wolfskin cloak over him. "You take first watch. Keep the plants at a distance." He placed his hand upon his sword hilt and was soon snoring peacefully.

Rerin closed his eyes and raised his palms in a gesture of prayer. "Father Ymir, for all mankind I am grateful that you did not make many like him, but on behalf of Alcuina and myself, I thank you for sending him to us when you did."

In a high tower of the great castle, in a chamber filled with strange instruments and the sounds and smells of stranger beasts, Hasta stood over a brazier, inhaling the fumes from blossoms that blackened and crisped upon the coals. His silver eyes revealed nothing, but his body twitched spasmodically, and the mirror he faced revealed not his reflection but a writhing nest of multicolored smokes. Inhuman sounds emerged from his lips in a mumbling stream.

Behind him a door opened quietly, and Sarissa entered. Now she wore a caped robe of sheerest material, which molded itself to breasts and buttocks and thighs, concealing nothing and enhancing everything. She waited quietly, not daring to disturb her brother in the midst of his trance. There were limits to her power, but none to the painful and humiliating ways he could express his displeasure.

Below in her chamber she had at last tired of her new toy, who was now sobbing and exhausted, and had become aware that some important spell was being cast within the castle. As earthly beings know instantly the sound of a loved one's voice, so Sarissa recognized the vibrations of her brother's spell-casting and decided to go investigate. Her people's abiding burden was boredom, and they spent much of their time in search of new diversion. She knew that this spell her brother was

%

Rerin and Conan were in an open field, tramping toward far mountains, when they were struck by a dizzying sense of disorientation. It was like a combination of taking a long fall and standing in an earthquake. Yet, when it passed, they were standing as they had been and the nearby trees did not sway. It was not the first time they had experienced this sensation, which was commonplace in the Shifting Land.

"What's changed now?" Conan asked irritably. "Anything in our path?"

"I fear so." Rerin pointed to a deep cleft that had appeared in a hillside before them. In the cleft was the entrance to a great cavern. It looked like a feature of the landscape that had been there forever, yet it had not been there a few minutes before.

"I do not like this," Conan said. He opened his bundle and buckled on his cuirass. Clapping on his helmet, he fastened its chin strap. "Let's skirt that cave at a good distance," he advised. "It has the aspect of a demon-haunt."

"I agree," Rerin said. "It has appeared too conveniently before us, and I fear some hostile power has taken an interest in us."

They edged away from the ominous cave mouth, keeping a wary eye on it. They were just past it and beginning to relax when the attack came. With an inarticulate cry, Rerin grasped Conan's shoulder and pointed. From the mouth of the cave a thing of pure nightmare was emerging.

"Crom!" Conan said in a choked voice.

The creature was the size of an elephant, and it stood upon innumerable, jointed legs. It was covered with a horny carapace and bore before it a pair of huge pincers
on massive arms. From its rear protruded what appeared to be a cluster of snakes, arching high over its back. Between the pincer-tipped "arms" was a tiny head bearing two antennae, which waved about as if under their own volition.

The two men stood absolutely still, knowing that the slightest movement or sound might give away their position. Whatever unearthly senses the monster might possess, ordinary vision did not seem to be among them. For several heartbeats the situation remained static, then the antennae ceased their random motion and pointed straight at them. Slowly, the thing began to creep in their direction.

"I think," Rerin said in a most unwizardly and strangled voice, "that it is time to run." He proceeded to do exactly that, and any watcher would have been amazed to see how his skinny old legs kept him ahead of the fast-leaping Cimmerian.

Conan ran for his life, but he heard hideous sounds growing closer behind him. Surely the ungainly thing could not run as fast as a Cimmerian mountaineer? He looked back over his shoulder and saw to his horror that the monster was scuttling after them on its multiple legs, faster than any man could run.

With the instantaneous decision that so characterized him, Conan halted in midstride, whirled about, and drew his sword. It was not that he thought he stood a chance against so formidable a creature, but that any slight chance he might have would not be improved by further, tiring flight. He could just hear the old man's pattering footsteps receding into the distance, then he had no attention to spare for anything but his immediate concern.

The monster bulked huge as it bore down upon him.

As always, the part of Conan's mind that controlled his fighting worked with lightning speed, cataloguing the thing's strengths and weaknesses.

There were alarmingly few of the latter. Its armored body looked as invulnerable as the walls of a strong castle. Its tiny head with the crucial antennae might be attacked, but it was wedged between the powerful arms, and to attack it meant coming within reach of the pincers. The snakelike multiple tails were as yet an unknown quantity. All this went through his mind between grasping his hilt and the moment when his sword point cleared the sheath. That left the legs, which were relatively spindly. Having made all the calculations that might do him any good, Conan charged.

At first his path took him directly toward the monster, which reached for him with its terrible pincers. With timing so precise that few men could have matched it, Conan dove to one side just as a pincer almost touched his cuirass. He went into a forward roll and came up in a crouch by the thing's flank, swinging his sword with both hands. The nearest leg gave way beneath his blow, but it was no easy task. The legs looked thin against the monster's bulk, but each was still as thick as the arm of a strong man and armored with homy chitin.

By striking at the joints he was able to cripple two of the legs before going into another dive and roll. He knew that it would be death to stand in one place for more than a moment. This time he managed to hew away a single leg before some instinct made him look up, just in time to see one of the serpentine tails plunging down at him. In the instant that he saw it he also noted its bulbous tip from which protruded a transpar-ent, needlelike fang dripping some green, viscous fluid.

He dropped aside and rolled away just as the tail passed through the space where he had been standing. A cloud of stinking smoke erupted from the grass where the fluid was splattered.

Conan ran, and the thing whirled to chase him. He was gratified to note that, fast as it was in running, it was somewhat slower in turning upon its own axis. This gave him time to get a score of paces away and ready himself for his next attack. He knew that it would take a long time to disable enough legs to stop the thing, but he could see no other method open to him. He repeated his first tactic, crippling two more legs and dodging the tails, but this time the monster sent three tails plunging at him, and he was saved from them more by chance than by his own speed. The creature had anticipated his tactic this time. Apparently then, it had a form of intelligence. His original tactic had worked well, but he dared not try it again.

Once more he charged at the beast, with his sword gripped in both hands. Now it held its pincers wide, expecting him to dodge to one side or the other. Instead he came straight in, hacking at the tiny head. He felt his sword connect jarringly, then he was beneath the creature, rolling and chopping at its legs, careful to attack the legs on the same side he had started working upon. Thus, he had to disable only half as many legs as by working on both sides. As he rolled from beneath it the thing sent the whole cluster of tails darting at him, but he was well clear before the ground exploded in smoke and steam from the action of the acid venom.

This time as the thing turned and charged him it was noticeably slower, and it sagged a bit to the wounded side. That was all to the good, but what could he do next? If the thing was capable of learning, then it would
be prepared for the tricks he had used ere now and would counter them. This was a difficult puzzle, and one he had a terribly short time to solve.

There was one way he had not as yet attacked it. He could see little way to do it damage, but it might buy him a little time. As it neared he waited until the pincers made their grab for him, then he leaped, got one foot atop a pincer, and launched himself upon the thing's back. He made an experimental chop at the backplates, only to confirm that the stuff was as impervious as steel armor. The footing was treacherous as well. The tails were not able to reach so far forward, but he dared not stumble back toward them. He jumped off to one side, planning to hack at a few legs before running once more.

As he landed, an unseen stone in the grass turned beneath his foot, and he went sprawling on his back. Before he could rise, one of the tails came down like a meteor. It smashed against his breastplate, and his nostrils were assailed by the chemical fumes of the disinte-grating bronze. Then he saw another about to strike his face. Even his quick reflexes were not swift enough to save him, but something batted the swollen poison-gland and fang aside, splattering his face with a fine dew, which burned fiercely but was not strong enough to kill. Instantly he was on his feet and running, and old Rerin was at his side.

They stopped at some distance from the monster. It was turning, once again seeming to be slowed by its injuries.

"It's good to know your staff is good for something besides leaning upon, old man," Conan said.

"Get your armor off quickly," Rerin urged. "The venom will eat through and start on you!"

Conan ignored the buckles and cut the straps of the cuirass with his dagger. The once-fine bronze lay smoking upon the ground, slowly collapsing as the venom ate the metal away. He fought the urge to wipe at the spots where the stuff had splashed him. The pain was bearable, and it would only mean a few new scars among the many he already had. The thing was bearing down upon them once more.

"If it had eyes," Conan muttered, "I could reach its brain with a thrust."

"It may not have a brain as we know such things," Rerin said. "But its antennae serve it for eyes and ears. If you can disable those, perhaps you may finish it at leisure."

The thing was almost upon them. "Have you a spell to aid me, old man?" Conan asked.

"No."

"Ah, well," said Conan.

To get at the antennae he must reach the head. He had done that once before, but the thing must be ready for such a move. Besides supporting the antennae, the little head bore on its bottom a set of sideways-working jaws with which the thing ate. It occurred to Conan that if he could not get close to the head by his own efforts, perhaps he could persuade the beast to convey him thither.

This time the creature did not simply bear down upon Conan. Instead it halted and reached for him with its clawed pincers. He dodged from side to side, and it brought its own rear around, to menace him with the deadly, whiplike tails. As it made a pass with its pincers he leaped onto the arm, straddling it in the "wrist" just behind the pincer. It was a matter of some anxiety to him that the thing might raise him within range of the
tails, but to his relief it instead brought him toward the jaws.

The instant he was within sword range, Conan hacked at the base of the nearest antenna. A shudder went through the whole beast, shaking him violently upon his precarious perch. He hacked again, and the antenna fell away. The thing went into a paralytic tremor. Conan leaped down from the pincer; the other made a slow, uncertain grab at him, but he evaded it easily. With both feet braced he hewed off the other antenna with a single chop.

As the antenna fell, Conan turned and ran. The beast behind him made clacking, chittering noises, but Conan did not look back until he was once again with the wizard. He was in time to see the creature's spasmodic jerkings cease as it collapsed upon the sward. Smoke rose from it, and it began to collapse in upon itself, much as had his cuirass as the acid had eaten it away. Soon there was little more than a smoking hulk left of the frightening creature.

"It was not a natural part of this place," said Rerin. "With its vital principal gone, there is nothing to hold its component matter together, and it melts into the aether."

The old man was breathing hard, and Conan was more than a trifle breathless himself. "That was a brave thing you did, wizard. Had you not knocked that stinger aside with your staff, I would have died over there. I thank you. There is a warrior's heart inside that withered old carcass of yours."

"I accept the compliment," Rerin said, "in the spirit which you no doubt intended."

Conan closely examined his sword for traces of the volatile venom, which might damage it. To his delight he found none. He sheathed the weapon at his waist and went in search of his other belongings.

Sarissa turned excitedly from the mirror. "Was that not wonderful? He is all I had hoped! This is a true hero. How may we capture him?"

"There are any number of ways, sister," said Hasta, smiling. "But why bother? Since they are searching for our slave-queen, they must come here. Let them come to us. I am curious to see how he will try to take her back."

Sarissa smiled as well, in dawning anticipation.

Che Castle of Giants

On their fifth day in the demon land they encountered the first of the searchers. Conan raised a hand in warning, and old Rerin halted. The old wizard could hear nothing amiss, but by now he knew how preternatural!y keen were the ears of the barbarian.

"Someone is trying to sneak close to us," Conan said, "but they do not know how."

"Human or other?" asked Rerin.

"They go on two feet, whatever that means in this place. There are many of them."

"Too many?"

"That we shall know when I have tested their met-tle." Conan loosened his sword in its sheath.

He chose a little glade as a good place to meet potential foes. For the last two days they had been traveling through woods where the trees and shrubs preferred to keep their roots properly in the ground. This made for more peaceful sleep, if nothing else.

Shadowy forms began to materialize at the tree line.

They were man-shaped but not human. Their fingers had too many joints and their ears were long and pointed. Their bodies were gaunt and their movements furtive. Conan's sword whispered from its sheath as they came closer.

"You are close enough now," he cautioned them. "State your business."

"We want the woman," hissed one. Its tongue was not apt at forming human speech, but it was understandable. "The woman from the world of men. Our master wants her. If you have her, surrender her to us or die!"

Conan smiled grimly. "We want her too. You are the ones who took her. How did you lose her?"

The demon who had spoken only hissed in hate. Conan could hear Rerin muttering spells behind him. There were a dozen of the things, but they were not large and did not look strong. None of them appeared to be armed. Abruptly the speaker made a complex gesture and chittered out some formula, which Conan took to be a spell.

He was about to split its skull when Rerin stepped forward holding his staff horizontally at shoulder height. He was casting a spell as well, and the demon fell back, covering its face with its arms, as if reacting to a blinding light.

"Had you killed it in the midst of its casting," Rerin said calmly, "the full force of its spell would have fallen upon you. You would have rotted where you stand."

The leader growled out an order, and the demons turned and fled into the brush.

Before it disappeared, the speaker turned and said,

"We shall have you and the woman yet. A hunter comes!" Then it was gone.

"That does not sound good," said Conan as he 'sheathed his sword. "Who is their master?"

"One of the great powers of the demon world, I doubt not," said Rerin pessimistically. "If such a one takes too close an interest in us, I fear that my paltry magics must be of little value to us."

"Between your magic and my sword we have done well enough so far," Conan contended. "We may yet win through and find our way back to the real world. I have always trusted in my own strength and skill; you should do the same."

"Oh, for the confidence of youth," sighed the old man.

By evening they were within sight of the castle. It hulked upon its mountainside like a dragon, and Conan studied its strange battlements and turrets with the eye of a man accustomed to spying out the weaknesses of such places. "We'll have to get closer," he said at last. "This air is too thick to see small things. It is the small things that let you into a place like that. Are you sure she is in there?"

"I am certain. You may not sense it, but that place sends forth an aura of evil and sorcery that I can feel in my bones."

"What kind of people dwell there?" Conan asked. "It looks like a place built by giants."

"It may well have been. Many peoples live in the demon land, and many more dwelled here in the past. Some of them were giants, and that place has the look of the homes of the ancient, giant peoples. I think, though, that those who dwell there now are somewhat like us, in external appearance, at least. Within they are as inhuman as those demons we saw."

"Are they mortal?" Conan asked. "Can they be cut with steel?"

"I believe so. No inhabitants of this world are truly immortal. Many are hard to kill, as witness that scorpion-thing you slew."

Conan looked about restlessly. "What do the folk up there eat? I see no cultivated fields, no sign of villages or commerce. Even the strongholds of robber-chieftains must have a few peasants dwelling nearby to grow food."

"Life here does not follow the same rhythms as in the world of men," said old Rerin. "Whatever concerns occupy the people of that great hall, getting their daily bread is not likely to be among them. Their bodily needs may be satisfied by their command of the dark arts. They could even be vampires, battening upon the blood of human victims."

"Nonetheless," Conan said, "if they huddle behind stone walls they must fear something. If they fear, then they can be hurt. But, we'll know nothing until we get closer. Come." He set off at a mile-eating stride, and the old man followed after.

It was just after nightfall when they reached the base of the cyclopean walls. Strange, many-colored stars gleamed overhead, and the great, green moon shed a malevolent radiance through the thick, waterlike air. Conan ran his fingers along the stone in search of the joints and cracks between the blocks that might afford a climber a secure handhold.

"Crom," he muttered. "It's all of a piece! There are no joints."

"This pile was raised by magic, not by human hands," said Rerin. "I know a spell that would raise us to the top of the wall, but surely those inside would feel the working of an alien mage so near."

"I need no magic to climb a wall," Conan said. "This stone, if stone it be, is rough and pitted like lava. If it is like this all the way up, can climb it."

Rerin felt the wall and shook his head doubtfully. "Perhaps one who is half ape and half mountain goat can climb this, but I fear that I cannot. Had we a rope, you could climb and haul me up after you. As it is, I must abide here until you find one."

"You had best stay down here at any rate. Hide yourself somewhere beyond the tree line until I return with the queen. In that place, full as you say it is with wizardly people, you would be of little help, and there is no sense in both of us dying in there should I fail. If I come not back by dawnlight, you may see if your wiles can prevail where my sword could not."

"May Ymir aid you in your task, Cimmerian," the old man said with deep feeling. "I say again, the queen wrought well in accepting your service."

Conan scratched his chin. "I am not sure that Ymir looks into this place. I am sure that Crom does not, for he takes no note of things outside Cimmeria, and little enough there." He clapped Rerin upon the shoulder. "Now, get you gone, old man. Find a safe place, and be ready to help us when we come down, for I've no doubt there will be those who will pursue us."

Conan turned back to the wall and reached up to the full extent of his arms. He felt until his fingertips lodged into minute depressions, and slowly, painfully, he drew himself upward. Scrambling with his feet, he found a precarious lodgment for his toes and reached up another foot with one hand. Thus, a foot or less at a time, he ascended the wall.

His progress was slow, but it was steady. Few men could have made such a climb save at the expense of great exhaustion and limbs trembling with fatigue, but Conan reached the top of the wall with no outward sign of wear. He found himself to be standing atop a battlement that was fully equipped for battle, but which was utterly devoid of inhabitants. He saw no passages into the interior in his immediate vicinity, so he picked a direction at random and began exploring.

There was no courtyard within the wall, but instead the whole castle seemed to be a single structure, with strange towers and other architectural features protruding from it here and there. At intervals he saw sculp-tured creatures with strange and repellent aspects, some perching atop the battlement, others seeming to rise up through the wallwalk itself. It all appeared to be the work of an utterly demented sculptor.

All was strangely silent, and from time to time he paused to listen, but no sound came to him. His nostrils flared, but the air carried no hint of woodsmoke. He wondered how the inhabitants went about their cooking and heating without fires. His wandering brought him to the base of a hulking tower, with a squat, conical roof. A door flanked by a pair of cadaverous, sculpted guards stood open, yawning into the black interior of the tower.

Slowly and suspiciously Conan entered with sword bared. His free hand touched the wall while his feet slid slowly forward, testing his path into the gloom. Two paces within the doorway his feet found an abrupt
drop-off in the floor. He tested it cautiously and found it to be the beginning of a descending stairway. A warm breeze came up from below, and upon it he could faintly discern the strains of wild, bizarre music, thick with the sounds of drum and cymbal. Now he also smelled smoke on the air, but it was incense, not the wood of a cooking fire.

He descended at least one hundred steps before he first caught a glimmer of light. Moving as silently as a ghost, Conan made his way to a doorway, through which the light shone. He was gazing into a lavishly furnished chamber that was strewn with cushions and carpets of what seemed to be woven gold. The light came from odd candles burning in niches, casting an eerie radiance from their circular flames.

As he swept the room with his gaze Conan saw a woman lying amid a tangle of golden coverlets and exotic furs. She wore only elaborate jewelry, and his breath caught at the voluptuous, pale-fleshed beauty thus displayed; full, round breasts and generously curved buttocks. Her face was turned away from him, and he saw no sign of awareness, as if she was asleep or drugged. His feet made no sound as he stepped into the room. Alert for attack, he crossed to the woman and tapped her beneath the jaw with the flat of his sword. .

"Wake up, woman. I have some questions in need of answers." Groggily the woman's head turned and her eyes opened. Conan's own eyes widened in amazement. "Alcuina!"

It took a few moments for Alcuina's eyes to focus, and in that time Conan saw that she wore a wide collar of iron about her neck and that it was connected to a ring in the floor by a short length of chain.

"Conan," she breathed at last. "Have you truly come for me, or is this another of the dreams these hellish people inflict with their drugs and spells? If so, it is a more effective torture than any they have tried thus far."

"I am real, though I've no idea how to prove it." He grasped the chain in both hands and tried to pull it from the floor. "First let's get you free from this place, then we can think of some way to prove that I am real."

He pulled on the chain until the veins swelled upon his brow, but even his great strength could not break chain or ring. He muttered a curse, and Alcuina, with the drugged fog clearing from her head, became aware of her extreme state of undress.

"A liege man should not see his queen thus," she said, hiding her embarrassment. She made no futile effort to cover herself; there was too much flesh exposed for two hands even to make a beginning.

Conan shrugged. "In the South they are not so fussy about clothes. Even queens sometimes wear little more than you are wearing now." He looked her up and down with frank admiration. "Have no fear, you've nothing that other women do not have. Perhaps a closer look is in order, just to make sure."

"We have more important things to concern us," she said impatiently. "Can you not free me of this chain?"

"We shall see. I had hoped to do this quietly, but" With a full-armed overhead swing, he brought his sword down upon the chain. There was a mighty clang and a few sparks, but the only other result was a nick in his blade. "Cursed hard steel they make hereabout," he muttered, studying the damaged edge in annoyance.

Alcuina's sharply indrawn breath was the only warn-
small window high on one wall admitted a faint light, and there was a single, circular door made of heavy timbers. He had never seen a round door before, and he wondered how it opened, since he could see no hinges.

He lay on his belly and chose a link of one of the chains to work on. He was able to get enough slack to rub the link back and forth along the floor for at least a foot. It seemed futile, but given enough time he might wear a few links down enough to weaken them. At the moment he had nothing but time in any case.

After what he judged to be an hour of this monotonous activity, he examined the link. The side he had rubbed was a bit shinier, but that was the extent of it. This could be a lengthy task. His work was abruptly interrupted when the round door rose into the lintel above it. At least that mystery was solved.

He heard approaching footsteps, and a woman bearing a tray entered the cell. He had expected a neck-ringed slave, but this was one of the spectators of his fight. Unless he was much mistaken, it was the same one who had rendered him unconscious. He could not be sure, as the ones he had seen looked much alike.

"Come over here, you silver-eyed trull," Conan said affably. "I'd like to wring your pretty neck."

To his surprise she answered in a tongue he under-stood. "Ah, but then you would not be able to eat this splendid dinner I have brought you."

Conan smelled the proffered viands and his mouth watered. "Well," he grumbled, "I agree. Give me the food, and I'll not kill you."

"First, a small precaution."

There was a rumbling sound and Conan looked down in stupefied puzzlement as two clamps grew from the floor of the cell and fastened securely about his ankles. Then something writhed about his arms, and they were jerked behind him and strongly pinioned. He was trussed like an ox in a slaughterhouse.

The woman sat directly before him and set the tray between them. She wore a gown so sheer that it might as well have been altogether absent. The generous curves of her were almost as mouth-watering as the food, despite his hunger and the circumstances. She took a small piece of grilled meat on a skewer and inserted it daintily into his mouth.

"My name is Sarissa," she said. "You may address me as mistress."

"Not likely," Conan assured her. "How about some of that wine?"

"Disobedience can be a painful experience here." Nonetheless, she gave him a drink from a crystal goblet.

"I am used to pain. You cannot persuade me that way."

She continued to feed him. "You have never experienced the kind of pain I can inflict. I have developed some truly exquisite varieties." Her trilling laughter was musical, and chilling. "But, no, pain is for ordinary slaves. You are special, and I have no wish to break you. You shall be the prize of my collection."

"What kind of collection?" Conan growled.

"Why, my collection of unique human specimens." She pushed a small morsel of bread into his mouth. He was uncomfortably aware of her delectable smell. "I have never had a true hero to experiment with. Life grows terribly dull here. You shall furnish us with endless pleasure. You fight like a wild beast, and you have such a superlative body." She ran her hands freely

Che Games of the masters
wonan was asleep, snoring upon the cold stone floor of his cell, when a sound awakened him. He sat up, straining his ears, and became aware that the collar was no longer about his throat. The collar and its chains lay upon the floor. He examined the collar, which now lay open, but he could find no trace of any fastening.

"More wizardry," he muttered, dropping it to the floor. It had been the sound of the thing clanking to the floor that had awakened him, no doubt.

He arose and began pacing tigerishly about the cell, stretching the stiffness out of cramped muscles. He had been released from the chain for a reason, and he wanted to be ready for whatever might befall him. With a rumbling sound the door rose.

Conan crouched, facing it, and waited for whatever might enter. He was unarmed, but he had hands and feet and teeth, and he was prepared to use them. A time passed and nothing approached. Cautious as a hunting wolf, Conan went to the door. He leaped through and
spun through a full circle. He was in a featureless corridor and there were no enemies in sight. In one direction there were a few more of the round doors and Aen a blank wall. In the other direction the corridor was shrouded in gloom.

With a clank the door to his erstwhile cell dropped shut.

"Did you think I would go back in?" he shouted to those he knew must be watching.

He started down the dark corridor. A few paces along the stone hall he found his sword lying upon the stone. He snatched it up, and the rough feel of the grip immediately raised his spirits. All he needed now was somebody to kill with it. Preferably someone with sil-ver eyes.

"I could use my tunic as well," he shouted. There was no response. "Ah, well," he muttered to himself, "better naked with a sword than in full armor with no weapon."

He continued his exploration of the corridor. The fact that his sword had been returned to him meant that he would be needing it, and soon.

He came to a stairway leading upward and began to chmb. Although there was no visible light source, the air was suffused with a faint, twilight radiance, which was just sufficient for him to make out his way. At the top of the stair he found another round door. Somehow he was sure that this did not merely lead into another dungeon cell. Slowly the door began to rise.

Conan did not wait for it to open fully, but as soon as the gap was large enough to admit his body he dove to the floor and rolled under it, springing to his feet the moment he was on the other side.

There were two fully-armored men in the circular
room beyond the door, and they were startled by his impetuous entrance. Conan attacked immediately. He had no friends in this castle; anyone he encountered here except for Alcuina was an enemy. He chose the man on the right as the more exposed to assault and lunged with his sword extended in both hands. The point slid between the breastplate and steel gorget, and Conan jerked it out immediately, whirling to face the second man. The first, dead but unaware of the fact, advanced a step and then collapsed, blood spurting from beneath his gorget.

The second approached cautiously. Both men were wearing the most elaborate plate armor Conan had ever seen. It was made of innumerable small plates, cunningly jointed to allow free movement. There were few weak spots, and this man would not leave the gorget-breastplate joining exposed as the other had. Conan circled, sword held at full extension, point threatening his enemy's eyeslots. He preferred to use the edge, but he knew that the point was usually superior against armor such as this. Besides, this way he could keep the man at a greater distance while he sought out a weakness to exploit.

The armored man held a long, slightly curved sword in both hands. It was single-edged, and that edge looked decidedly keen. Naked as he was, Conan wished to avoid that edge. Behind him the door descended into its slot.

The foeman slid in, incredibly swift for a man in full armor, cutting at Conan's flank. Conan crossed his wrists and brought the sword around to block the opposing blade with its flat. Steel rang on steel, and he brought his blade up and around in a broad circle to smash into the man's shoulder. The man was staggered, but his armor was strong enough to withstand the blow. Both men took up their guard stances again.

Once more the armored man attacked, confident in the protection of his harness. This time Conan did not counter with his sword, nor did he dodge. Instead he dropped his own weapon and stepped inside the range of the other sword. Gripping the other man's forward wrist in both powerful hands, Conan wrenched the hand loose from the hilt and twisted the arm down and back.

Futilely the man sought to cut at Conan with the sword held in his left hand, but by this time Conan had stepped around almost behind his enemy and was wrenching the arm up along the spine. An audible snapping sound told him when the shoulder joint gave way. It was pointless to strike at a man in such armor, but an armored man could be wrestled as well as one without artificial protection. Releasing the arm, Conan took the helmet between his palms and rotated the head until it was facing almost directly backward. This time he could hear nothing through the steel, but unless the man's neck was flexible as an owl's he was dead. Conan dropped the lifeless hulk to the floor with a clatter.

Now he had the leisure to examine his surroundings. The circular room was perhaps ten paces across, and looking up he saw that a gallery ran around its periphery, about ten feet from the floor. Just now the railing of the gallery was thronged with gaily dressed people, tfieir silver eyes alight with delight at the spectacle hdow.

"Well done, hero," said the one he knew as Sarissa. "Was that better than fighting untrained slaves? Those elite bodyguards of a lord of the Shifting Land."

A man clad all in cloth of gold called across to her,

"Let me try three. Surely he cannot defeat three of my men at once!"

"No," Sarissa answered, "next we must try something different. What shall it be?"

As a hubbub broke out among the watchers, Conan saw Alcuina kneeling in their midst. She still wore only jewelry, and he was infuriated to see that her fair body was covered with the inflamed welts of the lash. Her wrists were secured to the railing by the ever-present chains. The fury writ upon her face matched his own.

"Can you not at least let him have some garments?" she demanded.

"What for?" shouted Conan defiantly. "I've more to be proud of than most men."

"How refreshingly primitive," said one of the silver-eyed men. "Can he do anything besides fight?"

Conan beckoned to him. "Come down here, popin-jay, and I will show you how I gut fish."

This was answered with delighted laughter. Conan eyed the railing. It was a high leap, but he just might be able to get a hand on the railing and haul himself over. Then it would just be a matter of hewing down this mob of degenerates and releasing Alcuina. Then they could worry about finding a way out of this place.

The plan had great appeal, especially the part about killing all these silver-eyed devils who were not content merely to kill a victim, but must humiliate him as well. He decided to kill the one in the golden robes first. He thought of going for Sarissa first, but a certain native squeamishness had always made him reluctant to kill women, however evil they might be.

Without warning, Conan ran straight for the wall with the speed of a tiger, and like a tiger he leaped for the railing. His sword was too large to grip in his teeth, so he had only one free hand, and with it he barely got a sufficient grasp upon the railing and began to haul himself up. He heard a collective gasp and his blade was darting for the surprised man the instant his arm cleared the railing, but it never reached him. Conan felt a massive shock run from his hand through his whole body, and he jerked back, away from the railing. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and he fell crashing upon his back onto the cold, bloody stone floor.

When he regained consciousness Conan was still in the circular room, but the spectators were all gone. He sat up, sore in every muscle. He knew that the fall could not account for this pain, and that it must be an aftereffect of the terrible, unseen blow that had come through the railing he had grasped. He tasted blood in his mouth and spat upon the stone floor.

The two men he had killed had been taken away as well. There was a pile of objects on the floor, and he went to investigate. To his surprise it consisted of his clothes and possessions.

He quickly donned his garments and strapped on his otber accoutrements. Even his ornaments had been re-lumed, including the massive arm-ring Alcuina had given him. Despite his earlier bravado, he felt far better attu resuming his clothes. He rammed his sword back Bo its sheath and clapped his helmet upon his disordered black locks. He now had everything he had come bo the castle with. His heavy cloak and winter clothes oe somewhere in the woods with Rerin. Now to find a way out of this pit.

Clearly they did not intend for him to stay here, else could they have any fun with him? None of the
pit's several doors stood open. He eyed the treacherous railing. Was it dangerous all the time? Many of the spectators had been leaning against it, and Alcuina had been tethered to it. Perhaps it had worked its spell only after he had grasped it. There was only one way to find out.

For a second time he ran to the wall and leaped. This time, with his sword sheathed, he was able to grasp the railing with both hands. He hauled himself over it in a single motion, and this time there was no crippling, paralyzing jolt. He found himself upon a circular bal-cony and near a door. Without hesitation, cradling his sword in one hand, he went through the door. It was as good a course as any. He did not plan to leave the castle without Alcuina, if it meant searching every room.

As before, he had the unmistakable feeling of being watched. He wondered what these people did for amusement when there were no errant wanderers to torment. Civilized people were all the same; they had no warrior virtues of their own and thus had to admire them in others. Well, he would show them something worth admiring before he killed them.

"What will it be?" he called out. "I've killed your hell-scorpion, and I've killed your men. What do you want to see die now, you gutless eunuchs?"

He continued down the corridor he had chosen. He passed many doors, none of them closed. He saw nothing of interest to him in the rooms and halls he passed. At another time he might have explored more closely, for they were full of treasures, but for once he was not interested in loot. He wanted Alcuina, he wanted out of this place, and he wanted to get back to the real world, in that order.

His explorings brought him to a great hall from
which many corridors branched. In the center of the room lay Alcuina, naked. Her ornaments had been taken from her, and her wrists and ankles were closely bound. She did not move.

Conan halted without the room. He knew a trap when he saw one. He would be assaulted upon entering the room or trying to leave, he had no doubt. Now, while it seemed he had a little leisure, was a good time to decide upon his next move. The woman seemed to be unconscious. She did not appear to be tethered to any solid object, but merely lying upon a pile of silks that nested her own silken nudity. What was their game this time?

Then he smiled. For certain, none of his blades would cut the cords that bound her. That meant that he would have to carry the queen to safety. It also meant that he would be deprived of the use of one arm and a good deal of his mobility. Well, if they thought that would stop him, they knew little of Cimmerians in general and himself in particular.

Like a man without a care in the world, he stepped into the room and crossed to where the queen lay. He scooped her up, threw her across his left shoulder, and gave her shapely bottom an affectionate pat. "Fear not, Alcuina, I'll have us out of this place shortly."

"I shall believe that when it happens," said her woice, somewhat muffled by the wolfskins covering Conan's back. "And a mere swordsman is not entitled id touch his queen in so unseemly a fashion."

"Regained your senses, eh? And your tongue as ell. swear by Crom, you are the touchiest wench I eier pledged my sword arm to. I follow you to the demon land, I kill monsters and men in your service, md all you can do is complain about a little pat on your
royal backside. On top of all those stripes it should feel soothing."

"Put me down, you hulking ape!" She began to wriggle about on his shoulder.

"If I do that, how can I carry you away from here?"

"Then at least carry me so I can see and breathe instead of smelling your mangy wolfhide!"

"That would be inconvenient." He gave her bottom a harder slap, one that cracked loudly. "Now, be still and allow me to rescue you." Despite her writhings he held her easily.

"Rescue! You idiot, you have walked into a trap any child could have anticipated!"

"I know that, woman," said Conan with unwonted patience. "I have walked into many traps in my time, and I have walked out of all of them. Or crawled at any rate. Now, tell me, where do these people assemble to practice then magic?"

"Assemble? Do you not want to get us away from here?"

"You weary me with your questions. They want me to try to escape. Any way that I choose is sure to be fraught with perils. I hate to leave living enemies be-hind my back in any case. Where may I expect to find them?"

She released a gusty sigh. "You are a brave man and a great fool. Ymir curse me if I ever employ a hero again. You must climb the large central tower. That is all I know of the place. It is there that Sarissa and her friends like to ply their whips and other instruments. I think it is the place where they amass to perform their abominable rites as well. It is full of strange wizardly things, and there is a great thing on the wall, like a
looking glass, in which they can see all that goes on in fee castle."

"That sounds like the place we want. Let's be off." With Alcuina across his shoulder, Conan scanned the doorways leading from the room. His splendid sense of orientation told him which one led toward the center of Ac castle, and he dashed off through it at a fast trot.

"Where have they disappeared to?" asked one of the todies impatiently.

"They must appear soon," Sarissa assured the assembled lords and ladies.

They stared into the great spyglass as it peered into the various passages of the castle, spending a few moments on each before going on to another. The barbarian had taken an unexpected exit from the chamber where Sarissa had left Alcuina. No doubt he was disoriented from his captivity. They had not seen him since.

Each person in the room had been given charge of one of the possible escape routes to the outside of the castle. Each had expended a great deal of ingenuity upon guarding and laying traps in the route he had drawn. There was much wagering over which of them would get the Cimmerian, and how far the man would get, and how Jong it would take him to die.

Certain basic rules had been laid down, of course. Venomous gases could not be employed, nor any spell against which a mere human would be powerless. He must have at least a semblance of a chance of fighting his way through, since that was what he did best, and what they found most entertaining about him. Should be be able to survive each challenge in turn and win his way to the outside, then Sarissa would have the privilege of killing him in whatever manner she chose. He
could not be allowed to escape, with or without Alcuina. That would spoil the game.

"I wish he would appear soon," said a lord, stifling a yawn. " begin to tire of this." The glass flashed onto a corridor blocked by an obscene, tentacled thing, which waited hungrily for prey.

"Is it me you search for?"

The assembled people whirled to stare at the main entrance. There stood Conan, with the nude Alcuina still slung over his shoulder. As they boggled, speech-less, Conan set Alcuina down in such wise that she could attend to the proceedings.

"Now you have spoiled our game," Sarissa said, pouting.

"I was tiring of your games anyway," Conan told her.

"I might as well kill him," said Hasta. He raised a hand and began a complicated gesture.

Before he could properly begin, Conan closed the distance between them, and his sword was buried in Hasta's skull. He wrenched the blade loose and it blurred through the air twice. The two lords to either side of Hasta fell screaming.

The others seemed to be stupefied, unable to compre-hend that they were actually being physically attacked by a lower life form. He killed three more before some made a break for the exit. He slaughtered with such speed and precision that his earlier fighting had been slow by comparison. Those who managed to escape the room he left alone. The others he slew without mercy..

One of them did not flee. Conan was wiping the strangely colored blood from his sword when he returned to the center of the room. There sat Sarissa, cradling the mangled remains of her brother. "You've slain him," she said tonelessly.

"So I have," said Conan without pity. "It is a great shame that you were so preoccupied with sorrow. You missed a fine show." He gestured at the grotesquely sprawled heaps of bodies, the faces upturned, silver eyes fast losing their gleam.

" must see to my brother's funeral rites," Sarissa said.

"You can do that later," Conan said, his voice like stone. "If I let you live."

He grasped Hasta's corpse by the front of the garments. With a powerful motion of his arm, he cast the body directly into the great mirror, which shattered with a noise that shook the whole castle to its foundations. He yanked Sarissa to her feet.

"Show us the quickest way out of here if you would live, woman!" he demanded.

Numbly Sarissa staggered toward the room's entrance. As he passed the door, Conan picked up Alcuina, this time holding her cradled so that she could see where she was going. For once she was too shaken to taunt him.

"Make her release my bonds," was all she said.

"For now," Conan answered, "I prefer you the way you are."

Sarissa led them to a portal in a wall and down a long, winding staircase. Not for a moment did Conan relax his guard. He was alert for treachery. He knew that the woman would try to kill them; it was only a question of when.

Much to his surprise she led them to a tiny portal leading onto the sward outside the castle walls. He
pressed the point of his sword into the cleft of Sarissa's spine.

"Now you will walk over into the trees, and we shall follow close behind you. I am keeping close watch on your hands, woman. At the first sign that you are casting some spell with your voice or your hands, I shall serve you as I did your brother."

With her spine rigid and her hands close at her sides, Sarissa led them toward the forest. The trees closed about them, and Sarissa slowed, but Conan kept her going for several hundred more paces, pricking her back when her pace did not suit him.

"Now you may stop," said Conan when he deemed they were sufficiently far from the castle.

A dark, cowled form emerged from the woods, bearing a bundle of goods. "Alcuina!" cried Rerin in delight. "He has indeed brought you safe from that place."

"After a fashion," Alcuina said. Conan had set her upon the turf, where she sat fuming. "If you have something in that bundle to cover me with, I would be most grateful, old friend."

Conan himself did not take his eyes from Sarissa, who had shown no sign of emotion and had spoken no word since the shattering of the mirror.

"I am at a loss as to what to do with this one, old man," Conan said. "If we turn her loose, she'll work some mischief against us with her spells. Yet, we can-not keep her with us."

"You need not fear," Sarissa said in a dead voice. "When you destroyed the great mirror, you killed me and all my people. The group-soul of my race dwelled in that ancient artifact. You, in your barbarian ignorance, smashed it."

"Ignorance!" snorted Conan. "If I had known that
was the way to slay you all, I would have destroyed the thing at the first opportunity. It need not have happened, woman. If you had shown Alcuina kindness, if you had not tried to use me for your entertainment, we would be on our way home, and you would have your brother and your castle and your accursed amusements." Conan was not one to waste much pity upon those who brought their misfortunes upon themselves.

"It is true, what she says," confirmed Rerin. "All the magical aura is gone from her."

"Let me return to the castle, so I may perish with my people," said Sarissa.

"Very well," said Conan, sheathing his sword. "I have no further use for you." He paid her no more attention as she turned and began to walk, slowly and dejectedly, back toward her castle.

When she was gone, Alcuina turned to Rerin. "And now, old friend, have you some spell to loose these magical bonds?"

Rerin bent forward and studied the cords that bound Alcuina's wrists and ankles. "Have you tried a knife?" he asked.

"I never thought of that," said Conan. He drew his dagger and slid it across the bonds, which parted easily.

"Never thought of it!" Alcuina screamed, her face turning scarlet that flooded to her breasts. In her anger she seemed to have forgotten her nudity for the mo-ment. "You deliberately left me like that so you could handle me at will and do as you liked in the castle!"

"There is much to be said," Conan assured her, "for a queen who is immobilized when there is warrior's work to be done."

"You fool! What would I have done if they had killed you while I was helpless! Did you think of that?"

" am sure that you would have done your queenly best and managed affairs as well as you have so far."

"Look!" said Rerin, anxious to forestall what was about to erupt into civil war between queen and warrior.

They looked to where he was pointing. The castle, which had been so solid, was beginning to melt, or rather collapse in upon itself, its outlines becoming wavery, as if all within it had grown soft, shrunken, and diminished.

"It is like a jellyfish cast upon the seashore," said Conan, scratching his beard-stubbled chin.

"Their magic must have been all that held that unstable place together," Rerin mused. Then he noticed Conan's growth of whiskers. "How long were you in that castle?"

"It must have been some three or four days," Conan said, puzzled.

"No," protested Alcuina. "It was nine or ten days at least."

"And yet I spent only a single night out here since Conan ascended the wall. Even time is strange here in the demon land."

"We must find our way home, and that swiftly," insisted Alcuina. "This place terrifies me, and I am concerned for my people at home. What may be happening to them?"

"I am hungry," Conan said. "Rerin, get a fire started. I shall be back soon with game." With that he darted off into the underbrush.

Rerin sat by Alcuina when the fire was crackling. She wore his cloak as a temporary garb. "What think you now of your champion?" he asked.

"He is like something from an old tale. I have never seen a warrior like him, yet he is so wild and self―
governed that wonder whether he serves me or his own whim."

"And yet he has possibilities. You need a king to sit beside you in the hall, and none of the neighbor kings suits you. You could do worse than this Cimmerian. He has no kingdom to swallow yours up, and with him leading your war-host you need fear no enemy."

"It might work for a while," Alcuina said, "but some night as he lay sleeping I would probably kill him."

Court of the Winter Kings

King Odoac of the Thungians, his rotund bulk swathed in rich winter furs, stood blowing on his hands. Behind him stood a band of his picked warriors, and beside him in the snow was thrust a hunting spear. They awaited the great stag that the huntsmen were to drive past them. There came a sound of crashing brush from the right.

"The stag comes!" said the king's nephew.

"I can hear that, you young fool," said Odoac.

He picked up his heavy javelin and made himself ready. According to ancient custom the king had the first cast, and after him each warrior in order of rank.

With a cloud of erupting snow the splendid beast broke from the brush. Its eyes rolled and its tongue hung from its mouth in exhaustion and panic. Behind it the huntsmen yelled and clattered, driving it toward the waiting noble hunters.

As it lumbered past, the king stepped forward and, with a straining grunt, cast his spear. The cast was
powerful but far wide of the mark. The spear glanced from the wide-spreading antlers of the beast, and the beast halted, startled by the unfamiliar impact.

While Odoac cursed in futile rage, the stag turned to face the hunters. With its head lowered, it began to trot toward them, presenting the most difficult of targets. The king's nephew, young Leovigild, stepped forward as his arm flashed back. He took three paces and cast his javelin. It sped unerringly to the stag, slipped below the antlers and beside the head, and pierced the juncture of chest and neck. With its neck artery cut and its heart pierced, the great animal collapsed and died almost instantly.

The young man stood smiling, and the others clapped him on the back, praising the superb cast. Then they all fell silent as the king strode up to his nephew, rage upon his face. With a powerful buffet of his open palm, he struck the younger man to the snowy ground.

"You insolent young puppy! I would have had him if you had not jostled my arm! Do you think your forwardness has escaped my notice! You have taken my stag just as you would like to take my throne!"

The warriors remained silent at this outburst. They all knew that no man had stood near the king, and that he had missed his cast through his own clumsiness, but none would give him the lie. These insane rages were growing more common with Odoac, as he felt his pow-ers waning through the ravages of age and overindulgence.

"You are unjust, my liege," said Leovigild. The youth's face was pale with mortification, but he made no move against his uncle. "I cast because it was my turn, and all men know how loyally I have always served you."

"See that it remains so, puppy," said Odoac with
unbearable contempt. "It will be many years before Ymir takes me into his hall and you may sit upon the throne."

The king whirled and stalked off. He would have liked to kill his nephew, as he had killed all other rivals, some of them his own sons. But custom decreed that he must have a designated heir, and Leovigild, his murdered brother's only son, was the last remaining male of the royal line. Had he slain the boy,- his nobles would have felt free to rid themselves of Odoac and make one of their number king in his place. As an infant and a boy, the lad had been no threat. Now that he had reached man's estate, something would have to be done about him.

Some of the warriors would have aided Leovigild to stand, but he shook off their helping hands. "I should not have allowed such a blow, even from a king," he said, fearful that he had lost respect in the eyes of the warriors.

"What could you have done," said a grizzled noble-man, "save sharing the fate of your male kin? You must bide your time, youngling. It cannot be much longer." Mollified, he walked back to the hall in the midst of the warriors.

That evening, after the feasting, Odoac dismissed all from the hall save his noblest warriors and champions. With drinking-horns filled, they waited to hear their master's words. His obese bulk filling the great throne, Odoac looked around at them, his piglike eyes almost buried in the fat face. His gaze halted for a moment upon Leovigild, and the young man stared back, un-afraid. He was handsome and yellow-haired, a short, soft, blond beard framing his firm jaw. His eyes were clear and blue, in contrast to Odoac's muddy, bloodshot orbs. Odoac envied the boy's youth, strength, and fine looks as much as he feared his ambition and the way the warriors were increasingly turning to Leovigild for advice and approval.

"My warriors," the king began, "it is time we made plans concerning the future of the kingdom. For years now we Thungians have been menaced by two enemy peoples: Queen Alcuina and her Cambres, and Totila and his Tormanna." He almost spat out the last words, trying to hide his fear of Totila with a mask of contempt. If the truth was known, he secretly envied the way Totila, a mere bandit-chieftain, had built his war-band into a powerful kingdom while he himself, who had inherited a kingdom from his father, had barely been able to hold it together with murder and treachery. "Of course, I would have destroyed both of them long ago had it not been for their accursed wizards, Rerin and lilma.

"Let it not be said that I am an unreasonable man. I offered Queen Alcuina my suit, in honorable marriage. With her lands and people annexed to mine, neither of us need have feared any enemy. But did the slut eagerly accept, like my first three wives?" He glared around him and pounded on the arm of the throne with his fist. "No, she did not! She behaved as if I, King Odoac of the Thungians, were some humble crofter, instead of a mighty king whose forebears can be traced back to Father Ymir himself!" The king calmed himself with a visible effort before going on.

"I have borne this humiliation and insolence, with patience, for as long as any man could be asked. The time has now come to act. Word has come to me that, some weeks agone, Alcuina disappeared under uncanny circumstances." A murmur of conversation broke out at
this news. "I doubt not that this is the work of Totila's pet wizard, lilma. Alcuina's men are shut up inside their stockade, and they are leaderless. They have no one of royal blood to command them, so they huddle together waiting for their queen to return. I think they will have a long wait. Now is the time to strike and swallow them up, before Totila does!"

There was a savage growl of approval from the assembled warriors. Whatever their doubts concerning his erratic behavior and waning powers, they had no such doubts concerning his acquisitiveness and his predatory instincts. Of these things, they all approved. Odoac had been a decent battle-leader in his younger days, and perhaps he was showing a flash of his old power in this plan. After all, kings lived by preying upon rival kings, and better the Thungians should absorb the Cambres than the hated Tormanna.

"I am not so certain that this is the best course, Uncle," said Leovigild. The old king stared at him with undisguised hate, but the youth went on fearlessly. "It seems to me a shabby thing to attack Queen Alcuina's people while her fate remains unknown. This is not the way great people should deal with one another."

"Is that so?" said Odoac in a dangerously mild voice. "And yet, it is the way we have always dealt among ourselves, high and low, here in the Northland. The weak are swallowed up by the strong. That is the way of it, as I learned from my sire and he from his, and so it has always been since the wars of gods and giants/'

Many nodded at these words, for custom was the only law among them except for might. Yet others plainly wanted to hear more of what Leovigild had to say.

"I think that this way is unwise. I grant that it is good to be strong and fierce, for how can a people survive otherwise? But I think it is also good to be wise and behave with forethought. Here is my counsel: If we war upon the Cartibres at this time, both peoples will lose warriors and will be the weaker when the inevitable war comes with Totila. Instead why do we not send heralds to the Cambres in then" fortress and propose an alliance against Totila until Queen Alcuina returns? This can have only two outcomes, both of them good: If Alcuina comes not back, then the Cambres must in time acknowledge you as their king, having no king of their own and having followed you in war. Should Alcuina return, how can she again reject your suit, since you will have been the salvation of her people. In truth, her folk must demand it, since she has to wed soon." There was great approbation at words of such maturity and wisdom from so young a man.

Had it not been for those sounds of admiration, had the boy come in private to Odoac with this plan, then Odoac might have adopted it and claimed it as his own. As it was, the words threw him into another towering rage. "What womanish, weakling words are these? Could the fierce Thungians ever follow such a simple-ton? No such coward could be born of our royal line, and I am minded to cut you from it!" So saying, Odoac lurched to his feet and began to draw his sword. His men rushed to restrain him, and forced him back into his throne.

A senior counselor turned to Leovigild. "Best get you gone, lad. We'll not let the king harm you, but you cannot stay here now." Ashen-faced, Leovigild strode from the hall. After a time, Odoac grew calm enough to be released.

"That boy tries me beyond my patience," said Odoac
at length. '"Best that he is exiled. He is treacherous as well as cowardly. I thank you for restraining me," he said piously. "I should never wish to shed the blood of a kinsman, be he never so disloyal." The warriors let this pass in eloquent silence.

"What of the custom, my liege?" asked a grim-faced man. "Now you have no heir. The people must have an heir to the throne, or there must be trouble."

Odoac shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Think you I am so old that I may not set this matter aright? As soon as we have settled the problem of the Cambres, then I shall take a new wife, be it Alcuina or some other. Then you shall have an heir within the year, vow."

"That is good to hear, my king," said the same man, and Odoac was not sure that there was no mockery in the voice. "Now, what of this black-haired champion of Alcuina's that we have heard something of? Is this fellow likely to cause us trouble?"

Happy to be off the subject of the succession, Odoac said, " have spoken with the trader Dawaz about this man. He is a mere sellsword, an adventurer from afar with neither kin nor friend here. He seems to possess some small skill with his weapons, and with a bit of luck he managed to slay Agilulf. I have also heard that he disappeared on the same night as Alcuina, as did the wizard Rerin. All the more reason why we should move now. The Cambres have lost queen, champion, and sorcerer. When shall we have such an opportunity again?" He looked around and saw only battle-lusting faces. "See to sharpening your weapons, then." He turned to a trusted retainer named Wudga. "Go you to all the outlying steadings and summon the warriors. It has been many years since there has been a winter hosting, so remind them that every man must bring as much preserved food as may feed him for at least a fortnight. After that we should be feasting upon the stores of the Cambres!"

A ferocious cheer went up at these words, the unfortunate Leovigild forgotten for the moment. Odoac sat back and smiled with satisfaction. Few problems, however thorny, were not to be solved with a little warfare and prospect of loot.

Leovigild rode for many hours, unsure where he might go. No man had pursued him from the hall, none had sought to molest him as he bundled his few belongings onto a packhorse and rode from the garth. Immediate death at the hands of Odoac's men might have been preferable. He was an exile, driven from hearth and hall, denied the protection of his family. In the North, a man without clan or kin was under virtual death sentence.

His small, shaggy mount pushed patiently through the snow, twin jets of steam streaming from his nostrils. Mane and tail swept almost to the snow as the surefooted beast picked its way among the serried drifts, its hooves crunching musically through the hard crust left by the great freeze.

Where could he go? He had his two horses, his sword, helm and cuirass of finely worked bronze. On the packhorse were his hunting clothes and his feast clothes, two long spears, a short javelin, and his shield of painted wood and leather. With the clothes he now wore, these were his total resources. It never crossed his mind to take the protection of some landholder and serve as a peasant farmer. Starvation was preferable. An armed warrior of good blood could always join the war-band of some chieftain. That was at least honor-
able, but it would have to be far from here, and a lone man was not likely to survive the journey. Besides, he was rightful heir to the lordship of the Thungians, and he had no intention of relinquishing his claim.

His gloomy thoughts turned to Alcuina of the Cambres. If the reports were true, she now was in some form of exile as well. If the loathsome liima was behind it, Alcuina's situation was far more dire than his own. He had never met her, but rumor had it that she was a great beauty. The thought of such a lady wed to his uncle was repellent, although honor and loyalty forbade his expressing the thought while in the garth.

He wished to avoid the men of the Tormanna and of the Cambres. Times were even more unsettled than usual, and there was no law to protect lone wanderers. Captors might wish to make sport with him before killing him, and many a man who was laggard on the battlefield made up for it by fiendish ingenuity in the treatment of prisoners.

He remembered a small valley in the hills to the north. He had found it years before when hunting alone. It was uncultivated and snaked along the ill-defined border between the lands of the Cambres and the Tormanna. If he could pass between the two nations unseen, he might find a place to hide, perhaps taking service with a petty chieftain until he might return to claim his birthright. Surely Odoac could not live much longer.

That evening he bedded down on the level ground near the mouth of the valley. It was a wild place, frequented only by hunters or herdsmen in search of strayed stock. With the flint and steel from his belt pouch he kindled a fire. There was scant likelihood that he would be seen in this wild spot.

As he was about to bed down in his warm cloaks, he was startled to see ghostly lights flittering among the trees within the narrow valley. His hand went to the protective amulet that hung at his neck, and he chanted out a quick spell to ward off evil. The lights came no nearer and seemed no more menacing than the fire, which was now a small heap of coals before him.

"Ymir!" he muttered in a near whisper, "am I a child to hide my head for fear of will-o'-the-wisps?"

With a short, forced laugh he bundled into his cloaks and was soon asleep. Nothing molested him, but his sleep was fitful, troubled by vague, menacing dreams.

The next morning, remounted, Leovigild peered into the narrow, growth-choked valley. Little of the snow lay there, but the density of the tree canopy could have explained that. Still, it was an ill-looking place. It took some urging on his part to force the horses into the tangled draw. When he had visited this place before, he had been on foot. That had been in the days of high summer, but even then the darkness of the valley had oppressed him. He had spent a morning in halfhearted pursuit of a wounded stag, and turned back hastily when its tracks ended in a welter of blood and broken brush. Some dire predator dwelled in the valley, but he was older and betterrarmed now.

The air was still and warmer than that outside the valley. The growth of plants was different as well. Here, instead of pine and fir, broad-leafed oak predominated. The trees were stunted but of luxuriant growth, and once he was well into the valley the undergrowth Sunned, and the traveling was easier. The valley floor was uneven, a tiny stream meandering over a gravel bed in its center. The heavy growth of stunted trees and
thick vines, the great mossy boulders, all lent the valley a certain wild beauty, marred by the gloomy dimness.

Leovigild watched for game to supplement the scant rations in his saddlebags, but he saw little sign of larger animals, and the smaller ones would be passing the winter in sleep. Still, he kept his bow strung, its handle of hide-wrapped yew comforting to his hand.

He was beginning to regret his decision to travel by this route. The men of Totila and Alcuina would never accost him in this place, but it had the aspect of an abode for dragons and giants. His imagination peopled the copses and caves with witches, and behind the mossy boulders he thought he glimpsed ragged dwarfs ducking from sight. He tried to shake off the uncanny mood.

"Tales to frighten children," he muttered. "It is men I must be wary of, not goblins from old stories."

Having thus reassured himself, Leovigild urged his horse forward. There was a tiny clearing in the overhead cover, and a heap of snow lay before him. It was the first sizable drift he had encountered since entering the valley. Then a great many things happened at once. As he guided his horse around the drift the heap of snow burst upward, flinging white clumps far and wide.

Leovigild's mount reared screeching, casting the youth to the ground with enough force to half stun him. Towering above him was a creature of nightmareits wedge-shaped head reared high upon a sinuous trunk as thick as a man's body. Its unblinking, slit-pupilled eyes fixed malevolently upon the helpless Leovigild, and he knew that he had no chance against this thing from the earth's youth.

"Snow serpent!" he gasped.

Travelers claimed to have seen the giant, white-furred snakes in the lands north of the forest belt, where the sun rose not for half the year, nor fully set in the other half. Never had he heard of such in the woodlands of his people.

His packhorse bolted toward the upper end of the valley, but his mount fidgeted, too paralyzed by terror to pick a direction and run. With Leovigild motionless, the primitive brain of the serpent was distracted by the terrified beast. Its jaws gaped, and yellow slime dripped from its fangs to hiss upon the snow. It lunged forward, and Leovigild heard the doomed beast's shrill neigh cut short by a horrible sound of crunching bones.

With a wrenching, painful effort, the youth raised himself enough to see a writhing, white-furred coil from which protruded the twisted legs of his mount. Horror thrilled his spine as the serpent's head reared from the writhing mass, its jaws grotesquely distended. The horse's head and part of its forequarters had already disappeared into the gaping maw, and he realized that the monster intended to swallow the horse whole.

Now, he knew, was his chance to escape. Even so immense a monster must need some time to swallow an entire horse. He tested his limbs and found them all relatively sound. It would be some time before he was hale enough to run, but he could creep painfully upon hands and knees.

As Leovigild began to drag himself away the serpent turned to fix its eyes once more upon him. It shook its head, trying to rid itself of the carcass, but its backward-curving fangs would not release it. It had to swallow the horse or die with the carcass in its jaws. Gradually it lost interest in the lesser prey and went back to its task.

Leovigild was gasping with a mixture of pain and
relief when he pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a small sapling. He bled only from small scrapes, although he felt as if King Odoac's hall had fallen upon him. As he made his slow, halting way up the valley he took stock of his situation.

If he had felt poor and abandoned upon setting out, he was in far worse condition now. He had the clothes he wore, his sword and knife, and a relatively undamaged body. His packhorse with his other belongings was somewhere ahead. With luck, he might recover them. Only the thought that he might have ended as snake food himself kept him from cursing his luck.

He paused to catch his breath. Painfully he bent and touched .the earth. "Father Ymir, I thank you that I have escaped as cheaply as I did." He suspected that Ymir took no interest in his doings, but it did no harm to keep on good terms with the gods.

"A pious sentiment, for so young a man."

Leovigild whirled at the sound of a human voice, causing himself great pain in so doing. He saw nobody. "Show yourself!"

"I am here before you."

Leovigild peered into the gloom and saw a lump of mossy stone a few paces before him. It had an oddly regular look to it, a semblance of a human face below the long strands of lichen hanging from its crest. In deep-shadowed pits he saw a pair of unmistakable eyes. At another time it might have sent prickles of horror up his spine. So soon after his encounter with the snow serpent, it was a mere curiosity.

"What manner of creature are you?" he asked.

"I might ask the same of you, O foolish one."

Leovigild could now see that it was a small, gnarled man sitting atop the boulder. So twisted and irregular was his shape that he seemed more a part of his surroundings than a living man, and whether he was covered with ragged garments, hair, or moss was equally uncertain.

"I am Leovigild, heir to the lordship of the Thungians. My pack-beast was slain by a great white serpent, and I now search for my mount."

"And what brings you hither, to a place avoided by men since your breed first came to these wooded hills?" An oversized, knobby hand emerged from the rags and scratched at a bark-brown cheek.

"My business is my own. I but seek passage up this valley and intend to leave it two days' journey to the north. That at least was my intention. The loss of my horses may cause me to tarry here a while longer."

"You may stay here far longer than you had intended," said the ugly little man.

Uncomfortably Leovigild thought of old tales he had heard as a child, of places outside human ken. There were said to be barrows and hills where unwary travelers were drawn by mysterious lights or music, to spend a night feasting with the small people, only to emerge with the dawn and find that twenty or more years had passed.

"Would you seek to ensorcell me?" His hand went to his sword hilt. After his battering he was far from his best fighting form, but he had little doubt that he could defeat this homunculus.

The creature laughed, a sound like two boulders rubbing together. "The pause of death is the longest delay of all. You men are a short-lived race." The creature spoke slowly, as one who never felt the press of passing time.

"I must find my, packhorse," said Leovigild impa―
tiently. "This is your valley, and I would be grateful for your aid in tracking the beast. But if you will not aid me, then at least hinder me no further." Painfully and stiffly he turned to trudge off.

"Be not so hasty, youth."

Leovigild turned back to see the dwarfish figure ris-ing from its rock. Standing, the creature stood no higher than Leovigild's waist, but it was easily twice as broad through the body. The long arms were roped with heavy coils of muscle, and the youth was no longer so sanguine about besting the little man in combat.

"Let us go and find your animal. I warrant you would not live long alone in this valley."

The dwarf picked up a club and shouldered it. The bludgeon was a knobby-headed oaken cudgel as long as Leovigild's leg, old and hand-polished. The creature handled it as lightly as a willow-wand. He set off at an easy walk, his stubby legs adjusting to the irregularity of the footing with the effortlessness of long custom.

"What manner of man are you?" Leovigild asked once more. "I have never encountered your like, though you live so close to my homeland."

"I am no man at all. I am a Niblung, and my people lived in these Northlands long before men arrived with their long legs and their short lives. Your kind have encountered us seldom because we wish it so. This valley has such an aspect that few wish to venture hither, and those who camp nearby are troubled with strange dreams. Those who enter soon turn back, bothered by strange fears they cannot explain."

"Such was my experience," Leovigild said, nodding. "I persisted only because I had no safe route through the lands of my foemen." The words were out before he could stop them. He had not intended to reveal his fugitive status.

"It may be," said the little man, "that we of this valley shall help you. I am Hugin. Follow close behind me, young Leovigild. There is danger for you in much that seems harmless in this valley."

"I have already encountered some of the peril of this place," Leovigild said.

"Aye. And if you failed to see a thing as huge as the snow serpent, how will you see the things that are small but just as deadly?" His shaggy, mossy eyebrows flapped up and down like the wings of a bat.

"How came that creature to this small valley?" Leovigild asked. "They are figures out of our oldest tales and are said to live only in the lands of eternal snow in the farthest north." They scrambled over a litter of fallen logs, a legacy of some mighty storm of years past.

"Such of the breed as are left inhabit those lands," Hugin agreed. "Yet once they were numerous and wide-spread. Far back in the mists of time, longer ago than you humans can remember, the world was covered with unending snow and great sheets of ice. Then the land was ruled by such as the snow serpent, and the great hairy tuskers, and the giant white apes. The ice re-treated to the north, and the great snow-beasts with it. Once in a great while, though, some ancient instinct stirs in the brain of one of those fell creatures, and they are driven to wander south. In time they return to the north, unable to bear the heat or to find food to suit them. The serpent would have returned soon, but your horse has provided it a good meal, and it will sleep for many days."

It seemed incredible to Leovigild that no more than an
hour's walk to either hand were the familiar pine forests of his homeland. This was a slice from another time and place set amid his accustomed surroundings.

Not all its dangers were as outlandish as the snow serpent. Silently Hugin pointed to a writhing nest of vipers in a hollow beside the little stream. They were of a breed Leovigild had never seen before. Unwarned, he might have trod in their midst. From time to time tracks in the mud assured him that they were still on the trail of his packhorse.

At midday they picked their way gingerly around a thicket from which came regular snortings. Leovigild could not keep from peering within, .despite Hugin's silent urgings to leave well enough alone. To his amazement he saw a sleeping boar, large as a full-grown bull. Its curling tusks were longer than his forearm. The sight made him long for his boar-spear, but he knew that all the boar-spears and nets in Odoac's hunting lodges might not suffice to slay so terrific a beast. There would be great carnage among the huntsmen, at best.

Something occurred to Leovigild. "Hugin, a few days ago, the queen of the Cambres disappeared. Her name is Alcuina, and she is said to be a woman of great beauty. It may be that she is accompanied by her champion, a huge black-haired outlander, who I have heard is more than commonly handy with his sword. Have they passed hither?"

"Nay," Hugin said, "I would have heard had they come to this valley."

"That is unfortunate," Leovigild said, disappointment etched upon his brow.

The shaggy brows flapped once more. "It sounds important to you, the whereabouts of this beautiful queen."

"In truth, I would give much to know where she is, if she still lives. It is important to our peoples."

"And to you, as well," Hugin said with a rasping chuckle. "I take you to one who may be able to tell you about your lost queen, and it may be about much else besides. Just follow old Hugin."

"Whom do you lead me to?" Leovigild asked. But Hugin would say no more.

As they trekked northward, the valley widened and trees grew larger. Without warning, they came to a small clearing, and Leovigild saw his packhorse standing at the base of a large oak, placidly cropping dry, brown grass. Then he saw that the beast was tethered to a sapling.

"Who has caught the animal and tethered it?" he asked.

"You'll see soon enough." The small man waddled to the base of the tree, where an untidy bundle of objects rested by the trunk. Leovigild examined the bundle and confirmed that it contained all his belongings that the packhorse had carried. At least he was no longer quite so destitute.

"Who have you brought me, Hugin?" Leovigild looked around, seeking the source of the voice. He was growing mighty weary of disembodied voices. "Up here," said the voice. It was a woman's voice, and it came from the tree-above him. He leaned back to scan the tree over his head.

In the thick lower branches a hut perched on a small platform. Thin smoke rose from a fire-hearth he could not see. Of the speaker he could discern nothing.

"Show yourself," Leovigild called.

"Come to my house if you would see me, youth."

He thought he caught a thin edge of amusement in
the voice. That was all to the good because he would otherwise have suspected treachery to lurk in such an invitation. Among his people, a man coming to another's home stood in plain view and announced himself loudly if his intent was honest. The house holder was then expected to come outside and greet the visitor, unarmed or at least with hands well away from his weapons. The inhabitants of this valley lived by odd customs, or so it seemed. He was comforted by the fact that it was a woman's voice, a consequence of his youth and inexperience.

A series of limb stubs jutted from the trunk at heights convenient for climbing. Despite the awkwardness of the sword at his waist, Leovigild climbed nimbly to the little bower. One who hunted boar and bear in the northern woods had to be adept at scrambling swiftly into trees. When he saw the woman who sat cross-legged in the doorway of the tree-hut, he nearly lost his hold on the tiny platform before her. Only a quick scramble saved him from a bad fall and worse loss of dignity.

He had half expected a female version of the gnarled, ugly little Hugin. What he saw instead was a young woman of great beauty. Not only was she not clad in the rough garments of the Niblung, she was clad in nothing at all. Confusion warred with excitement in his somewhat disordered mind.

"Come sit with me," said the woman, now sounding even more amused than before.

Leovigild complied, unable despite his strongest efforts to keep his eyes from staring at the woman. Aside from her state of nudity she was a woman such as he had never before seen. Her hair was raven-wing black, a great rarity in the North, but her skin was fair to the point of near translucency. Her face was triangular, with wide cheekbones and large, tilted eyes the color of emeralds. Her body was small and slender, but her breasts were full and firm, and her hips swelled ripely below her tiny waist.

He had to swallow a few times before he regained control of his voice. "I, ah, thank you for your kind invitation, my, ah, lady."

Never in his life had he felt so foolish. It occurred to him to wonder how she kept from freezing. True, the valley was somewhat warmer than the forests outside, but it was nonetheless cold enough that even a tough-ened northerner felt the need of a heavy cloak.

"You seem to be ill at ease," she said.

"I fear so, my lady. In my homeland one does not often come upon unclothed women." The art of gal-lantry was little practiced in the North.

"Oh, I see. Have no fear, my kind are not bothered by the cold, as are you."

Leovigild felt a violent urge to change the subject. "Hugin told me that you might be able to help me with certain questions that trouble me. I do not wish to impose upon you, but I would be most grateful for any assistance you might afford me."

"And what form might this gratitude take?" Her green eyes were unfathomable. He knew not whether she made sport of him or meant her words seriously. Her expression was grave, but that might easily hide mockery.

"As you can see, I possess little," he said, "but what I have you may ask of me."

"Fear not," she said. "I shall ask nothing you would be loath to give."

She took some shreds of bark from a withy basket at her side and cast them upon the coals that glowed upon

CONAN THE CHAMPIOKl
the small stone hearth before her. A cloud of fragrant smoke ascended and hung before them both. She inhaled deeply.

Leovigild was aware of a stinging in his nostrils as he breathed the smoke, then an unaccustomed dizziness assailed him. He blinked smoke-tears from his eyes and saw the woman with a new sharpness and clarity, as if the light had somehow grown stronger.

"What is your name?" he asked bluntly.

She had closed her eyes, but now the lids rose, and her emerald gaze had a distant look. "My true name you may not know, for it would give you power over me. You may call me Atalia. I come of a race as ancient as Hugin's. Where his folk are of earth and water, mine are of air and fire. Secrets of past and future are disclosed to us. Ask me now what you would know."

Leovigild had heard of witch-women and spaewives who told fortunes and performed small magics, but he had always been half convinced that most of them were mere posers or deluded half-wits. This woman was different. Though her face and form were as beautiful as any he had ever imagined, she was as alien to him as the dwarfish Hugin. She might truly have the gift of prophecy. But what could he ask her? He was curious about the future, but the tales and poems of his people were full of heroes and kings who received some prophecy of doom and did all in their power to circumvent catastrophe. Inevitably the actions they took to avoid doom were precisely those that brought it about.

The gods, then, did not like for mortal men to know too much about the future. The past did not concern him. There was much that was confusing about the present, though. Perhaps Father Ymir and the lesser gods would not resent his arming himself with some knowledge of how things went outside this little valley.

"Where is Queen Alcuina of the Cambres?" he asked.

Atalia's eyelids drooped, and she breathed deeply of the smoke. After a long silence she began speaking, very slowly and in a voice somehow more hollow than that with which she had spoken earlier.

"She is in a place that is neither this valley nor the world you know."

This was a disappointment. The woman spoke in riddles, like the dragons of old tales. "Are you saying that she is dead?"

"No. There areother places. Some of them are open only to sorcerers, others may not be entered by mortals at all. She has been taken to one of those places by the working of dark forces."

"lilma," he half whispered. "Is she alone?"

"My sight cannot penetrate to the other worlds, but she was followed by two men who crossed over close after her. One was an old man, a wizard. The other a huge man with hair as black as mine. He is no ordinary man, but one with the mark of a strange destiny upon him. He is a sojourner, for his fate lies not in these northern forests."

"Those will be her wizard, Rerin, and her foreign champion, whose name I know not. It may be that her plight is not wholly desperate, then. And what of her people, the Cambres?"

After another pause, she said, "They are leaderless and despondent. Should they be set upon now, they would fall easy prey, for the heart is gone from them."

He chose his next words with great care. "I do not ask what I should do, nor whether I shall die upon the
morrow or many years hence. But where would lie my wisest choice of action?"

She smiled. "You are cautious. That is good, for cautious men frequently live longer than rash ones. I give you advice, then, not prediction. Go to the Cambres and their queen. For good or ill your fate lies with them, and no man does well by striving to avoid his fate."

"The Cambres it is, then."

Leovigild felt as if a great burden had been lifted from him. A decision had been reached, and he need trouble his mind no further. When he left here he would climb from the valley and make his way to Alcuina's holding in the field of great stones. Even that uncanny place would seem familiar after his strange day in the valley.

"There is still the matter of my payment," Atalia said, and now her green eyes glowed with a different light.

"And what might it be?" Leovigild asked.

She rose from where she sat and seemed to flow into his arms. Even through his clothing he felt the heat of her naked body, warmer than was natural to any human woman. "As I told you," she gasped, "it is a fee you will not be sorry to pay." Slowly she drew him back into her hut.

It was a frosty morning, and Siggeir was on watch. As he often had these last few weeks, he kept especial watch upon the stone circle out on the plain, in futile hope that he would see Alcuina returning from the place where she had disappeared so mysteriously. He had tried to urge the others to make an expedition against Totila, to slay that king and seize his wizard lilma. Like most of them, Siggeir was certain that Alcuina's disappearance was the work of the wizard, and he felt that lilma might be persuaded to return their queen to them. A few had wanted to go, but most were too fearful of both Totila and lilma, and Siggeir's urgings had come to naught.

It was with some interest that he saw the lone figure mounted upon a small horse approaching from the west. Few were the travelers upon the ways at this season. Was it a messenger, or perhaps a wandering bard come to sing for a few meals and a night's lodging? He saw as the man drew near that it was a handsome youth in fine clothing.

"Who might you be?" Siggeir called down.

The young man looked up and grinned at him. "I am Leovigild, once a prince of the Thungians, now an exile. Who is in charge here in the absence of Queen Alcuina? I have some words that may be of interest to her people."

King Totila was bored. Winter life was a weary round of eating, sleeping, gaming, and trying to pass the long, dark hours until the return of spring. Then would re-same the exciting pastimes of fighting, hunting, and raiding, which were the proper amusements for a man cf good blood. The rare winter hunts helped, but now rtoey were past the great midwinter feast, and game was icarce. Unless his huntsmen turned up an incautious sag or boar, they would be reduced to smoked meat iad dried fish until spring brought the beasts from their winter dens.

h could be worse. He had seen winters when he and iks warriors had had to subsist on cheese and porridge, jtst like the thralls. He shuddered at the thought. A
clean death in battle was better than a life such as that. He had heard of the great kings of the South, where the land enjoyed spring all year round, where there was always sparkling wine instead of sour beer that had been in the cask too long. That was the way for a king to live, and that was how he intended to live as soon as he had settled with his neighbors. Then he would push his borders southward and establish a southern capital near the Zamoran border.

That was for the future, though. The problem now was how best to subdue those neighbors. He had come to depend upon the wizard lilma. He was not sure that this was a good thing, but what else could he do? A king needed a counselor, for a king's true vocation lay in war-leadership.

As if on signal, lilma came rattling into the hall. A few of the warriors looked up from their game boards, but they gave the mage no more than passing attention. He was a common sight, and in winter men developed the ability to ponder their moves in a game with awe-some intensity and patience.

"I bring you news, my liege," said lilma.

"I could use diversion," Totila said. "I trust that it is about Alcuina. Have you come to tell me that your vaunted allies in the spirit world have delivered her to me?"

"It is not that, my liege. As I have told you, time in the spirit world is not the same as time here. While many long weeks have passed among us, no more than a day or two may have passed there."

The wizard was uncomfortable with this questioning. What lilma said was true in general, but he knew that something must have gone seriously wrong in the spirit world. He could not imagine what factor might have been introduced to throw his plans awry. He was not sure how much longer he could keep Totila waiting. Now, though, he had a distraction.

"The burden of my news concerns your neighbors, the Thungians and the Cambres."

"Say on." Now Totila's interest was aroused. Idly the king picked up his helmet and turned it in his hands, admiring its workmanship. Like all the northern warriors, he loved fine metal work.

"I have found that King Odoac has driven forth his heir, young Leovigild. He rode from the king's hall some days ago, and no man knows where he has gone."

Totila barked a short laugh. "That makes a clean sweep of the family, then. That foolish pig Odoac rushes to his own doom. With no heir of their own blood, the Thungians shall be all the more willing to acknowledge me their king when I have slain him."

"You have no heir either, my liege," said the wizard.

Totila glanced at him from beneath lowered brows. "I shall have, as soon as you produce Alcuina for me. Besides, I am far younger than Odoac, and no man doubts my ability to produce an heir. And I am a proven war-leader. am of royal blood. Thus, Alcuina's people as well as Odoac's can have no objection to my overlordship. Once I have wed Alcuina, who comes of an ancient line, our son must be an heir satisfactory to all concerned. Is that not so, wizard?"

"That is so, my liege. It is also of the Cambres that I bear news. Since Alcuina's abduction by my allies, they have been shut up within their garth on the plain of the Giants' Stones. I have found out that Odoac plans to take advantage of their leaderless state and attack them within a few days."

"A winter hosting!" said Totila eagerly. "Who would
have thought that old Odoac would show such enterprise? It is more like him to doze away the winter in a drunken stupor." He fell to pondering, and his shrewd mind turned over the various ramifications of this stun-ning news. "But, yes, I see now what his thinking is. He has exiled his heir. Now he must quickly prove that he is still a good war-leader, lest his own men slay him and send to young Leovigild to return and be their king. He dare not attack me, but the Cambres are a tempting target."

lilma nodded at these words. Once again he knew that he had chosen well in picking Totila to groom as a mighty king. The man had a quick mind as well as a strong arm and a ruthless will.

"So tempting are they in fact, that I think I shall go conquer them myself," said Totila. "I shall swallow up both peoples at once. Such an opportunity must not escape me. Warriors!" He bellowed the last word at the top of his rafter-shaking command voice. "Gather your gear and summon your kin! Prepare for a winter hosting!"

A mighty cheer greeted these words, and another northern nation prepared for war.

￡iei>en
fl Bunfer Comes
flre you certain that you know where we are going, old man?" asked Conan. He forged ahead of the other two, his eyes alert for solid, fightable enemies, while Rerin kept his senses open for sorcerous danger.

"As certain as one may be in this place, which is not all that certain. A gate lies in our path somewhere up ahead, and it is one through which we may return to our world, somewhere near where we left it. Beyond that, I know little."

They were traversing a forest of towering trees, the ground almost devoid of underbrush. Great winged forms were to be discerned from time to time, soaring above the treetops, but creatures on the ground were for the most part small and shy, avoiding the approaching humans.

"I pray to Ymir we get there soon," said Alcuina.

She now wore Conan's tunic and trews, which she had roughly altered to fit her smaller form. The Cimmerian retained his wolfskin overtunic and leg-
gings. Alcuina had fashioned crude boots from the excess of Conan's fur cloak. The relatively mild climate here made these makeshift garments adequate.

They had not eaten that day and had only had the carcass of a small beast slain by Conan to share among themselves the day before. Still, they were northerners and used to extended periods of deprivation.

"Black Erlik's throne, but I hope we find some game soon," said Conan, his stomach growling loudly.

"Wait," interjected Rerin.

"What is it?" Conan asked.

"I feelI am not sure. Something has come near us, and it is charged with the evil of this world."

"Know you anything of its nature?" asked Alcuina.

"I cannot say. It is nothing I have ever seen in the spirit-trance. It is not like the folk of the castle, nor is it like the demons who bore you hither. More than that I cannot say."

"I hope it is not another of those scorpion things," Conan said. "One of those was enough."

"No," Rerin said, "I think not, but" Then he looked upward, beyond Conan. "Look!"

The others followed his pointing finger. Far ahead, on a high ridge of ground beyond the trees, was a mounted figure. Its long cloak billowed in the wind as it stared down at them. Its features were masked by a shining, silver helm, but a baleful red glow shone from within its vision-slots. Of its arms they could tell nothing from so great a distance, but its warlike aspect was nonetheless apparent. Conan was minded of what the demon he had questioned about Alcuina had told him: "A hunter comes."

"If it's a man," Conan said, "then it's a bigger man on a bigger horse than the common run. And I think it means us no good."

"Do you think it is human?" Alcuina asked Rerin.

"I do not think that there are any true humans here," Rerin said, "save for ourselves and perhaps captives brought here from the world of men. But what it is I cannot say."

With no warning, the creature whirled its mount and sped across the ridge, away from them. In an instant it was lost to sight.

"I like not the look of that rider," said Alcuina.

Conan shrugged. "I could tell little in this accursed thick air. It looked like a giant, but that might be some trick of the light or the air."

Inwardly he was not so sure. He saw no reason for communicating his unease to his companions, though. If this thing boded ill, which he did not doubt, then time enough to worry about it when the danger was directly upon them.

They proceeded through the great wood, which gradually gave way to a more sparsely vegetated upland where stands of smaller trees predominated, separated by small valleys and meadows. It looked to Conan much like the area where he and Rerin had originally entered the demon land. He felt slightly more comfortable here, as visibility was somewhat improved in these surroundings. There was little he feared, even in a place such as this, as long as he had a clear field of view and time to ready himself against attack by an enemy.

That night they camped in a clearing, and grilled cuts of meat over a smoky wood fire. Before stopping for the night Conan had brought down a vaguely deerlike animal by casting a makeshift javelin consisting of a straight sapling trimmed of its branches, its thicker end
whittled to a point by Conan's dagger. It proved sufficient for a short cast, and they all ate well for a change.

"We shall reach the gate early tomorrow," Rerin said. "I can feel its nearness much more clearly now. It is not far."

"What of that rider we saw today?" asked Conan. "Can you feel his presence now?"

Rerin concentrated for a few moments. "I cannot tell for certain," he said at last. "Everything magical casts a certain aura, and this may be detected by one who is trained in these arts. However, some auras are stronger, and a weaker one may be masked by a stronger, as the light cast by a candle is hidden within that cast by the sun. Here there are so many magical auras that it is difficult to separate one from another. The signal sent out by the gate is very strong and is unmistakable. The rider"he shrugged"his aura is not so strong, although it is intensely evil."

"Conan," Alcuina said, "think you that you can best this weird horseman?"

"If it is mortal, I can slay it. And it must be mortal."

"How can you be sure of that?" she asked.

"Because it wears a helm," he said imperturbably. "Immortals have no need of armor. It wears a helm because it does not want a cleft skull."

"I hope you are right," said Rerin. "I feel we shall know upon the morrow, at any rate."

The next day found them trekking through the upland into a high valley of great stone formations and scattered, low trees. The air was still dense and waterlike to vision, causing shapes and shadows to waver subtly. Once, distantly, they seemed to hear a pounding of great hooves. They moved warily, for their enemy was sure to strike before they could gain the gate.

"There!" shouted Rerin as they crested a small hillock. Before them, in a depression of the ground, was a stone gate such as the one they had come through. It stood in a grassy glade that seemed to be devoid of animal life. They approached it cautiously, ready for anything.

"How much time will you need?" Conan asked.

"An hour, perhaps two, but no longer," said Rerin. From his pouch he took plants he had collected on their way, and bits of stone, animal bones, and the like. "Alcuina, help me gather fuel and kindle a fire. I must work quickly, but I dare not risk rushing through the spell too rapidly. If so much as a word or a gesture is left out, I must begin all over again."

"Is there aught I may do to help?" asked Conan. He hated taking part in sorcerous doings, but he was willing to overcome his distaste to save their hides.

"Nothing except to keep watch. If our pursuer arrives, he must not be allowed to interrupt me."

"I'll try to keep him away from you," said Conan, smiling sourly. "Get to work. I shall go to the top of yonder mound to keep guard."

So saying, he walked to the indicated elevation. From its crest he could see nothing except more of the landscape. Who was the rider, and what might be his powers? Conan found himself regretting the loss of his cuirass. Although he rarely let himself depend on ar-mor, Conan knew that the extra protection could be crucial in a close-fought combat. As it was, he had sword and helm, but no shield. He had fought with considerably less, and he was yet alive. He sat and waited.

Much smoke and chanting came from where Rerin and Alcuina sat by their fire before the great stone gate.

The colors of the smoke changed from moment to moment, and within the gate the view shifted and wavered. The old wizard's voice came sometimes as a high-pitched wailing, at others as a deep rumble. Such things set Conan's teeth on edge, and it was almost with relief that he heard the pounding of great hooves.

Conan rose from his cross-legged position and drew his sword. Idly he thumbed its edge as he awaited the coming of the rider.

From the tree line it came, a man-shape mounted upon a horse-form. But as it neared, Conan saw that rider and mount were neither man nor horse. The two seemed to be clad in gleaming armor, although much of the man-shape was hidden by a voluminous cloak. The horse-thing walked slowly forward, and its gait was not quite that of a natural beast. Its eyes gleamed red, as did those of its rider, through the smooth, featureless helm.

"That's far enough," Conan called out. "State your business. Do not attempt to interfere with these peo-ple." He jerked his head in the direction of his companions, never taking his gaze from the rider.

"I am a hunter." The voice rang hollowly from within the thing. "I have come to fetch you all for my master."

"And who might that be?" Conan asked. He really was not interested in the answer, but every second he kept the thing occupied was more time for Rerin to complete his spell-casting.

"I serve the Lord of the Demon Land. Come with me."

"If we wished to visit your master," Conan said, "we would not be here. Now be on your way. If you wish to live, do not seek to hinder us."

With no further negotiation, the hunter charged. Conan was almost caught off-balance. A natural horse rears back slightly, digging in its rear hooves before springing forward. The hunter's mount did no such thing. All four hooves dug in as one and the beast was coming forward with blinding speed. The rider made no motion to draw weapon, but suddenly there was a blade in its right hand, and the long, narrow length of keen steel was descending upon Conan almost before the startled Cimmerian could react.

Conan sidestepped the whistling blade, and it but sheared away a piece of wolfskin from the shoulder of his tunic. Reflexively Conan swung a backhand blow against the side of the beast, seeking to chop off one of the rider's legs. The blade rang hollowly against armor, and Conan darted a few paces away. Not only had he failed to cripple the rider, there had been nothing beneath his sword that even felt like a leg.

Mightily puzzled, Conan awaited the thing's next move. He seldom fought defensively, but he knew that it would be unwise to carry the fight to the enemy until he had some slight knowledge of that enemy's strengths and weaknesses.

The thing charged again, the rider leaning forward along the neck of the mount, blade at full extension to skewer Conan like a bird on a cooking spit. This time Conan was ready for its instantaneous charge, and he dodged to the left, planting his feet for a powerful blow to the rider's left side. He barely began to bring his sword from behind his shoulder when suddenly a four-foot blade appeared in the rider's left hand, coming down to split Conan's skull. Desperately Conan stopped his blade in midswing and turned the chop into a block, interposing his sword at an angle sufficient to deflect
his enemy's steel from his head, but receiving a painful cut on his left shoulder.

"Crom!" Conan shouted as he darted away once more. "Where did that blade come from?" He ran to where Rerin and Alcuina seemed to be finished with their rites. "How much longer?" he growled.

"Just a few more moments," Rerin said. "The spell is finished, but its effect requires some small time."

"Try to speed it up," Conan urged. "This thing fights like nothing I've ever encountered."

Then the thing was charging again, and Conan ran to meet it. He knew that it was not human and flight might be more sensible than battle, but he was duty-bound to keep this hunter away from his queen while he had breath and blood. It charged with arms spread wide, the great blades glistening to either side, ready to strike. Conan halted and braced himself, sword slanting back over his right shoulder. If he could not dodge to the side, then he would split the mount's skull. He had never encountered armor that would not split when he struck with his full force.

When the hunter was no more than ten paces away, a yard-long horn sprang from the frontlet between the mount's eyes, and it began to rotate, transforming the jagged, saw-toothed steel into a silver blur. Conan stooped, picked up a heavy rock, and cast it at the rider. It struck full across the vision-slots, and for an instant the mount broke stride and the blades wavered. Conan dove forward into a tumble as the spinning "horn" was within a handsbreadth of his chest. He sprang to his feet at the rider's side and hewed at his shoulder joint. The rider wavered slightly, but the blade made little impression on the steel armor.

As the rider went by, Conan grasped his cloak and hauled back, hoping to unseat him. The heavy cloth ripped loose from its fastenings, and for the first time Conan got a clear look at what he was fighting. The smooth helm surmounted a series of flexible neck-rings. Similar rings covered shoulders and arms. A series of broader, interlocking bands covered chest and midsec-tion, and a complicated joint covered the place where the human torso was merged with the horse-body. The mount was likewise made up of steel bands and plates. Not man and beast, this, but a single creature. So far his weapons had not left so much as a mark on it.

As it prepared for another charge, Conan sought for any kind of weakness in the thing. Its armor joints seemed to be tight enough to repel a needle, but there had to be some access to its vulnerable innards. The only possibility Conan could imagine was the vision-slots. There might not be eyes behind them, but he was willing to wager that they would be less impervious than the steel encasing the hunter.

As it came toward him Conan readied himself. He had a sense of its timing now, and he sidestepped the horn and ducked the right-hand sword as it came whistling down. He grasped the hunter around the waist and swung himself up behind it, dropping his sword and drawing his dagger as he did so.

He was about to embrace the thing closely and seek its eyeslots with his dagger point when a row of viciously-edged blades erected itself along the thing's spine. Instantly Conan tumbled over the crupper of the horse part, and not a second too soon, for a similar row of blades, but much longer, shot up from the spot where he had been sitting. He snatched up his sword and wondered when this nightmare would end. He hated the feeling of helplessness.

"Come!" shouted Rerin. "The gate opens!" Conan ran for it. In the midst of the stone gateway, the air flickered and boiled with movement and color. Alcuina was urging him onward, and he did not dare to spare an instant's glance to see how close the hunter followed. He ran up the mound and shoved Rerin and Alcuina through, then he whirled to face the hunter. He could not leave their vulnerable backs exposed to the thing.

It was bearing down upon them swiftly, but there was still enough distance for him to stride a few paces backward, beneath the lintel.

First there was a whirling disorientation, then a sense of cold, and he realized that he was standing in ankle-deep snow. The air was chill and blessedly thin. He continued to back away from the gate, and he was aware that they were surrounded by people. He risked a quick glance around and saw that they were on the field of Giants' Stones, surrounded by Alcuina's men, and more people were coming across the field from the garth.

"Back!" Conan shouted. "Away from the gate!" There was a collective shout of awe and terror as the hunter burst from the gate. For a moment it stood, seemingly disoriented. Slowly its head turned, as if searching out its prey from among this mass of mortal flesh. Desperately Conan scanned the crowd as well. Then he saw the weapon he wanted. A man stood by with a twelve-foot spear, the kind used by footmen against mounted men.

"Reccared!" Conan called. "Give me your spear!" Not taking his boggling eyes from the hunter, the man tossed the spear to Conan. With the weapon in his
hands Conan quickly examined the point; it was long and narrow, just what he needed.

The hunter had turned its head at the sound of Conan's voice, and now it dug its steel hooves into the snow for a charge. This time wide, curving steel blades sprang from the flanks of the horse-body and a pair of barbed spears shot forth from the chest between the forelegs. Its movements did not seem to be quite so swift or sure as before.

There was an awed sigh from the encircling crowd as the seemingly unstoppable monster bore down upon the relatively small form of Conan. How could mere flesh and blood stand up to such a terrible machine? They looked for him to be minced upon the instant.

Conan stood fast, gripping the spearshaft. He would have one try, then he would be victorious or dead. He made sure that the spear-blade was turned flat. The eyeslots were narrow, and a vertical blade would jam without penetrating.

In the very moment when the hunter came within range, Conan thrust. Unerringly the blade went into the left eyeslot, crunching through something, then the forward momentum of the hunter thrust Conan backward. He tightened his grip on the spearshaft, although an unearthly tingle shot through it. It would do him little good to slay the thing only to fall beneath its toppling, razor-edged bulk.

Sparks and smoke shot from the damaged eyeslot, and a strange odor filled the air, as when lightning strikes near. The hunter reeled and thrashed wildly, swinging Conan on the end of the shaft like a boy swishing a wand, but the strong ash held. Abruptly a great gout of blue flame shot from the eyeslot and
smoke burst from the armor joints. The rider sagged while the horse stood and trembled, then was still.

Conan loosed his stiffening grip. The form of his opponent stood unmoving, as if its glittering metal were frozen. The thing was dead, if it had ever been truly alive.

"What was it?" asked Alcuina wonderingly. She had come from somewhere to stand beside him. The others were closing around as well.

"We saw the lights coming from the stones, my lady," said Siggeir. "We came to see if it was you and the wizard returning to us. Come back to the garth now. We are all in danger here in the open."

"Danger?" Alcuina said. With the passing of the hunter, she could not imagine anything representing a danger.

"Our enemies are on the march," Siggeir insisted. "Let us get behind the walls, where we can meet them on equal terms."

"Look!" said someone.

They all looked at the metal hunter. Red rust was spreading across it with unearthly speed, and it began to groan and creak from inside. An arm fell off, then the horse-legs gave way, and the thing came crashing down. It split open, and out poured a spill of gears, levers, wheels, and other things no one there could put a name to. These, too, began to rust or crumble.

"This was not its place," commented Rerin.

"I rejoice to see you safe, my lady." They looked up from the pile of rust to see a handsome young man with yellow hair and beard. "I am Leovigild, nephew of King Odoac of the Thungians."

Alcuina glared at him, but her interest was obvious.

"Has my garth been taken by enemies that Odoac's heir sits among my men?"

"I am his heir no more," the youth assured her. "And I swear that I am not your enemy. Come, let us return to the garth, where you may find more suitable raiment, and where we may discuss these matters fully and in comfort."

Nodding regally to the young man, Alcuina set out for the garth. The others fell in behind. Last of all was Conan, feeling a little put out that the glory of his recent monster-slaying had been eclipsed by these new political developments. Rerin came up to him and surveyed the remains of the hunter, now little more than a pile of reddish powder. "Come, Conan. There will be warmth and food inside. If you wished eternal glory, you should have arranged for a bard to stand by during your battle."

"Does she hold my services so cheap?" Conan demanded. "That downy lad will need a few years before he's any kind of warrior."

"Warriors come and go," Rerin reasoned as they walked, "but Alcuina is a queen, and has the welfare of her people to think about. Actually, I had discussed with her the possibility of selecting you for her consort"

"Hah!" Conan broke in. "I'll be on the first ship heading south come spring. If I want a kingdom, I'll conquer it, by Crom! I'll not marry one."

"It may be just as well, then. He is of royal blood, as is she. Between them, they may save their peoples."

Cweioe

Blood on the Snows

Conan sat brooding into his ale cup as the queen of the Gambles and the exiled heir of the Thungians held counsel. Much as he hated to admit it, the boy spoke wisely and forthrightly, if somewhat too cautiously for Conan's taste. He noticed that Alcuina's men regarded die Thungian with respect, something he would not have expected from people as clannish as this. Of course, royalty was never treated in quite the same fashion as the lower classes. Kings and queens virtually had to wed with foreigners, lest the stock grow degenerate.

"Alcuina, we face two enemies," Leovigild explained. "First, the Thungians, led by my uncle. Second, and far more dangerous, Totila and the Tormanna. Odoac is a murderer and grown a bit crazy in his old age, but Totila is a great warrior in his prime, and he has not allowed his men to grow soft through inaction. The Cambres are not numerous. You might hold off either one of your enemies here within your stone wall, but not both."

"Need it come to that?" asked Siggeir. "Perhaps the Tormanna and the Thungians will fight one another instead of come against us."

"Both kings want a queen," Alcuina pointed out. "They want me. Soon they shall know that I have returned and will move all the more quickly. They will settle with one another after we have been dealt with."

"That is so," Leovigild concurred. "And I think I know how it will happen: Totila will propose to Odoac a temporary alliance. Between them the two armies will attack this place. Once that is accomplished, they will contest between themselves for Alcuina and her lands and people. My uncle, who is a fool as well as a madman, will probably agree.

"Totila did not build a kingdom from nothing by being a fool. Sometime during the fighting he will murder Odoac. The Thungians, without a king and with me exiled or dead, must turn to the only available war-leader Totila." There were nods and murmurs of admiration for this sagacious reasoning.

"You speak with great wisdom for so young a man," said Rerin. "Now we must make our plans. How may we avert this disaster?"

"Let's march out and meet Odoac," said Siggeir. "He and the Thungians will be easier to deal with than the Tormanna. We can defeat them, then march back to meet the Tormanna from behind our walls."

"Even should we defeat the Thungians," Alcuina said, "we would be severely weakened. In any case Totila might take the garth while the warriors were rway."

Conan smiled to himself. Nobody even proposed the solution that to a southern queen would be the most obvious: to agree to marry the weaker of her two ene-
mies, who could then be murdered at leisure, while he slept. In the North a queen would only do such a thing in order to accomplish an extraordinary vengeance. Since Alcuina had nothing personal against either king, she would never even think of it.

"I do not feel competent to advise in matters of tactics," Leovigild said, "as my experience of warfare has been limited. Also, although I am exiled, I cannot take arms against my kin, though I shall be more than happy to do battle with the Tormanna. However, one among us has not been heard from. Queen Alcuina's champion is not only a great warrior, he has served in many armies in far climes. I suspect that he can see possibilities that would not occur to us. Conan, will you give us your counsel?"

Conan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In the North a warrior of high standing was as valued for his wise counsel as for his sword arm. This was another matter in which the northern war-bands differed from southern armies. "In open battle we have a slight chance against either enemy, and none at all against both. This we all agree. I know of a way we may seriously weaken both armies before it comes to a battle or a siege. It will take skill and daring. First you must summon all your huntsmen."

"My huntsmen?" Alcuina said. "Why?"

"Because they know this land far better than any warrior. When Odoac and Totila come they will have great, straggling war-bands slogging through the snow. We shall have huntsmen stationed near all the forest roads to inform us of their movements. Instead of a single army we shall divide into many small bands, with every man mounted. Without warning we must strike them on the march, kill a few, then turn and run, to hit them at another point. The minute they band together to make a shield-wall, we return to our camp, to strike one enemy or the other on another day. Even if we only kill a few, they will be more than half defeated before they arrive here. The bravest of warriors lose their edge when they face unfamiliar tactics."

"Who ever heard of such fighting?" Siggeir said doubtfully.

"It is certain that Odoac and Totila never have," Leovigild said. "I think Conan has given us our only chance."

"We can use this tactic many times against Odoac," Conan cautioned, "but only once or perhaps twice against Totila."

"Why is that?" Alcuina asked.

"Because of those damned magpies!" Conan growled. "Totila will soon understand what is happening, and lilma will have the birds high overhead, searching for us. Who can hide from a flying enemy?"

"We could hide beneath the densest trees until it was time to attack," Leovigild suggested.

"They would see our tracks in the snow," Conan pointed out.

"I think I could help," Rerin said.

"Speak on," Alcuina urged him. "We need all the help we can find."

"I have never been able to fight lilma or his magpie-familiars," the old man admitted. "His wizardry is too powerful for me. However, I have mastered a spell by wbkh, in winter, I can cause a brief but dense snow-fill. Once we are in position in wait for the marching Tormanna, this snowfall will mask us from the birds."

Conan grinned and took a long swallow of his ale.

"Old man," he said, "you may have won the war for us."

The queen's huntsmen were short, sturdy men for the most part, clad in leather and rough homespun. Most of them were darker than the warrior class, and Conan judged that their people had been native to these parts long before the fair-haired folk had wandered hither. They had charge of the game in the forests and were expected to guide the aristocratic hunters to the best sport. As such, they enjoyed privileges far greater than most commoners and could be expected to be loyal to their queen.

"Some of you," Conan began, "will be detailed to lead the raiding bands to secure camping places. Others will keep track of the two armies heading this way." His breath steamed on the chill air. "Still others will be guiding the thralls who will be bringing fodder for the horses. When you move, keep out of sight, but keep to .the ridgelines and other high ground. That way the armies will not see your tracks. They will stick to the low roads where the going is easiest. You'll operate in small bands, with some always keeping watch on the enemy while others come back to report. If they chase you, run. Do not try to fight; that is the task of the warriors. Now go to the warrior Siggeir. He will assign each of you to your tasks."

The huntsmen left, and Conan turned to a far more difficult task: He had no more than a day, or at the most two, to teach these men the rudiments of fighting from horseback. He was grateful that they needed only to learn how to hit and run. He would need months to teach them anything more complicated. Their swords were too short to be wielded effectively from horseback, so he was teaching them to use their spears from the saddle. Armorers were cutting down their shields to make them more wieldy from horseback.

Straw dummies had been set up on posts outside the garth, and the men were riding down on them, stabbing wildly with their spears. They all laughed uproariously every time one of them misjudged his thrust and toppled from his horse.

"This is not sport!" Conan yelled in exasperation. "This is war! Stop thrusting so hard! All that does is unbalance you. You don't need to pin a man to the ground; just thrust a few inches of steel into him. Thrust too deep, and you lose your spear. Sit easy in the saddle, and brace yourself only as you thrust. These are not trained warhorses, and you don't want to confuse them." Another man fell off and there was a gusty roar of laughter. Conan sighed disgustedly.

That evening as the men and the horses trudged exhaustedly back into the garth Alcuina took Conan aside. "Do they have a chance?" she asked bluntly.

"They are improving," he answered judiciously, "and the enemy, have never dealt with horseback raiders of any kind. That is a great advantage. We mean to weaken them, not defeat them."

"I suppose that is the most I can hope for, then. Perhaps with you and Rerin and Leovigild we may come through this."

"Will the boy be of that much value?" said Conan, nettled at her obvious attraction to the youth.

She looked back at him coolly. "Of course. When Odoac dies, the Thungians may give their allegiance to him without dishonor. We may then form an alliance with them against the Tormanna."

"And a royal marriage," Conan said, "followed by a merging of the peoples?"

"Of course," she said. "That is how it is done among royal families. If we slay Totila, the Tormanna may elect to ally themselves with us as well. He has no heir."

"So be it then!" Conan barked. He whirled on his heel and stalked away.

"Conan!" she called.

He turned, his anger draining away. Against the hulking stone wall she stood, small but regal. He prepared to endure another royal dressing-down, but when she spoke, her voice was gentle.

"When a queen plans for her future, it must not be as a woman following the desires of her heart, but as a ruler who must do what is best for her people. I would that it were not so." Saying no more, she turned and started back for the hall. Conan stared after.

That night in the hall they feasted well, but Alcuina was careful to ration the ale. They would be riding out before first light to try their first foray against the enemy. Conan hoped to have the morrow for further training in their first encampment before splitting up into raiding parties, but there might not be time. He was glad that he had battle to look forward to. It took his mind away from Alcuina.

The younger men talked nervously of the adventure to come. Win or lose, this fight would be remembered, if only because it would be so unorthodox. The older men were less voluble. Many of them were extremely doubtful of such outlandish tactics. How could men fight properly if they could not feel the ground beneath their feet? At least none of them seemed to be downcast or gloomy. It was nearly impossible for northerners to be cheerless when battle was in the offing.

Conan tore at a joint of veal with his teeth. They were not a trained and drilled army, but he had little liking for armies in any case. He had led far worse men into battle. These were brave and loyal, however unso-phisticated their warfare might be. He felt a touch at his shoulder and looked up to see Leovigild standing beside him.

"Conan," the younger man began, "I mink you may have been the salvation of our people. Your services will not go unrewarded. When this is over, you could be a great earl, with wide lands, and peasants and thralls to work it. When I come into my inheritance, I shall not be known as an ungrateful king."

Conan grasped Leovigild's arm and hauled the young man down to sit on the bench beside him. He leaned close and spoke slowly and steadily. "Three things, boy . . ." He held up a single, greasy finger. "One, I serve Alcuina, not you. Any rewarding is for her to do, not you. Two"he placed a second finger beside the first"never congratulate a man for a victory that is yet unwon. The gods don't like it and have been known to punish such presumption. Three"the third finger went up beside the other two"I sail south with the springtime. Land is difficult to take on shipboard in any quantity, so I'll take my reward in gold, if Crom and Ymir grant us the victory."

To Conan's surprise Leovigild grinned broadly at his words. "Truly, the Cimmerians are as grim and gloomy as legend has it. I thank you for words of wisdom. We'll talk of reward later. For now, you are the greatest champion in the Northland, and I am a penniless out-
cast who rejoices to follow you into battle. Let the victory fall where the gods wish it."

Conan smiled thinly. Despite all his best efforts, he could not keep from liking the boy. "However it befalls," he said, "there will be blood on the snow soon."

Conan surveyed his little army. They had been granted an extra, precious day to train in their encampment. This had been invaluable, for it gave him a chance to drill them in the art of remaining hidden among the trees, then charging down upon the enemy at a signal. The men had been divided into six squadrons, three to each enemy army. It had taken Conan all day to get them coordinated enough that he could count on the squadrons to strike the head, center, and rear of each enemy army simultaneously. He was not so sure that they would break off engagement as reliably. However, he saw no choice. The best way for a smaller army to engage a larger was to catch the greater force in marching order.

As they dismounted at their campfires to prepare for the night, he felt that they were now as ready as he could make them. It was just as well, because he saw a party of huntsmen coming from the tree line. They ran up to him, and one of them, a tousle-headed youth who carried a boar-spear; reported.

"We've found the Tormanna, lord. When we left, they were eight hours march from here, as slowly as they were walking. They will be bedding down about now, perhaps six hours away."

"Have they an advance guard out?" Conan asked.

The youth shook his head. "No. All together, with a few mounted men at the head of the lot. We saw King Totila. Him we knew by his cloak of men's hair."

"Good," Conan said. "On the morrow, before first light, you shall lead one of our force to a good place on their route of march for an attack." Within the hour another little band of huntsmen came in to report that the Thungians had been spotted, coming by a more southerly route. If all went well both of Alcuina's forces should spring their first ambush about midday upon the morrow.

It had been agreed that Conan would lead the group to attack the Thungians. Leovigild would lead the at-tack against the Tormanna. This disturbed Conan because he was certain that Totila and his Tormanna were the more dangerous enemy, and he would have preferred to lead the attack himself. The warriors had insisted, though, that the band not led by the queen's champion must be led by a man of royal blood, and Leovigild would not fight his fellow Thungians. In spite of Conan's reputation those in Leovigild's party counted themselves lucky, for they would have a chance to show their prowess and loyalty before the man who was likely to be their next king.

They arose before the tardy .winter sun and readied themselves. Before parting, Conan took Siggeir to one side. The man was to ride beside Leovigild as his second in command, charged with giving the signal to attack. "Siggeir, do not let Leovigild try to fight Totila himself. From what I've heard of that man, it would be death for an untried lad to challenge him."

Siggeir was silent for a moment. "I shall do my best, and advise against it, but how may any man keep a spirited youth from snatching all the glory he can? He'll
be wanting to show Alcuina he's brave as well as wise."

Conan clapped him on the shoulder. "Just do what you can. In the end he must face the same dangers as the rest of us, I suppose." Conan turned to his following. "Mount up! We ride now!" He swung into the saddle of his little, northern stallion and faced Leovigild. He raised an arm. "Good hunting, prince!"

Leovigild returned the salute. "We'll meet again, warrior. In Alcuina's hall or Ymir's!"

There was a brief thunder of hooves, a flurry of chumed-up snow, and the two bands split up, one to the west, the other to the south.

Conan stood beside his horse, holding the cloth that covered its eyes. He and his men were well within the cover of the trees, but with a good view of the road below. The Thungians were coming, and they were already well past the first two squadrons. Conan's own force would strike the head of the column. His hand gripped the sword at his waist.

He had scoured Alcuina's armory to find one long enough to use from horseback. At length he found one, Aquilonian by the look of it. It had probably been a gift from one chief to another in years gone by. It might never have been used, since it was unsuited to the local style of combat.

Conan judged that the Thungians were close enough. "Mount," he said in a quiet voice.

The men stripped the covers from their horses' heads and hooves. They all wore wide grins of anticipation. They readied their spears, and Conan's sword rasped from its sheath. He nodded to Hagbard, who sat his horse beside Conan. The man raised a hunting-horn to his lips and winded a long, loud blast. With a shout they spurred their mounts down the long slope.

The men below looked up in amazement at the little band of horsemen who bore down upon them. Surely this could not be an attack. Why were the men mounted? Why did they not get off their horses if they wanted to fight? Where were the customary boasts and taunts that always preceded combat? Then they had no more leisure for speculation as the horsemen collided with them.

Conan leaned far out and swung his blade down over the edge of a shield. The man he faced was unused to such blows and failed to raise his shield high enough. The steel sword opened a gap in his bronze helm, and he fell with blood pouring from the rent metal. Conan glanced about and saw that his men were making a good account of themselves, thrusting their spears over the shields of the foe. A few had given in to the temptation to cast their spears, something he had specif-ically forbidden them to do, and now had nothing to fight with except their swords.

A man thrust at Conan with a spear, and he flicked the shaft aside before chopping into the man's shoulder. The man fell, cursing, and Conan noticed a tight knot of men who surrounded a fat, graybearded man in fine armor. This must be Odoac and his household warriors. Conan tried to force a way to him, but his horse was unused to the clamor of war and would go no farther.

"Hagbard!" Conan called. "Sound your horn!"

Hagbard broke away from his fight and raised the bom. At the signal, most of the men drew aw.ay from the battle and rode up to the trees. Conan waited for a moment to see how well they were obeying the signal. As he had feared, several were fighting on in a berserk fay. Quickly, those were overpowered and slain. He
even saw one leap from the back of his horse onto an enemy and grapple on the ground briefly before being cut to pieces.

Amid the trees the horsemen regrouped. Conan made a quick count and found that they had lost ten men. He had expected to lose more. Henceforth, their losses should be fewer because now the berserks and the fools were dead.

"Shall we try them again, Conan?" called a man who had blood running from beneath the rim of his helm.

"Not today," Conan answered. "It is too late for another sally, and the horses are too excited. We'll find a good camp and hit them early tomorrow, then once or twice more before nightfall."

That night the men sat around their campfires talking happily among themselves, as: if they had won a great victory instead of a trifling raid against their enemy, with no more than a score of the foe slain or wounded. Conan smiled grimly. They would not be so exuberant by the next night. By then they would have learned that this kind of fighting was long, hard, dangerous work with little glory in it.

"What do you think, Conan?" asked Hagbard. "Did we not do well today?"

"Aye," Conan said. "Most of the men performed better than I had hoped."

Hagbard grinned. "The Thungians huddled like sheep. They will be no stop to us."

"Today they were surprised. Tomorrow morning they will be a little less so. After that it is only a matter of time until they find out how to fight us and how easy it is for men behind a shield-wall to deal with horsemen, especially when they are not mounted on trained animals."

"Is it so easy?" asked Hagbard, crestfallen.

Conan gave a curt nod. "Today, out of habit, they struck at the riders. Soon they will realize that it is much easier to kill the horses. When we see spearmen lunging for the mounts while others engage the riders, we'll know that it is time to ride for the garth."

Totila cursed the dense flurry of snow that had begun to fall. The horsemen had struck them twice the day before, and once this day. The magpies flew close by his head to perch upon lilma's shoulders.

"Saw they anything?" Totila demanded.

"No, my king," lilma answered. "The snow is too dense." He hesitated. "I feel some wizardry in this snow. It is not of natural origin."

Totila spent a brief moment in thought. After the first strike the day before, the horsemen had attacked in the midst of snows such as this.

"Band together!" he shouted. "Form a shield-wall here! They'll be back soon!"

The column of marching men closed up quickly and stood shield-to-shield. They were grim and impatient for combat. The will-o'-the-wisp horsemen had struck and run without giving them any target for their wrath. This time the king was getting them ready to fight before seeing or hearing the hated horsemen. They waited in tense silence.

Leovigild waited nervously at the edge of the trees. They could hear the marching men below, but they could not see them. He had not thought of this when the old wizard had suggested this plan of action. The snow
blinded the birds, but it blinded the horsemen as well. He turned to Rerin.

"I do not like this. We had an advantage when we could see them. Perhaps this was not so good an idea."

"It was the only hope," Rerin told him. "And it did give us two undetected ambushes." He looked around him at the falling snow. "You had best make your move. The snow will thin soon."

"They've stopped," said Siggeir, who sat his mount at Leovigild's side.

Leovigild thought on this for a moment. "Totila is no fool. We hit him twice in the snow. Now he expects us to strike while it is snowing." He came to a swift decision. "Siggeir, ride quickly and bring the other two squadrons here. If they are no longer strung out in line of march, it will be useless to strike them in three small groups. Best to pick one spot on the shield-wall and throw all our force against it."

"That was not Conan's instruction," said Rerin doubtfully.

"Conan is not here," said Leovigild. "I am."

"Stick to your spells, Rerin," Siggeir advised. "Leave battle to the warriors." He wheeled his horse and was off. The many dents and nicks in Leovigild's armor testified to his willingness to get into the thick of the fight. That was enough for the Cambres.

"Do not worry," Leovigild assured Rerin with a smile, "I think this is the course Conan would have advised had he been here."

Before the snow had begun to thin, the rest of the men had ridden up to form a group around Leovigild. "We'll find them in a shield-wall down there," he called out. "This time we must not split up, but strike as a single force against one part of the wall. Those we
do not engage can do nothing but watch. Do not try to seek out a champion to fight, but help your comrades to break the wall. We can hurt them sorely that way. When order the horn sounded, break off and rally in the trees."

"Where do we hit them?" asked Siggeir.

"Where Totila stands," Leovigild answered. "You have all seen him by now. Follow me. When I see him, I'll ride for him. If we can slay Totila, the war may be won at a stroke. Now, let's ride!" With a ferocious roar, the men charged off after Leovigild, leaving Rerin to wait worriedly.

"Here they come!" Totila shouted, grinning between the cheekplates of his helm. He drew his sword. "Let's see how well they fight against men who are prepared!" His men shouted their approval.

The horsemen turned when they were within spear-range and began to ride along the face of the shield-wall. Totila knew they were looking for him, and he made no effort to hide himself. His helm and cloak were famed throughout the Northland, and he was anxious to try their best men.

In the van of the attackers was a handsome, fair-haired young man he had marked before for his brav-ery. He had little doubt that this was young Leovigild, cast out by Odoac. He wondered where the black-haired champion might be. He longed to test himself against that man. On the other hand, killing Odoac's heir would be a fine political move.

Leovigild saw Totila standing in the forefront. This was no man to huddle in the midst of his housecarls like Odoac. The sight of Totila standing there so fearlessly caused Leovigild to forget the wise advice of Conan,

'Rerin, and Siggier. He pointed with his spear and charged straight at Totila. Just before he collided with the shield-wall, he heard Totila shout to his men: "Hold your places and thrust at the horses! They are helpless without them!"

Then he was within spear-thrust of the man with the splendid helm and the cloak of men's hair. He thrust strongly, but Totila cut away his spear point with con-temptuous ease. Had he followed Conan's advice Leovigild would have withdrawn to let another spear-man have a chance at Totila. Instead he drew his sword and cut at the magnificent helm. Totila blocked easily with his shield. Leovigild could only reach out with the tip of his sword. In frustration, he leaped to the ground and attacked Totila shield-to-shield. With a fierce grin, Totila met him savagely. His blows rained down so swiftly that Leovigild barely had time to ward them, much less to send blows back in reply.

In desperation,. Leovigild cut low at Totila's knee. With an agility that was amazing in so large a man, Totila leaped over the cut, leaving Leovigild bent far over with the follow-through of his blow, his shield lowered. Totila's first blow smashed against the younger man's helmet. His second split the tough bronze of his cuirass.

Totila was preparing the deathblow when a pack of Cambres rode up, pushing him back with their spears. The biggest of them leaned from his saddle, grabbed the youth by the collar of his backplate, and hauled him across the saddle. Then Leovigild's rescuer set a hunting-horn to his lips and sounded it. With a flurry of churned-up snow, the horsemen rode off.

Totila accepted the praise of his men for his fight with the youth. Then he surveyed the enemy dead.

There were at least a dozen. "How many did we lose?" he called.

"About half a score," said a grizzled warrior who was binding up a cut arm.

"No advantage to them, then," Totila said trium-phantly. "So, when it is clear, lilma's birds will tell us they are coming. When it is too snowy for the birds to fly, we will know that they are coming! We've nothing to fear from them, so let's march to Alcuina's garth and finish this matter!" With a shout of joy, the Tormanna followed their king.

Conan and his men were encamped on their home-ward ride when the rest of the Cambres caught up to them. A huntsman came running up to Conan's fire to give him the news, and the Cimmerian stood to receive them. He knew that the news was not good when he saw the inert form across Siggeir's saddle. He helped the lad down and saw the wounds on head and chest. His practiced eye told him that the boy had taken these wounds while on his feet facing a bigger man.

Conan looked at Siggeir and Rerin. "Totila?" he asked.

Siggeir nodded. He reported to Conan on the day's doings while Rerin got out his herbs and began tending to the young man's wounds. Conan shook his head when the recitation was done.

"To mass for an attack against a shield-wall was a wise move," Conan said. "But to dismount to fight especially against a man like Totilathat was foolish."

"What would you have a man of good blood do?" demanded Siggeir. "He saw Totila standing there before his men like a true king. Could he in honor do less than meet Totila on even terms?"

The other Cambres nodded and agreed. They wanted a warrior king and if Leovigild was willing to-risk certain death to live up to their ideal of such a man, they honored him for it.

Conan smiled at their grim faces. "Northerners. What headstrong fools you all are. Well, I am a northerner, too." He looked down at Leovigild's recumbent form. "He'll make you a good king, if he lives."

Rerin looked up at them. "His wounds are grave, but I can heal them if we can get him back to the garth. In my hut I can do far more for him than I can here."

Conan summoned a party of the huntsmen and ordered them to fashion a litter. "They can carry him through these woods far faster man a horse-drawn lit-ter," he told Rerin. "The rest of us will ride after, staying between you and the enemy."

"How fared you against Odoac?" Siggeir asked.

"We killed many," Conan told him. "We struck them five times before they took to making a shield-wall and trying to spear the horses. But Odoac stayed in the midst of his men; we had no chance to kill him."

"That is unfortunate," Siggeir said. "Perhaps we've whittled them down enough to make a good fight of it when it comes to the siege."

Conan nodded, but held his counsel.

Alcuina saw the man being carried on the litter, and her heart sank. Since the men had ridden to war, she had spent most of every day here on the wall above the gate, waiting for word of what was happening out in the forest. Her greatest fear was that they would bring Conan or Leovigild back dead. She knew that she needed both of them if her people were to survive, and she was sure that this was one of mem now. If it was, which did she want it to be? She pushed that question aside as she ordered the gate to be opened and ran out to meet the little party.

She released a long sigh when she saw that it was Leovigild's pale face above a mass of bandages. She felt a great relief, and she was not certain if it was because it was not Conan, or because Leovigild was not dead.

"We must get him to my hut," Rerin said from the back of his horse.

Alcuina gave orders to the thralls, and Leovigild was carried inside to Rerin's hut, where the old wizard dismounted stiffly.

"Bring him inside," he ordered curtly. While Rerin tended to Leovigild's hurts, he reported to Alcuina. "We were successful," he said when the report was finished. "But I do not think we hurt them as badly as Conan had hoped."

"And now poor Leovigild is out of the fight," she said.

"His value was not as a warrior," Rerin said, "but as a leader. In that he did well. Any who had doubts about the lad lost them when they saw him fighting the Tormanna and taking on Totila man-to-man. They'll fight as fiercely for him now as they would were he fighting in the forefront of them."

"Do you think he would be a good king?"

"An excellent one," Rerin assured her.

She nodded. "Then that is what he shall be."

Conan and the others rode in as the sun was setting. Wearily they dismounted and turned their horses over to the thralls. The wounded went to Rerin's hut for treatment. Alcuina came from the hall and crossed the yard so Conan.

"How many did we lose?" she asked.

"A score, and as many wounded, although few are sorely hurt. We cost them three times that many. Most of the men we lost were in the first assault. In the second and third, our men knew better what they were doing. After that the enemy learned how to defend themselves."

"Was it enough?"

"Perhaps. We shall know soon. At any rate, we're in a better position than we were a few days ago. How is the lad?"

"Speak more respectfully of the future king of the Cambres. Rerin says he will recover, although it shall be many weeks before he is fully fit."

"I rejoice to hear that he will be well and that your tongue has lost none of its edge."

For once, she smiled at him. "It does no good to let a liege man grow too familiar, even a black-haired outlander who craves to head south for the hot climes and the sweet wine. Come, Leovigild has been demand-ing that you be brought to him as soon as you arrive here."

"Picked up kingly ways already, has he?" Conan pretended to grumble. Indeed, he was happy to know that the boy would live.

They went into the hall, where a huge meal was being prepared for the returning warriors. Behind the arras at the end of the hall they found Leovigild on a bed of bearskins and other furs. His head and chest were heavily swathed in bandages, and his face was pale, but he managed a weak smile of welcome when he saw Conan.

"I fear I did not do well on my first command, champion. I hope you fared better."

"You were a purblind idiot to try to fight Totila," Conan said, earning a venomous glare from Alcuina. "But aside from that you did well. Your men will have no cause to regret that you lead them in battle. You'll have some fine scars to show for it, too."

"Do you think the men hold me the lesser man because I could not defeat Totila?"

"If any say so," Alcuina hissed, "I'll have the hide off their"

"No," Conan interrupted, "only a fool would expect a young man on his first blade-wetting to slay a man like Totila, no matter how high his blood. You did well, Leovigild, and your hair is not decorating his cloak."

Rerin came in to check on his patient. "You must not tire him. He needs rest."

Conan grinned crookedly. "Physicians are the same everywhere. We'll speak tomorrow, Leovigild. Your shield may guard my right side in any battle." He made to go but turned back at a last word from Leovigild.

"Conan, you must slay Totila. You are the only man in the North who has a chance." His eyes grew haunted. "It was like fighting a mountain."

Conan's face became most grim. "He'll not have my hair either."

After the feast, where each man had had his chance to boast of his feats in the late fighting, Conan sat working a few nicks out of his sword with a whetstone. He looked up to see Rerin standing by his side.

"How goes it, Rerin?"

The old man sat on the bench beside him, shaking his head. "I am most apprehensive. It is three battles we face."

%

Conan raised his sword and sighted along one edge. "Why three?"

"There will be a battle of armies, and a battle of kings, and a battle of wizards. To survive, we must win all three."

Conan turned the sword over and checked the other edge. "Do you think we will not?"

"My greatest fears are for the wizard-duel. I know my craft, as you have seen, but lilma has traffic with powers I dare not even contact. They must destroy him in the end, but until he is overwhelmed by the fruits of his ambition, he may wield powers far in excess of any I command."

Conan put the sword back in its sheath and hung it from its peg. "Few things are worse for an army than too much talk of defeat before battle can even be joined. Thus, you are defeated ere you fight. If you have already lost in your own mind, lilma need do nothing at all."

"That may be true of warriors, but I can make a ready evaluation of my strength and his, using neither optimism nor despair. As of now, he has the upper hand."

"So much for now. The fighting will begin tomorrow or perhaps the next day. How may we arrange matters more to our advantage in the meantime?"

Rerin smiled slightly. "You are not merely the simple warrior you seem."

Conan lifted his horn and swallowed a heavy draught of ale. "When it comes to fighting, I prefer to meet my foe man-to-man and sword-to-sword. Wizardry is different. I have no liking for it, and if I must endure it, I want to have every advantage I can get. Now, what is your suggestion? You did not come here to exchange idle talk."

"Be sure of it. Do you think that you can defeat Totila?"

Conan shrugged. "I have met no man yet who was my match. That means nothing. Totila is a great warrior, by all accounts. When we meet we shall know which of us is the greater."

"Odoac is of no account as a man," Rerin said. "How the Thungians fight shall depend upon who kills Odoac first, we or Totila. They will probably join his slayer for lack of a king. The deciding factor must be lilma, and he is in bad odor with Totila now."

"How so?" asked Conan.

"He has failed a number of times, despite all his powers. His walking dead men could not defeat us; his demon-abductors failed to bring him Alcuina; even my poor snowstorms prevented his magpies from helping them on the march. By now he will be desperate to regain favor with Totila. In this desperation we may find his fatal weakness."

"Say on," urged Conan, intrigued.. Wizard and champion talked long into the night.

thirteen

Demon Birds
section of the great hall had been curtained off as an infirmary for the men sorely wounded in the late fighting. With the stoicism of the North they made light of their wounds, although they knew mat some of them would not live to see the coming of spring. Leovigild was in such pain that even breathing was an agony, but he felt that he was fortunate to be among such men, and did his best to pretend that he was not suffering.

His game of knucklebones with a man who had lost an eye and two fingers was interrupted when an arras stitched with the deeds of a warrior dead two hundred years was pushed aside, admitting a small group of the senior warriors, along with Alcuina, Rerin, and Conan.

"I trust you are on the mend, Leovigild," Alcuina said.

"I have seldom felt better," he said bravely, fooling no one, "and I hope to raise my sword in your cause soon."

Alcuina smiled, and such was her beauty that he
found Atalia slowly vanishing from his memory. In-deed, the fantastic day and night he had spent in the little valley now seemed as insubstantial as a dream, and was fading from his memory as a dream fades upon waking.

"I'll not call upon your sword arm until you are fully fit," Alcuina said. "However, there is a bold plan afoot to weaken Totila somewhat, and I deemed it meet that you should have a part in our counsels."

"I am honored that you so value my counsel, my lady," he said. He managed a weak smile at Conan. "And I warrant that, if there is a bold plan brewing, this great, black-haired rogue is in the midst of it."

Unceremoniously Conan propped a foot on the edge of Leovigild's rude cot and leaned forward, crossing his arms upon his knee. "We grow weary of Totila's tame spell-caster, lilma. Our good Rerin, here, thinks he knows a good way to strike at him."

"That would be a fine deed," Leovigild said. "But how may a plain warrior deal with one who has dark powers in his hands?"

"Rerin," said Alcuina, "tell Leovigild and these warriors what you told me this evening."

The old man stood forth and stroked his gray beard. "I have now observed much of this man, lilma, far more than I ever wished. His form of wizardry is something far, far different from my own. I seek to use the properties of the plants, stones, and beasts of our land to aid my queen for the good of us all. I use my spells to gain the help of the gods and spirits of the forest and the streams. These supernatural beings are not hostile to men if they are given the proper respect, and by my spells they may be persuaded to help us by
moderating the cold and snows of winter, making the beasts of the forest plentiful to the hunters, and causing the streams to teem with fish for the nets of fishermen. They cause the cattle, sheep, swine, and horses to be fruitful and bear many young. Others of these benevo-lent spirits help me to stop the onset of pestilence and speed the healing of the injured, such as these warriors, whose honorable wounds have brought them to this place." He waved a hand gracefully to include all the bloodied, bandaged, but uncomplaining men who occupied the cots and the pallets in the straw.

"lilma, the Hyperborean, is a different breed of wiz-ard." His mien became solemn and baleful. "He does not seek to help men to prosper amid the dangers of nature. He seeks power for himself. He knows, though, that knowledge and skill may gain him only so much. True power over men is wielded by the arms of warriors, and for this reason he has attached himself to a kinga rising battle chiefwho must give lilma much of the credit for his ascent to power.

"For such power as this wizard wishes to control, the small gods and spirits are of little use. Some time, long ago, lilma struck a dreadful bargain. He trafficked with the great powers of the worlds beyond ours. Until recently these were worlds I had only glimpsed in trance state. The beings of these worlds can grant great puis-sance to a mortal man, but at a terrible price. His mind, his very soul, are forever changed. When such a dark bargain is struck, there is an exchange. The wizard of this world gives some part of himself, some crucial part of his soul that is forever accursed. In return he receives one or more spirit helpers, familiars that greatly expand his powers and act as go-betweens in his dealings with the other worlds."

"The magpies!" Leovigild said.

"Exactly," said Rerin solemnly. "Of course, they are not true magpies. They are demons of another world, but they could not maintain their true form in this world, nor would they want to, for one of the tasks of such familiars is to spy and bring knowledge back to their master, and it is best for them not to attract attention. In all the lore I have studied, birds or bats have been the favored forms that familiars take. This gives them wide-ranging powers, all the great sky as their field so that they can bring back to their master whatever he needs to know. Of all birds, the scavenger birds such as magpies, crows, and ravens are most favored, for whoever takes notice of them? A hawk or eagle always draws attention. A wren or sparrow looks out of place in certain areas, and owls are not seen in the day. But the scavengers are everywhere."

Conan broke into the lengthy recitation. "Tonight, I go on a magpie hunt."

"If lilma is deprived of his familiars," Rerin said, "he must lose much of his power."

"I hold," Alcuina said, "that Conan should take other warriors with him. It is not meet that one man should venture into such peril alone."

"Some of us are willing to go with him," said Siggeir. But there was a hesitation in his voice that said that his heart would not be in such a venture.

"Nay," said Conan, "if it were a fight with men, the more the better, but I go against two birds and a wizard. There is no advantage in numbers in such a fight. Besides, it will be done at night, and none here except me have any skill at night fighting."

"We fought the liches at night," Siggeir said, "al-
though it is true that we built up fires so we could see to ply our weapons. What manner of men choose to fight at night, when one cannot tell friend from foe, and no one can witness the deeds of the valiant?"

"Picts," said Conan with a grim smile.

"Picts?" Leovigild said. "Who are they?"

"They are a folk who love to fight at all hours," said the Cimmerian. "And they have a rare skill at night-battle. There are others who are good in the dark Afghuiis, Himelian hillmen, the pygmies of southern Rushbut the Picts are the best. I have fought them and lived among them."

"It is no manner for men to fight," said Siggeir haughtily.

"Nonetheless," Alcuina said quietly, "someone must carry out this task, and it is Conan who has this skill. And if it is to be done, my champion is the one who deserves that honor."

"I wish you well, Conan," Leovigild said. "If any can defeat lilma's familiars, it must be you."

The sliver of a crescent moon was rising over the hills to the east when Conan betook himself to the walk atop the palisade. The small band gathered atop the wall stared in wonder at the Cimmerian's bizarre appearance. He was dressed all in black wolfskins, and he had blackened his face and arms with a mixture of wax and soot. The buckles and metal fittings on his swordbelt had been wrapped in dark cloth to hide them and to muffle any sound they might make. A strip of leather about his brow held his shoulder-length hair in place.

"It is time," he said.

"Father Ymir watch over you," Rerin said.

Conan grinned without mirth. "Crom is my god. It is said that he and Ymir are not on the best of terms. When the fighting begins, I trust to my sword arm."

"The huntsmen say they are not far," said Alcuina, with her sure grasp of practicalities, "but moving slowly, as you predicted. Good fortune, Cimmerian, but use caution. This is but a sally to weaken lilma. The true battle is yet to come, and I shall have need of your services at that time."

"Fear not, Alcuina," said Conan, "I'll not deprive you of my services untimely." He sprang to the top of the palisade, hesitated for a moment, then leaped outward, ignoring the rope that had been hung from a post. There was always a possibility that Totila had sent a scout to watch the gate, so it had been decided that Conan should leave from the opposite wall.

He landed lightly, taking the shock on bent knees, with the assurance of perfect balance. The faint moonlight transformed the snow-covered field into a mantle of cloth of silver. In the distance, he could barely discern the standing stones.

The huntsmen had said that Totila's force was com-ing through the eastern uplands. Conan set off in that direction, traveling at a mile-eating trot that he could maintain all night. Within minutes he was in the forest, and he moved amid the pines with as much assurance as he had upon the plain, his eyes as keen as an owl's in the dimness.

At the end of four hours Conan was still not breathing heavily. He slowed, knowing that Totila's force could not be far. It was the smell of smoke on the still air that told him he was near his destination. The smell of smoke led him toward the glow of banked fires in the distance.

A rough count of the fires gave him an estimate of the enemy's strength. The war-band was larger than he had anticipated. Totila must be a man of force and ability to have mobilized so many men in the depths of winter.

Conan scouted the periphery of the camp, probing for weak points and the location of the leaders. As he had anticipated, there were no sentries posted. A hardened robber-band such as Totila's would consider such precautions to be weak and effeminate. After a full circuit, he had seen no tent or bower set up within the camp. Apparently Totila slept upon the ground, wrapped in his cloak the same as his warriors. He led by example. That was another thing to remember.

This night, though, Conan's quarry was not Totila. The wizard lilma would be somewhere close by, and Conan would wager that the wizard was not sleeping in his cloak like a common warrior. The air was nearly still, but there was the faintest of breezes apparent to the Cimmerian's sharp senses. He crept a short distance downwind and sat with his back to a tree, his eyes closed and, to any casual observer, asleep. He was not asleep. He was sorting through sense-impressions with the concentration and attention to detail of a Zamoran inquisitor.

There were few sounds to study, but the smell of smoke lay heavy in the air. Most came from the low-burning embers of the warriors' fires, and it had the sharp tang of common pine wood. Soon, though, he sorted another smell. It was smoke, but not that of pine alone. This smoke had other smells he did not recognize, possibly herbs and bark. It was for this that he had been searching.

Conan rose and began to follow the scent-trail. It led him upwind of the camp, into a small fold between two low hills. Now he could hear sounds as well, strange rattlings and croakings. He spied a large clump of brush on one slope and made his way toward it. Dropping to his belly, he crawled the rest of the way beneath the overhanging bushes. A few minutes of this slow progress brought him to the source of the sounds and the strange smoke.

In the narrow fold between the hills was a tent of reindeer hides, and before it sat a man clad in identical skins, with the horns of that beast crowning his headdress. He was chanting softly, shaking a rattle in odd patterns over a tiny fire, which bumed in a multitude of unnatural colors. Conan searched for the source of the clacking and croaking sounds and soon found it.

A few paces from the fire stood the magpies. In the past he had spied them flying high above Alcuina's garth. Then they had behaved like ordinary birds. Now their actions sent a chill of fascinated horror through the Cimmerian. They were croaking and making other, less nameable sounds in time with lilma's chant, and their heads bobbed rhythmically. Occasionally they stepped to right or left, as if in some primitive dance. Most uncannily they moved in perfect lockstep, as if both were controlled by a single will.

What hellish wizard-craft was the Hyperborean brewing now? It would be some devilment to strengthen Totila's hand, or to undermine Alcuina's position. Perhaps even an attempt upon his own life. It was a temptation simply to dash into the clearing and cut the wizard down in midspell. Rerin had warned him against any such foolhardy act. lilma, he had said, was a
cqnan the champion
sorcerer who dealt with dark forces and would assuredly have provided elementary safeguards for his own security. A wizard had trouble enough protecting himself from the demons he manipulated without hav-ing to worry about mere mortal men striking them down. They were at their most vulnerable when in the midst of spell-casting, a task that demanded all their concentration. Like other men, they were vulnerable when asleep. Vulnerable did not mean defenseless. His speculations ceased as he saw a dim, insubstantial form appear above the fire. What might this be?

As lilma chanted and the birds croaked, the figure gained apparent solidity, although it remained suspended over the colored flames as if it had no weight. It had the appearance of a man. The face was indistinct, but it looked to be a young man, with long, yellow hair. It looked, Conan thought, almost like Leovigild. Was the wizard spying upon the youth? That could not be, for this phantom was unbandaged and was dressed in the type of clothes worn for hunting or fighting.

Abruptly lilma's chant broke off, and he waved his hands in a gesture of dismissal. The wraith faded out, and the fire ceased to burn in unnatural colors. As the flames reverted to normal hues, lilma said something to the birds. Conan did not recognize the language, but he heard the note of triumph in the words. Shrewdly, the Cimmerian guessed that the wizard was testing some spell mat he would use at a later time, and now he was confident of his mastery. The magpies bobbed their heads as if in agreement.

Conan's blood chilled as one of the birds turned, its eyes burning brighter than the embers of the fire. Its stare was directed straight toward him. In an instant both birds and the mage were glaring toward him, as if their eyes could penetrate the intervening brush and gloom.

"Who dares to spy upon my rites?" hissed out the wizard.

Without hesitation Conan sprang to his feet and strode into the clearing before the hut. His sword slid from its sheath in a blurring motion, and the sorcerer flinched back, his hands beginning an arcane gesture.

But Conan's blade was not aimed at the Hyperborean. Instead it flashed in the firelight as a blur before striking one of the magpies. The Cimmerian had expected the bird to turn instantly to a mass of blood and feathers, but he was shocked at the solid impact that shook his arm from palm to shoulder. It was as if he had squarely struck some far larger creature.

He wrenched the sword back and whirled a cut at the other bird, but the creature had darted back and was beginning to transform itself into something other than an earthly being. The Cimmerian watched in dread as lilma began a rapid chant and the feathered wings grew. Feathers became glittering scales as the wings grew leathery. The legs lengthened as well, becoming a per-version of human limbs but retaining birdlike feet with bronze talons tipping the hooked toes.

Conan knew that he was seeing the creature's true form now; a hideous combination of man, bird, and reptile, standing a head taller than himself, with a gaping, fanged beak from which a black, serpentlike tongue lolled and writhed and seemed to have a life of its own. Only the burning, hate-filled eyes were the same, freezing Conan with a basilisk stare as it reached for him with the claw-tipped upper joints of its wings.

The action shook Conan from his brief paralysis, and he leaped to die attack. Darting between the outstretched claws, he hewed at the shoulder-joint of the left wing. Rerin had said that these creatures, if they were to live in the world of men, must obey certain basic laws of that world. This meant mat they could be injured and killed. The sword struck with a meaty crunch and foul-smelling fluid splattered Conan. He wrenched the blade free and struck like lightning at the opposite shoulder. Unexpectedly he was struck a vicious blow across the face just as his sword sliced into the unnaturally tough flesh. He staggered back, dazed and unaware from where the blow had come. Then he saw the thick tongue lashing back and forth, stained with his own blood.

The demon-bird wailed continuously in an ear-shredding shriek, its wings sagging on their injured shoulders while lilma kept up a demented chanting. Abruptly the creature sprang toward Conan, its taloned feet outstretched like those of a falcon stooping upon a victim. Conan thrust at the thing's belly and felt the blade sink in as claws struck his chest and bore him, backward to the ground. The wide-spread toes tightened, and he felt talons begin to sink into his shoulders and back as he pushed and twisted his sword, now buried deep in the beast's entrails.

The demon-bird leaned forward; its beak gaped wide as the snake-tongue lashed forth. A numbing impact struck Oman's shoulder, and there was a sizzling sound accompanied by a sickening stench of burning hair. The tongue drew back and poised over Conan's face. It was tipped with a circular mouth, rimmed with tiny, jagged teeth, and oozing a foul fluid. He knew
that only his heavy furs had saved him. For that mouth to touch his flesh would be death.

Desperately Conan wrenched his sword from the thing's belly. His shoulders Were too constricted to swing the weapon effectively. As the gaping beak came forward, he jammed the blade between those jaws, turned so that the double edges were against upper and lower beak. Instinctively the demon-bird bit down. The keen edge of the sword sheared through the deadly tongue and the obscene member fell away to writhe upon the ground.

The demon-bird's grip upon Conan loosened as it shrieked out its agony. The Cimmerian wrenched himself free and scrambled away from the thing as it writhed on the ground, its "blood" pumping from its mouth. Gradually the thing began to lose its shape as its strength faded, melting into graying slime that liquified and was drunk by the earth.

Then Conan was struck a heavy blow from behind. Instead of sprawling, he rolled as he hit the ground, springing up to face the direction from which the blow had come, sword outstretched to meet the new danger.

The other demon-bird! In his desperate fight he had forgotten the other. It was severely injured, its transformation incomplete. Its right side was cloven, and the dangling right wing still bore the glossy plumage of the earthly bird. It hissed and lurched to the attack.

Conan felt weakened from his ordeal and did not want to contest with the thing's powerful talons and deadly serpent-tongue. As he backed away he heard the continuing chant of the Hyperborean. Holding the creature at a distance with the point of his sword, he risked a glance at the wizard, who stood a few paces behind
him, his eyes shut in concentration as he wove his spell.

Conan continued to back away, his steps taking him toward lilma. When he judged his distance to be right, he whirled and struck out at the mage, continuing the movement into a full spin that ended with him facing the demon-bird again. The move was too swift for the thing to take advantage of his momentarily turned back.

The desperate blow had not severely injured the mage. The distance had been too great, so that only the tip of the blade gouged a superficial cut across the wizard's cheek. But his concentration was broken. The chant faltered as the wizard's eyes widened in amazement, and his hand went to his injured cheek.

As the chant slowed and stopped, the demon-bird sagged in weakness. This was all the advantage Conan needed. Instantly he dashed in, hacking at the thing with swift, powerful blows, which it was now too weak to avoid. He hewed at neck, shoulders, and legs as the beast squalled and began to collapse. As it fell forward he dived out of its way, and then he was on his feet again, slashing at its spine. He continued to rain blows upon the creature until it was a quivering mass of not-flesh that was beginning to change color.

Then he stepped back and looked for lilma. The Cimmerian's chest heaved like a bellows from the exertion of the ferocious battle. It would be good if he could finish things now by slaying the Hyperborean. Without the birds, the wizard had lost much of his bodily protection. But lilma was nowhere to be seen. Conan searched the snow for fresh tracks, but he could discern none. Cursing, he cleaned his fouled blade and sheathed it.

Wishing to be away before the sun rose, .he set out for the garth. At least the wizard was greatly weakened now. He had lost his far-ranging eyes as well. Rerin said that lilma would have to journey to some accursed place and perform long rituals before he would be able to acquire new familiars. Best of all, he was now vulnerable to the swords and spears of other men.

Fourteen

When Kings IReef

Cotila stretched in his saddle and looked back at the long file of his warriors winding along the forest road. They were in good spirits, for the gadfly horsemen had not struck at them since the day before. He did not think that he would see them again until he reached Alcuina's garth. That had been a weakening tactic, and they had given it up as soon as the Tormanna had come up with a good defensive tactic. Where had the Cambres learned to fight in such a fashion? He suspected that Alcuina's new black-haired champion was behind it. The more Totila learned of the man, the more he longed to come to grips with him.

lilma rode up beside his king. "My birds tell me that the Cambres are huddled in Alcuina's garth like sheep in a pen."

Totila turned upon him with a look of little favor. "Your damned birds have been of little use so far."

lilma shrugged, hiding his feeling of inner doubt. "A fluke. Who would have expected a poor magician like

Rerin to show such imagination? In any case, they have brought me further word, which you will find of great interest."

"Speak on," said Totila patiently.

"About a mile from here this road merges with another, which comes from the south. On that road are King Odoac and his Thungians. We shall reach the fork about the same time that they do."

Totila stroked his chin and smiled. "Odoac, eh? It is high time that I had words with that Thungian pig."

"At this point an alliance might be"

"Stick to your wizardry," Totila broke in abruptly. "Leave statecraft to me." They rode on in silence.

As the sun rose higher the king of the Tormanna scanned the cloudless sky. "Where are your magpies, wizard? I've not seen them all this day."

"I havesent them upon a mission, my lord. It is a matter of importance, concerning a stratagem that will be of great help to you in taking Alcuina's fortress." He dared not admit to his new weakness. It was imperative that the king think him as powerful as ever. He thanked his dark gods that he had made his preparations for the phantom-spell before he lost his familiars.

"Has it aught to do with the noises that came from your camp last night?" the king asked. "Men complained of it this morning. They said they were wakened by hellish sounds, as if giant serpents and boars and eagles were battling."

"Your men," lilma said stiffly, "have no business concerning themselves with my arts, however clamor-ous they may be."

The Tormanna reached the fork in the road first, and Totila ordered the men off the road for a rest, caution-ing them that they were soon to receive visitors. Every
man must keep his weapons handy. Before an hour had passed, they saw the Thungians slogging up the southern road.

Odoac's heart jumped into his throat when he saw the army seated upon the ground before him. An ambush by the Cambres? But these men were making no effort to hide themselves. Then he saw the towering man who wore the cloak of many-colored hair and the eagle-crested helm, and he felt even more trepidation. He had hoped to find the leaderless Cambres easy meat. Totila and all his warriors primed for battle made a daunting prospect. There was nothing he could do except put the best face on it if his men were to follow him.

"It seems as if we are not the only ones minded to mount a winter hosting against the Cambres," Odoac said. He managed to get the words out steadily, although sweat came from beneath the rim of his helmet. His men's expressions grew grim, and their hands tightened on their weapons.

As the Thungians neared, Totila came forward. His men remained seated upon the ground. This reassured Odoac somewhat. But he was aware of every bit of his advancing age and flagging powers as the huge king of the Tormanna came to him and clasped his hand in a bone-crunching grip.

"Greeting, Odoac, my fellow king! It is too seldom that I see you!" He draped an arm around Odoac's shoulder and turned to wave and nod, giving both armies a good chance to judge how much taller, younger, and finer he was than the Thungian king.

"I greet you, Totila," Odoac answered, carefully omitting the title of king. "Am I right in believing that we are on a similar mission?"

"That is possible. Let us step aside and discuss these matters privily, as two kings should."

Odoac did not want to leave the protection of his housecarls, but he dared not show fear of Totila. "Rest you here, my men," he said, affecting unconcern. "This chieftain and I must take counsel upon weighty matters."

The two men walked a short distance away to a small hillock.

"My wizard tells me," began Totila, "that Alcuina is back after her mysterious disappearance."

"I rejoice to hear it," Odoac said, surprised. "Now I may ask her why she has been so tardy in answering my suit."

"I had similar questions in mind. Perhaps you also wished to discipline your wayward nephew?"

Odoac fumed but strove not to show it. This man had the advice of the cursed lilma to make up for his lack of royal blood. Why had the Hyperborean not come to a true king like Odoac?

"In truth, the boy has been a trial to me. I brought him up as if he were my own son, for the sake of my dear brother. The wretch had the temerity to plot after my throne." He managed to smile at Totila. "Be glad that you never married, and have no heir."

"That is a situation I intend to rectify soon. After all, it were a shame to leave a royal lady like Alcuina imbedded when all three of our kingdoms are currently without heirs. Now, if you and I were to fall out here upon the road and come to swordstrokes, who would profit? Only the Cambres, for whichever of us prevailed would yet be too weakened to take the field against the Cambres this year."

"An alliance against the Cambres makes sense,"

Odoac said, nodding as if he had not been hoping that this was what Totila would suggest. "There remains the question of our similar aims. This alliance will do us no good if we should fall out over possession of Alcuina and her lands and people."

"These things can be worked out," said Totila per-suasively. "And they should be before we proceed further. The lands and people are easy to settle. We simply divide them in twain, north and south, along the Gernach River, which runs nearly through the center of the kingdom. North to me, south to you."

Odoac thought for a moment. "That is agreeable to me. Now, what about Alcuina herself? Each of us is in need of a wife, and I see no way to divide her as we have already divided her land."

"As I see it," said Totila craftily, "you have two goals here: You want Alcuina, but you also want to rid yourself of Leovigild. It would not look good to your men if you were to slay him with your own hand, which you could easily do, I am sure."

"Of course I could slay that puppy," Odoac grumbled. "But you are right, it would be impolitic for me to do so. There would be those who would name me kinslayer even though I but defended myself."

"I, on the other hand, could slay him with impunity." Totila did not mention that he was fairly certain that he had already slain that young man. "Leovigild's life for Alcuina. Do you not think that is a fair trade, since I will after all be getting her with only half her dowry?"

Odoac stroked his beard, pretending to be deep in thought. "I still need an heir, you know."

Abruptly, Totila lost patience. "Use your head, man!

There are plenty of noble ladies with marriageable daughr ters who would be happy to have a king for son-in-law. Or find some peasant brat and pronounce him the long-lost son of your brother. It is not as if you intended to let him grow to manhood. You could buy fifteen more soft years on the throne with such a move."

"You speak wisely, my friend," said Odoac, deeply cowed. "Let us agree on this: We shall unite forces against the Cambres. When the fighting is over, if you have slain Leovigild, you shall have Alcuina and the northern half of her kingdom. I shall have the southern half. We shall part friends and march our men home."

Totila thrust forth a hand, and Odoac took it. Neither had the slightest intention of honoring the agreement except at his own convenience. Arms about one another's shoulders, they walked back to their men, smiling.

"Is Odoac such a fool?" said lilma, incredulous.

King and wizard sat in a small tent of oiled hides half a day's march from Alcuina's garth. Night had fallen, and the men rested against the exertions of the morrow, lilma had kindled a small, smokeless fire between them, and it cast sinister shadows upon their faces as they conferred.

"Aye, he is a fool, but not so great a fool as that. He is merely a frightened old man with his best days behind him. He wants to hold on to his kingship for his few remaining years, and he knows not who to fear moreLeovigild or me. He does not like this alliance I have forced upon him, but he has no other choice."

"Will you let him march home peacefully after the battle is done?" lilma asked.

"That depends upon how things look at the time. If
his men have taken many losses and we have taken few, I might well settle with him at that time. If we are seriously weakened, perhaps we must wait another year or two. Undoubtedly we should beat them, but why drain all my power in a second battle if things can be arranged more advantageously? After all, I have great plans, and eliminating my little northern rivals are a small part of them. I do not wish to be weakened for my southern conquests."

"As my lord says," lilma soothed. "Might not matters be simplified if Odoac were to be slain in the coming battle?"

Totila thought. "Perhaps. If he were to be slain by the Cambres. If I slew him, his men would not follow me."

"Suppose Leovigild was to slay him?"

"Eh?" Totila was mystified. "Leovigild? I've already done for the boy. He is dead by now, from the wounds I dealt him."

"The Thungians do not know that. I can raise a phantom, fashioned in the guise of young Leovigild. The Thungians will see Leovigild strike him down, then you may deal with the phantom, which will die most realistically."

Totila smiled widely. "Can you truly do that? Then the Thungians would be bound in honor to follow me, as the avenger of their slain lord."

"Just so," said lilma, nodding.

Totila slapped his knee in delight. "Then that is what we shall do! I have never killed the same man twice, but I am willing to do it."

Odoac and his chief warriors sat around their fire, glumly staring into the flames. They had eagerly anticipated the coming fight with the Cambres. The appearance of the Tormanna had stolen much of the zest from the enterprise. A senior warrior with much gray in his brown beard addressed his king.

"We came hither to get Alcuina's lands, and we'll not do that with Totila here. I say we go home and wait for a better time."

There was a slight grumble of agreement, but another warrior objected. "No! Will we let it be said that the Thungians took the warrior's road only to turn back like whipped dogs without a blow being struck? I'll not live with such shame!" Many roared agreement.

"And so should say all true men!" yelled "Odoac, who wanted above all else not to go back and let his men spend the rest of the winter brooding about the fiasco their king had led them into.

"If we get only half her lands this year, what of it? There is always next year. It is just that now the Cambres and the Tormanna are too much for us to take on at one time. By next year, things may be different. We can first take the rest of the land of the Cambres, then turn west to take Totila. But for now we must have this alliance. It binds us to nothing after this fight is won." This time most of the men signified approval. For all its faults, this plan would at least allow them to fight and then return home with honor. None of them cared to contemplate going home to face the women and the old ones should they return with spears unbloodied.

Odoac smiled at his men, hiding his relief. All he asked now was a little land, his reputation as a war-chief restored, and the corpse of Leovigild at his feet. All these things he might have upon the morrow.

"There they are," Conan said.

He stood beside Alcuina upon the walk that backed the palisade. All of the Cambres of fighting age who could elbow a place at the wall were there as well. At intervals along the wall stood bundles of crude, hastily-made javelins and piles of rocks, from fist-sized up to small boulders a foot in diameter. This kind of defensive warfare was alien to the Cambres, but Conan had insisted that it was their only chance in the face of superior numbers. They had learned that his word in these matters was to be trusted.

"There are a great many of them," Alcuina said, trying not to let worry creep into her voice.

The tree line beyond the plain of Giants' Stones was growing black with warriors, the sun casting bronzen gleams from helm and cuirass, the men nearly indistin-guishable except for the broad, round shapes of their shields. There were two distinct groups, nearly equal in size but several yards apart.

"They may be allies," said Siggeir with a grin, "but the Thungians and the Tormanna have little love for one another."

A sound of axes cutting trees came to them across the plain.

"They are preparing," Conan said. "Now they make ladders to scale the wall."

"Will they succeed?" asked Alcuina.

"In time they would," said Conan. "This fort stands upon flat ground without motte or moat, no more than a stockade. An experienced army would take this place in little more time than if there were no wall at all. Since those men have probably never assaulted a wall except to steal their neighbors' chickens, they may be stymied for a day or so."

"Will that be enough?" she asked. . "If al! goes well. You see a great host out there on the plain, but there are only two dangerous men: lilma and Totila. I must deal with Totila. Rerin says he can settle with lilma."

"I pray to Ymir that it be so." She drew her fur cloak more closely about her, but not against the cold.

Within an hour the enemy host was moving upon the garth; Conan ordered all except warriors off the wall. Since the enemy had no siege engines, there was little immediate danger to them except from an occasional javelin skimming over the wall. In Conan's opinion, anyone who could not dodge a javelin deserved to be skewered.

"Get ready," Conan called. "Don't begin throwing things until you can't miss them. There is no hurry. They'll make easy targets when they get to the base of the wall."

All around him were men wearing nervous grins of anticipation. They were eager to fight. In southern ar-mies, half of Conan's work as an officer had been in driving reluctant men to fight. Here he would have to keep a sharp lookout lest they rush to the courtyard, throw open the gate, and run out to fight hand-to-hand, the way they liked best.

The allies came on shouting. Some carried long ladders. Conan could tell from the way the ladders were held that these men had never stormed a wall. They would learn soon enough, however, just as they had learned to deal with horsemen. He scanned the un-ranked mob of enemies. He saw few of the long pikes
such as he had used against the hunter. He was relieved. With a wall as low as this, such pikes could be used to force defenders back from the palisade, allow-ing a few intrepid warriors to make their way up the ladders and onto the wall walk. Once the enemy had a secure foothold on the wall, more could scramble up the ladders with relative impunity, and the defense of the wall, and therefore the siege, would be over. Except for the slaughter of the remaining defenders.

The attackers reached the base of the wall and missiles began to fall on them. They raised their shields high and shouted at the defenders to come down and fight like men. The reply was yet more missiles. Clumsily, the ladders began to go up. At first they were easily shoved aside, but the efforts of the attackers became more determined, and soon the braver men were essaying an assault on the palisade.

Conan saw a shield lurch over the wall with a bird-crested helmet behind it. His first blow lowered the shield and his second clove the helm. In falling, the man swept the man behind him off the ladder. Conan reached out to push the ladder aside, but by accident or design the ladder-bearers had done the correct thing and positioned the top of the ladder well below the top of the wall. Thus, in order to shove it aside, the defenders would have to lean far out over the wall in order tp reach the ladder. A rain of javelins drove Conan back.

Another man reached the top of the ladder without a shield, but swinging an ax in both hands. He maneu-vered the bulky weapon with such speed that Conan was hard-pressed to keep his shield between himself and the whistling blade. He waited until the ax was going back for a swing, then stepped in, smashing the shield's central boss into the man's face and following the blow with a cut at the man's right side. Ribs crunched below the edge of the bronze cuirass, and the man fell screaming. Conan grabbed a spear and wedged its shaft under the ladder, using the top of the palisade as a fulcrum to lever the ladder away. His great strength allowed him to push the ladder back in spite of the three men clinging to it.

The ladder men along the wall were being similarly repulsed. Below, men were throwing back the rocks and javelins, but throwing upward they were severely handicapped. Some of the defenders derisively caught the stones in flight and cast them back to good effect. After a few minutes of that a trumpet sounded.

Conan looked toward the sound and saw three men standing atop a low mound. One was short, fat, and graybearded. Another wore the skins and antlers of reindeers. It was the third who drew Conan's attention. The lowering sun glanced from his magnificent helmet in multicolored shards. A long, piebald cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Odoac, lilma, and Totila. And now Conan realized that Odoac only appeared to be short when standing next to the giant king of the Tormanna. So this was the man he must face.

It was Totila who had sounded the horn, and the men below began to pull back from the wall, screaming in their frustration at such unmanly war-making. The defenders atop the wall cheered and shouted taunts at the withdrawing foe.

"We've beaten them! They run like whipped dogs!" Siggeir whooped and shouted a traditional victory cry.

"Save your celebrating for tomorrow's nightfall," Conan cautioned. "We've stopped them this time. They'll know the work better next time. By the third assault,
we'll not keep them out, unless some new circumstance comes to our aid."

"You're cursed gloomy, Cimmerian," Siggeir said.

"I am the happiest of men," Conan told him, "after the battle is won."

"Totila comes!" called a defender.

The tall king covered the plain with long strides. Odoac stepped along quickly beside him. lilma was nowhere to be seen. Conan smiled in reluctant admiration. The man might be of base blood as the Cambres maintained, but he was as kingly as any monarch Conan had ever seen reviewing an army, clad in purple cape and plumed helm. Fearlessly, the man walked up to the wall, ignoring the danger from stone and spear. Unwilling to shame himself before his followers, Odoac stood beside him.

"Queen Alcuina!" Totila called.

"She has no use for the likes of you," said Siggeir, spitting upon the ground beyond the wall.

Totila ignored the underling as if he did not exist. "Queen Alcuina, I wish a few words with you!" Totila stood planted on the spot as if he were willing to wait for the rest of his life. There was a rustling of skirts and cloak as Alcuina mounted the wall.

"My lady!" said Siggeir, scandalized. "Do not de-mean yourself by parleying with this scum. We've the upper hand now." Others agreed loudly.

"Hear what he has to say, Alcuina," Conan advised. "It can have no bearing on relations between you and him, but it may tell us much about how things stand down there." He nodded to where the host stood massed. Now that the attack was over, the men were once more divided into two groups.

"Ah, my dear Alcuina," Totila called. "How good
of you to come. This unpleasantness between our peoples pains me sorely, as it does my brother king, Odoac of the Thungians. Yet these matters may be set aright easily. You have not in the past seen fit to answer my suit for your hand. I ask you to reconsider now. After all, when we wed you will still be queen of the Cambres, and of the Tormanna as well."

"And what does your brother king get from this?" Alcuina said haughtily.

"Where is my dear nephew Leovigild?" demanded Odoac. "I have missed him since his hasty and unwarranted flight from my garth. Why is he not up there on the wall with you? Or does he cower in rightful fear of his uncle's anger?"

"What makes you think your nephew is here, you Thungian tub of suet?"

This set Alcuina's men laughing uproariously, and the Tormanna laughed only a little less loudly. Even some of the Thungians were hard-pressed to restrain their grins. The others looked shamefaced, not because their king had been insulted, but because he made such a poor showing in front of these people. Conan missed none of these things.

"Get you gone, both of you!" Alcuina commanded. "I'll wed neither a swine nor a bandit."

Totila whirled and stalked away with dignity, each sway of his cloak reminding the viewers of how many champions and chiefs he had slain. Odoac scuttled after him, while the Cambres jeered.

Alcuina stood close to Conan and spoke so only he could hear. "It is a great pity that Totila is such a beast. He would treat my people like thralls. Otherwise, baseborn or not, I'd wed him."

Conan grinned down at her. "As you've said, a
queen must choose her husband for political reasons. Aye, he's a real man; I'll grant him that much."

"Now you have seen him close up. Think you still that you can defeat him?"

Conan looked insulted. "I said he was a real man, but I'm a better!"

"What kind of fighting is this?" Odoac groused. "Climbing walls like thralls escaping bondage!" He spat into the fire in disgust. "Why will they not come out and fight us?"

"Because we outnumber them better than two to one," said one of his men reasonably.

"What kind of reason is that for true men?" Odoac snorted. "I am especially disappointed in my nephew. The same blood fills his veins that fills mine. You would think he'd show more spirit. Perhaps some thrall crept into my brother's bed while he was off cattle-raiding, and begot Leovigild. He is a disgrace to the family."

"I spoke with some of Totlla's men," said a young warrior hesitantly. "Some of them said that they knew Leovigild by sight, and they had seen him leading one of the horse-ambushes against the Tormanna."

"Indeed?" said Odoac. "Then why did we not see him today? Does he fear to meet his uncle?"

"They told me," said the young warrior, "that he fought Totila, and the king struck him down. They think he is surely slain."

This puzzled Odoac. Had he agreed to a condition that was already met? Was Totila really so clever that he bargained with a game piece he had already taken? It infuriated Odoac to think so, and he did not want his men to think he had been gulled.

"It must have been some other young fool Totila slew. My nephew would never have the courage to face such a man."

Before the fire had burned much lower, Totila himself came to visit his ally. The king strode dramatically into the ruddy glare and stood before the seated Odoac.

"Greeting, Odoac. We had a slow start today, but we began late. Tomorrow we shall have Alcuina's garth in our hands ere the sun sets."

"And Alcuina in yours," grumbled Odoac.

"Such was our bargain," Totila rejoined. "You, of course, shall have"

"I know what our agreement was," Odoac broke in hastily. "Come, sit by me and have some ale."

The two kings sat, passing the ale-horn back and forth, speaking of inconsequential things. They put on a fine show of solidarity and friendship for the assembled Thungians. The celebration of good fellowship was interrupted when a tall, slender figure stepped from the surrounding shadows into the firelight.

"Greeting, Uncle."

Odoac's breathing became labored, and he grew crim-son in the face. "Leovigild! You dare! Youyou"

Odoac struggled to his feet, fumbling at his sword hilt. Totila stood behind him. The Thungians, struck dumb at this unexpected sight, did not move at all.

Smiling gently, the young man before Odoac thrust the spear he was carrying deep into the capacious belly of the king. Odoac looked down in disbelief at the shaft protruding from his stomach. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that emerged was a gush of dark blood. Odoac collapsed sideways, and died.

With a shout, freed from their paralysis, the Thungians
jumped to their feet. Totila was quicker. He whipped his sword out with unbelievable swiftness, and the long, heavy blade was descending through the skull of Odoac's murderer before the warriors were fully on their feet. Those standing nearest were spattered with blood, brains, and teeth. Then they were goggling with wonder at the inert form upon the ground. Totila had made such a ruin of the skull that the features were no longer recognizable.

"The boy must have been mad to try such a thing. Well"he looked around at the warriors"it seems that your king and his heir are both dead. We shall burn them both at sunup, with full honors due royalty. Will you see this fight to the end, with me as your leader?" He carefully did not use the word king yet.

"We were Odoac's sworn men," said an elder warrior, "not yours."

"And as such you should have avenged him," Totila said blandly. "Yet you did not. I did. Do you owe no service to your king's avenger?"

The Thungians turned shamefaced. Events were happening too fast. It was easiest to let custom decide their immediate actions. "Aye, that is true," said the same elder.

"Then follow me until this matter is settled. Then we may sit and discuss the future of your tribe." With a scrap of coarse cloth, Totila cleaned off the bits of scalp and hair clinging to his sword. He sheathed it, turned, and strode away, his cloak of men's hair swinging behind him.

"Does this mean that the Torman is our king now?" demanded someone.

"We must talk of this," said the elder warrior. He looked down at the two hulks upon the ground. "What possessed the lad to do such a thing? Had he waited, Odoac could not have lived much longer. Then we could have haled him back to be our king. We all loved the boy."

"Perhaps," said a man in elkskin armor, "he was overcome with shame and rage at this alliance with the Tormanna. It might have robbed him of his wits."

"We may never know what happened," said the elder, "but now we are faced with a problem: Odoac and Leovigild were the last of the royal house. We have no king now. There are only Totila and Alcuina, and on the morrow Totila will have her."

They were all silent for a while. The man listening from just outside the firelight had heard enough in any case. Conan, dressed in his black wolfskins and his face blackened with soot, snaked his way backward through the sparse brush of the plain toward the garth. He could do this as silently as any Pict. When he was far enough from the men, he rose and loped to a place at the base of the wall where a rope dangled from the palisade. Swiftly as a squirrel, he pulled himself up the wall and greeted the guards at the top. Many of the men were sleeping at their places on the wallwalk, lest the enemy try a surprise assault in the darkness.

Conan quickly made his way to Rerin's hut and barged in. The old man was performing some spell before his fire, but he looked up as Conan entered. "You were right," Conan announced. "lilma made his move tonight."

"I knew it! Early this evening I felt his workings."

Conan briefly outlined the events he had observed since the fall of night, and the things he had heard spoken among the enemy.

"I wondered how he would do it," Rerin said mus―
ingly. "It would have been difficult to do in battle, because few men would have seen it. Totila destroyed the false Leovigild's head because it would soon have ceased to resemble him. So now the Thungians have no king."

"No," Conan corrected. "They have one; they just don't know it."

Slowly, both men smiled.

fifteen

War of Oiree Rations When Totila rose and girded himself for battle it was with the deep satisfaction of a man who has planned well and now sees his plans coming to full fruition. He belted on his sword and strode from his tent.

"Are the pyres ready?" he asked one of his men. The man pointed to where two great heaps of wood rose above the plain near the Giants' Stones. "Then let us go and get these carcasses burned," Totila said impatiently. "We've a battle and a royal wedding to accomplish this day."

The Thungians were already gathered around the pyres, which they had toiled all night to build. The Tormanna lounged about, leaning on their spearshafts and showing scant respect for the dead. According to custom, those who had fallen in the battle the day before would be burned when the fighting was over, or carried home for burial if distance and transport permitted.

lilma joined Totila on the way to the pyres. "Have I not wrought well, my king?"

"Very well, indeed," said Totila. He smiled be-nignly at his mage. "I was quite close to killing you not long ago, so much had you failed me. But now it looks as if all is working out for the best."

"The best is all I wish for my king," lilma insisted. He had lost much of his arrogance in recent days, and now he wondered if his craft was under the influence of some baleful star. But how could his latest working fail? He could see no way at all.

Without preamble Totila picked up a torch and thrust it into the larger of the pyres. "Thus I give final rest to the spirit of my brother king, Odoac of the Thungians."

He walked to the lesser pyre and there was grumbling from the Thungians. A funeral oration for a king was supposed to last for hours. This was not proper, but they were about to be shocked still further.

"The Cambres come!" shouted someone.

They all whirled to face the garth. In open-mouthed stupefaction, they saw that the whole host of the Cambres were crossing the plain. In the forefront they could see Alcuina.

"Sacrilege!" said Totila with more wonder than an-ger in his voice. "Surely even the most desperate of men would not violate a funeral!"

"They bear their spears point-down," said the elder of the Thungians. "And they bring Alcuina with them. Perhaps they wish to pay their final respects."

A broad smile divided Totila's beard. "No. They have come to surrender. Why else would Alcuina come herself? Well, we must prepare to receive her properly." He strode toward the arriving party with lilma close at his side. "Greeting, Alcuina," he called when they were a few paces apart. "It is good to see that you have come to your senses and decided to end this without further bloodshed."

"What do you mean,, Totila?" Alcuina asked. "I have come to attend your double funeral. Royalty should not fail to attend such ceremonies."

"Especially since one of the pyres is mine!" called a voice.

Speechless, Totila watched as the crowd parted, and four thralls emerged, carrying a litter. Upon the litter lay Leovigild, pale, bandaged, but unmistakable. The Thungians goggled in disbelief, then cheered and began to surge toward the youth. He pointed a finger at lilma.

"That wizard made the phantom that bore my appearance! The phantom slew Odoac, not I!"

Without hesitation, Totila whirled, drawing his sword. Before lilma could so much as blink, the king's blade sheared through his shoulder and did not stop until it reached his waist. Totila placed a foot against the dying carcass and pushed it free of his sword. He turned back to face Alcuina.

"Thus do I punish such wickedness! I assure you, lady, that I had no knowledge of this thing. I thought that I had avenged the death of Odoac." He gestured at the body of the wizard. "Now I have."

Alcuina's lips curved slightly. "You are truly a man of quick decision, but it will not save you this time. Men will not follow cunning and treachery for long."

As if in confirmation of this, the Thungians were drawing away from the Tormanna and ranging themselves beside the Cambres.

Totila dropped his mask of amiability, and snarled. "They'll follow a real king if there are no others alive!" He advanced upon Alcuina and Leovigild, but now the
black-haired champion stood before him with shield and drawn sword.

"It is time that you and I got acquainted," said Conan.

"Aye," said Totila. "For too long has my cloak been destitute of a black scalp. If you can make me tarry with you a while, you may earn a place on my cloak."

He took the famous garment off and tossed it to a retainer. Another man brought his shield. The people backed away to give them room, and there was a collective sigh of anticipation. This would be a rare spectacle.

King and champion circled, crouched well behind their shields. Totila attacked first, springing in to swing a swift horizontal chop at Conan's head. Instead of blocking with his shield, the Cimmerian ducked, cutting at Totila's waist. But the blow was deliberately short and passed in front of Totila's shield. Quick as thought, Conan reversed the blow and cut a backhand blow at Totila's unshielded side. Instead of bringing his shield across his body, Totila reversed his own blow, bringing his blade downward and across to block Conan's sword with his flat, a finger's width from his waist.

A huge cheer went up at the brief exchange, in praise of the men's masterful swordsmanship and the incredible strength of arm and wrist needed to reverse two such heavy swords in midswing. Other men would have sprung apart for the next attack, but these two kept up a dazzling exchange of blows, cutting at leg, flank, shoulder, and head with bewildering rapidity. Time and again, blade rang on cuirass, helm, and shield. So cunning were the fighters that the blows never landed squarely, but always glanced from the armor with little harm done.

It seemed impossible that mortal men could sustain such a pace in their combat, but these two showed no signs of tiring. Their shields were hacked and their armor gouged and dented, but as the sun shone higher in the sky they continued to attack one another with the relentless fury of male beasts fighting over their har-ems. Neither would abate his attack until the other lay stretched stark upon the ground.

In the end they proved to be mortal after all. Closely matched as they were, they had to tire. Attacks grew less precise, defense lost its swiftness, timing became fractionally less perfect. Sweat poured from both men, and their breathing grew as labored as a smith's bellows. Both bled freely from small wounds on arm and leg.

For the first time, they drew apart. To the watchers it looked as if the two were resting for another prolonged bout. The two combatants knew better. They were equally tired, and the shield arm wears out more quickly than the sword arm. Another blow, perhaps two or even three, and the battle would be decided.

"Thank you for a magnificent fight, Cimmerian," said Totila. "However it falls out, it will be one to remember."

"I salute you, Totila," Conan gasped. "You should have stayed a warrior and not sought to be a king."

"The road of kings is one a man must tread when he knows that greatness is writ upon his brow. Now, let's finish this."

Totila raised his shield once more. Only his eyes showed above its rim. With a shout, he advanced. Silently, Conan did the same. Conan began a charge,
but blood trickling from a thigh wound made the sole of his boot slick; he slid on the grass, barely stopping himself from falling. Totila exploited the instant's im-balance, swinging a terrific overhand slash. In doing so, he lowered his shield a few inches, and that was all the advantage Conan needed.

For the first time, Conan used the point. Recovering from the feigned stumble, he darted his arm out to full extension and threw the whole weight of his body behind his blade. The point entered Totila's screaming mouth, crunched through teeth, palate, and skull, and emerged two handsbreadths beyond the splendid helm. Conan wrenched the blade free, and for a moment the huge body stood upon its feet. Then Totila toppled stiffly as a falling tree.

Conan turned to the Tormanna. "Who follows his king into the dark?"

The Tormanna warriors, so confident an hour before, were utterly demoralized. They found themselves without a king, outnumbered in an alien land. Finally the elder who had spoken the night before strode up to Alcuina.

"Lady, our king was of no line and left no heir. If Cambres and Thungians are to unite, then the Tormanna will become your men, too, if we all be treated as equals."

Alcuina glanced at Leovigild, and he nodded slightly. She turned back to the elder. "So be it." The pledging of fealty was a simple matter in the North. She turned to Totila's corpse. "Throw this carrion on the pyre with the false Leovigild. Totila was no real royalty."

"No!" bellowed Conan. "Build him a pyre higher than Odoac's! This was a true king. If I have to, I'll build him one myself, by Crom!"

Alcuina regarded him for a moment, then said, "Do as my champion says. Burn him with sword and helm, and with his cloak."

Dawaz the merchant looked up from the unloading ship to see a familiar figure striding toward his trading post. The long black hair swinging in the breeze was unmistakable, even at a distance.

"Conan!" he shouted, waving.

He dropped his bill of lading and rushed to meet the warrior. As he drew nearer, he saw that Conan no longer wore his bronze armor and carried a long Aquilonian sword. His arms blazed with several gem-set golden bands.

"Greeting, Dawaz," said Conan. "When does the ship sail south?"

"Tomorrow, as soon as my goods are loaded. How did it go? Did you find the North to your liking?"

Conan did not break stride, and Dawaz turned to follow him. "It was a good winter; not nearly as dull as I had feared. Did the ship bring any good southern wine?"

"The best Turanian. But what of your adventures? You must have wrought prodigies to win so much gold."

At the trading post Conan paused for a moment. "Let's have some wine, and I'll tell you. There is little to tell, though. I have had far more exciting winters." Together the two men went into the post.

The Road of the Eagles

As chieftain of this mongrel Red Brotherhood, Conan is more than ever a thorn in King Yildiz's sensitive flesh. That henpecked monarch, instead of strangling his brother Teyaspa in the approved Turanian manner, has been prevailed upon to keep him cooped up in a castle deep in the Colchian Mountains, southeast of Vilayet, as a prisoner of the Zaporoskan brigand Gleg. To rid himself of another embarrassment, Yildiz sends one of Teyaspa's strongest partisans, General Artaban, to destroy the pirate stronghold at the mouth of the Zaporoska River. This he does, but he becomes the harried instead of the harrier.

The loser of the sea fight wallowed in the crimson wash. Just out of bow-shot, the winner limped away toward the rugged hills that overhung the blue water. It was a scene common enough on the Sea of Vilayet in the reign of King Yildiz of Turan.

The ship heeling drunkenly in the blue waste was a high-beaked Turanian war galley, a sister to the other. On the loser, death had reaped a plentiful harvest. Dead men sprawled on the high poop; they hung loosely over the scarred rail; they slumped along the runway that bridged the waist, where the mangled oarsmen lay among their broken benches.

Clustered on the poop stood the survivors, thirty men, many dripping blood. They were men of many nations: Kothians, Zamorians, Brythunians, Corinthians, Shemites, Zaporoskans. Their features were those of wild men, and many bore the scars of lash or branding iron. Many were half naked, but the motley clothes they wore were often of good quality, though now stained with tar and blood. Some were bareheaded, while others wore steel caps, fur caps, or strips of cloth wound turbanwise about their heads. Some wore shirts of chain mail; others were naked to their sash-girt waists, their muscular arms and shoulders burnt almost black. Jewels glittered in earrings and the hilts of daggers. Naked swords were in their hands. Their dark eyes were restless.

They stood about a man bigger than any of them, almost a giant, with thickly corded muscles. A square-cut mane of black hair surmounted his broad, low forehead, and the eyes that blazed in his dark, scarred face were a volcanic blue.

These eyes now stared at the shore. No town or harbor was visible along this stretch of lonely coast between Khawarism, the southernmost outpost of the Turanian kingdom, and its capital of Aghrapur. From the shoreline rose tree-covered hills, climbing swiftly to the snow-tipped peaks of the Colchians in the distance, on which the sinking sun shone red.

The big man glared at the slowly receding galley. Its crew had been glad to break away from the death grapple, and it crawled toward a creek that wound out of the hills between high cliffs. On the poop, the pirate captain could still make out a tall figure on whose helmet the low sun sparkled. He remembered the features under that helmet, glimpsed in the frenzy of battle: hawk-nosed, black-bearded, with slanting black eyes. That was Artaban of Shahpur, until recently the scourge of the Sea of Vilayet.

A lean Corinthian spoke: "We almost had the devil. What shall we do now, Conan?"

The gigantic Cimmerian went to one of the steering-sweeps. "Ivanos," he addressed the one who had spoken, "you and Hermio take the other sweep.

Medius, pick three besides yourself and start bailing. The rest of you dog-souls tie up your cuts and then go down into the waist and bend your backs on the oars. Throw as many stiffs overboard as you need to make room."

"Are you going to follow the other galley to the creek-mouth?" asked Ivanos.

"Nay. We're too waterlogged from the holing their ram gave us to risk another grapple. But if we pull hard, we can beach her on that headland."

Laboriously they worked the galley inshore. The sun set; a haze like soft blue smoke hovered over the dusky water. Their late antagonist vanished into the creek. The starboard rail was almost awash when the bottom of the pirates' galley grounded on the sand and gravel of the headland.

The Akrim River, which wound through patches of meadow and farmland, was tinged red, and the mountains that rose on either side of the valley looked down on a scene only less old than they. Horror had come upon the peaceful valley dwellers, in the shape of wolfish riders from the outlands. They did not turn their gaze toward the castle that hung on the sheer slope of the mountains, for there too lurked oppressors.

The clan of Kurush Khan, a subchief of one of the more barbarous Hyrkanian tribes from east of the Sea of Vilayet, had been driven westward out of its native steppes by a tribal feud. Now it was taking toll of the Yuetshi villages in the valley of Akrim. Though this was mainly a simple raid for cattle, slaves, and plunder, Kurush Khan had wider ambitions. Kingdoms had been carved out of these hills before.

However, just now, like his warriors, Kurush Khan was drunk with slaughter. The huts of the Yuetshi lay in smoking ruins. The barns had been spared because they contained fodder, as well as the ricks. Up and down the valley the lean riders raced, stabbing and loosing their barbed arrows. Men howled as the steel drove home; women screamed as they were jerked naked across the raiders' saddle bows.

Horsemen in sheepskins and high fur caps swarmed in the streets of the largest village―a squalid cluster of huts, half mud, half stone. Routed out of their pitiful hiding places, the villagers knelt, vainly imploring mercy, or as vainly fled, to be ridden down as they ran. The yataghans whistled, ending in the zhukk of cloven flesh and bone.

A fugitive turned with a wild cry as Kurush Khan swooped down on him with his cloak spreading out in the wind like the wings of a hawk. In that instant the eyes of the Yuetshi saw, as in a dream, the bearded face with its thin, down-curving nose, the wide sleeve falling away from the arm that rose grasping a curving glitter of steel. The Yuetshi carried one of the few effective weapons in the valley: a heavy hunting bow with a single arrow. With a screech of desperation he nocked the arrow, drew, and loosed, just as the Hyrkanian struck at him in passing. The arrow thudded home and Kurush Khan tumbled out of the saddle, instantly dead from a cloven heart.

As the riderless horse raced away, one of the two figures drew itself up on one elbow. It was the Yuetshi, whose life was welling fast from a ghastly cut across neck and shoulder. Gasping, he looked at the other form. Kurush Khan's beard jutted upwards as if in comic surprise. The Yuetshi's arm gave way and his face fell into the dirt, filling his mouth with dust. He spat red, gave a ghastly laugh from frothy lips, and fell back. When the Hyrkanians reached the spot, he, too, was dead.

The Hyrkanians squatted like vultures about a dead sheep and conversed over the body of their khan. When they rose, the doom had been sealed of every Yuetshi in the valley of Akrim.

Granaries, ricks, and stables, spared by Kurush Khan, went up in flames. All prisoners were slain, infants tossed living into the flames, young girls ripped up and flung into the bloody streets. Beside the khan's corpse grew a heap of severed heads. Riders galloped up, swinging tliese trophies by the hair, to toss them on the grim pyramid.

Every place that might hide a shuddering wretch was ripped apart.

One tribesman, prodding into a stack of hay, discerned a movement in the straw. With a wolfish yell, he pounced upon the stack and dragged his victim to light. It was a girl, and no dumpy, apelike Yuetshi woman either. Tearing off her cloak, the Hyrkanian feasted his eyes on her scantily covered beauty.

The girl struggled silently in his grip. He dragged her toward his horse. Then, quick and deadly as a cobra, she snatched a dagger from his girdle and sank it under his heart. With a groan he crumpled, and she sprang like a she-leopard to his horse. The steed neighed and reared, and she wrenched it about and raced up the valley. Behind her the pack gave tongue and streamed out in pursuit. Arrows whistled about her head.

She guided the horse straight at the mountain wall on the south of the valley, where a narrow canyon opened out. Here the going was perilous, and the Hyrkanians reined to a less headlong pace among the stones and boulders. But the girl rode like a windblown leaf and was leading them by several hundred paces, when she came to a low wall or barrier across the mouth of the canyon, as if at some time somebody had rolled boulders together to make a crude defense. Feathery tamarisks grew out of the ridge, and a small stream cut through a narrow notch in the center. Men were there.

She saw them among the rocks, and they shouted to her to halt. At first she thought them more Hyrkanians and then saw otherwise. They were tall and strongly built, chain mail glinting under their cloaks, and spired steel caps on their heads. She made up her mind instantly. Throwing herself from her steed, she ran up to the rocks and fell on her knees, crying: "Aid, in the name of Ishtar the merciful!"

A man emerged, at the sight of whom she cried out: "General Artaban!"

She clasped his knees. "Save me from those wolves that follow!"

"Why should I risk my life for you?" he asked indifferently.

"I knew you at the court of the king at Aghrapur! I danced before you.

I am Roxana, the Zamorian."

"Many women have danced before me."

"Then I will give you a password," said she in desperation. "Listen!"

As she whispered a name in his ear, he started as if stung. He stared piercingly at her. Then, clambering upon a great boulder, he faced the oncoming riders with lifted hand.

"Go your way in peace, in the name of King Yildiz of Turan!"

His answer was a whistle of arrows about his ears. He sprang down and waved. Bows twanged all along the barrier and arrows sheeted out among the Hyrkanians. Men rolled from their saddles; horses screamed and bucked. The other riders fell back, yelling in dismay. They wheeled and raced back down the valley.

Artaban turned to Roxana: a tall man in a cloak of crimson silk and a chain-mail corselet threaded with gold. Water and blood had stained his apparel, yet its richness was still notable. His men gathered about him, forty stalwart Turanian mariners, bristling with weapons. A miserable-looking Yuetshi stood by with his hands bound.

"My daughter," said Artaban, "I have made enemies in this remote land on your behalf because of a name whispered in my ear. I believed you―"

"If I lied, may my skin be stripped from me."

"It will be," he promised gently. "I will see to it personally. You named Prince Teyaspa. What do you know of him?"

"For three years I have shared his exile."

"Where is he?"

She pointed down the valley to where the turrets of the castle were just visible among the crags. "In yonder stronghold of Gleg the Zaporoskan."

"It would be hard to take," mused Artaban.

"Send for the rest of your sea hawks! I know a way to bring you to the heart of that keep!"

He shook his head. "These you see are all my band." Seeing her incredulity he added: "I am not surprised that you wonder. I will tell you…"

With the frankness that his fellow Turanians found so disconcerting, Artaban sketched his fall. He did not tell her of his triumphs, which were too well-known to need repetition. He was famous as a general for his swift raids into far countries―Brythunia, Zamora, Koth, and Shem ―when five years before, the pirates of the Sea of Vilayet, working in league with the outlaw kozaki of the adjoining steppes, had become a formidable menace to that westernmost Hyrkanian kingdom, and King Yildiz had called upon Artaban to redress the situation. By vigorous action Artaban had put down the pirates, or at least driven them away from the western shores of the sea.

But Artaban, a passionate gambler, had gotten deeply in debt. To discharge his debts he had, while on a lone patrol with his flagship, seized a legitimate merchantman out of Khorusun, put all her people to the sword, and taken her cargo back to his base to sell secretly. But, though his crew was sworn to secrecy, somebody blabbed. Artaban had kept his head only at the price of a command from King Yildiz that almost amounted to suicide: to sail across the Sea of Vilayet to the mouth of the Zaporoska River and destroy the encampments of the pirates. Only two ships happened to be available for this enterprise.

Artaban had found the fortified camp of the Vilayet pirates and had taken it by storm, because only a few of the pirates were in it at the time. The rest had gone up the river to fight a band of wandering Hyrkanians, similar to Kurush Khan's band, that had attacked the native Zaporoskans along the river, with whom the pirates were on friendly terms. Artaban destroyed several pirate ships in their docks and captured a number of old or sick pirates.

To cow the absent pirates, Artaban had ordered that those taken alive should be impaled, burned by slow fires, and flayed alive all at once.

This sentence was in the midst of being executed when the main body of the pirates had returned. Artaban had fled, leaving one of his ships in their hands. Knowing the penalty for failure, he had struck out for the wild stretch along the southwestern shore of Vilayet Sea where the Colchian Mountains came down to the water. He was soon pursued by the pirates in the captured ship and overtaken when the western shore was already in sight The resulting battle had raged over the decks of both ships until dead and wounded lay everywhere. The greater numbers and superior equipment of the Turanians, together with Artaban's adroit use of his ram, had barely given them a defensive, indecisive victory.

"So we ran the galley ashore in the creek. We might have repaired it, but the king's fleet rules all of Vilayet Sea, and he will have a bowstring ready for me when he knows I've failed. We struck into the mountains, seeking we know not what―a way out of Turanian dominions or a new kingdom to rule."

Roxana listened and then without comment began her tale. As Artaban well knew, it was the custom of the kings of Turan, upon coming to the throne, to kill their brothers and their brothers' children in order to eliminate the chance of a civil war. Moreover it was the custom, when the king died, for the nobles and generals to acclaim as king the first of his sons to reach the capital after the event.

Even with this advantage, the weak Yildiz could not have conquered his aggressive brother Teyaspa had it not been for his mother, a Kothian woman named Khushia. This formidable old dame, the real ruler of Turan, preferred Yildiz because he was more docile, and Teyaspa was driven into exile. He sought refuge in Iranistan but discovered that the king of that land was corresponding with Yildiz in regard to poisoning him.

In an attempt to reach Vendhya, he was captured by a nomadic Hyrkanian tribe, who recognized him and sold him to the Turanians. Teyaspa thought his fate was sealed, but his mother intervened and stopped Yildiz from having his brother strangled."

Instead, Teyaspa was confined in the castle of Gleg the Zaporoskan, a fierce semibandit chief who had come into the valley of the Akrim many years before and set himself up as a feudal lord over the primitive Yuetshi, preying on them but not protecting them. Teyaspa was furnished with all luxuries and forms of dissipation calculated to soften his fiber.

Roxana explained that she was one of the dancing girls sent to entertain him. She had fallen violently in love with the handsome prince and, instead of seeking to ruin him, had striven to lift him back to manhood.

"But," she concluded, "Prince Teyaspa has sunk into apathy. One would not know him for the young eagle who led his horsemen into the teeth of the Brythunian knights and the Shemitic asshuri. Imprisonment and wine and the juice of the black lotus have drugged his senses. He sits entranced on his cushions, rousing only when I sing or dance for him.

But he has the blood of conquerors in him. He is a lion who but sleeps.

"When the Hyrkahians rode into the valley, I slipped out of the castle and went looking for Kurush Khan, in hope of finding a man bold enough to aid Teyaspa. But I saw Kurush Khan slain, and then the Hyrkanians became like mad dogs. I hid from them, but they dragged me out. O my lord, help us! What if you have but a handful? Kingdoms have been built on less! When it is known that the prince is free, men will flock to us! Yildiz is a fumbling mediocrity, and the people fear his son Yezdigerd, a fierce, cruel, and gloomy youth.

"The nearest Turanian garrison is three days' ride from here. Akrim is isolated, known to few but wandering nomads and the wretched Yuetshi.

Here an empire can be plotted unmolested. You too are an outlaw; let us band together to free Teyaspa and place him on his throne! If he were king, all wealth and honor were yours, while Yildiz offers you naught but a bowstring!"

She was on her knees, gripping his cloak, her dark eyes ablaze with passion. Artaban stood silently, then suddenly laughed a gusty laugh.

"We shall need the Hyrkanians," he said, and the girl clapped her hands with a cry of joy.

"Hold up!" Conan the Cimmerian halted and glanced about, craning his massive neck. Behind him, his comrades shifted with a clank of weapons.

They were in a narrow canyon, flanked on either hand by steep slopes grown with stunted firs. Before them, a small spring welled up among straggling trees and trickled away down a moss-green channel.

"Water here at least," granted Conan. "Drink!" The previous evening, a quick march had brought them to Artaban's ship in its hiding place in the creek before dark. Conan had left four of his most seriously wounded men here, to work at patching up the vessel, while he pushed on with the rest. Believing that the Turanians were only a short distance ahead, Conan had pressed recklessly on in hope of coming up with them and avenging the massacre on the Zaporoska. But then, with the setting of the young moon, they had lost the trail in a maze of gullies and wandered blindly. Now at dawn they had found water but were lost and worn out The only sign of human life they had seen since leaving the coast was a huddle of huts among the crags, housing nondescript skin-clad creatures who fled howling at their approach. Somewhere in the hills a lion roared.

Of the twenty-six, Conan was the only one whose muscles retained their spring. "Get some sleep," he growled. "Ivanos, pick two men to take the first watch with you. When the sun's over that fir, wake three others.

I'm going to scout up this gorge."

He strode up the canyon and was soon lost among the straggling growth.

The slopes changed to towering cliffs that rose sheer from the sloping, rock-littered floor. Then, with heart-stopping suddenness, a wild, shaggy figure sprang up from a tangle of bushes and confronted the pirate. Conan's breath hissed through his teeth as his sword flashed.

Then he checked the stroke, seeing that the apparition was weaponless.

It was a Yuetshi: a wizened, gnomelike man in sheepskins, with long arms, short legs, and a flat, yellow, slant-eyed face seamed with many small wrinkles.

"Khosatral!" exclaimed the vagabond. "What does one of the Free Brotherhood in this Hyrkanian-haunted land?" The man spoke the Turanian dialect of Hyrkanian, but with a strong accent.

"Who are you?" grunted Conan.

"I was a chief of the Yuetshi," answered the other with a wild laugh.

"I was called Vinashko. What do you here?"

"What lies beyond this canyon?" Conan countered.

"Over yonder ridge lies a tangle of gullies and crags. If you thread your way among them, you will come out overlooking the broad valley of the Akrim, which until yesterday was the home of my tribe, and which today holds their charred bones."

"Is there food there?"

"Aye―and death. A horde of Hyrkanian nomads holds the valley."

As Conan ruminated this, a step brought him about, to see Ivanos approaching.

"Hah!" Conan scowled. "I told you to watch while the men slept!"

"They are too hungry to sleep," retorted the Corinthian, suspiciously eyeing the Yuetshi.

"Crom!" growled the Cimmerian. "I cannot conjure food out of the air.

They must gnaw their thumbs until we find a village to loot―"

"I can lead you to enough food to feed an army," interrupted Vinashko.

Conan said, his voice heavy with menace: "Don't mock me, my friend! You just said the Hyrkanians―"

"Nay! There's a place near here, unknown to them, where we stored food.

I was going thither when I saw you."

Conan hefted his sword, a broad, straight, double-edged blade over four feet long, in a land where curved blades were more the rule. "Then lead on, Yuetshi, but at the first false move, off goes your head!"

Again the Yuetshi laughed that wild, scornful laugh, and motioned them to follow. He made for the nearer cliff, groped among the brittle bushes, and disclosed a crack in the wall. Beckoning, he bent and crawled inside.

"Into that wolf's den?" said Ivanos.

"What are you afraid of?" said Conan. "Mice?"

He bent and squeezed through the opening, and the other followed him.

Conan found himself, not in a cave, but in a narrow cleft of the cliff.

Overhead a narrow, crooked ribbon of blue morning sky appeared between the steep walls, which got higher with every step. They advanced through the gloom for a hundred paces and came out into a wide circular space surrounded by towering walls of what looked at first glance like a monstrous honeycomb. A low roaring came from the center of the space, where a small circular curbing surrounded a hole in the floor, from which issued a pallid flame as tall as a man, casting a wan illumination about the cavity.

Conan looked curiously about him. It was like being at the bottom of a gigantic well. The floor was of solid rock, worn smooth as if by the feet of ten thousand generations. The walls, too regularly circular to be altogether natural, were pierced by hundreds of black square depressions a hand's breadth deep and arranged in regular rows and tiers. The wall rose stupendously, ending in a small circle of blue sky, where a vulture hung like a dot A spiral stairway cut in the black rock started up from ground level, made half a complete circle as it rose, and ended with a platform in front of a larger black hole in the wall, the entrance to a tunnel.

Vinashko explained: "Those holes are the tombs of an ancient people who lived here even before my ancestors came to the Sea of Vilayet There are a few dim legends about these people; it is said they were not human, but preyed upon my ancestors until a priest of the Yuetshi by a great spell confined them to their holes in the wall and lit that fire to hold them there. No doubt their bones have all long since crumbled to dust. A few of my people have tried to chip away the slabs of stone that block these tombs, but the rock defied their efforts." He pointed to heaps of stuff at one side of the amphitheater. "My people stored food here against times of famine. Take your fill; there are no more Yuetshi to eat it."

Conan repressed a shudder of superstitious fear. "Your people should have dwelt in these caves. One man could hold that outer cleft against a horde."

The Yuetshi shrugged. "Here there is no water. Besides, when the Hyrkanians swooped down there was no time. My people were not warlike; they only wished to till the soil."

Conan shook his head, unable to understand such natures. Vinashko was pulling out leather bags of grain, rice, moldy cheese, and dried meat, and skins of sour wine.

"Go bring some of the men to help carry the stuff, Ivanos," said Conan, staring upward. "I'll stay here."

As Ivanos swaggered off, Vinashko tugged at Conan's arm. "Now do you believe I'm honest?"

"Aye, by Crom," answered Conan, gnawing a handful of dried figs. "Any man that leads me to food must be a friend. But how did you and your tribe get here from the valley of the Akrim? It must be a long steep road."

Vinashko's eyes gleamed like those of a hungry wolf. "That is our secret. I will show you, if you trust me."

"When my belly's full," said Conan with his mouth full of figs. "We're following that black devil, Artaban of Shahpur, who is somewhere in these mountains."

"He is your enemy?"

"Enemy! If I catch him, I'll make a pair of boots of his hide."

"Artaban of Shahpur is but three hours' ride from here."

"Ha!" Conan started up, feeling for his sword, his blue eyes ablaze.

"Lead me to him!"

"Take care!" cried Vinashko. "He has forty armored Turanians and has been joined by Dayuki and a hundred and fifty Hyrkanians. How many warriors have you, lord?"

Conan munched silently, scowling. With such a disparity of numbers, he could not afford to give Artaban any advantages. In the months since he had become a pirate captain, he had beaten and bullied his crew into an effective force, but it was still an instrument that had to be used with care. By themselves they were reckless and improvident; well led, they could do much, but without wise leadership they would throw away their lives on a whim.

Vinashko said: "If you will come with me, kozak, I will show you what no man save a Yuetshi has seen for a thousand years!"

"Whaf's that?"

"A road of death for our enemies!"

Conan took a step, then halted. "Wait; here come the red brothers. Hear the dogs swear!"

"Send them back with the food," whispered Vinashko as half a dozen pirates swaggered out of the cleft to gape at the cavern. Conan faced them with a grand gesture.

"Lug this stuff back to the spring," he said. "I told you I should find food."

"And what of you?" demanded Ivanos.

"Don't fret about me! I have words with Vinashko. Go back to camp and gorge yourselves, may the fiends bite you!"

As the pirates' footsteps faded away down the cleft, Conan gave Vinashko a clap on the back that staggered him. "Let's go," he said.

The Yuetshi led the way up the circular stairway carved in the rock wall. Above the last tier of tombs, it ended at the tunnel's mouth.

Conan found that he could stand upright in the tunnel.

"If you follow this tunnel," said Vinashko, "you will come out behind the castle of the Zaporoskan, Gleg, that overlooks Akrim."

"What good will that do?" grunted Conan, feeling his way behind the Yuetshi.

"Testerday when the slaying began, I strove for a while against the Hyrkanian dogs. When my comrades had all been cut down I fled the valley, running up to the Gorge of Diva. I had run into the gorge when I found myself among strange warriors, who knocked me down and bound me, wishing to ask me what went on in the valley. They were sailors of the king's Vilayet squadron and called their leader Artaban.

"While they questioned me, a girl came riding like mad with the Hyrkanians after her. When she sprang from her horse and begged aid of Artaban, I recognized her as the Zamorian dancing girl who dwells in Gleg's castle. A volley of arrows scattered the Hyrkanians, and then Artaban talked with the girl, forgetting about me. For three years Gleg has held a captive. I know, because I have taken grain and sheep to the castle, to be paid in the Zaporoskan fashion, with curses and blows.

Kozak, the prisoner is Teyaspa, brother of King Yildiz!"

Conan grunted in surprise.

"The girl, Roxana, disclosed this to Artaban, and he swore to aid her in freeing the prince. As they talked, the Hyrkanians returned and halted at a distance, vengeful but cautious. Artaban hailed them and had speech with Dayuki, the new chief since Kumsh Khan was slain. At last the Hyrkanian came over the wall of rocks and shared bread and salt with Artaban. And the three plotted to rescue Prince Teyaspa and put him on the throne.

"Roxana had discovered the secret way to the castle. Today, just before sunset, the Hyrkanians are to attack the castle from the front. While they thus attract the attention of the Zaporoskans, Artaban and his men are to come to the castle by a secret way. Roxana will open the door for them, and they will take the prince and flee into the hills to recruit warriors. As they talked, night fell, and I gnawed through my cords and slipped away.

"You wish vengeance. I'll show you how to trap Artaban. Slay the lot―all but Teyaspa. You can either extort a mighty price from Khushia for her son, or from Yildiz for killing him, or if you prefer you can try to be kingmaker yourself."

"Show me," said Conan, eyes agleam with eagerness.

The smooth floor of the tunnel, in which three horses might have been ridden abreast, slanted downward. From time to time short flights of steps gave on to lower levels. For a while Conan could not see anything in the darkness. Then a faint glow ahead relieved it. The glow became a silvery sheen, and the sound of falling water filled the tunnel.

They stood in the mouth of the tunnel, which was masked by a sheet of water rushing over the cliff above. From the pool that foamed at the foot of the falls, a narrow stream raced away down the gorge. Vinashko pointed out a ledge that ran from the cavern mouth, skirting the pool.

Conan followed him. Plunging through the thin edge of the falls, he found himself in a gorge like a knife cut through the hills. Nowhere was it more than fifty paces wide, with sheer cliffs on both sides. No vegetation grew anywhere except for a fringe along the stream. The stream meandered down the canyon floor to plunge through a narrow crack in the opposite cliff.

Conan followed Vinashko up the twisting gorge. Within three hundred paces, they lost sight of the waterfall. The floor slanted upward.

Shortly the Yuetshi drew back, clutching his companion's arm. A stunted tree grew at an angle in the rock wall, and behind this Vinashko crouched, pointing.

Beyond the angle, the gorge ran on for eighty paces and ended in an impasse. On their left the cliff seemed curiously altered, and Conan stared for an instant before he realized that he was looking at a man-made wall. They were almost behind a castle built in a notch in the cliffs. Its wall rose sheer from the edge of a deep crevice. No bridge spanned this chasm, and the only apparent entrance in the wall was a heavy, iron-braced door halfway up the wall. Opposite to it, a narrow ledge ran along the opposite side of the gorge, and this had been improved so that it could be reached on foot from where they stood.

"By this path the girl Roxana escaped," said Vinashko. "This gorge runs almost parallel to the Akrim. It narrows to the west and finally comes into the valley through a narrow notch, where the stream flows through.

The Zaporoskans have blocked the entrance with stones so that the path cannot be seen from the outer valley unless one knows of it. They seldom use this road and know nothing of the tunnel behind the waterfall."

Conan rubbed his shaven chin. He yearned to loot the castle himself but saw no way to come to it. "By Crom, Vinashko, I should like to look on this noted valley."

The Yuetshi glanced at Conan's bulk and shook his head. "There is a way we call the Eagle's Road, but it is not for such as you."

"Ymir! Is a skin-clad savage a better climber than a Cimmerian hillman?

Lead on!"

Vinashko shrugged and led the way back down the gorge until, within sight of the waterfall, he stopped at what looked like a shallow groove corroded in the higher cliff-wall. Looking closely, Conan saw a series of shallow handholds notched into the solid rock.

"I'd have deepened these pockmarks," grumbled Conan, but started up nevertheless after Vinashko, clinging to the shallow pits by toes and fingers. At last they reached the top of the ridge forming the southern side of the gorge and sat down with their feet hanging over the edge.

The gorge twisted like a snake's track beneath them. Conan looked out over the opposite and lower wall of the gorge into the valley of the Akrim.

On his right, the morning sun stood high over the glittering Sea of Vilayet; on his left rose the white-hooded peaks of the Colchians.

Behind him he could see down into the tangle of gorges among which he knew his crew to be encamped.

Smoke still floated lazily up from the blackened patches that had been villages. Down the valley, on the left bank of the river, were pitched a number of tents of hide. Conan saw men swarming like ants around these tents. These were the Hyrkanians, Vinashko said, and pointed up the valley to the mouth of a narrow canyon where the Turanians were encamped. But the castle drew Conan's interest.

It was solidly set in a notch in the cliffs between the gorge beneath them and the valley beyond. The castle faced the valley, entirely surrounded by a massive twenty-foot wall. A ponderous gate flanked by towers pierced with slits for arrows commanded the outer slope. This slope was not too steep to be climbed or even ridden up, but afforded no cover.

"It would take a devil to storm that castle," growled Conan. "How are we to come at the king's brother in that pile of rock? Lead us to Artaban, so I can take his head back to the Zaporoska."

"Be wary if you wish to wear your own," answered Vinashko. "What do you see in the gorge?"

"A lot of bare stone with a fringe of green along the stream."

The Yuetshi grinned wolflike. "And do you notice that the fringe is denser on the right bank, where it is also higher? Listen! From behind the waterfall we can watch until the Turanians come up the gorge. Then, while they are busy at Cleg's castle, we'll hide among the bushes along the stream and waylay them as they return. We'll kill all but Teyaspa, whom we will take captive. Then we'll go back through the tunnel. Have you a ship to escape in?"

"Aye," said Conan, rising and stretching. "Vinashko, is there any way down from this knife edge you have us balanced on except that shaft we came up by?"

"There is a trail that leads east along the ridge and then down into those gullies where your men camp. Let me show you. Do you see that rock that looks like an old woman? Well, you turn right there…"

Conan listened attentively to the directions, but the substance of them was that this perilous path, more suitable for ibex or chamois than for men, did not provide access to the gorge beneath them.

In the midst of his explanation, Vinashko turned and stiffened. "What's this?" he said.

Men were galloping out of the distant Hyrkanian camp and lashing their horses across the shallow river.

The sun struck glints from lance points. On the castle walls helmets began to sparkle.

"The attack!" cried Vinashko. "Khosatral Khel! They've changed their plans; they were not going to attack until evening! Quickly! We must get down before the Turanians arrive!"

They levered their bodies into the shallow groove and crept down, step by step.

At last they stood in the gorge and hastened toward the waterfall. They reached the pool, crossed the ledge, and plunged through the fall. As they came into the dimness beyond, Vinashko gripped Conan's mailed arm.

Above the rush of water the Cimmerian heard the clink of steel on rock.

He looked out through the silver-shimmering screen that made everything ghostly and unreal, but which hid them from the eyes of anyone outside.

They had not gained their refuge any too soon.

A band of men was coming along the gorge―tall men in mail hauberks and turban-bound helmets. At their head strode one taller than the rest, with black-bearded, hawklike features. Conan sighed and gripped his sword hilt, moving forward a trifle, but Vinashko caught him.

"In the gods' names, kozak," he whispered frantically "don't throw away our lives! We have them trapped, but if you rush out now―"

"Don't worry, little man," said Conan with a somber grin. "I am not so simple as to spoil a good vengeance by a thoughtless impulse."

The Turanians were crossing the narrow stream. On the farther bank they halted in an attitude of listening. Presently, above the rush of the waters, the men in the cave-mouth heard the distant shouting of many men.

"The attack!" whispered Vinashko.

As if it were a signal, the Turanians started swiftly up the gorge.

Vinashko touched the Cimmerian's arm.

"Bide here and watch. I'll hasten back and bring your pirates."

"Hurry, then," said Conan. "It will be touch and go if you can get them here in time." And Vinashko slipped away like a shadow.

In a broad chamber luxuriant with gold-worked tapestries, silken divans, and velvet cushions, the prince Teyaspa reclined. He seemed the picture of voluptuous idleness as he lounged in silks and satins, a crystal jar of wine at his elbow. His dark eyes were those of a dreamer whose dreams are tinted with wine and drugs. His gaze rested on Roxana, who tensely gripped the bars of a casement, peering out, but his expression was placid and faraway. He seemed unaware of the yells and clamor that raged without.

Roxana moved restlessly, glancing at the prince over her slim shoulder.

She had fought like a tigress to keep Teyaspa from falling into the gulf of degeneracy and resignation that his captors had prepared.

Roxana, no fatalist, had stung him into life and ambition.

"It is time," she breathed, turning. "The sun hangs at the zenith. The Hyrkanians ride up the slope, lashing their steeds and loosing their arrows vainly against the walls. The Zaporoskans pour arrows and stones down upon them, until bodies litter the slope, but they come on again like madmen. I must hasten. You shall yet sit on the golden throne, my lover!"

She prostrated herself and kissed his slippers in an ecstasy of adoration, then rose and hurried out of the room, through another where ten great black mutes kept guard night and day. She traversed a corridor to the outer court that lay between the castle and the postern wall. Though Teyaspa was not allowed unguarded out of his chamber, she was free to come and go as she liked.

Crossing the court, she approached the door that led into the gorge.

One warrior leaned there, disgruntled because he could not take part in the fighting. Though the rear of the castle seemed invulnerable, the cautious Gleg had posted a sentry there anyway. The man on guard was a Sogdian, his felt cap perched on the side of his head. He leaned on a pike, scowling, as Roxana approached him. "What do you here, woman?"

"I am afraid. The cries and shouts frighten me, lord. The prince is drugged with lotus juice, and there is none to soothe my fears."

She would have fired the heart of a corpse as she stood in an attitude of fear and supplication. The Sogdian plucked his thick beard.

"Nay, fear not, little gazelle," he said. "I'll soothe you." He laid a black-nailed hand on her shoulder and drew her close. "None shall touch a lock of your hair. I―ahhh!"

Snuggling in his arms, Roxana had slipped a dagger from her sash and thrust it through his thick throat. One of the Sogdian's hands clutched at his beard while the other fumbled for the hilt in his girdle. He reeled and fell heavily. Roxana snatched a bunch of keys from his girdle and ran to the door. She swung it open and gave a low cry of joy at the sight of Artaban and his Turanians on the ledge across the chasm.

A heavy plank, used as a bridge, lay inside the gate, but it was far too heavy for her to handle. Chance had enabled her to use it for her previous escape, when rare carelessness had left it in place across the chasm and unguarded for a few minutes. Artaban tossed her the end of a rope, which she made fast to the hinges of the door. The other end was gripped by half a dozen strong men, and three Turanians crossed the crevice, swinging hand over hand. They spanned the chasm with the plank for the rest to cross.

"Twenty men guard the bridge," snapped Artaban. "The rest follow me."

The sea wolves drew their steel and followed their chief. Artaban led them swiftly after the light-footed girl. As they entered the castle, a servitor sprang up and gaped at them. Before he could cry out, Dayuki's razor-edged yataghan sliced through his throat, and the band rushed into the chamber where the ten mutes sprang up, gripping scimitars.

There was a flurry of fierce, silent fighting, noiseless except for the hiss and rasp of steel and the gasps of the wounded. Three Turanians died, and the rest strode into the inner chamber over the mangled bodies of the blacks.

Teyaspa rose, his quiet eyes gleaming with old fire, as Artaban dramatically knelt before him and lifted the hilt of his bloody scimitar.

"These are the warriors who shall set you on your throne!" cried Roxana.

"Let us go quickly, before the Zaporoskan dogs are aware of us," said Artaban.

He drew up his men in a clump around Teyaspa.

Swiftly they traversed the chambers, crossed the court, and approached the gate. But the clang of steel had been heard. Even as the raiders were crossing the bridge, savage yells rose behind them. Across the courtyard rushed a stocky, powerful figure in silk and steely followed by fifty helmeted archers and swordsmen.

"Gleg!" screamed Roxana.

"Cast down the plank!" roared Artaban, springing to the bridgehead.

On each side of the chasm bows twanged until the air over the plank was clouded with shafts whistling in both directions. Several Zaporoskans fell, but so did the two Turanians who stooped to lift the plank, and across the bridge rushed Gleg, his cold gray eyes blazing under his spired helmet. Artaban met him breast to breast. In a glittering whirl of steel the Turanian's scimitar grated around Gleg's blade, and the keen edge cut through the camail and the thick muscles of the Zaporoskan's neck. Gleg staggered and, with a wild cry, pitched off into the chasm.

In an instant the Turanians had cast the bridge after him. On the far side, the Zaporoskans halted with furious yells and began shooting their thick horn bows as fast as they could draw and nock. Before the Turanians, running down the ledge, could get out of range, three more had been brought down and a couple of others had received minor wounds from the vicious arrow storm. Artaban cursed at his losses.

"All but six of you go forward to see that the way is clear," he ordered. "I follow with the prince. My lord, I could not bring a horse up this defile, but I will have the dogs make you a litter of spears―"

"The gods forbid that I ride on my deliverers' shoulders!" cried Teyaspa. "Again I am a man! I shall never forget this day!"

"The gods be praised!" whispered Roxana.

They came within sight of the waterfall. All but the small group in the rear had crossed the stream and were straggling down the left bank, when there came a multiple snap of bowstrings, as though a hand had swept across the strings of a muted harp. A sheet of arrows hissed across the stream into their ranks, and then another and another. The foremost Turanians went down like wheat under the scythe and the rest gave back, shouting alarm.

"Dog!" shouted Artaban, turning on Dayuki. "This is your work."

"Do I order my men to shoot at me?" squalled the Hyrkanian, his dark face pale. "This is some new enemy!"

Artaban ran down the gorge toward his demoralized men, cursing. He knew that the Zaporoskans would rig up some sort of bridge across the chasm and pursue him, catching him between two forces. Who his assailants were he had no idea. From the castle he heard the shouts of battle, and then a great rumble of hooves and shouting and clang of steel seemed to come from the outer valley. But, pent in that narrow gorge, which muffled sound, he could not be sure.

The Turanians continued to fall before the storm of arrows from their invisible opponents. Some loosed blindly into the bushes. Artaban knocked their bows aside, shouting:

"Fools!" Why waste arrows on shadows? Draw steel and follow me!"

With a fury of desperation, the remaining Turanians charged the ambush, cloaks flowing and eyes blazing. Arrows brought down some, but the rest leaped into the water and splashed across. From the bushes on the farther bank rose wild figures, mail-clad or half-naked, swords in hands. "Up and at them!" bellowed a great voice. "Cut and thrust!"

A yell of amazement rose from the Turanians at the sight of the Vilayet pirates. Then they closed with a roar. The rasp and clangor of steel echoed from the cliffs. The first Turanians to spring up the higher bank fell back into the stream with heads split Then the pirates leaped down the bank to meet their foes hand-to-hand, thigh-deep in water that soon swirled crimson. Pirate and Turanian slashed and slew in a blind frenzy, sweat and blood running into their eyes.

Dayuki ran into the melee, glaring. His double-curved blade split a pirate's head. Then Vinashko leaped upon him barehanded and screaming.

The Hyrkanian recoiled from the mad ferocity in the Yuetshi's features, but Vinashko caught Dayuki around the neck and sank his teeth in the man's throat He hung on, chewing deeper and deeper, heedless of the dagger that Dayuki drove again and again into his side. Blood spurted around his jaws until both lost their footing and fell into the stream.

Still tearing and rending, they were washed down with the current, now one face showing above water, now another, until both vanished forever.

The Turanians were driven back up the left bank, where they made a brief, bloody stand. Then they broke and fled toward the place where Prince Teyaspa stared entranced in the shadow of the cliff, with the small knot of warriors whom Artaban had detailed to guard him.

Thrice he moved as though to draw his sword and cast himself into the fray, but Roxana, clinging to his knees, stopped him.

Artaban, breaking away from the battle, hastened to Teyaspa. The admiral's sword was red to the hilt, his mail was hacked, and blood dripped from beneath his helmet After him through the melee came Conan, brandishing his great sword in his sledgelike fist. He beat down his foes with strokes that shattered bucklers, caved in helmets, and clove through mail, flesh, and bone.

"Ho, you rascals!" he roared in his barbarous Hyrkanian. "I want your head, Artaban, and the fellow beside you there―Teyaspa. Fear not, my pretty prince; I'll not hurt you."

Artaban, looking about for an avenue of escape, saw the groove leading up the cliff and divined its purpose.

"Quick, my lord!" he whispered. "Up the cliff! I'll hold off the barbarian while you climb!"

"Aye, hasten!" urged Roxana. "I'll follow!"

But the fatalistic mask had descended again on Prince Teyaspa. He shrugged. "Nay, the gods do not will that I should press the throne.

Who can escape his destiny?"

Roxana clutched her hair with a look of horror. Artaban sheathed his sword, sprang for the groove, and started up with the agility of a sailor. But Conan, coming up behind him at a run, reached up, caught his ankle, and plucked him out of his cranny like a fowler catching a bird by the leg. Artaban struck the ground with a clang. As he tried to roll over to wrench loose, the Cimmerian drove his sword into the Turanian's body, crunching through mail links, and into the ground beneath.

Pirates approached with dripping blades. Teyaspa spread his hands, saying: "Take me if you will. I am Teyaspa."

Roxana swayed, her hands over her eyes. Then like a flash she thrust her dagger through Teyaspa's heart, and he died on his feet As he fell, she drove the point into her own breast and sank down beside her lover.

Moaning, she cradled his head in her arms, while the pirates stood about, awed and incomprehending.

A sound up the gorge made them lift their heads. They were but a handful, weary and dazed with battle, their garments soaked with blood and water.

Conan said: "Men are coming down the gorge. Get back into the tunnel."

They obeyed, but slowly, as if they only half understood him. Before the last of them had ducked under the waterfall, a stream of men poured down the path from the castle. Conan, cursing and beating his rearmost men to make them hurry, looked around to see the gorge thronged with armed figures. He recognized the fur caps of the Zaporoskans and with them the white turbans of the Imperial Guards from Aghrapur. One of these wore a spray of bird-of-paradise feathers in his turban, and Conan stared to recognize, from these and other indications, the general of the Imperial Guards, the third man of the Turanian Empire.

The general saw Conan and the tail of his procession too and shouted an order. As Conan, the last in line, plunged through the waterfall, a body of Turanians detached themselves from the rest and ran to the pool.

Conan yelled to his men to run, then turned and faced the sheet of water from the inner side, holding up a buckler from a dead Turanian and his great sword.

Presently a guardsman came through the sheet of water. He started to yell, but the sound was cut off by a meaty chunk as Conan's sword sheared through his neck. His head and body tumbled separately off the ledge into the pool. The second guard had time to strike at the dim figure that towered over him, but his sword rebounded from the Cimmerian's buckler. The next instant he in turn fell back into the pool with a cloven skull.

There were shouts, partly muffled by the sound of the water. Conan flattened himself against the side of the tunnel, and a storm of arrows whipped through the sheet of water, bringing little splashes of droplets with them and rebounding with a clatter from the walls and floor of the tunnel.

A glance back showed Conan that his men had vanished into the gloom of the tunnel. He ran after them, so that when, a few moments later, the guardsmen again burst through the waterfall, they found nobody in front of them.

Meanwhile in the gorge, voices filled with horror rose as the newcomers halted among the corpses. The general knelt beside the dead prince and the dying girl.

"It is Prince Teyaspa!" he cried.

"He is beyond your power," murmured Roxana. "I would have made him king, but you robbed him of his manhood… so I killed him…"

"But I bring him the crown of Turan!" cried the general. "Yildiz is dead, and the people will rise against his son Yezdigerd if they have anyone else to follow―"

"Too late!" whispered Roxana, and her dark head sank on her arm.

Conan ran up the tunnel with the feet of the pursuing Turanians echoing after him. Where the tunnel opened into the great natural chimney lined with the tombs of the forgotten race, he saw his men grouped uncertainly on the floor of the pit below him, some looking at the hissing flame and some up at the stair down which they had come.

"Go on to the ship!" he bellowed through cupped hands. The words rattled back from the black cylindrical walls.

The men ran out into the cleft that led to the outer world. Conan turned again and leaned against the side of the chimney just alongside the tunnel entrance. He waited as the footsteps grew louder.

An Imperial Guard popped out of the tunnel. Again Conan's sword swished and struck, biting into the man's back through mail and skin and spine.

With a shriek the guard pitched head-first off the platform. His momentum carried him out from the spiral stair toward the middle of the floor below. His body plunged into the hole in the rocky floor from which issued the flame and wedged there like a cork in a bottle. The flame went out with a pop, plunging the chamber into gloom only faintly relieved by the opening to the sky far above.

Conan did not see the body strike the floor, for he was watching the tunnel opening for his next foe. The next guard looked out but leaped back as Conan struck at him with a ferocious backhand. There came a jabber of voices; an arrow whizzed out of the tunnel past Conan's face, to strike the far side of the chamber and shatter against the black rock.

Conan turned and started down the stone steps, taking three at a time.

As he reached the bottom, he saw Ivanos herding the last of the pirates into the cleft across the floor, perhaps ten strides away. To the left of the cleft, five times Conan's height from the floor, the Turanian guards boiled out of the tunnel and clattered down the stairs. A couple loosed arrows at the Cimmerian as they ran, but between the speed of his motion and the dimness of the light their shots missed.

But, as Conan reached the bottom steps, another group of beings appeared. With a grinding sound, the slabs of stone blocking the ends of the tomb cavities swung inward, first a few, then by scores. Like a swarm of larvae issuing from their cells, the inhabitants of the tombs came forth. Conan had not taken three strides toward the cleft when he found the way blocked by a dozen of the things.

They were of vaguely human form, but white and hairless, lean and stringy as if from a long fast. Their toes and fingers ended in great, hooked claws. They had large, staring eyes set in faces that looked more like those of bats than of human beings, with great, flaring ears, little snub noses, and wide mouths that opened to show needle-pointed fangs.

The first to reach the floor were those who crawled out of the bottom tiers of cells. But the upper tiers were opening too and the creatures were spelling out of them by hundreds, climbing swiftly down the pitted walls of the chamber by their hooked claws. Those that reached the floor first glimpsed the last pirates as they entered the cleft. With a pointing of clawed fingers and a shrill twittering, those nearest the cleft rushed toward and into it.

Conan, the hairs of his neck prickling with a barbarian's horror of supernatural menaces, recognized the newcomers as the dreaded brylukas of Zaporoskan legend― creatures neither man nor beast nor demon, but a little of all three. Their near-human intelligence served their bestial lust for human blood, while their supernatural powers enabled them to survive even though entombed for centuries. Creatures of darkness, they had been held at bay by the light of the flame. When this was put out they emerged, as ferocious as ever and even more avid for blood.

Those that struck the floor near Conan rushed upon him, claws outstretched. With an inarticulate roar he whirled, making wide sweeps with his great sword to keep them from piling on his back. The blade sheared off a head here, an arm there, and cut one bryluka in half.

Still they clustered, twittering, while from the spiral staircase rose the shrieks of the leading Turanians as brylukas leaped upon them from above and climbed up from below to fasten their claws and fangs in their bodies.

The stair was clustered with writhing, battling figures as the Turanians hacked madly at the things crowding upon them. A cluster consisting of one guard with several brylukas clinging to him rolled off the stair to strike the floor. The entrance to the cleft was solidly jammed with twittering brylukas trying to force their way in to chase Conan's pirates. In the seconds before they overwhelmed him too, Conan saw that neither way out would serve him. With a bellow of fury he ran across the floor, but not in the direction the brylukas expected. Weaving and zigzagging, his sword a whirling glimmer in the gloom, he reached the wall directly below the platform that formed the top of the stair and the entrance to the tunnel, leaving a trail of still or writhing figures behind him. Hooked claws snatched at him as he ran, glancing off his mail, tearing his clothes to ribbons, and drawing blood from deep scratches on his arms and legs.

As he reached the wall, Conan dropped his buckler, took his sword in his teeth, sprang high in the air, and caught the lower sill of one of the cells in the third tier above the floor, a cell that had already discharged its occupant. With simian agility the Cimmerian mountaineer went up the wall, using the cell openings as hand and foot-holds. Once, as his face came opposite a cell opening, a hideous batlike visage looked into his as the bryluka started to emerge. Conan's fist lashed out and struck the grinning face with a crunch of bone; then, without waiting to see what execution he had done, he swarmed on up.

Below him, other brylukas climbed the wall in pursuit. Then with a heave and a grunt he was on the platform. Those guards who had been behind the ones who first started down the stair, seeing what was happening in the chamber, had turned and raced back through the tunnel.

A few brylukas crowded into the tunnel in pursuit just as Conan reached the platform.

Even as they turned toward him he was among them like a whirlwind.

Bodies, whole or dismembered, spilled off the platform as his sword sheared through white, unnatural flesh. For an instant the platform was cleared of the gibbering horrors. Conan plunged into the tunnel and ran with all his might.

Ahead of him ran a few of the vampires, and ahead of them the guards who had been coming along the tunnel. Conan, coming to the brylukas from behind, struck down one, then another, then another, until they were all writhing in their blood behind him. He kept on until he came to the end of the tunnel, where the last of the guards had just ducked through the waterfall.

A glance back showed Conan another swarm of brylukas rushing upon him with outstretched claws. Conan bolted through the sheet of water in his turn and found himself looking down upon the scene of the recent battle with the Turanians. The general and the rest of his escort were standing about, shouting and gesticulating as their fellows emerged from the water and ran down the ledge to the ground. When Conan appeared right after the last of these, the yammer continued without a break until a louder shout from the general cut through it:

"It is one of the pirates! Shoot!"

Conan, running down the ledge, was already halfway to the ladder shaft.

Those in front of him, who had just reached the floor of the gorge, turned to stare as he raced past them with such tremendous strides that the archers, misjudging his speed, sent a flight of arrows clattering against the rocks behind him. Before they had nocked their second arrows, he had reached the vertical groove in the cliff face.

The Cimmerian slipped into the shaft, whose concavity protected him momentarily from the arrows of the Turanians standing near the general.

He caught at the indentations with hands and toes and went up like a monkey. By the time the Turanians had recovered their wits enough to run up the gorge to a position in front of the groove, where they could see him to shoot at, Conan was fifteen paces up and rising fast.

Another storm of arrows whistled about him, clattering as they glanced from the rock. A couple struck his body but were prevented from piercing his flesh by his mail shirt. A couple of others struck his clothing and caught in the cloth. One hit his right arm, the point passing shallowly under the skin and then out again.

With a fearful oath Conan tore the arrow out of the wound point-first, threw it from him, and continued his climb. Blood from the flesh wound soaked up his arm and down his body. By the next volley, he was so high that the arrows had little force left when they reached him. One struck his boot but failed to penetrate.

Up and up he went, the Turanians becoming small beneath him. When their arrows no longer reached him, they ceased shooting. Snatches of argument floated up. The general wanted his men to climb the shaft after Conan, and the men protested that this would be futile, as he would simply wait at the top of the cliff and cut their heads off one by one as they emerged. Conan smiled grimly.

Then he reached the top. He sat gasping on the edge with his feet hanging down into the shaft while he bandaged his wounds with strips torn from his clothing, meantime looking about him. Glancing ahead over the rock wall into the valley of the Akrim, he saw sheepskin-clad Hyrkanians riding hard for the hills, pursued by horsemen in glittering mail―Turanian soldiers. Below him, the Turanians and Zaporoskans milled around like ants and finally set off up the gorge to the castle, leaving a few of their number on watch in case Conan should come back down the groove.

Some time later Conan rose, stretched his great muscles, and turned to look eastward toward the Sea of Vilayet. He started as his keen vision picked up a ship, and shading his eyes with his hand he made out a galley of the Turanian navy crawling away from the mouth of the creek where Artaban had left his ship.

"Crom!" he muttered. "So the cowards piled aboard and pulled out without waiting!"

He struck his palm with his fist, growling deep in his throat like an angry bear. Then he relaxed and laughed shortly. It was no more than he should have expected. Anyway, he was getting tired of the Hyrkanian lands, and there were still many countries in the West that he had never visited.

He started to hunt for the precarious route down from the ridge that Vinashko had shown him.

A Witch Shall Be Born

1 The Blood-Red Crescent

Taramis, Queen of Khauran, awakened from a dream-haunted slumber to a silence that seemed more like the stillness of nighted catacombs than the normal quiet of a sleeping place. She lay staring into the darkness, wondering why the candles in their golden candelabra had gone out. A flecking of stars marked a gold-barred casement that lent no illumination to the interior of the chamber. But as Taramis lay there, she became aware of a spot of radiance glowing in the darkness before her. She watched, puzzled. It grew and its intensity deepened as it expanded, a widening disk of lurid light hovering against the dark velvet hangings of the opposite wall. Taramis caught her breath, starting up to a sitting position. A dark object was visible in that circle of light - a human head.

In a sudden panic the queen opened her lips to cry out for her maids; then she checked herself. The glow was more lurid, the head more vividly limned. It was a woman's head, small, delicately molded, superbly poised, with a high-piled mass of lustrous black hair. The face grew distinct as she stared - and it was the sight of this face which froze the cry in Taramis's throat. The features were her own! She might have been looking into a mirror which subtly altered her reflection, lending it a tigerish gleam of eye, a vindictive curl of lip.

'Ishtar!' gasped Taramis. `I am bewitched!'

Appallingly, the apparition spoke, and its voice was like honeyed venom.

`Bewitched? No, sweet sister! Here is no sorcery.'

`Sister?' stammered the bewildered girl. `I have no sister.'

`You never had a sister?' came the sweet, poisonously mocking voice. `Never a twin sister whose flesh was as soft as yours to caress or hurt?'

`Why, once I had a sister,' answered Taramis, still convinced that she was in the grip of some sort of nightmare. `But she died.'

The beautiful face in the disk was convulsed with the aspect of a fury; so hellish became its expression that Taramis, cowering back, half expected to see snaky locks writhe hissing about the ivory brow.

`You lie!' The accusation was spat from between the snarling red lips. `She did not die! Fool! Oh, enough of this mummery! Look - and let your sight be blasted!'

Light ran suddenly along the hangings like flaming serpents, and incredibly the candles in the golden sticks flared up again. Taramis crouched on her velvet couch, her lithe legs flexed beneath her, staring wide-eyed at the pantherish figure which posed mockingly before her. It was as if she gazed upon another Taramis, identical with herself in every contour of feature and limb, yet animated by an alien and evil personality. The face of this stranger waif reflected the opposite of every characteristic the countenance of the queen denoted. Lust and mystery sparkled in her scintillant eyes, cruelty lurked in the curl of her full red lips. Each movement of her supple body was subtly suggestive. Her coiffure imitated that of the queen's, on her feet were gilded sandals such as Taramis wore in her boudoir. The sleeveless, low-necked silk tunic, girdled at the waist with a cloth-of-gold cincture, was a duplicate of the queen's night-garment.

`Who are you?' gasped Taramis, an icy chill she could not explain creeping along her spine. `Explain your presence before I call my ladies-in-waiting to summon the guard!'

`Scream until the roof beams crack,' callously answered the stranger. `Your sluts will not wake till dawn, though the palace spring into flames about them. Your guardsmen will not hear your squeals; they have been sent out of this wing of the palace.'

`What!' exclaimed Taramis, stiffening with outraged majesty. `Who dared give my guardsmen such a command?'

`I did, sweet sister,' sneered the other girl. `A little while ago, before I entered. They thought it was their darling adored queen. Ha! How beautifully I acted the part! With what imperious dignity, softened by womanly sweetness, did I address the great louts who knelt in their armor and plumed helmets!'

Taramis felt as if a stifling net of bewilderment were being drawn about her.

`Who are you?' she cried desperately. `What madness is this? Why do you come here?'

`Who am I?' There was the spite of a she-cobra's hiss in the soft response. The girl stepped to the edge of the couch, grasped the queen's white shoulders with fierce fingers, and bent to glare full into the startled eyes of Taramis. And under the spell of that hypnotic glare, the queen forgot to resent the unprecedented outrage of violent hands laid on regal flesh.

`Fool!' gritted the girl between her teeth. `Can you ask? Can you wonder? I am Salome!'

'Salome!' Taramis breathed the word, and the hairs prickled on her scalp as she realized the incredible, numbing truth of the statement. `I thought you died within the hour of your birth,' she said feebly.

`So thought many,' answered the woman who called herself Salome. `They carried me into the desert to die, damn them! I, a mewing, puling babe whose life was so young it was scarcely the flicker of a candle. And do you know why they bore me forth to die?'

`I - I have heard the story-'faltered Taramis.

Salome laughed fiercely, and slapped her bosom. The low-necked tunic left the upper parts of her firm breasts bare, and between them there shone a curious mark - a crescent, red as blood.

`The mark of the witch!' cried Taramis, recoiling.

`Aye!' Salome's laughter was dagger-edged with hate. `The curse of the kings of Khauran! Aye, they tell the tale in the market-places, with wagging beards and rolling eyes, the pious fools! They tell how the first queen of our line had traffic with a fiend of darkness and bore him a daughter who lives in foul legendry to this day. And thereafter in each century a girl baby was born into the Askhaurian dynasty, with a scarlet half-moon between her breasts, that signified her destiny.

"`Every century a witch shall be born." So ran the ancient curse. And so it has come to pass. Some were slain at birth, as they sought to slay me. Some walked the earth as witches, proud daughters of Khauran, with the moon of hell burning upon their ivory bosoms. Each was named Salome. I too am Salome. It was always Salome, the witch. It will always be Salome, the witch, even when the mountains of ice have roared down from the pole and ground the civilizations to ruin, and a new world has risen from the ashes and dust - even then there shall be Salomes to walk the earth, to trap men's hearts by their sorcery, to dance before the kings of the world, to see the heads of the wise men fall at their pleasure.'

`But - but you-'stammered Taramis.

`I?' The scintillant eyes burned like dark fires of mystery. `They carried me into the desert far from the city, and laid me naked on the hot sand, under the flaming sun. And then they rode away and left me for the jackals and the vultures and the desert wolves.

`But the life in me was stronger than the life in common folk, for it partakes of the essence of the forces that seethe in the black gulfs beyond mortal ken. The hours passed, and the sun slashed down like the molten flames of hell, but I did not die aye, something of that torment I remember, faintly and far away, as one remembers a dim, formless dream. Then there were camels, and yellow-skinned men who wore silk robes and spoke in a weird tongue. Strayed from the caravan road, they passed close by, and their leader saw me, and recognized the scarlet crescent on my bosom. He took me up and gave me life.

`He was a magician from far Khitai, returning to his native kingdom after a journey to Stygia He took me with him to purple-towering Paikang, its minarets rising amid the vine-festooned jungles of bamboo, and there I grew to womanhood under his teaching. Age had steeped him deep in black wisdom, not weakened his powers of evil. Many things he taught me-'

She paused, smiling enigmatically, with wicked mystery gleaming in her dark eyes. Then she tossed her head.

`He drove me from him at last, saying that I was but a common witch in spite of his teachings, and not fit to command the mighty sorcery he would have taught me. He would have made me queen of the world and ruled the nations through me, he said, but I was only a harlot of darkness. But what of it? I could never endure to seclude myself in a golden tower, and spend the long hours staring into a crystal globe, mumbling over incantations written on serpent's skin in the blood of virgins, poring over musty volumes in forgotten languages.

`He said I was but an earthly sprite, knowing naught of the deeper gulfs of cosmic sorcery. Well, this world contains all I desire - power, and pomp, and glittering pageantry, handsome men and soft women for my paramours and my slaves. He had told me who I was, of the curse and my heritage. I have returned to take that to which I have as much right as you. Now it is mine by right of possession.'

`What do you mean?' Taramis sprang up and faced her sister, stung out of her bewilderment and fright. `Do you imagine that by drugging a few of my maids and tricking a few of my guardsmen you have established a claim to the throne of Khauran? Do not forget that I am Queen of Khauran! I shall give you a place of honor, as my sister, but-'

Salome laughed hatefully.

`How generous of you, dear, sweet sister! But before you begin putting me in my place - perhaps you will tell me whose soldiers camp in the plain outside the city walls?'

`They are the Shemitish mercenaries of Constantius, the Kothic voivode of the Free Companies.'

`And what do they in Khauran?' cooed Salome.

Taramis felt that she was being subtly mocked, but she answered with an assumption of dignity which she scarcely felt.

`Constantius asked permission to pass along the borders of Khauran on his way to Turan. He himself is hostage for their good behavior as long as they are within my domains.'

`And Constantius,' pursued Salome. `Did he not ask your hand today?'

Taramis shot her a clouded glance of suspicion.

`How did you know that?'

An insolent shrug of the slim naked shoulders was the only reply.

`You refused, dear sister?'

`Certainly I refused!' exclaimed Taramis angrily. `Do you, an Askhaurian princess yourself, suppose that the Queen of Khauran could treat such a proposal with anything but disdain? Wed a bloody-handed adventurer, a man exiled from his own kingdom because of his crimes, and the leader of organized plunderers and hired murderers?

`I should never have allowed him to bring his black-bearded slayers into Khauran. But he is virtually a prisoner in the south tower, guarded by my soldiers. Tomorrow I shall bid him order his troops to leave the kingdom. He himself shall be kept captive until they are over the border. Meantime, my soldiers man the walls of the city, and I have warned him that he will answer for any outrages perpetrated on the villagers or shepherds by his mercenaries.'

`He is confined in the south tower?' asked Salome.

`That is what I said. Why do you ask?'

For answer Salome clapped her hands, and lifting her voice, with a gurgle of cruel mirth in it, called: `The queen grants you an audience, Falcon!'

A gold-arabesqued door opened and a tall figure entered the chamber, at the sight of which Taramis cried out in amazement and anger.

`Constantius! You dare enter my chamber!'

`As you see, Your Majesty!' He bent his dark, hawk-like head in mock humility.

Constantius, whom men called Falcon, was tall, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, lithe and strong as pliant steel. He was handsome in an aquiline, ruthless way. His face was burnt dark by the sun, and his hair, which grew far back from his high, narrow forehead, was black as a raven. His dark eyes were penetrating and alert, the hardness of his thin lips not softened by his thin black mustache. His boots were of Kordavan leather, his hose and doublet of plain, dark silk, tarnished with the wear of the camps and the stains of armor rust.

Twisting his mustache, he let his gaze travel up and down the shrinking queen with an effrontery that made her wince.

`By Ishtar, Taramis,' he said silkily, `I find you more alluring in your night-tunic than in your queenly robes. Truly, this is an auspicious night!'

Fear grew in the queen's dark eyes. She was no fool; she knew that Constantius would never dare this outrage unless he was sure of himself.

`You are mad!' she said. `If I am in your power in this chamber, you are no less in the power of my subjects, who will rend you to pieces if you touch me. Go at once, if you would live.'

Both laughed mockingly, and Salome made an impatient gesture.

`Enough of this farce; let us on to the next act in the comedy. Listen, dear sister: it was I who sent Constantius here. When I decided to take the throne of Khauran, I cast about for a man to aid me, and chose the Falcon, because of his utter lack of all characteristics men call good.'

`I am overwhelmed, princess,' murmured Constantius sardonically, with a profound bow.

`I sent him to Khauran, and, once his men were camped in the plain outside, and he was in the palace, I entered the city by that small gate in the west wall - the fools guarding it thought it was you returning from some nocturnal adventure-'

`You hell-cat!' Taramis's cheeks flamed and her resentment got the better of her regal reserve.

Salome smiled hardly.

`They were properly surprised and shocked, but admitted me without question. I entered the palace the same way, and gave the order to the surprised guards that sent them marching away, as well as the men who guarded Constantius in the south tower. Then I came here, attending to the ladies-in-waiting on the way.'

Taramis's fingers clenched and she paled.

`Well, what next?' she asked in a shaky voice.

`Listen!' Salome inclined her head. Faintly through the casement there came the clank of marching men in armor; gruff voices shouted in an alien tongue, and cries of alarm mingled with the shouts.

`The people awaken and grow fearful,' said Constantius sardonically. `You had better go and reassure them, Salome!'

`Call me Taramis,' answered Salome. `We must become accustomed to it.'

`What have you done?' cried Taramis. `What have you done?'

`I have gone to the gates and ordered the soldiers to open them,' answered Salome. `They were astounded, but they obeyed. That is the Falcon's army you hear, marching into the city.'

`You devil!' cried Taramis. `You have betrayed my people, in my guise! You have made me seem a traitor! Oh, I shall go to them-'

With a cruel laugh Salome caught her wrist and jerked her back. The magnificent suppleness of the queen was helpless against the vindictive strength that steeled Salome's slender limbs.

`You know how to reach the dungeons from the palace, Constantius?' said the witch-girl. `Good. Take this spitfire and lock her into the strongest cell. The jailers are all sound in drugged sleep. I saw to that. Send a man to cut their throats before they can awaken. None must ever know what has occurred tonight. Thenceforward I am Taramis, and Taramis is a nameless prisoner in an unknown dungeon.'

Constantius smiled with a glint of strong white teeth under his thin mustache.

`Very good; but you would not deny me a little - ah amusement first?'

`Not I! Tame the scornful hussy as you will.' With a wicked laugh Salome flung her sister into the Kothian's arms, and turned away through the door that opened into the outer corridor.

Fright widened Taramis's lovely eyes, her supple figure rigid and straining against Constantius's embrace. She forgot the men marching in the streets, forgot the outrage to her queenship, in the face of the menace to her womanhood. She forgot all sensations but terror and shame as she faced the complete cynicism of Constantius's burning, mocking eyes, felt his hard arms crushing her writhing body.

Salome, hurrying along the corridor outside, smiled spitefully as a scream of despair and agony rang shuddering through the palace.

2 The Tree of Death

The young soldier's hose and shirt were smeared with dried blood, wet with sweat and gray with dust. Blood oozed from the deep gash in his thigh, from the cuts on his breast and shoulder. Perspiration glistened on his livid face and his fingers were knotted in the cover of the divan on which he lay. Yet his words reflected mental suffering that outweighed physical pain.

`She must be mad!' he repeated again and again, like one still stunned by some monstrous and incredible happening. `It's like a nightmare! Taramis, whom all Khauran loves, betraying her people to that devil from Koth! Oh, Ishtar, why was I not slain? Better die than live to see our queen turn traitor and harlot!'

`Lie still, Valerius,' begged the girl who was washing and bandaging his wounds with trembling hands. `Oh, please lie still, darling! You will make your wounds worse. I dared not summon a leech-'

`No,' muttered the wounded youth. `Constantius's bluebearded devils will be searching the quarters for wounded Khaurani; they'll hang every man who has wounds to show he fought against them. Oh, Taramis, how could you betray the people who worshipped you?' In his fierce agony he writhed, weeping in rage and shame, and the terrified girl caught him in her arms, straining his tossing head against her bosom, imploring him to be quiet.

`Better death than the black shame that has come upon Khauran this day,' he groaned. `Did you see it, Ivga?'

`No, Valerius.' Her soft, nimble fingers were again at work, gently cleansing and closing the gaping edges of his raw wounds. `I was awakened by the noise of fighting in the streets - I looked out a casement and saw the Shemites cutting down people; then presently I heard you calling me faintly from the alley door.'

`I had reached the limits of my strength,' he muttered. `I fell in the alley and could not rise. I knew they'd find me soon if I lay there - I killed three of the bluebearded beasts, by Ishtar! They'll never swagger through Khauran's streets, by the gods! The fiends are tearing their hearts in hell!'

The trembling girl crooned soothingly to him, as to a wounded child, and closed his panting lips with her own cool sweet mouth. But the fire that raged in his soul would not allow him to lie silent.

`I was not on the wall when the Shemites entered,' he burst out. `I was asleep in the barracks, with the others not on duty. It was just before dawn when our captain entered, and his face was pale under his helmet. "The Shemites are in the city," he said. "The queen came to the southern gate and gave orders that they should be admitted. She made the men come down from the walls, where they've been on guard since Constantius entered the kingdom. I don't understand it, and neither does anyone else, but I heard her give the order, and we obeyed as we always do. We are ordered to assemble in the square before the palace. Form ranks outside the barracks and march - leave your arms and armor here. Ishtar knows what this means, but it is the queen's order."

`Well, when we came to the square the Shemites were drawn up on foot opposite the palace, ten thousand of the bluebearded devils, fully armed, and people's heads were thrust out of every window and door on the square. The streets leading into the square were thronged by bewildered folk. Taramis was standing on the steps of the palace, alone except for Constantius, who stood stroking his mustache like a great lean cat who has just devoured a sparrow. But fifty Shemites with bows in their hands were ranged below them.

`That's where the queen's guard should have been, but they were drawn up at the foot of the palace stair, as puzzled as we, though they had come fully armed, in spite of the queen's order.

'Taramis spoke to us then, and told us that she had reconsidered the proposal made her by Constantius - why, only yesterday she threw it in his teeth in open court - and that she had decided to make him her royal consort. She did not explain why she had brought the Shemites into the city so treacherously. But she said that, as Constantius had control of a body of professional fighting-men, the army of Khauran would no longer be needed, and therefore she disbanded it, and ordered us to go quietly to our homes.

`Why, obedience to our queen is second nature to us, but we were struck dumb and found no word to answer. We broke ranks almost before we knew what we were doing, like men in a daze.

`But when the palace guard was ordered to disarm likewise and disband, the captain of the guard, Conan, interrupted. Men said he was off duty the night before, and drunk. But he was wide awake now. He shouted to the guardsmen to stand as they were until they received an order from him - and such is his dominance of his men, that they obeyed in spite of the queen. He strode up to the palace steps and glared at Taramis - and then he roared: "`This is not the queen! This isn't Taramis! It's some devil in masquerade!"

`Then hell was to pay! I don't know just what happened. I think a Shemite struck Conan, and Conan killed him. The next instant the square was a battleground. The Shemites fell on the guardsmen, and their spears and arrows struck down many soldiers who had already disbanded.

`Some of us grabbed up such weapons as we could and fought back. We hardly knew what we were fighting for, but it was against Constantius and his devils - not against Taramis, I swear it! Constantius shouted to cut the traitors down. We were not traitors!' Despair and bewilderment shook his voice. The girl murmured pityingly, not understanding it all, but aching in sympathy with her lover's suffering.

`The people did not know which side to take. It was a madhouse of confusion and bewilderment. We who fought didn't have a chance, in no formation, without armor and only half armed. The guards were fully armed and drawn up in a square, but there were only five hundred of them. They took a heavy toll before they were cut down, but there could be only one conclusion to such a battle. And while her people were being slaughtered before her, Taramis stood on the palace steps, with Constantius's arm about her waist, and laughed like a heartless, beautiful fiend! Gods, it's all mad - mad!

`I never saw a man fight as Conan fought. He put his back to the courtyard wall, and before they overpowered him the dead men were strewn in heaps thigh-deep about him. But at last they dragged him down, a hundred against one. When I saw him fall I dragged myself away feeling as if the world had burst under my very fingers. I heard Constantius call to his dogs to take the captain alive - stroking his mustache, with that hateful smile on his lips!'

That smile was on the lips of Constantius at that very moment. He sat his horse among a cluster of his men - thick-bodied Shemites with curled blue-black beards and hooked noses; the low-swinging sun struck glints from their peaked helmets and the silvered scales of their corselets. Nearly a mile behind, the walls and towers of Khauran rose sheer out of the meadowlands.

By the side of the caravan road a heavy cross had been planted, and on this grim tree a man hung, nailed there by iron spikes through his hands and feet. Naked but for a loin-cloth, the man was almost a giant in stature, and his muscles stood out in thick corded ridges on limbs and body, which the sun had long ago burned brown. The perspiration of agony beaded his face and his mighty breast, but from under the tangled black mane that fell over his low, broad forehead, his blue eyes blazed with an unquenched fire. Blood oozed sluggishly from the lacerations in his hands and feet.

Constantius saluted him mockingly.

`I am sorry, captain,' he said, `that I cannot remain to ease your last hours, but I have duties to perform in yonder city - I must not keep your delicious queen waiting!' He laughed softly. `So I leave you to your own devices - and those beauties!' He pointed meaningly at the black shadows which swept incessantly back and forth, high above.

`Were it not for them, I imagine that a powerful brute like yourself should live on the cross for days. Do not cherish any illusions of rescue because I am leaving you unguarded. I have had it proclaimed that anyone seeking to take your body, living or dead, from the cross, will be flayed alive together with all the members of his family, in the public square. I am so firmly established in Khauran that my order is as good as a regiment of guardsmen. I am leaving no guard, because the vultures will not approach as long as anyone is near, and I do not wish them to feel any constraint. That is also why I brought you so far from the city. These desert vultures approach the walls no closer than this spot.

`And so, brave captain, farewell! I will remember you when, in an hour, Taramis lies in my arms.'

Blood started afresh from the pierced palms as the victim's mallet-like fists clenched convulsively on the spike-heads. Knots and bunches of muscle started out of the massive arms, and Conan beat his head forward and spat savagely at Constantius's face. The voivode laughed coolly, wiped the saliva from his gorget and reined his horse about.

`Remember me when the vultures are tearing at your living flesh,' he called mockingly. `The desert scavengers are a particularly voracious breed. I have seen men hang for hours on a cross, eyeless, earless, and scalpless, before the sharp beaks had eaten their way into their vitals.'

Without a backward glance he rode toward the city, a supple, erect figure, gleaming in his burnished armor, his stolid, bearded henchmen jogging beside him. A faint rising of dust from the worn trail marked their passing.

The man hanging on the cross was the one touch of sentient life in a landscape that seemed desolate and deserted in the late evening. Khauran, less than a mile away, might have been on the other side of the world, and existing in another age.

Shaking the sweat out of his eyes, Conan stared blankly at the familiar terrain. On either side of the city, and beyond it, stretched the fertile meadowlands, with cattle browsing in the distance where fields and vineyards checkered the plain. The western and northern horizons were dotted with villages, miniature in the distance. A lesser distance to the southeast a silvery gleam marked the course of a river, and beyond that river sandy desert began abruptly to stretch away and away beyond the horizon. Conan stared at that expanse of empty waste shimmering tawnily in the late sunlight as a trapped hawk stares at the open sky. A revulsion shook him when he glanced at the gleaming towers of Khauran. The city had betrayed him -trapped him into circumstances that left him hanging to a wooden cross like a hare nailed to a tree.

A red lust for vengeance swept away the thought. Curses ebbed fitfully from the man's lips. All his universe contracted, focused, became incorporated in the four iron spikes that held him from life and freedom. His great muscles quivered, knotting like iron cables. With the sweat starting out on his graying skin, he sought to gain leverage, to tear the nails from the wood. It was useless. They had been driven deep. Then he tried to tear his hands off the spikes, and it was not the knifing, abysmal agony that finally caused him to cease his efforts, but the futility of it. The spike-heads were broad and heavy; he could not drag them through the wounds. A surge of helplessness shook the giant, for the first time in his life. He hung motionless, his head resting on his breast, shutting his eyes against the aching glare of the sun.

A beat of wings caused him to look, just as a feathered shadow shot down out of the sky. A keen beak, stabbing at his eyes, cut his cheek, and he jerked his head aside, shutting his eyes involuntarily. He shouted, a croaking, desperate shout of menace, and the vultures swerved away and retreated, frightened by the sound. They resumed their wary circling above his head. Blood trickled over Conan's mouth, and he licked his lips involuntarily, spat at the salty taste.

Thirst assailed him savagely. He had drunk deeply of wine the night before, and no water had touched his lips since before the battle in the square, that dawn. And killing was thirsty, salt-sweaty work. He glared at the distant river as a man in hell glares through the opened grille. He thought of gushing freshets of white water he had breasted, laved to the shoulders in liquid jade. He remembered great horns of foaming ale, jacks of sparkling wine gulped carelessly or spilled on the tavern floor. He bit his lip to keep from bellowing in intolerable anguish as a tortured animal bellows.

The sun sank, a lurid ball in a fiery sea of blood. Against a crimson rampart that banded the horizon the towers of the city floated unreal as a dream. The very sky was tinged with blood to his misted glare. He licked his blackened lips and stared with bloodshot eyes at the distant river. It too seemed crimson with blood, and the shadows crawling up from the east seemed black as ebony.

In his dulled ears sounded the louder beat of wings. Lifting his head he watched with the burning glare of a wolf the shadows wheeling above him. He knew that his shouts would frighten them away no longer. One dipped - dipped -lower and lower. Conan drew his head back as far as he could, waiting with terrible patience. The vulture swept in with a swift roar of wings. Its beak flashed down, ripping the skin on Conan's chin as he jerked his head aside; then before the bird could flash away, Conan's head lunged forward on his mighty neck muscles, and his teeth, snapping like those of a wolf, locked on the bare, wattled neck.

Instantly the vulture exploded into squawking, flapping hysteria. Its thrashing wings blinded the man, and its talons ripped his chest. But grimly he hung on, the muscles starting out in lumps on his jaws. And the scavenger's neckbones crunched between those powerful teeth. With a spasmodic flutter the bird hung limp. Conan let go, spat blood from his mouth. The other vultures, terrified by the fate of their companion, were in full flight to a distant tree, where they perched like black demons in conclave.

Ferocious triumph surged through Conan's numbed brain. Life beat strongly and savagely through his veins. He could still deal death; he still lived. Every twinge of sensation, even of agony, was a negation of death.

`By Mitra!' Either a voice spoke, or he suffered from hallucination. `In all my life I have never seen such a thing!'

Shaking the sweat and blood from his eyes, Conan saw four horsemen sitting their steeds in the twilight and staring up at him. Three were lean, white-robed hawks, Zuagir tribesmen without a doubt, nomads from beyond the river. The other was dressed like them in a white, girdled khalat and a flowing head-dress which, banded about the temples with a triple circlet of braided camelhair, fell to his shoulders. But he was not a Shemite. The dust was not so thick, nor Conan's hawk-like sight so clouded, that he could not perceive the man's facial characteristics.

He was as tall as Conan, though not so heavy-limbed. His shoulders were broad and his supple figure was hard as steel and whalebone. A short black beard did not altogether mask the aggressive jut of his lean jaw, and gray eyes cold and piercing as a sword gleamed from the shadow of the kafieh. Quieting his restless steed with a quick, sure hand, this man spoke: `By Mitra, I should know this man!'

`Aye!' It was the guttural accents of a Zuagir. `It is the Cimmerian who was captain of the queen's guard!'

`She must be casting off all her old favorites,' muttered the rider. `Who'd have ever thought it of Queen Taramis? I'd rather have had a long, bloody war. It would have given us desert folk a chance to plunder. As it is we've come this close to the walls and found only this nag' - he glanced at a fine gelding led by one of the nomads - `and this dying dog.'

Conan lifted his bloody head.

`If I could come down from this beam I'd make a dying dog out of you, you Zaporoskan thief!' he rasped through blackened lips.

'Mitra, the knave knows me!' exclaimed the other. `How, knave, do you know me?'

`There's only one of your breed in these parts,' muttered Conan. `You are Olgerd Vladislav, the outlaw chief.'

`Aye! and once a hetman of the kozaki of the Zaporoskan River, as you have guessed. Would you like to live?'

`Only a fool would ask that question,' panted Conan.

`I am a hard man,' said Olgerd, `and toughness is the only quality I respect in a man. I shall judge if you are a man, or only a dog after all, fit only to lie here and die.'

`If we cut him down we may be seen from the walls,' objected one of the nomads.

Olgerd shook his head.

`The dusk is deep. Here, take this ax, Djebal, and cut down the cross at the base.'

`If it falls forward it will crush him,' objected Djebal. `I can cut it so it will fall backward, but then the shock of the fall may crack his skull and tear loose all his entrails.'

`If he's worthy to ride with me he'll survive it,' answered Olgerd imperturbably. `If not, then he doesn't deserve to live. Cut!'

The first impact of the battle-ax against the wood and its accompanying vibrations sent lances of agony through Conan's swollen feet and hands. Again and again the blade fell, and each stroke reverberated on his bruised brain, setting his tortured nerves aquiver. But he set his teeth and made no sound. The ax cut through, the cross reeled on its splintered base and toppled backward. Conan made his whole body a solid knot of iron-hard muscle, jammed his head back hard against the wood and held it rigid there. The beam struck the ground heavily and rebounded slightly. The impact tore his wounds and dazed him for an instant. He fought the rushing tide of blackness, sick and dizzy, but realized that the iron muscles that sheathed his vitals had saved him from permanent injury.

And he had made no sound, though blood oozed from his nostrils and his belly-muscles quivered with nausea. With a grunt of approval Djebal bent over him with a pair of pincers used to draw horse-shoe nails, and gripped the head of the spike in Conan's right hand, tearing the skin to get a grip on the deeply embedded head. The pincers were small for that work. Djebal sweated and tugged, swearing and wrestling with the stubborn iron, working it back and forth - in swollen flesh as well as in wood. Blood started, oozing over the Cimmerian's fingers. He lay so still he might have been dead, except for the spasmodic rise and fall of his great chest. The spike gave way, and Djebal held up the blood-stained thing with a grunt of satisfaction, then flung it away and bent over the other.

The process was repeated, and then Djebal turned his attention to Conan's skewered feet. But the Cimmerian, struggling up to a sitting posture, wrenched the pincers from his fingers and sent him staggering backward with a violent shove. Conan's hands were swollen to almost twice their normal size. His fingers felt like misshapen thumbs, and closing his hands was an agony that brought blood streaming from under his grinding teeth. But somehow, clutching the pincers clumsily with both hands, he managed to wrench out first one spike and then the other. They were not driven so deeply into the wood as the others had been.

He rose stiffly and stood upright on his swollen, lacerated feet, swaying drunkenly, the icy sweat dripping from his face and body. Cramps assailed him and he clamped his jaws against the desire to retch.

Olgerd, watching him impersonally, motioned him toward the stolen horse. Conan stumbled toward it, and every step was a stabbing, throbbing hell that flecked his lips with bloody foam. One misshapen, groping hand fell clumsily on the saddle-bow, a bloody foot somehow found the stirrup. Setting his teeth, he swung up, and he almost fainted in midair; but he came down in the saddle - and as he did so, Olgerd struck the horse sharply with his whip. The startled beast reared, and the man in the saddle swayed and slumped like a sack of sand, almost unseated. Conan had wrapped a rein about each hand, holding it in place with a clamping thumb. Drunkenly he exerted the strength of his knotted biceps, wrenching the horse down; it screamed, its jaw almost dislocated.

One of the Shemites lifted a water-flask questioningly.

Olgerd shook his head.

`Let him wait until we get to camp. It's only ten miles. If he's fit to live in the desert he'll live that long without a drink.'

The group rode like swift ghosts toward the river; among them Conan swayed like a drunken man in the saddle, bloodshot eyes glazed, foam drying on his blackened lips.

3 A Letter to Nemedia

The savant Astreas, traveling in the East in his never-tiring search for knowledge, wrote a letter to his friend and fellowphilosopher Alcemides, in his native Nemedia, which constitutes the entire knowledge of the Western nations concerning the events of that period in the East, always a hazy, half-mythical region in the minds of the Western folk.

Astreas wrote, in part: `You can scarcely conceive, my dear old friend, of the conditions now existing in this tiny kingdom since Queen Taramis admitted Constantius and his mercenaries, an event which I briefly described in my last, hurried letter. Seven months have passed since then, during which time it seems as though the devil himself had been loosed in this unfortunate realm. Taramis seems to have gone quite mad; whereas formerly she was famed for her virtue, justice and tranquility, she is now notorious for qualities precisely opposite to those just enumerated. Her private life is a scandal - or perhaps "private" is not the correct term, since the queen makes no attempt to conceal the debauchery of her court. She constantly indulges in the most infamous revelries, in which the unfortunate ladies of the court are forced to join, young married women as well as virgins.

`She herself has not bothered to marry her paramour, Constantius, who sits on the throne beside her and reigns as her royal consort, and his officers follow his example, and do not hesitate to debauch any woman they desire, regardless of her rank or station. The wretched kingdom groans under exorbitant taxation, the farms are stripped to the bone, and the merchants go in rags which are all that is left them by the tax-gatherers. Nay, they are lucky if they escape with a whole skin.

`I sense your incredulity, good Alcemides; you will fear that I exaggerate conditions in Khauran. Such conditions would be unthinkable in any of the Western countries, admittedly. But you must realize the vast difference that exists between West and East, especially this part of the East. In the first place, Khauran is a kingdom of no great size, one of the many principalities which at one time formed the eastern part of the empire of Koth, and which later regained the independence which was theirs at a still earlier age. This part of the world is made up of these tiny realms, diminutive in comparison with the great kingdoms of the West, or the great sultanates of the farther East, but important in their control of the caravan routes, and in the wealth concentrated in them.

`Khauran is the most southeasterly of these principalities, bordering on the very deserts of eastern Shem. The city of Khauran is the only city of any magnitude in the realm, and stands within sight of the river which separates the grasslands from the sandy desert, like a watch-tower to guard the fertile meadows behind it. The land is so rich that it yields three and four crops a year, and the plains north and west of the city are dotted with villages. To one accustomed to the great plantations and stock-farms of the West, it is strange to see these tiny fields and vineyards; yet wealth in grain and fruit pours from them as from a horn of plenty. The villagers are agriculturists, nothing else. Of a mixed, aboriginal race, they are unwarlike, unable to protect themselves, and forbidden the possession of arms. Dependent wholly upon the soldiers of the city for protection, they are helpless under the present conditions. So the savage revolt of the rural sections, which would be a certainty in any Western nation, is here impossible.

`They toil supinely under the iron hand of Constantius, and his black-bearded Shemites ride incessantly through the fields, with whips in their hands, like the slave-drivers of the black serfs who toil in the plantations of southern Zingara.

`Nor do the people of the city fare any better. Their wealth is stripped from them, their fairest daughters taken to glut the insatiable lust of Constantius and his mercenaries. These men are utterly without mercy or compassion, possessed of all the characteristics our armies learned to abhor in our wars against the Shemitish allies of Argos -inhuman cruelty, lust, and wild-beast ferocity. The people of the city are Khauran's ruling caste, predominantly Hyborian, and valorous and warlike. But the treachery of their queen delivered them into the hands of their oppressors. The Shemites are the only armed force in Khauran, and the most hellish punishment is inflicted on any Khaurani found possessing weapons. A systematic persecution to destroy the young Khaurani men able to bear arms has been savagely pursued. Many have ruthlessly been slaughtered, others sold as slaves to the Turanians. Thousands have fled the kingdom and either entered the service of other rulers, or become outlaws, lurking in numerous bands along the borders.

`At present there is some possibility of invasion from the desert, which is inhabited by tribes of Shemitish nomads. The mercenaries of Constantius are men from the Shemitish cities of the west, Pelishtim, Anakim, Akkharim, and are ardently hated by the Zuagirs and other wandering tribes. As you know, good Alcemides, the countries of these barbarians are divided into the western meadowlands which stretch to the distant ocean, and in which rise the cities of the town-dwellers, and the eastern deserts, where the lean nomads hold sway; there is incessant warfare between the dwellers of the cities and the dwellers of the desert.

`The Zuagirs have fought with and raided Khauran for centuries, without success, but they resent its conquest by their western kin. It is rumored that their natural antagonism is being fomented by the man who was formerly the captain of the queen's guard, and who, somehow escaping the hate of Constantius, who actually had him upon the cross, fled to the nomads. He is called Conan, and is himself a barbarian, one of those gloomy Cimmerians whose ferocity our soldiers have more than once learned to their bitter cost. It is rumored that he has become the right-hand man of Olgerd Vladislav, the kozak adventurer who wandered down from the northern steppes and made himself chief of a band of Zuagirs. There are also rumors that this band has increased vastly in the last few months, and that Olgerd, incited no doubt by this Cimmerian, is even considering a raid on Khauran.

`It can not be anything more than a raid, as the Zuagirs are without siege-machines, or the knowledge of investing a city, and it has been proven repeatedly in the past that the nomads in their loose formation, or rather lack of formation, are no match in hand-to-hand fighting for the well-disciplined, fully-armed warriors of the Shemitish cities. The natives of Khauran would perhaps welcome this conquest, since the nomads could deal with them no more harshly than their present masters, and even total extermination would be preferable to the suffering they have to endure. But they are so cowed and helpless that they could give no aid to the invaders.

`Their plight is most wretched. Taramis, apparently possessed of a demon, stops at nothing. She has abolished the worship of Ishtar, and turned the temple into a shrine of idolatry. She has destroyed the ivory image of the goddess which these eastern Hyborians worship (and which, inferior as it is to the true religion of Mitra which we Western nations recognize, is still superior to the devil-worship of the Shemites) and filled the temple of Ishtar with obscene images of every imaginable sort -gods and goddesses of the night, portrayed in all the salacious and perverse poses and with all the revolting characteristics that a degenerate brain could conceive. Many of these images are to be identified as foul deities of the Shemites, the Turanians, the Vendhyans, and the Khitans, but others are reminiscent of a hideous and half-remembered antiquity, vile shapes forgotten except in the most obscure legends. Where the queen gained the knowledge of them I dare not even hazard a guess.

`She has instituted human sacrifice, and since her mating with Constantius, no less then five hundred men, women and children have been immolated. Some of these have died on the altar she has set up in the temple, herself wielding the sacrificial dagger, but most have met a more horrible doom.

'Taramis has placed some sort of monster in a crypt in the temple. What it is, and whence it came, none knows. But shortly after she had crushed the desperate revolt of her soldiers against Constantius, she spent a night alone in the desecrated temple, alone except for a dozen bound captives, and the shuddering people saw thick, foul-smelling smoke curling up from the dome, heard all night the frenetic chanting of the queen, and the agonized cries of her tortured captives; and toward dawn another voice mingled with these sounds - a strident, inhuman croaking that froze the blood of all who heard.

`In the full dawn Taramis reeled drunkenly from the temple, her eyes blazing with demoniac triumph. The captives were never seen again, nor the croaking voice heard. But there is a room in the temple into which none ever goes but the queen, driving a human sacrifice before her. And this victim is never seen again. All know that in that grim chamber lurks some monster from the black night of ages, which devours the shrieking humans Taramis delivers up to it.

`I can no longer think of her as a mortal woman, but as a rabid she-fiend, crouching in her blood-fouled lair amongst the bones and fragments of her victims, with taloned, crimsoned fingers. That the gods allow her to pursue her awful course unchecked almost shakes my faith in divine justice.

`When I compare her present conduct with her deportment when first I came to Khauran, seven months ago, I am confused with bewilderment, and almost inclined to the belief held by many of the people - that a demon has possessed the body of Taramis. A young soldier, Valerius, had another belief. He believed that a witch had assumed a form identical with that of Khauran's adored ruler. He believed that Taramis had been spirited away in the night, and confined in some dungeon, and that this being ruling in her place was but a female sorcerer. He swore that he would find the real queen, if she still lived, but I greatly fear that he himself has fallen victim to the cruelty of Constantius. He was implicated in the revolt of the palace guards, escaped and remained in hiding for some time, stubbornly refusing to seek safety abroad, and it was during this time that I encountered him and he told me his beliefs.

`But he has disappeared, as so many have, whose fate one dares not conjecture, and I fear he has been apprehended by the spies of Constantius.

`But I must conclude this letter and slip it out of the city by means of a swift carrier-pigeon, which will carry it to the post whence I purchased it, on the borders of Koth. By rider and camel-train it will eventually come to you. I must haste, before dawn. It is late, and the stars gleam whitely on the gardened roofs of Khauran. A shuddering silence envelops the city, in which I hear the throb of a sullen drum from the distant temple. I doubt not that Taramis is there, concocting more devilry.'

But the savant was incorrect in his conjecture concerning the whereabouts of the woman he called Taramis. The girl whom the world knew as queen of Khauran stood in a dungeon, lighted only by a flickering torch which played on her features, etching the diabolical cruelty of her beautiful countenance.

On the bare stone floor before her crouched a figure whose nakedness was scarcely covered with tattered rags.

This figure Salome touched contemptuously with the upturned toe of her gilded sandal, and smiled vindictively as her victim shrank away.

`You do not love my caresses, sweet sister?'

Taramis was still beautiful, in spite of her rags and the imprisonment and abuse of seven weary months. She did not reply to her sister's taunts, but bent her head as one grown accustomed to mockery.

This resignation did not please Salome. She bit her red lip, and stood tapping the toe of her shoe against the floor as she frowned down at the passive figure. Salome was clad in the barbaric splendor of a woman of Shushan. Jewels glittered in the torchlight on her gilded sandals, on her gold breast-plates and the slender chains that held them in place. Gold anklets clashed as she moved, jeweled bracelets weighted her bare arms. Her tall coiffure was that of a Shemitish woman, and jade pendants hung from gold hoops in her ears, flashing and sparkling with each impatient movement of her haughty head. A gem-crusted girdle supported a silk shirt so transparent that it was in the nature of a cynical mockery of convention.

Suspended from her shoulders and trailing down her back hung a darkly scarlet cloak, and this was thrown carelessly over the crook of one arm and the bundle that arm supported.

Salome stooped suddenly and with her free hand grasped her sister's dishevelled hair and forced back the girl's head to stare into her eyes. Taramis met that tigerish glare without flinching.

`You are not so ready with your tears as formerly, sweet sister,' muttered the witch-girl.

`You shall wring no more tears from me,' answered Taramis. `Too often you have reveled in the spectacle of the queen of Khauran sobbing for mercy on her knees. I know that you have spared me only to torment me; that is why you have limited your tortures to such torments as neither slay nor permanently disfigure. But I fear you no longer; you have strained out the last vestige of hope, fright and shame from me. Slay me and be done with it, for I have shed my last tear for your enjoyment, you shedevil from hell!'

`You flatter yourself, my dear sister,' purred Salome. `So far it is only your handsome body that I have caused to suffer, only your pride and self-esteem that I have crushed. You forget that, unlike myself, you are capable of mental torment. I have observed this when I have regaled you with narratives concerning the comedies I have enacted with some of your stupid subjects. But this time I have brought more vivid proof of these farces. Did you know that Krallides, your faithful councillor, had come skulking back from Turan and been captured?'

Taramis turned pale.

`What - what have you done to him?'

For answer Salome drew the mysterious bundle from under her cloak. She shook off the silken swathings and held it up the head of a young man, the features frozen in a convulsion as if death had come in the midst of inhuman agony.

Taramis cried out as if a blade had pierced her heart.

`Oh, Ishtar! Krallides!'

`Aye! He was seeking to stir up the people against me, poor fool, telling them that Conan spoke the truth when he said I was not Taramis. How would the people rise against the Falcon's Shemites? With sticks and pebbles? Bah! Dogs are eating his headless body in the market-place, and this foul carrion shall be cast into the sewer to rot.

`How, sister!' She paused, smiling down at her victim. `Have you discovered that you still have unshed tears? Good! I reserved the mental torment for the last. Hereafter I shall show you many such sights as - this!'

Standing there in the torchlight with the severed head in her hand she did not look like anything ever borne by a human woman, in spite of her awful beauty. Taramis did not look up. She lay face down on the slimy floor, her slim body shaken in sobs of agony, beating her clenched hands against the stones. Salome sauntered toward the door, her anklets clashing at each step, her ear pendants winking in the torch-glare.

A few moments later she emerged from a door under a sullen arch that led into a court which in turn opened upon a winding alley. A man standing there turned toward her - a giant Shemite, with sombre eyes and shoulders like a bull, his great black beard falling over his mighty, silver-mailed breast.

`She wept?' His rumble was like that of a bull, deep, low-pitched and stormy. He was the general of the mercenaries, one of the few even of Constantius's associates who knew the secret of the queens of Khauran.

`Aye, Khumbanigash. There are whole sections of her sensibilities that I have not touched. When one sense is dulled by continual laceration, I will discover a newer, more poignant pang. Here, dog!' A trembling, shambling figure in rags, filth and matted hair approached, one of the beggars that slept in the alleys and open courts. Salome tossed the head to him. `Here, deaf one; cast that in the nearest sewer. Make the sign with your hands, Khumbanigash. He can not hear.'

The general complied, and the tousled head bobbed, as the man turned painfully away.

`Why do you keep up this farce? rumbled Khumbanigash. `You are so firmly established on the throne that nothing can unseat you. What if Khaurani fools learn the truth? They can do nothing. Proclaim yourself in your true identity! Show them their beloved ex-queen - and cut off her head in the public square!'

`Not yet, good Khumbanigash-'

The arched door slammed on the hard accents of Salome, the stormy reverberations of Khumbanigash. The mute beggar crouched in the courtyard, and there was none to see that the hands which held the severed head were quivering strongly brown, sinewy hands, strangely incongruous with the bent body and filthy tatters.

`I knew it!' It was a fierce, vibrant whisper, scarcely audible. `She lives! Oh, Krallides, your martyrdom was not in vain! They have her locked in that dungeon! Oh, Ishtar, if you love true men, aid me now!'

4 Wolves of the Desert

Olgerd Vladislav filled his jeweled goblet with crimson wine from a golden jug and thrust the vessel across the ebony table to Conan the Cimmerian. Olgerd's apparel would have satisfied the vanity of any Zaporoskan hetman.

His khalat was of white silk, with pearls sewn on the bosom. Girdled at the waist with a Bakhauriot belt, its skirts were drawn back to reveal his wide silken breeches, tucked into short boots of soft green leather, adorned with gold thread. On his head was a green silk turban, wound about a spired helmet chased with gold. His only weapon was a broad curved Cherkees knife in an ivory sheath girdled high on his left hip, kozak fashion. Throwing himself back in his gilded chair with its carven eagles, Olgerd spread his booted legs before him, and gulped down the sparkling wine noisily.

To his splendor the huge Cimmerian opposite him offered a strong contrast, with his square-cut black mane, brown scarred countenance and burning blue eyes. He was clad in black meshmail, and the only glitter about him was the broad gold buckle of the belt which supported his sword in its worn leather scabbard.

They were alone in the silk-walled tent, which was hung with gilt-worked tapestries and littered with rich carpets and velvet cushions, the loot of the caravans. From outside came a low, incessant murmur, the sound that always accompanies a great throng of men, in camp or otherwise. An occasional gust of desert wind rattled the palm-leaves.

`Today in the shadow, tomorrow in the sun,' quoth Olgerd, loosening his crimson girdle a trifle and reaching again for the wine-jug. `That's the way of life. Once I was a hetman on the Zaporoska; now I'm a desert chief. Seven months ago you were hanging on a cross outside Khauran. Now you're lieutenant to the most powerful raider between Turan and the western meadows. You should be thankful to me!'

`For recognizing my usefulness?' Conan laughed and lifted the jug. `When you allow the elevation of a man, one can be sure that you'll profit by his advancement. I've earned everything I've won, with my blood and sweat.' He glanced at the scars on the insides of his palms. There were scars, too, on his body, scars that had not been there seven months ago.

`You fight like a regiment of devils,' conceded Olgerd. `But don't get to thinking that you've had anything to do with the recruits who've swarmed in to join us. It was our success at raiding, guided by my wit, that brought them in. These nomads are always looking for a successful leader to follow, and they have more faith in a foreigner than in one of their own race.

`There's no limit to what we may accomplish! We have eleven thousand men now. In another year we may have three times that number. We've contented ourselves, so far, with raids on the Turanian outposts and the city-states to the west. With thirty or forty thousand men we'll raid no longer. We'll invade and conquer and establish ourselves as rulers. I'll be emperor of all Shem yet, and you'll be my vizier, so long as you carry out my orders unquestioningly. In the meantime, I think we'll ride eastward and storm that Turanian outpost at Vezek, where the caravans pay toll.'

Conan shook his head. `I think not.'

Olgerd glared, his quick temper irritated.

`What do you mean, you think not? I do the thinking for this army!'

`There are enough men in this band now for my purpose,' answered the Cimmerian. `I'm sick of waiting. I have a score to settle.'

`Oh!' Olgerd scowled, and gulped wine, then grinned. `Still thinking of that cross, eh? Well, I like a good hater. But that can wait.'

`You told me once you'd aid me in taking Khauran,' said Conan.

`Yes, but that was before I began to see the full possibilities of our power,' answered Olgerd. `I was only thinking of the loot in the city. I don't want to waste our strength unprofitably. Khauran is too strong a nut for us to crack now. Maybe in a year-'

`Within the week,' answered Conan, and the kozak stared at the certainty in his voice.

`Listen,' said Olgerd, `even if I were willing to throw away men on such a hare-brained attempt - what could you expect? Do you think these wolves could besiege and take a city like Khauran?'

`There'll be no siege,' answered the Cimmerian. `I know how to draw Constantius out into the plain.'

`And what then?' cried Olgerd with an oath. `In the arrowplay our horsemen would have the worst of it, for the armor of the asshuri is the better, and when it came to sword-strokes their close-marshaled ranks of trained swordsmen would cleave through our loose lines and scatter our men like chaff before the wind.'

`Not if there were three thousand desperate Hyborian horsemen fighting in a solid wedge such as I could teach them,' answered Conan.

`And where would you secure three thousand Hyborians?' asked Olgerd with vast sarcasm. `Will you conjure them out of the air?'

`I have them,' answered the Cimmerian imperturbably. `Three thousand men of Khauran camp at the oasis of Akrel awaiting my orders.'

`What?' Olgerd glared like a startled wolf.

`Aye. Men who had fled from the tyranny of Constantius. Most of them have been living the lives of outlaws in the deserts east of Khauran, and are gaunt and hard and desperate as man-eating tigers. One of them will be a match for any three squat mercenaries. It takes oppression and hardship to stiffen men's guts and put the fire of hell into their thews. They were broken up into small bands; all they needed was a leader. They believed the word I sent them by my riders, and assembled at the oasis and put themselves at my disposal.'

`All this without my knowledge?' A feral light began to gleam in Olgerd's eye. He hitched at his weapon-girdle.

`It was I they wished to follow, not you.'

`And what did you tell these outcasts to gain their allegiance?' There was a dangerous ring in Olgerd's voice.

`I told them that I'd use this horde of desert wolves to help them destroy Constantius and give Khauran back into the hands of its citizens.'

`You fool!' whispered Olgerd. `Do you deem yourself chief already?'

The men were on their feet, facing each other across the ebony board, devil-lights dancing in Olgerd's cold gray eyes, a grim smile on the Cimmerian's hard lips.

`I'll have you torn between four palm-trees,' said the kozak calmly.

`Call the men and bid them do it!' challenged Conan. `See if they obey you!'

Baring his teeth in a snarl, Olgerd lifted his hand - then paused. There was something about the confidence in the Cimmerian's dark face that shook him. His eyes began to burn like those of a wolf.

`You scum of the western hills,' he muttered, `have you dared seek to undermine my power?'

`I didn't have to,' answered Conan. `You lied when you said I had nothing to do with bringing in the new recruits. I had everything to do with it. They took your orders, but they fought for me. There is not room for two chiefs of the Zuagirs. They know I am the stronger man. I understand them better than you, and they, me; because I am a barbarian too.'

`And what will they say when you ask them to fight for Khauran?' asked Olgerd sardonically.

`They'll follow me. I'll promise them a camel-train of gold from the palace. Khauran will be willing to pay that as a guerdon for getting rid of Constantius. After that, I'll lead them against the Turanians as you have planned. They want loot, and they'd as soon fight Constantius for it as anybody.'

In Olgerd's eyes grew a recognition of defeat. In his red dreams of empire he had missed what was going on about him. Happenings and events that had seemed meaningless before now flashed into his mind, with their true significance, bringing a realization that Conan spoke no idle boast. The giant blackmailed figure before him was the real chief of the Zuagirs.

`Not if you die!' muttered Olgerd, and his hand flickered toward his hilt. But quick as the stroke of a great cat, Conan's arm shot across the table and his fingers locked on Olgerd's forearm. There was a snap of breaking bones, and for a tense instant the scene held: the men facing each other as motionless as images, perspiration starting out on Olgerd's forehead. Conan laughed, never easing his grip on the broken arm.

`Are you fit to live, Olgerd?'

His smile did not alter as the corded muscles rippled in knotting ridges along his forearm and his fingers ground into the kozak's quivering flesh. There was the sound of broken bones grating together and Olgerd's face turned the color of ashes; blood oozed from his lip where his teeth sank, but he uttered no sound.

With a laugh Conan released him and drew back, and the kozak swayed, caught the table edge with his good hand to steady himself.

`I give you life, Olgerd, as you gave it to me,' said Conan tranquilly, `though it was for your own ends that you took me down from the cross. It was a bitter test you gave me then; you couldn't have endured it; neither could anyone, but a western barbarian.

`Take your horse and go. It's tied behind the tent, and food and water are in the saddle-bags. None will see your going, but go quickly. There's no room for a fallen chief on the desert. If the warriors see you, maimed and deposed, they'll never let you leave the camp alive.'

Olgerd did not reply. Slowly, without a word, he turned and stalked across the tent, through the flapped opening. Unspeaking he climbed into the saddle of the great white stallion that stood tethered there in the shade of a spreading palm-tree; and unspeaking, with his broken arm thrust in the bosom of his khalat, he reined the steed about and rode eastward into the open desert, out of the life of the people of the Zuagir.

Inside the tent Conan emptied the wine-jug and smacked his lips with relish. Tossing the empty vessel into a corner, he braced his belt and strode out through the front opening, halting for a moment to let his gaze sweep over the lines of camelhair tents that stretched before him, and the white-robed figures that moved among them, arguing, singing, mending bridles or whetting tulwars.

He lifted his voice in a thunder that carried to the farthest confines of the encampment: `Aie, you dogs, sharpen your ears and listen! Gather around here. I have a tale to tell you.'

5 The Voice from the Crystal

In a chamber in a tower near the city wall a group of men listened attentively to the words of one of their number. They were young men, but hard and sinewy, with a bearing that comes only to men rendered desperate by adversity. They were clad in mail shirts and worn leather; swords hung at their girdles.

`I knew that Conan spoke the truth when he said it was not Taramis!' the speaker exclaimed. `For months I have haunted the outskirts of the palace, playing the part of a deaf beggar. At last I learned what I had believed - that our queen was a prisoner in the dungeons that adjoin the palace. I watched my opportunity and captured a Shemitish jailer - knocked him senseless as he left the courtyard late one night - dragged him into a cellar near by and questioned him. Before he died he told me what I have just told you, and what we have suspected all along - that the woman ruling Khauran is a witch: Salome. Taramis, he said, is imprisoned in the lowest dungeon.

`This invasion of the Zuagirs gives us the opportunity we sought. What Conan means to do, I can not say. Perhaps he merely wishes vengeance on Constantius. Perhaps he intends sacking the city and destroying it. He is a barbarian and no one can understand their minds.

`But this is what we must do: rescue Taramis while the battle rages! Constantius will march out into the plain to give battle. Even now his men are mounting. He will do this because there is not sufficient food in the city to stand a siege. Conan burst out of the desert so suddenly that there was no time to bring in supplies. And the Cimmerian is equipped for a siege. Scouts have reported that the Zuagirs have siege engines, built, undoubtedly, according to the instructions of Conan, who learned all the arts of war among the Western nations.

`Constantius does not desire a long siege; so he will march with his warriors into the plain, where he expects to scatter Conan's forces at one stroke. He will leave only a few hundred men in the city, and they will be on the walls and in the towers commanding the gates.

`The prison will be left all but unguarded. When we have freed Taramis our next actions will depend upon circumstances. If Conan wins, we must show Taramis to the people and bid them rise - they will! Oh, they will! With their bare hands they are enough to overpower the Shemites left in the city and close the gates against both the mercenaries and the nomads. Neither must get within the walls! Then we will parley with Conan. He was always loyal to Taramis. If he knows the truth, and she appeals to him, I believe he will spare the city. If, which is more probable, Constantius prevails, and Conan is routed, we must steal out of the city with the queen and seek safety in flight.

`Is all clear?'

They replied with one voice.

`Then let us loosen our blades in our scabbards, commend our souls to Ishtar, and start for the prison, for the mercenaries are already marching through the southern gate.'

This was true. The dawnlight glinted on peaked helmets pouring in a steady stream through the broad arch, on the bright housings of the chargers. This would be a battle of horsemen, such as is possible only in the lands of the East. The riders flowed through the gates like a river of steel - sombre figures in black and silver mail, with their curled beards and hooked noses, and their inexorable eyes in which glimmered the fatality of their race - the utter lack of doubt or of mercy.

The streets and the walls were lined with throngs of people who watched silently these warriors of an alien race riding forth to defend their native city. There was no sound; dully, expressionless they watched, those gaunt people in shabby garments, their caps in their hands.

In a tower that overlooked the broad street that led to the southern gate, Salome lolled on a velvet couch cynically watching Constantius as he settled his broad sword-belt about his lean hips and drew on his gauntlets. They were alone in the chamber. Outside, the rhythmical clank of harness and shuffle of horses' hoofs welled up through the gold-barred casements.

`Before nightfall,' quoth Constantius, giving a twirl to his thin mustache, `you'll have some captives to feed to your temple devil. Does it not grow weary of soft, city-bred flesh? Perhaps it would relish the harder thews of a desert man.'

`Take care you do not fall prey to a fiercer beast than Thaug,' warned the girl. `Do not forget who it is that leads these desert animals.'

`I am not likely to forget,' he answered. `That is one reason why I am advancing to meet him. The dog has fought in the West and knows the art of siege. My scouts had some trouble in approaching his columns, for his outriders have eyes like hawks; but they did get close enough to see the engines he is dragging on ox-cart wheels drawn by camels - catapults, rams, ballistas, mangonels - by Ishtar! he must have had ten thousand men working day and night for a month. Where he got the material for their construction is more than I can understand. Perhaps he has a treaty with the Turanians, and gets supplies from them.

`Anyway, they won't do him any good. I've fought these desert wolves before - an exchange of arrows for awhile, in which the armor of my warriors protects them - then a charge and my squadrons sweep through the loose swarms of the nomads, wheel and sweep back through, scattering them to the four winds. I'll ride back through the south gate before sunset, with hundreds of naked captives staggering at my horse's tail. We'll hold a fete tonight, in the great square. My soldiers delight in flaying their enemies alive - we will have a wholesale skinning, and make these weak-kneed townsfolk watch. As for Conan, it will afford me intense pleasure, if we take him alive, to impale him on the palace steps.'

`Skin as many as you like,' answered Salome indifferently. `I would like a dress made of human hide. But at least a hundred captives you must give to me - for the altar, and for Thaug.'

`It shall be done,' answered Constantius, with his gauntleted hand brushing back the thin hair from his high bald forehead, burned dark by the sun. `For victory and the fair honor of Taramis!' he said sardonically, and, taking his vizored helmet under his arm, he lifted a hand in salute, and strode clanking from the chamber. His voice drifted back, harshly lifted in orders to his officers.

Salome leaned back on the couch, yawned, stretched herself like a great supple cat, and called: 'Zang!'

A cat-footed priest, with features like yellowed parchment stretched over a skull, entered noiselessly.

Salome turned to an ivory pedestal on which stood two crystal globes, and taking from it the smaller, she handed the glistening sphere to the priest.

`Ride with Constantius,' she said. `Give me the news of the battle. Go!'

The skull-faced man bowed low, and hiding the globe under his dark mantle, hurried from the chamber.

Outside in the city there was no sound, except the clank of hoofs and after a while the clang of a closing gate. Salome mounted a wide marble stair that led to the flat, canopied, marble-battlemented roof. She was above all other buildings in the city. The streets were deserted, the great square in front of the palace was empty. In normal times folk shunned the grim temple which rose on the opposite side of that square, but now the town looked like a dead city. Only on the southern wall and the roofs that overlooked it was there any sign of life. There the people massed thickly. They made no demonstration, did not know whether to hope for the victory or defeat of Constantius. Victory meant further misery under his intolerable rule; defeat probably meant the sack of the city and red massacre. No word had come from Conan. They did not know what to expect at his hands. They remembered that he was a barbarian.

The squadrons of the mercenaries were moving out into the plain. In the distance, just this side of the river, other dark masses were moving, barely recognizable as men on horses. Objects dotted the farther bank; Conan had not brought his siege engines across the river, apparently fearing an attack in the midst of the crossing. But he had crossed with his full force of horsemen. The sun rose and struck glints of fire from the dark multitudes. The squadrons from the city broke into a gallop; a deep roar reached the ears of the people on the wall.

The rolling masses merged, intermingled; at that distance it was a tangled confusion in which no details stood out. Charge and countercharge were not to be identified. Clouds of dust rose from the plains, under the stamping hoofs, veiling the action. Through these swirling clouds masses of riders loomed, appearing and disappearing, and spears flashed.

Salome shrugged her shoulders and descended the stair. The palace lay silent. All the slaves were on the wall, gazing vainly southward with the citizens.

She entered the chamber where she had talked with Constantius, and approached the pedestal, noting that the crystal globe was clouded, shot with bloody streaks of crimson. She bent over the ball, swearing under her breath.

'Zang!' she called. 'Zang!'

Mists swirled in the sphere, resolving themselves into billowing dust-clouds through which black figures rushed unrecognizably; steel glinted like lightning in the murk. Then the face of Zang leaped into startling distinctness; it was as if the wide eyes gazed up at Salome. Blood trickled from a gash in the skulllike head, the skin was gray with sweat-runneled dust. The lips parted, writhing; to other ears than Salome's it would have seemed that the face in the crystal contorted silently. But sound to her came as plainly from those ashen lips as if the priest had been in the same room with her, instead of miles away, shouting into the smaller crystal. Only the gods of darkness knew what unseen, magic filaments linked together those shimmering spheres.

`Salome! shrieked the bloody head. 'Salome!'

`I hear!' she cried. `Speak! How goes the battle?'

`Doom is upon us!' screamed the skulllike apparition. `Khauran is lost! Aie, my horse is down and I can not win clear! Men are falling around me! They are dying like flies, in their silvered mail!'

`Stop yammering and tell me what happened!' she cried harshly.

`We rode at the desert-dogs and they came on to meet us!' yowled the priest. `Arrows flew in clouds between the hosts, and the nomads wavered. Constantius ordered the charge. In even ranks we thundered upon them.

`Then the masses of their horde opened to right and left, and through the cleft rushed three thousand Hyborian horsemen whose presence we had not even suspected. Men of Khauran, mad with hate! Big men in full armor on massive horses! In a solid wedge of steel they smote us like a thunderbolt. They split our ranks asunder before we knew what was upon us, and then the desert-men swarmed on us from either flank.

`They have ripped our ranks apart, broken and scattered us! It is a trick of that devil Conan! The siege engines are false - mere frames of palm trunks and painted silk, that fooled our scouts who saw them from afar. A trick to draw us out to our doom! Our warriors flee! Khumbanigash is down - Conan slew him. I do not see Constantius. The Khaurani rage through our milling masses like blood-mad lions, and the desert-men feather us with arrows. I - ahh!'

There was a flicker as of lightning, or trenchant steel, a burst of bright blood - then abruptly the image vanished, like a bursting bubble, and Salome was staring into an empty crystal ball that mirrored only her own furious features.

She stood perfectly still for a few moments, erect and staring into space. Then she clapped her hands and another skulllike priest entered, as silent and immobile as the first.

`Constantius is beaten,' she said swiftly. `We are doomed.

Conan will be crashing at our gates within the hour. If he catches me, I have no illusions as to what I can expect. But first I am going to make sure that my cursed sister never ascends the throne again. Follow me! Come what may, we shall give Thaug a feast.'

As she descended the stairs and galleries of the palace, she heard a faint rising echo from the distant walls. The people there had begun to realize that the battle was going against Constantius. Through the dust clouds masses of horsemen were visible, racing toward the city.

Palace and prison were connected by a long closed gallery, whose vaulted roof rose on gloomy arches. Hurrying along this, the false queen and her slave passed through a heavy door at the other end that let them into the dim-lit recesses of the prison. They had emerged into a wide, arched corridor at a point near where a stone stair descended into the darkness. Salome recoiled suddenly, swearing. In the gloom of the hall lay a motionless form - a Shemitish jailer, his short beard tilted toward the roof as his head hung on a half-severed neck. As panting voices from below reached the girl's ears, she shrank back into the black shadow of an arch, pushing the priest behind her, her hand groping in her girdle.

6 The Vulture's Wings

It was the smoky light of a torch which roused Taramis, Queen of Khauran, from the slumber in which she sought forgetfulness. Lifting herself on her hand she raked back her tangled hair and blinked up, expecting to meet the mocking countenance of Salome, malign with new torments. Instead a cry of pity and horror reached her ears.

'Taramis! Oh, my Queen!'

The sound was so strange to her ears that she thought she was still dreaming. Behind the torch she could make out figures now, the glint of steel, then five countenances bent toward her, not swarthy and hook-nosed, but lean, aquiline faces, browned by the sun. She crouched in her tatters, staring wildly.

One of the figures sprang forward and fell on one knee before her, arms stretched appealingly toward her.

`Oh, Taramis! Thank Ishtar we have found you! Do you not remember me, Valerius? Once with your own lips you praised me, after the battle of Korveka!'

`Valerius!' she stammered. Suddenly tears welled into her eyes. `Oh, I dream! It is some magic of Salome's to torment me!'

`No!' The cry rang with exultation. `It is your own true vassals come to rescue you! Yet we must hasten. Constantius fights in the plain against Conan, who has brought the Zuagirs across the river, but three hundred Shemites yet hold the city. We slew the jailer and took his keys, and have seen no other guards. But we must be gone. Come!'

The queen's legs gave way, not from weakness but from the reaction. Valerius lifted her like a child, and with the torchbearer hurrying before them, they left the dungeon and went up a slimy stone stair. It seemed to mount endlessly, but presently they emerged into a corridor.

They were passing a dark arch when the torch was suddenly struck out, and the bearer cried out in fierce, brief agony. A burst of blue fire glared in the dark corridor, in which the furious face of Salome was limned momentarily, with a beastlike figure crouching beside her - then the eyes of the watchers were blinded by that blaze.

Valerius tried to stagger along the corridor with the queen; dazedly he heard the sound of murderous blows driven deep in flesh, accompanied by gasps of death and a bestial grunting. Then the queen was torn brutally from his arms, and a savage blow on his helmet dashed him to the floor.

Grimly he crawled to his feet, shaking his head in an effort to rid himself of the blue flame which seemed still to dance devilishly before him. When his blinded sight cleared, he found himself alone in the corridor - alone except for the dead. His four companions lay in their blood, heads and bosoms cleft and gashed. Blinded and dazed in that hell-born glare, they had died without an opportunity of defending themselves. The queen was gone.

With a bitter curse Valerius caught up his sword, tearing his cleft helmet from his head to clatter on the flags; blood ran down his cheek from a cut in his scalp.

Reeling, frantic with indecision, he heard a voice calling his name in desperate urgency: `Valerius! Valerius!'

He staggered in the direction of the voice, and rounded a corner just in time to have his arms filled with a soft, supple figure which flung itself frantically at him.

`Ivga! Are you mad!'

`I had to come!' she sobbed. `I followed you - hid in an arch of the outer court. A moment ago I saw her emerge with a brute who carried a woman in his arms. I knew it was Taramis, and that you had failed! Oh, you are hurt!'

`A scratch!' He put aside her clinging hands. `Quick, Ivga, tell me which way they went!'

`They fled across the square toward the temple.'

He paled. 'Ishtar! Oh, the fiend! She means to give Taramis to the devil she worships! Quick, Ivga! Run to the south wall where the people watch the battle! Tell them that their real queen has been found - that the impostor has dragged her to the temple! Go!'

Sobbing, the girl sped away, her light sandals pattering on the cobblestones, and Valerius raced across the court, plunged into the street, dashed into the square upon which it debouched, and raced for the great structure that rose on the opposite side.

His flying feet spurned the marble as he darted up the broad stair and through the pillared portico. Evidently their prisoner had given them some trouble. Taramis, sensing the doom intended for her, was fighting against it with all the strength of her splendid young body. Once she had broken away from the brutish priest, only to be dragged down again.

The group was halfway down the broad nave, at the other end of which stood the grim altar and beyond that the great metal door, obscenely carven, through which many had gone, but from which only Salome had ever emerged. Taramis's breath came in panting gasps; her tattered garment had been torn from her in the struggle. She writhed in the grasp of her apish captor like a white, naked nymph in the arms of a satyr. Salome watched cynically, though impatiently, moving toward the carven door, and from the dusk that lurked along the lofty walls the obscene gods and gargoyles leered down, as if imbued with salacious life.

Choking with fury, Valerius rushed down the great hall, sword in hand. At a sharp cry from Salome, the skull-faced priest looked up, then released Taramis, drew a heavy knife, already smeared with blood, and ran at the oncoming Khaurani.

But cutting down men blinded by the devil's-flame loosed by Salome was different from fighting a wiry young Hyborian afire with hate and rage.

Up went the dripping knife, but before it could fall Valerius's keen narrow blade slashed through the air, and the fist that held the knife jumped from its wrist in a shower of blood. Valerius, berserk, slashed again and yet again before the crumpling figure could fall. The blade licked through flesh and bone. The skulllike head fell one way, the half-sundered torso the other.

Valerius whirled on his toes, quick and fierce as a jungle-cat, glaring about for Salome. She must have exhausted her fire-dust in the prison. She was bending over Taramis, grasping her sister's black locks in one hand, in the other lifting a dagger. Then with a fierce cry Valerius's sword was sheathed in her breast with such fury that the point sprang out between her shoulders. With an awful shriek the witch sank down, writhing in convulsions, grasping at the naked blade as it was withdrawn, smoking and dripping. Her eyes were inhuman; with a more than human vitality she clung to the life that ebbed through the wound that split the crimson crescent on her ivory bosom. She groveled on the floor, clawing and biting at the naked stones in her agony.

Sickened at the sight, Valerius stooped and lifted the half-fainting queen. Turning his back on the twisting figure on the floor, he ran toward the door, stumbling in his haste. He staggered out upon the portico, halted at the head of the steps. The square thronged with people. Some had come at Ivga's incoherent cries; others had deserted the walls in fear of the onsweeping hordes out of the desert, fleeing unreasoningly toward the centre of the city. Dumb resignation had vanished. The throng seethed and milled, yelling and screaming. About the road there sounded somewhere the splintering of stone and timbers.

A band of grim Shemites cleft the crowd - the guards of the northern gates, hurrying toward the south gate to reinforce their comrades there. They reined up short at the sight of the youth on the steps, holding the limp, naked figure in his arms. The heads of the throng turned toward the temple; the crowd gaped, a new bewilderment added to their swirling confusion.

`Here is your queen!' yelled Valerius, straining to make himself understood above the clamor. The people gave back a bewildered roar. They did not understand, and Valerius sought in vain to lift his voice above their bedlam. The Shemites rode toward the temple steps, beating a way through the crowd with their spears.

Then a new, grisly element introduced itself into the frenzy. Out of the gloom of the temple behind Valerius wavered a slim white figure, laced with crimson. The people screamed; there in the arms of Valerius hung the woman they thought their queen; yet there in the temple door staggered another figure, like a reflection of the other. Their brains reeled. Valerius felt his blood congeal as he stared at the swaying witch-girl. His sword had transfixed her, sundered her heart. She should be dead; by all laws of nature she should be dead. Yet there she swayed, on her feet, clinging horribly to life.

`Thaug!' she screamed, reeling in the doorway. `Thaug!' As in answer to that frightful invocation there boomed a thunderous croaking from within the temple, the snapping of wood and metal.

`That is the queen!' roared the captain of the Shemites, lifting his bow. `Shoot down the man and other woman!'

But the roar of a roused hunting-pack rose from the people; they had guessed the truth at last, understood Valerius's frenzied appeals, knew that the girl who hung limply in his arms was their true queen. With a soul-shaking yell they surged on the Shemites, tearing and smiting with tooth and nail and naked hands, with the desperation of hard-pent fury loosed at last. Above them Salome swayed and tumbled down the marble stairs, dead at last.

Arrows flickered about him as Valerius ran back between the pillars of the portico, shielding the body of the queen with his own. Shooting and slashing ruthlessly, the mounted Shemites were holding their own with the maddened crowd. Valerius darted to the temple door - with one foot on the threshold he recoiled, crying out in horror and despair.

Out of the gloom at the other end of the great hall a vast dark form heaved up - came rushing toward him in gigantic frog-like hops. He saw the gleam of great unearthly eyes, the shimmer of fangs or talons. He fell back from the door, and then the whir of a shaft past his ear warned him that death was also behind him. He wheeled desperately. Four or five Shemites had cut their way through the throng and were spurring their horses up the steps, their bows lifted to shoot him down. He sprang behind a pillar, on which the arrows splintered. Taramis had fainted. She hung like a dead woman in his arms.

Before the Shemites could loose again, the doorway was blocked by a gigantic shape. With affrighted yells the mercenaries wheeled and began beating a frantic way through the throng, which crushed back in sudden, galvanized horror, trampling one another in their stampede.

But the monster seemed to be watching Valerius and the girl. Squeezing its vast, unstable bulk through the door, it bounded toward him, as he ran down the steps. He felt it looming behind him, a giant shadowy thing, like a travesty of nature cut out of the heart of night, a black shapelessness in which only the staring eyes and gleaming fangs were distinct.

There came a sudden thunder of hoofs; a rout of Shemites, bloody and battered, streamed across the square from the south, plowing blindly through the packed throng. Behind them swept a horde of horsemen yelling in a familiar tongue, waving red swords - the exiles, returned! With them rode fifty black-bearded desert-riders, and at their head a giant figure in black mail.

`Conan!' shrieked Valerius. 'Conan!'

The giant yelled a command. Without checking their headlong pace, the desert men lifted their bows, drew and loosed. A cloud of arrows sang across the square, over the seething heads of the multitudes, and sank feather-deep in the black monster. It halted, wavered, reared, a black blot against the marble pillars. Again the sharp cloud sang, and yet again, and the horror collapsed and rolled down the steps, as dead as the witch who had summoned it out of the night of ages.

Conan drew rein beside the portico, leaped off. Valerius had laid the queen on the marble, sinking beside her in utter exhaustion. The people surged about, crowding in. The Cimmerian cursed them back, lifted her dark head, pillowed it against his mailed shoulder.

`By Crom, what is this? The real Taramis! But who is that yonder?'

`The demon who wore her shape,' panted Valerius.

Conan swore heartily. Ripping a cloak from the shoulders of a soldier, he wrapped it about the naked queen. Her long dark lashes quivered on her cheeks; her eyes opened, stared up unbelievingly into the Cimmerian's scarred face.

'Conan!' Her soft fingers caught at him. `Do I dream? She told me you were dead-'

`Scarcely!' He grinned hardly. `You do not dream. You are Queen of Khauran again. I broke Constantius, out there by the river. Most of his dogs never lived to reach the walls, for I gave orders that no prisoners be taken - except Constantius. The city guard closed the gate in our faces, but we burst in with rams swung from our saddles. I left all my wolves outside, except this fifty. I didn't trust them in here, and these Khaurani lads were enough for the gate guards.'

`It has been a nightmare!' she whimpered. `Oh, my poor people! You must help me try to repay them for all they have suffered, Conan, henceforth councilor as well as captain!'

Conan laughed, but shook his head. Rising, he set the queen upon her feet, and beckoned to a number of his Khaurani horsemen who had not continued the pursuit of the fleeing Shemites. They sprang from their horses, eager to do the bidding of their new-found queen.

`No, lass, that's over with. I'm chief of the Zuagirs now, and must lead them to plunder the Turanians, as I promised. This lad, Valerius, will make you a better captain than I. I wasn't made to dwell among marble walls, anyway. But I must leave you now, and complete what I've begun. Shemites still live in Khauran.'

As Valerius started to follow Taramis across the square towards the palace, through a lane opened by the wildly cheering multitude, he felt a soft hand slipped timidly into his sinewy forgers and turned to receive the slender body of Ivga in his arms. He crushed her to him and drank her kisses with the gratitude of a weary fighter who has attained rest at last through tribulation and storm.

But not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path . . .

The sun was rising. The ancient caravan road was thronged with white-robed horsemen, in a wavering line that stretched from the walls of Khauran to a spot far out in the plain. Conan the Cimmerian sat at the head of that column, near the jagged end of a wooden beam that stuck up out of the ground. Near that stump rose a heavy cross, and on that cross a man hung by spikes through his hands and feet.

`Seven months ago, Constantius,' said Conan, `it was I who hung there, and you who sat here.'

Constantius did not reply; he licked his gray lips and his eyes were glassy with pain and fear. Muscles writhed like cords along his lean body.

`You are more fit to inflict torture than to endure it,' said Conan tranquilly. `I hung there on a cross as you are hanging, and I lived, thanks to circumstances and a stamina peculiar to barbarians. But you civilized men are soft; your lives are not nailed to your spines as are ours. Your fortitude consists mainly in inflicting torment, not in enduring it. You will be dead before sundown. And so, Falcon of the desert, I leave you to the companionship of another bird of the desert.'

He gestured toward the vultures whose shadows swept across the sands as they wheeled overhead. From the lips of Constantius came an inhuman cry of despair and horror.

Conan lifted his reins and rode toward the river that shone like silver in the morning sun. Behind him the white-clad riders struck into a trot; the gaze of each, as he passed a certain spot, turned impersonally and with the desert man's lack of compassion, toward the cross and the gaunt figure that hung there, black against the sunrise. Their horses' hoofs beat out a knell in the dust. Lower and lower swept the wings of the hungry vultures.

Black Tears

1. The Jaws of the Trap.

The noonday sun blazed down from the fiery dome of the sky. The harsh, dry sands of Shan-e-Sorkh, the Red Waste, baked in the pitiless blaze as in a giant oven. Naught moved in the still air; the few thorny shrubs that crowned the low, gravel-strewn hills, which rose in a wall at the edge of the Waste, stirred not.

Neither did the soldiers who crouched behind them, watching the trail.

Here some primeval conflict of natural forces had riven a cleft through the escarpment Ages of erosion had widened this cleft, but it still formed a narrow pass between steep slopes―a perfect site for an ambush.

The troop of Turanian soldiery had lain hidden atop the hills all through the hot morning hours. Sweltering in their tunics of chain and scale mail, they crouched on sore hams and aching knees. Cursing under his breath, their captain, the Amir Boghra Khan, endured the long, uncomfortable vigil with them. His throat was as dry as sun-baked leather; within his mail, his body stewed. In this accursed land of death and blazing sun, a man could not even sweat comfortably; the desiccated desert air greedily drank up every drop of moisture, leaving one as dry as the withered tongue of a Stygian mummy.

Now the amir blinked and rubbed his eyes, squinting against the glare to see again that tiny flash of light. A forward scout, concealed behind a dune of red sand, caught the sun in his mirror and flashed a signal toward his chief, hidden atop the hills.

Now a cloud of dust could be seen. The portly, black-bearded Turanian nobleman grinned and forgot his discomfort. Surely his traitorous informant had truly earned the bribe it took to buy him!

Soon, Boghra Khan could discern the long line of Zuagir warriors, robed in flowing white khalats and mounted on slender desert steeds. As the band of desert marauders emerged from the cloud of dust raised by the hoofs of their horses, the Turanian lord could even make out the dark, lean, hawk-faced visages of his quarry, framed by their flowing headdresses―so clear was the desert air and so bright the sun.

Satisfaction seethed through his veins like red wine of Aghrapur from young King Yezdigerd's private cellars.

For years, now, this outlaw band had harried and looted towns and trading posts and caravan stations along the borders of Turan―first under that blackhearted Zaporoskan rogue, Olgerd Vladislav; then, a little more than a year ago, by his successor, Conan. At last, Turanian spies in villages friendly to the outlaw band had found a corruptible member of that band―one Vardanes, not a Zuagir but a Zamorian. Vardanes had been a blood brother to Olgerd, whom Conan had overthrown, and was hungry for vengeance against the stranger who had usurped the chieftainship.

Boghra thoughtfully tugged his beard. The Zamorian traitor was a smiling, laughing villain, dear to a Turanian heart Small, lean, lithe, and swaggering, handsome and reckless as a young god, Vardanes was an amusing drinking companion and a devilish fighter but as cold-hearted and untrustworthy as an adder.

Now the Zuagirs were passing through the defile. And there, at the head of the outriders, rode Vardanes on a prancing black mare. Boghra Khan raised a hand to warn his men to be ready. He wanted to let as many as possible of the Zuagirs enter the pass before closing the trap upon them. Only Vardanes was to be allowed through. The moment he was beyond the walls of sandstone, Boghra brought his hand down with a chopping motion.

"Slay the dogs!" he thundered, rising.

A hail of hissing arrows fell slanting through the sunlight like a deadly rain. In a second, the Zuagirs were a turmoil of shouting men and bucking horses. Flight after flight of arrows raked them. Men fell, clutching at feathered shafts, which sprouted as by magic from their bodies. Horses screamed as keen barbs gashed their dusty flanks.

Dust rose in a choking cloud, veiling the pass below. So thick it became that Boghra Khan halted his archers for a moment, lest they waste their shafts in the murk. And that momentary twinge of thrift was his undoing. For out of the clamor rose one deep, bellowing voice, dominating the chaos.

"Up the slopes and at them!"

It was the voice of Conan. An instant later, the giant form of the Cimmerian himself came charging up the steep slope on a huge, fiery stallion. One might think that only a fool or a madman would charge straight up a steep slope of drifting sand and crumbling rock into the teeth of his foe, but Conan was neither. True, he was wild with ferocious lust for revenge, but behind his grim, dark face and smouldering eyes, like blue flames under scowling black brows, the sharp wit of a seasoned warrior was at work. He knew that often the only road through an ambush is the unexpected.

Astonished, the Turanian warriors let bows slacken as they stared.

Clawing and scrambling up the steep slopes of the sides of the pass, out of the dust-clouded floor of the defile, came a howling mob of frenzied Zuagirs, afoot and mounted, straight at them. In an instant the desert warriors―more numerous than the amir had expected― came roaring over the crest, scimitars flashing, cursing and shrieking bloodthirsty war cries.

Before them all came the giant form of Conan. Arrows had ripped his white khalat, exposing the glittering black mail that clad his lion-thewed torso. His wild, unshorn mane streamed out from under his steel cap like a tattered banner, a chance shaft had torn away his flowing kaffia. On a wild-eyed stallion, he was upon them like some demon of myth. He was armed not with the tulwar of the desert folk but with a great, cross-hilted western broadsword―his favorite among the many weapons of which he was master. In his scarred fist, this length of whirling, mirror-bright steel cut a scarlet path through the Turanians. It rose and fell, spraying scarlet droplets into the desert air. At every stroke it clove armor and flesh and bone, smashing in a skull here, lopping a limb there, hurling a third victim mangled and prone with ribs crushed in.

By the end of a short, swift half-hour it was all over. No Turanians survived the onslaught save a few who had fled early―and their leader.

With his robe torn away and his face bloody, the limping and disheveled amir was led before Conan, who sat on his panting steed, "wiping the gore from his steel with a dead man's khalat.

Conan fixed the wilted lordling with a scornful glance, not unmixed with sardonic humor.

"So, Boghra, we meet again!" he growled.

The amir blinked with disbelief. "You!" he gasped.

Conan chuckled. A decade before, as a wandering young vagabond, the Cimmerian had served in the mercenaries of Turan. He had left King Yildiz's standards rather hurriedly over a little matter of an officer's mistress―so hurriedly, in fact, that he had failed to settle a gambling wager with the same amir who stood astonished before him now. Then, as the merry young scion of a noble house, Boghra Khan and Conan had been comrades in many an escapade from gaming table to drinking shop and bawdy house. Now, years older, the same Boghra gaped up, crushed in battle by an old comrade whose name he had somehow never connected with that of the terrible leader of the desert tribesmen.

Conan raked him with narrowing eyes. "You were awaiting us here, weren't you?" he growled.

The amir sagged. He did not wish to give information to the outlaw leader, even if they were old drinking companions. But he had heard too many grim tales of the Zuagirs' bloody methods of wringing information from captives. Fat and soft from years of princely living, the Turanian officer feared he could not long keep silent under such pressure.

Surprisingly, his cooperation was not needed. Conan had seen Vardanes, who had curiously requested the post of advance scout that morning, spur ahead through the further end of the pass just before the trap had been sprung.

"How much did you pay Vardanes?" Conan demanded suddenly.

"Two hundred silver shekels…" the Turanian mumbled. Then he broke off, astonished at his own indiscretion. Conan laughed.

"A princely bribe, eh? That smiling rogue―like every Zamorian, treacherous to the bottom of his rotten black heart! He's never forgiven me for unseating Olgerd." Conan broke off, leveling a quizzical glance at the bowed head of the amir. He grinned, not unkindly. "Nay, berate yourself not, Boghra. You did not betray your military secrets; I tricked you out of them. You can ride back to Aghrapur with your soldierly honor intact."

Boghra lifted his head with astonishment. "You will let me live?" he croaked.

Conan nodded. "Why not? I still owe you a bag of gold from that old wager, so let me settle the debt this way. But next time, Boghra, have a care how you set traps for wolves. Sometimes you catch a tiger!"

2. The Land of Ghosts.

Two days of hard riding through the red sands of Shan-e-Sorkh, and still the desert marauders had not caught up with the traitor. Thirsty for the sight of Vardanes' blood, Conan pressed his men hard. The cruel code of the desert demanded the Death of Five Stakes for the man who betrayed his comrades, and Conan was determined to see the Zamorian pay that price.

On the evening of the second day, they made camp in the shelter of a hillock of parched sandstone, which thrust up from the rust-colored sands like the stump of some ruined ancient tower. Conan's hard face, burnt almost black by the desert sun, was lined with fatigue. His stallion panted at the edge of exhaustion, slobbering through frothy lips as he set the water bag to the animal's muzzle. Behind him, men stretched weary legs and aching arms. They watered the horses and lit a campfire to keep the wild desert dogs away. He heard the creak of ropes as saddlebags disgorged tents and cooking equipment.

Sand crunched under a sandaled heel behind him. He turned to see the lined, bewhiskered face of one of his lieutenants. This was Gomer, a sloe-eyed, hook-nosed Shemite with greasy, blue-black ringlets escaping from the folds of his headdress.

"Well?" growled Conan as he rubbed down the tired stallion with long, slow strokes of a stiff brush.

The Shemite shrugged. "He's still making a straight path to the southwest," he said. "The blackhearted devil must be made of iron."

Conan laughed harshly. "His mare may be iron, but not Vardanes. He's flesh and blood, as you shall see when we spread him out to the stakes and slit his guts for the vultures!"

Gomer's sad eyes were haunted by a vague fear. "Conan, will you not give over this quest? Each day takes us deeper into this land of sun and sand, where only vipers and scorpions can live. By Dagon's tail, unless we turn back, we shall leave our bones here to bleach forever!"

"Not so," grunted the Cimmerian. "If any bones are left to bleach here, they'll be Zamorian. Don't fret, Gomer; we'll catch up to the traitor yet. Tomorrow, perhaps. He can't keep up this pace forever."

"Nor can we!" Gomer protested. He paused, feeling Conan's smoldering blue gaze searching his face.

"But that's not all that's eating at your heart, is it?" demanded Conan. "Speak up, man. Out with it!"

The burly Shemite shrugged eloquently. "Well, no. I ―the men feel―" His voice trailed away.

"Speak, man or I'll kick it out of you!"

"This―this is the Makan-e-Mordan!" Gomer burst out "I know. I've heard of this 'Place of Ghosts' before. So what? Are you afraid of old crones' fables?"

Gomer looked unhappy. "They are not just fables, Conan. You are no Zuagir; you do not know this land and its tenors, as do we who have long dwelt in the wilderness. For thousands of years, this land has been a cursed and haunted place, and with every hour that we ride, we go deeper into this evil land. The men fear to tell you, but they are half mad with terror."

"With childish superstition, you mean," snarled Conan. "I know they've been quaking in their boots over legends of ghosts and goblins. I've heard stories of this country, too, Gomer. But they are only tales to frighten babes, not warriors! Tell your comrades to beware. My wrath is stronger than all the ghosts that ever died!"

"But, Conan!"

Conan cut him off with a coarse word. "Enough of your childish night fears, Shemite! I have sworn by Crom and Mitra that I will have the blood of that Zamorian traitor or die trying! And if I have to scatter a little Zuagir blood along the way, I'll not scruple to do so. Now cease yammering and come share a bottle with me. My throat's as dry as this blasted desert, and all this talk dries it out the more."

Clapping Gomer on the shoulder, Conan strode away toward the campfire, where the men were unpacking stores of smoked meat, dried figs and dates, goat cheese, and leathern bottles of wine.

But the Shemite did not rejoin the Cimmerian at once. He stood long, gazing after the swaggering chieftain he had followed for nearly two years, ever since they had found Conan crucified near the walls of Khauran. Conan had been a guard captain in the service of Queen Taramis of Khauran until her throne was usurped by the witch Salome, leagued with Constantius the Falcon, the Kothic voivode of the Free Companies.

When Conan, realizing the substitution, took his stand with Taramis and was defeated, Constantius had him crucified outside the city. By chance, Olgerd Vladislav, chief of the local band of Zuagir outlaws, had come riding by and had cut Conan down from his cross, saying that if he survived his wounds he might join their band. Conan not only survived but also proved so able a leader that in time he ousted Olgerd from the band, which he had led from this day to this.

But this was the end of his leadership. Gomer of Akkharia sighed deeply. Conan had ridden before them for the last two days, sunk in his own grim lust for revenge. He did not realize the depth of the passion in the hearts of the Zuagirs. Gomer knew that, although they loved Conan, their superstitious terrors had driven them to the brink of mutiny and murder. To the scarlet gates of Hell they might follow the Cimmerian―but no further into the Land of Ghosts.

The Shemite idolized his chieftain. But, knowing that no threat would swerve the Cimmerian from the path of vengeance, he could think of but one way to save Conan from the knives of his own men. From a pocket in his white khalat he withdrew a small, stoppered phial of green powder.

Secreting it in his palm, he rejoined Conan by the campfire, to share a bottle of wine with him.

3. Invisible Death.

When Conan awoke, the sun was high. Heat waves shimmered across the barren sands. The air was hot and still and dry, as if the heavens were an inverted brazen bowl heated to incandescence.

Conan staggered to his knees and clutched his throbbing brow. His aching skull felt as if he had been clubbed.

He lurched to his feet and stood swaying. Through bleary eyes, squinted against the glare, he looked slowly about him. He was alone in this cursed, waterless land.

He croaked a curse on the superstitious Zuagirs. The entire troop had decamped, taking with them all the gear, the horses, and the provisions. Two goatskin water bags lay beside him. These, his mail shirt and khalat, and his broadsword were all that his erstwhile comrades had left him.

He fell to his knees again and pulled the stopper from one of the water bags. Swirling the lukewarm fluid about, he rinsed the vile taste from his mouth and drank sparingly, reluctantly replacing the stopper before his fiery thirst was half assuaged. Although he longed to up-end the bag over his aching head, reason asserted its dominance. If he were lost in this sandy waste, every drop would be needed for survival.

Through the blinding headache and the groggy state of his wits, he could see what must have occurred. His Zuagirs were more fearful of this dubious realm than he had supposed, despite Gomer's warnings. He had made a serious―perhaps a fatal―error. He had underestimated the power of superstition over his desert warriors and overestimated his power to control and dominate them. With a dull groan, Conan cursed his own arrogant, bull-headed pride. Unless he learned better, it might some day be the death of him.

And perhaps this was the day. He took a long, stony look at his chances. They seemed slim. He had water for two days on short rations―three, if he would risk madness by limiting his intake further.

No food and no horse, which meant he must wend afoot.

Well then, on he would go. But whither? The obvious answer was: back the way he had come. But there were arguments against that course. Of these, the most eloquent was that of distance. They had ridden for two days after leaving the last water hole. A man on foot could travel at best at only half the speed of a horse. For him, then, to return by the route they had come would mean he must travel for at least two full days without any water at all…

Conan rubbed his jaw reflectively, trying to forget the throbbing in his skull and to cudgel some sense out of his groggy wits. Retracing his steps would not be the best idea, for he knew there was no water closer than four days' march away.

He looked ahead, where the trail of the fleeing Vardanes stretched straight from this place to the horizon.

Perhaps he should continue to follow the Zamorian. While the path led into unknown country, the mere fact that the land was unknown was in its favor. An oasis might lie just beyond the nearest dunes. It was hard to reach a sensible decision under such circumstances, but Conan resolved upon what seemed the wiser course. Girding his khalat about his mailed form and slinging his sword across his shoulders, he strode off along Vardanes' track, the water bags slapping against his back.

The sun hung forever in a sky of burning brass. It blazed down like a fiery eye in the brow of some colossal cyclops, gazing upon the tiny, slow-moving figure that trudged across the baking surface of the crimson sands. It took forever for the afternoon sun to glide down the vast, empty curve of the sky, to die on the flaming funeral pyre of the west Then purple evening stole on shadowy wings across the vault of the heavens, and a trace of blessed coolness crept across the dunes, with soft shadows and a light breeze.

By then, Conan's leg muscles were beyond pain. Fatigue had numbed the ache in them, and he stumbled forward on limbs like stone columns animated by sorcery.

His great head was bowed on his massive chest He plodded on numbly, needing rest but driven by the knowledge that now, in the coolness of evening, he could make the most distance with the least discomfort.

His throat was caked with dust; his swarthy visage was dusted brick-red with a mask of desert sand. He had drunk a mouthful an hour ago and would drink no more until it became so dark that he could no longer see to follow Vardanes' trail.

His dreams that night were turgid and confused, filled with shaggy nightmare figures with one glaring eye in their bestial brows, who beat his naked body with whips of red-hot chain.

When he blinked awake, he found the sun already high and another hot day before him. It was agony to rise. Every muscle throbbed as if tiny needles had been thrust deep into his tissues. But rise he did, to drink lightly and go forward.

Soon he lost track of time, but still the tireless engine of his will drove him on, step after staggering step. His mind wandered away into shadowy bypaths of delusion. But still he held three thoughts before him: to follow the trail of hoofprints, to save water stringently, and to stay on his feet. If once he fell, he knew he would be unable to rise again. And if he fell during the scorching day, his bones would desiccate and whiten amidst these scarlet wastes for ages to come.

4. The Deathless Queen.

Vardanes of Zamora halted at the crest of the hills and stared down at a sight so strange that it struck him dumb. For five days, since the botched ambush against the Zuagirs had rebounded upon the Turanians, he had ridden like a madman, scarcely daring to snatch an hour or two of rest for himself and his mare. A terror so great that it robbed the very manhood from within him goaded him on.

Well did he know the vengeance of the desert outlaws. His imagination was filled with sickening scenes of the price the grim avengers would exact from his body if ever he fell into their hands. Thus, when he saw that the ambush had failed, he had galloped straight out into the desert. He knew that devil, Conan, would flay the traitor's name from Boghra Khan and then would come howling on his heels with a bloodthirsty mob of Zuagirs. Nor would they easily give up the quest of their treacherous former comrade.

His one slim chance had been to head out into the trackless reaches of Shan-e-Sorkh. Although Vardanes was a city-bred Zamorian of culture and sophistication, the fortunes of his age had flung him in with the desert outlaws, and he knew them well. He knew they dreaded the very name of the Red Waste and that their savage imaginations peopled it with every monster and devil ever dreamed of. Why the desert tribesmen feared the Red Waste so terribly he neither knew nor cared, so long as their fear would keep them from following him very far into that deadly desert.

But they had not turned back. His lead on them was so slight that, day after day, he could see the clouds of dust raised by the Zuagir horsemen behind him. He pressed ahead with every moment, eating and drinking in the saddle and pushing his mount to the verge of exhaustion in order to widen that narrow gap.

After five days, he knew not whether they were still on his track; but soon it mattered little. He had exhausted the food and water for himself and his mare and pressed on in the faint hope of finding a water hole in this endless waste.

His horse, caked with dry mud where desert dust had stuck to lathered sides, staggered forward like a dead thing driven by a sorcerer's will.

Now it was near to death. Seven times this day it had fallen, and only the lash of the whip had driven it to its feet again. Since it could no longer support his weight, Vardanes walked, leading it by its rein.

The Red Waste had taken a fearful toll of Vardanes himself. Once handsome as a laughing young god, he was now a gaunt, sunblackened skeleton. Bloodshot eyes glared through matted, stringy locks. Through cracked, swollen lips he mumbled mindless prayers to Ishtar, Set, Mitra, and a score of other deities. As he and his trembling steed lurched to the crest of yet another row of dunes, he looked down and saw a lush green valley, dotted with clumps of emerald-green date palms.

Amid this fertile vale lay a small, walled city of stone. Bulging domes and squat guard towers rose above a stuccoed wall, wherein was set a great gate whose polished bronzen hinges redly reflected the sun.

A city in this scorching waste? A lush valley of cool, green trees and soft lawns and limped lotus pools, in the heart of this bleak wilderness? Impossible!

Vardanes shuddered, shut his eyes, and licked his cracked lips. It must be a mirage, or a phantom of his disordered wits! Yet a shard of half-forgotten lore, gleaned from his youthful studies long ago, came back to him. It was a fragment of legend called Akhlat the Accursed.

He strove to recover that thread of memory. It had been in an old Stygian book, which his Shemite tutor kept locked in a sandalwood chest. Even as a bright-eyed lad, Vardanes had been blessed or cursed with greed, curiosity, and nimble fingers. One dark night, he had picked that lock and pored with mingled awe and loathing through the portentous pages of that dark grimoire of elder necromancy. Penned in a spidery hand on pages of dragon parchment, the text described strange rites and ceremonies. The pages crawled with cryptic hieroglyphs from elder kingdoms of sorcerous evil, like Acheron and Lemuria, which had flourished and fallen in time's dawn.

Among the pentacle-crowded pages had been fragments of some dark liturgy designed to draw down undying demon-things from dark realms beyond the stars, from the chaos that ancient mages said reigned beyond the borders of the cosmos. One of these liturgies contained cryptic references to "devil-cursed and demon-haunted Akhlat in the Red Waste, where power-mad sorcerers of yore called down to this earthly sphere a Demon from Beyond, to their unending sorrow … Akhlat, where the Undying One rules with a hand of horror to this very day… doomed, accursed Akhlat, which the very gods spurned, transforming all the realm round about into a burning waste …"

Vardanes was still sitting in the sand by the head of his panting mare when grim-faced warriors seized him and bore him down from the ring of stony hills that encircled the city―down into the garden valley of date palms and lotus pools―down to the gates of Akhlat the Accursed.

5. The Hand of Zillah.

Conan roused slowly, but this time it was different. Before, his awakening had been painful, prying gummed lids open to squint at the fiery sun, hoisting himself slowly erect to stagger forward across broiling sands.

This time he awoke easily, with a blissful sensation of repletion and comfort. Silken pillows lay beneath his head. Thick awnings with tasseled fringes kept the sun from his body, which was clean and naked save for a fresh loincloth of white linen.

He sprang instantly to full alertness, like an animal whose survival in the wild depends upon this ability. He stared about with unbelieving eyes. His first thought was that death had claimed him at last and that his spirit had been borne beyond the clouds to the primitive paradise where Crom, the god of his people, sat enthroned amid a thousand heroes.

Beside his silken couch lay a silver ewer, filled with fresh, clear water.

Moments later, Conan lifted his dripping face from the ewer and knew that whatever paradise he was in, it was real and physical. He drank deep, although the state of his throat and mouth told him that he was no longer racked with the burning thirst of his desert trek. Some caravan must have found him and borne him to these tents for healing and succor. Looking down, Conan saw that his limbs and torso had been washed clean of desert dust and smeared with soothing salve. Whoever his rescuers might be, they had fed and cherished him while he raved and slumbered his way toward recovery.

He peered around the tent. His great broadsword lay across an ebony chest. He padded toward it on silent feet, like some wary jungle cat―then froze as he heard the tinkle of a warrior's harness behind him.

The musical sound, however, came from no warrior but from a slim, fawn-eyed girl who had just entered the tent and stood staring. Dark, shining hair fell unbound to her waist, and tiny silver bells were threaded through these tresses. Thence had come the faint tinkle.

Conan took in the girl in one swift glance: young, scarcely more than a child, slim and lovely, with a pale body that gleamed enticingly through gauzy veils. Jewels glistened on her slim, white hands. From the golden bangles on her brow and the look of her large, dark eyes, Conan guessed her to be of some folk akin to the Shemites.

"Oh!" she cried. "You are too weak to stand! You must rest some more to regain your strength." Her language was a dialect of Shemitish, full of archaic forms but close enough to the Shemitish that Conan knew for him to understand.

"Nonsense, girl, I'm fit enough," he replied in the same tongue. "Was it you who tended me here? How long since you found me?"

"Nay, strange lord, 'twas my father. I am Zillah the daughter of Enosh, a lord of Akhlat the Accursed. We found your body amid the everlasting sands of the Waste three days past," she replied, veiling her eyes with silken lashes.

Gods! he thought, but this was a fair wench. Conan had seen no woman in weeks, and he frankly studied the swelling contours of her lithe body, scarcely hidden by the gauzy veils. A trace of scarlet rose to her cheeks.

"So your pretty hand tended me, eh, Zillah?" he said. "My thanks to you and your sire for this mercy. I was close enough to death, I'll warrant. How did you chance upon me?" He strove without success to recall any city by the name of Akhlat the Accursed, although he thought he knew every city of the southern deserts, by repute if not by an actual visit.

"It was not by chance; indeed, we came in search of you," said Zillah.

Conan's eyes narrowed as his nerves tingled to the sense of danger.

Something in the sudden hardening of his grim, impassive face told the girl that he was a man of swift animal passions, a dangerous man unlike the soft, milda townsmen she had known.

"We meant you no harm!" she protested, lifting one slim hand defensively. "But follow me, sir, and my sire will explain all things to you."

For a moment, Conan stood tense, wondering if Vardanes had set these people on his trail. The silver he had carried off from the Turanians should be enough to buy the souls of half a hundred Shemites.

Then he relaxed, deliberately calming the blood lust that rose within him. He took up his sword and slung the baldric over his shoulder.

"Then take me to this Enosh, lass," he said calmly. "I would hear his tale."

She led him from the chamber. Conan squared his naked shoulders and padded after her.

6. The Thing from Beyond.

Enosh was poring over a wrinkled, time-faded scroll in a high-backed chair of black wood, as Zillah conducted Conan into his presence. This part of the tent was hung with dark purple cloth; thick carpets muffled the tread of their feet On a coiling stand composed of intertwined serpents of glinting brass, a black minor of curious design reposed.

Eery lights flickered in its ebon depths.

Enosh rose and greeted Conan with courtly phrases. He was a tall, elderly man, lean but straight His pate was covered with a headdress of snowy linen, his face was lined with age and creased with thought, and his dark eyes were weary with ancient sorrow.

He bade his guest be seated and commanded Zillah to bring wine. When the formalities were over, Conan asked abruptly: "How did you come to find me, O shaykh?"

Enosh glanced at the black mirror. "Whilst I am no fell sorcerer, my son, I can make use of some means not altogether natural."

"How is it that you were looking for me?"

Enosh lifted a thin, blue-veined hand to quiet the warrior's suspicions. "Be patient, my friend, and I will explain all," he said in his quiet, deep-toned voice. Reaching to a low tabouret, he set aside his scroll and accepted a silver cup of wine.

When they had drunk, the old man began his tale: "Ages ago, a wily sorcerer of this land of Akhlat conceived of a plot against the ancient dynasty that had ruled in this place since the fall of Atlantis," he said slowly. "With cunning words, he made the people think their monarch ―a weak, self-indulgent man―was their foe, and the people rose and trampled the foolish king into the mire. Setting himself up as a priest and prophet of the Unknown Gods, the sorcerer pretended to divine inspiration. He averred that one of the gods would soon descend to earth to rule over Akhlat the Holy―as it was called―in person."

Conan snorted. "You Akhlatim, it seems, are no less gullible than the other nations I have seen."

The old man smiled wearily. "It is always easy to believe what one wishes to be true. But the plan of this black sorcerer was more terrible than any could dream. With vile and nameless rites, he conjured into this plane of existence a demoness from Outside, to serve as goddess to the people. Retaining his sorcerous control over this being, he presented himself as the interpreter of her divine will.

Struck with awe, the people of Akhlat soon groaned beneath a tyranny far worse than that which they had suffered from the old dynasty."

Conan smiled wolfishly. "I have seen that revolutions often throw up worse governments than those they replace."

"Perhaps. At any rate, this one did. And in time matters became even grimmer; for the sorcerer lost control over the demoniac Thing he had summoned down from Beyond, and it destroyed him and ruled in his place.

And it rules to this very day," he concluded softly.

Conan started. "The creature is immortal, then? How long ago was this?"

"More years have passed than these wastes have grains of sand," said Enosh. "And still the goddess rules supreme in sad Akhlat The secret of her power is such that she leaches the life force from living creatures. All this land about us was once green and fair, lush with date palms along the streams and grassy hills whereon the fat herds pastured. Her vampiric thirst for life has drained the land dry, save for the valley wherein the city of Akhlat stands. That she has spared, for without living things to drain to dry, lifeless husks, she cannot sustain herself on this plane of being."

"Crom!" whispered Conan, draining his wine cup.

For centuries, now," Enosh continued, "this land has been transformed into a dead and sterile waste. Our young go to slake the dark thirst of the goddess, as do the beasts of our flocks. She feeds daily. Each day she chooses a victim, and each day they dwindle and lessen. When she attacks one victim incessantly, day after day, he may last but a few days or he may linger half a moon. The strongest and bravest endure for as many as thirty days before she exhausts their store of life force and must begin on the next."

Conan fondled the hilt of his sword. "Crom and Mitra, man, why have you not slain this thing?"

The old man wearily shook his head. "She is invulnerable, unkillable,"

he said softly. "Her flesh is composed of matter drawn to her and held together by the goddess's unconquerable will. An arrow or a sword could but wound that flesh: it is a trifling matter for her to repair the injury. And the life force she drinks from others, leaving them dry husks, gives her a terrible store of inner strength from which to remold her flesh anew."

"Bum the thing," Conan growled. "Burn the palace down about her head, or cut her into little pieces for the flames of a bonfire to devour!"

"No. She shields herself with dark powers of hellish magic. Her weapon transfixes into paralysis all she looks upon. As many as a hundred warriors have crept into the J Black Temple, determined to end this grim tyranny. Naught was left of them but a living forest of motionless men, who served in turn as human banquets for the insatiable monster."

Conan stirred restlessly. 'Tis a wonder that any of you still dwell in this accursed land!" he rumbled. "How has this damnable leech not drained every last human being in this valley dry long since? And why have you not bundled your belongings and fled from this demon-haunted place?"

"In truth, very few of us are left; she consumes us and our beasts faster than their natural increase can make up the loss. For ages, the demoness sated her lust with the minute life force of growing green things, sparing the people. When the land became a waste, she fed first upon our flocks and then from our slaves and finally from the Akhlatim themselves. Soon we shall be gone, and Akhlat will be one vast city of death. Nor can we leave the land, for the power of the goddess holds us within narrow bounds, beyond which we cannot stray."

Conan shook his head, his unshorn mane brushing his bare, bronzed shoulders. "It is a tragic tale you tell, old man. But why do you repeat it to me?"

"Because of an ancient prophecy," said Enosh gently, picking up the worn and wrinkled scroll from the tabouret.

"What prophecy?"

Enosh partly unrolled the scroll and pointed to lines of writing of a form so old that Conan could not read it, although he could manage the written Shemitish of his own time. "That in the fullness of time," said Enosh, "when our end was near, the Unknown Cods, whom our ancestors turned away from to worship the demoness, would relent of their wrath and send a liberator, who should overthrow the goddess and destroy her evil power. You, Conan of Cimmeria, are that savior…"

7. Hall of the Living Dead.

For days and nights, Vardanes lay in a dank dungeon cell beneath the Black Temple of Akhlat. He yelled and pleaded and wept and cursed and prayed, but the dull-eyed, cold-faced, bronze-helmed guardsmen paid him no heed, save to tend to his bodily needs. They would not answer his questions. Neither would they submit to bribery, which much astonished him. A typical Zamorian, Vardanes could hardly conceive of men who did not lust for wealth, yet these strange men with their antique speech and old-fashioned armor were so little covetous of the silver he had rung from the Turanians in payment for his betrayal that they even let his coin-filled saddle bags lie undisturbed in a comer of his cell.

They tended him well, however, bathing his haggard body and soothing his blisters with salves. And they fed him sumptuously with fine roast fowl, rich fruits, and sweetmeats. They even gave him wine. Having known other gaols in his time, Vardanes realized how extraordinary this was. Could, they, he wondered uneasily, be fattening him for slaughter?

Then, one day, guards came to his cell and brought him forth. He assumed he was at last to appear before some magistrate to answer whatever absurd charges his accusers might make. Confidence welled up within him. Never had he known a magistrate whose mercy could not be purchased with the silver in those fat saddle bags!

But, instead of to a judge or suffete, he was led by dark and winding ways before a mighty door of greened bronze, which loomed in front of him like the gate of Hell itself. Triply locked and barred was this portal, and strong enough to withstand an army. With nervous hands and taut faces, the warriors unfastened the great door and thrust Vardanes within.

As the door clanged shut behind him, the Zamorian found himself in a magnificent hall of polished marble. It was drowned in deep, purple gloom and thick with dust On every hand lay tokens of unrepaired decay, of untended neglect He went forward curiously.

Was this a great throne room, or the transept of some colossal temple?

It was hard to say. The most peculiar thing about the vast, shadowy hall, other than the neglect from which it had evidently long suffered, was the statuary that stood about its floor in clusters. A host of puzzling questions rose within Vardanes' troubled brain.

The first mystery was the substance of the statues. Whereas the hall itself was builded of sleek marble, the statues were made of some dull, lifeless, porous gray stone that he could not identify. Whatever the stuff was, it was singularly unattractive. It looked like dead wood ash, though hard as dry stone to the touch.

The second mystery was the amazing artistry of the unknown sculptor, whose gifted hands had wrought these marvels of art They were lifelike and detailed to an incredible degree: every fold of garment or drapery hung like real cloth; every tiny strand of hair was visible. This astonishing fidelity was carried even to the postures. No heroic groupings, no monumental majesty was visible in these graven images of dull-gray, plasterlike material. They stood in lifelike poses, by the score and the hundred. They were scattered here and there with no regard for order. They were carved in the likeness of warriors and nobles, youths and maidens, doddering grandsires and senile hags, blooming children and babes in arms.

The one disquieting feature held in common by all was that each figure bore on its stony features an expression of unendurable terror.

Before long, Vardanes heard a faint sound from the depths of this dark place. Like the sound of many voices it was, yet so faint that he could make out no words. A weird diapason whispered through this forest of statues. As Vardanes drew nearer, he could distinguish the strains of sound that made up the whole: slow, heart-rending sobs, faint, agonized moans; the blurred babble of prayers; croaking laughter; monotonous curses. These sounds seemed to come from half a hundred throats, but the Zamorian could see no source for them. Although he peered about, he could see naught in all this place but himself and the thousands of statues.

Sweat trickled down his forehead and his lean cheeks. A nameless fear arose within him. He wished from the depths of his faithless heart that he were a thousand leagues from this accursed temple, where voices of invisible beings moaned, sobbed, babbled, and laughed hideously.

Then he saw the golden throne. It stood in the midst of the hall, towering above the heads of the statues. Vardanes' eyes fed hungrily on the luster of gold. He edged through the stony forest toward it.

Something was propped up on that rich throne―the shriveled mummy of some long-dead king? Withered hands were clasped over a sunken breast From throat to heel, the thin body was wrapped in dusty cerements. A thin mask of beaten gold, worked in the likeness of a woman of unearthly beauty, lay over the features.

A twinge of greed quickened Vardanes' panting breath. He forgot his fears, for, between the brows of that golden mask, a tremendous black sapphire glowed like a third eye. It was an astounding gem, worth a prince's ransom.

At the foot of the throne, Vardanes stared covetously at the golden mask. The eyes were carved as if closed in slumber. Sweet and beautiful slept the drowsy, full-lipped mouth in that lovely golden face. The huge, dark sapphire flashed with sultry fires as he reached for it.

With trembling fingers, the Zamorian snatched the mask away. Beneath it lay a brown, withered face. The cheeks had fallen in; the flesh was hard, dry, and leathery. He shuddered at the malevolent expression on the features of that death's head.

Then it opened its eyes and looked at him.

He staggered back with a scream, the mask falling from nerveless fingers to clatter against the marble pave. The dead eyes in the skull-face leered into his own. Then the Thing opened its third eye…

8. The Face of the Gorgon.

Conan padded through the hall of gray statues on naked feet, prowling the dusty, shadow-haunted aisles like some great jungle cat. Dim light slowed along the keen edge of the mighty broadsword in his huge, capable fist His eyes glared from side to side and the hackles bristled upon his nape. This place stank of death; the reek of fear lay heavy in the still air.

How had he ever let old Enosh talk him into this foolish venture? He was ho redeemer, no destined liberator, no holy man come from the gods to free Akhlat from the deathless curse of the demoness. His only purpose was one of red revenge.

But the wise old shaykh had spoken many words, and his eloquence had persuaded Conan to undertake this perilous mission. Enosh had pointed out two facts that convinced even the hard-bitten barbarian. One was that, once within this land, Conan was bound there by black magic and could not leave until the goddess was slain. The other was that the Zamorian traitor was immured beneath the Black Temple of the goddess, soon to face the doom that would, if not averted, destroy them all.

So Conan had come by secret underground ways, which Enosh had shown him. He had emerged from a hidden portal in the wall of this vast, gloomy hall, for Enosh knew when Vardanes was to go before the goddess.

Like the Zamorian, Conan also noted the marvelous realism of the gray statues; but, unlike Vardanes, he knew the answer to this riddle. He averted his eyes from the expressions of horror on the stone faces about him.

He, too, heard the mournful wailing and crying. As he drew nearer to the center of the mighty hypostyle hall, the sobbing voices became clearer. He saw the golden throne and the withered thing upon it, and he crept toward the lustrous chair on silent feet.

As he approached, a statue spoke to him. The shock almost unmanned him.

His flesh crawled, and sweat started from his brow.

Then he saw the source of the cries, and his heart pounded with revulsion. For those about the throne were not yet dead. They were stone up to the neck, but the heads still lived. Sad eyes rolled in despairing faces, and dry lips prayed that he would bury his sword in the living brains of these almost―but not completely―petrified beings.

Then he heard a scream, in Vardanes' well-known voice. Had the goddess slain his enemy before he could wreak his vengeance? He sprang forward to the side of the throne.

There a terrible sight met his eyes. Vardanes stood before the throne, eyes popping and lips working feverishly. The rasp of stone caught Conan's ear, and he looked at Vardanes' legs. Where the Zamorian's feet touched the floor, a gray pallor crept slowly up them. Before Conan's gaze, the warm flesh whitened. The gray tide had reached Vardanes'

knees; but, even as Conan watched, the flesh of the upper legs was transmuted into ashen-gray stone. Vardanes strained to walk but could not His voice rose in a shriek, while his eyes glared at Conan with the naked fear of a trapped animal.

The thing on the throne laughed a low, dry cackle. As Conan watched, the dead, withered flesh of her skeletal arms and wrinkled throat swelled and became smooth; it flushed from dead, leathery brown to the warm flesh tones of life. With every vampiric draught of vital energy that the Gorgon drained from Vardanes' body, her own body became imbued with life.

"Crom and Mitra!" breathed Conan.

With every atom of her mind focused on the half-petrified Zamorian, the Gorgon paid Conan no heed. Now her body was filling out. She bloomed; a soft rondure of hip and thigh stretched the dull cerements. Her woman's breasts swelled, straining the thin fabric. She stretched firm, youthful arms. Her moist, crimson mouth opened in another peal of laughter―this time, the musical, voluptuous laughter of a full-bodied woman.

The tide of petrification had crept to Vardanes' loins. Conan did not know whether she would spare Vardanes with the semi-petrification of those near the throne or whether she would drain him to the dregs. He was young and vital; his life force must have been a robust vintage to the vampire goddess.

As the stony tide swept up to the Zamorian's panting breast, he uttered another scream―the most awful sound that Conan had ever heard from human lips. Conan's reaction was instinctive. Like a striking panther, he leaped from his place of concealment behind the throne. Light caught the edge of his blade as he swung it.

Vardanes' head jumped from its trunk and fell with a meaty smack to the marble floor.

Shaken by the impact, the body toppled and fell. It crashed to the floor, and Conan saw the petrified legs crack and splinter. Stony fragments scattered, and blood welled from the cracks in the petrified flesh.

So died Vardanes the traitor. Even Conan could hot tell whether he struck from lust for revenge, or whether a merciful impulse to end the torment of a helpless creature had prompted the blow.

Conan turned to the goddess. Without meaning to, he instinctively raised his eyes to hers.

9. The Third Eye.

Her face was a mask of inhuman loveliness; her soft, moist lips were as full and crimson as ripe fruit Glossy, ebon hair tumbled across shoulders of glowing pearl, to fall in tides of silken night through which thrust the round moons of her breasts. She was beauty incarnate―save for the great dark orb between her brows.

The third eye met Conan's gaze and riveted him fast. This oval orb was larger than any organ of human vision. It was not divided into pupil, iris, and white as are human eyes; it was all black. His gaze seemed to sink into it and become lost in endless seas of darkness. He stared rapt, the sword forgotten in his hand. The eye was as black as the lightless seas of space between the stars.

Now he seemed to stand at the brink of a black, bottomless well, into which he toppled and fell. Down, down through ebon fogs he fell, through a vast, cold abyss of utter darkness. He knew that, if he did not soon turn his eyes away, he would be forever lost to the world.

He made a terrible effort of will. Sweat stood out on his brow; his muscles writhed like serpents beneath his bronzed skin. His deep chest heaved.

The Gorgon laughed―a low, melodious sound with cold, cruel mockery in it. Conan flushed, and rage rose within him.

With a surge of will, he tore his eyes from that black orb and found himself staring at the floor. Weak and dizzy, he swayed on his feet. As he fought for the strength to stand erect, he glanced at those feet.

Thank Crom, they were still of warm flesh, not cold, ashen stone! The long moment he had stood ensorcelled by the Gorgon's gaze had been only a brief instant, too short for the stony tide to have crept up his flesh.

The Gorgon laughed again. With his shaggy head bowed, Conan felt tie tug of her will. The muscles of his corded neck swelled in his effort to keep his head bent away.

He was still looking down. Before him, on the marble pave, lay the thin golden mask with the huge sapphirine gem set in it to represent the third eye. And suddenly, Conan knew.

This time, as his glance rose, his sword swung with it. The flashing blade clove the dusty air and caught the mocking face of the goddess―slashing the third eye in twain.

She did not move. With her two normal eyes of surpassing beauty, she stared silently at the grim warrior, her face blank and white. A change swept over her.

From the ruin of the Gorgon's third eye, dark fluid ran down the face of inhuman perfection. Like black tears, the slow dew fell from the shattered organ.

Then she began to age. As the dark fluid ran from the riven orb, so the stolen life force of aeons drained from her body. Her skin darkened and roughened into a thousand wrinkles. Withered dewlaps formed beneath her chin. Glowing eyes became lusterless and milky.

The superb bosom sagged and shrank. Sleek limbs became scrawny. For a long moment, the dwarfed, withered form of a tiny woman, incredibly senile, tottered on the throne. Then flesh rotted to papery scraps and mouldering bones. The body collapsed, spilling across the pavement in a litter of leathery fragments, which crumbled as Conan watched to a colorless, ashy powder.

A long sigh went through the hall. It darkened briefly as if the passage of half-transparent wings dimmed the obscure light. Then it was gone, and with it the brooding air of age-old menace. The chamber became just a dusty, neglected old room, devoid of supernatural terrors.

The statues slept forever now in graves of eternal stone. As the Gorgon passed from this dimension, so her spells snapped, including those that had held the living dead in a grisly semblance of life. Conan turned away, leaving the empty throne with its litter of dust and the broken, headless statue of what had once been a bold, high-spirited Zamorian fighting man.

"Stay with us, Conan!" Zillah pleaded in her low, soft voice. "There will be posts of high honor for a man such as you in Akhlat, now that we are freed of the curse."

He grinned hardly, sensing something more personal in her voice than the desire of a good citizen to enlist a worthy immigrant in the cause of civic reconstruction. At the probing gaze of his hot, male eyes, she flushed in confusion.

Lord Enosh added his gentle voice to the pleadings of his daughter.

Conan's victory had lent new youth and vigor to the elderly man. He stood straight and tall, with a new firmness in his step and a new command in his voice. He offered the Cimmerian wealth, honors, position, and a place of power in the newborn city. Enosh had even hinted that he would look with favor upon Conan as a son-in-law.

But Conan, knowing himself ill-suited to the life of placid, humdrum respectability they held out to him, refused all offers. Courtly phrases did not spring readily to the lips of one whose years had been spent on the field of battle and in the wine shops and joy houses of the world's cities. But, with such tact as his blunt, barbaric nature could muster, he turned aside his hosts' pleas.

"Nay, friends," he said. "Not for Conan of Cimmeria the tasks of peace.

I should too soon become bored, and when boredom strikes, I know of but few cures: to get drunk, to pick a fight, or to steal a girl. A fine sort of citizen I should make for a city that now seeks peace and quiet to recover its strength!"

"Then whither will you go, O Conan, now that the magical barriers are dissolved?" asked Enosh.

Conan shrugged, ran a hand through his black mane, and laughed. "Crom, my good sir, I know not! Luckily for me, the goddess's servants fed and watered Vardanes' horse. Akhlat, I see, has no horses―only donkeys―and a great lout like me would look like a fool, jogging along on a sleepy little ass with my toes dragging in the dust!

"I think I'll bend my path to the southeast. Somewhere yonder lies the city of Zamboula, which I have never been. Men say it is a rich city of fleshpots and revelry, where the wine all but flows free in the gutters. I've a mind to taste the joys of Zamboula, to see what excitement it has to offer."

"But you need not leave us a beggar!" Enosh protested. "We owe you much. Let us give you what little gold and silver we have for your labors."

Conan shook his head. "Keep your treasure, shaykh. Akhlat is no rich metropolis, and you will need your money when the merchants' caravans begin to arrive again from across the Red Waste. And now that my water bags are full and I've provisions aplenty, I must be off. This time, I shall make the journey through the Shan-e-Sorkh in comfort."

With a last, brisk farewell, he swung into the saddle and cantered up out of the valley. They stood looking after him, Enosh proudly, but Zillah with tears on her cheeks. Soon he was out of sight.

As he reached the top of the dunes, Conan halted the black mare for a last look at Akhlat. Then he rode off into the Waste. Perhaps he had been a fool not to accept their small store of treasure. But there was plenty in Vardanes' saddle bags, which he reached behind him to thump.

He grinned. Why squabble over a few shekels like a greasy tradesman? It does a man good, once in a while, to be virtuous. Even a Cimmerian!

Conan duly arrives in Zamboula, where he swiftly dissipates the small fortune he brings with him in a colossal debauch. A week of guzzling, gorging, roistering, whoring, and gambling reduce him once more to destitution.

Shadows in Zamboula

1 A Drum Begins

`Peril hides in the house of Aram Baksh!'

The speaker's voice quivered with earnestness and his lean, black-nailed fingers clawed at Conan's mightily muscled arm as he croaked his warning. He was a wiry, sun-burnt man with a straggling black beard, and his ragged garments proclaimed him a nomad. He looked smaller and meaner than ever in contrast to the giant Cimmerian with his black brows, broad chest, and powerful limbs. They stood in a corner of the Sword-Makers' Bazar, and on either side of them flowed past the many-tongued, many-colored stream of the Zamboula streets, which is exotic, hybrid, flamboyant and clamorous.

Conan pulled his eyes back from following a bold-eyed, redlipped Ghanara whose short skirt bared her brown thigh at each insolent step, and frowned down at his importunate companion.

`What do you mean by peril?' he demanded.

The desert man glanced furtively over his shoulder before replying, and lowered his voice.

`Who can say? But desert men and travelers have slept in the house of Aram Baksh, and never been seen or heard of again. What became of them? He swore they rose and went their way - and it is true that no citizen of the city has ever disappeared from his house. But no one saw the travelers again, and men say that goods and equipment recognized as theirs have been seen in the bazars. If Aram did not sell them, after doing away with their owners, how came they here?'

`I have no goods,' growled the Cimmerian, touching the shagreen-bound hilt of the broadsword that hung at his hip. `I have even sold my horse.'

`But it is not always rich strangers who vanish by night from the house of Aram Baksh!' chattered the Zuagir. `Nay, poor desert men have slept there - because his score is less than that of the other taverns - and have been seen no more. Once a chief of the Zuagirs whose son had thus vanished complained to the satrap, Jungir Khan, who ordered the house searched by soldiers.'

`And they found a cellar full of corpses?' asked Conan in good-humored derision.

`Nay! They found naught! And drove the chief from the city with threats and curses! But -' he drew closer to Conan and shivered - `something else was found! At the edge of the desert, beyond the houses, there is a clump of palm trees, and within that grove there is a pit. And within that pit have been found human bones, charred and blackened! Not once, but many times!'

`Which proves what?' grunted the Cimmerian.

'Aram Baksh is a demon! Nay, in this accursed city which Stygians built and which Hyrkanians rule - where white, brown and black folk mingle together to produce hybrids of all unholy hues and breeds - who can tell who is a man, and who a demon in disguise? Aram Baksh is a demon in the form of a man! At night he assumes his true guise and carries his guests off into the desert where his fellow demons from the waste meet in conclave.'

`Why does he always carry off strangers?' asked Conan skeptically.

`The people of the city would not suffer him to slay their people, but they care naught for the strangers who fall into his hands. Conan, you are of the West, and know not the secrets of this ancient land. But, since the beginning of happenings, the demons of the desert have worshipped Yog, the Lord of the Empty Abodes, with fire - fire that devours human victims.

`Be warned! You have dwelt for many moons in the tents of the Zuagirs, and you are our brother! Go not to the house of Aram Baksh!'

`Get out of sight!' Conan said suddenly. `Yonder comes a squad of the city-watch. If they see you they may remember a horse that was stolen from the satrap's stable-'

The Zuagir gasped, and moved convulsively. He ducked between a booth and a stone horse-trough, pausing only long enough to chatter: `Be warned, my brother! There are demons in the house of Aram Baksh!' Then he darted down a narrow alley and was gone.

Conan shifted his broad sword-belt to his liking, and calmly returned the searching stares directed at him by the squad of watchmen as they swung past. They eyed him curiously and suspiciously, for he was a man who stood out even in such a motley throng as crowded the winding streets of Zamboula. His blue eyes and alien features distinguished him from the Eastern swarms, and the straight sword at his hip added point to the racial difference.

The watchmen did not accost him, but swung on down the street, while the crowd opened a lane for them. They were Pelishtim, squat, hooknosed, with blue-black beards sweeping their mailed breasts - mercenaries hired for work the ruling Turanians considered beneath themselves, and no less hated by the mongrel population for that reason.

Conan glanced at the sun, just beginning to dip behind the flat-topped houses on the western side of the bazar, and hitching once more at his belt, moved off in the direction of Aram Baksh's tavern.

With a hillman's stride he moved through the ever-shifting colors of the streets, where the ragged tunics of whining beggars brushed against the ermine-trimmed khalats of lordly merchants, and the pearl-sewn satin of rich courtezans. Giant black slaves slouched along,- jostling blue-bearded wanderers from the Shemitish cities, ragged nomads from the surrounding deserts, traders and adventurers from all the lands of the East.

The native population was no less heterogenous. Here, centuries ago, the armies of Stygia had come, carving an empire out of the eastern desert. Zamboula was but a small trading-town then, lying amidst a ring of oases, and inhabited by descendants of nomads. The Stygians built it into a city and settled it with their own people, and with Shemite and Kushite slaves. The ceaseless caravans, threading the desert from east to west and back again, brought riches and more mingling of races. Then came the conquering Turanians, riding out of the East to thrust back the boundaries of Stygia, and now for a generation Zamboula had been Turan's westernmost outpost, ruled by a Turanian satrap.

The babel of a myriad tongues smote on the Cimmerian's ears as the restless pattern of the Zamboula streets weaved about him - cleft now and then by a squad of clattering horsemen, the tall, supple warriors of Turan, with dark hawkfaces, clinking metal and curved swords. The throng scampered from under their horses' hoofs, for they were the lords of Zamhoula. But tall, somber Stygians, standing back in the shadows, glowered darkly, remembering their ancient glories. The hybrid population cared little whether the king who controlled their destinies dwelt in dark Khemi or gleaming Aghrapur. Jungir Khan ruled Zamboula, and men whispered that Nafertari, the satrap's mistress, ruled Jungir Khan; but the people went their way, flaunting their myriad colors in the streets, bargaining, disputing, gambling, swilling, loving, as the people of Zamboula have done for all the centuries its towers and minarets have lifted over the sands of the Kharamun.

Bronze lanterns, carved with leering dragons, had been lighted in the streets before Conan reached the house of Aram Baksh. The tavern was the last occupied house on the street, which ran west. A wide garden, enclosed by a wall, where datepalms grew thick, separated it from the houses farther east. To the west of the inn stood another grove of palms, through which the street, now become a road, wound out into the desert. Across the road from the tavern stood a row of deserted huts, shaded by straggling palm trees, and occupied only by bats and jackals. As Conan came down the road he wondered why the beggars, so plentiful in Zamboula, had not appropriated these empty houses for sleeping quarters. The lights ceased some distance behind him. Here were no lanterns, except the one hanging before the tavern gate: only the stars, the soft dust of the road underfoot, and the rustle of the palm leaves in the desert breeze.

Aram's gate did not open upon the road, but upon the alley which ran between the tavern and the garden of the datepalms. Conan jerked lustily at the rope which depended from the bell beside the lantern, augmenting its clamor by hammering on the iron-bound teakwork gate with the hilt of his sword. A wicket opened in the gate and a black face peered through.

`Open, blast you,' requested Conan. `I'm a guest. I've paid Aram for a room, and a room I'll have, by Crom!'

The black craned his neck to stare into the starlit road behind Conan; but he opened the gate without comment, and closed it again behind the Cimmerian, locking and bolting it. The wall was unusually high; but there were many thieves in Zamboula, and a house on the edge of the desert might have to be defended against a nocturnal nomad raid. Conan strode through a garden where great pale blossoms nodded in the starlight, and entered the tap-room, where a Stygian with the shaven head of a student sat at a table brooding over nameless mysteries, and some nondescripts wrangled over a game of dice in a corner.

Aram Baksh came forward, walking softly, a portly man, with a black beard that swept his breast, a jutting hooknose, and small black eyes which were never still.

`You wish food?' he asked. `Drink?'

`I ate a joint of beef and a loaf of bread in the suk,' grunted Conan. `Bring me a tankard of Ghazan wine - I've got just enough left to pay for it.' He tossed a copper coin on the wine-splashed board.

`You did not win at the gaming-tables?'

`How could I, with only a handful of silver to begin with? I paid you for the room this morning, because I knew I'd probably lose. I wanted to be sure I had a roof over my head tonight. I notice nobody sleeps in the streets in Zamboula. The very beggars hunt a niche they can barricade before dark. The city must be full of a particularly bloodthirsty brand of thieves.'

He gulped the cheap wine with relish, and then followed Aram out of the tap-room. Behind him the players halted their game to stare after him with a cryptic speculation in their eyes. They said nothing, but the Stygian laughed, a ghastly laugh of inhuman cynicism and mockery. The others lowered their eyes uneasily, avoiding one another's glance. The arts studied by a Stygian scholar are not calculated to make him share the feelings of a normal human being.

Conan followed Aram down a corridor lighted by copper lamps, and it did not please him to note his host's noiseless tread. Aram's feet were clad in soft slippers and the hallway was carpeted with thick Turanian rugs; but there was an unpleasant suggestion of stealthiness about the Zamboulan.

At the end of the winding corridor Aram halted at a door, across which a heavy iron bar rested in powerful metal brackets. This Aram lifted and showed the Cimmerian into a well-appointed chamber, the windows of which, Conan instantly noted, were small and strongly set with twisted bars of iron, tastefully gilded. There were rugs on the floor, a couch, after the Eastern fashion, and ornately carved stools. It was a much more elaborate chamber than Conan could have procured for the price nearer the center of the city - a fact that had first attracted him, when, that morning, he discovered how slim a purse his roisterings for the past few days had left him. He had ridden into Zamboula from the desert a week before.

Aram had lighted a bronze lamp, and he now called Conan's attention to the two doors. Both were provided with heavy bolts.

`You may sleep safely tonight, Cimmerian,' said Aram, blinking over his bushy beard from the inner doorway.

Conan grunted and tossed his naked broadsword on the couch.

`Your bolts and bars are strong; but I always sleep with steel by my side.'

Aram made no reply; he stood fingering his thick beard for a moment as he stared at the grim weapon. Then silently he withdrew, closing the door behind him. Conan shot the bolt into place, crossed the room, opened the opposite door and looked out. The room was on the side of the house that faced the road running west from the city. The door opened into a small court that was enclosed by a wall of its own. The endwalls, which shut it off from the rest of the tavern compound, were high and without entrances; but the wall that flanked the road was low, and there was no lock on the gate.

Conan stood for a moment in the door, the glow of the bronze lamp behind him, looking down the road to where it vanished among the dense palms. Their leaves rustled together in the faint breeze; beyond them lay the naked desert. Far up the street, in the other direction, lights gleamed and the noises of the city came faintly to him. Here was only starlight, the whispering of the palm leaves, and beyond that low wall, the dust of the road and the deserted huts thrusting their flat roofs against the low stars. Somewhere beyond the palm groves a drum began.

The garbled warnings of the Zuagir returned to him, seeming somehow less fantastic than they had seemed in the crowded, sunlit streets. He wondered again at the riddle of those empty huts. Why did the beggars shun them? He turned back into the chamber, shut the door and bolted it.

The light began to flicker, and he investigated, swearing when he found the palm oil in the lamp was almost exhausted. He started to shout for Aram, then shrugged his shoulders and blew out the light. In the soft darkness he stretched himself fully clad on the couch, his sinewy hand by instinct searching for and closing on the hilt of his broadsword. Glancing idly at the stars framed in the barred windows, with the murmur of the breeze through the palms in his ears, he sank into slumber with a vague consciousness of the muttering drum, out on the desert - the low rumble and mutter of a leather-covered drum, beaten with soft, rhythmic strokes of an open black hand . . .

2 The Night Skulkers

It was the stealthy opening of a door which awakened the Cimmerian. He did not awake as civilized men do, drowsy and drugged and stupid. He awoke instantly, with a clear mind, recognizing the sound that had interrupted his sleep. Lying there tensely in the dark he saw the outer door slowly open. In a widening crack of starlit sky he saw framed a great black bulk, broad, stooping shoulders and a misshapen head blocked out against the stars.

Conan felt the skin crawl between his shoulders. He had bolted that door securely. How could it be opening now, save by supernatural agency? And how could a human being possess a head like that outlined against the stars? All the tales he had heard in the Zuagir tents of devils and goblins came back to bead his flesh with clammy sweat. Now the monster slid noiselessly into the room, with a crouching posture and a shambling gait; and a familiar scent assailed the Cimmerian's nostrils, but did not reassure him, since Zuagir legendry represented demons as smelling like that.

Noiselessly Conan coiled his long legs under him; his naked sword was in his right hand, and when he struck it was as suddenly and murderously as a tiger lunging out of the dark. Not even a demon could have avoided that catapulting charge. His sword met and clove through flesh and bone, and something went heavily to the floor with a strangling cry. Conan crouched in the dark above it, sword dripping in his hand. Devil or beast or man, the thing was dead there on the floor. He sensed death as any wild thing senses it. He glared through the half-open door into the starlit court beyond. The gate stood open, but the court was empty.

Conan shut the door but did not bolt it. Groping in the darkness he found the lamp and lighted it. There was enough oil in it to burn for a minute or so. An instant later he was bending over the figure that sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.

It was a gigantic black man, naked but for a loin-cloth. One hand still grasped a knotty-headed bludgeon. The fellow's kinky wool was built up into horn-like spindles with twigs and dried mud. This barbaric coiffure had given the head its misshapen appearance in the starlight. Provided with a clue to the riddle, Conan pushed back the thick red lips, and grunted as he stared down at teeth filed to points.

He understood now the mystery of the strangers who had disappeared from the house of Aram Baksh; the riddle of the black drum thrumming out there beyond the palm groves, and of that pit of charred bones - that pit where strange meat might be roasted under the stars, while black beasts squatted about to glut a hideous hunger. The man on the floor was a cannibal slave from Darfar.

There were many of his kind in the city. Cannibalism was not tolerated openly in Zamboula. But Conan knew now why people locked themselves in so securely at night, and why even beggars shunned the open alleys and doorless ruins. He grunted in disgust as he visualized brutish black shadows skulking up and down the nighted streets, seeking human prey - and such men as Aram Baksh to open the doors to them. The innkeeper was not a demon; he was worse. The slaves from Darfar were notorious thieves; there was no doubt that some of their pilfered loot found its way into the hands of Aram Baksh. And in return he sold them human flesh.

Conan blew out the light, stepped to the door and opened it, and ran his hand over the ornaments on the outer side. One of them was movable and worked the bolt inside. The room was a trap to catch human prey like rabbits. But this time instead of a rabbit it had caught a saber-toothed tiger.

Conan returned to the other door, lifted the bolt and pressed against it. It was immovable and he remembered the bolt on the other side. Aram was taking no chances either with his victims or the men with whom he dealt. Buckling on his sword-belt, the Cimmerian strode out into the court, closing the door behind him. He had no intention of delaying the settlement of his reckoning with Aram Baksh. He wondered how many poor devils had been bludgeoned in their sleep and dragged out of that room and down the road that ran through the shadowed palm groves to the roasting-pit.

He halted in the court. The drum was still muttering, and he caught the reflection of a leaping red glare through the groves. Cannibalism was more than a perverted appetite with the black men of Darfar; it was an integral element of their ghastly cult. The black vultures were already in conclave. But whatever flesh filled their bellies that night, it would not be his.

To reach Aram Baksh he must climb one of the walls which separated the small enclosure from the main compound. They were high, meant to keep out the man-eaters; but Conan was no swamp-bred black man; his thews had been steeled in boyhood on the sheer cliffs of his native hills. He was standing at the foot of the nearer wall when a cry echoed under the trees.

In an instant Conan was crouching at the gate, glaring down the road. The sound had come from the shadows of the huts across the road. He heard a frantic choking and gurgling such as might result from a desperate attempt to shriek, with a black hand fastened over the victim's mouth. A close-knit clump of figures emerged from the shadows beyond the huts, and started down the road - three huge black men carrying a slender, struggling figure between them. Conan caught the glimmer of pale limbs writhing in the starlight, even as, with a convulsive wrench, the captive slipped from the grasp of the brutal fingers and came flying up the road, a supple young woman, naked as the day she was born. Conan saw her plainly before she ran out of the road and into the shadows between the huts. The blacks were at her heels, and back in the shadows the figures merged and an intolerable scream of anguish and horror rang out.

Stirred to red rage by the ghoulishness of the episode, Conan raced across the road.

Neither victim nor abductors were aware of his presence until the soft swish of the dust about his feet brought them about, and then he was almost upon them, coming with the gusty fury of a hill wind. Two of the blacks turned to meet him, lifting their bludgeons. But they failed to estimate properly the speed at which he was coming. One of them was down, disemboweled, before he could strike, and wheeling cat-like, Conan evaded the stroke of the other's cudgel and lashed in a whistling counter-cut. The black's head flew into the air; the headless body took three staggering steps, spurting blood and clawing horribly at the air with groping hands, and then slumped to the dust.

The remaining cannibal gave back with a strangled yell, hurling his captive from him. She tripped and rolled in the dust, and the black fled in blind panic toward the city. Conan was at his heels. Fear winged the black feet, but before they reached the easternmost hut, he sensed death at his back, and bellowed like an ox in the slaughter-yards.

`Black dog of hell!' Conan drove his sword between the dusky shoulders with such vengeful fury that the broad blade stood out half its length from the black breast. With a choking cry the black stumbled headlong, and Conan braced his feet and dragged out his sword as his victim fell.

Only the breeze disturbed the leaves. Conan shook his head as a lion shakes its mane and growled his unsatiated blood-lust. But no more shapes slunk from the shadows, and before the huts the starlit road stretched empty. He whirled at the quick patter of feet behind him, but it was only the girl, rushing to throw herself on him and clasp his neck in a desperate grasp, frantic from terror of the abominable fate she had just escaped.

`Easy, girl,' he grunted. `You're all right. How did they catch you?'

She sobbed something unintelligible. He forgot all about Aram Baksh as he scrutinized her by the light of the stars. She was white, though a very definite brunette, obviously one of Zamboula's many mixed breeds. She was tall, with a slender, supple form, as he was in a good position to observe. Admiration burned in his fierce eyes as he looked down on her splendid bosom and her lithe limbs, which still quivered from fright and exertion. He passed an arm around her flexible waist and said, reassuringly: `Stop shaking, wench; you're safe enough.'

His touch seemed to restore her shaken sanity. She tossed back her thick, glossy locks and cast a fearful glance over her shoulder, while she pressed closer to the Cimmerian as if seeking security in the contact.

`They caught me in the streets,' she muttered, shuddering. `Lying in wait, beneath a dark arch - black men, like great, hulking apes! Set have mercy on me! I shall dream of it!'

`What were you doing out on the streets this time of night?' he inquired, fascinated by the satiny feel of her sleek skin under his questing fingers.

She raked back her hair and stared blankly up into his face. She did not seem aware of his caresses.

`My lover,' she said. `My lover drove me into the streets. He went mad and tried to kill me. As I fled from him I was seized by those beasts.'

`Beauty like yours might drive a man mad,' quoth Conan, running his fingers experimentally through her glossy tresses.

She shook her head, like one emerging from a daze. She no longer trembled, and her voice was steady.

`It was the spite of a priest - of Totrasmek, the high priest of Hanuman, who desires me for himself - the dog!'

`No need to curse him for that,' grinned Conan. `The old hyena has better taste than I thought.'

She ignored the bluff compliment. She was regaining her poise swiftly.

`My lover is a - a young Turanian soldier. To spite me, Totrasmek gave him a drug that drove him mad. Tonight he snatched up a sword and came at me to slay me in his madness, but I fled from him into the streets. The negroes seized me and brought me to this - what was that?'

Conan had already moved. Soundlessly as a shadow he drew her behind the nearest hut, beneath the straggling palms. They stood in tense stillness, while the low mutterings both had heard grew louder until voices were distinguishable. A group of negroes, some nine or ten, were coming along the road from the direction of the city. The girl clutched Conan's arm and he felt the terrified quivering of her supple body against his.

Now they could understand the gutturals of the black men.

`Our brothers have already assembled at the pit,' said one. `We have had no luck. I hope they have enough for us.'

'Aram promised us a man,' muttered another, and Conan mentally promised Aram something.

'Aram keeps his word,' grunted yet another. `Many a man we have taken from his tavern. But we pay him well. I myself have given him ten bales of silk I stole from my master. It was good silk, by Set!'

The blacks shuffled past, bare splay feet scuffing up the dust, and their voices dwindled down the road.

`Well for us those corpses are lying behind these huts,' muttered Conan. `If they look in Aram's death-room they'll find another. Let's begone.'

`Yes, let us hasten!' begged the girl, almost hysterical again. `My lover is wandering somewhere in the streets alone. The negroes may take him.'

`A devil of a custom this is!' growled Conan, as he led the way toward the city, paralleling the road but keeping behind the huts and straggling trees. `Why don't the citizens clean out these black dogs?'

`They are valuable slaves,' murmured the girl. `There are so many of them they might revolt if they were denied the flesh for which they lust. The people of Zamboula know they skulk the streets at night, and all are careful to remain within locked doors, except when something unforeseen happens, as it did to me. The blacks prey on anything they catch, but they seldom catch anybody but strangers. The people of Zamboula are not concerned with the strangers that pass through the city.

`Such men as Aram Baksh sell these strangers to the blacks. He would not dare attempt such a thing with a citizen.'

Conan spat in disgust, and a moment later led his companion out into the road which was becoming a street, with still, unlighted houses on each side. Slinking in the shadows was not congenial to his nature.

`Where do you want to go?' he asked. The girl did not seem to object to his arm about her waist.

`To my house, to rouse my servants,' she answered. `To bid them search for my lover. I do not wish the city - the priests anyone - to know of his madness. He - he is a young officer with a promising future. Perhaps we can drive this madness from him if we can find him.'

`If we find him?' rumbled Conan. `What makes you think I want to spend the night scouring the streets for a lunatic?'

She cast a quick glance into his face, and properly interpreted the gleam in his blue eyes. Any woman could have known that he would follow her wherever she led - for a while, at least. But being a woman, she concealed her knowledge of that fact.

`Please,' she began with a hint of tears in her voice, `I have no one else to ask for help - you have been kind-'

`All right!' he grunted. `All right! What's the young reprobate's name?'

`Why - Alafdhal. I am Zabibi, a dancing-girl. I have danced often before the satrap, Jungir Khan, and his mistress Nafertari, and before all the lords and royal ladies of Zamboula. Totrasmek desired me, and because I repulsed him, he made me the innocent tool of his vengeance against Alafdhal. I asked a love potion of Totrasmek, not suspecting the depth of his guile and hate. He gave me a drug to mix with my lover's wine, and he swore that when Alafdhal drank it, he would love me even more madly than ever, and grant my every wish. I mixed the drug secretly with my lover's wine. But having drunk, my lover went raving mad and things came about as I have told you. Curse Totrasmek, the hybrid snake - ahhh!'

She caught his arm convulsively and both stopped short. They had come into a district of shops and stalls, all deserted and unlighted, for the hour was late. They were passing an alley, and in its mouth a man was standing, motionless and silent. His head was lowered, but Conan caught the weird gleam of eery eyes regarding them unblinkingly. His skin crawled, not with fear of the sword in the man's hand, but because of the uncanny suggestion of his posture and silence. They suggested madness. Conan pushed the girl aside and drew his sword.

`Don't kill him!' she begged. `In the name of Set, do not slay him! You are strong - overpower him!'

`We'll see,' he muttered, grasping his sword in his right hand and clenching his left into a mallet-like fist.

He took a wary step toward the alley - and with a horrible moaning laugh the Turanian charged. As he came he swung his sword, rising on his toes as he put all the power of his body behind the blows. Sparks flashed blue as Conan parried the blade, and the next instant the madman was stretched senseless in the dust from a thundering buffet of Conan's left fist.

The girl ran forward.

`Oh, he is not - he is not-'

Conan bent swiftly, turned the man on his side and ran quick fingers over him.

`He's not hurt much,' he grunted. `Bleeding at the nose, but anybody's likely to do that, after a clout on the jaw. He'll come to after a bit, and maybe his mind will be right. In the meantime I'll tie his wrists with his sword-belt - so. Now where do you want me to take him?'

`Wait!' She knelt beside the senseless figure, seized the bound hands and scanned them avidly. Then, shaking her head as if in baffled disappointment, she rose. She came close to the giant Cimmerian, and laid her slender hands on his arching breast. Her dark eyes, like wet black jewels in the starlight, gazed up into his.

`You are a man! Help me! Totrasmek must die! Slay him for me!'

`And put my neck into a Turanian noose?' he grunted.

`Nay!' The slender arms, strong as pliant steel, were around his corded neck. Her supple body throbbed against his. `The Hyrkanians have no love for Totrasmek. The priests of Set fear him. He is a mongrel, who rules men by fear and superstition. I worship Set, and the Turanians bow to Erlik, but Totrasmek sacrifices to Hanuman the accursed! The Turanian lords fear his black arts and his power over the hybrid population, and they hate him. If he were slain in his temple at night, they would not seek his slayer very closely.'

`And what of his magic?' rumbled the Cimmerian.

`You are a fighting-man,' she answered. `To risk your life is part of your profession.'

`For a price,' he admitted.

`There will be a price!' she breathed, rising on tiptoe, to gaze into his eyes.

The nearness of her vibrant body drove a flame through his veins. The perfume of her breath mounted to his brain. But as his arms closed about her supple figure she avoided them with a lithe movement, saying: `Wait! First serve me in this matter.'

`Name your price.' He spoke with some difficulty.

`Pick up my lover,' she directed, and the Cimmerian stooped and swung the tall form easily to his broad shoulder. At the moment he felt as if he could have toppled over Jungir Khan's palace with equal ease. The girl murmured an endearment to the unconscious man, and there was no hypocrisy in her attitude. She obviously loved Alafdhal sincerely. Whatever business arrangement she made with Conan would have no bearing on her relationship with Alafdhal. Women are more practical about these things than men.

`Follow me!' She hurried along the street, while the Cimmerian strode easily after her, in no way discomforted by his limp burden. He kept a wary eye out for black shadows skulking under arches, but saw nothing suspicious. Doubtless the men of Darfar were all gathered at the roasting-pit. The girl turned down a narrow side street, and presently knocked cautiously at an arched door.

Almost instantly a wicket opened in the upper panel, and a black face glanced out. She bent close to the opening, whispering swiftly. Bolts creaked in their sockets, and the door opened. A giant black man stood framed against the soft glow of a copper lamp. A quick glance showed Conan the man was not from Darfar. His teeth were unfiled and his kinky hair was cropped close to his skull. He was from the Wadai.

At a word from Zabibi, Conan gave the limp body into the black's arms, and saw the young officer laid on a velvet divan. He showed no signs of returning consciousness. The blow that had rendered him senseless might have felled an ox. Zabibi bent over him for an instant, her fingers nervously twining and twisting. Then she straightened and beckoned the Cimmerian.

The door closed softly, the locks clicked behind them, and the closing wicket shut off the glow of the lamps. In the starlight of the street Zabibi took Conan's hand. Her own hand trembled a little.

`You will not fail me?'

He shook his maned head, massive against the stars.

`Then follow me to Hanuman's shrine, and the gods have mercy on our souls!'

Along the silent streets they moved like phantoms of antiquity. They went in silence. Perhaps the girl was thinking of her lover lying senseless on the divan under the copper lamps; or was shrinking with fear of what lay ahead of them in the demon-haunted shrine of Hanuman. The barbarian was thinking only of the woman moving so supplely beside him. The perfume of her scented hair was in his nostrils, the sensuous aura of her presence filled his brain and left room for no other thoughts.

Once they heard the clank of brass-shod feet, and drew into the shadows of a gloomy arch while a squad of Pelishtim watchmen swung past. There were fifteen of them; they marched in close formation, pikes at the ready, and the rearmost men had their broad brass shields slung on their backs, to protect them from a knife-stroke from behind. The skulking menace of the black man-eaters was a threat even to armed men.

As soon as the clang of their sandals had receded up the street, Conan and the girl emerged from their hiding-place and hurried on. A few moments later they saw the squat, flat-topped edifice they sought looming ahead of them.

The temple of Hanuman stood alone in the midst of a broad square, which lay silent and deserted beneath the stars. A marble wall surrounded the shrine, with a broad opening directly before the portico. This opening had no gate or any sort of barrier.

`Why don't the blacks seek their prey here?' muttered Conan. `There's nothing to keep them out of the temple.'

He could feel the trembling of Zabibi's body as she pressed close to him.

`They fear Totrasmek, as all in Zamboula fear him, even Jungir Khan and Nafertari. Come! Come quickly, before my courage flows from me like water!'

The girl's fear was evident, but she did not falter. Conan drew his sword and strode ahead of her as they advanced through the open gateway. He knew the hideous habits of the priests of the East, and was aware that an invader of Hanuman's shrine might expect to encounter almost any sort of nightmare horror. He knew there was a good chance that neither he nor the girl would ever leave the shrine alive, but he had risked his life too many times before to devote much thought to that consideration.

They entered a court paved with marble which gleamed whitely in the starlight. A short flight of broad marble steps led up to the pillared portico. The great bronze doors stood wide open as they had stood for centuries. But no worshippers burnt incense within. In the day men and women might come timidly into the shrine and place offerings to the ape-god on the black altar. At night the people shunned the temple of Hanuman as hares shun the lair of the serpent.

Burning censers bathed the interior in a soft weird glow that created an illusion of unreality. Near the rear wall, behind the black stone altar, sat the god with his gaze fixed for ever on the open door, through which for centuries his victims had come, dragged by chains of roses. A faint groove ran from the sill to the altar, and when Conan's foot felt it, he stepped away as quickly as if he had trodden upon a snake. That groove had been worn by the faltering feet of the multitude of those who had died screaming on that grim altar.

Bestial in the uncertain light Hanuman leered with his carven mask. He sat, not as an ape would crouch, but cross-legged as a man would sit, but his aspect was no less simian for that reason. He was carved from black marble, but his eyes were rubies, which glowed red and lustful as the coals of hell's deepest pits. His great hands lay upon his lap, palms upward, taloned fingers spread and grasping. In the gross emphasis of his attributes, in the leer of his satyr-countenance, was reflected the abominable cynicism of the degenerate cult which deified him.

The girl moved around the image, making toward the back wall, and when her sleek flank brushed against a carven knee, she shrank aside and shuddered as if a reptile had touched her. There was a space of several feet between the broad back of the idol and the marble wall with its frieze of gold leaves. On either hand, flanking the idol, an ivory door under a gold arch was set in the wall.

`Those doors open into each end of a hair-pin shaped corridor,' she said hurriedly. `Once I was in the interior of the shrine - once!' She shivered and twitched her slim shoulders at a memory both terrifying and obscene. `The corridor is bent like a horseshoe, with each horn opening into this room. Totrasmek's chambers are enclosed within the curve of the corridor and open into it. But there is a secret door in this wall which opens directly into an inner chamber-'

She began to run her hands over the smooth surface, where no crack or crevice showed. Conan stood beside her, sword in hand, glancing warily about him. The silence, the emptiness of the shrine, with imagination picturing what might lie behind that wall, made him feel like a wild beast nosing a trap.

'Ah!' The girl had found a hidden spring at last; a square opening gaped blackly in the wall. `Set!' she screamed, and even as Conan leaped toward her, he saw that a great misshapen hand had fastened itself in her hair. She was snatched off her feet and jerked headfirst through the opening. Conan, grabbing ineffectually at her, felt his fingers slip from a naked limb, and in an instant she had vanished and the wall showed blank as before. Only from beyond it came briefly the muffled sounds of a struggle, a scream, faintly heard, and a low laugh that made Conan's blood congeal in his veins.

3 Black Hands Gripping

With an oath the Cimmerian smote the wall a terrific blow with the pommel of his sword, and the marble cracked and chipped. But the hidden door did not give way, and reason told him that doubtless it had been bolted on the other side of the wall. Turning, he sprang across the chamber to one of the ivory doors.

He lifted his sword to shatter the panels, but on a venture tried the door first with his left hand. It swung open easily, and he glared into a long corridor that curved away into dimness under the weird light of censers similar to those in the shrine. A heavy gold bolt showed on the jamb of the door, and he touched it lightly with his finger tips. The faint warmness of the metal could have been detected only by a man whose faculties were akin to those of a wolf. That bolt had been touched - and therefore drawn - within the last few seconds. The affair was taking on more and more of the aspect of a baited trap. He might have known Totrasmek would know when anyone entered the temple.

To enter the corridor would undoubtedly be to walk into whatever trap the priest had set for him. But Conan did not hesitate. Somewhere in that dim-lit interior Zabibi was a captive, and, from what he knew of the characteristics of Hanuman's priests, he was sure that she needed help badly. Conan stalked into the corridor with a pantherish tread, poised to strike right or left.

On his left, ivory, arched doors opened into the corridor, and he tried each in turn. All were locked. He had gone perhaps seventy-five feet when the corridor bent sharply to the left, describing the curve the girl had mentioned. A door opened into this curve, and it gave under his hand.

He was looking into a broad, square chamber, somewhat more clearly lighted than the corridor. Its walls were of white marble, the floor of ivory, the ceiling of fretted silver. He saw divans of rich satin, gold-worked footstools of ivory, a disk-shaped table of some massive, metal-like substance. On one of the divans a man was reclining, looking toward the door. He laughed as he met the Cimmerian's startled glare.

This man was naked except for a loin-cloth and high-strapped sandals. He was brown-skinned, with close-cropped black hair and restless black eyes that set off a broad, arrogant face. In girth and breadth he was enormous, with huge limbs on which the great muscles swelled and rippled at each slightest movement. His hands were the largest Conan had ever seen. The assurance of gigantic physical strength colored his every action and inflection.

`Why not enter, barbarian?' he called mockingly, with an exaggerated gesture of invitation.

Conan's eyes began to smolder ominously, but he trod warily into the chamber, his sword ready.

`Who the devil are you?' he growled.

`I am Baal-pteor,' the man answered. `Once, long ago and in another land, I had another name. But this is a good name, and why Totrasmek gave it to me, any temple wench can tell you.'

`So you're his dog!' grunted Conan. `Well, curse your brown hide, Baal-pteor, where's the wench you jerked through the wall?'

`My master entertains her!' laughed Baal-pteor. `Listen!'

From beyond a door opposite the one by which Conan had entered there sounded a woman's scream, faint and muffled in the distance.

`Blast your soul!' Conan took a stride toward the door, then wheeled with his skin tingling. Baal-pteor was laughing at him, and that laugh was edged with menace that made the hackles rise on Conan's neck and sent a red wave of murder-lust driving across his vision.

He started toward Baal-pteor, the knuckles on his sword-hand showing white. With a swift motion the brown man threw something at him - a shining crystal sphere that glistened in the weird light.

Conan dodged instinctively, but, miraculously, the globe stopped short in midair, a few feet from his face. It did not fall to the floor. It hung suspended, as if by invisible filaments, some five feet above the floor. And as he glared in amazement, it began to rotate with growing speed. And as it revolved it grew, expanded, became nebulous. It filled the chamber. It enveloped him. It blotted out furniture, walls, the smiling countenance of Baal-pteor. He was lost in the midst of a blinding bluish blur of whirling speed. Terrific winds screamed past Conan, tugging, tearing at him, striving to wrench him from his feet, to drag him into the vortex that spun madly before him.

With a choking cry Conan lurched backward, reeled, felt the solid wall against his back. At the contact the illusion ceased to be. The whirling, titanic sphere vanished like a bursting bubble. Conan reeled upright in the silver-ceilinged room, with a gray mist coiling about his feet, and saw Baal-pteor lolling on the divan, shaking with silent laughter.

`Son of a slut!' Conan lunged at him. But the mist swirled up from the floor, blotting out that giant brown form. Groping in a rolling cloud that blinded him, Conan felt a rending sensation of dislocation - and then room and mist and brown man were gone together. He was standing alone among the high reeds of a marshy fen, and a buffalo was lunging at him, head down. He leaped aside from the ripping scimitar-curved horns, and drove his sword in behind the foreleg, through ribs and heart. And then it was not a buffalo dying there in the mud, but the brown skinned Baal-pteor. With a curse Conan struck off his head; and the head soared from the ground and snapped beastlike tusks into his throat. For all his mighty strength he could not tear it loose - he was choking - strangling; then there was a rush and roar through space, the dislocating shock of an immeasurable impact, and he was back in the chamber with Baal-pteor, whose head was once more set firmly on his shoulders, and who laughed silently at him from the divan.

`Mesmerism!' muttered Conan, crouching and digging his toes hard against the marble.

His eyes blazed. This brown dog was playing with him, making sport of him! But this mummery, this child's play of mists and shadows of thought, it could not harm him. He had but to leap and strike and the brown acolyte would be a mangled corpse under his heel. This time he would not be fooled by shadows of illusion - but he was.

A blood-curdling snarl sounded behind him, and he wheeled and struck in a flash at the panther crouching to spring on him from the metal-colored table. Even as he struck, the apparition vanished and his blade clashed deafeningly on the adamantine surface. Instantly he sensed something abnormal. The blade stuck to the table! He wrenched at it savagely. It did not give. This was no mesmeristic trick. The table was a giant magnet. He gripped the hilt with both hands, when a voice at his shoulder brought him about, to face the brown man, who had at last risen from the divan.

Slightly taller than Conan, and much heavier, Baal-pteor loomed before him, a daunting image of muscular development. His mighty arms were unnaturally long, and his great hands opened and closed, twitching convulsively. Conan released the hilt of his imprisoned sword and fell silent, watching his enemy through slitted lids.

`Your head, Cimmerian!' taunted Baal-pteor. `I shall take it with my bare hands, twisting it from your shoulders as the head of a fowl is foisted! Thus the sons of Kosala offer sacrifice to Yajur. Barbarian, you look upon a strangler of Yota-pong. I was chosen by the priests of Yajur in my infancy, and throughout childhood, boyhood and youth I trained in the art of slaying with the naked hands - for only thus are the sacrifices enacted. Yajur loves blood, and we waste not a drop from the victim's veins. When I was a child they gave me infants to throttle; when I was a boy I strangled young girls; as a youth, women, old men and young boys. Not until I reached my full manhood was I given a strong man to slay on the altar of Yota-pong.

`For years I offered the sacrifices to Yajur. Hundreds of necks have snapped between these fingers-' he worked them before the Cimmerian's angry eyes. `Why I fled from Yota-pong to become Totrasmek's servant is no concern of yours. In a moment you will be beyond curiosity. The priests of Kosala, the stranglers of Yajur, are strong beyond the belief of men. And I was stronger than any. With my hands, barbarian, I shall break your neck!'

And like the stroke of twin cobras, the great hands closed on Conan's throat. The Cimmerian made no attempt to dodge or fend them away, but his own hands darted to the Kosalan's bullneck. Baal-pteor's black eyes widened as he felt the thick cords of muscles that protected the barbarian's throat. With a snarl he exerted his inhuman strength, and knots and lumps and ropes of thews rose along his massive arms. And then a choking gasp burst from him as Conan's fingers locked on his throat. For an instant they stood there like statues, their faces masks of effort, veins beginning to stand out purply on their temples. Conan's thin lips drew back from his teeth in a grinning snarl. Baal-pteor's eyes were distended; in them grew an awful surprize and the glimmer of fear. Both men stood motionless as images, except for the expanding of their muscles on rigid arms and braced legs, but strength beyond common conception was warring there - strength that might have uprooted trees and crushed the skulls of bullocks. '

The wind whistled suddenly from between Baal-pteor's parted teeth. His face was growing purple. Fear flooded his eyes. His thews seemed ready to burst from his arms and shoulders, yet the muscles of the Cimmerian's thick neck did not give; they felt like masses of woven iron cords under his desperate fingers. But his own flesh was giving way under the iron fingers of the Cimmerian which ground deeper and deeper into the yielding throat-muscles, crushing them in upon jugular and windpipe.

The statuesque immobility of the group gave way to sudden, frenzied motion, as the Kosalan began to wrench and heave, seeking to throw himself backward. He let go of Conan's throat and grasped his wrists, trying to tear away those inexorable fingers.

With a sudden lunge Conan bore him backward until the small of his back crashed against the table. And still farther over its edge Conan bent him, back and back, until his spine was ready to snap.

Conan's low laugh was merciless as the ring of steel.

`You fool!' he all but whispered. `I think you never saw a man from the West before. Did you deem yourself strong, because you were able to twist the heads off civilized folk, poor weaklings with muscles like rotten string? Hell! Break the neck of a wild Cimmerian bull before you call yourself strong. I did that, before I was a full-grown man - like this!'

And with a savage wrench he twisted Baal-pteor's head around until the ghastly face leered over the left shoulder, and the vertebrae snapped like a rotten branch.

Conan hurled the flopping corpse to the floor, turned to the sword again and gripped the hilt with both hands, bracing his feet against the floor. Blood trickled down his broad breast from the wounds Baal-pteor's finger nails had torn in the skin of his neck. His black hair was damp, sweat ran down his face, and his chest heaved. For all his vocal scorn of Baal-pteor's strength, he had almost met his match in the inhuman Kosalan. But without pausing to catch his breath, he exerted all his strength in a mighty wrench that tore the sword from the magnet where it clung.

Another instant and he had pushed open the door from behind which the scream had sounded, and was looking down a long straight corridor, lined with ivory doors. The other end was masked by a rich velvet curtain, and from beyond that curtain came the devilish strains of such music as Conan had never heard, not even in nightmares. It made the short hairs bristle on the back of his neck. Mingled with it was the panting, hysterical sobbing of a woman. Grasping his sword firmly, he glided down the corridor.

4 Dance, Girl, Dance!

When Zabibi was jerked headfirst through the aperture which opened in the wall behind the idol, her first, dizzy, disconnected thought was that her time had come. She instinctively shut her eyes and waited for the blow to fall. But instead she felt herself dumped unceremoniously onto the smooth marble floor, which bruised her knees and hip. Opening her eyes she stared fearfully around her, just as a muffled impact sounded from beyond the wall. She saw a brown-skinned giant in a loin-cloth standing over her, and, across the chamber into which she had come, a man sat on a divan, with his back to a rich velvet curtain, a broad, fleshy man, with fat white hands and snaky eyes. And her flesh crawled, for this man was Totrasmek, the priest of Hanuman, who for years had spun his slimy webs of power throughout the city of Zamboula.

`The barbarian seeks to batter his way through the wall,' said Totrasmek sardonically, `but the bolt will hold.'

The girl saw that a heavy golden bolt had been shot across the hidden door, which was plainly discernible from this side of the wall. The bolt and its sockets would have resisted the charge of an elephant.

`Go open one of the doors for him, Baal-pteor,' ordered Totrasmek. `Slay him in the square chamber at the other end of the corridor.'

The Kosalan salaamed and departed by the way of a door in the side wall of the chamber. Zabibi rose, staring fearfully at the priest, whose eyes ran avidly over her splendid figure. To this she was indifferent. A dancer of Zamboula was accustomed to nakedness. But the cruelty in his eyes started her limbs to quivering.

`Again you come to me in my retreat, beautiful one,' he purred with cynical hypocrisy. `It is an unexpected honor. You seemed to enjoy your former visit so little, that I dared not hope for you to repeat it. Yet I did all in my power to provide you with an interesting experience.'

For a Zamboulan dancer to blush would be an impossibility, but a smolder of anger mingled with the fear in Zabibi's dilated eyes.

`Fat pig! You know I did not come here for love of you.'

`No,' laughed Totrasmek, `you came like a fool, creeping through the night with a stupid barbarian to cut my throat. Why should you seek my life?'

`You know why!' she cried, knowing the futility of trying to dissemble.

`You are thinking of your lover,' he laughed. `The fact that you are here seeking my life shows that he quaffed the drug I gave you. Well, did you not ask for it? And did I not send what you asked for, out of the love I bear you?'

`I asked you for a drug that would make him slumber harmlessly for a few hours,' she said bitterly. `And you - you sent your servant with a drug that drove him mad! I was a fool ever to trust you. I might have known your protestations of friendship were lies, to disguise your hate and spite.'

`Why did you wish your lover to sleep?' he retorted. `So you could steal from him the only thing he would never give you the ring with the jewel men call the Star of Khorala - the star stolen from the Queen of Ophir, who would pay a roomful of gold for its return. He would not give it to you willingly, because he knew that it holds a magic which, when properly controlled, will enslave the hearts of any of the opposite sex. You wished to steal it from him, fearing that his magicians would discover the key to that magic and he would forget you in his conquests of the queens of the world. You would sell it back to the queen of Ophir, who understands its power and would use it to enslave men, as she did before it was stolen.'

`And why did you want it?' she demanded sulkily.

`I understand its powers. It would increase the power of my arts.'

`Well,' she snapped, `you have it now!'

`I have the Star of Khorala? Nay, you err.'

`Why bother to lie?' she retorted bitterly. `He had it on his finger when he drove me into the streets. He did not have it when I found him again. Your servant must have been watching the house, and have taken it from him, after I escaped him. To the devil with it! I want my lover back sane and whole. You have the ring; you have punished us both. Why do you not restore his mind to him? Can you?'

`I could,' he assured her, in evident enjoyment of her distress. He drew a phial from among his robes. `This contains the juice of the golden lotus. If your lover drank it he would be sane again. Yes, I will be merciful. You have both thwarted and flouted me, not once but many times; he has constantly opposed my wishes. But I will be merciful. Come and take the phial from my hand.'

She stared at Totrasmek, trembling with eagerness to seize it, but fearing it was but some cruel jest. She advanced timidly, with a hand extended, and he laughed heartlessly and drew back out of her reach. Even as her lips parted to curse him, some instinct snatched her eyes upward. From the gilded ceiling four jade-hued vessels were falling. She dodged, but they did not strike her. They crashed to the floor about her, forming the four corners of a square. And she screamed, and screamed again. For out of each ruin reared the hooded head of a cobra, and one struck at her bare leg. Her convulsive movement to evade it brought her within reach of the one on the other side and again she had to shift like lightning to avoid the flash of its hideous head.

She was caught in a frightful trap. All four serpents were swaying and striking at foot, ankle, calf, knee, thigh, hip, whatever portion of her voluptuous body chanced to be nearest to them, and she could not spring over them or pass between them to safety. She could only whirl and spring aside and twist her body to avoid the strokes, and each time she moved to dodge one snake, the motion brought her within range of another, so that she had to keep shifting with the speed of light. She could move only a short space in any direction, and the fearful hooded crests were menacing her every second. Only a dancer of Zamboula could have lived in that grisly square.

She became, herself, a blur of bewildering motion. The heads missed her by hair's breadths, but they missed, as she pitted her twinkling feet, flickering limbs and perfect eye against the blinding speed of the scaly demons her enemy had conjured out of thin air.

Somewhere a thin whining music struck up, mingling with the hissing of the serpents, like an evil night-wind blowing through the empty sockets of a skull. Even in the flying speed of her urgent haste she realized that the darting of the serpents was no longer at random. They obeyed the grisly piping of the eery music. They struck with a horrible rhythm, and perforce her swaying, writhing, spinning body attuned itself to their rhythm. Her frantic motions melted into the measures of a dance compared to which the most obscene tarantella of Zamora would have seemed sane and restrained. Sick with shame and terror Zabibi heard the hateful mirth of her merciless tormentor.

`The Dance of the Cobras, my lovely one!' laughed Totrasmek. `So maidens danced in the sacrifice to Hanuman centuries ago -but never with such beauty and suppleness. Dance, girl, dance! How long can you avoid the fangs of the Poison People? Minutes? Hours? You will weary at last. Your swift, sure feet will stumble, your legs falter, your hips slow in their rotations. Then the fangs will begin to sink deep into your ivory flesh-'

Behind him the curtain shook as if struck by a gust of wind, and Totrasmek screamed. His eyes dilated and his hands caught convulsively at the length of bright steel which jutted suddenly from his breast.

The music broke off short. The girl swayed dizzily in her dance, crying out in dreadful anticipation of the flickering fangs - and then only four wisps of harmless blue smoke curled up from the floor about her, as Totrasmek sprawled headlong from the divan.

Conan came from behind the curtain, wiping his broad blade. Looking through the hangings he had seen the girl dancing desperately between four swaying spirals of smoke, but he had guessed that their appearance was very different to her. He knew he had killed Totrasmek.

Zabibi sank down on the floor, panting, but even as Conan started toward her, she staggered up again, though her legs trembled with exhaustion.

`The phial!' she gasped. `The phial!'

Totrasmek still grasped it in his stiffening hand. Ruthlessly she tore it from his locked fingers, and then began frantically to ransack his garments.

`What the devil are you looking for?' Conan demanded.

`A ring - he stole it from Alafdhal. He must have, while my lover walked in madness through the streets. Set's devils!'

She had convinced herself that it was not on the person of Totrasmek. She began to cast about the chamber, tearing up divan-covers and hangings, and upsetting vessels.

She paused and raked a damp lock of hair out of her eyes.

`I forgot Baal-pteor!'

`He's in hell with his neck broken,' Conan assured her.

She expressed vindictive gratification at the news, but an instant later swore expressively.

`We can't stay here. It's not many hours until dawn. Lesser priests are likely to visit the temple at any hour of the night, and if we're discovered here with his corpse, the people will tear us to pieces. The Turanians could not save us.'

She lifted the bolt on the secret door, and a few moments later they were in the streets and hurrying away from the silent square where brooded the age-old shrine of Hanuman.

In a winding street a short distance away Conan halted and checked his companion with a heavy hand on her naked shoulder.

`Don't forget there was a price-'

`I have not forgotten!' She twisted free. `But we must go to to Alafdhal first!'

A few minutes later the black slave let them through the wicket door. The young Turanian lay upon the divan, his arms and legs bound with heavy velvet ropes. His eyes were open, but they were like those of a mad dog, and foam was thick on his lips. Zabibi shuddered.

`Force his jaws open!' she commanded, and Conan's iron fingers accomplished the task.

Zabibi emptied the phial down the maniac's gullet. The effect was like magic. Instantly he became quiet. The glare faded from his eyes; he stared up at the girl in a puzzled way, but with recognition and intelligence. Then he fell into a normal slumber.

`When he awakes he will be quite sane,' she whispered, motioning to the silent slave.

With a deep bow he gave into her hands a small leathern bag, and drew about her shoulders a silken cloak. Her manner had subtly changed when she beckoned Conan to follow her out of the chamber.

In an arch that opened on the street, she turned to him, drawing herself up with a new regality.

`I must now tell you the truth,' she said. `I am not Zabibi. I am Nafertari. And he is not Alafdhal, a poor captain of the guardsmen. He is Jungir Khan, satrap of Zamboula.'

Conan made no comment; his scarred dark countenance was immobile.

`I lied to you because I dared not divulge the truth to anyone,' she said. `We were alone when Jungir Khan went mad. None knew of it but myself. Had it been known that the satrap of Zamboula was a madman, there would have been instant revolt and rioting, even as Totrasmek planned, who plotted our destruction.

`You see now how impossible is the reward for which you hoped. The satrap's mistress is not - cannot be for you. But you shall not go unrewarded. Here is a sack of gold.'

She gave him the bag she had received from the slave.

`Go, now, and when the sun is come up to the palace, I will have Jungir Khan make you captain of his guard. But you will take your orders from me, secretly. Your first duty will be to march a squad to the shrine of Hanuman, ostensibly to search for clues of the priest's slayer; in reality to search for the Star of Khorala. It must be hidden there somewhere. When you find it, bring it to me. You have my leave to go now.'

He nodded, still silent, and strode away. The girl, watching the swing of his broad shoulders, was piqued to note that there was nothing in his bearing to show that he was in any way chagrined or abashed.

When he had rounded a corner, he glanced back, and then changed his direction and quickened his pace. A few moments later he was in the quarter of the city containing the Horse Market. There he smote on a door until from the window above a bearded head was thrust to demand the reason for the disturbance.

`A horse,' demanded Conan. `The swiftest steed you have.'

`I open no gates at this time of night,' grumbled the horsetrader.

Conan rattled his coins.

`Dog's son knave! Don't you see I'm white, and alone? Come down, before I smash your door!'

Presently, on a bay stallion, Conan was riding toward the house of Aram Baksh.

He turned off the road into the alley that lay between the tavern compound and the datepalm garden, but he did not pause at the gate. He rode on to the northeast corner of the wall, then turned and rode along the north wall, to halt within a few paces of the northwest angle. No trees grew near the wall, but there were some low bushes. To one of these he tied his horse, and was about to climb into the saddle again, when he heard a low muttering of voices beyond the corner of the wall.

Drawing his foot from the stirrup he stole to the angle and peered around it. Three men were moving down the road toward the palm groves, and from their slouching gait he knew they were negroes. They halted at his low call, bunching themselves as he strode toward them, his sword in his hand. Their eyes gleamed whitely in the starlight. Their brutish lust shone in their ebony faces, but they knew their three cudgels could not prevail against his sword, just as he knew it.

`Where are you going?' he challenged.

`To bid our brothers put out the fire in the pit beyond the groves,' was the sullen, guttural reply. 'Aram Baksh promised us a man, but he lied. We found one of our brothers dead in the trap-chamber. We go hungry this night.'

`I think not,' smiled Conan. 'Aram Baksh will give you a man. Do you see that door?'

He pointed to a small, iron-bound portal set in the midst of the western wall.

`Wait there. Aram Baksh will give you a man.'

Backing warily away until he was out of reach of a sudden bludgeon blow, he turned and melted around the northwest angle of the wall. Reaching his horse he paused to ascertain that the blacks were not sneaking after him, and then he climbed into the saddle and stood upright on it, quieting the uneasy steed with a low word. He reached up, grasped the coping of the wall and drew himself up and over. There he studied the grounds for an instant. The tavern was built in the southwest corner of the enclosure, the remaining space of which was occupied by groves and gardens. He saw no one in the grounds. The tavern was dark and silent, and he knew all the doors and windows were barred and bolted.

Conan knew that Aram Baksh slept in a chamber that opened into a cypress-bordered path that led to the door in the western wall. Like a shadow he glided among the trees and a few moments later he rapped lightly on the chamber door.

`What is it?' asked a rumbling voice within.

'Aram Baksh!' hissed Conan. `The blacks are stealing over the wall!'

Almost instantly the door opened, framing the tavern-keeper, naked but for his shirt, with a dagger in his hand.

He craned his neck to stare into the Cimmerian's face.

`What tale is this -you!'

Conan's vengeful fingers strangled the yell in his throat. They went to the floor together and Conan wrenched the dagger from his enemy's hand. The blade glinted in the starlight, and blood spurted. Aram Baksh made hideous noises, gasping and gagging on a mouthful of blood. Conan dragged him to his feet and again the dagger slashed, and most of the curly beard fell to the floor.

Still gripping his captive's throat - for a man can scream incoherently even with his tongue slit - Conan dragged him out of the dark chamber and down the cypress-shadowed path, to the iron-bound door in the outer wall. With one hand he lifted the bolt and threw the door open, disclosing the three shadowy figures which waited like black vultures outside. Into their eager arms Conan thrust the innkeeper.

A horrible, blood-choked scream rose from the Zamboulan's throat, but there was no response from the silent tavern. The people there were used to screams outside the wall. Aram Baksh fought like a wild man, his distended eyes turned frantically on the Cimmerian's face. He found no mercy there. Conan was thinking of the scores of wretches who owed their bloody doom to this man's greed.

In glee the negroes dragged him down the road, mocking his frenzied gibberings. How could they recognize Aram Baksh in this half-naked, bloodstained figure, with the grotesquely shorn beard and unintelligible babblings? The sounds of the struggle came back to Conan, standing beside the gate, even after the clump of figures had vanished among the palms.

Closing the door behind him, Conan returned to his horse, mounted and turned westward, toward the open desert, swinging wide to skirt the sinister belt of palm groves. As he rode, he drew from his belt a ring in which gleamed a jewel that snared the starlight in a shimmering iridescence. He held it up to admire it, turning it this way and that. The compact bag of gold pieces clinked gently at his saddle-bow, like a promise of the greater riches to come.

`I wonder what she'd say if she knew I recognized her as Nafertari and him as Jungir Khan the instant I saw them,' he mused. `I knew the Star of Khorala, too. There'll be a fine scene if she ever guesses that I slipped it off his finger while I was tying him with his sword-belt. But they'll never catch me, with the start I'm getting.'

He glanced back at the shadowy palm groves, among which a red glare was mounting. A chanting rose to the night, vibrating with savage exultation. And another sound mingled with it, a mad, incoherent screaming, a frenzied gibbering in which no words could be distinguished. The noise followed Conan as he rode westward beneath the paling stars.

Conan and the Amazon

One

The town was called Leng. It lay in the hill country of eastern Brythunia, not far from the borders of Corinthia and Nemedia, at the convergence of two passes that allowed access through the mountains to the plains that lay to the east, west, and south. Once, much traffic had traversed the mountains by way of these passes and Leng had prospered. But trade routes had shifted, and for many years the greater part of the town had lain derelict: a place for the occasional caravan to camp within waits to break the wind that blew without cease among the hills. Herdsmen grazed their cattle and sheep on pastures that had once been the sumptuous gardens of the wealthy merchants of Leng.

But now the town was beginning to fill up once more. Along the passes, in ones, twos, small bands and occasionally larger groups, people converged upon the town from four directions. Many were mounted, some on horseback and others on camels. But some were on foot, and among these, some were chained neck-to-neck in slave coffles. Most of the new arrivals were men, but there were women among them as well.

It was late afternoon when a lone figure strode over the crest of a final hill and looked down the winding, dusty road into the town below. The red sun cast long shadows and stained the western side of the taller buildings a lurid crimson. The walls of Leng were low, constructed of rough-hewn stone. Many of the rugged blocks had toppled from the ramparts, leaving sizable gaps. The massive gates had rotted away and left the town wide open to any who wished to enter.

Most of the buildings that yet stood were close to the ground, but here and there rose towers four or five stories high, once the stronghouses of wealthy families. From several spots, plumes of smoke drifted into the clear sky. A few late travelers entered the walls even as the watcher studied the city.

The man who stood atop the last slope was huge, with hard limbs and a scarred torso bared to the cutting breeze. He wore high, fur-topped boots and a breechclout of wolfhide. Over his massive shoulders was draped his only concession to the weather a short mantle of shaggy goatskin. His wrists and forearms were wrapped in bands of heavy, bronze-studded leather, and he wore a matching belt from which were suspended a long sword and a straight, broad-bladed dirk.

The wind whipped the traveler’s straight, black hair around his face, which was angular, as scarred as his body, and as deeply tanned. Only his burning, blue eyes moved as he looked over the town.

Nothing else about him shifted. Abruptly and decisively, he began to stride toward Leng.

A hundred paces from the town, me black-haired man, who had come from the north, fell in with a small band of men approaching from the east They were well-armed and had a predatory look, but they offered him no challenge.

“Greeting, stranger,” said their leader, a man dressed in tunic and trousers of padded silk. Both garments and wearer had seen better days, but he carried himself with a confident swagger. “I see that yet another hard-pressed adventurer seeks the convivial delights of Leng!” The speaker wore a drooping mustache and his features were slightly eastern in cast, but his hair was brown and his eyes were pale green.

“I heard that a man without tribe or nation might sleep here of a night without facing a dungeon or a hanging in the morning,” the black-haired man said. “Other than that, the place has little else to recommend it that I can see.” He fell in to walk beside the other. “Is it in the east as it has become in the north?”

“So it would seem. I am Kye-Dee, of the Northeast Hyrkanians. Turtle Clan. The new Kagan has decreed an end to banditry and suppressed my clan, which has never sullied itself with degrading labor.

We heard of this place across the mountains where a man can be at ease, whatever his past. I do not care for towns, but winter comes on apace, and even a bandit must have shelter.”

“I am Conan of Cimmeria,” said the black-haired man. “I am a mercenary, lately in the employ of a Brythunian border lord. He raised a rebellion against his liege and he lost.” He put out a hand and took that of the Hyrkanian.

“Ah! That sort of thing can make a man unwelcome.” Kye-Dee shifted his shoulder, readjusting the hang of a cased bow and quiver. The sword at his belt was short and curved.

“So it did,” the Cimmerian affirmed. “Such of my comrades as survived were hunted through the hills like so many stags. It was in a hill village that I heard of this place. As you say, winter draws nigh and these mountains are not a good place to be when the north wind blows, unless you have walls and a roof and a fire nearby.”

Near the walls of the city they encountered animal pens roughly constructed of sticks and brush enclosing flocks of sheep, tittle herds of goats, cattle and pigs. Elsewhere, peasants in tunics of hairy hide guarded wicker cages overcrowded with chickens, ducks and geese.

“The local folk are taking advantage of the new population,” Conan said. “Men who never saw more than a few copper coins in their lives will be demanding silver and gold for those animals.”

“Peasants always flock to the smell of profit,” said Kye-Dee. He spat copiously upon the ground.

“You should see them come out of their hiding places after a battle, to strip and rob the dead.”

“I’ve seen it many times,” Conan said grimly, “Only, they do not always wait patiently for men to die.

They slaughter the wounded. If a man has no strength left to resist, they may not bother to kill him, but will cut off his fingers to get the rings, or his hand to take a bracelet, while he yet lives.”

“They are two-legged swine!” said one of the other Hyrkanians.

Conan shrugged. “Well, they’ve little reason to love soldiers any more than we love them.” He eyed his new companions, many of whom limped as if their feet were sore. “I have seldom seen men of your nation afoot.” The Hyrkanians were a nomadic race of horsemen who were horrified at the thought of walking.

Kye-Dee smiled sheepishly. “We were set upon by the Kagan’s men a few days ago as we slept They got all our horses, but those of us you see escaped into the darkness. They did not bother to hunt us, since they assumed that we would die soon without our mounts.”

“I, too, was riding until a few days ago,” Conan admitted. “A robber tried to slay me from a distance. He was a wretched archer and he missed me, but his arrow killed my horse. I killed him, then I cached my saddle, but I doubt I’ll ever return to get it”

They passed beneath the gateless lintel and entered the town of Leng. The low, mud-colored walls of the houses were of a dreary sameness, but the people in the streets were a raffish lot seemingly drawn from half the nations and races of the world. There were men in long, striped desert robes, flowing Nemedian silks, and even a few in the tight, elaborate clothing of Aquilonian dandies. Conan saw hard-looking traveling merchants and men who were obvious deserters from the armies of surrounding lands. There were women in the dress of Zamoran harlots, and other, less fortunate woman destined for the same trade, wearing the chains of slaves.

“A strange place,” Conan mused. “It is a ghost town sprung to life.”

“My friend!” Kye-Dee said, addressing a well-armed merchant who stood guard over a stall offering unguents, medicinal salves and remedies for man and horse. “Where may weary travelers find refreshment and a roof, and all of it somewhere out of this accursed wind?”

“I think men such as you will be served best at the Red Eagle,” said the man, pointing toward one of the towerlike bouses. One side of the structure had been painted with the huge, crude image of a splay-winged bird, its beak cruelly hooked.

“Why men such as we?” Conan asked.

The merchant grinned crookedly. “Because it is the favored hangout for rogues and bandits. True, there are few men of any other sort in this town, but the hardest cases go to the Red Eagle. Achilea herself holds forth there of a night.”

“Achilea!” Conan said, astonished. “Surely she is a thing of travelers’ tales, not a real woman!”

“Oh, she is real,” Kye-Dee affirmed. “I saw her myself once, from a distance. Men say she is very beautiful, and very cruel.”

“This I must see for myself,” Conan said. “Let us go to the Red Eagle.”

As they walked, the Cimmerian called to mind the scattered words he had heard concerning the near-legendary Achilea. It was said that far in the northeast steppe country, there dwelt a tribe of savage women, every one of them a warrior, who would tolerate no men or male children among them.

Infrequently, they would take male captives with whom they coupled for the space of a month, then slew in a horrific ceremony. Any male children born of these unions were given to passing caravans or, some said, were slain. Girls were brought up as warriors.

Once, it was said, the queen of these fearsome women was a woman named Achilea. She had been the terror of all the lands around, but her people had turned against her and she was overthrown by a rival. Why this had happened was a mystery, but she had ridden off with a few followers and had become an outlaw, raiding caravans, villages and even towns, all over the steppes and well into the settled lands. For years, Conan had assumed that she was one of those legends one encountered everywhere: always some bizarre, fearsome character whom no one had actually seen, though everyone had known somebody who had seen him. Or, in this case, her.

As they drew nearer to the tall building, the gathering darkness revealed lights glowing in many of its small windows. There was sufficient twilight left to see that it had been covered with an improvised roof of thatch. A well and several water-troughs stood before the building, and a number of bones, mules, asses and camels drank there or stood chewing their cud or nudging one another in lethargic boredom.

Conan and his new companions ducked beneath the low lintel of the door and entered. They descended four steps and stood in the main room of the inn. Its heavy timbers were low enough to brush the crown of the tall Cimmerian’s black mane, and candles, small torches and lanterns provided adequate illumination. The furnishings were of the most varied son. There were some long tables with benches, smaller road or square tables surrounded by chairs, and low, drum-like tables for those who preferred to sit upon the straw-covered floor.

At one end of the room was a bar made of a heavy stone slab laid atop massive blocks. Behind it stood a man a little less massive, with tree-trunk arms and legs and a belly that strained the limits of his leather apron. His shaven pate was tattooed with brightly colored flowers, and an upswept mustache framed a broken nose gleaming with jeweled studs. Behind him, kegs, wineskins and clay pots were arranged on shelves amid flagons, clay cups and leather jacks.

The place was crowded, with men seated around every table. Dice raided in cups, and the counters of a half-score games of chance changed hands along with the wagers. To one side, men cast daggers at a crude wooden target. The drinkers seated just beneath the target ignored the weapons whizzing over their heads.

Most of the men paused in their activities to study the newcomers and then, satisfied, returned to their pursuits. At least one, though, seemed to be offended by Conan’s garb, which was uncouth and primitive even by the undiscriminating standards of the Red Eagle. As they passed a long table, the man leaned out and made an insulting show of studying the Cimmerian’s scanty hide garments.

“Here’s a savage right out of the trees!” the fellow said loudly, “What will you be allowing in here next, barkeep? The goats and the asses?” He sneered, making his ugly face even uglier. His scrubby beard failed to hide the mark of the thief branded upon one cheek by a Zamoran executioner.

“So he have money to pay, he can walk in here naked for all I care,” said the man in the leather apron.

Conan paused and turned to face the branded man. “If you do not like my look,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “then you may try to change it.” He leaned close, until his face was within an inch of the other man’s. “That is the brand of a thief I see on your face. When the Zamorans had you, they did not bother to treat you as a manslayer.” The blue eyes burned like sulphur flames.

The man paled. Before, he had seen only the barbarous clothing. Now he saw the sort of man who
wore it. “I … I’ll not sully my blade with the blood of a savage,” he blustered.

“You can use mine,” Kye-Dee said helpfully. He started to unhook his sheath from his belt.

“Enough, Arpad!” barked the barkeep. “You should know better than to prod a fighting man like this one. Put your nose back into your tankard where it belongs and stop bothering my customers.” The gigantic man picked up a massive cudgel and rapped its iron-banded business end upon the bar for emphasis.

With a weak show of bravado, the man sneered again. “This beast-man is nothing to me, Indulio. I’ll not bother to shed his blood if it would offend you.” He returned his attention to his ale, but his face was flushed with shame. The Cimmerian stood beside him for a moment, smiling, then continued on his way to the bar.

“We are hungry, thirsty and weary,” said the Hyrkanian. “I can see that you have drink. Have you food and lodging as well?”

“That depends,” said the barkeep. “Have you money?”

The Cimmerian and his new companions rummaged through their purses and soon a small pile of copper and silver lay upon the bar. The man named Indulio beamed.

“For this, you may eat, drink and sleep here for three days and nights.” With one broad paw, he swept the coins off the bar and caught them with the other. He dropped the handful of metal through a slot in an iron-bound chest that lay by his feet “After that, you must come up with more.”

“Where do we sleep?” Conan asked.

The man’s thick finger stabbed straight overhead. “There is as yet no one using the fifth floor. Mind you be careful with your candles and lamps. There is nothing but thatch above that The food is preparing now and will be ready soon. What will you drink?”

“Ale,” Conan said. The Hyrkanians, learning that there was no fermented mare’s milk available, settled for ale as well.

Indulio set the foaming mugs before them. “I’ve told you to be careful of your fires. There is to be no fighting inside my tavern, and you are to keep your hands off my serving wenches. Otherwise, do as you like.”

“I’ll abide by the rules of the house,” Conan averred. “But that man back there tried me sorely.

When I was younger, I would have split his skull before the third word left his mouth. But I am a man of patience and discretion now.”

“I’ve no objection to men killing one another,” said the barkeep. “But they must do it outside.”

Conan, Kye-Dee and the others found a relatively un-crowded comer and sat upon the straw, tankards in hand. A slave brought one of the low tables from a back room and set it in their midst. Soon a woman whose neck was encircled by an iron ring set a platter of smoking beef ribs upon the table.

Another brought cheese, fruit and a stack of flat, tough loaves. All over the common room, hungry men interrupted their games and their boasting to feed.

As he ate, Conan was aware that the man called Arpad was casting dark looks his way. It was obvious that his companions, men as villainous-looking as Arpad himself, were chafing him for his unmanly avoidance of a fight he had picked. The Cimmerian did not lower his eyes. He decided that he would have to kill the man before the night was over. Sooner or later, Arpad would drink enough to reissue his challenge. The prospect did not disturb Conan.

As the tankards were refilled, Indulio left the bar in the keeping of one of the serving women and joined his newest guests at their table.

“You seem to have come far, my friends,” he said, settling his great bulk onto the straw.

“Aye, that we have,” said Conan. He and his companions related their brief, unfortunate stories.

“How comes this town to be so popular of a sudden?” the Cimmerian asked when they were done.

The innkeeper stroked his mustache with satisfaction. “You are not the only ones to fall upon hard times. For me first time in perhaps fifty years, Nemedia, Ophir, Koth, Corinthia and Zamora are all at peace. The kings are taking advantage of the fact by scouring their countries for bandits. What is more,
they are all cooperating in this, so that outlaws cannot merely cross a border to be safe. A half-year ago, I saw the possibilities thus engendered and I remembered this town, which I had seen years ago when I was on the run from Zamora to Brythunia. Even the king of Brythunia cares nothing for these border hills, so I passed the word that there was a safe hideout: a town fully built but almost uninhabited, where men can wait until things return to normal. Then I loaded up a wagon train with goods and came here to claim the best building in the town for my inn.

“After that, it was merely a matter of putting a roof on this place and waiting. Within a few days, twoscore men arrived, hi a month, a hundred more came. Now the town is almost fully populated.” He beamed with satisfaction.

“What do men do when they can no longer pay for lodging?” Conan asked.

They move into the many vacant houses, most of which just need a roof. The peasants will fetch you roofing materials for a trifle. The peasants, by the way, arc to be left strictly alone. Steal so much as one of their goats and they will run off with their livestock and we shall all starve.”

“A good rule,” Conan said. “I, for one, never―” He broke off as the door opened and a bizarre group entered the tavern.

First to come in was a squat dwarf who bore a fresh-killed antelope over his shoulders. His short arms and legs were thick with muscle, his torso as massive as a beer keg. His head was larger than an ordinary man’s, his features regular and handsome, but marred by a ring through his nose. Behind him came three armed women who carried bows. Hares and pheasants dangled from their belts. Each wore a stripe of black paint across her eyes like a mask. They wore short, sleeveless tunics and deerskin leggings and many small amulets. Their hair was shaggy and untrimmed. They looked more like hunting animals than ordinary women. But the last figure through the door made Conan forget them and all else in the room.

She wore a lavish cloak trimmed with fur and collared with bright plumes. A great yellow mane framed a handsome face of hard planes softened by a pair of enormous, pale gray eyes and startlingly full lips stained brilliant red. Wind and sun had darkened her face except for some old, white scars. One scar slanted from the side of her nose across a broad, high cheekbone to the jaw. A smaller, vertical scar lay to one side of her chin.

When she stood beneath one of the beams, Conan understood how tall she was. He looked down to see if she were wearing thick-soled boots and noted to his amazement that beneath leggings of gray fur that wrapped her lower legs from knee to ankle, her feet were bare. She stood only an inch or two shorter than himself. As she strode across the room, he was struck with admiration. He had seen crowned queens who carried themselves less regally.

“Indulio!” the woman called as the dwarf heaved the antelope onto the bar. “Prepare these for us.”

The women dropped the smaller game onto the bar and wandered off toward the high-blazing fireplace.

“At once, Achilea,” the owner said, springing lightly to his feet for all his great bulk. “They hum their own food,” he explained to Conan, “and my servants prepare it for them. In return, I keep the hides and plumes,” Shouting orders to his workers, he left the table, Achilea pulled off a pair of brightly embroidered gloves, revealing broad hands with heavy knuckles.

Conan knew that hard sword-training from earliest youth produced such hands. From a shelf behind the bar, Indulio took a silver-mounted ox horn and filled it with ale. This he handed ceremoniously to Achilea. She took it and half-drained it, then went to the fire to join her companions. The men seated there hastily vacated their bench to make room for her and her entourage. From the bench, she surveyed the room for the first time. Her eyes lingered upon Conan for a moment, then swept on. He felt a rush of blood from his heart to his extremities, and he hungered for the woman as he had hungered for few things in all his years,

“What kind of men are you?” shouted an unsteady voice. Conan knew that Arpad was feeling brave again. The man stood and jeered at the woman and her followers. “What sort of men make way for a shameless wench, eh? You think this hussy is the warrior queen she claims to be?” He vented forth a
shrill, neighing laugh. “This is just some northern strumpet pretending to be a bandit who never existed.”

Conan could sec that Arpad had finally drunk enough to be dangerous He watched the woman’s reaction with interest. The dwarf and the other women reached for their weapons, but Achilea stilled them with a gesture. She drained her drinking horn and tossed it to the dwarf, who caught it dexterously.

Then she stood to her full, intimidating height,

“What do you want with me. fellow?” she asked. Her voice was a low, vibrant contralto. Conan found even this exciting.

“Want?” Again Arpad laughed. “Why, I want what every man here wants, wench! To make free with that oversized body of yours! What is your price?” He fumbled within his purse and came up with three coppers. These he tossed at her feet. “Surely you cannot charge more than that!”

For a moment, she looked down at the coins. Then she looked at Arpad. “Our host does not like bloodshed in his tavern.” She rapped her knuckles against a beam just above her tousled locks. “The ceiling here is too low for good swordplay anyway. Come outside to die.” With that, she walked toward the door and her friends followed close behind.

Immediately the room began to empty as the patrons, eager to view this rare sport, poured out.

Arpad exited with his companions slapping him on the back and urging him on. He strutted and preened, a cocky grin on his ugly face. Sighing, Conan stood, picking up the sheathed sword that lay on the straw by his aide.

“I might as well go ahead and kill that fool,” he said. “This is about me, not about her.”

Indulio put a hand on his shoulder. “Nay, friend. She would kill you before she would allow you to take up her fight Let things fall out as they will.” With the Cimmerian and the Hyrkanians, he went outside.

In the courtyard before the Red Eagle, men had marked out a rough fighting circle with torches.

From side streets, others came into the courtyard as word of the unusual fight tore through the little town with terrific speed. Conan elbowed his way to a spot just outside the circle of torches, where he would have a good view of the proceedings.

Arpad stepped into the circle, grinning with false bravado. “Come and meet your master, wench!”

His fingers flexed nervously on the hilt of his sword, which was long and straight, with a narrow blade.

From beneath her cloak Achilea produced a sheathed sword. She stripped off the sheath and handed it to the dwarf. Then one of the women took the cloak from her and she stepped into the fiery circle. At the sight of her, the breath caught in Conan’s throat. He had known fighting women in his lime, and some of them had been more than competent. But never had he seen such a woman as this.

From the densely corded column of her neck, the heavy muscles sloped to wide shoulders tipped with striated half-spheres that blended beautifully into her thick upper arms. The sinews of her forearms rippled as she idly worked her blade in tiny circles. Her slender wrists were tightly bound with bands of black leather, and it looked to Conan as if those wrists were her only likely weakness. Her belly had the definition of a cobblestoned street and appeared as bard. Her thighs were heavy-thewed above delicately sculpted knees.

And yet, despite her incredibly developed musculature, to Conan’s eyes she was not in the least masculine. Upon their squarish base of chest muscle, her breasts were full and womanly, as were her sleekly rounded hips and buttocks. A belt of studded leather banded those sinewy hips, and depending from it, a narrow pelt of red fox passed between her legs before and behind. This, together with her wrist bands and fur leggings, formed her sole attire. Although she was clearly of a fair-skinned race, every inch of her was burned as dark as her face, making her pale eyes and golden hair that much more startling.

She seemed not to notice the cutting wind.

Conan’s heart thudded within his ribs. She was like a magnificent lioness: powerful, proud and deadly. His impulse was to hew Arpad down for daring to threaten such beauty, but he knew this warrior queen would be mortally offended should he intervene. He restrained himself and settle down to watch.

Arpad had lost his cocky grin. Plainly, be had never seen the warrior woman undraped and realized
too late that this was no playacting fraud, but a she-beast fully prepared to take his blood. This was not what he had bargained for, but he had gone too far to back out now.

Conan studied the two. Arpad was tense, keyed up and shocked sober. His clenched teeth and starting eyes were those of a man near his breaking point He gripped his sword with knuckles gone white, its point raised level with the woman’s belly and trembling slightly, his other hand out for’ balance.

Achilea, in stark contrast, stood almost relaxed, her weight MI one leg, cocking her hip into a sinuous S curve, both arms at her sides, her sword almost dangling. Only her head, slightly lowered and thrust forward, revealed that her seeming calm was as deceptive as that of a coiled viper’s.

For long seconds, the two faced one another just beyond sword-range. The onlookers were so quiet that only the wind, fluttering the flames of the torches, made any sound. The strain was too much for Arpad’s unsteady nerves. He lunged forward, staking everything on a single thrust. His sword lanced out, its point darting for the woman’s vulnerable neck, where a wound only an inch deep could bring swift death.

The blow was quick and accurate, but Achilea flicked her own blade upward in a deft circle and batted the point aside. She slid in immediately and brought her blade across in a horizontal, gutting sweep. Her sword, broader than Arpad’s, was also shorter by a handspan. With a grunt of surprise, the man bounded back, and the keen edge missed his belly by a finger’s width. He jabbed his point at Achilea’s eyes and she retreated a step, pushing off smoothly with her leading foot, absorbing her backflung weight with a graceful flexion of her rear foot, knee and thigh, maintaining her balance perfectly throughout.

Now the two circled, crouched, eyes on one another, filled only with the desire to close and cut and kill. Arpad held his sword well to the front, his free hand before his chest, his bent arm covering as much of his belly and rib cage as possible. Conan knew now that he was a man who preferred to use the point.

It was quicker and required less strength man edge-play. Thus his stance was more that of a dagger-fighter than of a swordsman.

Achilea held her own blade well to her right, its point directed outward. Her left arm she held wide as well, her fingers splayed. She would use that hand offensively, not just to protect herself. Crouching thus with her arms wide, she seemed to be offering her lush breasts and ridged belly as a gift, baring them to the sharp steel just inches away. It was risky strategy, for Conan knew that even the toughest muscle gave little more resistance to a keen blade than did the softest flesh.

It was not Conan’s nature to fret, but he felt that the woman was playing a foolish game. Such strategy might well lure in a cautious swordsman, but Arpad was a desperate man, and he had proven that he was quick. It could be difficult for even a skilled swordsman to protect himself from a fool.

Should he essay a full-body lunge, he might spit her through the guts even as she swept his head from his shoulders. A canny fighter never considered a double kill to be an acceptable outcome to a fight.

Arpad seemed almost nerved up to just such a move, and then, abruptly, what little good sense he had took over. He began to wield his blade in short chops, first from the right, then from the left, reversing his direction frequently as he tested her defense for weaknesses. Steel rang on steel as she fended his blows aside. Then she slid forward and her blade moved in a rapid double figure-eight; four blows coming down right-left, right-left in bewildering succession. Arpad saved himself only by means of his lizardlike quickness, interposing his own blade just in time but taking two slight nicks in his scalp in the process. After the last defense, the two were dangerously close and he flailed his sword in a backhand sweep, the blow too wild to be deadly, but the flat of his tip caught her alongside the jaw with an audible smack.

They sprang back, giving themselves room to circle again. Bom combatants streamed with sweat, and their breath hissed from their lungs. They had been fighting for only a short while, but the exertion of battle is as much in the tension as in the effort. Around them, the onlookers muttered in low voices, impatient now for the climax.

Again Achilea offered the wide-open stance. This time, Arpad was ready to take the offer His
strength was ebbing swiftly, drained away by his overwrought nerves. With his strength would depart his speed, and death would soon follow. His arm shot out, extending his blade as he flung himself after his
point

For the first time. Achilea cried out, a fierce battle shout as she brought her blade across in a vicious horizontal swipe from right to left aiming to halve the lunging man even as she twisted to the left to avoid his blade.

But Arpad had one trick left. With his leading foot, he stamped down in mid-lunge, halting his forward movement for an instant, allowing her blade to sweep past harmlessly as be shot forward once more with a short hop, bringing his edge down toward her defenseless neck.

Even as Achilea’s blade carried far past its target, her left hand came up, catching Arpad’s wrist, stopping the deadly steel only the width of three fingers from the pulsing vein beneath her left ear. Their bodies pressed together, surging with full strength as each sought to bring weapon to bear against the other. Arpad’s left hand now gripped Achilea’s right forearm just above the wrist.

Utter silence fell as they groaned and strained, Arpad’s hand trembling as he tried to force his blade against her neck, the muscles of Achilea’s shoulders and back bulging beneath the glossy skin as she tried to drag her weapon free.

With dreamlike slowness, Achilea’s right arm began to rise. First her hilt appeared from between the two bodies, men the blade came free. It looked as if, with tortuous slowness, she was unsheathing her weapon. Only, the blade was black with blood. Arpad’s eyes bulged and his breath wheezed. Then blood erupted from his mouth and the hilt fell from his pale fingers. Achilea released him and he staggered back a step or two. Now the onlookers could see the huge wound that slanted from his right hip upward across his belly to his breastbone, the gray viscera bulging out through the ghastly rent. With blood pouring from his insides, he collapsed in a hideous tangle of entrails.

“Slut!”

Conan did not know which of Arpad’s two companions had shouted, but both of them were lunging toward Achilea with short swords drawn. With a speed that would have stunned anyone who had been looking in his direction, Conan whipped out his sword and hewed through the neck of one of them. The arm of one of Achilea’s women snapped out and a short-handled ax whispered across the fighting circle, its crescent edge halving the face of the second man. Neither of them made it two paces past the torches.

For a few seconds, all was stillness. Then Indulio spoke.

“The action is over. Come back inside and wet your dry gullets!” Quickly the crowd broke up, jabbering excitedly over the splendid fight with its unexpected denouement.

Many shouted compliments to Achilea, but she seemed not to notice.

Conan stood watching while her women tended to her. Her front was covered with Mood, and this one of the women quickly blotted up with a damp cloth. Another wiped the sweat off her as her cofferlike chest rose and fell with the rhythm of a hard-worked bellows. With the blood cleaned off, Conan saw a thin red line slanting from her left hip upward across her belly, a mirror image of the slice that had slain Arpad. She had pressed her edge hard against him as she cut, but she had been unable to avoid a slight wound from the other edge of her own sword. Conan nodded with approval. It had been a brave and masterful move. Most fighters would have tried to break away and continue the battle, even risking a severe cut to do it

When Achilea was clean of blood and sweat, her woman draped the great cloak over her shoulders, patting her and whispering low words of endearment into her ears. The dwarf stood by, leaning upon a knotty-headed bludgeon, a smile of sardonic amusement on his fine features. When her appearance was restored, Achilea walked to where the Cimmerian stood. His keen eye detected the faint signs of weariness in her queenly stride.

“It seems I owe you thanks, stranger,” she said.

“By Crom, I’ll not stand by and see a splendid fighter cut down by cowards!”

“Crom?” she said. “I’ve heard that name spoken by men of the Aesir, but they swear at him, not by
him. Are you a Cimmerian?”

“Aye, My name is Conan.”

Interest flickered in her pale gray eyes. “Conan of Cimmeria? I think that I have heard that name. A sellsword and an adventurer, are you not?”

He gave her a curt nod. “Aye, and the name of Achilea is not unknown to me, although until a few minutes ago, I’d thought you a legend.”

“Well met, men, swordsman. These are Payna, Lombi and Ekun.” The three savage women stared at him with fierce eyes but did not acknowledge him in any other way. “And this is Jeyba.” The dwarf grinned and gave him a sloppy salute. Achilea looked back at Conan. “Once I was a queen. These are my queendom and my army now.”

“You are doing better than I,” Conan said. “I’ve not a single follower, and my purse is flat”

For the first time, she smiled, not broadly but discernibly. “Come back inside and join us, Cimmerian. The least I can do is make Indulio let you have some of his better ale.”

With a courtly gesture he had learned in Nemedia, Conan indicated that she should precede him.

Laughing, she went inside and the Cimmerian followed. Behind them, the woman named Ekun placed a foot against the face of the man she had slain and pried her ax loose. Jeyba the dwarf began to rifle efficiently through the purses and clothing of the three dead men.

Back inside, Achilea resumed her place on the bench before the fire and Conan found a stool and seated himself across from her so that their heads were at the same height. While one of the women went to get her drinking horn refitted, Achilea stretched her long, powerful legs to warm her bare feet before the flames. Her feet, Conan noted, were ••all, high-arched and delicately shaped.

The woman named Lombi returned with the brimming horn and Achilea took a long, thirsty drink.

Then, ceremoniously, she passed the horn to Conan. He took it in both hands and nodded slightly over the curved vessel, which he now realized was ancient, its silver mountings worked in curious designs. An ancient heirloom, he guessed, salvaged from the loss of her home and throne. Or else she had stolen it He up-faded the vessel and swallowed. It was superior ale, and the silver rim was still warm with the touch of her lips.

Serving women set a table between them and heaped it with food. As Achilea began to eat the dwarf returned and dropped a small heap of coins, rings and other ornaments onto the table. With one broad hand, Achilea separated a rough third of the mass and pushed it toward Conan.

“Your share,” she said around a mouthful of bread. “You slew one of them.”

He pushed it back, “It should have been my fight, not yours. Arpad sought to provoke me and I made him back down before his companions. His manhood was shamed and he looked for a way to redeem himself. He thought you would be easier to kill.”

“I fight no fights save my own, and the man insulted me.” She shoved the valuables back toward the Cimmerian. “Take it or you will offend me.” This time, Conan scooped up the Little heap of metal and dropped it into his belt pouch. The first of the roasted meats began to arrive.

“Share our dinner,” Achilea said, making it an order. Conan had eaten a full meal no more than hour before, but a man may always find room for another few bites, and an adventurer never knew where or when he would next eat. Therefore it behooved him never to pass up a chance to dine.

They said little while they ate. The warrior queen and her little retinue fed ravenously, for their day of hunting had sent them ranging for many miles on foot over rough terrain. The bones they tossed to the dogs that prowled the tavern looking for handouts. When the platters were cleared away, they sat back with their ale to talk. After sharing her horn, Achilea had called for a tankard for Conan. It was still the superior ale.

“You seem to be at loose ends, Cimmerian,” Achilea said. Is it with you as it is with everyone here?”

“Aye. Cursed little employment for mercenaries and naught save the block and the noose for bandits. Prospects are poor, and unlike lite others here, I do not see this place as a realistic refuge for long.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, wriggling her toes in the comfortable heat from the flames. “It seems a good place to rest and wait out the bad times.”

“Aye, for a few days, perhaps for a month or so. But things will get very bad here long before winter passes. I have seen it before, in other places like this: Rogues come trickling in, and before long, the place is jammed with men who know nothing save killing and theft. There is no law to trouble them here, but prices are high and soon most of them are destitute. Then they begin preying upon each other, and every man’s hand is raised against every other. The more desperate will begin to pillage the local peasants, who will disappear and then we will get very hungry, and there may still be no place to go.”

She nodded somberly.

“And it may get worse than that,” Conan continued. “When this town is full to bursting, it may occur to one of the neighboring kings to throw a siege around it and bag the lot. If they cooperate in this, they may enjoy a respite from banditry for years to come. This (own could never last out a siege from a real army. The walls are low and ruinous, few of the rogues here have the stomach for hard fighting, and supplies will be nonexistent.”

He took a long drink and stared gloomily into the fire. “Nay, I’ll not wait for that. I’ll abide here for a few days, no more than a month. If no good prospect turns up before then, I’ll make my way to someplace more promising, even if I have to cross a lot of hostile territory to do it.”

“I have always heard that you Cimmerians are a pessimistic lot, and it seems to be true. I feel that you are right, though. This is not a good place to stay for long. Well, something may turn up soon. Let us enjoy it until then.”

Conan nodded, but he kept his thoughts to himself: He would not leave Leng without this woman.

Two

The next day, the Cimmerian accompanied Achilea and her minions on their hunt. He borrowed a bow from the Hyrkanians, promising a share of the game should he bag any. After a few practice shots against a straw target, he was satisfied that he had the feel of the weapon and he joined Achilea’s party at the stables, where they were caring for their horses.

“So, now we shall see if you can shoot as well as you wield the sword, Cimmerian,” Achilea said, running a hand lovingly over the glossy flank of a bay gelding, “I use all weapons well,” Conan proclaimed, grinning.

“What are you smiling at, rogue?” she demanded.

“Arpad did not leave you unmarked,” he said, touching the side of her face. A great black-and-blue bruise spread from her jaw line almost to the cheekbone on the right side, where she had been caught by the flat of Arpad’s blade. The savage women bristled at the Cimmerian’s familiarity, but their queen only smiled ruefully.

‘I’ve been hurt worse, and I’d not trade it for the mark I put on him. Come, let’s hunt”

On the plains, they would have hunted on horseback, but the rugged terrain of the hill country made this impractical. To the Cimmerian, traversing the steep, stony land was easy, for he had spent his youth in the similar hills of his homeland. He was surprised to see that Achilea and her women were nearly as comfortable with the ground as he. Payna, Lombi and Ekun loped across the tilted fields, leaping from one sharp crag to another as nimbly and as silently as deer, crouched for speed and furtiveness, beads up, eyes and ears and noses alert for the least sign of prey or enemies.

Their queen was as swift and tireless, relishing the role of beast of prey. She never winced as she crossed the stoniest ground on bare feet. Jeyba the dwarf had to toil, his short limbs pumping, to keep up with his long-legged companions, but the little man seemed to be made of iron and he neither fell back nor complained.

All morning they hunted and they saw abundant sign, but the game was wary. About noon they stopped to rest by an icy stream. The three women and the dwarf crouched on all fours and lapped up water like animals, while Achilea drank more sedately from a silver cup. Conan seated himself across from her and watched her with frank admiration.

“You surprise me,” he admitted. “I had always heard that your people were a horseback folk, like the Hyrkanians, whose only home is the saddle. Every such nomad I have known ere now regards foot travel with horror. Yet you and your women move about here as if you had the cloven hooves of mountain goats. How can this be?”

“Hyrkanians!” Achilea snorted through her high-bridged nose. “They are a soft-living people, crippled without their horses.”

Conan had heard the Hyrkanians called many things, but never soft.

“My people are not like the Hyrkanians,” she went on.

“We do not keep herds of sheep and cattle to feed us with their meat and milk. We hunt for our food, and there are many beasts in our land that cannot be hunted from horseback. We love our horses, but horses die and we would not be helpless when we must go afoot.” Her eyes were fixed on the horizon to the northeast, as if she were looking over a great span of distance and years.

“Each year, all the girls who have reached their fifteenth year are taken to a place in the northern hills. It is a great, uninhabited expanse of wild heath, rocky outcrops and dense brush. There is abundant game, but there are also a great many predators. In this land, the girls are left. Each has a sling and a knife. The next year, the survivors are gathered up and a new batch of girls is left there. No, we do not need horses that we may live.”

“How many survive?” he asked,

“Usually about half. Sometimes not that many.” From her tone, she might as well have been speaking of the weather.

“You are a hard people,” he observed.

“All others are natural prey,” she said.

The Cimmerian had not thought that there existed in all the world a people as fierce and hardy as his own, but this nation of women had to be very close.

“And what of you?” he asked Jeyba, who now squatted by the stream, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. The dwarf grinned.

“I come from the Border Kingdoms,” the little man explained. “As a child, I was made a slave of the Hyperboreans and set to work in the stone quarries with a pick and sledgehammer. It was not pleasant work, but it made me strong.” He clenched a knotted fist and the muscles leapt to prominence on his stubby arm. “One day I smashed the pit-master’s head in with a sledge and a hundred of us escaped. We lived as bandits for three years, with fewer of us each year, raiding the country manors of the Hyperborean lords.”

He sighed, smiling at the memory. “It was a good life, but it ended as it had to. I was captured with my remaining friends and taken to the nearest town for execution. We were led to the town square amid the jeering throng. One by one, my friends were taken out to the middle of the square and bound by their wrists and ankles to four oxen. The beasts were then whipped to the four points of the compass and the men ripped asunder. The crowd cheered mightily at so fine a show.

“Then my own turn came. They stretched me on my back amid the gore of my companions and tied an ox to each wrist and one to each ankle. But no matter how hard they whipped the beasts, I refused to come apart, I did not even grow any taller. So they hitched two oxen to each limb and prepared to have another try. It was at that time that my queen and her followers struck the town. The townsmen fled in panic and I was left with my eight oxen and the sundered remnants of my friends.”

“We slaughtered the oxen for food,” Achilea explained. She smiled and ran her fingers affectionately through the dwarf’s bushy hair. “My women were about to do the same to him, but I stayed them. I thought that one strong enough to resist the pull of four oxen might be an amusing companion.”

“Mercy was ever your failing, my queen,” said Payna. It was the first time Conan had heard one of the women utter a sentence.

“That is enough!” Achilea snapped.

“Forgive me, my queen!” The woman cast herself to her knees and pressed her face against

Achilea’s bare foot.

“Oh, get up,” Achilea said, stroking a palm over the woman’s head and back as if she were a pet cat. “You are right to chide me once in a while, but I have spared a male life only twice. You need not rebuke me for going soft on that account.”

“Do your folk really slay all the men who come among you?” Conan asked.

“Yes, we do,” she answered matter-of-factly. “And speaking of kilting males,” she pointed across the stream and up the far slope, toward a clump of brush, “I think I see the antler-tips of a fine young stag just beyond those bushes. Let us go and get him.”

All afternoon they stalked the stag, who was wary and kept well ahead. As the son lowered in the west, the beast stood upon a ridge a good two hundred paces away, in clear view, as if mocking them.

“It is too far,” Achilea said, “and soon it will be dark. We may as well go back to Leng. We’ll sleep with empty bellies tonight and come out here early tomorrow. He won’t stray far from this spot overnight”

“You give up too easily,” Conan said, fitting arrow to string.

“No one ever accused me of that before,” she said, amused, “Let us see what you can do.”

The Cimmerian raised his left hand, elevating the bow until the barbed point of his arrow was directed halfway between the horizon and the sky straight overhead. He drew until his right thumb touched his ear and the scarlet feathers of the slender shaft lay against the comer of his mouth. Then he loosed. The snap of the string was followed by the diminish-big whisper of the arrow. For a hundred paces, it ascended, growing tiny with distance, turning at the top of its arc and descending, disappearing from view. Seconds later, the stag sprang high, bounded three times, then collapsed.

“You did not lie,” Achilea said. “You do know how to shoot”

With swift efficiency, Achilea’s minions bled, gutted and cleaned the carcass. The three women and the dwarf ate its liver raw, helped down with draughts of the stag’s blood. Even dressed out, the stag was a heavy load, and Conan and the dwarf took turns bearing it across their shoulders all the way back to Leng.

The dwarf carried the stag into the Red Eagle while Achilea and tier women went to the stables behind the inn to tend to their horses. Conan went with them. He was hungry and thirsty, but he did not want to let Achilea out of his sight.

“New arrivals,” she said, noting some strange animals hi the pen. “Who came in on mounts like these, I wonder.”

The creatures she referred to were a pair of extraordinarily tall camels, of a pale cream color. They were of the shaggy, two-humped breed, unlike the short-haired, single-humped camels of the southern lands.

“They are splendid beasts,” Conan said as he washed the stag’s blood from his shoulders at a trough. “If you like camels.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “But I admit that they are useful. And they are not bad to eat, either.”

Inside the tavern, they went to the bar to collect their ale. Indulio complimented them upon the splendid stag they had delivered, then filled Achilea’s silver-mounted horn and Conan’s tankard. The Cimmerian blew off the foam and took a drink.

“Who rode in on the white camels?” he asked, setting the vessel on the bar.

“Those two,” Indulio said, nodding toward the fire, where two robed figures sat warming themselves, their features concealed by raised cowls. The dwarf stood before them, waving his arms and expostulating.

“Jeyba is angry at them for usurping my place,” Achilea said. She walked over to the hearth with Conan close behind. “Peace, Jeyba, I’d not deny weary travelers a place by the fire on so cold a night Peace to you, travelers. Whence came you?” It amused Conan to see Achilea acting the gracious lady instead of the raffish bandit-queen. He decided it was because the clothes of these two were as fine as their camels. He recognized the wool of their long robes as a sort woven from the hair of the same breed
of camels as those outside. It was matchlessly warm, as light as fog and exceedingly expensive. Their hands went up to push back their cowls.

“We thank you, my lady,” said the one with the beard. “Your jester was furious with us, but we thought he exaggerated your quality and rank. Now we see that he spoke only the truth. Please forgive us for taking your place.” The two made to rise but Achilea gestured with her hands for them to remain where they were.

“Stay and warm yourselves.” She crossed her feet at the ankles and sank down to sit upon the hearth, making even this act seem regal. ““Bui Jeyba is no jester. That club he car-Conan studied the newcomers with considerable wonder. They were so alike―sleek, dark hair, fine features, pale skin, black eyes―thai they had to be siblings, most probably twins. But one was a man, the other a woman. What he could see of the rest of their clothing looked to be as fine as their outer robes, and the rings, bracelets and necklets they wore were costly. He wondered how they had managed to remain so clean while traveling through these rough hills. Perhaps they had arrived early in the day, found a bath somewhere and changed clothes.

“How did you two end up in Leng?” Conan asked the aristocratic pair. “All the most vicious rogues come here. I’d have thought you would seek out more genteel lodgings, not that there is a wide choice of accommodations in this place.”

“Pardon Conan’s insolent tongue,” Achilea said. “His people, the Cimmerians, are a blunt folk.”

Conan was nettled at her easy assumption of authority, but he decided to let it pass.

“Cimmerian!” said the woman. Her voice was liquid and beguiling. “First an outcast Amazon queen, now a Cimmerian warrior. It seems that this crossroads caravanserai is a gathering place for legendary peoples.”

Achilea looked puzzled. “What was that word you used? ‘Amazon’?”

“It is our people’s word for your nation,” said the bearded man. “Although until now. I thought the Amazons to be a myth.”

“As to why we are here,” the woman said, “when we came to Leng, we asked where the hardest men were to be found. We did not expect to find that a woman was the hardest of the lot.”

“If you were looking for a nest of thieves, you’ve found it,” Conan said. “I can only marvel that you are still alive and have your belongings. Our host keeps the peace indoors, but you two are fair game when you walk out of here.”

“We are not entirely helpless, I assure you,” the man said. Conan could see no weapons about them save a pair of identical daggers, their jewel-encrusted hilts tucked into the sash of each, “Why are you in search of hard men?” Achilea asked The woman named Lombi began to massage the warrior-queen’s shoulders while glaring with open suspicion at the newcomers. Achilea rolled her
head slowly in sensuous enjoyment “Let us introduce ourselves,” the woman said. “We are Monandas and Yolanthe,” she gestured to indicate that me man was the former, she the latter, “of Icaria, in the Rabirian Mountains of Zingara.”

“You’ve strayed a long way from home,” Conan observed. The two had neither the look nor the dress of Zingarans, but dial meant little. Many isolated communities were home to people who differed in appearance from neighbors just a few miles away, and travelers tended to dress in whatever clothes were available wherever they were.

“It is a long way from Zingara, if that is what you mean,” Monandas said. “But that is no more than a fraction of the distance we have traveled.”

“Those camels of yours,” said the Cimmerian, “are no local breed. From their look, they’re from far to the east of here.”

“They are,” said Yolanthe. “We abode for some time in Samara, in Turan. Before that, we spent some time in Vendhya.”

“You have traveled far for two so young,” Achilea observed. The two appeared to be no more than twenty years old.

“We are restless,” said Monandas. “Always, we want to see new things, new peoples, new places.

We never abide in any one place for long.”

“For pleasure?” Achilea asked “Or do you seek something?”

They smiled identically. “Both,” said Yolanthe.

“And now,” Monandas said, “we must retire and rest.” They stood and bowed “It has been an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.” They pivoted slightly and bowed toward Conan, not quite as deeply. “Warrior, good evening. Perhaps tomorrow we shall speak further, if it be your pleasure.”

“I shall look forward to it,” Conan told them.

The two turned and walked out. As they passed, the men at the tables grew quiet and kept their eyes on their ale mugs or their dice. Now Conan saw how these two had gone unmolested. Something about them made even these men uneasy. Rich as were their trappings, none was so hardy as to assault them. This was passing strange, for they did not appear in the last threatening. But Conan knew well that there was more than one sort of danger, and Monandas had clearly Dot lied when he had said that they were not entirely helpless.

“What do you make of those two?” Conan asked when they were gone and the noise in the tavern resumed its accustomed level.

“They are truly odd,” Achilea said. “So alike they must be twins. And the way they speak―first one and then the other, as if you were holding converse with a single person with two voices.”

“I like them not,” Conan said. “There is something about them that is not right.”

“How so?” she asked. “I feel it as well, but I want to know if you saw the same things I did.”

“They have come a great distance through wilderness, yet they look as clean and as fresh as if they had never left home. Travel as great as they claim should have left marks even upon two so young, yet they do not show the effects of heat and wind, of toil and privation. They look like the children of a nobleman or a wealthy burgher, who have never known hardship in their lives and have always had servants to attend to them.”

Achilea nodded. ‘It seemed thus to me. And there is another thing: Their faces are youthful, their hands unlined and unwrinkled. Yet their eyes are those of great age and experience. I do not know how to describe it, for their eyes are as clear as those of the young and are not set amid a nest of wrinkles, yet they look old.”

Conan nodded. “Aye, I understand what you mean. And they still have not said why they are looking for hard men.”

“I have a feeling,” she said, “that we shall know that very soon. I’ll make you a wager that they will make us a proposition in no great time.”

“I’ll not take such a fool’s bet,” Conan said. “Anyone can see that they are interested in us. They spoke to no others, unless it was before we returned.” He waved to Indulio and the innkeeper joined them. “Those two odd travelers―did they speak with any before we came back in?”

Indulio shook his head. “Nay. They arrived perhaps an hour before your return. They arranged for care for their beasts, then went to sit by the fire, and the men already there made way for them without argument, too. A soft-spoken and well-bred couple, not what I would expect to see in my tavern, but there is that about them that causes men to give them way.”

“Did they say they were looking for anyone?” Achilea asked.

“No specific person,” Indulio told them. “One of them, I am not sure which, asked: ‘Is this where Che hardiest men are to be found?* I told them that my patrons are as rough a lot as they’ll encounter in any five adjoining nations. They seemed satisfied with that. Then they took cups of wine and went to sit by the fire. What did they speak of with you?” His eyes glittered with curiosity.

“They spoke of travel, for the most part,” Conan said. “That they had recently been in Turan and before that, in Vendhya, but we found it hard to believe that two so young had traveled so widely.”

“I do not think they lied,” Indulio said. He reached into his puree and came out with a small, square coin of gold, beautifully stamped with the image of an elephant. “This is how (hey paid for their food and
lodging and care for their camels. This is a coin of Vendhya. We do not see many such in these parts and so I did not put it in my strongbox with the rest.”

“They are an odd pair,” Conan said. “They make me uneasy.”

“Their money is good,” said Indulio. “That is all I care about”

Three

The next day, they did not hunt. The stag provided plenty of meat, even with a share going to the Hyrkanians, and its splendid hide and antlers bought them an extra ration of Indulio’s ale. Achilea and her followers exercised their horses while Conan sat in the stableyard going over his gear. The encircling walls of the inn protected them from the cutting wind, and the sun was warm upon them.

First, the Cimmerian went over his sword. Its sheath was of dim wood, lined with close-sheared lambskin and covered with oiled leather. The blade was straight and double-edged, with a deep blood channel down the length of both sides. Its short crossguard and heavy, triangular pommel were of plain bronze, free of any ornament. Its grip was of wood wrapped with bronze wire. It was a fighting man’s weapon, made for hard use and nothing else. He went over every inch of it, testing its edges for razor-keenness, letting the sunlight strike it from every angle to detect any trace of rust, twisting the guard and the pommel in his powerful hands to determine whether the mountings were working loose.

Satisfied that his sword was in perfect condition, he drew his dirk. Its broad blade was thirteen inches long, sharp on one edge. The other edge was a thick spine, stout enough not to snap under the strain of the most powerful blows. Edge and spine tapered evenly to a point strong enough to pierce mail.

Its grip was of plain stag-horn, its pommel a flat bronze cap. The knife saw frequent daily use, and Conan stroked its edge with a fine whetstone until he was satisfied that it would slice a falling hair in two.

With his weapons resheathed, he sat and watched Achilea and her women ride their beasts, so naturally that they seemed to be one with them. In lieu of saddles, they used only light pads secured by a wide, woven girth. They controlled the animals with rope bridles, eschewing the usual steel bit. They did not employ stirrups, but only gripped the horses’ flanks with their strong legs.

Already, Conan was bored with Leng. The thought of spending an entire winter in the place was unendurable. Had he been paid off after a successful war, he might have gambled and caroused the cold months away, but this was different. If all he could do was hunt to feed himself, he would prefer to live in a cave. Only one thing kept him here. When Achilea dismounted, he strode up to her.

“I’ve had second thoughts about abiding in this place,” Conan said. “I long to be somewhere else, where there is more afoot than rogues dicing their time away.”

She smiled, deepening the scar across her cheek. “A man of action, eh? Yes, I know how you feel.

I’d be away as well. The problem is, where to go?”

He stretched out a long arm, his finger pointed south. “There. The warm lands. And it were best to be away soon, before the snows block up the passes.”

“How far would you get?” she asked. “That way lie Zamora and Corinthia. There are border guards at every frontier road crossing. Between them range mounted patrols. How long before you are caught?”

“I’d rob nobody,” he rumbled.

She laughed freely. “What does that mean?” She looked him over as frankly as he had studied her.

“You are every inch a villain, and there are a lot of inches to you. They would clap you in a dungeon for your looks alone. No one is going to mistake you for a traveling merchant or a wandering holy man. In unsettled times, adventurers roam at will. In days of peace, anyone without lord or paymaster is suspect.”

“You are right,” he admitted. “But being cooped up for months in this dull rockpile will be too much for me to bear.”

“Be patient,” she advised. “I have a feeling that something will turn up soon.”

That evening, as they sat before the fire dipping chunks of rough bread into bowls of thick stew, the mysterious twins reappeared. No one had seen mem all day, and they came into the common room looking exactly as they had the night before.

“Share our dinner,” Achilea invited, gesturing to the table set before her.

They bowed. “Thank you, but we have taken our repast in our chambers.” Yolanthe said. “We will gladly join you, though, if you will permit us,” They sat upon the bench, and Indulio brought them cups of heated wine. They cradled the cups of hammered metal in their hands, absorbing the warmth.

Conan sat upon the hearth. “Last night,” he said, setting aside his empty bowl, “you said that you sought men of more than common fortitude. To what purpose do you thus seek?”

“My sister and I,” Monandas said, for the first time articulating their relationship, “have spent our lives in search of a place, not knowing where it lay. Now we have its location, but the journey is long and arduous, and fraught with peril.”

“If the two of you have traveled as widely as you claim,” Conan said, “you are not averse to a bit of danger.”

“Indeed,” Yolanthe said, her eyes amused, “but we have ways of avoiding violence. This is different.

If we are to gain the place we seek, we cannot avoid battle along the way. We cannot take many with us, so those we take must be of superior merit”

There passed a minute of silence. Then Achilea spoke, “It is clear to me that you have a proposal to broach. Let us hear it”

“Have you heard of the lost city of Janagar of the Opal Gates?” Monandas asked.

“The name means nothing to me,” Achilea said.

“I’ve not heard of it,” Conan affirmed.

“For many years,” Yolanthe continued, “it existed for us only as a name in certain very ancient texts.

It is said that Janagar stood before the ocean swallowed Atlantis, and that it was inhabited for more than five thousand years, growing more magnificent with each passing century.”

“But then,” said Monandas, taking up the tale, “at the height of its glory, splendid Janagar was abandoned by its people. In a single, strange night, every inhabitant of the city fled and not one of them returned. The tales they spread caused others to avoid even the district; and the land, once fair and cultivated, became a howling waste. In time, even the location of the city was forgotten.”

‘I have heard other such tales,” Conan said. “In my travels, I’ve come across many ruins of once-mighty cities. What is it about this one that attracts you?”

“Janagar was rich beyond imagining,” Yolanthe said, her eyes aglitter.

“The ruins I spoke of,” Conan said, “were probably once full of riches. They are naught but bare, toppled stones now, no more wealthy than this wretched village, the haunt of foxes and owls.”

“Most cities decline and fall over time,” Monandas pointed out “Usually, they weaken and are stormed and looted by enemies. When the people leave voluntarily, they take their valuables with them.

But all the stories about Janagar agree in this: When the people fled, they took little or nothing with them.

When the city was abandoned, none ever went there again, and it has been lost to the world of men for many centuries.”

“So you think that Janagar still stands with its riches intact?” Achilea asked. She took a long pull from her horn.

“We do,” Yolanthe said. “And now we know where it is. What do you know of the lands south of Khauran?”

“I’ve never been farther south than central Zamora,” Achilea admitted.

“I’ve been far south of there,” Conan said. “What district do you mean?”

Monandas spoke. “What know you of the land midway between Khoraja and the cities of Zamboula and Kutchernes, north of the Styx?”

Conan frowned. “A desert waste as wild and desolate as any I have ever seen. The fringes are prowled by predatory tribes, and the deep desert is impassable to all but caravans bearing plenty of water and food for man and beast.”

“And there lies the lost city of Janagar,” Yolanthe said. “It is thither we go. Will you ride with us?”

“It is a long trek just to get to Khauran,” Conan said, “That is where the truly wild lands begin. Why
do you not wait until you get there to find your bodyguards, since the two of you are accustomed to traveling alone?”

“In our search for texts containing clues as to the location of the city,” Monandas told them, “we found that others are on the same trail. They may have learned of us, as we have of them. These rivals may assault us at any stage of our journey. It is imperative that we have protection henceforth.”

“Who are these rivals?” Conan asked, “And how can you be so sure that they represent danger?”

“We have no idea who they may be,” said Yolanthe, “but it is well not to take chances.”

“What is your offer?” Conan demanded.

“A share in the wealth, once we have found the city. Rations for man and beast for the duration of the journey,” Monandas told him.

“That’s an uncertain proposition,” the Cimmerian grumbled.

Yolanthe smiled. “Is your situation here so attractive?”

“That’s true enough, by the Everlasting Sky!” Achilea swore, “At least it sounds warm. Aye, I’ll go with you.”

Conan mistrusted the two and he did not like the prospect, but he did not want Achilea to get away from him. “I’ve no horse,” he said.

“We will provide your mount,” Monandas said. “Are there any other good men available?”

Having committed himself, Conan put his misgivings behind him. He nodded to the small table around which sat Kye-Dee and his five companions.

“Those Hyrkanians seem to be fairly able. They are fine riders and archers by birthright, and they practiced banditry as an ancestral trade. The rest here are scum.”

“I don’t know the Hyrkanians,” said Achilea, “but I will vouch for the rest being scum.”

“These men will need horses as well,” Conan said. “Can you see to that?”

“We can,” said Yolanthe. “Will you speak to them?”

“I will,” Conan said.

“You may say that it is a hazardous venture to the south after treasure,” Monandas cautioned, “but say no more than that. I do not want our mission noised about.”

The two stood. “Tomorrow morning,” Yolanthe announced, “we buy horses. We leave before noon.” With that, the two turned and left the room. Conan picked up one of the wine cups they had left
behind untasted and drained it “Well, we’re in for it now,” he said. “Those two are mad.”

“What of it?” Achilea said, grinning. “Did you not this very morning say that you wanted to fare south? With two such soft, clearly well-bom persons leading us, we will not be outlaws, but guards hired for legitimate work. If nothing else, it will get us through Zamora and into lands where a raider can ply his trade without so much interference.”

“Perhaps,” Conan said. He handed her the other cup and went to speak with the Hyrkanians.

The next morning, they rode from Leng, the Cimmerian and the six Hyrkanians mounted upon unfamiliar horses.

Conan rode ahead as they approached the Zamoran border. The putative boundary with Brythunia lay along the crest of the northernmost stretch of the Karpash Mountains, but there the only evidence was a marker stone set up by a Zamoran king centuries before, praising him, his ancestry and accomplishments, and proclaiming that all land to the south belonged to Zamora. In this high wasteland, neither nation bothered with guardposts or border patrols, The true border lay many miles to the south, where the mountain road led down from the pass and into the fertile lowlands. It was this true border dial the Cimmerian approached as the sun rose on the fifth morning of their journey. A half-mile behind him rode Achilea and her followers, then the twins on their tall camels, and last of all, the Hyrkanians rode rear guard. Mounted once more, the steppe men were happy and content, unconcerned with the uncertainties of the journey ahead, rejoicing in their freedom
from the unreasonable new Kagan.

As he rode from the foothills, Conan saw a crude fort with low walls of mud-brick. From its single, stumpy tower, the royal colors of Zamora flapped listlessly in the lazy breeze. As near as he could discern, he had not yet been spotted. As he brooded over the prospect, he heard Achilea’s horses approaching behind him.

“Why are you waiting here?” Achilea asked, reining in beside him.

“I was just trying to remember whether anyone wants to hang me in these parts,” he said. “It has been a while since I passed this way.”

She frowned. “l never raided in this district. I usually crossed the Kezankian Mountains, far to the south and east of here, and harried the central part of the country. Still, I suppose my name and description could have been spread about.”

“We’ll have to hope that our employers can talk us through,” he said. “If we’re attacked―and there are too many of them for us―we ride back up into the hills and go west. We can try another crossing into Corinthia.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” she said. Minutes later, the camels arrived. The horses snorted and pranced, not liking the smell of the stately animals. Monandas and Yolanthe sat within tent I ike structures mounted between the humps of the powerful beasts and as they halted, they surveyed the view before them.

“The border?” asked Monandas. “Good. We wait here while the others catch up, and we will all go forward together.” A faint tone came to them. It was the sound of a brass horn.

“We’ve been spotted,” Conan said. The Hyrkanians rode up and watched the proceedings with interest.

“We go down mere now,” Yolanthe said. “You will ride behind us and allow us to do all the talking.

Let us go,” The camels lurched forward and the rest followed.

As they descended the last slope, a file of riders rode from the gate of the fort, the morning light shining off helmet and armor and spear-point. One rider bore a royal banner, its long pole resting in a socket on his stirrup. Foremost rode a pair of officers in cuirasses of bright steel, colorful plumes nodding from the crests of their gilded helmets. As they approached the travelers, the horsemen behind the officers moved from file to line formation, spreading out to block the roadway. They halted, and the officers held up admonitory hands, signifying that the little caravan should do likewise.

“Whence come you and what is your business?” asked the leader as the other officer reached into a satchel tied to his saddle and removed scrolls and writing materials.

“I am Monandas and this is my sister, Yolanthe. We are scholars from Zingara, traveling through your country to the southern lands.”

“Have you any goods to declare?” the officer demanded.

“We are not merchants,” Yolanthe told him. “As you can see, we have no pack animals save those carrying our gear.”

“We must see if any of your guards are on our Apprehend-and-Detain list,” the officer said. “Bring them―”

“Wait,” said the other officer, squinting toward Conan. He put the scroll he held back into his satchel and took out a smaller one. “I don’t think we need the Apprehend-and-Detain list. You see that black-haired rogue over there on the bay horse? I think he is here on the Kill-on-Sight list. And that big, yellow-haired hussy next to him is on it as well, I believe.” He unrolled the small scroll and scanned it, Conan tensed and prepared to bolt, but Monandas turned and looked at him curiously, with an air of amusement. Then he turned back to the riders.

“I see no such persons as you describe,” he said.

“Perhaps the rising sun was in your eyes,” Yolanthe added.

The senior officer looked from the newcomers to his subordinate with annoyance. “What ails you,

Manius? I see no black-haired man, nor any woman; just a pack of scruffy Hyrkanians such as often hire out to caravans as guards.”

The other squinted at the little group, bewildered. “But … I could have sworn ..,” Then he looked away and shook his head.

“Too much sun,” said the senior officer. He handed Monandas a slip of parchment. “This is your border pass. You must surrender it when you leave Zamora. Be off with you now.” He wheeled and rode back to the fort, his riders close behind.

The caravan proceeded and, soon was past the fort.

“How did you do that?” Achilea asked.

Monandas smiled thinly. “As we said once before, we are not utterly helpless.”

Conan’s hackles were still settling. “He did not even collect your crossing and road fees.”

“So he did not,” said Yolanthe. “Was that not forgetful of him? Perhaps it is something in the air here.” She drew the curtain of her litter and Monandas did the same.

Conan rode on ahead, as was his custom. This time, Achilea rode with him.

“What do you make of that?” she asked him, “It does not surprise me,” he told her. “I said I did not like them, and this makes me like them even less. They arc traffickers in magick, and I like that not at all.”

She shrugged. “Not everyone with a useful spell or two at his disposal is a terrible wizard. They saved us a great deal of trouble back there.”

“Aye, I’d not have wanted that lot after me, not without a good head start But I do not like the way those two handled them. They used no words of power, nor powders nor potions. It was as if they controlled the whole lot with their minds alone.”

“I’ve not seen the like before,” she admitted. “It was too much like the way a cobra bewitches its prey by the power of its gaze. Even so, I care not. So long as they do not use their wiles upon us, they may employ them upon the Zamorans all they please.”

That evening they came to the first Zamoran village, a sprawl of low buildings and small temples where gongs sounded from slender towers at all hours. Fragrant smoke rose from the altars of the gods, and the marketplace bustled with all the usual activity of commerce. It was not much larger than Leng, but it was many times more attractive.

Just outside the town stood the ruin of a once-great temple. Clearly, the district must formerly have been far richer and more populous to support such a place. The roofless temple covered two or three acres of ground, surrounded by a low stone wall. Its tower rose nearly a hundred feet to a shattered stump, and had obviously once been much higher. Tall, angular statues of guardian deities or demons stood before what had at one time been the imposing entrance of the temple. As darkness drew on, graceful storks flew to their nests upon the tower, “We will camp here,” said Monandas, indicating a grassy spot just without the temple walls, where water gushed from the mouth of a grotesque stone head into a long trough.

“Why not in the town?” Conan asked.

“We prefer to keep our distance from people whenever possible,” Yolanthe told him, “There is plenty of water and grazing here. Set up, and then you may go into the town if you wish.”

They dismounted except for two Hyrkanians detailed to find firewood, Conan, Achilea and her followers went a little distance away to picket their horses after letting them drink at the trough. The lush grass came almost to their knees.

“She’s right about the good grazing,” Conan said, squinting at the village. “And I wonder why. Look over there.” He pointed to the land beyond the village, where tiny watchfires dotted the rolling slopes.

“There are shepherds and cattle herders watching over their beasts. Why are they not here, where there is water and the grazing is so good? It looks as if this grass has not been cropped in years.”

Achilea shrugged. “Perhaps it was overgrazed and they have given the soil time to recover. What do
you care about shepherds and townsmen? They are just prey for people of spirit.”

“I care nothing for them. It is just …” he paused, unable to articulate his foreboding “… just a part of what I don’t like about this journey.” There was a sudden flutter of wings behind them and Conan whirled, half drawing his sword, biting off a guttural curse, A cloud of bats ascended from their crypts beneath the temple.

Achilea laughed. “You are skittish tonight, Cimmerian! They are just winged mice, out looking for their dinner. Speaking of which, I could use some as well.”

Somewhat embarrassed at his show of unease, Conan slammed the sword home in its sheath, the hilt clicking solidly against the metal throat of the scabbard. He followed the Amazon, admiring as always her firm, springy stride that never lost its seductive sway.

They left one of the Hyrkanians to watch over their animals while the rest went into the village to break the monotony of their journey. Monandas and Yolanthe elected to stay within their tent, uninterested hi whatever delights the little town might have to offer.

The band found an inn that catered to the caravan traffic and soon were indulging themselves. While far from the centers of civilization, the food and wine available here were far superior to any they had been able to get in the mountains, as well as being much cheaper. The locals watched them curiously, but there was no trouble.

When they returned, the moon was rising above the truncated tower, silvering the growth of moss and vines that draped its sides like a ragged curtain. The stones of the mined temple gleamed softly, their carvings thrown into bold relief by the deepening shadows. A soft breeze filled the air with the sound of rustling grass. The tall camels knelt by the little tent, and beyond them, the horses stood with their heads down. It was a peaceful scene, but Conan mistrusted it.

“Something is wrong,” he muttered to his companions, “You always think something is wrong,” Achilea said.

“Everything is fine,” said Kye-Dee, weaving slightly, having drunk a good deal more than the Cimmerian, “With grass like this, and no storm, and no soldiers chasing us, what can be amiss?” The other Hyrkanians laughed and agreed. They all carried wineskins and drank from them every few steps.

“I cannot say,” he grumbled, “but I shall know soon.”

The others went off to find their beds. On such a fine evening, these consisted of little more than rolling into a blanket upon the deep, springy grass.

The Cimmerian, however, was restless. He knew better than to try to sleep while he felt such apprehension, so he sat by their watchfire until all the rest were asleep, and then he rose. Settling his weapons securely at his hips, he walked from the fire.

Something he could not name drew him toward the ruined temple. In the center of the tumbled wall, the pointed arch of the gateway loomed intact, its wooden doors long since rotted away. The Cimmerian passed through, pushing aside me tendrils of vines that hung from the top of the arch.

As he entered the courtyard, a skulking fox sidled away. An owl hooted in the gloom. Except for these, all was stillness and silence. Silent as a ghost, the Cimmerian crossed me courtyard, his booted feet making no sound upon the small, colored flagstones. Once these had formed brilliant patterns and pictures, but the sun of centuries had faded their glory, and in the moonlight, they possessed no more than a hint of their former beauty.

On the far side of the courtyard hulked the temple proper and to one side of it, the broken tower.

Through the gaping doorway of the temple and within its long, slit-like windows he saw a dim, flickering light. The windows still, miraculously, held some inserts of red glass, and these lent an even eerier aspect to the scene. Slowly and with great caution, Conan approached the temple, his hand gripping his hilt, ready for anything.

A flight of steps led up to the temple door. These he climbed, his soft-soled boots scarcely touching the stones as he ascended. He paused at the top of the steps and listened, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound. He heard a serpent slithering through a clump of weeds twenty paces away, but he heard
nothing from within the temple. Stealthily, hugging the shadows in the side of the doorway, he went in.

The walls of the temple were largely intact, but the roof was open to the sky. Clumps of grass and weed grew from cracks in the flooring, and the walls were topped with vines, bushes and even small trees. But at the far end of the temple was a sheltered niche holding an altar. Upon that altar burned a number of candles, and before it stood two figures.

Monandas and Yolanthe had removed their swathing and cowled cloaks, and each stood clad in a sleeveless white robe. The man’s garment seemed to be of heavy silk. Yolanthe’s was of a fabric so sheer that the candlelight shone through it, revealing a lissome figure. The two were going through some sort of ritual in absolute silence. They paced before the altar, made precise turns, raised and lowered their arms in hieratic fashion, their fingers tracing symbols with bewildering rapidity.

Keeping close to the shadowing walls, the Cimmerian worked his way closer to the mysterious pair.

As he drew nearer, he saw that their mouths were working as if they spoke or, from the rhythmic way their lips moved, chanted. Yet they made no sound. Their eyes were wide open, but they seemed not to see, or rather, Conan thought, they looked as if they were seeing something other than the ruined temple all around them.

As he drew even nearer to them, Conan left the sheltering wall and stopped in the shadow of a pedestal that rose just above man-height to one side of the niche. Once the pedestal had supported a statue that had stood more than twice lite-size―now only the feet and ankles remained. The rest was a tumbled heap of broken stone upon the floor. On the other side of the niche stood a matching pedestal, and its statue was intact, save that it was headless. In the moonlight, Conan could see that it had represented a man, or a manlike god, dressed in graceful robes.

Now the twins turned to face the altar and they raised their arms to shoulder height, upper arms parallel to the floor, forearms vertical, their hands upturned so that their palms faced the sky. Their lips moved in unison, but still they made no sound. Then Conan was aware that there was another person within the niche. He shook his head and stared, wondering how he had missed the man before.

He sat cross-legged upon the altar, swathed in white robes. His face was majestic, with a great silver, fan-shaped beard sweeping down to his breast. His head was covered with a white kerchief embroidered with silver threads. His eyeballs showed only white, like those of a blind man.

The twins lowered their arms and seemed to be still speaking. The man on the altar appeared to answer them, for his lips and beard moved, but there came no sound. The three of them were so noiseless that had he not been able to hear night sounds from without the temple, Conan might have thought that he had gone deaf.

The three continued their eerie conversation, but the Cimmerian was stymied for an explanation as to just what was transpiring before his eyes. Was the man a real man? A demon? A god? Whatever it was, it made his spine prickle, but he did not feel the revulsion that always assailed him in the presence of black wizardry.

Feeling that he would learn little more here, Conan stealthily backed away and made his way out of the temple. The moon stood high, and in the distance he could see the herdsmen’s watchfires. He stopped by their own fire and took one of the wineskins left there by the Hyrkanians. With this slung from his shoulder, he walked toward the nearest of the herdsmen’s fires. As he crossed the plain, he heard something walking parallel to him, and an errant breeze brought the scent of wolf to his nose. It caused him no concern. No wolf was going to attack a man when there were sheep and calves about.

When he strode within the light of the fire, the herdsmen gasped and snatched up their spears, scrambling to their feet.

“Who be you?” demanded a grizzle-bearded man dressed in rough leathers. His companions were a somewhat younger man and a boy in his early teens. The tip of the boy’s spear trembled slightly, but the men held their weapons steady, their expressions grim. Conan had been a herdsman in his youth, and he knew the occupation was not a task for the fainthearted, not in a land where wolves, bears and lions were plentiful.

“A friend,” Conan said, holding up the wineskin. “I am camped with my companions by the old temple.”

“So you are one of the fools,” said the younger man. Satisfied that Conan was alone, they lowered their weapons.

“Fools? What mean you?”

The older man accepted the proffered skin. “Come, share our fire. He said that because you have pitched camp in an accursed place.” There were logs arranged around a stone-lined fire pit, and the three herdsmen sat on one log while Conan took the one facing them.

“I thought as much when I saw how high the grass was and how plentiful the water. That is not something you see often in grazing land such as this.”

“Aye,” said the younger man. “It is a tempting sight, is it not? But we know better than to use it.”

Each in turn, the three took a pull at the skin and the boy passed to back to Conan. He took a drink and handed it to the elder.

“How do you keep your beasts from straying onto the grass? I saw no fence there.”

“We need not restrain them,” said the grizzle-bearded man, “for they cannot be forced onto that land.”

“That is true,” said the younger. “Cattle and sheep will eat the grass within five hundred paces of the accursed temple, but they will not go one step farther, nor take so much as a mouthful from the other side of the line. Look at it in the daylight, stranger: The ungrazed grass forms a perfect square, the line straight as one laid out by a builder stretching a string between two stakes.”

“How came this to be?” asked the Cimmerian.

“It is said,” the bearded man told him, “that Ardubal the Ninth, the great king who reigned over Zamora many, many years ago, offended the gods in his quest for wizardly knowledge. He carried out terrible rituals in that very temple. One night, at the height of his glory, Ardubal sacrificed a thousand men upon the altar of that temple, Nemedian prisoners captured in battle. The gods, angered at his impiety and his infamous behavior, destroyed the temple and the king and laid the very precincts under a curse.

Zamora fell to the Nemedians, and we lived beneath their yoke for a generation.”

“Aye, that is the tale,” said the younger man. The boy, from whom Conan had yet to hear a word, merely nodded.

He was not satisfied with the tale, but he felt sure he would hear nothing better from these men.

When the wineskin was empty, he made his way back to the camp and rolled into a blanket to sleep.

Accursed or not, the thought, the dense, springy grass made a fine, soft bed.

The next morning, as they broke camp and prepared to march, Conan approached the twins and called to their attention the singular square of high grass.

“Odd, is it not?” Monandas commented. “And yet, the world is full of little mysteries such as this.”

“Last night I beard a tale about this place,” Conan said, and told them what he had learned from the herdsmen, omitting the detail of having spied upon the two within the temple before seeking out the local men.

Both laughed and Yolanthe spoke. “Peasants always have a story to explain uncanny things in their neighborhood. Usually, these explanations involve some famous personage of the past. In these parts, it is always Ardubal the Ninth, who was a great king but who in the end lost Zamora to the Nemedians.”

“Did he truly practice evil arts?” Conan asked.

““Who knows?” Monandas said, shrugging. “But he had naught to do with this temple. To peasants, anything that happened before their grandsires’ time is remotest antiquity, and in their tales, persons and events separated by centuries are all contemporary. In truth, Ardubal the Ninth reigned a mere three hundred years ago. Yet anyone who has traveled and surveyed many ruins can tell that this temple,” he swept out an arm to take in the tatty precincts, “has lain derelict for more than a thousand years.”

Conan studied the place in light of these words, “Aye,” he admitted, “this place was built solidly. It took more than three hundred years for so many stones to topple, and to put full-grown trees atop the
walls.” He considered the prospect. “Then what think you happened here?”

“What makes you so curious?” Yolanthe asked.

“Because none of the local animals will eat this grass,” Conan said. “But ours have been cropping it happily, and drinking the water. How can this be?”

Monandas frowned. “They seem to have suffered no harm thereby. We hired you as a guard and because you know the southern lands, Cimmerian. You need not concern yourself with these trifling matters. And now I think it best for you to see to your own mount. We depart within the hour.”

“As you wish,” Conan said. He wanted to know what the two had been up to, but he knew that he would learn no more at this time. As he walked away, the twins looked after him, their expressions enigmatic.

Four

Their journey southward into the southern lowlands brought diem to warmer climes. Much of the land was cultivated, but there was also much wilderness, with abundant wild game. Since Conan, the Hyrkanians and Achilea’s party were all accomplished hunters, they seldom had to purchase provisions and thus were able to avoid large towns where they might be questioned. The little caravan passed midway between Shadizar and Arenjun and within a few days came to the border of Koth.

Since the incident in the ruined temple, there had been no more supernatural demonstrations, but the Cimmerian was still wary of their employers. His other companions seemed ID have no such qualms and were happy with the change of climate, the regular and plentiful meals and the absence of pursuers.

Had it not been for his instinctive aversion to magickal doings, Conan himself would have felt that he had fallen into a most fortunate situation. But the surpassingly strange thing he had witnessed put him on his guard, and the aloof twins’ odd mission troubled him as well. Their treasure-hunt seemed to him a fool’s errand.

Another thing galled Conan. His attempts to draw Achilea into closer intimacy had been met with unfailing rebuffs. Unlike most women, she seemed to be unimpressed by his physical charms. If she admired his warrior accomplishments, she hid it well. To make matters worse, the three women and the dwarf never strayed far from her side. Any time he drew close to her, they drew even closer, hands on their weapons. They were prepared to cut him down at the first sign of threat, and he suspected that the wild women, at least, would consider the mildest amatory gesture to be a killing matter.

They came to the border between Zamora and Koth, near the eastern extremity of the latter nation: a district of semi-arid grassland given over to great herds of shaggy, huge-horned cattle tended by riders scarcely less brutish man their four-footed charges. The watchers at the border gave them no trouble, for now they were in land where neither kings nor local chieftains paid much heed to the wild men who preyed upon travelers or more settled folk.

“From here on, we keep our bows strung and arrows ready,” Conan said as they crossed into Koth. “And we double the watch at night. This territory is rife with raiders and bandits of all sorts, but they will keep their distance from a party that is alert and well-armed, especially since it is plain that we bear no great treasure with us.”

“Who made you our leader, Cimmerian?” growled Jeyba the dwarf.

“Aye!” chorused all three of the savage women, jealous as always of their queen’s authority.

“Hee, hee!” cried Kye-Dee in his high-pitched laugh. “A mutiny of women and dwarfs! Surely this is something from an old fable!” The women and the dwarf reached for their weapons.

“Stop this!” Achilea snapped. Instantly, her followers froze. “The rogue presumes too much, but there is naught amiss with his advice. Now, when the danger grows, we must Dot bicker among ourselves.”

“Then, by Crom,” Conan fumed, “just who is in charge here? When raiders strike us at midnight, that will be no time to dispute authority!”

The twins, tented within their camelback abodes, seemed to be taking no notice, but at the Cimmerian’s last words, they thrust their heads from behind their curtains with their usual disconcerting
simultaneity.

“We will provide all the necessary orders,” Monandas said. “Do not forget who are your employers.”

“Aye, but you are not warriors,” Conan said. “One of us should have the captaincy of your guard.”

“Then,” Yolanthe said, “we choose Achilea. She is, after all, of royal blood.” If she meant this ironically, she gave no sign.

“Very well,” Conan said, still fuming. “Since you would rather have breeding than warrior experience, so be it.”

It was at that moment that the raiders struck them. A file of horsemen came galloping from behind a knoll, waving their weapons and rending the air with shrill war cries.

“I await your orders. Commander,” Conan said to the astonished Achilea.

She seemed to shake off the momentary surprise and rose in her stirrups to survey the terrain. The raiders were riding in fast from their left. She pointed to a rise of ground nearby to their right, next to a deep gully.

“Ride for that knoll and we’ll have the high ground of them! Camels in the middle and the rest of us will circle mem, with the gully to our back.”

“That’s a mistake,” Conan said, “but go ahead. I’ll slow diem down.”

“No! Stay with us!” Achilea cried, but the Cimmerian was already spurring toward me attackers.

Cursing, she seized the bridle of one of the tall camels and signaled the dwarf to do the same with the other. They began to ride toward the high ground while the Hyrkanians formed a screen between them and the raiders. The mercenaries spurred their horses into curving and zigzagging maneuvers as they plied their bows, for Hyrkanians never fought standing still.

The distance was closing fast, but as he rode, Conan made a quick evaluation of the raiders. There were perhaps a score of them, most wearing the garb of Kothian plainsmen, but even among these, he recognized the distinctive robes and headdresses of several tribes. There were Khorajans and Khauranians, and he saw at least one man in the armor of a Zamoran light-cavalryman. Outlaws, outcasts and deserters, he thought, not a warrior tribe.

The nearest rider lowered his lance point toward Conan and spurred his horse to greater speed.

With the shaft tucked tightly beneath his arm, he leaned well to the right, his shield of beaten steel held high to ward against a counter blow. His face was twisted with the exultant glee of an easy kill, for he could see that his opponent had no lance.

Conan did not spur his mount to higher speed, for it was not a trained warhorse. Instead, he drew his sword and kept his eyes on the advancing lance point. As it approached within a few feet, he bent low. The instant the sharp steel passed over him, he straightened, raising the wooden shaft and creating a wide opening beneath the raised shield. Gripping his sword in both hands, he brought the blade across horizontally, shearing through the raider’s light breastplate, crunching past the ribs, biting into the vitals.

His sword came free in a spray of blood as he rode past and looked for another victim.

Even as he scanned the raiders, two of them toppled from their mounts, felled by Hyrkanian arrows.

The rest were clearly astonished. Their supposed victims were not going to be the easy meat they had anticipated. The two nearest him swerved aside, but Conan swerved along with one of mem. As he spurred within arm’s length, the man looked back over his shoulder and had only a moment to stare in horror as Conan’s blade descended, chopping through his spine like a woodman’s ax through a sapling.

The wretch toppled from his saddle and the Cimmerian turned his attention to the rest. They were keeping their distance from this alarming, black-haired horseman and were charging the knoll instead.

There Conan saw what he had expected to see. Achilea, the twins and the rest had just gained the top of the small rise―to find that they were not the only ones there.

“Foolish, arrogant wench!” Conan muttered as he reined his horse toward the knoll and kicked it to a full gallop.

Atop the mound, the riders had been surprised by another band of outlaws, these lying in wait in the
gully that ran around the base of the tittle rise. Sixteen men, mounted upon small, swift horses, charged from the gully toward the knot of riders on the high ground With lances leveled, they made straight for the two camels.

Achilea and her followers stayed close to the tall beasts. The three savage women plied their bows, while Achilea and the dwarf engaged any who drew too near. The queen’s sword flashed, parting flesh with every stroke. Jeyba’s bludgeon rose and fell, smashing bones, scattering brains. The Hyrkanians, who disliked hand-to-hand fighting, dispersed, keeping well out of lance-range and sending in their deadly arrows at every opportunity.

Then Conan came storming up the rise, his blade whirling like a great steel windmill. A bandit spurred toward one of the camels, adroitly evading Achilea’s slashing sword. Just as his hand grasped the curtain of Yolanthe’s shelter, the Cimmerian’s sword flashed down, severing the hand at the wrist. The man turned, gaping, only to see the blade descend once more, this time to split his skull.

The raiders had had enough. With howls of frustration, the survivors wheeled and fled, the Hyrkanians close upon their heels, happily firing arrows at the exposed backs.

“Stop and come back here!” Achilea cried. The Hyrkanians either did not hear her or simply ignored her order.

“Have we lost any?” Conan asked, wiping his blade.

Achilea looked at her women and the dwarf, who likewise cleaned bloodied weapons. “I’ve lost none, and you seem to be in one piece, I’ll not speak for the Hyrkanians until they return, the mutinous dogs.”

“The Hyrkanians have a saying,” Conan said with a smile. ‘ “There is no fairer sight beneath the Everlasting Sky than a foeman’s back within arrow-range.’ “

Yolanthe pushed her curtain aside, ignoring the bandit’s severed hand, which still gripped it next to her face. “Is all well?” Her expression was perfectly serene, her voice as tranquil as ever.

“We told you that we would protect you,” Achilea said, her face still furious.

“And yet,” Monandas added, thrusting his head through his curtains, “just before the assault, you were exchanging words of a certain pertinence. Conan, did you not tell Achilea that riding to this knoll was a mistake?”

“I did,” Conan averred.

“And wherefore said you that?” Yolanthe said sweetly.

“We are twelve armed guards,” Conan said. “Any could see that no more than a score rode toward us. Scum like that want at least three-to-one odds before they attack. When they attack you without such odds, on open ground, with high ground or an escape route near at hand, you know that you are being herded into an ambush.”

Achilea’s face flamed. “Are you such a great captain, then? I have done my share of raiding, Cimmerian!”

“Aye, but you are accustomed to being the raider, not the defender. I have captained in a score of armies, and I have served as guard on twoscore caravans. I have been 3 reaver and a pirate as well, so I know the habits of these scavengers.”

“Then tell us, Conan,” Jeyba said, “why these scum struck us at all. You yourself said that they would avoid an alert and well-armed party bearing no obvious wealth. They knew they must lose many and gain little, yet they attacked. How came this about?”

“Aye!” Achilea said, clearly relieved to have attention distracted from her tactical blunder. “They rode straight for the camels! Yet the beasts bear no panniers that might contain treasure.”

The question vexed Conan as well, but he was too irritated at the woman to take her part.

“Is it not obvious?” said Monandas.

“Not at all,” replied Achilea, her eyes fierce beneath lowering brows.

“Are these not splendid beasts?” Yolanthe asked, stroking the white neck of her own mount. “And
are these not wonderful hangings?” Idly, she plucked the severed hand from the curtain and tossed it to the ground, then stroked the fine silk.

“Who would have such animals and such traveling tents save wealthy folk? No doubt they thought us to be persons of substance-―the family of a local chieftain, or perhaps members of a priestly order.

Are these brigands not in the habit of kidnapping such persons and holding diem for ransom?”

Conan nodded his black mane. “Aye, they do that.”

“Then it is explained,” Yolanthe said. “Let us proceed.” She looked at Achilea. “I still favor you as captain of our guard. No doubt you will be more wary henceforth.” Sister aid brother drew back into their tents and closed the curtains.

Achilea sat upon her saddle pad, scarlet-faced and quivering with rage. Conan could see that she had been deeply wounded in her warrior pride. Yolanthe’s mild words had been as a lash across her back.

At this moment, the Hyrkanians returned, yipping in tri-triumph, waving the scalps of the slain bandits, still dripping blood,

“Aiee!” Kye-Dee cried as they reined in. “That was more enjoyable than riding after hares!”

“Why did you not return when I bade you?” Achilea shouted. “For aught we knew, both attacks might have been ruses, intended to draw us away from those we are pledged to protect!”

Conan hid his amusement at this face-saving bluster. Kye-Dee was not intimidated.

“Did you call us back? We did not hear you. When we saw the backs of our enemies, we lost interest in all else. It was a gift from the Everlasting Sky, and it is a great error to spurn divine gifts. We Hyrkanians have a saying; “There is no fairer sight beneath the Everlasting Sky than―’ “

“I have heard it!” Achilea barked. She wheeled her horse and rode off, closely followed by her women and her dwarf.

“Aiee!” Kye-Dee said, chuckling. “Someone has slipped a burr between the warrior woman’s saddle and her bottom!”

“Best keep your distance from her for a while,” Conan advised. “Sooner or later, we’ll encounter another fight and she’ll have a chance to redeem herself. Let her toll a few rogues, then her good humor will be restored.”

Leaving the dead bandits behind them, they proceeded on their way south. Already, the wolves and buzzards were gathering for the feast.

The district through which they rode was not rich in towns. The few villages were little more than cattle markets where beasts were bought and sold on the hoof, or else were hauled away in great wagons in the form of beef, hides and tallow. The stench of these places proved sufficient to cause the travelers to avoid them. Conan and the rest of the guards were by no means finicky, but the twins found the odor and the swarming flies unendurable.

On the other hand, progress was swifter here because they did not have to hunt. Since so many cattle were slaughtered for hides, a whole steer carcass could be purchased for a copper or two, and they feasted mightily every evening on fresh beef.

“Best to fatten ourselves while we may,” Conan said one evening as they sat around their fire, tearing at the savory flesh with their teeth and tossing the stripped bones into the flame, “In the deserts south of here, we’ll have no such plentiful fare.”

“Truly, you Cimmerians are a gloomy lot,” Achilea said. She still nursed a grudge in his presence.

“Why worry about what tomorrow brings? We may not live out the night”

“Aye,” said Kye-Dee. “Life is a chancy and mutable thing.”

“I was once as thoughtless as you,” Conan said, “but when I became a captain and a leader of men, I was forced to take thought of consequences and to make careful preparations. This is fat, easy land despite the bandits. The desert will be different. When we near the border, or perhaps in Khauran, I will have to make inquiries about conditions to the south.”

“What do you mean?” Achilea asked suspiciously, disliking the way the Cimmerian was once again taking charge.

“The desert seems unchanging, but it is not,” Conan went on. “Water holes will dry up overnight for no reason any man understands. New tribes will move into an area that has been uninhabited for centuries. Just keeping alive in the desert can be a difficult thing. Any surprise can be fatal. We may be forced to take steps distasteful to us.”

“Such as?” Kye-Dee asked, biting into a smoking joint “If recent years have been exceptionally dry, we may have to trade off the horses and ride camels.”

“Never!” Achilea cried, springing to her feet. Automatically, her followers did the same, their hands going to their bits. “I ride no stinking, lurching, ugly camel!” In disgust at Ac very thought, she hurled her half-gnawed beef rib into the outer darkness. Immediately, scavengers began to fight over it.

“Surely we will not be so desperate, Conan!” said Kye-Dee. less angry but clearly shocked, “Camels are the beasts of merchants and contemptible villagers, not the mounts of honorable men of arms who ride free beneath the Everlasting Sky!”

“We may not have much choice,” Conan pronounced. “Horses cannot live in places where water sources are too far apart, and we cannot carry enough water with us to satisfy a horse. It may be all we can do to carry enough for ourselves. A camel can go for days without drinking. It can live on forage so poor that a horse would starve to death eating it. If we must cross deep sand, a horse’s hooves will sink in and it will founder. Camels have broad foot-pads to distribute their weight.

“And the tribes of the desert are not so picky about their mounts. They ride and fight from camels.”

Achilea snorted, resuming her seat. “Who can fight effectively from such a lumbering beast?”

“You know only the two-humped, high-desert and mountain camels of your homeland,” Conan pointed out. “The one-humped camels of the southern desert are smaller and much swifter, although I’ll warrant they are no prettier. And a man mounted on one sits a yard higher than a horseman. It can be a great advantage in a sword-fight.”

“Camels,” Achilea said with a shudder of distaste. “I hope that I am never brought so low!”

At least, Conan noted, she was giving him no more argument. “If it’s that or walk,” he said, “you’ll ride a camel.” Kye-Dee carved strips of roasted meat with his curved dagger. “Our employers”― he jerked his head toward their tents ―”I took them some meat, but they refused it as they always do, saying that they would eat from their own supplies, I ask you: What sort of people refuse good, fresh meat, preferring wretched dry fare?”

“The world is full of odd sects,” Conan said, shrugging. “Many of them require that their followers eat only certain things, deeming all other fare unlawful. Some will eat no flesh, others will eat naught else.

I have encountered wild holy men who live on insects and honey. Some will eat animals only if the beasts have been killed in a prescribed fashion. It is all a great foolishness as far as I am concerned, but I have never made it my business to tell others what gods they should worship or what commandments they should follow.”

“That is the best course,” Kye-Dee said. “People you cannot kill, you should leave alone.”

After the others had rolled into their blankets, Conan assumed the first watch. He brooded upon the fire, his eyes seeing demon-shapes within me writhing flames. Despite his words, he was troubled. His employers, the twins, had many enigmatic qualities. Not least among them was the fact that he had never seen them eat or drink.

More perplexing was the question of the raiders. The twins’ speculation that they had been the target of kidnappers who merely wanted hostages for ransom was plausible, but somehow Conan was not convinced. The men had shown spirit and determination beyond what he expected of such scavengers. They had planned well, and pressed their attack even after taking severe casualties.

Ordinarily, they should have broken off action as soon as one or two were killed. Their actions had been those of men who expected great rewards.

The twins had said that they expected assaults from others who also searched for the fabulous city
of Janagar, Yet they seemed reluctant to attribute the attack to their rivals, and why was that? The Cimmerian did not like it when vexing, perplexing questions intruded upon an otherwise routine mission.

One thing was certain: He would have to watch the enigmatic pair more closely than ever.

At last they came to a sizable town. It was called Zardas, md it was located at the crossing of two roads just north of the border between Koth and Khauran, on a small river. It. loo, was a large cattle market, but the town had wisely situated its stockyards and pens two miles downstream from the city.

Thus the environs were kept reasonably healthy and no more noisome than the average settlement of human beings. Just without the walls were corrals for the animals of travelers, and here a number of small caravans were encamped. An official in charge of the campsite spoke with the twins and assigned them a pen for their horses and the two camels. He accepted their pen, grazing and watering fees and directed diem to the town’s best inn.

A few caravaneers approached to admire the two white camels. Some of them had never seen the shaggy, two-humped breed of northern camel, and never had they seen any so fine. Monandas turned down several generous offers to buy the beasts, pleading that he and his sister would be heartbroken and desolate to part with their beloved mounts. When all was secure, they walked through the gates and into the town proper.

It proved to be a colorful place; most of the buildings were made of brick or local stone, bright with paint and striped cloth awnings. The streets were lined with the stalls of small merchants, some of them local, others itinerant

“My sister and I go to the inn,” said Monandas. **Who will go with us?”

Conan glanced at the angle of the sun. There are two hours of daylight yet,” he said. ‘1 think I will have a look around. I have never visited this place in all my travels. I’ll rejoin you this evening.” The other guards decided to sample whatever delights the town had to offer before repairing to the inn as well, so that the twins walked off alone.

“Is this wise?” said Kye-Dee when they were gone. “We undertook to protect them, and they are as open to attack here as out upon the plain.”

Achilea shrugged her heavy shoulders. “We promised to guard them on the march. Nothing was said about towns.”

“Aye,” said Conan. “And after that business at the northern border, I am not convinced that they require much protection at all.”

And so they meandered aimlessly through narrow streets. Conan and the Hyrkanians attracted little notice in the town, where wandering bravos of every sort were a common sight. Achilea and her followers were a different story. Nothing quite like them had ever before been seen in the district. People gaped at the savage, painted women and their beautiful giantess of a queen and her squat, sardonic dwarf. As a result, they were constantly being engaged in conversation by the curious, while the Cimmerian wandered farther and farmer away from them.

In time, the Hyrkanians found a booth devoted to a gambling game common to their homeland and for which they had a passionate fondness. Conan left them behind there and went on alone. He came to a small bazaar where weapons and armor were on display. As always, his interest was drawn by the toots of his profession. They were entering the part of me world where the favored defenses were shirts of supple mail, light, well-forged helmets and small, round shields. The broiling sun of the southern lands forbade the heavier armor of the north and west. In consequence, the weapons were lighter gracefully curved swords, slender lances, and vicious tittle axes with whiplash hafts of springy rhinoceros born.

At a stall managed by a blind Shemite, he found a curious weapon. It was crafted entirely from steel, with a slim shaft terminating in a head wrought in the semblance of a human fist clutching a dagger.

The blade of the dagger was slightly downcurved and was actually a thick spike rather than a true blade.

Clearly, it was intended to pierce mail.

“An interesting weapon, is it not?” The speaker was a man in Turanian garb, his jacket of gray silk decorated with fine gold threads. His trousers of black silk were tucked into the tops of boots made of
soft red leather.

“Too specialized,” Conan said. “It can pierce mail, but if it goes through a helmet or plate armor, the point may become wedged”

The man stroked his small chin-beard. “Few men have the strength to drive such a weapon through plate.”

“I can do it,” Conan said, tossing the spike-mace back on the table. “I prefer a weapon with a variety of uses.”

“Such as this northern brand you bear?” the man asked, eyeing the sword that hung at the Cimmerian’s side.

“Aye. It is heavy enough to cleave armor and keen enough to slice flesh. Its balance and point make it a decent thrusting weapon, and the pommel is good for bashing skulls when the quarters are close.”

The man smiled, displaying feral, pointed teeth. “You sound like a man who knows weapons. I’ve not seen you here before. Are you a recent arrival?”

“I rode in but an hour ago,” Conan affirmed “Alone?”

“Why do you ask?” Instantly, the Cimmerian was suspicious. The questioner was armed with sword and dagger, but in this part of the world, every grown man went armed. He had the look of a fighting-man and Conan feared no man, but he was wary of the stranger’s interest “I have a small merchant caravan under my authority and am looking for competent guardsmen.” He touched his breast and inclined his head slightly. “I am Vladig, from Akit, in Turan.”

“I am Conan of Cimmeria, and as it happens, I am already employed guarding a party bound for the southern desert.”

“Ah, that is unfortunate. You appear to be a prime prospect. The southern desert, you say? May I inquire which district?”

“North of me great bend of the Styx, between Zamboula and Kutchernes, south of Khauran.”

“The Dead Man’s Journey! That is a forbidding place, my friend. I would caution you to take another route to wherever it is you are going.”

Conan was about to say that the district was not the route but the destination, but then decided that it would be telling this stranger too much. Instead, he shrugged.

“It is not my decision. I was hired to ride guard, nothing more.”

“Ah, the vagaries of owners can be difficult to live with,” the man said commiseratingly. He gestured to an open doorway nearby. “Would you care to take some wine with me? I have recently skirted that district and may be able to inform you of some hazards best avoided.”

Conan was amenable to this. He was always ready to drink another man’s wine if that man was not an enemy, and he dearly wanted to know about recent conditions to the south, Minutes later, they were seated inside the little tavern, at a table beneath a window through which the sun of late afternoon shone in colored stripes through the awning outside. At the stranger’s order, a serving woman brought them a pitcher of wine and a pair of cups. Pitcher and cups were of blue-glazed pottery, a specialty of the district.

The two men pledged each other’s good health. The wine was tart, flavored with local spices and a tawny gold in color,

“Does your caravan go forth to sell, or to buy, or bom?” Vladig asked.

“It shall be as the owners decide,” Conan said. “We travel light.”

“Ah,” Vladig said, nodding. “When a caravan travels without goods to trade, it means that it goes slaving. A few-score yards of chain and shackles packs down nicely in saddlebags. Yes, the Dead Man’s Journey is the shortest way between here and the black lands of Punt and Zembabwei. Of course, you must choose a better way back. Not a single captive would survive that route traveling on his own feet.”

“Are the water holes low?” Conan asked.

“Even lower than usual, you mean? Aye, the oasis of Amun, once open to all, is now so diminished
that the Omri tribesmen guard it solely for their own use, driving away all other tribesmen and demanding a steep toll of passing caravans-Of a score of watering places along the Great Desert route between Turan and Stygia, less than twelve are now reliable.”

“What of the Lesser Passage from Zamboula to the bend of the Styx?” the Cimmerian inquired.

“Better as far as water goes, but the predatory tribes are greedier than ever. It is the same all over To be safe from raiders, you must travel in strong bands, heavily guarded. But such caravans require that much more water and forage. All in all, the longer route, skirting the periphery of the desert, is safer. The passage may take twice as long and you pay taxes to many local chiefs, but your chances of making it through alive are better.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Conan said, keeping his thoughts to himself. “I shall speak to my employers about this.”

“That would be wise,” said Vladig.

They finished the pitcher of wine, talking of the vagaries of desert life. Then they parted, Conan wondered at the man’s helpfulness. It was not uncommon for travelers to exchange such information, but the man had shown little interest in Conan’s origins, or in his travels or the lands they had crossed to reach Zardas, and that seemed passing strange.

Vladig made his way through the narrow alleys of Zardas as the light dimmed overhead. At last he came to a high, blank wall and took a key from his belt pouch, with which he unlocked a heavy gate. He passed through the gate into a courtyard where fragrant bushes grew in planters set amid polished flagstones. Beyond the courtyard was a fine house with whitewashed walls. He ascended an exterior stairway that led to a flat roof. After the fashion of the finer houses of the district, the roof supported a garden, and in its midst was a small penthouse. He passed beneath an arbor covered with climbing vines and knocked upon the door of the penthouse.

“Enter.” The voice was deep and mellifluous. Vladig opened the door and went in. He bowed with fingertips spread upon his breast.

“I have done as you wished, my master.”

The man thus addressed sat behind a table spread with tomes and curious instruments. Before him lay a heap of tiny crystals, some rounded, some elongated, others like needles. He was a tall man, lean and saturnine of feature, with a pointed, graying beard and long mustaches. He wore a robe of deep purple and a close-fitting turban of the same hue.

“Report, then,” said the man in the purple robe, revealing small, pointed teem. His hands rested upon the table before him, their fingers seeming unnaturally long. From time to time, the fingers flexed as if of their own volition, tracing intricate patterns with their tips.

“I spoke with one of their guards, a hulking great northerner with black hair. I also had a look at me party before I approached the man. It is an odd a lot as I have ever seen: Hyrkanian bowmen, a dwarf, the Northerner, even some armed women.”

“Women?” said the seated man.

“Aye, four of them. Three are savage, half-animal creatures led by a big, strapping, yellow-haired wench who looks as dangerous as any bandit I ever ran across.”

The other stared broodingly into the pile of crystals, which began to glow a lambent violet. “The twins have a flair for attracting oddities.” His fingers began to move in more intricate patterns, and the crystals started to shift.

Vladig did not like to look at his master’s hands. In repose, the fingers possessed the proper number of joints, but in morion, they were more like jointless tentacles. Also, when they moved, there seemed to be more than ten of them, although 10 swiftly did they writhe that they were impossible to count.

“The guard confirms your belief dial they are headed into the deep desert. He claims that he knows not their business there, but I do not believe him. He claims to be a simple guardsman, but he has the manner of a leader of men. His simplicity is a pose. In consequence, I dared not pry too closely. He was
suspicious enough as it was.”

“Did you mislead him?”

“It was not necessary. The truth was sufficient. Like any experienced desert traveler, he wanted to know about water and grass and raiding tribes. I exaggerated somewhat the danger of raiders on the Lesser Passage, but so small is their caravan that the danger is great enough. In truth, then-choices are few. If they wish to go to the place you believe, they must take the most direct route. It is the last leg of the journey that will probably be their death.”

“Some creatures do not die so easily,” said the other. “Give me your conversation in detail.” As Vladig reported, his master, whose name was Arsaces, brooded over his crystals. They shifted according to his gestures, gathering together in one place, extending into tendrils in another, always glowing brighter.

In time, they raised into the vague semblance of man-form, the violet light pulsing as if to the beating of a
crystalline heart

“This Northerner,” Arsaces said when Vladig was finished. “What sort of savage is he?”

“He says he is a man of Cimmeria, although I never before met one of that breed. The land is somewhere north of Aquilonia, I believe.”

“So it is. The folk there are known to be among the fiercest in the world, although few of them ever leave their homeland.”

“Like most Northerners, he is clearly a swordsman, and he wears a long brand at his belt. He has the bearing of a warrior and the gaze of an eagle.”

“A formidable man. But then, the world is full of brawny warriors with admit swords and loud boasts. Such things are vain and foolish. Only great sorcery has lasting value.”

“As you say, my master,” Vladig intoned.

“Very well. What you have said pleases me. Tell me when they make ready to leave mis town and we shall follow.”

“If you will indulge me. Master, why should we not leave ahead of them? They must journey hence by the southern route. We can find a favorable place for an ambush and await them there. Their defenses are negligible and they will fall into our hands like ripe fruit.”

The eyes of Arsaces glared at his henchman from within deep, dark sockets. “I said we shall follow, I shall decide when it is time to attack, and you are not to assume that their defenses are negligible. I have just told you that the swords of warriors are trifling things.”

Vladig fumed, but he bowed once more. “As my master commands.” Once again he bowed, then withdrew from the room.

Alone, Arsaces continued to manipulate his crystalline homunculus, causing it to walk about the table, imitate the movements of a warrior fighting, then those of a woman dancing. Tiring of this exercise, the wizard rippled his fingertips in a final flutter and the assembled crystals collapsed into a disorganized heap. Their violet glow faded and died.

The wizard brooded, running his fingers idly through the mass of crystals. At length he swept it from the table, into a coffer of ivory-decorated wood with a bronze lid.

When he located the inn, the Cimmerian went inside and joined the others. Over a meal of spicy lamb, bread and local fruits, he reported his conversation with the man who called himself Vladig.

“Do you think his information is to be trusted?” Yolanthe asked. The twins sat with the rest, but as usual, they ate nothing and their cups sat untouched before them.

“There is nothing unreasonable in what he said.” Conan answered, “but I will confer with other caravan masters ere we leave this place. What strikes me as odd is that he asked so little of me.

Ordinarily, if you drink another man’s wine, you answer his questions, not the other way about.”

“Aye, I do not like that,” Achilea said.

“It seems to me,” Kye-Dee said, “that if this fellow had ill intentions, he would have pumped Conan for information. Perhaps he is a holy man under a vow to be helpful to strangers.”

“No,” said Conan, “he is a fighting-man, I am sure of it.”

“This is much bother over nothing,” Kye-Dee said. He rolled a morsel of Iamb in a piece of bread, dipped it in a bowl of sauce and popped it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he said, “Tell me what he looks like and I will go kill him. Then we need not bother ourselves further.”

“Nay,” said Monandas, chuckling. “Our difficulties are not so simply solved. Conan, did it seem to you that this man spoke on his own behalf?”

“This is a question I considered even as we conversed. He seemed forthright, but there was something about his manner that suggested he was someone else’s dog. Since he only gave helpful information about the routes ahead of us, I suspect that he has orders to herd us whither his master desires.”

“That is shrewd,” Yolanthe said, but whether she meant the man’s perfidy or Conan’s assessment of it was unclear.

“Then we must not proceed as he wishes,” Achilea said.

Conan shook his head. “Our choices are few. The desert presents us with a bare handful of usable routes. Even traveling those, survival is a difficult and chancy thing. Off them, we have no chance at all.”

“I do not like being so restricted,” Achilea grumbled.

“Yet we go to the desert,” Monandas said mildly, “not to the steppe or the hill country you know so well. In the desert, we must abide by the desert’s rules. But this is not necessarily to our disadvantage, for so must these others.”

“Who are these others?” Kye-Dee inquired.

“There are always those who would snap up undefended prey,” Yolanthe told him. “Doubtless these make it their business to find out who is going where and to lay their traps accordingly.”

“No worry then,” Kye-Dee said, taking a long swig from his wine cup. “Our arrows, and the blades of our companions, will keep you safe.” Kye-Dee and his friends were not of a reflective nature. As long as food and wine were plentiful, they had little thought for the morrow and considered all forms of apprehension to be unmanly. Danger was the constant reality of life.

Five

Khauran was behind them. They had passed through the small kingdom almost unnoticed. As their journey continued ever southward, the land became drier. There were fewer cloudy days, and the rain was sparse and infrequent. They were now in land unclaimed by any kingdom, for the sparse grass and even sparser watering places would not support an army of any size, and no king could truly lay claim to land he could not occupy and garrison.

The terrain now consisted largely of low, rolling hills scarcely high enough to be dignified by such a title, cut frequently by deep ravines whose bottoms were dry through most of the year. The animals were smaller and did not run in large herds as they did farther north. Most numerous were graceful gazelle and impala, swift creatures that needed little forage or water and were adept at avoiding the large-eared desert cats that prowled at night.

Already the travelers had shed their heavy cloaks, skins and padded clothing, at least for daytime travel. At Conan’s direction, they had purchased the loose, flowing, lightweight robes of the southern drylands. These afforded protection from the fierce sun while giving adequate ventilation.

“We will need our warm cloaks as we penetrate the deep desert,” Conan warned, “so do not discard them.”

“I thought it grew hotter the farther south you travel,” Achilea said.

“So it does,” said Conan. “The sun beats down, and then the stone and sand of the true desert reflects it back in your face like a great mirror, making it doubly ferocious. But for some reason, stone and sand do not hold the heat of day as do soil and grass and trees. As soon as the sun is below the horizon, the land cools quickly. By midnight, it is almost cold enough to freeze water.”

“That does not seem natural,” the dwarf protested. “A hot land should be hot at night as well.”

Conan’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Throw away your cloak, then. But do not ask to borrow mine some frosty night upon the sands.”

From time to time, the Cimmerian would leave the main body and ride far back along their trail.

From a convenient rise of land, he scanned to their rear, looking for pursuers. Upon occasion he saw other caravans, and twice he saw armed tribesmen mounted upon wiry desert ponies, but these were nothing out of the ordinary and represented little threat to his small but skilled and heavily armed band.

He was still troubled by the man who had questioned him. His suspicions were aroused, and the secretive twins with their strange quest did not improve matters.

On the third day of the trek into the desert, they spied a great cloud of vultures and other carrion birds hovering and circling over a spot a mile ahead of them.

“Something is dead up there,” Kye-Dee noted.

“More than just a man or a camel,” said Achilea, “to attract so many birds.”

“Ride cautiously,” Conan advised, “but I do not expect trouble. If there were any live men over there, the birds would not circle so low. See, even now some of them descend.”

They rode onward at a cautious pace, and soon the wind brought them a terrible stench. Then they saw shapeless heaps upon the ground and among these heaps prowled dainty jackals and burly, brindled hyenas. The constant snarling of the beasts and the screeching of the birds made a hideous din, Their horses shied at the sights, sounds and smells. The tall camels seemed unaffected. The party urged their mounts closer until they could see that the animals were fighting over the remains of men and camels. So mutilated and dismembered were the corpses that it was difficult to count how many humans there had been. The much bigger carcasses of the camels were still largely intact, and it was over these that the hyenas snarled and fought, while the jackals sought to snatch bits of man-flesh from each other’s mouths. The grotesque vultures flapped in and tore loose what shreds they could, squawking indignantly when the greater creatures drove them off.

“What massacre took place here?” Achilea wondered, holding a fold of her robe across her nostrils to dull the stench.

“A caravan?” asked Yolanthe, thrusting her head from within her enclosure. She seemed curious, not at all repelled by the horrific spectacle.

Conan dismounted and walked among the corpses and the scattered limbs. The burdens carried by the camels had been torn open and scattered about. These he examined as well.

“I think not,” he reported at length. He pointed to several sections of bloodied cloth and jointed poles. “They were traveling with some good-sized tents. Caravaneers take only small ones, to save on cargo space. I think this was a nomadic tribe on the move. See, mere were women and children among them.” He indicated some of the scattered remains, although only a practiced eye could discern such distinctions as age and sex, so thoroughly mutilated were they, “I saw no sign of a band this large as we fared hither,” said .Achilea. The stench may have repelled her, but the horrific sights left her unmoved.

“I think these must have been coming up from the south when they were attacked,” Conan said. “I estimate mere must have been at least a hundred folk of all ages slain here.”

“We could collect the heads and make a count,” Kye-Dee suggested, sounding bored. Dead people did not interest him. especially since someone else had already looted them of all valuables.

“No need,” said Monandas. “Who, think you, did this deed, Cimmerian?”

“I see no arrows,” Conan answered. “Sometimes a tribe may be identified by its style of fletching. In fact―” he bent over a corpse that still possessed its head and upper limbs ―I see no wounds save those made by the teeth of these scavengers. That means little. Such destruction as these carcasses have suffered could well obliterate all sign of wounds,” He was far from satisfied with this explanation, but he felt that it would do for the others.

“We’ve no reason to stay here longer,” Achilea said, her face contorted with disgust. “Let’s be away.”

“The rest of you ride on,” Conan said, “I want to investi-gate the land around here and see if I can find out who did this killing and whither they went from here. If they are ahead of us, best to know it now.”

“Very well,” Yolanthe concurred, “but rejoin us before nightfall without fail.”

The Cimmerian merely grunted assent and nodded, not taking his eyes from the ghastly carnage littering the desert floor. The others rode off to the south. For a while, he walked among the corpses, ignoring the snarls of the hyenas. The creatures were powerful enough to drag down a full-grown bull, but they entirely lacked combative spirit. Only prey that was weak, helpless or already dead attracted them.

Satisfied that he would learn no more from the dead, the Cimmerian remounted and began to ride around the slaughter site, looking for signs of the killers. Employing an ancient hunter’s technique, he walked his horse slowly in an ever-widening spiral. Once be stopped and dismounted. The ground roundabout was hard, but here he saw marks that looked out of place. He squatted and studied them.

They were faint, mere parallel lines in the dust. There were two sets of them, as if a clawed creature had crouched there, then launched itself at its victim, leaving the scratch-marks behind. Frowning, the Cimmerian looked nearby and saw no others from the same creature. Whatever it had been, it sprang by the use of only two clawed feet. He brushed the dust away from one such mark and his scalp prickled.

The marks, though faint, were etched into the stone below the dust. He knew that no natural beast had claws hard enough to make such impressions.

Crouched low as he walked, the Cimmerian searched the area and found another score of identical marks. When he had found them all, he realized that they formed a slightly staggered line. From the tapering depth of the scratches, he knew that the creatures had been facing south when they sprang. For many days, the wind had come from the south. The things had set their ambush so that the wind would cany their scent away from the approaching nomads.

The entire scene, as he reconstructed it in his mind’s eye, left him profoundly uneasy. He had known wolves, and sometimes the big cats, to hunt often in packs or in small hunting teams, but never to lay so premeditated an ambush. What manner of creatures were these?

The victims had not been newcomers to the desert as was his own party, nor even desert-wise caravaneers. These had been nomads who passed their whole lives among the sands and stone and scorching sun of this wilderness. Yet they had been caught completely by surprise. Perhaps the uncanny creatures were unknown even to the desert nomads.

Before leaving the scene, Conan went back over the line of marks. He found one that was clearer than the others. It was in a slight depression, shaded by a jagged stone topped by a scrubby bush. This mark had been protected from the wind Mid the direct sunlight He lowered himself to his belly and miffed. Faintly, but distinctly, there came to his nostrils a pungent, unpleasant odor. It was as sharp as vinegar, but it was a smell he did not associate with living creatures. It put tern in mind of the workshops where craftsmen etched designs into the blades of swords and daggers with acid. He knew of no creature that bad such a smell.

Remounted, be rode on southward, his eyes alert for sign I at the things that had wiped out the tribe of desert people. What had been their motive? Food? The scavengers had been ML the bodies so long that it was difficult to tell. And why had to creatures made off with the tribe’s belongings? Human •avengers might have looted the corpses, but if so, they had carefully obliterated all sign of their presence.

Conan was willing to allow that this might have happened. He accounted himself a master tracker, but he had been among people who, within their own territory, could hide every sign of their movement with a skill that was all but supernatural.

He did not ride straight for his companions. Rather, he zigzagged, covering much more ground than necessary. He did Ms so that he might espy any further sign of the marauders, or any other threat to the group. The desert was devoid of farther traces. He reached the party at sunset. Even before he saw them, the southerly breeze wafted to him the scent of grilling meat When he arrived, he found that the Hyrkanians had bagged a fine gazelle. His stomach rumbled, for he had had no food save for a few
scraps of dry bread, and that had been early that morning. The alarm of the slaughtered tribe had driven all thought of food from his mind, but now he was famished.

He rode to the fire and dismounted, drawing his dirk even as his boot struck the ground. He crossed to the low-burning coals where the animal’s disjointed carcass sizzled.

“Did you find anything?*’ Kye-Dee asked as the Cimmerian cut slices of gazelle from a well-roasted haunch.

“Little that made any sense. Just now I have better use for my mouth than talk.” When he had satisfied his hunger with the savory meat and handfuls of dried dates from a leather bag, washing down with water from a skin, he told them of the strange marks and their even stranger attendant odor, “Like acid, you say?” Monandas commented, his face more somber than usual.

“Aye. I have smelled something the like in the shops of the blade-etchers, and where jewelers test the purity of gold. But never have I known any natural creature to have such a smell.”

“What of unnatural beasts?” asked one of the Hyrkanians, his fingers twisted nervously in his long, black plaits.

“I want nothing to do with any such,” Conan said firmly.

“Scholars learned in the natural arts,” Yolanthe said, “affirm that the tiniest creatures are made quite differently from the greater ones. Four centuries ago, Uhnas of Kordava wrote a monumental treatise on the six-legged creatures, in which he stales that many of them employ acid as a weapon, or to prepare materials for their nests, or to soften their food to an edible state. Even the common ants have a strong acid within their bodies.”

“Ants do not grow so large,” Conan said. “Nor do they go about on two legs.”

“Much as I esteem learned discourse,” Achilea grumbled, “I think you are reading too much into some scratches on the ground and a bit of smell. That tribe was probably attacked by enemies, and the killers wiped out their own traces. What was left was obliterated by the hyenas and the other scavengers.

There is no mystery. We must take special care to watch for them, that is all.” Her stubborn tone suggested that she was trying to convince herself. “So we must,” Monandas said.

As they continued south, the rocky, eroded soil, scrubby brush and cactus began to give way to sandier terrain, then to true dunes that marched away in the distant horizon like the waves of the sea. The horses began to hang their heads and grow sullen, not liking the change.

“At first opportunity,” Conan announced, “we must trade the horses for camels. There is an oasis not far from here where several caravan paths meet. There we will find caravaneers looking to trade their beasts for horses for the trek north.”

“I do not like the idea,” Achilea said. “And I do not like camels! They are ugly, smelly creatures without grace or beauty.”

“Not fit for a queen, you mean?*’ said Kye-Dee, giving forth one of his high-pitched laughs. ‘1 do not like them, either, but I fear the Northerner is right. The horses will not last much longer, and even a camel is better than going afoot.” The other Hyrkanians made sounds of vigorous assent.

“This we will do,” Monandas said. “Our destination lies yet farther south and we must have mounts.”

“Camels!” said the dwarf, spitting into the fire.

The next day, they crossed a range of low hills and saw a few scant acres of greenery lying in a small valley, protected from the winds. To reach the oasis, they had to ride through a gap in the hills, and across this gap were ranged a half-dozen men on camels, arrows fitted to the strings of their short bows.

They were lean and fierce-looking, wearing spired helmets wrapped with black turbans. From the turbans hong veils dyed with multicolored stripes and reaching to their stirrups.

“We can easily brash these aside,” said Kye-Dee, idly thrumming the string of his great bow. “Our weapons have twice the range.”

“Aye,” Achilea affirmed. “I’m in a mood for some target practice. I’ve shot at nothing but hares and gazelles for many a day.”

“Nay,” Conan said. “These are Omri tribesmen by their colors, and if mere are six of them here, there are a hundred more at the oasis. The man I spoke to back in the village said that the Omri have staked out this oasis as their own and levy a toll upon passer-by. We will pay because we must.”

“I will deal with them,” said Monandas,

They rode forward with weapons handy, but without any show of truculence. While Monandas conferred with the leader of the pass guards, the Cimmerian and his companions eyed the tribesmen and were eyed in turn. The desert men showed the deep contempt that all nomad tribesmen held for strangers. They were aided in this by the advantage in height their camels gave them. They were so swathed in their striped robes that nothing of them showed save their hands and their fierce, black eyes.

Their boots were of soft blue leather, and their swords had long, straight blades.

“Paying for water!” Achilea said sullenly. “It is as bad as being in a town.”

“Nay,” said Conan, “for these fellow charge only for access to their water and grass. Townsmen would levy a tax on goods passing through and would want a percentage from our Livestock exchange.”

“Townsmen!” the dwarf snorted. “No wonder they are such natural prey for real men.”

“These are not,” Conan cautioned. “They are predators just like us. Do not provoke them. I wish to ask them about conditions to the south, and about that exterminated tribe we found.”

Monandas handed over the toll demanded by the guards and they descended into the valley, fighting at their reins to keep the horses, maddened by the smell of fresh water, from breaking into a run. The tall camels kept to their more dignified pace.

When the horses had drunk enough, the riders tugged them away from the water lest they founder.

Conan gave orders that the beasts be carefully curried and otherwise well tended. He wanted them looking their best for the trade. That settled, be went to find the Omri chief. An inspection revealed that three caravans camped at the oasis. One of them carried a number of spare camels, and he made a mental note to speak with the master of that one before nightfall.

The Omri was encamped closest to the spring-fed water hole, allowing others to bring their beasts to the water to drink, but reserving the shade of the palm trees for themselves. Conan estimated that there were about eighty fighting men present, with no women or children. With detachments of a half-dozen guarding each of the approaches, that made his original guess of a hundred men reasonably accurate. He knew that the lack of resources made larger bands impractical, save for occasional small armies put together to raid the towns of the desert periphery.

He found the chief lounging beneath a black tent of woven goat’s hair. The Omri took his ease upon a rude couch made of camel saddles and blankets. Pram time to time, the man sniffed the smoke of herbs burning in a tiny brazier that rested by his side. As the Cimmerian approached, the desert chief’s keen eyes took in his brawny frame and arrogant walk.

“Welcome to the water and grass of my tribe, stranger,” the chief said. He gestured to a broad platter of hammered brass that lay before him. Upon it rested some scraps of bread sprinkled with grains of coarse salt. “Break your fast with me.”

Conan sat cross-legged upon the ground and took one of the bread scraps. “You are generous, O

Chieftain,” he said before thrusting the dry morsel into his mouth. In the desert, Accepting bread and salt was a symbolic act, placing him under the chiefs protection by the ancient laws of hospitality. Now any act of treachery toward him would be punished inexorably by the gods.

For a while, the two spoke of minor things: the condition of me desert to the south, the likelihood of a favorable exchange of horses for camels. Then Conan broached what was really on his mind: the exterminated tribe they had discovered. The chief was roused to consternation, his eyes wide with alarm as the Cimmerian described what he had found.

“Set and Iblis!” the chief cried, making a gesture to ward off evil. “Was there anything left of the robes or other trappings of these people?”

“I found some scraps of black cloth with thin, white zigzag lines embroidered on them.”

The chief looked marginally less disturbed. “That means those folk were Beni Nuer. They are a
worthless people who scavenge at the desert’s edge, too cowardly to brave the great sands of the inner fastness, so they are no loss, but I do not like these signs and marks you found!”

“What do they mean?” Conan asked.

“You have eaten my bread and salt, so I am bound to warn you: The Beni Nuer were slain by the hadizza, the demons of the whirlwind! They are unclean things from the deepest desert Not since my grandsire’s time have they come out to the desert’s edge, but in the last turning of the moon, I have heard of three such attacks.”

“What brings them hither?” Conan asked.

The man shrugged. “They are things of spirit and the netherworld, so who can say?”

“Know you what they look like or how they slay?**

“They leave none alive to describe them, but their victims, both human and beast, are rent asunder.

The hearts are eaten, and often the brains, but the rest is wanton savagery.”

It was clear that the man knew little of the things save for old tales, but it was valuable to learn that there had been other such attacks and that all had occurred within the last moon. Conan thought to try something else.

“Know you of an ancient lost city called Janagar, said to lie in the deepest desert?”

The chieftain laughed. “My friend, the desert is full of lost cities. I myself have seen half a hundred.

Some yet rear their ruined towers against the stars, others are buried so deep in the sands that the colossal images of their great men can only peer over the sand that covers them to their noses. It is the folly of men that causes them to build cities. Always, the gods of the desert reclaim their own. Wisdom lies only in knowing the ways of the desert. If you wish, you may ask Asoq, the Teller of Tales. He knows more old stories than any other of our tribe, and he may have heard of this Janagar.”

Conan thanked the chief courteously and left to look for the Teller of Tales. He was satisfied that his party was now safe, for the rules of desert hospitality were more powerful than any civilized laws. This did not mean that the chief was henceforth his lifelong companion. The protection extended only while they were at the oasis. As soon as they rode away, [hey became legitimate prey once more as far as the Omri were concerned.

A few questions led him to a small pen of heaped stones where a single tribesman watched over the camels of the Omri. He was an elder by the standards of the desert nomads, among whom few lived to see advanced years. His eyes were still bright, albeit buried in a mass of wrinkles. He was spared the more rigorous patroling and guard duties carried out by the younger warriors, but a fine sword hung at his side and fee looked as ready as any to use it.

Conan saluted the old man and held out a hoarded flask of date wine. “Your chief tells me that you are a font of knowledge, deeply learned in the tales of the desert.”

The elder’s mouth was hidden by his veil, but his eyes crinkled even more with a smile. “Aye, that I am, stranger.” He accepted the flask, then turned his face modestly aside as he lifted his veil to drink. He replaced the veil and handed the flask back to Conan. “I thank you. What tales would you have, stranger? I know all the stories of Rustum the Magnificent I know the tales of kings and rogues, and of the loves of men and of gods. I can tell of battle and death, and of the wooing of princesses, and of the curses of mighty wizards. What would you hear?” The old man’s voice was deep and mellifluous, the voice of a born storyteller.

Conan took a drink and handed the wine back. “I would hear of a lost city of the deepest desert.”

The old man drank as before, and returned the flask. “Ah, there are many! The City of Brass appears to mortals once every hundred years, and of those who enter to read the marvelous verses writ in gold upon her marble walls, one in three dies, one in three goes mad, and the remaining third are blessed with perfect fortune for the rest of their days.

“Ilkhar of the Pearly Towers lies a shattered ruin, for the people sinned greatly and the gods rained fire upon her for the space of three days and nights, sparing neither man nor beast. And the wizards of Amanopet raised her into the skies―palaces, houses, temples and walls―and she was never seen by
man again.

“Of which lost city would you hear, O stranger?” He reached for the wine and Conan passed it across.

“Know you of a city called Janagar of the Opal Gates?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed as he searched his crowded memory. “By Iblis, stranger, but you ask for the oldest and most mysterious of tales!”

“Then you have heard of it?” Conan urged.

“I have, but so long ago and from so rare a source that I may well be the last tale-teller living who knows of Janagar. Even in earliest youth, I sought out the old tales from the ancients who whiled away the long desert nights with the stories and songs of the desert tribes.

“When I was a small lad, my father’s clan lay encamped outside the walls of Zamboula, where we attended the camel-trading fair once each year. We shared our water site with a tiny tribe called the Wadim. These had once been a mighty people, but envious tribes had banded together to take their water holes and their secret pastures, and in the space of five generations, they dwindled to the small remnant I saw outside Zamboula. They were a melancholy people, for they had gained the name of an accursed tribe, wherefore the young men could not get wives and they were doomed to extinction.” The old man sighed and took another swallow of the wine.

“Please continue,” Conan prodded, making no gesture to take back the flask.

“A moon later, on the trail to Kassali in Punt, we learned that the Wadim had been wiped out by the Stygians, who were building a fort at the last water hole held by that unfortunate tribe. Now all their tales were lost, save for those I heard that time outside Zamboula.”

“And one of these tales was of Janagar?”

“Aye. Give me leave to remember, stranger, for it has been many, many years.” The old man sipped at the wine and stared at nothing for a few minutes. Then he resumed.

“It returns to me now: In a time so long ago that the folk who are now the tribes of the desert were mere farmers and grubbers in the earth―” he turned aside slightly, lifting his veil and spat upon the ground to show his contempt for settled people, even if these were his own ancestors “―Janagar the Wicked shone like a jewel in the fertile land that is now the very heart of the inner desert.

“Mighty was Janagar, a place of lofty towers and vast tern-pies from which ascended the fragrant smoke of incense burned before the altars of the gods. Wealthy was Janagar beyond the dreams of wealth, where the palaces of the princes shone with gold and silver, where the folk wore silk and velvet, and the very harlots were adorned with jewels that a queen of this age would envy.” The old man’s gestures were as eloquent as his tongue, his hands and his long, thin fingers sketching in the air the towers and the people of the long-dead city.

“But evil came upon splendid Janagar, foul wizardry contrived by the later kings and their effeminate courtiers. Wealth and power were not enough for them. No, they craved immortality, and they wrought the blackest of sorcery, practiced the direst of rites, to secure it unto themselves. The steps of the temples ran red with the blood of victims sacrificed amid ceremonies so foul as to blast the very senses of any who looked upon them,

“This angered the gods. Not the bloodshed, for the gods delight in blood. Nay, it was the overweening ambition of those evil sorcerers of Janagar. They sought to surpass the very gods.” The old man leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice, as if fearing the unwanted attention of higher powers.

“For know, O stranger, that even the gods are not truly immortal, but all must die in time. And for this reason, they laid Janagar under a curse. In one hideous night, all the inhabitants who could fled from the city, never to return.

“But there were some who did not flee. Those terrible wizards and their minions remained, seeking until the last instant to rum aside the fierce wrath of the gods. In that night, they performed their ghastliest rites, cast spells of a power never before attempted by the most demented of mages. The very land around Janagar withered from the concentrated evil of the battle between mortals and gods, and during
that night, the desert had its beginning, and it spreads to this day, with the site of accursed Janagar at its very heart.”

Thus far, it seemed to Conan that the tale was much like many others. Lost cities often carried a story of inhabitants who angered the gods, of ancient evil and lingering curses. Was Janagar no different?

“Know you,” the Cimmerian asked, “of a legend linking Janagar with the hadizza, the whirlwind-demons?”

The elder’s eyes clouded with thought. “Nay, the tale I heard so long ago made no mention of it.

Yet the hadizza occur in many stories, and it may be that they had their origin in the unholy fall of Janagar. For if the desert itself began there, might not the demons of the desert likewise have found their genesis?”

“Aye, that is so,” Conan agreed. He rose and thanked the old man, who sought to tempt him to stay and hear more tales of the desert, but the Cimmerian had other business.

As he had expected, there were caravan masters eager to trade camels for good horses, and he spent much of the day in examining the desert beasts. The traders who hoped to gull the ignorant Northerner by praising the merits of inferior animals were sorely disappointed, for Conan was well versed in the ways of both camels and traders, hi the end, the exchange was made. The Hyrkanians, Achilea and her followers were appalled and disgusted to see what they were expected to ride.

“These are the ugliest creatures I have ever seen!” Achilea cried, horror writ upon her face.

“They smell even worse than they look, by Set!” said the dwarf, “You don’t look for beauty in a camel,” Conan said, exasperated. “You look for strength, and endurance, and heart. These creatures will never inspire a poet to create verses for them, but they are sturdy and free of sickness. They will get us where we need to go, and even better, they’ll bring us back again.”

“They do have such comely eyes,” Yolanthe pointed out “Large and liquid-brown. And their eyelashes are long and gracefully curled.”

One of the camels gurgled and spat copiously, narrowly missing Achilea.

“They are ill-mannered,” said the former queen.

I am going to show you how to saddle them,” Conan said, “and then you are to practice riding mem.”

Grousing and complaining, the others chose their mounts and went through the saddling process while their beasts regarded them win thinly veiled contempt. The Cimmerian showed them how to make the camels kneel for mounting, Caravaneers and Omri warriors gathered to watch this rare entertainment.

Soon ail were roaring with mirth.

“Don’t dig in your heels!” Conan shouted. “These are not horses and they don’t understand what you mean when you try to spur them! Use your stick!” Each saddle came equipped with a riding crop―a thin, whippy stick about a yard in length.

After an hour’s practice, Conan was satisfied that his charges had mastered the bare rudiments of camel-handling, It would be some time before they were any match for the desert raiders, but at least they would be able to keep mounted for the next leg of the journey. The Hyrkanians even managed some enthusiasm for the camels’ superior height, which would afford their bows extra range.

“Very well,” Conan said grimly as the sun touched the western horizon. “I think you can all be trusted not to break your necks now. Tomorrow we ride south.”

“I am sick of this desert,” Achilea grumbled.

Conan laughed. “Think you so? You are in for a surprise, woman.”

“What do you mean by that, rogue?” she asked hotly.

“I mean that what we have ridden through ere now was not desert. It was just arid ground.”

Even the haughty queen’s self-assurance slipped at this revelation. “Truly? If what we have ridden through was not desert, what is me true desert like?”

“You’ll recognize it when you see it,” he promised. “It is like hell with the fires burned out.”

Six

Jet and Iblis!” cried Jeyba the dwarf. “Where are we?”

The little band stood in line atop a dune, and before them stretched an expanse of sand that rolled and undulated like the waters of a sea. Overhead, the sun-washed sky resembled a great dome and was unmarred by a single cloud. The heat of the sun beat down upon them like the anger of a terrible god.

“This is the desert,” Conan told them.

“How do we find our way?” Achilea asked. “There are DO trees, no hills, not so much as a tall stone to serve as a landmark.”

“It is possible for one wise in the ways of the desert to stay to a course,” the Cimmerian said. “The question is, do we know where we are going?” He turned to the twins, who sat their camels, no longer within their traveling tents for a change. “You are the ones who know where this mysterious place ties.

Can you find it?”

“Of a certainty,” said Monandas. “We will lead you straight to our destination.”

“That is not enough,” Conan said “I have never traveled to this part of the Empty Lands. From here south, I do not know where the water holes lie. If there are oases, the desert tribesmen keep them a secret .The camels can go for many days without drinking, but even they must have water eventually. We carry enough water in skins to keep ourselves alive for perhaps ten days, but no more.”

Yolanthe smiled. “Have no fear. Our supplies will be more than adequate. We will stop here now and rest beneath what shade we can contrive. When the sun is low, we go on.”

“That would be wisest,” Conan said. “Night is the best time to travel in the desert, although I’ve little faith in this quest of yours. I hired on to guard you from marauders, not to die of thirst in the wilderness of sand.”

“Aye, and that goes for us as well,” Achilea said, her gesture taking in her three women and her dwarf.

“If we have not found your lost city in five days,” Conan went on, “then we must turn back. Even then, we’ll be damned thirsty when we get to an oasis, and perhaps short a camel or two.”

“That should be adequate time,” said Monandas.

Conan showed them how to make the camels kneel, to scoop depressions in the sand beside the beasts and arrange their blankets over their saddles and bedrolls, using their riding crops as poles, so that they had crude, makeshift tents with which to shield themselves from the sun during the hottest part of the day. They lay gasping beneath these for hours, until the sun drew near the western horizon and the air grew marginally cooler. With that blessed diminution of the heat, they rose and continued their journey.

The sun dipped below the horizon and for brief minutes, the sky glowed a fierce crimson. Then the darkness came quickly. One minute, a few bright stars became visible. A few minutes after that, there were hundreds. Minutes later, hundreds of thousands blazed forth in crystalline splendor. Two hours after sunset, the gibbous moon rose and the desert became almost as visible as during the day, lacking only the color lent by sunlight.

Beneath the great arch of stars, they moved in near silence, for the foot-pads of the camels made no such noise as the hard hooves of horses. In the desert fashion, all their metal harness was muffled to avoid clinking, and the only sounds made were the faint moans and grumbles of the camels.

As was his custom, Conan rode well ahead of the others, his every sense alert for attack. He had the uneasy sense that the greatest danger might not be from human enemies. What were these whirlwind-demons like? Could they be fought? Would steel be effective against creatures whose talons were hard enough to gouge scratches in stone? As he pondered these unsettling questions, Achilea rode up to his side.

“How do you know where to ride?” she asked. She spoke quietly, for in the desert night, a whisper could be heard at a distance of a half-score paces.

Conan gestured toward the southwest. “Monandas said to take a bearing on the Lesser Dragon.”

The constellation of nine stars glowed just above the horizon. In its center, the Demon Star shone like a ruby.

“In my country, we call that one the Winged Demon,” she said with a slight shudder. “That red star is the most ill-omened in all the heavens.” It seemed to Conan that for the first time she spoke as if she feared something.

“Then it is a fitting guide,” he said, “for I think it leads us to no good destination.”

“How so?”

Conan told her what he had heard from the Omri tale-teller.

“What does it mean? The old man heard tales as a youth. The mad twins read things in old books.

Does it mean anything at all? Surely this city, if it truly exists, is so old dial its evil is long vanished. As for the treasure they hope to find, I do not believe in it. Dust and broken stone is all they will find.”

“If that is the worst of it, I shall not grieve,” Conan said.

“And after that our task will be done. What will you do then?”

“The wars are mostly at an end in the north. But there are vast lands to the south. There is always something there for a warrior of spirit. If you are skillful with weapons, you will find a ready market for your skill.”

“What are those lands like?” she asked. The Cimmerian was surprised to hear her speak with anything less than hostility.

He pointed to the southwest once more. “If we keep to this course and do not die of thirst in the meanwhile, we will come to the Styx, the river some call Nilus. It is the greatest river in the world, and beyond it lies Stygia. I do not care for that land, for though it is rich, it is steeped in sorcery and it is ruled by tyrants who have far too many laws for my liking.”

His arm swung to point due south. “That way lie Punt, Keshan and Zembabwei. They are nigged lands of mountain and jungle and high savanna. The wild game cannot be described, it must be seen―herds so vast that the eye tires in taking them all in. There are giant elephant and giraffe and tiny antelope, and creatures of all sizes in between. Zebras like horses striped black and white graze beside buffalo with horns two paces from tip to tip, and next to them, rhinoceros like armored siege-engines, with nose-horns as long as a man’s arm. And the great cats prey upon all of them, lion and leopard and cheetahs as swift as a diving hawk.”

She was enthralled by the description. “I would see such sights! I had thought that beyond the steppes lay only the lands of the settled people, fit for nothing but prey. Are the people of these lands fierce?”

“Aye, they are that. They are all dark folk, but they vary greatly in look and language. I have seen pygmies no more than three feet tall and tribes where the shortest man stands higher than seven feet.”

“How do they fight?” she asked with professional interest “The spear is the favored weapon of those lands. Some use the bow with poisoned arrows. In Keshan, many fight on horseback, but few of the people farther south are riders, hi the jungle lands, mere are many diseases that kill horses.”

“There are lands even beyond those you named?”

“Aye, and no man I ever heart) of has gone so far south that he has run out of land. The Black Kingdoms are vast.”

She pointed west. “What lies that way?”

“The Styx takes a great bend and flows west to the sea. South of it lies Stygia. To the north of it, the first nation beyond this desert is Shem, and to the north of Shem lies Koth. They are pastoral lands where men raise cattle and sheep in huge herds. They are also great archers. West of Koth is Argos, and then Zingara. All these lands border upon the Western Ocean.”

“Have you visited these places? I never knew that the world was so vast.”

“I’ve spent time in most of mem,” he affirmed. “Aye, there is no end to the world. Back that way,”

he jerked a thumb over his right shoulder, “lie Iranistan and Vendhya and Khitai. Men say that Khitai is as large as all the western lands put together, but how they would know that is beyond me.”

“Back in the steppes of my homeland,” she said wistfully, “I spoke to carvaneers who had traveled all the way to Khitai. They said that it is indeed vast, but it sounded too orderly and boring for my taste.”

Conan laughed. “I doubt it not. Well, there are plenty of disorderly places for the likes of us. I’ve not yet even spoken of Ophir and Aquilonia and Nemedia, all of them rich and civilized and warlike, nor of the Pictish Wilderness, as savage as the Black Kingdoms. North of them are Asgard and Vanaheim and Hyperborea, and my homeland of Cimmeria. These are not rich lands, but they produce warriors beyond compare. And beyond the Western Ocean, I’ve no doubt there are other lands and peoples and kingdoms squabbling among themselves and ripe for raiding. Perhaps I’ll see even those before I die.”

“You have the heart of a true adventurer,” she said, and he thought he detected a trace of admiration in her voice.

“I think you are like me,” he said. “Afraid of little, loyal to your word and your friends, in love with danger and ever ready to ride beyond the next hill to see what lies there.”

“Of course,” she said. “I am a queen.”

“And only one whose word is as bonds of iron would stick by these mad twins. But I have taken their pay and I will see this thing through to the end. I’ll own, though, that I have seldom undertaken anything so foolhardy.”

This time, it was she who laughed. “I doubt that, Conan. I think that you take on many foolish tasks for the sheer joy of it. I have done the same, riding after treasure that never existed, pursuing vengeance long after anyone of good sense would have quit, Fighting on when the odds against me were so great that I had no chance of victory. What other sort of life is worth living? It may be short, but it is a life full of fire and spirit.”

“Aye, that is so. I’d live no other way.”

They rode on for a while, saying nothing. The Cimmerian felt that, somehow, a bond had been forged between them. He was about to build upon this, perhaps to suggest greater intimacy with something less than his usual forthright fashion, when she straightened and focused her full attention straight ahead. He did likewise, cursing internally. What a rime for an interruption!

“Something comes,” she said quietly, her blade whispering from its sheath.

Conan’s sword was already in his hand, not even making a whisper as it slid forth. His nostrils flared. “The wind is from thai direction, but I do not smell that demon-scent.”

“Praise the gods for that,” she muttered. “Men are trouble enough without demons interfering. How many, think you?”

He strained his ears and heard only a shuffling sound, accompanied by a low, droning hum. “Unless I miss my guess, it is a lone man or woman, and not being very careful. It could be a decoy, something to hold our attention and lull us into complacency, allowing his confederates to attack us unawares.”

“I am no villager!” she said, nettled. “I know that well enough.”

He shrugged. So much for their newfound intimacy. Now he could see someone walking toward them. The stride, dejected and shuffling as it was, was that of a man. As the figure drew nearer, the humming noise resolved itself into a low, dirgelike song. The stranger definitely was not happy. He seemed not to notice them until he was no more than a score of paces before them. Then he looked up and gasped.

“Ahhh! Who are―mercy, my masters, it is wily I, Amram, the most unfortunate of men. I mean you no harm.”

Achilea laughed shortly. “Truly, ‘twas not you that concerned us, fellow. Are you alone?”

“Oh, assuredly! And you?”

Conan ignored the return query. “Then you must be a great fool, for only one such would walk alone upon these sands, and that makes me suspicious, for this desert is often called •the Fool-Slayer.’”

“But I did not begin thus,” said Amram with head hung low, “Mine, sir and madam, is a sad tale.”

“I doubt that not,” said Achilea, “for a hangdog rogue like you could tell no other.”

“Keep an eye upon him here,” Conan said. “I shall ride ahead and sniff out any ambush. If you hear sounds of fighting, slay him and ride back to the others.”

“Very well,” she said. “You know the desert better than I.” Conan rode out a half mile, zigzagging and cutting wide crescents, covering every possible ambush spot. He had known desert men to lie beneath blankets or straw mats and cover themselves with sand, where they would wait patiently for hours until their prey approached. When their victims were literally atop them, they would rise from the sand like demons exploding from the underworld, shrieking horrifically and laying about them with their blades until all their prey lay dead in a welter of blood and the booty was theirs. But there were signs by which eyes as keen as his could detect such lurkers, and the signs were missing.

Satisfied that no ambush lay in store for them, Conan rode back to where Achilea waited The stranger stood apprehensively by the warrior’s camel. He was a small man, slight of build. His lowered cowl revealed a narrow, beak-nosed face that creased into an ingratiating smile when me Amazon, seeing the Cimmerian returning, sheathed her sword.

Conan and Achilea resumed their interrupted trek. “Walk along between us, fellow,” Conan ordered. The man complied. “Now tell us your story.”

“Know, then, that I am a merchant of Baruba, in Keshan―”

“Your accents are those of Koth.” Conan said.

“Ah, just so. My father was a great merchant whose fine estate lay in the idyllic hills of Ramat, near―”

“Not only is your speech that of Koth,” Conan interrupted, “it is that of Khorshemish!”

“As I was about to say, my father’s great trading house lay in the fabulous temple district of that city―”

“Not only is your speech that of Khorshemish,” Conan went on relentlessly, “but it is that of the Swamp, a warren of seedy dives and houses of ill fame by the river.”

Amram gritted his teeth, but he went on gamely. “I can see that you are a widely traveled man.

Well, my father was not so great a merchant. He had a money-lending shop, but it was the very best such establishment in that humble district―” He broke off and squawked in alarm as Conan leaned from his saddle and encircled his neck with one powerful hand. His fingers did not squeeze, however, but only felt the strangely roughened skin just above the collarbone.

“If you are the son of a respectable pawnbroker,” the Cimmerian said, “why do you bear the scar of a Stygian slave-collar upon your neck?”

“We have not yet come a hundred paces,” Achilea said with wonder, “and this strange wight has already descended in rank from merchant prince to slave. How much lower can he go?”

Conan’s fingers tightened. “Even lower than a slave is a corpse. Would you care to try that role, Amram?”

“Mercy, Master!” Amram cried. “You do misapprehend! Long ago. I served in the army of Koth when we were at war with Stygia. I was captured and I abode in that land for some time in a state of reluctant servitude, but it was no more than the fate that often befalls soldiers. Surely you can find no dishonor in that.”

“So how came you to strolling about in this wilderness, you serpent-tongued rogue?” Achilea demanded.

“I was just coming to thai, great chieftainess! You should not be so impatient! The savor of a tale lies in its leisurely unfolding, not in its hurried and ill-considered pouring forth, like water from a great aqueduct.”

“Strange,” Conan mused, “the sort of people one meets in the desert in the middle of the night.”

“Years ago, I escaped from Stygian captivity and made my way to Keshan. There I prospered as a
trader and in time, became master of my own caravan. My camels were the best, and each year I trekked the route from Baruba to Punt, thence to Kutchemes and Zamboula, and then back again.”

“And what did you trade?” Conan inquired.

“All the usual goods: ivory, feathers, furs, pearls that come from the western shore through Kush and Darfar, slaves and so forth. On the return journey, I often carried spices, eastern silks, which are superior to the silk of Stygia, wrought gems, slaves of different race, and these I usually traded ‘in Stygia for goods of that land and fine Shemitish glassware before returning home to Baruba, where I have several wives and some dozen or so children.”

“The goods you mentioned are heavily taxed in Stygia, especially the silk,” Conan observed. “Did you evade the customs agents in this?”

Amram shrugged, “I see no good reason to cause the authorities more trouble than necessary. I am adept at avoiding them.”

“Then you are a smuggler!” Achilea said.

“What self-respecting caravaneer is not?” Amram asked with honest wonder in his voice.

Conan laughed “Aye, that’s true enough! All right, you’ve told us the vaunting part of your tale and I think we can believe some small parts of it Now give us the sad part.”

Amram sighed dramatically. “The times grew hard for the caravan trade. In the south, many camels died of a new affliction. To the north, old water holes dried up and in consequence, the desert tribes grew even more predatory. I could not assemble enough goods for a decent caravan, nor hire good, experienced men to drive such animals as I had left. And thus, alas, I came to commit folly.” He gave forth a truly lugubrious sigh.

“What was the nature of this folly?” Conan asked, knowing from experience that the time had come for him to prod the tale-spinner. It was a part of the storytelling ritual of the southern lands.

“I accepted a commission from a stranger, a man who knew not the desert, a madman upon a fool’s quest.”

Conan felt a tingling come upon his scalp, and he looked at Achilea, to find her looking back at him.

“What was the nature of this quest?”

“I was in Kutchernes, down to eight camels, one of them in suspect health. My men had deserted to find more promising employment. Then this one came to me. He said that his name was Firagi and that he wished to hire a caravan to take him into the deepest desert. All the other masters he approached refused to listen to him, but I was in no position to turn him away. I was desperate.”

“Describe him,” Conan said shortly. “A tall, lean fellow, very well dressed. His look was that of no nation I have ever seen, and his accent was very strange. I would speculate that he was some sort of Iranistani. He had something of the aspect of the scholar, but by this I do not mean a student of no experience in the real world. He was arrogant and truculent, like certain unpleasant priests of Stygia”

“I know that sort you mean,” Conan assured him. “Go on.” “He said that he would pay for the hire of men and the purchase of supplies. I agreed, but the only men I could find willing to hazard so uncertain a mission were the utter dregs of the caravan trade, which, as you may know, constitute a very low sort of man indeed.”

“I am aware of that,” said Conan. “What did he expect to find in the deep desert?” Achilea asked.

“At first, he was closemouthed about this. But as the days advanced and we found naught but barren, boundless sand my men balked. Then he told us of a marvelous city lost for ages in the very center of the desert, a city filled with treasure.” Amram shrugged. “I have seen many strange sights in my travels, so why not? More important, this aroused the cupidity of my men and tempted them to go on, although it was clearly dangerous to continue. Then one of them disappeared.”

“Deserted?” Conan asked.

Amram shook his head. “Nay. One morning we awoke and the man was gone. I took stock of our goods and found that nothing was missing. What sort of fool would leave a caravan in the midst of the desert without taking a camel, or some food or at least a skin of water? But all was accounted for. The
night had been windy, and there were no tracks to tell -hither he had gone. We decided that he had fallen mad and wandered off into the desert to die. It happens sometimes. “We trekked on. The next morning, another man was gone.

The circumstances were the same. Now my remaining men grew fearfully alarmed. A curse lay upon us, said one. A demon of the sands tempted the men into the desert, said another. These demons are known to take the form of a beautiful woman to lure men to their doom. Some sing an irresistible song, which is heard only by their chosen victim. He can think of nothing but finding the source of that song, and forgets all else in his pursuit of it.”

“And then?” Conan prodded,

“Be not so impatient, Conan,” Achilea chided. “The night is long and this fellow is amusing. Allow him to recite his epic in his own fashion.”

“You are lucky, Amram,” Conan said. “This woman is rarely so tolerant of men’s peculiarities.”

She laughed, and Amram grinned nervously, clearly relieved that his captors were in a good mood.

“The lady is both wise and beautiful. To continue: My men were distraught with fear and they accused our employer of being in league with the demons, of luring us into the great waste to be slain and devoured by the things. He said it was but a fluke, that two men had simply gone mad one after the other.

Again he spoke of this great city, which must be near. He pleaded that we should go on for just one more day. I was for turning back, but the others were men without great powers of discernment, and they agreed.”

“And the next morning, another man was gone,” Conan said, not making it a question.

“Nay. The next day, we awoke to find our water skins slashed. All that was left were stains upon the sands. When we were over our first, despairing horror, we turned in anger upon Firagi. This time, he stood there with a smirk upon his arrogant face. He told us that now we must find the city, for within it lay springs that never failed, and only he could take us there.”

“I would have slain him for his impertinence and made my way back, water or no water,” Achilea said.

“Ah, but that is only because you are new to the desert, lovely and fierce lady. We, experienced men all, knew that it would be our death to retrace our steps without adequate water. None of us had been so deep into the trackless waste before. Indeed, we had never met anyone, however experienced, who had dared enter that district. The fool’s city might be nothing but me vaporings of his deranged mind, but it was our only hope. Lacking any viable choice, we followed him yet farther into the sands.”

As they rode, Conan listened to the man’s tale, but he did not allow it to distract him from his primary mission, which was to guard the caravan from raiders, be they human or other. The faint breeze brought him little save the rustlings of their own harness and the breathing of the camels. Likewise, he smelled only the beasts he and Achilea rode, for this district did not support even scraggly desert brush or thorny cactus to add their scent to the parched air.

“After three days of this terrible journey,” Amram went on, “we were nigh insane with thirst. So we killed one of our camels to slake our thirst with its blood. With the wood of its saddle for fuel, we cooked some of its flesh and drew some strength therefrom. This heartened us, but after that, its fellows regarded us with suspicion.

“Soon even the camels were staggering and weaving, but Firagi strode on as if he did not notice small things like heat and thirst and the boundless miles. His was the intensity of the fanatic. It would have been pleasing to slay him, but then we would only die, so I swallowed the temptation to commit murder and forged on.

“One by one, camels and men dropped, and we who survived went a little farther on the strength of camel flesh and blood. But let me tell you, my friends, that while blood may keep life in your body, it does little to allay thirst, for it is as salt as the waters of the sea.

“In the end, only I and Firagi were left, and all the camels were dead. An hour came when I knew I could go no farther.

As I plodded along behind Firagi, I resolved to kill him before I expired, in order to avenge myself and my companions, for although they had been the veriest scum of the caravan trade, still, they had been my comrades of the desert trail. I chose a promising spot upon Firagi’s back and drew my dagger.” At this Amram drew a knife from the sheath tucked beneath his sash and flourished its blade, curved like the tusk of a boar, with dramatic panache.

“A deed of far greater profit had you done it earlier,” said Conan.

“Be still, Cimmerian!” Achilea snapped, clearly enthralled with the tale.

“But even before my blade touched his back, Firagi gave forth a loud cry,” Amram went on. “He stood at the very crest of a dune, weaving forward and back in his weakness, I could not see what had so affected him, so I resheathed my weapon in order to look, resolving to finish him off upon the next dune. I stepped around him to see what had caused his outcry, hoping for a .small spring. The tiniest, swampiest oasis would have gladdened my heart more than the richest city of treasure.” He broke off for another dramatic pause.

“Tell us!” Achilea commanded.

“It was not a spring. It was, indeed, a city.”

“Is it true, men?” Conan said, reluctant to trust the word of the shabby caravan master.

“Aye, it is true. At least it was a city. I cannot say as to the veracity of the treasure, as you shall soon learn. And it was no heap of ruins as are so many ancient cities of the drylands, its towers toppled and its statues neck-deep in the sands. Nay. this was a city utterly intact to the last tile, as much a city as Khorshemish, where I was born, or Luxur in Stygia, where I was a slave.

“See it as I saw it, my masters: Behind the massive walls, the towers rose a hundred paces against the blue sky; some of alabaster as white as salt, some of purple or green or red marble, crowned with bronze cupolas, and atop each, a spire terminating in a globe or a star or a crescent moon, gilded and flashing in the sunlight. So slender were those towers that they should have toppled in the great desert storms that come once or twice in each generation, powerful enough to destroy any structure of mud-brick or fired-brick, sparing only low buildings of stout stone. Yet the hard-blown sands of the desert had not even etched the fine polish of the delicate marble! Is this not a great wonder?”

“If it is true, it is indeed a great wonder,” Conan said “Go on!” Achilea said eagerly.

“Below the towers were the shapes of palaces, each topped with a brazen dome, some low and broad like the spreading fronds of a palm tree, some high and swelling like the turban of a sultan, and as rich with flashing gems. There were flat-topped terraces that may have been elevated gardens such as one often sees in the great cities of Stygia, but I saw not a trace of greenery upon them, nor anywhere around the city. “At once, my desire to murder Firagi abated, for he had led me truly, if at some cost. He cried out, his voice like that of a camel’s from exceeding dryness: ‘It is she! Truly, this is Janagar of the Opal Gates!’ And this was the first time he spoke the name of the city, a name that was unknown to me until that moment, and I consider myself well-versed in the lore of the desert.”

Conan and Achilea exchanged a look. “Your stock with us has just gone up a notch,” said the Cimmerian, with less doubt in his voice than previously. “Tell us more.”

Amram nodded and grinned. “Ah, you are connoisseurs of a fine story. Good, good! Never have I told one so strange that is also true. Well, then. We stumbled down the face of the dune toward the city, and now, over my great shock at seeing the apparition, I saw that there were other strange things about the place. It lay in the middle of a vast depression of sand as smooth as the inside of a bowl. The depression was not terribly deep, but deep enough to hide the city from view until one reached the crest of the last dune. And no birds soared overhead, such as one sees even in the most barren parts of the desert, for the long-winged birds will fly from far away to espy carcasses or small prey in the sands. But the sky above Janagar was as devoid of life as the city itself.

“For devoid of life it was. No scent of smoke drifted over the walls, as no wisp of it ascended from the houses and temples. Most uncanny of all. no slightest sound came from the great city. Even in the sleepiest hour of an ordinary city, one will hear some sound, if just the snore of a sleeping sentry or the
stumbling of a drunk. Outside a city, there is always the sound and smell of livestock, but there was no such outside Janagar.

“And then, just as I began to believe that it had to be a dream or a mirage, I did hear a sound! And it was the most welcome sound I could have imagined!”

“Human voices?” Achilea asked.

“Nay, it was water! I heard the sound of water splashing into a pool! This lent wings to my sore feet and I fairly flew the last few-score paces to the city wall. There, just without the great gate, was a fine watering-trough such as many cities provide to give drink to camels and horses just arrived. It was ten paces long and two paces broad, and it brimmed with pure, clear water! At one end of the trough there stood a pedestal, upon which was carven the face of a fanciful beast, and water gushed in abundance from its fanged beak. I fell to my knees and plunged my face into the blessed liquid and did not come up until I had to breathe,

“Then I saw that Firagi, the fool, had walked right past the water as if he did not see it. Instead, he stood gaping at the splendid gate, and its carvings were indeed bright with inset opals. ‘Come drink!’ I cried, ‘You must perish else!’ But he heard me not, or else he ignored me. Instead, he crossed his arms upon his breast―” here Amram pantomimed the gesture, lowering his head somewhat “―and he spoke words.

Much aghast was I when the gates before him began to creak and groan!

“These valves, which stood fully ten paces high, were made of some dark, massy wood and were strapped with heavy bronze and studded with the same metal. Both metal and wood were carved with many intricate and fanciful designs, but at that moment I had no eyes for their beauty, for before my eyes, they began to move! Slowly and with great majesty, the ponderous doors swung outward, until they stood wide enough to admit a man walking. Without a further word, Firagi passed within.

“I was dazed, but only for a few moments. Then I scrambled to my feet and began to walk toward this mystical city that was the destination of all our suffering. But even as I approached, the gates began to swing shut. I ran toward them, but already the passage was too narrow to admit me. I grasped their edges, but my efforts were futile, for they merely slid from my grasp and shut with less noise than the door of an ordinary house. I called out to Firagi, but he heard me not, nor, I suspect, did he care.

“All that day, I sought entry into the city. I made a complete circuit of the wall and found other, lesser gates, but all of them were firmly shut. The wall was too smooth to climb, and I had neither grapple nor rope.” He fetched forth another deep sigh.

“At last, I walked away. I knew that I would not get in, and there was no point in dying of hunger, although i had water in abundance. I fully expected to die in the desert, but had the good fortune to fall in with you distinguished travelers.”

“You came up from the south,” Conan said. “Why did you walk north when you left?”

“I knew full well that I had no chance going back the way we had come. I knew that the desert was a bit less forbidding to the north and decided that I had some slightly better chance by setting my steps in that direction.”

“You seem to me a man who takes his opportunities when he sees them,” said Achilea. “Have you a few of those opals to show us?”

Amram grinned. “Had I been able, I would have stuffed my purse with them. But their inlay began some five or six paces up the wall. The builders of that marvelous city were not so foolish as to set the precious stones down where they could be easily reached.”

“You have had a long trek and great adventures,” Conan said. “But you do not sound like a thirsty man. You did not even ask us for a drink.”

Amram reached within his outer robe and drew forth a small water skin. It was almost flat, but when he shook it, a little liquid could be heard to slosh in the bottom. “I had the slashed skins patched and we brought some of them with us,” he explained. “For I knew that should we find water, we would need to bear some of it away with us, if we would live, I bore away all I could carry from the fountain
before the gateway of Janagar I was down to the bottom of this little belt-flask when I happened upon you. That was why I was singing a song of sadness, for I knew that I would probably die within a day or two.”

“Then this city lies not far from here?” Achilea asked.

“Only three days, for folk mounted upon camels. And, since we speak now of the useful beasts, would you happen to have a spare mount among your train, that I might ride with you? I have traveled afoot for far too long.”

“We are part of a small caravan,” Conan said. “And although we are not the leaders, I think that our employers will allow you to ride one of our pack beasts if your story pleases them. I cannot say whether it will. This you must determine for yourself.”

“Ah, surely they must take pity upon a poor wanderer, bereft of his goods and lost upon me vast bosom of the desert!”

“They are a strange pair,” Conan said. “Go back along our tracks and you will come upon the rest.

Find the two riding the very tall, foreign camels and tell them what you have told us. They may not be happy to hear about this Firagi, but I doubt they will hold it against you.”

Amram bowed deeply, “May the gods of the desert watch over you and keep you from harm.”

With that, he turned and walked away.

When the man was gone, Conan said, “No god of this place cares aught for man or his works.”

“What did you think of Amram and his story, Conan?” Achilea asked.

“I think it is very odd that we should chance upon him in this vast waste in the darkness.”

“Aye, and did you notice that he never asked why we were here or what we seek in the wilderness?

Of course, he seems half mad and that could account for it”

“It could,” Conan agreed, “And I think it is not the last strangeness we will encounter on this fool’s journey.”

Seven

The twins seemed almost jubilant. Amram’s story had pleased them well, and now the odd little man rode a camel just ahead of the others, guiding them toward his miraculous city. A short distance behind him rode the others: Achilea and her followers, Conan, Kye-Dee and the Hyrkanians. Theirs was a mixture of elation and confused foreboding. At least they were not chasing around aimlessly in the desert, but the sheer strangeness of Amram’s story cast a pall over them.

“Why are the twins so happy?” grumbled Jeyba the dwarf. “They seem relieved. Yet they said they knew where this city was. Why do they need a guide?” With the back of a wide, stubby-fingered hand, he wiped sweat from his brow. Provided with a guide to lead them quickly to their destination, the twins had decided to risk a daytime march.

“At a guess,” Conan said, “I would hazard that they knew the approximate area where it was to be found, but not its exact location.”

“And,” Achilea added, “they knew of it only from ancient texts and tales. This man’s account seems to affirm that it truly exists, and is truly as untouched as they had heard.”

Conan patted his camel’s neck and it released a restrained grunt. “The beasts are weakening and must have water soon, but they will hold out for a day or two yet. If there is anything to the fellow’s story.”

“And if there is not?” Achilea asked.

“Then, like him, we shall learn how long we can last on camels’ blood. After that, we shall almost surely perish, for we have chased this dream so far into the desert that we can neither turn around and go back nor continue through to the other side. From what Amram said, the desert to the south is even more barren than that through which we have come.”

Achilea spat in disgust. “I never dreamed that any land could be so utterly without life or beauty or anything else that makes it worth seeing or crossing.”

“Aye,” said Kye-Dee sadly. “We have seen nothing worth shooting at save lizards for days. What good is a land without targets?”

Conan had more on his mind than the lack of wild game. Fresh meat was fine, but he could live a long time without it. He turned to Achilea. “Ride with me to that dune,” he said, pointing to a lofty heap of sand a quarter-mile to their left. “It is the highest point we have seen in days. We can survey in all directions from there.”

The two rode to the top of the dune. From its crest, they could survey the flat, monotonous landscape for miles, to every point of the compass. “You do not often ask that I accompany you on a scout.”

“I wished to speak with you out of hearing of the others.”

“I thought as much. What troubles you?”

“First we had the twins searching for Janagar. Now we have Firagi, and I do not like it”

“When they engaged us, they said that others might be on the same trail and we might incur danger thereby.”

“Aye, but does it not seem odd that people going after treasure should make so little provision for bearing it away with them? They seek a whole city of treasure, yet they bring naught save riding camels and a few pack beasts, and those must be burdened principally with water and forage for the return journey.”

She frowned with concern, but voiced her objection: “Yet do they not say that the purpose of this expedition is to establish the reality of the city and its treasure, and its precise location? Surely after this, they can mount a serious expedition with hundreds of camels to bear the treasure away.”

“So they say. But if we are to believe Amram, Firagi made no preparation for a return journey. It seemed of no account to him that all his men and all his camels died on the trip to the city. He had no hope of returning through the desert on his own, yet he ignored even fresh water to go within and shut the gate behind him.”

“Oh, he is probably mad, as the twins are mad,” she said, clearly irritated at this line of questioning.

“You worry too much, Cimmerian. I would never have thought you one to fret over danger.”

“I am no fool!” he said hotly. “And I’ll not be played for one!”

“Then how do you read these nines, Conan?” she demanded. “There was no sense to this journey when we undertook it, and I’ve looked for none along the way. It seems you are not so easily satisfied.”

“Indeed I am not,” he replied. “As to how I read these happenings, I tell you this: Whatever these madmen seek in Janagar, it is not treasure of jewels and precious metals. It is something that needs no beast to bear it away, and I strongly suspect that it is something that we cannot share.”

She scowled, fingering the hilt of her sword nervously. “Aye, you probably have the right of it,” she bit out at last. “But what can we do about it at this juncture?”

“Damned little,” he admitted. “We can only go on. But when we reach this fabulous city, I expect to have some answers out of our mysterious twins, and if they make those gates open. I will be right behind them when they enter, not sucking up water in a trough!”

To his surprise, she laughed. “I think few enemies catch you with your head in the water. But I fail to understand your bad mood. We undertook this commission to get out of Leng, did we not?”

“Aye,” he agreed sullenly.

“And are we not out of Leng?” She gestured to the vast expanse of sand all around them, “We are that,” he agreed, unable to suppress a grin of his own. “And just now, Leng does not seem such a bad―” He broke off abruptly.

“What is it?” Her head snapped around to see where he was gazing. Far to the northeast, there was a faint glitter.

“Riders following us,” he said.

“Aye, that is our back trail,” she agreed. “Are you sure it is riders? This sand is full of bits of crystal
and shiny minerals.”

“This is different. Steel makes a brighter flash. And you can see it move.”

She studied the phenomenon for a while. “Aye, I can see it moving. And there are more than one.

Armor, do you think?”

“Lance-points, more likely. It would take hardy warriors to wear armor in this heat. These care little if they are spotted, too, else they would tie rags around their points.”

“Who might they be, I wonder,” she mused.

“I cannot say, but I am minded of that man who was so curious about our doings at the last town.”

“You think it is he?”

“I intend to find out tonight.”

That evening, as they made their tireless camp, Conan reported the sighting to the twins.

“Well, we knew that others were on the same scent,” Monandas said philosophically.

I plan to scout them out,” Conan said. “When it is fully dark, I will go back along our trail and see who and how many they are. If I can work my way close enough, I will try to overhear them.”

“I will go with you,” said Achilea.

Conan preferred to undertake such missions alone, but he felt this was a poor time to dispute with her. “Very well.”

“Us, too!” said all three of her women simultaneously. Their pale eyes shone like those of wolves through their bands of black paint

“Nay,” Achilea said before Conan could protest. “This is a scouting mission, not a raid. The eyes and ears of the two of us will be sufficient. Another time, perhaps, we will want stealthy blades and nooses, but not now.”

The women submitted with ill grace, but they took great care in preparing their queen for her mission. They took out their pots of paint and removed her flowing desert robes. As she sat near-naked upon a small carpet, they camouflaged her body to blend with the moonlit desert, giving her a tawny color covered with dots, splotches and streaks of black.

Conan made simpler preparations. He stripped likewise, then rolled in the fine sand to dust himself thoroughly and kill any betraying shine from his glossy skin. After that, he streaked himself with black soot mixed with grease, purchased when they outfitted themselves for desert travel―a preparation employed by the people of the desert to blacken the pits of their eyes in order to cut the glare of the sun.

In the moonlight, the two of them looked like pieces of the desert floor come to life. Their weapons were muffled with rags to make no betraying noise and, at the same time, break up their distinctive outlines. The moon was nearing full and stood halfway to zenith when the two set out, moving at an easy trot, a pace they would maintain until they drew near the object of their mission.

Their tracks from earlier in the day could have easily guided them, but Conan did not want the people following them to see his and Achilea’s footprints the next day. Knowing that they had been under surveillance might put them in an undesirable state of caution. So the two sped lightly over the sand a half-mile to the east of their path, trusting to luck that the followers would not set out flankers that far from their own train.

Conan’s senses were alert for the slightest signs of activity, and he did not fail to find a few. Even in the deepest desert, there is life. The blazing sun keeps all life in hiding during the day, but at night, insects, lizards and small mammals come out to search for sustenance among the sands and rocks. Serpents and other predators come out likewise, to prey upon mem. The Cimmerian’s eyes caught the flicker of a lizard’s tail as the creature chased a beetle, and the slither of a snake side-winding its way up a dune.

Once he saw a diminutive fox with huge ears questing after desert mice. There were even occasional bats and ground-nesting owls that prowled the night air on silent wings.

They were away from their camp for less than an hour when they saw the glow of a fire ahead, and they stopped to confer.

“They have pack animals to spare if they have brought along their own firewood,” Achilea noted.

“It suggests that they are serious about their expedition,” Conan said. “Although I’ll own that bearing firewood is unusual for this deep in the desert. Ordinarily, men wish to traverse this part as swiftly as possible and do without luxuries like fire. There is precious little to cook, and warm clothing will suffice for the chill of night. Let’s look closer.”

They stopped again when there was only a single dune between them and the other party, “I smell no smoke,” Conan said.

“There is no wind,” Achilea pointed out

“On a night like this, smoke should lie in a haze. We should smell it.”

“No good talking. Let’s look.”

They belly-crawled the last few paces up the dune. Then they slowly raised their heads until they were peering over the barrier of sand. What they saw beyond appeared ordinary enough at first: a score of men, half of them seated around a campfire, four standing guard a hundred paces out in each direction, the rest tending to a double score of camels or else taking supplies from packs or otherwise employed upon mundane errands. But still, something seemed wrong and after a quick survey, Conan realized what it was.

“The fire!” he whispered, his voice so quiet that a long-legged desert mouse crossing the dune ten feet in front of them did not hear him. Achilea said nothing in return, but he saw her fine eyes widen as she saw what he had seen.

The flames flickered like those of any ordinary fire, but their color was strangely wrong. The usual hues of red and yellow and orange were there, but beneath them was an undertone of purple, and from them rose no smoke. There was no crackle of burning wood. They seemed to spring from a heap of something that looked like shiny stones. That they gave forth heat was evident, for over the flames was suspended a small kettle such as the desert folk used for brewing herb-tea. Likewise, thin cakes of bread baked on flat stones were propped near the fire.

“What does this mean?” asked Achilea. Even as she spoke, an owl swooped upon the mouse just below them. The owl’s passage was absolutely silent, but the mouse voiced a shrill squeak in the instant before its neck was broken by the bird’s beak. A few men near the fire turned to look toward the sound, and the two warriors froze into even greater stillness than before. The owl flew off with its prey, and the men returned their attention to their dinner and their tasks.

“You see that man in the red boots nearest the fire?” Conan whispered.

“Your friend from Zardas?”

“Aye, it is he. That man in the turban next to him―he seems to be the one in authority.”

She studied the man. His clothing was purple: a vaunting, royal color for one riding the desert with villainous-looking companions. “So it appears.” she agreed.

“We must work our way closer if we would hear anything,” he said. “We will loop to the north and come in from that direction.”

‘It will cost us time,” she protested. “We can crawl around the end of this dune, through that gully of sand and to yonder outcropping of rock without being seen.”

“We could,” Conan told her, “but in the morning, they might see signs of our passing. They came down from the north upon our trail and it is unlikely that they will retrace their steps in the morning. Even if someone goes out to scout their back trail, our tracks will be so mixed with theirs and our own from the day before that only a Pict trailmaster could sort them out.”

“Aye, that would be the most prudent. If we must be cautious, let us be cautious all the way.”

They crawled back down the slope of the dune and trotted to the north crouched low, hands on hilts to hold their weapons still.

“What mink you about that fire?” Achilea asked as they cut to the west.

“Sorcery,” he said in a sour voice. “It is a wizard we have on our trail.”

‘It seems a good kind of magick to have when crossing the desert,” she said. “Fire without fuel. If he can magick up water as well, they have had an easy crossing.”

“There is no such thing as good magick,” Conan insisted..

“Traffic with uncanny powers bothers you?” she asked, sounding amused. “I dislike it when it is used against me, but magick in my own favor is like any other sort of advantage.”

“If you use magick,” he said stolidly, “the price always proves to be greater than the advantage.”

“Have it your own way,” she said with a shrug, the thick muscles of her shoulders rolling beautifully in the moonlight. “It is nothing to me. Ah, here we are.”

They had come upon a multitude of tracks left by their own camels and those of the followers. They turned to walk back south through the midst of the tracks. When they came within sight of the tethered camels, they paused. Between the ever-shifting feet of the camels, they could see winking the light of the uncanny fire. About half of the beasts knelt, their ungainly legs folded beneath them.

“We can best work our way closer through the camels,” Conan said. “There is little other cover.”

“Will they not be alarmed and give us away?” Achilea was still uncomfortable around the beasts.

She would have had no qualms about going among horses.

“By this time, we smell like camels, too,” he reassured her, “Besides, camels make noise all night They should take no notice if we are careful. The sentry on this side patrols back and forth about a hundred paces. I will work my way close and go in when he gets near to his next turn. You come in after me on the turn after.”

“And if we are discovered?”

“They are too many to fight. Pick a direction and run into the desert. We will rendezvous back at our campsite.”

“Very well,” she said. “Go ahead.”

Stealthy as a stalking cat in high grass, the Cimmerian worked his way toward the sentry. As he drew nearer, he saw dial the man was not one born to the desert. He wore long trousers and a padded jacket, not desert robes, and cradled in his arms was a crossbow. The weapon was all but unknown in these regions. He hummed as he walked, his eyes sweeping the desert beyond the firelight at intervals.

This as well revealed that he was foreign to these parts. They were the habits of a soldier accustomed to walking sentry atop the walls of a keep. A desert tribesman did far less walking and more listening. In the desert night, the ears were of exceedingly more use than the eyes.

The regular beat was another sign of inexperience. On a castle wall, it was of no account, but on a perimeter vulnerable to infiltration, it was a gift to an enemy, telling him exactly which way the man would be facing, and when. Conan waited until the sentry was ten paces from his turning point, facing away from him, and he slithered on his belly into the herd of camels. A few of the beasts looked his way, but they maintained their attitude of bored indifference.

He paused and remained absolutely still. A few minutes later, Achilea crawled up beside him. This time, they did not exchange words, but began to inch their way nearer to the fire, Conan found a camel kneeling broadside to the fire and he worked his way next to it until he lay alongside, his flank pressed against the camel’s ribs as he inched his head forward to look past the beast, his face beneath its lordly, high-arched neck. Somewhere near him, he knew that Achilea was doing the same. He knew that her tribe’s solitary time in the wilderness had taught the young warrior-women well, for thus far, he had no criticism of her nighttime stalking craft.

He told himself to forget the woman for the nonce and concentrate upon the men before him, who had finished their meal and now sat upon carpets spread across the sand. They rested their backs against their camel saddles and sipped their pungent herb-tea. He saw that about half were desert men, probably men hired for their expertise in the desert and with camels, for they wore the regalia of at least three different tribes. The rest, like the sentry, had the look of soldiers. Some of them polished armor or cared for weapons, and he saw at least three more crossbows. They were a disparate lot, and he assumed them to be mercenaries. The crossbows were powerful and accurate weapons, but murderously slow to
reload and doubly so on camelback. The desert people favored snort, fast-shooting bows.

The rest of the men favored curved swords, long, light lances and small, round shields. As he watched, he saw a man, satisfied that his breastplate was properly polished, slip it into a cloth cover and put it away in a saddle pack. As be had guessed, these men kept their armor packed away while upon the desert. Every military detail was important. Now he studied Vladig and the man in the purple turban.

Only the Cimmerian’s iron self-control kept him from jumping when, abruptly, the purple-clad man clapped his hands three times, rapidly. The flames died down until there was nothing but a pulsing glow where they had been, Conan saw that the glow came from what looked like a heap of crystals laid upon a flat stone.

“We’ve no need for heat now,” said the turbaned man. “There is no sense in using magickal essence without need.”

“As you say, my Lord Arsaces,” Vladig said, speaking not quite as unctuously as Amram. Even so, Conan’s keen ears caught the unmistakable tones of the stooge and toady in the man’s speech, “How much longer?” asked a desert man. “Thy magickal arts have served us well. Lord Arsaces.

Never have I known men of the sands to penetrate so far into the Empty Lands, but now we near the end of our range. If we would return home with every man and every camel, we must turn around soon.”

“Wherefore, my friend Dauda?” said Arsaces mildly. “Have I not kept you supplied with fire, needing no wood or brush?” He gestured toward the gently pulsing glow of the crystals. “Have I not found springs for you where even the men of the desert thought there was no water?”

“You did so, my lord, and we honor you for it, but the gods of the sands are mocked at one’s peril.

If they should glance in our direction and take note that we have flaunted the deadly barriers they have erected to safeguard their domain, they may take a fearful vengeance.”

“You exaggerate your importance in the scheme of things, Dauda,” Arsaces said, a faint sneer in his voice. “The gods take no note of the doings of mere mortals, save they be great wizards, able to disturb the profound thoughts of divine beings.”

“That is not the teaching of our ancestors, magician,” said Dauda with a bit less respect in his voice.

“We are taught to honor the laws of the gods and to avoid incurring their wrath, lest not only the individual, but the tribe, too, suffers.”

“Commendable piety,” Arsaces said. “Especially since it comes from raiders, thieves and unhung rogues!”

Dauda seemed to be unmoved by this calumny. “What care we for the laws of lesser men, of merchants and townsmen? It is the laws of the desert gods to which I refer, and it seems to me that we risk offending them.”

“No matter,” said Vladig, smoothly interposing his voice into a situation that threatened to turn ugly, “We will reach our destination in a day or two, it that not so, my lord?”

Arsaces glared at Dauda, then said. “Aye, it is so. No more than two days.”

Vladig turned to the desert man. “You see? Just two more days, eh? Our camels still have fat humps, and we ourselves are far from dry. Just two more days, and then we turn back. Is that not acceptable?”

Dauda’s hand, which had strayed toward his sword-hilt, slowly dropped away. “We can survive another two days, aye. But no more than that.”

“Enough of this …” Arsaces paused as the crystals before him began to flicker. They looked as if they were giving off tiny sparks and they shifted about restively. “What is this?” he mused.

“What means it, my lord?” Vladig asked.

The wizard began to mutter beneath his breath and the crystals shifted more energetically. Conan’s scalp prickled as they rose and assumed a vaguely human shape, crouching and turning in the manner of a man peering around him, trying to see something obscured by distance or darkness. Then it halted and extended a crystalline “arm” toward the direction of the camel herd. Most of the desert men were upset by the uncanny thing and fingered amulets while they muttered counterspells against evil, but Dauda
looked out toward the herd.

“Khazim,” he said, “go you and see if anything is among the beasts.”

“A spy?” Vladig asked.

“The camels should make more noise if it were,” said Dauda, “but look anyway.”

The man named Khazim approached the herd, drawing his sword. Two or three others joined him, their weapons ready. One of mem strode toward the camel behind which Conan lay. The Cimmerian knew that at night, men see motion first, shape second, and color not at all. The essence of not being seen at night lay in keeping perfectly still. When he set his mind to it, Conan of Cimmeria could make a stone seem like a lively object. At need, he could allow a fly to walk across the surface of his eyeball without blinking.

The man strode right by him, seeing no movement, no man-shape, taking no note of the lumpish form next to the camel. He peered about, squinting over his veil. “I see naught here. Is there anything over there, Wakir?”

“Only my ill-tempered camel. That unholy homunculus is just―awwk!” The man’s exclamation of surprise came as he leapt back. “A sand-demon! And I trod upon it!” Something exploded from the sand at his feet, and then Wakir reeled back with his hands over his face, which had just been soundly rapped by the heavy pommel of a sword. The other men among the herd stood stupefied for a moment.

“That is no demon!” shouted Arsaces, “It is a man! Take him alive!” Vladig rushed toward the scene of excitement, and Conan cursed beneath his breath as the camel next to him lurched to its feet. Now all the camels were shifting and groaning loudly, frightened at the sudden, unexpected activity erupting in the peaceful night.

Conan got to his own feet, seeking to keep animals between himself and the questing men. He did not want to draw his blade lest it betray his location with its shine, but he kept his hand around its grip, ready for an instant draw.

“Here he is!” shouted someone. Conan heard a crunch and a gasp. Then came a ring of steel. There was no help for it now. He could make an easy escape, but Achilea needed a distraction. The men around the crystal “fire” were all on their feet by this time, most of them with their weapons clear. Conan ran straight for them, whipping his sword clear of its sheath, bellowing a Cimmerian battle cry at the top of his formidable lungs.

Men gaped openmouthed at this unwonted apparition from the depths of the desert night. But they were fierce rogues, and a man loomed before Conan, a shield raised and lance poised. The Cimmerian’s blade crunched the light shield inward as if it had been made of parchment, and the sound of an arm-bone snapping was audible above the man’s scream of surprise and pain. Another came in from Conan’s right and he sent the man to the ground with a backhanded blow, the flat of his blade catching me man across the jaw.

Arsaces was on his feet, screaming in a tongue Conan did not know. The man made no effort to grasp a weapon, but his arms were raised, fingers crooked into the likeness of talons and clawing at the midnight air as his cries took on an ominous regularity and rhythm. Lights began to flash from his fingertips. Men were racing back from the camel herd to confront this new menace.

“It is he!” Vladig cried, “The Cimmerian!” Sword in hand, be lurched forward.

The men were coming from all sides. Deciding that Achilea, if she lived, had had all the distraction she was going to get that night, Conan knew it was time to leave. A blow of his sword and one from his fist sent two men flying and he charged through the space between mem. In seconds, be was beyond the circle of men. Behind him, he heard the twang of a crossbow string, then the whisper of a bolt passing over his shoulder. So much for all their careful preparations.

From the camp came the continuing syllables of Arsaces’s roaring chant. He wondered where Achilea was.

There were the sounds of footsteps chasing him for a while. Then a voice he recognized as belonging to the man named Dauda called out: “Come back! That one ran like an antelope and you’ll not
catch him. Sentries! Were you asleep?”

“What of the other one?” called a voice faint with the distance.

“Escaped as well,” said a disgusted voice.

“I still say it was a demon!”

“Demons do not fight with steel, fool!” said Dauda.

“The one who charged us was the man I spoke to in Zardas,” said Vladig. “I’ll wager the other was that sword-bearing wench.”

“No woman did this to me!” cried a man with an edge of pain in his voice.

Conan chuckled as he slowed to a walk. If they had accomplished little else with their foray, at least they had sown consternation and confusion among their followers. He knew that Achilea had made her escape, but he was concerned that she might have been wounded. No one back there claimed to have landed a blow upon her, but many things can happen in the confusion of a fight, especially one that takes place in darkness.

He shook off the worry. There was no sense brooding upon that which he could not help. The sounds died away behind him. All but one. He stopped, listening and wondering what it might be. It was a keening, screeching sound, unlike anything he had ever heard, and it sent unpleasant ripples down his spine. Then he realized what it was: the chant of the wizard Arsaces, rising to a truly inhuman scale.

Suddenly, it seemed a very good idea to get back to their camp as swiftly as possible. Conan began to trot. Then he broke into a run. He knew that running at night on such treacherous terrain was most unwise. Even a man with his great strength of limb and perfect balance could fall should a stone turn under his foot. He might step into an unseen hole and shatter his ankle. He could tread upon a swift, venomous viper and pay the price for disturbing it. Most awful of all, be might run out onto the powdery quicksand that could swallow a man mounted upon a camel. Going at headlong speed, he could find himself knee-deep hi it without a chance of making his way to firmer sand.

But just now he was ready to risk the lesser danger to escape the greater. For he knew that the wizard was up to some baleful magick, and it was certainly aimed at him. But if the mage did not know exactly where the Cimmerian was, he might have difficulty in directing his spell with accuracy. At least, Conan consoled himself with the thought. He had little choice. He feared no enemy who came at him with steel, but magicks were something else.

As he ran, the moonlit landscape dimmed before his eyes. This was a puzzling thing. He glanced up at the moon and his blood ran cold, for the silvery orb had turned blood-red. Even as he looked, the stars began winking out, first the dimmer ones, then the brighter. He slowed to a trot as the whole desert grew dimmer and finally he began to walk. If it was unwise to run across the desert by moonlight, it was folly itself to do so in utter darkness.

For true blackness was coming, no doubt of it. What wizard was so powerful that he could extinguish the moon and the stars? Surely, only me greatest of gods could do such a thing! Even as the thought came to him, he felt something gently sifting down upon him and he wiped a hand across his skin, where the stuff was collecting upon the sooty grease that streaked him. Mystified, he rubbed the gritty powder between thumb and fingertips. It was sand.

Now he understood, after a fashion: The wizard had raised a sandstorm, but it was a sandstorm without wind. What could this portend? One thing he knew: In the desert, sand could be as deadly as any other of its multitude of hazards, and not just quicksand. The Cimmerian continued to walk toward the camp, and as he went, he stripped some of the rags from his sword and fashioned a veil to cover his mouth and nostrils, for already he was breathing sand.

Soon he was walking slowly, putting one foot carefully before the other, his eyes slitted so that his lashes would filter out me worst of the sand. Even this was not effective with such fine powder, and constantly he had to blink away grains that got through. Even worse, he was no longer certain of his direction. He had an almost preternatural sense of direction, far more acute than that of a civilized man, honed by many years spent in every sort of wilderness, from the ice-fields of Asgard to the dense,
swarming jungles of the south, but there were limits even to his instincts.

With no light, no landmarks, no feel of wind, he had no point of reference, only an inner sense that was no longer reliable. Even though he knew that the wizard could not keep up this unnatural “sandstorm”

for much longer, it was not within his nature to halt and wait passively for better conditions. Always, it was his urge to fight and forge onward, to meet all challenges head-on. Nevertheless, mere was nothing to be gained by it on this night. He might even become turned around and blunder right back into the wizard’s camp.

He decided to stop while he was still half-certain that he was going in the right direction. Testing the sand beneath his feet for firmness, he sank down to sit cross-legged, facing the direction he would set out in when he could see again. With another strip of rag, he fashioned a blindfold to protect his eyes while he waited. Since he could not see anyway, there was no sense in further risking his eyes.

He settled himself to breathe slowly so as not inadvertently to suck in any more of the powder. It was miserable to be sitting still while the sand sifted down over him, and he wished that he had his robe and head-cloth, which would have greatly reduced the discomfort. But there was no way he could have foreseen this eventuality and he could only wait it out stoically, as he had endured so many other torments.

Then, just when he thought that he was adjusted to the worst that could happen, he heard something. He strained his ears, trying to listen through the constant whispering, sifting noise of the falling sand. Then he heard it again: a chittering and rustling, as of bats. But bats would not be flying in this maelstrom. Then the sound came closer, and it was louder man any sound that could possibly be made by ordinary bats.

Cautiously, Conan raised the edge of his blindfold with his thumb. There was nothing save utter blackness. The noise was coming from his right. Then he heard it again from his left. There was more than one of them, whatever they might be. Slowly, making no noise, he slid his sword from its sheath. Even more slowly, he rose, not using his hands, but only uncoiling his long, powerful legs. Standing, he turned his head this way and that, striving to catch every sound.

Then something came to him that set his heart beating wildly. Not a sound this time, but a smell: the sharp, powerful, acid smell of the blade-etcher’s shops. Whatever unholy creatures had wiped out the nomad tribe were now stalking him through the sandy darkness. He gritted his teeth and set himself for a terrible death-fight. He heard no more than two of them. Apparently they could not see through the gloom ei-dier, for they were not charging straight for him. They were definitely homing on something, though; if not sound, then perhaps upon the heat of his body.

The one on the left sounded marginally closer. Conan did not like fighting in the dark, even against human opponents. It left too much to chance. His barbarian senses could home in on an enemy in the dark, but it was easy to fall victim even to a sword clumsily flailed by a third-rate swordsman under such conditions. Now he faced something he could not see, had never seen before, and whose weaknesses, if any, he did not know. He had no idea of its size or what it fought with, whether fangs or claws or gripping arms. For all he knew, these demons used weapons. He did know that they killed hideously and without compunction.

He had some advantages over that nomadic tribe, though. He had no preconceptions about invincible desert demons to weaken him. His attention was not distracted by the presence of wife or child. Most of all, he had his strength, his speed, a matchless fighting brain and a Cimmerian heart. He would fight fearlessly to the last breath.

His sword poised in both hands, he awaited their arrival. On his left, me pitch of the chittering raised. The creature had found him. There was a rushing, rustling sound and the Cimmerian felt the brush of displaced air. He whirled, crouching, the full power of arms and back in the horizontal slash of his sword. It connected with something and he dragged me blade free even as he dived to one side, rolling and then springing to his feet, facing back the way he had come.

There was an earsplitting shriek and he felt a fierce rush of satisfaction. They could be hurt! He had
wounded that one, and what could be hurt could be slain. Another rush came and he cut again, but this time, his blow met nothing. It had come hi below his blade, but he wasted no breath in cursing. With a wrist-straining change of direction, he brought the blade straight down even as something hit him in the midsection. He felt his blade bite just as he was bowled over and something tore at his back with a red blaze of pain.

He grasped a hide that seemed to be graced with both hair and scales, and he heaved at it while he bashed with his pommel against where he guessed the thing’s head should be. Something gave with a crunch and he was sprayed with hot, foul liquid. His hewing and striking redoubled as the reeking fluid began to bum his skin with a pain worse than fire.

Conan drew back his arm and thrust with all his might, driving the long blade through what might have been bone, and into soft vitals. There came the awful keening again, and the thing let go. This time, the Cimmerian rolled away, over and over, trying to scrub off the bunting liquid. Luckily, the sand seemed to absorb most of it, and it came off along with the grease of his camouflage paint.

He scrambled to his feet and waited, his hilt gripped tight in bom his powerful hands. He could hear the things and they were angry, but they were also hurt. The screeching of one slowly quieted into a final, abrupt squawk. He smiled grimly. That one was surely dead. The other searched about, chittering and moaning, but there was a dragging sound, too, as if one of its limbs were crippled. In time, silence reigned.

Conan remained still for a while, ah1 but suffocated by the acid reek. Then, slowly, he crouched and plunged his sword into the sand again and again, cleansing it of the stinking liquid. He set himself to wait once again.

After an hour, he detected a faint light through the cloth of his blindfold. With a thumb he raised the band once more. This time, he could see for several paces. The light was diffuse, but he knew that its source lay to his left and so he was facing south. A few minutes later, the sand had settled and he took the bandages from his eyes and mouth and nostrils. The morning sun was rising above the dunes to the east and he stood in a landscape devoid of all traces of human or animal passage. The uncannily raised dust had settled thickly over everything.

Before even seeking his bearings, the Cimmerian searched the sands nearby, working in a widening spiral, for signs of his fight. As he searched, he noted that his bare chest and shoulders were liberally dotted with red spots, many of them bearing angry blisters in their center. He examined the cloths he had used for veil and blindfold and saw that the multiple folds now had many small holes in them. He knew then how easily he might have been blinded. The creatures had acid blood, or spittle.

He came to an irregular heap in the sand and drew his sword to poke at it with the tip. He noticed that the once-bright steel was now stained with streaks of black, brown and blue. He brought the steel closer to his eyes and saw that it was pocked with many toy pits. More acid damage. It was good that he had so thoroughly cleaned his blade, else it might have been badly weakened His prodding of the sand turned up a pile of puzzling fragments. If they resembled anything in his experience, it was the shattered shell of a crab. But this shell was shaped in many small humps and it bore scraps of lumpy, leathery skin. In spots, the skin sprouted clumps of greasy hah”. He found a bandlike collection of talons and knew that this was what had clawed at his back. From its attached arm-bone dangled a tough flap that resembled the membrane of an atrophied bat’s wing.

A single, long toe bore a hooked claw of a milky, translucent substance like alabaster It looked fragile, but when he drew its point down his stained, pitted sword-blade, it left a long, bright scratch in the hard steel. Claws like this had made the scratches in the stone near the site of the ambush massacre.

A final flip of the blade brought up the thing’s skull. “Crom and Llyr!” he swore. The skull was almost human in shape and proportion. But instead of human jaws, it had a series of fingerlike palps that worked vertically, like those of an insect. And instead of deep eye sockets, it had a pair of shallow, circular pits that took up twice me space of human eyes. There was no trace of a nostril opening. It was crushed in on one side, where his pommel had smashed the bonelike chitin.

The creature seemed to combine the traits of many beasts: bat, insect, even reptile. Beneath the fragments was a glassy amalgam, some of it adhering to the bits of shell and bone. Was this the effect of its acid fluids on the sand below? Or was it the softer parts of the creature itself dissolving? The dissolution of the thing was unnaturally rapid.

In the past, Conan had had much unwanted experience with uncanny creatures, and he knew that things called from another world often failed to maintain their structural integrity in this one, when the magick force that had called them forth was withdrawn, or when their otherworldly life fled, leaving their bodies lifeless in a world in which they did not belong.

He resheathed his sword and turned away from the repellent remnants. It was time to search for his companions.

Eight

The sun stood high above the horizon when the Cimmerian stopped and cursed. At first the curses were whispered, then muttered. Soon he was cursing in a conversational tone and, finally, he bellowed in rage and frustration. The Cimmerian pantheon had little scope for blasphemy, so he quickly switched to the deities of Asgard and Vanahiem: robust gods of simple tastes. He worked his way through the sophisticated pantheon of Nemedia and then on to the truly decadent and scabrous gods of Zamora, Not only was he angry, he was embarrassed, a rare feeling for him.

For one of the very few times in his life, Conan of Cimmeria was lost.

Look in whatever direction he might, he saw only the limitless dunes. He had been slogging south all morning, certain that he was heading directly toward his companions, but within the first hour, he knew that he had somehow missed them. He began to work his way southward in zigzag fashion, like a ship tacking into the wind, in hope of cutting their trail.

Still nothing. Having no choice, he kept on going south. That was the direction in which they were headed, and that was the only way he would find them. It never crossed his mind to turn north and try to forge his way back. If any man could make it alive, he could, but it was not his nature to abandon companions in adversity.

As he trudged on, he thought of Achilea. Was she as lost as he was? He feared so. If so, she was in even greater danger than he, for the sun was rising, and here the sun was the greatest enemy.

Near-naked as she was, the searing rays could kill her before nightfall. He was as bare as she to the elements, but he had endured many years hi the hottest southern lands, while this was her first journey hither. And inured as she was to the stem northern climate, it would probably not occur to her how vulnerable she was.

What rags he could assemble he tied into a makeshift headscarf. It was better than nothing to keep the searing, brain-numbing rays of the sun from his scalp. For the rest, he would just bum and make the best of it. Here there was no bush or tree, no cloth or hide for a tent, not so much as a rock overhang to offer shelter. The deep desert was a sun-baked wasteland where the only shadow was his own.

Before him, the beat-haze shimmered from the sands. In the lower spots, the desert mirage made silvery lakes. He knew that the realism of the “water” would increase with the viewer’s thirst Even experienced desert-farers could end up chasing mirages when they grew truly parched.

With the brute endurance of his kind, the Cimmerian strode onward, ignoring the sun, ignoring the heat, ignoring his growing thirst. He gave no thought to hunger. A man would die of thirst long before hunger became a cause for concern. When the searing glare of sun off sand caused nun to squint despite the black paint remaining around his eyes, he tore a strip of cloth from his erstwhile blindfold and bound it over his eyes. The action of the acid had reduced it to the semblance of gauze, and he could see quite well through it, while it reduced the glare to a tolerable level.

The sun was low in the west, throwing his shadow long across the sand, when he found the footprints. They angled from the northeast, and he crouched to study them eagerly. They were large for a woman, but he recognized them as the marks of Achilea’s high-arched feet. The woman never wore footgear, and he had seen enough of her tracks during the journey to recognize diem instantly.

The signs restored his energy, and he sped along following them, no longer cutting his zigzags across the landscape. The others could take their chances for the nonce, his only concern right now was to find the Amazon queen.

For miles, the tracks bore Achilea’s characteristic, long-legged stride; then they began to falter. At first they left long, heel-dragging marks behind them, a sign that she was not lifting her feet as high with each step. Then the tracks blended into one another. She was taking shorter steps, not getting her feet quite clear of the sand. She was weakening fast.

Soon he found signs that she had fallen: pits made by her knees, handprints where she had pushed herself back up again. Not far after that, she began to fall full-length, pushed herself up, then staggered on a while. Her once-straight line to the south began to wobble and weave. Once, for a few steps, she got turned around and doubled back north for several paces, but she must have seen her own footprints, for she turned back south again. When he saw that she was going on all fours, he knew she had to be close.

The lower rim of the sun was touching the western horizon when he found her.

She lay in a small depression in the sand, curled on her side. Even the hardened Cimmerian winced when he saw how fiercely the sun had burned her. Her weather-browned skin was brick-red. At least she seemed to be breathing. He rushed to her side and crouched beside her, gently rolling her onto her back.

“Leave me,” she said, her voice no more than a croak. She stared upward but did not seem to see him. “I want no man to see me like tis. Go away. No, cover me with sand first and let me die. I do not want to be seen like this even dead.”

He smiled grudgingly. She still had the spirit to defy him. “You give up too easily, woman. We’ll live through this.”

“Cimmerian? Nay, I’ll not live, nor do I want to. I am blind. If I’d the strength, I would have put an end to it with my dagger.”

Conan waved a broad hand before her eyes and drew no response. “When did you lose your sight?”

“Just before I fell for the last time. Perhaps an hour ago. My vision had been fading since afternoon.

The sun of these parts has struck me blind. This is not my land and it does not want me here. The sun is the only lord in this forsaken place.”

“Just an hour? Then cheer up; it is merely temporary. You are just glare-blind. Has it never happened to you in a sunlit snowfield?”

“Aye, but it never hurt this much.”

“It is the same anyway. You will be able to see by mom-ing, and we’ll make you an eye-mask like the one I have been wearing since noon.”

“Truly?” she croaked, a note of hope creeping into her voice.

“I promise. The sun is almost down. When it is fully dark, we’ll go on. Rest for now.”

“I must find my women and Jeyba,” she muttered. “I am their queen and I cannot leave them alone in this hellish place.”

“Keep to that thought,” Conan said approvingly. “You are not as ordinary women and you must not die like one.”

She said no more and fell unconscious in his arms. At last the sun was below the horizon, giving blessed relief from its terrible rays. In the swiftly fading light, he examined her. As near as he could tell, she bore no wounds save those inflicted by the sun. Her feet were not bleeding, their soles as tough as the leather covering of a shield. All that was to the good.

He let her sleep for about three hours, the rest restoring his own strength. Then he gently shook her awake. She jerked abruptly with surprise, her hands going for her weapons. Her face whipped around, her eyes gone wide. Then her shoulders stumped.

“I am still here,” she said dully. “And I am still blind.”

“You’ll see by morning,” he assured her once more, getting to his feet. He took her hands. “Now get
up. We must be go-ing. She uncoiled to her full height. Her face was a rigid mask as she forced herself not to cry out. He knew that she must feel as if she had been flayed of every square inch of her skin. He was not in much better condition himself, “I know,” he told her. “You feel as if you’ve been dipped in boiling oil. It won’t kill you, although you may wish it had.”

“How can I travel blind?” she asked. Her voice was a little stronger and less hoarse than before.

“Put a hand on my shoulder and walk behind me,” he said. “I’ll tell you of any dangers in our path.”

And so they set out beneath the desert moon, the stars blazing overhead in their countless millions, Conan strode confidently, the need to guide the blind woman slowing him only a little. She was too proud to take hesitant steps.

“Can you see any moonlight at all?” he asked her.

“Not a bit,” she answered, shaking her head so that he felt the ends of her tawny hair brushing across his back. “How do you stand it so well? You are a Northerner, too.”

“But I am a Cimmerian,” he said, as if that explained everything. She snorted in derision.

Her strength held up well through most of the night. The absence of the sun made a tremendous difference. As the moon set in the west, she paused for a moment and pointed in that direction.

“Is that the moon?”

“Aye. Can you see it?”

“Just a little glow,” she said doubtfully.

“But it means that your vision is coming back. Did I not tell you it would?”

“You did,” she said grudgingly. “But a little glow is not the vision of the eagle. Still, it’s a beginning.”

Onward they went. With the moon down, they had only starlight, but in the desert, even that was enough to bestow tolerable vision to the Cimmerian. When the sun began to stain the horizon, he fashioned a blindfold for Achilea.

“I can see the dawnlight,” she said. “But of all the things I might see, the last thing I want to see is the sun!”

She gritted her teeth and walked on. This time, the Cimmerian rested a hand upon her shoulder to guide her. He walked to her left, trying to shelter her as much as possible in his shadow. Soon the confidence of her steps told him that she could now see tolerably well through the gauzy cloth. He also noted with wry amusement that she did not tell him to take his hand away.

“That sandstorm,” she said as they trudged. “Was that a natural thing?”

“Nay, it was wizardry. Even in this desert, the one thing sand cannot do naturally is to rise without wind. Did the desert demons not attack you in the blackness?”

“Desert demons?” Then he had to tell her of his desperate, blind fight against the unholy things. She seemed doubtful. “Two of the things that wiped out that caravan? And you slew one and drove the other off without even being able to see them?”

“I did not come away altogether unhurt. I will show you the marks when your eyes are better.”

Well before noon, Achilea began to stagger. She was going on heart alone and her heart was beginning to give out. When the sun was straight overhead, her legs gave out abruptly and she sat on the sand, gasping.

“It is no use,” she croaked, forcing the words past her swollen tongue and cracked lips. “You can still wield your blade. Finish me and go on.”

“Getting a little dry?” he asked, crouching beside her.

“Do not mock me,” she said. “Use your blade.”

“If that is the way you want it,” he said, “so be it,” He drew his dirk and she waited with her head high and proud.

He pulled off her blindfold and she glared at him, her sight fully restored. Conan stretched his heavy-muscled arm before her eyes and with the tip of his dirk, he opened a vein in his forearm.

“There,” he said. “Drink.”

“Do you think I am a vampire?” Her eyes held revulsion, and something like wonder.

“That is Cimmerian blood, woman, the strongest in the world. Don’t waste it” He grasped the back of her neck and pressed her mouth to his arm. She struggled weakly for a while; then she gave in and drank. When he released her, she sagged to the sand. His small wound was already healing, the blood clotting to seal it.

“You are a strange man, Conan,” she said, her strength even now beginning to return.

“And you are not like other women,” he said. “That is not something I do for just anyone.”

She looked at him and, abruptly, broke into laughter.

“What is so funny?” he asked, nonplussed.

“You look like a spotted cat!” she said, pointing to his chest, which was liberally splotched with small acid bums.

“It’s what comes of fighting demons in the dark. Now do you believe me?”

“Very well,” she said. “I agree to believe you this time. Shall we go on? I am feeling better.”

“We might as well. The sun burns you here whether you move or sit still.”

They rose and went on. By late afternoon, the strength lent by his blood was exhausted and she felt once more, too worn out even to speak. Conan was not in a speaking mood either. Without a word, he stooped, gathered her into his arms and hoisted her over his shoulder. Her substantial weight was a burden, but his strength was great and he strode no more slowly for the warm mass of her lying across his back. Each hour he shifted her from one shoulder to the other through the remainder of the day and all through the starry night.

He walked like an automaton, putting one foot in front of the other with perfect regularity, ignoring the pain of his burns and the soreness of his shoulders, aware only that he must live and get Achilea to water and shade, and that soon. She would not survive another full day of the desert sun. So stupefying was the mind-numbing labor that as dawn came, he did not at first notice the riders.

Conan’s head jerked up abruptly when he heard the high-pitched cries and saw four camels bearing down upon them. The sun was just above the horizon, and he laid the woman gently on the sand, drawing his sword as he straightened. Then he heard jubilant whoops and he was surrounded as the three wild women and the dwarf all but dived off their mounts to get to their queen. To his amazement, they carried fat water skins.

The women cradled their queen, kissing her face and pouring water over her in prodigal quantities, thrusting the neck of one of the skins into her mouth. Achilea drank thirstily, coughed, vomited water, then drank some more. Tears made black streaks down their faces.

“Easy there,” Conan said, barely able to force the words past his swollen tongue. “Too much water at once and you’ll kill her.” The women ignored him, spreading robes over Achilea, lifting her to one of the beasts.

The dwarf walked to Conan and handed him a water skin. “How far did you carry her?”

The Cimmerian took a mouthful of water, rinsed his mourn, then forced himself to spit the water out on the sand. He then took a small sip and swallowed it. The relief was as intense as anything he had ever felt in his life.

“All last night and most of yesterday. She was blind for a while.” He took another cautious sip and swallowed it.

To his amazement, the little man threw a pair of stubby arms around his waist and grasped him in a fierce hug. “You saved our queen! We are your slaves for life!”

“Where did you get this?” Conan asked, holding up the water skin.

“You will see. It is not far. Come.” The women had Achilea loaded on a camel, with Lombi holding her steady. Conan mounted one of the beasts, the dwarf behind him. As they rode, he continued to sip at the water. He could feel the blessed fluid making its way from his stomach to his parched tissues.

“Where are the others?” Conan asked.

“They wait for us,” said the dwarf. “Some of diem, anyway,” he amended. “Now, tell me what happened after you left the camp.” So Conan whiled away the time describing the spy mission, the fight and flight from the camp, the dust storm and his strange, blind combat with the desert demons.

Two hours after their rescue, Conan’s water skin was almost empty and he was feeling much restored. His hunger was returning as well. Then they crested a dune and he saw the city.

It lay in a perfect, circular depression, just as Amram had described it. It was not huge, but it seemed to consist almost entirely of elaborate buildings, with tittle open land inside the walls. Before the sparkling gate he saw the great water-trough Amram had mentioned, and near it were tethered some camels. Tents had been erected close by.

As they descended the dune, he noticed that the tall, white camels were missing. “Where are the twins?”

“We think they’re inside,” the dwarf admitted. “You’ll hear about it anon.”

The Hyrkanians rushed up to them, grinning. “We rejoice to see you, Conan!” Kye-Dee said.

The Cimmerian dismounted stiffly, his sunburned hide screaming with pain. “I notice you didn’t come looking for us,” he said sourly.

Kye-Dee grinned some more, shrugging. “It seemed that the gods of this place had stranded you. It is very unwise to provoke the gods.”

“Crom preserve me from those with religious scruples,” Conan groused, walking to the great trough.

He saw that water poured into it continuously from one end and flowed over a spillway in the opposite end. Much as he wanted to explore the place and find out what had occurred, the water drew him more strongly. Throwing off his weapon-belt, he crouched beneath the spillway and let the water flow over him, sluicing his hair, washing the remaining sand and grease from his body. The pain was excruciating, but when he straightened, clean for the first time in days, he felt like a new man.

The women carried Achilea to the trough and gently lowered her into the water. Her eyes sprang open wide and she screamed while they dipped water over her head.

“Careful there!” Conan barked. “She’s been badly burned.”

“We know that!” snarled Payna. Then her fierce scowl was replaced by a flush of shame. The woman threw herself down and placed her forehead against his feet. “Forgive me, ray lord! You saved our queen and we worship you!”

The dwarf grinned up at him cockily. “It’s not easy for them to be civil to a man.”

“They are creatures of extremes, that is for certain,” Conan said. He helped the women rig an awning to shade Achilea while she soaked in the trough. Then he went to sit in the shade of a tent while he ate from their store of provisions, washing down every mouthful with a generous draught of water. The dwarf joined him and when Conan was done eating, the little man explained what had happened.

“After the two of you left upon your mission, we waited. The Hyrkanians slept, the twins were deep in converse with Amram―”

“Speaking of him, where is Amram?” Conan asked.

“You shall hear. We were awaiting Achilea’s return when the great cloud of dust darkened the moon. It was upon us before we knew what it was. Even as it struck, I saw Amram and the twins mount their camels and ride off south, disappearing into the darkening cloud.

“We sat out the uncanny storm in great misery, calling our queen’s name in hope that she would hear us and be guided, but she did not come. In the morning, the dust settled and we were alone. We saw nothing at all. The women wanted to search immediately, but I urged that we find water first, then search.”

Conan nodded. “That was the wisest policy.”

“Aye. I felt that she might have passed us in the darkness and that we were as likely to find her by riding south as by sweeping north. If the twins and Amram had deserted us, it had to be because the city, and its water, were near. Within half a day’s ride, we picked up the trail of the twins and Amram, and a few hours after that, we found this place. We gave the camels water and a little rest, filled our water
skins, and began to sweep the desert to the north.”

“And you saw nothing of the twins, nor of Amram?”

“We followed their tracks right up to that gate,” he said, pointing at the great doors in the city wall, “It was discourteous of them to take such unceremonious leave of us,” Conan said. “When Achilea is rested and well, we must go in there and rebuke them.” With that, the Cimmerian yawned, stretched out upon a blanket, and was fast asleep.

He slept through the rest of the day and all that night, waking at dawn the next morning. The first light stained the eastern horizon as he left the tent and walked past the somnolent camels to plunge his head into the water of the trough. He straightened, snorting, and shook his head, whipping his black hair around, spraying droplets of water for yards.

He went to Achilea’s tent and looked in. The three wild women were asleep, sitting upright with their legs stretched before them. Achilea, her skin too sensitive for the touch of a blanket, lay naked across their thighs with her head in Payna’s lap. Her heels rested upon the belly of Jeyba the dwarf, who snored lustily. They had rubbed her face and body with oil, and she gleamed softly in the morning light.

He backed out of the tent, satisfied that Achilea’s breathing was strong and regular. He knew that she would recover quickly now; she was the strongest woman he had ever encountered.

The Hyrkanians lay upon their blankets, sleeping as peacefully as dogs, with no care or thought.

Grass grew on the ground near the trough, nourished by the overflow. There was enough to provide the camels with forage for several days, although there were no trees or even so much as a bush. It was time to explore.

First, he surveyed his surroundings. Something about the perfect bowl of the depression disturbed him. It did not look like any natural formation of the desert, for the dunes marched inexorably, the sands blown from their crests to pile against their leeward slopes as more sand was blown from the windward side to the crest. Thus the dunes moved, like infinitely slow waves in a brown-white sea. They did not form perfectly round craters. It was as if a circular barrier had been erected around the dead city.

Then he remembered what it reminded him of: the barrier in me grass around the ruined temple where he had seen the twins communing silently with the bearded ancient. There, the unseen and uncanny barrier had been in the form of a great rectangle; here, it was a circle, but he sensed a sameness.

He walked to the tall gate and examined it. The story of the opals was true. They gleamed amid the carvings of an intricate geometric design, and the edges of the carvings were as crisp and clear as if they had been finished no more man a few days before, not exposed to many centuries of wear. Even stranger were the gates, for even the most massive of timbers should have perished long since in this climate. He felt sure dial this was not the last uncanniness he was to encounter at Janagar.

Slowly, he walked a full circuit of the walls, studying every stone, looking for low spots, cracks, hanging vines, anything that might provide easy access. But the walls were perfectly intact, and he saw no trace of greenery upon them. They were not so high that he could not cast a noose over them, but the parapets were smooth, lacking merlons or fin-als or any other projection that might give a noose purchase. It had never occurred to him or any of the others to bring along grapples, and they had no smithing tools with which to fashion grapples from their available metal.

The city was a spectacular apparition in the trackless desert, but it was not as large as many of the great cities Conan had seen in his travels. By the time he completed his circuit of the walls, it was still morning. The Hyrkanians and the dwarf sat eating their breakfast. Kye-Dee grinned at his approach.

“Did you find us a back door?” he asked.

“No, not that I had much help, with you rogues lying abed all morning. An enemy could have crept up and slit all your throats.”

“Some men are bom to rise early and work,” Kye-Dee said. “The rest of us know how to live well.

What did you find?”

So Conan described what he had found and the Hyrkanian nodded. “You Cimmerians are said to be first cousins to the mountain goat,” he said. “Did you try to scale the walls?”

“In a dozen places. The stones are too well fitted and they are not worn at all. With purchase for only the tips of my fingers, I could climb them, for they are not all that high, but I could not find even that.

It is not right for stones so ancient to remain so smooth.”

“It is a magick place,” the dwarf said, frowning. “No good will come to us here.”

“That’s to be seen,” Conan said. “I’ll not leave it without some answers.” He turned to Jeyba. “How fares your queen?”

“She rests. She wakened for a little this morning and we gave her some water. Now she sleeps again.”

“It is good that she sleeps,” said the Cimmerian. “Her body will heal the faster for it.” He got up.

‘Come, Jeyba, and look over this gate with me.”

They walked to the gate and the dwarf kicked at the heavy wood as if testing it for termites. “We could try burning it,” he suggested.

“Wood this dense does not take fire readily,” Conan said. “It could take days to smolder through.

But that is not why I called you away from the others.”

“Why, then?”

Conan fixed his burning-blue eyes on the dwarf. “How did she lose her queendom, Jeyba? How did she become a wanderer without a tribe?”

The dwarf frowned and would not look at him. “I know not. It is something she never speaks of, even to me, and I have followed her faithfully for years.”

“And the women, they have said nothing?”

Jeyba shuffled uncomfortably. “Once … just a few words.”

“And those words were?” Conan persisted.

“Well …” he looked around as if to see whether anyone was listening “… I tell you this only because you have proven your loyalty to our queen.”

“I understand,” Conan said impatiently. “Go on!”

“Well, once, years ago, Lombi got drunk in the wineshop of a village we were sacking. She told me that when Achilea had been queen for less than two years, she sinned against her people so terribly that almost all turned against her, led by her younger sister. Her only supporters were her ‘wilderness sisters.’

Those were the young women who shared her year abandoned in the wilds. Such women share a special bond throughout life. They were driven from the tribe and her younger sister became queen. When Achilea took me in, there were still nearly a score of these wilderness sisters. Now she has only three left.”

“And Lombi told you no more?” Conan asked.

The dwarf shook his massive head. “She had no chance. Payna came in and overheard a few words. She beat Lombi half to death and swore to do far worse to me if I ever repeated what I had heard. There, Cimmerian, my life is in your hands, for she meant it.”

“You’ve nothing to fear,” Conan assured him. “Anyway, just now I’ve other things on my mind.”

“How to get into this city?” the dwarf asked.

“That is one of them. Then there is the pack of followers who were just behind us on the trail here.

Where are they? This was their destination, but they’ve not shown up. They should have passed me while I was afoot, yet they did not. What game are they playing?”

“Perhaps they suffocated in the sandstorm,” Jeyba hazarded. “Mitra knows, we almost did!”

“That I doubt,” Conan said somberly. “Would that wizard have summoned up a storm that would kill them all? Nay, from his words, he seemed like one who waits and watches, letting others run the risks so that he can sweep up the plunder afterward. I think he may be a few dunes distant, watching.”

All that day, they rested, mended damaged equipment and tended to the camels. In the evening, Achilea appeared, in pain but walking. “Tomorrow we go into that city,” she announced.

Nine

Conan could not suppress a grin when he saw Achilea emerge from her tent the next morning. “Are you sure you feel up to this?” he asked.

She scowled at him. “It takes more than a little sunburn and thirst to stop one such as I, you Cimmerian dog.”

This time, he laughed outright. She walked more stiffly man a man in full armor, and her skin was peeling as if she were shedding it like a snake. The new flesh beneath was as pink as that of a baby. She tried to maintain her stem scowl, only to smile and laugh weakly.

“All right, I look like a dying lizard, not like a queen. I am still a warrior, though, and I am ready to sack that town.” She pointed to the hulking shape of Janagar.

Conan eyed the gate. “We do not have to do this, you know,” he said. “We agreed to escort them here and protect them along the way. We did that. We could just gather all the water we can bear and ride away, our task finished with honor.”

“Aye,” she said, glowering beneath her fine brows. “We could. But it would not satisfy me. Greater reward was implied. They said we were to have a share in the treasure. I want to look for it, even if it is no more than moonbeams in their minds.” She frowned. “Most of all, though, I do not like the way they treated us―riding off into the storm as if we were no more man dogs. I do not accept being treated with dishonor.”

“Neither do I,” Conan said approvingly.

“Then let us go find them.”

“Come with me,” Conan said. “I’ve an idea.” They walked to the gate, where Jeyba stood with a coiled rope in his hand. Kye-Dee held a camel by its halter, looking up at the gem-set lintel with greedy eyes. The other Hyrkanians stood by, watching the proceedings with interest. Achilea’s women followed behind her.

“Now what?” Achilea said.

“Jeyba claims he is a strong man,” said Conan. “We are going to see how strong. Jeyba, mount the beast and stand atop its back. If you straddle its hump, you can rest your feet on its spine.”

“Whatever you say.” The dwarf mounted the camel and stepped up onto its back. The beast did not like the unfamiliar sensation and shifted, but Kye-Dee held its head steady.

“Are you going to try what I think you are?” Achilea asked, amusement showing through her mask of pain.

“Watch,” said Conan. Like the mountain goat Kye-Dee had mentioned, he sprang lightly onto the camel just behind its neck, then up its back. “Steady, now,” he said as he stepped up onto the dwarfs muscular shoulders. Jeyba grimaced, but he grasped Conan’s ankles and kept his balance.

Standing steady upon the dwarf, Conan stretched upward.

At fullest extension, his fingertips just touched the massive lintel stone above the gate. “Let go now!”

he told the dwarf. His ankles released, Conan pulled himself upward, anchored by the tips of his fingers alone. Teeth gritted, he slowly ascended until his face was pressed flat against the carved stone. Then he released me grip of one hand, stretched his arm full-length and began to pull himself up by the strength of that arm. His whole upper body turned scarlet with the strain, the great muscles of his shoulders and back standing out in bold relief and looking more solid than the stone he was climbing.

Those below gasped in admiration at the incredible display of strength. Hand over hand, the Cimmerian pulled himself up over the carved surface until he could get his toes into the recesses of the stone. After dial, the climb went much more easily and he went up like a fly ascending a wall. The second his fingers grasped the parapet, he pulled himself over the wall and onto a sentry-walk on the other side, Conan looked around him, ignoring the clapping coming from his companions on the outside. He saw many buildings and a small plaza just within the gate. All was utterly deserted. Satisfied that no ambush awaited, he leaned over the parapet. “Throw me the rope.” The dwarf complied, and Conan made one end fast to a stone stanchion that looked as if it had once been a support for a catapult. He cast the rope over the wall.

“Come on up!” he called.

“Should we leave a man or two with the camels?” Kye-Dee asked.

“No. They’ll not wander away from water. They would stay here the rest of their lives if the grass would hold out.”

“What about those rogues following behind us?” Achilea asked.

“If they come, one or two men will not be enough to protect the camels. Bring provisions, though.

We may be here for a while.”

Payna came up first, men Lombi and Ekun. The agile women pulled themselves up the rope while “walking” up the wall with their feet. Achilea insisted upon doing the same, although still far from fully recovered. The women watched worriedly while she made slow progress up the wall. As she was about to give out, Conan reached down and grasped her wrist. With a powerful heave, he brought her up over the parapet and deposited her standing on the walk, She smiled as she surveyed the scene, her eyes bright with excitement “At last! The treasure city!”

“It’s a city, at any rate,” said Conan. “Come on, you horse-eating dogs!” he shouted to the Hyrkanians below.

“Are we monkeys to climb ropes?” Kye-Dee said, eyeing the rope and the wall with a wary expression.

“Don’t be so timid,” Conan said in exasperation. “Just tie a loop in the end of the rope and stand in it. We’ll haul you up.”

“What is more useless than a Hyrkanian off his horse?” Ekun asked in disgust.

“I heard that!” Kye-Dee yelled.

Eventually, all the Hyrkanians stood atop the wall. Last came Jeyba, after tying water skins and bags of food to the rope.

“Curse it!” Kye-Dee said. “I meant to pry loose some of the opals from the wall on the way up.”

“How could you?” Lombi asked, spitting over the walk to the plaza below, “You were grasping the rope with both hands and had your eyes tightly shut.”

“Let’s go,” Conan said. “Everyone pick up a portion of the provisions. We have some people to find.”

“And some treasure to pick up,” Achilea said.

“That, too,” Conan agreed.

As the others gathered their goods and settled their weapons about them, Conan performed a last scan of the crater rim. It was a strange horizon for this desert: a perfectly level stretch of sand, as regular as if it were carved in stone.

“That is odd,” he mused.

“What?” Achilea asked.

“Where are the tracks? A good many people and camels have come over that rim and down that slope in the last few days, and there has been no wind to speak of, yet the whole thing is now as smooth as a bowl of glazed clay.”

She scanned the view and shuddered a little. “Welt, we knew this place was not natural. It restores itself, like flesh healing.”

“I suppose―” The Cimmerian caught a tiny flash of something on the rim of the crater. He pointed toward it. “Do you see something there?”

Achilea squinted at the spot “It is not steel this time, and it is right on the sand It appears purple, like violet glass or-―” she cast him an uneasy expression “―like the crystals that wizard toyed with.” The others looked warily at the spot

Conan nodded. His eyes were keener and he could make out the tiny man-shape. “It is the homunculus.” He tested the fit of his sword in its sheath, “No matter. If the mage had any spirit, he would be down here, not out in the desert sending his little stooge to spy upon us. Come, we have work to do.”

A few yards from the gate, they found a stair descending to the plaza below. A minute later, they stood in the little plaza and the Cimmerian noted that it resembled no abandoned town he had ever seen before. There were no leaves littering the flags, no buildup of dirt or sand, no signs of animals having passed through, not so much as a feather dropped by a passing bird. It might have been a city in which all the inhabitants had gone indoors to escape the heat of the day, except that no inhabited city was ever so clean.

“Was ever a place so strange?” Achilea said, a hand resting on her sword-hilt “Or so silent?” said Lombi.

“Or so lacking in interest?” said Kye-Dee. “Why do we stand here like bumpkins who have never seen a town, much less sacked and burned one? Let’s find a palace and get some loot!”

Following this eminently sensible advice, they left the plaza to explore deeper into the city. A road paved with smooth, polished white stone led from the gate area to a short flight of steps that debouched onto small, open courtyard, surrounded by high buildings with lavish balconies, hi its center was a fountain in which water sprayed from the wings of a rising phoenix into the broad, circular pool below.

“This makes no sense,” said the dwarf, his eyes searching the skies overhead. ‘In the middle of such a desert, so much water should attract every bird that flies past Yet it looks as if none has ever landed here.”

“I think you will find that is exactly the case,” Conan said.

“Eh?”

“I will explain later. Come on.”

They passed many splendid structures, all of them perfectly intact. There seemed to be no straight streets cutting through the city. Instead, many short streets and flights of steps led to squares and courtyards with no overall plan. Sometimes the streets ended in blind cul-de-sacs and they had to pass through buildings to the next street In other places, there were tunnels through large blocks of structures and what appeared to be marketplaces sheltered beneath roofs of translucent alabaster.

In the buildings they saw many paintings, frescoes, mosaics and murals, as well as much statuary, but little of value that was portable. The art depicted scenes of great lascivious-ness and even greater bloodshed, but most of it seemed to be of a ritual nature, as if the religion of the people who had lived in Janagar was dedicated solely to the gods of blood and fertility.

“What sort of people were they?” Achilea wondered as she roused over one such mural, a vast fresco in which naked bodies, human and demonic, were intertwined in combinations so complex that they eye wearied in trying to follow all the permutations.

Conan shrugged. “I have seen the temples and holy places of many peoples in my travels, from the oak groves of Asgard to the jungle shrines of the black tribesmen and the great altars of the civilized lands between. Most folk try to buy the favor of their gods with rituals and sacrifices and prayers,: hoping to win mercy and avert anger. Their wants are simple, for the most part―good crops, healthy children, victory in battle.

“But there are others―old, rich nations that have forgotten hunger and hardship and misfortune and have known only luxury for many generations. They want to be as gods themselves, and their rites are intended to secure them power, even immortality. The folk of Janagar may have been such a nation.”

“Perhaps that is why they were destroyed,” Achilea said, “Were they destroyed?” the dwarf asked, gazing doubtfully at the buildings all around them, perfect in every detail.

“They must have been,” Achilea said. “This city is untouched, completely without life. It is as the twins said―the people of Janagar fled in a single night and no one ever came back.”

Something in her words struck Conan as wrong, though he could not say what it was. “This place is a maze,” he announced. “Let’s climb one of these towers and get our bearings from the top.”

They came to a spacious building with tall, slender, star-topped towers ascending from each of its comers and went within. Before them lay a vast chamber, capped with a low dome. The chamber was
filled with sculptures in which stone, metal, glass and ceramic were combined to render the figures incredibly lifelike. Here, once again, were depicted rituals involving the most abandoned love making along with the ghastliest bloodshed.

“At last!” cried Kye-Dee, pointing to a sculptured group depicting a hideously masked priest and his sacrificial victim. The victim was a beautiful, bound woman from whose slashed throat blood poured in the form of cascading rubies, garnets and amethysts. At sight of genuine treasure, one of the Hyrkanians strode to the artifice, opening the flap of his belt-pouch as he reached for the jewels.

Conan’s avarice was aroused as well, but something in the repellent nature of the fabulous sculptures made him uneasy. “Wait,” he said. “Best not―” But the man ignored him, eyes wide and gleaming with greed. He grasped the cascade of jewels and instantly his body went rigid, save for his head, which snapped back with an audible crunch of bones. His tongue thrust forth, along with a strangled cry of anguish as his eyeballs started from their sockets. Wisps of smoke rose from his grasping hand; men black, greasy smoke poured in a thick column from his gaping mourn.

Before their horrified eyes, the man’s flesh hissed and bubbled and fell away from his bones as he was consumed by unnatural, invisible fire. In minutes, there remained only a heap of blackened bones in a pool of steaming, sizzling fat. Alt the flesh and blood had been consumed.

“These people may be long dead,” Achilea said, her voice as hoarse as it had been at the end of her desert trek, “but their curse is still strong. Touch nothing until we know it is safe to do so.”

“We will perform the rites for him when we return to our homeland,” Kye-Dee told his surviving companions. “Unless one of you wants to collect his bones now?” The others made vigorous signals of negation.

“Come,” said Conan, his dread about the city now redoubled.

They went to a comer of the great room and entered the tower. The doorway opened onto a spiral stairway and they began to ascend. The steps turned to the left as they climbed, and this struck the Cimmerian as odd. All such stairways in his experience spiraled to the right on the ascent―castle towers were designed so that an attacker’s sword-arm was crowded against the central pier, while the retreating defender had a wide sweep for his own weapon-arm.

The stairs, broad at first, became more narrow and cramped as they climbed. The tower was subtly tapered, a designer’s and builder’s stratagem that reduced the weight load, saved on materials and gave a viewer below the illusion that the tower was taller than it really was, all at once. Just when the passage was almost too narrow for Conan’s broad shoulders, they stepped out onto a broad platform that encircled me tower. The platform was provided with a waist-high railing of marble carved into a lacy, openwork design of twining vines. They stepped out warily, doubtful that the seemingly fragile structure could be solid after so long an abandonment.

“First,” Conan said, “let’s see if our followers are lurking out there.” He peered out over the city wall. “Crom!” The others gasped and made sounds of disbelief. Hands went to protective amulets, and spells were muttered.

They could see for miles, and beyond the city walls mere lay no desert, but rather endless acres of tilled land, divided into orderly fields by low walls of stone and well-trimmed hedges. Straight canals cut through the landscape. At intervals stood cranelike, counterweighted devices for raising water from the canals into the fields. In the distance they could see houses that looked like the mansions of fine country estates,

“What is this?” Achilea cried.

Conan placed his broad hands on the railing and peered over the edge, into me city below. The others did likewise. There were people in the streets, people dressed in colorful garb. As they watched, a procession of warriors rode through a street, light flashing from their gilded armor and the bronze frontlets on their horses’ brows.

Slowly, they circled the tower. They saw that from the broad, steplike terraces of the largest buildings there hung huge, flower-rich vines in overgrown masses. In the terrace gardens, tall
trees―cedar and cypress―pointed to the sky. Fragrant myrrh shrubs and palms heavy with dates grew in profusion. From the altars of the temples, great columns of : smoke ascended above the sacrificial fires.

“What is happening here?” Achilea said.

“This is an accursed place!” Payna cried, unnerved. “Let us be away from here, my queen!”

Conan did not like this uncanny turn of events, but he was unafraid. “This is some sort of illusion.

We are seeing Janagar as it was in ages long gone. Listen. Hear you any sound? I do not. It is all as silent as when we came through the streets.”

“We are very high up,” Kye-Dee said doubtfully, having never before been atop such a tower “We would hear something,” Conan insisted. “I have been upon towers far taller than this one and you can still hear the sound of horses’ hooves on the streets. Does anyone smell smoke? I do not, yet there are fires all around us.”

“Supposing you are right,” Achilea said, “where do you think we should go from here?”

“There.” Conan’s long arm stretched out and he pointed to a vast structure hulking atop a hill in the center of the city. It looked squat, but that was only because of its massiveness. From it towered a dome higher than any other in the city, and made, so it appeared, of innumerable panels of glass. “If the twins are to be found in this city, that must be where they are.”

“Look!” said a Hyrkanian, pointing downward. Around the base of their tower came an immense elephant, its flanks pointed with colorful designs and its long, curved tusks plated with gold. Upon its back was the statue of a god or demon, many-eyed and hideous. After it followed other elephants bearing the images of other monstrous deities. Around the beasts flocked musicians who played pipe and drum, horn and tambour, while dancers in furs and feathers whirled ecstatically and other worshipers gashed themselves with knives and flung severed parts of themselves at the idols, all in perfect silence.

“Who they are and what they are doing, I know not,” Conan said somberly, “but they have been dust blowing hi the wind for thousands of years. By some working of magick, we see them as they once were.”

“Let us go,” Achilea urged, catching his dark mood.

“These visions of the long-dead oppress me. I do not know if I even want this treasure now. I just want some answers.”

They descended the tower and no one spoke so much as a word until they departed the building.

Out upon the street, alt was as it had been. The warriors and worshipers, the horses and elephants―all were gone as if they had never existed.

“This way,” Conan said, more to break the awful silence than because his companions needed the direction. As they walked through the city of silence, something that had been puzzling him crystallized in
his mind

“A little while back,” he said to Achilea, “you said that this city is exactly as its inhabitants left it when they fled.”

“Aye, so I did. What of it?”

He gazed up at a fretted balcony as they passed. A row of vases lined its rail, lacking only flowers.

“Have you been in many cities?”

“A few,” she replied, frowning. “None this splendid. What of it?”

“I have been in many,” the Cimmerian said, “and they are never this perfect! Nobody builds a city, complete in all things, and moves into it. Cities grow, like great beasts do. They start as whelps; villages by a stream, or an inlet, or where roads or caravan traits cross. Some grow into good-sized towns and a few become great cities like this one―” he paused and amended “-―as this one was. But always they are growing or being repaired. Old buildings are torn down and new ones are raised. Fires gut whole blocks of houses and shops.

“I have seen towns where the temples were always under construction because each of a dozen cults was trying to build theirs bigger than all the others. A fresh-painted house stands next to one on which all the paint has long since flaked off. They are never this perfect!”

“You are thinking too much, Conan,” Achilea said, frowning. “I would not expect this of you.”

He ignored her jibe, “Somehow, I do not think that the people of Janagar, fleeing in panic, paused to tidy up their city and finish all its building projects before they locked the gates behind them.”

“The woman is right, Conan,” Kye-Dee chided him. “You think too much.” To the wild Hyrkanian, cities were as alien as the stars, so he could discern no oddity about this one. His desires were simple and all he wanted was to find a way to take loot without being struck horribly dead.

As they progressed through the city, they climbed. Toward the center, there were more stairs than streets. Many tunes they became lost in the maze, entered buildings that had only a single exit, or had to cross from one rooftop or balcony to another, but always they drew nearer the huge building. Often they saw objects of value and were tempted to appropriate them, but the unfortunate Hyrkanian’s fate stayed their greedy hands.

At last they passed through a low tunnel and emerged onto a great plaza before the central edifice.

There they paused in wonder and gaped. From a distance, the structure had seemed very large. Standing before it, its size was stupefying. The facade was so high that they could not see the colossal dome at alt.

Lining the parapet atop the building were statues like those they had seen being carried by the elephants in their vision of the Janagar of long ago. From where they stood, the statues appeared to be about man-height, but Conan made a quick estimation of the height of the facade and realized that me things were probably nearer thirty feet tall. So vast a building stunned the human eye’s ability to judge proportion.

Every square foot of the stonework of the place was carved in unbelievably intricate detail. From their vantage, they could not make out the individual figures or the overall design, but the immediate impression was one of the mind-boggling labor involved. All the visible stone was of marble―-marble of a hundred hues and polished to such brilliance that it was as if the whole building was made of glass and illuminated from within.

“Have you ever seen so great a structure?” Achilea gasped.

“A few,” Conan said. “Those were in Stygia, and even there, I never saw any as high. And this is just the front of the place. Remember what we saw from the tower. The dome doubles the height of the building.”

“How could mortal hands have built such a thing?” she wondered, “They did not,” said Kye-Dee. “It is clear to me that this place was built by gods or giants.”

Conan was almost inclined to credit him. The thought of mere men toiling for untold years, probably over many generations, to erect this oppressively massive edifice was alien to him. It was marvelous, but it seemed detestable that men should spend their lives in such a pursuit. Surely, he thought, these people must have had the souls of ants,

“Nothing to be gained by standing around here,” he said, settling the weapon-belt around his lean hips. They walked across the broad plaza surfaced with black and white paving stones set in eye-dazzling geometric patterns. It seemed to take forever to reach the vast building. It appeared to recede before them at their approach. But in time, they stood directly beneath its clifflike facade, gaping at the infinite intricacy of the carvings thereon, which were set row upon row running in continuous bands, interrupted only by windows and the single great entryway.

Each band was crowded with life-size human figures, and if the activities of the sculptures in the temple where the Hyrkanian had died had been scabrous, these were almost supernaturally so. Ekun walked to one especially tangled group of figures and peered at it closely. “That is impossible,” she announced at length. “You would need three legs.”

“Some of their gods or demons had a superfluity of limbs,” said Kye-Dee. “Maybe some of the folk of Janagar were likewise equipped.”

Conan was not interested in the carvings. He went to the great doorway and studied it. The twin doors were nearly as large and massive as me city gate. They rose straight for nearly a score of paces and then arched to a point in the center. Around the doorway was a band of carving that looked at first
like entwined vines, a design much used in the city. Closer examination revealed that it did not depict vines, but rather, innumerable serpents, their eyes made of gleaming gems. So realistic were they that the Cimmerian almost expected to see forked tongues flickering in and out of their mouths. Achilea joined him before the door.

“We will need a ram to force this,” she said.

“Perhaps we can go in through the roof,” Conan mused. “At least this will not be difficult to climb.”

“You may climb it,” said Kye-Dee. “I will gladly cheer you on. But I am not going to scale that cliff, no matter how many handholds it provides.” The other Hyrkanians agreed vociferously.

“Cowards!” Achilea sneered.

“Men are not intended to climb rocks like lizards!” Kye-Dee said, offended.

Jeyba walked to the great door and felt its massive timbers. Idly he gave it a shove, and the door swung inward as easily as would a house door hung on well-oiled hinges, yielding only a slight groan and creak.

“Perhaps this will not be as difficult as we had thought,” Achilea said.

“Don’t say that until we see what lies within,” Conan told her. He drew his sword and strode to the opening. Not to be outdone, Achilea drew her own blade and hurried to walk beside him. Her women and the dwarf were close behind, and the Hyrkanians came last, arrows fitted to the strings of their bows.

Nervous and as alert as cats, the little band walked through a high-arched passageway that was like a great tunnel through the thick walls of the building. As with the outside, its walls bore decorations, but the light within was too dim for them to make out their nature. The heat and glare of the desert day disappeared as they left the door behind them. The air inside was faintly musty, but breathable. Ahead of them, they could see that the tunnel opened into a gigantic room where there was more light.

As they reached the end of the tunnel, they gazed with wonder at the immensity of the cavernous interior. Before they could take it in, a huge, shaggy shape loomed up beside them, bellowing. A Hyrkanian spun and drew his bow, but Conan slapped the weapon aside. The arrow soared off into the distance and was broken against an unseen wall.

“That’s a camel, you fool!” Conan barked.

The Hyrkanian, bristling at Conan’s unwonted action, grinned sheepishly when he realized his mistake. ‘I thought it was a demon,” he said, shrugging.

The camel whose life the Cimmerian had saved was one of the tall, white ones. Its mate stood just beyond it, along with the smaller, local camel that Amram had been riding. The animals were placidly chewing their cud. They seemed to be slightly indignant at this intrusion.

“This is the first sign we’ve had of those three,” Achilea said. “You were right, Conan.”

Slowly, they walked into the vastness of the interior chamber. The light that fell upon the tesselated floor was multicolored and it stained the mosaic in neat, geometric lozenges. Peering upward, they saw that the huge dome overhead was made entirely of glass panels set into a lattice of metal. The individual panels were made tiny by distance, but Conan estimated that each one had to cover the area of a small house. He had never seen such huge panes in his life.

They were halfway across the floor before they realized that the hulking shape at the far end of the chamber was not a part of the building, but rather, an immense idol. The angle of the sunlight left it largely shrouded in gloom, hence their tardiness in recognizing it for what it was. By its location, Conan estimated that it would be fully illuminated only at sunset.

“Is this a god?” Kye-Dee inquired.

“A goddess, if anything,” Achilea said dryly.

The figure was vaguely pyramidal in shape: a nude, anthropoid figure seated cross-legged, its multiple arms outstretched, some of its hands grasping weapons, others holding implements of no readily discernible function. Two arms extended straight out from the figure’s shoulders, their palms open and empty. The torso bore a dozen breasts arranged in a triple row between shoulders and navel. Its face was serenely beautiful, but the long, narrow eyes carried an expression of inhuman malice. Enormous
jewels gleamed in forehead, eyes and navel. They approached the looming sculpture in awe and trepidation.

“Why would anyone build such a thing?” Achilea asked. “It must be a hundred paces from one knee to the other.”

“I do not know,” Conan said, “but I am weary of this.” He drew a deep bream and bellowed, “Monandas! Yolanthe! Amram! Come out and face us! We would have a few words with you!”

The shouted words echoed from wall to wall of the temple chamber for a long time. Then they faded and a great silence reigned.

“Now what?” the dwarf said. Gingerly, he rapped his knuckles upon the gigantic shin of me goddess. The greater part of the idol seemed to be made of bronze, although no rivets or joints between plates were visible. The method of its construction was a marvel on a par with everything else they had seen.

“Well,” Achilea said, irritated, “where do we―” Her words ended abruptly when the idol emitted a long, deep groan from its innards.

“What is this?” Jeyba said, alarmed. There was more groaning and creaking, as if something massive were shifting within the idol. They backed away from the huge thing, looking upward as if expecting to see the heavy arms come to life and reach for them. A rushing, hissing sound came from above and they looked around them in near panic.

With a dazzling burst of light, flames erupted from the upturned palms of the outstretched pair of hands. The curled fingers seemed to be grasping great balls of flame, and the glaring, fund tongues of fire cast shifting shadows across the face of the goddess, giving her an even more sinister expression. To their horror, the narrow eyelids opened wider, exposing scarlet irises dotted with many small, black pupils.

The jeweled eyes glowed with an inner fire. The Hyrkanians yammered spells to avert evil and made as if to run.

“Hold!” Conan shouted. “This is no goddess! It is a great automaton, worked by machinery!”

“What of that?” said Kye-Dee. “I want no part of it.”

“I run from no puppet,” said Achilea, “even if it is the biggest puppet in the world!” Her women crowded close beside her, and Jeyba stood just before them, his bludgeon cradled in his hands.

Conan stood poised, ready to fight or to run, as circumstances should dictate. Had the twins brought this prodigy about? Were they inside, operating the incredibly ancient machinery that sail, against all reason, worked?

There was a rushing of feet and a clatter of harness as a double file of bizarre human figures came running from behind the idol. Within five seconds, they had the intruders surrounded. Conan estimated that there were at least a hundred of them, and more were coming. They were partially clad in bits and pieces of strange armor, but they wore no other clothes. Their numbers were of women as well as of men. All carried weapons and some had nets and ropes. All wore masks.

The Hyrkanian who had almost shot the camel drew his bow and loosed. The hard-driven shaft punched easily through a breastplate of black leather and silvery metal and a woman went down, spraying scarlet.

“No!” Conan shouted. “They are too many!”

But the Hyrkanians were too overwrought to hear. At the sight of blood, two more drew their bows as the first reached for another arrow. Instantly, they were enveloped in the meshes of thrown nets, and the nets were followed by viciously barbed javelins. The men squalled like enraged panthers as they were harpooned until they choked on their own blood. Kye-Dee screamed and half-drew his short saber, but the Cimmerian knocked him to the floor with a blow of his massive fist “Be still, idiot!” he hissed.

“But they slew my countrymen!” Kye-Dee wailed.

“You countrymen were fools and they died like fools,” Conan said pitilessly. “If you want to live, obey orders for a change.”

The strange warriors crowded in all around them. They were short but well-muscled, their skins the whitest Conan had ever seen. Of their faces he could tell nothing, for all were grotesquely masked. The masks appeared to be of hammered metal, some bearing the long beaks of birds, others the muzzles of animals, yet others with snarling monkey faces. Their armor was made of leather and polished metal.

None wore full armor, only breastplates and greaves and bracers on their forearms, and all of it was spiky, jagged and ornate.

Conan doubted that his band could carve a way through the line of these strange warriors; they would be speared long before they reached the door.

A man in especially ornate armor strode up to them. In his hands be carried a poleax equipped with wicked spikes and hooks and this weapon he pointed toward Conan’s broad chest.

“Lower your weapons!” the man cried, his words so twisted that the Cimmerian could scarcely understand them. He repeated the words, this time more shrilly.

“What does he want?” Achilea asked.

“He wants us to disarm,” Conan told her.

“Never! If this means a fight to the death, so be it, but I’ll not be helpless among strangers!”

“Just keep your hands well away from your weapons,” Conan said. “Perhaps that will be enough.”

The man barked something and a net came sailing out to blossom open and envelop Achilea. Conan began to draw his sword, only to have a weighted cord whip around his wrist and slow his hand Then another net settled over him. He struggled against the meshes, but even his iron strength could not prevail against their tough fibers. He heard squalls and he twisted his bead around to see that the others were being as efficiently immobilized.

The warriors were well practiced in this maneuver, for they quickly overwhelmed their victims by weight of numbers and trussed them soundly. It took many of them to overcome the Cimmerian, but they had numbers to spare. In minutes, he lay on his belly, his hands bound securely behind him, his ankles shackled with two feet of chain between them. When all were similarly trussed, they were hauled to their feet and the nets and ropes removed from them.

“So much for your orders, Cimmerian!” Kye-Dee spat. “We should have fought our way out!”

“You would have died,” Conan said. “We still live and we’ll get out of this. Your men probably got us into it. What people do not meet intruders with arms? There was no cause to kill that woman.” Though he held his words steady, inwardly he seethed with anger.

“But there was supposed to be no one here!” Kye-Dee protested.

“These folk seem to have their own opinions on the matter,” Jeyba remarked.

The man who had spoken stepped aside as a woman came forward to eye the captives closely. She wore a mask of blackened steel in the form of a hawk’s face, trimmed with a ruff of white feathers. An abbreviated mantle of black and silver scales covered her shoulders, and closely molded greaves encased her lower legs and knees. Similar guards graced both forearms. A belt of black and silver plates rode her lissome hips, supporting a dagger and a short sword. Except for these items, she was naked, “Who are you?” she asked in a husky voice through the gaping beak of her mask. She was a small woman, of a slender but wiry build.

“I am Conan of Cimmeria,” came the answer, “and this is Queen Achilea of the Amazons. The rest are our followers. We come in search of our friends, whose camels stand yonder.” He jerked his head back over one shoulder, indicating the beasts.

“And to do this, you had to slay one of us?” She pointed toward the dead woman, who was being carried toward the great idol.

“It was an error,” Conan said. “We expected to find no one here and the fool panicked. He died for it, as did two of the others. The rest of us made no attempt to harm you.” He had no idea if this would appeal to her sense of fairness, but he deemed it worth a try.

The woman stepped closer until she stood inches from the towering Cimmerian. With the forefinger of a fine-boned hand, she traced the massive muscles of his chest. “You do not look like the desert men
who sometimes stumble upon the Forbidden City. What is your land?”

“Cimmeria lies far, far to the north of here,” he answered.

“Are your countrymen all as large and as strong as you?”

“Almost,” he said.

She stepped as close to Achilea and examined her minutely, lightly punching her cobblestoned belly, feeling the rippling muscles of arms and legs and body as if me queen were a camel she contemplated buying. With the back of one hand, she stroked Achilea’s cheek.

“I have never seen a woman such as you. Your land must lie even farther away than his.” The masked woman’s head barely reached Achilea’s shoulder.

‘In my own land, I am a queen,” Achilea said through clenched teeth, “I am not to be handled in such a fashion.”

The masked woman laughed shrilly, her tones echoed by the rest, “You are overdressed, slave!”

she said, hauling on Achilea’s cloak with all her strength. The cord that held the garment to Achilea’s neck snapped. Next, the woman tore off her belt and fox pelt, leaving her dressed only in her fur leggings.

“That is better,” the woman said with satisfaction. “You may be comely in your barbaric fashion, when you have done with shedding your skin.” She ignored the rest and turned to the bizarre warriors behind her.

“Below with them!” she barked. “We shall soon see what these odd creatures are made of.”

The warriors surged forward and began to hustle and the captives toward the immense idol. A wide bronze door creaked open beneath the crossed ankles and they were dragged and pushed within.

Ten

Conan gazed overhead. The gloomy interior of the idol was illuminated by only a few torches, and these revealed an internal bracing of heavy timbers and strong metal beams, held together with bolts as thick as a man’s leg. There were huge gears, ten paces across, and levers that must need five or ten men to move. Metal pipes led from no place to nowhere, and thick chains hung in great loops, their upper ends lost in the darkness. He felt a hard point prodding him in the back.

“Stop gaping,” the masked woman ordered. “The Great Goddess does not like profane eyes probing her holy interior.”

He could not tell whether the woman spoke ironically, for it was hard enough just making sense of her words, so thickly accented were they. Did she truly think this colossal thing to be a goddess, knowing that it was nothing but levers and gears and chains within? He shrugged off the question. If true, it would be far from the most unreasonable religion he had come across in his travels.

Beneath the center of the idol was a spiral ramp, wide enough for ten people to walk abreast. They began to descend. Achilea’s women walked close behind her to protect their queen from the indignity of the prodding spears. For this, they earned a number of small wounds in their backs, buttocks and thighs.

The dwarf strode ahead of her truculently, as if daring anyone to come too close.

The descent seemed interminable. The ramp was of smooth stone, its surface throwing back a reflection from the strange, smokeless torches that burned with a muted hiss every few paces along the wall. As they walked, the Cimmerian’s keen perceptions detected a slight relaxation among their captors.

Muscles that had tensed along backs and necks smoothed their knotted contours; their stiff-legged stalking eased-It was as if being above had set their nerves on edge and now they felt freer in more secure and familiar surroundings. Conan could hardly guess why this should be. Did these strange folk live down here all the time?

The spiral ramp ended in a wide corridor illuminated by more of the smokeless torches. The walls and ceilings of the corridor were richly decorated with the same designs they had seen so frequently in the town above: intertwining foliage, complex geometric patterns and obscenely coupling human and demonic figures.

They passed openings that gave onto huge rooms where shadowy forms went through incomprehensible rituals or activities, but they never paused long enough to get a good look. As they
continued along, the Cimmerian saw small, pale men and women who wore neck rings, wrist bands, and anklets connected by thin but sturdy chains; these seemed to have the duty of examining the torches and assuring that they remained lit. They passed one extinguished torch, which a man was cleaning with small instruments. As they approached, he finished his task, turned a circular knob and struck sparks above the torch’s-copper cup with flint and steel. Immediately, flames burst from the thing as the slave jerked his hands back.

“What is that noise?” Achilea asked, coming out of the melancholy that had gripped her since her capture and subsequent humiliation.

Conan had noticed it as well. It was an all-pervasive susurration, like wind whistling through the chambers of an underground cavern. “I don’t know,” he said, “It sounds like air moving.”

“Silence!” said the masked woman, idly backhanding him across the face. He scarcely felt the blow, but he vowed to make her pay for it someday.

The corridor gave onto huge rooms where some people sat on the floor around tables eating, onto other rooms where robed men, appearing to be alchemists, tended flasks of boiling liquids, glaring furnaces and pipes that took liquids and steam from one place to another. In what seemed to be a temple enclosure, men and women went through an extremely lascivious dance before an idol much like the colossus above, although far smaller. About a third of the population wore the chains and shackles of slaves. Of the free population, half were masked. They all eyed the newcomers curiously, but none sought to hinder the procession or to ask questions.

At one point, the corridor floor became a bridge that passed through an immense chamber full of creaking timbers and the groan of metal upon metal. Above them and below them and to each side were gigantic vertical wheels that turned incessantly, powered by hundreds of slaves who ceaselessly trod the interior rims, keeping the wheels turning. Here the rushing noise was loudest, and Conan understood that mis was the power source of the underground city’s ventilation system, hi civilized lands, he had seen great, slave-worked bellows performing the same service for deep mines, and one or two where the bellows were worked by waterwheels, but this was far more elaborate, “This is a foul place,” Achilea commented. Conan was not inclined to argue with her, but the man who seemed to share command with the woman swatted at her, and the wild women turned upon him, baring their teeth.

“Stop!” Achilea ordered. “You will die needlessly.”

“The big woman wants a flogging,” the man said.

“I will determine that,” the masked woman said sharply, establishing their relative rank.

At last they turned aside from the main corridor and ascended a broad flight of steps, corning into a spacious room with a high-vaulted ceiling from which depended several fixtures that resembled chandeliers. A swarm of interlaced copper pipes made wide baskets, and each pipe terminated in a diminutive flower from which sprang a single white flame, all of them together illuminating the room almost as if with daylight.

Besides the man and woman in charge, only a half-score of warriors entered the room to keep watch on the prisoners. The rest waited without in the hallway. The chamber was unfurnished except for a few large cushions, but several short chains hung from the walls. The chains ended in metal neck rings.

From a small stand, the woman took a flexible, tapering rod the length of her arm and settled its thong around her slender wrist. With the whip, she pointed at the three women, the dwarf and Kye-Dee.

“Chain these slaves here. Five warriors stay to guard them. Bring these two―” she pointed to Conan and Achilea “―to my reception chamber.”

The women wept at being separated from their queen, but there was nothing they could do. The pitiless iron rings were fastened around their throats.

“Abide here for a while,” Achilea told them confidently, as if this was by her choice. ‘We shall all be free anon.” The supple whip lashed out and sliced across her shoulders. She made no flicker of expression at this abuse of her already tormented skin.

Prodded by spears, the Cimmerian and the warrior-woman climbed another flight of stairs into a smaller chamber, illuminated in the same way as the one below and carpeted with what appeared to be silk cushions. There were low tables, furnished with beautiful glassware. Four slaves stood ready, all of them lovely young women, slender and as pale as albinos, their white hair cut short, their eyes downcast and their chained hands clasped before them.

Guards fitted Conan and Achilea with neck rings and fastened them by chains to bronze rings set into the floor beneath the cushions. The chains were too short to allow mem to stand, so perforce they sat upon the cushions as the slave women tended to their mistress. The warriors retreated from the room, leaving the speaking man behind.

The slaves divested their mistress of her armor and replaced it with a brief robe of silvery cloth. She was perfectly unself-conscious about the display of her naked body, but she turned away from the viewers when the women took off her feather-trimmed metal mask and replaced it with another mask made of the same silvery material. Idly, Conan wondered where in this incredible underground city in the midst of the desert they found the splendid plumes. Whence, indeed, had come those immense timbers?

The woman turned around. The mask revealed only her rounded chin, her full-lipped mouth, and eyes with irises so pale that they could scarcely be distinguished from the surrounding whites. Her pupils were tiny and seemed to be red rather than black. Her hair, now unbound, fell in soft waves over her shoulders. A slave handed her a goblet of carved crystal and she sipped at its contents, studying her captives.

“We rarely have interesting strangers come to the Forbidden City,” she said, stepping lightly toward them, goblet poised in one hand, whip in the other. “Usually, only desert men stumble upon the city, wretched and dying from thirst and hunger and the blows of the accursed sun.” With her whip hand, she sketched an intricate sign in the air and it was copied by the masked man. It seemed to be an act of vilification at mention of the sun.

“Lately, far stranger people have arrived. Can this be the beginning of a fate long foretold?” She placed her whip beneath Achilea’s chin and forced the queen’s head up. “I never dreamed a woman such as you could exist; a great, powerful animal possessed of a certain beauty,” Suddenly she looked at the masked man. “Do you not find her so, Abbadas?”

“I think she is ugly,” the man said, but Conan caught the lie in his words. He was all but licking his lips behind his mask. “Surely these are not human beings, but some species of desert ape strayed from their native haunts.”

“I think not,” the woman said, chuckling. “And do not try to gull me. You lust for mis one―I do not blame you for it. So ripe and vital a body is far more than our pallid kin have to offer.” She turned to Conan. “And this brute has possibilities as well.” Then her face snapped toward the man. “But do not touch them for now! They are mine to do with as I please.”

The man bowed with ill-concealed hostility. “Never would I defy your wishes, Omia.”

“See that you do not. Go now. We will speak of this later.”

Reluctantly, the man turned and walked out of the chamber. The woman watched him go, a smile on her full lips. Then she sat on the cushions directly before her captives. Had their hands been unbound, they could easily have slain her. Conan wondered if the woman realized that he could effortlessly kill her with a kick from where he sat. Of course, that would leave him chained to the floor. Doubtless she took that into account,

“My guests need refreshment,” Omia said. In seconds, the four slave women crouched by Conan and Achilea, two to each of them. One held a cup, the other a tray of delicacies, Achilea turned her head away, but Conan stopped her.

“Eat,” he said. “Strength is important.” Reluctantly, she sipped from the cup the slave woman held for her, then she bit into the sweetmeat held to her mouth by the other. The Cimmerian did the same. He found the wine palatable, but it had a bitter undertaste. The food was bland, all but tasteless, and had the texture of mushroom.

“That is better,” said their captor “I want the two of you to be healthy.” She smiled warmly. “Now, tell me. What seek you in Janagar the Blessed?”

“As I said before.” Conan told her, “we seek our friends.”

“You lie!” she screeched, slashing him across the face with her whip. “No one ever came to Janagar seeking a friend!”

“Crom curse you, woman!” Conan shouted. ‘1 tell you the truth! We came hither with companions who sought something in Janagar, but they disappeared in the desert and came here alone, on their own.”

The woman smiled again. “That is better.” She turned to Achilea. “And what was it your friends sought here?”

Achilea shrugged her broad shoulders. “They said it was treasure, abandoned in this city thousands of years ago. Now I am not so sure.”

Omia laughed and clapped her hands, “Treasure! Indeed we have that, and in abundance! And we have much better than that!”

“What kind of place is this?” Achilea asked. “How can people live beneath the ground like ants, never seeing the sun?” She grimaced as the whip drew a scarlet stripe along her jawline.

“It is I who ask questions here, not you!” Omia’s eyes started in near-demented fury. Then she underwent another of her mercurial mood changes and caressed with her fingertips the flesh she had marked. “You of all people must understand the evil of the sun.” Again she made the mysterious gesture.

“I can see the mark of it all over you. Long, long ago, we escaped that evil. You must stay down here with us now. You will be the better for it, if you prove worthy.”

“What do you mean?” Achilea asked, then winced as the whip slashed along the other side of her jaw.

“You do not learn well, do you?” Omia stood. “Your oversized friend knows enough to keep his silence when he has to. Perhaps you are only what you appear a pair of brainless beasts.” She favored them with her warm smile again. “But I do not agree with Abbadas. I think you are both quite beautiful.”

She clapped her hands. “Guards!” Ten armed men and women came into the chamber. “Take them to the holding pens. Have them washed and secured.”

Their chains were unlocked from the floor rings and they were taken out of the room. A woman led each by the chain like a dog on a leash. Sharp spears at their backs kept them tractable.

From long habit, Conan made an inventory of every weapon. He wanted to know exactly what to grab should the opportunity for a break present itself. Besides spears, some had swords and daggers. A few had short-handled axes. The axes had light, crescent-shaped blades and looked strangely familiar.

Then the short sword worn by the woman who held his chain drew his attention. It was hooked so that its handle protruded just above her right hip, and the sheathed, twenty-inch blade slanted across her buttocks. By the distinctive shape of its handle, be knew it to be a Stygian weapon. As further proof, the sheath was decorated with Stygian hieroglyphics.

After a short walk along the main corridor, they came to a set of heavy doors flanked by guards.

The doors were opened to reveal a low-ceilinged tunnel and they were prodded inside. The tunnel was completely undecorated and here the rough tool-marks indicated that all had been hewn from solid rock.

Light was provided by more of the copper tubes, which produced flames only a little larger than those of candles. Fresh air hissed through grated openings near the floor.

They passed low doorways, and within the chambers, the Cimmerian could see persons of both sexes chained to the walls. Most of them had short-cropped hair. This is a place where they punish disobedient slaves,” he said.

They were taken to a room where water gushed from a wall into a wide basin before exiting through a drain beneath an overflow spout. The air in the room had a heavy, humid, fecund smell. “In!” barked a guard. It was the first word they had heard from these warriors. Hands divested them of what little remained of their clothing. They stepped into the basin, and slaves with pitchers and brushes indicated that they should duck beneath the water.

“I would swear this is river water, by its smell,” Conan announced before submerging himself.

“Stand,” said a slave when they came up for air. They complied. Standing, the water came to mid-thigh. The slaves waded in and poured fragrant oil over their heads and bodies, men worked the oil into a lather with their brushes. Achilea clenched her teeth at the touch of the brushes on her sensitive skin.

“Easy, there,” Conan said. “She’s been burned. I The slave woman who was scrubbing down Achilea nodded and began to use a cloth instead of a brush. At least, he concluded, the slaves could understand them, even if they would not, or could not, speak.

Thoroughly cleansed, they stepped from the basin and were dried with rough towels, then prodded deeper into the prison. They passed a room where the three women, the dwarf and Kye-Dee were chained to the walls. At sight of their queen, the women and the dwarf lunged as close as their binds would allow and cried out their joy in seeing her alive. The Hyrkanian remained morose.

As Achilea spoke a few low words of encouragement, Conan could not forbear to smile. Stripped and cleaned even of their paint, the wild viragoes proved to be three rather handsome young women, although lacking the soft contours of their more civilized sisters.

Conan and Achilea were taken to a somewhat larger room, where their chains were fastened to rings on opposite walls, Then the guards released their bound wrists and filed out. Rubbing their wrists and flexing their fingers, the two examined their surroundings. A flame outside their doorway provided the only illumination. At the greatest extent of their chains, they were still separated by two paces.

Having exhausted the possibilities of exploration, they sat upon the cold stone floor.

“Conan, have we fallen among madmen?” Achilea asked.

“It is hard to say. The first time I visited a city, I thought the people diere were mad, because they were so different from the tribesmen and villagers of my youth. Certainly, living in this anthill would make anyone mad.”

She tugged at her chains. “Never have I been bound before! I must get out of here!” Her voice betrayed the strain she had suppressed for so long.

“I have been chained up many times,” he told her. “And it does no good to fight steel chains if you’ve no tools. Just be calm and resolve to wait it out Be ever alert for any chance, any mistake by a guard. I have won my freedom uncounted times. Those who give way to despair, or who go mad with rage, are the ones who never escape.”

“Truly?” she said, seeming to take encouragement from his words. “Then I will try to do as you say.

It is hard, though. To be a queen, even one in exile, and then to be treated like this. It is harder on my pride man the sun was on my flesh.”

“That’s better,” Conan said with a faint grin, “It does little harm to have your pride tempered in cold water from time to time.”

“My queen!” called a voice Conan recognized as Payna’s. “Can you hear me?”

“Aye!” she called back. She described their situation and relayed Conan’s advice. As long as their queen was well, the women seemed to be satisfied, “What do you think that vicious woman meant about our proving our worth?”

“I do not know,” Conan said, amused to hear this fierce woman describe another woman as vicious.

“But I’ve little doubt we’ll learn all too soon. I am more interested in that water.”

“It did smell like river water,” she said, “not like water from a spring. How can there be river water in the middle of this awful desert?”

“It can be from only one place,” he assured her. “Underground. This may have possibilities. And there is another thing: The guardswoman who led me on a leash wore on her belt a Stygian sword. It means that these people have some sort of contact with the outside world. I think their axes were Stygian as well.”

“Perhaps the weapons are very old,” she said.

“That may be, but the sheath that carried the sword is not old. It is made of leather, and is decorated with Stygian picture-writing.”

She shrugged. “How does this help us? The woman said that sometimes heat-addled desert men find their way here and die. That may be how the sword got here.”

“Maybe,” Conan allowed. “But remember what I told you: Be on the lookout for every advantage.

Every bit of knowledge we gain may help us get away from this place. There is a river here someplace, and through Stygia flows the greatest river in the world.”

“If we get out of this dungeon,” she said, “do you think you can find your way back to the surface?”

“Aye,” he replied without hesitation. “I do not forget where my steps have taken me.”

She nodded. “I, too, was raised in a land without signposts and with few landmarks, where the only way to stay alive was to have a strong sense of direction and location. But I have never been in a warren such as this. Here, there is no sun, no moon, no stars. There are no prevailing winds.” He could tell that the catastrophic events of the past few days tad sapped her iron self-confidence.

“It helps,” Conan told her, “if you have spent much time in the dense forests of the Pictish Wilderness, or the jungles of the south. A city is another sort of jungle, even an underground city like this one.”

“What do you make of these torches, that bum without smoke? Is this sorcery?”

“I’ve never seen the like of them,” he admitted, “but somehow I do not feel that they are magickal.

As we were herded here, I saw a slave cleaning one, like a man cleaning an oil lamp. Perhaps they burn an invisible vapor. I have seen alchemists set such vapors afire in their laboratories, and everyone has seen me burning vapors that rush from the kilns of charcoal burners.”

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “so it may be. But still, I do not like it.” She was silent for a while, then: “How long is it since we rose? There is no way to judge the time in this ac- . cursed netherworld.”

“In this, I am in no better case than you,” Conan said, yawning, “but I think we would each be the better for some sleep.”

They both lay down and she said, “They were so careful to bathe us, you would think they would provide us with a little bedding.”

He laughed. “I think the bath was for their convenience, not ours. They seem to be a cleanly folk.

Beyond that, they’ve no interest in our comfort.” He stretched, then put his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. “I doubt the lack of bedding is the worst thing in store for us here.”

His sleep was long and dreamless. He awoke to find Achilea examining her skin by the light of the strange torch. Lightly, she ran her fingertips over her arms and thighs, then over the rich contours of her torso.

“Is everything present and accounted for?” he asked.

She started slightly. “I thought you still asleep. Yes, all is here and better than I had hoped. That oil they used on us must have healing properties. My sunburn no longer pains me and most of the dead skin has peeled away. Even my lips are no longer cracked.”

“That is good,” he said, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “You don’t want to be weak in any way when we break out How are your eyes?”

“I see as well as ever, though I could use more light.”

“Aye, you look well,” he said, meaning it heartily. His unimpeded view took in every perfect inch of her, “If only these chains were longer.”

She looked at him haughtily. “Just as well they are not, for then I would have to break your stiff Cimmerian neck.”

“Getting your pride back, I see,” he said sourly. Still, it seemed to him that there had been a teasing note in her voice.

A slave brought in a single large bowl of steaming liquid and a jug of water and set the vessels between them, then left. Conan took the jug and drank while Achilea raised the bowl to her mouth, then
made a face.

“More of the mushroom stuff,” she said, passing the bowl to Conan and accepting the jug in return.

“Have these people no proper meat?”

Conan took a mouthful of the bland gruel, thick with rubbery chunks of fungus. “It will keep us alive,” he said. “And even people well provided with flesh never waste it on prisoners. Stale, moldy bread and hard cheese is your portion in prison. At least this is hot.”

They finished their savorless meal and for a while, Achilea conversed with her followers. They seemed to need the sound of her voice.

“Do none of these other prisoners speak?” Conan asked.

“They’ll not answer us,” Jeyba said.

“They would have nothing to say, anyway,” Kye-Dee added, “They are worthless people; slaves to people who are themselves but insects who live like termites in a rotten log.”

“Still, they might be able to tell us something about our situation,” Conan said. But so far, he had not heard the slaves speak a single word, even among themselves. He determined to look into the question.

Not long after they had eaten, guards came to conduct them once more to the bathing facility. When their next meal was brought, Conan seized the slave woman by the shoulders while Achilea looked on curiously.

“Speak to me, woman,” Conan ordered. She said nothing, only stared at him with pale, frightened eyes. He took her lower jaw between thumb and forefinger and pried her mouth open. Then he released her.

“She is tongueless,” he reported. “Perhaps all the slaves have been so treated.”

Achilea snorted with disgust. “Civilized people call us barbarians because we are like beasts of prey. But it is a natural and a clean way to live. This is ugly and twisted.”

“I’ll give you no argument on that point,” Conan said.

A few hours later, a team of guards arrived. Their hands were bound, and they were taken from their cell. In a room near the bath, they found Achilea’s women and dwarf with Kye-Dee. Slaves dressed Conan in his wolfskin breechclout and studded belt, and Achilea in her fox pelt and leggings. Their desert robes were nowhere to be seen, but the Cimmerian noted with amusement that the returned garments had been scrupulously cleaned.

Payna went to her queen and said in a low voice, “Did the man seek to molest you?”

Achilea smiled. “He would have, but his chain was too short.”

“Hah!” Conan said. “She stretched hers a good foot trying to get to me!”

“Silence!” barked a woman of the guard. Jeyba butted her unarmored belly with his head, and the breath went out of her with a whoosh. She fell on her backside, her spear clattering to the stone floor.

“Show respect to our queen, wench!” the dwarf shouted. Instantly, a half-score of spear-points were leveled at his throat.

“Easy, Jeyba,” Conan said approvingly. “There is no sense in getting killed too soon.” Spears at their backs, they left the dungeon.

Eleven

The procession entered a new part of the labyrinthine city. They discovered that not everything lay immediately adjacent to the main corridor, for there were many intersections and. branchings. One flight of stairs took them to an area where; the river smell was very strong. Here they passed through vast natural caverns where grotesquely overgrown mushrooms grew in obscene profusion. Some were like broad toadstools, some like branching coral; others hung from the ceiling in thin sheets, clusters, or twisted shapes tike the horns of rams.

At one point, there were none of the vapor torches. These were not necessary because the fungi of that area glowed: with their own cold light: purple and red and a sickly green, The ghastly illumination made the humans look like walking corpses.

“Have you been keeping track of where we are, Conan?™. Achilea asked when they were past the mushroom caverns.

“Aye,” he answered, “but I’d as lief discover a shortcut. I “Silence, there!” said a guard.

“Sit on your spear, dog,” Conan said disgustedly. “Your queen, or whatever she is, wants us alive for something, so make no idle threats.” Jeyba laughed to hear these words.

“She never said you were to be unhurt,” said the woman Jeyba had butted. She jabbed the little man sharply in the buttock, eliciting a yelp. Now it was the guards’ turn to laugh.

“At least they have a sense of humor,” Kye-Dee said.

As they walked down a side corridor, they approached an entrance from whence drifted a sound that seemed utterly out of place in these surroundings: the sound of sawing. As they passed the portal, Conan slowed and peered in. With long, two-man saws, a team of slaves was engaged in reducing dark, heavy logs to squared timbers and planks. The air was redolent of the pleasant smell of sap and sawdust.

“Mushrooms they can grow without sunlight,” Achilea commented as they passed on. “But trees?

How do they― A guard jabbed her on the spine, drawing blood.

“Enough!” Conan snarled. With bewildering speed, he kicked the man’s feet from beneath him, the movement made not at ail less effective by the chain connecting the Cimmerian’s leg-irons. A short kick to the man’s belly effectively paralyzed him before Conan’s heavy foot trod upon his neck. As cartilage began to give way, Conan stopped. The chief of the guards had drawn his sword and now held it beneath the dwarf’s chin.

“Kill him and this one dies,” the man said. “The queen is interested only in the big woman and you, black-haired one. One more incident from either of you, and the little man dies. After him, that one.” He jerked his head toward Kye-Dee. “After him, the three smaller women, one after another. Do you understand me?”

“Aye,” Conan said, removing his foot The man gasped and gargled as he rolled to his side and curled himself into a ball, “Just recall that I am a patient man, but even my patience has its limits.”

They said no more, but the way Achilea smiled at him put Conan in a better mood for the rest of their trek. This ended in a vast natural cavern that was almost circular in shape. Its floor had been hewn into multiple rows of seats surrounding a low, oval pit. The seats were richly covered with silken cushions. Overhead, the greatest chandelier they had yet seen provided light from hundreds of vapor jets.

The place was deserted.

They were marched to a rectangular cage overlooking the pit. It had a single bench and was enclosed by bars of iron. With leveled spears at their back, they entered and the chief guard locked the swinging gate behind them.

“What is this, my queen?” Payna asked.

“Have you never seen a fighting pit?” Conan said.

“I have,” said Achilea, “in some towns and villages and fair-sites. But those were rough enclosures of earth and timber. What sort of people would build a pit that is so large and permanent?”

“People who are fond of blood,” he answered her. “People who would rather watch others fight than do it themselves.”

It seemed that they had a wait in store for them. “Wood, leather, cloth,” Conan mused. “These things have to come from the surface, and I’ll wager they were not brought across the desert. Those were fresh logs the slaves were cutting, full of sap.”

“You’ve nothing to wager with,” Achilea answered, “but agree with you anyway.”

“Leather may be made from human skin,” Kye-Dee said. “In my tribe, we made our war drums from the skins of our enemies.”

“Silk is made by spiders,” said Jeyba, “and spiders live in dark, sunless places. Perhaps they weave cloth from spider silk.”

“That still leaves those logs,” Conan said remorselessly.

“These people are powerful magicians,” Kye-Dee said. “Perhaps they produce logs with their magickal arts.”

Conan could not agree. So far, he had seen virtually nothing of the sorcerous about these strange people. On the contrary, they seemed to be as prosaic as ants. It was only the place they chose to live in that was truly bizarre.

Further conversation was cut off when people began to file into the huge cavern through numerous entrances. They descended the aisles that divided the seats into wedge-shaped sections and seated themselves upon the cushions. Conan noted that they were strictly regulated, for the people in each separate wedge wore a single, distinctive garb that was different from that distinguishing those in the neighboring wedges. Here, he saw men in papery shoulder capes and shaven heads; there, a group of women who wore serpent masks. Yet another wedge was occupied by men and women, but all these wore masks covering the left side of the face only, and they carried long, crystal-tipped wands. Whether these insignia identified them by rank, status or occupation, he could not guess.

All stood when Omia entered, closely followed by Abbadas, who still wore the weapons and armor he’d borne when Conan’s party was captured. Behind Abbadas was a small, hairless man who wore a simple, floor-length cape of silk. His features were oddly familiar.

“Who is that man behind Abbadas?” Achilea asked. “He looks like one of them, yet it seems to me that I know him.”

“You do,” said Conan with grim satisfaction. “Darken his skin with a bit of paint, give him a false beard and swathe him in desert robes, and you have our old friend, Amram.”

“Amram!” she said. “He is one of them?”

Conan shook his head. “I think not. His Kothian accent was too convincing, and so was much of his story. He has been down here a long time, though; long enough to take on their look.”

Indeed, the man they knew as Amram was almost as pale as the underground inhabitants. But his eyes were brown, and the faint stubble that showed on his shaven pate was dark as well. The Cimmerian guessed that the man had shorn his scalp in order to blend with the populace, for those who had hair in this place were as white-tressed as albinos. Amram was a man who survived in a hard world with the chameleon’s talent for blending with its surroundings.

“Who next?” Achilea mused. “The twins, perhaps?”

But it seemed that the mysterious pair were not to make an appearance. There was a small platform next to the cave and just above the arena. Here Omia and Abbadas took their seats on heavily cushioned chairs. Amram stood behind them and a small crowd of slaves attended them. As they arranged themselves, a file of slaves standing above the tiers of seats began to play music on instruments of wood, string and metal. It was a harsh music, with much metallic clashing and shrill trilling. A group of young, comely slave women entered the pit and went through an intricate dance that featured much athletic leaping, contortion and other gymnastic feats.

“Perhaps this will not be so bad,” Kye-Dee said, smiling nervously.

“I’ll believe that when all this is over,” Conan answered. He looked at Omia. ‘Why are we here?”

The mad light came into her eyes. “I told you that you ask no questions.”

He jerked his head toward the arena below. “From the look of this place, I’ve cursed little to lose by asking questions.”

Abbadas smirked and Omia looked furious, but Amram bent low and spoke in her ear. “My queen and my mistress, this great rogue is insolent, but is not his capacity for defiance among the very reasons you wanted him here?”

She subsided into her cushions. “Yes, so it was. I do hope he will not disappoint us.”

“Shall we begin with him?” Abbadas asked.

“No. He and the tawny woman are the best of the lot.” She looked over her captives with lazy maliciousness. “These two―” she indicated Kye-Dee and Jeyba “―look like inferior stock to me. Let
them go first”

“What?” Conan shouted. “This band stands together!”

“You defy me again!” Omia’s voice went up shockingly and her pale eyes burned. “You are no band! You are all my slaves, to do with as I please, individually or together! Guards, separate him from the others and secure him.”

Pole-arms were thrust through the bars, crowding the Cimmerian back into a comer, where his neck ring was fastened to a corner bar. When the weapons were withdrawn, he could move no more than a pace in any direction. He cursed with frustrated rage, but to no avail.

The gate swung open. “You two come out,” the guard chief said, pointing to the dwarf and the Hyrkanian.

“Jeyba!” Achilea said, grasping the little man’s shoulder, •<!__”

“Would you be chained up as well, my beautiful slave-queen?” Omia said imperiously.

The dwarf patted his queen’s hand. “Best I go. Avenge me if you may, but above all, get away from this place alive,” His voice was pitched low, so that only his companions in the cage could hear him. He quirked his eyebrows toward the Cimmerian. “Stick to this one, if possible,” he bade Achilea. “If anyone can get you away from here, it is he.” With these words, the dwarf exited the cage.

Kye-Dee was not to be outdone in stem acceptance of fate. “Hah!” he cried, laughing in derision. “I will show these despicable worms that a Hyrkanian warrior of the Turtle Clan is better than other men! I want only arms. Then bring on your warriors, your beasts and your demons!”

“Oh, you shall have arms,” Abbadas said. “You would provide precious little entertainment otherwise.”

Omia clapped her hands twice and the music ceased. The dancers ended their performance in mid-note and filed out of the pit through the same portal they had entered: a grated nth on the side opposite Omia’s platform. When the last was through, the metal grate was lowered behind them.

A short flight of steps next to the cage took Kye-Dee and Jeyba to arena level, where a bolted door allowed access. The bolts were withdrawn and the two men were pushed through. A guard went out with them and removed their bonds. Then the guard left the pit and the door was rebelled.

A slave woman entered the arena bearing weapons. These she handed to the two men: for Jeyba, his metal-studded bludgeon and a short-handled ax; for Kye-Dee, his saber with its keen, curved, arm-length blade. The Hyrkanian flourished the blade spiritedly, drawing glittering arcs and patterns in the air.

“This is a fine weapon and I am good with it.” he announced, “but where is my bow?”

“Do you think that we would allow you a weapon you could kill us with?” said Omia with a laugh.

“No,” Kye-Dee admitted, “but it was worth a try.”

The dwarf said nothing, standing as steady as a tree-stump on his short, bowed legs, his club gripped in his right hand and his ax in his left. He was a coiled knot of steel-spring muscles, ready for anything.

“Begin!” Abbadas said.

The grated door that had admitted the dancers opened. Conan studied the four warriors who entered. They were slaves, ~as evinced by their short-cropped hair, but they were somewhat larger and far better built than any he had seen so far. He concluded thai they were special slaves or condemned citizens, trained to fight for the amusement of their betters. They wore oddments of armor on their arms and legs, no two of them armored in quite the same fashion, and gorgets of black steel protecting their throats. None wore helmet or body armor. Each carried a small shield of steel a foot in diameter in his left hand. The right hand of each gripped a short, straight, double-edged sword.

“Four against two!” Achilea spat. “This is not sporting!”

” ‘Sporting’?” said Abbadas languidly. “I am unfamiliar with the word.”

“That I doubt not,” Conan said. “At least let them fight one against one, in sequence.”

“Wherefore?” Omia asked. “These two are to be killed and we wish to be amused. Your wishes and theirs are of no account.” She turned to the crowd of citizens and stood. They rose likewise.

“People of holy Janagar!” she cried. “In an age long past, our gods preserved us from the evil of the sun and taught us how true humans should live!” By the way she chanted her words, Conan guessed that she recited an ancient formula. “Once again we offer thanks for our salvation according to the custom of our ancestors: with blood. This time―” and here her voice departed from its hieratic, ritual phrasing “―we offer not only blood of our own, but that of dwellers beneath the sun. Cursed be the sun!”

“Cursed be the sun!” shouted the crowd of spectators in loud unison.

“A few days ago, I might have joined them in that curse,” Achilea said. “Now I would be burned all over again just for a glimpse of it.”

Omia resumed her seat and so did the audience. “Begin!” Omia cried.

Achilea and her women gripped the bars of the cage, pressing their faces against the cold iron, their eyes fixed upon the scene of the unfolding drama. Conan, chained to the comer bar, still had a clear view.

His face was as immobile as stone, but his heart seethed with hatred and rage.

The four fighting staves spread into a curving line and sought to take the two men from front and flank-The dwarf and the Hyrkanian stood shoulder to shoulder, but their eyes grew wary as the line spread.

“Back to back?” Kye-Dee suggested.

“That were best,” the dwarf rumbled. “Just leave me room.”

So they stood, crouched, separated by a pace while their enemies circled, looking for an opening.

Two darted in upon

Jeyba, one from each side. The one on the right jabbed his sword at the dwarf’s face, but Jeyba ducked low and swung his club backhand at the man’s knee. The slave managed to interpose his shield, but the steel rang like a gong and crumpled inward. The attacker sprang backward grimacing, his left arm half paralyzed from the shock.

At the same time, the slave on the left came in, stooping tow to skewer the dwarf. Thinking that the little man was fully occupied with his other opponent, the slave failed to guard himself properly. The thick blade of the ax came straight op and split his jaw from chin to nose even as his weapon, aimed at Jeyba’s throat, scored instead a shallow wound upon the dwarfs shoulder.

Achilea and me women growled approval while Kye-Dee held his opponents at bay with his longer sword, menacing them with bewildering circles and figure-eights. Conan knew that he could not keep up these tactics for long, for his arm must tire soon. He knew the Hyrkanians to be superb warriors on horseback, but far less effective on foot. Kye-Dee appeared to be better than most of his countrymen with sword.

“Ha!” the Hyrkanian shouted, making a lunge toward the slave on his right The one on me left plunged into the opening, but the lunge was a feint and Kye-Dee pulled back, slashing at the attacker.

The slave raised his shield but succeeded only in deflecting the blade into his face. Even as the man fell back screaming, the other darted in, shield high, and plunged his short sword into me Hyrkanian’s side.

The point struck ribs and was turned, but the wound was bloody and serious, Kye-Dee rammed his elbow into the man’s face, then brought his sword across to sever the tendons and arteries in the man’s neck. The slave staggered back, fountaining blood that his split windpipe churned into an ugly froth.

A low, snarling sound came from the crowd as the brief, violent exchange passed and the fight entered a new phase. Achilea and her women shouted encouragement. Now the odds were even, and all four fighters still standing were wounded.

The dwarf’s remaining opponent was first to renew the attack. The blow he had absorbed did no more than slow his shield-arm, while Jeyba’s cut was painful and weakening, for it bled freely and the muscle of his shoulder was damaged.

Jeyba fended the attacking sword aside with his club and swung his ax at the slave’s neck, but his
injury slowed him and the other was able to avoid the weapon. Still, the dwarf pressed the attack, swinging short forehand and backhand blows of the club at the slave’s unhelmeted head. The slave fended them with his shield, but each blow further injured his left arm and he grimaced with pain. An underhand thrust of his sword cut deeply into Jeyba’s chest, but even as it connected, the ax came across and smashed into his pelvis. Both men collapsed while the crowd growled and snarled.

While Jeyba was thus engaged, Kye-Dee was attacking. He had been wounded far worse than the dwarf and knew it He had to end this fight swiftly, before he weakened. With a high-pitched Hyrkanian battle cry, he leapt upon his opponent, raining sword-strokes. The man fell back, covered with blood from the wound that had removed half of one ear, stripped flesh from his cheek and divided his nose.

Kye-Dee swung a low, horizontal cut. Instead of blocking with his shield, the slave sucked in his belly, allowing the blade to pass a finger’s width from his flesh, and darted in to take advantage of the follow-through. He punched his shield at the Hyrkanian’s face and thrust with his sword. With his free hand, Kye-Dee managed to deflect the sword from his heart, but it caught him just beneath the collarbone even as the rim of the shield connected with his jaw.

The Hyrkanian managed to push himself away from his opponent, shaking his head to clear the stars from before his eyes. The slave thought him done for and rushed in to finish him, but Kye-Dee brought his sword across and low, cutting the man’s leading leg from under him, almost severing the limb. The slave fell and the next stroke of the sword passed across his neck.

Jeyba lurched to his feet and placed a foot against his last opponent’s jaw as he levered his ax free of the man’s skull. Then both men were standing, grinning in triumph. Jeyba raised his bloodied weapons in salute to his queen while Kye-Dee sang a wild Hyrkanian victory song. They were both badly wounded and perhaps dying, but for the moment, they stood victorious amid their fallen enemies and they feared nothing.

There, you degenerate dogs!” Conan shouted. “You see the sort of men who are raised beneath the sun!”

“Yes,” said Omia. “I am satisfied on that count.”

“Give them a more interesting opponent!” Abbadas urged, his voice thick with bloodlust.

“No, these two are finished,” she said. “Kill them.”

Instantly, armed figures dashed into the pit. These were not fighting slaves, but masked guards.

There were at least a score of them, and they encircled the two bloody men, their weapons leveled. Then they advanced. Jeyba and Kye-Dee fought with all their waning strength, but their valor was futile. The length of their attackers* weapons made it impossible to reach them and their numbers were overwhelming. They died cursing their enemies through their own blood.

Achilea stared bleakly at the bloody pit as the corpses were cleared away and slaves came out to mop up. Framing her face, the heavy knuckles of her swordsman’s hands went dead white as they gripped the bars. Her three women managed to embrace her simultaneously.

“He was just a man, after all, my queen,” Payna said, clearly meaning the dwarf. Hyrkanians meant less than nothing to the Amazons.

“It was not to die like this that I saved him,” she said, her voice toneless. She tore her eyes away from the pit and stared at Conan. “Cimmerian, how can you look upon this unmoved? They were your friends.”

“They were great fighting-men and they died on their feet, as men should.” be said stonily. “Among my people, there is no higher praise for any man. I salute them and I will avenge them.”

Their voices were low and they were not heard upon the podium. Omia and Abbadas were looking over their prisoners with speculating eyes.

“Who next, think you?” Omia said.

“The three smaller women might make a fine show,” said Abbadas. “Match them against a few trained women fighting-slaves. After the last show, I think we should up the odds. Give each of them three to fight.”

“It is tempting …” Omia stroked her chin, as if pondering deeply. “… but that would be twelve in the arena at once. It would be awfully crowded, and difficult to make out the details of any one combat. Of course, we could bring them out one at a time―”

“No!” Achilea shouted. ‘It is I who interest you, not they! Send me out there and then bring out your fighting-slaves, if you would see some killing!”

Omia smiled. “True, it is the big woman and the even bigger man who intrigue me most. Do you think they would provide us with diverting entertainment?”

Abbadas nodded. “Aye. As for these other three,” he raked them with eyes that burned through his mask, ‘1 may have other uses for them.”

“Guards,” Omia said, “take that woman―” she pointed toward Achilea, then swung her arm toward Conan “―and that man to the arena. Take care. They’ve yet to be domesticated.”

This time, the guards used special caution. With their spears, they backed the three weeping, protesting women into a comer of the cage. Then they conducted Achilea to the arena. She turned as if to say something to her women, hesitated, then walked out with her head high.

When Achilea was in the pit, the guards returned for Conan. His neck ring was unlocked and he was prodded from his place. As he walked past the three women, Lombi hissed at him.

“Cimmerian! Do not let our queen die, or we shall slay you more horribly than these depraved weaklings could dream to!” A combination of fear, rage and hatred glittered in three pairs of eyes.

Conan smiled grimly. “I’ve yet to tremble at the sound of a woman’s voice, but you three could almost accomplish the feat I swear to you mis: If your queen does not come out of thai pit alive, neither shall L This is my oath upon the name of Crom, god of my people.”

The three nodded sternly, their anger still fierce in their eyes. He walked past them to the steps and descended to arena level with the weapons of watchful guards poised inches from his body. The door was unbolted and he stepped through. Achilea watched him with a faint, mocking smile as their bonds were removed, but as the guards left the arena, she spoke to him in a voice pitched too low for any but he to hear her words.

“Do not look too quickly, but high above the seats, on the wall opposite our hosts, I think I saw something. Look and tell me what you see.”

Mystified, the Cimmerian did as she bade. He rubbed his wrists and Hexed his limbs as if working the stiffness from muscles long cramped. In truth, he was as ready for action as ever in his life, but it never did harm to sow deception before enemies. He worked his head around as if to relieve a stiff neck, and as he did, he glanced in the direction she indicated The wall above the tiers of seats was indented with scores of niches, and in each niche was a statue, though whether of humans, gods or demons, he could not guess. Then be saw it: In the highest tier, directly opposite the podium where Omia and Abbadas took their ease, something glowed faintly purple.

Straining his eyes but trying not to stare, he just made out a tiny, manlike form crouching by the painted sculpture of an incredibly voluptuous, nude woman.

“Our little friend from the desert,” he said. “Our stalkers remain persistent.”

“I wish that I knew what it means,” she said.

“Just now we’ve more immediate cares,” he said “Such as how to get out of this cursed pit alive, and who we have to slay to do it”

This time, two slave women entered the arena. Each carried a weapon-belt bearing sword and dagger. Conan took his gratefully, feeling much restored to have its familiar weight settled about his lean hips. Achilea looked equally pleased to buckle her belt around her own rather more generous endowments. Then she stepped to the edge of the pit and picked something up from the floor: Jeyba’s ax, dropped there and forgotten. She tucked its short haft beneath her belt “Jeyba could easily have slain that woman,” she said. “These people seem not to realize that an ax may be thrown. But he did not, just so that I might have a better chance.”

“He was a good man,” Conan averred. “In those final moments, the urge to avenge himself must
have raged powerfully within him.”

“We shall not waste his courage,” she vowed. “But if I am wounded mortally, I shall split her arrogant, masked face with this ere I release my last breath.”

“Do so,” Conan said. “I’ll skewer her partner, Abbadas, with my dagger.” He touched the hilt of the heavy weapon. “I can throw it accurately with either hand.”

“Good,” she said, smiling broadly. “We’ll not die in vain, men.” The Cimmerian smiled back at her.

“You two seem pleased with yourselves, considering your circumstances,” Omia taunted. “Let us see whether you arc as happy with your opponents.”

“Bring them on,” said Conan, flexing his fingers. “I bore easily.” Omia clapped twice and the two waited tensely as the grate opposite them was raised.

“I doubt not there’ll be many of them, since our friends did far four,” Conan whispered. “But they must all come through that door. They can manage no more than double file. As soon as the first is through the door, we attack. I’ll take the file on the left, you take that on the right. Time it right, and we’ll face just one at a time.”

“A good plan,” she acknowledged. “Though I fear our hosts will be disappointed.”

“I can live with the shame.” Conan said with a hard grin. Then a sound came from beyond the gate and they drew their swords. They stood at easy guard, poised on toe balls of their feet the pose of swordsmen who are ready for anything.

But the first thing through the gate was not a living opponent Instead, there came a wave of the humid, fecund river smell. Then a great rush of water gushed through the portal. It was not the crystal water of a spring, but a faintly greenish-brown fluid in which particles of soil, algae and plant debris were suspended.

“What is this?” Achilea gasped as the cool water lapped over her ankles and began to soak her fur leggings. “Do they intend to drown us?”

“They’ve more imagination than that,” Conan said. “Be ready!”

They kept their eyes fixed upon the gate as the level of the water rose to their knees, then to their waists. When the surface was just above their midsections, the flow stopped and the agitated water sloshed and lapped at the sides of the pit. They ignored the bloodthirsty mutter of the crowd and the encouraging cries and prayers of the wild women.

“Something comes!” Achilea said.

“Back up!” Conan ordered. “Let’s have some room.”

Awkwardly, fighting the resistance of the water, they began to back step by cautious step toward the podium. They had managed no more than five paces when something sinuous glided through the portal. Its scaly back―bearing rows of greenish-black spines―cut the surface of the water as a long, powerful tail propelled it at terrible speed for so huge a beast Behind a long snout, a pair of slit-pupiled amber eyes gleamed with ancient malice.

“What is it?” Achilea gasped. “A dragon?”

“Nay,” Conan replied. “A Styx crocodile. ‘Ware the jaws and ‘ware the tail! Go for its belly!” Then the thing was upon them.

The monster was at least thirty feet long and as it attacked, it was impressible to tell from its fixed gaze which of them it had selected for its first target but the two stood a couple of paces distant to give themselves sword-room, and Conan knew that it had to go for one or the other. Its tiny, reptilian brain lacked the capacity for a combined attack. Five feet from them, its head went beneath the water and it began to roll sideways and open its jaws. It had picked the woman.

With his sword gripped in both hands, Conan hewed at the thing’s neck just behind the jaws as the side of its head came momentarily above the surface. He plowed a deep gouge and blood gushed forth, but the incredibly tough hide and the back edge of the jawbone saved it from a potentially fatal wound.

Even so, the unexpected impact jarred it from its intended path, and the terrible jaws snapped shut on
water instead of on Achilea’s thigh.

The Amazon queen hewed with all her strength at her only target: the thing’s back. The impact jarred her to her spine and succeeded only in malting a shallow furrow in the thick, scaly hide. The crocodile might not have felt the blow. A twisting wrench of its supple body knocked her over as it sought to bring its formidable natural weaponry to bear against the Cimmerian.

She came up, sputtering water, just in time to see Conan hacking at it. It had twisted around with unbelievable speed and was coming for him as straight as a war-galley on a ramming course. Not giving it time to dive and turn, the Cimmerian lurched forward and brought his edge straight down upon the target most exposed to him; the stretch of skull between the bulbous, staring eyes. Its minute brain was in there somewhere, and he hoped to cleave through its shield of bone and split it asunder The blade failed to bite all the way through me bone, but the shock momentarily paralyzed the creature and prevented its jaws from opening. Instead, the blunt snout caught Conan in the belly and drove him against the wall of the arena just below the podium. The breath went out of him and he went under, dropping his sword. The scaly muzzle pinned him to the bottom, grinding from side to side. Then he felt the jaws begin to open as the beast’s paralysis waned. Desperately, Conan wrapped his long, powerful arms around the huge muzzle, holding the toothy mouth shut.

With a surge of coiled muscle, the great reptile whipped upward, lifting Conan entirely free of the surface. He took advantage of the respite to draw in a great lungful of air. The stubby forelegs began to scrabble at him, their six-inch claws able to gut him at a stroke if he permitted it. With desperate haste, he wrapped his own legs around its body just behind the forelegs, so that the appendages could only scrape weakly at his flanks. He wondered where Achilea was. For all he knew, she was unconscious and drowning.

In truth, she was striving with all her might to find a vulnerable target on the thrashing beast, while at the same time, avoiding the flailing tail: a dozen feet of armored, saw-edged muscle that could snap a human spine and cut the body half in twain as easily as a man swatting a fly. She had learned well the futility of hewing at its back, but she could see that the Cimmerian was in the most perilous of straits, wrapped around the thing’s head and immobilizing its terrible jaws.

The muscles that close a crocodile’s jaws are tremendously powerful; those that open them are far weaker. Thus Conan found that he could hold the animal’s jaws shut with one arm, while with the hand thus freed, he could snatch forth his dagger. This he did and drove the blade at the glaring, split-pupiled eye, but the monster’s thrashing deflected his aim and his point dug instead into the shelf of bone below the amber orb. There it wedged so tightly that the Cimmerian had to tug mightily, striving to free it Once again the crocodile plunged beneath the water. Seeking to dislodge its unwelcome rider, it began to twist sinously, rolling over and over like a huge, scaly log. Conan knew that this had to end soon. He never surfaced long enough for a decent breath, and should the beast go deep enough to strike the bottom, or brush against the wall of the pit, it would scrape him off or crush him.

Achilea hacked at the crocodile wherever she saw an opportunity. She remembered what Conan had said about its belly, and when the monster began to roil, she tried to work her way close enough to get her sword into it. But the creature’s movements were so rapid that she saw only the pale undersurface flash by too swiftly for a cut. Then it seemed to tire and slow fractionally, and she prepared herself for a single, perfectly precise blow, knowing there would be no chance for another. With her hilt gripped in both hands, she raised the weapon overhead like a giant dagger.

Once again the pale belly of the crocodile came up. Achilea’s point plunged down as she lunged forward with her whole weight behind the blow. The blade sank in just below Conan’s encircling leg and went in deep. Then she was dragged over by the creature’s overwhelming momentum, but she did not relinquish her weapon as she was pulled along. She wrapped her own legs around the scaly body for purchase and began to drag the keen blade along the length of the corrugated belly, opening a tremendous gash. Blood and viscera began to choke her along with the water she was unable to avoid inhaling.

Finally, Conan got his dagger-point free. He felt the beast’s motion begin to change, but he could not see the cause of it, nor had he the leisure to look. The next time he came to the surface, his arm reached far back, its fist tipped with steel. Then it shot down with the force of a meteor. The diamond point drove into the soft eye, through the bone behind and deep into the skull, piercing the primitive, savage brain.

The crocodile convulsed and reared, its full length thrashing through the water, shaking off its unwanted riders in its frantic death throes. Conan hit the surface with a mighty splash and immediately dove to the bottom to retrieve his lost sword. Achilea had kept her grip firm to her hilt even in UK
wildest of the dying monster’s exertions, and moments later, the two stood side by side with their weapons firmly gripped, watching as the reptile’s stubborn life-force slowly and reluctantly left its massive body. Its jaws gnashed, its legs thrashed and its body twisted, ever more slowly, entrails pouring from its rent belly long after it was dead. Finally, it was still, the only remainder of its departed life the lazy, back-and-forth motion of its tail.

Conan and Achilea grinned at one another in triumph. To his great surprise, she took a hand off her sword long enough to throw an arm around his neck and kiss him soundly on the lips. Then she drew back and was on guard once more.

“That was for a splendid feat,” she told him.

“By Crom, woman!” he said. “I am glad that not all women’s favors cost as dear as yours!”

She laughed almost gaily. “I am not like other women. What next, do you think?”

“Just so it is not those things I met in the sandstorm,” he said fervently. Amazingly, the two of them had suffered no worse than a few bad scrapes and gouges from the crocodile’s claws and the sharp scales of its back. “One thing I know well, though: That thing did not walk here across the desert. There is an underground river somewhere near, and I intend to find it.”

“First things first,” she reminded him. “We are still in the pit-Conan looked up to the podium and to his surprise, he saw Omia and Abbadas conversing amicably. From what he could see of their faces beneath their masks, they were smiling broadly, flashing teeth with every word they exchanged. The man broke off and went to the cage, where he began to look Achilea’s women over with the air of a livestock buyer.

“Have we provided you with entertainment?” Conan demanded.

“Oh, yes!” Omia said. “You are both even better than we had hoped!”

“Then who or what do we fight next?” he asked. “Now I am wanned up and ready for a real combat!” Achilea laughed and tossed her wet hair defiantly.

“Oh, no!” Omia said. “We’ll not risk you again. We have far better use for such specimens as you.

And for these three as well.” She gestured to the wild women. Abbadas was still speaking with them, and their eyes held a terror that was not the fear of death or of pain.

“What do you mean, damn you?” Conan demanded. There was another rushing sound and the water level began to lower. The dead crocodile was drifting toward the gate with the flow of the outrushing water,

“All in good time,” she said. “Guards! When the arena is drained, disarm them, bind diem and return them to their cells. But take them by the baths first. They are both in bad need of a washing.” She laughed merrily, stood and went to join her colleague at the cage, where she, too, examined the three women.

Minutes later, the water was gone from the pit and the guards filed in. Quickly they encircled the tired combatants with leveled spears. Lacking any viable choice, the warriors, Cimmerian and Amazon, let their weapons drop to the arena floor.

Twelve

This time, there had been a physician attending mem at the baths. The man, who had worn a long gown and a featureless, ghostlike mask, had directed two slaves to treat their minor wounds expertly.

Then they had been led to long tables where they were massaged and rubbed with scented oil. Even in this process, their wrists and ankles had been secured to rings set into the comers of the tables.

Now they sat in their cell, awaiting their disposition.

“They have taken especial care of us this time,” Achilea said, noting with distrust the thin pallets that had been added to their accommodations.

“Somehow I do not think it is because they have come to love us,” said the Cimmerian, rattling his chains. “But I’ve no complaint about their healing ointment.” Already the claw-gouges on his flanks were fading and the sting of them was wholly gone. He worked his arms and shoulders and felt no trace of lingering soreness. “These people are heaters beyond compare.”

“That may be the only reason such degenerate weaklings can live at all,” she said with a curl of her lip. From nearby came a noise of sobbing wails.

“Your women are not usually so sensitive,” Conan noted. “What ails them?”

“Payna! Ekun! Lombi!” Achilea called. “What is the matter?”

“My queen!” Payna wailed. “Did the ant-people not tell you what they intend for us?”

“Do they intend to eat us?” Conan demanded. “I can well imagine that they’d fancy a charge of diet after all these mushrooms.”

“My queen!” said Lombi, ignoring him. “They intend to breed with us! That man, Abbadas, told us that he intends to father our first batch of whelps personally! We only expected torture!”

“And they want you to be the prize mare!” Ekun added. “The big Cimmerian will be put out to stud!”

“It makes sense,” said Conan, unperturbed. “We’ve all seen how degenerate they’ve grown down here underground for untold generations. Prize breeding stock such as we cannot have come their way often.”

“You can be calm about it!” Achilea barked. “Such activity is probably just what you indulge in between wars, anyway! It is different for us! We come from a nation of women.”

“Do not speak foolishly,” Conan chided. “Your tribe propagates itself like any other, not by means of sorcery. Else it would have died out long ago.”

“Yes,” she said, “but only once each year, with the proper ceremonies and only with men of our own choosing.”

“It sounds like a dull existence, to my way of thinking.”

“You would think so, you half-animal …”

They were spared further argument when guards appeared at the entrance to their cell. Someone ducked through the low doorway.

“Greetings, my splendid prizes.” It was Abbadas, his eyes burning inside the holes in his mask as his look devoured Achilea.

“You’ll not breed your spawn with me, insect!” she spat. “I can kill you with one hand!”

He stroked her cheek gently. “Do not speak hastily. You know that we are very adept with chains and shackles. I can easily keep you tractable and harmless.” A horrified look came over her face, and Conan was measuring the distance for a mighty kick when Abbadas amended, “But you must wait For now, ray queen wishes to interview this one.” He gestured toward the Cimmerian.

“The day you touch me is the day of your death,” Achilea said, ignoring the fact that he had just touched her. Her meaning was clear enough.

Abbadas only laughed and called in the guards. “T ake the man. You know enough by now to use all precautions with him.” After issuing this order, he ducked back through the doorway.

Once again the Cimmerian was thoroughly trussed and led away. Achilea glared at him wordlessly and he smiled back at her, but he was not as lighthearted as he pretended. He, too, detested being treated like a prize ox, or even more fittingly, as a prize bull. A free warrior chose his own pleasures. On the other hand, there was no denying that he was not free. And was it his fault that this accursed woman had such excellent taste in men?

The guards escorted him by a route thai was partly familiar to him and partly new. Gradually he was
building up a knowledge of the strange, underground city’s plan. He felt sure that he could make his way through it tolerably well now. What he needed desperately to know was: Where was me river?

In Omia’s chambers, he was taken to a room with a tentlike ceiling of silk, its walls lined with silk hangings elaborately embroidered in the artistic designs that were everywhere to be seen in the dual city, both below and above ground. The floor was covered with silken carpets and cushions.

Omia entered, masked and wearing a silken wrap, “Leave him,” she ordered the guards. “First, remove his bonds.”

“But, Majesty―” the guard captain began to protest.

“He’ll not harm me,” she assured them. “His friends are still under lock, he does not know the city, only the desert awaits above. I think he knows better man to attempt anything rash.”

Reluctantly, the guards unfettered their hulking prisoner. That task accomplished, they bowed and departed.

“You are mad,” Conan remarked, rubbing his wrists. “What makes you think the others are so precious to me that I value them above my freedom?”

“The way you all behave together,” she said, perfectly at ease. “The three smaller women are clearly attached to the big one, and in the arena today, the two of your were guarding each other as if you shared the same heart”

“That is the way warriors stand by one another,” he insisted.

“No,” she said, smiling lazily. “That is how the dwarf and the taller man fought With you and the woman, it was different” She clapped her hands and a slave girl came in bearing a tray. On it stood two goblets beaded with condensation. Omia took both and the girl withdrew. “Drink with me,” she said,
handing Conan a goblet

He took it and drank without hesitation. Over its rim, he studied her. Her mask was made of a sheer material, more like a veil. Through it he could see that her face was fine-boned and beautiful. Her wrap was made of a similar material, concealing little. The wine was tartly sweet, and he was sure that it never came from a mushroom.

She went to a large cushion and sank upon it, reclining on her side, supported by an elbow.

Nodding to another cushion next to her, she said, “Join me.”

The Cimmerian took his ease as bidden, eager to gain knowledge from her. At another time, he would have been attracted to her delectable body, but just now he was interested in only one woman.

“Doubtless you are curious about fabled Janagar,” she said as if reading his mind “Aye, that is so,” be agreed. “We were brought hither by folk who had only the gleanings of ancient, musty books to guide them. As we drew nearer, we heard some vague tales handed down through many generations of storytellers. These hinted of a city of great wealth, and of even greater evil, that was struck down and abandoned. Our employers thought to find the city still intact, with its treasures in place.” At this point, he saw no reason why he should not be perfectly honest with her. Any lingering loyalty he might have felt toward the twins had vanished, along with the twins themselves on the night of the sandstorm.

“How did they happen to bring along such ,.. unusual warriors?” Omia inquired.

“The workings of chance. We all met in a wretched mountain village where the rogues of three or four nations waited out hard times. The twins gave us a bit of the tale, suggesting that there might be great riches for us in the adventure. They said there were others looking for the city and therefore they needed protection. As you have seen with your own eyes, they hired the best”

At this she laughed. “You are not modest”

He shrugged. “Where is the need for modesty?”

“To be sure. Very well, that is how you came to cross the trackless desert hither. How did you happen to lose your employers?”

He frowned, “That you must know well. They arrived in the great temple above before we did.”

“Of course I know!” she snapped, over-hastily. “I only wished to see whether you would prevaricate, but you seem to be an honest warrior as well as a large and handsome one. What else did you hear of Janagar’?” The change of subject was awkward, betraying her uneasiness. She was steering him away from the subject of the twins. Why?

“An old man of the desert spun me an ancient lay of the sinful city that angered the gods and was therefore laid under their curse. He said that Janagar had been sited in the midst of fertile lands, but those green hills and valleys were blasted to sandy desert by the vengeful gods.”

“And did he say what was the nature of Janagar’s offense?” she asked “The one it seems to me lies always at the heart of such tales: The folk of Janagar sought to raise themselves to the level of the gods by seizing the secret of immortality, wherefore the gods grew jealous.”

At this she smiled “So you are skeptical of old tales? I would not have thought you so sophisticated”

“I believe the legends of my own people,” he said “I see no reason to lend undue credence to the stories of others.”

“Very wise. Well, foreigner, this is the true tale of Janagar, and it is not a catch-all of vague stories handed down, mouth to mouth, by generations of illiterate tale-spinners. This is a true history, carved in stone by the people who lived through the events and further elaborated by their descendants, of whom I am one. The history is unbroken from the days of glory to this, so you may believe my words.”

He drained his cup and nodded. “I am listening.”

She clapped her hands and the slave girl came in again with two full goblets. She collected the empty ones and bowed her way out. When she was gone, Omia began.

“Know, O stranger,” she said, in what Conan judged to be a ritual storytelling formula, “that Janagar of the Opal Gates reigned for five thousand years as the queen of the world, the center of an empire that is no longer even a name among the legends of the barbaric men of this age. When the last golden tile was laid atop the dome of Janagar’s last great temple, Python was but a crude sprawl of thatch-roofed stone huts, built by primitive snake worshipers who knew not the secrets of writing or more of sorcery than the petty marvels of unwashed shamans and mountebanks.”

“That was long ago, indeed,” Conan said.

“Longer than your savage mind can comprehend,” she assured him. “But even in the days of glory, Janagar was already so ancient that its early history was fragmentary, for even the greatest civilization begins with primitive villagers, and writings scratched on wood, painted on leather, inked on parchment, perish with time. This much we know: Like all great city-states, Janagar’s early power was based upon the might of the sword. The armies of Janagar crushed all opposition before them, laid lesser peoples under our yoke and seized their wealth for our own.

“With military might came fabulous wealth, and the people of Janagar learned that wealth was power, and a finer power than that of the sword, for with wealth, they could hire others to bear swords, leaving the lords of Janagar to pursue worthier endeavors.”

To the Cimmerian, this meant the very beginning of degeneracy, but he wisely maintained his silence.

“For many, many centuries, the lords of Janagar savored the joys of vast power combined with vast wealth. Every whim was theirs to satisfy. From me farthest corners of the world were brought me most exotic curiosities for the collections of the great The most beautiful daughters and sons of all nations came to Janagar as slaves. They were decked in silks and jewels, and they served the tables of Janagar with the most delectable viands, the rarest delicacies, of all the world.”

Conan was about to observe that mushrooms must have been a terrible comedown from such a diet, but he held his tongue.

“But in time,” she went on, “even the delights of unlimited wealth must pall. For it occurred to the lords of Janagar that these were the mere treasures of the material world, and that other delights lay beyond this one―transcendent beauties and ecstasies to be seized by those with the knowledge to gain access and the courage to lay hold of them.” She sipped her wine, her eyes dreamy behind the holes in her mask.

“Mankind was young then,” she said, almost whispering the words. “He knew little beyond the use of stone and metal. Even the lords of Janagar had scant knowledge of the spirit world at first. But if mankind was young, others were not”

“What mean you?” he asked, his scalp prickling.

“I mean that man was not the only thinking creature in those days. There were others: beings far more ancient, their wisdom to that of man’s like that of an old sage to the knowledge of a child. These beings were far gone in senescence, their empires long since crumbled, but still they existed in the obscure corners of the world.

“In the last great age of the priest-kings, the order went out to scour the world and seek out the remnants of these prehuman races, that we might glean from them their secrets. Centuries were consumed in these expeditions alone. Caravans set out, ships sailed forth, all charged with this task.

Generals led great treks, accompanied by hordes of armies. Merchants set forth with bags of wealth to offer bribes. Even lone adventurers like yourself went a-wandering, with no more than a sword at (heir belt and a gleam of reward in their eyes.

“And me strange, eldritch creatures were found.” Her eyes and voice were haunted with the race-memory of the time. “A few of them could almost be mistaken for humans, except for minor but upsetting differences. More were manlike only in general shape. Others bore no human semblance -whatever. All had much to teach.”

“Knowledge such as they had is best left untouched by men,” said Conan.

“The great ones of Janagar were never as lesser men,” she said contemptuously. “Do not presume to judge us by your primitive, barbaric standards. From the strange creatures we reaped riches of knowledge undreamed of. The sorcerers of Janagar, in their fumbling experiments, wold have taken aeons of trial and error to gain the knowledge we reaped from the uncanny races in a few short centuries.

Wizards who had been able to cast their consciousness only a few short leagues learned to visit distant stars in their trances. From communing with the inhuman beings of this world, they came to speak with intelligences from other planes and other worlds.”

“A man of wisdom travels on his own feet,” Conan grumbled, “or on the feet of beasts.”

“Don’t be tedious,” she said. “Even that great, hulking frame and those powerful muscles could bore me if your thoughts persist in being so narrow. Do you want to hear this?”

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am listening.” If she thought him stupid, so much the better.

“That is more like it. Know then, that in the life of every civilization, there are times of growth and times of stagnation. If a time of stagnation goes on too long, rot sets in and the civilization falls. With each new, rejuvenating source of energy, the culture grows and stretches itself and tests its limits before sinking into self-satisfaction. So it always was with Janagar. As a young, barbaric race, we were drunk with the power of steel and bronze and the shedding of enemy blood. Then we expanded further with the power of gold and other wealth, the intoxication of acquisitiveness. Finally, we grasped the ultimate power of sorcery, and we worked our will upon the world of mankind, and even into other planes.

“But even with us, there were limits. As a young race, we learned the limits of armed might In our middle age, we found that there were some things unobtainable even with the greatest wealth. In our final stage, we found that as humans, there were limits to the sorcerous powers we could wield.”

” ‘As humans,’ you say?”

“Aye. So you are listening, after all. It was true. We knew that we shared the world with thinking creatures that were not human. In the worlds beyond, there were races infinitely ancient and infinitely powerful It chafed our pride that we could not be their equals. The human brain was not organized to wield their powers. The human body could not live long enough to perfectly master many arts customary to other races. It was decided that the masters of Janagar had to somehow absorb the substance of the nonhuman races.”

With a numbing chill, Conan remembered the artistic motif he had seen everywhere in the city, above and below: entwined chains of human and demonic forms coupling in obscene combinations.

“And so it was done,” she went on. “In Janagar, men and women mated with beings in no wise ever intended to mingle their blood with that of mortal humans. It grew into a ritual and the core of our religion for the last thousand years of the city, and the progeny that sprang from this practice was strange beyond belief. Unholy combinations of human and alien sat upon the thrones of Janagar, and took part in councils that would strike any living human of today mad with horror.”

“That I can well believe,” Conan said.

“The price was terrible, but the mages of Janagar would pay any price, endure any sacrifice, for great knowledge. And great knowledge was theirs. The deepest secrets of matter and spirit were theirs to know and to exploit. Any knowledge they wished was theirs for desiring it, AH the creatures of this world became slaves to them. Even some of the beings of other worlds and planes bowed down to them.”

“But not all?” Conan asked.

“No,” she admitted. “Not all.” For the first time, hesitation crept into her voice. “There were beings in the higher planes, beings of such mind-blasting might that the half-human mages of Janagar called them only the Powers. At first, they seemed unbelievably great, but unnoticing of humans, like the accursed sun. Whatever their doings, they had no interest in man, whether hi this world or another.”

“These Powers,” Conan said uneasily. “Were they gods?”

“Who knows what a god may be?” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “As often as not, ‘god’ is only a word men attach to that which they do not understand, but fear. To me savage, animals and rivers, storms and lightning, are all gods. Some think fire is a god. Many have worshiped the accursed sun as a god. Often the god is manlike, usually no more than a magnified ancestor whose name is the oldest his descendants remember. Those wizards of old had long since ceased believing in gods. But they believed in the Powers.”

By this time, their cups were empty again. She clapped her hands. “This is a long tale, and it must not be hurried. Let us have some refreshment.” No sooner were the words gone from her lips than the slave girl came in with more wine, accompanied this time by another, who bore a tray of viands and set it before them. Bowing, the women withdrew.

“Join me,” Omia said, waving a hand over the tray, Conan helped himself. He ignored the mushrooms in their various preparations and sauces. The tray also bore dried dates, raisins and figs, as well as other preserved fruits. He downed some honeyed figs and helped them along with a draught of wine. He knew that all of the fruits were typical products of Stygia. He took a handful of dates and held them before her.

These never grew here beneath the ground,” he said.

“So they did not,” she agreed. “But we do not speak here of commonplaces such as food. Now we speak of higher tilings.” Clearly, she did not wish to reveal the source of these tilings.

He feigned indifference. ‘In truth, preserved fruits are a lowly subject compared to the rise and fall of empire. I but mentioned it because I far prefer these to your unending mushrooms.”

At this she smiled. “Our mastery of the cultivation of fungi extends to far more than mere mushrooms, although I would not expect you to know the difference. Long ago, we learned to grow things that have no need of the accursed sun, and our table is rich and varied, had you but the palate to discern its excellence.”

“Stronger fare is the rule above the ground,” he said. “I’ve no complaint about your wine, though.”

He waved his third goblet with a slightly unsteady hand, feigning tipsiness. He had a strong head and could have drunk the golden wine at this rate for hours before giving way to genuine drunkenness.

“Perhaps you had best avail yourself of it less lavishly,” she murmured. “I might have little use for you later if you overindulge.”

He laughed loudly. “This? Why, I can drink like a camel! Have no fear of that. It takes more than a bit of drink to unman Conan of Cimmeria!” He laughed again, hoping that his windy boast further convinced her that he was an ignorant buffoon. It was more than clear to him that her attraction to him lay
not in his brain power.

“I rejoice to hear that,” she said, “and you shall learn the reason anon. Now, where were we?”

He ate slices of melon preserved in a gingery syrup, longing for some real meat. “The Powers,” he reminded her.

“Oh, yes. I continue: With their blending of human and inhuman and the many subtle shades thereof, the mages of Janagar became masters of certain arts previously unattainable to mere humans. As they exercised these arts and accomplished greater and yet greater feats, the dread notice of the Powers at last was turned upon them. Some unseen, unknown line had been crossed, and the Powers were alerted.

At first, the great sorcerers sought to deal with these intelligences as they had with all others, to learn from them and to exploit the knowledge.

“It was not to be. The attention of the Powers meant their unremitting wrath. One after another, the wizards who contacted them were blasted from existence by spells so terrible that the very fabric of the world vibrated every time one of the great sorcerers was struck down. In your travels, have you not heard many tales of ancient catastrophes that took place in time long past?”

“That I have,” he said. “Great earth-shakings and worldwide floods and terrible volcanic eruptions for a part of every myth cycle I have heard.”

“And do these ancient myths not always have a tale of a war between gods, or between gods and giants, or gods and men?”

“Aye,” he said. “In my native Cimmeria, we have an old tale of a great fight between our god, Crom, and Ymir of the Aesir a battle that shook the earth. Everyone else has such a legend.” Without asking her leave, he refilled his goblet from the dew-beaded pitcher that stood upon the diminished platter of food.

“All these tales date from that epochal combat between the Powers and the wizards of Janagar. It went on for centuries, and it altered the structure of the entire world.”

“If the Powers were so great,” Conan said, “how can it be that the fight was so lengthy? Surely these god-things could easily crush mere wizards, however powerful they might be by mortal standards.”

“A shrewd question. But you must remember that the wizards of Janagar were not truly human by this time. Their mastery of the higher arts was very near that of the Powers. It was in raw force that they were most inferior. But also these battles raged upon other worlds and other planes. For long, long years, the wizards of Janagar fought to keep the very location of our world secret from the Powers, whose driving aim was ever to destroy the very home world of their rivals. This, it was learned, they had done many, many times before.”

“Your wizards trifled with things best left alone,” he said.

She shrugged her shapely shoulders elegantly. “It is not in the nature of a truly great people to shrink from challenges, whatever the odds and however great the consequences.”

“But they risked the whole world!” he said.

“What of that? Failure meant the destruction of Janagar and all its people. Should that dread consequence come to pass, what could it matter that all the inferior races were exterminated as well? If your house bums, do you weep for the rats and roaches that perish in the blaze?”

“You have a point,” he conceded. It was not the first time Conan had encountered such an attitude.

Many a king had declared that upon his own demise, it booted nothing whether fire or flood consumed the earth.

“In time,” she went on, “the greatest mages were no more, and all the higher planes were lost to us.

In the end, all our efforts devolved to a frantic attempt to stave off defeat and save our world and empire.

Of course the most powerful spells were invoked to preserve Janagar itself. Others protected the greater cities of the empire. The spells centered upon the temples, where the most awesome and terrible rites were carried out, day and night.”

“What sort of spells could protect them from such beings?” Conan asked, fascinated in spite of himself by this tale of the death-throes of an empire.

“The final spell, resorted to after all else was exhausted, was the Great Spell of Unchanging. Once it was in place, the city thus protected would remain as it was, inviolate and without alteration. More to the point, it would become invisible to the Powers, and without the focal point of these places of great wizardry, they could not enter this world to destroy and consume.”

“So that explains the city above,” Conan said. “But if the Powers never found this world, how was the land destroyed and the fertile fields of Janagar turned to sandy desert?”

“That was not done by the Powers. The sheer force required to maintain the spells sapped the very life-force of the land, sucking the fertility from it like water into a sponge. Once Janagar lay near a great river, and from it we drew water by the most wonderful system of canals ever known. The river dwindled between its banks and finally disappeared.”

“Why did not Janagar perish then?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “When a city’s water is no more, the city dies. I have seen it happen, when a besieged city’s aqueducts are cut and it has no wells. When the cisterns are exhausted, death is certain.”

“Surely even you have guessed,” she said, smiling. “We dug until we found our river again. It had abandoned the land above, but it still flowed through a great system of caverns beneath the ground. The high priests of Janagar declared that Ike am. was accursed, that if we were not to perish, we must dig, hewing a new Janagar from the bowels of the earth.

“But to maintain the Great Spell of Unchanging, the city above the ground must be kept exactly as it was upon the day that the spell went into effect. To that end, every night after the accursed sun has gone down, teams of expert artificers go up through the great temple and out into the city to repair such trifling damage as the passage of time has inflicted. Since the winds and sands of the desert do not intrude, and since it never rains, this damage is slight.”

“What became of the other cities?” Conan asked.

“They lacked the perfect will of Janagar. Some persisted for centuries, but they failed to maintain their cities unchanging, and the spell was thereby sapped. One by one, we lost contact with them and by then, doubtless the Powers were otherwise distracted, for they made no attempt to enter our world through the ruins.”

Conan remembered the great ruined temple where he had seen the twins communing with the ancient. It must have been a remnant of one of those cities of the empire of Janagar. Now only the ruins of a single building remained, and all that was left of its Great Spell of Unchanging was a rectangular patch of grass that no animal would graze upon.

“And you have lived here beneath the ground ever since?” Conan asked. “You have eschewed the sun and clean, open air?”

“That is so,” she said, rolling onto her belly and cradling her chin upon crossed forearms. “It has suited us well, but it is a way of life not without … consequences. That is how you and your companions happen to interest us.”

“How so?” he asked, knowing he would not relish the answer.

“Preserving ourselves from the Powers, and then from the curse of the sun, solved only our most immediate problem,” she said. “What we had done to ourselves hi our pursuit of wizardly knowledge needed undoing.”

“You mean mixing human blood with inhuman?” he asked.

“Exactly. The folk who first burrowed here beneath the earth would not look to you like your near kin, to say the least”

His flesh crept at the thought. “That I can well imagine.”

“What was needed first was a strict breeding program, to eliminate all trace of the nonhuman from among us. It took hundreds of generations, but at last the deed was accomplished and at last the people of Janagar became truly human once more.”

This, the Cimmerian gravely doubted. There was more to humanity than appearance, and a bloodline so utterly polluted could never be rendered truly human again. He suspected that they had
achieved no more than to regain the look of humanity.

“Once again,” she said, “our great accomplishment came at an equally great price. Our pool of human blood was too restricted from the beginning. For reasons both supernatural and alchemical, there are undesirable consequences to be met when building from so narrow a base.”

“A lot of words,” Conan said, “to say that inbreeding produces degeneracy.”

“You oversimplify,” she said, frowning. “We are not breeding animals here, but human beings. In any case, it has been our policy that whenever human stock of exceptional merit should happen our way, we introduce it into our bloodlines. The desert being what it is, this does not happen often.”

“Why do you not go out and find fresh blood on your own?” he demanded.

“You forget that we cannot abide the rays of the accursed sun. No. here we stay, and any new stock must come to us. Long ago, we exhausted the possibilities of the desert nomads. For a while, a single nomadic tribe brought us captives of exceptional merit, but the desert grew too vast In the end, they could no longer carry enough water Co keep themselves and their captives alive for the journey.

They were the last outside people to know the location of Janagar.”

Conan guessed that this tribe must be the Wadim of whom the old man had told him. Their strange, fragmentary, twisted tale had been the last flickering ancestral memory of a time when their tribe was young and the desert was smaller and less forbidding.

“But you have contact with the outside world by means of the river,” he said, speaking very slowly and deliberately, like a man on the border of drunkenness. He poured himself another goblet. “You cannot gull me. These fruits―” he waved a hand, almost oversetting the pitcher “―these are from outside. And I have seen things of Stygian make down here.”

“We have some contact,” she said, “with a small tribe of river-men who live near the place where our river reenters the world of the accursed sun. The river-folk are a small, malformed people who do not interest us, and they are too weak to take desirable captives to trade. They keep our existence silent lest other tribes learn their secret and slay mem all to seize the trade for themselves.”

Conan nodded ponderously. “I can well see how you desire us as breeding stock,” he said, deliberately slurring his words. He smote himself upon his brawny chest. “I am of the pure blood of Cimmeria, home of the greatest warriors in the world. Achilea is a magnificent woman, stronger than almost any man. Her three women are splendid, strapping wenches, much finer than the women here.”

He pondered for a while, as if not fully aware of what he had said. “Yourself excepted, of course,” he amended.

At this, she shook her head and laughed. “Barbarian, do you truly think that it is for your strength and looks that we wish to mingle your blood with ours?”

“Is it not?” he said, truly puzzled this time.

“By no means. When we lost our empire and were forced to breed the nonhuman from among ourselves, we lost as well our capacity for working magick. We have much knowledge and no way to use it. It is as if we were the greatest of miners, yet had no picks or shovels or sledges.”

She smiled strangely, and in that smile Conan detected the lingering taint of the nonhuman. “With your clean, barbaric blood, the blood of a younger race, we may regain our power to wield the great spells of our ancestors. Janagar may once again rise to her rightful place as queen of the world!”

Of all the reasons she could have for desiring him, this was the last one Conan would have chosen.

“So you want me to breed with, eh?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “And I see no need for further discussion of the matter.” Lazily, she began to push herself up from her recumbent posture. Her sheer robe fell away, revealing even more of her ripe contours.

“Aye!” he agreed heartily. “Let’s be about it.” He grasped her beneath the arms and lifted her without effort. With one hand, he peeled away her veil and then he planted a sloppy kiss upon her lips.

Still holding the woman, he lurched to his feet “Wait!” she cried in exasperation. “You are too―”

“Too what?” he demanded, fumbling at her cape as if the knot that bound it at her throat were too complex for his dexterity. Finally, he simply ripped the garment away, She pounded at his face with her fists. “Slowly, you drunken oaf!”

Abruptly, Conan dropped her and she landed with a thump upon the cushions. “I think …” he mumbled, swaying back and forth as if his ankles were poorly designed hinges. “I think …” Slowly, majestically, like a great tree falling, the Cimmerian toppled over and landed on his face, not putting forth his bands to slow his fall. With a cry, Omia scrambled away from his trajectory, but not swiftly enough to prevent her feet from being pinned beneath his great torso.

With a jerk, the woman got her feet free and stood. She then employed them in locking her fallen, would-be paramore. “Wretch! Sot! Drunken brute!” Each epithet was punctuated by a sound kick to the ribs. She elicited but a few grunts from the collapsed warrior and discovered that she was accomplishing nothing but the bruising of her delicate feet.

Conan did not change expression during her frustrated tirade, thinking only that these people had grown truly degenerate in their antlike existence. Achilea would have smashed his ribs in half with one kick. In time, soreness of foot and shortness of wind caused her to desist. She clapped her hands and Conan heard someone enter the room. By the lightness of the tread, he guessed that it was one of the slave girls. Words were whispered and the slave left. While she was waiting, Omia assayed a kick to his head. It made his ear sting, but from her outcry, he knew that it hurt her foot far worse.

Heavier steps announced a newcomer of greater heft. “This is the great warrior who slew the crocodile?” The voice belonged to Abbadas.

“He had the woman’s help,” she answered. “This one is an animal, and a stupid one at that! What sort of man prefers wine to the body of a queen?” The scorn in her voice would have raised blisters on the back of a man more sensitive than Conan.

“After all. Omia,” Abbadas said, sounding vastly amused, “it was not for their great culture and polish that we wanted them. I am sure that I will waste neither time nor wine trying to get the big woman into a receptive frame of mind.”

“Of that I had no doubt. I had thought this one more intelligent, at first.”

“I had not thought you brought him here for conversation.” The sneer was plain in his voice, “How often do I find someone new to speak with?” she asked peevishly. She gave him a brief summation of their talk.

“You told him far more than necessary,” Abbadas chided. “This snoring hulk did not need to know all that. Now I must keep even closer watch upon him.”

“Why?” she asked. “We will have our way with him and then dispose of him. What little may have lodged in that thick skull will be of no use to him.”

“Still, I do not like it,” Abbadas said. “Hopelessness of escape is the best shackle for binding a prisoner. Best he were not to harbor futile thoughts.”

“Away with him,” she ordered. “He defiles my chambers. I shall try him again when he is sober.

Next time, I’ll not waste words upon him. Haul this vast carcass out of here.”

“As my queen commands,” Abbadas said insolently. “Guards!”

Moments later, the chamber filled with footsteps and the Cimmerian was rebound. Then, amid much puffing and groaning, he was lifted and carried through the labyrinthine warren that was underground Janagar. A short time subsequent, he was dumped unceremoniously upon the floor of his cell and his wall chain reattached. Then the guards shuffled out. Unsure of the cell’s occupancy, Conan waited.

“Your friend provided us little entertainment this time,” Abbadas taunted. “Best you be not so remiss, else you shall suffer for it. Be ready for my summons, woman. Soon.” The only reply was a spitting sound. Then he heard Abbadas leave the cell, and the further sound of his steps diminishing down the hallway without.

“Conan, have they slain you?” Achilea queried, her voice full of concern. “Nay, I can see you breathing. But they must have tortured you sorely to render you senseless. Oh!” He heard her chains
rattle and felt the frustration in her voice.

“These will not let me reach you. Oh, Conan, I …” Her voice hesitated and trailed off. Then he heard the sound of sniffing. “What is this?” Concern changed to anger as if by magic. “Wine? You are drunk! You Cimmerian fool, did you get hauled away to a tavern instead of a torture chamber? Only you could accomplish such a thing!”

An edge of suspicion crept into her voice. “That evil woman wants to breed, eh? So she plied you with wine to overcome scruples she fancied you to have? Well, she needn’t have bothered! Wake up, damn you! I want you to hear me cursing you!”

Abruptly he sat up and she jerked back.

“Actually. I am not even drunk. It does me good to know that you were worried about me.” He grinned insolently and her beautiful face flushed scarlet.

“You think I care about your miserable hide and its welfare?” she said lamely. “I but need you to help get us out of here!”

“Aye, I’ll believe that”

“If you will,” she said, hissing, her eyes narrowed, “then I will agree to believe you when you tell me what happened between you and the queen of the degenerates.”

Stretching out on his pallet and pillowing his head upon his interlaced fingers, Conan recited the tale of Janagar as he had heard it from Omia, This he interlarded with descriptions of the queen and her slaves and the furnishings of her chambers. With sidelong glances, he satisfied himself that Achilea was clenching her teeth each time he mentioned the queen’s beauty.

“And so you feigned drunkenness,” she said at last, “and naught else passed between you? Not that it means anything to me.”

“Aye, it is true,” he said, amused.

“Very well then. Now we know that the river is truly here someplace and that by means of it, we can reach the outside world.”

“One other thing bothers me,” Conan said.

“What is that?”

“The crocodile. What did they do with it?”

The crocodile?” she said, exasperated. “What care we, so long as it is dead?”

“Truly, it is the crocodile’s tail that plagues my thoughts,” he told her.

“Its tail? Did the queen put something in your wine that weakened what little wit you have? What care you about its tail?”

He went on, unperturbed. “Skinned and properly cooked, crocodile tail makes fine eating. Crom’s bones, but I am weary of the food in this wretched place!”

Thirteen

Time did not weigh heavily upon them. When Conan awoke, he knew instantly that he had been asleep for little more than two hours. Even in this underworld where night and day did not exist, his time sense had not deserted him. A sound had disturbed his slumber, and he waited in utter stillness to hear it again. Nearby, Achilea lay on her side, breathing deeply and steadily, sound asleep. He doubted that her instincts were less sharp than his own. But she had never spent time in a dungeon before. Like most inexperienced persons, she probably assumed that thick walls, bars and chains meant that at the very least, she could sleep without danger.

Conan, with his broad experience of dungeons, jails, village lockups, ships’ brigs, slave-pits, coffles, chain gangs and other means of confinement, knew that all prisons were savage places, where men confined like animals under the care of brutal guards and whimsical wardens could turn on one another like starving rats in a cage. And a man was most vulnerable in his sleep. Conan could scarcely count the times he had awakened to find a fellow prisoner stabbed in his sleep with a makeshift dagger, strangled with his own chains, brained with a rock or pitched overboard for the sharks, and the murder always
committed by enemies within the prison. He had frequently awakened in such places to find disgruntled brothers of the chain thirsty for his own blood. Thus he knew to sleep even more lightly than usual when he wore shackles.

He heard the sound again. Someone was in the hall outside the cell. He knew by the trod of the steps that it was not one of the regular guards, nor was it Abbadas returning. His ears were sensitive to such subtleties. The tread was light, stealthy. Even before the figure appeared in the door of the cell, the Cimmerian was almost sure who it was.

He lay nearly as still as a corpse, his breathing as deep and steady as Achilea’s. He knew better than to try faking a snore. Such ruses were rarely convincing to an experienced trickster, and he knew this one to be a veteran. Through slitted eyes he saw me figure crouch and come into the cell on all fours. The flickering light of the smokeless torch outside gleamed momentarily upon something in its right hand: an object of bright metal.

The figure drew nearer, nearer yet, and then the Cimmerian’s brawny left arm shot out and powerful fingers snapped around a sinewy neck so swiftly that the movement would have been a mere blur in broad daylight. In the gloom of the cell, it was wholly invisible. A high-pitched squawk was cut off abruptly by the pressure of Conan’s thumb.

Achilea jolted to a sitting position amid a rattle of chains. “Conan! What … who is that?” She blinked rapidly,

“Why, this is our old friend, Amram. As to why he is here, he is about to tell us. Of course, it may be that he would rather die than speak. He is about to make that choice!” Amram’s frantically flailing hands pantomimed a deep desire to speak. Conan relaxed his grip fractionally, allowing the man to drag a little air into his shocked lungs.

“My friends!” he squealed, the wind whistling through his constricted windpipe. “I mean you no harm! I am here to offer you salvation!”

“Yon do this by creeping like a reptile?” Conan asked coldly. “You do this by sneaking up to my side with a weapon in your fist?” His hand began to tighten again.

“No weapon! Look?” He held forth his right hand. Indeed, in its palm lay not a dagger, but a key shining in the uncanny light.

“Much better,” Conan growled “But still not good enough. Why did you desert us in the sandstorm, you rogue? Where are the twins? What are you to these ant-people, and why did you lure us here with your lying story?”

“Please, my friend, these is no time!” Amram wailed.

“Oh, but a prisoner has little but time,” Conan said. “I am eager to hear your story. Only now, I shall be alert for lies. The first lie I think I hear, I shall break your scrawny neck!”

“But, my Cimmerian companion,” Amram said, “I had not thought you to be a man so fond of talk!”

“I care not what his story is,” Achilea said impatiently. “Just loose us, little man!”

“I do not like this,” Conan said sullenly. “What does this insect ever do except lead people into traps?”

Achilea glared at him in exasperation. “Traps? We are chained in a dungeon, you dolt! What is he going to do to us that is worse?”

“You have not seen much of the world, woman,” he retorted, “if you think this is the worst it has to offer.”

“My good friends,” Amram said soothingly, his voice obsequious, “let us not bicker. I can see that you two have a certain difference of opinion, but this is not the time or the place to sort things out. Allow me to present you with your freedom, and you may discuss matters at greater length when you have the leisure.”

“Very well,” Conan said, “but I am not deceiving myself.

In this place, being without chains does not mean freedom. We wore no chains in the pit when we fought the crocodile.”

“I think it will mean an improvement in our condition,” Achilea said, almost frantic with impatience.

“Unlock these bonds, Amram, before I go mad!”

“At once, my lady. Thai is, if my good friend the Cimmerian will be so good as to release me.”

“Conan!”

“Oh, very well.” With ill grace, he relaxed his grip, only to clamp his hand around the man’s bony ankle. “You get your foot back when we are out of these chains,” he said with a dangerous frown.

Amram clucked. “Such a hard man to please. And here I expected gratitude. Kind words at the very least”

“When we are free and well away from here,” Conan said, “I will sing your highest praises. I will name a son after you if you want, but do not betray us again.”

For a few minutes, Amram was busy with the locks on their various neck rings and shackles.

Apparently his key was not made specifically for their fastenings, but was a skeleton type that required considerable skill to manipulate.

“Good thing they didn’t use rivets on these things,” Conan groused. But soon the chains fell away and they were on their feet, rubbing at sore flesh, flexing their freed limbs.

“Now we go and release my women,” Achilea said.

“There is no time,” Amram said, shaking his head emphatically. “They are just servants. Leave them.”

Now it was Achilea’s turn to be unreasonable. She grasped him by the neck as Conan had. “If I were not a queen and therefore conscious of every debt of gratitude, I would wring your neck this very second. My companion here is more than familiar with things like locks and shackles. I would wager that he knows how to use your key.”

“Aye, it is a simple device,” Conan affirmed, smiling grimly.

“Oh, very well, then!” said Amram, gritting his teeth at their seemingly suicidal calmness. “I will unchain them. But the time may cost us dear”

“Just get us out of here,” Conan said. “Get us to our weapons, and we will see to it that all the cost is borne by the ant-people.”

“You speak overconfidently,” the little man grumbled as they walked the few steps to the other cell.

They went inside and Achilea woke her women, placing a palm across the mouth of each as she shook them. The three wore joyous expressions, but their discipline was perfect and they asked no questions as their chains were removed. Clearly, their captors did DM mink they were as dangerous as were the two leaders, for here each wore only a single neck ring attached to the wall by means of a chain.

“Now.” Conan said when all were loosed, “lead us to our weapons, then lead us to the river.”

“Do you think this is a casual tour, that I may lead you to whichever attraction takes your fancy?”

“Just our weapons, then,” Achilea said. “We will make our own way to the river. And our belongings from the camel packs, too, I want my drinking horn.”

“Your drinking horn?” Conan said, raising a sardonic eyebrow. He had not seen the elaborate, silver-mounted thing since Leng, where she had carefully packed it away for the journey.

“Aye, it is an ancestral treasure of my people. I’ll not depart without it.”

“The last I heard, your people had done with you. But if you must have it, that suits me. I’ll settle for my sword and dirk.”

Amram looked back and forth from one to the other of them as if at two exotic beasts. “You are mad, the both of you, [ am among madmen.”

“For some time,” Conan commented. “But it seems to me that you know how to make the best bargain for yourself no matter where you find yourself, so continue on that course and do as we bid you.

I take it that you would be away from this awful place?”

“I desire that almost as much as life itself!” Amram said fervently.

“Aye,” Achilea put in. “You are plainly a man willing to endure much for the sake of life itself. Do as
we say.” She patted him on the shaven head, but her caress was as menacing as the Cimmerian’s blunter threats.

Amram sighed deeply. “Very well, then. Come with me and be very, very quiet. Our lives depend upon it.”

“Lead on,” said Conan, grinning.

In the anteroom, they found the guards on duty. They were either dead or drugged, and the fleeing prisoners did not bother to ascertain which. Conan stooped to gather up a Stygian short sword, and Achilea took a dagger. Ekun was about to lift a long-handled combination spear and ax with a wicked hook on one side, but Achilea stopped her with a motion.

“No pole-arms,” she instructed, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “They are too awkward in these passages and they may make noise. One-hand weapons only, should we come upon more.” The women nodded as Amram leaned out the doorway and looked both ways.

“There is no one without,” he said in a loud whisper. “Follow me.”

“Have no concern about that,” Conan admonished as he came up behind the little man with stealthy tread. “I shall be right at your back.”

“One would think you did not trust me,” Amram said in tones of hurt.

The Cimmerian ignored the comment. “Why is it so quiet?” he asked. They passed through an area he knew from earlier experience to be devoted to manufactures. All was silent, the chambers deserted.

“It is night. Even down here, where sun and moon are unknown, there must be day and night.

People must sleep, and for the most efficient organization of labor, all sleep at the same time. Only the ventilation staff and a few very necessary services continue through this ‘night.”

Achilea came up behind him. “What sort of necessary services?”

“Hisst!” Amram raised a hand and signaled them to silence. “One of diem comes even now. In here!” He chivvied them into a side chamber where cleaning supplies were stored. Amid brooms, brushes, mops and pails, they stood packed tightly together.

“What is it?” Achilea demanded in a whisper. Her body was pressed closely against Conan’s back.

“I care not,” said the Cimmerian with a smile. “I like it here.” She swatted him on the back of the head.

“Quiet!” Amram commanded. “It is the fire patrol.”

The curtain of the closet had been drawn so that only a slit was open. Two slaves came walking down the corridor outside. At every flame tube, they paused. Conan had noted in passage that only each third tube was flaming, doubtless because it was “night.” These men adjusted the flames of the lighted fixtures. At each darkened tube, one of the slaves leaned over its flared end and sniffed, then went on. At one such, the slave sniffed, frowned, and made a silent signal. The other slave took a bronze tool from a pouch at his belt and made some small adjustment to the fixture. The other slave sniffed once more, then nodded. They passed on.

When the two were out of sight around a comer, the fugitives and their guide left the closet. “That has cost us time,” Amram fretted.

“What were they doing?” Conan asked.

“The lighting fixtures must be monitored constantly,” Amram told him. Having something to explain seemed to relieve his nerves. “They bum a natural vapor that comes from deep within the earth. It bums cleanly, with no smoke and no scent, but in its unburned state, it is deadly poison. If a flame goes out, the vapor continues to gush forth. It can kill many if it is not shut off quickly. And if enough of it should accumulate, the instant a flame is touched to it. the whole mass erupts like a volcano. In the past, entire districts of the underground city have perished thus.”

“Why was one of the slaves sniffing at it?” Achilea asked.

“Checking for leaks in the fixtures,” Amram said. “They are made of bronze and ceramic, and with long use, they can work loose and allow the vapor to leak out in small amounts, but still enough to be
dangerous. They need constant adjusting. Because the vapor has no odor, another vapor is added to it in the processing plant to give it a sharp scent. Thus may a leak be detected.”

“Not only do drey live beneath the earth like burrowing insects,” Conan said, “but they suffer the constant threat of burning and suffocation. What sort of way is that for men to live?”

Amram shrugged. “Have you ever sailed upon the sea? Life aboard ship is far more precarious.”

“At least it is in the open air, beneath the sun and the stars,” Conan protested.

“Each to his own taste,” Amram said. “I am a man of broad tolerance and I find all modes of life to be equally peculiar.”

In silence, they traversed the sleeping city, walking down broad corridors, padding through narrow passages flanked by sleeping chambers whence drifted the sounds of snoring and wheezing, up long stairways, some straight, others winding. Several times they detected the approach of flame patrols, and then they ducked into the nearest room that had no lighting fixture to be checked. They came to a vast chamber from which came a sharp, nose-stinging scent.

“This is the vapor-works,” Amram cautioned. “Use utmost care. There are workers on duty here at all hours.”

The chamber was cavernous, and Conan entered it with trepidation, not because of the danger of discovery, but because of his great distaste at being near anything as uncanny as a vapor-works. He knew from what Omia had said that these people were not even capable of sorcery, but this great reservoir for burning gas was sufficiently unearthly that to his barbarian instincts, it was little different from the most powerful wizardry.

The light was dim and uncertain, provided here not by open flames, but by clumps of the glowing fungi. The sickly green, blue, orange and yellow phosphorescence provided sufficient illumination that they could recognize the shapes of huge, closed vats of riveted bronze sheet from which trailed bewildering tangles of metal pipes leading to smaller tanks, to other pipes, and to fixtures to which Conan could not assign a name. Everywhere there were wheels of greater or lesser dimensions, apparently controlling valves to regulate the flow of the vapor. Over everything lay the pungent scent of the additive.

Conan wondered how they would ever be able to detect a leak here.

Among the mysterious fixtures moved shadowy shapes, some small, some hulking. With a prickling scalp, he saw men with long, heavily muscled arms and shoulders of gorilla dimensions, but with heads that were unnaturally small. He tapped Amram on the shoulder and pointed at one who walked along a catwalk above them, his knuckles almost dragging upon the metal treads, his mouth agape and his eyes blankly staring. Amram whispered in his ear.

“Those are harmless―-slaves specially bred to turn the largest valve wheels no matter how badly they may be stuck. When there is an emergency here, there is no time to call in extra help or use mechanical aid. The vapor must be shut off instantly.”

Even in the midst of his powerful urge to get away, Conan sought to memorize the salient features of the operation. Compared to the city without, it was a noisy place, full of hissings and rumblings, the creak and clank of metal, the sounds of barked orders and the stertorous breathing of the hulking slaves, whose small noses and mouths were scarcely up to the task of providing air for their overgrown bodies.

They passed a gigantic horizontal wheel to which no fewer than six of the massive slaves were chained by the wrist Conan surmised that this was the master valve, whereby the vapor could be cut off to the whole city, including this facility, in an extreme emergency. He wondered how the city could ever function in total darkness, then realized that the answer was all around him: the fungus that glowed with its own cold, unearthly light. Doubtless the ant-people kept enough of it in all parts of the city to provide instant illumination.

No doubt about it, he thought, they had planned well. But then, they had had many thousands of years to perfect the art of living without the sun. He shuddered at the thought. The slaves and the free workers in this place revealed with merciless clarity the consequences of such a life. The cold light of the fungi gave their colorless skin the semblance of the rotting flesh of corpses.

Once through the vapor works, they were back on more familiar ground. The Cimmerian recognized the environs as an area they had passed through upon first entering the city. They were climbing now, and he guessed that Amram was taking them back up to the great temple. He did not greatly relish the thought of recrossing the desert, but anything was preferable to spending more days as the guest of Omia and Abbadas.

During the climb, Amram took them down an unfamiliar side corridor. “Where are we going?”

Conan demanded, grasping the small man’s arm and halting him. “I don’t remember this place.”

“Nor should you,” was the answer. “But you said you wanted your weapons and belongings, did you not?”

Conan grinned. “Lead on.”

They continued until, at a bend in the passage, Amram halted them. He pulled Conan and Achilea’s heads close to him and whispered almost too faintly to hear: “Around this comer is a guardroom. There should be at least two guards on duty, and these you must deal with yourselves. Your belongings lie in the chamber beyond.” The two nodded and drew their acquired weapons. At Conan’s signal, they rushed around the comer.

The two guards flanked the door, leaning on pole-arms, barely awake. They wore black armor and beast-masks and were so startled that they had not even time to speak before the two were upon them.

Conan grasped the one on the left by the throat and rammed his short sword through to the spine.

Achilea put her dagger through the throat of her victim as the women rushed from behind to grasp the arms of bom guards and lower them to the floor without a betraying clatter. With great dexterity, Amram darted forward to grab a toppling pole-arm before it could make a noise.

Instantly, Conan dashed through the door into the chamber beyond, bloody sword in his fist, turning in a circle, ready for more enemies. Nothing moved within the guardroom and he straightened, surveying the room’s contents. It was not one of the larger chambers, about ten paces on a side, but it was crammed with chests, and upon the walls miscellaneous objects were draped from pegs.

“Here!” said Achilea triumphantly. She rushed to a wall where her belt of tooled leather hung, her sword and dagger sheathed upon it. She snatched the belt down and fastened it about her sinewy waist, then crouched to examine the bundle of goods on the floor below the peg.

Conan found his own weapons nearby, hanging above a heap that contained his desert robes and miscellaneous belongings. He rolled everything except the weapon-belt into his cape and slung it all over his shoulder. The women were doing the same. They ignored the things that had belonged to Jeyba and Kye-Dee.

Something seemed to the Cimmerian to be missing. “Where are our camel saddles and harness?”

“Still on the camels, for aught I care,” Achilea said. “I hope so. It will save us time getting away from this hideous place.”

“Come!” Amram urged. “We have tarried here too long. The city will be waking soon and it will be time to change the guards at your cells. An alarm spreads through this city instantly!”

“I am ready,” Conan said, striding out of the guardroom. “Now that we are armed, these degenerates had best not stand in our way!”

Up the great spiral and ramp they went, and as they did, they heard a loud commotion behind them.

There was a thunder of gongs and a clanging of alarm bells and a shrill skirling of unearthly pipes.

“Too late, dogs!” Achilea cried. “We are out of your grasp now!”

“Do not speak presumptuously!” Amram warned. “The gods like nothing better than to punish mortals for making such pronouncements.”

“Just now,” said the Amazon, “I fear neither gods, men nor devils!”

Then they were in a huge, dim space where their voices and footsteps echoed. It was the interior of the immense idol within Janagar’s greatest temple. The vapor torches still burned inside the immense bronze thing, their flames so low that only the vaguest shapes were visible above them.

“Where is that gate?” Achilea demanded.

“It is beneath the feet of the goddess,” Amram said, rushing to the front of the chamber. “There are controls here somewhere.” He jerked upon levers and there came to them a rattling of chains and a creaking of hinges. But the noise from behind them was already much louder.

“They come!” Payna cried. “Many of them!” The three women arranged themselves between the mouth of the ramp and their queen. Short swords and axes appeared in their hands as if by magick.

Conan and Achilea drew their longer blades and set their feet, ready for anything.

“Hurry with that gate!” Conan shouted. “I’d rather deal with them outside than in this bronze tomb!”

Light blossomed within the idol as the torches flared, five-foot tongues of flame leaping from their cupped terminals. Someone below had turned up the vapor. Conan chanced a look overhead. There was always the possibility that enemies could lurk above, ready to drop upon them. He saw a maze of catwalks and ladders, chains hanging in great loops, levers and wheels and gears of unguessable function, but no living thing. Then something above caught his eye. It was a faint purple glow, one that he had seen before.

There was no further time for speculation. The guards had reached the end of the ramp. The Cimmerian darted around the queen’s women and hacked at the first three to gain the top. Steel crunched through black armor and into flesh and bone. Taken aback, the three were easily overcome. Even as he hewed, he noted with relief that this was not the well-drilled team that had greeted their arrival with nets and lassos. They were merely the guards who had been first to answer the alarm, and they were all half-winded from the long ascent.

“Give me room!” Achilea demanded as she waded in, her blade whistling. Two guards rushed to meet her and fell back as swiftly, one with an arm slashed to the bone its whole length, the other pumping bright blood from a severed artery in his thigh. The wild women plied their shorter weapons with expert skill. The ramp grew slippery with blood, and for a moment the attackers withdrew in confusion.

Conan risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Amram had the door open about a foot as he heaved at various levers and stole glances of his own at the skirmish behind him. He heaved once more and there was a mechanical clank. The door opened almost another foot. The Cimmerian made a note of which lever it was that the little man fought with.

“Go!” Conan shouted “Get through the door and I will hold diem here, men follow. Head for the great gate and our camels!”

“I’ll not desert a fight!” Achilea barked at him, her face transported with battle-lust. “No man does my fighting for me!”

Conan turned to the other women, “Get your queen out of here!”

Dumbly, they nodded. Then all three laid hold of Achilea and began dragging her bodily away.

“Conan!” she cried. “You cannot stay them alone! They will kill you!”

“They want us alive, have you forgotten? ” Truthfully, be was not certain of any such thing, Omia might want him alive, but she was nowhere to be seen and these guards might well have standing orders to kill any intruders. He saw the women hustle their chieftainess through the doorway. Amram was not in sight. Presumably, he had gone through first, exerting his customary care for his own hide. Then the Cimmerian had no attention to spare.

A guard larger than the others and more heavily armored came through the rabble of his fellows amid approving growls. Conan guessed that the local champion had arrived. The man wore a demon-faced mask and in his hands he cradled a mace with a flanged head. With a roar, he swung a full-armed blow at Conan’s head. The Cimmerian ducked and replied with a horizontal slash, but the guard leapt back to avoid it and brought his own weapon down to block the tip. Blade and mace-shaft rang and sparked. Then the massive head of the weapon arced toward Conan’s side, but the Cimmerian stepped within the man’s swing and with one hand, grabbed the guard’s arm below the elbow.

Conan’s sword-hilt smashed into the guard’s face, crumpling the thin metal of the mask, the blow so powerful that blood jetted from the eye-slits. The man howled and fell back and as he did, Conan plucked the mace from his grip. A whirling blow of the weapon smashed the guard’s head and without
pause, Conan crushed another’s side even as he ran his blade through the ribs of a third. The mob fell back in consternation and he spun and rushed for the gateway.

The guards gathered their nerve and pursued, but he was already at the gale. He did not go through though. Instead, he put his sword in his teeth and dropped the mace as he grasped the control lever and heaved. His muscles bulged as the lever groaned forward and the gate shut before him. Then he stooped, snatched up the mace and swung it in a terrific, horizontal circle. The iron lever, as thick as a man’s wrist, snapped off at the floor and whizzed end over end through the air until it slammed into the bronze side of the hollow idol with a dull clang.

The guards stood gaping, unable to understand what had just happened. Then there was a commotion behind them and Omia appeared. Just behind her was Abbadas.

“What is this? Where―” Then she saw the Cimmerian grinning at her.

“You never raised bulls before, did you?” he taunted. “You’d have been more careful if you had. All cattlemen know that the best breeding stock is the most dangerous!”

“Where are those women?” Abbadas shouted.

“What care you?” Conan demanded. “You’ll not live to touch them!” With the final word, he hurled the mace straight for Abbadas. He had never cared for the mace as a weapon and had taken it only so he could destroy the door control. With a squawk, Abbadas dodged in a move so swift that a tumbler might have envied it Two men behind him went down with their faces pulped.

“Kill him!” Abbadas howled.

“No!” countered the queen. “I want him alive!”

But the object of their attention was not listening to them. With a fleet-footed spring, Conan dashed for the nearest ladder. With his sword between his teeth again, he sprang straight up and his hands grasped a rung fifteen feet from the floor. Instantly, he was swarming upward with the agility of a monkey. Below him, he heard the twang of a crossbow, and a quarrel whispered past his head to carom off a bronze plate. Omia squalled something. Apparently the shot had been made against her orders.

The ladder ended at a catwalk and he vaulted onto it. Close behind him climbed the guards. The ladder was bolted too firmly for him to dislodge it, and he had nothing to hurl down. He knew that he could stand where he was and lop their heads off all day as they reached the catwalk, but he was a clear target for archers, at least some of whom were following the orders of Abbadas.

“Come down!” Omia called, “You will not be harmed!” Ignoring her, Abbadas signaled to a pair of women who bore crossbows, and the strings twanged simultaneously. One fired a barb-headed quarrel, the other a wicked lead pellet that could crush a skull. The Cimmerian avoided both, but narrowly. Omia turned upon Abbadas. “You will die for this, traitor!”

“I think not,” the man said. He stepped to Omia and seemed to embrace her tenderly. “Your timid rule is at an end, my queen. It is time for us to abandon the past and rejoin the real world.”

“You are mad!” she cried, squirming in his arms. “We will all die! Janagar will be no more! You must not― Guards!” The last word was torn from her throat in horror as she saw the blade Abbadas held before her eyes. Then, so slowly that it might have been an act of love, he drew the keen edge across her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came forth save a great effusion of blood. She could grow no paler, but life left her eyes and she collapsed in a small heap at the feet of her murderer. The guards stood about, unable to absorb what had transpired.

“You will obey me now,” Abbadas calmly announced to them. “I am the new king of Janagar. My first order to you as king is to slay that… where is he?” His gaze followed the direction of his own pointing finger, but the catwalk above was empty except for a guard who had just reached the top of the ladder When he saw the queen of Janagar die, Conan did not tarry. He had known many a throne to change hands with even less ceremony, and be knew that the new monarch was less tenderhearted than the last. At least, this one had no interest in keeping him alive. Quietly, the Cimmerian ran to the end of the catwalk and sprang upon its railing. Sheathing his sword, he jumped to another catwalk above, grasping a railing support and pulling himself over with the ease of one raised among cliffs and crags. No
mountain goat was as surefooted and agile as a Cimmerian.

“There he is!” shouted someone, and Conan dodged, knowing that crossbow bolts would soon follow. He took a run along the catwalk and sprang outward into empty space. He grasped a dangling chain and swung to a large platform crowded with gears and levers, doubtless a part of the controls of the idol’s arms and other mobile features. He went to a comer of the platform and looked for a place to go next, balancing himself on the lip of the void, a hundred feet up. He had no fear of heights, an attribute the pursuing guards did not share, for they came with cautious deliberation.

But come they did. They were swarming up the ladders and catwalks, and in no great time, they would be upon the platform with him. He knew that even the greatest fighter must bow to superior numbers. Then he saw something above him. From his platform, a wobbly ladder of bars connected by a pair of cables stretched like a strand of spiderweb up into the darkness beyond. There, too far from the torchlight for him to make out any details, was a purple glow. In its center was a man-shape, and it seemed to be beckoning him.

Three bolts slammed into the platform beneath his feet With no better prospects, he ventured out onto the uncertain ladder. He found it to be much like climbing the rigging of a ship, although no ship ever had a ladder so long. Bulls and quarrels sailed past him, but shooting from such an angle was a difficult task even for a good archer, and he suspected that these seldom got to practice their art at extreme range. He reflected that had there been pursuing Hyrkanians below him, he would by now bristle with arrows like a target at a village fair.

He could not tell where in the idol he was. The gloom enveloped the upper terminus of the ladder like a black shroud. But he could discern the faintly glowing shape of the homunculus. As much as he detested sorcery, the thing did not seem to be especially hostile, which could not be said of the people below.

Then his dark-adjusted eyes made out the bulk of another platform above him. It was only a lesser darkness in the gloom, but at least it proved that the ladder ended somewhere. No more than a score of rungs remained between himself and the platform when the ladder began to shake. Looking back, he could just make out the forms of masked guards upon the platform below as one of their number, braver than the others, ventured upon the ladder’s uncertain footing.

A great metallic booming thundered through the hollow idol, accompanied by clashings and rattlings of metal. Far below him, they were striving to open the gate whose mechanism the Cimmerian had ruined. He laughed as he scrambled up the last rungs and gained the relatively more secure footing of the platform. By his calculation, if Achilea and the others had run at top speed and had not become lost in the city, they ought now to be at or near the opal-studded main gate of Janagar. His laugh cut off in the middle as the small platform lurched beneath his feet with a groan of tortured metal. His own weight and that of the guards upon me ladder below him had combined to tear the ancient, rickety structure loose from its moorings.

There came another lurch and a sound of corroded rivets snapping. The platform tilted, and the men on the ladder shouted in consternation. Conan looked about him for some means of escape. Could he fight his way back down the ladder,clearing it before the platform tore wholly from its feeble supports?

The prospect seemed as unlikely as his chances of survival among the overwhelming odds below. Where had the damned homunculus gone?

Then he saw the purple glow again. The curved bronze wall before him, from which the platform was being torn at that very moment, featured a long, horizontal slit, and through this slit shone the light.

Even as he looked, the tiny man-shape appeared in the slit and beckoned to him. He dashed for it as more rivets popped and the platform began to tear itself away from the wall with a metallic shriek that blended with the screams of the guards upon the ladder below.

The slit was barely wide enough to admit his head, but at the loss of some skin and hair, Conan thrust it somewhat apart as his hands gripped the lower edge and he Cried to pull his body through. The slanting platform gave his feet little purchase, then none at all as, with a final screech of rending metal, it fell away completely, leaving his legs kicking futilely against empty air. The screams of the guards on the
ladder dwindled to silence as the Cimmerian struggled against the unyielding metal.

Slowly, with a scraping noise, the metal above him began to rise. Conan knew that even his great strength could not bend thick bronze. The section above him was hinged some how. From the noise it made, its mechanism had not been used in many years, perhaps not for eons. Painfully, he pulled his massive shoulders and chest through the opening. After that, the rest came easily. He slid through and came to rest, breathing heavily, upon a narrow, curving ledge. After a few deep breaths to restore his strength, he sat up carefully and surveyed his surroundings, At first, all he could see was that he was very high up, near the domed ceiling of the temple. The exterior of the idol was a great bulk below him. As he looked down over the ledge, it diminished with a perspective that was dizzying even to his senses. He examined the tapering slit through which he had emerged and the domelike section he had raised for the purpose, then laughed. He had come out through one of the idol’s eyes. The upper segment was a movable eyelid. Doubtless, in ages past, fires had burned within the head and the eyes would have been opened mechanically to suitably awesome effect.

He lay now upon one of the idol’s cheekbones, and his first order of business was to get down to the ground somehow without breaking his neck, and hopefully before those below who thirsted for his blood managed to reopen the gate. The booming as they pounded at the portal resounded through the vast temple like the sound of an unthinkably huge gong. The homunculus was nowhere in sight, but after the gloom inside the idol, the interior of the temple was to his eyes as bright as daylight, and the uncanny little thing would be difficult to see under such conditions.

Directly below him there was nothing but a sheer drop of fifty feet or more to the jutting breast of the goddess, and even should he accomplish the span uninjured, the bronze hemisphere was so smooth that he would just slide off to his death upon the bronze lap, like some sort of belated sacrifice to a deity whose worshipers had long since abandoned her temple.

The ridge of the nose jutted forth from the face too far for him to lean around, so Conan went in the opposite direction and saw that the ear offered some possibilities. Its hollow was large enough to hold him, and the elongated lobe terminated in a dangling ornament that reached almost to the The distance from the comer of the cheekbone to the ear was too great for him to clear in a single leap, but just above the ear, the hair of the goddess was formed by a mass of bronze rods that, looked as if they might support his weight. It was chancy, but his lire had seldom been free from risk. The sound of the pounding below changed, as if the gate were beginning to give way.

Conan did not hesitate. He crouched deeply, then sprang out and upward. His hands grasped two of the bronze rods and he felt one of them give. He released it and reached for another even as the first broke and fell away. The curling rod clattered against the shoulder of the goddess and rebounded away to the floor below. Swiftly, he swung from one bronze tress to another, never letting one bear his weight long enough to break off and send him spinning to the unyielding surfaces below. Then he was in the ear and planning his next move.

The earlobe was narrow enough for him to grasp and slide down until he reached the dangling ornament, as large and elaborate as a chandelier in a Nemedian palace. This he descended as easily as if it were an oak tree, and from its terminus, it was no more than a short drop to me shoulder below. The arm was smooth, but what appeared to be a great string of beads crossed the shoulder and slanted across the body to the opposite hip.

Gripping the ornate carvings and raised decorations of the beads, Conan began to descend the ornament. The first part was easy going, but after the swell of the breast, he had to grip even more tightly as his own weight pulled at his fingers and his toes could gain little purchase. The gentle mounding of the belly was less arduous and soon he passed above the navel, which looked like the mouth of a cavern.

When he reached the slope of the hip, be slid down its rondure to the top of a huge thigh, thence down to its inner jointure with the body. Before him were the crossed ankles, and these he scrambled over and at last he was off the idol proper and atop its pedestal. Unhesitatingly, he leapt from the pedestal and landed on the floor, his knees bent to take up the shock.

His exultation in his feat was cut short as with a mighty crash, the gate was smashed open a few paces behind him and the guards came pouring out. Fleet as a mountain stag, Conan sped for the great door of the temple, hoping that they had not thought to bring any of the crossbowmen to the front as they stormed out of the interior.

Once away, he had little fear of being overtaken. He had never lost a footrace, and surely the underground world produced few trained runners. He sprinted toward the door in long-legged strides, and he heard crossbows snapping behind him, but the bolts flew wide and struck the walls or glanced off the floor. The doorway beckoned like a promise of relief, for sunlight streamed through it and he knew that the mob behind him abhorred sunlight the way other people detested pestilence.

He fairly flew through the door and into the wide plaza beyond. He laughed with triumph as he did so, but the laughter died in his throat as he saw what lay before him. Achilea and her three remaining followers, who should have been mounted on their camels and riding away from the city by now, stood with heads downcast and faces dejected. Behind them were ranged about a score of men, some of them desert dwellers, others foreign warriors. Before these, next to Achilea, stood two men Conan recognized “I take it that you are Conan of Cimmeria?” said the tall, lean man who wore a purple turban. “I believe you know my friend, Vladig.” He gestured toward the man who stood beside him in red boots.

Vladig saluted him with a sardonic smile.

“I am Arsaces, a mage of Qum, in Iranistan. It is good that you and I meet at last, for we have much to talk about.” His hands were moving idly before his body, and Conan saw that he was pouring from one to the other a heap of glistening violet crystals.

Fourteen

A man in a padded silken jacket lined with tiny steel plates cook Conan’s sword and dirk. The Cimmerian, in the midst of his consternation, made a mental note of the man’s face, his accoutrements and the color of his armored jacket. He wanted to make sure to go for the right man when the time came to recover his weapons.

“Are you unharmed?” he asked Achilea, ignoring me wizard.

“You see us,” she said. “We are well, if not at liberty. Conan, did you truly shut that gate behind us?”

“Aye,” he admitted. “I wanted you to have a good head start. I thought you’d be away from the city by now.”

“As you can see,” she replied, “you need not have bothered.” Despite the chagrin in her voice, he saw a new glow in her eyes as she regarded him. “I would have forbidden you to do it, had I known.”

He smiled crookedly. “That is why I said nothing. I was in no mood for an argument.”

“My heroic friends,” Arsaces said quietly, “allow me to speak discourteously. You have had much time to converse together and can well afford to hold your tongues for a while. I, on the other hand, have business of vast importance in this place. You will come with me.” He signed to his retinue and the four were hustled away, in a manner that Conan thought was becoming distressingly habitual. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a crowd of masked forms standing within the partly opened temple door. He thought he recognized Abbadas among them. He knew that they would come out at nightfall, but he saw no reason to apprise his latest captors of the fact.

“Where is Amram?” he muttered through the side of his mouth.

Achilea shrugged. “I did not see him after we left the temple. He is still in there, for aught I know.”

Conan shook his head in wonderment. The man was as slippery as a greased eel.

Achilea looked up, “A few days ago, I’d not have believed dial I would rejoice to see the sun again.

The prospect of a life underground cured that. Even captive, it is like bairn to me.”

“Quiet there!” Vladig said sternly.

“Be respectful of your betters, dog!” Achilea said with withering scorn. “Were you fit to kiss my feet, I would spit upon you.”

Vladig snarled and snatched at his hilt, but Arsaces spoke a single word, very quietly: “Vladig.”

Instantly the man calmed and turned his face from me prisoners. Conan and all four women chuckled at the man’s discomfiture. It was small enough recompense for days of unremitting humiliation.

As they made their way through the mazelike city, Conan began to take note of the buildings around them and he noticed dial something had changed. He nudged Achilea and jerked his chin upward, indicating the higher reaches of the buildings. These captors had not bound their hands, but he wanted to avoid obvious gestures. She looked upward and saw what he had seen.

When they had first come through the unthinkably ancient city, it had appeared as pristine as if it had never known occupants, Omia had told him that nocturnal maintenance crews had kept it that way since the inhabitants had abandoned it for their underground world. Now something had changed, The star, crescent and sunburst terminals atop many of the domes were gone, and the domes themselves had been damaged. Some had been partly smashed, as by sledgehammers, but others appeared to have been somehow melted. Their tops were gone, and stone, glass, ceramic and gilded bronze had been in some manner liquefied and had run down to congeal in glistening masses like hardened lava.

The desecration showed every sign of deliberation, as if someone were starting at the top and disassembling the city stone by stone, brick by brick, tile by tile. Demolition by hammer and crowbar he understood, but something that could melt the most unyielding of substances suggested things the Cimmerian preferred not to think about.

Payna nudged him and her queen as they passed an alley. Within it were bodies and shredded parts of bodies. The most complete specimens were clothed and masked like the inhabitants of the underground city. Some might have been slaves, but most were too mutilated to recognize. Conan has reminded of the massacred tribe whose remains they had found in the desert. An appalling charnel stench drifted from the alley and in any ordinary city, the air would have been vibrating with swarms of flies.

This, Conan surmised, had been the previous night’s maintenance crew, whose age-old task had conflicted with that of the demolishes.

They reached the city wall and found the great gate fully open. They passed through the found beyond it a camp set up near the water-trough, complete with tents. Many camels grazed upon the grass, and Conan could not tell which, if any, of them had been the mounts he, the women, the dwarf and the Hyrkanians had ridden into the desert. Nowhere did he see the tall, two-humped camels ridden by the twins.

They were conducted to the largest tent. In the desert fashion, three of its sides were raised, leaving only the canopy for shade and its back lowered to face the prevailing wind. Except. Conan reflected, that there was no wind in this uncanny place. Then, with a shock, be felt a faint breeze. He looked up and saw that the perfect bowl in which the city lay was no longer quite perfect. The lip of the crater showed dips and notches. Even as he watched, an errant gust blew sand over the rim and onto the interior slope.

“Be seated,” said Arsaces, crossing his ankles and lowering himself onto a cushion. To the guards, he said, “Wait you a little way off. I wish private converse with these people.”

“My lord―” Vladig began, but Arsaces cut him off.

“I shall be safe,” said the wizard, his voice and his gaze so firm that the words could not be doubted.

Vladig bowed, signaled to the others and walked off with ill grace.

Conan and Achilea sat facing Arsaces, separated from him by me distance of a pace. Achilea’s women sat just behind her. Automatically, as if by long habit, Payna began to massage her queen’s neck and shoulders.

“You people have caused me some little consternation,” Arsaces began. “I came hither expecting a conflict of wizards and higher powers. I knew that there would be a retinue of guards, but I expected scum like those I myself hired.” He nodded toward the rabble of desert men and warriors who sat some way off. Already the desert nomads had a fire of hoarded brush burning. They were brewing their inevitable-herb tea. Arsaces looked back at his involuntary guests. “I was not expecting a barbarian hero and an Amazon warrior-queen.”

“Life is full of imponderables,” said Achilea, as regal as if she were seated upon a throne surrounded
by perfumed courtiers.

The mage smiled grudgingly. “And who should know that better than a wizard? Even so, you may have been of service to me, albeit unknowingly.”

“You called the sandstorm upon us!” Conan said, “And I’ve no doubt it was you who set the whirlwind-demons upon me!”

Arsaces regarded him blandly. “And wherefore not? You were spying upon my encampment. I do not take lightly such impertinences from the lower orders.”

“My queen is not to be referred to thus!” said Payna, as proud as a duchess despite her ragged condition.

“Your queen is my prisoner. Be silent, woman.”

Achilea patted Payna’s hand. “Yes, my pet, be still. This fellow wants something from us and we must endure his lordly posturing until he informs us what it is.”

The wizard’s face reddened. Then he calmed himself with an effort. “For a start, I would know what transpired below.”

“We’ve been running and fighting and climbing for what seems like hours,” Conan said. “How about some food and drink before we get down to business? A real man of the desert would have offered refreshment even to prisoners beneath his tent.”

“You are insolent beyond belief!” Arsaces snapped. “But then, I suppose that is to be expected from a barbarian!”

“Expect it from people of the north,” Conan said. “We are not toadies and lickspittles like your followers out there.” He jerked his touseled black mane toward the little group without.

Arsaces clapped his hands and shouted. Men came in and set before them food and drink: preserved travel rations and watered wine. When they had eaten, they sat back on their heels, ready to bargain.

“What would you know?” Conan asked. “You saw the fight with the crocodile, did you not? We saw your little crystal man down there. Is he not your eyes and ears?”

Arsaces smiled again. “You are less stupid than you appear, Cimmerian, Eyes only―alas. These crystals vibrate only in the plane of vision, not in that of hearing. Yes, I saw the battle, and it was most impressive. That was when I knew that the two of you were not persons of the common sort and that your presence here may not be entirely coincidental. So let us begin with how you came to be employed by my Adversary.”

“You mean the twins?” Achilea asked.

“I mean my Adversary,” he repeated firmly. “Tell me.”

Thus Achilea told of bow they had all met in the wretched outlaw village of Leng in the mountains of faraway Brythunia, and of how in their desperation they had agreed to accompany the mysterious twins on their madman’s mission into the desert, and of how the twins had manifested uncanny powers in their travels through the lands in between.

Conan took up the tale and he spoke of the strange sights he had seen in the ruined temple in Zamora. Achilea looked at him sharply as he described the actions of the twins, and the majestic, white-bearded man upon the temple altar, and the utter silence that had enveloped all within the temple walls.

“You did not speak to me of this before,” Achilea said accusingly.

“Sometimes it is wise to maintain silence,” Conan said.

“Do not seek to hold secrets from me,” warned the mage, “for I will unfailingly detect prevarication.

Continue.”

Conan spoke of their trek into the desert lands, the fight with the bandits and the discovery of the massacred tribe. “Were the bandits your hirelings?” Conan demanded.

The mage nodded. “Aye. It was a probing assault, intended to test your mettle and that of my

Adversary. You see, I have for long followed him from a great distance. Never before had I seen him or had the opportunity to contest powers with him.”

“You keep speaking as if there were only one of them, not two,” Achilea protested.

“All shall be made plain in time,” he said. “That is, if I think you are worth the effort of explanation.”

Seething, Conan told of the last stages of the journey, of his fight with the whirlwind-demons in the sandstorm, and of the terrible trek afoot in the desert that had almost been the death of Achilea.

Throughout, the mage listened without comment or change of expression, his eyebrow quirking only when the Cimmerian described Arnram and the little chameleon’s story. Conan almost thought he detected a smile upon the wizard’s lips at this point in the tale; then it vanished.

Achilea resumed and told of their scaling of the gate and exploration of the city, hurrying through this part for she knew that it was not a matter of great importance. When she described their capture in the great temple, the wizard placed his palms upon his knees and leaned forward, listening intently. On the carpet before him, the little heap of violet crystal pulsed softly with its lifelike inner light When they reached the point of Conan’s interview with Omia, the Cimmerian resumed the recitation. He repeated Omia’s tale of the history of Janagar, relaying her word for word, and the wizard nodded as it’ what he heard was that which he expected.

Achilea finished with me story of their escape, telling of how Amram had released them and accompanied them as far as the temple, where they lost him. “The rest,” she finished, ”I take it you know already.”

“All but one thing.” He turned to Conan. “Did Abbadas truly slay Omia? My homunculus was so high up in the idol that I could not see clearly, and I have told you that it cannot relay sounds.”

“He did,” Conan affirmed. “Slit her throat as if it were a caress.”

“Good riddance,” said Achilea, her words echoed by a chorus of agreement from her women.

“You’d not say that if you’d seen it,” Conan told her. “Abbadas is not truly human. But then, none of them are.

Now, Arsaces,” he bent his sulfurous, blue-eyed gaze upon the wizard, “we have spoken true words to you, and we’ve done naught to threaten you. Will you in turn explain some things to us?”

“Very well. Know, then, that the tale of Janagar related to you by the late Queen Omia is true, at least insofar as she knew the tale. The epic of each nation is told as if that were the sole nation in all the world. But always there are others. So it was with Janagar. The empire of Janagar was great, but it contained city-states of a luster little dimmer than that of the queen city, and in the ages of misrule by the late priest-kings of Janagar, these cities grew restive, and they were fearful of the course taken by the overweening wizards. One of these was the city-state of Pulawar, which lay near what is now the northern border of Zamora.”

“Where I saw the temple,” Conan said.

Arsaces nodded. “That roofless hulk and its shattered tower are all that remain of magnificent Pulawar, which in its day rivaled Janagar herself in splendor, the most powerful of the mages of Pulawar formed the Guild of Murghal, named for the Powers they conversed with on the plane of such beings.”

“Then others trafficked with these Powers?” Conan asked.

“Aye, they did, although unlike the mages of Janagar, they accomplished this without polluting themselves with nonhuman blood. The elder you saw in the temple was the last Master of the Guild. That is, you saw his specter, for he has been dead for eons.”

The gaze of the mage’s eyes grew fixed, as if he were in a trance. “Countless years have passed since the wizards of Janagar sought to save themselves with the Great Spell of Unchanging. The rival Guild of Pulawar sought to shut all the doors to the higher planes and then attempted the same spell, but they were not as accomplished in earthly magicks and Pulawar crumbled to the pathetic remnant you beheld. When they knew that they could not last, they set in place numerous safeguards. These were spells and writings that would appear,. at least in fragmentary form, if the folly of Janagar should ever again threaten the world.”

“Abbadas!” Conan said. “He spoke of rejoining the real world when he slew Omia.”

“Once again your wit belies your appearance,” said Arsaces. “He is the last descendant of the royal line of Janagar, and in him have been reborn the vaunting, blasphemous ambitions of the ancient wizards of that accursed nation. Years ago, he began to ponder the likelihood of restoring its fortunes, and from that moment, the ancient safeguards began appearing. Scholars discovered them, but so fragmentary were they that it took years and many consultations to piece together the story and decide what must be done about it A few lone-wolf wizards of this decadent age sought to discover the city for themselves in hope of reaping its arcane riches, but most of mem perished in the attempt”

“And the twins discovered some of these safeguard documents?” Achilea asked.

He shook his head. “No. They are one of the safeguards!”

“That is nonsense!” she protested.

“Is it?” queried me wizard. “You yourself noted their uncanny behavior―how they spoke as one person, bow they never seemed to eat or drink.”

“Aye.” Conan said, “but how could―”

“Think!” snapped Arsaces. “Your own camels are out there with the herd. Did you see their strange beasts among them?”

“I did not,” Conan admitted.

“That is because they were not camels, any more than your twins were human beings, hi fact, what you accompanied hither was a single being that took the form of four a man, a woman and two camels.”

“It is not possible!” Achilea cried.

“And wherefore not?” the mage demanded. “What know you of beings from worlds beyond? When the safeguards reappeared, the creature was drawn from its proper plane to this. Its bulk is great, and there are reasons you would not understand why there must always be a balance between mass and energy. It could not reduce its size, but it has the power to subdivide itself, within limits. For purposes of credibility, it settled upon two humans and two beasts. We are accustomed to twins being closer to one another than other persons are. The twins and the camels made more sense than ten humans all acting exactly alike, do you not agree? Even then, it was not capable of wholly human behavior.” His hearers
were by now beyond astonishment “You call it your Adversary,” Conan said. “Why?”

“It is here to destroy Janagar,” he answered.

“And so, it seems, are you,” the Cimmerian countered. “Why are you not allies instead?”

“Because we seek to destroy the city for differing reasons. It wishes to throw open the last gate and admit the Powers to our world. I seek to shut it forever. You see, none of the wizards of ancient days, not those of Janagar or those of Pulawar, understood the nature of the Powers. They have been the subject of ages of study by the highest scholars of the thaumaturgic arts in the time since, and all now know that they are not to be trifled with, they cannot be dealt with in any fashion possible to humans, nor even to half-humans such as those ancient wizards of Janagar.

“The thaumaturges of Pulawar called their Power ‘Murghal’―although actually the Powers have no names in the human sense―and they thought it to be beneficent. They were wrong. They had merely not yet attracted from it something they would recognize as hostility. But in truth, the Powers are hostile to all things, including each other. They fight and devour one another continually, hi their last contact with Murghal, the Guild obtained from it the creature you knew as the twins. It arrived in this world ignorant and unaware of how to locate the well-hidden city of Janagar. It had to search, like the rest of us.”

“Why did a creature like that need guards?” Achilea asked.

“In this world, it is vulnerable. It needs much of its strength just to maintain its spurious appearance.

Also, it strove for a realistic appearance, and scholarly, well-born folk would never travel in the wild lands without an escort.”

“The whirlwind-demons seem to be at your command,” said Conan, <4 yet they also seem to figure in the ancient tale of Janagar, How is this?”

“They, like my Adversary, are another of the safeguards. They have lain buried deep beneath the sands of the deserts since the fall of Janagar, but a few times since, one or two have been accidentally called to the surface to ravage and destroy, thus the legends among the desert nomads. The demons stirred when the other safeguards were activated, and have grown active in recent months. They are unintelligent and undiscriminating without guidance, hence that massacred tribe you came upon. There have probably been others.

“Incidentally,” he said with a look of frosty approval, “it is a great feat to kill one. For a lone man to fight two in the dark and to slay one and severely would the other … that is the work of a true hero. One of the safeguard fragments contained their leash-spell, and I control them now. They can do more than kill. Their claws can tear apart stone, and the acid fluids of their bodies are capable of dissolving not only stone, but metal and glass as well. My scum out there,” he gestured contemptuously toward his escort, “are good for killing, but they abhor hard work. The whirlwind-demons can function only in the dark, so they rend the city to pieces at night.”

“How long will they need to complete the work?” Conan asked.

“Not long. It will not be necessary to demolish the city utterly, just enough to break the Spell of Unchanging. Already it is seriously weakened.”

“A moment,” Achilea said. “When we found Amram, or rather, when he found us, he spoke of a wizard named Firagi whom he had led hither. Was this just another of his lies?”

Again they saw that hint of amusement. “Nothing he says is an utter lie, and he is never to be believed utterly. The man you know as Amram is the wizard Firagi.”

“Crom!” Conan said in exasperation. “Is nothing here ever as it seems? I had rated myself a good judge of men, and I would have sworn that he was a runaway slave, an unhung rogue, from Koth!”

“He is that indeed, and many other things. You recall that I spoke of lone-wolf wizards who sought Janagar on their own? Firagi was one of them. In his checkered career, he was once the salve of a Stygian wizard, and from him he learned some of the thaumaturgic arts. He has a nimble mind a a knack for taking on roles. For many years, be has been a gadfly wizard, almost an outlaw among us, save that we have no laws. He is tolerated among the fraternity because he is amusing and sometimes he is useful.

A genuine rogue can oft discern possibilities where a traditional mage is stymied.

“At any rate, Firagi-Amram found one of the very first fragments to appear an engraved vessel dredged up in the net of some lake-fisherman in Keshan five years ago. He bought it, hid and deciphered it, and it turned out to contain one of the best descriptions of Janagar and its location, By the time it came into the hands of the fraternity and was pooled with the other information we had, he was well on his way.”

“Why did be not keep or destroy it?” Achilea asked.

“That be could not do. These fragments are swathed in the most powerful spells. He could not bear its proximity for long, and he abandoned the thing in the wilderness once be had plumbed its secrets. In the fashion of such objects, it was found within days and soon rested in the hands of the fraternity.”

“What is this fraternity?” Conan asked.

“There is a sort of loose brotherhood among the masters of the thaumaturgic arts. We usually toil alone and often we are at odds, but in matters of very great peril, we cooperate and pool our knowledge.

This we call the fraternity, and many of us have been at work on this problem since the safeguards were activated. Almost all that is known about Janagar is the product of our researches since that time, I was chosen to represent the brotherhood all during the final stage of the Sealing of Janagar, not because I am the greatest, far from it, but because I am unknown in the lands roundabout.

“Now I arrive to find that not only has my Adversary preceded me, but Firagi has been here for a long time. In his customary fashion, he turned his situation to good account. He was captured and soon won himself a place as counselor to Omia and Abbadas. He probably instructed them on the nature of the world outside the desert. Doubtless this further inflamed the ambitions of Abbadas. By my arts, I can also detect that they used him for the same purpose they had intended for you.”

“Crom!” Conan said. “They must have been desperate for breeding stock!”

“Why did he guide the twins―your Adversary―to the city?” Achilea asked.

“He may have had little choice. He was never much of a wizard, as I have intimated. He was probably sent out by Queen Omia to lure wayfarers into the city. They must have had their ways of knowing when any such were nigh. He could not have known what the Adversary was, although he surely would have understood that he did not conduct a pair of ordinary twins and their camels. And, as always, he was playing some game of his own. It is probably as crackbrained as all his doings.”

“And you’ve no idea where your Adversary is?” Conan asked.

“None. Two years ago, I would have known where to look for it, but it has learned much of the arts and is now adept at concealing itself. When you see it again, I doubt that it will look like your twins. Or their camels, for that matter.”

“What!” Conan barked. “Why should we ever lay eyes upon it again? I, for one, intend to go and mount my camel and ride away from here. I am heartily sick of this place and all its doings, and am willing to take my chances with the desert!”

“You forget that you are unarmed in the midst of my men,” Arsaces snapped. Conan bristled, but Achilea put a hand on his arm.

“I think we are about to hear what he wants of us,” she said.

“What is it?” Conan demanded sullenly.

“Surely you have guessed by now,” Arsaces said. “I want you to go back into the underground city.”

Fifteen

The desert sun lowered, touched the western horizon and began to disappear beneath it. Conan stood upon the rim of the great sand bowl, his eyes taking in its slow demise. The once-perfect contours of the basin had grown ragged as wind and gravity caused sand to sink from the rim into the depression.

Soon it would be night and time for the whirlwind-demons to resume their work. He knew thai on this night, the proceedings would be different, and undoubtedly a good deal livelier. Below him, he saw Achilea climbing up the face of the bowl-dune with her usual limber, long-legged strides. Soon she stood beside him. Half the globe of the sun was below the horizon.

“It will be time ere long,” she said, the red blaze from the west illuminating her richly, her long, tawny hair streaming in the evening wind. “If this is the last sunset I am to see, at least it is a fair one.”

“I do not like this,” Conan said. “I care nothing for these wizards and their doings. They have our weapons, but I’ve been without a sword ere now. I am willing to chance the desert. What say you? Just you and I?”

She smiled wanly and shook her head. “Nay, I remember last time too well. I’ll not venture out again upon those sands without good robes and a mount, even if it must be a smelly camel. And I could never desert my followers, few as they are.”

“I suppose that is wisest Well, we’ve come out of that city alive once. Perhaps we can do it again.”

As always, he detested not being his own master.

“Conan,” she said, “have you not wondered how I came to Jose my throne?”

This was something unexpected. “Aye, that I have.”

“You have heard the tales of how my nation propagates itself? How we take captive men and keep them only long enough to breed children with us?”

“I have heard this,” he admitted.

“It is true. Not long after I was made queen, we had such a ceremony. I chose carefully from among our captives. He was an Aesir youth, a wandering adventurer like you, but with sun-colored hair and a laughing mouth and merry eyes, unlike your sour Cimmerian visage.” She smiled at his look of consternation. “We were together for the stipulated month, and in that time, I conceived a love for him that surpassed anything I had ever felt before.”

“That was unfortunate,” Conan said, “since you had to slay him at the end of it.”

“That was my first sin,” she told him. “His name was Aethelwulf, and I could not bear the thought that he would be no more. So before the crone could cut his throat upon the great stone of sacrifice, I stole into the prison cave, knocked his guard unconscious and cut his bonds. I never saw him again and I was not seen doing it, but suspicion fell upon me anyway. It was my sister, Briseis, who began the rumors. They haunted me for months. It was said that Achilea was too tenderhearted to be queen, that she had defied the gods of our people.”

Conan loosed an honest laugh. ‘1 think that only your tribe or a barbarian like me could ever consider you tenderhearted!”

“Whatever the case, it was just the beginning. In time, I was brought to the birthing-chair to deliver my child.”

Conan thought he knew what was coming, but he said nothing. Now only a sliver of the sun remained above the horizon.

“The child was male. The time of year was a bad one; there would be no passing caravan to take it and the other males off our hands, so it was sent to the House of the Crones to be slain after the ancient custom. I could not stand the thought. I rose from the birth ing-chair and fought my way through the midwives and snatched up my sword. Somehow I found the strength to stagger to the House of the Crones and there I found the eldest sister with her blade poised above the babe’s throat. I hewed her gray head from her shoulders. Then I slew the other crones and I took up the babe.

“Outside, I ran to my horse. All the others stood out of my way, for I was a sight to horrify a dragon! I rode to the crest of a hill near the village, and below me, I saw my sister rousing the others to pursue, flogging laggards with her whip. I raised the child above my head and screamed defiance at her.

Then I rode away,

“For months, I lived alone as an animal, nursing my child and living by my skills as a hunter. Then my sisters of my wilderness year found me. They were sick of Briseis and would rather follow me as outlaws. There were a score of them then. Lombi, Payna and Ekun are all that survive. So now you know. Even Jeyba, who was closer to me than any other man since Aethelwulf, never knew the whole story.”

“What became of the bairn?” Conan asked.

“It was not a life an infant could survive,” she said. “I gave him to a family of hunters in the mountains and visited him from time to time over the years, I named him Wulf for his father, since we have no male names among my people. He is about twelve years old now, if he lives. Time to begin his warrior training.”

Conan was silent for a minute. Then: “Achilea, you are the greatest woman I have ever known. Not just great in size and strength and courage, but in heart. You are the only true queen I have ever known, and ere now, I have known women who sat upon thrones. Had I been Aethelwulf, I would have fought your whole nation to keep you.”

She smiled, leaned forward, and their lips met. He crushed her to him, and her own arms, scarcely less powerful than his, returned the embrace. If tigers kissed, it would have been like the kiss of the Amazon and the Cimmerian. Then they broke apart.

“Come,” she said. “Let us get our weapons and go die together.” She sounded truly happy. The last sliver of sun disappeared beneath the horizon.

They entered the city with their swords bare in their hands. Conan and Achilea were in the lead, with the three wild women close behind. Well behind them followed me men of Arsaces, nervous but ready with sword, bow and crossbow. Last of all came Arsaces himself, with his crystalline homunculus perched upon his shoulder like a pet bird.

“A slow and cautious man, our Arsaces,” Conan said with a wolfish scowl.

“It is doubtless the best course when dealing with the foes he faces,” Achilea said, “Give me clean bloodshed and bare steel any time.”

“Aye, I― What is that?” There was a rustling, flapping noise all around them. The Cimmerian halted.

“It is just the whirlwind-demons beginning their night’s work,” Arsaces shouted from behind them.

“Pay them no mind and proceed.”

Proceed they did, but as for ignoring the demons, that was impossible. There came sounds of stone being rent and broken, glass being shattered, and an indescribable hissing noise. Dominating all was a choking stench of acid that soon had them coughing as a yellow fog came rolling down the walls of the high buildings, behaving more like a thin liquid than proper smoke. It formed an ankle-high layer upon the street, and the skin of their feet began to sting and burn.

“Crom, let’s get out of this!” Conan said, sprinting for the nearest stairway. Achilea and her women ran like fallow deer and the warriors shuffled along behind, lumbered by their armor and desert robes.

The wizard strode along in a dignified manner, ignoring all discomfort.

In the higher elevations of the city, the air was still clear. Soon they were at the great plaza before the temple. The temple door stood open and they could see lights flickering within.

“We’ll have company soon,” Conan said. “Are you ready?”

“I am always ready,” Achilea said, her long fingers flexing on the rough grip of her sword. Behind them, the hired warriors waited, and atop the buildings that fringed the plaza, other creatures gathered.

“I hate the idea of fighting on the same side as those things,” the Cimmerian muttered.

“When you are gravely outnumbered,” Achilea pointed out, “you cannot be picky about your allies.”

“Let’s go,” Conan said. The time for hesitation was past. For good or ill, it was time to commence the night’s work. They had gone no more than a dozen paces when warriors came boiling from within the temple. The shouted and gave voice to hideous, ululating war cries, and the air began to hum with crossbow bolts, few of which found targets in the uncertain light. Many of the underground warriors waved torches and these produced a multitude of shifting shadows, further confusing the sight.

The first warriors to reach the Cimmerian and the Amazon queen went down amid screams and blood. The hired warriors spread out and made their weapons felt. The underground folk were smaller and at a disadvantage in a hand-to-hand encounter, but their numbers were overwhelming. Two of Arsaces’s warriors went down screaming and another fell soundlessly, a bolt protruding from an eye socket. Then the whirlwind-demons joined the fray.

Conan had fought his way within twenty paces of the temple door when they were surrounded by reeking, flapping, shadowy forms. The Cimmerian could not discern clearly what they looked like, and he was not certain that he wanted to. Within moments, he was being showered by bloody offal that had been shredded by no weapon of steel. The masked warriors fell back in panic-stricken horror and Conan and his companions hewed at their bare backs. This was a desperate fight against overwhelming odds, and there was no place for the niceties of chivalry.

Inside the temple, vapor torches burned in sconces, and huge flames leapt from the upturned hands of the bronze goddess. Standing before the gate to the underworld, Conan saw Abbadas, shouting and haranguing his warriors. His voice betrayed growing fear and panic.

“No! Get back our there, you worms! They are destroying the city and it is not time yet! The Great Spell of Unchanging must be maintained for a while longer!” His words went unheard, for the invading warriors and the whirlwind-demons were already within the temple.

But now the tide of the fight began to shift and resistance stiffened, for the demons could not abide the light of the torches and must perforce lurk within the shadows, snatching at masked guards as they chanced too close. Even so, the panic spread by their presence and, most of all, by their acid stench, prevented any genuine rallying on the part of the underground people. Some tried to run past Abbadas for whatever refuge the lower city had to offer, but he cut down many with his sword and flogged the others back into the fray with a short, thick whip.

“Back, cowards!” he cried. “We are safe as long as the fires burn high!” Under his repeated shriekings and scourg-ings, the masked warriors formed a thick cordon beneath the feet of the gigantic
idol, thus blocking the door. Conan, Achilea and the few remaining hired warriors carved at the line, inflicting casualties, but there were always oncoming warriors to take the places of the fallen. The battle seemed about to reach a stalemate when a new and horrifying factor entered.

The Adversary dropped from its lurking place at the top of the dome.

Screams of surprise and terror greeted its arrival and for a few paralyzed seconds, the Cimmerian gaped at the thing that he had known as the twins Yolanthe and Monandas and their two unusual camels.

Now it had reverted to the shape natural to it in its own plane. He judged it to mass at least a ton. It was roughly circular, covered with coarse, bristling hair and fringed at its base with short tentacles that glowed crimson and green. It had six long, jointed arms tipped with hooked pincers. Most frightening of all were its eyes. Glaring and slit-pupiled, the three orbs atop the blasphemous form glowed with a hideous intelligence that made the mindless whirlwind-demons seem innocuous by contrast.

For long, tense seconds, the mass of struggling humans stood still and silent, stunned with horror at this new apparition. The tension was shattered when the six long, hairy arms shot out with unnatural swiftness and snatched up six squirming, writhing humans. The pincers pulped diem, and six vertical orifices, lined with curved, thornlike teeth, gaped open upon the body between the arms. The pincers thrust the shredded bodies into the mouths. The orifices closed and the Adversary began, hideously, to grow,

The voice of Arsaces rose, thundering above the din of the resumed battle, and violet light began to flash around him.

Suddenly, the underground city seemed to Conan to be a good place to visit. With near-maniacal fury, he began to hew at the line before him, his sword a glittering whirlwind that made even lionhearted Achilea stand back in awe of his savagery. Then he was distracted by a blood-chilling scream.

“My queen!”

Conan whirled, and a wave of horror rushed over him. One of the pincers had grasped Ekun and begun to raise her from the floor. Even in the din of battle and panic, he distinctly beard the thick bones of her pelvis snap in the merciless grip.

Without the slightest hesitation, Achilea spun on a bare heel and thrust her sword unerringly through the suffering woman’s heart. “Die clean, my sister!” Her reward was a look of unutterable gratitude that quickly faded. Ekun was dead before her queen’s steel left her heart. With two fingers of her left hand, Achilea wiped the woman’s blood from the tip of her blade and drew a red line from her hairline to her lips. Payna and Lombi reached out to touch the blade and performed the same gesture, The monstrous thing lurched higher, newly fed upon human flesh. Then it was enveloped in a violet net as Arsaces flung his handful of crystals over it. The stones darted about like glittering wasps, trailing glowing strands of light The stumpy tentacles flashed multiple colors, some of them painful for human eyes to behold, as the creature left off devouring human prey to fight its wizardly enemy.

Conan wanted to see no more. He returned to the fray with redoubled fury. In moments, he and Achilea had carved a path through the resisting warriors and were within the idol. Payna and Lombi were close behind. The hired warriors were all dead or had fled, they knew not which. With a last few killing blows, the way to the spiral ramp was open. They ran for it, every stride putting more distance between themselves and the horrors behind.

“Abbadas!” Conan shouted as they ran down the spiral. “Where are you? Come meet me, dog! See if I die as easily as your murdered queen!” Nothing answered him save his own echo.

Minutes later, they were in the underground warren off the main corridor. With his unerring memory, the Cimmerian guided them through the pathways they had taken in their escape from the city.

They passed many inhabitants, but these drew aside with fear. All the warriors were above, either fighting or dead.

“Which way?” Achilea cried as they came to a fork in the passages.

“Here!” Conan said, taking the one that led to the right From before them came creaking, groaning and hissing sounds. A hundred long strides later, they passed through a doorway and into the
vapor-works. First Conan darted within, closely followed by Achilea. Payna was after her queen, and last was Lombi. At Lombi’s sudden gasp, they runted to see her standing with a stunned expression, looking down at the foot of bloody steel that had suddenly appeared from between her breasts. The blade withdrew and the light in her eyes faded. Stiff-legged, she toppled like a falling tree. Behind her stood Abbadas, holding a stained sword.

The usurper’s mask was off for a change, revealing a hard-planed face whose contours were not quite human. Upon it sat a took of sensual satisfaction as be dabbled his fingers in the blood coating his blade. He raised his wet fingertips to his tongue and licked them, managing to smile at the surviving three while he did so.

“Dog-spawn!” Conan snarled, making for him. He wag stopped by a gesture from Achilea.

“Mine,” was all she said, but she put so much queenly authority into her voice that the berserk Cimmerian and the furious warrior-woman Payna were stopped in their tracks. With leonine tread, Achilea walked toward Abbadas, and as she did, she idly tossed her bloody sword back over her shoulder. It spun end over end and Payna caught it on the fly, as if by long practice.

“Good steel is wasted on the likes of you, you loathsome little wretch!” she said with withering contempt.

Abbadas giggled insanely. “Die however you want, big woman!” He came for her, putting all his strength into an overhand slash intended to open her from shoulder to hip.

Achilea’s big-knuckled left hand took him by the wrist and stopped the whistling blade cold. The reptilian eyes bulged with amazement, but he had little leisure in which to appreciate her strength as her right forearm swept across the bend of his elbow and her right hand grasped her own forearm as her long right leg swept around behind his body.

With all the power of her arms, shoulders and back, Achilea bent forward, using the usurper’s own forearm as a lever and his elbow as a fulcrum. Had he been able to fall to the floor swiftly enough, he might have bought himself a second’s respite in which to take action, but her steely thigh was behind him, preventing just that. With a sickening series of sounds, the bones of his forearm gave way, his elbow was wrenched apart, his upper arm was torn from his socket as its bone snapped in the middle.

Abbadas screamed and as he did, his left hand snatched his dagger from its sheath at his belt. The deadly steel lanced toward her flank, but her right hand, released from its task, snapped down and took his wrist with an audible smack just as the keen point indented the flesh above her right hip.

His useless right arm flopped to his side as her left hand went around his neck, and with a surge of brute strength, she lifted him from the floor, bringing his face within inches for her own. She smiled at him ferociously as she squeezed. His eyes bulged yet farther and began to turn red as blood sprang first from his ears, then from his nostrils and mouth. The dagger fell from his nerveless fingers and there were several very faint, popping noises. She dropped the corpse to the floor at her feet, where, like a beheaded snake, it quivered and flopped for a while as foamy blood bubbled from its mouth, propelled by the last wind from its dying lungs.

Conan whistled in appreciation at the feat. “Crom, woman! Remind me never to get on your bad side!”

She ignored the comment and walked to the body of Lombi. There she knelt and placed her fingers in the corpse’s blood and then drew another line beside the first on her face. Payna repeated the ritual.

Conan cut a scrap of cloth from the clothing of the dead Abbadas and wiped his blade, then resheathed it. Looking around him, he saw that all the workmen and slaves had fled the vapor-works save the hulking, tiny-headed slaves, who stood about with their mouths open, lacking anyone to tell them what to do.

He found the great master wheel, its six slaves standing slack in their chains. “Turn this thing!” be ordered. They stared at him, no slightest glimmer of comprehension in their eyes.

“Crom and Llyr and all their brood!” be swore, laying his own hands to the wheel and wrenching at it. Achilea and Payna joined him and added their efforts. All their strength would not budge it.

“May I be of assistance?”

Conan turned to see Amram standing near, his hands clasped behind him and an expression of studious innocence upon his face. “I was wondering when you would show up,” he said.

“May I inquire why you do this?” asked Amram.

“We have been so instructed by a wizard named Arsaces, who even now battles something above that he calls the Adversary,” Conan replied, jabbing a thick finger upward.

“Arsaces!” the small man said, wincing. “That is one I would rather not meet just now.”

“You need not,” Conan said. “Just get these slaves to shut off the vapor to the city.”

“Very well.” The little man spoke a few odd-sounding words and the slaves put their malformed hands to the spokes and began to push. Clearly, the wheel was seldom turned, for it squealed in protest as it began to move. The slaves plodded like sailors hauling up an anchor with a ship’s capstan, and slowly the constant hissing of the vapor-works began to subside. In a few minutes, it ceased entirely.

“Good,” Conan announced. “Now tell them to break it”

“I beg your pardon?” Amram said politely.

“Tell them to break the wheel, Set curse you!” barked the Cimmerian. “I want this machine disabled!”

“You needn’t shout,” sniffed the little man. “Clear instructions will suffice,” He spoke further words in the same language as before. Stolidly, the slaves shuffled to one side of the wheel, as far as their chains would allow, and they put their shoulders beneath it and strained upward with their massive legs and backs. With a screech of tortured metal, the great wheel began to tilt. Then it snapped from its shaft and clanged to the stone floor.

“Will that be satisfactory?” Amram inquired.

“It is what Arsaces wanted,” Conan told him. “Now the whirlwind-demons can come down here and destroy the underground city.”

Amram closed his eyes and seemed to be having trouble swallowing some large object. “The whirlwind-demons, you say?” he said at last, his voice trembling. “We cannot stay here!”

“And it is a cursed certainty we cannot go back up!” Conan said. “Not to the horror we left above in the temple!”

“And I am heartily sick of the desert!” Achilea said, towering over the chameleon wizard. “So, Amram, or Firagi, or whatever you name is, guide us to me river!”

“Yes,” he said, one hand kneading the other. “Yes, I think that would be the best idea all around.

But to destroy this marvelous ancient city, with all its riches, all its secrets! What ‘a loss!”

“It should have died ages ago,” said Conan, “Forget about it and lead on.”

“Follow me, then,” Amram said. They trailed after him and as they hurried through the dimmed city, he wailed his woeful displeasure. “Five years I have worked toward this! It was to have made me rich beyond the wildest imaginings of a miser. The lore of Janagar would have catapulted me to the highest order of mages!”

“Where the real wizards would have promptly taken everything you had and cast you down again,”

Achilea said scornfully.

“Besides,” Conan added, “you haven’t done badly out of this for a runaway Kothian slave.” He tapped the bulging sack that depended from Amram’s girdle. “You seem to have acquired some valuables during your stay.”

“A few baubles, yes,” said the little man. shrugging. “Perhaps enough for a little stake to get me started again, after ail this sacrifice.”

“If those are opals,” Conan said meaningfully, “you are set for life.”

“Surely you would not deprive me of this small satisfaction?”

Conan laughed “No, all I want just now is that river.”

They passed through the darkened city, seeing only by the dim, uncertain light of small clusters and
lines of glowing fungus. The people of the city crouched in huddled groups, wailing in their fear of the doom that had come upon their ancient domain.

“Out!” Conan shouted at them. “If any of you has the spirit to live, get to the river. Janagar is no more!” None of diem paid him the slightest attention.

The river-smell grew ever stronger, and at last they followed Amram to a gigantic natural cavern where black water flowed along in a broad, slow stream. By the light of great, globular clusters of glowing fungus, they saw a rough stone jetty to which was tied a long raft of logs with a rude brush hut erected in its center. To the raft was lashed a targe dugout canoe. Upon the raft stood four tiny brown men who began to gesticulate wildly and chatter questions at the newcomers.

The river-folk,” Amram informed his companions. “They are puzzled by the commotion and the extinguishing of the torches. I fear I must tell them that their age-old trade with Janagar is at an end. No, perhaps I shall wait until we are well away from here,” He began to converse with the tiny men in a language Conan did not understand. Soon they quieted.

“Where does the river lead?” Conan demanded

“This is a loop that branches from the Styx,” Amram told him. He pointed to his left. “Upstream, where the villagers live, it passes beneath a mountain range and emerges almost at the boundary between Punt and Keshan.” He pointed to his right, “Downstream, it rejoins the Styx near the great bend, with Stygia on the southern bank and land claimed by Shem to the north. The villagers come here, trade their wares, including the timber of the raft, and paddle back home in the dugout. I am about to take passage with them, to return to my home in Keshan. I think the canoe is large enough to hold all of us”

“Nay,” said Conan. “We will take the raft. I’ll wager there is a war in Shem, where a good fighting-man can make his way with a sword and a stout heart” He cocked an eyebrow toward Achilea and she smiled.

“Aye, just now I’ve no urge to see the dark and jungled lands. I’m for the raft,” she declared.

“Then farewell, my friends,” Amram said, stepping into the dugout. “In three days, you should see the sunlight again.” He shook his head. “With all the fools, knaves and cowards in the world, why did I have to encounter a pair of genuine heroes?”

“Your gods do not love you, Amram,” Conan said. “But may they watch over you anyway.

Farewell.” The brown men climbed into the dugout and took up their paddles. Minutes later, they were out of sight.

“Let’s be off,” Conan said. They stepped aboard the raft and while the women took up poles, Conan drew his sword and slashed through the ropes that bound the float to the jetty fore and aft. Putting their shoulders to the poles, they pushed themselves to midstream; then they laid the poles aside as the current carried them downstream. Gradually, the sounds of the city faded behind them. They soon were out of the great cavern and in a cave that was narrower, but still spacious. Overhead, the glowing fungus began to thin out.

At the stern of the raft was an earth-filled firebox and a stack of wood. With flint and steel, me Cimmerian struck a light and soon had a small fire burning. The smoky, orange flames seemed decidedly clean after the unnatural lighting of the underground city. Achilea came to stand beside him.

“Payna,” she said, “tend the fire. Should the raft drift too close to a wall, fend it off with one of the poles. Conan and I have matters to attend to in the hut here. Do not disturb us.”

Payna looked the Cimmerian up and down without favor. Then she delivered the longest speech he had heard pass her lips. “My queen, I honor this great, ugly beast for the services he has done you, but as I have said to you before, you are far too soft where men are concerned.”

They went into the little hut. It was crude and unfurnished, but they cared nothing for that Achilea unbuckled her sword-belt and her weapons fell to the logs along with his. She tugged at the thongs fastening her skimpy garments.

“Three days,” she said. “How much can we accomplish in three days?”

“More than any ordinary man and woman,” he replied, performing the same actions. “As Amram
said, we are heroes!” Then they lunged for each other like mating tigers.

The three stood on the northern riverbank and watched the raft float downstream toward the Western Sea. The Cimmerian stretched his mighty arms, exulting in open, clean air and sunshine that was not the brutal glare of the desert. To the south, they could just discern a pyramid where some .forgotten king of Stygia was entombed. To the north, east and west, grassland extended to the limit of vision.

“Let’s go that way,” Conan said, pointing westward. “If we don’t find a war before long, I don’t know Shem.”

“No,” Achilea said with a sad sigh. “I go that way.” She pointed to the north.

“Why?” Conan asked, astonished. “What is up there? “

“My homeland. I want to see my son once more. And I want my throne back. I will go and fight Briseis. All my wilderness sisters save Payna are dead now because of her. It is time for her to die.”

He stood as if thunderstruck. “Very well then, I will help you.”

She shook her head. “No, Conan, it is hopeless. When I am queen again, there will be no place for a man at my side.” She smiled wanly. “We could not be together for long; you know that as well as I do.

We are heroes, and two such cannot live beneath the same roof. We would be at each other’s throats before the turning of a year. Farewell, Cimmerian.” She leaned forward, kissed him lightly, men turned and began to walk northward, her last follower close behind her.

Conan stood watching as the two forms dwindled with distance and vanished from sight. “Farewell, my queen,” he whispered at last With a grim expression on his craggy features, he turned and strode west. Far behind him, the eternal sands of the desert buried the shattered ruins of Janagar of the Opal Gates.

The Devil in Iron

1

The fisherman loosened his knife in its scabbard. The gesture was instinctive, for what he feared was nothing a knife could slay, not even the saw-edged crescent blade of the Yuetshi that could disembowel a man with an upward stroke. Neither man nor beast threatened him in the solitude which brooded over the castellated isle of Xapur.

He had climbed the cliffs, passed through the jungle that bordered them, and now stood surrounded by evidences of a vanished state. Broken columns glimmered among the trees, the straggling lines of crumbling walls meandered off into the shadows, and under his feet were broad paves, cracked and bowed by roots growing beneath.

The fisherman was typical of his race, that strange people whose origin is lost in the gray dawn of the past, and who have dwelt in their rude fishing huts along the southern shore of the Sea of Vilayet since time immemorial. He was broadly built, with long apish arms and a mighty chest, but with lean loins and thin bandy legs. His face was broad, his forehead low and retreating, his hair thick and tangled. A belt for a knife and a rag for a loin-cloth were all he wore in the way of clothing.

That he was where he was proved that he was less dully incurious than most of his people. Men seldom visited Xapur. It was uninhabited, all but forgotten, merely one among the myriad isles which dotted the great inland sea. Men called it Xapur, the Fortified, because of its ruins, remnants of some prehistoric kingdom, lost and forgotten before the conquering Hyborians had ridden southward. None knew who reared those stones, though dim legends lingered among the Yuetshi which half intelligibly suggested a connection of immeasurable antiquity between the fishers and the unknown island kingdom.

But it had been a thousand years since any Yuetshi had understood the import of these tales; they repeated them now as a meaningless formula, a gibberish framed by their lips by custom. No Yuetshi had come to Xapur for a century. The adjacent coast of the mainland was uninhabited, a reedy marsh given over to the grim beasts that haunted it. The fisher's village lay some distance to the south, on the mainland. A storm had blown his frail fishing craft far from his accustomed haunts, and wrecked it in a night of flaring lightning and roaring waters on the towering cliffs of the isle. Now in the dawn the sky shone blue and clear, the rising sun made jewels of the dripping leaves. He had climbed the cliffs to which he had clung through the night because, in the midst of the storm, he had seen an appalling lance of lightning fork out of the black heavens, and the concussion of its stroke, which had shaken the whole island, had been accompanied by a cataclysmic crash that he doubted could have resulted from a riven tree.

A dull curiosity had caused him to investigate; and now he had found what he sought and an animal-like uneasiness possessed him, a sense of lurking peril.

Among the trees reared a broken dome-like structure, built of gigantic blocks of the peculiar iron-like green stone found only on the islands of Vilayet. It seemed incredible that human hands could have shaped and placed them, and certainly it was beyond human power to have overthrown the structure they formed. But the thunderbolt had splintered the ton-heavy blocks like so much glass, reduced others to green dust, and ripped away the whole arch of the dome.

The fisherman climbed over the debris and peered in, and what he saw brought a grunt from him. Within the ruined dome, surrounded by stone-dust and bits of broken masonry, lay a man on the golden block. He was clad in a sort of skirt and a shagreen girdle. His black hair, which fell in a square mane to his massive shoulders, was confined about his temples by a narrow gold band. On his bare, muscular breast lay a curious dagger with a jeweled pommel, shagreen-bound hilt, and a broad crescent blade. It was much like the knife the fisherman wore at his hip, but it lacked the serrated edge, and was made with infinitely greater skill.

The fisherman lusted for the weapon. The man, of course, was dead; had been dead for many centuries. This dome was his tomb. The fisherman did not wonder by what art the ancients had preserved the body in such a vivid likeness of life, which kept the muscular limbs full and unshrunken, the dark flesh vital. The dull brain of the Yuetshi had room only for his desire for the knife with its delicate waving lines along the dully gleaming blade.

Scrambling down into the dome, he lifted the weapon from the man's breast. And as he did so, a strange and terrible thing came to pass. The muscular dark hands knotted convulsively, the lids flared open, revealing great dark magnetic eyes whose stare struck the startled fisherman like a physical blow. He recoiled, dropping the jeweled dagger in his perturbation. The man on the dais heaved up to a sitting position, and the fisherman gaped at the full extent of his size, thus revealed. His narrowed eyes held the Yuetshi and in those slitted orbs he read neither friendliness nor gratitude; he saw only a fire as alien and hostile as that which burns in the eyes of a tiger.

Suddenly the man rose and towered above him, menace in his every aspect. There was no room in the fisherman's dull brain for fear, at least for such fear as might grip a man who has just seen the fundamental laws of nature defied. As the great hands fell to his shoulders, he drew his saw-edged knife and struck upward with the same motion. The blade splintered against the stranger's corded belly as against a steel column, and then the fisherman's thick neck broke like a rotten twig in the giant hands.

2

Jehungir Agha, lord of Khawarizm and keeper of the coastal border, scanned once more the ornate parchment scroll with its peacock seal, and laughed shortly and sardonically.

`Well?' bluntly demanded his counsellor Ghaznavi.

Jehungir shrugged his shoulders. He was a handsome man, with the merciless pride of birth and accomplishment.

`The king grows short of patience,' said he. `In his own hand he complains bitterly of what he calls my failure to guard the frontier. By Tarim, if I can not deal a blow to these robbers of the steppes, Khawarizm may own a new lord.'

Ghaznavi tugged his gray-shot beard in meditation. Yezdigerd, king of Turan, was the mightiest monarch in the world. In his palace in the great port city of Aghrapur was heaped the plunder of empires. His fleets of purple-sailed war galleys had made Vilayet an Hyrkanian lake. The dark-skinned people of Zamora paid him tribute, as did the eastern provinces of Koth. The Shemites bowed to his rule as far west as Shushan. His armies ravaged the borders of Stygia in the south and the snowy lands of the Hyperboreans in the north. His riders bore torch and sword westward into Brythunia and Ophir and Corinthia, even to the borders of Nemedia. His gilt-helmeted swordsmen had trampled hosts under their horses' hoofs, and walled cities went up in flames at his command. In the glutted slave markets of Aghrapur, Sultanapur, Khawarizm, Shahpur and Khorusun, women were sold for three small silver coins - blond Brythunians, tawny Stygians, dark-haired Zamorians, ebon Kushites, olive-skinned Shemites.

Yet, while his swift horsemen overthrew armies far from his frontiers, at his very borders an audacious foe plucked his beard with a red-dripping and smoke-stained hand.

On the broad steppes between the Sea of Vilayet and the borders of the easternmost Hyborian kingdoms, a new race had sprung up in the past half-century, formed originally of fleeing criminals, broken men, escaped slaves, and deserting soldiers.

They were men of many crimes and countries, some born on the steppes, some fleeing from the kingdoms in the west. They were called kozak, which means wastrel.

Dwelling on the wild, open steppes, owning no law but their own peculiar code, they had become a people capable of defying the Grand Monarch. Ceaselessly they raided the Turanian frontier, retiring in the steppes when defeated; with the pirates of Vilayet, men of much the same breed, they harried the coast, preying off the merchant ships which plied between the Hyrkanian ports.

`How am I to crush these wolves?' demanded Jehungir. `If I follow them into the steppes, I run the risk either of being cut off and destroyed, or having them elude me entirely and burn the city in my absence. Of late they have been more daring than ever.'

`That is because of the new chief who has risen among them,' answered Ghaznavi. `You know whom I mean.'

`Aye!' replied Jehungir feelingly. `It is that devil Conan; he is even wilder than the kozaks, yet he is crafty as a mountain lion.'

`It is more through wild animal instinct than through intelligence,' answered Ghaznavi. `The other kozaks are at least descendants of civilized men. He is a barbarian. But to dispose of him would be to deal them a crippling blow.'

`But how?' demanded Jehungir. `He has repeatedly cut his way out of spots that seemed certain death for him. And, by instinct or cunning, he has avoided or escaped every trap set for him.'

`For every beast and for every man there is a trap he will not escape,' quoth Ghaznavi. `When we have parleyed with the kozaks for the ransom of captives, I have observed this man Conan. He has a keen relish for women and strong drink. Have your captive Octavia fetched here.'

Jehungir clapped his hands, and an impassive Kushite eunuch, an image of shining ebony in silken pantaloons, bowed before him and went to do his bidding. Presently he returned, leading by the wrist a tall handsome girl, whose yellow hair, clear eyes and fair skin identified her as a pure-blooded member of her race. Her scanty silk tunic, girded at the waist, displayed the marvelous contours of her magnificent figure. Her fine eyes flashed with resentment and her red lips were sulky, but submission had been taught her during her captivity. She stood with hanging head before her master until her motioned her to a seat on the divan beside him. Then he looked inquiringly at Ghaznavi.

`We must lure Conan away from the kozaks,' said the counsellor abruptly. `Their war camp is at present pitched somewhere on the lower reaches of the Zaporoska River - which, as you well know, is a wilderness of reeds, a swampy jungle in which our last expedition was cut to pieces by those masterless devils.'

`I am not likely to forget that,' said Jehungir wryly.

`There is an uninhabited island near the mainland,' said Ghaznavi, `known as Xapur, the Fortified, because of some ancient ruins upon it. There is a peculiarity about it which makes it perfect for our purpose. It has no shore-line, but rises sheer out of the sea in cliffs a hundred and fifty feet tall. Not even an ape could negotiate them. The only place where a man can go up or down is a narrow path on the western side that has the appearance of a worn stair, carved into the solid rock of the cliffs.

`If we could trap Conan on that island, alone, we could hunt him down at our leisure, with bows, as men hunt a lion.'

`As well wish for the moon,' said Jehungir impatiently. `Shall we send him a messenger, bidding him climb the cliffs and await our coming?'

`In effect, yes!' Seeing Jehungir's look of amazement, Ghaznavi continued: `We will ask for a parley with the kozaks in regard to prisoners, at the edge of the steppes by Fort Ghori. As usual, we will go with a force and encamp outside the castle. They will come, with an equal force, and the parley will go forward with the usual distrust and suspicion. But this time we will take with us, as if by casual chance, your beautiful captive.' Octavia changed color and listened with intensified interest as the counsellor nodded toward her. `She will use all her wiles to attract Conan's attention. That should not be difficult. To that wild reaver she should appear a dazzling vision of loveliness. Her vitality and substantial figure should appeal to him more vividly than would one of the doll-like beauties of your seraglio.'

Octavia sprang up, her white fists clenched, her eyes blazing and her figure quivering with outraged anger.

`You would force me to play the trollop with this barbarian?' she exclaimed. `I will not! I am no market-block slut to smirk and ogle at a steppes-robber. I am the daughter of a Nemedian lord-'

`You were of the Nemedian nobility before my riders carried you off,' returned Jehungir cynically. `Now you are merely a slave who will do as she is bid.'

`I will not!' she raged.

`On the contrary,' rejoined Jehungir with studied cruelty, `you will. I like Ghaznavi's plan. Continue, prince among counsellors.'

'Conan will probably wish to buy her. You will refuse to sell her, of course, or to exchange her for Hyrkanian prisoners. He may then try to steal her, or take her by force - though I do not think even he would break the parley-truce. Anyway, we must be prepared for whatever he might attempt.

`Then, shortly after the parley, before he has time to forget all about her, we will send a messenger to him, under a flag of truce, accusing him of stealing the girl, and demanding her return. He may kill the messenger, but at least he will think that she has escaped.

`Then we will send a spy - a Yuetshi fisherman will do - to the kozak camp, who will tell Conan that Octavia is hiding on Xapur. If I know my man, he will go straight to that place.'

`But we do not know that he will go alone,' Jehungir argued.

`Does a man take a band of warriors with him, when going to a rendezvous with a woman he desires?' retorted Ghaznavi. `The chances are all that he will go alone. But we will take care of the other alternative. We will not await him on the island, where we might be trapped ourselves, but among the reeds of a marshy point which juts out to within a thousand yards of Xapur. If he brings a large force, we'll beat a retreat and think up another plot. If he comes alone or with a small party, we will have him. Depend upon it, he will come, remembering your charming slave's smiles and meaning glances.'

`I will never descend to such shame!' Octavia was wild with fury and humiliation. `I will die first!'

`You will not die, my rebellious beauty,' said Jehungir, `but you will be subjected to a very painful and humiliating experience.'

He clapped his hands, and Octavia paled. This time it was not the Kushite who entered, but a Shemite, a heavily muscled man of medium height with a short, curled, blue-black beard.

`Here is work for you, Gilzan,' said Jehungir. `Take this fool, and play with her awhile. Yet be careful not to spoil her beauty.'

With an inarticulate grunt the Shemite seized Octavia's wrist, and at the grasp of his iron fingers, all the defiance went out of her. With a piteous cry she tore away and threw herself on her knees before her implacable master, sobbing incoherently for mercy.

Jehungir dismissed the disappointed torturer with a gesture, and said to Ghaznavi: `If your plan succeeds, I will fill your lap with gold.'

3

In the darkness before dawn an unaccustomed sound disturbed the solitude that slumbered over the reedy marshes and the misty waters of the coast. It was not a drowsy water-fowl nor a waking beast. It was a human who struggled through the thick reeds, which were taller than a man's head.

It was a woman, had there been anyone to see, tall and yellow-haired, her splendid limbs molded by her draggled tunic. Octavia had escaped in good earnest, every outraged fiber of her still tingling from her experience in a captivity that had become unendurable.

Jehungir's mastery of her had been bad enough; but with deliberate fiendishness Jehungir had given her to a nobleman whose name was a byword for degeneracy even in Khawarizm.

Octavia's resilient flesh crawled and quivered at her memories. Desperation had nerved her climb from Jelal Khan's castle on a rope made of strips from torn tapestries, and chance had led her to a picketed horse. She had ridden all night, and dawn found her with a foundered steed on the swampy shores of the sea. Quivering with the abhorrence of being dragged back to the revolting destiny planned for her by Jelal Khan, she plunged into the morass, seeking a hiding-place from the pursuit she expected. When the reeds grew thinner around her and the water rose about her thighs, she saw the dim loom of an island ahead of her. A broad span of water lay between, but she did not hesitate. She waded out until the low waves were lapping about her waist; then she struck out strongly, swimming with a vigor that promised unusual endurance.

As she neared the island, she saw that it rose sheer from the water in castle-like cliffs. She reached them at last, but found neither ledge to stand on below the water, not to cling to above. She swam on, following the curve of the cliffs, the strain of her long flight beginning to weight her limbs. Her hands fluttered along the sheer stone, and suddenly they found a depression. With a sobbing gasp of relief, she pulled herself out of the water and clung there, a dripping white goddess in the dim starlight.

She had come upon what seemed to be steps carved in the cliff. Up them she went, flattening herself against the stone as she caught the faint clack of muffled oars. She strained her eyes and thought she made out a vague bulk moving toward the reedy point she had just quitted. But it was too far away for her to be sure, in the darkness, and presently the faint sound ceased, and she continued her climb. If it were her pursuers, she knew of no better course than to hide on the island. She knew that most of the islands off that marshy coast were uninhabited. This might be a pirate's lair, but even pirates would be preferable to the beast she had escaped.

A vagrant thought crossed her mind as she climbed, in which she mentally compared her former master with the kozak chief with whom - by compulsion - she had shamelessly flirted in the pavilions of the camp by Fort Ghori, where the Hyrkanian lords had parleyed with the warriors of the steppes. His burning gaze had frightened and humiliated her, but his cleanly elemental fierceness set him above Jelal Khan, a monster such as only an overly opulent civilization can produce.

She scrambled up over the cliff edge and looked timidly at the dense shadows which confronted her. The trees grew close to the cliffs, presenting a solid mass of blackness. Something whirred above her head and she cowered, even though realizing it was only a bat.

She did not like the look of those ebony shadows, but she set her teeth and went toward them, trying not to think of snakes. Her bare feet made no sound in the spongy loam under the trees. Once among them, the darkness closed frighteningly about her. She had not taken a dozen steps when she was no longer able to look back and see the cliffs and the sea beyond. A few steps more and she became hopelessly confused and lost her sense of direction. Through the tangled branches not even a star peered. She groped and floundered on, blindly, and then came to a sudden halt.

Somewhere ahead there began the rhythmical booming of a drum. It was not such a sound as she would have expected to hear in that time and place. Then she forgot it as she was aware of a presence near her. She could not see, but she knew that something was standing beside her in the darkness.

With a stifled cry she shrank back, and as she did so, something that even in her panic she recognized as a human arm curved about her waist. She screamed and threw all her supple young strength into a wild lunge for freedom, but her captor caught her up like a child, crushing her frantic resistance with ease. The silence with which her frenzied pleas and protests were received added to her terror as she felt herself being carried through the darkness toward the distant drum which still pulsed and muttered.

4

As the first tinge of dawn reddened the sea, a small boat with a solitary occupant approached the cliffs. The man in the boat was a picturesque figure. A crimson scarf was knotted about his head; his wide silk breeches, of flaming hue, were upheld by a broad sash which likewise supported a scimitar in a shagreen scabbard. His gilt-worked leather boots suggested the horseman rather than the seaman, but he handled his boat with skill. Through his widely open white silk shirt showed his broad muscular breast, burned brown by the sun.

The muscles of his heavy bronzed arms rippled as he pulled the oars with an almost feline ease of motion. A fierce vitality that was evident in each feature and motion set him apart from common men; yet his expression was neither savage nor somber, though the smoldering blue eyes hinted at ferocity easily wakened. This was Conan, who had wandered into the armed camps of the kozaks with no other possession than his wits and his sword, and who had carved his way to leadership among them.

He paddled to the carven stair as one familiar with his environs, and moored the boat to a projection of the rock. Then he went up the worn steps without hesitation. He was keenly alert, not because he consciously suspected hidden danger, but because alertness was a part of him, whetted by the wild existence he followed.

What Ghaznavi had considered animal intuition or some sixth sense was merely the razor-edge faculties and savage wit of the barbarian. Conan had no instinct to tell him that men were watching him from a covert among the reeds of the mainland.

As he climbed the cliff, one of these men breathed deeply and stealthily lifted a bow. Jehungir caught his wrist and hissed an oath into his ear. `Fool! Will you betray us? Don't you realize he is out of range? Let him get upon the island. He will go looking for the girl. We will stay here awhile. He may have sensed our presence or guessed our plot. He may have warriors hidden somewhere. We will wait. In an hour, if nothing suspicious occurs, we'll row up to the foot of the stair and await him there. If he does not return in a reasonable time, some of us will go upon the island and hunt him down. But I do not wish to do that if it can be helped. Some of us are sure to die if we have to go into the bush after him. I had rather catch him descending the stair, where we can feather him with arrows from a safe distance.'

Meanwhile the unsuspecting kozak had plunged into the forest. He went silently in his soft leather boots, his gaze sifting every shadow in eagerness to catch sight of the splendid tawny-haired beauty of whom he had dreamed ever since he had seen her in the pavilion of Jehungir Agha by Fort Ghori. He would have desired her even if she had displayed repugnance toward him. But her cryptic smiles and glances had fired his blood, and with all the lawless violence which was his heritage he desired that white-skinned golden-haired woman of civilization.

He had been on Xapur before. Less than a month ago he had held a secret conclave here with a pirate crew. He knew that he was approaching a point where he could see the mysterious ruins which gave the island its name, and he wondered if he would find the girl hiding among them. Even with the thought he stopped as though struck dead.

Ahead of him, among the trees, rose something that his reason told him was not possible. It was a great dark green wall, with towers rearing beyond the battlements.

Conan stood paralyzed in the disruption of the faculties which demoralizes anyone who is confronted by an impossible negation of sanity. He doubted neither his sight nor his reason, but something was monstrously out of joint. Less than a month ago only broken ruins had showed among the trees. What human hands could rear such a mammoth pile as now met his eyes, in the few weeks which had elapsed? Besides, the buccaneers who roamed Vilayet ceaselessly would have learned of any work going on on such a stupendous scale, and would have informed the kozaks.

There was no explaining this thing, but it was so. He was on Xapur and that fantastic heap of towering masonry was on Xapur, and all was madness and paradox; yet it was all true.

He wheeled back through the jungle, down the carven stair and across the blue waters to the distant camp at the mouth of the Zaporoska. In that moment of unreasoning panic even the thought of halting so near the inland sea was repugnant. He would leave it behind him, would quit the armed camps and the steppes, and put a thousand miles between him and the blue mysterious East where the most basic laws of nature could be set at naught, by what diabolism he could not guess.

For an instant the future fate of kingdoms that hinged on this gay-clad barbarian hung in the balance. It was a small thing that tipped the scales - merely a shred of silk hanging on a bush that caught his uneasy glance. He leaned to it, his nostrils expanding, his nerves quivering to a subtle stimulant. On that bit of torn cloth, so faint that it was less with his physical faculties than by some obscure instinctive sense that he recognized it, lingered the tantalizing perfume that he connected with the sweet firm flesh of the woman he had seen in Jehungir's pavilion. The fisherman had not lied, then; she was here! Then in the soil he saw a single track of a bare foot, long and slender, but a man's not a woman's, and sunk deeper than was natural. The conclusion was obvious; the man who made that track was carrying a burden, and what should it be but the girl the kozak was seeking?

He stood silently facing the dark towers that loomed through the trees, his eyes slits of blue bale-fire. Desire for the yellow-haired woman vied with a sullen primordial rage at whoever had taken her. His human passion fought down his ultra-human fears, and dropping into the stalking crouch of a hunting panther, he glided toward the walls, taking advantage of the dense foliage to escape detection from the battlements.

As he approached he saw that the walls were composed of the same green stone that had formed the ruins, and he was haunted by a vague sense of familiarity. It was as if he looked upon something he had never seen before, but had dreamed of, or pictured mentally. At last he recognized the sensation. The walls and towers followed the plan of the ruins. It was as if the crumbling lines had grown back into the structures they originally were.

No sound disturbed the morning quiet as Conan stole to the foot of the wall which rose sheer from the luxuriant growth. On the southern reaches of the inland sea the vegetation was almost tropical. He saw no one on the battlements, heard no sounds within. He saw a massive gate a short distance to his left, and had had no reason to suppose that it was not locked and guarded. But he believed that the woman he sought was somewhere beyond that wall, and the course he took was characteristically reckless.

Above him vine-festooned branches reached out toward the battlements. He went up a great tree like a cat, and reaching a point above the parapet, he gripped a thick limb with both hands, swung back and forth at arm's length until he had gained momentum, and then let go and catapulted through the air, landing cat-like on the battlements. Crouching there he stared down into the streets of a city.

The circumference of the wall was not great, but the number of green stone buildings it contained was surprizing. They were three or four stories in height, mainly flat-roofed, reflecting a fine architectural style. The streets converged like the spokes of a wheel into an octagon-shaped court in the center of the town which gave upon a lofty edifice, which, with its domes and towers, dominated the whole city. He saw no one moving in the streets or looking out of the windows, though the sun was already coming up. The silence that reigned there might have been that of a dead and deserted city. A narrow stone stair ascended the wall near him; down this he went.

Houses shouldered so closely to the wall that halfway down the stair he found himself within arm's length of a window, and halted to peer in. There were no bars, and the silk curtains were caught back with satin cords. He looked into a chamber whose walls were hidden by dark velvet tapestries. The floor was covered with thick rugs, and there were benches of polished ebony, and an ivory dais heaped with furs.

He was about to continue his descent, when he heard the sound of someone approaching in the street below. Before the unknown person could come round a corner and see him on the stair, he stepped quickly across the intervening space and dropped lightly into the room, drawing his scimitar. He stood for an instant statue-like; then as nothing happened he was moving across the rugs toward an arched doorway when a hanging was drawn aside, revealing a cushioned alcove from which a slender, dark-haired girl regarded him with languid eyes.

Conan glared at her tensely, expecting her momentarily to start screaming. But she merely smothered a yawn with a dainty hand, rose from the alcove and leaned negligently against the hanging which she held with one hand.

She was undoubtedly a member of a white race, though her skin was very dark. Her square-cut hair was black as midnight, her only garment a wisp of silk about her supple hips.

Presently she spoke, but the tongue was unfamiliar to him, and he shook his head. She yawned again, stretched lithely, and without any show of fear or surprize, shifted to a language he did understand, a dialect of Yuetshi which sounded strangely archaic.

`Are you looking for someone?' she asked, as indifferently as if the invasion of her chamber by an armed stranger were the most common thing imaginable.

`Who are you?' he demanded.

`I am Yateli,' she answered languidly. `I must have feasted late last night, I am so sleepy now. Who are you?'

`I am Conan, a hetman among the kozaks,' he answered, watching her narrowly. He believed her attitude to be a pose, and expected her to try to escape from the chamber or rouse the house. But, though a velvet rope that might be a signal cord hung near her, she did not reach for it.

'Conan,' she repeated drowsily. `You are not a Dagonian. I suppose you are a mercenary. Have you cut the heads off many Yuetshi?'

`I do not war on water rats!' he snorted.

`But they are very terrible,' she murmured. `I remember when they were our slaves. But they revolted and burned and slew. Only the magic of Khosatral Khel has kept them from the walls-' She paused, a puzzled look struggling with the sleepiness of her expression. `I forgot,' she muttered. `They did climb the walls, last night. There was shouting and fire, and people calling in vain on Khosatral.' She shook her head as if to clear it. `But that can not be,' she murmured, `because I am alive, and I thought I was dead. Oh, to the devil with it!'

She came across the chamber, and taking Conan's hand, drew him to the dais. He yielded in bewilderment and uncertainty. The girl smiled at him like a sleepy child; her long silky lashes drooped over dusky, clouded eyes. She ran her fingers through his thick black locks as if to assure herself of his reality.

`It was a dream,' she yawned. `Perhaps it's all a dream. I feel like a dream now. I don't care. I can't remember something - I have forgotten - there is something I can not understand, but I grow so sleepy when I try to think. Anyway, it doesn't matter.'

`What do you mean?' he asked uneasily. `You said they climbed the walls last night? Who?'

`The Yuetshi. I thought so, anyway. A cloud of smoke hid everything, but a naked, blood-stained devil caught me by the throat and drove his knife into my breast. Oh, it hurt! But it was a dream, because see, there is no scar.' She idly inspected her smooth bosom, and then sank upon Conan's lap and passed her supple arms around his massive neck. `I can not remember,' she murmured, nestling her dark head against his mighty breast. `Everything is dim and misty. It does not matter. You are no dream. You are strong. Let us live while we can. Love me!'

He cradled the girl's glossy head in the bend of his heavy arm, and kissed her full red lips with unfeigned relish.

`You are strong,' she repeated, her voice waning. `Love me love-' The sleepy murmur faded away; the dusky eyes closed, the long lashes drooping over the sensuous cheeks; the supple body relaxed in Conan's arms.

He scowled down at her. She seemed to partake of the illusion that haunted this whole city, but the firm resilience of her limbs under his questing fingers convinced him that he had a living human girl in his arms, and not the shadow of a dream. No less disturbed, he hastily laid her on the furs upon the dais. Her sleep was too deep to be natural. He decided that she must be an addict of some drug, perhaps like the black lotus of Xuthal.

Then he found something else to make him wonder. Among the furs on the dais was a gorgeous spotted skin, whose predominant hue was golden. It was not a clever copy, but the skin of an actual beast. And that beast, Conan knew, had been extinct for at least a thousand years; it was the great golden leopard which figures so predominantly in Hyborian legendry, and which the ancient artists delighted to portray in pigments and marble.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Conan passed through the archway into a winding corridor. Silence hung over the house, but outside he heard a sound which his keen ears recognized as something ascending the stair on the wall from which he had entered the building. An instant later he was startled to hear something land with a soft but weighty thud on the floor of the chamber he had just quitted. Turning quickly away, he hurried along the twisting hallway until something on the floor before him brought him to a halt.

It was a human figure, which lay half in the hall and half in an opening that obviously was normally concealed by a door which was a duplicate of the panels of the wall. It was a man, dark and lean, clad only in a silk loin-cloth, with a shaven head and cruel features, and he lay as if death had struck him just as he was emerging from the panel. Conan bent above him, seeking the cause of his death, and discovered him to be merely sunk in the same deep sleep as the girl in the chamber.

But why should he select such a place for his slumbers? While meditating on the matter, Conan was galvanized by a sound behind him. Something was moving up the corridor in his direction. A quick glance down it showed that it ended in a great door which might be locked. Conan jerked the supine body out of the panel-entrance and stepped through, pulling the panel shut after him. A click told him it was locked in place. Standing in utter darkness, he heard a shuffling tread halt just outside the door, and a faint chill trickled along his spine. That was no human step, nor that of any beast he had ever encountered.

There was an instant of silence, then a faint creak of wood and metal. Putting out his hand he felt the door straining and bending inward, as if a great weight were being steadily borne against it from the outside. As he reached for his sword, this ceased and he heard a strange slobbering mouthing that prickled the short hairs on his scalp. Scimitar in hand he began backing away, and his heels felt steps, down which he nearly tumbled. He was in a narrow staircase leading downward.

He groped his way down in the blackness, feeling for, but not finding, some other opening in the walls. Just as he decided that he was no longer in the house, but deep in the earth under it, the steps ceased in a level tunnel.

5

Along the black silent tunnel Conan groped, momentarily dreading a fall into some unseen pit; but at last his feet struck steps again, and he went up them until he came to a door on which his fumbling fingers found a metal catch. He came out into a dim and lofty room of enormous proportions. Fantastic columns marched around the mottled walls, upholding a ceiling, which, at once translucent and dusky, seemed like a cloudy midnight sky, giving an illusion of impossible height. If any light filtered in from the outside it was curiously altered.

In a brooding twilight Conan moved across the bare green floor. The great room was circular, pierced on one side by the great bronze valves of a giant door. Opposite this, on a dais against the wall, up to which led broad curving steps, there stood a throne of copper, and when Conan saw what was coiled on this throne, he retreated hastily, lifting his scimitar.

Then, as the thing did not move, he scanned it more closely, and presently mounted the glass steps and stared down at it. It was a gigantic snake, apparently carved in some jade-like substance. Each scale stood out as distinctly as in real life, and the iridescent colors were vividly reproduced. The great wedge-shaped head was half submerged in the folds of its trunk; so neither the eyes nor jaws were visible. Recognition stirred in his mind. This snake was evidently meant to represent one of those grim monsters of the marsh which in past ages had haunted the reedy edges of Vilayet's southern shores. But, like the golden leopard, they had been extinct for hundreds of years. Conan had seen rude images of them, in miniature, among the idol-huts of the Yuetshi, and there was a description of them in the Book of Skelos, which drew on prehistoric sources.

Conan admired the scaly torso, thick as his thigh and obviously of great length, and he reached out and laid a curious hand on the thing. And as he did so, his heart nearly stopped. An icy chill congealed the blood in his veins and lifted the short hair on his scalp. Under his hand there was not the smooth, brittle surface of glass or metal or stone, but the yielding, fibrous mass of a living thing. He felt cold, sluggish life flowing under his fingers.

His hand jerked back in instinctive repulsion. Sword shaking in his grasp, horror and revulsion and fear almost choking him, he backed away and down the glass steps with painful care, glaring in awful fascination at the grisly thing that slumbered on the copper throne. It did not move.

He reached the bronze door and tried it, with his heart in his teeth, sweating with fear that he should find himself locked in with that slimy horror. But the valves yielded to his touch, and he glided through and closed them behind him.

He found himself in a wide hallway with lofty tapestried walls, where the light was the same twilight gloom. It made distant objects indistinct and that made him uneasy, rousing thoughts of serpents gliding unseen through the dimness. A door at the other end seemed miles away in the illusive light. Nearer at hand the tapestry hung in such a way as to suggest an opening behind it, and lifting it cautiously he discovered a narrow stair leading up.

While he hesitated he heard in the great room he had just left, the same shuffling tread he had heard outside the locked panel. Had he been followed through the tunnel? He went up the stair hastily, dropping the tapestry in place behind him.

Emerging presently into a twisting corridor, he took the first doorway he came to. He had a twofold purpose in his apparently aimless prowling: to escape from the building and its mysteries, and to find the Nemedian girl who, he felt, was imprisoned somewhere in this palace, temple, or whatever it was. He believed it was the great domed edifice in the center of the city, and it was likely that here dwelt the ruler of the town, to whom a captive woman would doubtless be brought.

He found himself in a chamber, not another corridor, and was about to retrace his steps, when he heard a voice which came from behind one of the walls. There was no door in that wall, but he leaned close and heard distinctly. And an icy chill crawled slowly along his spine. The tongue was Nemedian, but the voice was not human. There was a terrifying resonance about it, like a bell tolling at midnight.

`There was no life in the Abyss, save that which was incorporated in me,' it tolled. `Nor was there light, nor motion, nor any sound. Only the urge behind and beyond life guided and impelled me on my upward journey, blind, insensate, inexorable. Through ages upon ages, and the changeless strata of darkness I climbed-'

Ensorcelled by that belling resonance, Conan crouched forgetful of all else, until its hypnotic power caused a strange replacement of faculties and perception, and sound created the illusion of sight. Conan was no longer aware of the voice, save as far-off rhythmical waves of sound. Transported beyond his age and his own individuality, he was seeing the transmutation of the being men called Khosatral Khel which crawled up from Night and the Abyss ages ago to clothe itself in the substance of the material universe.

But human flesh was too frail, too paltry to hold the terrific essence that was Khosatral Khel. So he stood up in the shape and aspect of a man, but his flesh was not flesh, nor the bone, bone, nor blood, blood. He became a blasphemy against all nature, for he caused to live and think and act a basic substance that before had never known the pulse and stir of animate being.

He stalked through the world like a god, for no earthly weapon could harm him, and to him a century was like an hour. In his wanderings he came upon a primitive people inhabiting the island of Dagonia, and it pleased him to give this race culture and civilization, and by his aid they built the city of Dagon and they abode there and worshipped him. Strange and grisly were his servants, called from the dark corners of the planet where grim survivals of forgotten ages yet lurked. His house in Dagon was connected with every other house by tunnels through which his shaven-headed priests bore victims for the sacrifice.

But after many ages a fierce and brutish people appeared on the shores of the sea. They called themselves Yuetshi, and after a fierce battle they were defeated and enslaved, and for nearly a generation they died on the altars of Khosatral.

His sorcery kept them in bonds. Then their priest, a strange gaunt man of unknown race, plunged into the wilderness, and when he returned he bore a knife that was of no earthly substance. It was forged of a meteor which flashed through the shy like a flaming arrow and fell in a far valley. The slaves rose. Their saw-edged crescents cut down the men of Dagon like sheep, and against that unearthly knife the magic of Khosatral was impotent. While carnage and slaughter bellowed through the red smoke that choked the streets, the grimmest act of that grim drama was played in the cryptic dome behind the great daised chamber with its copper throne and its walls mottled like the skin of serpents.

From that dome the Yuetshi priest emerged alone. He had not slain his foe, because he wished to hold the threat of his loosing over the heads of his own rebellious subjects. He had left Khosatral lying upon the golden dais with the mystic knife across his breast for a spell to hold him senseless and inanimate until doomsday.

But the ages passed and the priest died, the towers of deserted Dagon crumbled, the tales became dim, and the Yuetshi were reduced by plagues and famines and war to scattered remnants, dwelling in squalor along the seashore.

Only the cryptic dome resisted the rot of time, until a chance thunderbolt and the curiosity of a fisherman lifted from the breast of the god the magic knife and broke the spell. Khosatral Khel rose and lived and waxed mighty once more. It pleased him to restore the city as it was in the days before its fall. By his necromancy he lifted the towers from the dust of forgotten millenniums, and the folk which had been dust for ages moved in life again.

But folk who have tasted death are only partly alive. In the dark corners of their souls and minds death still lurks unconquered. By night the people of Dagon moved and loved, hated and feasted, and remembered the fall of Dagon and their own slaughter only as a dim dream; they moved in an enchanted mist of illusion, feeling the strangeness of their existence but not inquiring the reasons therefor. With the coming of day they sank into deep sleep, to be roused again only by the coming of night, which is akin to death.

All this rolled in a terrible panorama before Conan's consciousness as he crouched beside the tapestried wall. His reason staggered. All certainty and sanity were swept away, leaving a shadowy universe through which stole hooded figures of grisly potentialities. Through the belling of the voice which was like a tolling of triumph over the ordered laws of a sane planet, a human sound anchored Conan's mind from its flight through spheres of madness. It was the hysterical sobbing of a woman.

Involuntarily he sprang up.

6

Jehungir Agha waited with growing impatience in his boat among the reeds. More than an hour passed, and Conan had not reappeared. Doubtless he was still searching the island for the girl he thought to be hidden there. But another surmise occurred to the Agha. Suppose the hetman had left his warriors near by, and that they should grow suspicious and come to investigate his long absence? Jehungir spoke to the oarsmen, and the long boat slid from among the reeds and glided toward the carven stairs.

Leaving half a dozen men in the boat, he took the rest, ten mighty archers of Khawarizm, in spired helmets and tigerskin cloaks. Like hunters invading the retreat of the lion, they stole forward under the trees, arrows on string. Silence reigned over the forest except when a great green thing that might have been a parrot swirled over their heads with a low thunder of broad wings, and then sped off through the trees. With a sudden gesture Jehungir halted his party, and they stared incredulously at the towers that showed through the verdure in the distance.

'Tarim!' muttered Jehungir. `The pirates have rebuilt the ruins! Doubtless Conan is there. We must investigate this. A fortified town this close to the mainland! - Come!'

With renewed caution they glided through the trees. The game had altered; from pursuers and hunters they had become spies.

And as they crept through the tangled growth, the man they sought was in peril more deadly than their filigreed arrows.

Conan realized with a crawling of his skin that beyond the wall the belling voice had ceased. He stood motionless as a statue, his gaze fixed on a curtained door through which he knew that a culminating horror would presently appear.

It was dim and misty in the chamber, and Conan's hair began to lift on his scalp as he looked. He saw a head and a pair of gigantic shoulders grow out of the twilight gloom. There was no sound of footsteps, but the great dusky form grew more distinct until Conan recognized the figure of a man. He was clad in sandals, a skirt and a broad shagreen girdle. His square-cut mane was confined by a circlet of gold. Conan stared at the sweep of the monstrous shoulders, the breadth of the swelling breast, the bands and ridges and clusters of muscles on torso and limbs. The face was without weakness and without mercy. The eyes were balls of dark fire. And Conan knew that this was Khosatral Khel, the ancient from the Abyss, the god of Dagonia.

No word was spoken. No word was necessary. Khosatral spread his great arms, and Conan, crouching beneath them, slashed at the giant's belly. Then he bounded back, eyes blazing with surprise. The keen edge had rung on the mighty body as on an anvil, rebounding without cutting. Then Khosatral came upon him in an irresistible surge.

There was a fleeting concussion, a fierce writhing and intertwining of limbs and bodies, and then Conan sprang clear, every thew quivering from the violence of his efforts; blood started where the grazing fingers had torn the skin. In that instant of contact he had experienced the ultimate madness of blasphemed nature; no human flesh had bruised his, but metal animated and sentient; it was a body of living iron which opposed his.

Khosatral loomed above the warrior in the gloom. Once let those great fingers lock and they would not loosen until the human body hung limp in their grasp. In that twilit chamber it was as if a man fought with a dream-monster in a nightmare.

Flinging down his useless sword, Conan caught up a heavy bench and hurled it with all his power. It was such a missile as few men could even lift. On Khosatral's mighty breast it smashed into shreds and splinters. It did not even shake the giant on his braced legs. His face lost something of its human aspect, a nimbus of fire played about his awesome head, and like a moving tower he came on.

With a desperate wrench Conan ripped a whole section of tapestry from the wall and whirling it, with a muscular effort greater than that required for throwing the bench, he flung it over the giant's head. For an instant Khosatral floundered, smothered and blinded by the clinging stuff that resisted his strength as wood or steel could not have done, and in that instant Conan caught up his scimitar and shot out into the corridor. Without checking his speed he hurled himself through the door of the adjoining chamber, slammed the door and shot the bolt.

Then as he wheeled he stopped short, all the blood in him seeming to surge to his head. Crouching on a heap of silk cushions, golden hair streaming over her naked shoulders, eyes blank with terror, was the woman for whom he had dared so much. He almost forgot the horror at his heels until a splintering crash behind him brought him to his senses. He caught up the girl and sprang for the opposite door. She was too helpless with fright either to resist or to aid him. A faint whimper was the only sound of which she seemed capable.

Conan wasted no time trying the door. A shattering stroke of his scimitar hewed the lock asunder, and as he sprang through to the stair that loomed beyond it, he saw the head and shoulders of Khosatral crash through the other door. The colossus was splintering the massive panels as if they were of cardboard.

Conan raced up the stair, carrying the big girl over one shoulder as easily as if she had been a child. Where he was going he had no idea, but the stair ended at the door of a round, domed chamber. Khosatral was coming up the stair behind them, silently as a wind of death, and as swiftly.

The chamber's walls were of solid steel, and so was the door. Conan shut it and dropped in place the great bars with which it was furnished. The thought struck him that this was Khosatral's chamber, where he locked himself in to sleep securely from the monsters he had loosed from the Pits to do his bidding.

Hardly were the bolts in place when the great door shook and trembled to the giant's assault. Conan shrugged his shoulders. This was the end of the trail. There was no other door in the chamber, nor any window. Air, and the strange misty light, evidently came from interstices in the dome. He tested the nickel edge of his scimitar, quite cool now that he was at bay. He had done his volcanic best to escape; when the giant came crashing through that door he would explode in another savage onslaught with his useless sword, not because he expected it to do any good, but because it was his nature to die fighting. For the moment there was no course of action to take, and his calmness was not forced or feigned.

The gaze he turned on his fair companion was as admiring and intense as if he had a hundred years to live. He had dumped her unceremoniously on the floor when he turned to close the door, and she had risen to her knees, mechanically arranging her streaming locks and her scanty garment. Conan's fierce eyes glowed with approval as they devoured her thick golden hair, her clear wide eyes, her milky skin, sleek with exuberant health, the firm swell of her breasts, the contours of her splendid hips.

A low cry escaped her as the door shook and a bolt gave way with a groan.

Conan did not look around. He knew the door would hold a little while longer.

`They told me you had escaped,' he said. `A Yuetshi fisher told me you were hiding here. What is your name?'

`Octavia,' she gasped mechanically. Then words came in a rush. She caught at him with desperate fingers. `Oh Mitra! What nightmare is this? The people - the dark-skinned people - one of them caught me in the forest and brought me here. They carried me to - to that - that thing. He told me - he said - am I mad? Is this a dream?'

He glanced at the door which bulged inward as if from the impact of a battering-ram.

`No,' he said, `it's no dream. That hinge is giving way. Strange that a devil has to break down a door like a common man; but after all, his strength itself is a diabolism.'

`Can you not kill him?' she panted. `You are strong.'

Conan was too honest to lie. `If a mortal man could kill him, he'd be dead now,' he answered. `I nicked my blade on his belly.'

Her eyes dulled. `Then you must die, and I must - oh Mitra!' she screamed in sudden frenzy, and Conan caught her hands, fearing that she would harm herself. `He told me what he was going to do to me!' she panted. `Kill me! Kill me with your sword before he bursts the door!'

Conan looked at her, and shook his head.

`I'll do what I can,' he said. `That won't be much, but it'll give you a chance to get past him down the stair. Then run for the cliffs. I have a boat tied at the foot of the steps. If you can get out of the palace you may escape him yet. The people of this city are all asleep.'

She dropped her head in her hands. Conan took up his scimitar and moved over to stand before the echoing door. One watching him would have realized that he was waiting for a death he regarded as inevitable. His eyes smoldered more vividly; his muscular hand knotted harder on his hilt; that was all.

The hinges had given under the giant's terrible assault and the door rocked crazily, held only by the bolts. And these solid steel bars were buckling, bending, bulging out of their sockets. Conan watched in an almost impersonal fascination, envying the monster his inhuman strength.

Then without warning the bombardment ceased. In the stillness Conan heard other noises on the landing outside - the beat of wings, and a muttering voice that was like the whining of wind through midnight branches. Then presently there was silence, but there was a new feel in the air. Only the whetted instincts of barbarism could have sensed it, but Conan knew, without seeing or hearing him leave, that the master of Dagon no longer stood outside the door.

He glared through a crack that had been started in the steel of the portal. The landing was empty. He drew the warped bolts and cautiously pulled aside the sagging door. Khosatral was not on the stair, but far below he heard the clang of a metal door. He did not know whether the giant was plotting new devilries or had been summoned away by that muttering voice, but he wasted no time in conjectures.

He called to Octavia, and the new note in his voice brought her up to her feet and to his side almost without her conscious volition.

`What is it?' she gasped.

`Don't stop to talk!' He caught her wrist. `Come on!' The chance for action had transformed him; his eyes blazed, his voice crackled. `The knife!' he muttered, while almost dragging the girl down the stair in his fierce haste. `The magic Yuetshi blade! He left it in the dome! I-' his voice died suddenly as a clear mental picture sprang up before him. The dome adjoined the great room where stood the copper throne - sweat started out on his body. The only way to that dome was through that room with its copper throne and the foul thing that slumbered in it.

But he did not hesitate. Swiftly they descended the stair, crossed the chamber, descended the next stair, and came into the great dim hall with its mysterious hangings. They had seen no sign of the colossus. Halting before the great bronze-valved door, Conan caught Octavia by her shoulders and shook her in his intensity.

`Listen!' he snapped. `I'm going into that room and fasten the door. Stand here and listen; if Khosatral comes, call to me. If you hear me cry for you to go, run as though the devil were on your heels - which he probably will be. Make for that door at the other end of the hall, because I'll be past helping you. I'm going for the Yuetshi knife!'

Before she could voice the protest her lips were framing, he had slid through the valves and shut them behind him. He lowered the bolt cautiously, not noticing that it could be worked from the outside. In the dim twilight his gaze sought that grim copper throne; yes, the scaly brute was still there, filling the throne with its loathsome coils. He saw a door behind the throne and knew that it led into the dome. But to reach it he must mount the dais, a few feet from the throne itself.

A wind blowing across the green floor would have made more noise than Conan's slinking feet. Eyes glued on the sleeping reptile he reached the dais and mounted the glass steps. The snake had not moved. He was reaching for the door . . .

The bolt on the bronze portal clanged and Conan stifled an awful oath as he saw Octavia come into the room. She stared about, uncertain in the deeper gloom, and he stood frozen, not daring to shout a warning. Then she saw his shadowy figure and ran toward the dais, crying: `I want to go with you! I'm afraid to stay alone - oh!' She threw up her hands with a terrible scream as for the first time she saw the occupant of the throne. The wedge-shaped head had lifted from its coils and thrust out toward her on a yard of shining neck.

Conan cleared the space between him and the throne with a desperate bound, his scimitar swinging with all his power. And with such blinding speed did the serpent move that it whipped about and met him in full midair, lapping his limbs and body with half a dozen coils. His half-checked stroke fell futilely as he crashed down on the dais, gashing the scaly trunk but not severing it.

Then he was writhing on the glass steps with fold after slimy fold knotting about him, twisting, crushing, killing him. His right arm was still free, but he could get no purchase to strike a killing blow, and he knew one blow must suffice. With a groaning convulsion of muscular expansion that bulged his veins almost to bursting on his temples and tied his muscles in quivering, tortured knots, he heaved up on his feet, lifting almost the full weight of that forty-foot devil.

An instant he reeled on wide-braced legs, feeling his ribs caving in on his vitals and his sight growing dark, while his scimitar gleamed above his head. Then it fell, shearing through the scales and flesh and vertebrae. And where there had been one huge writhing cable, now there were horribly two, lashing and flopping in the death throes. Conan staggered away from their blind strokes. He was sick and dizzy, and blood oozed from his nose. Groping in a dark mist he clutched Octavia and shook her until she gasped for breath.

`Next time I tell you to stay somewhere,' he gasped, `you stay!'

He was too dizzy even to know whether she replied. Taking her wrist like a truant schoolgirl, he led her around the hideous stumps that still looped and knotted on the floor. Somewhere, in the distance, he thought he heard men yelling, but his ears were still roaring so that he could not be sure.

The door gave to his efforts. If Khosatral had placed the snake there to guard the thing he feared, evidently he considered it ample precaution. Conan half expected some other monstrosity to leap at him with the opening of the door, but in the dimmer light he saw only the vague sweep of the arch above, a dully gleaming block of gold, and a half-moon glimmer on the stone.

With a gasp of gratification he scooped it up, and did not linger for further exploration. He turned and fled across the room and down the great hall toward the distant door that he felt led to the outer air. He was correct. A few minutes later he emerged into the silent streets, half carrying, half guiding his companion. There was no one to be seen, but beyond the western wall there sounded cries and moaning wails that made Octavia tremble. He led her to the southwestern wall, and without difficulty found a stone stair that mounted the rampart. He had appropriated a thick tapestry rope in the great hall, and now, having reached the parapet, he looped the soft strong cord about the girl's hips and lowered her to the earth. Then, making one end fast to a merlon, he slid down after her. There was but one way of escape from the island - the stair on the western cliffs. In that direction he hurried, swinging wide around the spot from which had come the cries and the sound of terrible blows.

Octavia sensed that grim peril lurked in those leafy fastnesses. Her breath came pantingly and she pressed close to her protector. But the forest was silent now, and they saw no shape of menace until they emerged from the trees and glimpsed a figure standing on the edge of the cliffs.

Jehungir Agha had escaped the doom that had overtaken his warriors when an iron giant sallied suddenly from the gate and battered and crushed them into bits of shredded flesh and splintered bone. When he saw the swords of his archers break on that man-like juggernaut, he had known it was no human foe they faced, and he had fled, hiding in the deep woods until the sounds of slaughter ceased. Then he crept back to the stair, but his boatmen were not waiting for him.

They had heard the screams, and presently, waiting nervously, had seen, on the cliff above them, a blood-smeared monster waving gigantic arms in awful triumph. They had waited for no more. When Jehungir came upon the cliffs they were just vanishing among the reeds beyond ear-shot. Khosatral was gone - had either returned to the city or was prowling the forest in search of the man who had escaped him outside the walls.

Jehungir was just preparing to descend the stairs and depart in Conan's boat, when he saw the hetman and the girl emerge from the trees. The experience which had congealed his blood and almost blasted his reason had not altered Jehungir's intentions toward the kozak chief. The sight of the man he had come to kill filled him with gratification. He was astonished to see the girl he had given to Jelal Khan, but he wasted no time on her. Lifting his bow he drew the shaft to its head and loosed. Conan crouched and the arrow splintered on a tree, and Conan laughed.

`Dog!' he taunted. `You can't hit me! I was not born to die on Hyrkanian steel! Try again, pig of Turan!'

Jehungir did not try again. That was his last arrow. He drew his scimitar and advanced, confident in his spired helmet and close-meshed mail. Conan met him halfway in a blinding whirl of swords. The curved blades ground together, sprang apart, circled in glittering arcs that blurred the sight which tried to follow them. Octavia, watching, did not see the stroke, but she heard its chopping impact, and saw Jehungir fall, blood spurting from his side where the Cimmerian's steel had sundered his mail and bitten to his spine.

But Octavia's scream was not caused by the death of her former master. With a crash of bending boughs Khosatral Khel was upon them. The girl could not flee; a moaning cry escaped her as her knees gave way and pitched her grovelling to the sward.

Conan, stooping above the body of the Agha, made no move to escape. Shifting his reddened scimitar to his left hand, he drew the great half-blade of the Yuetshi. Khosatral Khel was towering above him, his arms lifted like mauls, but as the blade caught the sheen of the sun, the giant gave back suddenly.

But Conan's blood was up. He rushed in, slashing with the crescent blade. And it did not splinter. Under its edge the dusky metal of Khosatral's body gave way like common flesh beneath a cleaver. From the deep gash flowed a strange ichor, and Khosatral cried out like the dirging of a great bell. His terrible arms flailed down, but Conan, quicker than the archers who had died beneath those awful flails, avoided their strokes and struck again and yet again. Khosatral reeled and tottered; his cries were awful to hear, as if metal were given a tongue of pain, as if iron shrieked and bellowed under torment.

Then wheeling away he staggered into the forest; he reeled in his gait, crashed through bushes and caromed off trees. Yet though Conan followed him with the speed of hot passion, the walls and towers of Dagon loomed through the trees before the man came within dagger-reach of the giant.

Then Khosatral turned again, flailing the air with desperate blows, but Conan, fired to berserk fury, was not to be denied. As a panther strikes down a bull moose at bay, so he plunged under the bludgeoning arms and drove the crescent blade to the hilt under the spot where a human's heart would be.

Khosatral reeled and fell. In the shape of a man he reeled, but it was not the shape of a man that struck the loam. Where there had been the likeness of a human face, there was no face at all, and the metal limbs melted and changed . . . Conan, who had not shrunk from Khosatral living, recoiled blenching from Khosatral dead, for he had witnessed an awful transmutation; in his dying throes Khosatral Khel had become again the thing that had crawled up from the Abyss millenniums gone. Gagging with intolerable repugnance, Conan turned to flee the sight; and he was suddenly aware that the pinnacles of Dagon no longer glimmered through the trees. They had faded like smoke - the battlements, the crenellated towers, the great bronze gates, the velvets, the gold, the ivory, and the dark-haired women, and the men with their shaven skulls. With the passing of the inhuman intellect which had given them rebirth, they had faded back into the dust which they had been for ages uncounted. Only the stumps of broken columns rose above crumbling walls and broken paves and shattered dome. Conan again looked upon the ruins of Xapur as he remembered them.

The wild hetman stood like a statue for a space, dimly grasping something of the cosmic tragedy of the fitful ephemera called mankind and the hooded shapes of darkness which prey upon it. Then as he heard his name called in accents of fear, he started, as one awaking from a dream, glanced again at the thing on the ground, shuddered and turned away toward the cliffs and the girl that waited there.

She was peering fearfully under the trees, and she greeted him with a half-stifled cry of relief. He had shaken off the dim monstrous visions which had momentarily haunted him, and was his exuberant self again.

`Where is he?' she shuddered.

`Gone back to hell whence he crawled,' he replied cheerfully. `Why didn't you climb the stair and make your escape in my boat?'

`I wouldn't desert-' she began, then changed her mind, and amended rather sulkily, `I have nowhere to go. The Hyrkanians would enslave me again, and the pirates would-'

`What of the kozaks?' he suggested.

`Are they better than the pirates?' she asked scornfully. Conan's admiration increased to see how well she had recovered her poise after having endured such frantic terror. Her arrogance amused him.

`You seemed to think so in the camp by Ghori,' he answered. `You were free enough with your smiles then.'

Her red lip curled in disdain. `Do you think I was enamored of you? Do you dream that I would have shamed myself before an ale-guzzling, meat-gorging barbarian unless I had to? My master - whose body lies there - forced me to do as I did.'

`Oh!' Conan seemed rather crestfallen. Then he laughed with undiminished zest. `No matter. You belong to me now. Give me a kiss.'

`You dare ask-' she began angrily, when she felt herself snatched off her feet and crushed to the hetman's muscular breast. She fought him fiercely, with all the supple strength of her magnificent youth, but he only laughed exuberantly, drunk with his possession of this splendid creature writhing in his arms.

He crushed her struggles easily, drinking the nectar of her lips with all the unrestrained passion that was his, until the arms that strained against him melted and twined convulsively about his massive neck. Then he laughed down into the clear eyes, and said: `Why should not a chief of the Free People be preferable to a city-bred dog of Turan?'

She shook back her tawny locks, still tingling in every nerve from the fire of his kisses. She did not loosen her arms from his neck. `Do you deem yourself an Agha's equal?' she challenged.

He laughed and strode with her in his arms toward the stair. `You shall judge,' he boasted. `I'll burn Khawarizm for a torch to light your way to my tent.'

The Flame Knife

1. Knives in the Dark

The scuff of swift and stealthy feet in the darkened doorway warned the giant Cimmerian. He wheeled to see a tall figure lunging at him from the black arch. It was dark in the alley, but Conan glimpsed a fierce, bearded face and the gleam of steel in a lifted hand, even as he avoided the blow with a twist of his body. The knife ripped his tunic and glanced along the shirt of light chain mail he wore beneath it Before the assassin could recover his balance, the Cimmerian caught his arm and brought his massive fist down like a sledge hammer on the back of the fellow's neck. The man crumpled to earth without a sound.

Conan stood over him, listening with tense expectancy. Up the street, around the next comer, he caught the shuffle of sandaled feet, the muffled clink of steel. These sinister sounds told him the nighted streets of Anshan were a deathtrap. He hesitated, half-drew the scimitar at his side, then shrugged and hurried down the street. He swerved wide of the dark arches that gaped in the walls that lined it.

He turned into a wider street and a few moments later rapped softly on a door, above which burned a bronze lantern. The door opened almost instantly. Conan stepped inside, snapping:

"Lock the door!"

The massive Shemite who had admitted the Cimmerian shot home the heavy bolt and turned, tugging his curled blue-black beard as he inspected his commander.

"Your shirt is gashed, Conan!" he rumbled.

"A man tried to knife me," answered Conan. "Others followed."

The Shemite's black eyes blazed as he laid a broad, hairy hand on the three-foot Ilbarsi knife that jutted from his hip. "Let us sally forth and slay the dogs!" he urged.

Conan shook his head. He was a huge man, much taller than the Shemite, but for all his size he moved with the lightness of a cat His thick chest, corded neck, and square shoulders spoke of primordial strength, speed, and endurance.

"Other things come first" he said. "They're enemies of Balash, who knew I quarreled with the king tonight."

"You did!" cried the Shemite. "This is dark news indeed. What said the king?"

Conan picked up a flagon of wine and gulped down half of it. "Oh, Kobad Shah is mad with suspicion," he said. "Now it's our friend Balash. The chiefs enemies have poisoned the king against him; but then, Balash is stubborn. He won't come in and surrender as Kobad demands, saying Kobad means to stick his head on a pike. So Kobad ordered me to take the kozaki into the Ilbars Mountains and bring back Balash―all of him if possible, but his head in any case."

"And?"

"I refused."

"You did?" said the Shemite in an awed whisper.

"Of course! What do you think I am? I told Kobad Shah how Balash and his tribe saved us when we got lost in the Ilbars in the middle of winter, on our ride south from the Vilayet Sea. Most hillmen would have wiped us out. But the fool wouldn't listen. He began shouting about his divine right and the insolence of low-born barbarians and such stuff.

One more word and I'd have stuffed his imperial turban down his throat."

"You did not strike the king?" said the Shemite.

"Nay, though I felt like it Crom! I can't understand the way you civilized men crawl on your bellies before any copper-riveted ass who happens to sit on a jeweled chair with a bauble on his head."

"Because these asses can have us flayed or impaled at a nod. Now, we must flee from Iranistan to escape the king's wrath."

Conan finished the wine and smacked his lips. "I think not; hell get over it He knows his army is not what it was in his grandsire's time, and we're the only light horse he can count on. But that still leaves our friend Balash. I'm tempted to ride north to warn him."

"Alone, Conan?"

"Why not? You can give it out that I'm sleeping off a debauch for a few days until―"

A light knock on the door made Conan cut off his sentence. He glanced at the Shemite, stepped to the door, and growled:

"Who's there?"

"It is I, Nanaia," said a woman's voice.

Conan stared at his companion. "Do you know any Nanaia, Tubal?"

"Not I. It must be some trick."

"Let me in," said the voice.

"We shall see," muttered Conan, his eyes blazing a volcanic blue in the lamplight. He drew his scimitar and laid a hand on the bolt, while Tubal, knife drawn, took his place on the other side of the door.

Conan snapped the bolt and whipped open the door. A veiled figure stepped across the threshold, then gave a little shriek and shrank back at the sight of the gleaming blades poised on muscular arms.

Conan's blade darted out so that its tip touched the back of the visitor. "Enter, my lady," he rambled in barbarously accented Iranistani.

The woman stepped forward. Conan slammed the door and shot home the bolt "Is anybody with you?"

"N-nay, I came alone…"

Conan's left arm shot out with the speed of a serpent's strike and ripped the veil from the woman's face. She was tall, lithe, young, and dark, with black hair and finely-chiseled features.

"Now, Nanaia, what is this all about?" he said.

"I am a girl from the king's seraglio―"

Tubal gave a long whistle. "Now we are in for it."

"Go on, Nanaia," said Conan.

"Well, I have often seen you through the lattice behind the throne, when you were closeted with Kobad. It is the king's pleasure to let his women watch him at his royal business. We are supposed to be shut out of this gallery when weighty matters are discussed, but tonight Xathrita the eunuch was drunk and failed to lock the door between the gallery and the women's apartments. I stole back and heard your bitter speech with the king.

"When you had gone, Kobad was very angry. He called in Hakhamani the informer and bade him quietly murder you. Hakhamani was to make it look like an accident."

"If I catch Hakhamani, I'll make him look like an accident," gritted Conan. "But why all this delicacy? Kobad is no more backward than most kings about shortening or lengthening the necks of people he likes not."

"Because the king wants to keep the services of your kozaki, and if they knew he had slain you they would revolt or ride away."

"And why did you bring me this news?"

She looked at him from large dark melting eyes. "I perish in the harem from boredom. With hundreds of women, the king has no time for me. I have admired you through the screen ever since you took service here and hope you will take me with you. Anything is better than the suffocating monotony of this gilded prison, with its everlasting gossip and intrigue. I am the daughter of Kujala, chief of the Gwadiri. We are a tribe of fishermen and mariners, far to the south among the Islands of Pearl. I have steered my own ship through a typhoon, and such indolence drives me mad."

"How did you get out of the palace?"

"A rope and an unguarded old window with the bars broken away… But that is not important. Will you take me?"

"Send her back," said Tubal in the lingua franca of the kozaki: a mixture of Zaporoskan, Hyrkanian, and other tongues. "Or better yet, cut her throat and bury her in the garden. He might let us go unharmed, but he'd never let us get away with the wench. Let him find that you have run off with one of his concubines and he'll overturn every stone in Iranistan to find you."

The girl evidently did not understand the words but quailed at the menace of the tone.

Conan grinned wolfishly. "On the contrary. The thought of slinking out of the country with my tail between my legs makes my guts ache. But if I can take something like this along for a trophy―well, so long as we must leave anyway…" He turned to Nanaia. "You understand that the pace will be fast, the going rough, and the company not so polite as you're used to?"

"I understand."

"And furthermore," he said with narrowed eyes, "that I command absolutely?"

"Aye."

"Good. Wake the dog-brothers, Tubal; we ride as soon as they can stow their gear and saddle up."

Muttering his forebodings, the Shemite strode into an inner chamber and shook a man sleeping on a heap of carpets. "Awaken, son of a long line of thieves. We ride northward."

Hattusas, a slight, dark Zamorian, sat up yawning. "Whither?"

"To Kushaf in the Ilbars Mountains, where we wintered, and where the rebel dog Balash will doubtless cut all our throats," growled Tubal.

Hattusas grinned as he rose. "You have no love for the Kushafi, but he is Conan's sworn friend."

Tubal scowled as he stalked out into the courtyard and through the door that led to the adjacent barrack. Groans and curses came from the barrack as the men were shaken awake.

Two hours later, the shadowy figures that lurked about Conan's house shrank back into the shadows as the gate of the stable yard swung open and the three hundred Free Companions clattered out in double file, leading pack mules and spare horses. They were men of all nations, the remnants of the band of kozaki whom Conan had led south from the steppes around the Vilayet Sea when King Yezdigerd of Turan had gathered a mighty army and broken the outlaw confederacy in an all-day battle. They had arrived in Anshan ragged and half-starved. Now they were gaudy in silken pantaloons and spired helmets of Iranistani pattern, and loaded down with weapons.

Meanwhile in the palace, the king of Iranistan brooded on his throne.

Suspicion had eaten into his troubled soul until he saw enemies everywhere, within and without For a time he had counted on the support of Conan, the leader of the squadron of mercenary light horse. The northern savage might lack the suave manners of the cultivated Iranistani court, but he did seem to have his own barbarian code of honor. Now, however, he had flatly refused to carry out Kobad Shah's order to seize the traitor Balash…

The king glanced at the curtain masking an alcove, absently reflecting that the wind must be rising, since the tapestry swayed a little. His eyes swept the gold-barred window and he went cold. The light curtains there hung motionless. Yet the hangings over the alcove had stirred…

Though short and fat, Kobad Shah did not lack personal courage. As he sprang, seized the tapestries, and tore them apart, a dagger in a dark hand licked from between them and smote him full in the breast He cried out as he went down, dragging his assailant with him. The man snarled like a wild beast his dilated eyes glaring madly. His dagger ribboned the king's robe, revealing the mail shirt that stopped his first thrust.

Outside, a deep shout echoed the king's shrill yells for help. Booted feet pounded in the corridor. The king had grasped his attacker by throat and knife wrist but the man's stringy muscles were like knotted steel cords. As they rolled on the floor, the dagger, glancing from the links of the mail shirt, fleshed itself in arm, thigh, and hand. Then, as the bravo heaved the weakening ruler under him, grasped his throat and lifted the knife again, something flashed in the lamplight like a jet of blue lightning. The murderer collapsed, his head split to the teeth.

"Your majesty! Sire!" It was Gotarza, the towering captain of the royal guard, pale under his long black beard. As Kobad Shah sank down on a divan, Gotarza began ripping strips from the hangings to bind his wounds.

"Look!" gasped the king, pointing. His face was livid; his hand shook.

"The knife! By Asura, the knife!"

It lay glinting by the dead man's hand―a curious weapon with a wavy blade shaped like a flame. Gotarza started and swore under his breath.

"The flame knife!" panted Kobad Shah. "The same weapon that struck at the King of Vendhya and the King of Turan!"

"The mark of the Hidden Ones," muttered Gotarza, uneasily eyeing the ominous symbol of the terrible cult.

The noise had roused the palace. Men were running down the corridors, shouting to know what had happened.

"Shut the door!" exclaimed the king. "Admit no one but the major-domo of the palace!"

"But we must have a physician, your majesty," protested the officer.

"These wounds will not slay of themselves, but the dagger might have been poisoned."

"No, fetch no one! Whoever he is, he might be in the service of my foes. Asura! The Yezmites have marked me for doom!" The experience had shaken the king's courage. "Who can fight the dagger in the dark, the serpent underfoot, the poison in the wine cup? There is that western barbarian, Conan―but no, not even he is to be trusted, now that he has defied my commands… Let the major-domo in, Gotarza." When the officer admitted the stout official, the king asked: "What news, Bardiya?"

"Oh, sire, what has happened? It is―"

"Never mind what has happened to me. I see by your eyes you have news.

What know you?"

"The kozaki have ridden forth from the city with Conan, who told the guard at the North Gate they were on their way to take Balash as you commanded."

"Good. Perhaps the fellow has repented his insolence. What else?"

"Hakhamani the informer caught Conan on his way home, but Conan slew one of his men and escaped."

"That is just as well. Call off Hakhamani until we know what Conan intends by this foray. Anything more?"

"One of your women, Nanaia the daughter of Kujala, has fled the palace.

We found the rope by which she escaped."

Kobad Shah gave a roar. "She must have gone with Conan! It is too much to have been pure chance! And he must be connected with the Hidden Ones too! Else why should they strike at me just after I have quarreled with him? He must have gone straight from my presence to send the Yezmite to slay me. Gotarza, turn out the royal guard. Ride after the kozaki and bring me Conan's head, or your own shall answer for it! Take at least five hundred men, for the barbarian is fierce and crafty and not to be trifled with."

As Gotarza hurried from the chamber, the long groaned: "Now, Bardiya, fetch a leech. My veins are afire. Gotarza was right; the dagger must have been envenomed."

Three days after his hurried departure from Anshan, Conan sat cross-legged in the trail where it looped over the rock ridge to follow the slope down to the village of Kushaf.

"I would stand between you and death," he said to the man who sat opposite him, "as you did for me when your hill wolves would have massacred us."

The man tugged his purple-stained beard reflectively. He was broad and powerful, with gray-flecked hair and a broad belt bristling with knife and dagger hilts. He was Balash, chief of the Kushafi tribesmen and overlord of Kushaf and its neighboring villages. But he spoke modestly:

"The gods favor you! Yet what man can pass the spot of his death?"

"A man can either fight or flee, and not sit on a rock like an apple in a tree, waiting to be picked. If you want to take a long chance of making your peace with the king, you can go to Anshan―"

"I have too many enemies at court. In Anshan, the king would listen to their lies and hang me up in an iron cage for the kites to eat Nay, I will not go!"

"Then take your people and find another abode. There are places in these hills where not even the king could follow you."

Balash glanced down the rocky slope to the cluster of mud-and-stone towers that rose above the encircling wall. His thin nostrils expanded, and into his eyes came a dark flame like that of an eagle surveying its eyrie.

"Nay, by Asura! My clan has held Kushaf since the days of Bahram. Let the king rule in Anshan; this is mine!"

"The king will likewise rule in Kushaf," grunted Tubal, squatting behind Conan with Hattusas the Zamorian.

Balash glanced in the other direction where the trail disappeared to the east between jutting crags. On these crags, bits of white cloth were blown out by the wind, which the watchers knew were the garments of archers and javelin men who guarded the pass day and night.

"Let him come," said Balash. "We hold the passes."

"He'll bring ten thousand men, in heavy armor, with catapults and other siege gear," said Conan. "He'll burn Kushaf and take your head back to Anshan."

"That will happen which will happen," said Balash.

Conan fought down a rising anger at the fatalism of these people. Every instinct of his strenuous nature was a negation of this inert philosophy. But, as they seemed to be deadlocked, he said nothing but sat staring at the western crags where the sun hung, a ball of fire in the sharp, windy blue.

Balash dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand and said: "Conan, there is something I would show you. Down in yonder ruined hut outside the wall lies a dead man, whose like was never seen in Kushaf. Even in death, he is strange and evil. I think he is no natural man at all, but a demon. Come."

He led the way down the slope to the hovel, explaining: "My warriors came upon him lying at the base of a cliff, as if he had fallen or been thrown from the top. I made them bring him here, but he died on the way, babbling in a strange tongue. They deem him a demon, with good cause.

"A long day's journey southward, among mountains so wild and barren not even a goat could dwell among them, lies the country we call Drujistan."

"Drujistan!" echoed Conan. "Land of demons, eh?"

"Aye! An evil region of black crags and wild gorges, shunned by wise men. It seems uninhabited, yet men dwell there―men or devils. Sometimes a man is slain or a child or woman stolen from a lonely trail, and we know it is their work. We have followed and glimpsed shadowy figures moving through the night, but always the trail ends against a blank cliff, through which only a demon could pass. Sometimes we hear drums echoing among the crags, or the roaring of the fiends. It is a sound to turn men's hearts to ice. The old legends say that among these mountains, thousands of years ago, the ghoul-king Ura built the magical city of Yanaidar, and that the deadly ghosts of Ura and his hideous subjects still haunt the ruins. Another legend tells how, a thousand years ago, a chief of the Ilbarsi hillmen settled in the ruins and began to repair them and make the city his stronghold; but in one night he and his followers vanished, nor were they ever seen again."

They reached the ruined hut, and Balash pulled open the sagging door. A moment later, the five men were bending over a figure sprawled on the dirt floor.

It was a figure alien and incongruous: that of a stocky man with broad, square, flat features, colored like dark copper, and narrow, slanting eyes―an unmistakable son of Khitai. Blood clotted the coarse black hair on the back of his head, and the unnatural position of his body told of shattered bones.

"Has he not the look of an evil spirit?" asked Balash.

"He's no demon, whether he was a wizard in life or not," answered Conan. "He's a Khitan, from a country far to the east of Hyrkania, beyond mountains and deserts and jungles so vast you could lose a dozen Iranistans in them. I rode through that land when I soldiered for the king of Turan. But what this fellow is doing here I cannot say―"

Suddenly his blue eyes blazed and he tore the bloodstained tunic away from the squat throat A stained woolen shirt came into view, and Tubal, looking over Conan's shoulder, grunted explosively. On the shirt, worked in thread so crimson it might at first glance have been mistaken for a splash of blood, appeared a curious emblem: a human fist grasping a hilt from which jutted a knife with a wavy blade.

The flame knife!" whispered Balash, recoiling from that symbol of death and destruction.

All looked at Conan, who stared down at the sinister emblem, trying to recapture a vague train of associations it roused―dim memories of an ancient and evil cult, which used that symbol. Finally he said to Hattusas:

"When I was a thief in Zamora, I heard rumors of a cult called the Yezmites that used such a symbol. You're a Zamorian; what know you of this?"

Hattusas shrugged. "There are many cults whose roots go back to the beginnings of time, to the days before the Cataclysm. Often rulers have thought they had stamped them out, and often they have come to life again. The Hidden Ones or Sons of Yezm are one of these, but more I cannot tell you. I meddle not in such matters."

Conan spoke to Balash: "Can your men guide me to where you found this man?"

"Aye. But it is an evil place, in the Gorge of Ghosts, on the borders of Drujistan, and―"

"Good. Everybody get some sleep. We ride at dawn."

"To Anshan?" asked Balash.

"No. To Drujistan."

"Then you think―?"

"I think nothing―yet."

"Will the squadron ride with us?" asked Tubal. "The horses are badly worn."

"No, let the men and horses rest. You and Hattusas shall go with me, together with one of Balash's Kushafis for a guide. Codrus commands in my absence, and if there's any trouble as a result of my dogs' laying hands on the Kushafi women, tell him he is to knock their heads in."

2. The Black Country

Dusk mantled the serrated skyline when Conan's guide halted. Ahead, the rugged terrain was broken by a deep canyon. Beyond the canyon rose a forbidding array of black crags and frowning cliffs, a wild, haglike chaos of broken black rock.

"There begins Drujistan," said the Kushafi. "Beyond that gorge, the Gorge of Ghosts, begins the country of horror and death. I go no farther."

Conan nodded, his eyes picking out a trail that looped down rugged slopes into the canyon. It was a fading trace of the ancient road they had been following for many miles, but it looked as though it had often been used of late.

Conan glanced around. With him were Tubal, Hattusas, the guide―and Nanaia the girl. She had insisted on coming because, she said, she feared to be separated from Conan among all these wild foreigners, whose speech she could not understand. She had proved a good traveling companion, tough and uncomplaining, though of volatile and fiery disposition.

The Kushafi said: "The trail is well-traveled, as you see. By it the demons of the black mountains come and go. But men who follow it do not return."

Tubal jeered. "What need demons with a trail? They fly with wings like bats!"

"When they take the shape of men they walk like men," said the Kushafi.

He pointed to the jutting ledge over which the trail wound. "At the foot of that slope we found the man you called a Khitan. Doubtless his brother demons quarreled with him and cast him down."

"Doubtless he tripped and fell," grunted Conan. "Khitans of the desert are unused to climbing, their legs being bowed and weakened by a life in the saddle. Such a one would easily stumble on a narrow trail."

"If he was a man, perhaps," said the Kushafi. "But― Asura!"

All but Conan jumped, and the Kushafi snatched at his bow, glaring wildly. Out over the crags, from the south, rolled an incredible sound―a strident, braying roar, which vibrated among the mountains.

"The voice of the demons!" cried the Kushafi, jerking the rein so that his horse squealed and reared. "In the name of Asura, let us be gone!

It's madness to remain!"

"Go back to your village if you're afraid," said Conan. "I'm going on."

In truth, the hint of the supernatural made the Cimmerian's nape prickle too, but before his followers he did not wish to admit this.

"Without your men? It is madness! At least send back for your followers."

Conan's eyes narrowed like those of a hunting wolf. "Not this time. For scouting and spying, the fewer the better. I think I'll have a look at this land of demons; I could use a mountain stronghold." To Nanaia he said: "You had better go back, girl."

She began to weep. "Do not send me away, Conan! The wild mountaineers will ravish me."

He glanced down her long, well-muscled figure. "Anyone who tried it would have a task. Well, come on then, and do not say I didn't warn you."

The guide wheeled his pony and kicked it into a run, calling back: "Balash will weep for you! There will be woe in Kushaf! Aie! Ahai!

His lamentations died away amidst the clatter of hoofs on stone as the Kushafi, flogging his pony, topped a ridge and vanished.

"Run, son of a noseless dam!" yelled Tubal. "Well brand your devils and drag them to Kushaf by their tails!" But he fell silent the instant the victim was out of hearing.

Conan spoke to Hattusas: "Have you ever heard a sound like that?"

The lithe Zamorian nodded. "Yes, in the mountains of the devil worshipers."

Conan lifted his reins without comment. He, too, had heard the roar of the ten-foot bronze trumpets that blared over the bare black mountains of forbidden Pathenia, in the hands of shaven-headed priests of Erlik.

Tubal snorted like a rhinoceros. He had not heard those trumpets, and he thrust his horse in ahead of Hattusas so as to be next to Conan as they rode down the steep slopes in the purple dusk. He said roughly: "Now that we have been lured into this country of devils by treacherous Kushafi dogs who will undoubtedly steal back and cut your throat while you sleep, what have you planned?"

It might have been an old hound growling at his master for patting another dog. Conan bent his head and spat to hide a grin. "We'll camp in the canyon tonight. The horses are too tired for struggling through these gulches in the dark. Tomorrow we shall explore.

"I think the Hidden Ones have a camp in that country across the gorge.

The hills hereabouts are but thinly settled. Kushaf is the nearest village, and it's a hard day's ride away. Wandering clans stay out of these parts for fear of the Kushafis, and Balash's men are too superstitious to explore across the gorge. The Hidden Ones, over there, could come and go without being seen. I know not just what we shall do; our destiny is on the knees of the gods."

As they came down into the canyon, they saw that the trail led across the rock-strewn floor and into the mouth of a deep, narrow gorge, which debouched into the canyon from the south. The south wall of the canyon was higher than the north and more sheer. It swept up in a sullen rampart of solid black rock, broken at intervals by narrow gorge mouths. Conan rode into the gulch into which the trail wound and followed it to the first bend. He found that this bend was but the first of a succession of kinks. The ravine, running between sheer walls of rock, writhed and twisted like the track of a serpent and was already filled with darkness.

"This is our road tomorrow," said Conan. His men nodded silently as he led them back to the main canyon, where some light still lingered. The clang of their horses' hoofs on the flint seemed loud in the sullen silence.

A few score of paces west of the trail ravine, another, narrower gulch opened into the canyon. Its rocky floor showed no sign of any trail, and it narrowed so rapidly that Conan thought it ended in a blind alley.

Halfway between these ravine mouths, near the north wall, a tiny spring bubbled up in a natural basin of age-hollowed rock. Behind it, in a cavelike niche in the cliff, dry wiry grass grew sparsely. There they tethered the weary horses. They camped at the spring, eating dried meat and not risking a fire, which might be seen by hostile eyes.

Conan divided his party into two watches. Tubal he placed on guard west of the camp, near the mouth of the narrower ravine, while Hattusas had his station close to the mouth of the eastern ravine. Any hostile band coming up or down the canyon, or entering it from either ravine, would have to pass these vigilant sentries.

Darkness came swiftly in the canyon, seeming to flow in waves down the black slopes and ooze out of the mouths of the ravines. Stars blinked out, cold, white, and impersonal. Above the invaders brooded the great dusky bulks of the broken mountains. Conan fell asleep wondering idly what grim spectacles they had witnessed since the beginning of time.

The razor-keen perceptions of the barbarian had never been dulled by Conan's years of contact with civilization. As Tubal approached him to lay a hand on his shoulder, Conan awoke and rose to a crouch, sword in hand, before the Shemite even had a chance to touch him.

"What is it?" muttered Conan.

Tubal squatted beside him, gigantic shoulders bulking dimly in the gloom. Back in the shadow of the cliffs, the unseen horses moved restlessly. Conan knew that peril was in the air even before Tubal spoke:

"Hattusas is slain and the girl is gone! Death is creeping upon us in the dark!"

"What?"

"Hattusas lies near the mouth of the ravine with his throat cut. I heard the sound of a rolling pebble from the mouth of the eastern ravine and stole thither without rousing you, and lo, there lay Hattusas in his blood. He must have died silently and suddenly. I saw no one and heard no further sound in the ravine. Then I hastened back to you and found Nanaia gone. The devils of the hills have slain one and snatched away the other without a sound. I sense that Death still skulks here. This is indeed the Gorge of Ghosts!"

Conan crouched silently on one knee, straining eyes and ears into the darkness. That the keen-sensed Zamorian should have died and Nanaia been spirited away without the sound of a struggle smacked of the diabolical.

"Who can fight devils, Conan? Let us mount and ride―"

"Listen!"

Somewhere a bare foot scuffed the rock floor. Conan rose, peering into the gloom. Men were moving out there in the darkness. Shadows detached themselves from the black background and slunk forward. Conan drew a dagger with his left hand. Tubal crouched beside him, gripping his Ilbarsi knife, silent and deadly as a wolf at bay.

The dim-seen line moved in slowly, widening as it came. Conan and the Shemite fell back a few paces to have the rock wall at their backs and keep themselves from being surrounded.

The rush came suddenly, bare feet slapping softly over the rocky floor, steel glinting dully in the dim starlight Conan could make out but few details of their assailants ―only the bulks of them, and the shimmer of steel. He struck and parried by instinct and feel as much as by sight.

He killed the first man to come within sword reach. Tubal sounded a deep yell at the discovery that his foes were human after all and exploded in a burst of berserk ferocity. The sweep of his heavy, three-foot knife was devastating. Side by side, with the wall at their backs, the two companions were safe from attack on Tear or flank.

Steel rang sharp on steel and blue sparks flew. There rose the ugly butcher-shop sound of blades cleaving flesh and bone. Men screamed or gasped death gurgles from severed throats. For a few moments a huddled knot writhed and milled near the rock wall. The work was too swift and blind and desperate to allow consecutive thought. But the advantage lay with the men at bay. They could see as well as their attackers; man for man they were stronger; and they knew that when they struck their steel would flesh itself only in hostile bodies. The others were handicapped by their numbers; for, the knowledge that they might kill a companion with a blind stroke must have tempered their frenzy.

Conan ducked a sword before he realized he had seen it swinging. His return stroke grated against mail; instead of hacking through it he slashed at an unprotected thigh and brought the man down. As he engaged the next man, the fallen one dragged himself forward and drove a knife at Conan's body, but Conan's own mail stopped it, and the dagger in Conan's left hand found the man's throat. Men spurted their blood on him as they died.

Then the rush ebbed. The attackers melted away like phantoms into the darkness, which was becoming less absolute. The eastern rim of the canyon was lined with a faint silvery fire that marked the moonrise.

Tubal gave tongue like a wolf and charged after the retreating figures, the foam of blood lust flecking his beard. He stumbled over a corpse and stabbed savagely downward before he realized it was a dead man.

Then Conan grabbed his arm. He almost dragged the mighty Cimmerian off his feet as he plunged and snorted like a lassoed bull.

"Wait, fool!" snarled Conan. "Do you want to ran into a trap?"

Tubal subsided to a wolfish wariness. Together they glided after the vague figures, which disappeared into the mouth of the eastern ravine.

There the pursuers halted, peering warily into the black depths.

Somewhere far down it, a dislodged pebble rattled on the stone. Conan tensed like a suspicious panther.

"The dogs still flee," muttered Tubal. "Shall we follow?"

Conan shook his head. With Nanaia a captive, he could not afford to throw his life away by a mad rush into the well of blackness, where ambushes might make any step a march of death. They fell back to the camp and the frightened horses, which were frantic with the stench of fresh-spilt blood.

"When the moon rises high enough to flood the canyon with light," said Tubal, "they will shoot us with arrows from the ravine."

"We must take the chance," grunted Conan. "Maybe they are poor shots."

They squatted in the shadow of the cliffs in silence as the moonlight, weird and ghostly, grew in the canyon, and boulder, ledge, and wall took shape. No sound disturbed the brooding quiet. Then, by the waxing light, Conan investigated the four dead men left behind by the attackers. As he peered from face to bearded face, Tubal exclaimed:

"Devil-worshipers! Sabateans!"

"No wonder they could creep like cats," muttered Conan. In Shem he had learned of the uncanny stealth of the people of that ancient and abominable cult, which worshiped the Golden Peacock in the nighted domes of accursed Sabatea. "What are they doing here? Their homeland is in Shem. Let's see―Ha!"

Conan opened the man's robe. There on the linen jerkin that covered the Sabatean's thick chest appeared the emblem of a hand gripping a flame-shaped dagger. Tubal ripped the tunics from the other three corpses. Each displayed the fist and knife. He said:

"What sort of cult is this of the Hidden Ones, that draws men from Shem and Khitai, thousands of miles asunder?"

"That's what I mean to find out," answered Conan. They squatted in the shadow of the cliffs in silence. Then Tubal rose and said:

"What now?"

Conan pointed to dark splotches on the bare rock floor, which the moonlight now made visible. "We can follow that trail."

Tubal wiped and sheathed his knife, while Conan wound around his waist a coil of thin, strong rope with a three-pointed iron hook at one end.

He had found such a rope useful in his days as a thief. The moon had risen higher, drawing a silver thread along the middle of the ravine.

Through the moonlight, they approached the mouth of the ravine. No bowstring twanged; no javelin sighed through the night air; no furtive figures flitted among the shadows. The blood drops speckled the rocky floor; the Sabateans must have carried grim wounds away with them.

They pushed up the ravine, afoot, because Conan believed their foes were also afoot Besides, the gulch was so narrow and rugged that a horseman would be at a disadvantage in a fight.

At each bend they expected an ambush, but the trail of blood drops led on, and no figures barred their way. The blood spots were not so thick now, but they were enough to mark the way.

Conan quickened his pace, hoping to overtake the Sabateans. Even though the latter had a long start, their wounds and their prisoner would slow them down. He thought Nanaia must still be alive, or they would have come upon her corpse.

The ravine pitched upward, narrowing, then widened, descended, bent, and came out into another canyon running east and west. This was a few hundred feet wide. The bloody trail ran straight across to the sheer south wall and ceased.

Tubal grunted. "The Kushafi dogs spoke truth. The trail stops at a cliff that only a bird could fly over."

Conan halted, puzzled. They had lost the trace of the ancient road in the Gorge of Ghosts, but this was undoubtedly the way the Sabateans had come. He raised his eyes up the wall, which rose straight for hundreds of feet Above him, at a height of fifteen feet, jutted a narrow ledge, a mere outcropping a few feet wide and four or five paces long. It seemed to offer no solution, but halfway up to the ledge he saw a dull smear on the rock of the wall.

Uncoiling his rope, Conan whirled the weighted end and sent it soaring upward. The hook bit into the rim of the ledge and held. Conan went up it, clinging to the thin, smooth strand, as swiftly as most men would have climbed a ladder. As he passed the smear on the stone he confirmed his belief that it was dried blood, such as might have been made by a wounded man climbing or being hauled up to the ledge.

Tubal, below, fidgeted and tried to get a better view of the ledge, as if fearing it were peopled with unseen assassins. But the shelf lay bare when Conan pulled himself over the edge.

The first thing he saw was a heavy bronze ring set in the stone above the ledge, out of sight from below. The metal was polished by usage.

More blood was smeared along the rim of the ledge. The drops led across the ledge to the sheer wall, which showed much weathering at that point Conan saw something else: the blurred print of bloody fingers on the rock of the wall. He studied the cracks in the rock, then laid his hand over the bloody hand print and pushed. A section of the wall swung smoothly inward. He was staring into the door of a narrow tunnel, dimly lit by the moon somewhere at the far end.

Wary as a stalking leopard, he stepped into it. At once he heard a startled yelp from Tubal, to whose view it seemed that he had melted into solid rock. Conan emerged head and shoulders to exhort his follower to silence and then continued his investigation.

The tunnel was short; moonlight poured into it from the other end, where it opened into a cleft. The cleft ran straight for a hundred feet and made an abrupt bend, like a knife-cut through solid rock. The door through which he had entered was an irregular slab of rock hung on heavy, oiled bronze hinges. It fitted perfectly into its aperture, its irregular shape making the cracks appear to be merely natural seams in the cliff.

A rope ladder of heavy rawhide was coiled just inside the tunnel mouth.

Conan returned to the ledge outside with this, made it fast to the bronze ring, and let it down. While Tubal swung up in a frenzy of impatience, Conan drew up his own rope and coiled it around his waist again.

Tubal swore strange Shemitic oaths as he grasped the mystery of the vanishing trail. He asked: "But why was not the door bolted on the inside?"

"Probably men are coming and going constantly, and a man might be in a hurry to get through from the outside without having to shout to be let in. There was little chance of its being discovered; I should not have found it but for the blood marks."

Tubal was for plunging instantly into the cleft, but Conan had become wary. He had seen no sign of a sentry but did not think a people so ingenious in hiding the entrance to their country would leave it unguarded.

He hauled up the ladder, coiled it back on its shelf, and closed the door, plunging that end of the tunnel into darkness. Commanding the unwilling Tubal to wait for him, he went down the tunnel and into the cleft.

From the bottom of the cleft, an irregular knife-edge of starlit sky was visible, hundreds of feet overhead. Enough moonlight found its way into the cleft to serve Conan's catlike eyes.

He had not reached the bend when a scuff of feet beyond it reached him.

He had scarcely concealed himself behind a broken outcrop of rock, split away from the side wall, when the sentry came. He came in the leisurely manner of one who performs a perfunctory task, confident of his own security. He was a squat Khitan with a face like a copper mask.

He swung along with the wide roll of a horseman, trailing a javelin.

He was passing Conan's hiding place when some instinct brought him about in a flash, teeth bared in a startled snarl, spear whipping up for a cast or a thrust Even as he turned, Conan was upon him with the instant uncoiling of steel-spring muscles. As the javelin leaped to a level, the scimitar lashed down. The Khitan dropped like an ox, his round skull split like a ripe melon.

Conan froze to immobility, glaring along the passage. As he heard no sound to indicate the presence of any other guard, he risked a low whistle which brought Tubal headlong into the cleft The Shemite grunted at the sight of the dead man.

Conan stooped and pushed back the Khitan's upper lip, showing the canine teeth filed to points. "Another son of Erlik, the Yellow God of Death. There is no telling how many more may be in this defile. We'll drag him behind these rocks."

Beyond the bend, the long, deep defile ran empty to the next kink. As they advanced without opposition, Conan became sure that the Khitan was the only sentry in the cleft.

The moonlight in the narrow gash above them was paling into dawn when they came into the open at last. Here the defile broke into a chaos of shattered rock. The single gorge became half a dozen, threading between isolated crags and split-off rocks, as a river splits into separate streams at its delta. Crumbling pinnacles and turrets of black stone stood up like gaunt ghosts in the pale predawn light.

Threading their way among these grim sentinels, the adventurers presently looked out upon a level, rock-strewn floor that stretched three hundred paces to the foot of a cliff. The trail they had followed, grooved by many feet in the weathered stone, crossed the level and twisted a tortuous way up the cliff on ramps cut in the rock.

But what lay on top of the cliffs they could not guess. To right and left, the solid wall veered away, flanked by broken pinnacles.

"What now, Conan?" In the gray light, the Shemite looked like a mountain goblin surprised out of his cave by dawn.

"I think we must be close to―listen!"

Over the cliffs rolled the blaring reverberation they had heard the night before, but now much nearer: the strident roar of the giant trumpet.

"Have we been seen?" wondered Tubal, fingering his knife.

Conan shrugged. "Whether we have or not, we must see ourselves before we try to climb that cliff. Here!"

He indicated a weathered crag, which rose like a tower among its lesser fellows. The comrades went up it swiftly, keeping its bulk between them and the opposite cliffs. The summit was higher than the cliffs. Then they lay behind a spur of rock, staring through the rosy haze of the rising dawn.

"Pteor!" swore Tubal.

From their vantage point, the opposite cliffs assumed their real nature as one side of a gigantic mesalike block, which rose sheer from the surrounding level, four to five hundred feet high. Its vertical sides seemed unscalable, save where the trail had been cut into the stone.

East, north, and west it was girdled by crumbling crags, separated from the plateau by the level canyon floor, which varied in width from three hundred paces to half a mile. On the south, the plateau abutted on a gigantic bare mountain, whose gaunt peaks dominated the surrounding pinnacles.

But the watchers gave but little attention to this topographical formation. Conan had expected, at the end of the bloody trail, to find some sort of rendezvous: a cluster of horsehide tents, a cavern, perhaps even a village of mud and stone nestling on a hillside.

Instead, they were looking at a city, whose domes and towers glistened in the rosy dawn like a magical city of sorcerers stolen from some fabled land and set down in this wilderness.

"The city of the demons!" cried Tubal. "It is enchantment and sorcery!"

He snapped his fingers to ward off evil spells.

The plateau was oval, about a mile and a half long from north to south and somewhat less than a mile from east to west. The city stood near its southern end, etched against the dark mountain behind it. A large edifice, whose purple dome was shot with gold, gleamed in the dawn. It dominated the flat-topped stone houses and clustering trees.

The Cimmerian blood in Conan's veins responded to the somber aspect of the scene, the contrast of the gloomy black crags with the masses of green and the sheens of color in the city. The city awoke forebodings of evil. The gleam of its purple, gold-traced dome was somehow sinister. The black, crumbling crags formed a fitting setting for it.

It was like a city of ancient, demonic mystery, rising with an evil glitter amidst ruin and decay.

"This must be the stronghold of the Hidden Ones," muttered Conan.

"Who'd have thought to find a city like this in an uninhabited country?"

"Not even we can fight a whole city/' grunted Tubal.

Conan fell silent while he studied the distant view. The city was not so large as it had looked at first glance. It was compact but unwalled; a parapet around the edge of the plateau furnished its defense. The two and three-storey houses stood among surprising groves and gardens―surprising because the plateau looked like solid rock without soil for growing things. He reached a decision and said:

"Tubal, go back to our camp in the Gorge of Ghosts. Take the horses and ride to Kushaf. Tell Balash I need all his swords, and bring the kozaki and the Kushafis through the cleft and halt them among these defiles until you get a signal from me, or know I'm dead."

"Pteor devour Balash! What of you?"

"I go into the city."

"You are mad!"

"Worry not, my friend. It is the only way I can get Nanaia out alive.

Then we can make plans for attacking the city. If I live and am at liberty, I shall meet you here; otherwise, you and Balash follow your own judgment."

"What do you want with this nest of fiends?"

Conan's eyes narrowed. "I want a base for empire. We cannot stay in Iranistan nor yet return to Turan. In my hands, who knows what might not be made of this impregnable place? Now get along."

"Balash loves me not. He'll spit in my beard, and then I'll kill him and his dogs will slay me."

"He'll do no such thing."

"He will not come."

"He would come through Hell if I sent for him."

"His men will not come; they fear devils."

"They'll come when you tell them the devils are but men."

Tubal tore his beard and voiced his real objection to leaving Conan.

"The swine in that city will flay you alive!"

"Nay, I'll match guile with guile. I shall be a fugitive from the wrath of the king, an outlaw seeking sanctuary." Tubal abandoned his argument Grumbling in his beard, the thick-necked Shemite clambered down the crag and vanished into the defile. When he was out of sight; Conan also descended and walked toward the cliffs.

3. The Hidden Ones

Conan reached the foot of the cliffs and began mounting the steep road without having seen any human being. The trail wound interminably up a succession of ramps, with low, massive, cyclopean walls along the outer edges. This was no work of Ilbarsi hillmen; it looked ancient and as strong as the mountain itself.

For the last thirty feet, the ramps gave way to a flight of steep steps cut in the rock. Still no one challenged Conan. He passed through a line of low fortification along the edge of the mesa and came upon seven men squatting over a game.

At the crunch of Conan's boots on the gravel, the seven sprang to their feet, glaring wildly. They were Zuagirs― desert Shemites, lean, hawk-nosed warriors with fluttering kaffias over their heads and the hilts of daggers and scimitars protruding from their sashes. They snatched up the javelins they had laid beside them and poised them to throw.

Conan showed no surprise, halting and eyeing them tranquilly. The Zuagirs, as uncertain as cornered wildcats, merely glared.

"Conan!" exclaimed the tallest of the Zuagirs, his eyes ablaze with fear and suspicion. "What do you here?"

Conan ran his eyes over them all and replied: "I seek your master."

This did not seem to reassure them. They muttered among themselves, moving their javelin arms back and forth as if to try for a cast. The tall Zuagir's voice rose:

"You chatter like crows! This thing is plain: We were gambling and did not see him come. We have failed in our duty. If it is known, there will be punishment. Let us slay him and throw him over the cliff."

"Aye," agreed Conan. "Try it. And when your master asks: "Where is Conan, who brought me important news?" say Lo, you did not consult with us about his man, so we slew him to teach you a lesson!"

They winced at the irony. One growled: "Spear him; none will know."

"Nay! If we fail to bring him down with the first cast, he'll be among us like a wolf among sheep."

"Seize him and cut his throat!" suggested the youngest of the band. The others scowled so murderously at him that he fell back in confusion.

"Aye, cut my throat," taunted Conan, hitching the hilt of his scimitar around within easy reach. "One of you might even live to tell of it!"

"Knives are silent," muttered the youngster. He was rewarded by a javelin butt driven into his belly, which doubled him up gasping.

Having vented some of their spleen on their tactless comrade, the Zuagirs grew calmer. The tall one asked Conan:

"You are expected?"

"Would I come otherwise? Does the lamb thrust his head unbidden into the lion's maw?"

"Lamb!" The Zuagir cackled. "More like a gray wolf with blood on his fangs."

"If there is fresh-spilt blood, it is but that of fools who disobeyed their master. Last night, in the Gorge of Ghosts―"

"By Hanuman! Was it you the Sabatean fools fought?

They said they had slain a Vendhyan merchant and his servants in the gorge."

So that was why the sentries were careless! For some reason the Sabateans had lied about the outcome of the battle, and the Watchers of the Road were not expecting pursuit.

"None of you was among them?" said Conan.

"Do we limp? Do we bleed? Do we weep from weariness and wounds? Nay, we have not fought Conan!"

"Then be wise and make not their mistake. Will you take me to him who awaits me, or will you cast dung in his beard by scorning his commands?"

"The gods forbid!" said the tall Zuagir. "No order has been given us concerning you. But if this be a lie, our master shall see to your death, and if be not a lie, then we can have no blame. Give up your weapons and we will take you to him."

Conan gave up his weapons. Ordinarily he would have fought to the death before letting himself be disarmed, but now he was gambling for large stakes. The leader straightened up the young Zuagir with a kick in the rump, told him to watch the Stair as if his life depended on it; then barked orders at the others.

As they closed around the unarmed Cimmerian, Conan knew their hands itched to thrust a knife into his back. But he had sown the seeds of uncertainty in their primitive minds, so that they dared not strike.

They started along the wide road that led to the city. Conan asked casually: "The Sabateans passed into the city just before dawn?"

"Aye," was the terse reply.

They couldn't march fast," mused Conan. They had wounded men to carry, and the girl, their prisoner, to drag."

One man began: "Why, as to the girl―"

The tall leader barked him to silence and turned a baleful gaze on Conan. "Do not answer him. If he mocks us, retort not. A serpent is less crafty. If we converse with him he'll have us beguiled ere we reach Yanaidar."

Conan noted the name of the city, confirming the legend Balash had told him. "Why mistrust me?" he demanded. "Have I not come with open hands?"

"Aye!" The Zuagir laughed mirthlessly. "Once I saw you come to the Hyrkanian masters of Khorusun with open hands, but when you closed those hands the streets ran red. Nay, Conan, I know you of old, from the days when you led your outlaws over the steppes of Turan. I cannot match my wits against yours, but I can keep my tongue between my teeth.

You shall not snare and blind me with words. I'll not speak; and if any of my men answer you I will break his head."

"I thought I knew you," said Conan. "You are Antar the son of Adi. You were a stout fighter."

The Zuagir's scarred face lighted at the praise. Then he recollected himself, scowled, swore at one of his unoffending men, and marched stiffly ahead of the party.

Conan strolled with the air of a man walking amidst an escort of honor, and his bearing affected the warriors. By the time they reached the city they were carrying their javelins on their shoulders instead of poised for a thrust at Conan.

The secret of the plant life became apparent as they neared Yanaidar.

Soil, laboriously brought from distant valleys, had been used to fill the many depressions pitting the surface of the plateau. An elaborate system of deep, narrow irrigation-ditches, originating in some natural water supply near the center of the city, threaded the gardens.

Sheltered by a ring of peaks, the plateau would present a milder climate than was common in these mountains.

The road ran between large orchards and entered the city proper―lines of flat-roofed stone houses fronting each other across the wide, paved main street, each with an expanse of garden behind it. At the far end of the street began a half-mile of ravine-gashed plain separating the city from the mountain that frowned above and behind it. The plateau was like a great shelf jutting out from the massive slope.

Men working in the gardens or loitering along the street stared at the Zuagirs and their captive. Conan saw Iranistanis, Hyrkanians, Shemites, and even a few Vendhyans and black Kushites. But no Ilbarsis; evidently the mixed population had no connection with the native mountaineers.

The street widened into a suk closed on the south side by a broad wall, which enclosed the palatial building with the gorgeous dome.

There was no guard at the massive, bronze-barred, gold-worked gates, only a gay-clad Negro who bowed deeply as he opened the portals. Conan and his escort came into a broad courtyard paved with colored tile, in the midst of which a fountain bubbled and pigeons fluttered. East and west, the court was bounded by inner walls, over which peeped the foliage of more gardens. Conan noticed a slim tower, which rose as high as the dome itself, its lacy tile work gleaming in the sunlight.

The Zuagirs marched across the court until they were halted on the pillared portico of the palace by a guard of thirty Hyrkanians, resplendent in plumed helmets of silvered steel, gilded corselets, rhinoceros-hide shields, and gold-chased scimitars. The hawk-faced captain of the guard conversed briefly with Antar the son of Adi. Conan divined from their manner that no love was lost between the two.

Then the captain, who was addressed as Zahak, gestured with his slim yellow hand, and Conan was surrounded by a dozen glittering Hyrkanians and marched up the broad marble steps and through the wide arch whose doors stood open. The Zuagirs, looking unhappy, followed.

They passed through wide, dimly-lit halls, from the vaulted and fretted ceilings of which hung smoking bronze censers, while on either hand velvet-curtained alcoves hinted at inner mysteries. Mystery and intangible menace lurked in those dim, gorgeous halls.

Presently they emerged into a broader hallway and approached a double-valved bronze door, flanked by even more gorgeously-clad guardsmen. These stood impassively as statues while the Hyrkanians strode by with their captive or guest and entered a semi-circular room.

Here dragon-worked tapestries covered the walls, hiding all possible apertures except the one by which they had entered. Golden lamps hung from an arched ceiling fretted with gold and ebony.

Opposite the great doorway stood a marble dais. On the dais stood a great canopied chair, scrolled and carved like a throne, and on the velvet cushions which littered the seat sat a slender figure in a pearl-sewn robe. On the rose-colored turban glistened a great golden brooch in the shape of a hand gripping a wavy-bladed dagger. The face beneath the turban was oval, light-brown, with a small, pointed black beard. Conan guessed the man to be from farther east, Vendhya or Kosala. The dark eyes stared at a piece of carven crystal on a pedestal in front of the man, a piece the size of Conan's fist, roughly spherical but faceted like a great gem. It glittered with an intensity not accounted for by the lights of the throne room, as if a mystical fire burned in its depths.

On either side of the throne stood a giant Kushite. They were like images carved of black basalt, naked but for sandals and silken loincloths, with broad-tipped tulwars in their hands.

"Who is this?" languidly inquired the man on the throne in Hyrkanian.

"Conan the Cimmerian, my lord!" answered Zahak with a swagger.

The dark eyes quickened with interest, then sharpened with suspicion.

"How comes he into Yanaidar unannounced?"

The Zuagir dogs who watch the Stair say he came to them, swearing that he had been sent for by the Magus of the Sons of Yezm."

Conan stiffened at that title, his blue eyes fixed with fierce intensity on the oval face. But he did not speak. There was a time for silence as well as for bold speech. His next move depended upon the Magus' words. They might brand him as an impostor and doom him. But Conan depended on the belief that no ruler would order him slain without trying to learn why he was there, and the fact that few rulers wholly trust their own followers.

After a pause, the man on the throne spoke: "This is the law of Yanaidar: No man may ascend the Stair unless he makes the Sign so the Watchers of the Stair can see. If he does not know the Sign, the Warder of the Gate must be summoned to converse with the stranger before he may mount the Stair. Conan was not announced. The Warder of the Gate was not summoned. Did Conan make the Sign, below the Stair?"

Antar sweated, shot a venomous glance at Conan, and spoke in a voice harsh with apprehension: "The guard in the cleft did not give warning.

Conan appeared upon the cliff before we saw him, though we were vigilant as eagles. He is a magician who makes himself invisible at will. We knew he spoke truth when he said you had sent for him, otherwise he could not have known the Secret Way―"

Perspiration beaded the Zuagir's narrow forehead. The man on the throne did not seem to hear his voice. Zahak struck Antar savagely in the mouth with his open hand. "Dog, be silent until the Magus deigns to command your speech!"

Antar reeled, blood starting down his beard, and looked black murder at the Hyrkanian, but said nothing. The Magus moved his hand languidly, saying:

"Take the Zuagirs away. Keep them under guard until further orders.

Even if a man is expected, the Watchers should not be surprised. Conan did not know the Sign, yet he climbed the Stair unhindered. If they had been vigilant, not even Conan could have done this. He is no wizard.

You may go. I will talk to Conan alone."

Zahak bowed and led his glittering swordsmen away between the silent files of warriors lined on each side of the door, herding the shivering Zuagirs before them. These turned as they passed and fixed their burning eyes on Conan in a silent glare of hatred.

Zahak pulled the bronze doors shut behind them. The Magus spoke in Iranistani to Conan: "Speak freely. These black men do not understand Iranistani."

Conan, before replying, kicked a divan up before the dais and settled himself comfortably on it, with his feet propped up on a velvet footstool. The Magus showed no surprise that his visitor should seat himself unbidden. His first words showed that he had had much dealings with Westerners and had, for his own purposes, adopted some of their directness. He said: "I did not send for you."

"Of course not. But I had to tell those fools something or else slay them all."

"What do you want here?"

"What does any man want who comes to a nest of outlaws?"

"He might come as a spy."

Conan gave a rumbling laugh. "For whom?"

"How did you know the Road?"

"I followed the vultures; they always lead me to my goal."

"They should; you have fed them full often enough. What of the Khitan who watched the cleft?"

"Dead; he wouldn't listen to reason."

"The vultures follow you, not you the vultures," commented the Magus.

"Why sent you no word to me of your coming?"

"By whom? Last night in the Gorge of Ghosts a band of your fools fell upon my party, slew one, and carried another away. The fourth man was frightened and fled, so I came on alone when the moon rose."

They were Sabateans, whose duty it is to watch the Gorge of Ghosts.

They did not know you sought me. They limped into the city at dawn, with one dying and most of the others wounded, and swore they had slain a rich Vendhyan merchant and his servants in the Gorge of Ghosts.

Evidently they feared to admit that they ran away leaving you alive.

They shall smart for their lie, but you have not told me why you came here."

"For refuge. The King of Iranistan and I have fallen out."

The Magus shrugged. "I know about that Kobad Shah will not molest you for some time, if ever. He was wounded by one of our agents. However, the squadron he sent after you is still on your trail."

Conan felt the prickling at his nape that magic aroused in him. "Crom!

You keep up to date on your news."

The Magus gave a tiny nod towards the crystal. "A toy, but not without its uses. However, we have kept our secret well. Therefore, since you knew of Yanaidar and the Road to Yanaidar, you must have been told of it by one of the Brotherhood. Did the Tiger send you?"

Conan recognized the trap. "I know no Tiger," he answered. "I need not be told secrets; I learn them for myself. I came here because I had to have a hiding place. I'm out of favor at Anshan, and the Turanians would impale me if they caught me."

The Magus said something in Stygian. Conan, knowing he would not change the language of their conversation without a reason, feigned ignorance.

The Magus spoke to one of the blacks, and that giant drew a silver hammer from his girdle and smote a golden gong hanging by the tapestries. The echoes had scarcely died away when the bronze doors opened long enough to admit a slim man in plain silken robes, who bowed before the dais―a Stygian from his shaven head. The Magus addressed him as "Khaza" and questioned him in the tongue he had just tested on Conan. Khaza replied in the same language.

"Do you know this man?" said the Magus.

"Aye, my lord."

"Have our spies included him in their reports?"

"Aye, my lord. The last dispatch from Anshan bore word of him. On the night that your servant tried to execute the king, this man talked with the king secretly an hour or so before the attack. After leaving the palace hurriedly he fled from the city with his three hundred horsemen and was last seen riding along the road to Kushaf. He was pursued by horsemen from Anshan, but whether these gave up the chase or still seek him I know not."

"You have my leave to go."

Khaza bowed and departed, and the Magus meditated for a space. Then he lifted his head and said: "I believe you speak the truth. You fled from Anshan to Kushaf, where no friend of the king would be welcome. Your enmity toward the Turanians is well-known. We need such a man. But I cannot initiate you until the Tiger passes on you. He is not now in Yanaidar but will be here by tomorrow's dawn. Meanwhile I should like to know how you learned of our society and our city."

Conan shrugged. "I hear the secrets the wind sings as it blows through the branches of the dry tamarisks, and the tales the men of the caravans whisper about the dung-fires in the serais."

"Then you know our purpose? Our ambition?"

"I know what you call yourselves." Conan, groping his way, made his answer purposely ambiguous.

"Do you know what my title means?" asked the Magus.

"Magus of the Sons of Yezm―magician-in-chief of the Yezmites. In Turan they say the Yezmites were a pre-Catastrophic race who lived on the shores of the Vilayet Sea and practiced strange rites, with sorcery and cannibalism, before the coming of the Hyrkanians, who destroyed the last remnants of them."

"So they say," sneered the Magus. "But their descendants still dwell in the hills of Shem."

"So I suspected," said Conan. "I've heard tales of them, but until now I scorned them as legends."

"Aye! The world deems them legends―but since the Beginning of Happenings the Fire of Yezm has not been wholly extinguished, though for centuries it smoldered to glowing embers. The Society of the Hidden Ones is the oldest cult of all. It lies behind the worship of Mitra, Ishtar, and Asura. It recognizes no difference in race or religion. In the ancient past its branches extended all over the world, from Crondar to Valusia. Men of many lands and races belong and have belonged to the society of the Hidden Ones. In the long, long ago the Yezmites were only one branch, though from their race the priests of the cult were chosen.

"After the Catastrophe, the cult reestablished itself. In Stygia, Acheron, Koth, and Zamora were bands of the cult, cloaked in mystery and only half-suspected by the races among which they dwelt But, as the millennia passed, these groups became isolated and fell apart, each branch going its separate way and each dwindling in strength because of lack of unity.

"In olden days, the Hidden Ones swayed the destinies of empires. They did not lead armies in the field, but they fought by poison and fire and the flame-bladed dagger that bit in the dark. Their scarlet-cloaked emissaries of death went forth to do the bidding of the Magus of the Sons of Yezm, and kings died in Luxur, in Python, in Kuthchemes, in Dagon.

"And I am a descendant of that one who was Magus of Yezm in the days of Tuthamon, he whom all the world feared!" A fanatical gleam lit the dark eyes. "Throughout my youth I dreamed of the former greatness of the cult, into which I was initiated as a child. Wealth that flowed from the mines of my estate made the dream a reality. Virata of Kosala became the Magus of the Sons of Yezm, the first to hold the title in five hundred years.

"The creed of the Hidden ones is broad and deep as the sea, uniting men of opposing sects. Strand by strand I drew together and united the separate branches of the cult: the Zugites, the Jhilites, the Erlikites, the Yezudites. My emissaries traveled the world seeking members of the ancient society and finding them―in teeming cities, among barren mountains, in the silence of upland deserts. Slowly, surely, my band has grown, for I have not only united all the various branches of the cult but have also gained new recruits among the bold and desperate spirits of a score of races and sects. All are one before the Fire of Yezm; I have among my followers worshippers of Gullah, Set, and Mitra; of Derketo, Ishtar, and Yun.

Ten years ago, I came with my followers to this city, then a crumbling mass of ruins, unknown to the hillmen because their superstitious legends made them shun this region. The buildings were crumbled stone, the canals filled with rubble, and the groves grown wild and tangled.

It took six years to rebuild it Most of my fortune went into the labor, for bringing material hither in secret was tedious and dangerous work.

We brought it out of Iranistan, over the old caravan route from the South and up an ancient ramp on the western side of the plateau which I have since destroyed. But at last I looked upon forgotten Yanaidar as it was in the days of old.

"Look!"

He rose and beckoned. The giant blacks closed in on each side of the Magus as he led the way into an alcove hidden behind a tapestry. They stood in a latticed balcony looking down into a garden enclosed by a fifteen-foot wall. This wall was almost completely masked by thick shrubbery. An exotic fragrance rose from masses of trees, shrubs, and blossoms, and silvery fountains tinkled. Conan saw women moving among the trees, scantily clad in filmy silk and jewel-crusted velvet―slim, supple girls, mostly Vendhyan, Iranistani, and Shemite. Men, looking as if they were drugged, lay under the trees on silken cushions. Music wailed melodiously.

"This is the Paradise Garden, such as was used by the Magi of old times," said Virata, closing the casement and turning back into the throne room. "Those who serve me well are drugged with the juice of the purple lotus. Awakening in this garden with the fairest women of the world to serve them, they think they are in truth in the heaven promised for those who die serving the Magus." The Kosalan smiled thinly. "I show you this because I will not have you 'Taste Paradise'

like these. You are not such a fool as to be duped so easily. It does no harm for you to know these secrets. If the Tiger does not approve of you, your knowledge will die with you; if he does, you have learned no more than you would in any event as one of the Sons of the Mountain.

"You can rise high in my empire. I shall become as mighty as my ancestor. Six years I prepared; then I began to strike. Within the last four years, my followers have gone forth with poisoned daggers as they went forth in the old days, knowing no law but my will, incorruptible, invincible, seeking death rather than life."

"And your ultimate ambition?"

"Have you not guessed it?" The Kosalan almost whispered it, his eyes wide and blank with fanaticism.

"Who wouldn't?" grunted Conan. "But I had rather hear it from you."

"I shall rule the world! Sitting here in Yanaidar, I shall control its destinies! Kings on their thrones shall be but puppets dancing on my strings. Those who disobey my commands shall die. Soon none will dare disobey. Power will be mine. Power! Yajur! What is greater?"

Conan silently compared the Magus' boasts of absolute power with the role of the mysterious Tiger who must decide Conan's fate. Virata's authority was evidently not supreme after all.

"Where is the girl, Nanaia?" he demanded. "Your Sabateans carried her away after they murdered my lieutenant Hattusas."

Virata's expression of surprise was overdone. "I know not to whom you refer. They brought back no captive."

Conan was sure he was lying but realized it would be useless to press the question further now. He thought of various reasons why Virata should deny knowledge of the girl, all disquieting.

The Magus motioned to the black, who again smote the gong. Again Khaza entered, bowing.

"Khaza will show you to your chamber," said Virata. There food and drink will be brought you. You are not a prisoner; no guard will be placed over you. But I must ask you not to leave your chamber unescorted. My men are suspicious of outsiders, and until you are initiated…" He let the sentence trail off into meaningful silence.

4. Whispering Swords

The impassive Stygian led Conan through the bronze doors, past the files of glittering guards, and along a narrow corridor, which branched off from the broad hallway. He conducted Conan into a chamber with a domed ceiling of ivory and sandalwood and one heavy, brass-bound, teakwood door. There were no windows; air and light came through apertures in the dome. The walls were hung with rich tapestries; the floor was hidden by cushion-strewn rugs.

Khaza bowed himself out without a word, shutting the door behind him.

Conan seated himself on a velvet divan. This was the most bizarre situation he had found himself in during a life packed with wild and bloody adventures. He brooded over the fate of Nanaia and wondered at his next step.

Sandaled feet padded in the corridor. Khaza entered, followed by a huge Negro bearing viands in golden dishes and a golden jug of wine. Before Khaza close the door, Conan had a glimpse of the spike of a helmet protruding from the tapestries before an alcove on the opposite side of the corridor. Virata had lied when he said no guard would be placed to watch him, which was no more than Conan expected.

"Wine of Kyros, my lord, and food," said the Stygian. "Presently a maiden beautiful as the dawn shall be sent to entertain you."

"Good," grunted Conan.

Khaza motioned the slave to set down the food. He himself tasted each dish and sipped liberally of the wine before bowing himself out. Conan, alert as a trapped wolf, noted that the Stygian tasted the wine last and stumbled a little as he left the chamber. When the door closed behind the men, Conan smelled of the wine. Mingled with the bouquet of the wine, so faint that only his keen barbarian nostrils could have detected it, was an aromatic odor he recognized. It was that of the purple lotus of the sullen swamps of southern Stygia, which induced a deep slumber for a short or a long time depending on the quantity. The taster had to hurry from the room before he was overcome. Conan wondered if Virata meant to convey him to the Paradise Garden after all.

Investigation convinced him that the food had not been tampered with, and he fell to with gusto.

He had scarcely finished the meal, and was staring at the tray hungrily as if in hope of finding something more to eat, when the door opened again. A slim, supple figure slipped in: a girl in golden breastplates, a jewel-crusted girdle, and filmy silk trousers.

"Who are you?" growled Conan.

The girl shrank back, her brown skin paling. "Oh, sire, do not hurt me!

I have done nothing!" Her dark eyes were dilated with fear and excitement; her words tumbled over one another, and her fingers fluttered childishly.

"Who said anything about hurting you? I asked who you were."

"I―I am called Parasati."

"How did you get here?"

"They stole me, my lord, the Hidden Ones, one night as I walked in my father's garden in Ayodhya. By secret, devious ways they brought me to this city of devils, to be a slave with the other girls they steal out of Vendhya and Iranistan and other lands." She hurried on. "I have d-dwelt here for a month. I have almost died of shame! I have been whipped! I have seen other girls die of torture. Oh, what shame for my father, that his daughter should be made a slave of devil worshipers!"

Conan said nothing, but the red glint in his blue eyes was eloquent Though his own career had been red-spattered with slaying and rapine, towards women he possessed a rough, barbaric code of chivalry. Up till now he had toyed with the idea of actually joining Virata's cult― in hope of working up and making himself master of it, if need be by killing those above him. Now his intentions crystallized on the destruction of this den of snakes and the conversion of their lair to his own uses. Parusati continued:

"Today the Master of the Girls came to send a girl to you to learn if you had any hidden weapon. She was to search you while you lay in drugged stupor. Then, when you awoke, she was to beguile you to learn if you were a spy or a true man. He chose me for the task. I was terrified, and when I found you awake all my resolution melted. Do not slay me!"

Conan grunted. He would not have hurt a hair of her head, but he did not choose to tell her so just yet Her terror could be useful.

"Parusati, do you know anything of a woman who was brought in earlier by a band of Sabateans?"

"Yes, my lord! They brought her here captive to make another pleasure girl like the rest of us. But she is strong, and after they reached the city and delivered her into the hands of the Hyrkanian guards, she broke free, snatched a dagger, and slew the brother of Zahak. Zahak demanded her life, and he is too powerful even for Virata to refuse in this matter."

"So that's why the Magus lied about Nanaia," muttered Conan.

"Aye, my lord. Nanaia lies in a dungeon below the palace, and tomorrow she is to be given to the Hyrkanian for torture and execution."

Conan's dark face became sinister. "Lead me tonight to Zahak's sleeping quarters," he demanded, his narrowed eyes betraying his deadly intention.

"Nay, he sleeps among his warriors, all proven swordsmen of the steppes, too many even for so mighty a fighter as you. But I can lead you to Nanaia."

"What of the guard in the corridor?"

"He will not see us, and he will not admit anyone else here until he has seen me depart."

"Well, then?" Conan rose to his feet like a tiger setting out on its hunt.

Parusati hesitated. "My lord―do I read your mind rightly, that you mean, not to join these devils, but to destroy them?"

Conan grinned wolfishly. "You might say accidents have a way of happening to those I like not."

"Then will you promise not to harm me, and if you can to free me?"

"If I can. Now let's not waste more time in chatter. Lead on."

Parusati drew aside a tapestry on the wall opposite the door and pressed on the arabesqued design. A panel swung inward, revealing a narrow stair that slanted down into lightless depths.

"The masters think their slaves do not know their secrets," she muttered. "Come."

She led the way into the stair, closing the panel after them. Conan found himself in darkness that was almost complete, save for a few gleams of light through holes in the panel. They descended until Conan guessed that they were well beneath the palace and then struck a narrow, level tunnel, which ran away from the foot of the stair.

"A Kshatriya who planned to flee Yanaidar showed me this secret way,"

she said. "I planned to escape with him. We hid food and weapons here.

He was caught and tortured, but died without betraying me. Here is the sword he hid." She fumbled in a niche and drew out a blade, which she gave to Conan.

A few moments later they reached an iron-bound door, and Parusati, gesturing for caution, drew Conan to it arid showed him a tiny aperture to peer through. He looked down a wide corridor, flanked on one side by a blank wall in which showed a single ebon door, curiously ornate and heavily bolted, and on the other by a row of cells with barred doors.

The other end of the corridor was not far distant and was closed by another heavy door. Archaic hanging bronze lamps cast a mellow glow.

Before one of the cell doors stood a resplendent Hyrkanian in glittering corselet and plumed helmet, scimitar in hand. Parusati's fingers tightened on Conan's arm.

"Nanaia is in that cell," she whispered. "Can you slay the Hyrkanian?

He is a mighty swordsman."

With a grim smile, Conan tried the balance of the blade she had given him―a long Vendhyan steel, light but well nigh unbreakable. Conan did not stop to explain that he was master alike of the straight blades of the West and the curved blades of the East, of the double-curved Ilbarsi knife and the leaf-shaped broadsword of Shem. He opened the secret door.

As he stepped into the corridor, Conan glimpsed the face of Nanaia staring through the bars behind the Hyrkanian. The hinges creaked, and the guard whirled catlike, lips drawn back in a snarl, and then instantly came to the attack.

Conan met him halfway, and the two women witnessed a play of swords that would have burned the blood of kings. The only sounds were the quick soft shuffle and thud of feet, the slither and rasp of steel, and the breathing of the fighters. The long, light blades flickered lethally in the illusive light, like living things, parts of the men who wielded them.

The hairline balance shifted. The Hyrkanian's lip curled in ferocious recognition of defeat and desperate resolve to take his enemy into death with him. A louder ring of Blades, a flash of steel―and Conan's flickering blade seemed to caress his enemy's neck in passing. Then the Hyrkanian was stretched on the floor, his neck half severed. He had died without a cry.

Conan stood over him for an instant, the sword in his hand stained with a thread of crimson. His tunic had been torn open, and his muscular breast rose and fell easily. Only a film of sweat glistening there and on his brow betrayed the strain of his exertions. He tore a bunch of keys from the dead man's girdle, and the grate of steel in the lock seemed to awaken Nanaia from a trance.

"Conan! I had given up hope, but you came. What a fight! Would that I could have struck a blow in it!" The tall girl stepped forth lightly and picked up the Hyrkanian's sword. "What now?"

"We shan't have a chance if we make a break before dark," said Conan.

"Nanaia, how soon will another guard come to relieve the man I killed?"

"They change the guard every four hours. His watch had just begun."

Conan turned to Parusati. "What time of day is it? I have not seen the sun since early this morning."

The Vendhyan girl said: "It is well into the afternoon. Sundown should be within four hours."

Conan perceived he had been in Yanaidar longer than he had realized.

"As soon as it's dark, we'll try to get away. We'll go back to my chamber now. Nanaia shall hide on the secret stair, while Parusati goes out the door and back to the girls' apartments."

"But when the guard comes to relieve this one," said Nanaia, "he'll see I have escaped. You should leave me here till you're ready to go, Conan."

"I dare not risk it; I might not be able to get you out then. When they find you gone, maybe the confusion will help us. We'll hide this body."

He turned toward the curiously decorated door, but Parusati gasped: "Not that way, my lord! Would you open the door to Hell?"

"What mean you? What lies beyond that door?"

"I know not. The bodies of executed men and women, and wretches who have been tortured but still live, are carried through this door. What becomes of them I do not know, but I have heard them scream more terribly than they did under torture. The girls say a man-eating demon has his lair beyond that door."

"That may be," said Nanaia. "But some hours ago a slave came through here to hurl through that door something which was neither a man nor a woman, though what it was I could not see."

"It was doubtless an infant," said Parusati with a shudder.

I'll tell you," said Conan. "We'll dress this body in your clothes and lay it in the cell, with the face turned away from the door. You're a big girl, and they will fit him. When the other guard comes, maybe he'll think it is you, asleep or dead, and start looking for the guard instead of you. The longer before they find you've escaped, the more time we shall have."

Without hesitation, Nanaia slipped out of her jacket, whipped her shirt off over her head, and dropped her trousers while Conan pulled the clothes off the Hyrkanian. Parusati gave a gasp of shock.

"What's the matter, don't you know what a naked human being looks like?" snarled Conan. "Help me with this/'

In a few minutes Nanaia was dressed in the Hyrkanian's garments, all but the helmet and corselet She dabbed ineffectively at the blood that soaked the upper part of the longsleeved coat while Conan dragged the Hyrkanian, in Nanaia's clothes, into the cell. He turned the dead man's face down and toward the wall so that its wisp of beard and mustache should not show and pulled Nanaia's shirt up over the ghastly wound in the neck. Conan locked the cell-door behind him and handed the keys to Nanaia. He said:

"There's nothing we can do about the blood on the floor. I have no definite plan for escaping the city yet. If I can't get away I'll kill Virata―and the rest will be in Crom's hands. If you two get out and I don't, try to go back along the trail and meet the Kushafis as they come. I sent Tubal after them at dawn, so he should reach Kushaf after nightfall, and the Kushafis should get to the canyon below the plateau tomorrow morning."

They returned to the secret door, which, when closed, looked like part of the blank stone wall. They traversed the tunnel and groped their way up the stair.

"Here you must hide until the time comes," said Conan to Nanaia. "Keep the swords; they'll do me no good until then. If anything happens to me, open the panel-door and try to get away, with Parusati if she comes for you."

"As you will, Conan." Nanaia seated herself cross-legged on the topmost step.

When Conan and Parusati were back in the chamber, Conan said: "Go now; if you stay too long, they may get suspicious. Contrive to return to me here as soon as it is well dark. I think I'm to stay here till this fellow Tiger returns. When you come back, tell the guard the Magus sent you. I'll attend to him when we are ready to go. And tell them you saw me drink this drugged wine, and that you searched me without finding any arms."

"Aye, my lord! I will return after dark." The girl was trembling with fear and excitement as she left.

Conan took up the winejug and smeared just enough wine on his mouth to make a detectable scent Then he emptied the contents in a nook behind the tapestries and threw himself on his divan as if asleep.

In a few moments the door opened again and a girl entered. Conan did not open his eyes, but he knew it was a girl by the light rustle of her bare feet and the scent of her perfume, just as he knew by the same evidences that it was not Parusati returning. Evidently the Magus did not place too much trust in any one woman. Conan did not believe she had been sent there to slay him―poison in the wine would have been enough―so he did not risk peering through slitted lids.

That the girl was afraid was evident by the quick tremor of her breathing. Her nostrils all but touched his lips as she sniffed to detect the drugged wine on his breath. Her soft hands stole over him, searching for hidden weapons. Then with a sigh of relief she glided away.

Conan relaxed. It would be hours before be could make any move, so he might as well snatch sleep when he could.

His life and those of the girls depended on his being able to find or make a way out of the city that night. In the meantime, he slept as soundly as if he lay in the house of a friend.

5. The Mask Falls

Conan awoke the instant a hand touched the door to his room, and came to his feet, fully alert, as Khaza entered with a bow. The Stygian said:

"The Magus of the Sons of Yezm desires your presence, my lord. The Tiger has returned."

So the Tiger had returned sooner than the Magus had expected! Conan felt a premonitory tenseness as he followed the Stygian out of the chamber. Khaza did not lead him back to the chamber where the Magus had first received him. He was conducted through a winding corridor to a gilded door before which stood a Hyrkanian swordsman. This man opened the door, and Khaza hurried Conan across the threshold. The door closed behind them. Conan halted.

He stood in a broad room without windows but with several doors. Across the chamber, the Magus lounged on a divan with his black slaves behind him. Clustered about him were a dozen armed men of various races: Zuagirs, Hyrkanians, Iranistanis, Shemites, and even a villainous-looking Kothian, the first Hyborian that Conan had seen in Yanaidar.

But the Cimmerian spared these men only the briefest glance. His attention was fixed on the man who dominated the scene. This man stood between him and the Magus' divan, with the wide-legged stance of a horseman. He was as tall as Conan, though not so massive. His shoulders were broad; his supple figure hard as steel and springy as whalebone. A short black beard failed to hide the aggressive jut of his lean jaw, and grey eyes cold and piercing gleamed under his tall Zaporoskan fur cap. Tight breeches emphasized his leanness. One hand caressed the hilt of his jeweled saber; the other stroked his thin mustache.

Conan knew the game was up. For this was Olgerd Vladislav, a Zaporoskan adventurer, who knew Conan too well to be deceived. He would hardly have forgotten how Conan had forced him out of the leadership of a band of Zuagirs and given him a broken arm as a farewell gift, less than three years previously.

"This man desires to join us," said Virata.

The man they called the Tiger smiled thinly. "It would be safer to bed with a leopard. I know Conan of old. He'll worm his way into your band, turn the men against you, and run you through when you least expect it."

The eyes fixed on the Cimmerian grew murderous. No more than the Tiger's word was needed to convince his men.

Conan laughed. He had done what he could with guile and subtlety, and now the game was up. He could drop the mask from the untamed soul of the berserk barbarian and plunge into the bright madness of battle without doubts or regrets.

The Magus made a gesture of repudiation. "I defer to your judgment in these matters, Tiger. Do what you will; he is unarmed."

At the assurance of the helplessness of their prey, wolfish cruelty sharpened the faces of the warriors. Edged steel slid into view. Olgerd said:

"Your end will be interesting. Let us see if you are still as stoical as when you hung on the cross in Khauran. Bind him, men―"

As he spoke, the Zaporoskan reached for his saber in a leisurely manner, as if he had forgotten just how dangerous the black-haired barbarian could be, what savage quickness lurked in Conan's massive thews. Before Olgerd could draw his sword, Conan sprang and struck as a panther slashes. The impact of his clenched fist was like that of a sledge hammer. Olgerd went down, blood spurring from his jaw.

Before Conan could snatch the Zaporoskan's sword, the Kothian was upon him. Only he had realized Conan's deadly quickness and ferocity, and even he had not been swift enough to save Olgerd. But he kept Conan from securing the saber, for he had to whirl and grapple as the three-foot Ilbarsi knife rose above him. Conan caught the knife wrist as it fell, checking the stroke in mid-air, the iron sinews springing out on his own wrist in the effort. His right hand ripped a dagger from the Kothian's girdle and sank it to the hilt under his ribs almost with the same motion. The Kothian groaned and sank down dying, and Conan wrenched away the long knife as he crumpled.

All this had happened in a stunning explosion of speed, embracing a mere tick of time. Olgerd was down and the Kothian dying before the others could get into action. When they did, they were met by the yard-long knife in the hand of the most terrible knife fighter of the Hyborian Age.

Even as Conan whirled to meet the rush, the long blade licked out and a Zuagir went down, choking out his life through a severed jugular. A Hyrkanian shrieked, disemboweled. A Stygian overreached with a ferocious dagger lunge and reeled away, clutching the crimson-gushing stump of a wrist.

Conan did not put his back to the wall this time. He sprang into the thick of his foes, wielding his dripping knife murderously. They swirled and milled about hint' He was the center of a whirlwind of blades that flickered and lunged and slashed, and yet somehow missed their mark again and again as he shifted his position constantly and so swiftly that he baffled the eye which sought to follow him. Their numbers hindered them; they cut thin air and gashed one another, confused by his speed and demoralized by the wolfish ferocity of his onslaught.

At such deadly close quarters, the long knife was more effective than the scimitars and tulwars. Conan had mastered its every use, whether the downward swing that splits a skull or the upward rip that spills out a man's entrails.

It was butcher's work, but Conan made no false motion. He waded through that melee of straining bodies and lashing blades like a typhoon, leaving a red wake behind him.

The melee lasted only a moment. Then the survivors gave back, stunned and appalled by the havoc wrought among them. Conan wheeled and located the Magus against the farther wall between the stolid Kushites. Then, even as his leg-muscles tensed for a leap, a shout brought him around.

A group of Hyrkanian guardsmen appeared at the door opening into the corridor, drawing thick, double-curved bows to the chin, while those in the room scurried out of the way. Conan's hesitation lasted no longer than an eyeblink, while the archers' right arms, bulging with taut muscles, drew back their bowstrings. In that flash of consciousness he weighed his chances of reaching the Magus and killing him before he himself died. He knew he would be struck in mid-leap by a half-dozen shafts, driven by the powerful compound bows of the Hyrkanian deserts, which slay at five hundred paces. Their force would tear through his light mail shirt, and their impact alone would be enough to knock him down.

As the commander of the squad of archers opened his mouth to cry "Loose!", Conan threw himself flat on the floor. He struck just as the archers' ringers released their bowstrings. The arrows whipped through the air inches above his back, criss-crossing in their flight with a simultaneous whistling screech.

As the archers reached back for the arrows in their quivers, Conan drove his fists, still holding the knife and the dagger, downward with such force that his body flew into the air and landed on its feet again. Before the Hyrkanians would nock their second flight of arrows, Conan was among them. His tigerish rush and darting blades left a trail of writhing figures behind him. Then he was through the milling mob and racing down the corridor. He dodged through rooms and slammed doors behind him, while the uproar in the palace grew. Then he found himself racing down a narrow corridor, which ended in a cul-de-sac with a barred window.

A Himelian hillman sprang from an alcove, raising a pike. Conan came at him like a mountain storm. Daunted by the sight of the bloodstained stranger, the Himelian thrust blindly with his weapon, missed, drew it back for another stab, and screamed as Conan, maddened with battle lust, struck with murderous fury. The hillman's head jumped from his shoulders on a spurt of crimson and thudded to the floor.

Conan lunged at the window, hacked once at the bars with his knife, then gripped them with both hands and braced his legs. A heaving surge of iron strength, a savage wrench, and the bars came away in his hands with a splintering crash. He plunged through into a latticed balcony overlooking a garden. Behind him, men were storming down the corridor.

An arrow swished past him. He dove at the lattice headfirst, the knife extended before him, smashed through the flimsy material without checking his flight, and landed catlike on his feet in the garden below.

The garden was empty but for half a dozen scantily-clad women, who screamed and ran. Conan raced toward the opposite wall, quartering among the low trees to avoid the arrows that rained after him. A backward glance showed the broken lattice crowded with furious faces and arms brandishing weapons. Another shout warned him of peril ahead.

A man was running along the wall, swinging a tulwar.

The fellow, a dark, fleshily-built Vendhyan, had accurately judged the point where the fugitive would reach the wall, but he himself reached that point a few seconds too late. The wall was not higher than a man's head. Conan caught the coping with one hand and swung himself up almost without checking his speed. An instant later, on his feet on the parapet, he ducked the sweep of the tulwar and drove his knife through the Vendhyan's huge belly.

The man bellowed like an ox in pain, threw his arms about his slayer in a death grip, and they went over the parapet together. Conan had only time to glimpse the sheer-walled ravine which gaped below them. They struck on its narrow lip, rolled off, and fell fifteen feet to crash to the rocky floor. As they rushed downward, Conan turned in mid-air so that the Vendhyan was under him when they hit, and the fat, limp body cushioned his fall. Even so, it jolted the breath out of him.

6. The Haunter of the Gulches

Conan staggered to his feet empty-handed. As he glared about, a row of turbaned and helmeted heads bobbed up along the wall. Bows appeared and arrows were nocked.

A glance showed Conan that there was no cover within leaping distance.

Because of the steep angle at which the archers were shooting down at him, there was little chance that he could escape by falling flat a second time.

As the first bowstring twanged and the arrow screeched past him to splinter on the rocks, Conan threw himself down beside the body of the Vendhyan he had killed. He thrust an arm under the body and rolled the dripping, still-warm carcass over on top of himself. As he did so, a storm of arrows struck the corpse. Conan, underneath, could feel the impacts as of a gang were pounding the body with sledge hammers. But such was the girth of the Vendhyan that the shafts failed to pierce through to Conan.

"Crom!" Conan exploded as an arrow nicked his calf.

The tattoo of impacts stopped as the Yezmites saw that they were merely feathering the corpse. Conan gathered up the thick hairy wrists of the body. He rolled to one side, so that the corpse fell squashily on to the rock beside him; sprang to his feet, and heaved the corpse up on his back. Now, as he faced away from the wall, the corpse still made a shield. His muscles quivered under the strain, for the Vendhyan weighed more than he did.

He walked away from the wall down the ravine. The Yezmites yelled as they saw their prey escaping and sent another blast of arrows after him, which struck the corpse again.

Conan slipped around the first buttress of rock and dropped the corpse.

The face and the front of the body were pierced by more than a dozen arrows.

"If I had a bow, I'd show those dogs a thing or two about shooting!"

Conan muttered wrathfully. He peeked around the buttress.

The wall was crowded with heads, but no more arrows came. Instead, Conan recognized Olgerd Vladislav's fur hat in the middle of the row.

Olgerd shouted:

"Do you think you've escaped? Ha ha! Go on; you'll wish you had stayed in Yanaidar with my slayers. Farewell, dead man!"

With a brusque nod to his followers, Olgerd disappeared. The other heads vanished from the wall too. Conan stood alone save for the corpse at his feet.

He frowned as he peered suspiciously about him. He knew that the southern end of the plateau was cut up into a network of ravines.

Obviously he was in one that ran out of that network just south of the palace. It was a straight gulch, like a giant knife-cut, ten paces wide, which issued from a maze of gullies straight toward the city, ceasing abruptly at a sheer cliff of solid stone below the garden wall from which he had fallen. This cliff was fifteen feet high and too smooth to be wholly the work of nature.

The side walls at that end of the gulch were sheer, too, showing signs of having been smoothed by tools. Across the rim of the wall at the end and for fifteen feet out on each side ran a strip of iron with short, knife-edged blades slanting down. He had missed them in his fall, but anyone trying to climb over the wall would be cut to ribbons by them.

The bottom of the gulch sloped down away from the city so that beyond the ends of the strips on the side walls, these walls were more than twenty feet high. Conan was in a prison, partly natural, partly man-made.

Looking down the ravine, he saw that it widened and broke into a tangle of smaller gulches, separated by ridges of solid stone, beyond and above which he saw the gaunt bulk of the mountain looming. The other end of the ravine was not blocked, but he knew his pursuers would not safeguard one end of his prison so carefully while leaving an avenue of escape open at the other.

Still, it was not his nature to resign himself to whatever fate they had planned for him. They evidently thought they had him safely trapped, but others had thought that before.

He pulled the knife out of the Vendhyan's carcass, wiped off the blood, and went down the ravine.

A hundred yards from the city wall, he came to the mouths of the smaller ravines, chose one at random, and at once found himself in a nightmarish labyrinth. Channels hollowed in the rock meandered bafflingly through a crumbling waste of stone. For the most part they ran north and south, but they merged, split, and looped chaotically. He was forever coming to the ends of blind alleys; if he climbed the walls to surmount them, it was only to descend into another equally confusing branch of the network.

As he slid down one ridge, his heel crunched something that broke with a dry crack. He had stepped upon the dried rib bones of a headless skeleton. A few yards away lay the skull, crushed and splintered. He began to stumble upon similar grisly relics with appalling frequency.

Each skeleton showed broken, disjointed bones and a smashed skull. The elements could not have done that Conan went on warily, narrowly eyeing every spur of rock and shadowed recess. In one spot there was a faint smell of garbage, and he saw bits of melon rind and turnip lying about.

In one of the few sandy spots, he saw a partly-effaced track. It was not the spoor of a leopard, bear, or tiger, such as he would have expected in this country. It looked more like the print of a bare, misshapen human foot.

Once he came upon a rough out-jut of rock, to which dung strands of coarse gray hair that might have rubbed off against the stone. Here and there, mixed with the taint of garbage, was an unpleasant, rank odor that he could not define. It hung heavily in cavelike recesses where a beast, or man, or demon might curl up to sleep.

Baffled in his efforts to steer a straight course through the stony maze, Conan scrambled up a weathered ridge, which looked to be higher than most. Crouching on its sharp crest, he stared out over the waste.

His view was limited except to the north, but the glimpses he had of sheer cliffs rising above the spurs and ridges to east, west, and south made him believe that they formed parts of a continuous wall, which enclosed the tangle of gullies. To the north, this wall was split by the ravine that ran to the outer palace garden.

Presently the nature of the labyrinth became evident At one time or another, a section of that part of the plateau which lay between the site of the present city and the mountain had sunk, leaving a great bowl-shaped depression, and the surface of the depression had been cut up into gullies by erosion over an immense period of time.

There was no use wandering about the gulches. Conan's problem was to get to the cliffs that hemmed in the corrugated bowl and skirt them to find if there was any way to surmount them, or any break in them through which water falling on the bowl drained off. To the south he thought he could trace the route of a ravine more continuous than the others, and which ran more or less directly to the base of the mountain whose sheer wall hung over the bowl. He also saw that, to reach this ravine, he would save time by returning to the gulch below the city wall and following another of the ravines that led into it, instead of scrambling over a score of knife-edged ridges between him and the gully he wished to reach.

Therefore he climbed down the ridge and retraced his steps. The sun was swinging low as he reentered the mouth of the outer ravine and started toward the gulch that, he believed, would lead him to his goal. He glanced idly toward the cliff at the other end of the wider ravine ―and stopped dead.

The body of the Vendhyan was gone, though his tulwar still lay on the rocks at the foot of the wall. Several arrows lay about as if they had fallen out of the body when it was moved. A tiny gleam from the rocky floor caught Conan's eye. He ran to the place and found that it was made by a couple of silver coins.

Conan scooped up the coins and stared at them. Then he glared about with narrowed eyes. The natural explanation would be that the Yezmites had come out somehow to recover the body. But if they had, they would probably have picked up the undamaged arrows and would hardly have left money lying about.

On the other hand, if not the folk of Yanaidar, then who? Conan thought of the broken skeletons and remembered Parusati's remark about the "door to Hell." There was every reason to suspect that something inimical to human beings haunted this maze. What if the ornate door in the dungeon led out to this ravine?

A careful search disclosed the door whose existence Conan suspected.

The thin cracks that betrayed its presence would have escaped the casual glance. On the side of the ravine, the door looked like the material of the cliff and fitted perfectly. Conan thrust powerfully at it, but it did not yield. He remembered its heavy, metal-bound construction and stout bolts. It would take a battering ram to shake that door. The strength of the door, together with the projecting blades overhead, implied' that the Yezmites were taking no chances that the haunter of the gulches might get into their city. On the other hand, there was comfort in the thought that it must be a creature of flesh and blood, not a demon against whom bolts and spikes would be of no avail.

Conan looked down the gully toward the mysterious labyrinth, wondering what skulking horror its mazes hid. The sun had not yet set but was hidden from the bottoms of the gulches. Although vision was still clear, the ravine was full of shadows.

Then Conan became aware of another sound: a muffled drumming, a slow boom―boom―boom, as if the drummer were striking alternate beats for marching men. There was something odd about the quality of the sound.

Conan knew the clacking hollow log-drums of the Kushites, the whirring copper kettledrums of the Hyrkanians, and the thundering infantry drums of the Hyborians, but this did not sound like any of these. He glanced back at Yanaidar, but the sound did not seem to come from the city. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere―from beneath his feet as much as anything.

Then the sound ceased.

A mystical blue twilight hovered over the gulches as Conan reentered the labyrinth. Threading among winding channels, he came out into a slightly wider gully, which Conan believed was the one he had seen from the ridge, which ran to the south wall of the bowl. But he had not gone fifty yards when it split on a sharp spur into two narrower gorges.

This division had not been visible from the ridge, and Conan did not know which branch to follow.

As he hesitated, peering along his alternative paths, he suddenly stiffened. Down the right-hand ravine, a still narrower gulch opened into it, forming a well of blue shadows. And in that well something moved. Conan tensed rigidly as he stared at the monstrous, manlike thing that stood in the twilight before him.

It was like ghoulish incarnation of a terrible legend, clad in flesh and bone; a giant ape, as tall on its gnarled legs as a gorilla. It was like the monstrous man-apes that hunted the mountains around the Vilayet Sea, which Conan had seen and fought before. But it was even larger; its hair was longer and shaggier, as of an arctic beast, and paler, an ashen grey that was almost white.

Its feet and hands were more manlike than those of a gorilla, the great toes and thumbs being more like those of man than of the anthropoid. It was no tree-dweller but a beast bred on great plains and gaunt mountains. The face was apish in general appearance, though the nose-bridge was more pronounced, the jaw less bestial. But its manlike features merely increased the dreadfulness of its aspect, and the intelligence which gleamed from its small red eyes was wholly malignant.

Conan knew it for what it was: the monster named in myth and legend of the north―the snow ape, the desert man of forbidden Pathenia. He had heard rumors of its existence in wild tales drifting down from the lost, bleak plateau country of Loulan. Tribesmen had sworn to the stories of a manlike beast, which had dwelt there since time immemorial, adapted to the famine and bitter chill of the northern uplands.

All this flashed through Conan's mind as the two stood facing each other in menacing tenseness. Then the rocky walls of the ravine echoed to the ape's high, penetrating scream as it charged, low-hanging arms swinging wide, yellow fangs bared and dripping.

Conan waited, poised on the balls of his feet, craft and long knife pitted against the strength of the mighty ape.

The monster's victims had been given to it broken and shattered from torture, or dead. The semi-human spark in its brain, which set it apart from the true beasts, had found a horrible exultation in the death agonies of its prey. This man was only another weak creature to be torn and dismembered, and his skull broken to get at the brain, even though he stood up with a gleaming thing in his hand.

Conan, as he faced that onrushing death, knew his only chance was to keep out of the grip of those huge arms, which could crush him in an instant. The monster was swifter than its clumsy appearance indicated.

It hurled itself through the air for the last few feet in a giant grotesque spring. Not until it was looming over him, the great arms closing upon him, did Conan move, and then his action would have shamed a striking leopard.

The talonlike nails only shredded his ragged tunic as he sprang clear, slashing, and a hideous scream ripped echoing through the ridges. The ape's right hand was half severed at the wrist. The thick mat of pale hair prevented Conan's slash from altogether severing the member. With blood spouting from the wound, the brute wheeled and rushed again. This time its lunge was too lightning-quick for any human thews to avoid.

Conan evaded the disembowelling sweep of the great misshapen left hand with its thick black nails, but the massive shoulder struck him and knocked him staggering. He was carried to the wall with the lunging brute, but even as he was swept back he drove his knife to the hilt in the great belly and ripped up in desperation in what he thought was his dying stroke.

They crashed together into the wall. The ape's great arm hooked terrifyingly about Conan's straining frame. The scream of the beast deafened him as the foaming jaws gaped above his head. Then they snapped in empty air as a great shudder shook the mighty body. A frightful convulsion hurled the Cimmerian clear, and he staggered up to see the ape thrashing in its death throes at the foot of the wall. His desperate upward rip had disembowelled it, and the tearing blade had plowed up through muscle and bone to find the anthropoid's fierce heart.

Conan's corded muscles were quivering as if from a long strain. His iron-hard frame had resisted the terrible strength of the ape long enough to let him come alive out of that awful grapple, which would have torn a weaker man to pieces. But the terrific exertion had shaken even him. His tunic had been ripped nearly off his body and some links of the mail-shirt underneath were broken. Those horny-taloned fingers had left bloody marks across his back. He stood panting as if from a long run, smeared with blood, his own and the ape's.

Conan shuddered, then stood in thought as the red sun impaled itself on a far peak. The pattern was becoming clear now. Broken captives were thrown out to the ape through the door in the city wall. The ape, like those that lived around the Sea of Vilayet, ate flesh as well as fodder. But the irregular supply of captives would not satisfy the enormous appetite of so large and active a beast. Therefore the Yezmites must feed it a regular ration; hence the remains of melons and turnips.

Conan swallowed, aware of thirst. He had rid the ravines of their haunter, but he could still perish of hunger and thirst if he did not find a way out of the depression. There was no doubt a spring or pool somewhere in the waste, where the ape had drunk, but it might take a month to find it.

Dusk masked the gullies and hung over the ridges as Conan moved off down the right-hand ravine. Forty paces further, the left branch rejoined its brother. As he advanced, the walls were more thickly pitted with cavelike lairs, in which the rank scent of the ape hung strongly. It occurred to him that there might be more than one of the creatures, but that was unlikely, because the scream of the first as it charged would have attracted any others.

Then the mountain loomed above him. The ravine he was following shallowed until Conan found himself climbing up a bank of talus until he stood at its apex and could look out over the depression to the city of Yanaidar. He leaned against a smooth vertical cliff on which a fly would hardly be able to find a foothold.

"Crom and Mitra!" he grumbled.

He jounced down the side of the fan of debris and struggled along the base of the cliff to the edge of the bowl. Here the plateau dropped sheerly away below. It was either straight up or straight down; there was no other choice.

He could not be sure of the distance in the gathering darkness, but he judged the bottom to be several times as far down as the length of his rope. To make sure he uncoiled the line from around his waist and dangled the grapnel on its end the full length of the rope. The hook swung freely.

Next, Conan retraced his steps across the base of the cliff and kept on going to the other side of the plateau. Here the walls were not quite so steep. By dangling his rope he ascertained that there was a ledge about thirty feet down, and from where it ran off and ended on the side of the mountain among broken rocks there seemed to be a chance of getting down by arduous climbing and sliding. It would not be a safe routes―a misstep would send the climber bouncing down the rocky slope for hundreds of paces―but he thought a strong girl like Nanaia could make it.

He still, however, had to try to get back into Yanaidar. Nanaia was still hidden in the secret stairway in Virata's palace―if she had not been discovered. There was a chance that, by lurking outside the door to Hell, he could get in when the Yezmite in charge of feeding the ape opened the door to put out food. There was a chance that the men from Kushaf, roused by Tubal, were on their way to Yanaidar.

In any case, Conan could only try. He shrugged a little and turned back toward the city.

7. Death in the Palace

Conan groped his way back through the gulches until he came into the outer ravine and saw the wall and the cliff at the other end. The lights of Yanaidar glowed in the sky above the wall, and he could catch the weird melody of whining citherns. A woman's voice was lifted in plaintive song. He smiled grimly in the dark, skeleton-littered gorges around him.

There was no food on the rocks before the door. He had no way of knowing how often the brute had been fed or whether it would be fed at all that night.

He must gamble, as he often had. The thought of what might be happening to Nanaia maddened him with impatience, but he flattened himself against the rock on the side against which the door opened and waited, still as a statue.

An hour later, even his patience was wearing thin when there came a rattle of chains, and the door opened a crack.

Someone was peering out to be sure the grisly guardian of the gorges was not near before opening the door further. More bolts clanged, and a man stepped out with a great copper bowl full of vegetables. As he set it down, he sounded a weird call. And as he bent, Conan struck with his knife. The man dropped, his head rolling off down the ravine.

Conan peered through the open door and saw that the lamplit corridor was empty; the barred cells stood vacant He dragged the headless body down the ravine and hid it among broken rocks.

Then he returned and entered the corridor, shut the door, and shot the bolts. Knife in hand, he started toward the secret door that opened into the tunnel that led to the hidden stair. If hiding in the secret passage did not prove feasible, he might barricade himself and Nanaia in this corridor and hold it until the Kushafis came―if they came.

Conan had not reached the secret door when the creak of a hinge behind him made him whirl. The plain door at the opposite end was opening.

Conan sprinted for it as an armed man stepped through.

It was a Hyrkanian like the one Conan had slain earlier. As he sighted Conan rushing upon him, his breath hissed between his teeth and he reached for his scimitar.

With a leap Conan was upon him and drove him back against the closing door with the point of his knife pricking the Hyrkanian's chest "Silence!" he hissed.

The guard froze, pallor tinging his yellowish skin. Gingerly he drew his hand away from his sword hilt and spread both arms in token of surrender.

"Are there any other guards?" asked Conan.

"Nay, by Tarim! I am the only one."

"Where's the Iranistani girl, Nanaia?" Conan thought he knew where she was but hoped to learn by indirection whether her escape had been discovered and whether she Bad been recaptured.

"The gods know!" said the guard. "I was with the party of guards who brought the Zuagir dogs to the dungeon and found our comrade in the cell with his neck half sliced through and the wench gone. Such shouting and rushing to and fro in the palace! But I was told off to guard the Zuagirs, so I cannot tell more."

"Zuagirs?" said Conan.

"Aye, those who wrongly let you up the Stair. For that they will die tomorrow."

"Where are they now?"

"In the other bank of cells, through yonder door. I have just now come from them."

"Then turn around and march back through that door. No tricks!"

The man opened the door and stepped through as if he were treading on naked razors. They came into another corridor lined with cells. At Conan's appearance, there was a hiss of breath from two of these cells.

Bearded faces crowded the grilles and lean hands gripped the bars. The seven prisoners glared silently at him with venomous hate in their eyes. Conan dragged his prisoner in front of these cells and said:

"You were faithful minions; why are you locked up?"

Antar the son of Adi spat at him. "Because of you, out-land dog! You surprised us on the Stair, and the Magus sentenced us to die even before he learned you were a spy. He said we were either knaves or fools to be caught off guard, so at dawn we die under the knives of Zahak's slayers, may Hanuman curse him and you!"

"Yet you will attain Paradise," Conan reminded them, "because you have faithfully served the Magus of the Sons of Yezm."

"May the dogs gnaw the bones of the Magus of Yezm!" replied one with whole-hearted venom, and another said: "Would that you and the Magus were chained together in Hell!" "We spit on his Paradise! It is all lies and tricks with drugs!"

Conan reflected that Virata had fallen short of getting the allegiance his ancestors boasted, whose followers gladly slew themselves at command.

He had taken a bunch of keys from the guard and now weighed them thoughtfully in his hand. The eyes of the Zuagirs fixed upon them with the aspect of men in Hell who look upon an open door.

"Antar the son of Adi," he said, "your hands are stained with the blood of many men, but when I knew you before, you did not violate your sworn oaths. The Magus has abandoned you and cast you from his service. You are no longer his men, you Zuagirs. You owe him nothing."

Antar's eyes were those of a wolf. "Could I but send him to Arallu ahead of me, I should die happy!"

All stared tensely at Conan, who said: "Will you swear, each man by the honor of his clan, to follow and serve me until vengeance is accomplished, or death releases you from the vow?" He put the keys behind him so as not to seem to flaunt them too flagrantly before helpless men. "Virata will give you nothing but the death of a dog. I offer you revenge and, at worst, a chance to die with honor."

Antar's eyes blazed and his sinewy hands quivered as they gripped the bars. "Trust us!" he said.

"Aye, we swear!" clamored the men behind him. "Harken, Conan, we swear, each by the honor of his clan!"

He was turning the key in the lock before they finished swearing. Wild, cruel, turbulent, and treacherous these desert men might be by civilized standards, but they had their code of honor, and it was close enough to that of Conan's kin in far-distant Cimmeria so that he understood it.

Tumbling out of the cell they laid hold of the Hyrkanian, shouting: "Slay him! He is one of Zahak's dogs!"

Conan tore the man from their grasp and dealt the most persistent a buffet that stretched him on the floor, though it did not seem to arouse any particular resentment.

"Have done!" he growled. "This is my man, to do with as I like." He thrust the cowering Hyrkanian before him down the corridor and back into the other dungeon corridor, followed by the Zuagirs. Having sworn allegiance, they followed blindly without questions. In the other corridor, Conan ordered the Hyrkanian to strip. The man did, shivering in fear of torture.

"Change clothes with him," was Conan's next command to Antar. As the fierce Zuagir began to obey, Conan said to another man: "Step through that door at the end of the corridor―"

"But the devil-ape!" cried the man addressed. "Hell tear me to pieces!"

"He's dead. I slew him with this. Outside the door, behind a rock, you'll find a dead man. Take his dagger, and also fetch the sword you'll see lying near there."

The desert Shemite gave Conan an awed glance and departed. Conan handed his dagger to another Zuagir and the Hyrkanian's wavy-edged dagger to still another. Others at his direction bound and gagged the guard and thrust him through the secret door, which Conan opened, into the tunnel. Antar stood up in the spired helmet, longsleeved coat, and silken trousers of the Hyrkanian. His features were oriental enough to fool anyone who was expecting to see a Hyrkanian in that garb. Conan meanwhile pulled Antar's kaffia over his own head, letting it hang well down in front to hide his features.

"Two still unarmed," said Conan, running his eyes over them. "Follow me."

He reentered the tunnel, stepped over the body of the bound guardsman, and strode along the tunnel, past the peepholes and into the darker stretch beyond. At the foot of the stair he halted.

"Nanaia!" he called softly. There was no response.

Scowling in the dark, Conan groped his way up the stair. There was no sign of Nanaia, although at the top of the stair, just inside the masked panel, he found the two swords he had left there earlier. Now each of the eight men had a weapon of some sort.

A glance through a peephole in the masked panel showed the chamber where Conan had slept to be empty. Conan opened the panel, a crack at first, then all the way.

"They must have found the girl," he whispered to An-tar. "Where would they take her if not back to the cells?"

"The Magus has girls who have committed faults chastised in his throne room, where he gave you audience this morning."

"Then lead―what's that?"

Conan whirled at the sound of the slow drumming that he had heard earlier, in the ravines. Again it seemed to come out of the earth. The Zuagirs looked at one another, paling under their swarthy skins.

"None knows," said Antar with a visible shudder. "The sound started months ago and since then has become stronger and comes more and more often. The first time, the Magus turned the city upside down looking for the source. When he found none he desisted and ordered that no man should pay heed to the drumming or even speak of it. Gossip says he has been busy of nights in his oratory, striving with spells and divinations to learn the < source of the sound, but the gossip does not say he has found anything."

The sound had ceased while Antar was speaking. Conan said: "Well, lead me to this chamber of chastisement. The rest of you close up and walk as if you owned the place, but quietly. We may fool some of the palace dogs."

"Through the Paradise Garden would be the best way," said Antar. "A strong guard of Stygians would be posted before the main door to the throne room at night."

The corridor outside the chamber was empty. The Zuagirs took the lead.

With nightfall, the atmosphere of silence and mystery had thickened over the palace of the Magus. Lights burned more dimly; shadows hung thickly, and no breeze stole in to ruffle the dully shimmering tapestries.

The Zuagirs knew the way well. A ragged-looking gang, with furtive feet and blazing eyes, they stole swiftly along the dim, richly-decorated hallways like a band of midnight thieves. They kept to passages little frequented at that time of night. The party had encountered no one when they came suddenly to a door, gilded and barred, before which stood two giant black Kushites with naked tulwars.

The Kushites silently lifted their tulwars at the sight of the unauthorized invaders; they were mutes. Eager to begin their vengeance, the Zuagirs swarmed over the two blacks, the man with swords engaging them while the others grappled and dragged them down and stabbed them to death in a straining, sweating, swearing knot of convulsing effort It was butchery, but necessary.

"Keep watch here," Conan commanded one of the Zuagirs. He threw open the door and strode out into the garden, now empty in the starlight, its blossoms glimmering whitely, its dense trees and shrubbery masses of dusky mystery. The Zuagirs, now armed with the swords of the blacks, swaggered after him.

Conan headed for the balcony, which he knew overhung the garden, cleverly masked by the branches of trees. Three Zuagirs bent their backs for him to stand upon. In an instant he had found the window from which he and Virata had looked. The next instant he was through it, making no more noise than a cat.

Sounds came from beyond the curtain that masked the balcony alcove: a woman sobbing in terror and the voice of Virata.

Peering through the hanging, Conan saw the Magus lolling on the throne under the pearl-sewn canopy. The guards no longer stood like ebon images on either side of him. They were squatting before the dais in the middle of the floor, whetting daggers and heating irons in a glowing brazier. Nanaia was stretched out between them, naked, spread-eagled on the floor with her wrists and ankles lashed to pegs driven into holes in the floor. No one else was in the room, and the bronze doors were closed and bolted.

"Tell me how you escaped from the cell," commanded Virata.

"No! Never!" She bit her lip in her struggle to keep her self-control.

"Was it Conan?"

"Did you ask for me?" said Conan as he stepped from the alcove, a grim smile on his dark, scarred face.

Virata sprang up with a cry. The Kushites straightened, snarling and reaching for weapons.

Conan sprang forward and drove his knife through the throat of one before he could get his sword clear. The other lunged toward the girl, lifting his scimitar to slay the victim before he died. Conan caught the descending blow on his knife and, with a lightning riposte, drove the knife to the hilt in the man's midriff. The Kushite's momentum carried him forward against Conan, who crouched, placed his free hand on the black's belly, and straightened, raising the Kushite over his head. The Kushite squirmed and groaned. Conan threw him to one side to fall with a heavy thump and expire.

Conan turned again to the Magus, who, instead of trying to flee, was advancing upon him with a fixed, wide-eyed stare. His eyes developed a peculiar luminous quality, which caught and held Conan's gaze like a magnet.

Conan, straining forward to reach the wizard with his knife, felt as if he were suddenly laden with chains, or as if he were wading through the slimy swamps of Stygia where the black lotus grows. His muscles stood out like lumps of iron. Sweat beaded his skin as he strained at the invisible bonds.

Virata stalked slowly toward the Cimmerian, hands outspread before him, making little rhythmic gestures with his fingers and never taking his weird gaze from Conan's eyes. The hands neared Conan's throat. Conan had a flash of foreboding that, with the help of his arcane arts, this frail-looking man could snap even the Cimmerian's bullneck like a rotten stick.

Nearer came the spreading hands. Conan strained harder than ever, but the resistance seemed to increase with every inch the Magus advanced toward him.

And then Nanaia screamed a long, high, piercing shriek, as of a soul being flayed in Hell.

The Magus half-turned, and in that instant his eyes left Conan's. It was as if a ton had been lifted instantly from Conan's back. Virata snapped his gaze back to Conan, but the Cimmerian knew better than to meet his eyes again. Peering through narrowed lids at the Magus' chest, Conan made a disembowelling thrust with his knife. The attack met only air as the Kosalan avoided it with a backward bound of superhuman litheness, then turned and ran toward the door, crying:

"Help! Guard! To me!"

Men were yelling and hammering against the door on the far side. Conan waited until the Magus' fingers were clawing at the bolts. Then he threw the knife so that the point struck Virata in the middle of his back and drove through his body, pinning him to the door like an insect to a board.

8. Wolves at Bay

Conan strode to the door and wrenched out his knife, letting the body of the Magus slip to the floor. Beyond the door the clamor grew, and out in the garden the Zuagirs were bawling to know if he was safe and loudly demanding permission to join him. He shouted to them to wait and hurriedly freed the girl, snatching up a piece of silk from a divan to wrap around her. She clasped his neck with a hysterical sob, crying:

"Oh, Conan, I knew you would come! They told me you were dead, but I knew they could not slay you―"

"Save that till later," he said gruffly. Carrying the Kushites' swords, he strode back to the balcony and handed Nanaia down through the window to the Zuagirs, then swung down beside her.

"And now, lord?" said the Zuagirs, eager for more desperate work.

"Back the way we came, through the secret passage and out the door to Hell."

They started at a run across the garden, Conan leading Nanaia by the hand. They had not gone a dozen paces when ahead of them a clang of steel vied with the din in the palace behind them. Lusty curses mingled with the clangor, a door slammed like a clap of thunder, and a figure came headlong through the shrubbery. It was the Zuagir they had left on guard at the gilded door. He was swearing and wringing blood from a slashed forearm.

"Hyrkanian dog? at the door!" he yelled. "Someone saw us kill the Kushites and ran for Zahak. I sworded one in the belly and slammed the door, but they'll soon have it down!"

"Is there a way out of this garden that does not lead through the palace, Antar?" asked Conan.

"This way!" The Zuagir ran to the north wall, all but hidden in masses of foliage. Across the garden they could hear the gilded door splintering under the onslaught of the nomads of the steppes. Antar slashed and tore at the fronds until he disclosed a cunningly-masked door set in the wall. Conan slipped the hilt of his knife into the chain of the antiquated lock and twisted the heavy weapon by the blade.

His muscles knotted: the Zuagirs watched him, breathing heavily, while the clamor behind them grew. With a final heave Conan snapped the chain.

They burst through into another, smaller garden, lit with hanging lanterns, just as the gilded door gave way and a stream of armed figures flooded into the Paradise Garden.

In the midst of the garden into which the fugitives had come stood the tall, slim tower Conan had noticed when he first entered the palace. A latticed balcony extended out a few feet from its second storey. Above the balcony, the tower rose square and slim to a height of over a hundred yards, then widened out into a walled observation platform.

"Is there another way out of here?" asked Conan.

"That door leads into the palace at a place not far from the stair down to the dungeon," said Antar, pointing.

"Make for it, then!" said Conan, slamming the door behind him and wedging it with a dagger. "That might hold it for a few seconds at least."

They raced across the garden to the door indicated, but it proved to be closed and bolted from the inside. Conan threw himself against it but failed to shake it.

Vengeful yells reached a crescendo behind them as the dagger-wedged door splintered inward. The aperture was crowded with wild faces and waving arms as Zahak's men jammed there in their frantic eagerness.

The tower!" roared Conan. "If we can get in there…"

The Magus often made magics in the upper chamber," panted a Zuagir running after Conan. "He let none other than the Tiger in that chamber, but men say arms are stored there. Guards sleep below―"

"Come on!" bellowed Conan, racing in the lead and dragging Nanaia so that she seemed to fly through the air. The door in the wall gave way altogether, spilling a knot of Hyrkanians into the garden, falling over one another in their haste. From the noise that came from every other direction, it would be only a matter of minutes before men swarmed into the Garden of the Tower from all its apertures.

As Conan neared the tower, the door in the base opened as five bewildered guards came out They yelped in astonishment as they saw a knot of men rushing upon them with teeth bared and eyes blazing in the light of the hanging lanterns. Even as they reached for their blades, Conan was upon them. Two fell to his whirling blade as the Zuagirs swarmed over the remaining three, slashing and stabbing until the glittering figures lay still in puddles of crimson.

But now the Hyrkanians from the Paradise Garden were racing towards the tower too, their armor flashing and their accouterments jingling. The Zuagirs stormed into the tower. Conan slammed the bronze door and shot home a bolt that would have stopped the charge of an elephant, just as the Hyrkanians piled up against the door on the outside.

Conan and his people rushed up the stairs, eyes and teeth gleaming, all but one who collapsed halfway up from loss of blood. Conan carried him the rest of the way, laid him on the floor, and told Nanaia to bandage the ghastly gash made by the sword of one of the guards they had just killed. Then he took stock of their surroundings. They were in an upper chamber of the tower, with small windows and a door opening out on to the latticed balcony. The light from the lanterns in the garden, coming in little twinkles through the lattice and the windows, shone faintly on racks of arms lining the walls: helms, cuirasses, bucklers, spears, swords, axes, maces, bows, and sheaves of arrows. There were enough arms here to equip a troop, and no doubt there were more in the higher chambers. Virata had made the tower his arsenal and keep as well as his magical oratory.

The Zuagirs chanted gleefully as they snatched bows and quivers from the walls and went out on the balcony. Though several had minor wounds, they began shooting through the holes in the lattice into the yelling mob of soldiery swarming below.

A storm of arrows came back, clattering against the latticework and a few coming through. The men outside shot at random, as they could not see the Zuagirs in the shadow. The mob had surged to the tower from all directions. Zahak was not in sight, but a hundred or so of his Hyrkanians were, and a welter of men of a dozen other races. They swarmed about the garden yelling like fiends.

The lanterns, swinging wildly under the impact of bodies stumbling against the slender trees, lit a mass of twisted faces with white eyeballs rolling madly upward. Blades flickered lightninglike all over the garden. Bowstrings twanged blindly. Bushes and shrubs were shredded underfoot as the mob milled and eddied. Thump! They had obtained a beam and were using it as a ram against the door.

"Get those men with the ram!" barked Conan, bending the stiffest bow he had been able to find in the racks.

The overhang of the balcony kept the besieged from seeing those at the front end of the ram, but as they picked off those in the rear, those in front had to drop the timber because of its weight Looking around, Conan was astonished to see Nanaia, her sheet of silk wrapped around her waist to make a skirt, shooting with the Zuagirs.

"I thought I told you―" he began, but she only said:

"Curse it, have you nothing I can use as a bracer? The bowstring is cutting my arm to ribbons."

Conan turned away with a baffled sigh and resumed shooting his own bow.

He understood the celerity with which he and his men had been trapped when he heard Olgerd Vladislav's voice lifted like the slash of a saber above the clamor. The Zaporoskan must have learned of Virata's death within minutes and taken instant command.

"They bring ladders," said Antar.

Conan peered into the dark. By the light of the bobbing lanterns he saw three ladders coming towards the tower, each carried by several men. He stepped into the armory and presently came out on the balcony again with a spear.

A pair of men were holding the base of one ladder against the ground while two more raised it by walking toward the tower holding the ladder's uprights over their heads. The ends of the ladder crunched against the lattice.

"Push it over! Throw it down!" cried the Zuagirs, and one started to thrust his sword through the lattice.

"Back!" snarled Conan. "Let me take care of this!"

He waited until several men had swarmed up the ladder. The top man was a burly fellow with an ax. As he swung the ax to hack away the flimsy wooden latticework, Conan thrust his spear through one of the holes, placed the point against a rung, and pushed. The ladder swayed back.

The men on it screamed, dropping their weapons to clutch at the rungs.

Down crashed the ladder and its* load into the front ranks of the besiegers.

"Come! Here's another!" cried a Zuagir, and Conan hurried to another side of the balcony to push over a second ladder. The third was only half raised when arrows brought down two of the men raising it, so that it fell back.

"Keep shooting," growled Conan, laying down his spear and bending the great bow.

The continuous rain of arrows, to which they could make no effective reply, wore down the spirits of the throng below. They broke and scattered for cover, and the Zuagirs whooped with frantic glee and sent long, arching flights of missiles after them.

In a few moments, the garden was empty except for the dead and dying, though Conan could see the movement of men along the surrounding walls and roofs.

Conan reentered the armory and climbed the stair. He passed through several more rooms lined with arms, then came to the magical laboratory of the Magus. He spared only a brief glance at the dusty manuscripts, the strange instruments and diagrams, and climbed the remaining flight to the observation platform.

From here he could take stock of their position. The palace, he now saw, was surrounded by gardens except in front, where there was a wide courtyard. All was enclosed by an outer wall. Lower, inner walls separated the gardens somewhat like the spokes of a wheel, with the high outer wall taking the place of the rim.

The garden in which they were at bay lay on the northwest side of the palace, next to the courtyard, which was separated from it by a wall.

Another wall lay between it and the next garden to the west. Both this garden and the Garden of the Tower lay outside the Paradise Garden, which was half-enclosed by the walls of the palace itself.

Over the outer wall that surrounded the whole of the palace grounds, Conan looked down on the roofs of the city. The nearest house was not over thirty paces from the wall. Lights blazed everywhere, in the palace, the gardens, and the adjacent houses.

The noise, the shouts and groans and curses and the clatter of arms, died down to a murmur. Then Olgerd Vladislav's voice was raised from behind the courtyard wall: "Are you ready to yield, Conan?"

Conan laughed at him. "Come and get us!"

"I shall―at dawn," the Zaporoskan assured him, "You're as good as dead now."

"So you said when you left me in the ravine of the devil-ape, but I'm alive and the ape is dead!"

Conan had spoken in Hyrkanian. A shout of anger and unbelief arose from all quarters. Conan continued: "Do the Yezmites know that the Magus is dead, Olgerd?"

"They know that Olgerd Vladislav is the real ruler of Yanaidar, as he has always been. I know not how you slew the ape, nor how you got those Zuagiri dogs out of their cells, but I'll have your skins hanging on this wall before the sun is an hour high!"

Presently a banging and hammering sounded on the other side of the courtyard, out of sight. Olgerd yelled: "Do you hear that, you Cimmerian swine? My men are building a helepolis―a siege tower on wheels, which will stop your shafts and shelter fifty men behind it At dawn we'll push it up to the tower and swarm in. That will be your finish, dog!"

"Send your men on in. Tower or no tower, we'll pick them off just as fast."

The Zaporoskan replied with a shout of derisive laughter, and thereafter there was no more parleying. Conan considered a sudden break for freedom but abandoned the idea. Men clustered thickly behind every wall around the garden, and such an attempt would be suicide. The fortress had become a prison.

Conan admitted to himself that if the Kushafis did not appear on time, he and his party were finished despite all his strength and speed and ferocity and the help of the Zuagirs.

The hammering went on unseen. Even if the Kushafis came at sunrise, they might be too late. The Yezmites would have to break down a section of the garden wall to get the machine into the garden, but that would not take long.

The Zuagirs did not share their leader's somber forebodings. They had already wrought a glorious slaughter; they had a strong position, a leader they worshiped, and an unlimited supply of missiles. What more could a warrior desire?

The Zuagir with the sword cut died just as dawn was paling the lanterns in the garden below. Conan stared at his pitiful band. The Zuagirs prowled the balcony, peering through the lattice, while Nanaia slept the sleep of exhaustion on the floor, wrapped in the silken sheet.

The hammering ceased. Presently, in the stillness, Conan heard the creak of massive wheels. He could not yet see the juggernaut the Yezmites had built, but he could make out the black forms of men huddled on the roofs of the houses beyond the outer wall. He looked further, over the roofs and clustering trees, toward the northern edge of the plateau. He saw no sign of life, in the growing light, among the fortifications that lined the rim of the cliffs. Evidently the guards, undeterred by the fate of Antar and the original sentries, had deserted their posts to join the fighting at the palace. But, as he watched, Conan saw a group of a dozen men trudging along the road that led to the Stair. Olgerd would not long leave that point unguarded.

Conan turned back toward his six Zuagirs, whose bearded faces looked silently at him out of bloodshot eyes.

"The Kushafis have not come," he said. "Presently Olgerd will send his slayers against us under cover of a great shield on wheels. They will climb up ladders behind this shield and burst in here. We shall slay some of them; then we shall die."

"As Hanuman has decreed," they answered. "We shall slay many ere we die." They grinned like hungry wolves in the dawn and thumbed their weapons.

Conan looked out and saw the storming machine rumbling across the courtyard. It was a massive affair of beams and bronze and iron, on oxcart wheels. At least fifty men could huddle behind it, safe from arrows. It rolled toward the wall and halted. Sledge hammers began to crash against the wall.

The noise awakened Nanaia. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, stared about, and ran to Conan with a cry.

"Hush up. We'll beat them yet," he said gruffly, although he thought otherwise. There was nothing he could do for her now but stand before her in the last charge and perhaps spare one last merciful sword stroke for her.

"The wall crumbles," muttered a lynx-eyed Zuagir, peering through the lattice. "Dust rises under the hammers. Soon we shall see the workmen who swing the sledges."

Stones toppled out of the weakened wall; then a whole section crashed down. Men ran into the gap, picked up stones, and carried them away.

Conan bent the strong Hyrkanian bow he had been using and sent a long arching shot at the gap. It skewered a Yezmite, who fell shrieking and thrashing. Others dragged the wounded man out of the way and continued clearing the passage. Behind them loomed the siege tower, whose crew shouted impatiently to those toiling in the gap to hurry and clear the way. Conan sent shaft after shaft at the crowd. Some bounced from the stones, but now and then one found a human target. When the men flinched at their task, Olgerd's whiplash voice drove them back to it.

As the sun rose, casting long shadows across the courts, the last remains of the wall in front of the tower were shoveled out of the way.

Then, with a mighty creaking and groaning, the tower advanced. The Zuagirs shot at it, but their arrows merely stuck in the hides that covered its front. The tower was of the same height as the storey on which they stood, with ladders going up its rear side. When it reached the tower in the garden, the Yezmites would swarm up, rush across the small platform on top, and burst through the flimsy lattice on to the balcony on which Conan and his men crouched.

"You have fought well," he told them. "Let us end well by taking as many Yezmite dogs with us as we can. Instead of waiting for them to swarm in here, let us burst the lattice ourselves, charge out on to the platform, and hurl the Yezmites off it Then we can slay those that climb the ladders as they come up."

"Their archers will riddle us from the ground," said Antar.

Conan shrugged, his lip curling in a somber smile. "We can have some fun in the meantime. Send the men to fetch pikes from the armory; for this kind of push, a solid line of spears is useful. And there are some big shields there; let those on the flanks carry these to protect the rest of us."

A moment later Conan lined up the six surviving Zuagirs with pikes, while he stood in front of them with a massive battle-ax, ready to chop away the lattice and lead the charge on to the platform.

Nearer rolled the tower, the men huddled behind it shouting their triumph.

Then, when the siege tower was hardly a spear's length from the balcony, it stopped. The long trumpets blared, a great hubbub arose, and presently the men behind the tower began running back through the gap in the wall.

9. The Fate of Yanaidar

"Crom, Mitra, and Asura!" roared Conan, throwing down his ax. "The dogs can't be running before they are even hurt!"

He strode back and forth on the balcony, trying to see what was happening, but the bulk of the deserted siege tower blocked his view.

Then he dashed into the armory chamber and up the winding stair to the observation platform.

Toward the north, he looked out over the roofs of Yanaidar along the road that stretched out in the white dawn. Half a dozen men were running along that road. Behind them, other figures were swarming through the fortifications at the rim of the plateau. A fierce, deep yelling came to the ears listening in the suddenly silent city. And in the silence Conan again heard the mysterious drumming that had disturbed him on previous occasions. Now, however, he did not care if all the fiends of Hell were drumming under Yanaidar.

Balash!" he cried.

Again, the negligence of the guards of the Stair had helped him. The Kushafis had climbed the unguarded Stair in time to slaughter the sentries coming to mount guard there. The numbers swarming up on to the plateau were greater than the village of Kushaf could furnish, and he could recognize, even at this distance, the red silken breeches of his own kozaki.

In Yanaidar, frozen amazement gave way to hasty action. Men yelled on the roofs and ran about in the street. From housetop to housetop the news of the invasion spread. Conan was not surprised, a few moments later, to hear Olgerd's whiplash voice shouting orders.

Soon, men poured into the square from the gardens and court and from the houses around the square. Conan glimpsed Olgerd, far down the street amidst a glittering company of armored Hyrkanians, at the head of which gleamed Zahak's plumed helmet After them thronged hundreds of Yezmite warriors, in good order for tribesmen. Evidently Olgerd had taught them the rudiments of civilized warfare.

They swung along as if they meant to march out on to the plain and meet the oncoming horde in battle, but at the end of the street they scattered, taking cover in the gardens and the houses on each side of the street.

The Kushafis were still too far away to see what was going on in the city. By the time they reached a point where they could look down the street, it seemed empty. But Conan, from his vantage point, could see the gardens at the northern end of the town clustered with menacing figures, the roofs loaded with men with double-curved bows strung for action. The Kushafis were marching into a trap, while he stood there helpless. Conan gave a strangled groan.

A Zuagir panted up the stair and stood beside Conan, knotting a rude bandage about a wounded wrist He spoke through his teeth, with which he was tugging at the rag. "Are those your friends? The fools run headlong into the fangs of death."

"I know," growled Conan.

"I know what will happen. When I was a palace guardsman, I heard the Tiger tell his officers his plan for defense. See you that orchard at the end of the street, on the east side? Fifty swordsmen hide there.

Across the road is a garden we call the Garden of the Stygian. There too, fifty warriors lurk in ambush. The house next to it is full of warriors, and so are the first three houses on the other side of the street."

""Why tell me? I can see the dogs crouching in the orchard and on the roofs/'

"Aye! Then men in the orchard and the garden will wait until the Ilbarsis have passed beyond them and are between the houses. Then the archers on the roofs will pour arrows down upon them, while the swordsmen close in from all sides. Not a man will escape."

"Could I but warn them!" muttered Conan. "Come on, we're going down."

He leaped down the stairs and called in Antar and the other Zuagirs.

"We're going out to fight."

"Seven against seven hundred?" said Antar. "I am no craven, but―"

In a few words Conan told him what he had seen from the top of the tower. "If, when Olgerd springs his trap, we can take the Yezmites in the rear in turn, we might just be able to turn the tide. We have nothing to lose, for if Olgerd destroys my friends he'll come back and finish us."

"But how shall we be known from Olgerd's dogs?" persisted the Zuagir.

"Your reavers will hew us down with the rest and ask questions afterwards."

"In here," said Conan. In the armory, he handed out silvered coats of scale mail and bronze helmets of an antique pattern, with tall, horsehair crests, unlike any he had seen in Yanaidar. "Put these on.

Keep together and shout 'Conan!" as your war-cry, and we shall do all right." He donned one of the helms himself.

The Zuagirs grumbled at the weight of the armor and complained that they were half blinded by the helmets, whose cheek plates covered most of their faces.

"Put them on!" roared Conan. "This is a stand-up fight, no desert jackal's slash-and-ran raid. Now, wait here until I fetch you."

He climbed back to the top of the tower. The Free Companions and the Kushafis were marching along the road in compact companies. Then they halted. Balash was too crafty an old wolf to rush headlong into a city he knew nothing about A few men detached themselves from the mass and ran towards the town to scout. They disappeared behind the houses, then reappeared again, running back towards the main forces. After them came a hundred or so Yezmites, running in ragged formation.

The invaders spread out into a battle line. The sun glinted on sheets of arrows arching between the two groups. A few Yezmites fell, while the rest closed with the Kushafis and the kozaki. There was an instant of dusty confusion through which sparkled the whirl of blades. Then the Yezmites broke and fled back towards the houses. Just as Conan feared, the invaders poured after them, howling like blood-mad demons. Conan knew the hundred had been sent out to draw his men into the trap.

Olgerd would never have sent such an inferior force to charge the invaders otherwise.

They converged from both sides into the road. There, though Balash was unable to check their headlong rush, he did at least manage to beat and curse them into a more compact formation as they surged into the end of the street.

Before they reached it, not fifty paces behind the last Yezmites, Conan was racing down the stairs.

"Come on!" he shouted. "Nanaia, bolt the door behind us and stay herd."

Down the stair to the first storey they pelted, out the door, past the deserted siege tower, and through the gap in the wall. Nobody barred their way. Olgerd must have taken from the palace every man who could bear arms.

Antar led them into the palace and out again through the front entrance. As they emerged, the signal for the Yezmite attack was given by a deafening roar of a dozen long bronze trumpets in the hands of Olgerd's Hyrkanians. By the time they reached the street, the trap had closed. Conan could see the backs of a mass of Yezmites struggling with the invaders, filling the street from side to side, while archers poured arrows into the mass from the roofs of the houses on either side.

With a silent rush Conan led his little group straight into the rear of the Yezmites. The latter knew nothing until the pikes of the Zuagirs thrust them through the back. As the first victims fell, the desert Shemites wrenched out their spears and thrust again and again, while in the middle of the line Conan whirled his ax, splitting skulls and lopping off arms at the shoulder. As the pikes broke or became jammed in the bodies of the Yezmites, the Zuagirs dropped them and took to their swords.

Such was the mad fury of Conan's onslaught that he and his little squad had felled thrice their own number before the Yezmites realized they were taken in the rear. As they looked around, the unfamiliar harness and the shambles of mangled bodies made them give back with cries of dismay. To their imaginations the seven madly slashing and chopping attackers seemed like an army.

"Conan! Conan!" howled the Zuagirs.

At the cry, the trapped force roused itself. There were only two men between Conan and his own force. One was thrust through by the kozak facing him. Conan brought his ax down on the other's helmet so hard that it not only split helm and head but also broke the ax handle.

In an instant of lull, when Conan and the Zuagirs faced the kozaki and nobody was sure of the others' identity, Conan pushed his helmet back so that his face showed.

"To me!" he bellowed above the clatter. "Smite them, dog-brothers!"

"It is Conan!" cried the nearest Free Companions, and the cry. was taken up through the host.

"Ten thousand pieces of gold for the Cimmerian's head!" came the sharp voice of Olgerd Vladislav.

The clatter of weapons redoubled. So did the chorus of cries, curses, threats, shrieks, and groans. The battle began to break up into hundreds of single combats and fights among small groups. They swirled up and down the street, trampling the dead and wounded; they surged into the houses, smashed furniture, thundered up and down stairs, and erupted on to the roofs, where the Kushafis and kozaki made short work of the archers posted there.

After that, there was no semblance of order or plan, no chance to obey commands and no time to give them. It was all blind, gasping, sweating butchery, hand-to-hand, with straining feet splashing through pools of blood. Mingled inextricably, the heaving mass of fighters surged and eddied up and down Yanaidar's main street and overflowed into the alleys and gardens. There was little difference in the numbers of the rival hordes. The outcome hung in the balance, and no man knew how the general battle was going; each was too busy killing and trying not to be killed to see what was going on around him,

Conan did not waste breath trying to command order out of chaos. Craft and strategy had gone by the board; the fight would be decided by sheer muscle and ferocity. Hemmed in by howling madmen, there was nothing for him to do but split as many heads and spill as many guts as he could and let the gods of chance decide the issue.

Then, as a fog thins when the wind strikes it, the battle began to thin, knotted masses splitting and melting into groups and individuals.

Conan knew that one side or the other was giving way as men turned their backs on the slaughter. It was the Yezmites who wavered, the madness inspired by the drugs their leaders had given them beginning to die out.

Then Conan saw Olgerd Vladislav. The Zaporoskan's helmet and cuirass were dented and blood-splashed, his garments shredded, his corded muscles quivering and knotting to the lightning play of his saber. His gray eyes blazed and his lips wore a reckless smile. Three dead Kushafis lay at his feet and his saber kept half a dozen blades in play at once. Right and left of him corseleted Hyrkanians and slit-eyed Khitans in lacquered leather smote and wrestled breast to breast with wild Kushafi tribesmen.

Conan also saw Tubal for the first time, plowing through the wrack of battle like a black-bearded buffalo as he glutted his wild-beast fury in stupendous blows. And he saw Balash reeling out of the battle covered with blood. Conan began beating his way through to Olgerd.

Olgerd laughed with a wild gleam in his eyes as he saw the Cimmerian coming toward him. Blood streamed down Conan's mail and coursed in tiny rivulets down his massive, sun-browned arms. His knife was red to the hilt.

"Come and die, Conan!" shouted Olgerd. Conan came in as a kozak would come, in a blazing whirl of action. Olgerd sprang to meet him, and they fought as the kozaki fight, both attacking simultaneously, stroke raining on stroke too swiftly for the eye to follow.

In a circle about them, the panting, bloodstained warriors ceased their own work of slaughter to stare at the two leaders settling the destiny of Yanaidar.

"Aie!" cried a hundred throats as Conan stumbled, losing contact with the Zaporoskan blade.

Olgerd cried out ringingly and whirled up his sword. Before he could strike, or even realize the Cimmerian had tricked him, the long knife, driven by Conan's iron muscles, punched through his breastplate and through the heart beneath. He was dead before he struck the ground, tearing the blade out of the wound as he fell.

As Conan straightened to look around, there came a new outcry, somehow different from what he would have expected to hear as his men set upon the broken Yezmites. He looked up and saw a new force of armed men clattering down the street in a solid, disciplined formation crushing and brushing aside the knots of fighters in their way. As they came close, Conan made out the gilded mail and nodding plumes of the Iranistanian royal guard. At their head raged the mighty Gotarza, striking with his great scimitar at Yezmite and kozak alike.

In a twinkling the whole aspect of the battle had changed. Some Yezmites fled. Conan shouted: "To me, kozaki!" and his band began to cluster around him, mixed with the Kushafis and some of the Yezmites.

The latter, finding Conan the only active leader against the new common foe, fell in with the men with whom they had just been locked in a death grapple, while along the front between the two masses, swords flashed and more men fell.

Conan found himself facing Gotarza, who swept the field with blows that would have felled small oaks. Conan's notched blade sang and flashed too fast for the eye to follow, but the Iranistani was not behind him.

Blood from a cut on the forehead ran down the side of Gotarza's face; blood from another flesh wound in Conan's shoulder crimsoned the front of his mail. But still the blades whirled and clashed, neither finding an opening in the other's guard.

Then the roar of battle rose in pitch to screams of pure terror. On all sides, men began to leave the fight to ran for the road to the Stair.

The panic push drove Conan into a corps-ti-corps with Gotarza. Breast to breast they strained and wrestled. Conan, opening his mouth to shout, found it full of Gotarza's long black beard. He spat it out and roared:

"What in Hell is going on, you palace-bred lap dog?"

"The real owners of Yanaidar have come back," shouted Gotarza. "Look, swine!"

Conan risked a glance. From all sides, hordes of slinking gray shadows with unblinking, soulless eyes and misshapen, doglike jaws swarmed, to fasten upon any man they met, wherever a clawed but manlike hand could find a hold, and begin to tear him apart and devour him on the spot Men struck at them with the strength of maniacal terror, but their corpselike skins seemed almost impervious to weapons. Where one fell, three others leaped to take its place.

The ghouls of Yanaidar!" gasped Gotarza. "We must flee. Smite me not in the back till we win clear, and I'll hold my hand from you. We can settle our own score later."

The rush of fugitives bowled the two off their feet Conan felt human feet on his back. With a tremendous effort he forced himself back on his knees and then to his feet, striking out with fists and elbows to clear enough space to breathe.

The rout flowed out northward along the road to the Stair, Yezmites, kozaki, Kushafis, and Iranistanian guards all mixed together but forgetting their three-cornered battle in the face of this subhuman menace. Women and children mingled with the warriors. Along the flanks of the rout swarmed the ghouls, like great gray lice, flowing over any person who became momentarily separated from the rest. Conan, thrust out to the edges of the crowd by the buffeting of the fugitives, came upon Gotarza staggering under the attack of four ghouls. He had lost his sword but gripped two by the throat, one with each hand, while a third clung to his legs and a fourth circled around, trying to reach his throat with its jaws.

A swipe of Conan's knife cut one ghoul in half; a second took off the head of another. Gotarza hurled the others from him, and then they swarmed over Conan, ripping and snapping with claws and fangs. For an instant they almost pulled him down. He was dimly aware that Gotarza had pulled one off him, thrown it to the ground, and was stamping on it with a sticklike snapping of ribs. Conan broke his knife on another and crushed the skull of a third with the hilt.

Then he was running on again with the rest. They poured through the gate in the cyclopean wall, down the Stair, down the ramps, and out across the floor of the canyon. The ghouls pursued them as far as the gate, pulling down man after man. As the last fugitives jammed through the gate, the ghouls fell back, scurrying along the road and into the orchards to fall snarling upon the bodies over which little knots of their own kind already snapped and fought.

In the canyon, men collapsed from weariness, lying down upon the rock heedless of the proximity of their late foes or sitting with their backs against boulders and crags. Most were wounded. All were blood-spattered, disheveled, and bloodshot of eye, in ragged garments and hacked and dented armor. Many had lost their weapons. Of the hundreds of warriors who had gathered for the battle in Yanaidar in the dawn, less than half emerged from the city. For a time the only sounds were those of heavy breathing, the groans of the wounded, the ripping of garments as men made them into crude bandages, and the occasional clink of weapons on the rock as they moved about.

Though he had been fighting, running, and climbing most of the time since the previous afternoon, Conan was one of the first on his feet.

He yawned and stretched, winced at the sting of his wounds, and stalked about, caring for his own men and gathering them into a compact mass.

Of his squad of Zuagirs, he could find only three including Antar.

Tubal he found, but not Codrus.

On the other side of the canyon, Balash, sitting with his leg swathed in bandages, ordered his Kushafis in a weak voice. Gotarza collected his guardsmen. The Yezmites, who had suffered the heaviest losses, wandered about like lost sheep, staring fearfully at the other gathering groups.

"I slew Zahak with my own hands," explained Antar, "so they have no high officer to rally them."

Conan strode over to where Balash lay. "How are you doing, old wolf?"

"Well enough, though I cannot walk unaided. So the old legends are true after all! Every so often, the ghouls issue from chambers under Yanaidar to devour any men so rash as to have taken up residence there." He shuddered. "I do not think anybody will soon try to rebuild the city again."

"Conan!" called Gotarza. "We have things to discuss."

"I'm ready," growled Conan. To Tubal he said: "Gather the men into formation, with those least wounded and best armed on the outside."

Then he strode over the rock-littered canyon floor to a point halfway between his group and Gotarza's. The latter came forward too, saying:

"I still have orders to fetch you and Balash back to Anshan, dead or alive."

"Try it," said Conan.

Balash called from his sitting-place: "I am wounded, but if you try to bear me off by force, my people will harry you through the hills till not one lives."

"A brave threat, but after another battle you would not have enough men," said Gotarza. "You know the other tribes would take advantage of your weakness to plunder your village and carry off your women. The king rules the Ilbars because the Ilbarsi tribes have never united and never will."

Balash remained silent for a moment, then said: 'Tell me, Gotarza, how did you find whither we had gone?"

"We came to Kushaf last night, and the prickle of a skinning knife persuaded a boy of the village to tell us you had gone into Drujistan and guide us on your trail.

In the light before dawn, we came up to that place where you climb a cliff by a rope ladder, and the fools in their haste did not draw it up after them. We bound the men you had left to guard your horses and came up after you.

"But now to business. I have nought against either of you, but I have sworn an oath by Asura to obey the commands of Kobad Shah, and I will obey them while I can drew breath. On the other hand, it seems a shame to begin a further slaughter when our men are so weary and so many brave warriors have fallen."

"What had you in mind?" growled Conan.

"I thought you and I might settle the question by single combat. If I fall, you may go your ways, as there will be none to stop you. If you fall, Balash shall return to Anshan with me. You may be able to prove your innocence at that," Gotarza added to the Kushafi chief. "The king shall know of your part in ending the cult of the Hidden Ones."

"Not from what I know of Kobad's mad suspiciousness," said Balash. "But I'll agree, as no city-bred Iranistani dog could worst Conan in such a duel."

"Agreed," said Conan shortly, and turned back to his men. "Who has the biggest sword?"

He hefted several and chose a long, straight one of Hyborian pattern.

Then he faced Gotarza. "Are you ready?"

"Ready," said Gotarza, and came on with a rush.

The two blades flashed and clanged in a whirl of steel, so fast that the onlookers could not see clearly what was happening. The warriors leaped, circled, advanced, retreated, and ducked decapitating slashes, while the blades continued their din, never stopping for a second.

Slash― parry―thrust―cut―lunge―parry they went. Never in Yanaidar's thousands of years had those crags looked down upon so magnificent a display of swordsmanship.

"Hold!" cried a voice. Then, as the fight continued: "I said hold!"

Conan and Gotarza backed away from each other warily and turned to see who was shouting.

"Bardiya!" cried Gotarza at the stout major-domo, who stood in the notch of the gully that led to the cliff of the rope ladder. "What do you here?"

"Cease your battle," said the Iranistani. "I have killed three horses catching up with you. Kobad Shah has died of the poison on the flame knife, and his son Arshak reigns. He has withdrawn all charges against Conan and Balash and urges Balash to resume his loyal protection of the northern frontier and Conan to return to his service. Iranistan will need such warriors, as Yezdigerd of Turan, having dispersed the bands of kozaki, is again sending his armies forth to ravage and subdue his neighbors."

"If that's so," said Conan, "there will be rich pickings on the Turanian steppe again, and I'm tired of the intrigues of your perfumed court." He turned to his men. "Those who want to return to Anshan may go; the rest ride north with me tomorrow."

"But what of us?" wailed a plumed Hyrkanian guard from Yanaidar. "The Iranistanis will slay us out of hand. Our city is taken by ghouls, our families are slaughtered, our leaders are slain. What will become of us?"

"Those who like may come with me," said Conan indifferently. "The others might ask Balash if he'll accept them. Many of the women of his tribe will be looking for new husbands―Crom!"

Conan's roving eye had lighted on a group of women in which he recognized Parusati. The sight reminded him of something he had forgotten.

"What is it, Conan?" said Tubal.

"I forgot the wench, Nanaia. She's still in the tower. Now how in Hell am I to get back to rescue her from the ghouls?"

"You needn't," said a voice. One of the surviving Zuagirs who had followed Conan pulled off a bronze helmet, revealing Nanaia's features as her black hair tumbled down her back.

Conan started, then laughed thunderously. "I thought I told you to stay―oh, well, it's just as well you didn't." He kissed her loudly and spanked her sharply. "One's for fighting beside us; the other's for disobedience. Now come along. Rouse yourselves, dog-brothers; will you sit on your fat behinds on these bare rocks until you starve?"

Leading the tall dark girl, he strode into the cleft that led to the road to Kushaf.

The People of the Black Circle

CHAPTER 1 Death Strikes a King

The king of Vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint echo in the gold-domed chamber where Bunda Chand struggled on the velvet-cushioned dais. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his fingers twisted the gold-worked fabric beneath him. He was young; no spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine. But his veins stood out like blue cords on his temples, and his eyes dilated with the nearness of death. Trembling slave-girls knelt at the foot of the dais, and leaning down to him, watching him with passionate intensity, was his sister, the Devi Yasmina. With her was the wazam, a noble grown old in the royal court.

She threw up her head in a gusty gesture of wrath and despair as the thunder of the distant drums reached her ears.

`The priests and their clamor!' she exclaimed. `They are no wiser than the leeches who are helpless! Nay, he dies and none can say why. He is dying now - and I stand here helpless, who would burn the whole city and spill the blood of thousands to save him.'

`Not a man of Ayodhya but would die in his place, if it might be, Devi,' answered the wazam. `This poison-'

`I tell you it is not poison!' she cried. `Since his birth he has been guarded so closely that the cleverest poisoners of the East could not reach him. Five skulls bleaching on the Tower of the Kites can testify to attempts which were made - and which failed. As you well know, there are ten men and ten women whose sole duty is to taste his food and wine, and fifty armed warriors guard his chamber as they guard it now. No, it is not poison; it is sorcery - black, ghastly magic-'

She ceased as the king spoke; his livid lips did not move, and there was no recognition in his glassy eyes. But his voice rose in an eery call, indistinct and far away, as if called to her from beyond vast, wind-blown gulfs.

`Yasmina! Yasmina! My sister, where are you? I can not find you. All is darkness, and the roaring of great winds!'

`Brother!' cried Yasmina, catching his limp hand in a convulsive grasp. `I am here! Do you not know me-'

Her voice died at the utter vacancy of his face. A low confused moan waned from his mouth. The slave-girls at the foot of the dais whimpered with fear, and Yasmina beat her breast in anguish.

In another part of the city a man stood in a latticed balcony overlooking a long street in which torches tossed luridly, smokily revealing upturned dark faces and the whites of gleaming eyes. A long-drawn wailing rose from the multitude.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back into the arabesque chamber. He was a tall man, compactly built, and richly clad.

`The king is not yet dead, but the dirge is sounded,' he said to another man who sat cross-legged on a mat in a corner. This man was clad in a brown camel-hair robe and sandals, and a green turban was on his head. His expression was tranquil, his gaze impersonal.

`The people know he will never see another dawn,' this man answered.

The first speaker favored him with a long, searching stare.

`What I can not understand,' he said, `is why I have had to wait so long for your masters to strike. If they have slain the king now, why could they not have slain him months ago?'

`Even the arts you call sorcery are governed by cosmic laws,' answered the man in the green turban. `The stars direct these actions, as in other affairs. Not even my masters can alter the stars. Not until the heavens were in the proper order could they perform this necromancy.' With a long, stained fingernail he mapped the constellations on the marble-tiled floor. `The slant of the moon presaged evil for the king of Vendhya; the stars are in turmoil, the Serpent in the House of the Elephant. During such juxtaposition, the invisible guardians are removed from the spirit of Bhunda Chand. A path is opened in the unseen realms, and once a point of contact was established, mighty powers were put in play along that path.'

`Point of contact?' inquired the other. `Do you mean that lock of Bhunda Chand's hair?'

`Yes. All discarded portions of the human body still remain part of it, attached to it by intangible connections. The priests of Asura have a dim inkling of this truth, and so all nail trimmings, hair and other waste products of the persons of the royal family are carefully reduced to ashes and the ashes hidden. But at the urgent entreaty of the princess of Khosala, who loved Bhunda Chand vainly, he gave her a lock of his long black hair as a token of remembrance. When my masters decided upon his doom, the lock, in its golden, jewel-encrusted case, was stolen from under her pillow while she slept, and another substituted, so like the first that she never knew the difference. Then the genuine lock travelled by camel-caravan up the long, long road to Peshkhauri, thence up the Zhaibar Pass, until it reached the hands of those for whom it was intended.'

`Only a lock of hair,' murmured the nobleman.

`By which a soul is drawn from its body and across gulfs of echoing space,' returned the man on the mat.

The nobleman studied him curiously.

`I do not know if you are a man or a demon, Khemsa,' he said at last. `Few of us are what we seem. I, whom the Kshatriyas know as Kerim Shah, a prince from Iranistan, am no greater a masquerader than most men. They are all traitors in one way or another, and half of them know not whom they serve. There at least I have no doubts; for I serve King Yezdigerd of Turan.'

`And I the Black Seers of Yimsha,' said Khemsa; `and my masters are greater than yours, for they have accomplished by their arts what Yezdigerd could not with a hundred thousand swords.'

Outside, the moan of the tortured thousands shuddered up to the stars which crusted the sweating Vendhyan night, and the conchs bellowed like oxen in pain.

In the gardens of the palace the torches glinted on polished helmets and curved swords and gold-chased corselets. All the noble-born fighting-men of Ayodhya were gathered in the great palace or about it, and at each broad-arched gate and door fifty archers stood on guard, with bows in their hands. But Death stalked through the royal palace and none could stay his ghostly tread.

On the dais under the golden dome the king cried out again, racked by awful paroxysms. Again his voice came faintly and far away, and again the Devi bent to him, trembling with a fear that was darker than the terror of death.

`Yasmina!' Again that far, weirdly dreeing cry, from realms immeasurable. `Aid me! I am far from my mortal house! Wizards have drawn my soul through the wind-blown darkness. They seek to snap the silver cord that binds me to my dying body. They cluster around me; their hands are taloned, their eyes are red like flame burning in darkness. Aie, save me, my sister! Their fingers sear me like fire! They would slay my body and damn my soul! What is this they bring before me? -Aie!'

At the terror in his hopeless cry Yasmina screamed uncontrollably and threw herself bodily upon him in the abandon of her anguish. He was torn by a terrible convulsion; foam flew from his contorted lips and his writhing fingers left their marks on the girl's shoulders. But the glassy blankness passed from his eyes like smoke blown from a fire, and he looked up at his sister with recognition.

`Brother!' she sobbed. `Brother-'

`Swift!' he gasped, and his weakening voice was rational. `I know now what brings me to the pyre. I have been on a far journey and I understand. I have been ensorcelled by the wizards of the Himelians. They drew my soul out of my body and far away, into a stone room. There they strove to break the silver cord of life, and thrust my soul into the body of afoul night-weird their sorcery summoned up from hell. Ali! I feel their pull upon me now! Your cry and the grip of your fingers brought me back, but I am going fast. My soul clings to my body, but its hold weakens. Quick - kill me, before they can trap my soul for ever!'

`I cannot!' she wailed, smiting her naked breasts.

`Swiftly, I command you!' There was the old imperious note in his failing whisper. `You have never disobeyed me -obey my last command! Send my soul clean to Asura! Haste, lest you damn me to spend eternity as a filthy gaunt of darkness. Strike, I command you! Strike!'

Sobbing wildly, Yasmina plucked a jeweled dagger from her girdle and plunged it to the hilt in his breast. He stiffened and then went limp, a grim smile curving his dead lips. Yasmina hurled herself face-down on the rush-covered floor, beating the reeds with her clenched hands. Outside, the gongs and conchs brayed and thundered and the priests gashed themselves with copper knives.

CHAPTER 2 A Barbarian from the Hills

Chunder Shan, governor of Peshkhauri, laid down his golden pen and carefully scanned that which he had written on parchment that bore his official seal. He had ruled Peshkhauri so long only because he weighed his every word, spoken or written. Danger breeds caution, and only a wary man lives long in that wild country where the hot Vendhyan plains meet the crags of the Himelians. An hour's ride westward or northward and one crossed the border and was among the Hills where men lived by the law of the knife.

The governor was alone in his chamber, seated at his ornately carven table of inlaid ebony. Through the wide window, open for the coolness, he could see a square of the blue Himelian night, dotted with great white stars. An adjacent parapet was a shadowy line, and further crenelles and embrasures were barely hinted at in the dim starlight. The governor's fortress was strong, and situated outside the walls of the city it guarded. The breeze that stirred the tapestries on the wall brought faint noises from the streets of Peshkhauri - occasional snatches of wailing song, or the thrum of a cithern.

The governor read what he had written, slowly, with his open hand shading his eyes from the bronze butterlamp, his lips moving. Absently, as he read, he heard the drum of horses' hoofs outside the barbican, the sharp staccato of the guards' challenge. He did not heed, intent upon his letter. It was addressed to the wazam of Vendhya, at the royal court of Ayodhya, and it stated, after the customary salutations: `Let it be known to your excellency that I have faithfully carried out your excellency's instructions. The seven tribesmen are well guarded in their prison, and I have repeatedly sent word into the hills that their chief come in person to bargain for their release. But he has made no move, except to send word that unless they are freed he will burn Peshkhauri and cover his saddle with my hide, begging your excellency's indulgence. This he is quite capable of attempting, and I have tripled the numbers of the lance guards. The man is not a native of Ghulistan. I cannot with certainty predict his next move. But since it is the wish of the Devi-'

He was out of his ivory chair and on his feet facing the arched door, all in one instant. He snatched at the curved sword lying in its ornate scabbard on the table, and then checked the movement.

It was a woman who had entered unannounced, a woman whose gossamer robes did not conceal the rich garments beneath them any more than they concealed the suppleness and beauty of her tall, slender figure. A filmy veil fell below her breasts, supported by a flowing head-dress bound about with a triple gold braid and adorned with a golden crescent. Her dark eyes regarded the astonished governor over the veil, and then with an imperious gesture of her white hand, she uncovered her face.

'Devi!' The governor dropped to his knees before her, surprize and confusion somewhat spoiling the stateliness of his obeisance. With a gesture she motioned him to rise, and he hastened to lead her to the ivory chair, all the while bowing level with his girdle. But his first words were of reproof.

`Your Majesty! This was most unwise! The border is unsettled. Raids from the hills are incessant. You came with a large attendance?'

`An ample retinue followed me to Peshkhauri,' she answered. `I lodged my people there and came on to the fort with my maid, Gitara.'

Chunder Shan groaned in horror.

'Devi! You do not understand the peril. An hour's ride from this spot the hills swarm with barbarians who make a profession of murder and rapine. Women have been stolen and men stabbed between the fort and the city. Peshkhauri is not like your southern provinces-'

`But I am here, and unharmed,' she interrupted with a trace of impatience. `I showed my signet ring to the guard at the gate, and to the one outside your door, and they admitted me unannounced, not knowing me, but supposing me to be a secret courier from Ayodhya. Let us not now waste time.

`You have received no word from the chief of the barbarians?'

`None save threats and curses, Devi. He is wary and suspicious. He deems it a trap, and perhaps he is not to be blamed. The Kshatriyas have not always kept their promises to the hill people.'

`He must be brought to terms!' broke in Yasmina, the knuckles of her clenched hands showing white.

`I do not understand.' The governor shook his head. `When I chanced to capture these seven hillmen, I reported their capture to the wazam, as is the custom, and then, before I could hang them, there came an order to hold them and communicate with their chief. This I did, but the man holds aloof, as I have said. These men are of the tribe of Afghulis, but he is a foreigner from the west, and he is called Conan. I have threatened to hang them tomorrow at dawn, if he does not come.'

`Good!' exclaimed the Devi. `You have done well. And I will tell you why I have given these orders. My brother-' she faltered, choking, and the governor bowed his head, with the customary gesture of respect for a departed sovereign.

`The king of Vendhya was destroyed by magic,' she said at last. `I have devoted my life to the destruction of his murderers. As he died he gave me a clue, and I have followed it. I have read the Book of Skelos, and talked with nameless hermits in the caves below Jhelai. I learned how, and by whom, he was destroyed. His enemies were the Black Seers of Mount Yimsha.'

`Asura!' whispered Chunder Shan, paling.

Her eyes knifed him through. `Do you fear them?'

`Who does not, Your Majesty?' he replied. `They are black devils, haunting the uninhabited hills beyond the Zhaibar. But the sages say that they seldom interfere in the lives of mortal men.'

`Why they slew my brother I do not know,' she answered. `But I have sworn on the altar of Asura to destroy them! And I need the aid of a man beyond the border. A Kshatriya army, unaided, would never reach Yimsha.'

`Aye,' muttered Chunder Shan. `You speak the truth there. It would be fight every step of the way, with hairy hillmen hurling down boulders from every height, and rushing us with their long knives in every valley. The Turanians fought their way through the Himelians once, but how many returned to Khurusun? Few of those who escaped the swords of the Kshatriyas, after the king, your brother, defeated their host on the Jhumda River, ever saw Secunderam again.'

`And so I must control men across the border,' she said, `men who know the way to Mount Yimsha-'

`But the tribes fear the Black Seers and shun the unholy mountain,' broke in the governor.

`Does the chief, Conan, fear them?' she asked.

`Well, as to that,' muttered the governor, `I doubt if there is anything that devil fears.'

`So I have been told. Therefore he is the man I must deal with. He wishes the release of his seven men. Very well; their ransom shall be the heads of the Black Seers!' Her voice thrummed with hate as she uttered the last words, and her hands clenched at her sides. She looked an image of incarnate passion as she stood there with her head thrown high and her bosom heaving.

Again the governor knelt, for part of his wisdom was the knowledge that a woman in such an emotional tempest is as perilous as a blind cobra to any about her.

`It shall be as you wish, Your Majesty.' Then as she presented a calmer aspect, he rose and ventured to drop a word of warning. `I can not predict what the chief Conan's action will be. The tribesmen are always turbulent, and I have reason to believe that emissaries from the Turanians are stirring them up to raid our borders. As your majesty knows, the Turanians have established themselves in Secunderam and other northern cities, though the hill tribes remain unconquered. King Yezdigerd has long looked southward with greedy lust and perhaps is seeking to gain by treachery what he could not win by force of arms. I have thought that Conan might well be one of his spies.'

`We shall see,' she answered. `If he loves his followers, he will be at the gates at dawn, to parley. I shall spend the night in the fortress. I came in disguise to Peshkhauri, and lodged my retinue at an inn instead of the palace. Besides my people, only yourself knows of my presence here.'

`I shall escort you to your quarters, Your Majesty,' said the governor, and as they emerged from the doorway, he beckoned the warrior on guard there, and the man fell in behind them, spear held at salute.

The maid waited, veiled like her mistress, outside the door, and the group traversed a wide, winding corridor, lighted by smoky torches, and reached the quarters reserved for visiting notables - generals and viceroys, mostly; none of the royal family had ever honored the fortress before. Chunder Shan had a perturbed feeling that the suite was not suitable to such an exalted personage as the Devi, and though she sought to make him feel at ease in her presence, he was glad when she dismissed him and he bowed himself out. All the menials of the fort had been summoned to serve his royal guest - though he did not divulge her identity - and he stationed a squad of spearmen before her doors, among them the warrior who had guarded his own chamber. In his preoccupation he forgot to replace the man.

The governor had not been long gone from her when Yasmina suddenly remembered something else which she had wished to discuss with him, but had forgotten until that moment. It concerned the past actions of one Kerim Shah, a nobleman from Iranistan, who had dwelt for a while in Peshkhauri before coming on to the court at Ayodhya. A vague suspicion concerning the man had been stirred by a glimpse of him in Peshkhauri that night. She wondered if he had followed her from Ayodhya. Being a truly remarkable Devi, she did not summon the governor to her again, but hurried out into the corridor alone, and hastened toward his chamber.

Chunder Shan, entering his chamber, closed the door and went to his table. There he took the letter he had been writing and tore it to bits. Scarcely had he finished when he heard something drop softly onto the parapet adjacent to the window. He looked up to see a figure loom briefly against the stars, and then a man dropped lightly into the room. The light glinted on a long sheen of steel in his hand.

`Shhhh!' he warned. `Don't make a noise, or I'll send the devil a henchman!'

The governor checked his motion toward the sword on the table. He was within reach of the yard-long Zhaibar knife that glittered in the intruder's fist, and he knew the desperate quickness of a hillman.

The invader was a tall man, at once strong and supple. He was dressed like a hillman, but his dark features and blazing blue eyes did not match his garb. Chunder Shan had never seen a man like him; he was not an Easterner, but some barbarian from the West. But his aspect was as untamed and formidable as any of the hairy tribesmen who haunt the hills of Ghulistan.

`You come like a thief in the night,' commented the governor, recovering some of his composure, although he remembered that there was no guard within call. Still, the hillman could not know that.

`I climbed a bastion,' snarled the intruder. `A guard thrust his head over the battlement in time for me to rap it with my knifehilt.'

`You are Conan?'

`Who else? You sent word into the hills that you wished for me to come and parley with you. Well, by Crom, I've come! Keep away from that table or I'll gut you.'

`I merely wish to seat myself,' answered the governor, carefully sinking into the ivory chair, which he wheeled away from the table. Conan moved restlessly before him, glancing suspiciously at the door, thumbing the razor edge of his three-foot knife. He did not walk like an Afghuli, and was bluntly direct where the East is subtle.

`You have seven of my men,' he said abruptly. `You refused the ransom I offered. What the devil do you want?'

`Let us discuss terms,' answered Chunder Shan cautiously.

`Terms?' There was a timbre of dangerous anger in his voice. `What do you mean? Haven't I offered you gold?'

Chunder Shan laughed.

`Gold? There is more gold in Peshkhauri than you ever saw.'

`You're a liar,' retorted Conan. `I've seen the suk of the goldsmiths in Khurusun.'

`Well, more than an Afghuh ever saw,' amended Chunder Shan. `And it is but a drop of all the treasure of Vendhya. Why should we desire gold? It would be more to our advantage to hang these seven thieves.'

Conan ripped out a sulfurous oath and the long blade quivered in his grip as the muscles rose in ridges on his brown arm.

`I'll split your head like a ripe melon!'

A wild blue flame flickered in the hillman's eyes, but Chunder Shan shrugged his shoulders, though keeping an eye on the keen steel.

`You can kill me easily, and probably escape over the wall afterward. But that would not save the seven tribesmen. My men would surely hang them. And these men are headmen among the Afghulis.'

`I know it,' snarled Conan. `The tribe is baying like wolves at my heels because I have not procured their release. Tell me in plain words what you want, because, by Crom! if there's no other way, I'll raise a horde and lead it to the very gates of Peshkhauri!'

Looking at the man as he stood squarely, knife in fist and eyes glaring, Chunder Shan did not doubt that he was capable of it. The governor did not believe any hill-horde could take Peshkhauri, but he did not wish a devastated countryside.

`There is a mission you must perform,' he said, choosing his words with as much care as if they had been razors. `There-'

Conan had sprung back, wheeling to face the door at the same instant, lips asnarl. His barbarian ears had caught the quick tread of soft slippers outside the door. The next instant the door was thrown open and a slim, silk-robed form entered hastily, pulling the door shut - then stopping short at sight of the hillman.

Chunder Shan sprang up, his heart jumping into his mouth.

'Devi!' he cried involuntarily, losing his head momentarily in his fright.

`Devil' It was like an explosive echo from the hillman's lips. Chunder Shan saw recognition and intent flame up in the fierce blue eyes.

The governor shouted desperately and caught at his sword, but the hillman moved with the devastating speed of a hurricane. He sprang, knocked the governor sprawling with a savage blow of his knifehilt, swept up the astounded Devi in one brawny arm and leaped for the window. Chunder Shan, struggling frantically to his feet, saw the man poise an instant on the sill in a flutter of silken skirts and white limbs that was his royal captive, and heard his fierce, exultant snarl: `Now dare to hang my men!' and then Conan leaped to the parapet and was gone. A wild scream floated back to the governor's ears.

`Guard! Guard!' screamed the governor, struggling up and running drunkenly to the door. He tore it open and reeled into the hall. His shouts re-echoed along the corridors, and warriors came running, gaping to see the governor holding his broken head, from which the blood streamed.

`Turn out the lancers!' he roared. `There has been an abduction!' Even in his frenzy he had enough sense left to withhold the full truth. He stopped short as he heard a sudden drum of hoofs outside, a frantic scream and a wild yell of barbaric exultation.

Followed by the bewildered guardsmen, the governor raced for the stair. In the courtyard of the fort a force of lancers stood by saddled steeds, ready to ride at an instant's notice. Chunder Shan led his squadron flying after the fugitive, though his head swam so he had to hold with both hands to the saddle. He did not divulge the identity of the victim, but said merely that the noblewoman who had borne the royal signet-ring had been carried away by the chief of the Afghulis. The abductor was out of sight and hearing, but they knew the path he would strike the road that runs straight to the mouth of the Zhaibar. There was no moon; peasant huts rose dimly in the starlight. Behind them fell away the grim bastion of the fort, and the towers of Peshkhauri. Ahead of them loomed the black walls of the Himelians.

CHAPTER 3 Khemsa Uses Magic

In the confusion that reigned in the fortress while the guard was being turned out, no one noticed that the girl who had accompanied the Devi slipped out the great arched gate and vanished in the darkness. She ran straight for the city, her garments tucked high. She did not follow the open road, but cut straight through fields and over slopes, avoiding fences and leaping irrigation ditches as surely as if it were broad daylight, and as easily as if she were a trained masculine runner. The hoof-drum of the guardsmen had faded away up the hill before she reached the city wall. She did not go to the great gate, beneath whose arch men leaned on spears and craned their necks into the darkness, discussing the unwonted activity about the fortress. She skirted the wall until she reached a certain point where the spire of the tower was visible above the battlements. Then she placed her hands to her mouth and voiced a low weird call that carried strangely.

Almost instantly a head appeared at an embrasure and a rope came wriggling down the wall. She seized it, placed a foot in the loop at the end, and waved her arm. Then quickly and smoothly she was drawn up the sheer stone curtain. An instant later she scrambled over the merlons and stood up on a flat roof which covered a house that was built against the wall. There was an open trap there, and a man in a camel-hair robe who silently coiled the rope, not showing in any way the strain of hauling a full-grown woman up a forty-foot wall.

`Where is Kerim Shah?' she gasped, panting after her long run.

`Asleep in the house below. You have news?'

'Conan has stolen the Devi out of the fortress and carried her away into the hills!' She blurted out her news in a rush, the words stumbling over one another.

Khemsa showed no emotion, but merely nodded his turbaned head. `Kerim Shah will be glad to hear that,' he said.

`Wait!' The girl threw her supple arms about his neck. She was panting hard, but not only from exertion. Her eyes blazed like black jewels in the starlight. Her upturned face was close to Khemsa's, but though he submitted to her embrace, he did not return it.

`Do not tell the Hyrkanian!' she panted. `Let us use this knowledge ourselves! The governor has gone into the hills with his riders, but he might as well chase a ghost. He has not told anyone that it was the Devi who was kidnapped. None in Peshkhauri or the fort knows it except us.'

`But what good does it do us?' the man expostulated. `My masters sent me with Kerim Shah to aid him in every way-'

`Aid yourself?' she cried fiercely. `Shake off your yoke!'

`You mean - disobey my masters?' he gasped, and she felt his whole body turn cold under her arms.

`Aye!' she shook him in the fury of her emotion. `You too are a magician! Why will you be a slave, using your powers only to elevate others? Use your arts for yourself?'

`That is forbidden!' He was shaking as if with an ague. `I am not one of the Black Circle. Only by the command of the masters do I dare to use the knowledge they have taught me.'

`But you can use it!' she argued passionately. `Do as I beg you! Of course Conan has taken the Devi to hold as hostage against the seven tribesmen in the governor's prison. Destroy them, so Chunder Shan can not use them to buy back the Devi. Then let us go into the mountains and take her from the Afghulis. They can not stand against your sorcery with their knives. The treasure of the Vendhyan kings will be ours as ransom - and then when we have it in our hands, we can trick them, and sell her to the king of Turan. We shall have wealth beyond our maddest dreams. With it we can buy warriors. We will take Khorbhul, oust the Turanians from the hills, and send our hosts southward; become king and queen of an empire!'

Khemsa too was panting, shaking like a leaf in her grasp; his face showed gray in the starlight, beaded with great drops of perspiration.

`I love you!' she cried fiercely, writhing her body against his, almost strangling him in her wild embrace, shaking him in her abandon. `I will make a king of you! For love of you I betrayed my mistress; for love of me betray your masters! Why fear the Black Seers? By your love for me you have broken one of their laws already! Break the rest! You are as strong as they!'

A man of ice could not have withstood the searing heat of her passion and fury. With an inarticulate cry he crushed her to him, bending her backward and showering gasping kisses on her eyes, face and lips.

`I'll do it!' His voice was thick with laboring emotions. He staggered like a drunken man. `The arts they have taught me shall work for me, not for my masters. We shall be rulers of the world - of the world-'

`Come then!' Twisting lithely out of his embrace, she seized his hand and led him toward the trap-door. `First we must make sure that the governor does not exchange those seven Afghulis for the Devi.'

He moved like a man in a daze, until they had descended a ladder and she paused in the chamber below. Kerim Shah lay on a couch motionless, an arm across his face as though to shield his sleeping eyes from the soft light of a brass lamp. She plucked Khemsa's arm and made a quick gesture across her own throat. Khemsa lifted his hand; then his expression changed and he drew away.

`I have eaten his salt,' he muttered. `Besides, he can not interfere with us.'

He led the girl through a door that opened on a winding stair. After their soft tread had faded into silence, the man on the couch sat up. Kerim Shah wiped the sweat from his face. A knife-thrust he did not dread, but he feared Khemsa as a man fears a poisonous reptile.

`People who plot on roofs should remember to lower their voices,' he muttered. `But as Khemsa has turned against his masters, and as he was my only contact between them, I can count on their aid no longer. From now on I play the game in my own way.'

Rising to his feet he went quickly to a table, drew pen and parchment from his girdle and scribbled a few succinct lines.

`To Khosru Khan, governor of Secunderam: the Cimmerian Conan has carried the Devi Yasmina to the villages of the Afghulis. It is an opportunity to get the Devi into our hands, as the lung has so long desired. Send three thousand horsemen at once. I will meet them in the valley of Gurashah with native guides.'

And he signed it with a name that was not in the least like Kerim Shah.

Then from a golden cage he drew forth a carrier pigeon, to whose leg he made fast the parchment, rolled into a tiny cylinder and secured with gold wire. Then he went quickly to a casement and tossed the bird into the night. It wavered on fluttering wings, balanced, and was gone like a flitting shadow. Catching up helmet, sword and cloak, Kerim Shah hurried out of the chamber and down the winding stair.

The prison quarters of Peshkhauri were separated from the rest of the city by a massive wall, in which was set a single ironbound door under an arch. Over the arch burned a lurid red cresset, and beside the door squatted a warrior with spear and shield.

This warrior, leaning on his spear, and yawning from time to time, started suddenly to his feet. He had not thought he had dozed, but a man was standing before him, a man he had not heard approach. The man wore a camel-hair robe and a green turban. In the flickering light of the cresset his features were shadowy, but a pair of lambent eyes shone surprizingly in the lurid glow.

`Who comes?' demanded the warrior, presenting his spear. `Who are you?'

The stranger did not seem perturbed, though the spear-point touched his bosom. His eyes held the warrior's with strange intensity.

`What are you obliged to do?' he asked, strangely.

`To guard the gate!' The warrior spoke thickly and mechanically; he stood rigid as a statue, his eyes slowly glazing.

`You lie! You are obliged to obey me! You have looked into my eyes, and your soul is no longer your own. Open that door!'

Stiffly, with the wooden features of an image, the guard wheeled about, drew a great key from his girdle, turned it in the massive lock and swung open the door. Then he stood at attention, his unseeing stare straight ahead of him.

A woman glided from the shadows and laid an eager hand on the mesmerist's arm.

`Bid him fetch us horses, Khemsa,' she whispered.

`No need of that,' answered the Rakhsha. Lifting his voice slightly he spoke to the guardsman. `I have no more use for you. Kill yourself!'

Like a man in a trance the warrior thrust the butt of his spear against the base of the wall, and placed the keen head against his body, just below the ribs. Then slowly, stolidly, he leaned against it with all his weight, so that it transfixed his body and came out between his shoulders. Sliding down the shaft he lay still, the spear jutting above him its full length, like a horrible stalk growing out of his back.

The girl stared down at him in morbid fascination, until Khemsa took her arm and led her through the gate. Torches lighted a narrow space between the outer wall and a lower inner one, in which were arched doors at regular intervals. A warrior paced this enclosure, and when the gate opened he came sauntering up, so secure in his knowledge of the prison's strength that he was not suspicious until Khemsa and the girl emerged from the archway. Then it was too late. The Rakhsha did not waste time in hypnotism, though his action savored of magic to the girl. The guard lowered his spear threateningly, opening his mouth to shout an alarm that would bring spearmen swarming out of the guardrooms at either end of the alleyway. Khemsa flicked the spear aside with his left hand, as a man might flick a straw, and his right flashed out and back, seeming gently to caress the warrior's neck in passing. And the guard pitched on his face without a sound, his head lolling on a broken neck.

Khemsa did not glance at him, but went straight to one of the arched doors and placed his open hand against the heavy bronze lock. With a rending shudder the portal buckled inward. As the girl followed him through, she saw that the thick teakwood hung in splinters, the bronze bolts were bent and twisted from their sockets, and the great hinges broken and disjointed. A thousand-pound battering-ram with forty men to swing it could have shattered the barrier no more completely. Khemsa was drunk with freedom and the exercise of his power, glorying in his might and flinging his strength about as a young giant exercises his thews with unnecessary vigor in the exultant pride of his prowess.

The broken door let them into a small courtyard, lit by a cresset. Opposite the door was a wide grille of iron bars. A hairy hand was visible, gripping one of these bars, and in the darkness behind them glimmered the whites of eyes.

Khemsa stood silent for a space, gazing into the shadows from which those glimmering eyes gave back his stare with burning intensity. Then his hand went into his robe and came out again, and from his opening fingers a shimmering feather of sparkling dust sifted to the flags. Instantly a flare of green fire lighted the enclosure. In the brief glare the forms of seven men, standing motionless behind the bars, were limned in vivid detail; tall, hairy men in ragged hillmen's garments. They did not speak, but in their eyes blazed the fear of death, and their hairy fingers gripped the bars.

The fire died out but the glow remained, a quivering ball of lambent green that pulsed and shimmered on the flags before Khemsa's feet. The wide gaze of the tribesmen was fixed upon it. It wavered, elongated; it turned into a luminous green-smoke spiraling upward. It twisted and writhed like a great shadowy serpent, then broadened and billowed out in shining folds and whirls. It grew to a cloud moving silently over the flags - straight toward the grille. The men watched its coming with dilated eyes; the bars quivered with the grip of their desperate fingers. Bearded lips parted but no sound came forth. The green cloud rolled on the bars and blotted them from sight; like a fog it oozed through the grille and hid the men within. From the enveloping folds came a strangled gasp, as of a man plunged suddenly under the surface of water. That was all.

Khemsa touched the girl's arm, as she stood with parted lips and dilated eyes. Mechanically she turned away with him, looking back over her shoulder. Already the mist was thinning; close to the bars she saw a pair of sandalled feet, the toes turned upward - she glimpsed the indistinct outlines of seven still, prostrate shapes.

`And now for a steed swifter than the fastest horse ever bred in a mortal stable,' Khemsa was saying. `We will be in Afghulistan before dawn.'

CHAPTER 4 An Encounter in the Pass

Yasmina Devi could never clearly remember the details of her abduction. The unexpectedness and violence stunned her; she had only a confused impression of a whirl of happenings - the terrifying grip of a mighty arm, the blazing eyes of her abductor, and his hot breath burning on her flesh. The leap through the window to the parapet, the mad race across battlements and roofs when the fear of falling froze her, the reckless descent of a rope bound to a merlon - he went down almost at a run, his captive folded limply over his brawny shoulder - all this was a befuddled tangle in the Devi's mind. She retained a more vivid memory of him running fleetly into the shadows of the trees, carrying her like a child, and vaulting into the saddle of a fierce Bhalkhana stallion which reared and snorted. Then there was a sensation of flying, and the racing hoofs were striking sparks of fire from the flinty road as the stallion swept up the slopes.

As the girl's mind cleared, her first sensations were furious rage and shame. She was appalled. The rulers of the golden kingdoms south of the Himelians were considered little short of divine; and she was the Devi of Vendhya! Fright was submerged in regal wrath. She cried out furiously and began struggling. She, Yasmina, to be carried on the saddle-bow of a hill chief, like a common wench of the market-place! He merely hardened his massive thews slightly against her writhings, and for the first time in her life she experienced the coercion of superior physical strength. His arms felt like iron about her slender limbs. He glanced down at her and grinned hugely. His teeth glimmered whitely in the starlight. The reins lay loose on the stallion's flowing mane, and every thew and fiber of the great beast strained as he hurtled along the boulder-strewn trail. But Conan sat easily, almost carelessly, in the saddle, riding like a centaur.

`You hill-bred dog!' she panted, quivering with the impact of shame, anger, and the realization of helplessness. `You dare -you dare! Your life shall pay for this! Where are you taking me?'

`To the villages of Afghulistan,' he answered, casting a glance over his shoulder.

Behind them, beyond the slopes they had traversed, torches were tossing on the walls of the fortress, and he glimpsed a flare of light that meant the great gate had been opened. And he laughed, a deep-throated boom gusty as the hill wind.

`The governor has sent his riders after us,' he laughed. `By Crom, we will lead him a merry chase! What do you think, Devi - will they pay seven lives for a Kshatriya princess?'

`They will send an army to hang you and your spawn of devils,' she promised him with conviction.

He laughed gustily and shifted her to a more comfortable position in his arms. But she took this as a fresh outrage, and renewed her vain struggle, until she saw that her efforts were only amusing him. Besides, her light silken garments, floating on the wind, were being outrageously disarranged by her struggles. She concluded that a scornful submission was the better part of dignity, and lapsed into a smoldering quiescence.

She felt even her anger being submerged by awe as they entered the mouth of the Pass, lowering like a black well mouth in the blacker walls that rose like colossal ramparts to bar their way. It was as if a gigantic knife had cut the Zhaibar out of walls of solid rock. On either hand sheer slopes pitched up for thousands of feet, and the mouth of the Pass was dark as hate. Even Conan could not see with any accuracy, but he knew the road, even by night. And knowing that armed men were racing through the starlight after him, he did not check the stallion's speed. The great brute was not yet showing fatigue. He thundered along the road that followed the valley bed, labored up a slope, swept along a low ridge where treacherous shale on either hand lurked for the unwary, and came upon a trail that followed the lap of the left-hand wall.

Not even Conan could spy, in that darkness, an ambush set by Zhaibar tribesmen. As they swept past the black mouth of a gorge that opened into the Pass, a javelin swished through the air and thudded home behind the stallion's straining shoulder. The great beast let out his life in a shuddering sob and stumbled, going headlong in mid-stride. But Conan had recognized the flight and stroke of the javelin, and he acted with spring-steel quickness.

As the horse fell he leaped clear, holding the girl aloft to guard her from striking boulders. He lit on his feet like a cat, thrust her into a cleft of rock, and wheeled toward the outer darkness, drawing his knife.

Yasmina, confused by the rapidity of events, not quite sure just what had happened, saw a vague shape rush out of the darkness, bare feet slapping softly on the rock, ragged garments whipping on the wind of his haste. She glimpsed the flicker of steel, heard the lightning crack of stroke, parry and counterstroke, and the crunch of bone as Conan's long knife split the other's skull.

Conan sprang back, crouching in the shelter of the rocks. Out in the night men were moving and a stentorian voice roared: `What, you dogs! Do you flinch? In, curse you, and take them!'

Conan started, peered into the darkness and lifted his voice.

`Yar Afzal! Is it you?'

There sounded a startled imprecation, and the voice called warily.

'Conan? Is it you, Conan?'

`Aye!' the Cimmerian laughed. `Come forth, you old war-dog. I've slain one of your men.'

There was movement among the rocks, a light flared dimly, and then a flame appeared and came bobbing toward him, and as it approached, a fierce bearded countenance grew out of the darkness. The man who carried it held it high, thrust forward, and craned his neck to peer among the boulders it lighted; the other hand gripped a great curved tulwar. Conan stepped forward, sheathing his knife, and the other roared a greeting.

`Aye, it is Conan! Come out of your rocks, dogs! It is Conan!'

Others pressed into the wavering circle of light - wild, ragged, bearded men, with eyes like wolves, and long blades in their fists. They did not see Yasmina, for she was hidden by Conan's massive body. But peeping from her covert, she knew icy fear for the first time that night. These men were more like wolves than human beings.

`What are you hunting in the Zhaibar by night, Yar Afzal?' Conan demanded of the burly chief, who grinned like a bearded ghoul.

`Who knows what might come up the Pass after dark? We Wazulis are night-hawks. But what of you, Conan?'

`I have a prisoner,' answered the Cimmerian. And moving aside he disclosed the cowering girl. Reaching a long arm into the crevice he drew her trembling forth.

Her imperious bearing was gone. She stared timidly at the ring of bearded faces that hemmed her in, and was grateful for the strong arm that clasped her possessively. The torch was thrust close to her, and there was a sucking intake of breath about the ring.

`She is my captive,' Conan warned, glancing pointedly at the feet of the man he had slain, just visible within the ring of light. `I was taking her to Afghulistan, but now you have slain my horse, and the Kshatriyas are close behind me.'

`Come with us to my village,' suggested Yar Afzal. `We have horses hidden in the gorge. They can never follow us in the darkness. They are close behind you, you say?'

`So close that I hear now the clink of their hoofs on the flint,' answered Conan grimly.

Instantly there was movement; the torch was dashed out and the ragged shapes melted like phantoms into the darkness. Conan swept up the Devi in his arms, and she did not resist. The rocky ground hurt her slim feet in their soft slippers and she felt very small and helpless in that brutish, primordial blackness among those colossal, nighted crags.

Feeling her shiver in the wind that moaned down the defiles, Conan jerked a ragged cloak from its owner's shoulders and wrapped it about her. He also hissed a warning in her ear, ordering her to make no sound. She did not hear the distant clink of shod hoofs on rock that warned the keen-eared hillmen; but she was far too frightened to disobey, in any event.

She could see nothing but a few faint stars far above, but she knew by the deepening darkness when they entered the gorge mouth. There was a stir about them, the uneasy movement of horses. A few muttered words, and Conan mounted the horse of the man he had killed, lifting the girl up in front of him. Like phantoms except for the click of their hoofs, the band swept away up the shadowy gorge. Behind them on the trail they left the dead horse and the dead man, which were found less than half an hour later by the riders from the fortress, who recognized the man as a Wazuli and drew their own conclusions accordingly.

Yasmina, snuggled warmly in her captor's arms, grew drowsy in spite of herself. The motion of the horse, though it was uneven, uphill and down, yet possessed a certain rhythm which combined with weariness and emotional exhaustion to force sleep upon her. She had lost all sense of time or direction. They moved in soft thick darkness, in which she sometimes glimpsed vaguely gigantic walls sweeping up like black ramparts, or great crags shouldering the stars; at times she sensed echoing depths beneath them, or felt the wind of dizzy heights blowing cold about her. Gradually these things faded into a dreamy unwakefulness in which the clink of hoofs and the creak of saddles were like the irrelevant sounds in a dream.

She was vaguely aware when the motion ceased and she was lifted down and carried a few steps. Then she was laid down on something soft and rustling, and something - a folded coat perhaps - was thrust under her head, and the cloak in which she was wrapped was carefully tucked about her. She heard Yar Afzal laugh.

`A rare prize, Conan; fit mate for a chief of the Afghulis.'

`Not for me,' came Conan's answering rumble. `This wench will buy the lives of my seven headmen, blast their souls.'

That was the last she heard as she sank into dreamless slumber.

She slept while armed men rode through the dark hills, and the fate of kingdoms hung in the balance. Through the shadowy gorges and defiles that night there rang the hoofs of galloping horses, and the starlight glimmered on helmets and curved blades, until the ghoulish shapes that haunt the crags stared into the darkness from ravine and boulder and wondered what things were afoot.

A band of these sat gaunt horses in the black pit-mouth of a gorge as the hurrying hoofs swept past. Their leader, a well-built man in a helmet and gilt-braided cloak, held up his hand warningly, until the riders had sped on. Then he laughed softly.

`They must have lost the trail! Or else they have found that Conan has already reached the Afghuli villages. It will take many riders to smoke out that hive. There will be squadrons riding up the Zhaibar by dawn.'

`If there is fighting in the hills there will be looting,' muttered a voice behind him, in the dialect of the Irakzai.

`There will be looting,' answered the man with the helmet. `But first it is our business to reach the valley of Gurashah and await the riders that will be galloping southward from Secunderam before daylight.'

He lifted his reins and rode out of the defile, his men falling in behind him - thirty ragged phantoms in the starlight.

CHAPTER 5 The Black Stallion

The sun was well up when Yasmina awoke. She did not start and stare blankly, wondering where she was. She awoke with full knowledge of all that had occurred. Her supple limbs were stiff from her long ride, and her firm flesh seemed to feel the contact of the muscular arm that had borne her so far.

She was lying on a sheepskin covering a pallet of leaves on a hard-beaten dirt floor. A folded sheepskin coat was under her head, and she was wrapped in a ragged cloak. She was in a large room, the walls of which were crudely but strongly built of uncut rocks, plastered with sun-baked mud. Heavy beams supported a roof of the same kind, in which showed a trap-door up to which led a ladder. There were no windows in the thick walls, only loop-holes. There was one door, a sturdy bronze affair that must have been looted from some Vendhyan border tower. Opposite it was a wide opening in the wall, with no door, but several strong wooden bars in place. Beyond them Yasmina saw a magnificent black stallion munching a pile of dried grass. The building was fort, dwelling-place and stable in one.

At the other end of the room a girl in the vest and baggy trousers of a hill-woman squatted beside a small fire, cooking strips of meat on an iron grid laid over blocks of stone. There was a sooty cleft in the wall a few feet from the floor, and some of the smoke found its way out there. The rest floated in blue wisps about the room.

The hill-girl glanced at Yasmina over her shoulder, displaying a bold, handsome face, and then continued her cooking. Voices boomed outside; then the door was kicked open, and Conan strode in. He looked more enormous than ever with the morning sunlight behind him, and Yasmina noted some details that had escaped her the night before. His garments were clean and not ragged. The broad Bakhariot girdle that supported his knife in its ornamented scabbard would have matched the robes of a prince, and there was a glint of fine Turanian mail under his shirt.

`Your captive is awake, Conan,' said the Wazuli girl, and he grunted, strode up to the fire and swept the strips of mutton off into a stone dish.

The squatting girl laughed up at him, with some spicy jest, and he grinned wolfishly, and hooking a toe under her haunches, tumbled her sprawling onto the floor. She seemed to derive considerable amusement from this bit of rough horse-play, but Conan paid no more heed to her. Producing a great hunk of bread from somewhere, with a copper jug of wine, he carried the lot to Yasmina, who had risen from her pallet and was regarding him doubtfully.

`Rough fare for a Devi, girl, but our best,' he grunted. `It will fill your belly, at least.'

He set the platter on the floor, and she was suddenly aware of a ravenous hunger. Making no comment, she seated herself cross-legged on the floor, and taking the dish in her lap, she began to eat, using her fingers, which were all she had in the way of table utensils. After all, adaptability is one of the tests of true aristocracy. Conan stood looking down at her, his thumbs hooked in his girdle. He never sat cross-legged, after the Eastern fashion.

`Where am I?' she asked abruptly.

`In the but of Yar Afzal, the chief of the Khurum Wazulis,' he answered. `Afghulistan lies a good many miles farther on to the west. We'll hide here awhile. The Kshatriyas are beating up the hills for you - several of their squads have been cut up by the tribes already.'

`What are you going to do?' she asked.

`Keep you until Chunder Shan is willing to trade back my seven cow-thieves,' he grunted. `Women of the Wazulis are crushing ink out of shoki leaves, and after a while you can write a letter to the governor.'

A touch of her old imperious wrath shook her, as she thought how maddeningly her plans had gone awry, leaving her captive of the very man she had plotted to get into her power. She flung down the dish, with the remnants of her meal, and sprang to her feet, tense with anger.

`I will not write a letter! If you do not take me back, they will hang your seven men, and a thousand more besides!'

The Wazuli girl laughed mockingly, Conan scowled, and then the door opened and Yar Afzal came swaggering in. The Wazuli chief was as tall as Conan, and of greater girth, but he looked fat and slow beside the hard compactness of the Cimmerian. He plucked his red-stained beard and stared meaningly at the Wazuli girl, and that wench rose and scurried out without delay. Then Yar Afzal turned to his guest.

`The damnable people murmur, Conan,' quoth he. `They wish me to murder you and take the girl to hold for ransom. They say that anyone can tell by her garments that she is a noble lady. They say why should the Afghuh dogs profit by her, when it is the people who take the risk of guarding her?'

`Lend me your horse,' said Conan. `I'll take her and go.'

`Pish!' boomed Yar Afzal. `Do you think I can't handle my own people? I'll have them dancing in their shirts if they cross me! They don't love you - or any other outlander - but you saved my life once, and I will not forget. Come out, though, Conan; a scout has returned.'

Conan hitched at his girdle and followed the chief outside. They closed the door after them, and Yasmina peeped through a loop-hole. She looked out on a level space before the hut. At the farther end of that space there was a cluster of mud and stone huts, and she saw naked children playing among the boulders, and the slim erect women of the hills going about their tasks.

Directly before the chief's but a circle of hairy, ragged men squatted, facing the door. Conan and Yar Afzal stood a few paces before the door, and between them and the ring of warriors another man sat cross-legged. This one was addressing his chief in the harsh accents of the Wazuli which Yasmina could scarcely understand, though as part of her royal education she had been taught the languages of Iranistan and the kindred tongues of Ghulistan.

`I talked with a Dagozai who saw the riders last night,' said the scout. `He was lurking near when they came to the spot where we ambushed the lord Conan. He overheard their speech. Chunder Shan was with them. They found the dead horse, and one of the men recognized it as Conan's. Then they found the man Conan slew, and knew him for a Wazuli. It seemed to them that Conan had been slain and the girl taken by the Wazuli; so they turned aside from their purpose of following to Afghulistan. But they did not know from which village the dead man was come, and we had left no trail a Kshatriya could follow.

`So they rode to the nearest Wazuli village, which was the village of Jugra, and burnt it and slew many of the people. But the men of Khojur came upon them in darkness and slew some of them, and wounded the governor. So the survivors retired down the Zhaibar in the darkness before dawn, but they returned with reinforcements before sunrise, and there has been skirmishing and fighting in the hills all morning. It is said that a great army is being raised to sweep the hills about the Zhaibar. The tribes are whetting their knives and laying ambushes in every pass from here to Gurashah valley. Moreover, Kerim Shah has returned to the hills.'

A grunt went around the circle, and Yasmina leaned closer to the loop-hole at the name she had begun to mistrust.

`Where went he?' demanded Yar Afzal.

`The Dagozai did not know; with him were thirty Irakzai of the lower villages. They rode into the hills and disappeared.'

`These Irakzai are jackals that follow a lion for crumbs,' growled Yar Afzal. `They have been lapping up the coins Kerim Shah scatters among the border tribes to buy men like horses. I like him not, for all he is our kinsman from Iranistan.'

`He's not even that,' said Conan. `I know him of old. He's an Hyrkanian, a spy of Yezdigerd's. If I catch him I'll hang his hide to a tamarisk.'

`But the Kshatriyas!' clamored the men in the semicircle. `Are we to squat on our haunches until they smoke us out? They will learn at last in which Wazuh village the wench is held. We are not loved by the Zhaibari; they will help the Kshatriyas hunt us out.'

`Let them come,' grunted Yar Afzal. `We can hold the defiles against a host.'

One of the men leaped up and shook his fist at Conan.

`Are we to take all the risks while he reaps the rewards?' he howled. `Are we to fight his battles for him?'

With a stride Conan reached him and bent slightly to stare full into his hairy face. The Cimmerian had not drawn his long knife, but his left hand grasped the scabbard, jutting the hilt suggestively forward.

`I ask no man to fight my battles,' he said softly. `Draw your blade if you dare, you yapping dog!'

The Wazuh started back, snarling like a cat.

`Dare to touch me and here are fifty men to rend you apart!' he screeched.

`What!' roared Yar Afzal, his face purpling with wrath. His whiskers bristled, his belly swelled with his rage. `Are you chief of Khurum? Do the Wazulis take orders from Yar Afzal, or from a low-bred cur?'

The man cringed before his invincible chief, and Yar Afzal, striding up to him, seized him by the throat and choked him until his face was turning black. Then he hurled the man savagely against the ground and stood over him with his tulwar in his hand.

`Is there any who questions my authority?' he roared, and his warriors looked down sullenly as his bellicose glare swept their semicircle. Yar Afzal grunted scornfully and sheathed his weapon with a gesture that was the apex of insult. Then he kicked the fallen agitator with a concentrated vindictiveness that brought howls from his victim.

`Get down the valley to the watchers on the heights and bring word if they have seen anything,' commanded Yar Afzal, and the man went, shaking with fear and grinding his teeth with fury.

Yar Afzal then seated himself ponderously on a stone, growling in his beard. Conan stood near him, legs braced apart, thumbs hooked in his girdle, narrowly watching the assembled warriors. They stared at him sullenly, not daring to brave Yar Afzal's fury, but hating the foreigner as only a hillman can hate.

`Now listen to me, you sons of nameless dogs, while I tell you what the lord Conan and I have planned to fool the Kshatriyas.' The boom of Yar Afzal's bull-like voice followed the discomfited warrior as he slunk away from the assembly.

The man passed by the cluster of huts, where women who had seen his defeat laughed at him and called stinging comments, and hastened on along the trail that wound among spurs and rocks toward the valley head.

Just as he rounded the first turn that took him out of sight of the village, he stopped short, gaping stupidly. He had not believed it possible for a stranger to enter the valley of Khurum without being detected by the hawk-eyed watchers along the heights; yet a man sat cross-legged on a low ledge beside the path - a man in a camel-hair robe and a green turban.

The Wazuli's mouth gaped for a yell, and his hand leaped to his knifehilt. But at that instant his eyes met those of the stranger and the cry died in his throat, his fingers went limp. He stood like a statue, his own eyes glazed and vacant.

For minutes the scene held motionless; then the man on the ledge drew a cryptic symbol in the dust on the rock with his forefinger. The Wazuli did not see him place anything within the compass of that emblem, but presently something gleamed there - a round, shiny black ball that looked like polished jade. The man in the green turban took this up and tossed it to the Wazuli, who mechanically caught it.

`Carry this to Yar Afzal,' he said, and the Wazuli turned like an automaton and went back along the path, holding the black jade ball in his outstretched hand. He did not even turn his head to the renewed jeers of the women as he passed the huts. He did not seem to hear.

The man on the ledge gazed after him with a cryptic smile. A girl's head rose above the rim of the ledge and she looked at him with admiration and a touch of fear that had not been present the night before.

`Why did you do that?' she asked.

He ran his fingers through her dark locks caressingly.

`Are you still dizzy from your flight on the horse-of-air, that you doubt my wisdom?' he laughed. `As long as Yar Afzal lives, Conan will bide safe among the Wazuli fighting-men. Their knives are sharp, and there are many of them. What I plot will be safer, even for me, than to seek to slay him and take her from among them. It takes no wizard to predict what the Wazulis will do, and what Conan will do, when my victim hands the globe of Yezud to the chief of Khurum.'

Back before the hut, Yar Afzal halted in the midst of some tirade, surprized and displeased to see the man he had sent up the valley, pushing his way through the throng.

`I bade you go to the watchers!' the chief bellowed. `You have not had time to come from them.'

The other did not reply; he stood woodenly, staring vacantly into the chief's face, his palm outstretched holding the jade ball. Conan, looking over Yar Afzal's shoulder, murmured something and reached to touch the chief's arm, but as he did so, Yar Afzal, in a paroxysm of anger, struck the man with his clenched fist and felled him like an ox. As he fell, the jade sphere rolled to Yar Afzal's foot, and the chief, seeming to see it for the first time, bent and picked it up. The men, staring perplexedly at their senseless comrade, saw their chief bend, but they did not see what he picked up from the ground.

Yar Afzal straightened, glanced at the jade, and made a motion to thrust it into his girdle.

`Carry that fool to his hut,' he growled. `He has the look of a lotus-eater. He returned me a blank stare. I - aie!'

In his right hand, moving toward his girdle, he had suddenly felt movement where movement should not be. His voice died away as he stood and glared at nothing; and inside his clenched right hand he felt the quivering of change, of motion, of life. He no longer held a smooth shining sphere in his fingers. And he dared not look; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not open his hand. His astonished warriors saw Yar Afzal's eyes distend, the color ebb from his face. Then suddenly a bellow of agony burst from his bearded lips; he swayed and fell as if struck by lightning, his right arm tossed out in front of him. Face down he lay, and from between his opening fingers crawled a spider - a hideous, black, hairy-legged monster whose body shone like black jade. The men yelled and gave back suddenly, and the creature scuttled into a crevice of the rocks and disappeared.

The warriors started up, glaring wildly, and a voice rose above their clamor, a far-carrying voice of command which came from none knew where. Afterward each man there - who still lived -denied that he had shouted, but all there heard it.

'Yar Afzal is dead! Kill the outlander!'

That shout focused their whirling minds as one. Doubt, bewilderment and fear vanished in the uproaring surge of the blood-lust. A furious yell rent the skies as the tribesmen responded instantly to the suggestion. They came headlong across the open space, cloaks flapping, eyes blazing, knives lifted.

Conan's action was as quick as theirs. As the voice shouted he sprang for the hut door. But they were closer to him than he was to the door, and with one foot on the sill he had to wheel and parry the swipe of a yard-long blade. He split the man's skull - ducked another swinging knife and gutted the wielder -felled a man with his left fist and stabbed another in the belly -and heaved back mightily against the closed door with his shoulders. Hacking blades were nicking chips out of the jambs about his ears, but the door flew open under the impact of his shoulders, and he went stumbling backward into the room. A bearded tribesman, thrusting with all his fury as Conan sprang back, overreached and pitched head-first through the doorway. Conan stopped, grasped the slack of his garments and hauled him clear, and slammed the door in the faces of the men who came surging into it. Bones snapped under the impact, and the next instant Conan slammed the bolts into place and whirled with desperate haste to meet the man who sprang from the floor and tore into action like a madman.

Yasmina cowered in a corner, staring in horror as the two men fought back and forth across the room, almost trampling her at times; the flash and clangor of their blades filled the room, and outside the mob clamored like a wolf-pack, hacking deafeningly at the bronze door with their long knives, and dashing huge rocks against it. Somebody fetched a tree trunk, and the door began to stagger under the thunderous assault. Yasmina clasped her ears, staring wildly. Violence and fury within, cataclysmic madness without. The stallion in his stall neighed and reared, thundering with his heels against the walls. He wheeled and launched his hoofs through the bars just as the tribesman, backing away from Conan's murderous swipes, stumbled against them. His spine cracked in three places like a rotten branch and he was hurled headlong against the Cimmerian, bearing him backward so that they both crashed to the beaten floor.

Yasmina cried out and ran forward; to her dazed sight it seemed that both were slain. She reached them just as Conan threw aside the corpse and rose. She caught his arm, trembling from head to foot.

`Oh, you live! I thought - I thought you were dead!'

He glanced down at her quickly, into the pale, upturned face and the wide staring dark eyes.

`Why are you trembling?' he demanded. `Why should you care if I live or die?'

A vestige of her poise returned to her, and she drew away, making a rather pitiful attempt at playing the Devi.

`You are preferable to those wolves howling without,' she answered, gesturing toward the door, the stone sill of which was beginning to splinter away.

`That won't hold long,' he muttered, then turned and went swiftly to the stall of the stallion.

Yasmina clenched her hands and caught her breath as she saw him tear aside the splintered bars and go into the stall with the maddened beast. The stallion reared above him, neighing terribly, hoofs lifted, eyes and teeth flashing and ears laid back, but Conan leaped and caught his mane with a display of sheer strength that seemed impossible, and dragged the beast down on his forelegs. The steed snorted and quivered, but stood still while the man bridled him and clapped on the gold-worked saddle, with the wide silver stirrups.

Wheeling the beast around in the stall, Conan called quickly to Yasmina, and the girl came, sidling nervously past the stallion's heels. Conan was working at the stone wall, talking swiftly as he worked.

`A secret door in the wall here, that not even the Wazuli know about. Yar Afzal showed it to me once when he was drunk. It opens out into the mouth of the ravine behind the hut. Ha!'

As he tugged at a projection that seemed casual, a whole section of the wall slid back on oiled iron runners. Looking through, the girl saw a narrow defile opening in a sheer stone cliff within a few feet of the hut's back wall. Then Conan sprang into the saddle and hauled her up before him. Behind them the great door groaned like a living thing and crashed in, and a yell rang to the roof as the entrance was instantly flooded with hairy faces and knives in hairy fists. And then the great stallion went through the wall like a javelin from a catapult, and thundered into the defile, running low, foam flying from the bit-rings.

That move came as an absolute surprize to the Wazulis. It was a surprize, too, to those stealing down the ravine. It happened so quickly -the hurricane-like charge of the great horse - that a man in a green turban was unable to get out of the way. He went down under the frantic hoofs, and a girl screamed. Conan got one glimpse of her as they thundered by - a slim, dark girl in silk trousers and a jeweled breast-band, flattening herself against the ravine wall. Then the black horse and his riders were gone up the gorge like the spume blown before a storm, and the men who came tumbling through the wall into the defile after them met that which changed their yells of blood-lust to shrill screams of fear and death.

CHAPTER 6 The Mountain of the Black Seers

`Where now?' Yasmina was trying to sit erect on the rocking saddle-bow, clutching her captor. She was conscious of a recognition of shame that she should not find unpleasant the feel of his muscular flesh under her fingers.

`To Afghulistan,' he answered. `It's a perilous road, but the stallion will carry us easily, unless we fall in with some of your friends, or my tribal enemies. Now that Yar Afzal is dead, those damned Wazulis will be on our heels. I'm surprized we haven't sighted them behind us already.'

`Who was that man you rode down?' she asked.

`I don't know. I never saw him before. He's no Ghuli, that's certain. What the devil he was doing there is more than I can say. There was a girl with him, too.'

`Yes.' Her gaze was shadowed. `I can not understand that. That girl was my maid, Gitara. Do you suppose she was coming to aid me? That the man was a friend? If so, the Wazulis have captured them both.'

`Well,' he answered, `there's nothing we can do. If we go back, they'll skin us both. I can't understand how a girl like that could get this far into the mountains with only one man - and he a robed scholar, for that's what he looked like. There's something infernally queer in all this. That fellow Yar Afzal beat and sent away - he moved like a man walking in his sleep. I've seen the priests of Zamora perform their abominable rituals in their forbidden temples, and their victims had a stare like that man. The priests looked into their eyes and muttered incantations, and then the people became the walking dead men, with glassy eyes, doing as they were ordered.

`And then I saw what the fellow had in his hand, which Yar Afzal picked up. It was like a big black jade bead, such as the temple girls of Yezud wear when they dance before the black stone spider which is their god. Yar Afzal held it in his hand, and he didn't pick up anything else. Yet when he fell dead, a spider, like the god at Yezud, only smaller, ran out of his fingers.

And then, when the Wazulis stood uncertain there, a voice cried out for them to kill me, and I know that voice didn't come from any of the warriors, nor from the women who watched by the huts. It seemed to come from above.'

Yasmina did not reply. She glanced at the stark outlines of the mountains all about them and shuddered. Her soul shrank from their gaunt brutality. This was a grim, naked land where anything might happen. Age-old traditions invested it with shuddery horror for anyone born in the hot, luxuriant southern plains.

The sun was high, beating down with fierce heat, yet the wind that blew in fitful gusts seemed to sweep off slopes of ice. Once she heard a strange rushing above them that was not the sweep of the wind, and from the way Conan looked up, she knew it was not a common sound to him, either. She thought that a strip of the cold blue sky was momentarily blurred, as if some all but invisible object had swept between it and herself, but she could not be sure. Neither made any comment, but Conan loosened his knife in his scabbard.

They were following a faintly marked path dipping down into ravines so deep the sun never struck bottom, laboring up steep slopes where loose shale threatened to slide from beneath their feet, and following knife-edge ridges with blue-hazed echoing depths on either hand.

The sun had passed its zenith when they crossed a narrow trail winding among the crags. Conan reined the horse aside and followed it southward, going almost at right angles to their former course.

`A Galzai village is at one end of this trail,' he explained. `Their women follow it to a well, for water. You need new garments.'

Glancing down at her filmy attire, Yasmina agreed with him. Her cloth-of-gold slippers were in tatters, her robes and silken under-garments torn to shreds that scarcely held together decently. Garments meant for the streets of Peshkhauri were scarcely appropriate for the crags of the Himelians.

Coming to a crook in the trail, Conan dismounted, helped

Yasmina down and waited. Presently he nodded, though she heard nothing.

`A woman coming along the trail,' he remarked. In sudden panic she clutched his arm.

`You will not - not kill her?'

`I don't kill women ordinarily,' he grunted; `though some of the hill-women are she-wolves. No,' he grinned as at a huge jest. `By Crom, I'll pay for her clothes! How is that?' He displayed a large handful of gold coins, and replaced all but the largest. She nodded, much relieved. It was perhaps natural for men to slay and die; her flesh crawled at the thought of watching the butchery of a woman.

Presently a woman appeared around the crook of the trail - a tall, slim Galzai girl, straight as a young sapling, bearing a great empty gourd. She stopped short and the gourd fell from her hands when she saw them; she wavered as though to run, then realized that Conan was too close to her to allow her to escape, and so stood still, staring at them with a mixed expression of fear and curiosity.

Conan displayed the gold coin.

`If you will give this woman your garments,' he said, `I will give you this money.'

The response was instant. The girl smiled broadly with surprize and delight, and, with the disdain of a hill-woman for prudish conventions, promptly yanked off her sleeveless embroidered vest, slipped down her wide trousers and stepped out of them, twitched off her wide-sleeved shirt, and kicked off her sandals. Bundling them all in a bunch, she proffered them to Conan, who handed them to the astonished Devi.

`Get behind that rock and put these on,' he directed, further proving himself no native hillman. `Fold your robes up into a bundle and bring them to me when you come out.'

`The money!' clamored the hill-girl, stretching out her hands eagerly. `The gold you promised me!'

Conan flipped the coin to her, she caught it, bit, then thrust it into her hair, bent and caught up the gourd and went on down the path, as devoid of self-consciousness as of garments. Conan waited with some impatience while the Devi, for the first time in her pampered life, dressed herself. When she stepped from behind the rock he swore in surprize, and she felt a curious rush of emotions at the unrestrained admiration burning in his fierce blue eyes. She felt shame, embarrassment, yet a stimulation of vanity she had never before experienced, and a tingling when meeting the impact of his eyes. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and turned her about, staring avidly at her from all angles.

`By Crom!' said he. `In those smoky, mystic robes you were aloof and cold and far off as a star! Now you are a woman of warm flesh and blood! You went behind that rock as the Devi of Vendhya; you come out as a hill-girl -though a thousand times more beautiful than any wench of the Zhaibar! You were a goddess - now you are real!'

He spanked her resoundingly, and she, recognizing this as merely another expression of admiration, did not feel outraged. It was indeed as if the changing of her garments had wrought a change in her personality. The feelings and sensations she had suppressed rose to domination in her now, as if the queenly robes she had cast off had been material shackles and inhibitions.

But Conan, in his renewed admiration, did not forget that peril lurked all about them. The farther they drew away from the region of the Zhaibar, the less likely he was to encounter any Kshatriya troops. On the other hand he had been listening all throughout their flight for sounds that would tell him the vengeful Wazulis of Khurum were on their heels.

Swinging the Devi up, he followed her into the saddle and again reined the stallion westward. The bundle of garments she had given him, he hurled over a cliff, to fall into the depths of a thousand-foot gorge.

`Why did you do that?' she asked. `Why did you not give them to the girl?'

`The riders from Peshkhauri are combing these hills,' he said. `They'll be ambushed and harried at every turn, and by way of reprisal they'll destroy every village they can take. They may turn westward any time. If they found a girl wearing your garments, they'd torture her into talking, and she might put them on my trail.'

`What will she do?' asked Yasmina.

`Go back to her village and tell her people that a stranger attacked her,' he answered. `She'll have them on our track, all right. But she had to go on and get the water first; if she dared go back without it, they'd whip the skin off her. That gives us a long start. They'll never catch us. By nightfall we'll cross the Afghuh border.'

`There are no paths or signs of human habitation in these parts,' she commented. `Even for the Himelians this region seems singularly deserted. We have not seen a trail since we left the one where we met the Galzai woman.'

For answer he pointed to the northwest, where she glimpsed a peak in a notch of the crags.

`Yimsha,' grunted Conan. `The tribes build their villages as far from the mountain as they can.'

She was instantly rigid with attention.

`Yimsha!' she whispered. `The mountain of the Black Seers!'

`So they say,' he answered. `This is as near as I ever approached it. I have swung north to avoid any Kshatriya troops that might be prowling through the hills. The regular trail from Khurum to Afghulistan lies farther south. This is an ancient one, and seldom used.'

She was staring intently at the distant peak. Her nails bit into her pink palms.

`How long would it take to reach Yimsha from this point?'

`All the rest of the day, and all night,' he answered, and grinned. `Do you want to go there? By Crom, it's no place for an ordinary human, from what the hill-people say.'

`Why do they not gather and destroy the devils that inhabit it?' she demanded.

`Wipe out wizards with swords? Anyway, they never interfere with people, unless the people interfere with them. I never saw one of them, though I've talked with men who swore they had. They say they've glimpsed people from the tower among the crags at sunset or sunrise - tall, silent men in black robes.'

`Would you be afraid to attack them?'

`I?' The idea seemed a new one to him. `Why, if they imposed upon me, it would be my life or theirs. But I have nothing to do with them. I came to these mountains to raise a following of human beings, not to war with wizards.'

Yasmina did not at once reply. She stared at the peak as at a human enemy, feeling all her anger and hatred stir in her bosom anew. And another feeling began to take dim shape. She had plotted to hurl against the masters of Yimsha the man in whose arms she was now carried. Perhaps there was another way, besides the method she had planned, to accomplish her purpose. She could not mistake the look that was beginning to dawn in this wild man's eyes as they rested on her. Kingdoms have fallen when a woman's slim white hands pulled the strings of destiny. Suddenly she stiffened, pointing.

`Look!'

Just visible on the distant peak there hung a cloud of peculiar aspect. It was a frosty crimson in color, veined with sparkling gold. This cloud was in motion; it rotated, and as it whirled it contracted. It dwindled to a spinning taper that flashed in the sun. And suddenly it detached itself from the snow-tipped peak, floated out over the void like a gay-hued feather, and became invisible against the cerulean sky.

`What could that have been?' asked the girl uneasily, as a shoulder of rock shut the distant mountain from view; the phenomenon had been disturbing, even in its beauty.

`The hillmen call it Yimsha's Carpet, whatever that means,' answered Conan. `I've seen five hundred of them running as if the devil were at their heels, to hide themselves in caves and crags, because they saw that crimson cloud float up from the peak. What in-'

They had advanced through a narrow, knife-cut gash between turreted walls and emerged upon a broad ledge, flanked by a series of rugged slopes on one hand, and a gigantic precipice on the other. The dim trail followed this ledge, bent around a shoulder and reappeared at intervals far below, working a tedious way downward. And emerging from the cut that opened upon the ledge, the black stallion halted short, snorting. Conan urged him on impatiently, and the horse snorted and threw his head up and down, quivering and straining as if against an invisible barrier.

Conan swore and swung off, lifting Yasmina down with him. He went forward, with a hand thrown out before him as if expecting to encounter unseen resistance, but there was nothing to hinder him, though when he tried to lead the horse, it neighed shrilly and jerked back. Then Yasmina cried out, and Conan wheeled, hand starting to knifehilt.

Neither of them had seen him come, but he stood there, with his arms folded, a man in a camel-hair robe and a green turban. Conan grunted with surprize to recognize the man the stallion had spurned in the ravine outside the Wazuli village.

`Who the devil are you?' he demanded.

The man did not answer. Conan noticed that his eyes were wide, fixed, and of a peculiar luminous quality. And those eyes held his like a magnet.

Khemsa's sorcery was based on hypnotism, as is the case with most Eastern magic. The way has been prepared for the hypnotist for untold centuries of generations who have lived and died in the firm conviction of the reality and power of hypnotism, building up, by mass thought and practise, a colossal though intangible atmosphere against which the individual, steeped in the traditions of the land, finds himself helpless.

But Conan was not a son of the East. Its traditions were meaningless to him; he was the product of an utterly alien atmosphere. Hypnotism was not even a myth in Cimmeria. The heritage that prepared a native of the East for submission to the mesmerist was not his.

He was aware of what Khemsa was trying to do to him; but he felt the impact of the man's uncanny power only as a vague impulsion, a tugging and pulling that he could shake off as a man shakes spider-webs from his garments.

Aware of hostility and black magic, he ripped out his long knife and lunged, as quick on his feet as a mountain lion.

But hypnotism was not all of Khemsa's magic. Yasmina, watching, did not see by what roguery of movement or illusion the man in the green turban avoided the terrible disemboweling thrust. But the keen blade whickered between side and lifted arm, and to Yasmina it seemed that Khemsa merely brushed his open palm lightly against Conan's bull-neck. But the Cimmerian went down like a slain ox.

Yet Conan was not dead; breaking his fall with his left hand, he slashed at Khemsa's legs even as he went down, and the Rakhsha avoided the scythe-like swipe only by a most unwizardly bound backward. Then Yasmina cried out sharply as she saw a woman she recognized as Gitara glide out from among the rocks and come up to the man. The greeting died in the Devi's throat as she saw the malevolence in the girl's beautiful face.

Conan was rising slowly, shaken and dazed by the cruel craft of that blow which, delivered with an art forgotten of men before Atlantis sank, would have broken like a rotten twig the neck of a lesser man. Khemsa gazed at him cautiously and a trifle uncertainly. The Rakhsha had learned the full flood of his own power when he faced at bay the knives of the maddened Wazulis in the ravine behind Khurum village; but the Cimmerian's resistance had perhaps shaken his new-found confidence a trifle. Sorcery thrives on success, not on failure.

He stepped forward, lifting his hand - then halted as if frozen, head tilted back, eyes wide open, hand raised. In spite of himself Conan followed his gaze, and so did the women - the girl cowering by the trembling stallion, and the girl beside Khemsa.

Down the mountain slopes, like a whirl of shining dust blown before the wind, a crimson, conoid cloud came dancing. Khemsa's dark face turned ashen; his hand began to tremble, then sank to his side. The girl beside him, sensing the change in him, stared at him inquiringly.

The crimson shape left the mountain slope and came down in a long arching sweep. It struck the ledge between Conan and Khemsa, and the Rakhsha gave back with a stifled cry. He backed away, pushing the girl Gitara back with groping, fending hands.

The crimson cloud balanced like a spinning top for an instant, whirling in a dazzling sheen on its point. Then without warning it was gone, vanished as a bubble vanishes when burst. There on the ledge stood four men. It was miraculous, incredible, impossible, yet it was true. They were not ghosts or phantoms. They were four tall men, with shaven, vulture-like heads, and black robes that hid their feet. Their hands were concealed by their wide sleeves. They stood in silence, their naked heads nodding slightly in unison. They were facing Khemsa, but behind them Conan felt his own blood turning to ice in his veins. Rising, he backed stealthily away, until he could feel the stallion's shoulder trembling against his back, and the Devi crept into the shelter of his arm. There was no word spoken. Silence hung like a stifling pall.

All four of the men in black robes stared at Khemsa. Their vulture-like faces were immobile, their eyes introspective and contemplative. But Khemsa shook like a man in an ague. His feet were braced on the rock, his calves straining as if in physical combat. Sweat ran in streams down his dark face. His right hand locked on something under his brown robe so desperately that the blood ebbed from that hand and left it white. His left hand fell on the shoulder of Gitara and clutched in agony like the grasp of a drowning man. She did not flinch or whimper, though his fingers dug like talons into her firm flesh.

Conan had witnessed hundreds of battles in his wild life, but never one like this, wherein four diabolical wills sought to beat down one lesser but equally devilish will that opposed them. But he only faintly sensed the monstrous quality of that hideous struggle. With his back to the wall, driven to bay by his former masters, Khemsa was fighting for his life with all the dark power, all the frightful knowledge they had taught him through long, grim years of neophytism and vassalage.

He was stronger than even he had guessed, and the free exercise of his powers in his own behalf had tapped unsuspected reservoirs of forces. And he was nerved to super-energy by frantic fear and desperation. He reeled before the merciless impact of those hypnotic eyes, but he held his ground. His features were distorted into a bestial grin of agony, and his limbs were twisted as on a rack. It was a war of souls, of frightful brains steeped in lore forbidden to men for a million years, of mentalities which had plumbed the abysses and explored the dark stars where spawn the shadows.

Yasmina understood this better than did Conan. And she dimly understood why Khemsa could withstand the concentrated impact of those four hellish wills which might have blasted into atoms the very rock on which he stood. The reason was the girl that he clutched with the strength of his despair. She was like an anchor to his staggering soul, battered by the waves of those psychic emanations. His weakness was now his strength. His love for the girl, violent and evil though it might be, was yet a tie that bound him to the rest of humanity, providing an earthly leverage for his will, a chain that his inhuman enemies could not break; at least not break through Khemsa.

They realized that before he did. And one of them turned his gaze from the Rakhsha full upon Gitara. There was no battle there. The girl shrank and wilted like a leaf in the drought. Irresistibly impelled, she tore herself from her lover's arms before he realized what was happening. Then a hideous thing came to pass. She began to back toward the precipice, facing her tormentors, her eyes wide and blank as dark gleaming glass from behind which a lamp has been blown out. Khemsa groaned and staggered toward her, falling into the trap set for him. A divided mind could not maintain the unequal battle. He was beaten, a straw in their hands. The girl went backward, walking like an automaton, and Khemsa reeled drunkenly after her, hands vainly outstretched, groaning, slobbering in his pain, his feet moving heavily like dead things.

On the very brink she paused, standing stiffly, her heels on the edge, and he fell on his knees and crawled whimpering toward her, groping for her, to drag her back from destruction. And just before his clumsy fingers touched her, one of the wizards laughed, like the sudden, bronze note of a bell in hell. The girl reeled suddenly and, consummate climax of exquisite cruelty, reason and understanding flooded back into her eyes, which flared with awful fear. She screamed, clutched wildly at her lover's straining hand, and then, unable to save herself, fell headlong with a moaning cry.

Khemsa hauled himself to the edge and stared over, haggardly, his lips working as he mumbled to himself. Then he turned and stared for a long minute at his torturers, with wide eyes that held no human light. And then with a cry that almost burst the rocks, he reeled up and came rushing toward them, a knife lifted in his hand.

One of the Rakhshas stepped forward and stamped his foot, and as he stamped, there came a rumbling that grew swiftly to a grinding roar. Where his foot struck, a crevice opened in the solid rock that widened instantly. Then, with a deafening crash, a whole section of the ledge gave way. There was a last glimpse of Khemsa, with arms wildly upflung, and then he vanished amidst the roar of the avalanche that thundered down into the abyss.

The four looked contemplatively at the ragged edge of rock that formed the new rim of the precipice, and then turned suddenly. Conan, thrown off his feet by the shudder of the mountain, was rising, lifting Yasmina. He seemed to move as slowly as his brain was working. He was befogged and stupid. He realized that there was a desperate need for him to lift the Devi on the black stallion and ride like the wind, but an unaccountable sluggishness weighted his every thought and action.

And now the wizards had turned toward him; they raised their arms, and to his horrified sight, he saw their outlines fading, dimming, becoming hazy and nebulous, as a crimson smoke billowed around their feet and rose about them. They were blotted out by a sudden whirling cloud - and then he realized that he too was enveloped in a blinding crimson mist - he heard Yasmina scream, and the stallion cried out like a woman in pain. The Devi was torn from his arm, and as he lashed out with his knife blindly, a terrific blow like a gust of storm wind knocked him sprawling against a rock. Dazedly he saw a crimson conoid cloud spinning up and over the mountain slopes. Yasmina was gone, and so were the four men in black. Only the terrified stallion shared the ledge with him.

CHAPTER 7 On to Yimsha

As mists vanish before a strong wind, the cobwebs vanished from Conan's brain. With a searing curse he leaped into the saddle and the stallion reared neighing beneath him. He glared up the slopes, hesitated, and then turned down the trail in the direction he had been going when halted by Khemsa's trickery. But now he did not ride at a measured gait. He shook loose the reins and the stallion went like a thunderbolt, as if frantic to lose hysteria in violent physical exertion. Across the ledge and around the crag and down the narrow trail threading the great steep they plunged at breakneck speed. The path followed a fold of rock, winding interminably down from tier to tier of striated escarpment, and once, far below, Conan got a glimpse of the ruin that had fallen - a mighty pile of broken stone and boulders at the foot of a gigantic cliff.

The valley floor was still far below him when he reached a long and lofty ridge that led out from the slope like a natural causeway. Out upon this he rode, with an almost sheer drop on either hand. He could trace ahead of him the trail and made a great horseshoe back into the riverbed at his left hand. He cursed the necessity of traversing those miles, but it was the only way. To try to descend to the lower lap of the trail here would be to attempt the impossible. Only a bird could get to the riverbed with a whole neck.

So he urged on the wearying stallion, until a clink of hoofs reached his ears, welling up from below. Pulling up short and reining to the lip of the cliff, he stared down into the dry riverbed that wound along the foot of the ridge. Along that gorge rode a motley throng - bearded men on half-wild horses, five hundred strong, bristling with weapons. And Conan shouted suddenly, leaning over the edge of the cliff, three hundred feet above them.

At his shout they reined back, and five hundred bearded faces were tilted up towards him; a deep, clamorous roar filled the canyon. Conan did not waste words.

`I was riding for Ghor!' he roared. `I had not hoped to meet you dogs on the trail. Follow me as fast as your nags can push! I'm going to Yimsha, and-'

`Traitor!' The howl was like a dash of ice-water in his face.

`What?' He glared down at them, jolted speechless. He saw wild eyes blazing up at him, faces contorted with fury, fists brandishing blades.

`Traitor!' they roared back, wholeheartedly. `Where are the seven chiefs held captive in Peshkhauri?'

`Why, in the governor's prison, I suppose,' he answered.

A bloodthirsty yell from a hundred throats answered him, with such a waving of weapons and a clamor that he could not understand what they were saying. He beat down the din with a bull-like roar, and bellowed: `What devil's play is this? Let one of you speak, so I can understand what you mean!'

A gaunt old chief elected himself to this position, shook his tulwar at Conan as a preamble, and shouted accusingly: `You would not let us go raiding Peshkhauri to rescue our brothers!'

`No, you fools!' roared the exasperated Cimmerian. `Even if you'd breached the wall, which is unlikely, they'd have hanged the prisoners before you could reach them.'

`And you went alone to traffic with the governor!' yelled the Afghuli, working himself into a frothing frenzy.

`Well?'

'Where are the seven chiefs?' howled the old chief, making his tulwar into a glimmering wheel of steel about his head. `Where are they? Dead!'

`What!' Conan nearly fell off his horse in his surprize.

`Aye, dead!' five hundred bloodthirsty voices assured him.

The old chief brandished his arms and got the floor again. `They were not hanged!' he screeched. `A Wazuli in another cell saw them die! The governor sent a wizard to slay them by craft!'

`That must be a lie,' said Conan. `The governor would not dare. Last night I talked with him-'

The admission was unfortunate. A yell of hate and accusation split the skies.

`Aye! You went to him alone! To betray us! It is no lie. The Wazuli escaped through the doors the wizard burst in his entry, and told the tale to our scouts whom he met in Zhaibar. They had been sent forth to search for you, when you did not return. When they heard the Wazuli's tale, they returned with all haste to Ghor, and we saddled our steeds and girt our swords!'

`And what do you fools mean to do?' demanded the Cimmerian.

`To avenge our brothers!' they howled. `Death to the Kshatriyas! Slay him, brothers, he is a traitor!'

Arrows began to rattle around him. Conan rose in his stirrups, striving to make himself heard above the tumult, and then, with a roar of mingled rage, defiance and disgust, he wheeled and galloped back up the trail. Behind him and below him the Afghulis came pelting, mouthing their rage, too furious even to remember that the only way they could reach the height whereon he rode was to traverse the riverbed in the other direction, make the broad bend and follow the twisting trail up over the ridge. When they did remember this, and turned back, their repudiated chief had almost reached the point where the ridge joined the escarpment.

At the cliff he did not take the trail by which he had descended, but turned off on another, a mere trace along a rockfault, where the stallion scrambled for footing. He had not ridden far when the stallion snorted and shied back from something lying in the trail. Conan stared down on the travesty of a man, a broken, shredded, bloody heap that gibbered and gnashed splintered teeth.

Impelled by some obscure reason, Conan dismounted and stood looking down at the ghastly shape, knowing that he was witness of a thing miraculous and opposed to nature. The Rakhsha lifted his gory head, and his strange eyes, glazed with agony and approaching death, rested on Conan with recognition.

`Where are they?' It was a racking croak not even remotely resembling a human voice.

`Gone back to their damnable castle on Yimsha,' grunted Conan. `They took the Devi with them.'

`I will go!' muttered the man. `I will follow them! They killed Gitara; I will kill them - the acolytes, the Four of the Black Circle, the Master himself? Kill - kill them all!' He strove to drag his mutilated frame along the rock, but not even his indomitable will could animate that gory mass longer, where the splintered bones hung together only by torn tissue and ruptured fibre.

`Follow them!' raved Khemsa, drooling a bloody slaver. `Follow!'

`I'm going to,' growled Conan. `I went to fetch my Afghulis, but they've turned on me. I'm going on to Yimsha alone. I'll have the Devi back if I have to tear down that damned mountain with my bare hands. I didn't think the governor would dare kill my headmen, when I had the Devi, but it seems he did. I'll have his head for that. She's no use to me now as a hostage, but-'

`The curse of Yizil on them!' gasped Khemsa. `Go! I am dying. Wait - take my girdle.'

He tried to fumble with a mangled hand at his tatters, and Conan, understanding what he sought to convey, bent and drew from about his gory waist a girdle of curious aspect.

`Follow the golden vein through the abyss,' muttered Khemsa. `Wear the girdle. I had it from a Stygian priest. It will aid you, though it failed me at last. Break the crystal globe with the four golden pomegranates. Beware of the Master's transmutations - I am going to Gitara - she is waiting for me in hell - aie, ya Skelos yar!' And so he died.

Conan stared down at the girdle. The hair of which it was woven was not horsehair. He was convinced that it was woven of the thick black tresses of a woman. Set in the thick mesh were tiny jewels such as he had never seen before. The buckle was strangely made, in the form of a golden serpent-head, flat, wedge-shaped and scaled with curious art. A strong shudder shook Conan as he handled it, and he turned as though to cast it over the precipice; then he hesitated, and finally buckled it about his waist, under the Bakhariot girdle. Then he mounted and pushed on.

The sun had sunk behind the crags. He climbed the trail in the vast shadow of the cliffs that was thrown out like a dark blue mantle over valleys and ridges far below. He was not far from the crest when, edging around the shoulder of a jutting crag, he heard the clink of shod hoofs ahead of him. He did not turn back. Indeed, so narrow was the path that the stallion could not have wheeled his great body upon it. He rounded the jut of the rock and came upon a portion of the path that broadened somewhat. A chorus of threatening yells broke on his ear, but his stallion pinned a terrified horse hard against the rock, and Conan caught the arm of the rider in an iron grip, checking the lifted sword in midair.

`Kerim Shah!' muttered Conan, red glints smoldering luridly in his eyes. The Turanian did not struggle; they sat their horses almost breast to breast, Conan's fingers locking the other's sword-arm. Behind Kerim Shah filed a group of lean Irakzai on gaunt horses. They glared like wolves, fingering bows and knives, but rendered uncertain because of the narrowness of the path and the perilous proximity of the abyss that yawned beneath them.

`Where is the Devi?' demanded Kerim Shah.

`What's it to you, you Hyrkanian spy?' snarled Conan.

`I know you have her,' answered Kerim Shah. `I was on my way northward with some tribesmen when we were ambushed by enemies in Shalizah Pass. Many of my men were slain, and the rest of us harried through the hills like jackals. When we had beaten off our pursuers, we turned westward, toward Amir Jehun Pass, and this morning we came upon a Wazuli wandering through the hills. He was quite mad, but I learned much from his incoherent gibberings before he died. I learned that he was the sole survivor of a band which followed a chief of the Afghulis and a captive Kshatriya woman into a gorge behind Khurum village. He babbled much of a man in a green turban whom the Afghuh rode down, but who, when attacked by the Wazulis who pursued, smote them with a nameless doom that wiped them out as a gust of wind-driven fire wipes out a cluster of locusts.

`How that one man escaped, I do not know, nor did he; but I knew from his maunderings that Conan of Ghor had been in Khurum with his royal captive. And as we made our way through the hills, we overtook a naked Galzai girl bearing a gourd of water, who told us a tale of having been stripped and ravished by a giant foreigner in the garb of an Afghuli chief, who, she said, gave her garments to a Vendhyan woman who accompanied him. She said you rode westward.'

Kerim Shah did not consider it necessary to explain that he had been on his way to keep his rendezvous with the expected troops from Secunderam when he found his way barred by hostile tribesmen. The road to Gurashah valley through Shalizah Pass was longer than the road that wound through Amir Jehun Pass, but the latter traversed part of the Afghuli country, which Kerim Shah had been anxious to avoid until he came with an army. Barred from the Shalizah road, however, he had turned to the forbidden route, until news that Conan had not yet reached Afghulistan with his captive had caused him to turn southward and push on recklessly in the hope of overtaking the Cimmerian in the hills.

`So you had better tell me where the Devi is,' suggested Kerim Shah. `We outnumber you-'

`Let one of your dogs nock a shaft and I'll throw you over the cliff,' Conan promised. `It wouldn't do you any good to kill me, anyhow. Five hundred Afghulis are on my trail, and if they find you've cheated them, they'll flay you alive. Anyway, I haven't got the Devi. She's in the hands of the Black Seers of Yimsha.'

`Tarim!' swore Kerim Shah softly, shaken out of his poise for the first time. 'Khemsa-'

'Khemsa's dead,' grunted Conan. `His masters sent him to hell on a landslide. And now get out of my way. I'd be glad to kill you if I had the time, but I'm on my way to Yimsha.'

`I'll go with you,' said the Turanian abruptly.

Conan laughed at him. `Do you think I'd trust you, you Hyrkanian dog?'

`I don't ask you to,' returned Kerim Shah. `We both want the Devi. You know my reason; King Yezdigerd desires to add her kingdom to his empire, and herself in his seraglio. And I knew you, in the days when you were a hetman of the kozak steppes; so I know your ambition is wholesale plunder. You want to loot Vendhya, and to twist out a huge ransom for Yasmina. Well, let us for the time being, without any illusion about each other, unite our forces, and try to rescue the Devi from the Seers. If we succeed, and live, we can fight it out to see who keeps her.'

Conan narrowly scrutinized the other for a moment, and then nodded, releasing the Turanian's arm. `Agreed; what about your men?'

Kerim Shah turned to the silent Irakzai and spoke briefly: `This chief and I are going to Yimsha to fight the wizards. Will you go with us, or stay here to be flayed by the Afghulis who are following this man?'

They looked at him with eyes grimly fatalistic. They were doomed and they knew it - had known it ever since the singing arrows of the ambushed Dagozai had driven them back from the pass of Shalizah. The men of the lower Zhaibar had too many reeking bloodfeuds among the crag-dwellers. They were too small a band to fight their way back through the hills to the villages of the border, without the guidance of the crafty Turanian. They counted themselves as dead already, so they made the reply that only dead men would make: `We will go with thee and die on Yimsha.'

`Then in Crom's name let us be gone,' grunted Conan, fidgeting with impatience as he started into the blue gulfs of the deepening twilight. `My wolves were hours behind me, but we've lost a devilish lot of time.'

Kerim Shah backed his steed from between the black stallion and the cliff, sheathed his sword and cautiously turned the horse. Presently the band was filing up the path as swiftly as they dared. They came out upon the crest nearly a mile east of the spot where Khemsa had halted the Cimmerian and the Devi. The path they had traversed was a perilous one, even for hillmen, and for that reason Conan had avoided it that day when carrying Yasmina, though Kerim Shah, following him, had taken it supposing the Cimmerian had done likewise. Even Conan sighed with relief when the horses scrambled up over the last rim. They moved like phantom riders through an enchanted realm of shadows. The soft creak of leather, the clink of steel marked their passing, then again the dark mountain slopes lay naked and silent in the starlight.

CHAPTER 8 Yasmina Knows Stark Terror

Yasmina had time but for one scream when she felt herself enveloped in that crimson whirl and torn from her protector with appalling force. She screamed once, and then she had no breath to scream. She was blinded, deafened, rendered mute and eventually senseless by the terrific rushing of the air about her. There was a dazed consciousness of dizzy height and numbing speed, a confused impression of natural sensations gone mad, and then vertigo and oblivion.

A vestige of these sensations clung to her as she recovered consciousness; so she cried out and clutched wildly as though to stay a headlong and involuntary flight. Her fingers closed on soft fabric, and a relieving sense of stability pervaded her. She took cognizance of her surroundings.

She was lying on a dais covered with black velvet. This dais stood in a great, dim room whose walls were hung with dusky tapestries across which crawled dragons reproduced with repellent realism. Floating shadows merely hinted at the lofty ceiling, and gloom that lent itself to illusion lurked in the corners. There seemed to be neither windows nor doors in the walls, or else they were concealed by the nighted tapestries. Where the dim light came from, Yasmina could not determine. The great room was a realm of mysteries, or shadows, and shadowy shapes in which she could not have sworn to observe movement, yet which invaded her mind with a dim and formless terror.

But her gaze fixed itself on a tangible object. On another, smaller dais of jet, a few feet away, a man sat cross-legged, gazing contemplatively at her. His long black velvet robe, embroidered with gold thread, fell loosely about him, masking his figure. His hands were folded in his sleeves. There was a velvet cap upon his head. His face was calm, placid, not unhandsome, his eyes lambent and slightly oblique. He did not move a muscle as he sat regarding her, nor did his expression alter when he saw she was conscious.

Yasmina felt fear crawl like a trickle of ice-water down her supple spine. She lifted herself on her elbows and stared apprehensively at the stranger.

`Who are you?' she demanded. Her voice sounded brittle and inadequate.

`I am the Master of Yimsha.' The tone was rich and resonant, like the mellow tones of a temple bell.

`Why did you bring me here?' she demanded.

`Were you not seeking me?'

`If you are one of the Black Seers - yes!' she answered recklessly, believing that he could read her thoughts anyway.

He laughed softly, and chills crawled up and down her spine again.

`You would turn the wild children of the hills against the Seers of Yimsha!' He smiled. `I have read it in your mind, princess. Your weak, human mind, filled with petty dreams of hate and revenge.'

`You slew my brother!' A rising tide of anger was vying with her fear; her hands were clenched, her lithe body rigid. `Why did you persecute him? He never harmed you. The priests say the Seers are above meddling in human affairs. Why did you destroy the king of Vendhya?'

`How can an ordinary human understand the motives of a Seer?' returned the Master calmly. `My acolytes in the temples of Turan, who are the priests behind the priests of Tarim, urged me to bestir myself in behalf of Yezdigerd. For reasons of my own, I complied. How can I explain my mystic reasons to your puny intellect? You could not understand.'

`I understand this: that my brother died!' Tears of grief and rage shook in her voice. She rose upon her knees and stared at him with wide blazing eyes, as supple and dangerous in that moment as a she-panther.

`As Yezdigerd desired,' agreed the Master calmly. `For a while it was my whim to further his ambitions.'

`Is Yezdigerd your vassal?' Yasmina tried to keep the timbre of her voice unaltered. She had felt her knee pressing something hard and symmetrical under a fold of velvet. Subtly she shifted her position, moving her hand under the fold.

`Is the dog that licks up the offal in the temple yard the vassal of the god?' returned the Master.

He did not seem to notice the actions she sought to dissemble. Concealed by the velvet, her fingers closed on what she knew was the golden hilt of a dagger. She bent her head to hide the light of triumph in her eyes.

`I am weary of Yezdigerd,' said the Master. `I have turned to other amusements - ha!'

With a fierce cry Yasmina sprang like a jungle cat, stabbing murderously. Then she stumbled and slid to the floor, where she cowered, staring up at the man on the dais. He had not moved; his cryptic smile was unchanged. Tremblingly she lifted her hand and stared at it with dilated eyes. There was no dagger in her fingers; they grasped a stalk of golden lotus, the crushed blossoms drooping on the bruised stem.

She dropped it as if it had been a viper, and scrambled away from the proximity of her tormenter. She returned to her own dais, because that was at least more dignified for a queen than groveling on the floor at the feet of a sorcerer, and eyed him apprehensively, expecting reprisals.

But the Master made no move.

`All substance is one to him who holds the key of the cosmos,' he said cryptically. `To an adept nothing is immutable. At will, steel blossoms bloom in unnamed gardens, or flower-swords flash in the moonlight.'

`You are a devil,' she sobbed.

`Not I!' he laughed. `I was born on this planet, long ago. Once I was a common man, nor have I lost all human attributes in the numberless eons of my adeptship. A human steeped in the dark arts is greater than a devil. I am of human origin, but I rule demons. You have seen the Lords of the Black Circle - it would blast your soul to hear from what far realm I summoned them and from what doom I guard them with ensorcelled crystal and golden serpents.

`But only I can rule them. My foolish Khemsa thought to make himself great - poor fool, bursting material doors and hurtling himself and his mistress through the air from hill to hill! Yet if he had not been destroyed his power might have grown to rival mine.'

He laughed again. `And you, poor, silly thing! Plotting to send a hairy hill chief to storm Yimsha! It was such a jest that I myself could have designed, had it occurred to me, that you should fall in his hands. And I read in your childish mind an intention to seduce by your feminine wiles to attempt your purpose, anyway.

`But for all your stupidity, you are a woman fair to look upon. It is my whim to keep you for my slave.'

The daughter of a thousand proud emperors gasped with shame and fury at the word.

`You dare not!'

His mocking laughter cut her like a whip across her naked shoulders.

`The king dares not trample a worm in the road? Little fool, do you not realize that your royal pride is no more than a straw blown on the wind? I, who have known the kisses of the queens of Hell! You have seen how I deal with a rebel!'

Cowed and awed, the girl crouched on the velvet-covered dais. The light grew dimmer and more phantom-like. The features of the Master became shadowy. His voice took on a newer tone of command.

`I will never yield to you!' Her voice trembled with fear but it carried a ring of resolution.

`You will yield,' he answered with horrible conviction. `Fear and pain shall teach you. I will lash you with horror and agony to the last quivering ounce of your endurance, until you become as melted wax to be bent and molded in my hands as I desire. You shall know such discipline as no mortal woman ever knew, until my slightest command is to you as the unalterable will of the gods. And first, to humble your pride, you shall travel back through the lost ages, and view all the shapes that have been you. Aie, yil la khosa!'

At these words the shadowy room swam before Yasmina's affrighted gaze. The roots of her hair prickled her scalp, and her tongue clove to her palate. Somewhere a gong sounded a deep, ominous note. The dragons on the tapestries glowed like blue fire, and then faded out. The Master on his dais was but a shapeless shadow. The dim light gave way to soft, thick darkness, almost tangible, that pulsed with strange radiations. She could no longer see the Master. She could see nothing. She had a strange sensation that the walls and ceiling had withdrawn immensely from her.

Then somewhere in the darkness a glow began, like a firefly that rhythmically dimmed and quickened. It grew to a golden ball, and as it expanded its light grew more intense, flaming whitely. It burst suddenly, showering the darkness with white sparks that did not illumine the shadows. But like an impression left in the gloom, a faint luminance remained, and revealed a slender dusky shaft shooting up from the shadowy floor. Under the girl's dilated gaze it spread, took shape; stems and broad leaves appeared, and great black poisonous blossoms that towered above her as she cringed against the velvet. A subtle perfume pervaded the atmosphere. It was the dread figure of the black lotus that had grown up as she watched, as it grows in the haunted, forbidden jungles of Khitai.

The broad leaves were murmurous with evil life. The blossoms bent toward her like sentient things, nodding serpentlike on pliant stems. Etched against soft, impenetrable darkness it loomed over her, gigantic, blackly visible in some mad way. Her brain reeled with the drugging scent and she sought to crawl from the dais. Then she clung to it as it seemed to be pitching at an impossible slant. She cried out with terror and clung to the velvet, but she felt her fingers ruthlessly torn away. There was a sensation as of all sanity and stability crumbling and vanishing. She was a quivering atom of sentiency driven through a black, roaring, icy void by a thundering wind that threatened to extinguish her feeble flicker of animate life like a candle blown out in a storm.

Then there came a period of blind impulse and movement, when the atom that was she mingled and merged with myriad other atoms of spawning life in the yeasty morass of existence, molded by formative forces until she emerged again a conscious individual, whirling down an endless spiral of lives.

In a mist of terror she relived all her former existences, recognized and was again all the bodies that had carried her ego throughout the changing ages. She bruised her feet again over the long, weary road of life that stretched out behind her into the immemorial past. Back beyond the dimmest dawns of Time she crouched shuddering in primordial jungles, hunted by slavering beasts of prey. Skin-clad, she waded thigh-deep in rice swamps, battling with squawking water-fowl for the precious grains. She labored with the oxen to drag the pointed stick through the stubborn soil, and she crouched endlessly over looms in peasant huts.

She saw walled cities burst into flame, and fled screaming before the slayers. She reeled naked and bleeding over burning sands, dragged at the slaver's stirrup, and she knew the grip of hot, fierce hands on her writhing flesh, the shame and agony of brutal lust. She screamed under the bite of the lash, and moaned on the rack; mad with terror she fought against the hands that forced her head inexorably down on the bloody block.

She knew the agonies of childbirth, and the bitterness of love betrayed. She suffered all the woes and wrongs and brutalities that man has inflicted on woman throughout the eons; and she endured all the spite and malice of women for woman. And like the flick of a fiery whip throughout was the consciousness she retained of her Devi-ship. She was all the women she had ever been, yet in her knowing she was Yasmina. This consciousness was not lost in the throes of reincarnation. At one and the same time she was a naked slave-wench groveling under the whip, and the proud Devi of Vendhya. And she suffered not only as the slave-girl suffered, but as Yasmina, to whose pride the whip was like a white-hot brand.

Life merged into life in flying chaos, each with its burden of woe and shame and agony, until she dimly heard her own voice screaming unbearably, like one long-drawn cry of suffering echoing down the ages.

Then she awakened on the velvet-covered dais in the mystic room.

In a ghostly gray light she saw again the dais and the cryptic robed figure seated upon it. The hooded head was bent, the high shoulders faintly etched against the uncertain dimness. She could make out no details clearly, but the hood, where the velvet cap had been, stirred a formless uneasiness in her. As she stared, there stole over her a nameless fear that froze her tongue to her palate - a feeling that it was not the Master who sat so silently on that black dais.

Then the figure moved and rose upright, towering above her. It stooped over her and the long arms in their wide black sleeves bent about her. She fought against them in speechless fright, surprized by their lean hardness. The hooded head bent down toward her averted face. And she screamed, and screamed again in poignant fear and loathing. Bony arms gripped her lithe body, and from that hood looked forth a countenance of death and decay -features like rotting parchment on a moldering skull.

She screamed again, and then, as those champing, grinning jaws bent toward her lips, she lost consciousness . . .

CHAPTER 9 The Castle of the Wizards

The sun had risen over the white Himelian peaks. At the foot of a long slope a group of horsemen halted and stared upward. High above them a stone tower poised on the pitch of the mountainside. Beyond and above that gleamed the walls of a greater keep, near the line where the snow began that capped Yimsha's pinnacle. There was a touch of unreality about the whole - purple slopes pitching up to that fantastic castle, toylike with distance, and above it the white glistening peak shouldering the cold blue.

`We'll leave the horses here,' grunted Conan. `That treacherous slope is safer for a man on foot. Besides, they're done.'

He swung down from the black stallion which stood with wide-braced legs and drooping head. They had pushed hard throughout the night, gnawing at scraps from saddle-bags, and pausing only to give the horses the rests they had to have.

`That first tower is held by the acolytes of the Black Seers,' said Conan. `Or so men say; watch-dogs for their masters - lesser sorcerers. They won't sit sucking their thumbs as we climb this slope.'

Kerim Shah glanced up the mountain, then back the way they had come; they were already far up Yimsha's side, and a vast expanse of lesser peaks and crags spread out beneath them. Among these labyrinths the Turanian sought in vain for a movement of color that would betray men. Evidently the pursuing Afghulis had lost their chief's trail in the night.

`Let us go, then.' They tied the weary horses in a clump of tamarisk and without further comment turned up the slope. There was no cover. It was a naked incline, strewn with boulders not big enough to conceal a man. But they did conceal something else.

The party had not gone fifty steps when a snarling shape burst from behind a rock. It was one of the gaunt savage dogs that infested the hill villages, and its eyes glared redly, its jaws dripped foam. Conan was leading, but it did not attack him. It dashed past him and leaped at Kerim Shah. The Turanian leaped aside, and the great dog flung itself upon the Irakzai behind him. The man yelled and threw up his arm, which was torn by the brute's fangs as it bore him backward, and the next instant half a dozen tulwars were hacking at the beast. Yet not until it was literally dismembered did the hideous creature cease its efforts to seize and rend its attackers.

Kerim Shah bound up the wounded warrior's gashed arm, looked at him narrowly, and then turned away without a word. He rejoined Conan, and they renewed the climb in silence.

Presently Kerim Shah said: `Strange to find a village dog in this place.'

`There's no offal here,' grunted Conan.

Both turned their heads to glance back at the wounded warrior toiling after them among his companions. Sweat glistened on his dark face and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a grimace of pain. Then both looked again at the stone tower squatting above them.

A slumberous quiet lay over the uplands. The tower showed no sign of life, nor did the strange pyramidal structure beyond it. But the men who toiled upward went with the tenseness of men walking on the edge of a crater. Kerim Shah had unslung the powerful Turanian bow that killed at five hundred paces, and the Irakzai looked to their own lighter and less lethal bows.

But they were not within bow-shot of the tower when something shot down out of the sky without warning. It passed so close to Conan that he felt the wind of rushing wings, but it was an Irakzai who staggered and fell, blood jetting from a severed jugular. A hawk with wings like burnished steel shot up again, blood dripping from the scimitar-beak, to reel against the sky as Kerim Shah's bowstring twanged. It dropped like a plummet, but no man saw where it struck the earth.

Conan bent over the victim of the attack, but the man was already dead. No one spoke; useless to comment on the fact that never before had a hawk been known to swoop on a man. Red rage began to vie with fatalistic lethargy in the wild souls of the Irakzai. Hairy fingers nocked arrows and men glared vengefully at the tower whose very silence mocked them.

But the next attack came swiftly. They all saw it - a white puffball of smoke that tumbled over the tower-rim and came drifting and rolling down the slope toward them. Others followed it. They seemed harmless, mere woolly globes of cloudy foam, but Conan stepped aside to avoid contact with the first. Behind him one of the Irakzai reached out and thrust his sword into the unstable mass. Instantly a sharp report shook the mountainside. There was a burst of blinding flame, and then the puffball had vanished, and the too-curious warrior remained only a heap of charred and blackened bones. The crisped hand still gripped the ivory sword-hilt, but the blade was gone melted and destroyed by that awful heat. Yet men standing almost within reach of the victim had not suffered except to be dazzled and half blinded by the sudden flare.

`Steel touches it off,' grunted Conan. `Look out - here they come!'

The slope above them was almost covered by the billowing spheres. Kerim Shah bent his bow and sent a shaft into the mass, and those touched by the arrow burst like bubbles in spurting flame. His men followed his example and for the next few minutes it was as if a thunderstorm raged on the mountain slope, with bolts of lightning striking and bursting in showers of flame. When the barrage ceased, only a few arrows were left in the quivers of the archers.

They pushed on grimly, over soil charred and blackened, where the naked rock had in places been turned to lava by the explosion of those diabolical bombs.

Now they were almost within arrow-flight of the silent tower, and they spread their line, nerves taut, ready for any horror that might descend upon them.

On the tower appeared a single figure, lifting a ten-foot bronze horn. Its strident bellow roared out across the echoing slopes, like the blare of trumpets on judgment Day. And it began to be fearfully answered. The ground trembled under the feet of the invaders, and rumblings and grindings welled up from the subterranean depths.

The Irakzai screamed, reeling like drunken men on the shuddering slope, and Conan, eyes glaring, charged recklessly up the incline, knife in hand, straight at the door that showed in the tower-wall. Above him the great horn roared and bellowed in brutish mockery. And then Kerim Shah drew a shaft to his ear and loosed.

Only a Turanian could have made that shot. The bellowing of the horn ceased suddenly, and a high, thin scream shrilled in its place. The green-robed figure on the tower staggered, clutching at the long shaft which quivered in its bosom, and then pitched across the parapet. The great horn tumbled upon the battlement and hung precariously, and another robed figure rushed to seize it, shrieking in horror. Again the Turanian bow twanged, and again it was answered by a death-howl. The second acolyte, in falling, struck the horn with his elbow and knocked it clattering over the parapet to shatter on the rocks far below.

At such headlong speed had Conan covered the ground that before the clattering echoes of that fall had died away, he was hacking at the door. Warned by his savage instinct, he gave back suddenly as a tide of molten lead splashed down from above. But the next instant he was back again, attacking the panels with redoubled fury. He was galvanized by the fact that his enemies had resorted to earthly weapons. The sorcery of the acolytes was limited. Their necromantic resources might well be exhausted.

Kerim Shah was hurrying up the slope, his hillmen behind him in a straggling crescent. They loosed as they ran, their arrows splintering against the walls or arching over the parapet.

The heavy teak portal gave way beneath the Cimmerian's assault, and he peered inside warily, expecting anything. He was looking into a circular chamber from which a stair wound upward. On the opposite side of the chamber a door gaped open, revealing the outer slope - and the backs of half a dozen green-robed figures in full retreat.

Conan yelled, took a step into the tower, and then native caution jerked him back, just as a great block of stone fell crashing to the floor where his foot had been an instant before. Shouting to his followers, he raced around the tower.

The acolytes had evacuated their first line of defence. As Conan rounded the tower he saw their green robes twinkling up the mountain ahead of him. He gave chase, panting with earnest blood-lust, and behind him Kerim Shah and the Irakzai came pelting, the latter yelling like wolves at the flight of their enemies, their fatalism momentarily submerged by temporary triumph.

The tower stood on the lower edge of a narrow plateau whose upward slant was barely perceptible. A few hundred yards away this plateau ended abruptly in a chasm which had been invisible farther down the mountain. Into this chasm the acolytes apparently leaped without checking their speed. Their pursuers saw the green robes flutter and disappear over the edge.

A few moments later they themselves were standing on the brink of the mighty moat that cut them off from the castle of the Black Seers. It was a sheer-walled ravine that extended in either direction as far as they could see, apparently girdling the mountain, some four hundred yards in width and five hundred feet deep. And in it, from rim to rim, a strange, translucent mist sparkled and shimmered.

Looking down, Conan grunted. Far below him, moving across the glimmering floor, which shone like burnished silver, he saw the forms of the green-robed acolytes. Their outline was wavering and indistinct, like figures seen under deep water. They walked in single file, moving toward the opposite wall.

Kerim Shah nocked an arrow and sent it singing downward. But when it struck the mist that filled the chasm it seemed to lose momentum and direction, wandering widely from its course.

`If they went down, so can we!' grunted Conan, while Kerim Shah stared after his shaft in amazement. `I saw them last at this spot-'

Squinting down he saw something shining like a golden thread across the canyon floor far below. The acolytes seemed to be following this thread, and there suddenly came to him Khemsa's cryptic words - `Follow the golden vein!' On the brink, under his very hand as he crouched, he found it, a thin vein of sparkling gold running from an outcropping of ore to the edge and down across the silvery floor. And he found something else, which had before been invisible to him because of the peculiar refraction of the light. The gold vein followed a narrow ramp which slanted down into the ravine, fitted with niches for hand and foot hold.

`Here's where they went down,' he grunted to Kerim Shah. `They're no adepts, to waft themselves through the air! We'll follow them-'

It was at that instant that the man who had been bitten by the mad dog cried out horribly and leaped at Kerim Shah, foaming and gnashing his teeth. The Turanian, quick as a cat on his feet, sprang aside and the madman pitched head-first over the brink. The others rushed to the edge and glared after him in amazement. The maniac did not fall plummet-like. He floated slowly down through the rosy haze like a man sinking in deep water. His limbs moved like a man trying to swim, and his features were purple and convulsed beyond the contortions of his madness. Far down at last on the shining floor his body settled and lay still.

`There's death in that chasm,' muttered Kerim Shah, drawing back from the rosy mist that shimmered almost at his feet. `What now, Conan?'

`On!' answered the Cimmerian grimly. `Those acolytes are human; if the mist doesn't kill them, it won't kill me.'

He hitched his belt, and his hands touched the girdle Khemsa had given him; he scowled, then smiled bleakly. He had forgotten that girdle; yet thrice had death passed him by to strike another victim.

The acolytes had reached the farther wall and were moving up it like great green flies. Letting himself upon the ramp, he descended warily. The rosy cloud lapped about his ankles, ascending as he lowered himself. It reached his knees, his thighs, his waist, his arm-pits. He felt as one feels a thick heavy fog on a damp night. With it lapping about his chin he hesitated, and then ducked under. Instantly his breath ceased; all air was shut off from him and he felt his ribs caving in on his vitals. With a frantic effort he heaved himself up, fighting for life. His head rose above the surface and he drank air in great gulps.

Kerim Shah leaned down toward him, spoke to him, but Conan neither heard nor heeded. Stubbornly, his mind fixed on what the dying Khemsa had told him, the Cimmerian groped for the gold vein, and found that he had moved off it in his descent. Several series of hand-holds were niched in the ramp. Placing himself directly over the thread, he began climbing down once more. The rosy mist rose about him, engulfed him. Now his head was under, but he was still drinking pure air. Above him he saw his companions staring down at him, their features blurred by the haze that shimmered over his head. He gestured for them to follow, and went down swiftly, without waiting to see whether they complied or not.

Kerim Shah sheathed his sword without comment and followed, and the Irakzai, more fearful of being left alone than of the terrors that might lurk below, scrambled after him. Each man clung to the golden thread as they saw the Cimmerian do.

Down the slanting ramp they went to the ravine floor and moved out across the shining level, treading the gold vein like rope-walkers. It was as if they walked along an invisible tunnel through which air circulated freely. They felt death pressing in on them above and on either hand, but it did not touch them.

The vein crawled up a similar ramp on the other wall up which the acolytes had disappeared, and up it they went with taut nerves, not knowing what might be waiting for them among the jutting spurs of rock that fanged the lip of the precipice.

It was the green-robed acolytes who awaited them, with knives in their hands. Perhaps they had reached the limits to which they could retreat. Perhaps the Stygian girdle about Conan's waist could have told why their necromantic spells had proven so weak and so quickly exhausted. Perhaps it was knowledge of death decreed for failure that sent them leaping from among the rocks, eyes glaring and knives glittering, resorting in their desperation to material weapons.

There among the rocky fangs on the precipice lip was no war of wizard craft. It was a whirl of blades, where real steel bit and real blood spurted, where sinewy arms dealt forthright blows that severed quivering flesh, and men went down to be trodden under foot as the fight raged over them.

One of the Irakzai bled to death among the rocks, but the acolytes were down - slashed and hacked asunder or hurled over the edge to float sluggishly down to the silver floor that shone so far below.

Then the conquerors shook blood and sweat from their eyes, and looked at one another. Conan and Kerim Shah still stood upright, and four of the Irakzai.

They stood among the rocky teeth that serrated the precipice brink, and from that spot a path wound up a gentle slope to a broad stair, consisting of half a dozen steps, a hundred feet across, cut out of a green jade-like substance. They led up to a broad stage or roofless gallery of the same polished stone, and above it rose, tier upon tier, the castle of the Black Seers. It seemed to have been carved out of the sheer stone of the mountain. The architecture was faultless, but unadorned. The many casements were barred and masked with curtains within. There was no sign of life, friendly or hostile.

They went up the path in silence, and warily as men treading the lair of a serpent. The Irakzai were dumb, like men marching to a certain doom. Even Kerim Shah was silent. Only Conan seemed unaware what a monstrous dislocating and uprooting of accepted thought and action their invasion constituted, what an unprecedented violation of tradition. He was not of the East; and he came of a breed who fought devils and wizards as promptly and matter-of-factly as they battled human foes.

He strode up the shining stairs and across the wide green gallery straight toward the great golden-bound teak door that opened upon it. He cast but a single glance upward at the higher tiers of the great pyramidal structure towering above him. He reached a hand for the bronze prong that jutted like a handle from the door - then checked himself, grinning hardly. The handle was made in the shape of a serpent, head lifted on arched neck; and Conan had a suspicion that that metal head would come to grisly life under his hand.

He struck it from the door with one blow, and its bronze clink on the glassy floor did not lessen his caution. He flipped it aside with his knife-point, and again turned to the door. Utter silence reigned over the towers. Far below them the mountain slopes fell away into a purple haze of distance. The sun glittered on snow-clad peaks on either hand. High above, a vulture hung like a black dot in the cold blue of the sky. But for it, the men before the gold-bound door were the only evidence of life, tiny figures on a green jade gallery poised on the dizzy height, with that fantastic pile of stone towering above them.

A sharp wind off the snow slashed them, whipping their tatters about. Conan's long knife splintering through the teak panels roused the startled echoes. Again and again he struck, hewing through polished wood and metal bands alike. Through the sundered ruins he glared into the interior, alert and suspicious as a wolf. He saw a broad chamber, the polished stone walls untapestried, the mosaic floor uncarpeted. Square, polished ebon stools and a stone dais formed the only furnishings. The room was empty of human life. Another door showed in the opposite wall.

`Leave a man on guard outside,' grunted Conan. `I'm going in.'

Kerim Shah designated a warrior for that duty, and the man fell back toward the middle of the gallery, bow in hand. Conan strode into the castle, followed by the Turanian and the three remaining Irakzai. The one outside spat, grumbled in his beard, and started suddenly as a low mocking laugh reached his ears.

He lifted his head and saw, on the tier above him, a tall, blackrobed figure, naked head nodding slightly as he stared down. His whole attitude suggested mockery and malignity. Quick as a flash the Irakzai bent his bow and loosed, and the arrow streaked upward to strike full in the blackrobed breast. The mocking smile did not alter. The Seer plucked out the missile and threw it back at the bowman, not as a weapon is hurled, but with a contemptuous gesture. The Irakzai dodged, instinctively throwing up his arm. His fingers closed on the revolving shaft.

Then he shrieked. In his hand the wooden shaft suddenly writhed. Its rigid outline became pliant, melting in his grasp. He tried to throw it from him, but it was too late. He held a living serpent in his naked hand, and already it had coiled about his wrist and its wicked wedge-shaped head darted at his muscular arm. He screamed again and his eyes became distended, his features purple. He went to his knees shaken by an awful convulsion, and then lay still.

The men inside had wheeled at his first cry. Conan took a swift stride toward the open doorway, and then halted short, baffled. To the men behind him it seemed that he strained against empty air. But though he could see nothing, there was a slick, smooth, hard surface under his hands, and he knew that a sheet of crystal had been let down in the doorway. Through it he saw the Irakzai lying motionless on the glassy gallery, an ordinary arrow sticking in his arm.

Conan lifted his knife and smote, and the watchers were dumbfounded to see his blow checked apparently in midair, with the loud clang of steel that meets an unyielding substance. He wasted no more effort. He knew that not even the legendary tulwar of Amir Khurum could shatter that invisible curtain.

In a few words he explained the matter to Kerim Shah, and the Turanian shrugged his shoulders. `Well, if our exit is barred, we must find another. In the meanwhile our way lies forward, does it not?'

With a grunt the Cimmerian turned and strode across the chamber to the opposite door, with a feeling of treading on the threshold of doom. As he lifted his knife to shatter the door, it swung silently open as if of its own accord. He strode into the great hall, flanked with tall glassy columns. A hundred feet from the door began the broad jade-green steps of a stair that tapered toward the top like the side of a pyramid. What lay beyond that stair he could not tell. But between him and its shimmering foot stood a curious altar of gleaming black jade. Four great golden serpents twined their tails about this altar and reared their wedge-shaped heads in the air, facing the four quarters of the compass like the enchanted guardians of a fabled treasure. But on the altar, between the arching necks, stood only a crystal globe filled with a cloudy smoke-like substance, in which floated four golden pomegranates.

The sight stirred some dim recollection in his mind; then Conan heeded the altar no longer, for on the lower steps of the stair stood four blackrobed figures. He had not seen them come. They were simply there, tall, gaunt, their vulture-heads nodding in unison, their feet and hands hidden by their flowing garments.

One lifted his arm and the sleeve fell away revealing his hand - and it was not a hand at all. Conan halted in mid-stride, compelled against his will. He had encountered a force differing subtly from Khemsa's mesmerism, and he could not advance, though he felt it in his power to retreat if he wished. His companions had likewise halted, and they seemed even more helpless than he, unable to move in either direction.

The seer whose arm was lifted beckoned to one of the Irakzai, and the man moved toward him like one in a trance, eyes staring and fixed, blade hanging in limp fingers. As he pushed past Conan, the Cimmerian threw an arm across his breast to arrest him. Conan was so much stronger than the Irakzai that in ordinary circumstances he could have broken his spine between his hands. But now the muscular arm was brushed aside like straw and the Irakzai moved toward the stair, treading jerkily and mechanically. He reached the steps and knelt stiffly, proffering his blade and bending his head. The Seer took the sword. It flashed as he swung it up and down. The Irakzai's head tumbled from his shoulders and thudded heavily on the black marble floor. An arch of blood jetted from the severed arteries and the body slumped over and lay with arms spread wide.

Again a malformed hand lifted and beckoned, and another Irakzai stumbled stiffly to his doom. The ghastly drama was reenacted and another headless form lay beside the first.

As the third tribesman clumped his way past Conan to his death, the Cimmerian, his veins bulging in his temples with his efforts to break past the unseen barrier that held him, was suddenly aware of allied forces, unseen, but waking into life about him. This realization came without warning, but so powerfully that he could not doubt his instinct. His left hand slid involuntarily under his Bakhariot belt and closed on the Stygian girdle. And as he gripped it he felt new strength flood his numbed limbs; the will to live was a pulsing white-hot fire, matched by the intensity of his burning rage.

The third Irakzai was a decapitated corpse, and the hideous finger was lifting again when Conan felt the bursting of the invisible barrier. A fierce, involuntary cry burst from his lips as he leaped with the explosive suddenness of pent-up ferocity. His left hand gripped the sorcerer's girdle as a drowning man grips a floating log, and the long knife was a sheen of light in his right. The men on the steps did not move. They watched calmly, cynically; if they felt surprise they did not show it. Conan did not allow himself to think what might chance when he came within knife-reach of them. His blood was pounding in his temples, a mist of crimson swam before his sight. He was afire with the urge to kill - to drive his knife deep into flesh and bone, and twist the blade in blood and entrails.

Another dozen strides would carry him to the steps where the sneering demons stood. He drew his breath deep, his fury rising redly as his charge gathered momentum. He was hurtling past the altar with its golden serpents when like a levin-flash there shot across his mind again as vividly as if spoken in his external ear, the cryptic words of Khemsa: `Break the crystal ball.'

His reaction was almost without his own volition. Execution followed impulse so spontaneously that the greatest sorcerer of the age would not have had time to read his mind and prevent his action. Wheeling like a cat from his headlong charge, he brought his knife crashing down upon the crystal. Instantly the air vibrated with a peal of terror, whether from the stairs, the altar, or the crystal itself he could not tell. Hisses filled his ears as the golden serpents, suddenly vibrant with hideous life, writhed and smote at him. But he was fired to the speed of a maddened tiger. A whirl of steel sheared through the hideous trunks that waved toward him, and he smote the crystal sphere again and yet again. And the globe burst with a noise like a thunderclap, raining fiery shards on the black marble, and the gold pomegranates, as if released from captivity, shot upward toward the lofty roof and were gone.

A mad screaming, bestial and ghastly, was echoing through the great hall. On the steps writhed four blackrobed figures, twisting in convulsions, froth dripping from their livid mouths. Then with one frenzied crescendo of inhuman ululation they stiffened and lay still, and Conan knew that they were dead. He stared down at the altar and the crystal shards. Four headless golden serpents still coiled about the altar, but no alien life now animated the dully gleaming metal.

Kerim Shah was rising slowly from his knees, whither he had been dashed by some unseen force. He shook his head to clear the ringing from his ears.

`Did you hear that crash when you struck? It was as if a thousand crystal panels shattered all over the castle as that globe burst. Were the souls of the wizards imprisoned in those golden balls? - Ha!'

Conan wheeled as Kerim Shah drew his sword and pointed.

Another figure stood at the head of the stair. His robe, too, was black, but of richly embroidered velvet, and there was a velvet cap on his head. His face was calm, and not unhandsome.

`Who the devil are you?' demanded Conan, staring up at him, knife in hand.

`I am the Master of Yimsha!' His voice was like the chime of a temple bell, but a note of cruel mirth ran through it.

`Where is Yasmina?' demanded Kerim Shah.

The Master laughed down at him.

`What is that to you, dead man? Have you so quickly forgotten my strength, once lent to you, that you come armed against me, you poor fool? I think I will take your heart, Kerim Shah!'

He held out his hand as if to receive something, and the Turanian cried out sharply like a man in mortal agony. He reeled drunkenly, and then, with a splintering of bones, a rending of flesh and muscle and a snapping of mail-links, his breast burst outward with a shower of blood, and through the ghastly aperture something red and dripping shot through the air into the Master's outstretched hand, as a bit of steel leaps to the magnet. The Turanian slumped to the floor and lay motionless, and the Master laughed and hurled the object to fall before Conan's feet - a still-quivering human heart.

With a roar and a curse Conan charged the stair. From Khemsa's girdle he felt strength and deathless hate flow into him to combat the terrible emanation of power that met him on the steps. The air filled with a shimmering steely haze through which he plunged like a swimmer, head lowered, left arm bent about his face, knife gripped low in his right hand. His half-blinded eyes, glaring over the crook of his elbow, made out the hated shape of the Seer before and above him, the outline wavering as a reflection wavers in disturbed water.

He was racked and torn by forces beyond his comprehension, but he felt a driving power outside and beyond his own lifting him inexorably upward and onward, despite the wizard's strength and his own agony.

Now he had reached the head of the stairs, and the Master's face floated in the steely haze before him, and a strange fear shadowed the inscrutable eyes. Conan waded through the mist as through a surf, and his knife lunged upward like a live thing. The keen point ripped the Master's robe as he sprang back with a low cry. Then before Conan's gaze, the wizard vanished -simply disappeared like a burst bubble, and something long and undulating darted up one of the smaller stairs that led up to left and right from the landing.

Conan charged after it, up the left-hand stair, uncertain as to just what he had seen whip up those steps, but in a berserk mood that drowned the nausea and horror whispering at the back of his consciousness.

He plunged out into a broad corridor whose uncarpeted floor and untapestried walls were of polished jade, and something long and swift whisked down the corridor ahead of him, and into a curtained door. From within the chamber rose a scream of urgent terror. The sound lent wings to Conan's flying feet and he hurtled through the curtains and headlong into the chamber within.

A frightful scene met his glare. Yasmina cowered on the farther edge of a velvet-covered dais, screaming her loathing and horror, an arm lifted as if to ward off attack, while before her swayed the hideous head of a giant serpent, shining neck arching up from dark-gleaming coils. With a choked cry Conan threw his knife.

Instantly the monster whirled and was upon him like the rush of wind through tall grass. The long knife quivered in its neck, point and a foot of blade showing on one side, and the hilt and a hand's-breadth of steel on the other, but it only seemed to madden the giant reptile. The great head towered above the man who faced it, and then darted down, the venom-dripping jaws gaping wide. But Conan had plucked a dagger from his girdle and he stabbed upward as the head dipped down. The point tore through the lower jaw and transfixed the upper, pinning them together. The next instant the great trunk had looped itself about the Cimmerian as the snake, unable to use its fangs, employed its remaining form of attack.

Conan's left arm was pinioned among the bone-crushing folds, but his right was free. Bracing his feet to keep upright, he stretched forth his hand, gripped the hilt of the long knife jutting from the serpent's neck, and tore it free in a shower of blood. As if divining his purpose with more than bestial intelligence, the snake writhed and knotted, seeking to cast its loops about his right arm. But with the speed of light the long knife rose and fell, shearing halfway through the reptile's giant trunk.

Before he could strike again, the great pliant loops fell from him and the monster dragged itself across the floor, gushing blood from its ghastly wounds. Conan sprang after it, knife lifted, but his vicious swipe cut empty air as the serpent writhed away from him and struck its blunt nose against a paneled screen of sandalwood. One of the panels gave inward and the long, bleeding barrel whipped through it and was gone.

Conan instantly attacked the screen. A few blows rent it apart and he glared into the dim alcove beyond. No horrific shape coiled there; there was blood on the marble floor, and bloody tracks led to a cryptic arched door. Those tracks were of a man's bare feet . . .

'Conan!' He wheeled back into the chamber just in time to catch the Devi of Vendhya in his arms as she rushed across the room and threw herself upon him, catching him about the neck with a frantic clasp, half hysterical with terror and gratitude and relief.

His wild blood had been stirred to its uttermost by all that had passed. He caught her to him in a grasp that would have made her wince at another time, and crushed her lips with his. She made no resistance; the Devi was drowned in the elemental woman. She closed her eyes and drank in his fierce, hot, lawless kisses with all the abandon of passionate thirst. She was panting with his violence when he ceased for breath, and glared down at her lying limp in his mighty arms.

`I knew you'd come for me,' she murmured. `You would not leave me in this den of devils.'

At her words recollection of their environment came to him suddenly. He lifted his head and listened intently. Silence reigned over the castle of Yimsha, but it was a silence impregnated with menace. Peril crouched in every corner, leered invisibly from every hanging.

`We'd better go while we can,' he muttered. `Those cuts were enough to kill any common beast - or man - but a wizard has a dozen lives. Wound one, and he writhes away like a crippled snake to soak up fresh venom from some source of sorcery.'

He picked up the girl and carrying her in his arms like a child, he strode out into the gleaming jade corridor and down the stairs, nerves tautly alert for any sign or sound.

`I met the Master,' she whispered, clinging to him and shuddering. `He worked his spells on me to break my will. The most awful thing was a moldering corpse which seized me in its arms - I fainted then and lay as one dead, I do not know how long. Shortly after I regained consciousness I heard sounds of strife below, and cries, and then that snake came slithering through the curtains - ah!' She shook at the memory of that horror. `I knew somehow that it was not an illusion, but a real serpent that sought my life.'

`It was not a shadow, at least,' answered Conan cryptically. `He knew he was beaten, and chose to slay you rather than let you be rescued.'

`What do you mean, he?' she asked uneasily, and then shrank against him, crying out, and forgetting her question. She had seen the corpses at the foot of the stairs. Those of the Seers were not good to look at; as they lay twisted and contorted, their hands and feet were exposed to view, and at the sight Yasmina went livid and hid her face against Conan's powerful shoulder.

CHAPTER 10 Yasmina and Conan

Conan passed through the hall quickly enough, traversed the outer chamber and approached the door that led upon the gallery. Then he saw the floor sprinkled with tiny, glittering shards. The crystal sheet that had covered the doorway had been shivered to bits, and he remembered the crash that had accompanied the shattering of the crystal globe. He believed that every piece of crystal in the castle had broken at that instant, and some dim instinct or memory of esoteric lore vaguely suggested the truth of the monstrous connection between the Lords of the Black Circle and the golden pomegranates. He felt the short hair bristle chilly at the back of his neck and put the matter hastily out of his mind.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he stepped out upon the green jade gallery. There was still the gorge to cross, but at least he could see the white peaks glistening in the sun, and the long slopes falling away into the distant blue hazes.

The Irakzai lay where he had fallen, an ugly blotch on the glassy smoothness. As Conan strode down the winding path, he was surprised to note the position of the sun. It had not yet passed its zenith; and yet it seemed to him that hours had passed since he plunged into the castle of the Black Seers.

He felt an urge to hasten, not a mere blind panic, but an instinct of peril growing behind his back. He said nothing to Yasmina, and she seemed content to nestle her dark head against his arching breast and find security in the clasp of his iron arms. He paused an instant on the brink of the chasm, frowning down. The haze which danced in the gorge was no longer rose-hued and sparkling. It was smoky, dim, ghostly, like the life-tide that flickered thinly in a wounded man. The thought came vaguely to Conan that the spells of magicians were more closely bound to their personal beings than were the actions of common men to the actors.

But far below, the floor shone like tarnished silver, and the gold thread sparkled undimmed. Conan shifted Yasmina across his shoulder, where she lay docilely, and began the descent. Hurriedly he descended the ramp, and hurriedly he fled across the echoing floor. He had a conviction that they were racing with time, that their chances of survival depended upon crossing that gorge of horrors before the wounded Master of the castle should regain enough power to loose some other doom upon them.

When he toiled up the farther ramp and came out upon the crest, he breathed a gusty sigh of relief and stood Yasmina upon her feet.

`You walk from here,' he told her; `it's downhill all the way.'

She stole a glance at the gleaming pyramid across the chasm; it reared up against the snowy slope like the citadel of silence and immemorial evil.

`Are you a magician, that you have conquered the Black Seers of Yimsha, Conan of Ghor?' she asked, as they went down the path, with his heavy arm about her supple waist.

`It was a girdle Khemsa gave me before he died,' Conan answered. `Yes, I found him on the trail. It is a curious one, which I'll show you when I have time. Against some spells it was weak, but against others it was strong, and a good knife is always a hearty incantation.'

`But if the girdle aided you in conquering the Master,' she argued, `why did it not aid Khemsa?'

He shook his head. `Who knows? But Khemsa had been the Master's slave; perhaps that weakened its magic. He had no hold on me as he had on Khemsa. Yet I can't say that I conquered him. He retreated, but I have a feeling that we haven't seen the last of him. I want to put as many miles between us and his lair as we can.'

He was further relieved to find horses tethered among the tamarisks as he had left them. He loosed them swiftly and mounted the black stallion, swinging the girl up before him. The others followed, freshened by their rest.

`And what now?' she asked. `To Afghulistan?'

`Not just now!' He grinned hardly. `Somebody - maybe the governor - killed my seven headmen. My idiotic followers think I had something to do with it, and unless I am able to convince them otherwise, they'll hunt me like a wounded jackal.'

`Then what of me? If the headmen are dead, I am useless to you as a hostage. Will you slay me, to avenge them?'

He looked down at her, with eyes fiercely aglow, and laughed at the suggestion.

`Then let us ride to the border,' she said. `You'll be safe from the Afghulis there-'

`Yes, on a Vendhyan gibbet.'

`I am Queen of Vendhya,' she reminded him with a touch of her old imperiousness. `You have saved my life. You shall be rewarded.'

She did not intend it as it sounded, but he growled in his throat, ill pleased.

`Keep your bounty for your city-bred dogs, princess! If you're a queen of the plains, I'm a chief of the hills, and not one foot toward the border will I take you!'

`But you would be safe-'she began bewilderedly.

`And you'd be the Devi again,' he broke in. `No, girl; I prefer you as you are now - a woman of flesh and blood, riding on my saddle-bow.'

`But you can't keep me!' she cried. `You can't-'

`Watch and see!' he advised grimly.

`But I will pay you a vast ransom-'

`Devil take your ransom!' he answered roughly, his arms hardening about her supple figure. `The kingdom of Vendhya could give me nothing I desire half so much as I desire you. I took you at the risk of my neck; if your courtiers want you back, let them come up the Zhaibar and fight for you.'

`But you have no followers now!' she protested. `You are hunted! How can you preserve your own life, much less mine?'

`I still have friends in the hills,' he answered. `There is a chief of the Khurakzai who will keep you safely while I bicker with the Afghulis. If they will have none of me, by Crom! I will ride northward with you to the steppes of the kozaki. I was a hetman among the Free Companions before I rode southward. I'll make you a queen on the Zaporoska River!'

`But I can not!' she objected. `You must not hold me-'

`If the idea's so repulsive,' he demanded, `why did you yield your lips to me so willingly?'

`Even a queen is human,' she answered, coloring. `But because I am a queen, I must consider my kingdom. Do not carry me away into some foreign country. Come back to Vendhya with me!'

`Would you make me your king?' he asked sardonically.

`Well, there are customs-' she stammered, and he interrupted her with a hard laugh.

`Yes, civilized customs that won't let you do as you wish. You'll marry some withered old king of the plains, and I can go my way with only the memory of a few kisses snatched from your lips. Ha!'

'But I must return to my kingdom!' she repeated helplessly.

`Why?' he demanded angrily. `To chafe your rump on gold thrones, and listen to the plaudits of smirking, velvet-skirted fools? Where is the gain? Listen: I was born in the Cimmerian hills where the people are all barbarians. I have been a mercenary soldier, a corsair, a kozak, and a hundred other things. What king has roamed the countries, fought the battles, loved the women, and won the plunder that I have?

`I came into Ghulistan to raise a horde and plunder the kingdoms to the south - your own among them. Being chief of the Afghulis was only a start. If I can conciliate them, I'll have a dozen tribes following me within a year. But if I can't I'll ride back to the steppes and loot the Turanian borders with the kozaki. And you'll go with me. To the devil with your kingdom; they fended for themselves before you were born.'

She lay in his arms looking up at him, and she felt a tug at her spirit, a lawless, reckless urge that matched his own and was by it called into being. But a thousand generations of sovereignship rode heavy upon her.

`I can't! I can't!' she repeated helplessly.

`You haven't any choice,' he assured her. `You - what the devil!'

They had left Yimsha some miles behind them, and were riding along a high ridge that separated two deep valleys. They had just topped a steep crest where they could gaze down into the valley on their right hand. And there was a running fight in progress. A strong wind was blowing away from them, carrying the sound from their ears, but even so the clashing of steel and thunder of hoofs welled up from far below.

They saw the glint of the sun on lance-tip and spired helmet. Three thousand mailed horsemen were driving before them a ragged band of turbaned riders, who fled snarling and striking like fleeing wolves.

`Turanians,' muttered Conan. `Squadrons from Secunderam. What the devil are they doing here?'

`Who are the men they pursue?' asked Yasmina. `And why do they fall back so stubbornly? They can not stand against such odds.'

`Five hundred of my mad Afghulis,' he growled, scowling down into the vale. `They're in a trap, and they know it.'

The valley was indeed a cul-de-sac at that end. It narrowed to a high-walled gorge, opening out further into a round bowl, completely rimmed with lofty, unscalable walls.

The turbaned riders were being forced into this gorge, because there was nowhere else for them to go, and they went reluctantly, in a shower of arrows and a whirl of swords. The helmeted riders harried them, but did not press in too rashly. They knew the desperate fury of the hill tribes, and they knew too that they had their prey in a trap from which there was no escape. They had recognized the hillmen as Afghulis, and they wished to hem them in and force a surrender. They needed hostages for the purpose they had in mind.

Their emir was a man of decision and initiative. When he reached the Gurashah valley, and found neither guides nor emissary waiting for him, he pushed on, trusting to his own knowledge of the country. All the way from Secunderam there had been fighting, and tribesmen were licking their wounds in many a crag-perched village. He knew there was a good chance that neither he nor any of his helmeted spearmen would ever ride through the gates of Secunderam again, for the tribes would all be up behind him now, but he was determined to carry out his orders - which were to take Yasmina Devi from the Afghulis at all costs, and to bring her captive to Secunderam, or if confronted by impossibility, to strike off her head before he himself died.

Of all this, of course, the watchers on the ridge were not aware. But Conan fidgeted with nervousness.

`Why the devil did they get themselves trapped?' he demanded of the universe at large. `I know what they're doing in these parts - they were hunting me, the dogs! Poking into every valley - and found themselves penned in before they knew it. The poor fools! They're making a stand in the gorge, but they can't hold out for long. When the Turanians have pushed them back into the bowl, they'll slaughter them at their leisure.'

The din welling up from below increased in volume and intensity. In the strait of the narrow gut, the Afghulis, fighting desperately, were for the time holding their own against the mailed riders, who could not throw their whole weight against them.

Conan scowled darkly, moved restlessly, fingering his hilt, and finally spoke bluntly: 'Devi, I must go down to them. I'll find a place for you to hide until I come back to you. You spoke of your kingdom - well, I don't pretend to look on those hairy devils as my children, but after all, such as they are, they're my henchmen. A chief should never desert his followers, even if they desert him first. They think they were right in kicking me out - hell, I won't be cast off! I'm still chief of the Afghulis, and I'll prove it! I can climb down on foot into the gorge.'

`But what of me?' she queried. `You carried me away forcibly from my people; now will you leave me to die in the hills alone while you go down and sacrifice yourself uselessly?'

His veins swelled with the conflict of his emotions.

`That's right,' he muttered helplessly. `Crom knows what I can do.'

She turned her head slightly, a curious expression dawning on her beautiful face. Then: `Listen!' she cried. `Listen!'

A distant fanfare of trumpets was borne faintly to their ears. They stared into the deep valley on the left, and caught a glint of steel on the farther side. A long line of lances and polished helmets moved along the vale, gleaming in the sunlight.

`The riders of Vendhya!' she cried exultingly.

`There are thousands of them!' muttered Conan. `It has been long since a Kshatriya host has ridden this far into the hills.'

`They are searching for me!' she exclaimed. `Give me your horse! I will ride to my warriors! The ridge is not so precipitous on the left, and I can reach the valley floor. I will lead my horsemen into the valley at the upper end and fall upon the Turanians! We will crush them in the vise! Quick, Conan! Will you sacrifice your men to your own desire?'

The burning hunger of the steppes and the wintry forests glared out of his eyes, but he shook his head and swung off the stallion, placing the reins in her hands.

`You win!' he grunted. `Ride like the devil!'

She wheeled away down the left-hand slope and he ran swiftly along the ridge until he reached the long ragged cleft that was the defile in which the fight raged. Down the rugged wall he scrambled like an ape, clinging to projections and crevices, to fall at last, feet first, into the melee that raged in the mouth of the gorge. Blades were whickering and clanging about him, horses rearing and stamping, helmet plumes nodding among turbans that were stained crimson.

As he hit, he yelled like a wolf, caught a gold-worked rein, and dodging the sweep of a scimitar, drove his long knife upward through the rider's vitals. In another instant he was in the saddle, yelling ferocious orders to the Afghulis. They stared at him stupidly for an instant; then as they saw the havoc his steel was wreaking among their enemies, they fell to their work again, accepting him without comment. In that inferno of licking blades and spurting blood there was no time to ask or answer questions.

The riders in their spired helmets and gold-worked hauberks swarmed about the gorge mouth, thrusting and slashing, and the narrow defile was packed and jammed with horses and men, the warriors crushed breast to breast, stabbing with shortened blades, slashing murderously when there was an instant's room to swing a sword. When a man went down he did not get up from beneath the stamping, swirling hoofs. Weight and sheer strength counted heavily there, and the chief of the Afghulis did the work of ten. At such times accustomed habits sway men strongly, and the warriors, who were used to seeing Conan in their vanguard, were heartened mightily, despite their distrust of him.

But superior numbers counted too. The pressure of the men behind forced the horsemen of Turan deeper and deeper into the gorge, in the teeth of the flickering tulwars. Foot by foot the Afghulis were shoved back, leaving the defile-floor carpeted with dead, on which the riders trampled. As he hacked and smote like a man possessed, Conan had time for some chilling doubts -would Yasmina keep her word? She had but to join her warriors, turn southward and leave him and his band to perish.

But at last, after what seemed centuries of desperate battling, in the valley outside there rose another sound above the clash of steel and yells of slaughter. And then with a burst of trumpets that shook the walls, and rushing thunder of hoofs, five thousand riders of Vendhya smote the hosts of Secunderam.

That stroke split the Turanian squadrons asunder, shattered, tore and rent them and scattered their fragments all over the valley. In an instant the surge had ebbed back out of the gorge; there was a chaotic, confused swirl of fighting, horsemen wheeling and smiting singly and in clusters, and then the emir went down with a Kshatriya lance through his breast, and the riders in their spired helmets turned their horses down the valley, spurring like mad and seeking to slash a way through the swarms which had come upon them from the rear. As they scattered in flight, the conquerors scattered in pursuit, and all across the valley floor, and up on the slopes near the mouth and over the crests streamed the fugitives and the pursuers. The Afghulis, those left to ride, rushed out of the gorge and joined in the harrying of their foes, accepting the unexpected alliance as unquestioningly as they had accepted the return of their repudiated chief.

The sun was sinking toward the distant crags when Conan, his garments hacked to tatters and the mail under them reeking and clotted with blood, his knife dripping and crusted to the hilt, strode over the corpses to where Yasmina Devi sat her horse among her nobles on the crest of the ridge, near a lofty precipice.

`You kept your word, Devi!' he roared. `By Crom, though, I had some bad seconds down in that gorge - look out!'

Down from the sky swooped a vulture of tremendous size with a thunder of wings that knocked men sprawling from their horses.

The scimitar-like beak was slashing for the Devi's soft neck, but Conan was quicker - a short run, a tigerish leap, the savage thrust of a dripping knife, and the vulture voiced a horribly human cry, pitched sideways and went tumbling down the cliffs to the rocks and river a thousand feet below. As it dropped, its black wings thrashing the air, it took on the semblance, not of a bird, but of a blackrobed human body that fell, arms in wide black sleeves thrown abroad.

Conan turned to Yasmina, his red knife still in his hand, his blue eyes smoldering, blood oozing from wounds on his thickly muscled arms and thighs.

`You are the Devi again,' he said, grinning fiercely at the goldclasped gossamer robe she had donned over her hill-girl attire, and awed not at all by the imposing array of chivalry about him. `I have you to thank for the lives of some three hundred and fifty of my rogues, who are at least convinced that I didn't betray them. You have put my hands on the reins of conquest again.'

`I still owe you my ransom,' she said, her dark eyes glowing as they swept over him. `Ten thousand pieces of gold I will pay you-'

He made a savage, impatient gesture, shook the blood from his knife and thrust it back in its scabbard, wiping his hands on his mail.

`I will collect your ransom in my own way, at my own time,' he said. `I will collect it in your palace at Ayodhya, and I will come with fifty thousand men to see that the scales are fair.'

She laughed, gathering her reins into her hands. `And I will meet you on the shores of the Jhumda with a hundred thousand!'

His eyes shone with fierce appreciation and admiration, and stepping back, he lifted his hand with a gesture that was like the assumption of kingship, indicating that her road was clear before her.

Conan and the Mists of Doom

Prologue

The valley slashed into the flank of the Kezankian Mountains like a sword cut. The entrance deceived the casual eye, being but a narrow cleft in a spur of Mount Goadel. The mist often swirling about the heights aided the deception, giving the cleft the air of a place uncanny and unwholesome, where things a sane man would shun might lurk in wait.

Often the wind rose, driving away the mist, but raising a howling as of demons and lost souls as it whipped around the rocks. The wind-cry likewise kept travelers from being too curious about the valley.

It had been many years since travelers had allowed themselves to be curious about the valley, or anything else in this part of the Kezankian range. It was far from any place that concerned civilized folk, and too plainly a good home for bandits, outlaws, and still more debased forms of humanity. There were even tales of tribes of ape-men, kin to those of the Himelian peaks in Vendhya, dwelling above the snow line.

The man who led the column of soldiers up the slope toward the cleft knew more than most of the truth about the valley. It had indeed been home to bandits and outlaws. Some of these now followed him, won to obedience”if not loyalty”by gold in one hand and a whip in the other.

Others, he and his company had slain with their own hands. Still others had fled, to become bleaching bones when the vultures were done with them.

About ape-men, Captain Muhbaras knew little and cared less. If they did not trouble him, he would leave them in whatever peace their lofty homes might afford them. He personally doubted that any creature dwelling among eternal snow and ice could have the wits of a louse, but then he had grown to manhood among the gurgling wells and trees sagging with ripe fruit of a Khorajan nobleman's estate.

Long-legged and unburdened save for a shirt of fine Vendhyan mail and an open-faced helm of Nemedian style, Muhbaras had reached the cleft well ahead of his column. Now he turned back to watch it mount the slope, and to count heads for straggling or desertion. Small fear of the latter, when all went in fear of the Lady of the Mists, who could see to the edge of the world, but there were always fools in any company.

One could hardly tell bandits from Khorajans or nomads; all wore the same robes and headdress, sand-hued or dirty white, with boots and belts of camel's hide and a curved sword and dagger thrust into the belts. Some among each folk carried bows and quivers, but a keen-eyed man would have quickly seen that the bows were unstrung and the quivers bound tightly shut with leather thongs.

No man approached the entrance to the Valley of the Mists with ready arrows or strung bow. Not without the Lady's consent, and thus far that consent had not been forthcoming.

What had been forthcoming were harsh punishments for those who flouted the Lady's will. Punishments so dire, indeed, that those who had suffered them might have gladly changed places with the captives in the middle of the column. Their death would have been no less unclean, under the Lady's magic, but it would have been swifter and far less painful.

There were ten of the captives, bound into a single file by stout thongs about their waists. Their hands and feet were free, which meant vigilance by their guards, as the Lady misliked pursuing escapers with her spells, lest this endanger her secrets. There was hardly any choice, however, as no man with hands bound could mount the slopes here. Nor could a band of this size carry many helpless burdens over the rocks and along the ravines.

Escapes were few enough in truth, thanks to the potion the Lady's apothecary doled out to each band of raiders. If one could get enough of it down a captive's gullet, the man, woman, or child would be as docile as a sheep for up to three days. Muhbaras had scented some familiar herbs in the potion, and others he could not name; he suspected that the real secret of the potion was not knowable by common men.

The captives were seven men, if you counted one youth barely old enough to show a beard, and three women. Two with grave wounds and one who had fought to the last against swallowing the potion were vultures' fodder, as well as a warning to anyone who would pursue the raiders.

Muhbaras counted the captives twice, although there was no escape this far into the mountains for anyone who could neither fly like a bird nor sink into solid rock like a spirit. He made a gesture of aversion at that last thought; some of the tribes hereabouts commanded potent magic. It would not be well done to capture one of their shamans or the man's kin.

Then he turned toward the cleft in the rock, drew his sword (Nemedian work like his helm), and raised it hilt-first. He saw no one and heard nothing save the whisper of the wind on distant slopes, but he knew that keen eyes watched for still keener minds.

Crimson light darted from the cleft, striking a jewel in the sword's hilt. The jewel glowed like an oil lamp, but no oil lamp ever gave out such hues, not only a half-score different shades of crimson but hints of azure, emerald, amber”

"We have returned," the captain said. "We have ten. In the service of the Lady, we ask blessing."

The light darted out again. This time the crimson glow danced along the ground until it drew a complete circle around the column. Muhbaras tried not to think how much it resembled a noose, ready to be drawn tight. He told himself that he and his men had survived this rite a score of times without so much as a singed hair.

Reason and memory were of small use against the dark fear of old magic, coiling through a man's guts and gnawing at his will like a rat at a corpse. The captain felt a cold sweat creep across his skin under the mail and padding.

"In the service of the Lady, the blessing is given," the voice said.

The captain tried for the tenth time to find something in the voice by which he might recognize the speaker. It would be of little value if he did, save for proving that not all the Lady's secrets were impenetrable.

The men behind him were looking at him, and he remembered that the next part of the rite was his.

"In the service of the Lady, we beg entrance to the Valley of the Mists."

The captain wondered, not quite idly, what might happen if he used some word less abject than "beg." So far he had lacked the courage to find out”as much for the sake of those who had followed him from Khoraja as for his own sake. He wondered if those who survived would receive their promised gold and estates, but doubting the word of Khoraja's rulers did not make him ready to throw away the lives of his men. He had held his duty as a captain near to his heart, long before he heard of the Lady of the Mists or laid eyes on the Kezankian Mountains.

"In the service of the Lady, entrance to the Valley of the Mists is granted."

He heard light footsteps, quickly lost in the grind and growl of stones shifting, which always sounded to him like the bowels of the mountains themselves rumbling. The stone-noise ended, the light of torches glowed from the cleft, and two figures stepped swiftly into view.

One was tall and dark, the other shorter and fair, and both were women.

They wore silvered helmets, displaying on either side a golden ornament in the form of a scorpion's tail, brown leather corselets reinforced with iron plates, loose breeches in the Turanian style, of heavy silk in a green so dark it was almost black, and boots whose style the captain did not recognize.

Each had a sword and dagger, and each carried a Turanian recurved bow and quiver of well-made arrows. Their faces under the helmets and bodies under the armor were good to look at. The sure grace of their movements and the stillness in their eyes made it clear no man but a fool would hope for more, and fools would meet weapons the women knew well how to use.

Northern folk had tales of shield-maidens, daughters of the gods, who roamed the earth seeking the souls of dead warriors, or so the captain had heard. He had thought them barbarians' fancies once; now he was not so sure. All of the Lady's Maidens had the same look, of being able to see into a man's soul and judge him.

It was that look, as much as their weapons and armor, that had kept the Maidens untouched. That, and knowing that what the Lady had done to disobedient archers would be as a child's tantrum to what she would do in defense of her Maidens.

"Any children?" the dark Maiden said.

"None."

"As well. Strong spirits are needed to feed the Mist."

"The strongest spirit, we freed back near the village. We could not force the potion down him without risking hurt to our people, and pursuit seemed closer than usual."

Why was he explaining himself to this madwoman, servant of a greater madwoman? Perhaps because he had seen her on guard more often than any other, and she looked less grim than most. The fair one, now”a man's hand would freeze on touching her, long before his manhood was anywhere near her.

'This is not well."

"It did not seem my decision, to sacrifice the Lady's servants."

"That is wisdom."

They continued to speak as the raiders filed past. Some of the prisoners had enough awareness to open their eyes and look about them, but the point of a sword in the back was enough to discourage laggards.

At last the tail of the column vanished among the rocks, and Muhbaras was alone on the mountainside with the Maidens.

"You are well, I trust?" the fair one said. Not for the first time, she made a question about the captain's health sound like a death sentence.

"I am well, and fit to come within," he replied, returning to ritual phrases.

Which I would not do if I did not think your mistress needed my men more than they need her!

-

One

The desert lay north of Zamboula, south of Khauran, west of the mighty realm of Turan, now burgeoning in its strength under the lash of its bold new King Yezdigerd. It belonged to none of these.

Indeed, the land belonged to no one. Even names on it were few, and those mostly oases. The nomads were divided among a score of tribes, seldom at peace with one another; each tribe had its own names for the wadis, the depressions, the dunes.

The harsh sky and its blazing sun might have leached all the color from the land. The sand lay pale ochre and umber, the rocks seemed baked white as bones, and even the sparse vegetation was pallid and dusty.

Well off to the north, dust trails crept above the horizon. Still farther, barely visible, rose patches of deeper green. Together they told of caravan routes and cultivated lands. Only in the crystalline air of the desert would they have been visible at all, for they were a good day's ride on a stout horse.

Nearer at hand, a man standing on a well-placed dune might have seen another dust cloud rising to the sky. Before long, he would have seen the dark shapes of more than a dozen riders at the base of the cloud, growing even as he watched.

Remaining beyond bowshot, he would have taken them for a band of nomad warriors. Their garb was certainly that of the nomads, or of any man who braves a forge-hot desert journey”loose, flowing robes from crown to toe. All were well armed, mostly with long, curved swords or bows.

Closer up, a man who knew the tribes of the East might have doubted that these men were native to the desert. One saw silver on the hilts of some weapons, tattoos on bronzed cheeks, and subtle differences in the tooled leather of the saddles and bridles. Yet most of the men and their mounts could have ridden into a nomad camp without drawing a second glance.

All except one, the leader. Few deserts ever spawned a man so gigantic, who needed a horse larger than any nomad ever bestrode to carry him even at a trot. Nor did those ice-blue eyes first open under any desert sun, and the blade that rode at the man's hip was as straight as his broad back.

Conan of Cimmeria was riding for Koth, with fourteen loyal Afghulis sworn to see him safely to that destination. Perhaps also they had hopes of plucking loot from the war in Koth.

The man on the dune might have stood watching until not only Conan but the rearmost of the riders was out of sight. Had he done so, however, he would shortly have seen a new dust cloud sprout on the horizon, moving swiftly on the trail of Conan's band. The Cimmerian and his Afghulis were not alone in the desert.

In the forefront of the band, Conan was not the first to see the riders behind. That modest honor went to a rider named Farad, of the Batari tribe. He spurred his mount up beside the Cimmerian's and shouted into the northerner's ear.

"We are followed. Many more than we are, from the dust they make."

Conan turned to look eastward. Farad's eyes were keen and his judgment sound. The riders behind had to be at least fifty, though probably not more than a hundred”which hardly mattered, as even fifty was four times the strength of Conan's band.

Nor did it matter much who they were, unless by some improbable chance they were a caravan gone astray or Zamboulans. Neither was likely to be found in this stretch of desert; more likely by far were nomads or Turanians, and neither would meet Conan and his men as friends.

In some nomad dialects the word "stranger" was also the word for "enemy." Among every nomad tribe, anyone who had wealth to take and no kin to avenge their death was fair game. The horses and weapons of Conan's band would be enough to sign their death warrant with any nomads numerous enough to take them, to say nothing of what Conan bore in a small pouch next to his skin.

That small sack of jewels was all his profit from two years among the Afghulis. That and a whole skin, which he supposed was more than many kept who went among the Afghulis in their native mountains.

Binding the scattered, brawling tribes of the Afghulis into a single host had at first seemed like a good idea. Conan knew his own skill and the prowess of the Afghuli warriors, likewise the weaknesses of every neighboring realm. A united Afghuli people could take their pick.

The Afghulis did not seem to care overmuch for this bright vision. If it meant fighting beside a man whose great-grandfather had insulted theirs, they would rather fight the man (or perhaps the towering foreigner who suggested that they forgive the insult).

It was Conan's luck, not to mention ready blade and stout thews, that kept his hide intact. With little but what he had on his person and no friends but those who owed him blood-debts, he had fled the mountains.

Fighting their way through bandits and bears alike, they came to hear rumors of war in Koth.

Westward they rode, the Afghulis as eager as Conan to try their hand at winning loot and glory from the troubles of Koth. They had to ride well clear of the borders of Turan, however, for in that realm there was a price on Conan's head. Under King Yildiz's mild reign, few Turanians would have cared to gamble their lives on taking Conan's. Yezdigerd was not his father, and knew how to use both fear and greed to make men bold, even foolhardy.

Conan looked eastward again. He thought he saw a second dust cloud on the horizon, but after a mo-ment knew it was only a dust devil, a creature of the wind. But the first cloud had grown larger, and now he thought he saw the glint of sunlight on steel.

The nomads wore no armor. In this land, armored riders were most likely Turanians. Conan looked westward, studying the ground with a practiced eye. He had fought in every kind of land from glacier to jungle, and knew what each offered to a hunted band.

To the west, the desert rolled away under the sun, offering little but sand and scrub. Anywhere in that emptiness, Conan's band would stand out like a pea on a platter. Once in bowshot, the enemy would have easy prey, unless night came”and it was only early afternoon.

To the north, however, a sprawling gray mass thrust its rocky head above the sand. Any who reached this ridge might lurk in its cracks and crevices until nightfall dimmed the enemy's sight, then slip away. At worst, it offered shelter for archery and ambushes, likewise high ground for a last stand if the odds against escape grew too long.

Conan grinned at the prospect of giving King Yezdigerd a few more widows' pensions to pay. This was the kind of fight that made his blood sing and that had made his name in all Hyborian lands and more than a few others. Long odds, a need for both cunning and strength, and stout brothers-in-arms to tell the tales afterward or keep him company in death if that was his fate.

No one worthy of the name of warrior could complain about the battle Conan faced.

His only remaining problem was to be sure that the battle would be on his chosen ground, not that of the

Turanians. A good deal of open desert lay between Conan's men and the ridge, bare of cover but likely full of holes and cracks that could catch a horse's leg and doom its rider.

Conan had read a few books on the art of war, and thought most of them tried to make into wizardry something that was for the most part common sense. In none of them had he found one maxim he knew to be true: The horse that has never stumbled before will stumble when you are riding for your life.

He waved toward the ridge, while turning in the saddle to shout at the Afghulis. "We'll perch there until nightfall. Archers, to the rear, but I'll gut the man who wastes arrows." The Afghulis were mostly not the finished horse-archers of Turan, among the best in the world; but their pursuers would make a large target.

The archers reined in a trifle, the rest dug in spurs, and dust swirled around Conan's band as it re-formed for its last ride. Dust also swirled, higher and thicker than before, to their rear. Conan cast a final look behind him, thought he recognized Turanian banners, then put his head down and his heels in to ride for his life.

In a bare rock chamber in the wall of the Valley of the Mists, a woman sat cross-legged and alone on a bearskin thrown across a Turanian rug.

Before her stood a tall wine cup of gilded bronze, with four handles and a broad base displaying archaic, even ancient runes known only among sorcerers and talked of in whispers even among them.

The Lady was as bare as the chamber, save for a necklace, bracelets, and coronet of fresh mountain creeper. A Maiden had plucked it in the night and brought it to the chamber before dawn, where it had remained in cool shadows. It was still so fresh that the last drops of dew trickled from the crinkled gray-green leaves down between the Lady's breasts.

The Lady of the Mists”she did not choose to remember any other name”reached under the bearskin and drew out a heavy disk of age-blackened bronze. One could barely make out under the patina of centuries the sigil of Kull of Atlantis.

The Lady knew not whether some potent Atlantean spell still lurked in the bronze. She only knew that nothing else that had come into her hands so readily let her work her own.

That was as well. Workers in magic did best and lived longest (if they cared for that, as the Lady did) if they worked most with the magic they knew and commanded”as well as any mortal could command power from the realms of night.

She shifted her position with the languid grace of a cat half-roused from sleep, until she could reach the cup. She set the bronze disk atop the cup, so that it rested a hairsbreadth below the rim, completely covering the cup.

The movement sent more dew trickling between her breasts. No living man would have gazed on those breasts unstirred, nor did the rest of the Lady's form repel the eye any more than her breasts. She could have filled her bed more readily than most women, had she sought that”or had her eyes been other than they were.

They were of human size and shape, but of a golden hue seen in no race of men. She also had the vertical pupils of a cat, and these were a nightmare black against the yellow.

Any man seeing the Lady's form would have judged her human, and judged truly. Then, coming closer, a glimpse of her eyes would have changed his mind and likely sent him fleeing, faster than anything but the Lady's laughter could pursue. Or, if she took offense, the Lady's magic.

The Lady pressed a finger to the cup, moving it to see if its bronze seal was well in place. No rattle greeted her. She smiled, and her eyes narrowed, like those of a cat looking, as they so often do, into a world beyond human knowledge.

Then she rested both hands lightly on the bronze and began to sing. The cup quivered at first, then steadied, but around cup and Lady alike a crimson light began to spread.

Conan was now as careful not to look to his rear as any Aquilonian knight leading a charge. He did not do it for the knight's reasons of not wishing to show doubt that those sworn to him would follow steadfastedly in his wake.

The Cimmerian kept his eyes to the front or the side because there lay the ridge that offered the only hope of safety, as well as any number of hidden dangers. The holes of burrowing rodents to snap a horse's leg like a rotten twig, soft sand to bring horse and man down together, nests of asps to give a lingering death if disturbed”these could end the race as thoroughly as being overtaken by the Turanians.

So could nomads or Turanians lying in ambush.

The nomads held no love for the Turanians, and even less now in the face of Yezdigerd's growing strength. That would not stay their hands for a moment if they thought they could buy a Turanian captain's goodwill with the heads of the Cimmerian and his following.

This was no land for any man who cared to live without eyes in the back of his head and his hand close to the hilt of his sword. Conan had lived no other way for more years than he had fingers, and in their feud-ridden land the Afghulis sucked in wariness with their mothers'

milk.

"Conan!" The call rose above the thunder of hooves. "The Turanians send a band ahead, faster than the rest!"

Conan recognized the voice. It was Farad, first man among the Afghulis.

He shouted back, without turning his head.

"They think to wolf-pack us. Time for the archers to make them think again."

"Or stop thinking at all!" Farad shouted back, battle-joy in his cry.

"Wolf-packing" was a pursuer's sending one band after another to force the pursued to a pace their mounts could not sustain. In time the pursued would have stumbling, foaming, dying mounts, at the mercy of the last fresh riders of the pursuer.

It suggested that the Turanians were regularly sworn horsemen of the host, or at worst the better sort of irregular, such as Conan himself had led during his service in Turan. Neither was often found this far into the desert”or rather, had not been found here before Yezdigerd took the throne of Turan, with ambitions to take everything else he could lay his hands on.

The ground began to rise before Conan's eyes. He studied it. Was there a ravine off to the right that led to the base of the ridge and offered shelter from arrows? The Cimmerian slowed to a trot, patting the neck of his foam-flecked horse reassuringly.

"Not much farther, lady," he muttered to the horse. Not much farther to at least brief safety or a swift death. They would find nothing else under this desert sun.

The ravine was narrow and its floor studded with rocks thrusting up wildly, as if flung down by a mad giant. No passage there, at least no swift one”and while the Afghulis were threading their way through the rocks, the Turanians could seize one side of the ravine and send down a hail of arrows.

Conan's men would reach the rocks in the open or not at all.

The Cimmerian's spurs went in again. The mare whickered in protest, blew foam from her mouth, and gathered her legs under her.

"Come on, you sons of dogs!" Conan roared. "Or are you going to lie down for Turanians, of all the pox-ridden folk on earth!"

On staggering horses, some leaving trails of blood, the Afghulis followed. Conan risked a look behind and saw that the first band of the wolf pack had fallen back. Fallen back, moreover, onto ground already well adorned with fallen men and horses. Some still struggled, as the rest of the Turanians rode on past or sometimes over them.

The ridge loomed ahead. Conan drove spurs deeper. The mare responded with what had to be the last of her strength. Gravel and sand flew up about her hooves, like foam from the ram of a war galley.

Another look back. The center of the Turanians was advancing in a solid mass, but on either flank bands were breaking off.

So they were going to surround the ridge, were they? No one but a fool would fail to do that, and fools did not command Turanian horsemen all that often. More than one captain and more than one book on war had told Conan what his own sense said: Never trust your enemy to be a witling.

The thud of the mare's hooves on the ground changed pitch. The ground was harder now, with rock just under the sand and gravel. The other riders reached the hard ground, and half a hundred hooves drummed their way toward the rough ground.

Behind, the Turanian horns gave tongue again, and this time a drum joined them. Conan spat from a desert-dry and dust-filled mouth. The drum was no good news; often as not, the Turanians used it to summon up reinforcements.

Let them summon all the host of Turan. We can still give them a battle those who survive it will not forget.

The vanguard of the Turanians breasted the slope, and sunlight flamed on mail sleeves as half a score of archers nocked and drew as one man.

The crimson glow spread from the cup until, to one looking into the chamber, the Lady might have seemed embedded in the heart of a gigantic ruby. Only her lips moved with the murmuring of her spell, and her breast with her shallow breathing. A keen eye might have seen a tremor in a finger or the muscle of one bare and supple thigh, but otherwise the Lady might have been the image of a sorceress at her magic, carved by a master sculptor.

A low-pitched thrumming began, at first seeming remote, then drawing closer, as if men bore toward the cave a great drum on which they were beating softly. The sound swelled until one would have said there was more than one drum.

Then came soft footsteps and what might have been a muffled cough. Two of the Maidens entered, leading between them one of the captives. The captive was a man of middle years, a hard-faced peasant with the hooked nose of the Kezankian hill folk and little hair on his parchment-hued scalp.

The captive's hands were bound behind his back with a rough but stout cord of marsh grass. Otherwise he wore nothing”not even the aspect of one awake and aware. His eyes were as vacant as a newborn babe's, shifted about altogether at random, and showed no animation even when their gaze fell upon the splendid form of the Lady of the Mist.

The Maidens themselves had now cast off their warriors' garb and wore only white silk loin-guards and, draped over one shoulder, long cords of the same marsh grass. Woven among the grass were amber-hued vines and woolen thread in all the colors ever imagined in the rainbow, let alone seen.

The Lady of the Mists now flung up both hands. A waterfall of sparks poured from her fingertips, silver blazing amidst the crimson. The sigil of Kull on the lid of the cup drew the sparks as a lodestone draws iron. They poured down upon it and vanished into it.

Another gesture by long-fingered, slender hands. The lid rose from the cup. Within lay fire of a crimson yet brighter than the glow filling the chamber. It might have been a blacksmith's forge heated to the utmost, yet neither smoke, heat, nor flame rose from the cup.

The Maidens saw the cup's fire with waking eyes, and blinked. The captive saw nothing, and only the gods knew what passed through as much of a mind as the potion had left him.

If, that is, the gods had not altogether forsaken this cave, its invoking of ancient powers, and its tampering with the laws of both gods and men.

The sigil-marked lid rose higher, wafting toward the ceiling of the chamber as light as thistledown on the breeze, for all that it weighed more than a steel battle helm. A beckoning gesture from the Lady, and the captive took a step forward. Another gesture, another step.

Now he stood almost above the cup. The fire within it tinted his skin until he seemed a bronze statue. A third gesture, and the bindings unknotted themselves and fell to the floor. One of the Maidens stopped to pick them up.

As she straightened, the Lady made a final gesture. The captive bent over, and thrust both hands straight into the crimson fire blazing within the cup.

Still no smoke, still no flame, not the slightest reek of burning flesh. Yet the man stiffened as if he had been turned to stone. His eyes and mouth opened” and both blazed with the same crimson fire. His scant remaining hair rose on his scalp.

The Lady stood in glory and grace and rested both hands lightly on the captive's forehead. He shivered, as if responding to this last human touch”and then between one breath and the next, he was no more. For the space of another breath, a column of silver dust in the shape of a man stood before the Lady.

Then she flung her hands downward, fingers pointing at the cup. The dust leaped, losing human semblance. It rose to the ceiling, then poured down into the cup. The crimson fire within flickered briefly, seemed about to change color, then steadied at a gesture and two soft words from the Lady of the Mists.

The Lady resumed her seat, casting only a brief glance at the lid floating above, a briefer glance at the two Maidens. Her hands and lips moved briefly, in a silence wherein one might have imagined unwholesome beings from beyond the world listening” listening for the sound of prey, or the Lady's bidding.

If the Lady had ever held discourse with such, she did not do so now.

Instead her bidding was to the Maidens. They knelt briefly before her, and she rested a hand on each smooth, youthful brow. Each woman shivered as with a light fever at her mistress's touch, then each rose with almost as much grace as hers and stepped backward out of the chamber.

The Lady took a deep breath, and this time her words were five, none of them soft. They were a command, in the language of Shem, a command to the Maidens waiting outside the chamber's door.

"Bring in the next sacrifice!" was the command of the Lady of the Mists.

-

Two

Conan's band had borne a charmed life until now. But as the Afghulis breasted the slope, the first man went down. His name was Rastam, and he was old enough to have a son who had ridden beside him on a raid.

That was all the Cimmerian knew about the man, but it was enough that he would not die faceless and nameless among strangers. "Not even an enemy deserves such a fate, and ten times over not a man who has followed you," was a motto of Khadjar, once captain of Turanian irregular horse and giver of much wisdom to a certain young Cimmerian then new to the Turanian service.

Rastam's horse was dead, but the man himself only wounded. Through the dust Conan saw him roll clear of his stricken mount, leaving a trail of blood in the sand. Then he rose, casting aside a broken bow and drawing his tulwar.

The dust blinded the leading Turanian riders more than it did Conan, let alone Rastam. They were hard upon him before they saw him. A horse screamed and bucked convulsively as the Afghuli hamstrung it with the tulwar, then neatly slashed the falling rider's head from his shoulders.

A second Turanian rode up; Rastam leaped and dragged him from the saddle, and both men fell. Both stood, but Rastam had one arm around the other's neck and was holding him as a shield against Turanian arrows.

He cut two more foes out of the saddle and mutilated three horses before someone finally worked around behind him and put arrows into his back. Even then he had the strength to cut his living shield's throat before he died.

To the left Conan now saw a high but narrow gap in the rocks. The Afghulis had seen it, too, and were swerving hard in its direction. One mount lost its footing on a patch of loose stones. Its rider went down with it and did not move again after his mount lurched to its feet and hobbled off with its comrades.

Conan cursed in a fury at many things, not least of all himself. Had he parted with some of his jewels to buy camels for his band, they could have crossed the desert far to the south, well away from Turanian patrols.

But what might have been could never now be. Conan had learned that early and often, so it was not in him to spend much time repining over mistakes. Besides, showing some of the jewels could well have made more than camel dealers profoundly curious about the northern giant's wealth. Also, the desert might hold no Turanians, but it still held more than a few nomads, unless one ventured so far south beyond the last oases that one had to cross the Devil's Anvil or other places where more travelers left their bones than reached their destinations.

The Cimmerian kept the mare moving while his eyes searched the rocks for a better refuge than the cleft. Behind those eyes was a hillman's blood and a seasoned warrior's experience, but they did not find what they sought.

"Dismount!" Conan shouted. He used a dialect of Afghuli that all of his band understood but few Turanians were likely to know. The pursuing foe was reining in and holding their distance, but they were still within hearing.

"Dismount!" he repeated, and gestured at the cleft. "Drive your horses within, then climb to where you overlook them. Archers, on guard."

Nods said that some understood the Cimmerian's plan. If the horses could not be taken to safety, then their next best use was as bait.

Seeking to drive away their prey's mounts, the Turanians would be forced to come at them either up the steep slope or through the mouth of the cleft. If the first, then archers could play with them. If the second, then one man might bar the passage of a score.

Conan also knew who that one man must be. He flung himself out of the saddle, drawing his broadsword as he did. He snatched a short-handled axe from the saddle as he landed, then slapped the mare on the rump.

She trotted off after the other horses.

A fool or two were still mounted, gaping about them so that Conan expected to see an arrow sprout from their throats at any moment. He opened his mouth to curse them, but Farad spoke first.

Or rather, he roared like an angry lion. "Sons of hornless rams and bald ewes, dismount and climb! We draw the Turanians in to their deaths. They are near-women, weaned on the vomit of diseased dogs. A few more dead and they will turn tail!"

Conan scarcely believed that himself and doubted that Farad did either.

But the words made the last Afghulis dismount and begin to climb. As they did, a bold Turanian rode toward the cleft”then pitched out of the saddle, dead before he struck the ground. A second arrow took his mount in the throat, and horse and would-be hero mingled their blood on the rocks.

At least one Afghuli archer had found a secure vantage and was using the height to give his shafts useful additional range. Conan saw the advancing Turanian line waver, then halt as if a ditch yawned fathoms deep before them. None wished to be the next to die; none doubted that there were enough archers ahead to bring death wherever they wished.

Perhaps the Turanians could be pricked by enough arrows into acting like the low creatures Farad had named them.

And perhaps whales might grow feathers.

More likely, the Turanians would surround the rocks at a safe distance and send messengers for aid. If they did not close in before the aid arrived”

Conan put the "ifs" firmly out of his mind as a score of Turanians dismounted and began to climb the slope on foot. Others shot from their saddles, aiming at the climbing Afghulis. Many arrows cracked and sparked on rocks. No Afghulis fell, and one man snatched up a double handful of arrows, then made a vulgar gesture with them at the archers below.

Sword in hand, Conan raced for the entrance to the cleft. Arrows now rose from the Turanian ranks, to whistle about his ears. None struck the swift-moving Cimmerian, and the arrows ended abruptly when two came down in the ranks of the Turanian foot. Curses now filled the air instead of arrows; and for a moment Conan dared hope that the Turanians would make war on one another.

The hope faded a moment later, but before it vanished, Conan had reached the mouth of the cleft and counted the horses within. Some bore wounds and all would need rest and, if possible, water before they could move on, but all lived. Then, moving swiftly, he sought a place to wait for the Turanians.

Conan did not have to wait for long.

The Lady of the Mists stared at the cup before her. It could only be a fanciful notion, or perhaps a sending of some hostile magic, that the cup was staring back at her.

Ten captives”ten vessels of the life essence was a better name for them here and now”had stood before the Lady. All ten had given their life essence into what lay within the cup”and even the Lady did not care to search too hard for a name for that.

In magic, a true name commonly gave one power over him whose name one knew. With what lay within the cup, the Lady judged”nay, to be truthful, feared”that knowing its name would give it power, to reach out and command her.

What might come of that, she did not know, nor did she have the slightest wish to find out.

The Lady knelt, bowed her head, twined her fingers across her breasts, and touched the sigil-bearing cup lid with her thoughts. It wavered, then floated, still lightly as thistledown, to resume its place atop the cup. No sound came, not even the faintest rattle.

A bubbling sigh, as of some vast and unwholesome creature in its last moment of life, loud enough to raise echoes although there were none to give ear to them. Then the last of the crimson glow seemed to drain into the stone floor of the chamber, as if a cup of wine had been flung down upon sand.

The chamber returned to its natural colors, but the mind of the Lady of the Mists did not return to the natural world. She could not allow that until the ritual was altogether complete.

As the Mist took life essences into itself, it gained more and more awareness. Soon it would be able to touch the Lady's mind, or at least seek to do so. She knew quite well what could happen if it succeeded, and had therefore no intention of allowing this to happen. She might in time bind the Mist so that a linking of flesh-mind and Mist-mind would be prudent, but that time was far away.

The Lady rose and held both hands before her in a beckoning gesture.

The two Maidens who had brought the cup entered the chamber, followed by two more, similarly clad.

The two newcomers brought long shoulder poles, from which hung a stout harness of leather that might have seemed gilded to an unknowing eye.

The "gilding" was in truth the trace of a spell so old that no one could say what folk had first cast it. It bound what lay within the cup, and likewise the life essences, so that they might travel safely through the natural world outside the chamber to their destination.

The Maidens stood, two before and two behind, resting the poles on their shoulders. Then they closed their eyes, as the Lady of the Mists raised her hands again, and this time chanted softly.

The cup lurched into the air, not light as thistledown now but more like a gorged vulture trying to find safety in the air as the hyenas approach. It lurched and wobbled from side to side as the Lady's magic commanded it across the spear's length of rock floor that separated it from the harness.

"Huk!" the Lady said. It was neither word, nor spell. It sounded more like the spitting of the king of all asps. The cup wavered once more, then settled into place in the harness.

Without anyone raising a hand, let alone setting it upon the leather, the harness wound itself tightly about the cup. In moments the contents could not have spilled had it been full to the brim with the finest Poitanian vintages.

There was no other way to deal with the cup when the life essences seethed within it. The Lady remembered one foolish Maiden, it seemed years ago, who had tried to steady the cup with her bare hand.

She drew back naught but a charred stump; and when she held the ruined limb close to her eyes, they smouldered and charred in their sockets too. She did not, however, die. There were in the end uses for her, even though she could not surrender her life essence to the Mist.

Her injuries had too greatly wounded her life essence, but she still had her life. Before it left her, many of the soldiers without had sated themselves so thoroughly that the mere thought of a woman was unknown to them for some days.

The four Maidens now bearing the cup seemed to have profited by their sister's fate. They stood as might temple images, waiting to come to life at a magical command.

The command came”once again, at the raised hand of the Lady of the Mists. The little procession strode out of the cave, the Maids falling swiftly into step as precisely as any soldiers, then turned right.

Before them lay the path along the side of the valley, to the cave known as the Eye of the Mist.

Arrows cracked on the rocks at the entrance to the cleft as Conan shifted his position. He sought a place where he could see and strike without being seen or attacked, and so far, none had come to hand.

Meanwhile, arrows continued to fly. Those he could reach without exposing himself, the Cimmerian gathered up. He and his Afghulis had begun this race for life with full quivers. They had reached the rocks with half-empty ones.

The Afghulis were returning the Turanian complements in kind. Some men and rather more horses fell on the slope. Riderless mounts careered about, tangling the ranks of those still mounted. The Afghulis might not be archers equal to the horsemen of Turan, but they held high ground that hid them while they shot down on men in the open.

No command made the Turanians withdraw, only the common consent of those at the forefront that they had fought enough for one day. The horsemen backed down the slope, like the tide ebbing from the harbor of Argos. They had the courage to keep their faces to the invisible enemy, for all that they left behind another half-score of comrades.

Some of the bolder spirits, who dismounted and took cover behind dead horses, paid for their courage within moments. Three died in the space of as many breaths, and Conan recognized the wild cry of triumph from above as issuing from Farad's throat.

The Turanian tide receded somewhat farther, not quite out of bowshot but far enough so that the archers above ceased shooting. Conan considered using some of his captured arrows to urge the enemy back even farther, then decided that wisdom lay elsewhere.

Sooner or later the Turanians would see the horses and nerve themselves to strike for them. Their hope would be to snatch the beasts and hold their enemies in place while reinforcements arrived.

Their fate would be to run the gauntlet of more arrows from on high, then to face a surprise encounter with the Cimmerian on ground of his own choosing. There would be fewer and more cautious Turanians after such an affray.

Conan set a dozen arrows within easy reach, then removed his boots for more silent movement. On the bare rock outside it was hot enough to bake bread or even burn his leather-tough feet, but here in the cleft, shadows made the rock bearable. He drew a whetstone and a wad of moss soaked in oil from a pouch on his belt and honed from the blade of his broadsword a few nicks that none but a seasoned warrior who was also the son of a blacksmith could have seen.

He was wary of turning his gaze from the Turanians, but thought the risk worth running. The Afghulis higher up the rocks would give sufficient warning of any attack for the Cimmerian to make ready for it.

His weapons prepared, Conan crept to a spot between two boulders and crouched there, as silent as a leopard watching a baboon's water hole and as ready to strike. He saw the Turanians spreading out. He stood or squatted within bowshot, but behind such rocks and stunted trees as offered shelter.

The rest had drawn well back into the open. From the way they signaled by blasts of trumpets and wav-ings of banner, Conan judged that a good part of the band was out of sight, throwing a ring around the rocks”a ring their captain no doubt intended to hold the Afghulis as tightly as an iron collar held a slave.

With the back of his hand, Conan wiped sweat and dust from a scarred, muscle-corded neck that had in its time known a slave's collar as well as silken robes and the golden chains of honor. If fresh horsemen came up to replace the score or more dead or past fighting, the Turanians might do as they intended.

How best to draw them into an attack that would reduce their numbers and courage further? Conan examined the rocks at the mouth of the cleft with as much care as he would have considered the body of a woman waiting in his bed. Perhaps more”the rocks would not grow impatient if he looked too long without acting.

He counted the rocks that were loose, counted others that were small enough to lift or even throw, found some that were both. He turned his gaze to the slope. Then he lay on his back behind a rock that a battering ram could not have moved, cupped his hands about his mouth, and called to Farad.

"How fare you?" He spoke in a tongue of northern Vendhya not unknown to Farad or many other Afghulis, but rarely spoken in Turan.

"Well enough, Conan. We are only short of Turanian dogs we can kill easily."

There spoke the Afghuli warrior who would die rather than admit a weakness”one of many reasons why the Cimmerian found the Afghulis kindred spirits. The rocks aloft had to be hotter still than the slope, and the Afghulis had only a single water bottle apiece. Conan vowed that once the Turanians had been further bloodied enough to learn caution, he would search the cleft for some trace of a spring.

"I hope to do something about that before any of us are much older. How many do they have on the far side of the rocks?"

The sun was a trifle lower in the sky before Farad answered. It appeared that no one had thought to count the enemy behind. Conan hoped that the men above had at least a sentry or two watching their rear.

One fault the Afghulis had, and one reason they did not rule in Vendhya and Iranistan at least, was despising anyone not a hillman. They would not readily believe a Turanian could climb rocks, until he did so and opened their throats with a keen blade.

From Farad's answer, it seemed likely that the Turanians had lost one in three of their number in the chase, to say nothing of foundered horses and men bearing wounds that would drain strength if not life. If they lost as many again, their captain (if he lived) might not be able to hold them here long enough for help to arrive.

Even if they held, they would be spread thin. Too thin, the Cimmerian suspected, to resist a stealthy attack at night by men who were masters of fighting in the dark more than almost any other form of war.

Conan waited, as motionless and patient as if he had been one of the rocks himself. He wanted sun, thirst, wounds, and fear to play on the Turanians until their wits and limbs alike were less sound than before.

The sun had sunk beyond the crest of the rocks before Conan judged that the enemy was ready for his bait. Sheathing his sword and dagger but leaving bow and quiver, he crept farther into the cleft, close to the horses.

Even without water, the shade had done them some good. They stood quietly, staring at the Cimmerian. His mare raised her head with an all but human look of curiosity and boredom.

'Time to sing," Conan said. He raised his voice in a sharp, wordless command that any horse bred in these lands could understand. The mare tossed her head, dried foam flew, and she let out a sharp neigh.

By twos and threes, the other mounts joined in.

Conan bared his teeth, white in his dust-caked face, and scrambled back to his watching post.

The grin widened as he saw the Turanians coming to life, some of them leaping up as if they'd lain on ants' nests. The Afghulis above held their fire.

The Turanians knew where the bait was. Now, to get them to take it.

-

Three

The four Maidens bearing the wine cup marched in step ahead of the Lady of the Mists. This was not easy, as their feet were as bare as the rest of them, but they neither stumbled nor missed a step.

The punishments for Maidens who transgressed were not as grave as those for common folk. The Lady knew that she needed the Maidens' wits and steel alike on guard against her enemies. The Maidens knew that the Lady valued them, and they in turn valued her rewards even more than they feared her punishments.

The peace between the Lady of the Mists and those who served her was uneasy, as often as not. But its uneasiness had not ruined it in three years. No one expected a civil brawl in the valley now, when rumor had it that the Lady's dreams were close to fruition.

Dreams that would make all her friends powerful, even wealthy beyond mortal dreams, and her enemies tormented, shrieking souls beyond all mortal fears.

The Lady walked behind the Maidens, her hands clasped before her slim waist. She was clad as she had been while she drew the life essence of the captives into the cup. She walked with a dignity that seemed to dare the rocks to bruise her bare feet, or the breeze that crept into the valley with the lengthening shadows to chill her bare skin.

She and the Maidens alike walked as if the presence or absence of clothing was beneath their notice and should be likewise beneath the notice of any who saw the women pass. Once only had some foolish soldier ventured a bawdy remark at this procession of well-formed women. His tongue had quite literally cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and only when it was black and stinking did the spell binding it break.

By then, of course, the festering in his mouth had reached his brain.

He died raving, and those who heard him lived on with a new respect for the sorcerous power and woman's willfulness of the Lady of the Mists.

The path from the cave ran straight back along the north wall of the valley for some seven furlongs. In places it ran along a ledge carved from the living rock of the Kezankian Mountains. In other places the ledge was built up upon the rock. Sometimes it was built of stones as large as a shepherd's hut, holding together without mortar. In other places curiously thin bricks rose, layer upon layer.

One did not need to count the patches of lichen and hardy vine, silver-shot moss and ancient trees, dwarfed by wind and cold and gnarled by poor soil, to tell that the path was ancient work. An outsider who entered the valley and lived to study it might have offered many different notions about the builders of the path. All would have been partly right, all likewise partly wrong.

At the far end of the path, a flight of wooden steps led down a near-vertical slope, some eighty paces high. Beside the steps a stout wooden beam with a pulley and ropes dangling from it projected out over the drop. The Maidens tied the wine cup, poles, netting, and all, to the pulley, then two of them descended the steps. Their mistress followed, then the cup, lowered on the pulley, and at last the two remaining Maidens, after they had wound in the rope.

All five women ignored the images carved on a smooth rock face just above the wooden beam. All had seen them a score of times, and the Maidens were ignorant of their meaning.

The Lady of the Mists was not ignorant. She knew the marks of the long-dead Empire of Acheron, whose magic yet lived in barbaric corners of the world or in the hands and spells of the mad and the unlawful.

She did not care to dwell too long on what these Acheronian carvings might mean.

The Lady of the Mists had many vices, but she was not so foolish as to cast spells with a mind unsettled by shadows of ancient evil.

The women gathered at the bottom of the steps. From where they stood, a path of gravel bordered by more of the curiously thin bricks led off along the floor of the valley. The Maidens lifted the cup and fell into step, while the Lady cast a quick glance into a narrow cleft in the rock at the foot of the stairs.

In that cleft night held sway at all times, but enough light crept in to show the whiteness of bleached bones within. Even without the bones, the distant but unmistakable reek of rotting flesh made nostrils wrinkle and told anyone passing by what lay within.

What came of the life essence of those whose remains lay within, the Lady trusted that she knew. There could be none other within the valley save the Mist itself, or there would be a battle from which the stars and the gods might shrink in dismay.

As to the fate of a mortal, even a sorceress, caught in such a battle, it was better not to think of such things if one needed sharp wits and untroubled sleep.

For the first few hundred paces, the path ran through stony but well-wooded land. Closely set young pines mingled their acrid scent with the softer aroma wafting from a few colossal cedars, each of which might have yielded timber enough to build an entire temple. They reared above the pines like stags above a pack of wolves, and no one who saw them needed to be told that they had stood far longer.

Beyond the trees the path wound back and forth along the floor of the valley, between terraced fields mingled with huts and more stands of timber. Twilight had already come to the valley; it was hard to make out clearly the forms of those who worked in the fields or chopped wood in the shadow of the trees.

Nor would anyone have been the worse for not seeing clearly those who served in the Valley of the

Mists. Their human semblance did not survive a close look.

At last the path began to rise, past a walled collection of thatched stone huts that almost deserved the name of a village. Here the sentries on the wall had the shape of true men, and hailed the Lady of the Mists with gestures that had been old when the priests of Stygia first tamed their sacred serpents.

Beyond the village the path became a flight of stone steps. As the crests of the mountains to the north began to show the ruddy hues of late afternoon, the five women reached a boulder, tall as two men. On the boulder was daubed, in rough vegetable colors, a crimson eye surrounded by blue swirls.

Beyond the boulder the mouth of yet another cave yawned. Within lay the Eye of the Mist.

Conan did not doubt that if waiting alone was needed, he and his Afghulis had the advantage today. The Turanians lay or stood under the desert sun, baking like flatbread on a griddle, unable to move a finger without being observed. Conan and the Afghulis had concealment, and some at least had shade.

The besiegers might have more water than the besieged; but in this desert, waterskins swiftly ran dry even among the finest regular soldiers. Irregulars would be dry-throated before dawn, with no recourse but to send out a watering party and divide their strength, or else lift the siege.

But the outcome of this siege did not depend on who could squat the longest on hot rock or yet hotter sand. It would depend on whether Conan's band could win free before the Turanians brought up new strength. Then they could hold the Afghulis besieged for weeks or overwhelm them in a single desperate assault, spending lives to save time.

Conan did not think much of the sort of captain who tossed away the lives of his men like a drunkard pissing in the streets. But he also knew far too well that the gods did not always reward virtue, whether in war, love, or thievery.

The Turanians had to be drawn into an attack.

Conan uncoiled, as stealthily as any prowling serpent of the priests of Set. He flattened himself against the side of the cleft and gripped a well-shaped stone the size of a swan's egg.

"Ho, Turanian dogs!" he shouted. "Have any of you the courage to face men? Or did your weaning on vulture's spew take away your manhood?"

Conan went on in similar vein, until among the Turanians heads bobbed up from behind bushes or turned toward the rocks. A sergeant cursed those who had let themselves be baited, and advanced to push them down again.

From aloft, an arrow whistled down, taking the sergeant in the throat.

He clawed at the jutting shaft, gobblings turning into chokings as the blood welled up in his throat, then fell backward to kick briefly before life departed.

That was one less leader to force wisdom down the dry throats of foolish Turanians. Soon there might be none to hold back the besiegers from a desperate attack, or rally them when the Afghulis repelled that attack.

Curses and a few arrows replied to the sergeant's death. One Turanian showed folly at once, leaping up to aim his shaft. Conan's heavy-thewed right arm flashed around like the lash of a drover's whip. The stone flew, not as straight as it might have from a sling, but straight enough to strike the Turanian's chest.

Also hard enough to shatter his ribs and drive their jagged ends into his heart. He took longer to die than the sergeant, but his life had just as thoroughly departed when a comrade rushed out to drag the body to shelter.

Loyalty bought only death. Three Afghulis shot together, two hit, and the loyal comrade was dead before he had stretched his length on the sand beside his friend.

From high above, Farad's voice chanted an old Afghuli verse, in honor to a worthy foe. Conan wished Mitra's favor for the dead Turanian”if Mitra or any other god cared much about how men died or had aught to do with their fate once dead.

He also wished the Turanians would either charge or flee. This endless waiting was no pleasure to him either. The sooner this came to strokes at close quarters, the better.

Conan squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand against the glare of the sun. He was seeking the captain, to see how much command he had over his men.

He found the captain swiftly, but for a long time after that, the captain showed all the animation of a temple image. At least it seemed a long time. Flies drawn by the sweat on the Cimmerian's scarred torso buzzed and stung, but he dared not slap at them, for fear the movement might draw a wild shot.

Then movement rippled along the Turanian lines, both the outer one in the distance and the hidden men closer to hand. From the outer line a drum thudded. Another drum replied, not an echo. For a moment Conan feared that the Turanian reinforcements had already arrived.

Then, from the same direction as the second drum, Turanian war cries rose into the sky. The drum redoubled its beat; a horn joined it. From above, Farad's voice howled defiance, wordless but eloquent.

Conan cursed, dry-mouthed. That Turanian captain had more wits than the Cimmerian had thought. He was launching one attack to draw the archers above. Next had to come an attack against Conan himself.

So be it. Even without the bows playing on them from above, the Turanians were about to learn more than was likely to please them about the perils of fighting desperate men.

No steps or path led to the cave of the Eye. Only bare ground lay beneath the women's feet, but ground beaten almost as hard as rock by many feet over the past three years (also, the Lady did not doubt, by feet past counting over years equally beyond her power to number).

The wide mouth of the cave narrowed swiftly to a passage so low that two of the Maidens' hair brushed the ceiling. Rock dust powdered their tresses, and small stones and the bones of bats and other dwellers in darkness crunched underfoot.

No light reached the tunnel once they were beyond the light from the cave mouth. Nor did they light torches. They had been this way many times, the Lady and her Maidens, and the path to the Eye held no surprises. Nor could it grow any, with the Lady's magic searching ahead.

Only the eye of the Lady's memory saw the carvings on the walls. To an uninitiated eye and mind, they might have appeared natural formations, eroded into their bizarre and twisted shapes by water over the aeons.

To the Lady's eye, which had looked upon them in full light only once, they spoke of the work of hands so ancient that they might not have been altogether human.

Men”no, beings”with minds and skilled hands had dwelled in this and other caves in the Kezankian Mountains when other men were laying the foundations of Atlantis. "Kull of Atlantis" was a name that conjured up vistas of unbelievable antiquity, but when these carvings took shape, Kull's most remote ancestor had yet to see the light of day.

The chill breath of the cave wafting from the bowels of the mountains had no power against the Lady, for all that she remained as bare as ever. The thought of the weight of years pressing down upon her did give her a chill, the kind of chill to the heart and soul that neither hearth-fire nor posset cup can ease.

None of this showed in her steady pace or her straight back. She might have been a figure of ivory or alabaster in some buried temple.

Then the five women came out of the darkness into the light”the light of the Eye. It was a crimson light, subtly different from the light within the cup, as two rubies may differ one from the other. It flowed upward as if it had been a liquid from a hole in the floor of a rock chamber some thirty paces wide.

The hole was half a man's height in width, and the rock around its rim was worn away to glassy smoothness that made for treacherous footing.

This did not halt or even slow the steady pace of the five women. They marched straight up to the rim. The Lady raised a hand, and the Maidens halted, then turned to stand two on each side of the hole.

Now the cup hung suspended over the hole”and was the lid rattling faintly, like distant bones tossed by the wind? Did what lay within the Eye call to what lay within the cup? The Lady knew that in this place it was both easy and perilous to imagine sounds beyond the ear and sights beyond the eye.

Another gesture seemed to turn the Maidens to statues. Only the slightest rise and fall of their breasts said that they yet lived. A third gesture, and the cup lifted from the leather net and rose into the air.

It had barely risen above the Maidens' heads when they came to life, drawing aside and back with more haste than dignity. No command reached them; none was needed. They had not been among those who saw the fate of a Maiden who was a laggard in drawing away from the Eye, but all of the Maidens had heard the tale.

They had heard how the Mist rose from the Eye before the Maiden was beyond its reach. They had heard of how obscenely it dealt with her, as though it had the mind of a mad executioner. They had, above all, heard how she screamed as she died.

The Maidens withdrew all the way to the mouth of the tunnel, leaving the Lady alone with the cup and the crimson incandescence from the Eye.

She sat down, cross-legged, as ever insensible of cold stone against her flesh, and raised both hands. She also closed her eyes. Even guarded by sorcery, mortal eyes were not meant to see what came next.

The crimson light grew stronger. Now it gave a demonic hue to the flesh of the Lady and her Maidens. There were no words in lawful tongues to describe what it did to the cup and above all to the sigil-bearing lid.

The light also drove every vestige of darkness from the chamber. In that hellish illumination, one might have seen that the walls of the chamber were as bare as the Lady, but too smooth to be the work of nature. Here again was the work of races long dead, and perhaps leaving the world the better for their passing.

The light began to dance, and at the same time turn color. The crimson faded, and an unwholesome shade of purple took its place. Then the purple faded to a livid blue that might have seemed natural had it not swirled and danced like a mist being blown away by a strong wind. The Mist rose the height of two men from the Eye, but did not reach a finger's breadth over the edge of the hole.

The Mist might have been held within a bottle of marvelously clear glass, except that nothing confined it save the Lady's magic”and perhaps the will of the Mist of Doom.

The Lady was now as devoid of the power to move or speak as the Maidens were. In this moment her magic passed directly from her mind to the Mist, or not at all. With arts learned long ago and in great suffering, she drove down to the lowest levels of her mind any fear of what might happen if the Mist did not respond as it had in the past.

In the next moment, the Lady's fear and the cup alike were gone. The Mist whirled until it seemed only a column of blue light rising from the Eye. Then it shot up until it reached the ceiling and sprayed across it, more like a jet of water than something as intangible as mist.

The cup burst aloft with the rising Mist. It was still beyond the Lady to move, but she turned the focus of her mind from the Mist to the cup.

She shaped her will into invisible fingers, slid them under the cup, and held it as the Mist drew back into the Eye.

Only then was the bond broken, and the Lady able to use her body, limbs and mouth alike, to conjure the cup to a gentle landing. It was some while before the Maidens came out to pick it up, because they had to wait until the Lady herself ceased trembling.

When they had the cup safely within the net again, they gathered around their mistress. They did not need to speak, only lift her gently and guide her back to the tunnel. Perhaps one of them might have looked at the rock pressing down overhead and uttered a short prayer to her patron gods that they all live to stand under the open sky again.

If they did, it did not concern the Mist of Doom.

Enough time for a hasty meal had already crawled by, the slower for the sun. Soon it would be long enough for a banquet since the Turanians at Conan's rear had attacked, and still those before him remained low or out of bowshot.

Conan wondered if some cunning climber among the Turanians had found a way up the far side of the rocks and led his comrades into a battle at close quarters. Or at least high enough to lie in wait, ready to swarm forward when their comrades attacked from the south.

They would learn a harsh lesson about attacking hillmen among rocks if they had been so bold. But teaching that lesson might well keep the Afghulis too busy to help Conan.

He was about to call up to Farad, to bid him scout the north face of the rocks, when a trumpet sounded far to the Turanian right, out of Conan's sight. A brazen reply floated on the breeze from the left, the trumpeter as invisible as his comrade.

Plain to anyone but a blind man was a score or more of Turanians gathering themselves to plunge forward in a desperate attack. Conan had barely finished counting them when he saw a half-score of horsemen caracoling just outside bowshot. At first he thought the reinforcements had arrived. Then he recognized some of the Turanians' headdresses.

The mounted men, it seemed, were a second wave, to follow on the heels of the first one. Conan's respect for the enemy captain rose higher. A good plan”if the first wave could ever be persuaded to move forward.

Then in the next moment that work of persuasion was done, and the Turanians leaped from cover and ran toward the rocks. Conan nocked an arrow, shot, nocked another, shot it, and was nocking a third when arrows from above tumbled two more Turanians in the sand.

That made one in five down before they even reached close quarters, but no more arrows came from above and the Turanians came on as if a purse of gold lay ahead or demons snapped at their heels. Conan continued shooting. The Turanians were coming as straight toward him as if the rocks were glass or a tavern dancer's veils, covering all, concealing nothing.

One more Turanian fell, but to no mortal hurt; he unslung his bow and began scattering arrows about the rocks above Conan's head. His comrades ran on”and now from above, Conan heard familiar Turanian war cries, Afghuli curses, and oaths in the tongues of more than a few other folk.

The Turanian host was like the gallows”it refused no man who came to it. Conan owed his own career in Turan to that habit.

Only moments after battle was joined above, it was joined below. The remaining Turanians crossed to the foot of the rocks unmolested from above. Now even an Afghuli with no foes closer to hand could hardly strike at them, or they at him.

The bow had not, however, made other and more ancient weapons harmless.

How many rocks the Afghulis had piled ready, Conan did not know, but they seemed to rain from the sky. Three Turanians went down, two rose again, and one of these died as Conan flung a smaller stone to crack his skull.

Now the Cimmerian's long legs drove his feet against one of the boulders placed ready. It squealed like a slaughtered pig as it rubbed past another rock, then reached the open slope and began to roll.

Before it was well launched, Conan threw his feet against a second boulder. Then a third, and on to a fourth that needed one foot and both arms. Even the Cimmerian's thews strained at the last rock, fresh sweat made slime of the dust on his forehead, and for a dreadful moment it seemed that the boulder would be his match.

Then it followed the others. Conan leaped back as arrows whistled through the space he had occupied. He had just time to see half the Turanians scattering before the onslaught of the boulders, before the vanguard of the other half reached him.

Now it was the deadliest kind of close-quarters fighting, with all the art of a tavern brawl but much more steel and therefore far more bloodshed. Conan had two aims: to kill as many Turanians as he could, and to keep the fight so tangled that no Turanian with a bow could end the fight with a single arrow.

Conan had not despised bowmen as cowards even before he learned the art of the bow, for the art of the sling was well-known in his native land.

But no one could doubt that a well-aimed shaft had brought many a fine swordsman to an untimely end.

Conan would accept his end when the gods called him to it. But their call would reach him among the ranks of his enemies, sword in hand.

The Cimmerian had a head's advantage in height and two spans in reach over the stoutest of his opponents. Add that his broadsword was better fitted for this battle than the tulwars of Turan, and ten-to-one odds were not so long as they might have seemed.

Conan hewed the sword arm from his first opponent and sundered the skull of the second. Both fell so as to block the narrow passage to the Cimmerian for those behind. The first one to hesitate did so within reach of the Cimmerian's sword, and died of that mistake. Two others leaped free with only minor wounds, but barred a clear shot to archers behind.

Conan feared that this good fortune would not last; now more than ever he would not assume his foes were witlings. So he took the fight to the enemy, closing the distance to the two nearest in a single leap.

He struck them with as much force as a boulder. One man toppled against the rock wall, hard enough to knock himself senseless. Conan kicked the other, hard enough to double him over. A tulwar fell from one hand, a dagger from the other, and the man himself fell on top of them when the Cimmerian split his skull with a down-cut.

Another Turanian leaped up to contest the rock with Conan. Now blood from the already fallen flowed over it, making it slick. The Cimmerian was a hillman of the breed of whom it is said they have eyes in their feet. He knew how to keep his footing on slippery rock, and make an opponent lose his.

The Turanian tried to grapple, praying aloud, clearly hoping to take Conan down with him. Conan slapped the man across the temple with the flat of his sword, weakening his grip. That weakened grip let the Cimmerian draw his dagger and thrust fiercely upward. The Turanian howled and flew backward from the rock, propelled by a kick that added further ruin to his belly and groin.

He struck a comrade, again with the force of a boulder, and both men went down. Conan reached them before the unwounded Turanian could rise, stamped on his chest hard enough to shatter ribs, then fended off two and killed one enemy seeking to drag the fallen clear.

Arrows again whistled and clattered. One ripped the skin over his ribs, deep enough that blood flowed freely over the dust and the scars. The wound would hardly slow him and might not even add a fresh scar, but he was reminded that he now stood in the open. He had routed or slain all the Turanians who shielded him from their comrades' arrows. Now he had to either push forward to bring the fight back to close quarters, or withdraw.

A look down the slope told him the wisdom of withdrawing. The first wave of Turanians was out of the fight, and the survivors of the second showed no disposition to close. Three of them had fallen to the boulders, which had also crushed the life out of the archer the Afghulis had wounded. The others retained some cunning with the bow but no heart for pushing the fight to swords' reach of the Cimmerian.

Another arrow nicked Conan's left calf as he returned to his refuge. He had taken worse hurts in a friendly wrestling bout, but they reminded him that the Afghulis above might not have fared as well. That no arrows had come down from above during his own grapple with the Turanians might mean sundry things, but none of them good.

"Ho!" he called, in the same dialect he had used before. "How are matters with you?"

"Assad is dead and Kurim is hurt past fighting. None of us are whole.

Those Turanian dogs climbed the rocks as if they were men, but we taught them otherwise."

"How many learned the lesson?"

"A few short of fifty."

"I didn't know you could count that high, O brother of a camel!"

Silence, then Farad said, "More than ten, for we have counted that many bodies and some rolled back down."

On the Cimmerian's reckoning, the Turanians had lost another third of their strength. Ride out now, while the Turanians were shaken and weak, or wait until night, when darkness would hide tracks and coolness ease the horses?

"Can the hurt ride now?"

"Best wait for dark. I will leave none save Assad, and not even he if we can. Rastam and Jobir are already down among those dogs, prey to their godless rites."

Conan knew the sound of an Afghuli who would not be moved from his decision. To his mind, riding out now made better sense, giving the Turanians no chance to bring up reinforcements.

Out of care for his men, Farad clearly thought otherwise. Question the Afghuli further, and the Cimmerian might have to leave this loyal band to keep Farad's knife out of his back some night farther on the road to Koth. One could ask only so much of any Afghuli if one was not of his tribe.

So be it. They would all ride that road together, or remain here on the rocks with a good guard of Turanians to help them greet the vultures.

-

Four

-

The western horizon swallowed the sun. Swiftly the last light of day drained from the sky. The peaks of the Kezankian Mountains turned purple, then gray under the starlight.

A natural mist veiled the entrance to the Lady's valley as Muhbaras walked down to his tent. Or at least it was a mist that he could persuade himself was work of the mountain night and not of the Lady's magic.

Reason warred and would continue to war against ancient tales of the mighty magic lurking in these mountains”magic of which the Lady might have a sadly imperfect command. The captain had first heard those tales from his nursemaid, but later years had brought to his ears other versions of them, so that he doubted they were altogether an old woman's fancies.

Meanwhile, he had been given orders and men with which to carry them out, as an alternative to a more permanent exile or some harsher fate.

He doubted that he himself would ever see Khoraja again, but he could not throw away his men out of his own despair.

So he would do his duty of the night, and sleep, to make ready for whatever might be the duties of the day.

The rocks returned the heat of day to the night sky arching above them.

Within the ravine the horses stirred uneasily. A pebble fell from high above, followed by two more. Then one by one, the last four Afghulis scrambled down the rocks.

One of them had a dead comrade's headdress wrapped around his arm as a bandage. He also showed dark beads of blood on his lower lip, where he had bitten it to stifle a cry of pain.

The Afghulis gathered around Conan, eyes gleaming in their dark faces.

They had braided their beards and tied them roughly with scraps of cloth, then drawn scarves over their necks and chins. That was the Afghuli mark of having sworn to conquer or to die.

Conan had sworn no such oath. Indeed, he had seldom fought any other way, and it was not in him to do so tonight. The greatest kindness the Turanians might show him was a quick death, and that, he could always procure for himself.

"Anyone who has water, give it to your horse."

Conan said. "Archers, don't shoot unless you have a good mark, and take a horse before you take a rider."

The Afghulis nodded. Conan hardly doubted that he was telling them what they already knew, and that they needed no reassurance, he knew as well. But a chief among the Afghulis always spoke to his assembled men before the battle, if only to prove that fear had not dried his tongue past speaking.

"If we are divided, the meeting place is at the Virgin's Oasis." He gave distances and landmarks, then asked, "Questions?"

Farad spoke up. "Yes. Whenever did the gods allow a woman to come into this desert and remain a virgin?"

"A long time ago, or so I've heard," the Cimmerian replied. "Men were less than they are today, in that time, and of course, none of them were Afghulis."

Bawdy laughter all but raised echoes, so that Conan held a finger to his lips. "The Turanians are not all asleep, and not all who wake are fools. Speed and silence now, or we'll keep our lost comrades company."

In silence the Afghulis bowed, then turned to tend their horses.

Only the dead remained high on the ridge, hands stiffening over the hilts of daggers thrust between their ribs according to the Afghuli custom. Thus the harsh gods of that still harsher land would know that a friend's steel had pierced their hearts, and that their ghosts would be friends to the living, even watchful on their behalf.

If the ghosts of the Afghulis' dead watched this night, they saw nothing, or at least sent no word to their living friends. Below on the desert, neither Afghuli nor Cimmerian saw shadows creep across a distant sand dune, then sink silently to rest. They did not see a messenger slipping away from the outer line of the watching Turanians, also creeping shadowlike until he was beyond seeing from the rocks.

Far out beyond the crests, only ghosts might have seen him mount a horse held ready by four riders who bore the lances and shields of Turanian regular cavalry and the colors of the crack Greencloaks. Only ghosts might have seen him ride off into the night, until he met a slim, youthful-looking Turanian captain not far from where the shadows had come to rest.

And only ghosts might have heard his message to the captain, or noted the captain's thin face split briefly in a wry grin.

Three Afghuli archers climbed on the highest boulders remaining after the battle. They were fewer in number and with less command of the slope below than Conan could have wished. But he now led fewer than he had at dawn, and of those, not all were fighting-fit. Warriors did the best they could with what they had, and if the end came sooner because what they had was not enough”

Conan asked two Afghulis to repeat the directions to the Virgin's Oasis. They both knew the way. Then he scrambled onto the boulders with the archers, as Farad led the others out into the open.

Neither drums, trumpets, showers, nor even the mating-cat squall of a frightened sentry greeted the Afghulis' appearance. It began to seem that they would either enjoy good luck or face a trap.

Conan swallowed a Cimmerian war cry. Glad to defy alert opponents, he refused to alert sleeping ones. Instead he slapped Farad's mount on the rump and swung into his own saddle. He raised one hand in a cheerfully obscene Afghuli gesture, waited until the three archers scrambled down and mounted, then spurred his horse forward.

The riders streamed down the slope at a brisk trot, raising a ghostly cloud of dust. In the chill of the desert night, the breath of men and horses added will-o'-the-wisps of vapor to the dust.

They passed dead men lying stiff and silent, doomed men still moaning against their coming death, and a few who Conan thought might have been shamming. There was no time to send those last to join their comrades, for all that this would leave them alive in the riders' rear. This was a ride for life. If it became a battle, it would most likely be one lost because it took place at all!

Once they were clear of the shadow of the rocks, the moon gave enough light to permit avoiding holes and cracks in the ground. They held their speed down to a trot. The horses might not be able to keep up a canter. If they could, best to save it for when the Turanians sighted them. The Turanians could not have drawn back so far that even by night the escape would remain forever invisible.

Or could they? As one rise gave way to another without an attack or even a warning cry, Conan began to wonder. His band had punished the Turanians soundly in today's fighting. Had they drawn off to lick their wounds while they waited for reinforcements?

A trap still seemed more likely, but there seemed no need to warn his men. The Afghulis appeared more alert than ever, riding with bows strung or tulwars drawn, eyes ceaselessly roaming the night, heads turning at any slight sound heard above the thud of the horses' hooves.

They had been moving now for long enough to empty a jug of wine worth savoring. Conan felt a familiar itch between his shoulder blades that hinted of danger close in time and space. He raised a hand, and the Afghulis reined in and gathered around him.

Night-keen eyes roamed again, studying every hillock and the mouth of every ravine for signs of lurking danger. Only a dry wash was too deep in shadow to spy out. Conan studied it until he was sure that he saw something move within the shadows, and was equally sure that it was only his imagination. He had stood sentry too often not to know that the night will listen to a man's fears and, if he stares into it long enough, show his what is not there.

Conan pointed toward the north, away from the wash. "I want to ride well clear of that. Men on that flank, grow some more eyes if you can.

Otherwise you may never see the Virgin's Oasis, let alone a living virgin!"

Low chuckles rose into the night along with the steam from the horses, and the band moved off again.

The young captain cursed softly at the noise the sentries made sending the message. Their quarry might not be as desert-wise as Turanian veterans, but they were seasoned warriors and no fools in any kind of land.

Then he cursed again at the message. The Afghulis were indeed no fools, and they had a very watchful and longheaded warrior leading them, even if he were not the man the captain thought he was. Two of the three bands the captain had placed ready would now find it hard to come up with the Afghulis.

The captain was not much of a one for prayer, as few gods promised much (their priests promised more, but who could trust a priest?), and fewer still kept their promises. However, he did briefly ask Mitra to consider his probable fate if tonight more of his men died trying to take alive the wrong man.

The Afghulis' leader certainly seemed to be the one the captain sought.

But the captain had not been able to get a true and complete description of the leader. Part was because few of the men who had a close look at him yet lived. Part was not wishing to raise suspicions of the leader's identity in the minds of the captain's own men.

It would not matter that the reason for which the captain wished the man taken alive served Turan. Accusations of treason floated about freely now in the kingdom, like rotten lilies in the scum atop a stagnant pond. Even if the charge stopped short of treason” popular, because it carried the death penalty, and the captain had enemies who would not sleep easy as long as he lived”it could mean demotion.

That in turn could mean a choice between returning to his family's estates, and living there until some further intrigue snatched him away, or a post counting horseshoes and saddle blankets so far to the south that the nomads spoke Iranistani. Here was a post of honor, more honorable still in that he commanded Greencloaks and had won their respect. He would not part with it alive.

The desert breeze did blow through the captain's mind one final thought. If the man leading the Afghulis was the one the captain sought, the matter of life or death might not be altogether the captain's choice. He had seen the man fight years ago, and by all reports, he was as hardy as ever and seasoned by many more battles and journeys during those years.

The captain put an end to his fretting and raised his lance. Beside him a sergeant raised his lance, with a small one-eye lantern dangling from the tip like a pennon.

Three hills away, a similar lantern glimmered against the stars, then faded as its bearer turned away, to pass the signal on. The captain waited until the soft jingle of harness and taut, shallow breaths around him told of veterans ready to ride out.

Then the captain drove in his spurs, and his horse surged down the wash as clouds drifted toward the moon.

Conan cursed briefly, but this time not softly, as the riders swarmed out of the wash. It was no comfort to have been right when it was too late for being right to matter.

He would have cursed again, but he had better uses for his breath at this moment, and besides, he feared to dishearten the Afghulis. Stout warriors as they were, they were also at the end of their endurance.

What small hope they had of winning free now depended on every man fighting so that the first few enemies to come within his reach died swiftly and bloodily.

After that, the new Turanians might be as disheartened as the old ones.

And elephants might turn purple”in the daylight, in the sight of sober men.

Conan pulled the mare's head toward the left. The right of a line might be the post of honor in civilized hosts, but here was neither civilization nor host. The post of honor was that closest to danger, and to enemies who would feel the Cimmerian's steel before either he or they died.

"Spurs in, swords out, and heads down!" he called, as he drew up in the leftmost place.

"What”?" someone began. Someone else snarled in wordless fury, at the folly of not seeing that the time for arguing was past.

The first speaker fell silent. Then there was no human sound from Conan's band, or at least none heard over the thud of the hooves, the panting of the horses through flared nostrils, and the rising thunder of the pursuing Turanians.

It was a long bowshot even for the best archer, and night shooting was a chancy business when arrows were scant. Before long the clouds reaching out for the moon blotted out the silver-sheened disk and a deeper darkness fell over the desert. Now the race for life was up to the horses.

No Afghuli horses had fallen, but half were staggering and foam-flecked, when Conan heard a war trumpet cry out to the stars from behind his band. Then the desert night grew colder, a coldness that thrust into his bowels like an enemy's spear, when he heard the trumpet answered ahead.

It was some distance off, as far as the Cimmerian's keen and seasoned ears could judge, but it surely lay across the Afghulis' path to whatever safety the open desert might offer tonight. Now the Turanians would not even have to wolf-pack their prey. They could close and crush by sheer weight of numbers, once they had blocked the path.

Conan's eyes searched the shadows, looking for even a few scattered rocks that might help in a last stand. They faced nothing better, but it mattered to him how many foes he took with him, and the Afghulis were warriors of the same stamp.

Nothing but sand and gravel revealed itself, dunes swelling and sinking down to washes and ravines too shallow to hide a mounted man. The clouds held their veil over the moon; everything beyond half-bowshot vanished in the shadows even to Conan's keen night-sight.

Both horns sounded again, and both now closer. Conan listened, trying to judge if the Turanians ahead were drawing across his path, or were still off to one flank. If they were on one flank, and either good going for the horses or cover for the men lay on the other”

Conan's ears searched the night, and he realized that he had clutched his sword hilt so tightly that his nails dinted the shagreen grip. Then he laughed, and no sane man would have heard that laugh without fear colder than the night, for it held a Cimmerian's battle rage.

The Turanians ahead were still some ways to the left of the path of Conan's band. In the darkness, they might not realize this until it was too late. The trap had been well set and now was truly sprung, but might it not be too weak to hold such formidable prey?

This might be whistling into the desert wind, but Conan held that thought in his mind as a starving wildcat grips a squirrel. He had led too often to doubt that in such moments the men of a war band could all but read their leader's thoughts. They had best read hope and courage there, or the battle was lost before it was fairly joined.

The ground to the right did lie open, but it also rose steeply between two shallow ridges. Conan's eyes raked the ridge crests, found nothing up there, but then saw an Afghuli's mount stumble. The rider bent over to whisper encouragement and at the same time apply the spur, but the horse was spent. It went down, flinging its rider clear. The horseman leapt to his feet, darted for one of the spare mounts, gripped the saddle, and swung himself into it without the fresh horse missing a step.

"Ya-haaaaa!" Conan shouted. With such men under him, the Turanians would have another battle to remember before they shoveled him under the sand or left him for the vultures. They might even win free, if they reached the top of the slope and found no enemies there.

The Afghulis reached the top of the slope, but in no way fit to flee beyond it. The climb had been too much for their horses, one of whom flung its rider off at once. Conan heard the deadly thud of a skull striking rock, and saw that the man did not move after he fell.

"Ya-haaaa!" Conan shouted again, and wheeled his mount. Beyond the ridges to either side lay darkness and perhaps ground fit to conceal a man on foot. This was no desert for a man on foot, unless he was as hardy as an Afghuli and as ready to make those pursuing him wary of closing.

But there was only one way to buy time for the Afghulis, and only one man fit to pay the price. Conan's horse staggered as he brutally jerked her head around, until she was facing down the slope. Then he drove in his spurs.

As his charge gathered way, he heard a voice rise above the hoof thunder of the onrushing Turanians. Half-lost in the blare of trumpets, it seemed from all sides, it yet sounded curiously familiar. But the man whose name the voice conjured up would never have given such a mad order as the one Conan heard now.

"Take the big one alive, at all costs!"

Someone cared little for the lives of his men tonight or their obedience tomorrow, if he thought that would be an easy task against the Cimmerian.

In the next moment the night seemed to turn solid with the onrushing shapes of mounted men. They bore lances, and crouched in the saddle both to protect themselves and to thrust low. They did not succeed in doing the first. Conan cut five men out of the saddle as his mount crashed through their line.

But three lances and a sword left a cruel mark on Conan's mare. She screamed like a damned soul and had the strength to rear so violently that the Cimmerian lost his seat. He slid backward, landing spring-legged as his horse fell, blood flowing from her mouth as well as her wounds. His drawn sword hissed in a deadly arc before him and to either side, and the screams of Turanian horses drowned out the mare's death rattle.

Then the butt of a lance came down on his shoulder. It jarred even Conan's muscle-armored limb to the bone, and his sword turned in his hand as he slashed at the lance-bearer. The barbarian opened the man's chest, even through a coat of good Turanian mail, but Conan's sword stuck for a moment.

Another lance thrust forward, ripping across Conan's forearm. The shock, more than the pain or the damage, forced open his hand. His sword fell. Conan drew his dagger and leapt for the first horseman he could see”which left him open to three on his left and rear whom he could not.

All struck with lance-butts, and the darkness of the desert night poured into Conan's brain and swallowed up his being.

The young captain reined in just outside sword's reach from the circle of men around the fallen Afghuli leader. He did not doubt the obedience of his men, even though his orders had doubtless cost some their lives and more blood and pain. He did doubt that after such a fight in such darkness, all saw clearly.

"Who passes there?"

Good, it was Sergeant Barak. He was as hard to excite as a sand dune, and nearly as hard to move.

"The scarred captain." Why did he name himself so? The man on the ground might be the wrong one, and if he was the right one, he was still most likely as senseless as a prayer carpet.

No matter. It had been an impulse, of the sort the captain had learned to trust over many years. Trusting them was one of the things that had guarded his back from his enemies and his king alike”if in fact these were different.

"Make way for the captain," Barak called, pitching his voice to carry without raising it to his normal bull's roar. The captain dismounted as the circle of men opened, and stepped forward to see what lay on the ground within it.

It was the man the captain had been seeking. He was breathing and looked to be intact as to limb and vital organs. If this was so, even if the blood that covered him was partly his, he would heal swiftly and be fit to fight soon enough for the captain's plans. The best part of ten years had not taken much from the man's colossal vitality, unless all the tales of him that had reached the captain's ears were lies.

"How many of our comrades are dead?"

Muttered answers said little, until the sergeant called for silence and asked a few sharp questions.

"Nine, lord, and five more gravely hurt."

"I will reward the kin of all who died here tonight, and the living who are past service will likewise be free of want."

Whether shaken, respectful, or merely prudent when no one knew who spied where, the men were silent. None asked, "With what?" which would have been a more than reasonable question to anyone who did not know the captain's hidden resources.

Not even their being hidden could save a single brass piece, however, if this plan miscarried. The captain misliked hiding even part of the truth, but he had to admit that this was no time to pour out all of it, like flinging the contents of a chamber pot from an attic window.

"How many men had he with him?" was the captain's next question.

"We slew or took seven," the sergeant said. "Most likely there was a handful more, from the horses. But they've run off the gods alone know where."

The sergeant, like the wise of his kind, knew how to tell an officer distasteful truths without putting them into words. The man's tone and, even in the darkness, his stance told him that the men would not readily charge off into the desert night, seeking the last Afghulis.

Nor was there any need for them to do so. Those who fled were of small concern. The captives, on the other hand”

"How many taken?"

"Two who will live, and one who will not see dawn."

"Cut his throat and say proper rites over him. Bind the others' wounds, likewise this one's, and prepare horse litters for them. We ride for the Virgin's Oasis when this is done."

Barak was not the only one to bow his head and say, "As you command, my lord." He also was not the only one whose face showed doubt as to the cause of this”if it had any cause but their captain's sudden madness!

-

Five

-

Conan awoke in a tent. This was no surprise. Nor was it any surprise that his feet were chained to a stout stake driven into the ground in the middle of the tent. Wrist irons connected by another length of chain restrained his hands, but left him free to reach a jug of water and a plate of flat Turanian bread on the ground beside him.

The real surprise was his being awake and alive at all. The captain clearly had more than common control over his men, that they obeyed his orders to capture the Cimmerian alive after such a bloodbath as the final fight. Conan felt bruises, grazes, and one or two gashes, but none were more than he had expected, and all seemed to have been cleaned, poulticed, and even dressed.

Somebody”call him the captain”wanted Conan alive. For what purpose, the Cimmerian could only guess. He vowed to ask the first man who came in, and if the answer was not to his liking”well, there was enough scope in the chains that he could strangle at least one man. And if he could break the chains, as he had broken chains at least as stout when he was younger and had nothing but bull-strength”a broken chain made a weapon wise men feared.

Conan sat up, thirst crackling in his mouth and throat and thunder rumbling in his head. Awkwardly, he lifted the jug and emptied it in a few swallows. He was reaching for the bread when he saw movement behind one flap of the tent door.

"Call this food!" he shouted. "Bring me some meat fit for a man, or send your captain and I'll devour him!"

The tent flap shook violently as the Cimmerian's wrath propelled the unseen listener out into the open, then fell still. Conan's laughter sent bread sliding off the plate. Then he was too busy making the bread disappear to care further about the fugitive.

The bread had been coarse when fresh and was now stale as well, but food meant strength for the next fight. There would be such a fight, too. Even had Conan been disposed to submit meekly to whatever death the Turanians intended for him, there were a dozen sworn comrades to properly avenge.

There were two death sentences in force in this Turanian camp this day.

The first was that which the Turanians had passed on Conan. The second was the one that Conan had passed on the men who tried to carry out the first.

By the time he had taken that resolve, Conan had emptied the plate as well as the jug. He belched in satisfaction, then cautiously tested the strength of his chains.

The test pleased him. The chains were heavy enough, but the rivets holding them to the rings were another matter. Even on that first cautious test, Conan had sensed weakness there that pleased him”and also offended him.

His father would never have taken a king's silver for such shoddy work!

The captain had awakened from a dream of breaking his fast on perfumed wine, honey cakes, and fresh fruit, in a bed furnished with silk sheets and shared with a comely lady now some years dead.

His actual fast-breaker was water, bread, and a slab of sausage. He could not recognize what meat had gone into the sausage; after three bites he decided he did not wish to know. Appetite, however, kept him eating until the sausage was down and settling, however uneasily, in his stomach.

He was trimming his mustache with his dagger when Sergeant Barak entered.

"The big prisoner is awake."

"How does he fare?"

"Healthy enough to curse the guards into fits, or so I've heard."

"A good sign. What of the others?"

"The Afghulis?"

"Is that what they are? A long way from home, I should say."

That bordered on lying. It was hardly a surprise that the man would have sworn Aghuli guards, if the tales from Afghulistan these two years past held even a kernel of truth.

It was also a near-lie in a good cause. The captain wished to know how many of his men might have some chance of recognizing the captive. The fewer, the better, at least until he and the man had sat down together and felt each other out.

"I am going to visit the captive. Have wine and sausage brought to the tent when I am there. Treat the Afghulis as common prisoners, but do not allow anyone to harm them or them to harm themselves."

"As the captain wills," Barak said. Again the captain knew he was being politely reproached.

"Are the men unhappy?"

"Not so's you'd notice, even the ones who lost friends. But they're all curious."

And unsatisfied curiosity could turn into discontent and mutiny faster than the desert wind could blow down an ill-secured tent. The captain had survived one such affray when he was barely fledged, and had no wish to face a second.

"I must speak with our captive to satisfy my own curiosity," the captain said. "But when I have satisfied mine, I will do the same for all the men."

The sergeant bowed. He seemed more resigned than happy, but that was the common view of sergeants toward superiors and superiors' plans they could not understand.

The captain finished trimming his mustache, cleaned his teeth, then garbed himself properly, including mail under his tunic, both shirt and loin-guard, and a steel cap under his headdress. Of weapons openly displayed, he bore only a dagger.

If he could make his peace with the captive, he would need no weapon at all. If not, neither sword, axe, nor bow would be sufficient.

Conan had just decided that he was unobserved and that it was time to begin loosening rivets when the tent flap shivered. Then a Turanian captain walked in, wearing silk from headdress to boot-top and a jeweled dagger in his sash.

Another of Yezdigerd's wellborn lapdogs, was the Cimmerian's first thought.

Then he noticed that the silk was heavy enough to wear well, and stained and patched from much hard service. The sash had the subtle bulges of one weighted to serve as a weapon, and the steel of the dagger probably cost as much as the jewels. Nor did the man move like a courtier, more like a young wolf for all that he was at least a head shorter than the Cimmerian.

"Well, Captain Conan. I will not now say well met, but I will ask if you remember me."

Conan knew the Turanian tongue well enough that he could have composed verse in it had he ever felt the desire to compose verse at all. The captain's accent was that of the very highest nobility”so wellborn, he was, if no lapdog.

The Cimmerian studied his visitor, whom he began to think he had indeed seen before. He thought the man had been thinner and the beard not so faded by years of desert sun, but above the beard”

"Crom!"

"Not I, Conan. I would not sit on a throne of ice in a cold wasteland, glowering at all men who dare ask me for the smallest favor. Or is that some other Cimmerian god?"

"That is close enough, Khezal son of Ahlbros. Or Khezal's twin brother, if ever he had such."

"There is only one and he stands before you."

"Well, sit, then. It will never be said that I made an old comrade stand in my presence, even when I'm not at my best for giving hospitality."

Something Conan could not readily name passed over Khezal's face at the words "old comrade." So the man put some value on that, did he? Enough, maybe, to explain what he planned and what part the Cimmerian had in those plans?

Khezal sat down. He seemed to move a trifle more stiffly now.

"New wounds, Khezal? Or the old ones bothering you more with the passing years?"

"Conan, I'm three years younger than you, which hardly makes me a stiffening dotard drowsing by the fireside. Can you shape your tongue to questions that are neither impertinent nor insulting?"

If Conan had held any doubt of Khezal's identity, it was fast fading.

The wry speech was that of the young captain, hardly more than a boy, who had fought beside Conan against the beasts created by the Jewels of Kurag. The best part of ten years had made the manner sit better on him, like a masterpiece of a saddle on a horse, but had not changed it past recognition.

"If this question is either, may Erlik's hounds bite off your stones.

What of my men?"

"We have given rites to three, and hold two honorably captive. The others have fled."

"May I see them?"

"When we have

"Now."

"Conan, you are hardly in the best position to make conditions."

"On the contrary, I'm in a fine position. You want something from me.

As long as I refuse it, you are worse off than I."

"Your position could be made worse."

"How, without risking my death? Dead men help no living man's schemes, as I'm sure I need not tell you."

Khezal muttered something that invoked unlawful parts of a number of still less lawful gods. Conan laughed.

"I'm not meaning to begin our new friendship with a quarrel. Not if there's to be a friendship, which I imagine there is, or I'd have awakened with my throat cut. But a quarrel, there'll be, if I can't see my men."

"Conan, by Erlik, Mitra, Vashti, and Crom, by the blood we have shed in each other's company, by Dessa's lively legs, and by Pylia's fine breasts, I swear that your men have come to no harm."

The Cimmerian laughed. "I can almost believe that oath. How fare the ladies?"

Khezal's face turned sober. "Pylia is dead. The story goes that she challenged some younger rival to see who could wear out the most men in a single night. She won, but died of her victory."

"Remembering Pylia, I can believe that. And Dessa?"

"She keeps her own tavern, after years as Pylia's most trusted girl.

Still comely, the last time I saw her, and as we thought she might, thriving as she never would have wed to some dull clerk."

"A wench after my own heart

"And other parts? Never mind, you are right. We are neither of us made to be clerks, either."

"No, but I am made so that I will see those men of mine, whether you help or hinder."

"Conan, were I my own master

"The son of one of the Seventeen Attendants, not his own master? Tell me that shrimp sing bawdy ballads, and I will believe this more easily."

Khezal's face went taut and dark, and Conan instantly realized that he had struck too deep, even in jest. He had indeed heard much of the affairs of Turan since Yezdigerd ascended the throne, to make him believe that even a man like Khezal could fall from favor. After all, why otherwise would the man be prowling the desert with Turanian cavalry patrols, instead of governing a whole province?

"I ask your pardon, Khezal. I spoke too hastily. But those men are sworn to me, and I to them."

"I doubt it not. And I am sworn to defend Turan against all its enemies, among whom you are numbered. If I am to be forsworn, the fewer who know about it, the better for us all. Informers are always cheap, and there is more than enough silver to buy them. The less you are seen until after we march, the better."

Conan had also heard that Turan now swarmed with spies as an ill-kept kitchen with vermin. If Khezal risked more than his authority over his men” risked his own life, indeed”he deserved a hearing.

He also was a battle comrade, and it was not in Conan to forget the debt he owed to such.

"Let it be as you wish, Khezal. Tell me what you want of me, and I will trust you for what comes next."

"You almost said that without smiling, Conan."

"Did I? Perhaps I'd best become a player in temple pageants, to command my face better."

"I remember seeing you draw”what was his name? Kilar?”anyway, the one with the loaded dice”into cheating you before a half-score of witnesses. One would have taken you for a temple image, not a temple player!"

"I'll thank you more for the flattery when I've heard you out. Or do the tent walls have ears?"

Khezal shrugged, then sat down cross-legged and began to speak.

Khezal had more trouble than expected, finding words to make the situation in the Kezankian Mountains clear to the Cimmerian. It was not that he distrusted Conan's wits”nobody but a fool thought the Cimmerian an overmuscled oaf, and not a few of such fools had over the years died from their mistake.

It was that, put into plain Turanian words, the menace of the Valley of the Mists seemed an old peasant wife's tale, mumbled about the fire late at night to frighten the children and the young maids into staying close to home. Time after time, Khezal heard in his mind gusty Cimmerian laughter, and hesitated before adding some detail he knew to be the truth or at least had heard from someone he trusted.

In the end, it was the Cimmerian who reduced

Khezal's words to a few brisk statements. He leaned back, managing in spite of the chains to appear as relaxed as a cream-filled cat. (It was only when the Cimmerian was half-done that Khezal noticed there was play in the rivets linking chains to wrist and leg irons that had not been there last night.)

"Something in the Kezankian Mountains is sending out raiders to snatch villagers. The tale goes that they are taken to a place called the Valley of the Mists and there sacrificed to demons."

"Some name it the Mist of Doom Khezal began, but Conan held up a hand with such regal dignity that the listener forgot that the hands were chained and the man himself sat upon a rough pallet, not a throne.

"If we quibble over every small detail, spies will have time to ride from Aghrapur to skulk outside the tent. If we would sound each other out on this, best we do it quickly."

With that, Khezal could hardly disagree. The Cimmerian continued.

"The demon of the mist or whatever draws on old magic is strong in the Kezankians. Fear and grief make the villagers there uneasy, also the nomad tribes between the mountains and the Turanian border. Or does Yezdigerd now claim all the land for the Kezankians and even beyond?"

"Not openly, but those with an ear for the king's true thoughts say so."

Conan snorted like a balky horse. "Trust that to set the Khorajans'

teeth on edge. They've learned to live in the shadow of Turan, they and the folk of Khauran. They'll mislike having Yezdigerd's garrisons peering over their garden walls from the slopes of the mountains."

Khezal said nothing, as there was no reply he cared to make to plain truth plainly stated. Rumors had run that Conan was developing a taste for statecraft, or at least the art of reading kings' intentions. (Not unlikely, this last”any mercenary captain who wanted to stay alive past his first employment needed that art, though not all had it.)

"Is this whole tale of demons in the mountains perhaps put about by the Khorajans?" the Cimmerian insisted.

"Folk are vanishing, certainly," Khezal replied. "Those who fight the raiders too fiercely die by human weapons. The raiders at least are human, though none can say of what folk or race."

"Probably of every folk and race in the world, if I know the kind of mercenary who hires out for this sort of dirty work," Conan said. "But no matter. The question I put to you is, why does this concern you?"

"Because my family's estates lie hard against the mountains," Khezal said. "An inheritance from my mother, and not a great one even before half went to dower my sister. But the villagers and their lands are mine."

Conan snorted again. "From what you said, I doubted that you had any lands left."

"I can tell all the sorry tales some other time and place, Conan. Here I only say that stripping me of my lands would have raised tempers, even swords, against Yezdigerd. Sending me and my Greencloaks far afield while royal agents bribe my stewards to send the revenues to Aghrapur rather than to me” that is too subtle for anyone to notice."

Conan muttered something that no listening ears could have understood but that sounded to Khezal very much like a wish that King Yezdigerd would find his manhood failing him at an awkward moment. Then he shrugged.

"I don't doubt your loyalty to your folk. You always seemed like that sort. But what will the king say? Will he say you do a lord's duty, or will someone whisper in his ear that you seek to win your people over to rebellion?"

"You've grown longheaded with the years, Conan."

"Long or short, it's the only head I have, and of more use on my shoulders than on a spike outside some Turanian prison. Which is where it's likely to end up if Yezdigerd calls this whole matter a plot against him."

Khezal took a deep breath, then let it out. It had been on the tip of his tongue to question the Cimmerian's courage. But that would have been at one and the same time foolish, perilous, and without reason.

"If he learns about it before we're done, perhaps. If we winkle the secret out of the mountains soon enough, however

"I'll take my reward in a safe passage out of Turanian lands, at the very least."

"Then you'll ride with us?"

"For whatever good I can do, yes. I haven't fought nearly as many demons as the tales run, though. Remember that."

"Not as many demons, but I'd wager even more men, and here you are, and where are they? Names carved on family tombs, if that much."

"Perhaps," Conan said. "I can't bind my men, however. They didn't swear to follow me against demons. If they wish to leave, they have a safe conduct good from this day forth."

Khezal did not need to ask what the price of his refusal would be. But he had to make one more effort, for the honor of his own men whose blood the Afghulis had shed.

"If they ride with you, I return”a certain bag” that was taken from you."

"With what was in it?"

Khezal smiled thinly. Perhaps the Cimmerian could be bought after all.

"Of course."

Conan sat up, so abruptly that Khezal drew back a pace. It was as well that he did. The Cimmerian flung his massive arms apart, the chain snapped free of one wrist iron, and another cat-quick movement sent the end of the chain whipping through the space Khezal had just departed.

Khezal's hand went as far as the hilt of his dagger before his wits regained command of the member.

"I think you have made your point," he said, after he had also regained command of his voice. "So I will not draw mine. One condition: I bring your men to you, unless you wish to wait for night."

"I suppose no one will suspect plots over a couple of Afghuli captives," Conan said. "As you wish. But bring some decent food for all of us when you do."

"You have had the best there is in the camp."

"What? No private stores for feasting in your tent?"

"None."

"I think I believe you, friend. Very well. More food, then, if not better. And the best doctor for their wounds, if he has not already seen them."

"He has, but he can come again."

"See that he does," the Cimmerian said. His tone was such that Khezal felt an absurd wish to make the formal bow due to a governor or leader of a host.

Instead he rose and walked out, erect but not turning his back on the Cimmerian.

-

Six

After winning the temporary allegiance of Conan, Khezal's dearest wish was to be gone on the quest for the Valley of the Mists as soon as possible. He would gladly have ridden out that very night, with his hundred best Greencloaks.

Indeed, he would have mortgaged a small estate, or even a large one, to pay a friendly wizard to turn all his men's cloaks into wings, that they might fly on the wind to the Kezankian Mountains. Thus might they outspeed the tales of their coming, surprising the demons and their human servants. Thus might they also settle the matter of the mountains' demons before word of Conan's presence reached unfriendly ears in Aghrapur.

However, Khezal was of much the same mind as Conan”the words "friendly"

and "wizard" did not belong in the same sentence. Both would also have doubted that even a wizard who professed friendship would keep a bargain, rather than taking his gold and fleeing at once for the land of the Hyperboreans.

In any case, the lack of magical assistance for the journey north was only the first and least of Khezal's frustrations. The next was Conan's insistence on waiting until the two Afghulis who were riding north were fit to travel.

"Do you doubt my word, that they will be safe here among the Greencloak garrison of the Virgin's Oasis?" Khezal asked, laughing to cover his fury.

Conan, wholly sober, shook his head. "I doubt not your word, not even your command over your men as long as your eye is on them. But your eye will be on the slopes of the Kezankians, and your men here. That's another matter, and the name for the matter would be 'blood feud' if anything happened to the Afghulis."

Khezal considered this. Neither he nor any Turanian had much love for the Afghulis, but they were not among the realm's leading foes. The Iranistanis were otherwise”and the Afghulis were even less friendly to Iranistan than to Turan. There would hardly be gratitude toward a man who made blood foes of Turan among the Afghulis.

More important than any lack of gratitude in court circles would be the enmity of proven captains in war. Khezal would have endangered their men, and imperiled their victories. Lack of gratitude among courtiers, Khezal could endure. Knives in the dark, wielded on the orders of men whom he had trusted to guard his back from Yezdigerd, would make life singularly futile for the short time it might last.

"As you wish. I trust that your friends are as hardy as the tale-tellers have them, though. We do not want one of my enemies ambushing us with half a regiment as we cross the caravan route, because a spy has told a tale in the palace!"

"Khezal, I am no more a lover of palaces and what goes on in them than you are. Trust me for that, and my Afghulis for swift healing."

To Khezal's relief, the Afghulis were standing within a day and riding within two. They moved stiffly at first, but that they were fighting-fit was proved on the third day.

A groom boy, so green that he had hardly wiped his mother's milk from his lips, grew curious about Farad's dagger. He reached out to touch it”and found himself on his back some paces away, lip split and several teeth scattered about on the sand.

"The lad should call himself lucky," was all Khezal could get out of Conan. "And you should call your chief groom a fool, for letting into the field a witling who'll touch another's steel without asking."

"That won't heal the boy."

Conan shrugged, then dipped into his belt pouch. An Iranistani silver prince-piece came out. The Cimmerian tossed it high, then slapped it out of the air with one hand, into the palm of another.

"Here. Even a fool deserves a trifle of poppy syrup to soothe his hurts."

"Perhaps I should hold on to those jewels after all. We may need them to silence the angry and heal the hurt, if we have many more of these exchanges."

"At your pleasure, my friend. But I will talk to Farad and Sorbim, if you will talk to your people."

"I will, and pray to Mitra that all listen!"

"Halt! Who seeks to pass?"

Captain Muhbaras's mind had lurched up out of sleep before his body was ready to follow. That sentry had to be one of the new recruits, a "settled" nomad. How settled any of the tribesmen could become was a matter of some debate. It was evident that he had not learned sentry drill as thoroughly as could be wished.

The reply came in a woman's voice, which finished the work of awakening the captain's body. He could make out no words, but there was no need for that. The only women out and about here by night were the Maidens of the Mist, and the most likely reason they would be here was something either dire, urgent, or both.

Across the single room in the hut, blankets roiled and heaved like water in a millrace. A round face with a crinkly black chin beard rose above the blankets, like an otter surfacing from a dive.

"A woman?" the face said. The mouth was a thin gash, unwholesomely out of proportion to the rest of the face. It always seemed a marvel to the captain that Ermik's tongue was not forked, like that of a serpent.

"A Maiden."

"Ah. No doubt seeking to end that

In a moment the captain was out of his blankets and off his pallet. In another moment he had taken two strides and was standing over the other. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. His gaze was fixed on the wall of the hut.

If he allowed his gaze to drift downward, he knew he might draw the sword and thrust it into the thick neck below the round face. That would silence the greasy voice, but raise a howling and a shrieking back in Khoraja that would not end until he himself was dead, and likely many of his men dead with him. Men he had sworn to lead out of these Hell-cursed mountains, as he had sworn to lead them in.

"You may think that, if you wish, and risk both body and soul if the Lady of the Mist hears your thoughts. Do not ever let them pass your lips. Not where a Maiden can hear them. Not where I can hear them. Not where a hawk, a mouse, or a beetle can hear them!

"Do you understand?"

The small dark eyes above the blankets resembled a pig's eyes, but they were as unblinking as a serpent's.

"Do you?" the captain repeated.

"I do."

"Then hold your tongue and go back to sleep."

"I must visit the

"After I am done with the Maiden."

The other's mouth opened again, and the captain's hand tightened on the age-darkened leather of the sword's grip. Even one bawdy word from the other might send him over the brink”and perhaps he could buy his life and his men's by saying that the Maidens would have slain Ermik, the Grand Council's spy, had the captain not done so.

The Maidens”or their mistress. It would sound dreadful enough to persuade the Council.

Indeed, it might even be the truth.

"Do not be long."

The other could foul his blankets for all that the captain cared, save that the hut reeked enough as it was.

"I shall be no longer than the Maiden detains me. How long that will be depends on her errand, and I offer you another piece of wisdom."

"Will you have any wisdom left if you keep offering me pieces of it?"

The captain ignored the pert reply as he would have the yelping of a cur in the streets. "The shorter the time I am gone, the worse the news the Maiden bears."

That opened Ermik's eyes agreeably wide. They stared after the captain as he strode out into the night.

Conan was seated cross-legged on a carpet in the Afghulis' tent, watching the surgeon's Vendhyan slave tend Farad's wounds. Before him on the rug stood a jug of wine. A small bribe had procured it from the surgeon's stores, and after a cup of it, Conan felt a trifle more reconciled to the world as it was.

The slave jerked a dressing from Farad's ribs, taking a scab with it.

Blood trickled, Farad glared, the slave cringed and muttered something under his breath. It was probably not a curse, although, like most Vendhyans, the slave could hardly be overly fond of Afghulis. Centuries of border raids, burned villages, and looted caravans had seen to that.

However, Conan understood several of the Vendhyan dialects, and the first time the slave ill-wished the Afghulis, he said as much. He added that if the slave could not keep his tongue between his teeth by the power of his will, either his tongue or his teeth might be removed, or perhaps his lips sewn shut. Mutes were not always the best slaves, but if muting them improved their manners”

The slave could hardly have abased himself more, or more swiftly promised good behavior in the future.

The Vendhyan was quickly but deftly putting a fresh dressing on Farad's battered ribs when tramping feet thudded outside the tent. Before anyone could give warning, Captain Khezal pushed his way into the tent.

Neither his sudden coming nor the look on his face made Khezal seem the bearer of good news. When with one look he sent the slave fleeing as if scorpions were nesting in his breeches, he made Conan certain of this.

He did not even venture to guess what the bad news might be; Khezal's scheme was one likely to go awry at half a dozen points before they even sighted the peaks of the Kezankians. Nor was the Cimmerian's knowledge of Turan's intrigues or the nomads' feuds what it had been.

The bad news might be something altogether unconnected with the quest for the Valley of the Mists.

At least Conan thought he could trust Khezal to tell him all of the truth that any man not of Turan could be trusted to know. That was more than could be said of more than a few leaders Conan had followed.

"We have found the remaining Afghulis," Khezal said.

"Rejoice," Farad replied. Conan trusted that Khezal did not hear the ironic note in the Afghuli's voice.

"Or rather, they have found those who sought them," Khezal went on.

"They laid an ambush even more cunning than I had expected from such skilled warriors."

"Flattery may raise hearts," Conan said. "It also uses time, of which I suspect we have but little, unless there is no more to your tale."

"Forgive me, Conan. I forgot that you were never a courtier."

"Improve your memory, then, my friend. Nor will I become a courtier soon enough to let you babble to no purpose."

Khezal took a deep breath. "It is to some purpose to know that the Afghulis who fled are unharmed. They unhorsed a half-score Greencloaks and took three as hostages to a cave. They have threatened the hostages with gelding and other harsh fates if Conan and any living Afghulis in Turanian hands are not freed at once."

Farad saved Conan the trouble of a swift reply by bursting into laughter that could doubtless be heard all over the camp. Khezal's face colored, and he looked at the ceiling of the tent, as if he wished the sky would fall on the Afghulis or him or both, to end this shameful moment.

At last both Farad and Khezal gained command of themselves, and into the silence Conan thrust a few words. "Then we must ride out at once, to prove that we are alive and free before they begin working on your men."

"What if I refuse to let you go?" Khezal asked. His eyes searched Conan's face, rather as if he were judging the temper of a horse he wished to buy. "This could be a scheme to escape. The nomads would doubtless pay you much for your knowledge of our camp."

"The nomads would pay us in slit throats after torturing the knowledge out of us, unless we contrived to die fighting them," Conan snapped.

"Do not waste time or breath by testing me, Khezal. Not if you wish to keep your men whole."

"One must admit that there are fewer posts for eunuchs than there once were," Khezal said. He might almost have been meditating. Conan had to respect the inward courage that let the captain command himself in matters like this.

"So I will trust you and your Afghuli comrades to make no attempt to escape," the captain continued. "And I will also trust you to contrive the return of my men, whole and fit to fight. Otherwise we have no agreement, and I will look under every rock and grain of sand in this desert to find you."

Conan knew when a man accustomed to commanding his temper was about to lose it. He made no protest at Khezal's terms, but began gathering his weapons and harness.

Captain Muhbaras's notion that he would hear bad news swiftly did not last long. He began to wish he had used some more prudent words to silence the spy. As it was, the man would either suspect a lie or fret himself into folly well before the captain returned.

There was, however, not one thing under the gods' sky that the captain could do about this problem, without paying the mortal price of offending the Lady of the Mists.

Nor would giving such offense please the spy. He had made it plainer than a fruit-seller in the bazaar crying his wares; his purpose here was to speed the work of the alliance with the Lady of the Mists to the peril of Turan and the profit of Khoraja.

It was therefore just barely possible that the spy needed the captain more than the captain needed him. The captain resolved to remember that as he followed his escort of Maidens into the valley.

Escort or guard? One walked ahead, and one on either side save where the path was too narrow for more than one pair of feet. Then the flankers stepped forward to join the leader.

No less than four Maidens walked behind the captain. He turned twice to stare at them, and each time their leader gave him a look that would have frozen the manhood of a god. The others lightly brushed their hands to the hilts of their swords.

After that the captain was entirely certain that he was going either to his own death or to something that he would doubtless protest almost as violently. It was some small consolation to know that the Lady thought she might need steel as well as spells to ward him off. Entering the Valley of the Mists, the captain did not feel nearly that formidable.

He felt still less so as they passed within the cleft, through the two great gates, and on to a trail that climbed the cliff to the left of the entrance. The trail was wide enough for two abreast, but it climbed so steeply that in places the rock was shaped into steps. In the twilight, and taking care not to stumble, the captain could not be sure what shapes were carved into those steps. He doubted that the knowledge was either necessary or wholesome.

In the twilight, the valley itself did nothing to ease a man's mind.

Two walls of mountain stretched away into shadows whose blue and purple hues seemed against nature. Overhead the stars were coming out with a savage brightness, even as the last light drained from the western sky.

Mist gathered here, there, and everywhere, according to no pattern the captain recognized, gray tendrils rising to dance and swirl with the sinuosity of living beings.

The captain had the sense of entering a vast temple, so long ruined that it was roofless and naked to the stars, but whose walls and altars of sacrifice were yet intact. Intact, and bound by great and dreadful magic to remain that way until some nameless purpose was fulfilled.

He shivered from more than the chill of the night air, and was glad when the trail turned into a cave and the cave into a tunnel carved from the wall of the valley. Torches lit the party's way, and twice they surprised the misshapen half-human slaves of the valley tending to the lights.

Again the captain rejoiced that the light was too dim to let him see every unwholesome detail of the half-men. Or women”he was sure that one of them was a woman, barely past girlhood, and he fought back the urge to spew or perform rites of aversion.

Neither was acceptable to the Lady.

Muhbaras's modest pleasure lasted only until his guards led him into a small, almost intimate chamber. Its rock walls hid behind tapestries woven with archaic figures of dragons and giant birds, and a brazier glowing in the middle of it further warmed the air beyond what the captain had expected.

There was, however, no warmth in the Lady's face as she sat in her habitual cross-legged position on a silk cushion, the cushion in turn elevated on a stool carved from a single piece of Vendhyan teak. To show that he was not afraid, the captain sought to make out the figures carved in the stool, but ended being more unsettled than before as he failed to make sense of the carvings.

They were animals, birds, and things that had the shape of men but also subtle differences. They were nothing as simple as the Serpent Men of Valusia, who would have been almost a relief.

Muhbaras knew that custom required him to wait for the Lady to speak, as if she were a queen or near-kin to one. He also knew that this custom allowed the Lady to sit and study those who came before her for as long as it pleased her, rather like a serpent studying a particularly succulent bird.

By sheer force of will, Muhbaras had not grown uneasy and was standing as still as the seven Maidens when the Lady at last spoke.

"One of your warriors has looked upon a Maiden with the desire of a man for a woman."

The captain inclined his head, as graciously as he could contrive.

Unless the Lady was altogether a raving madwoman, there had to be more to the matter. And as he was not a raving madman, he would let her reveal that "more" before he opened his own mouth.

It seemed that half the night crawled by, in a silence rivaling that of the graveyard. The captain began to suspect that the Lady was testing his courage, and vowed to pass any test she might set him.

At last the Lady sighed. She was garbed in a robe made of a single thickness of silk, so thin that Muhbaras could see her breasts lift under it with the sigh. He cast his eyes and thoughts elsewhere, and inclined his head again.

"Do you not wish to know more, Khorajan?" the Lady asked. Her voice had the quality of a fine steel blade slicing equally fine silk. In another it might have seemed intended to arouse desire. In the Lady it seemed only intended to arouse slavish obedience.

"I wish to know all that my Lady of the Mists sees fit to tell me. I do venture to add that the more she tells me, the more likely we are to resolve this matter peaceably."

"Peace requires the death of the soldier who offended. Anything less will mean no peace."

The captain waited, until he realized that he was expected to reply to those bald words, as naked of mercy as the rocks of the mountains or the vultures circling above them. Common sense told him that negotiation was futile. Honor bound him to try.

"A lesser penalty will still suffice to keep the man

"No lesser penalty will suffice in any way, in the eyes of the gods."

Which gods? the captain wondered, not quite reverently. Although the Lady might be unwilling or unable to answer, having confused her own will with that of the gods”a vice not unknown among less powerful mortals, or the captain would not have been here in honorable if perilous exile from his native city.

"Honor to the gods and to you, my Lady," the captain said. "But if no deed of desire has been done

"The eyes give passage to the soul. Your soldier's soul has touched the Maiden."

Muhbaras had not heard that from any priest, but had long since ceased to expect the Lady to be bound by any common notions of priestcraft. He would have liked to know what did bind her, and still hoped to learn something of that, but did not expect that this night would be the time.

The Lady's wrath in the face of disobedience would doubtless be tempered by her need for himself and his men. Yet even her tempered wrath could leave him unfit for duty for some time, which Ermik could put to use to usurp the captain's authority.

Moreover, the Lady (who was seldom ill informed) might know of the spy's coming and his favor in Khoraja. She might think that he could be put into the captain's place as a more pliant tool.

That would be folly in the Lady. But the captain had never heard that witches were less foolish than common folk.

"Give me the name of the man, then, and I will have him straitly confined, questioned, and brought before you."

"His name is Danar son of Araubas, and he has already been confined by my Maidens and their servants. His guilt is proven beyond need for further questioning. I summoned you here out of courtesy, that you might not wonder what had become of him. I only ask you: Do you wish to witness his passing or not?"

The moment the captain heard the name of the condemned man, he knew at least some truth without needing to ask questions the Lady would not answer. Danar was youthful, courteous, and by all reports, most pleasing to a woman's eye. If he had looked with desire on any woman, Maiden, crone, or a very goddess, it was because she had so looked upon him first!

That truth would not save Danar, however. It would most likely condemn the Maiden as well as Danar”and whatever hope the Maidens' womanliness might give to the captain would be flung off the cliff along with Danar.

That would be the method of execution”that or some other passing fit for a soldier. No more blackened and reeking tongues dealing a death that even the most hardened Stygian torturer would call harsh. The captain would save his man's soul, if he could not save his body.

"Very well. I will consent to all that you have asked, on one condition. I will speak alone with Danar son of Araubas, and bear any last wishes to his kin. Otherwise I will make no promises whatever in this matter."

Muhbaras ventured to look the Lady squarely in the eyes. He saw for the first time flecks of brown in their blazing gold, and faint shadows on the eyelids below the finely plucked eyebrows.

In another woman, he would have said those eyes would look very well widening on a pillow as she gave and took pleasure. With the Lady of the Mists, that was a thought to drive from one's mind as one drove a mad dog from the nursery.

"By my honor and my bond with the Mists, I pledge to grant you that, if the man be living when you come to him."

That left an opening for treachery through which one could have driven the elephants of the royal menagerie, but Muhbaras judged it wise to make no further argument. He bowed his head and made the ritual Khorajan gestures of binding himself with blood and steel to fulfill a vow.

Then he straightened. "The man is more likely to be living if I go straight to him. Is that permitted?"

The Lady nodded. Silently she raised a hand, and the Maidens gathered about the captain to lead him out of the chamber.

Conan rode north in the vanguard of fifty Greencloaks. Farad and Sorbim rode beside him, their gazes making a complete circle around their chief every few moments.

Ten paces to the Cimmerian's right, Khezal rode with three picked Greencloaks. They kept a similar watch out for his safety.

"Conan," Khezal called, across the gap. "What would you have done if I had refused to let you ride north?"

"I remember a wise captain who said that 'if is a word for priests and scribes, not fighting men."

"I remember that when the wise captain said that, he was teaching a young Cimmerian who has since become a wise captain in his own right."

"Indeed, I would have owed the other captain an answer to such a question," the Cimmerian said, in a dangerously level voice. "Do I owe you as much?"

"He taught me also, and there is another reason for you to think carefully before you refuse. I do not teach. I lead men, who, like me, must know how far we can trust you."

Conan muttered a few oaths, but within he was rallying his thoughts.

Indeed, Khezal was in a position wherein the trust of his men was life or death. Anything that could help strengthen that trust, and would not weaken Conan, was Khezal's right.

"So be it," Conan said. "Had you refused, I would still have gone north, with Farad and Sorbim. No Greencloak would have suffered, save those foolish enough to stand in our path. We might even have saved the captives."

"And if you could not?" one Greencloak said. Khezal shot the man a barbed look, but Conan held up a hand.

"No, the answer's his right as well as yours. If they had to die, they would have died as whole men, or at least not without rites."

The Greencloak looked more content than his captain. Conan spat into the sand. Khezal was wiser than the Cimmerian intended to tell him for some while, but there was much he needed to learn about Afghulis and those the tribesmen called chief.

-

Seven

Conan rode well to the fore, flanked by Farad and Sorbim. They were careful to keep their distance from the Greencloaks, without moving out of bowshot. That would smell of an attempt to escape, and no goodwill that Khezal bore the Cimmerian would stay the captain's command to his archers to shoot.

There also might be other men of warlike disposition roaming this patch of desert, besides Turanians and Afghulis. Among them, the three riders left no part of the horizon unwatched, nor the ranks of Turanian riders behind them.

Khezal had said the place where peacemaking was direly needed might be two hours away at a fast pace, as much as three at one that spared the horses. Conan stood silent as to which pace they should use, but gave the world a dusty grin as he saw the Turanians settle down to a pace that their mounts could keep up all day.

This was much as he had expected, Khezal being no fool. However, even wise men had been known to hasten unwisely, if they thought this would show loyalty and help keep their heads on their shoulders.

Conan had no quarrel with any such desire in Khezal. He only insisted that Khezal's head not survive at the price of his and his Afghulis'.

Everyone's head remained not only on his shoulders but clear and alert during that first hour. They were riding out from a well-supplied, well-watered camp, and even the newest to the ranks of the Greencloaks was a veteran of at least five years' service.

Watching the ranks of desert-wise riders behind him and remembering their gallant fight at the rocks, Conan felt a twinge of regret at his flight from Turanian service. The officer whose mistress he had "stolen" (a word he always resented, considering how willingly the lady had come to him) had been a friend of then-Prince Yezdigerd. Even if others had been able to patch up a truce between Conan and the officer, the lady would surely have suffered. The truce would also have ended the moment Yezdigerd felt himself secure enough on the throne to do such minor favors for his friends as handing them a Cimmerian's head¦

No, it was as well to be out of Turanian service. It would have been better to be out of Turanian reach altogether, but Conan had small choice if he was to do his duty by the Afghulis who had exiled themselves out of loyalty to him. He could trust Khezal for everything the nobleman could control, and as for the rest, the Cimmerian trusted to his sword arm and steel”which had kept him above ground for a good many years and had not grown slack or dull in Afghulistan.

They were halfway through the second hour of their journey when Conan saw the horseman on a distant ridge to the north.

Danar son of Araubas looked rather better than his captain had expected when the two Khorajans met in the low rocky chamber where the younger man was confined awaiting execution. A second look told Muhbaras that the walls had once been bricked, more centuries ago than he cared to think about.

What he faced now was quite sufficiently disagreeable”and as nothing compared to what Danar might face if his luck were out.

Four Maidens had escorted the captain to the entrance of the chamber, so low that he had to stoop to enter”and he was not tall for a Khorajan. Four other Maidens were already on guard, which seemed none too few when the captain saw that the door itself was only a woven screen of rushes. A child with a toy dagger could have cut his way through that to a brief freedom, before the guards cut him down.

But none of the Maidens approached it, and on the floor the captain saw a dead mouse and more than a few dead insects. When a Maiden did open the screen, she did it with the bronze point of a spear whose shaft was carved into unpleasantly familiar if still incomprehensible runes. She also wore an amulet of feathers and small rose-and amethyst-hued stone beads, and moved as cautiously as if the floor might open up and swallow her at a misstep.

The captain had seldom moved with such exquisite care as when he stooped and entered Danar's chamber. He would have gone down on his hands and knees to avoid touching the screen if it had been necessary.

To his mild surprise, the Maiden with the spear raised the screen high enough to spare him that humiliation. He said his thanks to her in his heart, knowing that even if she would keep the secret, her comrades would not. The Lady of the Mists kept her Maidens, if not at one another's throats, at least looking over one another's shoulders.

Doubtless the Lady knew that this could do harm in a battle against a serious foe. Comrades who had to fear one another's tongues as much as they did the enemy's steel could hardly be called comrades at all.

Just as certainly, the Lady was more concerned about keeping the Maidens loyal to her. A serious foe, she no doubt thought, would not enter the Valley of the Mists before her work was done.

It was no pleasure to Muhbaras to realize that the Lady of the Mists was quite probably right.

Even Conan's hawk-keen sight could make out little about the rider, other than that he rode a horse and wore dark robes.

"Which is the garb of half the tribes in this land," Khezal said when he rode up to move level with the Cimmerian. Otherwise they made no change of pace or formation, so that from a distance the watcher might think they had not seen him.

"Yes, and no doubt the garb of the other half when they go long enough without washing," Farad said.

"Speak for yourself, rock-crawler," Sergeant Barak muttered, before a glare from both Conan and Khezal silenced their followers.

The watcher seemed to have chosen a good post, overlooking the easiest march route but not actually on it. As they drew closer, the watcher drew back, and Conan saw that he was retreating toward a nightmarish tangle of ravines and rocks. A band half again the size of the Turanians could hide in that land, and seeking one man in it would take the rest of the day before they had to admit failure.

A few hundred paces farther on, the ground before the Turanians also grew rough. They could slow to a trot that made for easy conversation without revealing anything to the watcher.

The conversation was brief.

"The tribes could not have sent too many men into this area," Khezal said. "Otherwise the patrol's messenger could not have returned to camp to warn us."

"Unless they let the messenger through with the purpose of drawing us out into an ambush," Conan added.

"We have still done more than before, in keeping the large bands to the south and west," Khezal insisted. "One doubts that our number of Greencloaks has much to fear from any number of tribesmen who may lie ahead."

It would be unwise to dispute with Khezal before his own men, and Conan had little wish to do so. The Turanian captain might even be right.

Still¦

"Far be it from me to speak against your men," the

Cimmerian said. "But what of your men and my Afghulis? I wager that the tribesmen consider all alike lawful prey. If the tribesman have surrounded them since last night

"You see clearly. Yet only a large tribal band could maintain such a siege and still mount an ambush against us."

Conan had paid with his own blood and seen comrades pay with theirs for a captain's saying that "the enemy could not do so-and-so." Prophecy was a matter for sorcerers and the less honest sort of priest (which to the Cimmerian's mind was most of the breed).

Once again, the Cimmerian would not undermine Khezal's authority or flaunt his doubts of the prowess of the hosts of Turan (which, if half the tales he had heard were true, had indeed notably increased under Yezdigerd the Ambitious). This left him with few choices.

"I think we still need to fear an ambush. Is there another route to our destination, besides the shortest one? You know this land better than I."

"Indeed, and most of my men, better than I. There is such a way, longer and rougher."

"Does it offer more or less to ambushers?"

"Less, if my memory serves."

"It had better still serve for more than remembering which wench is willing, my friend. I suggest that you send six of your Greencloaks with me and my Afghulis, and we ride the main route. Those waiting will have to strike at us, or let us strike their comrades from the rear.

Meanwhile, you take the rest of your men by the longer route."

Khezal looked at his men and then at the desert ahead. He nodded.

"I mislike the danger to you, but it's no worse than you have survived.

Just bring my Greencloaks back safe, or at least give proof of their honorable passing."

"If they pass any other way, I shall go with them," Conan said.

"Do not be too eager to go where there is neither wine, women, nor good battles," Khezal said with a grin. "We shall never be able to properly celebrate our victories on this quest, I fear. I still do not wish to turn down cups to absent comrades!"

"How fare you, Captain?" Danar asked, when the dim oil lamp allowed him to recognize his superior.

Muhbaras started. He had expected Danar to be physically and mentally a ruin, already halfway to death. He had not expected the young soldier to be concerned about his captain's health!

The younger man grinned. "I have not been mistreated, save for eating bread that is mostly husks and shells. I think it is what they feed to those half-men in the fields."

"No doubt," the captain said. He gazed at the walls and the ensorceled rush screen with what he hoped was an eloquent glance.

Danar shrugged. "I know the walls have ears and probably eyes. If you have any last gift for me, it is that you do not think me a fool."

Muhbaras assured Danar that he thought no such thing. He wished he could assure himself that there was some way of giving Danar a lawful or even easy death, and that he could communicate it to the man.

Without some preparation, it would be hard to do anything swiftly enough to avoid the notice and wrath of the Lady of the Mists.

The captain knew he could not face that peril. He did not care what happened to him, save that his death would doubtless put Ermik in command of the mission to the valley. Then every sort of dire fate would loom over the men.

It was possible that Danar might have to face a hard death, for the sake of his comrades. How to tell him that, and how to sleep at night after it happened?

I grow too old for intrigues, Muhbaras decided. Give me a last battle against a worthy foe, and I will not care if I survive it.

"Do you know if the Lady seeks your”'life essence' or whatever they call it in their priest-talk?" the captain asked.

Danar shrugged again. "Perhaps, hence the good treatment. Perhaps not, also, if they think it has been corrupted by unlawful lust."

"Knowing that a woman like one of the Maidens is fair is never unlawful," Muhbaras snapped. "Only a blind man could avoid doing so, and I am sure the Lady does not wish to be served by blind men or eunuchs."

It was Danar's turn to look meaningfully at the walls. "No," he said, but he did not meet the captain's eyes. Also, there was something in his voice, even in that single word¦

I will not even think the question, "Did anything happen between you and the Maiden, more than glances?"

Wrapped in a kerchief in his belt pouch, Muhbaras had a small bronze knife, suitable to rest under a lady's pillow but capable of letting out life if applied in the right place. Now he pulled out the kerchief and bent over Danar, seemingly to wipe sweat or perhaps dew from the soldier's forehead.

Before he could touch Danar, the younger man's hand seemed to float up and grip the captain's wrist. It was a grip that would have looked gentle from a few paces away, but was actually as unbreakable as an iron shackle without more effort than the captain cared to make.

With his mouth only a hand's breadth from his captain's ear, Danar whispered, "Guard yourself for my comrades, and do not worry about me.

I have other friends."

The words left as much mystery behind as ever, but the tone was that of a man walking to meet his fate with firm step and open eyes.

May I do as well as Danar, if my time comes while I am within reach of the Lady of the Mists.

After that there was nothing to say but formal words that would make easy hearing for listening ears, a final grip of forearms, and the captain's departure. He even deferred his prayers of thanks to Mitra until he was not only outside the chamber but out of sight and hearing of the Maidens on guard.

Even farther along the path, he wondered if the madness was spreading.

And if so, was this the Lady's ultimate prize”or did she have something still worse in hand for the Valley of the Mists and all within it?

Khezal added one stratagem to the plan he and Conan had conceived. He detached a dozen or so Greencloaks to remain behind both of the other bands, to ride in circles and raise a prodigious cloud of dust.

"Even the most desert-wise tribesman will think that the more dust, the more men," Khezal said. "More unfriendly eyes will be on them, fewer on the rest of us as we slip off about our lawful occasions."

Conan made a Cimmerian gesture of aversion. Khezal nodded. "That is not all they will do, either. Once they have thrown dust in our enemies'

eyes, they will follow us by yet a third route. Slowest of all, it will still let them come to the aid of either of the other bands. They may even be able to slip behind an ambush and turn it against those who laid it."

Conan grinned, and this time made an Afghuli gesture for hailing an honored chief. There was not much he could teach Khezal about arraying men for battle, and he would waste no more time trying.

Instead he signaled to his men, as one of Khezal's sergeants rode out with the dozen dust-raisers. The two Afghulis cantered up and drew rein, the Greencloaks assembled under the watchful eye of Sergeant Barak and their captain, and the dust rose high.

It also rose thick, thanks to the dropping of the wind. Thus Conan led his men off down the dry wash that opened their chosen route with little fear of unfriendly eyes counting them, let alone seeing them. He still kept his eyes searching the rocks and ridges to the left, while Farad searched to the right, and Sobrim studied their Greencloak comrades.

Conan did not think that cold-blooded treachery was in the Greencloaks.

But no discipline could keep from a soldier's mind the thought of avenging a comrade or kin, and men with such losses might well be riding at Conan's back. It was a circumstance he had survived more than a few times, but only by taking nothing for granted.

Then the dry wash gave on a real valley, with rocky slopes rising, it seemed, halfway to the sky on either side. The floor of the valley was level, fit for quick movement if one cared little for the endurance of one's horses.

Conan held the pace to a trot while he studied the slopes. The rocks could hide a small army of ambushers, but there were broad stretches of ground where a dog could not hide and a surefooted horse could descend at a good pace.

So far, Khezal had not sent them into any place where aid could not reach them”if aid were sent.

Farad seemed to read the Cimmerian's thoughts.

"So far, that Khezal lad seems well enough to obey."

"The 'lad' is only a trifle younger than you are, Farad."

"In years only, or in battles?"

"Talk to him sometime, when our comradeship is a trifle farther along

"I will be too old to do more than croak like a marsh frog if I wait that long."

"Did anyone ever tell you that interrupting your captain is ill done?"

"You are my chief, not my captain. The ways of lowland armies, fit only to fight women, are not for the Afghulis."

"The way of Cimmerians with those whose tongues wag to no purpose is to knock them about the head until the tongues are still."

Farad and Sorbim exchanged glances, and Conan could see them reaching the conclusion that their "chief was not speaking entirely in jest.

Farad muttered something that Conan chose to take as an apology, and they rode on in silence.

-

Eight

In the outer world (which now seemed to Captain Muhbaras a distant memory, except as a place to seek captives for the Lady's sacrifices) it would still be full daylight. But the sun was already behind the walls of the Valley of the Mists, and purple shadows were swallowing the valley floor.

They were also creeping up the walls. The captain hoped this business would be done before they reached the cave mouth where he stood, watched or perhaps guarded by eight of the Maidens. He supposed it was an honor that he was considered so worthy of either respect or fear that he had so many Maidens assigned entirely to him.

He knew it was an honor he would cease to appreciate if he was not on his way back to his quarters before darkness filled the valley. He had never been so far into the valley this late in the day, but apparently there was some mystical reason (or at least excuse) for putting an end to Danar's life at this particular time.

There was nothing in sight in the valley that Muhbaras had not seen before. Nor did he care to look at the Maidens. With his graying hair and display of scars, he might be considered too old to be looking at them with lust. With his weapons he might be suspected of planning to rescue his man, which could bring an even swifter and hardly less dire fate.

Having decided, reluctantly, not to sacrifice his life to speed the ending of Danar's, the captain refused to contemplate perishing as a result of a mistake (although that was the fate of most soldiers, even if the mistake might be a healer's instead of a captain's).

He could still study the Maidens as a visitor might study the guards of a prince's palace, judging their fitness for battle and other matters of interest to soldiers. If the Lady argued that point, he would have to discuss with her certain things that his duties to her required, however much she might despise soldiers, men, outsiders, or whatever it was that made those cat's eyes sometimes flare with a killing rage.

The eight Maidens here now were mostly above average height, although only two were taller than Muhbaras. None had the eye-catching northern fairness, but none had the round features and close-curled hair that in some Maidens hinted of Black Kingdoms blood.

Indeed, the Lady of the Mists seemed to have recruited her Maidens (or accepted those who offered themselves) from every known land save Khitai and perhaps Vendhya. (And there were Maidens who seemed to bear a trace of Vendhyan blood; perhaps full Vendhyan women were too slight for the burdens of war?)

Few (here, only one of the eight) could be called truly beautiful. But all of them had grace, strength, suppleness, and knowledge of their weapons. There was not one the captain had seen whom he would have cast out from a war band”or refused in his bed.

Perhaps the Lady of the Mists knew more about the art of war than he suspected. She seemed to have picked warriors to guard her, at any rate, and the captain had known lords descended from long lines of soldiers whose household troops would not meet that test. Those fat sots at Lord Cleakas's”they would be mice facing cats if the Maidens ever came over the walls”

A measured, distant drumbeat stole on Muhbaras's ears. He looked about, saw nothing, but heard the drumbeat swelling. Now he heard two drums, not quite together, the shuffle of feet, and the faintest chinking of armor.

Danar son of Araubas was coming up to his last moments of life.

The captain took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, and with it a prayer to as many gods as he could name with that much breath.

Defend Danar's honor, all you who honor courage.

Before Conan's little band was done with the second hour of its journey, the Cimmerian's war-trained blue eyes had picked twenty spots where they could have been ambushed. Perhaps ten against a larger band, but no fewer than twenty against the handful he led, and perhaps more.

He decided that he could well have taken his own advice to Khezal, and not thought the enemy's chief less wise than he appeared to be. Conan's band was too small to do much harm to the chief's plans even if it reached its destination intact. It could be ignored while the tribesmen assembled against Khezal.

Or perhaps the chief had divided his band in turn, and would engage the Cimmerian at the last moment with a handful of men, too few to be sent far from their main body. If Conan overcame the ambush, he would only be set upon by superior strength when he had exhausted his.

The Cimmerian gave a mirthless chuckle. The chief knew neither Cimmerians, Afghulis, nor (to do them justice) the picked desert riders of Yezdigerd's host if he thought them easy to weary. His men would pay in blood for that mistake.

One thing Conan knew: The watcher on the ridge was no trick of the eyes or the heat of the desert. So battle, there would be, and before nightfall.

That time was not so far away as it had been. The shadows were longer, even if the heat was hardly less. Above distant hilltops, carrion birds that had sought their nests during the worst of the day now circled, black specks against harsh blue. They would not watch for fresh meat in vain.

Two more good ambush spots came and went. Conan's neck was beginning to stiffen from trying to look in all directions at once. He twisted his head back and forth to loosen the muscles. A moment's slowness in seeing or striking a foe had turned good warriors into vulture's fodder.

Now they were entering another dry wash, with the steep right side gouged and furrowed by flash floods since the time of Atlantis, the other side a slope almost gentle enough for a pasture. At the very top of the leftward slope the ground leapt up in a wall of rock, with a few gaps in it. From where Conan sat his saddle, he thought a mouse might have squeezed through those gaps, if it fasted for a week and then oiled its fur”

Dust boiled up from the foot of the wall, and in the dust Conan saw two-legged shapes much larger than mice. The dust rose, but the shapes turned into men, running down the slope toward the valley floor, leaping over boulders and dips in the ground with the antelope-grace of the desert tribesmen.

To Conan, this seemed a poorly laid ambush in an ill-chosen spot. The running men would be good archery targets the moment Conan's men had the shelter of the rocks to their right. But men died at the hands of bungling foes as well as of wise ones. Conan would give the tribesmen no unnecessary advantage.

He wheeled his horse, guiding it with his knees as he raised both hands over his head. He held his sword crosswise in those hands, and the men behind him took the signal. They in turn wheeled their horses, then swung about in their saddles. All had bows and full quivers, all had arrows nocked by the time their horses' heads were turned, and all shot before they entered the shadow of the rocks.

The range was easy for Turanian or even Afghuli bows against man-sized targets, even when the bowmen were shooting in haste. More tribesmen went down than arrows flew out, as some of the unwounded runners flung themselves down, out of fear or perhaps to succor the wounded.

This gave Conan more hope for victory or at least seeing the day out.

The enemy did not seem to understand that if they had few archers, they had to close quickly against Conan's band or risk being too weak to win the final grapple.

Meanwhile, Conan's men were disappearing into the rugged ground to the right. He heard human curses and equine protests as the men urged their mounts up slopes more suited for goats than horses. He also heard the whine of more arrows flying. At least one tribesman regained his courage, leapt to his feet, and promptly dropped again with an arrow through his throat.

Then human screams joined the horses' neighings from among the rocks.

Conan leapt from the saddle, slapped his mare on the rump to send her uphill, and scrambled for the top of the nearest rock. If he had to make a target of himself to see what was going on, that was part of a captain's work.

Conan was not yet halfway up the rock when his questions were answered.

He heard Farad shouting, "They've more in the rocks! Rally, rally, rally!" and hoped that the Turanians understood Afghuli.

Then he heard war cries from the running men in the open, sending echoes bouncing off the rocks. No, not echoes. Living throats were blaring those cries, the living throats of new enemies waiting among the rocks for Conan's men to be driven into their hands like sheep into the wolves' jaws.

Conan supposed that he could take some consolation in the skill of the chief who would be able to boast of ending the Cimmerian's career. He was not sure what else the situation had to commend it.

Other, that is, than the certainty of dying with sword in hand and comrades round about, if he didn't sit on this rock gawking like a herdboy at a country fair until the enemy found an archer who could see his hand in front of his face.

"Crom!"

It was not an appeal to the cold god of Cimmeria, for he did not listen to such appeals. It was more in the nature of a reminder, that here a Cimmerian warrior was about to die, and the manner of his death should be properly noted.

The god's name echoed around the rocks, drowning out all other cries human and animal, and left a brief, stunned silence in its wake. In the midst of that silence, Conan gathered himself, then leapt down from the rock, sword in hand.

The procession came up the path toward Captain Muhbaras, eight Maidens before Danar and eight behind. At the very rear walked a figure robed and hooded so thoroughly that she might have been a priestess passing through the marketplace, vowed to shield herself from profane eyes.

Under that hood, though, gleamed the golden cat's eyes, and the flowing, supple gait would have revealed the figure's identity even without the eyes.

The Lady of the Mists was coming as she had promised, to deal death for unlawful desire.

It would be a hard death, too. Danar was bound with thongs holding his hands behind his back and a short length of chain linking his ankles, barely long enough to allow him a shuffling, hobbled gait. His eyes were wide open and alert, although several welts on face and neck showed where he'd learned the unwisdom of looking about him.

Neither drugged nor wounded, he would see his death coming and feel it for as long as the Lady wished him to”which might be hours if she wished to set an example. Muhbaras hardened his heart all over again and wished that he could briefly stop his ears and blind his eyes.

The Maidens guarding the captain drew back, to allow their sisters room to file onto the level rock. By the time all were present, they needed to stand practically shoulder to shoulder around the rim of the platform to leave an open space in the middle.

Into that space Danar marched, as steadily as if he were reporting for roll call. Only the sheen of sweat on his bronzed face betrayed unease of mind.

Muhbaras forced a smile. It was not much of a final gift to a good man.

He wanted to cry to the mountains and the skies as well as these accursed women:

"See how a soldier of Khoraja dies, and learn from his death the kind of enemies you make by this madness!"

But the mountains and the skies would not answer; any reply would come from the magic of the Lady of the Mists or the spears and swords of the Maidens.

Conan hoped to land among the ranks of his enemies, like a boulder plunging from a cliff. That could confuse stouter warriors than the tribesmen, and confused opponents did not last long against the Cimmerian.

But either the second part of the ambush had miscarried, or else Conan's men were holding their own for the moment. Neither seemed impossible; rough ground with an enemy lurking around a corner every five paces served both sides equally ill. It reminded Conan of fighting house to house, something he had done often enough to know that he would gladly never do it again.

It was only three paces before he faced opponents, two of them already engaged with a Greencloak. The Greencloak was at a further disadvantage through being pinned by the leg under his dying horse, but he was defending himself with desperate vigor. All his opponents' attention was on him, and they had none to spare for the Cimmerian when he came upon them.

With surprise and an edge in reach, Conan made easy prey of the first tribesman. He fell with his skull split from crown to the bridge of his nose, brains and blood spurting over the dead horse and the fallen Greencloak. His scimitar fell with a clang, in easy reach of the Greencloak, who snatched it up.

For a moment more blades were in action than there was space for their wielding. The Greencloak slashed wildly at his opponent with the scimitar in one hand and his own tulwar in the other. The tribesman tried to parry Conan's broadsword with his own scimitar, while at the same time drawing a dagger for use on the Greencloak.

The clanging as wildly swinging steel collided was worthy of a blacksmith shop. The Greencloak only nicked the tribesman's knee, but the collision of tribal scimitar and Cimmerian broadsword halted both strokes. It also broke the tribesman's grip on his weapon.

It clattered on the rocks, and the tribesman had only time to fling his dagger before Conan closed the distance. Nothing met the broadsword's second swing, until it opened the tribesman's throat and windpipe, nearly taking his head from his shoulders. More blood flowed over the dead horse as the second tribesman collapsed on top of the first.

Conan did not notice where the flung dagger had gone until the Greencloak cried out at the Cimmerian's grip on his shoulder. Then Conan saw the dagger thrust three fingers into the man's left shoulder.

He plucked it out, wiped it on his breeches, thrust it into his belt, and finished dragging the Greencloak out from under the horse.

"Best pack that with something," Conan said, pointing at the bleeding shoulder. "Or can you fight left-handed?"

The man nodded.

"Better a right-handed fighter than a left-handed corpse," Conan said.

"Now stay close by me, while we find our comrades."

"Ah”eh”if they're dead”?"

"If they were dead," Conan growled, "we wouldn't be hearing any fighting upslope. If they are dead, they may have killed enough foes to let us escape.

And if you don't follow me up the hill, the folk from across the valley will surely kill you if I don't do it first."

He did not quite prod the Greencloak in the small of the back with the point of his broadsword. He did not need to. The soldier lunged up the slope as if he were an unwounded runner on level ground, shouting the motto of the Greencloaks as he went.

"Our blood is our honor!"

The Lady of the Mists stepped into the center of the circle. Muhbaras noted that she was carrying a long staff, taller than she was, in the form of a serpent”the giant asp of the jungles east of Vendhya, to be precise. It had one ruby eye and one emerald eye, and down its length flowed, instead of scales, those unnameable runes that the captain had seen far too often since he came to the Valley of the Mists.

The Lady stopped just behind Danar, and thrust the staff down to the rock three times. Each time the rock boomed under the blow like a giant's drum. Muhbaras was uneasily conscious of how ancient the stonework of this balcony was, and how far it jutted out over a drop clear to the bottom of the valley. He even thought he saw the Maidens betray some unease, by the lift of a shoulder or the flicker of an eye, but for the most part they were doing their usual imitation of statues.

The Lady struck a fourth time”and this time no drum-thunder rolled out across the Valley. In silence the staff seemed to sink into the rock and stand there as if it had grown there. It did not so much as quiver”although Muhbaras thought that he saw a glow in the ruby eye, and perhaps also in the emerald one.

The Lady made a commanding gesture with her left hand, and eight Maidens marched forward from their places around the platform, until they made a tight circle around Danar and the staff. One unlocked the chains from his ankles.

Now an equally commanding gesture of the Lady's right hand set the Maidens to lifting Danar bodily, as if he were a barrel of wine or a sheep's carcass. For a moment Muhbaras thought that Danar's fate was to be impalement, and wondered at the Lady's lack of imagination if she could contrive no worse end for him.

Then the captain saw that they were lifting Danar so that the staff would rise up between his back and his bound hands. He would be as helpless as if he had actually been bound to it, and there would be no need to unbind his hands at any point.

Danar rose, then descended until only the top of his head was visible among the gleaming hair of the Maidens. For a long moment that, too, disappeared” then in the next moment Maidens were flung in all directions like sheep charged by a lion.

Danar burst out of the circle of Maidens with both hands free. His bonds dangled from his wrists, and in his right hand was a small dagger. He leapt over a Maiden who had gone sprawling and dashed for the edge of the platform, where a gap showed between two other Maidens.

"Your pardon, ladies," Danar said, as the women raised spears and moved to close the gap. At least that was what it sounded like to Muhbaras.

What he did know to his dying day was that Danar spoke to the Maidens preparing to kill him as courteously as he might have to a highborn woman with her daughter who found themselves in the path of his war chariot.

The tone had its effect. Or perhaps it was the dagger in Danar's hand.

He feinted with it at the right-hand maiden, lashed out at her sister with the end of the thongs on his left wrist, and made the gap anew.

It was more than wide enough to let him reach the edge of the platform and, without breaking stride, leap into space.

Conan followed the Greencloak up the slope at a less frantic pace. Once again he was trying to look in every direction at once, for all that in some directions his eyes met solid rock just beyond the end of his nose.

He still saw too many men coming across the valley, and fewer but still uncomfortably many atop the ridge on this side. He and his comrades were boxed in as thoroughly as if they had been in a dungeon, and stone walls would have been only a trifle harder to break through than such a horde of tribesmen.

Then he noticed that the battle din from up the slope was dying away, faster than it should. Either his men had been overrun, or they had beaten off at least one attack, which ought to be impossible”

His eagerness to solve the mystery nearly ended Conan's life. He came around a rock into full view of archers higher up, and they promptly put a dozen arrows through the space where he had been standing.

Nothing but a hillman's speed held his wounds to scratches. That same preternatural speed let him scoop up a handful of usable arrows before he leapt again.

This time he landed on something alive and foul-smelling, which swore Afghuli oaths fit to crack rocks or cause landslides.

"Farad, I heard you shouting. How fare we?"

Farad coughed so long and loud that Conan suspected sarcasm. "The men fare well, save for one dead and another fallen under his horse”or is that the one who dashed past me as if his breeches were aflame?"

"The same. I had some trouble bringing him up. Now that you've your breath back and your ribs intact, I repeat my question."

"We've beaten off one attack, on our right." Farad waved an arm in that general direction. "Nobody came down against our left, for which the gods be praised as that would have been the end of us."

"Are their men not yet in position on our left?" If so, then Conan's men had received only a stay of execution, not a full pardon.

"Oh, they hold the heights all across our front, Conan. But they've no manhood, the ones on our left. They hardly put a head up; when they do, they seldom shoot; and when they shoot, it's not to hit. If those weaklings had all the arrows in the world

Conan held up a hand. Battle-honed instincts made him see possibilities in this situation that had escaped Farad. It would be best not to get anyone's hopes up, however.

"My thanks. While there's a lull, I'm going up to scout on the left."

Had Danar's leap been a spell to turn all who saw it into stone, there could not have been more silence or less movement on the balcony.

Muhbaras alone contained himself out of fear. The rest seemed unable to believe that what their eyes had seen was really what had happened.

To suspect one's eyes of so misleading one would unsettle anyone, Muhbaras suspected. At least he had no doubts”and indeed, he was already composing the tribute to Danar he would send to the soldier's kin, if he had any and if Muhbaras himself lived to set pen to parchment again”

The Maidens ceased to be statues. So did the Lady of the Mists. With hands raised, she advanced on the eight Maidens standing about the staff. A crimson nimbus sprang into existence around her right hand; a fainter golden light seemed to drip like water from her left hand.

The two colors cascaded down to the stone, splashed upward like water, and merged. They formed a sphere the size of a large melon, mostly crimson, shot with gold, and throwing off sparks. The sphere began to rotate”as it seemed to Muhbaras, in three different directions as once.

He would have called that impossible”except that since he came to the Valley of the Mists, Muhbaras had purged that word from his lips. It could only make one apt to be surprised”and the Lady and her Maidens held enough surprises for a soldier who kept his wits.

The sphere now floated upward, still spinning, with sparks of both colors cascading down so thickly that one could not see anyone through it. It rose higher and seemed to be moving toward the ring of Maidens.

It darted forward, until it was over the place where Danar had leapt.

Then Muhbaras clapped his hands over his ears, and before he squeezed his eyes shut, saw others doing the same. All seemed to be hearing the scream of one being flayed alive, a scream that told all who heard that it would go on until the end of time and perhaps beyond it until the gods themselves brought an end to it”

He kept his feet, and so did most of the Maidens. Some of them staggered, however, and a handful went to their knees.

Only the Lady of the Mists stood unaffected, her hands still raised, her breasts rising and falling a trifle more than usual under the robe as if she was breathing hard. Her eyes contrived to both glow and be utterly blank at the same time, while her lips were even paler than usual.

Then she gripped the staff with both hands, and it came free of the rock as easily as a weed from sodden ground. She tossed it with one hand and caught it with the other, whirled it, and seemed almost ready to break into a dance.

Dancing was the last thing Muhbaras felt like doing. His highest hope was that his legs and stomach would not betray him until he was safely beyond the Gate of the valley.

He had not believed that the Lady could conjure more horrors. The next moment proved him wrong. Danar, or at least a human figure more like him than not, floated up from the valley. It was as though an invisible hand had caught him before he found the merciful death he sought, and raised him to be prey to the Lady's torments.

For very surely the screams came from the human figure held there in the air before Muhbaras's horror-struck eyes.

-

Nine

-

Conan reined in his urge to rush upslope as he would have reined in a pair of fractious chariot horses. Haste on broken ground leads more often to falls than to safe arrival, even for a surefooted hillman.

It also draws an enemy's attention, which Conan wished to avoid as long as possible. His comrades below lacked the numbers to force the enemy's archers to keep their heads down or even to spoil their shooting, if they chose to rejoin the fray.

So Conan moved with the stealth of a leopard, finding cover in cracks and hiding in pools of shadow that a watcher would have thought too small for a man his size. He also moved with the silence of a cobra, testing each handhold and footrest before putting weight on it. Little dust rose to mark his passage, and only the smallest pebbles rolled silently downhill.

As he climbed, the rocks grew smaller but the ground grew otherwise more rugged. At times the only route that offered concealment also required him to call on his mountaineering skills. Fortunately these were fresh in his memory, as much of Afghulistan reared itself up into slopes that challenged even its own goat-footed tribesfolk or even Cimmerians.

Conan finished climbing a short rock chimney with his feet against one side and his back against another. The ground at the upper end offered just enough hiding places to let him stop, catch his breath, spit dust from his mouth (although he still did not care to have his teeth touch one another), and listen to the progress of the battle.

Or rather, listen for the progress of the battle, without hearing it.

Both above and below, the enemy seemed to have sat down to wait, not even hurling the occasional arrow or slingstone at a venture into the rocks where Conan's band lay hidden. Conan listened for war cries and curses, but heard only coughs and sneezes, and beyond that the crack of rocks breaking in the heat, the sigh of the wind, and distant birdcalls from high above.

Of course, such a silence had in Conan's experience also meant the enemy slipping into his comrades' position and cutting their throats.

But he did not believe that the Turanian had yet been born who could do that to one Afghuli tribesman, let alone half a dozen”unless he was of Afghuli blood himself¦

A sound from above cut short the Cimmerian's brief speculations. It was the sound of a man crawling, trying to be silent but having rather less than complete success at it.

Then other sounds joined the first one. Somebody was calling out, trying to be heard close by but not at any great distance. The call abruptly cut off, and Conan heard what sounded remarkably like a struggle. Meanwhile, the crawling man was drawing closer. Conan judged that the man would be close enough to spit on if he continued downhill for as long as it might take to empty a mug of good ale.

Then from above someone cried out in rage, someone else in agony.

Neither seemed concerned about being overheard at a distance; indeed both shouted loud enough to be heard in Aghrapur. A frantic scrabbling told of the crawling man increasing his pace.

Then a bearded, wild-eyed head peered over a rock just beyond Conan's reach. Instantly shouts rose from all around the rim, and the Cimmerian heard the whistle of arrows. Whether this man was friend or foe, Conan judged that he must know something that it would be well to learn.

Turned into a pincushion by archers, he would die without speaking.

Conan lunged out of cover and grabbed a handful of greasy black hair with one hand, the neck of a patched and weather-faded robe with the other. Then he heaved backward. The man flew over the Cimmerian's head, screaming in panic as he saw himself about to plunge headfirst down the chimney.

He did not do so, because Conan twisted with the agility of an eel, shifting his grip as he did so. His hands closed around the man's ankles. But he was off balance for a moment”the moment in which all the weight of the man came on his wrists.

Conan dug in his feet, but an arrow creased the back of his knees. The sudden sting made him start, and that broke the grip of his toes. At the same moment the man squalled as if he were being impaled, which drew more arrows, and struggled wildly.

The Cimmerian felt himself sliding. Both his own honor and the need to keep the prisoner alive barred him from just letting go. Instead he tried to turn the slide into a leap, but he had no time. He was still turning, trying to get his feet under him to land softly, when he slid over the edge of the chimney and plunged down.

The Lady of the Mists let out a screech like a mating wildcat. The sphere of fire instantly swelled to three times its previous size and leaped toward Danar's suspended form.

Colors that Muhbaras would not have believed possible in Hell blazed in the Lady's eyes. They were mirrored in the sphere. It lost its spherical shape and licked out now more like the tongue of an immense serpent.

Its flame-shot core drove between two Maidens, so close that its fringes touched them. Each fell backward as if kicked by a horse, sprawling on the stone with clatters of armor. Some of their comrades hesitated, but others sprang forward to drag them to safety.

Muhbaras gave scant attention to what was happening on the platform.

Instead he stared at what was happening to Danar. He hung in midair like a soap bubble as a web of fire wove itself around him, forming now obscene figures, now gouts of flame in sap-phire and emerald hues, at once dazzling and unwholesome.

Each time the Lady of the Mists raised her hands, the web grew tighter.

Each time Muhbaras caught a glimpse of Danar, he bore more signs of torment. His mouth was open in a soundless scream and his back arched until his spine had to be ready to snap.

Then the fire closed around what had been a living man, but his being gone from sight did not mean the end of the torment. Instead the Lady allowed Danar's scream out of the fire”and Muhbaras had never heard a viler sound in all his years of warfare.

Then Muhbaras shut his ears and strode forward with his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Before anyone, Lady or Maiden, could move spell or steel to halt him, he tossed the dagger, caught it by the point, then flung it into the sphere of fire.

It was long range for anyone who had not learned the art of the throwing knife at ten and won prizes in the bazaar at twelve (and been beaten by his father for dealing with such lowborn folk). Also, Muhbaras had spent little time at practice of late.

His hand and eye still marched together. The dagger vanished into the fire. As it did, Muhbaras saw the Lady turn toward him”and raised his sword until its point thrust into the tongue of fire streaming from the Lady.

Mitra be my witness and guard my men, I cannot do otherwise.

Good fortune was with the Cimmerian and his prisoner in their fall.

They landed on sand, with the prisoner uppermost, and Conan's ribs were sheathed in iron-hard muscle. He also had skill in jumping and falling that a carnival tumbler might have envied.

The fall still knocked the breath out of him, and he was slow to rise.

Fortunately his captive was as breathless from fear as the Cimmerian was from the fall. The man only attempted his escape after Conan was fit to prevent it, with a large hand clamped firmly around the handiest ankle.

The man cursed and opened his mouth to scream, then appeared to see Conan clearly for the first time. His mouth stayed open, until he croaked words that sounded like:

"You”no”Girumgi man?"

The tongue was Turanian, but such a thick dialect that Conan was not sure what was being said.

"I am not Girumgi," Conan said, in Turanian, as if he were speaking to a child. "I mean you no harm, nor do any of my friends. Come with me."

The words seemed to escape the man's understanding, but the tone and the gestures carried enough meaning. Also, the man was short and lean even for a desert tribesman. The Cimmerian could have carried a man of that size under each arm, and the man seemed to prefer using his own feet to such a fate.

They made a good pace back to shelter. The enemy above seemed to be wholly lost in their shouting contest. Conan prefered to rejoin his comrades before the shouting turned back to shooting. As for the men below, the ground was against them, but numbers were for them. Their not coming on was another mystery, and two mysteries on the same battlefield were two more than the Cimmerian enjoyed facing.

Battles were confusing enough when everybody did what he was supposed to. When he did not, only a god could see some pattern in the chaos of a battle.

If he had owed nothing to comrades, the Cimmerian would have been using the enemy's confusion to show them all a clean pair of heels. When others' lives hung on your continued presence, however”

Farad was the first to greet Conan, and motioned quickly to a low cave whose mouth had been dug free while Conan was garnering the prisoner.

It was too shallow to be much of a last refuge, and held no water”not that the battle was likely to exhaust even the single water bag apiece Conan's band was carrying.

"No attacks?" the Cimmerian said.

Farad looked at the sky. "Would we be here if there had been? And who is this aged boy?"

Again the man understood Farad's tone rather than his Afghuli words, and drew a dagger. Conan promptly slapped it out of his hand, then retrieved it and thrust it into his own belt.

"You are lucky to be alive," he said. "I will keep this knife until you have told us what is happening uphill. Why do you fear the Girumgi?"

The man began babbling a hasty explanation, of which Conan understood possibly two words out of three. He found more sense in the man's tale when he remembered that the Girumgi were one of the more powerful of the desert tribes.

Before the man had finished his explanation, Conan heard the shouting atop the hill die away. As it did, he thought he also heard Turanian war horns, but so far away that it was impossible to tell whether it was a trick of the desert wind moaning around the rocks.

Conan signaled with his hand to Farad: Make ready for an attack. Farad nodded and undid his belt, to bind the prisoner's hands. The man's eyes rolled up until only the whites showed.

Conan glared. "He will cut your throat if you do not submit, and I will not stop him."

"No”I fight”I friend you”I fight Girumgi he said, with frantic gestures uphill and toward the right.

That told Conan that the Girumgi had been pressing the attack more vigorously, but not enough else to dispel the mystery. He nodded to Farad, who looped the thong around the man's wrists and started to pull it tight.

Then demons seemed to break loose on the hill above. Fifty men at least were screaming, in defiance, terror, or mortal agony. Above the screaming rose unmistakable Turanian war horns, this time not far away at all. Even better, some of the war cries were also Turanian.

Conan looked at the prisoner, who had fainted. Then he looked at Farad, who returned a "Do you take me for an oracle?" expression.

The Cimmerian shifted to the nearest position that might allow him to see what was going on uphill, or tell where he could send an arrow without skewering a friend!

Muhbaras did not expect another life in another world, for he had served too many bad masters for far too long. He also did not expect anyone to speak well of the manner of his death, or compose about it a poem that would be sung in the halls of Khorajan nobles for centuries or even moons to come. He did expect that his death would make amends to Danar's spirit, if it did not end his torment.

What Muhbaras did not know about sorcery and witchcraft would fill several long and closely written scrolls. He did know, however, that the presence of cold iron, such as a sword blade, could hinder many spells.

All this whirled through Muhbaras's thoughts in the heartbeat between his lifting the sword and its entering the fire. Then he staggered backward as the tongue of fire jerked upward, snatching the sword from his hand so violently that the shagreen grip left his palm bloody.

Like a mortally stricken serpent, the tongue of fire writhed wildly in the air. The Lady of the Mists braced her legs and clutched at her end of it like a drowning man clutching at a rope. Muhbaras heard her chanting, then screaming, loud enough to be heard over Danar's agony, but was too surprised at still being alive to look closely at the Lady's face.

Too surprised, and also too fearful that if she took serious notice of him, his death would be next and in a form that made Danar's look mild.

He had not fallen dead the moment his sword pierced the fire. He judged this to mean that something far worse awaited him.

Then Danar's cry ended. The fire around him vanished, and only gray ash remained, drifting down into the valley on the evening breeze, past life, past pain, past fear.

The Lady chanted on, and the tongue of fire now lashed about like the tail of an immense cat. Everyone gave it ample room, except the Lady who commanded it and Muhbaras. He stood as if his feet had turned to stone and joined with the balcony. Indeed, he had to look down to be sure that this had not happened.

He was alive, but knew this could not last long. Since he was a dead man who yet stood, he would not fling aside the dignity of this last moment by seeking to run.

Perhaps his death would not pass unnoticed”at least among the Maidens.

Some of them had the souls of women rather than witches. Danar had proved that. They might not be such ready tools for their mad mistress with the example of Muhbaras's death in front of them.

Suddenly the tongue of fire shrank from the height of a tree to the height of a man in a single instant. Then it shrank further, into a sphere no larger than an apple, and fell to the stone. As it struck, it vanished”but smoke rose where it struck, and Muhbaras saw stone bubble and fume as it ran liquid.

They stood, sorceress and mercenary, staring at one another across a patch of cooling lava no wider than a footstool but seemingly as wide as the valley itself for all that either could cross it. The silence around them seemed as solid as bronze or stone, encasing their limbs so firmly that the mere thought of movement seemed futile.

Only the rise and fall of the Lady's breasts told Muhbaras that she yet lived. He could not have told why he knew that he lived, yet he did”and as the moments flowed one into another, he began to wonder if he might go on living.

Do not hope. Death that snatches away hope is the harshest.

That was an old lesson, in books any boy born to be a soldier knew almost as soon as he could mount a horse. Muhbaras clung to it, but he also clung to the thought that he had done something the Lady of the Mists could not have expected, and did not know what to make of it.

As long as she doubted, Muhbaras might live.

It did not occur to him to try to escape while the Lady stood bemused and doubting, perhaps for the first time since she bent the valley to her will. Had he been able to form the reason for this completely, it would have been that any movement by him would break this fragile truce, and make the Lady lash out wildly.

His own death was certain, a death he had faced to end Danar's torment.

He would not bring death to the Maidens if he could contrive otherwise.

A sound broke the silence”the clang of steel on stone. Muhbaras still did not move. He did not need to. Without so much as moving his eyes, he saw his sword lying on the stone between him and the Lady.

He had expected the sword to be a blackened, twisted relic of itself.

Instead it gleamed as if the finest armorer in the world had lavished entire days bringing out the luster in the steel. Jewels winked in the hilt where only a few disks of silver had shone before”but they did not make the weapon useless.

"Take it up," the Lady said. At least that was what Muhbaras thought he heard, although he could not have sworn the words were not coming from the air. He did know, however, that it would be ill done to make the Lady repeat herself.

He squatted, and without taking his eyes from the Lady's face, lifted his sword. It felt lighter than before, yet as well balanced as ever.

One heard about such swords, in old tales of heroes who had died when the waves still rolled over the fresh grave of Atlantis. One did not imagine seeing one's own blade transformed into such a weapon.

"Cut off a lock of your hair with your blade, honored captain," the Lady said. This time Muhbaras knew that it was she who spoke. He also knew that disobeying was impossible. Never mind the possible consequences”disobeying was a thought that did not enter his mind.

He had cut a lock of hair, the edge of his sword shearing through it effortlessly, when he remembered another bit of witch lore.

Give a witch anything of yours, particularly part of your body, and she can conjure potent spells against you, or at least to serve herself.

Muhbaras allowed this thought to linger in his mind. Then he deliberately thought of refusing.

Instead of blasting him to ashes on the spot, the Lady of the Mists smiled. It was the smile of one to whose face such an expression is newly come and not altogether welcome. It seemed as if she was trying to put herself as well as him at ease.

This seemed improbable to the last degree. Had the Lady any vestige of conscience, she would not have done as she had to Danar. If she felt remorse, it was too late for a good soldier.

But her face was shaping itself into a smile, and after a moment, Muhbaras returned it. After another moment he stepped forward, but he did not hold out the lock of hair, nor put from his mind the thought of refusing it.

"You have nothing to fear from the gift of your substance, honored captain," the Lady said. She looked him up and down with those golden cat's eyes. Muhbaras could not escape the thought that here was a woman considering him as a man. There had been”not tenderness”but what might be called warmth in her eyes.

That thought also provoked no death-dealing spells.

Muhbaras took another step forward, and this time the Lady also moved.

Cool fingers touched his, reaching as high as his wrist, briefly gripping it, then withdrawing with the lock of hair clasped between thumb and forefinger.

As the Lady of the Mists withdrew her hand, Muhbaras noted that her fingernails were a muted shade of the same gold as her eyes.

Then he noticed nothing more, until he found himself standing amid a rising wind, with light almost gone from the sky and eight Maidens standing around him in a circle.

It did not surprise him that the Maidens now looked like impatient women rather than daughters of a warrior goddess. It did not even surprise him that some of them were shivering noticeably in the onrushing chill of the evening.

His voice came out strongly when he spoke, what he hoped would be the last surprise of the evening.

"All of you need not come, unless our Lady commands it. I only need guides to the mouth of the valley."

"Our Lady commands all," one of the Maidens said, in a voice almost as flat as before.

It seemed they had not unbent enough to follow his suggestions rather than their Lady's command.

Conan had not found a good shooting spot when the primal chaos seemed to descend on the hillside. Dust rose like a young sandstorm, and out of the brown cloud warriors rolled, fell, leaped, and ran.

In spite of the dust, Conan could tell that some were tribal warriors”no doubt the Girumgi, although he did not remember the pattern of their headdress. The rest were Turanian Greencloaks. Clearly Khezal's roving band had scented trouble in time to ride to Conan's rescue.

The arrival of friends did not, however, ensure Conan's victory or even his survival. Desperate tribesmen were swarming downhill, and they outnumbered the Cimmerian's band two or three to one. Also, the tribesmen could shoot both uphill and down with small risk of striking friends. The Turanians both above and below were not so fortunate.

Best hold with steel, Conan thought, then shouted that aloud.

One Afghuli archer protested; Farad made to snatch his bow and looked ready to break it. The archer slung his bow and drew a long knife, which to Conan looked much the best weapon for close-quarters work.

Then the Girumgi came down upon them. Conan spared one glance to the left flank, where nobody seemed to be either shouting or shooting now.

Then his world shrank to the rocks on either side and the dust-caked, wild-eyed opponent in front of him.

He swung hard from the right at one tribesman's rib cage and caught the man's left arm as it swung down. The man's forearm and tulwar fell to the ground; he howled and tried to push his spouting stump in the Cimmerian's face. Conan's blade ended that dying effort, shearing deep into the man's torso and reaching his heart.

He fell in a narrow passage between two rocks, partly blocking it.

Conan half-turned, snatched up a rock, and flung it left-handed at the next man to appear in the passage. It turned his face to bloody jam as he stumbled forward on the point of Conan's newly drawn dagger and fell atop his comrade.

An arrow whssshed close to the Cimmerian's ear, from the right. He faced that way, snatching up another rock and leaping forward as well.

The tribesman who'd shot was too close for a throw, so close he ought not to have been able to miss. But panic or even haste will make the best warrior hardly more than a child”certainly much less than a Conan.

The Cimmerian struck the archer with his stone-weighted left hand, while thrusting over the man's shoulder with his sword. The first man's head snapped back hard enough to break his neck, and he crashed into the man behind at the same moment Conan's steel entered the second one's throat. Again two tribesmen fell, almost atop one another.

But Conan now stood in an open space, with rocks all around that might hide archers and two entrances that might let tribesmen outflank him.

He gave ground, drifting to the left. Along that way lay a single narrow passage with both flanks secure and only room for one man to come at him.

Conan had to kill but one tribesman on the way to that narrow passage.

From the shouting and screaming to either side of him, not to say the clang of steel, he judged his comrades were having better fortune.

He hoped so. They had to beat down the fleeing tribesmen before their comrades below realized what was going on. If they came up to help, they could still catch Conan's men between two fires.

It was the fleeing tribesmen who were overwhelmed in the next few moments. Each of Conan's men fought like two, and although there were more tribesmen than the Cimmerian had reckoned, in the end that made no difference.

Conan had just found a moment to catch his breath and roughly clean his blades when more shouting broke out below. Mingled with the human cries were the frightened neighs and agonized death-screams of horses.

Again, some of those war cries were Turanian.

Conan had just time to think that this battle was growing mysteries when more fleeing tribesmen came in sight. These appeared to come from the valley below, and they seemed as eager to climb the hill as their comrades had been to descend.

Like their comrades, they outnumbered Conan's band even had it been at full strength. As Conan had seen at least one Afghuli lying dead or gravely hurt, that strength had to be less full than a captain could wish.

"Crom!" the Cimmerian swore. "These tribal lice won't let a man even stop to clean his sword."

Then he strode forward to strike the new foes, but leaped backward as arrows hailed about him, and one tore at his left forearm. The wound would slow him by nightfall, but the battle would not last that long, and he had fought all day with half a dozen such wounds.

The arrow did the Cimmerian no great hurt. What nearly ended his career was a dying Girumgi who had been lying directly behind the Cimmerian.

As Conan retreated, he grabbed Conan's ankles and jerked. Most men might as well have tried to shift the Kezankian Mountains, but the tribesman was a large man with the strength of the dying, and he caught Conan off balance.

Conan toppled, lashing out as he did. His fist grazed the man's jaw, but his head did not graze a protruding rock. A skull less thick than the Cimmerian's would have cracked open. Even the Cimmerian saw flame-shot darkness”and then the dying Girumgi rolling on top of him, dagger thrusting for his throat.

It never reached its goal. Suddenly a slight figure stood behind the tribesman, and a gold-hilted sword descended like the wrath of Crom.

The tribesman's skull split apart, and his dagger thudded harmlessly on Conan's chest.

By now the Cimmerian could focus his eyes well enough to recognize the swordsman.

"Khezal. By Erlik's helm, you are timely come!"

"You must be seriously hurt, my friend. Such courtly speech from you goes against nature."

"Would you like me to rise up and strangle you to prove otherwise?"

"Hardly. I might ask for some of those jewels

"From my share, perhaps. If you take any from the Afghulis' portion, I will drop you headfirst down a dry well and then bury you in camel dung!"

Khezal pretended to cringe, then turned his head to listen to a distant sound beyond the reach of Conan's ears. (They were still ringing, and his stomach was grateful for being nearly empty.)

"That's the sergeant who was besieging your runaway Afghulis," Khezal said.

"What is he doing here?"

"When I learn, you will be the first to know. But he just told me that he and his men have driven off the horses of the tribesmen in the valley, and are pursuing the fugitives on foot."

"Better them than me," Conan said. He tried to sit up, and the ground swayed only moderately.

"Ho, a litter for Captain Conan!" Khezal shouted.

"I've had worse hurts falling out of my cradle," the Cimmerian grumbled.

"That was not so far to fall as it will be now with you full-grown,"

Khezal said. He pushed the Cimmerian back down. The fact that the Turanian could do it and that Conan did not care to resist proved to Conan that perhaps he should leave the rest of the battle in Khezal's hands.

It was, after all, thoroughly won, even if it would be a while before he knew exactly how, What would take longer to discover, he feared, was whether this was the last battle of the quest into the Kezankian

Mountains”or, as he very much suspected, only the first of many.

That was too sobering a thought for a man with an aching head, so Conan found a comfortable position and waited for the litter.

Captain Muhbaras rode down the path from the gate to the Valley toward his quarters. He normally walked, the path being rather too steep for horses, and a warrior's dignity prohibited an ass.

Tonight, however, he would lose even more dignity by falling on his nose and perhaps rolling down the hill than he would be riding an ass.

His legs had not felt so weak since the first time he did a dawn-to-sunset march with a full pack.

The Lady of the Mists had been appraising him as a man. This he now could no longer doubt. She had also been doing it in full view of Maidens who might be neither loyal nor discreet. Thus whatever was in the Lady's thoughts might already be no secret.

Having a sorceress contemplating one in such a manner could hardly end happily, even if one had no thought for one's personal honor. The tales were many and various about the fate of a witch's lover, but none of them held much hope of avoiding a harsh fate.

However, offending the Lady of the Mists held out no hope of safety for Muhbaras's men. He had risked them to save his honor once, and by a miracle or the whims of a sorceress who was yet a woman, he and they alike had escaped. This good fortune would not come a second time.

Muhbaras bore that thought as one might bear a wounded comrade at the end of a long day's battle, as he rode down the trail into shadows little relieved by the lanterns at the door of his quarters.

"So the Girumgi are at least toying with rebellion?" Conan asked.

"So it would seem," Khezal replied.

"One mystery solved," Conan grunted, and poured more wine into his cup.

"Are you sure”?" Khezal began.

"I am sure you did not learn war from Khadjar and your father to serve as my nurse," the Cimmerian growled. "My head barely aches. I see only what is held up in front of me. I have not spewed or fallen asleep."

"Which proves that Cimmerian heads really are harder than stone," Farad put in.

Conan threw up his hands in mock disgust. "Since my head is fit to hold thoughts, shall we think what to do next?"

The prisoner Conan had taken was from the Stone Clan of the Ekinari.

The son of the chief of the Ekinari was sworn blood-brother to the chief of the Girumgi. This explained why Ekinari rode with Girumgi, but not altogether why they had not fought side by side.

"Even had you known the tribal speech, you could not have got from that man answers he did not know himself," Khezal went on. "Nor did it help matters that the rest of the Stone Clan or whoever were his comrades ran off as it fifty demons were at their heels."

"Demons, or perhaps all the surviving Girumgi," Farad said.

"Few enough of those, by Mitra's favor," Khezal said.

Being overconfident had brought better captains than Khezal to lonely graves, but Conan thought in this case the Turanian had the right of it. It seemed that Khezal was not the only one to march to the sound of Oman's battle.

The Greencloaks had been industriously besieging the fugitive Afghulis when the battle sounds rose. Convinced that the battle had to involve Conan coming to rescue them, the leader of the Afghulis called for a parley and offered truce terms.

The Afghulis would release all their hostages without ransom and return their weapons. In return, the Greencloaks would swear not to harm the Afghulis until they had fought and won against the common foe who was surely not far away.

The Greencloaks accepted this offer, and the truce was sworn to last until both sides were released from it by their respective captains. It seemed that the Greencloaks were as sure of Khezal's coming as the Afghulis were of Conan's, and also wished to join in battle under their beloved captain.

So Afghuli and Turanian rode out together, and made havoc in the rear of the tribesmen in the valley. They had a good plunder of weapons, horses, and baggage, and the bodies of some fifty tribesmen were feeding the vultures. The new allies had lost no more than seven, and Conan could see the stone cairn where they lay in the light of a dung fire.

Khezal was still a man to ride with, more so than ever now that the wisdom of years and the experience of many battles had joined his native wits. It was as well to have such a comrade on a quest, particularly one that showed every sign of sprouting new mysteries as fast as the old ones were answered.

Conan had sworn to ride north to aid Khezal in the Kezankian Mountains, and he would not break that oath if all the tribes of the desert and all their intriguing chiefs and chiefs' sons stood in his path. But he would not expect to come back alive, either.

-

Ten

They were four days' ride north of the battle against the Girumgi. The Kezankian Mountains were peering over the northern horizon, with the eternal snowcaps of the higher peaks glinting pink at dawn and sunset.

The breeze told of a world beyond the desert, at which Conan and the Afghulis rejoiced.

Khezal was less joyful, and thought he had cause, for all the Cimmerian's rough jests.

"Here we are, not far from the caravan routes," Conan said. "Yet you complain. There are wells for water, trees for shade, and even refuges for any of our men who fall ill or are taken by the sun. What do you want”dragons to fly us to the Kezankians in a trice?"

"I would rather bind them to seek out the mysteries in the mountains and bring us back word of what they learn," Khezal replied.

"Not slay the wizards outright?"

"I'd not wager a dragon's power against wizards fit to do the half of what the tales say has happened," Khezal said, with a shrug. "Besides, I'm of your mind about dealing with spellcasters. Don't play their games, but close and feed them an arm's length of steel."

Conan nodded his approval. "Then what ails you, my friend?"

"Riding into yet another mystery is what ails me, and don't pretend you are any the less uneasy in your mind about that. Also, we have slain two score Girumgi, and if they are not in rebellion against the king, they will surely call themselves at blood-feud with us."

"Hah. There will be few Girumgi left to rebel if they stand to face us.

Moreover, as long as we face that battle, your folk and mine will be readier to forget that they ever so much as exchanged harsh looks."

Khezal looked back at the Afghuli riding in a compact knot behind Conan. Certainly some Turanians rode easily beside them, chatting as if they'd been comrades for years. Other Greencloaks, however, kept their distance and wore baleful looks. The Afghulis, in turn, kept a sharp lookout and their sword hands free.

"Speak for your own men, as no doubt you can," Khezal said. "I am sure of most of mine, but there is always one with a heritage of blood-feud or grief for a lost comrade who can ruin the best-planned discipline.

I'll guard your back, Conan, but I can hardly promise that will be enough."

"You're a warrior, not a god," Conan said, slapping Khezal on the shoulder nearly hard enough to tumble the slight Turanian from the saddle. Khezal mock-glared, then turned his eyes forward once more.

"We'd best start looking for a campsite near water," he said, after a moment. "In the middle of the camp, would be my choice."

"How so?"

"See that haze on the horizon?" Conan followed the other's pointing finger and nodded. The horizon did indeed seem blurred, as might be after an evening's drinking.

Except that no one among the riders had touched wine for longer than it was pleasant to remember.

"Sandstorm?"

"I see you have not forgotten everything you learned in the Turanian service."

"No, although one of the things I did forget was your tongue. Some day Yezdigerd may have it out by the roots."

"And you'll stand drinks for the executioner, of course?" The brittleness in Khezal's voice told Conan more than he cared to know about the uneasy situation honest men could face under the ruthless young king.

"I'll wring his neck and snatch you to life and freedom," the Cimmerian replied. "But I won't expect thanks for it."

"You know me well," Khezal said. "And now, if you know this desert, let us seek that campsite. At this time of year it's death to ride in a sandstorm and no small risk even to camp in one away from water. They can blow for days at a time."

The wind moaned steadily outside Muhbaras's quarters, occasionally rising to a shriek. He shivered, not so much at the wind's cry but at the man sitting across the room from him.

Through the smoke from the bronze brazier Ermik's face looked even more complacent and self-satisfied than usual. It was hard to believe, but all the man's time in the mountains had not cost him any flesh.

Muhbaras wondered how much money he had spent in bribes squeezing banquets from the rocks, or perhaps how many pack animals he had killed bringing supplies from more civilized lands or even from Khoraja itself.

The spy had come to speak of a rumor abroad in the valley. After three cups of Muhbaras's wine, he had yet to put it into plain words.

Muhbaras hardened his voice. "I ask you for the last time. Put a name to the rumor or hold your piece."

"And what will you do if I do neither?" Ermik taunted.

"Do you wish to test me to the point of learning?" Muhbaras said. His voice was low, and to his own ears, that of a man dangerously near the end of his patience.

Ermik shrugged. "I have as many friends as before, and you have as few," he said. "What I speak of concerns how we may both have more friends here."

"We will have few friends and many enemies if you have been roaming where our men are not allowed," Muhbaras said wearily. "That also remains as true as it was before."

Ermik shrugged. "I doubt that your fears are wise counselors

"Either do not call me a coward or be prepared to lose your tongue,"

Muhbaras snapped.

This time Ermik did seem to recognize danger, at least when it took the form of a man within a heartbeat of drawing steel. He bowed his head, in a gesture at once graceful and contemptuous.

"I beg your pardon. I do not call you coward. Do you not call me fool, unless I give more proof of it than I think I have so far."

Ermik drew in breath.

"The Maidens say that the Lady of the Mists desires you, as a woman does a man. They did not say how they knew this, as this no doubt is part of the mysteries of the Valley of the Mist and its Lady. But the Maiden who told me swore such oaths by gods I knew, as well as by those I knew not, that I do not doubt she spoke the truth as far as she apprehended it."

That was unusual care in choosing words for Ermik, but surprise did not make Muhbaras less alert. He folded his hands across one silk-trousered knee. (Actually he folded the hands across the homespun knee patch on the silk. The trousers and several other silk garments were a gift from his sister, who had died in childbirth two years ago. Hard wear on campaign and in the mountains was rapidly reducing them to a state in which Muhbaras would hardly care to be buried in them, for all his affection for his sister's memory.)

"So we face a sorceress who has begun to think with her loins, as do many common women. Many common women also command their loins, or at least do not roam about like starving shelions in search of a man to serve them."

"Many do, the more fools they when there are any number of willing men," Ermik said. "But I do not think the Lady of the Mists is one of them."

If the truth be known, neither do I. Red-hot pincers and boiling oil could not have drawn from the captain a description of the Lady's face, for Ermik's delectation. Of course, if the Maidens were women enough to recognize desire, the spy might not need such a description, either¦

"Why me?" Even to his own ears, Muhbaras's words sounded pathetic.

Ermik laughed outright. "Why not you? I have not a woman's eye for judging a man, but no doubt the Lady sees in you what she needs."

"Yes, but why me, if her need is for a man?"

"Who can know the truth of a woman's will? Of course, you may be right.

If she does not care greatly as to which man comes forward, I might

"No!"

"Jealous?"

This time Muhbaras actually rose from his stool, although he stopped short of drawing his sword. He sat down, shaking his head, while Ermik had at least had the decency not to laugh again.

"The whole idea of bedding the Lady is near-kin to madness," Muhbaras said, when he knew he could command his voice. "One does not know what will please Her Magicalness, nor what will displease her, nor what she will do to the man who displeases her.

"Also, she is not being wise in regard to her Maidens. You would not know how this seems, to one who has commanded soldiers in battle."

"You see the Lady as a captain over her Maiden soldiers?"

"Yes, and fighting a war to bring her magic to victory."

"That may be so," Ermik said. Without asking Muhbaras's leave, he went over to the wine jug resting in a stone crock half-filled with cold water. The captain noticed that the spy's hands were not entirely steady as he poured himself another cup, still less so when he drank it off in one gulp.

"It is so," Muhbaras said. "And one rule which wise captains obey is never to take pleasures that you forbid your men. Do you think Khoraja will profit from a mutiny among the Maidens that leads to war in the valley and the ruin of all our plans to bedevil Turan?"

"No," Ermik said. "Nor will our native city profit from a scorned woman turning against us and all our plans. How long do you think we would live if the Lady of the Mists hurled her magic against us?"

Muhbaras said that he doubted that a man could measure so short an interval of time. Ermik nodded.

"Then the Lady should not feel scorned, even if this will make the Maidens jealous. Then, we need not fear so greatly. Nor need we fear them at all if the man goes to the Lady discreetly."

"That certainly means the man cannot be you," Muhbaras said. Then he shut his mouth with a snap of teeth as he realized that he had walked into a cleverly baited trap.

He forced laughter. "I see that I have talked myself into doing as the Lady wishes”which, of course, may be only to hear me sing tavern songs and juggle dried goat's ears

Ermik joined in the laughter. After the laughing ceased, Muhbaras poured them both more wine. That emptied the jug, but there was enough in his cup to soothe his dry throat, and all the wine in the world would not answer the one question that remained.

How, in the name of every god who takes thought for such matters, does a common man go about scratching a sorceress with an itch?

The sandstorm blew up during the night, and was still blowing the next day. The campsite had no well within its boundaries, as Khezal and Conan had chosen it for ease of defense. However, the well was so close that with a rope strung from the outermost sentry post to the well, water bearers could come and go safely even when the sand cut a man's vision to the length of his outstretched arm.

One Greencloak, a new man not yet desert-wise, still wandered away from the rope. Fortunately he had the wits to stop where night overtook him, and as he had been returning from the well with full water bags, did not suffer from thirst.

In the morning the man came in, scoured raw by the sand but not otherwise harmed, and Khezal ordered the camp broken. Sand was still drifting down from a haze-dimmed sky, and the horizon was barely visible at all, but the captain said that the next campsite had two wells and could be held against an army.

"Even one that does not reckon losses if they can bring down an enemy?"

Conan said.

"You understand the tribesmen well, Conan

"I am a Cimmerian. Does that answer your question?"

"Not entirely. I was about to say that you do not understand them perfectly. No chief will throw away too many warriors. They might be driven to turn on him. Even if they remained loyal, if they were too few, his tribe or clan might fall to a more numerous enemy, or he himself might fall at the hands of a would-be chief with more followers. It is seldom that the tribesmen will fight to the last man, unless one gives them no choice.

"Of course," Khezal concluded with a wry grin, "this might be one of those times."

"I shall always remember you as a cheerful companion," Conan said.

"May we both live long enough to remember each other," Khezal said.

"We shan't, if you don't keep a better watch for snakes," Conan snapped. He pointed at a desert asp wriggling toward the left forefoot of the captain's mount.

"I keep watch enough," Khezal said. In one moment his dagger was in his hand. In another, it was sunk deep in the sand, severing the asp just behind the hood. The body writhed furiously, but was still by the time the captain mounted.

They rode off, arrayed in the manner the Greencloaks used when they feared a sandstorm. They rode close together, in double columns, with no man much farther than a spear's length from a comrade. Each man wore upon his clothes the whitest object he possessed, and there was a man with horn or drum for every ten riders.

The boy Conan had known in the Ilbars Mountains had become a man to follow. If Khezal's will could have kept him safe in the Turanian service, the Cimmerian might even have returned to it.

But the gods had willed otherwise, so Conan would ride west once more when this quest into the North was done.

-

Eleven

That morning they were close to the stretch of desert the Girumgi called their own. (Or at least the one where wandering strangers were more likely to die at the hands of Girumgi than of any other tribe's warriors. That was as far as territorial claims commonly went in the desert, where a tribe that wished to could move almost as freely as a fleet of merchant vessels on the open sea.)

So in spite of their formation, the riders were keeping a better lookout for human enemies than for the weather. It was not a total surprise when the sandstorm blew up again, but it gave what would have been little enough notice even for the most vigilant men.

It did not help that only moments before the storm came upon them, they saw riders at the head of a val-ley not far off to their right. Thanks to some curious twist of the land, the air between them and the riders was as clear as a fine day in Vanaheim. It was possible to count the riders, some three score, and to recognize a Girumgi banner and headdresses among the nearer men.

Conan did not dispute the identification of the banner or the nearer riders, but his keen sight left him in doubt about the rest. He could not have said what tribe they were, but he was prepared to wager that they would turn out to be other than Girumgi.

He was not prepared to wager the lives of his men, however. He took the lead when the sky and air both turned brown and the Turanians had to seek shelter before they could no longer see their hands before their faces. He rode down into the foot of the valley, then spread his Afghulis in a line across it. Still mounted, they watched the Turanians follow them out of the thickening storm and find refuge in a natural bowl on the north side of the valley.

"We'll watch above, you watch below," Khezal said, or rather shouted.

The sandstorm now howled like a gale at sea, and hand signals would have been more sensible had anyone been able to see them.

"Fair enough," Conan shouted back. He did not add that he was personally going to slip up the valley and see whom they might be facing. It would be hard to punish him for disobeying an order that he had not received.

Conan waited until Turanians and Afghulis were in their intended places, and until the far end of the valley was as invisible as if it had been in Vendhya. The storm was less thick in the valley than on the open desert above, but Conan judged he could still slip close to these mysterious neighbors without being seen.

This quest had already sprouted too many mysteries. Here perhaps was one that he could solve before nightfall, risking no man's life but his own.

In this assumption he had not reckoned on Farad. When Conan slipped between the horses and gripped a rock to pull himself up and over, he found Farad sitting cross-legged atop the rock.

"You were near having your throat slit," Conan snapped. "Indeed, you may be still."

"Would that not be poor repayment for my loyalty?" the Afghuli said.

"Are you being loyal, or more like a louse in a man's breech-guard?"

"It seemed to us that you should not go scouting alone. Who would bring the truth, if you twisted an ankle or struck your head

"My head is not the one most likely to be struck here, my friend."

"”on a rock?" Farad went on, unperturbed and keeping his face totally blank. "So we rolled dice for the honor of going with you."

"Using your dice, of course?" Conan said. He could not help smiling, moved by Farad's evident determination.

"Of course. I am not one to leave too much to chance."

"Then let us be off. I could have subdued you if I needed to go alone.

Both of us together cannot subdue Khezal and his Greencloaks if they learn of our plan."

Conan leaped off the far side of the rock, Farad followed him, and side by side they walked into the storm.

The storm above must have been scouring the desert and blinding or choking any traveler unfortunate enough to lack shelter. Before Conan and Farad had covered half the distance to the other band's outposts, they had to veil all of their faces but their eyes to breathe freely.

Conan had heard of tribes in Khitai who had the art of making masks of the bladders of certain fish, transparent yet strong enough to keep out the sandstorms of their deserts. The Cimmerian did not wish himself in Khitai”curiosity was joining his oath to Khezal and his men, to drive him onward along the trail of this quest”but he vowed that if ever he returned to Khitai, he would pay those tribesmen a visit.

Meanwhile, he was desert-wise enough to know how to study the ground about him without ever facing directly into the wind, and how to shield his eyes with his fingers when he had no choice. At least today there need be no fear of sun-dazzle!

The ground grew more rugged toward the end of the valley. Even without a sandstorm, a line of sentries would have needed to be close together to guard one another's flanks. As it was, the Girumgi sentries were a good spear-toss apart, and one at least seemed to have scant notion of a sentry's duties.

He wore a Girumgi headdress, two long daggers thrust into his belt, and a waist pouch. He also wore an expression of total disgust at being out here alone amid the blowing sand.

The man furthermore spent much of his time in the shelter of a rock, which prevented both sand from reaching him and his eyes from reaching much of anything. When he did stand in the open, he looked more toward his rear than his front. It was as if he expected enemies to leap from his own camp, not from the valley before him.

Conan was prepared to snatch another prisoner, but Farad saw the sentry's weaknesses as swiftly as the Cimmerian, and struck faster.

Crouching low enough to be hidden behind a waist-high rock, Farad crawled to within arm's length of the sentry without being detected.

Then the man heard or saw something amiss, his eyes widened”then they widened further as Farad's flung dagger sank into the man's bare throat.

Conan crouched beside the fallen man, as windblown sand covered the pool of blood. "I wanted to capture him silently."

"I was silent. More so than you were, reproaching me."

Conan forced himself to remember that free speech to a chief was one of the most sacred rights of the free Afghuli warrior. The man to fear was he who would not speak plainly to your face, as he was likely enough planning to thrust something sharper than words into your back.

"We must go forward, then. This time, I strike first."

"Of course, Conan. It is with stupid sentries as it is with willing women”there are usually enough to go around."

Conan and Farad slipped through the hole they'd made in the sentry line almost all the way to the main camp. Unfortunately, by the time they were close enough to recognize tribal colors, the storm was blowing so thickly that their sand-scoured eyes could barely tell rocks from huddled humans.

There were also too many of those huddled humans to make it safe to snatch a prisoner. Even the scrape of dagger on leather sheath might be enough to alert five of the prisoner's comrades and bring on a battle royal at the worst possible moment.

Nothing would come of that except their deaths, leaving the Afghulis without leadership. Conan did not trust even Khezal enough to believe his comrades would then escape harm.

They crept in a wide half-circle around the dead sentry. His rock shelter had almost vanished in the brown murk as the wind shifted and more of the storm blew into the valley. Conan thought he saw human figures moving around the rock, but could not be sure.

He hoped they were at least human if they were there at all. A sandstorm in unknown country was something to make a man believe in beings from the netherworld breaking loose and wandering about, seeking to work ill.

Not long afterwards, Conan knew there had been someone watching from the dead sentry's post”and that the watcher had seen him and Farad.

Someone was following them.

It was hard to be certain at first, and no one with eyes or ears less keen than the Cimmerian's could have learned of the pursuer at all.

Even deeper within the valley, the sand and dust were swirling thicker, and the wind howled like the mourning cries of demons.

But Conan's ears picked out the clang of steel on stone, the rattle of dislodged rocks, and once, the sound of breathing. Twice he went to ground and saw something moving, as the one behind failed to do the same in time to escape Conan's sharp eye.

At last Conan motioned to Farad, and whispered in the Afghuli's ear that their luck might be changing. They had snatched no prisoner from the enemy's ranks, but perhaps one might be about to crawl right into their arms.

"Your arms, I suppose," Farad said.

"One of us had best be free to run, if this goes amiss," Conan said.

"You need not whip a willing mule," Farad said sourly. "Good hunting, my chief." He crawled left as Conan slipped off to the right and went to ground.

Shrewdly Farad ceased to make much effort to conceal himself. This brought the pursuit in turn out of hiding”three robed men, none of them wearing any tribal markings Conan could recognize. The smallest of the three seemed to be the leader, although the others seemed ready to argue with their orders. At last all three seemed of one mind, and set off in a stalking pursuit of Farad.

This brought the leftmost man so close to Conan that he could have reached out and touched him. This was precisely what he did, with a fist descending like a club on the back of the man's neck. He jerked forward and his chin slammed into rock hard enough to stun him.

Conan quickly bound the man's hands with strips of his garments, then made sure that he was breathing. Two score paces of crawling brought him to the rear of the second man, the small one who led.

It also brought him into view of the third man on the right, just as a flurry of wind left clear air between them. The man's wordless cry gave the alarm, but he then made a fatal mistake by trying to roll over and unsling his bow.

That gave Conan time to close with the smallest man and seize him. The man struck at Conan with a dagger that seemed to be his sole weapon but was sharp enough to add to the Cimmerian's collection of wounds. He also kicked and screeched in a high-pitched voice that made Conan think he might have captured a eunuch or a youth.

None of this kept Conan from taking a firm grip on his captive. Farad, meanwhile, was disposing of the archer. The Afghuli was so determined on a silent kill that he gave the man enough time to have raised the alarm. Fortunately the sight of Farad looming over him seemed to strike the man mute. He tried to change weapons from bow to tulwar, and in the middle of the change Farad's sandal sank into the pit of his stomach.

Both weapons fell to the sand and the man fell on top of them.

Farad looked down at his victim. "Do we need him?"

"No," Conan said, as he finished binding and gagging his own captive.

"I doubt you'll even be needing to bind him. It will be evening before he can draw a painless breath again."

Conan's captive was in better fettle. While he could neither speak nor struggle, so thoroughly was he gagged and bound, his large kohl-rimmed eyes glared eloquently.

"Game little cockerel, this one," Farad said, prodding the man in the ribs. "And look at the quality of the robe and the belt. A chief's son, I'd wager."

Conan was looking at the robe and the belt, but he was also looking at what seemed to be under them. He knelt and ran a hand across the captive's shoulders, then down across one shoulder blade to the chest.

"Ha!" the Cimmerian said. "You'd lose that wager."

"Eh?" Farad said, bemused at his chief's behavior.

"It's a chief's daughter."

"Eh," Farad said again, this time with an unmistakable leer.

Conan shook his head. "She's a good hostage as long as she's unharmed and not a moment longer. A hostage is worth ten women, where we are."

"Tell that to men who haven't seen a woman for months," Farad said.

"I've little taste for fighting the Greencloaks over this one."

The woman did not seem to understand the Afghuli speech the two men were using, but the tones carried enough meaning. Her eyes were very wide, and her breath came quick.

Conan hoisted her over one massive shoulder and patted her lightly on the rump. "Don't worry, lass," he said, in Turanian. "You were game enough to earn a warrior's treatment besides being a good hostage.

Anyone who comes to you will do it over my dead body."

"I stand by my chief with my blood and my steel."

Farad said. Although he spoke in Afghuli, the woman caught his tone and seemed to relax.

Then Conan stepped out, in a long ground-eating hillman's stride, with Farad guarding the rear. By the time they heard someone raising the alarm, they were nearly back to their own camp.

The name of the woman”barely that, for she admitted to no more than nineteen summers and looked younger”was Bethina. She was sister to Doiran, heir to the chieftainship of the Ekinari and blood-brother to the chief of the Girumgi. She was riding with a mixed band of Girumgi and Ekinari to bring safely home those Girumgi who had escaped the battle in the South.

All this she told willingly after they reached the camp”and after Conan and Farad saved her life.

They brought her in, unbound her feet, and removed her gag. Before they could do more, a man sprang from the dust, knife upraised to stab.

Conan replied with a foot upraised in the man's path. He stumbled over the tree-thick leg and went sprawling. Farad's foot came down on his wrist; he squealed and the knife fell from limp fingers.

Farad snatched up the dagger, freed the girl's hands, and gave her the blade. Conan nodded.

"Just be careful who you use it on, girl," he said. "I've not got so much blood that I can afford to lose it to friends."

She actually grinned, then held up the blade in a way that showed experience in fighting with steel.

She was just in time. A semicircle of Greencloaks had gathered around them. Conan and Farad shifted, so that they as well as the girl had their backs to a stout rock. Conan looked upward, saw more Greencloaks climbing atop the rock to attack from above, and decided that he would be leaving Turan with his honor intact but his hide somewhat otherwise.

"Hold!"

Khezal had a surprisingly robust voice for one of his modest stature and lean build. It rose above the cry of the wind and halted the Greencloaks above and below where they stood.

"Now, what is this brawling?" Khezal said, stepping forward.

He listened while both sides told their tale. At least he had not lost authority over his men. Conan had no illusions what would have happened otherwise.

"The Greencloaks do not harm another's prisoner," he said at last.

"Milgun, ask Captain Conan's pardon."

"Captain”?" the man practically spat.

"Milgun," Khezal said. He did not need to say more, let alone draw steel. His eyes finished the work of his voice.

Milgun made a clumsy obeisance. "Your pardon, Conan," he said.

"Now, Conan," Khezal said. "Milgun lost a brother to the Girumgi last year. Anyone who rides with them is no friend to him."

"I”not enemy to Greencloaks," Bethina said haltingly.

"Your brother rides with the Girumgi and you (obscenity) your brother!"

someone shouted.

The fragile peace nearly dissolved then and there. Bethina bared her teeth, reminding Conan of a Cimmerian wildcat defending her cubs.

Conan was sorry if it embarrassed Khezal, but he was resolved to feed steel to the next man who shouted.

All saw that resolve on the Cimmerian's grim countenance and held their peace.

"Bethina," Khezal said, in a tribal dialect that Conan barely understood. "You say you are not an enemy to the Greencloaks. Yet your brother does ride with the Girumgi, who have certainly shed our blood, and not long since.

"Tell us more."

"I”have not”not the right words," Bethina stammered.

"I will put your words into the speech of my people," Khezal said.

"And I will have the first man who brawls," Conan said.

The silence of the camp was broken only by the wind, until Bethina began to speak.

-

Twelve

Bethina's brother Doiran was deeper in intrigues than had been suspected, or so it seemed from her story. He had at first sworn blood-brotherhood to the chief of the Girumgi to assure his succession among the Ekinari, if his father died prematurely.

Old Irigas did not die prematurely. Indeed, he had not yet died at all.

But he was all but bedridden, and seldom spoke of anything save long-dead wives and long-ago battles.

"He will die in peace," Bethina said through Khezal, "but his legacy to his people is a son who will lead them to war."

The Girumgi were always ready to try conclusions with Turan, and listening to their hotheaded younger warriors had done no good work on Doiran's judgment. However, he was too shrewd to trust only to one set of allies.

Khoraja had a long rivalry with Turan, if the fox could be said to have a rivalry with the elephant. Any time in the last century, if Turan had wished to turn Khoraja into a satrapy or even a desert, it could have done so. The price would have been great, in blood and treasure and also in new enemies for Turan, but it could have been done.

The ironhanded young Yezdigerd seemed more likely than his sire to attempt the overthrow of Khoraja, so the Khorajans were looking to their defenses. They were intriguing with the desert tribes, and they had found ready ears (and open palms) among Doiran and his followers in the ranks of the Ekinari.

It was then that Bethina spoke for herself.

"Many Ekinari”friends to Turan. Or not friends” honest men. Think Khoraja”use us like”like toys. I, Bethina”for these I speak."

No one seemed ready to believe than any desert tribesmen could be true friends to anyone, let alone Turan. But it was possible to believe that they did not care to be cat's paws for Khoraja. The shrewdness, if not the honesty, of the tribesmen had been a proverb in Turan for nearly as long as the empire had borne that name.

"The tribesmen aren't fools," Milgun admitted. "The Ekinari least of all. Lady, maybe I did not think."

As Milgun was widely believed incapable of chewing nuts and walking at the same time, this drew laughter. But it was the healthy kind, and presently the men dispersed, to look to their mounts and gear, so as to be ready to ride out when the storm abated.

At last Bethina, Farad, Khezal, and Conan were alone. Khezal kept looking back down the valley, as if expecting a solid wall of furious warriors to sprout from the sand at any moment.

"Best we be ready to fight or flee, if the lady's friends come for her," he said.

"Oh, I do not think that will happen, or at least not soon enough to fear," Bethina said. Suddenly she spoke flawless Turanian, with the tones of a noblewoman.

The three men looked at the woman as if she had just grown a long purple tail. Then they looked at one another.

Bethina laughed. "In truth, the men with me”and I am grateful that they were not slain”were there to help me be taken captive. When they are found, they will show where I fell down into a crevice. I will be thought dead, at least for long enough that we may ride north safely."

Conan nodded. It seemed the politest thing to do. It also occurred to him that Bethina's allegiance was even more of a gift than it had seemed. If he remembered correctly, the Ekinari's lands were well to the north”toward the Kezankian Mountains, if not actually bordering on their foothills.

They might know more than most about the mysteries of those mountains.

Bethina nodded graciously, as the heiress of some great house might have nodded to three upper servants. "I look forward to riding with you gentlemen, for I see in you wisdom and strength."

Then she vanished into the murk, so swiftly and silently that for a moment Conan wondered if she was a spirit. But then he saw footprints, even now filling with windblown sand, and heard laughter like the tinkling of temple bells from behind a rock.

The three men looked at one another again, and all spoke a single word, each in his native tongue.

"Women!"

They rode out as soon as the sandstorm died enough to allow traveling, but before there was too little wind to cover their tracks and too little sand in the air to hide them. They put several hours of desert between them and the Girumgi, then found a patch of rough, scrub-grown ground and went to earth like so many foxes.

As daylight drained from the sky and a spangling of stars took its place, they mounted and were once more on the move.

Riding by night and resting up by day, it took them five days to reach Ekinari lands. Or at least these were lands where one was more likely to encounter riders of the Ekinari than those of any other tribe.

The Ekinari were hardly a peaceful people”in the desert as in Afghulistan, no lover of peace at any price lived long enough to breed sons. But as Bethina pointed out, they had more good wells and safe places for their women and children than many tribes.

"Our warriors do not need to ride across every patch of ground and cleanse it of enemies, that the tribe may live," Bethina said. "We can look beyond today's blood-feuds. That is why Doiran will not prevail in the end."

"That might be so, if he stood or fell by what the Ekinari will do for him," Conan pointed out. "With the warriors and the gold of the Girumgi behind him, he will think that he can do as he pleases. He may even be right."

"That is not the brother I knew," Bethina replied. "You are saying that he is ready to make slaves of his own people, if he can be their master under the Girumgi?"

"Good men have done worse things when ambition fuddles their wits,"

Conan said sharply. "Besides, it's not hard to find tribesmen to follow you if you say you seek to hurt Turan. Turan has not been just in its dealings with the desert folk, and they have long memories for grievances."

Bethina gave Conan a radiant smile, and Khezal gave him a sour look.

Farad carefully looked at the desert, but the Cimmerian could see a smile curving the man's lips under his beard.

Under the stars, they rode toward the Kezankian Mountains.

The Kezankian Mountains did not tower as high as the Ibars range in Turan, let alone the Himelias in northern Vendhya. Those were mountains that seemed fit to hold up the very sky, or pierce it and thrust their snow-clad peaks into the abyss beyond.

However, from the direction Conan and his companions approached them, the Kezankians leaped almost straight from the desert. Eagles nesting halfway up the mountain faces looked as tiny as doves, even to the Cimmerian's keen eyes. Birds flying any higher were as invisible as if they had been magicked.

Meanwhile, the desert wind itself grew cooler, and its flutings and pipings around the rocks set more than one man's teeth on edge.

"It's as if the wind itself knows this is a place to avoid," Farad said.

"Ha," Conan said. "I thought you would be feeling more at home than you have since we

"Fled Afghulistan?" Farad said. His grin showed all his teeth, but there was no mirth in his black eyes. Then he shook his head.

"I know what my homeland's mountains may hold

"Bandits, sheep, and lice," Bethina said. Farad stared at her, then laughed loud enough to raise echoes.

"Not so wrong, lady," Farad said. "But even the lice are”I won't call them friends, but at least no strangers to a man. Everyone is a stranger to these mountains, and they look like the sort who treat any stranger as an enemy."

Looking up at the gray walls before them and listening once more to the wind, Conan could not find it in his heart to disagree.

They found the remains of the camp the next morning, soon after they themselves had made camp for the day. Out hunting with Farad, Conan was the first to see the patch of soot in the middle of the trampled ground.

While Farad kept watch, the Cimmerian squatted by the trampled ground and studied it. He sifted soil between his fingers, sniffed the ashes, and finally rose.

"You look like a hound seeking a scent," Farad said.

"Close enough," the Cimmerian replied. "Now let's be finding their midden-pit. I'd wager this camp held at least forty men, tribesmen and others. Something they left in the pit has to tell us more about who they are."

"If we can find it and dig it up," Farad said.

"Oh, I think we can find it. As for digging it up, I'll do it myself if there's no other way."

"I can spare you that, my chief."

As it happened, Khezal's orders spared both Conan and Farad the dirty chore. A gang of Greencloaks set briskly to work with knives, hands, and the odd spade. (Cavalry were not much for building field-works or carrying digging tools with them.) The rubbish they unearthed told Khezal and Conan much the same.

"Two score bandits”what the tribes call loosefeet," Khezal said.

"They're commonly a desperate, vicious lot."

"Then who left this?" Conan said, holding up a blackened square of metal.

"A Khorajan left his cloak pin," Khezal said. "In truth, a Khorajan captain, or at least a man of rank. That's silver with a relief of the king, as far as I can judge under the soot."

"Are you sure serving Mishrak never tempted you?" Conan chaffed the Turanian. "You have a good nose for spy's work."

"Also a tender conscience about it," Khezal said. He lowered his voice.

"More so since Yezdigerd's accession, and I'd wager I'm not the only one."

Conan had no doubt of that. There were as many honest folk in Turan as anywhere, and more than in some lands he had traveled (and mostly departed as swiftly as he'd come). But as long as Yezdigerd's promise of empire dazzled their eyes with glory and filled their hands with gold, many Turanians might be less honest than they would be otherwise.

Turan might profit from his quest with Khezal, but the Cimmerian intended to end it far from Turan with the jewels at his belt, bound once again for Koth.

"Best we mount a good guard," Khezal said. "Forty loosefeet with a civilized captain leading them might do some mischief if they surprised us."

Conan nodded. "Perhaps. But we might do them more, if we surprised them."

Khezal frowned. Conan gave a gusty laugh.

"You Turanians still think like the plains horsemen who were your ancestors. You should never go to war without a hillman or few along, to tell you what to do when the land's at a slant."

Khezal threw the Cimmerian a weary look. "Very well, my friend. You speak and I will listen. But by all the gods, for every needless word you say, I will take one jewel from that bag before I return it to you.

Talk me deaf, and you will ride empty-pursed for Koth."

"Better empty-pursed than empty-headed," Conan riposted. He drew his dagger and began to trace lines in the sand with the point.

Conan shifted his weight cautiously, lest a dislodged stone roll far enough to make a sound. The desert night was still, the wind for once asleep like everything else.

Or rather, as the bandits would expect everything else to be.

The trap Conan had proposed was simple. The main band would camp in the very shadow of the cliffs, choosing a place where no one could strike from above unless they rode on the back of an eagle. They would be loud and lax in keeping watch, as if they thought themselves safe in their barracks. Anyone watching as the light faded would see easy prey, with hardly a sentry about, and none of those sober.

After dark, the revelry would continue, for all that Khezal swore to geld anyone who actually let a drop of wine touch his lips. Meanwhile, bands of men chosen for their handiness with steel and their keen night-sight would creep unseen out into the sand, at three points covering the three approaches to the main body.

Anyone who yielded to the thought of murdering and looting unsuspecting and incapable victims would face the rudest of surprises. Indeed, a man could die from such a surprise.

A small hand touched the Cimmerian's shoulder. He did not move, but his heart leapt within him. Perhaps the thought about dying of surprise had been ill omened.

He did not strike, however, because in the next moment the hand was laid gently across his mouth. He felt slender but strong fingers across his lips, and smelled healthy woman and the faintest of perfumes.

Conan shifted position again. His eyes were now accustomed to the dark, and he had no difficulty recognizing Bethina. What gave him difficulty was her reason for being out here with the ambush posts, and he could hardly ask her now, not when the slightest whisper might warn lurking foes.

She solved the problem for both of them by sliding into his arms, until her head rested on his shoulder and her lips were against his ear. They were more than agreeable lips to feel, fluttering softly on his skin as she explained.

"The men are taking their part too seriously. They do nothing but sing one lewd song after another."

Conan grunted, and shifted a third time, so that he could reply to Bethina as she had spoken to him. Her ear also felt more than pleasant against his lips.

"You're no garden rose, to wilt at a few rough words. Tell me the truth."

She was silent briefly, then replied:

"I see you know women."

"If I didn't at my age, I'd be a fool or bleaching bones."

"Perhaps. But”under law, I can be chief over the Ekinari, instead of Doiran. Under law, if I do as a man does."

"And how do men among the Ekinari?"

"They must”they must be whole men, not eunuchs. Also, they must have taken a foe in battle."

The promise in the first words made Conan's blood race. The danger in the second silenced it at once.

"This is no game, Bethina."

"The bandits are no friend to Ekinari or any other tribe. The Khorajans still less so. I did not come here for sport, Conan."

The Cimmerian fought back laughter. "There are sports and sports, lady.

But I agree, a dark ditch waiting for flea-ridden bandits is no place for most of them." He squeezed an admirably firm and rounded shoulder.

"You'll find me as apt as

The Cimmerian broke off abruptly. In a lull in the songs from camp, a less convivial sound had reached his ears. It might have been the wind rising again; it might also have been the hiss of sand sliding under an incautious footfall.

The wisest thing was to wait for the intruder's next mistake. Bethina stiffened but made no sound, save the faintest rustle as she drew steel from under her robes.

The sound came again. This time it was unmistakably a footfall. A moment later a pebble rattled, the sound lasting until Conan could judge the direction. The intruder was close to the left. Too close to be left alone.

All very well, but he had no wish to spring the trap for a single man.

"We want to draw them in, put an end to most of them, and learn from the rest," he remembered Khezal telling the men.

Again Conan moved, with the caution of a snake approaching a bird. He saw a darker patch against the sky, man-shaped and hardly a spear's length away. The man wore a bandit's ragged robes and was as hairy and bearded as one, but he wore a sword and dagger with silver hilts.

Too vain of his blades to blacken them for night work, the Cimmerian thought. The ranks of warriors would not miss this one.

The man turned at the last moment, so saw his death coming in the shape of a gigantic dark form leaping apparently from the ground. Then a fist like a maul exploded in his stomach and an arm like a giant snake locked around his neck. The man's senses had left him before his assailant had laid him on the ground.

Conan crouched in turn, stripping off the man's robes. A wide-eyed Bethina pulled the senseless man into the ditch and began binding his hands and feet with strips of his own garments, as Conan took his victim's place. He had to stoop a trifle to look the same size, although the man had been well grown. He had also worn under his robes more than enough to say "Khoraja" to anyone who knew the handiwork of that city's artisans.

The Cimmerian reached down and stroked Bethina's forehead, all he could reach without dropping his guard. He thought he heard a light, nearly stifled giggle, and vowed to touch more than her forehead as soon as they found a time and place. The lass had heart and wits to go with her looks!

In the Khorajan's place, Conan had a clear view all around him, to the horizon in three directions and the cliff in the fourth. The fires in the camp were dying down; no need to burn scarce dung to keep up the act. The stars no longer glowed undimmed; a haze was creeping across the sky. Another sandstorm? Conan hoped not, for he had small taste for another blind groping against a far deadlier foe than Bethina's "guards."

The sound this time was many footfalls, men trying so hard to be silent that they would have succeeded against almost any man but the Cimmerian. He counted more than twenty dark-robed and hooded figures with either bows or swords. Then farther off he heard a horse whicker.

The bandits themselves had divided their forces. Some would no doubt rush in to surprise the camp and sow panic. Then their mounted comrades would ride in to finish the work, driving off the Turanians' horses and carrying away loot and prisoners. The surviving Greencloaks would have small chance of pursuing, or even of living through another encounter with the meanest foe.

It did not take a warrior of Conan's experience to doubt that the bandits had devised this scheme by themselves. A shrewder captain than the bandits of any land usually produced was behind tonight's work.

The silence from the camp ran on. Conan cursed in several tongues.

Before, he would have given much to send a silent message to the camp for quiet so he could hear the enemy approaching. Now he would have as gladly sent a message to them to sing and dance, so the bandits would not suspect that they had been detected.

Another whicker, closer, and Conan turned only his head in the direction of the horse-sounds. The mounted bandits were approaching through a dry wash that they thought concealed them completely. But a low part of the bank let Conan's eyes pick them out of the darkness.

Before darkness, the Cimmerian had ridden over much of the country for several bowshots around the camp. If his memory served him as to the ground in the enemy's path, there was a narrow end to the dry wash, where a handful might block many. A pity not to be able to do the work himself, but being where you were not expected in a night battle was the easiest way known to gods or men to be killed by your friends.

Conan now turned his head the other way, and this time the curses escaped his lips. Another band of loosefeet had drifted into sight as silently as a moving sand dune. They were marching straight for the mouth of the draw. No barring that to the horsemen now, not even by a Cimmerian's sword.

A very longheaded captain, the one who led the enemy tonight. Conan would gladly enroll him among the chiefs he had slain and sing a death song for him. He would still more gladly ask him what he did in this land, and who else aided him.

With his hands, Conan signaled to the six Afghulis at his post. The plan had been for all three outposts to strike the enemy in the rear.

But the men in posts closer to the cliff now could not move that fast without being seen or heard and caught on open ground by bandit archers. In that situation, they were to rally on the camp itself and swell the ranks of its defenders”or face the wrath of both Khezal and Conan together.

The attack from the rear would now rest on broad Cimmerian shoulders”although six Afghulis accustomed to bladework in the dark were no despicable foe either. Together, Conan expected that he and the Afghulis might even be able to keep Bethina alive, although the harder she tried to "take her man," the harder that task would be.

Conan's chivalry toward women never let him keep one out of a fight she entered of her own free will. But the Ekinari would not be grateful if he led Bethina into battle and did not lead her out again safely.

Ungrateful Ekinari could be a menace to the quest or the peace of Turan, and either way a menace to Khezal's future.

A man did not need to deal with moneylenders, Conan thought, to learn that he could owe too much to too many different people!

The Afghulis slipped along behind Conan as silently as the Cimmerian, more so than their enemies. Bethina not only kept up, she made hardly more noise than her companions.

So it was not any of those with Conan who alerted the prowling loosefeet to their danger.

"Eeeeenaaaa”ha!"

The war cry split the night. Conan saw shadows swirl and dance as some bandits faced about, to repel attack from their rear. Others dashed forward, hoping to reach the camp in time to find the sleepy or the drunken struggling out of their blankets.

With battle joined, speed was now more important than silence. Conan broke into a run, slowing his pace only enough to not outdistance his companions too much. Being a match for any three warriors was no reason to go into battle alone when there was no need.

So Conan struck the bandits only a few paces ahead of Farad, and Farad only a few paces ahead of the other Afghulis. Bethina brought up the rear, but just before Conan drew his sword he heard her shriek.

"Leave one for me, Conan!"

Conan cursed and laughed in the same breath. He needed no advice, and Bethina had revealed her presence to the enemy. He would be glad to leave her a live foe or two, but he wondered if her enthusiasm for blooding her steel would survive her first battle. Knowing that you held men's lives on the edge of your sword sobered most warriors, and those it did not sober were as mad dogs, and the faster they were killed, the better for honorable men.

The ground dropped from under Conan's feet. He turned a stumble into a somersault and came up with gravel in his hair, sand in his mouth, and his sword still in his hand. He also came up so close to his first opponent that he barely had time to parry the first stroke of the man's tulwar.

Conan's riposte disarmed the man, and as he drew back to make way for better-armed comrades, the Cimmerian let him go. He was fighting against four or five, as far as he could tell. He would not borrow trouble unless his foes knew no more of swordsmanship than children.

The children, that is, of other lands than Cimmeria.

Conan cut down two men without ever seeing them clearly, or so he judged from the way his slashes jarred his arm and the men he slashed screamed. A third proved that he was no child by getting in under the Cimmerian's guard with a long dagger. Conan buffeted the man with his fist, and as he reeled, brought his knee up under the man's jaw. Jaw and neck both sundered by the blow, the man fell lifeless.

By now the ground about the Cimmerian was slippery with blood and cluttered with the dead or the dying. Fortunately he could give way, because now the Afghulis were up on either flank, and he could hear their steel meeting the bandits' even as he kept his eyes firmly on his own part of the battle.

So he did not see Bethina running up until she had run past him, into the midst of the enemy. How she escaped being skewered by mistake was a mystery that only the gods of battlefields knew, and Conan doubted that they ever bothered to share their knowledge with honest warriors.

He could not doubt that Bethina was in mortal danger, or would be the moment the enemy realized she was among them.

Cimmerian speed and strength saved Bethina, along with the slow wits of her enemies and her own well-wielded blade. She was admirably free of quaint notions about fair play in a desperate fight; she took her first man by stabbing him in the back. His scream warned comrades, but his life was already fleeing as Bethina snatched her dagger free and faced new foes.

One of these seemed so unmanned by facing a woman that Conan hardly needed steel to end his fighting. A swift kick sent the man down with a shattered knee, and Conan's other foot stamping on his arm sent his tulwar flying.

Bethina's next opponent was made of sterner stuff. He had only a dagger, but was supple and swift as a cat. He locked blades with the Ekinari girl, then gripped her by the hair. She gasped at the pain and tried to bring her knee up. This threw her off balance, and both opponents fell, the bandit on top.

Still Bethina fought without crying out or giving up, if not with great skill. Slowly the bandit's greater strength and weight threatened to prevail, as he forced her knife back against her breast and the point of his own closer to her flesh.

The bandit had at most a heartbeat to savor his coming triumph before death took him. Conan's fingers gripped his hair and yanked him upright, and the Cimmerian's sword slashed in a deadly arc, severing his spine and nearly cutting through his rib cage from the rear.

Bethina sprang to her feet, pale where she was not covered with her late foe's blood. "Your kill," she said, nodding to Conan. Her eyes were unnaturally wide and her lips parted, although her voice was remarkably steady for so newly fledged a warrior. To the Cimmerian, they seemed fuller than before, and even more inviting, not that he had found fault with them earlier”

"Look out!" Bethina screamed.

Conan moved, as it seemed to the man approaching him from behind, in three directions at once. Then his sword came out of nowhere and caught the attacker across the throat. The man's head lolled, nearly severed from his neck, but he remained on his feet long enough to block the passage of a comrade.

That gave Bethina time to prepare herself. As Conan's victim fell and his comrade worked around the Cimmerian's flank, Bethina struck. She sprang forward from a low crouch, driving her knife up under the man's throat. He was wearing a boiled-leather neck-guard, but instead of warding off or catching Bethina's blade, it deflected it upward.

The dagger's point ripped into the man's throat. It did not quite reach his brain, the blade not being long enough nor Bethina's arm strong enough to thrust it that far. But it killed the man quite as effectively as ever Conan's own blade could have done.

"That one is yours," Conan said. "I will stand witness, before gods and men."

For a moment he thought she was going to kiss or even embrace him, either course a sad folly on a battlefield that would have lowered his opinion of her wits. She held herself back, however, and then the swirl of battle was around them again. They had to stand back to back and defend themselves for a good while, a bad position for kissing even if one had no other work at hand.

Between them, Conan, Bethina, and the Afghulis put down or drove off most of the bandits. The few survivors who did not flee kept their distance. One had a bow and no fear of hitting friends; his arrows hissed randomly down about Conan and Bethina.

"Best get down, girl."

"I am no girl, and that archer could not hit a camel that was inside his own tent."

"Maybe, but worse archers have killed good men." The Cimmerian lifted Bethina with his hands under each arm, and dropped her into a ditch.

"Farad?"

"Here, my chief."

"Keep this lady company for a while. Sit on her if you must."

"If you do, Farad, no woman will ever give you pleasure."

"My heart breaks."

"I was not thinking of your heart, Farad."

Bidding the remaining Afghulis to remain where they were, Conan loped off into the darkness. He was going against his own war-wisdom, but something perturbed him. The horsemen had not ridden down on the camp, although he could still hear their mounts not far off.

Nor was the third force of bandits either engaged or in sight. They might have sunk into the earth or grown wings and flown off to the stars, for all the Cimmerian could see of them. He disliked leaving his Afghulis, but knew that no man among the Turanian ranks was more adept at night scouting than he was. If anyone could unearth the answer to yet another mystery, it was the Cimmerian.

The Cimmerian also nearly paid with his life twice over for the answers he found. The first time was when he rounded the shoulder of a low sand dune and came hard upon a band of tribesmen lying in wait. They had been so silent that even his ears did not pick their breathing out of the desert night, he so cat-footed that their ears seeking other sounds gave no warning.

Four arrows flew almost in a single breath, and it was the favor of the gods (not to mention the Cimmerian's own lightning-quick fall and roll) that kept any of them from doing him serious hurt. He rolled to within arm's reach of the nearest tribesman, plucked him from his hiding place like a boy picking a pear from a tree, and drew the man in front of him as a shield.

"Hold," he whispered. "Who do you follow?"

"Bethina," someone said, immediately hushed by several others. Then a voice that was, incredibly, that of an aged woman, said:

"Stand up, that I may see you."

Conan made a rude suggestion about what the old woman could do with that idea. He heard a soft laugh”a laugh, not a cackle, which might have come from a woman hardly older than Bethina.

"No. By Crom, Mitra, and all lawful gods, I will curse any who harm you without my leave."

It struck Conan that if the old woman, whom he had no cause to trust, did give leave, he would be dead before he fell to the ground. Those archers would not miss again.

But these people were not behaving like blood enemies. If they were not, there was small cause to reveal them. Also, he had now seen the headdress of the man he was using as a shield. It was too dark to make out colors, but the pattern of the headdress was the same as Bethina's.

Conan stood up, without releasing his prisoner.

"Let Gorok go." The old woman spoke like someone accustomed to command.

Bethina's mother? A tribal sorceress? Whatever she might be, Conan decided it was something to be obeyed”although he drew both sword and dagger before he freed Gorok.

"Yes-s-s-s-s." The old woman's one hissed word reminded Conan unpleasantly of sounds heard in the temples of Set the Great Serpent, when it was time to feed the sacred snakes.

Conan vowed that if the woman turned into a snake now, it would be her last act in this world.

Instead the old woman laughed softly again. "Fools! This is he who saved Bethina! I saw it, and do any of you deny that I have true vision?"

No one did. The old woman indeed sounded like some ancient village crone of Cimmeria, women honored and more than a Uttle feared even when they were in their right senses.

"I am a friend to Bethina," Conan said, choosing his words carefully.

"If you are kin or friends to her, then I can hardly be your ene

"Hsssst!" someone said. Conan recognized, the universal call for silence and alertness, and went to a crouch. As he did, he understood why the riders had not yet charged in. They were either comrades to these men, and therefore friends, or they had seen these men and were maneuvering against them.

Which was yet another mystery, in a journey that had already produced far more than an honest warrior could contemplate with any peace of mind. Conan knew of no god who could truly and reliably be bribed with sacrifices. If he had, he would gladly have promised such a god almost anything imaginable for no more than that this journey should hold no more mysteries.

Perhaps some god did hear part of the Cimmerian's unvoiced wish.

Certainly this particular mystery died almost at the moment of its birth. Perhaps the bandit riders had overheard Conan's meeting with those who waited. Perhaps their own comrades signaled for help. Perhaps some underchief among them simply grew tired of waiting.

Regardless, the rattle of hooves on stones cut off the Cimmerian's words. He leapt for higher ground and saw the others also moving. Only the old woman was not running, and she was walking briskly enough for one of the age her voice revealed.

Unless it was her laugh that told the truth, and in such case, was she a witch?

Likely enough, the voice of experience whispered to Conan. It also told the Cimmerian that few magic-wielders ever served any cause but their own. Finally, it told him that if this woman was truly Bethina's friend, then her cause and Conan's might march together.

That was all the listening to voices Conan had time for, before the loosefoot riders came down upon him and his newfound comrades.

Four or five of them rode a little behind and to one side of their comrades. Conan's path also separated him a trifle from his. So the mounted bandits found themselves riding at a single man on foot, and let out shrill cries of triumph at sighting this easy prey.

They were more mistaken than they could know in their remaining moments of life. They were contending against more than his strength, speed, and war-wisdom. They were contending against a man who had been a seasoned warrior before he ever bestrode a horse. Moreover, he was a son of Cimmeria, a land that had never spawned a mounted army but had devoured more than a few. What Conan did not know about how a man on foot might best those on horseback was hardly knowable by mortal man.

He threw sand in the face of one horse, then darted aside from it and under the slash of its rider's sword to hamstring the next horse from behind. He had to parry another down-cut with his own sword, but that slowed the rider enough to let a Cimmerian hand grip the man's near leg.

The rider came out of the saddle like the bung from an ale barrel, flew in an arc over Conan's head, and smashed down headfirst. No man could survive an impact that made such a sound of crushing skull and cracking spine.

The next rider flourished a lance, and squalled triumph as he saw the Cimmerian appear to stumble. The "stumble" was judged very exactly, to take the Cimmerian a finger's breadth clear of the lance point without taking him out of reach of the lancer.

The lancer discovered this as his horse suddenly staggered. It staggered from the weight of a Cimmerian leaping on its back. Then the rider screamed from the pain of a dagger thrusting into his vitals from behind, and fell with a thud as Conan flung him to the ground like a sack of grain.

In the confusion the last rider did not notice that his opponent had transformed himself from a helpless footman to sudden death and now to a mounted foe. Conan did not give the man time to repent of this error.

He saw that the man's horse had its rump toward him, and mischievously bent out of the saddle and jerked its tail.

The horse tried to rear and kick out at the same time. It failed to do either, and instead lost its balance and toppled. The rider found himself sliding inexorably backward out of his saddle, then suddenly suspended in the air by one stout Cimmerian arm.

The man stared into cold blue eyes from which Death itself seemed to look out. Then the harsh dark face that held those eyes split in gusty laughter. The man fainted with sheer relief and never felt himself strike the ground as Conan dropped him.

Then he was looking over the heads of his new comrades as they shot, pulled, or hacked the remaining mounted bandits out of the saddle, to see Bethina running across the sands. He raised his voice to shout, "Down!" and at the same time raised his sword.

It came down on the arm of a loosefoot archer drawing on Bethina, and arm, bow, and arrow all tumbled to the ground. The archer followed them a moment later, with a split skull.

Then Bethina ran lightly through the melee, dagger drawn but giving little heed to other possible dangers, and threw her arms around a small figure standing by an upthrust rock. Conan heard the figure complain, in the old woman's voice:

"Bethina! Spare my ribs, for the gods' love!"

The tone was that of an old nurse to a beloved child now grown to womanhood. Conan slipped out of the saddle and flexed his shoulders to ease tension.

Whoever the old woman's companions might be, they could hardly be enemies to any friend of Bethina, quite apart from the fight that they had made beside Conan against the loosefeet. There were still mysteries aplenty hovering about this quest, like vultures about a poisoned spring, but the answer to this one at least seemed free of danger.

-

Thirteen

The summons that had to be from the Lady came to Muhbaras some days later.

The summons itself was no surprise. The chamber to which a Maiden led him was a considerable one.

It was hung with moldering tapestries, and the bare rock floor was piled with rank furs and roughly cured hides. A low table was the only furnishing, bearing cheap brass plates and bowls filled with biscuits and fruit and lightly covered with coarse cloth. A jug of wine shared the table, as well as two cups.

Muhbaras had time to cease to be surprised before the door closed behind him. His next thought was that on this cold floor, bedding the Lady, who was fair but a trifle thin-flanked, might not give her much pleasure. His next thought was that he would give three fingers for a drink, but knew not what might be in the wine.

Instead he sat down, rolled up a fur to pad his back, and leaned back against the wall. Again he chose a position where he could see the whole room”so he leapt nearly to the ceiling when he heard a soft sigh behind him.

The sigh, as of a child exhaling, was followed by a low rumble. By now Muhbaras stood in the center of the room, cursing the floor coverings for tangling his feet when he wanted freedom to move swiftly. He had just started kicking a space clear when a section of wall pivoted on a central shaft, leaving blackness on either side.

Cool air with a faint scent of moss trickled out of the blackness. Then the blackness itself seemed to move, turning blue as it did. A luminous mist filled the gaps on either side of the stone panel, and in one of those gaps a white-limbed form took shape.

With fluid grace, as if she herself were a creation of mist, the Lady stepped forth into the chamber.

"How powerful do you think the old woman is?" Khezal asked.

Conan looked askance at the Turanian captain. "Omyela? And you're asking me about her?"

"You're a longheaded man, Conan my friend. Also longsighted. You may see farther than most into this old witch."

"I've learned only enough about sorcerers and their ilk to be able to defeat or avoid them. If you want real knowledge, send to Aghrapur."

"Aghrapur is a long ways off, my friend. You are here. Also, if half the stories about you are true, you've done more than fight free of the clutches of sorcerers. You've walked away leaving a good many of the breed dead behind you."

"I've done that with many who tried to keep a reluctant guest," Conan said.

"Nonetheless, you've doubtless learned more than you think you know."

"Very well. I trust Bethina, and she speaks well of Omyela. She also seems a shrewd old body to me. Whether she's fit to contend with the Lady of the Mists, I don't know. Nor will anyone else, until we all learn a trifle more about the Lady."

Conan finished his cup in a single swallow and belched in the manner of the desert tribesmen complimenting their host's hospitality. "As to how we shall do that”how goes the questioning of our captives?"

"Well enough, and I thank you for your care in providing us with Khorajan prisoners. Unfortunately one of them died before he talked, and the other told us only a little we did not already know."

"Such as what?"

"That only one Khorajan, a captain named Muhbaras, actually enters the Valley of the Mists. It is his company that escorts the captives to the gate. There are tales that the Lady looks upon him with more favor than she does most men."

"Good luck to Muhbaras, then. That's a fate I'd not wish on a priest of Set. Any more?"

Khezal shrugged. "Muhbaras may have twenty men, he may have a hundred.

He may have a wizard of his own, he may only have a royal spy. Tales all, and each contradicting the last one."

"Somehow, I cannot cheer at this. But it's no worse than I expected.

But we send scouts up to the mouth of the valley. Even if they don't come back, that itself will teach us more than we know. Also, they could ask the villagers who've been providing the victims what they know. A little promise of protection would loosen tongues, I'm sure."

"I'd favor that, but we can't split the men that way. A large enough scouting party, and we'd be helpless here below if the Girumgi appeared." Khezal shook his head. "No, I hate to appear in leading strings, but I think we need to call for reinforcements. Ten score more Greencloaks or even tribal levies, and we can send up to the valley enough men to do real work. Not just scout but fight."

"We'll have to tie Bethina up to keep her from biting people," Conan said, laughing. "She badly wants this mist menace driven away from her tribe's lands."

"Conan, from the way the young lady's been looking at you, I'm sure you can find a dozen other and more pleasurable ways of making her harmless."

The Cimmerian grinned. He did not tell Khezal that an order to spend time in Bethina's company was exactly what he'd been trying to gain.

There were opportunities beckoning that Khezal's plans might let slip.

But to take advantage of them, Conan would need the Ekinari woman's help.

As he had not known when to expect his meeting with the Lady of the Mists, Muhbaras also had not known what she might be wearing.

Considering how little she wore on many of the occasions he had met her, he would have been surprised by nothing.

The blue light playing about her concealed all but her face and hair until she was several paces into the room. Then the slab pivoted back, leaving only apparently blank wall behind the Lady.

Muhbaras could now see that she wore a long-sleeved gown that covered her from throat to ankles without concealing the grace and suppleness of the body under it. One could not make out details, but one was left in no doubt about the beauty of the woman standing there.

The Lady raised her hands, and her sleeves fell back to the elbows. She wore thin silver bracelets on either wrist, the one on the right wrist set with emeralds or some other like-colored stone, nearly as fine as sand grains.

Muhbaras could not help catching his breath at the gesture. Those raised hands could be the first step in a spell”

"Fair and noble captain, there is nothing to fear."

"Perhaps I have nothing to fear," Muhbaras said. "But what of you? Am I worthy to treat you as you deserve?"

The Lady bit her lip, and Muhbaras was astonished to see that she was holding back laughter. The Khorajan felt a sudden urge to step forward and take her in his arms while she laughed against his shoulder.

He reminded himself that laughter was part of being human, not all. The Lady might laugh like a girl, and still torment those about her like the maddest of despots grown old in vice and corruption. Both were in her. Both would be in his embrace. Muhbaras felt his temples throbbing.

"You are worthy," the Lady said softly. "You are worthy of a better setting for our she hesitated and seemed to be flushing '”our meeting."

She carried no staff and wore no amulets or other magical devices that Muhbaras could see. All he saw was three passes of those long-fingered hands, exquisite fingers with nails the color of the desert sky at dawn, fingers that seemed very ready to be kissed”

Golden light flooded the chamber, dazzling Muhbaras for a moment. He felt heat on his face, then on his feet, then all around him. It faded, but did not entirely disappear.

"You may open your eyes," the Lady's voice came.

Muhbaras did. The walls and roof of the chamber were now a vaulting of fine blue tile. The floor was the finest of golden sand. In one corner”where the smelly furs had been piled”rose a pavilion, a crimson and blue silk canopy supported by four rosewood posts, each carved in the form of a different marvelous beast. Muhbaras thought he recognized a leopard, a serpent, an otter, and a dragon.

Under the canopy lay a pile of silk cushions, and beside the cushions a low table, plain ebony on ivory legs. Golden dishes of cakes and sweetmeats covered it, making a circle around a silver jug of wine.

On the cushions lay the Lady of the Mists. She wore nothing except her bracelets, and her hair flowing like silken threads over her bare shoulders and down across her breasts. All the beauties Muhbaras had expected were there for him to see”and now to touch.

He felt his blood race and realized that he, too, wore nothing. The first step toward the pavilion was as hard as if he wore iron boots, but the second was easier, the third easier still.

Before long, he was sitting beside the Lady. Her head was on his shoulder, and he was nibbling a honey cake that she held up to him. The last of the cake vanished, and he found himself licking her fingers.

"The honey tastes real," he said. "You taste real."

"It is. I am," she said. Her voice was unsteady. "All that is here, all that will come to us here, is real."

"It seems too beautiful."

"You doubt my beauty?" she said, sitting up so that he could see everything. He looked”and saw in her eyes what could only be fear.

Desire and tenderness swept through Muhbaras. Here was the Lady of the Mists, sorceress with mighty magic at her command and mistress of life and death over all the valley. Here also was a frightened maiden, tasting desire for the first time, offering herself to a man that she might fulfill that desire” and finding that all her magic was no help whatever. If she had schemed for weeks to make Muhbaras ready to greet her as man to willing woman, she could not have found a better way.

Muhbaras closed the gap between them and lifted her fingers to his lips. He licked off the rest of the honey, then turned her hand over and kissed the palm of the hand. Presently his lips crept up past the bracelet, and it was not long after that before she opened her arms and all the rest of her to Muhbaras.

He thought that he had never heard a sweeter sound in his life, than the first time she cried out in delight.

It was almost enough to make him forget the cries of Danar in his last agony at the Lady's hands.

"Omyela will not be pleased at waiting," Bethina said. She was walking beside Conan, bow in hand and quiver over her back. They were together on pretense of going hunting, close enough to the camp not to be in danger, far enough that no unwanted ears might hear their talk.

"I was not thinking that she would have to," Conan replied. "If she is ready to ride out tonight

"You would go against Khezal?" Bethina asked.

Conan grinned. "Quick to see, aren't you?" he asked.

"I am not a green girl, and my father allowed me to sit in the council meetings of the tribe from my fourteenth year," Bethina said, with dignity.

"Pardon," Conan said. "I would go against Khezal if I had to. But I'm not sure that riding north is as much against his orders as he said."

"If it is not, he could be making a puppet of you," the woman said. "If you succeed, he can claim the glory. If you fail, he can say you disobeyed him, and your enemies in Turan will rejoice at your death."

"Khezal will have to change more than most men before he intrigues that way," Conan said. "The most I think is that he's trying to guard his back from his enemies in the Great City.

"But you're right. He may be trusted, but no doubt there are royal spies among the Greencloaks. I need my Afghulis, and they need to be out of Khezal's reach, so we need to find a path for them."

"Let me talk to Omyela," Bethina said. "Giving her a chance to trick a Turanian is better than offering her a sack of gold."

The Lady of the Mists was a clean maiden, but either magick or good fortune made her first union all pleasure and no pain. Or so it seemed to Muhbaras.

Of his own pleasure, he could not speak, for there were no words in any tongue he knew that would do it justice. Indeed, he wondered if there were words in any of the tongues of men.

Presently she conjured a pool of sparkling water into the middle of the chamber, and led Muhbaras to it. They bathed old passion from them, but kindled new, and soon were locked together on the sand at the edge of the pool.

"I am beginning to believe this is all real," Muhbaras said. He rested a hand on a part of the Lady of whose reality he had become wholly certain.

She imprisoned his hand with hers, then kissed his fingers. "It is all real. What I had put in the chamber was the stuff of earth, as is my magic. It is easier to transform what exists into something else, that to create something out of nothing."

It occurred to Muhbaras that the transformation might as easily go the other way. The Lady seemed to read his thoughts.

"No. You will be gone from here before the cham-her is as it was. You need have no fear of waking up alone amid balding furs and reeking hides."

"Do I need to fear walking out of this chamber in the garb I wore at birth?"

"If I do not, why should you? We will not be cold." She proved her warmth all over again, and it was some while before Muhbaras could again think about clothes.

Again, it seemed that his thoughts were written upon his face. Suddenly he was garbed as he had been, although he thought his blades had been polished and sharpened since he last saw them.

"You see? All that I hold in my memory, I can restore as needed. But is soldier's garb needed now? I think not." She snapped her fingers, and Muhbaras was unclothed again.

The Lady grinned. "I am not done with you, nor I think you with me.

Come to me, captain. If it was in me to beg, I would. But with you, I will never have to."

As Muhbaras took the Lady of the Mists in his arms again, he could not help wishing that this might be true. The Lady might have come to him with blood on her hands that the gods themselves could not wash off.

Yet he would not begrudge her what little happiness he might be able to give her.

-

Fourteen

Old Omyela might be hardly larger than a ten-year-old Cimmerian girl, with a black-eyed gaze that neither Conan nor anyone else could meet for long. She was also as shrewd as any descendant of so many generations of hard-living desert folk could be, however, and she seemed to know her spells.

One of those spells covered the escape of Conan's new company”all the Afghulis and twenty-five Ekinari besides Bethina and Omyela, with a few spare mounts "acquired" from the Greencloaks. It was the simplest of spells, sending into the middle of the Greencloak camp an image of Bethina dancing. While everyone, including the sentries, had their eyes fixed on the play of supple limbs and veils that revealed more than they hid, the Afghulis slipped out of the camp.

Carrying their gear, they swiftly reached their meeting with the Ekinari, who had mounts for all. Then, mounted and with night enfolding the desert to hide their tracks, Conan's new band rode north.

They had a good notion of where to start looking for the Valley of the Mists, and it was a good three days' ride to the north. Conan set a punishing pace that made even the Afghulis sweat, and feared only that the two women might not be able to endure.

Neither gave trouble. Bethina was young and fit, and decades of desert sun had baked Omyela to the color and toughness of old leather.

"I remember when a woman who could not ride from dawn to dark three days running was not considered fit to bear children," Omyela said, scoffing at Bethina's concern. "Take care of yourself, girl. Wear away your strength, and when that Cimmerian wants you, there'll be nothing of you there!" She gave a bawdy chuckle, and Bethina's bronzed skin turned even darker.

Conan walked silently away, and nearly ran into Farad.

"Maidens should not ride on such death-quests," the Afghuli said softly.

Conan laughed. "Maidens you admire, you mean. I had not heard that the Afghuli lasses huddled around the cookfires."

"I admire that wild desert girl?" Farad said indignantly.

"Yes," Conan said. "Or was it someone else who stood there gaping while she danced, so that Omyela could send the image to the camp? A fly could have crawled into your mouth and made a nest in your back teeth, for all you noticed."

Farad twined the fingers of both hands in his beard and glared at Conan. "My chief, the day I cannot tell when a beautiful woman dances, it will be the day I am dead or at least blind. Last night I was neither."

Conan laughed, and chaffed Farad with a few light words to cool his indignation. He wondered if he should mention Farad's admiration to Bethina, lest the girl hurt him by chance.

Then he decided on silence. He faced enough tasks for three men on this last part of the journey, and he would not add playing matchmaker to them!

Captain Khezal was neither surprised nor alarmed at waking to find Conan gone, and the Afghulis and Ekinari along with him. He had, indeed, rather hoped that the Cimmerian would take swift action, and be long gone before any reinforcements to the Greencloaks arrived from the South or West.

Such reinforcements were likely to include some captain more senior than Khezal. Not all such captains would be inclined to send Conan's head in a bag of salt back to Aghrapur, but too many were. Even those who wished to be honest might become otherwise, for fear of what spies might say. Fear of Yezdigerd's spies had run through Turan like a plague for years now, and showed no signs of abating.

Khezal might be putting his own head in danger, of course. But he would rather not keep it on his shoulders if he could not do so honorably.

Conan was thrusting his head into a land of the most sinister sort of magic, courting damnation even more than death. For the sake of a friend facing such dangers, one's own death was nothing much to fear.

So Khezal sent messengers south and west, and also waited for the messengers returning from the party he had trailing Conan.

They rode close to the mountains, for concealment from the desert and for water from the mountain springs. It was as well that the Greencloaks did not ride with them, for no tribe in these lands was friendly to Turan. Instead, the wind seemed to bear word of their coming to tribesmen in search of adventure, and these riders came in until Conan led a band of more than fifty.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, they camped at the mouth of a ravine known for its endlessly flowing springs. Farad led the first watch up the ravine, and Conan did the same with the second when Farad's men returned. Bethina went with Conan, striding with sturdy litheness over the rugged ground. She was clad from crown to toe, but the breeze pressed certain of her garments against the ripe curves Conan remembered so well from the night she danced.

They led the way up the ravine, and Conan's hill-eating stride soon left everyone but Bethina behind. They found themselves climbing onto a shelf of rock, from which the far end of the ravine rose straight into the sky, a vertical crack taller than a tall tree.

From the crack in the rock, water flowed, to form an iridescent blue pool just beyond the shelf. Below the shelf, water flowed out and down, to form the stream that the men were using to fill their water bags.

Conan saw that the rocks on either side of the pool sparkled with gemlike bright bits, and a soft cushion of blue lichen overgrew one of them. He wanted to sit down, pull off his boots, and bathe his feet in water that looked so much like the pools where he'd swum as a boy in Cimmeria.

Bethina had already given in to the same impulse. She dandled her feet in the water, wincing at its chill, then kicked and splashed like a baby.

Suddenly she stood up and began unlacing her cloak. "I think that pool's deep enough to swim in."

Conan frowned. "Mortally cold, though."

"Is hill blood so weak, then? Or are you so clean that you need no bath?" She wrinkled her nose. "No, it cannot be that. So it must be a weakness in Cimmerians. The world must know of this. I shall” yaaahh!"

She broke off with a happy shout as Conan closed the distance to her, lifted her, and tossed her into the pool. It was deep enough to submerge her completely; when she bobbed to the surface she was spluttering and gasping from the cold.

Then she laughed, dove again, and came up at Conan's feet. Water sluiced over him, and as Bethina thrashed and splashed, more doused him all the way up to his waist.

"Well, Conan?"

Conan glared in mock-fury, sat down, and started pulling off his boots.

Then he stopped, for Bethina's tunic was now floating in the pool, and as he watched, her trousers bobbed up to join it. Then her head reappeared, hair sleeked down over bare shoulders, and she stepped out of the water. Silver drops ran down between her breasts and over every other curve, and Conan's arms were rising to meet her even as she came into them.

They used the bed of lichen well, and for how long, Conan never knew.

Even the thought of danger could not enter his mind for a while.

Somewhere in Bethina's embrace, he chuckled.

"Do I amuse you, Conan?"

"That, and much else. But I was thinking. You are a whole woman now, true?"

"Well

"You're lacking nothing any woman has, and you've more than most. Or isn't that what your folk call 'whole'?"

"For me”it might be best”if I bore a child. Prove that the line of my father is safe with me. To a man of good blood, of course, and a friend to the tribe."

Conan slapped Bethina smartly on her bare rump. "Woman, you won't find me unwilling, and I hope your folk call me friend. But having a babe in your belly is no way to go questing!"

"I will remember that. But surely, Conan, we will not be here in the mountains that long?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But if you hope too much, ten Turanian crowns to a brass bit you'll find yourself trying to have the babe somewhere in a blizzard-buried cave in the mountains next winter!"

She shuddered at the thought, and the Cimmerian held her close. He hoped she could not read in his touch his innermost thought, which was that anyone here by next winter would not be among the living. Perhaps not among the lawfully dead, if the Lady of the Mists had half the powers credited to her by rumor, but surely not among the living.

"More wine, my Lady?" Muhbaras said. He sat on the edge of the magical pool in their meeting chamber, legs dangling, holding out the jug.

The Lady of the Mists nodded, extending one bare white arm. She wore nothing, and Muhbaras no more. Now they did not disrobe by magic when she transformed the chamber, but disrobed each other, touching and caressing as they went.

"You would make a fine servant, Muhbaras," the Lady said, as the golden wine flowed into her cup. "Perhaps I should bind you to me so that you will be here forever."

Muhbaras could not keep his hands from tightening on the jug. It tilted, spilling a few drops of wine into the water. The Lady looked at the widening gold circle and laughed.

"Does that frighten you, Muhbaras?"

"Yes, my Lady. It does. I have lived all my life as my own man, free to decide for myself and for those placed under me. I would not willingly give it up."

He smiled. "Besides, my lady, I think you have found me skilled enough as a free man, not to wish to exchange me for a slave." He slipped into the water and swiftly embraced the Lady.

She struggled, or at least pretended to do so. But Muhbaras's lips were on hers, and even when she poured her wine over his head, he did not take them away. At last she went limp in his arms”then grappled him like a mating she-leopard with a great cry of triumph and delight.

Presently they lay in the pavilion, as a soft scented magical breeze dried their bare skins. The Lady shook her head. "I would never change you, Muhbaras. This I pledge, by

Muhbaras did not recognize the names of half the gods (if they were gods) that the Lady invoked. He was glad of this. The Lady had delved far too deep into ancient and forbidden knowledge that he had no wish to share.

"I also call them to witness that if I changed you, I would be sorry for it."

"Sorrow has not seemed part of you."

The Lady of the Mists turned her face away. With her head muffled in a pillow, she said, "I have not allowed sorrow near me in many years. Not since I came to womanhood and my powers at the same time."

Muhbaras did not have to wait long for the story. He heard it gasped out between barely muffled sobs. Long before it was done, he lay spoon-fashion with the Lady, her head against his chest, cradling her as he would have done a hurt child.

Horror seethed within him, at the tale. Revenge would have heated his blood, except that the men re-sponsible were all long dead. The Lady had taken that vengeance into her own hands, and done thorough work.

So how an Aquilonian noble's daughter came to be the Lady of the Mists was answered. What was not answered was another, far more urgent question (at least in Muhbaras's eyes).

How was a common man to endure long enough as consort to a sorceress, to heal her from her wounds and make her whole as both woman and witch?

Conan's band hugged the foot of the mountains for the next two days.

Once more they rode by night to hide themselves from any human watchers who might be lurking either among the rocks or among the dunes.

"To be sure, the Lady's magic may have given her a clear sight of us since we fought the loosefeet," Omyela said cheerfully. "And if it has, she has doubtless prepared for us hospitality that we will not be able to refuse. But she may find me a more awkward guest than she anticipated when she sent the invitations."

The thought of being watched through magic was one of the few things in the world that could make the Cimmerian uneasy. However, he had gone on this quest knowing that there was magic at the end of it, and too many followed him to let the uneasiness show.

"I've been the same kind of guest to a good few witches and wizards,"

Conan said. "Spells against steel do not always go the way the spellcaster wants it, if the steel's in good hands."

"Just as long as you do not think I am one whom you can cut down before I can bespell you," Omyela said. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach her eyes, and Conan heard no warmth in her voice.

"You need not fear me even trying," he said evenly. "Not unless you give me cause."

They rode on in silence.

In the heart of the peak at the far end of the Valley of the Mists, there was discontent.

That is applying a term suited for living creatures, even intelligent ones, to something that was neither living nor dead, neither intelligent nor mindless. It merely was.

But it could feed, and when the essence of living beings was offered to it, it did so in a way that might be called eager. Feeding had become a habit, and it had gained the notion that this would continue if it obeyed certain commands that seemed to come at regular intervals.

Now the commands no longer came as often. Nor did the feedings. The discontent grew.

There also grew what might be called an idea. If the life essences no longer came to the entity, could it not go to them?

The problem was where.

It began to seem that the commands had come from a particular place. It gave cause for the entity to wonder.

If it found the place where the commands had come from, would it then be able to feed?

At least this gave some direction to the search” and the entity below the mountain had begun to be able to distinguish what had direction from what did not.

The Lady of the Mists had labored and sacrificed for years to bring the Mist to this point, but when the Mist finally reached it, she did not know until it was much too late.

-

Fifteen -

The mountains lunged skyward and dawn was tinting the distant snowcaps as Conan reined in. His sense for danger told him that they should ride on, and not make camp here. His other senses told him that the danger was being seen if they rode on in daylight.

He dismounted and studied the ground, seeking a sign of hostile presence to justify his unease. The ground was too hard in most places to show tracks, and during the night the wind had blown hard, with nearly a sandstorm's strength. On the softer ground any tracks left before dawn would have long since been obliterated.

Voices broke into Conan's study of the ground, coming up behind him.

"”old crone's fancies," came in Farad's voice.

"Old crone? Is that what you see when you look at me?" That could only be Omyela.

"With my eyes, yes. We Afghulis are not much for magic."

"Hmmp. We call that 'stone-brained' among my folk. I see a stone-brained young warrior who loves his chief's woman."

Only Farad's trying to choke back an angry retort broke the ensuing silence. That, and Conan's swift feet as he hurried back to the others.

"What Bethina is to me, and I to her, and what Farad may be toward both of us, is not for spreading on the desert wind like camel-stink," Conan said sharply. He did not look at either Omyela or Farad, but saw out of the corner of his eye that both took the chiding to heart.

"Now, Omyela, you had some”what Farad called by a rude name”to speak of to me? True?"

The old woman inclined her head with almost regal grace. "That is so, Cimmerian. My 'fancies' tell me where lies the Valley of the Mists."

That silenced even Farad, and the two men listened with great attention as Omyela explained. Conan had no more love for sorcery than ever, but in his years of adventuring, magic-wielders had sometimes been more help than hindrance. Omyela was looking to be one such.

He hoped she was. The Kezankian Mountains were full of valleys, some known only to the mountain folk who lived in or about them, others hardly visited at all by mortal men. It would take longer than they could afford, climbing among the peaks and peering into each valley”and perhaps learning that they had found the Valley of the Mists when its witch-Lady hurled her magic at them.

"You say you have sensed what is both alive and dead, and can guide us to it?" Conan said, by way of prodding Omyela into brevity.

"Yes, with some help," Omyela said. "One of those who goes to the valley must be a woman. What I will be using is woman's magic."

Farad and Conan looked at each other, then at Omyela. Neither could imagine her climbing up mountains and down into valleys where both armed warriors and potent spells awaited. Neither could doubt that the woman she meant to send against those perils was Bethina.

Fortunately for the peace of the quest, neither of them said a word against it. They knew Bethina”and a moment later she appeared from behind a rock, as if Omyela had conjured her out of the air.

Farad and Conan could only exchange looks again, and then listen as Omyela finished her explanation of how to fight the menace of the Valley of the Mists.

"I will wear one amulet, Bethina the other. All that either of us knows, the other will know too. My power can pass into Bethina, so if she is with you, it will be as if I were."

"You say that you have sensed the Mist, and from that sensing, you know where the Valley lies," Conan said. "What of the Mist sensing you, and where you are?"

"The Mist does not yet have that power by itself," Omyela said”rather complacently, Conan thought. He hoped Omyela would not be numbered among those adepts of sorcery who had trusted old knowledge too much when they faced new foes. That was a bad habit among the breed, he'd discovered, and one reason why they were often no match for a well-taught warrior.

"The Lady of the Mists has that power, if she chooses to wield it,"

Omyela continued. "But I have not sensed her using it. One wonders if her power weakens, or if she has grown lazy in guarding herself and her valley."

"The more she has, the better for us," Farad said. "A witch is a foe I'll gladly take when her back is turned."

"Ah, that may be your hope," Omyela said. "But it should not be. The less the Lady of the Mists binds her creation, the more it will seek power for itself. The more power it finds, the wider it can spread, feeding as it comes. If it grows enough, the Mist will be the doom of all who face it."

Silence followed, broken only by the piping of the wind among distant peaks, and by a bird cry that to Conan's ears did not sound quite natural.

Conan divided his band before they plunged into the Kezankians on the trail of the Valley of the Mists. This was not much to his liking”dividing your strength just before you closed with the enemy was no way to gain victory. But if one could neither take old Omyela into the high mountains nor safely leave her alone, what else was a man to do?

Nor was it much to the liking of the men left behind. Tales of the valley's warrior women had grown with the retelling, like mushrooms in the dark, and every man dreamed of grappling a Maiden of the Mists.

Conan came down on those dreams with a heavy boot. "If they're coming at you with swords, use yours and not some other weapon, or you'll be vulture-fodder. I won't sing a death-song for you, either. I've no breath to waste on fools.

"If they don't fight, they're lawful prisoners and they'll have lawful treatment from any man who wants to keep his head on his shoulders."

The Cimmerian's demeanor was so ferocious that the men immediately swore potent oaths to do as he wished. He doubted all of them swore without some inward doubts, but that was why his Afghulis were going with him. They sometimes wondered at Cimmerian ways, but they always obeyed the chief to whom they were blood-sworn. They would cheerfully skewer any of Bethina's tribesfolk who went against their chief's command.

Surprisingly, Omyela herself was none too pleased at a division of the band intended to protect her. "I can deal with any foe likely to come upon me quite well without you keeping a dozen good warriors idling,"

she snapped.

"How?" he asked. "By making yourself invisible?"

"It is within my powers to do that," Omyela said, complacently. "Also, guards cannot protect me if the Lady of the Mists strikes at me with her magic. They can only be fresh prey for her."

"Yes, but if you are hiding from loosefeet, can you also fight the Lady? How many spells can you cast at once, Omyela?"

"Enough."

"I think not, lady."

"Who are you to tell me the extent of my powers?"

"Someone who has come alive out of battles with a good many sorcerers because they thought they could do everything. The one thing they could not do allowed me to escape, sometimes to kill them into the bargain.

"You've spoken of this Mist being the doom of us all. If you can't fight it, another dozen or score or ten score men in the mountains won't help. If you can

Omyela held up a hand. "Indeed, I see that Bethina sings the praises of your wisdom with good reason. Also other aspects of you. Have you thought of wedding her?"

A dagger thrust at his ribs could hardly have surprised the Cimmerian more. "I have not."

"Well that you should do so, Cimmerian. If she had a consort of your prowess in battle, those who follow her brother would swiftly leave his banners. Her father would have a son worthy of him, and in time the Ekinari a chief worthy of them."

"I will think on it, Omyela. But first, let all of us come back down the mountains alive."

"There is that, to be sure."

Conan left Omyela hoping that she would not remember this conversation, but fearing otherwise. She had weighty reasons behind her, but the Cimmerian had his own as well.

Plainly, the first was Farad's regard for Bethina and hers for him.

Wedding her would be taking another man's woman, and a surer way to make enemies, neither gods nor men had yet devised.

The second was the Turanian price on Conan's head. Yezdigerd would never tolerate seeing a desert tribe so close to his borders under the chieftainship of an enemy of Turan.

The last was Doiran's followers. Not all of them would turn their coats, nor would all of the rest flee. Too many would remain within stabbing distance of the new chief for Conan ever to take easy sleep”or for Bethina and her kin to do so, either.

It would have been less perilous to stay in Afghulistan, and there was an end to the matter!

The first person the Mist fed on of its own will was a half-witted girl”born so, not turned into one of the Lady's creatures by magic. She had the wits to wield a small knife, and to avoid falling from high places, so she was often sent up the sides of the valley to cut brush for the cookfires.

She had done her work so well in days gone by that she had cleared the brush from all the lower slopes in the area given to her. So she climbed higher than ever, holding her knife between her teeth”her single garment had no belt or pockets.

She finally ended her climb on a ledge where several bushes were growing. She cut all the branches that were thin enough for her knife, then looked around for more before she bundled them up to carry back down the hill.

In a crack in the rock she saw what looked like another bush growing, with yellow berries and thin branches that would cut easily. She had to reach very far in to even touch the branches, and she soon realized that she would not in truth be able to cut them easily.

She was trying to decide what to do next, and meanwhile reaching in over and over again, when her fingers touched something cold. It felt as cold as ice or springwater, but it was not solid or liquid. It felt like a wind blowing on her fingers.

Then her fingers began to hurt. The pain grew so fierce that she cried out. She tried to pull her hand out, to see if her fingers were all right. But the crack in the rock seemed to be holding not just her hand now, but her whole arm.

Then the cold covered the arm, and after it came more pain. This time she screamed loud enough to raise echoes, and pulled with all her strength, trying to free herself.

It was useless. No one heard her screams, thinking they were bird cries. She could not pull free, and a moment later the Mist found a blood vessel and darted up through it to the girl's brain. The life went out of her eyes, although she did not fall, but remained sitting while her body slowly shrank in on itself, turning blue, until nothing remained but a trifle of powder to fall to the ground or blow away on the breeze.

The girl was the first. She would not be the last.

Conan and Bethina were once again well ahead of the rest of their band.

But there was no water in sight, let alone pools for bathing or beds of lichen for taking their pleasure.

Still, Conan could not help admiring her lithe form, well displayed in snug trousers and short coat, as she clambered up the rocks beside him.

Bethina was not for him, and indeed no woman could be, as long as he was a rover”and that might mean he would die unwed, even if he lived long enough that his old playmates in Cimmeria were graybearded grandsires.

But there were women with whom he could live in as much peace as man and woman could expect, and Bethina was of that breed.

A sound Conan could not identify made him halt and raise a hand for silence. Bethina was as good a scout as any the Cimmerian had seen in a regular host, ready to obey his signals and growing more skilled each day in hiding herself. It did not hurt that her clothes were a grayish-brown that blended with the rocks so that if she lay still, one could almost tread on her without seeing her.

The sound came again. It was the chink of metal on stone, not a sound natural to these mountains or any other. Conan's band was almost on the border of the land where the Valley of the Mist's Khorajan allies and their bandit mercenaries prowled. A battle now could give warning enough to raise defenses that neither Conan's blade nor Omyela's magic could breach.

Conan crouched, listening intently, trying to put a direction to the sound. It seemed that it might be from behind him, but that was unlikely. Those immediately behind him were his Afghulis, more cat-footed on rocky slopes than even the Cimmerian himself.

He decided to go to ground himself and wait for the noisemaker to reveal himself. If it was an enemy trying to slip up on the Cimmerian through the Afghulis, he had only moments to live. Conan would not have to draw a blade before his followers dealt with the man”and in the deadly silence that helped make the Afghulis such respected foes and their rugged homeland free of foreign enemies in most years.

Silence came to the mountainside. Conan would have sworn that even the birds and the winds were silent. He could hear his own breathing and, just barely, Bethina's. But of he who had made that revealing noise, there was no further sign.

All at once there was more noise, and from high above. Conan shifted his position to look uphill, and saw a pack train ambling across the slope. Conan counted twelve pack mules and six guards on foot, all with bows and short swords of no particular origin” the sort of weapons a mercenary might pick up in the bazaars of fifty different cities.

But their garb was not that of any tribe, and in this part of the mountains that made them enemies.

Their distance and their bows also made them enemies well out of reach.

Climbing up against their archery would be slow work and bring quick death to many of those who tried it, besides giving the alarm. Conan braced himself against a rock and slowly rose to his feet, invisible from above but hopefully not so from below.

He was raising his arms in the signal for stillness and silence when a man leapt from the rocks to his right. Conan had one moment to recognize the man whom he'd punished for being slow to swear obedience.

Then the man hurled himself at the Cimmerian, dagger in hand, and Conan was fighting for his life.

The man was slighter and shorter than he, but had surprise on his side and the strength and agility of a leopard, making him no mean foe even for one of the Cimmerian's prowess.

The man's rush drove Conan back against the rock, and his head cracked hard against it. This slowed his drawing his own blade, so that the man slashed at his wrist and made it fall. Conan hammered a fist into the man's face, or at least so aimed it, but the man bobbed aside and the blow only struck his shoulder.

That was still enough to knock him back, but he sprang up again like a child's weighted toy. Now Bethina closed from Conan's left, and he frantically gestured for her to stand clear. It was not in him to shout yet, although he feared that a deaf man in the pack train could already have heard the fight.

The man stamped a foot on Conan's blade, at the same time pivoting on the foot and kicking at the Cimmerian's groin. Conan rode with the kick, taking it on his hip, and picked up his sword, which gave him the edge in reach.

But that also opened the distance between him and his opponent. Before the Cimmerian could strike again, the man leapt at Bethina.

"Doiran is chief!" the man screamed, and the dagger flashed down.

It never reached Bethina, and only partly because she fell and rolled out from under its slash. It still would have torn her open, except that another dagger suddenly blossomed in the back of the man's neck.

He stiffened, his own point wavered, blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell almost on top of Bethina.

Farad stepped out of the rocks, a second dagger held by the point in his hand and a grim look on his face. His face grew grimmer still as he saw Bethina, lying still and blood-spattered almost within reach of the would-be assassin.

Then he stopped in midstride, as Bethina leaped to her feet and Conan laughed. A moment later Farad's face was that of a man being strangled and thoroughly enjoying the process, as Bethina wrapped her arms around him and clung to him so tightly that her feet barely touched the ground.

"Did you devise this scheme to dazzle this young lady?" Conan growled, but with a grin.

Farad looked as if he'd been slapped, and Bethina glared at the Cimmerian.

"This is the first I knew of either man's presence, and much good yours did me!" Then she shook her head. "Forgive me, Conan. This”I did not think we might have my brother's spies among us."

"I did," Farad said, regaining his voice. "But I could not be sure. If I simply made the man disappear some night, his tribesfolk would take it ill. So I trusted to my tracking skills, to follow the man until he did some mischief."

"It would not have hurt if you'd followed him a trifle closer," Conan said, holding up his bloody left wrist. "You might have stopped him before he did this, or even made a sound. There was a pack train uphill, and if they're not alert now, I'm a Stygian!"

Farad quickly begged his chief's pardon and went to see what the pack train had done. Not much to Conan's surprise, the Afghuli reported that they had dashed off fast enough for at least two mules to fall.

They were barely in sight to the west, and not slackening their speed.

"As well that they had orders to guard the mules and not fight," Conan said, "or we'd have had arrows about our ears and maybe in other places before this. But the alarm will be up."

"Should I go up and pick over the fallen mules? They may tell us something

"And what's to tell you that the guards haven't left an archer behind just to pick off the curious? We can't lose you, Farad. We need you to lead in my place if the next would-be assassin aims his steel better."

Farad and Bethina looked at one another, then Farad cleared his throat.

"My chief. Suppose that we pretend this one did aim well? If they have not seen you alive after the fight, how can they know you are not dead?"

"Yes," Bethina added. "We can make a great mourning for you, and pretend to build a cairn."

"I don't mind that," Conan said, "as long as you don't actually put me under it alive. But”do I smell a ruse?"

Farad nodded. "You said yourself that the alarm is now given. But if they think we are defeated, despairing, about to withdraw, they will be less alert. They may even come down to attack us, on our own ground."

"Farad," Conan said. "When we are done with misty Ladies and their valleys, we shall return to Afghulistan. There I will support you for chief of the whole people!"

"If you do, you go alone," Bethina snapped. "I will not perch on a mountain like a rock-ape

"You say this of Afghulistan, when your people roam the desert from well to well, not staying under a roof three nights out of the year?"

"Better than have the roofs fall in on us when

By then Conan had decided to take himself off out of hearing of the lovers' first quarrel. He hoped they would make peace soon; he did not need them at daggers drawn with each other while carrying out the ruse.

But why in the name of all the gods had Bethina taken him, if she'd had her eye on Farad all along as much as he had on her? It was not in Conan to regret a delightful tumble with a fine young woman, but blood-feuds had begun over less.

Fortunately, the Afghuli was a proven warrior and old enough to be a wiser head to Bethina, as well as in fettle to remind her that she was a woman any time she wished it. She could have chosen worse. She would have chosen worse, had she set herself wholly on the Cimmerian.

And it still made precious little sense, unless one accepted the truth that the ways of women were hardly more predictable than those of the gods. At least women were human, and few priests claimed to understand them, but otherwise the difference sometimes seemed too small for a man's discerning.

Muhbaras was at sword practice when the messenger arrived.

He listened to the man, while turning his gaze from the darkening slopes of the mountain to the gate of the valley. The men posted there had reported that since early morning the Maidens would not talk to them, and seemed pale and drawn, as with a fever. One man said that he had heard inhuman cries from beyond the gate, and maintained this in the face of the scoffing of his comrades.

Muhbaras wished that he had no duties toward his men, or at least none that would keep him from the Lady's side. Then he put the wish away. He was no sorcerer, and however well wielded, few swords availed much against magic gone awry. Also, the Lady had her pride, and would not thank him for seeing her weak.

Moreover, if the messenger spoke the truth, Muhbaras was needed more than ever in the outer world, Muhbaras and all his men.

"If I took you a half-glass's ride down the path, you'd see where they're making the cairn," the messenger concluded. "They've their chief all laid out proper, with his grave goods and sword, and enough stones ready to pile on him to keep out lions let alone wolves. Most likely they'll lay him down at dawn, and build the cairn during the day. That's the way of the tribes, leastways the ones I know."

The messenger was a seasoned veteran, one of the handful remaining, and had likely forgotten more about the people of these mountains than Muhbaras had known when he came to them. He would trust the man for anything he had seen with his own eyes, and they had seen a good deal.

"Very well," Muhbaras said. "You shall have a proper reward for this work, and soon."

"Tonight, Captain, or I might not be living to spend it."

Muhbaras wondered if the soldier had heard the tales of fear within the valley. He did not dare ask.

Then the man grinned. "No, it's just that I reckon you're about taking us down to clean those tribesfolk off our mountain. Chancy work in the dark, even if they've lost their chief. There's a Maiden I've wanted to gift a mite, for her kindness to me, and surely you wouldn't be quarreling with a man's doing that, would you?"

Muhbaras laughed and drew two silver coins from his purse. "I would not, and here's your reward. Save something for the fighting, though."

"Aye, Captain, I'll do that, and you take your own advice too."

Left alone, Muhbaras considered various schemes, but knew time was short. He decided that nothing would serve better than a straightforward night attack with every man he could spare. That would have to be everyone, as he had too few seasoned warriors among the bandits and unfledged recruits to divide his forces.

That also meant putting the pay chests and other valuables in a safe place. The only man who could be spared for that was Ermik, which was rather like trusting a mouse to the care of a serpent. But the serpent might not be hungry. The oncoming raiders surely would be.

Then he wrote three short letters. One was for his superiors in Khoraja. It accepted all blame, if such there was, and absolved his men. Then he wrote one for the Maidens, which he left unsealed. Even Ermik should be able to read his message that the Maidens should be doubly watchful tonight and for some nights to come, with human foes closer to the valley than for some years.

His last letter, he sealed as tightly as he could.

It was not a letter that schoolchildren would be made to recite in future years. It was not a letter that anyone except the woman who read it would long remember. It was merely the letter of a man to the woman he loves, before he goes out to battle, hoping to return in triumph but asking her to remember him if his luck is out.

However, in all the years that such letters had been written, there could not have been many written by a warrior to a sorceress.

In her innermost chamber, where not even her serving Maidens were admitted, the Lady awoke and threw off her blankets. She had come to find it easier to add blankets to her bed, rather than use her magic to keep the chamber warm at all times.

She had not abandoned sleeping unclothed, however, as her mirror showed her. For a moment she wished the mirror were Muhbaras's eyes”the desire she read in them was so beautiful to see, so unlike what she had expected from men for so long, that it aroused her almost as much as his caresses.

Then she drew on a chamber robe, rinsed the sleep from her mouth, and sat down at her scrying table. She had not sat there for some days, although the wards she had placed on it earlier should have been sufficient to warn her of anything amiss. Not that there ever had been, except in the days when she thought ruling the Maidens like a tyrant would help her cause, but still¦

Her hands tingled the moment they touched the table, and a dozen shades of blueness swirled in the glass, until it was like peering down into a bottomless well of luminous water. At the very bottom, she sensed the Mist she had brought into being and fed for so long.

Until recent days, that is. She knew what Muhbaras thought of those sacrifices, even when they were of useless mouths and made cleanly, without pain. She could not help but know, after lying in his arms so many times.

She also could not help what had gone before, but she could keep it from happening again. There had to be a way of constraining the Mist, so that it would at least be harmless. Meanwhile, it had not been strong enough to feed by itself the last time she offered life essences to it. A moon or two of fasting would do the Mist no harm.

Now her questing spell touched the Mist”before she had expected, indeed. She strengthened the touch”and it was as if the Mist pushed back, as Muhbaras sometimes did when they mock-wrestled to a love-fall¦

But this was not a friendly push. It was like a man swatting at a fly, with great strength. More strength than the Mist should have. As much strength as it would have had, if it had been fed regularly all these past days while she loved Muhbaras.

The Lady withdrew the questing spell and rose from the table. Something was amiss, and she intended to seek answers (at least at first) without casting any more spells.

-

Sixteen -

The Mist did not distinguish between friend and enemy. Those were distinctions too subtle for it.

But it could tell what lived from what did not live. It could also tell what life it could feed on, and what life it could not.

In the time since it first fed of its own will, it had also learned to tell those who helped it to feed from those who would hinder it. It saw the second kind, not as enemies, but as more food.

Waiting for a night attack by a formidable foe, high in thin cold mountain air, after a long day of marching and fighting and with a wounded wrist throbbing none too gently, is no man's idea of pleasure.

Not even the most hardened of Cimmerian warriors.

Not even Conan's.

However, he had not expected this quest to bring much pleasure. If he and his Afghulis left Turan with a whole skin and some of their jewels, that would be enough.

Oh, and to be sure, it would be as well if this Lady of the Mists and her magical menaces were also put down. But Conan was beginning to wonder if the Lady was only a tale.

Here they were in her mountains, and according to Omyela (speaking through Bethina), so close to the valley that a child could have walked the distance in half a morning. All they had seen were humans, and not the most formidable sort of humans either. Even Omyela could not say for certain that the Lady's magic was still potent”although Conan knew that some kinds of spells were shields against detection. Dangerous ones, more often than not, commanded by potent sorcerers”and the Lady was one, if she was anything at all, Conan stretched cramped muscles.

He lay on his bier, playing the "dead chief by night as he had by day.

Just after the light vanished, he'd slipped off the bier to relieve himself and snatch bean-bread and sausage from his pack, while Farad took his place. Then it was back to playing his own corpse, while a string of "mourners" marched around the bier, making the din demanded by custom.

Conan only hoped that they didn't keep the sentries from hearing the noise of the approaching attack.

A lull in the mourning, and then soft footsteps approaching. He had heard them before, and recognized Bethina's pace. Before she had been with Farad, but now she was alone.

The footsteps halted. Conan heard soft breathing, smelled warm woman (not recently bathed, but then who among them had for some days?), then felt tears fall on his face.

"Ha, lass," he whispered. "I'm not dead yet."

"I know. I would weep for you, though, if you were."

"Even though you're going to wed Farad?"

"Even so."

"Well, then, be sure that he tells you about his three wives and seventeen children back in Afghulistan. He

Conan felt a cold sharp point at his throat. "Conan, you are jesting, are you not?"

It took some effort to command his voice. "Yes. Farad has no wife, and not much in Afghulistan to draw him back. What he says, you can believe."

"I am grateful." Suddenly the point was withdrawn and warm arms fell around his neck. "I am also frightened. When will they come?"

"Easy there, Bethina. I know it's hard, waiting for an enemy you know is out there to spring on you. But we're on our own ground. They're stumbling around in the dark, wondering if they will have any warning or if they're about to fall into a trap.

"Believe me, I've done both, and we have the easier work tonight."

"I can almost believe you. I will believe you, if you hold me."

"Farad

"I told him where I was going, when he went out to the sentries. He blessed me."

"Not me?" Conan scoffed. "The ungrateful hound! I bring him from a flea-ridden hut to the embraces of

"Hssst!" Bethina said, in a very different manner. Conan put his arm around her but was silent.

Then they both heard it”a high, wailing cry that might have been an abandoned babe. But it was many times too loud and seemed to come from both the rock of the mountains and the stars in the sky at once.

Muhbaras heard the sound, too, and his first thought was that one of the raiders' sentries was blowing a whistle to give the alarm. Then it swelled until it was almost painful to hear, and he ceased to believe that it could be natural.

What he wanted to believe was that the Lady of the Mists was calling on her powers to aid him. What he feared was that magic was on the march tonight, without the Lady's leave.

He did not know to what god he could lawfully pray, for the victory of one who had delved into matters forbidden by those same gods. He also wondered if he could pray for his own victory, seeing that he was bound by the most ancient of human ties to that same delver into the forbidden.

Since Muhbaras did not know how to pray, he did not do so. Instead he devoted all his attention to keeping on his feet as he led his men down across the scree-strewn slope. A stone turning under somebody's feet could do worse than give the alarm. It could tumble a man, so that he took others off their feet until the whole raiding party slid downhill like a living avalanche, to end up helpless amid the rubble while their enemies cut their throats.

Mountains were no place for moving fast at night, and here the bandits had the advantage over their lowlander comrades. They knew ground was supposed to be rubble-strewn and slanting, and their feet found safe paths without demanding direction from their wits or senses.

Muhbaras's eyes had long since accustomed themselves to the darkness, although his night-sight was not of the keenest. He saw that he himself was running almost straight at the dead chief's bier, and that some of the men on his flanks were well ahead of him.

He could almost be grateful to the terrible cry in the night. It had to be drawing all his enemies' attention, and completely drowning out the footfalls of his men. They would strike by surprise, and that alone might give them the edge.

Muhbaras put out of his mind the thought that the magic unloosed in the night might make meaningless the difference between victor and vanquished. It was disloyal to his Lady, it might unman him, and it might even be untrue.

Conan waited until the last moment of the attackers' approach. He had plenty of warning, not only from the sentries (who gave ground before the onrush without engaging) but from the "mourners" around him.

Among them was Bethina, who was keeping her courage and her wits about her for all that she was plainly fearful of what might befall Farad out on the sentry line. She moaned and wailed quite convincingly, and in between the moans gave Conan the numbers of the enemy. When the number reached fifty and grew no higher, Conan heaved a gusty sigh.

That was odds of no more than two to one, and ensured a battle rather than a massacre. But he trusted his men; when the fight was over there should be little between them and the Valley of the Mists.

Little of human contriving, that is.

Conan moved enough to see the sentries pelting past the archers climbing on the piled stones, to give themselves clear shots over the heads of their friends into the ranks of their foes. The clatter of onrushing feet on stones was now louder than the wailing in the sky.

Then the first of the enemy burst out of the night. A lean man in ragged robes, he leapt clean over Conan's bier, to meet Bethina's dagger full in his chest.

His death-cry made all other sounds seem like a hush. Conan rolled off the other side of the bier, drawing both dagger and broadsword in a single motion as he came to his feet. Both blades found living flesh as they were drawn, and two enemies crumpled before Conan had taken three steps from the bier.

A third man stared at the Cimmerian, gibbering like a bee-stung ape.

"Your pardon for coming back from the dead, but I had work to do,"

Conan said. His broadsword licked out and the man's head lolled on his shoulders. He fell backward into the path of a fourth man, who was agile enough to leap aside but not enough so to escape the downswing of Conan's sword.

It was only a flesh wound to the man's left arm, and he wielded the tulwar in his right hand with no loss of speed or skill. Conan feinted with his dagger to draw the man into a furious slash that put him briefly off balance and in reach of the broadsword. The broadsword ended the fight, opening the man's chest, across half his ribs and down to his heart and lungs.

Conan had now slain four men in hardly more time than it would have taken to draw that many breaths. His rising from the dead had not frightened as many enemies witless as he had hoped, but it had left him well inside their ranks.

A squarely built man with a grizzled beard now came at Conan. The man had nearly the Cimmerian's reach and much of his strength, but not his speed. Conan could not use all his swiftness of foot, eye, and hand on this rough ground with enemies lurking in every direction.

So he and the bearded man went at it for a good long while for such a fight, which is to say all of a minute or two. They also fought unhindered by either friends or foes, which might have been chivalry but was more likely that the two wove about them a web of flying steel such that no prudent man dared draw close.

The bearded man drew Conan's blood twice, and the Cimmerian considered that this quest was giving him more scars than usual. Then his opponent made a downward cut that was just a trifle too predictable, and Conan caught the man's blade with his dagger.

Pushing back hard, the Cimmerian locked the other's blade between them, then brought his broadsword about in a sweeping stroke.

It struck flat-bladed; Conan wanted a prisoner. Too much that they had not expected was abroad tonight, and this man had to know more than Conan did! Besides, the man was too good an opponent to kill without good cause.

The blow knocked the man's helmet awry and staggered him without stunning him. He lurched back, clearing his blade and drawing a short hill knife from his belt. Conan brought a knee up into the man's groin and slammed the hilt of his broadsword into the other's jaw.

Those two blows were almost enough. The man still thrust his knife weakly at Conan, touching the Cimmerian's scarred chest. Then he reeled and fell, his steel falling from limp hands.

Conan stepped back from his fallen opponent and looked around. The archers from the stone pile were now at work, and arrows whistled by close enough to be heard over the cry of the night. The cries when they struck living flesh were even louder; Conan counted half a dozen writhing or still forms within spear-throw.

Now to see to his prisoner, and hope that no one tried to kill him or trample on the man while he was doing that.

Conan had just gripped the man's ankles when the cry in the night doubled, then redoubled, until all the world seemed to be one terrible wailing that seemed to signal the death of gods or even of the universe itself.

In the valley, the Lady of the Mists was running for the first time in some years. She was relieved to discover that her wind and limbs were still sound enough to let her make good speed.

Or perhaps she owed her speed to being sensibly clad, with stout shoes and a tunic and trousers borrowed from one of the servants. They were not the best fit, but she was conscious as never before how keeping the chill wind from her skin and the stones of the paths from her bare feet allowed her to make better time on her journey.

Of course, it would be well to doff all her garments as usual when it came time to wield her magic. Meanwhile, though, no one would take her for the Lady of the Mists or perhaps even for a woman, as the garments were large enough to alter her shape. Even in the uncanny light the Mist was pouring out into the Valley, her staff might also look like a shepherd's crook or a bearer's walking stick.

Besides, it would take sharp and untroubled wits to even think of the Lady's rushing about so meanly clad, let alone be trying to pierce the disguise of everyone who passed. She did not doubt that there were sharp wits among the folk in the valley, not all of whom were foolish either by nature or her creation. But she doubted that they would be untroubled.

She herself was not untroubled, and as she strode along the path toward the Cave of the Mists, she recited old cantrips to soothe herself. The Mist had begun to feed of its own volition, and that terrible blue light spreading out into the valley was frightening both those who knew what it meant and those who did not. The more fearful the valley dwellers, the more they would run about like headless fowl without taking thought for their own safety.

Not that they could easily procure it. Men and women were going to die tonight, and each death would feed a life essence into the Mist, making it stronger to seek out the next victim. (She would not use the word "sacrifice" tonight, and had begun to think that she never should have.)

At least they could run toward the mouth of the valley. The Mist was bound to the magic in the rocks of the valley, the magic going back to the time of Acheron. It could not leave the valley unless it devoured many more life essences than it had found so far.

And unless she was no longer there to contend with it.

What her magic had wrought, it could undo. This might not earn her a kinder judgment from anyone except Muhbaras, who was”as he was, and she would not try to find words for it. She was no poet either. In time, when they had lived together in the outside world, she a soldier's lady, he a soldier of Khoraja, one of them might find such words.

That time would not come tonight.

She needed to be closer to the Eye of the Mist to wield the needful spells with appropriate power, so she hastened her pace. As she moved, she called to the minds of everyone she passed, and hoped that the call reached beyond the range of her eyes.

Flee the valley. Flee the valley. Flee to the valley, and beyond it.

The valley is death. Outside lies hope.

She repeated this, and one or two folk on the path turned and stared about them, as if seeking the source of the message that seemed to be touching their minds without touching their ears. She almost laughed.

That was another way of remaining disguised”a call to the mind did not mean using one's all-too-recognizable voice.

Conan was now backed against the pile of stones. This left him all the fighting room he needed to front and flanks. Not all of the archers atop the pile still lived, but both living and dead had wrought havoc in the enemy's ranks. They were coming at Conan and the remaining defenders on the ground with barely half their strength remaining fighting-fit.

Bethina crouched behind Farad and Conan, her hand gripping her dagger but her eyes seeing nothing. She had not uttered any of Omyela's messages since battle was joined, but her consciousness was clearly elsewhere.

Conan hoped that no one saw Bethina as the defender's weak point and hurled themselves on her. That would end in red ruin for the attackers, but perhaps also in Bethina's doom.

The Cimmerian had met a good many women he'd mourn less than Bethina, altogether apart from the bond with Omyela. What was loose in the valley looked very apt to doom all in its path, without Omyela's help.

Most of the folk of the Valley of the Mists who yet lived were fleeing even before the Lady bade them do so. One man trotted industriously in the same direction as the Lady.

It was Ermik, and he could not have moved as swiftly as he did had he still carried the gold entrusted to him by Muhbaras. He had left it in a safe place, hidden even from the Maidens, who in any case were likely to soon be fleeing as swiftly as the rest, too swiftly to search odd caves.

There was some danger in following the Lady as he was, even had she not been also hurrying toward the unleashed magic. But that way must lie the Lady's treasure, dwarfing the petty sums from the pay chest. Also, that way lay learning more about the Lady's magic than Muhbaras had, for all the time he'd spent swiving her.

With gold, Ermik could buy his way free of Khoraja. With knowledge, he could buy a higher place in Khorajan service. It would be his tales of the Valley of the Mists that would be believed, not the captain's.

Swiftly he would rise, and high enough that he would never again need to obey hirelings like Muhbaras.

Still, he patted the hilt of his dagger as he moved. It held a chaos stone, or one that had been sold to him as such, for a price that would make him seek blood if it did not in truth confuse any spell into whose radius it was thrown.

If he was alive after such a mischance. Ermik had a good spy's self-command, and animal courage. But he could not keep that ugly thought from his mind, or keep from feeling the night wind blow chill on his spine.

The attack that Conan had feared came. It began with a flight of arrows, striking with the power of Turanian bows but mercifully ill aimed. One went through Bethina's hair, another gouged Farad's shoulder. The Afghuli slapped at the wound as if it were an insect bite, and brandished his tulwar.

"Come along, dead men who think they yet live. Come along and meet Farad and Conan and their comrades. We will cure you of your silly notion!"

He added a few singularly foul obscenities in Iranistani. Those who did not understand his words understood his tone, and it seemed that madmen came howling out of the night at Bethina's defenders.

In the heart of the Mist, something that might be called a will began to grow. It was a will to seek paths through the rock, following the traces of old magic that it could touch by itself. It did not need more life essences to strengthen itself, if it could do that.

The Mist ceased to be a creature of the air and became a creature of the depths of the earth. But in the heart of the incandescent blue where the Eye of the Mist had been, a crimson core began to glow.

The attack on Bethina and her defenders began as a collision and continued as a brawl. Too many men were jammed into too small a space to let anyone use art or even craftsmanship in the fighting.

That at once gave the advantage to the defenders. Conan could use the weapons nature gave him as fiercely and effectively as the man-made ones whose ways he had learned. He had never studied the barehanded (and -footed) fighting arts of Khitai, so perhaps one of the great masters of those arts might have been a match for the Cimmerian. But the Khitan would have needed luck as well as skill, and only the greatest of masters would have stood any chance of walking away from a bout with Conan.

Conan slammed his sword-weighted hand into the side of one man's neck.

He punched another in the ribs so hard that he felt ribs crack under the blow, even through boiled-leather armor. He butted a third man under the chin, snapping his head back so savagely that the neck snapped like a dry branch.

Meanwhile Farad was doing much the same, with a little assistance from weapons that he had more room to wield. At the outermost fringes of his senses, Conan could hear still other comrades, but they might have been in another world for all that he could tell of what they were doing.

They had to have done well, because suddenly it was too much for the attackers. Darkness and emptiness gaped before Conan, although not silence”the ground was littered with the crippled and dying, some already crying out as the pain-blunting shock of their wounds wore away.

Conan watched the attackers retreating uphill, far scantier in numbers than when they came, and losing more men to the archers before they vanished. Then he looked around for Bethina.

He saw her a moment later, sprawled atop the prostrate form of the prisoner Conan had taken earlier. He sprang toward her, then heard a welcome, healthy oath as he accidentally trod on her outstretched foot.

"Your pardon, lady."

"I should think so. I stabbed one fellow with my dagger, but he had so much muscle, the blade stayed in him. So when the bearded one started waking up, all I could do was jump on top of him."

That seemed to have done well enough; the man's nose was a bloody mess from being slammed into the rocky ground. But he was still breathing, and indeed started to groan as Conan lifted Bethina off him.

"I can take a few of the men up and keep those fellows on the move,"

Farad said.

Conan shook his head. "We don't divide our strength on unknown ground.

Those fellows could rally and cut you to pieces. Besides, we need to protect Bethina. When was the last time you heard from Omyela?"

Bethina looked blank, then slowed her breathing to open her mind to the other woman's message.

Conan stared at the sky. Was it his fancy, or was a crimson tint beginning to mingle with the blue glow in the sky?

The Lady of the Mists had come as close as she dared to the Eye. Any closer and she might find the ground under her feet crumbling as the Mist fed on the traces of the spells of long-dead Acheronian sorcerers, like worms feeding on the bones of long-dead animals.

It was Acheron's magic that had brought the Mist to terrible Me. Now it would be the same magic that drove it back into the nighted gulfs from which she had drawn it, so that the Valley of the Mists might be a sane and safe abode for common men and women.

She was leaving it, and she prayed she would leave it with Muhbaras.

But she would not fail to leave it cleaner than she had made it.

She could not bring back the dead. She would not even ask their forgiveness, for what she had done was beyond that. She hoped for happiness in this life, before she faced the anger of her victims in another. Meanwhile, she would do what she could to keep the number of the dead from growing any further.

It would have to be a death-elemental. She had conjured one before, a being from the very darkest heart of Acheron's sinister magic. But that had been a small one, fit only to take a single human life. It had been weak and easy to control.

Now she needed one so powerful that it held enough of the essence of death to slay the Mist. That which had fed on life essences would now consume pure death, and from that consuming, die.

The Lady of the Mists remqved her garments and stood wind-clad as was best for such potent magic. This close to the Mist, it was hard to imagine anyone being able to strike at her even if they saw and recognized her.

The syllables in the Secret Tongue of Acheron ran through her mind, and as she raised her staff over her head, they began to roll off her tongue.

Muhbaras had just rallied the half or less of his men who remained when a wild-eyed figure stumbled into their rear.

It was one of the Maidens, clad only in her sword and rags of garments.

She was bleeding from a dozen scratches and three greater wounds, and reeling with exhaustion, pain, loss of blood, and stark terror that made her eyes seem windows into Hell.

"They are mad in there," she gasped. "Mad. The Mist marches, and they have all run mad. They are trying to get out. They say the Lady told them. We do not know where she is."

"Have you no way to reach her?"

"No. I”yes, that is true. We do not." Muhbaras wanted to shake sense or at least coherence into the woman. Instead he lowered his voice.

"If we come up and help, can you keep order?"

"Men within the valley! This cannot be 'There have been men not only within the valley but within its Maidens and even the Lady of its Mists!" Muhbaras roared. His voice would have started a landslide had there been any loose rocks about.

The Maiden cringed. Then she nodded. "Good," Muhbaras concluded. "And when we have helped you, you will help us against the raiders who are enemies to both of us."

He hoped he was not overestimating the prowess of the Maidens in a real battle against a plainly formidable foe. He did not want to simply throw their lives away; the Lady would not thank him for that (and how wonderful it was, to think that she would be so concerned).

But he would disdain no help and no allies, as this night Muhbaras needed all of both that the gods would send him!

The rosy crimson hue was brighter and also melting into the blue so that the sky was turning an eye-searing shade of purple.

"It looks like a gigantic bed of violets, diseased and then set aflame," Bethina murmured. Or was it Omyela? The two women were talking again across the hillside, and Conan would have given a chest of silver to learn what they were saying that did not reach bodily ears.

Farad pretended to spew. Bethina grinned. "Men are so delicate of stomach. It is as well that women bear the babes. Men would die of the morning sickness even before the babe reached its term."

Farad stared. "You are not

"Plagues take you," Bethina said. "No. You need not fear for the blood of any sons you may see from me."

"I would not quarrel with any son of the Cimmerian's blood," Farad said, musingly. "Of course, I would still have to kill Conan before I could raise the lad with a clear conscience”ekkkhh!" he broke off, as Bethina kicked him smartly in the shin.

Then the young woman stiffened, and when she spoke, her voice had Omyela's gravity and even some of its cracked quality.

"You must go up to the gate to the valley. Follow the men you defeated.

They will lead you. They will not be your enemies, for what is unleashed within the valley is the enemy to all."

Farad looked at the Cimmerian. "A child of five could understand that.

But he'd be too young to be frightened witless!"

"What, an Afghuli fearful? A warrior of the folk who use sharp stones

"Cimmerian, I may kill you after this even if my sons are all of my own getting. Or will you save your breath for climbing?"

Ermik came upon the Lady of the Mists quite suddenly. He had no warning and she showed no sign of hearing or seeing him.

Indeed, it was unlikely that she could sense anything in the normal world. She was clad for casting a spell, her staff was glowing with a light that seemed black, if such a thing could be, and her eyes glowed golden.

Very lovely, she was, too, for all that she was frightening. Ermik no longer wondered at Muhbaras's desire for her, and rather regretted that he would have to put an end to the Lady without amusing himself with that beauty as well.

However, a wise man struck quickly when dealing with a witch. Ermik strode forward, tossed the dagger with the chaos stone in the hilt, caught it by the point, and threw it. He threw it directly at the Lady, so that if the chaos stone did not do its work, it still might do enough physical harm to break the Lady's concentration.

There are moments in the creation of even the most potent spell by the most adept sorcerer, when a child sneezing at the wrong moment can bring everything to ruin. The chaos stone was not worth a tenth of what Ermik had paid for it, but it was more potent than that child's sneeze, and it entered the sphere of the Lady's spell at the worst possible moment.

The point of the dagger also entered the Lady's flesh, and drove through to a lung. The combination of chaos, broken concentration, and pain snapped her control over the death-elemental. It raved and shrieked in her mind, clutching at her with incorporeal tendrils that produced still more very corporeal pain.

The Lady died in agony of both mind and body. As she died, the death-elemental leaped free of all control. In the moments before its leap, its aura had stunned Ermik, and he lay so completely senseless that a death-elemental in haste could have mistaken him for one already dead.

This one was in haste, to flee the area where the Lady's magic lingered and had much the same effect on it as a smoke-filled room on a human being with delicate lungs. As it fled it screamed in triumph, and this scream reached human ears already half-deaf with the terror of the Mist.

Where panic had not reigned in the valley, it reigned now.

-

Seventeen

It went much against Conan's instinctive suspicion of sorcery for him to climb the slope, let alone urge his men on. But there was no other road to the secret of the Valley of the Mists, and for the moment that road lay undefended.

The Cimmerian still did not lead a wild, scrambling rush up the mountain. Those wounded who were coming along had time to bind their wounds. Every surviving archer also collected as many arrows as he could from the quivers of the fallen, both friend and foe.

Conan himself stepped aside to speak with the prisoner, who gave his name as Bamshir.

"If I leave you unbound, will you come with us as a guide?"

Bamshir looked ready to spit on the ground, or perhaps in Conan's face.

Then he shrugged.

"My life is forfeit anyhow."

"Not certainly. Besides, your men may need you to lead them, and we need all the help we can find against what is loose in the valley. If that is not the greatest enemy now, may I be gelded!"

Bamshir frowned. "You may well be right."

"I am right. And you've been living cheek by jowl with the Lady's wizardry long enough to know that without my telling you!"

After that Bamshir acceded, and Conan was even willing to give him back his eating knife. But he kept the prisoner-guide away from Bethina.

Indeed, the man showed no easy mind about approaching the young woman, and made a gesture of aversion when he thought Conan was not looking.

Bethina seemed to be in a trance, and it was a miracle that she could put one foot in front of another in the darkness over this ground without falling. But her body seemed to work now without the guidance of a mind altogether bound up with Omyela's.

She would not be stabbing anyone until the battle of spellcasting was over; that was plain to see. Fortunately Farad could see that for himself, and what anyone could do to guard the woman, he would do.

Muhbaras's men reached the gate to the valley gasping and winded, but in fair order. He thought some might have fled, but of those who had remained with him, all still bore their weapons. As well, seeing that their fighting was more likely to be against hu-man foes”or humans so maddened by fear that they could not tell friend from foe.

The gate opened swiftly, cranked by two menservants with the beardless faces of eunuchs and stark terror written all over those faces. A Maiden stood by them, keeping them at their posts as she remained at hers, although her own face told of fear commanded by brute force of will.

Muhbaras did not blame any of the three. He was here for his Lady, his men, and his honor”in that order. Khoraja was but a name that would have had no power to prevent his flight but for the other three bonds that had brought him here in this dire hour.

The men filed in through the gate behind Muhbaras. Some called bawdy greetings to the Maiden, or stared around these once-forbidden precincts.

All lightness of heart vanished, however, as they marched down the path and saw the far end of the cleft in the rock. There the passage from the gate gave on the valley itself, and there purple light blazed like the forge of some mad blacksmith of the gods.

Purple light, and worse. Muhbaras saw (or at least thought he saw, and would ask no other for their opinion) patches of sky where a blackness that was not the night seemed to eat the light.

He could hope that this was the magic by which the Lady sought to subdue her own creation. Hope, perhaps pray, but no more.

"Pair off," he shouted. "Stay together, and don't let anyone get between you and your mate! Any Maidens who come up, if they're armed, have them pair off and fall into line with us. Anyone armed who is not a Maiden, disarm them."

"Then what?" someone called. "Send them out or keep them here?"

"If they won't stay, send them out. When the valley is empty, we'll take its folk down to find water and shelter until the Lady has matters in hand."

Some of the laughter that drew was bawdy, but not much of it unfriendly. So far Muhbaras still commanded his men's loyalty.

Lady, for all our sakes, put things to rights before my men flee like your people.

Even as they moved uphill, Conan kept his men reined in.

"Run on a slope like this, and you're likely to fall on your face. If somebody doesn't skewer you before you get up, you'll roll back down and knock out what brains you have!"

Farad added his mite to the profane cajoling, and the men mounted the slope in a compact formation, with archers well out to the flanks where they had clear shooting. Thus far they had no targets, and Conan would be quite happy if there was no more fighting on sloping ground. His Afghulis were as at home on it as he was, but Bethina's tribesfolk were accustomed to the more level desert.

Nonetheless, they and their young chieftess kept pace with the Cimmerian. Bethina no longer seemed entranced by her magical bond with Omyela, but she strode on in silence, looking neither to right or left.

She spoke first when Conan called for a short halt to realign the formation and let everyone take a few unhurried breaths.

"Omyela and I were talking."

"So I judged," Conan said. "Is it permitted to speak of what she said?"

"Oh, it is permitted, or at least I will take her permission for granted. But you do not want to hear all of it. Omyela can no more utter two words of meaning without ten words of speech than any other old woman or sorcerer."

Conan grimaced in mock-horror. "And she is both. How does she ever speak clearly?"

"Not often," Bethina said. "But I can tell you what she meant. She says there is death and life battling in the valley."

"How does that make the valley different from any other place where life exists? Death comes to every living thing, or it seems to me."

"Yes, but”how to say it?"

"Plainly and shortly. We must move on soon."

"Do you wish to wed me also, so you may command me?"

"Do you wish two husbands?"

"If they were you and Farad

"I'm flattered. We're in haste. Speak."

"Death and life each has”being”in the valley. Left alone, they will between them destroy it and go on to seek destruction elsewhere.

Brought together, they will destroy each other."

"So all we need is to introduce the death being to the life being and stand well clear?"

"I suppose so. She did not explain."

"Just as long as she does it when it's needed," Conan said. "Otherwise there'll be no one alive here to listen to her explanation."

Bethina heard those words without flinching, which was more than some of the men did.

Muhbaras's men barely had time to order their slender ranks before the fleeing Maidens were on them. No, that did an injustice to some of the Maidens, and indeed some of the other women, Muhbaras decided. They were retreating, not fleeing, trying to stay ahead of the mob of fugitives but keeping themselves in fair order, and those with weapons holding on to them.

The mob behind was another matter. At intervals the sky itself seemed to howl like a living thing gone mad, and in those moments Muhbaras wanted to clap his hands over his ears. He could not have heard the cries of the fugitives if they'd been shouting in his ear”and he kept his distance from them with great care.

They were of all ages from babes to graybeards and of both sexes, as well as more than a few fresh eunuchs. Most seemed to be wearing what they could snatch up when the urge to flee struck them, which was often little or nothing. Few had anything more than their scanty garments, or at most a loaf of flatbread or a bunch of onions.

Feeding these without the croplands of the valley is going to be no easy task, my Lady. But they are yours, and for your sake I will do what I must.

Hardly any of the fugitives were the misshapen half-men, conjured into deformed existence by the Lady to do the harshest work before their time came to yield up their life essences. Whether the Mist had overtaken them, their true human neighbors slain them, or their own weakness brought them down, they would not live out the night.

Muhbaras could not find it in his heart to regret their passing, and only hoped their deaths would be for the most part merciful.

Less agreeable was the sight of several bands of well-thewed and armed men or eunuchs. These swaggered along, and Muhbaras knew that they would prey like jackals on the fugitives if they were given the slightest chance. He had encountered their breed before, and found no answer to it save sharp orders enforced by sharper steel.

Muhbaras stepped forward to meet the first three.

"Halt and disarm!" he said, not quite shouting but raising his voice loud enough to be heard over the fugitives' gabble. The sky screamed at that moment, so he had to repeat the command.

"Who are you to be giving orders?" the biggest man snapped.

"Captain Muhbaras of the Khorajan service," was the reply.

The man drew his sword. Muhbaras drew his faster. Its point was at the man's throat before the other's blade could rise into fighting position.

The man stared at the point just barely pricking his skin and swallowed. "Ah”can I have my blade back afterward?"

"When we're Another howl from the sky, and something vast and black seemed to fly low overhead, like a cloud that was a window into the Abyss and cried with the voice of a mad dragon.

"That's a Maiden's sword!" screamed a voice from behind Muhbaras. He turned, taking his eye off the man, who jerked his blade up and nearly laid Muhbaras's cheek open.

Then Muhbaras was trying to fight at the same time the man and a wild-eyed Maiden determined to avenge her unknown comrade. The fugitives had broken into a run now, all who could move that fast, and both the unarmed and the armed were streaming past, jostling the fighters without regard to the flying steel.

In the confusion the Maiden tried to watch her back, Muhbaras, and the man at the same time. She could not quite contrive this, and the man laid open the side of her neck with a wild slash. The next moment Muhbaras pierced him through the throat, and he fell beside the woman.

Muhbaras looked at the fallen Maiden, cursed everything save the Lady herself, and even allowed himself a few unkind thoughts about her. He would not be able to forget this night of madness, and it would always lie between them even when they lay in each other's arms.

Then the greatest cry of all rose from the valley, as if the mountains themselves were in mortal agony, likewise the stars, the air, the water, and every living thing within reach of the unleashed magic. It was the sound of madness, and Muhbaras saw that on the faces of his men and the Maidens who had stood thus far.

He closed his eyes, to shut out the nightmare vision. When he opened them he still lived, and only the echoes of that cry remained pealing about the valley.

But he was alone, except for the dead and those too spent to run.

Alone, with no further duties to anyone but the Lady. Alone, and free to go to her, to hold her, to carry her out of this antechamber of Hell.

Muhbaras had a dim notion that perhaps there was some madness in him, too, that he thought this. His men still lived, likewise the Maidens and the fugitives. He could do more for them than for the Lady, if she yet lived.

It was the thought of her death that finally turned Muhbaras's steps toward the valley. Nothing remained in his mind but that thought. If she was dead, he must find her body before anyone else.

Sword in hand, Captain Muhbaras stumbled down into the Valley of the Mists, along the path that the Lady herself had followed only a short while before.

The gate to the valley stood open when Conan led his companions toward it. The gateway was also vomiting people, wide-eyed, ragged, some wounded, all staggering with exhaustion and half-witless with fear.

Conan did not even try to stop the outpouring with his handful of men.

Nor did he really wish to. If the Lady of the Mists was soon to be a queen without subjects, many of her teeth would be drawn without the Cimmerian's having to labor at it.

Conan was proud of the victories he had wrought with his strength and skill. He was not so proud of them that he would refuse a victory handed to him by fate.

There were armed men and some armed women among the fleeing people.

Some of the armed men had the look of those who had picked up fallen weapons with an eye to carving from others' misery what fortune they could. Others, the women included, wore armor and had about them the air of an army in retreat.

"Those women are the Maidens of the Lady," Bamshir said, low-voiced.

"The armored men are Muhbaras's. I know some of them."

"Do you see Muhbaras?"

"I have not yet. He would be the last to flee. Even if the men did, he himself would go forward to seek the Lady." Bamshir added, in a still lower voice, "He loved her, it is known. And I think she loved him back."

Conan tried not to gape. The idea of loving a sorceress chilled him to the marrow. The idea of being loved by one”well, he had survived the affections of many sorts of dangerous women, but any man who played love games with a witch loved danger even more than the Cimmerian did.

"Then let us seek your captain, and perhaps when we find him, we shall find the Lady."

Conan led the way, and Farad, Bethina, and Bamshir followed almost shoulder to shoulder through the gateway.

Muhbaras was vaguely aware that the ground under his feet was shaking.

He did not slow, or even break stride. He was running like a man who will stop when his heart does, who will keep running in midair if the ground drops away beneath him, fall, and land running still.

He might never have had soldiers, or anything else behind him to think of. All his thoughts roved the valley ahead, seeking his Lady.

Do you yet live? Send me a sign, if you do!

He knew that he was crying out for that sign like a child for a second bowl of porridge. He did not care. Before the Lady, before his love for her, he had no more shame.

Not so vaguely, he became aware that the sky was turning solid and beginning to whirl. He also saw that the solidity took the form of two vast spirals, like whirlwinds of unimaginable proportions. One was purple, the other was a black that seemed to both repel and swallow light at once.

They leaped skyward from different parts of the valley, and leaned toward one another like partners in an obscene dance. Then they drew back, swayed, leaned forward again, and repeated this over and over again.

Either they were silent now, or Muhbaras's ears had ceased to accept new sounds. No, that was not quite so. When the ground before him cracked wide so that he had to leap or be swallowed up, he heard the shrill sundering of rock and the thud of his boots landing on the far side.

Then he heard only his own rasping breath as he ran on.

Conan watched the spirals in the sky, one blazing purple and the other the black of a demon's nightmares, and knew that the unleashed magic was approaching its climax. He knew this without a word from Bethina, who indeed could not have spoken a word to save Conan's life or perhaps her own.

Bowed backward in a way that had to be torturing her spine, she stared wide-eyed into the sky. She shook her head so that her hair flew in clouds about her, and raised her arms, hands clasped together.

Those clasped hands began to glow”with a light that was all colors and no colors. Conan could neither bear to look at it nor turn his head to look away. Farad muttered curses in Afghuli, while Bamshir knelt and cried out what sounded like orthodox prayers to Mitra.

It had to be comforting to believe in the kind of god who answered prayers, or at least told his priests that he would answer them. It was a comfort Conan had always been denied.

Instead of praying, he drew his sword. Steel in hand was the way he had always sworn death would find him, and he would not be forsworn now.

The nimbus around Bethina's hands turned distinctly green. At the same time, Conan felt the ground underfoot begin to shake, and saw the walls of the valley swaying like trees in a high wind.

In another moment the earth itself would be sundered and the valley fall in on itself, obliterating everything and everyone within. Conan knew brief pleasure that at least some of the valley's folk would survive the ruin of their home”although how long they would survive starvation, disease, and the windy mountain slopes was another matter.

Then the green nimbus around Bethina's hands became a spear of green fire, hurtling upward. It struck the black spiral, encompassing it in a fugitive green glow and a shower of green sparks that seemed to rain down from the stars themselves.

It also drove the black spiral violently forward, until it struck the purple one.

Such a sound filled the valley as Conan had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. He thought he would gladly be deaf as an adder for the rest of his days if the other choice was to hear that sound again. He also wondered if he might indeed be deaf, whether he wished it or not.

But the sound did not blind his eyes. Afterward he never talked about what he saw, even when he was telling tales of his most exotic adventures to drinking companions who had to listen to the King of Aquilonia. He did not believe what he saw then, and did not expect anyone else to believe it afterward.

He saw cliffs that had been leaning forward draw back as if pushed by giant hands. He saw chasms large enough to swallow houses suddenly close, or fill with steam and churning water. He saw boulders the size of horses plunge from on high, then float down to land with all the harshness of soap bubbles. He saw patches of ground that had been shaking like beaten carpets suddenly blossom with flowers and long grass.

He saw much else that he carried to his grave with him, and so did those with him”and most of them did the same as the Cimmerian.

Then suddenly no one saw anything, because all light left the valley.

All sound did likewise”or perhaps it was only stunned ears being unable to detect more subtle sounds than the fall of mountains or the creation of new life.

In time, Conan heard the plash of new streams, the rattle of the last loose stones finding a resting place, the sigh of breezes now free to blow naturally. He even heard, far off, the bray of a donkey that had somehow survived the upheaval.

He laughed. "Bamshir, I was going to ask you to guide us. But I think we can wait here until daylight. Your captain and his Lady will not be the better for our falling downhill in the dark."

"The gods made you too sensible to be a hero, Cimmerian," Farad chaffed.

"I sometimes wonder what the gods were about when they made me," Conan said. "If they ever tell me the truth, I'll spread the word. Meanwhile, my friend, see to Bethina, and set the sentries. For now, we wait."

Muhbaras reached his Lady just as the ground seemed to turn to jelly under his feet. His final dash to where she lay turned into an undignified sprawl on his face.

He rose bruised and dusty, to see Ermik cowering back against the cliff. The spy was the color of old chalk, and not all of it was the dust on his skin.

"I”I wanted to stop her," Ermik stammered. "I tried to stop her. She was conjuring”she was casting a spell to”I used my dagger. The dagger with the chaos stone. It should have stopped her. I wanted to stop her.

I wanted to

Muhbaras neither could nor would hear any more of this litany. He walked to the Lady's body. She lay as if in sleep, save for the death-rictus of her lovely mouth and a gaping dagger wound in her back.

It must have reached her lung, but there was no sign of blood from her mouth.

The captain knelt and drew out the dagger. It was Ermik's”he recognized the silver mounting and the "chaos stone."

Muhbaras flung the dagger point-first into the ground. It stuck there, quivering even when the ground did not. Then he walked slowly toward the spy. He had not thought he had much strength left after his long run, but now it flowed into him as if from the earth itself”or perhaps the Lady's spirit.

Ermik did not know that he was about to die until Muhbaras seized him by the throat. In the next moment he knew nothing at all, because Muhbaras smashed him back against the rock hard enough to crack his skull.

That was not the end, because Muhbaras kept pounding Ermik's head against the rock and twisting his throat until he heard rocks falling down around him. He heard only three, because the fourth struck him on the shoulder and knocked him down, and the fifth struck him in the stomach as he lay on his back on the ground.

He did not hear the climax of the battle of spells, or anything else for a long time.

Conan and his men kept watch until daylight, except for Farad, who kept watch over Bethina. She was either dead or in a sleep that feigned death, and with her senseless, there was no asking Omyela for the truth.

Dawn came to the valley, and consciousness to Bethina at about the same time, and the silence of the dawn was broken by triumphant Afghuli cries. Bamshir and his men joined in with a will”they knew they owed their lives to the women as much as they did to Conan.

Conan, Bamshir, and a band of fighters that included a few Maidens marched down into the valley as soon as they could travel safely. Even the Maidens who had spent much time there seemed bemused at the changes, and wanted to stop and gape so long that Conan needed brisk words to move them along.

They did not find the Lady until the sun was nearly overhead. They also found Muhbaras, lying beside the Lady, an arm thrown protectively across her. Furrows in the ground showed that the Khorajan had crawled to the Lady from where he had first fallen. How he had done this with two death wounds upon him, Conan did not expect even the gods to know.

He knelt by Muhbaras, sponging his blood-caked lips and listening to the man's last words.

"I”Ermik killed her. That”loosed”what you fought. Are”are the men safe?"

"All who reached the gate yet live, Captain," Bamshir said.

"Good." Muhbaras was silent for so long that Conan thought he had died.

But he rolled over, groaning at the pain and effort this caused him, and rested his head upon the Lady's breast.

"Look at her. Look at those eyes. Did you ever see such beautiful golden eyes?"

Those were Muhbaras's last words. His own eyes closed by themselves, so Conan had no need to touch him. Instead he knelt, looking down at the Lady.

Golden eyes? The Lady of the Mist's eyes were larger than most, but they were a rich brown flecked with green. Eyes the color of a forest pool, deep and rich, that a man could drown in. That a man had drowned in”and called himself happy in doing so.

At least Conan now understood how a common man could love a sorceress.

One did not love the sorceress. One found the woman inside the sorceress, and loved her.

Conan stood up. The Maidens had drawn apart, to keen and wail for their Lady. From the way some of the soldiers were looking at them, Conan wondered if they were Maidens in truth as well as in name”or would so remain long, if they were now.

He turned to Bamshir. "We will bury them together, if that does not offend you."

"Anything else would offend the captain's spirit," the other said.

"Also the Lady's”and I think the valley will be the better for it, if her spirit sleeps content."

Epilogue

Conan rode west again, but this time he was alone. As he looked eastward, to where only the highest peaks of the Kezankian Mountains pierced the horizon, he recalled memories of this latest adventure.

The last two in particular made him smile, and more warmly than was the Cimmerian's custom.

He remembered his final conversation with Bethina. Deciding that she neither could nor would return to her tribe, she had vowed to stay in the Valley of the Mists and become chieftess of a new tribe.

An odd mixture, that tribe would be”the survivors of Khorajan soldiers, tribesmen, Afghulis, Maidens, and the peasants. Not a bad one, though”all of them were proven hardy and industrious, and able to fight when necessary.

"Well enough that while I would still invite you to stay," Bethina said, "I cannot imagine that we need you. Nor would you be happy, which is why I chose Farad even though you were my first man. In your soul you are a loosefoot, although an honest one."

Conan had laughed then. "Ask in Zamboula sometime, and they will tell you how honest Conan the Cimmerian was. Only do not tell them that you are my friend, or they may arrest you on suspicion of receiving stolen goods!"

Then there was the night Conan had used those thief's skills to regain his jewels from Khezal. After all, a man was entitled to a trifle of reward for a mission of such service to Turan, as well as traveling expenses to his next destination.

The reinforcements were up by then, with an array of elegant young captains who swore mighty oaths of frustration when they learned that the victory had been gained without them. It would have been as much as the Cimmerian's life was worth to remain in the camp long, and Khezal had not dared even meet him.

But Sergeant Barak had told Conan which tent was now Khezal's, and when Conan slipped into it that night, it was most scantily guarded.

Moreover, the purse contained all the jewels but three, as well as a handful of gold coins and a silver-chased dagger that had not been there before.

Khezal still knew what he was about. Conan hoped that this continued.

Yezdigerd might be more formidable a foe with men like Khezal serving him, but without such wise heads, he would be a rampaging monster equal to the Lady's Mists of Doom.

Conan laughed again, in his usual harsh way, at the idea of his wishing Yezdigered any kind of good fortune. Then he prodded his mount to a canter. It was time to be off to Koth and whatever fortune its brewing wars might bring him.

The Slithering Shadow

1

The desert shimmered in the heat waves. Conan the Cimmerian stared out over the aching desolation and involuntarily drew the back of his powerful hand over his blackened lips. He stood like a bronze image in the sand, apparently impervious to the murderous sun, though his only garment was a silk loin-cloth, girdled by a wide gold-buckled belt from which hung a saber and a broad-bladed poniard. On his clean-cut limbs were evidences of scarcely healed wounds.

At his feet rested a girl, one white arm clasping his knee, against which her blond head drooped. Her white skin contrasted with his hard bronzed limbs; her short silken tunic, lownecked and sleeveless, girdled at the waist, emphasized rather than concealed her lithe figure.

Conan shook his head, blinking. The sun's glare half blinded him. He lifted a small canteen from his belt and shook it, scowling at the faint splashing within.

The girl moved wearily, whimpering.

`Oh, Conan, we shall die here! I am so thirsty!'

The Cimmerian growled wordlessly, glaring truculently at the surrounding waste, with outthrust jaw, and blue eyes smoldering savagely from under his black tousled mane, as if the desert were a tangible enemy.

He stooped and put the canteen to the girl's lips.

`Drink till I tell you to stop, Natala,' he commanded.

She drank with little panting gasps, and he did not check her. Only when the canteen was empty did she realize that he had deliberately allowed her to drink all their water supply, little enough that it was.

Tears sprang to her eyes. `Oh, Conan,' she wailed, wringing her hands, `why did you let me drink it all? I did not know -now there is none for you!'

`Hush,' he growled. `Don't waste your strength in weeping.'

Straightening, he threw the canteen from him.

`Why did you do that?' she whispered.

He did not reply, standing motionless and immobile, his fingers closing slowly about the hilt of his saber. He was not looking at the girl; his fierce eyes seemed to plumb the mysterious purple hazes of the distance.

Endowed with all the barbarian's ferocious love of life and instinct to live, Conan the Cimmerian yet knew that he had reached the end of his trail. He had not come to the limits of his endurance, but he knew another day under the merciless sun in those waterless wastes would bring him down. As for the girl, she had suffered enough. Better a quick painless sword-stroke than the lingering agony that faced him. Her thirst was temporarily quenched; it was a false mercy to let her suffer until delirium and death brought relief. Slowly he slid the saber from its sheath.

He halted suddenly, stiffening. Far out on the desert to the south, something glimmered through the heat waves.

At first he thought it was a phantom, one of the mirages which had mocked and maddened him in that accursed desert. Shading his sun-dazzled eyes, he made out spires and minarets, and gleaming walls. He watched it grimly, waiting for it to fade and vanish. Natala had ceased to sob; she struggled to her knees and followed his gaze.

`Is it a city, Conan?' she whispered, too fearful to hope. `Or is it but a shadow?'

The Cimmerian did not reply for a space. He closed and opened his eyes several times; he looked away, then back. The city remained where he had first seen it.

`The devil knows,' he grunted. `It's worth a try, though.'

He thrust the saber back in its sheath. Stooping, he lifted Natala in his mighty arms as though she had been an infant. She resisted weakly.

`Don't waste your strength carrying me, Conan,' she pleaded. `I can walk.'

`The ground gets rockier here,' he answered. `You would soon wear your sandals to shreds,' glancing at her soft green footwear. `Besides, if we are to reach that city at all, we must do it quickly, and I can make better time this way.'

The chance for life had lent fresh vigor and resilience to the Cimmerian's steely thews. He strode out across the sandy waste as if he had just begun the journey. A barbarian of barbarians, the vitality and endurance of the wild were his, granting him survival where civilized men would have perished.

He and the girl were, so far as he knew, the sole survivors of Prince Almuric's army, that mad motley horde which, following the defeated rebel prince of Koth, swept through the Lands of Shem like a devastating sandstorm and drenched the outlands of Stygia with blood. With a Stygian host on its heels, it had cut its way through the black kingdom of Kush, only to be annihilated on the edge of the southern desert. Conan likened it in his mind to a great torrent, dwindling gradually as it rushed southward, to run dry at last in the sands of the naked desert. The bones of its members - mercenaries, outcasts, broken men, outlaws - lay strewn from the Kothic uplands to the dunes of the wilderness.

From that final slaughter, when the Stygians and the Kushites closed in on the trapped remnants, Conan had cut his way clear and fled on a camel with the girl. Behind them the land swarmed with enemies; the only way open to them was the desert to the south. Into those menacing depths they had plunged.

The girl was Brythunian, whom Conan had found in the slave-market of a stormed Shemite city, and appropriated. She had had nothing to say in the matter, but her new position was so far superior to the lot of any Hyborian woman in a Shemitish seraglio, that she accepted it thankfully. So she had shared in the adventures of Almuric's damned horde.

For days they had fled into the desert, pursued so far by Stygian horsemen that when they shook off the pursuit, they dared not turn back. They pushed on, seeking water, until the camel died. Then they went on foot. For the past few days their suffering had been intense. Conan had shielded Natala all he could, and the rough life of the camp had given her more stamina and strength than the average woman possesses; but even so, she was not far from collapse.

The sun beat fiercely on Conan's tangled black mane. Waves of dizziness and nausea rose in his brain, but he set his teeth and strode on unwaveringly. He was convinced that the city was a reality and not a mirage. What they would find there he had no idea. The inhabitants might be hostile. Nevertheless it was a fighting chance, and that was as much as he had ever asked.

The sun was nigh to setting when they halted in front of the massive gate, grateful for the shade. Conan stood Natala on her feet, and stretched his aching arms. Above them the walls towered some thirty feet in height, composed of a smooth greenish substance that shone almost like glass. Conan scanned the parapets, expecting to be challenged, but saw no one. Impatiently he shouted, and banged on the gate with his saberhilt, but only the hollow echoes mocked him. Natala cringed close to him, frightened by the silence. Conan tried the portal, and stepped back, drawing his saber, as it swung silently inward. Natala stifled a cry.

`Oh, look, Conan!'

Just inside the gate lay a human body. Conan glared at it narrowly, then looked beyond it. He saw a wide open expanse, like a court, bordered by the arched doorways of houses composed of the same greenish material as the outer walls. These edifices were lofty and imposing, pinnacled with shining domes and minarets. There was no sign of life among them. In the center of the court rose the square curb of a well, and the sight stung Conan, whose mouth felt caked with dry dust. Taking Natala's wrist he drew her through the gate, and closed it behind them.

`Is he dead?' she whispered, shrinkingly indicating the man who lay limply before the gate. The body was that of a tall powerful individual, apparently in his prime; the skin was yellow, the eyes slightly slanted; otherwise the man differed little from the Hyborian type. He was clad in high-strapped sandals and a tunic of purple silk, and a short sword in a cloth-of-gold scabbard hung from his girdle. Conan felt his flesh. It was cold. There was no sign of life in the body.

`Not a wound on him,' grunted the Cimmerian, `but he's dead as Almuric with forty Stygian arrows in him. In Crom's name, let's see to the well! If there's water in it, we'll drink, dead men or no.'

There was water in the well, but they did not drink of it. Its level was a good fifty feet below the curb, and there was nothing to draw it up with. Conan cursed blackly, maddened by the sight of the stuff just out of his reach, and turned to look for some means of obtaining it. Then a scream from Natala brought him about.

The supposedly dead man was rushing upon him, eyes blazing with indisputable life, his short sword gleaming in his hand. Conan cursed amazedly, but wasted no time in conjecture. He met the hurtling attacker with a slashing cut of his saber that sheared through flesh and bone. The fellow's head thudded on the flags; the body staggered drunkenly, an arch of blood jetting from the severed jugular; then it fell heavily.

Conan glared down, swearing softly.

`This fellow is no deader now than he was a few minutes agone. Into what madhouse have we strayed?'

Natala, who had covered her eyes with her hands at the sight, peeked between her fingers and shook with fear.

`Oh, Conan, will the people of the city not kill us, because of this?'

`Well,' he growled, `this creature would have killed us if I hadn't lopped off his head.'

He glanced at the archways that gaped blankly from the green walls above them. He saw no hint of movement, heard no sound.

`I don't think any one saw us,' he muttered. `I'll hide the evidence-'

He lifted the limp carcass by its swordbelt with one hand, and grasping the head by its long hair in the other, he half carried, half dragged the ghastly remains over to the well.

`Since we can't drink this water,' he gritted vindictively, `I'll see that nobody else enjoys drinking it. Curse such a well, anyway!' He heaved the body over the curb and let it drop, tossing the head after it. A dull splash sounded far beneath.

`There's blood on the stones,' whispered Natala.

`There'll be more unless I find water soon,' growled the Cimmerian, his short store of patience about exhausted. The girl had almost forgotten her thirst and hunger in her fear, but not Conan.

`We'll go into one of these doors,' he said. `Surely we'll find people after awhile.'

`Oh, Conan!' she wailed, snuggling up as close to him as she could. `I'm afraid! This is a city of ghosts and dead men! Let us go back into the desert! Better to die there, than to face these terrors!'

`We'll go into the desert when they throw us off the walls,' he snarled. `There's water somewhere in this city, and I'll find it, if I have to kill every man in it.'

`But what if they come to life again?' she whispered.

`Then I'll keep killing them until they stay dead!' he snapped. `Come on! That doorway is as good as another! Stay behind me, but don't run unless I tell you to.'

She murmured a faint assent and followed him so closely that she stepped on his heels, to his irritation. Dusk had fallen, filling the strange city with purple shadows. They entered the open doorway, and found themselves in a wide chamber, the walls of which were hung with velvet tapestries, worked in curious designs. Floor, walls and ceiling were of the green glassy stone, the walls decorated with gold frieze-work. Furs and satin cushions littered the floor. Several doorways let into other rooms. They passed through, and traversed several chambers, counterparts of the first. They saw no one, but the Cimmerian grunted suspiciously.

`Some one was here not long ago. This couch is still warm from contact with a human body. That silk cushion bears the imprint of some one's hips. Then there's a faint scent of perfume lingering in the air.'

A weird unreal atmosphere hung over all. Traversing this dim silent palace was like an opium dream. Some of the chambers were unlighted, and these they avoided. Others were bathed in a soft weird light that seemed to emanate from jewels set in the walls in fantastic designs. Suddenly, as they passed into one of these illumined chambers, Natala cried out and clutched her companion's arm. With a curse he wheeled, glaring for an enemy, bewildered because he saw none.

`What's the matter?' he snarled. `If you ever grab my swordarm again, I'll skin you. Do you want me to get my throat cut? What were you yelling about?'

`Look there,' she quavered, pointing.

Conan grunted. On a table of polished ebony stood golden vessels, apparently containing food and drink. The room was unoccupied.

`Well, whoever this feast is prepared for,' he growled, `he'll have to look elsewhere tonight.'

`Dare we eat it, Conan?' ventured the girl nervously. `The people might come upon us, and-'

`Lir an mannanan mac lira' he swore, grabbing her by the nape of her neck and thrusting her into a gilded chair at the end of the table with no great ceremony. `We starve and you make objections! Eat!'

He took the chair at the other end, and seizing a jade goblet, emptied it at a gulp. It contained a crimson wine-like liquor of a peculiar tang, unfamiliar to him, but it was like nectar to his parched gullet. His thirst allayed, he attacked the food before him with rare gusto. It too was strange to him: exotic fruits and unknown meats. The vessels were of exquisite workmanship, and there were golden knives and forks as well. These Conan ignored, grasping the meat-joints in his fingers and tearing them with his strong teeth. The Cimmerian's table manners were rather wolfish at any time. His civilized companion ate more daintily, but just as ravenously. It occurred to Conan that the food might be poisoned, but the thought did not lessen his appetite; he preferred to die of poisoning rather than starvation.

His hunger satisfied, he leaned back with a deep sigh of relief. That there were humans in that silent city was evidenced by the fresh food, and perhaps every dark corner concealed a lurking enemy. But he felt no apprehension on that score, having a large confidence in his own fighting ability. He began to feel sleepy, and considered the idea of stretching himself on a near-by couch for a nap.

Not so Natala. She was no longer hungry and thirsty, but she felt no desire to sleep. Her lovely eyes were very wide indeed as she timidly glanced at the doorways, boundaries of the unknown. The silence and mystery of the strange place preyed on her. The chamber seemed larger, the table longer than she had first noticed, and she realized that she was farther from her grim protector than she wished to be. Rising quickly, she went around the table and seated herself on his knee, glancing nervously at the arched doorways. Some were lighted and some were not, and it was at the unlighted ones she gazed longest.

`We have eaten, drunk and rested,' she urged. `Let us leave this place, Conan. It's evil. I can feel it.'

`Well, we haven't been harmed so far,' he began, when a soft but sinister rustling brought him about. Thrusting the girl off his knee he rose with the quick ease of a panther, drawing his saber, facing the doorway from which the sound had seemed to come. It was not repeated, and he stole forward noiselessly, Natala following with her heart in her mouth. She knew he suspected peril. His outthrust head was sunk between his giant shoulders, he glided forward in a half crouch, like a stalking tiger. He made no more noise than a tiger would have made.

At the doorway he halted, Natala peering fearfully from behind him. There was no light in the room, but it was partially illuminated by the radiance behind them, which streamed across it into yet another chamber. And in this chamber a man lay on a raised dais. The soft light bathed him, and they saw he was a counterpart of the man Conan had killed before the outer gate, except that his garments were richer, and ornamented with jewels which twinkled in the uncanny light. Was he dead, or merely sleeping? Again came that faint sinister sound, as if some one had thrust aside a hanging. Conan drew back, drawing the clinging Natala with him. He clapped his hand over her mouth just in time to check her shriek.

From where they now stood, they could no longer see the dais, but they could see the shadow it cast on the wall behind it. And now another shadow moved across the wall: a huge shapeless black blot. Conan felt his hair prickle curiously as he watched. Distorted though it might be, he felt that he had never seen a man or beast which cast such a shadow. He was consumed with curiosity, but some instinct held him frozen in his tracks. He heard Natala's quick panting gasps as she stared with dilated eyes. No other sound disturbed the tense stillness. The great shadow engulfed that of the dais. For a long instant only its black bulk was thrown on the smooth wall. Then slowly it receded, and once more the dais was etched darkly against the wall. But the sleeper was no longer upon it.

An hysterical gurgle rose in Natala's throat, and Conan gave her an admonitory shake. He was aware of an iciness in his own veins. Human foes he did not fear; anything understandable, however grisly, caused no tremors in his broad breast. But this was beyond his ken.

After a while, however, his curiosity conquered his uneasiness, and he moved out into the unlighted chamber again, ready for anything. Looking into the other room, he saw it was empty. The dais stood as he had first seen it, except that no bejeweled human lay thereon. Only on its silken covering shone a single drop of blood, like a great crimson gem. Natala saw it and gave a low choking cry, for which Conan did not punish her. Again he felt the icy hand of fear. On that dais a man had lain; something had crept into the chamber and carried him away. What that something was, Conan had no idea, but an aura of unnatural horror hung over those dim-lit chambers.

He was ready to depart. Taking Natala's hand, he turned back, then hesitated. Somewhere back among the chambers they had traversed, he heard the sound of a footfall. A human foot, bare or softly shod, had made that sound, and Conan, with the wariness of a wolf, turned quickly aside. He believed he could come again into the outer court, and yet avoid the room from which the sound had appeared to come.

But they had not crossed the first chamber on their new route, when the rustle of a silken hanging brought them about suddenly. Before a curtained alcove stood a man eyeing them intently.

He was exactly like the others they had encountered: tall, well made, clad in purple garments, with a jeweled girdle. There was neither surprize nor hostility in his amber eyes. They were dreamy as a lotus-eater's. He did not draw the short sword at his side. After a tense moment he spoke, in a far-away detached tone, and a language his hearers did not understand.

On a venture Conan replied in Stygian, and the stranger answered in the same tongue: `Who are you?'

`I am Conan, a Cimmerian,' answered the barbarian. `This is Natala, of Brythunia. What city is this?'

The man did not at once reply. His dreamy sensuous gaze rested on Natala, and he drawled, `Of all my rich visions, this is the strangest! Oh, girl of the golden locks, from what far dreamland do you come? From Andarra, or Tothra, or Kuth of the star-girdle?'

`What madness is this?' growled the Cimmerian harshly, not relishing the man's words or manner.

The other did not heed him.

`I have dreamed more gorgeous beauties,' he murmured; `lithe women with hair dusky as night, and dark eyes of unfathomed mystery. But your skin is white as milk, your eyes as clear as dawn, and there is about you a freshness and daintiness alluring as honey. Come to my couch, little dream-girl!'

He advanced and reached for her, and Conan struck aside his hand with a force that might have broken his arm. The man reeled back, clutching the numbed member, his eyes clouding.

`What rebellion of ghosts is this?' he muttered. `Barbarian, I command ye - begone! Fade! Dissipate! Fade! Vanish!'

`I'll vanish your head from your shoulders!' snarled the infuriated Cimmerian, his saber gleaming in his hand. `Is this the welcome you give strangers? By Crom, I'll drench these hangings in blood!'

The dreaminess had faded from the other's eyes, to be replaced by a look of bewilderment.

`Thog!' he ejaculated. `You are real! Whence come you? Who are you? What do you in Xuthal?'

`We came from the desert,' Conan growled. `We wandered into the city at dusk, famishing. We found a feast set for some one, and we ate it. I have no money to pay for it. In my country, no starving man is denied food, but you civilized people must have your recompense - if you are like all I ever met. We have done no harm and we were just leaving. By Crom, I do not like this place, where dead men rise, and sleeping men vanish into the bellies of shadows!'

The man started violently at the last comment, his yellow face turning ashy.

`What do you say? Shadows? Into the bellies of shadows?'

`Well,' answered the Cimmerian cautiously, `whatever it is that takes a man from a sleeping-dais and leaves only a spot of blood.'

`You have seen? You have seen?' The man was shaking like a leaf; his voice cracked on the high-pitched note.

`Only a man sleeping on a dais, and a shadow that engulfed him,' answered Conan.

The effect of his words on the other was horrifying. With an awful scream the man turned and rushed from the chamber. In his blind haste he caromed from the side of the door, righted himself, and fled through the adjoining chambers, still screaming at the top of his voice. Amazed, Conan stared after him, the girl trembling as she clutched the giant's arm. They could no longer see the flying figure, but they still heard his frightful screams, dwindling in the distance, and echoing as from vaulted roofs. Suddenly one cry, louder than the others, rose and broke short, followed by blank silence.

`Crom!'

Conan wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a hand that was not entirely steady.

`Surely this is a city of the mad! Let's get out of here, before we meet other madmen!'

`It is all a nightmare!' whimpered Natala. `We are dead and damned! We died out on the desert and are in hell! We are disembodied spirits - ow!' Her yelp was induced by a resounding spank from Conan's open hand.

`You're no spirit when a pat makes you yell like that,' he commented, with the grim humor which frequently manifested itself at inopportune times. `We are alive, though we may not be if we loiter in this devil-haunted pile. Come!'

They had traversed but a single chamber when again they stopped short. Some one or something was approaching. They faced the doorway whence the sounds came, waiting for they knew not what. Conan's nostrils widened, and his eyes narrowed. He caught the faint scent of the perfume he had noticed earlier in the night. A figure framed itself in the doorway. Conan swore under his breath; Natala's red lips opened wide.

It was a woman who stood there staring at them in wonder. She was tall, lithe, shaped like a goddess; clad in a narrow girdle crusted with jewels. A burnished mass of night-black hair set off the whiteness of her ivory body. Her dark eyes, shaded by long dusky lashes, were deep with sensuous mystery. Conan caught his breath at her beauty, and Natala stared with dilated eyes. The Cimmerian had never seen such a woman; her facial outline was Stygian, but she was not dusky-skinned like the Stygian women he had known; her limbs were like alabaster.

But when she spoke, in a deep rich musical voice, it was in the Stygian tongue.

`Who are you? What do you in Xuthal? Who is that girl?'

`Who are you?' bluntly countered Conan, who quickly wearied of answering questions.

`I am Thalis the Stygian,' she replied. `Are you mad, to come here?'

`I've been thinking I must be,' he growled. `By Crom, if I am sane, I'm out of place here, because these people are all maniacs. We stagger in from the desert, dying of thirst and hunger, and we come upon a dead man who tries to stab me in the back. We enter a palace rich and luxuriant, yet apparently empty. We find a meal set, but with no feasters. Then we see a shadow devour a sleeping man-' He watched her narrowly and saw her change color slightly. `Well?'

`Well what?' she demanded, apparently regaining control of herself.

`I was just waiting for you to run through the rooms howling like a wild woman,' he answered. `The man I told about the shadow did.'

She shrugged her slim ivory shoulders. `That was the screams I heard, then. Well, to every man his fate, and it's foolish to squeal like a rat in a trap. When Thog wants me, he will come for me.'

`Who is Thog?' demanded Conan suspiciously.

She gave him a long appraising stare that brought color to Natala's face and made her bite her small red lip.

`Sit down on that divan and I will tell you,' she said. `But first tell me your names.'

`I am Conan, a Cimmerian, and this is Natala, a daughter of Brythunia,' he answered. `We are refugees of an army destroyed on the borders of Kush. But I am not desirous of sitting down, where black shadows might steal up on my back.'

With a light musical laugh, she seated herself, stretching out her supple limbs with studied abandon.

`Be at ease,' she advised. `If Thog wishes you, he will take you, wherever you are. That man you mentioned, who screamed and ran - did you not hear him give one great cry, and then fall silent? In his frenzy, he must have run full into that which he sought to escape. No man can avoid his fate.'

Conan grunted non-committally, but he sat down on the edge of a couch, his saber across his knees, his eyes wandering suspiciously about the chamber. Natala nestled against him, clutching him jealously, her legs tucked up under her. She eyed the stranger woman with suspicion and resentment. She felt small and dust-stained and insignificant before this glamorous beauty, and she could not mistake the look in the dark eyes which feasted on every detail of the bronzed giant's physique.

`What is this place, and who are these people?' demanded Conan.

`This city is called Xuthal; it is very ancient. It is built over an oasis, which the founders of Xuthal found in their wanderings.

They came from the east, so long ago that not even their descendants remember the age.'

`Surely there are not many of them; these palaces seem empty.'

`No; and yet more than you might think. The city is really one great palace, with every building inside the walls closely connected with the others. You might walk among these chambers for hours and see no one. At other times, you would meet hundreds of the inhabitants.'

`How is that?' Conan inquired uneasily; this savored too strongly of sorcery for comfort.

`Much of the time these people lie in sleep. Their dream-life is as important - and to them as real - as their waking life. You have heard of the black lotus? In certain pits of the city it grows. Through the ages they have cultivated it, until, instead of death, its juice induces dreams, gorgeous and fantastic. In these dreams they spend most of their time. Their lives are vague, erratic, and without plan. They dream, they wake, drink, love, eat and dream again. They seldom finish anything they begin, but leave it half completed and sink back again into the slumber of the black lotus. That meal you found - doubtless one awoke, felt the urge of hunger, prepared the meal for himself, then forgot about it and wandered away to dream again.'

`Where do they get their food?' interrupted Conan. `I saw no fields or vineyards outside the city. Have they orchards and cattle-pens within the walls?'

She shook her head. `They manufacture their own food out of the primal elements. They are wonderful scientists, when they are not drugged with their dream-flower. Their ancestors were mental giants, who built this marvelous city in the desert, and though the race became slaves to their curious passions, some of their wonderful knowledge still remains. Have you wondered about these lights? They are jewels, fused with radium. You rub them with your thumb to make them glow, and rub them again, the opposite way, to extinguish them. That is but a single example of their science. But much they have forgotten. They take little interest in waking life, choosing to lie most of the time in death-like sleep.'

`Then the dead man at the gate-' began Conan.

`Was doubtless slumbering. Sleepers of the lotus are like the dead. Animation is apparently suspended. It is impossible to detect the slightest sign of life. The spirit has left the body and is roaming at will through other, exotic worlds. The man at the gate was a good example of the irresponsibility of these people's lives. He was guarding the gate, where custom decrees a watch be kept, though no enemy has ever advanced across the desert. In other parts of the city you would find other guards, generally sleeping as soundly as the man at the gate.'

Conan mulled over this for a space.

`Where are the people now?'

`Scattered in different parts of the city; lying on couches, on silken divans, in cushion-littered alcoves, on fur-covered daises; all wrapt in the shining veil of dreams.'

Conan felt the skin twitch between his massive shoulders. It was not soothing to think of hundreds of people lying cold and still throughout the tapestried palaces, their glassy eyes turned unseeingly upward. He remembered something else.

`What of the thing that stole through the chambers and carried away the man on the dais?'

A shudder twitched her ivory limbs.

`That was Thog, the Ancient, the god of Xuthal, who dwells in the sunken dome in the center of the city. He has always dwelt in Xuthal. Whether he came here with the ancient founders, or was here when they built the city, none knows. But the people of Xuthal worship him. Mostly he sleeps below the city, but sometimes at irregular intervals he grows hungry, and then he steals through the secret corridors and the dim-lit chambers, seeking prey. Then none is safe.'

Natala moaned with terror and clasped Conan's mighty neck as if to resist an effort to drag her from her protector's side.

`Crom!' he ejaculated aghast. `You mean to tell me these people lie down calmly and sleep, with this demon crawling among them?'

`It is only occasionally that he is hungry,' she repeated. `A god must have his sacrifices. When I was a child in Stygia the people lived under the shadow of the priests. None ever knew when he or she would be seized and dragged to the altar. What difference whether the priests give a victim to the gods, or the god comes for his own victim?'

`Such is not the custom of my people,' Conan growled, `nor of Natala's either. The Hyborians do not sacrifice humans to their god, Mitra, and as for my people - by Crom, I'd like to see a priest try to drag a Cimmerian to the altar! There'd be blood spilt, but not as the priest intended.'

`You are a barbarian,' laughed Thalis, but with a glow in her luminous eyes. `Thog is very ancient and very terrible.'

`These folk must be either fools or heroes,' grunted Conan, `to lie down and dream their idiotic dreams, knowing they might awaken in his belly.'

She laughed. `They know nothing else. For untold generations Thog has preyed on them. He has been one of the factors which have reduced their numbers from thousands to hundreds. A few more generations and they will be extinct, and Thog must either fare forth into the world for new prey, or retire to the underworld whence he came so long ago.

`They realize their ultimate doom, but they are fatalists, incapable of resistance or escape. Not one of the present generation has been out of sight of these walls. There is an oasis a day's march to the south - I have seen it on the old maps their ancestors drew on parchment - but no man of Xuthal has visited it for three generations, much less made any attempt to explore the fertile grasslands which the maps show lying another day's march beyond it. They are a fast-fading race, drowned in lotus dreams, stimulating their waking hours by means of the golden wine which heals wounds, prolongs life, and invigorates the most sated debauchee.

`Yet they cling to life, and fear the deity they worship. You saw how one went mad at the knowledge that Thog was roving the palaces. I have seen the whole city screaming and tearing its hair, and running frenziedly out of the gates, to cower outside the walls and draw lots to see which would be bound and flung back through the arched doorways to satisfy Thog's lust and hunger. Were they not all slumbering now, the word of his coming would send them raving and shrieking again through the outer gates.'

`Oh, Conan!' begged Natala hysterically. `Let us flee!'

`In good time,' muttered Conan, his eyes burning on Thalis' ivory limbs. `What are you, a Stygian woman, doing here?'

'I came here when a young girl,' she answered, leaning lithely back against the velvet divan, and intertwining her slender fingers behind her dusky head. `I am the daughter of a king, no common woman, as you can see by my skin, which is as white as that of your little blond there. I was abducted by a rebel prince, who, with an army of Kushite bowmen, pushed southward into the wilderness, searching for a land he could make his own. He and all his warriors perished in the desert, but one, before he died, placed me on a camel and walked beside it until he dropped and died in his tracks. The beast wandered on, and I finally passed into delirium from thirst and hunger, and awakened in this city. They told me I had been seen from the walls, early in the dawn, lying senseless beside a dead camel. They went forth and brought me in and revived me with their wonderful golden wine. And only the sight of a woman would have led them to have ventured that far from their walls.

`They were naturally much interested in me, especially the men. As I could not speak their language, they learned to speak mine. They are very quick and able of intellect; they learned my language long before I learned theirs. But they were more interested in me than in my language. I have been, and am, the only thing for which a man of them will forgo his lotus-dreams for a space.'

She laughed wickedly, flashing her audacious eyes meaningly at Conan.

`Of course the women are jealous of me,' she continued tranquilly. `They are handsome enough in their yellow-skinned way, but they are dreamy and uncertain as the men, and these latter like me not only for my beauty, but for my reality. I am no dream! Though I have dreamed the dreams of the lotus, I am a normal woman, with earthly emotions and desires. With such these moon-eyed yellow women can not compare.

`That is why it would be better for you to cut that girl's throat with your saber, before the men of Xuthal waken and catch her. They will put her through paces she never dreamed of! She is too soft to endure what 1 have thrived on. I am a daughter of Luxur, and before I had known fifteen summers I had been led through the temples of Derketo, the dusky goddess, and had been initiated into the mysteries. Not that my first years in Xuthal were years of unmodified pleasure! The people of Xuthal have forgotten more than the priestesses of Derketo ever dreamed. They live only for sensual joys. Dreaming or waking, their lives are filled with exotic ecstasies, beyond the ken of ordinary men.'

`Damned degenerates!' growled Conan.

`It is all in the point of view,' smiled Thalis lazily.

`Well,' he decided, `we're merely wasting time. I can see this is no place for ordinary mortals. We'll be gone before your morons awake, or Thog comes to devour us. I think the desert would be kinder.'

Natala, whose blood had curdled in her veins at Thalis's words, fervently agreed. She could speak Stygian only brokenly, but she understood it well enough. Conan stood up, drawing her up beside him.

`If you'll show us the nearest way out of this city,' he grunted, `we'll take ourselves off.' But his gaze lingered on the Stygian's sleek limbs and ivory breasts.

She did not miss his look, and she smiled enigmatically as she rose with the lithe ease of a great lazy cat.

`Follow me,' she directed and led the way, conscious of Conan's eyes fixed on her supple figure and perfectly poised carriage. She did not go the way they had come, but before Conan's suspicions could be roused, she halted in a wide ivory-cased chamber, and pointed to a tiny fountain which gurgled in the center of the ivory floor.

`Don't you want to wash your face, child?' she asked Natala. `It is stained with dust, and there is dust in your hair.'

Natala colored resentfully at the suggestion of malice in the Stygian's faintly mocking tone, but she complied, wondering miserably just how much havoc the desert sun and wind had wrought on her complexion - a feature for which women of her race were justly noted. She knelt beside the fountain, shook back her hair, slipped her tunic down to her waist, and began to lave not only her face, but her white arms and shoulders as well.

`By Crom!' grumbled Conan. `A woman will stop to consider her beauty, if the devil himself were on her heels. Haste, girl; you'll be dusty again before we've got out of sight of this city. And Thalis, I'd take it kindly if you'd furnish us with a bit of food and drink.'

For answer Thalis leaned herself against him, slipping one white arm about his bronzed shoulders. Her sleek naked flank pressed against his thigh and the perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils.

`Why dare the desert?' she whispered urgently. `Stay here! I will teach you the ways of Xuthal. I will protect you. I will love you! You are a real man: I am sick of these moon-calves who sigh and dream and wake, and dream again. I am hungry for the hard, clean passion of a man from the earth. The blaze of your dynamic eyes makes my heart pound in my bosom, and the touch of your iron-thewed arm maddens me.

`Stay here! I will make you king of Xuthal! I will show you all the ancient mysteries, and the exotic ways of pleasure! I-' She had thrown both arms about his neck and was standing on tiptoe, her vibrant body shivering against his. Over her ivory shoulder he saw Natala, throwing back her damp tousled hair, stop short, her lovely eyes dilating, her red lips parting in a shocked O. With an embarrassed grunt, Conan disengaged Thalis's clinging arms and put her aside with one massive arm. She threw a swift glance at the Brythunian girl and smiled enigmatically, seeming to nod her splendid head in mysterious cogitation.

Natala rose and jerked up her tunic, her eyes blazing, her lips pouting sulkily. Conan swore under his breath. He was no more monogamous in his nature than the average soldier of fortune, but there was an innate decency about him that was Natala's best protection.

Thalis did not press her suit. Beckoning them with her slender hand to follow, she turned and walked across the chamber.

There, close to the tapestried wall, she halted suddenly. Conan, watching her, wondered if she had heard the sounds that might be made by a nameless monster stealing through the midnight chambers, and his skin crawled at the thought.

`What do you hear?' he demanded.

`Watch that doorway,' she replied, pointing.

He wheeled, sword ready. Only the empty arch of the entrance met his gaze. Then behind him sounded a quick faint scuffling noise, a half-choked gasp. He whirled. Thalis and Natala had vanished. The tapestry was settling back in place, as if it had been lifted away from the wall. As he gaped bewilderedly, from behind that tapestried wall rang a muffled scream in the voice of the Brythunian girl.

2

When Conan turned, in compliance with Thalis's request, to glare at the doorway opposite, Natala had been standing just behind him, close to the side of the Stygian. The instant the Cimmerian's back was turned, Thalis, with a pantherish quickness almost incredible, clapped her hand over Natala's mouth, stifling the cry she tried to give. Simultaneously the Stygian's other arm was passed about the blond girl's supple waist, and she was jerked back against the wall, which seemed to give way as Thalis' shoulder pressed against it. A section of the wall swung inward, and through a slit that opened in the tapestry Thalis slid with her captive, just as Conan wheeled back.

Inside was utter blackness as the secret door swung to again. Thalis paused to fumble at it for an instant, apparently sliding home a bolt, and as she took her hand from Natala's mouth to perform this act, the Brythunian girl began to scream at the top of her voice. Thalis's laugh was like poisoned honey in the darkness.

`Scream if you will, little fool. It will only shorten your life.'

At that Natala ceased suddenly, and cowered shaking in every limb.

`Why did you do this?' she begged. `What are you going to do?'

`I am going to take you down this corridor for a short distance,' answered Thalis, `and leave you for one who will sooner or later come for you.'

`Ohhhhhh!' Natala's voice broke in a sob of terror. `Why should you harm me? I have never injured you!'

`I want your warrior. You stand in my way. He desires me - I could read the look in his eyes. But for you, he would be willing to stay here and be my king. When you are out of the way, he will follow me.'

`He will cut your throat,' answered Natala with conviction, knowing Conan better than Thalis did.

`We shall see,' answered the Stygian coolly from the confidence of her power over men. `At any rate, you will not know whether he stabs or kisses me, because you will be the bride of him who dwells in darkness. Come!'

Half mad with terror, Natala fought like a wild thing, but it availed her nothing. With a lithe strength she would not have believed possible in a woman, Thalis picked her up and carried her down the black corridor as if she had been a child. Natala did not scream again, remembering the Stygian's sinister words; the only sounds were her desperate quick panting and Thalis' soft taunting lascivious laughter. Then the Brythunian's fluttering hand closed on something in the dark - a jeweled dagger-hilt jutting from Thalis's gem-crusted girdle. Natala jerked it forth and struck blindly and with all her girlish power.

A scream burst from Thalis's lips, feline in its pain and fury. She reeled, and Natala slipped from her relaxing grasp, to bruise her tender limbs on the smooth stone floor. Rising, she scurried to the nearest wall and stood there panting and trembling, flattening herself against the stones. She could not see Thalis, but she could hear her. The Stygian was quite certainly not dead. She was cursing in a steady stream, and her fury was so concentrated and deadly that Natala felt her bones turn to wax, her blood to ice.

`Where are you, you little she-devil?' gasped Thalis. `Let me get my fingers on you again, and I'll-' Natala grew physically sick as Thalis described the bodily injuries she intended to inflict on her rival. The Stygian's choice of language would have shamed the toughest courtezan in Aquilonia.

Natala heard her groping in the dark, and then a light sprang up. Evidently whatever fear Thalis felt of the black corridor was submerged in her anger. The light came from one of the radium gems which adorned the walls of Xuthal. This Thalis had rubbed, and now she stood bathed in its reddish glow: a light different from that which the others had emitted. One hand was pressed to her side and blood trickled between the fingers. But she did not seem weakened or badly hurt, and her eyes blazed fiendishly. What little courage remained to Natala ebbed away at sight of the Stygian standing limned in that weird glow, her beautiful face contorted with a passion that was no less than hellish. She now advanced with a pantherish tread, drawing her hand away from her wounded side, and shaking the blood drops impatiently from her fingers. Natala saw that she had not badly harmed her rival. The blade had glanced from the jewels of Thalis's girdle and inflicted only a very superficial flesh-wound, only enough to rouse the Stygian's unbridled fury.

`Give me that dagger, you fool!' she gritted, striding up to the cowering girl.

Natala knew she ought to fight while she had the chance, but she simply could not summon up the courage. Never much of a fighter, the darkness, violence and horror of her adventure had left her limp, mentally and physically. Thalis snatched the dagger from her lax fingers and threw it contemptuously aside.

`You little slut!' she ground between her teeth, slapping the girl viciously with either hand. `Before I drag you down the corridor and throw you into Thog's jaws I'll have a little of your blood myself! You would dare to knife me - well, for that audacity you shall pay!'

Seizing her by the hair, Thalis dragged her down the corridor a short distance, to the edge of the circle of light. A metal ring showed in the wall, above the level of a man's head. From it depended a silken cord. As in a nightmare Natala felt her tunic being stripped from her, and the next instant Thalis had jerked up her wrists and bound them to the ring, where she hung, naked as the day she was born, her feet barely touching the floor. Twisting her head, Natala saw Thalis unhook a jewel-handled whip from where it hung on the wall, near the ring. The lashes consisted of seven round silk cords, harder yet more pliant than leather thongs.

With a hiss of vindictive gratification, Thalis drew back her arm, and Natala shrieked as the cords curled across her loins. The tortured girl writhed, twisted and tore agonizedly at the thongs which imprisoned her wrists. She had forgotten the lurking menace her cries might summon, and so apparently had Thalis. Every stroke evoked screams of anguish. The whippings Natala had received in the Shemite slave-markets paled to insignificance before this. She had never guessed the punishing power of hard-woven silk cords. Their caress was more exquisitely painful than any birch twigs or leather thongs. They whistled venomously as they cut the air.

Then, as Natala twisted her tear-stained face over her shoulder to shriek for mercy, something froze her cries. Agony gave place to paralyzing horror in her beautiful eyes.

Struck by her expression, Thalis checked her lifted hand and whirled quick as a cat. Too late! An awful cry rang from her lips as she swayed back, her arms upflung. Natala saw her for an instant, a white figure of fear etched against a great black shapeless mass that towered over her; then the white figure was whipped off its feet, the shadow receded with it, and in the circle of dim light Natala hung alone, half fainting with terror.

From the black shadows came sounds, incomprehensible and blood-freezing. She heard Thalis's voice pleading frenziedly, but no voice answered. There was no sound except the Stygian's panting voice, which suddenly rose to screams of agony, and then broke in hysterical laughter, mingled with sobs. This dwindled to a convulsive panting, and presently this too ceased, and a silence more terrible hovered over the secret corridor.

Nauseated with horror, Natala twisted about and dared to look fearfully in the direction the black shape had carried Thalis. She saw nothing, but she sensed an unseen peril, more grisly than she could understand. She fought against a rising tide of hysteria. Her bruised wrists, her smarting body were forgotten in the teeth of this menace which she dimly felt threatened not only her body, but her soul as well.

She strained her eyes into the blackness beyond the rim of the dim light, tense with fear of what she might see. A whimpering gasp escaped her lips. The darkness was taking form. Something huge and bulky grew up out of the void. She saw a great misshapen head emerging into the light. At least she took it for a head, though it was not the member of any sane or normal creature. She saw a great toadlike face, the features of which were as dim and unstable as those of a specter seen in a mirror of nightmare. Great pools of light that might have been eyes blinked at her, and she shook at the cosmic lust reflected there. She could tell nothing about the creature's body. Its outline seemed to waver and alter subtly even as she looked at it; yet its substance was apparently solid enough. There was nothing misty or ghostly about it.

As it came toward her, she could not tell whether it walked, wriggled, flew or crept. Its method of locomotion was absolutely beyond her comprehension. When it had emerged from the shadows she was still uncertain as to its nature. The light from the radium gem did not illumine it as it would have illumined an ordinary creature. Impossible as it seemed, the being seemed almost impervious to the light. Its details were still obscure and indistinct, even when it halted so near that it almost touched her shrinking flesh. Only the blinking toadlike face stood out with any distinctness. The thing was a blur in the sight, a black blot of shadow that normal radiance would neither dissipate nor illuminate.

She decided she was mad, because she could not tell whether the being looked up at her or towered above her. She was unable to say whether the dim repulsive face blinked up at her from the shadows at her feet, or looked down at her from an immense height. But if her sight convinced her that whatever its mutable qualities, it was yet composed of solid substance, her sense of feel further assured her of that fact. A dark tentacle-like member slid about her body, and she screamed at the touch of it on her naked flesh. It was neither warm nor cold, rough nor smooth; it was like nothing that had ever touched her before, and at its caress she knew such fear and shame as she had never dreamed of. All the obscenity and salacious infamy spawned in the muck of the abysmal pits of Life seemed to drown her in seas of cosmic filth. And in that instant she knew that whatever form of life this thing represented it was not a beast.

She began to scream uncontrollably, the monster tugged at her as if to tear her from the ring by sheer brutality; then something crashed above their heads, and a form hurtled down through the air to strike the stone floor.

3

When Conan wheeled to see the tapestry settling back in place and to hear Natala's muffled cry, he hurled himself against the wall with a maddened roar. Rebounding from the impact that would have splintered the bones of a lesser man, he ripped away the tapestry revealing what appeared to be a blank wall. Beside himself with fury he lifted his saber as though to hew through the marble, when a sudden sound brought him about, eyes blazing.

A score of figures faced him, yellow men in purple tunics, with short swords in their hands. As he turned they surged in on him with hostile cries. He made no attempt to conciliate them. Maddened at the disappearance of his sweetheart, the barbarian reverted to type.

A snarl of bloodthirsty gratification hummed in his bull-throat as he leaped, and the first attacker, his short sword overreached by the whistling saber, went down with his brains gushing from his split skull. Wheeling like a cat, Conan caught a descending wrist on his edge, and the hand gripping the short sword flew into the air scattering a shower of red drops. But Conan had not paused or hesitated. A pantherish twist and shift of his body avoided the blundering rush of two yellow swordsmen, and the blade of one missing its objective, was sheathed in the breast of the other.

A yell of dismay went up at this mischance, and Conan allowed himself a short bark of laughter as he bounded aside from a whistling cut and slashed under the guard of yet another man of Xuthal. A long spurt of crimson followed his singing edge and the man crumpled screaming, his belly-muscles cut through.

The warriors of Xuthal howled like mad wolves. Unaccustomed to battle, they were ridiculously slow and clumsy compared to the tigerish barbarian whose motions were blurs of quickness possible only to steel thews knit to a perfect fighting brain. They floundered and stumbled, hindered by their own numbers; they struck too quick or too soon, and cut only empty air. He was never motionless or in the same place an instant; springing, side-stepping, whirling, twisting, he offered a constantly shifting target for their swords, while his own curved blade sang death about their ears.

But whatever their faults, the men of Xuthal did not lack courage. They swarmed about him yelling and hacking, and through the arched doorways rushed others, awakened from their slumbers by the unwonted clamor.

Conan, bleeding from a cut on the temple, cleared a space for an instant with a devastating sweep of his dripping saber, and cast a quick glance about for an avenue of escape. At that instant he saw the tapestry on one of the walls drawn aside, disclosing a narrow stairway. On this stood a man in rich robes, vague-eyed and blinking, as if he had just awakened and had not yet shaken the dusts of slumber from his brain. Conan's sight and action were simultaneous.

A tigerish leap carried him untouched through the hemming ring of swords, and he bounded toward the stair with the pack giving tongue behind him. Three men confronted him at the foot of the marble steps, and he struck them with a deafening crash of steel. There was a frenzied instant when the blades flamed like summer lightning; then the group fell apart and Conan sprang up the stair. The oncoming horde tripped over three writhing forms at its foot: one lay face-down in a sickening welter of blood and brains; another propped himself on his hands, blood spurting blackly from his severed throat veins; the other howled like a dying dog as he clawed at the crimson stump that had been an arm.

As Conan rushed up the marble stair, the man above shook himself from his stupor and drew a sword that sparkled frostily in the radium light. He thrust downward as the barbarian surged upon him. But as the point sang toward his throat, Conan ducked deeply. The blade slit the skin of his back, and Conan straightened, driving his saber upward as a man might wield a butcher-knife, with all the power of his mighty shoulders.

So terrific was his headlong drive that the sinking of the saber to the hilt into the belly of his enemy did not check him. He caromed against the wretch's body, knocking it sideways. The impact sent Conan crashing against the wall; the other, the saber torn through his body, fell headlong down the stair, ripped open to the spine from groin to broken breastbone. In a ghastly mess of streaming entrails the body tumbled against the men rushing up the stairs, bearing them back with it.

Half stunned, Conan leaned against the wall an instant, glaring down upon them; then with a defiant shake of his dripping saber, he bounded up the steps.

Coming into an upper chamber, he halted only long enough to see that it was empty. Behind him the horde was yelling with such intensified horror and rage, that he knew he had killed some notable man there on the stair, probably the king of that fantastic city.

He ran at random, without plan. He desperately wished to find and succor Natala, who he was sure needed aid badly; but harried as he was by all the warriors in Xuthal, he could only run on, trusting to luck to elude them and find her. Among those dark or dimly lighted upper chambers he quickly lost all sense of direction, and it was not strange that he eventually blundered into a chamber into which his foes were just pouring.

They yelled vengefully and rushed for him, and with a snarl of disgust he turned and fled back the way he had come. At least he thought it was the way he had come. But presently, racing into a particularly ornate chamber, he was aware of his mistake. All the chambers he had traversed since mounting the stair had been empty. This chamber had an occupant, who rose up with a cry as he charged in.

Conan saw a yellow-skinned woman, loaded with jeweled ornaments but otherwise nude, staring at him with wide eyes. So much he glimpsed as she raised her hand and jerked a silken rope hanging from the wall. Then the floor dropped from under him, and all his steel-trap coordination could not save him from the plunge into the black depths that opened beneath him.

He did not fall any great distance, though it was far enough to have snapped the leg bones of a man not built of steel springs and whalebone.

He hit cat-like on his feet and one hand, instinctively retaining his grasp on his saber hilt. A familiar cry rang in his ears as he rebounded on his feet as a lynx rebounds with snarling bared fangs. So Conan, glaring from under his tousled mane, saw the white naked figure of Natala writhing in the lustful grasp of a black nightmare shape that could have only been bred in the lost pits of hell.

The sight of that awful shape alone might have frozen the Cimmerian with fear. In juxtaposition to his girl, the sight sent a red wave of murderous fury through Conan's brain. In a crimson mist he smote the monster.

It dropped the girl, wheeling toward its attacker, and the maddened Cimmerian's saber, shrilling through the air, sheared clear through the black viscous bulk and rang on the stone floor, showering blue sparks. Conan went to his knees from the fury of the blow; the edge had not encountered the resistance he had expected. As he bounded up, the thing was upon him.

It towered above him like a clinging black cloud. It seemed to flow about him in almost liquid waves, to envelop and engulf him. His madly slashing saber sheared through it again and again, his ripping poniard tore and rent it; he was deluged with a slimy liquid that must have been its sluggish blood. Yet its fury was nowise abated.

He could not tell whether he was slashing off its members or whether he was cleaving its bulk, which knit behind the slicing blade. He was tossed to and fro in the violence of that awful battle, and had a dazed feeling that he was fighting not one, but an aggregation of lethal creatures. The thing seemed to be biting, clawing, crushing and clubbing him all at the same time. He felt fangs and talons rend his flesh; flabby cables that were yet hard as iron encircled his limbs and body, and worse than all, something like a whip of scorpions fell again and again across his shoulders, back and breast, tearing the skin and filling his veins with a poison that was like liquid fire.

They had rolled beyond the circle of light, and it was in utter blackness that the Cimmerian battled. Once he sank his teeth, beast-like, into the flabby substance of his foe, revolting as the stuff writhed and squirmed like living rubber from between his iron jaws.

In that hurricane of battle they were rolling over and over, farther and farther down the tunnel. Conan's brain reeled with the punishment he was taking. His breath came in whistling gasps between his teeth. High above him he saw a great toadlike face, dimly limned in an eery glow that seemed to emanate from it. And with a panting cry that was half curse, half gasp of straining agony, he lunged toward it, thrusting with all his waning power. Hilt-deep the saber sank, somewhere below the grisly face, and a convulsive shudder heaved the vast bulk that half enveloped the Cimmerian. With a volcanic burst of contraction and expansion, it tumbled backward, rolling now with frantic haste down the corridor. Conan went with it, bruised, battered, invincible, hanging on like a bulldog to the hilt of his saber which he could not withdraw, tearing and ripping at the shuddering bulk with the poniard in his left hand, goring it to ribbons.

The thing glowed all over now with a weird phosphorous radiance, and this glow was in Conan's eyes, blinding him, as suddenly the heaving billowing mass fell away from beneath him, the saber tearing loose and remaining in his locked hand. This hand and arm hung down into space, and far below him the glowing body of the monster was rushing downward like a meteor. Conan dazedly realized that he lay on the brink of a great round well, the edge of which was slimy stone. He lay there watching the hurtling glow dwindling and dwindling until it vanished into a dark shining surface that seemed to surge upward to meet it. For an instant a dimming witchfire glimmered in those dusky depths; then it disappeared and Conan lay staring down into the blackness of the ultimate abyss from which no sound came.

4

Straining vainly at the silk cords which cut into her wrists, Natala sought to pierce the darkness beyond the radiant circle. Her tongue seemed frozen to the roof of her mouth. Into that blackness she had seen Conan vanish, locked in mortal combat with the unknown demon, and the only sounds that had come to her straining ears had been the panting gasps of the barbarian, the impact of struggling bodies, and the thud and rip of savage blows. These ceased, and Natala swayed dizzily on her cords, half fainting.

A footstep roused her out of her apathy of horror, to see Conan emerging from the darkness. At the sight she found her voice in a shriek which echoed down the vaulted tunnel. The manhandling the Cimmerian had received was appalling to behold. At every step he dripped blood. His face was skinned and bruised as if he had been beaten with a bludgeon. His lips were pulped, and blood oozed down his face from a wound in his scalp. There were deep gashes in his thighs, calves and forearms, and great bruises showed on his limbs and body from impacts against the stone floor. But his shoulders, back and upper-breast muscles had suffered most. The flesh was bruised, swollen and lacerated, the skin hanging in loose strips, as if he had been lashed with wire whips.

`Oh, Conan!' she sobbed. `What has happened to you?'

He had no breath for conversation, but his smashed lips writhed in what might have been grim humor as he approached her. His hairy breast, glistening with sweat and blood, heaved with his panting. Slowly and laboriously he reached up and cut her cords, then fell back against the wall and leaned there, his trembling legs braced wide. She scrambled up from where she had fallen and caught him in a frenzied embrace, sobbing hysterically.

`Oh, Conan, you are wounded unto death! Oh, what shall we do?'

`Well,' he panted, `you can't fight a devil out of hell and come off with a whole skin!'

`Where is it?' she whispered. `Did you kill it?'

`I don't know. It fell into a pit. It was hanging in bloody shreds, but whether it can be killed by steel I know not.'

`Oh, your poor back!' she wailed, wringing her hands.

`It lashed me with a tentacle,' he grimaced, swearing as he moved. `It cut like wire and burned like poison. But it was its damnable squeezing that got my wind. It was worse than a python. If half my guts are not mashed out of place, I'm much mistaken.'

`What shall we do?' she whimpered.

He glanced up. The trap was closed. No sound came from above.

`We can't go back through the secret door,' he muttered. `That room is full of dead men, and doubtless warriors keep watch there. They must have thought my doom sealed when I plunged through the floor above, or else they dare not follow me into this tunnel. - Twist that radium gem off the wall. - As I groped my way back up the corridor I felt arches opening into other tunnels. We'll follow the first we come to. It may lead to another pit, or to the open air. We must chance it. We can't stay here and rot.'

Natala obeyed, and holding the tiny point of light in his left hand and his bloody saber in his right, Conan started down the corridor. He went slowly, stiffly, only his animal vitality keeping him on his feet. There was a blank glare in his bloodshot eyes, and Natala saw him involuntarily lick his battered lips from time to time. She knew his suffering was ghastly, but with the stoicism of the wilds he made no complaint.

Presently the dim light shone on a black arch, and into this Conan turned. Natala cringed at what she might see, but the light revealed only a tunnel similar to that they had just left.

How far they went she had no idea, before they mounted a long stair and came upon a stone door, fastened with a golden bolt.

She hesitated, glancing at Conan. The barbarian was swaying on his feet, the light in his unsteady hand flinging fantastic shadows back and forth along the wall.

`Open the door, girl,' he muttered thickly. `The men of Xuthal will be waiting for us, and I would not disappoint them. By Crom, the city has not seen such a sacrifice as I will make!'

She knew he was half delirious. No sound came from beyond the door. Taking the radium gem from his blood-stained hand, she threw the bolt and drew the panel inward. The inner side of a cloth-of-gold tapestry met her gaze and she drew it aside and peeked through, her heart in her mouth. She was looking into an empty chamber in the center of which a silvery fountain tinkled.

Conan's hand fell heavily on her naked shoulder.

`Stand aside, girl,' he mumbled. `Now is the feasting of swords.'

'There is no one in the chamber,' she answered. `But there is water-'

`I hear it,' he licked his blackened lips. `We will drink before we die.'

He seemed blinded. She took his darkly stained hand and led him through the stone door. She went on tiptoe, expecting a rush of yellow figures through the arches at any instant.

`Drink while I keep watch,' he muttered.

`No, I am not thirsty. Lie down beside the fountain and I will bathe your wounds.'

`What of the swords of Xuthal?' He continually raked his arm across his eyes as if to clear his blurred sight.

`I hear no one. All is silent.'

He sank down gropingly and plunged his face into the crystal jet, drinking as if he could not get enough. When he raised his head there was sanity in his bloodshot eyes and he stretched his massive limbs out on the marble floor as she requested, though he kept his saber in his hand, and his eyes continually roved toward the archways. She bathed his torn flesh and bandaged the deeper wounds with strips torn from a silk hanging. She shuddered at the appearance of his back; the flesh was discolored, mottled and spotted black and blue and a sickly yellow, where it was not raw. As she worked she sought frantically for a solution to their problem. If they stayed where they were, they would eventually be discovered. Whether the men of Xuthal were searching the palaces for them, or had returned to their dreams, she could not know.

As she finished her task, she froze. Under the hanging that partly concealed an alcove, she saw a hand's breadth of yellow flesh.

Saying nothing to Conan, she rose and crossed the chamber softly, grasping his poniard. Her heart pounded suffocatingly as she cautiously drew aside the hanging. On the dais lay a young yellow woman, naked and apparently lifeless. At her hand stood a jade jar nearly full of peculiar golden-colored liquid. Natala believed it to be the elixir described by Thalis, which lent vigor and vitality to the degenerate Xuthal. She leaned across the supine form and grasped the vessel, her poniard poised over the girl's bosom. The latter did not wake.

With the jar in her possession, Natala hesitated, realizing it would be the safer course to put the sleeping girl beyond the power of waking and raising an alarm. But she could not bring herself to plunge the Cimmerian poniard into that still bosom, and at last she drew back the hanging and returned to Conan, who lay where she had left him, seemingly only partly conscious.

She bent and placed the jar to his lips. He drank, mechanically at first, then with a suddenly roused interest. To her amazement he sat up and took the vessel from her hands. When he lifted his face, his eyes were clear anti normal. Much of the drawn haggard look had gone from his features, and his voice was not the mumble of delirium.

`Crom! Where did you get this?'

She pointed. `From that alcove, where a yellow hussy is sleeping.'

He thrust his muzzle again into the golden liquid.

`By Crom,' he said with a deep sigh, `I feel new life and power rush like wildfire through my veins. Surely this is the very elixir of Life!'

`We had best go back into the corridor,' Natala ventured nervously. `We shall be discovered if we stay here long. We can hide there until your wounds heal-'

`Not I,' he grunted. `We are not rats, to hide in dark burrows. We leave this devil-city now, and let none seek to stop us.'

`But your wounds!' she wailed.

`I do not feel them,' he answered. `It may be a false strength this liquor has given me, but I swear I am aware of neither pain nor weakness.'

With sudden purpose he crossed the chamber to a window she had not noticed. Over his shoulder she looked out. A cool breeze tossed her tousled locks. Above was the dark velvet sky, clustered with stars. Below them stretched a vague expanse of sand.

`Thalis said the city was one great palace,' said Conan. `Evidently some of the chambers are built like towers on the wall. This one is. Chance has led us well.'

`What do you mean?' she asked, glancing apprehensively over her shoulder.

`There is a crystal jar on that ivory table,' he answered. `Fill it with water and tie a strip of that torn hanging about its neck for a handle while I rip up this tapestry.'

She obeyed without question, and when she turned from her task she saw Conan rapidly tying together the long tough strips of silk to make a rope, one end of which he fastened to the leg of the massive ivory table.

`We'll take our chance with the desert,' said he. `Thalis spoke of an oasis a day's march to the south, and grasslands beyond that. If we reach the oasis we can rest until my wounds heal. This wine is like sorcery. A little while ago I was little more than a dead man; now I am ready for anything. Here is enough silk left for you to make a garment of.'

Natala had forgotten her nudity. The mere fact caused her no qualms, but her delicate skin would need protection from the desert sun. As she knotted the silk length about her supple body, Conan turned to the window and with a contemptuous wrench tore away the soft gold bars that guarded it. Then, looping the loose end of his silk rope about Natala's hips, and cautioning her to hold on with both hands, he lifted her through the window and lowered her the thirty-odd feet to the earth. She stepped out of the loop, and drawing it back up, he made fast the vessels of water and wine, and lowered them to her. He followed them, sliding down swiftly, hand over hand.

As he reached her side, Natala gave a sigh of relief. They stood alone at the foot of the great wall, the paling stars overhead and the naked desert about them. What perils yet confronted them she could not know, but her heart sang with joy because they were out of that ghostly, unreal city.

`They may find the rope,' grunted Conan, slinging the precious jars across his shoulders, wincing at the contact with his mangled flesh. `They may even pursue us, but from what Thalis said, I doubt it. That way is south,' a bronze muscular arm indicated their course; `so somewhere in that direction lies the oasis. Come!'

Taking her hand with a thoughtfulness unusual for him, Conan strode out across the sands, suiting his stride to the shorter legs of his companion. He did not glance back at the silent city, brooding dreamily and ghostily behind them.

'Conan,' Natala ventured finally, `when you fought the monster, and later, as you came up the corridor, did you see anything of - of Thalis?'

He shook his head. `It was dark in the corridor; but it was empty.'

She shuddered. `She tortured me - yet I pity her.'

`It was a hot welcome we got in that accursed city,' he snarled. Then his grim humor returned. `Well, they'll remember our visit long enough, I'll wager. There are brains and guts and blood to be cleaned off the marble tiles, and if their god still lives, he carries more wounds than I. We got off light, after all: we have wine and water and a good chance of reaching a habitable country, though I look as if I've gone through a meatgrinder, and you have a sore-'

`It's all your fault,' she interrupted. `If you had not looked so long and admiringly at that Stygian cat-'

`Crom and his devils!' he swore. `When the oceans drown the world, women will take time for jealousy. Devil take their conceit! Did I tell the Stygian to fall in love with me? After all, she was only human!'

Drums of Tombalku

I

Three men squatted beside the water hole, beneath the sunset sky that painted the desert umber and red. Two were Ghanatas, desert warriors, their tatters scarcely concealing their wiry dark frames. Men called them Gobir and Saidu; they looked like vultures as they crouched beside the water hole. The third was yellow-haired and gray-eyed; he was called Amalric.

Nearby a camel ground its cud noisily, and a pair of weary horses vainly nuzzled the bare sand. The men munched dried dates cheerlessly, the desert men intent only on the working of their jaws, Amalric occasionally glancing at the dull red sky, or out across the level monotony where the shadows were gathering and deepening. He was first to see the horseman who rode up and drew rein with a jerk that set the steed rearing.

The rider was a dark-skinned giant. His wide silk pantaloons were gathered in about his bare ankles. They were supported by a broad girdle wrapped repeatedly about his huge belly; that girdle also supported a flaring-tipped scimitar few men could wield with one hand. With that scimitar the man was famed wherever the sons of the desert rode. He was Tilutan, the pride of the Ghanata.

Across his saddle bow a limp shape lay, or rather hung. Breath hissed through the teeth of the Ghanatas as they caught the gleam of smooth, white limbs. A girl hung across Tilutan's saddle bow, face down, her loose hair flowing over his stirrup in a rippling black wave. The giant grinned with a glint of white teeth, and cast her casually onto the sand, where she lay laxly, unconscious. Instinctively Gobir and Saidu turned toward Amalric, and Tilutan watched him from his saddle. Three Ghanatas and an outlander. The entrance of a woman into the scene wrought a subtle change in the atmosphere.

Almaric was the only one who was apparently oblivious to the tenseness. He raked back his rebellious yellow locks absently, and glanced indifferently at the girl's limp figure. If there was a momentary gleam in his grey eyes, the others did not catch it.

Tilutan swung down from his saddle, contemptuously tossing the rein to Amalric.

`Tend my horse,' he said. `By Jhil, I did not find a desert antelope, but I found this little filly. She was reeling through the sands, and she fell just as I approached. I think she fainted from weariness and thirst. Get away from there, you jackals, and let me give her a drink.'

The big man stretched her out beside the water hole and began laving her face and wrists, trickling a few drops between her parched lips. She moaned presently and stirred vaguely. Gobir and Saidu crouched with their hands on their knees, staring at her over Tilutan's burly shoulder. Amalric stood a little apart from them, his interest seeming only casual.

`She is coming to,' announced Gobir.

Saidu said nothing, but he licked his lips involuntarily, animallike.

Amalric's gaze travelled impersonally over the prostrate form, from the torn sandals to the loose crown of glossy black hair. Her only garment was a silk kirtle, girdled at the waist. It left her arms, neck and part of her bosom bare, and the skirt ended several inches above her knees. On the parts revealed rested the gaze of the Ghanatas with devouring intensity, taking in the soft contours, childish in their white tenderness, yet rounded with budding womanhood.

Amalric shrugged his shoulders.

`After Tilutan, who?' he asked carelessly.

A pair of lean heads turned toward him, bloodshot eyes rolled at the question, then the Ghanatas turned and mutually stared at one another. Sudden rivalry crackled electrically between them.

`Cast the dice,' urged Amalric. `No need to fight.' His hand came from under his worn tunic, and he threw down a pair of dice before them. A claw-like hand seized them.

`Aye!' agreed Gobir. `We cast - after Tilutan, the winner!'

Amalric cast a glance toward the giant who still bent above his captive, bringing life back into her exhausted body. As he looked, her long-lashed lids parted. Deep violet eyes stared up into the leering face bewilderedly. An explosive exclamation of gratification escaped the thick lips of Tilutan. Wrenching a flask from his girdle, he put it to her mouth. She drank the wine mechanically. Amalric avoided her wandering gaze. He was one man and the three Ghanatas were all his match.

Gobir and Saidu bent above the dice; Saidu cupped them in his palm, breathed on them for luck, shook and threw. Two vulture-like heads bent over the spinning cubes in the dim light. And Amalric drew and struck with the same motion. The edge sliced through a thick neck, severing the windpipe, and Gobir fell across the dice, spurting blood, his head hanging by a shred.

Simultaneously, Saidu, with the desperate quickness of a desert man, shot to his feet and hacked ferociously at the slayer's head. Amalric barely had time to catch the stroke on his lifted sword. The whistling scimitar beat the straight blade down on Amalric's head, staggering him. He released his sword and threw both arms about Saidu, dragging him into close quarters where his scimitar was useless. Under the desert man's rags, the wiry frame was like steel cords.

Tilutan, comprehending the matter instantly, had cast the girl down and risen with a roar. He rushed toward the struggling pair like a charging bull, his great scimitar flaming in his hand. Amalric saw him coming, and his flesh turned cold. Saidu was jerking and wrenching, handicapped by the scimitar he was still seeking futilely to turn against his antagonist. Their feet twisted and stamped in the sand, their bodies ground against one another. Amalric smashed his sandal heel down on the Ghanata's bare instep, feeling bones give way. Saidu howled and plunged convulsively, and Amalric gave a desperate heave. The pair lurched drunkenly about, just as Tilutan struck with a rolling drive of his broad shoulders. Amalric felt the steel rasp the under part of his arm, and chug deep into Saidu's body. The Ghanata gave an agonized scream, and his convulsive start tore himself free of Amalric's grasp. Tilutan roared a ferocious oath and, wrenching his steel free, hurled the dying man aside. Before he could srike again, Amalric, his skin crawling with the fear of that great curved blade, had grappled with him.

Despair swept over him as he felt the strength of the warrior. Tilutan was wiser than Saidu. He dropped the scimitar and with a bellow, caught Amalric's throat with both hands. The great fingers locked like iron, and Amalric, striving vainly to break their grip, was borne down, with the Ghanata's great weight pinning him to the earth. The smaller man was shaken like a rat in the jaws of a dog. His head was smashed savagely against the sandy earth. As in a red mist he saw the furious face of his opponent, lips writhed back in a bestial grin of hate, teeth glistening. An inhuman snarling slavered from his thick throat.

`You want her, you dog!' the Ghanata mouthed, insane with rage and lust. `Arrrrghhh! I break your back! I tear out your throat! I - my scimitar! I cut off your head and make her kiss it!'

A final ferocious smash of Amalric's head against the hardpacked sand, and Tilutan half-lifted him and hurled him down in an excess of bestial passion. Rising, the man ran, stooping like an ape, and caught up his scimitar where it lay like a broad crescent of steel in the sand. Yelling in ferocious exultation, he turned and charged back, brandishing the blade on high. Amalric rose slowly to meet him, dazed, shaken, sick from the manhandling he had received.

Tilutan's girdle had become unwound in the fight, and now the end dangled about his feet. He tripped, stumbled, fell headlong, throwing out his arms to save himself. The scimitar flew from his hand.

Amalric, galvanized, caught up the scimitar and took a reeling step forward. The desert swam darkly to his gaze. In the dusk before him he saw Tilutan's face suddenly ashy. The wide mouth gaped, the whites of the eyeballs rolled up. The giant froze on one knee and a hand, as if incapable of further motion. Then the scimitar fell, cleaving the round, shaven head to the chin, where its downward course was checked with a sickening jerk.

Amalric had a dim impression of a face divided by a widening red line, fading in the thickening shadows. Then darkness caught him with a rush.

Something soft and cool was touching Amalric's face with gentle persistence. He groped blindly and his hand closed on something warm, firm and resilient. Then his sight cleared and he looked into a soft oval face, framed in lustrous black hair. As in a trance he gazed unspeaking, hungrily dwelling on each detail of the full red lips, dark violet eyes, and alabaster throat. With a start he realized the vision was speaking in a soft musical voice. The words were strange, yet possessed an illusive familiarity. A small white hand holding a dripping bunch of silk was passed gently over his throbbing head and face. He sat up dizzily.

It was night, under the star-splashed skies. The camel still munched its cud; a horse whinnied restlessly. Not far away lay a hulking dark figure with its cleft head in a horrible puddle of blood and brains. Amalric looked up at the girl who knelt beside him, talking in her gentle, unknown tongue. As the mists cleared from his brain, he began to understand her. Harking back into half-forgotten tongues he had learned and spoken in the past, he remembered a language used by a scholarly class in a southern province of Korb.

`Who are you, girl?' he demanded, prisoning a small hand in his own hardened fingers.

`I am Lissa.' The name was spoken with almost the suggestion of a lisp. It was like the rippling of a slender stream.

`I am glad you are conscious. I feared you were not alive.'

`A little more and I wouldn't have been,' he muttered, glancing at the grisly sprawl that had been Tilutan. She paled, refusing to follow his gaze. Her hand trembled, and in their nearness, Amalric thought he could feel the quick throb of her heart.

`It was horrible,' she faltered. `Like an awful dream. Anger and blows - and blood-'

`It might have been worse,' he growled.

She seemed sensitive to every changing inflection of his voice or mood. Her free hand stole timidly to his arm.

`I did not mean to offend you. It was very brave for you to risk your life for a stranger. You are noble as the knights about which I have read.'

He cast a quick glance at her. Her wide clear eyes met his, reflecting only the thought she had spoken. He started to speak, then changed his mind and said another thing.

`What are you doing in the desert?'

`I came from Gazal,' she answered. `I - I was running away. I could not stand it any longer. But it was hot and lonely and weary, and I saw only sand, sand - and the blazing blue sky. The sands burned my feet, and my sandals were worn out quickly. I was so thirsty, my canteen was soon empty. And then I wished to return to Gazal, but one direction looked like another. I did not know which way to go. I was terribly afraid, and started running in the direction in which I thought Gazal to be. I do not remember much after that. I ran until I could run no further, and I must have lain in the burning sand for a while. I remember rising and staggering on, and toward the last I thought I heard someone shouting, and saw a huge man on a black horse riding toward me, and then I knew no more until I awoke and found myself lying with my head in that man's lap, while he gave me wine to drink. Then there was shouting and fighting-' She shuddered. `When it was all over, I crept to where you lay like a dead man, and I tried to bring you to-'

`Why?' he demanded.

She seemed at a loss. `Why,' she floundered, `why, you were hurt - and - why, it is what anyone would do. Besides, I realized that you were fighting to protect me from these men. The people of Gazal have always said that the desert people were wicked and would harm the helpless.'

`That's no exclusive characteristic,' muttered Amalric. `Where is this Gazal?'

`It can not be far,' she answered. `I walked a whole day - and then I do not know how far the warrior carried me after he found me. But he must have discovered me about sunset, so he could not have come far.'

`In what direction?' he demanded.

`I do not know. I travelled eastward when I left the city.'

`City?' he muttered. `A day's travel from this spot? I had thought there was only desert for a thousand miles.'

`Gazal is in the desert,' she answered. `It is built amidst the palms of an oasis.'

Putting her aside, he got to his feet, swearing softly as he fingered his throat, the skin of which was bruised and lacerated. He examined the three Ghanatas in turn, finding no sign of life in them. Then, one by one, he dragged them a short distance out into the desert. Somewhere the jackals were yelping. Returning to the water hole where the girl squatted patiently, he cursed to find only the black stallion of Tilutan with the camel. The other horses had broken their tethers and bolted during the fight.

Amalric went to the girl and proffered her a handful of dried dates. She nibbled at them eagerly, while the other sat and watched her, his chin on his fists, an increasing impatience throbbing in his veins.

`Why did you run away?' he asked abruptly. `Are you a slave?'

`We have no slaves in Gazal,' she answered. `Oh, I was weary - so weary of the eternal monotony. I wished to see something of the outer world. Tell me, from what land do you come?'

`I was born in the western hills of Aquilonia,' he answered.

She clapped her hands like a delighted child.

`I know where it is! I have seen it on the maps. It is the western-most country of the Hyborians, and its king is Epeus the Sword-wielder!'

Amalric experienced a distinct shock. His head jerked up and he stared at his fair companion.

`Epeus? Why, Epeus has been dead for nine hundred years. The king's name is Vilerus.'

`Oh, of course,' she said, rather embarrassedly. `I am foolish. Of course, Epeus was king nine centuries ago, as you say. But tell me - tell me all about the world!'

'Why, that is a big order,' he answered nonplussed. `You have not travelled?'

`This is the very first time that I have ever been out of sight of the walls of Gazal,' she admitted to him.

His gaze was fixed on the curve of her white bosom. He was not interested in her adventures at the moment, and Gazal might have been Hell for all he cared.

He started to speak, then changing his mind caught her roughly in his arms, his muscles tensing for the struggle he expected. But he encountered no resistance. Her soft, yielding body lay across his knees, and she looked up at him somewhat in surprize, but without fear or embarrassment. She might have been a child submitting to a new kind of play. Something about her direct gaze confused him. If she had screamed, wept, fought, or smiled knowingly, he would have known how to deal with her.

`Who in Mitra's name are you, girl?' he asked roughly. `You are neither touched with the sun, nor playing a game with me. Your speech shows you to be no ignorant country lass, innocent in ignorance. Yet you seem to know nothing of the world and its ways.'

`I am a daughter of Gazal,' she answered helplessly. `If you saw Gazal, perhaps you would understand.'

He lifted her and placed her on the sand. Rising, he brought a saddle blanket and set it out for her.

`Sleep, Lissa,' he said, his voice harsh with conflicting emotions. `Tomorrow I mean to see Gazal.'

At dawn they started westward. Amalric had lifted Lissa onto the camel, showing her how to maintain her balance. She clung to the seat with both hands, showing no knowledge whatever of camels, which again surprized the young Aquilonian. A girl raised in the desert, she had never before been on a camel, nor, until the preceding night, had she ever ridden or been carried on a horse. Amalric had manufactured a sort of cloak for her, and she wore it without question, not asking whence it came, accepting it as she accepted all things he did for her, gratefully but blindly, without asking the reason. Amalric did not tell her that the silk that shielded her from the sun had once covered the skin of her abductor.

As they rode she again begged him to tell her something of the world, like a child asking for a story.

`I know Aquilonia is far from this desert,' she said. `Stygia lies between, and the Lands of Shem, and other countries. How is it that you are here, so far from your homeland?'

He rode for a space in silence, his hand on the camel's guiderope.

'Argos and Stygia were at war,' he said abruptly. `Koth became embroiled. The Kothians urged a simultaneous invasion of Stygia. Argos raised an army of mercenaries, which went into ships and sailed southward along the coast. At the same time, a Kothic army was to invade Stygia by land. I was one of that mercenary army. We met the Stygian fleet and defeated it, driving it back into Khemi. We should have landed, looted the city, and advanced along the course of the Styx - but our admiral was cautious. Our leader was Prince Zapayo da Kova, a Zingaran. We cruised southward until we reached the jungle-clad coasts of Kush. There we landed, and the ships anchored, while the army pushed eastward along the Stygian frontier, burning and pillaging as we went. It was our intention to turn northward at a certain point and strike into the heart of Stygia to form a juncture with the Kothic host which was supposed to be pushing down from the north. Then word came that we were betrayed. Koth had concluded a separate peace with the Stygians. A Stygian army was pushing southward to intercept us, while another already had cut us off from the coast.

`Prince Zapayo, in desperation, conceived the mad idea of marching eastward, hoping to skirt the Stygian border and eventually reach the eastern lands of Shem. But the army from the north overtook us. We turned and fought. All day we fought, and finally they gave before us, their retreat turning into rout. But the next day the pursuing army came up from the west, and crushed between the hosts, our army ceased to be. We were broken, annihilated, destroyed. There were few left to flee. But when night fell, I broke away with my companion, a Cimmerian named Conan, a brute of a man with the strength of a bull.

`We rode southward into the desert, because there was no other direction in which we might go. Conan had been in this part of the world before, and he believed we had a chance to survive. Far to the south we found an oasis, but Stygian riders harried us, and we fled again, from oasis to oasis, fleeing, starving, thirsting, until we found ourselves in a barren, unknown land of blazing and empty sand. We rode until our horses were reeling, and we were half delirious. Then one night we saw fires and rode up to them, taking a desperate chance that we might make friends. As soon as we came within range, a shower of arrows greeted us. Conan's horse was hit and it reared, throwing its rider. His neck must have broken like a twig, for he never moved. I got away in the darkness, somehow, though my horse died under me. I had only a glance at the attackers. They were tall, lean brown men, wearing strange, barbaric garments. I wandered on foot through the desert, and fell in with those three vultures you saw yesterday. They were jackals - Ghanatas - members of a robber tribe of mixed blood. The only reason they didn't murder me was because I had nothing they wished. For a month I have been wandering and thieving with them because there was nothing else I could do.'

`I did not know it was like that,' Lissa murmured faintly. `They said there were wars and cruelty out in the world, but it seemed like a dream and far away. Listening to you speak of treachery and battle seems almost like seeing it.'

`Do no enemies ever come against Gazal?' he demanded.

She shook her head. `Men ride wide of Gazal. Sometimes I have seen black dots moving in lines along the horizon, and the old men said they were armies moving to war. But they never come near to Gazal.'

Amalric felt a dim stirring of uneasiness. This desert, seemingly empty of life, nevertheless contained some of the fiercest tribes on earth - the Ghanatas, who ranged far to the east; the masked Tibu, whom he believed dwelt further to the south; and somewhere off to the southwest lay the semi-mythical empire of Tombalku, ruled by a wild and barbaric race. It was strange that a city in the midst of this savage land should be left so completely alone that one of its inhabitants did not even know the meaning of war.

When he turned his gaze elsewhere, strange thoughts assailed him. Was the girl touched by the sun? Was she a demon in womanly form come out of the desert to lure him to some cryptic doom? A glance at her clinging childishly to the high peak of the camel saddle was sufficient to dispel these broodings. Then again doubt assailed him. Was he bewitched? Had she cast a spell on him?

Westward they forged steadily, halting only to nibble dates and drink water at midday. Amalric fashioned a frail shelter out of his sword and sheath and the saddle blankets to shield her from the burning sun. Weary and stiff from the tossing, bucking gait of the camel, she had to be lifted down in his arms. As he felt again the voluptuous sweetness of her soft body, he felt a hot throb of passion sear through him, and he stood momentarily motionless, intoxicated with the nearness of her, before he laid her down in the shade of the makeshift tent.

He felt a touch of almost anger at the clear gaze with which she met his, at the docility with which she yielded her young body to his hands. It was as if she were unaware of things which might harm her; her innocent trust shamed him and pent a helpless wrath within him.

As they ate, he did not taste the dates he munched; his eyes burned on her, avidly drinking in every detail of her lithe young figure. She seemed as unaware of his intentness as a child. When he lifted her to place her again on the camel, and her arms went instinctively about his neck, he shuddered. But he lifted her up on her mount, and they took up the journey once more.

It was just before sundown when Lissa pointed and cried out: `Look! The towers of Gazal!'

On the desert rim he saw them - spires and minarets, rising in a jade-green cluster against the blue sky. But for the girl, he would have thought it the phantom city of a mirage. He glanced at Lissa curiously. She showed no signs of eager joy at her homecoming. Instead, she sighed, and her slim shoulders seemed to droop.

As they approached, the details swam more plainly into view. Sheer from the desert sands rose the wall which enclosed the towers. And Amalric saw that the wall was crumbling in many places. The towers, too, he saw, were much in disrepair. Roofs sagged, broken battlements gaped, spires leaned drunkenly. Panic assailed him; was it a city of the dead to which he rode, guided by a vampire? A quick glance at the girl reassured him.

No demon could lurk in that divinely molded exterior. She glanced at him with a strange and wistful questioning in her deep eyes, turned resolutely toward the desert, then, with a deep sigh, set her face toward the city, as if gripped by a subtle and fatalistic despair.

Now through the gaps of the jade-green wall, Amalric saw figures moving within the city. No one hailed them as they rode through a broad breach in the wall, and came out into a broad street. Close at hand, limned in the sinking sun, the decay was more apparent. Grass grew rank in the streets, pushing through shattered paving; grass grew rank in the small plazas. Streets and courts likewise were littered with rubbish of masonry and fallen stones.

Domes rose, cracked and discolored. Portals gaped, vacant of doors. Everywhere ruin had laid his hand. Then Amalric saw one spire untouched; a shining red cylindrical tower which rose in the extreme southeastern corner of the city.

It shone among the ruins, and Amalric pointed to it.

`Why is that tower less in ruins than the others?' he asked. Lissa turned pale; she trembled and caught his hand convulsively.

`Do not speak of it!' she whispered. `Do not look toward it -do not even think of it!'

Amalric scowled; the nameless implication of her words somehow changed the aspect of the mysterious tower. Now it seemed like a serpent's head rearing among ruin and desolation.

The young Aquilonian looked warily about him. After all, he had no assurance that the people of Gazal would receive him in a friendly manner. He saw people moving leisurely about the streets. They halted and stared at him, and for some reason his flesh crawled. They were men and women with kindly features, and their looks were mild. But their interest seemed so slight -so vague and impersonal. They made no movement to approach him or to speak to him. It might have been the most common thing in the world for an armed horseman to ride into their city from the desert; yet Amalric knew that was not the case, and the casual manner in which the people of Gazal received him caused a faint uneasiness in his bosom.

Lissa spoke to them, indicating Amalric, whose hand she lifted like an affectionate child. `This is Amalric of Aquilonia, who rescued me from the desert people and has brought me home.'

A polite murmur of welcome rose from the people, and several of them approached to extend their hands. Amalric thought he had never seen such vague, kindly faces. Their eyes were soft and mild, without fear and without wonder. Yet they were not the eyes of stupid oxen; rather, they were the eyes of people wrapped in dreams.

Their stare gave him a feeling of unreality; he hardly knew what was said to him. His mind was occupied by the strangeness of it all; these quiet, dreamy people in their silken tunics and soft sandals, moving with aimless vagueness among the discolored ruins. A lotus paradise of illusion? Somehow, the thought of that sinister red tower struck a discordant note.

One of the men, his face smooth and unlined, but his hair silver, was saying: 'Aquilonia? There was an invasion - we heard - King Bragorus of Nemedia - how went the war?'

`He was driven back,' answered Amalric briefly, resisting a shudder. Nine hundred years had passed since Bragorus led his spearmen across the marches of Aquilonia.

His questioner did not press him further; the people drifted away, and Lissa tugged at his hand. He turned, feasted his eyes upon her; in a realm of illusion and dream, her soft firm body anchored his wandering conjectures. She was no dream; she was real; her body was sweet and tangible as cream and honey.

`Come, let us go to rest and eat.'

`What of the people?' he demurred. `Will you not tell them of your experiences?'

`They would not heed, except for a few minutes,' she answered. `They would listen a little, and then drift away. They hardly know I have been gone. Come!'

Amalric led the horse and camel into an enclosed court where the grass grew high, and water seeped from a broken fountain into a marble trough. There he tethered them, and then turned to Lissa. Taking his hand, she led him across the court into an arched doorway. Night had fallen. In the open space above the court, the stars were clustering, etching the jagged pinnacles.

Through a series of dark chambers Lissa went, moving with the sureness of long practice. Amalric groped after her, guided by her little hand in his. He found it no pleasant adventure. The scent of dust and decay hung in the thick darkness. At times, what felt like broken tiles underfoot caused him to move carefully. At other times there was the softness of worn carpets. His free hand touched the fretted arches of doorways. Then the stars gleamed through a broken roof, showing him a dim, winding hallway hung with rotting tapestries. They rustled in a faint wind, and their noise was like the whispering of witches, causing the hair to stir next his scalp.

Then they came into a chamber dimly lighted by the starshine streaming through open windows. Lissa released his hand, fumbled an instant, and produced a faint light of some sort. It was a glassy knob which glowed with a golden radiance. She set it on a marble table and indicated that Amalric should recline on a couch thickly littered with silks. Groping into some mysterious recess, she produced a gold vessel of wine and others containing food unfamiliar to Amalric. There were dates, but the other food, which he did not recognize, was pallid and insipid to his taste. The wine was pleasant to the palate, but no more heady than dish water.

Seated on a marble seat opposite him, Lissa nibbled daintily.

`What sort of place is this?' he demanded. `You are like these people - yet strangely unlike.'

`They say I am like our ancestors,' answered Lissa. `Long ago they came into the desert and built this city over a great oasis which was in reality only a series of springs. The stone they took from the ruins of a much older city - only the red tower-' her voice dropped and she glanced nervously at the star-framed windows - `only the red tower stood there. It was empty - then.

`Our ancestors, who were called Gazali, once dwelt in the southern part of Koth. They were noted for their scholarly wisdom. But they sought to revive the worship of Mitra which the Kothians had long ago abandoned, and the king drove them from his kingdom. They came southward, many of them, priests, scholars, teachers, scientists, along with their Shemitish slaves.

`They reared Gazal in the desert; but the slaves revolted almost as soon as the city was built and, fleeing, mixed with the wild tribes of the desert. They were not treated badly, but word came to them in the night - a word which sent them fleeing madly from the city into the desert.

`My people dwelt here, learning to manufacture their food and drink from such material as was at hand. Their learning was a marvel. When the slaves fled, they took with them every camel, horse and donkey in the city. There was no communication with the outer world. There are whole chambers in Gazal that are filled with maps and books and chronicles. But they are all nine hundred years old, at the least, for it was nine hundred years ago that my people fled from Koth. Since then, no man of the outside world has set forth in Gazal. And the people are slowly vanishing. They have become so dreamy and introspective that they have neither human passions nor ambitions. The city falls into ruins and none moves hand to repair it. Horror-' she choked, and shuddered, `when horror came upon them, they could neither flee nor fight.'

`What do you mean?' he whispered, a cold wind blowing on his spine. The rustling of rotten hangings down nameless black corridors stirred dim fear in his soul.

She shook her head, rose, and came around the marble table. She laid hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were wet and shone with horror and a desperate yearning that caught at his throat. Instinctively, his arm went around her lithe form, and he felt her tremble.

`Hold me!' she begged. `I am afraid! Oh, I have dreamed of such a man as you. I am not like my people; they are dead men walking forgotten streets; but I am alive. I am warm and sentient. I hunger and thirst and yearn for life. I cannot abide the silent streets and ruined halls and dim people of Gazal, though I have never known anything else. That is why I ran away - I yearned for life-'

She was sobbing uncontrollably in his arms. Her hair streamed over his face; her fragrance made him dizzy. Her firm body strained against him. She was lying across his knees, her arms locked about his neck. Straining her to his breast, he crushed her lips with his. Eyes, lips, cheeks, hair, throat, breasts, he showered with hot kisses, until her sobs changed to panting gasps. The passion that slumbered in her woke in one overpowering wave. The glowing gold ball, struck by his groping fingers, tumbled to the floor and was extinguished. Only the starshine gleamed through the windows.

Lying in Amalric's arms on the silk-heaped couch, Lissa opened her heart and whispered her dreams and hopes and aspirations, childish, pathetic, terrible.

`I'll take you away,' he muttered. `Tomorrow. You are right. Gazal is a city of the dead; we will seek life and the outer world. It is violent, rough, and cruel, but it is better than this living death-'

The night was broken by a shuddering cry of agony, horror and despair. Its timbre brought out cold sweat on Amalric's skin. He started upright from the couch, but Lissa clung to him desperately.

`No, no!' she begged in a frantic whisper. `Do not go! Stay!'

`But murder is being done!' he exclaimed, fumbling for his sword. The cries seemed to come from across an outer court. Mingled with them there was an indescribable tearing, rending sound. They rose higher and thinner, unbearable in their hopeless agony, then sank away in a long, shuddering sob.

`I have heard men dying on the rack cry out like that!' muttered Amalric, shaking with horror. `What devil's work is this?'

Lissa was trembling violently in a frenzy of terror. He felt the wild pounding of her heart.

`It is the Horror of which I spoke!' she whispered. `The Horror which dwells in the red tower. Long ago it came - and some say it dwelt there in the lost years and returned after the building of Gazal. It devours human beings. What it is, no one knows, since none have seen it and lived to tell. It is a god or a devil. That is why the slaves fled; why the desert people shun Gazal. Many of us have gone into its awful belly. Eventually, all will have gone, and it will rule over an empty city, as men say it ruled over the ruins from which Gazal was reared.'

`Why have the people stayed to be devoured?' he demanded.

`I do not know,' she whimpered; `they dream-'

`Hypnosis,' muttered Amalric; `hypnosis coupled with decay. I saw it in their eyes. This devil has them mesmerized. Mitra, what a foul secret!'

Lissa pressed her face against his bosom and clung to him.

`But what are we to do?' he asked uneasily.

`There is nothing to do,' she whispered. `Your sword would be helpless. Perhaps it will not harm us. It has taken a victim tonight. We must wait like sheep for the butcher.'

`I'll be damned if I will!' Amalric exclaimed, galvanized. `We will not wait for morning. We'll go tonight. Make a bundle of food and drink. I'll get the horse and camel and bring them to the court outside. Meet me there!'

Since the unknown monster had already struck, Amalric felt that he was safe in leaving the girl alone for a few minutes. But his flesh crawled as he groped his way down the winding corridor and through the black chambers where the swinging tapestries whispered. He found the beasts huddled nervously together in the court where he had left them. The stallion whinnied anxiously and nuzzled him, as if sensing peril in the breathless night.

He saddled and bridled and hurriedly led them through the narrow opening onto the street. A few minutes later he was standing in the starlit court. And even as he reached it; he was electrified by an awful scream which rang shudderingly upon the air. It came from the chamber where he had left Lissa.

He answered that piteous cry with a wild yell; drawing his sword, he rushed across the court and hurled himself through the window. The golden ball was glowing again, carving out black shadows in the shrinking corners. Silks lay scattered on the floor. The marble seat was upset. But the chamber was empty.

A sick weakness overcame Amalric and he staggered against the marble table, the dim light waving dizzily to his sight. Then he was swept by a mad rage. The red tower! There the fiend would bear his victim!

He darted across the court, found the streets and raced toward the tower which glowed with an unholy light under the stars.

The streets did not run straight. He cut through silent black buildings and crossed courts whose rank grass waved in the night wind.

Ahead of him, clustered about the crimson tower, rose a heap of ruins where decay had eaten more savagely than at the rest of the city. Apparently none dwelt among them. They reeled and tumbled, a crumbling mass of quaking masonry, with the red tower rearing up among them like a poisonous red flower from charnel-house ruin.

To reach the tower he would be forced to traverse the ruins. Recklessly, he plunged into the black mass, groping for a door. He found one and entered, thrusting his sword ahead of him. Then he saw such a vista as men sometimes see in fantastic dreams. Far ahead of him stretched a long corridor, visible in a faint, unhallowed glow, its black walls hung with strange shuddersome tapestries. Far down it he saw a receding figure - a white, naked, stooped figure, lurching along, dragging something the sight of which filled him with sweating horror. Then the apparition vanished from his sight, and with it vanished the eery glow. Amalric stood in the soundless dark, seeing nothing, hearing nothing; thinking only of that stooped white figure that dragged a limp human being down a long, black corridor.

As he groped onward, a vague memory stirred in his brain the memory of a grisly tale mumbled to him over a dying fire in the skull-heaped, devil-devil but of a black witchman - a tale of a god which dwelt in a crimson house in a ruined city and which was worshipped by darksome cults in dank jungles and along sullen dusky rivers. And there stirred, too, in his mind an incantation whispered in his ear in awed and shuddering tones, while the night had held its breath, the lions had ceased to roar along the river, and the very fronds had ceased their scraping one against the other.

Ollam-onga, whispered a dark wind down the sightless corridor. Ollam-onga whispered the dust that ground beneath his stealthy feet. Sweat stood on his skin and the sword shook in his hand. He stole through the house of a god, and fear held him by its bony hand. The house of the god - the full horror of the phrase filled his mind. All the ancestral fears and the fears that reached beyond ancestry and primordial race-memory crowded upon him; horror cosmic and unhuman sickened him. His weak humanity crushed him in its realization as he went through the house of darkness that was the house of a god.

About him shimmered a glow so faint that it was scarcely discernible; he knew that he was approaching the tower itself. Another instant and he groped his way through an arched door and stumbled upon strangely spaced steps. Up them he went and, as he climbed, that blind fury which is mankind's last defence against diabolism and all the hostile forces of the universe, surged in him, and he forgot his fear. Burning with terrible eagerness, he climbed up and up through the thick, evil darkness until he came into a chamber lit by a weird glow.

And before him stood a white, naked figure. Amalric halted, his tongue cleaving to his palate. It was a naked white man, to all appearance, who stood there, gazing at him with mighty arms folded on an alabaster breast. The features were classic, cleanly carven, with more than human beauty. But the eyes were balls of luminous fire, such as never looked from any human head. In those eyes, Amalric glimpsed the frozen fires of the ultimate hells, touched by awful shadows.

Then before him the form began to grow dim in outline - to waver. With a terrible effort, the Aquilonian burst the bonds of silence and spoke a cryptic and awful incantation. And as the frightful words cut the silence, the white giant halted -froze again his outlines stood out clear and bold against the golden background.

`Now fall on, damn you!' cried Amalric hysterically. `I have bound you into your human shape! The black wizard spoke truly! It was the master word he gave me! Fall on, Ollam-onga till you break the spell by feasting on my heart, you are no more than a man like me!'

With a roar that was like the gust of a whirlwind, the creature charged. Amalric sprang aside from the clutch of those hands whose strength was more than that of a giant. A single taloned finger, spread wide and catching in his tunic, ripped the garment from him like a rotten rag as the monster plunged by. But Amalric, nerved to more than human quickness by the horror of the fight, wheeled and drove his sword through the thing's back, so that the point stood cut a foot from the broad breast.

A fiendish howl of agony shook the tower; the monster whirled and rushed at Amalric, but the youth sprang aside and raced up the stairs to the dais. There he wheeled and, catching up a marble seat, hurled it down upon the horror that was lumbering up the stairs. Full in the face the massive missile struck, carrying the fiend back down the steps. He rose, an awful sight, streaming blood and again essayed the stairs. In desperation, Amalric lifted a jade bench whose weight wrenched a groan of effort from him, and hurled it.

Beneath the impact of the hurtling bulk, Ollam-onga pitched back down the stair and lay among the marble shards, which were flooded with his blood. With a last, desperate effort, he heaved himself up on his hands, eyes glazing, and throwing back his bloody head, voiced an awful cry. Amalric shuddered and recoiled from the abysmal horror of that scream. And it was answered. From somewhere in the air above the tower a faint medley of fiendish cries came back like an echo. Then the mangled white figure went limp among the blood-stained shards. And Amalric knew that one of the gods of Kush was no more. With the thought came blind, unreasoning horror.

In a fog of terror he rushed down the stair, shrinking from the thing that lay staring on the floor. The night seemed to cry out against him, aghast at the sacrilege. Reason, exultant over his triumph, was submerged in a flood of cosmic fear.

As he put foot on the head of the steps, he halted short. Up from the darkness Lissa came to him, her white arms outstretched, her eyes pools of horror and revulsion.

`Amalric!' It was a haunting cry. He crushed her in his arms.

`I saw It,' she whimpered - `dragging a dead man through the corridor. I screamed and fled; then when I returned, I heard you cry out and knew you had gone to search for me in the red tower-'

`And you came to share my fate,' his voice was almost inarticulate. Then, as she tried to peer in trembling fascination past him, he covered her eyes with his hands and turned her about. Better that she should not see what lay on the crimson floor. As he half led, half carried her down the shadowed stairs, a glance over his shoulder showed him that a naked white figure lay no longer among the broken marble. The incantation had bound Ollam-onga into his human form in life, but not in death. Blindness momentarily assailed Amalric; then, galvanized into frantic haste, he hurried Lissa down the stairs and through the dark ruins.

He did not slacken pace until they reached the street where the camel and stallion huddled against one another. Quickly he placed the girl on the camel and swung up on the stallion. Taking the lead-line, he headed straight for the broken wall. A few minutes later he breathed gustily. The open air of the desert cooled his blood; it was free of the scent of decay and hideous antiquity.

There was a small water-pouch hanging from his saddle bow. They had no food, and his sword was in the chamber of the red tower. He had not dared touch it. Without food and unarmed, they faced the desert, but its peril seemed less grim than the horror of the city behind them.

Without speaking they rode. Amalric headed south; somewhere in that direction there was a water hole. Just at dawn, as they mounted a crest of sand, he looked back toward Gazal, unreal in the pink light. And he stiffened as Lissa, sharing his vision, cried out. From a breach in the wall rode seven horsemen; their steeds were black, and the riders were cloaked in black from head to foot. Horror swept over Amalric as he realized there had been no horses in Gazal. Turning, he urged their mounts on.

The sun rose, red, and then gold, and then a ball of whitebeaten flame. On and on the fugitives pressed, reeling with heat and fatigue, blinded by the glare. They moistened their lips with water from time to time, and behind them, at an even pace, rode seven black dots. Evening began to fall, and the sun reddened and lurched toward the desert rim. And a cold hand clutched at Amalric's heart. The riders were closing in. As darkness came on, so came the black riders. Amalric glanced at Lissa, and a groan burst from him. His stallion stumbled and fell. The sun had gone down, the moon was blotted out suddenly by a bat shaped shadow. In the utter darkness the stars glowed red, and behind him Amalric heard a rising rush as of an approaching wind. A black, speeding clump bulked against the night, in which glinted sparks of awful light.

`Ride girl!' he cried despairingly. `Go on - save yourself; it is me they want!'

For answer she slid down from the camel and threw her arms about him.

`I will die with you!'

Seven black shapes loomed against the stars, racing like the wind. Under the hoods shone balls of evil fire. Jaw bones seemed to clack together. Suddenly, a horse swept past Amalric, a vague bulk in the unnatural darkness. There was the sound of an impact as the unknown steed caromed among the oncoming shapes. A horse screamed in frenzy, and a bull-like voice bellowed in a strange tongue. From somewhere in the night a clamor of yells answered.

Some sort of violent action was taking place. Horse's hoofs stamped and clattered. There was the impact of savage blows, and the same stentorian voice was cursing lustily. Then the moon abruptly came out and lit a fantastic scene.

A man on a giant horse whirled, slashed and smote apparently at thin air, and from another direction swept a wild horde of riders, their curved swords flashing in the moonlight. Away over the crest of a rise, seven black figures were vanishing, their cloaks floating out like the wings of bats.

Amalric was swamped by wild men who leaped from their horses and swarmed around him. Sinewy, naked arms pinioned him; fierce brown, hawk-like faces snarled at him. Lissa screamed. Then the attackers were thrust right and left as the man on the great horse reined through the crowd. He bent from his saddle and glared closely at Amalric.

`The devil!' he roared. 'Amalric the Aquilonian!'

'Conan!' Amalric exclaimed bewilderedly. 'Conan! Alive!'

`More alive than you seem to be,' answered the other. `By Crom, man, you look as if all the devils in this desert had been hunting you through the night. What things were those pursuing you? I was riding around the camp my men had pitched to make sure no enemies were in hiding, when the moon went out like a candle, and then I heard sounds of flight. I rode towards the sounds and, by Crom, I was among those devils before I knew what was happening. I had my sword in my hand and I laid about me - by Crom, their eyes blazed like fire in the dark! I know my edge bit them, but when the moon came out, they were gone like a puff of wind. Were they men or fiends?'

`Ghouls sent up from Hell,' shuddered Amalric. `Ask me no more; there are some things that cannot be discussed.'

Conan did not press the matter, nor did he look incredulous. His beliefs included night fiends, ghosts, hobgoblins and dwarfs.

`Trust you to find a woman, even in a desert,' he said, glancing at Lissa, who had crept to Amalric and was clinging close to him, glancing fearfully at the wild figures which hemmed them in.

`Wine!' roared Conan. `Bring flasks! Here!' He seized a leather flask from those who thrust it out to him, and placed it in Amalric's hand. `Give the girl a swig and drink some yourself,' he advised. `Then we'll put you on horses and take you to the camp. You need food, rest and sleep. I can see that.'

A richly caparisoned horse was brought, rearing and prancing, and willing hands helped Amalric into the saddle. Then the girl was handed up to him, and they moved off southward, surrounded by the wiry brown riders in their picturesque semi-nakedness. Conan rode ahead, humming a riding song of the mercenaries.

`Who is he?' whispered Lissa, her arms about her lover's neck; he was holding her on the saddle in front of him.

'Conan, the Cimmerian,' muttered Amalric. `The man I wandered with in the desert after the defeat of the mercenaries. These are the men who struck him down. I left him lying under their spears, apparently dead. Now we meet him obviously in command of, and respected by them.'

`He is a terrible man,' she whispered.

He smiled. `You never saw a white-skinned barbarian before. He is a wanderer and a plunderer and a slayer, but he has his own code of morals. I don't think we have anything to fear from him.'

In his heart he was not sure. In a way, it might be said that he had forfeited Conan's comradeship when he had ridden away into the desert, leaving the Cimmerian senseless on the ground. But he had not known that Conan was alive. Doubt haunted Amalric. Savagely loyal to his companions, the Cimmerian's wild nature saw no reason why the rest of the world should not be plundered. He lived by the sword. And Amalric suppressed a shudder as he thought of what might chance did Conan desire Lissa.

Later on, having eaten and drunk in the camp of the riders, Amalric sat by a small fire in front of Conan's tent; Lissa, covered with a silken cloak, slumbered with her curly head on his knees. And across from him the firelight played on Conan's face, interchanging lights and shadows.

`Who are these men?' asked the young Aquilonian.

`The riders of Tombalku,' answered the Cimmerian.

'Tombalku!' exclaimed Amalric. `Then it is no myth.'

`Far from it!' agreed Conan. `When my accursed steed fell with me, I was knocked senseless, and when I recovered consciousness the devils had me bound hand and foot. This angered me, so I snapped several of the cords they had tied me with, but they rebound them as fast as I could break them - never did I get a hand entirely free. But to them my strength seemed remarkable-'

Amalric gazed at Conan unspeaking. The man was tall and broad as Tilutan had been, without the dead man's surplus flesh. He could have broken the Ghanata's neck with his naked hands.

`They decided to carry me to their city instead of killing me out of hand,' Conan went on. `They thought a man like me should be a long time in dying by torture, and so give them sport. Well, they bound me on a horse without a saddle, and we went to Tombalku.

`There were two kings of Tombalku. They took me before them - one a lean, brown-skinned devil named Zehbeh, the other a big, hulking black who dozed on his ivory-tusk throne. They spoke a dialect I could understand a little, it being much like that of the western Mandingo who dwell on the coast. Zehbeh asked one of his priests what should be done with me, and the priest cast dice made of sheep bone, and said I should be flayed alive before the altar of Jhil. Everyone cheered and that woke the other king.

`I spat at the priest and cursed him roundly, and the kings as well, telling them that if I were to be skinned, by Crom, I wanted a good belly-full of wine before they began. Then I damned them for thieves and cowards and sons of harlots.

`At this the black king roused and sat up to stare at me. Then he rose and shouted: "Amra!" and I knew him -Sakumbe, a Suba from the Black Coast, a fat adventurer I had known well in the days when I was a corsair along the coast. He trafficked in ivory, gold dust and slaves, and would cheat the devil out of his eye-teeth. Well, he knew me and descended from his throne and embraced me for joy - the fat, smelly devil - and took my cords off with his own hands. Then he announced that I was Anna, the Lion, his friend, and that no harm should come to me. Then followed much discussion because Zehbeh and his priest, Daura, wanted my life. But Sakumbe yelled for his witch-finder, Askia, and he came, all feathers and bells and snake-skins - a wizard of the Black Coast, and a son of the devil if there ever was one.

`Askia pranced and made incantations, and announced that Sakumbe was the chosen of Ajujo, the Dark One, and all the black people of Tombalku shouted, and Zehbeh backed down.

`The blacks in Tombalku are the real power. Several centuries ago, the Aphaki, a Shemitish race, pushed into the southern desert and established the kingdom of Tombalku. They mixed with the desert blacks and the result was a brown, straighthaired race. They are the dominant caste in 'Tombalku, but they are in the minority, and Sakumbe is the real ruler of Tombalku. The Aphaki worship Jhil, but the blacks worship Ajujo the Dark One, and his kin. Askia came to Tombalku with Sakumbe and revived the worship of Ajujo, which was crumbling because of the Aphaki priests. Askia made black magic which defeated the wizardry of the Aphaki, and the blacks hailed him as a prophet sent by the dark gods. Sakumbe and Askia wax as Zehbeh and Daura wane.

`Well, as I am Sakumbe's friend, and Askia spoke for me, the blacks received me with great applause. Sakumbe had Kordofo, the general of the horsemen, poisoned, and gave me his place, which delighted the blacks and exasperated the Aphaki.

`You will like Tombalku! It was made for men like us to loot! There are half a dozen powerful factions plotting and intriguing against each other - there are continual brawls in the taverns and streets, secret murders, mutilations and executions. And there are women, gold, wine - all that a mercenary wants! By Crom, Amalric, you could not have come at a better time! I am high in favor and power! Why, what's the matter? You do not seem as enthusiastic as I remember you having once been in such matters.'

`I crave your pardon, Conan,' apologized Amalric. `I do not lack interest, but weariness and want of sleep overcomes me.'

But it was not of gold, women and intrigue that the Aquilonian was thinking, but of the girl who slumbered on his lap. There was no joy in the thought of taking her into such a welter of intrigue and blood as Conan had described. A subtle change had come over Amalric, almost without his knowledge.

The Pool of the Black One

Into the west, unknown of man,

Ships have sailed since the world began. Read, if you dare, what Skelos wrote, With dead hands fumbling his silken coat;

And follow the ships through the wind-blown wrack―

Follow the ships that come not back.

I

Sancha, once of Kordava, yawned daintily, stretched her supple limbs luxuriously, and composed herself more comfortably on the ermine-fringed silk spread on the carack's poop-deck. That the crew watched her with burning interest from waist and forecastle she was lazily aware, just as she was also aware that her short silk kirtle veiled little of her voluptuous contours from their eager eyes. Wherefore she smiled insolently and prepared to snatch a few more winks before the sun, which was just thrusting his golden disk above the ocean, should dazzle her eyes.

But at that instant a sound reached her ears unlike the creaking of timbers, thrum of cordage and lap of waves. She sat up, her gaze fixed on the rail, over which, to her amazement, a dripping figure clambered. Her dark eyes opened wide, her red lips parted in an O of surprize. The intruder was a stranger to her. Water ran in rivulets from his great shoulders and down his heavy arms. His single garment - a pair of bright crimson silk breeks - was soaking wet, as was his broad gold-buckled girdle and the sheathed sword it supported. As he stood at the rail, the rising sun etched him like a great bronze statue. He ran his fingers through his streaming black mane, and his blue eyes lit as they rested on the girl.

`Who are you?' she demanded. `Whence did you come?'

He made a gesture toward the sea that took in a whole quarter of the compass, while his eyes did not leave her supple figure.

`Are you a merman, that you rise up out of the sea?' she asked, confused by the candor of his gaze, though she was accustomed to admiration.

Before he could reply, a quick step sounded on the boards, and the master of the carack was glaring at the stranger, fingers twitching at sword-hilt.

`Who the devil are you, sirrah?' this one demanded in no friendly tone.

`I am Conan,' the other answered imperturbably. Sancha pricked up her ears anew; she had never heard Zingaran spoken with such an accent as the stranger spoke it.

`And how did you get aboard my ship?' The voice grated with suspicion.

`I swam.'

`Swam!' exclaimed the master angrily. `Dog, would you jest with me? We are far beyond sight of land. Whence do you come?'

Conan pointed with a muscular brown arm toward the east, banded in dazzling gold by the lifting sun.

`I came from the Islands.'

`Oh!' The other regarded him with increased interest. Black brows drew down over scowling eyes, and the thin lip lifted unpleasantly.

`So you are one of those dogs of the Barachans.'

A faint smile touched Conan's lips.

`And do you know who I am?' his questioner demanded.

`This ship is the Wastrel; so you must be Zaporavo.'

`Aye!' It touched the captain's grim vanity that the man should know him. He was a tall man, tall as Conan, though of leaner build. Framed in his steel morion his face was dark, saturnine and hawk-like, wherefore men called him the Hawk. His armor and garments were rich and ornate, after the fashion of a Zingaran grandee. His hand was never far from his sword-hilt.

There was little favor in the gaze he bent on Conan. Little love was lost between Zingaran renegades and the outlaws who infested the Baracha Islands off the southern coast of Zingara. These men were mostly sailors from Argos, with a sprinkling of other nationalities. They raided the shipping, and harried the Zingaran coast towns, just as the Zingaran buccaneers did, but these dignified their profession by calling themselves Freebooters, while they dubbed the Barachans pirates. They were neither the first nor the last to gild the name of thief.

Some of these thoughts passed through Zaporavo's mind as he toyed with his sword-hilt and scowled at his uninvited guest. Conan gave no hint of what his own thoughts might be. He stood with folded arms as placidly as if upon his own deck; his lips smiled and his eyes were untroubled.

`What are you doing here?' the Freebooter demanded abruptly.

`I found it necessary to leave the rendezvous at Tortage before moonrise last night,' answered Conan. `I departed in a leaky boat, and rowed and bailed all night. Just at dawn I saw your topsails, and left the miserable tub to sink, while I made better speed in the water.'

`There are sharks in these waters,' growled Zaporavo, and was vaguely irritated by the answering shrug of the mighty shoulders. A glance toward the waist showed a screen of eager faces staring upward. A word would send them leaping up on the poop in a storm of swords that would overwhelm even such a fightingman as the stranger looked to be.

`Why should I burden myself with every nameless vagabond that the sea casts up?' snarled Zaporavo, his look and manner more insulting than his words.

`A ship can always use another good sailor,' answered the other without resentment. Zaporavo scowled, knowing the truth of that assertion. He hesitated, and doing so, lost his ship, his command, his girl, and his life. But of course he could not see into the future, and to him Conan was only another wastrel, cast up, as he put it, by the sea. He did not like the man; yet the fellow had given him no provocation. His manner was not insolent, though rather more confident than Zaporavo liked to see.

`You'll work for your keep,' snarled the Hawk. `Get off the poop. And remember, the only law here is my will.'

The smile seemed to broaden on Conan's thin lips. Without hesitation but without haste he turned and descended into the waist. He did not look again at Sancha, who, during the brief conversation, had watched eagerly, all eyes and ears.

As he came into the waist the crew thronged about him Zingarans, all of them, half naked, their gaudy silk garments splashed with tar, jewels glinting in earrings and dagger-hilts. They were eager for the time-honored sport of baiting the stranger. Here he would be tested, and his future status in the crew decided. Up on the poop Zaporavo had apparently already forgotten the stranger's existence, but Sancha watched, tense with interest. She had become familiar with such scenes, and knew the baiting would be brutal and probably bloody.

But her familiarity with such matters was scanty compared to that of Conan. He smiled faintly as he came into the waist and saw the menacing figures pressing truculently about him. He paused and eyed the ring inscrutably, his composure unshaken. There was a certain code about these things. If he had attacked the captain, the whole crew would have been at his throat, but they would give him a fair chance against the one selected to push the brawl.

The man chosen for this duty thrust himself forward - a wiry brute, with a crimson sash knotted about his head like a turban. His lean chin jutted out, his scarred face was evil beyond belief. Every glance, each swaggering movement was an affront. His way of beginning the baiting was as primitive, raw and crude as himself.

`Baracha, eh?' he sneered. `That's where they raise dogs for men. We of the Fellowship spit on 'em - like this!'

He spat in Conan's face and snatched at his own sword.

The Barachan's movement was too quick for the eye to follow. His sledge-like fist crunched with a terrible impact against his tormentor's jaw, and the Zingaran catapulted through the air and fell in a crumpled heap by the rail.

Conan turned towards the others. But for a slumbering glitter in his eyes, his bearing was unchanged. But the baiting was over as suddenly as it had begun. The seamen lifted their companion; his broken jaw hung slack, his head lolled unnaturally.

`By Mitra, his neck's broken!' swore a black-bearded searogue.

`You Freebooters are a weak-boned race,' laughed the pirate. `On the Barachas we take no account of such taps as that. Will you play at sword-strokes, now, any of you? No? Then all's well, and we're friends, eh?'

There were plenty of tongues to assure him that he spoke truth. Brawny arms swung the dead man over the rail, and a dozen fins cut the water as he sank. Conan laughed and spread his mighty arms as a great cat might stretch itself, and his gaze sought the deck above. Sancha leaned over the rail, red lips parted, dark eyes aglow with interest. The sun behind her outlined her lithe figure through the light kirtle which its glow made transparent. Then across her fell Zaporavo's scowling shadow and a heavy hand fell possessively on her slim shoulder. There were menace and meaning in the glare he bent on the man in the waist; Conan grinned back, as if at a jest none knew but himself.

Zaporavo made the mistake so many autocrats make; alone in somber grandeur on the poop, he underestimated the man below him. He had his opportunity to kill Conan, and he let it pass, engrossed in his own gloomy ruminations. He did not find it easy to think any of the dogs beneath his feet constituted a menace to him. He had stood in the high places so long, and had ground so many foes underfoot, that he unconsciously assumed himself to be above the machinations of inferior rivals.

Conan, indeed, gave him no provocation. He mixed with the crew, lived and made merry as they did. He proved himself a skilled sailor, and by far the strongest man any of them had seen. He did the work of three men, and was always first to spring to any heavy or dangerous task. His mates began to rely upon him. He did not quarrel with them, and they were careful not to quarrel with him. He gambled with them, putting up his girdle and sheath for a stake, won their money and weapons, and gave them back with a laugh. The crew instinctively looked toward him as the leader of the forecastle. He vouchsafed no information as to what had caused him to flee the Barachas, but the knowledge that he was capable of a deed bloody enough to have exiled him from that wild band increased the respect felt toward him by the fierce Freebooters. Toward Zaporavo and the mates he was imperturbably courteous, never insolent or servile.

The dullest was struck by the contrast between the harsh, taciturn, gloomy commander, and the pirate whose laugh was gusty and ready, who roared ribald songs in a dozen languages, guzzled ale like a toper, and - apparently - had no thought for the morrow.

Had Zaporavo known he was being compared, even though unconsciously, with a man before the mast, he would have been speechless with amazed anger. But he was engrossed with his broodings, which had become blacker and grimmer as the years crawled by, and with his vague grandiose dreams; and with the girl whose possession was a bitter pleasure, just as all his pleasures were.

And she looked more and more at the black-maned giant who towered among his mates at work or play. He never spoke to her, but there was no mistaking the candor of his gaze. She did not mistake it, and she wondered if she dared the perilous game of leading him on.

No great length of time lay between her and the palaces of Kordava, but it was as if a world of change separated her from the life she had lived before Zaporavo tore her screaming from the flaming caravel his wolves had plundered. She, who had been the spoiled and petted daughter of the Duke of Kordava, learned what it was to be a buccaneer's plaything, and because she was supple enough to bend without breaking, she lived where other women had died, and because she was young and vibrant with life, she came to find pleasure in the existence.

The life was uncertain, dream-like, with sharp contrasts of battle, pillage, murder, and flight. Zaporavo's red visions made it even more uncertain than that of the average Freebooter. No one knew what he planned next. Now they had left all charted coasts behind and were plunging further and further into that unknown billowy waste ordinarily shunned by seafarers, and into which, since the beginnings of Time, ships had ventured, only to vanish from the sight of man for ever. All known lands lay behind them, and day upon day the blue surging immensity lay empty to their sight. Here there was no loot - no towns to sack nor ships to burn. The men murmured, though they did not let their murmurings reach the ears of their implacable master, who tramped the poop day and night in gloomy majesty, or pored over ancient charts and time-yellowed maps, reading in tomes that were crumbling masses of worm-eaten parchment. At times he talked to Sancha, wildly it seemed to her, of lost continents, and fabulous isles dreaming unguessed amidst the blue foam of nameless gulfs, where horned dragons guarded treasures gathered by pre-human kings, long, long ago.

Sancha listened, uncomprehending, hugging her slim knees, her thoughts constantly roving away from the words of her grim companion back to a clean-limbed bronze giant whose laughter was gusty and elemental as the sea wind.

So, after many weary weeks, they raised land to westward, and at dawn dropped anchor in a shallow bay, and saw a beach which was like a white band bordering an expanse of gently grassy slopes, masked by green trees. The wind brought scents of fresh vegetation and spices, and Sancha clapped her hands with glee at the prospect of adventuring ashore. But her eagerness turned to sulkiness when Zaporavo ordered her to remain aboard until he sent for her. He never gave any explanation for his commands; so she never knew his reason, unless it was the lurking devil in him that frequently made him hurt her without cause.

So she lounged sulkily on the poop and watched the men row ashore through the calm water that sparkled like liquid jade in the morning sunlight. She saw them bunch together on the sands, suspicious, weapons ready, while several scattered out through the trees that fringed the beach. Among these, she noted, was Conan. There was no mistaking that tall brown figure with its springy step. Men said he was no civilized man at all, but a Cimmerian, one of those barbaric tribesmen who dwelt in the gray hills of the far North, and whose raids struck terror in their southern neighbors. At least, she knew that there was something about him, some super-vitality or barbarism that set him apart from his wild mates.

Voices echoed along the shore, as the silence reassured the buccaneers. The clusters broke up, as men scattered along the beach in search of fruit. She saw them climbing and plucking among the trees, and her pretty mouth watered. She stamped a little foot and swore with a proficiency acquired by association with her blasphemous companions.

The men on shore had indeed found fruit, and were gorging on it, finding one unknown golden-skinned variety especially luscious. But Zaporavo did not seek or eat fruit. His scouts having found nothing indicating men or beasts in the neighborhood, he stood staring inland, at the long reaches of grassy slopes melting into one another. Then, with a brief word, he shifted his sword-belt and strode in under the trees. His mate expostulated with him against going alone, and was rewarded by a savage blow in the mouth. Zaporavo had his reasons for wishing to go alone. He desired to learn if this island were indeed that mentioned in the mysterious Book of Skelos, whereon, nameless sages aver, strange monsters guard crypts filled with hieroglyph-careen gold. Nor, for murky reasons of his own, did he wish to share his knowledge, if it were true, with any one, much less his own crew.

Sancha, watching eagerly from the poop, saw him vanish into the leafy fastness. Presently she saw Conan, the Barachan, turn, glance briefly at the men scattered up and down the beach; then the pirate went quickly in the direction taken by Zaporavo, and likewise vanished among the trees.

Sancha's curiosity was piqued. She waited for them to reappear, but they did not. The seamen still moved aimlessly up and down the beach, and some had wandered inland. Many had lain down in the shade to sleep. Time passed and she fidgeted about restlessly. The sun began to beat down hotly, in spite of the canopy above the poop-deck. Here it was warm, silent, draggingly monotonous; a few yards away across a band of blue shallow water, the cool shady mystery of tree-fringed beach and woodland-dotted meadow beckoned her. Moreover, the mystery concerning Zaporavo and Conan tempted her.

She well knew the penalty for disobeying her merciless master, and she sat for some time, squirming with indecision. At last she decided that it was worth even one of Zaporavo's whippings to play truant, and with no more ado she kicked off her soft leather sandals, slipped out of her kirtle and stood up on the deck naked as Eve. Clambering over the rail and down the chains, she slid into the water and swam ashore. She stood on the beach a few moments, squirming as the sands tickled her small toes, while she looked for the crew. She saw only a few, at some distance up or down the beach. Many were fast asleep under the trees, bits of golden fruit still clutched in their fingers. She wondered why they should sleep so soundly, so early in the day.

None hailed her as she crossed the white girdle of sand and entered the shade of the woodland. The trees, she found, grew in irregular clusters, and between these groves stretched rolling expanses of meadow-like slopes. As she progressed inland, in the direction taken by Zaporavo, she was entranced by the green vistas that unfolded gently before her, soft slope beyond slope, carpeted with green sward and dotted with groves. Between the slopes lay gentle declivities, likewise swarded. The scenery seemed to melt into itself, or each scene into the other; the view was singular, at once broad and restricted. Over all a dreamy silence lay like an enchantment.

Then she came suddenly onto the level summit of a slope, circled with tall trees, and the dreamily faery-like sensation vanished abruptly at the sight of what lay on the reddened and trampled grass. Sancha involuntarily cried out and recoiled, then stole forward, wide-eyed, trembling in every limb.

It was Zaporavo who lay there on the sward, staring sightlessly upward, a gaping wound in his breast. His sword lay near his nerveless hand. The Hawk had made his last swoop.

It is not to be said that Sancha gazed on the corpse of her lord without emotion. She had no cause to love him, yet she felt at least the sensation any girl might feel when looking on the body of the man who was first to possess her. She did not weep or feel any need of weeping, but she was seized by a strong trembling, her blood seemed to congeal briefly, and she resisted a wave of hysteria.

She looked about her for the man she expected to see. Nothing met her eyes but the ring of tall, thickly leafed forest giants, and the blue slopes beyond them. Had the Freebooter's slayer dragged himself away, mortally wounded? No bloody tracks led away from the body.

Puzzled, she swept the surrounding trees, stiffening as she caught a rustle in the emerald leaves that seemed not to be of the wind. She went toward the trees, staring into the leafy depths.

'Conan?' Her call was inquiring; her voice sounded strange and small in the vastness of silence that had grown suddenly tense.

Her knees began to tremble as a nameless panic swept over her.

'Conan!' she cried desperately. `It is I - Sancha! Where are you? Please, Conan-' Her voice faltered away. Unbelieving horror dilated her brown eyes. Her red lips parted to an inarticulate scream. Paralysis gripped her limbs; where she had such desperate need of swift flight, she could not move. She could only shriek wordlessly.

2

When Conan saw Zaporavo stalk alone into the woodland, he felt that the chance he had watched for had come. He had eaten no fruit, nor joined in the horse-play of his mates; all his faculties were occupied with watching the buccaneer chief. Accustomed to Zaporavo's moods, his men were not particularly surprized that their captain should choose to explore an unknown and probably hostile isle alone. They turned to their own amusement, and did not notice Conan when he glided like a stalking panther after the chieftain.

Conan did not underrate his dominance of the crew. But he had not gained the right, through battle and foray, to challenge the captain to a duel to the death. In these empty seas there had been no opportunity for him to prove himself according to Freebooter law. The crew would stand solidly against him if he attacked the chieftain openly. But he knew that if he killed Zaporavo without their knowledge, the leaderless crew would not be likely to be swayed by loyalty to a dead man. In such wolf-packs only the living counted.

So he followed Zaporavo with sword in hand and eagerness in his heart, until he came out onto a level summit, circled with tall trees, between whose trunks he saw the green vistas of the slopes melting into the blue distance. In the midst of the glade Zaporavo, sensing pursuit, turned, hand on hilt.

The buccaneer swore.

`Dog, why do you follow me?'

`Are you mad, to ask?' laughed Conan, coming swiftly toward his erstwhile chief. His lips smiled, and in his blue eyes danced a wild gleam.

Zaporavo ripped out his sword with a black curse, and steel clashed against steel as the Barachan came in recklessly and wide open, his blade singing a wheel of blue flame about his head.

Zaporavo was the veteran of a thousand fights by sea and by land. There was no man in the world more deeply and thoroughly versed than he in the lore of swordcraft. But he had never been pitted against a blade wielded by thews bred in the wild lands beyond the borders of civilization. Against his fighting-craft was matched blinding speed and strength impossible to a civilized man. Conan's manner of fighting was unorthodox, but instinctive and natural as that of a timber wolf. The intricacies of the sword were as useless against his primitive fury as a human boxer's skill against the onslaughts of a panther.

Fighting as he had never fought before, straining every last ounce of effort to parry the blade that flickered like lightning about his head, Zaporavo in desperation caught a full stroke near his hilt, and felt his whole arm go numb beneath the terrific impact. That stroke was instantly followed by a thrust with such terrible drive behind it that the sharp point ripped through chain-mail and ribs like paper, to transfix the heart beneath. Zaporavo's lips writhed in brief agony, but, grim to the last, he made no sound. He was dead before his body relaxed on the trampled grass, where blood drops glittered like spilt rubies in the sun.

Conan shook the red drops from his sword, grinned with unaffected pleasure, stretched like a huge cat - and abruptly stiffened, the expression of satisfaction on his face being replaced by a stare of bewilderment. He stood like a statue, his sword trailing in his hand.

As he lifted his eyes from his vanquished foe, they had absently rested on the surrounding trees, and the vistas beyond. And he had seen a fantastic thing - a thing incredible and inexplicable. Over the soft rounded green shoulder of a distant slope had loped a tall black naked figure, bearing on its shoulder an equally naked white form. The apparition vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving the watcher gasping in surprize.

The pirate stared about him, glanced uncertainly back the way he had come, and swore. He was nonplussed - a bit upset, if the term might be applied to one of such steely nerves as his. In the midst of realistic, if exotic surroundings, a vagrant image of fantasy and nightmare had been introduced. Conan doubted neither his eyesight nor his sanity. He had seen something alien and uncanny, he knew; the mere fact of a black figure racing across the landscape carrying a white captive was bizarre enough, but this black figure had been unnaturally tall.

Shaking his head doubtfully, Conan started off in the direction in which he had seen the thing. He did not argue the wisdom of his move; with his curiosity so piqued, he had no choice but to follow its promptings.

Slope after slope he traversed, each with its even sward and clustered groves. The general trend was always upward, though he ascended and descended the gentle inclines with monotonous regularity. The array of rounded shoulders and shallow declivities was bewildering and apparently endless. But at last he advanced up what he believed was the highest summit on the island, and halted at the sight of green shining walls and towers, which, until he had reached the spot on which he then stood, had merged so perfectly with the green landscape as to be invisible, even to his keen sight.

He hesitated, fingered his sword, then went forward, bitten by the worm of curiosity. He saw no one as he approached a tall archway in the curving wall. There was no door. Peering warily through, he saw what seemed to be a broad open court, grass-carpeted, surrounded by a circular wall of the green semitranslucent substance. Various arches opened from it. Advancing on the balls of his bare feet, sword ready, he chose one of these arches at random, and passed into another similar court. Over an inner wall he saw the pinnacles of strangely shaped towerlike structures. One of these towers was built in, or projected into the court in which he found himself, and a broad stair led up to it, along the side of the wall. Up this he went, wondering if it were all real, or if he were not in the midst of a black lotus dream.

At the head of the stair he found himself on a walled ledge, or balcony, he was not sure which. He could now make out more details of the towers, but they were meaningless to him. He realized uneasily that no ordinary human beings could have built them. There was symmetry about their architecture, and system, but it was a mad symmetry, a system alien to human sanity. As for the plan of the whole town, castle, or whatever it was intended for, he could see just enough to get the impression of a great number of courts, mostly circular, each surrounded by its own wall, and connected with the others by open arches, and all, apparently, grouped about the cluster of fantastic towers in the center.

Turning in the other direction from these towers, he got a fearful shock, and crouched down suddenly behind the parapet of the balcony, glaring amazedly.

The balcony or ledge was higher than the opposite wall, and he was looking over that wall into another swarded court. The inner curve of the further wall of that court differed from the others he had seen, in that, instead of being smooth, it seemed to be banded with long lines or ledges, crowded with small objects the nature of which he could not determine.

However, he gave little heed to the wall at the time. His attention was centered on the band of beings that squatted about a dark green pool in the midst of the court. These creatures were black and naked, made like men, but the least of them, standing upright, would have towered head and shoulders above the tall pirate. They were rangy rather than massive, but were finely formed, with no suggestion of deformity or abnomality, save as their great height was abnormal. But even at that distance Conan sensed the basic diabolism of their features.

In their midst, cringing and naked, stood a youth that Conan recognized as the youngest sailor aboard the Wastrel. He, then, had been the captive the pirate had seen borne across the grass-covered slope. Conan had heard no sound of fighting - saw no blood-stains or wounds on the sleek ebon limbs of the giants. Evidently the lad had wandered inland away from his companions and been snatched up by a black man lurking in ambush. Conan mentally termed the creatures black men, for lack of a better term; instinctively he knew that these tall ebony beings were not men, as he understood the term.

No sound came to him. The blacks nodded and gestured to one another, but they did not seem to speak - vocally, at least. One, squatting on his haunches before the cringing boy, held a pipe-like thing in his hand. This he set to his lips, and apparently blew, though Conan heard no sound. But the Zingaran youth heard or felt, and cringed. He quivered and writhed as if in agony; a regularity became evident in the twitching of his limbs, which quickly became rhythmic. The twitching became a violent jerking, the jerking regular movements. The youth began to dance, as cobras dance by compulsion to the tune of the faquir's fife. There was naught of zest or joyful abandon in that dance. There was, indeed, abandon that was awful to see, but it was not joyful. It was as if the mute tune of the pipes grasped the boy's inmost soul with salacious fingers and with brutal torture wrung from it every involuntary expression of secret passion. It was a convulsion of obscenity, a spasm of lasciviousness - an exudation of secret hungers framed by compulsion: desire without pleasure, pain mated awfully to lust. It was like watching a soul stripped naked, and all its dark and unmentionable secrets laid bare.

Conan glared frozen with repulsion and shaken with nausea. Himself as cleanly elemental as a timber wolf, he was yet not ignorant of the perverse secrets of rotting civilizations. He had roamed the cities of Zamora, and known the women of Shadizar the Wicked. But he sensed here a cosmic vileness transcending mere human degeneracy - a perverse branch on the tree of Life, developed along lines outside human comprehension. It was not at the agonized contortions and posturing of the wretched boy that he was shocked, but at the cosmic obscenity of these beings which could drag to light the abysmal secrets that sleep in the unfathomed darkness of the human soul, and find pleasure in the brazen flaunting of such things as should not be hinted at, even in restless nightmares.

Suddenly the black torturer laid down the pipes and rose, towering over the writhing white figure. Brutally grasping the boy by neck and haunch, the giant up-ended him and thrust him head-first into the green pool. Conan saw the white glimmer of his naked body amid the green water, as the black giant held his captive deep under the surface. Then there was a restless movement among the other blacks, and Conan ducked quickly below the balcony wall, not daring to raise his head lest he be seen.

After a while his curiosity got the better of him, and he cautiously peered out again. The blacks were filing out of an archway into another court. One of them was just placing something on a ledge of the further wall, and Conan saw it was the one who had tortured the boy. He was taller than the others, and wore a jeweled headband. Of the Zingaran boy there was no trace. The giant followed his fellows, and presently Conan saw them emerge from the archway by which he had gained access to that castle of horror, and file away across the green slopes, in the direction from which he had come. They bore no arms, yet he felt that they planned further aggression against the Freebooters.

But before he went to warn the unsuspecting buccaneers, he wished to investigate the fate of the boy. No sound disturbed the quiet. The pirate believed that the towers and courts were deserted save for himself.

He went swiftly down the stair, crossed the court and passed through an arch into the court the blacks had just quitted. Now he saw the nature of the striated wall. It was banded by narrow ledges, apparently cut out of the solid stone, and ranged along these ledges or shelves were thousands of tiny figures, mostly grayish in color. These figures, not much longer than a man's hand, represented men, and so cleverly were they made that Conan recognized various racial characteristics in the different idols, features typical of Zingarans, Argoseans, Ophireans and Kushite corsairs. These last were black in color, just as their models were black in reality. Conan was aware of a vague uneasiness as he stared at the dumb sightless figures. There was a mimicry of reality about them that was somehow disturbing. He felt of them gingerly and could not decide of what material they were made. It felt like petrified bone; but he could not imagine petrified substance being found in the locality in such abundance as to be used so lavishly.

He noticed that the images representing types with which he was familiar were all on the higher ledges. The lower ledges were occupied by figures the features of which were strange to him. They either embodied merely the artists' imagination, or typified racial types long vanished and forgotten.

Shaking his head impatiently, Conan turned toward the pool. The circular court offered no place of concealment; as the body of the boy was nowhere in sight, it must be lying at the bottom of the pool.

Approaching the placid green disk, he stared into the glimmering surface. It was like looking through a thick green glass, unclouded, yet strangely illusory. Of no great dimensions, the pool was round as a well, bordered by a rim of green jade. Looking down he could see the rounded bottom - how far below the surface he could not decide. But the pool seemed incredibly deep - he was aware of a dizziness as he looked down, much as if he were looking into an abyss. He was puzzled by his ability to see the bottom; but it lay beneath his gaze, impossibly remote, illusive, shadowy, yet visible. At times he thought a faint luminosity was apparent deep in the jade-colored depth, but he could not be sure. Yet he was sure that the pool was empty except for the shimmering water.

Then where in the name of Crom was the boy whom he had seen brutally drowned in that pool? Rising, Conan fingered his sword, and gazed around the court again. His gaze focused on a spot on one of the higher ledges. There he had seen the tall black place something - cold sweat broke suddenly out on Conan's brown hide.

Hesitantly, yet as if drawn by a magnet, the pirate approached the shimmering wall. Dazed by a suspicion too monstrous to voice, he glared up at the last figure on that ledge. A horrible familiarity made itself evident. Stony, immobile, dwarfish, yet unmistakable, the features of the Zingaran boy stared unseeingly at him. Conan recoiled, shaken to his soul's foundations. His sword trailed in his paralyzed hand as he glared, open-mouthed, stunned by the realization which was too abysmal and awful for the mind to grasp.

Yet the fact was indisputable; the secret of the dwarfish figures was revealed, though behind that secret lay the darker and more cryptic secret of their being.

3

How long Conan stood drowned in dizzy cogitation, he never knew. A voice shook him out of his gaze, a feminine voice that shrieked more and more loudly, as if the owner of the voice were being borne nearer. Conan recognized that voice, and his paralysis vanished instantly.

A quick bound carried him high up on the narrow ledges, where he clung, kicking aside the clustering images to obtain room for his feet. Another spring and a scramble, and he was clinging to the rim of the wall, glaring over it. It was an outer wall; he was looking into the green meadow that surrounded the castle.

Across the grassy level a giant black was striding, carrying a squirming captive under one arm as a man might carry a rebellious child. It was Sancha, her black hair falling in disheveled rippling waves, her olive skin contrasting abruptly with the glossy ebony of her captor. He gave no heed to her wrigglings and cries as he made for the outer archway.

As he vanished within, Conan sprang recklessly down the wall and glided into the arch that opened into the further court. Crouching there, he saw the giant enter the court of the pool, carrying his writhing captive. Now he was able to make out the creature's details.

The superb symmetry of body and limbs was more impressive at close range. Under the ebon skin long, rounded muscles rippled, and Conan did not doubt that the monster could rend an ordinary man limb from limb. The nails of the fingers provided further weapons, for they were grown like the talons of a wild beast. The face was a carven ebony mask. The eyes' were tawny, a vibrant gold that glowed and glittered. But the face was inhuman; each line, each feature was stamped with evil - evil transcending the mere evil of humanity. The thing was not a human - it could not be; it was a growth of Life from the pits of blasphemous creation - a perversion of evolutionary development.

The giant cast Sancha down on the sward, where she grovelled, crying with pain and terror. He cast a glance about as if uncertain, and his tawny eyes narrowed as they rested on the images overturned and knocked from the wall. Then he stooped, grasped his captive by her neck and crotch, and strode purposefully toward the green pool. And Conan glided from his archway, and raced like a wind of death across the sward.

The giant wheeled, and his eyes flared as he saw the bronzed avenger rushing toward him. In the instant of surprize his cruel grip relaxed and Sancha wriggled from his hands and fell to the grass. The taloned hands spread and clutched, but Conan ducked beneath their swoop and drove his sword through the giant's groin. The black went down like a felled tree, gushing blood, and the next instant Conan was seized in a frantic grasp as Sancha sprang up and threw her arms around him in a frenzy of terror and hysterical relief.

He cursed as he disengaged himself, but his foe was already dead; the tawny eyes were glazed, the long ebony limbs had ceased to twitch.

`Oh, Conan,' Sancha was sobbing, clinging tenaciously to him, `what will become of us? What are these monsters? Oh, surely this is hell and that was the devil-'

`Then hell needs a new devil.' The Barachan grinned fiercely. `But how did he get hold of you? Have they taken the ship?'

`I don't know.' She tried to wipe away her tears, fumbled for her skirt, and then remembered that she wore none. `I came ashore. I saw you follow Zaporavo, and I followed you both. I found Zaporavo - was - was it you who-'

`Who else?' he grunted. `What then?'

`I saw a movement in the trees,' she shuddered. `I thought it was you. I called - then I saw that - that black thing squatting like an ape among the branches, leering down at me. It was like a nightmare; I couldn't run. All I could do was squeal. Then it dropped from the tree and seized me - oh, oh, oh!' She hid her face in her hands, and was shaken anew at the memory of the horror.

`Well, we've got to get out of here,' he growled, catching her wrist. `Come on; we've got to get to the crew-'

`Most of them were asleep on the beach as I entered the woods,' she said.

`Asleep?' he exclaimed profanely. `What in the seven devils of hell's fire and damnation-'

`Listen!' She froze, a white quivering image of fright.

`I heard it!' he snapped. `A moaning cry! Wait!'

He bounded up the ledges again and, glaring over the wall, swore with a concentrated fury that made even Sancha gasp. The black men were returning, but they came not alone or empty-handed. Each bore a limp human form; some bore two. Their captives were the Freebooters; they hung slackly in their captors' arms, and but for an occasional vague movement or twitching, Conan would have believed them dead. They had been disarmed but not stripped; one of the blacks bore their sheathed swords, a great armload of bristling steel. From time to time one of the seamen voiced a vague cry, like a drunkard calling out in sottish sleep.

Like a trapped wolf Conan glared about him. Three arches led out of the court of the pool. Through the eastern arch the blacks had left the court, and through it they would presumably return. He had entered by the southern arch. In the western arch he had hidden, and had not had time to notice what lay beyond it. Regardless of his ignorance of the plan of the castle, he was forced to make his decision promptly.

Springing down the wall, he replaced the images with frantic haste, dragged the corpse of his victim to the pool and cast it in. It sank instantly and, as he looked, he distinctly saw an appalling contraction - a shrinking, a hardening. He hastily turned away, shuddering. Then he seized his companion's arm and led her hastily toward the southern archway, while she begged to be told what was happening.

`They've bagged the crew,' he answered hastily. `I haven't any plan, but we'll hide somewhere and watch. If they don't look in the pool, they may not suspect our presence.'

`But they'll see the blood on the grass!'

`Maybe they'll think one of their own devils spilled it,' he answered. `Anyway, we'll have to take the chance.'

They were in the court from which he had watched the torture of the boy, and he led her hastily up the stair that mounted the southern wall, and forced her into a crouching position behind the balustrade of the balcony; it was poor concealment, but the best they could do.

Scarcely had they settled themselves, when the blacks filed into the court. There was a resounding clash at the foot of the stairs, and Conan stiffened, grasping his sword. But the blacks passed through an archway on the southwestern side, and they heard a series of thuds and groans. The giants were casting their victims down on the sward. An hysterical giggle rose to Sancha's lips, and Conan quickly clapped his hand over her mouth, stifling the sound before it could betray them.

After a while they heard the padding of many feet on the sward below, and then silence reigned. Conan peered over the wall. The court was empty. The blacks were once more gathered about the pool in the adjoining court, squatting on their haunches. They seemed to pay no heed to the great smears of blood on the sward and the jade rim of the pool. Evidently blood stains were nothing unusual. Nor were they looking into the pool. They were engrossed in scone inexplicable conclave of their own; the tall black was playing again on his golden pipes, and his companions listened like ebony statues.

Taking Sancha's hand, Conan glided down the stair, stooping so that his head would not be visible above the wall. The cringing girl followed perforce, staring fearfully at the arch that let into the court of the pool, but through which, at that angle, neither the pool nor its grim throng were visible. At the foot of the stair lay the swords of the Zingarans. The clash they had heard had been the casting down of the captured weapons.

Conan drew Sancha toward the southwestern arch, and they silently crossed the sward and entered the court beyond. There the Freebooters lay in careless heaps, mustaches bristling, earrings glinting. Here and there one stirred or groaned restlessly. Conan bent down to them, and Sancha knelt beside him, leaning forward with her hands on her thighs.

`What is that sweet cloying smell?' she asked nervously. `It's on all their breaths.'

`It's that damned fruit they were eating,' he answered softly. `I remember the smell of it. It must have been like the black lotus, that makes men sleep. By Crom, they are beginning to awake -but they're unarmed, and I have an idea that those black devils won't wait long before they begin their magic on them. What chance will the lads have, unarmed and stupid with slumber?'

He brooded for an instant, scowling with the intentness of his thoughts; then seized Sancha's olive shoulder in a grip that made her wince.

`Listen! I'll draw those black swine into another part of the castle and keep them busy for a while. Meanwhile you shake these fools awake, and bring their swords to them - it's a fighting chance. Can you do it?'

`I - I - don't know!' she stammered, shaking with terror, and hardly knowing what she was saying.

With a curse, Conan caught her thick tresses near her head and shook her until the walls danced to her dizzy sight.

`You must do it!' he hissed at her. `It's our only chance!'

`I'll do my best!' she gasped, and with a grunt of commendation and an encouraging slap on the back that nearly knocked her down, he glided away.

A few moments later he was crouching at the arch that opened into the court of the pool, glaring upon his enemies. They still sat about the pool, but were beginning to show evidences of an evil impatience. From the court where lay the rousing buccaneers he heard their groans growing louder, beginning to be mingled with incoherent curses. He tensed his muscles and sank into a pantherish crouch, breathing easily between his teeth.

The jeweled giant rose, taking his pipes from his lips - and at that instant Conan was among the startled blacks with a tigerish bound. And as a tiger leaps and strikes among his prey, Conan leaped and struck: thrice his blade flickered before any could lift a hand in defense; then he bounded from among them and raced across the sward. Behind him sprawled three black figures, their skulls split.

But though the unexpected fury of his surprize had caught the giants off guard, the survivors recovered quickly enough. They were at his heels as he ran through the western arch, their long legs sweeping them over the ground at headlong speed. However, he felt confident of his ability to outfoot them at will; but that was not his purpose. He intended leading them on a long chase, in order to give Sancha time to rouse and arm the Zingarans.

And as he raced into the court beyond the western arch, he swore. This court differed from the others he had seen. Instead of being round, it was octagonal, and the arch by which he had entered was the only entrance or exit.

Wheeling, he saw that the entire band had followed him in; a group clustered in the arch, and the rest spread out in a wide line as they approached. He faced them, backing slowly toward the northern wall. The line bent into a semicircle, spreading out to hem him in. He continued to move backward, but more and more slowly, noting the spaces widening between the pursuers. They feared lest he should try to dart around a horn of the crescent, and lengthened their line to prevent it.

He watched with the calm alertness of a wolf, and when he struck it was with the devastating suddenness of a thunderbolt -full at the center of the crescent. The giant who barred his way went down cloven to the middle of the breast-bone, and the pirate was outside their closing ring before the blacks to right and left could come to their stricken comrade's aid. The group at the gate prepared to receive his onslaught, but Conan did not charge them. He had turned and was watching his hunters without apparent emotion, and certainly without fear.

This time they did not spread out in a thin line. They had learned that it was fatal to divide their forces against such an incarnation of clawing, rending fury. They bunched up in a compact mass, and advanced on him without undue haste, maintaining their formation.

Conan knew that if he fell foul of that mass of taloned muscle and bone, there could be but one culmination. Once let them drag him down among them where they could reach him with their talons and use their greater body-weight to advantage, even his primitive ferocity would not prevail. He glanced around the wall and saw a ledge-like projection above a corner on the western side. What it was he did not know, but it would serve his purpose. He began backing toward that corner, and the giants advanced more rapidly. They evidently thought that they were herding him into the corner themselves, and Conan found time to reflect that they probably looked on him as a member of a lower order, mentally inferior to themselves. So much the better. Nothing is more disastrous than underestimating one's antagonist.

Now he was only a few yards from the wall, and the blacks were closing in rapidly, evidently thinking to pin him in the corner before he realized his situation. The group at the gate had deserted their post and were hastening to join their fellows. The giants half-crouched, eyes blazing like golden hell-fire, teeth glistening whitely, taloned hands lifted as if to fend off attack. They expected an abrupt and violent move on the part of their prey, but when it came, it took them by surprize.

Conan lifted his sword, took a step toward them, then wheeled and raced to the wall. With a fleeting coil and release of steel muscles, he shot high in the air, and his straining arm hooked its fingers over the projection. Instantly there was a rending crash and the jutting ledge gave way, precipitating the pirate back into the court.

He hit on his back, which for all its springy sinews would have broken but for the cushioning of the sward, and rebounding like a great cat, he faced his foes. The dancing recklessness was gone from his eyes. They blazed like blue bale-fire; his mane bristled, his thin lips snarled. In an instant the affair had changed from a daring game to a battle of life and death, and Conan's savage nature responded with all the fury of the wild.

The blacks, halted an instant by the swiftness of the episode, now made to sweep on him and drag him down. But in that instant a shout broke the stillness. Wheeling, the giants saw a disreputable throng crowding the arch. The buccaneers weaved drunkenly, they swore incoherently; they were addled and bewildered, but they grasped their swords and advanced with a ferocity not dimmed in the slightest by the fact that they did not understand what it was all about.

As the blacks glared in amazement, Conan yelled stridently and struck them like a razor-edged thunderbolt. They fell like ripe grains beneath his blade, and the Zingarans, shouting with muddled fury, ran groggily across the court and fell on their gigantic foes with bloodthirsty zeal. They were still dazed; emerging hazily from drugged slumber, they had felt Sancha frantically shaking them and shoving swords into their fists, and had vaguely heard her urging them to some sort of action. They had not understood all she said, but the sight of strangers, and blood streaming, was enough for them.

In an instant the court was turned into a battle-ground which soon resembled a slaughter-house. The Zingarans weaved and rocked on their feet, but they wielded their swords with power and effect, swearing prodigiously, and quite oblivious to all wounds except those instantly fatal. They far outnumbered the blacks, but these proved themselves no mean antagonists. Towering above their assailants, the giants wrought havoc with talons and teeth, tearing out men's throats, and dealing blows with clenched fists that crushed in skulls. Mixed and mingled in that melee, the buccaneers could not use their superior agility to the best advantage, and many were too stupid from their drugged sleep to avoid blows aimed at them. They fought with a blind wild-beast ferocity, too intent on dealing death to evade it. The sound of the hacking swords was like that of butchers' cleavers, and the shrieks, yells and curses were appalling.

Sancha, shrinking in the archway, was stunned by the noise and fury; she got a dazed impression of a whirling chaos in which steel flashed and hacked, arms tossed, snarling faces appeared and vanished, and straining bodies collided, rebounded, locked and mingled in a devil's dance of madness.

Details stood out briefly, like black etchings on a background of blood. She saw a Zingaran sailor, blinded by a great flap of scalp torn loose and hanging over his eyes, brace his straddling legs and drive his sword to the hilt in a black belly. She distinctly heard the buccaneer grunt as he struck, and saw the victim's tawny eyes roll up in sudden agony; blood and entrails gushed out over the driven blade. The dying black caught the blade with his naked hands, and the sailor tugged blindly and stupidly; then a black arm hooked about the Zingaran's head, a black knee was planted with cruel force in the middle of his back. His head was jerked back at a terrible angle, and something cracked above the noise of the fray, like the breaking of a thick branch. The conqueror dashed his victim's body to the earth - and as he did, something like a beam of blue light flashed across his shoulders from behind, from right to left. He staggered, his head toppled forward on his breast, and thence, hideously, to the earth.

Sancha turned sick. She gagged and wished to vomit. She made abortive efforts to turn and flee from the spectacle, but her legs would not work. Nor could she close her eyes. In fact, she opened them wider. Revolted, repelled, nauseated, yet she felt the awful fascination she had always experienced at sight of blood. Yet this battle transcended anything she had ever seen fought out between human beings in port raids or sea battles. Then she saw Conan.

Separated from his mates by the whole mass of the enemy, Conan had been enveloped in a black wave of arms and bodies, and dragged down. Then they would quickly have stamped the life out of him, but he had pulled down one of them with him, and the black's body protected that of the pirate beneath him. They kicked and tore at the Barachan and dragged at their writhing comrade, but Conan's teeth were set desperately in his throat, and the pirate clung tenaciously to his dying shield.

An onslaught of Zingarans caused a slackening of the press, and Conan threw aside the corpse and rose, blood-smeared and terrible. The giants towered above him like great black shadows, clutching, buffeting the air with terrible blows. But he was as hard to hit or grapple as a blood-mad panther, and at every turn or flash of his blade, blood jetted. He had already taken punishment enough to kill three ordinary men, but his bull-like vitality was undiminished.

His war cry rose above the medley of the carnage, and the bewildered but furious Zingarans took fresh heart and redoubled their strokes, until the rending of flesh and the crunching of bone beneath the swords almost drowned the howls of pain and wrath.

The blacks wavered, and broke for the gate, and Sancha squealed at their coming and scurried out of the way. They jammed in the narrow archway, and the Zingarans stabbed and hacked at their straining backs with strident yelps of glee. The gate was a shambles before the survivors broke through and scattered, each for himself.

The battle became a chase. Across grassy courts, up shimmering stairs, over the slanting roofs of fantastic towers, even along the broad coping of the walls, the giants fled, dripping blood at each step, harried by their merciless pursuers as by wolves. Cornered, some of them turned at bay and men died. But the ultimate result was always the same - a mangled black body twitching on the sward, or hurled writhing and twisting from parapet or tower roof.

Sancha had taken refuge in the court of the pool, where she crouched, shaking with terror. Outside rose a fierce yelling, feet pounded the sward, and through the arch burst a black, red-stained figure. It was the giant who wore the gemmed headband. A squat pursuer was close behind, and the black turned, at the very brink of the pool. In his extremity he had picked up a sword dropped by a dying sailor, and as the Zingaran rushed recklessly at him, he struck with the unfamiliar weapon. The buccaneer dropped with his skull crushed, but so awkwardly the blow was dealt, the blade shivered in the giant's hand.

He hurled the hilt at the figures which thronged the arch, and bounded toward the pool, his face a convulsed mask of hate.

Conan burst through the men at the gate, and his feet spurned the sward in his headlong charge.

But the giant threw his great arms wide and from his lips rang an inhuman cry - the only sound made by a black during the entire fight. It screamed to the sky its awful hate; it was like a voice howling from the pits. At the sound the Zingarans faltered and hesitated. But Conan did not pause. Silently and murderously he drove at the ebon figure poised on the brink of the pool.

But even as his dripping sword gleamed in the air, the black wheeled and bounded high. For a flash of an instant they saw him poised in midair above the pool; then with an earth-shaking roar, the green waters rose and rushed up to meet him, enveloping him in a green volcano.

Conan checked his headlong rush just in time to keep from toppling into the pool, and he sprang back, thrusting his men behind him with mighty swings of his arms. The green pool was like a geyser now, the noise rising to deafening volume as the great column of water reared and reared, blossoming at the crest with a great crown of foam.

Conan was driving his men to the gate, herding them ahead of him, beating them with the flat of his sword; the roar of the water-spout seemed to have robbed them of their faculties. Seeing Sancha standing paralyzed, staring with wide-eyed terror at the seething pillar, he accosted her with a bellow that cut through the thunder of the water and made her jump out of her daze. She ran to him, arms outstretched, and he caught her up under one arm and raced out of the court.

In the court which opened on the outer world, the survivors had gathered, weary, tattered, wounded and blood-stained, and stood gaping dumbly at the great unstable pillar that towered momentarily nearer the blue vault of the sky. Its green trunk was laced with white; its foaming crown was thrice the circumference of its base. Momentarily it threatened to burst and fall in an engulfing torrent, yet it continued to jet skyward.

Conan's eyes swept the bloody, naked group, and he cursed to see only a score. In the stress of the moment he grasped a corsair by the neck and shook him so violently that blood from the man's wounds spattered all near them.

`Where are the rest?' he bellowed in his victim's ear.

`That's all!' the other yelled back, above the roar of the geyser. `The others were all killed by those black-'

`Well, get out of here!' roared Conan, giving him a thrust that sent him staggering headlong toward the outer archway. `That fountain is going to burst in a moment-'

`We'll all be drowned!' squawked a Freebooter, limping toward the arch.

`Drowned, hell!' yelled Conan. `We'll be turned to pieces of petrified bone! Get out, blast you!'

He ran to the outer archway, one eye on the green roaring tower that loomed so awfully above him, the other on stragglers. Dazed with blood-lust, fighting, and the thunderous noise, some of the Zingarans moved like men in a trance. Conan hurried them up; his method was simple. He grasped loiterers by the scruff of the neck, impelled them violently through the gate, added impetus with a lusty kick in the rear, spicing his urgings for haste with pungent comments on the victim's ancestry. Sancha showed an inclination to remain with him, but he jerked away her twining arms, blaspheming luridly, and accelerated her movements with a tremendous slap on the posterior that sent her scurrying across the plateau.

Conan did not leave the gate until he was sure all his men who yet lived were out of the castle and started across the level meadow. Then he glanced again at the roaring pillar looming against the sky, dwarfing the towers, and he too fled that castle of nameless horrors.

The Zingarans had already crossed the rim of the plateau and were fleeing down the slopes. Sancha waited for him at the crest of the first slope beyond the rim, and there he paused for an instant to look back at the castle. It was as if a gigantic green-stemmed and white-blossomed flower swayed above the towers; the roar filled the sky. Then the jade-green and snowy pillar broke with a noise like the rending of the skies, and walls and towers were blotted out in a thunderous torrent.

Conan caught the girl's hand, and fled. Slope after slope rose and fell before them, and behind sounded the rushing of a river. A glance over his straining shoulder showed a broad green ribbon rising and falling as it swept over the slopes. The torrent had not spread out and dissipated; like a giant serpent it flowed over the depressions and the rounded crests. It held a consistent course - it was following them.

The realization roused Conan to a greater pitch of endurance. Sancha stumbled and went to her knees with a moaning cry of despair and exhaustion. Catching her up, Conan tossed her over his giant shoulder and ran on. His breast heaved, his knees trembled; his breath tore in great gasps through his teeth. He reeled in his gait. Ahead of him he saw the sailors toiling, spurred on by the terror that gripped them.

The ocean burst suddenly on his view, and in his swimming gaze floated the Wastrel, unharmed. Men tumbled into the boats helter-skelter. Sancha fell into the bottom and lay there in a crumpled heap. Conan, though the blood thundered in his ears and the world swam red to his gaze, took an oar with the panting sailors.

With hearts ready to burst from exhaustion, they pulled for the ship. The green river burst through the fringe of trees. Those trees fell as if their stems had been cut away, and as they sank into the jade-colored flood, they vanished. The tide flowed out over the beach, lapped at the ocean, and the waves turned a deeper, more sinister green.

Unreasoning, instinctive fear held the buccaneers, making them urge their agonized bodies and reeling brains to greater effort; what they feared they knew not, but they did know that in that abominable smooth green ribbon was a menace to body and to soul. Conan knew, and as he saw the broad line slip into the waves and stream through the water toward them, without altering its shape or course, he called up his last ounce of reserve strength so fiercely that the oar snapped in his hands.

But their prows bumped against the timbers of the Wastrel, and the sailors staggered up the chains, leaving the boats to drift as they would. Sancha went up on Conan's broad shoulder, hanging limp as a corpse, to be dumped unceremoniously on to the deck as the Barachan took the wheel, gasping orders to his skeleton of a crew. Throughout the affair, he had taken the lead without question, and they had instinctively followed him. They reeled about like drunken men, fumbling mechanically at ropes and braces. The anchor chain, unshackled, splashed into the water, the sails unfurled and bellied in a rising wind. The Wastrel quivered and shook herself, and swung majestically seaward. Conan glared shoreward; like a tongue of emerald flame, a ribbon licked out on the water futilely, an oar's length from the Wastrel's keel. It advanced no further. From that end of the tongue, his gaze followed an unbroken stream of lambent green, across the white beach, and over the slopes, until it faded in the blue distance.

The Barachan, regaining his wind, grinned at the panting crew. Sancha was standing near him, hysterical tears coursing down her cheeks. Conan's breeks hung in blood-stained tatters; his girdle and sheath were gone, his sword, driven upright into the deck beside him, was notched and crusted with red. Blood thickly clotted his black mane, and one ear had been half torn from his head. His arms, legs, breast and shoulders were bitten and clawed as if by panthers. But he grinned as he braced his powerful legs, and swung on the wheel in sheer exuberance of muscular might.

`What now?' faltered the girl.

`The plunder of the seas!' he laughed. `A paltry crew, and that chewed and clawed to pieces, but they can work the ship, and crews can always be found. Come here, girl, and give me a kiss.'

`A kiss?' she cried hysterically. `You think of kisses at a time like this?'

His laughter boomed above the snap and thunder of the sails, as he caught her up off her feet in the crook of one mighty arm, and smacked her red lips with resounding relish.

`I think of Life!' he roared. `The dead are dead, and what has passed is done! I have a ship and a fighting crew and a girl with lips like wine, and that's all I ever asked. Lick your wounds, bullies, and break out a cask of ale. You're going to work ship as she never was worked before. Dance and sing while you buckle to it, damn you! To the devil with empty seas! We're bound for waters where the seaports are fat, and the merchant ships are crammed with plunder!'

Conan The Buccaneer

Prologue:

DREAM OF BLOOD

Two hours before midnight, the princess Chabela awoke. Drawing the filmy coverlet about her naked body, the buxom daughter of King Ferdrugo of Zingara lay tense and trembling. She stared into the darkness, while cold horror sent thrills of premonition through her quickening nerves. Outside, rain drummed on the palace roofs.

What had it been about, that dark and dreadful dream from whose shadowy clutches her soul had so barely escaped?

Now that the ghastly dream was over, she could hardly recall its details. There had been darkness, and evil eyes glaring through the murk; the glitter of knives―and blood. Blood everywhere: on the sheets, on the tiled floor, crawling beneath the door ―red, sticky, sluggishly flowing blood!

Shuddering, Chabela tore her thoughts from this morbid introspection. The glimmer of a night light caught her glance; it came from a waxen taper in a sconce on the low, ornate prie-dieu across the chamber. On the prie-dieu also stood a small painted icon of Mitra, Lord of Light and chief divinity of the Kor-davan pantheon. An impulse to seek supernatural guidance brought her to stand shivering on the tiles. Wrapping the lacy coverlet about her voluptuous, olive-hued body, she crossed the bedchamber to kneel before the idol. Her night-black torrent of hair poured down her back like a cataract of a liquid midnight.

Atop the prie-dieu stood a small silver canister of incense. She uncapped it and tossed a few grains of the gummy powder into the flickering flame. The rich odor of nard and myrrh filled the air.

Chabela clasped her hands and bowed as if to pray, but no words came. Her mind was a jumble. Strive as she would, she could not attain the serene inner control required for effective divine supplication.

It came to her that, for many days, shadowy terrors had lurked in the palace.

The old king had seemed distant, distraught, preoccupied with unknown problems.

He had aged astoundingly, as if his vitality were being sucked away by some phantasmal leech. Some of his decrees had been unlike him, at variance with the tenor of his previous reign. There were times when another person's spirit seemed to peer through his faded old eyes, to speak with his slow, harsh voice, or to scrawl a wavering signature on documents that he had dictated. The thought was absurd, but it was there.

And then, these terrible dreams of knives and blood and staring eyes; of thickening, watchful shadows that peered and whisperedl Abruptly, her mind cleared as if a fresh wind from the sea had blown a mist away from her consciousness. She found she could name the feeling of haunting dread that oppressed her. It was as if some dark force had striven to seize control of her very mind.

Horror filled her; a sob of loathing shook her rounded body. Her full young breasts, proud globes of pale tan under the lacy veils, rose and fell. She threw herself prone before the little altar, her black hair sliding in gleaming coils over the tiles. She prayed: "Lord Mitra, defender of the House of Ramiro, champion of mercy and justice, chastiser of depravity and cruelty, help me, I beg thee, in my hour of need!

Tell me what to do, I beseech thee, mighty Lord of Light!"

Rising, she opened the golden box beside the canister on the prie-dieu and drew forth a dozen slim rods of carven sandalwood. Some of these divining straws were short, some long; some were branched or crooked, others straight and plain.

She threw them down at random on the floor before the altar. The clatter of the slender sticks was loud in the silence.

She peered down at the jumble of fallen rods, the black bell of her hair framing her young face. Her eyes rounded with awe.

The sticks spelled T-O-V-A-R-R-O.

The girl repeated the name. "Tovarro," she said slowly. "Go to Tovarro…"

Determination flashed in her dark eyes. "I will!" she vowed. Tonight! Ill rout out Captain Kapellez…"

As she moved about the chamber, flashes of lightning from the storm outside intermittently lighted the scene. She snatched garments from a chest. She gathered up a baldric with a scabbarded rapier and collected a warm cloak. She glided about the boudoir with a swift economy of motion.

From the prie-dieu, Mitra watched with glassy eyes. Was there a faint glitter of ghostly intelligence in the painted gaze? And a slight expression of stern pity on those sculptured lips? Was the rumble of distant thunder his voice? None could say.

Within the hour, however, Ferdnigo's daughter was gone from the palace. Thus was set in motion a sequence of fantastic events, which would bring a mighty warrior, a dreaded sorcerer, a proud princess, and ancient gods into a weird confrontation on the edge of the known world.

Chapter One

AN OLD ZINGARAN CUSTOM

The wind had been rising, whipping gusts of rain before it. Now, after midnight, the damp sea wind howled through the cobbled alleys that led away from the harbor. It swung the painted wooden signs above the doors of inns and taverns.

Starved mongrels cowered, shivering, in doorways against the wind and rain.

At this late hour, the revelers were done. Few lights burned in the houses of Kordava, capital of Zingara on the Western Ocean. Heavy clouds obscured the moon, and tattered rags of vapor scudded across the gloomy sky like ghosts. It was a dark, secretive hour ―the time of night when hard-eyed men whisper of treason and robbery; when masked assassins slink through nighted chambers, envenomed daggers bright in their black-gloved hands. A night for conspiracy; a night for murder.

A tramp of feet and the occasional clink of a sword in its scabbard made itself heard above the sounds of wind and rain. A detachment of the night watch ―six men, booted and cloaked, with hat brims pulled low against the weather and with pikes and halberds on shoulder―strode through the nighted streets. They made little noise, save an occasional low-voiced remark in the liquid Zingaran tongue. They glanced right and left sharply for signs r,x doors or windows feloniously forced; they listened for sounds of disturbance; they tramped on, thinking of the flagons of wine they would down, once their dank patrol was over.

After the watch had passed an abandoned stable with its roof half fallen in, two shadowy figures, who had been standing motionless inside, came to life. From beneath his cloak, one produced a small dark lantern and uncovered its bull's eye. The beam of the candle inside the lantern picked out a spot on the stable floor.

Stooping, the man with the lantern brushed dirt away and uncovered a stone trap door, to which was stapled a short length of chain ending in a bronze ring. Both men seized the ring and heaved. The trapdoor rose with a squeak of unoiled hinges. The two dark figures disappeared into the aperture, and the trap door returned with a thump to its former position.

A narrow stone stair spiraled down into darkness, feebly broken by the wavering beam of the dark lantern. Old and worn were the stones of this stair; mold and fungus beslimed the rounded steps. The must of centuries of decay wafted up the shaft.

The two black-cloaked men descended the stair with cautious, silent steps.

Silken masks concealed their features. Like shadowy specters, they felt their way downward, while a wet sea breeze from the passageways below―secret tunnels connected with the open sea―stirred their cloaks and raised them like the wings of giant bats.

High above the sleeping town, the towers of the castle of Villagro, duke of Kordava, soared against the somber sky. Few lights burned in the tall, slitted windows, for few of the dwellers were awake.

Far beneath this pile of ancient masonry, however, a man sat studying parchments by the light of a tall golden candelabrum, whose branches bore the likeness of intertwined serpents.

No cost had been spared to render the stony vault a seat of luxury. Walls of damp, rough stone were hung with richly embroidered tapestries. The cold stone flags of the floor were hidden by a thick, soft carpet of many colors―scarlet, gold, emerald, azure, and violet―in the complex, florid designs of distant Vendhya.

A taboret of gilded wood, decorated with subtly sensuous groupings of meticulously detailed nude figures in carved relief, bore a silver tray laden with refreshments: wine of Kyros in a crystal decanter, fruit and pastries in silver bowls.

The desk, whereat the man sat reading, was huge and ornately carved after the style of imperial Aquilonia to the northeast. An inkwell of gold and crystal held a peacock plume for a quill. A slender sword lay across the desk like a paperweight.

The man himself was of middle years, perhaps fifty, but lean and elegant. His slender legs were clad in black silken hose and graceful shoes of the beautifully tooled leather of Kordava, with gemmed buckles, which flashed as he impatiently tapped his toe. His wiry torso was clad in a doublet of turquoise velvet, the sleeves of which were puffed and slashed to display an inner lining of peach-colored satin. Snowy lace foamed at his lean wrists. A huge jewel gleamed on each finger of his carefully-groomed hands.

The man's age was revealed by the sagging flesh of his jowls and the dark, baggy circles beneath his cold, quick, dark eyes. He had obviously tried to hide his years, for the hair that was smoothly combed to his shoulders was dyed, and a veneer of powder softened the lines in his aristocratic features. But the cosmetics failed to conceal the roughened flesh, the discolor-ations beneath the hard, weary eyes, and the wattled neck.

With one bejewelled hand, he played with the parchments―official documents with gilt and crimson seals and fluttering ribbons, inscribed with ornate cursive penmanship. The man's tapping toe and the frequent glances at the handsome water clock on the sideboard betrayed his impatience. He also sent his dark glance toward a heavy arras in the corner.

Behind the man at the desk, a silent Kushite slave stood with heavily muscled arms folded upon his naked chest. Golden hoops flashed in his elongated earlobes; the candlelight shone on the musculature of his splendid torso. A naked scimitar was thrust through a crimson sash.

With a clashing of tiny gears, the water clock chimed. It was two hours past midnight.

With a muffled curse, the man at the desk threw down the crackling parchment he had been studying. At that instant, the arras was drawn aside, disclosing the mouth of a secret passage. Two men, cloaked and masked in black, stood in the mouth of the passage. One bore a small lantern; the light of the candelabrum sparkled on the intruders' wet cloaks.

The seated man had set one hand on the hilt of the rapier that lay across the desk, while the Kushite seized the scimitar at his waist. As the two men entered the chamber and doffed their masks, however, the older man relaxed.

"It's all right, Gomani," he said to the black, who again folded his arms on his chest and resumed his indifferent stare.

The two newcomers dropped their cloaks to form shapeless black heaps on the floor and bowed to him at the desk. The first man, tossing back the cowl of his robe to disclose a bald or shaven skull, hawk-nosed features, aloof black eyes, and a thin mouth, clasped his hands before his breast and bowed over them.

The other man set down his lantern and made a leg with courtly grace, doffing his plumed hat in a low bow and murmuring "My lord Duke!" When he rose again to stand nonchalantly with one hand on the jeweled hilt of a long sword, it could be seen that he was a tall, slender, black-haired man with sallow skin and a sharp-featured, predatory face. His thin black mustachios were so precise that they might have been added to his face by an artist. He had a flavor of spurious gentility: a touch of theatrical flamboyance and more than a touch of the piratical.

Villagro, duke of Kordava, fixed the gaunt Zingaran with an icy glance. "Master Zarono, I am not accustomed to being kept waiting," he observed.

Again that courtly bow. "A thousand pardons, Your Grace! Not for the blessings of all uie gods would I have displeased you."

"Then why are you half an hour late, sirrah?"

A graceful gesture. "A mere nothing―a wisp of foolery―"

The man with the priestly shaven skull put in: "A tavern brawl, lord Duke."

"A brawl in a common wineshop?" demanded the duke. "Have you lost your wits, you scoundrel? How did this happen?"

His sallow cheeks flushing, Zarono cast a glare of menace at the priest, who returned his look impassively. "Twas naught, Your Grace! Nothing that need detain you―"

"I will judge that, Zarono," said the duke. "It is not impossible that our plan has been betrayed. Are you certain that this―ah―interruption was not a provocation?" The duke's hands closed on a folded letter and tightened until their knuckles whitened.

Zarono gave a smooth little laugh. "Nothing at all like that, my lord. Perhaps you have heard of an oafish barbarian called Conan, who has risen to command of a Zingaran privateer, notwithstanding that he is but the whelp of some Cimmerian slut in the frozen North?"

"I know nothing of the rogue. Continue."

"As I say, 'twas naught. But, entering the Inn of the Nine Drawn Swords for my rendezvous with the holy Menkara here, I espied a roast sizzling on the spit and, as I had not replenished nature since dawn, I resolved to slay two pigeons with a single bolt. Since a man of my quality cannot be expected to waste his time in waiting, I hailed Sabral the tavemer and commanded him to set the haunch before me. Then this Cimmerian lout, claiming it was his dinner, dared oppose me. A gentleman can scarce be expected to brook that upstart outlanders be given preference―"

"What happened? Come to the point," said the duke.

"There was some argument, and from words we passed to buffets." Zarono chuckled as he touched a dark swelling beneath one eye. "The fellow is strong as a bull, although I flatter myself that I also marked his ugly visage. Before I could show the peasant the temper of my steel, the taverner and some of his customers seized us and forced us apart―not without effort, as it took four or five of them to hold either of us. In the meantime, the holy father Menkara here had arrived, and he devoted himself to assuaging our angry passions. What with one thing and another…"

"I see; it was in all probability a mere accident But you should know better than to provoke such broils. I will not have it! And now to business. This, I presume, is… ?"

The Zingaran twirled his mustachios. "Pardon my ill manners, Your Grace; I present the holy Menkara, a priest of Set, whom I have persuaded to join our high emprise and who now labors diligently in the cause."

The shaven-headed one again clasped hands and bowed. Villagro nodded curtly.

"Why did you insist on a personal interview, holy Father?" he snapped. "I prefer to work through agents like Zarono. Is aught amiss? Is the compensation offered you enoughr

The glazed eyes of the bald Stygian bore a deceptive look of dull indifference.

"Gold is but dross; yet, for all that, the fleshly envelope must be sustained on this lowly plane of being. Our cultus knows that the world is but an illusion―a mask over the naked face of chaos… But pardon this lowly one, lord Duke.

Theological discourse is a custom of my land, but my presence here is due to the custom of your country, eh?" The Stygian gave a bleak little smile, indicating that he had made a joke.

Duke Villagro raised an inquiring eyebrow. Menkara continued: "I refer to Your Grace's plan to compel the amiable but senile King Ferdrugo to bestow the hand of Princess Chabela upon you, before the well-timed end of his existence on this planet. I alluded to the well-known apothegm: 'Conspiracy and treason are venerable customs in Zingara.'"

Villagro's grimace showed that he did not deem the joke very humorous. "Yes, yes, priest, all this we know. What is your news? How goeth the struggle to capture our subjects' minds?"

The Stygian shrugged. "All goeth poorly, my lord. The mind of Ferdrugo is easily dominated, for he is old and sickly. I have, however, encountered a problem."

"Well?"

"When I have the king under the valence of my will, I can command him perfectly.

I can force him to give you the princess's hand; but the princess― not unreasonably, given the difference in your ages ―balks."

"Then place her mind under your control as well, you bald-pated fool!" snarled Villagro, irked by the allusion to his age.

Cold fires flared in the Stygian's dull eyes but were swiftly banked. "This very night have I striven to that end," he purred. "My spirit came upon the princess slumbering in her suite and intruded into her dreams. She is young, strong, and vital. With the greatest difficulty, I achieved control of her brain―but even as my shadow whispered to her sleeping soul, I felt my control over the old king's mind loosen and slip away. I swiftly released the girl to reassume my mastery of her father. She awoke in terror and, although she remembers naught of my whispered suggestions, I have doubtless alarmed her.

"Here is the problem. I cannot at the same time control both king and princess―"

He broke off, for fire blazed up in the duke's eyes. "So it was you, you bungling dogl" roared Villagro.

Surprise and alarm flickered in the Stygian's dull gaze. "What means my lord?"

he murmured. Zarono added his query to that of the priest.

The duke voiced a strangled oath. "Is it possible that my cunning spy and my canny sorcerer are oblivious to what has half the city in a buzz?" he shouted.

"Can it be that neither of you idiots knows that the princess has disappeared from the city? And that all our plans are set at naught?"

Duke Villagro had laid his plans with care. King Ferdrugo was decrepit and ailing. To insure a peaceful succession, the royal princess, Chabela, must soon wed. Who could better sue for her hand and follow her to the throne than Villagro, a widower of many years and, after the king, the richest and most powerful peer of the realm?

In the crypt beneath his ancient castle, Villagro had advanced his scheme. The privateer Zarono, of noble lineage but tarnished past, he enlisted in his cause.

To Zarono he gave the task of enlisting a sorcerer of flexible scruples, who could influence the mind and will of the aging monarch. For this mission, the wily Zarono had selected Menkara, wizard-priest of the outlawed Stygian cult of Set. Chabela's flight, however, threw all Villagro's plans awry. What booted it to control the mind of the king if the princess were no longer present to be wedded?

With stony self-possession, Menkara gradually calmed the agitated Villagro. He said: "May it please Your Grace, but such modest mastery of the occult sciences as I possess should soon reveal the lady's present location."

"Do it, then," said Villagro gloomily.

At the priest's direction, Gomani the Kushite fetched a bronze tripod and charcoal from the adjacent torture cell. The carpet was rolled back, revealing the stony pave. From beneath his robe, the Stygian produced a large wallet with many interior compartments. From this he took a piece of luminous green chalk, with which he traced on the floor a circular design like a serpent holding its tail in its jaws.

Meanwhile, the Kushite kindled a small fire on the tripod. Blowing and fanning soon raised the charcoal to red heat.

On the glowing coals, the priest poured a fragrant green fluid from a crystal phial. With a serpentine hiss, a sharp aromatic odor filled the still air of the chamber. Pale-green spirals of smoke coiled and writhed in the drowsy air.

The priest seated himself tailor-fashion in the circle of green chalk. The candelabrum was extinguished, plunging the chamber into an eery gloom. Three sources of light remained: the red glow of the coals in the brazier, the green-glowing serpentiform circle of chalk, and the yellow eyes of the sorcerer, which blazed like the orbs of some nocturnal beast.

The voice of the Stygian rose, chanting: "Iao, Set-esh… Setesh, Iao! Abrathax kuraim mizraeth, Seteshr The harsh, sibilant words died to a droning whisper, then faded away. The only sound was that of the slow rhythm of the Stygian's breathing. As he sank into a trance, his yellow orbs were veiled by his eyelids.

"Mitra!" gasped Zarono, but the viselike grip of the duke on his arm enjoined him to silence.

The coils of smoke writhed and diffused into a luminous, jade-green cloud.

Patches of light and dark appeared in the vapor. Then the watchers gazed upon a life-like scene within the cloud. This scene snowed a small ship, caravel-rigged, racing across a nighted sea. On the foredeck stood a young girl, her rounded form apparent through the heavy cloak, which the wind whipped tightly against her vigorous young body…

"Chabela!" breathed Villagro.

As if his murmur broke the spell, the glowing cloud eddied and fragmented. The coals went out with a hiss. The priest fell forward, his bald brow thudding against the floor.

"Whither is she bound?" Villagro asked Menkara when a swallow of wine had revived the sorcerer.

The Stygian pondered. "I read the name of Asgalun in her mind. Know you of any reason why she should seek Asgalun, Your Grace?"

"That is where the king's brother, Tovarro, has his present seat," mused the duke. "As ambassador, he roves from one Shemite city to another, but that is where he now is. I see it! She will flee to Tovarro and beseech him to return to Kordava. With that meddlesome fellow here, the gods only know what would befall our plans. Well, then, what's to do, since your powers cannot dominate both king and princess simultaneously?"

Zarono stretched out a hand toward the silver tray, murmuring: "With Your Grace's land permission?" At Villagro's nod, Zarono helped himself to a piece of fruit. "Methinks," he said between bites, "we should get another sorcerer."

"That makes good sense," said the duke. "Whom do you suggest, priest?"

The Stygian brooded without expression. "The chief of my order," he said at last, "and the mightiest magician now carnate on this plane, is the great Thoth-Amon."

"Where does this Thoth-Ammon reside?"

"He dwells in his native Stygia, in the Oasis of Khajar," replied Menkara. "I must, however, warn Your Grace that the mighty talents of Thoth-Amon are not to be purchased with mere gold." A bitter smile curled the swarthy lips. "Gold can buy little men, like me; but Thoth-Amon is a veritable prince of sorcery. One who commands the spirits of the earth has no need of material wealth."

"What, then, can tempt him?"

"One dream lies close to Thoth-Amon's heart," purred the priest. "Centuries ago, the cults of the accursed Mitra and of my own divinity, Set, warred here in these western realms. Such were the twists of fate that my cultus was thrown down, while the Mi-tra-worshipers were exalted over us. The worship of the Serpent was outlawed, and all of my order were driven into exile.

"Now, if Your Grace would swear to throw down the temples of Mitra and rebuild the fanes of Set in their place, and elevate great Set over the upstart gods of the West, then I daresay that Thoth-Amon would lend his power to your schemes."

The duke chewed his lip. Gods, temples, and priests meant nothing to him, so long as the temples and their hierarchy paid their taxes. He shrugged.

"It shall be so," he said. "I will swear it by any gods or demons your wonder-worker names. Now, here are your tasks: "At dawn, you shall put to sea. Set your course to the southeast and intercept the vessel bearing the princess. Seize her and destroy the ship, leaving no survivors to tell the tale. Your Petrel, Zarono, should easily overhaul the little Sea Queen.

"Having secured the lady, you shall continue on to Stygia. You, Menkara, shall guide the party to Thoth-Ammon's stronghold and serve as my ambassador to him.

When you have enlisted him in our cause, you shall return to Kordava with him and the princess. Are there any questions?"

Thus the double mission was launched.

Chapter Two

A KNIFE IN THE DARK

Dawn paled the eastern sky. The storm had blown over. Now broken, black clouds scudded across the somber heavens. A few faint stars, lingering in the west, were seen intermittently through the gaps in the clouds and were reflected in the puddles of muddy rainwater in the gutters of Kordava.

Zarono, master of the privateer Petrel and secret agent of the duke of Kordava, strode through the wet streets in a foul mood. His exchange of fisticuffs with the giant Cimmerian buccaneer had not sweetened his temper, to say nothing of his having missed his dinner. The imprecations heaped upon him by his master the duke had further soured his disposition, and to top it all he was bleary-eyed with lack of sleep and ravenously hungry. As he dodged dripping eaves and hiked the edges of his cloak out of muddy puddles, his mouth tasted of smothered anger. He yearned for something helpless on which to vent his wrath. Menkara loped silently at his side.

A scrawny little man, whose bare legs could be seen under the ragged hem of his patched cassock, strove to keep his footing on the greasy cobbles as he scurried through the gusty streets. His sandals slapped against the wet stones. With one hand he gathered a patched shawl about his meager chest; with the other he held aloft a burning link of tarred rope to light his way.

Under his breath, he mumbled the dawn litany to Mitra. To him, this was a mere jumble of meaningless sounds, for his mind was elsewhere. Thus Ninus, a minor priest of the Mitraic temple, hurried through the wet, windy streets to his destiny.

Ninus had risen from his pallet before dawn and, eluding the preceptor, had crept from the precincts of the temple of Mitra into a gloom-drenched alley.

Thence he made his way toward the harbor of Kordava and his meeting with the foreign corsair, Conan the Cimmerian.

The unprepossessing little man had a wobbling paunch and spindly shanks. Watery eyes looked out over a huge nose. He was wrapped in a tattered robe of the Mitraic priesthood―a robe that was none too clean and suspiciously stained with the purple spots of forbidden wine. In his earlier years, before seeing the light of Mitra, Ninus had been one of the ablest jewel thieves of the Hyborian lands; this was how he had become acquainted with Conan. Never much of a temple goer, the burly privateer had also once been a thief himself, and the two were friends of long standing. Although Ninus felt that his call to the priesthood was sincere, he had never succeeded in subduing the fleshly appetites that he had so freely indulged in his former hie.

Close to his scrawny bosom, the little priest hugged the document that Conan had promised to buy. The privateer needed treasure, and Ninus required gold ―or at least silver. The chart had long been in Ninus' possession. In his thieving days, the little man had often thought of following its inked path to the fabulous wealth whose hiding place it professed to disclose. But since, in his present holy profession, it seemed unlikely that he would ever hunt treasure again, why not sell the map?

His mind full of rosy visions of sweet wine, hearty roasts, and plump wenches that, he hoped, Conan's money would obtain, Ninus scurried around the cor-'

ner―and ran full into two men in dark cloaks, who stepped aside to avoid him.

Murmuring an apology, the little priest peered near-sightedly at the gaunt man whose hooded robes had fallen back. Then astonishment shocked him out of his normal prudence.

"Menkara the Setitel" he cried shrilly. "You here? Vile snake-worshiper, how dare you?^ Raising his voice in righteous wrath, Ninus shouted for the watch.

Growling an oath, Zarono seized his companion to hurry him away, but the Stygian tore loose and turned blazing eyes upon him. "The little swine knows me!" he hissed. "Slay him quickly, else we are all undone!"

Zarono hesitated but an instant, then whipped out his dagger and thrust. The life of one miserable priest meant nothing to him; the important thing was not to have to answer the questions of the watch.

The gleam of the steel blade in the waxing light of dawn was quenched in the robes of the Mitraist. Ninus staggered back with a choking cry, gasped, and crumpled up on the cobbles. A drop of blood oozed from his mouth.

The Stygian spat. "So perish all your abominable kind!" he snarled.

Peering nervously about, Zarono hastily wiped his blade clean on the fallen man's cloak. "Let us begone!" he growled.

But the Stygian's eyes had noticed a bulge in Ninus' tunic. He crouched and took a small roll of parchment from the Mitraist's garment. With both hands, he spread the document.

"A chart of some kind," mused the sorcerer. "With study, methinks I could decipher―"

"Later, later!" insisted Zarono. Tlasten, ere the watch find usH

Menkara nodded and secreted the scroll. The two men slunk off through the reddening mists of dawn, leaving Ninus sprawled on the cobbles.

Fed by poor wine, an inconclusive scuffle with the sneering Zarono, and hours of idle waiting, Conan's humor had grown steadily worse. Now, restless as a jungle cat, he prowled the common room of the smoky fa", whose ceiling barely cleared the top of his head. Although the Nine Drawn Swords had earlier been crowded, there were now only a few customers left, such as a trio of drunken seamen sprawled in the corner. Two of these softly sang chanteys off key and out of time, while the third had fallen asleep.

The time candle told Conan that dawn was approaching. Ninus was hours overdue.

Something must have befallen the little priest, who would never be so late when there was money to be had. Speaking Zingaran with a barbarous accent, Conan growled to the stout tavemer: "Sabrall I'm going out for a breath of fresh air. If any ask for me, I shall be back soon."

Outside, the rain had died to mere eves-dripping. The black blanket of cloud had broken up and rolled away. The silver moon again peered forth, to illumine the last of the night; but already she had paled in the growing light of dawn. Wisps of mist arose from the puddles.

With a hearty belch, Conan strode heavily along the wet cobbles, meaning to take a turn around the block in which the Nine Drawn Swords stood. He cursed Ninus under his breath. The holy little tosspot would make him lose the dawn breeze, which would carry the Wastrel out of the harbor of Kordava. Without it, they might have to put the longboat over and warp the ship out by laborious towing.

Then Conan suddenly halted, frozen motionless. Huddled in the rain-streaming gutter, a shapeless clump of soiled garments and sprawled limbs had it his gaze.

caug

His eyes probed right and left, searching housetops, doorways, and the mouths of alleys for signs of lurking assailants. Gently he brushed aside his heavy black rain cloak and eased the cutlass in his scabbard. In this quarter of the old city, a corpse was no cause for surprise. The crumbling hovels that lined the crooked alleys harbored thieves, assassins, and other such human scum. But where a victim lies, his assailant sometimes lurks nearby, and Conan had long since learned caution in such matters.

As silently as a prowling leopard, the burly Cimmerian slunk through the shadows to kneel beside the huddled figure. With one careful hand he turned it over on its back. Fresh blood guttered darkly in the reddening light of dawn. The cowl fell back to reveal the face.

Xrom!" growled Conan. For this was the ex-thief and priest, Ninus of Messantia, for whom Conan had waited so long.

With swift hands, the Cimmerian examined the body. The chart, which Ninus had promised to bring to the inn to sell him, was missing.

As Conan squatted back on his haunches, his thoughts raced swiftly behind his grim, impassive features. Who would wish the death of an insignificant little priestling, with no more than a few coppers in his purse? The chart was the only thing of any value that the priest could have carried. Since it was absent, logic asserted that the harmless Ninus must have been knifed so that his assailant could possess himself of the chart.

The upper limb of the rising sun reddened the towers and roof ridges of old Kordava. In its light, Con-an's volcanic gaze burst into fierce blue flame.

Clenching his scarred fist, the giant Cimmerian swore that someone should pay for this deed, and in blood.

Gently, the Cimmerian lifted the small body in his powerful arms and strode swiftly back to the Nine Drawn Swords. Pushing into the common room, he barked at the taverner: "Sabral! A private room and a chirurgeon, and quickly!"

The taverner knew that, when he used this tone, the Cimmerian brooked no delay.

He hastened to lead Conan with his burden up the rickety stairs to the second floor.

The eyes of the few remaining customers followed the Cimmerian's course with curious stares. They saw a tall man, almost a giant, of enormously powerful build. The dark, scarred face under the battered sailor's hat was clean-shaven, and the heavy, sun-bronzed features were framed by a square-cut mane of coarse black hair. The deep-set eyes under the massive black brows were blue. The buccaneer carried the body in his arms with as little effort as if it had been a small child.

None of Conan's crew was in the tavern. Conan had made sure of this when he had formed his appointment with Ninus, for he did not wish news of the treasure chart to pass current among the crew until he was ready to tell them himself.

Sabral led Conan to the chamber that he reserved for guests of quality. Conan started to lay Ninus on the bed, but he paused as Sabral whisked the bedspread out from under the body.

"No blood on my best spread!" he said.

"Fiends take your spread!" snarled Conan, laying Ninus down. While Sabral folded the spread, Conan examined Ninus. The priest breathed faintly, and his pulse fluttered.

"He lives, at least," growled Conan. "Get you gone, man, and fetch a leech! Do not stand gaping like an idiot!"

The taverner silently vanished. Conan bared Ninus' torso and crudely bound the wound, which still seeped blood.

Sabral entered with a yawning physician in a night robe, with a straggle of gray hairs escaping from under die edges of his nightcap.

"The good Doctor Cratos," said the taverner.

The physician undid Conan's bandage, cleansed the wound, and bound it up again with a clean cloth. "Luckily," said he, "the stab seems to have missed the heart and the large blood vessels and to have only scratched the lung. With good care, he should live. Are you paying for him, Captain?"

Conan grunted assent. A few swallows of wine restored Ninus to partial consciousness. In a voice that was little more than a whisper, the priest told his tale:

"I ran into―two men―on the street. One―Menkara, the priest of Set. I cried―cried out. He told― the other―slay me."

"Who was the other?" demanded Conan.

"All wrapped up―wide hat and cloak―but methinks―buccaneer Zarono…"

Conan scowled. Zarono! That was the sneering privateer with whom he had quarreled, hours before.

Had Zarono heard of his rendezvous with Ninus and waylaid the priest to rob him of the chart? Everything pointed to a shrewd conspiracy to wrest the secret of the treasure from Conan.

He stood up, his face flushed with anger. "Here!" he rumbled. Digging a fistful of coins from his purse, he slapped them into Cratos' palm. Another handful was pressed upon Sabral.

"See that he has good care and gets well, you two!" said Conan. "Well settle the exact charges when I return, and woe betide you if you do not your best for him!

If he dies, bury him with the full rites of Mitra.NowI'moff."

Like a ghost, he vanished out the door of the chamber, glided down the stair, and plunged out the heavy front door of the Inn of the Nine Drawn Swords. He strode swiftly, with the heavy black cloak flapping about his boot heels.

As the risen sun gilded the masts and yards of the ships, the harbor bustled with activity. Sailors scrambled up and down the rigging, officers bellowed commands through parchment speaking trumpets, and creaking wooden cranes, powered by the muscles of longshoremen straining at winches and capstans, swung bales from pier to deck.

Conan came striding down to the waterfront. In answer to his curt query, the captain of the harbor watch told him that Zarono's Petrel had departed more than an hour previously and had long since vanished behind the hook that formed the eastern horn of the harbor. Conan growled rude thanks, spun on his heel, and went clattering up the gangplank of his own vessel, the carack Wastrel.

"Zeltran!" he bellowed.

"Aye, Captain?" said the mate, who was ordering the placing of provisions in the hold. Zeltran was a short, rotund Zingaran with a long, sweeping black mustache.

Despite his fat, he movedas lightly as a cat.

"Line the rascals up and call roll!" said Conan. "We shove off as soon as we can!"

Presently the entire crew of buccaneers was assembled in the waist. The majority were swarthy Zingarans, with a sprinkling of other nationalities. Three were missing, and the ship's boy was sent scurrying to drag them out of the dives in which they had overslept their liberty. The rest of the crew, lashed on by Conan's voice, speeded up their leisurely loading of the ship.

The missing men at last appeared at a run; the last bale was stowed; the cables were cast off from the quay. Eight sailors strained at the oars of the longboat to tow the Wastrel out to open water. When the first hint of a sea breeze caused the sails to lift and flap, the longboat came alongside and was hauled aboard.

Then, as her sails filled, the Wastrel leaned with the wind; the ripple at her bow grew to a white curl of foam. She rocked gently and rhythmically as she met the swells of the open sea, and the squeal of the circling gulls mingled with the splash of the bow wave, the groan of timbers, the creak of cordage, and the sigh of the wind in the rigging.

Conan stood at the forward end of the quarterdeck, leaning on the rail and peering moodily past the edge of the mainsail at the distant horizon. Having given the course that Conan had commanded and organized the watches, Zeltran bustled up to stand beside the Cimmerian.

"Well, my Captain," quoth he, "and whither away this time?"

"Know you Black Zarono's PetreW said Conan.

"That big tub that put out an hour before you came to the ship? Aye, I know her.

They say that Zarono's a skilled seaman but a hard, black-hearted man. He had connections among the lesser nobility; but they kicked him out, 'tis said, because of something he did that even those highborn reprobates wouldn't stand for. That's how he came to be a buccaneer. Be you at odds with Captain Zarono?

He's no copemate to take on lightly."

"Keep it to yourself, rattlepate, and 111 tell you." Conan gave Zeltran a brief account of Ninus, the chart, and Zarono. "So," he continued, "if I catch him in open sea, 111 give him a proper taste of steel. If the Petrel is bigger, the Wastrel has finer lines and can beat closer to the wind."

"Oh, aye, we can catch her," said Zeltran, giving his mustache a fierce twirl.

"And I've no doubt that I could slay six or seven of Zarono's knaves all by myself. But, Captain, weren't it cleverer to follow him without letting him know, thus letting him lead you to the treasure?"

Conan turned a burning, slit-eyed gaze on the mate. Then he grinned and clapped the smaller man on the back.

"By Crom and Mannanan, little man," he roared, "you ve earned your pay!" He glanced up to where a cluster of sailors, standing on the topsail footrope with one arm each about the yard, were awaiting the command to break out the topsail.

"Belay that!" he bellowed. "Back to the deck, you!" He turned to Zeltran. "We won't fly our topsail, because Zarono would see it, and we can sail as fast without ours as he can with his. Who is that man with the eagle sight?"

TUegoof Jerida?"

"That's the one. Put Mm in the top and let us see what he sees."

The young Zingaran sailor was presently standing in the basket-shaped main top, peering toward the southeastern horizon. He called down: "Carack dead ahead, Captain. I see her topsail, and when a wave lifts her I can glimpse a black hull."

"That's the Petrel," said Conan. "Steady as you go, helmsman." He turned to Zeltran, who stood tugging at his huge mustache. "Well hold back during the day, and at night draw close enough to glimpse his running light. With luck, hell not even see us!"

Conan grinned hardily, with a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. He drew a deep breath, and expelled it in a gust. This was the Me: a sound deck under heel, half a hundred hardy rogues at your command, a sea to sail and a foe to fight―and wild, red, roaring adventure in the offing!

With all sails but the telltale topsail spread, the Wastrel foamed southeastward on the track of the Petrel, as the blinding sun soared into the azure heavens and dolphins bounded out of the turquoise swells 1 back in again.

Chapter Three

DEATH OF THE SEA QUEEN

The caravel Sea Queen, which served as the Zingaran royal yacht, had passed between the Zingaran coast and the Barachan Isles. This archipelago was a notorious nest of pirates―most of them Argosseans ―but on this occasion none of their corsairs was scouring that part of the Western Ocean. Then the ship passed die boundary between Zingara and Argos.

The Argossean coast fell off to eastward. Following Chabela's commands, Captain Kapellez bore to port, but not so sharply as the coast curved. Hence the Argossean coast fell away until it was barely visible from the masthead.

There were two reasons for this course. One was to reach the coast of Shem near Asgalun as quickly as possible. The other was to lessen the chance that some mainland-based Argossean pirate or privateer might put out after them.

Now, however, a massive black carack had been visible aft since mid-moming. By early afternoon it had drawn close enough for the keenest-eyed sailor of the crew to make out its insignia.

"Tis naught to fear, my lady," said Captain Kapellez. "Yonder ship is but one of the privateers in the service of your royal sire. I make it out to be the Petrel, under Captain Zarono."

Chabela was still not satisfied. There was something ominous about the steady approach of that bulky black hull. Of course, it might be happenstance that the other ship was following the same course as their own.

Neither was the name of Zarono reassuring. She hardly knew the man beyond a formal acquaintance at court functions, but sinister rumors wafted about concerning the buccaneer. One of her friends, the lady Estrellada, had passed on to Chabela the tale that Zarono was smitten with her, Chabela's, charms. But the princess had paid little heed to this, for unattached men around the court were always smitten with the charms of a princess as a matter of course. There was always a chance that one or another would become a royal consort…

Now her suspicions were fully aroused. It was the third day after the Sea Queen had left Kordava, and by now her disappearance would have become general knowledge. In fact, the palace would be in an uproar.

The absence of the royal yacht from its usual mooring would have betrayed Chabela's method of flight. Since it was incredible that she would have headed north to the wild shores of Pictland, or west into the trackless wastes of the unexplored ocean, it was plain that she must have set her course southeast, along the coast oS the main continent. There lay Argos, the city-states of Shem, and the sinister kingdom of Stygia 'ere one came to the black countries.

The disturbance over her disappearance might well, she thought, have been loud enough even to rouse King Ferdrugo from the lethargy that gripped him. He might have dispatched Zarono with a commission to hale his fugitive daughter back home.

Chabela murmured gracious but distracted words to the captain and turned away.

After pacing the deck restlessly, she leaned her elbows on the rail, which was carved with leaping dolphins and trident-brandishing mermen. She watched the pursuing craft as if under a hypnotic spell.

The Petrel drew steadily nearer, its blunt bow smashing through the waves. At this rate, she thought, in another half-hour it would forge up to windward, blanketing the sails of the Sea Queen and bringing the smaller vessel to a halt.

Chabela was by no means ignorant of naval and nautical lore. Unlike her father, who detested the sea and never went near the Sea Queen, she had been a sailor girl ever since she was a small child. Only in the last few years, since she had grown into womanhood, had her father's strict commands stopped her practice of donning sailor garb and swarming into the rigging with the seamen.

The princess shivered, then forced herself to relax. The other carack had so far displayed no hostile or alarming intentions. A Zingaran privateer would hardly be so insane as to attack the private yacht of the king of Zingara.

Then a shadow fell across the sun-bright deck. This shadow was, strangely, a dark green: an uncanny emerald shroud of mystic gloom.

Raising her head, the princess could see nothing to explain the weird nebulosity that now enshrouded the Sea Queen. No cloud lay athwart the sun; no flying monster hovered on flapping wings. Yet a shroud of emerald gloom had enveloped the Sea Queen like a dense though impalpable fog. The faces of the crew were pale and wide-eyed with fear.

Then terror struck. Tentacles of green gloom swirled about the nearest sailor, who snrieked with fear. Like the coiling limbs of some kraken of the deep, the shadowy tentacles enmeshed him. The girl caught one wild look at his white, despairing face and thrashing limbs. Then the green coils seemed to sink into his body and disappear. The burly seaman stiffened to statuesque immobility, while a green hue suffused his flesh and even his garments. He looked like a statue of jade.

Chabela cried out to Mitra. The entire ship was a mass of yelling, struggling men, battling with mad futility against the slithering coils of emerald mist that swept about them and sank into their flesh, transforming them into motionless green effigies.

Then ropy green tendrils curled about the princess herself. Her flesh crept with fear as she felt the touch of the impalpable stuff. At the touch, a chilling paralysis ran through her body. As the coils sank into her, a cold darkness closed down on her mind and she knew nothing more.

On the quarterdeck of Zarono's Petrel, the privateer watched with ill-concealed awe as the Stygian sorcerer worked his spell. Motionless as a dusty mummy, the Stygian squatted before an apparatus he had constructed as the carack approached the Sea Queen. This consisted of a small cone of dim, gray crystal, atop a low altar of black wood. The altar had the appearance of great age. It had once been elaborately carved, but the carvings were now largely worn away. Those that survived showed minute naked human beings fleeing from a colossal serpent. The eyes of the serpent had originally been a pair of opals, but one had fallen out of its socket and been lost.

In response to Menkara's whispered incantation, the crystal cone had flashed into an eery radiance. A nimbus of pulsing emerald light had woven about It, illuminating the swart features of the mage and making his visage look more skull-like than ever.

When the nimbus of green light was actively pulsating, the Stygian had held before his face a mirror of black metal, framed by an iron wreath of intertwined monsters. As Zarono watched with mounting awe, the emerald radiance seemed to be drawn to the surface of the mirror and reflected thence to the distant deck of the Sea Queen. Faint in the sunlight, the green beam was nevertheless plainly visible, stretching straight across the heaving gap between the ships. Something was happening on the caravel, although Zarono could not quite see what because of the distance.

With the loss of control of her tiller, the Sea Queen lost seaway and lay wallowing with sails flapping. Zarono brought his carack alongside. The Stygian emerged from his trance and sagged wearily against the rail. His dark features were the color of dirty linen, and cold sweat bedewed his impassive countenance.

I "I am done," sighed Menkara. "That conjuration taxes one's strength to the limit And yet, it is no great spell, being easily warded off by one who knows how… But those silly beings yonder are ignorant of magical matters. Go; you will find them harmless to you for an hour."

"Are they dead, then?"

"Nay; merely in a suspension of animation. Help me to my cabin."

Zarono assisted the enfeebled sorcerer to his feet and led him, stumbling, to his quarters, while the boatswain carried the altar with its cone.

When he had closed the door upon the exhausted Stygian, Zarono wiped the sweat from his forehead with a lace kerchief. Wizardry was all very well, but it was a fearsome weapon. Far more would he, Black Zarono, prefer the clash of cutlasses, the whine of arrows and bolts, the smash of catapult balls, and the crash of a bronzen ram into the side of a hostile ship. He had committed not a few villainies in his career, but at least they had been sins of the normal human kind, not this dabbling with dark and perhaps uncontrollable powers from unearthly planes and dimensions.

"Ernando!" he roared at the cook. "A double flagon of wine, and the strongest we have in the butts!"

Thus the Sea Queen was taken and, very shortly, died. Boarders from the Petrel swung aboard, picked up the frozen figure of the girl, and carried her to Zarono's quarterdeck. Others piled combustibles around the bases of the masts and doused the piles with oil. Then all returned to the Petrel and shoved off with poles and boathooks.

When there was a safe gap between the two ships, a squad of archers lit fire arrows and discharged them at the Sea Queen. In a few minutes, the piles caught fire. One by one, the sails blazed up with a roar, spreading black, charred fragments far and wide. Flames spread over the ship, engulfing the living but motionless crewmen.

The Petrel spread her sails again and plodded onward toward the coast of Shem, leaving the blazing wreck behind.

From the main top of his own carack, Conan gazed toward the mushroom of smoke that marked the end of the Sea Queen and muttered an oath to his grim Cimmerian god, Crom. The Wastrel lay ofl the horizon to the northwest, invisible from the deck of the Petrel―although, had any of Zarono's folk thought to scan the sea in that direction from the mastheads, they might have glimpsed the tops of Conan's rigging as the Wastrel rose on the swells.

From his eyrie, Conan had watched the doom of the Zingaran royal yacht. Why Zarono should stop to destroy a ship of his own nation, Conan could not imagine.

There must, he thought, be more to the plot than a simple rape of a treasure chart and a dash to seize the fabled hoard. But the mighty Cimmerian had long ago learned to set aside unanswerable questions until further information should cast light upon them, rather than futilely to brood and fret over them.

Whoever the unknown victims on the caravel were, he thought, he would avenge them at the same time that he settled his own score with Zarono. Perhaps he would soon have an opportunity.

Chapter Four

THE NAMELESS ISLE

Sunset transformed the cloudy vault of heaven into a canopy of burning splendor.

Over the dark waves, flecked with crimson reflections, the blunt black bow of the Petrel threw up a snowy bow wave as she ran free to the southwest under a quartering west wind. Far behind her and unknown to any aboard her, Conan followed in the Wastrel, hovering just beyond easy detection under the burning sunset and later under the silently wheeling stars.

In the master's cabin, Zarono sprawled in his great chair, brooding over a silver goblet set with uncut smaragds. The bouquet of strong Shemitish wine filled the wood-paneled chamber. The swaying lamps, hung by chains from overhead, shed wavering light on crinkled parchments pinned to the walls between ribbed stanchions. The light winked on the jewels in the hilts of swords and daggers, which also adorned these walls.

Zarono's sallow features were gloomy and his cold black eyes withdrawn. He wore a loose, full-sleeved blouse of soiled white silk, with lacy ruffles at throat and wrist. His thick black hair was tousled, and he was deep in drink.

When knuckles rapped lightly on his door, he growled a curse, then called a grudging permission to enter. In came Menkara with the rolled chart in one hand.

The lean Stygian surveyed the sprawled figure of the privateer with prim disfavor.

"More sorceries?" sneered Zarono, and hiccuped. Can you never leave an ordinary mortal to the pleasures of the vine, without thrusting your ugly face into his thoughts? Well, say your say."

Without answering this flare of drunken temper, Menkara unrolled the chart on the table before Zarono and pointed a bony finger at the lines of cryptic glyphs wherewith the enigmatic scroll was inscribed.

"I have been puzzling over the Mitraist priest's chart ever since we took it from him," said the Stygian, with unusual tension in his normally dull and listless voice. "The coastline shown here is obviously that of southerly Stygia.

Although the language is unknown to me, I found that some of the captions bore a tantalizing familiarity. I have bent my intellect to the task of deciphering the inscription, while you have sat here swilling like a fool―"

Zarono flushed and started to rise, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. But Menkara halted him with a raised palm.

"Control your personal feelings, man. This is a matter of greater importance.

Listen: I have studied comparable tongues in my magical apprenticeship, and I know that the ancient Valusian tongue, like those of ancient Stygia and Acheron, was writ with an alphabetic script, each symbol denoting a sound. Since certain parts of this chart show the lands we know as Shem and Stygia, with cities like Asgalun and Khemi, I was able to deduce the meaning of certain letters in the inscription, where they appear in the captions denoting these places. Other inscriptions seem to mark the sites of such vanished elder cities as Kamula and Python."

The music of these devil-haunted names sent a chill of sobriety into Zarono's befuddled wits. Frowning, he bent forward to listen closely. Menkara continued: "Thus, adding to my familiarity with this ancient tongue through the symbols representing known names, I was at length able to elucidate the inscription about this particular island, which I had never seen on a chart before."

Zarono frowned at the dot on the chart indicated by Menkara's gaunt forefinger.

"Unknown to me as well, sorcerer. Pray continue."

The Stygian went on: "I deciphered the inscription marking this isle as something like siojina-kisua. Now, this would seem to be from the old Stygian word siojina, or at least a cognate thereto. And siojina, in the oldest known form of Stygian, may be rendered into Zingaran as 'that which hath no name.

Zarono's black, restless eyes, fully sober, were alight in his masklike ivory features. "The Nameless Isle," he whispered.

"Yes," hissed Menkara with cold satisfaction in his reptilian gaze. "That kisua means 'island' we may be sure, for the same word occurs in connection with several other isles shown on this chart." He moved his forefinger from one dot to another, and another. "And I assume that one of your piratical trade may have heard, ere now, the legends of this demon-haunted Nameless Isle: how it is a remnant of elder Valusia, wherein a mouldering ruin survives to attest the powers of the pre-human serpent-men."

"I only know that sailors' lore tells of an isle without a name, where lies the greatest treasure ever assembled in one place," said Zarono.

"True," said Menkara, "but there is something else of which you may not know.

There is loot enough of the usual land, forsooth. But aside from tawdry gold and gems, it is said that here also lies a vast magical treasure―an authentic copy of the Book of Ske-los."

"I seek no accursed magic, but only honest goldl"

Menkara smiled thinly. "Aye, but think. We fain would persuade the earth's mightiest magician to help our lord Villagro to the throne of Zingara. He would be pleased, of course, to see the cult of Set exalted and that of Mitra cast down. We could, however, truly win his favor and enlist his support by presenting him with so mighty a magical treasure as the Book of Skelos. It is a crime against the sacred science of magic that so potent a volume of ancient lore should languish neglected. It is thought that there are but three copies of the book in existence: one in a crypt beneath the royal library of Aquilonia, in Tarantia; one in a secret temple in Vendhya; and the third here." The Stygian tapped the chart with his fingernail.

Zarono asked: "Why, if this damned book is so precious, has none taken it yet from the Nameless Isle?"

"Because, until I saw this chart, neither I nor any other seeker after the higher truths knew precisely where the Nameless Isle lay. As you see, it lies afar from the coast of the black countries and from the isles we know. There is no land within a hundred leagues of it in any direction, nor lies it near the lanes of ships that ply between the ports of civilized lands. A mariner who sought it at random in that waste of waters could plow the sea forever without finding it―or at least until he was becalmed without food and water and miserably perished.

"Furthermore, you know that sailors are a superstitious lot, whose fancies have peopled the southern sea with deadly reefs and man-eating monsters. It is no accident that the Nameless Isle has long been lost to knowledge."

"Even with fair winds, 'twould take us several days to reach it from here,"

mused Zarono, his long chin in his fist.

"What imports it? We have the girl safe, and a few days more or less will matter not. With the Book of Skelos as our bribe, the added certainty of enlisting Thoth-Amon will be well worth the delay. Nor, I think, are you insensible to the charms of gold." The fires of fanaticism flickered in Menkara's normally expressionless eyes.

Zarono rubbed his jaw. While he cared nothing for magic, it seemed good to do everything possible to win the powerful prince of magicians to Duke Villagro's cause. And, could Zarono win the treasure of the Nameless Isle for his own, why, not only wealth but also rank, privilege, and respectability would again be his.

Decision flashed in his dark eyes. He sprang to his feet and pushed out the cabin door, bellowing: "Vanchol"

"Aye, Captain?" said the mate.

"Set course due south, until the pole star be but one point above the horizon!"

"Into the open sea, sir?" said Vancho incredulously.

"You heard me, damn your hide! Due south!"

Blocks rattled and ropes slapped as the PetreTs yards rotated to take the wind right abeam on the starboard tack, and the carack's blunt bow swung into the new course across the star-spangled sea.

Menkara retired to his cabin to study the chart. He was afire with the lust for old and sinister knowledge. With the Book of Skelos, Thoth-Amon could become all-powerful. To help Villagro to a throne would be a mere trifle; the great Stygian wizard might even hold the empire of the world within his grasp. And, when the sons of Set held dominion over all lands, what might not be the fortune of the priest Menkara, who had made it all possible?

Conan thoughtfully followed the running light of the Petrel as the larger carack changed course from east-by-south to due south. He knew nothing of Chabela's presence aboard the Petrel, or Villagro's . plot, or Menkara's ambitions. He only knew―or thought he knew―that Zarono had taken the chart from Ninus and was on his way to the Nameless Isle and its treasure. The reason for the sudden change of course he could not even guess.

The giant Cimmerian scrambled down the shrouds from the main top with the agility of a monkey. "Zeltran!"

"Aye, Captain?"

"Six points to starboard! Full and by on the starboard tackl Follow the PetreTs light!"

"Aye aye, sir. Start the starboard braces; helms down; trim the port braces…

Helms up; straighten her out… Steady as you go…"

Conan stood silently at the quarterdeck rail as the Wastrel took her new course into strange waters. Once they left the coast of the continent, they would have no means of knowing where they were beyond the pole star, which, on clear nights, would tell them how far they had come in a north-south direction. Zarono had better know whither he was bound. If he got lost on the featureless plain of water, he would lose the Wastrel as well.

As far as Conan knew, the darkly glittering immensity of water before him ran clear to the world's edge. What might lie beyond it he could not even guess.

Old legends whispered of fabulous islands, strange continents, unknown peoples, and weird monsters.

The legends might even be true. Less than a year had elapsed since, in this selfsame Wastrel, he had sailed with its former captain, the saturnine Zapo-ravo, to an unknown island in the West, where Zapo-ravo and several of the Zingaran crew had met their doom. Few things in Conan's adventurous life had been stranger or more sinister than the Pool of the Black One and its inhuman attendants. Now, for all he knew, he might be on his way to even deadlier perils.

He drew a deep breath and laughed gustily. Croml A man can die but once, so what boots it to maunder over imaginary perils? Enough to combat the terror when you meet it, with steel in your hand and battle madness in your heart. He would take his chances with fate on the Nameless Isle, ahead of him on the rim of the world.

Chapter Five

AT THE WORLD'S EDGE

All night, the two caracks plied the warm southern waves. With dawn, the Wastrel, as she had done for the past five days, took in sail to drop back, so as not to be seen from the Petrel in the waxing light. With nightfall, if they had not yet reached the Nameless Isle, she would make up the time, since her slimmer hull and hollowed bow gave her an advantage in speed over the blunter, beamier Petrel.

Meanwhile, the WastreVs sharp stem cut through the endless hillocks of blue-green. Flying fish leaped from her forefoot to hurl themselves aloft, soar for half a bowshot, and plunge back into the sea. Neither carack had sighted another ship since taking the southerly course.

Presently, a cluster of cloudlets appeared in an otherwise clear sky. The Petrel altered course to starboard, and in a few hours an island hove into view on the horizon, beneath the clouds.

From the PetreFs forecastle, Zarono thoughtfully scanned the unknown island. It looked innocuous enough: a tawny-sanded beach; tall, slender palms with emerald fronds. What lay beyond the fence of palm trunks, none could say as yet.

Menkara, a black cloak wrapped about his lean shoulders, joined Zarono. "It is the island," he said tonelessly.

Zarono's white teeth showed in his sallow face as he smiled. "Aye, priest, so it isl Now about this treasure: how is it guarded? Ghosts, demons, or merely a few dragons? I count on your supernatural powers to shield us from harm whilst we loot the tombs or crypts or whatever they are. Vanchol Take her into yonder bay, if it prove deep enough…"

A quarter-hour later, Zarono commanded: "Let go the anchor! Trice up all sailsl Vancho, lower the first longboat and pick a landing party―all stout men, well armed."

With much bustle and clatter, the boat was lowered and a dozen Zingarans, clanking with arms, swarmed down ropes to take their places on the thwarts. They pulled away from the Petrel to the beach. There they ran the boat's nose up on the sand, then piled out into shallow water to haul the boat farther up on the strand. Under the boatswain's command, they spread out along the beach, swords drawn and fingers on the triggers of crossbows, warily watching the palms. A small group pushed into the trees out of sight and presently reappeared, waving an all-clear signal to the Petrel.

"Lower the other boat," said Zarono. He and Menkara took their places, together with eight more sailors. Vancho remained aboard the Petrel.

The second boat reached the shore without incident. Zarono mustered his men. In a few minutes he, Menkara, and the bulk of the landing parties had vanished into the palms. Three buccaneers were left to guard the longboats: a swart, hook-nosed Shemite, a giant black from Kush, and a bald, red-faced Zingaran.

All of this Conan, in the main top of the Wastrel, observed with keen interest.

His ship lay just over the horizon, hove to with her foresail backed and rolling uneasily in the long oceanic swells.

For a time, Zarono's party hacked its way through dense, tropical undergrowth.

There was no sound save the grunts and heavy breathing of laboring men, the chopping sound of the blades of broadswords and cutlasses as they sheared through the stems of vines and saplings, and the rustle of leaves as the pirates pushed their way through the jungle.

The air was hot and steamy. Sweat glistened on muscular arms, matted bare chests, and scarred brows. The smell of decaying vegetation blended with that of exotic flowers, which blazed in gold and crimson and white against the dark green of the forest.

Zarono became aware of another odor, as well. It took him some time to recognize it. At last he realized, with a prickle of revulsion, that it was the musky stench of snakes. With a muttered curse, he pressed to his nostrils a gilded pomander ball, wherein scraps of citron peel and bits of cinnamon yielded a spicy scent. But, even above the soothing smell of the pomander, he could still detect the odor of snakes. This puzzled him, when he thought about the matter.

In his piratical career he had visited many small oceanic islands, and never had he known any to harbor serpents.

It was sweltering; the close-set palm trunks, draped with loops and curves of flowering lianas, cut off the fresh sea breeze. Soaked with sweat, Zarono probed the greenery about them with sharp black eyes. He spoke to Menkara: "Save for this damnable stink of serpents, Stygian, I sense naught dangerous about your Nameless Isle."

Menkara gave a wan, thin-lipped smile. "Do you truly notice nothing, then?"

Zarono shrugged. "Outside of the stench and the 't heat, no. I had expected supernatural terrors, and I am disappointed. No ghouls or specters―not even a gibbering, drooling thing from a tomb? Ha!"

Menkara gave him a coldly meditative stare. "How dull are you Northerners'

senses! Do you not even feel the silence?"

"Hm," grunted Zarono. "Now that you mention • • •

A cold prickling crawled over Zarono's flesh. Truly, the jungle was ominously silent. One would not expect large beasts on a small island; but still, there should have been the whir of birds, the rustle of scuttling lizards and land crabs, and the rattle of the fronds of the palms overhead as the breeze stirred them. But there was no sound at all, as if the jungle held its breath and watched them with unseen eyes.

Zarono muttered a curse but controlled his feelings. Busy hacking their way through the brush, the men had not yet noticed anything. Zarono signed Menkara to hold his tongue and plodded after his crew into the interior. But the sensation of being watched did not cease.

Toward midday, the buccaneers reached their goal. It was strange: pushing through a dense tangle, they suddenly found themselves in an open glade. The jungle ended abruptly, as if the foliage dared not cross an invisible boundary.

Beyond that unseen circular barrier, flat, sandy soil stretched away, bearing only a few withered-looking patches of lank, pale, colorless grass. Menkara and Zarono exchanged a meaningful glance.

Amidst this dead zone rose the mysterious edifice they had come to ravish.

Zarono could not decide on the purpose of this structure; it might equally well be a tomb, a shrine, a temple, or a storehouse. It was a squat, heavy building of a dull, lusterless black stone, which seemed to soak up all the light that fell upon it, so that its physical outlines were difficult to discern.

The structure was of roughly cubical shape; but its surfaces, instead of being simple squares, were made up of a multitude of planes and curves of irregular form, oriented every which way. There was no symmetry to the structure. It was as if every part of the building had been designed by a different architect, or as if the building had been assembled from parts of a score of other structures chosen at random from many lands and eras.

The black temple―if such it was―loomed before them in the hazy light. Zarono felt the icy touch of an awe he had never before experienced. An aura of fear, radiating from the squat black thing, unmanned even that tough, steel-nerved ruffian. Blinking, he glared at it, striving to discover the source of the terror that made his breath come in quick gasps and caused his heart to pound.

The temple looked wrong. The style was like nothing he had seen in his far voyaging. Even the ghoul-haunted tombs of Stygia were not so alien as this irregular block of black stone. It was as if the builders had followed some inhuman geometry of their own―some unearthly canon of proportion and design.

Menkara's face was gray and pearled with sweat. He muttered, half to himself: "It is as I thought. The Z'thoum Ritual has been enacted here." He shivered. "I had not thought that darksome rite had been uttered aloud these three thousand years…"

"What is it, yellow dog?"- snarled Zarono, fear making him vicious.

The Stygian turned wide eyes upon him. "A protective spell," he whispered. "One of very great power. Were any man fool enough to enter the precincts of the temple without the counter-spell, his presence would awaken that which sleeps therein."

"Well? Have you this counter-spell?"

"Thanks be to a Father Set, I have. Little is known of the pre-human serpent-men of Valusia. But, from what little I know, I can weave the counter-spell, albeit I cannot maintain it for long."

"Long enough to loot that black thing, I hope," growled Zarono. "Best that you set about it, man."

"Then go back into the woods, you and your men, and face away from me," said Menkara.

Zarono herded his buccaneers back into the brush, where they formed a cluster, with their backs to the clearing. They listened with tight lips as Menkara's voice rolled on in an unknown tongue. What else he did, they did not know. But the light diffused through the foliage seemed to flicker, as of shadows passing and repassing overhead. The Stygian's voice seemed to be echoed from above by other, inhuman voices that spoke with a dry, rasping tone, as if their vocal organs were never designed for human speech. The earth trembled slightly, and the light dimmed as if a cloud had passed athwart the sun…

At last Menkara, in a weak voice, called: "Come!"

Zarono found the Stygian looking aged and bent. "Hasten," Menkara murmured. "The counter-spell will not hold for long."

Pale and sweating, Zarono and Menkara entered the temple. Within, there was little light save that which entered through the open portal, and the dull black stone absorbed this light with little reflection.

At the far end of the irregular chamber rose a huge black altar, and on top of this altar squatted an idol of gray stone. The idol was that of a being that combined the qualities of a man and a toad, with its male characteristics obscenely exaggerated. Toadlike, with a bloated, warty skin, it squatted on the altar. The surface of the gray stone had a rough, crumbly appearance, as if the stone itself were rotting and sloughing away.

The idol's toothless mouth was slightly open in a mirthless grin. Above the mouth, a pair of pits corresponded to nostrils, and above these a row of seven globular gems, set in a row, corresponded to eyes. The seven gems faintly reflected the light that came through the portal.

Shuddering at the aura of cosmic evil that radiated from the thing, Zarono tore his eyes away from it. Before the altar lay two small sacks of old leather. One had burst at the seam, and a glittering trickle of gems had poured from it to make a puddle of granulated splendor on the stone pave, shining in the dimness like a constellation sighted through a gap in the clouds.

Beneath the sacks of jewels was a huge book, bound in the hide of some reptile and fitted with clasps and hinges of bronze, green with age. The scales of the reptile whose skin formed the cover were of a size that no earthly beast had worn for eons.

The two men exchanged one wordless, triumphant glance. Zarono gathered up the burst sack, carefully so as not to spill out any more of the gems. When he had cradled it in the crook of one arm, he picked up the other sack with his free hand. Then Menkara pounced upon the book, raised it, and clasped it to his bosom. His gaunt visage was flushed and his eyes humid with a strange, darkling ecstasy. Without a word or a backward glance, they tiptoed out ' of the temple, crossed the clearing almost at a run, and rejoined the buccaneers who awaited them uneasily at the edge of the jungle.

"Back to the ship, and yard" said Zarono.

All hastened back along the trail they had cut, eager to leave behind this seat of ancient evil, over which accursed forces still hovered, and regain the clean air and blessed sunlight of the open sea.

Chapter Six

FLAMING EYES

The princess Chabela had passed through terror and fury into relative calm. She knew not why the traitor Zarono had turned against his liege lord to destroy his royal vessel, nor why the buccaneer had captured her. But she was no longer paralyzed by fear, for at last her hands were free.

Zarono had locked her in a small cabin with her hands tied behind her back with a length of silken scarf. The flimsy length of scarlet silk seemed un-suited for bonds; but Zarono had learned from a wandering Vendnyan mountebank the art of knotting a cord so as to defy the deftest fingers, and the scarlet fabric, for all its lightness, seemed as tough as rawhide. At meal times, Zarono himself came to the cabin to untie her and later bind her up again. He refused to answer her questions.

Chabela, however, bore beneath her girdle a small knife. It was common for highborn Zingaran women to carry such a blade, wherewith to end their lives when menaced by brutal rape.

The resourceful girl put the knife to another use. By stretching and straining, she got her hands on the bulge where lay the knife and teased it out from its concealment. Then she wedged the hilt into a cavity in the wooden scrollwork that formed a sill for the porthole. She withdrew the sheath from the blade and, with her back to the knife, she forced her wrists against the naked blade.

The task was hard, for she could not see behind fher at such close quarters, and from time to time the bitter lass of the razor-sharp steel burnt her shrinking flesh. Before she had sawn the silk through, her wrists were slick with blood.

But at last it parted.

Chabela took the knife from its place, returned it to its sheath, and hid it again in her girdle. The silk, now in two pieces, she used to bandage the several small, superficial cuts she had inflicted upon herself.

Now that she was free, how should she use her freedom? Zarono had left the ship, for she had overheard his last commands. Only part of the crew was left aboard, but Chabela knew that a burly seaman was posted outside the door to her cabin, which in any case was bolted from the outside.

That left the porthole, which looked upon a turquoise sea, a stretch of cream-colored beach, and a fringe of palms, thrusting emerald fronds against the clear blue of the sky.

Luckily for her, Chabela was far stronger, bolder, and braver than most of the delicate noble damsels of the Zingaran court. Few of them would even have dared to attempt what she next did. She opened the casement of the porthole and pulled her gown up through her girdle until the hem was above her knees. Below, a lazy swell rose and fell, a couple of fathoms below the porthole.

Quietly, Chabela wormed her way through the opening, lowered herself until she hung by her hands, and let go. She struck the water feet-first with a small splash, disappeared beneath the surface, and quickly bobbed up again, spitting water and brushing her heavy black hair back from her face. The water, though not cold, was cooler than the hot, humid air, and its coolness sent a shock through the princess's nerves. The brine stung her cuts.

Chabela had no time to enjoy the cool embrace of the sea. At any moment a seaman, idly leaning on the rail, might espy her and sound the alarm. Above her rose the ship's high stern, checkered with the panes of the after portholes.

Above them, the rail of the poop deck and the masts and rigging swayed gently against the sky.

There would be a seaman posted on the poop somewhere, but at the moment no man's head showed above the rail. If she kept astern of the ship, she would be less likely to be seen than if she came abeam of it, where she would be exposed to the glances of men in the waist and the bow.

It was a long swim. To be inconspicuous, Chabela swam on her back. Allowing only her face to emerge from the water, she swam parallel to the beach, to keep the ship's stern castle between herself and the rest of the vessel. When she tired, she floated for a while, sculling languidly with her hands.

At last the bulk of the Petrel shrank until the figures of men could no longer clearly be seen, even when they were visible. Then Chabela turned shoreward and struck out vigorously.

At last, trembling with fatigue, she felt the sandy bottom beneath her and dragged herself out on the yellow-gray beach. A few steps took her into the shade of the palms, where she crouched among a thick growth of ferns to rest.

She had, she thought, plunged from one peril to the other, for none knew what terrors the island might harbor. If nothing else befell her, she might run into Zarono and his rascals. But, putting her faith in Mitra, she still thought that she was better off than if she had remained in the hands of her enemies on the ship.

When she recovered her strength, she rose and moved about, casting around for a direction to take. She winced as pebbles and twigs dented the soles of her bare feet; for she had not, in recent years, had many chances to go barefoot. The breeze, sighing through the palms, chilled her damp garment and made her sneeze. Impatiently, she doffed her girdle and pulled the gown off over her head. The afternoon sun, slanting through the palm trunks along the beach, threw bars of sunlight on the healthy, ol-ive-hued skin that covered her well-rounded form.

She wrung the remaining water out of the gown and spread it on the ferns to dry.

With her knife she cut a strip from the hem, divided it in two, and wrapped a piece around each foot.

When the gown had dried, she resumed it, letting it hang only to knee length.

Having recovered her strength, she set out to explore, holding the small knife in one capable fist. It was no sword, but it was better than nothing.

As she penetrated inland, the sweltering jungle closed about her. The sweetish smell of rotting vegetation and tropical blooms assailed her nostrils. Rough trunks, the saw-edged stems of palm fronds, and thorny lianas snagged her gown and tore it. They raised long red scratches on her arms and legs.

Further inland, the underbrush thinned somewhat, but the uncanny silence made her uneasy. Here the wind seemed not to penetrate. Her heart thudded.

She tripped on a root and fell. She struggled up, but then she tripped again.

The third time, she realized that she was nearing the limits of her endurance.

She had to force her aching limbs to carry her on.

Suddenly, a massive figure loomed up directly in her path, a dark form with burning eyes. She screamed, tried to leap back, and fell again. The figure lunged for her.

Conan thoughtfully scanned the sea. There lay Zarono's Petrel, anchored in the bay. To Zeltran he said: "We could sweep in upon her and take her, with only part of her crew aboard.

Then Zarono would find his retreat cut off when he returned. What say you, eh?"

The Cimmerian gave his mate a fierce grin, as if he were already leaping aboard the other deck and mowing down the crew of the Petrel with his huge cutlass.

Zeltran shook his head. "Nay, Captain, I like it not."

"Why not?" snorted Conan. A headlong attack suited his barbarian nature, but he had still learned caution in his years of adventuring ashore and at sea. He knew that the stout little Zingaran, while brave enough in battle, was also shrewd and practical―a man of cunning counsels, which it was well to heed.

Zeltran turned crafty little black eyes upon Conan. "Because, my Captain, we know not how many men Zarono left aboard. His crew is larger than ours, and those on the ship might still outnumber us."

"Crom, I could take on half those knaves single-handed!" The mate scratched the black stubble on his chin.

"No doubt, Captain, you are worth a dozen of the foe. But the rest of our crew would not fight with equal ferocity."

"Why not?"

"Zarono's crew are fellow Zingarans and buccaneers. Our men would not wish to shed their brothers' blood without a stronger cause than we can show them.

Besides, the Petrel is a larger ship with higher sides than ours, and therefore easy to defend against us. And did you mark the catapult on the forecastle?

"Nay, my Captain, if I understood you at the start of this cruise, we are here for treasure, not for the mere pleasure of a fight―the outcome of which would be doubtful in any case. Now, to get the treasure, meseems the most practical way were to sail around to the other side of the isle. Then our shore party can strive to reach the treasure ahead of Za-rono's rogues. If we fail to do so, then we can count the number that Zarono brought ashore and weigh our chances of falling upon them and snatching the loot from them…"

After further argument, Conan gave in, although it went against his grain. "Take her around the north end of the island," he ordered glumly. "Brace yards; carry on. Full and by on the starboard tack."

He was, after all, no longer a lone berserker, free to throw his life away on a whim. As a leader of men, he had to consider their welfare, their wishes, and their whims as well as his own. But he still longed at times for the freedom of the wild, reckless years behind him.

A few hours later, the Wastrel dropped anchor on the eastern side of the island, where a headland provided some shelter against a sudden blow from the north.

Conan filled his two ship's boats with armed men and rowed ashore across the sparkling waters. They beached and hauled the boats up the yellow-gray sands out of the reach of the tide.

Slapping his cutlass against his booted leg, the giant Cimmerian glowered around him at the tawny wet sand and the silent green wall of vegetation. The island seemed strangely gloomy, enshadowed, while all the sea around it was drenched in fierce tropical sunlight.

The boats secured and two burly buccaneers left on guard, Conan and the main body of his men plunged into the wall of fronds and ferns and vanished from view.

At length, Conan and his landing party reached the circular clearing in the jungle. The zone of dead grass and bare earth lay empty under the dull light.

From the edge of the woods, Conan, frowning, swept the empty glade with his eyes. He saw no sign of life, but either the jungle or the squat black temple might hide a lurking foeman.

As for the temple, Conan did not at all like its looks. Its aura of brooding menace sounded a warning within him. The hairs of his nape prickled, and his heavy black brows shaded his eyes of volcanic blue. That the black enigma was the work of other than human hands, he did not doubt.

Perhaps, he thought, it was the work of the fabled serpent-men of Valusia. The dizzy geometry, the unintelligible and half-effaced sculptured decorations, and the zone of bare earth and dead or straggling grass all reminded him of a similar structure that he had seen years before in the grasslands of Kush. That, too, had been the handiwork of a long-gone pre-human race.

Instinct told him to turn from this dismal place and avoid that lowering structure. But within the edifice, Conan was sure, lay that for which he had come. To his men, Conan muttered: "Stay hidden, keep quiet, and watch for any danger!"

Loosening his cutlass in its scabbard, he issued from the jungle and swiftly strode across the barren earth to the yawning maw of the mysterious citadel. In an instant, he had vanished from the sight of his comrades.

Ignoring the sepulchral chill that struck him as he strode through the portal, Conan slunk warily within, drawing his cutlass as he came. The broad blade gleamed in the dull light. His lambent gaze flickered over the stone toad-idol that squatted atop the altar and came to rest on the pavement in front of the plinth. Then he stopped short.

Whatever treasure had lain there was gone. Nor had it been long gone. The floor was thick with dust, and in this dust were writ two sets of footprints, coming and going. One set was of sea boots; the other, of sandals.

Zarono and one other, thought Conan.

In front of the altar, an oblong space was free of dust, save where scuffing feet had brushed it into that bare, dustless rectangle. In this clean oblong lay several gems, winking from the places where they had fallen from the burst bag.

Zarono in his haste had neglected to gather them up.

Snarling a curse, Conan stepped forward, meaning to sweep up this remaining handful of jewels. It infuriated him to play the part of jackal to Zarono's lion; but neither would he, if he could help it, come away completely empty-handed.

Then he checked again. The stone idol had begun to move. The seven eyes, in a row above the wide, lipless mouth, were no longer mere dim, dusty globes of crystal, but living orbs wherein green flame blazed down upon the Cimmerian with cold, merciless fury.

Chapter Seven

THE TOAD-THING

"Crom! It lives!" A grunt of astonishment was torn from Conan.

He tensed as a thrill of supernatural premonition set his pulse to pounding. And indeed, the scabrous stone idol was now imbued with a ghastly semblance of life.

Swollen limbs moved and stretched.

Fixing its flaming eyes upon its prey, the idol hunched forward on its pedestal and toppled over the edge, to land with a crash on the stone floor where lay the winking gems. Its four-fingered forelimbs broke its fall, and without pause it advanced at an ungainly but surprisingly swift scuttle upon Conan. Its stony limbs rasped and grated against the stone of the floor. It was as bulky as a buffalo, and its seven green-glowing eyes were on a level with his own.

Conan started to swing his cutlass, but wiser counsel prevailed in his mind.

From the sound the creature made in moving, it was still composed of stone, even if living stone. Steel could do naught against it; a blow would merely shatter his blade and deliver him into its gaping maw.

Before the lipless mouth could engulf him, Conan whirled and bolted out into the clearing. No need for caution now; he roared: "Back to the ship! And yard"

Cries of astonishment and fear burst from the men, huddled at the edge of the clearing, as the toad-thing issued from the temple, close on Conan's heels. No second command was needed. With a swish of palm fronds and a crackle of shrubs, the buccaneer shore party took to its heels. And after them came the monster of living stone, ambling as fast as a man could run. Conan paused long enough to be sure that its attention was fixed upon himself and then set off in a different direction, to draw it after him.

"What's this? A wench, here? By the breasts of Ishtar and the belly of Dagon, this cursed isle has more surprises than ever I dreamed!"

The voice―human, albeit rough and speaking Argossean with an uncouth accent―roused Chabela and at the same time reassured her. Catching her breath, she accepted the hand that the tall figure, which had appeared so suddenly before her, thrust out to help her to rise. The man continued to speak: "Here, lass, did I be startling you? Fry my guts, I meant no harm. How came ye to this gods-forsaken place at the world's edge?"

Her first panic allayed, Chabela saw that the man who had startled her was a burly, blond young giant in tattered seaman's garb. He was not one of Zarono's ruffians, but an honest-looking fellow with a fair skin reddened by sunburn, frank blue eyes, and unshorn locks and beard of fiery red-gold. A northman from his coloring, she thought.

"Zarono," she panted, breasts still heaving from exhaustion and startlement. She swayed and might have fallen had not the red-haired seaman seized her arm in a calloused grip to steady her.

"That black swine, eh? Stealing young girls is he, now? Well, broil me for a lubber, I'd as soon spit the dog as look at him; but by Heimdal's horn and Mi-tra's sword, you're safe now. My crew will give you sanctuary, fear not―but what's toward?"

The northerner turned, one red-knuckled hand grasping the hilt of the huge cutlass that swung from his girdle as a crashing and thrashing in the brush sounded nearer and nearer. Then a tall figure burst from the cover of the foliage and paused at the sight of them. To her astonishment, Chabela knew the man.

"Captain Conan!" she cried.

Conan's eyes narrowed, taking in the blond stalwart with the half-drawn cutlass and the black-haired girl behind him, whose tattered gown scarcely hid her voluptuous form. The girl looked vaguely familiar to him, but he had no time to explore the matter.

"Run, you two!" he bellowed. "The temple monster's after me! Come along; well talk later!"

A heavier crashing in the woods, from the direction whence Conan had come, lent force to his commands. "Look alive!" he yelled, snatching Chabela's wrist into his great paw and dragging her after him helter-skelter along the trail. The northerner ran after them. For a moment they seemed to have outdistanced their pursuer. When they stopped to pant, Conan said to die northman: "Is there no hill or cliff on this accursed isle? The stone toad-thing could not climb."

"By Woden's league-long spear, mate, nary a hill," said the other, red-faced and gasping. "Naught higher than this, save for a spit at the northeast, where the land rises to a cliff o'erhanging the main. But that's no good; the land rises slow like, and the idol could climb… Here it comes again!"

"Show us the way to this headland," said Conan. "I have a plan."

The northerner shrugged and led them off through the jungle. When Chabela faltered, Conan scooped her up into his arms. The buxom girl was no lightweight, but the giant Cimmerian carried her without visible effort. Behind them, the crashing of the monster through the woods came clearly.

An hour later, as the sun sank towards the blue horizon, the three of them, scratched, tattered, and bone weary, reached the rise of land. The spit was triangular, tapering to an angle as it rose, like the bow of a ship. Conan remembered seeing this feature from the Wastrel as his ship rounded the north end of the island on its way to its present anchorage.

The northman had relieved his Cimmerian comrade of the girl's weight. Side by side the pair staggered out of the jungle and up the slope. Halfway to the apex of the point, the northman set Chabela down, and the two adventurers paused to see if the stone devil still pursued them.

It did, as a waxing noise of crashing and a motion of the vegetation testified.

"Well, Crom and Mitra, what's your plan?" gasped the red-haired man.

"Up to the point," growled Conan, leading the way thither. At the very top, he leaned over the edge and looked down. A hundred feet below, the sea foamed back and forth over a broad reef of tumbled black rocks, whose sharp angles thrust up through the surf and whose surfaces gleamed wetly as tie swells came and went among them. Amid the fangs of the reef lay a few tidal pools, some as much as a fathom square.

Chabela, looking back, gave a little shriek as the hulking shape appeared at the edge of the jungle. With a snapping of ferns and brush, it lumbered out into the open. Its seven eyes sighted the three fugitives at once, and it began advancing rapidly up the slope, with a gait like that of a man crawling as fast as he could on hands and knees.

"It has us cornered," said the northman. 1st abandon ship for poor sailors at last?"

"Not yet," said Conan. In a few terse phrases he explained his plan.

Meanwhile, the toad-thing continued its advance, its seven eyes blazing in the light of the setting sun. As it neared its prey, it changed its gait from a rapid crawl to a series of toad-like leaps. The ground shook beneath it as its vast stone weight came down at the end of each hop. Closer and closer it came, its lipless mouth opening in anticipation.

Conan stooped and picked up several loose stones. "Nowl" he shouted.

At his word, Chabela ran along the edge of the cliflF, away from him. The red-haired man ran along the brink in the opposite direction, leaving Conan, on the very lip of the cliflF, to face the monster alone.

As the two fugitives raced away in opposite directions, the toad-thing paused between hops, its green eyes swiveling, as if pondering which course to take.

"Come on!" roared Conan, hurling a stone. The missile struck with a sharp crack and bounced oflF the toad-thing's nose. A second followed, striking one of the eyes with a clank. The stone flew high, but the green flame in the eye faded, as if the stone had cracked the substance of which the orb was composed.

Before Conan had time to cast a third stone, the thing was upon him. It gathered its massive hind-limbs for a final hop that would bring it down right at the point of the cliflF. Its wide mouth gaped in anticipation.

As the toad-thing left the ground, and while it was still in the air, Conan turned and leaped from the cliff. He flipped over in mid-air and, straight as an arrow, dove headfirst into the largest of the tidal pools below. He struck the water with his outstretched hands, angled to bring him instantly back to the surface.

Up on the cliff, the monster came down from is final leap on the very spot where Conan had stood. Its forefeet struck the edge, which crumbled under the impact with a shower of loosened stones and dirt The forefeet slipped over the edge, and the momentum of the monster sent its body sliding after. For a second it hung poised on the crumbling lip of the cliff. Then it overbalanced and, with a roar of shattered stone, slid all the way over. It seemed to hang for an instant in mid-air, turning slowly over and over. Then it came down with an ever-speeding rush, to strike the rocks at the foot of the cliff with a mighty crash.

Dripping, Conan pulled himself out of the tidal pool and raked the hair out of his eyes. He had not quite landed in the center of the pool; hence a tear in his garments exposed a blood-oozing weal along ribs and thigh, where he had grazed one of the sharp rocks that lined the pool. He ignored the hurt to examine the remains of the toad-thing.

Stone might be magically imbued with Me, but it was still stone. The monster had shattered into a hundred pieces, which lay hither and yon among the rocks at the base of the cliff. It took close scrutiny to discern that one of the stones composing that part of the reef had been one of the creature's feet, and that another had composed a part of its head. The other fragments blended into the rocky confusion as if they had lain there for eons.

Scrambling and hopping from rock to rock, Conan picked his way along the foot of the cliff until the bluff became low enough for him to scramble up. Then he turned back and rejoined his two companions on the spit. The red-haired man was leaning over the edge and contemplating the remains of the toad-thing below.

"Now by the claws of Nergal and the guts of Mar-duk, mate, that be a goodly sight to look onl But, now that we've outfaced that peril together, 'tis time we were beknownst to one another. I be Sigurd of Vanaheim, an honest seaman marooned on this cursed shore with his crew by shipwreck. And you?"

Conan was staring at Chabela. "By Croml" he said at last. "Aren't you Chabela?

Ferdrugo's daughter?"

"Aye," said the girl, "and you are Captain Conan."

She had spoken his name before, when he had come upon her while fleeing from the toad-thing; and this recognition had provided the clue to her identity.

Buccaneer captains and royal princesses did not mingle familiarly at the royal court of Zingara. Nonetheless, Conan had seen her often enough at feasts, parades, and other ceremonials.

Since the greater part of their loot went to the crown, it behooved King Ferdrugo to play host to his buccaneer captains on occasion. The long legs, massive shoulders, and grimly impassive features of the giant Cimmerian had made their mark in Chabela's mind, while he had recognized her readily enough despite her tattered garment, her disheveled hair, and the lack of cosmetics on her boldly handsome features.

"What in the name of all the gods are you doing here, Princess?" he demanded.

"Princess!" cried Sigurd, appalled. His ruddy face redder than ever, he stared at the half-naked girl whom he had handled so roughly and addressed with such familiarity. "Ymir's beard and Baal's blazing fires, Highness, ye must forgive my tongue. A highborn lady, and I called her lass'…" He sank to one knee, casting a stricken glance at Conan, who stood grinning.

Chabela said: "Rise, Master Sigurd, and think no more of the matter. Royal etiquette were as out of place here as a horse on a housetop. Know you Captain Conan, my other rescuer?"

"Conan… Conan," mused Sigurd. "The Cimmerian?"

"Aye," grunted Conan. "You've heard of me?"

"Aye, I've heard tales in Tor―" Sigurd checked himself.

"In Tortage, you were about to say?" said Conan. "I thought you had a look of the Barachas about you. I was one of the Brotherhood, too, until they made things too hot for me there. Now I'm captain of the Wastrel, a privateer for the Zingaran court. Is it friends?"

"Aye, by Lir's fish-tail and Thor's hammer!" said the Vanr, gripping Conan's hand in his. "But we must take care not to let our lads get to fighting. Mine be mostly Argosseans, and yours, I'm thinking, will be mostly Zingarans; and the twain will be at each other's throats in the wink of an eye. Since neither of us belongs to them two breeds, there's no reason for us to let that old feud disturb us."

"Right," said Conan. "How came you and your men here?"

- "We ran aground on a rock off the southern point and broke up. We made it to shore and saved most of our gear and victuals, but our captain took sick and died. I was mate, so I've been leader for the past moon, whilst we've worked at trying to make a sailing raft seaworthy enough to carry us to the mainland." "Know you aught of the black temple?"

"Oh, aye; my lads and I took a peek in that black shrine, but it fair reeked of evil and we shunned it thereafter." Sigurd's blue eyes peered out to westward, where the red ball of the sun was just touching the blue horizon. "Fry me for a lubber, lad, but all this jungle-chasing and monster-wrestling has given me a powerful thirst. Let's on to my camp and see if maybe we can rustle a drop of wine for the good of our souls! There's little enough left, but what there is we've earned today, I'm thinking.''

Chapter Eight

THE COBRA CROWN

Zarono raved and fumed when he returned to the Petrel and learned that Chabela was missing. The sailors who had been standing watch on the poop deck and outside Chabela's cabin were keelhauled at his command.

Before dawn the next day, he brought all but a few of his men ashore again. The day was spent in combing the island for the missing princess, who was an essential element in his plans. A few wisps of fabric torn from her gown were discovered; but these, while they testified to her having been there, shed no light on her present whereabouts.

The men also discovered the remains of Sigurd's camp. Of the Barachan pirates themselves, however, there was no trace.

At sunset a baffled Zarono, more furious than ever, returned to the Petrel.

"Menkaral" he shouted.

"Aye, Captain Zarono?"

"If your witcheries be good for aught, now's the time for them. Show me whither this damnable chit has fled!"

Soon afterwards, Zarono sat in his cabin and watched the Stygian set up his apparatus for the spell he had worked in Duke ViUagro's dungeon. The brazier hissed; the sorcerer chanted: "lao,Setesh…"

The jade-green cloud of smoke condensed, and in the cloud a seascape took form.

It showed a calm sea, in the midst of which lay a lean, graceful carack with all sails set. But the sails hung limply from the yards, while the ship rocked gently on smooth, oily swells.

"Conan's Wastrel, becalmed," said Zarono when the vision had dissolved. "But where?"

Menkara spread his hands. "I'm sorry, but my art does not tell me. If the sun were still visible, I could at least tell you in what direction they are headed.

As it is i . .

"You mean," snarled Zarono, "that they could be anywhere over the horizon, but you have no way of telling whither?"

"I am not the great Thoth-Amon. What I can, I do."

"Could you see if the girl was aboard?"

"Nay, but I am sure she was, or the vision would not have shown the ship.

Doubtless she sleeps in one of the cabins."

"I should have taken my pleasure of the drab whilst I had the chance," growled Zarono. "But what's to do now?"

"Well, the Wastrel might be bound for the coast of Kush; but more likely she is headed back for Kordava. Your Captain Conan would hasten to return the princess to Kordava in hope of a rich reward from the long."

"If we crack on sail to northward, could we overtake them?"

"I think not. The ocean is too wide, and a calm that halts Conan's ship would also halt yours. They might sail northeast, to make landfall on the coast of Shem and seek aid of the king's brother Tovarro. We have no way of knowing. But you forget our main purpose."

"The wench and the treasure were the main purpose!"

"Nay, I speak of the great Thoth-Amon. Once we enlist his aid, it matters not whether the princess be returned to her father, or whether she fetches home her uncle. The prince of sorcerers can control the lot as easily as a puppet-master jerks the strings of his marionettes. Let us sail northeastward to the Stygian coast. If on the way we overhaul Conan's ship, well and good; if not, it will not matter."

From the Stygian coast, Zarono and Menkara took passage overland by caravan.

Half the crew were left behind to guard the Petrel, while the other half, armed to the teeth, came with their captain. The passage cost Zarono good gold, which much grieved the Zingaran's larcenous heart.

Like most seamen, Zarono was uncomfortable on land. He felt out of his element and vaguely helpless. While a desert may be the closest earthly analogue to the sea, it was still foreign to him. He liked neither the rhythmically lurching gait of the ill-tempered ofimel nor the dry desert air, which sucked every drop of moisture from his gullet.

These discomforts, however, he must needs endure. And by the third day, the Oasis of Khajar became visible on the horizon. It was a dark and lonely clump of motionless palms, ringed about a strange black pool. Amidst the foliage, the outline of a massive edifice could be espied.

They approached the oasis with caution. Menkara rode in front, so that his garments, denoting him as a priest of Set, should be visible to any watching eye.

Quiet hung over the oasis. No birds paddled about the pool or fluttered and squawked in the palms. No sentinel challenged them. At the edge of the oasis they halted. On command, the camels lay down, a joint at a time, perilously tilting their passengers. Zarono told the boatswain: "Keep your eye on the camel drivers. The dogs are frightened, and they might try to flee and leave us stranded."

Then Zarono and Menkara set out afoot, around the edge of the sullen black pool, toward the massive building in the background. Zarono did not like the look of the pool. Black as liquid coal, it glistened in the bright afternoon light. Oily colors coiled on its motionless surface, slowly writhing with a semblance of life. To one side stood a block of reddish stone, resembling an altar. Dark, rusty stains besmeared the top and sides of the altar. Zarono, whose vices were merely the normal ones, paled and shuddered at the thought of what might arise betimes from the black mirror of the pool to consume the victims of the altar.

They skirted the sinister pool and approached Thoth-Amon's abode. As the palms opened out before them, they saw that this edifice was, like the altar, made of massive blocks of red sandstone. It was a large structure, better called a palace than a mere house. The surface and edges of the stone were worn, testifying to great age.

What lost age had reared this huge pile, none could say. The glyphs carved in the arch over the doorway were unlike any that Zarono had seen in his wide travels. The design of the building was severely plain. Zarono found it hard to relate it to any known architectural style, save perhaps the massive pyramids that rose from the desert near Khemi. The effect was less that of a dwelling than that of a tomb.

The black doorway gaped like a yawning mouth in the hulking, brutal mass of sandstone. Menkara strode without pause up to those stone jaws and traced a cryptic sign in the air. Zarono, with a twinge of awe, saw that the sign glowed lines of green fire in the air for some moments after that bony finger had traced it.

Within, all was dark stone and echoing silence. There was no sign of any guards or servants. Menkara strode confidently forward, and Zarono could only follow.

Beyond the antechamber, a flight of stone steps, worn into smooth curves by many ages of sandaled feet, led down into darkness. Down below the level of die desert they descended, until they came at last to a level space. Advancing, they emerged into a hall.

Here was light―a sinister green glow from serpentine torcheres of polished copper. By the flickering emerald luminescence, Zarono could see that the hall was lined with two rows of huge, monolithic columns, graven with cryptic glyphs of the same kind that he had seen over the outer doorway. At the end of the column-lined hall, a man sat on a throne of black, glittering stone. As the two travelers approached, the man became clear to Zarono's sight.

The man was a dusky giant, with broad shoulders and aloof, hawklike features.

From his shaven skull to his sandaled feet, his skin was a deep, rich brown.

Black eyes glittered hypnotically from the depths of cavernous eye-sockets. He wore a simple white linen robe. The only ornament to be seen on his person was a copper-colored ring, in the form of a serpent that, making three turns around one finger of a muscular hand, held its tail in its jaws.

In a flash of insight, Zarono, from the severe plainness of the building and from the lack of adornment of the mighty sorcerer, divined something of the inner nature of Thoth-Amon. Here was a man to who material possessions and showy gauds meant noth-T
ing. His passion was for something intangible―for power over his fellow men.

As they halted a few paces from the throne, the man spoke in a strong, clear voice: "Greetings, Menkara, little brother!"

Menkara sank to all fours and touched his forehead to the black flagstones. "In the name of Father Set, dread lord," he whispered, "I am come."

The disquieting thought came to Zarono that even the priest was frightened.

Zarono found himself sweating despite the dryness of the desert air.

"Who is this black-visaged Zingaran whom you have brought to my place?" queried Thoth-Amon.

"Captain Zarono, a buccaneer, dread lord: an emissary from Villagro, duke of Kordava."

The cold, serpentine eyes leisurely looked Zarono up and down. Zarono had the feeling that the intelligence behind that ophidian gaze was so far removed from earthly considerations that the doings of men were all but alien to it.

"And what have I to do with Zingara, or Zingara with me?" asked Thoth-Amon.

Menkara opened his mouth, but Zarono decided that it was time to assert himself.

With a boldness that he did not truly feel, he stepped forward, dropped to one knee before the throne, and drew from his doublet the parchment scroll that was Villagro's letter. This he handed to Thoth-Amon, who took it with his copper-ringed hand and dropped it in his lap.

"Mightiest of magicians," he began, "I bring you familial greeting from the lord duke of Kordava, who salutes you and offers rich gifts in return for some slight service, which this missive will explain."

Thoth-Amon did not unroll the letter; he seemed to know its contents already. He mused for a time.

' Twere near to my heart to trample the accursed cult of Mitra into the slime and raise up the worship of our Father Set," he murmured. "But I am occupied with mighty magical operations, and Villagro's gold means little to me."

"That is not all, dread lord," said Menkara, drawing the Book of Skelos from under his robe. "In tender of the duke's good will, we beg you to receive this gift from our hands." He laid the ancient tome at Thoth-Amon's feet.

Thoth-Amon snapped his fingers, and the book rose into the air and settled gently, open, on the sorcerer's lap. The wizard-priest idly turned a few pages.

"A rare gift, in sooth," he said. "I had not thought a third copy yet existed; or have you rifled the royal librarium of Aquilonia?"

"Nay, dread lord," quoth Menkara. "A chance find, this, on the Nameless Isle that lies in the western Sea…"

His voice trailed off, for the figure of the somber giant before them had suddenly grown tense. Cold fires leapt up in those snaky black eyes. The air seemed cold, and a sense of peril sprang up in Zarono. He caught his breath; had they done something to anger the great magician?

"Bore you away aught else from the altar of Tsathoggua the Toad-god?" said Thoth-Amon in a soft voice like a sword sliding from its sheath.

Menkara quailed. "Naught else, dread lord, save a sack or two of gems…"

"Which lay before the altar upon the book, did they not?"

Menkara nodded, trembling.

Thoth-Amon rose to his feet, and hellish fires blazed in his black eyes. The room seemed to blaze with green fire, and the pavement quaked as at the step of a giant. The magician spoke in a voice of thunder: "You crawling worms! By such fools am I, Thoth-Amon, servedl Set, mighty father, give me men of keener wit for slaves 1 A kan-phog, yaaH

"Mighty one! Prince of magicians! How have we angered you?" wailed Menkara, groveling.

The grim gaze of the mighty Stygian swept down upon the pair in deadly wrath.

His thunderous voice sank to a serpent's hiss.

"Know, fools, that there was hidden beneath the idol that whose worth the entire wealth of the earth cannot equal, compared to which the Book of Skelos is worth no more than a shopkeeper's tally sheet! I speak of the Cobra Crown]"

Zarono gasped. He had dimly heard of this sacred talisman of the serpent-men of Valusia―the most potent sorcerous sigil the earth had ever borne―the all-commanding crown of the serpent-kings, wherewith they had, in pre-human ages, gained the empire of the earth. And they had taken the book and the gems, leaving the supreme treasure behind!

Chapter Nine

WIND IN THE RIGGING

For days, the Wastrel lay becalmed off the Nameless Isle. The men sat along the rail, dangling fishing lines in the water. Half a cable's length forward of the ship, the crew of the longboat, belayed by a line to the Wastrel's bow, sweated at their oars, towing the carack inch by inch toward the unknown shores of the main continent.

Conan cursed and called upon his savage Cimmerian gods, but in vain. Day after day, the sails hung slack from their yards. The small, smooth swells slapped listlessly against the hull. To the south, thun-derheads rose slowly into the hazy sky, and lightning flickered along the horizon at night; but where the Wastrel lay, the air was still.

The burly Cimmerian worried. Zarono's ship could have fallen upon him and taken him, except that the local calm would have halted the Petrel as surely as it had Conan's vessel. Either the Zingaran, too, lay becalmed over the horizon, or he had taken another route in departing from the island and so had missed the Wastrel.

Whatever errand of mischief Zarono was bound on, Conan thought, it was just as well that they had not fallen in with him. They had enough trouble of their own, without his help. For one thing, they were running low on food and fresh water.

For another, there was Sigurd and his crew. Conan had taken a Liking to the frank, fearless young redbeard from Vanaheim and had offered berths among his own men to the marooned Barachans. He had known that this might lead to trouble, and so it had. There was fierce rivalry between the buccaneers of Zingara and the pirates―mainly Argosseans―of the Isles. Each had fought the other too often and too savagely to develop any mutual liking on short order.

Yet seamen are seamen and 'follow a common trade. Ruthless though he was in many things, Conan felt that he could not simply up-anchor and sail away, leaving fellow mariners to their fate. So he had trusted that, between himself and Sigurd, they could keep the peace. Such, alas, had not been the case. The Zingarans had baited the hapless maroons until fighting broke out. No matter how often Conan or Sigurd hauled snarling sea dogs apart and beat sense into them, another fight was soon a-brewing.

This accursed calm aggravated the friction between the rival groups of corsairs.

Furious with frustration, Conan growled a curse and gripped the rail between clenched hands. If ever, he hoped, a blessed wind would arise and give his men proper seamen's tasks to do, they would be too busy to spend time baiting rivals.

Another problem gnawed at his mind as well. Chabela had confided to him all that she had learned from Zarono and his snake-eyed Stygian sorcerer. Some information they had let slip, more she had overheard, and yet more she had shrewdly inferred, about the reason for Zarono's voyage and his seizure of her vessel. Much of the truth of the plot against the crown had revealed itself to her active mind, and all this she had passed on to Conan.

Now the Cimmerian was in a dilemma. A mere buccaneer, the dynastic conflicts of kingdoms meant lit-tie to him, and he owed little to Ferdrugo of Zingara. True, the old monarch had given him a royal commission as a privateer of the crown, and Kordava provided Conan with a safe harbor after voyages. But this much he might expect from any king of Zingara. The next one, in fact, might demand a smaller percentage of his loot.

In such matters, however, the rude chivalry of his Cimmerian heritage sometimes overcame his self-interest. It was not in the grim barbarian to stand idly by, ignoring the pleas of a beautiful Zingaran princess, while her royal father was slowly done to death by cunning plots and Stygian sorcery. Although he knew pot what he was getting into, Conan at length decided to make her battle his own.

It was not, however, entirely altruism that suggested this course to the buccaneer. He had his ambitions, too. He did not intend to remain a mere privateer all his days. If he could save the king of Zingara and his daughter from the plots of traitors and thus bolster the tottering throne, what could he not ask as a reward? A dukedom? An admiralship?

Conan even toyed with the idea of suing for Princess Chabela's hand and settling down as a royal consort. During a life of wild adventure, many women had tendered Conan the ultimate hospitality. But, although the Cimmerian treated women with a rough chivalry, he had avoided any land of legitimate marriage. He liked to fulfill his definite obligations; and, to one whose lifeblood had been travel, adventure, and conflict, the thought of being tied down to one hearth, with the welfare of a family to think of, was repugnant.

Now, however, he was over thirty-five and past the first flush of youth.

Although he showed few signs of age save the many scars that crisscrossed his mighty frame, he knew that he could not expect to continue his footloose, brawling, roistering life forever. He would have to give some thought to his own future. Chabela was a fine, round, bouncing girl, forceful and intelligent, and she seemed to like him. He could fare further and do worse…

Frowning in thought, Conan left the rail, descended leisurely to his cabin, and flung himself into a chair. The twinkle of gems caught his eye, and he grinned sourly. Something, at least, had been gained from his efforts. On the desk before him, the Cobra Crown twinkled and flashed as the level shafts of the ruddy afternoon sun, slanting through the porthole, struck fire from its blazing gems.

On their march back from the cliff whence the toad-idol had fallen, Conan and his companions had again passed the black temple. Now, it seemed, the aura of evil, which had earlier enshrouded the ruin, was dispelled. The cryptic structure of black stone lay bathed in sparkling sunlight. No longer did an eery thrill of supernatural premonition tingle in the nerves of those who viewed it.

Cautiously, Conan set foot in the gloomy place again. Where the toad-god had squatted for untold ages, a black hole yawned in the plinth on which it had been enthroned. As Conan leaned over the cavity, his alert eye had caught the sparkle of gems. Had Zarono missed something? Conan quickly thrust his hand into the opening and brought forth the Cobra Crown.

It was a hollow cone of gold, crusted with thousands of white, fiery gems. Conan guessed these to be cut and faceted diamonds, although the craft of cutting and polishing the hardest of all gems was virtually unknown to the gem carvers of his day. The crown was fashioned into the likeness of a serpent, whose coils formed the conical headpiece and whose arched neck rose up from behind, to curve across the top of the crown so that the serpent's blunt head stared out above the brows of the wearer. Thousands of gems encrusted the Cobra Crown, and their worth was beyond calculation. So after all, the trip to lie Nameless Isle had not been without its profit.

A roar of excitement roused the buccaneer from his somber thought: "By Frigga's teats and Shaitan's fiery member!"

Conan grinned, knowing the voice of Sigurd the Vanr. An instant later, a redbearded face, flushed with excitement, thrust into his doorway. Before either could speak, Conan knew the cause without words. The boom of taut canvas and the song of wind in the rigging came to his ears, and the cabin tilted as the ship heeled. The wind had come at last.

And what a wind! For two days and a night the Wastrel, stripped to a storm foresail, rode the scudding waves, driven by one of the lusty simooms that caused the mariners of the Hyborian Age to avoid these uncharted seas.

When the wind fell, the Wastrel dropped anchor in a cove on the coast of the main continent. Just where on that coast, Conan did not know, because a heavy overcast had hidden the sun and the stars during this leg of their voyage. Conan knew that they had sailed in a generally easterly direction. From the jungled appearance of the coast, he knew that they were south of the meadowlands of Shem; but whether they had made a landfall in Stygia, or in the kingdom of Kush, or in the little-known black countries still further south, remained to be seen.

"A chancy-looking place, my Captain," grumbled Zeltran the mate. "Where is it we might be?"

"The devil knows and the devil cares," grunted Conan. "The main thing is to find water; the butts are nigh empty and full of slime. Pick me a landing party, and let's be out with barrels. Jump to it!"

Zeltran scurried to the main deck to summon all hands. As the party assembled and swung down on lines to the longboat, Sigurd cast a frowning glance at the shoreline and grumbled one of his cosmopolitan curses. The Vanr had belted a huge leathern baldric across his matted chest.

"What's that, man?" demanded Conan.

Sigurd shrugged. "Maybe naught, shipmate; but this land looks uncommon like the coasts or Kush."

"Well, what of it? We were bound to hit Kush if we kept on to eastward."

"If so it be, these lands are no safe haven for honest mariners. The black devils would as lief eat a man as give him the time of day. And there's tales of a nation of warrior women in the interior, fiercer fighters than the men even."

Conan stared across the water to where the longboat labored shoreward. "Maybe so, but water we must have, and our victuals are none too ample. When our stores are full, well steer north for Kordava again."

Chapter Ten

THE BLACK COAST

The harbor into which they had sailed lay at the mouth of a small, sluggish river, whose banks were thickly grown with tall, slender palms and heavy underbrush. The longboat slowed in the shallows, and several buccaneers clambered overboard to drag it to safety higher up on the beach. Then, while archers mounted guard, the party trooped up to the beach to river mouth with empty casks. They continued on up the banks of the river, out of sight, stopping betimes to taste the water to see if they had reached the place where it was no longer brackish.

Conan, who had come ashore with the second boatload, stood frowning on the beach with mighty arms folded on his bare chest. The configuration of the river mouth seemed naggingly familiar, and the name of the Zikamba River came unbidden to his mind. Either he had once seen this stretch of coast depicted on a chart, or he had actually touched here during his voyages with Belit, years before. The expression on Conan's grim, scarred features softened as he thought of his years with Belit at his side and a horde of howling black corsairs at his back. Belit―languorous, tawny panther of a woman―Belit whose eyes were like dark stars―his first and greatest love…

With the swiftness of a tropical storm, a screaming mob of naked blacks burst from the underbrush, their ebony bodies gleaming through beads, plumes, and war paint. Scraps of wild-animal skin girded their loins, and their hands brandished feather-tufted spears.

With a startled oath, Conan sprang from his resting place, whipping out his cutlass with a rasp of steel on leather and bellowing: "To me^ you buccaneer dogs! To arms! To me, and yare!"

The leader of the black warriors was a giant, muscled like a statue of a gladiator hewn from gleaming black marble. Like the rest, he was naked but for a leopard-skin loincloth and a few beads and bangles. A crown of aigrettes nodded above his head. Intelligent black eyes looked out of a clean-lined face of majestic dignity.

In fact, to Conan's hasty glance, he looked oddly familiar. But Conan was too busy to search his memory. He sprinted up the slope of the beach, the sun flashing on the blade of his cutlass, to stand before his swiftly gathering crew and face the pelting charge of the black warriors.

Suddenly the plumed warrior in the lead halted, threw out his long, powerful arms, and bellowed: "Simamani, wotel"

This command brought the charging mob to a halt ―all but one man, who lunged past the leader, whipped back his arm, and started to hurl a keen-bladed assegai at Conan. His arm had started to lash forward when, moving with the speed of a striking adder, the leader brought his hardwood kirri smashing down on the warrior's head. The victim sprawled on the yellow sand, out cold.

Conan shouted to his men to hold their attack. For a long moment the two groups of armed men confronted each other, with javelins poised and arrows nocked.

Conan and the black giant stood panting, face to face in taut silence. Then the black war chiefs white teeth flashed in a grin.

"Conan!" he said in the Hyrkanian tongue, "Have you forgotten an old comrade?"

As the other spoke, Conan's memory awoke. "Jumal By Crom and Mitra, Juma!" he roared.

Dropping his cutlass, he sprang forward to hug the laughing black in his powerful arms. The buccaneers looked on in amazement as the two giants stood toe to toe, thwacking each other on the back and arms and shoulders with affectionate slaps and punches.

Years before, Conan had served in the legions of King Yildiz of Turan, far to the east. Juma the Kushite had been a fellow-mercenary. They had served together on an ill-fated expedition to farther Hyrkania, as escort for one of King Yildiz's daughters on her way to wed a nomad princeling of the steppes.

"Do you remember that fight in the snows of the Talakmas?" demanded Juma. "And that ugly little god-king, what was his name? Jalung Thongpa or something."

"Aye! And the way that ugly green idol of the demon-king Yama, as tall as a house, came to life and squashed his only begotten son like a bug!" Conan replied with gusto. "Crom, those were good days! But what in the name of nine scarlet hells are you doing here? And how did you become leader of these warriors?"

Juma laughed. "Where should a black warrior be, if not on the Black Coast? And where should a born Kushite go home to, if not to Kush? But I could ask • See "The City of Skulls" in Conan, by Robert E. Howard, L. Sprague de Camp, and Lin Carter; Lancer Books, 1967.

the same of you, Conan. Since when did you become a pirate?"

Conan shrugged. "A man must live. Besides, I am no pirate, but a lawful privateer with letters of marque from the crown of Zingara. Not that―ahem―there's much difference between the two, come to think of it. But tell me of your adventures. How came you to leave Turan?"

"I am used to savanna and jungle, Conan; no native of the frozen North like you.

Among other things, I got tired of freezing off my privates every Turanian winter.

"Besides, once you had drifted west, there were no more adventures. I had a hankering to see a palm tree once again and to tumble a plump black wench under the hibiscus bushes. So I resigned my commission, drifted south to the black kingdoms, and became a king myself I"

"King, eh?" grunted Conan. "King of what? I didn't know there was anything down here but bands of bare-arsed savages."

A mischievous grin lighted Juma's ebony features. "That's what they are―or, at least, that's what they were before Juma came to teach them the arts of civilized war." Juma turned his head and spoke to his men, who were fidgeting behind him as their leader conversed with the strange chief in a language they did not understand. "Rahisil"

The Negroes relaxed and sat down on the sand where they stood. Behind Conan, the buccaneers sat down likewise, though keeping a wary eye on the blacks. Juma resumed:

"I found my birth-tribe engaged in an old feud with a neighboring tribe. We conquered the other tribe and absorbed it, and I became war chief. Then we conquered two other tribes, and I became war prince. Now I am ruler of all this coast for fifty leagues, and we are on the way to becoming a nation. I even plan to build a proper capital city, when I get around to it."

"Hell's blood!" said Conan. "You've learned more from this so-called civilization than ever have I. At least, you've risen further in the world. Good luck to youl When your bully-boys came charging out of the brush, I thought the gods had tired of playing with us and were going to sweep us off the board to lay down a new set of pieces. We landed here for water, as we have just lain becalmed off a damned island full of ghost snakes and walking statues."

"You shall have enough water to float your ship in," Juma promised, "and once you have taken aboard all you need, you shall all be my guests at my village this night. Well have a feast that will leave you staggering. I have a new crop of banana wine that ought to satisfy even your thirst!"

That night, most of Conan's crew sprawled on rattan mats in Juma's village of Kulalo, leaving a skeleton crew aboard the Wastrel. Kulalo―actually a sizable town―was a triple ring of conical huts of bamboo and thatch, sheltered behind a tall palisade and a thorn-bush boma.

A huge pit was dug in the open space at the heart of the town. This pit was filled with firewood and bracketed with huge spits, on which beeves, pigs, and antelope turned sizzling. Carved wooden bowls of sweetish, deceptively bland-tasting banana wine were passed from hand to hand. While black musicians beat drums in complex rhythms, fingered flutes, and plucked native lyres, young black women, clad only in a few beads and bangles, danced before the orange flames, clapping hands and shouting in chorus as they performed elaborate evolutions that would not have disgraced an emperor's troupe of dancing girls.

The sailors gorged on wild pig, millet cakes sweetened with sorghum syrup, and mountains of lush ripe fruit.

Sigurd's men joined Conan's party at the feast. The hearty, noisy scene fascinated the Argosseans. For once, the Argosseans and the Zingarans were too thankful for the food, drink, and entertainment to snarl at each other. More than one plump, saucy-eyed ebon temptress caught the fancy of a sailor and was chased squealing into the shadows of a nearby hut, to emerge a half-hour later, flushed, rumpled, and heartily appeased.

Conan had feared trouble from such things. His buccaneers had seen no women for weeks. To his pleased surprise, however, King Juma's black warriors did not seem to mind. In fact, they seemed to take it as a compliment when their women were borrowed―albeit, after a buccaneer had had his will of a woman, he was likely to be confronted afterwards by her grinning mate with his hand out for a present.

Relieved that there would be no woman trouble, Conan reflected that there was much to be said for savagery as a way of life.

The princess Chabela, however, found such bestial behavior obnoxious and said so. She sat between Conan and Juma. While Conan and Juma talked over her head, recalling adventures that each had had since they parted in Turan long ago, Conan was amused by the stiff expression on the princess's face as she looked with a cold eye on the tumbling figures in the shadows.

Conan half feared that Juma might expect, as a return for his hospitality, the loan of Chabela to his black embrace. Among the Kushites, this would have been merely good manners. While Conan fuzzily tried to think his way out of this predicament, Juma indicated that he knew enough of the ways of civilized men to realize that different codes obtained there and that the princess was safe from him.

Conan belched. "Crom's guts, comrade, but this is the life! I couldn't read the damned stars to see where we were, and the Wastrel lacked charts for this far south. Didn't know but what we were in the fabled Amazon country." He gulped down another cup of plantain wine.

Juma sobered. "As a matter of fact, you are―in a manner of speaking. At least, the warrior women of Gamburu―their main city―claim this coast as their territory. But they lack means to enforce their claim, as other tribes lie between my land and theirs."

"So? Tough bitches to fight, I've heard. Glad I need not find out, as fighting against women goes athwart my grain. Have you had any trouble with the Amazons?"

"A bit, in the beginning. I'm trying to train my boys to shoot like Turanians."

Juma sorrowfully shook his head. "But it's hard. There's no decent bow wood around here, and my bucks don't even feather their arrows. Then they get mulish and say, this is how it's been done ever since Damballah created the world, so this must be the right way. Sometimes I think it would be easier to teach a zebra to play the zither. But in spite of all, I now have the best-trained archers in Kusn. The last time the Amazons tried to crack our borders, we stuck a few of them as full of quills as a porcupine."

Conan laughed but then put a hand to his throbbing brow. The plantain wine had a deceptively bland, sweet taste, which concealed a powerful kick. Mumbling an apology, Conan rose, staggering a lit-tie, and retired behind the nearest hut to relieve himself. Then he decided to call it a night. Returning to the king's couch of mats, he gathered up the bundle that he had brought ashore. The sack contained the Cobra Crown, wrapped in a blanket. He had not left it aboard the Wastrel, because the fortune in gems might tempt even the most trustworthy of his men. As he had become fond of them, he preferred to keep them from temptation rather than to have to hang any from the yardarm.

Mumbling his good-nights to Sigurd, Zeltran, Juma, and the prim-faced princess, he staggered off to the hut that Juma had reserved for him. Soon he was snoring like distant thunder.

Befuddled, Conan had not observed the ugly look on the face of one of Juma's warriors, a surly fellow named Bwatu. This was the man who had almost cast an assegai at Conan on the beach and whom Juma had struck down. That blow had rankled. A warrior high in Juma's councils, Bwatu fancied himself insulted by being felled like any common lout. Throughout the feast, his somber eye had returned again and again to the bundle at Conan's feet. The care that the buccaneer captain took of it suggested that it contained something of value.

Bwatu carefully noted which hut Conan had retired to. As the feast roared on under the glory of the tropical moon, he rose to his own feet, stumbled as if drunken―albeit he was practically sober―and wandered off into the shadows. As soon as he was out of sight, he doubled back through the inky alleyways between the huts. A vagrant ray of moonlight flashed on the keen blade of his dagger―a dagger he had just received from a sailor for the use of one of his women.

Far to the north, in the Oasis of Khajar in Stygia, Thoth-Amon had for hours searched the astral plane for some token of the whereabouts of the precious relic of the serpent-men of ago-lost Valusia. While Menkara and Zarono slept in alcoves beyond the sanctum of his private laboratorium, the mighty Stygian at length perceived the hopelessness of his task. He sat motionless, his cold black gaze brooding on nothingness.

Shadows flowed and flickered within the great orb of crystal, which invisible hands had placed before his seat of power. Dim, wavering radiance, cast by moving figures within the crystal, sent shadows rippling across the sculptured walls of the chamber.

Thoth-Amon had established that the Cobra Crown no longer rested in its ancient hiding-place beneath the stone idol of Tsathoggua the toad-god. Only another party of mariners, landing by accident or design on the Nameless Isle, could have borne off the Crown. By the power of his crystal, Thoth-Amon had searched the island, foot by foot. Not only was the Crown gone; no human beings remained on the island. There was no sign of the Zingaran princess, of whose escape from the Wastrel Zarono had told him. The disappearance of the Crown and of Chabela, as well as the destruction of the idol, all pointed to the intervention by some party unknown.

The silence remained unbroken in the chamber. Shadows flickered across the walls and across the figure that sat on the throne, as motionless as if it, too, had been carved from stone.

Chapter Eleven

WEB OF DOOM

Seldom was Conan of Cimmeria caught napping, but this was one of the times. The mild-tasting but heady beverage sent him into a deep slumber until, belatedly, his primitive sense of danger roused him. Slowly he came awake, foggily aware that something was wrong. For a moment he could not tell what had disturbed him.

Then he knew. A long slit had been cut in the woven reeds which composed the sides of the hut. The slit ran from man-height to the ground, and through the rent the cool night air blew across his sweating body.

Conan reached out and felt for the bundle that he had left lying at his side.

Then, with a curse, he lurched to his feet and peered into the gloom around the hut. The Cobra Crown was gone.

Red fury boiled in Conan's heart; his bellow of rage shook the flimsy walls of the hut. Ripping out his cutlass, he charged out of the hut, cursing sulphurously.

The feast was still in progress for those few warriors still able to stand. The huge fire had burned low. Stars blazed like clustered gems above the nodding palms, and a nearly full moon showed her silver shield. Among the few who were still awake, Conan spied Juma and Sigurd. His shout brought them to their feet.

In swift words, he told what had happened. Since the crown was the only loot they had gathered during this voyage, Conan was stung to roaring rage by his loss.

All the buccaneers were accounted for, although few were conscious. A swift check of the folk of Ku-lalo, however, revealed that one was missing.

"Bwatu! Damballah singe his black soul!" Juma choked wrathfully, furious that one of his own people should have robbed his guest.

"You know the block vdog?" roared Conan, too mad with rage to watch his tongue.

Juma merely nodded grimly, describing the culprit.

"That surly-looking ugly you knocked sprawling back on the beach?" Conan demanded.

"The same. I guess he bore us both a grudge."

"Or spotted the gems in the bagl" Sigurd commented. "What's to do? Any idea where the rogue might hide, King Juma? By the bowels of Ahriman and the fiery claws of Shaitan, we should be after him ere he gets more of a start!"

"He would probably make for the land of our enemies, the Matamba." Juma pointed northeast. "Further north, Bwatu might fall into the path of the Ghanata slavers, who have been active in these parts of late. He could not, on the other hand, go very far southeast, for thither lies―"

To stand idly by while Juma calmly considered alternatives, while a fabulous fortune was borne ever farther away through the jungle night, was more than the fuming Conan could endure. Abruptly, he broke in on Juma's ponderings.

"Jaw all night, if you will!" he growled. "Where's the trail to the land of the Matamba?"

"The path out the East Gate forks, and the trail leads northeast―"

Without waiting to hear the rest, Conan charged off toward his hut. On the way, he paused to pick up a water pot and empty it over his head. He came up blowing like a beached sea monster, but his skull ceased to throb and his wits began to clear.

When he raked the black mane of his hair out of his eyes, he saw Chabela, wrapped in a blanket, staring at him from her hut. "Captain Conan!" she called.

"What has happened? Is the town attacked?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, girl. Only a princely ransom in cut diamonds, thieved from me as I snored. Back to your pallet, and be quick about it!"

Sigurd came puffing up. "Lion!" he said. "Juma and his headmen are trying to rouse the fleetest warriors. Don't start out by yourself into this jungle. The gods know what prowling beasts may be out there, so wait for Juma―"

"Be damned to the lot of you!" snarled Conan, whose eyes burned like those of a hunting beast. "I am for Bwatu before his trail grows cold, and Crom pity the jungle beast that gets in my way tonight!"

Without further speech, he was off. Like a charging buffalo, he ran for the East Gate and vanished from view.

"Damned Cimmerian temper!" swore Sigurd. He threw an apologetic glance at the princess and flung himself into the darkness after his comrade, calling out: "Wait for me! Do not try it alone!"

The village was in an uproar. Juma and his chieftains strode among the sleepers, kicking them awake, hauling them to their feet, and bellowing commands.

Thus no eye noted as Chabela slipped back into her hut to don the rough garb with which Conan had furnished her out of the ship's slop chest. Gliding forth again, breeched and booted and armed, she slid into the shadows and quietly made her way to the East Gate.

"If that drunken oaf thinks he can order a royal princess of the House of Ramiro around…" she whispered angrily to herself.

There was, however, another and more compelling reason, besides her pique at Conan's brusque commands, that led her to leave Kulalo and set out alone after Conan. For all his roughness, he had treated her well and protected her. When he promised to return her unharmed to her father, he seemed really to mean it.

Hence she felt that she could trust him much further than she could either his piratical crew or Juma's horde of black barbarians. With this in mind, she faded into the jungle, where the snarl of a hunting leopard echoed through the darkness.

Hours passed as Conan's furious rush carried him several leagues along the trail to Matambaland, leaving Sigurd far behind. When he paused for breath, he considered waiting for the pirate to catch up with him. But then the thought that any pause would let the wily Kushite get even further out of reach of his revenge sent him plunging along the trail with renewed vigor.

Conan knew the Kushite jungles well from that period, a decade earlier, when for a time he had been war chief of the Bamula tribe, further north. Where a less experienced man might think that to venture into the jungle alone was to hurl oneself into the maw of peril, Conan knew better. The great cats, for example, are cunning hunters but not particularly brave. Few will challenge a man alone unless starved or too old and lame to bring down fleeter prey. The very noise that Conan made, pounding along the winding trail, was his best assurance of safety.

The jungle, true, harbored other beasts, some more dangerous than the cats: the hulking gorilla, the blundering rhinoceros, the burly buffalo, and the mountainous elephant. Being plant eaters, all would usually leave men alone if given a wide enough berth but if startled or crowded were likely to charge.

Luckily, Conan encountered none of these in his pursuit of Bwatu.

As the sky lightened with the approach of dawn, Conan flung himself down to drink from a water hole and to bathe his chest and arms. Thorns and spines had tattered his white blouse and had drawn scarlet scratches across his chest and arms, until his torso streamed with mud, blood, and sweat.

Cursing, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, tossed back his black mane, and rested for a moment. Then, growling an oath, he rose and plunged grimly on, trusting to his iron strength. He had tested his endurance many times, in the course of his years of wild adventure, and he knew that he could outlast any common man, even one of the most powerful.

The sun rose over the jungles of Kush and lit a steamy, humid morning. The great cats retired, with bellies full or empty as the case might be, to sleep away the heat of the day.

By the growing light, Conan could see, where the trail was muddy, the fresh prints of long, splayed bare feet. This, he was sure, was the spoor of the fleeing Bwatu. Although the run that Conan had already made would have caused most men to collapse, the sight of these tracks lent extra strength to his limbs.

Soon enough, Chabela regretted her impulsive action in following Conan into the forest. Conan and Sigurd, neither of whom knew that she was following them, soon outdistanced her. At a bend in the trail, she strayed off the path and at once lost all sense of direction. With the setting of the moon, the jungle had become as black as pitch. Beneath the canopy of leaves, she could not see the stars to get a hint of her direction. She wandered helplessly in circles, bumping into trees and tripping over roots and underbrush.

The night was alive with the chirp and click and buzz of nocturnal insects.

Although Chabela feared the wild beasts, she encountered none. But now and then a distant rustle or the crashing of a large body through the brush brought her heart into her mouth.

Toward dawn, trembling with fear and fatigue, the exhausted girl sank down in a mossy glade to rest. Why had she ever done so foolish a thing as to rush off into this trackless maze? Worn out, she presently fell asleep.

She awoke in terror as strong black arms seized her and hauled her to her feet.

She was surrounded by lean black men in ragged robes and turbans. They lashed her arms behind her and muffled her screams with a gag.

Toward mid-mom, Conan caught up with Bwatu, as he had known that he would.

Bwatu, however, was in no state to return the stolen crown to Conan. He was dead―and empty-handed.

The thieving black lay face down on the trail in a puddle of blood. He had been virtually hacked to pieces. Conan squatted over the body and examined the wounds. These seemed to have been made by the blades of steel swords, not by the bronze or flint or ivory points of the native spears. Weapons of bronze and copper are easily dulled and notched by use and hence tend to leave ragged wounds, but these were the clean cuts typical of well-honed steel. The black folk of the Kushite jungles knew not the arts of smelting and forging ferrous metal. Hence iron and steel were rarities this far south, being found only when brought down by trade from the more advanced peoples to the north: the kingdom of Kush, properly so called, and Darfar and Keshan. Conan wondered if the black Amazons had struck down the thief and carried off the crown, thus robbing him both of his property and his revenge. As he rose from his crouch, lips drawn back in a snarl, a weighted net fell upon him from the branches above. Its thick strands enwrapped and pinned his limbs. With a roar of rage, the Cimmerian struck out with his cutlass, but the tough fabric yielded to the blow and closed all the tighter about him.

Like the web of some enormous spider, the net dragged him down and muffled his blows. The robed and turbaned blacks who rose from concealment beside the trail, in a calm and businesslike manner, drew tight the lead lines that tightened the net about Conan like the cocoon of some giant caterpillar. Other men dropped from the branches overhead and quickly clubbed their captive into unconsciousness.

As he fell forward into blackness, the Cimmerian's final thought was to curse himself for a besotted fool. Not in years had he let himself be caught in such a simple trap, netted like a Kushite bush pig. But it was too late for regrets now…

Chapter Twelve

CITY OF WARRIOR WOMEN

In the Oasis of Khajar, it was pitch-black night. A heavy blanket of cloud overlay the desert, shutting off the rays of the moon, which manifested themselves only as a faint, gray luminescence filtering through the clouds.

It was dark, too, in the throne room of Thoth-Amon. The green flames in the torcheres had dimmed to a mere glow, like that of fireflies. The Stygian sorcerer seemed to slumber on his carven chair, so motionless was he. Had any been present to observe, they would have seen that his muscular chest did not rise and fall. His grim visage was inert and vacant, like an inanimate mask. His body seemed untenanted.

And so it was. Failing to find any clues to the Cobra Crown on the astral plane, Thoth-Amon had freed his ka from its prison of flesh and ascended to the highest plane, the akashic. Here, in this dim, immaterial spirit realm, the laws of time do not obtain. Past, present, and even a cloudy vision of the future lie visible to the all-encompassing glance of the adept, like a four-dimensional map. And here, in a sense, Thoth-Amon's spirit self could "see" the arrival of the Petrel, the landing of Conan, the awakening of the toad-god, its destruction, the seizure of the Cobra Crown, and Conan's subsequent voyage to the Black Coast. That much Thoth-Amon observed before permitting his ka to descend again to the lower planes of the cosmos. The ka had to return before it altogether lost its connection with its material body.

So Thoth-Amon, reentering his body, felt a prickling sensation spread through his form as numb flesh again became animate. The sensation was like the familiar "pins and needles" when circulation in a limb is interrupted; but, in the case of the prince of magicians, the tingling spread through his entire body. He stoically endured the pain. Then―"Zaronol Menkaral" Thoth-Amon's voice rolled like thunder through the crypts beneath his palace.

"Eh?" said Zarono, pulling on his doublet as he came from his sleeping chamber, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "What is it, my lord wizard?" Behind him, Menkara glided silently in.

"Prepare to return to the Black Coast at once. I have discovered the current whereabouts of the Cobra Crown and of your Princess Chabela. Both are in Kulalo, the capital of Juma the Kushite."

"How got they there?" said Zarono.

"Your fellow ruffian, Conan the Cimmerian, took them―"

"That damned barbarian!" snarled Zarono. "Ill―"

"If you encounter him, do to him as you will. I have no love for him, for he has caused me no small annoyance by his adventurings. But your main task will be to recapture your princess. Even I cannot control her mind at so great a distance."

"And the Crown?"

"You may leave the Crown to me."

"Are you coming with us, sir?"

Thoth-Amon smiled bleakly. "Nay, not in the flesh. It will require a work of magic that few magicians in the entire world could do, and that will tax my powers to the utmost; but I shall reach Kulalo before you. Waste no time, you two, but gather your gear to set forth at once. Wait not even for daybreak!"

Conan revived in a yile temper. His head ached, as much from overindulgence in Juma's banana liquor as from having been beaten unconscious. Moreover, he was a disarmed and helpless captive, in the hands of slavers. Although this had happened to Conan before, it never failed to rouse him to a state of wild-beast fury.

Hours had passed, to judge by the angle of the sun's rays as they sent an occasional spear of light down through the roof of leaves. From die condition of his arms and legs, which were scraped raw, the burly Cimmerian assumed that he had been dragged through the underbrush to the clearning in which he now found himself. Heavy manacles bound his wrists. Through the tangle of his disordered mane, he glared about him, noting the number, alertness, and positions of the guards.

He was startled to see Chabela, huddled white-faced and frightened in a cluster of sad-looking blacks. He had no idea of how she had been captured. He did not, however, see Sigurd among the captives. This might or might not be a good thing.

Then, mounted on a lean mare, a tall black in the gray robes of a slaver cantered into the clearing. Like the other slavers, this man was black of skin, but lean and wiry, with sharper-cut features than were usual among the jungle tribes. Conan guessed that the slavers were Ghanatas, of whom Juma had already spoken. This was a nation of nomadic Negroes, who dwelt in the deserts along the southern borders of Stygia. While Shemite and Stygian slavers raided the Ghanatas and other peoples of Kush and Darfar for captives, the Ghanatas in turn raided still farther south, into the equatorial jungles.

The newcomer reined up and exchanged curt words with the man in command of the group that had captured Conan. The latter turned away, snapping his whip and yelling for his men to get the slaves moving.

The captives were herded into a double line. Their manacles were chained together so that no one of them could break free by himself. The giant Cimmerian towered above the surrounding blacks, bending a lionlike glare about him. The mounted slaver ran a cold, disdainful glance over the lot.

"By Zambi," he grunted, and spat. "This lot will scarcely bring a fistful of cowrie shells in Gamburur His lieutenant nodded. "Aye, Lord Mbonani. Methinks they grow feebler year by year. The breeding Stock must be running out…"

Just then, a slaver flicked Conan on the shoulder with his whip. As the whip kissed his skin, the Cimmerian swung into action. Swifter than thought, he reached up with his manacled hands, caught the whip, and pulled with a mighty surge of power.

Jerked off balance, the slaver sprawled at Conan's feet. As the man scrambled up, snarling curses, he half drew the heavy, razor-edged Ghanata knife― really more a short sword―from its scabbard thrust through his girdle.

Before the weapon could clear its sheath, Conan kicked the slaver in the face, knocking him down again. Conan then bent, pulling the blacks chained next in line to him off their feet in turn, and seized the hilt of the knife. Another slaver raced toward Conan, whirling an ax up over his head to split the Cimmerian's skull. Before the blow could fall, Conan drove the knife to the hilt in the slaver's belly, so that the point stood out of hand's breadth from the man's back just above the kidneys.

As the slaver paled, gurgled, and collapsed, the clearing erupted into a whirling mass of yelling men. Chained as he was, Conan had no chance. Still, it took five men to hold him and three more to batter his thick skull with clubs until he again sagged to the ground, unconscious.

Mbonani, struggling to keep his frightened mare under control, watched the flurry of action with an appraising stare. "Well," he grunted, "that one at least has spirit. A white man, too; what does he here?"

"I mentioned him earlier," said the slaver lieutenant. "There is a white woman, also―that one, yonder." Mbonani looked Chabela over appraisingly.

"The two best of the lot," he said. "Treat them well, Zuru, or it will go hard with you."

Mbonani walked his horse forward to where Co-nan, his face a mask of blood from scalp wounds, was dazedly lurching to his feet again. As Conan raised his bloody face, Mbonani struck the Cimmerian across the cheek with his riding ship.

"That for slaying one of my men, white man!" he barked.

The blow raised a welt, but the barbarian neither winced nor cried out. He watched the slaver captain with cold, expressionless hatred. Mbonani grinned wolfishly, showing white teeth against his black skin.

"I like your guts, white man!" he said. "Keep them, so that the Amazons shall pay a good price. Now forward!"

Escorted by the ragged slavers, the double line of captives clanked along the trail to Gamburu.

Conan marched with the rest, his iron frame stol-idly enduring the heat, the thirst, the flies, and the burning weight of the sun. He wondered what had befallen the Cobra Crown, but it was an idle thought. When one's life is at hazard, he had long since learned, loot becomes a mere side issue.

At length he noted a bulge in one of Zuru's saddle bags. Conan's eyes gleamed with savage humor. The slaver lieutenant might bow and scrape before Captain Mbonani, but he obviously had a mind of his own.

The Ghanta slavers led their captives out of the jungle and into an area of grassy veldt. On the next day, gleaming in the low sun of the late afternoon, the stone city of Gamburu loomed on the horizon.

Conan stared at the city appraisingly. Compared to glittering Aghrapur, the capital of Turan―or even Meroe, the capital of the kingdom of Kush― Gamburu was not impressive. Still, in a land where most houses were squat cylinders of dried mud and thatch, and a city wall was a stockade of sharpened wooden poles, and a "city" was but an overgrown village by the standards of more northerly lands, Gamburu stood out.

About the city ran a low wall of uncemented stone blocks, rising to about twice the height of a man. Four gates broke the circle of this wall, each flanked by guard towers with slits for archers and machicolations for the abuse of besiegers, Massive wooden valves were set in the gates.

Conan noted the masonry of the gates. Some of the stones were ordinary fi«ldstone, crudely chipped to fit. Others were finely dressed ashlars, but worn as if by great age. As Mbonani led his clanking column through the western gate, Conan observed that the houses inside the city showed a similar mix-ture. Most of the buildings were of one or two stories, with roofs of thatch. The lower story was in most cases made largely of the old, well-carved stones, while the upper was composed more of newer and cruder masonry. Here and there a bit of sculpture, such as a frowning, demonic face, appeared on the surface of one of the worn old stones; but it was as often as not mounted in its wall sideways or upside down.

From his previous experience with ruined cities, Conan drew his own conclusions.

Some ancient― perhaps pre-human―folk had originally built a city here. Centuries later, the ancestors of the present inhabitants had taken possession of the town. In building and rebuilding, they had re-used the ancient stones and had also imitated, though crudely, the stone-building methods of their predecessors.

The hooves of Mbonani's mare kicked up little clouds of dust from the unpaved streets and betimes splashed through a mud puddle. As the column shambled along the main street, the Gamburuvians crowded to the sides to let them pass.

Conan's glance darted from side to side as he strode along. He noted that, in this city, the sexes differed in an unusual way. The women were tall and powerful; they strode imperiously, like great black panthers, with bronze swords slapping their naked thighs. They were resplendent in bangles and beads, in plumes and lion-skin headdresses.

The men, on the other hand, were puny, sad-looking blacks, inches shorter than the women and confined to such menial tasks as street-cleaning, chariot-driving, and litter-bearing. Conan, tall even for a Cimmerian, towered over them all.

The column crossed a bazaar, where merchandise lay spread under awnings in the twilight, and thence down a broad avenue to a central plaza. This huge open space, a bowshot across, was fronted on one side by the royal palace, a worn but imposing structure of dull-red sandstone. On either side of the gate rose a pair of massive, squat statues of the same material. They were not the statues of human beings―that much was evident from their proportions―but just what they were meant to represent was hard to tell, so worn by the weather of ages were they. They could have originally been figures of owls, of apes, or of some unknown pre-human monstrosities.

Conan's attention was next drawn to a peculiar pit in the center of the plaza.

This shallow depression was a good hundred feet across. Its rim was cut down into the earth in a series of concentric steps, like the rows of stone benches in an amphitheater. The floor of the pit was strewn with sand, in which stood a few puddles from recent rains. In the midst of these sands rose a peculiar clump of trees.

Conan had never, in all his travels, seen an arena like this. He was, however, allowed only a momentary glimpse of it before he was hurried along to the slave pen. There he remained with his fellow captives through the night under heavy guard.

That one glimpse, however, had shown Conan a disquieting detail. Scattered about the bases of the strange-looking trees, white against the yellow-brown of the sand, was a clutter of clean white bones ―human bones, such as one might find about the lair of a man-eating lion.

Conan thought about this oddity all the way to the pen. The Argosseans, he knew, sometimes fed condemned criminals to lions in their arena in Messantia; but such an arena was so planned that no lion could leap from the floor up into the tiers of benches where sat the spectators. This pit was too shallow for such a purpose; a lion could clear it in a single bound.

The more Conan thought about this phenomenon, the more uneasy he became.

Chapter Thirteen

THE QUEEN OF THE AMAZONS

Dawn broke in orange flame above the squat stone towers of the city of the Amazons. The display did not long abide; for in these tropical latitudes, the sun soared almost straight up from the horizon. With dawn, Conan, Chabela, and the other new-caught slaves were herded from the pen and marched to the bazaar.

Here, one by one, they were stripped, led to the block, displayed, bargained over, and finally led away.

The buyers were all women, who were the ruling sex in Gamburu. The tall, lean Mbonani stood to one side, his hawklike black face impassive, as the buyers haggled with his lieutenant Zuru. The warrior women accorded more respect to the Ghanatas, whose slave-catching talents they valued, than they did to their own men.

When Chabela's turn came, the girl blushed scarlet and tried to hide her person with her hands as she stood naked on the block. When Zuru had made her turn about, he shouted for bids.

"Five quills," said a voice from a veiled litter.

Zuru glanced around the crowd of Gamburuvians and said: "Sold!"

Since both had spoken in the bastard Ghanatan used as a trade language from the kingdom of Kush southward, Conan understood. He was surprised that such a low bid had not been topped. A "quill" was a length of quill from the wing feathers of one of the larger birds, filled with a minute amount of gold dust; for the land of the Amazons had not yet learned the use of coined money. Still, Conan wondered why an aristocratic young beauty like Chabela had not fetched a higher price. The person in the litter must be so important that nobody dared bid against him―or her, Conan corrected himself.

He was tired, hungry, and in a vile temper. He had been clubbed until his scalp was a mass of wounds and swellings. He had been forced to walk leagues in the broiling sun, had been given precious little food or drink or sleep, and he was as touchy as a lion with a toothache. So, when one of the slavers jerked his chain to lead him to the block, he almost― but not quite―burst into violent and unthinking action.

A few years before, Conan would have laid lethal hands on the slaver and damned the consequences. But hard-won experience checked his impulse. He could undoubtedly kill this one guard, and perhaps several more before they brought him down, as they inevitably would. These were hardened marauders who had dealt with many a recalcitrant slave before. At ten paces, one of them could hurl a javelin through the ring made by a man's thumb and forefinger without touching his flesh.

If Conan attacked them, he might get a few, but the rest would stick him full of spears and hack him apart with their knives before he could fill his lungs to give a war cry. And then, who would care for Chabela? In taking on her cause, he had―he hated to admit it, even to himself―assumed a certain responsibility for her. He must live.

His eyelids narrowed to slits; his mouth was compressed to a thin gash; the veins in his temples throbbed and swelled with his suppressed fury. His limbs quivered with the effort of his self-control as he walked to the block. A nearby slaver mistook this tremor for a sign of fear and whispered as much to a comrade, smiling as he spoke. Conan sent the turbaned black a hard, level gaze that wiped the smile from his features.

"Strip, you!" snapped Zuru.

"You will have to help me off with these boots," said Conan calmly. "My feet are swollen from much walking." He sat down on the block and held out one leg.

Zuru grunted and seized the boot. For an instant he wrestled vainly with it.

Then Conan gently placed his other foot against the slaver's backside, relaxed the foot in the boot, and shoved. Zuru shot away as if hurled from a catapult, to fall face-down in a puddle.

With a scream of rage, the slaver lieutenant bounded to his feet. Snatching a whip from another slaver, Zuru ran back to where Conan sat with a faint smile on his grim features.

"I―I will teach you, white dog―" yelled Zuru, making a furious cut at Conan with the whip.

As the lash of hippopotamus hide snaked toward him, Conan shot out a hand and caught the whip. Then, still not rising from the block, he pulled the whip in, hand over hand, drawing Zuru toward himself.

"Be careful, little man," he rumbled. "You would not wish to damage your merchandise, now would you?"

The slaver chief, Mbonani, had been watching the scene. Trying to suppress a smile, he spoke: "The white dog is right, Zuru. Let his new owner teach him manners, not you."

But Zuru was too far gone in rage to heed even his captain. With an inarticulate howl, he whipped out his Ghanata knife. Conan rose to his feet, gathering the slack of the chain that connected his wrists to use as a weapon.

"Holdl" cried an imperious voice from the veiled litter. Its tone of command brought even the infuriated Zuru to a halt.

A jeweled black hand whipped aside the muslin hangings, which concealed the rider within from the eyes of the vulgar. A black woman stepped from the palanquin, and Conan's eyes widened with involuntary admiration.

The woman was well over six feet in height―almost as tall as Conan, and of robust build. Black as oiled ebony was she, and sunlight gleamed in satiny highlights on the curves of her heavy breasts, sleek thighs, and long, muscular legs. A jeweled coif in her bush of kinky mack hair bore ostrich plumes dyed several brilliant colors: peach, rose, and emerald green. Uncut rubies gleamed in her ear lobes, and pearls shone softy in multiple strands about her neck.

Bracelets of pure, soft gold jingled on her arms and ankles. Otherwise, her only garment was a brief kilt of leopard skin about her voluptuous loins.

Nzinga, queen of the Amazons, bent a lingering gaze upon the giant Cimmerian.

Silence fell upon the bazaar. Slowly the queen's full lips parted in a languorous smile.

"Ten quills for the white giant," she said at last.

There were no further bids.

Chabela found her new life as a slave almost unendurable. It was bad enough that she, who had been the pampered daughter of a powerful monarch, must now fetch and carry at the behest of a black queen. Worse yet was the fact that slaves were required to go about their tasks naked; garments were for free tribesmen only.

She slept on a verminous pallet in the slave quarters. A harsh-voiced, heavy-handed slave-mistress roused her and her companions in thralldom with the first light of dawn to cook and clean, scrub and mop, and serve at the royal table. It did her no good to see the erstwhile Zingaran buccaneer, Conan, lolling on fat cushions at these feasts, guzzling banana wine and gorging on fish cakes and pastries.

Her estimate of the redoubtable Cimmerian fell. She did not have a word equivalent to the modern "gigolo," but she knew the concept well enough. Her contempt for Conan was aggravated by the fact that he did not seem to resent his status as the queen's kept lover. No man worthy of the name, she told herself, would sink so low as to enjoy such disgusting servitude. Experience had not yet taught her, as it had long taught Conan, to accept such conditions as came one's way when one could do nothing to change them.

Since Conan was the only person in this dreadful city whom she could even consider as a friend, she would have despaired utterly, had not Conan, on a few rare occasions when nobody was looking, tipped her a broad wink. The wink said―or at least she hoped that it said―"Keep up your courage, girl; 111 get you out of this yet."

On the other hand, even Chabela was forced to admit that Queen Nzinga was a magnificent woman. The girl tried to imagine their behavior in bed; but, having been delicately reared, she lacked the worldly knowledge to do so. She could not know that, however the splendid black lioness of Gamburu might queen it' in public, Conan was the master of the bedroom.

This was something new, too, for Queen Nzinga. Her experience, and the whole culture of her kingdom, assumed that woman was man's natural superior. A hundred queens had reigned before her on the Ivory Throne. Each of them had despised and degraded their men, using them as servants and as tools of pleasure and parenthood, and discarding them when they became sickly or exhausted or tiresome. Such had also been her way.

Until the giant Cimmerian had come into her life, she had easily dominated all her men. But Conan could not be dominated; his will was harder than iron, and he was even taller and stronger than she. In the clasp of his mighty arms, the black Amazon found pleasures beyond her previous experience. She became insatiable in her hungers.

She also became fiercely jealous of all the women whom the Cimmerian must have known before her. Of them, however, he would say nothing; her questions were ignored. Conan was not without a certain rude chivalry in such matters. Rail and bellow and smash things though she would, he remained unmoved, with a faint smile on his lips.

"And what of that plump little white wench the Chanatas captured along with you?" Nzinga flared. "She was your lover, yes? You found her soft, perfumed body desirable, did you not? More desirable than Nzinga, eh?"

Looking at her in the passion of her fury, with her eyes blazing and the ebon globes of her breasts dancing, Conan had to admit that never since his first great love, Belit of the Black Corsairs, had he known a more splendid woman.

But, now that he knew she was jealous of Chabela, he must be careful ―extremely careful. He must find some way to quench those suspicions, or Chabela would suffer.

Nzinga was quite capable of ordering the head smitten off anyone, man or woman, who thwarted her.

Conan had hitherto done what little he could to lessen Chabela's misery. Now, however, he would not dare to intervene even to that small extent, lest Nzinga get wind of it.

He yawned. "Chabela? I hardly know the child," he said. "She is a highborn Zingaran, and such folk place an absurdly high value on virginity. If I had loved her, she wouldn't be here now."

"What mean you?"

"She'd have slain herself, as they are taught to do there."

"I believe you notl You are trying to protect―"

Conan seized Nzinga in the grip of one mighty arm, bent her backwards into the nest of pillows, and drank furious kisses from her panting mouth. He knew that he could dare her temper just so far. In the present situation, there was only one treatment that he could count upon to take her mind off her jealous broodings…

Chapter Fourteen

UNDER THE LASH

For several days more, time passed without incident. Then…

Nzinga lolled on cushions in her seraglio or private quarters. For two days, the white slave, Chabela of Zingara, had been assigned to the most exhausting and degrading tasks. These chores were performed under the very eye of Conan. Nzinga saw to this by a system of carefully planned subterfuge and accident.

Wary of the queen's attention, Conan assumed a mask of indifference, although he often boiled with a rage to strike out on behalf of the captive princess.

Failing to draw any reaction from the Cimmerian, the black queen staged a final scene calculated to expose Conan's true feelings. She declared a small feast for several of her Amazon officers―big, scarred, tough-looking black women, with about as much femininity, in Conan's eyes, as a battle ax.

During the feast, the Zingaran girl waited upon her mistress and upon the latter's fancy man. As she was serving wine, one of the Amazon officers shot out a sandaled foot and tripped her.

With a stifled cry, Chabela lost her balance and upset a beaker of wine over several feasters. One of these, a stout officer named Tuta, scrambled to her feet with an oath and struck the cowering slave girl a terrific blow across the face with her open hand. The girl sprawled on the earthen floor.

A sadistic gleam lit the eyes of the Amazon officer; the sight of the cowering, naked white girl seemed to rouse her to additional fury. In tingling silence, she approached the slave girl like a panther stalking its prey. One scarred, muscular hand sought a needle-sharp bronzen dirk, which hung at her hip.

The room remained silent, save for the faint whisper as the ruddy blade, gleaming in the torchlight, slid from its sheath. Tuta, her face a mask of blood-lust, bent over the slave girl and raised the dagger.

With breathless fascination, Chabela watchedthe approach of the dirk. She knew that she ought to leap to her feet and run, even though she was sure to be caught. But the horror and hopelessness of her position drained the strength from her limbs, so that she could only stare helplessly. In another instant, the blade would sink into her panting breast…

Then Tuta froze as a viselike grip seized her by wrist and nape. The crushing pressure of those huge hands paralyzed her as surely as her approach had paralyzed Chabela. The dirk dropped to the ground with a faint, metallic sound.

Then, with a surge of his powerful thews, Conan hurled her across the hall, to sprawl, half stunned, against the further wall.

Conan was fully awake to' the position into which Nzinga had maneuvered him. He could not let the daughter of King Ferdrugo be stabbed to death; on the other hand, he realized that Nzinga would take his interference as proof of his interest in her rival and vent her jealousy on one or both of them. He forced a laugh.

"Surely the queen of Gamburu is not so spendthrift as to let her slaves be slain for a few drops of wine!" he said, grinning as jovially as he could.

Queen Nzinga eyed him coldly, without expression. Then she gave a small signal to Chabela, who scrambled up and scurried from the room. The tension relaxed.

Conan returned to his place. Beakers of wine went round again, and desultory conversation sprang up.

Conan hoped that the taut moment was over. He covered his thoughts with deep drafts of plantain wine. But he did not fail to notice that Queen Nzinga was eyeing him from time to time with hard, thoughtful eyes.

As Chabela left the dining hall, powerful black hands seized her and held her fast. Before she could cry out, a wad of cloth was thrust into her mouth and secured by a strip of the same material tied around her face and the back of her neck. Then a sack of cloth was drawn over her head. Her wrists were twisted behind her and bound with leather straps. She was lifted off her feet and borne through twisting corridors and down steps to an area of the palace that she did not know. Here her wrists were unbound but then bound again, above her head, to a copper ring suspended by a chain from the ceiling. When this was done, she was left alone.

The pain in her hands slowly diminished as the straps cut off the circulation in them, rendering them numb. She dangled weakly in the silent room, praying that Conan could somehow learn of her predicament.

But Conan, at this moment, was himself helpless. He sprawled on the cushions of the dining chamber. His eyes were closed, his head lay back, and he snored like distant thunder. Although he had drunk only moderately, a sudden lassitude had come upon him. The thought entered his bemused mind that perhaps Nzinga had drugged him―but, before he could do anything about it, he fell into a slumber so profound that not even an earthquake could have aroused him.

Nzinga gave him a slitted glance and tersely ordered him borne from the room.

Then she arose to stalk through the corridors to the chamber where Chabela hung.

As she strode, fury grew in her heart like the flames pent in a brazen furnace, and gloating anticipation smoldered in her fierce gaze.

The sack was snatched from Chabela's head and the gag from her jaws. She found herself looking into the blazing eyes and savage smile of Nzinga. The slave girl gave a cry of terror.

The black Amazon laughed. "Scream all you like, you white-skinned milksop. It will avail you naught!"

As Chabela hung in her bonds, Nzinga ran a gloating gaze over her victim's supple body. The queen turned away and chose a whip from several instruments of torment that hung from hooks along the wall. The lash, six feet of supple hippopotamus hide from braided handle to threadlike tip, slithered across the floor like a crawling serpent. Chabela stared with horror. Again, the queen laughed harshly.

"Conan's lips have never thrilled you," she said, "as will the kiss of my pet here. Nor have his hands caressed your flesh as shall the lash!"

"What have I ever done to you, that you should torment me so?"

"You took Conan's heart from me, ere we first met!" snarled Nzinga. "Never have I known such a man. But his arms have crushed you in their embrace; his lips have rained burning kisses on your white bosom… These things I know, and I cannot bear the knowledgel With you gone, he will turn to me and love me with all his mighty heart. I will make him king in Gamburu―an office no male has held for a thousand years!" She swished the whip.

It is not true!" moaned Chabela. "Never has he touched me!"

"You lie! But the kiss of the lash shall wring the truth from you!"

Nzinga drew back her arm, and the lash sang and cracked about Chabela's waist.

The girl screamed at the knifelike stab of agony. The whip left a scarlet weal, from which drops of blood slowly oozed.

Nzinga slowly drew back her arm for another slash. The only sound in the chamber was Chabela's hoarse breathing.

Again the whip sang, and a shriek of anguish was torn from the slave girl as the lash coiled about her loins. Nzinga watched, her handsome face distorted with eager lust, as the naked girl writhed and twisted in her bonds. Again she struck; now her ebony body glistened with tiny drops of sweat. Again Chabela screamed. The queen laughed, licking her full lips.

"Scream all you like, whimpering slave! No one can hear you. Even if he could, no one would dare to come to your aid. Conan lies in a drugged slumber, from which he will not recover for hours. In all the world, there is no one to help you!"

Her face alight with unholy passion, the giant Amazon caressed with her eyes the form of the slave, now glistening with sweat and blood, as she drew back her arm once more. She meant to indulge her perverted lust to the utmost, until the girl expired beneath the torture of the whip.

Never had Chabela imagined that flesh could endure such torment. Pampered by the luxuries of court lif e, the princess had never experienced true pain before.

Added to the agony of her flesh was the torment of shame. As the only daughter of a fond old king, she had been allowed to go her headstrong way, rarely thwarted by her aged and preoccupied royal parent. Now, as her flesh shrank from the kiss of the lash, so did her spirit shrink from the humiliation.

The Zingaran nobility commonly held black slaves ―Kushites brought up from the south by Stygian and Shemitish slavers―and Chabela knew that they were often punished for real or imagined faults just as she was being chastised now. But never in her wildest imaginings had she supposed that the roles could be reversed, and that a black woman could have her strung up and flog her like the meanest field hand on a Zingaran plantation.

As lash followed lash, Chabela, through the red haze of pain, fixed her gaze on a glittering object that lay across the chamber on a small taboret: a golden headpiece, crusted with countless gems, in the form of a coiled serpent. Of course! She recog-ized the Cobra Crown, which Conan had seized from the black temple on the Nameless Isle. She strove to keep her mind on the Crown, to counteract the pain of the flogging…

The Crown, she remembered vaguely, had been stolen from Conan in Kulalo―how long ago? Eons, it seemed. Then, how came it here? The slavers who had captured herself and Conan must have also taken the Crown from the thief who had stolen it originally.

Nzinga had paused in her work to gulp wine. Now she was returning; to the scarlet rapture of the whip. Steeling herself for the next blow, Chabela forced her eyes open. Through her tangled locks, she beheld a baffling scene.

Behind the nearly naked Nzinga, a weird phenomenon was taking place. First came a faint luminescence―a phosphorescent shimmer of elusive radiance, like the will o' the wisp of a ghost-haunted swamp.

Then the faint green light brightened and expanded. Within the time of a dozen heartbeats, it assumed a spindle shape as tall as a man.

Chabela gasped. Observing that the girl was staring wide-eyed at something behind her, Nzinga whirled. As she did so, the spindle brightened to a blinding emerald flame, then faded and vanished. In its place stood a man.

This man was dusky of skin, tall, and powerful. He had a harsh bronze mask of a face, with keen black eyes and a jutting beak of a nose. His head had recently been shaved, so that his hair was a mere black stubble, so short that the brown scalp showed through it. He wore a simple white linen robe, which left his muscular arms bare.

Thoth-Amon looked older than when Zarono and Menkara had entered his presence in his underground throne room. Beads of sweat bedewed his swarthy forehead, for the magical operation that had transported him bodily from the Oasis of Khajar to Gamburu had been one of the most powerful known to the magical fraternity.

Few wizards in the world were capable of it, and the mental effort had taxed even Thoth-Amon's powers to the utmost.

Nzdnga was amazed that a stranger―and a contemptible male, at that―should come unannounced into her disciplinary chamber. The intrusion was an incredible affront, for which she instantly decided to have the stranger's head. She opened her mouth to shout for her guards, at the same time drawing back her arm for a slash of the whip.

The Stygian watched with a quiet, enigmatic smile on his somber face. As the whip rose, ne extended a hand toward the black queen. A nimbus of jade-green radiance nickered into being about his fingers, brightened, and grew, until a beam of emerald light shot out to bathe in glory the ebony figure of Nzinga of Camburu.

The queen uttered one harsh cry, tensed as if stabbed, and collapsed limply, to sprawl on the earthen floor. The ray faded and vanished.

Some premonition caused Chabela to slump as if unconscious, hanging from the straps that oound her wrists to the overhead ring. She let her head fall forward, so that her thick mass of glossy black hair obscured her features.

Thoth-Amon gave her scarcely a glance. She was obviously a slave being punished for some fault and hence beneath his notice. Never having seen Chabela at close range in the flesh, he did not realize that she was the princess whom Menkara and Zarono were hunting along the Black Coast. Wizards are as capable of blunders as common men.

When Thoth-Amon had sent his ka to the akashic plane, Conan and Chabela had still been in Kulalo; Bwatu had not yet stolen the Cobra Crown. At that time, the future was too clouded by possible alternatives for the wizard to discern.

After his minions had departed on their es tion to recapture the princess, Thoth-Amon had recourse to his scry-stone again. He wished to locate the Cobra Crown accurately before undertaking the powerful spell that should transport him thither. Since he could remain at the far end of his journey only for a limited time, he could not afford to materialize at some point leagues distant from the thing that he sought.

In the meantime, however, Bwatu had stolen the Crown and had been slain by the slavers. Zuru had hidden the Crown and taken it with him to Gamburu, where Queen Nzinga had paid him enough quills of gold dust to make him wealthy for life. Hence, when Thoth-Amon sought to locate the Crown by crystallomancy, he had―somewhat to his surprise―discovered that it was no longer in Kulalo but in Gamburu.

About Conan and Chabela he did not concern himself. Chabela he assumed to be still in Kulalo, whence Zarono and Menkara would in due course remove her. In any case, the spell that transported him to Gamburu would not have enabled him to fetch another human being back to his lair with him.

As for Conan, Thoth-Amon regarded the Cimmerian buccaneer as but a minor annoyance, as one would a buzzing mosquito. If Conan got in his way, Thoth-Amon would swat him as one would an insect; but he would not go out of his way to pursue him. He was playing for bigger stakes than the life of a mere barbarian adventurer.

Had Thoth-Amon focused his occult vision on Chabela, he would soon have divined her identity. Just now, however, his whole attention was bent upon the Cobra Crown. A flicker of delight lit up his harsh features as he recognized the object on its taboret Quickly he strode across the senseless body of the Amazon queen to where the Crown rested. With reverently caressing hands, he raised the Crown and examined it in the torchlight, running his strong brown fingers delicately over the curving coils and the great white jewels that studded them.

"At last!" he breathed, the fires of insatiable ambition leaping up in his dark eyes. "With this, the emp-ery of the world is within my grasp! And the holy rule of Father Set shall be restored over lands near and far!"

As a grim smile lit his normally empassive features, Thoth-Amon spoke a word of power and made a peculiar gesture. A whirling web of green light enshrouded his figure and hit it. The light faded, shrank to a mere spindle of green phosphorescence, and flickered out.

Left alone in the chamber with the recumbent body of the queen, Chabela roused herself from her stupor of horror and terror. By standing on tiptoe, she found, she could ease the pressure of the straps that bound her wrists to the ring overhead. Although the straps had been drawn tightly, her hands and wrists were now so covered with sweat that the bonds could be slid along them. She struggled, first with one arm and then the other. After an eternity of effort, one hand at last slipped free from its strap. The other quickly followed.

Exhausted, Chabela collapsed to the floor. Her hands were so numb that she could not even flex her fingers. Soon, however, red-hot needles of returning circulation began to stab into them. She whimpered with the pain but choked back the sound lest it rouse her enemy, the queen.

Little by little, sensation and control returned to Chabela's hands. She rose, staggering a little, and bent over the form of Nzinga. The queen's superb breasts rose and fell in regular breathing, as if she were in a normal sleep.

Chabela limped across the room to where stood the ewer of wine from which Nzinga had refreshed herself. The princess drank the sweetish, bland liquid in thirsty gulps. New strength flowed into her limbs.

Then she turned her attention back to the unconscious queen. Chabela's eyes sought the dagger at Nzinga's girdle. Should she snatch it from its sheath and bury it in the queen's bosom? She trembled with hatred of the queen. She longed to slay her with a passion that she had never felt against any human being.

But she hesitated. For one thing, she had no way of knowing in how profound a slumber Nzinga lay. Suppose she drew the dagger. The motion might arouse the queen, who, being far larger and stronger than the sturdy little princess, would seize her arms and either slay her herself or shout for her guards to come and seize her. Even if Chabela possessed herself of the weapon without arousing her foe, her first stab must needs be instantly fatal. Otherwise the queen, at the very least, would cry out for help before she expired.

Another consideration also held her back. The code of chivalry of Zingara, with which she had been imbued since childhood, absolutely forbade the slaying of a sleeping foe. True, Zingarans violated their own rules quite as often as men of other nations did theirs; but Chabela had always tried to live up to the highest ideals of her race. If she could have slain the queen without danger to herself, she might have overcome her instinctive repugnance to such a treacherous act. As things were, however…

She quickly stole across the chamber and drew aside the hanging cloth that masked the doorway. Summoning up her courage, the girl stepped forward into the darkness.

In the chamber, the torches burned low, their ruddy light flickering on the empty ring that dangled from the ceiling, on the bloodstained whip, and on the sprawled black body of the queen.

Chapter Fifteen

THE BLACK LABYRINTH

As she left the disciplinary chamber, Chabela hesitated. Never having been in this part of the palace, she did not know which way to go. She was, however, fiercely determined to avoid recapture at any cost.

Peering down the empty, stone-lined corridor, she decided that she must be in the crypts rumored to lie beneath the palace of the Amazon queen. These chambers, she understood, were jealously guarded against intruders; she might well, therefore, run into a guard at any moment. Choosing a corridor that seemed to slope upward, she set out at a rapid pace.

The silence was complete, save for the distant drip of water and occasionally the scuttle of tiny claws. At long intervals, a torch of oil-soaked wood, set in a bracket of greened bronze, illumined the corridor with a fitful yellow light But so far apart were these torches that between them the darkness thickened almost to utter blackness. In these dark stretches, Chabela glimpsed a pair of eyes like ruby chips at ground level, as scurrying rodents paused to stare at her.

In the sinister silence, the naked girl glided like a white phantom through the gloom, her nerves stretched taut with terror. She felt the pressure of unseen eyes―or was it only her own nerves?

The corridor curved and angled and forked. Forced to guess which way to take, Chabela soon realized that she was lost and wandering at random. She could no doubt retrace her steps, but that would only bring her back into Nzinga's dreaded clutches. There was nothing to do but keep on, praying to Mi-tra to lead her back into the open air.

After more wanderings, Chabela saw that she had reached the dungeon area. On either hand stood copper-barred cell doors. In the gloom of the cells behind lay half-seen captive things, some of which moaned or sobbed but most of which were silent.

The girl peered into the first few cells she passed, but the sights she glimpsed were so repulsive that thereafter she averted her eyes and kept them on the path before her. Some of the prisoners were emaciated to skeletons, as by years of starvation. Some stared blankly from mad eyes out of matted hair. Bodies were scabrous with sores and coated with filth. Some had died, and the scavenger rats had stripped the scrawny flesh from their bones, leaving only skeletons.

Turning a curve in the corridor, Chabela was astonished to come upon a cell containing Conan the Cimmerian.

His massive body sprawled on thick straw in one of the cells. She stopped dead, wondering if she had gone mad or if it was truly the burly buccaneer who lay therein.

It was indeed the Cimmerian. At first she thought him dead, he lay so still.

Then, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the cell, she observed the rise and fall of his mighty chest. He was evidently unconscious.

Hesitantly she called his name, but this elicited nothing but a snore from the recumbent barbarian. She tested the cell door; it was securely locked.

Chabela lingered, wondering what to do. At any moment, Nzinga's guards might come clanking around the curve of the corridor and find her. The wise course would be to press on―yet she could not abandon to his fate the redoubtable buccaneer who had rescued her from the Nameless Isle.

Again she called his name in a desperate whisper. Then her eyes lighted upon an earthenware jug, standing against the wall. A probing finger discovered that it contained cold water. It must De the water that was doled out daily to the wretches in the cells.

Chabela hoisted the pot in her arms and brought it to Conan's cell. Luckily, the unconscious Cimmerian had been flung into the cell in such a way that his upturned face lay near the bars.

The Zingaran girl therefore was able to pour the contents of the jug through the bars and on the sleeping Cimmerian's face. Coughing, sputtering, and growling, Conan came back to a groggy awareness. With a groan, he heaved himself up to a sit-' ting posture glaring blearily about.

"What in Ymir's frozen hells―" he grumbled. Then his dull gaze fastened itself on the pale, frightened face of the naked Zingaran princess, and he came fully awake.

"You? What in Crom's name is happening, girl?" he growled. Staring about with a puzzled expression, he continued: "Where in the eleven scarlet hells are we?

What's been going on? My skull feels as if all the demons of the Pit had been kicking it around…"

In low, terse words, the girl described her recent misadventures. Conan's lionlike gaze narrowed as he reflectively rubbed a stubbled jaw.

"So Nzinga drugged me, did she? I might have expected it, curse her jealous black heart! She didn't want me awake lest I interfere with the punishment she planned for you. She must have decided that my quarters in the harem were not secure enough and bade her servants bear me down here for safekeeping." He fingered the straw on which he had lain and gave a low rumble of laughter. "This straw is luxury by her ideas. It looks as if she meant to keep me on as her fancy man, to service her after she'd gotten rid of you."

"What can we do, Captain Conan?" asked Chabela, almost in a whimper. The ordeal had nearly exhausted her considerable store of courage.

"Do?" Conan grunted and spat. "Make a break for itl Stand clear of the door."

"What do you? I have no key―"

"To hell with keys!" he snarled, setting his huge hands on one of the bars.

"These bars are of soft copper and have been here for ages. Corrosion has bitten into them; and, if it has gone far enough, I need no keys. Stand back, now!"

Setting one foot against a bar, Conan bent his shoulders and heaved on the bar he grasped, which was green with verdigris. All of the coiled, terrific strength of his back, shoulders, and brawny arms went into one titanic effort. His face darkened; his breath came hoarsely. Drops of sweat on his broad forehead glistened in the torchKght. His thews stood out in bronze relief, like woven metal cables.

Chabela drew in her breath and bit her lip.

With a faint scream, the bar pulled out of the lower socket in the door frame; the metal bent and yielded. Then, with a thunderous crack, the bar broke. The report was like the snapping of a great whip.

Conan dropped the bar with a muffled clang on the straw. He sagged against the wall, drinking in great lungsful of air. Then he squeezed through the gap in the bars, turning sidways to do so, and stood in the corridor.

Chabela stared wide-eyed. "Never have I seen such strength!" she breathed.

Conan massaged his arms. "I shouldn't care to have to try that every day," he said with a grin. Then, peering along the corridor: "Which way? How do we get out of here? And who's been whipping you? Nzinga?"

She nodded and in quick, terse words outlined the events that had taken place since the incident in the dining chamber. Conan growled, his eyes kindling.

"A strange tale," he said, "and the strangest part of it is this magical apparition of a Stygian sorcerer ―for such I take him to be. I have met his kind in my wanderings before. But I wonder who he is, who came to seize the Crown?

You're sure it was not that skull-faced dog Menkara? He was skulking at Za-rono's heels in Kordava."

Chabela shook her head, so that her black, glossy curls tossed. "Nay. I saw Menkara oft on the Wastrel and should know him at once. He is a gaunt, sad-looking fellow of medium size, who speaks in a dull, listless voice as if the world utterly wearied him. This man, albeit methinks of the same race, was very different: much taller, powerful, not unhandsome, with an air of vitality and command."

Only half heeding, Conan sent his glance roving the corridor. He intuitively felt the need for action. If they were ever to escape from the city of warrior women, it must be now, while Queen Nzinga lay unconscious. How much longer she would slumber under the power of the Stygian's green ray, he had no way of knowing.

Conan led the way off down the winding corridor. He paused to pull from its bracket a heavy torch. He hefted it with an appreciative grunt. At least, he had something to defend himself with. The torch was a club of a dense, glossy wood, the charred upper end of which had been wrapped round and round in bands of coarsely woven cloth, which in turn had been soaked in some viscous oil. The oil sent up a smoky, wavering yellow flame. One of Chabela's tasks as a slave had been to replace these torches as they burnt out around the palace and to rewrap and rekindle those that had become exhausted.

An unexpected turn in the corridor brought Co-nan and the princess face to face with a squad of woman soldiers. They were big, strapping females, with strong arms, flat pendulous breasts, and broad-cheeked, slit-eyed faces. They wore crude breastplates of leather, to which squares of bronze were tied by thongs, and kilts of leathern straps similarly studded. They carried throwing-spears and short, bronze-bladed swords.

"Seize them!" yelled a harsh voice, and Conan looked beyond the grim rank of Amazons to see Nzinga herself. The queen's handsome black face was distorted with fury. He grinned mirthlessly; there was no way out of this but to fight.

Conan was a barbarian from Cimmeria, and to him many of the ways of the South seemed soft, effeminate, and corrupt. But he was not without a certain rude chivalry of his own, and he did not like the idea of fighting and perhaps slaying women.

Still, when it was a question of either fighting or being recaptured, he fought.

He did not await attack but sprang among the Amazons with one great bound, striking right and left with the blazing torch. In a trice he had felled two of the hulking woman warriors, whom he laid out of action with cracked skulls. A snarling Amazon lunged at him with a short sword; he shoved the torch into her face. She fell back with a scream, beating at her woolly hair as it blazed up.

An assegai was thrust at his midriff; he knocked it out of its wielder's hand and sent it clanging against the wall. Moving with the speed of a pouncing panther, he swung the torch up for another blow―and froze.

Nzinga had circled around the melee of struggling warriors. Now she stood with one brawny arm around the naked Zingaran princess. Her free hand held a needle-pointed dagger against Chabela's throat.

Throw down that torch, white dog, or your bitch will choke on her own blood!"

the Amazon queen commanded in a cold, deadly voice.

Conan cursed luridly, but there was nothing else to do. The torch clattered to the flagstones.

The Amazons surrounded him. Thick cords of woven dried grass were wound around his wrists, back and forth. His arms were lashed to his sides with the same material. The metallurgy of the backward Amazon country was still not up to the manufacture of complex fetters and locks. The locks on the cell doors, Conan supposed, had been inherited from the original builders of the city.

"He is safe now, O Queen," boomed a woman warrior. "Why not put him to the sword at once?"

Nzinga looked over Conan's sweat-glistening torso appraisingly. "Nay," she said at last. "I have another doom in mind for the traitor. He who spurns my love shall not be indifferent to my hatred. Put them both in the slave pen until dawn. Then take both and cast them to the kulamtu trees!"

It seemed to Conan that, at the mention of that unfamiliar name, even the hardened, burly Amazons flinched. But what could be so terrible about a mere tree?

Chapter Sixteen

THE DEVOURING TREE

Conan blinked, squinting against the slanting rays of the rising sun as it soared above the treetops of the distant jungle. He stared about him curiously.

The Amazons had dragged the Zingaran girl and himself into the central square of Gamburu. To one side rose the royal palace, with the two age-worn, cryptic statues flanking its gate. Conan lay in the broad, shallow pit in the center of the square, on the sandy surface that formed its floor. When he had glimpsed this feature on his first arrival in Gamburu, Conan had noted the resemblance of this depression to an arena, like that which he had seen in his mercenary days in Argossean Messantia. But the Messantian arena had included pit doors whereby gladiators or wild beasts could be loosed into the arena to work upon each other or their victims. This arena had no such portals.

Another odd thing was the clump of trees in the center of the sandy floor. These must be the kulamtu trees of which Queen Nzinga had spoken. He looked the nearest one over and found it unlike any tree he had ever seen, although it had some faint resemblance to a banana tree. The trunk had a spongy, fibrous look; but, instead of tapering to a point, it ended at the top in a round, wet-looking orifice, like a mouth. Below this orifice grew a circle of huge leaves, each one as large as a man―long, broad, and thick, with their upper surfaces covered with hairlike projections a finger's breadth in length.

Amazons, resplendent in leopard skins, nodding plumes, and jingling barbaric jewelry, were slowly filling the rising tiers of stone seats that ringed the arena. Among these were many notables known to Conan from their mutual attendance at Nzinga's feasts.

Surreptitiously, he tested his bonds. Ropes of muscle stood out boldly along his bronzed arms; his brows contorted with effort. But the woven ropes resisted his best efforts―yielding a little but retaining their implacable grip on his arms and legs, which were also bound together by a rope around the ankles. How ironic, he thought, that he who had in his time broken chains of iron should now be defeated by cords of woven grass! Those who had bound his arms and legs, however, had known their business.

The benches were now nearly full. At a shout from Queen Nzinga, who sat amongst her grandees, the guards dragged Conan and Chabela close to the clump of strange-looking trees. Then they hastily retreated, leaving the two captives lying helplessly in the sand.

All around the pit, the Amazons kept up a rising spate of talk. Now they were pointing, jabbering, shouting, laughing, and generally carrying on.

Chabela screamed. At the same time, Conan felt a touch on his foot and looked to see the cause. "Crom!" he burst out.

One of the huge leaves of the kulamtu tree had reached down and was curling slowly around his ankle. Chabela screamed again, and Conan looked to see her limbs enfolded in the frond of another tree.

Conan set his jaw. This part of Kush was unfamiliar to him. But years before, when he had ravaged the Black Coast with Belit, he had heard tales of horrors of the inner jungles from her black crew. These rumors had included a story of a man-eating tree; but Conan had put this down to one more tall tale of superstitious barbarians.

Now he paled beneath his swarthy tan, for he understood the litter of dry, white human bones about the bases of these trees. The sticky fronds would curl slowly about his body, jerkily lift him up to that obscene-looking orifice, and pop him in. The devil-tree would swallow him alive. The acids secreted by the inner tissues would dissolve his flesh, and the tree would finally regurgitate his bare bones.

Three of the big fronds had curled about his body now, despite his thrashings and efforts to roll away. Slowly, they heaved him upright. Every one of the hairlike projections on the leaves stung like a hornet's sting where it touched him. Terror and revulsion lent new strength to his powerful muscles.

Then, beneath the shrill shouting from the benches, Conan heard a faint sound that lent new vigor to his thews. This sound was the snap of one of the grass cords as it parted. Then another one gave.

In a flash, Conan realized that the leaves, too, secreted a corrosive fluid, and that this fluid was dissolving and weakening the grass cords. He strained frantically, and more of the cords gave. An arm came free, and with his liberated hand he tore away a leaf that was starting to wrap itself about his head. He broke more cords, tore at the clinging, sticky leaves―and fell with a thump to the sand. His limbs, where the leaves had been in contact with them, were covered with itching red spots.

From the roar that exploded from the benches of the arena, Conan surmised that this had never happened before. Doubtless the Amazons had hitherto been prudent enough to feed their man-eating trees only victims weakened by torture or imprisonment They had never offered to their vegetable executioners a man of unusual size and strength, in full possession of his powers. Ripping the last clinging leaf away, Conan grimly resolved to make the most of their error.

Chabela, now swathed like a mummy from head to foot in thick leaves, was halfway to the mouth of her tree when Conan got to her. He sprang up, caught the fronds that were lifting her, and clung. His added weight was too much for the leaves.

They broke, some tearing in half and some pulling loose from the trunk altogether. Conan fell sprawling on the hot sands, holding the girl in his arms.

Quickly he stripped away the leaves that enshrouded her, which, as he tore at them, slowly writhed as if in pain. Like his own skin, hers was red-dotted where the leaves had caressed it. Then he tugged at the grass cords that bound her.

These, like his own, had been largely eaten through, so that it took no great effort to break them and set the girl free.

The Amazons were now in an uproar. A number of guardswomen had leaped down into the arena and were thudding toward him, the sun flashing on the bronze of their harness and weapons. Conan ripped away the last leaf from Chabela's face, so that she could breathe, and sprang to meet these human adversaries.

They did not, as he expected, pour down ut him with spear and sword and club.

Instead, halted a few yards away, brandishing their weapons and yelling threats and epithets. Then he realized that it was not merely Conan, standing before them bare-handed and naked but for a loincloth, of whom they were wary, but the trees behind him. Their hesitancy might stem from simple fear of the loathsome man-eating plants, or the trees might be regarded as gods. Whatever the reason, their hesitancy gave him an idea.

Turning, he set his shoulder against the tree that had attempted to make a morsel of him. This tree was now writhing and flopping its broken fronds as if in pain, making no more effort to seize Conan. The trunk had a flimsy, fibrous look and perhaps was no stronger than the stem of a plantain tree, which it resembled.

Conan hurled his weight against the trunk and felt it give slightly, with a ripping sound. Another heave, and the trunk tore out of the ground, the loose-packed sand of which gave little purchase to the network of white tendrils that served the cannibal tree as roots.

A howl of unholy outrage roared from the stands as Conan broke down the tree. He hefted it under his arm like a battering ram. It was about ten feet long from roots to mouth, a foot or so thick, and surprisingly light for so bulky an object.

Conan charged the women warriors, using the tree as a ram. They broke and fled squealing from his advance. He laughed exultantly. The Amazons evidently had a horror of their own sacred tree and sought to escape its proximity. He spun about, knocking down two of the guards with a swing of the trunk. The others fled back to the stands.

Now javelins began to fall about him in a deadly rain. One went thunk into the trunk a hand's breadth from his arm. Several angular throwing-knives whirled past his head like boomerangs.

"ChabelaP he roared. "Grab one of those spears and follow me!"

The pair of them ran to the stands, Conan in the lead. A knot of Amazons in front of him broke and scattered as he swung the upper end of the tree among them, spattering drops of corrosive sap. The two climbed nimbly up the benches to the level of the square and loped for the street leading to the West Gate.

When he emerged from the pit, Conan fully expected to see half the female army of Gamburu assembled to attack him. Instead, a strangely different vista met his eyes as he clambered out of the arena. Fire arrows flickered through the air; nearby roofs blazed. A dozen corpses sprawled in puddles of gore, with shafts protruding from their bodies. A chorus of booming war cries rang through the air. The city of the Amazons was under attack.

A mass of black warriors, indisputably male, had poured out of the street to the West Gate. They formed disciplined ranks and advanced smartly, shooting sheets of arrows and cutting down the clusters of Amazons who charged their line.

Over the heads of the archers, Conan sighted his old comrade Juma and yelled his name. Juma saw him, grinned, and roared a command in the tongue of his own people. The ranks broke, and the archers rushed to surround and shelter Conan, who cast aside his tree, and the Zingaran girl. Then the force began to defile back out or the square the way they had come, fighting a cool rear-guard action.

Conan laughed and clouted Juma on the shoulder. "I wondered if you were coming,"

he said. "You got here just in time!"

Juma laughed and caught an Amazonian arrow on his long shield of tough rhinoceros hide. "I don't know, Conan; you seemed to be doing all right."

As they worked their way back to the West Gate, Juma explained that his men had finally tracked the slavers here to Gamburu.

Then he had assembled a levy of his black warriors and marched on the Amazonian capital.

"I feared we should never find you alive," he concluded. "I ought to have realized that, being Conan, you'd be found in the midst of a fight as usual and taking on the whole Amazon city single-handed."

As they reached the gate, Conan sighted the red-gold beard and blue eyes of Sigurd, who had been left there with a squad of armed sailors to keep the black army's line or retreat open. Conan and Sigurd shouted and waved but had no time for explanations.

Emerging from the gate, Conan smiled, happy to see the last of Queen Nzinga's city. The queen was a magnificent woman and had been a spectacular bedmate, but Conan was never one to be satisfied with the role of "Mister Queen," and he suspected that more than one former lover of the black queen had preceded him into the maws of the man-eating trees whenever the fickle and headstrong Nzinga had tired of their embraces.

"I see what you mean about training your archers in Turanian style," he said to Juma. A rabble of Amazons rushed out of the gate in pursuit; but Juma's men deployed, closed ranks, and sent volleys of arrows into the throng until the survivors broke and fled back into their city.

Soon they reached the shelter of the trees. Then, while the force paused for breath, Conan and Sigurd greeted each other lustily. Sigurd cast an eye on Chabela and dropped to one knee.

"Princess!' he said in a scandalized voice. "By Ish-tar's teats and Moloch's fiery belly, you should ought to get some clothes on! What would your royal sire think? Here, take this!"

The Vanr stripped off his shirt and pressed it upon the girl, who put it on and rolled up the sleeves. Because of Sigurd's great size, the shirt was long enough to cover Chabela's well-rounded body.

"My thanks, Master Sigurd," said she. "You are right, of course; but I have been compelled to go naked among naked folk for so long that I had become used to it."

"Whither now, Conan?" said Sigurd. "I know not about you, but I've had enough of this sweltering jungle land. If the mosquitoes and leeches don't eat you alive, the lions are happy to finish what's left."

"Back to Kulalo," said Conan, "and then aboard the Wastrel without delay. If the men left behind have sailed off and left us, 111 skin them alive."

"Surely you will share our victory feast!" protested Juma. "Now that my warriors have bested the Amazons of Gamburu, my empire is certain to dominate all this land. My men are eager to drink themselves into a stupor on good banana wine…"

Conan shook his head. "I thank you, but I fear we cannot spare the time, old friend. We have our work cut out for us back in Zingara. There's some plot against the Princess Chabela's sire, King Ferdrugo, and we must get her home at once. It seems that half the magicians of Stygia are joined in the scheme, so the victory feast will have to wait. Our victory, you see, has yet to be won."

Chapter Seventeen

THE WRECK OF THE WASTREL

The trip through the jungles from Gamburu to King Juma's capital of KulaJo, and thence to the mouth of the Zikamba, where they had left the Wastrel, consumed a number of days. Chabela was too exhausted to make the journey on foot, so Juma's blacks quickly built a rude litter of bamboo and rough cloth, in which the princess made the trip in relative comfort.

As for Conan, a few hours of rest, half a goatskin of strong wine, and a huge slab of roast meat rendered him fit again. Not for the first time, the magnificent animal vitality of Conan's barbarian heritage had shown him superior to the weaker, softer men of the countries through which he wandered and adventured. He took no special pride in this physical preeminence, reasoning that it was the doing of his forebears or of the gods and hence no cause for self-conceit.

It was sundown when they reached the palmy fringes of the Zikamba. The moon was rising like a copper shield by the time they came to the mouth of the river.

There the stream spread out in an estuary. The sluggish flood mingled its fresh water, dark with sediment, with the booming sea. And there, a shocking sight awaited them.

Sigurd gasped, recovered, and gave voice to a sulphurous sequence of oaths.

Conan said nothing, but the impassive bronze mask of his face darkened wit fury.

For the Wastrel lay half sunk in the shallows, her decks awash. Her masts were mere charred stumps, for fire had swept her deck. From these facts and the dozen burial mounds of heaped earth that stood along the edge of the jungle, the Cimmerian grimly surmised that there had been a battle and that the Wastrel had lost.

The sound of the approach of Juma's party roused alert sentries. There were cries of warning and the thud of footsteps. Torches flared and flashed on naked cutlasses in the hands of a band of burly seamen. Conan thrust his companions aside and strode forward.

They were in sorry condition. Most were wrapped in dirty bandages, and some limped on sticks and crutches. The mate, Zeltran, bustled up. His right arm was swathed in bandages; he carried his saber in his left.

"Captain!" he yelled. "Is it you? Sink me, but we never thought to see you again. The jungles seemed to have swallowed you up!"

"I live, Zeltran," said Conan. "But what's befallen here? There has been trouble, I see, but from whom?"

Zeltran shook his head sorrowfully. The rotund little mate had lost weight.

"That dog ZaronoP he snarled. "Three days ago, his Petrel took us by surprise―"

"Surprise?" roared Conan. "How could that happen? Had you no lookouts?"

Zeltran cursed. "Lookouts a-plenty, my Captain, but all the lookouts in the world could not have seen the Petrell A dense fog crept in upon us―such a fog as these eyes have never seen. One could see no further than one can see through a granite cliff―"

"Aye, Captain, 'tis truer said a seaman. "Twas witchcraft, Captain Conan―black sorcery, fry my guts if it wasn't!"

"And under cover of this mysterious fog bank, the Petrel sailed in and swept your decks, is mat it?" Conan growled.

Zeltran said: "Aye, sir; that be just how it happened. First thing we knew was tne crunch of Za-rono's side against ours, and then his men poured over the rail and had at us. We fought, the gods know―you can see our wounds―but they had the upper hand in numbers and surprise. In the end, they drove us over our shoreward rail and into the water. I tried to cover my lads' retreat―"

"Aye, Captain," said another seaman. "Ye should have seen him―'twould have made you proud― whacking away with his cutlass like three men."

"―but then something hit me over the head. When I came to, I was tied to the mast, with Zarono's dogs standing around and grinning. Then comes Black Zarono himself, all very elegant in his lace ruffles, with that snaky priest Menkara behind him.

"'Oho, my fine lad,' says Zarono, 'and where's your master, the barbarian lout Conan?'

" 'Gone ashore, sir,' I says.

"Zarono hits me a clip across the mouth. 1 can see that, fool,' he says, Taut where ashore?"

" 'I know not, sir,' I says, not seeing that it would do any good to enrage the man. 'He is friends with some gang of black warriors that live hereabouts, and he has gone off to visit them.'

"'And where's that Zingaran lass he had with him?' says Zarono.

" 'Gone with him, as far as I know/1 says.

" 'But which way, man? Which way, and how far?* says Zarono.

"I pretended a great ignorance of King Juma's whereabouts, even when they tickled my right arm with hot coals. I will show you the blisters, my Captain, when they heal up a little more. Then Zarono and the Stygian priest went aside and consulted in low tones. The priest set up his magical apparatus on the quarterdeck, and mumbled and grumbled for a long time, while strange lights flickered about him. At last he says to Zarono: 'I see her being borne in a litter along a jungle trail in the midst of a powerful host of black warriors.

More I cannot tell you.'

"That made Zarono fair furious, I can tell you. He hit me in the face a few times, just to take out his anger. 'How in the names of all the gods,' says he, 'am I supposed to comb all the vast jungles of Kush to find the wench, and then snatch her out from an army of hundreds of fierce barbarians? As well ask me to jump over the moon!'

"After more palaver, Zarono and Menkara decided to destroy the Wastrel and depart at once for Kordava. They planned to go by way of Stygia to gather up their confederate, who if I heard aright is called Thoth-Amon."

"Thoth-Amon?" said Conan. I've crossed his trail before. A bad enemy to have, from all I hear. But go on. Those two dogs seem to have been pretty free with their talk in front of you."

"Ah, but my Captain, they did not expect me to live to tell tales! Zarono gave his orders. One crew went alongside in their longboat and chopped a hole in the hull at the waterline. Another party piled fuel around the masts and set it alight."

"And you were tied to one of these masts?"

"Exactly, sir. The mainmast, in fact. Naturally, I did not take kindly to the idea of being burnt alive; so, while Zarono's people scrambled back aboard the Petrel and shoved off―not wishing to burn their own ship as well―I prayed to Mitra and Ishtar and Asura and every other god I ever heard of to get me out of this fix. And whether or not my prayers were heard, no sooner had the Petrel vanished in the fog than it began to rain.

"Meanwhile, the Wastrel settled from the hole in her bottom until she rested on the ground as you see her now. And I wriggled and struggled and finally got my arms out of the ropes, for the Petrels had not done a very seamanlike job of tying me up. And when I was free, I kicked most of the combustibles overboard, and the rain put out the rest of the fire―although not before the masts and rigging had been consumed. And here we are."

Conan grunted. "He'd have been cleverer not to have tried both to sink and to burn the ship. One or the other, but both at once cancel each other out." He clapped Zeltran on the shoulder, bringing a yelp of pain from the mate as his sore arm was jostled. "I believe you and the boys did all you could. But now we must plan our next step, which is to make the Wastrel seaworthy again as quickly as may be."

Zeltran pulled a doleful face. "Alas, my Captain, I see not how to do that in less than several months' time. We have no shipyard, nor can we whistle up a swarm of skilled shipwrights out of this jungle."

Juma had stalked silently forward. "My men will aid you in repairing your ship,"

he said. "Many strong hands make a task easy."

"Perhaps, and I thank you," said Conan thoughtfully. "But what do your warriors know of repairing ships?"

Naught; we are no seagoing folk. But we are many and strong, and we have among us good craftsmen in wood. If your men will lead them and show them what is to be done, they will work like giants until the task be finished."

"Good!" said Conan. He raised his voice to his dispirited crew. "Shipmates, we have lost a battle, but we have not yet lost the war! Black Zarono, who overcame you by treacherous sorcery, now sails the sea bound for Zingara, where he hopes to topple our friend and patron, old King Ferdrugo. King Juma's people will help us to put our ship to rights. Then ho for the main, to get revenge upon the scoundrel and save our king from his plots! What say you?"

"We lost a lot of good men," said the boatswain, nodding toward the row of graves.

"Aye, but we have Sigurd's Argosseans! If yell all pull together as one crew, with no more folly of Barachan against buccaneer, we can do it. So what sayye?

Let me hear you, loud and clear!"

The sailors roared their approval, and their cutlasses flashed in the moonlight.

Never had Conan seen men work so hard. They belayed cables to the stumps of the burnt masts and dragged the ship upright. They dove into the water-filled hold to fetch out tools. They felled trees, cut them into boards, and patched the hole in the Was-treTs side. They pumped out the water until the ship once again floated free on her anchor cables.

They felled more trees and shaved them down to size to take the place of the burnt masts and spars. While the women of Juma's capital stitched new canvas, the men gathered resinous firewood, piled it in ricks, lighted it, and collected the tar that ran out from under the piles. The work went on day and night, while boys from Juma's people held torches aloft for illumination.

Then came the day of departure. The buccaneers were reeling with fatigue or drunk on banana wine or both; but the Wastrel would be ready to catch the dawn breeze.

Throughout the black night, Juma's people filed in a long line through the Kushite jungle to the shore, bearing provisions: casks of water, kegs of tough millet cakes, bales of fresh fruit, sides of smoked pork, barrels of yams and other vegetables; provisions enough to feed the buccaneers on a journey to the other side of the world.

As dawn paled the skies to the east, Conan bade farewell to Juma. Once they had fought side by side in the legions of King Yildiz of Turan; again, they had dared the snows of the trackless Talakmas, the yelling horde of slant-eyed little warriors in fantastic armor of lacquered leather, and the walking stone idol in the unknown valley of Meru. Now, for the last time, they had fought side by side in the sweltering Kushite jungles.

Silently, grinning but blinking back tears, they clenched each other's hands in a fierce grip. They said nothing, for both somehow guessed that they would not meet again in this incarnation.

The Wastrel hoisted sail. Canvas boomed as it filled and tautened in the offshore breeze. Black warriors with their women and naked children lined the shore to wave farewell. And the Wastrel rode out into deep water and set course for Zingara.

Chapter Eighteen

A KINGDOM IN THE BALANCE

At sundown, Conan brought the Wastrel into the harbor of Kordava. A heavy overcast blotted out the stars as the day died.

Few eyes noted the lean carack as she glided silently into the great curve of the harbor and nosed gently into a little-used moorage at the far end of the quays. Conan thought it wise to enter the city as unobtrusively as possible, since he did not know whether Duke Villagro had already seized the reins of power, nor how long Zarono and TTioth-Amon had been in the city. That they had preceded him, he was certain when Zeltran touched his arm and pointed: "Zarono's Petrell" hissed the mate. "My Captain, it strikes me that, since nobody seems to be about, we could rush it and burn it―"

Conan grinned in the gloom. "Control youself, my little fighting cock," he growled. "Who's being rash now? We play for bigger stakes. Our friends are probably not there, but up in Ferdrugo's castle, spinning their webs to entrap the old fellow."

The princess tugged at Conan's arm impatiently. "Let us hasten to the palace, Captain Conan! Your men can follow later. We must warn my father at once of the schemes against him, ere those traitors, Villagro and Zarono, can―"

"Easy all," said Conan with a grin. "A bit less hasty, girl! I've learned long since noMo walk into a trap if I can avoid it. The rebel duke and this sorcerer Thoth-Amon may have already seized power, and to go straight to the palace were to play fly to their spider. Nay, I have another goal in mind―"

"What goal?" the girl demanded.

He smiled grimly. "First we shall visit the one place in Kordava where I shall be safe; the Nine Drawn Swords."

"The Nine Drawn Swords?" she repeated.

"Not the sort of place that ladies of your quality would patronize, but 'twill do for our purposes. Trust me, lass! Zeltran, I will take ten men. Fetch boat cloaks and lanterns, and see that all are well armed beneath their cloaks."

The streets were as silent as those of a necropolis. Sigurd, superstitious like all seamen, shivered as he stamped through puddles by Conan's side, while his hand fondled the hilt of his cutlass under his black cloak.

"Surely they are all dead or under a curse," he grumbled, peering about with wary eyes. Conan bade him hold his tongue for fear of arousing the watch.

Thus, none save the cats of Kordava saw the party of seamen that, muffled in black boat cloaks with their faces hidden, slunk silently through the alleys to the door of the Nine Drawn Swords. As they filed in, old Sabral came puffing up to the door, wiping his hands on his apron.

' Tis sorry I am, but we are closed for the night," he said. "The government has told all taverns to shut up shop at sundown this night. So 111 have to ask you to―oh!"

Conan had doffed his hat, thrown back his cloak, and thrust the grim bronze mask of his face close to that of the taverner. "What's that, my friend?" he murmured.

"Ah, had I but known you at first… But of course the Nine Drawn Swords be always open to Captain Conan, laws or no laws. Come in, lads, come in. Twill take a bit of time to light the fires and break out the drinkables, but what ye want ye shall have."

"Why should the government ask you to close early tonight?" asked Conan, settling himself at ease where he could watch the door.

The fat innkeeper shrugged. "Mitra only knows, Captain! A royal decree from the palace, came out yestereve… These be strange times, strange times indeed. First Captain Zarono comes ashore, the gods know whence, with a squad of dusky Stygians amongst his crew, and walks right into King Ferdrugo's palace as if he owned the place. Not a word said to him, as if he'd laid the king's people under a spell. And then all these new decrees: the city gates shut at sundown, and so forth. Duke Villagro made provost marshal, and the city placed under martial law. Passing strange, captain; passing strange it be. And no good will come of it, you mark my words I"

"That's curious," said Sigurd.

"What's curious?" asked Conan.

"Well, Dagda's eye and Orvandel's toe! Your friend Sabral says the city's locked up as tight as a drum, but we sailed into the harbor without a hail. Wouldn't you think Villagro would have set his cutthroats to guard the harbor?"

"They think the Wastrels still lying on her side at the mouth of the Zikamba,"

said Conan.

"Ah, yes!" rejoined Sigurd. "I was forgetting. Zarono would never guess that, with the help of Juma's folk, we should get the ship repaired so swiftly."

Conan nodded. "Aye, redbeard. If all goes well now, King Ferdrugo may owe his throne to a black warrior he never heard or and will never seel"

"I've never thought much of the blacks before," said Sigurd. "They always seemed to me a pack of superstitious, childish savages. But your friend Juma opened my eyes. He's a real leader, even as you yourself are. Aye, there's heroes and .there's scuts in every folk and nation."

But there was little time for idle talk. Conan queried Sabral, who volubly explained many things that the buccaneer guessed or feared might be taking place. Villagro had not yet seized the throne, but the event might be only hours away. Loyal garrisons had been sent to the borders on various pretexts. Officers noted for loyalty to the dynasty had been sent abroad, or dismissed, or arrested and jailed on trumped-up charges. Since sundown of this day, the palace had been sealed off from the rest of the city. Key guard posts were held by Villagro's adherents. A ceremony of some kind was to take place in the palace; but just what, Sabral could not even guess.

"Abdication, is my guess," rumbled Conan, pacing the floor of the inn like a caged lion. "We must get into the palace. But how? Villagro and Zarono have it sealed up. This Thoth-Amon must have Ferdrugo firmly under his thumb. But if we can confront the king with his daughter, the shock might break the spell… Then we can have at the traitors. Where's that cursed Ninus? He should have been here half an hour gone…"

Sigurd wrinkled his brow. Conan had asked Sa-bral about the health of his little priestly friend. The Zingaran innkeeper had replied that the ex-tiatef YxaA recovered and returned to the sanctuary of his temple. Thereupon, Conan had dispatched a sailor to fetch the man to the Nine Drawn Swords.

"Who is this Ninus?" queried Sigurd.

Conan shrugged impatiently. "I knew him years ago when he and I were thieves in Zamora. He returned to his native Zingara when even the scarlet city of Zamora became too hot for him. Here he fell in with a silver-tongued missionary of the Mitraist cult, who persuaded him that priests live on the fat of the land by playing on the fears and superstitions of honest burghers and bored housewives.

Being one who always knew on which side his bread was buttered, he promptly got religion and became a priest of Mitra. But if there be anyone in Kordava who will know a secret entrance to Ferdrugo's palace, it will be he! He was the smartest thief I ever knew―even more so than Taurus of Nemedia, whom men called the prince of thieves. He could find doors no one else―"

A solemn gong note struck Conan's alert ears. Chabela stiffened and sank her nails into the flesh of Conan's arm.

"The bells in the tower of all the gods!" she gasped. "Oh, Conan, we are too late!"

He bent a sharp gaze on her pale face. "What mean you, girl? Quickly, now!"

"The bells―they announce that the king holds audience! We are too late―it has already begun…"

Conan and Sigurd exchanged a quick look and thrust open a window to look up at the palace on the hill.

Lights flickered and moved to and fro. Chabela had spoken truly; the ceremony had begun.

Chapter Nineteen

KING THOTH-AMON

The scene in the throne room of King Ferdrugo was one of tense drama. Fitful lightning flared in stormy skies without, and intermittent flashes of blue-tinged gray light flickered in the tall, pointed windows of diamond-paned glass.

The hall was huge and lofty. Circular walls and a ring of mighty columns of ponderous granite, faced with curved slabs of smooth marble, supported the enormous dome far above. This dome was the greatest architectural wonder of Ferdrugo's kingdom.

Huge candles, as thick as a warrior's biceps, shed a rich, wavering glow from mighty sconces of wrought gold. Torchlight and lamplight and lightning flashes were reflected from the mirroruke polish of the shields and plume-crested helms of the guards stationed about the circumference of the hall.

There were many more guards present than was usual on such occasions. This in itself was a cause for uncertainty and suspicion on the part of the score of nobles and officials whom the king's heralds had summoned. The command had gone out in haste and in secret to be present during the reading of a proclamation from the throne.

The other cause for concern was the livery of these guards. While some wore the uniforms of the Throne Legion―the king's private bodyguard―far more displayed the colors of Villagro, duke of Kordava.

In the center of the hall, on a raised dais of glistening, green, black-veined malachite, rested the ancient rose-marble throne of the Ramiran Dynasty. Therein was seated Ferdrugo III.

The assembled dignitaries had seen but little of their monarch in recent months.

They watched the old man speculatively, for he had aged greatly during this time. His flesh seemed withered; his limbs, shrunken. His cheeks had fallen in, so that his cheekbones stood out in bold relief. Candlelight, falling from the sconces above, cast deep wells of black shadow beneath the prominent cheekbones, while the old man's eyes were lost in the dark shadows beneath his prominent eyebrow ridges and bushy white eyebrows. The lighting, together with his gaunt, frail aspect, lent the old monarch a ghastly semblance of a skeleton.

On his head, seeming too heavy for his thin, wattled neck to support, rested the ancient crown of the hero-king Ramiro, the founder of the dynasty. It was a plain ellipse of gold, with a castellated upper rim formed by simple, square projections, like the merlons and embrasures of the tower of a castle.

With waxen, transparent hands, the king clasped a large sheet of parchment, to which were affixed a . number of seals. In a weak, uncertain voice, King Ferdrugo read from this sheet. The long formal preamble, the endless list of titles, the legalistic jargon all combined to feed the nervous speculation in the minds of the audience. None but felt the stirring of a premonition of dire events.

On the floor before the dais, directly in front of the throne, stood two men.

One was the duke of Kordava. In the absence of Prince Tovarro, the king's younger brother, Villagro was, after the king himself, the ranking peer of the realm. The expression on his lean, hungry features might have been described as complacent expectancy combined with nervous apprehension.

Beside Villagro stood another figure, a stranger to the rest of those present. A Stygian he seemed, from his shaven head, hawklike features, dusky skin, and tall, broad-shouldered build. He was, however, heavily robed, so that nothing of him but his head could be seen.

On his shaven skull rested a curious headpiece: a crown made in the likeness of a golden serpent, coiled round the wearer's head and crusted with thousands of glittering white gems. Some of the notables had nudged each other and murmured at the sight, when the stranger had thrown back the hood of his robe, revealing this extraordinary headgear. If, they whispered, the gems were in truth cut diamonds―the making of which was virtually unknown in the Hyborian Age―the value of the crown must be beyond calculation. Whenever the stranger moved slightly, the gems sent out a thousand rays of all the colors of the rainbow, reflected from the light sources overhead and around the circuit of the hall.

The dark-faced man bore a look of intense concentration. Such was his inner absorption that he seemed hardly aware of those around him. It was as if all his energies were focused upon one single objective.

Among the retinue of Duke Villagro could be seen the sinister features of Zarono the buccaneer and, also, a hooded figure that some recognized as that of the Setite priest, Menkara, whom they knew vaguely as one of Villagro's hangers-on.

Ferdrugo feebly droned on, but now he neared the end of the document. Then the audience froze in amazement as the import of the words reached their astounded ears:

"… and thus, by these presents, We, Ferdrugo of Zingara, renounce the throne in favor of Our daughter and heiress, the Princess Royal Chabela, and wed her in absentia to her betrothed and your next king, the high prince Thoth-Amon of Stygia! Long live queen and long! Long live Chabela and Thoth-Amon, thus created queen and king of the ancient and imperishable kingdom of Zingaral"

All over the chamber, jaws sagged and eyes widened in astonishment. No visage showed greater shock than that of Duke Villagro bf Kordava. He goggled at old King Ferdrugo; his sallow features paled to a leaden hue. His thin, rouged lips writhed back in a voiceless snarl, exposing yellowed teeth.

Villagro turned as if to speak to the tall, silent figure beside him. The impassive Stygian gave him a quiet smile, brushed aside his hand, and ascended the steps to the top of the dais as if to receive the plaudits of the throng.

But there were no plaudits― only a rising buzz of astonishment and indignation.

Over the rising hum of voices rose die quavering tones of King Ferdrugo: "Kneel, my son!"

The tall Stygian halted in front of the Zamoran king and dropped to one knee. He raised both hands, lifted the Cobra Crown from his head, and gently laid it on the green-and-black stone of the dais beside him.

Ferdrugo stepped forward and took from his own head the plain ancient crown of the hero-king Ra-miro. He turned it about and, with quivering hands, lowered it gently down upon Thoth-Amon's shaven skull.

His face sick with the full realization of his ally's treachery, Villagro snatched at the ornamental dagger he wore at his girdle. Perhaps he meant to throw caution to the winds and drive the steel into the back of the great magician as he knelt. But then he released the dagger as his staring eyes focused with maniacal intensity upon the Cobra Crown> where it rested beside the kneeling Thoth-Amon. He knew, or thought he knew, something of its powers. In reporting to him, Zarono had explained: From what Menkara told me and from what Thoth-Amon let slip on the voyage hither, Your Grace, I believe that it works as follows. It amplifies and multiplies the power of the human mind to affect the minds of other beings. Thus Menkara, who is at best a middling wizard, can control the mind of one other person―in this case, our doddering king. Thoth-Amon, a magician of vastly greater powers, can govern several other minds at once. But he who wears the Crown, if he knows the proper methods, can by the Crown's power rule the minds of hundreds or even thousands of other beings. He can, for instance, drive a regiment of soldiers, utterly reek-man of them be slain. He could dispatch a lion, a venomous serpent, or other deadly wild beast to seek out and destroy his enemy.

"None could stand against the wearer of the Cobra Crown. He could not be killed by ambush or assassination, for the Crown would convey to him the thoughts of those preparing the deed, and none could get within catapult shot of him without coming under his governance. Mortals like you and me, my lord, are ever plagued by the failure of our hirelings to carry out our commands―as when my sailors let the princess slip out of our grasp. But Thoth-Amon need fear no such blunders. When he issues a mental command, it will be carried out exactly, even at the cost of the henchman's life."

And now, to seal Thoth-Amon's elevation to the throne, Ferdrugo was, with his own hands, placing the ancient crown of Zingara upon the Stygian's swarthy pate.

To do so, however, it was necessary for Thoth-Amon to doff the Cobra Crown. In this act, Duke Villagro saw his opportunity.

Moving with a swiftness that belied his years, the duke hurled aside his velvet chaperon and bounded up the steps of the dais. Since Thoth-Amon was not wearing the Cobra Crown, the wizard had no warning of his former ally's action until Villagro snatched up the Cobra Crown and clapped it upon his own head.

As the duke started forward, he heard a muffled, guttural exclamation, which he recognized as the voice of the nearby Menkara. With the Crown on his head, Villagro whirled, to see Menkara coming swiftly up behind him with a bared dagger in his bony fist.

As soon as the Cobra Crown settled upon his dyed and curled hair, Villagro was conscious of a host of sensations pouring through his mind. It seemed as if the unspoken thoughts of every person in the chamber rushed into his consciousness at once, in a buzzing, booming confusion. No magician, Villagro could not sort out these random thoughts.

As Menkara neared him, the duke in desperation focused his mind upon the priest, at whom he thrust out his fingers in what he conceived to be a wizardly gesture.

With all his might, he concentrated on the mental picture of Menkara falling over backward, as if knocked down by a mighty blow of the fist.

And Menkara's rush did, in fact, slow and halt at the bottom step of the dais.

As if struck, Menkara staggered back. His dagger tinkled to the pavement.

Aleonine roar from behind him caused Villagro to whirl again. It came from Thoth-Amon, who had risen to his feet and turned about.

"Dog! For this you shall die!" shouted the Stygian, speaking Zingaran with a guttural accent.

"Die thyself!" replied Villagro, extending his fingers toward Thoth-Amon.

The mighty wizard was not to be easily overcome, even with the help of the Cobra Crown, because the wearer of that Crown was ignorant of and unpractised in its use. For a straining, quivering instant, the two men faced each other in a deadlocked contest of wills. The power of Villagro over others' minds with the Crown roughly equaled the powers of Thoth-Amon, one of the greatest magicians of the age, without it. They strained and staggered, but neither yielded.

Below, the nobles and officials regarded the tableau with slack-jawed astonishment. There were many brave men among them, who would instantly have rallied to whichever side stood for the welfare of Zingara―but in these chaotic moments, who could tell which side that was? A king reduced to imbecility, a sinister foreign sorcerer, and a notoriously unscrupulous and conniving duke…

who could say where lay the right?

Behind him, Villagro heard Menkara muttering a spell. He felt his own mental strength weakening. Before him Thoth-Amon seemed to grow in stature and might…

Then a sudden eruption of noise shook the room and brought all eyes about to stare at the source. A crowd of rough, ragged seamen boiled suddenly out of a portal on a balcony above the hall. At their head strode a bronzed giant with an unshorn mane of raven-black hair and burning eyes of volcanic blue under heavy black brows, with a huge cutlass clenched in one mighty fist.

Zarono uttered a shout of astonishment: "Cortanl By all the gods and devils―here!"

Seeing the burly barbarian appear so suddenly, the sallow-faced buccaneer paled.

Then his lean, wolfish countenance grew grim, and his hard black eyes blazed with wrath. He slid his rapier from its sheath.

The interruption had also distracted Thoth-Amon, who turned his swarthy, golden-crowned head to stare. Had he worn the Cobra Crown, he would have known of the approach of Conan and his men before they appeared; but he had doffed the magical headpiece just before they came within its range.

After a glance at the intruders, Villagro returned his attention to Thoth-Amon.

The Stygian, he knew, was by far the more dangerous foe. If he could, by the unpractised use of the Crown, vanquish Thoth-Amon, then Conan could easily be disposed of by the same means. But, if he turned his full attention on Conan, Thoth-Amon would wipe him out as easily as swatting an insect.

Conan strode to the head of the stair and wind-milled his arms for attention.

"Ho, lords of Zingaral" he boomed. "Vile treason and blackest magic have enmeshed your ldng in their toils!" One brawny arm shot out, pointing at the silent figure of the Stygian. "No prince of Stygia he, but Hell's most stinking spawn! A sorcerer from the unholy depths of Stygia, come to steal the ancient throne of Zingara from its royal house. No blacker villain than Thoth-Amon has ever soiled the earth!

Your king's wits have been stolen by some wizardly trick, so that he knows not what he says; he but parrots the thoughts that this would-be usurper puts into his mind!'

The assemblage wavered, some persuaded by Conan's words and some not. One fat nobleman cried: "What madness is this? A wild-eyed rogue of a pirate, bursting into the palace during a sacred ceremony, waving his sword and shouting nonsense? Guards, arrest those rascaUions!"

A babble arose, over which Conan roared: "Look at the king and see the truth of my words, you simpletons!"

Beside his throne, pale and shrunken, Ferdrugo wavered, plucking at his wispy white beard. "What ―what is happening here, my lords?" he quavered. His bewildered gaze swept from face to face. Then he noticed the document in his hand. "What―what is this? Was I reading it?" he murmured. "It makes no sense . .

."

It was obvious that King Ferdrugo did not recognize the proclamation that he had just read. Thoth-Amon, distracted by his contest with Villagro and Conan's intrusion, had let slip his mental control of Ferdrugo's will. Now his attention was forcibly brought back to the duke.

When Thoth-Amon had turned toward Conan, Villagro had hurled his will, amplified a thousandfold by the Cobra Crown, at the looming form of the Stygian.

Thoth-Amon staggered under the impact, nearly fell, and clutched the arm of the throne to steady himself. The Zingaran crown―which, being too small for him, rode unsteadily on his swarthy scalp―fell from his head and struck the stone of the dais with a clang.

Then he rallied. With the whites of his eyes showing in a hypnotic glare, he in turn sent Villagro staggering with a mental blast.

"Give me the Cobra Crown, fool!" snarled Thoth-Amon.

"Never!" shrilled Villagro.

The duke felt an increase of the mental power opposing him. Behind him he felt, without seeing, the mind-force of Menkara added to that of Thoth-Amon. The priest of Set had rallied to the side of his master. Again Villagro felt himself weakening, his mental defenses crumbling.

Eyes swung back to where Conan and his buccaneers stood at the head of the stairs. The air was taut and crackling with suspense. It was one of those moments when the fate of nations is balanced on a knife blade―when a single word, a look, or a gesture can turn the tide of events and topple empires.

And then, in that momentary silence, the word was spoken. The figure of a young girl appeared at Conan's side. She was well-rounded, with sleek olive skin, dark flashing eyes, and hair of silken jet. Though her buxom young body was garbed in a rough sailor's costume, it came to the lords of Zingara that they had seen her before, in more sumptuous rainment.

"The princess!" gasped a baron.

"Eh? Chabela?" muttered the old king, peering nervously about. All saw that it was truly she. But, before a babble of questions could arise, the girl spoke: "Nobles of Zingara, Captain Conan speaks the truth! Yonder black-hearted Stygian schemer has caught my father in his magical toils. Conan rescued me from the sorcerer, and we have raced back to Kordava to forestall his usurpation! Strike him down, guards!"

The captain of the royal guard snapped an order to his troops and ripped out his sword with a rasp of steel against leather. He advanced at the head of his men.

Conan and nine sailors clattered down the stairs, blades flashing in the lamplight. Chabela remained at the head of the stairs with Ninus, the priest of Mitra. The little man dropped to his knees, and his high voice rose in a.frantic prayer:

"O Lord Mitra, great prince of light!" he intoned. "Stand by us in this hour against the dark power of Setl In the divine name of Sraosha and by the unthinkable name, Zurvan, lord of infinite time, we pray and conjure thee!

Strike with thine holy fire, that the Old Serpent be smitten and fall from his high place!"

Whether Thoth-Amon weakened from his titanic mental exertions, or whether Villagro's command of the Cobra Crown was becoming stronger with practice, or whether in sooth Mitra took a hand in the contest, Thoth-Amon seemed to pale, shrink, and weaken. He reeled back a step. Villagro opened his mouth for a shout of triumph.

Before the cry could come forth, Thoth-Amon played his last card. His long, brown forefinger shot out toward the duke of Kordava. A nimbus of jade-green radiance flickered into being about the finger and elongated into a beam of emerald light.

The beam struck the head of Duke Villagro and the diamond-crusted crown on that head, bathing it in a blinding emerald refulgence. Then the gold itself of the crown glowed red.

Villagro uttered a piercing scream. He reeled back, clutching at his head as if trying to tear off the crown. Black smoke curled up as his black-dyed hair blazed.

Then the room was bathed in a blinding blue light as lightning flashed just outside the chamber, filling the tall windows with a furious glare. One of the windows shattered with a tinkle of glass. A narrow sheet of rain poured slantingly in. To some in the chamber, half blinded by the glare and wholly deafened by the earth-shaking boom of thunder that instantly followed, it seemed that a tendril of lightning flicked through the broken window, to lash downward like a cosmic whip at the stricken duke of Kordava.

Villagro fell headlong, face down upon the pavement. The Cobra Crown came off and rolled across the marble, leaving Villagro's body with its hair burnt to a mere stubble and the skin around the skull, where the crown had touched it, seared to a black crisp.

So ended the ambitious dreams of Duke Villa-. gro, who, dissatisfied with his ducal coronet, had yearned after kingly crowns and died of a surfeit of dreams.

Chapter Twenty

RED BLOOD AND COLD STEEL

For three heartbeats, this startling event held all the living persons in the chamber in a state of frozen shock. Thoth-Amon was the first to recover his wits.

"Menkara! Zarono!" he bellowed. "Come here!" As the priest of Set and the buccaneer approached, the latter with his rapier in hand, the Stygian wizard said: "Collect your men and Villagro's partisans! Strike hard and fasti If you do not, your heads will answer for itl With Conan on the king's side, you have no chance of making your peace with the old regime!"

"Where are your spells?" snarled Zarono. "Why don't you sweep our foes away with a wave of your hand?"

"I will do what I can; but magic, too, has its limitations. To your arms!"

"You are right," said Zarono, spinning on his heel. "Men!" he shouted. "The duke is dead, but the prince of Stygia lives! If our swords put him on the throne, we shall all be lords! To me!"

"All loyal Zingarans to me!" roared Conan. "Strike for your king and your princess, and save Zingara from the rule of that devil from the Stygian hellsl"

There was a general movement as the two parties sorted themselves out. Most of Villagro's partisans streamed toward Zarono, while most of the noblemen and officials clustered around Conan and his seamen. Some, uncertain which side to take or merely timid, slipped out of the hall.

It was soon to be seen that Zarono's party was the larger. While some palace guards joined Conan's faction, a larger number of men-at-arms, being Villagro's henchmen, sided with Zarono. All these soldiers were in half-armor, which gave them an advantage in battle.

"You are outnumbered!" shouted Thoth-Amon, from the dais. "Surrender, and you will be allowed to flee with your lives!"

Conan responded with a loud, impolite suggestion to Thoth-Amon, as to what to do with his proposal.

"Out swords for Thoth-Amon, king of Zingara!" cried Zarono, rushing upon the nearest man of Conan's party.

Swords began to clash here and there. In a glittering rush, the two factions surged together. The rasp and chime of sword against sword resounded. The hall was alive with struggling, shouting, fighting men. Sword clanged against sword, helmet, cuirass, and buckler. Here a man fell, weltering in his blood; there another. Wounds began to stream crimson, and screams of agony rose from men wounded to death.

Conan grinned recklessly, white teeth flashing in his bronzed, heavy-featured face. The time for words was over. Although the years had taught him a measure of caution and responsibility, beneath his veneer of maturity there was still nothing that the grim barbarian relished more than a good free-for-all, and this looked to be the most glorious fight that had come his way in many a moon.

He leaped from the stairway, where he had stood, and came down on the nearest of Zarono's men. He bowled the man over and descended upon him with his bootheels with such force as to snap the fellow's spine. Landing like a cat on all fours, Conan kicked the next man in the belly and thrust his sword between the ribs of the man who bent to assist his fallen comrade.

He plunged on, moving as lithely as a striking panther, despite his size, and cutting down the Zingarans like ripe wheat. He towered over the Zingarans, who were on the average a small people, the light swords with which they tried to parry the blows of his huge cutlass snapped at the impact, and men fell before him with a head or an arm shorn off. Behind him raged his buccaneers, swinging their cutlasses.

Most of the Zingarans on both sides were skilled swordsmen, scions of a people that had raised swordplay to a fine art. But Conan, though a barbarian born and bred, had made a lif e-long career of fighting and had studied it with the concentration of a connoisseur. While wintering in Kordava, he had employed his spare time in taking lessons in the refined Zingaran arts of swordplay from the great Master Valerio, whose fencing academy was reputed to turn out the finest swordsmen in several kingdoms.

So the down-at-heels young nobles of Villagro's following got a surprise when they swarmed in on Conan, expecting to feint the loutish barbarian out of position and skewer him as easily as impaling an apple with a dagger. Despite Conan's size and the weight of his blade, he easily thwarted their attacks. He countered their most subtle one-twos, doubles, binds., and coupes and stretched them, one after another, lifeless or gravely wounded on the bloody pave.

Appalled, the young bluebloods fell back be-fore this astounding giant who fought like a tiger and a tornado rolled into one.

Then a tall, slim figure in black velvet thrust its way through the press, and Black Zarono faced Conan sword to sword. Conan bled from several small cuts but wielded his blade as lightly as ever.

Zarono was no coward, but a ruthless, hard-bitten fighter. A dastard he was, but nobody had questioned his courage and lived. On the other hand, he was a shrewd, calculating man with an eye to the main chance. Had he thought more clearly, he would perhaps have refrained from facing Conan personally. But he was filled with a blazing hatred of Conan, who had thwarted him several times and whom he perversely blamed for the fall of his patron Villagro and the precarious state of his own fortunes. He had itched for revenge ever since that scuffle in the Nine Drawn Swords, when Conan's fist had all but knocked the head from his shoulders.

Zarono had no illusions about the gratitude that he could expect from Thoth-Amon, should the Stygian make good his claim to the Zingaran throne. All the posts of real power and wealth would doubtless go to Stygian priests of Set.

But Thoth-Amon would probably condescend to allow Zarono some employment to live by; whereas, if the partisans of the old dynasty won, Zarono could look forward to nothing better than the ax and block.

Zarono's rapier―a heavier blade than most of the slender court swords wielded by Zarono's partisans ―clanged against Conan's cutlass. Zarono made a dexterous pass at Conan, but the Cimmerian beat it off. Conan in turn feinted and aimed a fierce downward cut at Zarono's head; Zarono slipped to one side, and the cutlass skittered off his blade with a rasp of steel.

All around swirled the battle. More men had fallen, until the chamber had become a shambles. The numbers of Zarono's partisans began to tell. The loyalists were separated into two groups and driven back, one to the foot of the stairs down which Conan had come; the other, with the tottering old long in their midst, back into a corner.

And still Conan and Zarono fought on. Zarono began to realize that his lust for battle with his personal enemy had led him into an error. For, while his skill as a swordsman equaled Conan's, his arm did not have quite the Cimmerian's incredible strength and tireless dexterity. He began to tire, but fury and rancor kept him grimly at his task. He would slay the giant barbarian or die trying.

Meanwhile Thoth-Amon, imperturbable as ever, stepped down from the dais.

Avoiding the knots of fighters, he walked calmly across the blood-wet, corpse-littered floor to where the Cobra Crown lay unheeded on the marble.

Several times he passed within easy reach of one or another of Conan's partisans, but none ever sought to strike at him. It was as if he were invisible to them.

The fact was that, while they could see him plainly, he used his mental powers to deprive them of all will to harm him. So preoccupied was he with thus psychically guarding his own person that he had no attention left over to try to seize control of the minds of Conan and other leaders of the opposing faction.

Nor could he, without his magical apparatus and without the quiet and solitude required for major magical works, perform any great thau-maturgies. Having discharged his green ray, he would not be able to use it again for hours.

Thoth-Amon indifferently passed the sprawled body of Menkara, slain by a chance thrust from an unknown hand. Reaching the Crown, the great Stygian stooped and picked it up. It was still hot to the touch, but Thoth-Amon grasped it firmly without sign of pain or damage. He turned it over, quickly examining it. Then, with a guttural curse, he tossed it aside as one would discard a useless bauble.

At that instant, another chorus of shouts came from above. The rest of Conan's crew, with Zeltran and Sigurd at their head, poured down the stairs, brandishing pikes and cutlasses. When Conan had set out with Ninus to the palace, he had sent Sigurd back to the ship, with instructions, obtained from Ninus, to enable the other Wastrels to follow him and to gain access to the palace by the secret tunnel known to Ninus.

These reinforcements instantly changed the aspect of the battle. The loyalists who had been driven back to the base of the stairs now pushed out again. The front of the Stygian party crumbled before the thrust. Conan and Zarono were borne along in the rush, losing contact.

Not yet resigned to giving up his battle with Conan, Zarono elbowed and struggled to keep his feet. As the press opened out, he felt a powerful grip on his sword arm. He tried to shake it off before he realized that it was Thoth-Amon who gripped him.

"It is time to cut our losses," shouted the Stygian over the din. "The Crown is ruined―burnt out."

"Let me gol" cried Zarono angrily. "We still have a good chance, and 111 kill that swine yet!"

"The gods have ordained that Conan shall win this time."

"How do know you?"

Thoth-Amon shrugged. "I know many things. I go; stay or follow, as you please."

The Stygian turned away and started for the doorway. Zarono half-reluctantly foDowed him.

"Holdl" bellowed Conan's voice. "You two dogs shan't get away so easily!"

Struggling out of a tangle of fighters, Conan rushed toward the departing pair, streaming blood from minor wounds and whirling his bloody cutlass.

Thoth-Amon raised an eyebrow. "Barbarian, you begin to weary me." The Stygian pointed the middle finger of his left hand―the one that bore a massive copper ring in the form of a serpent holding its tail in i its mouth―toward a tapestry that hung between two of the narrow windows. "N' ghokh-ghaa nafayak fthangugl Vgoh nyekhl"

The tapestry seemed to come alive. It rippled, billowed, and tore loose from its attachments with a ripping sound. Like some colossal bat, it swooped out from the wall over the heads of the battlers. Arriving directly over Conan, it dropped straight down, enveloping him in its folds.

"Now hasten, if you would not be shortened by a head," said Thoth-Amon to Zarono.

Seconds later, when Conan had struggled and slashed his way out from beneath the tapestry, Thoth-Amon and Zarono had vanished. All around, their followers, deserted by their leaders, were throwing down their weapons in surrender.

Cutlass in hand, Conan raced out the doorway and through the vestibule to the main entrance. He arrived to hear the galloping hoofbeats of the fugitives dwindling away to silence.

The dawn wind blew fresh and lusty. Salt spray rode upon it, and it stretched taut the booming sails of the Wastrel as she cleared the harbor of Kordava and pointed her prow to the open sea.

On the quarterdeck, newly cropped and shaven and clad in new gear, from plumed hat to shiny jackboots, Conan filled his lungs with a gusty sigh of contentment.

Enough of these stinking magical spells, this battling with insubstantial shadows! Give him a stout ship and a crew of hearty cutthroats, a sword at his side, and a treasure to win, and he had all he wanted of the joys of the earth.

"By the teats of Ishtar and the privates of Nergal, shipmate, but I still think ye be stark, staring mad!" grumbled Sigurd the Vanr.

"Why? Because I wouldn't let Chabela marry me?" Conan grinned.

The redbearded Northman nodded. "She's a fine, round, bouncing lass, who'd bear you strong sons; and the throne of Zingara is yours for the asking. Surely, after all the excitement, old King Ferdrugo will not last much longer. Then the lass will inherit crown and kingdom and all!"

"Ill be no queen's consort, thank you," growled Conan. "I had my fill of that life in Gamburu, having no choice in the matter. And Nzinga was a lusty, strapping wench, not a silly, romantical child half my age. Besides, Ferdrugo may last longer than you think. Now that his wits are no longer befuddled by Stygian spells, he looks ten years younger and goes about his business in proper kingly fashion. The first thing he did was to annul that mad proclamation, abdicating and wedding Chabela to Thoth-Amon.

"As for Chabela―well, I like the child; I even love her in a fatherly sort of way. Betwixt you and me, I might even have taken up her offer, if I hadn't had an advance view of my fate."

-How so?"

" Twas during the days following the battle, when my cuts were healing. I dined several times with the long and his daughter, and Chabela filled my ears with her plans for making me over. My speech, my dress, my table manners, my ideas of pleasure―all were to be changed. I was to become the perfect Zingaran gentleman, waving a scented handkerchief before my nose whilst I watched the royal ballet troupe go through its gyrations.

"Now, I may not be so wise as Godrigo, the king's pet philosopher; but I know what I like. Nay, Sigurd, 111 win myself a throne some day, Crom willing; but 'twill most likely be at the point of a sword, not as a wedding gift.

"Meanwhile, Ferdrugo has been generous to a fault. He gave me the Cobra Crown, which I have earning usuary with Julio the goldsmith; that's where this new rigging and the new equipment for the lads came from. Conan chuckled. "Here I am, not yet forty, and already I'm becoming a penny-pinching money-grubber! I'd better be about the proper business of a buccaneer ere it's too late, and I turn into a potbellied miser.

"Kingdom-saving is no proper work for honest rogues like us, and doubtless there'll be plenty of fat-bellied merchantment sailing from Argos and Shem.

Leave off your mooning over my refusal of the offer of a moonstruck girl, and let's think of business. Come look at the charts in my cabin." He raised his voice. "Master ZeltranI Join us in the cabin, if you please."

Conan strode away. For a moment, the big read-beard stared after him open-mouthed. Then he lifted his hands in a shrug of despair and followed his captain.

"By Llyr's green beard and Thor's hammer," he groaned, "but there be just no arguing with a Cimmerian!'

The rigging creaked, the bow wave soughed, and the gulls squealed as the Wastrel sailed southward, bearing Conan to new adventures.

Red Nails

Chapter 1 The Skull on the Crag

The woman on the horse reined in her weary steed. It stood with its legs wide-braced, its head drooping, as if it found even the weight of the gold-tassled, red-leather bridle too heavy. The woman drew a booted foot out of the silver stirrup and swung down from the gilt-worked saddle. She made the reins fast to the fork of a sapling, and turned about, hands on her hips, to survey her surroundings.

They were not inviting. Giant trees hemmed in the small pool where her horse had just drunk. Clumps of undergrowth limited the vision that quested under the somber twilight of the lofty arches formed by intertwining branches. The woman shivered with a twitch of her magnificent shoulders, and then cursed.

She was tall, full-bosomed and large-limbed, with compact shoulders. Her whole figure reflected an unusual strength, without detracting from the femininity of her appearance. She was all woman, in spite of her bearing and her garments. The latter were incongruous, a view of her present environs. Instead of a skirt she wore short, wide-legged silk breeches, which ceased a hand's breadth short of her knees, and were upheld by a wide silken sash worn as a girdle. Flaring-topped boots of soft leather came almost to her knees, and a low-necked, wide-collared, wide-sleeved silk shirt completed her costume. On one shapely hip she wore a straight double-edged sword, and on the other a long dirk. Her unruly golden hair, cut square at her shoulders, was confined by a band of crimson satin.

Against the background of somber, primitive forest she posed with an unconscious picturesqueness, bizarre and out of place.

She should have been posed against a background of sea-clouds, painted masts and wheeling gulls. There was the color of the sea in her wide eyes. And that was as it should have been, because this was Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, whose deeds are celebrated in song and ballad wherever seafarers gather.

She strove to pierce the sullen green roof of the arched branches and see the sky which presumably lay about it, but presently gave it up with a muttered oath.

Leaving her horse tied she strode off toward the east, glancing back toward the pool from time to time in order to fix her route in her mind. The silence of the forest depressed her. No birds sang in the lofty boughs, nor did any rustling in the bushes indicate the presence of any small animals. For leagues she had traveled in a realm of brooding stillness, broken only by the sounds of her own flight.

She had slaked her thirst at the pool, but she felt the gnawings of hunger and began looking about for some of the fruit on which she had sustained herself since exhausting the food she had brought in her saddlebags.

Ahead of her, presently, she saw an outcropping of dark, flint-like rock that sloped upward into what looked like a rugged crag rising among the trees. Its summit was lost to view amidst a cloud of encircling leaves. Perhaps its peak rose above the tree-tops, and from it she could see what lay beyond - if, indeed, anything lay beyond but more of this apparently illimitable forest through which she had ridden for so many days.

A narrow ridge formed a natural ramp that led up the steep face of the crag. After she had ascended some fifty feet she came to the belt of leaves that surrounded the rock. The trunks of the trees did not crowd close to the crag, but the ends of their lower branches extended about it, veiling it with their foliage. She groped on in leafy obscurity, not able to see either above or below her; but presently she glimpsed blue sky, and a moment later came out in the clear, hot sunlight and saw the forest roof stretching away under her feet.

She was standing on a broad shelf which was about even with the tree-tops, and from it rose a spire-like jut that was the ultimate peak of the crag she had climbed. But something else caught her attention in the litter of blown dead leaves which carpeted the shelf. She kicked them aside and looked down on the skeleton of a man. She ran an experienced eye over the bleached frame, but saw no broken bones nor any sign of violence. The man must have died a natural death; though why he should have climbed a tall crag to die she could not imagine.

She scrambled up to the summit of the spire and looked toward the horizons. The forest roof - which looked like a floor from her vantage-point - was just as impenetrable as from below. She could not even see the pool by which she had left her horse. She glanced northward, in the direction from which she had come. She saw only the rolling green ocean stretching away and away, with only a vague blue line in the distance to hint of the hill-range she had crossed days before, to plunge into this leafy waste.

West and east the view was the same; though the blue hipline was lacking in those directions. But when she turned her eyes southward she stiffened and caught her breath. A mile away in that direction the forest thinned out and ceased abruptly, giving way to a cactus-dotted plain. And in the midst of that plain rose the walls and towers of a city. Valeria swore in amazement. This passed belief. She would not have been surprised to sight human habitations of another sort - the beehive-shaped huts of the black people, or the cliff-dwellings of the mysterious brown race which legends declared inhabited some country of this unexplored region. But it was a startling experience to come upon a walled city here so many long weeks" march from the nearest outposts of any sort of civilization.

Her hands tiring from clinging to the spire-like pinnacle, she let herself down on the shelf, frowning in indecision. She had come far - from the camp of the mercenaries by the border town of Sukhmet amidst the level grasslands, where desperate adventurers of many races guard the Stygian frontier against the raids that come up like a red wave from Darfar. Her flight had been blind, into a country of which she was wholly ignorant. And now she wavered between an urge to ride directly to that city in the plain, and the instinct of caution which prompted her to skirt it widely and continue her solitary flight.

Her thoughts were scattered by the rustling of the leaves below her. She wheeled cat-like, snatched at her sword; and then she froze motionless, staring wide-eyed at the man before her.

He was almost a giant in stature, muscles rippling smoothly under his skin which the sun had burned brown. His garb was similar to hers, except that he wore a broad leather belt instead of a girdle. Broadsword and poniard hung from this belt.

"Conan, the Cimmerian!" ejaculated the woman. "What are you doing on my trail?"

He grinned hardly, and his fierce blue eyes burned with a light any woman could understand as they ran over her magnificent figure, lingering on the swell of her splendid breasts beneath the light shirt, and the clear white flesh displayed between breeches and boot-tops.

"Don't you know?" he laughed. "Haven't I made my admiration for you plain ever since I first saw you?"

"A stallion could have made it no plainer," she answered disdainfully. "But I never expected to encounter you so far from the ale-barrels and meat-pots of Sukhmet. Did you really follow me from Zarallo's camp, or were you whipped forth for a rogue?"

He laughed at her insolence and flexed his mighty biceps.

"You know Zarallo didn't have enough knaves to whip me out of camp," he grinned. "Of course I followed you. Lucky thing for you, too, wench! When you knifed that Stygian officer, you forfeited Zarallo's favor and protection, and you outlawed yourself with the Stygians."

"I know it," she replied sullenly. "But what else could I do? You know what my provocation was."

"Sure," he agreed. "If I'd been there, I'd have knifed him myself. But if a woman must live in the war-camps of men, she can expect such things."

Valeria stamped her booted foot and swore.

"Why won't men let me live a man's life?"

"That's obvious!" Again his eager eyes devoured her. "But you were wise to run away. The Stygians would have had you skinned. That officer's brother followed you; faster than you thought, I don't doubt. He wasn't far behind you when I caught up with him. His horse was better than yours. He'd have caught you and cut your throat within a few more miles."

"Well?" she demanded.

"Well what?" He seemed puzzled.

"What of the Stygian?"

"Why, what do you suppose?" he returned impatiently. "I killed him, of course, and left his carcass for the vultures. That delayed me, though, and I almost lost your trail when you crossed the rocky spurs of the hills. Otherwise I'd have caught up with you long ago."

"And now you think you'll drag me back to Zarallo's camp?" she sneered.

"Don't talk like a fool," he grunted. "Come, girl, don't be such a spitfire. I'm not like that Stygian you knifed, and you know it."

"A penniless vagabond," she taunted.

He laughed at her.

"What do you call yourself? You haven't enough money to buy a new seat for your breeches. Your disdain doesn't deceive me. You know I've commanded bigger ships and more men than you ever did in your life. As for being penniless - what rover isn"t, most of the time? I've squandered enough gold in the sea-ports of the world to fill a galleon. You know that, too."

"Where are the fine ships and the bold lads you commanded, now?" she sneered.

"At the bottom of the sea, mostly," he replied cheerfully. "The Zingarans sank my last ship off the Shemite shore -that's why I joined Zarallo's Free Companions. But I saw I'd been stung when we marched to the Darfar border. The pay was poor and the wine was sour, and I don't like black women. And that's the only kind that came to our camp at Sukhmet - rings in their noses and their teeth filed - bah! Why did you join Zarallo's? Sukhmet's a long way from salt water."

"Red Ortho wanted to make me his mistress," she answered sullenly. "I jumped overboard one night and swam ashore when we were anchored off the Kushite coast. Off Zabhela, it was. There a Shemite trader told me that Zarallo had brought his Free Companies south to guard the Darfar border. No better employment offered. I joined an eastbound caravan and eventually came to Sukhmet."

"It was madness to plunge southward as you did," commented Conan, "but it was wise, too, for Zarallo's patrols never thought to look for you in this direction. Only the brother of the man you killed happened to strike your trail."

"And now what do you intend doing?" she demanded.

"Turn west," he answered. "I've been this far south, but not this far east. Many days" traveling to the west will bring us to the open savannas, where the black tribes graze their cattle. I have friends among them. We'll get to the coast and find a ship. I'm sick of the jungle."

"Then be on your way," she advised. "I have other plans."

"Don't be a fool!" He showed irritation for the first time. "You can't keep on wandering through this forest."

"I can if I choose."

"But what do you intend doing?"

"That's none of your affair," she snapped.

"Yes, it is," he answered calmly. "Do you think I've followed you this far, to turn around and ride off empty-handed? Be sensible, wench. I'm not going to harm you."

He stepped toward her, and she sprang back, whipping out her sword.

"Keep back, you barbarian dog! I'll spit you like a roast pig!"

He halted, reluctantly, and demanded: "Do you want me to take that toy away from you and spank you with it?"

"Words! Nothing but words!" she mocked, lights like the gleam of the sun on blue water dancing in her reckless eyes.

He knew it was the truth. No living man could disarm Valeria of the Brotherhood with his bare hands. He scowled, his sensations a tangle of conflicting emotions. He was angry, yet he was amused and filled with admiration for her spirit. He burned with eagerness to seize that splendid figure and crush it in his iron arms, yet he greatly desired not to hurt the girl. He was torn between a desire to shake her soundly, and a desire to caress her. He knew if he came any nearer her sword would be sheathed in his heart. He had seen Valeria kill too many men in border forays and tavern brawls to have any illusions about her. He knew she was as quick and ferocious as a tigress. He could draw his broadsword and disarm her, beat the blade out of her hand, but the thought of drawing a sword on a woman, even without intent of injury, was extremely repugnant to him.

"Blast your soul, you hussy!" he exclaimed in exasperation. "I'm going to take off your-"

He started toward her, his angry passion making him reckless, and she poised herself for a deadly thrust. Then came a startling interruption to a scene at once ludicrous and perilous.

"What's that?"

It was Valeria who exclaimed, but they both started violently, and Conan wheeled like a cat, his great sword flashing into his hand. Back in the forest had burst forth an appalling medley of screams - the screams of horses in terror and agony. Mingled with their screams there came the snap of splintering bones.

"Lions are slaying the horses!" cried Valeria.

"Lions, nothing!" snorted Conan, his eyes blazing. "Did you hear a lion roar? Neither did I! Listen at those bones snap - not even a lion could make that much noise killing a horse."

He hurried down the natural ramp and she followed, their personal feud forgotten in the adventurers" instinct to unite against common peril. The screams had ceased when they worked their way downward through the green veil of leaves that brushed the rock.

"I found your horse tied by the pool back there," he muttered, treading so noiselessly that she no longer wondered how he had surprised her on the crag. "I tied mine beside it and followed the tracks of your boots. Watch, now!"

They had emerged from the belt of leaves, and stared down into the lower reaches of the forest. Above them the green roof spread its dusky canopy. Below them the sunlight filtered in just enough to make a jade-tinted twilight. The giant trunks of trees less than a hundred yards away looked dim and ghostly.

"The horses should be beyond that thicket, over there," whispered Conan, and his voice might have been a breeze moving through the branches. "Listen!"

Valeria had already heard, and a chill crept through her veins; so she unconsciously laid her white hand on her companion's muscular brown arm. From beyond the thicket came the noisy crunching of bones and the loud rending of flesh, together with the grinding, slobbering sounds of a horrible feast.

"Lions wouldn't make that noise," whispered Conan. "Something's eating our horses, but it's not a lion - Crom!"

The noise stopped suddenly, and Conan swore softly. A suddenly risen breeze was blowing from them directly toward the spot where the unseen slayer was hidden.

"Here it comes!" muttered Conan, half lifting his sword.

The thicket was violently agitated, and Valeria clutched Conan's arm hard. Ignorant of jungle-lore she yet knew that no animal she had ever seen could have shaken the tall brush like that.

"It must be as big as an elephant," muttered Conan, echoing her thought. "What the devil-" His voice trailed away in stunned silence.

Through the thicket was thrust a head of nightmare and lunacy. Grinning jaws bared rows of dripping yellow tusks; above the yawning mouth wrinkled a saurian-like snout. Huge eyes, like those of a python a thousand times magnified, stared unwinkingly at the petrified humans clinging to the rock above it. Blood smeared the scaly, flabby lips and dripped from the huge mouth.

The head, bigger than that of a crocodile, was further extended on a long scaled neck on which stood up rows of serrated spikes, and after it, crushing down the briars and saplings, waddled the body of a titan, a gigantic, barrel-bellied torso on absurdly short legs. The whitish belly almost raked the ground, while the serrated back-bone rose higher than Conan could have reached on tiptoe. A long spiked tail, like that of a gargantuan scorpion, trailed out behind.

"Back up the crag, quick!" snapped Conan, thrusting the girl behind him. "I don't think he can climb, but he can stand on his hind-legs and reach us-"

With a snapping and rending of bushes and saplings the monster came hurtling through the thickets, and they fled up the rock before him like leaves blown before a wind. As Valeria plunged into the leafy screen a backward glance showed her the Titan rearing up fearsomely on his massive hinder legs, even as Conan had predicted. The sight sent panic racing through her. As he reared, the beast seemed more gigantic than ever; his snouted head towered among the trees. Then Conan's iron hand closed on her wrist and she was jerked headlong into the blinding welter of the leaves, and out again into the hot sunshine above, just as the monster fell forward with his front feet on the crag with an impact that made the rock vibrate.

Behind the fugitives the huge head crashed through the twigs, and they looked down for a horrifying instant at the nightmare visage framed among the green leaves, eyes flaming, jaws gaping. Then the giant tusks clashed together futilely, and after that the head was withdrawn, vanishing from their sight as if it had sunk in a pool.

Peering down through broken branches that scraped the rock, they saw it squatting on its haunches at the foot of the crag, staring unblinkingly up at them.

Valeria shuddered.

"How long do you suppose he'll crouch there?"

Conan kicked the skull on the leaf-strewn shelf.

"That fellow must have climbed up here to escape him, or one like him. He must have died of starvation. There are no bones broken. That thing must be a dragon, such as the black people speak of in their legends. If so, it won't leave here until we're both dead."

Valeria looked at him blankly, her resentment forgotten. She fought down a surging of panic. She had proved her reckless courage a thousand times in wild battles on sea and land, on the blood-slippery decks of burning war-ships, in the storming of walled cities, and on the trampled sandy beaches where the desperate men of the Red Brotherhood bathed their knives in one another's blood in their fights for leadership. But the prospect now confronting her congealed her blood. A cutlass stroke in the heat of battle was nothing; but to sit idle and helpless on a bare rock until she perished of starvation, besieged by a monstrous survival of an elder age - the thought sent panic throbbing through her brain.

"He must leave to eat and drink," she said helplessly.

"He won't have to go far to do either," Conan pointed out. "He's just gorged on horsemeat, and like a real snake, he can go for a long time without eating or drinking again. But he doesn't sleep after eating, like a real snake, it seems. Anyway, he can't climb this crag."

Conan spoke imperturbably. He was a barbarian, and the terrible patience of the wilderness and its children was as much a part of him as his lusts and rages. He could endure a situation like this with a coolness impossible to a civilized person.

"Can't we get into the trees and get away, traveling like apes through the branches?" she asked desperately.

He shook his head. "I thought of that. The branches that touch the crag down there are too light. They'd break with our weight. Besides, I have an idea that devil could tear up any tree around here by its roots."

"Well, are we going to sit here on our rumps until we starve, like that?" she cried furiously, kicking the skull clattering across the ledge. "I won't do it! I'll go down there and cut his damned head off-"

Conan had seated himself on a rocky projection at the foot of the spire. He looked up with a glint of admiration at her blazing eyes and tense, quivering figure, but, realizing that she was in just the mood for any madness, he let none of his admiration sound in his voice.

"Sit down," he grunted, catching her by her wrist and pulling her down on his knee. She was too surprised to resist as he took her sword from her hand and shoved it back in its sheath. "Sit still and calm down. You'd only break your steel on his scales. He'd gobble you up in one gulp, or smash you like an egg with that spiked tail of his. We'll get out of his jam some way, but we shan't do it by getting chewed up and swallowed."

She made no reply, nor did she seek to repulse his arm from about her waist. She was frightened, and the sensation was new to Valeria of the Red Brotherhood. So she sat on her companion's - or captor's - knee with a docility that would have amazed Zarallo, who had anathematized her as a she-devil out of hell's seraglio.

Conan played idly with her curly yellow locks, seemingly intent only upon his conquest. Neither the skeleton at his feet nor the monster crouching below disturbed his mind or dulled the edge of his interest.

The girl's restless eyes, roving the leaves below them, discovered splashes of color among the green. It was fruit, large, darkly crimson globes suspended from the boughs of a tree whose broad leaves were a peculiarly rich and vivid green. She became aware of both thirst and hunger, though thirst had not assailed her until she knew she could not descend from the crag to find food and water.

"We need not starve," she said. "There is fruit we can reach."

Conan glanced where she pointed.

"If we ate that we wouldn't need the bite of a dragon," he grunted. "That's what the black people of Kush call the Apples of Derketa. Derketa is the Queen of the Dead. Drink a little of the juice, or spill it on your flesh, and you'd be dead before you could tumble to the foot of this crag."

"Oh!"

She lapsed into dismayed silence. There seemed no way out of their predicament, she reflected gloomily. She saw no way of escape, and Conan seemed to be concerned only with her supple waist and curly tresses. If he was trying to formulate a plan of escape he did not show it.

"If you'll take your hands off me long enough to climb up on that peak," she said presently, "you'll see something that will surprise you."

He cast her a questioning glance, then obeyed with a shrug of his massive shoulders. Clinging to the spire-like pinnacle, he stared out over the forest roof.

He stood a long moment in silence, posed like a bronze statue on the rock.

"It's a walled city, right enough," he muttered presently. "Was that where you were going, when you tried to send me off alone to the coast?"

"I saw it before you came. I knew nothing of it when I left Sukhmet."

"Who'd have thought to find a city here? I don't believe the Stygians ever penetrated this far. Could black people build a city like that? I see no herds on the plain, no signs of cultivation, or people moving about."

"How could you hope to see all that, at this distance?" she demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders and dropped down on the shelf.

"Well, the folk of the city can't help us just now. And they might not, if they could. The people of the Black Countries are generally hostile to strangers. Probably stick us full of spears-"

He stopped short and stood silent, as if he had forgotten what he was saying, frowning down at the crimson spheres gleaming among the leaves.

"Spears!" he muttered. "What a blasted fool I am not to have thought of that before! That shows what a pretty woman does to a man's mind."

"What are you talking about?" she inquired.

Without answering her question, he descended to the belt of leaves and looked down through them. The great brute squatted below, watching the crag with the frightful patience of the reptile folk. So might one of his breed have glared up at their troglodyte ancestors, treed on a high-flung rock, in the dim dawn ages. Conan cursed him without heat, and began cutting branches, reaching out and severing them as far from the end as he could reach. The agitation of the leaves made the monster restless. He rose from his haunches and lashed his hideous tail, snapping off saplings as if they had been toothpicks. Conan watched him warily from the corner of his eye, and just as Valeria believed the dragon was about to hurl himself up the crag again, the Cimmerian drew back and climbed up to the ledge with the branches he had cut. There were three of these, slender shafts about seven feet long, but not larger than his thumb. He had also cut several strands of tough, thin vine.

"Branches too light for spear-hafts, and creepers no thicker than cords," he remarked, indicating the foliage about the crag. "It won't hold our weight - but there's strength in union. That's what the Aquilonian renegades used to tell us Cimmerians when they came into the hills to raise an army to invade their own country. But we always fight by clans and tribes."

"What the devil has that got to do with those sticks?" she demanded.

"You wait and see."

Gathering the sticks in a compact bundle, he wedged his poniard hilt between them at one end. Then with the vines he bound them together, and when he had completed his task, he had a spear of no small strength, with a sturdy shaft seven feet in length.

"What good will that do?" she demanded. "You told me that a blade couldn't pierce his scales-"

"He hasn't got scales all over him," answered Conan. "There's more than one way of skinning a panther."

Moving down to the edge of the leaves, he reached the spear up and carefully thrust the blade through one of the Apples of Derketa, drawing aside to avoid the darkly purple drops that dripped from the pierced fruit. Presently he withdrew the blade and showed her the blue steel stained with a dull purplish crimson.

"I don't know whether it will do the job or not," quoth he. "There's enough poison there to kill an elephant, but - well, we'll see."

Valeria was close behind him as he let himself down among the leaves. Cautiously holding the poisoned pike away from him, he thrust his head through the branches and addressed the monster.

"What are you waiting down there for, you misbegotten offspring of questionable parents?" was one of his more printable queries. "Stick your ugly head up here again, you long-necked brute - or do you want me to come down there and kick you loose from your illegitimate spine?"

There was more of it - some of it couched in eloquence that made Valeria stare, in spite of her profane education among the seafarers. And it had its effect on the monster. Just as the incessant yapping of a dog worries and enrages more constitutionally silent animals, so the clamorous voice of a ,man rouses fear in some bestial bosoms and insane rage in others. Suddenly and with appalling quickness, the mastodonic brute reared up on its mighty hind legs and elongated its neck and body in a furious effort to reach this vociferous pigmy whose clamor was disturbing the primeval silence of its ancient realm.

But Conan had judged his distance with precision. Some five feet below him the mighty head crashed terribly but futilely through the leaves. And as the monstrous mouth gaped like that of a great snake, Conan drove his spear into the red angle of the jawbone hinge. He struck downward with all the strength of both arms, driving the long poniard blade to the hilt in flesh, sinew and bone.

Instantly the jaws clashed convulsively together, severing the triple-pieced shaft and almost precipitating Conan from his perch. He would have fallen but for the girl behind him, who caught his sword-belt in a desperate grasp. He clutched at a rocky projection, and grinned his thanks back to her.

Down on the ground the monster was wallowing like a dog with pepper in its eyes. He shook his head from side to side, pawed at it, and opened his mouth repeatedly to its widest extent. Presently he got a huge front foot on the stump of the shaft and managed to tear the blade out. Then he threw up his head, jaws wide and spouting blood, and glared up at the crag with such concentrated and intelligent fury that Valeria trembled and drew her sword. The scales along his back and flanks turned from rusty brown to a dull lurid red. Most horribly the monster's silence was broken. The sounds that issued from his blood-streaming jaws did not sound like anything that could have been produced by an earthly creation.

With harsh, grating roars, the dragon hurled himself at the crag that was the citadel of his enemies. Again and again his mighty head crashed upward through the branches, snapping vainly on empty air. He hurled his full ponderous weight against the rock until it vibrated from base to crest. And rearing upright he gripped it with his front legs like a man and tried to tear it up by the roots, as if it had been a tree.

This exhibition of primordial fury chilled the blood in Valeria's veins, but Conan was too close to the primitive himself to feel anything but a comprehending interest. To the barbarian, no such gulf existed between himself and other men, and the animals, as existed in the conception of Valeria. The monster below them, to Conan, was merely a form of life differing from himself mainly in physical shape. He attributed to it characteristics similar to his own, and saw in its wrath a counterpart of his rages, in its roars and bellowings merely reptilian equivalents to the curses he had bestowed upon it. Feeling a kinship with all wild things, even dragons, it was impossible for him to experience the sick horror which assailed Valeria at the sight of the brute's ferocity.

He sat watching it tranquilly, and pointed out the various changes that were taking place in its voice and actions.

"The poison's taking hold," he said with conviction.

"I don't believe it." To Valeria it seemed preposterous to suppose that anything, however lethal, could have any effect on that mountain of muscle and fury.

"There's pain in his voice," declared Conan. "First he was merely angry because of the stinging in his jaw. Now he feels the bite of the poison. Look! He's staggering. He'll be blind in a few more minutes. What did I tell you?"

For suddenly the dragon had lurched about and went crashing off through the bushes.

"Is he running away?" inquired Valeria uneasily.

"He's making for the pool!" Conan sprang up, galvanized into swift activity. "The poison makes him thirsty. Come on! He'll be blind in a few moments, but he can smell his way back to the foot of the crag, and if our scent's here still, he'll sit there until he dies. And others of his kind may come at his cries. Let's go!"

"Down there?" Valeria was aghast.

"Sure! We'll make for the city! They may cut our heads off there, but it's our only chance. We may run into a thousand more dragons on the way, but it's sure death to stay here. If we wait until he dies, we may have a dozen more to deal with. After me, in a hurry!"

He went down the ramp as swiftly as an ape, pausing only to aid his less agile companion, who, until she saw the Cimmerian climb, had fancied herself the equal of any man in the rigging of a ship or on the sheer face of a cliff.

They descended into the gloom below the branches and slid to the ground silently, though Valeria felt as if the pounding of her heart must surely be heard from far away. A noisy gurgling and lapping beyond the dense thicket indicated that the dragon was drinking at the pool.

"As soon as his belly is full he'll be back," muttered Conan. "It may take hours for the poison to kill him - if it does at all."

Somewhere beyond the forest the sun was sinking to the horizon. The forest was a misty twilight place of black shadows and dim vistas. Conan gripped Valeria's wrist and glided away from the foot of the crag. He made less noise than a breeze blowing among the tree-trunks, but Valeria felt as if her soft boots were betraying their flight to all the forest.

"I don't think he can follow a trail," muttered Conan. "But if a wind blew our body-scent to him, he could smell us out."

"Mitra grant that the wind blow not!" Valeria breathed.

Her face was a pallid oval in the gloom. She gripped her sword in her free hand, but the feel of the shagreen-bound hilt inspired only a feeling of helplessness in her.

They were still some distance from the edge of the forest when they heard a snapping and crashing behind them. Valeria bit her lip to check a cry.

"He's on our trail!" she whispered fiercely.

Conan shook his head.

"He didn't smell us at the rock, and he's blundering about through the forest trying to pick up our scent. Come on! It's the city or nothing now! He could tear down any tree we'd climb. If only the wind stays down-"

They stole on until the trees began to thin out ahead of them. Behind them the forest was a black impenetrable ocean of shadows. The ominous crackling still sounded behind them, as the dragon blundered in his erratic course.

"There's the plain ahead," breathed Valeria. "A little more and we'll-"

"Crom!" swore Conan.

"Mitra!" whispered Valeria.

Out of the south a wind had sprung up.

It blew over them directly into the black forest behind them. Instantly a horrible roar shook the woods. The aimless snapping and crackling of the bushes changed to a sustained crashing as the dragon came like a hurricane straight toward the spot from which the scent of his enemies was wafted.

"Run!" snarled Conan, his eyes blazing like those of a trapped wolf. "It's all we can do!"

Sailors" boots are not made for sprinting, and the life of a pirate does not train one for a runner. Within a hundred yards Valeria was panting and reeling in her gait, and behind them the crashing gave way to a rolling thunder as the monster broke out of the thickets and into the more open ground.

Conan's iron arm about the woman's waist half lifted her; her feet scarcely touched the earth as she was borne along at a speed she could never have attained herself. If he could keep out of the beast's way for a bit, perhaps that betraying wind would shift - but the wind held, and a quick glance over his shoulder showed Conan that the monster was almost upon them, coming like a war-galley in front of a hurricane. He thrust Valeria from him with a force that sent her reeling a dozen feet to fall in a crumpled heap at the foot of the nearest tree, and the Cimmerian wheeled in the path of the thundering titan.

Convinced that his death was upon him, the Cimmerian acted according to his instinct, and hurled himself full at the awful face that was bearing down on him. He leaped, slashing like a wildcat, felt his sword cut deep into the scales that sheathed the mighty snout - and then a terrific impact knocked him rolling and tumbling for fifty feet with all the wind and half the life battered out of him.

How the stunned Cimmerian regained his feet, not even he could have ever told. But the only thought that filled his brain was of the woman lying dazed and helpless almost in the path of the hurtling fiend, and before the breath came whistling back into his gullet he was standing over her with his sword in his hand.

She lay where he had thrown her, but she was struggling to a sitting posture. Neither tearing tusks nor trampling feet had touched her. It had been a shoulder or front leg that struck Conan, and the blind monster rushed on, forgetting the victims whose scent it had been following, in the sudden agony of its death throes. Headlong on its course it thundered until its low-hung head crashed into a gigantic tree in its path. The impact tore the tree up by the roots and must have dashed the brains from the misshapen skull. Tree and monster fell together, and the dazed humans saw the branches and leaves shaken by the convulsions of the creature they covered - and then grow quiet.

Conan lifted Valeria to her feet and together they started away at a reeling run. A few moments later they emerged into the still twilight of the treeless plain.

Conan paused an instant and glanced back at the ebon fastness behind them. Not a leaf stirred, nor a bird chirped. It stood as silent as it must have stood before Man was created.

"Come on," muttered Conan, taking his companion's hand. "It's touch and go now. If more dragons come out of the woods after us-"

He did not have to finish the sentence.

The city looked very far away across the plain, farther than it had looked from the crag. Valeria's heart hammered until she felt as if it would strangle her. At every step she expected to hear the crashing of the bushes and see another colossal nightmare bearing down upon them. But nothing disturbed the silence of the thickets.

With the first mile between them and the woods, Valeria breathed more easily. Her buoyant self-confidence began to thaw out again. The sun had set and darkness was gathering over the plain, lightened a little by the stars that made stunted ghosts out of the cactus growths.

"No cattle, no plowed fields," muttered Conan. "How do these people live?"

"Perhaps the cattle are in pens for the night," suggested Valeria, "and the fields and grazing pastures are on the other side of the city."

"Maybe," he grunted. "I didn't see any from the crag, though."

The moon came up behind the city, etching walls and towers blackly in the yellow glow. Valeria shivered. Black against the moon the strange city had a somber, sinister look.

Perhaps something of the same feeling occurred to Conan, for he stopped, glanced about him, and grunted: "We stop here, No use coming to their gates in the night. They probably wouldn't let us in. Besides, we need rest, and we don't know how they'll receive us. A few hours" sleep will put us in better shape to fight or run."

He led the way to a bed of cactus which grew in a circle - a phenomenon common to the southern desert. With his sword he chopped an opening, and motioned Valeria to enter.

"We'll be safe from snakes here, anyhow."

She glanced fearfully back toward the black line that indicated the forest some six miles away.

"Suppose a dragon comes out of the woods?"

"We'll keep watch," he answered, though he made no suggestion as to what they would do in such an event. He was staring at the city, a few miles away. Not a light shone from spire or tower. A great black mass of mystery, it reared cryptically against the moonlit sky.

"Lie down and sleep. I'll keep the first watch."

She hesitated, glancing at him uncertainly, but he sat down cross-legged in the opening, facing toward the plain, his sword across his knees, his back to her. Without further comment she lay down on the sand inside the spiky circle.

"Wake me when the moon is at its zenith," she directed.

He did not reply nor look toward her. Her last impression, as she sank into slumber, was of his muscular figure, immobile as a statue hewn out of bronze, outlined against the low-hanging stars.

Chapter 2 By the Blaze of the Fire Jewels

Valeria awoke with a start, to the realization that a gray dawn was stealing over the plain.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Conan squatted beside the cactus, cutting off the thick pears and dexterously twitching out the spikes.

"You didn't awake me," she accused. "You let me sleep all night!"

"You were tired," he answered. "Your posterior must have been sore, too, after that long ride. You pirates aren't used to horseback."

"What about yourself?" she retorted.

"I was a kozak before I was a pirate," he answered. "They live in the saddle. I snatch naps like a panther watching beside the trail for a deer to come by. My ears keep watch while my eyes sleep."

And indeed the giant barbarian seemed as much refreshed as if he had slept the whole night on a golden bed. Having removed the thorns, and peeled off the tough skin, he handed the girl a thick, juicy cactus leaf.

"Skin your teeth in that pear. It's food and drink to a desert man. I was a chief of the Zuagirs once - desert men who live by plundering the caravans."

"Is there anything you haven't been?" inquired the girl, half in derision and half in fascination.

"I've never been king of an Hyborian kingdom," he grinned, taking an enormous mouthful of cactus. "But I've dreamed of being even that. I may be too, some day. Why shouldn't I?"

She shook her head in wonder at his calm audacity, and fell to devouring her pear. She found it not unpleasing to the palate, and full of cool and thirst-satisfying juice. Finishing his meal, Conan wiped his hands in the sand, rose, ran his fingers through his thick black mane, hitched at his sword-belt and said: "Well, let's go. If the people in that city are going to cut our throats they may as well do it now, before the heat of the day begins."

His grim humor was unconscious, but Valeria reflected that it might be prophetic. She too hitched her sword belt as she rose. Her terrors of the night were past. The roaring dragons of the distant forest were like a dim dream. There was a swagger in her stride as she moved off beside the Cimmerian. Whatever perils lay ahead of them, their foes would be men. And Valeria of the Red Brotherhood had never seen the face of the man she feared.

Conan glanced down at her as she strode along beside him with her swinging stride that matched his own.

"You walk more like a hillman than a sailor," he said. "You must be an Aquilonian. The suns of Darfar never burnt your white skin brown. Many a princess would envy you."

"I am from Aquilonia," she replied. His compliments no longer irritated her. His evident admiration pleased her. For another man to have kept her watch while she slept would have angered her; she had always fiercely resented any man's attempting to shield or protect her because of her sex. But she found a secret pleasure in the fact that this man had done so. And he had not taken advantage of her fright and the weakness resulting from it. After all, she reflected, her companion was no common man.

The sun rose behind the city, turning the towers to a sinister crimson.

"Black last night against the moon," grunted Conan, his eyes clouding with the abysmal superstition of the barbarian. "Blood-red as a threat of blood against the sun this dawn. I do not like this city."

But they went on, and as they went Conan pointed out the fact that no road ran to the city from the north.

"No cattle have trampled the plain on this side of the city," said he. "No plowshare has touched the earth for years, maybe centuries. But look: once this plain was cultivated."

Valeria saw the ancient irrigation ditches he indicated, half filled in places, and overgrown with cactus. She frowned with perplexity as her eyes swept over the plain that stretched on all sides of the city to the forest edge, which marched in a vast, dim ring. Vision did not extend beyond that ring.

She looked uneasily at the city. No helmets or spearheads gleamed on battlements, no trumpets sounded, no challenge rang from the towers. A silence as absolute as that of the forest brooded over the walls and minarets.

The sun was high above the eastern horizon when they stood before the great gate in the northern wall, in the shadow of the lofty rampart. Rust flecked the iron bracings of the mighty bronze portal. Spiderwebs glistened thickly on hinge and sill and bolted panel.

"It hasn't been opened for years!" exclaimed Valeria.

"A dead city," grunted Conan. "That's why the ditches were broken and the plain untouched."

"But who built it? Who dwelt here? Where did they go? Why did they abandon it?"

"Who can say? Maybe an exiled clan of Stygians built it. Maybe not. It doesn't look like Stygian architecture. Maybe the people were wiped out by enemies, or a plague exterminated them."

"In that case their treasures may still be gathering dust and cobwebs in there," suggested Valeria, the acquisitive instincts of her profession waking in her; prodded, too, by feminine curiosity. "Can we open the gate? Let's go in and explore a bit."

Conan eyed the heavy portal dubiously, but placed his massive shoulder against it and thrust with all the power of his muscular calves and thighs. With a rasping screech of rusty hinges the gate moved ponderously inward, and Conan straightened and drew his sword. Valeria stared over his shoulder, and made a sound indicative of surprise.

They were not looking into an open street or court as one would have expected. The opened gate, or door, gave directly into a long, broad hall which ran away and away until its vista grew indistinct in the distance. It was of heroic proportions, and the floor of a curious red stone, cut in square tiles, that seemed to smolder as if with reflection of flames. The walls were of a shiny green material.

"Jade, or I'm a Shemite!" swore Conan.

"Not in such quantity!" protested Valeria.

"I've looted enough from the Khitan caravans to know what I'm talking about," he asserted. "That's jade!"

The vaulted ceiling was of lapis lazuli, adorned with clusters of great green stones that gleamed with a poisonous radiance.

"Green firestones," growled Conan. "That's what the people of Punt call them. They're supposed to be the petrified eyes of those prehistoric snakes the ancients called Golden Serpents. They glow like a cat's eyes in the dark. At night this hall would be lighted by them, but it would be a hellishly weird illumination. Let's look around. We might find a cache of jewels."

"Shut the door," advised Valeria. "I'd hate to have to outrun a dragon down this hall."

Conan grinned, and replied: "I don't believe the dragons ever leave the forest."

But he complied, and pointed out the broken bolt on the inner side.

"I thought I heard something snap when I shoved against it. That bolt's freshly broken. Rust has eaten nearly through it. If the people ran away, why should it have been bolted on the inside?"

"They undoubtedly left by another door," suggested Valeria.

She wondered how many centuries had passed since the light of outer day had filtered into that great hall through the open door. Sunlight was finding its way somehow into the hall, and they quickly saw the source. High up in the vaulted ceiling skylights were set in slot-like openings - translucent sheets of some crystalline substance. In the splotches of shadow between them, the green jewels winked like the eyes of angry cats. Beneath their feet the dully lurid floor smoldered with changing hues and colors of flame. It was like treading the floors of hell with evil stars blinking overhead.

Three balustraded galleries ran along on each side of the hall, one above the other.

"A four-storied house," grunted Conan, "and this hall extends to the roof. It's long as a street. I seem to see a door at the other end."

Valeria shrugged her white shoulders.

"Your eyes are better than mine, then, though I'm accounted sharp-eyed among the sea-rovers."

They turned into an open door at random, and traversed a series of empty chambers, floored like the hall, and with walls of the same green jade, or of marble or ivory or chalcedony, adorned with friezes of bronze, gold or silver. In the ceilings the green fire-gems were set, and their light was as ghostly and illusive as Conan had predicted. Under the witch-fire glow the intruders moved like specters.

Some of the chambers lacked this illumination, and their doorways showed black as the mouth of the Pit. These Conan and Valeria avoided, keeping always to the lighted chambers.

Cobwebs hung in the corners, but there was no perceptible accumulation of dust on the floor, or on the tables and seats of marble, jade or carnelian which occupied the chambers. Here and there were rugs of that silk known as Khitan which is practically indestructible. Nowhere did they find any windows, or doors opening into streets or courts. Each door merely opened into another chamber or hall.

"Why don't we come to a street?" grumbled Valeria. "This place or whatever we're in must be as big as the king of Turan's seraglio."

"They must not have perished of plague," said Conan, meditating upon the mystery of the empty city. "Otherwise we'd find skeletons. Maybe it became haunted, and everybody got up and left. Maybe-"

"Maybe, hell!" broke in Valeria rudely. "We'll never know. Look at these friezes. They portray men. What race do they belong to?"

Conan scanned them and shook his head.

"I never saw people exactly like them. But there's the smack of the East about them - Vendhya, maybe, or Kosala."

"Were you a king in Kosala?" she asked, masking her keen curiosity with derision.

"No. But I was a war-chief of the Afghulis who live in the Himelian mountains above the borders of Vendhya. These people favor the Kosalans. But why should Kosalans be building a city this far to west?"

The figures portrayed were those of slender, olive-skinned men and women, with finely chiseled, exotic features. They wore filmy robes and many delicate jeweled ornaments, and were depicted mostly in attitudes of feasting, dancing or lovemaking.

"Easterners, all right," grunted Conan, "but from where I don't know. They must have lived a disgustingly peaceful life, though, or they'd have scenes of wars and fights. Let's go up that stair."

It was an ivory spiral that wound up from the chamber in which they were standing. They mounted three flights and came into a broad chamber on the fourth floor, which seemed to be the highest tier in the building. Skylights in the ceiling illuminated the room, in which light the fire-gems winked pallidly. Glancing through the doors they saw, except on one side, a series of similarly lighted chambers. This other door opened upon a balustraded gallery that overhung a hall much smaller than the one they had recently explored on the lower floor.

"Hell!" Valeria sat down disgustedly on a jade bench. "The people who deserted this city must have taken all their treasures with them. I'm tired of wandering through these bare rooms at random."

"All these upper chambers seem to be lighted," said Conan. "I wish we could find a window that overlooked the city. Let's have a look through that door over there."

"You have a look," advised Valeria. "I'm going to sit here and rest my feet."

Conan disappeared through the door opposite that one opening upon the gallery, and Valeria leaned back with her hands clasped behind her head, and thrust her booted legs out in front of her. These silent rooms and halls with their gleaming green clusters of ornaments and burning crimson floors were beginning to depress her. She wished they could find their way out of the maze into which they had wandered and emerge into a street. She wondered idly what furtive, dark feet had glided over those flaming floors in past centuries, how many deeds of cruelty and mystery those winking ceiling-gems had blazed down upon.

It was a faint noise that brought her out of her reflections. She was on her feet with her sword in her hand before she realized what had disturbed her. Conan had not returned, and she knew it was not he that she had heard.

The sound had come from somewhere beyond the door that opened on to the gallery. Soundlessly in her soft leather boots she glided through it, crept across the balcony and peered down between the heavy balustrades.

A man was stealing along the hall.

The sight of a human being in this supposedly deserted city was a startling shock. Crouching down behind the stone balusters, with every nerve tingling, Valeria glared down at the stealthy figure.

The man in no way resembled the figures depicted on the friezes. He was slightly above middle height, very dark, though not negroid. He was naked but for a scanty silk clout that only partly covered his muscular hips, and a leather girdle, a hand's breadth broad, about his lean waist. His long black hair hung in lank strands about his shoulders, giving him a wild appearance. He was gaunt, but knots and cords of muscles stood out on his arms and legs, without that fleshy padding that presents a pleasing symmetry of contour. He was built with an economy that was almost repellent.

Yet it was not so much his physical appearance as his attitude that impressed the woman who watched him. He slunk along, stooped in a semi-crouch, his head turning from side to side. He grasped a wide-tipped blade in his right hand, and she saw it shake with the intensity of the emotion that gripped him. He was afraid, trembling in the grip of some dire terror. When he turned his head she caught the blaze of wild eyes among the lank strands of black hair.

He did not see her. On tiptoe he glided across the hall and vanished through an open door. A moment later she heard a choking cry, and then silence fell again.

Consumed with curiosity, Valeria glided along the gallery until she came to a door above the one through which the man had passed. It opened into another, smaller gallery that encircled a large chamber.

This chamber was on the third floor, and its ceiling was not so high as that of the hall. It was lighted only by the firestones, and their weird green glow left the spaces under the balcony in shadows.

Valeria's eyes widened. The man she had seen was still in the chamber.

He lay face down on a dark crimson carpet in the middle of the room. His body was limp, his arms spread wide. His curved sword lay near him.

She wondered why he should lie there so motionless. Then her eyes narrowed as she stared down at the rug on which he lay. Beneath and about him the fabric showed a slightly different color, a deeper, brighter crimson.

Shivering slightly, she crouched down closer behind the balustrade, intently scanning the shadows under the overhanging gallery. They gave up no secret.

Suddenly another figure entered the grim drama. He was a man similar to the first, and he came in by a door opposite that which gave upon the hall.

His eyes glared at the sight of the man on the floor, and he spoke something in a staccato voice that sounded like "Chicmec!" The other did not move.

The man stepped quickly across the floor, bent, gripped the fallen man's shoulder and turned him over. A choking cry escaped him as the head fell back limply, disclosing a throat that had been severed from ear to ear.

The man let the corpse fall back upon the bloodstained carpet, and sprang to his feet, shaking like a wind-blown leaf. His face was an ashy mask of fear. But with one knee flexed for flight, he froze suddenly, became as immobile as an image, staring across the chamber with dilated eyes.

In the shadows beneath the balcony a ghostly light began to glow and grow, a light that was not part of the firestone gleam. Valeria felt her hair stir as she watched it; for, dimly visible in the throbbing radiance, there floated a human skull, and it was from this skull - human yet appallingly misshapen - that the spectral light seemed to emanate. It hung there like a disembodied head, conjured out of night and the shadows, growing more and more distinct; human, and yet not human as she knew humanity.

The man stood motionless, an embodiment of paralysed horror, staring fixedly at the apparition. The thing moved out from the wall and a grotesque shadow moved with it. Slowly the shadow became visible as a man-like figure whose naked torso and limbs shone whitely, with the hue of bleached bones. The bare skull on its shoulders grinned eyelessly, in the midst of its unholy nimbus, and the man confronting it seemed unable to take his eyes from it. He stood still, his sword dangling from nerveless fingers, on his face the expression of a man bound by the spells of a mesmerist.

Valeria realized that it was not fear alone that paralysed him. Some hellish quality of that throbbing glow had robbed him of his power to think and act. She herself, safely above the scene, felt the subtle impact of a nameless emanation that was a threat to sanity.

The horror swept toward its victim and he moved at last, but only to drop his sword and sink to his knees, covering his eyes with his hands. Dumbly he awaited the stroke of the blade that now gleamed in the apparition's hand as it reared above him like Death triumphant over mankind.

Valeria acted according to the first impulse of her wayward nature. With one tigerish movement she was over the balustrade and dropping to the floor behind the awful shape. It wheeled at the thud of her soft boots on the floor, but even as it turned, her keen blade lashed down, and a fierce exultation swept her as she felt the edge cleave solid flesh and mortal bone.

The apparition cried out gurglingly and went down, severed through shoulder, breastbone and spine, and as it fell the burning skull rolled clear, revealing a lank mop of black hair and a dark face twisted in the convulsions of death. Beneath the horrific masquerade there was a human being, a man similar to the one kneeling supinely on the floor.

The latter looked up at the sound of the blow and the cry, and now he glared in wild-eyed amazement at the white-skinned woman who stood over the corpse with a dripping sword in her hand.

He staggered up, yammering as if the sight had almost unseated his reason. She was amazed to realize that she understood him. He was gibbering in the Stygian tongue, though in a dialect unfamiliar to her.

"Who are you? Whence come you? What do you in Xuchotl?" Then rushing on, without waiting for her to reply: "But you are a friend - goddess or devil, it makes no difference! You have slain the Burning Skull! It was but a man beneath it, after all! We deemed it a demon they conjured up out of the catacombs! Listen."

He stopped short in his ravings and stiffened, straining his ears with painful intensity. The girl heard nothing.

"We must hasten!" he whispered. "They are west of the Great Hall! They may be all around us here! They may be creeping upon us even now!"

He seized her wrist in a convulsive grasp she found hard to break.

"Whom do you mean by "they"?" she demanded.

He stared at her uncomprehendingly for an instant, as if he found her ignorance hard to understand.

"They?" he stammered vaguely. "Why - why, the people of Xotalanc! The clan of the man you slew. They who dwell by the eastern gate."

"You mean to say this city is inhabited?" she exclaimed.

"Aye! Aye!" He was writhing in the impatience of apprehension. "Come away! Come quick! We must return to Tecuhltli!"

"Where is that?" she demanded.

"The quarter by the western gate!" He had her wrist again and was pulling her toward the door through which he had first come. Great beads of perspiration dripped from his dark forehead, and his eyes blazed with terror.

"Wait a minute!" she growled, flinging off his hand. "Keep your hands off me, or I'll split your skull. What's all this about? Who are you? Where would you take me?"

He took a firm grip on himself, casting glances to all sides, and began speaking so fast his words tripped over each other.

"My name is Techotl. I am of Techuhltli. I and this man who lies with his throat cut came into the Halls of Silence to try and ambush some of the Xotalancas. But we became separated and I returned here to find him with his gullet slit. The Burning Skull did it, I know, just as he would have slain me had you not killed him. But perhaps he was not alone. Others may be stealing from Xotalanc! The gods themselves blench at the fate of those they take alive!"

At the thought he shook as with an ague and his dark skin grew ashy. Valeria frowned puzzledly at him. She sensed intelligence behind this rigmarole, but it was meaningless to her.

She turned toward the skull, which still glowed and pulsed on the floor, and was reaching a booted toe tentatively toward it, when the man who called himself Techotl sprang forward with a cry.

"Do not touch it! Do not even look at it! Madness and death lurk in it. The wizards of Xotalanc understand its secret -they found it in the catacombs, where lie the bones of terrible kings who ruled in Xuchotl in the black centuries of the past. To gaze upon it freezes the blood and withers the brain of a man who understands not its mystery. To touch it causes madness and destruction."

She scowled at him uncertainly. He was not a reassuring figure, with his lean, muscle-knotted frame, and snaky locks. In his eyes, behind the glow of terror, lurked a weird light she had never seen in the eyes of a man wholly sane. Yet he seemed sincere in his protestations.

"Come!" he begged, reaching for her hand, and then recoiling as he remembered her warning. "You are a stranger. How you came here I do not know, but if you were a goddess or a demon, come to aid Tecuhltli, you would know all the things you have asked me. You must be from beyond the great forest, whence our ancestors came. But you are our friend, or you would not have slain my enemy. Come quickly, before the Xotalancas find us and slay us!"

From his repellent, impassioned face she glanced to the sinister skull, smoldering and glowing on the floor near the dead man. It was like a skull seen in a dream, undeniably human, yet with disturbing distortions and malformations of contour and outline. In life the wearer of that skull must have presented an alien and monstrous aspect. Life? It seemed to possess some sort of life of its own. Its jaws yawned at her and snapped together. Its radiance grew brighter, more vivid, yet the impression of nightmare grew too; it was a dream; all life was a dream - it was Techotl's urgent voice which snapped Valeria back from the dim gulfs whither she was drifting.

"Do not look at the skull! Do not look at the skull!" It was a far cry across unreckoned voids.

Valeria shook herself like a lion shaking his mane. Her vision cleared. Techotl was chattering: "In life it housed the awful brain of a king of magicians! It holds still the life and fire of magic drawn from outer spaces!"

With a curse Valeria leaped, lithe as a panther, and the skull crashed to flaming bits under her swinging sword. Somewhere in the room, or in the void, or in the dim reaches of her consciousness, an inhuman voice cried out in pain and rage.

Techotl's hand was plucking at her arm and he was gibbering: "You have broken it! You have destroyed it! Not all the black arts of Xotalanc can rebuild it! Come away! Come away quickly, now!"

"But I can't go," she protested. "I have a friend somewhere near by-"

The flare of his eyes cut her short as he stared past her with an expression grown ghastly. She wheeled just as four men rushed through as many doors, converging on the pair in the center of the chamber.

They were like the others she had seen, the same knotted muscles bulging on otherwise gaunt limbs, the same lank blue-black hair, the same mad glare in their wide eyes. They were armed and clad like Techotl, but on the breast of each was painted a white skull.

There were no challenges or war-cries. Like blood-mad tigers the men of Xotalanc sprang at the throats of their enemies. Techotl met them with the fury of desperation, ducked the swipe of a wide-headed blade, and grappled with the wielder, and bore him to the floor where they rolled and wrestled in murderous silence.

The other three swarmed on Valeria, their weird eyes red as the eyes of mad dogs.

She killed the first who came within reach before he could strike a blow, her long straight blade splitting his skull even as his own sword lifted for a stroke. She side-stepped a thrust, even as she parried a slash. Her eyes danced and her lips smiled without mercy. Again she was Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, and the hum of her steel was like a bridal song in her ears.

Her sword darted past a blade that sought to parry, and sheathed six inches of its point in a leather-guarded midriff. The man gasped agonizedly and went to his knees, but his tall mate lunged in, in ferocious silence, raining blow on blow so furiously that Valeria had no opportunity to counter. She stepped back coolly, parrying the strokes and watching for her chance to thrust home. He could not long keep up that flailing whirlwind. His arm would tire, his wind would fail; he would weaken, falter, and then her blade would slide smoothly into his heart. A sidelong glance showed her Techotl kneeling on the breast of his antagonist and striving to break the other's hold on his wrist and to drive home a dagger.

Sweat beaded the forehead of the man facing her, and his eyes were like burning coals. Smite as he would, he could not break past nor beat down her guard. His breath came in gusty gulps, his blows began to fall erratically. She stepped back to draw him out - and felt her thighs locked in an iron grip. She had forgotten the wounded man on the floor.

Crouching on his knees, he held her with both arms locked about her legs, and his mate croaked in triumph and began working his way around to come at her from the left side. Valeria wrenched and tore savagely, but in vain. She could free herself of this clinging menace with a downward flick of her sword, but in that instant the curved blade of the tall warrior would crash through her skull. The wounded man began to worry at her bare thigh with his teeth like a wild beast.

She reached down with her left hand and gripped his long hair, forcing his head back so that his white teeth and rolling eyes gleamed up at her. The tall Xotalanc cried out fiercely and leaped in, smiting with all the fury of his arm. Awkwardly she parried the stroke, and it beat the flat of her blade down on her head so that she saw sparks flash before her eyes, and staggered. Up went the sword again, with a low, beast-like cry of triumph - and then a giant form loomed behind the Xotalanc and steel flashed like a jet of blue lightning. The cry of the warrior broke short and he went down like an ox beneath the pole-ax, his brains gushing from his skull that had been split to the throat.

"Conan!" gasped Valeria. In a gust of passion she turned on the Xotalanc whose long hair she still gripped in her left hand. "Dog of hell!" Her blade swished as it cut the air in an upswinging arc with a blur in the middle, and the headless body slumped down, spurting blood. She hurled the severed head across the room.

"What the devil's going on here?" Conan bestrode the corpse of the man he had killed, broadsword in hand, glaring about him in amazement.

Techotl was rising from the twitching figure of the last Xotalanc, shaking red drops from his dagger. He was bleeding from the stab deep in the thigh. He stared at Conan with dilated eyes.

"What is all this?" Conan demanded again, not yet recovered from the stunning surprise of finding Valeria engaged in a savage battle with these fantastic figures in a city he had thought empty and uninhabited. Returning from an aimless exploration of the upper chambers to find Valeria missing from the room where he had left her, he had followed the sounds of strife that burst on his dumfounded ears.

"Five dead dogs!" exclaimed Techotl, his flaming eyes reflecting a ghastly exultation. "Five slain! Five crimson nails for the black pillar! The gods of blood be thanked!"

He lifted quivering hands on high, and then, with the face of a fiend, he spat on the corpses and stamped on their faces, dancing in his ghoulish glee. His recent allies eyed him in amazement, and Conan asked, in the Aquilonian tongue: "Who is this madman?"

Valeria shrugged her shoulders.

"He says his name's Techotl. From his babblings I gather that his people live at one end of this crazy city, and these others at the other end. Maybe we'd better go with him. He seems friendly, and it's easy to see that the other clan isn't."

Techotl had ceased his dancing and was listening again, his head tilted sidewise, dog-like, triumph struggling with fear in his repellent countenance.

"Come away, now!" he whispered. "We have done enough! Five dead dogs! My people will welcome you! They will honor you! But come! It is far to Tecuhltli. At any moment the Xotalancs may come on us in numbers too great even for your swords."

"Lead the way," grunted Conan.

Techotl instantly mounted a stair leading up to the gallery, beckoning them to follow him, which they did, moving rapidly to keep on his heels. Having reached the gallery, he plunged into a door that opened toward the west, and hurried through chamber after chamber, each lighted by skylights or green fire-jewels.

"What sort of a place can this be?" muttered Valeria under her breath.

"Crom knows!" answered Conan. "I've seen his kind before, though. They live on the shores of Lake Zuad, near the border of Kush. They're a sort of mongrel Stygians, mixed with another race that wandered into Stygia from the east some centuries ago and were absorbed by them. They're called Tlazitlans. I'm willing to bet it wasn't they who built this city, though."

Techotl's fear did not seem to diminish as they drew away from the chamber where the dead men lay. He kept twisting his head on his shoulder to listen for sounds of pursuit, and stared with burning intensity into every doorway they passed.

Valeria shivered in spite of herself. She feared no man. But the weird floor beneath her feet, the uncanny jewels over her head, dividing the lurking shadows among them, the stealth and terror of their guide, impressed her with a nameless apprehension, a sensation of lurking, inhuman peril.

"They may be between us and Tecuhltli!" he whispered once. "We must beware lest they be lying in wait!"

"Why don't we get out of this infernal palace, and take to the streets?" demanded Valeria.

"There are no streets in Xuchotl," he answered. "No squares nor open courts. The whole city is built like one giant palace under one great roof. The nearest approach to a street is the Great Hall which traverses the city from the north gate to the south gate. The only doors opening into the outer world are the city gates, through which no living man has passed for fifty years."

"How long have you dwelt here?" asked Conan.

"I was born in the castle of Tecuhltli thirty-five years ago. I have never set foot outside the city. For the love of the gods, let us go silently! These halls may be full of lurking devils. Olmec shall tell you all when we reach Tecuhltli."

So in silence they glided on with the green firestones blinking overhead and the flaming floors smoldering under their feet, and it seemed to Valeria as if they fled through hell, guided by a dark-faced lank-haired goblin.

Yet it was Conan who halted them as they were crossing an unusually wide chamber. His wilderness-bred ears were keener even than the ears of Techod whetted though these were by a lifetime of warfare in those silent corridors.

"You think some of your enemies may be ahead of us, lying in ambush?"

"They prowl through these rooms at all hours," answered Techotl, "as do we. The halls and chambers between Tecuhltli and Xotalanc are a disputed region, owned by no man. We call it the Halls of Silence. Why do you ask?"

"Because men are in the chambers ahead of us," answered Conan. "I heard steel clink against stone."

Again a shaking seized Techotl, and he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.

"Perhaps they are your friends," suggested Valeria.

"We dare not chance it," he panted, and moved with frenzied activity. He turned aside and glided through a doorway on the left which led into a chamber from which an ivory staircase wound down into darkness.

"This leads to an unlighted corridor below us!" he hissed, great beads of perspiration standing out on his brow. "They may be lurking there, too. It may all be a trick to draw us into it. But we must take the chance that they have laid their ambush in the rooms above. Come swiftly, now!"

Softly as phantoms they descended the stair and came to the mouth of a corridor black as night. They crouched there for a moment, listening, and then melted into it. As they moved along, Valeria's flesh crawled between her shoulders in momentary expectation of a sword-thrust in the dark. But for Conan's iron fingers gripping her arm she had no physical cognizance of her companions. Neither made as much noise as a cat would have made. The darkness was absolute. One hand, outstretched, touched a wall, and occasionally she felt a door under her fingers. The hallway seemed interminable.

Suddenly they were galvanized by a sound behind them. Valeria's flesh crawled anew, for she recognized it as the soft opening of a door. Men had come into the corridor behind them. Even with the thought she stumbled over something that felt like a human skull. It rolled across the floor with an appalling clatter.

"Run!" yelped Techotl, a note of hysteria in his voice, and was away down the corridor like a flying ghost.

Again Valeria felt Conan's hand bearing her up and sweeping her along as they raced after their guide. Conan could see in the dark no better than she, but he possessed a sort of instinct that made his course unerring. Without his support and guidance she would have fallen or stumbled against the wall. Down the corridor they sped, while the swift patter of flying feet drew closer and closer, and then suddenly Techotl panted: "Here is the stair! After me, quick! Oh, quick!"

His hand came out of the dark and caught Valeria's wrist as she stumbled blindly on the steps. She felt herself half dragged, half lifted up the winding stair, while Conan released her and turned on the steps, his ears and instincts telling him their foes were hard at their backs. And the sounds were not all those of human feet.

Something came writhing up the steps, something that slithered and rustled and brought a chill in the air with it. Conan lashed down with his great sword and felt the blade shear through something that might have been flesh and bone, and cut deep into the stair beneath. Something touched his foot that chilled like the touch of frost, and then the darkness beneath him was disturbed by a frightful thrashing and lashing, and a man cried out in agony.

The next moment Conan was racing up the winding staircase, and through a door that stood open at the head.

Valeria and Techod were already through, and Techod slammed the door and shot a bolt across it - the first Conan had seen since they left the outer gate.

Then he turned and ran across the well-lighted chamber into which they had come, and as they passed through the farther door, Conan glanced back and saw the door groaning and straining under heavy pressure violently applied from the other side.

Though Techod did not abate either his speed or his caution, he seemed more confident now. He had the air of a man who has come into familiar territory, within call of friends.

But Conan renewed his terror by asking: "What was that thing that I fought on the stair?"

"The men of Xotalanc," answered Techotl, without looking back. "I told you the halls were full of them."

"This wasn't a man," grunted Conan. "It was something that crawled, and it was as cold as ice to the touch. I think I cut it asunder. It fell back on the men who were following us, and must have killed one of them in its death throes."

Techotl's head jerked back, his face ashy again. Convulsively he quickened his pace.

"It was the Crawler! A monster they have brought out of the catacombs to aid them! What it is, we do not know, but we have found our people hideously slain by it. In Set's name, hasten! If they put it on our trail, it will follow us to the very doors of Tecuhltli!"

"I doubt it," grunted Conan. "That was a shrewd cut I dealt it on the stair."

"Hasten! Hasten!" groaned Techotl.

They ran through a series of green-lit chambers, traversed a broad hall, and halted before a giant bronze door.

Techotl said: "This is Tecuhltli!"

Chapter 3 The People of the Feud

Techotl smote on the bronze door with his clenched hand, and then turned sidewise, so that he could watch back along the hall.

"Men have been smitten down before this door, when they thought they were safe," he said.

"Why don't they open the door?" asked Conan.

"They are looking at us through the Eye," answered Techotl. "They are puzzled at the sight of you." He lifted his voice and called: "Open the door, Xecelan! It is I, Techotl, with friends from the great world beyond the forest! - They will open," he assured his allies.

"They'd better do it in a hurry, then," said Conan grimly. "I hear something crawling along the floor beyond the wall."

Techotl went ashy again and attacked the door with his fists, screaming: "Open, you fools, open! The Crawler is at our heels!"

Even as he beat and shouted, the great bronze door swung noiselessly back, revealing a heavy chain across the entrance, over which spearheads bristled and fierce countenances regarded them intently for an instant. Then the chain was dropped and Techotl grasped the arms of his friends in a nervous frenzy and fairly dragged them over the threshold. A glance over his shoulder just as the door was closing showed Conan the long dim vista of the hall, and dimly framed at the other end an ophidian shape that writhed slowly and painfully into view, flowing in a dull-hued length from a chamber door, its hideous bloodstained head wagging drunkenly. Then the closing door shut off the view.

Inside the square chamber into which they had come heavy bolts were drawn across the door, and the chain locked into place. The door was made to stand the battering of a siege. Four men stood on guard, of the same lank-haired, darkskinned breed as Techotl, with spears in their hands and swords at their hips. In the wall near the door there was a complicated contrivance of mirrors which Conan guessed was the Eye Techotl had mentioned, so arranged that a narrow, crystal-paned slot in the wall could be looked through from within without being discernible from without. The four guardsmen stared at the strangers with wonder, but asked no question, nor did Techotl vouchsafe any information. He moved with easy confidence now, as if he had shed his cloak of indecision and fear the instant he crossed the threshold.

"Come!" he urged his new-found friends, but Conan glanced toward the door.

"What about those fellows who were following us? Won't they try to storm that door?"

Techotl shook his head.

"They know they cannot break down the Door of the Eagle. They will flee back to Xotalanc, with their crawling fiend. Come! I will take you to the rulers of Tecuhltli."

One of the four guards opened the door opposite the one by which they had entered, and they passed through into a hallway which, like most of the rooms on that level, was lighted by both the slot-like skylights and the clusters of winking fire-gems. But unlike the other rooms they had traversed, this hall showed evidences of occupation. Velvet tapestries adorned the glossy jade walls, rich rugs were on the crimson floors and the ivory seats, benches and divans were littered with satin cushions.

The hall ended in an ornate door, before which stood no guard. Without ceremony Techotl thrust the door open and ushered his friends into a broad chamber, where some thirty darkskinned men and women lounging on satin-covered couches sprang up with exclamations of amazement.

The men, all except one, were of the same type as Techotl, and the women were equally dark and strange-eyed, though not unbeautiful in a weird dark way. They wore sandals, golden breast-plates, and scanty silk shirts supported by gem-crusted girdles, and their black manes, cut square at their naked shoulders, were bound with silver circlets.

On a wide ivory seat on a jade dais sat a man and a woman who differed subtly from the others. He was a giant, with an enormous sweep of breast and the shoulders of a bull. Unlike the others, he was bearded, with a thick, blue-black beard which fell almost to his broad girdle. He wore a robe of purple silk which reflected changing sheens of color with his every movement, and one wide sleeve, drawn back to his elbow, revealed a forearm massive with corded muscles. The band which confined his blue-black locks was set with glittering jewels.

The woman beside him sprang to her feet with a startled exclamation as the strangers entered, and her eyes, passing over Conan, fixed themselves with burning intensity on Valeria. She was tall and lithe, by far the most beautiful woman in the room. She was clad more scantily even than the others; for instead of a skirt she wore merely a broad strip of gilt-worked purple cloth fastened to the middle of her girdle which fell below her knees. Another strip at the back of her girdle completed that part of her costume, which she wore with a cynical indifference. Her breast-plates and the circlet about her temples were adorned with gems. In her eyes alone of all the darkskinned people there lurked no brooding gleam of madness. She spoke no word after her first exclamation; she stood tensely, her hands clenched, staring at Valeria.

The man on the ivory seat had not risen.

"Prince Olmec," spoke Techotl, bowing low, with arms outspread and the palms of his hands turned upward, "I bring allies from the world beyond the forest. In the Chamber of Tezcoti the Burning Skull slew Chicmec, my companion-"

"The Burning Skull!" It was a shuddering whisper of fear from the people of Tecuhltli.

"Aye! Then came I, and found Chicmec lying with his throat cut. Before I could flee, the Burning Skull came upon me, and when I looked upon it my blood became as ice and the marrow of my bones melted. I could neither fight nor run. I could only await the stroke. Then came this white-skinned woman and struck him down with her sword; and lo, it was only a dog of Xotalanc with white paint upon his skin and the living skull of an ancient wizard upon his head! Now that skull lies in many pieces, and the dog who wore it is a dead man!"

An indescribably fierce exultation edged the last sentence, and was echoed in the low, savage exclamations from the crowding listeners.

"But wait!" exclaimed Techotl. "There is more! While I talked with the woman., four Xotalancs came upon us! One I slew there is the stab in my thigh to prove how desperate was the fight. Two the woman killed. But we were hard pressed when this man came into the fray and split the skull of the fourth! Aye! Five crimson nails there are to be driven into the pillar of vengeance!"

He pointed at a black column of ebony which stood behind the dais. Hundreds of red dots scarred its polished surface - the bright scarlet heads of heavy copper nails driven into the black wood.

"Five red nails for five Xotalanca lives!" exulted Techotl, and the horrible exultation in the faces of the listeners made them inhuman.

"Who are these people?" asked Olmec, and his voice was like the low, deep rumble of a distant bull. None of the people of Xuchotl spoke loudly. It was as if they had absorbed into their souls the silence of the empty halls and deserted chambers.

"I am Conan, a Cimmerian," answered the barbarian briefly. "This woman is Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, an Aquilonian pirate. We are deserters from an army on the Darfar border, far to the north, and are trying to reach the coast."

The woman on the dais spoke loudly, her words tripping in her haste.

"You can never reach the coast! There is no escape from Xuchotl! You will spend the rest of your lives in this city!"

"What do you mean?" growled Conan, clapping his hand to his hilt and stepping about so as to face both the dais and the rest of the room. "Are you telling us we're prisoners?"

"She did not mean that," interposed Olmec. "We are your friends. We would not restrain you against your will. But I fear other circumstances will make it impossible for you to leave Xuchotl."

His eyes flickered to Valeria, and he lowered them quickly.

"This woman is Tascela," he said. "She is a princess of Tecuhltli. But let food and drink be brought our guests. Doubtless they are hungry, and weary from their long travels."

He indicated an ivory table, and after an exchange of glances, the adventurers seated themselves. The Cimmerian was suspicious. His fierce blue eyes roved about the chamber, and he kept his sword close to his hand. But an invitation to eat and drink never found him backward. His eyes kept wandering to Tascela, but the princess had eyes only for his white-skinned companion.

Techotl, who had bound a strip of silk about his wounded thigh, placed himself at the table to attend to the wants of his friends, seeming to consider it a privilege and honor to see after their needs. He inspected the food and drink the others brought in gold vessels and dishes, and tasted each before he placed it before his guests. While they ate, Olmec sat in silence on his ivory seat, watching them from under his broad black brows. Tascela sat beside him, chin cupped in her hands and her elbows resting on her knees. Her dark, enigmatic eyes, burning with a mysterious light, never left Valeria's supple figure. Behind her seat a sullen handsome girl waved an ostrich-plume fan with a slow rhythm.

The food was fruit of an exotic kind unfamiliar to the wanderers, but very palatable, and the drink was a light crimson wine that carried a heady tang.

"You have come from afar," said Olmec at last. "I have read the books of our fathers. Aquilonia lies beyond the lands of the Stygians and the Shemites, beyond Argos and Zingara; and Cimmeria lies beyond Aquilonia."

"We have each a roving foot," answered Conan carelessly.

"How you won through the forest is a wonder to me," quoth Olmec. "In bygone days a thousand fighting-men scarcely were able to carve a road through it perils."

"We encountered a bench-legged monstrosity about the size of a mastodon," said Conan casually, holding out his wine goblet which Techotl filled with evident pleasure. "But when we'd killed it we had no further trouble."

The wine vessel slipped from Techotl's hand to crash on the floor. His dusky skin went ashy. Olmec started to his feet, an image of stunned amazement, and a low gasp of awe or terror breathed up from the others. Some slipped to their knees as if their legs would not support them. Only Tascela seemed not to have heard. Conan glared about him bewilderedly.

"What's the matter? What are you gaping about?"

"You - you slew the dragon-god?"

"God? I killed a dragon. Why not? It was trying to gobble us up."

"But dragons are immortal!" exclaimed Olmec. "They slay each other, but no man ever killed a dragon! The thousand fighting-men of our ancestors who fought their way to Xuchotl could not prevail against them! Their swords broke like twigs against their scales!"

"If your ancestors had thought to dip their spears in the poisonous juice of Derketa's Apples," quoth Conan, with his mouth full, "and jab them in the eyes or mouth or somewhere like that, they'd have seen that dragons are not more immortal than any other chunk of beef. The carcass lies at the edge of the trees, just within the forest. If you don't believe me, go and look for yourself."

Olmec shook his head, not in disbelief but in wonder.

"It was because of the dragons that our ancestors took refuge in Xuchotl," said he. "They dared not pass through the plain and plunge into the forest beyond. Scores of them were seized and devoured by the monsters before they could reach the city."

"Then your ancestors didn't build Xuchotl?" asked Valeria.

"It was ancient when they first came into the land. How long it had stood here, not even its degenerate inhabitants knew."

"Your people came from Lake Zuad?" questioned Conan.

"Aye. More than half a century ago a tribe of the Tlazitlans rebelled against the Stygian king, and, being defeated in battle, fled southward. For many weeks they wandered over grasslands, desert hills, and at last they came into the great forest, a thousand fighting-men with their women and children.

"It was in the forest that the dragons fell upon them, and tore many to pieces; so the people fled in a frenzy of fear before them, and at last came into the plain and saw the city of Xuchotl in the midst of it.

"They camped before the city, not daring to leave the plain, for the night was made hideous with the noise of the battling monsters throughout the forest. They made war incessantly upon one another. Yet they came not into the plain.

"The people of the city shut their gates and shot arrows at our people from the walls. The Tlazitlans were imprisoned on the plain, as if the ring of the forest had been a great wall; for to venture into the woods would have been madness.

"That night there came secretly to their camp a slave from the city, one of their own blood, who with a band of exploring soldiers had wandered into the forest long before, when he was a young man. The dragons had devoured all his companions, but he had been taken into the city to dwell in servitude. His name was Tolkemec." A flame lighted the dark eyes at a mention of the name, and some of the people muttered obscenely and spat. "He promised to open the gates to the warriors. He asked only that all captives taken be delivered into his hands.

"At dawn he opened the gates. The warriors swarmed in and the halls of Xuchotl ran red. Only a few hundred folk dwelt there, decaying remnants of a once great race. Tolkemec said they came from the east, long ago, from Old Kosala, when the ancestors of those who now dwell in Kosala came up from the south and drove forth the original inhabitants of the land. They wandered far westward and finally found this forest-girdled plain, inhabited then by a tribe of black people.

"These they enslaved and set to building a city. From the hills to the east they brought jade and marble and lapis lazuli, and gold, silver and copper. Herds of elephants provided them with ivory. When their city was completed, they slew all the black slaves. And their magicians made a terrible magic to guard the city; for by their necromantic arts they re-created the dragons which had once dwelt in this lost land, and whose monstrous bones they found in the forest. Those bones they clothed in flesh and life, and the living beasts walked the earth as they walked it when Time was young. But the wizards wove a spell that kept them in the forest and they came not into the plain.

"So for many centuries the people of Xuchotl dwelt in their city, cultivating the fertile plain, until their wise men learned how to grow fruit within the city - fruit which is not planted in soil, but obtains its nourishment out of the air - and then they let the irrigation ditches run dry, and dwelt more and more in luxurious sloth, until decay seized them. They were a dying race when our ancestors broke through the forest and came into the plain. Their wizards had died, and the people had forgot their ancient necromancy. They could fight neither by sorcery nor the sword.

"Well, our fathers slew the people of Xuchod, all except a hundred which were given living into the hands of Tolkemec, who had been their slave; and for many days and nights the halls re-echoed to their screams under the agony of his tortures.

"So the Tlazitlans dwelt here, for a while in peace, ruled by the brothers Tecuhltli and Xotalanc, and by Tolkemec. Tolkemec took a girl of the tribe to wife, and because he had opened the gates, and because he knew many of the arts of the Xuchotlans, he shared the rule of the tribe with the brothers who had led the rebellion and the flight.

"For a few years, then, they dwelt at peace within the city, doing little but eating, drinking and making love, and raising children. There was no necessity to till the plain, for Tolkemec taught them how to cultivate the air-devouring fruits. Besides, the slaying of the Xuchotlans broke the spell that held the dragons in the forest, and they came nightly and bellowed about the gates of the city. The plain ran red with the blood of their eternal warfare, and it was then that-" He bit his tongue in the midst of the sentence, then presently continued, but Valeria and Conan felt that he had checked an admission he had considered unwise.

"Five years they dwelt in peace. Then" - Olmec's eyes rested briefly on the silent woman at his side - "Xotalanc took a woman to wife, a woman whom both Tecuhltli and old Tolkemec desired. In his madness, Tecuhltli stole her from her husband. Aye, she went willingly enough. Tolkemec, to spite Xotalanc, aided Tecuhltli. Xotalanc demanded that she be given back to him, and the council of the tribe decided that the matter should be left to the woman. She chose to remain with Tecuhltli. In wrath Xotalanc sought to take her back by force, and the retainers of the brothers came to blows in the Great Hall.

"There was much bitterness. Blood was shed on both sides.

The quarrel became a feud, the feud an open war. From the welter three factions emerged - Tecuhltli, Xotalanc, and Tolkemec. Already, in the days of peace, they had divided the city between them. Tecuhltli dwelt in the western quarter of the city, Xotalanc in the eastern, and Tolkemec with his family by the southern gate.

"Anger and resentment and jealousy blossomed into bloodshed and rape and murder. Once the sword was drawn there was no turning back; for blood called for blood, and vengeance followed swift on the heels of atrocity. Tecuhltli fought with Xotalanc, and Tolkemec aided first one and then the other, betraying each faction as it fitted his purpose. Tecuhltli and his people withdrew into the quarter of the western gate, where we now sit. Xuchotl is built in the shape of an oval. Tecuhltli, which took its name from its prince, occupies the western end of the oval. The people blocked up all doors connecting the quarter with the rest of the city, except one on each floor, which could be defended easily. They went into the pits below the city and built a wall cutting off the western end of the catacombs, where lie the bodies of the ancient Xuchotlans, and of those Tlazitlans slain in the feud. They dwelt as in a besieged castle, making sorties and forays on their enemies.

"The people of Xotalanc likewise fortified the eastern quarter of the city, and Tolkemec did likewise with the quarter by the southern gate. The central part of the city was left bare and uninhabited. Those empty halls and chambers became a battleground, and a region of brooding terror.

"Tolkemec warred on both clans. He was a fiend in the form of a human, worse than Xotalanc. He knew many secrets of the city he never told the others. From the crypts of the catacombs he plundered the dead of their grisly secrets -secrets of ancient kings and wizards, long forgotten by the degenerate Xuchotlans our ancestors slew. But all his magic did not aid him the night we of Tecuhltli stormed his castle and butchered all his people. Tolkemec we tortured for many days."

His voice sank to a caressing slur, and a faraway look grew in his eyes, as if he looked back over the years to a scene which caused him intense pleasure.

"Aye, we kept the life in him until he screamed for death as for a bride. At last we took him living from the torture chamber and cast him into a dungeon for the rats to gnaw as he died. From that dungeon, somehow, he managed to escape, and dragged himself into the catacombs. There without doubt he died, for the only way out of the catacombs beneath Tecuhltli is through Tecuhltli, and he never emerged by that way. His bones were never found, and the superstitious among our people swear that his ghost haunts the crypts to this day, wailing among the bones of the dead. Twelve years ago we butchered the people of Tolkemec, but the feud raged on between Tecuhltli and Xotalanc, as it will rage until the last man, the last woman is dead.

"It was fifty years ago that Tecuhltli stole the wife of Xotalanc. Half a century the feud has endured. I was born in it. All in this chamber, except Tascela, were born in it. We expect to die in it.

"We are a dying race, even as those Xuchotlans our ancestors slew. When the feud began there were hundreds in each faction. Now we of Tecuhltli number only these you see before you, and the men who guard the four doors: forty in all. How many Xotalancas there are we do not know, but I doubt if they are much more numerous than we. For fifteen years no children have been born to us, and we have seen none among the Xotalancas.

"We are dying, but before we die we will slay as many of the men of Xotalanc as the gods permit."

And with his weird eyes blazing, Olmec spoke long of that grisly feud, fought out in silent chambers and dim halls under the blaze of the green fire-jewels, on floors smoldering with the flames of hell and splashed with deeper crimson from severed veins. In that long butchery a whole generation had perished. Xotalanc was dead, long ago, slain in a grim battle on an ivory stair. Tecuhltli was dead, flayed alive by the maddened Xotalancas who had captured him.

Without emotion Olmec told of hideous battles fought in black corridors, of ambushes on twisting stairs, and red butcheries. With a redder, more abysmal gleam in his deep dark eyes he told of men and women flayed alive, mutilated and dismembered, of captives howling under tortures so ghastly that even the barbarous Cimmerian grunted. No wonder Techotl had trembled with the terror of capture. Yet he had gone forth to slay if he could, driven by hate that was stronger than his fear. Olmec spoke further, of dark and mysterious matters, of black magic and wizardry conjured out of the black night of the catacombs, of weird creatures invoked out of darkness for horrible allies. In these things the Xotalancas had the advantage, for it was in the eastern catacombs where lay the bones of the greatest wizards of the ancient Xuchotlans, with their immemorial secrets.

Valeria listened with morbid fascination. The feud had become a terrible elemental power driving the people of Xuchotl inexorably on to doom and extinction. It filled their whole lives. They were born in it, and they expected to die in it. They never left their barricaded castle except to steal forth into the Halls of Silence that lay between the opposing fortresses, to slay and be slain. Sometimes the raiders returned with frantic captives, or with grim tokens of victory in fight. Sometimes they did not return at all, or returned only as severed limbs cast down before the bolted bronze doors. It was a ghastly, unreal nightmare existence these people lived, shut off from the rest of the world, caught together like rabid rats in the same trap, butchering one another through the years, crouching and creeping through the sunless corridors to maim and torture and murder.

While Olmec talked, Valeria felt the blazing eyes of Tascela fixed upon her. The princess seemed not to hear what Olmec was saying. Her expression, as he narrated victories or defeats, did not mirror the wild rage or fiendish exultation that alternated on the faces of the other Tecuhltli. The feud that was an obsession to her clansmen seemed meaningless to her. Valeria found her indifferent callousness more repugnant than Olmec's naked ferocity.

"And we can never leave the city," said Olmec. "For fifty years no one has left it except those-" Again he checked himself.

"Even without the peril of the dragons," he continued, "we who were born and raised in the city would not dare leave it.

We have never set foot outside the walls. We are not accustomed to the open sky and the naked sun. No; we were born in Xuchotl, and in Xuchotl we shall die."

"Well," said Conan, "with your leave we'll take our chances with the dragons. This feud is none of our business. If you'll show us to the west gate we'll be on our way."

Tascela's hands clenched, and she started to speak, but Olmec interrupted her: "It is nearly nightfall. If you wander forth into the plain by night, you will certainly fall prey to the dragons."

"We crossed it last night, and slept in the open without seeing any," returned Conan.

Tascela smiled mirthlessly. "You dare not leave Xuchotl!"

Conan glared at her with instinctive antagonism; she was not looking at him, but at the woman opposite him.

"I think they dare," retorted Olmec. "But look you, Conan and Valeria, the gods must have sent you to us, to cast victory into the laps of the Tecuhltli! You are professional fighters - why not fight for us? We have wealth in abundance - precious jewels are as common in Xuchotl as cobblestones are in the cities of the world. Some the Xuchotlans brought with them from Kosala. Some, like the firestones, they found in the hills to the east. Aid us to wipe out the Xotalancas, and we will give you all the jewels you can carry."

"And will you help us destroy the dragons?" asked Valeria. "With bows and poisoned arrows thirty men could slay all the dragons in the forest."

"Aye!" replied Olmec promptly. "We have forgotten the use of the bow, in years of hand-to-hand fighting, but we can learn again."

"What do you say?" Valeria inquired of Conan.

"We're both penniless vagabonds," he grinned hardily. "I'd as soon kill Xotalancas as anybody."

"Then you agree?" exclaimed Olmec, while Techotl fairly hugged himself with delight.

"Aye. And now suppose you show us chambers where we can sleep, so we can be fresh tomorrow for the beginning of the slaying."

Olmec nodded, and waved a hand, and Techotl and a woman led the adventurers into a corridor which led through a door off to the left of the jade dais. A glance back showed Valeria Olmec sitting on his throne, chin on knotted fist, staring after them. His eyes burned with a weird flame. Tascela leaned back in her seat, whispering to the sullen-faced maid, Yasala, who leaned over her shoulder, her ear to the princess" moving lips.

The hallway was not so broad as most they had traversed, but it was long. Presently the woman halted, opened a door, and drew aside for Valeria to enter.

"Wait a minute," growled Conan. "Where do I sleep?"

Techotl pointed to a chamber across the hallway, but one door farther down. Conan hesitated, and seemed inclined to raise an objection, but Valeria smiled spitefully at him and shut the door in his face. He muttered something uncomplimentary about women in general, and strode off down the corridor after Techotl.

In the ornate chamber where he was to sleep, he glanced up at the slot-like skylights. Some were wide enough to admit the body of a slender man, supposing the glass were broken.

"Why don't the Xotalancas come over the roofs and shatter those skylights?" he asked.

"They cannot be broken," answered Techotl. "Besides, the roofs would be hard to clamber over. They are mostly spires and domes and steep ridges."

He volunteered more information about the "castle" of Tecuhltli. Like the rest of the city it contained four stories, or tiers of chambers, with towers jutting up from the roof. Each tier was named; indeed, the people of Xuchotl had a name for each chamber, hall and stair in the city, as people of more normal cities designate streets and quarters. In Tecuhltli the floors were named The Eagle's Tier, the Ape's Tier, The Tiger's Tier and The Serpent's Tier, in the order as enumerated, The Eagle's Tier being the highest, or fourth, floor.

"Who is Tascela?" asked Conan. "Olmec's wife?"

Techotl shuddered and glanced furtively about him before answering.

"No. She is - Tascela! She was the wife of Xotalanc - the woman Tecuhltli stole, to start the feud."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Conan. "That woman is beautiful and young. Are you trying to tell me that she was a wife fifty years ago?"

"Aye! I swear it! She was a full-grown woman when the Tlazitlans journeyed from Lake Zuad. It was because the king of Stygia desired her for a concubine that Xotalanc and his brother rebelled and fled into the wilderness. She is a witch, who possesses the secret of perpetual youth."

"What's that?" asked Conan.

Techod shuddered again.

"Ask me not! I dare not speak. It is too grisly, even for Xuchotl!"

And touching his finger to his lips, he glided from the chamber.

4 Scent of Black Lotus

Valeria unbuckled her sword-belt and laid it with the sheathed weapon on the couch where she meant to sleep. She noted that the doors were supplied with bolts, and asked where they led.

"Those lead into adjoining chambers," answered the woman, indicating the doors on right and left. "That one" - pointing to a copper-bound door opposite that which opened into the corridor - "leads to a corridor which runs to a stair that descends into the catacombs. Do not fear; naught can harm you here."

"Who spoke of fear?" snapped Valeria. "I just like to know what sort of harbor I'm dropping anchor in. No, I don't want you to sleep at the foot of my couch. I'm not accustomed to being waited on - not by women, anyway. You have my leave to go."

Alone in the room, the pirate shot the bolts on all the doors, kicked off her boots and stretched luxuriously out on the couch. She imagined Conan similarly situated across the corridor, but her feminine vanity prompted her to visualize him as scowling and muttering with chagrin as he cast himself on his solitary couch, and she grinned with gleeful malice as she prepared herself for slumber.

Outside, night had fallen. In the halls of Xuchotl the green fire-jewels blazed like the eyes of prehistoric cats. Somewhere among the dark towers a night wind moaned like a restless spirit. Through the dim passages stealthy figures began stealing, like disembodied shadows.

Valeria awoke suddenly on her couch. In the dusky emerald glow of the fire-gems she saw a shadowy figure bending over her. For a bemused instant the apparition seemed part of the dream she had been dreaming. She had seemed to lie on the couch in the chamber as she was actually lying, while over her pulsed and throbbed a gigantic black blossom so enormous that it hid the ceiling. Its exotic perfume pervaded her being, inducing a delicious, sensuous langour that was something more and less than sleep. She was sinking into scented billows of insensible bliss, when something touched her face. So supersensitive were her drugged senses, that the light touch was like a dislocating impact, jolting her rudely into full wakefulness. Then it was that she saw, not a gargantuan blossom, but a darkskinned woman standing above her.

With the realization came anger and instant action. The woman turned lithely, but before she could run Valeria was on her feet and had caught her arm. She fought like a wildcat for an instant, and then subsided as she felt herself crushed by the superior strength of her captor. The pirate wrenched the woman around to face her, caught her chin with her free hand and forced her captive to meet her gaze. It was the sullen Yasala, Tascela's maid.

"What the devil were you doing bending over me? What's that in your hand?"

The woman made no reply, but sought to cast away the object. Valeria twisted her arm around in front of her, and the thing fell to the floor - a great black exotic blossom on a jade-green stem, large as a woman's head, to be sure, but tiny beside the exaggerated vision she had seen.

"The black lotus!" said Valeria between her teeth. "The blossom whose scent brings deep sleep. You were trying to drug me! If you hadn't accidentally touched my face with the petals, you'd have - why did you do it? What's your game?"

Yasala maintained a sulky silence, and with an oath Valeria whirled her around, forced her to her knees and twisted her arm up behind her back.

"Tell me, or I'll tear your arm out of its socket!"

Yasala squirmed in anguish as her arm was forced excruciatingly up between her shoulder-blades, but a violent shaking of her head was the only answer she made.

"Slut!" Valeria cast her from her to sprawl on the floor. The pirate glared at the prostrate figure with blazing eyes. Fear and the memory of Tascela's burning eyes stirred in her, rousing all her tigerish instincts of self-preservation. These people were decadent; any sort of perversity might be expected to be encountered among them. But Valeria sensed here something that moved behind the scenes, some secret terror fouler than common degeneracy. Fear and revulsion of this weird city swept her. These people were neither sane nor normal; she began to doubt if they were even human. Madness smoldered in the eyes of them all - all except the cruel, cryptic eyes of Tascela, which held secrets and mysteries more abysmal than madness.

She lifted her head and listened intently. The halls of Xuchotl were as silent as if it were in reality a dead city. The green jewels bathed the chamber in a nightmare glow, in which the eyes of the woman on the floor glittered eerily up at her. A thrill of panic throbbed through Valeria, driving the last vestige of mercy from her fierce soul.

"Why did you try to drug me?" she muttered, grasping the woman's black hair, and forcing her head back to glare into her sullen, long-lashed eyes. "Did Tascela send you?"

No answer. Valeria cursed venomously and slapped the woman first on one cheek and then the other. The blows resounded through the room, but Yasala made no outcry.

"Why don't you scream?" demanded Valeria savagely. "Do you fear someone will hear you? Whom do you fear? Tascela? Olmec? Conan?"

Yasala made no reply. She crouched, watching her captor with eyes baleful as those of a basilisk. Stubborn silence always fans anger. Valeria turned and tore a handful of cords from a nearby hanging.

"You sulky slut!" she said between her teeth. "I'm going to strip you stark naked and tie you across that couch and whip you until you tell me what you were doing here, and who sent you,"

Yasala made no verbal protest, nor did she offer any resistance, as Valeria carried out the first part of her threat with a fury that her captive's obstinacy only sharpened. Then for a space there was no sound in the chamber except the whistle and crackle of hard-woven silken cords on naked flesh. Yasala could not move her fast-bound hands or feet. Her body writhed and quivered under the chastisement, her head swayed from side to side in rhythm with the blows. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip and a trickle of blood began as the punishment continued. But she did not cry out.

The pliant cords made no great sound as they encountered the quivering body of the captive; only a sharp crackling snap, but each cord left a red streak across Yasala's dark flesh. Valeria inflicted the punishment with all the strength of her war-hardened arm, with all the mercilessness acquired during a life where pain and torment were daily happenings, and with all the cynical ingenuity which only a woman displays towards a woman. Yasala suffered more, physically and mentally, than she would have suffered under a lash wielded by a man, however strong.

It was the application of this feminine cynicism which at last tamed Yasala.

A low whimper escaped from her lips, and Valeria paused, arm lifted, and raked back a damp yellow lock. "Well, are you going to talk?" she demanded. "I can keep this up all night, if necessary!"

"Mercy!" whispered the woman. "I will tell."

Valeria cut the cords from her wrists and ankles, and pulled to her feet. Yasala sank down on the couch, half reclining on one bare hip, supporting herself on her arm, and writhing at the contact of her smarting flesh with the couch. She was trembling in every limb.

"Wine!" she begged, dry-upped, indicating with a quivering hand a gold vessel on an ivory table. "Let me drink. I am weak with pain. Then I will tell you all."

Valeria picked up the vessel, and Yasala rose unsteadily to receive it. She took it, raised it toward her lips - then dashed the contents full into the Aquilonian's face. Valeria reeled backward, shaking and clawing the stinging liquid out of her eyes. Through a smarting mist she saw Yasala dart across the room, fling back a bolt, throw open the copper-bound door and run down the hall. The pirate was after her instantly, sword out and murder in her heart.

But Yasala had the start, and she ran with the nervous agility of a woman who has just been whipped to the point of hysterical frenzy. She rounded a corner in the corridor, yards ahead of Valeria, and when the pirate turned it, she saw only an empty hall, and at the other end a door that gaped blackly. A damp moldy scent reeked up from it, and Valeria shivered. That must be the door that led to the catacombs. Yasala had taken refuge among the dead.

Valeria advanced to the door and looked down a flight of stone steps that vanished quickly into utter blackness. Evidently it was a shaft that led straight to the pits below the city, without opening upon any of the lower floors. She shivered slightly at the thought of the thousands of corpses lying in their stone crypts down there, wrapped in their moldering cloths. She had no intention of groping her way down those stone steps. Yasala doubtless knew every turn and twist of the subterranean tunnels.

She was turning back, baffled and furious, when a sobbing cry welled up from the blackness. It seemed to come from a great depth, but human words were faintly distinguishable, and the voice was that of a woman. "Oh, help! Help, in Set's name! Ahhh!" It trailed away, and Valeria thought she caught the echo of a ghostly tittering.

Valeria felt her skin crawl. What had happened to Yasala down there in the thick blackness? There was no doubt that it had been she who had cried out. But what peril could have befallen her? Was a Xotalanca lurking down there? Olmec had assured them that the catacombs below Tecuhltli were walled off from the rest, too securely for their enemies to break through. Besides, that tittering had not sounded like a human being at all.

Valeria hurried back down the corridor, not stopping to close the door that opened on the stair. Regaining her chamber, she closed the door and shot the bolt behind her. She pulled on her boots and buckled her sword-belt about her. She was determined to make her way to Conan's room and urge him, if he still lived, to join her in an attempt to fight their way out of that city of devils.

But even as she reached the door that opened into the corridor, a long-drawn scream of agony rang through the halls, followed by the stamp of running feet and the loud clangor of swords.

Chapter 5 Twenty Red Nails

Two warriors lounged in the guardroom on the floor known as the Tier of the Eagle. Their attitude was casual, though habitually alert. An attack on the great bronze door from without was always a possibility, but for many years no such assault had been attempted on either side.

"The strangers are strong allies," said one. "Olmec will move against the enemy tomorrow, I believe."

He spoke as a soldier in a war might have spoken. In the miniature world of Xuchotl each handful of feudists was an army, and the empty halls between the castles was the country over which they campaigned.

The other meditated for a space.

"Suppose with their aid we destroy Xotalanc," he said. "What then, Xatmec?"

"Why," returned Xatmec, "we will drive red nails for them all. The captives we will burn and flay and quarter."

"But afterward?" pursued the other. "After we have slain them all? Will it not seem strange, to have no foes to fight? All my life I have fought and hated the Xotalancas. With the feud ended, what is left?"

Xatmec shrugged his shoulders. His thoughts had never gone beyond the destruction of their foes. They could not go beyond that.

Suddenly both men stiffened at a noise outside the door.

"To the door, Xatmec!" hissed the last speaker. "I shall look through the Eye-"

Xatmec, sword in hand, leaned against the bronze door, straining his ear to hear through the metal. His mate looked into the mirror. He started convulsively. Men were clustered thickly outside the door; grim, dark-faced men with swords gripped in their teeth - and their fingers thrust into their ears. One who wore a feathered headdress had a set of pipes which he set to his lips, and even as the Tecuhltli started to shout a warning, the pipes began to skirl.

The cry died in the guard's throat as the thin, weird piping penetrated the metal door and smote on his ears. Xatmec leaned frozen against the door, as if paralysed in that position. His face was that of a wooden image, his expression one of horrified listening. The other guard, farther removed from the source of the sound, yet sensed the horror of what was taking place, the grisly threat that lay in that demoniac fifing. He felt the weird strains plucking like unseen fingers at the tissues of his brain, filling him with alien emotions and impulses of madness. But with a soul-tearing effort he broke the spell, and shrieked a warning in a voice he did not recognize as his own.

But even as he cried out, the music changed to an unbearable shrilling that was like a knife in the eardrums. Xatmec screamed in sudden agony, and all the sanity went out of his face like a flame blown out in a wind. Like a madman he ripped loose the chain, tore open the door and rushed out into the hall, sword lifted before his mate could stop him. A dozen blades struck him down, and over his mangled body the Xotalancas surged into the guardroom, with a long-drawn, blood-mad yell that sent the unwonted echoes reverberating.

His brain reeling from the shock of it all, the remaining guard leaped to meet them with goring spear. The horror of the sorcery he had just witnessed was submerged in the stunning realization that the enemy were in Tecuhltli. And as his spearhead ripped through a darkskinned belly he knew no more, for a swinging sword crushed his skull, even as wild-eyed warriors came pouring in from the chambers behind the guardroom.

It was the yelling of men and the clanging of steel that brought Conan bounding from his couch, wide awake and broadsword in hand. In an instant he had reached the door and flung it open, and was glaring out into the corridor just as Techotl rushed up it, eyes blazing madly.

"The Xotalancas!" he screamed, in a voice hardly human.

"They are within the door."

Conan ran down the corridor, even as Valeria emerged from her chamber.

"What the devil is it?" she called.

"Techotl says the Xotalancas are in," he answered hurriedly. "That racket sounds like it."

With the Tecuhltli on their heels they burst into the throneroom and were confronted by a scene beyond the most frantic dream of blood and fury. Twenty men and women, their black hair streaming, and the white skulls gleaming on their breasts, were locked in combat with the people of Tecuhltli. The women on both sides fought as madly as the men, and already the room and the hall beyond were strewn with corpses.

Olmec, naked but for a breech-clout, was fighting before his throne, and as the adventurers entered, Tascela ran from an inner chamber with a sword in her hand.

Xatmec and his mate were dead, so there was none to tell the Tecuhltli how their foes had found their way into their citadel. Nor was there any to say what had prompted that mad attempt. But the losses of the Xotalancas had been greater, their position more desperate, than the Tecuhltli had known. The maiming of their scaly ally, the destruction of the Burning Skull, and the news, gasped by a dying man, that mysterious white-skin allies had joined their enemies, had driven them to the frenzy of desperation and the wild determination to die dealing death to their ancient foes.

The Tecuhltli, recovering from the first stunning shock of the surprise that had swept them back into the throneroom and littered the floor with their corpses, fought back with an equally desperate fury, while the door-guards from the lower floors came racing to hurl themselves into the fray. It was the death-fight of rabid wolves, blind, panting, merciless. Back and forth it surged, from door to dais, blades whickering and striking into flesh, blood spurting, feet stamping the crimson floor where redder pools were forming. Ivory tables crashed over, seats were splintered, velvet hangings torn down were stained red. It was the bloody climax of a bloody half-century, and every man there sensed it.

But the conclusion was inevitable. The Tecuhltli outnumbered the invaders almost two to one, and they were heartened by that fact and by the entrance into the melee of their light-skinned allies.

These crashed into the fray with the devastating effect of a hurricane plowing through a grove of saplings. In sheer strength no three Tlazitlans were a match for Conan, and in spite of his weight he was quicker on his feet than any of them. He moved through the whirling, eddying mass with the surety and destructiveness of a gray wolf amidst a pack of alley curs, and he strode over a wake of crumpled figures.

Valeria fought beside him, her lips smiling and her eyes blazing. She was stronger than the average man, and far quicker and more ferocious. Her sword was like a living thing in her hand. Where Conan beat down opposition by the sheer weight and power of his blows, breaking spears, splitting skulls and cleaving bosoms to the breastbone, Valeria brought into action a finesse of swordplay that dazzled and bewildered her antagonists before it slew them. Again and again a warrior, heaving high his heavy blade, found her point in his jugular before he could strike. Conan, towering above the field, strode through the welter smiting right and left, but Valeria moved like an illusive phantom, constantly shifting, and thrusting and slashing as she shifted. Swords missed her again and again as the wielders flailed the empty air and died with her point in their hearts or throats, and her mocking laughter in their ears.

Neither sex nor condition was considered by the maddened combatants. The five women of the Xotalancas were down with their throats cut before Conan and Valeria entered the fray, and when a man or woman went down under the stamping feet, there was always a knife ready for the helpless throat, or a sandaled foot eager to crush the prostrate skull.

From wall to wall, from door to door rolled the waves of combat, spilling over into adjoining chambers. And presently only Tecuhltli and their white-skinned allies stood upright in the great throneroom. The survivors stared bleakly and blankly at each other, like survivors after Judgment Day or the destruction of the world. On legs wide-braced, hands gripping notched and dripping swords, blood trickling down their arms, they stared at one another across the mangled corpses of friends and foes. They had no breath left to shout, but a bestial mad howling rose from their lips. It was not a human cry of triumph. It was the howling of a rabid wolf-pack stalking among the bodies of its victims.

Conan caught Valeria's arm and turned her about.

"You've got a stab in the calf of your leg," he growled.

She glanced down, for the first time aware of a stinging in the muscles of her leg. Some dying man on the floor had fleshed his dagger with his last effort.

"You look like a butcher yourself," she laughed.

He shook a red shower from his hands.

"Not mine. Oh, a scratch here and there. Nothing to bother about. But that calf ought to be bandaged."

Olmec came through the litter, looking like a ghoul with his naked massive shoulders splashed with blood, and his black beard dabbled in crimson. His eyes were red, like the reflection of flame on black water.

"We have won!" he croaked dazedly. "The feud is ended! The dogs of Xotalanc lie dead! Oh, for a captive to flay alive! Yet it is good to look upon their dead faces. Twenty dead dogs! Twenty red nails for the black column!"

"You'd best see to your wounded," grunted Conan, turning away from him. "Here, girl, let me see that leg."

"Wait a minute!" she shook him off impatiently. The fire of fighting still burned brightly in her soul. "How do we know these are all of them? These might have come on a raid of their own."

"They would not split the clan on a foray like this," said Olmec, shaking his head, and regaining some of his ordinary intelligence. Without his purple robe the man seemed less like a prince than some repellent beast of prey. "I will stake my head upon it that we have slain them all. There were less of them than I dreamed, and they must have been desperate. But how came they in Tecuhltli?"

Tascela came forward, wiping her sword on her naked thigh, and holding in her other hand an object she had taken from the body of the feathered leader of the Xotalancas.

"The pipes of madness," she said. "A warrior tells me that Xatmec opened the door to the Xotalancas and was cut down as they stormed into the guardroom. This warrior came to the guardroom from the inner hall just in time to see it happen and to hear the last of a weird strain of music which froze his very soul. Tolkemec used to talk of these pipes, which the Xuchotlans swore were hidden somewhere in the catacombs with the bones of the ancient wizard who used them in his lifetime. Somehow the dogs of Xotalanc found them and learned their secret."

"Somebody ought to go to Xotalanc and see if any remain alive," said Conan. "I'll go if somebody will guide me."

Olmec glanced at the remnants of his people. There were only twenty left alive, and of these several lay groaning on the floor. Tascela was the only one of the Tecuhltli who had escaped without a wound. The princess was untouched, though she had fought as savagely as any.

"Who will go with Conan to Xotalanc?" asked Olmec.

Techotl limped forward. The wound in his thigh had started bleeding afresh, and he had another gash across his ribs.

"I will go!"

"No, you won't," vetoed Conan. "And you're not going either, Valeria. In a little while that leg will be getting stiff."

"I will go," volunteered a warrior, who was knotting a bandage about a slashed forearm.

"Very well, Yanath. Go with the Cimmerian. And you, too, Topal." Olmec indicated another man whose injuries were slight. "But first aid us to lift the badly wounded on these couches where we may bandage their hurts."

This was done quickly. As they stooped to pick up a woman who had been stunned by a war-club, Olmec's beard brushed Topal's ear. Conan thought the prince muttered something to the warrior, but he could not be sure. A few moments later he was leading his companions down the hall.

Conan glanced back as he went out the door, at that shambles where the dead lay on the smoldering floor, bloodstained dark limbs knotted in attitudes of fierce muscular effort, dark faces frozen in masks of hate, glassy eyes glaring up at the green fire-jewels which bathed the ghastly scene in a dusky emerald witchlight. Among the dead the living moved aimlessly, like people moving in a trance. Conan heard Olmec call a woman and direct her to bandage Valeria's leg. The pirate followed the woman into an adjoining chamber, already beginning to limp slightly.

Warily the two Tecuhltli led Conan along the hall beyond the bronze door, and through chamber after chamber shimmering in the green fire. They saw no one, heard no sound. After they crossed the Great Hall which bisected the city from north to south, their caution was increased by the realization of their nearness to enemy territory. But chambers and halls lay empty to their wary gaze, and they came at last along a broad dim hallway and halted before a bronze door similar to the Eagle Door of Tecuhltli. Gingerly they tried it, and it opened silently under their fingers. Awed, they stared into the green-lit chambers beyond. For fifty years no Tecuhltli had entered those halls save as a prisoner going to a hideous doom. To go to Xotalanc had been the ultimate horror that could befall a man of the western castle. The terror of it had stalked through their dreams since earliest childhood. To Yanath and Topal that bronze door was like the portal of hell.

They cringed back, unreasoning horror in their eyes, and Conan pushed past them and strode into Xotalanc.

Timidly they followed him. As each man set foot over the threshold he stared and glared wildly about him. But only their quick, hurried breathing disturbed the silence.

They had come into a square guardroom, like that behind the Eagle Door of Tecuhltli, and, similarly, a hall ran away from it to a broad chamber that was a counterpart of Olmec's throneroom.

Conan glanced down the hall with its rugs and divans and hangings, and stood listening intently. He heard no noise, and the rooms had an empty feel. He did not believe there were any Xotalancas left alive in Xuchotl.

"Come on," he muttered, and started down the hall.

He had not gone far when he was aware that only Yanath was following him. He wheeled back to see Topal standing in an attitude of horror, one arm out as if to fend off some threatening peril, his distended eyes fixed with hypnotic intensity on something protruding from behind a divan.

"What the devil?" Then Conan saw what Topal was staring at, and he felt a faint twitching of the skin between his giant shoulders. A monstrous head protruded from behind the divan, a reptilian head, broad as the head of a crocodile, with down-curving fangs that projected over the lower jaw. But there was an unnatural limpness about the thing, and the hideous eyes were glazed.

Conan peered behind the couch. It was a great serpent which lay there limp in death, but such a serpent as he had never seen in his wanderings. The reek and chill of the deep black earth were about it, and its color was an indeterminable hue which changed with each new angle from which he surveyed it. A great wound in the neck showed what had caused its death.

"It is the Crawler!" whispered Yanath.

"It's the thing I slashed on the stair," grunted Conan. "After it trailed us to the Eagle Door, it dragged itself here to die. How could the Xotalancas control such a brute?"

The Tecuhltli shivered and shook their heads.

"They brought it up from the black tunnels below the catacombs. They discovered secrets unknown to Tecuhltli."

"Well, it's dead, and if they'd had any more of them, they'd have brought them along when they came to Tecuhltli. Come on."

They crowded close at his heels as he strode down the hall and thrust on the silver-worked door at the other end.

"If we don't find anybody on this floor," he said, "we'll descend into the lower floors. We'll explore Xotalanc from the roof to the catacombs. If Xotalanc is like Tecuhltli, all the rooms and halls in this tier will be lighted - what the devil!"

They had come into the broad throne-chamber, so similar to that one in Tecuhltli. There were the same jade dais and ivory seat, the same divans, rugs and hangings on the walls. No black, red-scarred column stood behind the throne-dais, but evidences of the grim feud were not lacking.

Ranged along the wall behind the dais were rows of glass-covered shelves. And on those shelves hundreds of human heads, perfectly preserved, stared at the startled watchers with emotionless eyes, as they had stared for only the gods knew how many months and years.

Topal muttered a curse, but Yanath stood silent, the mad light growing in his wide eyes. Conan frowned, knowing that Tlazitlan sanity was hung on a hair-trigger.

Suddenly Yanath pointed to the ghastly relics with a twitching finger.

"There is my brother's head!" he murmured. "And there is my father's younger brother! And there beyond them is my sister's eldest son!"

Suddenly he began to weep, dry-eyed, with harsh, loud sobs that shook his frame. He did not take his eyes from the heads. His sobs grew shriller, changed to frightful, high-pitched laughter, and that in turn became an unbearable screaming. Yanath was stark mad.

Conan laid a hand on his shoulder, and as if the touch had released all the frenzy in his soul, Yanath screamed and whirled, striking at the Cimmerian with his sword. Conan parried the blow, and Topal tried to catch Yanath's arm. But the madman avoided him and with froth flying from his lips, he drove his sword deep into Topal's body. Topal sank down with a groan, and Yanath whirled for an instant like a crazy dervish; then he ran at the shelves and began hacking at the glass with his sword, screeching blasphemously.

Conan sprang at him from behind, trying to catch him unaware and disarm him, but the madman wheeled and lunged at him, screaming like a lost soul. Realizing that the warrior was hopelessly insane, the Cimmerian side-stepped, and as the maniac went past, he swung a cut that severed the shoulder-bone and breast, and dropped the man dead beside his dying victim.

Conan bent over Topal, seeing that the man was at his last gasp. It was useless to seek to stanch the blood gushing from the horrible wound.

"You're done for, Topal," grunted Conan. "Any word you want to send to your people?"

"Bend closer," gasped Topal, and Conan complied - and an instant later caught the man's wrist as Topal struck at his breast with a dagger.

"Crom!" swore Conan. "Are you mad, too?"

"Olmec ordered it!" gasped the dying man. "I know not why. As we lifted the wounded upon the couches he whispered to me, bidding me to slay you as we returned to Tecuhltli-" And with the name of his clan on his lips, Topal died.

Conan scowled down at him in puzzlement. This whole affair had an aspect of lunacy. Was Olmec mad, too? Were all the Tecuhltli madder than he had realized? With a shrug of his shoulders he strode down the hall and out of the bronze door, leaving the dead Tecuhltli lying before the staring dead eyes of their kinsmen's heads.

Conan needed no guide back through the labyrinth they had traversed. His primitive instinct of direction led him unerringly along the route they had come. He traversed it as warily as he had before, his sword in his hand, and his eyes fiercely searching each shadowed nook and corner; for it was his former allies he feared now, not the ghosts of the slain Xotalancas.

He had crossed the Great Hall and entered the chambers beyond when he heard something moving ahead of him something which gasped and panted, and moved with a strange, floundering, scrambling noise. A moment later Conan saw a man crawling over the flaming floor toward him - a man whose progress left a broad bloody smear on the smoldering surface. It was Techotl and his eyes were already glazing; from a deep gash in his breast blood gushed steadily between the fingers of his clutching hand. With the other he clawed and hitched himself along.

"Conan," he cried chokingly, "Conan! Olmec has taken the yellow-haired woman!"

"So that's why he told Topal to kill me!" murmured Conan, dropping to his knee beside the man, who his experienced eye told him was dying. "Olmec isn't so mad as I thought."

Techotl's groping fingers plucked at Conan's arm. In the cold, loveless and altogether hideous life of the Tecuhltli his admiration and affection for the invaders from the outer world formed a warm, human oasis, constituted a tie that connected him with a more natural humanity that was totally lacking in his fellows, whose only emotions were hate, lust and the urge of sadistic cruelty.

"I sought to oppose him," gurgled Techotl, blood bubbling frothily to his lips. "But he struck me down. He thought he had slain me, but I crawled away. Ah, Set, how far I have crawled in my own blood! Beware, Conan! Olmec may have set an ambush for your return! Slay Olmec! He is a beast. Take Valeria and flee! Fear not to traverse the forest. Olmec and Tascela lied about the dragons. They slew each other years ago, all save the strongest. For a dozen years there has been only one dragon. If you have slain him, there is naught in the forest to harm you. He was the god Olmec worshipped; and Olmec fed human sacrifices to him, the very old and the very young, bound and hurled from the wall. Hasten! Olmec has taken Valeria to the Chamber of the-"

His head slumped down and he was dead before it came to rest on the floor.

Conan sprang up, his eyes like live coals. So that was Olmec's game, having first used the strangers to destroy his foes! He should have known that something of the sort would be going on in that black-bearded degenerate's mind.

The Cimmerian started toward Tecuhltli with reckless speed. Rapidly he reckoned the numbers of his former allies. Only twenty-one, counting Olmec, had survived that fiendish battle in the throneroom. Three had died since, which left seventeen enemies with which to reckon. In his rage Conan felt capable of accounting for the whole clan singlehanded.

But the innate craft of the wilderness rose to guide his berserk rage. He remembered Techotl's warning of an ambush. It was quite probable that the prince would make such provisions, on the chance that Topal might have failed to carry out his order.

Olmec would be expecting him to return by the same route he had followed in going to Xotalanc.

Conan glanced up at the skylight under which he was passing and caught the blurred glimmer of stars. They had not yet begun to pale for dawn. The events of the night had been crowded into a comparatively short space of time.

He turned aside from his direct course and descended a winding staircase to the floor below. He did not know where the door was to be found that let into the castle on that level, but he knew he could find it. How he was to force the locks he did not know; he believed that the doors of Tecuhltli would all be locked and bolted, if for no other reason than the habits of half a century. But there was nothing else but to attempt it.

Sword in hand, he hurried noiselessly on through a maze of green-lit or shadowy rooms and halls. He knew he must be near Tecuhltli, when a sound brought him up short. He recognized it for what it was - a human being trying to cry out through a stifling gag. It came from somewhere ahead of him, and to the left. In those deathly-still chambers a small sound carried a long way.

Conan turned aside and went seeking after the sound, which continued to be repeated. Presently he was glaring through a doorway upon a weird scene. In the room into which he was looking a low rack-like frame of iron lay on the floor, and a giant figure was bound prostrate upon it. His head rested on a bed of iron spikes, which were already crimson-pointed with blood where they had pierced his scalp. A peculiar harness-like contrivance was fastened about his head, though in such a manner that the leather band did not protect his scalp from the spikes. This harness was connected by a slender chain to the mechanism that upheld a huge iron ball which was suspended above the captive's hairy breast. As long as the man could force himself to remain motionless the iron ball hung in its place. But when the pain of the iron points caused him to lift his head, the ball lurched downwards a few inches. Presently his aching neck muscles would no longer support his head in its unnatural position and it would fall back on the spikes again. It was obvious that eventually the ball would crush him to a pulp, slowly and inexorably. The victim was gagged, and above the gag his great black ox-eyes rolled wildly toward the man in the doorway, who stood in silent amazement. The man on the rack was Olmec, prince of Tecuhltli.

Chapter 6 The Eyes of Tascela

"Why did you bring me into this chamber to bandage my legs?" demanded Valeria. "Couldn't you have done it just as well in the throneroom?"

She sat on a couch with her wounded leg extended upon it, and the Tecuhltli woman had just bound it with silk bandages. Valeria's red-stained sword lay on the couch beside her.

She frowned as she spoke. The woman had done her task silently and efficiently, but Valeria liked neither the lingering, caressing touch of her slim fingers nor the expression in her eyes.

"They have taken the rest of the wounded into the other chambers," answered the woman in the soft speech of the Tecuhltli women, which somehow did not suggest either softness or gentleness in the speakers. A little while before, Valeria had seen this same woman stab a Xotalanca woman through the breast and stamp the eyeballs out of a wounded Xotalanca man.

"They will be carrying the corpses of the dead down into the catacombs," she added, "lest the ghosts escape into the chambers and dwell there."

"Do you believe in ghosts?" asked Valeria.

"I know the ghost of Tolkemec dwells in the catacombs," she answered with a shiver. "Once I saw it, as I crouched in a crypt among the bones of a dead queen. It passed by in the form of an ancient man with flowing white beard and locks, and luminous eyes that blazed in the darkness. It was Tolkemec, I saw him living when I was a child and he was being tortured."

Her voice sank to a fearful whisper: "Olmec laughs, but I know Tolkemec's ghost dwells in the catacombs! They say it is rats which gnaw the flesh from the bones of the newly dead but ghosts eat flesh. Who knows but that-"

She glanced up quickly as a shadow fell across the couch. Valeria looked up to see Olmec gazing down at her. The prince had cleansed his hands, torso and beard of the blood that had splashed them; but he had not donned his robe, and his great darkskinned hairless body and limbs renewed the impression of strength bestial in its nature. His deep black eyes burned with a more elemental light, and there was the suggestion of a twitching in the fingers that tugged at his thick blue-black beard.

He stared fixedly at the woman, and she rose and glided from the chamber. As she passed through the door she cast a look over her shoulder at Valeria, a glance full of cynical derision and obscene mockery.

"She has done a clumsy job," criticized the prince, coming to the divan and bending over the bandage. "Let me see-"

With a quickness amazing in one of his bulk he snatched her sword and threw it across the chamber. His next move was to catch her in his giant arms.

Quick and unexpected as the move was, she almost matched it; for even as he grabbed her, her dirk was in her hand and she stabbed murderously at his throat. More by luck than skill he caught her wrist, and then began a savage wrestling-match. She fought him with fists, feet, knees, teeth and nails, with all the strength of her magnificent body and all the knowledge of hand-to-hand fighting she had acquired in her years of roving and fighting on sea and land. It availed her nothing against his brute strength. She lost her dirk in the first moment of contact, and thereafter found herself powerless to inflict any appreciable pain on her giant attacker.

The blaze in his weird black eyes did not alter, and their expression filled her with fury, fanned by the sardonic smile that seemed carved upon his bearded lips. Those eyes and that smile contained all the cruel cynicism that seethes below the surface of a sophisticated and degenerate race, and for the first time in her life Valeria experienced fear of a man. It was like struggling against some huge elemental force; his iron arms thwarted her efforts with an ease that sent panic racing through her limbs. He seemed impervious to any pain she could inflict. Only once, when she sank her white teeth savagely into his wrist so that the blood started, did he react. And that was to buffet her brutally upon the side of the head with his open hand, so that stars flashed before her eyes and her head rolled on her shoulders.

Her shirt had been torn open in the struggle, and with cynical cruelty he rasped his thick beard across her bare breasts, bringing the blood to suffuse the fair skin, and fetching a cry of pain and outraged fury from her. Her convulsive resistance was useless; she was crushed down on a couch, disarmed and panting, her eyes blazing up at him like the eyes of a trapped tigress.

A moment later he was hurrying from the chamber, carrying her in his arms. She made no resistance, but the smoldering of her eyes showed that she was not unconquered in spirit, at least. She had not cried out. She knew that Conan was not within call, and it did not occur to her that any in Tecuhltli would oppose their prince. But she noticed that Olmec went stealthily, with his head on one side as if listening for sounds of pursuit, and he did not return to the throne-chamber. He carried her through a door that stood opposite that through which he had entered, crossed another room and began stealing down a hall. As she became convinced that he feared some opposition to the abduction, she threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lusty voice.

She was rewarded by a slap that half stunned her, and Olmec quickened his pace to a shambling run.

But her cry had been echoed, and twisting her head about, Valeria, through the tears and stars that partly blinded her, saw Techotl limping after them.

Olmec turned with a snarl, shifting the woman to an uncomfortable and certainly undignified position under one huge arm, where he held her writhing and kicking vainly, like a child.

"Olmec!" protested Techotl. "You cannot be such a dog as to do this thing! She is Conan's woman! She helped us slay the Xotalancas, and-"

Without a word Olmec balled his free hand into a huge fist and stretched the wounded warrior senseless at his feet.

Stooping, and hindered not at all by the struggles and imprecations of his captive, he drew Techotl's sword from its sheath and stabbed the warrior in the breast. Then casting aside the weapon he fled on along the corridor. He did not see a woman's dark face peer cautiously after him from behind a hanging. It vanished, and presently Techotl groaned and stirred, rose dazedly and staggered drunkenly away, calling Conan's name.

Olmec hurried on down the corridor, and descended a winding ivory staircase. He crossed several corridors and halted at last in a broad chamber whose doors were veiled with heavy tapestries, with one exception - a heavy bronze door similar to the Door of the Eagle on the upper floor.

He was moved to rumble, pointing to it: "That is one of the outer doors of Tecuhltli. For the first time in fifty years it is unguarded. We need not guard it now, for Xotalanc is no more."

"Thanks to Conan and me, you bloody rogue!" sneered Valeria, trembling with fury and the shame of physical coercion. "You treacherous dog! Conan will cut your throat for this!"

Olmec did not bother to voice his belief that Conan's own gullet had already been severed according to his whispered command. He was too utterly cynical to be at all interested in her thoughts or opinions. His flame-lit eyes devoured her, dwelling burningly on the generous expanse of clear white flesh exposed where her shirt and breeches had been torn in the struggle.

"Forget Conan," he said thickly. "Olmec is lord of Xuchotl. Xotalanc is no more. There will be no more fighting. We shall spend our lives in drinking and lovemaking. First let us drink!"

He seated himself on an ivory table and pulled her down on his knees, like a darkskinned satyr with a white nymph in his arms. Ignoring her unnymphlike profanity, he held her helpless with one great arm about her waist while the other reached across the table and secured a vessel of wine.

"Drink!" he commanded, forcing it to her lips, as she writhed her head away.

The liquor slopped over, stinging her lips, splashing down on her naked breasts.

"Your guest does not like your wine, Olmec," spoke a cool, sardonic voice.

Olmec stiffened; fear grew in his flaming eyes. Slowly he swung his great head about and stared at Tascela who posed negligently in the curtained doorway, one hand on her smooth hip. Valeria twisted herself about in his iron grip, and when she met the burning eyes of Tascela, a chill tingled along her supple spine. New experiences were flooding Valeria's proud soul that night. Recently she had learned to fear a man; now she knew what it was to fear a woman.

Olmec sat motionless, a gray pallor growing under his swarthy skin. Tascela brought her other hand from behind her and displayed a small gold vessel.

"I feared she would not like your wine, Olmec," purred the princess, 'so I brought some of mine, some I brought with me long ago from the shores of Lake Zuad - do you understand, Olmec?"

Beads of sweat stood out suddenly on Olmec's brow. His muscles relaxed, and Valeria broke away and put the table between them. But though reason told her to dart from the room, some fascination she could not understand held her rigid, watching the scene.

Tascela came toward the seated prince with a swaying, undulating walk that was mockery in itself. Her voice was soft, slurringly caressing, but her eyes gleamed. Her slim fingers stroked his beard lightly.

"You are selfish, Olmec," she crooned, smiling. "You would keep our handsome guest to yourself, though you knew I wished to entertain her. You are much at fault, Olmec!"

The mask dropped for an instant; her eyes flashed, her face was contorted and with an appalling show of strength her hand locked convulsively in his beard and tore out a great handful. This evidence of unnatural strength was no more terrifying than the momentary baring of the hellish fury that raged under her bland exterior.

Olmec lurched up with a roar, and stood swaying like a bear, his mighty hands clenching and unclenching.

"Slut!" His booming voice filled the room. "Witch! She-devil! Tecuhltli should have slain you fifty years ago! Begone! I have endured too much from you! This white-skinned wench is mine! Get hence before I slay you!"

The princess laughed and dashed the bloodstained strands into his face. Her laughter was less merciful than the ring of flint on steel.

"Once you spoke otherwise, Olmec," she taunted. "Once, in your youth, you spoke words of love. Aye, you were my lover once, years ago, and because you loved me, you slept in my arms beneath the enchanted lotus - and thereby put into my hands the chains that enslaved you. You know you cannot withstand me. You know I have but to gaze into your eyes, with the mystic power a priest of Stygia taught me, long ago, and you are powerless. You remember the night beneath the black lotus that waved above us, stirred by no worldly breeze; you scent again the unearthly perfumes that stole and rose like a cloud about you to enslave you. You cannot fight against me. You are my slave as you were that night - as you shall be so long as you shall live, Olmec of Xuchotl!"

Her voice had sunk to a murmur like the rippling of a stream running through starlit darkness. She leaned close to the prince and spread her long tapering fingers upon his giant breast. His eyes glazed, his great hands fell limply to his sides.

With a smile of cruel malice, Tascela lifted the vessel and placed it to his lips.

"Drink!"

Mechanically the prince obeyed. And instantly the glaze passed from his eyes and they were flooded with fury, comprehension and an awful fear. His mouth gaped, but no sound issued. For an instant he reeled on buckling knees, and then fell in a sodden heap on the floor.

His fall jolted Valeria out of her paralysis. She turned and sprang toward the door, but with a movement that would have shamed a leaping panther, Tascela was before her. Valeria struck at her with her clenched fist, and all the power of her supple body behind the blow. It would have stretched a man senseless on the floor. But with a lithe twist of her torso, Tascela avoided the blow and caught the pirate's wrist. The next instant Valeria's left hand was imprisoned, and holding her wrists together with one hand, Tascela calmly bound them with a cord she drew from her girdle. Valeria thought she had tasted the ultimate in humiliation already that night, but her shame at being manhandled by Olmec was nothing to the sensations that now shook her supple frame. Valeria had always been inclined to despise the other members of her sex; and it was overwhelming to encounter another woman who could handle her like a child. She scarcely resisted at all when Tascela forced her into a chair and drawing her bound wrists down between her knees, fastened them to the chair.

Casually stepping over Olmec, Tascela walked to the bronze door and shot the bolt and threw it open, revealing a hallway without.

"Opening upon this hall," she remarked, speaking to her feminine captive for the first time, "there is a chamber which in old times was used as a torture room. When we retired into Tecuhltli, we brought most of the apparatus with us, but there was one piece too heavy to move. It is still in working order. I think it will be quite convenient now."

An understanding flame of terror rose in Olmec's eyes. Tascela strode back to him, bent and gripped him by the hair.

"He is only paralysed temporarily," she remarked conversationally. "He can hear, think, and feel - aye, he can feel very well indeed!"

With which sinister observation she started toward the door, dragging the giant bulk with an ease that made the pirate's eyes dilate. She passed into the hall and moved down it without hesitation, presently disappearing with her captive into a chamber that opened into it, and whence shortly thereafter issued the clank of iron.

Valeria swore softly and tugged vainly, with her legs braced against the chair. The cords that confined her were apparently unbreakable.

Tascela presently returned alone; behind her a muffled groaning issued from the chamber. She closed the door but did not bolt it. Tascela was beyond the grip of habit, as she was beyond the touch of other human instincts and emotions.

Valeria sat dumbly, watching the woman in whose slim hands, the pirate realized, her destiny now rested.

Tascela grasped her yellow locks and forced back her head, looking impersonally down into her face. But the glitter in her dark eyes was not impersonal.

"I have chosen you for a great honor," she said. "You shall restore the youth of Tascela. Oh, you stare at that! My appearance is that of youth, but through my veins creeps the sluggish chill of approaching age, as I have felt it a thousand times before. I am old, so old I do not remember my childhood. But I was a girl once, and a priest of Stygia loved me, and gave me the secret of immortality and youth everlasting. He died, then - some said by poison. But I dwelt in my palace by the shores of Lake Zuad and the passing years touched me not. So at last a king of Stygia desired me, and my people rebelled and brought me to this land. Olmec called me a princess. I am not of royal blood. I am greater than a princess. I am Tascela, whose youth your own glorious youth shall restore."

Valeria's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She sensed here a mystery darker than the degeneracy she had anticipated.

The taller woman unbound the Aquilonian's wrists and pulled her to her feet. It was not fear of the dominant strength that lurked in the princess" limbs that made Valeria a helpless, quivering captive in her hands. It was the burning, hypnotic, terrible eyes of Tascela.

Chapter 7 He Comes from the Dark

"Well, I'm a Kushite!"

Conan glared down at the man on the iron rack.

"What the devil are you doing on that thing?"

Incoherent sounds issued from behind the gag and Conan bent and tore it away, evoking a bellow of fear from the captive; for his action caused the iron ball to lurch down until it nearly touched the broad breast.

"Be careful, for Set's sake!" begged Olmec.

"What for?" demanded Conan. "Do you think I care what happens to you? I only wish I had time to stay here and watch that chunk of iron grind your guts out. But I'm in a hurry. Where's Valeria?"

"Loose me!" urged Olmec. "I will tell you all!"

"Tell me first."

"Never!" The prince's heavy jaws set stubbornly.

"All right." Conan seated himself on a near-by bench. "I'll find her myself, after you've been reduced to a jelly. I believe I can speed up that process by twisting my sword-point around in your ear," he added, extending the weapon experimentally.

"Wait!" Words came in a rush from the captive's ashy lips. "Tascela took her from me. I've never been anything but a puppet in Tascela's hands."

"Tascela?" snorted Conan, and spat. "Why, the filthy-"

"No, no!" panted Olmec. "It's worse than you think. Tascela is old - centuries old. She renews her life and her youth by the sacrifice of beautiful young women. That's one thing that has reduced the clan to its present state. She will draw the essence of Valeria's life into her own body, and bloom with fresh vigor and beauty."

"Are the doors locked?" asked Conan, thumbing his sword edge.

"Aye! But I know a way to get into Tecuhltli. Only Tascela and I know, and she thinks me helpless and you slain. Free me and I swear I will help you rescue Valeria. Without my help you cannot win into Techultli; for even if you tortured me into revealing the secret, you couldn't work it. Let me go and we will steal on Tascela and kill her before she can work magic before she can fix her eyes on us. A knife thrown from behind will do the work. I should have killed her thus long ago, but I feared that without her to aid us the Xotalancas would overcome us. She needed my help, too; that's the only reason she let me live this long. Now neither needs the other, and one must die. I swear that when we have slain the witch, you and Valeria shall go free without harm. My people will obey me when Tascela is dead."

Conan stooped and cut the ropes that held the prince, and Olmec slid cautiously from under the great ball and rose, shaking his head like a bull and muttering imprecations as he fingered his lacerated scalp. Standing shoulder to shoulder the two men presented a formidable picture of primitive power. Olmec was as tall as Conan, and heavier; but there was something repellent about the Tlazitlan, something abysmal and monstrous that contrasted unfavorably with the clean-cut, compact hardness of the Cimmerian. Conan had discarded the remnants of his tattered, blood-soaked shirt, and stood with his remarkable muscular development impressively revealed. His great shoulders were as broad as those of Olmec, and more cleanly outlined, and his huge breast arched with a more impressive sweep to a hard waist that lacked the paunchy thickness of Olmec's midsection. He might have been an image of primal strength cut out of bronze. Olmec was darker, but not from the burning of the sun. If Conan was a figure out of the dawn of Time, Olmec was a shambling, somber shape from the darkness of Time's pre-dawn.

"Lead on," demanded Conan. "And keep ahead of me. I don't trust you any farther than I can throw a bull by the tail."

Olmec turned and stalked on ahead of him, one hand twitching slightly as it plucked at his matted beard.

Olmec did not lead Conan back to the bronze door, which the prince naturally supposed Tascela had locked, but to a certain chamber on the border of Tecuhltli.

"This secret has been guarded for half a century," he said. "Not even our own clan knew of it, and the Xotalancas never learned. Tecuhltli himself built this secret entrance, afterward slaying the slaves who did the work; for he feared that he might find himself locked out of his own kingdom some day because of the spite of Tascela, whose passion for him soon changed to hate. But she discovered the secret, and barred the hidden door against him one day as he fled back from an unsuccessful raid, and the Xotalancas took him and flayed him. But once, spying upon her, I saw her enter Tecuhltli by this route, and so learned the secret."

He pressed upon a gold ornament in the wall, and a panel swung inward, disclosing an ivory stair leading upward.

"This stair is built within the wall," said Olmec. "It leads up to a tower upon the roof, and thence other stairs wind down to the various chambers. Hasten!"

"After you, comrade!" retorted Conan satirically, swaying his broadsword as he spoke, and Olmec shrugged his shoulders and stepped onto the staircase. Conan instantly followed him, and the door shut behind them. Far above a cluster of fire-jewels made the staircase a well of dusky dragon-light.

They mounted until Conan estimated that they were above the level of the fourth floor, and then came out into a cylindrical tower, in the domed roof of which was set the bunch of fire-jewels that lighted the stair. Through gold-barred windows, set with unbreakable crystal panes, the first windows he had seen in Xuchotl, Conan got a glimpse of high ridges, domes and more towers, looming darkly against the stars. He was looking across the roofs of Xuchotl.

Olmec did not look through the windows. He hurried down one of the several stairs that wound down from the tower, and when they had descended a few feet, this stair changed into a narrow corridor that wound tortuously on for some distance. It ceased at a steep flight of steps leading downward. There Olmec paused.

Up from below, muffled, but unmistakable, welled a woman's scream, edged with fright, fury and shame. And Conan recognized Valeria's voice.

In the swift rage roused by that cry, and the amazement of wondering what peril could wring such a shriek from Valeria's reckless lips, Conan forgot Olmec. He pushed past the prince and started down the stair. Awakening instinct brought him about again, just as Olmec struck with his great mallet-like fist. The blow, fierce and silent, was aimed at the base of Conan's brain. But the Cimmerian wheeled in time to receive the buffet on the side of his neck instead. The impact would have snapped the vertebrae of a lesser man. As it was, Conan swayed backward, but even as he reeled he dropped his sword, useless at such close quarters, and grasped Olmec's extended arm, dragging the prince with him as he fell. Headlong they went down the steps together, in a revolving whirl of limbs and heads and bodies. And as they went Conan's iron fingers found and locked in Olmec's bull-throat.

The barbarian's neck and shoulder felt numb from the sledgelike impact of Olmec's huge fist, which had carried all the strength of the massive forearm, thick triceps and great shoulder. But this did not affect his ferocity to any appreciable extent. Like a bulldog he hung on grimly, shaken and battered and beaten against the steps as they rolled, until at last they struck an ivory panel-door at the bottom with such an impact that they splintered it its full length and crashed through its ruins. But Olmec was already dead, for those iron fingers had crushed out his life and broken his neck as they fell.

Conan rose, shaking the splinters from his great shoulder, blinking blood and dust out of his eyes.

He was in the great throneroom. There were fifteen people in that room besides himself. The first person he saw was Valeria. A curious black altar stood before the throne-dais. Ranged about it, seven black candles in golden candlesticks sent up oozing spirals of thick green smoke, disturbingly scented. These spirals united in a cloud near the ceiling, forming a smoky arch above the altar. On that altar lay Valeria, stark naked, her white flesh gleaming in shocking contrast to the glistening ebon stone. She was not bound. She lay at full length, her arms stretched out above her head to their fullest extent. At the head of the altar knelt a young man, holding her wrists firmly. A young woman knelt at the other end of the altar, grasping her ankles. Between them she could neither rise nor move.

Eleven men and women of Tecuhltli knelt dumbly in a semicircle, watching the scene with hot, lustful eyes.

On the ivory throne-seat Tascela lolled. Bronze bowls of incense rolled their spirals about her; the wisps of smoke curled about her naked limbs like caressing fingers. She could not sit still; she squirmed and shifted about with sensuous abandon, as if finding pleasure in the contact of the smooth ivory with her sleek flesh.

The crash of the door as it broke beneath the impact of the hurtling bodies caused no change in the scene. The kneeling men and women merely glanced incuriously at the corpse of their prince and at the man who rose from the ruins of the door, then swung their eyes greedily back to the writhing white shape on the black altar. Tascela looked insolently at him, and sprawled back on her seat, laughing mockingly.

"Slut!" Conan saw red. His hands clenched into iron hammers as he started for her. With his first step something clanged loudly and steel bit savagely into his leg. He stumbled and almost fell, checked in his headlong stride. The jaws of an iron trap had closed on his leg, with teeth that sank deep and held. Only the ridged muscles of his calf saved the bone from being splintered. The accursed thing had sprung out of the smoldering floor without warning. He saw the slots now, in the floor where the jaws had lain, perfectly camouflaged.

"Fool!" laughed Tascela. "Did you think I would not guard against your possible return? Every door in this chamber is guarded by such traps. Stand there and watch now, while I fulfill the destiny of your handsome friend! Then I will decide your own."

Conan's hand instinctively sought his belt, only to encounter an empty scabbard. His sword was on the stair behind him. His poniard was lying back in the forest, where the dragon had torn it from his jaw. The steel teeth in his leg were like burning coals, but the pain was not as savage as the fury that seethed in his soul. He was trapped, like a wolf. If he had had his sword he would have hewn off his leg and crawled across the floor to slay Tascela. Valeria's eyes rolled toward him with mute appeal, and his own helplessness sent red waves of madness surging through his brain.

Dropping on the knee of his free leg, he strove to get his fingers between the jaws of the trap, to tear them apart by sheer strength. Blood started from beneath his finger nails, but the jaws fitted close about his leg in a circle whose segments jointed perfectly, contracted until there was no space between his mangled flesh and the fanged iron. The sight of Valeria's naked body added flame to the fire of his rage.

Tascela ignored him. Rising languidly from her seat she swept the ranks of her subjects with a searching glance, and asked: "Where are Xamec, Zlanath and Tachic?"

"They did not return from the catacombs, princess," answered a man. "Like the rest of us, they bore the bodies of the slain into the crypts, but they have not returned. Perhaps the ghost of Tolkemec took them."

"Be silent, fool!" she ordered harshly. "The ghost is a myth."

She came down from her dais, playing with a thin gold-hilted dagger. Her eyes burned like nothing on the hither side of hell. She paused beside the altar and spoke in the tense stillness.

"Your life shall make me young, white woman!" she said. "I shall lean upon your bosom and place my lips over yours, and slowly - ah, slowly! - sink this blade through your heart, so that your life, fleeing your stiffening body, shall enter mine, making me bloom again with youth and with life everlasting"

Slowly, like a serpent arching toward its victim, she bent down through the writhing smoke, closer and closer over the now motionless woman who stared up into her glowing dark eyes - eyes that grew larger and deeper, blazing like black moons in the swirling smoke.

The kneeling people gripped their hands and held their breath, tense for the bloody climax, and the only sound was Conan's fierce panting as he strove to tear his leg from the trap.

All eyes were glued to the altar and the white figure there; the crash of a thunderbolt could hardly have broken the spell, yet it was only a low cry that shattered the fixity of the scene and brought all whirling about - a low cry, yet one to make the hair stand up stiffly on the scalp. They looked, and they saw.

Framed in the door to the left of the dais stood a nightmare figure. It was a man, with a tangle of white hair and a matted white beard that fell over his breast. Rags only partly covered his gaunt frame, revealing half-naked limbs strangely unnatural in appearance. The skin was not like that of a normal human. There was a suggestion of scaliness about it, as if the owner had dwelt long under conditions almost antithetical to those conditions under which human life ordinarily thrives. And there was nothing at all human about the eyes that blazed from the tangle of white hair. They were great gleaming disks that stared unwinkingly, luminous, whitish, and without a hint of normal emotion or sanity. The mouth gaped, but no coherent words issued - only a high-pitched tittering.

"Tolkemec!" whispered Tascela, livid, while the others crouched in speechless horror. "No myth, then, no ghost! Set! You have dwelt for twelve years in darkness! Twelve years among the bones of the dead! What grisly food did you find? What mad travesty of life did you live, in the stark blackness of that eternal night? I see now why Xamec and Zlanath and Tachic did not return from the catacombs - and never will return. But why have you waited so long to strike? Were you seeking something, in the pits? Some secret weapon you knew was hidden there? And have you found it at last?"

That hideous tittering was Tolkemec's only reply, as he bounded into the room with a long leap that carried him over the secret trap before the door - by chance, or by some faint recollection of the ways of Xuchotl. He was not mad, as a man is mad. He had dwelt apart from humanity so long that he was no longer human. Only an unbroken thread of memory embodied in hate and the urge for vengeance had connected him with the humanity from which he had been cut off, and held him lurking near the people he hated. Only that thin string had kept him from racing and prancing off for ever into the black corridors and realms of the subterranean world he had discovered, long ago.

"You sought something hidden!" whispered Tascela, cringing back. "And you have found it! You remember the feud! After all these years of blackness, you remember!"

For in the lean hand of Tolkemec now waved a curious jade-hued wand, on the end of which glowed a knob of crimson shaped like a pomegranate. She sprang aside as he thrust it out like a spear, and a beam of crimson fire lanced from the pomegranate. It missed Tascela, but the woman holding Valeria's ankles was in the way. It smote between her shoulders. There was a sharp crackling sound and the ray of fire flashed from her bosom and struck the black altar, with a snapping of blue sparks. The woman toppled sidewise, shriveling and withering like a mummy even as she fell.

Valeria rolled from the altar on the other side, and started for the opposite wall on all fours. For hell had burst loose in the throneroom of dead Olmec.

The man who had held Valeria's hands was the next to die. He turned to run, but before he had taken half a dozen steps, Tolkemec, with an agility appalling in such a frame, bounded around to a position that placed the man between him and the altar. Again the red fire-beam flashed and the Tecuhltli rolled lifeless to the floor as the beam completed its course with a burst of blue sparks against the altar.

Then began slaughter. Screaming insanely the people rushed about the chamber, caroming from one another, stumbling and falling. And among them Tolkemec capered and pranced, dealing death. They could not escape by the doors; for apparently the metal of the portals served like the metal-veined stone altar to complete the circuit for whatever hellish power flashed like thunderbolts from the witch-wand the ancient waved in his hand. When he caught a man or a woman between him and a door or the altar, that one died instantly. He chose no special victim. He took them as they came, with his rags flapping about his wildly gyrating limbs, and the gusty echoes of his tittering sweeping the room above the screams. And bodies fell like falling leaves about the altar and at the doors. One warrior in desperation rushed at him, lifting a dagger, only to fall before he could strike. But the rest were like crazed cattle, with no thought for resistance, and no chance of escape.

The last Tecuhltli except Tascela had fallen when the princess reached the Cimmerian and the girl who had taken refuge beside him. Tascela bent and touched the floor, pressing a design upon it. Instantly the iron jaws released the bleeding limb and sank back into the floor.

"Slay him if you can!" she panted, and pressed a heavy knife into his hand. "I have no magic to withstand him!"

With a grunt he sprang before the women, not heeding his lacerated leg in the heat of the fighting-lust. Tolkemec was coming toward him, his weird eyes ablaze, but he hesitated at the gleam of the knife in Conan's hand. Then began a grim game, as Tolkemec sought to circle about Conan and get the barbarian" between him and the altar or a metal door, while Conan sought to avoid this and drive home his knife. The women watched tensely, holding their breath.

There was no sound except the rustle and scrape of quick-shifting feet. Tolkemec pranced and capered no more. He realized that grimmer game confronted him than the people who had died screaming and fleeing. In the elemental blaze of the barbarian's eyes he read an intent deadly as his own. Back and forth they weaved, and when one moved the other moved as if invisible threads bound them together. But all the time Conan was getting closer and closer to his enemy. Already the coiled muscles of his thighs were beginning to flex for a spring, when Valeria cried out. For a fleeting instant a bronze door was in line with Conan's moving body. The red line leaped, searing Conan's flank as he twisted aside, and even as he shifted he hurled the knife. Old Tolkemec went down, truly slain at last, the hilt vibrating on his breast.

Tascela sprang - not toward Conan, but toward the wand where it shimmered like a live thing on the floor. But as she leaped, so did Valeria, with a dagger snatched from a dead man, and the blade, driven with all the power of the pirate's muscles, impaled the princess of Tecuhltli so that the point stood out between her breasts. Tascela screamed once and fell dead, and Valeria spurned the body with her heel as it fell.

"I had to do that much, for my own self-respect!" panted Valeria, facing Conan across the limp corpse.

"Well, this cleans up the feud," he grunted. "It's been a hell of a night! Where did these people keep their food? I'm hungry."

"You need a bandage on that leg," Valeria ripped a length of silk from a hanging and knotted it about her waist, then tore off some smaller strips which she bound efficiently about the barbarian's lacerated limb.

"I can walk on it," he assured her. "Let's begone. It's dawn, outside this infernal city. I've had enough of Xuchotl. It's well the breed exterminated itself. I don't want any of their accursed jewels. They might be haunted."

"There is enough clean loot in the world for you and me," she said, straightening to stand tall and splendid before him.

The old blaze came back in his eyes, and this time she did not resist as he caught her fiercely in his arms.

"It's a long way to the coast," she said presently, withdrawing her lips from his.

"What matter?" he laughed. "There's nothing we can't conquer. We'll have our feet on a ship's deck before the Stygians open their ports for the trading season. And then we'll show the world what plundering means!"

Conan and the Gods of the Mountain

Prologue

The hunter was of the Leopard Clan of the Kwanyi. He had been born with eyes and ears almost as keen as those of the clan totem. He had sharpened both further by many years spent in the forests between the Gao River to the west and the forbidden city of Xuchotl to the east.

Neither eyes nor ears now told of any menace close to him. Nor was it likely that this stretch of the forest held any. It was near the foot of Thunder Mountain itself. The hunter had learned its paths and streams, its drinking holes and fallen trees, even before his manhood ceremony.

Yet the hunter fled as though all the kin of the dragon he had found in the forest near Xuchotl were ravening on his trail.

He had kept up this pace every waking moment for three days now. He had run until he could neither run, walk, nor stand, only fall senseless to the ground and sleep like a serpent with a pig in its belly. Then he would wake, to drink of the nearest clean water and run once more.

The pace had taken its toll. His dark skin was so caked with dirt that the hunter's tattoo of a leopard's paw on his right shoulder and the warrior's tattoo of a spear on his breast had all but vanished. Only the clan scarifications on both heels remained visible, to mark him and his footprints as of the Kwanyi.

His breath came in rasping sobs. His eyes stared ahead, next to blind, so that from time to time, a dangling vine slapped his skin. Once a stub of branch tore away his loinguard, leaving him to run on naked save for anklets of sodden feathers and the spear in his hand.

He could have run faster without the spear, for it was the stout weapon of the Kwanyi, a man's length of ironwood sapling with a triangular iron head as broad as a man's hand. Yet that thought never entered his mind. While he bore the spear, no warrior of the Kwanyi could doubt his courage.

The end of the hunter's run came suddenly, in the form of a jutting root. It caught his ankle, and even above the rasp of his tortured lungs, he heard bone snap. Then pain struck him twice, once as his head knocked against a rotten stump and once in the ankle as sundered bones cried out.

The hunter lay still until the pains eased and he knew that he would not at once become senseless. That would be death. This part of the forest held few dangers for a healthy hunter with both wits and weapons. It was otherwise for a man lying unaware of his surroundings.

When he dared move his head, the hunter rolled over and looked at his ankle. It was already swelling, and the pain was a spear of fire thrust up his leg. He would not be walking on that ankle again before the rains cameor ever if the God-Men of Thunder Mountain did not give him their healing. Poultices, purges, and the hands of village wise-women could do little against such ruin to bone and muscle.

In the next moment, the hunter began to doubt that he would even live to be spurned by the God-Men. Where he had seen only vines and thick-trunked trees, four men now stood. Each carried a spear; one carried a bow as well. Their loinguards, headbands, anklets, and tattoos alike named them warriors of the Monkey Clan.

This did nothing to raise the hunter's spirits. Chabano, Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi, was himself of the Monkey Clan. He would not have been chief for twelve years had he allowed his clansmen to feud at will with the Leopards, the Spiders, or the Cobras. Yet he had been known to turn a blind eye when those clans suffered some small hurtsuch as the disappearance of a hunter whose fate neither gods nor men could learn.

The hunter twisted himself about again, ignoring the pain in his head and ankle as he drew up his legs and raised his spear.

"Ha, what have we here?" the tallest of the four Monkeys said. "One of the Little Cats, it seems."

The hunter bit back a reply of equal sharpness, on the order of "Speak for yourself, Gelded Baboon." It would be time to seek an honorable death when he had told the four warriors where he had been and what he had seen there.

"Brothers" the hunter began.

Spear-butts thudded on mossy ground. "No brother to you," one of the spear-wielders growled.

"Chabano says otherwise," the hunter replied, then started his story before anyone else could find insults. He began with finding the dead dragon outside Xuchotl, slain by no cause the hunter could discover.

That gained him the tallest Monkey's attention. "There have been tales of a dragon in that part of the forest. Yet there are more tales that say nothing can kill a dragon. Perhaps the cause you could not discover was old age, or a bellyache!"

"Listen to the rest of what I have to say, then think that if you wish," the hunter said. "I will say only what I saw, and that as swiftly as I can."

The hint for silence was not lost on the Monkey leader. The next time one of his warriors tried to interrupt the hunter, a spear-butt came down sharply on the man's toes. A glare cut short his muttered ill wishes, and allowed the hunter to continue.

He told of wondering if accursed Xuchotl might be safe to approach, with its guardian dragon dead. All life seemed to have fled the cityhuman life, at least. He spoke of an open gate through which the jungle was already creeping, to claim Xuchotl the Accursed for its own.

"How far did you go?" the leader asked.

"Not as far as I wished," the hunter admitted. "I, too, had heard the tales of the fire-stones within the city. I sought them and found" He swallowed. "I found that Xuchotl's curse had at last destroyed its own people."

He spoke of the bodies of men and women slain no more than a handful of days before. Some bore the wounds of human weapons, swords and spears and knives, or even of teeth and nails. Others seemed to have been struck by lightning, and this in an underground chamber where no lightning could reach save by sorcery.

"It was then that I knew Xuchotl was still accursed, and that I might join the dead if I stayed longer within its walls," the hunter concluded. "I ran from the chamber and from the city. Yet as I ran, I saw that others had come forth by the same gate not long before."

"The slayers of the folk of Xuchotl?" It was the man who had been silenced who spoke. Now his tone held respect and curiosity, as well as more than a little fear. The hunter's pleasure at having won over his listeners almost made him forget the pain in his ankle.

"That I do not know. I can only say that one was a giant, another as large as a common warrior of the Kwanyi. Both seemed well-laden, and both wore boots."

The Monkey warriors stared at one another, then at the jungle around them. It seemed to the hunter that he could see into their very thoughts as he spoke.

"I think that is why the talking drums have not spoken of this. The sorcerers who ruined Xuchotl might have other enemies in our land.

Warned that they were discoveredâ€¦"

The leader nodded. The hunter wondered if he, too, had a throat too dry to let words pass. One of the other Monkeys loosened his drinking gourd from his belt and passed it to the hunter.

The hunter poured the ritual drops into his palm and scattered them to the earth, then drank. When his throat was fit for speaking again, he handed the gourd back.

"Brother, I hear truth in your words," the Monkey leader said to the hunter. He turned to his companions.

"Make a litter. We bear him to the God-Men. If the drums have not spoken, he must do their work, with our help."

"If the God-Men are as they say" began a warrior.

"Guard your tongue, lest it wag you into the Cave of the Living Wind,"

the leader snarled.

"If the God-Men are as they say," the man persisted, "they likely enough know already."

"Then we can do no harm," the leader said. "Perhaps even a little good, by showing that we common warriors understand the evil that magic may do."

"And if" the man began again.

"Then they have need of our help against sorcerers who can slay dragons and scour life from Xuchotl the Accursed."

This thought silenced the warrior, but did not seem to please him or his comrades. Thinking briefly upon the matter, the hunter decided that this was no shame to the Monkey warriors. The notion of sorcerers more powerful than the God-Men of Thunder Mountain did not please him either.

ONE

In the forest between dead Xuchotl and the foot of Thunder Mountain, the boot-wearers whose tracks the hunter had seen followed a game trail.

One was a woman, and no southern hills or forests had ever been birthplace to one so fair of skin and hair. She wore a shirt and trousers of silk that had once been whole and white, but were now neither. Rents in both displayed the fairness of her skin; and a rag of red silk bound up her hair. The garb, though tattered, still fitted snugly enough to display the splendor of her breasts and hips.

Her boots had the look of the sea about them. They were of supple leather, with wide-flaring tops, easily kicked off if one found one's self in the water. That they were not made for tramping game trails in the Black Kingdoms was evident by how often the woman gritted her teeth.

About her slender waist a silken sash upheld a well-used sword and two knives. One knife was a seaman's dirk, the other a keen-edged dagger whose hilt writhed with creatures out of nightmare.

The woman was tall and robustly formed, yet her companion overtopped her by more than a head, and his muscles told of a giant's strength to go with that stature. He was similarly clad, with the difference that his sword was stouter and hung from a broad leather belt, along with three knives. His hair was black, flowing freely across his broad shoulders, and his eyes were of an icy blue, with the look of the north to them.

Those eyes had been the last sight of more than a few men over the years. The tall man was Conan the Cimmerian, his companion Valeria of the Red Brotherhood. They owed their garb to having once been pirates in Baracha, and their companionship to many curious circumstances.

Most important of those was the battle they had fought for their lives within the walls of Xuchotl. It was waged against enemies both animal and human, armed with both steel and spells. In the end, it had cleansed the accursed city of the very last of its bloody, unnatural life.

It had also given each of them a dagger. Nothing else would they take from Xuchotl, knowing too many of the city's secrets to trust loot removed from its halls. Those halls reeked of blood shed and spells cast over many centuries, and terror that would echo in their green-lit vastness when the bones of the dead were dust on the floors of polished stone.

Conan had traveled in the Black Kingdoms before, if not in this jungle, then in others hardly less friendly. He feared neither man nor beast.

Yet had the Kwanyi hunter seen the wanderer of Cimmeria, he would have laughedâ€¦ for Conan also threw more than a few glances over his shoulder to see what remnant of Xuchotl's evil might be on his trail.

It was taboo among the Kwanyi to leave the dead in the place where they died, no matter how great the burden of removing the body. Left where the spirit departed from it, the body might be found again by that same spirit and become a yaquele, one of the "walking dead."

So from the time they could bear a burden, the folk of the Kwanyi learned to make litters of whatever came ready to hand. Saplings, vines, even the leaves of the smokebush, had their uses.

A litter able to bear the dead was also fit for the living who could not walk. The hunter was moving again in less time than it would have taken him to empty a gourd of beer. Two of the Monkey hunters bore him on level ground, trailed by the third, while the leader strode on ahead.

The hunter noted that the leader bore his spear in both hands, held across his chest ready to either throw or thrust. This was a hunting party, so the men bore no shields, but it seemed that the leader did not expect their visit to Thunder Mountain to be entirely peaceful.

It further seemed that he wanted their presence to be unnoticed. Twice he raised hand and spear to halt all movement. Once he used the hunters' hand signals to send them all into a thick stand of smokebush.

The hunter had no notion of what they were hiding from, or why, although at the first halt he heard the chatter of women and the clatter of jars in vine nets slung across their backs. No doubt it was a band of the brew-sisters, taking jars of grain to the brew-house, or perhaps beer down from it. So what made the leader as careful not to be seen by them as he would if they were a war party of the Ichiribu?

The hunter had no answer, or at least none to lift a man's spirits. He thought of reminding the leader that the God-Men might know that the hunter had asked to come to them.

Would the Monkey warriors presume to deny the wishes of the God-Men? Or where they carrying out the wishes of the God-Men by carrying him up the mountain in secret?

Valeria leaned back against a tree of a kind Conan had never seen before. Its bark was a nubbly mass of red-and-white stripes, with mold and mushrooms sprouting in cracks between the stripes. It looked unwholesome to the Cimmerian's eyes, but he reminded himself that might be merely because the tree was unknown to him.

He was not without experience in the Black Kingdoms. Indeed, he had sat on a throne in them and been hailed with the praise-name of Amra the Lion. But that was farther south and west than here, not a two-day march from Xuchotl. In time, they might reach lands that Conan knew, or even realms where he was known, but they faced a long journey before they did.

Meanwhile, the Cimmerian had less knowledge than he could wish of this land and its perils. To be sure, no peril of the jungle could equal what he and Valeria had faced and survived in Xuchotl. Nor did Conan lack any woods craft or hunting skills such that might keep a man alive though he were cast down naked in a desert.

But Valeria was like a fish out of water in this jungle, or rather, a sailor far from the sea. She would doubtless prefer the rack than admit it, but she was trusting Conan to lead them both to the sea once more.

She sighed and kicked off first one boot, then the other. Rubbing her battered feet, she looked about for a stream. None lay close, but a puddle of water from the last rain offered hope.

One slender foot was dipping toward the water when Conan laid a hand on Valeria's shoulder. "Best leave standing water alone. Those blisters might fester or draw leeches."

"They are my blisters, Conan."

"Yes, and it will be my back that bears your weight if you cannot walk.

Or would you rather I left you behind?"

That was the Cimmerian's rough jest. From the way Valeria's hand darted toward her Xuchotl blade, it seemed that the jest was lost on her.

"Peace, woman. I was joking."

"Your wit smells no sweeter than the rest of you."

"Take a whiff of yourself, woman, before you complain of another's smell. Either of us walking into the Golden Anchor in Messantia would clear the place in a heartbeat."

Valeria smiled thinly and kept her feet clear of the puddle. Instead, she pulled a handful of leaves from a low-hanging branch and dipped them in the water.

"Best not do that either," Conan said. "A blind man looking at the branch could tell that people had passed by."

"And what would this blind man do with the knowledge?" Valeria snapped.

At least she did not reach for steel this time.

"If I knew that, I would know which way we should go to keep him or his friends off our trail," the Cimmerian said. "It might slow us a trifle, but"

"Would to Mitra it did slow us!" Valeria said. She looked at her boots as if they had offered her a mortal insult. "Anyone would think from the way you've been driving us along that a whole new tribe of those brown-skinned cutthroats and spellmongers was on our trail."

"I can't swear that they aren't," Conan said, then added hastily as Valeria's eyes flamed, "but I'd wager against it. If you hadn't insisted that we search for our clothes, we'd have been out of Xuchotl"

"If I hadn't insisted on finding our clothesyou know how I was garbed."

The Cimmerian grinned. "More sightly than you are now, I swear. Of course"

Valeria rolled her blue eyes toward the canopy of the jungle with the look of a woman tried beyond speech and endurance. Then she sighed. "Of course it was quite unsuitable for tramping about in the jungle." That was certainly true enough, as the garb had been a swathe of silken cloth about her hips and not a rag more.

"And the folk of Xuchotl had nothing much better in their wardrobes,"

she added. "What else could we have done?"

"Nothing, I admit. But it took us time we could have used to put distance between ourselves and the city. We still have that to do, and the sooner, the better."

"Is that a hint we should be on our way again?"

"With you, Valeria, I can only hint. Crom alone knows what you would do if you thought I was giving you an order!"

Valeria rolled her eyes again, and this time she stuck out her tongue as well. But she also lurched to her feet and eased into her boots. She could not entirely stifle a gasp of pain, but Conan paid her the compliment of letting her finish the work herself.

The Cimmerian added to the curses he had already heaped on the folk of Xuchotl, this one for their wretched footgear. Only sandalssuited to their polished floorshad been in use for more years than the Cimmerian had lived. The sailors' boots he and Valeria had worn going into Xuchotl had been the best things to bring them out again.

But no one could deny that those boots were not made for walking fast and far. In another day or two, he might well need to think of finding better footgear, a hiding place where they could let pursuit pass by, or a trail over which Valeria could walk barefoot.

The Cimmerian's own soles were leather-tough and had resisted the burning sands of the deserts of Iranistan, but Valeria of the Red Brotherhood was more at home on a ship's deck. Another day or two of tramping these trails in such footgear and she might truly need to be carried.

Nor was that the only matter preying on the Cimmerian's mind. They had taken no food from Xuchotl, fearing poison or sorcery. They would have to find victuals before long. A three-day fast was less than wise, even for the Cimmerian, when hard marching, and perhaps fighting, lay ahead.

At least he could be sure of the woman beside him. Her courage and skill with weapons she had amply demonstrated, and not only in Xuchotl.

That she had survived at all for so many years in the Red Brotherhood proved her no common warrior. She might lack the Cimmerian's woods craft, but that could be learned, and again, Valeria's being alive at all was proof that she learned swiftly when need be.

Would she learn swiftly enough? Only the gods knew, and Conan had given up expecting answers from them in good season. A fine sword, a trustworthy companionand stout bootswere worth all the priests'

prayers that Conan had ever heard.

Ahead, sunlight broke through the forest's canopy to tint a patch of dead leaves the color of old gold. Conan shaded his eyes with one hand and stared upward. As best he could judge, it was not long past noon.

"We'll see about stopping well before twilight," he said without turning. "Sooner, if we find a good hiding place with clean water. I'll set snares, and we can forage for fruits and berries while we wait for the game to find its way to the traps. You're handy enough with knots, I trust?"

"A sailor so long, and clumsy with knots? Conan, you have seagull dung where other men have their wits!"

Yet he could hear beneath the indignation relief and gratitude. Valeria would die before admitting either, of course, so it was best if she never had to.

As for the Cimmerian, he would rather die than leave Valeria. He had snatched her from the nightmare halls of Xuchotl, saving her from becoming a sacrifice on behalf of the aged witch Tascela. He would not be done until they reached not merely the coast, but the sight of a Hyborian ship. Between them and that happy moment lay Crom only knew what perils.

Crom only knewand of all the gods Conan had ever heard of, the cold, grim lord of the Cimmerians was the least likely to answer the questions of mewling humans.

It took all four Monkey warriors now to carry the hunter's litter. They were well up the slopes of Thunder Mountain, although not on any trail the hunter remembered. This proved little, as he had been this far up the mountain only four times in his life, for ordeals and ceremonies that demanded the presence of God-Men.

He still would have gladly walked, even with the help of a staff, or with a tuqa leaf to ease the pain of his ankle. He cared little for the sweat and sore muscles of the Monkey warriors, but he cared very much about not being helpless. He thought of asking for the staff and a wad of the painkilling leaves, but one look at the grim face of the Monkey leader slew that thought at once. The Monkey warrior might have been the image of a yaquele, save for the sweat flowing down him.

Also, the hunter knew he could not walk far even with such aid without risking damage to his ankle beyond the powers of the God-Men to heal.

The Kwanyi had small use for a hunter who could no longer hunt. He would be as a child so young that he had no right to anythingnot even to food should it grow scarce. The worst that the God-Men or the Monkey leadereven Chabano himselfmight do would be swifter, less painful, and more honorable than such a fate.

The hunter lay back and closed his eyes. Presently he felt the soft, cold touch of mist on his cheek and heard the cry of the mountain eagle as it soared in the chill sky found only above the tree line.

Conan's long arm whipped the sling up and over. At the high point of its arc, the slung stone leaped across the little stream and into the monkey-laden tree on the other side. The monkeys' chattering turned into shrieks of rage and fear. They scattered, leaves, twigs, and birds' nests tumbling in their wake.

One monkey neither cried out nor fled. Struck a deadly blow by the stone, it toppled from its branch, bounced from a second, then stuck firmly in the crotch of a third. From ground to the dead monkey was the height of six men taller than Conan.

The Cimmerian cursed the whole race of monkeys and the inventor of the sling. Then he saw that Valeria was kicking off her boots.

"Guard my back, Conan. I will have our dinner down in a trice."

Warned of leeches, Valeria leaped the stream, though Conan saw her wince at the pain this gave her feet. Then she was climbing the tree with almost the agility of the vanished monkeys, in the manner Conan had seen on the Black Coastsbody and legs at nearly right angles, arms gripping the tree as if it were a lover, well-formed hindquarters in the air.

She moved surely, fingers and toes seeking out the tiniest rough patches in the bark. The angle of the trunk was just enough to allow her to climb as she did, and it was not long before she reached the monkey. A slap to the branch did nothing; the branch was too thick.

Valeria climbed another arm's length, crawled out onto the branch, and pushed the dead monkey off.

It thumped into a patch of ferns. Conan crossed the stream, thrust his sword into the patch, and withdrew it with the monkey spitted on the point.

"What is there to make you uneasy?" Valeria called.

"In this jungle, less than ferns can hide serpents. An asp bite won't kill as fast as the Apples of Derketa, but it's just as sure."

"You, Cimmerian, are as heartening as a priest of Set preparing me for sacrifice."

"Don't kill the bearer of bad news, good lady. It was not my advances that drove you from Sukhmet, nor my idea that you should flee into this jungle."

Perched where she was, Valeria could not draw her dagger. Instead, she made a face to frighten trolls and reached about her for something to throw. Finding nothing, she suggested that the Cimmerian harbored unlawful passions for sheep, then started back down.

She took the descent with more care and bent over farthertoo far, as she learned, for her trousers. There was a sharp ripping sound, and Valeria suddenly had nothing between her rump and the jungle air.

She finished the descent with as much dignity as she could manage, then hastily backed against the tree. Her face dared Conan to so much as smile. He controlled the urge to roar with laughter with some difficulty.

"Thank you, Valeria," he said when he could trust his voice.

"You are welcome, I suppose," she replied. "A tree is not so far different from a mast, and I have been climbing those since before I was a woman." She glared at him. "Or do you think I was foolish, only to prove I could haul and draw my share?"

"I said nothing."

"Conan, you can say more with a moment's silence than most men can with talking from sunrise to nightfall." She glanced at the monkey. Its dead eyes stared back at her, and she looked away.

"If you will make the fire, I will skin it. I doubt it much differs from a fish."

"It does, but there'll be no fire."

"Noâ€¦ fire?" She said the word as if it were a solemn curse.

Conan shook his head. "We've nothing by which to strike a spark, nothing to burn if we struck it, and no knowledge of who might see the fire or smell the smoke."

"Eat the monkey raw?"

"Not uncommon in these lands. Monkeys eat much as we do, so their flesh is commonly wholesome."

"Butâ€¦ raw?"

"Raw."

Valeria gagged, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. She leaned against the tree and braced one hand against it.

"If I had known that, Conan, I'd have left your cursed monkey for the kites and the ants!"

"Not wise, Valeria. Go hungry too long and the kites and the ants'll make their meal off of you."

This time she did bend over, heaving until her face was pale. Then she remained kneeling, sweat-sodden hair veiling her. Conan gently lifted her to her feet.

"Come, Valeria. Find somewhere to sit, and I will do the honors with a knife. I know which parts taste best uncooked, and I'll also do better work with the skin."

"The skin? Oh, to wear." To Conan's relief, she no longer seemed mazed in her wits.

"Just so, unless you'd rather walk bare-arse all the way through the jungle"

She threw a stick at him.

The hunter knew that the voices he heard above him were those of the God-Men. In the last corner of his mind that remained human, he knew he should be afraid.

He was not, although he did remember having been afraid when the Monkey warriors carried him up the last few paces of the hill to the God House. The door of the house was of ironwood logs, planked with slabs of mahogany, and on the planks was painted the crimson-and-sapphire spiral of the God-Men.

The fear had gone briefly when the door opened and only common men came forth, in loincloths and headdresses dyed with the same spiral. They had lifted the hunter's litter and borne him within the God House, leaving the Monkey warriors standing in the evening rain.

Then the hunter had not only been unafraid; he had been ready to laughâ€¦
at the disappointment on the faces of the Monkey warriors. No doubt they had dreamed of being greeted as heroes.

It was when he saw the first of the God-Men that he was again afraid, but not for long. The eyes of the God-Man were entirely white, like those of a man struck blind with the eye-rot and doomed to be cast into the forest for the beasts to devour if no one would feed and shelter him.

Yet the God-Man moved as surely as if he could count every leg on an ant in the dimmest corner of the chamber where the hunter lay. He wore only a loinguard that might have been of snakeskin, figured in hues of rose and vermilion.

He carried in one hand a staff taller than himself, crowned with a golden spiral, and in the other hand, a gourd. A pungent odor rose from the gourd, sour, sweet, and sharp all at once.

Without letting go of the staff, the God-Man knelt beside the hunter and motioned that he should sit up. This the hunter did, and at once the gourd was thrust to his lips. The taste of the brew within was so vile that he wanted to spit it out. When he found himself swallowing, he wanted to gag; when the brew reached his stomach, he wanted to spew.

Then it seemed that he was no longer tasting something vile and tainted, but beer of the most cunning brewing from the best grain and seeds. It went straight to his head as such beer often did, and he no longer felt pain, not even in his foot and ankle.

He was not wholly at ease over this; the ankle had grown swollen, the flesh turning pallid and noisome matter oozing from it. It should have been hurting as if hot irons were at work upon it.

Yet it did not, and soon he was walking whole and hearty through the nightmarish halls of Xuchotl. He was not afraid, for the God-Man was with him and the magic in the staff would stand against any evil there, living or dead. As he walked, he told the God-Man all he had seen or guessed, and it seemed that the God-Man heard every word and planted it in his memory like a seed in a garden patch. In time, they came out of Xuchotl the same way they had entered, and walked into the jungle. The walls of the evil city faded into a green mist, and when the mist cleared, the hunter knew he still lay in the God House.

But his ankle still did not hurt.

It did not hurt even when the God-Man made a series of intricate motions over the hunter's body with the staff. Was it only a fever-fancy, or did the golden spiral of the staff seem to whirl, like a swirling eddy in a stream?

No matter. When the God-Man was done, the hunter found that he could rise and walk. He did so, and followed the God-Man where he was bidden, out of the chamber and down a long passage that seemed carved from living rock. The heads of the totemic animals of each clan of the Kwanyi hung thick on the walls. The hunter saw that where the rock showed, it was painted in colors for which he did not wish to find names, let alone utter them.

Then they passed a wall of rocks that seemed bound together more by magic than by mud. Beyond lay a chamber so vast that the hunter could barely make out the ceiling, and could not see the far wall at all.

As for what lay below, after one look, he turned his head away. It was not fear of the swirling smoke or what it might conceal. It was only that in his heart he knew it was taboo for him to gaze upon that smoke, and worse than that for him to see what the smoke hid.

The God-Man pointed to a seat carved from the rock at the very lip of the ledge where the hunter stood. The hunter sat down, dangling his legs over the abyss. From above, he heard more voices, and then he was alone and the voice of the God-Man who had led him there joined the others.

They chanted in a tongue the hunter did not know and beat on a drum that sounded unlike any he had ever heard. Or was it not a drum but their staves pounding on the rock floor? If those staves were shod with iron, they might sound much like that, striking the living rock

The smoke reared up in a wall before him, like a cobra ready to strike.

Indeed, it spread out in such a likeness of a cobra's head that the hunter wanted to cry out.

I am not of the Cobras. I am of the Leopards. Send a leopard for my spirit.

He knew in the same moment that he would not speak, nor would it matter if he cried out to all the gods of his people. This was a place where mere mortals were impotent in the face of the older powers under the command of the God-Men.

Even then, the hunter did not fear. Nor did he fear when the smoke swirled around him and the scream of a mighty wind tearing at the treetops came with it. He felt himself lifted as gently as a babe in a sling on its mother's breast.

Then the smoke drew back. The hunter faced crimson-and-sapphire light, swirling like the smoke. He saw the light rise around him, taking away his sight, and all of his other senses as well. He never knew the moment when the life was sucked from his body and only an empty husk remained in the stone seat.

"What was that?" Conan muttered. He thought he had spoken only to himself, but Valeria was more wakeful than he had known.

"I heard nothing," she said. She rolled over and tried for the tenth time to find a spot where a root of their sheltering spicebush would not dig into her flesh.

"Ugh," she said. "The planks of a ship's bed are down cushions compared to this jungle."

Conan held up a hand for silence, and although Valeria looked sulky, she obeyed. The Cimmerian waited until he was sure that whatever had reached him on the night breeze would not come again.

"It may have been nothing. But I thought I heardâ€¦ well, if a spell of evil magic made a sound, it might have been like that."

Valeria sat up and her shirt slipped from her shoulders. She ignored the display of her magnificent breasts and made several gestures of aversion.

"Are you a spell-smeller, as we call them at home?" she asked.

It seemed to Conan that she would not much care for any answer he might give. In truth, he also would be happy if he had not suddenly gained the power to detect magic. That was almost magic itself, and Conan loathed the idea of finding it within himself.

The Cimmerian had fought more sorcerers and wizards than he had fingers and toes. But when he had an honorable choice, he gave the whole accursed breed a berth many leagues wide.

"I've never been one yet," Conan said. "I'd as soon not be one now.

Likely enough it was just some trick of the wind. I've been away from these lands for so long that I may not remember all that I thought I did."

Valeria had the look of one who doubts she is hearing the truth, but the Cimmerian's blue eyes were steady and he smiled. After a moment, the Aquilonian woman smiled back, turned on her side, and lay down. The display of breasts now gave way to a display of well-rounded buttocks.

Conan had no eye for them. He sat cross-legged, sword in his lap, waiting with the patience of one who has watched a Zamboulan counting house for three days to learn the comings and goings of its watchmen.

He also waited with more knowledge of the jungle than he had admitted to Valeria. Nothing in nature had made that sound, and what was not in nature was, more often than not, dangerous.

In time, Valeria's breathing steadied as she slipped deep into sleep.

Conan's breathing also slowed, until he might have seemed an iron statue in the jungle night. Only the relentless flickering of his eyes about him betrayed life.

Whatever stalked them would gain no help from him in its quest, and only sharp steel if it found them.

TWO

Seyganko, son of Bayu, was not the swiftest, strongest, or tallest of the warriors of the Ichiribu. He was the best swimmer, which was not a small matter in his people's wars against the Kwanyi.

He was also a longheaded sort of man, in spite of his lack of years. He thought before he used the speed, strength, and height that he had.

Thus he made shrewder use of them than his better-endowed comrades.

This earned him some jealousy, and at least once a death-duel, from which he had emerged not merely victorious, but unhurt. It also earned him rather more respect from the day of his manhood ceremony to the day Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker read the signs and declared Seyganko worthy to be followed in battle.

From that day forward, Seyganko led. He always led in war when the whole manhood of the Ichiribu was called forth. He also led as often as not in raids and skirmishes, when no custom or taboo required that someone else lead.

Seyganko did not survive all this fighting as unscathed as he had the duel. No man could, against a foe such as the Kwanyi. Their Paramount Chief Chabano would have made his warriors formidable with his spear-and-shield art, even without the aid of the God-Men. With that aid, the chief might have swept the shores and islands of the Lake of Death clean of all tribes save his own, then marched downriver on a campaign of conquest.

It was as well for others besides Seyganko that the God-Men and Chabano could seldom work together for long, and often barely spoke to one another. It was necessary at all times for the Ichiribu to know of Chabano's schemes and whether or not he was on a friendly footing with the God-Men.

So that is how Seyganko came to the western shore of the Lake of Death on the night that Conan sat keeping watch beside the spicebush where Valeria slept.

He and the four men in the canoe paddled as silently as wraiths to within a hundred paces of the shore. They drove the canoe forward with steady, practiced strokes, lifting their paddles so skillfully that no splash or drip betrayed their presence. Clouds veiled the moon, and this was not the season for the lampfish, whose glow when disturbed often betrayed canoe-borne warriors.

A hundred paces from the shore, all five men lifted their paddles as one. The canoe glided forward on its own momentum for another fifty paces. By then, its bow was sliding in among the weeds that grew so thick in places that a child might walk upon them.

Seyganko led his comrades over the side of the craft with as little noise as they had made in paddling. Gripping the sides, they kicked silently until they could sink their feet into the oozy bottom.

Each man wore only his headdress and a snakeskin loinguard, besides his weapons: a club or a trident, a knife of stone chips set in wood, and a net. Each also wore a generous coating of rancid fish oil. Its reek made any except the Ichiribu gag. It also hid the odor of living flesh from the small fish known as the eunuch-maker which swarmed along the shores of the Lake of Death.

"Remember," Seyganko whispered, "we need no women prisoners. If they flee, do not chase them."

"And if they stay?" one warrior asked with a grin that showed even in the darkness.

"Remember, too, that a man taking a woman turns his back on the world,"

Seyganko said.

"Ho" the largest of the warriors said. "You need not think where to find your next woman, Seyganko. Not when"

"Hold your tongue, Aondo," a third man said. "Or if Seyganko does not challenge you, I will. You are jealous as well as foolish."

Seyganko could add nothing to those words of wisdom, although he knew that his betrothal to the shaman's daughter Emwaya had indeed aroused much jealousy. Emwaya was the finest woman of the Ichiribu and deserved nothing less than their finest warrior, but not all men saw that as clearly as she did.

The young chief vowed to look to his back when the huge Aondo was near, then crept to the left to his chosen hiding place. The other warriors followed, with only the faintest rustling of the damp grass and the soft chrrr of insects to mark their passage.

They had been in hiding barely long enough for the grass to rise again when they heard voices and footfalls on the trail. As was most often the case, the sounds were those of women and men together warriors guarding a band of women, taking food and other comforts to the camp where the Gao River flowed out of the Lake of Death.

The Kwanyi also kept warriors in the south, guarding their herdlands and grain fields on the other side of the lake. Chabano would gladly have kept much more strength there, to raid through the pass into the riverlands beyond the mountains. That the Ichiribu ruled the Lake of Death with their canoes stood in his way and made his hatred for them burn like a live coal.

Now someone among the Kwanyi on the trail, wiser than his fellows, called for silence. But he called for it in a voice as loud as the others'. Seyganko's keen ears let him measure the distance to the speaker almost as if he had stretched a length of vine between them. If the enemy advanced another twenty paces farther, they were as doomed as a dog in the jaws of a leopard.

The, Kwanyi advanced that distance, and Seyganko let them go another twenty paces before he put the bone whistle to his lips and blew. If the women could run in either direction up the trail, there would be fewer of them at hand to distract men like Aondo.

The high-pitched shriek of the bone whistle silenced human foes and jungle creatures alike for a moment. In that moment, the five Ichiribu warriors leaped from their hiding places and flung themselves at their enemies.

Seyganko had just enough time to see that none of his comrades were holding back before he faced two men. Both had the heavy hide shield and three spears Chabano had given each of the Kwanyi. On open ground, by daylight, they would have been the Ichiribu warriors match, and even now they were no foe to despise. It was not in Seyganko to despise any foe, for which reason he still lived and his foes mostly did not.

He feinted with his club to draw one man's shield up, then flung his net over the top of the other's shield and pulled hard. The spiked weights on the edge of the net caught in both flesh and hide. The man howled and stumbled forward, his shield dropping until it no longer protected him.

This time, Seyganko's stroke with his club was no feint. It splintered the man's wooden headdress and the skull beneath it. Instantly Seyganko whirled to stamp on the shaft of a spear thrust at him by the second warrior, then closed until his chest was hard against the man's shield.

The warrior was strong; he pushed hard, flinging Seyganko backward.

Seyganko pretended to lose his balance and fall on his back. The warrior charged forward, his second spear poised to thrust downward.

It thrust, but struck only grass and earth. Seyganko had rolled sideways, and as he rolled, he lashed out with both feet. The warrior stumbled, abandoning his spear in a fight for balance, and had no attention to spare for Seyganko's club. Sweeping in a vicious, low arc, the club darted under the shield and crushed a knee.

The man reeled again, and this time there was no regaining his balance.

Seyganko himself was in behind the shield, and a moment later the shield fell as the arm holding it shattered under another blow of the club.

With no foes ready to hand, Seyganko could spare attention for his comrades. It was hard to pick them out from among the mass of screaming, fleeing Kwanyi women and bearers. Most of them were, as he had hoped, running off inland. Not a few of the Kwanyi warriors were following.

Seyganko called the spirits of his ancestors to curse those Kwanyi cowards. Or were they cowards? Might they not be obeying the commands of Chabano, who could have guessed that such Ichiribu raids had as their purpose the taking of captives ?

Seyganko added Chabano to those he cursed. The enemy chief was shrewd enough to be dangerous even when he could hold few secrets. If he could teach his warriors to prefer flight to capture, he might keep many of them, and each one deadly to the Ichiribu.

An outcry like that of mating leopards returned Seyganko's attention, to the trail. A spear's length away, Aondo had a woman backed against a tree. He had jerked her waistcloth from her and was now stuffing it into her mouth. And just as he had been warned not to do, he had turned his back on all else but the woman. A Kwanyi warrior lying bloody on the ground rolled over, gripped a spear, and thrust upward.

The thrust failed to be deadly, because at the last moment, Seyganko tapped the warrior lightly with his club. The spear's point sank only a thumb's width into Aondo's buttocks. He leaped into the air with a cry more of surprise than of pain, clapping a hand to his wound.

One hand was not enough to hold the woman. Disdaining any thought of garbing herself, she fled into the night. Aondo started in pursuit, dashed head-on into the shield of a Kwanyi warrior too surprised to raise a spear, and found himself in a bare-handed fight for his life.

Seyganko snatched up the fallen spear, the only weapon that could reach the pair in time. It was the kind of weapon ill-balanced for throwing; he could have done better with a fishing trident. But his arm was strong and his eye was true. Also, he did not need to kill.

The spear drove through the Kwanyi's thigh with such force that the point burst out on the other side. The man howled as if stung by fire ants and flung Aondo away. Seyganko closed the distance to the man, gripped the spear-shaft with one hand, and swung his club with the other. The man toppled, Seyganko jerked the spear loose, and Aondo regained his wits enough to start bandaging his prisoner's thigh with the fallen waistcloth.

With two captives who would live until Dobanpu could speak to them, the raid was already a victory. Seyganko blew the whistle again and promised the spirits a generous sacrifice when the other men of his band answered.

They not only answered, they came swiftly, and with two more prisoners, one of them a woman who seemed not unwilling. She was hardly more than a girl, the tattoos of womanhood barely healed on her arms and throat.

She wore nothing but those tattoos and a feather that was bound into her hair behind one ear.

Aondo had already plunged into the water to bring the canoe in close enough to allow the lifting of the senseless captives into it. He seemed to wish to stay as far from Seyganko as possible.

The canoe rode noticeably lower in the water when the last captive was aboard. Seyganko looked at it, seeking to keep doubt off his face. The next time he led such a raid, he vowed, there would be a second canoe lying off, to bring help if needed, and to carry captives. As it was

"We have no need of you," he told the girl. "Take a garment from one of the dead and rejoin your people."

The girl's face twisted in horror and rage, and for the first time, Seyganko had a clear look at her tattoos. They were none he had seen before among Kwanyi women.

"You are not of the Kwanyi?" he asked.

The girl seemed to understand nothing except the last word, but at that word, she made a gesture none could mistake. If all the Kwanyi in the world had their hearts eaten by leopards and the manhood of all the warriors devoured by jackals, it would gladden her heart.

Seyganko decided that the girl could come after all. He would not have on his spirit the memory of leaving her to the vengeance of her captors.

Also, she was rather more comely than most, although far from equal to Emwaya. It would not please Emwaya if he kept the girl himself, but the Spirit-Speaker's daughter had spoken of needing a new maidservant. The girl would do well enough for that, and in time she could be dowered and offered in marriage to a warrior who might not otherwise be able to offer bride-price.

He motioned toward the canoe. The girl looked at the water, no doubt fearing what it might hide. Then she looked back at the land, and her face showed far more fear of what might wait for her there. She splashed into the water, arose dripping, and leaped into the canoe so eagerly that she nearly capsized it.

The canoe remained upright, however. It even remained above water after Seyganko climbed aboard with the care of a woman sewing bark for a headdress. With no need for silence, the paddles were swiftly at work, and the laden craft was soon well away from shore.

By then, the warriors were beginning to babble in triumph and relief.

All except Aondo. He sat amidships, wielding his paddle with the best but saying no more than did the senseless captives lying in the slimy water in the bottom of the boat.

That sight made Seyganko uneasy, and to hide this, he gave only short answers to his comrades. They were halfway back to the island before he could bring himself to join in the banter. Even then, it was mostly out of prudence; too long a silence and his warriors would think he was displeased with their work this night. This would shame and anger them, until they might be less willing to follow him. Leave the loyal unrewarded for long enough and there would be no more loyal warriors.

Then such as Aondo would have their momentnor would they likely be honorable enough to offer an open challenge.

"Ho," Seyganko said. "I have never seen the women run off like that. Do you suppose it was catching sight of Aondo that drove them away?"

"If so, I will go without my loinguard next time. They will run to me then, not from me," Wobeku the Swift said. He patted the girl on the shoulder, and did not appear to notice that she stiffened at his touch.

Seyganko hoped that her time among the Kwanyi had not turned her witless. Emwaya would have enough to do, tending her father after he had worked his magic on the captives. She would not thank her betrothed for casting the girl at her hut door like an abandoned puppyand when Emwaya was not grateful, Seyganko and half of his tribe knew it!

Valeria awoke from a pleasant dream of being once again aboard a ship at sea. The touch of the Cimmerian's mighty hand on her shoulder was an intrusion. She wanted to shake it off, go back to sleep, and try to find the dream again.

Instead, she put the memory of sun-dappled water and a salt-tangy breeze from her and sat up. She saw Conan's eyes roving and knew that she was still as near to unclothed as made no difference.

A brief pass of her fingers through her hair told her that comb and brush would have been useless even had she possessed either one. A stout knife, or perhaps a small ax, would be needed to reduce her hair to order.

"Are you well, Valeria?"

"Awake and ready to take my watch, Conan. Is that not well enough?"

"If you doubt"

"I do not doubt my fitness to mount guard. I may doubt your reasons for wishing me asleep and helpless."

Even in the darkness, she could see Conan's massive shoulders quiver as he tried not to laugh. She realized that in truth she had been sharp-tongued with little causeâ€¦ and this in reply to an offer made out of kindness.

Or was it kindness? Valeria had not risen as high as she had in the ranks of the Red Brotherhood without knowing much of the ways of intrigue between men and women, even when the prize was no more than bedsport. When the prize could be gold enough to buy a ship, or fifty women, the intrigues soon grew bloody, and those who did not learn swiftly, died as often as not, anything but swiftly.

One thing she had learned: a man who offered to spare a woman her share of needful duties was apt to have a price in mind for this favor. It was a price she had no mind to pay to the Cimmerian.

Unless he was unlike other men? She had truly met none like himso far from home, yet seemingly equal to any danger, as if he were at home everywhere. Which was perhaps not far from the truth, if half the tales he told were so.

No. In such matters, the Cimmerian would be as other men. Unless he was a eunuch, and Valeria was quite sure he was nothing of the kind. The witch Tascela had made that plain enough; she would never have pursued a eunuch as she had pursued Conan.

Valeria stood up, which did further mischief to her trousers. She looked down at herself in disgust, then wrinkled her nose at the odor of the monkey's hide.

"How long will it take that hide to be fit for a garment?"

"In this damp heat, curing goes slow. We might have to take it with us, let it cure on the march. Unless we can find a salt lick"

Valeria spat, not quite hitting the pegged-out monkey hide. Then she peeled off her trousers and shirt and stood nude for a moment while she arranged the shirt into a loincloth.

"There," she said. "If we'll be in the forest for the most part, the trees will guard my skin."

She could not mistake the admiration in Conan's voice and eyes. "There are insects as well as sun, Valeria."

"What of the spicebush? I thought you said the berries kept away both fliers and crawlers."

"Rubbed on your skin, yes, it does. But it brings some folk out in blisters."

"Better blisters than insect bites everywhere," she said.

Conan shrugged. "You choice, woman. Make yourself a smelly armful, for all that I care. Best be about it quickly, though. I'd like a trifle of sleep after you're done."

Valeria wished that Conan had not seemed quite so determined not to embrace her. She remembered the moment of their final victory in Xuchotl, when his massive arm's around her had seemed not only proper, but pleasant.

If a time like that ever came again, it would certainly not come tonight. She began plucking berries, crushing them and rubbing the juice on her skin, not excepting those parts of her body that would be guarded, she hoped, by the shirt-turned-loincloth.

Exposed to the air, the juice of the spiceberries stank like an untended midden. It certainly kept both flying and crawling creatures from her, though. It also stung like bees on her blistered feet, then swiftly soothed them.

By the time she had garbed herself as best she could and sat down, Conan was lying under the bush. There was barely room for him; his feet thrust into the open at one end and his shoulders brushed the lower branches.

A scream like that of some wretched soul being obscenely sacrificed brought Valeria to her feet. The loincloth nearly parted company; she ignored it and drew her sword.

The scream came again, but this time a faint chattering and squeaking followed it. Some night-prowler finding prey, or perhaps a mate?

Neither was any peril to herâ€¦ she had seen the Cimmerian come awake in an eye blink, ready to fight a moment later. Even now his hand was on the hilt of his sword, although he had the weapon sheathed to protect it from the dampness of the jungle night.

She gazed at that massive hand for some moments, until the dream of sun and a ship at sea gave way to an image of a silk-draped couch in a perfumed chamber, with wine ready to handexcept that both her hands and Conan's were more pleasantly occupied.

Her stomach twitched, and for a moment, she feared that the monkey meat was finally going to take its revenge for her hunger. Then the queasiness passed, and her former fierce pride took its place.

She was Valeria of the Red Brotherhood; she had eaten worse than raw monkey meat and kept it down in earning her name and fortune. She would not let this wretched jungle defeat her, not while that cursed Cimmerian was anywhere in sight to laugh at her!

Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker had for himself room enough for half a score of families of the Ichiribu. Few among the tribe grudged it to him, for all that the land was growing scarce on the island.

No one had sweated to build Dobanpu's house; it was a cave burrowing deep into the hill at the southern end of the island. None doubted that for much of his work with the spiritsand with other beings mentioned only in whispers, if at allhe needed more space than a basket-weaver or a trident-maker. None wished, either, to see or hear much of what Dobanpu did.

Nor did Seyganko, for all that bringing the prisoners to Dobanpu had meant a wearying journey for already tired men to the southern end of the island, then over the beach and uphill to the cave. It was as well that few knew how much of the art of Spirit-Speaking he was learning at Dobanpu's hands.

Already among the people there were mutterings that a woman such as Emwaya should not learn Spirit-Speaking, which they said was a man's wisdom. If she did, then she should not also wed a war chief, to give him her powers as any woman could if she lay with a man.

What would the wagging tongues say if they learned that Dobanpu himself was teaching Seyganko? The warrior knew it would be even harder then to avoid death-duels, or poison in his porridge.

Seyganko sat in the cave with Dobanpu and Emwaya. All three wore headdresses of feathers and crocodile teeth and amulets of fire-stones.

The fire-stones pulsed like beating hearts, growing stronger each moment as Dobanpu and Emwaya chanted the spirits into them.

None of them wore other garb, save a coating of scented oil. To Seyganko's mind, such garb best suited Emwaya. She was of an age to have borne at least two children, and would doubtless bear many fine sons when she and the warrior at last wed. Now, however, her waist remained supple, her breasts high, her long legs well-muscled and strong to wrap about a man

A thought entered Seyganko's mind.

Is this the time for such?

The thought held amusement and pleasure rather than anger. Even had Seyganko not seen the smile on Emwaya's face, he would have known from whence the thought came.

He replied as he had learned, without moving his lips save to return her smile.

It has been some while.

Dignity before the spirits!

None could mistake the source of that thought, although Dobanpu's face bore all the expression of a carved lodge mask. The two lovers instantly straightened backs and composed faces, then gave ear to Dobanpu's chant as it rose higher.

The chant was drawing echoes from deep within the nighted recesses of the cave, far beyond the lamplight, when Dobanpu snapped his fingers at his daughter. Lithe and gleaming in the light, she ran swiftly to a niche behind her father and brought out a basket of small clay pots.

The basket was of reeds soaked in spiceberry juice, the odor intended to drive insects from the herbs, dried fruits, and oils in the pots.

Seyganko had no doubt of its success; it nearly drove him away from the fire.

He drew on a warrior's courage to sit cross-legged and watch as Emwaya drew forth several of the small pots, including an empty one. With pinches of herbs and fruit and a few drops of oil, she concocted a potion and handed it to her father. He dipped a finger in, then licked it off, for all the world like a brew-sister testing her beer. Emwaya smiled, and this time Dobanpu returned the smile without missing a beat of the chant.

To the rest of the Ichiribu, Dobanpu was a figure of awe, even of terror. His daughter knew him too well for thatand he knew that she knew. It was one of many reasons that Seyganko blessed whatever had contrived that he and Emwaya be matched one with the other. He need have no fear of his wife's father.

Now Dobanpu stood and spread his arms wide, then raised them high over his head. Smoke began to curl from the pot, foul-smelling and filled with nightmare shapes dancing on the remote edge of Seyganko's vision.

Emwaya lifted the pot, and the warrior wanted to cry out as the shapes seemed to surround her like a hedge of thorns around a cattle pen. For a moment, she was altogether lost to sight, and to Seyganko, it seemed that even her father's face went taut.

He told himself that the deadliest of the spirits had no visible forms, that these were only little spirits of the woods and waters that Dobanpu had conjured up to reach the captive's mind. He knew he might even believe this after he saw Emwaya safe and whole.

In the next moment, she darted from the smoke and knelt beside her father. Her breasts rose and fell with quick breathing as she gripped her father's shoulder and joined her strength to his. The shapes left the smoke; now they danced in the air above the prostrate form of the Kwanyi captive on the black stone.

The man was too near death to speak, but the other captive, who had not been so badly hurt, had said he served the God-Men. He also said that the God-Men had learned something that put even their servants in fear.

He had not said much of this without some persuasion, but the Ichiribu had men and women expert in such, means. The powers of Dobanpu and his daughter could be saved for times of greater need.

Thunder burst in the cave. The smoke vanished in a brief scream of wind. For a last moment, the smoke was so thick about Seyganko that he fought the urge to claw at it. He held his breath that he might not disturb the spirits by coughing, and his chest grew tight.

The smoke vanished before Seyganko had to breathe. So did the shapes.

The warrior watched them whirl downward into the Kwanyi prisoner. Then he gripped one hand with the other so he might not make a gesture of aversion as the dying captive sat upright and began to speak.

With no voice of his own left, he spoke in the spirit-tongue, which Seyganko did not yet understand. Whatever the spirits were saying had Dobanpu's face twisting in horror, for all that he fought for self-command. Emwaya's eyes were wide, and her hand on her father's shoulder gripped so tight that her nails scored his flesh and her knuckles were pallid.

Thunder came again, this time a distant rumble. Seyganko gazed up at the ceiling of the cave because he could no longer bear to look at the captive. He saw a drop of water fall, to raise a puff of dust from the cave floor. Another drop followed it, then several more, then a steady stream.

No spirits were in that thunder. It was not the rainy season, but seldom did more than two or three nights pass about the Lake of Death without rain. Seyganko resisted the urge to leap forward and stand in the rain streaming down through the smoke hole.

It was as well that he did. Dobanpu's work was not done yet. Indeed, Seyganko could have stalked and slain a wild pig in the time the Spirit-Speaker needed to finish with the captive.

The warrior knew when the end came, though. The captive turned slowly toward Dobanpu. He took a single faltering step forward, then two surer ones before leaping at Dobanpu as would a leopard on its prey.

He never completed the leap. Dobanpu stood like the doorpole of a lodge, but Emwaya flung herself before her father. She moved so swiftly that Seyganko was barely on his feet before she and the dying, vengeance-driven Kwanyi grappled.

It was a short grapple, for all that the Kwanyi had in life been half again Emwaya's size and strength. He could not feel pain, but he could be knocked down. Emwaya sent him sprawling, then gripped one arm. He reached over with the other, groping for a handhold in her hair, meeting only the headdress.

He was still groping when Seyganko brought his club down on the Kwanyi's already battered head. The last spirit-given life fled, and the spirits followed. Thunder rolled again as they leaped from the body and fled up the smoke hole, defying the rain.

Seyganko saw what might have been a bird with four wings and the head of a snake, or something even more unnatural. Then he saw Emwaya turn, eyes wideningand was just in time to help her catch her father as he fell, to all appearances as lifeless as the Kwanyi.

They laid Dobanpu on a bed of rushes; a raised part of the cave floor kept him safe from the growing puddle of rainwater. Emwaya drew a bark-cloth blanket over her father and signed to Seyganko that he should leave them.

Seyganko desperately wished to ask why, but the answer came in the same moment as the question. In the Kwanyi warrior, there had been no common magic. Only arts that Seyganko did not yet have might heal Dobanpu and save his knowledge for his people. Seyganko's duties now lay among the warriors, to lead them if need be, or at least to keep them silent until Dobanpu spoke again.

Seyganko turned back to make sure that the Kwanyi warrior was dead, or to bind him if life was still in him. Then he fought the urge to make gestures of aversion, or even to flee wildly to the open air.

The Kwanyi warrior was gone. Only the outline of his body in the muddy dust remained. No footprints showed his passing; it was as if he had become dust himself.

Seyganko looked at Emwaya, and she glanced up from her father long enough to shrug. When I know, I will tell you was in that shrug, and also the pride he knew so well.

I will come when I am needed, Seyganko replied.

He thought he saw her smile as he backed out of the cave. He would rather not have gone at all. Leaving Emwaya there with what had stolen away the Kwanyi's body was harder than leaving her in the face of a hungry leopard.

He also knew that a warrior who courts a Spirit-Speaker's daughter must learn more than most men about the arts of keeping peace with his woman.

Conan awoke to find a sharp root jabbing him in the ribs. He thought he must have rolled over in the night.

Then he reached full wakefulness and knew that the root was warm, and not as sharp as he had thought. He shifted and looked upâ€¦ from the strong, shapely ankle beside him all the way along the finely turned leg, to the shirt bound as a loincloth about well-rounded hips, and onward to the rest of Valeria.

She left off prodding him with a bare toe and seemed about to smile, Then she shrugged.

"If you think I woke you up for"

Conan was tempted to grip that ankle and see if Valeria's loincloth survived a tumble to the ground. He set the temptation aside. Valeria had belted on both sword and dagger over her new garb and looked as ready as ever to repay such a rough jest with steel.

Now and for some days to come, Conan had more need of a trustworthy comrade at his back than a woman in his arms. "You woke me because it's dawn and time we were on the march. True?"

A jerk of the head might have been a nod.

"Any visitors?"

"None I could not face myself, Cimmerian."

"Ah, so you did not slay the seven warriors. You only drained them of their power with a woman's"

The toe jabbed hard into his ribs, and for a moment, Conan was ready to roll clear of a downward slash of her sword. Then the hand left the sword-hilt, her mouth twisted, and a giggle escaped before turning into a laugh. She sat down and began combing leaves and the odd twig from her hair.

"I've killed men for lesser jests, Conan. Remember that."

"Oh, I shall. But if you kill men for small jests, then I may as well die for the bull as for the calf."

She made a small-girl's face at him and went on combing. In a few more moments, she had done as much as anyone could without a comb, or without hacking her hair off short at the neck.

"As you say, best we were on the march." She licked her lips. "Although I would not refuse some water"

"We'll stop at the first clear stream we find and drink our fill. If there are gourds to be had, we can hollow out a few and fill them, too.

But for now, we'd do better away from here."

"You think we're being followed?"

"I've no way to know, but why make ourselves easy prey? The jungle's much like the seahe lives longest who's not to be found where his enemies expect him."

"So wise in war, Cimmerian?"

Conan was about to make some gruff reply when he realized that there had been less than the usual mockery in Valeria's voice. He looked at her; she flushed all the way to her breasts and then began muttering curses at the lack-witted, effete fools of Xuchotl, who kept jewels and finery in plenty but not a single decent water bottle!

THREE

"Ge-qah!"

Seyganko cried the Ichiribu ritual word for death and flung his trident. It pierced the morning air, then the blue-green water of the Lake of Death.

The vine rope tying it to Seyganko's waist had run out perhaps twice a man's length when the trident also pierced the lionfish below the canoe. Instantly, ripples spread about the canoe; then bubbles and blood joined the ripples.

The lionfish rose, as long and thick as the canoe, with jaws that could, and sometimes did, swallow a child. Blood and body juices the hue of old gold gushed from the trident wound.

Those massive jaws still snapped, and teeth as long as a man's finger clanged together with a noise like a Kwanyi spear on a wooden shield.

The scaly neck plateswith the look of a lion's mane, which gave the fish its nameflapped, as did the gills.

Seyganko waited until the fish's instinct to attack the first thing it saw was aroused. That first thing was the canoe, and the long teeth sank into the hard wood of the dugout. They so nearly met that the warrior knew the canoe would need patching after this day's work.

The wildly thrashing fish jerked at the rope and sent the trident handle whipping about. Seyganko ignored bruises as he raised his club, tossed it, caught it in both hands, and brought it down hard between the two plates over the fish's left eye.

"Ge-qah!"

He spoke the truth. The blow to its most vulnerable spot was death for the lionfish. A shudder went through it from teeth to tail, and its jaws let go their grip on the canoe. Had Seyganko been fool enough to pull the trident loose, it might have slipped away into the depths of the lake and been lost.

As it was, he would have a fine trophy, and a score of the Ichiribu would feast. Any lionfish this large was not the best delicacy, but it was a menace to men; eating it would bring some of its strength and fierceness to those who ate, and avenge any it had slain.

Seyganko tied the fish to the stern of his canoe with the trident cord, sat down, and began paddling toward shore. Even his strength was not equal to bringing the catch aboard, but in water too shallow for other lionfish, it would not be attacked before he could summon help.

Seyganko paddled directly for shore, although this meant landing not far from Dobanpu's cave. He had heard nothing of the man for three days, save that he yet lived and that spirits sent by the God-Men might yet be a danger to him. For these reasons and also, Seyganko thought, out of prideEmwaya had nursed him herself and sent the curious about their affairs.

What she would not say to the curious, Seyganko decided, she might say to her future husband. And the lionfish was worth saving even if he learned nothing from Emwaya. Paddling around the point of the island would give other lionfish time to gather, scent the blood trail, and follow it. In strength, they had been known to attack a canoe.

It was as well that for the most part, lionfish were solitary creatures, each claiming its portion of the lake and driving off all comers save for females in the mating season. Had they commonly hunted in schools like the eunuch-makers did, they would have eaten the lake bare of all life, probably including human.

The canoe was heavy and clumsy with the lionfish trailing astern, but Seyganko's strong arms and well-balanced paddle drove it swiftly toward shore. As the sun rose, it burned off the morning mist, and soon he could see the hill rising from amid the last gray wisps. At last he saw the reed enclosure that let Emwaya draw water, safe from lionfish and crocodiles, and even allowed her to swim when the spirit took her.

Dobanpu must have healed; a dark head broke the water in the enclosure.

Seyganko smiled. If Emwaya was in a good frame of mind, she might let him join her. After they swam together, the most common end was rolling together in the grass.

Then the head grew shoulders and arms, and Seyganko saw that it was the form of a woman, but not of Emwaya. The Kwanyi slave girl was making free with the swimming place, as bare as a babe. In the light of day, and not frightened half out of her wits, she was even a greater pleasure to see than on the night of the raid.

"Where is your mistress?" he called in the True Tongue. She might hate her old masters with a passion, but she could hardly have been among them for long without learning at least a little of their speech.

The girl stood up, shook herself like a dog, then pointed toward the cave. Drops of water silvered by the morning sun sparkled in her hair and trickled down her breasts as she moved about. Seyganko would have thought her unaware of how well she appeared had he not caught a sly look from the corner of one brown eye.

He grinned. Apart from his oaths to Emwaya, which did not allow him another woman save with her permission, he doubted the wisdom of tumbling his betrothed's maidservant. He also knew a sure way of putting an end to her tricks.

"Ho! Woman of Emwaya, I have work for you." Seyganko heaved on the rope until the lionfish's tail was above water. "Come and help me haul this brute ashore!"

The girl took one look at the lionfish, another at Seyganko, then fled toward the mouth of the cave, still bare. Seyganko pulled the canoe ashore, sat down on the girl's waistcloth, and was whetting his trident with a piece of ironstone when Emwaya came down to him.

When he could free himself from her grip and let go of her, Seyganko held her at arm's length. He saw that she seemed paler and thinner than three days of any ordeal would warrant. Or at least any ordeal save one.

"Your father"

"Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker lives. His sleep is now healthy, his dreams clean. I have fed him porridge and water, and they rest well in his belly."

She spoke as if still in a ritual, but he saw unaccustomed moisture in the corners of her eyes. He reached up to brush away the tears, and she gripped his wrists as if they were the last things between her and drowning.

"Seyganko, forgive my weakness. I did not mean you to see me this way"

"No, you are not like that wench you have taken into your service. She meant me to see her as she was swimming."

"I thought as much when she came uphill bare. What did you say to her?"

Seyganko told the truth, and Emwaya rewarded him with a laugh that held some of her usual good cheer. "I will help you with the fish and then have words with Mokossa."

"Is that her name?"

"I think it is the name of her tribe, one living beyond the lands of the Kwanyi. She is not child-minded, but living among the Kwanyi frightened her out of most of the wits she had."

"Not so much that she cannot have eyes for a warrior, I warn you."

"Any woman with sense will have eyes for you, Seyganko. I have just told you that Mokossa is a woman of sense."

"Do you seek to flatter me, Emwaya?"

"I have done so often enough that I do not need to try again."

If she was able to banter like this, she could hardly have dire news.

It was in Seyganko's mind to slip his hands under the waistcloth and undo its knot, and the spirits take the lionfish!

Yet something in her voice

"Did your father learn anything from the servant of the God-Men?"

"I think I can do as well drawing lionfish ashore as Mokossa. Since I do not wish a sodden waistcloth"

"Emwaya." He held her by the shoulders, so tightly that he half feared she would slap him. "Your father brought strong spirits, and he is not one to do that lightly. What did he learn?"

Emwaya shuddered but did not weep or try to pull away. After a moment, she reached up and gently lifted Seyganko's hands from her bare shoulders.

"The spirits were angry at fighting the protection the God-Men put on their servants. Also, I think some of them were hurt."

Spirits could be injured, though not as easily or in the same way as men. Seyganko knew enough of Dobanpu's art to have learned that. If the God-Men had power to put that kind of guarding on their servants

"Are they angry with your father?"

"He said he thought not. Some spirits are friends of the God-Men, others their enemies, or at least enemies of the spirits they command."

Tribal feuds among the spirits! Seyganko silently cursed the spirits, those who made them, those who served them

"The God-Men have learned that Xuchotl the Accursed has fallen."

The words came out as if Emwaya were purging herself of something foul.

Indeed, her face seemed more content, and she leaned against Seyganko and pressed her face into his shoulder. He rested an arm across her back, feeling the fine skin and the strength within, but not seeking anything further now.

"How did it fall?"

"It was hard to tell. It seems that a Kwanyi hunter was seeking game far to the east at the time the city fell. He entered unharmed, explored it, saw that all within were dead, then fled, fearing that its destroyers would come for him. The God-Men learned his tale and gave him to the Living Wind. They seek to hide this knowledge until they know what use to make of it."

If the God-Men had the wits of a leech, they would be asking Dobanpu to join his knowledge to theirs to fight whatever had the power to cast down the Accursed City. Any such being could eat the tribes of the forest as a lionfish ate fingerlings.

The God-Men lacked such wisdom, however. Even if they found it now, Chabano of the Kwanyi would not let them spoil his dreams of conquest.

And Dobanpu would most likely refuse to trust the God-Men even if they and Chabano both asked for his aid. Seyganko hoped he would not have to say the last in Emwaya's hearing. She knew her father could be proud and obstinate, but she had not granted her betrothed the right to say so.

"Who else knows of this among the common folk of either tribe?"

"That, my father could not learn. Do you think the God-Men might try to keep this knowledge from Chabano?"

"It might serve them well if they could," Seyganko answered. "It is said that Chabano is jealous of the power of the God-Men and seeks to wage his wars without them. If the God-Men joined with the power that destroyed Xuchotl, Chabano would be a babe against them."

"They would be mad to think that such a power could serve them!"

"I know that a shaman can do only so much. You know that as well. Both of us learned it from your father, who was born with the knowledge."

Seyganko shrugged. "The God-Men were not so fortunate."

"Curse the God-Men!" Emwaya said fervently. Then it was her hands that danced down Seyganko's back and under his garments, so that it was not she who was the first of them unclothed.

Sun-curing would be needed to finish the work on the monkey's hide to make it a fit garment. Conan held out no great hope of that much sun and offered Valeria his shirt.

She held it against her, then laughed. "As a night-shift, I might accept it."

"My hide's thicker than yours, Valeria, and not bred in Aquilonia."

"If I've survived the sun and salt wind at sea, I'll not broil before this hide cures."

"Or rots."

"Does Crom tell you to look always for the worst, Conan?"

"Crom's not a god to tell anyone anything, at least not for the asking," Conan replied. His grim Cimmerian god was not a jesting matter for him, or for anyone else born in the Northlands, where the name was mighty.

"Is that why you're so often closemouthed?" Valeria asked. Seeing no answer forthcoming, she threw up her hands and fell in behind the Cimmerian.

They had not gone far from their night's camp before a brief but heavy shower soaked them both and left pools of clean water everywhere. They drank, then cut still-green branches from a fallen tree with which to make staffs. With these aiding them, especially the sore-footed Valeria, they made good progress the rest of the morning.

Noon brought them hungry to the bank of a river too deep to wade. Conan studied its surface, eyeing the swirls in the murky water. He studied with equal care the banks of the river, including places where animal tracks ended in patches of churned mud and scattered leaves.

"Crocodiles," he said briefly.

Valeria glowered at the water. "I was thinking we could make a raft and let the river do the work."

"It flows south and west, which is the way we want to go. But we've no tools, and the crocs would have us off a floating log before we'd gone half a league." Conan looked beyond the banks, seeing fallen tree trunks. He saw too few for a raft, and some of those too large for even his strength to roll to the water.

"No, I was thinking we should be hunting for a meal, anyway. Share a beast with the crocodiles, and they may give us safe passage."

Valeria shrugged. "If it works with sharks, it may work with crocodiles. But, oh, that I'd ever be ready to sell my soul for a canoe."

"Sell your body for an ax, and we'd have the canoe," Conan said, then ducked as Valeria lashed at him with a length of vine.

Hunger and the need for silence ended the banter. They found hiding places that commanded two of the low spots on the bank, where the jungle creatures came to drink. Conan suspected they might well have a long wait, as the pools of rainwater would doubtless content the beasts as well as themselves. It might be dark before the animals came, and Conan did not care to match wits with a crocodile after dark.

As a prophet, Conan failed. It was not yet mid-afternoon when a family of wild pigs came huffling and snorting through the bushes. There were five in all: an old boar, a sow, and three piglets following in the wake of their elders.

Using the hand signals of the Barachan pirates, Conan told Valeria to take the sow, or failing that, a piglet. That would do for their own food. He himself would face the boarand any crocodile not sated with that much raw pork was no creature of nature.

Conan thrust that thought aside with the same distaste he felt for all wizardry. Yet he could not forget last night. Had he sensed powerful magic at work not far off ?

It would not have surprised the Cimmerian to learn of such magic. The tales he had heard in Xuchotl suggested that those who built the city might have left magic, as well as stones, behind. Old, evil, tainted magic, perhaps drawing on the lore of the nightmare empire of Acheron.

Even legends did not agree on how far that lore had spread, how long it had lasted, or how deep it had sunk roots into the minds of men.

Nor did legends agree on how a man became a spell-smellerthe name in the north for those who had some further sense beyond the common five
allowing him to discover the working of magic. They did not even agree that such men existed. Some said that it was only a matter of recognizing subtle changes in the natural world, changes that any spell always made.

Conan had never thought much of such arguments, and less than most of that one. If such talk could have made sorcerers forsake their craft and turn into honest men, he would have gladly joined it until his throat was dry. As matters were, he chose not to let his throat dry out in the first place!

Now the boar was sniffing the air with the care of the scout of a host seeking an ambush. It scented nothing. The scant breeze was flowing from it toward the hunters, and both Conan and Valeria had been in the jungle long enough for its smell to partly disguise theirs.

Conan nodded, and Valeria drew her sword. It caught briefly in the scabbard, and the faint scraping as it came free made the boar raise its head. Again it sniffed the wind, and this time the sow moved to stand between her piglets and danger.

The danger that struck first was not the human hunters. Conan did not see the ripple in the stream, but he saw the dripping, tooth-studded jaws burst from the water and close on the sow.

Her squeals raised echoes and sent birds flying and monkeys leaping from every tree within a long bowshot. Valeria leaped from cover, heedless of the boar, sword slashing down at one of the piglets as they scattered.

The boar paid her no attention at first as it lowered its head and tried to gore the crocodile. The reptile, a patriarch of the breed, had flung itself so far up the bank that it could not return at once to the water. Its claws gouged mud, and its tail lashed as it tried to fend off the boar, hold on to the dying sow, and reach the refuge of the river.

At last it succeeded in all three. A bloody swirl in the water marked its escape. Valeria had just sheathed her sword in the neck of a second piglet when the boar turned on her.

Had the boar been a little quicker, the songs sung in later days about Valeria of the Red Brotherhood would have been rather shorter. But she turned, freeing her sword, drawing her dagger, and leaping aside from the boar's rush with a speed that rivaled Conan's. The Cimmerian remembered how deadly she had been in the battles in Xuchotl as her dagger slashed the boar's muzzle.

The great pig squealed in rage and pain and drew back. Its hooves churned up almost as much mud as the crocodile had. It tried to gain footing on the slippery bank for launching a charge, but again it was a trifle too slow. Conan was within sword's reach before the boar could charge. There was no subtlety or art in the way his sword came down on the boar's thick neck. Swordmasters from Zingara to Vanaheim would have cringed at the brutal strength of the blow, more suited to an executioner than a swordsman.

It did not matter to Conan who struck the blow, or to the boar, who fell dead, or to Valeria, who found the boar lying at her feet.

Valeria turned, the battle-light in her eyes, and brushed her hair from her face. The movement of her arm lifted her breasts. Altogether she was a sight to make a man's blood seethe in his veins, the huntress among her prey, silhouetted against the sun-dappled river.

She stood so that once again Conan did not see the warning ripples in the stream. The second crocodile was as large as the first, but not as swift. Also, it exhaled a great, foul, hissing breath as it slid up the bank.

Valeria jumped to safety as the jaws thudded shut an arm's length from her leg. Not watching where she leaped, she landed on a slippery patch, reeled, and staggered hard against the Cimmerian. He clutched at her, drawing her backward with him.

His back came up hard against a red-barked tree. The tree shook and made a rumbling sound like a mill wheel. Instantly sensing a new danger, Conan stepped away from the tree, turning and loosing his grip on Valeria as he did so.

The next moment, the ground vanished from under his feet. He plunged into darkness, taking with him one memory and one hope. The memory was of Valeria's horror-stricken face staring after him. The hope was that she would remember the crocodile at her back rather than fret herself about him.

Geyrus, first among the God-Menor First Speaker to the Living Wind, as he was named in ritualshook his staff. That was not enough to ease his wrath, so he struck the rod hard upon the silver-shot rock at his feet.

The three Cobra Clan warriors cringed, as if they expected the rock to open up at Geyrus's command and swallow them. Their eyes showed only whites, and they held their shaking hands over their mouths in the ritual gesture of supplication.

They would find no mercy from Geyrus, and deserved none.

"Six slain, three taken, and one of my handmaids as well!" he roared.

He could make his voice as loud as a lion's if he chose, though not as easily as he had done in his youth. Then he could have brought Chabano himself to his knees with mouth-magic!

"Forgive" muttered one of the warriors.

"There is no forgiveness for such folly!" Geyrus stormed. "Folly enough in taking her on such a journey at all. Folly ten times worse in losing her to the lake-swimmers!"

He did not use the lion-voice this time. He needed to save his strength, and also, he did not wish all he said to be overheard.

Even in the very house of the Speakers to the Living Wind, there were those whose hearts lay first with Chabano of the Kwanyi. They would not hesitate to tell him any secret of the Servants if they thought it would earn them his goodwill.

"You are dead men," he said more softly. "Yet I am disposed to grant you as much mercy as you deserve. You may choose your death. Shall I give you to the Living Wind? Or shall I give you some other death, of my own choosing?"

The mere mention of the Living Wind made one warrior drop to his knees, a posture he would rather have died than have assumed before a human foe. Geyrus smiled tightly so as to reveal only those of his teeth that still shone white and perfect.

Geyrus understood the warriors' terror. The Living Wind played with those who came to it with unclouded minds, harassing them like a cat with a mouse. Madness and agony came swiftly, and lasted long enough to make death a craved release.

"So be it. You shall meet the fate of any cobra when it crawls too close to the leopard's cubs."

Geyrus did not produce a thunderclap as he completed the spell. The first sound the men heard was the growl as the spell-borne leopards scented prey. Then claws struck golden sparks from the stone as the leopards hurled themselves upon the warriors.

Geyrus had kept his promise. The leopards killed more swiftly than the Living Wind commonly did. Fangs tore out throats, claws ripped bellies, and screams of fear and agony echoed only briefly about the tunnels.

The leopards were feeding lustily on the corpses as Geyrus dropped the stout net across the tunnel.

A time had been when he could have raised a barrier against the leopards entirely by magic. That time of youthful strength was gone, and would not come again. His best now was bringing the leopards when they were needed, and returning them when they slept, sated on human flesh.

Geyrus did not pray to any god who had a name among living men. Nor did he pray to the Living Windit was no god; that had been plain from the earliest days of its Servants.

Instead, he hoped that his not keeping the secret of Xuchotl's fall would do no harm. It was probably a vain hope, inasmuch as neither Chabano nor Dobanpu were fools. Geyrus consoled himself with the thought that if they had been, there would be no challenge, no pride for him in besting them. Both a man's first battles and his last should be against worthy foes.

But that girllost! She alone would earn Seyganko the slowest death any man had ever suffered, after he had watched Emwaya die just as slowly.

Or would it be better to make Dobanpu's unnatural daughter watch her betrothed's death before her own?

Time to decide when he had them both in his hands. Either way would ensure the girl's obedience for the rest of his days. The First Speaker to the Living Wind would sleep in a well-warmed bed, as befitted a victor.

The disappearance of Valeria's Cimmerian companion was swift and silent. One moment, Valeria sensed him at her back; the next moment, her fine-honed battle instincts told her that he was not.

She leaped again, nearly losing her last garment. The crocodile hissed like a pot of stew overflowing into a cook fire and wriggled forward.

Its jawsas long as a child of twelvegaped, then shut again with a clang as if made of iron instead of bone.

Valeria knew something of saltwater crocodiles, having once anchored in a river mouth where they swarmed. She had never been so far from the sea in a land where the rivers also spawned them, but she judged this beast to be much like its seafaring cousins. It would be swift in the water, slow on land, tenacious of life, and slow of wits. Doubtless it was cudgeling those wits for some new way of dealing with her, now that its first lunge had failed.

She could be long gone from the riverbank and any danger from the crocodile if she was ready to abandon Conan to whatever fate had befallen him. Or that he has fallen into, she surmised, seeing as the very earth itself seemed to have swallowed him.

This thought made her next leap cautious, and she thanked Mitra when she landed on solid ground. Then she kicked off her boots. Blisters or no, she had a better feel for any surface under hership's deck or jungle riverbankwhen she was unshod.

She drew dagger to match sword and studied her opponent. It was impossible for her to seek safety at the price of leaving Conan. Not impossible in the sense of against nature, as it would have been impossible for her to grow wings and flybut against her nature and all she had lived by since before she was a woman.

She and the Cimmerian were battle-bound, as surely as by any tie of blood or by oath sworn before a score of priests of as many gods. She would return to serving in a barber's house, or even dance in taverns, before she broke such a bond as she had with Conan.

That he desired her was an annoyance, as a fly buzzing about her head might have been. But one did not strike oneself on the head with a hammer to swat such a fly!

The crocodile hissed again and lumbered forward. Valeria shifted on nimble feet so that she could watch the whole riverbank as well as her immediate foe. The one thing she dreaded most was another crocodile.

The first one would most likely be off gorging itself on the sow, but where there were two of the monsters, there could be three.

She saw no sign of another reptile, but she did see a shallow depression in the ground where the leaf mold and tangled dead vines seemed to sag. If that place had swallowed Conan, perhaps it might be persuaded to swallow the crocodile.

Then the monster lunged forward with a speed that startled her.

Surprise did not slow her, or make her forget that no creature's brain can be far from its eyes.

As the crocodile lunged, Valeria leaped, and more. She twisted in midair, with the grace that had caused more than a few to throw silver, even gold her way in years past. She came down astride the crocodile's spiny back, just behind the massive neck.

Before the crocodile realized that its prey was no longer in sight, Valeria struck. Her dagger drove hard into the scaly hide, seeking a chink, sinking in deep enough to hold her. Then she lifted her sword, reversed the blade, and drove it deep into the crocodile's right eye.

The sword was awkward for stabbing, and nowhere else on the beast would its point have gained entrance. Striking where it did, it reached the crocodile's life.

The hiss turned into a screaming bellow as Valeria leaped free of the creature, as desperately as ever she had leaped from shark-infested water into a boat. The crocodile's tail thrashed wildly, splintering bushes and scoring the bark of stout trees. The legs spasmed, claws frenziedly spraying earth and leaves all over Valeria. Then it gave a final lurch, rolled over, and slammed its head down in the depression Valerian had noted before.

In an uncanny silence, the earth gaped. With a tearing of vines and a snapping of roots, the crocodile upended. For a moment, its tail waved again, as if in its final convulsion the beast was bidding farewell to its slayer. Then the crocodile vanished.

This time the hole did not. Whatever device or spell had closed it previously seemed to be exhausted. It gaped the width of a man's height at Valeria's feet. She looked down into twilight, then into a darkness as complete as the deepest abyss of the sea.

She swallowed. She could not drive out of her thoughts the notion that not even Conan could have survived such a fallâ€¦ or that if he had, the crocodile might have finished what the fall began.

She would never know, however, save by going down herself and finding the Cimmerian, or his body. She refused to contemplate what she would face if he were alive but helpless from hurts taken in the fall.

"Conan," she muttered, "my life might have been simpler had you never left Cimmeria."

Yes, and doubtless shorter as well.

The voice in her mind was not altogether Conan's, but close enough to make her start.

So be it. She had been a climber from childhood, and once a sailor had said of her that she had eyes in her fingers and toes. That would help.

So would a stout length of vine, or several lengths bound and braided to support her weight.

The dead vines were too rotted for such work, but there was no shortage of live ones. Valeria had her vine rope before the sun-dappling of the river had greatly changed. She finished her labors by tying a slipknot in one end of the rope, slinging her boots by their laces about her neck, and making a sword-thong of vine.

The vine would not serve well for either rope or thong as would good Shemite leather, but Valeria was no stranger to making-do. For the climb, she would use the thong to bind her sword across her back, but once on solid ground, the weapon would come into service.

She had finished all the work she could do in the gods' own daylight, on a jungle riverbank that now seemed a pleasant vantage compared to the blackness at her feet. The rest of her duty lay below.

She breathed deeply until she was as calm as could be hoped. Then she lowered her feet over the edge of the hole and began her downward climb.

FOUR

Conan's fall began with ill fortune, which swiftly changed for the better. Had it been otherwise, the stories of many men and not a few realms would have been vastly altered.

He was no spell-smeller, or he might have sensed the magic binding the ground at the mouth of the pit. Then again, perhaps not. It was old earth-magic, and the names of those who discovered it had been lost to human memory long before Atlantis was even built, let alone before the oceans swallowed it.

The art had not been lost, however. The sorcery known to the builders of Xuchotl partook of it. Nor was the doomed city the only creation to which they had turned their magical arts. Deep within the jungle they also built and wrought mighty works, at a time when the Black Kingdoms were but bands of feuding tribesmen.

It was one of these leavings that Conan had encountered. The earth gaped beneath his feet, he plunged down into darkness briefly lit from above, then continued his plunge in darkness deeper yet as the pit closed above him.

Thrice he struck earthen walls that yet seemed too solid and smooth to be altogether natural. These blows slowed his fall somewhat, but also drove the breath from his lungs. He had just regained it when he struck for a final time, where the wall of the pit had crumbled under the inexorable thrust of the roots of some forest giant. The blow took him across the chest and would have cracked, or even crushed the ribs of any lesser man.

With the Cimmerian, it drove out the barely regained breath and tossed him like a child's ball into the mouth of a tunnel entering the other side of the pit. He struck, half slid and half bounced ten paces, then lay there while earth quivered, rumbled, and fell from the mouth of the tunnel.

He would gladly have lain until his breath returned, but instinct told him that the mouth of the tunnel was only precariously bound by whatever magic ruled here. Lying thus in momentary comfort could end in swift and final burial.

Iron fingers seemed to clutch his chest as he crawled, but the sound of still-falling earth drove him onward. He was sweating with more than his exertions when at last silence fell again, broken only by his harsh breathing.

Probing his ribs with his fingers, he found nothing broken, although he would wager the price of a good inn that he would have the mother and father of all bruises by morning. His breathing had slowed, and cautiously he sat up.

Then a rumble and a series of thuds sounded from the mouth of the tunnel. They rose to a crescendo, but faded as swiftly as they came.

Something large had followed him into the pit and plummeted all the way to its distant bottom, as he had not.

He told himself that the sound was too heavy to be Valeria. That kept the ill-luck thought from his mind that she would surely follow him down if she bested the crocodile. She had that loyalty to a battle comrade that defies common sense, and that Conan himself also lived by.

The mouth of the tunnel was now two-thirds blocked by fallen earthand Conan was thunderstruck to realize that he could see this. He was no longer in utter darkness worthy of the deepest slave-pits of Stygia.

He turned and looked down the tunnel. It sloped away into shadow but was clearly visible for some fifty paces or more. At the very edge of the Cimmerian's vision, the walls seemed to turn from earth into stone, and carved stone at that.

Over all played a subtle light that at one moment seemed sapphire-hued, at the next, as crimson as a fine ruby. Trying to follow the changes of color made Conan dizzy, and in time he ceased his efforts. The light was magic, no doubt, and he was uneasy in the presence of magic. But he would be a cursed deal uneasier in total darkness, and that light might give him a way out of here without Valeria's risking her neck to climb down to him!

Now, if he had some way to tell her thatâ€¦

Valeria knew that the air had to be cooler this deep in the earth. It only seemed hotter, as though she were climbing down the throat of a volcano toward the molten rock bubbling far below, ready to turn her to ashes should her grip fail for a moment.

"By Erlik's thews!" she muttered. "Forget what you've learned about not letting your fancies run wild, you silly wench, and you will fall."

It was not a fancy that sweat covered every bit of exposed skin, turning into slimy mud where earth had fallen on her from the walls.

Her loincloth clung to her, as sodden as a jellyfish, and even her boots seemed to have become heavier with the dampness of the air in this pit.

Truth was, she had never climbed so long and with such precarious holds for hands and feet. Compared to this climb, the time she had raced a shipmate from bow to stern over the masthead on a wager was a child's game. It did not-help, either, that her life had not been at stake in that race.

Groping feet touched a flatter surface. A ledge? Something besides the wall of the pit, anywayâ€¦ but test it first before putting full weight on it, let alone undoing the rope from its moorings above.

"Hooaaa!" The voice seemed more a specter's than a man's as it floated up from below like smoke. Valeria's feet groped for purchase on the ledge, until at last she found a spot whereupon to stand. She left the vine rope in place, though, as she stared downward.

The mouth of the pit was now so far above her that its light barely let her count the fingers of a hand held in front of her face. Beneath, all was blackness. Or was it? From well below, on the far side of the pit, a dim glow seemed to battle the darkness, like distant fireflies on a moonless night.

Except that no firefly ever blinked in those hues of blue and redno natural firefly, at least. But the laws of nature might not bind whatever lived down here.

Valeria shuddered. She had no more taste for magic than the Cimmerian did, if the truth were known, and for much the same reasons. Magic made honest war skills useless, and made its users more often than not as twisted as the street of her native village in Aquilonia! Tascela was the worst sorceress she had seen, which made her thank the gods that she had not seen some of the wizards Conan said he had fought.

There would be time to fret over whether Conan had been spinning tales when she knew that the voice below was hisâ€¦ and when she had rejoined him.

"The sea frees us," she called. It was a password of the Red Brotherhood. Only Conan in this jungle was likely to know the reply.

"The land binds us," came the reply. Valeria's knees quivered with relief, but she did not move otherwise.

"Conan! Where are you?"

"In a tunnel, beyond where you see the light. I"

A clod of earth bounced off Valeria's head and spun away into the abyss. She looked up. Was it her fancy, or was the hole above smaller, the light from it dimmer?

The light was surely fading; her hand was now only a blurred, fingerless shape. The glow from below was holding steady, but it could not take the place of the trickle of daylight from overhead.

"Conan! Something's happening to the light. I'll try to climb down until I'm opposite you, then throw my rope across. How wide is the pit where you are?"

"Wide enough that your pet crocodile didn't stick in its gullet when you sent it down to join me," the reply came. "Best you move quickly, though, if the light's going."

She heard hints of more danger than that in his voice, and was briefly angry at his hiding the truth from her. Reason replaced anger and told her that he might not know all the truth himself. If he did, he would tell it to woman, king, or god!

The rope was near its end when Valeria found a foothold on a huge curving root opposite the mouth of the tunnel. At least she felt the bark under her feet; the light from above was almost gone. Then Conan's head and massive shoulders nearly blocked the light from the tunnel below. She saw now that the mouth of the tunnel was heaped with freshly fallen earth, and understood what Conan feared.

She had not been so desperate for silence since her brief days as a cutpurse. Even the faint hiss as the slipknot loosened and the rope came free seemed to batter her ears like thunder. The end of the rope flew past her, down into the pit; then she gripped her end and began hauling it in.

She was hauling vigorously when the rope suddenly went taut in her hands. Caught on another root, she thought. Then it began jerking up and down. Caught it was, but by something alive in the depths of the pitand, she would wager, not by anything as innocent as a crocodile.

Valeria would gladly have faced a score of crocodiles rather than what might even now be climbing from the depths. She did not let fingers or voice shake, however, to give any hint of her fear. She flung her end of the rope across the pit, saw Conan grip it firmly, then heaved with all her strength on the bight of the vines.

For the longest moment of Valeria's life, it was an even contest which would break firstthe vine or the grip of whatever lay below. Then, suddenly, the rope shot up like a flying fish. Valeria seized the free end and hastily bound it about her waist.

The rope was covered with a foul ichor that might have oozed from a vast pustule, and now she heard slobbering and gulping noises from below. Not far below, either, and she would have to swing down to cross the pit. The root offered no foothold fit for a leap.

"Conan!" she called.

"I hear it, too. Jump, Valeria!"

She would drop no farther if she missed her jump than if she swung down, then climbed. Not as far, indeed, for Conan was drawing in the rope until it stretched taut across the gap.

Valeria braced herself, flexed her legs, pressed her hands hard against the wall, and thereby dislodged several more clods of earth. They fell into darkness, and it seemed that the slobbering and gulping grew louder yet.

The pirate woman took the deepest breath of her life, as if enough oxygen in her body would float her over the nightmare gap. Then she leaped.

She was in midair for only a heartbeat, but that was long enough for something to reach up from below and pat her. Its touch was as light as a kitten's, yet it burned like a hot iron.

Then she was on the far side, clawing up over the tumbled earth, listening to the howl of a hunter balked of prey echo up and down the pit and into the tunnel. More earth fell from the walls and ceiling.

Conan dragged her the rest of the way over the pile by one arm and her hair.

In the process, her loincloth at last deserted her, and she was bare except for weapons and boots as she tumbled at the Cimmerian's feet.

For once he seemed to ignore that state, dragging her upright.

"Can you walk?"

"I can run, to get away from that!"

The howling in the tunnel had not diminished, and now Valeria heard another fierce sound joining it.

The walls of the pit were shuddering, as she wanted to do, and she saw masses of earth the size of a man plunge past. She also heard them strike something not far below with an ugly, sodden sound.

Then the roof of the tunnel mouth joined the shuddering, and neither Cimmerian nor Aquilonian needed any further warning. They scrambled down the tunnel, slowing only when they felt stone under their feet, not stopping until they heard the rumble of great masses of falling earth behind them.

A mephitic breeze wafted from the mouth of the tunnelor rather, from where the mouth of the tunnel had been. Whether the whole pit had collapsed, they could not say. But the way back was now blocked by a solid mass of earth that seemed to glare at them in defiance of any puny efforts they might make to shift it and escape.

Not that Valeria had the slightest intention of returning by way of the pit, when its inhabitants might still be alive and hungry. Perhaps that wall of earth between her and them was not so dire a fate as she had thoughtunless the pit creatures could carve a path through it, or they had kin somewhere in the tunnel beyond.

As to the first, the best course was swift flight. As to the second, keen eyes and keen steel would have to be enoughthat, and a prayer or two, if any god could hear them from these deeps.

She pointed a bare arm down the tunnel. Conan nodded and fell in at the rear, for the moment the post of greater danger. Valeria recognized this, and also that Conan's eyes now roamed over her with concern for any hurts she might have taken.

But there was hardly a price she would not have paid to be able to climb into a hot bath!

Conan took the rear guard until they reached a place where the tunnel divided; there were no sounds of pursuit behind or of life ahead. That this was no natural tunnel was by now made plainer than ever by the remains of incredibly ancient tool marks and patches of stain and corrosion that might once have been bronze or iron.

At the dividing point, Conan examined Valeria's ankle. It showed an ugly dark mark, like the worst sort of burn, but the pain was fading and the ankle would support her weight. Like his ribs, it would slow neither weapons nor feet, depending on what seemed the best way of meeting any danger.

"Now, you will take the shirt off my back, or I'll know why," he said.

"Garbed as you are, you'd adorn a royal palace, but I doubt we'll be finding many palaces down here. Their dungeons, perhaps, and the bones of those held in them, but little else."

"You need not soothe me, you son of a he-goat."

"Ha! You've your spirits back. Perhaps you need no clothes then, since without them, you're double-armed, steel and womanhood!"

"Give me that shirt," she snapped, then laughed loud enough to raise echoes. She looked about her while the echoes died, then almost snatched the garment the Cimmerian held out to her.

It came down to mid-thigh. Conan cut the sleeves into strips and bound them around Valeria's feet to protect the blisters until further walking toughened the skin. So clad, with her hair a tangle any honest bird would have disdained to nest in, and her boots dangling from a thong about her neck, Valeria would have been flung into the street from the cheapest waterfront tavern.

Or she would have been but for her sword and daggersand also for the look in her eyes that said any hand touching her against her will would not return to its owner intact, if at all.

Conan needed no further warnings in that matter. Indeed, he was grateful for the skill and luck that had allowed her to keep her weapons. They would be fighting again before they ever saw daylight, even if the battle was against foes where steel could do no more than give man or woman a clean death.

Valeria found little pleasure in her present situation save being alive. Also, the Cimmerian's presence might well keep her so longer than otherwise. He had been as formidable against natural foes as against magical ones, and for rather more years than she had followed the warrior's path.

Where the tunnel divided, one way sloped upward, the other down. They halted, Valeria set her back against the wall and looked to the rear, and Conan briefly explored in both directions.

Valeria did not enjoy being even briefly alone here in the bowels of the earth. But she could master her fancies now; she would wait for real monsters to leap from the shadows before she let herself fear. She passed the brief time of waiting by unrolling the sword-thong from about her waist and linking sword and wrist securely. She hoped she would have no call for more climbing, and likewise that the damp air would keep the vine supple and strong should she need it.

Conan returned swiftly. "The way down leads to water, deeper than I'd care to try. And that's leaving out what might be in the water."

Valeria held her nose. "Something that reeks like a days-old battlefield, from what's on you."

"That, and more. I saw statues, kin to the oldest idols I saw in the Black Kingdoms. I'm more than ever certain that someone built this warren."

"But why?"

"Like as not, to save a trek through the jungle. Let's hope it's fit to do the same for us." He looked at the upward-sloping way. "If I'm not altogether turned about, that leads back the way we came."

"Better the jungle we know than what might be down here," Valeria said fervently. "That beast in the pit sounded like something that could have eaten Xuchotl's Crawler for lunch and the dragon in the forest for dinner."

Conan said nothing, but took the lead. For three hundred paces, the tunnel sloped upward. Valeria began to hope that it might rise so close to the surface that they could make a way for themselves. If another tree had thrust a root down

Disappointment came swiftly. Not only were the tunnel walls intact, save for one place where a niche had crumbled, but the floor began to slope downward as steeply as it had risen. It also grew as slick as if it had been oiled.

The light did not fade, and Valeria now began to make out paintings on the wall. Or at least they might have been paintings. They also might have been patterns of tiny jewels set into the stone; they seemed to sparkle. Trying to see which, Valeria looked closely at one patternand found that it changed before her eyes, from one beast to another, and then to yet others.

One beast was a lion, another a great fish, and she hoped that the third was a dragon. The rest were things that she decided she would not care to look at too closely, let alone meet.

Although the light did not fade, Valeria began to feel moving air brush against her skin. Her nose wrinkled at the growing reek of something long dead and thoroughly rotten. She tore another strip from Conan's shirt and bound it over her nose, and the Cimmerian did likewise.

Past a curve where a slab of wall had fallen to half block the tunnel, they came to a cavern the size of a royal hall. The light seemed to cling to the floor, so that the roof of the cavern was lost in shadow.

The far wall, a good bowshot away, was likewise dimmed.

The floor of the cavern was almost lost under a carpet of fungi. They grew in great slabs, rising as high as Valeria's waist; for the most part, they were pale and flabby but with streaks of a more wholesome brown color running through them. From their stems dripped a greasy fluid that turned the soil beneath to a noisome muck, and more than a few of them had the appearance of being half-eaten.

This time the two explored together. Unspoken but plain was the agreement that no one should go with unguarded back in this cavern.

As they circled the walls, they found more fungi that looked as if they had been gnawed at. One entire patch of soil had been eaten bare, with fresh fungi already sprouting among the rotting fragments of the old ones.

"These things grow fast," Conan observed. "Fast enough, I wager, for something to browse on them."

Halfway around the cavern, they found the fungi growing thicker than ever, and the smell of decay the strongest. Valeria stepped forward and slashed at the largest slab with her sword. It fell apart in a crumbling mass of dust and spores, revealing a massive ribpart of the remains of some unearthly creature.

"Something did browse on them, Conan," she said.

She could not help looking about the cavern. "Now they're eating it."

"If beasts can eat them" he said.

Valeria's stomach twisted, and the last of the monkey nearly left her.

"Birds and monkeys are a good test. Whatever that creature was, it might have been born of magic, left over from the days of the tunnel-builders. Who knows what it could stomach that would kill us?"

"True enough, but we've found nothing else to eat, and no water fit to drink. These look like they might have water inside."

"Ahâ€¦"

"I'll try a bit first. If my fingers and toes don't turn green and fall off"

"Ha! A Cimmerian's no better than this beast for testing what common folk can eat. I've seen you eating what they served at the soldiers'

taverns in Sukhmet!"

"Better fare than the rations, I'd say."

Valeria threw up her hands in mock disgust. "If you've a belly and bowels of iron, perhaps. I'd rather eat salt beef three years in the cask. By Erlik, I'd rather eat the cask!"

"A trifle hard on the teeth, for my taste," Conan said.

Valeria noted with amusement that he still approached the fungus as if it were a venomous snake, probing with his dagger, and only then slicing. He was also careful to catch the slice before it struck the ground. When he put it to his mouth, he bit off a portion that might have fit in a thimble with room to spare.

After a moment's chewing, he swallowed. "Greasy as a Stygian harlot's hair," he said. "Otherwise, I've eaten worse."

"How long would it take you to remember when and where?"

"Oh, give me a year or so" He broke off and cupped a hand to one ear.

Valeria imitated him, her other hand on her sword, but heard nothing.

"Could be a trick of the echoes in this tomb," Conan said at last.

Valeria wished he had not used that word.

The Cimmerian cut off another, slightly larger piece of the fungus and disposed of it as he had the first. When it went down, he licked his lips.

"Greasier than the first, but nothing else against it," he said. "Wait a bit, to see how it sits in my stomach"

The sound was half growl, half scream, and altogether ghastly. The cavern picked it up, hurling echoes back and forth until it seemed to Valeria that they might be inside a giant drum beaten by a madman.

She would almost rather have been mad than to have seen what came lumbering into the cavern from another tunnel. It was as high as a man at the shoulders, with great plates of bone jutting from behind its eyes to guard its thick neck. Crimson orbs the size of melons glared at them past two stout horns thrusting forward from the beaked muzzle.

With its tail, it was longer than a ship's boat, and from the way it sank into the ground, it was as heavy as an elephant.

Another dragon, and no Apples of Derketa to slay it. That was Valeria's first thought. A brighter one followed on its heels. I have good company for a last battle.

As if they had been fighting-partners for years, Valeria and Conan spread apart so that the creature could not attack both of them at once. Valeria studied the horns and headplates. If neither were too sharp, they offered handholds. Then a good thrust with sword or dagger might serve this beast as it had the crocodile.

Instead of attacking, the beast cried out again. It seemed to wait for an answer, or perhaps for the echoes to die. Then it still did not attack. It lumbered forward to the edge of the fungi, lowered its broad muzzle, and bit off a clump.

"That brute's no dragon," Conan called. "It's the fungus-eater."

"Then what killed the other" Valeria began.

In the next moment, she had what might have been the answer to her question. Dim-sighted it might be, but the creature's hearing was keen enough. It turned toward the voices, and Conan signaled urgently for silence.

Valeria needed no urging. She opened the distance between her and her comrade still wider. If dim enough of sight, the beast might not be able to see two foes, let alone attack them. Then one of them might die, but the other would have a chance at the kill.

If the creature saw them, it gave no sign of it. Valeria wondered if it was so scant of sight that it could spy only movement. After a moment, it lowered its head and resumed feeding.

The creature was no dainty eater. It slobbered and crunched its way through a patch of fungus as large as an Aquilonian kitchen garden. Its eating, it belches, and its footfalls raised more echoes. A cavalry trumpet in its ear might have won its attention, but scarcely any lesser sound.

Sated, it lifted its head and lumbered toward the body of the other creatureits victim, perhaps, in a battle to the death over this caveful of food. It reached the body, snuffled noisily about it, then lifted its head again and gave its challenge louder than before.

Valeria felt as if hot nails were driving into her ears, but she did not take her eyes off the creature. It might be dim of sight and unable to hear much over the sound of its own feeding, but it seemed able to scent the trace of a stranger.

Silently, Conan waved at her to come closer. Still watching their visitor, she knelt, then crawled on hands and knees through the fungi.

The Cimmerian stood as still as a temple image, watching the beast make the rounds of the wall, until she reached him.

"We'll have to face him now," he whispered. "He's caught the scent of some stranger on his territory. If we don't kill him, he'll hunt us until he catches us off guard."

Valeria was ready to agree. The beast's jaws were flat, bony plates, with no more teeth than a chicken's beak. They were also large enough to swallow her whole, and strong enough to crack Conan's bones like twigs.

They separated again. They were forty paces apart when a puff of air wafted from the tunnel by which they had entered the cavern. It blew past them, and Valeria willed limbs, and even breath to stillness as she waited for the beast's reply.

It cameanother screaming, thundering challenge. The echoes had not begun to die when it charged. Like a heavily laden ship in heavy seas, it labored through the fungi, trampling some, shredding others. It held its head low, horns thrusting forward like the ram of a galley. Valeria remained still as the beast surged between them.

In the next moment, Conan shot forward like a stone from a sling. His hands gripped the upper horn, and he vaulted clear over the beast's muzzle, aiming for its neck.

Somehow, his iron grip failed him. The leap sent him sprawling across the neck instead of landing safely astride. He slid off and landed rolling, parting company with his sword in midair.

Valeria filled her lungs in a single desperate breath and let out the shriek of a soul in torment. The beast's head turned toward her. The gods might be thinking it was Conan's day to die and hers to kill, but Valeria of the Red Brotherhood let neither man nor god decide such matters for her.

Clearly, the sensing of two enemies was more than the beast's dim wits could endure. It cried challenge again, and began to back away.

"Togethernow!" Conan roared.

That drew the beast toward him, but he was on his feet and fully armed again. Valeria had seen before that the Cimmerian could move forward and backward with equal speed; now she saw him do it again. As he gave ground, he drew the beast after him, and it seemed to forget that it had ever sensed a second opponent. Against Valeria, that was a death sentence.

She sprang forward, light-footed as a cat, leaping successfully where Conan had failed. She ended straddling the neck. She gripped the edge of the neckplates and lunged to her feet, ready to stab.

As she did, the beast reared up on its hind legs. With the swiftness and agility learned high in the rigging of half a score of ships, Valeria entrusted her sword to the wrist-thong and gripped the neckplates with both hands. Both thong and hands did their duty as Valeria dangled from the neckplates like a puppet. The beast hissed, growled, and screamed all at once, then tossed its head, trying to rid itself of the distracting nuisance.

This gave the Cimmerian his chance for a stroke at the beast's unprotected throat. His sword sang as it parted air, hand-sized scales, and the flesh beneath. Driven by all the strength of two brawny arms, the sword slashed clean through to the beast's life.

Its next cry bubbled and hissed, and sprayed a mist of blood everywhere. It did not fall, though, and Valeria heaved herself onto the neckplates. For a moment, she balanced there as if atop a mast swaying in a storm, displaying the grace of one who had done that many times.

Then her sword slashed at thin bone between the crimson eyes. The next moment, she was flying through the air as if the mast had snapped. She landed among the fungi, which broke her fall and coated her in their grease.

As she struggled to her feet, she saw Conan leading the beast away from her. It was bleeding generously now, and clearly all but blind, yet it would not fall! Valeria cursed whatever misbegotten sons of flea-bitten apes had conjured up this creature with its unnatural life.

As if her curse had been a spell, the thing seemed to find new strength. It lunged at Conan, and the Cimmerian had to break into a run to stay ahead of it. The jaws clanged and clashed, and the beast swung toward the tunnel from which Conan and Valeria had entered the cavern.

It swung toward the opening, then charged with single-minded frenzy, as if the answer to all of its woes lay in that tunnel. The charge carried it across the cavern faster than Valeria could have run, and she caught only a brief glimpse of Conan staying ahead of the jaws.

Then Cimmerian and monster together reached the mouth of the tunnel.

Conan's war cry, the creature's last challenge, and the rumble of falling rock blended into one ear-torturing din. Echoes stormed about the cavern, doubling and redoubling themselves.

Valeria knelt and watched a vast cloud of dust belch from the tunnel.

Nothing remained visible outside it but the tip of the beast's tail, thrashing feebly. Then the thrashing subsided to a twitching, and even the twitching ended.

Valeria commanded her hands to stop shaking and her knees to hold her up, and walked toward the fallen tunnel. She had no clear idea of what she would do when she reached it, other than seek Conan's body. If it was only caught under the beast and not under the fallen stones, she might be able to carve a way through the beast's flesh

A massive, dark form took shape out of the dust cloud.

Valeria crammed her free hand into her mouth to stifle a scream. Her sword rose in the other, as much good as it might be against a spirit

"Valeria!"

Valeria's mouth opened, but no sound came out. She did not drop her sword, and she was still rooted to the spot when Conan reached her.

His arms around her were so comforting that she wondered why she had not asked for them many times already. After a little while, she stopped shaking, and after a while longer, she found her voice again.

"It's as well I didn't need to go after you a second time. I've hardly a rag to spare, and that beast's hide looks too tough to cut up for garments."

Conan shrugged. "I've told you what your best garb is. If you won't believe me, that's only proof that you don't trust men."

"I give men all the trust they deserve," Valeria said with dignity. She held her thumb and forefinger about a hairbreadth apart. "At least that much." She was relieved to see that her hand was steady.

"We'd best be on our way before this uproar draws all our friend's kin," Conan said. "But there's no going back the way we came. It's solid with fallen stone where it isn't solid with dead beast."

It did nothing for Valeria's spirits to see that the only other way out of the cavern sloped sharply downward. But at least there was light as far ahead as she could make out, and a dampness in the air that hinted of water.

She turned, to see Conan slicing off a clump of fungi as large as a hunting dog. "Rations for the journey?" she asked. Her stomach wanted to heave at the thought, but she was hungry enough that it rumbled instead.

"Why not?" Conan replied, tossing the fungi to her. "If it killed quickly, I'd be dead along with that beast. If I'm still alive at our next halt, I'll say it doesn't kill at all."

Valeria tucked the mass of fungi under her arm and sheathed her sword.

"Conan, you have too cursed many ways of making a woman wish to keep you alive!"

FIVE

Conan led the way down the tunnel. If danger should arise, it would most likely come from another beast, drawn by the din of the first one's death. It could also come with the Cimmerian's blessing, if it waited until he and Valeria were safely out of its path!

The tunnel sloped steadily downward, and the air grew damper. It was not as foul as one would have expected, though, as far underground as it lay, and with so much death and rottenness about.

Conan found small relief in that. Ancient magic must be all about them here, shedding light, cleansing the air, and giving life to who-knew-what monstrosities besides those they had already met. A sword and the untamed jungle before him would be his choice, but every step they took seemed to take them farther into the bowels of this warren.

Clearly, the beast and its kin had passed this way many times. Even the hardest rock of walls and floor was scored by claws and scales. Loose scales in half a score of hues had drifted like autumn leaves into crannies and windings of the tunnel. In one place, a bronze post the thickness of Conan's arm had bent almost double under the onrush of something swift, strong, and massive.

Once the tunnel branched, and Conan thought he saw a slight upward slope in the floor of the branch, at the very limits of his vision.

This proved no trick of the light, but fifty paces farther on came a bend, and just beyond that, a dead end.

Nor was the dead end a natural rockfall. An enormous door of stone slabs set in what seemed to be a frame of gilded bronze blocked the way. Conan saw that it slid to and fro in bronze grooves that led into niches on either side of the tunnel.

The least of the slabs had to weigh more than the Cimmerian, and the thinnest metal rods of the frames were thicker than Valeria's legs.

Some of the rods were wrought in the shape of serpents, and more serpents writhed across the slabs, some of them painted in tiny jewels, others cunningly carved.

Conan did not care to think what spells might be needed to move this door. Spells, or perhaps some device that would rival those of drowned Atlantis and make a siege-engine of Khitai seem a child's toy.

"Some of those serpents have green eyes," Valeria whispered. The awe of this place and its ancient works was in her, too. "Are they meant to be the Golden Serpents?"

Conan studied the shapes. The gilding was worn in places and tarnished in more, but, in truth, the eyes of all the serpents, carved or painted, were tiny green jewels. Studying them yet more closely, he saw that the jewels seemed to glow from within like the fire-stones they had seen in Xuchotl.

"Ha! Perhaps we've found where the Golden Serpents laired in ancient times," he said. "They would be cause enough for a door like this. It would stop a galley's ram."

"Then let us hope it does its work until we are out of these caves,"

Valeria said.

"Woman, where is a true pirate's heart?" Conan scoffed. He thrust a forefinger against Valeria's ribs.

She lightly batted his hand away. "Down in her boots, I confess, although I'll geld you if you breathe a word of it." She rubbed her stomach. "Her stomach's about to follow." She looked at the fungi under her arm. "Are these really fit to eat?"

"They haven't killed me yet."

"Just let me eat my fill, and no doubt you will writhe and die the moment afterward."

The bronze door would have guarded their backs nicely, but who could say what lay on the other side? Also, if one of the beasts should catch their scent and come down the branch tunnel, they would be trapped.

So they returned to the junction of the tunnels to eat. "Tastes like raw sea slugs," Valeria said after a few mouthfuls.

"And how are they? I've heard of them, but also that they're poison if not cooked."

"It's not the cooking that takes out the poison. There's a spot in the head that needs cutting out, or one slug can kill a ship's crew. A cunning hand with a knife can do the work, though, and then the slug's called a rare treat in some lands. Mostly farther south than we've sailed, but during one hot summer, the slugs spawned farther north than usual."

They finished as much fungus as seemed wise, in a silence that was almost companionable. Conan vowed that if he and Valeria lived to reach a land with civilized eating-houses, he would buy her a meal she would not soon forget.

Meanwhile, they had traveled long enough and far enough to be weary.

They tossed a piece of fungus for who kept first watch, and Conan won the honor.

"Need we keep watches at all?" Valeria asked. She pressed a hand lightly against the Cimmerian's battered ribs. He drew a deep breath, but not from any pain her touch gave him.

"I've no wish to end up in the belly of one of those beasts, or to be trampled by one, either. And they may not be all that roam down here."

"Now you have made it certain that I will not sleep for the waking nightmares you just gave me!" Her pouting, though, was largely pretense.

Conan gripped Valeria's hand and gently thrust it away. "Lose no sleep over me, at least. I've had worse hurts as a boy, falling off a roof my father and I were thatching."

"As you wish, Conan," Valeria said. She turned and settled down from where she could watch in all directions. Conan allowed himself a moment to admire the fine, straight back that plunged down from the long neck to the well-rounded hips. Then he placed his steel ready to hand, kicked off his boots, and lay down to seek as much slumber as a man might win from a cold stone floor with magic all about him.

The hut where Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker slept when he visited the largest Ichiribu village was a place of shadows and subtle odors. It almost seemed to Seyganko that a tame spirit lurked in the grass of the roof, driving out the light.

The odors mingled grass, cooking smoke, the smoke of fires made with herbs, and the oil that Emwaya rubbed into her skin. Seyganko remembered the first time she had allowed him the honor of rubbing it in. His body tautened with remembered and anticipated desire.

In her corner of the hut, Emwaya sat like a carved image. She wore the plainest of waistcloths and only a single bone ornament in her hair, and her face was somber as she shifted her gaze from her father to her betrothed.

"You asked what we must do, Father?" she asked.

"In plain words," Dobanpu replied. His voice was the strongest part of him remaining, although he had not wholly lost the stout thews and broad shoulders of his youth. He had seen nearly sixty turns of the seasons and outlived all the children of his first wives, and all but Emwaya from his second family.

Some said he had suffered these losses as the price of all the time he had spent in the spirit world. Even those who said this whispered it.

When they spoke aloud, they praised the courage with which he had borne his losses. They did doubt aloud the wisdom of his teaching his daughter the art of Spirit-Speaking, but only when Emwaya was not in hearing. Some called her tongue the deadliest weapon among the Ichiribu.

Dobanpu rose, stretching limbs cramped by long sitting. "Very surely, I want to know your thoughts as to what we must do," he said. "I did not go against all custom in teaching you my arts to have you sit as mute as the frog-queen in the tale of Myosta!"

"You asked, I answer," Emwaya said. "We must watch Aondo. Or better yet, find a way to take his weapons."

"Aondo is needed among the warriors," Seyganko said.

"Even at your back?"

"Properly watched, even at my back," the warrior asserted. "We can do nothing against him without dishonor and insult."

"If he feels insult, he can challenge you. That will be the end of him."

Dobanpu laughed softly. "Daughter, you have more faith in your betrothed's prowess than is wise. Aondo is so strong that it might not matter if he is as slow as a mired hippopotamus. Remember that when the great-jawed one reaches its victim, it is certain death."

"Indeed," Seyganko said. "Also, any man's foot may slip if his luck is out and the spirits not with him. They might well desert me if I dishonored a proven warrior like Aondo by trapping him into a death-duel."

"You speak of what the spirits might do?" Emwaya snapped.

"Yes, and if it is not to your liking, you may ask your father to end his teaching of me!"

Warrior and woman glared at each other for a moment, while Dobanpu raised his eyes to the shadowed ceiling and seemed to be asking the spirits for a brief moment of deafness, that he might not hear two whom he loved making fools of themselves. At last it was Emwaya who lowered her eyes.

That, Seyganko knew, was as much of an apology as he was likely to receive. But Emwaya was now of a mind to listen, and he could speak more freely.

"Also, I do not think that Aondo is the first of our enemies among the warriors. The loudest, I grant you. But first? No, I think more danger comes from one whose name I do not know, but whose presence I can guess."

"A spy for Chabano?" Emwaya asked.

"For him, for the God-Men, or perhaps for both."

"A bold one, if he thinks to serve both," Dobanpu said almost meditatively. "One hears tales, and more than a few of them, that the friendship of Paramount Chief and God-Men is a frail thing."

"All the more reason, then, to keep the spy alive," Seyganko said. "A man who tells tales can be made to bear false ones, to set his masters at each other's throats."

"You play stickball with lives," Emwaya said, her voice brittle.

"How not, daughter?" Dobanpu asked. "Learn a little more of my art and you will understand why this must sometimes be so. Or else give over learning Spirit-Speaking, wed Seyganko, bear his sons, govern his house and lesser wives"

"And die when the Kwanyi and the God-Men strike, plowing our ashes into the fields before they sail south to carry all before them!" Emwaya shouted. Seyganko thought her about to weep.

Her storms were violent but swift, like those of the Lake of Death. She blinked hard, then contrived a smile. "Father, Seyganko. I know the price of any choice other than the one I have made. It may be the price even if I walk the way you bade me. But I do not have to rejoice in what the gods have sent to the Ichiribu."

"No one but a fool would ask you to," Seyganko said gently. He wished to take her in his arms, but thought the moment unfit. "Do you see any fools here about you?"

Emwaya laughed aloud. "Not yet."

"Then we go on as we have begun," Dobanpu said. "Indeed, I think this spy gives us yet more cause to leave Aondo alive. He can hardly be the spy, but I would wager a hutful of mealies and a new canoe that he knows who that man is. Following the leopard's cub has been known to lead a hunter to the leopard's lair."

Valeria had lost all notion of how long they had been tramping these endless underground passages. It was not merely an underground city they had entered, it was near to an underground kingdom. Already they had traversed thrice the distance from one side of Xuchotl to the other.

At least they had done so had they traveled in anything like a straight line. Valeria had barely more notion of their direction than she had of the passage of time. For all she could say, they might be wandering in circles.

No, that could not be altogether true. Except where they found blind tunnels or stairs leading up to impassable barriers, they had yet to retrace their steps. They were moving onward, but toward what destination, only the gods knew.

This place of cunningly wrought rock, and both beasts and spells of incredible antiquity, seemed as remote from the sight of the gods as it was from the sight of the sun. If any answers were to be found, she and Conan would have to find them unaided.

As always when Valeria found her thoughts thrashing about thus, like a cat in a sack, she eased herself by taking the lead. The need to be keenly alert to hidden dangers cudgeled her wits into some sort of order. The Cimmerian doubtless knew her reasons, but courtesy to a battle-comrade had so far curbed his tongue.

Another cave opened before them. Or chamber, rather. It might have been a cave once, carved from the rock over the eons by oozing, then dripping, then gushing water. Now the underground stream that had done the work flowed through a channel carved in a floor of pale, rose-hued stone, polished until it was silken-smooth to the touch and lightly shining even in the pale magic-light.

Walls and ceiling were of the natural rock, but squared off, every corner a right angle as neat as any mason could have made. But then, masons had made them, even if they had doubtless worked with magic instead of mallets and chisels.

Conan knelt beside the channel and reached down to dip a finger in the water. "Fresh, as cold as a Hyperborean's arse, and flowing swiftly.

Anyone for a bath before we drink our fill?"

Valeria had doffed her garments ere the Cimmerian had finished speaking. She no longer feared Conan's eyes upon her, but found them, rather, a trifle flattering. Since they had left Xuchotl, she had grown somewhat thin-flanked, yet Conan seemed not to notice. Or perhaps pretending not to notice such matters was another courtesy between battle-comrades?

They both splashed merrily about in the channel, deep enough to sit in up to their necks had it not been too cold for sitting at all. Then they drank, until Valeria could feel her empty stomach filled at least with water.

Valeria knelt by the channel, clad only in goose-flesh and drops of water, to rinse out her garments as best she could. When she had wrung them dry enough to wear, she stretched and began retying her boot bindings.

"How long have we been down here?" she asked as she finished the left foot.

"If our sleeping's any guide, for three days, four at the outside."

"By Set's fangs, it feels longer!"

"That it might, but don't let yourself be careless of judging the time.

That way lies madness."

"Tell me what I do not know, Conan! Have you ever been out of the sun so long?"

"Yes."

His tone did not encourage her to ask further. She let it pass. She knew by now that some of his adventures he would boast of in taverns, and others he would carry as secrets to his grave. She only prayed that neither his grave nor hers might be in this godless wilderness beneath the earth.

He stood up and for a moment held her at arm's length, his massive hands almost covering her shoulders. "We can take heart from this much: We've not gone in circles, and we've come far enough to be well beyond the river. Also, there are more worked and finished passages every day."

"We're closer to the heart of this city?"

"If city it be, I'd wager we are. And where the heart of any city lies, there will be the treasures and pleasures. Perhaps, in this city, even ways to the surface!"

His hands lifted from her shoulders, and Valeria knew a moment's urge to grab them and pull them back to where they had been, or even to other places. She laughed at this picture of herself and Conan tumbling on the hard stone until they rolled into the channel again and cooled their ardor!

"If you can find that much to laugh about in our case, woman, I'll take you anywhere!"

Valeria almost replied, "And I will follow." But those would be ill-omened words, a promise she could hardly expect to keep. She was of the Red Brotherhood, and she had acknowledged no master for too long to change now.

"Let us see where we have to go to leave this place first, Conan," she said. Then she sat and began binding her other foot.

"On them!"

Chabano, Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi, stood at the edge of the platform in the tree and shouted to the hundred warriors below. The underchiefs raised their hands in salute, while the warriors clashed their spears against their shields.

Then the Kwanyi warriors leaped forward at the enemy. The "enemy" was only a field of stumps, but the charge was not without peril. Chabano had seen to that.

The first warrior fell even before the charge reached the stumps. The grass covering a pit gave under his pounding feet. He did not fall all the way in to impale himself on the dung-poisoned stake at the bottom, however. He flung himself forward desperately, reached the far edge of the pit, and rolled clear. A moment later, he was on his feet and running to rejoin his comrades. They were now well ahead of him, but Chabano found no fatal fault in that.

The warrior's eyes had not been as keen as they might have been, but his limbs and wits had come to his rescue. He had not even dropped his spear or shield, a dereliction that would have earned him a beating.

Two more warriors fell at the tangle of vines stretched among the stumps. One of them did not rise swiftly enough. Chabano watched the warrior's underchief run up behind him and slash him fiercely across the shoulder with the snakeskin mboqa. The warrior leaped up, made the briefest gesture of supplication, and ran on.

The other fallen warrior did not rise at all, but there was reason for his lying among the vines. Trying desperately to keep his feet, he had rammed his head into one of the stumps. Doubtless he was senseless; he might even be dying, and small loss if he were. Had he thought less of the shame of the mboqa and more of how his tribe needed all of its warriors, he might have done otherwise and still be running.

The remaining warriors reached the far side of the field of stumps in a double line more ragged than Chabano cared to see. The underchiefs, he decided, would face one of the lesser ordeals tonight.

Now the warriors went furiously through the rite of shield and spear, throwing the small spear, hooking an opponent with the shield, then lunging with the great spear as the shield-hooking exposed the other and drew him close. They knew it meant more than pleasing the gods, or even Chabano, who was closer than the gods and therefore perhaps more to be feared. It meant victory, on the day when the Lake of Death was no longer closed to the Kwanyi by the Ichiribu. Victory, over every tribe in their path for as far as they chose to march.

All the Kwanyi would then have their pick of slaves and food, huts worthy of a chief, and honor among gods and men alike. They would also have honor in the eyes of Chabano, who had made them what they were and would lead them when they became still greater.

Chabano sprang down from his platform. Although he had seen just short of forty turns of the seasons, his eyes and his wind were those of a man far younger. His feet, painted the red that marked his chieftaincy, danced in the dust as he approached his warriors.

"Hail, Chabano!" the underchiefs called. The warriors repeated the greeting, then clashed shield and spear again.

"Well done," Chabano said. "Not perfect, but only the gods are perfect."

"Thus say the God-Men," a warrior shouted. One had to be of the Kwanyi oneself to catch the note of mockery in the man's voice. The God-Men were not Kwanyi, and to them, these words would seem full of honor.

Empty honor, as empty as their heads.

Only if a Kwanyi warrior had grown so foul of spirit as to spy for the God-Men would they learn they had been mocked. Chabano refused to believe that any of the men he had sworn, taught, and led in ordeal, battle, or rite could be so corrupt.

Even if one had turned, Chabano still had the advantage. He had found eyes and ears among the God-Men before the God-Men could have found any among his warriors.

The height of the sun above the trees reminded him that this day's war rites were almost done but his work was not. He slung his shield across his back with the ritual three twists of the thong and held his spear across his chest with both hands in the customary manner.

"Warriors of the Kwanyi, I must go speak with the gods. This day you have pleased me. This night you may please yourselves."

That meant an ordeal for the slave women, perhaps for a few unlucky free women as well. It would also be an ordeal for the brew-sisters, who would have to work very hard to keep the warriors from growing thirsty. Thirsty warriors had been known to ignore the fact that a woman wore a headdress of the free Kwanyi.

"Let us go with you as far as the gods allow," said an underchief.

It was a moment to give fear, but not to shed blood.

Chabano slowly lowered his spear until its butt sank into the earth.

Without seeming to exert himself, he drove the butt half an arm's length into the jungle floor.

Then he whipped his shield off his back, hooked his spear loose, and caught it as it flew high. He ended with the spear aimed at the chest of the underchief who had spoken.

The man knew that any outward sign of the fear thundering within him would send the spear leaping into his chest. He did not even make the gesture of supplication, although his eyes did not leave Chabano.

"The gods command that we stay here?" the man said. It showed high courage to make it a question.

"They do," Chabano said. "Do you doubt their word?"

"The gods speak, but do they always speak plainly?" the man persisted.

Chabano decided that such courage deserved the reward of an end to these fear-jests.

"You have wisdom, more than some I could name, who think that the gods'

messages bear only one meaning."

That was mockery of the God-Men which might be dangerous even for Chabano should it reach their ears. The chief did not overly much care.

"But when the gods wish me dead, they will have me if all the warriors of the Kwanyi march with me. If the gods wish me safe, I may go to this day's speaking alone. Go, and find better company than I shall enjoy for a while!"

The warriors grinned at one another, hearing the boldness of a chief who dared mock even the gods themselves, not merely the God-Men. Then they tossed their spears, gave a war cry, and strode off into the jungle.

Chabano waited until the last was gone before he turned onto the path he intended to follow. Even after that, he waited for a space, hiding, and listening to be sure that he alone was taking this path. He did not speak to the gods, but his eye and ear among the God-Men could tell him more than the gods ever had.

Conan thought he heard a sound to their rear. He dropped back, looked for a place from which to watch unseen, and found none that would hide a mouse, let alone a Cimmerian. He contrived to flatten himself against the wall and keep the silence of a cat stalking that mouse.

Then he heard Valeria signaling with the beat of dagger-hilt against stone wall. Conan listened. He heard the code that said, "Come as soon as you can, but there is no danger here." To any ear but his and Valeria's, it would seem a natural sound of these haunted depths, or at least nothing that spoke of human presence.

Conan waited, for about as long as a skilled tavern dancer might take to shed her garments when the watchers bid eagerly in silver coin for each piece of silk. Then he decided that once again this city of the dead could play tricks with even the ears of a seasoned warrior.

He still walked cat-footed as he came up behind Valeria. She did not start or make a sound, though; her ears seemed keener now than when she had first gone underground. Instead, she pointed down the tunnel. Her gesture was more eloquent than words, which were not needed. Conan saw that a hundred paces farther on, the light turned green.

Now both were as silent as hunting creatures, or prey seeking to escape, as they crept forward, one against either wall. Both bore steel in their hands, both set feet down as if they trod on shards of glass, or on sleeping serpents.

They reached the turning where the light changed, and looked beyond it.

For a moment, Conan thought they had stumbled upon a sleeping serpenta monster such as he had fought too often to care to meet again.

Then he saw that it was but a trick of the light that made the serpent seem whole. Only a skeleton remained, although that skeleton stretched twenty paces from the tooth-studded skull to the delicate bones of the tail.

It was the light that had deceived Conan, a light that flooded the cave. A light that seemed to rise like smoke from green jewels piled deep inside the circle formed by the skeleton. The light of a greater mass of fire-stones than Conan had ever dreamed existed.

In the Black Kingdoms, Conan had heard the legend of the Dying Place of the Elephants. There, it was said, the great gray beasts went to end their days. There, ivory to buy a kingdom lay, waiting for some bold adventurer to stumble upon it.

He had never heard of such a tale about the Golden Serpents. Indeed, he had never heard of anyone who had seen more of a Golden Serpent than its fire-stone eyesand it was only a tale that Golden Serpents' eyes and fire-stones were one and the same.

Rather, it had been a tale. Now Conan knew it for the truth. In the skull, as large as a horse's, two vast, green orbs flashed. Their glow was identical to that of the jewels on the floor.

Conan softly let out his breath and stalked forward. Nothing living could have been more silent. In that silence, he reached the skeleton and knelt beside it, studying the eyes.

Now he understood why even such vast creatures as the Golden Serpents yielded so many fire-stones. Each eye was the size of a platter, and each one was made of twoscore or more stones. Some were as small as acorns, others as large as the finest Bossonian cider apples. All glowed with that unnatural light.

Conan also understood why the light had nothing of nature in it. No natural creature had such eyes; the Golden Serpents were magicians'

work. The same magicians who had wrought this maze in the rock, where he and Valeria might yet end their days? Perhaps. If so, they were long dead, and their creations likewise.

Then even that small comfort left Conan. A wind colder than any that ever blew in Cimmeria seemed to play upon his spine. Shreds of flesh still clung to the serpent's bones. Golden scales still covered a few of those shreds, and a faint miasma of decay rose from the greater part of them.

Had it been here since the time of its creators, this Golden Serpent's bones would have been fleshless, or the shreds of flesh mummified by the subterranean air. This creature had been living while Conan walked the earth above, perhaps even while he had fought and caroused with the Barachan pirates.

Conan motioned Valeria forward, then moved to where he could look both ways. He waited, steel at the ready, for her to study the bones and see what he had seen.

Chabano's eyes and ears were those of a warrior half his age. He did not need these to warn him of his spy's coming, for Ryku seemed as careless as a child of being seen or heard. He was first among the lesser God-Men, the Silent Brothers, but his lack of jungle craft made him anything but silent.

Chabano used the time he gained to place himself high on a branch above the trail. When the young God-Man came stamping into view like a warthog in rut, Chabano slung both spear and shield, then gripped a stout vine and leaped from his perch.

The other threw up his hands in dismay as Chabano seemed to fly down on him out of the sky. Then he flung himself back against the mossy bark of a forest tree and began silently mouthing curses.

"Cease," Chabano said. He put the tip of his spear under the man's chin and gently raised the weapon until the man closed his mouth. "Or do you think the gods will hear you without your masters also hearing?" the chief added. "Surely you came as if you feared no human foe."

"I do not," Ryku said. "I am in the land of friends."

Chabano laughed longer than was good for Ryku's pride, but he did not take the spear away. By the time the chief was done laughing, a drop of blood showed on Ryku's chin.

"Is friendship then a jest?" Ryku asked. He stood without trying to wipe away the blood, and met Chabano's eyes.

Again the chief decided there was enough courage here to deserve some reward. "It is not. Nor is it found among all the Kwanyi. At least not toward you, if it were known why you are here."

"Who would tell?"

"You would, if someone heated a spear and applied it to sufficient parts of your body to unman or blind you," Chabano said. "Do not deny it."

"I do not," Ryku said sturdily, but seeming a trifle bemused.

"As well. Do not, then, tread like an elephant when you come to our meetings. Even if you have no enemies, I do, and they might follow you to me."

"As you wish." Then Ryku took a more defiant tone. "One would think you feared that the over-throwers of Xuchotl were abroad in the land instead of your own warriors!"

"They could well be. Or do your masters know otherwise?"

"I came to tell you that they do not know one way or the other. They cannot even be sure what magic was wrought to bring down the Accursed City."

To Chabano, it seemed likely as not that it was the city folk's own magic that had finally sent them mad, and not outsider's spells. If they had then fallen on one another and cleansed the city of their foul and useless lives, so much the better.

The folk of Xuchotl had bred for too long, and to little purpose. Now they had left what would be a fine city from which to rule these lands when the Kwanyi under him had done with all their enemies.

That was a dream he would not dwell on, however. Not while this close to Ryku, who had the rank of Silent Brother but more of the God-Men's knowledge than a wise man would offend without good cause.

"Then what do the God-Men wish of the Kwanyi?"

"Who says they wish anything?"

"I, Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi, say so. When have you come to me without telling me some wishes of your masters? They know not what you bear to me, but you do it nonetheless."

"The First Speaker wishes as before to learn anything you discover of how Xuchotl was overthrown," Ryku said. "He also wishes the return of the slave girl taken by the Ichiribu on the night of their raid."

This last demand was new. "Nothing more?"

"It is enough for the First Speaker."

Chabano laughed coarsely. "I should say that a wench of that age is more than adequate for such an old man. What does he want of her?"

Ryku had enough courage, or enough fear of his leader to glare at Chabano, a thing few did and lived. "Know you not what it is to be a man with a woman? It will make a fine tale, that the great chief of the Kwanyi"

"dashed out the brains of a God-Man whose tongue flew too far too long," Chabano finished. He returned the glare, and Ryku fell silent.

"I shall discover what may be done prudently to return the girl, and then find men to do it. This is not to be doubted."

"I do not doubt it," Ryku said. He was wise enough to make no promises for the masters who did not know of his divided loyalties. "What of Xuchotl's fate?"

"What of it?" Chabano retorted. "To ask me to seek wielders of mighty magic is to ask the snake to hunt the leopard. Only by great good fortune will I win any knowledge worth having."

Ryku's gestures and face told Chabano that matters were unchanged. The God-Men would not put into Kwanyi hands any of their power, not even to seek the cause of Xuchotl's doom. They would rather remain in ignorance than risk giving others too much knowledge.

There lay the difference between the First Speaker of the Living Wind and the Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi. For knowledge, Chabano had given much, and might yet give more. There was another difference, too. The chief knew that the God-Men would use the magic of Xuchotl's foes against even the Kwanyi. He would not, if he could help it, give them the power to doom his people.

Ryku went through the rituals of farewell from hunter to chief, then withdrew. He could be heard for a shamefully long distance, but at least he seemed to be attempting silence.

Valeria knelt beside the skeleton and the glowing mass of fire-stones until she saw what Conan had wished her to see. Then she rose. It seemed that every movement of her joints, every breath she took, had to be loud enough to raise echoes and warn whatever lurked farther within this nightmare of stone.

She wanted to whisper, but when she tried to speak thus, no sound came out. Then she took a deep breath, bid fear kiss her hindquarters, and laughed aloud.

"So the Golden Serpents are no legend after all? This brute lost its scales a while back, I judge, but the eyes tell the tale."

Conan nodded. "And I'm thinking that it hasn't been dead for as long as the beast we found dead in the fungus cave."

"I wish it had been," Valeria said. "Even a slab of that fungus would seem like a banquet." She looked at the Cimmerian. "What are you staring at? The new shape of my stomach, after being so near empty these past days?"

The Cimmerian grinned. "You take it lightly, our sharing these tunnels with the Golden Serpents."

Valeria blinkedand realized that her eyes were not quite dry. She turned away, and Conan did her the courtesy of letting her stand thus until she had command of herself again.

"How should I take it?" she said at last. "We are, I think, at that time of an ordeal when one can either run mad or laugh. I'll laugh, if it's all the same to you."

Conan's roar raised echoes and made stones fall from the pile. He kissed her roundly on both cheeks, then on the lips, and finished with a smart slap to her rear.

"I'll have to buy that pox-ridden captain a drink the next time I see him. How else would I have won such a comrade if he hadn't driven you into flight?"

"The gods only know. I'd rather voyage with a bog-troll, as often as not." She knelt and set her boots on the floor.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Conan, this may be our last hoard of fire-stones. Have you forgotten that I am of the Red Brotherhood, that you have a name among the Barachans, and that good pirates do not leave fine loot to gather dust?"

Conan laughed shortly and joined her at her work. The fire-stones were light for their size, and enough to fill the toes of their boots was no great burden.

Magic might be in the stones, of course, magic as evil as any in Xuchotl. They might even draw other Golden Serpents, living ones, to avenge the theft of their dead mates' treasures.

Valeria did not care. The magic here would slay her and the Cimmerian or not, as fate would have it. It would no longer put her in fear.

As for the Golden Serpents, let them come. A day or two more and she would be ready not only to spit one on her sword, but to eat it raw afterward!

SIX

-

"Conan," Valeria whispered, "I smell cooking fat. Or else my wits have finally parted their mooring lines."

Conan sniffed the air, more damp and mephitic of late than before. They had come, he judged, half a league through scum-coated water that seemed to both ooze from below and drip from above. He wondered if they were under a river, or more likely, a lake.

At times, the water was no more than a thin coating of slime on the stone, which made footing treacherous even for two nimble warriors like the Cimmerian and his companion. At other times, it rose to their ankles, or even to their knees. After the first such place, Valeria slung her jewel-laden boots about her neck. The Cimmerian's greater stature allowed him to keep his treasure riding at his waist. Neither needed the boots to guard leather-tough feet, and indeed, preferred bare toes by which to feel out lurking menaces.

When knee-deep, the water seemed sometimes almost solid with plant and animal matter that the ancient magic of these tunnels had been unable to keep alive. In those places, it exhaled a noisome stench that made even the hardened Cimmerian wish for something to bind over his mouth and nose.

He wished even more to know what sort of creature had risen to attack Valeria on the day they had entered this maze. Was it a water-dweller, and were they perhaps approaching the lair of more of the breed?

Well-wielded steel was an answer to most creatures, but if the water grew much deeper, swordplay would be sadly slowedâ€¦ to say nothing of what this muck could hardly fail to do to their blades

Conan finished his sniffing. "Your wits are as sound as ever. I smell it, too. Fish oil, I'd wager."

"What do you have to wager with, Cimmerian?"

"Not as much as you, I'll be bound, but"

It was Valeria who held up one hand and pointed with the dagger in the other. "Stairs?"

Conan's eyes followed the gesture. "If they're not, my eyes are failing me."

Valeria grimaced. "It does seem darker along here." Even her courage was not proof against the thought of the light abandoning them. Magical as it was, they owed their lives to it.

"All the more reason to start climbing the stairs, then."

Between them and the entry to the stairs, the water deepened almost to Valeria's waist. They pushed forward through the filth, greasy whorls of floating muck drifting to either side as they advanced. Conan had both sword and dagger drawn now, and held the weapons clear of the water, ready to strike down at the slightest hint of alien presence.

Nothing except muck and foul odors impeded their passage, although they were black and dripping from thighs to feet when they reached dry stone. Conan climbed the first few steps, reached a spot where the wall had cracked and now sagged across his path, and went to his hands and knees.

He could barely creep under the stone. Ten paces farther along, he could barely move at allbut the sight ahead made his heart leap with hope.

The stairs wound up into natural darkness that reeked of fish oil, animal fat, and burned grain. In places, the steps had crumbled and would offer precarious footing, even without the darkness. In one place, the stairs seemed to rise up a vertical chimney that would need to be climbed with back against one wall and feet against the other.

Far above, like a single star shining on a rainy night, a dim yellow light glowed. Firelight, to Conan's eyes, with no magic about it.

Rather, it told of human presence.

The only problem was that he was just a finger's breadth too large to pass through the gap and begin the ascent. Even his strength might not be equal to shifting the fallen slab, and could well bring the mass down on top of them if he succeeded.

Thank Mitra, there was another way, or at least another hope. Groping into the open, Conan's hand touched a puddle of congealed grease.

Clearly, it had dripped down from above, where what must be a cook fire burned cheerfully.

Conan started retracing his steps. For a moment, he feared he would become wedged; then he felt Valeria tugging at his ankles. Her lithe strength made the difference. Conan slid free, coughed dust from his throat, and stood up.

"You'll have to go first. Slip through the gap, then pass all the grease you'll find"

"Grease?"

"Somebody's done years of cooking up above. The grease must have been dripping"

"Grease?"

"If I want an echo, woman, I'll shout! Go up and see for yourself if you doubt me."

Valeria shook her head hastily, then grinned. "In truth, why should I be surprised? This is the maddest quest I've ever been on. It would disappoint me if it did not stay so to the end."

Conan kept to himself the thought that the quest might be far from over. They could not be out of the jungle yet, or even into the borderlands of the Black Kingdoms, where the name of Amra carried some weight. The people above might be friendly and welcoming; they might also greet him and Valeria with spears, or even with that cook fire that now seemed so merry. There were not as many cannibals in this land as legend had it, but there were enough.

"Well, then. Let's not stand about scratching each other's fleas like a pair of apes. Up!"

Valeria scrambled up the stairs and vanished ahead. Conan followed, to see Valeria's boots and sole garment lying on the stone. She herself was nowhere to be seen, but from the far side of the gap came the sound of someone desperately trying not to spew.

"You mean to smear yourself with this to pass through the gap?"

"Do you see any perfumed oil about?"

"Ask a foolish questionâ€¦" Valeria muttered. Then Conan saw her, nude and pale in the darkness, kneeling to smear grease on the stone at the narrowest passage. Only when she had finished that work did she begin tossing handfuls of the grease through the passage to the Cimmerian.

The stuff reeked like a kitchen-midden, and its touch made Conan's flesh crawl. Still, he went to work vigorously, smearing the grease on his skin as fast as Valeria passed it through to him.

"What happens if you still can't make your way past?" Valeria asked.

"Then you climb up yourself and ask the folk above to come down and chip away a passage for me. I'm no more than a finger's breadth too large. It will be no great matter."

He thought he heard Valeria mutter again. "If they don't think I'm a witch or a madwoman, no doubt it will." Then the Cimmerian tossed his weapons and garments through the gap, lay down, and began his passage.

The grease helped. He was almost through this time before he became wedged firmly in place. He stretched out both arms for Valeria to grip, and she added her strength and weight to his. He did not budge.

Conan groped with his feet, seeking a stout rest that would let him use the full power of his massive legs. One foot flailed in the air; the other found the wall. Conan willed all the strength of his body into the muscles of that leg, felt himself moving even as the rock flayed skin from his back and shoulders, then felt the rock itself move.

If he had summoned all his strength before, he now summoned that and half again as much. He heaved upward and forward, ignoring the wrenching of muscles and the creaking of bones. More skin vanished, and his lungs seemed filled with red-hot sand as he fought for the breath not merely to live by, but that he might fight and prevail.

The Cimmerian's strength was equal to the task. The stone did not slip and crush him. Instead, it held firm for a momentthen, incredibly, it opened wider.

Conan thought he heard Valeria utter what might have been either a prayer or an oath. He knew he felt her long fingers gripping his wrists again, and as the grip tightened, she flung herself backward.

For one more moment, the rock held Conan, and he was not sure which would happen firsthis pulling free, or his arms wrenching out of their sockets. Then the tiny widening of the opening, the grease on skin and rock, his own strength, and Valeria's desperate efforts all joined to send him flying out of the gap. He landed almost on top of Valeria, and it was a while before either of them caught their breath enough to notice it. Even then, the woman did not protest. She only smiled and threw an arm around Conan's neck.

He returned the smile and rolled off, then fought breath back into his lungs and stood up. He felt as if he had been wrestling one of the Golden Serpents. His skin was scraped from flesh in half a score of places, and muscles and joints were cursing him roundly. The filth from the tunnel itched and stung wherever it fell on raw places, and altogether he had hardly felt worse during some of the times he had escaped from slavery.

But he had ignored pain even then because he was free, and now he did the same for much the same reason. That magic-haunted maze and its monsters had done their best to make an end of him, or at least to make the maze his and Valeria's tomb. Now they were free of it, even if to do no more than to die on their feet, their blades in hand.

Conan judged that all of his limbs were still attached and could perform their duties. Then he resumed his garments, except for his boots, which he hung about his neck as Valeria carried hers.

Valeria meanwhile had propped her head on one elbow and was contemplating him with what appeared to be amusement. Conan returned her contemplation, although with more than amusement as she had not yet donned even her one scanty garment.

"If you've done looking at me like a buyer at a donkey" Conan said at last.

"I'd have you bathed before I bought you," Valeria replied. She held her nose. "Or maybe boiled."

"You could put a he-goat to flight yourself," Conan said. He reached down. "Up, woman. We're not done yet."

While standing in the open on the far side of the gap, he had seen at least two more tunnels leading off from the chamber. The magic light seemed to glow dimly far down one of them; the other was dark and no higher than Conan's waist. The stone at its mouth also seemed curiously worked, not so much carved as eaten, as if by the acids that the sword-makers of Khitai were said to use upon fine blades to etch cunning patterns upon them.

He thought of acids that could eat stone, and he remembered what had nearly taken Valeria, leaving its mark on her ankle. The mark was still there, beneath the filth. The thing that had made it might have also made the tunnel. No, he and Valeria were not done with this ancient maze until they stood in the sunlight again.

The first sign that Seyganko had of anything amiss was Emwaya's stumbling. That would not have told another man much, for Emwaya was dancing in a circle in the center of Seyganko's hut. It was, moreover, a dance so swift and complex that her feet seemed to spurn the earth; even the warrior's keen eye could hardly follow their movements.

She leapedand instead of landing on her toes, she went to hands and knees. Seyganko sprang forward to help her rise. She shook off his hand and remained kneeling, then stretched her full length on the reed-strewn floor of the hut.

Again Seyganko offered aid; again Emwaya spurned it. Then she turned her head so that one ear was against the floor, and stretched out both arms. Her fingers writhed in gestures the warrior knew came from the Spirit-Speaking rituals.

Emwaya was not sick or hurt, it seemed. But if she had sensed some threat to the Ichiribu from deep within the spirit world, this was small consolation. Seyganko gripped his club and measured the distance to his spears, although reason told him that mere wood and iron could do nothing against such menaces as Emwaya might have heard.

At last she stood, brushing dried reeds from her breasts. Now she allowed Seyganko to support her, lead her to a sleeping mat, pour beer from a jug and offer it. But she sat with the wooden cup in her hand, licking her lips, eyes staring beyond Seyganko into places where he knew he could not follow.

"From below," she said. "It comes from below."

"What is it?"

"Have you never heard of the Stone City?"

"That legend?"

"I begin to think it is no legend. It could lie beneath this very village, with spirits from before men were men guarding it."

"It could. But then, it might not" The wish to banter left Seyganko as he saw Emwaya's face harden.

"Something has made the spirits uneasy. I cannot say which spirits, or where, but I feel danger to the Ichiribu."

"I shall call out the fanda," Seyganko said. The fanda consisted of six warriors of each clan, who took turns being armed, girded, and painted for war. Seyganko was not painted, but his war luck was so proverbial that no one thought he needed the adornment except in great battles.

"Send a messenger," Emwaya said. "You must stay here while I paint you."

"There is need for haste more than for paint."

"Not when the enemy is unknown spirits."

"If the spirits are coming, then you and your father are needed, not the fanda."

"We will be needed before long, but the fanda has work, too. They must guide folk away from danger, keep them from panic, watch for thieves who might find untended huts a temptation"

"Perhaps I should do your work and you mine, since you know it so well."

Emwaya looked hurt, as she seldom did when reminded of the sharpness of her tongue. Then she actually clung to him. "We each have our duties, I fear. Now, have you your war paint about here?"

"Yes. You are going to paint all of me?"

Emwaya lowered her eyes. "All. Do not hope that we will have time, though."

Seyganko grinned and began undoing his loincloth. The full ritual battle-paint included a warrior's loins and manhood. In times past, Emwaya's painting him had ended with much pleasure to both.

Yet something told him that this would not be one of those times.

Emwaya spoke of spirits she had not encountered; Seyganko had little doubt that she spoke the truth.

"Hold on, Conan. My grip is slipping."

Valeria felt the Cimmerian's massive shoulders tighten under her feet.

Free to move one hand without falling, she groped for a better purchase on the stone. It was slick with her own blood, issuing from where her first grip had gashed the hand.

At last she thought she had found what she sought. Many years of swordplay and climbing rigging had given her long arms more strength than commonly found in a woman. She did not fear falling as long as she had a good grip.

She had judged correctly, but she was dripping sweat by the time she rolled onto the ledge above. For the tenth time since they had begun their climb, she had to brush her hair out of her eyes. Yet she was perched on the ledge as securely as its crumbling stone allowed. Beyond her lay only the chimney, which both of them could climb with little trouble, and then solid stairs began again.

She tore a strip from her garment and bound her hair with it. This reduced the already tattered covering to hardly more than a shred of cloth about her loins. She had, however, quite ceased to care about her garb as long as it included a sword-belt and her steel.

Having done with Valeria, Conan handed up his boots and weapons, then sprang high and found purchase for both fingers and toes. A moment later, he was beside the woman on the ledge.

"We'd do better with a thong or a rope to tie to all this," he said, waving a bruised and filthy hand at their scanty gear and the boots holding a lord's ransom in each toe. "Then we could draw it up afterward."

"There's not enough left of my garment for that," Valeria said. "Of course you could always sacrifice the rest of your breeches"

"Or we could forget about those"

Valeria put one hand protectively over the boots and the other on the hilt of her heavy dagger. Conan drew back in mock fear.

"By Erlik's untiring tool, woman, don't you know a jest when you hear one?"

"When I hear one, I do. I know not what I heard from you just now."

Conan shrugged and said no more. Valeria hoped he had heard her true meaningthat she would leave those fire-stones only to save her life.

That a dead pirate had no use for loot, she would gladly admit, but she was not dead yet. Dusty-throated from thirst, hollow-bellied from hunger, filthy, all but naked, and far from home, or even from safety, she surely was but not dead.

Then from above they heard a sound, familiar to anyone who had traveled this far south, yet strange, even unearthly in these surrounds.

Close to the cook fire, someone was beating a war drum. As another drum joined the first, the warm yellow glow of the cook fire died and darkness engulfed the voyagers in the depths.

One drum began the call to the Ichiribu of the Great Village. A second joined it, then a third.

Seyganko stood by the hearthstone as the cook-women emptied pots, gourds, and jugs of water onto the flames. They did this with sour looks at him. Not only was quenching the cook fire a dirty task, it was an evil omen. The women feared the spiritsâ€¦ as well as what their kin would say to cold meals.

Fortunately, they also feared Seyganko and his warriors of the fanda too much to disobey. Or was it Emwaya they feared? She stood by a hut on the edge of the hearthfield, arms crossed over her breasts, watching the work with an unsmiling face.

Indeed, she had not smiled since she had stumbled. Since she had told Seyganko that the hearthfield was the heart of the danger, she had looked almost an evil spirit herself. Fine work it would be if her face drove folk into the panic she feared and made more enemies for Seyganko.

Do you then think unknown spirits are nothing to be feared?

He heard the question in his mind, but used his body to reply, shaking his head. He did not wish to reply mind-to-mind when so many other folk might suddenly demand his attention. Aondo, for one.

Aondo was a warrior in the fanda, and beside him stood anotherwhat was his name? Oh, Wobeku the Swift, one who had gone with Seyganko on the raid that brought back those Kwanyi captives, who told such dire tales.

Wobeku was one of the fastest runners among the Ichiribu, as well as a friend of Aondo.

Today Wobeku was not running. He stood lightly on his long legs, and it seemed to Seyganko that his eyes roved about more than was customary.

Now he looked at Seyganko, now at the hearthstone especially the lower end, where the channel fed melted fat into the earth to nourish the spirits thereand now at Emwaya. A man could not be blamed for wondering what Wobeku was seeking.

Seyganko realized that he was about to do what he had just thought unwise in Emwaya. Nonetheless

Have you warned your father?

He needed no warning. He knows what the spirits do, as much as any man.

Seyganko's reply was a broad smile. Then he waved at Wobeku.

"Your wish, Honored One?"

"A messenger has gone to Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker. Yet he was not as swift on his feet as you. Will you take another message?"

Wobeku's smile was a mask of obedience and pleasure covering discontent that a child could have seen. Seyganko did not smile back. Whatever Wobeku had in mind, it demanded his presence herewhich did not prove it unlawful, of course.

It was part of the price for the title of Honored One among the warriors of the Ichiribu. Baring one's back to treachery lest one do injustice to loyal warriors was a sacred duty. Spirits, as well as wronged kin, might avenge neglecting it.

"Good. Emwaya, daughter of Dobanpu, will tell you what to say."

Emwaya's message was shortjust long enough, Seyganko judged, not to make Wobeku suspicious. The warrior saw the messenger nod, then unbind his feet, set aside all garb and girding save for his headdress, loinguard, and paint, then run. He was beyond the huts in a few breaths, outside the village wall in a few more, and out of sight before the drumming stopped.

By then, the hearthfield was empty of all but the fanda, Seyganko, and Emwaya. From cracks in the nearest huts, children peered, too curious to be frightened even if the earth was spewing spirit-serpents. More young ones seemed to be perched in trees and on the wall, and Seyganko heard their mothers calling them down.

Then he heard nothing more, save a swelling rumble from underfoot as the earth trembled and the hearthstone that had stood for five men's lives began to crack apart.

Even Conan's eyes took a moment to respond to the sudden darkness. For a moment, he could hear only Valeria's breathing, coming in quick pants like those of a thirsty dog. She was commanding herself well in the face of this new menace, but could not hide all of her disquiet.

Crom did not love the fearful, nor did they live long in Cimmeria.

Otherwise, Conan himself might have volleyed oaths. It seemed that someone or something was toying with them, snatching away each promise of escape the moment they had come to trust themselves to it.

"Mitra's crown!" Valeria snapped. "If this is the work of the folk above, they'd best be very friendly when we appear. Otherwise, I'll not be."

Conan only grunted. She had spoken for both of them, and any more noise might be unwise. The folk above might not only be unfriendly, they might have listeners giving ear to what lay below.

He also did not trust this pit's walls to stand firm if shaken by loud noises. Not that they would remain unshaken if he and Valeria continued to climbas they mustthe road back now being closed. But it made little sense to shake them otherwise.

A moment later, Conan knew that his caution had had no purpose. A thunderclap tore at his ears, earth streamed down about him, and light reappeared above. Then a chunk of stone the size of a good ale barrel plummeted past him.

Without a word, Conan snatched Valeria back against his chest, then flung himself hard against the wall. Even a shallow niche might save them from being crushed like grapes in a winepress by the next stone.

The wall that had seemed to be raw earth was as unyielding as the stone of the tunnels below. Conan groped with a free hand and felt more of the same under his fingers.

Perhaps there was rock under the soil. Perhaps roots had bound the soil as hard as rock. And perhaps the binding was magical, and if the spells vanished, the whole shaft would come down on their heads.

Another, smaller piece of stone came down, and after that, hardly more than coarse gravel. It came in a steady stream, though, mingled with clods of earth. Dust filled the shaft; Conan clapped his free hand over his face, and Valeria tried to make a mask of her hair.

It was not enough; the dust set her to coughing desperately. Nothing more fell, but Conan had guessed the truth about the listeners above. A head appeared, silhouetted against the blessed sunlight shining through the enlarged hole.

"Who goes there? Name yourselves, or be called enemies of the Ichiribu."

The tongue was close enough to what Conan had learned in the Black Kingdoms that he could understand the meaning. The voice was that of a leader and a warrior, accustomed to being obeyed. Conan saw no reason to argue at length, not when the shaft might yet come down on his head.

But he and Valeria would not begin well by seeming to be beggars. In this land, only beggars or weaklings gave their true names for the asking. Wise men knew not to give that precious knowledge to those who might work magic with it.

"We are no enemies to the Ichiribu, whatever our names. Let us climb up to you, and you may see for yourselves."

Conan could not make out the man's look, but his reply was to silently draw his head back from the opening. The brighter light showed the upper portion of the shaft clearly, in spite of the drifting dust. The mouth lay a distance a good ten times the Cimmerian's height, and the shaft offered few handholds.

Once there had been a stairway spiraling up to the surface. Conan saw the holes where its beams had been thrust into the walls, and even the remnants of one or two of the beams themselves. None of this was of the slightest use to him and Valeria as long as the magic binding the shaft walls did not weaken. When it did, the shaft would doubtless fall on their heads, with more stones from above to mark their tomb.

"Conan," Valeria whispered, "do we go back?"

"How?" Conan asked. "Even if we could, the folk up there have heard us, likely enough seen us, too. They'll think we were demons and block the pit. What would you wager on finding another way out before we starve?"

"And if the folk up there are cannibals"

"They'll have to eat a fair amount of steel before they eat us," Conan said. Valeria replied with a grin, then reached into her boots and pulled out a handful of the fire-stones.

"Would it help to throw a few of these up to the watchers?" she asked.

"It couldn't hurt," Conan said. He returned the grin. "But I thought these were your hoard."

"And I thought we wouldn't need the help of theIchiribu, they saidto simply climb out of this demon-spawned pit!"

Conan took the largest of the stones in his hand, balanced it, then shifted slightly so that he could throw freely without falling back down the pit. Legs braced, he swung his arm in three great circles. On the fourth, his hand opened and the stone soared up the pit, a blazing green star as the sunlight struck it.

It fell outside the mouth of the pit, unheard and unseen by the Cimmerian. He knew the moment the watchers by the pit mouth saw it, however, from the outcry they raised. Hyenas fighting over carrion would have been quieter.

Conan could make out no words in that din. He could only discern what was most likely the voice of the leader, rising above the others and at last beating them down. He also heard what sounded like a woman, or a youth, apparently speaking with the leader.

Then Valeria cried out, blinking away tears, and even the Cimmerian felt lighter at heart. A stout oxhide rope with a loop at one end was dangling from the mouth of the pit.

It slid down to within a spear's length above Conan's fingertips. He cupped his hands and called up. "Too short, I fear. Another man's length will be enough."

"I'd best go up first," he told Valeria. "I speak their tongue, and some of the tribes think a woman warrior's bad luck."

"If they fill you with spears"

"Then they'll have no fire-stones," Conan reminded her. "From the din they raised, I'd say they'll do more than hold off their spears for that prize."

What Valeria clearly wanted was to believe that nothing would happen to Conan that would leave her alone in this noisome darkness. Just as clearly, Conan could give her no real assurance, and would not insult her with a false one.

Conan pulled the looped rope over his head and set it firmly under his armpits. "Pray that these are no pygmies," he said, "or I may be down again faster than I went up!"

Then, to the folk above: "Haul away!"

"Whoever is down there knows the True Tongue," Seyganko said. "That says human to me."

"Spirits can take human form, is that not so?" Aondo offered.

Emwaya looked as if she would prefer to lie, but nodded.

"Then why not speak so?" Aondo asked.

Emwaya frowned. She had explained to Seyganko the reasons why Spirit-Speaking did not use human tongues, so he knew that the folk below had to be human. She could not explain the same to Aondo without giving the whole fanda too much knowledge of Spirit-Speaking.

Then the man below shouted again: "Well, are you going to haul away or not?"

Seyganko raised his club and struck it against his shield three times.

On the third blow, the men on the rope began to move back from the pit.

"Heavier than a man!" someone called, taking one hand from the rope to wipe his forehead.

"Either pull or let one who will take your place!" Seyganko snapped.

The man looked ready to quarrel, then seemed to think better of it and returned to his work.

If what rose from the pit that yawned where the hearthstone had stood was a man, he was larger than any Seyganko had ever seen, save only Aondo.

A closer look told the warrior that the newcomer's skin was pale under its coating of filth, his hair straight, and his eyes an eerie blue.

There were tales of lands to the north that were inhabited by such blue-eyed giants, a race considered human for all that. Here, no doubt, was such a one.

"Now will you tell us your name?" Seyganko ordered.

"When I have drunk, and you have brought up my woman," the giant replied.

"Your woman?" someone asked.

"You think I travel this forest with no comforts?" the man said, laughing. His teeth were very even and none of them filed into points.

"Also, if you want more of these" he pointed at the fallen jewel "they are down there."

Someone clutched at Seyganko's arm. It was Emwaya, staring at the jewel as if it were a cobra about to strike. Seyganko put a hand on her shoulder and turned her around so that the giant could not see her face. Then he waved to the men to lower the rope again and shouted to the nearest hut for women to bring water.

"What is it, woman?" he whispered when he was sure that none paid him and Emwaya any attention.

"Those are Fire Eyes of the Golden Serpents," Emwaya said. Her breath seemed to come quickly, as if she had been running. "The man says they have more of them."

"So? They are fine to look at, not as fine as you when oiled and lying on a pallet, but"

"The Golden Serpents bred in Xuchotl. The tales of the city say the folk adorned themselves with the Fire Eyes."

"Then"

"It could be that we have taken the destroyers of Xuchotl among us!"

"We have done no such thing," Seyganko protested.

"You think we can put them back in the hole and cover them up easily if you are wrong?"

Seyganko studied the man's heavily muscled limbs, his iron weapons, and the easy, alert way he stood. "No. If they are spirits, they would not go. If they are human, they might not go and it would be unlawful to force them."

"Then what"

"Have your father summon the spirits to the dance-drum. At once, before these folk have spent a night among us. The man knows the True Tongue.

He may know our ways as well."

For the first time in Seyganko's memory, Emwaya obeyed one of his orders without hesitating, let alone disputing him. She ran off, for this was no message to be given to one who might take it to others than Dobanpu.

Then Seyganko stepped forward to greet the woman who rose from the pit.

She was even fairer than the man, with hair the color of fresh grain and a form that a goddess would not have disdained.

She had strange-looking footwear of leather slung about her neck, and from the way she unslung it, it was heavy. Then Seyganko and all of the fanda saw the Fire Eyes within the footwear and it made it seem like two tiny volcanoes bubbling with molten green stone.

The warriors sucked in their breath, and some gripped weapons. The woman bringing water did more; she halted in mid-stride and barely caught the water jug as it toppled from her head. The water itself made a puddle at her feet. She looked at it for a moment, then turned and ran.

The foreign woman looked ready to draw a weapon. The giant laid a hand on her bare shoulder and smiled thinly. "You kept your promise, up to the moment when the woman took flight. I'll keep mine." Then he turned to face Seyganko.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria, a free lance." He used the word for a warrior whose vows set him apart from any tribe or clan. It was an honorable status, and claiming it falsely was heavily punished.

"The woman is Valeria of the Red Brotherhood," Conan went on. "She is a free woman, oath-bound to me. She speaks not the True Tongue, save in her heart, which I know is good. We both ask for guest-friendship among the Ichiribu, and promise to aid them as far as it is in our power to do so."

Seyganko tried not to look at the Fire Eyes. If their power had been great enough to snatch those from Xuchotlâ€¦

It could be great enough to make the Ichiribu rulers of all the lands about the Lake of Death, even to the slopes of Thunder Mountain. It could also cast them down more completely than Chabano or the God-Men dreamed of.

Seyganko felt a chill, as of oncoming rain, when he next looked into Conan's blue eyes.

SEVEN

Ryku had often wished to be an insect upon the wall of a conclave of the Speakers to the Living Wind, as the God-Men called themselves. Now he had all but achieved that wish. He had at last attained the self-command that let a man's presence pass unnoticed by the Speakersor even, it was said, by the Living Wind itself.

He clung like an ape on a branch to a pinnacle of rock that forked just enough to offer a man-sized niche. One side of the fork supported his back, the other hid him from what lay below.

Eight of the Speakers were gathered in a circle around a great globe of something that could be no natural substance. The globe was as tall as a man and as clear as water, likewise seeming as hard as rock. Yet it was also light enough that two of the Speakers' servants had borne it on a litter into this cave and placed it where it now stood.

It said much about the power which the Speakers expected from the globe that the servants were mute and deaf slaves, used only for the most secret matters. Once, it was said, the Living Wind had given the Speakers spells that would silence tongues and block ears, but could also be removed when the need for them had passed. Now that knowledge was lost, and hot knives and needles served in place of magic.

That meant there were fewer of the secret servants with each passing year. The Kwanyi gave up a fair number of stout young men and women, some came from the lesser clans, others had been slaves and prisonersall of them now in the service of the God-Men on Thunder Mountain. The clans expected that at least the free tribesfolk would be returned alive and healthy, and they were not generous even with slaves to be mutilated or slain. They had become less generous in such matters since Chabano became the Paramount Chief.

A First Speaker who could wield the ancient knowledge might gain a stronger friendship from Chabano. Or if the Paramount Chief continued to insist that he himself rule in the alliance of wizards and warriors, the First Speaker might cause the Kwanyi to turn to another to lead them.

A breeze stirred the dank air of the cave. Ryku felt it blow cool on his skin, drying the sweat on his brow. He knew that the Living Wind could be called out from its cave by sufficient Speakers' magic. It was not lawful that he know this, being only a Silent Brother, but he did, and he knew much else of the Speakers' arts. Law had always lain lightly upon Ryku, called Son of Nkube.

Ryku had never seen the calling of the Living Wind, however. He would not have known that the Wind would be called had one Speaker not been indiscreet. Even now he wondered that the Speakers had no spells by which to learn of the presence of spies and eavesdroppers.

Perhaps that, too, was magic so ancient that living men no longer commanded it. Or perhaps the Living Wind was enough alive that it could seek out enemies itself, and punish them.

That thought so disturbed Ryku that he nearly toppled from his perch, and sweat broke out all over him though the wind grew stronger with each moment. He should not be hereand when the Wind had come and gone, he would not be here.

The tunnel on the far side of the cave began to glow in the crimson and sapphire hues of the Living Wind. The light did not flicker; the swirling essence of the Living Wind was not yet in the tunnel. It could not be far, though.

Ryku licked lips suddenly as dry as month-old porridge and fought his way back to some measure of self-command.

The serving wench held out two wooden bowls to Valeria. One held salted fish, scaled, gutted, and beheaded as deftly as Valeria had ever seen in the captain's room of a waterfront tavern. The other held a pungent stew of more fish, boiled together with grain and nuts that she had never tasted. Behind the wench, a boy held a third bowl, of piping hot yams.

"No more, thank you," Valeria said. She used some of what little she knew of the Black Kingdoms' tongue. The girl seemed not to understand, only smiling and shaking her head, then holding out the bowls again.

Valeria frowned. Had the Ichiribu sent a witling to serve her and the Cimmerian? She tried patting her stomach, then holding her hands together well out in front of it. She wanted to tell the girl that she had eaten of their excellent fare nearly to the bursting point.

The girl smiled and almost pushed the bowls into Valeria's lap. Valeria raised a hand to push the girl away, then felt her wrist seized with a familiar iron grip.

"Wait, Valeria."

The Cimmerian used more Black Kingdoms' speech, as well as hand language. The girl looked at Valeria and shook her head. Conan nodded.

Then girl and Cimmerian both erupted in laughter.

Valeria flushed and covered her anger by holding out a hand for the salted fish. She probably would burst if she ate more, certainly if she drank any more of the Ichiribu beer to wash down the fish. She would still be cursed if she would seem loutish.

The girl served Valeria, kneeling gracefully. She wore a waistcloth that revealed nearly all of a long-legged, firm-breasted figure, with the supple waist and firm arms of a girl only just turned woman.

Valeria noticed that Conan's eyes roved over the girl with unmistakable admiration.

She prodded him in the ribs, nearly spraining a finger against his layered muscles. "I thought you didn't care for black wenches," she whispered.

"Remember the ones about the fort? They file their teeth to points.

These folktheir wenches look more like women and less like sharks."

"If you are so wise about woman, Conan, tell me what the wench was doing. I thought I said 'no more' plainly enough."

"Oh, you did. Then you used the gestures that said you were with child.

The wench thought you needed more, for yourself and the babe."

"With child?" Valeria's jaw dropped so that she was not sure the words came out in sensible speech. Conan's grin told her that, unfortunately, they had. "I've not had a chance in years!"

"Small wonder, then, you're out of temper with men. None have shown they can tell a fine woman when they see one, so of course"

"You clatterjawed Cimmerian oaf!" Or at least Valeria started to say that, with the intent of following it with a slap. Instead, she doubled up with laughter, upsetting her bowl. Conan patted her on the shoulder.

"Easy, woman. I was jesting."

Valeria almost wished he were not. She did wish that his hand would linger, so she reached up and held it with both of her own. She knew that Conan could break her grip as if she were a child, but she hoped he would do no such thing.

He did not. He left his hand on her bare shoulder long enough for the serving wench to raise her eyebrows, then wink at the boy. A moment later, Valeria and Conan were alone.

"They'll be listening," he whispered. "If you come closer, they'll hear nothing of what we say."

Valeria was ready to come as close as the Cimmerian could wish, but she sensed that this was not the time. She also heard a warning in his voice, and wanted to curse aloud in frustration. Had they, after all, not found safety among the Ichiribu?

Now the air in the cave whirled and moaned, as if it sought to flee the Living Wind and cried out in fear of its pursuer. Ryku clung to his perch with arms and legs alike, and could have wished for a tail like a monkey. All thought of concealment had long since left him.

It did not matter, for the Speakers had no care or thought to give to anything save the globe in the center of their circle. The globeâ€¦ and the Living Wind they were bringing into it.

The light of the Living Wind now seemed an eye-searing flood, pouring from the tunnel like a stream in the rainy season. But no stream ever leaped like a fountain to pour downward and vanish into a globe that somehow remained as clear as a mountain pool for all the light that it swallowed.

Then Ryku saw the globe quiver, once, twice, three times. He looked at the eight-footed bronze bowl that held it, each foot of the bowl wrought in the form of a gilded fish, and saw that the bowl was also quivering. Then he blinked and spared a hand to rub his eyes, for he thought he saw pale green smoke rising from the vessel.

A moment later, the wind seemed to redouble, something that Ryku would not have believed possible. He came within a hair of losing his perch.

He resumed a two-handed grip, closed his eyesâ€¦ and opened them again when he smelled smoke.

Shadowy shapes now danced furiously within the clear globe, which was turning an angry crimson, with hardly a tint of sapphire. Some of the shapes might have been called human, others were serpents, still others things for which there was no name outside of nightmaresâ€¦ where Ryku most earnestly hoped they would remain.

But even if they came forth from the globe as living flesh, he must face them open-eyed and unflinching. How otherwise could he hope for the power of a Speaker, that would gain him what he most craved?

The smoke was rising from the bowl, and from the eight legs. The legs seemed to glow as if they had been heated over a forge, and Ryku thought he saw one of them bending. Had the weight of the globe suddenly increased out of all measure, because of the Living Wind entering it?

The eight Speakers certainly saw the smoke, and from their looks, it was obvious they knew that it meant something fearful. Or perhaps it was only the smell; when a whiff blew past Ryku, he nearly spewed.

He had barely commanded his stomach when all eight legs of the bowl seemed to melt at once. Smoke disgorged from the dissolving supports, from the bowl, and, as it seemed, from the globe itself.

Courage worthy of front-rank warriors and a lifetime of dedication held the Speakers to their task about the globe. Neither availed them against the Living Wind run wild.

The smoke vanished as if a giant mouth had sucked it all in at one gulp. The bowl and the eight legs became a bubbling pool of molten bronze, searing the eyes as would the mouth of a volcano. The globe wavered, impossibly enough held in midair by powers Ryku dared not imagine.

Then the Speakers or their powers, or both, failed, and the globe fell.

It splashed into the molten metal, and gobs of liquid bronze flew about. The Speakers' discipline could not hold against such pain. They screamed and leaped like monkeys beset by bees, or like warthogs attacked by driver ants.

The globe wavered again. The shadow shapes within took a more solid formtwo humans, a man and a womanand then vanished. By this time, the substance of the globe was melting down into the searing metal and feeding a great tongue of liquid fire that reached out toward the circle of Speakers.

The Speakers' silence had broken; now their courage faltered. Yet still they did not run. They opened their circle wider and held their staves with both hands at waist level. Their chanting grew louder, for all that it came from throats raw with pain and fear.

The tongue of fire gathered itself and leaped. Crimson flames as thin as the air wrapped themselves about one of the Speakers' staves. The Speaker dropped it with a cry, but it did not fall.

Instead, the flames whirled the stave up to the ceiling of the cave and held it there while they consumed it. Not even an ash drifted to the floorbut when the flames fell back, they seemed sated, like a well-fed animal.

Far worse was the feeding of the liquid metal. It, too, leaped, to land in a spreading pool about the feet of another Speaker. In a moment, the man had no feet; in another moment, no legs.

In the moment after that, knowledge of what was happening reached the Speaker's brain, as did the agony of being burned alive. Burned? Ryku wished that so innocent a word could describe what was happening to the Speaker.

The Living Wind had this much mercy: the Speaker did not take long to die. Before he began to scream, the fire had already eaten him almost to the waist. Then it swept up past his belly and to his chest, and when it ate his lungs, he fell silent.

His head bobbed briefly on the surface of the liquid fire, now shot with streaks of black as well as crimson. Then it vanished, too, and smoke in a dozen colors swirled over the metal, hiding any bubbles.

Like the flames, the liquid fire made Ryku think of a sated animal as it withdrew toward the tunnel. The crimson flames followed, and as both elements vanished from the cave, the wind died.

The seven living Speakers stumbled out the way they had come. Some seemed blinded; they gripped the shoulders of those ahead to guide their stumbling feet. Others coughed as if mortally sick in the lungs.

Half-blinded, stifled, his own eyes and lungs assaulted by inconceivable stenches and smoke, Ryku clung to his perch until the last Speaker was gone. It would have been much simpler to let go, fall to the floor of the cave, and die a clean and natural death by breaking his head.

Simpler, and very foolish. Now there was something he had not dared to hope for: a vacant place among the Speakers. Add to this the loss of the scrying globe, with little knowledge gained from its use, and even the First Speaker would know that peril unseen in years faced the God-Men of Thunder Mountain.

If Ryku came forward to show how he might prevent Chabano from using this peril against the Speakers, he might receive a hearing. He might even receive initiation as a Speaker. Then it would be his right to wield the power of the Living Wind.

He barred his mind to the thought that in spite of all the forbidden lore he had studied, he might do no better than the Speaker who had died so brutally. If he let himself dwell on that, he would fall from his perch and die!

Valeria was as fine a woman as the Cimmerian had ever held this close.

But he did not hold her out of passion, and what he whispered in her ear was most likely not going to make her warm for him.

"We've been guested with food and shelter," he said. "That means we're not likely to be slain by treachery."

"You leave much unsaid," Valeria replied.

"So do the Ichiribu. I know more of their speech than I have let on, so there've been wagging tongues where I could hear. They're none too happy about where we came from, or the magic in our coming."

"What magic? Neither of us could cast a spell to so much as trim a babe's nails."

"We broke the guardian spells on the entrance to the tunnel under the hearthstone. Then we broke the hearthstonewe, or the spells as they went awry. There's too much power about us for their peace of mind."

"Sea demons drown their peace of mind! We're no danger to them. Unless they turn us into one by trying to kill us"

She broke off as Conan's grip tightened like iron, and he laid a finger across her full lips. "Don't even think that for long. There's a smell of their having a Spirit-Speaker among them."

"A what?"

Conan explained. Spirit-Speakers were no more to his taste than any other sort of magic-wielder. During his time in the Black Kingdoms, he had learned something of them, as he had learned something of every other kind of man who could be friend or foe. He owed it to this as much as to anything else that he had survived being a ruler in the Black Kingdoms, an occupation that often killed men born and bred in these lands.

"Now," he finished, at last relinquishing his grip on her, "this man's not yet our enemy. He may hope to make us friends, to him, to his tribe, or even to both. The way they talk of him, he seems to be a shrewd old fellow."

"Let him be shrewd enough to learn that we mean him no harm, and I'll praise his wisdom in songs."

"Valeria, I've heard you sing. Do you want us at blood feud with these folk, after all their cattle fall dead?"

Valeria growled. It sounded like a she-badger defending her young.

Conan laughed softly. "If I said you shame the nightingale, you'd call me astray in my wits. But the truth is, our Spirit-Speaker will surely want us to help him or his folk against some foe they call the Kwanyi.

I'd wager these Kwanyi hold the shores of thisâ€¦ Lake of Death, or so it's called."

"Do you know why?"

"No, and I'd be easier in my mind if I did. But if I start asking questions outright, I'll make these folk believe we're spies. If I tell them about where we came from, they'll think we're the ones who overthrew Xuchotl."

"We are, and not ashamed of it! Or are these folk fool enough to think that city of madmen was so great a loss?"

"Who said a word about their missing it? No, they'd no use for it, and shunned it as we might have. But they can't help wondering what magic cast it down. We speak of what we did, andâ€¦ Do you want to learn what they do to witches in this land?"

Valeria's mouth opened without letting out a sound, but she shook her head. Conan wrapped his arm around her shoulders again. She eased herself back against his chest and closed her eyes.

"Most likely we'll be put to some kind of test. It could be as simple as my bedding you before all the tribe"

"Another jest like that and you'll be bedding no woman anywhere!"

"or something like dancing on a drum."

"There's not a drum in the world stout enough to bear you, Conan.

Surely you mean a drum-smashing contest?"

"In these lands, they make their drums large enough and stout enough for me and another to dance upon. Each man tries to make the other fall, and the one who falls dies."

Conan felt Valeria go limp in his arms, and he cursed his wagging tongue for finally scaring her into a faint. Then he heard her breathing steadily, and gently he shifted her to one arm so he could see her face.

Her eyes had drifted shut, and her mouth was slack. A moment later, the Cimmerian heard a soft burble from the full lips. He lifted the sleeping Valeria and laid her on the sleeping mat to the right of the hut's door. Then he lay down on the mat opposite, kicked off his boots, and stretched like a cat.

The Spirit-Speaker would keep his own counsel until a time of his own choosing. Valeria had the right notion about what to do until that time.

EIGHT

Valeria did not know what a Spirit-Speaker commonly looked like. Nor was this the time and place to ask, even if Conan knew. Not when the Cimmerian was talking with Dobanpu, Spirit-Speaker to the Ichiribu.

Dobanpu was no longer young, but his presence almost made Valeria forget that he dealt in potent magic. Even more, he made her unaware that she was in a cave, when she had thought she would rather be impaled than again plunge beneath the earth!

Flanking Dobanpu were a young woman with the look of blood kina daughter, likely enoughand an Ichiribu warrior. Even one unfamiliar with the Black Kingdoms could tell that here was a man of rank.

Iridescent feathers flowed from his spear and headdress, and he wore a necklace' of what seemed to be mother-of-pearl and what were most certainly leopard's teeth.

He was not of the same towering stature as the Cimmerian, but he did not need to be. Indeed, by the way he stood and moved, he made Conan seem almost uncouthly large. He also made Valeria aware, as she had not been before, that the Black Kingdoms produced some very comely folk.

The talk now seemed to be between Conan and the young chiefSeyganko, his name was, and the daughter was named Emwaya. Valeria glimpsed another figure in the shadows of the cave and recognized the girl who had attended them and who had thought Valeria was with child.

Conan had been right about their being spied on. But then, this hardly surprised Valeria. The folk of the Black Kingdoms might live a simple life compared to Aquilonians, but they were hardly simpletons!

She turned her attention back to the two warriors. As much as she could judge, when she understood perhaps one word in ten, a challenge was being offered. It seemed that it was from Conan to Seyganko, but was Seyganko accepting or refusing?

No, he was looking at Dobanpu. The woman Emwaya was trying to catch her father's eye and Seyganko's at onceand Valeria knew that she was betrothed, wed, or at least in love with Seyganko.

Dobanpu was not returning all the looks cast at him. Indeed, he sat as silent as if he had himself become a spirit. Then he said one word, which to Valeria seemed to be a name.

"Aondo."

Seyganko's face held what had to be displeasure. Emwaya, on the other hand, appeared to be struggling to hide her joy. Valeria looked away, to make the woman's task easier. Once in her life had she felt that way toward a man, but he was dead, his bones beneath a distant reef, with the surf and the starfish alone to mourn him.

The parley seemed to be done. Then Conan half turned and whispered to Valeria, "Bow, and stretch out your arms."

Mystified but trusting, Valeria obeyed. She kept her eyes on the cave's floor long enough to count the trails left by snakes. They were the trails of small snakes, such as seers and wise-women in Aquilonia often kept about the house to give auguries and eat insects.

Seeing that bit of home in this distant land made Valeria easier in her mind, for all that she also remembered how long she had been gone from Aquilonia. She had been some years a woman and a wanderer even before she had met the man who now lay beneath the reefand that was enough years ago that she needed two hands to count them.

Now as she knelt there with her arms stretched out, her sword-toughened muscles began to burn and her hands began to shake. Her knees also reminded her that the sand was harsh and that beneath it was hard, cold stone.

Then she felt a gentle touch at the back of her neck, draping something about her shoulders. She smelled what might have been a mixture of violets and ripe apples, if this land grew either.

"Rise," Conan said.

She rose, stretching as she did so as to ease her cramped muscles. She was proud to see that she did not tremble, let alone stagger. She also felt another kind of pride when she noticed that Seyganko was eyeing her rather as she had eyed himand then she observed the frown on Emwaya's face as the woman saw where her man's gaze had wandered.

Dobanpu spoke again, this time calling another name"Mokossa." The girl came from the back of the cave, and Dobanpu pointed at the cave's mouth. The girl ran to it, then seemed to halt and wait.

Conan put a hand at the small of Valeria's back and eased her along.

Outside, they found that it was raining. They stopped under the overhang of the cliff to watch the rain beating the water of the lake into a vast gray expanse of tiny dancing splashes.

Valeria examined the wreath hanging around her neck. The flowers seemed dried and living at the same time, and even had it not come from Dobanpu, she would have smelled magic about it. She started to lift it over her head, but the girl Mokossa frowned and Conan put a hand on his companion's shoulder.

"Easy there, Valeria. It's safe enough, and better for you even if I lose."

"I might believe you if I knew what it was."

"It marks you as vowed to me, as this marks me the same to you."

"This" was a stout band of what appeared to be snakeskin about the Cimmerian's left wrist. By some quirk of the light, or perhaps of magic, it was in the same colors as Valeria's wreath.

"I see. Or at least I see what you are wearing. Will you tell me what you might win or lose, or leave me to guess it for myself?"

Conan frowned. "It's not easy to tell it quickly"

"Then take as much time as you need, and half the night besides. I have nothing better to do, of course, than listen to a Cimmerian's tales."

"No, you don't," Conan agreed with infuriating cheerfulness. Again the urge to geld him warred with the urge to laugh, and laughter won.

They sat on a fallen log that seemed to have once been roughly carved but was now half-rotted and altogether covered with moss and ferns.

Conan drew a borrowed whetstone from a borrowed pouch at his borrowed belt and began to work on the edge of his sword. The blade, at least, was not borrowed.

It seemed that Conan was to submit to the gods' judgment of him by challenging an Ichiribu warrior to various contests. They would throw spears and tridents, duel with club and shield, run, jump, climb, swim, paddle canoes

"No bedding wenches?"

"I doubt they could find enough, and a godless man is taboo to the women about here anyway."

"Is a godless woman taboo to the men?"

"You're not as godless as I am, it seems."

Valeria could think of no sufficient reply, so let the Cimmerian continue.

"I need not win every contest, but I must meet a picked warrior in every one and show skill in all. Otherwise, they may name me a man lacking the gods' favor, or even a coward."

"Small fear of that." Valeria had a sense of much left unsaid, and perhaps to remain so.

But the Cimmerian was honest, she would give him that. He frowned.

"If the gods favor me through the other contests, we end on the dance-drum. There the winner has the final blessing of the gods. The loser dies. If I win, all is well. If I lose" he shrugged "I suppose I'll not be king of a Hyborian realm, but that's not so great a loss."

"Not to be a king?" Had Dobanpu conjured away the Cimmerian's wits?

"A throne, woman, is something a man sits on.

You're an archer. You know how easy it is to shoot a sitting birdor a sitting king."

"I've not been in the habit of shooting at kings, but you may have the right of it." Then her light tone broke. "So, Conanif you lose"

"I die. You live. If you don't fight to save me or avenge me"

"I did not come here from an Iranistani harem!"

"Nor are you going to one. You must vow yourself to a new man, but you may choose him. I also think you may ask the help of Dobanpu and his daughter Emwaya. Seyganko, too, knows the warriors of the Ichiribu and seems to have a good head and heart. I'm glad I'm not to fight him. His folk will need him in the coming war."

"So who are you fighting?"

"Some stout fellow named Aondo. They say he's larger than I am"

"They've matched you with an ape?"

"The ape would be the loser," Conan said. That again hinted of past battles against uncommon foes, but Valeria took no heart from it. What she wanted was assurance that she would not be at the mercy of the Ichiribu if Conan lostand that assurance, she realized, was not to be forthcoming.

She took more comfort from an undoubted truth that Aondo was not likely to best the Cimmerian in a fair battle. Was there anything she could do or leave undone to keep the fight fair?

Precious little, she realized, and some of the comfort washed away with the rain on her skin. Silently she cursed her folly in fleeing south when she had left the fort. The next time she had to flee from unwanted embraces, she would look where she was going and try not to end in a land where she knew neither law, tongue, nor customâ€¦ and was at the mercy of another's knowledge of all of them!

Ryku had not recognized the First Speaker among the circle of eight who had sought to conjure the Living Wind into the globe. Yet now the First Speaker showed signs of vast weariness in the way he slumped on his gilded stool. His eyes were cast on the lion's skin on the floor, but they seemed as vacant as if he had at last become truly blind.

Or had seen what even those who were called God-Men were not meant to see.

As custom demanded of a Silent Brother, Ryku was prostrate before the First Speaker. He lay thus until the chill of the stone floor began to creep through his limbs toward his heart. It had to be only his fancy, but the stone seemed colder than ever before. It was as if the Living Wind had leeched the warmth of the earth from all about it.

It was as well that his face was to the floor when that thought passed through his mind.

"Arise, Ryku."

Ryku could not scramble to his feet quickly enough. The chill stone had stiffened his limbs, but he contrived to rise without loss of either balance or dignity.

"I have summoned you here because the Speakers to the Living Wind have need of you."

"This is an honor I have not dared hope"

The First Speaker held up a hand. Ryku saw that the hand was thinner and paler than it had been the last time he had seen the man. It also seemed to tremble slightly.

"Spare me your modesty. You are not unknown to Chabano, Paramount Chief of the Kwanyi." It was not a question.

Ryku judged that this moment held opportunity as well as danger. He also judged that he should hold his tongue.

"Have you promised him anything in the name of the Speakers?" This time it was a question that demanded an answer.

"I have not." Which was entirely true, Ryku not being a fool.

"Will he believe you if you promise now?"

Ryku's confusion was not altogether feigned. "What am I to promise?

Chabano is no fool, as I am sure you do not need telling, First Speaker."

"Indeed, I do not need to be told what I already know. You may promise him, in my name, some part of what he has asked for but not been granted."

"What must he give us?"

"You are bold, bargaining with me."

"I speak thus only to remind you of Chabano's ways, Master. He is as bold as a leopard slipping into a cattle pen to pluck the newborn calf from its mother's teat. He is as hungry, also, and as fierce when balked of what he seeks."

"If I thought that Chabano commanded spirits, I would say he has made himself your master. A praise-speaker could not have done better."

Ryku was silent. If the old man would spend both their time speaking in riddles

"But if Chabano commanded spirits, he would have done for himself much of what he has asked of us in years past. So I do not doubt that you speak the truth as you believe it to be."

"No man can speak otherwise, Master."

The look the First Speaker gave him reminded Ryku that Chabano was not the only man who could quell disobedience or strike terror into the disloyal without raising his voice. He was tempted to prostrate himself again.

The First Speaker crossed his hands over a bronze medallion resting on his belly. "You may go to Chabano, Silent Brother Ryku. You may promise him aid from us, and ask that he tell us who has come among the Ichiribu."

"The conquerors of Xuchotl, perhaps?"

The First Speaker's look said that was something best not spoken aloud.

Ryku tried to look humble.

"We haveâ€¦ waysâ€¦ of learning this," the First Speaker went on. "Yet those who are masters of magic would know if we used these ways. They would know our powers, and that they might be in peril from us. Eyes that see and ears that hear without magic give no warning, and Chabano commands those."

Ryku now fought to look not merely humble, but surprised and admiring.

In truth, he could admire one part of the First Speaker's pose. A more cunning way of pretending that nothing had happened to the seeing globe was hard to imagine.

Best I not take the First Speaker too lightly, even in this moment of triumph.

"Indeed, Chabano has often spoken of how no bird lays an egg without his knowing sooner or later," Ryku said. "I think he boasts, but he surely knows the use of spies and has them among the Ichiribu."

"Then go you and bid him use them for us," the First Speaker said. "Go, and if you return with the knowledge we seek, you may be raised to the rank of Speaker."

A new Speaker was chosen from the Silent Brothers only when an old Speaker died, and as yet there had been no word put out of such a death. Nor would there be, Ryku suspected, at least not until it became necessary to explain why Silent Brother Ryku was being honored.

It would be necessary, he swore. He would not fail, now that he had been offered as a free gift the opportunity for which he would have shed blood, and not only that of other men!

Ryku prostrated himself again until given leave to rise, then swiftly departed the First Speaker's chamber.

Chnggg!

Conan's spear sank deep into the stump that was his target in the spear-throwing contest. Sank so deep, the Cimmerian judged, that it struck a knot and rebounded. The shaft quivered so fiercely that it jerked the iron head from the wood. The spear dropped to the ground, kicking up dust.

Conan turned to Aondo and raised a hand in salute. The Ichiribu warrior had won the spear-casting contest, although by the slenderest of margins. Had it not been for that last cursed knot

From behind Conan, Valeria strode to his side. She now wore an Ichiribu waistcloth and the wreath showing her to be his vowed woman, as well as the leather bindings on her feet. Much travel, then sunny days upon the island of the Ichiribu had darkened her northern fairness, but not otherwise marred her looks.

"What now, Conan?"

"Today, nothing more. Tomorrow, the canoe, the fish-hunting, and then at night, the drum-dance."

A shadow passed across Valeria's face. "Conan, I am as deft with a canoe paddle as any of these folk. More so than you, I think."

"Likely enough. But it's not life or death if I lose anything save the drum-dance. Aondo won the wrestling"

"Because you let him win, to muddle his wits with false hopes."

"Woman!" the Cimmerian said, looming over her in mock fury. "Do I have no secrets from you?"

"No," Valeria replied with an impudent smile that made her look almost girlish. "After as much time as I've passed with you, I'd be a fool if it were otherwise."

"You're no fool, that's as certain as anything can be," Conan said.

Then a disquieting thought made him frown. "Unless you've offered to paddle the canoe in my place?"

"And if I have?"

"Answer me. Have you offered to take my place in the canoe?"

"Yes."

"Crom! If only they had the wits to refuse"

"They accepted."

Conan wanted to pick up Valeria and shake some sense into her, knew that he would shake their friendship to pieces if he did, and contented himself with a volley of oaths. It set all the birds calling, and not a few children wailing. Women, even warriors drew back from the Cimmerian, leaving him alone with Valeria, well out of anybody else's hearing.

"Did Emwaya suggest this?" he growled.

"This what?"

He struggled for fair words. "Thisâ€¦ taking my place."

"No. She has ben not unfriendly, but we've not been among these folk long enough for me to give that kind of ear to one of them. Especially to a wizard's daughter."

"You've not lost all your wits, at least."

"What mean you by that, Cimmerian?" Valeria's voice held an edge,

"If they are letting you take my place in one of the contests, it means they regard you as a warrior."

"So?"

"A warrior of rank."

"Better still."

The Cimmerian lost the struggle to keep an edge from his own voice. "A warrior sworn to me as a blood-brother. Such may take another's place in the contest. That is the law."

"I knew"

"Woman!" the Cimmerian bellowed. "Did you know that if you do that, you are judged along with me? That your fate marches in step with mine? If I lose the drum-dance, you die with me!"

Conan had expected anything but that Valeria would throw her arms around him, then pull his head down with a firm grip on his hair, and kiss him soundly.

"All the gods be praised! I did not know I could so easily avoid sitting and waiting to be thrown to some warrior like a bone to a dog!"

Conan decided that Valeria was actually saying what he had heard, and that neither of them had gone mad. He much doubted that if the drum-dance went against him, there would now be any tame submission to death. Valeria was not so made.

But that submission had never had any purpose, save keeping her alive.

If it was her free choice to fling herself into a last battle at his side, then so be itand the worse for the Ichiribu if they took the verdict of the drum-dance seriously!

NINE

Valeria still did not understand much of the Ichiribu tongue. She could read faces well enough, though, and she read in all around her the common thought that she was mad.

For the tenth time since she had sat down in the canoe, she raised her paddle, letting it find its own balance in her long-fingered hands. The morning sun gilded the drops of water that fell from the paddle blade into the lake.

This morning, Lake of Death seemed a monstrously false name for such fine water. The surface sparkled, emerald-tinted with flashes of azure, and rippled softly under the light breeze. Sun flashed from the rose-and snow-hued wings of whole flocks of birds beating their way high above the island of the Ichiribu toward the distant shore.

She put the paddle down and, again for the tenth time, gently rocked the canoe to test its balance. It was as fine and light a dugout as she had ever known, both the inside and the bottom scraped and oiled until they were as smooth as the back of her hand. Smoother, likely enough, with all that she had done since fleeing that captain's embraces.

Conan was not far wrong. She might have wasted years in that dismal border settlement, until time had taken the strength and grace from her and the Red Brotherhood would no longer have her back.

Or she might have died from a fever, from a fall from horseback, or by the arrow or blade of some bandit unworthy to scrub the bilges of a Red Brotherhood ship. Died, without ever feeling a deck under her feet, seeing a sail swell with the wind, hearing the chant of rowers as they took a ship out of harbor

She blinked and thrust the past from her. For now, she could live only from one moment to the next, from one stroke of the paddle to the next.

Otherwise, Conan would have a mark against him, those with doubts of the pale-skinned strangers would rejoice, and she would have thrown her life into the scales for nothing.

From twenty paces to starboard, Aondo bared misshapen teeth in a mocking grin. Then he raised his paddle and thrust it back and forth in an unmistakable gesture.

Valeria replied in kind, biting her thumb, then pretending to throw it overboard and spitting after it. Aondo's grin wavered, then vanished as the onlookers onshore laughed. Valeria even heard one or two besides Conan shout her name as if it were a war cry.

Fifty paces to port, the two older warriors judging the race sat in the sterns of their canoes. Each of the judges' canoes had four paddlers, although one of the boats was hardly larger than the stout craft Aondo was paddling alone.

Aondo, Valeria decided, was once more determined to strut and crow like a cock on a dunghill, and much good might it do him! She had chosen a canoe that she was sure she could handle over the whole length of the race. It did not matter where else Aondo might be ahead as long as she led him past the finishing mark!

Onshore, the drums began. The Ichiribu drums were the "talking" kind, able to send complex messages, but today they had no such task. They were to spur her and Aondo on to greater effortsand their steady, deep rumble was already reaching down into her belly, filling her as if with strong wine.

Valeria tossed her head, her hair brushed her shoulders, and the two judges raised their tridents. When those tridents came down

Spray jetted into rainbows as the judges flung their tridents. The rainbows had not faded when Valeria's paddle plunged into the water, driving her canoe forward.

She paddled as she had learned to, head up so that her arms had free play and all the muscles of her upper body could feed the arms. Aondo, she saw, was hunched over, as if that would urge his canoe faster through the water. His strokes were not as smooth as hers, but his stout thews made them formidable.

There was not a spear's length between the two canoes as they passed the first mark. Valeria already felt sweat streaming down her face and body, and her headband growing sodden. She thanked Mitra that she had worn only the briefest of loinguards, apart from binding her hands with leather against blisters.

The race spanned six marks, about a league or a trifle more in Valeria's judgment. She had fallen farther behind than she liked by the second mark, and by then, her hair was as sodden as her headband.

She was not gaining by the third markhalfway alongbut neither had she lost any more ground. Aondo also was dripping sweat, and his canoe seemed to be lower in the water than it had been. Was the water splashed from his vigorous strokes finding its way aboard?

The judges' canoes were keeping up well, but Valeria did not expect much of the judges. She was many things that were strange to the Ichiribu, and honor might not outweigh ignorance when it came to deciding her fate. She would do as she had done beforewager all on her own skill and strength and leave the rest to the gods.

Dip, thrust, lift, twist slightly to the other side, dip, thrust, lift, twist again. Her thigh and belly muscles joined her arms and shoulders in shrieking protests. Dip, thrust, lift, twist a little harder this time to shake sweat from her eyes, which had begun to burn as if they were filled with hot wax.

Aondo's canoe had been steering an uncertain course for some time now.

His thrusts seemed almost frantic, but they had lost none of their power. His canoe was no longer settling. Had he somehow managed to bail it out when Valeria's eyes were elsewhere? Or had it been only her wishful fancy that it was low in the water?

It was no fancy that his steering was growing still more erratic.

Valeria stared at the Ichiribu warrior. In a moment when he thought himself unobserved, she caught him staring back at her. The malice in that stare chilled her blood and seemed to turn the sweat upon her into ice. If he had any voice in her fate, she would be begging for death long before death took her.

Her sweat-dimmed eyes made out something else, too. Aondo was steering a course that was gradually taking him across her bow. Before they reached the next mark, she would have to either back water or strike himand if she struck him, she would forfeit the race.

Rage did not blunt Valeria's wits. She had to surprise her opponent.

Aondo was as strong as an ox, but not much quicker of thought. She wondered who had counseled him to this treachery, doubted she would learn, but knew one thing: the man was not in Aondo's canoe.

Valeria subtly altered the force and angle of her strokes so that her canoe began to drift quite as subtly to starboard. She felt a surge of strength as she saw Aondo actually slow his pace, and she knew that her deception was working. He thought she was exhausting her strength and would have no reply to his scheme.

As they approached the fourth mark, the canoes were barely a sword's length apart. Aondo was halfway across Valeria's bow now, paddling only hard enough to keep the distance. A few missed strokes and he would be lying across her path like a log.

But it was Valeria who missed a stroke, by intent, but making it seem the error of one at the end of her strength. She lost ground, but only by a few paces then her paddle churned the water, and she shot under Aondo's stern.

Aondo screamed something that Valeria doubted was praise and stabbed wildly at the lake with his paddle. It struck the water on the wrong side, and he had completed his stroke before he realized this.

His canoe swerved sharply, until it had almost reversed its course.

Valeria was clear by then, past Aondo and into open water. She did not care if he spent the rest of the day spinning around in circles, or jumped overboard to be eaten by the lionfish and crocodiles. She only cared that the fourth mark was passing her to port, and now it was time to spend her strength freely. She would not allow herself even a moment's doubt that she still had that strength.

Her paddle seemed to dive now, then leap over the canoe to dive on the other side. Each thrust seemed to raise the canoe as well as thrust it forward. Water gurgled at the stern, spray made rainbows at the bow, and Valeria knew she was kneeling in a handbreadth of water in the bottom of the craft.

She would not allow herself a moment to look back at Aondo, either. She was already giving the race everything that was in her. Aondo could no longer make any difference. The world shrank ever more swiftly to the endless rhythms of her paddle strokes, the water churning past, the fifth mark vanishing astern, the sixth and last now in sight

Aondo was there again, to port now. He seemed to have no treachery left, but too much strength for Valeria's comfort. Comfort no longer mattered. Her world was no more than one stroke after another, and nothing else mattered as long as each stroke carried her toward the mark.

Was Aondo larger, meaning that he was closer? Valeria would not waste a single moment to even look. It would make no difference. None at all.

She would dip the paddle, lift it, twistand it had begun to seem that a white-hot band was locked about her waist and thighs

"Hoaaaaa, Valeria!"

There was only one voice in the world like that. Valeria did not know if Conan was hailing her victory or urging her to greater efforts. She had not thought she had any more strength in her, but the Cimmerian's thunderous cry proved her wrong.

She raced along in a cloud of spray, her paddle flying from side to side and up and down, almost too fast for her eye to follow. She was only muscle and sinew, bone and breath, with no human senses left in her.

"Valeria!"

She heard Conan's voice again, but this time it was almost instantly lost in the din of other voices. They were shouting her name from the shore, from the lake, even, it seemed, from the sky.

"Valeria!" The Cimmerian cut through the din. "You won!"

Valeria wanted to join the shouting. Instead, she found that her mouth seemed packed with wool. She opened it, but only a frog's croak came out. She bent forward, cautiously because she feared that her eyes would pop from her head and roll about on the canoe's bottom.

The canoe rocked and spun about. She clawed for her dagger, in the half-mad notion that Aondo was seeking to avenge his defeat by murder in plain sight of all his tribe.

Then a large, sword-calloused hand gripped her wrist and pulled her around. Conan stood beside her canoe, up to his chest in the water.

With his free hand, he plucked the paddle from her grip and tossed it into the bottom of the canoe. She saw it float.

Then she saw the cloud-flecked blue sky as the Cimmerian lifted her out of the craft and carried her in his arms toward the shore. She felt the cool water of the lake soothing her feet and arms, and found the breath for a long sigh.

They reached the shore. The servant girl Mokossa ran forward with a gourd of water. Valeria sipped, fearing that her throat and stomach would never be the same again. The water stayed down, however, and she drank thirstily.

By then, she could even stand, with Conan's help. She leaned comfortably against him as the Ichiribu began shouting her name again.

In the middle of the shouting, she heard a familiar growl in her ear.

"You didn't have to go to such lengths to have me carry you ashore!

Some women haven't the sense the gods gave a fly!"

It was too much effort to even think of gelding him, and as for biting or kicking himthere was a victor's dignity to think of.

Thoughts of that dignity also kept Valeria from falling senseless, as pleasant as the idea seemed. Instead, she held out her hand for another gourd, and this time emptied it over herself.

Wobeku entered Aondo's hut with care, hands in front of him and his weapons left at the door. Aondo was not easy-tempered at the best of times, and these were anything but that.

A slave girl leaped up and ran into the corner of the hut at the sight of Wobeku. She made the sign against the evil eye as she did so.

Casually, Aondo sat up and reached for the girl. She squealed in unfeigned terror as his massive hand closed on her ankle. She did not dare fight, however, as Aondo drew her to him and across his lap.

"Wobeku does not have the evil eye. Repeat that ten times."

"Wobeku-u-u-u does n-n-notaiyeee!"

Aondo's hand had come down hard on the girl's bottom. She squealed again and tried to wiggle free.

Wobeku cast his eyes up at the smoke-reeking shadows at the roof of the hut. It was no concern of his how Aondo treated his women. However, he did not have much time, even if the last rounds of the duel between Aondo and Conan the Tribeless had been put off until tomorrow.

The girl was rubbing her bottom with one hand and her eyes with the other when Aondo was done with her. She crawled into the farthest corner of the hut and cowered there. Wobeku wasted no sympathy on her.

Had she seen any of several women who had seriously displeased the huge warrior, she would have called herself fortunate.

"She must go," Wobeku said.

"Who are you" Aondo snarled. Then he frowned. "Only outside?"

"Yes. Did you think I was fool enough to come between you and one of your women?"

"You do not know as much as you do by being that big a fool, I must say." Aondo turned to the girl. "Go! I will send Wobeku to bring you back."

The girl did not seem much pleased at this prospect, but obeyed. Wobeku himself was hardly pleased at being called on to carry messages for this overgrown boy, whom the gods had given two men's strength and half a man's wits. Like the wench, though, he would obey, but out of hope rather than from fear.

"Aondo," he said when the two warriors were alone, "you were shamed today."

"You dare"

"I dare repeat what all will say before tomorrow's sunset."

"Who cares what they say before sunset? After the next sunrise, no one will say anything against me. They will be too busy burning the witch-man Conan."

"You are confident."

"I am Aondo."

"Being Aondo did not make you faster than the woman Valeria."

"I know ways to slow any woman."

That much was truth. Aondo knew how to slow a woman so that she never moved again, save when her kin bore her to the burning ground.

"I know how to slow any man. Above all, the man who will dance on the drum with you tomorrow night."

"I need no such help."

"Who said anything of help? You are Aondo, who can win without help.

What I offer is friendship."

"You, a friend to any man? I will tell all the Ichiribu that you have promised friendship. Then they will laugh until they choke."

Wobeku grew hot, and his hands became fists. He dared show no more anger before Aondo. He was indeed a man alone more often than not, and few would even think of avenging him should Aondo slay him here.

"If friendship is a word that rings false in your ear, call it a trading of favor for favor."

"I do not give up Valeria."

"Who said anything of asking mighty Aondo to give up his chosen vengeance?" Wobeku assumed a look of vast innocence. "She will not be harmed, I swear it. But without harming her, I can make your victory even more sure than it is already."

"Suppose you did this favor?" Aondo asked. "What do I do for you?"

Wobeku wanted to dance in triumph. The trident had sunk deep. Now to heave on the line and haul in this lionfish!

"There are many among the Ichiribu who will talk to you, but not to me."

Wobeku did not add that many of those did not talk as much to Aondo as in his presence, thinking the hulking warrior too foolish to remember what they merely said. There was truth in that thought, but not so much that Aondo would be useless as a fresh pair of eyes and ears.

"This is so."

"It is also true that sometimes I need to know about matters that people will not speak of before me. I will tell you when such matters arise. You will watch and listen, and tell me what you see and hear."

"Who else learns what I tell you?"

"The gods alone."

"Not Dobanpu?"

"Never the Spirit-Speaker, nor any of his kin!"

That was another truth. Aondo looked so relieved to hear that Wobeku was not spying for Dobanpu that Wobeku knew the big man would not think any further. The moon would turn to mealie porridge before Aondo wondered if Wobeku might be spying for the Kwanyi.

"Gods! Put me on the rack rather than let me endure this!"

Emwaya made soothing noises as Mokossa rubbed oil into Valeria's aching limbs. Conan laughed. Valeria glared.

"You'll not be laughing this time tomorrow night, Cimmerian. Aondo will take a deal of dancing down."

"Not more than I'm fit for, I'll wager."

"How much?"

"What are you wagering, woman?"

This time Valeria's glare ended in laughter. "I know what you would have me wager, Conan."

"Has Emwaya taught you the art of hearing thoughts?"

"Conan, some of your thoughts make such a din a babe could hear them, and I'm well past that age!"

"Indeed you are," Conan said, running his eyes approvingly over Valeria's nude form. She might say that every one of her muscles ached as if she had been racked, but nothing of this showed on the clear skin.

"Pity you can't take my place on the dance-drum," he continued. "You dance better than I, and clad as you are now, you'd fuddle the wits of a better man than Aondo."

"I already have," Valeria snapped. "Or have you honestly forgotten that the drum-dance is man's magic among these folk? They would not take my dancing as a jest, I am sure."

Conan made a rude suggestion as to where the Ichiribu could take anything they did not like. Emwaya seemed to catch his tone, if not his meaning. She raised her eyebrows but could not hold back laughter.

At last Valeriaas slippery as an eel, her body laved with scented oilwas half-asleep on her pallet. The Ichiribu women departed; Conan sat down beside Valeria and rested a hand on her hair.

Drowsily, she rolled over, and with eyes still half-closed, nipped his hand lightly. He snatched it away and glowered at her in mock fury.

"Oh, have it your way, woman. Anyone would have thought you cared about what happened to me tomorrow night!"

Valeria bit her lip. "Would you believe me if I said that I do?"

"Any man who believes a woman deserves to be bitten harder than I was."

"That would not be difficult to contrive, Conan."

The Cimmerian sat down on his own pallet and kicked off his boots.

"Tomorrow night we can drink late and laugh long over these fears.

Tonight I'm for a good sleep."

Valeria was snoring even before the Cimmerian lay down. As Conan rolled over on his pallet, he heard a distant murmur that swelled to an angry drumming of rain on the hut.

The sky had vanished twice over, once behind the clouds and a second time behind the rain, when Ryku slipped through the darkness to meet Chabano.

He had no fear of being tracked on such a night, save by the magic of the Speakers. The rain would do for any natural enemies, and the First Speaker should guard against any idle curiosity by his underlings. If he did not, or if Dobanpu Spirit-Speaker had become curious, then Ryku's hopes of realizing his ambitions would end before they were well begun.

Ryku told himself that this bleak mood was due only to the rain, not to the promptings of spirits. Then lightning flashed, illuminating a solid figure standing against a tree. So solid did the Kwanyi chief appear that it was hard to tell who upheld whom, the tree or the warrior.

"Hail, Chabano. You came swiftly."

"Your message came in good time. Now I am here. Speak."

"I have news. I may promise more aid to the Kwanyi"

"You will have no place among us for mere promises, Ryku."

"That is not my hope. You asked me to speak. Will you listen if I am brief ?"

"You sing loudly for so small a bird."

"The honey-finder also has a loud song, and the bear does well to listen."

Chabano imitated a bear's growl, but thereafter was silent as Ryku explained what the First Speaker wished and what he was promising.

"My spies among the Ichiribu did not swear to serve the God-Men,"

Chabano said at last.

Ryku wished the spies' oaths devoured by lionfish, but aloud said only, "Then can they not swear new oaths? If they are wise enough to be your spies, they must also be wise enough to know that the God-Men mean the Kwanyi no harm."

"I myself do not know that," Chabano said. "Or do you say I lack wisdom?"

Ryku judged that almost any words he spoke now were likely enough to be his last. He shrugged instead.

Chabano laughed. It was laughter that drowned out the rain and even warred against the thunder. "I do not know much about the God-Men," he said at last. "But you will tell me more, true?"

Ryku nodded.

"I rejoice. And my spies swore oaths to me, so they will obey even if it aids the God-Men. Did. you not know that?"

Ryku confessed ignorance.

"Then you have as much to learn about the Kwanyi as I have about the God-Men. Perhaps more.

Remember that, and guard your tongue when next we meet."

Ryku was ready to swear potent oaths to do so when he realized that he was about to swear to the darkness. Chabano had vanished, as silently as a cobra for all that he more resembled the honey-seeking bear.

TEN

-

The verdant hills on the western shore of the Lake of Death had long since swallowed the sun. Now moon-silvered clouds were swallowing the stars. A wind blew from the lake onto the island of the Ichiribu, gentle for now, but with a hint of strength to come.

On the summit of the highest hill on the island, Conan stood on one side of the dance-drum, contemplating Aondo standing on the other side.

Both wore no more than loinguards, leather braces on their ankles and wrists, and looks of grim determination.

At least Aondo had donned such a look. Conan had merely allowed his face to assume its natural expression, which others had told him was grim enough for any occasion.

"You look ready to challenge the gods themselves if they give you half an excuse," a woman had told him some years ago in a distant land. She had intended it as praise, being one who doubted the gods' very existence.

Conan's own beliefs did not go that far. He merely doubted everything the priests said about the gods, and waited for the gods to speak for themselves. As they had so far remained silent, he felt he had good cause to rely on his own skill and strength.

He took on a more lighthearted expression and studied Aondo. The man's wits were nothing to boast of, but his look of being as slow as a mired ox was deceptive. Conan had seen too much of Aondo's swiftness in their previous contests. Also, Aondo knew the art of the drum-dance from boyhood, while Conan's lifeand now Valeria's, curse the woman! hung upon the Cimmerian's learning it within a few moments.

There was nothing more to learn about Aondo. Conan turned his attention to the drum itself.

It was a monstrous creation, a rough circle a good twenty paces across.

The drum-frame was made of timber stout enough for building a war galley or the roof of a temple. In the torchlight, the drumhead had the russet hue of well-tanned oxhide, but a sheen as of tiny scales hinted of some other origin. Knowing how many strange beasts this part of the jungle seemed to harbor, the Cimmerian refused to let this unsettle him. If the drumhead would support his weight until he had won life and freedom for himself and Valeria, he did not much care if it was made of the hide of creatures from the moon!

From behind the circle of onlookers, Dobanpu and Seyganko stepped forward. Conan though he saw Emwaya and Valeria somewhere in the circle, but the crowd was too thick for him to be certain. It seemed that everyone who could walk or be carried had contrived to be here tonight, from babes in arms to venerable grandsires.

The wind gusted, and the torches flared, their smoke coiling serpentlike about Conan. He smelled exotic resins and herbs, like nothing he had encountered in the Black Kingdoms. The tribes of the Lake of Death, he would wager, were apart even from their kinsfolk nearer the coast.

Time to learn more about them when he had won. He raised his arms and clasped his hands over his head in the signal that he was ready. Aondo did the same.

From somewhere beyond the circle of torchlight, a drumming began. It was not that of one of the great talking drums, this oneit might have been a child tapping away. But it was the ritual signal for the dancers to take their place.

Conan found the notched timber that served for a ladder, but disdained it. Instead, he gripped the edge of the drum, flexed at the knees, and soared onto the drumhead in a single leap.

The drum boomed like all the drums of all the war galleys in all the fleets of the world sounding the stroke at once. It seemed to Conan that the flames of the torches themselves froze for a moment. Certainly he could read surprise on every faceâ€¦ including Aondo's.

The Ichiribu champion at least had the wits not to attempt Conan's feat. He climbed by way of his notched log, and only then leaped into the center of the drum.

Once more the thunderous booming rolled out across the hilltop until it was lost in the darkness over the lake. Conan rode the drumhead by again flexing his knees, for now the art seemed no more difficult than balancing oneself on a ship's deck, easier than standing on the back of a horse. He did not expect it to remain that easy.

Wobeku watched with a sober eye as the two dancers began the serious work of the night. He doubted that Aondo's greater experience would outweigh his natural arrogance. Nothing could keep him from underestimating his opponentand against this Conan, that would be folly.

So much the better. The more Aondo owed to Wobeku, the more pliant a tool in the hands of Chabano's spy the warrior would be. The more tales Wobeku could bear to the Kwanyi chief, the higher his place when the other tribe at last ruled the lands about the Lake of Death.

Wobeku patted the pouch at his belt. It seemed the common warrior's pouch, which might contain a spoon and eating gourd, a bone needle and sinew for mending garments, or a few strips of sun-dried meat and salted fish.

It contained all of these things, to deceive the casual searcher. Below them, it also held the two lengths of a short blowgun and a fish-skin pouch of darts for it.

The blowgun was not the man-tall weapon of the tribes of the forests to the south. Its range was less than half that of a good spear-throw. But it would not need range tonight, when its victim suspected nothing.

Nor would it need to do more than pierce her bare skin for the poison to do its work. The art of keeping cobra venom potent in the air was known only to the God-Men, and the darts were part of their gifts to Chabano. A small part, considering that Wobeku had only three darts.

Was the spell for preserving the venom so difficult to bring about, or were the God-Men merely being closefisted with their magic as was their custom? Yet when one dart would do the work, three should be ample. The prey would suspect nothing, and cobras were not so rare on the island that anyone would suspect more than ill fortune, until it was too late.

Too late for both Wobeku's prey and her bond-mate on the dance-drum.

The breeze now held a chill hint of yet more rain. Conan was sweating in spite of this. So was Aondo, and the sweat of both men was pouring onto the already-smooth drumhead, causing their footing to be even less certain.

More than Aondo's sweat was making the Cimmerian fight to remain on his feet. At unpredictable intervals, the Ichiribu warrior would fling himself down on his knees, or even on his belly, then slap the drumhead with both massive hands to begin his rise. These gestures gave the drumhead whole new kinds of movement, also unpredictable.

Conan himself foreswore such tricks. He learned swiftly that no movement of the drumhead put him in much danger of losing his footingâ€¦
as long as he was prepared for it, at least, which meant feet well spread and legs ready to be either loose or rigid, as the drumhead demanded.

The drum-dance was unlike anything the Cimmerian had done before. But it called on skills that he had honed for a good few years, until they were as keen as the edge of his broadsword. From the yarn of these skills, he could weave victory.

Or at least he could avoid defeat. With his fine tricks, Aondo was wasting strength that Conan was saving. Yet the warrior seemed no slower or weaker than he had at the beginning of the duel. What, Conan wondered, would be the judgment of the Ichiribu if the drum-dance ended with both men still on the drum, unable to move a finger?

He laughed, and laughed again when he saw that this made Aondo frown.

No doubt the man was cudgeling his wits to guess what trick the Cimmerian might be preparing. Conan laughed a third time, at Aondo's folly. The man would only take his attention from his opponent's next move, which was the surest way to lose.

For Conan, the world had shrunk to the drumhead and the man who stood on it with him. So had his concentration on his foe always been foremost in a fight for life, since he was old enough to win by skill rather than by sheer youthful strength, and perhaps with the favor of merciful gods. So it would be tonight.

Conan leaped high, twisted in the air, came down on all fours, and rolled. Rolling, he rolled again onto his hands and knees, thrust hands and feet hard against the drumhead, and rebounded into the air. When he landed, he was standing again.

He was also close to the edge of the drum. Aondo gave a ragged roar of triumph as he saw victory glimmering close. He, in turn, leaped insensately, making the drumhead dance madly.

Conan deliberately allowed the movement of the drumhead to shift him perhaps a spear's length toward the rim. He was in no danger from anything save the frame giving way. By custom, that ended the duel until the carpenters had finished repairing the timbers.

Aondo, however, was in danger of exhausting himself if he continued to leap about like a flea on a hot griddle without driving Conan off the drumhead. He seemed to have forgotten an ancient law of fighting: do not, if you can help it, wager your chances of victory on something you can do only once.

Just as deliberately, Conan shifted his footing, so that now the leaping drumhead slowly pushed him away from the rim. The thunder of the drum was outshouting the wind; soon it would outshout any thunder roaring down from above. Conan wondered how the folk watching could bear the sound, and saw that they had indeed widened their circle.

Valeria and Emwaya were standing side by side now, within arm's reach of one of the torches blazing atop poles thrust into the ground. Conan spared Valeria a glance and a wave, saw her return the wave, then whirled to see Aondo trying to close the distance between them.

It broke laws, customs, and taboos of every kind for one dancer to touch another. Yet crowding close to your opponent was allowed. If it gave him less space to move, it might even give you victory.

It might also provoke him into striking you, thereby losing. Conan would wager much that some such thought was in Aondo's mind. Yet the warrior had his face set in a sweat-dripping mask of such ferocity that it appeared he might be ready to strike the first blow.

Conan saw this plainly, then set the notion aside. Such a victory would not be honorable or give him and Valeria a sure place among the Ichiribu. Also, Aondo might be too good a warrior to die merely because he could not guard his temper.

If Valeria's fate had not been linked to his own, the Cimmerian would have utterly rejected the notion. As it was, he would leave such a trick for when he might truly need to save both himself and his companion.

Aondo had closed the distance still more in the time Conan had needed to decide. Now the Cimmerian could almost reach out and touch him.

Aondo was too tall to leap over, so Conan waited until the warrior leaped.

Then he stamped hard, both feet thundering on the drumhead. Aondo came down on the vibrating hide, swayed, and in struggling for balance, turned away from Conan.

The moment his opponent's eyes were elsewhere, Conan took his longest leap of the duel. He came down six good paces on the other side of Aondo. Now it was the warrior who had his back to the edge of the drum.

Conan opened the distance still more, seeing Aondo again ready to lash out in madness and fury, thereby ending his life with dishonor. Then, just as the Cimmerian thought the madness seemed to be ebbing from the warrior's face, a woman's shrill scream pierced the drum-thunder.

Valeria was standing beside Emwaya, eyes fixed on the drum, when she felt rather than saw the young woman move. Emwaya seemed almost to float two or three paces without touching the ground. As she came into Valeria's sight, the pirate saw that Emwaya's face was drawn.

Then, suddenly, Dobanpu's daughter broke into a sweat equal to that of the two duelists, threw up a hand, seemed to pluck something from the air, and screamed.

Valeria drew sword and dagger with deadly speed and scant regard for those standing close. A circle opened around her and Emwaya, as if the Ichiribu wizard's daughter had suddenly burst into flames.

Instead, Emwaya was staggering, shaking her hand, and opening and shutting her mouth without making a sound. Valeria saw her eyes roll up until only the whites showed, then saw her fall to her knees, hands shaking uncontrollably, arms beginning to spasm.

"Snake!" someone shouted.

Valeria whirled, trying to look in all directions at once and slash to pieces anything that looked remotely like a serpent. As she did so, she saw a red, swollen patch on Emwaya's handthe hand, she recalled, that Emwaya had used to pluck something from the air.

Instantly, Valeria altered the object of her search. She was not looking for a man or a weapon. Rather, she was looking for a certain cast of countenance. Assassins had a look that was hard to mistake for anything else. Assassins who had just struck down the wrong person had an even more distinctive look, unless they were adepts of a kind she did not expect to find among the Ichiribu.

She found a face that bore that look, a face she recognized, although she could not put a name to it. The man was frantically scrabbling to hide an object he held in his hands behind the women in front of him.

Valeria knew what fate awaited her and Conan if she slew an innocent from the ranks of the Ichiribu. So she reversed her dagger and threw it hilt-first. The hilt was of the best Nemedian artistry, with a weighted pommel intended to do just such work as she had put it to.

The manWobeku, she remembered his name nowsaw his danger in time to avoid the worst of it. He ducked, the dagger struck a glancing blow and flew off into the crowd, and a cry warned Valeria of trouble to come.

For the moment reckless of danger, she raised her sword and screamed curses and warnings in every tongue she could command.

The Ichiribu might not understand, but they knew a madwoman when they heard one. They made a path for Valeria, where she wanted it. She lunged forward just as Wobeku raised what had to be a blowgun.

Neither steel nor blowgun dart found its mark. Golden fire was suddenly all about her, raining from the sky like water. Her blade seemed to slice deep into a thick wall of honey, and eye-searing sparks flew from the steel.

At the same moment, the golden fire wrapped itself around something small, which had to be the dart hurled at Valeria. It had no metal in it, let alone good Aquilonian steel; it emitted a pale green flash and was gone.

Then the golden fire arched high, forming a bow linking Emwaya's hand to the blowgun held by Wobeku. It was Wobeku's turn to show the whites of his eyes, and also to drop the blowgun and take to his heels.

The golden fire brightened until Valeria had to first squint, then close her eyes. It brightened still more until she wanted to drop her sword and clap her hands over her face. She heard screams all around her, and hoped none of them were Emwaya's.

As the golden light poured over the hilltop, Conan was sure of two things: Aondo had known of the treachery; Dobanpu was at work fighting it.

The warrior danced all around Conan, maneuvering the Cimmerian so that he had to either face the light or turn his back on his opponent. That would have mattered little in most fights; the Cimmerian's hearing could all but pick out the fall of a single leaf.

Now the footfalls of his enemy were lost in a din that seemed like the end of the world: the drum booming, the crowd screaming in fear and rage, and thunder that seemed to rise from the earth as well as roll from the sky. Conan closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and judged Aondo's position from the reek of the man's sweat.

His judgment was flawed, but good enough. Aondo brushed the Cimmerian's arm. In that moment, he might have gripped and thrown Conan with none to see it. Aondo's wits were unequal to such a stratagem. He had been led to expect a helpless opponent, but had found Conan nothing of the kind, and his own vision dimmed as well.

Then the golden fire diminished until the human eye could endure it.

Conan opened his eyes, sprang high and to one side, and deliberately dropped to his knees.

Aondo gave a bull roar, mingling fury and triumph, and hurled himself at the Cimmerian. A gasp of horror at the broken taboo rose from all around the drum.

Conan did not meet Aondo body to body. Instead, he dropped even farther, slamming the drumhead with his massive chest. Aondo's balance vanished. He tried to recapture it by flinging himself forward, on top of Conan, who turned a complete somersault that took him forward out from under the warrior's lunge.

The big tribesman saw that nothing would save him from going over the edge. This time his roar was pure fury. In turn, he somersaulted as he flew over the rim of the drum. He landed almost between two spear-armed warriors rushing forward to restrain him.

They might as well have tried to restrain a mad elephant. One gigantic fist broke a spear with a single blow, another stretched the other warrior senseless on the ground. Aondo kicked the fallen man in the ribs for good measure, then put his head down and plunged through the crowd.

Even the warriors gave way for him, but closed ranks again to bar Conan's path as the Cimmerian leaped down from the drum in pursuit. He raised a fist, ready to add to the numbers of those lying senseless.

Valeria pushed through the crowd from the other side, with some help from the hilt of her sword and a deftly wielded elbow. Then she yelped in surprise as Conan threw his arms around her.

"Gods above, Conan! You're worse than the rack or Mokossa with the oil!"

He held her at arm's length, staring into her eyes to be sure that reason and life still burned there. Then he laughed raggedly.

"That scream wasn't yours?"

"Not the first one, at least. It was Emwaya crying out. She caught a poisoned blowgun dart aimed at me."

Conan felt strength flowing back into his limbs, but his wits seemed as slow as Aondo's. "Darts?"

"It was Wobeku," Valeria said, then continued with an explanation that gradually penetrated Conan's understanding. By the time she was finished, he had regained not only strength, but breath.

"Where's my sword?"

"Conan"

The Cimmerian picked Valeria up with a hand under each armpit and held her with her feet off the ground. "Woman, I asked for my sword. I wish to use it to kill Aondo and Wobeku. Is that so hard to understand, or have you taken something to addle your wits?"

Valeria threw her head back and laughed until Conan had to join her, which broke his grip. She landed lightly and turned.

"Conan, here is your sword."

It was Seyganko holding out the Cimmerian's blades, belt, and sheathes.

Behind him stood a half dozen Ichiribu warriors, none of them carrying less than two spears and a trident, and many carrying clubs, throwing sticks, or cords with stones knotted into the end.

Conan's first thought was that he had forfeited his life in some way, and that they were handing his weapons back to him so that he might wage an honorable fight at the end. Then he saw that the bleak looks of the warriors were not aimed at him. All except Seyganko's, at least.

Conan prudently armed himself before speaking. "Seyganko, I hope I may join your warriors in pursuing those dishonorable"

"The Ichiribu will judge their dishonor even more harshly than you, I swear," Seyganko said. Indeed, he swore several oaths that Conan knew well to be highly potent in the Black Kingdoms, and several more the Cimmerian did not know but which rang true.

His help in the pursuit would plainly be unwelcome. What else was there to do?"

"How fares Emwaya?"

Seyganko seemed to struggle for self-command. Then: "She is in the hands of her father and the gods. It would have been an easier matter to heal her had Wobeku not dropped the weapon that wounded her. It would also have been child's play to destroy him."

The fallen weapon of Wobeku was something the Cimmerian did not altogether understand. But then, the whole thing reeked of magic, so perhaps he lost nothing thereby. He resolved not to treat Wobeku as helpless prey merely because the man was weaponless, and continued his attention to Seyganko.

"As it stands, Wobeku has fled," Seyganko continued, "and Emwaya lies without suffering, but also in much danger in spite of her father's best skill. If you think your gods have power in this land, pray to them."

Conan nodded. Seyganko lifted a hand, and one of his warriors gave him a spear. "I swear by this weaponthis bringer of death to the treacherous that I will not harm you or your shield-woman. Whatever comes of tonight, you and she may leave these lands unharmed. But if Emwaya dies, do not think to find a friend in me, or in any who follow me."

Seyganko whirled then, as lightly as a dust devil of the Kozaki steppes. The band strode off into the darkness, which seemed twice as deep now that the golden fire was gone.

Wobeku ran as though the Living Wind was howling at his heels. He knew that there would be no hiding on the island; the women and children would gladly join the hunt for him if necessary. Indeed, imagining what the women would do to him if Emwaya died nearly made him stumble.

He prayed, as much as he had the breath to do, that he would either reach his hidden canoe or that the warriors would catch him before the women did. He crossed the ridge above the north shore of the island before he realized that his prayer had been answered. Now it was all downhill to the canoe.

The easier going made it possible to trade speed for silence. It was hard to believe that any warriors could have crossed the island in time to be beating him to the shore, but men often died from what they did not believe. Wobeku kept away from the trails, and from slopes with loose stones or thick brush that might betray him with the sound of his passage.

It helped more than a little that halfway down the slope the rain began in earnest. The lightning flashed about him as brightly as the golden spirit-fire Dobanpu had hurled.

The God of Manhood deliver him! He had missed both victory and death so narrowly that he wanted to howl like a hyena at the thought. Had Emwaya not caught the dart, Valeria would now be dead. Dobanpu would never have spoken to the spirits for her, and her death would have been the end of Conan. Even had they not been spirit-bonded, clearly the two were vowed companions, and the heart would have gone out of the big man, leaving Aondo with an easy victory.

Had Wobeku not then dropped the blowgun, however, Dobanpu would have turned the death tearing through Emwaya's body back on him! He would be dying the death of the cobra's bite, knowingif he knew anythingthat when he breathed his last, the whole tribe would be cheering and drinking ale, Emwaya most of all!

He did stumble, in fear and fury, and nearly went full length on the rain-slick ground. The misfortune was his salvation, though.

From where the canoe was hidden, two boys sprang up, spears held ready.

They were just old enough to guard the flocks and carry the lesser spears, the bidui boys, as the Ichiribu called them.

It was taboo for a full warrior such as Wobeku to slay them, or even to fight them. Wobeku had not broken any taboos as yet tonight, as Valeria was clanless, if not a witch. He also did not care to start making any transgressions now. Worse things than being given to the women would come to him if he slew these boys, and most of them would come after he died.

Wobeku crept forward with his hunter's skill, using the bushes for cover, and also to protect himself somewhat from the rain still pouring down. The thunder and rain drowned out any sound he made.

Closer to his canoe, he saw that the craft was safe, even if half filled with rainwater. A smaller canoe was drawn up on the shore next to it. The boys must have been caught in the downpour and paddled for shore, then seen the hidden canoe and thought it marked a secure landing place.

Bold boys, to be out on the lake after dark, especially on a night like this, with a drum-duel being fought on the hill. They would not frighten easily. Did he have anything with him?

The brush crackled and crunched behind Wobeku, as if a great stone was rolling downhill. He looked behind him, nearly fell out from beneath the bush, and cursed aloud.

Aondo was stumbling down the hill, blood running from half a score of cuts. He must have run blindly into a thorn thicket at some point in his flight, for he was not only bloody, but next to naked. He held a spear in one bloody hand, and a club was thrust through the belt that was nearly his only garment.

The bidui leaped up as Aondo burst into the open. Both boys raised their spears, and one also unslung a stone-rope tied around his waist.

"Give me that canoe," Aondo said. At least that was what Wobeku thought he said; it sounded more like a beast's growl than a human's voice. The boys looked at the big man as if he were indeed less than human, and therefore something that they might have to fight.

It happened in the space between one breath and the next. The bidui with the stone-rope began to whirl it about his head, while his comrade stepped forward. He held his light spear aimed boldly at Aondo's chest, hoping to give his friend time for a good cast. Perhaps he also hoped to penetrate Aondo's madness and remind him of the taboos.

Aondo's fist smashed into the boy's face. The youth flew backward as if tossed by an ox. The sound of his skull striking a rock on the shore was even louder than the crashing of the thunder, or so it seemed to Wobeku.

The second boy made his cast, but the rope only caught Aondo's arm and the stone bounced harmlessly against the big man's chest. Aondo tossed his spear to his unhampered hand and flung it. The boy died, pinned to a tree like a mouse pierced by a snake's fangs.

Wobeku gave Aondo no time to savor victory or to lament the doom he had earned. The smaller man burst from his cover, covering the ground toward the shore in strides that were almost leaps.

Half-mad as he was, Aondo still sensed another's presence. Both strength and speed had left him, though. He could do no more than draw his club and begin to raise it before Wobeku flung his own spear.

It pierced Aondo's belly, and the warrior's breath hissed out of him.

Then he gripped the spear-shaft and seemed to realize what it was, and where it was.

Wobeku, meanwhile, reached his canoe and slashed at the vine rope. It parted, he lifted the paddle and thrust at the water, and Aondo gave a cry such as the ears of men were not meant to hear, nor likely enough the ears of the gods, either. Then the big warrior leaped from the bank straight into the stern of Wobeku's canoe.

The canoe shattered like a stick struck with an ax. Aondo plunged under the water, then thrashed to the surface, blood and splinters spreading around him. Wobeku flew through the air, landing headfirst in water so shallow that he nearly dashed his brains out on the rocks at the bottom.

Aondo screamed now at the pain of his belly wound. Then he screamed again as something vast, dark, and long slipped out of the night and gripped him around the waist. He rose half out of the water, arms thrashing wildly at what held him; he even pulled the spear from his belly and thrust it down.

Nothing helped. Spray mingled with the rain as the crocodile thrashed its tail, moving away from the shore. Aondo went with it. For a moment, his chest and head were still above water, then only his head; then Wobeku heard a gurgle and saw nothing but a swirl of foam.

Wobeku staggered out of the water, knelt on the shore, and spewed. When he could stand, he could see only the rain and the biduis' canoe. It was small even for him, and would never have held Aondo, but Aondo would never again need a canoe.

Wobeku did. No one on the island, after the boys' bodies were found and no sign of Aondo was seen, would doubt that it was Wobeku who had cursed himself by the three deaths. Out on the lake, Wobeku would not need to submit to any judgment save the gods'. They knew that he was innocent, at least of the boys' blood.

If the gods knew anything, which was a question Wobeku did not expect to have answered tonight. He slid into the canoe, tested the balance of the boy-sized paddles, cast off the vine, and pushed hard away from the shore. By the time he had settled to a steady rhythm, sign of the shore itself was lost in the rain. Wobeku was alone with the lake, the gods, and his fear of what Chabano would say of this night's work.

The clay jug in the corner of the hut held good alealmost as much as it did when it had first arrived this morning. Conan's throat was as dry as the Iranistani uplands, and he doubted that Valeria's was otherwise, but neither of them seemed ready for drink stronger than water.

A clear head for a fight was always as well, but had they to fear any more fighting tonight? Conan trusted Seyganko, who had sworn oaths it would shrivel a man to break that the Cimmerian and Valeria would not be harmed even if Emwaya died.

Conan was not much for prayers, but what few he remembered of how to remind the gods that somebody needed help, he was muttering to himself.

Valeria had prayed aloud to all those gods lawful in her native Aquilonia, and was now embarked on prayers to the gods of Shem and Zingara.

Whether she believed or not, she was praying so fiercely that even a god could likely enough not tell the difference. Also, Conan thought that even a god would think twice before rejecting a prayer uttered by anyone with such a look upon her face.

Footfalls loud enough to challenge the rain thudded outside. A war party coming for them after all? Conan laid his sword across his knees, saw Valeria do the same, then realized that it was only two pairs of feet. The rain had slackened.

"Enter!" he called, his voice sounding like a dotard's. He pointed at the beer jug and the cups, and Valeria was filling the cups when the grass curtain at the door parted and Seyganko and Mokossa entered.

One look at their faces told Conan the news they brought. He leaped up, feeling as if he could dance down Aondo all over again and then hunt Wobeku all the way to the sea. He gripped the visitors' hands so hard that the girl squealed, and even Seyganko fought not to wince.

"Yes, it is true. Emwaya will live, heal, and be my bride."

"How fares her father?" Valeria asked. "I owe him my life, too."

"It will be as well if the Ichiribu need no Spirit-Speaking for some days," Seyganko said dryly. "This night has not ended as we had expected when it began."

"Meaning that Conan and I aren't dead?" Valeria snapped. Conan put a hand on her shoulder; she shook him off.

Seyganko looked genuinely ashamed. "My tongue fails me in my time of need. No. We wished Conan to win. But we did not wish such disorder among our folk." He seemed to need his spear as a staff for a moment.

"Aondo and Wobeku have both fled. In their flight, they killed two bidui boys and stole their canoe. We must find the taboo-breakers, or their spirits will curse the Ichiribu. Our fields on the island and the mainland alike will be barren. Our cows will go dry. The fish will swim downriver, beyond our reach."

He went on reciting a litany of disasters until Mokossa boldly gripped his arm. "Oh," Seyganko said as if suddenly awakened from a daze.

"There can be no welcoming feast, not until the taboo-breakers are taken. But the gods will forgive us for offering you and your shield-woman companions, for this night and for any other nights as you may choose."

Conan held laughter inside; Seyganko was clearly in no merry mood. Now he knew why Mokossa had interrupted Seyganko's lamentationsâ€¦ and also whom she intended that Conan's partner should be tonight.

Then the Cimmerian could not hold back laughter, because Seyganko was gazing at Valeria as if she were a rather distasteful duty that he must perform for the good of his tribe. Mercifully, Seyganko had enough sense to join in the laughter instead of taking offense.

"My thanks to the Ichiribu, and I mean no insult to their fine women, not to any of them," Conan said. "But my shield-woman and I are vowed, as I have told you. Also, we know each other's ways."

"May we at least send more beer?" Seyganko seemed to be almost pleading as he looked at Valeria.

"As you wish," Conan replied. He glanced at the door-curtain, and in a moment he was alone with Valeria. A Valeria who had, while his back was turned, removed the waistcloth that was her only garment. He saw nothing he had not seen a score of times beforeâ€¦ but now, for the first time, it made his blood sing.

He stepped forward; Valeria held up one hand. He gripped it, and she pressed her other hand hard against his chest.

"You are going to have to prove that, you know," she said as he drew her closer.

"Prove what?"

"That you know my ways."

He laughed and kissed her, and this time, her lips opened under his.

"We have all night. If I don't know them at first, by Erlik's brass tool, I'll know them by morning!" He lifted her, and she nestled against his chest for a moment before raising her face for more kisses.

ELEVEN

Something's taken the bait," Conan said.

Valeria sat up in the stern of the canoe and reached for her trident.

She was clad in an Ichiribu waistcloth, a necklace of lionfish teeth, and a broad hat made of leaves tied with vine to a reed frame.

Conan squatted amidships, letting the fishing line feed over the side.

He wore a leather binding to protect his hand from the flax-and-sinew line, a loinguard, and a dagger. His sword and Valeria's, as well as her bow, lay in the bottom of the canoe, wrapped in fish skin, inside oiled leather, inside waxed linen.

Neither of them cared to leave their weapons ashore on such an expedition as today's. Nor did they care to risk them rusting or taking up dampness. Wobeku might not be the only traitor among the Ichiribu, and there were still warriors with doubts about the two strangers. The nearest smith who could replace, or even repair their blades was at least a month's travel from the Lake of Death.

At last the fish finished its run. Conan braced himself and began hauling it in. Valeria crouched, trident ready, its line coiled lightly in the stern and knotted firmly to a peg driven into the bottom of the canoe.

The fish was a fighter, but Conan wasted no time playing with it. He judged the line would bear any strain the fish could put on it, and hauled away with a will.

Ripples spread around the canoe as the fish's thrashing reached the surface. Valeria's eyes roved about, watching for the first patch of scales large enough to give her trident a mark. Her movements lifted her breasts in a way Conan would have found agreeable, had he spared attention for such matters now.

Suddenly, the fish leaped. The trident was as swift, and blood and foam took the place of the ripples as the fish thrashed out its life an arm's length from the boat. With Valeria gripping the tail and Conan the head, they heaved it aboard, a grisku, as the tribe called ita third the length of the canoe and weighing as much as a newborn calf.

Valeria made a face as the grisku gave its last wriggle. "All that work for one of those? You know they taste like glue."

"The Ichiribu like them, so we won't have to eat it. Besides, you know well that the more fish we bring back, the less anybody will suspect us."

"I trust the Ichiribu. Don't you?"

"Most of them, yes, as much as I trust any foreigners when I'm nearly alone among them. It takes few enemies to make trouble then."

"In that case, let us make our enemies fewer, Conan. You've been hammering the idea of our fighting the Kwanyi into my ears night and day."

"Not every night, Valeria. Some nights we've passed otherwise."

She sniffed. "If I do lower myself to take a great loutish Cimmerian to my bed, the least he can do is not to throw it in my face by daylight."

"Where would you have me throw it?"

Valeria made a vulgar gesture and gave an even more vulgar reply. Then she laughed. "I've no quarrel with the Ichiribu, and we'll reach the sea faster if we wait until the rains. A war with the Kwanyi seems as good a way of passing the time as any."

"Better than most. If half they say of Chabano is true, his eye is on an empire. That could bring him down on my old friends toward the coast if he goes unchecked."

"They're not my friends," Valeria protested, but to Conan the protest seemed feeble. Like him, she was one to think twice before walking away from a good fight, even more so when one owed a debt as she and he did to the Ichiribu.

Moreover

"I've been thinking," he said. "If Dobanpu thinks it well, we can explore the tunnels beyond the Ichiribu island. If they reach to the Kwanyi shore of the lake, we can climb into Chabano's bedchamber some night."

"What of the Golden Serpents?"

"What of them?" Conan asked, shrugging. "With enough good men at our side, no serpent will pass. Besides, the more Golden Serpents, the more fire-stones."

"Indeed." For a moment, Valeria's blue eyes seemed to take on a greenish hue as her pirate's soul warmed to the thought of such booty.

Geyrus, the First Speaker, assumed the pose of meditation. Out of respect, Ryku did the same. He doubted that the gesture would deceive the First Speaker, but it might delay an open breach.

If the First Speaker really intended to come down from Thunder Mountain to meet Chabano, only a little delay would be needed. The presence of Kwanyi warriors, added to his own new skills, would make Ryku proof against anything untoward that Geyrus might intend for him.

The two men remained in the posture of mediation for so long that Ryku began to suffer from both impatience and stiffening limbs. The First Speaker had kept his promise, giving Ryku most of the knowledge of a full Speaker. What had not been taught, Ryku had contrived to learn on his own, as well as certain arts that not even the Speakers acknowledged.

This had taken its toll of his body, however. He had gone sleepless as often as not, endured thirst, hunger, and both great and little pain, and driven his body to its uttermost limits. Or what he had believed were its uttermost limits, before he began the final steps to the Speakers' arts. Now he knew that he had been hardly more than a youth thinking himself a man.

It seemed that the moon must have turned from full to dark and back again to half-bright before the First Speaker broke the posture. When Ryku saw Geyrus's eyes, he wished it had indeed taken that long, or even longer.

"Ryku, I am not pleased with how little knowledge of the Ichiribu you have gathered from Chabano."

"I have been as zealous in seeking what the Kwanyi know as I have been in studying the Speakers' arts. You have praised my zeal in the second.

I ask for no praise in the first matter if my best has been less than you wished, but I swear"

"Do not use vain oaths in the Cave of the Living Wind," Geyrus said sharply.

That was asking of Ryku what the other Speakers hardly seemed to ask of themselves. Did Geyrus mean to put fear in him by such childish bullying? Or did the First Speaker know something about the Living Wind that he had not told Ryku?

That second thought made the air of the caves seem even more chill than common. It also made Ryku ransack his memory and knowledge for some art that might let him find the answer to that question. He knewas surely as he knew he was alive that Geyrus would not tell him freely, if at all.

"If I can use no oaths, may I use my wits?"

"Your tongue has grown sharp, Ryku."

"I trust that my wits have not grown dull. I would beg the right to come with you when you go to meet Chabano. I believe he may speak more freely to me than to you, if he is given the opportunity to do so without his warriors knowing it."

"They still fear the God-Men?"

"Yes."

"As indeed they ought to," Geyrus said, rising to his feet. As always, he was taller than one expected, seeing his many years and believing they must have shrunk his limbs. "Very well. If Chabano thinks to trade rotten fish for fresh, he must be taught to think more clearly."

Geyrus departed, without bidding Ryku to follow. The Silent Brother returned to the posture of meditation, but with his thoughts very much elsewhere.

Had Chabano found himself knowing less of matters among the Ichiribu than he had expected to do? This seemed not unlikely. Doubtless he had spies in the herdlands and fieldlands, even on the island itself. Just as certainly, those spies might have fallen prey to the Ichiribu, or simply found it difficult to send messages to their master.

It would be as well to learn about this. Geyrus would not forever contain his wrath if he learned he had made a fool's bargain. If Ryku learned the truth before his master did, he could at least flee to the Kwanyi, offering silence in return for protection.

Ryku doubted that Geyrus would challenge Chabano himself over one fugitive, or indeed over anything else. Geyrus was old, and his judgment twisted by the loss of that wretched girl, but he was not yet a fool.

Which meant that Ryku should go to the meeting prepared to use the arts of a full Speaker, so that whichever side he chose to aid would have cause to be grateful to him.

The lamp bowl held mixed tallow and fish oil, with herbs crumbled into it. Valeria thought she had smelled sweeter middens, but Seyganko and Emwaya seemed to inhale the scent hungrily. Conan was as indifferent to it as he was to every other discomfort, great and small.

Valeria marveled that a man could learn such endurance. But then, Conan had learned in the harsh school of a life where one endured or died.

Even when he was a free youth in his native Cimmeria, its stony fields and snowbound winters must have begun the lessons.

"Valeria and I will give the warriors of the Ichiribu any knowledge of our fighting arts that they wish to learn in order to make themselves a better match for the Kwanyi on land," Conan said. "You have also seen how much Valeria knows of the art of fighting from boats."

"We have," Seyganko said. "You used the words 'wish to learn'? Not 'need to learn.' "

"I have a pretty fair and wide experience of war, and much of it in the Black Kingdoms," Conan replied. "I did not win the name Amra by sitting on a golden stool and fondling my concubines."

"No doubt this displeased your concubines," Emwaya said. Valeria understood enough of the Ichiribu tongue now to smile at the young woman. Emwaya sometimes seemfed almost young enough to be Valeria's daughter, at other times old enough in wisdom, if not in years, to be her grandmother.

"The Kwanyi are there and I am here," Conan said. "And being here, I'm not one to insult my hosts by saying that they are children in war.

Chabano has not made the Kwanyi invincible. But there are war skills that I can teach, those that will save the Ichiribu many warriors when we meet the Kwanyi in battle."

Seyganko nodded. "I am sure of that. Conan, I will proclaim that you speak with my voice in teaching war skills. I ask only one favor in return."

"What is it?"

"Give over this notion of marching through the tunnels, out of the gods' daylight and through who-knows-what evil magic, to strike the Kwanyi."

Emwaya turned and stared at her betrothed. Then she spoke sharply, words that Valeria did not understand but whose meaning she sensed as a woman. Seyganko had surprised Emwaya, and she was even more displeased at the surprise than at the suggestion.

Emwaya went on for some time. It seemed to Valeria that Conan was holding back laughter, that Seyganko much wished to be elsewhere, and that Emwaya would slap her betrothed's head from his shoulders for a Shemite brass piece.

Neither Conan nor Valeria offered Emwaya any coin at all, so Seyganko went unmolested until the woman ran out of breath. Valeria remained uneasy until Emwaya at last collapsed into Seyganko's arms, tears running down her cheeks. Doubtless her anger had wearied her more than it had him; the poison was out of her body, but she had not yet regained her strength.

"Conan," Seyganko said. He took what seemed half the night before he found his next word. "It seems that Emwaya believes, as you do, in the matter of the tunnels."

The Cimmerian continued to feign a temple image. Judging that he had good reasons for this, Valeria sought to do likewise.

"She and I will submit this matter to her father," the warrior chief went on. "Will you abide by his judgment?"

Conan nodded. "I've no wish to insult you, Emwaya, but your father likely enough knows more of this than he has had time to teach you." He looked at Emwaya, and Valeria saw the Ichiribu woman try to meet those icy-blue eyes and not quite succeed.

"I trust we've no need to wait to begin my instructing the warriors?"

the Cimmerian concluded.

Seyganko took Conan's meaningthat he might keep all his authority over the Ichiribu warriors to himself if he spoke against Conan again.

Valeria shifted sideways so that she was within reach of Conan, and also faced Seyganko.

The Ichiribu warrior, being no fool, could recognize a battle that he had lost before it was joined. "Any oaths you need, I will give, Conan, that you may teach the Ichiribu to walk on their hands and hurl spears with their toes!"

"That might be no bad thing should it make the Kwanyi laugh so hard that other warriors could slit their bellies while they laughed," Conan said. "Come at dawn tomorrow, and tell me all you know of the Kwanyi way of fighting. Then I will be more sure of what the Ichiribu could most wisely learn from me."

"We can begin that tonight" Seyganko began eagerly, then found Emwaya covering his mouth with two fingers in the ritual gesture for silence.

She smiled and laid her other hand on his knee.

"We will begin tomorrow, when we are all rested and fit," Conan said, and the suggestion seemed to act as a command on the visitors.

When the curtain had fallen behind them, he let out his laughter in a roar that made the hanging billow as if in a gale. "There's a woman who hasn't been well-bedded in a while and who won't have it put off for talk of war!"

"And here is another," Valeria said, slipping an arm through Conan's.

"What, not well-bedded? You insult me, or was it some other woman wrapped around me like a vine last night?"

"You know as well as any man that one night is like one meal. Man or woman, you cannot live on it forever."

He turned to her, and she rose so that he could undo the waistcloth, throwing her arms around him as he did so.

This would not last, she knew. Neither of them could long endure a partnership in which they could not be sure who led and who followed.

But for now, she could follow him with pleasureand not only to the sleeping mat.

Wobeku wondered that the torches did not draw swarms of insects that would sting and bite, whether the pests flew or crawled. It was not the torches themselves, he was sure. They smelled and looked much the same as any others.

The God-Menthe Speakers to the Living Wind, as they called themselvesmust have worked magic. Potent magic, too, when one considered how many insects a single torch could draw out of the jungle! That was one difference between the island and the mainland, and Wobeku would have to endure it until Chabano's victory took him home again.

Better gnawed by insects than dead, he told himself, then cast his face into a form suitable for receiving Spirit-Speakers, or whatever the God-Men were. As a fugitive among the Kwanyi, he had barely the right to ask such questions; he would have a long wait for answers.

At least Chabano's wrath had come and gone swiftly, and when it had departed, Wobeku had not lain dead on the floor of the Paramount Chief's hut. That Aondo had been a fool, and that Wobeku had not broken taboo, undoubtedly counted for much. It counted for more that Chabano killed fewer men out of hand these days, even when in one of his famous rages.

Now Wobeku stood among the twelve warriors surrounding Chabano, and all thirteen pairs of eyes were fixed on the torchlit path from whence six men were approaching. The newcomers wore the ceremonial garb of God-Men, with complete cloaks and headdresses of crimson and sapphire feathers, loinguards of leather tooled and gilded, wrist braces of silver, and staves that seemed to be worth a good herd of cattle each.

One of the God-Men wore the less ornate garb of a Silent Brother but bore the First Speaker's oxhide shield, with its ornaments of Golden Serpents, eight of them forming a pattern it was best not to look upon for long. If one did, one began to think that the serpents lived, or at least that their eyes glowed green.

The five companions of the approaching First Speaker divided, three placing themselves on one side of their leader and two on the other.

The First Speaker himself advanced toward Chabano. He seemed to have no fear of being within reach of so many spears, but then, perhaps his magic gave him good assurance.

What the Living Wind was, not even the Kwanyi wished to ask, lest they receive disquieting answers. That it made the God-Men powerful, all knew so well that there was no need for questions on that matter.

Wobeku followed the lead of Chabano and his companions in clashing his spear against his shield, in the salute of honor to a Paramount Chief.

The First Speaker returned the salute by thrusting the butt of his staff deep into the earthwhereupon Wobeku felt as if the ground under his feet had turned for a moment red-hot.

Again Wobeku followed the lead of those around him; none of them so much as flinched. Yet he noticed that Chabano seemed more wary, and the First Speaker was unsmiling; it seemed that the man was displeased, and moreover, ready to make his displeasure felt.

"Hail, Geyrus, First Speaker to the Living Wind!" Chabano said, laying his spear and shield on the ground. For a moment, Wobeku thought the chief would prostrate himself, but he did not even kneel.

He rose to his full height and crossed his arms on his chest.

"Hail, Chabano," Geyrus said in a chill voice barely above a whisper.

"First Speaker," Chabano said sharply, "you have summoned me. I have come. You, it seems, are here in anger. What cause is there for this anger?"

"You have lied to me," Geyrus said.

Wobeku was not the only man to suck in his breath. Any common man calling Chabano a liar to his face would have thrown his life away. He would be fortunate to die on the spot, instead of suffering impalement or worse.

"If so, I have done so with good cause," Chabano snapped.

That seemed an equally grave insult to Geyrus. Staves rose, and the faces under the headdresses looked more like demon-lodge masks than Wobeku found pleasant. He had sometimes wondered which would have the victory in a contest of swiftly thrown spears and swiftly cast spells.

He had not expected to learn the answer by being part of such a battle himself.

Geyrus seemed to struggle with the urge not to strike Chabano dead on the spot, and mastered it. His tone was still harsh when he replied.

"Oh. Am I worthy of the knowledge of what cause you claim for lying to the Speakers to the Living Wind?"

"Yes. There are those in your caves on Thunder Mountain whose eyes and ears serve our enemies. It is best we find ways of speaking the truth to each other without their hearing it."

To Wobeku, that made perfect sense. To Geyrus, however, it seemed to be an insult almost past bearing. Wobeku gripped his spear until his knuckles grew pale in fear of what he saw on the First Speaker's face.

Yet nothing passed the man's lips. At least not until the rage left his countenance. His shoulders sagged then, and he seemed to age ten years before Wobeku's eyes.

"Do you trust your own folk?" he asked, as one might ask the price of a goat.

"Yes," Chabano replied. One could almost see his chest swell with pride at the loyalty of the Kwanyi.

"Then let us go to your nearest village, and there we will see to this speaking of the truth. If there have been lies told"

"Silence!" Chabano roared. Geyrus did not take offense; he seemed to realize, as did Wobeku, that the order was not aimed at him. It was aimed at the warriors around Chabano. Several of them were from that "nearest village," and their faces said plainly that they did not care to host God-Men.

Chabano's power, it seemed, was not without limits.

"Great Chief" one warrior began.

Chabano turned and struck the man across the face with an open hand.

Then he snatched the man's spear from his grip, broke it across his knee, and pointed at the ground. The man flung his shield on the jungle floor and prostrated himself on it.

Chabano did not lift a weapon. Instead, he brought one heavy foot down hard on the man's back, several times. Each time the breath huffed out of the man, and Wobeku saw him biting his lip until it bled.

"Be grateful for my mercy," Chabano said. "You will carry a spear again for the war, but avoid my sight until then."

The warrior rose, unaided, for his comrades drew back from him as if he carried pox on his skin. Bent and stumbling like one sick or aged, he lurched down the path and out of sight.

Wobeku did not watch him go. His instincts told him that this clash was not yet done, and that the heart of the matter was still Geyrus's will.

He did not dare watch the First Speaker too closely, but he tried to follow the man's eyes from one warrior to another. If Geyrus raised his staff, or if his eyes lingered on one man longer than on the othersâ€¦

Neither staff nor eyes gave Wobeku a clue. But he was fortunate nonetheless. He was well out to the left of Chabano and so could see the men behind the chief without appearing to look at them. There were three of them, and now one of them was breathing with unnatural slowness. His eyes seemed to have turned crimson and sapphire. His spear was rising into throwing position, as if drawing his arms with it.

Then suddenly the spear leaped up. The warrior leaped with itor rather, his death-grip on the weapon drew him with it until his feet no longer touched the ground.

Those who saw the spectacle were mute from surprise, or perhaps from magic. All except Wobeku.

"Chief! Behind you!" he screamed. The warning did its work. Chabano whirled, flinging up his shield and thrusting with his spear.

The chief's spear only stabbed air. Wobeku, with more time to aim, struck home. His spear sank into the warrior's side, halfway up his rib cage. The man reeled, turned halfway toward Wobeku, and seemed about to laugh at the sight of the Ichiribu warrior cringing away.

Wobeku could not help it. The other's eyes were now pools of crimson-and-sapphire fire, and a faint mist in the same hues seemed to cling to both his weapon and his hands. Then the crimson of the God-Men's magic gave way to the crimson of blood, pouring from the man's side and mouth. He choked, reeled again, and fell with the spear still protruding from his side.

Wobeku knew that the man would shortly have company in death: Chabano and all his companions. Nor would Chabano seek to escape that fate by fleeing. It would be futile. Geyrus would have his life, no matter where he fled.

Wobeko himself also had fled once before. It was not in him to do so again, any more than he could have slain the bidui boys.

He was so concerned with meeting a warrior's death that he did not see Chabano step forward, perhaps with the same thought in his mind. The chief had his spear raised, and the muscles of his right arm tautened as he made ready to hurl it into Geyrus's throat.

Wobeku saw the First Speaker raise his staff in both hands, holding it out in front of him. He saw Chabano's spear stop as if it had encountered the rock of a mountain. He saw the iron point begin to smokeand a chill hand seemed to grip his heart and bowels as he saw that the smoke was crimson and blue.

Then he saw the Silent Brother stride up, swing his staff high in both hands like a woman swinging a mortar, and bring it down across the First Speaker's staff.

Wobeku knew in the next moment that death had come for him. Flames shot up from the First Speaker's staff. They also rose from the Speaker himself, as if his body were a pile of straw. They were of all colors and no colors, without smoke but not without heat.

The leaves above the First Speaker turned brown and would have burned had they not been sodden with rain. Common, lawful smoke rose from the jungle floor where the heat seared the mat of dead leaves and vines.

Somehow the color of the smoke consoled Wobeku for his coming death. He would not die in a place abandoned by the gods.

Then a moment came when he began to think that he might not die after all. Chabano staggered back, dropping his spear with its half-melted point but seeming otherwise unharmed. He stumbled over Wobeku's victim and nearly fell, but two of his warriors caught him.

Three others, Wobeku among them, saw that the flames enveloped the two staves and the First Speaker, but not the Silent Brother. They also saw that this did not please the other Speakers. Indeed, they were staring with their pale eyes at the spectacle as if it went against all they had been taught was possible.

It very likely was. Wobeku snatched a spear from a warrior too gape-jawed and wide-eyed to tell one end of it from another, raised the weapon, and threw it.

This time he took his victim, the Speaker just to the right of Geyrus, in the throat. The man dropped his staff, went to his knees, clawed at his torn throat and the spear in it, then bent so far forward that his headdress fell off. As it struck the jungle floor, so did he, toppling onto his side and kicking out what remained of his life.

Wobeku's swiftness seemed to restore life to the other warriorsthat, and a few sharp words from Chabano in the tone that meant disobedience could yield death. In moments, the remaining Speakers were surrounded by warriors holding spear-points at their throats or stomachs. The warriors kept them motionless until the First Speaker was only ashes on the jungle floor.

The Silent Brother gathered the staves from the surviving Speakers'

unresisting hands, then spoke to them in a tongue Wobeku did not understand. He only sensed in the voice age beyond anything he had dreamed of. It held echoes of times before Atlantis, of times even before the gods had judged that men, not beasts, should rule the earth.

This done, the Silent Brother turned and knelt to Chabano. It seemed to Wobeku that he would have prostrated himself had that not meant setting down his armful of staves or turning his eyes from the Speakers. The Ichiribu renegade also noticed for the first time that the Silent Brother's eyes had the pallid hue of a full Speaker's.

Chabano looked from Wobeku to the Silent Brother and nodded. Respect for a chief was all very well, yet keeping those Speakers bound by fear, never mind of what, was more needed now.

"I am Ryku," the Silent Brother said. Understanding came to Wobeku.

Such a name had come to his ears without his knowing what it meant. So had tales of Chabano's spy on Thunder Mountain, although these were whispered. Ryku and the spy, it seemed, were one and the same.

"Hail, Ryku, friend to the Kwanyi," Wobeku said. It seemed the least foolish thing he could say.

"You are not of the Kwanyi," Ryku said. "Are you the eyes and ears of Chabano among the Ichiribu?"

"Before I answer that question," Chabano said with dangerous mildness, "you must answer one."

"Ask, my chief."

Chabano seemed to take the words at their value and to ignore Ryku's tone. "What did you say to your comrades?"

"I told them that if they did not swear obedience to me in all matters concerning aid to the Kwanyi, I would allow your warriors to slay them here and now."

"And did they swear?" Chabano waved a hand, and warriors' hands tightened on spear-shafts.

Whatever the Speakers swore, they swore it fervently and at length.

Before the oath was half over, Ryku bade the Kwanyi warriors to lower their spears. When it was done, he spoke a sharp word and the Speakers scurried off up the trail as fast as their aged legs could carry them.

Chabano looked eloquently at his warriors, and they retreated with similar speed in the opposite direction. The chief, the God-Man, and the spy were alone in the jungle.

"My thanks to both of you," Chabano said. "A chief's thanks is worth much, and it will be worth more the longer I rule." He cast a sharp look at Wobeku. "Although had you been as swift some time ago as you were today, you would not be here."

Ryku asked that this be explained; Chabano acceded to the request with a mildness that amazed the fugitive warrior. But then, even a Paramount Chief did not stand upon rank with a God-Man who seemed to have made himself a full Speaker upon his own whim.

Or was it that becoming a God-Man was easier than the tribes had been led to believe? That would have been a cheering thought, had Wobeku wished to follow in Ryku's footsteps.

As his ambition was to be high among the Kwanyi when they ruled all this land, he was not so cheered. Fumble-fingered God-Men would not be of much use to the Kwanyi in the face of Dobanpu's Spirit-Speaking.

Dobanpu's mastery was no tale, and the vengeance he would wreak on Wobeku would be no light one!

TWELVE

The Ichiribu and the Kwanyi took time to gird themselves for battle.

This did not entirely arise because of each of their new allies, although those played a part.

Wobeku found that while the warriors kept their distance, few doubted him. He had, after all, saved Chabano, the Paramount Chief whom all had followed for twelve years. Even those who followed Chabano out of fear more than from love knew that the Kwanyi would be doomed without him.

The man who saved him had placed the tribe greatly in his debt.

Ryku was also regarded with some gratitude, but likewise with more than a little fear. He also had saved Chabano, and moreover, had cast down the greatest of the God-Men. In so doing, however, he had made himself a yet greater God-Man.

It was as well for Ryku that he did not go among the warriors more often than when Chabano summoned him. He remained, nine days out of ten, in seclusion on Thunder Mountain, putting the Speakers, the Silent Brothers, and the servants and slaves in as much order as his powers and the time allowed. Had he come to the villages too often, someone might have served him as Wobeku had served one of the Speakerswhich would have saved the Kwanyi a deal of trouble in days to come, but they were only a tribe of stout fighters, not seers who could foretell the future.

Conan had a busy time among the Ichiribu, for all that most of them thought him favored by the gods, if not in truth sent by them.

The Kwanyi had been invincible on land since Chabano had taught them the art of fighting in a line, with the tall shield and the great spear that a man could thrust as well as throw. It was not to be expected that the Ichiribu could learn that art, even from the Cimmerian, well enough and soon enough to face their foes in full array.

So Conan set about teaching them how to use their old weapons in new ways. They had a fair number of archers and slingers, who could gall and torment the flanks of the Kwanyi ranks. Their fishing tridents were not despicable weapons against the Kwanyi spear, either, if they could contrive to fight two warriors against one.

Valeria also taught them how to fight from their canoes with more skill than before. What she did not know about the handling of small boats, it was probably not given to menor womento know. Even the most seasoned fishermen of the Ichiribu soon said loudly that Conan's shield-woman and vowed lover was worth almost as much as the Cimmerian himself.

"We must be the ants, and the Kwanyi the warthog," Conan said, until even Seyganko wearied of hearing it for all that he knew it was true.

"They are a bigger warthog than we can be. Fight them tusk to tusk, and we are doomed. Sting them a thousand times, and the doom will be theirs."

The skill the Ichiribu showed in learning what he taught left Conan in good heart. He would have been still more confident had the matter of marching through the tunnels not remained dangling in the wind.

Dobanpu agreed that if the spirits allowed, this would be a cunning and deadly trick, that of making warriors sprout from the ground. He would not say more, other than that he waited for a sign from the spirits.

He continued to demur, and Conan's temper grew short. "Is it the spirits who've turned mute?" he asked Emwaya one morning. "Or is it your father?"

"If I knew the answer to that, it would still not help us," the girl replied. "No man can force the spirits, and my father is almost as difficult to make speak when he chooses to be silent."

"If he chooses to be silent for too long, he may be choosing the end of his folk," Valeria snapped. Both the visitors could see that Emwaya herself was uneasy at her father's reluctance to speak. Neither doubted that she told the truth.

"He knows this also," Emwaya said, and withdrew with as much dignity as she could contrive,

"Wizards!" Conan said. He made the word sound like a particularly foul obscenity. Then he looked at the sky. The sun shone, although through a haze that promised rain for later in the day.

The rainy season drew closer with each sunrise, and Conan was of a mind to leave the tribes of the Lake of Death to their own devices if Dobanpu did not speak before the downpour began in earnest. The rivers would run high then, and the rain would make pursuit difficult.

"If you have no work before noon, let us take a canoe and go fishing,"

Valeria suggested. "One of the large ones, I think."

Conan laughed. The large canoes, they had discovered, were something of a burden for two paddlers. But they were also broad of beam. With a sleeping mat or two laid in the bottom, they made a good place for hot loving.

They paddled closer to the Kwanyi-held shore than usual on a fishing expedition. This was not Conan's notion, still less Valeria's. It had come from Emwaya, who had appeared at the shore as they were loading the fishing gear and mats into the canoe.

"May I come with you?" she had asked.

Conan and Valeria had frowned. They would have more gladly been alone, but neither wished to offend Dobanpu's daughter and Seyganko's betrothed. Also, Conan, at least, had heard in Emwaya's voice a hint of something more than wishing to amuse herself on a tedious day.

"Be welcome," Valeria had said, and had sent a bidui boy for an extra mat and water gourd.

Emwaya proved herself a strong if not an overly skilled paddler, and the canoe made good time to the usual fishing spot. As Conan and Valeria slackened their stroke, Emwaya pointed toward the Kwanyi shore.

"Can we go closer?"

This time, Conan did more than frown. "The Kwanyi are not complete landlubbers. If they see suspicious-looking folk bobbing about off their shore, they may find a canoe or two to fill with warriors."

"I will lie down, so that none may recognize me."

"What about us?" Valeria asked. "Or have Conan and I turned your hue from the sun without anyone's telling us?"

Emwaya might know potent magic herself, and to offend her was to offend a master of still more potent spells. But neither she nor her father seemed quite as wise in matters of war as Conan could wish.

They bargained, as Valeria said afterward, like a captain and a ship's chandler haggling over the price of a galley's fittings. In the end, they had drunk half the water to ease throats dry from talking, and agreed on where to go. It was nearer the shore than Conan liked, farther than Emwaya wanted, but would serve the purposes of both.

Above all, they could not readily be caught against the shore by canoes coming in from the lake. Canoes coming out from the land they could see in time to keep their lead, and having a third paddler would help.

"Remember, too, that I can summon aid from the island if we seem to be pursued too closely," Emwaya said. She said no more, and Conan did not ask further. He was still none too easy over having such as Dobanpu as a friend. Sorcerers, he had to admit, might remain friendly, or at least harmlessbut he could count the ones who had done so on the fingers of one hand. Those who had sooner or later been deadly foes, on the other handall the fingers and toes in the canoe could hardly number them.

They reached their intended spot. Conan, having the sharpest eyes of the three, studied the shore. It showed no sign of human presence and precious little sign of any other animal life. Only a spit of sand with furrows where crocodiles had basked hinted that these placid waters might hold peril.

Conan and Valeria threw over their lines and readied their tridents.

Emwaya lay down on her mat in the bow and appeared to fall asleep. To Conan, her breathing seemed less regular than sleep commonly yielded.

The way her hands spread palm-down, fingers opened, against the hull of the canoe also hinted of an unrestful mood.

To the Cimmerian, she seemed to be listening for something. What, he did not know. Remembering that the tunnels might well honeycomb the bottom of the lake, holding the-gods-knew-what ancient evil, he chose not to try to guess.

The sun climbed to its peak, then began sinking. No fish had taken the bait. Indeed, Conan had seen no sign that anything at all lived in this part of the lake. That was not an agreeable thought, but one he kept to himself. Valeria, easier in her mind, had actually gone to sleep.

Suddenly Emwaya sat up, brushing tangled hair out of her eyes, one hand gripping the side of the canoe. She looked wildly about her, then seemed to discover something off to port. Conan looked where she did, but saw nothing save the lake's surface, unrippled by even a breath of wind or a leaping fish. He was still staring when Emwaya sprang up, threw off her waistcloth, and plunged over the side of the canoe.

Conan's roar would have stunned any fish within a good distance. It woke Valeria. Instantly alert, she took in the danger at a glance. She clutched the anchor stone, wriggled clear of the coiled line, then flung the stone overboard. "Two will be better at finding her than one, Conan. The canoe can fend for itself."

The anchor line hissed as it ran out, but when it reached its end, the canoe still drifted freely. Conan looked into the lake, sensing a depth there he had never before encountered. A depth into which Dobanpu's daughter had plunged, and into which Conan and Valeria had to follow her if they were to

Emwaya's head broke the surface. In a few strokes she was alongside, pulling herself half out of the water. Drops sparkled in her hair, sleeked down from the dousing, and glowed on her shoulders and breasts.

Her countenance took away any thoughts of her beauty, however.

"Come and see for yourselves," she said. "Be warned. You will not like what you find."

"My life's been full of unpleasing sights and it's not over yet," Conan said. He swung his legs over the side of the canoe, slipped into the water, then held the craft steady while Valeria dove over the side.

"Stay close to me," Emwaya ordered when Valeria surfaced. "It is my intent to protect you from what lies down there."

Conan could not help but feel that he would rather be sure of more than her intent. But Emwaya had at least this virtue, rare in magic-wielders: she would not promise miracles.

Conan filled his lungs and plunged under the surface, Emwaya behind him and Valeria in the rear. They were a canoe's length below when Conan saw what Emwaya meant.

It was as if they were suddenly swimming through a vast globe of liquid crystal. The water was utterly transparent, utterly without color, all the way to the bottom of the lake.

That bottom, Conan judged, had to be twice the height of a ship's mainmast below them. No wonder the anchor had not found purchase.

Indeed, he could see the anchor stone dangling uselessly from its line, well clear of the bottom.

In that transparent void, nothing moved. Nothing lived, eithernot the smallest fish, not even a scrap of the weeds that choked some portions of the lake. Conan looked down at the bottom.

It, too, was bare of life. But it was not featureless. Across the Cimmerian's field of vision ran what looked like a deep trench. Into that trench had tumbled blocks of stone that showed the unmistakable signs of human shaping. Even from high above, Conan saw that much. He also thought that he saw carved on some of the stones the writhing serpent-shape he had seen rather too often in the tunnels.

That was as much as he could fathom before a burning in his lungs told him that it was time to seek air. He kicked toward the surface, and Emwaya and Valeria followed.

When Conan broke into the sunlight, Valeria was there before he had finished taking his first deep breath. Emwaya was nowhere to be seen, and as Conan filled his lungs, he began to think of diving back down to find her.

"Valeria, if Emwaya's in trouble"

"She'll need us both even more now. And remember, I owe her my life."

"True enough. I was thinking more of the need for one of us to reach the island and tell of what happened."

Valeria looked less out of temper and seemed about to climb into the canoe when Emwaya broke the surface. Her arms flailed about wildly, and her breathing was a desperate rasp. Conan and Valeria each gripped an arm and upheld her with her head clear of the water.

The panic left her eyes as breath filled her lungs again. She lay back in the water, trusting her friends, and her gasping turned to steady breathing. At last she slipped out of their grasp and climbed into the canoe.

"What is it, Emwaya?" Conan asked.

"My father would knowwould say itbetter. Butâ€¦ under the lake bottom is one of those tunnels."

"That's the trench that collapsed?"

"Yes. Butin the tunnelsomewhere beyond where it collapsed, there is something."

"A flooded tunnel, I'd wager."

The jest seemed to frighten Emwaya. "Do not speak lightly of such matters, Conan. Iit seems to me that what is there lives."

"How can that be?" Valeria asked. She had finally caught the sense of the conversation. "Everything else in the water for a good thousand paces seems to be dead. Worse, driven away."

"Yes. What is in the tunnelit lives by eating the the word is taboo, but will you understand 'life-force'?"

"The life-force of everything that comes close to it?" Valeria had her hand on her dagger as she spoke.

"Suchbeingshave lived. We, my father and I, thought they were all dead."

"It seems that at least one isn't," Conan said briskly. He picked up a paddle. "My thought is, let's return to the island and tell your father, if he hasn't already smelled it out for himself."

"I should dive again, to learn more of what it might be," Emwaya said.

Valeria hugged the Ichiribu woman. "You barely reached the surface after your second dive. Go down for the third time and it won't take any ancient magical monster to eat your life-force. You'll drown, and we will be left to explain to your father and Seyganko. I'd rather fight the monster, myself."

Valeria's words were clumsy and her accent harsh, but Emwaya understood the sense of them, and the goodwill in Valeria's embrace. "Then so be it," the young woman said. "Let us be off, before it senses us."

It was not the largest of the Golden Serpents, but it was the last and the oldest. It and one other had outlived all the rest of their kind, for the magic in the burrows they had found beneath the lake had changed them.

They had once eaten flesh. Now they ate the life-force that animated flesh, even including water-plants. They could draw it from a creature beyond the sight of their jeweled green eyes, and with it, feed their own strength.

Then it came about that the other ancient serpent grew weary, and its own life-force began to ebb. The last of the Golden Serpents had no sense of mercy, or of any human notion. It knew only that if the other was allowed to die, its life-force would not feed the one who survived.

So the Golden Serpents fought, and the last one killed its comrade. The life-force entered it, and it found new strength. But the battle had made great disorder in the magic that bound the tunnels, holding them up and lighting them. A long stretch of tunnel collapsed. Yet the magic held strongly enough that water did not pour in and drown the last of the Golden Serpents.

But the tunnel was fallen, and to find a way back through it would mean digging through much rock. The Golden Serpent was not a keen-witted creature, but it knew that neither its strength nor its teeth would be equal to that task. So it rested, drew life-force from the creatures of the waters above, and from time to time sought a way around the fallen stones.

It found one site that seemed likely to be easily made large enough for passage. But there was no trace of anything living, of anything that would repay the effort to open the way.

At least not at first. Then a time came when the Golden Serpent sensed life-force again in the tunnelstrong life, too, like that of the two-legged creatures who had cast the ancient spells on these tunnels.

It was so faint that the creatures must be far away.

But if life had come once more into the depths, it would not leave. The Golden Serpent worked at the barrier so that it would be easily breached when there was prey worth having on the other side. They would walk up to the barrier and then there would be no escape. There would, however, be new strength for the Golden Serpent. Strength, perhaps, to let it leave this hiding place and be abroad in the world again, where life-force could be had everywhere.

Even those days might come again when the two-legs brought living creatures to the Golden Serpent, that it might feed on flesh. To have both the living flesh and the life-force from it If one could use the word "ambition" of a creature without human wits, one might say that this wily scheme was the Golden Serpent's greatest ambition.

As he hauled the canoe onto the shore, Conan noticed that there were fewer people about than usual. He found nothing amiss in that, until he saw that the same was true all along the path leading up to the village.

When he saw what seemed half of the tribe around the hole where the hearthstone had been, he knew that something was wrong. Emwaya had been sweating and tight-lipped all the way up from the shore, but Conan had taken this as weariness after her strenuous swimming. Now he suspected worse.

He knew worse when he saw women and children loading stones and earth into baskets, and fanda warriors carrying the loaded baskets to the edge of the village. To ask a fanda warrior on duty to perform women's work could mean a death-duel, or at least a harsh judgment from the council of the tribe. Yet here was everyone old enough or young enough to stand on their feet unaided, digging out the shaft which led to the tunnels.

"I think Dobanpu has spoken," Valeria said, almost whispering.

"Likely enough," Conan agreed. "Are you game for another little ramble in the depths?"

"To go hunting Emwaya's life-force eater?" She looked both weary and disgusted with herself. "Ah, well. I have heard they have a proverb in Khitai: 'Be careful what you wish for. The gods may grant it.' It seems we wished a trifle too hard for the opening of the tunnels."

"It's done past undoing," Conan said. He unbuckled his belt and handed it and his weapons to Valeria. "Take these to the hut. I've some knowledge of this kind of work that the Ichiribu may find handy."

THIRTEEN

The last of the fifty warriors vanished into the jungle just as dawn touched the hills to the east. Wobeku looked after them, his face set.

He doubted that he would deceive Chabano, and indeed, he did not.

"So fearful of the lives of men not of your tribe?" the chief asked.

The note of mockery was plain. So was his real intent.

"The Kwanyi are my tribe now," Wobeku said. "Does its chief doubt oaths sworn to him in the presence of Ryku the First Speaker?"

"No."

There was nothing else that Chabano could say. He might doubt Ryku, as Wobeku certainly did. To put these doubts into words that others might hear was not a chief's wisdom.

"I trust the men you are sending against the herdlands and grainlands of the Ichiribu," Wobeku said. "They will do the work of far more than their numbers in confusing the enemy. They can neither lose those lands without starving, nor defend them without so many of them at hand that they can defend nothing else. No, what grieves me is that I cannot go with them."

"You are needed here, Wobeku." Left unsaid was that Wobeku was not yet so trusted by the Kwanyi warriors that he would be safe out of the chief's sight.

"I was a bidui boy for years, in the herdlands," Wobeku insisted. "Then I was of the fanda that guarded the grainlands. I know every hut, every valley, every spring in those lands. If I went, even as a simple guide, the men you have sent will do better work. More of them will also live to boast of it to their women."

"Wobeku, when we have won, there will not be enough women to hear all the boasting we shall do. Nor will there be enough beer to keep our throats wet for it."

Wobeku knelt, rose when dismissed, and turned away. Not until he was out of the chief's sight did he dare make even the smallest gesture of aversion.

Chabano might tempt the gods. That was a chief's right. Wobeku was no chief, and much doubted that he ever would be, even if Chabano came to rule all the lands to the Salt Water. He had dreamed of such things when he had agreed to serve Chabano, but those were the dreams of a younger man.

Now he had seen more years, and more truths about the world. Wobeku would be quite content to end his life with sons to sing the death-song for him, women to wash his body, and cattle and fields enough to provide a feast for his friends when the smoke of his burning had risen to the gods.

He thought he would ask for the woman Mokossa as his first prize of the victory. She seemed not only a pleasure to the eye, but intelligent and healthy, a breeder of worthy sons.

Conan was inspecting the warriors of the tunnel band when a bidui boy came to summon him to Seyganko. From the boy's face, it was urgent that the Cimmerian lose not a moment.

He motioned to Valeria, and she laid her pouches on her shield and ran over. Even after a night spent with little sleep, Conan took pleasure in her lithe grace and sure movements. He took even more pleasure in the knowledge that she would be at his back when they plunged into the magic-haunted passages beneath the lake once again.

"Valeria, can you finish my work here? Will you see that all the men have what they were ordered to bring and are sober, not astray in their wits and the like?"

"I think that only a drunkard or a madman would have offered himself to this quest," she said with a wry smile.

"Or men who think Dobanpu speaks the truth," Conan said.

"I am surprised to find you among them," Valeria whispered.

Conan shrugged. "Call me one who has not caught Dobanpu or his daughter in a lie as yet. That puts them leagues ahead of most of the sorcerers I've met." He patted her shoulder. "Just pretend to know what you are doing"

"The way you do on the mats?"

"Woman, was it my pretending that made you howl like a she-wolf last night? Half the village heard you, or so I've been told."

Valeria made a sound that was half curse, half laugh, and turned away.

Conan saw her bare shoulders quivering as silent laughter took her.

Then he hurried off to Seyganko.

He found the war leader on hands and knees beside an upturned canoe, studying the bottom as though the secrets of the gods, or at least of victory over the Kwanyi might be found there.

Seyganko seemed drawn with doubt as he led Conan aside. Part of it had to be the burden of leading so many men into a war that neither they nor their tribe might survive. Conan was not vastly older than Seyganko, but he had borne that burden more often than the other, and knew that it grew no lighter with the years.

The other part of Seyganko's unease came out swiftly. "We have seen Kwanyi warriors in the forest on the edge of the herdlands and grainlands. Goats have been found slain, and at least one herdsman has vanished."

Conan nodded. This was a matter of the higher art of war, of which he knew more than he cared to admit, less than he wished. What he both knew and could admit to, however

"Never fight a war believing that the enemy will wait for you to descend on him like a chamber pot from a high window. Chabano seeks to draw warriors away from the attack on him."

"He will do so if we are not to leave our herds and fields defenseless."

"Herds can walk, can they not?"

"Yes, but"

"Send enough warriors to protect the herdsmen while they drive the herds and flocks south into the hills by the river. Then the Kwanyi will have to make a two-day march across open ground to come at them.

You have archers, and they do not. How many of the Kwanyi do you think will reach the hills alive?"

"Ah." Seyganko's smile was brief. "But the fields are not yet harvested. If they are burned"

"And are the burners to be allowed to do their work without having their throats slit by night?" Conan asked, acting more patient than he felt. He hoped that the burden of leadership had not fuddled Seyganko's wits.

"That also can be done," Seyganko said. This time, his smile lasted.

"Some of the grain, indeed, we can harvest and carry off to feed the herds and flocks. We shall eat it in one form or another, and perhaps also the herds and flocks of the Kwanyi."

Conan clapped Seyganko on both shoulders, and the two men exchanged vows to guard each other's women if one of them did not survive the war. Then Conan returned to the shaft more swiftly than he had gone, and just in time to see Emwaya fall in line with the warriors about the hole.

Conan rolled his eyes up to the sky, muttered something that might have been "Women!" and frowned at Valeria. She shrugged and made a gesture eloquent of the futility of arguing with either her or Emwaya.

"Very well," Conan growled. He turned to face the troop, forty stout warriors and Emwaya.

"I'll go down first. Anything that will support my weight or let me pass will be enough for any of you. Aondo was the only one among you bigger than I, and he's now food for the crocodiles."

"I never thought I'd feel sorry for a crocodile," a warrior called, "but the creature's doubtless died by now."

The men's laughter was good to hear. "No one else start down until I call and the ladders and ropes are in place," Conan added. "If I catch anyone using the bracing timbers for a ladder, I'll pluck him off them myself and throw him down. Then anyone who slips will have a soft cushion on which to land!"

The men were still laughing as Conan knotted the rope about his waist and began his climb down into the darkness.

It had come again, the presence that meant both flesh and life-force for the Golden Serpent. It was, as far as the serpent could judge, in the same place as before. But it seemed stronger, as if the creature were larger.

Or could there be more of the two-legs? Were they coming down from above to offer themselves to the hunger of the Golden Serpent? Or could they perhaps be coming down to hunt the Golden Serpent itself?

The serpent did not have a mind that could hold thoughts shaped into such words. But it knew the difference between prey and enemies.

It also knew that when the time came for it to strike, even those who came to hunt would find themselves the hunted. This had been so for as long as it could rememberand those memories went back to before it lived in these burrows far below the earth.

One of the warriors, with instincts sharpened in the jungle, hunting and fighting, began gathering up the fallen clods of earth. Conan held up a hand to stop him.

"Leave be, friend. There are no Kwanyi down here to track us by what we leave behind. If anything lives down here, it will have other ways of finding us. Save your strength to see that we find it first."

The magic light still illuminated the tunnels. It seemed dimmer, though. Or was that merely because the light below the stairs had died along with their guardian spells? Farther along the tunnel, the glow seemed as bright and unnatural as ever.

Conan and Valeria were the only ones of the band who looked to be at ease. The Cimmerian saw hands clenched on spears, or fingering amulets, or even held behind backs to make gestures of aversion in the hope that the Blue-Eyed Chief; as they called him, would not see.

Conan coughed dirt and dust from his throat and stood before the men.

"I won't say there's nothing to be afraid of. That's calling you fools, which you are not. What you are is stout warriors of the Ichiribu, a folk who are among the best fighters I've ever seen."

That would not pass any spell of truth-sensing, but nobody down here except Emwaya was fit to cast one, and she would hold her peace.

"Watch where you put your feet. Hold your tongue and send messages with your hands. Drink lightly of your water, and eat sparingly. Do not wander off, even if you think you see a whole kingdom down that side tunnel.

"Remember above all that surprising the enemy doubles your strength.

We'll be surprising the Kwanyi by coming from a place they don't even know exists. Imagine what that will do for our strength!"

The warriors imagined it, and the thought seemed pleasant. They were still looking above and to their rear as they formed their line of march, but they were also smiling. All except Emwaya.

The Golden Serpent set its teeth into the first of the stones in its path and began dragging it to one side. It sought to do this quietly, knowing that most of the prey beneath the earth were keen of hearing.

Except for the two-legs, of course. Its memories of those were not as sharp as of beasts who had shared the burrows with it more recently. It did remember that the two-legs were nearly blind without light, and almost deaf under any circumstance.

If the flesh and life-force it sensed belonged to two-legs, it could work swiftly. The stones could be moved about until, at the right moment, the serpent could strike even more swiftly. Again, the thoughts of the Golden Serpent did not take those exact words, but one such as Emwaya would have interpreted them so.

One such as Emwaya would also have discerned that the work of the Golden Serpent was agitating the spells in the tunnels beneath the lake. The agitation spread out like ripples around a thrown stone, to reach far along the tunnels in all directions, even to the shores of the Lake of Death.

Chabano was entangled with one of his slave women when the messenger entered. He intended to finish with the woman; then he saw the messenger's face. The man was a proven warrior, a leopard-tooth wearer, and what could give him such a countenance could not be a light matter.

He slapped the woman on the rump. "Go, and swiftly."

The woman looked stricken, perhaps with disappointment, and certainly with fear. Displeasing Chabano had meant death to slave women, even in the past year.

"Go!" he shouted and raised a hand for a less gentle slap. "It is not your fault that the gods have sent bad news!"

The woman could not depart swiftly enough. Even her necklace of beads and her waistcloth remained behind. Chabano sat up and glowered at the warrior. As befitted one of his rank, the man did not flinch.

"The earth has cracked in two places along the shore."

"I felt no earth-trembling."

"Nor did anyone else, my chief. I have sent for your principal warriors"

"Wobeku?"

"No."

"Send for him at once!" The man turned to flee, now at last frightened.

"Wait!" Chabano commanded. "How wide are the cracks?"

"One might be natural. It is no deeper than a man's height and no wider than a boy's arm. The other is wide enough to swallow an ox, and no one can see the bottom. Yetâ€¦"

The man licked his lips. Chabano felt the urge to strike him but knew that would only make him more fearful.

"If they cannot see the bottom, what can they see?"

"Worked stone, perhapsperhaps stairs."

"Stairs," echoed Chabano. He stood and girded on his loinguard, then pointed to his headdress. The warrior handed it to him, likewise spear and war club.

Accoutering himself gave Chabano time to think. There were legends of cities beneath the lake, or even below the jungleâ€¦ and there was Dobanpu's power, no legend. Yet if the legends held a grain of truth, the magic of those old cities had made Dobanpu's magic seem that of a child.

This was not the Spirit-Speaker's work, likely enough. But it smelled of magic, and in matters of magic

"Go and summon Wobeku to the council. Then you yourself go to Thunder Mountain and bear the news to Ryku. Take warriors you trust when you go to the mountain, so that if Ryku wishes to come among us, he will have proper guarding."

And so that any treachery he may be devising can be seen at once.

The messenger thumped his head five times on the floor, then ran as if all his kin would be impaled if he slowed.

Alone, Chabano took down his finest shield, the one with strips of gold and ivory woven into the ox hide. It soothed him to feel the richness under his hands, and his thoughts now came swiftly and clearly.

Gods or men might have opened these cracks. Both fissures would bear watching, and he would set warriors to that task. Meanwhile, the greater part of his warriors, as well as Ryku, would draw back to the slopes of the mountain. Then when the enemy showed himself, it would be time to strikewith Ryku's command of the Living Wind, or with the spears of the warriors, as might seem best.

A battle was certain, and in Kwanyi lands, which Chabano had hoped to avoid. But there was this to ease his mind: the lion bites more easily one who thrusts his head into the lion's jaws.

FOURTEEN

Beyond where the light began again, the tunnel broadened so much that Conan's band could trot four or five abreast. A spear held upright would hardly touch the ceiling, and the floor was of the familiar sullen, grayish rock, without beauty but as smooth as marble.

Conan cared for none of this. Such spaciousness hinted that they were coming to the heart of whatever lay beneath the Lake of Death. That also had to be the heart of whatever magic had for centuries kept the earth from taking back this underground maze.

The Cimmerian dropped back to speak to Emwaya, who was keeping up with the warriors, for all that she seemed to be sleepwalking for long stretches. She was so when Conan fell in beside her. He matched his stride to hers and left her in peace; no good ever came of disturbing even the most benign sorcerer at work.

After time enough to consume a small joint of mutton, Emwaya shook herself like a wet dog and looked at Conan with waking eyes. Then she nodded her head.

"It lives, and it is ahead of us. I think it has grown stronger than it was."

No need to ask what "it" was, or if it was dangerous. The life-force eater was about the only living thing that Emwaya would be sensing, and likely enough the thing most to be feared. But to forty warriors, a Golden Serpentor one of those beasts that were kin to both dragon and rhinoceroswould be only healthy exercise.

Conan hurried back to the head of the line. Seeing him hasten thus, some of the warriors quickened their pace. He drew his sword and held it at arm's length across the front rank of Ichiribu.

"Pass that and you may get the flat of it across your thick skull!" he said, pitching his voice to carry without being loud. Even so, it raised echoes that made a few men look uneasily about them. It also caused the eager ones to slow their pace.

"Well and good," Conan said. "This tunnel may go straight under the lake to bring us out in the quarters of Chabano's women. It may also wind like the trail of a drunken crocodile. Reckon that we've a good way to go, and guard your wind!"

After that, Conan had no problem with the over-eager and was able to follow his own advice, stalking along in silence. Nothing seemed to hint of danger, but his eyes were never still and his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. From time to time, he also looked back to see if Emwaya had sensed anything else untoward.

The band's pace was that of the Ichiribu warrior when the ground was level and endurance rather than great speed was most urgently required.

Conan judged that they must have covered a good two leagues before they halted for a brief rest.

The Cimmerian set guards and put those warriors carrying gearropes, hooks, torches, and heavy hunting spearsto inspecting their burdens.

The others he allowed to sprawl at their ease. A black look or two discouraged broaching water gourds, and no one as yet was hungry.

"We must be a good halfway to the Kwanyi shore," Valeria whispered. "If we are marching in the direction I think we are."

"I think we're on that route myself," Conan said. "Of course, we could both be"

He broke off as a sound that was neither sob nor scream but had something of both in it reached him. He whirled to see two warriors drop weapons and shields and leap to support Emwaya. Her legs were trembling, unable to hold her upright, her eyes were closed, and as Conan watched, she clapped both hands over her ears.

What she was hearing might have been heard with the ears of her magic.

The next moment, everyone heard it with the ears of his body.

Stones cracked and crumbled, then fell with crashes that filled the tunnel with thundering echoes. Emwaya was not the only one now with hands held over ears.

Conan's bellow rose above the stone-noise and raised echoes of its own.

"The next man who drops a weapon, I'll give it back sideways!" Warriors hastily slung shields and raised spears.

Then, without orders, they began taking battle formation. The baggage bearers dropped their loads and formed a circle around the gear. Emwaya was half carried, half dragged into that circle and deposited with little ceremony on a rolled-up rope ladder.

"See to Emwaya," Conan said. That was his last order for a time. None of his words could have been heard, and indeed, none were needed.

Something far too close and far too large was slithering over rock, hissing as it came.

The messenger ran up to Seyganko as if his loinguard had caught fire or a leopard swam the lake to pursue him. Before the man could speak, Seyganko saw what none among the Ichiribu had seen in many yearsDobanpu Spirit-Speaker running.

He ran up to Seyganko at a fine pace for a man his age and waited only long enough to catch his breath before speaking. "We must launch the canoes at once. There is more danger than I had thought."

"You do not think, father of Emwaya, if you believe we can launch the canoes now. Hardly half of them are loaded, and more than a third of the warriors are not yet on the shore."

"Then we set out with what is ready to hand."

Seyganko realized the depth of his anger only when he felt the shaft of the trident in his hand crack. He forced himself to speak more calmly.

"Who is in danger?"

"Those who have gone below. I must be closer to them than I am here, to aid Emwaya against the peril."

"What peril?" Seyganko did not have it in him to call his betrothed's father a liar, as Dobanpu did not have it in him to lie. But he would be cursed if he would fling the tribe half-ready into battle without knowing whither he flung it!

"What lives beneath the lakewhere Emwaya found no lifeit lives, wakes, and moves upon those who have gone below. Emwaya will need my aid if the warrior's weapons are to slay it."

Seyganko knew that these near riddles were as much as he would hear without forfeiting time he and his warriors might not have. Still

"Dobanpu, take a canoe and six of the strongest paddlers ready to hand.

Guide them where you wish. I will order the others to gather as swiftly as possible, then come after you with two more canoes."

Dobanpu also seemed to realize that he could expect no more. He departed at a brisk trot.

Seyganko raised his voice, calling the messengers and drummers of the fanda to him. As he ran down to the shore, Dobanpu's canoe was already pushing out into the lake, and the drummers were hard at work. The rattle and boom of the talking drums rolled across shore and water as Seyganko leaped into a canoe and seized the nearest paddle.

Twenty or thirty picked warriors would be enough to guard Dobanpu against any human foe. It was drawing on toward sunset, and the Kwanyi feared the lake even more by night than by day.

As for other foesif Dobanpu was not their equal, then the fewer warriors the Ichiribu lost, the better. The tribe would not long outlive their Spirit-Speaker, but the warriors could still take a good toll of Chabano's men. That would give them honor among the gods, and the thanks of those tribes downriver whom the Kwanyi might then be too weak to conquer.

Seyganko's paddle dipped deep as he raised his voice in the oldest and most potent of the Ichiribu war chants.

Ryku heard the signal drums from the lookout post on what the Kwanyi called Great Gourd Hill. It neither grew large gourds nor had the shape of one, so Ryku had always wondered how it came by its name.

It was, however, the perfect spot for a keen-eyed watcher to look all the way to the island of the Ichiribu. With a trifle of aid from Ryku, some of the watchers had gained more than human sight; they could even see canoes putting out from the island.

This, the drums told him, was just what was happening. Ryku placed the wooden tablet he had been studying in the herb-steeped deer hide that protected it from both damp and magic alike. He wrapped the hide about the tablet and put it in the carved chest that stood in one corner of his chamber. That chest was the one thing he had brought with him when he came to Thunder Mountain. It was a gift from the man whom he had called Father, and always made him feel less clanless and kinless.

Now the very gods could not do that. He was First Speaker to the Living Wind, for all that he seldom used the title. His clan and his kin were alike not of this earth, and thus it must be. Had he risen to the rank of Speaker by other means, he might have felt some kinship with the other Speakers, but as matters stood, they also were alien and untrustworthy.

Ryku stepped out of his chamber, touched the pouch at his belt for good luck, and unbound the reed curtain over his door. The hanging fell back across the door as he turned and walked away, toward the Cave of the Living Wind.

The slithering ended in a crash that sounded like a battering ram striking a stone wall. In the next moment, Conan knew that his ears had not lied.

From a side tunnel to their rear, stones larger than a man rolled in dust and thunder. Smaller stones flew as if hurled from a siege-engine.

Some crashed against the far wall, spraying shards in all directions.

Others struck flesh. Shards and stones together left three warriors lifeless and two more limping or holding useless arms.

Those two were the first prey of the Golden Serpent as it lunged from its lair into the tunnel.

Its teeth sank into one, and the man howled in agony for a dreadful moment before going limp. The teeth were as long as Conan's fingers, set in a jaw the length of a horse's head, and it hardly mattered if they were venomous or not.

The other man died as a tail thicker than his own body swept him against the wall. He did not scream, but the cracking of skull and crunching of bones were loud enough to tell plainly of his fate.

Other men did cry out, though, at what they saw then. Around the two bodies a sickly green light flickered. It was what one might have seen over a noisome swamp, the sort said to be haunted, one to which wise men gave a wide berth. It was the color of the scum on the most stagnant water of such a swamp. If he had ever seen a less wholesome color in his life, Conan could not remember it.

What he did remember was that Emwaya was in the rear, and that her fate and that of all of them were entwined. He turned back, to reach her just as she leaped from the arms of the men holding her. She ran at the Golden Serpent, raising high overhead one hand and clutching the amulet about her neck with the other.

The creature hissed loudly enough to cause echoes, and its toothed jaws gaped so that Conan had much too clear a view of its mouth. The mouth was green and ridged, except where it was smeared with the blood of the serpent's first victim. Far back in the mouth, the swamp-glow flickered.

A brighter light blazed from the Golden Serpent's many-jeweled eyes. At another time and place, the jewel-light might have been lovely. Now it was only one more horror.

At Emwaya's gesture, the serpent reared half its length from the floor.

Its horned muzzle crashed against the ceiling, shaking loose dust and pebbles. Its tail thrashed about, nearly striking down one man bolder than the rest in retrieving his baggage.

From nose to tail, the creature seemed longer than a small galley, and thicker around the middle than a good-sized tree. The golden scales were as large as good pewter serving platters and overlapped as cunningly as was the best Aquilonian plate armor. Some were faded to a pale yellow, even to a near white. Conan saw that many had been cracked, or had even broken clear across, then healed.

The boldest warrior of all ran past Emwaya, shield slung, spear in both hands. He leaped and thrust in a single fluid motion, and his spearhead vanished between two pallid scales.

The Golden Serpent shook like a tree in a gale. Still gripping his spear, the warrior flew into the air, legs waving. The serpent's head dipped, and the jaws closed on one of the man's feet. The warrior did not cry out. Instead, he mustered all his strength to drive the spear in deeper.

He succeeded, in the moment that the serpent's teeth severed his leg halfway up the calf. He screamed then, but did not fall. He remained suspended in the air, held up by nothing anyone could see, while the too-familiar greenish light played about the blood spraying from the stump of his leg.

At last he fell, still gripping the spear. His fall jerked the weapon from the serpent's neck, and greenish blood spurted forth. Where it struck the floor, smoke rose, and where it fell on the corpse of the man crushed by the tail, the flesh charred to ashes and crumbled from the bone.

If Conan had ever doubted the stark horror of the magic lurking in these depths, he doubted no longer. He also doubted that he would ever again put himself in danger for fire-stones.

Emwaya staggered back into his arms, her hands held in front of her in a warding gesture. "Quickly," she whispered. "Have another man throw a spear."

"You!" Conan called. The iron self-command in his voice steadied the warriors. The man addressed drew back and put all the force of his best throw behind the spear. It struck not far from the wound made by the first warrior.

A scale cracked across; this time the blood only oozed out. As Conan watched, the wound from the first spear closed. Only a smear of blood on the serpent's neck showed that it had ever taken any hurt. Another smear was already drying on the floor, not far from the corpse of the man who had lost his foot to the serpent. That man's bones were even now showing through his flesh, and through the green foulness that played over and around it.

Emwaya drew in a great, rasping breath. "We must keep it coming at us, and wound it each time it comes. We must keep our distance, too. It heals itself somewhat each time it is wounded, but not altogether. It will lose strength; I will see to that."

"How long will it take to die?"

The Golden Serpent hissed in challenge, pain, and defiance. The hiss again raised such echoes that Emwaya could not have made herself heard had she shouted into Conan's ear.

As the serpent withdrew some ten paces or so, Emwaya spoke urgently.

"It will die swiftly if my father comes to join his Spirit-Speaking to mine. We can take from it the power to steal life-force, which is how it heals as it does."

Conan thought uncharitable words about sorcerers. It seemed that the breed was always with you when you did not want them and somewhere else when you did.

"Ho!" he shouted, raising his sword. "We've need to fight this beast by retreating before it. Baggage men, take the rear rank. The best spearmen, take the foremost. Guard Emwaya at all costs, and for the love of every god, don't close with the monster!"

Faces showed that the bravest warrior needed no urging on that last point. Conan snatched up a spear from the baggage and joined the rear rank as Valeria ran to stand beside Emwaya.

As if they were all of a single mind, the band drew back ten paces.

Encouraged, the serpent lowered its head and came on, but it did not lunge so boldly this time. A spear and a trident flew. The spear sank deep, the trident glanced off the horn on the nose. The trident-thrower would have dashed forward to retrieve his weapon but for Conan's wordless roar that halted him in his tracks.

This was likely enough as strange a battle as Conan had ever fought.

Overgrown snakes were not uncommontoo common by half if the wounds he had taken whilst battling them were any measure. But he had not before fought a serpent that had its own magic, nor fought one as leader of a band of warriors.

A good band, too, he thought as he saw one of the slingers wind up and hurl his stone. It flew true, striking one of the blazing green eyes.

Conan expected the eye to shatter rather than burst, but it did neither. Instead, it merely quivered like jelly, turned misty and pale for a moment, then blazed green once more.

The creature hissed, and this time, anyone could tell that it was in pain. Emwaya bit her lip until blood came, then screamed out a warning.

"Be ready, everyone. He'll lunge again!"

The warning was life to at least three men. The great head crashed down where they would have been standing had they not joined the retreat.

Twenty paces to the rear, the band stood again, save for two men who remained behind to thrust spears in deep. Again Conan's roar saved one from folly as the man struck at the beast's nose with his club. The warrior rejoined his comrades without his club or spear, but with a whole skin.

Then the band put another thirty paces between itself and the Golden Serpent, while Emwaya not only waved both arms, but chanted loud enough to drown out the sound of the creature's hissing. The two spears remained in the wounds longer than before, and the gush of blood that pushed them out also flowed longer.

Victory could be theirs, Conan realized, for all that this was a battle that only a madman could have dreamed. Victory might be the last man of the band standing beside the dead serpent, but they would have it!

Then the hissing raised echoes again, Emwaya called a sharp warning, and the deadly dance began once more.

FIFTEEN

The canoes were not the lightest or the swiftest among those of the Ichiribu, although their canoe-builders were honored among all the tribes around the Lake of Death for their skill. Nor were the paddlers the strongest and most skilled.

Seyganko had simply ordered the first score of paddlers into the first three canoes, and all of them had set out under Dobanpu's guidance.

Before long, Seyganko thought he might have done better to have waited, picked the best paddlers and canoes, and then made swifter progress. If they were slow in reaching their destination, Emwaya might die. Dobanpu had made that plain.

A little while later, however, Seyganko saw that the canoes were flying across the water as if the paddlers were tireless gods who never missed a stroke. He looked back to the Spirit-Speaker, sitting in the stern of their canoe, and saw a faint smile on the man's face.

Seyganko felt shame that his mistake had been recognized, but also pride that Dobanpu considered him worthy of help in undoing it. Or was it entirely Emwaya's safety that moved her father?

The paddles indeed flew back and forth so swiftly that as with well-thrown spears, the eye could hardly follow them. Nor did the warriors seem to sweat or grow short of breath. Seyganko remembered uneasily that such spells as doubled a man's strength could also weaken him for some time afterward. These warriors would have to fight as well as paddle before another day's sun had set.

Meanwhile, they were crossing the Lake of Death at a speed never before known, save to birds. At a shout from Dobanpu, Seyganko raised his paddle, and the men of his canoe ceased their efforts. The other two canoes drew up alongside and also drifted to a stop.

Then, before Seyganko could speak or even move, Dobanpu stood up in the stern of the canoe, gripped the amulet about his neck tightly, and flung himself overboard. He cut the water without a sound, not even the faint clooop of a diving fisherbird. For a moment, they saw his legs thrusting him down into the depths; then those depths swallowed him.

A clamor arose from those warriors who had breath left with which to speak.

"Why, the old fool!"

"Where is he going?"

"He'll drown!"

"No, the lionfish will have him first!"

"He can't swim!"

Seyganko shouted for silence. "My woman's father can swim, that is certain. There are no hungry fish in this part of the lake, because of the very thing he has gone to fight. As for the restI would not call any Spirit-Speaker a fool. Not when I thought he might come back and remember what I said.

"And if you still think otherwise, keep your tongue between your teeth.

Or have you forgotten who may be listening over there?" Seyganko pointed at the Kwanyi shore. Those who had not already fallen silent did so now.

The Golden Serpent had taken the lives of two more warriors before Conan's band mastered the art of fighting it. That made ten dead or hurt past fighting, and the rest were growing uneasy. Facing a foe who could not be gravely hurt, andit seemednot be killed, for all that Emwaya promised otherwise, was nothing to hearten a warrior.

Yet the warriors lost none of their speed or cunning. They darted about the serpent like flies about a horse's head, stinging with the same remorseless persistence. Some even sang war songs between lunges at the serpent, until Conan commanded them to save their breath.

This disciplined courage pleased Conan, although it did not altogether surprise him. He had known for years that the Black Kingdoms raised warriors fit to stand in battle anywhere in the world. He had not expected to find so many this far inland, but he rejoiced that he had.

Perhaps there would be more than one man left standing when the Golden Serpent breathed its last.

A cry rose as Emwaya stumbled on the glassy floor. But Valeria was standing over her, sword in one hand, a borrowed spear poised to throw in the other. Five more warriors were in front of Emwaya before Conan was able to count them. The young woman herself shook her head and clenched her teeth, but her hair had saved her skull, and her hands continued their movements, fighting the Golden Serpent's unnatural life.

She was on her feet in the next moment, and Conan saw that the serpent had not lunged for her or her defenders. Was it learning the dangers of well-wielded iron, or was its strength finally ebbing?

Conan knew the perils of believing that a foe was weak or foolish. Yet he found it hard to believe that anything short of Thunder Mountain itself could resist the battering his band had given the Golden Serpent.

Suddenly thunder crashed once more through the tunnel. Conan swore that he saw the Golden Serpent rise a handbreadth from the floor. He knew that he saw shields snatched from warriors' arms and cracks appear in the ceiling. Then fragments of stone rattled down everywhere about them, and a dripping-wet Dobanpu stood before themon the far side of the Golden Serpent.

The serpent might have been shaken. The warriors certainly were. Yet the beast was swift to coil and lunge at Dobanpu. The Spirit-Speaker stood to meet the assault, only fingering his amulet. Valeria and a half-score of warriors cried out in horror, and Conan himself was not silent.

The lunge fell short of Dobanpu. An arm's length from the man, the great fanged head was dragged to a stop, as if a noose had tightened about it or the air had turned solid. Dobanpu raised a hand, and coruscating golden light arched from Emwaya to him. It sank into him and vanished, leaving no trace except for perhaps an odd glow in his eyes, and Conan could not be sure that was not a trick of the light.

Then Dobanpu turned, and with a speed startling for a man of his age, ran down a side tunnel that no one had noticed before. Again men gasped in horror, but Emwaya only frowned.

"Has your father gone mad?" Valeria snapped. Conan shook his head. If Emwaya was not afraid, Dobanpu must have some scheme in mind. To make it succeed was another matter.

"What must we do?" he asked the girl.

"He will lead the creature to a place he has sensed, I think. He used much power in coming here, so he will not be able to kill it unaided.

But in that place he seeks, he will find a way of ending its life."

Conan cursed himself for expecting a straight answer from any magic-wielder. Valeria glared at Emwaya.

"You want us to follow that thing down some burrow where it might turn and rend us? Trusting only to your father's wizardry?"

"Yes."

"Cimmerian"

"Call me names afterward. Meanwhile, would you wager two hairs of your head on our surviving if Dobanpu dies?"

As always, Valeria saw reason. She leaped out in front of the warriors and waved her sword. "Come on, you dogs' leavings! It's turned its back to us, and that means it's fleeing!"

The warriors might not have understood all of Valeria's words. Those who understood might not have believed that she spoke the truth. All understood and believed that they should not let the Blue-Eyed Chief's shield-woman shame them by leading the charge. War cries echoed nearly as loud as the thunderclap of Dobanpu's appearance, and the Ichiribu warriors plunged after their foe.

Ryku gazed down into the whirlpool of light that was the Living Windor at least its outward form. He stood on the outermost rim of the ledge, rather than sitting in the First Speaker's seat.

He had never felt at ease in that seat, and now it was more important than ever that he do nothing to make himself feel uneasy. It might be only a tale that the Living Wind could sense when those in its presence were afraid, or unsure of themselves, but such tales often held bits of truth.

Also, Ryku did not altogether like what he saw now when he gazed down into the Living Wind. That it was unveiled by the smoke, long a tradition in the ritual, mattered little. Indeed, he had not called up the smoke, thinking it an outworn custom.

The hues of the Living Wind were still crimson and sapphire, swirling in patterns that both held and repelled the eye. But the crimson now seemed the color of old blood, while the sapphire was growing steadily paler.

Also, there was a distant sound that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It was a sound hard to find words to describe. To Ryku, it seemed that if bees could chant war cries, the sound might be rather like what he was hearing.

Even the smell of the Cave of the Living Wind had altered. It had always been fresh and cool, in spite of being far below the slopes of Thunder Mountain, with few natural passages for air. Now the odor of the jungle seemed to be overtaking the cave, or at least the odor of some sort of life.

Why not? Ryku told himself that the Living Wind had earned its name fairly, so why should it not take on some of the qualities of life when it began to change?

He had to use all of the disciplines he had learned so as not to be uneasy at that thought, nonetheless. Yet again, why should it be a surprise? Mighty and ancient magic was being wielded in this land, magic left untouched for centuries, and the very gods of Thunder Mountain might be waking.

Ryku now thought he had calmed himself enough to sit down in the chair of the First Speaker. Let the gods wake, he told himself. Let them wake, and they will see that I am their friend and my enemies are theirs. Then I will not even need Dobanpu, not when I have gods for friends.

Emwaya seemed to be speaking to her father without words, and her gestures guided the war band on the trail of the Golden Serpent. They might not have needed that guidance, for the creature now hissed almost continuously, and left smears of blood that grew thicker as it writhed along.

Conan held his tongue. He would not allow his own hopes to rise, let alone those of the band. False hope made warriors careless, and careless warriors died in the face of less formidable foes than the Golden Serpent.

The band certainly ran faster with Emwaya guiding them than they would have dared otherwise. Indeed, Conan did not know how far they had come, or how much longer some of the warriors could keep up the pace. Those with baggage were beginning to breathe hard, and some of those with slight wounds clearly would need rest before long.

Conan did not like to think of dividing the band, leaving the baggage and the lightly wounded behind. Once divided in these depths, could the band ever unite again? Also, the Golden Serpent might have ways of doubling back on its tracks, to fall on such easy prey.

A familiar smell began to tickle the Cimmerian's nostrils. Not one he remembered with pleasure, on the whole, although the giant fungi had certainly saved him and Valeria on their first journey underground. But when one has fed off something for so long, the smell lingers in memory.

They were approaching another cave full of the giant fungi. Conan wondered what purpose that might serve, as the Golden Serpent was plainly a meat-eater. Emwaya was too lost in speaking with her father to answer to anything save a shout in her ear, and Conan had no wish to break her bond with Dobanpu.

The floor sloped more sharply downward now, and the patches of green blood were not only thicker, but fresher. The warriors had to slow their onrush, to avoid stepping in the still-fuming green patches of death and agony. One warrior was unlucky enough to go down nonetheless, but leaped up at once, holding a blistered hand over his head like a trophy.

"It bleeds! It bleeds, and does not stop! Come, brothers, and we shall make it bleed to death!"

Then the tunnel bent sharply, and now the blood smeared the walls as well as the floor. Conan took the lead again, with Valeria just behind him. Around this bend, the serpent might be lying in wait, even if Dobanpu was alive and well, as he seemed to be, judging by the way Emwaya looked.

Then a sudden battering-ram stroke of the serpent's head caught an unsuspecting warrior to Conan's left. No teeth pierced the man, but the horn caught his shoulder and hurled him against the wall. Conan heard his skull crack.

The Cimmerian leaped and thrust in the same motion. His sword slashed deep through scales into the flesh under the serpent's throat. The scales parted, and blood spurted from a gash a sword's length wide, deeper than any wound the beast had taken thus far.

This time, the hiss was nearly a roar, with an ugly, bubbling note.

Blood sprayed Conan, Valeria, Emwaya, and several warriors. As it had not done before, it stung. Conan blinked his eyes clear, wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, and glanced at his sword-blade. There was no harm to it as far as he could see.

Then they heard Dobanpu calling from beyond the serpent, "Have fire ready! When I lead the beast among the earth-fruits, you must cast fire upon them!"

Conan and Valeria spent no time in wondering at the sense of Dobanpu's call. The serpent now writhed in a broader patch of tunnel, half-choked with the fungi. Emwaya's eyes also discouraged questions.

"Flint and steel to the fore! And a torch! Hurry!" Valeria shouted.

A man ran up from the baggage bearers. Valeria struck a spark with flint and steel into the dried, oil-soaked grass at the head of one of the torches. It blazed up, with flame that was no natural yellow or orange, but a violet hue as sickening as the serpent's blood, as sickening as the magic the creature used for eating life-force.

Valeria held the torch at arm's length as the serpent backed slowly deeper into the fungus. Conan stood beside her, sword and spear alike ready. He saw Dobanpu raise a hand and fling what seemed to be a gobbet of the serpent's own blood into its face. He saw the serpent lunge forward, then halt, its head buried deep in a mass of the fungi as tall as two men.

Before Dobanpu or Emwaya could speak, Valeria flung the torch. It soared over the serpent's back and plunged into the piled fungi.

Flames puffed up, of the same virulent purple hue as the torch-flame.

Thick smoke of similar color rose above them. The Golden Serpent quivered from nose to tail, then flung its head up as if trying to pierce the ceiling to seek the open sky.

It failed. As the monster rose, Conan saw that smoke and flames were pouring from those wounds still open. Green blood turned black; then golden scales around the wounds also blackened. Smoke rose up from throat and body, and at last began pouring from the eyes.

When smoke belched from the serpent's mouth, Conan threw an arm around Valeria's shoulders and drew her close. He could feel her shuddering.

He sheathed his sword, dropped his spear, and drew Emwaya close with his other arm.

They stood that way as the flames they had kindled with the aid of Dobanpu's magic devoured both the fungi and the Golden Serpent. The brute was tenacious of its life to the end. Not until the scales were mostly fallen from the flesh did it stop writhing. Even then Conan thought he heard a faint scraping in the middle of the roaring flames, as if the serpent were still twitching feebly.

That was the Golden Serpent's last sign of life. Smoke was rising so thickly now that Conan and others were binding strips of cloth across their mouths and noses. Some wetted the strips as well. Emwaya stared into the smoke, with it plain on her face that she feared for her father.

Then the smoke eddied and disgorged the staggering figure of Dobanpu.

He was coughing like a man in the grip of lung-fever, and so nearly blind that he all but spitted himself on Valeria's sword as he rushed up. Valeria and Emwaya held the Spirit-Speaker while he coughed his lungs clear, then gave him water. When he could speak, he nodded his thanks and then gasped:

"We must hasten from here! I do not know how long this fire will burn, nor how much smoke it will yield. The whole underground may become unfit for life."

"I rejoice!" Valeria cried. "We are saved from the Golden Serpent only to stifle like rabbits in a burrow!"

"Save your breath for running," Emwaya said, "and you may not find yourself short of it!" It was the first time in a long while that she had spoken with her old sharpness. Conan took that as a favorable omen; Valeria seemed to think otherwise.

She did follow Emwaya's advice nonetheless. Like the others, she was silent as they hurried back up the tunnel, the smoke thickening behind them.

"Wobeku," the Kwanyi warrior said, "a messenger has come from the watchers of the great crack in the earth."

Wobeku sat up and shook sleep from his head. One of these days, they might use some honorific for him. At least they had given over calling him "the chief's Ichiribu."

"What is the message?"

"He smells smoke."

"Smoke, as from a fire?"

"So he said."

Wobeku rose and girded himself for battle. When that was done, he was fully awake. It was also then that he noticed that the jungle was more silent than usual. Many of the common night birds and insects did not live down by the Kwanyi shore, but the jungle was neither lifeless nor silent under the moon.

Until now. Wobeku felt a chill in his loins. He sensed that he was about to be called on to fight a foe not wholly of this earth.

"See that the drums warn Chabano and Ryku," he ordered. "Have the guards at the lesser crack drive the logs we have ready into it." That would be of no avail against unearthly foes, but if anyone human tried to come through that crack, he would face a long night of ax-work before he succeeded.

"Gather the guards about the great crack," he concluded. "Not too close, but every man is to be fully armed. The baggage boys and the women are to take the trail back to the villages. At once!"

The man almost made the gesture of respect to a chief before he remembered to whom he was making it. Instead, he nodded and ran off.

Wobeku did not run, but he moved at a brisk trot as he headed down the trail toward what he knew might be his last battle. The drums were talking before he was halfway to his post.

SIXTEEN

Conan's band would have gladly run from the smoke faster than they had run from the Golden Serpent. There was no need to stop and thrust a spear at the swirling purple wall hard on their heels.

If only they could breathe! Heat followed the smoke, and long tendrils of both smoke and heat seemed to clutch at the fleeing men like jungle vines. Conan ventured a look behind him, took one of the tendrils squarely in the face, and nearly coughed himself into a fit.

His feet kept moving by a will of their own, however, until his wits ruled them again. He did not falter or fall, and neither did most of the band. Those who did, their comrades lifted and carried along.

No one wanted to see a comrade overtaken by this new peril. It was impossible to imagine living within that purple murk, even had not strange shapes lurked there. Conan had seen them, Valeria had seen them, and even Emwaya and Dobanpu admitted they were there.

The two Spirit-Speakers did not, however, say what those shapes might be. That was about as much as Conan expected of any sorcerer, and he was not much for being rude to those who had saved his life. So he followed Emwaya's advice to keep his breath for running.

"Here we turn," Dobanpu called. He pointed at a narrow slit in the wall to the right. Dried mud lay on the floor about it, and a smell of jungle rot warred with the smoke-reek.

As an escape route, it looked unpromising. But Dobanpu seemed confident, and so far, he had proven trustworthy. Also, Conan had no wish to wait for the fire to burn itself out. Already there was more smoke and heat than all the fungi in all these caves could have produced. Magic was in this fire, magic of a kind that sensible men escaped as quickly as possible, even if they did have a momentarily friendly sorcerer in company.

"Up!" Conan shouted, pointing at the gap. It was a measure of his authority, or of their desperation, that four warriors plunged in without hesitation. Four more followed, carrying the rope ladders and other climbing gear. Before any more could go, Emwaya darted in.

Dobanpu's howl caused her to thrust her head back into view. "Father, I can climb faster than you. Who knows what lies above, or what arts we may need against it? Be ready to help me if I call."

Then she vanished. Dobanpu looked about wildly, no longer a sorcerer, but a father seeing his child plunge into danger. "Valeria!" Conan called. "I'll take the rear. You join the vanguard and see to Emwaya!"

Valeria left with the next handful of warriors. The men were, in fact, now disappearing so fast that Conan wondered if the way to the surface was easier than he had dared believe. If they found stairs

"Conan!" Valeria called. "There are stairs up to the surface, and open sky above! Make haste!"

Conan needed no urging. The tendrils of smoke seemed to curl about his ankles, then his knees, then his waist. He drew his sword and hacked at them as if they were living foes, and saw them retreat. But his sword was growing hot to his touch, and he knew that if the main mass of smoke surrounded him, he was lost.

Dobanpu shouted three harsh syllables, then reeled against the wall as if the blood had rushed from his head. Conan watched the wall of smoke draw back as the Golden Serpent had done, and felt the heat diminish.

Then he all but flung the Spirit-Speaker through the gap and followed him.

The stairs were there, andincrediblythe Cimmerian could indeed see stars shining above. He dragged Dobanpu toward the rise, but the Spirit-Speaker held back.

"I must restore the guardian spells on these stairs," he gasped, "or the smoke-bringer will follow us, catch us halfway up, burn us in mid-stride"

"As you wish," Conan said. Arguing with a sorcerer was more futile than fighting with one. The Cimmerian had won battles with many sorcerers, but had won arguments with few.

This spell called for more than three times three syllables. When Dobanpu was done, the gap behind them was yet dark with smoke, but the tendrils did not escape. The air in the stairwell remained musty but clean as Conan and the Spirit-Speaker mounted.

They had just caught up with the rearmost warrior when, from above, Emwaya screamed.

The scream floated across the dark lake to Seyganko's canoe. Everyone in the three leading canoes heard it, but only Seyganko heard it in his mind. He desperately sought a message in the scream.

Emwaya! What is the danger? Where are you?

No answer came. He knew that for her cry to reach him this far out in the lake, she had to be close to the shore. Also, she had to be on or close to the surface of the earth.

This gave neither knowledge nor consolation. He thrust his paddle in deep and looked behind him. Then he gave his war cry with all the breath in his body, and thrust again with his paddle.

Without magic, with nothing but their strength and their sweat, the other warriors were overtaking him. A hundred of the Ichiribu's best fighters had gone to the mainland, to defend the herds and crops. Of the rest, four hundred had taken to their canoes to challenge the Kwanyi on their own shore. Only a handful remained behind to guard the island.

As if Seyganko's war cry had been a signal, torches sparked to life in the bows of the oncoming canoes. It seemed as though a line of fire was advancing across the lake behind Seyganko.

He held his paddle aloft like a spear until the leading canoes were almost abreast of his craft. Then he tossed the paddle, caught it, and gave his war cry again. This time, the warriors gave it back to him so that it seemed to fill the night and the lake, from shore to shore. If the Kwanyi had not known what was coming, they could hardly be ignorant of it now.

Seyganko began paddling again. The brief sense of triumph left him as he realized that he had heard nothing more from Emwaya, neither with his ears nor with his mind.

Conan took the stairs two at a time, for all that they were crumbling and moss-grown. Once he nearly missed his footing and fell back. He gripped a root with one hand and caught himself in time so as not to squash Dobanpu like a grape.

The stairs ended at a man's height from the surface, but to picked Ichiribu warriors, that distance was but a child's leap; they had already reached solid ground by the time Conan joined them.

The first thing he saw was a warrior falling with a Kwanyi spear in his thigh. Conan snatched the man's shield and drew his own sword, then whirled, searching for Emwaya and Valeria.

He found them by a tree lifted half off the ground by its gnarled, twisted roots, each root thicker than the Golden Serpent. Valeria was hacking at the spears of half a dozen Kwanyi warriors, while two other warriors already had Emwaya. Had their comrades so eager to close with Valeria not blocked them, they would have by now made off with the girl.

The warriors whirled to face Conan, tangling their shields one with another in their haste. This was fatal to one warrior left unshielded.

Conan brusquely slashed the man's head from his shoulders, then leaped back to give him room to fall.

The rest of the Kwanyi formed their shield-line. In the next moment, they learned that others besides themselves could master that art, and not only by the tutelage of Chabano the Great. Conan beat down one spear with his sword, hooked his shield around the edge of a second man's spear, and kicked upward. He was barefooted, but his soles were as tough as leather and the kick had all the power of his leg behind it.

The man screamed and reeled against a comrade, who fell out of position. Conan feinted at that man, forcing him to raise his shield.

Then he slashed under the shield, taking the man's leg below the knee.

A spear thrust past Conan's ribs, nearly gouging his side, and he whirled again to chop the spear-shaft in two with his sword. Then he charged the man like a bull, driving the shield back against his opponent's chest until the man lowered it to see clearly. The man's last sight was of Conan's broadsword descending to split his headdress, hair, and skull.

Valeria cut down another opponent, and the last of the Kwanyi warriors took only a brief look at the odds they faced after the death of their friends before fleeing into the night. Conan swung his shield hard into the back of one man holding Emwaya and heard the spine crack. Valeria leaped on the other, jerked his head back with fingers twined in his hair, and slashed his throat.

Emwaya stood free, clasping her arms across her breasts, her eyes on the ground for a moment. Then she seemed to shrug a great weight from her shoulders.

"Father?"

Dobanpu strode up and put out a hand to touch his daughter as if not quite believing she was real. She gripped the hand and smiled.

"I am well, I think."

"Time to be sure later," Dobanpu said. He gripped his amulet with one hand and his belt pouch with the other. "The God-Men may not be what they were. I have sensed quarrels that perhaps have weakened them. But if they still command the Living Wind"

Kwanyi war cries interrupted him. Conan threw down the shield, wiped his sword on it, and drew his dagger.

"The Living Wind can wait. Someone close at hand still commands warriors!" He pushed Emwaya into her father's arms, then called to Valeria.

"Find a path to the shore and see if we can draw back toward it. This place is worthless now. We want our backs to the water!"

Fleet-footed as ever, Valeria vanished into the night. From the jungle beyond, Kwanyi warriors came bursting through the undergrowth.

Wobeku led the warriors attacking the enemy who had sprung from the earth. Not only his honor drove him forward to that place; he knew that if the Kwanyi gained the victory with him at their head, he would have a warrior's name among them.

Had he run faster, he might have plunged among the Ichiribu before they could order their ranks. He would then have died but would have won with his life sufficient time for his comrades to strike the scattered enemy. Then not even the Cimmerian's swiftness, skill, and steel might have saved them.

Wobeku instead brought his men to the field as Chabano had taught. He put them into their proper line before he ordered the advance, and only darted out ahead of it at the last moment.

Behind him, the Kwanyi line came out of the trees somewhat disordered by encounters with the underbrush. The first volley of light spears went mostly astray. One spear even gouged Wobeku's leg. He howled out his fury at that fool in a war cry and let the Kwanyi come up with him.

A swung stone cracked against his shield. Wobeku stepped forward and ducked his head. This time, the stone-swinger looped the line around the top of Wobeku's shield and jerked. Wobeku did not let go of the shield. Instead, he let himself be drawn forward, then leaped and lunged. The stone-swinger died with Wobeku's spear in his belly.

"Yaygo!" Wobeku cried, the ritual proclamation of a man's first kill of a battle.

The next moment, someone nearly won the right to cry that over him. The Kwanyi at his right suddenly vanished, fallen into the crack in the earth. An Ichiribu warrior darted forward in his place, locking shields with Wobeku and thrusting desperately over, under, and around.

Wobeku took two minor flesh wounds before he was able to riposte with his own spear. It gashed the Ichiribu's belly, but not mortally. The man did not flinch from the pain, either. He kept on thrusting, less skillfully with each passing moment, but with no diminished courage.

This was the kind of battle that to Wobeku showed Chabano to be a wise chief. When engaged in an each-man-for-himself fight, Wobeku had often been unable to press home for the kill. He had feared, with reason, for his flanks and rear. In the Kwanyi shield-line, his flanks were safe, even in such a small battle as this. Had there been the usual second line behind him, his back would also have been guarded.

Wobeku thrust againand nearly stumbled as his thrust encountered empty air. He stared at the space where his opponent had been, then saw other Kwanyi doing the same. As if by magic, the Ichiribu had vanished.

Before the Kwanyi sprawled only a few bodies and fallen weapons, barely half of them Ichiribu.

Chabano's warriors lived, with no one to fight. Wobeku waved his great spear, ordering a few men over to the crack in the ground to see what might lie within. They found nothing, save footprints that made it plain how the Ichiribu had come.

Come by magic? And if come by magic, had they vanished by the same way?

Wobeku knelt and began searching the ground with a hunter's skills. In the dark it was not easy, but he knew that torches would only give any lurking Ichiribu a mark.

His nightsight at last pierced the darkness, showing footprints leading off toward the shore. There were many of them, and some showed the heel scarifications of Ichiribu clans.

Wobeku called the best trackers forward, gave them fresh spears, and sent them on. Their orders: to find where the Ichiribu had gone and send word back, but to refrain from fighting them. A messenger also ran back to the drummers, and soon the drums began talking again.

Whatever the Ichiribu had done below the earth, it was done. Now they likely intended to hold the shore for their oncoming comrades. Wobeku intended to show the enemy band that it needed more than its back to the shore for safety.

A retreat at night over unknown ground was the hardest of all maneuvers in war, or so Conan had heard claimed by those who had earned the right to speak. He had also been both warrior and captain in enough such affairs to believe this the truth.

With ill-ordered men, it was said to be impossible, but the Ichiribu were not ill-ordered. Every man still on his feet when they broke off the battle reached the shore. Some were stumbling, two were carried by comrades, but all were present.

Of warriors fit to fight, however, Conan saw that he had barely twenty.

The battle with the Golden Serpent had taken its toll even before the Kwanyi had struck. Many Kwanyi had also surely died, but nevertheless, he did not doubt that his band faced heavy odds.

The plan for this battle called for the Ichiribu to command the trails to the shore so that they might ambush Chabano's warriors as they hurled themselves into battle. Coming to the shore in disarray, Chabano's men would lack time to form their potent shield-line.

Plans, Conan sometimes thought, were for gods, priests, and clerks.

Warriors had to make do with luck and a keen edge on their blades.

A glance lakeward encouraged the Cimmerian. With torches blazing, the Ichiribu canoes were racing toward the shore. They would be visible now all across the Kwanyi land, even as far as to Thunder Mountain. The Kwanyi would know what they faced, but that knowledge might drive them to haste.

Haste in war was a two-edged sword. Be there first, and victory might be yours. Be there first but disordered or weak, and your vanguard at least was men thrown away.

A scraping sound made Conan whirl, sword ready to slash at the darkness. A shape took form out of that darkness, and Conan lowered his blade.

"Seyganko. Well met."

"As are you, Cimmerian. How fares Emwaya?"

Conan smiled. The war leader of the Ichiribu would ask for his woman first. The Cimmerian wondered if he himself would have such a woman again. There had not been one such since Belitand Valeria was not the sort to fill those shoes!

"Weary, but well. Valeria guards her. How came you here without our seeing you?"

"The canoes with me doused our torches and paddled in silence, I have brought thirty warriors. Surprise is worth much."

So it was, but the hundreds of other warriors now doubtless paddling in circles while waiting for Seyganko's signal were also worth something.

Did Seyganko seek surprise or gloryglory bought with the Cimmerian's blood?

No good ever came of a quarrel between chiefs on the verge of a battle to the death. Conan held his tongue, knowing that if Seyganko had been overbold, the young chief would also not see another sunrise.

"Good. Go ask Dobanpu how far forward it is wise for them to come."

"Dobanpu?"

"Also weary, but well. He fears that the gods of Thunder Mountain may be taking a hand in matters tonight. Best not send your men beyond his protection."

Seyganko clearly wanted to know more, but Conan urged him off to the Spirit-Speaker, who could make more sense in relating the battle underground than could the Cimmerian. Conan himself found a stump not too rotten to support his weight and sat down to clean his steel.

It was not in nature for this lull to last. His band had thrown down a challenge to both men and more than men, and both sorts of foe would be coming on in strength before the night was much older. Conan knew, however, that no man was ever the worse for facing any foe with a clean sword.

SEVENTEEN

The drums, the messengers, and the sightings of his own eyes were giving Chabano uncertain tidings. He nonetheless kept his place at the head of the warriors racing downhill toward the shore.

The drums and his eyes told him that the Ichiribu were on the way across the lake. Messengers told him that by some treachery, or perhaps by some magic, an enemy war band had sprung from the earth and was holding a landing place for the main body of oncoming warriors.

Chabano hoped it was not treachery. It would make enemies for him among the kin of those warriors who had died if trusting Wobeku had shed Kwanyi blood. At least the dead could not number more than a handful, even if Wobeku had contrived their demise.

At Chabano's back there trotted more than five hundred Kwanyi warriors.

Each bore the shield and three spears he had devised and taught them to use so well. When they reached the shore, it would hardly be a battle at all.

He did wonder that he had not heard from Ryku. The First Speaker certainly had to know all that was happening, including the magic being unleashed and not all of it by that doddering Spirit-Speaker Dobanpu!

It did not matter greatly. Dobanpu might have power over Wobeku's blowgun. He would hardly have as much power against five hundred of the Kwanyi's best. There would be spears through the man's throat, heart, and belly before he could speak enough spirits to slay a goat!

Conan had led the Ichiribu ambush party up the path from the shore. Now he crouched under an arching root, trying to find the men he had led.

The fewer he found, the better they had learned the art of concealment.

He found one and whistled softly, then pointed to a bush that would hide him better. The man thumped his head three times on the ground.

Conan was ready to curse him for putting courtesy before obedience, but then the man half rolled, half slid into his new hiding place.

He had just vanished when the stamping of many fast-moving feet reached the Cimmerian's ears. Conan drew his dagger and rested his free hand on a pile of small stones he had chosen from a stream-bed.

This would be close work, too close for swords, and the more silent, the better. If a few-score Kwanyi died before they even knew they faced death, Chabano would have a busy time rallying those who survived before Seyganko had all of his men ashore.

That would strain even Chabano's discipline, although the ambush party would be all but juggling live vipers. But then, most battles ended that way, no matter how one began them.

The sound of the Kwanyi on the march swelled, then began to fade. In moments, silence had taken its place. Few ears but Conan's could have heard the softer sound of many men breathing, and commands given in whispers instead of in shouts.

"They're still coming," he murmured to the man next to him. "Pass the word, and have every man look to his rear as well."

If Chabano had grown suspicious, he might well be halting his main column while light-footed scouts beat the bushes ahead and on either side. The Kwanyi would lose time that way, but they might save warriors. They would certainly put Conan and his men in peril.

Conan whispered another command. "When you attack, forget silence!

Shout and scream, crack your lungs, burst your throats"

"Make them think a score are a thousand?" his companion whispered back.

The Cimmerian nodded.

Now the sound of marching Kwanyi came again, this time a shuffle as the warriors advanced at a walk. Conan gripped a stone and balanced it, ready to throw.

The first Kwanyi appeared. Conan let him pass, and likewise the nine men after him. The tenth man took the flung stone in the mouth. He staggered back, spitting blood and teeth, into the reach of another Ichiribu. This one held a short spear, which he thrust into the Kwanyi's back.

"Yah-haaaaaa!" Conan roared as he leaped onto the path. He thrust over a lunging spear-point and into a man's chest before the victim could get his shield positioned. He snatched another stone and flung it far up the path, into the shadowy mass of warriors now crowding forward to the attack.

The faster the warriors crowded forward, however, the less room there was for them to move and fight. Conan had done his best to find a place where the trail was narrow and the ground to either side of it nearly impassable. Chabano was helping by letting the need for haste rule his judgment.

Conan and half a dozen companions kept the head of the column in play for a good while. A moment came when Conan threw his last stone, heard it strike a shield, and drew his sword. With sword and dagger both leaping in his hands as if they had life of their own, he carved away at the front rank of the Kwanyi.

Through the gap Conan made, his companions plunged, thrusting with spears and lashing about with war clubs. Meanwhile, stones, tridents, fallen branches, and any other weapon that came to hand also made their mark on the Kwanyi flanks.

What Conan hoped the most now was that Chabano himself would come forward. Tribal custom and the Paramount Chief's own temper would drive him into a duel with Conan. For that duel, there could be only one outcome.

The ambush could end the battle, and even the war, in an Ichiribu victory. Conan drew back a trifle, keeping his guard up, shirting about to make himself a difficult target for spears, and seeking for any sign of Chabano.

At last he caught sight of a man who undoubtedly was the chiefin the very same moment that the earth shook underfoot.

Ryku had performed all of the rituals for calling up the Living Wind as if he had sucked them in with his mother's milk. Pride and courage flowed through him. He knew he courted no danger in performing the rituals alone, such was his power at last.

Yet the colors of the Living Wind had not returned to their normal hues, save briefly. Again there was an umber tint in the crimson, a paleness in the sapphire. The strange sounds and stranger scent were gone, but the memory of them lingered in Ryku's thoughts. He had to force these thoughts back, as one forced back a boar caught on one's spear, lest they disturb his confidence.

Now came the most demanding ritual of all. Sending the power of the Living Wind entirely outside Thunder Mountain had been done. It could be done again. If it was done, the Living Wind would fall on the Ichiribu and they would be gone without the wetting of a single Kwanyi spear.

No, Ryku told himself, he would not allow the word "if" in his mind. He would call up the Living Wind and send it forth.

He sat straighter and raised his staff in one hand, a gourd of cunningly mixed herbs in the other. He hung the gourd from the end of the staff and dipped into it, catching a pinch of the herbs between thumb and forefinger.

Ritual and good sense alike told a Speaker to begin with only a small measure of the herbs. Ryku leaned forward, opened thumb and forefinger and let the herbs float out into space. They vanished almost at once, lost against the swirling colors of the Living Wind, so that he did not know when they reached it.

He did know, though, when the whole cave shook like a gourd flung against a stone wall. He clutched his staff with one hand and reached for the gourd to draw it to safety.

A whirling column of crimson and sapphire, as bright as ever, leaped upward from the Living Wind. It approached the gourd, touched it, then snatched it from the end of Ryku's staff.

Ryku cried out, rose to his feet and hastened to the ledge to see, amazement bordering on fear sweeping through him, weakening the discipline of his mind. He lunged for the gourd as the column began sinking, taking the gourd with it.

He touched it, toobut the column rose again, and now it had become crimson-and-sapphire flames that wrapped themselves around his wrist.

He cried out, an animal scream of agony, as the flames ate through his wrist.

The pain and his all-encompassing fear made him forget that he stood on the very brink of the ledge. He staggered, and one foot came down on empty air. He threw out his remaining hand toward the stone, felt fingernails scrabble and break, then plunged.

What Ryku had felt before was as nothing to what he felt when the Living Wind swallowed him. But by then, the roaring of the tumult was too loud for anyone to hear his screams.

"To me! Back down the trail! Now, you goats' bastards!"

Conan's shouts rallied the Ichiribu ambushers. Some of them plunged off into the forest, their way back to the path barred by the enemy. At least half of the survivors joined the Cimmerian.

With more speed than dignity, they sprinted down the trail, for all that it was shaking beneath them. A tree toppled across their rear, mercifully striking no one. Conan halted then, letting the others go on while he studied the Kwanyi.

He had been afraid that in a panic to leave the hillside, the enemy would rush his men, sweeping them away by sheer weight of numbers. Now that was not to be, for all that Chabano had taken the lead. They were coming on at a good pace, leaving older warriors and boys to gather up the wounded and dead, and perhaps to protect their line of retreat.

Very surely, Chabano's death would take not merely the heart, but the head from the Kwanyiâ€¦ which would all be very well if Conan had the faintest notion of how to bring it about. A personal challenge would only end with the Cimmerian sprouting a score of spears before Chabano even heard him!

The Cimmerian brought up the rear of the ambush party as it ran down the trail to rejoin its comrades. He had never cared for running, but there were times when a good pair of legs was a man's best weapon.

As the Ichiribu ran, they noticed that the earthquake seemed to have passed, but a strange glow was rising into the sky from the direction of Thunder Mountain.

Chabano let a dozen or so warriors go before him, leaping over the fallen tree ahead. This was no time for him to risk a spear from some desperate Ichiribu lying behind the tree.

No spears came. Chabano leaped high, as he had done when a boy. Landing sent a sharp pain through one knee that reminded him he was not a boy, but he did not stumble. His spear was over one shoulder and his shield on the other arm, and he was well in front of his warriors when he saw the sky change color.

It turned crimson and sapphireand Chabano remembered that those were the colors of the Living Wind. It seemed that Ryku had sent his powers forth after all, and not a moment too soon! If the Kwanyi had to fight all the way down the trail and then face the full strength of unshaken foes, tonight's battle would leave neither tribe with enough men to people a village!

"Waaa-yeh!" he shouted. The Kwanyi took up the cry and obeyed the command. Feet drummed on hard earth, men screamed in sheer animal delight, and spears clashed on shields.

Meanwhile, the glow above no longer covered half the sky. It was shrinking as the colors grew clearer and brighter. It also seemed that the colors whirled and danced, like an eddy in a stream. Then they shrank still further, into a globe almost too dazzling to look at.

Chabano raised his spear and shield so that the Living Wind might see his marks of rank and know who to obey. Ryku had done well indeed. He was giving over the power of the Living Wind to Chabano himself! The poor fool Rykuhe could not imagine how little hope there was of ever having it returned.

Chabano's joy overcame him. He flung his spear straight into the sky as the globe of whirling crimson and sapphire plunged for him. Light and spear metand where the spear had been, only charred splinters and drops of melted iron remained. They showered down about Chabano, and surprise as much as pain made him cry out when a drop of metal burned through skin into the flesh of his shoulder.

The warriors behind him cried louder, and he knew that some of them were turning to run. He whirled, unslinging his light throwing spear, vowing to put it through the first man he saw breaking from the column.

But instead of one, he saw a dozen men running, and that was the last thing he saw. Before he could throw his spear, the Living Wind was all about him.

As Ryku had done, Chabano screamed while the Living Wind devoured him, but no one heard his screams. With some, it was because they also were dying, but with most, it was because they heard only the blood thundering in their ears as they fled.

Most of Conan's men had reached the shore when they saw the fire on the hill. The Cimmerian himself was still on the trail, with one companion.

He sent the man onward and sought a good hiding place to see what might come next.

The earth shook again, more fiercely than before. Conan heard the crackle of falling trees and the screams of Kwanyi warriors caught under them. He also heard other Kwanyi crying out, and not with war cries.

As little as he liked the thought of approaching potent magic, he liked not knowing what enemy he faced even less. Sword in hand, he rose from his hiding placethen knew he need not take a step to find the answer to what was happening up the trail.

A being of crimson-and-sapphire light swirling together, with something of a man's shape but as high as a temple, came striding down the path.

Where itscall them feetstruck the earth, smoke rose: the mephitic purple smoke that Conan remembered from underground.

Those same powers from underground were now loose on Thunder Mountain.

Why, Conan neither knew nor cared. He hoped only that the Kwanyi, enemies that they were, had fled for their lives. Death in such guise, he would not wish upon a Stygian!

Conan plunged downhill from the trail, knowing that the being could follow him at will if it chose, but hoping that it would follow the easier path of the trail. The specter seemed solid enough not to wish to plough through trees thicker than its legs all the way to the shore.

If Conan had been running for his own life, a Cimmerian's reluctance to turn his back on a foe might have slowed him. Running for the lives of Valeria and all of his Ichiribu friends, he plunged down the hill as if it were level ground in daylight.

The magical light from the monster eased his way somewhat, but there were still many shadows, and too many trees lurking in those shadows.

He nearly stunned himself twice, left patches of skin and more than patches of his clothes on bark or twigs, but still had his weapons as he staggered, bloody and cursing, onto the open shore.

He had reached the open a trifle to the north of where the Ichiribu were now gathered. The light of their torches made it plain that they were arrayed to meet a human foe.

Conan cursed louder than before. Spears snapped up and heads turned.

"Into the canoes!" he shouted. "You can't fight with spears what's coming downhill. Seek the water, and hope the thing can't swim!"

A slim figure with smoke-darkened fair hair ran from the circle.

"Conan! We thought it had taken you!"

The Cimmerian and his shield-woman had time for only the briefest of embraces before they broke apart, each to lead a band of warriors into a rear guard.

Seyganko was shouting orders to the other warriors to run for the canoes when Dobanpu stepped forward. From the way Emwaya was clutching her father's arm, the old Spirit-Speaker was clearly about something of which she did not approve. Seeing Conan, Dobanpu beckoned.

"Conan! Bid your shield-woman guard this foolish daughter of mine until I have done my work."

"Your work?" Conan knew he must sound like a witling, but in this matter, he understood no more than one.

"I cannot command the spirits to drive off the Living Wind, still less to destroy it. I might have had that power once, or even now, had I not fought the battle underground. But I can contrive a battle of the spirits so that they will do the work for me, like elephants crushing an enemy's village."

"He must" Emwaya shrieked.

"You must be silent now, and afterward, a good Spirit-Speaker to the Ichiribu," Dobanpu said. "Also, a good wife to Seyganko, who deserves one."

Then Dobanpu cast aside his headdress and other garb. Clad only in amulet, loinguard, and pouch, he walked with the dignity of a king of kings toward the foot of the trail.

He reached the beginning of the rise a few heartbeats before the monstrosity did. There was a moment when the man and the creation of magic seemed to stare at one another. Then Dobanpu leaped, as lightly as any bidui boy, soaring high.

He soared higher than any man could have done with unaided muscles, spending the last of his magic to strike the specter in the chest.

Conan expected to see Dobanpu rebound from the being, to fall like a torn doll to the ground, and to be crushed to pulp. Instead, he seemed to stick to the being, like a fly caught in honey.

Then smoke swirled up around himâ€¦ and he was gone. For a moment, Conan thought he saw with half dazzled eyes the dark shape of a man within the shape of the monster. Then even that vanished.

A moment later, so did the being itself. It vanished with a roar of thunder that Conan did not doubt was heard in Bossonia. The windblast it flung out snapped grown trees at the base, tossed canoes end over end, and knocked nearly every man on the shore flat on the sand and gravel.

Conan and Valeria dug in fingers and toes and clung to the beach as they would have clung to the yard of a ship in a gale. Closing their eyes against the hurled sand and gravel, they could only judge what else might be happening by the noise, and most of that was the wind.

At last the wind died out. The shouts and cries did not, however. Conan raised himself on hands and knees and saw the Ichiribu hastily running from a stretch of the shore that was now covered with molten rock. The lava was pouring from a gap in the earth where Conan judged the being had stood in the moment of its destruction.

As the stream of lava reached the lake, steam erupted. More steam seemed to be rising from inland, doubtless from the stairs where Conan's band had climbed from the tunnels. Then Valeria gripped Conan's arm and pointed out over the water.

The lake itself was in turmoil, whirlpools appearing and disappearing within moments, spray rising, live fish thrashing and more than a few dead ones bobbing on the surface before they were sucked out of sight.

Some of the Ichiribu canoes were ablaze, engulfed by the lava, while others bobbed on the lake, swept away by the churning water.

Conan would wager a good deal that the tunnels far below had finally lost their magic and were now losing their long battle against the weight of the earth. That would put an end to the fire and any air-breathing creatures alive down there, but what of those shadowy water-dwellers? Would they also die with the magic, or live to infest the Lake of Death?

Conan shouted to one fool of a warrior ready to dive into the lake to swim to a fugitive canoe. Then he saw Seyganko striding along the shore, waving men back from the water.

Conan brushed sand and gravel off Valeria and let her do the same for him.

"You're bleeding," she said. "I think there are salves somewhere down there."

"I'm better off bleeding, I think. I'm for staying well away from the water until we've asked Emwaya what happened."

"If she knows."

"You saw her face. Her father told her what he was going to do toâ€¦ to the Living Wind, I'd wager."

Valeria shuddered. Then her sword was in her hand as a warrior with Kwanyi headdress and Ichiribu tattoos rose slowly from the bushes.

"Wobeku!" Conan and Valeria said together.

The traitor kept his hands in plain sight. "Great chiefs, do with me as you please when you have heard me out. I wish to yield the men under me to the mercy of the Ichiribu and their chiefs. I can also name those underchiefs of the Kwanyi who may listen to talk of peace between our tribes."

Conan and Valeria looked at each other. They knew of the clan rivalries among the Kwanyi. If Chabano was dead, as seemed likely, the Ichiribu might use these rivalries to impose a victor's peace.

"Was it you or Aondo who slew the bidui boys?" Valeria asked.

"Aondo."

Somehow to Conan that had the ring of truth.

"This is a matter for Seyganko and Emwaya," he said. "Lie down on your shield so none will put a spear through you until we return. Bid your folk stay out of sight. And pray to the gods that you are telling the truth!"

Wobeku swore several potent oaths with a certain dignity that Conan thought did him some honor, then assumed the pose of submission. "Now we'd best make haste to Seyganko, before someone skewers our would-be peacemaker," the Cimmerian grumbled as he broke into a trot. "And here I thought our work was done!"

"We can't seek out the river until the lake's fit to sail on," Valeria reminded him. "Nor am I one for sitting idle while others work."

"But then"

She slipped an arm around his waist. "Downriver to the Trading Coast.

I've still those fire-stones, and as long as no Golden Serpent comes with them, they may buy us a ship."

"Buy you a ship," Conan said. Her touch was as warming to his blood as ever, but he knew too much about the other sides of her nature. "Two of us on one ship would divide the crew. I'm for turning landsman anyway, until the Barachans have forgotten the name of Conan the Cimmerian."

"They may forget it," Valeria said with a complacent smile. "I will not."

Jewels of Gwahlur

Paths of Intrigue

The cliffs rose sheer from the jungle, towering ramparts of stone that glinted jade-blue and dull crimson in the rising sun, and curved away and away to east and west above the waving emerald ocean of fronds and leaves. It looked insurmountable, that giant palisade with its sheer curtains of solid rock in which bits of quartz winked dazzlingly in the sunlight. But the man who was working his tedious way upward was already halfway to the top.

He came of a race of hillmen, accustomed to scaling forbidding crags, and he was a man of unusual strength and agility. His only garment was a pair of short red silk breeks, and his sandals were slung to his back, out of his way, as were his sword and dagger.

The man was powerfully built, supple as a panther. His skin was bronzed by the sun, his square-cut black mane confined by a silver band about his temples. His iron muscles, quick eyes and sure feet served him well here, for it was a climb to test these qualities to the utmost. A hundred and fifty feet below him waved the jungle. An equal distance above him the rim of the cliffs was etched against the morning sky.

He labored like one driven by the necessity of haste; yet he was forced to move at a snail's pace, clinging like a fly on a wall. His groping hands and feet found niches and knobs, precarious holds at best, and sometimes he virtually hung by his finger nails. Yet upward he went, clawing, squirming, fighting for every foot. At times he paused to rest his aching muscles, and, shaking the sweat out of his eyes, twisted his head to stare searchingly out over the jungle, combing the green expanse for any trace of human life or motion.

Now the summit was not far above him, and he observed, only a few feet above his head, a break in the sheer stone of the cliff. An instant later he had reached it - a small cavern, just below the edge of the rim. As his head rose above the lip of its floor, he grunted. He clung there, his elbows hooked over the lip. The cave was so tiny that it was little more than a niche cut in the stone, but held an occupant. A shriveled mummy, crosslegged, arms folded on the withered breast upon which the shrunken head was sunk, sat in the little cavern. The limbs were bound in place with rawhide thongs which had become mere rotted wisps. If the form had ever been clothed, the ravages of time had long ago reduced the garments to dust. But thrust between the crossed arms and the shrunken breast there was a roll of parchment, yellowed with age to the color of old ivory.

The climber stretched forth a long arm and wrenched away this cylinder. Without investigation he thrust it into his girdle and hauled himself up until he was standing in the opening of the niche. A spring upward and he caught the rim of the cliffs and pulled himself up and over almost with the same motion.

There he halted, panting, and stared downward.

It was like looking into the interior of a vast bowl, rimmed by a circular stone wall. The floor of the bowl was covered with trees and denser vegetation, though nowhere did the growth duplicate the jungle denseness of the outer forest. The cliffs marched around it without a break and of uniform height. It was a freak of nature, not to be paralleled, perhaps, in the whole world: a vast natural amphitheater, a circular bit of forested plain, three or four miles in diameter, cut off from the rest of the world, and confined within the ring of those palisaded cliffs.

But the man on the cliffs did not devote his thoughts to marveling at the topographical phenomenon. With tense eagerness he searched the tree-tops below him, and exhaled a gusty sigh when he caught the glint of marble domes amidst the twinkling green. It was no myth, then; below him lay the fabulous and deserted palace of Alkmeenon.

Conan the Cimmerian, late of the Baracha Isles, of the Black Coast, and of many other climes where life ran wild, had come to the kingdom of Keshan following the lure of a fabled treasure that outshone the hoard of the Turanian kings.

Keshan was a barbaric kingdom lying in the eastern hinterlands of Kush where the broad grasslands merge with the forests that roll up from the south. The people were a mixed race, a dusky nobility ruling a population that was largely pure negro. The rulers - princes and high priests - claimed descent from a white race which, in a mythical age, had ruled a kingdom whose capital city was Alkmeenon. Conflicting legends sought to explain the reason for that race's eventual downfall, and the abandonment of the city by the survivors. Equally nebulous were the tales of the Teeth of Gwahlur, the treasure of Alkmeenon. But these misty legends had been enough to bring Conan to Keshan, over vast distances of plain, river-laced jungle, and mountains.

He had found Keshan, which in itself was considered mythical by many northern and western nations, and he had heard enough to confirm the rumors of the treasure that men called the Teeth of Gwahlur. But its hiding-place he could not learn, and he was confronted with the necessity of explaining his presence in Keshan. Unattached strangers were not welcome there.

But he was not nonplussed. With cool assurance he made his offer to the stately plumed, suspicious grandees of the barbarically magnificent court. He was a professional fighting-man. In search of employment (he said) he had come to Keshan. For a price he would train the armies of Keshan and lead them against Punt, their hereditary enemy, whose recent successes in the field had aroused the fury of Keshan's irascible king.

This proposition was not so audacious as it might seem. Conan's fame had preceded him, even into distant Keshan; his exploits as a chief of the black corsairs, those wolves of the southern coasts, had made his name known, admired and feared throughout the black kingdoms. He did not refuse tests devised by the dusky lords. Skirmishes along the borders were incessant, affording the Cimmerian plenty of opportunities to demonstrate his ability at hand-to-hand fighting. His reckless ferocity impressed the lords of Keshan, already aware of his reputation as a leader of men, and the prospects seemed favorable. All Conan secretly desired was employment to give him legitimate excuse for remaining in Keshan long enough to locate the hiding-place of the Teeth of Gwahlur. Then there came an interruption. Thutmekri came to Keshan at the head of an embassy from Zembabwei.

Thutmekri was a Stygian, an adventurer and a rogue whose wits had recommended him to the twin kings of the great hybrid trading kingdom which lay many-days' march to the east. He and the Cimmerian knew each other of old, and without love. Thutmekri likewise had a proposition to make to the king of Keshan, and it also concerned the conquest of Punt - which kingdom, incidentally, lying east of Keshan, had recently expelled the Zembabwan traders and burned their fortresses.

His offer outweighed even the prestige of Conan. He pledged himself to invade Punt from the east with a host of black spearmen, Shemitish archers, and mercenary swordsmen, and to aid the king of Keshan to annex the hostile kingdom. The benevolent kings of Zembabwei desired only a monopoly of the trade of Keshan and her tributaries -and, as a pledge of good faith, some of the Teeth of Gwahlur. These would be put to no base usage. Thutmekri hastened to explain to the suspicious chieftains; they would be placed in the temple of Zembabwei beside the squat gold idols of Dagon and Derketo, sacred guests in the holy shrine of the kingdom, to seal the covenant between Keshan and Zembabwei. This statement brought a savage grin to Conan's hard lips.

The Cimmerian made no attempt to match wits and intrigue with Thutmekri and his Shemitish partner, Zargheba. He knew that if Thutmekri won his point, he would insist on the instant banishment of his rival. There was but one thing for Conan to do: find the jewels before the king of Keshan made up his mind and flee with them. But by this time he was certain that they were not hidden in Keshia, the royal city which was a swarm of thatched huts crowding about a mud wall that enclosed a palace of stone and mud and bamboo.

While he fumed with nervous impatience, the high priest Gorulga announced that before any decision could be reached, the will of the gods must be ascertained concerning the proposed alliance with Zembabwei and the pledge of objects long held holy and inviolate. The oracle of Alkmeenon must be consulted.

This was an awesome thing, and it caused tongues to wag excitedly in palace and bee-hive hut. Not for a century had the priests visited the silent city. The oracle, men said, was the Princess Yelaya, the last ruler of Alkmeenon, who had died in the full bloom of her youth and beauty, and whose body had miraculously remained unblemished throughout the ages. Of old, priests had made their way into the haunted city, and she had taught them wisdom. The last priest to seek the oracle had been a wicked man, who had sought to steal for himself the curiously cut jewels that men called the Teeth of Gwahlur. But some doom had come upon him in the deserted palace, from which his acolytes, fleeing, had told tales of horror that had for a hundred years frightened the priests from the city and the oracle.

But Gorulga, the present high priest, as one confident in his knowledge of his own integrity, announced that he would go with a handful of followers to revive the ancient custom. And in the excitement tongues buzzed indiscreetly, and Conan caught the clue for which he had sought for weeks - the overheard whisper of a lesser priest that sent the Cimmerian stealing out of Keshia the night before the dawn when the priests were to start.

Riding as hard as he dared for a night and a day and a night, he came in the early dawn to the cliffs of Alkmeenon, which stood in the southwestern corner of the kingdom, amidst uninhabited jungle which was taboo to common men. None but the priests dared approach the haunted vale within a distance of many miles. And not even a priest had entered Alkmeenon for a hundred years.

No man had ever climbed these cliffs, legends said, and none but the priests knew the secret entrance into the valley. Conan did not waste time looking for it. Steeps that balked these people, horsemen and dwellers of plain and level forest, were not impossible for a man born in the rugged hills of Cimmeria.

Now on the summit of the cliffs he looked down into the circular valley and wondered what plague, war or superstition had driven the members of that ancient race forth from their stronghold to mingle with and be absorbed by the tribes that hemmed them in.

This valley had been their citadel. There the palace stood, and there only the royal family and their court dwelt. The real city stood outside the cliffs. Those waving masses of green jungle vegetation hid its ruins. But the domes that glistened in the leaves below him were the unbroken pinnacles of the royal palace of Alkineenon which had defied the corroding ages.

Swinging a leg over the rim he went down swiftly. The inner side of the cliffs was more broken, not quite so sheer. In less than half the time it had taken him to ascend the outer side, he dropped to the swarded valley floor.

With one hand on his sword, he looked alertly about him. There was no reason to suppose men lied when they said that Alkmeenon was empty and deserted, haunted only by the ghosts of the dead past. But it was Conan's nature to be suspicious and wary. The silence was primordial; not even a leaf quivered on a branch. When he bent to peer under the trees, he saw nothing but the marching rows of trunks, receding and receding into the blue gloom of the deep woods.

Nevertheless he went warily, sword in hand, his restless eyes combing the shadows from side to side, his springy tread making no sound on the sward. All about him he saw signs of an ancient civilization; marble fountains, voiceless and crumbling, stood in circles of slender trees whose patterns were too symmetrical to have been a chance of nature. Forest-growth and underbrush had invaded the evenly planned groves, but their outlines were still visible. Broad pavements ran away under the trees, broken, and with grass growing through the wide cracks. He glimpsed walls with ornamental copings, lattices of carven stone that might once have served as the walls of pleasure pavilions.

Ahead of him, through the trees, the domes gleamed and the bulk of the structure supporting them became more apparent as he advanced. Presently, pushing through a screen of vine-tangled branches, he came into a comparatively open space where the trees straggled, unencumbered by undergrowth, and saw before him the wide, pillared portico of the palace.

As he mounted the broad marble steps, he noted that the building was in far better state of preservation than the lesser structures he had glimpsed. The thick walls and massive pillars seemed too powerful to crumble before the assault of time and the elements. The same enchanted quiet brooded over a11. The cat-like pad of his sandaled feet seemed startlingly loud in the stillness.

Somewhere in this palace lay the effigy or image which had in times past served as oracle for the priests of Keshan. And somewhere in the palace, unless that indiscreet priest had babbled a lie, was hidden the treasure of the forgotten kings of Alkmeenon.

Conan passed into a broad, lofty hall, lined with tall columns, between which arches gaped, their door long rotted away. He traversed this in a twilight dimness, and at the other end passed through great double-valved bronze doors which stood partly open, as they might have stood for centuries. He emerged into a vast domed chamber which must have served as audience hall for the kings of Alkmeenon.

It was octagonal in shape, and the great dome up to which the lofty ceiling curved obviously was cunningly pierced, for the chamber was much better lighted than the hall which led to it. At the farther side of the great room there rose a dais with broad lazuli steps leading up to it, and on that dais there stood a massive chair with ornate arms and a high back which once doubtless supported a cloth-of-gold canopy. Conan grunted explosively and his eyes lit. The golden throne of Alkmeenon, named in immemorial legendry! He weighed it with a practised eye. It represented a fortune in itself, if he were but able to bear it away. Its richness fired his imagination concerning the treasure itself, and made him burn with eagerness. His fingers itched to plunge among the gems he had heard described by story-tellers in the market squares of Keshia, who repeated tales handed down from mouth to mouth through the centuries - jewels not to be duplicated in the world, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, bloodstones, opals, sapphires, the loot of the ancient world.

He had expected to find the oracle-effigy seated on the throne, but since it was not, it was probably placed in some other part of the palace, if, indeed, such a thing really existed. But since he had turned his face toward Keshan, so many myths had proved to be realities that he did not doubt that he would find some kind of image or god.

Behind the throne there was a narrow arched doorway which doubtless had been masked by hangings in the days of Alkmeenon's life. He glanced through it and saw that it let into an alcove, empty, and with a narrow corridor leading off from it at right angles. Turning away from it, he spied another arch to the left of the dais, and it, unlike the others, was furnished with a door. Nor was it any common door. The portal was of the same rich metal as the throne, and carved with many curious arabesques.

At his touch it swung open so readily that its hinges might recently have been oiled. Inside he halted, staring.

He was in a square chamber of no great dimensions, whose marble walls rose to an ornate ceiling, inlaid with gold. Gold friezes ran about the base and the top of the walls, and there was no door other than the one through which he had entered. But he noted these details mechanically. His whole attention was centered on the shape which lay on an ivory dais before him.

He had expected an image, probably carved with the skill of a forgotten art. But no art could mimic the perfection of the figure that lay before him.

It was no effigy of stone or metal or ivory. It was the actual body of a woman, and by what dark art the ancients had preserved that form unblemished for so many ages Conan could not even guess. The very garments she wore were intact - and Conan scowled at that, a vague uneasiness stirring at the back of his mind. The arts that preserved the body should not have affected the garments. Yet there they were - gold breast-plates set with concentric circles of small gems, gilded sandals, and a short silken skirt upheld by a jeweled girdle. Neither cloth nor metal showed any signs of decay.

Yelaya was coldly beautiful, even in death. Her body was like alabaster, slender yet voluptuous; a great crimson jewel gleamed against the darkly piled foam of her hair.

Conan stood frowning down at her, and then tapped the dais with his sword. Possibilities of a hollow containing the treasure occurred to him, but the dais rang solid. He turned and paced the chamber in some indecision. Where should he search first, in the limited time at his disposal? The priest he had overheard babbling to a courtesan bad said the treasure was hidden in the palace. But that included a space of considerable vastness. He wondered if he should hide himself until the priests had come and gone, and then renew the search. But there was a strong chance that they might take the jewels with them when they returned to Keshia. For he was convinced that Thutmekri had corrupted Gorulga.

Conan could predict Thutmektri's plans from his knowledge of the man. He knew that it had been Thutmekri who had proposed the conquest of Punt to the kings of Zembabwei, which conquest was but one move toward their real goal -the capture of the Teeth of Gwahlur. Those wary kings would demand proof that the treasure really existed before they made any move. The jewels Thutmekri asked as a pledge would furnish that proof.

With positive evidence of the treasure's reality, the kings of Zembabwei would move. Punt would be invaded simultaneously from the east and the west, but the Zembabwans would see to it that the Keshani did most of the fighting, and then, when both Punt and Keshan were exhausted from the struggle the Zembabwans would crush both races, loot Keshan and take the treasure by force, if they had to destroy every building and torture every living human in the kingdom.

But there was always another possibility: if Thutmekri could get his hands on the hoard, it would be characteristic of the man to cheat his employers, steal the jewels for himself and decamp, leaving the Zembabwan emissaries holding the sack.

Conan believed that this consulting of the oracle was but a ruse to persuade the king of Keshan to accede to Thutmekri's wishes - for he never for a moment doubted that Gorulga was as subtle and devious as all the rest mixed up in this grand swindle. Conan had not approached the high priest himself, because in the game of bribery he would have no chance against Thutmekri, and to attempt it would be to play directly into the Stygian's hands. Gorulga could denounce the Cimmerian to the people, establish a reputation for integrity, and rid Thutmekri of his rival at one stroke. He wondered how Thutmekri had corrupted the high priest, and just what could be offered as a bribe to a man who had the greatest treasure in the world under his fingers.

At any rate he was sure that the oracle would be made to say that the gods willed it that Keshan should follow Thutmekri's wishes, and he was sure, too, that it would drop a few pointed remarks concerning himself. After that Keshia would be too hot for the Cimmerian, nor had Conan had any intention of returning when he rode away in the night.

The oracle chamber held no clue for him. He went forth into the great throneroom and laid his hands on the throne. It was heavy, but he could tilt it up. The floor beneath, a thick marble dais, was solid. Again he sought the alcove. His mind clung to a secret crypt near the oracle. Painstakingly he began to tap along the walls, and presently his taps rang hollow at a spot opposite the mouth of the narrow corridor. Looking more closely he saw that the crack between the marble panel at that point and the next was wider than usual. He inserted a dagger-point and pried.

Silently the panel swung open, revealing a niche in the wall, but nothing else. He swore feelingly. The aperture was empty, and it did not look as if it had ever served as a crypt for treasure. Leaning into the niche he saw a system of tiny holes in the wall, about on a level with a man's mouth. He peered through, and grunted understandingly. That was the wall that formed the partition between the alcove and the oracle chamber. Those holes had not been visible in the chamber. Conan grinned. This explained the mystery of the oracle, but it was a bit cruder than he had expected. Gorulga would plant either himself or some trusted minion in that niche, to talk through the holes, and the credulous acolytes would accept it as the veritable voice of Yelaya.

Remembering something, the Cimmerian drew forth the roll of parchment he had taken from the mummy and unrolled it carefully, as it seemed ready to fall to pieces with age. He scowled over the dim characters with which it was covered. In his roaming about the world the giant adventurer had picked up a wide smattering of knowledge, particularly including the speaking and reading of many alien tongues. Many a sheltered scholar would have been astonished at the Cimmerian's linguistic abilities, for he had experienced many adventures where knowledge of a strange language had meant the difference between life and death.

These characters were puzzling, at once familiar and unintelligible, and presently he discovered the reason. They were the characters of archaic Pelishtim, which possessed many points of difference from the modern script, with which he was familiar, and which, three centuries ago, had been modified by conquest by a nomad tribe. This older, purer script baffled him. He made out a recurrent phrase, however, which he recognized as a proper name: Bit Yakin. He gathered that it was the name of the writer.

Scowling, his lips unconsciously moving as he struggled with the task, he blundered through the manuscript, finding much of it untranslatable and most of the rest of it obscure.

He gathered that the writer, the mysterious Bit Yakin, had come from afar with his servants, and entered the valley of Alkmeenon. Much that followed was meaningless, interspersed as it was with unfamiliar phrases and characters. Such as he could translate seemed to indicate the passing of a very long period of time. The name of Yelaya was repeated frequently, and toward the last part of the manuscript it became apparent that Bit Yakin knew that death was upon him. With a slight start Conan realized that the mummy in the cavern must be the remains of the writer of the manuscript, the mysterious Pelishtim, Bit Yakin. The man had died, as he had prophesied, and his servants, obviously, had placed him in that open crypt, high up on the cliffs, according to his instructions before his death.

It was strange that Bit Yakin was not mentioned in any of the legends of Alkmeenon. Obviously he had come to' the valley after it had been deserted by the original inhabitants - the manuscript indicated as much - but it seemed peculiar that the priests who came in the old days to consult the oracle had not seen the man or his servants. Conan felt sure that the mummy and this parchment were more than a hundred years old. Bit Yakin had dwelt in the valley when the priests came of old to bow before dead Yelaya. Yet concerning him the legends were silent, telling only of a deserted city, haunted only by the dead.

Why had the man dwelt in this desolate spot, and to what unknown destination had his servants departed after disposing of their master's corpse?

Conan shrugged his shoulders and thrust the parchment back into his girdle - he started violently, the skin on the backs of his hands tingling. Startlingly, shockingly in the slumberous stillness, there had boomed the deep strident clangor of a great gong!

He wheeled, crouching like a great cat, sword in hand, glaring down the narrow corridor from which the sound had seemed to come. Had the priests of Keshia arrived? This was improbable, he knew; they would not have had time to reach the valley. But that gong was indisputable evidence of human presence.

Conan was basically a direct-actionist. Such subtlety as he possessed had been acquired through contact with the more devious races. When taken off guard by some unexpected occurrence, he reverted instinctively to type. So now, instead of hiding or slipping away in the opposite direction as the average man might have done, he ran straight down the corridor in the direction of the sound. His sandals made no more sound than the pads of a panther would have made; his eyes were slits, his lips unconsciously asnarl. Panic had momentarily touched his soul at the shock of that unexpected reverberation, and the red rage of the primitive that is wakened by threat of peril always lurked close to the surface of the Cimmerian.

He emerged presently from the winding corridor into a small open court. Something glinting in the sun caught his eye. It was the gong, a great gold disk, hanging from a gold arm extending from the crumbling wall. A brass mallet lay near, but there was no sound or sight of humanity. The surrounding arches gaped emptily. Conan crouched inside the doorway for what seemed a long time. There was no sound or movement throughout the great palace. His patience exhausted at last, he glided around the curve of the court, peering into the arches, ready to leap either way like a flash of light, or to strike right or left as a cobra strikes.

He reached the gong, stared into the arch nearest it. He saw only a dim chamber, littered with the debris of decay. Beneath the gong the polished marble flags showed no footprints, but there was a scent in the air - a faintly fetid odor he could not classify; his nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast as he sought in vain to identify it.

He turned toward the arch - with appalling suddenness the seemingly solid flags splintered and gave way under his feet. Even as he fell he spread wide his arms and caught the edges of the aperture that gaped beneath him. The edges crumbled off under his clutching fingers. Down into utter darkness he shot, into black icy water that gripped him and whirled him away with breathless speed.

A Goddess Awakens

The Cimmerian at first made no attempt to fight the current that was sweeping him through lightless night. He kept himself afloat, gripping between his teeth the sword, which he had not relinquished, even in his fall, and did not even seek to guess to what doom he was being borne. But suddenly a beam of light lanced the darkness ahead of him. He saw the surging, seething black surface of the water, in turmoil as if disturbed by some monster of the deep, and he saw the sheer stone walls of the channel curved up to a vault overhead. On each side ran a narrow ledge, just below the arching roof, but they were far out of his reach. At one point this roof had been broken, probably fallen in, and the light was streaming through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again.

Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless.

A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood - for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river - and turned his attention to the broken roof.

He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled.

And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace.

Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious BitYakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon - that his servants had taken -hem with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian.

Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet.

His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place.

The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity.

He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throneroom under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Kesham priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest.

Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered' the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form?

He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peachbloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword.

'Crom! She's alive.'

At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness.

She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare.

He licked his dry lips and found voice.

'You - are - are you Yelaya?' he stammered.

'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.'

'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes.

She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture.

'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed.

Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination - without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt.

'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously.

All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph.

'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces - or women's figures. I think I'll-'

Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria.

'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!'

'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?'

'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!'

'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded.

At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing.

'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.'

'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.'

'How many men with him?'

'None. We came alone.'

'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?'

She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath.

'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?'

'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.'

'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?'

'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.'

'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked.

'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.'

'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he - or the Zembabwans - could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet - Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?'

'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.'

'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?'

'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me - oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here - I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit.

'He is a devil - he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!'

She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee.

'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to 'do as I tell you.'

She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact.

'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned - it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."'

She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced.

'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!'

'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.'

He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval.

'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.'

'I'll try,' she shivered.

'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.'

At that she became panicky again.

'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!'

'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.'

And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going.

Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings.

He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets.

He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him. The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard.

And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body - but there was no body there.

Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair.

The Return of the Oracle

Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk.

Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of BitYakin and his mysterious servants. BitYakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of BitYakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley.

Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows.

The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else - the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come.

They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon.

They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian.

He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throneroom, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopardskin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais.

Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber.

Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through, Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life.

Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped - he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men.

But the chant - deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous - came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?'

The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent.

'It is the will of the gods that the St9y and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!'

There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight.

'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!'

'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions.

The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!'

'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throneroom, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throneroom and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining.

But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throneroom, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it.

While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light.

The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside - but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally.

'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head - but first I'll-'

A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp.

Conan started toward him to finish the job - for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat - but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him.

'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!'

'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?'

'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened - when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me-'

'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself'

She hesitated, as if loth to return to that cryptic chamber; then, as he grasped Gwarunga's girdle and dragged him into the alcove, she turned and entered the oracle room.

Conan dumped the senseless black on the floor, and lifted his sword. The Cimmerian had lived too long in the wild places of the world to have any illusions about mercy. The only safe enemy was a headless enemy. But before he could strike, a startling scream checked the lifted blade. It came from the oracle chamber.

'Conan! Conan! She's come back.' The shriek ended in a gurgle and a scraping shuffle.

With an oath Conan dashed out of the alcove, across the throne dais and into the oracle chamber, almost before the sound had ceased. There he halted, glaring bewilderedly. To all appearances Muriela lay placidly on the dais, eyes closed as in slumber.

'What in thunder are you doing?' he demanded acidly. 'Is this any time to be playing jokes-'

His voice trailed away. His gaze ran along the ivory thigh molded in the close-fitting silk skirt. That skirt should gape from girdle to hem. He knew, because it had been his own hand that tore it as he ruthlessly stripped the garment from the dancer's writhing body. But the skirt showed no rent. A single stride brought him to the dais and he laid his hand on the ivory body - snatched it away as if it had encountered hot iron instead of the cold immobility of death.

'Crom!' he muttered, his eyes suddenly slits of bale-fire. 'It's not Muriela! It's Yelaya!'

He understood now that frantic scream that had burst from Muriela's lips when she entered the chamber. The goddess had returned. The body had been stripped by Zargheba to furnish the accouterments for the pretender. Yet now it was clad in silk and jewels as Conan had first seen it. A peculiar prickling made itself manifest among the short hairs at the base of Conan's scalp.

'Muriela!' he shouted suddenly. 'Muriela! Where the devil are you?'

The walls threw back his voice mockingly. There was no entrance that he could see except the golden door, and none could have entered or departed through that without his knowledge. This much was indisputable: Yelaya had been replaced on the dais within the few minutes that had elapsed since Muriela had first left the chamber to be seized by Gwarunga; his ears were still tingling with the echoes of Muriela's scream, yet the Corinthian girl had vanished as if into thin air. There was but one explanation that offered itself to the Cimmerian, if he rejected the darker speculation that suggested the supernatural - somewhere in the chamber there was a secret door. And even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw it.

In what had seemed a curtain of solid marble, a thin perpendicular crack showed, and in the crack hung a wisp of silk. In an instant he was bending over it. That shred was from Muriela's torn skirt. The implication was unmistakable. It had been caught in the closing door and torn off as she was borne through the opening by whatever grim beings were her captors. The bit of clothing had prevented the door from fitting perfectly into its frame.

Thrusting his dagger-point into the crack, Conan exerted leverage with a corded forearm. The blade bent, but it was of unbreakable Akbitanan steel. The marble door opened. Conan's sword was lifted as he peered into the aperture beyond, but he saw no shape of menace. Light filtering into the oracle chamber revealed a short flight of steps cut out of marble. Pulling the door back to its fullest extent, he drove his dagger into a crack in the floor, propping it open. Then he went down the steps without hesitation. He saw nothing, heard nothing. A dozen steps down, the stair ended in a narrow corridor which ran straight away into gloom.

He halted suddenly, posed like a statue at the foot of the stair, staring at the paintings which frescoed the walls, half visible in the dim light which filtered down from above. The art was unmistakably Pelishtim; he had seen frescoes of identical characteristics on the walls of Asgalun. But the scenes depicted had no connection with anything Pelishtim, except for one human figure, frequently recurrent: a lean, white-bearded old man whose racial characteristics were unmistakable. They seemed to represent various sections of the palace above. Several scenes showed a chamber he recognized as the oracle chamber with the figure of Yelaya stretched upon the ivory dais and huge black men kneeling before it. And there were other figures, too - figures that moved through the deserted palace, did the bidding of the Pelishtim, and dragged unnamable things out of the subterranean river. In the few seconds Conan stood frozen, hitherto unintelligible phrases in the parchment manuscript blazed in his brain with chilling clarity.

The loose bits of the pattern clicked into place. The mystery of BitYakin was a mystery no longer, nor the riddle of BitYakin's servants.

Conan turned and peered into the darkness, an icy finger crawling along his spine. Then he went along the corridor, catfooted, and without hesitation, moving deeper and deeper into the darkness as he drew farther away from the stair. The air hung heavy with the odor he had scented in the court of the gong.

Now in utter blackness he heard a sound ahead of him - the shuffle of bare feet, or the swish of loose garments against stone, he could not tell which. But an instant later his outstretched hand encountered a barrier which he identified as a massive door of carven metal. He pushed against it fruitlessly, and his sword-point sought vainly for a crack. It fitted into the sill and jambs as if molded there. He exerted all his strength, his feet straining against the door, the veins knotting in his temples. It was useless; a charge of elephants would scarcely have shaken that titanic portal.

As he leaned there he caught a sound on the other side that his ears instantly identified - it was the creak of rusty iron, like a lever scraping in its slot. Instinctively action followed recognition so spontaneously that sound, impulse and action were practically simultaneous. And as his prodigious bound carried him backward, there was the rush of a great bulk from above, and a thunderous crash filled the tunnel with deafening vibrations. Bits of flying splinters struck him - a huge block of stone, he knew from the sound, dropped on the spot he had just quitted. An instant's slower thought or action and it would have crushed him like an ant.

Conan fell back. Somewhere on the other side of that metal door Muriela was a captive, if she still lived. But he could not pass that door, and if he remained in the tunnel another block might fall, and he might not be so lucky. It would do the girl no good for him to be crushed into a purple pulp. He could not continue his search in that direction. He must get above ground and look for some other avenue of approach.

He turned and hurried toward the stair, sighing as he emerged into comparative radiance. And as he set foot on the first step, the light was blotted out, and above him the marble door rushed shut with a resounding reverberation.

Something like panic seized the Cimmerian then, trapped in that black tunnel, and he wheeled on the stair, lifting his sword and glaring murderously into the darkness behind hire, expecting a rush of ghoulish assailants. But there was no sound or movement down the tunnel. Did the men beyond the door - if they were men - believe that he had been disposed of by the fall of the stone from the roof, which had undoubtedly been released by some sort of machinery?

Then why had the door been shut above him? Abandoning speculation, Conan groped his way up the steps, his skin crawling in anticipation of a knife in his back at every stride, yearning to drown his semi-panic in a barbarous burst of bloodletting.

He thrust against the door at the top, and cursed soulfully to find that it did not give to his efforts. Then as he lifted his sword with his right hand to hew at the marble, his groping left encountered a metal bolt that evidently slipped into place at the closing of the door. In an instant he had drawn this bolt, and then the door gave to his shove. He bounded into the chamber like a slit-eyed, snarling incarnation of fury, ferociously desirous to come to grips with whatever enemy was hounding him.

The dagger was gone from the floor. The chamber was empty; and so was the dais. Yelaya had again vanished.

'By Crom!' muttered the Cimmerian. 'Is she alive, after all?'

He strode out into the throneroom, baffled, and then, struck by a sudden thought, stepped behind the throne and peered into the alcove. There was blood on the smooth marble where he had cast down the senseless body of Gwarunga - that was all. The black man had vanished as completely as Yelaya.

The Teeth of Gwahlur

Baffled wrath confused the brain of Conan the Cimmerian. He knew no more how to go about searching for Muriela than he had known how to go about searching for the Teeth of Gwahlur. Only one thought occurred to him - to follow the priests. Perhaps at the hiding-place of the treasure some clue would be revealed to him. It was a slim chance, but better than wandering about aimlessly.

As he hurried through the great shadowy hall that led to the portico, he half expected the lurking shades to come to life behind him with rending fangs and talons. But only the beat of his own rapid heart accompanied him into the moonlight that dappled the shimmering marble.

At the foot of the wide steps he cast about in the bright moonlight for some sign to show him the direction he must go. And lie found it - petals scattered on the sward told where an arm or garment had brushed against a blossom-laden branch. Grass had been pressed down under heavy feet. Conan, who had tracked wolves in his native hills, found no insurmountable difficulty in following the trail of the Keshani priests.

It led away from the palace, through masses of exotic-scented shrubbery where great pale blossoms spread their shimmering petals, through verdant, tangled bushes that showered blooms at the touch, until he came at last to a great mass of rock that jutted like a titan's castle out from the cliffs at a point closest to the palace, which, however, was almost hidden from view by vine-interlaced trees. Evidently that babbling priest in Keshia had been mistaken when he said the Teeth were hidden in the palace. This trail had led him away from the place where Muriela had disappeared, but a belief was growing in Conan that each part of the valley was connected with that palace by subterranean passages.

Crouching in the deep velvet-black shadows of the bushes, he scrutinized the great jut of rock which stood out in bold relief in the moonlight. It was covered with strange, grotesque carvings, depicting men and animals, and half-bestial creatures that might have been gods or devils. The style of art differed so strikingly from that of the rest of the valley, that Conan wondered if it did not represent a different era and race, and was itself a relic of an age lost and forgotten at whatever immeasurably distant date the people of Alkmeenon had found and entered the haunted valley.

A great door stood open in the sheer curtain of the cliff, and a gigantic dragon head was carved about it so that the open door was like the dragon's gaping mouth. The door itself was of carven bronze and looked to weigh several tons. There was no lock that he could see, but a series of bolts showing along the edge of the massive portal, as it stood open, told him that there was some system of locking and unlocking - a system doubtless known only to the priests of Keshan.

The trail showed that Gorulga and his henchmen had gone through that door. But Conan hesitated. To wait until they emerged would probably mean to see the door locked in his face, and he might not be able to solve the mystery of its unlocking. On the other hand, if he followed them in, they might emerge and lock him in the cavern.

Throwing caution to the winds, he glided silently through the great portal. Somewhere in the cavern were the priests, the Teeth of Gwahlur, and perhaps a clue to the fate of Muriela. Personal risks had never yet deterred the Cimmerian from any purpose.

Moonlight illumined, for a few yards, the wide tunnel in which he found himself. Somewhere ahead of him he saw a faint glow and heard the echo of a weird chanting. The priests were not so far ahead of him as he had thought. The tunnel debouched into a wide room before the moonlight played out, an empty cavern of no great dimensions, but with a lofty, vaulted roof, glowing with a phosphorescent encrustation, which, as Conan knew, was a common phenomenon in that part of the world. It made a ghostly half-light, in which he was able to see a bestial image squatting on a shrine and the black mouths of six or seven tunnels leading off from the chamber. Down the widest of these - the one directly behind the squat image which looked toward the outer opening - he caught the gleam of torches wavering, whereas the phosphorescent glow was fixed, and heard the chanting increase in volume.

Down it he went recklessly, and was presently peering into a larger cavern than the one he had just left. There was no phosphorus here, but the light of the torches fell on a larger altar and a more obscene and repulsive god squatting toad-like upon it. Before this repugnant deity Gorulga and his ten acolytes knelt and beat their heads upon the ground, while chanting monotonously. Conan realized why their progress had been so slow. Evidently approaching the secret crypt of the Teeth was a complicated and elaborate ritual.

He was fidgeting in nervous impatience before the chanting and bowing were over, but presently they rose and passed into the tunnel which opened behind the idol. Their torches bobbed away into the nighted vault, and he followed swiftly. Not much danger of being discovered. He glided along the shadows like a creature of the night, and the black priests were completely engrossed in their ceremonial mummery. Apparently they had not even noticed the absence of Gwarunga.

Emerging into a cavern of huge proportions, about whose upward curving walls gallery-like ledges marched in tiers, they began their worship anew before an altar which was larger, and a god which was more disgusting, than any encountered thus far.

Conan crouched in the black mouth of the tunnel, staring at the walls reflecting the lurid glow of the torches. He saw a carven stone stair winding up from tier to tier of the galleries; the roof was lost in darkness.

He started violently and the chanting broke off as the kneeling blacks flung up their heads. An inhuman voice boomed out high above them. They froze on their knees, their faces turned upward with a ghastly blue hue in the sudden glare of a weird light that burst blindingly up near the lofty roof and then burned with a throbbing glow. That glare lighted a gallery and a cry went up from the high priest, echoed shudderingly by his acolytes. In the flash there had been briefly disclosed to them a slim white figure standing upright in a sheen of silk and a glint of jewel-crusted gold. Then the blaze smoldered to a throbbing, pulsing luminosity in which nothing was distinct, and that slim shape was but a shimmering blue of ivory.

'Yelaya!' screamed Gorulga, his brown features ashen. 'Why have you followed us? What is your pleasure?'

That weird unhuman voice rolled down from the roof, reechoing under that arching vault that magnified and altered it beyond recognition.

'Woe to the unbelievers! Woe to the false children of Keshia! Doom to them which deny their deity!'

A cry of horror went up from the priests. Gorulga looked like a shocked vulture in the glare of the torches.

'I do not understand!' he stammered. 'We are faithful. In the chamber of the oracle you told us-'

'Do not heed what you heard in the chamber of the oracle!' rolled that terrible voice, multiplied until it was as though a myriad voices thundered and muttered the same warning. 'Beware of false prophets and false gods! A demon in my guise spoke to you in the palace, giving false prophecy. Now harken and obey, for only I am the true goddess, and I give you one chance to save yourselves from doom!

'Take the Teeth of Gwahlur from the crypt where they were placed so long ago. Alkmeenon is no longer holy, because it has been desecrated by blasphemers. Give the Teeth of Gwahlur into the hands of Thutmekri, the Stygian, to place in the sanctuary of Dragon and Derketo. Only this can save Keshan from the doom the demons of the night have plotted. Take the Teeth of Gwahlur and go: return instantly to Keshia; there give the jewels to Thutmekri, and seize the foreign devil Conan and flay him alive in the great square.'

There was no hesitation in obeying. Chattering with fear the priests scrambled up and ran for the door that opened behind the bestial god. Gorulga led the flight. They jammed briefly in the doorway, yelping as wildly waving torches touched squirming black bodies; they plunged through, and the patter of their speeding feet dwindled down the tunnel.

Conan did not follow. He was consumed with a furious desire to learn the truth of this fantastic affair. Was that indeed Yelaya, as the cold sweat on the backs of his hands told him, or was it that little hussy Muriela, turned traitress after all? If it was Before the last torch had vanished down the black tunnel he was bounding vengefully up the stone stair. The blue glow was dying down, but he could still make out that the ivory figure stood motionless on the gallery. His blood ran cold as he approached it, but he did not hesitate. He came on with his sword lifted, and towered like a threat of death over the inscrutable shape.

'Yelaya!' he snarled. 'Dead as she's been for a thousand years! Ha!'

From the dark mouth of a tunnel behind him a dark form lunged. But the sudden, deadly rush of unshod feet had reached the Cimmerian's quick ears. He whirled like a cat and dodged the blow aimed murderously at his back. As the gleaming steel in the dark hand hissed past him, he struck back with the fury of a roused python, and the long straight blade impaled his assailant and stood out a foot and a half between his shoulders.

'So!' Conan tore his sword free as the victim sagged to the floor, gasping and gurgling. The man writhed briefly and stiffened. In the dying light Conan saw a black body and ebon countenance, hideous in the blue glare. He had killed Gwarunga.

Conan turned from the corpse to the goddess. Thongs about her knees and breast held her upright against a stone pillar, and her thick hair, fastened to the column, held her head up. At a few yards' distance these bonds were not visible in the uncertain light.

'He must have come to after I descended into the tunnel,' muttered Conan. 'He must have suspected I was down there. So he pulled out the dagger' - Conan stooped and wrenched the identical weapon from the stiffening fingers, glanced at it and replaced it in his own girdle - 'and shut the door. Then he took Yelaya to befool his brother idiots. That was he shouting a while ago. You couldn't recognize his voice, under this echoing roof. And that bursting blue flame - I thought it looked familiar. It's a trick of the Stygian priests. Thutmekri must have given some of it to Gwarunga.'

He could easily have reached this cavern ahead of his companions. Evidently familiar with the plan of the caverns by hearsay or by maps handed down in the priestcraft, he had entered the cave after the others, carrying the goddess, followed a circuitous route through the tunnels and chambers, and ensconced himself and his burden on the balcony while Gorulga and the other acolytes were engaged in their endless rituals.

The blue glare had faded, but now Conan was aware of another glow, emanating from the mouth of one of the corridors that opened on the ledge. Somewhere down that corridor there was another field of phosphorus, for he recognized the faint steady radiance. The corridor led in the direction the priests had taken, and he decided to follow it, rather than descend into the darkness of the great cavern below. Doubtless it connected with another gallery in some other chamber, which might be the destination of the priests. He hurried down it, the illumination growing stronger as he advanced, until he could make out the floor and the walls of the tunnel. Ahead of him and below he could hear the priests chanting again.

Abruptly a doorway in the left-hand wall was limned in the phosphorus glow, and to his ears came the sound of soft, hysterical sobbing. He wheeled, and glared through the door.

He was looking again into a chamber hewn out of solid rock, not a natural cavern like the others. The domed roof shone with the phosphorous light, and the walls were almost covered with arabesques of beaten gold.

Near the farther wall on a granite throne, staring for ever toward the arched doorway, sat the monstrous and obscene Pteor, the god of the Pelishtim, wrought in brass, with his exaggerated attributes reflecting the grossness of his cult. And in his lap sprawled a limp white figure.

'Well, I'll be damned!' muttered Conan. He glanced suspiciously about the chamber, seeing no other entrance or evidence of occupation, and then advanced noiselessly and looked down at the girl whose slim shoulders shook with sobs of abject misery, her face sunk in her arms. From thick bands of gold on the idol's arms slim gold chains ran to smaller bands on her wrists. He laid a hand on her naked shoulder and she started convulsively, shrieked, and twisted her tear-stained face toward him.

'Conan!' She made a spasmodic effort to go into the usual clinch, but the chains hindered her. He cut through the soft gold as close to her wrists as he could, grunting: 'You'll have to wear these bracelets until I can find a chisel or a file. Let go of me, damn it! You actresses are too damned emotional. What happened to you, anyway?'

'When I went back into the oracle chamber,' she whimpered, 'I saw the goddess lying on the dais as I'd first seen her. I called out to you and started to run to the door - then something grabbed me from behind. It clapped a hand over my mouth and carried me through a panel in the wall, and down some steps and along a dark hall. I didn't see what it was that had hold of me until we passed through a big metal door and came into a tunnel whose roof was alight, like this chamber.

'Oh, I nearly fainted when I saw! They are not humans! They are gray, hairy devils that walk like men and speak a gibberish no human could understand. They stood there and seemed to be waiting, and once I thought I heard somebody trying the door. Then one of the thugs pulled a metal lever in the wall, and something crashed on the other side of the door.

'Then they carried me on and on through winding tunnels and up stone stairways into this chamber, where they chained me on the knees of this abominable idol, and then they went away. Oh, Conan, what are they?'

'Servants of BitYakin,' he grunted. 'I found a manuscript that told me a number of things, and then stumbled upon some frescoes that told me the rest. BitYakin was a Pelishtim who wandered into the valley with his servants after the people of Alkmeenon had deserted it. He found the body of Princess Yelaya, and discovered that the priests returned from time to time to make offerings to her, for even then she was worshipped as a goddess.

'He made an oracle of her, and he was the voice of the oracle, speaking from a niche he cut in the wall behind the ivory dais. The priests never suspected, never saw him or his servants for they always hid themselves when the men came. BitYakin lived and died here without ever being discovered by the priests. Crom knows how long he dwelt here, but it must have been for centuries. The wise men of the Pelishtim know how to increase the span of their lives for hundreds of years. I've 'seen some of them myself. Why he lived here alone, and why he played the part of oracle no ordinary human can guess, but I believe the oracle part was to keep the city inviolate and sacred, so he could remain undisturbed. He ate the food the priests brought as an offering to Yelaya, and his servants ate other things -I've always known there was a subterranean river flowing away from the lake where the people of the Puntish highlands throw their dead. That river runs under this palace. They have ladders hung over the water where they can hang and fish for the corpses that come floating through. BitYakin recorded everything on parchment and painted walls.

'But he died at last, and his servants mummified him according to instructions he gave them before his death, and stuck him in a cave in the cliffs. The rest is easy to guess. His servants, who were even more nearly immortal than he, kept on dwelling here, but the next time a high priest came to consult the oracle, not having a master to restrain them, they tore him to pieces. So since then - until Gorulga - nobody came to talk to the oracle.

'It's obvious they've been renewing the garments and ornaments of the goddess, as they'd seen Bi-Yakin do. Doubtless there's a sealed chamber somewhere where the silks are kept from decay. They clothed the goddess and brought her back to the oracle room after Zargheba had stolen her. And by the way they took off Zargheba's head and hung it in a thicket.'

She shivered, yet at the same time breathed a sigh of relief.

'He'll never whip me again.'

'Not this side of hell,' agreed Conan. 'But come on. Gwarunga ruined my chances with his stolen goddess. I'm going to follow the priests and take my chance of stealing the loot from them after they get it. And you stay close to me. I can't spend all my time looking for you.'

'But the servants of BitYakin!' she whispered fearfully.

'We'll have to take our chance,' he grunted. 'I don't know what's in their minds, but so far they haven't shown any disposition to come out and fight in the open. Come on.'

Taking her wrist he led her out of the chamber and down the corridor. As they advanced they heard the chanting of the priests, and mingling with the sound the low sullen rushing of waters. The light grew stronger above them as they emerged on a high-pitched gallery of a great cavern and looked down on a scene weird and fantastic.

Above them gleamed the phosphorescent roof; a hundred feet below them stretched the smooth floor of the cavern. On the far side this floor was cut by a deep, narrow stream brimming its rocky channel. Rushing out of impenetrable gloom, it swirled across the cavern and was lost again in darkness. The visible surface reflected the radiance above; the dark seething waters glinted as if flecked with living jewels, frosty blue, lurid red, shimmering green, an ever-changing iridescence.

Conan and his companion stood upon one of the gallery-like ledges that banded the curve of the lofty wall, and from this ledge a natural bridge of stone soared in a breath-taking arch over the vast gulf of the cavern to join a much smaller ledge on the opposite side, across the river. Ten feet below it another, broader arch spanned the cave. At either end a carven stair joined the extremities of these flying arches.

Conan's gaze, following the curve of the arch that swept away from the ledge on which they stood, caught a glint of light that was not the lurid phosphorus of the cavern. On that small ledge opposite them there was an opening in the cave wall through which stars were glinting.

But his full attention was drawn to the scene beneath them. The priests had reached their destination. There in a sweeping angle of the cavern wall stood a stone altar, but there was no idol upon it. Whether there was one behind it, Conan could not ascertain, because some trick of the light, or the sweep of the wall, left the space behind the altar in total darkness.

The priests had stuck their torches into holes in the stone floor, forming a semicircle of fire in front of the altar at a distance of several yards. Then the priests themselves formed a semicircle inside the crescent of torches, and Gorulga, after lifting his arms aloft in invocation, bent to the altar and laid hands on it. It lifted and tilted backward on its hinder edge, like the lid of a chest, revealing a small crypt.

Extending a long arm into the recess, Gorulga brought up a small brass chest. Lowering the altar back into place, he set the chest on it, and threw back the lid. To the eager watchers on the high gallery it seemed as if the action had released a blaze of living fire which throbbed and quivered about the opened chest. Conan's heart leaped and his hand caught at his hilt. The Teeth of Gwahlur at last! The treasure that would make its possessor the richest man in the world! His breath came fast between his clenched teeth.

Then he was suddenly aware that a new element had entered into the light of the torches and of the phosphorescent roof, rendering both void. Darkness stole around the altar, except for that glowing spot of evil radiance cast by the teeth of Gwahlur, and that grew and grew. The blacks froze into basaltic statues, their shadows streaming grotesquely and gigantically out behind them.

The altar was laved in the glow now, and the astounded features of Gorulga stood out in sharp relief. Then the mysterious space behind the altar swam into the widening illumination. And slowly with the crawling light, figures became visible, like shapes growing out of the night and silence.

At first they seemed like gray stone statues, those motionless shapes, hairy, man-like, yet hideously human; but their eyes were alive, cold sparks of gray icy fire. And as the weird glow lit their bestial countenances, Gorulga screamed and fell backward, throwing up his long arms in a gesture of frenzied horror.

But a longer arm shot across the altar and a misshapen hand locked on his throat. Screaming and fighting, the high priest was dragged back across the altar; a hammer-like fist smashed down, and Gorulga's cries were stilled. Limp and broken he sagged across the altar, his brains oozing from his crushed skull. And then the servants of BitYakin surged like a bursting flood from hell on the black priests who stood like horror-blasted images.

Then there was slaughter, grim and appalling.

Conan saw black bodies tossed like chaff in the inhuman hands of the slayers, against whose horrible strength and agility the daggers and swords of the priests were ineffective. He saw men lifted bodily and their heads cracked open against the stone altar. He saw a flaming torch, grasped in a monstrous hand, thrust inexorably down the gullet of an agonized wretch who writhed in vain against the arms that pinioned him. He saw a man torn in two pieces, as one might tear a chicken, and the bloody fragments hurled clear across the cavern. The massacre was as short and devastating as the rush of a hurricane. In a burst of red abysmal ferocity it was over, except for one wretch who fled screaming back the way the priests had come, pursued by a swarm of blood-dabbled shapes of horror which reached out their red-smeared hands for him. Fugitive and pursuers vanished down the black tunnel, and the screams of the human came back dwindling and confused by the distance.

Muriela was on her knees clutching Conan's legs; her face pressed against his knee and her eyes tightly shut. She was a quaking, quivering mold of abject terror. But Conan was galvanized. A quick glance across at the aperture where the stars shone, a glance down at the chest that still blazed open on the blood-smeared altar, and he saw and seized the desperate gamble.

'I'm going after that chest!' he grated. 'Stay here!'

'Oh, Mitra, no!' In an agony of fright she fell to the floor and caught at his sandals. 'Don't! Don't! Don't leave me!'

'Lie still and keep your mouth shut!' he snapped, disengaging himself from her frantic clasp.

He disregarded the tortuous stair. He dropped from ledge to ledge with reckless haste. There was no sign of the monsters as his feet hit the floor. A few of the torches still flared in their sockets, the phosphorescent glow throbbed and quivered, and the river flowed with an almost articulate muttering, scintillant with undreamed radiances. The glow that had heralded the appearance of the servants had vanished with them. Only the light of the jewels in the brass chest shimmered and quivered.

He snatched the chest, noting its contents in one lustful glance - strange, curiously shapen stones that burned with an icy, non-terrestrial fire. He slammed the lid, thrust the chest under his arm, and ran back up the steps. He had no desire to encounter the hellish servants of BitYakin. His glimpse of them in action had dispelled any illusion concerning their fighting ability. Why they had waited so long before striking at the invaders he was unable to say. What human could guess the motives or thoughts of these monstrosities? That they were possessed of craft and intelligence equal to humanity had been demonstrated. And there on the cavern floor lay crimson proof of their bestial ferocity.

The Corinthian girl still cowered on the gallery where he had left her. He caught her wrist and yanked her to her feet, grunting: 'I guess it's time to go!'

Too bemused with terror to be fully aware of what was going on, the girl suffered herself to be led across the dizzy span. It was not until they were poised over the rushing water that she looked down, voiced a startled yelp and would have fallen but for Conan's massive arm about her. Growling an objurgation in her ear, he snatched her up under his free arm and swept her, in a flutter of limply waving arms and legs, across the arch and into the aperture that opened at the other end. Without bothering to set her on her feet, he hurried through the short tunnel into which this aperture opened. An instant later they emerged upon a narrow ledge on the outer side of the cliffs that circled the valley. Less than a hundred feet below them the jungle waved in the starlight.

Looking down, Conan vented a gusty sigh of relief. He believed that he could negotiate the descent, even though burdened with the jewels and the girl; although he doubted if even he, unburdened, could have ascended at that spot. He set the chest, still smeared with Gorulga's blood and clotted with his brains, on the ledge, and was about to remove his girdle in order to tie the box to his back, when he was galvanized by a sound behind him, a sound sinister and unmistakable.

'Stay here!' he snapped at the bewildered Corinthian girl. 'Don't move!' And drawing his sword, he glided into the tunnel, glaring back into the cavern.

Halfway across the upper span he saw a gray deformed shape. One of the servants of BitYakin was on his trail. There was no doubt that the brute had seen them and was following them. Conan did not hesitate. It might be easier to defend the mouth of the tunnel - but this fight must be finished quickly, before the other servants could return.

He ran out on the span, straight toward the oncoming monster. It was no ape, neither was it a man. It was some shambling horror spawned in the mysterious, nameless jungles of the south, where strange life teemed in the reeking rot without the dominance of man, and drums thundered in temples that had never known the tread of a human foot. How the ancient Pelishtim had gained lordship over them - and with it eternal exile from humanity - was a foul riddle about which Conan did not care to speculate, even if he had had opportunity.

Man and monster; they met at the highest arch of the span, where, a hundred feet below, rushed the furious black water. As the monstrous shape with its leprous gray body and the features of a cat-ven, unhuman idol loomed over him. Conan struck as a wounded tiger strikes, with every ounce of thew and fury behind the blow. That stroke would have sheared a human body asunder; but the bones of the servant of BitYakin were like tempered steel. Yet even tempered steel could not wholly have withstood that furious stroke. Ribs and shoulder-bone parted and blood spouted from the great gash.

There was no time for a second stroke. Before the Cimmerian could lift his blade again or spring clear, the sweep of a giant arm knocked him from the span as a fly is flicked from a wall. As he plunged downward the rush of the river was like a knell in his ears, but his twisted body fell halfway across the lower arch. He wavered there precariously for one blood-chilling instant, then his clutching fingers hooked over the farther edge, and he scrambled to safety, his sword still in his other hand.

As he sprang up, he saw the monster, spurting blood hideously, rush toward the cliff-end of the bridge, obviously intending to descend the stair that connected the arches and renew the feud. At the very ledge the brute paused in mid-flight - and Conan saw it too - Muriela, with the jewel chest under her arm, stood staring wildly in the mouth of the tunnel.

With a triumphant bellow the monster scooped her up under one arm, snatched the jewel chest with the other hand as she dropped it, and turning, lumbered back across the bridge. Conan cursed with passion and ran for the other side also. He doubted if he could climb the stair to the higher arch in time to catch the brute before it could plunge into the labyrinth of tunnels on the other side.

But the monster was slowing, like clockwork running down. Blood gushed from that terrible gash in his breast, and he lurched drunkenly from side to side. Suddenly he stumbled, reeled and toppled sidewise - pitched headlong from the arch and hurtled downward. Girl and jewel chest fell from his nerveless hands and Muriela's scream rang terribly above the snarl of the water below.

Conan was almost under the spot from which the creature had fallen. The monster struck the lower arch glancingly and shot off, but the writhing figure of the girl struck and clung, and the chest hit the edge of the span near her. One falling object struck on one side of Conan and one on the other. Either was within arm's length; for the fraction of a split second the chest teetered on the edge of the bridge, and Muriela clung by one arm, her face turned desperately toward Conan, her eyes dilated with the fear of death and her lips parted in a haunting cry of despair.

Conan did not hesitate, nor did he even glance toward the chest that held the wealth of an epoch. With a quickness that would have shamed the spring of a hungry jaguar, he swooped, grasped the girl's arm just as her fingers slipped from the smooth stone, and snatched her up on the span with one explosive heave. The chest toppled on over and struck the water ninety feet below, where the body of the servant of BitYakin had already vanished. A splash, a jetting flash of foam marked where the Teeth of Gwahlur disappeared for ever from the sight of the man.

Conan scarcely wasted a downward glance. He darted across the span and ran up the cliff stair like a cat, carrying the limp girl as if she had been an infant. A hideous ululation caused him to glance over his shoulder as he reached the higher arch, to see the other servants streaming back into the cavern below, blood dripping from their bared fangs. They raced up the stair that wound from tier to tier, roaring vengefully; but he slung the girl unceremoniously over his shoulder, dashed through the tunnel and went down the cliffs like an ape himself, dropping and springing from hold to hold with breakneck recklessness. When the fierce countenances looked over the ledge of the aperture, it was to see the Cimmerian and the girl disappearing into the forest that surrounded the cliffs.

'Well,' said Conan, setting the girl on her feet within the sheltering screen of branches, 'we can take our time now. I don't think those brutes will follow us outside the valley. Anyway, I've got a horse tied at a water-hole close by, if the lions haven't eaten him. Crom's devils! What are you crying about now?'

She covered her tear-stained face with her hands and her slim shoulders shook with sobs.

'I lost the jewels for you,' she wailed miserably. 'It was my fault. If I'd obeyed you and stayed out on the ledge, that brute would never have seen me. You should have caught the gems and let me drown!'

'Yes, I suppose I should,' he agreed. 'But forget it. Never worry about what's past. And stop crying, will you? That's better. Come on.'

'You mean you're going to keep me? Take me with you?' she asked hopefully.

'What else do you suppose I'd do with you?' He ran an approving glance over her figure and grinned at the torn skirt which revealed a generous expanse of tempting ivory-tinted curves. 'I can use an actress like you. There's no use going back to Keshia. There's nothing in Keshan now that I want. We'll go to Punt. The people of Punt worship an ivory woman, and they wash gold out of the rivers in wicker baskets. I'll tell them that Keshan is intriguing with Thutmekri to enslave them which is true - and that the gods have sent me to protect them - for about a houseful of gold. If I can manage to smuggle you into their temple to exchange places with their ivory goddess, we'll skin them out of their jaw teeth before we get through with them!'

Beyond the Black River

1 Conan Loses his Ax

The stillness of the forest trail was so primeval that the tread of a soft-booted foot was a startling disturbance. At least it seemed so to the ears of the wayfarer, though he was moving along the path with the caution that must be practised by any man who ventures beyond Thunder River. He was a young man of medium height, with an open countenance and a mop of tousled tawny hair unconfined by cap or helmet. His garb was common enough for that country - a coarse tunic, belted at the waist, short leather breeches beneath, and soft buckskin boots that came short of the knee. A knife-hilt jutted from one boot-top. The broad leather belt supported a short, heavy sword and a buckskin pouch. There was no perturbation in the wide eyes that scanned the green walls which fringed the trail. Though not tall, he was well built, and the arms that the short wide sleeves of the tunic left bare were thick with corded muscle.

He tramped imperturbably along, although the last settler's cabin lay miles behind him, and each step was carrying him nearer the grim peril that hung like a brooding shadow over the ancient forest.

He was not making as much noise as it seemed to him, though he well knew that the faint tread of his booted feet would be like a tocsin of alarm to the fierce ears that might be lurking in the treacherous green fastness. His careless attitude was not genuine; his eyes and ears were keenly alert, especially his ears, for no gaze could penetrate the leafy tangle for more than a few feet in either direction.

But it was instinct more than any warning by the external senses which brought him up suddenly, his hand on his hilt. He stood stock-still in the middle of the trail, unconsciously holding his breath, wondering what he had heard, and wondering if indeed he had heard anything. The silence seemed absolute. Not a squirrel chattered or bird chirped. Then his gaze fixed itself on a mass of bushes beside the trail a few yards ahead of him. There was no breeze, yet he had seen a branch quiver. The short hairs on his scalp prickled, and he stood for an instant undecided, certain that a move in either direction would bring death streaking at him from the bushes.

A heavy chopping crunch sounded behind the leaves. The bushes were shaken violently, and simultaneously with the sound, an arrow arched erratically from among them and vanished among the trees along the trail. The wayfarer glimpsed its flight as he sprang frantically to cover.

Crouching behind a thick stem, his sword quivering in his fingers, he saw the bushes part, and a tall figure stepped leisurely into the trail. The traveler stared in surprise. The stranger was clad like himself in regard to boots and breeks, though the latter were of silk instead of leather. But he wore a sleeveless hauberk of dark mesh-mail in place of a tunic, and a helmet perched on his black mane. That helmet held the other's gaze; it was without a crest, but adorned by short bull's horns. No civilized hand ever forged that head-piece. Nor was the face below it that of a civilized man: dark, scarred, with smoldering blue eyes, it was a face untamed as the primordial forest which formed its background. The man held a broadsword in his right hand, and the edge was smeared with crimson.

`Come on out,' he called, in an accent unfamiliar to the wayfarer. `All's safe now. There was only one of the dogs. Come on out.'

The other emerged dubiously and stared at the stranger. He felt curiously helpless and futile as he gazed on the proportions of the forest man - the massive iron-clad breast, and the arm that bore the reddened sword, burned dark by the sun and ridged and corded with muscles. He moved with the dangerous ease of a panther; he was too fiercely supple to be a product of civilization, even of that fringe of civilization which composed the outer frontiers.

Turning, he stepped back to the bushes and pulled them apart. Still not certain just what had happened, the wayfarer from the east advanced and stared down into the bushes. A man lay there, a short, dark, thickly-muscled man, naked except for a loin-cloth, a necklace of human teeth and a brass armlet. A short sword was thrust into the girdle of the loin-cloth, and one hand still gripped a heavy black bow. The man had long black hair; that was about all the wayfarer could tell about his head, for his features were a mask of blood and brains. His skull had been split to the teeth.

`A Pict, by the gods!' exclaimed the wayfarer.

The burning blue eyes turned upon him.

`Are you surprised?'

`Why, they told me at Velitrium and again at the settlers' cabins along the road, that these devils sometimes sneaked across the border, but I didn't expect to meet one this far in the interior.'

`You're only four miles east of Black River,' the stranger informed him. `They've been shot within a mile of Velitrium. No settler between Thunder River and Fort Tuscelan is really safe. I picked up this dog's trail three miles south of the fort this morning, and I've been following him ever since. I came up behind him just as he was drawing an arrow on you. Another instant and there'd have been a stranger in Hell. But I spoiled his aim for him.'

The wayfarer was staring wide-eyed at the larger man, dumfounded by the realization that the man had actually tracked down one of the forest-devils and slain him unsuspected. That implied woodsmanship of a quality undreamed, even for Conajohara.

`You are one of the fort's garrison?' he asked.

`I'm no soldier. I draw the pay and rations of an officer of the line, but I do my work in the woods. Valannus knows I'm of more use ranging along the river than cooped up in the fort.'

Casually the slayer shoved the body deeper into the thickets with his foot, pulled the bushes together and turned away down the trail. The other followed him.

`My name is Balthus,' he offered. `I was at Velitrium last night. I haven't decided whether I'll take up a hide of land, or enter fort-service.'

`The best land near Thunder River is already taken,' grunted the slayer. `Plenty of good land between Scalp Creek - you crossed it a few miles back - and the fort, but that's getting too devilish close to the river. The Picts steal over to burn and murder - as that one did. They don't always come singly. Some day they'll try to sweep the settlers out of Conajohara. And they may succeed - probably will succeed. This colonization business is mad, anyway. There's plenty of good land east of the Bossonian marches. If the Aquilonians would cut up some of the big estates of their barons, and plant wheat where now only deer are hunted, they wouldn't have to cross the border and take the land of the Picts away from them.'

`That's queer talk from a man in the service of the Governor of Conajohara,' objected Balthus.

`It's nothing to me,' the other retorted. `I'm a mercenary-. I sell my sword to the highest bidder. I never planted wheat and never will, so long as there are other harvests to be reaped with the sword. But you Hyborians have expanded as far as you'll be allowed to expand. You've crossed the marches, burned a few villages, exterminated a few clans and pushed back the frontier to Black River; but I doubt if you'll even be able to hold what you've conquered, and you'll never push the frontier any further westward. Your idiotic king doesn't understand conditions here. He won't send you enough reinforcements, and there are not enough settlers to withstand the shock of a concerted attack from across the river.'

`But the Picts are divided into small clans,' persisted Balthus. `they'll never unite. We can whip any single clan.'

`Or any three or four clans,' admitted the slayer. `But some day a man will rise and unite thirty or forty clans, just as was done among the Cimmerians, when the Gundermen tried to push the border northward, years ago. They tried to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria: destroyed a few small clans, built a fort-town, Venarium - you've heard the tale.'

`So I have indeed,' replied Balthus, wincing. The memory of that red disaster was a black blot in the chronicles of a proud and war-like people. `My uncle was at Venarium when the Cimmerians swarmed over the walls. He was one of the few who escaped that slaughter. I've heard him tell the tale, many a time. The barbarians swept out of the hills in a ravening horde, without warning, and stormed Venarium with such fury none could stand before them. Men, women and children were butchered. Venarium was reduced to a mass of charred ruins, as it is to this day. The Aquilonians were driven back across the marches, and have never since tried to colonize the Cimmerian country. But you speak of Venarium familiarly. Perhaps you were there?'

`I was,' grunted the other. `I was one of the horde that swarmed over the hills. I hadn't yet seen fifteen snows, but already my name was repeated about the council fires.'

Balthus involuntarily recoiled, staring. It seemed incredible that the man walking tranquilly at his side should have been one of those screeching, blood-mad devils that had poured over the walls of Venarium on that long-gone day to make her streets run crimson.

`Then you, too, are a barbarian!' he exclaimed involuntarily.

The other nodded, without taking offence.

`I am Conan, a Cimmerian.'

`I've heard of you.' Fresh interest quickened Balthus' gaze. No wonder the Pict had fallen victim to his own sort of subtlety. The Cimmerians were barbarians as ferocious as the Picts, and much more intelligent. Evidently Conan had spent much time among civilized men, though that contact had obviously not softened him, nor weakened any of his primitive instincts. Balthus' apprehension turned to admiration as he marked the easy cat-like stride, the effortless silence with which the Cimmerian moved along the trail. The oiled links of his armor did not clink, and Balthus knew Conan could glide through the deepest thicket or most tangled copse as noiselessly as any naked Pict that ever lived.

`You're not a Gunderman?' It was more assertion than question.

Balthus shook his head. `I'm from the Tauran.'

`I've seen good woodsmen from the Tauran. But the Bossonians have sheltered you Aquilonians from the outer wildernesses for too many centuries. You need hardening.'

That was true; the Bossonian marches, with their fortified villages filled with determined bowmen, had long served Aquilonia as a buffer against the outlying barbarians. Now among the settlers beyond Thander River there was growing up a breed of forest-men capable of meeting the barbarians at their own game, but their numbers were still scanty. Most of the frontiersmen were like Balthus - more of the settler than the woodsman type.

The sun had not set, but it was no longer in sight, hidden as it was behind the dense forest wall. The shadows were lengthening, deepening back in the woods as the companions strode on down the trail.

`It will be dark before we reach the fort,' commented Conan casually; then: `Listen!'

He stopped short, half crouching, sword ready, transformed into a savage figure of suspicion and menace, poised to spring and rend. Balthus had heard it too - a wild scream that broke at its highest note. It was the cry of a man in dire fear or agony.

Conan was off in an instant, racing down the trail, each stride widening the distance between him and his straining companion. Balthus puffed a curse. Among the settlements of the Tauran he was accounted a good runner, but Conan was leaving him behind with maddening ease. Then Balthus forgot his exasperation as his ears were outraged by the most frightful cry he had ever heard. It was not human, this one; it was a demoniacal caterwauling of hideous triumph that seemed to exult over fallen humanity and find echo in black gulfs beyond human ken.

Balthus faltered in his stride, and clammy sweat beaded his flesh. But Conan did not hesitate; he darted around a bend in the trail and disappeared, and Balthus, panicky at finding himself alone with that awful scream still shuddering through the forest in grisly echoes, put on an extra burst of speed and plunged after him.

The Aquilonian slid to a stumbling halt, almost colliding with the Cimmerian who stood in the trail over a crumpled body. But Conan was not looking at the corpse which lay there in the crimson-soaked dust. He was glaring into the deep woods on either side of the trail.

Balthus muttered a horrified oath. It was the body of a man which lay there in the trail, a short, fat man, clad in the giltworked boots and (despite the heat) the ermine-trimmed tunic of a wealthy merchant. His fat, pale face was set in a stare of frozen horror; his thick throat had been slashed from ear to ear as if by a razor-sharp blade. The short sword still in its scabbard seemed to indicate that he had been struck down without a chance to fight for his life.

`A Pict?' Balthus whispered, as he turned to peer into the deepening shadows of the forest.

Conan shook his head and straightened to scowl down at the dead man.

`A forest devil. This is the fifth, by Crom!'

`What do you mean?'

`Did you ever hear of a Pictish wizard called Zogar Sag?'

Balthus shook his head uneasily.

`He dwells in Gwawela, the nearest village across the river. Three months ago he hid beside this road and stole a string of pack-mules from a pack-train bound for the fort - drugged their drivers, somehow. The mules belonged to this man' - Conan casually indicated the corpse with his foot - 'Tiberias, a merchant of Velitrium. They were loaded with ale-kegs, and old Zogar stopped to guzzle before he got across the river. A woodsman named Soractus trailed him, and led Valannus and three soldiers to where he lay dead drunk in a thicket. At the importunities of Tiberias, Valannus threw Zogar Sag into a cell, which is the worst insult you can give a Pict. He managed to kill his guard and escape, and sent back word that he meant to kill Tiberias and the five men who captured him in a way that would make Aquilonians shudder for centuries to come.

`Well, Soractus and the soldiers are dead. Soractus was killed on the river, the soldiers in the very shadow of the fort. And now Tiberias is dead. No Pict killed any of them. Each victim except Tiberias, as you see - lacked his head -which no doubt is now ornamenting the altar of Zogar Sag's particular god.'

`How do you know they weren't killed by the Picts?' demanded Balthus.

Conan pointed to the corpse of the merchant.

`You think that was done with a knife or a sword? Look closer and you'll see that only a talon could have made a gash like that. The flesh is ripped, not cut.'

`Perhaps a panther-' began Balthus, without conviction.

Conan shook his head impatiently.

`A man from the Tauran couldn't mistake the mark of a panther's claws. No. It's a forest devil summoned by Zogar Sag to carry out his revenge. Tiberias was a fool to start for Velitrium alone, and so close to dusk. But each one of the victims seemed to be smitten with madness just before doom overtook him. Look here; the signs are plain enough. Tiberias came riding along the trail on his mule, maybe with a bundle of choice otter pelts behind his saddle to sell in Velitrium, and the thing sprang on him from behind that bush. See where the branches are crushed down.

'Tiberias gave one scream, and then his throat was torn open and he was selling his otter skins in Hell. The mule ran away into the woods. Listen! Even now you can hear him thrashing about under the trees. The demon didn't have time to take Tiberias' head; it took fright as we came up.'

`As you came up,' amended Balthus. `It must not be a very terrible creature if it flees from one armed man. But how do you know it was not a Pict with some kind of a hook that rips instead of slicing? Did you see it?'

'Tiberias was an armed man,' grunted Conan. `If Zogar Sag can bring demons to aid him, he can tell them which men to kill and which to let alone. No, I didn't see it. I only saw the bushes shake as it left the trail. But if you want further proof, look here!'

The slayer had stepped into the pool of blood in which the dead man sprawled. Under the bushes at the edge of the path there was a footprint, made in blood on the hard loam.

`Did a man make that?' demanded Conan.

Balthus felt his scalp prickle. Neither man nor any beast that he had ever seen could have left that strange, monstrous threetoed print, that was curiously combined of the bird and the reptile, yet a true type of neither. He spread his fingers above the print, careful not to touch it, and grunted explosively. He could not span the mark.

`What is it?' he whispered. `I never saw a beast that left a spoor like that.'

`Nor any other sane man,' answered Conan grimly. `It's a swamp demon - they're thick as bats in the swamps beyond Black River. You can hear them howling like damned souls when the wind blows strong from the south on hot nights.'

`What shall we do?' asked the Aquilonian, peering uneasily into the deep blue shadows. The frozen fear on the dead countenance haunted him. He wondered what hideous head the wretch had seen thrust grinning from among the leaves to chill his blood with terror.

`No use to try to follow a demon,' grunted Conan, drawing a short woodsman's ax from his girdle. `I tried tracking him after he killed Soractus. I lost his trail within a dozen steps. He might have grown himself wings and flown away, or sunk down through the earth to Hell. I don't know. I'm not going after the mule, either. It'll either wander back to the fort, or to some settler's cabin.'

As he spoke Conan was busy at the edge of the trail with his ax. With a few strokes he cut a pair of saplings nine or ten feet long, and denuded them of their branches. Then he cut a length from a serpent-like vine that crawled among the bushes near by, and making one end fast to one of the poles, a couple of feet from the end, whipped the vine over the other sapling and interlaced it back and forth. In a few moments he had a crude but strong litter.

`The demon isn't going to get Tiberias' head if I can help it,' he growled. `We'll carry the body into the fort. It isn't more than three miles. I never liked the fat fool, but we can't have Pictish devils making so cursed free with white men's heads.'

The Picts were a white race, though swarthy, but the border men never spoke of them as such.

Balthus took the rear end of the litter, onto which Conan unceremoniously dumped the unfortunate merchant, and they moved on down the trail as swiftly as possible. Conan made no more noise laden with their grim burden than he had made when unencumbered. He had made a loop with the merchant's belt at the end of the poles, and was carrying his share of the load with one hand, while the other gripped his naked broadsword, and his restless gaze roved the sinister walls about them. The shadows were thickening. A darkening blue mist blurred the outlines of the foliage. The forest deepened in the twilight, became a blue haunt of mystery sheltering unguessed things.

They had covered more than a mile, and the muscles in Balthus' sturdy arms were beginning to ache a little, when a cry rang shuddering from the woods whose blue shadows were deepening into purple.

Conan started convulsively, and Balthus almost let go the poles.

`A woman!' cried the younger man. `Great Mitra, a woman cried out then!'

`A settler's wife straying in the woods,' snarled Conan, setting down his end of the litter. `Looking for a cow, probably, and -stay here!'

He dived like a hunting wolf into the leafy wall. Balthus' hair bristled.

`Stay here alone with this corpse and a devil hiding in the woods?' he yelped. `I'm coming with you!'

And suiting action to words, he plunged after the Cimmerian. Conan glanced back at him, but made no objection, though he did not moderate his pace to accommodate the shorter legs of his companion. Balthus wasted his wind in swearing as the Cimmerian drew away from him again, like a phantom between the trees, and then Conan burst into a dim glade and halted crouching, lips snarling, sword lifted.

`What are we stopping for?' panted Balthus, dashing the sweat out of his eyes and gripping his short sword.

`That scream came from this glade, or near by,' answered Conan. `I don't mistake the location of sounds, even in the woods. But where-'

Abruptly the sound rang out again - behind them; in the direction of the trail they had just quitted. It rose piercingly and pitifully, the cry of a woman in frantic terror - and then, shockingly, it changed to a yell of mocking laughter that might have burst from the lips of a fiend of lower Hell.

`What in Mitra's name-' Balthus' face was a pale blur in the gloom.

With a scorching oath Conan wheeled and dashed back the way he had come, and the Aquilonian stumbled bewilderedly after him. He blundered into the Cimmerian as the latter stopped dead, and rebounded from his brawny shoulders as though from an iron statue. Gasping from the impact, he heard Conan's breath hiss through his teeth. The Cimmerian seemed frozen in his tracks.

Looking over his shoulder, Balthus felt his hair stand up stiffly. Something was moving through the deep bushes that fringed the trail - something that neither walked nor flew, but seemed to glide like a serpent. But it was not a serpent. Its outlines were indistinct, but it was taller than a man, and not very bulky. It gave off a glimmer of weird light, like a faint blue flame. Indeed, the eery fire was the only tangible thing about it. It might have been an embodied flame moving with reason and purpose through the blackening woods.

Conan snarled a savage curse and hurled his ax with ferocious will. But the thing glided on without altering its course. Indeed it was only a few instants' fleeting glimpse they had of it - a tall, shadowy thing of misty flame floating through the thickets. Then it was gone, and the forest crouched in breathless stillness.

With a snarl Conan plunged through the intervening foliage and into the trail. His profanity, as Balthus floundered after him, was lurid and impassioned. The Cimmerian was standing over the litter on which lay the body of Tiberias. And that body no longer possessed a head.

`Tricked us with its damnable caterwauling!' raved Conan, swinging his great sword about his head in his wrath. `I might have known! I might have guessed a trick! Now there'll be five heads to decorate Zogar's altar.'

`But what thing is it that can cry like a woman and laugh like a devil, and shines like witch-fire as it glides through the trees?' gasped Balthus, mopping the sweat from his pale face.

`A swamp devil,' responded Conan morosely. `Grab those poles. We'll take in the body, anyway. At least our load's a bit lighter.'

With which grim philosophy he gripped the leathery loop and stalked down the trail.

2 The Wizard of Gwawela

Fort Tuscelan stood on the eastern bank of Black River, the tides of which washed the foot of the stockade. The latter was of logs, as were all the buildings within, including the donjon (to dignify it by that appellation), in which were the governor's quarters, overlooking the stockade and the sullen river. Beyond that river lay a huge forest, which approached jungle-like density along the spongy shores. Men paced the runways along the log parapet day and night, watching that dense green wall. Seldom a menacing figure appeared, but the sentries knew that they too were watched, fiercely, hungrily, with the mercilessness of ancient hate. The forest beyond the river might seem desolate and vacant of life to the ignorant eye, but life teemed there, not alone of bird and beast and reptile, but also of men, the fiercest of all the hunting beasts.

There, at the fort, civilization ended. Fort Tuscelan was the last outpost of a civilized world; it represented the westernmost thrust of the dominant Hyborian races. Beyond the river the primitive still reigned in shadowy forests, brush-thatched huts where hung the grinning skulls of men, and mud-walled enclosures where fires flickered and drums rumbled, and spears were whetted in the hands of dark, silent men with tangled black hair and the eyes of serpents. Those eyes often glared through the bushes at the fort across the river. Once darkskinned men had built their huts where that fort stood; yes, and their huts had risen where now stood the fields and log cabins of fair-haired settlers, back beyond Velitrium, that raw, turbulent frontier town on the banks of Thunder River, to the shores of that other river that bounds the Bossonian marches. Traders had come, and priests of Mitra who walked with bare feet and empty hands, and died horribly, most of them; but soldiers had followed, and men with axes in their hands and women and children in ox-drawn wains. Back to Thunder River, and still back, beyond Black River the aborigines had been pushed, with slaughter and massacre. But the darkskinned people did not forget that once Conajohara had been theirs.

The guard inside the eastern gate bawled a challenge. Through a barred aperture torchlight flickered, glinting on a steel head-piece and suspicious eyes beneath it.

`Open the gate,' snorted Conan. `You see it's 1, don't you?'

Military discipline put his teeth on edge.

The gate swung inward and Conan and his companion passed through. Balthus noted that the gate was flanked by a tower on each side, the summits of which rose above the stockade. He saw loopholes for arrows.

The guardsmen grunted as they saw the burden borne between the men. Their pikes jangled against each other as they thrust shut the gate, chin on shoulder, and Conan asked testily: `Have you never seen a headless body before?'

The face of the soldiers were pallid in the torchlight.

`That's Tiberias,' blurted one. `I recognize that fur-trimmed tunic. Valerius here owes me five lunas. I told him Tiberias had heard the loon call when he rode through the gate on his mule, with his glassy stare. I wagered he'd come back without his head.'

Conan grunted enigmatically, motioned Balthus to ease the litter to the ground, and then strode off toward the governor's quarters, with the Aquilonian at his heels. The tousle-headed youth stared about him eagerly and curiously, noting the rows of barracks along the walls, the stables, the tiny merchants' stalls, the towering blockhouse, and the other buildings, with the open square in the middle where the soldiers drilled, and where, now, fires danced and men off duty lounged. These were now hurrying to join the morbid crowd gathered about the litter at the gate. The rangy figures of Aquilonian pikemen and forest runners mingled with the shorter, stockier forms of Bossonian archers.

He was not greatly surprised that the governor received them himself. Autocratic society with its rigid caste laws lay east of the marches. Valannus was still a young man, well knit, with a finely chiseled countenance already carved into sober cast by toil and responsibility.

`You left the fort bcfore daybreak, I was told,' he said to Conan. `I had begun to fear that the Picts had caught you at last.'

`When they smoke my head the whole river will know it,' grunted Conan. `They'll hear Pictish women wailing their dead as far as Velitrium - I was on a lone scout. I couldn't sleep. I kept hearing drums talking across the river.'

`They talk each night,' reminded the governor, his fine eyes shadowed, as he stared closely at Conan. He had learned the unwisdom of discounting wild men's instincts.

`There was a difference last night,' growled Conan. `There has been ever since Zogar Sag got back across the river.'

`We should either have given him presents and sent him home, or else hanged him,' sighed the governor. `You advised that, but-'

`But it's hard for you Hyborians to learn the ways of the outlands,' said Conan. `Well, it can't be helped now, but there'll be no peace on the border so long as Zogar lives and remembers the cell he sweated in. I was following a warrior who slipped over to put a few white notches on his bow. After I split his head I fell in with this lad whose name is Balthus and who's come from the Taman to help hold the frontier.'

Valannus approvingly eyed the young man's frank countenance and strongly-knit frame.

`I am glad to welcome you, young sir. I wish more of your people would come. We need men used to forest life. Many of our soldiers and some of our settlers are from the eastern provinces and know nothing of woodcraft, or even of agricultural life.'

`Not many of that breed this side of Velitrium,' grunted Conan. `That town's full of them, though. But listen, Valannus, we found Tiberias dead on the trail.' And in a few words he related the grisly affair.

Valannus paled. `I did not know he had left the fort. He must have been mad!'

`He was,' answered Conan. `Like the other four; each one, when his time came, went mad and rushed into the woods to meet his death like a hare running down the throat of a python. Something called to them from the deeps of the forest, something the men call a loon, for lack of a better name, but only the doomed ones could hear it. Zogar Sag has made a magic that Aquilonian civilization can't overcome.'

To this thrust Valannus made no reply; he wiped his brow with a shaky hand.

`Do the soldiers know of this?'

`We left the body by the eastern gate.'

`You should have concealed the fact, hidden the corpse somewhere in the woods. The soldiers are nervous enough already.'

`They'd have found it out some way. If I'd hidden the body, it would have been returned to the fort as the corpse of Soractus was - tied up outside the gate for the men to find in the morning.'

Valannus shuddered. Turning, he walked to a casement and stared silently out over the river, black and shiny under the glint of the stars. Beyond the river the jungle rose like an ebony wall. The distant screech of a panther broke the stillness. The night pressed in, blurring the sounds of the soldiers outside the blockhouse, dimming the fires. A wind whispered through the black branches, rippling the dusky water. On its wings came a low, rhythmic pulsing, sinister as the pad of a leopard's foot.

`After all,' said Valannus, as if speaking his thoughts aloud, `what do we know - what does anyone know - of the things that jungle may hide? We have dim rumors of great swamps and rivers, and a forest that stretches on and on over everlasting plains and hills to end at last on the shores of the western ocean. But what things lie between this river and that ocean we dare not even guess. No white man has ever plunged deep into that fastness and returned alive to tell us what he found. We are wise in our civilized knowledge, but our knowledge extends just so far - to the western bank of that ancient river! Who knows what shapes earthly and unearthly may lurk beyond the dim circle of light our knowledge has cast?

`Who knows what gods are worshipped under the shadows of that heathen forest, or what devils crawl out of the black ooze of the swamps? Who can be sure that all the inhabitants of that black country are natural? Zogar Sag - a sage of the eastern cities would sneer at his primitive magic-making as the mummery of a fakir; yet he has driven mad and killed five men in a manner no man can explain. I wonder if he himself is wholly human.'

`If I can get within ax-throwing distance of him I'll settle that question,' growled Conan, helping himself to the governor's wine and pushing a glass toward Balthus, who took it hesitatingly, and with an uncertain glance toward Valannus.

The governor turned toward Conan and stared at him thoughtfully.

`The soldiers, who do not believe in ghosts or devils,' he said, `are almost in a panic of fear. You, who believe in ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and all manner of uncanny things, do not seem to fear any of the things in which you believe.'

`There's nothing in the universe cold steel won't cut,' answered Conan. `I threw my ax at the demon, and he took no hurt, but I might have missed, in the dusk, or a branch deflected its flight. I'm not going out of my way looking for devils; but I wouldn't step out of my path to let one go by.'

Valannus lifted his head and met Conan's gaze squarely.

'Conan, more depends on you than you realize. You know the weakness of this province - a slender wedge thrust into the untamed wilderness. You know that the lives of all the people west of the marches depend on this fort. Were it to fall, red axes would be splintering the gates of Velitrium before a horseman could cross the marches. His majesty, or his majesty's advisers, have ignored my plea that more troops be sent to hold the frontier. They know nothing of border conditions, and are averse to expending any more money in this direction. The fate of the frontier depends upon the men who now hold it.

`You know that most of the army which conquered Conajohara has been withdrawn. You know the force' left me is inadequate, especially since that devil Zogar Sag managed to poison our water supply, and forty men died in one day. Many of the others are sick, or have been bitten by serpents or mauled by wild beasts which seem to swarm in increasing numbers in the vicinity of the fort. The soldiers believe Zogar's boast that he could summon the forest beasts to slay his enemies.

`I have three hundred pikemen, four hundred Bossonian archers, and perhaps fifty men who, like yourself, are skilled in woodcraft. They are worth ten times their number of soldiers, but there are so few of them. Frankly, Conan, my situation is becoming precarious. The soldiers whisper of desertion; they are low-spirited, believing Zogar Sag has loosed devils on us. They fear the black plague with which he threatened us - the terrible black death of the swamplands. When I see a sick soldier I sweat with fear of seeing him turn black and shrivel and die before my eyes.

'Conan, if the plague is loosed upon us, the soldiers will desert in a body! The border will be left unguarded and nothing will check the sweep of the darkskinned hordes to the very gates of Velitrium - maybe beyond! If we can not hold the fort, how can they hold the town?

'Conan, Zogar Sag must die, if we are to hold Conajohara. You have penetrated the unknown deeper than any other man in the fort; you know where Gwawela stands, and something of the forest trails across the river. Will you take a band of men tonight and endeavour to kill or capture him? Oh, I know it's mad. There isn't more than one chance in a thousand that any of you will come back alive. But if we don't get him, it's death for us all. You can take as many men as you wish.'

`A dozen men are better for a job like that than a regiment,' answered Conan. `Five hundred men couldn't fight their way to Gwawela and back, but a dozen might slip in and out again. Let me pick my men. I don't want any soldiers.'

`Let me go!' eagerly exclaimed Balthus. `I've hunted deer all my life on the Tauran.'

`All right. Valannus, we'll eat at the stall where the foresters gather, and I'll pick my men. We'll start within an hour, drop down the river in a boat to a point below the village and then steal upon it through the woods. If we live, we should be back by daybreak.'

3 The Crawlers in the Dark

The river was a vague trace between walls of ebony. The paddles that propelled the long boat creeping along in the dense shadow of the eastern bank dipped softly into the water, making no more noise than the beak of a heron. The broad shoulders of the man in front of Balthus were a blur in the dense gloom. He knew that not even the keen eyes of the man who knelt in the prow would discern anything more than a few feet ahead of them. Conan was feeling his way by instinct and an intensive familiarity with the river.

No one spoke. Balthus had had a good look at his companions in the fort before they slipped out of the stockade and down the bank into the waiting canoe. They were of a new breed growing up in the world on the raw edge of the frontier - men whom grim necessity had taught woodcraft. Aquilonians of the western provinces to a man, they had many points in common. They dressed alike - in buckskin boots, leathern breeks and deerskin shirts, with broad girdles that held axes and short swords; and they were all gaunt and scarred and hard-eyed; sinewy and taciturn.

They were wild men, of a sort, yet there was still a wide gulf between them and the Cimmerian. They were sons of civilization, reverted to a semi-barbarism. He was a barbarian of a thousand generations of barbarians. They had acquired stealth and craft, but he had been born to these things. He excelled them even in lithe economy of motion. They were wolves, but he was a tiger.

Balthus admired them and their leader and felt a pulse of pride that he was admitted into their company. He was proud that his paddle made no more noise than did theirs. In that respect at least he was their equal, though woodcraft learned in hunts on the Tauran could never equal that ground into the souls of men on the savage border.

Below the fort the river made a wide bend. The lights of the outpost were quickly lost, but the canoe held on its way for nearly a mile, avoiding snags and floating logs with almost uncanny precision.

Then a low grunt from their leader, and they swung its head about and glided toward the opposite shore. Emerging from the black shadows of the brush that fringed the bank and coming into the open of the midstream created a peculiar illusion of rash exposure. But the stars gave little light, and Balthus knew that unless one were watching for it, it would be all but impossible for the keenest eye to make out the shadowy shape of the canoe crossing the river.

They swung in under the overhanging bushes of the western shore and Balthus groped for and found a projecting root which he grasped. No word was spoken. All instructions had been given before the scouting-party left the fort. As silently as a great panther Conan slid over the side and vanished in the bushes. Equally noiseless, nine men followed him. To Balthus, grasping the root with his paddle across his knee, it seemed incredible that ten men should thus fade into the tangled forest without a sound.

He settled himself to wait. No word passed between him and the other man who had been left with him. Somewhere, a mile or so to the northwest, Zogar Sag's village stood girdled with thick woods. Balthus understood his orders; he and his companion were to wait for the return of the raiding-party. If Conan and his men had not returned by the first tinge of dawn, they were to race back up the river to the fort and report that the forest had again taken its immemorial toll of the invading race. The silence was oppressive. No sound came from the black woods, invisible beyond the ebony masses that were the overhanging bushes. Balthus no longer heard the drums. They had been silent for hours. He kept blinking, unconsciously trying to see through the deep gloom. The dank night-smells of the river and the damp forest oppressed him. Somewhere, near by, there was a sound as if a big fish had flopped and splashed the water. Balthus thought it must have leaped so close to the canoe that it had struck the side, for a slight quiver vibrated the craft. The boat's stern began to swing, slightly away from the shore. The man behind him must have let go of the projection he was gripping. Balthus twisted his head to hiss a warning, and could just make out the figure of his companion, a slightly blacker bulk in the blackness.

The man did not reply. Wondering if he had fallen asleep, Balthus reached out and grasped his shoulder. To his amazement, the man crumpled under his touch and slumped down in the canoe. Twisting his body half about, Balthus groped for him, his heart shooting into his throat. His fumbling fingers slid over the man's throat - only the youth's convulsive clenching of his jaws choked back the cry that rose to his lips. His fingers encountered a gaping, oozing wound - his companion's throat had been cut from ear to ear.

In that instant of horror and panic Balthus started up - and then a muscular arm out of the darkness locked fiercely about his throat, strangling his yell. The canoe rocked wildly. Balthus' knife was in his hand, though he did not remember jerking it out of his boot, and he stabbed fiercely and blindly. He felt the blade sink deep, and a fiendish yell rang in his ear, a yell that was horribly answered. The darkness seemed to come to life about him. A bestial clamor rose on all sides, and other arms grappled him. Borne under a mass of hurtling bodies the canoe rolled sidewise, but before he went under with it, something cracked against Balthus' head and the night was briefly illuminated by a blinding burst of fire before it gave way to a blackness where not even stars shone.

4 The Beasts of Zogar Sag

Fires dazzled Balthus again as he slowly recovered his senses. He blinked, shook his head. Their glare hurt his eyes. A confused medley of sound rose about him, growing more distinct as his senses cleared. He lifted his head and stared stupidly about him. Black figures hemmed him in, etched against crimson tongues of flame.

Memory and understanding came in a rush. He was bound upright to a post in an open space, ringed by fierce and terrible figures. Beyond that ring fires burned, tended by naked, darkskinned women. Beyond the fires he saw huts of mud and wattle, thatched with brush. Beyond the huts there was a stockade with a broad gate. But he saw these things only incidentally. Even the cryptic dark women with their curious coiffures were noted by him only absently. His full attention was fixed in awful fascination on the men who stood glaring at him.

Short men, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, lean-hipped, they were naked except for scanty loin-clouts. The firelight brought out the play of their swelling muscles in bold relief. Their dark faces were immobile, but their narrow eyes glittered with the fire that burns in the eyes of a stalking tiger. Their tangled manes were bound back with bands of copper. Swords and axes were in their hands. Crude bandages banded the limbs of some, and smears of blood were dried on their dark skins. There had been fighting, recent and deadly.

His eyes wavered away from the steady glare of his captors, and he repressed a cry of horror. A few feet away there rose a low, hideous pyramid: it was built of gory human heads. Dead eyes glared glassily up at the black sky. Numbly he recognized the countenances which were turned toward him. They were the heads of the men who had followed Conan into the forest. He could not tell if the Cimmerian's head were among them. Only a few faces were visible to him. It looked to him as if there must be ten or eleven heads at least. A deadly sickness assailed him. He fought a desire to retch. Beyond the heads lay the bodies of half a dozen Picts, and he was aware of a fierce exultation at the sight. The forest runners had taken toll, at least.

Twisting his head away from the ghastly spectacle, he became aware that another post stood near him - a stake painted black as was the one to which he was bound. A man sagged in his bonds there, naked except for his leathern breeks, whom Balthus recognized as one of Conan's woodsmen. Blood trickled from his mouth, oozed sluggishly from a gash in his side. Lifting his head as he licked his livid lips, he muttered, making himself heard with difficulty above the fiendish clamor of the Picts: `So they got you, too!'

`Sneaked up in the water and cut the other fellow's throat,' groaned Balthus. `We never heard them till they were on us. Mitra, how can anything move so silently?'

`They're devils,' mumbled the frontiersman. `They must have been watching us from the time we left midstream. We walked into a trap. Arrows from all sides were ripping into us before we knew it. Most of us dropped at the first fire. Three or four broke through the bushes and came to hand-grips. But there were too many. Conan might have gotten away. I haven't seen his head. Been better for you and me if they'd killed us outright. I can't blame Conan. Ordinarily we'd have gotten to the village without being discovered. They don't keep spies on the river bank as far down as we landed. We must have stumbled into a big party coming up the river from the south. Some devilment is up. Too many Picts here. These aren't all Gwaweli; men from the western tribes here and from up and down the river.'

Balthus stared at the ferocious shapes. Little as he knew of Pictish ways, he was aware that the number of men clustered about them was out of proportion to the size of the village. There were not enough huts to have accommodated them all. Then he noticed that there was a difference in the barbaric tribal designs painted on their faces and breasts.

`Some kind of devilment,' muttered the forest runner. `They might have gathered here to watch Zogar's magic-making. He'll make some rare magic with our carcasses. Well, a border-man doesn't expect to die in bed. But I wish we'd gone out along with the rest.'

The wolfish howling of the Picts rose in volume and exultation, and from a movement in their ranks, an eager surging and crowding, Balthus deduced that someone of importance was coming. Twisting his head about, he saw that the stakes were set before a long building, larger than the other huts, decorated by human skulls dangling from the eaves. Through the door of that structure now danced a fantastic figure.

`Zogar!' muttered the woodsman, his bloody countenance set in wolfish lines as he unconsciously strained at his cords. Balthus saw a lean figure of middle height, almost hidden in ostrich plumes set on a harness of leather and copper. From amidst the plumes peered a hideous and malevolent face. The plumes puzzled Balthus. He knew their source lay half the width of a world to the south. They fluttered and rustled evilly as the shaman leaped and cavorted.

With fantastic bounds and prancings he entered the ring and whirled before his bound and silent captives. With another man it would have seemed ridiculous - a foolish savage prancing meaninglessly in a whirl of feathers. But that ferocious face glaring out from the billowing mass gave the scene a grim significance. No man with a face like that could seem ridiculous or like anything except the devil he was.

Suddenly he froze to statuesque stillness; the plumes rippled once and sank about him. The howling warriors fell silent. Zogar Sag stood erect and motionless, and he seemed to increase in height - to grow and expand. Balthus experienced the illusion that the Pict was towering above him, staring contemptuously down from a great height, though he knew the shaman was not as tall as himself. He shook off the illusion with difficulty.

The shaman was talking now, a harsh, guttural intonation that yet carried the hiss of a cobra. He thrust his head on his long neck toward the wounded man on the stake; his eyes shone red as blood in the firelight. The frontiersman spat full in his face.

With a fiendish howl Zogar bounded convulsively into the air, and the warriors gave tongue to a yell that shuddered up to the stars. They rushed toward the man on the stake, but the shaman beat them back. A snarled command sent men running to the gate. They hurled it open, turned and raced back to the circle. The ring of men split, divided with desperate haste to right and left. Balthus saw the women and naked children scurrying to the huts. They peeked out of doors and windows. A broad lane was left to the open gate, beyond which loomed the black forest, crowding sullenly in upon the clearing, unlighted by the fires.

A tense silence reigned as Zogar Sag turned toward the forest, raised on his tiptoes and sent a weird inhuman call shuddering out into the night. Somewhere, far out in the black forest, a deeper cry answered him. Balthus shuddered. From the timbre of that cry he knew it never came from a human throat. He remembered what Valannus had said - that Zogar boasted that he could summon wild beasts to do his bidding. The woodsman was livid beneath his mask of blood. He licked his lips spasmodically.

The village held its breath. Zogar Sag stood still as a statue, his plumes trembling faintly about him. But suddenly the gate was no longer empty.

A shuddering gasp swept over the village and men crowded hastily back, jamming one another between the huts. Balthus felt the short hair stir on his scalp. The creature that stood in the gate was like the embodiment of nightmare legend. Its color was of a curious pale quality which made it seem ghostly and unreal in the dim light. But there was nothing unreal about the low-hung savage head, and the great curved fangs that glistened in the firelight. On noiseless padded feet it approached like a phantom out of the past. It was a survival of an older, grimmer age, the ogre of many an ancient legend - a saber-tooth tiger. No Hyborian hunter had looked upon one of those primordial brutes for centuries. Immemorial myths lent the creatures a supernatural quality, induced by their ghostly color and their fiendish ferocity.

The beast that glided toward the men on the stakes was longer and heavier than a common, striped tiger, almost as bulky as a bear. Its shoulders and forelegs were so massive and mightily muscled as to give it a curiously top-heavy look, though its hind-quarters were more powerful than that of a lion. Its jaws were massive, but its head was brutishly shaped. Its brain capacity was small. It had room for no instincts except those of destruction. It was a freak of carnivorous development, evolution run amuck in a horror of fangs and talons.

This was the monstrosity Zogar Sag had summoned out of the forest. Balthus no longer doubted the actuality of the shaman's magic. Only the black arts could establish a domination over that tiny-brained, mighty-thewed monster. Like a whisper at the back of his consciousness rose the vague memory of the name of an ancient god of darkness and primordial fear, to whom once both men and beasts bowed and whose children - men whispered - still lurked in dark corners of the world. New horror tinged the glare he fixed on Zogar Sag.

The monster moved past the heap of bodies and the pile of gory heads without appearing to notice them. He was no scavenger. He hunted only the living, in a life dedicated solely to slaughter. An awful hunger burned greenly in the wide, unwinking eyes; the hunger not alone of belly-emptiness, but the lust of death-dealing. His gaping jaws slavered. The shaman stepped back; his hand waved toward the woodsman.

The great cat sank into a crouch, and Balthus numbly remembered tales of its appalling ferocity: of how it would spring upon an elephant and drive its sword-like fangs so deeply into the titan's skull that they could never be withdrawn, but would keep it nailed to its victim, to die by starvation. The shaman cried out shrilly, and. with an earshattering roar the monster sprang.

Balthus had never dreamed of such a spring, such a hurtling of incarnated destruction embodied in that giant bulk of iron thews and ripping talons. Full on the woodsman's breast it struck, and the stake splintered and snapped at the base, crashing to the earth under the impact. Then the saber-tooth was gliding toward the gate, half dragging, half carrying a hideous crimson hulk that only faintly resembled a man. Balthus glared almost paralysed, his brain refusing to credit what his eyes had seen.

In that leap the great beast had not only broken off the stake, it had ripped the mangled body of its victim from the post to which it was bound. The huge talons in that instant of contact had disemboweled and partially dismembered the man, and the giant fangs had torn away the whole top of his head, shearing through the skull as easily as through flesh. Stout rawhide thongs had given way like paper; where the thongs had held, flesh and bones had not. Balthus retched suddenly. He had hunted bears and panthers, but he had never dreamed the beast lived which could make such a red ruin of a human frame in the flicker of an instant.

The saber-tooth vanished through the gate, and a few moments later a deep roar sounded through the forest, receding in the distance. But the Picts still shrank back against the huts, and the shaman still stood facing the gate that was like a black opening to let in the night.

Cold sweat burst suddenly out on Balthus' skin. What new horror would come through that gate to make carrion-meat of his body? Sick panic assailed him and he strained futilely at his thongs. The night pressed in very black and horrible outside the firelight. The fires themselves glowed lurid as the fires of hell. He felt the eyes of the Picts upon him - hundreds of hungry, cruel eyes that reflected the lust of souls utterly without humanity as he knew it. They no longer seemed men; they were devils of this black jungle, as inhuman as the creatures to which the fiend in the nodding plumes screamed through the darkness.

Zogar sent another call shuddering through the night, and it was utterly unlike the first cry. There was a hideous sibilance in it - Balthus turned cold at the implication. If a serpent could hiss that loud, it would make just such a sound.

This time there was no answer - only a period of breathless silence in which the pound of Balthus' heart strangled him; and then there sounded a swishing outside the gate, a dry rustling that sent chills down Balthus' spine. Again the firelit gate held a hideous occupant.

Again Balthus recognized the monster from ancient legends. He saw and knew the ancient and evil serpent which swayed there, its wedge-shaped head, huge as that of a horse, as high as a tall man's head, and its palely gleaming barrel rippling out behind it. A forked tongue darted in and out, and the firelight glittered on bared fangs.

Balthus became incapable of emotion. The horror of his fate paralysed him. That was the reptile that the ancients called Ghost Snake, the pale, abominable terror that of old glided into huts by night to devour whole families. Like the python it crushed its victim, but unlike other constrictors its fangs bore venom that carried madness and death. It too had long been considered extinct. But Valannus had spoken truly. No white man knew what shapes haunted the great forests beyond Black River.

It came on silently rippling over the ground, its hideous head on the same level, its neck curving back slightly for the stroke. Balthus gazed with glazed, hypnotized stare into that loathesome gullet down which he would soon be engulfed, and he was aware of no sensation except a vague nausea.

And then something that glinted in the firelight streaked from the shadows of the huts, and the great reptile whipped about and went into instant convulsions. As in a dream Balthus saw a short throwing-spear transfixing the mighty neck, just below the gaping jaws; the shaft protruded from one side, the steel head from the other.

Knotting and looping hideously, the maddened reptile rolled into the circle of men who strove back from him. The spear had not severed its spine, but merely transfixed its great neck muscles. Its furiously lashing tail mowed down a dozen men and its jaws snapped convulsively, splashing others with venom that burned like liquid fire. Howling, cursing, screaming, frantic, they scattered before it, knocking each other down in their flight, trampling the fallen, bursting through the huts. The giant snake rolled into a fire, scattering sparks and brands, and the pain lashed it to more frenzied efforts. A but wall buckled under the ram-like impact of its flailing tail, disgorging howling people.

Men stampeded through the fires, knocking the logs right and left. The flames sprang up, then sank. A reddish dim glow was all that lighted that nightmare scene where the giant reptile whipped and rolled, and men clawed and shrieked in frantic flight.

Balthus felt something jerk at his wrists, and then, miraculously, he was free, and a strong hand dragged him behind the post. Dazedly he saw Conan, felt the forest man's iron grip on his arm.

There was blood on the Cimmerian's mail, dried blood on the sword in his right hand; he loomed dim and gigantic in the shadowy light.

`Come on! Before they get over their panic!'

Balthus felt the haft of an ax shoved into his hand. Zogar Sag had disappeared. Conan dragged Balthus after him until the youth's numb brain awoke, and his legs began to move of their own accord. Then Conan released him and ran into the building where the skulls hung. Balthus followed him. He got a glimpse of a grim stone altar, faintly lighted by the glow outside; five human heads grinned on that altar, and there was a grisly familiarity about the features of the freshest; it was the head of the merchant Tiberias. Behind the altar was an idol, dim, indistinct, bestial, yet vaguely manlike in outline. Then fresh horror choked Balthus as the shape heaved up suddenly with a rattle of chains, lifting long misshapen arms in the gloom.

Conan's sword flailed down, crunching through flesh and bone, and then the Cimmerian was dragging Balthus around the altar, past a huddled shaggy bulk on the floor, to a door at the back of the long hut. Through this they burst, out into the enclosure again. But a few yards beyond them loomed the stockade.

It was dark behind the altar-hut. The mad stampede of the Picts had not carried them in that direction. At the wall Conan halted, gripped Balthus and heaved him at arm's length into the air as he might have lifted a child. Balthus grasped the points of the upright logs set in the sun-dried mud and scrambled up on them, ignoring the havoc done his skin. He lowered a hand to the Cimmerian, when around a corner of the altar-but sprang a fleeing Pict. He halted short, glimpsing the man on the wall in the faint glow of the fires. Conan hurled his ax with deadly aim, but the warrior's mouth was already open for a yell of warning, and it rang loud above the din, cut short as he dropped with a shattered skull.

Blinding terror had not submerged all ingrained instincts. As that wild yell rose above the clamor, there was an instant's lull, and then a hundred throats bayed ferocious answer and warriors came leaping to repel the attack presaged by the warning.

Conan leaped high, caught, not Balthus' hand but his arm near the shoulder, and swung himself up. Balthus set his teeth against the strain, and then the Cimmerian was on the wall beside him, and the fugitives dropped down on the other side.

5 The Children of Jhebbal Sag

`Which way is the river?' Balthus was confused.

`We don't dare try for the river now,' grunted Conan. `The woods between the village and the river are swarming with warriors. Come on! We'll head in the last direction they'll expect us to go - west!'

Looking back as they entered the thick growth, Balthus beheld the wall dotted with black heads as the savages peered over. The Picts were bewildered. They had not gained the wall in time to see the fugitives take cover. They had rushed to the wall expecting to repel an attack in force. They had seen the body of the dead warrior. But no enemy was in sight.

Balthus realized that they did not yet know their prisoner had escaped. From other sounds he believed that the warriors, directed by the shrill voice of Zogar Sag, were destroying the wounded serpent with arrows. The monster was out of the shaman's control. A moment later the quality of the yells was altered. Screeches of rage rose in the night.

Conan laughed grimly. He was leading Balthus along a narrow trail that ran west under the black branches, stepping as swiftly and surely as if he trod a well-lighted thoroughfare. Balthus stumbled after him, guiding himself by feeling the dense wall on either hand.

`They'll be after us now. Zogar's discovered you're gone, and he knows my head wasn't in the pile before the altar-hut. The dog! If I'd had another spear I'd have thrown it through him before I struck the snake. Keep to the trail. They can't track us by torchlight, and there are a score of paths leading from the village. They'll follow those leading to the river first - throw a cordon of warriors for miles along the bank, expecting us to try to break through. We won't take to the woods until we have to. We can make better time on this trail. Now buckle down to it and run as you never ran before.'

`They got over their panic cursed quick!' panted Balthus, complying with a fresh burst of speed.

`They're not afraid of anything, very long,' grunted Conan.

For a space nothing was said between them. The fugitives devoted all their attention to covering distance. They were plunging deeper and deeper into the wilderness and getting farther away from civilization at every step, but Balthus did not question Conan's wisdom. The Cimmerian presently took time to grunt: `When we're far enough away from the village we'll swing back to the river in a big circle. No other village within miles of Gwawela. All the Picts are gathered in that vicinity. We'll circle wide around them. They can't track us until daylight. They'll pick up our path then, but before dawn we'll leave the trail and take to the woods.'

They plunged on. The yells died out behind them. Balthus' breath was whistling through his teeth. He felt a pain in his side, and running became torture. He blundered against the bushes on each side of the trail. Conan pulled up suddenly, turned and stared back down the dim path.

Somewhere the moon was rising, a dim white glow amidst a tangle of branches.

`Shall we take to the woods?' panted Balthus.

`Give me your ax,' murmured Conan softly. `Something is close behind us.'

`Then we'd better leave the trail!' exclaimed Balthus.

Conan shook his head and drew his companion into a dense thicket. The moon rose higher, making a dim light in the path.

`We can't fight the whole tribe!' whispered Balthus.

`No human being could have found our trail so quickly, or followed us so swiftly,' muttered Conan. `Keep silent.'

There followed a tense silence in which Balthus felt that his heart could be heard pounding for miles away. Then abruptly, without a sound to announce its coming, a savage head appeared in the dim path. Balthus' heart jumped into his throat; at first glance he feared to look upon the awful head of the saber-tooth. But this head was smaller, more narrow; it was a leopard which stood there, snarling silently and glaring down the trail. What wind there was was blowing toward the hiding men, concealing their scent. The beast lowered his head and snuffed the trail, then moved forward uncertainly. A chill played down Balthus' spine. The brute was undoubtedly trailing them.

And it was suspicious. It lifted its head, its eyes glowing like balls of fire, and growled low in its throat. And at that instant Conan hurled the ax.

All the weight of arm and shoulder was behind the throw, and the ax was a streak of silver in the dim moon. Almost before he realized what had happened, Balthus saw the leopard rolling on the ground in its death-throes, the handle of the ax standing up from its head. The head of the weapon had split its narrow skull.

Conan bounded from the bushes, wrenched his ax free and dragged the limp body in among the trees, concealing it from the casual glance.

`Now let's go, and go fast!' he grunted, leading the way southward, away from the trail. `There'll be warriors corning after that cat. As soon as he got his wits back Zogar sent him after us. The Picts would follow him, but he'd leave them far behind. He'd circle the village until he hit our trail and then come after us like a streak. They couldn't keep up with him, but they'll have an idea as to our general direction. They'd follow, listening for his cry. Well, they won't hear that, but they'll find the blood on the trail, and look around and find the body in the brush. They'll pick up our spoor there, if they can. Walk with care.'

He avoided clinging briars and low-hanging branches effortlessly, gliding between trees without touching the stems and always planting his feet in the places calculated to show least evidence of his passing; but with Balthus it was slower, more laborious work.

No sound came from behind them. They had covered more than a mile when Balthus said: `Does Zogar Sag catch leopard cubs and train them for bloodhounds?'

Conan shook his head. `That was a leopard he called out of the woods.'

`But,' Balthus persisted, `if he can order the beasts to do his bidding, why doesn't he rouse them all and have them after us? The forest is full of leopards; why send only one after us?'

Conan did not reply for a space, and when he did it was with a curious reticence.

`He can't command all the animals. Only such as remember Jhebbal Sag.'

`Jhebbal Sag?' Balthus repeated the ancient name hesitantly. He had never heard it spoken more than three or four times in his whole life.

`Once all living things worshipped him. That was long ago, when beasts and men spoke one language. Men have forgotten him; even the beasts forget. Only a few remember. The men who remember Jhebbal Sag and the beasts who remember are brothers and speak the same tongue.'

Balthus did not reply; he had strained at a Pictish stake and seen the nighted jungle give up its fanged horrors at a shaman's call.

`Civilized men laugh,' said Conan. `But not one can tell me how Zogar Sag can call pythons and tigers and leopards out of the wilderness and make them do his bidding. They would say it is a lie, if they dared. That's the way with civilized men. When they can't explain something by their half-baked science, they refuse to believe it.'

The people on the Tauran were closer to the primitive than most Aquilonians; superstitions persisted, whose sources were lost in antiquity. And Balthus had seen that which still prickled his flesh. He could not refute the monstrous thing which Conan's words implied.

`I've heard that there's an ancient grove sacred to Jhebbal Sag somewhere in this forest,' said Conan. `I don't know. I've never seen it. But more beasts remember in this country than any I've ever seen.'

`Then others will be on our trail?'

`They are now,' was Conan's disquieting answer. `Zogar would never leave our tracking to one beast alone.'

`What are we to do, then?' asked Balthus uneasily, grasping his ax as he stared at the gloomy arches above him. His flesh crawled with the momentary expectation of ripping talons and fangs leaping from the shadows.

`Wait!'

Conan turned, squatted and with his knife began scratching a curious symbol in the mold. Stooping to look at it over his shoulder, Balthus felt a crawling of the flesh along his spine, he knew not why. He felt no wind against his face, but there was a rustling of leaves above them and a weird moaning swept ghostily through the branches. Conan glanced up inscrutably, then rose and stood staring somberly down at the symbol he had drawn.

`What is it?' whispered Balthus. It looked archaic and meaningless to him. He supposed that it was his ignorance of artistry which prevented his identifying it as one of the conventional designs of some prevailing culture. But had he been the most erudite artist in the world, he would have been no nearer the solution.

`I saw it carved in the rock of a cave no human had visited for a million years,' muttered Conan, `in the uninhabited mountains beyond the Sea of Vilayet, half a world away from this spot. Later I saw a black witch-finder of Kush scratch it in the sand of a nameless river. He told me part of its meaning - it's sacred to Jhebbal Sag and the creatures which worship him. Watch!'

They drew back among the dense foliage some yards away and waited in tense silence. To the east drums muttered and somewhere to north and west other drums answered. Balthus shivered, though he knew long miles of black forest separated him from the grim beaters of those drums whose dull pulsing was a sinister overture that set the dark stage for bloody drama.

Balthus found himself holding his breath. Then with a slight shaking of the leaves, the bushes parted and a magnificent panther came into view. The moonlight dappling through the leaves shone on its glossy coat rippling with the play of the great muscles beneath it.

With its head held low it glided toward them. It was smelling out their trail. Then it halted as if frozen, its muzzle almost touching the symbol cut in the mold. For a long space it crouched motionless; it flattened its long body and laid its head on the ground before the mark. And Balthus felt the short hairs stir on his scalp. For the attitude of the great carnivore was one of awe and adoration.

Then the panther rose and backed away carefully, belly almost to the ground. With his hind-quarters among the bushes he wheeled as if in sudden panic and was gone like a flash of dappled light.

Balthus mopped his brow with a trembling hand and glanced at Conan.

The barbarian's eyes were smoldering with fires that never lit the eyes of men bred to the ideas of civilization. In that instant he was all wild, and had forgotten the man at his side. In his burning gaze Balthus glimpsed and vaguely recognized pristine images and half-embodied memories, shadows from Life's dawn, forgotten and repudiated by sophisticated races - ancient, primeval fantasms unnamed and nameless.

Then the deeper fires were masked and Conan was silently leading the way deeper into the forest.

`We've no more to fear from the beasts,' he said after a while, `but we've left a sign for men to read. They won't follow our trail very easily, and until they find that symbol they won't know for sure we've turned south. Even then it won't be easy to smell us out without the beasts to aid them. But the woods south of the trail will be full of warriors looking for us. If we keep moving after daylight, we'll be sure to run into some of them. As soon as we find a good place we'll hide and wait until another night to swing back and make the river. We've got to warn Valannus, but it won't help him any if we get ourselves killed.'

`Warn Valannus?'

`Hell, the woods along the river are swarming with Picts! That's why they got us. Zogar's brewing war-magic; no mere raid this time. He's done something no Pict has done in my memory - united as many as fifteen or sixteen clans. His magic did it; they'll follow a wizard farther than they will a war-chief. You saw the mob in the village; and there were hundreds hiding along the river bank that you didn't see. More coming, from the farther villages. He'll have at least three thousand fightingmen. I lay in the bushes and heard their talk as they went past. They mean to attack the fort; when, I don't know, but Zogar doesn't dare delay long. He's gathered them and whipped them into a frenzy. If he doesn't lead them into battle quickly, they'll fall to quarreling with one another. They're like blood-mad tigers.

`I don't know whether they can take the fort or not. Anyway, we've got to get back across the river and give the warning. The settlers on the Velitrium road must either get into the fort or back to Velitrium. While the Picts are besieging the fort, warparties will range the road far to the east - might even cross Thunder River and raid the thickly settled country behind Velitrium.'

As he talked he was leading the way deeper and deeper into the ancient wilderness. Presently he grunted with satisfaction. They had reached a spot where the underbrush was more scattered, and an outcropping of stone was visible, wandering off southward. Balthus felt more secure as they followed it. Not even a Pict could trail them over naked rock.

`How did you get away?' he asked presently.

Conan tapped his mail-shirt and helmet.

`If more borderers would wear harness there'd be fewer skulls hanging on the altar-huts. But most men make noise if they wear armor. They were waiting on each side of the path, without moving. And when a Pict stands motionless, the very beasts of the forest pass him without seeing him. They'd seen us crossing the river and got in their places. If they'd gone into ambush after we-left the bank, I'd have had some hint of it. But they were waiting, and not even a leaf trembled. The devil himself couldn't have suspected anything. The first suspicion I had was when I heard a shaft rasp against a bow as it was pulled back. I dropped and yelled for the men behind me to drop, but they were too slow, taken by surprise like that.

`Most of them fell at the first volley that raked us from both sides. Some of the arrows crossed the trail and struck Picts on the other side. I heard them howl.' He grinned with vicious satisfaction. `Such of us as were left plunged into the woods and closed with them. When I saw the others were all down or taken, I broke through and outfooted the painted devils through the darkness. They were all around me. I ran and crawled and sneaked, and sometimes I lay on my belly under the bushes while they passed me on all sides.

`I tried for the shore and found it lined with them, waiting for just such a move. But I'd have cut my way through and taken a chance on swimming, only I heard the drums pounding in the village and knew they'd taken somebody alive.

`They were all so engrossed in Zogar's magic that I was able to climb the wall behind the altar-hut. There was a warrior supposed to be watching at that point, but he was squatting behind the hut and peering around the corner at the ceremony. I came up behind him and broke his neck with my hands before he knew what was happening. It was his spear I threw into the snake, and that's his ax you're carrying.'

`But what was that - that thing you killed in the altar-but?' asked Balthus, with a shiver at the memory of the dim-seen horror.

`One of Zogar's gods. One of Jhebbal's children that didn't remember and had to be kept chained to the altar. A bull ape. The Picts think they're sacred to the Hairy One who lives on the moon - the gorilla-god of Gullah.

`It's getting light. Here's a good place to hide until we see how close they're on our trail. Probably have to wait until night to break back to the river.'

A low hill pitched upward, girdled and covered with thick trees and bushes. Near the crest Conan slid into a tangle of jutting rocks, crowned by dense bushes. Lying among them they could see the jungle below without being seen. It was a good place to hide or defend. Balthus did not believe that even a Pict could have trailed them over the rocky ground for the past four or five miles, but he was afraid of the beasts that obeyed Zogar Sag. His faith in the curious symbol wavered a little now. But Conan had dismissed the possibility of beasts tracking them.

A ghostly whiteness spread through the dense branches; the patches of sky visible altered in hue, grew from pink to blue. Balthus felt the gnawing of hunger, though he had slaked his thirst at a stream they had skirted. There was complete silence, except for an occasional chirp of a bird. The drums were no longer to be heard. Balthus' thoughts reverted to the grim scene before the altar-hut.

`Those were ostrich plumes Zogar Sag wore,' he said. `I've seen them on the helmets of knights who rode from the East to visit the barons of the marches. There are no ostriches in this forest, are there?'

`They came from Kush,' answered Conan. `West of here, many marches, lies the seashore. Ships from Zingara occasionally come and trade weapons and ornaments and wine to the coastal tribes for skins and copper ore and gold dust. Sometimes they trade ostrich plumes they got from the Stygians, who in turn got them from the black tribes of Kush, which lies south of Stygia. The Pictish shamans place great store by them. But there's much risk in such trade. The Picts are too likely to try to seize the ship. And the coast is dangerous to ships. I've sailed along it when I was with the pirates of the Barachan Isles, which lie southwest of Zingara.'

Balthus looked at his companion with admiration.

`I knew you hadn't spent your life on this frontier. You've mentioned several far places. You've traveled widely?'

`I've roamed far; farther than any other man of my race ever wandered. I've seen all the great cities of the Hyborians, the Shemites, the Stygians and the Hyrkanians. I've roamed in the unknown countries south of the black kingdoms of Kush, and east of the Sea of Vilayet. I've been a mercenary captain, a corsair, a kozak, a penniless vagabond, a general - hell, I've been everything except a king, and I may be that, before I die.' The fancy pleased him, and he grinned hardly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and stretched his mighty figure on the rocks. `This is as good life as any. I don't know how long I'll stay on the frontier; a week, a month, a year. I have a roving foot. But it's as well on the border as anywhere.'

Balthus set himself to watch the forest below them. Momentarily he expected to see fierce painted faces thrust through the leaves. But as the hours passed no stealthy footfall disturbed the brooding quiet. Balthus believed the Picts had missed their trail and given up the chase. Conan grew restless.

`We should have sighted parties scouring the woods for us. If they've quit the chase, it's because they're after bigger game. They may be gathering to cross the river and storm the fort.'

`Would they come this far south if they lost the trail?'

`They've lost the trail, all right; otherwise they'd have been on our necks before now. Under ordinary circumstances they'd scour the woods for miles in every direction. Some of them should have passed within sight of this hill. They must be preparing to cross the river. We've got to take a chance and make for the river.'

Creeping down the rocks Balthus felt his flesh crawl between his shoulders as he momentarily expected a withering blast of arrows from the green masses about them. He feared that the Picts had discovered them and were lying about in ambush. But Conan was convinced no enemies were near, and the Cimmerian was right.

`We're miles to the south of the village,' grunted Conan.

`We'll hit straight through for the river. I don't know how far down the river they've spread. We'll hope to hit it below them.'

With haste that seemed reckless to Balthus they hurried eastward. The woods seemed empty of life. Conan believed that all the Picts were gathered in the vicinity of Gwawela, if indeed, they had not already crossed the river. He did not believe they would cross in the daytime, however.

`Some woodsman would be sure to see them and give the alarm. They'll cross above and below the fort, out of sight of the sentries. Then others will get in canoes and make straight across for the river wall. As soon as they attack, those hidden in the woods on the east shore will assail the fort from the other sides. They've tried that before, and got the guts shot and hacked out of them. But this time they've got enough men to make a real onslaught of it.'

They pushed on without pausing, though Balthus gazed longingly at the squirrels flitting among the branches, which he could have brought down with a cast of his ax. With a sigh he drew up his broad belt. The everlasting silence and gloom of the primitive forest was beginning to depress him. He found himself thinking of the open groves and sun-dappled meadows of the Tauran, of the bluff cheer of his father's steep-thatched, diamond-paned house, of the fat cows browsing through the deep, lush grass, and the hearty fellowship of the brawny, bare-armed plowmen and herdsmen.

He felt lonely, in spite of his companion. Conan was as much a part of this wilderness as Balthus was alien to it. The Cimmerian might have spent years among the great cities of the world; he might have walked with the rulers of civilization; he might even achieve his wild whim some day and rule` as king of a civilized nation; stranger things had happened. But he was no less a barbarian. He was concerned only with the naked fundamentals of life. The warm intimacies of small, kindly things, the sentiments and delicious trivialities that make up so much of civilized men's lives were meaningless to him. A wolf was no less a wolf because a whim of chance caused him to run with the watchdogs. Bloodshed and violence and savagery were the natural elements of the life Conan knew; he could not, and would never, understand the little things that are so dear to civilized men and women.

The shadows were lengthening when they reached the river and peered through the masking bushes. They could see up and down the river for about a mile each way. The sullen stream lay bare and empty. Conan scowled across at the other shore.

`We've got to take another chance here. We've got to swim the river. We don't know whether they've crossed or not. The woods over there may be alive with them. We've got to risk it. We're about six miles south of Gwawela.'

He wheeled and ducked as a bowstring twanged. Something like a white flash of light streaked through the bushes. Balthus knew it was an arrow. Then with a tigerish bound Conan was through the bushes. Balthus caught the gleam of steel as he whirled his sword, and heard a death scream. The next instant he had broken through the bushes after the Cimmerian.

A Pict with a shattered skull lay face-down on the ground, his fingers spasmodically clawing at the grass. Half a dozen others were swarming about Conan, swords and axes lifted. They had cast away their bows, useless at such deadly close quarters. Their lower jaws were painted white, contrasting vividly with their dark faces, and the designs on their muscular breasts differed from any Balthus had ever seen.

One of them hurled his ax at Balthus and rushed after it with lifted knife. Balthus ducked and then caught the wrist that drove the knife licking at his throat. They went to the ground together, rolling over and over. The Pict was like a wild beast, his muscles hard as steel strings.

Balthus was striving to maintain his hold on the wild man's wrist and bring his own ax into play, but so fast and furious was the struggle that each attempt to strike was blocked. The Pict was wrenching furiously to free his knife hand, was clutching at Balthus' ax, and driving his knees at the youth's groin. Suddenly he attempted to shift his knife to his free hand, and in that instant Balthus, struggling up on one knee, split the painted head with a desperate blow of his ax.

He sprang up and glared wildly about for his companion, expecting to see him overwhelmed by numbers. Then he realized the full strength and ferocity of the Cimmerian. Conan bestrode two of his attackers, shorn half asunder by that terrible broadsword. As Balthus looked he saw the Cimmerian beat down a thrusting shortsword, avoid the stroke of an ax with a cat-like sidewise spring which brought him within arm's length of a squat savage stooping for a bow. Before the Pict could straighten, the red sword flailed down and clove him from shoulder to mid-breastbone, where the blade stuck. The remaining warriors rushed in, one from either side. Balthus hurled his ax with an accuracy that reduced the attackers to one, and Conan, abandoning his efforts to free his sword, wheeled and met the remaining Pict with his bare hands. The stocky warrior, a head shorter than his tall enemy, leaped in, striking with his ax, at the same time stabbing murderously with his knife. The knife broke on the Cimmerian's mail, and the ax checked in midair as Conan's fingers locked like iron on the descending arm. A bone snapped loudly, and Balthus saw the Pict wince and falter. The next instant he was swept off his feet, lifted high above the Cimmerian's head - he writhed in midair for an instant, kicking and thrashing, and then was dashed headlong to the earth with such force that he rebounded, and then lay still, his limp posture telling of splintered limbs and a broken spine.

`Come on!' Conan wrenched his sword free and snatched up an ax. `Grab a bow and a handful of arrows, and hurry! We've got to trust to our heels again. That yell was heard. They'll be here in no time. If we tried to swim now, they'd feather us with arrows before we reached midstream!'

6 Red Axes of the Border

Conan did not plunge deeply into the forest. A few hundred yards from the river, he altered his slanting course and ran parallel with it. Balthus recognized a grim determination not to be hunted away from the river which they must cross if they were to warn the men in the fort. Behind them rose more loudly the yells of the forest men. Balthus believed the Picts had reached the glade where the bodies of the slain men lay. Then further yells seemed to indicate that the savages were streaming into the woods in pursuit. They had left a trail any Pict could follow.

Conan increased his speed, and Balthus grimly set his teeth and kept on his heels, though he felt he might collapse any time. It seemed centuries since he had eaten last. He kept going more by an effort of will than anything else. His blood was pounding so furiously in his ear-drums that he was not aware when the yells died out behind them.

Conan halted suddenly. Balthus leaned against a tree and panted.

`They've quit!' grunted the Cimmerian, scowling.

`Sneaking - up - on - us!' gasped Balthus.

Conan shook his head.

`A short chase like this they'd yell every step of the way. No. They've gone back. I thought I heard somebody yelling behind them a few seconds before the noise began to get dimmer. They've been recalled. And that's good for us, but damned bad for the men in the fort. It means the warriors are being summoned out of the woods for the attack. These men we ran into were warriors from a tribe down the river. They were undoubtedly headed for Gwawela to join in the assault on the fort. Damn it, we're farther away than ever, now. We've got to get across the river.'

Turning east he hurried through the thickets with no attempt at concealment. Balthus followed him, for the first time feeling the sting of lacerations on his breast and shoulder where the Pict's savage teeth had scored him. He was pushing through the thick bushes that fringed the bank when Conan pulled him back. Then he heard a rhythmic splashing, and peering through the leaves, saw a dugout canoe coming up the river, its single occupant paddling hard against the current. He was a strongly built Pict with a white heron feather thrust in a copper band that confined his square-cut mane.

`That's a Gwawela man,' muttered Conan. `Emissary from Zogar. White plume shows that. He's carried a peace talk to the tribes down the river and now he's trying to get back and take a hand in the slaughter.'

The lone ambassador was now almost even with their hidingplace, and suddenly Balthus almost jumped out of his skin. At his very ear had sounded the harsh gutturals of a Pict. Then he realized that Conan had called to the paddler in his own tongue. The man started, scanned the bushes and called back something, then cast a startled glance across the river, bent low and sent the canoe shooting in toward the western bank. Not understanding, Balthus saw Conan take from his hand the bow he had picked up in the glade, and notch an arrow.

The Pict had run his canoe in close to the shore, and staring up into the bushes, called out something. His answer came in the twang of the bowstring, the streaking flight of the arrow that sank to the feathers in his broad breast. With a choking gasp he slumped sidewise and rolled into the shallow water. In an instant Conan was down the bank and wading into the water to grasp the drifting canoe. Balthus stumbled after him and somewhat dazedly crawled into the canoe. Conan scrambled in, seized the paddle and sent the craft shooting toward the eastern shore. Balthus noted with envious admiration the play of the great muscles beneath the sun-burnt skin. The Cimmerian seemed an iron man, who never knew fatigue.

`What did you say to the Pict?' asked Balthus.

`Told him to pull into shore; said there was a white forest runner on the bank who was trying to get a shot at him.'

`That doesn't seem fair,' Balthus objected. `He thought a friend was speaking to him. You mimicked a Pict perfectly-'

`We needed his boat,' grunted Conan, not pausing in his exertions. `Only way to lure him to the bank. Which is worse -to betray a Pict who'd enjoy skinning us both alive, or betray the men across the river whose lives depend on our getting over?'

Balthus mulled over this delicate ethical question for a moment, then shrugged his shoulder and asked: `How far are we from the fort?'

Conan pointed to a creek which flowed into Black River from the east, a few hundred yards below them.

`That's South Creek; it's ten miles from its mouth to the fort.

It's the southern boundary of Conajohara. Marshes miles wide south of it. No danger of a raid from across them. Nine miles above the fort North Creek forms the other boundary. Marshes beyond that, too. That's why an attack must come from the west, across Black River. Conajohara's just like a spear, with a point nineteen miles wide, thrust into the Pictish wilderness.'

`Why don't we keep to the canoe and make the trip by water?'

`Because, considering the current we've got to brace, and the bends in the river, we can go faster afoot. Besides, remember Gwawela is south of the fort; if the Picts are crossing the river we'd run right into them.'

Dusk was gathering as they stepped upon the eastern bank. Without pause Conan pushed on northward, at a pace that made Balthus' sturdy legs ache.

'Valannus wanted a fort built at the mouths of North and South Creeks,' grunted the Cimmerian. `Then the river could be patrolled constantly. But the Government wouldn't do it.

`Soft-bellied fools sitting on velvet cushions with naked girls offering them iced wine on their knees - I know the breed. They can't see any farther than their palace wall. Diplomacy -hell! They'd fight Picts with theories of territorial expansion. Valannus and men like him have to obey the orders of a set of damned fools. They'll never grab any more Pictish land, any more than they'll ever rebuild Venarium. The time may come when they'll see the barbarians swarming over the walls of the Eastern cities!'

A week before, Balthus would have laughed at any such preposterous suggestion. Now he made no reply. He had seen the unconquerable ferocity of the men who dwelt beyond the frontiers.

He shivered, casting glances at the sullen river, just visible through the bushes, at the arches of the trees which crowded close to its banks. He kept remembering that the Picts might have crossed the river and be lying in ambush between them and the fort. It was fast growing dark.

A slight sound ahead of them jumped his heart into his throat, and Conan's sword gleamed in the air. He lowered it when a dog, a great, gaunt, scared beast, slunk out of the bushes and stood staring at them.

`That dog belonged to a settler who tried to build his cabin on the bank of the river a few miles south of the fort,' grunted Conan. `The Picts slipped over and killed him, of course, and burned his cabin. We found him dead among the embers, and the dog lying senseless among three Picts he'd killed. He was almost cut to pieces. We took him to the fort and dressed his wounds, but after he recovered he took to the woods and turned wiId - What now, Slasher, are you hunting the men who killed your master?'

The massive head swung from side to side and the eyes glowed greenly. He did not growl or bark. Silently as a phantom he slid in behind them.

`Let him come,' muttered Conan. `He can smell the devils before we can see them.'

Balthus smiled and laid his hand caressingly on the dog's head. The lips involuntarily writhed back to display the gleaming fangs; then the great beast bent his head sheepishly, and his tail moved with jerky uncertainty, as if the owner had almost forgotten the emotions of friendliness. Balthus mentally compared the great gaunt hard body with the fat sleek hounds tumbling vociferously over one another in his father's kennel yard. He sighed. The frontier was no less hard for beasts than for men. This dog had almost forgotten the meaning of kindness and friendliness.

Slasher glided ahead, and Conan let him take the lead. The last tinge of dusk faded into stark darkness. The miles fell away under their steady feet. Slasher seemed voiceless. Suddenly he halted, tense, ears lifted. An instant later the men heard it - a demoniac yelling up the river ahead of them, faint as a whisper.

Conan swore like a madman.

`They've attacked the fort! We're too late! Come on!'

He increased his pace, trusting to the dog to smell out ambushes ahead. In a flood of tense excitement Balthus forgot his hunger and weariness. The yells grew louder as they advanced, and above the devilish screaming they could hear the deep shouts of the soldiers. Just as Balthus began to fear they would run into the savages who seemed to be howling just ahead of them, Conan swung away from the river in a wide semicircle that carried them to a low rise from which they could look over the forest. They saw the fort, lighted with torches thrust over the parapets on long poles. These cast a flickering, uncertain light over the clearing, and in that light they saw throngs of naked, painted figures along the fringe of the clearing. The river swarmed with canoes. The Picts had the fort completely surrounded.

An incessant hail of arrows rained against the stockade from the woods and the river. The deep twanging of the bowstrings rose above the howling. Yelling like wolves, several hundred naked warriors with axes in their hands ran from under the trees and raced toward the eastern gate. They were within a hundred and fifty yards of their objective when a withering blast of arrows from the wall littered the ground with corpses and sent the survivors fleeing back to the trees. The men in the canoes rushed their boats toward the river-wall, and were met by another shower of clothyard shafts and a volley from the small ballistas mounted on towers on that side of the stockade. Stones and logs whirled through the air and splintered and sank half a dozen canoes, killing their occupants, and the other boats drew back out of range. A deep roar of triumph rose from the walls of the fort, answered by bestial howling from all quarters.

`Shall we try to break through?' asked Balthus, trembling with eagerness.

Conan shook his head. He stood with his arms folded, his head slightly bent, a somber and brooding figure.

`The fort's doomed. The Picts are blood-mad, and won't stop until they're all killed. And there are too many of them for the men in the fort to kill. We couldn't break through, and if we did, we could do nothing but die with Valannus.'

`There's nothing we can do but save our own hides, then?'

`Yes. We've got to warn the settlers. Do you know why the Picts are not trying to burn the fort with fire-arrows? Because they don't want a flame that might warn the people to the east. They plan to stamp out the fort, and then sweep east before anyone knows of its fall. They may cross Thunder River and take Velitrium before the people know what's happened. At least they'll destroy every living thing between the fort and Thunder River.

`We've failed to warn the fort, and I see now it would have done no good if we had succeeded. The fort's too poorly manned. A few more charges and the Picts will be over the walls and breaking down the gates. But we can start the settlers toward Velitrium. Come on! We're outside the circle the Picts have thrown around the fort. We'll keep clear of it.'

They swung out in a wide arc, hearing the rising and falling of the volume of the yells, marking each charge and repulse. The men in the fort were holding their own; but the shrieks of the Picts did not diminish in savagery. They vibrated with a timbre that held assurance of ultimate victory.

Before Balthus realized they were close to it, they broke into the road leading east.

`Now run!' grunted Conan. Balthus set his teeth. It was nineteen miles to Velitrium, a good five to Scalp Creek beyond which began the settlements. It seemed to the Aquilonian that they had been fighting and running for centuries. But the nervous excitement that rioted through his blood stimulated him to Herculean efforts.

Slasher ran ahead of them, his head to the ground, snarling low, the first sound they had heard from him.

`Picts ahead of us!' snarled Conan, dropping to one knee and scanning the ground in the starlight. He shook his head, baffled. `I can't tell how many. Probably only a small party. Some that couldn't wait to take the fort. They've gone ahead to butcher the settlers in their beds! Come on!'

Ahead of them presently they saw a small blaze through the trees, and heard a wild and ferocious chanting. The trail bent there, and leaving it, they cut across the bend, through the thickets. A few moments later they were looking on a hideous sight. An ox-wain stood in the road piled with meager household furnishings; it was burning; the oxen lay near with their throats cut. A man and a woman lay in the road, stripped and mutilated. Five Picts were dancing about them with fantastic leaps and bounds, waving bloody axes; one of them brandished the woman's red-smeared gown.

At the sight a red haze swam before Balthus. Lifting his bow he lined the prancing figure, black against the fire, and loosed. The slayer leaped convulsively and fell dead with the arrow through his heart. Then the two white men and the dog were upon the startled survivors. Conan was animated merely by his fighting spirit and an old, old racial hate, but Balthus was afire with wrath.

He met the first Pict to oppose him with a ferocious swipe that split the painted skull, and sprang over his falling body to grapple with the others. But Conan had already killed one of the two he had chosen, and the leap of the Aquilonian was a second late. The warrior was down with the long sword through him even as Balthus' ax was lifted. Turning toward the remaining Pict, Balthus saw Slasher rise from his victim, his great jaws dripping blood.

Balthus said nothing as he looked down at the pitiful forms in the road beside the burning wain. Both were young, the woman little more than a girl. By some whim of chance the Picts had left her face unmarred, and even in the agonies of an awful death it was beautiful. But her soft young body had been hideously slashed with many knives - a mist clouded Balthus' eyes and he swallowed chokingly. The tragedy momentarily overcame him. He felt like falling upon the ground and weeping and biting the earth.

`Some young couple just hitting out on their own,' Conan was saying as he wiped his sword unemotionally. `On their way to the fort when the Picts met them. Maybe the boy was going to enter the service; maybe take up land on the river. Well, that's what will happen to every man, woman and child this side of Thunder River if we don't get them into Velitrium in a hurry.'

Balthus' knees trembled as he followed Conan. But there was no hint of weakness in the long easy stride of the Cimmerian. There was a kinship between him and the great gaunt brute that glided beside him. Slasher no longer growled with his head to the trail. The way was clear before them. The yelling on the river came faintly to them, but Balthus believed the fort was still holding. Conan halted suddenly, with an oath.

He showed Balthus a trail that led north from the road. It was an old trail, partly grown with new young growth, and this growth had recently been broken down. Balthus realized this fact more by feel than sight, though Conan seemed to see like a cat in the dark. The Cimmerian showed him where broad wagon tracks turned off the main trail, deeply indented in the forest mold.

`Settlers going to the licks after salt,' he grunted. `They're at the edges of the marsh, about nine miles from here. Blast it! They'll be cut off and butchered to a man! Listen! One man can warn the people on the road. Go ahead and wake them up and herd them into Velitrium. I'll go and get the men gathering the salt. They'll be camped by the licks. We won't come back to the road. We'll head straight through the woods.'

With no further comment Conan turned off the trail and hurried down the dim path, and Balthus, after staring after him for a few moments, set out along the road. The dog had remained with him, and glided softly at his heels. When Balthus had gone a few rods he heard the animal growl. Whirling, he glared back the way he had come, and was startled to see a vague ghostly glow vanishing into the forest in the direction Conan had taken. Slasher rumbled deep in his throat, his hackles stiff and his eyes balls of green fire. Balthus remembered the grim apparition that had taken the head of the merchant Tiberias not far from that spot, and he hesitated. The thing must be following Conan. But the giant Cimmerian had repeatedly demonstrated his ability to take care of himself, and Balthus felt his duty lay toward the helpless settlers who slumbered in the path of the red hurricane. The horror of the fiery phantom was overshadowed by the horror of those limp, violated bodies beside the burning ox-wain.

He hurried down the road, crossed Scalp Creek and came in sight of the first settler's cabin - a long, low structure of ax-hewn logs. In an instant he was pounding on the door. A sleepy voice inquired his pleasure.

`Get up! The Picts are over the river!'

That brought instant response. A low cry echoed his words and then the door was thrown open by a woman in a scanty shift. Her hair hung over her bare shoulders in disorder; she held a candle in one hand and an ax in the other. Her face was colorless, her eyes wide with terror.

`Come in!' she begged. `We'll hold the cabin.'

`No. We must make for Velitrium. The fort can't hold them back. It may have fallen already. Don't stop to dress. Get your children and come on.'

`But my man's gone with the others after salt!' she wailed, wringing her hands. Behind her peered three tousled youngsters, blinking and bewildered.

'Conan's gone after them. He'll fetch them through safe. We must hurry up the road to warn the other cabins.'

Relief flooded her countenance.

`Mitra be thanked!' she cried. `If the Cimmerian's gone after them, they're safe if mortal man can save them!'

In a whirlwind of activity she snatched up the smallest child and herded the others through the door ahead of her. Balthus took the candle and ground it out under his heel. He listened an instant. No sound came up the dark road.

`Have you got a horse:'

`In the stable,' she groaned. `Oh, hurry!'

He pushed her aside as she fumbled with shaking hands at the bars. He led the horse out and lifted the children on its back, telling them to hold to its mane and to one another. They stared at him seriously, making no outcry. The woman took the horse's halter and set out up the road. She still gripped her ax and Balthus knew that if cornered she would fight with the desperate courage of a she-panther.

He held behind, listening. He was oppressed by the belief that the fort had been stormed and taken; that the darkskinned hordes were already streaming up the road toward Velitrium, drunken on slaughter and mad for blood. They would come with the speed of starving wolves.

Presently they saw another cabin looming ahead. The woman started to shriek a warning, but Balthus stopped her. He hurried to the door and knocked. A woman's voice answered him. He repeated his warning, and soon the cabin disgorged its occupants - an old woman, two young women and four children. Like the other woman's husband, their men had gone to the salt licks the day before, unsuspecting of any danger. One of the young women seemed dazed, the other prone to hysteria. But the old woman, a stern old veteran of the frontier, quieted them harshly; she helped Balthus get out the two horses that were stabled in a pen behind the cabin and put the children on them. Balthus urged that she herself mount with them, but she shook her head and made one of the younger women ride.

`She's with child,' grunted the old woman. `I can walk - and fight, too, if it comes to that.'

As they set out, one of the women said: `A young couple passed along the road about dusk; we advised them to spend the night at our cabin, but they were anxious to make the fort tonight. Did - did-'

`They met the. Picts,' answered Balthus briefly, and the woman sobbed in horror.

They were scarcely out of sight of the cabin when some distance behind them quavered a long high-pitched yell.

`A wolf!' exclaimed one of the women.

`A painted wolf with an ax in his hand,' muttered Balthus. `Go! Rouse the other settlers along the road and take them with you. I'll scout along behind.'

Without a word the old woman herded her charges ahead of her. As they faded into the darkness, Balthus could see the pale ovals that were the faces of the children twisted back over their shoulders to stare toward him. He remembered his own people on the Tauran and a moment's giddy sickness swam over him. With momentary weakness he groaned and sank down in the road; his muscular arm fell over Slasher's massive neck and he felt the dog's warm moist tongue touch his face.

He lifted his head and grinned with a painful effort.

`Come on, boy,' he mumbled, rising. `We've got work to do.'

A red glow suddenly became evident through the trees. The Picts had fired the last hut. He grinned. How Zogar Sag would froth if he knew his warriors had let their destructive natures get the better of them. The fire would warn the people farther up the road. They would be awake and alert when the fugitives reached them. But his face grew grim. The women were traveling slowly, on foot and on the overloaded horses. The swift-footed Picts would run them down within a mile, unless-he took his position behind a tangle of fallen logs beside the trail. The road west of him was lighted by the burning cabin, and when the Picts came he saw them first - black furtive figures etched against the distant glare.

Drawing a shaft to the head, he loosed and one of the figures crumpled. The rest melted into the woods on either side of the road. Slasher whimpered with the killing lust beside him. Suddenly a figure appeared on the fringe of the trail, under the trees, and began gliding toward the fallen timbers. Balthus' bowstring twanged and the Pict yelped, staggered and fell into the shadows with the arrow through his thigh. Slasher cleared the timbers with a bound and leaped into the bushes. They were violently shaken and then the dog slunk back to Balthus' side, his jaws crimson.

No more appeared in the trail; Balthus began to fear they were stealing past his position through the woods, and when he heard a faint sound to his left he loosed blindly. He cursed as he heard the shaft splinter against a tree, but Slasher glided away as silently as a phantom, and presently Balthus heard a thrashing and a gurgling; then Slasher came like a ghost through the bushes, snuggling his great, crimson-stained head against Balthus' arm. Blood oozed from a gash in his shoulder, but the sounds in the wood had ceased for ever.

The men lurking on the edges of the road evidently sensed the fate of their companion, and decided that an open charge was preferable to being dragged down in the dark by a devilbeast they could neither see nor hear. Perhaps they realized that only one man lay behind the logs. They came with a sudden rush, breaking cover from both sides of the trail. Three dropped with arrows through them - and the remaining pair hesitated. One turned and ran back down the road, but the other lunged over the breastwork, his eyes and teeth gleaming in the dim light, his ax lifted. Balthus' foot slipped as he sprang up, but the slip saved his life. The descending ax shaved a lock of hair from his head, and the Pict rolled down the logs from the force of his wasted blow. Before he could regain his feet Slasher tore his throat out.

Then followed a tense period of waiting, in which time Balthus wondered if the man who had fled had been the only survivor of the party. Obviously it had been a small band that had either left the fighting at the fort, or was scouting ahead of the main body. Each moment that passed increased the chances for safety of the women and children hurrying toward Velitrium.

Then without warning a shower of arrows whistled over his retreat. A wild howling rose from the woods along the trail. Either the survivor had gone after aid, or another party had joined the first. The burning cabin still smoldered, lending a little light. Then they were after him, gliding through the trees beside the trail. He shot three arrows and threw the bow away. As if sensing his plight, they came on, not yelling now, but in deadly silence except for a swift pad of many feet.

He fiercely hugged the head of the great dog growling at his side, muttered: A11 right, boy, give 'em hell!' and sprang to his feet, drawing his ax. Then the dark figures flooded over the breastworks and closed in a storm of flailing axes, stabbing knives and ripping fangs.

7 The Devil in the Fire

When Conan turned from the Velitrium road he expected a run of some nine miles and set himself to the task. But he had not gone four when he heard the sounds of a party of men ahead of him. From the noise they were making in their progress he knew they were not Picts. He hailed them.

`Who's there?' challenged a harsh voice. `Stand where you are until we know you, or you'll get an arrow through you.'

`You couldn't hit an elephant in this darkness,' answered Conan impatiently. `Come on, fool; it's I - Conan. The Picts are over the river.'

`We suspected as much,' answered the leader of the men, as they strode forward - tall, rangy men, stern-faced, with bows in their hands. `One of our party wounded an antelope and tracked it nearly to Black River. He heard them yelling down the river and ran back to our camp. We left the salt and the wagons, turned the oxen loose and came as swiftly as we could. If the Picts are besieging the fort, warparties will be ranging up the road toward our cabins.'

`Your families are safe,' grunted Conan. `My companion went ahead to take them to Velitrium. If we go back to the main road we may run into the whole horde. We'll strike southeast, through the timber. Go ahead. I'll scout behind.'

A few moments later the whole band was hurrying southeastward. Conan followed more slowly, keeping just within earshot. He cursed the noise they were making; that many Picts or Cimmerians would have moved through the woods with no more noise than the wind makes as it blows through the black branches.

He had just crossed a small glade when he wheeled answering the conviction of his primitive instincts that he was being followed. Standing motionless among the bushes he heard the sounds of the retreating settlers fade away. Then a voice called faintly back along the way he had come: 'Conan! Conan! Wait for me, Conan!'

'Balthus!' he swore bewilderedly. Cautiously he called: `Here I am.'

`Wait for me, Conan!' the voice came more distinctly.

Conan moved out of the shadows, scowling. `What the devil are you doing here? - Crom!'

He half crouched, the flesh prickling along his spine. It was not Balthus who was emerging from the other side of the glade. A weird glow burned through the trees. It moved toward him, shimmering weirdly - a green witch-fire that moved with purpose and intent.

It halted some feet away and Conan glared at it, trying to distinguish its fire-misted outlines. The quivering flame had a solid core; the flame was but a green garment that masked some animate and evil entity; but the Cimmerian was unable to make out its shape or likeness. Then, shockingly, a voice spoke to him from amidst the fiery column.

`Why do you stand like a sheep waiting for the butcher, Conan?'

The voice was human but carried strange vibrations that were not human.

`Sheep?' Conan's wrath got the best of his momentary awe. `Do you think I'm afraid of a damned Pictish swamp devil? A friend called me.'

`I called in his voice,' answered the other. `The men you follow belong to my brother; I would not rob his knife of their blood. But you are mine. Oh, fool, you have come from the far gray hills of Cimmeria to meet your doom in the forests of Conajohara.'

`You've had your chance at me before now,' snorted Conan. `Why didn't you kill me then, if you could?'

`My brother had not painted a skull black for you and hurled it into the fire that burns for ever on Gullah's black altar. He had not whispered your name to the black ghosts that haunt the uplands of the Dark Land. But a bat has flown over the Mountains of the Dead and drawn your image in blood on the white tiger's hide that hangs before the long but where sleep the Four Brothers of the Night. The great serpents coil about their feet and the stars burn like fire-flies in their hair.'

`Why have the gods of darkness doomed me to death?' growled Conan.

Something - a hand, foot or talon, he could not tell which, thrust out from the fire and marked swiftly on the mold. A symbol blazed there, marked with fire, and faded, but not before he recognized it.

`You dared make the sign which only a priest of Jhebbal Sag dare make. Thunder rumbled through the black Mountain of the Dead and the altar-but of Gullah was thrown down by a wind from the Gulf of Ghosts. The loon which is messenger to the Four Brothers of the Night flew swiftly and whispered your name in my ear. Your head will hang in the altar-but of my brother. Your body will be eaten by the black-winged, sharpbeaked Children of Jhil.'

`Who the devil is your brother?' demanded Conan. His sword was naked in his hand, and he was subtly loosening the ax in his belt.

`Zogar Sag; a child of Jhebbal Sag who still visits his sacred groves at times. A woman of Gwawela slept in a grove holy to Jhebbal Sag. Her babe was Zogar Sag. I too am a son of Jhebbal Sag, out of a fire-being from a far realm. Zogar Sag summoned me out of the Misty Lands. With incantations and sorcery and his own blood he materialized me in the flesh of his own planet. We are one, tied together by invisible threads. His thoughts are my thoughts; if he is struck, I am bruised. If I am cut, he bleeds. But I have talked enough. Soon your ghost will talk with the ghosts of the Dark Land, and they will tell you of the old gods which are not dead, but sleep in the outer abysses, and from time to time awake.'

`I'd like to see what you look like,' muttered Conan, working his ax free, `you who leave a track like a bird, who burn like a flame and yet speak with a human voice.'

`You shall see,' answered the voice from the flame, `see, and carry the knowledge with you into the Dark Land.'

The flames leaped and sank, dwindling and dimming. A face began to take shadowy form. At first Conan thought it was Zogar Sag himself who stood wrapped in green fire. But the face was higher than his own and there was a demoniac aspect about it - Conan had noted various abnormalities about Zogar Sag's features - an obliqueness of the eyes, a sharpness of the ears, a wolfish thinness of the lips; these peculiarities were exaggerated in the apparition which swayed before him. The eyes were red as coals of living fire.

More details came into view: a slender torso, covered with snaky scales, which was yet manlike in shape, with manlike arms, from the waist upward; below, long crane-like legs ended in splay, threetoed feet like those of some huge bird. Along the monstrous limbs the blue fire fluttered and ran. He saw it as through a glistening mist.

Then suddenly it was towering over him, though he had not seen it move toward him. A long arm, which for the first time he noticed was armed with curving, sickle-like talons, swung high and swept down at his neck. With a fierce cry he broke the spell and bounded aside, hurling his ax. The demon avoided the cast with an unbelievably quick movement of its narrow head and was on him again with a hissing rush of leaping flames.

But fear had fought for it when it slew its other victims, and Conan was not afraid. He knew that any being clothed in material flesh can be slain by material weapons, however grisly its form may be.

One flailing talon-armed limb knocked his helmet from his head. A little lower and it would have decapitated him. But fierce joy surged through him as his savagely driven sword sank deep in the monster's groin. He bounded backward from a flailing stroke, tearing his sword free as he leaped. The talons raked his breast, ripping through mail-links as if they had been cloth. But his return spring was like that of a starving wolf. He was inside the lashing arms and driving his sword deep in the monster's belly - felt the arms lock about him and the talons ripping the mail from his back as they sought his vitals - he was lapped and dazzled by blue flame that was chill as ice - then he had torn fiercely away from the weakening arms and his sword cut the air in a tremendous swipe.

The demon staggered and fell sprawling sidewise, its head hanging only by a shred of flesh. The fires that veiled it leaped fiercely upward, now red as gushing blood, hiding the figure from view. A scent of burning flesh filled Conan's nostrils. Shaking the blood and sweat from his eyes, he wheeled and ran staggering through the woods. Blood trickled down his limbs. Somewhere, miles to the south, he saw the faint glow of flames that might mark a burning cabin. Behind him, toward the road, rose a distant howling that spurred him to greater efforts.

8 Conajohara No More

There had been fighting on Thunder River; fierce fighting before the walls of Velitrium; ax and torch had been piled up and down the bank, and many a settler's cabin lay in ashes before the painted horde was rolled back.

A strange quiet followed the storm, in which people gathered and talked in hushed voices, and men with red-stained bandages drank their ale silently in the taverns along the river bank.

There, to Conan the Cimmerian, moodily quaffing from a great wine-glass, came a gaunt forester with a bandage about his head and his arm in a sling. He was the one survivor of Fort Tuscelan.

`You went with the soldiers to the ruins of the fort?'

Conan nodded.

`I wasn't able,' murmured the other. `There was no fighting?'

`The Picts had fallen back across the Black River. Something must have broken their nerve, though only the devil who made them knows what.'

The woodsman glanced at his bandaged arm and sighed.

`They say there were no bodies worth disposing of.'

Conan shook his head. `Ashes. The Picts had piled them in the fort and set fire to the fort before they crossed the river. Their own dead and the men of Valannus.'

'Valannus was killed among the last - in the hand-to-hand fighting when they broke the barriers. They tried to take him alive, but he made them kill him. They took ten of the rest of us prisoners when we were so weak from fighting we could fight no more. They butchered nine of us then and there. It was when Zogar Sag died that I got my chance to break free and run for it.'

`Zogar Sag's dead?' ejaculated Conan.

`Aye. I saw him die. That's why the Picts didn't press the fight against Velitrium as fiercely as they did against the fort. It was strange. He took no wounds in battle. He was dancing among the slain, waving an ax with which he'd just brained the last of my comrades. He came at me, howling like a wolf - and then he staggered and dropped the ax, and began to reel in a circle screaming as I never heard a man or beast scream before. He fell between me and the fire they'd built to roast me, gagging and frothing at the mouth, and all at once he went rigid and the Picts shouted that he was dead. It was during the confusion that I slipped my cords and ran for the woods.

`I saw him lying in the firelight. No weapon had touched him. Yet there were red marks like the wounds of a sword in the groin, belly and neck - the last as if his head had been almost severed from his body. What do you make of that?'

Conan made no reply, and the forester, aware of the reticence of barbarians on certain matters, continued: `He lived by magic, and somehow, he died by magic. It was the mystery of his death that took the heart out of the Picts. Not a man who saw it was in the fighting before Velitrium. They hurried back across Black River. Those that struck Thunder River were warriors who had come on before Zogar Sag died. They were not enough to take the city by themselves.

`I came along the road, behind their main force, and I know none followed me from the fort. I sneaked through their lines and got into the town. You brought the settlers through all right, but their women and children got into Velitrium just ahead of those painted devils. If the youth Balthus and old Slasher hadn't held them up awhile, they'd have butchered every woman and child in Conajohara. I passed the place where Balthus and the dog made their last stand. They were lying amid a heap of dead Picts - I counted seven, brained by his ax, or disemboweled by the dog's fangs, and there were others in the road with arrows sticking in them. Gods, what a fight that must have been!'

`He was a man,' said Conan. `I drink to his shade, and to the shade of the dog, who knew no fear.' He quaffed part of the wine, then emptied the rest upon the floor, with a curious heathen gesture, and smashed the goblet. `The heads of ten Picts shall pay for his, and seven heads for the dog, who was a better warrior than many a man.'

And the forester, staring into the moody, smoldering blue eyes, knew the barbaric oath would be kept.

`They'll not rebuild the fort?'

`No; Conajohara is lost to Aquilonia. The frontier has been pushed back. Thunder River will be the new border.'

The woodsman sighed and stared at his calloused hand, worn from contact with ax-haft and sword-hilt. Conan reached his long arm for the wine-jug. The forester stared at him, comparing him with the men about them, the men who had died along the lost river, comparing him with those other wild men over that river. Conan did not seem aware of his gaze.

`Barbarism is the natural state of mankind,' the borderer said, still staring somberly at the Cimmerian. `Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.'

Wolves Beyond the Border

1

It was the mutter of a drum that awakened me. I lay still amidst the bushes where I had taken refuge, straining my ears to locate it, for such sounds are illusive in the deep forest. In the dense woods about me there was no sound. Above me the tangled vines and brambles bent close to form a massed roof, and above them there loomed the higher, gloomier arch of the branches of the great trees. Not a star shone through that leafy vault. Low-hanging clouds seemed to press down upon the very tree-tops. There was no moon. The night was dark as a witch's hate.

The better for me. If I could not see my enemies, neither could they see me. But the whisper of that ominous drum stole through the night: thrum! thrum! thrum!, a steady monotone that grunted and growled of nameless secrets. I could not mistake the sound. Only one drum in the world makes just that deep, menacing, sullen thunder: a Pictish war-drum, in the hands of those wild painted savages who haunted the Wilderness beyond the border of the Westermarck.

And I was beyond that border, alone, and concealed in a brambly covert in the midst of the great forest where those naked fiends have reigned since Time's earliest dawns.

Now I located the sound; the drum was beating westward of my position and I believed at no great distance. Quickly I girt my belt more firmly, settled war-ax and knife in their beaded sheaths, strung my heavy bow and made sure that my quiver was in place at my left hip - groping with my fingers in the yutter darkness - and then I crawled from the thicket and went warily toward the sound of the drum.

That it personally concerned me I did not believe. If the forest-men had discovered me, their discovery would have been announced by a sudden knife in my throat, not by a drum beating in the distance. But the throb of the war-drum had a significance no forestrunner could ignore. It was a warning and a threat, a promise of doom for those white-skinned invaders whose lonely cabins and ax-marked clearings menaced the immemorial solitude of the wilderness. It meant fire and torture, flaming arrows dropping like falling stars through the darkness, and the red ax crunching through skulls of men and women and children.

So through the blackness of the nighted forest I went, feeling my way delicately among the mighty boles, sometimes creeping on hands and knees, and now and then my heart in my throat when a creeper brushed across my face or groping hand. For there are huge serpents in that forest which sometimes hang by their tails from branches and so snare their prey. But the creatures I sought were more terrible than any serpent, and as the drum grew louder I went as cautiously as if I trod on naked swords. And presently I glimpsed a red gleam among the trees, and heard a mutter of barbaric voices mingling with the snarl of the drum.

Whatever weird ceremony might be taking place yonder under the black trees, it was likely that they had outposts scattered about the place, and I knew how silent and motionless a Pict could stand, merging with the natural forest growth even in dim light, and unsuspected until his blade was through his victim's heart. My flesh crawled at the thought of colliding with one such grim sentry in the darkness, and I drew my knife and held it extended before me. But I knew not even a Pict could see me in that blackness of tangled forest-roof and the cloudmassed sky.

The light revealed itself as a fire before which black silhouettes moved like black devils against the red fires of hell, and presently I crouched close among the dense tamarack and looked into a black-walled glade and the figures that moved therein.

There were forty or fifty Picts, naked but for loin-cloths, and hideously painted, who squatted in a wide semi-circle, facing the fire, with their backs to me. By the hawk feathers in their thick black manes, I knew them to be of the Hawk Clan, or Onayaga. In the midst of the glade there was a crude altar made of rough stones heaped together, and at the sight of this my flesh crawled anew. For I had seen these Pictish altars before, all charred with fire and stained with blood, in empty forest glades, and though I had never witnessed the rituals wherein these things were used, I had heard the tales told about them by men who had been captives among the Picts, or spied upon them even as I was spying.

A feathered shaman was dancing between the fire and the altar, a slow, shuffling dance indescribably grotesque, which caused his plumes to swing and sway about him: his features were hidden by a grinning scarlet mask that looked like a forestdevil's face.

In the midst of the semi-circle of warriors squatted one with the great drum between his knees and as he smote it with his clenched fist it gave forth that low, growling rumble which is like the mutter of distant thunder.

Between the warriors and the dancing shaman stood one who was no Pict. For he was tall as I, and his skin was light in the play of the fire. But he was clad only in doeskin loin-clout and moccasins, and his body was painted, and there was a hawkfeather in his hair, so I knew he must be a Ligurean, one of those light-skinned savages who dwell in small clans in the great forest, generally at war with the Picts, but sometimes at peace and allied with them. Their skins are white as an Aquilonian's. The Picts are a white race too, in that they are not black nor brown nor yellow, but they are black-eyed and black-haired and dark of skin, and neither they nor the Ligureans are spoken of as 'white' by the people of Westermarck, who only designate thus a man of Hyborian blood.

Now as I watched I saw three warriors drag a man into the ring of the firelight - another Pict, naked and bloodstained, who still wore in his tangled mane a feather that identified him as a member of the Raven Clan, with whom the Hawkmen were ever at war. His captors cast him down upon the altar, bound hand and foot, and I saw his muscles swell and writhe in the firelight as he sought in vain to break the rawhide thongs which prisoned him.

Then the shaman began dancing again, weaving intricate patterns about the altar, and the man upon it, and he who beat the drum wrought himself into a fine frenzy, thundering away like one possessed of a devil. And suddenly, down from an overhanging branch dropped one of those great serpents of which I have spoken. The firelight glistened on its scales as it writhed toward the altar, its beady eyes glittered, and its forked tongue darted in and out, but the warriors showed no fear, though it passed within a few feet of some of them. And that was strange, for ordinarily these serpents are the only living creatures a Pict fears.

The monster reared its head up on arched neck above the altar, and it and the shaman faced one another across the prone body of the prisoner. The shaman danced with a writhing of body and arms, scarcely moving his feet, and as he danced, the great serpent danced with him, weaving and swaying as though mesmerized, and from the mask of the shaman rose a weird wailing that shuddered like the wind through the dry reeds along the sea-marshes. And slowly the great reptile reared higher and higher, and began looping itself about the altar and the man upon it, until his body was hidden by its shimmering folds, and only his head was visible with that other terrible head swaying close above it.

The shrilling of the shaman rose to a crescendo of infernal triumph, and he cast something into the fire. A great green cloud of smoke billowed up and rolled about the altar, so that it almost hid the pair upon it, making their outlines indistinct and illusive. But in the midst of that cloud I saw a hideous writhing and changing - those outlines melted and flowed together horribly, and for a moment I could not tell which was the serpent and which the man. A shuddering sigh swept over the assembled Picts like a wind moaning through nighted branches.

Then the smoke cleared and man and snake lay limply on the altar, and I thought both were dead. But the shaman seized the neck and let the great reptile ooze to the ground, and he tumbled the body of the man from the stones to fall beside the monster, and cut the rawhide thongs that bound wrist and ankle.

Then he began a weaving dance about them, chanting as he danced and swaying his arms in mad gestures. And presently the man moved. But he did not rise. His head swayed from side to side, and I saw his tongue dart out and in again. And Mitra, he began to wriggle away from the fire, squirming along on his belly, as a snake crawls!

And the serpent was suddenly shaken with convulsions and arched its neck and reared up almost its full length, and then fell back, loop on loop and reared up again vainly, horribly like a man trying to rise and stand and walk upright after being deprived of his limbs.

The wild howling of the Picts shook the night, and I was sick where I crouched among the bushes, and fought an urge to retch. I understood the meaning of this ghastly ceremony now. I had heard tales of it. By black, primordial sorcery that spawned and throve in the depths of this black primal forest, that painted shaman had transferred the soul of a captured enemy into the foul body of a serpent. It was the revenge of a fiend. And the screaming of the bloodmad Picts was like the yelling of all Hell's demons.

And the victims writhed and agonized side by side, the man and the serpent, until a sword flashed in the hand of the shaman and both heads fell together - and gods, it was the serpent's trunk which but quivered and jerked a little and then lay still, and the man's body which rolled and knotted and thrashed like a beheaded snake. A deathly faintness and weakness took hold of me, for what white man could watch such black diabolism unmoved? And these painted savages, smeared with war-paint howling and posturing and triumphing over the ghastly doom of a foe, seemed not humans at all to me, but foul fiends of the black world whom it was a duty and an obligation to slay.

The shaman sprang up and faced the ring of warriors, and, ripping off his mask, threat up his head and howled like a wolf And as the firelight fell full on his face, I recognized him, and with that recognition all horror and revulsion gave place to red rage, and all thought of personal peril and the recollection of my mission, which was my first obligation, was swept away. For that shaman was old Teyanoga of the South Hawks, he who burnt alive my friend, Jon Galter's son.

In the lust of my hate I acted almost instinctively - whipped up my bow, notched an arrow and loosed, all in an instant. The firelight was uncertain, but the range was not great, and we of the Westermarck live by twang of bow. Old Teyanoga yowled like a cat and reeled back and his warriors howled with amazement to see a shaft quivering suddenly in his breast. The tall, light-skinned warrior wheeled, and for the first time I saw his face - and Mitra, he was a white man!

The horrid shock of that surprise held me paralysed for a moment and had almost undone me. For the Picts instantly sprang up and rushed into the forest, like panthers, seeking the foe who fired that arrow. They had reached the first fringe of bushes when I jerked out of my spell of amaze and horror, and sprang up and raced away in the darkness, ducking and dodging among trees which I avoided more by instinct than otherwise, for it was dark as ever. But I knew the Picts could not strike my trail, but must hunt as blindly as I fled. And presently, as I ran northward, behind me I heard a hideous howling whose bloodmad fury was enough to freeze the blood even of a forestrunner. And I believed that they had plucked my arrow from the shaman's breast and discovered it to be a white man's shaft. That would bring them after me with fiercer blood-lust than ever.

I fled on, my heart pounding from fear and excitement, and the horror of the nightmare I had witnessed. And that a white man, a Hyborian, should have stood there as a welcome and evidently honored guest - for he was armed - I had seen knife and hatchet at his belt - was so monstrous I wondered if, after all, the whole thing were a nightmare. For never before had a white man observed The Dance of the Changing Serpent save as a prisoner, or a spy, as I had. And what monstrous thing it portended I knew not, but I was shaken with foreboding and horror at the thought.

And because of my horror I went more carelessly than is my wont, seeking haste at the expense of stealth, and occasionally blundering into a tree I could have avoided had I taken more care. And I doubt not it was the noise of this blundering progress which brought the Pict upon me, for he could not have seen me in that pitch-darkness.

Behind me sounded no more yells, but I knew that the Picts were ranging like fire-eyed wolves through the forest, spreading in a vast semi-circle and combing it as they ran. That they had not picked up my trail was evidenced by their silence, for they never yell except when they believe only a short dash is ahead of them, and feel sure of their prey.

The warrior who heard the sounds of my flight could not have been one of that party, for he was too far ahead of them. He must have been a scout ranging the forest to guard against his comrades being surprised from the north.

At any rate he heard me running close to him, and came like a devil of the black night. I knew of him first only by the swift faint pad of his naked feet, and when I wheeled I could not even make out the dim bulk of him, but only heard the soft thudding of those inexorable feet coming to me unseen in the darkness.

They see like cats in the dark, and I know he saw well enough to locate me, though doubtless I was only a dim blur in the darkness. But my blindly upswung hatchet met his falling knife and he impaled himself on my knife as he lunged in, his deathyell ringing like a peal of doom under the forest-roof. And it was answered by a ferocious clamor to the south, only a few hundred yards away, and then they were racing through the bushes giving tongue like wolves, certain of their quarry.

I ran for it in good earnest now, abandoning stealth entirely for the sake of speed, and trusting to luck that I would not dash out my brains against a tree-stem in the darkness.

But here the forest opened up somewhat; there was no underbrush, and something almost like light filtered in through the branches, for the clouds were clearing a little. And through this forest I fled like a damned soul pursued by demons, hearing the yells at first rising higher and higher in blood-thirsty triumph, then edged with anger and rage as they grew fainter and fell away behind me, for in a straight-away race no Pict can match the long legs of a white forestrunner. The desperate risk was that there were other scouts or war-parties ahead of me who could easily cut me off, hearing my flight; but it was a risk I had to take. But no painted figures started up like phantoms out of the shadows ahead of me, and presently, through the thickening growth that betokened the nearness of a creek, I saw a glimmer through the trees far ahead of me and knew it was the light of Fort Kwanyara, the southernmost outpost of Schohira.

2

Perhaps, before continuing 'with this chronicle of the bloody years, it might be well were I to give an account of myself, and the reason why I traversed the Pictish Wilderness, by night and alone.

My name is Gault Hagar's son. I was born in the province of Conajohara. But when I was ten years of age, the Picts broke over Black River and stormed Fort Tuscelan and slew all within save one man, and drove all the settlers of the province east of Thunder River. Conajohara became again part of the Wilderness, haunted only by wild beasts and wild men. The people of Conajohara scattered throughout the Westermarck, in Schohira, Conawaga, or Oriskawny, but many of them went southward and settled near Fort Thandara, an isolated outpost on the Warhorse River, my family among them. There they were later joined by other settlers for whom the older provinces were too thickly inhabited, and presently there grew up the district known as the Free Province of Thandara, because it was not like the other provinces, royal grants to great lords east of the marches and settled by them, but cut out of the wilderness by the pioneers themselves without aid of the Aquiloman nobility. We paid no taxes to any baron. Our governor was not appointed by any lord, but we elected him ourselves, from our own people, and he was responsible only to the king. We manned and built our forts ourselves, and sustained ourselves in war as in peace. And Mitra knows war was a constant state of affairs, for there was never peace between us and our savage neighbors, the wild Panther, Alligator and Otter tribes of Picts.

But we throve, and seldom questioned what went on east of the marches in the kingdom whence our grandsires had come. But at last events in Aquilonia did touch upon us in the wilderness. Word came of civil war, and a fighting man risen to wrest the throne from the ancient dynasty. And sparks from that conflagration set the frontier ablaze, and turned neighbor against neighbor and brother against brother. And it was because knights in their gleaming steel were fighting and slaying on the plains of Aquilonia that I was hastening alone through the stretch of wilderness that separated Thandara from Schohira, with news that might well change the destiny of all the Westermarck.

Fort Kwanyara was a small outpost, a square fortress of hewn logs with a palisade on the bank of Knife Creek. I saw its banner streaming against the pale rose of the morning sky, and noted that only the ensign of the province floated there. The royal standard that should have risen above it, flaunting the golden serpent, was not in evidence. That might mean much, or nothing. We of the frontier are careless about the delicate punctilios of custom and etiquette which mean so much to the knights beyond the marches.

I crossed Knife Creek in the early dawn, wading through the shallows, and was challenged by a picket on the other bank, a tall man in the buckskins of a ranger. When he knew I was from Thandara: 'By Mitra!' quoth he, 'your business must be urgent, that you cross the wilderness instead of taking the longer road.'

For Thandara was separated from the other provinces, as I have said, and the Little Wilderness lay between it and the Bossonian marches; but a safe road ran through it into the marches and thence to the other provinces but it was a long and tedious road.

Then he asked for news from Thandara, but I told him I knew little of the latest events, having just returned from a long scout into the country of the Ottermen, which was a lie, but I had no way of knowing Schohira's political color, and was not inclined to betray my own until I knew. Then I asked him if Hakon Strom's son was in Fort Kwanyara, and he told me that the man I sought was not in the fort, but was at the town of Schondara, which lay a few miles east of the fort.

'I hope Thandara declares for Conan,' said he with an oath, 'for I tell you plainly it is our political complexion. And it is my cursed luck which keeps me here with the handful of rangers who watch the border for raiding Picts. I would give my bow and hunting shirt to be with your army which lies even now at Thenitea on Ogaha Creek waiting the onslaught of Brocas of Toth with his damned renegades.'

I said naught but was astounded. This was news indeed. For the Baron of Toth was lord of Conawaga, not Schohira, whose patron was Lord Thasperas of Kormon.

'Where is Thasperas?' I asked, and the ranger answered, a thought shortly: 'Away in Aquilonia, fighting for Conan.' And he looked at me narrowly as if he had begun to wonder if I were a spy.

'Is there a man in Schohira,' I began, 'who has such connections with the Picts that he dwells, naked and painted among them, and attends their ceremonies of blood-feast and-'

I checked myself at the fury that contorted the Schohiran's features.

'Damn you,' says he, choking with passion, 'what is your purpose in coming here to insult us thus?'

And indeed, to call a man a renegade was the direst insult that could be offered along the Westermarck, though I had not meant it in that way. But I saw the man was ignorant of any knowledge concerning the renegade I had seen, and not wishing to give out information, I merely told him that he misunderstood my meaning.

'I understand it well enough,' said he, shaking with passion. 'But for your dark skin and southern accent I would deem you a spy from Conawaga. But spy or no, you cannot insult the men of Schohira in such manner. Were I not on military duty I would lay down my weapon-belt and show you what manner of men we breed in Schohira.'

'I want no quarrel,' said I. 'But I am going to Schondara, where it will not be hard for you to find me, if you so desire.'

'I will be there anon,' quoth he grimly. 'I am Storm Grom's son and they know me in Schohira.'

I left him striding his post along the bank, and fingering his knife hilt and hatchet as if he itched to try their edge on my head, and I swung wide of the small fort to avoid other scouts or pickets. For in these troublous times suspicion might fall on me as a spy very easily. Nay, this Storm Grom's son was beginning to turn such thoughts in his thick noddle when they were swept away by his personal resentment at what he mistook for a slur. And having quarreled with me, his sense of personal honor would not allow him to arrest me on suspicion of being a spy - even had he thought of it. In ordinary times none would think of halting or questioning a white man crossing the border - but everything was in a mad whirl now - it must be, if the patroon of Conawaga was invading the domain of his neighbors.

The forest had been cleared about the fort for a few hundred yards in each direction, forming a solid green wall. I kept within this wall as I skirted the clearing, and met no one, even when I crossed several paths leading from the fort. I avoided clearings and farms. I headed eastward and the sun was not high in the heavens when I sighted the roofs of Schondara.

The forest ran to within less than half a mile of the town, which was a handsome one for a frontier village, with neat houses mostly of squared logs, some painted, but also some fine frame buildings which is something we have not in Thandara. But there was not so much as a ditch or a palisade about the village, which was strange to me. For we of Thandara build our dwelling places for defense as much as shelter, and while there is not a village in the width and breadth of the province, yet every cabin is like a tiny fort.

Off to the right of the village stood a fort, in the midst of a meadow, with palisade and ditch, somewhat larger than Fort Kwanyara, but I saw few heads moving above the parapet, either helmeted or capped. And only the spreading winged hawk of Schohira flapped on the standard. And I wondered why, if Schohira were for Conan, they did not fly the banner he had chosen - the golden lion on a black field, the standard of the regiment he commanded as a mercenary general of Aquilonia.

Away to the left, at the edge of the forest I saw a large house of stone set amid gardens and orchards, and knew it for the estate of Lord Valerian, the richest landowner in western Schohira. I had never seen the man, but knew he was wealthy and powerful. But now the Hall, as it was called, seemed deserted.

The town seemed curiously deserted, likewise; at least of men, though there were women and children in plenty, and it seemed to me that the men had assembled their families here for safety. I saw few able-bodied men. As I went up the street many eyes followed me suspiciously, but none spoke except to reply briefly to my questions.

At the tavern only a few old men and cripples huddled about the ale-stained tables and conversed in low tones, all conversation ceasing as I loomed in the doorway in my worn buckskins, and all turned to stare at me silently.

More significant silence when I asked for Hakon Strom's son, and the host told me that Hakon was ridden to Thenitea shortly after sun-up, where the militiaarmy lay encamped, but would return shortly. So being hungry and weary, I ate a meal in the taproom, aware of those questioning eyes fixed on me, and then lay down in a corner on a bear skin the host fetched for me, and slept. And was so slumbering when Hakon Strom's son returned, close upon sunset.

He was a tall man, rangy and broad-shouldered, like most Westlanders, and clad in buckskin hunting shirt and fringed leggins and moccasins like myself. Half a dozen rangers were with him, and they sat them down at a board close to the door and watched him and me over the rims of their ale jacks.

When I named myself and told him I had word for him, he looked at me closely, and bade me sit with him at a table in the corner where mine host brought us ale foaming in leathern jacks.

'Has no word come through of the state of affairs in Thandara?' I asked.

'No sure word; only rumors.'

'Very well,' I said. 'I bring you word from Brant Drago's son, governor of Thandara, and the council of captains, and by this sign you shall know me for a true man.' And so saying I dipped my finger in the foamy ale and with it drew a symbol on the table, and instantly erased it. He nodded, his eyes blazing with interest.

'This is the word I bring you,' quoth I; 'Thandara has declared for Conan and stands ready to aid his friends and defy his enemies.'

At that he smiled joyfully and grasped my brown hand warmly with his own rugged fingers.

'Good!' he exclaimed. 'But it is no more than I expected.'

'What man of Thandara could forget Conan?' said I. 'Nay, I was but a child in Conajohara, but I remember him when he was a forestrunner and a scout there. When his rider came into Thandara telling us that Poitain was in revolt, with Conan striking for the throne, and asking our support - he asked no volunteers for his army, merely our loyalty - we sent him one word: "We have not forgotten Conajohara." Then came the Baron Attelius over the marches against us, but we ambushed him in the Little Wilderness and cut his army to pieces. And now I think we need fear no invasion in Thandara.'

'I would I could say as much for Schohira,' he said grimly. 'Baron Thasperas sent us word that we could do as we chose he has declared for Conan and joined the rebel army. But he did not demand western levies. Nay, both he and Conan know the Westermarck needs every man it has to guard the border.

'He removed his troops from the forts, however, and we manned them with our own foresters. There was some little skirmishing among ourselves, especially in the towns like Goyaga, where dwell the landholders, for some of them held to Namedides - well, these loyalists either fled away to Conawaga with their retainers, or else surrendered and gave their pledge to remain neutral in their castles, like Lord Valerian of Schondara. The loyalists who fled swore to return and cut all our throats. And presently Lord Brocas marched over the border.

'In Conawaga the landowners and Brocas are for Namedides, and we have heard pitiful tales of their treatment of the common people who favor Conan.'

I nodded, not surprised. Conawaga was the largest, richest and most thickly settled province in all the Westermarck, and it had a comparatively large, and very powerful class of titled landholders - which we have not in Thandara, and by the favor of Mitra, never shall.

'It is an open invasion for conquest,' said Hakon. 'Brocas commanded us to swear loyalty to Namedides - the dog. I think the black-jowled fool plots to subdue all the Westermarck and rule it as Namedides' viceroy. With an army of Aquilonian men-at-arms, Bossoman archers, Conawaga loyalists, and Schohira renegades, he lies at Coyaga, ten miles beyond Ogaha Creek. Thenitea is full of refugees from the eastern country he has devastated.

'We do not fear him, though we are outnumbered. He must cross Ogaha Creek to strike us, and we have fortified the west bank and blocked the road against his cavalry.'

'That touches upon my mission,' I said. 'I am authorized to offer the services of a hundred and fifty Thandaran rangers. We are all of one mind in Thandara and fight no internal wars; and we can spare that many men from our war with the Panther Picts., 'That will be good news for the commandant of Fort Kwanyara!'

'What?' quoth I. 'Are you not the commandant?'

'Nay,' said he, 'it is my brother Dirk Strom's son.'

'Had I known that I would have given my message to him,' I said. 'Brant Drago's son thought you commanded Kwanyara. However, it does not matter.'

'Another jack of ale,' quoth Hakon, 'and we'll start for the fort so that Dirk shall hear your news first-hand. A plague on commanding a fort. A party of scouts is good enough for me.'

And in truth Hakon was not the man to command an outpost or any large body of men, for he was too reckless and hasty, though a brave man and a gay rogue.

'You have but a skeleton force left to watch the border,' I said. 'What of the Picts?'

'They keep the peace to which they swore,' answered he. 'For some months there has been peace along the border, except for the usual skirmishing between individuals of both races.'

'Valerian Hall seemed deserted.'

'Lord Valerian dwells there alone except for a few servants. Where his fighting men have gone, none knows. But he has sent them off. If he had not given his pledge we would have felt it necessary to place him under guard, for he is one of the few white men to whom the Picts give heed. If it had entered his head to stir them up against our borders we might be hard put to it to defend ourselves against them on one side and Brocas on the other.

'The Hawks, Wildcats and Turtles listen when Valerian speaks, and he has even visited the towns of the Wolf Picts and come away alive.'

If that were true that were strange indeed, for all men knew the ferocity of the great confederacy of allied clans known as the Wolf tribe which dwelt in the west beyond the hunting grounds of the three lesser tribes he had named. Mostly they held aloof from the frontier, but the threat of their hatred was ever a menace along the borders of Schohira.

Hakon looked up as a tall man in trunk-hose, boots and scarlet cloak entered the taproom.

'There is Lord Valerian now,' he said.

I stared, started and was on my feet instantly.

'That man?' I ejaculated. 'I saw that man last night beyond the border, in a camp of the Hawks, watching the Dance of the Changing Snake!'

Valerian heard me and he whirled, going pale. His eyes blazed like those of a panther.

Hakon sprang up too.

'What are you saying?' he cried. 'Lord Valerian gave his pledge-'

'I care not!' I exclaimed fiercely, striding forward to confront the tall noble. 'I saw him where I lay hidden among the tamarack. I could not mistake that hawk-like face. I tell you he was there, naked and painted like a Pict-'

'You lie, damn you!' cried Valerian, and whipping aside his cloak he caught at the hilt of his sword. But before he could draw it I closed with him and bore him to the floor, where he caught at my throat with both hands, blaspheming like a madman. Then there was a swift stamp of feet, and men were dragging us apart, grasping my lord firmly, who stood white and panting with fury, still clutching my neckcloth which had been torn away from my throat in the struggle.

'Loose me, you dogs!' he raved. 'Take your peasant hands from me! I'll cleave this liar to the chin-'

'Here is no lie,' I said more calmly. 'I lay in the tamarack last night and watched while old Teyanoga dragged a Raven chief's soul from his body and forced it into that of a tree-serpent. It was my arrow which struck down the shaman. And I saw you there - you, a white man, naked and painted, accepted as one of the clan.'

'If this be true-' began Hakon.

'It is true, and there is your proof!' I exclaimed. 'Look there! On his bosom!'

His doublet and shirt had been torn open in the scuffle, and there, dim on his naked breast, showed the outline of the white skull which the Picts paint only when they mean war against the whites. He had sought to wash it off his skin, but Pictish paint stains strongly.

'Disarm him,' said Hakon, white to the lips.

'Give me my neckcloth,' I demanded, but his lordship spat at me, and thrust the cloth inside his shirt.

'When it is returned to you it shall be knotted in a hangman's noose about your rebel neck,' he snarled.

Hakon seemed undecided.

'Let us take him to the fort,' I said. 'Give him in custody of the commander. It was for no good purpose he took part in the Dance of the Snake. Those Picts were painted for battle. That symbol on his breast means he intended to take part in the war for which they danced.'

'But great Mitra, this is incredible!' exclaimed Hakon. 'A white man, loosing those painted devils on his friends and neighbors?'

My lord said naught. He stood there between the men who grasped his arms, livid, his thin lips drawn back in a snarl that bared his teeth, but all hell burned like yellow fire in his eyes where I seemed to sense lights of madness.

But Hakon was uncertain. He dared not release Valerian, and he feared what the effect might be on the people if they saw the lord being led a captive to the fort.

'They will demand the reason,' he argued, 'and when they learn he has been dealing with the Picts in their war-paint, a panic might well ensue. Let us lock him into the gaol until we can bring Dirk here to question him.'

'It is dangerous to compromise with a situation like this,' I answered bluntly. 'But it is for you to decide. You are in command here.'

So we took his lordship out the back door, secretly, and it being dusk by that time, reached the gaol without being noticed by the people, who indeed stayed indoors mostly. The gaol was a small affair of logs, somewhat apart from the town, with four cells, and one only occupied, that by a fat rogue who had been imprisoned overnight for drunkenness and fighting in the street. He stared to see our prisoner. Not a word said Lord Valerian as Hakon locked the grilled door upon him, and detailed one of the men to stand guard. But a demon fire burned in his dark eyes as if behind the mask of his pale face he were laughing at us with fiendish triumph.

'You place only one man on guard?' I asked Hakon.

'Why more?' said he. 'Valerian cannot break out, and there is no one to rescue him.'

It seemed to me that Hakon was prone to take too much for granted, but after all, it was none of my affair, so I said no more.

Then Hakon and I went to the fort, and there I talked with Dirk Strom's son, the commander, who was in command of the town, in the absence of Jon Storm's son, the governor appointed by Lord Thasperas, who was now in command of the militiaarmy which lay at Thenitea. He looked sober indeed when he heard my tale, and said he would come to the gaol and question Lord Valerian as soon as his duties permitted, though he had little belief that my lord would talk, for he came of a stubborn and haughty breed. He was glad to hear of the men Thandara offered him, and told me that he could find a man to return to Thandara accepting the offer, if I wished to remain in Schohira awhile, which I did. Then I returned to the tavern with Hakon, for it was our purpose to sleep there that night, and set out for Thenitea in the morning. Scouts kept the Schohirans posted on the movements of Brocas, and Hakon, who had been in their camp that day, said Brocas showed no signs of moving against us, which made me believe that he was waiting for Valerian to lead his Picts against the border. But Hakon still doubted, in spite of all I had told him, believing Valerian had but visited the Picts through friendliness as he often did. But I pointed out that no white man, however f -iendly to the Picts, was ever allowed to witness such a ceremony as the Dance of the Snake; he would have to be a blood-member of the clan.

3

I awakened suddenly and sat up in bed. My window was open, both shutters and pane, for coolness, for it was an upstairs room, and there was no tree near by which a thief might gain access. But some noise had awakened me, and now as I stared at the window, I saw the star-lit sky blotted out by a bulky, misshapen figure. I swung my legs around off the bed, demanding to know who it was, and groping for my hatchet, but the thing was on me with frightful speed and before I could even rise something was around my neck, choking and strangling me. Thrust almost against my face there was a dim frightful visage, but all I could make out in the darkness was a pair of flaming red eyes, and a peaked head. My nostrils were filled with a bestial reek.

I caught one of the thing's wrists and it was hairy as an ape's, and thick with iron muscles. But then I had found the haft of my hatchet and I lifted it and split that misshapen skull with one blow. It fell clear of me and I sprang up, gagging and gasping, and quivering in every limb. I found flint, steel and tinder, and struck a light and lit a candle, and glared wildly at the creature lying on the floor.

In form it was like a man, gnarled and misshapen, covered with thick hair. Its nails were long and black, like the talons of a beast, and its chinless, low-browed head was like that of an ape. The thing was a Chakan, one of those semi-human beings which dwell deep in the forests.

There carne a knocking on my door and Hakon's voice called to know what the trouble was, so I bade him enter. He rushed in, ax in hand, his eyes widened at the sight of the thing on the floor.

'A Chakan!' he whispered. 'I have seen them, far to the west, smelling out trails through the forests - the damned bloodhounds! What is that in his fingers?'

A chill of horror crept along my spine as I saw the creature still clutched a neckcloth in his fingers - the cloth which he had tried to knot like a hangman's noose about my neck.

'I have heard that Pictish shamans catch these creatures and tame them and use them to smell out their enemies,' he said slowly. 'But how could Lord Valerian so use one?'

'I know not,' I answered. 'But that neck cloth was given to the beast, and according to its nature it smelled my trail out and sought to break my neck. Let us go to the gaol, and quickly.'

Hakon roused his rangers and we hurried there, and found the guard lying before the open door of Valerian's empty cell with his throat cut. Hakon stood like one turned to stone, and then a faint call made us turn and we saw the white face of the drunkard peering at us from the next cell.

'He's gone,' quoth he; 'Lord Valerian's gone. Hark'ee; an hour agone while I lay on my bunk, I was awakened by a sound outside, and saw a strange dark woman come out of the shadows and walk up to the guard. He lifted his bow and bade her halt, but she laughed at him, staring into his eyes and he became as one in a trance. He stood staring stupidly - and Mitra, he took his own knife from his girdle and cut his throat, and he fell down and died. Then she took the keys from his belt and opened the door, and Valerian came out, and laughed like a devil out of hell, and kissed the wench, and she laughed with him. And she was not alone, for something lurked in the shadows behind her - some vague, monstrous being that never came into the light of the lanthorn hanging over the door.

'I heard her say best to kill the fat drunkard in the next cell, and by Mitra I was so nigh dead of fright I knew not if I were even alive. But Valerian said I was dead drunk, and I could have kissed him for that word. So they went away and as they went he said he would send her companion on a mission, and then they would go to a cabin on Lynx Creek, and there meet his retainers who had been hiding in the forest ever since he sent them from Valerian Hall. He said that Teyanoga would come to them there and they would cross the border and go among the Picts, and bring them back to cut all our throats.'

Hakon looked livid in the lanthorn light.

'Who is this woman?' I asked curiously.

'His half-breed Pictish mistress,' he said. 'Half Hawk-Pict and half-Ligurean. I have heard of her. They call her the witch of Skandaga. I have never seen her, never before credited the tales whispered of her and Lord Valerian. But it is the truth.'

'I thought I had slain old Teyanoga,' I muttered. 'The old fiend must bear a charmed life - I saw my shaft quivering in his breast. What now?'

'We must go to the but on Lynx Creek and slay them all,' said Hakon. 'If they loose the Picts on the border hell will be to pay. We can spare no men from the fort or the town. We are enough. I know not how many men there will be on Lynx Creek, and I do not care. We will take them by surprise.'

We set out at once through the starlight. The land lay silent, lights twinkling dimly in the houses. To the westward loomed the black forest, silent, primordial, a brooding threat to the people who dared it.

We went in single file, bows strung and held in our left hands, hatchets swinging in our right hands. Our moccasins made no sound in the dew-wet grass. We melted into the woods and struck a trail that wound among oaks and alders. Here we strung out with some fifteen feet between each man, Hakon leading, and presently we dipped down into a grassy hollow and saw light streaming faintly from the cracks of shutters that covered a cabin's windows.

Hakon halted us and whispered for the men to wait, while we crept forward and spied upon them. We stole forward and surprised the sentry - a Schohiran renegade, who must have heard our stealthy approach but for the wine which staled his breath. I shall never forget the fierce hiss of satisfaction that breathed between Hakon's clenched teeth as he drove his knife into the villain's heart. We left the body hidden in the tall rank grass and stole up to the very wall of the cabin and dared to peer in at a crack. There was Valerian, with his fierce eyes blazing, and a dark, wildly beautiful girl in doeskin loin-clout and beaded moccasins, and her blackly burnished hair bound back by a gold band, curiously wrought. And there were half a dozen Schohiran renegades, sullen rogues in the woolen breeches and jerkins of farmers, with cutlasses at their belts, three forestrunners in buckskins, wild-looking men, and half a dozen Gundermen guards, compactly-built men with yellow hair cut square and confined under steel caps, corselets of chain mail, and polished leg-pieces. They were girt with swords and daggers - yellow-haired men with fair complexions and steely eyes and an accent differing greatly from the natives of the Westermarck. They were sturdy fighters, ruthless and welldisciplined, and very popular as guardsmen among the landowners of the frontier.

Listening there we heard them all laughing and conversing, Valerian boastful of his escape and swearing that he had sent a visitor to that cursed Thandaran that should do his proper business for him; the renegades sullen and full of oaths and curses for their former friends; the forestrunners silent and attentive; the Gundermen careless and jovial, which joviality thinly masked their utterly ruthless natures. And the half-breed girl, whom they called Kwarada, laughed, and plagued Valerian, who seemed grimly amused. And Hakon trembled with fury as we listened to him boasting how he meant to rouse the Picts and lead them across the border to smite the Schohirans in the back while Brocas attacked from Coyaga.

Then we heard a light patter of feet and hugged the wall close, and saw the door open, and seven painted Picts entered, horrific figures in paint and feathers. They were led by old Teyanoga, whose breast-muscles were bandaged, whereby I knew my shaft had but fleshed itself in those heavy muscles. And wondered if the old demon were really a werewolf which could not be killed by mortal weapons as he boasted and many believed.

We lay close there, Hakon and I, and heard Teyanoga say that the Hawks, Wildcats and Turtles dared not strike across the border unless an alliance with the powerful Wolfmen could be struck up, for they feared that the Wolves might ravage their country while they fought the Schohirans. Teyanoga said that the three lesser tribes met the Wolves on the edge of Ghost Swamp for a council; and that the Wolves would abide by the counsel of the Wizard of the Swamp.

So Valerian said they would go to the Ghost Swamp and see if they could not persuade the Wizard to induce the 'Wolves to join the others. At that Hakon told me to crawl back and get the others, and I saw-it was in his mind that we should attack, outnumbered as we were, but so fired was I by the infamous plot to which we had listened that I was as eager as he. I stole back and brought the others, and as soon as he heard us coming, he sprang up and ran at the door to beat it in with his war-ax.

At the same instant others of us burst in the shutters and poured arrows into the room, striking down some and set the cabin on fire.

They were thrown into confusion, and made no attempt to hold the cabin. The candles were upset and went out, but the fire lent a dim glow. They rushed the door and some were slain then, and others as we grappled with them. But presently all fled into the woods except those we slew, Gundermen, renegades and painted Picts, but Valerian and the girl were still in the cabin. Then they came forth and she laughed and hurled something on the ground that burst and blinded us with a foul smoke, through which they escaped.

All but four of our men had been slain in the desperate fighting, but we started instantly in pursuit, sending back one of the wounded men to warn the town.

The trail led into the wilderness.

We followed, and in fights and skirmishes slew several others, and presently all our men were slain except Hakon and I. We trailed Valerian across the border and into a camp of the wartribes near Ghost Swamp, where the chiefs were going to consult the Wizard, a pre-Pictish shaman.

We trailed Valerian into the swamp, he going secretly to give the shamans instructions, and Hakon waited on the trail to slay Valerian while I stole into the swamp to slay the Wizard. But both of us were captured by the Wizard, who gave his consent to the war and gave them a ghastly magic to use against the white men, and the tribes went howling toward the border. But Hakon and I escaped and slew the Wizard and followed, in time to turn their magic against them, and rout them.

The Pheonix on the Sword

'Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars - Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sulleneyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet.'

The Nemedian Chronicles

1

Over shadowy spires and gleaming towers lay the ghostly darkness and silence that runs before dawn. Into a dim alley, one of a veritable labyrinth of mysterious winding ways, four masked figures came hurriedly from a door which a dusky hand furtively opened. They spoke not but went swiftly into the gloom, cloaks wrapped closely about them; as silently as the ghosts of murdered men they disappeared in the darkness. Behind them a sardonic countenance was framed in the partly opened door; a pair of evil eyes glittered malevolently in the gloom.

'Go into the night, creatures of the night,' a voice mocked.

'Oh, fools, your doom hounds your heels like a blind dog, and you know it not.'

The speaker closed the door and bolted it, then turned and went up the corridor, candle in hand. He was a somber giant, whose dusky skin revealed his Stygian blood. Ile came into an inner chamber, where a tall, lean man in worn velvet lounged like a great lazy cat on a silken couch, sipping wine from a huge golden goblet.

'Well, Ascalante,' said the Stygian, setting down the candle, 'your dupes have slunk into the streets like rats from their burrows. You work with strange tools.'

'Tools?' replied Ascalante. 'Why, they consider me that. For months now, ever since the Rebel Four summoned me from the southern desert, I have been living in the very heart of my enemies, hiding by day in this obscure house, skulking through dark alleys and darker corridors at night. And I have accomplished what those rebellious nobles could not. Working through them, and through other agents, many of whom have never seen my face, I have honeycombed the empire with sedition and unrest. In short I, working in the shadows, have paved the downfall of the king who sits throned in the sun. By Mitra, I was a statesman before I was an outlaw.'

'And these dupes who deem themselves your masters?'

'They will continue to think that I serve them, until our present task is completed. Who are they to match wits with Ascalante? Volmana, the dwarfish count of Karaban; Gromel, the giant commander of the Black Legion; Dion, the fat baron of Attalus; Rinaldo, the bare-brained minstrel. I am the force which has welded together the steel in each, and by the clay in each, I will crush them when the time comes. But that lies in the future; tonight the king dies.'

'Days ago I saw the imperial squadrons ride from the city,' said the Sty gian.

'They rode to the frontier which the heathen Picts assail thanks to the strong liquor which I've smuggled over the borders to madden them. Dion's great wealth made that possible. And Volmana made it possible to dispose of the rest of the imperial troops which remained in the city. Through his princely kin in Nemedia, it was easy to persuade King Numa to request the presence of Count Trocero of Poitain, seneschal of Aquilonia; and of course, to do him honor, he'll be accompanied by an imperial escort, as well as his own troops, and Prospero, King Conan's right-hand man. That leaves only the king's personal bodyguard in the city - besides the Black Legion. Through Gromel I've corrupted a spendthrift officer of that guard, and bribed him to lead his men away from the king's door at midnight.

'Then, with sixteen desperate rogues of mine, we enter the palace by a secret tunnel. After the deed is done, even if the people do not rise to welcome us, Gromel's Black Legion will be sufficient to hold the city and the crown.'

'And Dion thinks that crown will be given to him?'

'Yes. The fat fool claims it by reason of a trace of royal blood. Conan makes a bad mistake in letting men live who still boast descent from the old dynasty, from which he tore the crown of Aquilonia.

'Volmana wishes to be reinstated in royal favor as he was under the old regime, so that he may lift his poverty-ridden estates to their former grandeur. Gromel hates Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, and desires the command of the whole army, with all the stubbornness of the Bossonian. Alone of us all, Rinaldo has no personal ambition. He sees in Conan a red-handed, rough-footed barbarian who came out of the north to plunder a civilized land. He idealizes the king whom Conan killed to get the crown, remembering only that he occasionally patronized the arts, and forgetting the evils of his reign, and he is making the people forget. Already they openly sing The Lament for-the King in which Rinaldo lauds the sainted villain and denounces Conan as "that black-hearted savage from the abyss." Conan laughs, but the people snarl.'

'Why does he hate Conan?'

'Poets always hate those in power. To them perfection is always just behind the last corner, or beyond the next. They escape the present in dreams of the past and future. Rinaldo is a flaming torch of idealism, rising, as he thinks, to overthrow a tyrant and liberate the people. As for me - well, a few months ago I had lost all ambition but to raid the caravans for the rest of my life; now old dreams stir. Conan will die; Dion will mount the throne. Then he, too, will die. One by one, all who oppose me will die - by fire, or steel, or those deadly wines you know so well how to brew. Ascalante, king of Aquilonia! How like you the sound of it?'

The Stygian shrugged his broad shoulders.

'There was a time,' he said with unconcealed bitterness, 'when I, too, had my ambitions, beside which yours seem tawdry and childish. To what a state I have fallen! My old-time peers and rivals would stare indeed could they see Thoth-Amon of the Ring serving as the slave of an outlander, and an outlaw at that; and aiding in the petty ambitions of barons and kings!'

'You laid your trust in magic and mummery,' answered Ascalante carelessly. 'I trust my wits and my sword.'

'Wits and swords are as straws againt the wisdom of the Darkness,' growled the Stygian, his dark eyes flickering with menacing lights and shadows. 'Had I not lost the Ring, our positions might be reversed.'

'Nevertheless,' answered the outlaw impatiently, 'you wear the stripes of my whip on your back, and are likely to continue to wear them.'

'Be not so sure!' the fiendish hatred of the Stygian glittered for an instant redly in his eyes. 'Some day, somehow, I will find the Ring again, and when I do, by the serpent-fangs of Set, you shall pay-'

The hot-tempered Aquilonian started up and struck him heavily across the mouth. Thoth reeled back, blood starting from his lips.

'You grow over-bold, dog,' growled the outlaw. 'Have a care; I am still your master who knows your dark secret. Go upon the housetops and shout that Ascalante is in the city plotting against the king - if you dare.'

'I dare not,' muttered the Stygian, wiping the blood from his lips.

'No, you do not dare,' Ascalante grinned bleakly. 'For if I die by your stealth or treachery, a hermit priest in the southern desert will know of it, and will break the seal of a manuscript I left in his hands. And having read, a word will be whispered in Stygia, and a wind will creep up from the south by midnight. And where will you hide your head, Thoth-Amon?'

The slave shuddered and his dusky face went ashen.

'Enough!' Ascalante changed his tone peremptorily. 'I have work for you. I do not trust Dion. I bade him ride to his country estate and remain there until the work tonight is done. The fat fool could never conceal his nervousness before the king today. Ride after him, and if you do not overtake him on the road, proceed to his estate and remain with him until we send for him. Don't let him out of your sight. He is mazed with fear, and might bolt - might even rush to Conan in a panic, and reveal the whole plot, hoping thus to save his own hide. Go!'

The slave bowed, hiding the hate in his eyes, and did as he was bidden. Ascalante turned again to his wine. Over the jeweled spires was rising a dawn crimson as blood.

2

When I was a fighting-man, the kettle-drums they beat; The people scattered gold-dust before my horse's feet; But now I am a great king, the people hound my track With poison in my wine-cup, and daggers at my back.

The Road of Kings

The room was large and ornate, with rich tapestries on the polished panelled walls, deep rugs on the ivory floor, and with the lofty ceiling adorned with intricate carvings and silver scrollwork. Behind an ivory, gold-inlaid writing-table sat a man whose broad shoulders and sun-browned skin seemed out of place among those luxuriant surroundings. He seemed more a part of the sun and winds and high places of the outlands. His slightest movement spoke of steelspring muscles knit to a keen brain with the co-ordination of a born fighting-man. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his actions. Either he was perfectly at rest - still as a bronze statue - or else he was in motion, not with the jerky quickness of over-tense nerves, but with a catlike speed that blurred the sight which tried to follow him.

His garments were of rich fabric, but simply made. He wore no ring or ornaments, and his square-cut black mane was confined merely by a cloth-of-silver band about his head.

Now he laid down the golden stylus with which he had been laboriously scrawling on waxed papyrus, rested his chin on his fist, and fixed his smoldering blue eyes enviously on the man who stood before him. This person was occupied in his own affairs at the moment, for he was taking up the laces of his goldchased armor, and abstractedly whistling -a rather unconventional performance, considering that he was in the presence of a king.

'Prospero,' said the man at the table, 'these matters of statecraft weary me as all the fighting I have done never did.'

'All part of the game, Conan,' answered the dark-eyed Poitanian. 'You are king -- you must play the part.'

'I wish I might ride with you to Nemedia,' said Conan enviously. 'It seems ages since I had a horse between my knees - but Publius says that affairs in the city require my presence. Curse him!

''When I overthrew the old dynasty,' he continued, speaking with the easy familiarity which existed only between the Poitanian and himself, 'it was easy enough, though it seemed bitter hard at the time. Looking back now over the wild path I followed, all those days of toil, intrigue, slaughter and tribulation seem like a dream.

'I did not dream far enough, Prospero. When King Namedides lay dead at my feet and I tore the crown from his gory head and set it on my own, I had reached the ultimate border of my dreams. I had prepared myself to take the crown, not to hold it. In the old free days all I wanted was a sharp sword and a straight path to my enemies. Now no paths are straight and my sword is useless.

'When I overthrew Namedides, then I was the Liberator now they spit at my shadow. They have put a statue of that swine in the temple of Mitra, and people go and wail before it, hailing it as the holy effigy of a saintly monarch who was done to death by a red-handed barbarian. When I led her armies to victory as a mercenary, Aquilonia overlooked the fact that I was a foreigner, but now she can not forgive me.

'Now in Mitra's temple there come to burn incense to Namedides' memory, men whom his hangmen maimed and blinded, men whose sons died in his dungeons, whose wives and daughters were dragged into his seraglio. The fickle fools!'

'Rinaldo is largely responsible,' answered Prospero, drawing up his sword-belt another notch. 'He sings songs that make men mad. Hang him in his jester's garb to the highest tower in the city. Let him make rimes for the vultures.'

Conan shook his lion head. 'No, Prospero, he's beyond my reach. A great poet is greater than any king. His songs are mightier than my scepter; for he has near ripped the heart from my breast when he chose to sing for me. I shall die and be forgotten, but Rinaldo's songs will live for ever.

'No, Prospero,' the king continued, a somber look of doubt shadowing his eyes, 'there is something hidden, some undercurrent of which we are not aware. I sense it as in my youth I sensed the tiger hidden in the tall grass. There is a nameless unrest throughout the kingdom. I am like a hunter who crouches by his small fire amid the forest, and hears stealthy feet padding in the darkness, and almost sees the glimmer of burning eyes. If I could but come to grips with something tangible, that I could cleave with my sword! I tell you, it's not by chance that the Picts have of late so fiercely assailed the frontiers, so that the Bossonians have called for aid to beat them back. I should have ridden with the troops.'

'Publius feared a plot to trap and slay you beyond the frontier,' replied Prospero, smoothing his silken surcoat over his shining mail, and admiring his tall lithe figure in a silver mirror. 'That's why he urged you to remain in the city. These doubts are born of your barbarian instincts. Let the people snarl! The mercenaries are ours, and the Black Dragons, and every rogue in Poitain swears by you. Your only danger is assassination, and that's impossible, with men of the imperial troops guarding you day and night. What are you working at there?'

'A map,' Conan answered with pride. 'The maps of the court show well the countries of south, east and west, but in the north they are vague and faulty. I am adding the northern lands myself. Here is Cimmeria, where I was born. And-'

'Asgard and Vanaheim,' Prospero scanned the map. 'By Mitra, I had almost believed those countries to have been fabulous.'

Conan grinned savagely, involuntarily touching the scars on his dark face. 'You had known otherwise, had you spent your youth on the northern frontiers of Cimmeria! Asgard lies to the north, and Vanaheim to the northwest of Cimmerian and there is continual war along the borders.'

'What manner of men are these northern folk?' asked Prospero.

'Tall and fair and blue-eyed. Their god is Ymir, the frostgiant, and each tribe has its own king. They are wayward and fierce. They fight all day and drink ale and roar their wild songs all night.'

'Then I think you are like them,' laughed Prospero. 'You laugh greatly, drink deep and bellow good songs; though I never saw another Cimmerian who drank aught but water, or who ever laughed, or ever sang save to chant dismal dirges.'

'Perhaps it's the land they live in,' answered the king. 'A gloomier land never was - all of hills, darkly wooded, under skies nearly always gray, with winds moaning drearily down the valleys.'

'Little wonder men grow moody there,' quoth Prospero with a shrug of his shoulders, thinking of the smiling sunwashed plains and blue lazy rivers of Poitain, Aquilonia's southernmost province.

'They have no hope here or hereafter,' answered Conan. 'Their gods are Crom and his dark race, who rule over a sunless place of everlasting mist, which is the world of the dead. Mitra! The ways of the AEsir were more to my liking.'

'Well,' grinned Prospero, 'the dark hills of Cimmeria are far behind you. And now I go. I'll quaff a goblet of white Nemedian wine for you at Numa's court.'

'Good,' grunted the king, 'but kiss Numa's dancing-girls for yourself only, lest you involve the states!'

His gusty laughter followed Prospero out of the chamber.

3

Under the caverned pyramids great Set coils asleep; Among the shadows of the tombs his dusky people creep.

I speak the Word from the hidden gulfs that never knew the sun-Send me a servant for my hate, oh scaled and shining One!

The sun was setting, etching the green and hazy blue of the forest in brief gold. The waning beams glinted on the thick golden chain which Dion of Attalus twisted continually in his pudgy hand as he sat in the flaming riot of blossoms and flowertrees which was his garden. He shifted his fat body on his marble seat and glanced furtively about, as if in quest of a lurking enemy. He sat within a circular grove of slender trees, whose interlapping branches cast a thick shade over him. Near at hand a fountain tinkled silverly, and other unseen fountains in various parts of the great garden whispered an everlasting symphony.

Dion was alone except for the great dusky figure which lounged on a marble bench close at hand, watching the baron with deep somber eyes. Dion gave little thought to Thoth-Amon. He vaguely knew that he was a slave in whom Ascalante reposed much trust, but like so many rich men, Dion paid scant heed to men below his own station in life.

'You need not be so nervous,' said Thoth. 'The plot can not fail.'

'Ascalante can make mistakes as well as another,' snapped Dion, sweating at the mere thought of failure.

'Not he,' grinned the Stygian savagely, 'else I had not been his slave, but his master.'

'U-'hat talk is this?' peevishly returned Dion, with only half a mind on the conversation.

Thoth-Amon's eyes narrowed. For all his iron self-control, he was near bursting with long pent-up shame, hate and rage, ready to take any sort of a desperate chance. What he (lid not reckon on was the fact that Dion saw him, not as a human being with a brain and a wit, but simply a slave, and as such, a creature beneath notice.

'Listen to me,' said Thoth. 'You will be king. But you little know the mind of Ascalante. You can not trust him, once Conan is slain. I can help you. If you will protect me when you come to power, I will aid you.

'Listen, my lord. I was a great sorcerer in the south. Men spoke of Thoth-Amon as they spoke of Rammon. King Ctesphon of Stygia gave me great honor, casting down the magicians from the high places to exalt me above them. They hated me, but they feared me, for I controlled beings from outside which came at my call and did my bidding. By Set, mine enemy knew not the hour when he might awake at midnight to feel the taloned fingers of a nameless horror at his throat! I did dark and terrible magic with the Serpent Ring of Set, which I found in a nighted tomb a league beneath the earth, forgotten before the first man crawled out of the slimy sea.

'But a thief stole the Ring and my power was broken. The magicians rose up to slay me, and I fled. Disguised as a cameldriver, I was traveling in a caravan in the land of Koth, when Ascalante's reavers fell upon us. All in the caravan were slain except myself; I saved my life by revealing my identity to Ascalante and swearing to serve him. Bitter has been that bondage!

'To hold me fast, he wrote of me in a manuscript, and sealed it and gave it into the hands of a hermit who dwells on the southern borders of Koth. I dare not strike a dagger into him while he sleeps, or betray him to his enemies, for then the hermit would open the manuscript and read - thus Ascalante instructed him. And he would speak a word in Stygia-'

Again Thoth shuddered and an ashen hue tinged his dusky skin.

'Men knew me not in Aquilonia,' he said. 'But should my enemies in Stygia learn my whereabouts, not the width of half a world between us would suffice to save me from such a doom as would blast the soul of a bronze statue. Only a king with castles and hosts of swordsmen could protect me. So I have told you my secret, and urge that you make a pact with me. I can aid you with my wisdom, and you can protect me. And some day I will find the Ring-'

'Ring? Ring?' Thoth had underestimated the man's utter egoism. Dion had not even been listening to the slave's words, so completely engrossed was he in his own thoughts, but the final word stirred a ripple in his self-centeredness.

'Ring?' he repeated. 'That makes me remember - my ring of good fortune. I had it from a Shemitish thief who swore he stole it from a wizard far to the south, and that it would bring me luck. I paid him enough, Mitra knows. By the gods, I need all the luck I can have, what with Volmana and Ascalante dragging me into their bloody plots - I'll see to the ring.'

Thoth sprang up, blood mounting darkly to his face, while his eyes flamed with the stunned fury of a man who suddenly realizes the full depths of a fool's swinish stupidity. Dion never heeded him. Lifting a secret lid in the marble seat, he fumbled for a moment among a heap of gewgaws of various kinds barbaric charms, bits of bones, pieces of tawdry jewelry - luckpieces and conjures which the man's superstitious nature had prompted him to collect.

'Ah, here it is!' He triumphantly lifted a ring of curious make. It was of a metal like copper, and was made in the form of a scaled serpent, coiled in three loops, with its tail in its mouth. Its eyes were yellow gems which glittered balefully. Thoth-Amon cried out as if he had been struck, and Dion wheeled and gaped, his face suddenly bloodless. The slave's eyes were blazing, his mouth wide, his huge dusky hands outstretched like talons.

'The Ring! By Set! The Ring!' he shrieked. 'My Ring - stolen from me-'

Steel glittered in the Stygian's hand and with a heave of his great dusky shoulders he drove the dagger into the baron's fat body. Dion's high thin squeal broke in a strangled gurgle and his whole flabby frame collapsed like melted butter. A fool to the end, he died in mad terror, not knowing why. Flinging aside the crumpled corpse, already forgetful of it, Thoth grasped the ring in both hands, his dark eyes blazing with a fearful avidness.

'My Ring!' he whispered in terrible exultation. 'My power!'

How long he crouched over the baleful thing, motionless as a statue, drinking the evil aura of it into his dark soul, not even the Stygian knew. When he shook himself from his revery and drew back his mind from the nighted abysses where it had been questing, the moon was rising, casting long shadows across the smooth marble back of the garden-seat, at the foot of which sprawled the darker shadow which had been the lord of Attalus.

'No more, Ascalante, no more!' whispered the Stygian, and his eyes burned red as a vampire's in the gloom. Stooping, he cupped a handful of congealing blood from the sluggish pool in which his victim sprawled, and rubbed it in the copper serpent's eyes until the yellow sparks were covered by a crimson mask.

'Blind your eyes, mystic serpent,' he chanted in a bloodfreezing whisper. 'Blind your eyes to the moonlight and open them on darker gulfs! What do you see, oh serpent of Set. ''Whom do you call from the gulfs of the Night. Whose shadow falls on the waning Light? Call him to me, oh serpent of Set!'

Stroking the scales with a peculiar circular motion of his fingers a motion which always carried the fingers back to their starting place, his voice sank still lower as he whispered dark names and grisly incantations forgotten the world over save in the grim hinterlands of dark Stygia, where monstrous shapes move in the dusk of the tombs.

There was a movement in the air about him, such a swirl as is made in water when some creature rises to the surface. A nameless, freezing wind blew on him briefly, as if from an opened Door. Thoth felt a presence at his back, but he did not look about. He kept his eyes fixed on the moonlit space of marble, on which a tenuous shadow hovered. As he continued his whispered incantations, this shadow grew in size and clarity, until it stood out distinct and horrific. Its outline was not unlike that of a gigantic baboon, but no such baboon ever walked the earth, not even in Stygia. Still Thoth did not look, but drawing from his girdle a sandal of his master - always carried in the dim hope that he might be able to put it to such use - he cast it behind him.

'Know it well, slave of the Ring!' he exclaimed. 'Find him who wore it and destroy him! Look into his eyes and blast his soul, before you tear out his throat! Kill him! Aye,' in a blind burst of passion, 'and all with him!'

Etched on the moonlit wall Thoth saw the horror lower its misshapen head and take the scent like some hideous hound. Then the grisly head was thrown back and the thing wheeled and was gone like a wind through the trees. The Stygian flung up his arms in maddened exultation, and his teeth and eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

A soldier on guard without the walls yelled in startled horror as a great loping black shadow with flaming eyes cleared the wall and swept by him with a swirling rush of wind. But it was gone so swiftly that the bewildered warrior was left wondering whether it had been a dream or a hallucination.

4

When the world was young and men were weak, and the fiends of the night walked free, I strove with Set by fire and steel and the juice of the upas-tree;

Now that I sleep in the mount's black heart, and the ages take their toll,

Forget ye him who fought with the Snake to save the human soul?

Alone in the great sleeping-chamber with its high golden dome King Conan slumbered and dreamed. Through swirling gray mists he heard a curious call, faint and far, and though he did not understand it, it seemed not within his power to ignore it. Sword in hand he went through the gray mist, as a man might walk through clouds, and the voice grew more distinct as he proceeded until he understood the word it spoke - it was his own name that was being called across the gulfs of Space or Time.

Now the mists grew lighter and he saw that he was in a great dark corridor that seemed to be cut in solid black stone. It was unlighted, but by some magic he could see plainly. The floor, ceiling and walls were highly polished and gleamed dully, and they were carved with the figures of ancient heroes and halfforgotten gods. He shuddered to see the vast shadowy outlines of the Nameless Old Ones, and he knew somehow that mortal feet had not traversed the corridor for centuries.

He came upon a wide star carved in the solid rock, and the sides of the shaft were adorned with esoteric symbols so ancient and horrific that King Conan's skin crawled. The steps were carven each with the abhorrent figure of the Old Serpent, Set, so that at each step he planted his heel on the head of the Snake, as it was intended from old times. But he was none the less at ease for all that.

But the voice called him on, and at last, in darkness that would have been impenetrable to his material eyes, he came into a strange crypt, and saw a vague white-bearded figure sitting on a tomb. Conan's hair rose up and he grasped his sword, but the figure spoke in sepulchral tones.

'Oh man, do you know me?'

'Not I, by Crom!' swore the king.

'Man,' said the ancient, 'I am Epemitreus.'

'But Epemitreus the Sage has been dead for fifteen hundred years!' stammered Conan.

'Harken!' spoke the other commandingly. 'As a pebble cast into a dark lake sends ripples to the further shores, happenings in the Unseen World have broken like waves on my slumber. I have marked you well, Conan of Cimmeria, and the stamp of mighty happenings and great deeds is upon you. But dooms are loose in the land, against which your sword can not aid you.'

'You speak in riddles,' said Conan uneasily. 'Let me see my foe and I'll cleave his skull to the teeth.'

'Loose your barbarian fury against your foes of flesh and blood,' answered the ancient. 'It is not against men I must shield you. There are dark worlds barely guessed by man, wherein formless monsters stalk - fiends which may be drawn from the Outer Voids to take material shape and rend and devour at the bidding of evil magicians. There is a serpent in your house, oh king - an adder in your kingdom, come up from Stygia, with the dark wisdom of the shadows in his murky soul. As a sleeping man dreams of the serpent which crawls near him, I have felt the foul presence of Set's neophyte. He is drunk with terrible power, and the blows he strikes at his enemy may well bring down the kingdom. I have called you to me, to give you a weapon against him and his hell-hound pack.'

'But why?' bewilderedly asked Conan. 'Men say you sleep in the black heart of Golamira, whence you send forth your ghost on unseen wings to aid Aquilonia in times of need, but I - I am an outlander and a barbarian.'

'Peace!' the ghostly tones reverberated through the great shadowy cavern. 'Your destiny is one with Aquilonia. Gigantic happenings are forming in the web and the womb of Fate, and a blood-mad sorcerer shall not stand in the path of imperial destiny. Ages ago Set coiled about the world like a python about its prey. All my life, which was as the lives of three common men, I fought him. I drove him into the shadows of the mysterious south, but in dark Stygia men still worship him who to us is the arch-demon. As I fought Set, I fight his worshippers and his votaries and his acolytes. hold out your sword.'

Wondering, Conan did so, and on the great blade, close to the heavy silver guard, the ancient traced with a bony finger a strange symbol that glowed like white fire in the shadows. And on the instant crypt, tomb and ancient vanished, and Conan, bewildered, sprang from his couch in the great golden-domed chamber. And as he stood, bewildered at the strangeness of his dream, he realized that he was gripping his sword in his hand. And his hair prickled at the nape of his neck, for on the broad blade was carven a symbol - the outline of a phoenix. And he remembered that on the tomb in the crypt he had seen what he had thought to be a similar figure, carven of stone. Now he wondered if it had been but a stone figure, and his skin crawled at the strangeness of it all.

Then as he stood, a stealthy sound in the corridor outside brought him to life, and without stopping to investigate, he began to don his armor; again he was the barbarian, suspicious and alert as a gray wolf at bay.

5

What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?

I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky.

The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing;

Rush in and die, dogs -I was a man before I was a king.

The Road of Kings

Through the silence which shrouded the corridor of the royal palace stole twenty furtive figures. Their stealthy feet, bare or cased in soft leather, made no sound either on thick carpet or bare marble tile. The torches which stood in niches along the halls gleamed red on dagger, sword and keen-edged ax.

'Easy all!' hissed Ascalante. 'Stop that cursed loud breathing, whoever it is! The officer of the night-guard has removed most of the sentries from these halls and made the rest drunk, but we must be careful, just the same. Back! Here comes the guard!'

They crowded back behind a cluster of carven pillars, and almost immediately ten giants in black armor swung by at a measured pace. Their faces showed doubt as they glanced at the officer who was leading them away from their post of duty. This officer was rather pale; as the guard passed the hidingplaces of the conspirators, he was seen to wipe the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. He was young, and this betrayal of a king did not come easy to him. He mentally cursed the vainglorious extravagance which had put him in debt to the moneylenders and made him a pawn of scheming politicians.

The guardsmen clanked by and disappeared up the corridor.

'Good!' grinned Ascalante. 'Conan sleeps unguarded. Haste! If they catch us killing him, we're undone - but few men will espouse the cause of a dead king.'

'Aye, haste!' cried Rinaldo, his blue eyes matching the gleam of the sword he swung above his head. 'My blade is thirsty! I hear the gathering of the vultures! On!'

They hurried down the corridor with reckless speed and stopped before a gilded door which bore the royal dragon symbol of Aquilonia.

'Gromel!' snapped Ascalante. 'Break me this door open!'

The giant drew a deep breath and launched his mighty frame against the panels, which groaned and bent at the impact. Again he crouched and plunged. With a snapping of bolts and a rending crash of wood, the door splintered and burst inward.

'In!' roared Ascalante, on fire with the spirit of the deed.

'In!' yelled Rinaldo. 'Death to the tyrant!'

They stopped short. Conan faced them, not a naked man roused mazed and unarmed out of a deep sleep to be butchered like a sheep, but a barbarian wide-awake and at bay, partly armored, and with his long sword in his hand.

For an instant the tableau held - the four rebel noblemen in the broken door, and the horde of wild hairy faces crowding behind them - all held momentarily frozen by the sight of the blazing-eyed giant standing sword in hand in the middle of the candle-lighted chamber. In that instant Ascalante beheld, on a small table near the royal couch, the silver scepter and the slender gold circlet which was the crown of Aquilonia, and the sight maddened him with desire.

'In rogues!' yelled the outlaw. 'He is one to twenty and he has no helmet!'

True; there had been lack of time to don the heavy plumed casque, or to lace in place the side-plates of the cuirass, nor was there now rime to snatch the great shield from the wall. Still, Conan was better protected than any of his foes except Volmana and Gromel, who were in full armor.

The king glared, puzzled as to their identity. Ascalante he did not know; he could not see through the closed vizors of the armored conspirators, and Rinaldo had pulled his slouch cap down above his eyes. But there was no time for surmise. With a yell that rang to the roof, the killers flooded into the room, Gromel first. He came like a charging bull, head down, sword low for the disembowelling thrust. Conan sprang to meet him, and all his tigerish strength went into the arm that swung the sword. In a whistling arc the great blade flashed through the air and crashed on the Bossonian's helmet. Blade and casque shivered together and Gromel rolled lifeless on the floor. Conan bounded back, still gripping the broken hilt.

'Gromel!' he spat, his eyes blazing in amazement, as the shattered helmet disclosed the shattered head; then the rest of the pack were upon him. A dagger point raked along his ribs between breastplate and backplate, a sword-edge flashed before his eyes. He flung aside the dagger-wielder with his left arm, and smashed his broken hilt like a cestus into the swordsman's temple. The man's brains spattered in his face.

'Watch the door, five of you!' screamed Ascalante, dancing about the edge of the singing steel whirlpool, for he feared that Conan might smash through their midst and escape. The rogues drew back momentarily, as their leader seized several and thrust them toward the single door, and in that brief respite Conan leaped to the wall and tore there-from an ancient battle-ax which, untouched by time, had hung there for half a century.

With his back to the wall he faced the closing ring for a flashing instant, then leaped into the thick of them. He was no defensive fighter; even in the teeth of overwhelming odds he always carried the war to the enemy. Any other man would have already died there, and Conan himself did not hope to survive, but he did ferociously wish to inflict as much damage as he could before he fell. His barbaric soul was ablaze, and the chants of old heroes were singing in his ears.

As he sprang from the wall his ax dropped an outlaw with a severed shoulder, and the terrible back-hand return crushed the skull of another. Swords whined venomously about him, but death passed him by breathless margins. The Cimmerian moved in a blur of blinding speed. He was like a tiger among baboons as he leaped, side-stepped and spun, offering an ever-moving target, while his ax wove a shining wheel of death about him.

For a brief space the assassins crowded him fiercely, raining blows blindly and hampered by their own numbers; then they gave back suddenly - two corpses on the floor gave mute evidence of the king's fury, though Conan himself was bleeding from wounds on arm, neck and legs.

'Knaves!' screamed Rinaldo, dashing off his feathered cap, his wild eyes glaring. 'Do ye shrink from the combat? Shall the despot live? Out on it!'

He rushed in, hacking madly, but Conan, recognizing him, shattered his sword with a short terrific chop and with a powerful push of his open hand sent him reeling to the floor. The king took Ascalante's point in his left arm, and the outlaw barely saved his life by ducking and springing backward from the swinging ax. Again the wolves swirled in and Conan's ax sang and crushed. A hairy-rascal stooped beneath its stroke and dived at the king's legs, but after wrestling for a brief instant at what seemed a solid iron tower, glanced up in time to see the ax falling, but not in time to avoid it. In the interim one of his comrades lifted a broadsword with both hands and hewed through the king's left shoulder-plate, wounding the shoulder beneath. In an instant Conan's cuirass was full of blood.

Volmana, flinging the attackers right and left in his savage impatience, came plowing through and hacked murderously at Conan's unprotected head. The king ducked deeply and the sword shaved off a lock of his black hair as it whistled above him. Conan pivoted on his heel and struck in from the side. The ax crunched through the steel cuirass and Volmana crumpled with his whole left side caved in.

'Volmana!' gasped Conan breathlessly. 'I'll know that dwarf in Hell-'

He straightened to meet the maddened rush of Rinaldo, who charged in wild and wide open, armed only with a dagger. Conan leaped back, lifting his ax.

'Rinaldo!' his voice was strident with desperate urgency. 'Back! I would not slay you-'

'Die, tyrant!' screamed the mad minstrel, hurling himself headlong on the king. Conan delayed the blow he was loth to deliver, until it was too late. Only when he felt the bite of the steel in his unprotected side did he strike, in a frenzy of blind desperation.

Rinaldo dropped with his skull shattered, and Conan reeled back against the wall, blood spurting from between the fingers which gripped his wound.

'In, now, and slay him!' yelled Ascalante.

Conan put his back against the wall and lifted his ax. He stood like an image of the unconquerable primordial - legs braced far apart, head thrust forward, one hand clutching the wall for support, the oilier gripping the ax on high, with the great corded muscles standing out in iron ridges, and his features frozen in a death snarl of fury - his eyes blazing terriby through the mist of blood which veiled them. The men faltered - wild, criminal and dissolute though they were, yet they came of a breed men called civilized, with a civilized background; here was the barbarian - the natural killer. They shrank back the dying tiger could still deal death.

Conan sensed their uncertainty and grinned mirthlessly and ferociously.

'Who dies first?' he mumbled through smashed and bloody lips.

Ascalante leaped like a wolf, halted almost in midair with incredible quickness and fell prostrate to avoid the death which was hissing toward him. He frantically whirled his feet out of the way and rolled clear as Conan recovered from his missed blow and struck again. This time the ax sank inches deep into the polished floor close to Ascalante's revolving legs.

Another misguided desperado chose this instant to charge, followed half-heartedly by his fellows. He intended killing Conan before the Cimmerian could wrench his ax from the floor, but his judgment was faulty. The red ax lurched up and crashed down and a crimson caricature of a man catapulted back against the legs of the attackers.

At that instant a fearful scream burst from the rogues at the door as a black misshapen shadow fell across the wall. All but Ascalante wheeled at the cry, and then, howling like dogs, they burst blindly through the door in a raving, blaspheming mob, and scattered through the corridors in screaming flight.

Ascalante did not look toward the door; he had eyes only for the wounded king. He supposed the noise of the fray had at last roused the palace, and that the loyal guards were upon him, though even in that moment it seemed strange that his hardened rogues should scream so terribly in their flight. Conan did not look toward the door because he was watching the outlaw with the burning eyes of a dying wolf. In this extremity Ascalante's cynical philosophy did not desert him.

'All seems to be lost, particularly honor,' he murmured. 'However, the king is dying on his feet - and-' Whatever other cogitation might have passed through his mind is not to be known; for, leaving the sentence uncompleted, he ran lightly at Conan just as the Cimmerian was perforce employing his axarm to wipe the blood from his blind eyes.

But even as he began his charge, there was a strange rushing in the air and a heavy weight struck terrifically between his shoulders. He was dashed headlong and great talons sank agonizingly in his flesh. Writhing desperately beneath his attacker, he twisted his head about and stared into the face of Nightmare and lunacy. Upon him crouched a great black thing which he knew was born in no sane or human world. Its slavering black fangs were near his throat and the glare of its yellow eyes shriveled his limbs as a killing wind shrivels young corn.

The hideousness of its face transcended mere bestiality. It might have been the face of an ancient, evil mummy, quickened with demoniac life. In those abhorrent features the outlaw's dilated eyes seemed to see, like a shadow in the madness that enveloped him, a faint and terrible resemblance to the slave Thoth-Amon. Then Ascalante's cynical and all-sufficient philosophy deserted him, and with a ghastly cry he gave up the ghost before those slavering fangs touched him.

Conan, shaking the blood-drops from his eyes, stared frozen. At first he thought it was a great black hound which stood above Ascalante's distorted body; then as his sight cleared he saw that it was neither a hound nor a baboon.

With a cry that was like an echo of Ascalante's death-shriek, he reeled away from the wall and met the leaping horror with a cast of his ax that had behind it all the desperate power of his electrified nerves. The flying weapon glanced singing from the slanting skull it should have crushed, and the king was hurled halfway across the chamber by the impact of the giant body.

The slavering jaws closed on the arm Conan flung up to guard his throat, but the monster made no effort to secure a death-grip. Over his mangled arm it glared fiendishly into the king's eyes, in which there began to be mirrored a likeness of the horror which stared from the dead eyes of Ascalante. Conan felt his soul shrivel and begin to be drawn out of his body, to drown in the yellow wells of cosmic horror which glimmered spectrally in the formless chaos that was growing about him and engulfing all life and sanity. Those eyes grew and became gigantic, and in them the Cimmerian glimpsed the reality of all the abysmal and blasphemous horrors that lurk in the outer darkness of formless voids and nighted gulfs. He opened his bloody lips to shriek his hate and loathing, but only a dry rattle burst from his throat.

But the horror that paralysed and destroyed Ascalante roused in the Cimmerian a frenzied fury akin to madness. With a volcanic wrench of his whole body he plunged backward, heedless of the agony of his torn arm, dragging the monster bodily with him. And his out-flung hand struck something his dazed fighting-brain recognized as the hilt of his broken sword. Instinctively he gripped it and struck with all the power of nerve and thew, as a man stabs with a dagger. The broken blade sank deep and Conan's arm was released as the abhorrent mouth gaped as in agony. The king was hurled violently aside, and lifting himself on one hand he saw, as one mazed, the terrible convulsions of the monster from which thick blood was gushing through the great wound his broken blade had torn. And as he watched, its struggles ceased and it lay jerking spasmodically, staring upward with its grisly dead eyes. Conan blinked and shook the blood from his own eyes; it seemed to him that the thing was melting and disintegrating into a slimy unstable mass.

Then a medley of voices reached his ears, and the room was thronged with the finally roused people of the court -knights, peers, ladies, men-at-arms, councillors - all babbling and shouting and getting in one another's way. The Black Dragons were on hand, wild with rage, swearing and ruffling, with their hands on their hilts and foreign oaths in their teeth. Of the young officer of the door-guard nothing was seen, nor was he found then or later, though earnestly sought after.

'Gromel! Volmana! Rinaldo!' exclaimed Publius, the high councillor, wringing his fat hands among the corpses. 'Black treachery! Some one shall dance for this! Call the guard.'

'The guard is here, you old fool!' cavalierly snapped Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, forgetting Publius' rank in the stress of the moment. 'Best stop your caterwauling and aid us to bind the king's wounds. He's like to bleed to death.'

'Yes, yes!' cried Publius, who was a man of plans rather than action. 'We must bind his wounds. Send for every leech of the court! Oh, my lord, what a black shame on the city! Are you entirely slain?'

'Wine!' gasped the king from the couch where they had lain him. They put a goblet to his bloody lips and he drank like a man half dead of thirst.

'Good!' he grunted, falling back. 'Slaying is cursed dry work.'

They had staunched the flow of blood, and the innate vitality of the barbarian was asserting itself.

'See first to the dagger-wound in my side,' he bade the court physicians. 'Rinaldo wrote me a deathly song there, and keen was the stylus.'

'We should have hanged him long ago,' gibbered Publius. 'No good can come of poets - who is this?'

He nervously touched Ascalante's body with his sandalled toe.

'By Mitra!' ejaculated the commander. 'It is Ascalante, once count of Thune! What devil's work brought him up from his desert haunts?'

'But why does he stare so?' whispered Publius, drawing away, his own eyes wide and a peculiar prickling among the short hairs at the back of his fat neck. The others fell silent as they gazed at the dead outlaw.

'Had you seen what he and I saw,' growled the king, sitting up despite the protests of the leeches, 'you had not wondered. Blast your own gaze by looking at-' He stopped short, his mouth gaping, his finger pointing fruitlessly. Where the monster had died, only the bare floor met his eyes.

'Crom!' he swore. 'The thing's melted back into the foulness which bore it!'

'The king is delirious,' whispered a noble. Conan heard and swore, with barbaric oaths.

'By Badb, Morrigan, Macha and Nemain!' he concluded wrathfully. 'I am sane! It was like a cross between a Stygian mummy and a baboon. It came through the door, and Ascalante's rogues fled before it. It slew Ascalante, who was about to run me through. Then it came upon me and I slew it - how I know not, for my ax glanced from it as from a rock. But I think that the Sage Epemitreus had a hand in it-'

'Hark how he names Epemitreus, dead for fifteen hundred years!" they whispered to each other.

'By Ymir!' thundered the king. 'This night I talked with Epemitreus! He called to me in my dreams, and I walked down a black stone corridor carved with old gods, to a stone stair on the steps of which were the outlines of Set, until I came to a crypt, and a tomb with a phoenix carved on it-'

'In Mitra's name, lord king, be silent!' It was the high-priest of Mitra who cried out, and his countenance was ashen.

Conan threw up his head like a lion tossing back its mane, and his voice was thick with the growl of the angry lion.

'Ain I slave, to shut my mouth at your command?'

'Nay, nay, my lord!' The high-priest was trembling, but not through fear of the royal wrath. 'I meant no offense.' He bent his head close to the king and spoke in a whisper that carried only to Conan's ears.

'My lord, this is a matter beyond human understanding. Only the inner circle of the priestcraft know of the black stone corridor carved in the black heart of Mount Golamira, by unknown hands, or of the phoenix-guarded tomb where Epemitreus was laid to rest fifteen hundred years ago. And since that time no living man has entered it, for his chosen priests, after placing the Sage in the crypt, blocked up the outer entrance of the corridor so that no man could find it, and today not even the high-priests know where it is. Only by word of mouth, handed down by the high-priests to the chosen few, and jealously guarded, does the inner circle of Mitra's acolytes know of the resting-place of Epemitreus in the black heart of Golamira. It is one of the Mysteries, on which Mitra's cult stands.'

'I can not say by what magic Epemitreus brought me to him,' answered Conan. 'But I talked with him, and he made a mark on my sword. Why that mark made it deadly to demons, or what magic lay behind the mark, I know not; but though the blade broke on Gromel's helmet, yet the fragment was long enough to kill the horror.'

'Let me see your sword,' whispered the high-priest from a throat gone suddenly dry.

Conan held out the broken weapon and the high-priest cried out and fell to his knees.

'Mitra guard us against the powers of darkness!' he gasped. 'The king has indeed talked with Epemitreus this night! And there on the sword - it is the secret sign none might make but him - the emblem of the immortal phoenix which broods for ever over his tomb! A candle, quick! Look again at the spot where the king said the goblin died!'

It lay in the shade of a broken screen. They threw the screen aside and bathed the floor in a flood of candle-light. And a shuddering silence fell over the people as they looked. Then some fell on their knees calling on Mitra, and some fled screaming from the chamber.

There on the floor where the monster had died, there lay, like a tangible shadow, a broad dark stain that could not be washed out; the thing had left its outline clearly etched in its blood, and that outline was of no being of a sane and normal world. Grim and horrific it brooded there, like the shadow cast by one of the apish gods that squat on the shadowy altars of dim temples in the dark land of Stygia.

The Scarlet Citadel

They trapped the Lion on Shamu's plain; They weighted his limbs with an iron chain; They cried aloud in the trumpetblast, They cried, 'The Lion is caged at last.'

Woe to the cities of river and plain If ever the Lion stalks again!

Old Ballad

1

The roar of the battle had died away; the shout of victory mingled with the cries of the dying. Like gay-hued leaves after an autumn storm, the fallen littered the plain; the sinking sun shimmered on burnished helmets, gilt-worked mail, silver breastplates, broken swords, and the heavy regal folds of silken standards, overthrown in pools of curdling crimson. In silent heaps lay warhorses and their steelclad riders, flowing manes and blowing plumes stained alike in the red tide. About them and among them, like the drift of a storm, were strewn slashed and trampled bodies in steel caps and leather jerkins - archers and pikemen.

The oliphants sounded a fanfare of triumph all over the plain, and the hoofs of the victors crunched in the breasts of the vanquished as all the straggling, shining lines converged inward like the spokes of a glittering wheel, to the spot where the last survivor still waged unequal strife.

That day Conan, king of Aquilonia, had seen the pick of his chivalry cut to pieces, smashed and hammered to bits, and swept into eternity. With five thousand knights he had crossed the southeastern border of Aquilonia and ridden into the grassy meadowlands of Ophir, to find his former ally, King Amalrus of Ophir, drawn up against him with the hosts of Strabonus, king of Koth. Too late he had seen the trap. All that a man might do he had done with his five thousand cavalrymen against the thirty thousand knights, archers and spearmen of the conspirators.

Without bowmen or infantry, he had hurled his armored horsemen against the oncoming host, had seen the knights of his foes in their shining mail go down before his lances, had torn the opposing center to bits, driving the riven ranks headlong before him, only to find himself caught in a vise as the untouched wings closed in. Strabonus' Shemitish bowmen had wrought havoc among his knights, feathering them with shafts that found every crevice in their armor, shooting down the horses, the Kothian pikemen rushing in to spear the fallen riders. The mailed lancers of the routed center had re-formed, reinforced by the riders from the wings, and had charged again and again, sweeping the field by sheer weight of numbers.

The Aquilonians had not fled; they had died on the field, and of the five thousand knights who had followed Conan southward, not one left the plain of Shamu alive. And now the king himself stood at bay among the slashed bodies of his housetroops, his back against a heap of dead horses and men. Ophirean knights in gilded mail leaped their horses over mounds of corpses to slash at the solitary figure; squat Shemites with blueblack beards, and dark-faced Kothian knights ringed him on foot. The clangor of steel rose deafeningly; the blackmailed figure of the western king loomed among his swarming foes, dealing blows like a butcher wielding a great cleaver. Riderless horses raced down the field; about his iron-clad feet grew a ring of mangled corpses. His attackers drew back from his desperate savagery, panting and livid.

Now through the yelling, cursing lines rode the lords of the conquerors - Strabonus, with his broad dark face and crafty eyes; Amalrus, slender, fastidious, treacherous, dangerous as a cobra; and the lean vulture Tsothalanti, clad only in silken robes, his great black eyes glittering from a face that was like that of a bird of prey. Of this Kothian wizard dark tales were told; tousle-headed women in northern and western villages frightened children with !us name, and rebellious slaves were brought to abased submission quicker than by the lash, with the threat of being sold to him. Men said that he had a whole library of dark works bound in skin flayed from living human victims, and that in nameless pits below the hill whereon his palace sat, he trafficked with the powers of darkness, trading screaming girl slaves for unholy secrets. He was the real ruler of Koth.

Now he grinned bleakly as the kings reined back a safe distance from the grim iron-clad figure looming among the dead. Before the savage blue eyes blazing murderously from beneath the crested, dented helmet, the boldest shrank. Conan's dark scarred face was darker yet with passion; his black armor was hacked to tatters and splashed with blood; his great sword red to the cross-piece. In this stress all the veneer of civilization had faded; it was a barbarian who faced his conquerors. Conan was a Cimmerian by birth, one of those fierce moody hillmen who dwelt in their gloomy, cloudy land in the north. His saga, which had led him to the throne of Aquilonia, was the basis of a whole cycle of hero-tales.

So now the kings kept their distance, and Strabonus called on his Shemitish archers to loose their arrows at his foe from a distance; his captains had fallen like ripe grain before the Cimmerian's broadsword, and Strabonus, penurious of his knights as of his coins, was frothing with fury. But Tsotha shook his head.

'Take him alive.'

'Easy to say!' snarled Strabonus, uneasy lest in some way the blackmailed giant might hew a path to them through the spears. 'Who can take a man-eating tiger alive? By Ishtar, his heel is on the necks of my finest swordsmen! It took seven years and stacks of gold to train each, and there they lie, so much kite's meat. Arrows, I say!'

'Again, nay!' snapped Tsotha, swinging down from his horse. He laughed coldly. 'Have you not learned by this time that my brain is mightier than my sword?'

He passed through the lines of the pikemen, and the giants in their steel caps and mail brigandines shrank back fearfully, lest they so much as touch the skirts of his robe. Nor were the plumed knights slower in making room for him. He stepped over the corpses and came face to face with the grim king. The hosts watched in tense silence, holding their breath. The blackarmored figure loomed in terrible menace over the lean, silkrobed shape, the notched, dripping sword hovering on high.

'I offer you life, Conan,' said Tsotha, a cruel mirth bubbling at the back of his voice.

'I give you death, wizard,' snarled the king, and backed by iron muscles and ferocious hate the great sword swung in a stroke meant to shear Tsotha's lean torso in half. But even as the host cried out, the wizard stepped in, too quick for the eye to follow, and apparently merely laid an open hand on Conan's left forearm, from the rigid muscles of which the mail had been hacked away. The whistling blade veered from its arc and the mailed giant crashed heavily to earth, to lie motionless. Tsotha laughed silently.

'Take him up and fear not; the lion's fangs are drawn.'

The kings reined in and gazed in awe at the fallen lion. Conan lay stiffly, like a dead man, but his eyes glared up at them, wide open, and blazing with helpless fury.

'What have you done to him?' asked Amalrus uneasily.

Tsotha displayed a broad ring of curious design on his finger. He pressed his fingers together and on the inner side of the ring a tiny steel fang darted out like a snake's tongue.

'It is steeped in the juice of the purple lotus which grows in the ghost-haunted swamps of southern Stygia,' said the magician. 'Its touch produces temporary paralysis. Put him in chains and lay him in a chariot. The sun sets and it is time we were on the road for Khorshemish.'

Strabonus turned to his general Arbanus.

'We return to Khorshemish with the wounded. Only a troop of the royal cavalry will accompany us. Your orders are to march at dawn to the Aquilonian border, and invest the city of Shamar. The Ophireans will supply you with food along the march. We will rejoin you as soon as possible, with reinforcements.'

So the host, with its steel-sheathed knights, its pikemen and archers and camp-servants, went into camp in the meadowlands near the battlefield. And through the starry night the two kings and the sorcerer who was greater than any king rode to the capital of Strabonus, in the midst of the glittering palace troop, and accompanied by a long line of chariots, loaded with the wounded. In one of these chariots lay Conan, king of Aquilonia, weighted with chains, the tang of defeat in his mouth, the blind fury of a trapped tiger in his soul.

The poison which had frozen his mighty limbs to helplessness had not paralysed his brain. As the chariot in which he lay rumbled over the meadowlands, his mind revolved maddeningly about his defeat. Amalrus had sent an emissary imploring aid against Strabonus, who, he said, was ravaging his western domain, which lay like a tapering wedge between the border of Aquilonia and the vast southern kingdom of Koth. He asked only a thousand horsemen and the presence of Conan, to hearten his demoralized subjects. Conan now blasphemed mentally. In his generosity he had come with five times the number the treacherous monarch had asked. In good faith he had ridden into Ophir, and had been confronted by the supposed rivals allied against him. It spoke significantly of his prowess that they had brought up a whole host to trap him and his five thousand.

A red cloud veiled his vision; his veins swelled with fury and in his temples a pulse throbbed maddeningly. In all his life he had never known greater and more helpless wrath. In swiftmoving scenes the pageant of his life passed fleetingly before his mental eye - a panorama wherein moved shadowy figures which were himself, in many guises and conditions - a skin-clad barbarian; a mercenary swordsman in horned helmet and scalemail corselet; a corsair in a dragon-prowed galley that trailed a crimson wake of blood and pillage along southern coasts; a captain of hosts in burnished steel, on a rearing black charger; a king on a golden throne with the lion banner flowing above, and throngs of gay-hued courtiers and ladies on their knees. But always the jouncing and rumbling of the chariot brought his thoughts back to revolve with maddening monotony about the treachery of Amalrus and the sorcery of Tsotha. The veins nearly burst in his temples and the cries of the wounded in the chariots filled him with ferocious satisfaction.

Before midnight they crossed the Ophirean border and at dawn the spires of Khorshemish stood up gleaming and rose tinted on the southeastern horizon, the slim towers overawed by the grim scarlet citadel that at a distance was like a splash of bright blood in the sky. That was the castle of Tsotha. Only one narrow street, paved with marble and guarded by heavy iron gates, led up to it, where it crowned the hill dominating the city. The sides of that hill were too sheer to be climbed elsewhere. From the walls of the citadel one could look down on the broad white streets of the city, on minaretted mosques, shops, temples, mansions, and markets. One could look down, too, on the palaces of the king, set in broad gardens, highwalled, luxurious riots of fruit trees and blossoms, through which artificial streams murmured, and silvery fountains rippled incessantly. Over all brooded the citadel, like a condor stooping above its prey, intent on its own dark meditations.

The mighty gates between the huge towers of the outer wall clanged open, and the king rode into his capital between lines of glittering spearmen, while fifty trumpets pealed salute. But no throngs swarmed the white-paved streets to fling roses before the conqueror's hoofs. Strabonus had raced ahead of news of the battle, and the people, just rousing to the occupations of the day, gaped to see their king returning with a small retinue, and were in doubt as to whether it portended victory or defeat.

Conan, life sluggishly moving in his veins again, craned his neck from the chariot floor to view the wonders of this city which men called the Queen of the South. He had thought to ride some day through these golden-chased gates at the head of his steelclad squadrons, with the great lion banner flowing over his helmeted head. Instead he entered in chains, stripped of his armor, and thrown like a captive slave on the bronze floor of his conqueror's chariot. A wayward devilish mirth of mockery rose above his fury, but to the nervous soldiers who drove the chariot his laughter sounded like the muttering of a rousing lion.

2

Gleaming shell of an outworn lie; fable of Right divine-You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood was the price of mine.

The throne that I won by blood and sweat, by Crom, I will not sell

For promise of valleys filled with gold, or threat of the Halls of Hell!

The Road of Kings

In the citadel, in a chamber with a domed ceiling of carven jet, and the fretted arches of doorways glimmering with strange dark jewels, a strange conclave came to pass. Conan of Aquilonia, blood from unbandaged wounds caking his huge limbs, faced his captors. On either side of him stood a dozen black giants, grasping their long-shafted axes. In front of him stood Tsotha, and on divans lounged Strabonus and Amalrus in their silks and gold, gleaming with jewels, naked slave-boys beside them pouring wine into cups carved of a single sapphire. In strong contrast stood Conan, grim, blood-stained, naked but for a loin-cloth, shackles on his mighty limbs, his blue eyes blazing beneath the tangled black mane that fell over his low broad forehead. He dominated the scene, turning to tinsel the pomp of the conquerors by the sheer vitality of his elemental personality, and the kings in their pride and splendor were aware of it each in his secret heart, and were not at ease. Only Tsotha was not disturbed.

'Our desires are quickly spoken, king of Aquilonia,' said Tsotha. 'It is our wish to extend our empire.'

'And so you want to swine my kingdom,' rasped Conan.

'What are you but an adventurer, seizing a crown to which you had no more claim than any other wandering barbarian?' parried Amalrus. 'We are prepared to offer you suitable compensation-'

'Compensation?' It was a gust of deep laughter from Conan's mighty chest. 'The price of infamy and treachery! I am a barbarian, so I shall sell my kingdom and its people for life and your filthy gold? Ha! How did you come to your crown, you and that black-faced pig beside you? Your fathers did the fighting and the suffering, and handed their crowns to you on golden platters. What you inherited without lifting a finger except to poison a few brothers - I fought for.

'You sit on satin and guzzle wine the people sweat for, and talk of divine rights of sovereignty - bah! I climbed out of the abyss of naked barbarism to the throne and in that climb I spilt my blood as freely as I spilt that of others. If either of us has the right to rule men, by Crom, it is I! How have you proved yourself my superior?

'I found Aquilonia in the grip of a pig like you - one who traced his genealogy for a thousand years. The land was torn with the wars of the barons, and the people cried out under suppression and taxation. Today no Aquilonian noble dares maltreat the humblest of my subjects, and the taxes of the people are lighter than anywhere else in the world.

'What of you? Your brother, Amalrus, holds the eastern half of your kingdom and defies you. And you, Strabonus, your soldiers are even now besieging castles of a dozen or more rebellious barons. The people of both your kingdoms are crushed into the earth by tyrannous taxes and levies. And you would loot mine - ha! Free my hands and I'll varnish this floor with your brains!'

Tsotha grinned bleakly to see the rage of his kingly companions.

'All this, truthful though it be, is beside the point. Our plans are no concern of yours. Your responsibility is at an end when you sign this parchment, which is an abdication in favor of Prince Arpello of Pellia. We will give you arms and horse, and five thousand golden lunas, and escort you to the eastern frontiers.'

'Setting me adrift where I was when I rode into Aquilonia to take service in her armies, except with the added burden of a traitor's name!' Conan's laugh was like the deep short bark of a timber wolf. 'Arpello, eh? I've had suspicions of that butcher of Pellia. Can you not even steal and pillage frankly and honestly, but you must have an excuse, however thin? Arpello claims a trace of royal blood; so you use him as an excuse for theft, and a satrap to rule through! I'll see you in hell first.'

'You're a fool!' exclaimed Amalrus. 'You are in our hands, and we can take both crown and life at our pleasure!'

Conan's answer was neither kingly nor dignified, but characteristically instinctive in the man, whose barbaric nature had never been submerged in his adopted culture. He spat full in Amalrus' eyes. The king of Ophir leaped up with a scream of outraged fury, groping for his slender sword. Drawing it, he rushed at the Cimmerian, but Tsotha intervened.

'Wait, your majesty; this man is my prisoner.'

'Aside, wizard!' shrieked Amalrus, maddened by the glare in the Cimmerian's blue eyes.

'Back, I say!' roared Tsotha, roused to awesome wrath. His lean hand came from his sleeve and cast a shower of dust into the Ophirean's contorted face. Amalrus cried out and staggered back, clutching at his eyes, the sword falling from his hand. He dropped limply on the divan, while the Kothian guards looked on stolidly and King Strabonus hurriedly gulped another goblet of wine, holding it with hands that trembled. Amalrus lowered his hands and shook his head violently, intelligence slowly sifting back into his gray eyes.

'I went blind,' he growled. 'What did you do to me, wizard?'

'Merely a gesture to convince you who was the real master,' snapped Tsotha, the mask of his formal pretense dropped, revealing the naked evil personality of the man. 'Strabonus has learned his lesson - let you learn yours. It was but a dust I found in a Stygian tomb which I flung into your eyes - if I brush out their sight again, I will leave you to grope in darkness for the rest of your life.'

Amalrus shrugged his shoulders, smiled whimsically and reached for a goblet, dissembling his fear and fury. A polished diplomat, he was quick to regain his poise. Tsotha turned to Conan, who had stood imperturbably during the episode. At the wizard's gesture, the blacks laid hold of their prisoner and marched him behind Tsotha, who led the way out of the chamber through an arched doorway into a winding corridor, whose floor was of many-hued mosaics, whose walls were inlaid with gold tissue and silver chasing, and from whose fretted arched ceiling swung golden censers, filling the corridor with dreamy perfumed clouds. They turned down a smaller corridor, done in jet and black jade, gloomy and awful, which ended at a brass door, over whose arch a human skull grinned horrifically. At this door stood a fat repellent figure, dangling a bunch of keys - Tsotha's chief eunuch, Shukeli, of whom grisly tales were whispered - a man with whom a bestial lust for torture took the place of normal human passions.

The brass door let onto a narrow stair that seemed to wind down into the very bowels of the hill on which the citadel stood. Down these stairs went the band, to halt at last at an iron door, the strength of which seemed unnecessary. Evidently it did not open on outer air, yet it was built as if to withstand the battering of mangonels and rams. Shukeli opened it, and as he swung back the ponderous portal, Conan noted the evident uneasiness among the black giants who guarded him; nor did Shukeli seem altogether devoid of nervousness as he peered into the darkness beyond. Inside the great door there was a second barrier, composed of great steel bars. It was fastened by an ingenious bolt which had no lock and could be worked only from the outside; this bolt shot back, the grille slid into the wall. They passed through, into a broad corridor, the floor, walls and arched ceiling of which seemed to be cut out of solid stone. Conan knew he was far underground, even below the hill itself. The darkness pressed in on the guardsmen's torches like a sentient, animate thing.

They made the king fast to a ring in the stone wall. Above his head in a niche in the wall they placed a torch, so that he stood in a dim semicircle of light. The blacks were anxious to be gone; they muttered among themselves, and cast fearful glances at the darkness. Tsotha motioned them out, and they filed through the door in stumbling haste, as if fearing the darkness might take tangible form and spring upon their backs. Tsotha turned toward Conan, and the king noticed uneasily that the wizard's eyes shone in the semi-darkness, and that his teeth much resembled the fangs of a wolf, gleaming whitely in the shadows.

'And so, farewell, barbarian,' mocked the sorcerer. 'I must ride to Shamar, and the siege. In ten days I will be in your palace in Tamar, with my warriors. What word from you shall I say to your women, before I flay their dainty skins for scrolls whereon to chronicle the triumphs of Tsothalanti?'

Conan answered with a searing Cimmerian curse that would have burst the very eardrums of an ordinary man, and Tsotha laughed thinly and withdrew. Conan had a glimpse of his vulture-like figure through the thick-set bars, as he slid home the grate; then the heavy outer door clanged, and silence fell like a pall.

3

The Lion strode through the halls of Hell; Across his path grim shadows fell

Of many a mowing, nameless shape―

Monsters with dripping jaws agape.

The darkness shuddered with scream and yell When the Lion stalked through the halls of Hell.

Old Ballad

King Conan tested the ring in the wall and the chain that bound him. His limbs were free, but he knew that his shackles were beyond even his iron strength. The links of the chain were as thick as his thumb and were fastened to a band of steel about his waist, a band broad as his hand and half an inch thick. The sheer weight of his shackles would have slain a lesser man with exhaustion. The locks that held band and chain were massive affairs that a sledgehammer could hardly have dinted. As for the ring, evidently it went clear through the wall and was clinched on the other side.

Conan cursed and panic surged through him as he glared into the darkness that pressed against the half-circle of light. All the superstitious dread of the barbarian slept in his soul, untouched by civilized logic. His primitive imagination peopled the subterranean darkness with grisly shapes. Besides, his reason told him that he had not been placed there merely for confinement. His captors had no reason to spare him. He had been placed in these pits for a definite doom. He cursed himself for his refusal of their offer, even while his stubborn manhood revolted at the thought, and he knew that were he taken forth and given another chance, his reply would be the same. He would not sell his subjects to the butcher. And yet it had been with no thought of any one's gain but his own that he had seized the kingdom originally. Thus subtly does the instinct of sovereign responsibility enter even a red-handed plunderer sometimes.

Conan thought of Tsotha's last abominable threat, and groaned in sick fury, knowing it was no idle boast. Men and women were to the wizard no more than the writhing insect is to the scientist. Soft white hands that had caressed him, red lips that had been pressed to his, dainty white bosoms that had quivered to his hot fierce kisses, to be stripped of their delicate skin, white as ivory and pink as young petals - from Conan's lips burst a yell so frightful and inhuman in its mad fury that a listener would have started in horror to know that it came from a human throat.

The shuddering echoes made him start and brought back his own situation vividly to the king. He glared fearsomely at the outer gloom, and thought of all the grisly tales he had heard of Tsotha's necromantic cruelty, and it was with an icy sensation down his spine that he realized that these must be the very Halls of Horror named in shuddering legendry, the tunnels and dungeons wherein Tsotha performed horrible experiments with beings human, bestial, and, it was whispered, demoniac, tampering blasphemously with the naked basic elements of life itself. Rumor said that the mad poet Rinaldo had visited these pits, and been shown horrors by the wizard, and that the nameless monstrosities of which he hinted in his awful poem, The Song of the Pit, were no mere fantasies of a disordered brain. That brain had crashed to dust beneath Conan's battle-ax on the night the king had fought for his life with the assassins the mad rimer had led into the betrayed palace, but the shuddersome words of that grisly song still rang in the king's ears as he stood there in his chains.

Even with the thought the Cimmerian was frozen by a soft rustling sound, blood-freezing in its implication. He tensed in an attitude of listening, painful in its intensity. An icy hand stroked his spine. It was the unmistakable sound of pliant scales slithering softly over stone. Cold sweat beaded his skin, as beyond the ring of dim light he saw a vague and colossal form, awful even in its indistinctness. It reared upright, swaying slightly, and yellow eyes burned icily on him from the shadows. Slowly a huge, hideous, wedgeshaped head took form before his dilated eyes, and from the darkness oozed, in flowing scaly coils, the ultimate horror of reptilian development.

It was a snake that dwarfed all Conan's previous ideas of snakes. Eighty feet it stretched from its pointed tail to its triangular head, which was bigger than that of a horse. In the dim light its scales glistened coldly, white as hoar-frost. Surely this reptile was one born and grown in darkness, yet its eyes were full of evil and sure sight. It looped its titan coils in front of the captive, and the great head on the arching neck swayed a matter of inches from his face. Its forked tongue almost brushed his lips as it darted in and out, and its fetid odor made his senses reel with nausea. The great yellow eyes burned into his, and Conan gave back the glare of a trapped wolf. He fought frenziedly against the mad impulse to grasp the great arching neck in his tearing hands. Strong beyond the comprehension of civilized man, he had broken the neck of a python in a fiendish battle on the Stygian coast, in his corsair days. But this reptile was venomous; he saw the great fangs, a foot long, curved like scimitars. From them dripped a colorless liquid that he instinctively knew was death. He might conceivably crush that wedgeshaped skull with a desperate clenched fist, but he knew that at his first hint of movement, the monster would strike like lightning.

It was not because of any logical reasoning process that Conan remained motionless, since reason might have told him - since he was doomed anyway - to goad the snake into striking and get it over with; it was the blind black instinct of selfpreservation that held him rigid as a statue blasted out of iron. Now the great barrel reared up and the head was poised high above his own, as the monster investigated the torch. A drop of venom fell on his naked thigh, and the feel of it was like a white-hot dagger driven into his flesh. Red jets of agony shot through Conan's brain, yet he held himself immovable; not by the twitching of a muscle or the flicker of any eyelash did he betray the pain of the hurt that left a scar he bore to the day of his death.

The serpent swayed over him, as if seeking to ascertain whether there were in truth life in this figure which stood so death-like still. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the outer door, all but invisible in the shadows, clanged stridently. The serpent, suspicious as all its kind, whipped about with a quickness incredible for its bulk, and vanished with a longdrawn slithering down the corridor. The door swung open and remained open. The grille was withdrawn and a huge dark figure was framed in the glow of torches outside. The figure glided in, pulling the grille partly to behind it, leaving the bolt poised. As it moved into the light of the torch over Conan's head, the king saw that it was a gigantic black man, stark naked, bearing in one hand a huge sword and in the other a bunch of keys. The black spoke in a seacoast dialect, and Conan replied; he had learned the jargon while a corsair on the coasts of Kush.

'Long have I wished to meet you, Amra,' the black gave Conan the name by which the Cimmerian had been known to the Kushites in his piratical days - Amra, the Lion. The slave's woolly skull split in an animal-like grin, showing white tusks, but his eyes glinted redly in the torchlight. 'I have dared much for this meeting. Look! The keys to your chains! I stole them from Shukeli. What will you give me for them?'

He dangled the keys in front of Conan's eyes.

'Ten thousand golden lunas,' answered the king quickly, new hope surging fiercely in his breast.

'Not enough!' cried the black, a ferocious exultation shining on his ebon countenance. 'Not enough for the risks I take. Tsotha's pets might come out of the dark and eat me, and if Shukeli finds out I stole his keys, he'll hang me up by mywell, what will you give me?'

'Fifteen thousand lunas and a palace in Poitain,' offered the king.

The black yelled and stamped in a frenzy of barbaric gratification.

'More!' he cried. 'Offer me more! What will you give me?'

'You black dog!' a red mist of fury swept across Conan's eyes. 'Were I free I'd give you a broken back! Did Shukeli send you here to mock me?'

'Shukeli knows nothing of my coming, white man,' answered the black, craning his thick neck to peer into Conan's savage eyes. 'I know you from of old, since the days when I was a chief among a free people, before the Stygians took me and sold me into the north. Do you not remember the sack of Abombi, when your sea-wolves swarmed in? Before the palace of King Ajaga you slew a chief and a chief fled from you. It was my brother who died; it was I who fled. I demand of you a bloodprice, Amra!'

'Free me and I'll pay you your weight in gold pieces,' growled Conan.

The red eyes glittered, the white teeth flashed wolfishly in the torchlight.

'Aye, you white dog, you are like all your race; but to a black man gold can never pay for blood. The price I ask is -your head!'

The word was a maniacal shriek that sent the echoes shivering. Conan tensed, unconsciously straining against his shackles in his abhorrence of dying like a sheep; then he was frozen by a great horror. Over the black's shoulder he saw a vague horrific form swaying in the darkness.

'Tsotha will never know!' laughed the black fiendishly, too engrossed in his gloating triumph to take heed of anything else, too drunk with hate to know that Death swayed behind his shoulder. 'He will not come into the vaults until the demons have torn your bones from their chains. I will have your head, Amra!'

He braced his knotted legs like ebon columns and swung up the massive sword in both hands, his great black muscles rolling and cracking in the torchlight. And at that instant the titanic shadow behind him darted down and out, and the wedgeshaped head smote with an impact that re-echoed down the tunnels. Not a sound came from the thick blubbery lips that flew wide in fleeting agony. With the thud of the stroke, Conan saw the life go out of the wide black eyes with the suddenness of a candle blown out. The blow knocked the great black body clear across the corridor, and horribly the gigantic sinuous shape whipped around it in glistening coils that hid it from view, and the snap and splintering of bones came plainly to Conan's ears. Then something made his heart leap madly. The sword and the keys had flown from the black's hands to crash and jangle on the stone - and the keys lay almost at the king's feet.

He tried to bend to them, but the chain was too short; almost suffocated by the mad pounding of his heart, he slipped one foot from its sandal, and gripped them with his toes; drawing his foot up, he grasped them fiercely, barely stifling the yell of ferocious exultation that rose instinctively to his lips.

An instant's fumbling with the huge locks and he was free. He caught up the fallen sword and glared about. Only empty darkness met his eyes, into which the serpent had dragged a mangled, tattered object that only faintly resembled a human body. Conan turned to the open door. A few quick strides brought him to the threshold - a squeal of high-pitched laughter shrilled through the vaults, and the grille shot home under his very fingers, the bolt crashed down. Through the bars peered a face like a fiendishly mocking carven gargoyle - Shukeli the eunuch, who had followed his stolen keys. Surely he did not, in his gloating, see the sword in the prisoner's hand. With a terrible curse Conan struck as a cobra strikes; the great blade hissed between the bars and Shukeli's laughter broke in a deathscream. The fat eunuch bent at the middle, as if bowing to his killer, and crumpled like tallow, his pudgy hands clutching vainly at his spilling entrails.

Conan snarled in satisfaction; but he was still a prisoner. His keys were futile against the bolt which could be worked only from the outside. His experienced touch told him the bars were hard as the sword; an attempt to hew his way to freedom would only splinter his one weapon. Yet he found dents on those adamantine bars, like the marks of incredible fangs, and wondered with an involuntary shudder what nameless monsters had assailed the barriers so terribly. Regardless, there was but one thing for him to do, and that was to seek some other outlet. Taking the torch from the niche, he set off down the corridor, sword in hand. He saw no sign of the serpent or its victim, only a great smear of blood on the stone floor.

Darkness stalked on noiseless feet about him, scarcely driven back by his flickering torch. On either hand he saw dark openings, but he kept to the main corridor, watching the floor ahead of him carefully, lest he fall into some pit. And suddenly he heard the sound of a woman, weeping piteously. Another of Tsotha's victims, he thought, cursing the wizard anew, and turning aside, followed the sound down a smaller tunnel, dank and damp.

The weeping grew nearer as he advanced and lifting his torch, he made out a vague shape in the shadows. Stepping closer, he halted in sudden horror at the anthropomorphic bulk which sprawled before him. Its unstable outlines somewhat suggested an octopus, but its malformed tentacles were too short for its size, and its substance was a quaking, jelly-like stuff which made him physically sick to look at. From among this loathsome gelid mass reared up a frog-like head, and he was frozen with nauseated horror to realize that the sound of weeping was coming from those obscene blubbery lips. The noise changed to an abominable high-pitched tittering as the great unstable eyes of the monstrosity rested on him, and it hitched its quaking bulk toward him. He backed away and fled up the tunnel, not trusting his sword. The creature might be composed of terrestrial matter, but it shook his very soul to look upon it, and he doubted the power of man-made weapons to harm it. For a short distance he heard it flopping and floundering after him, screaming with horrible laughter. The unmistakably human note in its mirth almost staggered his reason. It was exactly such laughter as he had heard bubble obscenely from the fat lips of the salacious women of Shadizar, City of Wickedness, when captive girls were stripped naked on the public auction block. By what hellish arts had Tsotha brought this unnatural being into life? Conan felt vaguely that he had looked on blasphemy against the eternal laws of nature.

He ran toward the main corridor, but before he reached it he crossed a sort of small square chamber, where two tunnels crossed. As he reached this chamber, he was flashingly aware of some small squat bulk on the floor ahead of him; then before he could check his flight or swerve aside, his foot struck something yielding that squalled shrilly, and he was precipitated headlong, the torch flying from his hand and being extinguished as it struck the stone floor. Half stunned by his fall, Conan rose and groped in the darkness. His sense of direction was confused, and he was unable to decide in which direction lay the main corridor. He did not look for the torch, as he had no means of rekindling it. His groping hands found the openings of the tunnels, and he chose one at random. How long he traversed it in utter darkness, he never knew, but suddenly his barbarian's instinct of near peril halted him short.

He had the same feeling he had had when standing on the brink of great precipices in the darkness. Dropping to all fours, he edged forward, and presently his outflung hand encountered the edge of a well, into which the tunnel floor apparently dropped abruptly. As far down as he could reach the sides fell away sheerly, dank and slimy to his touch. He stretched out an arm in the darkness and could barely touch the opposite edge with the point of his sword. He could leap across it then, but there was no point in that. He had taken the wrong tunnel and the main corridor lay somewhere behind him.

Even as he thought this, he felt a faint movement of air; a shadowy wind, rising from the well, stirred his black mane. Conan's skin crawled. He tried to tell himself that this well connected somehow with the outer world, but his instincts told him it was a thing unnatural. He was not merely inside the hill; he was below it, far below the level of the city streets. How then could an outer wind find its way into the pits and blow up from below? A faint throbbing pulsed on that ghostly wind, like drums beating far, far below. A strong shudder shook the king of Aquilonia.

He rose to his feet and backed away, and as he did something floated up out of the well. What it was, Conan did not know. He could see nothing in the darkness, but he distinctly felt a presence - an invisible, intangible intelligence which hovered malignly near him. Turning, he fled the way he had come. Far ahead he saw a tiny red spark. He headed for it, and long before he thought to have reached it, he caromed headlong into a solid wall and saw the spark at his feet. It was his torch, the flame extinguished, but the end a glowing coal. Carefully he took it up and blew upon it, fanning it into flame again. He gave a sigh as the tiny blaze leaped up. He was back in the chamber where the tunnels crossed, and his sense of direction came back.

He located the tunnel by which he had left the main corridor, and even as he started toward it, his torch-flame flickered wildly as if blown upon by unseen lips. Again he felt a presence, and he lifted his torch, glaring about.

He saw nothing; yet he sensed, somehow, an invisible, bodiless thing that hovered in the air, dripping slimily and mouthing obscenities that he could not hear but was in some instinctive way aware of. He swung viciously with his sword and it felt as if he were cleaving cobwebs. A cold horror shook him then, and he fled down the tunnel, feeling a foul burning breath on his naked back as he ran.

But when he came out into the broad corridor, he was no longer aware of any presence, visible or invisible. Down it he went, momentarily expecting fanged and taloned fiends to leap at him from the darkness. The tunnels were not silent. From the bowels of the earth in all directions came sounds that did not belong in a sane world. There were titterings, squeals of demoniac mirth, long shuddering howls, and once the unmistakable squalling laughter of a hyena ended awfully in human words of shrieking blasphemy. He heard the pad of stealthy feet, and in the mouths of the tunnels caught glimpses of shadowy forms, monstrous and abnormal in outline.

It was as if he had wandered into hell - a hell of Tsothalanti's making. But the shadowy things did not come into the corridor, though he distinctly heard the greedy sucking-in of slavering lips, and felt the burning glare of hungry eyes. And presently he knew why. A slithering sound behind him electrified him, and he leaped to the darkness of a near-by tunnel, shaking out his torch. Down the corridor he heard the great serpent crawling, sluggish from its recent grisly meal. From his very side something whimpered in fear and shrunk away in the darkness. Evidently the main corridor was the great snake's hunting-ground, and the other monsters gave it room.

To Conan the serpent was the least horror of them; he almost felt a kinship with it when he remembered the weeping, tittering obscenity, and the dripping, mouthing thing that came out of the well. At least it was of earthly matter; it was a crawling death, but it threatened only physical extinction, whereas these other horrors menaced mind and soul as well.

After it had passed on down the corridor, he followed, at what he hoped was a safe distance, blowing his torch into flame again. He had not gone far when he heard a low moan that seemed to emanate from the black entrance of a tunnel near by. Caution warned him off, but curiosity drove him to the tunnel, holding high the torch that was now little more than a stump. He was braced for the sight of anything, yet what he saw was what he had least expected. He was looking into a broad cell, and a space of this was caged off with closely set bars extending from floor to ceiling, set firmly in the stone. Within these bars lay a figure, which, as he approached, he saw was either a man, or the exact likeness of a man, twined and bound about with the tendrils of a thick vine which seemed to grow through the solid stone of the floor. It was covered with strangely pointed leaves and crimson blossoms - not the satiny red of natural petals, but a livid, unnatural crimson, like a perversity of flower-life. Its clinging, pliant branches wound about the man's naked body and limbs, seeming to caress his shrinking flesh with lustful avid kisses. One great blossom hovered exactly over his mouth. A low bestial moaning drooled from the loose lips; the head rolled as if in unbearable agony, and the eyes looked full at Conan. But there was no light of intelligence in them; they were blank, glassy, the eyes of an idiot.

Now the great crimson blossom dipped and pressed its petals over the writhing lips. The limbs of the wretch twisted in anguish; the tendrils of the plant quivered as if in ecstasy, vibrating their full snaky lengths. Waves of changing hues surged over them; their color grew deeper, more venomous.

Conan did not understand what he saw, but he knew that he looked on Horror of some kind. Man or demon, the suffering of the captive touched Conan's wayward and impulsive heart. He sought for entrance and found a grille-like door in the bars, fastened with a heavy lock, for which he found a key among the keys he carried, and entered. Instantly the petals of the livid blossoms spread like the hood of a cobra, the tendrils reared menacingly and the whole plant shook and swayed toward him. Here was no blind growth of natural vegetation. Conan sensed a strange, malignant intelligence; the plant could see him, and he felt its hate emanate from it in almost tangible waves. Stepping warily nearer, he marked the root-stem, a repulsively supple stalk thicker than his thigh, and even as the long tendrils arched toward him with a rattle of leaves and hiss, he swung his sword and cut through the stem with a single stroke.

Instantly the wretch in its clutches was thrown violently aside as the great vine lashed and knotted like a beheaded serpent, rolling into a huge irregular ball. The tendrils thrashed and writhed, the leaves shook and rattled like castanets, and petals opened and closed convulsively; then the whole length straightened out limply, the vivid colors paled and dimmed, a reeking white liquid oozed from the severed stump.

Conan stared, spellbound; then a sound brought him round, sword lifted. The freed man was on his feet, surveying him. Conan gaped in wonder. No longer were the eyes in the worn face expressionless. Dark and meditative, they were alive with intelligence, and the expression of imbecility had dropped from the face like a mask. The head was narrow and well-formed, with a high splendid forehead. The whole build of the man was aristocratic, evident no less in his tall slender frame than in his small trim feet and hands. His first words were strange and startling.

'What year is this?' he asked, speaking in Kothian.

'Today is the tenth of the month Yuluk, of the year of the Gazelle,' answered Conan.

'Yagkoolan Ishtar!' murmured the stranger. 'Ten years!' he drew a hand across his brow, shaking his head as if to clear his brain from cobwebs. 'All is dim yet. After a ten-year emptiness, the mind can not be expected to begin functioning clearly at once. Who are you?'

'Conan, once of Cimmeria. Now king of Aquilonia.'

The other's eyes showed surprise.

'Indeed? And Namedides?'

'I strangled him on his throne the night I took the royal city,' answered Conan.

A certain naivete in the king's reply twitched the stranger's lips.

'Pardon, your majesty. I should have thanked you for the service you have done me. I am like a man woken suddenly from sleep deeper than death and shot with nightmares of agony more fierce than hell, but I understand that you delivered me. Tell me - why did you cut the stem of the plant Yothga instead of tearing it up by the roots?'

'Because I learned long ago to avoid touching with my flesh that which I do not understand,' answered the Cimmerian.

'Well for you,' said the stranger. 'Had you been able to tear it up, you might have found things clinging to the roots against which not even your sword would prevail. Yothga's roots are set in hell.'

'But who are you?' demanded Conan.

'Men call me Pelias.'

'What!' cried the king. Telias the sorcerer, Tsothalanti's rival, who vanished from the earth ten years ago?'

'Not entirely from the earth,' answered Pelias with a wry smile. 'Tsotha preferred to keep me alive, in shackles more grim than rusted iron. He pent me in here with this devil flower whose seeds drifted down through the black cosmos from Yag the Accursed, and found fertile field only in the maggotwrithing corruption that seethes on the floors of hell.

'I could not remember my sorcery and the words and symbols of my power, with that cursed thing gripping me and drinking my soul with its loathsome caresses. It sucked the contents of my mind day and night, leaving my brain as empty as a broken wine-jug. Ten years! Ishtar preserve us!'

Conan found no reply, but stood holding the stump of the torch, and trailing his great sword. Surely the man was mad yet there was no madness in the strange dark eyes that rested so calmly on him.

'Tell me, is the black wizard in Khorshemish? But no - you need not reply. My powers begin to wake, and I sense in your mind a great battle and a king trapped by treachery. And I see Tsothalanti riding hard for the Tybor with Strabonus and the king of Ophir. So much the better. My art is too frail from the long slumber to face Tsotha yet. I need time to recruit my strength, to assemble my powers. Let us go forth from these pits.'

Conan jangled his keys discouragedly.

'The grille to the outer door is made fast by a bolt which can only be worked from outside. Is there no other exit from these tunnels?'

'Only one which neither of us would care to use, seeing that it goes down and not up,' laughed Pelias. 'But no matter. Let us see to the grille.'

He moved toward the corridor with uncertain steps, as of long-unused limbs, which gradually became more sure. As he followed, Conan said uneasily, 'There is a cursed big snake creeping about this tunnel. Let us be wary lest we step into his mouth.'

'I remember him of old,' answered Pelias grimly, 'the more as I was forced to watch while ten of my acolytes were fed to him. He is Satha, the Old One, chiefest of Tsotha's pets.'

'Did Tsotha dig these pits for no other reason than to house his cursed monstrosities?' asked Conan.

'He did not dig them. When the city was founded three thousand years ago there were ruins of an earlier city on and about this hill. King Khossus V, the founder, built his palace on the hill, and digging cellars beneath it, came upon a walled-up doorway, which he broke into and discovered the pits, which were about as we see them now. But his grand vizier came to such a grisly end in them that Khossus in a fright walled up the entrance again. He said the vizier fell into a well - but he had the cellars filled in, and later abandoned the palace itself, and built himself another in the suburbs, from which he fled in panic on discovering some black mold scattered on the marble floor of his chamber one morning.

'He then departed with his whole court to the eastern corner of the kingdom and built a new city. The palace on the hill was not used and fell into ruins. When Akkutho I revived the lost glories of Khorshemish, he built a fortress there. It remained for Tsothalanti to rear the scarlet citadel and open the way to the pits again. Whatever fate overtook the grand vizier of Khossus, Tsotha avoided it. He fell into no well, though he did descend into a well he found, and came out with a strange expression which has not since left his eyes.

'I have seen that well, but I do not care to seek in it for wisdom. I am a sorcerer, and older than men reckon, but I am human. As for Tsotha - men say that a dancing-girl of Shadizar slept too near the pre-human ruins on Dagoth Hill and woke in the grip of a black demon; from that unholy ruin was spawned an accursed hybrid men call Tsothalanti-'

Conan cried out sharply and recoiled, thrusting his companion back. Before them rose the great shimmering white form of Satha, an ageless hate in its eyes. Conan tensed himself for one mad berserker onslaught - to thrust the glowing fagot into that fiendish countenance and throw his life into the ripping sword-stroke. But the snake was not looking at him. It was glaring over his shoulder at the man called Pelias, who stood with his arms folded, smiling. And in the great cold yellow eyes slowly the hate died out in a glitter of pure fear - the only time Conan ever saw such an expression in a reptile's eyes. With a swirling rush like the sweep of a strong wind, the great snake was gone.

'What did he see to frighten him?' asked Conan, eyeing his companion uneasily.

'The scaled people see what escapes the mortal eye,' answered Pelias cryptically. 'You see my fleshly guise; he saw my naked soul.'

An icy trickle disturbed Conan's spine, and he wondered if, after all, Pelias were a man, or merely another demon of the pits in the mask of humanity. He contemplated the advisability of driving his sword through his companion's back without further hesitation. But while he pondered, they came to the steel grille, etched blackly in the torches beyond, and the body of Shukeli, still slumped against the bars in a curdled welter of crimson.

Pelias laughed, and his laugh was not pleasant to hear.

'By the ivory hips of Ishtar, who is our doorman? Lo, it is no less than the noble Shukeli himself, who hanged my young men by their feet and skinned them with squeals of laughter! Do you sleep, Shukeli? Why do you lie so stiffly, with your fat belly sunk in like a dressed pig's?'

'He is dead,' muttered Conan, ill at ease to hear these wild words.

'Dead or alive,' laughed Pelias, 'he shall open the door for us.'

He clapped his hands sharply and cried, 'Rise, Shukeli! Rise from hell and rise from the bloody floor and open the door for your masters! Rise, I say!'

An awful groan reverberated through the vaults. Conan's hair stood on end and he felt clammy sweat bead his hide. For the body of Shukeli stirred and moved, with infantile gropings of the fat hands. The laughter of Pelias was merciless as a flint hatchet, as the form of the eunuch reeled upright, clutching at the bars of the grille. Conan, glaring at him, felt his blood turn to ice, and the marrow of his bones to water; for Shukeli's wideopen eyes were glassy and empty, and from the great gash in his belly his entrails hung limply to the floor. The eunuch's feet stumbled among his entrails as he worked the bolt, moving like a brainless automaton. When he had first stirred, Conan had thought that by some incredible chance the eunuch was alive; but the man was dead - had been dead for hours.

Pelias sauntered through the opened grille, and Conan crowded through behind him, sweat pouring from his body, shrinking away from the awful shape that slumped on sagging legs against the grate it held open. Pelias passed on without a backward glance, and Conan followed him, in the grip of nightmare and nausea. He had not taken half a dozen strides when a sodden thud brought him round. Shukeli's corpse lay limply at the foot of the grille.

'His task is done, and hell gapes for him again,' remarked Pelias pleasantly, politely affecting not to notice the strong shudder which shook Conan's mighty frame.

He led the way up the long stairs, and through the brass skull-crowned door at the top. Conan gripped his sword, expecting a rush of slaves, but silence gripped the citadel. They passed through the black corridor and came into that in which the censers swung, billowing forth their everlasting incense. Still they saw no one.

'The slaves and soldiers are quartered in another part of the citadel,' remarked Pelias. 'Tonight, their master being away, they doubtless lie drunk on wine or lotus-juice.'

Conan glanced through an arched, golden-silled window that let out upon a broad balcony, and swore in surprise to see the dark-blue star-flecked sky. It had been shortly after sunrise when he was thrown into the pits. Now it was past midnight. He could scarcely realize he had been so long underground. He was suddenly aware of thirst and a ravenous appetite. Pelias led the way into a golden-domed chamber, floored with silver, its lapis-lazuli walls pierced by the fretted arches of many doors.

With a sigh Pelias sank onto a silken divan.

'Silks and gold again,' he sighed. 'Tsotha affects to be above the pleasures of the flesh, but he is half devil. I am human, despite my black arts. I love ease and good cheer - that's how Tsotha trapped me. He caught me helpless with drink. Wine is a curse - by the ivory bosom of Ishtar, even as I speak of it, the traitor is here! Friend, please pour me a goblet - hold! I forgot you are a king. I will pour.'

'The devil with that,' growled Conan, filling a crystal goblet and proffering it to Pelias. Then, lifting the jug, he drank deeply from the mouth, echoing Pelias' sigh of satisfaction.

'The dog knows good wine,' said Conan, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'But by Crom, Pelias, are we to sit here until his soldiers awake and cut our throats?'

'No fear,' answered Pelias. 'Would you like to see how fortune holds with Strabonus?'

Blue fire burned in Conan's eyes and he gripped his sword until his knuckles showed blue. 'Oh, to be at sword-points with him!' he rumbled.

Pelias lifted a great shimmering globe from an ebony table.

'Tsotha's crystal. A childish toy, but useful when there is lack of time for higher science. Look in, your majesty.'

He laid it on the table before Conan's eyes. The king looked into cloudy depths which deepened and expanded. Slowly images crystalized out of mist and shadows. He was looking on a familiar landscape. Broad plains ran to a wide winding river, beyond which the level lands ran up quickly into a maze of low hills. On the northern bank of the river stood a walled town, guarded by a moat connected at each end with the river.

'By Crom!' ejaculated Conan. 'It's Shamar! The dogs besiege it!'

The invaders had crossed the river; their pavilions stood in the narrow plain between the city and the hills. Their warriors swarmed about the walls, their mail gleaming palely under the moon. Arrows and stones rained on them from the towers and they staggered back, but came on again.

Even as Conan cursed, the scene changed. Tall spires and gleaming domes stood up in the mist, and he looked on his own capital of Tamar, where all was confusion. He saw the steelclad knights of Poitain, his staunchest supporters, whom he had left in charge of the city, riding out of the gate, hooted and hissed by the multitude which swarmed the streets. He saw looting and rioting, and men-at-arms whose shields bore the insignia of Pellia, manning the towers and swaggering through the markets. Over all, like a fantasmal picture, he saw the dark, triumphant face of Prince Arpello of Pellia. The images faded.

'So!' cursed Conan, 'My people turn on me the moment my back is turned-'

'Not entirely,' broke in Pelias. 'They have heard that you are dead. There is no one to protect them from outer enemies and civil war, they think. Naturally, they turn to the strongest noble, to avoid the horrors of anarchy. They do not trust the Poitanians, remembering former wars. But Arpello is on hand, and the strongest prince of the central realm.'

'When I come to Aquilonia again he will be but a headless corpse rotting on Traitor's Common,' Conan ground his teeth.

'Yet before you can reach your capital,' reminded Pelias, 'Strabonus may be before you. At least his riders will be ravaging your kingdom.'

'True!' Conan paced the chamber like a caged lion. 'With the fastest horse I could not reach Shamar before midday. Even there I could do no good except to die with the people, when the town falls - as fall it will in a few days at most. From Shamar to Tamar is five days' ride, even if you kill your horses on the road. Before I could reach my capital and raise an anny, Strabonus would be hammering at the gates; because raising an army is going to be hell - all my damnable nobles will have scattered to their own cursed fiefs at the word of my death. And since the people have driven out Trocero of Poitain, there's none to keep Arpello's greedy hands off the crown - and the crown-treasure. He'll hand the country over to Strabonus, in return for a mock-throne -- and as soon as Strabonus' back is turned, he'll stir up revolt. But the nobles won't support him, and it will only give Strabonus excuse for annexing the kingdom openly. Oh Crom, Ymir, and Set! If I had but wings to fly like lightning to Tamar!'

Pelias, who sat tapping the jade table-top with his fingernails, halted suddenly, and rose as with a definite purpose, beckoning Conan to follow. The king complied, sunk in moody thoughts, and Pelias led the way out of the chamber and up a flight of marble, gold-worked stairs that let out on the pinnacle of the citadel, the roof of the tallest tower. It was night, and a strong wind was blowing through the star-filled skies, stirring Conan's black mane. Far below them twinkled the lights of Khorshemish, seemingly farther away than the stars above them. Pelias seemed withdrawn and aloof here, one in cold unhuman greatness with the company of the stars.

'There are creatures,' said Pelias, 'not alone of earth and sea, but of air and the far reaches of the skies as well, dwelling apart, unguessed of men. Yet to him who holds the Master-words and Signs and the Knowledge underlying all, they are not malignant nor inaccessible. Watch, and fear not.'

He lifted his hands to the skies and sounded a long weird call that seemed to shudder endlessly out into space, dwindling and fading, yet never dying out, only receding farther and farther into some unreckoned cosmos. In the silence that followed, Conan heard a sudden beat of wings in the stars, and recoiled as a huge bat-like creature alighted beside him. He saw its great calm eyes regarding him in the starlight; he saw the forty-foot spread of its giant wings. And he saw it was neither bat nor bird.

'Mount and ride,' said Pelias. 'By dawn it will bring you to Tamar.'

'By Crom!' muttered Conan. 'Is this all a nightmre from which I shall presently awaken in my palace at Tamar? What of you? I would not leave you alone among your enemies.'

'Be at ease regarding me,' answered Pelias. 'At dawn the people of Khorshemish will know they have a new master. Doubt not what the gods have sent you. I will meet you in the plain by Shaman'

Doubtfully Conan clambered upon the ridged back, gripping the arched neck, still convinced that he was in the grasp of a fantastic nightmare. With a great rush and thunder of titan wings, the creature took the air, and the king grew dizzy as he saw the lights of the city dwindle far below him.

4

'The sword that slays the king cuts the cords of the empire.'

Aquilonian Proverb

The streets of Tamar swarmed with howling mobs, shaking fists and rusty pikes. It was the hour before dawn of the second day after the battle of Shamar, and events had occurred so swiftly as to daze the mind. By means known only to Tsothalanti, word had reached Tamar of the king's death, within half a dozen hours after the battle. Chaos had resulted. The barons had deserted the royal capital, galloping away to secure their castles against marauding neighbors. The well-knit kingdom Conan had built up seemed tottering on the edge of dissolution, and commoners and merchants trembled at the imminence of a return of the feudalistic regime. The people howled for a king to protect them against their own aristocracy no less than foreign foes. Count Trocero, left by Conan in charge of the city, tried to reassure them, but in their unreasoning terror, they remembered old civil wars, and how this same count had besieged Tamar fifteen years before. It was shouted in the streets that Trocero had betrayed the king; that he planned to plunder the city. The mercenaries began looting the quarters, dragging forth screaming merchants and terrified women.

Trocero swept down on the looters, littered the streets with their corpses, drove them back into their quarter in confusion, and arrested their leaders. Still the people rushed wildly about, with brainless squawks, screaming that the count had incited the riot for his own purposes.

Prince Arpello came before the distracted council and announced himself ready to take over the government of the city until a new king could be decided upon, Conan having no son. While they debated, his agents stole subtly among the people, who snatched at a shred of royalty. The council heard the storm outside the palace windows, where the multitude roared for Arpello the Rescuer. The council surrendered.

Trocero at first refused the order to give up his baton of authority, but the people swarmed about him, hissing and howling, hurling stones and offal at his knights. Seeing the futility of a pitched battle in the streets with Arpello's retainers, under such conditions, Trocero hurled the baton in his rival's face, hanged the leaders of the mercenaries in the marketsquare as his last official act, and rode out of the southern gate at the head of his fifteen hundred steelclad knights. The gates slammed behind him and Arpello's suave mask fell away to reveal the grim visage of the hungry wolf.

With the mercenaries cut to pieces or hiding in their barracks, his were the only soldiers in Tamar. Sitting his warhorse in the great square, Arpello proclaimed himself king of Aquilonia, amid the clamor of the deluded multitude.

Publius the Chancellor, who opposed this move, was thrown into prison. The merchants, who had greeted the proclamation of a king with relief, now found with consternation that the new monarch's first act was to levy a staggering tax on them. Six rich merchants, sent as a delegation of protest, were seized and their heads slashed off without ceremony. A shocked and stunned silence followed this execution. The merchants, as is the habit of merchants when confronted by a power they can not control with money, fell on their fat bellies and licked their oppressor's boots.

The common people were not perturbed at the fate of the merchants, but they began to murmur when they found that the swaggering Pellian soldiery, pretending to maintain order, were as bad as Turanian bandits. Complaints of extortion, murder and rape poured in to Arpello, who had taken up his quarters in Publius' palace, because the desperate councillors, doomed by his order, were holding the royal palace against his soldiers. He had taken possession of the pleasure-palace, however, and Conan's girls were dragged to his quarters. The people muttered at the sight of the royal beauties writhing in the brutal hands of the iron-clad retainers - dark-eyed damsels of Poitain, slim black-haired wenches from Zamora, Zingara and Hyrkania, Brythunian girls with tousled yellow heads, all weeping with fright and shame, unused to brutality.

Night fell on a city of bewilderment and turmoil, and before midnight word spread mysteriously in the street that the Kothians had followed up their victory and were hammering at the walls of Shamar. Somebody in Tsotha's mysterious secretservice had babbled. Fear shook the people like an earthquake, and they did not even pause to wonder at the witchcraft by which the news had been so swiftly transmitted. They stormed at Arpello's doors, demanding that he march southward and drive the enemy back over the Tybor. He might have subtly pointed out that his force was not sufficient, and that he could not raise an army until the barons recognized his claim to the crown. But he was drunk with power, and laughed in their faces.

A young student, Athemides, mounted a column in the market, and with burning words accused Arpello of being a cats-paw for Strabonus, painting a vivid picture of existence under Kothian rule, with Arpello as satrap. Before he finished, the multitude was screaming with fear and howling with rage. Arpello sent his soldiers to arrest the youth, but the people caught him up and fled with him, deluging the pursuing retainers with stones and dead cats. A volley of crossbow quarrels routed the mob, and a charge of horsemen littered the market with bodies, but Athemides was smuggled out of the city to plead with Trocero to retake Tamar, and march to aid Shamar.

Athemides found Trocero breaking his camp outside the walls, ready to march to Poitain, in the far southwestern corner of the kingdom. To the youth's urgent pleas he answered that he had neither the force necessary to storm Tamar, even with the aid of the mob inside, nor to face Strabonus. Besides, avaricious nobles would plunder Poitain behind his back, while he was fighting the Kothians. With the king dead, each man must protect his own. He was riding to Poitain, there to defend it as best he might against Arpello and his foreign allies.

While Athemides pleaded with Trocero, the mob still raved in the city with helpless fury. Under the great tower beside the royal palace the people swirled and milled, screaming their hate at Arpello, who stood on the turrets and laughed down at them while his archers ranged the parapets, bolts drawn and fingers on the triggers of their arbalests.

The prince of Pellia was a broad-built man of medium height, with a dark stern face. He was an intriguer, but he was also a fighter. Under his silken jupon with its gilt-braided skirts and jagged sleeves, glimmered burnished steel. His long black hair was curled and scented, and bound back with a cloth-of-silver band, but at his hip hung a broadsword the jeweled hilt of which was worn with battles and campaigns.

'Fools! Howl as you will! Conan is dead and Arpello is king!'

What if all Aquilonia were leagued against him? He had men enough to hold the mighty walls until Strabonus came up. But Aquilonia was divided against itself. Already the barons were girding themselves each to seize his neighbor's treasure. Arpello had only the helpless mob to deal with. Strabonus would carve through the loose lines of the warring barons as a galley-ram through foam, and until his coming, Arpello had only to hold the royal capital.

'Fools! Arpello is king!'

The sun was rising over the eastern towers. Out of the crimson dawn came a flying speck that grew to a bat, then to an eagle. Then all who saw screamed in amazement, for over the walls of Tamar swooped a shape such as men knew only in halfforgotten legends, and from between its titan-wings sprang a human form as it roared over the great tower. Then with a deafening thunder of wings it was gone, and the folk blinked, wondering if they dreamed. But on the turret stood a wild barbaric figure, half naked, blood-stained, brandishing a great sword. And from the multitude rose a roar that rocked the very towers, 'The king! It is the king!'

Arpello stood transfixed; then with a cry he drew and leaped at Conan. With a lion-like roar the Cimmerian parried the whistling blade, then dropped his own sword, gripped the prince and heaved him high above his head by crotch and neck.

'Take your plots to hell with you!' he roared, and like a sack of salt, he hurled the prince of Pellia far out, to fall through empty space for a hundred and fifty feet. The people gave back as the body came hurtling down, to smash on the marble pave, spattering blood and brains, and lie crushed in its splintered armor, like a mangled beetle.

The archers on the tower shrank back, their nerve broken. They fled, and the beleaguered councilmen sallied from the palace and hewed into them with joyous abandon. Pellian knights and men-at-arms sought safety in the streets and the crowd tore them to pieces. In the streets the fighting milled and eddied, plumed helmets and steel caps tossed among the tousled heads and then vanished; swords hacked madly in a heaving forest of pikes, and over all rose the roar of the mob, shouts of acclaim mingling with screams of blood-lust and howls of agony. And high above all, the naked figure of the king rocked and swayed on the dizzy battlements, mighty arms brandished, roaring with gargantuan laughter that mocked all mobs and princes, even himself.

5

A long bow and a strong bow, and let the sky grow dark!

The cord to the nock, the shaft to the ear, and the king of Koth for a mark!

Song of the Bossonian Archers

The midafternoon sun glinted on the placid waters of the Tybor, washing the southern bastions of Shamar. The haggard defenders knew that few of them would see that sun rise again. The pavilions of the besiegers dotted the plain. The people of Shamar had not been able successfully to dispute the crossing of the river, outnumbered as they were. Barges, chained together, made a bridge over which the invader poured his hordes. Strabonus had not dared march on into Aquilonia with Shaman, unsubdued, at his back. He had sent his light riders, his spahis, inland to ravage the country, and had reared up his siege engines in the plain. He had anchored a flotilla of boats, furnished hire by Amalrus, in the middle of the stream, over against the river-wall. Some of these boats had been sunk by stones from the city's ballistas, which crashed through their decks and ripped out their planking, but the rest held their places and from their bows and mast-heads, protected by mantlets, archers raked the riverward turrets. These were Shemites, born with bows in their hands, not to be matched by Aquiloman bowmen.

On the landward side mangonels rained boulders and treetrunks among the defenders, shattering through roofs and crushing humans like beetles; rams pounded incessantly at the stones; sappers burrowed like moles in the earth, sinking their mines beneath the towers. The moat had been dammed at the upper end, and emptied of its water, had been filled up with boulders, earth and dead horses and men. Under the walls the mailed figures swarmed, battering at the gates, rearing up scaling-ladders, pushing storming-towers, thronged with spearmen, against the turrets.

Hope had been abandoned in the city, where a bare fifteen hundred men resisted forty thousand warriors. No word had come from the kingdom whose outpost the city was. Conan was dead, so the invaders shouted exultantly. Only the strong walls and the desperate courage of the defenders had kept them so long at bay, and that could not suffice for ever. The western wall was a mass of rubbish on which the defenders stumbled in hand-to-hand conflict with the invaders. The other walls were buckling from the mines beneath them, the towers leaning drunkenly.

Now the attackers were massing for a storm. The oliphants sounded, the steelclad ranks drew up on the plain. The storming-towers, covered with raw bull-hides, rumbled forward. The people of Shamar saw the banners of Koth and Ophir, flying side by side, in the center, and made out, among their gleaming knights, the slim lethal figure of the golden-mailed Amalrus, and the squat blackarmored form of Strabonus. And between them was a shape that made the bravest blench with horror - a lean vulture figure in a filmy robe. The pikemen moved forward, flowing over the ground like the glinting waves of a river of molten steel; the knights cantered forward, lances lifted, guidons streaming. The warriors on the wall drew a long breath, consigned their souls to Mitra, and gripped their notched and redstained weapons.

Then without warning, a bugle-call cut the din. A drum of hoofs rose above the rumble of the approaching host. North of the plain across which the army moved, rose ranges of low hills, mounting northward and westward like giant stair-steps. Now down out of these hills, like spume blown before a storm shot the spahis who had been laying waste the countryside, riding low and spurring hard, and behind them the sun shimmering on moving ranks of steel. They moved into full view, out of the defiles - mailed horsemen, the great lion banner of Aquilonia floating over them.

From the electrified watchers on the towers a great shout rent the skies. In ecstasy warriors clashed their notched swords on their riven shields, and the people of the town, ragged beggars and rich merchants, harlots in red kirtles and dames in silks and satins, fell to their knees and cried out for joy to Mitra, tears of gratitude streaming down their faces.

Strabonus, frantically shouting orders, with Arbanus, who would wheel around the ponderous lines to meet this unexpected menace, grunted, 'We still outnumber them, unless they have reserves hidden in the hills. The men on the battle-towers can mask any sorties from the city. These are Poitanians - we might have guessed Trocero would try some such mad gallantry.'

Amalrus cried out in unbelief.

'I see Trocero and his captain Prospero - but who rides between them?'

'Ishtar preserve us!' shrieked Strabonus, paling. 'It is King Conan!'

'You are mad!' squalled Tsotha, starting convulsively. 'Conan has been in Satha's belly for days!' He stopped short, glaring wildly at the host which was dropping down, file by file, into the plain. He could not mistake the giant figure in black, gildworked armor on the great black stallion, riding beneath the billowing silken folds of the great banner. A scream of feline fury burst from Tsotha's lips, flecking his beard with foam. For the first time in his life, Strabonus saw the wizard completely upset, and shrank from the sight.

'Here is sorcery!' screamed Tsotha, clawing madly at his beard. 'How could he have escaped and reached his kingdom in time to return with an army so quickly? This is the work of Pelias, curse him! I feel his hand in this! May I be cursed for not killing him when I had the power!'

The kings gaped at the mention of a man they believed ten years dead, and panic, emanating from the leaders, shook the host. All recognized the rider on the black stallion. Tsotha felt the superstitious dread of his men, and fury made a hellish mask of his face.

'Strike home!' he screamed, brandishing his lean arms madly. 'We are still the stronger! Charge and crush these dogs! We shall yet feast in the ruins of Shamar tonight! Oh Set!' he lifted his hands and invoked the serpent-god to even Strabonus' horror, 'grant us victory and I swear I will offer up to thee five hundred virgins of Shamar, writhing in their blood!'

Meanwhile the opposing host had debouched onto the plain. With the knights came what seemed a second, irregular army on tough swift ponies. These dismounted and formed their ranks on foot - stolid Bossonian archers, and keen pikemen from Gunderland, their tawny locks blowing from under their steel caps.

It was a motley army Conan had assembled, in the wild hours following his return to his capital. He had beaten the frothing mob away from the Pellian soldiers who held the outer walls of Tamar, and impressed them into his service. He had sent a swift rider after Trocero to bring him back. With these as nucleus of an army he had raced southward, sweeping the countryside for recruits and for mounts. Nobles of Tamar and the surrounding countryside had augmented his forces, and he had levied recruits from every village and castle along his road. Yet it was but a paltry force he had gathered to dash against the invading hosts, though of the quality of tempered steel.

Nineteen hundred armored horsemen followed him, the main bulk of which consisted of the Poitanian knights. The remnants of the mercenaries and professional soldiers in the trains of loyal noblemen made up his infantry - five thousand archers and four thousand pikemen. This host now came on in good order - first the archers, then the pikemen, behind them the knights, moving at a walk.

Over against them Arbanus ordered his lines, and the allied army moved forward like a shimmering ocean of steel. The watchers on the city walls shook to see that vast host, which overshadowed the powers of the rescuers. First marched the Shemitish archers, then the Kothian spearmen, then the mailed knights of Strabonus and Amalrus. Arbanus' intent was obvious - to employ his footmen to sweep away the infantry of Conan, and open the way for an overpowering charge of his heavy cavalry.

The Shemites opened fire at five hundred yards, and arrows flew like hail between the hosts, darkening the sun. The western archers, trained by a thousand years of merciless warfare with the Pictish savages, came stolidly on, closing their ranks as their comrades fell. They were far outnumbered, and the Shemitish bow had the longer range, but in accuracy the Bossonians were equal to their foes, and they balanced sheer skill in archery by superiority in morale, and in excellence of armor. Within good range they loosed, and the Shemites went down by whole ranks. The bluebearded warriors in their light mail shirts could not endure punishment as could the heavier-armored Bossonians. They broke, throwing away their bows, and their flight disordered the ranks of the Kothian spearmen behind them.

Without the support of the archers, these men-at-arms fell by the hundreds before the shafts of the Bossonians, and charging in madly to close quarters, they were met by the spears of the pikemen. No infantry was a match for the wild Gundermen, whose homeland, the northernmost province of Aquilonia was but a day's ride across the Bossonian marches from the borders of Cimmeria, and who, born and bred to battle, were the purest blood of all the Hyborian peoples. The Kothian spearmen, dazed by their losses from arrows, were cut to pieces and fell back in disorder.

Strabonus roared in fury as he saw his infantry repulsed, and shouted for a general charge. Arbanus demurred, pointing out the Bossonians re-forming in good order before the Aquilonian knights, who had sat their steeds motionless during the melee. The general advised a temporary retirement, to draw the western knights out of the cover of the bows, but Strabonus was mad with rage. He looked at the long shimmering ranks of his knights, he glared at the handful of mailed figures over against him, and he commanded Arbanus to give the order to charge.

The general commended his soul to Ishtar and sounded the golden oliphant. With a thunderous roar the forest of lances dipped, and the great host rolled across the plain, gaining momentum as it came. The whole plain shook to the rumbling avalanche of hoofs, and the shimmer of gold and steel dazzled the watchers on the towers of Shamar.

The squadrons clave the loose ranks of the spearmen, riding down friend and foe alike, and rushed into the teeth of a blast of arrows from the Bossonians. Across the plain they thundered, grimly riding the storm that scattered their way with gleaming knights like autumn leaves. Another hundred paces and they would ride among the Bossonians and cut them down like corn; but flesh and blood could not endure the rain of death that now ripped and howled among them. Shoulder to shoulder, feet braced wide, stood the archers, drawing shaft to ear and loosing as one man, with deep short shouts.

The whole front rank of the knights melted away, and over the pin-cushioned corpses of horses and riders, their comrades stumbled and fell headlong. Arbanus was down, an arrow through his throat, his skull smashed by the hoofs of his dying warhorse, and confusion ran through the disordered host. Strabonus was screaming an order, Amalrus another, and through all ran the superstitious dread the sight of Conan had awakened.

And while the gleaming ranks milled in confusion, the trumpets of Conan sounded, and through the opening ranks of the archers crashed home the terrible charge of the Aquilonian knights.

The hosts met with a shock like that of an earthquake, that shook the tottering towers of Shamar. The disordered squadrons of the invaders could not withstand the solid steel wedge, bristling with spears, that rushed like a thunderbolt against them. The long lances of the attackers ripped their ranks to pieces, and into the heart of their host rode the knights of Poitain, swinging their terrible two-handed swords.

The clash and clangor of steel was as that of a million sledges on as many anvils. The watchers on the walls were stunned and deafened by the thunder as they gripped the battlements and watched the steel maelstrom swirl and eddy, where plumes tossed high among the flashing swords, and standards dipped and reeled.

Amalrus went down, dying beneath the trampling hoofs, his shoulder-bone hewn in twain by Prospero's two-handed sword. The invaders' numbers had engulfed the nineteen hundred knights of Conan, but about this compact wedge, which hewed deeper and deeper into the looser formation of their foes, the knights of Koth and Ophir swirled and smote in vain. They could not break the wedge.

Archers and pikemen, having disposed of the Kothian infantry which was strewn in disorderly flight across the plain, came to the edges of the fight, loosing their arrows point-blank, running in to slash at girths and horses' bellies with their knives, thrusting upward to spit the riders on their long pikes.

At the tip of the steel wedge Conan roared his heathen battlecry and swung his great sword in glittering arcs of death that made naught of steel burganet or mail haburgeon. Straight through a thundering waste of steel-sheathed foes he rode, and the knights of Koth closed in behind him, cutting him off from his warriors. As a thunderbolt strikes, Conan struck, hurtling through the ranks by sheer power and velocity, until he came to Strabonus, livid, among his palace troops. Now here the battle hung in balance, for with his superior numbers, Strabonus still had opportunity to pluck victory from the knees of the gods.

But he screamed when he saw his arch-foe within arm's length at last, and lashed out wildly with his ax. It clanged on Conan's helmet, striking fire, and the Cimmerian reeled and struck back. The five-foot blade crushed Strabonus' casque and skull, and the king's charger reeled screaming, hurling a limp and sprawling corpse from the saddle. A great cry went up from the host, which faltered and gave back. Trocero and his house troops, hewing desperately, cut their way to Conan's side, and the great banner of Koth went down. Then behind the dazed and stricken invaders went up a mighty clamor and the blaze of a huge conflagration. The defenders of Shamar had made a desperate sortie, cut down the men masking the gates, and were raging among the tents of the besiegers, cutting down the camp followers, burning the pavilions, and destroying the siege engines. It was the last straw. The gleaming army melted away in flight and the furious conquerors cut them down as they ran.

The fugitives raced for the river, but the men on the flotilla, harried sorely by the stones and shafts of the revived citizens, cast loose and pulled for the southern shore, leaving their comrades to their fate. Of these many gained the shore, racing across the barges that served as a bridge, until the men of Shamar cut these adrift and severed them from the shore. Then the fight became a slaughter. Driven into the river to drown in their armor, or hacked down along the bank, the invaders perished by thousands. No quarter they had promised; no quarter they got.

From the foot of the low hills to the shores of the Tybor, the plain was littered with corpses, and the river whose tide ran red, floated thick with the dead. Of the nineteen hundred knights who had ridden south with Conan, scarcely five hundred lived to boast of their scars, and the slaughter among the archers and pikemen was ghastly. But the great shining host of Strabonus and Amalrus was hacked out of existence, and those that fled were less than those that died.

While the slaughter yet went on along the river, the final act of a grim drama was being played out in the meadowland beyond. Among those who had crossed the barge-bridge before it was destroyed was Tsotha, riding like the wind on a gaunt weird-looking steed whose stride no natural horse could match. Ruthlessly riding down friend and foe, he gained the southern bank, and then a glance backward showed him a grim figure on a great black stallion in mad pursuit. The lashings had already been cut, and the barges were drifting apart, but Conan came recklessly on, leaping his steed from boat to boat as a man might leap from one cake of floating ice to another. Tsotha screamed a curse, but the great stallion took the last leap with a straining groan, and gained the southern bank. Then the wizard fled away into the empty meadowland, and on his trail came the king, riding madly and silently, swinging the great sword that spattered his trail with crimson drips.

On they fled, the hunted and the hunter, and not a foot could the black stallion gain, though he strained each nerve and thew. Through a sunset land of dim light and illusive shadows they fled, till sight and sound of the slaughter died out behind them. Then in the sky appeared a dot, that grew into a huge eagle as it approached. Swooping down from the sky, it drove at the head of Tsotha's steed, which screamed and reared, throwing his rider.

Old Tsotha rose and faced his pursuer, his eyes those of a maddened serpent, his face an inhuman mask of awful fury. In each hand he held something that shimmered, and Conan knew he held death there.

The king dismounted and strode toward his foe, his armor clanking, his great sword gripped high.

'Again we meet, wizard!' he grinned savagely.

'Keep off!' screamed Tsotha like a blood-mad jackal. 'I'll blast the flesh from your bones! You can not conquer me - if you hack me in pieces, the bits of flesh and bone will reunite and haunt you to your doom! I see the hand of Pelias in this, but I defy ye both! I am Tsotha, son of-'

Conan rushed, sword gleaming, eyes slits of wariness. Tsotha's right hand came back and forward, and the king ducked quickly. Something passed by his helmeted head and exploded behind him, searing the very sands with a flash of hellish fire. Before Tsotha could toss the globe in his left hand, Conan's sword sheared through his lean neck. The wizard's head shot from his shoulders on an arching fount of blood, and the robed figure staggered and crumpled drunkenly. Yet the mad black eyes glared up at Conan with no dimming of their feral light, the lips writhed awfully, and the hands groped hideously, as if searching for the severed head. Then with a swift rush of wings, something swooped from the sky - the eagle which had attacked Tsotha's horse. In its mighty talons it snatched up the dripping head and soared skyward, and Conan stood struck dumb, for from the eagle's throat boomed human laughter, in the voice of Pelias the sorcerer.

Then a hideous thing carne to pass, for the headless body reared up from the sand, and staggered away in awful flight on stiffening legs, hands outstretched blindly toward the dot speeding and dwindling in the dusky sky. Conan stood like one turned to stone, watching until the swift reeling figure faded in the dusk that purpled the meadows.

'Crom!' his mighty shoulders twitched. 'A murrain on these wizardly feuds! Pelias has dealt well with me, but I care not if I see him no more. Give me a clean sword and a clean foe to flesh it in. Damnation! What would I not give for a flagon of wine!'

The Hour of the Dragon

The Lion Banner sways and falls in the horror-haunted gloom;

A scarlet Dragon rustles by, borne on winds of doom.

In heaps the shining horsemen lie, where the thrusting lances break,

And deep in the haunted mountains, the lost, black gods awake.

Dead hands grope in the shadows, the stars turn pale with
fright,

For this is the Dragon's Hour, the triumph of Fear and Night.

1 O Sleeper, Awake!

The long tapers flickered, sending the black shadows wavering along the walls, and the velvet tapestries rippled. Yet there was no wind in the chamber. Four men stood about the ebony table on which lay the green sarcophagus that gleamed like carven jade. In the upraised right hand of each man a curious black candle burned with a weird greenish light. Outside was night and a lost wind moaning among the black trees.

Inside the chamber was tense silence, and the wavering of the shadows, while four pairs of eyes, burning with intensity, were fixed on the long green case across which cryptic hieroglyphics writhed, as if lent life and movement by the unsteady light. The man at the foot of the sarcophagus leaned over it and moved his candle as if he were writing with a pen, inscribing a mystic symbol in the air. Then he set down the candle in its black gold stick at the foot of the case, and, mumbling some formula unintelligible to his companions, he thrust a broad white hand into his fur-trimmed robe. When he brought it forth again it was as if he cupped in his palm a ball of living fire.

The other three drew in their breath sharply, and the dark, powerful man who stood at the head of the sarcophagus whispered: 'The Heart of Ahriman!' The other lifted a quick hand for silence. Somewhere a dog began howling dolefully, and a stealthy step padded outside the barred and bolted door. But none looked aside from the mummycase over which the man in the ermine-trimmed robe was now moving the great flaming jewel while he muttered an incantation that was old when Atlantis sank. The glare of the gem dazzled their eyes, so that they could not be sure of what they saw; but with a splintering crash, the carven lid of the sarcophagus burst outward as if from some irresistible pressure applied from within, and the four men, bending eagerly forward, saw the occupant - a huddled, withered, wizened shape, with dried brown limbs like dead wood showing through moldering bandages.

'Bring that thing back?' muttered the small dark man who stood on the right, with a short sardonic laugh. 'It is ready to crumble at a touch. We are fools-'

'Shhh!' It was an urgent hiss of command from the large man who held the jewel. Perspiration stood upon his broad white forehead and his eyes were dilated. He leaned forward, and, without touching the thing with his hand, laid on the breast of the mummy the blazing jewel. Then he drew back and watched with fierce intensity, his lips moving in soundless invocation.

It was as if a globe of living fire flickered and burned on the dead, withered bosom. And breath sucked in, hissing, through the clenched teeth of the watchers. For as they watched, an awful transmutation became apparent. The withered shape in the sarcophagus was expanding, was growing, lengthening. The bandages burst and fell into brown dust. The shriveled limbs swelled, straightened. Their dusky hue began to fade.

'By Mitra!' whispered the tall, yellow-haired man on the left. 'He was not a Stygian. That part at least was true.'

Again a trembling finger warned for silence. The hound outside was no longer howling. He whimpered, as with an evil dream, and then that sound, too, died away in silence, in which the yellow-haired man plainly heard the straining of the heavy door, as if something outside pushed powerfully upon it. He half turned, his hand at his sword, but the man in the ermine robe hissed an urgent warning: 'Stay! Do not break the chain! And on your life do not go to the door!'

The yellow-haired man shrugged and turned back, and then he stopped short, staring. In the jade sarcophagus lay a living man: a tall, lusty man, naked, white of skin, and dark of hair and beard. He lay motionless, his eyes wide open, and blank and unknowing as a newborn babe's. On his breast the great jewel smoldered and sparkled.

The man in ermine reeled as if from some let-down of extreme tension.

'Ishtar!' he gasped. 'It is Xaltotun! - and he lives! Valerius! Tarascus! Amalric! Do you see? Do you see? You doubted me - but I have not failed! We have been close to the open gates of hell this night, and the shapes of darkness have gathered close about us - aye, they followed him to the very door - but we have brought the great magician back to life.'

'And damned our souls to purgatories everlasting, I doubt not,' muttered the small, dark man, Tarascus.

The yellow-haired man, Valerius, laughed harshly.

'What purgatory can be worse than life itself? So we are all damned together from birth. Besides, who would not sell his miserable soul for a throne?'

'There is no intelligence in his stare, Orastes,' said the large man.

'He has long been dead,' answered Orastes. 'He is as one newly awakened. His mind is empty after the long sleep - nay, he was dead, not sleeping. W e brought his spirit back over the voids and gulfs of right and oblivion. I will speak to him.'

He bent over the foot of the sarcophagus, and fixing his gaze on the wide dark eyes of the man within, he said, slowly: 'Awake, Xaltotun!'

The lips of the man moved mechanically. 'Xaltotun!' he repeated in a groping whisper.

'You are Xaltotun!' exclaimed Orastes, like a hypnotist driving home his suggestions. 'You are Xaltotun of Python, in Acheron.'

A dim flame flickered in the dark eyes.

'I was Xaltotun,' he whispered. 'I am dead.'

'You are Xaltotun!' cried Orastes. 'You are not dead! You live!'

'I am Xaltotun,' came the eery whisper. 'But I am dead. In my house in Khemi, in Stygia, there I died.'

'And the priests who poisoned you mummified your body with their dark arts, keeping all your organs intact!' exclaimed Orastes. 'But now you live again! The Heart of Ahriman has restored your life, drawn your spirit back from space and eternity.'

'The Heart of Ahriman!' The flame of remembrance grew stronger. 'The barbarians stole it from me!'

'He remembers,' muttered Orastes. 'Lift him from the case.'

The others obeyed hesitantly, as if reluctant to touch the man they had recreated, and they seemed not easier in their minds when they felt firm muscular flesh, vibrant with blood and life, beneath their fingers. But they lifted him upon the table, and Orastes clothed him in a curious dark velvet robe, splashed with gold stars and crescent moons, and fastened a cloth-of-gold fillet about his temples, confining the black wavy locks that fell to his shoulders. He let them do as they would, saying nothing, not even when they set him in a carven throne-like chair with a high ebony back and wide silver arms, and feet like golden claws. He sat there motionless, and slowly intelligence grew in his dark eyes and made them deep and strange and luminous. It was as if long-sunken witchlights floated slowly up through midnight pools of darkness.

Orastes cast a furtive glance at his companions, who stood staring in morbid fascination at their strange guest. Their iron nerves had withstood an ordeal that might have driven weaker men mad. He knew it was with no weaklings that he conspired, but men whose courage was as profound as their lawless ambitions and capacity for evil. He turned his attention to the figure in the ebon-black chair. And this one spoke at last.

'I remember,' he said in a strong, resonant voice, speaking Nemedian with a curious, archaic accent. 'I am Xaltotun, who was high priest of Set in Python, which was in Acheron. The Heart of Ahriman - I dreamed I had found it again -where is it?'

Orastes placed it in his hand, and he drew breath deeply as he gazed into the depths of the terrible jewel burning in his grasp.

'They stole it from me, long ago,' he said. 'The red heart of the night it is, strong to save or to damn. It came from afar, and from long ago. While I held it, none could stand before me. But it was stolen from me, and Acheron fell, and I fled an exile into dark Stygia. Much I remember, but much I have forgotten. I have been in a far land, across misty voids and gulfs and unlit oceans. What is the year?'

Orastes answered him. 'It is the waning of the Year of the Lion, three thousand years after the fall of Acheron.'

'Three thousand years!' murmured the other. 'So long? Who are you?'

'I am Orastes, once a priest of Mitra. This man is Amalric, baron of Tor, in Nemedia; this other is Tarascus, younger brother of the king of Nemedia; and this tall man is Valerius, rightful heir of the throne of Aquilonia.'

'Why have you given me life?' demanded Xaltotun. 'What do you require of me?'

The man was now fully alive and awake, his keen eyes reflecting the working of an unclouded brain. There was no hesitation or uncertainty in his manner. He came directly to the point, as one who knows that no man gives something for nothing. Orastes met him with equal candor.

'We have opened the doors of hell this night to free your soul and return it to your body because we need your aid. We wish to place Tarascus on the throne of Nemedia, and to win for Valerius the crown of Aquilonia. With your necromancy you can aid us.'

Xaltotun's mind was devious and full of unexpected slants.

'You must be deep in the arts yourself, Orastes, to have been able to restore my life. How is it that a priest of Mitra knows of the Heart of Ahriman, and the incantations of Skelos?'

'I am no longer a priest of Mitra,' answered Orastes. 'I was cast forth from my order because of my delving in black magic. But for Amalric there I might have been burned as a magician.

'But that left me free to pursue my studies. I journeyed in Zamora, in Vendhya, in Stygia, and among the haunted jungles of Khitai. I read the iron-bound books of Skelos, and talked with unseen creatures in deep wells, and faceless shapes in black reeking jungles. I obtained a glimpse of your sarcophagus in the demon-haunted crypts below the black giantwalled temple of Set in the hinterlands of Stygia, and I learned of the arts that would bring back life to your shriveled corpse. From moldering manuscripts I learned of the Heart of Ahriman. Then for a year I sought its hiding-place, and at last I found it.'

'Then why trouble to bring me back to life?' demanded Xaltotun, with his piercing gaze fixed on the priest. 'Why did you not employ the Heart to further your own power?'

'Because no man today knows the secrets of the Heart,' answered Orastes. 'Not even in legends live the arts by which to loose its full powers. I knew it could restore life; of its deeper secrets I am ignorant. I merely used it to bring you back to life. It is the use of your knowledge we seek. As for the Heart, you alone know its awful secrets.'

Xaltotun shook his head, staring broodingly into the flaming depths.

'My necromantic knowledge is greater than the sum of all the knowledge of other men,' he said; 'yet I do not know the full power of the jewel. I did not invoke it in the old days; I guarded it lest it be used against me. At last it was stolen, and in the hands of a feathered shaman of the barbarians it defeated all my mighty sorcery. Then it vanished, and I was poisoned by the jealous priests of Stygia before I could learn where it was hidden.'

'It was hidden in a cavern below the temple of Mitra, in Tarantia,' said Orastes. 'By devious ways I discovered this, after I had located your remains in Set's subterranean temple in Stygia.

'Zamorian thieves, partly protected by spells I learned from sources better left unmentioned, stole your mummycase from under the very talons of those which guarded it in the dark, and by camel-caravan and galley and ox-wagon it came at last to this city.

'Those same thieves - or rather those of them who still lived after their frightful quest - stole the Heart of Ahriman from its haunted cavern below the temple of Mitra, and all the skill of men and the spells of sorcerers nearly failed. One man of them lived long enough to reach me and give the jewel into my hands, before he died slavering and gibbering of what he had seen in that accursed crypt. The thieves of Zamora are the most faithful of men to their trust. Even with my conjurements, none but they could have stolen the Heart from where it has lain in demon-guarded darkness since the fall of Acheron, three thousand years ago.'

Xaltotun lifted his lion-like head and stared far off into space, as if plumbing the lost centuries.

'Three thousand years!' he muttered. 'Set! Tell me what has chanced in the world.'

'The barbarians who overthrew Acheron set up new kingdoms,' quoted Orastes. 'Where the empire had stretched now rose realms called Aquilonia, and Nemedia, and Argos, from the tribes that founded them. The older kingdoms of Ophir, Corinthia and western Koth, which had been subject to the kings of Acheron, regained their independence with the fall of the empire.'

'And what of the people of Acheron?' demanded Xaltotun. 'When I fled into Stygia, Python was in ruins, and all the great, purple-towered cities of Acheron fouled with blood and trampled by the sandals of the barbarians.'

'In the hills small groups of folk still boast descent from Acheron,' answered Orastes. 'For the rest, the tide of my barbarian ancestors rolled over them and wiped them out. They - my ancestors - had suffered much from the kings of Acheron.'

A grim and terrible smile curled the Pythonian's lips.

'Aye! Many a barbarian, both man and woman, died screaming on the altar under this hand. I have seen their heads piled to make a pyramid in the great square in Python when the kings returned from the west with their spoils and naked captives.'

'Aye. And when the day of reckoning came, the sword was not spared. So Acheron ceased to be, and purple-towered Python became a memory of forgotten days. But the younger kingdoms rose on the imperial ruins and waxed great. And now we have brought you back to aid us to rule these kingdoms, which, if less strange and wonderful than Acheron of old, are yet rich and powerful, well worth fighting for. Look!' Orastes unrolled before the stranger a map drawn cunningly on vellum.

Xaltotun regarded it, and then shook his head, baffled.

'The very outlines of the land are changed. It is like some familiar thing seen in a dream, fantastically distorted.'

'Howbeit,' answered Orastes, tracing with his forefinger, 'here is Belverus, the capital of Nemedia, in which we now are. Here run the boundaries of the land of Nemedia. To the south and southeast are Ophir and Corinthia, to the east Brythunia, to the west Aquilonia.'

'It is the map of a world I do not know,' said Xaltotun softly, but Orastes did not miss the lurid fire of hate that flickered in his dark eyes.

'It is a map you shall help us change,' answered Orastes. 'It is our desire first to set Tarascus on the throne of Nemedia. We wish to accomplish this without strife, and in such a way that no suspicion will rest on Tarascus. We do not wish the land to be torn by civil wars, but to reserve all our power for the conquest of Aquilonia.

'Should King Nimed and his sons die naturally, in a plague for instance, Tarascus would mount the throne as the next heir, peacefully and unopposed.'

Xaltotun nodded, without replying, and Orastes continued.

'The other task will be more difficult. We cannot set Valerius on the Aquilonian throne without a war, and that kingdom is a formidable foe. Its people are a hardy, war-like race, toughened by continual wars with the Picts, Zingarians and Cimmerians. For five hundred years Aquilonia and Nemedia have intermittently waged war, and the ultimate advantage has always lain with the Aquilonians.

'Their present king is the most renowned warrior among the western nations. He is an outlander, an adventurer who seized the crown by force during a time of civil strife, strangling King Namedides with his own hands, upon the very throne. His name is Conan, and no man can stand before him in battle.

'Valerius is now the rightful heir of the throne. He had been driven into exile by his royal kinsman, Namedides, and has been away from his native realm for years, but he is of the blood of the old dynasty, and many of the barons would secretly hail the overthrow of Conan, who is a nobody without royal or even noble blood. But the common people are loyal to him, and the nobility of the outlying provinces. Yet if his forces were overthrown in the battle that must first take place, and Conan himself slain, I think it would not be difficult to put Valerius on the throne. Indeed, with Conan slain, the only center of the government would be gone. He is not part of a dynasty, but only a lone adventurer.'

'I wish that I might see this king,' mused Xaltotun, glancing toward a silvery mirror which formed one of the panels of the wall. This mirror cast no reflection, but Xaltotun's expression showed that he understood its purpose, and Orastes nodded with the pride a good craftsman takes in the recognition of his accomplishments by a master of his craft.

'I will try to show him to you,' he said. And seating himself before the mirror, he gazed hypnotically into its depths, where presently a dim shadow began to take shape.

It was uncanny, but those watching knew it was no more than the reflected image of Orastes' thought, embodied in that mirror as a wizard's thoughts are embodied in a magic crystal. It floated hazily, then leaped into startling clarity - a tall man, mightily shouldered and deep of chest, with a massive corded neck and heavily muscled limbs. He was clad in silk and velvet, with the royal lions of Aquilonia worked in gold upon his rich jupon, and the crown of Aquilonia shone on his square-cut black mane; but the great sword at his side seemed more natural to him than the regal accouterments. His brow was low and broad, his eyes a volcanic blue that smoldered as if with some inner fire. His dark, scarred, almost sinister face was that of a fightingman, and his velvet garments could not conceal the hard, dangerous lines of his limbs.

'That man is no Hyborian!' exclaimed Xaltotun.

'No; he is a Cimmerian, one of those wild tribesmen who dwell in the gray hills of the north.'

'I fought his ancestors of old,' muttered Xaltotun. 'Not even the kings of Acheron could conquer them.'

'They still remain a terror to the nations of the south,' answered Orastes. 'He is a true son of that savage race, and has proved himself, thus far, unconquerable.'

Xaltotun did not reply; he sat staring down at the pool of living fire that shimmered in his hand. Outside, the hound howled again, long and shudderingly.

2 A Black Wind Blows

The year of the dragon had birth in war and pestilence and unrest. The black plague stalked through the streets of Belverus, striking down the merchant in his stall, the serf in his kennel, the knight at his banquet board. Before it the arts of the leeches were helpless. Men said it had been sent from hell as punishment for the sins of pride and lust. It was swift and deadly as the stroke of an adder. The victim's body turned purple and then black, and within a few minutes he sank down dying, and the stench of his own putrefaction was in his nostrils even before death wrenched his soul from his rotting body. A hot, roaring wind blew incessantly from the south, and the crops withered in the fields, the cattle sank and died in their tracks.

Men cried out on Mitra, and muttered against the king; for somehow, throughout the kingdom, the word was whispered that the king was secretly addicted to loathsome practises and foul debauches in the seclusion of his nighted palace. And then in that palace death stalked grinning on feet about which swirled the monstrous vapors of the plague. In one night the king died with his three sons, and the drums that thundered their dirge drowned the grim and ominous bells that rang from the carts that lumbered through the streets gathering up the rotting dead.

That night, just before dawn, the hot wind that had blown for weeks ceased to rustle evilly through the silken window curtains. Out of the north rose a great wind that roared among the towers, and there was cataclysmic thunder, and blinding sheets of lightning, and driving rain. But the dawn shone clean and green and clear; the scorched ground veiled itself in grass, the thirsty crops sprang up anew, and the plague was gone - its miasma swept clean out of the land by the mighty wind.

Men said the gods were satisfied because the evil king and his spawn were slain, and when his young brother Tarascus was crowned in the great coronation hall, the populace cheered until the towers rocked, acclaiming the monarch on whom the gods smiled.

Such a wave of enthusiasm and rejoicing as swept the land is frequently the signal for a war of conquest. So no one was surprised when it was announced that King Tarascus had declared the truce made by the late king with their western neighbors void, and was gathering his hosts to invade Aquilonia. His reason was candid; his motives, loudly proclaimed, gilded his actions with something of the glamor of a crusade. He espoused the cause of Valerius, 'rightful heir to the throne'; he came, he proclaimed, not as an enemy of Aquilonia, but as a friend, to free the people from the tyranny. of a usurper and a foreigner.

If there were cynical smiles in certain quarters, and whispers concerning the king's good friend Amalric, whose vast personal wealth seemed to be flowing into the rather depleted royal treasury, they were unheeded in the general wave of fervor and zeal of Tarascus' popularity. If any shrewd individuals suspected that Amalric was the real ruler of Nemedia, behind the scenes, they were careful not to voice such heresy. And the war went forward with enthusiasm.

The king and his allies moved westward at the head of fifty thousand men - knights in shining armor with their pennons streaming above their helmets, pikemen in steel caps and brigandines, crossbowmen in leather jerkins. They crossed the border, took a frontier castle and burned three mountain villages, and then, in the valley of the Valkia, ten miles west of the boundary line, they met the hosts of Conan, king of Aquilonia - forty-five thousand knights, archers and men-at-arms, the flower of Aquilonian strength and chivalry. Only the knights of Poitain, under Prospero, had not yet arrived, for they had far to ride up from the southwestern corner of the kingdom. Tarascus had struck without warning. His invasion had come on the heels of his proclamation, without formal declaration of war.

The two hosts confronted each other across a wide, shallow valley, with rugged cliffs, and a shallow stream winding through masses of reeds and willows down the middle of the vale. The camp-followers of both hosts came down to this stream for water, and shouted insults and hurled stones across at one another. The last glints of the sun shone on the golden banner of Nemedia with the scarlet dragon, unfurled in the breeze above the pavilion of King Tarascus on an eminence near the eastern cliffs. But the shadow of the western cliffs fell like a vast purple pall across the tents and the army of Aquilonia, and upon the black banner with its golden lion that floated above King Conan's pavilion.

All night the fires flared the length of the valley, and the wind brought the call of trumpets, the clangor of arms, and the sharp challenges of the sentries who paced their horses along either edge of the willow-grown stream.

It was in the darkness before dawn that King Conan stirred on his couch, which was no more than a pile of silks and furs thrown on a dais, and awakened. He started up, crying out sharply and clutching at his sword. Pallantides, his commander, rushing in at the cry, saw his king sitting upright, his hand on his hilt, and perspiration dripping from his strangely pale face.

'Your Majesty!' exclaimed Pallantides. 'Is aught amiss?'

'What of the camp?' demanded Conan. 'Are the guards out?'

'Five hundred horsemen patrol the stream, Your Majesty,' answered the general. 'The Nemedians have not offered to move against us in the night. They wait for dawn, even as we.'

'By Crom,' muttered Conan. 'I awoke with a feeling that doom was creeping on me in the night.'

He stared up at the great golden lamp which shed a soft glow over the velvet hangings and carpets of the great tent. They were alone; not even a slave or a page slept on the carpeted floor; but Conan's eyes blazed as they were wont to blaze in the teeth of great peril, and the sword quivered in his hand. Pallantides watched him uneasily. Conan seemed to be listening.

'Listen!' hissed the king. 'Did you hear it? A furtive step!'

'Seven knights guard your tent, Your Majesty,' said Pallantides. 'None could approach it unchallenged.'

'Not outside,' growled Conan. 'It seemed to sound inside the tent.'

Pallantides cast a swift, startled look around. The velvet hangings merged with shadows in the corners, but if there had been anyone in the pavilion besides themselves, the general would have seen him. Again he shook his head.

'There is no one here, sire. You sleep in the midst of your host.'

'I have seen death strike a king in the midst of thousands,' muttered Conan. 'Something that walks on invisible feet and is not seen-'

'Perhaps you were dreaming, Your Majesty,' said Pallantides, somewhat perturbed.

'So I was,' grunted Conan. 'A devilish dream it was, too. I trod again all the long, weary roads I traveled on my way to the kingship.'

He fell silent, and Pallantides stared at him unspeaking. The king was an enigma to the general, as to most of his civilized subjects. Pallantides knew that Conan had walked many strange roads in his wild, eventful life, and had been many things before a twist of Fate set him on the throne of Aquilonia.

'I saw again the battlefield whereon I was born,' said Conan, resting his chin moodily on a massive fist. 'I saw myself in a pantherskin loin-clout, throwing my spear at the mountain beasts. I was a mercenary swordsman again, a hetman of the kozaki who dwell along the Zaporoska River, a corsair looting the coasts of Kush, a pirate of the Barachan Isles, a chief of the Himelian hillmen. All these things I've been, and of all these things I dreamed; all the shapes that have been I passed like an endless procession, and their feet beat out a dirge in the sounding dust.

'But throughout my dreams moved strange, veiled figures and ghostly shadows, and a faraway voice mocked me. And toward the last I seemed to see myself lying on this dais in my tent, and a shape bent over me, robed and hooded. I lay unable to move, and then the hood fell away and a moldering skull grinned down at me. Then it was that I awoke.'

'This is an evil dream, Your Majesty,' said Pallantides, suppressing a shudder. 'But no more.'

Conan shook his head, more in doubt than in denial. He came of a barbaric race, and the superstitions and instincts of his heritage lurked close beneath the surface of his consciousness.

'I've dreamed many evil dreams,' he said, 'and most of them were meaningless. But by Crom, this was not like most dreams! I wish this battle were fought and won, for I've had a grisly premonition ever since King Nimed died in the black plague. Why did it cease when he died?'

'Men say he sinned-'

'Men are fools, as always,' grunted Conan. 'If the plague struck all who sinned, then by Crom there wouldn't be enough left to count the living! Why should the gods - who the priests tell me are just - slay five hundred peasants and merchants and nobles before they slew the king, if the whole pestilence were aimed at him? Were the gods smiting blindly, like swordsmen in a fog? By Mitra, if I aimed my strokes no straighter, Aquilonia would have had a new king long ago.

'No! The black plague's no common pestilence. It lurks in Stygian tombs, and is called forth into being only by wizards. I was a swordsman in Prince AJmuric's army that invaded Stygia, and of his thirty thousand, fifteen thousand perished by Sty gian arrows, and the rest by the black plague that rolled on us like a wind out of the south. I was the only man who lived.'

'Yet only five hundred died in Nemedia,' argued Pallantides.

'Whoever called it into being knew how to cut it short at will,' answered Conan. 'So I know there was something planned and diabolical about it. Someone called it forth, someone banished it when the work was completed - when Tarascus was safe on the throne and being hailed as the deliverer of the people from the wrath of the gods. By Crom, I sense a black, subtle brain behind all this. What of this stranger who men say gives counsel to Tarascus?'

'He wears a veil,' answered Pallantides; 'they say he is a foreigner; a stranger from St9y 'A stranger from Stygia!' repeated Conan scowling. 'A stranger from hell, more like! - Ha! What is that?'

'The trumpets of the Nemedians!' exclaimed Pallantides. 'And hark, how our own blare upon their heels! Dawn is breaking, and the captains are marshaling the hosts for the onset! Mitra be with them, for many will not see the sun go down behind the crags.'

'Send my squires to me!' exclaimed Conan, rising with alacrity and casting off his velvet night-garment; he seemed to have forgotten his forebodings at the prospect of action. 'Go to the captains and see that all is in readiness. I will be with you as soon as I don my armor.'

Many of Conan's ways were inexplicable to the civilized people he ruled, and one of them was his insistence on sleeping alone in his chamber or tent. Pallantides hastened from the pavilion, clanking in the armor he had donned at midnight after a few hours' sleep. He cast a swift glance over the camp, which was beginning to swarm with activity, mail clinking and men moving about dimly in the uncertain light, among the long lines of tents. Stars still glimmered palely in the western sky, but long pink streamers stretched along the eastern horizon, and against them the dragon banner of Nemedia flung out its billowing silken folds.

Pallantides turned toward a smaller tent near by, where slept the royal squires. These were tumbling out already, roused by the trumpets. And as Pallantides called to them to hasten, he was frozen speechless by a deep fierce shout and the impact of a heavy blow inside the king's tent, followed by the heartstopping crash of a falling body. There sounded a low laugh that turned the general's blood to ice.

Echoing the cry, Pallantides wheeled and rushed back into the pavilion. He cried out again as he saw Conan's powerful frame stretched out on the carpet. The king's great two-handed sword lay near his hand, and a shattered tentpole seemed to show where his stroke had fallen. Pallantides' sword was out, and he glared about the tent, but nothing met his gaze. Save for the king and himself it was empty, as it had been when he left it.

'Your Majesty!' Pallantides threw himself on his knee beside the fallen giant.

Conan's eyes were open; they blazed up at him with full intelligence and recognition. His lips -writhed, but no sound came forth. He seemed unable to move.

Voices sounded without. Pallantides rose swiftly and stepped to the door. The royal squires and one of the knights who guarded the tent stood there.

'We heard a sound within,' said the knight apologetically. 'Is all well with the king?'

Pallantides regarded him searchingly.

'None has entered or left the pavilion this night?'

'None save yourself, my lord,' answered the knight, and Pallantides could not doubt his honesty.

'The king stumbled and dropped his sword,' said Pallantides briefly. 'Return to your post.'

As the knight turned away, the general covertly motioned to the five royal squires, and when they had followed him in, he drew the flap closely. They turned pale at the sight of the king stretched upon the carpet, but Pallantides' quick gesture checked their exclamations.

The general bent over him again, and again Conan made an effort to speak. The veins in his temples and the cords in his neck swelled with his efforts, and he lifted his head clear of the ground. Voice came at last, mumbling and half intelligible.

'The thing - the thing in the corner!'

Pallantides lifted his head and looked fearfully about him. He saw the pale faces of the squires in the lamplight, the velvet shadows that lurked along the walls of the pavilion. That was all.

'There is nothing here, Your Majesty,' he said.

'It was there, in the corner,' muttered the king, tossing his lion-maned head from side to side in his efforts to rise. 'A man - at least he looked like a man - wrapped in rags like a mummy's bandages, with a moldering cloak drawn about him, and a hood. All I could see was his eyes, as he crouched there in the shadows. I thought he was a shadow himself, until I saw his eyes. They were like black jewels.

'I made at him and swung my sword, but I missed him clean - how, Crom knows - and splintered that pole instead. He caught my wrist as I staggered off balance, and his fingers burned like hot iron. All the strength went out of me, and the floor rose and struck me like a club. Then he was gone, and I was down, and - curse him! - I can't move! I'm paralysed!'

Pallantides lifted the giant's hand, and his flesh crawled. On the king's wrist showed the blue marks of long, lean fingers. What hand could grip so hard as to leave its print on that thick wrist? Pallantides remembered that low laugh he had heard as he rushed into the tent, and cold perspiration beaded his skin. It had not been Conan who laughed.

'This is a thing diabolical!' whispered a trembling squire. 'Men say the children of darkness war for Tarascus!'

'Be silent!' ordered Pallantides sternly.

Outside, the dawn was dimming the stars. A light wind sprang up from the peaks, and brought the fanfare of a thousand trumpets. At the sound a convulsive shudder ran through the king's mighty form. Again the veins in his temples knotted as he strove to break the invisible shackles which crushed him down.

'Put my harness on me and tie me into my saddle,' he whispered. 'I'll lead the charge yet!'

Pallantides shook his head, and a squire plucked his skirt.

'My lord, we are lost if the host learns the king has been smitten! Only he could have led us to victory this day.'

'Help me lift him on the dais,' answered the general.

They obeyed, and laid the helpless giant on the furs, and spread a silken cloak over him. Pallantides turned to the five squires and searched their pale faces long before he spoke.

'Our lips must be sealed for ever as to what happens in this tent,' he said at last. 'The kingdom of Aquilonia depends upon it. One of you go and fetch me the officer Valannus, who is a captain of the Pellian spearmen.'

The squire indicated bowed and hastened from the tent, and Pallantides stood staring down at the stricken king, while outside trumpets blared, drums thundered, and the roar of the multitudes rose in the growing dawn. Presently the squire returned with the officer Pallantides had named - a tall man, broad and powerful, built much like the king. Like him, also, he had thick black hair. But his eyes were gray and he did not resemble Conan in his features.

'The king is stricken by a strange malady,' said Pallantides briefly. 'A great honor is yours; you are to wear his armor and ride at the head of the host today. None must know that it is not the king who rides.'

'It is an honor for which a man might gladly give up his life,' stammered the captain, overcome by the suggestion. 'Mitra grant that I do not fail of this mighty trust!'

And while the fallen king stared with burning eyes that reflected the bitter rage and humiliation that ate his heart, the squires stripped Valannus of mail shirt, burganet and leg-pieces, and clad him in Conan's armor of black plate-mail, with the vizored salade, and the dark plumes nodding over the wivern crest. Over all they put the silken surcoat with the royal lion worked in gold upon the breast, and they girt him with a broad gold-buckled belt which supported a jewelhilted broadsword in a cloth-of-gold scabbard. While they worked, trumpets clamored outside, arms clanged, and across the river rose a deepthroated roar as squadron after squadron swung into place.

Full-armed, Valannus dropped to his knee and bent his plumes before the figure that lay on the dais.

'Lord king, Mitra grant that I do not dishonor the harness I wear this day!'

'Bring me Tarascus' head and I'll make you a baron!' In the stress of his anguish Conan's veneer of civilization had fallen from him. His eyes flamed, he ground his teeth in fury and blood-lust, as barbaric as any tribesmen in the Cimmerian hills.

3 The Cliffs Reel

The Aquilonian host was drawn up, long serried lines of Pikemen and horsemen in gleaming steel, when a giant figure in black armor emerged from the royal pavilion, and as he swung up into the saddle of the black stallion held by four squires, a roar that shook the mountains went up from the host. They shook their blades and thundered forth their acclaim of their warrior king - knights in gold-chased armor, pikemen in mail coats and basinets, archers in their leather jerkins, with their longbows in their left hand.

The host on the opposite side of the valley was in motion, trotting down the long gentle slope toward the river; their steel shone through the mists of morning that swirled about their horses' feet.

The Aquilonian host moved leisurely to meet them. The measured tramp of the armored horses made the ground tremble. Banners flung out long silken folds in the morning wind; lances swayed like a bristling forest, dipped and sank, their pennons fluttering about them.

Ten men-at-arms, grim, taciturn veterans who could hold their tongues, guarded the royal pavilion. One squire stood in the tent, peering out through a slit in the doorway. But for the handful in the secret, no one else in the vast host knew that it was not Conan who rode on the great stallion at the head of the army.

The Aquilonian host had assumed the customary formation: the strongest part was the center, composed entirely of heavily armed knights; the wings were made up of smaller bodies of horsemen, mounted men-at-arms, mostly, supported by pikemen and archers. The latter were Bossomans from the western marches, strongly built men of medium stature, in leathern jackets and iron headpieces.

The Nemedian army came on in similar formation, and the two hosts moved toward the river, the wings in advance of the centers. In the center of the Aquilonian host the great lion banner streamed its billowing black folds over the steelclad figure on the black stallion.

But on his dais in the royal pavilion Conan groaned in anguish of spirit, and cursed with strange heathen oaths.

'The hosts move together,' quoth the squire, watching from the door. 'Hear the trumpets peal! Ha! The rising sun strikes fire from lance-heads and helmets until I am dazzled. It turns the river crimson - aye, it will be truly crimson before this day is done!

'The foe have reached the river. Now arrows fly between the hosts like stinging clouds that hide the sun. Ha! Well loosed, bowmen! The Bossonians have the better of it! Hark to them shout!'

Faintly in the ears of the king, above the din of trumpets and clanging steel, came the deep fierce shout of the Bossonians as they drew and loosed in perfect unison.

'Their archers seek to hold ours in play while their knights ride into the river,' said the squire. 'the banks are not steep; they slope to the water's edge. The knights come on, they crash through the willows. By Mitra, the clothyard shafts find every crevice of their harness! Horses and men go down, struggling and thrashing in the water. It is not deep, nor is the current swift, but men are drowning there, dragged under by their armor, and trampled by the frantic horses. Now the knights of Aquilonia advance. They ride into the water and engage the knights of Nemedia. The water swirls about their horses' bellies and the clang of sword against sword is deafening.'

'Crow!' burst in agony from Conan's lips. Life was coursing sluggishly back into his veins, but still he could not lift his mighty frame from the dais.

'The wings close in,' said the squire. 'Pikemen and swordsmen fight hand to hand in the stream, and behind them the bowmen ply their shafts.

'By Mitra, the Nemedian arbalesters are sorely harried, and the Bossonians arch their arrows to drop amid the rear ranks. Their center gains not a foot, and their wings are pushed back up from the stream again.'

'Crom, Ymir, and Mitra!' raged Conan. 'Cods and devils, could I but reach the fighting, if but to die at the first blow!'

Outside through the long hot day the battle stormed and thundered. The valley shook to charge and counter-charge, to the whistling of shafts, and the crash of rending shields and splintering lances. But the hosts of Aquilonia held fast. Once they were forced back from the bank, but a counter-charge, with the black banner flowing over the black stallion, regained the lost ground. And like an iron rampart they held the right bank of the stream, and at last the squire gave Conan the news that the Nemedians were falling back from the river.

'Their wings are in confusion!' he cried. 'Their knights reel back from the sword-play. But what is this? Your banner is in motion - the center sweeps into the stream! By Mitra, Valannus is leading the host across the river!'

'Fool!' groaned Conan. 'It may be a trick. He should hold his position; by dawn Prospero will be here with the Poitanian levies.'

'The knights ride into a hail of arrows!' cried the squire. 'But they do not falter! They sweep on - they have crossed! They charge up the slope! Pallantides has hurled the wings across the river to their support! It is all he can do. The lion banner dips and staggers above the melee.

'The knights of Nemedia make a stand. They are broken! They fall back! Their left wing is in full flight, and our pikemen cut them down as they run! I see Valannus, riding and smiting like a madman. He is carried beyond himself by the fightinglust. Men no longer look to Pallantides. They follow Valannus, deeming him Conan as he rides with closed vizor.

'But look! There is method in his madness! He swings wide of the Nemedian front, with five thousand knights, the pick of the army. The main host of the Nemedians is in confusion and look! Their flank is protected by the cliffs, but there is a defile left unguarded! It is like a great cleft in the wall that opens again behind the Nemedian lines. By Mitra, Valannus sees and seizes the opportunity! He has driven their wing before him, and he leads his knights toward that defile. They swing wide of the main battle; they cut through a line of spearmen, they charge into the defile!'

'An ambush!' cried Conan, striving to struggle upright.

'No!' shouted the squire exultantly. 'The whole Nemedian host is in full sight! They have forgotten the defile! They never expected to be pushed back that far. Oh, fool, fool, Tarascus, to make such a blunder! Ah, I see lances and pennons pouring from the farther mouth of the defile, beyond the Neinedian lines. They will smite those ranks from the rear and crumple them. Mitra, what is this?'

He staggered as the walls of the tent swayed drunkenly. Afar over the thunder of the fight rose a deep bellowing roar, indescribably ominous.

'The cliffs reel!' shrieked the squire. 'Ah, gods, what is this? The river foams out of its channel, and the peaks are crumbling!

The ground shakes and horses and riders in armor are overthrown! The cliffs! The cliffs are falling!'

With his words there came a grinding rumble and a thunderous concussion, and the ground trembled. Over the roar of the battle sounded screams of mad terror.

'The cliffs have crumbled!' cried the livid squire. 'They have thundered down into the defile and crushed every living creature in it! I saw the lion banner wave an instant amid the dust and falling stones, and then it vanished! Ha, the Nemedians shout with triumph! Well may they shout, for the fall of the cliffs has wiped out five thousand of our bravest knights - Hark!'

To Conan's ears came a vast torrent of sound, rising and rising in frenzy: 'The king is dead! The king is dead! Flee! Flee! The king is dead!'

'Liars!' panted Conan. 'Dogs! Knaves! Cowards! Oh, Crom, if I could but stand - but crawl to the river with my sword in my teeth! How, boy, do they flee?'

'Aye!' sobbed the squire. 'They spur for the river; they are broken, hurled on like spume before a storm. I see Pallantides striving to stem the torrent - he is down, and the horses trample him! They rush into the river, knights, bowmen, pikemen, all mixed and mingled in one mad torrent of destruction. The Nemedians are on their heels, cutting them down like corn.'

'But they will make a stand on this side of the river!' cried the king. With an effort that brought the sweat dripping from his temples, he heaved himself up on his elbows.

'Nay!' cried the squire. 'They cannot! They are broken! Routed! Oh gods, that I should live to see this day!'

Then he remembered his duty and shouted to the men-at-arms who stood stolidly watching the flight of their comrades. 'Get a horse, swiftly, and help me lift the king upon it. We dare not bide here.'

But before they could do his bidding, the first drift of the storm was upon them. Knights and spearmen and archers fled among the tents, stumbling over ropes and baggage, and mingled with then were Nemedian riders, who smote right and left at all alien figures. Tent-ropes were cut, lire sprang up in a hundred places, and the plundering had already begun. The grim guardsmen about Conan's tent died where they stood, smiting and thrusting, and over their mangled corpses beat the hoofs of the conquerors.

But the squire had drawn the flap close, and in the confused madness of the slaughter none realized that the pavilion held an occupant. So the flight and the pursuit swept past, and roared away up the valley, and the squire looked out presently to see a cluster of men approaching the royal tent with evident purpose.

'Here comes the king of Nemedia with four companions and his squire,' quoth he. 'He will accept your surrender, my fair lord-'

'Surrender the devil's heart!' gritted the king.

He had forced himself up to a sitting posture. He swung his legs painfully off the dais, and staggered upright, reeling drunkenly. The squire ran to assist him, but Conan pushed him away.

'Give me that bow!' he gritted, indicating a longbow and quiver that hung from a tentpole.

'But Your Majesty!' cried the squire in great perturbation. 'The battle is lost! It were the part of majesty to yield with the dignity becoming one of royal blood!'

'I have no royal blood,' ground Conan. 'I am a barbarian and the son of a blacksmith.'

Wrenching away the bow and an arrow he staggered toward the opening of the pavilion. So formidable was his appearance, naked but for short leather breeks and sleeveless shirt, open to reveal his great, hairy chest, with his huge limbs and his blue eyes blazing under his tangled black mane, that the squire shrank back, more afraid of his king than of the whole Nemedian host.

Reeling on wide-braced legs Conan drunkenly tore the doorflap open and staggered out under the canopy. The king of Nemedia and his companions had dismounted, and they halted short, staring in wonder at the apparition confronting them.

'Here I am, you jackals!' roared the Cimmerian. 'I am the king! Death to you, dog-brothers!'

He jerked the arrow to its head and loosed, and the shaft feathered itself in the breast of the knight who stood beside Tarascus. Conan hurled the bow at the king of Nemedia.

'Curse my shaky hand! Come in and take me if you dare!'

Reeling backward on unsteady legs, he fell with his shoulders against a tentpole, and propped upright, he lifted his great sword with both hands.

'By Mitra, it is the king!' swore Tarascus. He cast a swift look about him, and laughed. 'That other was a jackal in his harness! In, dogs, and take his head!'

The three soldiers - men-at-arms wearing the emblem of the royal guards - rushed at the king, and one felled the squire with a blow of a mace. The other two fared less well. As the first rushed in, lifting his sword, Conan met him with a sweeping stroke that severed mail-links like cloth, and sheared the Nemedian's arm and shoulder clean from his body. His corpse, pitching backward, fell across his companion's legs. The man stumbled, and before he could recover, the great sword was through him.

Conan wrenched out his steel with a racking gasp, and staggered back against the tentpole. His great limbs trembled, his chest heaved, and sweat poured down his face and neck. But his eyes flamed with exultant savagery and he panted: 'Why do you stand afar off, dog of Belverus? I can't reach you; come in and die!'

Tarascus hesitated, glanced at the remaining man-at-arms, and his squire, a gaunt, saturnine man in black mail, and took a step forward. He was far inferior in size and strength to the giant Cimmerian, but he was in full armor, and was famed in all the western nations as a swordsman. But his squire caught his arm.

'Nay, Your Majesty, do not throw away your life. I will summon archers to shoot this barbarian, as we shoot lions.'

Neither of them had noticed that a chariot had approached while the fight was going on, and now came to a halt before them. But Conan saw, looking over their shoulders, and a queer chill sensation crawled along his spine. There was something vaguely unnatural about the appearance of the black horses that drew the vehicle, but it was the occupant of the chariot that arrested the king's attention.

He was a tall man, superbly built, clad in a long unadorned silk robe. He wore a Shemitish headdress, and its lower folds hid his features, except for the dark, magnetic eyes. The hands that grasped the reins, pulling the rearing horses back on their haunches, were white but strong. Conan glared at the stranger, all his primitive instincts roused. Ile sensed an aura of menace and power that exuded from this veiled figure, a menace as definite as the windless waving of tall grass that marks the path of the serpent.

'Hail, Xaltotun!' exclaimed Tarascus. 'Here is the king of Aquilonia! He did not die in the landslide as we thought.'

'I know,' answered the other, without bothering to say how he knew. 'What is your present intention?'

'I will summon the archers to slay him,' answered the Nemedian. 'As long as he lives he will be dangerous to us.'

'Yet even a dog has uses,' answered Xaltotun. 'Take him alive.'

Conan laughed raspingly. 'Come in and try!' he challenged. 'But for my treacherous legs I'd hew you out of that chariot like a woodman hewing a tree. But you'll never take me alive, damn you!'

'He speaks the truth, I fear,' said Tarascus. 'The man is a barbarian, with the senseless ferocity of a wounded tiger. Let me summon the archers.'

'Watch me and learn wisdom,' advised Xaltotun.

His hand dipped into his robe and came out with something shining - a glistening sphere. This he threw suddenly at Conan. The Cimmerian contemptuously struck it aside with his sword - at the instant of contact there was a sharp explosion, a flare of white, blinding flame, and Conan pitched senseless to the ground.

'He is dead?' Tarascus' tone was more assertion than inquiry.

'No. He is but senseless. He will recover his senses in a few hours. Bid your men bind his arms and legs and lift him into my chariot.'

With a gesture Tarascus did so, and they heaved the senseless king into the chariot, grunting with their burden. Xaltotun threw a velvet cloak over his body, completely covering him from any who might peer in. He gathered the reins in his hands.

'I'm for Belverus,' he said. 'Tell Amalric that I will be with him if he needs me. But with Conan out of the way, and his army broken, lance and sword should suffice for the rest of the conquest. Prospero cannot be bringing more than ten thousand men to the field, and will doubtless fall back to Tarantia when he hears the news of the battle. Say nothing to Amalric or Valerius or anyone about our capture. Let them think Conan died in the fall of the cliffs.'

He looked at the man-at-arms for a long space, until the guardsman moved restlessly, nervous under the scrutiny.

'What is that about your waist?' Xaltotun demanded.

'Why, my girdle, may it please you, my lord!' stuttered the amazed guardsman.

'You lie!' Xaltotun's laugh was merciless as a sword-edge. 'It is a poisonous serpent! What a fool you are, to wear a reptile about your waist!'

With distended eyes the man looked down; and to his utter horror he saw the buckle of his girdle rear up at him. It was a snake's head! He saw the evil eyes and the dripping fangs, heard the hiss and felt the loathsome contact of the thing about his body. He screamed hideously and struck at it with his naked hand, felt its fangs flesh themselves in that hand - and then he stiffened and fell heavily. Tarascus looked down at him without expression. He saw only the leathern girdle and the buckle, the pointed tongue of which was stuck in the guardsman's palm. Xaltotun turned his hypnotic gaze on Tarascus' squire, and the man turned ashen and began to tremble, but the king interposed: 'Nay, we can trust him.'

The sorcerer tautened the reins and swung the horses around.

'See that this piece of work remains secret. If I am needed, let Altaro, Orastes' servant, summon me as I have taught him. I will be in your palace at Belverus.'

Tarascus lifted his hand in salutation, but his expression was not pleasant to see as he looked after the departing mesmerist.

'Why should he spare the Cimmerian?' whispered the frightened squire.

'That I am wondering myself,' grunted Tarascus.

Behind the rumbling chariot the dull roar of battle and pursuit faded in the distance; the setting sun rimmed the cliffs with scarlet flame, and the chariot moved into the vast blue shadows floating up out of the east.

4 'From What Hell Have You Crawled?'

Of that long ride in the chariot of Xaltotun, Conan knew nothing. He lay like a dead man while the bronze wheels clashed over the stones of mountain roads and swished through the deep grass of fertile valleys, and finally dropping down from the rugged heights, rumbled rhythmically along the broad white road that winds through the rich meadowlands to the walls of Belverus.

Just before dawn some faint reviving of life touched him. He heard a mumble of voices, the groan of ponderous hinges. Through a slit in the cloak that covered him he saw, faintly in the lurid glare of torches, the great black arch of a gateway, and the bearded faces of men-at-arms, the torches striking fire from their spearheads and helmets.

'How went the battle, my fair lord?' spoke an eager voice, in the Nemedian tongue.

'Well indeed,' was the curt reply. 'The king of Aquilonia lies slain and his host is broken.'

A babble of excited voices rose, drowned the next instant by the whirling wheels of the chariot on the flags. Sparks flashed from under the revolving rims as Xaltotun lashed his steeds through the arch. But Conan heard one of the guardsmen mutter: 'From beyond the border to Belverus between sunset and dawn! And the horses scarcely sweating! By Mitra, they-' Then silence drank the voices, and there was only the clatter of hoofs and wheels along the shadowy street.

What he had heard registered itself on Conan's brain but suggested nothing to him. He was like a mindless automaton that hears and sees, but does not understand. Sights and sounds flowed meaninglessly about him. He lapsed again into a deep lethargy, and was only dimly aware when the chariot halted in a deep, high-walled court, and he was lifted from it by many hands and borne up a winding stone stair, and down a long dim corridor. Whispers, stealthy footsteps, unrelated sounds surged or rustled about him, irrelevant and far away.

Yet his ultimate awakening was abrupt and crystal-clear. He possessed full knowledge of the battle in the mountains and its sequences, and he had a good idea of where he was.

He lay on a velvet couch, clad as he was the day before, but with his limbs loaded with chains not even he could break. The room in which he lay was furnished with somber magnificence, the walls covered with black velvet tapestries, the floor with heavy purple carpets. There was no sign of door or window, and one curiously carven gold lamp, swinging from the fretted ceiling, shed a lurid light over all.

In that light the figure seated in a silver, throne-like chair before him seemed unreal and fantastic, with an illusiveness of outline that was heightened by a filmy silken robe. But the features were distinct - unnaturally so in that uncertain light. It was almost as if a weird nimbus played about the man's head, casting the bearded face into bold relief, so that it was the only definite and distinct reality in that mystic, ghostly chamber.

It was a magnificent face, with strongly chiseled features of classical beauty. There was, indeed, something disquieting about the calm tranquility of its aspect, a suggestion of more than human knowledge, of a profound certitude beyond human assurance. Also an uneasy sensation of familiarity twitched at the back of Conan's consciousness. He had never seen this man's face before, he well knew; yet those features reminded him of something or someone. It was like encountering in the flesh some dream-image that had haunted one in nightmares.

'Who are you?' demanded the king belligerently, struggling to a sitting position in spite of his chains.

'Men call me Xaltotun,' was the reply, in a strong, golden voice.

'What place is this?' the Cimmerian next demanded.

'A chamber in the palace of King Tarascus, in Belverus.'

Conan was not surprised. Belverus, the capital, was at the same time the largest Nemedian city so near the border.

'And where's Tarascus?'

'With the army.'

'Well,' growled Conan, 'if you mean to murder me, why don't you do it and get it over with?'

'I did not save you from the king's archers to murder you in Belverus,' answered Xaltotun.

'What the devil did you do to me?' demanded Conan.

'I blasted your consciousness,' answered Xaltotun. 'How, you would not understand. Call it black magic, if you will.'

Conan had already reached that conclusion, and was mulling over something else.

'I think I understand why you spared my life,' he rumbled. 'Amalric wants to keep me as a check on Valerius, in case the impossible happens and he becomes king of Aquilonia. It's well known that the baron of Tor is behind this move to seat Valerius on my throne. And if I know Amalric, he doesn't intend that Valerius shall be anything more than a figurehead, as Tarascus is now.'

'Amalric knows nothing of your capture,' answered Xaltotun. 'Neither does Valerius. Both think you died at Valkia.'

Conan's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man in silence.

'I sensed a brain behind all this,' he muttered, 'but I thought it was Amalric's. Are Amalric, Tarascus and Valerius all but puppets dancing on your string? Who are you?'

'What does it matter? If I told you, you would not believe me. What if I told you I might set you back on the throne of Aquilonia?'

Conan's eyes burned on him like a wolf.

'What's your price?'

'Obedience to me.'

'Go to hell with your offer!' snarled Conan. 'I'm no figurehead. I won my crown with my sword. Besides, it's beyond your power to buy and sell the throne of Aquilonia at your will. The kingdom's not conquered; one battle doesn't decide a war.'

'You war against more than swords,' answered Xaltotun. 'Was it a mortal's sword that felled you in your tent before the fight? Nay, it was a child of the dark, a waif of outer space, whose fingers were afire with the frozen coldness of the black gulfs, which froze the blood in your veins and the marrow of your thews. Coldness so cold it burned your flesh like white-hot iron!

'Was it chance that led the man who wore your harness to lead his knights into the defile? - chance that brought the cliffs crashing down upon them?'

Conan glared at him unspeaking, feeling a chill along his spine. Wizards and sorcerers abounded in his barbaric mythology, and any fool could tell that this was no common man. Conan sensed an inexplicable something about him that set him apart - an alien aura of Time and Space, a sense of tremendous and sinister antiquity. But his stubborn spirit refused to flinch.

'The fall of the cliffs was chance,' he muttered truculently. 'The charge into the defile was what any man would have done.'

'Not so. You would not have led a charge into it. You would have suspected a trap. You would never have crossed the river in the first place, until you were sure the Nemedian rout was real. Hypnotic suggestions would not have invaded your mind, even in the madness of battle, to make you mad, and rush blindly into the trap laid for you, as it did the lesser man who masqueraded as you.'

'Then if this was all planned,' Conan grunted skeptically, 'all a plot to trap my host, why did not the "child of darkness" kill me in my tent?'

'Because I wished to take you alive. It took no wizardry to predict that Pallantides would send another man out in your harness. I wanted you alive and unhurt. You may fit into my scheme of things. There is a vital power about you greater than the craft and cunning of my allies. You are a bad enemy, but might make a fine vassal.'

Conan spat savagely at the word, and Xaltotun, ignoring his fury, took a crystal globe from a near-by table and placed it before him. He did not support it in any way, nor place it on anything, but it hung motionless in midair, as solidly as if it rested on an iron pedestal. Conan snorted at this bit of necromancy, but he was nevertheless impressed.

'Would you know of what goes on in Aquilonia?' he asked.

Conan did not reply, but the sudden rigidity of his form betrayed his interest.

Xaltotun stared into the cloudy depths, and spoke: 'It is now the evening of the day after the battle of Valkia. Last night the main body of the army camped by Valkia, while squadrons of knights harried the fleeing Aquilonians. At dawn the host broke camp and pushed westward through the mountains. Prospero, with ten thousand Poitanians, was miles from the battlefield when he met the fleeing survivors in the early dawn. He had pushed on all night, hoping to reach the field before the battle joined. Unable to rally the remnants of the broken host, he fell back toward Tarantia. Riding hard, replacing his wearied horses with steeds seized from the countryside, he approaches Tarantia.

'I see his weary knights, their armor gray with dust, their pennons drooping as they push their tired horses through the plain. I see, also, the streets of Tarantia. The city is in turmoil. Somehow word has reached the people of the defeat and the death of King Conan. The mob is mad with fear, crying out that the king is dead, and there is none to lead them against the Nemedians. Giant shadows rush on Aquilonia from the east, and the sky is black with vultures.'

Conan cursed deeply.

'What are these but words? The raggedest beggar in the street might prophesy as much. If you say you saw all that in the glass ball, then you're a liar as well as a knave, of which last there's no doubt! Prospero will hold Tarantia, and the barons will rally to him. Count Trocero of Poitain commands the kingdom in my absence, and he'll drive these Nemedian dogs howling back to their kennels. What are fifty thousand Nemedians? Aquilonia will swallow them up. They'll never see Belverus again. It's not Aquilonia which was conquered at Valkia; it was only Conan.'

'Aquilonia is doomed,' answered Xaltotun, unmoved. 'Lance and ax and torch shall conquer her; or if they fail, powers from the dark of ages shall march against her. As the cliffs fell at Valkia, so shall walled cities and mountains fall, if the need arise, and rivers roar from their channels to drown whole provinces.

'Better if steel and bowstring prevail without further aid from the arts, for the constant use of mighty spells sometimes sets forces in motion that might rock the universe.'

'From what hell have you crawled, you nighted dog?' muttered Conan, staring at the man. The Cimmerian involuntarily shivered; he sensed something incredibly ancient, incredibly evil.

Xaltotun lifted his head, as if listening to whispers across the void. He seemed to have forgotten his prisoner. Then he shook his head impatiently, and glanced impersonally at Conan.

'What? Why, if I told you, you would not believe me. But I am wearied of conversation with you; it is less fatiguing to destroy a walled city than it is to frame my thoughts in words a brainless barbarian can understand.'

'If my hands were free,' opined Conan, 'I'd soon make a brainless corpse out of you.'

'I do not doubt it, if I were fool enough to give you the opportunity,' answered Xaltotun, clapping his hands.

His manner had changed; there was impatience in his tone, and a certain nervousness in his manner, though Conan did not think this attitude was in any way connected with himself.

'Consider what I have told you, barbarian,' said Xaltotun. 'You will have plenty of leisure. I have not yet decided what I shall do with you. It depends on circumstances yet unborn. But let this be impressed upon you: that if I decide to use you in my game, it will be better to submit without resistance than to suffer my wrath.'

Conan spat a curse at him, just as hangings that masked a door swung apart and four giant negroes entered. Each was clad only in a silken breech-clout supported by a girdle, from which hung a great key.

Xaltotun gestured impatiently toward the king and turned away, as if dismissing the matter entirely from his mind. His fingers twitched queerly. From a carven green jade box he took a handful of shimmering black dust, and placed it in a brazier which stood on a golden tripod at his elbow. The crystal globe, which he seemed to have forgotten, fell suddenly to the floor, as if its invisible support had been removed.

Then the blacks had lifted Conan - for so loaded with chains was he that he could not walk - and carried him from the chamber. A glance back, before the heavy, gold-bound teak door was closed, showed him Xaltotun leaning back in his throne-like chair, his arms folded, while a thin wisp of smoke curled up from the brazier. Conan's scalp prickled. In Stygia, that ancient and evil kingdom that lay far to the south, he had seen such black dust before. It was the pollen of the black lotus, which creates death-like sleep and monstrous dreams; and he knew that only the grisly wizards of the Black Ring, which is the nadir of evil, voluntarily seek the scarlet nightmares of the black lotus, to revive their necromantic powers.

The Black Ring was a fable and a lie to most folk of the western world, but Conan knew of its ghastly reality, and its grim votaries who practise their abominable sorceries amid the black vaults of Stygia and the nighted domes of accursed Sabatea.

He glanced back at the cryptic, gold-bound door, shuddering at what it hid.

Whether it was day or night the king could not tell. The palace of King Tarascus seemed a shadowy, nighted place, that shunned natural illumination. The spirit of darkness and shadow hovered over it, and that spirit, Conan felt, was embodied in the stranger Xaltotun. The negroes carried the king along a winding corridor so dimly lighted that they moved through it like black ghosts bearing a dead man, and down a stone stair that wound endlessly. A torch in the hand of one cast the great deformed shadows streaming along the wall; it was like the descent into hell of a corpse borne by dusky demons.

At last they reached the foot of the stair, and then they traversed a long straight corridor, with a blank wall on one hand pierced by an occasional arched doorway with a stair leading up behind it, and on the other hand another wall showing heavy barred doors at regular intervals of a few feet.

Halting before one of these doors, one of the blacks produced the key that hung at his girdle, and turned it in the lock. Then, pushing open the grille, they entered with their captive. They were in a small dungeon with heavy stone walls, floor and ceiling, and in the opposite wall there was another grilled door. What lay beyond that door Conan could not tell, but he did not believe it was another corridor. The glimmering light of the torch, flickering through the bars, hinted at shadowy spaciousness and echoing depths.

In one corner of the dungeon, near the door through which they had entered, a cluster of rusty chains hung from a great iron ring set in the stone. In these chains a skeleton dangled. Conan glared at it with some curiosity, noticing the state of the bare bones, most of which were splintered and broken; the skull which had fallen from the vertebrae, was crushed as if by some savage blow of tremendous force.

Stolidly one of the blacks, not the one who had opened the door, removed the chains from the ring, using his key on the massive lock, and dragged the mass of rusty metal and shattered bones over to one side. Then they fastened Conan's chains to that ring, and the third black turned his key in the lock of the farther door, grunting when he had assured himself that it was properly fastened.

Then they regarded Conan cryptically, slit-eyed ebony giants, the torch striking highlights from their glossy skin.

He who held the key to the nearer door was moved to remark, gutturally: 'This your palace now, white dog-king! None but master and we know. All palace sleep. We keep secret. You live and die here, maybe. Like him!' He contemptuously kicked the shattered skull and sent it clattering across the stone floor.

Conan did not deign to reply to the taunt, and the black, galled perhaps by his prisoner's silence, muttered a curse, stooped and spat full in the king's face. It was an unfortunate move for the black. Conan was seated on the floor, the chains about his waist; ankles and wrists locked to the ring in the wall. He could neither rise, nor move more than a yard out from the wall. But there was considerable slack in the chains that shackled his wrists, and before the bullet-shaped head could be withdrawn out of reach, the king gathered this slack in his mighty hand and smote the black on the head. The man fell like a butchered ox, and his comrades stared to see him lying with his scalp laid open, and blood oozing from his nose and ears.

But they attempted no reprisal, nor did they accept Conan's urgent invitation to approach within reach of the bloody chain in his hand. Presently, grunting in their ape-like speech, they lifted the senseless black and bore him out like a sack of wheat, arms and legs dangling. They used his key to lock the door behind them, but did not remove it from the gold chain that fastened it to his girdle. They took the torch with them, and as they moved up the corridor the darkness slunk behind them like an animate thing. Their soft padding footsteps died away, with the glimmer of their torch, and darkness and silence remained unchallenged.

S The Haunter of the Pits

Conan lay still, enduring the weight of his chains and the despair of his position with the stoicism of the wilds that had bred him. He did not move, because the jangle of his chains, when he shifted his body, sounded startlingly loud in the darkness and stillness, and it was his instinct, born of a thousand wildernessbred ancestors, not to betray his position in his helplessness. This did not result from a logical reasoning process; he did not lie quiet because he reasoned that the darkness hid lurking dangers that might discover him in his helplessness. Xaltotun had assured him that he was not to be harmed, and Conan believed that it was in the man's interest to preserve him, at least for the time being. But the instincts of the wild were there, that had caused him in his childhood to lie hidden and silent while wild beasts prowled about his covert.

Even his keen eyes could not pierce the solid darkness. Yet after a while, after a period of time he had no way of estimating, a faint glow became apparent, a sort of slanting gray beam, by which Conan could see, vaguely, the bars of the door at his elbow, and even make out the skeleton of the other grille. This puzzled him, until at last he realized the explanation. He was far below ground, in the pits below the palace; yet for some reason a shaft had been constructed from somewhere above. Outside, the moon had risen to a point where its light slanted dimly down the shaft. He reflected that in this manner he could tell the passing of the days and nights. Perhaps the sun, too, would shine down that shaft, though on the other hand it might be closed by day. Perhaps it was a subtle method of torture, allowing a prisoner but a glimpse of daylight or moonlight.

His gaze fell on the broken bones in the farther corner, glimmering dimly. He did not tax his brain with futile speculation as to who the wretch had been and for what reason he had been doomed, but he wondered at the shattered condition of the bones. They had not been broken on a rack. Then, as he looked, another unsavory detail made itself evident. The shinbones were split lengthwise, and there was but one explanation; they had been broken in that manner in order to obtain the marrow. Yet what creature but man breaks bones for their marrow? Perhaps those remnants were mute evidence of a horrible, cannibalistic feast, of some wretch driven to madness by starvation. Conan wondered if his own bones would be found at some future date, hanging in their rusty chains. He fought down the unreasoning panic of a trapped wolf.

The Cimmerian did not curse, scream, weep or rave as a civilized man might have done. But the pain and turmoil in his bosom were none the less fierce. His great limbs quivered with the intensity of his emotions. Somewhere, far to the westward, the Nemedian host was slashing and burning its way through the heart of his kingdom. The small host of the Poitanians could not stand before them. Prospero might be able to hold Tarantia for weeks, or months; but eventually, if not relieved, he must surrender to greater numbers. Surely the barons would rally to him against the invaders. But in the meanwhile he, Conan, must lie helpless in a darkened cell, while others led his spears and fought for his kingdom. The king ground his powerful teeth in red rage.

Then he stiffened as outside the farther door he heard a stealthy step. Straining his eyes he made out a bent, indistinct figure outside the grille. There was a rasp of metal against metal, and he heard the clink of tumblers, as if a key had been turned in the lock. Then the figure moved silently out of his range of vision. Some guard, he supposed, trying the lock. After a while he heard the sound repeated faintly somewhere farther on, and that was followed by the soft opening of a door, and then a swift scurry of softly shod feet retreated in the distance. Then silence fell again.

Conan listened for what seemed a long time, but which could not have been, for the moon still shone down the hidden shaft, but he heard no further sound. He shifted his position at last, and his chains clanked. Then he heard another, lighter footfall - a soft step outside the nearer door, the door through which he had entered the cell. An instant later a slender figure was etched dimly in the gray light.

'King Conan!' a soft voice intoned urgently. 'Oh, my lord, are you there?'

'"'here else?' he answered guardedly, twisting his head about to stare at the apparition.

It was a girl who stood grasping the bars with her slender fingers. The dim glow behind her outlined her supple figure through the wisp of silk twisted about her loins, and shone vaguely on jeweled breastplates. Her dark eyes gleamed in the shadows, her white limbs glistened softly, like alabaster. Her hair was a mass of dark foam, at the burnished luster of which the dim light only hinted.

'The keys to your shackles and to the farther door!' she whispered, and a slim white hand came through the bars and dropped three objects with a clink to the flags beside him.

'What game is this?' he demanded. 'You speak in the Nemedian tongue, and I have no friends in Nemedia. What deviltry is your master up to now? Has he sent you here to mock me?'

'It is no mockery!' The girl was trembling violently. Her bracelets and breastplates clinked against the bars she grasped. 'I swear by Mitra! I stole the keys from the black jailers. They are the keepers of the pits, and each bears a key which will open only one set of locks. I made them drunk. The one whose head you broke was carried away to a leech, and I could not get his key. But the others I stole. Oh, please do not loiter! Beyond these dungeons lie the pits which are the doors to hell.'

Somewhat impressed, Conan tried the keys dubiously, expecting to meet only failure and a burst of mocking laughter. But he was galvanized to discover that one, indeed, loosed him of his shackles, fitting not only the lock that held them to the ring, but the locks on his limbs as well. A few seconds later he stood upright, exulting fiercely in his comparative freedom. A quick stride carried him to the grille, and his fingers closed about a bar and the slender wrist that was pressed against it, imprisoning the owner, who lifted her face bravely to his fierce gaze.

'Who are you, girl?' he demanded. 'Why do you do this?'

'I am only Zenobia,' she murmured, with a catch of breathlessness, as if in fright; 'only a girl of the king's seraglio.'

'Unless this is some cursed trick,' muttered Conan, 'I cannot see why you bring me these keys.'

She bowed her dark head, and then lifted it and looked full into his suspicious eyes. Tears sparkled like jewels on her long dark lashes.

'I am only a girl of the king's seraglio,' she said, with a certain proud humility. 'He has never glanced at me, and probably never will. I am less than one of the dogs that gnaw the bones in his banquet hall.

'But I am no painted toy; I am of flesh and blood. I breathe, hate, fear, rejoice and love. And I have loved you, King Conan, ever since I saw you riding at the head of your knights along the streets of Belverus when you visited King Nimed, years ago. My heart tugged at its strings to leap from my bosom and fall in the dust of the street under your horse's hoofs.'

Color flooded her countenance as she spoke, but her dark eyes did not waver. Conan did not at once reply; wild and passionate and untamed he was, yet any but the most brutish of men must be touched with a certain awe or wonder at the baring of a woman's naked soul.

She bent her head then, and pressed her red lips to the fingers that imprisoned her slim wrist. Then she flung up her head as if in sudden recollection of their position, and terror flared in her dark eyes.

'Haste!' she whispered urgently. 'It is past midnight. You must be gone.'

'But won't they skin you alive for stealing these keys?'

'They'll never know. If the black men remember in the morning who gave them the wine, they will not dare admit the keys were stolen from them while they were drunk. The key that I could not obtain is the one that unlocks this door. You must make your way to freedom through the pits. What awful perils lurk beyond that door I cannot even guess. But greater danger lurks for you if you remain in this cell.

'King Tarascus has returned-'

'What? Tarascus?'

'Aye! He has returned, in great secrecy, and not long ago he descended into the pits and then came out again, pale and shaking, like a man who had dared a great hazard. I heard him whisper to his squire, Arideus, that despite Xaltotun you should die.'

'What of Xaltotun?' murmured Conan.

He felt her shudder.

'Do not speak of him!' she whispered. 'Demons are often summoned by the sound of their names. The slaves say that he lies in his chamber, behind a bolted door, dreaming the dreams of the black lotus. I believe that even Tarascus secretly fears him, or he would slay you openly. But he has been in the pits tonight, and what he did here, only Mitra knows.'

'I wonder if that could have been Tarascus who fumbled at my cell door awhile ago?' muttered Conan.

'Here is a dagger!' she whispered, pressing something through the bars. His eager fingers closed on an object familiar to their touch. 'Go quickly through yonder door, turn to the left and make your way along the cells until you come to a stone stair. On your life do not stray from the line of the cells! Climb the stair and open the door at the top; one of the keys will fit it. If it be the will of Mitra, I will await you there.' Then she was gone, with a patter of light slippered feet.

Conan shrugged his shoulders, and turned toward the farther grille. This might be some diabolical trap planned by Tarascus, but plunging headlong into a snare was less abhorrent to Conan's temperament than sitting meekly to await his doom. He inspected the weapon the girl had given him, and smiled grimly. Whatever else she might be, she was proven by that dagger to be a person of practical intelligence. It was no slender stiletto, selected because of a jeweled hilt or gold guard, fitted only for dainty murder in milady's boudoir; it was a forthright poniard, a warrior's weapon, broad-bladed, fifteen inches in length, tapering to a diamond-sharp point.

He grunted with satisfaction. The feel of the hilt cheered him and gave him a glow of confidence. Whatever webs of conspiracy were drawn about him, whatever trickery and treachery ensnared him, this knife was real. The great muscles of his right arm swelled in anticipation of murderous blows.

He tried the farther door, fumbling with the keys as he did so. It was not locked. Yet he remembered the black man locking it. That furtive, bent figure, then, had been no jailer seeing that the bolts were in place. He had unlocked the door, instead. There was a sinister suggestion about that unlocked door. But Conan did not hesitate. He pushed upon the grille and stepped from the dungeon into the outer darkness.

As he had thought, the door did not open into another corridor. The flagged floor stretched away under his feet, and the line of cells ran away to the right and left behind him, but he could not make out the other limits of the place into which he had come. He could see neither the roof nor any other wall. The moonlight filtered into that vastness only through the grilles of the cells, and was almost lost in the darkness. Less keen eyes than his could scarcely have discerned the dim gray patches that floated before each cell door.

Turning to the left, he moved swiftly and noiselessly along the line of dungeons, his bare feet making no sound on the flags. He glanced briefly into each dungeon as he passed it. They were all empty, but locked. In some he caught the glimmer of naked white bones. These pits were a relic of a grimmer age, constructed long ago when Belverus was a fortress rather than a city. But evidently their more recent use had been more extensive than the world guessed.

Ahead of him, presently, he saw the dim outline of a stair sloping sharply upward, and knew it must be the stair he sought. Then he whirled suddenly, crouching in the deep shadows at its foot.

Somewhere behind him something was moving - something bulky and stealthy that padded on feet which were not human feet. He was looking down the long row of cells, before each one of which lay a square of dim gray light that was little more than a patch of less dense darkness. But he saw something moving along these squares. What it was he could not tell, but it was heavy and huge, and yet it moved with more than human ease and swiftness. He glimpsed it as it moved across the squares of gray, then lost it as it merged in the expanses of shadow between. It was uncanny, in its stealthy advance, appearing and disappearing like a blur of the vision.

He heard the bars rattle as it tried each door in turn. Now it had reached the cell he had so recently quitted, and the door swung open as it tugged. He saw a great bulky shape limned faintly and briefly in the gray doorway, and then the thing had vanished into the dungeon. Sweat beaded Conan's face and hands. Now he knew why Tarascus had come so subtly to his door, and later had fled so swiftly. The king had unlocked his door, and, somewhere in these hellish pits, had opened a cell or cage that held some grim monstrosity.

Now the thing was emerging from the cell and was again advancing up the corridor, its misshapen head close to the ground. It paid no more heed to the locked doors. It was smelling out his trail. He saw it more plainly now; the gray light limned a giant anthropomorphic body, but vaster of bulk and girth than any man. It went on two legs, though it stooped forward, and it was grayish and shaggy, its thick coat shot with silver. Its head was a grisly travesty of the human, its long arms hung nearly to the ground.

Conan knew it at last - understood the meaning of those crushed and broken bones in the dungeon, and recognized the haunter of the pits. It was a gray ape, one of the grisly maneaters from the forests that wave on the mountainous eastern shores of the Sea of Vilayet. Half mythical and altogether horrible, these apes were the goblins of Hyborian legendry, and were in reality ogres of the natural world, cannibals and murderers of the nighted forests.

He knew it scented his presence, for it was coming swiftly now, rolling its barrel-like body rapidly along on its short, mighty bowed legs. He cast a quick glance up the long stair, but knew that the thing would be on his back before he could mount to the distant door. He chose to meet it face to face.

Conan stepped out into the nearest square of moonlight, so as to have all the advantage of illumination that he could; for the beast, he knew, could see better than himself in the dark. Instantly the brute saw him; its great yellow tusks gleamed in the shadows, but it made no sound. Creatures of night and the silence, the gray apes of Vilayet were voiceless. But in its dim, hideous features, which were a bestial travesty of a human face, showed ghastly exultation.

Conan stood poised, watching the oncoming monster without a quiver. He knew he must stake his life on one thrust; there would be no chance for another; nor would there be time to strike and spring away. The first blow must kill, and kill instantly, if he hoped to survive that awful grapple. He swept his gaze over the short, squat throat, the hairy swagbelly, and the mighty breast, swelling in giant arches like twin shields. It must be the heart; better to risk the blade being deflected by the heavy ribs than to strike in where a stroke was not instantly fatal. With full realization of the odds, Conan matched his speed of eye and hand and his muscular power against the brute might and ferocity of the maneater. He must meet the brute breast to breast, strike a death-blow, and then trust to the ruggedness of his frame to survive the instant of manhandling that was certain to be his.

As the ape came rolling in on him, swinging wide its terrible arms, he plunged in between them and struck with all his desperate power. He felt the blade sink to the hilt in the hairy breast, and instantly, releasing it, he ducked his head and bunched his whole body into one compact mass of knotted muscles, and as he did so he grasped the closing arms and drove his knee fiercely into the monster's belly, bracing himself against that crushing grapple.

For one dizzy instant he felt as if he were being dismembered in the grip of an earthquake; then suddenly he was free, sprawling on the floor, and the monster was gasping out its life beneath him, its red eyes turned upward, the hilt of the poniard quivering in its breast. His desperate stab had gone home.

Conan was panting as if after long conflict, trembling in every limb. Some of his joints felt as if they had been dislocated, and blood dripped from scratches on his skin where the monster's talons had ripped; his muscles and tendons had been savagely wrenched and twisted. If the beast had lived a second longer, it would surely have dismembered him. But the Cimmerian's mighty strength had resisted, for the fleeting instant it had endured, the dying convulsion of the ape that would have torn a lesser man limb from limb.

6 The Thrust of a Knife

Conan stooped and tore the knife from the monster's breast. Then he went swiftly up the stair. What other shapes of fear the darkness held he could not guess, but he had no desire to encounter any more. This touch-and-go sort of battling was too strenuous even for the giant Cimmerian. The moonlight was fading from the floor, the darkness closing in, and something like panic pursued him up the stair. He breathed a gusty sigh of relief when he reached the head, and felt the third key turn in the lock. He opened the door slightly, and craned his neck to peer through, half expecting an attack from some human or bestial enemy.

He looked into a bare stone corridor, dimly lighted, and a slender, supple figure stood before the door.

'Your Majesty!' It was a low, vibrant cry, half in relief and half in fear. The girl sprang to his side, then hesitated as if abashed.

'You bleed,' she said. 'You have been hurt!'

He brushed aside the implication with an impatient hand.

'Scratches that wouldn't hurt a baby. Your skewer came in handy, though. But for it Tarascus' monkey would be cracking my shinbones for the marrow right now. But what now?'

'Follow me,' she whispered. 'I will lead you outside the city wall. I have a horse concealed there.'

She turned to lead the way down the corridor, but he laid a heavy hand on her naked shoulder.

'Walk beside me,' he instructed her softly, passing his massive arm about her lithe waist. 'You've played me fair so far, and I'm inclined to believe in you; but I've lived this long only because I've trusted no one too far, man or woman. So! Now if you play me false you won't live to enjoy the jest.'

She did not flinch at sight of the reddened poniard or the contact of his hard muscles about her supple body.

'Cut me down without mercy if I play you false,' she answered. 'The very feel of your arm about me, even in menace, is as the fulfillment of a dream.'

The vaulted corridor ended at a door, which she opened. Outside lay another black man, a giant in turban and silk loincloth, with a curved sword lying on the flags near his hand. He did not move.

'I drugged his wine,' she whispered, swerving to avoid the recumbent figure. 'He is the last, and outer, guard of the pits. None ever escaped from them before, and none has ever wished to seek them; so only these black men guard them. Only these of all the servants knew it was King Conan that Xaltotun brought a prisoner in his chariot. I was watching, sleepless, from an upper casement that opened into the court, while the other girls slept; for I knew that a battle was being fought, or had been fought, in the west, and I feared for you . . .

'I saw the blacks carry you up the stair, and I recognized you in the torchlight. I slipped into this wing of the palace tonight, in time to see them carry you to the pits. I had not dared come here before nightfall. You must have lain in drugged senselessness all day in Xaltotun's chamber.

'Oh, let us be wary! Strange things are afoot in the palace tonight. The slaves said that Xaltotun slept as he often sleeps, drugged by the lotus of Stygia, but Tarascus is in the palace. He entered secretly, through the postern, wrapped in his cloak which was dusty as with long travel, and attended only by his squire, the lean silent Arideus. I cannot understand, but I am afraid.'

They came out at the foot of a narrow, winding stair, and mounting it, passed through a narrow panel which she slid aside. When they had passed through, she slipped it back in place, and it became merely a portion of the ornate wall. They were in a more spacious corridor, carpeted and tapestried, over which hanging lamps shed a golden glow.

Conan listened intently, but he heard no sound throughout the palace. He did not know in what part of the palace he was, or in which direction lay the chamber of Xaltotun. The girl was trembling as she drew him along the corridor, to halt presently beside an alcove masked with satin tapestry. Drawing this aside, she motioned for him to step into the niche, and whispered: 'Wait here! Beyond that door at the end of the corridor we are likely to meet slaves or eunuchs at any time of the day or night. I will go and see if the way is clear, before we essay it.'

Instantly his hair-trigger suspicions were aroused.

'Are you leading me into a trap?'

Tears sprang into her dark eyes. She sank to her knees and seized his muscular hand.

'Oh, my king, do not mistrust me now!' Her voice shook with desperate urgency. 'If you doubt and hesitate, we are lost! Why should I bring you up out of the pits to betray you now?'

'All right,' he muttered. 'I'll trust you; though, by Crom, the habits of a lifetime are not easily put aside. Yet I wouldn't harm you now, if you brought all the swordsmen in Nemedia upon me. But for you Tarascus' cursed ape would have come upon me in chains and unarmed. Do as you wish, girl.'

Kissing his hands, she sprang lithely up and ran down the corridor, to vanish through a heavy double door.

He glanced after her, wondering if he was a fool to trust her; then he shrugged his mighty shoulders and pulled the satin hangings together, masking his refuge. It was not strange that a passionate young beauty should be risking her life to aid him; such things had happened often enough in his life. Many women had looked on him with favor, in the days of his wanderings, and in the time of his kingship.

Yet he did not remain motionless in the alcove, waiting for her return. Following his instincts, he explored the niche for another exit, and presently found one - the opening of a narrow passage, masked by the tapestries, that ran to an ornately carved door, barely visible in the dim light that filtered in from the outer corridor. And as he stared into it, somewhere beyond that carven door he heard the sound of another door opening and shutting, and then a low mumble of voices. The familiar sound of one of those voices caused a sinister expression to cross his dark face. Without hesitation he glided down the passage, and crouched like a stalking panther beside the door. It was not locked, and manipulating it delicately, he pushed it open a crack, with a reckless disregard for possible consequences that only he could have explained or defended.

It was masked on the other side by tapestries, but through a thin slit in the velvet he looked into a chamber lit by a candle on an ebony table. There were two men in that chamber. One was a scarred, sinister-looking ruffian in leather breeks and ragged cloak; the other was Tarascus, king of Nemedia.

Tarascus seemed ill at ease. He was slightly pale, and he kept starting and glancing about him, as if expecting and fearing to hear some sound or footstep.

'Go swiftly and at once,' he was saying. 'He is deep in drugged slumber, but I know not when he may awaken.'

'Strange to hear words of fear issuing from the lips of Tarascus,' rumbled the other in a harsh, deep voice.

The king frowned.

'I fear no common man, as you well know. But when I saw the cliffs fall at Valkia I knew that this devil we had resurrected was no charlatan. I fear his powers, because I do not know the full extent of them. But I know that somehow they are connected with this accursed thing which I have stolen from him. It brought him back to life; so it must be the source of his sorcery.

'He had it hidden well; but following my secret order a slave spied on him and saw him place it in a golden chest, and saw where he hid the chest. Even so, I would not have dared steal it had Xaltotun himself not been sunk in lotus slumber.

'I believe it is the secret of his power. With it Orastes brought him back to life. With it he will make us all slaves, if we are not wary. So take it and cast it into the sea as I have bidden you. And be sure you are so far from land that neither tide nor storm can wash it up on the beach. You have been paid.'

'So I have,' grunted the ruffian. 'And I owe more than gold to you, king; I owe you a debt of gratitude. Even thieves can be grateful.'

'Whatever debt you may feel you owe me,' answered Tarascus, 'will be paid when you have hurled this thing into the sea.'

'I'll ride for Zingara and take ship from Kordava,' promised the other. 'I dare not show my head in Argos, because of the matter of a murder or so-'

'I care not, so it is done. Here it is; a horse awaits you in the court. Go, and go swiftly!'

Something passed between them, something that flamed like living fire. Conan had only a brief glimpse of it; and then the ruffian pulled a slouch hat over his eyes, drew his cloak about his shoulder, and hurried from the chamber. And as the door closed behind him, Conan moved with the devastating fury of unchained blood-lust. He had held himself in check so long as he could. The sight of his enemy so near him set his wild blood seething and swept away all caution and restraint.

Tarascus was turning toward an inner door when Conan tore aside the hangings and leaped like a bloodmad panther into the room. Tarascus wheeled, but even before he could recognize his attacker, Conan's poniard ripped into him.

But the blow was not mortal, as Conan knew the instant he struck. His foot had caught in a fold of the curtains and tripped him as he leaped. The point fleshed itself in Tarascus' shoulder and plowed down along his ribs, and the king of Nemedia screamed.

The impact of the blow and Conan's lunging body hurled him back against the table and it toppled and the candle went out. They were both carried to the floor by the violence of Conan's rush, and the foot of the tapestry hampered them both in its folds. Conan was stabbing blindly in the dark, Tarascus screaming in a frenzy of panicky terror. As if fear lent him superhuman energy, Tarascus tore free and blundered away in the darkness, shrieking: 'Help! Guards! Arideus! Orastes! Orastes!'

Conan rose, kicking himself free of the tangling tapestries and the broken table, cursing with the bitterness of his bloodthirsty disappointment. He was confused, and ignorant of the plan of the palace. The yells of Tarascus were still resounding in the distance, and a wild outcry was bursting forth in answer. The Nemedian had escaped him in the darkness, and Conan did not know which way he had gone. The Cimmerian's rash stroke for vengeance had failed, and there remained only the task of saving his own hide if he could.

Swearing luridly, Conan ran back down the passage and into the alcove, glaring out into the lighted corridor, just as Zenobia came running up it, her dark eyes dilated with terror.

'Oh, what has happened?' she cried. 'The palace is roused! I swear I have not betrayed you-'

'No, it was I who stirred up this hornet's nest,' he grunted. 'I tried to pay off a score. What's the shortest way out of this?'

She caught his wrist and ran fleetly down the corridor. But before they reached the heavy door at the other end, muffled shouts arose from behind it and the portals began to shake under an assault from the other side. Zenobia wrung her hands and whimpered.

'We are cut off! I locked that door as I returned through it. But they will burst it in a moment. The way to the postern gate lies through it.'

Conan wheeled. Up the corridor, though still out of sight, he heard a rising clamor that told him his foes were behind as well as before him.

'Quick! Into this door!' the girl cried desperately, running across the corridor and throwing open the door of a chamber.

Conan followed her through, and then threw the gold catch behind them. They stood in an ornately furnished chamber, empty but for themselves, and she drew him to a gold-barred window, through which he saw trees and shrubbery.

'You are strong,' she panted. 'If you can tear these bars away, you may yet escape. The garden is full of guards, but the shrubs are thick, and you may avoid them. The southern wall is also the outer wall of the city. Once over that, you have a chance to get away. A horse is hidden for you in a thicket beside the road that runs westward, a few hundred paces to the south of the fountain of Thrallos. You know where it is?'

'Aye! But what of you? I had meant to take you with me.'

A flood of joy lighted her beautiful face.

'Then my cup of happiness is brimming! But I will not hamper your escape. Burdened with me you would fail. Nay, do not fear for me. They will never suspect that I aided you willingly. Go! What you have just said will glorify my life throughout the long years.'

He caught her up in his iron arms, crushed her slim, vibrant figure to him and kissed her fiercely on eyes, cheeks, throat and lips, until she lay panting in his embrace; gusty and tempestuous as a storm-wind, even his love-making was violent.

'I'll go,' he muttered. 'But by Crom, I'll come for you some day!'

Wheeling, he gripped the gold bars and tore them from their sockets with one tremendous wrench; threw a leg over the sill and went down swiftly, clinging to the ornaments on the wall. He hit the ground running and melted like a shadow into the maze of towering rose-bushes and spreading trees. The one look he cast back over his shoulder showed him Zenobia leaning over the window-sill, her arms stretched after him in mute farewell and renunciation.

Guards were running through the garden, all converging toward the palace, where the clamor momentarily grew louder - tall men in burnished cuirasses and crested helmets of polished bronze. The starlight struck glints from their gleaming armor, among the trees, betraying their every movement; but the sound of their coming ran far before them. To Conan, wildernessbred, their rush through the shrubbery was like the blundering stampede of cattle. Some of them passed within a few feet of where he lay flat in a thick cluster of bushes, and never guessed his presence. With the palace as their goal, they were oblivious to all else about them. When they had gone shouting on, he rose and fled through the garden with no more noise than a panther would have made.

So quickly he came to the southern wall, and mounted the steps that led to the parapet. The wall was made to keep people out, not in. No sentry patrolling the battlements was in sight. Crouching by an embrasure he glanced back at the great palace rearing above the cypresses behind him. Lights blazed from every window, and he could see figures flitting back and forth across them like puppets on invisible strings. He grinned hardly, shook his fist in a gesture of farewell and menace, and let himself over the outer rim of the parapet.

A low tree, a few yards below the parapet, received Conan's weight, as he dropped noiselessly into the branches. An instant later he was racing through the shadows with the swinging hillman's stride that eats up long miles.

Gardens and pleasure villas surrounded the walls of Belverus. Drowsy slaves, sleeping by their watchman's pikes, did not see the swift and furtive figure that scaled walls, crossed alleys made by the arching branches of trees, and threaded a noiseless way through orchards and vineyards. Watchdogs woke and lifted their deep-booming clamor at a gliding shadow, half scented, half sensed, and then it was gone.

In a chamber of the palace Tarascus writhed and cursed on a blood-spattered couch, under the deft, quick fingers of Orastes. The palace was thronged with wide-eyed, trembling servitors, but the chamber where the king lay was empty save for himself and the renegade priest.

'Are you sure he still sleeps?' Tarascus demanded again, setting his teeth against the bite of the herb juices with which Orastes was bandaging the long, ragged gash in his shoulder and ribs. 'Ishtar, Mitra and Set! That burns like molten pitch of hell!'

'Which you would be experiencing even now, but for your good fortune,' remarked Orastes. 'Whoever wielded that knife struck to kill. Yes, I have told you that Xaltotun still sleeps. Why are you so urgent upon that point? What has he to do with this?'

'You know nothing of what has passed in the palace tonight?' Tarascus searched the priest's countenance with burning intensity.

'Nothing. As you know, I have been employed in translating manuscripts for Xaltotun, for some months now, transcribing esoteric volumes written in the younger languages into script he can read. He was well versed in all the tongues and scripts of his day, but he has not yet learned all the newer languages, and to save time he has me translate these works for him, to learn if any new knowledge has been discovered since his time. I did not know that he had returned last night until he sent for me and told me of the battle. Then I returned to my studies, nor did I know that you had returned until the clamor in the palace brought me out of my cell.'

'Then you do not know that Xaltotun brought the king of Aquilonia a captive to this palace?'

Orastes shook his head, without particular surprise.

'Xaltotun merely said that Conan would oppose us no more. I supposed that he had fallen, but did not ask the details.'

'Xaltotun saved his life when I would have slain him,' snarled Tarascus. 'I saw his purpose instantly. He would hold Conan captive to use as a club against us - against Amalric, against Valerius, and against myself. So long as Conan lives he is a threat, a unifying factor for Aquilonia, that might be used to compel us into courses we would not otherwise follow. I mistrust this undead Pythonian. Of late I have begun to fear him.

'I followed him, some hours after he had departed eastward. I wished to learn what he intended doing with Conan. I found that he had imprisoned him in the pits. I intended to see that the barbarian died, in spite of Xaltotun. And I accomplished-'

A cautious knock sounded at the door.

'That's Arideus,' grunted Tarascus. 'Let him in.'

The saturnine squire entered, his eyes blazing with suppressed excitement.

'How, Arideus?' exclaimed Tarascus. 'Have you found the man who attacked me?'

'You did not see him, my lord?' asked Arideus, as one who would assure himself of a fact he already knows to exist. 'You did not recognize him?'

'No. It happened so quick, and the candle was out - all I could think of was that it was some devil loosed on me by Xaltotun's magic-'

'The Pythonian sleeps in his barred and bolted room. But I have been in the pits.' Arideus twitched his lean shoulders excitedly.

'Well, speak, man!' exclaimed Tarascus impatiently. 'What did you find there?'

'An empty dungeon,' whispered the squire. 'The corpse of the great ape!'

'What?' Tarascus started upright, and blood gushed from his opened wound.

'Aye! The maneater is dead - stabbed through the heart and Conan is gone!'

Tarascus was gray of face as he mechanically allowed Orastes to force him prostrate again and the priest renewed work upon his mangled flesh.

'Conan!' he repeated. 'Not a crushed corpse - escaped! Mitra! He is no man; but a devil himself! I thought Xaltotun was behind this wound. I see now. Gods and devils! It was Conan who stabbed me! Arideus!'

'Aye, your Majesty!'

'Search every nook in the palace. He may be skulking through the dark corridors now like a hungry tiger. Let no niche escape your scrutiny, and beware. It is not a civilized man you hunt, but a bloodmad barbarian whose strength and ferocity are those of a wild beast. Scour the palace-grounds and the city. Throw a cordon about the walls. If you find he has escaped from the city, as he may well do, take a troop of horsemen and follow him. Once past the walls it will be like hunting a wolf through the hills. But haste, and you may yet catch him.'

'This is a matter which requires more than ordinary human wits,' said Orastes. 'Perhaps we should seek Xaltotun's advice.'

'No!' exclaimed Tarascus violently. 'Let the troopers pursue Conan and slay him. Xaltotun can hold no grudge against us if we kill a prisoner to prevent his escape.'

'Well,' said Orastes, 'I am no Acheroman, but I am versed in some of the arts, and the control of certain spirits which have cloaked themselves in material substance. Perhaps I can aid you in this matter.'

The fountain of Thrallos stood in a clustered ring of oaks beside the road a mile from the walls of the city. Its musical tinkle reached Conan's ears through the silence of the starlight. He drank deep of its icy stream, and then hurried southward toward a small, dense thicket he saw there. Rounding it, he saw a great white horse tied among the bushes. Heaving a deep gusty sigh he reached it with one stride - a mocking laugh brought him about, glaring.

A dully glinting, mail-clad figure moved out of the shadows into the starlight. This was no plumed and burnished palace guardsman. It was a tall man in morion and gray chain-mail one of the Adventurers, a class of warriors peculiar to Nemedia; men who had not attained to the wealth and position of knighthood, or had fallen from that estate; hardbitten fighters, dedicating their lives to war and adventure. They constituted a class of their own, sometimes commanding troops, but themselves accountable to no man but the king. Conan knew that he could have been discovered by no more dangerous a foeman.

A quick glance among the shadows convinced him that the man was alone, and he expanded his great chest slightly, digging his toes into the turf, as his thews coiled tensely.

'I was riding for Belverus on Amalric's business,' said the Adventurer, advancing warily. The starlight was a long sheen on the great two-handed sword he bore naked in his hand. 'A horse whinnied to mine from the thicket. I investigated and thought it strange a steed should be tethered here. I waited -and lo, I have caught a rare prize!'

The Adventurers lived by their swords.

'I know you,' muttered the Nemedian. 'You are Conan, king of Aquilonia. I thought I saw you die in the valley of the Valkia, but-'

Conan sprang as a dying tiger springs. Practised fighter though the Adventurer was, he did not realize the desperate quickness that lurks in barbaric sinews. He was caught off guard, his heavy sword half lifted. Before he could either strike or parry, the king's poniard sheathed itself in his throat, above the gorget, slanting downward into his heart. With a choked gurgle he reeled and went down, and Conan ruthlessly tore his blade free as his victim fell. The white horse snorted violently and shied at the sight and scent of blood on the sword.

Glaring down at his lifeless enemy, dripping poniard in hand, sweat glistening on his broad breast, Conan poised like a statue, listening intently. In the woods about there was no sound, save for the sleepy cheep of awakened birds. But in the city, a mile away, he heard the strident blare of a trumpet.

Hastily he bent over the fallen man. A few seconds' search convinced him that whatever message the man might have borne was intended to be conveyed by word of mouth. But he did not pause in his task. It was not many hours until dawn. A few minutes later the white horse was galloping westward along the white road, and the rider wore the gray mail of a Nemedian Adventurer.

7 The Rending of the Veil

Conan knew his only chance of escape lay in speed. He did not even consider hiding somewhere near Belverus until the chase passed on; he was certain that the uncanny ally of Tarascus would be able to ferret him out. Besides, he was not one to skulk and hide; an open fight or an open chase, either suited his temperament better. He had a long start, he knew. He would lead them a grinding race for the border.

Zenobia had chosen well in selecting the white horse. His speed, toughness and endurance were obvious. The girl knew weapons and horses, and, Conan reflected with some satisfaction, she knew men. He rode westward at a gait that ate up the miles.

It was a sleeping land through which he rode, past grovesheltered villages and white-walled villas amid spacious fields and orchards that grew sparser as he fared westward. As the villages thinned, the land grew more rugged, and the keeps that frowned from eminences told of centuries of border war. But none rode down from those castles to challenge or halt him. The lords of the keeps were following the banner of Amalric; the pennons that were wont to wave over these towers were now floating over the Aquilonian plains.

When the last huddled village fell behind him, Conan left the road, which was beginning to bend toward the northwest, toward the distant passes. To keep to the road would mean to pass by border towers, still garrisoned with armed men who would not allow him to pass unquestioned. He knew there would be no patrols riding the border marches on either side, as in ordinary times, but there were those towers, and with dawn there would probably be cavalcades of returning soldiers with wounded men in ox-carts.

This road from Belverus was the only road that crossed the border for fifty miles from north to south. It followed a series of passes through the hills, and on either hand lay a wide expanse of wild, sparsely inhabited mountains. He maintained his due westerly direction, intending to cross the border deep in the wilds of the hills that lay to the south of the passes. It was a shorter route, more arduous, but safer for a hunted fugitive. One man on a horse could traverse country an army would find impassable.

But at dawn he had not reached the hills; they were a long, low, blue rampart stretching along the horizon ahead of him. Here there were neither farms nor villages, no white-walled villas looming among clustering trees. The dawn wind stirred the tall stiff grass, and there was nothing but the long rolling swells of brown earth, covered with dry grass, and in the distance the gaunt walls of a stronghold on a low hill. Too many Aquilonian raiders had crossed the mountains in not too distant days for the countryside to be thickly settled as it was farther to the east.

Dawn ran like a prairie fire across the grasslands, and high overhead sounded a weird crying as a straggling wedge of wild geese winged swiftly southward. In a grassy swale Conan halted and unsaddled his mount. Its sides were heaving, its coat plastered with sweat. He had pushed it unmercifully through the hours before dawn.

While it munched the brittle grass and rolled, he lay at the crest of the low slope, staring eastward. Far away to the northward he could see the road he had left, streaming like a white ribbon over a distant rise. No black dots moved along that glistening ribbon. There was no sign about the castle in the distance to indicate that the keepers had noticed the lone wayfarer.

An hour later the land still stretched bare. The only sign of life was a glint of steel on the far-off battlements, a raven in the sky that wheeled backward and forth, dipping and rising as if seeking something. Conan saddled and rode westward at a more leisurely gait.

As he topped the farther crest of the slope, a raucous screaming burst out over his head, and looking up, he saw the raven flapping high above him, cawing incessantly. As he rode on, it followed him, maintaining its position and making the morning hideous with its strident cries, heedless of his efforts to drive it away.

This kept up for hours, until Conan's teeth were on edge, and he felt that he would give half his kingdom to be allowed to wring that black neck.

'Devils of hell!' he roared in futile rage, shaking his mailed fist at the frantic bird. 'Why do you harry me with your squawking? Begone, you black spawn of perdition, and peck for wheat in the farmer's fields!'

He was ascending the first pitch of the hills, and he seemed to hear an echo of the bird's clamor far behind him. Turning in his saddle, he presently made out another black dot hanging in the blue. Beyond that again he caught the glint of the afternoon sun on steel. That could mean only one thing: armed men. And they were not riding along the beaten road, which was out of his sight beyond the horizon. They were following him.

His face grew grim and he shivered slightly as he stared at the raven that wheeled high above him.

'So it is more than the whim of a brainless beast?' he muttered. 'Those riders cannot see you, spawn of hell; but the other bird can see you, and they can see him. You follow me, he follows you, and they follow him. Are you only a craftily trained feathered creature, or some devil in the form of a bird? Did Xaltotun set you on my trail? Are you Xaltotun?'

Only a strident screech answered him, a screech vibrating with harsh mockery.

Conan wasted no more breath on his dusky betrayer. Grimly he settled to the long grind of the hills. He dared not push the horse too hard; the rest he had allowed it had not been enough to freshen it. He was still far ahead of his pursuers, but they would cut down that lead steadily. It was almost a certainty that their horses were fresher than his, for they had undoubtedly changed mounts at that castle he had passed.

The going grew rougher, the scenery more rugged, steep grassy slopes pitching up to densely timbered mountainsides. Here, he knew, he might elude his hunters, but for that hellish bird that squalled incessantly above him. He could no longer see them in this broken country, but he was certain that they still followed him, guided unerringly by their feathered allies. That black shape became like a demoniac incubus, hounding him through measureless hells. The stones he hurled with a curse went wide or fell harmless, though in his youth he had felled hawks on the wing.

The horse was tiring fast. Conan recognized the grim finality of his position. He sensed an inexorable driving fate behind all this. He could not escape. He was as much a captive as he had been in the pits of Belverus. But he was no son of the Orient to yield passively to what seemed inevitable. If he could not escape, he would at least take some of his foes into eternity with him. He turned into a wide thicket of larches that masked a slope, looking for a place to turn at bay.

Then ahead of him there rang a strange, shrill scream, human yet weirdly timbred. An instant later he had pushed through a screen of branches, and saw the source of that eldritch cry. In a small glade below him four soldiers in Nemedian chain-mail were binding a noose about the neck of a gaunt old woman in peasant garb. A heap of fagots, bound with cord on the ground near by, showed what her occupation had been when surprised by these stragglers.

Conan felt slow fury swell his heart as he looked silently down and saw the ruffians dragging her toward a tree whose low-spreading branches were obviously intended to act as a gibbet. He had crossed the frontier an hour ago. He was standing on his own soil, watching the murder of one of his own subjects. The old woman was struggling with surprising strength and energy, and as he watched, she lifted her head and voiced again the strange, weird, far-carrying call he had heard before. It was echoed as if in mockery by the raven flapping above the trees. The soldiers laughed roughly, and one struck her in the mouth.

Conan swung from his weary steed and dropped down the face of the rocks, landing with a clang of mail on the grass. The four men wheeled at the sound and drew their swords, gaping at the mailed giant who faced them, sword in hand.

Conan laughed harshly. His eyes were bleak as flint.

'Dogs!' he said without passion and without mercy. 'Do Nemedian jackals set themselves up as executioners and hang my subjects at will? First you must take the head of their king. Here I stand, awaiting your lordly pleasure!'

The soldiers stared at him uncertainly as he strode toward them.

'Who is this madman?' growled a bearded ruffian. 'He wears Nemedian mail, but speaks with an Aquilonian accent.'

'No matter,' quoth another. 'Cut him down, and then we'll hang the old hag.'

And so saying he ran at Conan, lifting his sword. But before he could strike, the king's great blade lashed down, splitting helmet and skull. The man fell before him, but the others were hardy rogues. They gave tongue like wolves and surged about the lone figure in the gray mail, and the clamor and din of steel drowned the cries of the circling raven.

Conan did not shout. His eyes coals of blue fire and his lips smiling bleakly, he lashed right and left with his two-handed sword. For all his size he was quick as a cat on his feet, and he was constantly in motion, presenting a moving target so that thrusts and swings cut empty air oftener than not. Yet when he struck he was perfectly balanced, and his blows fell with devastating power. Three of the four were down, dying in their own blood, and the fourth was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, stumbling in headlong retreat as he parried frantically, when Conan's spur caught in the surcoat of one of the fallen men.

The king stumbled, and before he could catch himself the Nemedian, with the frenzy of desperation, rushed him so savagely that Conan staggered and fell sprawling over the corpse. The Nemedian croaked in triumph and sprang forward, lifting his great sword with both hands over his right shoulder, as he braced his legs wide for the stroke - and then, over the prostrate king, something huge and hairy shot like a thunderbolt full on the soldier's breast, and his yelp of triumph changed to a shriek of death.

Conan, scrambling up, saw the man lying dead with his throat torn out, and a great gray wolf stood over him, head sunk as it smelled the blood that formed a pool on the grass.

The king turned as the old woman spoke to him. She stood straight and tall before him, and in spite of her ragged garb, her features, clearcut and aquiline, and her keen black eyes, were not those of a common peasant woman. She called to the wolf and it trotted to her side like a great dog and rubbed its giant shoulder against her knee, while it gazed at Conan with great green lambent eyes. Absently she laid her hand upon its mighty neck, and so the two stood regarding the king of Aquilonia. He found their steady gaze disquieting, though there was no hostility in it.

'Men say King Conan died beneath the stones and dirt when the cliffs crumbled by Valkia,' she said in a deep, strong, resonant voice.

'So they say,' he growled. He was in no mood for controversy, and he thought of those armored riders who were pushing nearer every moment. The raven above him cawed stridently, and he cast an involuntary glare upward, grinding his teeth in a spasm of nervous irritation.

Up on the ledge the white horse stood with drooping head. The old woman looked at it, and then at the raven; and then she lifted a strange weird cry as she had before. As if recognizing the call, the raven wheeled, suddenly mute, and raced eastward. But before it had got out of sight, the shadow of mighty wings fell across it. An eagle soared up from the tangle of trees, and rising above it, swooped and struck the black messenger to the earth. The strident voice of betrayal was stilled for ever.

'Crom!' muttered Conan, staring at the old woman. 'Are you a magician, too?'

'I am Zelata,' she said. 'The people of the valleys call me a witch. Was that child of the night guiding armed men on your trail?'

'Aye.' She did not seem to think the answer fantastic. 'They cannot be far behind me.'

'Lead your horse and follow me, King Conan,' she said briefly.

Without comment he mounted the rocks and brought his horse down to the glade by a circuitous path. As he came he saw the eagle reappear, dropping lazily down from the sky, and rest an instant on Zelata's shoulder, spreading its great wings lightly so as not to crush her with its weight.

Without a word she led the way, the great wolf trotting at her side, the eagle soaring above her. Through deep thickets and along tortuous ledges poised over deep ravines she led him, and finally along a narrow precipice-edged path to a curious dwelling of stone, half hut, half cavern, beneath a cliff hidden among the gorges and crags. The eagle flew to the pinnacle of this cliff, and perched there like a motionless sentinel.

Still silent, Zelata stabled the horse in a near-by cave, with leaves and grass piled high for provender, and a tiny spring bubbling in the dim recesses.

In the but she seated the king on a rude, hide-covered bench, and she herself sat upon a low stool before the tiny fireplace, while she made a fire of tamarisk chunks and prepared a frugal meal. The great wolf drowsed beside her, facing the fire, his huge head sunk on his paws, his ears twitching in his dreams.

'You do not fear to sit in the but of a witch?' she asked, breaking her silence at last.

An impatient shrug of his gray-mailed shoulders was her guest's only reply. She gave into his hands a wooden dish heaped with dried fruits, cheese and barley bread, and a great pot of the heady upland beer, brewed from barley grown in the high valleys.

'I have found the brooding silence of the glens more pleasing than the babble of city streets,' she said. 'The children of the wild are kinder than the children of men.' Her hand briefly stroked the ruff of the sleeping wolf. 'My children were afar from me today, or I had not needed your sword, my king. They were coming at my call.'

'What grudge had those Nemedian dogs against you?' Conan demanded.

'Skulkers from the invading army straggle all over the countryside, from the frontier to Tarantia,' she answered. 'The foolish villagers in the valleys told them that I had a store of gold hidden away, so as to divert their attentions from their villages. They demanded treasure from me, and my answers angered them. But neither skulkers nor the men who pursue you, nor any raven will find you here.'

He shook his head, eating ravenously.

'I'm for Tarantia.'

She shook her head.

'You thrust your head into the dragon's jaws. Best seek refuge abroad. The heart is gone from your kingdom.'

'What do you mean?' he demanded. 'Battles have been lost before, yet wars won. A kingdom is not lost by a single defeat.'

'And you will go to Tarantia?'

'Aye. Prospero will be holding it against Amalric.'

'Are you sure?'

'Hell's devils, woman!' he exclaimed wrathfully. 'What else?'

She shook her head. 'I feel that it is otherwise. Let us see. Not lightly is the veil rent; yet I will rend it a little, and show you your capital city.'

Conan did not see what she cast upon the fire, but the wolf whimpered in his dreams, and a green smoke gathered and billowed up into the hut. And as he watched, the walls and ceiling of the but seemed to widen, to grow remote and vanish, merging with infinite immensities; the smoke rolled about him, blotting out everything. And in it forms moved and faded, and stood out in startling clarity.

He stared at the familiar towers and streets of Tarantia, where a mob seethed and screamed, and at the same time he was somehow able to see the banners of Nemedia moving inexorably westward through the smoke and flame of a pillaged land. In the great square of Tarantia the frantic throng milled and yammered, screaming that the king was dead, that the barons were girding themselves to divide the land between them, and that the rule of a king, even of Valerius, was better than anarchy. Prospero, shining in his armor, rode among them, trying to pacify them, bidding them trust Count Trocero, urging them to man the wall and aid his knights in defending the city. They turned on him, shrieking with fear and unreasoning rage, howling that he was Trocero's butcher, a more evil foe than Amalric himself. Offal and stones were hurled at his knights.

A slight blurring of the picture, that might have denoted a passing of time, and then Conan saw Prospero and his knights filing out of the gates and spurring southward. Behind him the city was in an uproar.

'Fools!' muttered Conan thickly. 'Fools! Why could they not trust Prospero? Zelata, if you are making game of me, with some trickery-'

'This has passed,' answered Zelata imperturbably, though somberly. 'It was the evening of the day that has passed when Prospero rode out of Tarantia, with the hosts of Amalric almost within sight. From the walls men saw the flame of their pillaging. So I read it in the smoke. At sunset the Nemedians rode into Tarantia, unopposed. Look! Even now, in the royal hall of Tarantia-'

Abruptly Conan was looking into the great coronation hall. Valerius stood on the regal dais, clad in ermine robes, and Amalric, still in his dusty, bloodstained armor, placed a rich and gleaming circlet on his yellow locks - the crown of Aquilonia! The people cheered; long lines of steelclad Nemedian warriors looked grimly on, and nobles long in disfavor at Conan's court strutted and swaggered with the emblem of Valerius on their sleeves.

'Crom!' It was an explosive imprecation from Conan's lips as he started up, his great fists clenched into hammers, his veins on his temples knotting, his features convulsed. 'A Nemedian placing the crown of Aquilonia on that renegade -in the royal hall of Tarantia!'

As if dispelled by his violence, the smoke faded, and he saw Zelata's black eyes gleaming at him through the mist.

'You have seen - the people of your capital have forfeited the freedom you won for them by sweat and blood; they have sold themselves to the slavers and the butchers. They have shown that they do not trust their destiny. Can you rely upon them for the winning back of your kingdom?'

'They thought I was dead,' he grunted, recovering some of his poise. 'I have no son. Men can't be governed by a memory. What if the Nemedians have taken Tarantia? There still remain the provinces, the barons, and the people of the countrysides. Valerius has won an empty glory.'

'You are stubborn, as befits a fighter. I cannot show you the future, I cannot show you all the past. Nay, l show you nothing. I merely make you see windows opened in the veil by powers unguessed. Would you look into the past for a clue of the present?'

'Aye.' He seated himself abruptly.

Again the green smoke rose and billowed. Again images unfolded before him, this time alien and seemingly irrelevant.

He saw great towering black walls, pedestals half hidden in the shadows upholding images of hideous, half-bestial gods. Men moved in the shadows, dark, wiry men, clad in red, silken loincloths. They were bearing a green jade sarcophagus along a gigantic black corridor. But before he could tell much about what he saw, the scene shifted. He saw a cavern, dim, shadowy and haunted with a strange intangible horror. On an altar of black stone stood a curious golden vessel, shaped like the shell of a scallop. Into this cavern came some of the same dark, wiry men who had borne the mummycase. They seized the golden vessel, and then the shadows swirled around them and what happened he could not say. But he saw a glimmer in a whorl of darkness, like a ball of living fire. Then the smoke was only smoke, drifting up from the fire of tamarisk chunks, thinning and fading.

'But what does this portend?' he demanded, bewildered. 'What I saw in Tarantia I can understand. But what means this glimpse of Zamorian thieves sneaking through a subterranean temple of Set, in Stygia? And that cavern - I've never seen or heard of anything like it, in all my wanderings. If you can show me that much, these shreds of vision which mean nothing, disjointed, why can you not show me all that is to occur?'

Zelata stirred the fire without replying.

'These things are governed by immutable laws,' she said at last. 'I can not make you understand; I do not altogether understand myself, though I have sought wisdom in the silences of the high places for more years than I can remember. I cannot save you, though I would if I might. Man must, at last, work out his own salvation. Yet perhaps wisdom may come to me in dreams, and in the morn I may be able to give you the clue to the enigma.'

'What enigma?' he demanded.

'The mystery that confronts you, whereby you have lost a kingdom,' she answered. And then she spread a sheepskin upon the floor before the hearth. 'Sleep,' she said briefly.

Without a word he stretched himself upon it, and sank into restless but deep sleep through which phantoms moved silently and monstrous shapeless shadows crept. Once, limned against a purple sunless horizon, he saw the mighty walls and towers of a great city such as rose nowhere on the waking earth he knew. Its colossal pylons and purple minarets lifted toward the stars, and over it, floating like a giant mirage, hovered the bearded countenance of the man Xaltotun.

Conan woke in the chill whiteness of early dawn, to see Zelata crouched beside the tiny fire. He had not awakened once in the night, and the sound of the great wolf leaving or entering should have roused him. Yet the wolf was there, beside the hearth, with its shaggy coat wet with dew, and with more than dew. Blood glistened wetly amid the thick fell, and there was a cut upon his shoulder.

Zelata nodded, without looking around, as if reading the thoughts of her royal guest.

'He has hunted before dawn, and red was the hunting. I think the man who hunted a king will hunt no more, neither man nor beast.'

Conan stared at the great beast with strange fascination as he moved to take the food Zelata offered him.

'When I come to my throne again I won't forget,' he said briefly. 'You've befriended me - by Crom, I can't remember when I've lain down and slept at the mercy of man or woman as I did last night. But what of the riddle you would read me this morn?'

A long silence ensued, in which the crackle of the tamarisks was loud on the hearth.

'Find the heart of your kingdom,' she said at last. 'There lies your defeat and your power. You fight more than mortal man. You will not press the throne again unless you find the heart of your kingdom.'

'Do you mean the city of Tarantia?'

She shook her head. 'I am but an oracle, through whose lips the gods speak. My lips are sealed by them lest I speak too much. You must find the heart of your kingdom. I can say no more. My lips are opened and sealed by the gods.'

Dawn was still white on the peaks when Conan rode westward. A glance back showed him Zelata standing in the door of her hut, inscrutable as ever, the great wolf beside her.

A gray sky arched overhead, and a moaning wind was chill with a promise of winter. Brown leaves fluttered slowly down from the bare branches, sifting upon his mailed shoulders.

All day he pushed through the hills, avoiding roads and villages. Toward nightfall he began to drop down from the heights, tier by tier, and saw the broad plains of Aquilonia spread out beneath him.

Villages and farms lay close to the foot of the hills on the western side of the mountains, for, for half a century, most of the raiding across the frontier had been done by the Aquilonians. But now only embers and ashes showed where farm huts and villas had stood.

In the gathering darkness Conan rode slowly on. There was little fear of discovery, which he dreaded from friend as well as from foe. The Nemedians had remembered old scores on their westward drive, and Valerius had made no attempt to restrain his allies. He did not count on winning the love of the common people. A vast swath of desolation had been cut through the country from the foothills westward. Conan cursed as he rode over blackened expanses that had been rich fields, and saw the gaunt gable-ends of burned houses jutting against the sky. He moved through an empty and deserted land, like a ghost out of a forgotten and outworn past.

The speed with which the army had traversed the land showed what little resistance it had encountered. Yet had Conan been leading his Aquilonians the invading army would have been forced to buy every foot they gained with their blood. The bitter realization permeated his soul; he was not the representative of a dynasty. He was only a lone adventurer. Even the drop of dynastic blood Valerius boasted had more hold on the minds of men than the memory of Conan and the freedom and power he had given the kingdom.

No pursuers followed him down out of the hills. He watched for wandering or returning Nemedian troops, but met none. Skulkers gave him a wide path, supposing him to be one of the conquerors, what of his harness. Groves and rivers were far more plentiful on the western side of the mountains, and coverts for concealment were not lacking.

So he moved across the pillaged land, halting only to rest his horse, eating frugally of the food Zelata had given him, until, on a dawn when he lay hidden on a river bank where willows and oaks grew thickly, he glimpsed, afar, across the rolling plains dotted with rich groves, the blue and golden towers of Tarantia.

He was no longer in a deserted land, but one teeming with varied life. His progress thenceforth was slow and cautious, through thick woods and unfrequented byways. It was dusk when he reached the plantation of Servius Galannus.

8 Dying Embers

The countryside about Tarantia had escaped the fearful ravaging of the more easterly provinces. There were evidences of the march of a conquering army in broken hedges, plundered fields and looted granaries, but torch and steel had not been loosed wholesale.

There was but one grim splotch on the landscape - a charred expanse of ashes and blackened stone, where, Conan knew, had once stood the stately villa of one of his staunchest supporters.

The king dared not openly approach the Galannus farm, which lay only a few miles from the city. In the twilight he rode through an extensive woodland, until he sighted a keeper's lodge through the trees. Dismounting and tying his horse, he approached the thick, arched door with the intention of sending the keeper after Servius. He did not know what enemies the manor house might be sheltering. He had seen no troops, but they might be quartered all over the countryside. But as he drew near, he saw the door open and a compact figure in silk hose and richly embroidered doublet stride forth and turn up a path that wound away through the woods.

'Servius!'

At the low call the master of the plantation wheeled with a startled exclamation. His hand flew to the short hunting-sword at his hip, and he recoiled from the tall gray steel figure standing in the dusk before him.

'Who are you?' he demanded. 'What is your - Mitra!'

His breath hissed inward and his ruddy face paled. 'Avaunt!' he ejaculated. 'Why have you come back from the gray lands of death to terrify me? I was always your true liegeman in your lifetime-'

'As I still expect you to be,' answered Conan. 'Stop trembling, man; I'm flesh and blood.'

Sweating with uncertainty Servius approached and stared into the face of the mail-clad giant, and then, convinced of the reality of what he saw, he dropped to one knee and doffed his plumed cap.

'Your Majesty! Truly, this is a miracle passing belief! The great bell in the citadel has tolled your dirge, days agone. Men said you died at Valkia, crushed under a million tons of earth and broken granite.'

'It was another in my harness,' grunted Conan. 'But let us talk later. If there is such a thing as a joint of beef on your board-'

'Forgive me, my lord!' cried Servius, springing to his feet. 'The dust of travel is gray on your mail, and I keep you standing here without rest or sup! Mitra! I see well enough now that you are alive, but I swear, when I turned and saw you standing all gray and dim in the twilight, the marrow of my knees turned to water. It is an ill thing to meet a man you thought dead in the woodland at dusk.'

'Bid the keeper see to my steed which is tied behind yonder oak,' requested Conan, and Servius nodded, drawing the king up the path. The patrician, recovering from his supernatural fright, had become extremely nervous.

'I will send a servant from the manor,' he said. 'The keeper is in his lodge - but I dare not trust even my servants in these days. It is better that only I know of your presence.'

Approaching the great house that glimmered dimly through the trees, he turned aside into a little-used path that ran between close-set oaks whose intertwining branches formed a vault overhead, shutting out the dim light of the gathering dusk.

Servius hurried on through the darkness without speaking, and with something resembling panic in his manner, and presently led Conan through a small side-door into a narrow, dimly illuminated corridor. They traversed this in haste and silence, and Servius brought the king into a spacious chamber with a high, oak-beamed ceiling and richly paneled walls. Logs flamed in the wide fireplace, for there was a frosty edge to the air, and a great meat pasty in a stone platter stood smoking on a broad mahogany board. Servius locked the massive door and extinguished the candles that stood in a silver candlestick on the table, leaving the chamber illuminated only by the fire on the hearth.

'Your pardon, your Majesty,' he apologized. 'These are perilous times; spies lurk everywhere. It were better that none be able to peer through the windows and recognize you. This pasty, however, is just from the oven, as I intended supping on my return from talk with my keeper. If your Majesty would deign-'

'The light is sufficient,' grunted Conan, seating himself with scant ceremony, and drawing his poniard.

He dug ravenously into the luscious dish, and washed it down with great gulps of wine from grapes grown in Servius' vineyards. He seemed oblivious to any sense of peril, but Servius shifted uneasily on his settle by the fire, nervously fingering the heavy gold chain about his neck. He glanced continually at the diamond-panes of the casement, gleaming dimly in the firelight, and cocked his ear toward the door, as if half expecting to hear the pad of furtive feet in the corridor without.

Finishing his meal, Conan rose and seated himself on another settle before the fire.

'I won't jeopardize you long by my presence, Servius,' he said abruptly. 'Dawn will find me far from your plantation.'

'My lord-' Servius lifted his hands in expostulation, but Conan waved his protests aside.

'I know your loyalty and your courage. Both are above reproach. But if Valerius has usurped my throne, it would be death for you to shelter me, if you were discovered.'

'I am not strong enough to defy him openly,' admitted Servius. 'The fifty men-at-arms I could lead to battle would be but a handful of straws. You saw the ruins of Emilius Scavonus' plantation?'

Conan nodded, frowning darkly.

'He was the strongest partician in this province, as you know. He refused to give his allegiance to Valerius. The Nemedians burned him in the ruins of his own villa. After that the rest of us saw the futility of resistance, especially as the people of Tarantia refused to fight. We submitted and Valerius spared our lives, though he levied a tax upon us that will ruin many. But what could we do? We thought you were dead. Many of the barons had been slain, others taken prisoner. The army was shattered and scattered. You have no heir to take the crown. There was no one to lead us-'

'Was there not Count Trocero of Poitain?' demanded Conan harshly.

Servius spread his hands helplessly.

'It is true that his general Prospero was in the field with a small army. Retreating before Amalric, he urged men to rally to his banner. But with your Majesty dead, men remembered old wars and civil brawls, and how Trocero and his Poitanians once rode through these provinces even as Amalric was riding now, with torch and sword. The barons were jealous of Trocero. Some men - spies of Valerius perhaps - shouted that the Count of Poitain intended seizing the crown for himself. Old sectional hates flared up again. If we had had one man with dynastic blood in his veins we would have crowned and followed him against Nemedia. But we had none.

'The barons who followed you loyally would not follow one of their own number, each holding himself as good as his neighbor, each fearing the ambitions of the others. You were the cord that held the fagots together. When the cord was cut, the fagots fell apart. If you had had a son, the barons would have rallied loyally to him. But there was no point for their patriotism to focus upon.

'The merchants and commoners, dreading anarchy and a return of feudal days when each baron was his own law, cried out that any king was better than none, even Valerius, who was at least of the blood of the old dynasty. There was no one to oppose him when he rode up at the head of his steelclad hosts, with the scarlet dragon of Nemedia floating over him, and rang his lance against the gates of Tarantia.

'Nay, the people threw open the gates and knelt in the dust before him. They had refused to aid Prospero in holding the city. They said they had rather be ruled by Valerius than by Trocero. They said - truthfully - that the barons would not rally to Trocero, but that many would accept Valerius. They said that by yielding to Valerius they would escape the devastation of civil war, and the fury of the Nemedians. Prospero rode southward with his ten thousand knights, and the horsemen of the Nemedians entered the city a few hours later. They did not follow him. They remained to see that Valerius was crowned in Tarantia.'

'Then the old witch's smoke showed the truth,' muttered Conan, feeling a queer chill along his spine. 'Amalric crowned Valerius?'

'Aye, in the coronation hall, with the blood of slaughter scarcely dried on his hands.'

'And do the people thrive under his benevolent rule?' asked Conan with angry irony.

'He lives like a foreign prince in the midst of a conquered land,' answered Servius bitterly. 'His court is filled with Nemedians, the palace troops are of the same breed, and a large garrison of them occupy the citadel. Aye, the hour of the Dragon has come at last.

'Nemedians swagger like lords through the streets. Women are outraged and merchants plundered daily, and Valerius either can, or will, make no attempt to curb them. Nay, he is but their puppet, their figurehead. Men of sense knew he would be, and the people are beginning to find it out.

'Amalric has ridden forth with a strong army to reduce the outlying provinces where some of the barons have defied him. But there is no unity among them. Their) ealousy of each other is stronger than their fear of Amalric. He will crush them one by one. Many castles and cities, realizing that, have sent in their submission. Those who resist fare miserably. The Nemedians are glutting their long hatred. And their ranks are swelled by Aquilonians whom fear, gold, or necessity of occupation are forcing into their armies. It is a natural consequence.'

Conan nodded somberly, staring at the red reflections of the firelight on the richly carved oaken panels.

'Aquilonia has a king instead of the anarchy they feared,' said Servius at last. 'Valerius does not protect his subjects against his allies. Hundreds who could not pay the ransom imposed upon them have been sold to the Kothic slavetraders.'

Conan's head jerked up and a lethal flame lit his blue eyes. He swore gustily, his mighty hands knotting into iron hammers.

'Aye, white men sell white men and white women, as it was in the feudal days. In the palaces of Shem and of Turan they will live out the lives of slaves. Valerius is king, but the unity for which the people looked, even though of the sword, is not complete.

'Gunderland in the north and Poitain in the south are yet unconquered, and there are unsubdued provinces in the west, where the border barons have the backing of the Bossonian bowmen. Yet these outlying provinces are no real menace to Valerius. They must remain on the defensive, and will be lucky if they are able to keep their independence. Here Valerius and his foreign knights are supreme.'

'Let him make the best of it then,' said Conan grimly. 'His time is short. The people will rise when they learn that I'm alive. We'll take Tarantia back before Amalric can return with his army. Then we'll sweep these dogs from the kingdom.'

Servius was silent. The crackle of the fire was loud in the stillness.

'Well,' exclaimed Conan impatiently, 'why do you sit with your head bent, staring at the hearth? Do you doubt what I have said?'

Servius avoided the king's eye.

'What mortal man can do, you will do, your Majesty,' he answered. 'I have ridden behind you in battle, and I know that no mortal being can stand before your sword.'

'What, then?'

Servius drew his fur-trimmed jupon closer about him, and shivered in spite of the flame.

'Men say your fall was occasioned by sorcery,' he said presently.

'What then?'

'What mortal can fight against sorcery? Who is this veiled man who communes at midnight with Valerius and his allies, as men say, who appears and disappears so mysteriously? Men say in whispers that he is a great magician who died thousands of years ago, but has returned from death's gray lands to overthrow the king of Aquilonia and restore the dynasty of which Valerius is heir.'

'What matter?' exclaimed Conan angrily. 'I escaped from the devil-haunted pits of Belverus, and from diabolism in the mountains. If the people rise-'

Servius shook his head.

'Your staunchest supporters in the eastern and central provinces are dead, fled or imprisoned. Gunderland is far to the north, Poitain far to the south. The Bossonians have retired to their marches far to the west. It would take weeks to gather and concentrate these forces, and before that could be done, each levy would be attacked separately by Amalric and destroyed.'

'But an uprising in the central provinces would tip the scales for us!' exclaimed Conan. 'We could seize Tarantia and hold it against Amalric until the Gundermen and Poitanians could get here.'

Servius hesitated, and his voice sank to a whisper.

'Men say you died accursed. Men say this veiled stranger cast a spell upon you to slay you and break your army. The great bell has tolled your dirge. Men believe you to be dead. And the central provinces would not rise, even if they knew you lived. They would not dare. Sorcery defeated you at Valkia. Sorcery brought the news to Tarantia, for that very night men were shouting of it in the streets.

'A Nemedian priest loosed black magic again in the streets of Tarantia to slay men who still were loyal to your memory. I myself saw it. Armed men dropped like flies and died in the streets in a manner no man could understand. And the lean priest laughed and said: 'I am only Altaro, only an acolyte of Orastes, who is but an acolyte of him who wears the veil; not mine is the power; the power but works through me.'

'Well,' said Conan harshly, 'is it not better to die honorably than to live in infamy? Is death worse than oppression, slavery and ultimate destruction?'

'When the fear of sorcery is in, reason is out,' replied Servius. 'The fear of the central provinces is too great to allow them to rise for you. The outlying provinces would fight for you - but the same sorcery that smote your army at Valkia would smite you again. The Nemedians hold the broadest, richest and most thickly populated sections of Aquilonia, and they cannot be defeated by the forces which might still be at your command. You would be sacrificing your loyal subjects uselessly. In sorrow I say it, but it is true: King Conan, you are a king without a kingdom.'

Conan stared into the fire without replying. A smoldering log crashed down among the flames without a bursting shower of sparks. It might have been the crashing ruin of his kingdom.

Again Conan felt the presence of a grim reality behind the veil of material illusion. He sensed again the inexorable drive of a ruthless fate. A feeling of furious panic tugged at his soul, a sense of being trapped, and a red rage that burned to destroy and kill.

'Where are the officials of my court?' he demanded at last.

Tallantides was sorely wounded at Valkia, was ransomed by his family, and now lies in his castle in Attalus. He will be fortunate if he ever rides again. Publius, the chancellor, has fled the kingdom in disguise, no man knows whither. The council has been disbanded. Some were imprisoned, some banished. Many of your loyal subjects have been put to death. Tonight, for instance, the Countess Albiona dies under the headsman's ax.'

Conan started and stared at Servius with such anger smoldering in his blue eyes that the patrician shrank back.

'Why?'

'Because she would not become the mistress of Valerius. Her hands are forfeit, her henchmen sold into slavery, and at midnight, in the Iron Tower, her head must fall. Be advised, my king - to me you will ever be my king - and flee before you are discovered. In these days none is safe. Spies and informers creep among us, betraying the slightest deed or word of discontent as treason and rebellion. If you make yourself known to your subjects it will only end in your capture and death.

'My horses and all the men that I can trust are at your disposal. Before dawn we can be far from Tarantia, and well on our way toward the border. If I cannot aid you to recover your kingdom, I can at least follow you into exile.'

Conan shook his head. Servius glanced uneasily at him as he sat staring into the fire, his chin propped on his mighty fist. The firelight gleamed redly on his steel mail, on his baleful eyes. They burned in the firelight like the eyes of a wolf. Servius was again aware, as in the past, and now more strongly than ever, of something alien about the king. That great frame under the mail mesh was too hard and supple for a civilized man; the elemental fire of the primitive burned in those smoldering eyes. Now the barbaric-suggestion about the king was more pronounced, as if in his extremity the outward aspects of civilization were stripped away, to reveal the primordial core. Conan was reverting to his pristine type. He did not act as a civilized man would act under the same conditions, nor did his thoughts run in the same channels. He was unpredictable. It was only a stride from the king of Aquilonia to the skin-clad slayer of the Cimmerian hills.

'I'll ride to Poitain, if it may be,' Conan said at last. 'But I'll ride alone. And I have one last duty to perform as king of Aquiloma.'

'What do you mean, your Majesty?' asked Servius, shaken by a premonition.

'I'm going into Tarantia after Albiona tonight,' answered the king. 'I've failed all my other loyal subjects, it seems - if they take her head, they can have mine too.'

'This is madness!' cried Servius, staggering up and clutching his throat, as if he already felt the noose closing about it.

'There are secrets to the Tower which few know,' said Conan. 'Anyway, I'd be a dog to leave Albiona to die because of her loyalty to me. I may be a king without a kingdom, but I'm not a man without honor.'

'It will ruin us all!' whispered Servius.

'It will ruin no one but me if I fail. You've risked enough. I ride alone tonight. This is all I want you to do: procure me a patch for my eye, a staff for my hand, and garments such as travelers wear.'

9 'It Is the King or His Ghost!'

Many men passed through the great arched gates of Tarantia between sunset and midnight - belated travelers, merchants from afar with heavily laden mules, free workmen from the surrounding farms and vineyards. Now that Valerius was supreme in the central provinces, there was no rigid scrutiny of the folk who flowed in a steady stream through the wide gates. Discipline had been relaxed. The Nemedian soldiers who stood on guard were half drunk, and much too busy watching for handsome peasant girls and rich merchants who could be bullied to notice workmen or dusty travelers, even one tall wayfarer whose worn cloak could not conceal the hard lines of his powerful frame.

This man carried himself with an erect, aggressive bearing that was too natural for him to realize it himself, much less dissemble it. A great patch covered one eye, and his leather coif, drawn low over his brows, shadowed his features. With a long thick staff in his muscular brown hand, he strode leisurely through the arch where the torches flared and guttered, and, ignored by the tipsy guardsmen, emerged upon the wide streets of Tarantia.

Upon these well-lighted thoroughfares the usual throngs went about their business, and shops and stalls stood open, with their wares displayed. One thread ran a constant theme through the pattern. Nemedian soldiers, singly or in clumps, swaggered through the throngs, shouldering their way with studied arrogance. Women scurried from their path, and men stepped aside with darkened brows and clenched fists. The Aquilonians were a proud race, and these were their hereditary enemies.

The knuckles of the tall traveler knotted on his staff, but, like the others, he stepped aside to let the men in armor have the way. Among the motley and varied crowd he did not attract much attention in his drab, dusty garments. But once, as he passed a sword-seller's stall and the light that streamed from its wide door fell full upon him, he thought he felt an intense stare upon him, and turning quickly, saw a man in the brown jerkin of a free workman regarding him fixedly. This man turned away with undue haste, and vanished in the shifting throng. But Conan turned into a narrow by-street and quickened his pace. It might have been mere idle curiosity; but he could take no chances.

The grim Iron Tower stood apart from the citadel, amid a maze of narrow streets and crowding houses where the meaner structures, appropriating a space from which the more fastidious shrank, had invaded a portion of the city ordinarily alien to them. The Tower was in reality a castle, an ancient, formidable pile of heavy stone and black iron, which had itself served as the citadel in an earlier, ruder century.

Not a long distance from it, lost in a tangle of partly deserted tenements and warehouses, stood an ancient watchtower, so old and forgotten that it did not appear on the maps of the city for a hundred years back. Its original purpose had been forgotten, and nobody, of such as saw it at all, noticed that the apparently ancient lock which kept it from being appropriated as sleepingquarters by beggars and thieves, was in reality comparatively new and extremely powerful, cunningly disguised into an appearance of rusty antiquity. Not half a dozen men in the kingdom had ever known the secret of that tower.

No keyhole showed in the massive, green-crusted lock. But Conan's practised fingers, stealing over it, pressed here and there knobs invisible to the casual eye. The door silently opened inward and he entered solid blackness, pushing the door shut behind him. A light would have showed the tower empty, a bare, cylindrical shaft of massive stone.

Groping in a corner with the sureness of familiarity, he found the projections for which he was feeling on a slab of the stone that composed the floor. Quickly he lifted it, and without hesitation lowered himself into the aperture beneath. His feet felt stone steps leading downward into what he knew was a narrow tunnel that ran straight toward the foundations of the Iron Tower, three streets away.

The Bell on the citadel, which tolled only at the midnight hour or for the death of a king, boomed suddenly. In a dimly lighted chamber in the Iron Tower a door opened and a form emerged into a corridor. The interior of the Tower was as forbidding as its external appearance. Its massive stone walls were rough, unadorned. The flags of the floor were worn deep by generations of faltering feet, and the vault of the ceiling was gloomy in the dim light of torches set in niches.

The man who trudged down that grim corridor was in appearance in keeping with his surroundings. He was a tall, powerfully built man, clad in close-fitting black silk. Over his head was drawn a black hood which fell about his shoulders, having two holes for his eyes. From his shoulders hung a loose black cloak, and over one shoulder he bore a heavy ax, the shape of which was that of neither tool nor weapon.

As he went down the corridor, a figure came hobbling up it, a bent, surly old man, stooping under the weight of his pike and a lantern he bore in one hand.

'You are not as prompt as your predecessor, master headsman,' he grumbled. 'Midnight has just struck, and masked men have gone to milady's cell. They await you.'

'The tones of the bell still echo among the towers,' answered the executioner. 'If I am not so quick to leap and run at the beck of Aquilonians as was the dog who held this office before me, they shall find my arm no less ready. Get you to your duties, old watchman, and leave me to mine. I think mine is the sweeter trade, by Mitra, for you tramp cold corridors and peer at rusty dungeon doors, while I lop off the fairest head in Tarantia this night.'

The watchman limped on down the corridor, still grumbling, and the headsman resumed his leisurely way. A few strides carried him around a turn in the corridor, and he absently noted that at his left a door stood partly open. If he had thought, he would have known that that door had been opened since the watchman passed; but thinking was not his trade. He was passing the unlocked door before he realized that aught was amiss, and then it was too late.

A soft tigerish step and the rustle of a cloak warned him, but before he could turn, a heavy arm hooked about his throat from behind, crushing the cry before it could reach his lips. In the brief instant that was allowed him he realized with a surge of panic the strength of his attacker, against which his own brawny thews were helpless. He sensed without seeing the poised dagger.

'Nemedian dog!' muttered a voice thick with passion in his ear. 'You've cut off your last Aquilonian head!'

And that was the last thing he ever heard.

In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound behind her. Even in the uncertain torchlight, and in spite of her disheveled condition and pallor of fear, her beauty was striking. She knelt mutely, staring with wide eyes up at her tormenters. The men were closely masked and cloaked. Such a deed as this needed masks, even in a conquered land. She knew them all nevertheless; but what she knew would harm no one - after that night.

'Our merciful sovereign offers you one more chance, Countess,' said the tallest of the three, and he spoke Aquilonian without an accent. 'He bids me say that if you soften your proud, rebellious spirit, he will still open his arms to you. If not-' he gestured toward a grim wooden block in the center of the cell. It was blackly stained, and showed many deep nicks as if a keen edge, cutting through some yielding substance, had sunk into the wood.

Albiona shuddered and turned pale, shrinking back. Every fiber in her vigorous young body quivered with the urge of life. Valerius was young, too, and handsome. Many women loved him, she told herself, fighting with herself for life. But she could not speak the word that would ransom her soft young body from the block and the dripping ax. She could not reason the matter. She only knew that when she thought of the clasp of Valerius' arms, her flesh crawled with an abhorrence greater than the fear of death. She shook her head helplessly, compelled by an impulsion more irresistible than the instinct to live.

'Then there is no more to be said!' exclaimed one of the others impatiently, and he spoke with a Nemedian accent. 'Where is the headsman?'

As if summoned by the word, the dungeon door opened silently, and a great figure stood framed in it, like a black shadow from the underworld.

Albiona voiced a low, involuntary cry at the sight of that grim shape, and the others stared silently for a moment, perhaps themselves daunted with superstitious awe at the silent, hooded figure. Through the coif the eyes blazed like coals of blue fire, and as these eyes rested on each man in turn, he felt a curious chill travel down his spine.

Then the tall Aquilonian roughly seized the girl and dragged her to the block. She screamed uncontrollably and fought hopelessly against him, frantic with terror, but he ruthlessly forced her to her knees, and bent her yellow head down to the bloody block.

'Why do you delay, headsman?' he exclaimed angrily. 'Perform your task!'

He was answered by a short, gusty boom of laughter that was indescribably menacing. All in the dungeon froze in their places, staring at the hooded shape - the two cloaked figures, the masked man bending over the girl, the girl herself on her knees, twisting her imprisoned head to look upward.

'What means this unseemly mirth, dog?' demanded the Aquilonian uneasily.

The man in the black garb tore his hood from his head and flung it to the ground; he set his back to the closed door and lifted the headsman's ax.

'Do you know me, dogs?' he rumbled. 'Do you know me?'

The breathless silence was broken by a scream.

'The king!' shrieked Albiona, wrenching herself free from the slackened grasp of her captor. 'Oh, Mitra, the king!'

The three men stood like statues, and then the Aquilonian started and spoke, like a man who doubts his own senses.

'Conan!' he ejaculated. 'It is the king, or his ghost! What devil's work is this?'

'Devil's work to match devils!' mocked Conan, his lips laughing but hell flaming in his eyes. 'Come, fall to, my gentlemen. You have your swords, and I this cleaver. Nay, I think this butcher's tool fits the work at hand, my fair lords!'

'At him!' muttered the Aquilonian, drawing his sword. 'It is Conan and we must kill or be killed!'

And like men waking from a trance, the Nemedians drew their blades and rushed on the king.

The headsman's ax was not made for such work, but the king wielded the heavy, clumsy weapon as lightly as a hatchet, and his quickness of foot, as he constantly shifted his position, defeated their purpose of engaging him all three at once.

He caught the sword of the first man on his ax-head and crushed in the wielder's breast with a murderous counterstroke before he could step back or parry. The remaining Nemedian, missing a savage swipe, had his brains dashed out before he could recover his balance, and an instant later the Aquilonian was backed into a corner, desperately parrying the crashing strokes that rained about him, lacking opportunity even to scream for help.

Suddenly Conan's long left arm shot out and ripped the mask from the man's head, disclosing the pallid features.

'Dog!' grated the king. 'I thought I knew you. Traitor! Damned renegade! Even this base steel is too honorable for your foul head. Nay, die as thieves die!'

The ax fell in a devastating arch, and the Aquilonian cried out and went to his knees, grasping the severed stump of his right arm from which blood spouted. It had been shorn away at the elbow, and the ax, unchecked in its descent, had gashed deeply into his side, so that his entrails bulged out.

'Lie there and bleed to death,' grunted Conan, casting the ax away disgustedly. 'Come, Countess!'

Stooping, he slashed the cords that bound her wrists and lifting her as if she had been a child, strode from the dungeon. She was sobbing hysterically, with her arms thrown about his corded neck in a frenzied embrace.

'Easy all,' he muttered. 'We're not out of this yet. If we can reach the dungeon where the secret door opens on stairs that lead to the tunnel - devil take it, they've heard that noise, even through these walls.'

Down the corridor arms clanged and the tramp and shouting of men echoed under the vaulted roof. A bent figure came hobbling swiftly along, lantern held high, and its light shone full on Conan and the girl. With a curse the Cimmerian sprang toward him, but the old watchman, abandoning both lantern and pike, scuttled away down the corridor, screeching for help at the top of his cracked voice. Deeper shouts answered him.

Conan turned swiftly and ran the other way. He was cut off from the dungeon with the secret lock and the hidden door through which he had entered the Tower, and by which he had hoped to leave, but he knew this grim building well. Before he was king he had been imprisoned in it.

He turned off into a side passage and quickly emerged into another, broader corridor, which ran parallel to the one down which he had come, and which was at the moment deserted. He followed this only a few yards, when he again turned back, down another side passage. This brought him back into the corridor he had left, but at a strategic point. A few feet farther up the corridor there was a heavy bolted door, and before it stood a bearded Nemedian in corselet and helmet, his back to Conan as he peered up the corridor in the direction of the growing tumult and wildly waving lanterns.

Conan did not hesitate. Slipping the girl to the ground, he ran at the guard swiftly and silently, sword in hand. The man turned just as the king reached him, bawled in surprise and fright and lifted his pike; but before he could bring the clumsy weapon into play, Conan brought down his sword on the fellow's helmet with a force that would have felled an ox. Helmet and skull gave way together and the guard crumpled to the floor.

In an instant Conan had drawn the massive bolt that barred the door - too heavy for one ordinary man to have manipulated - and called hastily to Albiona, who ran staggering to him. Catching her up unceremoniously with one arm, he bore her through the door and into the outer darkness.

They had come into a narrow alley, black as pitch, walled by the side of the Tower on one hand, and the sheer stone back of a row of buildings on the other. Conan, hurrying through the darkness as swiftly as he dared, felt the latter wall for doors or windows, but found none.

The great door clanged open behind them, and men poured out, with torches gleaming on breastplates and naked swords. They glared about, bellowing, unable to penetrate the darkness which their torches served to illuminate for only a few feet in any direction, and then rushed down the alley at random -heading in the direction opposite to that taken by Conan and Albiona.

'They'll learn their mistake quick enough,' he muttered, increasing his pace. If we ever find a crack in this infernal wall - damn! The street watch!'

Ahead of them a faint glow became apparent, where the alley opened into a narrow street, and he saw dim figures looming against it with a glimmer of steel. It was indeed the street watch, investigating the noise they had heard echoing down the alley.

'Who goes there?' they shouted, and Conan grit his teeth at the hated Nemedian accent.

'Keep behind me,' he ordered the girl. 'We've got to cut our way through before the prison guards come back and pin us between them.'

And grasping his sword, he ran straight at the oncoming figures. The advantage of surprise was his. He could see them, limned against the distant glow, and they could not see him coming at them out of the black depths of the alley. He was among them before they knew it, smiting with the silent fury of a wounded lion.

His one chance lay in hacking through before they could gather their wits. But there were half a score of them, in full mail, hardbitten veterans of the border wars, in whom the instinct for battle could take the place of bemused wits. Three of them were down before they realized that it was only one man who was attacking them, but even so their reaction was instantaneous. The clangor of steel rose deafeningly, and sparks flew as Conan's sword crashed on basinet and hauberk. He could see better than they, and in the dim light his swiftly moving figure was an uncertain mark. Flailing swords cut empty air or glanced from his blade, and when he struck it was with the fury and certainty of a hurricane.

But behind him sounded the shouts of the prison guards, returning up the alley at a run, and still the mailed figures before him barred his way with a bristling wall of steel. In an instant the guards would be on his back - in desperation he redoubled his strokes, flailing like a smith on an anvil, and then was suddenly aware of a diversion. Out of nowhere behind the watchmen rose a score of black figures and there was a sound of blows, murderously driven. Steel glinted in the gloom, and men cried out, struck mortally from behind. In an instant the alley was littered with writhing forms. A dark, cloaked shape sprang toward Conan, who heaved up his sword, catching a gleam of steel in the right hand. But the other was extended to him empty and a voice hissed urgently: 'This way, your Majesty! Quickly!'

With a muttered oath of surprise, Conan caught up Albiona in one massive arm, and followed his unknown befriender. He was not inclined to hesitate, with thirty prison guardsmen closing in behind him.

Surrounded by mysterious figures he hurried down the alley, carrying the countess as if she had been a child. He could tell nothing of his rescuers except that they wore dark cloaks and hoods. Doubt and suspicion crossed his mind, but at least they had struck down his enemies, and he saw no better course than to follow them.

As if sensing his doubt, the leader touched his arm lightly and said: 'Fear not, King Conan; we are your loyal subjects.' The voice was not familiar, but the accent was Aquilonian of the central provinces.

Behind them the guards were yelling as they stumbled over the shambles in the mud, and they came pelting vengefully down the alley, seeing the vague dark mass moving between them and the light of the distant street. But the hooded men turned suddenly toward the seemingly blank wall, and Conan saw a door gape there. He muttered a curse. He had traversed that alley by day, in times past, and had never noticed a door there. But through it they went, and the door closed behind them with the click of a lock. The sound was not reassuring, but his guides were hurrying him on, moving with the precision of familiarity, guiding Conan with a hand at either elbow. It was like traversing a tunnel, and Conan felt Albiona's lithe limbs trembling in his arms. Then somewhere ahead of them an opening was faintly visible, merely a somewhat less black arch in the blackness, and through this they filed.

After that there was a bewildering succession of dim courts and shadowy alleys and winding corridors, all traversed in utter silence, until at last they emerged into a broad lighted chamber, the location of which Conan could not even guess, for their devious route had confused even his primitive sense of direction.

10 A Coin From Acheron

Not all his guides entered the chamber. When the door closed, Conan saw only one man standing before him - a slim figure, masked in a black cloak with a hood. This the man threw back, disclosing a pale oval of a face, with calm, delicately chiseled features.

The king set Albiona on her feet, but she still clung to him and stared apprehensively about her. The chamber was a large one, with marble walls partly covered with black velvet hangings and thick rich carpets on the mosaic floor, laved in the soft golden glow of bronze lamps.

Conan instinctively laid a hand on his hilt. There was blood on his hand, blood clotted about the mouth of his scabbard, for he had sheathed his blade without cleansing it.

'Where are we?' he demanded.

The stranger answered with a low, profound bow in which the suspicious king could detect no trace of irony.

'In the temple of Asura, your Majesty.'

Albiona cried out faintly and clung closer to Conan, staring fearfully at the black, arched doors, as if expecting the entry of some grisly shape of darkness.

'Fear not, my lady,' said their guide. 'There is nothing here to harm you, vulgar superstition to the contrary. If your monarch was sufficiently convinced of the innocence of our religion to protect us from the persecution of the ignorant, then certainly one of his subjects need have no apprehensions.'

'Who are you?' demanded Conan.

'I am Hadrathus, priest of Asura. One of my followers recognized you when you entered the city, and brought the word to me.'

Conan grunted profanely.

'Do not fear that others discovered your identity,' Hadrathus assured him. 'Your disguise would have deceived any but a follower of Asura, whose cult it is to seek below the aspect of illusion. You were followed to the watch tower, and some of my people went into the tunnel to aid you if you returned by that route. Others, myself among them, surrounded the tower. And now, King Conan, it is yours to command. Here in the temple of Asura you are still king.'

'Why should you risk your lives for me?' asked the king.

'You were our friend when you sat upon your throne,' answered Hadrathus. 'You protected us when the priests of Mitra sought to scourge us out of the land.'

Conan looked about him curiously. He had never before visited the temple of Asura, had not certainly known that there was such a temple in Tarantia. The priests of the religion had a habit of hiding their temples in a remarkable fashion. The worship of Mitra was overwhelmingly predominant in the Hyborian nations, but the cult of Asura persisted, in spite of official ban and popular antagonism. Conan had been told dark tales of hidden temples where intense smoke drifted up incessantly from black altars where kidnapped humans were sacrificed before a great coiled serpent, whose fearsome head swayed for ever in the haunted shadows.

Persecution caused the followers of Asura to hide their temples with cunning art, and to veil their rituals in obscurity; and this secrecy, in turn, evoked more monstrous suspicions and tales of evil.

But Conan's was the broad tolerance of the barbarian, and he had refused to persecute the followers of Asura or to allow the people to do so on no better evidence than was presented against them, rumors and accusations that could not be proven. 'If they are black magicians,' he had said, 'how will they suffer you to harry them? If they are not, there is no evil in them. Crom's devils! Let men worship what gods they will.'

At a respectful invitation from Hadrathus he seated himself on an ivory chair, and motioned Albiona to another, but she preferred to sit on a golden stool at his feet, pressing close against his thigh, as if seeking security in the contact. Like most orthodox followers of Mitra, she had an intuitive horror of the followers and cult of Asura, instilled in her infancy and childhood by wild tales of human sacrifice and anthropomorphic gods shambling through shadowy temples.

Hadrathus stood before them, his uncovered head bowed.

'What is your wish, your Majesty?'

'Food first,' he grunted, and the priest smote a golden gong with a silver wand.

Scarcely had the mellow notes ceased echoing when four hooded figures came through a curtained doorway bearing a great four-legged silver platter of smoking dishes and crystal vessels. This they set before Conan, bowing low, and the king wiped his hands on the damask, and smacked his lips with unconcealed relish.

'Beware, your Majesty!' whispered Albiona. 'These folk eat human flesh!'

'I'll stake my kingdom that this is nothing but honest roast beef,' answered Conan. 'Come, lass, fall to! You must be hungry after the prison fare.'

Thus advised, and with the example before her of one whose word was the ultimate law to her, the countess complied, and ate ravenously though daintily, while her liege lord tore into the meat joints and guzzled the wine with as much gusto as if he had not already eaten once that night.

'You priests are shrewd, Hadrathus,' he said, with a great beef-bone in his hands and his mouth full of meat. 'I'd welcome your service in my campaign to regain my kingdom.'

Slowly Hadrathus shook his head, and Conan slammed the beef-bone down on the table in a gust of impatient wrath.

'Crom's devils! What ails the men of Aquilonia? First Servius - now you! Can you do nothing but wag your idiotic heads when I speak of ousting these dogs?'

Hadrathus sighed and answered slowly: 'My lord, it is ill to say, and I fain would say otherwise. But the freedom of Aquilonia is at an end. Nay, the freedom of the whole world may be at an end! Age follows age in the history of the world, and now we enter an age of horror and slavery, as it was long ago.'

'What do you mean?' demanded the king uneasily.

Hadrathus dropped into a chair and rested his elbows on his thighs, staring at the floor.

'It is not alone the rebellious lords of Aquilonia and the armies of Nemedia which are arrayed against you,' answered Hadrathus. 'It is sorcery - grisly black magic from the grim youth of the world. An awful shape has risen out of the shades of the Past, and none can stand before it.'

'What do you mean?' Conan repeated.

'I speak of Xaltotun of Acheron, who died three thousand years ago, yet walks the earth today.'

Conan was silent, while in his mind floated an image - the image of a bearded face of calm inhuman beauty. Again he was haunted by a sense of uneasy familiarity. Acheron - the sound of the word roused instinctive vibrations of memory and associations in his mind.

'Acheron,' he repeated. 'Xaltotun of Acheron - man, are you mad? Acheron has been a myth for more centuries than I can remember. I've often wondered if it ever existed at all.'

'It was a black reality,' answered Hadrathus, 'an empire of black magicians, steeped in evil now long forgotten. It was finally overthrown by the Hyborian tribes of the west. The wizards of Acheron practised foul necromancy, thaumaturgy of the most evil kind, grisly magic taught them by devils. And of all the sorcerers of that accursed kingdom, none was so great as Xaltotun of Python.'

'Then how was he ever overthrown?' asked Conan skeptically.

'By some means a source of cosmic power which he jealously guarded was stolen and turned against him. That source has been returned to him, and he is invincible.'

Albiona, hugging the headsman's black cloak about her, stared from the priest to the king, not understanding the conversation. Conan shook his head angrily.

'You are making game of me,' he growled. 'If Xaltotun has been dead three thousand years, how can this man be he? It's some rogue who's taken the old one's name.'

Hadrathus leaned to an ivory table and opened a small gold chest which stood there. From it he took something which glinted dully in the mellow light - a broad gold coin of antique minting.

'You have seen Xaltotun unveiled? Then look upon this. It is a coin which was stamped in ancient Acheron, before its fall. So pervaded with sorcery was that black empire, that even this coin has its uses in making magic.'

Conan took it and scowled down at it. There was no mistaking its great antiquity. Conan had handled many coins in the years of his plunderings, and had a good practical knowledge of them. The edges were worn and the inscription almost obliterated. But the countenance stamped on one side was still clearcut and distinct. And Conan's breath sucked in between his clenched teeth. It was not cool in the chamber, but he felt a prickling of his scalp, an icy contraction of his flesh. The countenance was that of a bearded man, inscrutable, with a calm inhuman beauty.

'By Crom! It's he!' muttered Conan. He understood, now, the sense of familiarity that the sight of the bearded man had roused in him from the first. He had seen a coin like this once before, long ago in a far land.

With a shake of his shoulders he growled: 'The likeness is only a coincidence - or if he's shrewd enough to assume a forgotten wizard's name, he's shrewd enough to assume his likeness.' But he spoke without conviction. The sight of that coin had shaken the foundations of his universe. He felt that reality and stability were crumbing into an abyss of illusion and sorcery. A wizard was understandable; but this was diabolism beyond sanity.

'We cannot doubt that it is indeed Xaltotun of Python,' said Hadrathus. 'He it was who shook down the cliffs at Valkia, by his spells that enthrall the elementals of the earth - he it was who sent the creature of darkness into your tent before dawn.'

Conan scowled at him. 'How did you know that?'

'The followers of Asura have secret channels of knowledge. That does not matter. But do you realize the futility of sacrificing your subjects in a vain attempt to regain your crown?'

Conan rested his chin on his fist, and stared grimly into nothing. Albiona watched him anxiously, her mind groping bewildered in the mazes of the problem that confronted him.

'Is there no wizard in the world who could make magic to fight Xaltotun's magic?' he asked at last.

Hadrathus shook his head. 'If there were, we of Asura would know of him. Men say our cult is a survival of the ancient Stygian serpent-worship. That is a lie. Our ancestors came from Vendhya, beyond the Sea of Vilayet and the blue Himelian mountains. We are sons of the East, not the South, and we have knowledge of all the wizards of the East, who are greater than the wizards of the West. And not one of them but would be a straw in the wind before the black might of Xaltotun.'

'But he was conquered once,' persisted Conan.

'Aye; a cosmic source was turned against him. But now that source is again in his hands, and he will see that it is not stolen again.'

'And what is this damnable source?' demanded Conan irritably.

'It is called the Heart of Ahriman. When Acheron was overthrown, the primitive priest who had stolen it and turned it against Xaltotun hid it in a haunted cavern and built a small temple over the cavern. Thrice thereafter the temple was rebuilt, each time greater and more elaborately than before, but always on the site of the original shrine, though men forgot the reason therefore. Memory of the hidden symbol faded from the minds of common men, and was preserved only in priestly books and esoteric volumes. Whence it came no one knows. Some say it is the veritable heart of a god, others that it is a star that fell from the skies long ago. Until it was stolen, none had looked upon it for three thousand years.

'When the magic of the Mitran priests failed against the magic of Xaltotun's acolyte, Altaro, they remembered the ancient legend of the heart, and the high priest and an acolyte went down into the dark and terrible crypt below the temple into which no priest had descended for three thousand years. In the ancient iron-bound volumes which speak of the Heart in their cryptic symbolism, it is also told of a creature of darkness left by the ancient priest to guard it.

'Far down in a square chamber with arched doorways leading off into immeasurable blackness, the priest and his acolytes found a black stone altar that glowed dimly with inexplicable radiance.

'On that altar lay a curious gold vessel like a double-valved sea-shell which clung to the stone like a barnacle. But it gaped open and empty. The Heart of Ahriman was gone. While they stared in horror, the keeper of the crypt, the creature of darkness, came upon them and mangled the high priest so that he died. But the acolyte fought off the being - a mindless, soulless waif of the pits brought long ago to guard the Heart and escaped up the long black narrow stairs carrying the dying priest, who before he died, gasped out the news to his followers, bade them submit to a power they could not overcome, and commanded secrecy. But the word has been whispered about among the priests, and we of Asura learned of it.'

'And Xaltotun draws his power from this symbol',' asked Conan, still skeptical.

'No. His power is drawn from the black gulf. But the Heart of Ahriman came from some far universe of flaming light, and against it the powers of darkness cannot stand, when it is in the hands of an adept. It is like a sword that might smite at him, not a sword with which he can smite. It restores life, and can destroy life. He has stolen it, not to use against his enemies, but to keep them from using it against him.'

'A shell-shaped bowl of gold on a black altar in a deep cavern,' Conan muttered, frowning as he sought to capture the illusive image. 'That reminds me of something I have heard or seen. But what, in Crom's name, is this notable Heart?'

'It is in the form of a great jewel, like a ruby, but pulsing with blinding fire with which no ruby ever burned. It glows like living flame-'

But Conan sprang suddenly up and smote his right fist into his left palm like a thunderclap.

'Crom!' he roared, 'What a fool I've been! The Heart of Ahriman! The heart of my kingdom! Find the heart of my kingdom, Zelata said. By Ymir, it was the jewel I saw in the green smoke, the jewel which Tarascus stole from Xaltotun while he lay in the sleep of the black lotus!'

Hadrathus was also on his feet, his calm dropped from him like a garment.

'What are you saying? The Heart stolen from Xaltotun?'

'Aye!' Conan boomed. 'Tarascus feared Xaltotun and wanted to cripple his power, which he thought resided in the Heart.

Maybe he thought the wizard would die if the Heart was lost. By Crom - ahhh!' With a savage grimace of disappointment and disgust he dropped his clenched hand to his side.

'I forgot. Tarascus gave it to a thief to throw into the sea. By this time the fellow must be almost to Kordava. Before I can follow him he'll take ship and consign the Heart to the bottom of the ocean.'

'The sea will not hold it!' exclaimed Hadrathus, quivering with excitement. 'Xaltotun would himself have cast it into the ocean long ago, had he not known that the first storm would carry it ashore. But on what unknown beach might it not land!'

'Well,' Conan was recovering some of his resilient confidence, 'there's no assurance that the thief will throw it away. If I know thieves - and I should, for I was a thief in Zamora in my early youth - he won't throw it away. He'll sell it to some rich trader. By Crom!' he strode back and forth in his growing excitement. 'It's worth looking for! Zelata bade me find the heart of my kingdom, and all else she showed me proved to be truth. Can it be that the power to conquer Xaltotun lurks in that crimson bauble?'

'Aye! My head upon it!' cried Hadrathus, his face lightened with fervor, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched. 'With it in our hands we can dare the powers of Xaltotun! I swear it! If we can recover it, we have an even chance of recovering your crown and driving the invaders from our portals. It is not the swords of Nemedia that Aquilonia fears, but the black arts of Xaltotun., Conan looked at him for a space, impressed by the priest's fire.

'It's like a quest in a nightmare,' he said at last. 'Yet your words echo the thought of Zelata, and all else she said was truth. I'll seek for this jewel.'

'It holds the destiny of Aquilonia,' said Hadrathus with conviction. 'I will send men with you-'

'Nay!' exclaimed the king impatiently, not caring to be hampered by priests on his quest, however skilled in esoteric arts. 'This is a task for a fighting man. I go alone. First to Poitain, where I'll leave Albiona with Trocero. Then to Kordava, and to the sea beyond, if necessary. It may be that, even if the thief intends carrying out Tarascus' order, he'll have some difficulty finding an outbound ship at this time of the year.'

'And if you find the Heart,' cried Hadrathus, 'I will prepare the way for your conquest. Before you return to Aquilonia I will spread the word through secret channels that you live and are returning with a magic stronger than Xaltotun's. I will have men ready to rise on your return. They will rise, if they have assurance that they will be protected from the black arts of Xaltotun.

'And I will aid you on your journey.'

He rose and struck a gong.

'A secret tunnel leads from beneath this temple to a place outside the city wall. You shall go to Poitain on a pilgrim's boat. None will dare molest you.'

'As you will.' With a definite purpose in mind Conan was afire with impatience and dynamic energy. 'Only let it be done swiftly.'

In the meantime events were moving not slowly elsewhere in the city. A breathless messenger had burst into the palace where Valerius was amusing himself with his dancing-girls, and throwing himself on his knee, gasped out a garbled story of a bloody prison break and the escape of a lovely captive. He bore also the news that Count Thespius, to whom the execution of Albiona's sentence had been entrusted, was dying and begging for a word with Valerius before he passed.

Hurriedly cloaking himself, Valerius accompanied the man through various winding ways, and came to a chamber where Thespius lay. There was no doubt that the count was dying; bloody froth bubbled from his lips at each shuddering gasp. His severed arm had been bound to stop the flow of blood, but even without that, the gash in his side was mortal.

Alone in the chamber with the dying man, Valerius swore softly.

'By Mitra, I had believed that only one man ever lived who could strike such a blow.'

'Valerius!' gasped the dying man. 'He lives! Conan lives!'

'What are you saying?' ejaculated the other.

'I swear by Mitra!' gurgled Thespius, gagging on the blood that gushed to his lips. 'It was he who carried off Albiona! He is not dead - no phantom come back from hell to haunt us. He is flesh and blood, and more terrible than ever. The alley behind the tower is full of dead men. Beware, Valerius - he has come back - to slay us all-'

A strong shudder shook the blood-smeared figure, and Count Thespius went limp.

Valerius frowned down at the dead man, cast a swift glance about the empty chamber, and stepping swiftly to the door, cast it open suddenly. The messenger and a group of Nemedian guardsmen stood several paces down the corridor. Valerius muttered something that might have indicated satisfaction.

'Have all the gates been closed?' he demanded.

'Yes, your Majesty.'

'Triple the guards at each. Let no one enter or leave the city without strictest investigation. Set men scouring the streets and searching the quarters. A very valuable prisoner has escaped, with the aid of an Aquilonian rebel. Did any of you recognize the man?'

'No, your Majesty. The old watchman had a glimpse of him, but could only say that he was a giant, clad in the black garb of the executioner, whose naked body we found in an empty cell.'

'He is a dangerous man,' said Valerius. 'Take no chances with him. You all know the Countess Albiona. Search for her, and if you find her, kill her and her companion instantly. Do not try to take them alive.'

Returning to his palace chamber, Valerius summoned before him four men of curious and alien aspect. They were tall, gaunt, of yellowish skin, and immobile countenances. They were very similar in appearance, clad alike in long black robes beneath which their sandaled feet were just visible. Their features were shadowed by their hoods. They stood before Valerius with their hands in their wide sleeves; their arms folded. Valerius looked at them without pleasure. In his far journeyings he had encountered many strange races.

'When I found you starving in the Khitan jungles,' he said abruptly, 'exiles from your kingdom, you swore to serve me.

You have served me well enough, in your abominable way. One more service I require, and then I set you free of your oath.

'Conan the Cimmerian, king of Aquilonia, still lives, in spite of Xaltotun's sorcery - or perhaps because of it. I know not. The dark mind of that resurrected devil is too devious and subtle for a mortal man to fathom. But while Conan lives I am not safe. The people accepted me as the lesser of two evils, when they thought he was dead. Let him reappear and the throne will be rocking under my feet in revolution before I can lift my hand.

'Perhaps my allies mean to use him to replace me, if they decide I have served my purpose. I do not know. I do know that this planet is too small for two kings of Aquilonia. Seek the Cimmerian. Use your uncanny talents to ferret him out wherever he hides or runs. He has many friends in Tarantia. He had aid when he carried off Albiona. It took more than one man, even such a man as Conan, to wreak all that slaughter in the alley outside the tower. But no more. Take your staffs and strike his trail. Where that trail will lead you, I know not. But find him! And when you find him, slay him!'

The four Khitans bowed together, and still unspeaking, turned and padded noiselessly from the chamber.

11 Swords of the South

Dawn that rose over the distant hills shone on the sails of a small craft that dropped down the river which curves to within a mile of the walls of Tarantia, and loops southward like a great shining serpent. This boat differed from the ordinary craft plying the broad Khorotas - fishermen and merchant barges loaded with rich goods. It was long and slender, with a high, curving prow, and was black as ebony, with white skulls painted along the gunwales. Amidships rose a small cabin, the windows closely masked. Other craft gave the ominously painted boat a wide berth; for it was obviously one of those 'pilgrim boats' that carried a lifeless follower of Asura on his last mysterious pilgrimage southward to where, far beyond the Poitanian mountains, a river flowed at last into the blue ocean. In that cabin undoubtedly lay the corpse of the departed worshipper. All men were familiar with the sight of those gloomy craft; and the most fanatical votary of Mitra would not dare touch or interfere with their somber voyages.

Where the ultimate destination lay, men did not know. Some said Stygia; some a nameless island lying beyond the horizon; others said it was in the glamorous and mysterious land of Vendhya where the dead came home at last. But none knew certainly. They only knew that when a follower of Asura died, the corpse went southward down the great river, in a black boat rowed by a giant slave, and neither boat nor corpse nor slave was ever seen again; unless, indeed, certain dark tales were true, and it was always the same slave who rowed the boats southward.

The man who propelled this particular boat was as huge and brown as the others, though closer scrutiny might have revealed the fact that the hue was the result of carefully applied pigments. He was clad in leather loin-clout and sandals, and he handled the long sweep and oars with unusual skill and power. But none approached the grim boat closely, for it was well known that the followers of Asura were accursed, and that these pilgrim boats were loaded with dark magic. So men swung their boats wide and muttered an incantation as the dark craft slid past, and they never dreamed that they were thus assisting in the flight of their king and the Countess Albiona.

It was a strange journey, in that black, slim craft down the great river for nearly two hundred miles to where the Khorotas swings eastward, skirting the Poitanian mountains. Like a dream the ever-changing panorama glided past. During the day Albiona lay patiently in the little cabin, as quietly as the corpse she pretended to be. Only late at night, after the pleasure boats with their fair occupants lounging on silken cushions in the flare of torches held by slaves had left the river, before dawn brought the hurrying fisherboats, did the girl venture out. Then she held the long sweep, cunningly bound in place by ropes to aid her, while Conan snatched a few hours of sleep. But the king needed little rest. The fire of his desire drove him relentlessly; and his powerful frame was equal to the grinding test. Without halt or pause they drove southward.

So down the river they fled, through nights when the flowing current mirrored the million stars, and through days of golden sunlight, leaving winter behind them as they sped southward. They passed cities in the night, above which throbbed and pulsed the reflection of the myriad lights, lordly river villas and fertile groves. So at last the blue mountains of Poitain rose above them, tier above tier, like ramparts of the gods, and the great river, swerving from those turreted cliffs, swept thunderously through the marching hills with many a rapid and foaming cataract.

Conan scanned the shoreline closely, and finally swung the long sweep and headed inshore at a point where a neck of land jutted into the water, and fir trees grew in a curiously symmetrical ring about a gray, strangely shaped rock.

'How these boats ride those falls we hear roaring ahead of us is more than I can see,' he grunted. 'Hadrathus said they did but here's where we halt. He said a man would be waiting for us with horses, but I don't see anyone. How word of our coming could have preceded us I don't know anyway.'

He drove inshore and bound the prow to an arching root in the low bank, and then, plunging into the water, washed the brown paint from his skin and emerged dripping, and in his natural color. From the cabin he brought forth a suit of Aquilonian ring-mail which Hadrathus had procured for him, and his sword. These he donned while Albiona put on garments suitable for mountain travel. And when Conan was fully armed, and turned to look toward the shore, he started and his hand went to his sword. For on the shore, under the trees, stood a black-cloaked figure holding the reins of a white palfrey and a bay warhorse.

'Who are you?' demanded the king.

The other bowed low.

'A follower of Asura. A command came. I obeyed.'

'How, "came"?' inquired Conan, but the other merely bowed again.

'I have come to guide you through the mountains to the first Poitanian stronghold.'

'I don't need a guide,' answered Conan. 'I know these hills well. I thank you for the horses, but the countess and I will attract less attention alone than if we were accompanied by an acolyte of Asura.'

The man bowed profoundly, and giving the reins into Conan's hands, stepped into the boat. Casting off, he floated down the swift current, toward the distant roar of the unseen rapids. With a baffled shake of his head, Conan lifted the countess into the palfrey's saddle, and then mounted the warhorse and reined toward the summits that castellated the sky.

The rolling country at the foot of the towering mountains was now a borderland, in a state of turmoil, where the barons reverted to feudal practises, and bands of outlaws roamed unhindered. Poitain had not formally declared her separation from Aquilonia, but she was now, to all intents, a self-contained kingdom, ruled by her hereditary count, Trocero. The rolling south country had submitted nominally to Valerius, but he had not attempted to force the passes guarded by strongholds where the crimson leopard banner of Poitain waved defiantly.

The king and his fair companion rode up the long blue slopes in the soft evening. As they mounted higher, the rolling country spread out like a vast purple mantle far beneath them, shot with the shine of rivers and lakes, the yellow glint of broad fields, and the white gleam of distant towers. Ahead of them and far above, they glimpsed the first of the Poitanian holds - a strong fortress dominating a narrow pass, the crimson banner streaming against the clear blue sky.

Before they reached it, a band of knights in burnished armor rode from among the trees, and their leader sternly ordered the travelers to halt. They were tall men, with the dark eyes and raven locks of the south.

'Halt, sir, and state your business, and why you ride toward Poitain.'

'Is Poitain in revolt then,' asked Conan, watching the other closely, 'that a man in Aquilonian harness is halted and questioned like a foreigner?'

'Many rogues ride out of Aquilonia these days,' answered the other coldy. 'As for revolt, if you mean the repudiation of a usurper, then Poitain is in revolt. We had rather serve the memory of a dead man than the scepter of a living dog.'

Conan swept off his helmet, and shaking back his black mane, stared full at the speaker. The Poitanian stared violently and went livid.

'Saints of heaven!' he gasped. 'It is the king - alive!'

The others stared wildly, then a roar of wonder and joy burst from them. They swarmed about Conan, shouting their warcries and brandishing their swords in their extreme emotion. The acclaim of Poitanian warriors was a thing to terrify a timid man.

'Oh, but Trocero will weep tears of joy to see you, sire!' cried one.

'Aye, and Prospero!' shouted another. 'The general has been like one wrapped in a mantle of melancholy, and curses himself night and day that he did not reach the Valkia in time to die beside his king!'

'Now we will strike for empery!' yelled another, whirling his great sword about his head. 'Hail, Conan, king of Poitain!'

The clangor of bright steel about him and the thunder of their acclaim frightened the birds that rose in gay-hued clouds from the surrounding trees. The hot southern blood was afire, and they desired nothing but for their new-found sovereign to lead them to battle and pillage.

'What is your command, sire?' they cried. 'Let one of us ride ahead and bear the news of your coming into Poitain! Banners will wave from every tower, roses will carpet the road before your horse's feet, and all the beauty and chivalry of the south will give you the honor due you-'

Conan shook his head.

'Who could doubt your loyalty? But winds blow over these mountains into the countries of my enemies, and I would rather these didn't know that I lived - yet. Take me to Trocero, and keep my identity a secret.'

So what the knights would have made a triumphal procession was more in the nature of a secret flight. They traveled in haste, speaking to no one, except for a whisper to the captain on duty at each pass; and Conan rode among them with his vizor lowered.

The mountains were uninhabited save by outlaws and garrisons of soldiers who guarded the passes. The pleasure-loving Poitanians had no need nor desire to wrest a hard and scanty living from their stern breasts. South of the ranges the rich and beautiful plains of Poitain stretched to the river Alimane; but beyond the river lay the land of Zingara.

Even now, when winter was crisping the leaves beyond the mountains, the tall rich grass waved upon the plains where grazed the horses and cattle for which Poitain was famed. Palm trees and orange groves smiled in the sun, and the gorgeous purple and gold and crimson towers of castles and cities reflected the golden light. It was a land of warmth and plenty, of beautiful men and ferocious warriors. It is not only the hard lands that breed hard men. Poitain was surrounded by covetous neighbors and her sons learned hardihood in incessant wars. To the north the land was guarded by the mountains, but to the south only the Alimane separated the plains of Poitain from the plains of Zingara, and not once but a thousand times had that river run red. To the east lay Argos and beyond that Ophir, proud kingdoms and avaricious. The knights of Poitain held their lands by the weight and edge of their swords, and little of ease and idleness they knew.

So Conan came presently to the castle of Count Trocero . . .

Conan sat on a silken divan in a rich chamber whose filmy curtains the warm breeze billowed. Trocero paced the floor like a panther, a lithe, restless man with the waist of a woman and the shoulders of a swordsman, who carried his years lightly.

'Let us proclaim you king of Poitain!' urged the count. 'Let those northern pigs wear the yoke to which they have bent their necks. The south is still yours. Dwell here and rule us, amid the flowers and the palms.'

But Conan shook his head. 'There is no nobler land on earth than Poitain. But it cannot stand alone, bold as are its sons.'

'It did stand alone for generations,' retorted Trocero, with the quick jealous pride of his breed. 'We were not always a part of Aquilonia.'

'I know. But conditions are not as they were then, when all kingdoms were broken into principalities which warred with each other. The days of dukedoms and free cities are past, the days of empires are upon us. Rulers are dreaming imperial dreams, and only in unity is there strength.'

'Then let us unite Zingara with Poitain,' argued Trocero. 'Half a dozen princes strive against each other, and the country is torn asunder by civil wars. We will conquer it, province by province, and add it to your dominions. Then with the aid of the Zingarans we will conquer Argos and Ophir. We will build an empire-'

Again Conan shook his head. 'Let others dream imperial dreams. I but wish to hold what is mine. I have no desire to rule an empire welded together by blood and fire. It's one thing to seize a throne with the aid of its subjects and rule them with their consent. It's another to subjugate a foreign realm and rule it by fear. I don't wish to be another Valerius. No, Trocero, I'll rule all Aquilonia and no more, or I'll rule nothing.'

'Then lead us over the mountains and we will smite the Nemedians.'

Conan's fierce eyes glowed with appreciation.

'No, Trocero. It would be a vain sacrifice. I've told you what I must do to regain my kingdom. I must find the Heart of Ahriman.'

'But this is madness!' protested Trocero, 'The maunderings of a heretical priest, the mumblings of a mad witch-woman.'

'You were not in my tent before Valkia,' answered Conan grimly, involuntarily glancing at his right wrist, on which blue marks still showed faintly. 'You didn't see the cliffs thunder down to crush the flower of my army. No, Trocero, I've been convinced. Xaltotun's no mortal man, and only with the Heart of Ahriman can I stand against him. So I'm riding to Kordava, alone.'

'But that is dangerous,' protested Trocero.

'Life is dangerous,' rumbled the king. 'I won't go as king of Aquilonia, or even as a knight of Poitain, but as a wandering mercenary, as I rode in Zingara in the old days. Oh, I have enemies enough south of the Alimane, in the lands and the waters of the south. Many who won't know me as king of Aquilonia will remember me as Conan of the Barachan pirates, or Amra of the black corsairs. But I have friends, too, and men who'll aid me for their own private reasons.' A faintly reminiscent grin touched his lips.

Trocero dropped his hands helplessly and glanced at Albiona, who sat on a near-by divan.

'I understand your doubts, my lord,' said she. 'But I too saw the coin in the temple of Asura, and look you, Hadrathus said it was dated five hundred years before the fall of Acheron. If Xaltotun, then, is the man pictured on the coin, as his Majesty swears he is, that means he was no common wizard, even in his other life, for the years of his life were numbered by centuries, not as the lives of other men are numbered.'

Before Trocero could reply, a respectful rap was heard on the door and a voice called: 'My lord, we have caught a man skulking about the castle, who says he wishes to speak with your guest. I await your orders.'

'A spy from Aquilonia!' hissed Trocero, catching at his dagger, but Conan lifted his voice and called: 'Open the door and let me see him.'

The door was opened and a man was framed in it, grasped on either hand by stern-looking men-at-arms. He was a slender man, clad in a dark hooded robe.

'Are you a follower of Asura?' asked Conan.

The man nodded, and the stalwart men-at-arms looked shocked and glanced hesitantly at Trocero.

'The word came southward,' said the man. 'Beyond the Alimane we can not aid you, for our sect goes no farther southward, but stretches eastward with the Khorotas. But this I have learned: the thief who took the Heart of Ahriman from Tarascus never reached Kordava. In the mountains of Poitain he was slain by robbers. The jewel fell into the hands of their chief, who, not knowing its true nature, and being harried after the destruction of his band by Poitanian knights, sold it to the Kothic merchant Zorathus.'

'Ha!' Conan was on his feet, galvanized. 'And what of Zorathus?'

'Four days ago he crossed the Alimane, headed for Argos, with a small band of armed servants.

'He's a fool to cross Zingara in such times,' said Trocero.

'Aye, times are troublous across the river. But Zorathus is a bold man, and reckless in his way. He is in great haste to reach Messantia, where he hopes to find a buyer for the jewel. Perhaps he hopes to sell it finally in Stygia. Perhaps he guesses at its true nature. At any rate, instead of following the long road that winds along the borders of Poitain and so at last comes into Argos far from Messantia, he has struck straight across eastern Zingara, following the shorter and more direct route.'

Conan smote the table with his clenched fist so that the great board quivered.

'Then, by Crom, fortune has at last thrown the dice for me! A horse, Trocero, and the harness of a Free Companion! Zorathus has a long start, but not too long for me to overtake him, if I follow him to the end of the world!'

12 The Fang of the Dragon

At dawn Conan waded his horse across the shallows of the Alimane and struck the wide caravan trail which ran southeastward, and behind him, on the farther bank, Trocero sat his horse silently at the head of his steelclad knights, with the crimson leopard of Poitain floating its long folds over him in the morning breeze. Silently they sat, those dark-haired men in shining steel, until the figure of their king had vanished in the blue of distance that whitened toward sunrise.

Conan rode a great black stallion, the gift of Trocero. He no longer wore the armor of Aquilonia. His harness proclaimed him a veteran of the Free Companies, who were of all races. His headpiece was a plain morion, dented and battered. The leather and mail-mesh of his hauberk were worn and shiny as if by many campaigns, and the scarlet cloak flowing carelessly from his mailed shoulders was tattered and stained. He looked the part of the hired fightingman, who had known all vicissitudes of fortune, plunder and wealth one day, an empty purse and a close-drawn belt the next.

And more than looking the part, he felt the part; the awakening of old memories, the resurge of the wild, mad, glorious days of old before his feet were set on the imperial path when he was a wandering mercenary, roistering, brawling, guzzling, adventuring, with no thought for the morrow, and no desire save sparkling ale, red lips, and a keen sword to swing on all the battlefields of the world.

Unconsciously he reverted to the old ways; a new swagger became evident in his bearing, in the way he sat his horse; halfforgotten oaths rose naturally to his lips, and as he rode he hummed old songs that he had roared in chorus with his reckless companions in many a tavern and on many a dusty road or bloody field.

It was an unquiet land through which he rode. The companies of cavalry which usually patrolled the river, alert for raids out of Poitain, were nowhere in evidence. Internal strife had left the borders unguarded. The long white road stretched bare from horizon to horizon. No laden camel trains or rumbling wagons or lowing herds moved along it now; only occasional groups of horsemen in leather and steel, hawk-faced, hard-eyed men, who kept together and rode warily. These swept Conan with their searching gaze but rode on, for the solitary rider's harness promised no plunder, but only hard strokes.

Villages lay in ashes and deserted, the fields and meadows idle. Only the boldest would ride the roads these days, and the native population had been decimated in the civil wars, and by raids from across the river. In more peaceful times the road was thronged with merchants riding Poitain to Messantia in Argos, or back. But now these found it wiser to follow the road that led east through Poitain, and then turned south down across Argos. It was longer, but safer. Only an extremely reckless man would risk his life and goods on this road through Zingara.

The southern horizon was fringed with flame by night, and in the day straggling pillars of smoke drifted upward; in the cities and plains to the south men were dying, thrones were toppling and castles going up in flames. Conan felt the old tug of the professional fightingman, to turn his horse and plunge into the fighting, the pillaging and the looting as in the days of old. Why should he toil to regain the rule of a people which had already forgotten him? - why chase a will-o'-the-wisp, why pursue a crown that was lost for ever? Why should he not seek forgetfulness, lose himself in the red tides of war and rapine that had engulfed him so often before? Could he not, indeed, carve out another kingdom for himself? The world was entering an age of iron, an age of war and imperialistic ambition; some strong man might well rise above the ruins of nations as a supreme conqueror. Why should it not be himself? So his familiar devil whispered in his ear, and the phantoms of his lawless and bloody past crowded upon him. But he did not turn aside; he rode onward, following a quest that grew dimmer and dimmer as he advanced, until sometimes it seemed that he pursued a dream that never was.

He pushed the black stallion as hard as he dared, but the long white road lay bare before him, from horizon to horizon. It was a long start Zorathus had, but Conan rode steadily on, knowing that he was traveling faster than the burdened merchants could travel. And so he came to the castle of Count Valbroso, perched like a vulture's eyrie on a bare hill overlooking the road.

Valbroso rode down with his men-at-arms, a lean, dark man with glittering eyes and a predatory beak of a nose. He wore black plate-armor and was followed by thirty spearmen, blackmustached hawks of the border wars, as avaricious and ruthless as himself. Of late the toll of the caravans had been slim, and Valbroso cursed the civil wars that stripped the roads of their fat traffic, even while he blessed them for the free hand they allowed him with his neighbors.

He had not hoped much from the solitary rider he had glimpsed from his tower, but all was grist that came to his mill. With a practised eye he took in Conan's worn mail and dark, scarred face, and his conclusions were the same as those of the riders who had passed the Cimmerian on the road - an empty purse and a ready blade.

'Who are you, knave?' he demanded.

'A mercenary, riding for Argos,' answered Conan. 'What matter names?'

'You are riding in the wrong direction for a Free Companion,' grunted Valbroso. 'Southward the fighting is good and also the plundering. join my company. You won't go hungry. The road remains bare of fat merchants to strip, but I mean to take my rogues and fare southward to sell our swords to whichever side seems strongest.'

Conan did not at once reply, knowing that if he refused outright, he might be instantly attacked by Valbroso's men-atarms. Before he could make up his mind, the Zingaran spoke again: 'You rogues of the Free Companies always know tricks to make men talk. I have a prisoner - the last merchant I caught, by Mitra, and the only one I've seen for a week - and the knave is stubborn. He has an iron box, the secret of which defies us, and I've been unable to persuade him to open it. By Ishtar, I thought I knew all the modes of persuasion there are, but perhaps you, as a veteran Free Companion, know some that I do not. At any rate come with me and see what you may do.'

Valbroso's words instantly decided Conan. That sounded a great deal like Zorathus. Conan did not know the merchant, but any man who was stubborn enough to try to traverse the Zingaran road in times like these would very probably be stubborn enough to defy torture.

He fell in beside Valbroso and rode up the straggling road to the top of the hill where the gaunt castle stood. As a man-at-arms he should have ridden behind the count, but force of habit made him careless and Valbroso paid no heed. Years of life on the border had taught the count that the frontier is not the royal court. He was aware of the independence of the mercenaries, behind whose swords many a king had trodden the thronepath.

There was a dry moat, half filled with debris in some places. They clattered across the drawbridge and through the arch of the gate. Behind them the portcullis fell with a sullen clang. They came into a bare courtyard, grown with straggling grass, and with a well in the middle. Shacks for the men-at-arms straggled about the bailey wall, and women, slatternly or decked in gaudy finery, looked from the doors. Fighting-men in rusty mail tossed dice on the flags under the arches. It was more like a bandit's hold than the castle of a nobleman.

Valbroso dismounted and motioned Conan to follow him. They went through a doorway and along a vaulted corridor, where they were met by a scarred, hard-looking man in mail descending a stone staircase - evidently the captain of the guard.

'How, Beloso,' quoth Valbroso; 'has he spoken?'

'He is stubborn,' muttered Beloso, shooting a glance of suspicion at Conan.

Valbroso ripped out an oath and stamped furiously up the winding stair, followed by Conan and the captain. As they mounted, the groans of a man in mortal agony became audible. Valbroso's torture-room was high above the court, instead of in a dungeon below. In that chamber, where a gaunt, hairy beast of a man in leather breeks squatted gnawing a beef-bone voraciously, stood the machines of torture - racks, boots, hooks and all the implements that the human mind devises to tear flesh, break bones and rend and rupture veins and ligaments.

On a rack a man was stretched naked, and a glance told Conan that he was dying. The unnatural elongation of his limbs and body told of unhinged joints and unnamable ruptures. He was a dark man, with an intelligent, aquiline face and quick dark eyes. They were glazed and bloodshot now with pain, and the dew of agony glistened on his face. His lips were drawn back from blackened gums.

'There is the box.' Viciously Valbroso kicked a small but heavy iron chest that stood on the floor near by. It was intricately carved, with tiny skulls and writhing dragons curiously intertwined, but Conan saw no catch or hasp that might serve to unlock the lid. The marks of fire, of ax and sledge and chisel showed on it but as scratches.

'This is the dog's treasure box,' said Valbroso angrily. 'All men of the south know of Zorathus and his iron chest. Mitra knows what is in it. But he will not give up its secret.'

Zorathus! It was true, then; the man he sought lay before him. Conan's heart beat suffocatingly as he leaned over the writhing form, though he exhibited no evidence of his painful eagerness.

'Ease those ropes, knave!' he ordered the torturer harshly, and Valbroso and his captain stared. In the forgetfulness of the moment Conan had used his imperial tone, and the brute in leather instinctively obeyed the knife-edge of command in that voice. He eased away gradually, for else the slackening of the ropes had been as great a torment to the torn joints as further stretching.

Catching up a vessel of wine that stood near by, Conan placed the rim to the wretch's lips. Zorathus gulped spasmodically, the liquid slopping over on his heaving breast.

Into the bloodshot eyes came a gleam of recognition, and the froth-smeared lips parted. From them issued a racking whimper in the Kothic tongue.

'Is this death, then? Is the long agony ended? For this is King Conan who died at Valkia, and I am among the dead.'

'You're not dead,' said Conan. 'But you're dying. You'll be tortured no more. I'll see to that. But I can't help you further. Yet before you die, tell me how to open your iron box!'

'My iron box,' mumbled Zorathus in delirious disjointed phrases. 'The chest forged in unholy fires among the flaming mountains of Khrosha; the metal no chisel can cut. How many treasures has it borne, across the width and the breadth of the world! But no such treasure as it now holds.'

'Tell me how to open it,' urged Conan. 'It can do you no good, and it may aid me.'

'Aye, you are Conan,' muttered the Kothian. 'I have seen you sitting on your throne in the great public hall of Tarantia, with your crown on your head and the scepter in your hand. But you are dead; you died at Valkia. And so I know my own end is at hand.'

'What does the dog say?' demanded Valbroso impatiently, not understanding Kothic. 'Will he tell us how to open the box?'

As if the voice roused a spark of life in the twisted breast Zorathus rolled his bloodshot eyes toward the speaker.

'Only Valbroso will I tell,' he gasped in Zingaran. 'Death is upon me. Lean close to me, Valbroso!'

The count did so, his dark face lit with avarice; behind him his saturnine captain, Beloso, crowded closer.

'Press the seven skulls on the rim, one after another,' gasped Zorathus. 'Press then the head of the dragon that writhes across the lid. Then press the sphere in the dragon's claws. That will release the secret catch.'

'Quick, the box!' cried Valbroso with an oath.

Conan lifted it and set it on a dais, and Valbroso shouldered him aside.

'Let me open it!' cried Beloso, starting forward.

Valbroso cursed him back, his greed blazing in his black eyes.

'None but me shall open it!' he cried.

Conan, whose hand had instinctively gone to his hilt, glanced at Zorathus. The man's eyes were glazed and bloodshot, but they were fixed on Valbroso with burning intensity; and was there the shadow of a grim twisted smile on the dying man's lips? Not until the merchant knew he was dying had he given up the secret. Conan turned to watch Valbroso, even as the dying man watched him.

Along the rim of the lid seven skulls were carved among intertwining branches of strange trees. An inlaid dragon writhed its way across the top of the lid amid ornate arabesques. Valbroso pressed the skulls in fumbling haste, and as he jammed his thumb down on the carved head of the dragon he swore sharply and snatched his hand away, shaking it in irritation.

'A sharp point on the carvings,' he snarled. 'I've pricked my thumb.'

He pressed the gold ball clutched in the dragon's talons, and the lid flew abruptly open. Their eyes were dazzled by a golden flame. It seemed to their dazed minds that the carven box was full of glowing fire that spilled over the rim and dripped through the air in quivering flakes. Beloso cried out and Valbroso sucked in his breath. Conan stood speechless, his brain snared by the blaze.

'Mitra, what a jewel!' Valbroso's hand dived into the chest, came out with a great pulsing crimson sphere that filled the room with a lambent glow. In its glare Valbroso looked like a corpse. And the dying man on the loosened rack laughed wildly and suddenly.

'Fool!' he screamed. 'The jewel is yours! I give you death with it! The scratch on your thumb - look at the dragon's head, Valbroso!'

They all wheeled, stared. Something tiny and dully gleaming stood up from the gaping, carved mouth.

'The dragon's fang!' shrieked Zorathus. 'Steeped in the venom of the black Stygian scorpion! Fool, fool to open the box of Zorathus with your naked hand! Death! You are a dead man now!'

And with bloody foam on his lips he died.

Valbroso staggered, crying out. 'Ah, Mitra, I burn!' he shrieked. 'My veins race with liquid fire! My joints are bursting asunder! Death! Death!' And he reeled and crashed headlong. There was an instant of awful convulsions, in which the limbs were twisted into hideous and unnatural positions, and then in that posture the man froze, his glassy eyes staring sightlessly upward, his lips drawn back from blackened gums.

'Dead!' muttered Conan, stooping to pick up the jewel where it rolled on the floor from Valbroso's rigid hand. It lay on the floor like a quivering pool of sunset fire.

'Dead!' muttered Beloso, with madness in his eyes. And then he moved.

Conan was caught off guard, his eyes dazzled, his brain dazed by the blaze of the great gem. He did not realize Beloso's intention until something crashed with terrible force upon his helmet. The glow of the jewel was splashed with redder flame, and he went to his knees under the blow.

He heard a rush of feet, a bellow of ox-like agony. He was stunned but not wholly senseless, and realized that Beloso had caught up the iron box and crashed it down on his head as he stooped. Only his basinet had saved his skull. He staggered up, drawing his sword, trying to shake the dimness out of his eyes. The room swam to his dizzy gaze. But the door was open and fleet footsteps were dwindling down the winding stair. On the floor the brutish torturer was gasping out his life with a great gash under his breast. And the Heart of Ahriman was gone.

Conan reeled out of the chamber, sword in hand, blood streaming down his face from under his burganet. He ran drunkenly down the steps, hearing a clang of steel in the courtyard below, shouts, then the frantic drum of hoofs. Rushing into the bailey he saw the men-at-arms milling about confusedly, while women screeched. The postern gate stood open and a soldier lay across his pike with his head split. Horses, still bridled and saddled, ran neighing about the court, Conan's black stallion among them.

'He's mad!' howled a woman, wringing her hands as she rushed brainlessly about. 'He came out of the castle like a mad dog, hewing right and left! Beloso's mad! Where's Lord Valbroso?'

'Which way did he go?' roared Conan.

All turned and stared at the stranger's bloodstained face and naked sword.

'Through the postern!' shrilled a woman, pointing eastward, and another bawled: 'Who is this rogue?'

'Beloso has killed Valbroso!' yelled Conan, leaping and seizing the stallion's mane, as the men-at-arms advanced uncertainly on him. A wild outcry burst forth at his news, but their reaction was exactly as he had anticipated. Instead of closing the gates to take him prisoner, or pursuing the fleeing slayer to avenge their lord, they were thrown into even greater confusion by his words. Wolves bound together only by fear of Valbroso, they owed no allegiance to the castle or to each other.

Swords began to clash in the courtyard, and women screamed. And in the midst of it all, none noticed Conan as he shot through the postern gate and thundered down the hill. The wide plain spread before him, and beyond the hill the caravan road divided: one branch ran south, the other east. And on the eastern road he saw another rider, bending low and spurring hard. The plain swam to Conan's gaze, the sunlight was a thick red haze and he reeled in his saddle, grasping the flowing mane with his hand. Blood rained on his mail, but grimly he urged the stallion on.

Behind him smoke began to pour out of the castle on the hill where the count's body lay forgotten and unheeded beside that of his prisoner. The sun was setting; against a lurid red sky the two black figures fled.

The stallion was not fresh, but neither was the horse ridden by Beloso. But the great beast responded mightily, calling on deep reservoirs of reserve vitality. Why the Zingaran fled from one pursuer Conan did not tax his bruised brain to guess. Perhaps unreasoning panic rode Beloso, born of the madness that lurked in that blazing jewel. The sun was gone; the white road was a dim glimmer through a ghostly twilight fading into purple gloom far ahead of him.

The stallion panted, laboring hard. The country was changing, in the gathering dusk. Bare plains gave way to clumps of oaks and alders. Low hills mounted up in the distance. Stars began to blink out. The stallion gasped and reeled in his course. But ahead rose a dense wood that stretched to the hills on the horizon, and between it and himself Conan glimpsed the dim form of the fugitive. He urged on the distressed stallion, for he saw that he was overtaking his prey, yard by yard. Above the pound of the hoofs a strange cry rose from the shadows, but neither pursuer nor pursued gave heed.

As they swept in under the branches that overhung the road, they were almost side by side. A fierce cry rose from Conan's lips as his sword went up; a pale oval of a face was turned toward him, a sword gleamed in a half-seen hand, and Beloso echoed the cry - and then the weary stallion, with a lurch and a groan, missed his footing in the shadows and went heels over head, hurling his dazed rider from the saddle. Conan's throbbing head crashed against a stone, and the stars were blotted out in a thicker night.

How long Conan lay senseless he never knew. His first sensation of returning consciousness was that of being dragged by one arm over rough and stony ground and through dense underbrush. Then he was thrown carelessly down, and perhaps the jolt brought back his senses.

His helmet was gone, his head ached abominably, he felt a qualm of nausea, and blood was clotted thickly among his black locks. But with the vitality of a wild thing life and consciousness surged back into him, and he became aware of his surroundings.

A broad red moon was shining through the trees, by which he knew that it was long after midnight. He had lain senseless for hours, long enough to have recovered from that terrible blow Beloso had dealt him, as well as the fall which had rendered him senseless. His brain felt clearer than it had felt during that mad ride after the fugitive.

He was not lying beside the white road, he noticed with a start of surprise, as his surroundings began to record themselves on his perceptions. The road was nowhere in sight. He lay on the grassy earth, in a small glade hemmed in by a black wall of tree stems and tangled branches. His face and hands were scratched and lacerated as if he had been dragged through brambles. Shifting his body he looked about him. And then he started violently - something was squatting over him . . .

At first Conan doubted his consciousness, thought it was but a figment of delirium. Surely it could not be real, that strange, motionless gray being that squatted on its haunches and stared down at him with unblinking soulless eyes.

Conan lay and stared, half expecting it to vanish like a figure of a dream, and then a chill of recollection crept along his spine. Halfforgotten memories surged back, of grisly tales whispered of the shapes that haunted these uninhabited forests at the foot of the hills that mark the Zingaran-Argossean border. Ghouls, men called them, eaters of human flesh, spawn of darkness, children of unholy matings of a lost and forgotten race with the demons of the underworld. Somewhere in these primitive forests were the ruins of an ancient, accursed city, men whispered, and among its tombs slunk gray, anthropomorphic shadows Conan shuddered strongly.

He lay staring at the malformed head that rose dimly above him, and cautiously he extended a hand toward the sword at his hip. With a horrible cry that the man involuntarily echoed, the monster was at his throat.

Conan threw up his right arm, and the dog-like jaws closed on it, driving the mail links into the hard flesh. The misshapen yet man-like hands clutched for his throat, but he evaded them with a heave and roll of his whole body, at the same time drawing his dagger with his left hand.

They tumbled over and over on the grass, smiting and tearing. The muscles coiling under that gray corpse-like skin were stringy and hard as steel wires, exceeding the strength of a man. But Conan's thews were iron too, and his mail saved him from the gnashing fangs and ripping claws long enough for him to drive home his dagger, again and again and again. The horrible vitality of the semi-human monstrosity seemed inexhaustible, and the king's skin crawled at the feel of that slick, clammy flesh. He put all his loathing and savage revulsion behind the plunging blade, and suddenly the monster heaved up convulsively beneath him as the point found its grisly heart, and then lay still.

Conan rose, shaken with nausea. He stood in the center of the glade uncertainly, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. He had not lost his instinctive sense of direction, as far as the points of the compass were concerned, but he did not know in which direction the road lay. He had no way of knowing in which direction the ghoul had dragged him. Conan glared at the silent, black, moon-dappled woods which ringed him, and felt cold moisture bead his flesh. He was without a horse and lost in these haunted woods, and that staring deformed thing at his feet was a mute evidence of the horrors that lurked in the forest. He stood almost holding his breath in his painful intensity, straining his ears for some crack of twig or rustle of grass.

When a sound did come he started violently. Suddenly out on the night air broke the scream of a terrified horse. His stallion! There were panthers in the wood - or - ghouls ate beasts as well as men.

He broke savagely through the brush in the direction of the sound, whistling shrilly as he ran, his fear drowned in berserk rage. If his horse was killed, there went his last chance of following Beloso and recovering the jewel. Again the stallion screamed with fear and fury, somewhere nearer. There was a sound of lashing heels, and something that was struck heavily and gave way.

Conan burst out into the wide white road without warning, and saw the stallion plunging and rearing in the moonlight, his ears laid back, his eyes and teeth flashing wickedly. He lashed out with his heels at a slinking shadow that ducked and bobbed about him - and then about Conan other shadows moved: gray, furtive shadows that closed in on all sides. A hideous charnelhouse scent reeked up in the night air.

With a curse the king hewed right and left with his broadsword, thrust and ripped with his dagger. Dripping fangs flashed in the moonlight, foul paws caught at him, but he hacked his way through to the stallion, caught the rein, leaped into the saddle. His sword rose and fell, a frosty arc in the moon, showering blood as it split misshapen heads, clove shambling bodies. The stallion reared, biting and kicking. They burst through and thundered down the road. On either hand, for a short space, flitted gray abhorrent shadows. Then these fell behind, and Conan, topping a wooded crest, saw a vast expanse of bare slopes sweeping up and away before him.

13 'A Ghost Out of the Past'

Soon after sunrise Conan crossed the Argossean border. Of Beloso he had seen no trace. Either the captain had made good his escape while the king lay senseless, or had fallen prey to the grim maneaters of the Zingaran forest. But Conan had seen no signs to indicate the latter possibility. The fact that he had lain unmolested for so long seemed to indicate that the monsters had been engrossed in futile pursuit of the captain. And if the man lived, Conan felt certain that he was riding along the road somewhere ahead of him. Unless he had intended going into Argos he would never have taken the eastward road in the first place.

The helmeted guards at the frontier did not question the Cimmerian. A single wandering mercenary required no passport nor safe-conduct, especially when his unadorned mail showed him to be in the service of no lord. Through the low, grassy hills where streams murmured and oak groves dappled the sward with lights and shadows he rode, following the long road that rose and fell away ahead of him over dales and rises in the blue distance. It was an old, old road, this highway from Poitain to the sea.

Argos was at peace; laden ox-wains rumbled along the road, and men with bare, brown, brawny arms toiled in orchards and fields that smiled away under the branches of the roadside trees. Old men on settles before inns under spreading oak branches called greetings to the wayfarer.

From the men that worked the fields, from the garrulous old men in the inns where he slaked his thirst with great leathern jacks of foaming ale, from the sharp-eyed silk-clad merchants he met upon the road, Conan sought for news of Beloso.

Stories were conflicting, but this much Conan learned: that a lean, wiry Zingaran with the dangerous black eyes and mustaches of the western folk was somewhere on the road ahead of him, and apparently making for Messantia. It was a logical destination; all the seaports of Argos were cosmopolitan, in strong contrast with the inland provinces, and Messantia was the most polyglot of all. Craft of all the maritime nations rode in its harbor, and refugees and fugitives from many lands gathered there. Laws were lax; for Messantia thrived on the trade of the sea, and her citizens found it profitable to be somewhat blind on their dealings with seamen. It was not only legitimate trade that flowed into Messantia; smugglers and buccaneers played their part. All this Conan knew well, for had he not, in the days of old when he was a Barachan pirate, sailed by night into the harbor of Messantia to discharge strange cargoes? Most of the pirates of the Barachan Isles - small islands off the southwestern coast of Zingara - were Argossean sailors, and as long as they confined their attentions to the shipping of other nations, the authorities of Argos were not too strict in their interpretation of sea-laws.

But Conan had not limited his activities to those of the Barachans. He had also sailed with the Zingaran buccaneers, and even with those wild black corsairs that swept up from the far south to harry the northern coasts, and this put him beyond the pale of any law. If he were recognized in any of the ports of Argos it would cost him his head. But without hesitation he rode on to Messantia, halting day or night only to rest the stallion and to snatch a few winks of sleep for himself.

He entered the city unquestioned, merging himself with the throngs that poured continually in and out of this great commercial center. No walls surrounded Messantia. The sea and the ships of the sea guarded the great southern trading city.

It was evening when Conan rode leisurely through the streets that marched down to the waterfront. At the ends of these streets he saw the wharves and the masts and sails of ships. He smelled salt water for the first time in years, heard the thrum of cordage and the creak of spars in the breeze that was kicking up whitecaps out beyond the headlands. Again the urge of far wandering tugged at his heart.

But he did not go on to the wharves. He reined aside and rode up a steep flight of wide, worn stone steps, to a broad street where ornate white mansions overlooked the waterfront and the harbor below. Here dwelt the men who had grown rich from the hard-won fat of the seas - a few old sea-captains who had found treasure afar, many traders and merchants who never trod the naked decks nor knew the roar of tempest or sea-fight.

Conan turned in his horse at a certain gold-worked gate, and rode into a court where a fountain tinkled and pigeons fluttered from marble coping to marble flagging. A page in jagged silken jupon and hose came forward inquiringly. The merchants of Messantia dealt with many strange and rough characters but most of these smacked of the sea. It was strange that a mercenary trooper should so freely ride into the court of a lord of commerce.

'The merchant Publio dwells here?' It was more statement than question, and something in the timbre of the voice caused the page to doff his feather chaperon as he bowed and replied: 'Aye, so he does, my captain.'

Conan dismounted and the page called a servitor, who came running to receive the stallion's rein.

'Your master is within?' Conan drew off his gauntlets and slapped the dust of the road from cloak and mail.

'Aye, my captain. Whom shall I announce?'

'I'll announce myself,' grunted Conan. 'I know the way well enough. Bide you here.'

And obeying that peremptory command the page stood still, staring after Conan as the latter climbed a short flight of marble steps, and wondering what connection his master might have with this giant fightingman who had the aspect of a northern barbarian.

Menials at their tasks halted and gaped open-mouthed as Conan crossed a wide, cool balcony overlooking the court and entered a broad corridor through which the sea-breeze swept. Halfway down this he heard a quill scratching, and turned into a broad room whose many wide casements overlooked the harbor.

Public, sat at a carved teakwood desk writing on rich parchment with a golden quill. He was a short man, with a massive head and quick dark eyes. His blue robe was of the finest watered silk, trimmed with cloth-of-gold, and from his thick white throat hung a heavy gold chain.

As the Cimmerian entered, the merchant looked up with a gesture of annoyance. He froze in the midst of his gesture. His mouth opened; he stared as at a ghost out of the past. Unbelief and fear glimmered in his wide eyes.

'Well,' said Conan, 'have you no word of greeting, Publio?'

Public, moistened his lips.

'Conan!' he whispered incredulously. 'Mitra! Conan! Amra!'

'Who else?' The Cimmerian unclasped his cloak and threw it with his gauntlets down upon the desk. 'How man?' he exclaimed irritably. 'Can't you at least offer me a beaker of wine? My throat's caked with the dust of the highway.'

'Aye, wine!' echoed Publio mechanically. Instinctively his hand reached for a gong, then recoiled as from a hot coal, and he shuddered.

While Conan watched him with a flicker of grim amusement in his eyes, the merchant rose and hurriedly shut the door, first craning his neck up and down the corridor to be sure that no slave was loitering about. Then, returning, he took a gold vessel of wine from a near-by table and was about to fill a slender goblet when Conan impatiently took the vessel from him and lifting it with both hands, drank deep and with gusto.

'Aye, it's Conan, right enough,' muttered Publio. 'Man, are you mad?'

'By Crom, Publio,' said Conan, lowering the vessel but retaining it in his hands, 'you dwell in different quarters than of old. It takes an Argossean merchant to wring wealth out of a little waterfront shop that stank of rotten fish and cheap wine.'

'The old days are past,' muttered Publio, drawing his robe about him with a slight involuntary shudder. 'I have put off the past like a worn-out cloak.'

'Well,' retorted Conan, 'you can't put me off like an old cloak. It isn't much I want of you, but that much I do want. And you can't refuse me. We had too many dealings in the old days. Am I such a fool that I'm not aware that this fine mansion was built on my sweat and blood? How many cargoes from my galleys passed through your shop?'

'All merchants of Messantia have dealt with the sea-rovers at one time or another,' mumbled Publio nervously.

'But not with the black corsairs,' answered Conan grimly.

'For Mitra's sake, be silent!' ejaculated Publio, sweat starting out on his brow. His fingers jerked at the gilt-worked edge of his robe.

'Well, I only wished to recall it to your mind,' answered Conan. 'Don't be so fearful. You took plenty of risks in the past, when you were struggling for life and wealth in that lousy little shop down by the wharves, and were hand-and-glove with every buccaneer and smuggler and pirate from here to the Barachan Isles. Prosperity must have softened you.'

'I am respectable,' began Publio.

'Meaning you're rich as hell,' snorted Conan. 'Why? Why did you grow wealthy so much quicker than your competitors? Was it because you did a big business in ivory and ostrich feathers, copper and skins and pearls and hammered gold ornaments, and other things from the coast of Kush? And where did you get them so cheaply, while other merchants were paying their weight in silver to the Stygians for them? I'll tell you, in case you've forgotten: you bought them from me, at considerably less than their value, and I took them from the tribes of the Black Coast, and from the ships of the Stygians - I, and the black corsairs.'

'In Mitra's name, cease!' begged Publio. 'I have not forgotten. But what are you doing here? I am the only man in Argos who knew that the king of Aquilonia was once Conan the buccaneer, in the old days. But word has come southward of the overthrow of Aquilonia and the death of the king.'

'My enemies have killed me a hundred times by rumors,' grunted Conan. 'Yet here I sit and guzzle wine of Kyros.' And he suited the action to the word.

Lowering the vessel, which was now nearly empty, he said: 'It's but a small thing I ask of you, Publio. I know that you're aware of everything that goes on in Messantia. I want to know if a Zingaran named Beloso, or he might call himself anything, is in this city. He's tall and lean and dark like all his race, and it's likely he'll seek to sell a very rare jewel.'

Publio shook his head.

'I have not heard of such a man. But thousands come and go in Messantia. If he is here my agents will discover him.'

'Good. Send them to look for him. And in the meantime have my horse cared for, and have food served me here in this room.'

Publio assented volubly, and Conan emptied the wine vessel, tossed it carelessly into a corner, and strode to a near-by casement, involuntarily expanding his chest as he breathed deep of the salt air. He was looking down upon the meandering waterfront streets. He swept the ships in the harbor with an appreciative glance, then lifted his head and stared beyond the bay, far into the blue haze of the distance where sea met sky. And his memory sped beyond that horizon, to the golden seas of the south, under flaming suns, where laws were not and life ran hotly. Some vagrant scent of spice or palm woke clear-etched images of strange coasts where mangroves grew and drums thundered, of ships locked in battle and decks running blood, of smoke and flame and the crying of slaughter . . . Lost in his thoughts he scarcely noticed when Publio stole from the chamber.

Gathering up his robe, the merchant hurried along the corridors until he came to a certain chamber where a tall, gaunt man with a scar upon his temple wrote continually upon parchment. There was something about this man which made his clerkly occupation seem incongruous. To him Publio spoke abruptly: 'Conan has returned!'

'Conan?' The gaunt man started up and the quill fell from his fingers. 'The corsair?'

'Aye!'

The gaunt man went livid. 'Is he mad? If he is discovered here we are ruined! They will hang a man who shelters or trades with a corsair as quickly as they'll hang the corsair himself! What if the governor should learn of our past connections with him?'

'He will not learn,' answered Publio grimly. 'Send your men into the markets and wharfside dives and learn if one Beloso, a Zingaran, is in Messantia. Conan said he had a gem, which he will probably seek to dispose o￡ The jewel merchants should know of him, if any do. And here is another task for you: pick up a dozen or so desperate villains who can be trusted to do away with a man and hold their tongues afterward. You understand me?'

'I understand.' The other nodded slowly and somberly.

'I have not stolen, cheated, lied and fought my way up from the gutter to be undone now by a ghost out of my past,' muttered Publio, and the sinister darkness of his countenance at that moment would have surprised the wealthy nobles and ladies who bought their silks and pearls from his many stalls. But when he returned to Conan a short time later, bearing in his own hands a platter of fruit and meats, he presented a placid face to his unwelcome guest.

Conan still stood at the casement, staring down into the harbor at the purple and crimson and vermilion and scarlet sails of galleons and caracks and galleys and dromonds.

'There's a Stygian galley, if I'm not blind,' he remarked, pointing to a long, low, slim black ship lying apart from the others, anchored off the low broad sandy beach that curved round to the distant headland. 'Is there peace, then, between Stygia and Argos?'

'The same sort that has existed before,' answered Publio, setting the platter on the table with a sigh of relief, for it was heavily laden; he knew his guest of old. 'Stygian ports are temporarily open to our ships, as ours to theirs. But may no craft of mine meet their cursed galleys out of sight of land! That galley crept into the bay last night. What its masters wish I do not know. So far they have neither bought nor sold. I distrust those dark-skinned devils. Treachery had its birth in that dusky land.'

'I've made them howl,' said Conan carelessly, turning from the window. 'In my galley manned by black corsairs I crept to the very bastions of the sea-washed castles of black-walled Khemi by night, and burned the galleons anchored there. And speaking of treachery, mine host, suppose you taste these viands and sip a bit of this wine, just to show me that your heart is on the right side.'

Publio complied so readily that Conan's suspicions were lulled, and without further hesitation he sat down and devoured enough for three men.

And while he ate, men moved through the markets and along the waterfront, searching for a Zingaran who had a jewel to sell or who sought for a ship to carry him to foreign ports. And a tall gaunt man with a scar on his temple sat with his elbows on a wine-stained table in a squalid cellar with a brass lantern hanging from a smoke-blackened beam overhead, and held converse with ten desperate rogues whose sinister countenances and ragged garments proclaimed their profession.

And as the first stars blinked out, they shone on a strange band spurring their mounts along the white road that led to Messantia from the west. They were four men, tall, gaunt, clad in black, hooded robes, and they did not speak. They forced their steeds mercilessly onward, and those steeds were gaunt as themselves, and sweat-stained and weary as if from long travel and far wandering.

14 The Black Hand of Set

Conan woke from a sound sleep as quickly and instantly as a cat. And like a cat he was on his feet with his sword out before the man who had touched him could so much as draw back.

'What word, Publio?' demanded Conan, recognizing his host. The gold lamp burned low, casting a mellow glow over the thick tapestries and the rich coverings of the couch whereon he had been reposing.

Publio, recovering from the start given him by the sudden action of his awakening guest, replied: 'The Zingaran has been located. He arrived yesterday, at dawn. Only a few hours ago he sought to sell a huge, strange jewel to a Shemitish merchant, but the Shemite would have naught to do with it. Men say he turned pale beneath his black beard at the sight of it, and closing his stall, fled as from a thing accursed.'

'It must be Beloso,' muttered Conan, feeling the pulse in his temples pounding with impatient eagerness. 'Where is he now?'

'He sleeps in the house of Servio.'

'I know that dive of old,' grunted Conan. 'I'd better hasten before some of these waterfront thieves cut his throat for the jewel.'

He took up his cloak and flung it over his shoulders, then donned a helmet Publio had procured for him.

'Have my steed saddled and ready in the court,' said he. 'I may return in haste. I shall not forget this night's work, Publio.'

A few moments later Publio, standing at a small outer door, watched the king's tall figure receding down the shadowy street.

'Farewell to you, corsair,' muttered the merchant. 'This must be a notable jewel, to be sought by a man who has just lost a kingdom. I wish I had told my knaves to let him secure it before they did their work. But then, something might have gone awry. Let Argos forget Amra, and let my dealings with him be lost in the dust of the past. In the alley behind the house of Servio - that is where Conan will cease to be a peril to me.'

Servio's house, a dingy, .ill-famed den, was located close to the wharves, facing the waterfront. It was a shambling building of stone and heavy ship-beams, and a long narrow alley wandered up alongside it. Conan made his way along the alley, and as he approached the house he had an uneasy feeling that he was being spied upon. He stared hard into the shadows of the squalid buildings, but saw nothing, though once he caught the faint rasp of cloth or leather against flesh. But that was nothing unusual. Thieves and beggars prowled these alleys all night, and they were not likely to attack him, after one look at his size and harness.

But suddenly a door opened in the wall ahead of him, and he slipped into the shadow of an arch. A figure emerged from the open door and moved along the alley, not furtively, but with a natural noiselessness, like that of a jungle beast. Enough starlight filtered into the alley to silhouette the man's profile dimly as he passed the doorway where Conan lurked. The stranger was a Stygian. There was no mistaking that hawk-faced, shaven head, even in the starlight, nor the mantle over the broad shoulders. He passed on down the alley in the direction of the beach, and once Conan thought he must be carrying a lantern among his garments, for he caught a flash of lambent light, just as the man vanished.

But the Cimmerian forgot the stranger as he noticed that the door through which he had emerged still stood open. Conan had intended entering by the main entrance and forcing Servio to show him the room where the Zingaran slept. But if he could get into the house without attacting anyone's attention, so much the better.

A few long strides brought him to the door, and as his hand fell on the lock he stifled an involuntary grunt. His practised fingers, skilled among the thieves of Zamora long ago, told him that the lock had been forced, apparently by some terrific pressure from the outside that had twisted and bent the heavy iron bolts, tearing the very sockets loose from the jambs. How such damage could have been wrought so violently without awakening everyone in the neighborhood Conan could not imagine, but he felt sure that it had been done that night. A broken lock, if discovered, would not go unmended in the house of Servio, in this neighborhood of thieves and cutthroats.

Conan entered stealthily, poniard in hand, wondering how he was to find the chamber of the Zingaran. Groping in total darkness he halted suddenly. He sensed death in that room, as a wild beast senses it - not as peril threatening him, but a dead thing, something freshly slain. In the darkness his foot hit and recoiled from something heavy and yielding. With a sudden premonition he groped along the wall until he found the shelf that supported the brass lamp, with its flint, steel and tinder beside it. A few seconds later a flickering, uncertain light sprang up, and he stared narrowly about him.

A bunk built against the rough stone wall, a bare table and a bench completed the furnishings of the squalid chamber. An inner door stood closed and bolted. And on the hard-beaten dirt floor lay Beloso. On his back he lay, with his head drawn back between his shoulders so that he seemed to stare with his wide glassy eyes at the sooty beams of the cobwebbed ceiling. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a frozen grin of agony. His sword lay near him, still in its scabbard. His shirt was torn open, and on his brown, muscular breast was the print of a black hand, thumb and four fingers plainly distinct.

Conan glared in silence, feeling the short hairs bristle at the back of his neck.

'Crom!' he muttered. 'The black hand of Set!'

He had seen that mark of old, the death-mark of the black priests of Set, the grim cult that ruled in dark Stygia. And suddenly he remembered that curious flash he had seen emanating from the mysterious Stygian who had emerged from this chamber.

'The Heart, by Crom!' he muttered. 'He was carrying it under his mantle. He stole it. He burst that door by his magic, and slew Beloso. He was a priest of Set.'

A quick investigation confirmed at least part of his suspicions. The jewel was not on the Zingaran's body. An uneasy feeling rose in Conan that this had not happened by chance, or without design; a conviction that the mysterious Stygian galley had come into the harbor of Messantia on a definite mission. How could the priests of Set know that the Heart had come southward? Yet the thought was no more fantastic than the necromancy that could slay an armed man by the touch of an open, empty hand.

A stealthy footfall outside the door brought him round like a great cat. With one motion he extinguished the lamp and drew his sword. His ears told him that men were out there in the darkness, were closing in on the doorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the sudden darkness, he could make out dim figures ringing the entrance. He could not guess their identity, but as always he took the initiative - leaping suddenly forth from the doorway without awaiting the attack.

His unexpected movement took the skulkers by surprise. He sensed and heard men close about him, saw a dim masked figure in the starlight before him; then his sword crunched home, and he was fleeting away down the alley before the slower-thinking and slower-acting attackers could intercept him.

As he ran he heard, somewhere ahead of him, a faint creak of oar-locks, and he forgot the men behind him. A boat was moving out into the bay! Gritting his teeth he increased his speed, but before he reached the beach he heard the rasp and creak of ropes, and the grind of the great sweep in its socket.

Thick clouds, rolling up from the sea, obscured the stars. In thick darkness Conan came upon the strand, straining his eyes out across the black restless water. Something was moving out there - a long, low, black shape that receded in the darkness, gathering momentum as it went. To his ears came the rhythmical clack of long oars. He ground his teeth in helpless fury. It was the Stygian galley and she was racing out to sea, bearing with her the jewel that meant to him the throne of Aquilonia.

With a savage curse he took a step toward the waves that lapped against the sands, catching at his hauberk and intending to rip it off and swim after the vanishing ship. Then the crunch of a heel in the sand brought him about. He had forgotten his pursuers.

Dark figures closed in on him with a rush of feet through the sands. The first went down beneath the Cimmerian's flailing sword, but the others did not falter. Blades whickered dimly about him in the darkness or rasped on his mail. Blood and entrails spilled over his hand and someone screamed as he ripped murderously upward. A muttered voice spurred on the attack, and that voice sounded vaguely familiar. Conan plowed through the clinging, hacking shapes toward the voice. A faint light gleaming momentarily through the drifting clouds showed him a tall gaunt man with a great livid scar on his temple. Conan's sword sheared through his skull as through a ripe melon.

Then an ax, swung blindly in the dark, crashed on the king's basinet, filling his eyes with sparks of fire. He lurched and lunged, felt his sword sink deep and heard a shriek of agony. Then he stumbled over a corpse, and a bludgeon knocked the dented helmet from his head; the next instant the club fell full on his unprotected skull.

The king of Aquilonia crumpled into the wet sands. Over him wolfish figures panted in the gloom.

'Strike off his head,' muttered one.

'Let him lie,' grunted another. 'Help me tie up my wounds before I bleed to death. The tide will wash him into the bay. See, he fell at the water's edge. His skull's split; no man could live after such blows.'

'Help me strip him,' urged another. 'His harness will fetch a few pieces of silver. And haste. Tiberio is dead, and I hear seamen singing as they reel along the strand. Let us be gone.'

There followed hurried activity in the darkness, and then the sound of quickly receding footsteps. The tipsy singing of the seamen grew louder.

In his chamber Publio, nervously pacing back and forth before a window that overlooked the shadowed bay, whirled suddenly, his nerves tingling. To the best of his knowledge the door had been bolted from within; but now it stood open and four men filed into the chamber. At the sight of them his flesh crawled. Many strange beings Publio had seen in his lifetime, but none before like these. They were tall and gaunt, black-robed, and their faces were dim yellow ovals in the shadows of their coifs. He could not tell much about their features and was unreasoningly glad that he could not. Each bore a long, curiously mottled staff.

'Who are you?' he demanded, and his voice sounded brittle and hollow. 'What do you wish here?'

'Where is Conan, he who was king of Aquilonia?' demanded the tallest of the four in a passionless monotone that made Publio shudder. It was like the hollow tone of a Khitan temple bell.

'I do not know what you mean,' stammered the merchant, his customary poise shaken by the uncanny aspect of his visitors. 'I know no such man.'

'He has been here,' returned the other with no change of inflection. 'His horse is in the courtyard. Tell us where he is before we do you an injury.'

'Gebal!' shouted Publio frantically, recoiling until he crouched against the wall. 'Gebal!'

The four Khitans watched him without emotion or change of expression.

'If you summon your slave he will die,' warned one of them, which only served to terrify Publio more than ever.

'Gebal!' he screamed. 'Where are you, curse you? Thieves are murdering your master!'

Swift footsteps padded in the corridor outside, and Gebal burst into the chamber - a Shemite, of medium height and mightily muscled build, his curled blueblack beard bristling, and a short leaf-shaped sword in his hand.

He stared in stupid amazement at the four invaders, unable to understand their presence; dimly remembering that he had drowsed unexplainably on the stair he was guarding and up which they must have come. He had never slept on duty before. But his master was shrieking with a note of hysteria in his voice, and the Shemite drove like a bull at the strangers, his thickly muscled arm drawing back for the disemboweling thrust. But the stroke was never dealt.

A black-sleeved arm shot out, extending the long staff. Its end but touched the Shemite's brawny breast and was instantly withdrawn. The stroke was horribly like the dart and recovery of a serpent's head.

Gebal halted short in his headlong plunge, as if he had encountered a solid barrier. His bull head toppled forward on his breast, the sword slipped from his fingers, and then he melted slowly to the floor. It was as if all the bones of his frame had suddenly become flabby. Publio turned sick.

'Do not shout again,' advised the tallest Khitan. 'Your servants sleep soundly, but if you awaken them they will die, and you with them. Where is Conan?'

'He is gone to the house of Servio, near the waterfront, to search for the Zingaran Beloso,' gasped Publio, all his power of resistance gone out of him. The merchant did not lack courage; but these uncanny visitants turned his marrow to water. He started convulsively at a sudden noise of footsteps hurrying up the stair outside, loud in the ominous stillness.

'Your servant?' asked the Khitan.

Publio shook his head mutely, his tongue frozen to his palate. He could not speak.

One of the Khitans caught up a silken cover from a couch and threw it over the corpse. Then they melted behind the tapestry, but before the tallest man disappeared, he murmured: 'Talk to this man who comes, and send him away quickly. If you betray us, neither he nor you will live to reach that door. Make no sign to show him you are not alone.' And lifting his staff suggestively, the yellow man faded behind the hangings.

Publio shuddered and choked down a desire to retch. It might have been a trick of the light, but it seemed to him that occasionally those staffs moved slightly of their own accord, as if possessed of an unspeakable life of their own.

He pulled himself together with a mighty effort, and presented a composed aspect to the ragged ruffian who burst into the chamber.

'We have done as you wished, my lord,' this man exclaimed. 'The barbarian lies dead on the sands at the water's edge.'

Publio felt a movement in the arras behind him, and almost burst from fright. The man swept heedlessly on.

'Your secretary, Tiberio, is dead. The barbarian slew him, and four of my companions. We bore their bodies to the rendezvous. There was nothing of value on the barbarian except a few silver coins. Are there any further orders?'

'None!' gasped Publio, white about the lips. 'Go!'

The desperado bowed and hurried out, with a vague feeling that Publio was both a man of weak stomach and few words.

The four Khitans came from behind the arras.

'Of whom did this man speak?' the taller demanded.

'Of a wandering stranger who did me an injury,' panted Publio.

'You lie,' said the Khitan calmly. 'He spoke of the king of Aquilonia. I read it in your expression. Sit upon that divan and do not move or speak. I will remain with you while my three companions go search for the body.'

So Publio sat and shook with terror of the silent, inscrutable figure which watched him, until the three Khitans filed back into the room, with the news that Conan's body did not lie upon the sands. Publio did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

'We found the spot where the fight was fought,' they said. 'Blood was on the sand. But the king was gone.'

The fourth Khitan drew imaginary symbols upon the carpet with his staff, which glistened scalily in the lamplight.

'Did you read naught from the sands?' he asked.

'Aye,' they answered. 'The king lives, and he has gone southward in a ship.'

The tall Khitan lifted his head and gazed at Publio, so that the merchant broke into a profuse sweat.

'What do you wish of me?' he stuttered.

'A ship,' answered the Khitan. 'A ship well manned for a very long voyage.'

'For how long a voyage?' stammered Publio, never thinking of refusing.

'To the ends of the world, perhaps,' answered the Khitan, 'or to the molten seas of hell that lie beyond the sunrise.'

15 The Return of the Corsair

Conan's first sensation of returning consciousness was that of motion; under him was no solidity, but a ceaseless heaving and plunging. Then he heard wind humming through cords and spars, and knew he was aboard a ship even before his blurred sight cleared. He heard a mutter of voices and then a dash of water deluged him, jerking him sharply into fall animation. He heaved up with a sulphurous curse, braced his legs and glared about him, with a burst of coarse guffaws in his ears and the reek of unwashed bodies in his nostrils.

He was standing on the poopdeck of along galley which was running before the wind that whipped down from the north, her striped sail bellying against the taut sheets. The sun was just rising, in a dazzling blaze of gold and blue and green. To the left of the shoreline was a dim purple shadow. To the right stretched the open ocean. This much Conan saw at a glance that likewise included the ship itself.

It was long and narrow, a typical trading-ship of the southern coasts, high of poop and stern, with cabins at either extremity. Conan looked down into the open waist, whence wafted that sickening abominable odor. He knew it of old. It was the bodyscent of the oarsmen, chained to their benches. They were all negroes, forty men to each side, each confined by a chain locked about his waist, with the other end welded to a heavy ring set deep in the solid runway beam that ran between the benches from stem to stern. The life of a slave aboard an Argossean galley was a hell unfathomable. Most of these were Kushites, but some thirty of the blacks who now rested on their idle oars and stared up at the stranger with dull curiosity were from the far southern isles, the homelands of the corsairs. Conan recognized them by their straighter features and hair, their rangier, cleaner-limbed build. And he saw among them men who had followed him of old.

But all this he saw and recognized in one swift, all-embracing glance as he rose, before he turned his attention to the figures about him. Reeling momentarily on braced legs, his fists clenched wrathfully, he glared at the figures clustered about him. The sailor who had drenched him stood grinning, the empty bucket still poised in his hand, and Conan cursed him with venom, instinctively reaching for his hilt. Then he discovered that he was weaponless and naked except for his short leather breeks.

'What lousy tub is this?' he roared. 'How did I come aboard here?'

The sailors laughed jeeringly - stocky, bearded Argosseans to a man - and one, whose richer dress and air of command proclaimed him captain, folded his arms and said domineeringly: 'We found you lying on the sands. Somebody had rapped you on the pate and taken your clothes. Needing an extra man, we brought you aboard.'

'What ship is this?' Conan demanded.

'The Venturer, out of Messantia, with a cargo of mirrors, scarlet silk cloaks, shields, gilded helmets and swords to trade to the Shemites for copper and gold ore. I am Demetrio, captain of this vessel and your master henceforward.'

'Then I'm headed in the direction I wanted to go, after all,' muttered Conan, heedless of that last remark. They were racing southeastward, following the long curve of the Argossean coast. These trading-ships never ventured far from the shoreline. Somewhere ahead of him he knew that low dark Stygian galley was speeding southward.

'Have you sighted a Stygian galley-' began Conan, but the beard of the burly, brutal-faced captain bristled. He was not in the least interested in any question his prisoner might wish to ask, and felt it high time he reduced this independent wastrel to his proper place.

'Get for'ard!' he roared. 'I've wasted time enough with you! I've done you the honor of having you brought to the poop to be revived, and answered enough of your infernal questions. Get off this poop! You'll work your way aboard this galley-'

'I'll buy your ship-' began Conan, before he remembered that he was a penniless wanderer.

A roar of rough mirth greeted these words, and the captain turned purple, thinking he sensed ridicule.

'You mutinous swine!' he bellowed, taking a threatening step forward, while his hand closed on the knife at his belt. 'Get for'ard before I have you flogged! You'll keep a civil tongue in your jaws, or by Mitra, I'll have you chained among the blacks to tug an oar!'

Conan's volcanic temper, never long at best, burst into explosion. Not in years, even before he was king, had a man spoken to him thus and lived.

'Don't lift your voice to me, you tar-breeched dog!' he roared in a voice as gusty as the sea-wind, while the sailors gaped dumfounded. 'Draw that toy and I'll feed you to the fishes!'

'Who do you think you are?' gasped the captain.

'I'll show you!' roared the maddened Cimmerian, and he wheeled and bounded toward the rail, where weapons hung in their brackets.

The captain drew his knife and ran at him bellowing, but before he could strike, Conan gripped his wrist with a wrench that tore the arm clean out of the socket. The captain bellowed like an ox in agony, and then rolled clear across the deck as he was hurled contemptuously from his attacker. Conan ripped a heavy ax from the rail and wheeled cat-like to meet the rush of the sailors. They ran in, giving tongue like hounds, clumsyfooted and awkward in comparison to the pantherish Cimmerian. Before they could reach him with their knives he sprang among them, striking right and left too quickly for the eye to follow, and blood and brains spattered as two corpses struck the deck.

Knives flailed the air wildly as Conan broke through the stumbling, gasping mob and bounded to the narrow bridge that spanned the waist from poop to forecastle, just out of reach of the slaves below. Behind him the handful of sailors on the poop were floundering after him, daunted by the destruction of their fellows, and the rest of the crew - some thirty in all - came running across the bridge toward him, with weapons in their hands.

Conan bounded out on the bridge and stood poised above the upturned black faces, ax lifted, black mane blown in the wind.

'Who am I?' he yelled. 'Look, you dogs! Look, Ajonga, Yasunga, Laranga! Who am I?'

And from the waist rose a shout that swelled to a mighty roar: 'Amra! It is Arnra! The Lion has returned!'

The sailors who caught and understood the burden of that awesome shout paled and shrank back, staring in sudden fear at the wild figure on the bridge. Was this in truth that bloodthirsty ogre of the southern seas who had so mysteriously vanished years ago, but who still lived in gory legends? The blacks were frothing crazy now, shaking and tearing at their chains and shrieking the name of Amra like an invocation. Kushites who had never seen Conan before took up the yell. The slaves in the pen under the after-cabin began to batter at the walls, shrieking like the damned.

Demetrio, hitching himself along the deck on one hand and his knees, livid with the agony of his dislocated arm, screamed: 'In and kill him, dogs, before the slaves break loose!'

Fired to desperation by that word, the most dread to all galleymen, the sailors charged on to the bridge from both ends. But with a lion-like bound Conan left the bridge and hit like a cat on his feet on the runway between the benches.

'Death to the masters!' he thundered, and his ax rose and fell crashingly full on a shackle-chain, severing it like matchwood. In an instant a shrieking slave was free, splintering his oar for a bludgeon. Men were racing frantically along the bridge above, and all hell and bedlam broke loose on the Venturer. Conan's ax rose and fell without pause, and with every stroke a frothing, screaming black giant broke free, mad with hate and the fury of freedom and vengeance.

Sailors leaping down into the waist to grapple or smite at the naked white giant hewing like one possessed at the shackles, found themselves dragged down by the hands of slaves yet unfreed, while others, their broken chains whipping and snapping about their limbs, came up out of the waist like a blind, black torrent, screaming like fiends, smiting with broken oars and pieces of iron, tearing and rending with talons and teeth. In the midst of the melee the slaves in the pen broke down the walls and came surging up on the decks, and with fifty blacks freed of their benches Conan abandoned his iron-hewing and bounded up on the bridge to add his notched ax to the bludgeons of his partisans.

Then it was massacre. The Argosseans were strong, sturdy, fearless like all their race, trained in the brutal school of the sea. But they could not stand against these maddened giants, led by the tigerish barbarian. Blows and abuse and hellish suffering were avenged in one red gust of fury that raged like a typhoon from one end of the ship to the other, and when it had blown itself out, but one white man lived aboard the Venturer, and that was the bloodstained giant about whom the chanting blacks thronged to cast themselves prostrate on the bloody deck and beat their heads against the boards in an ecstasy of heroworship.

Conan, his mighty chest heaving and glistening with sweat, the red ax gripped in his blood-smeared hand, glared about him as the first chief of men might have glared in some primordial dawn, and shook back his black mane. In that moment he was not king of Aquilonia; he was again lord of the black corsairs, who had hacked his way to lordship through flame and blood.

'Amra! Amra!' chanted the delirious blacks, those who were left to chant. 'The Lion has returned! Now will the Stygians howl like dogs in the night, and the black dogs of Kush will howl! Now will villages burst in flames and ships founder! Aie, there will be wailing of women and the thunder of the spears!'

'Cease this yammering, dogs!' Conan roared in a voice that drowned the clap of the sail in the wind. 'Ten of you go below and free the oarsmen who are yet chained. The rest of you man the sweeps and bend to oars and halyards. Crom's devils, don't you see we've drifted inshore during the fight? Do you want to run aground and be retaken by the Argosseans? Throw these carcasses overboard. Jump to it, you rogues, or I'll notch your hides for you!'

With shouts and laughter and wild singing they leaped to do his commands. The corpses, white and black, were hurled overboard, where triangular fins were already cutting the water.

Conan stood on the poop, frowning down at the black men who watched him expectantly. His heavy brown arms were folded, his black hair, grown long in his wanderings, blew in the wind. A wilder and more barbaric figure never trod the bridge of a ship, and in this ferocious corsair few of the courtiers of Aquilonia would have recognized their king.

'There's food in the hold!' he roared. 'Weapons in plenty for you, for this ship carried blades and harness to the Shemites who dwell along the coast. There are enough of us to work ship, aye, and to fight! You rowed in chains for the Argossean dogs: will you row as free men for Amra?'

'Aye!' they roared. 'We are thy children! Lead us where you will!'

'Then fall to and clean out that waist,' he commanded. 'Free men don't labor in such filth. Three of you come with me and break out food from the after-cabin. By Crom, I'll pad out your ribs before this cruise is done.'

Another yell of approbation answered him, as the half-starved blacks scurried to do his bidding. The sail bellied as the wind swept over the waves with renewed force, and the white crests danced along the sweep of the wind. Conan planted his feet to the heave of the deck, breathed deep and spread his mighty arms. King of Aquilonia he might no longer be; king of the blue ocean he was still.

16 Black-Walled Khemi

The Venturer swept southward like a living thing, her oars pulled now by free and willing hands. She had been transformed from a peaceful trader into a war-galley, insofar as the transformation was possible. Men sat at the benches now with swords at their sides and gilded helmets on their kinky heads. Shields were hung along the rails, and sheafs of spears, bows and arrows adorned the mast. Even the elements seemed to work for Conan now; the broad purple sail bellied to a stiff breeze that held day by day, needing little aid from the oars.

But though Conan kept a man on the masthead day and night, they did not sight a long, low, black galley fleeing southward ahead of them. Day by day the blue waters rolled empty to their view, broken only by fishing-craft which fled like frightened birds before them, at sight of the shields hung along the rail. The season for trading was practically over for the year, and they sighted no other ships.

When the lookout did sight a sail, it was to the north, not the south. Far on the skyline behind them appeared a racing-galley, with full spread of purple sail. The blacks urged Conan to turn and plunder it, but he shook his head. Somewhere south of him a slim black galley was racing toward the ports of Stygia. That night, before darkness shut down, the lookout's last glimpse showed him the racing-galley on the horizon, and at dawn it was still hanging on their tail, afar off, tiny in the distance. Conan wondered if it was following him, though he could think of no logical reason for such a supposition. But he paid little heed.

Each day that carried him farther southward filled him with fiercer impatience. Doubts never assailed him. As he believed in the rise and set of the sun he believed that a priest of Set had stolen the Heart of Ahriman. And where would a priest of Set carry it but to Stygia? The blacks sensed his eagerness, and toiled as they had never toiled under the lash, though ignorant of his goal. They anticipated a red career of pillage and plunder and were content. The men of the southern isles knew no other trade; and the Kushites of the crew joined whole-heartedly in the prospect of looting their own people, with the callousness of their race. Bloodties meant little; a victorious chieftain and personal gain everything.

Soon the character of the coastline changed. No longer they sailed past steep cliffs with blue hills marching behind them. Now the shore was the edge of broad meadowlands which barely rose above the water's edge and swept away and away into the hazy distance. Here were few harbors and fewer ports, but the green plain was dotted with the cities of the Shemites; green sea, lapping the rim of the green plains, and the ziggurats of the cities gleaming whitely in the sun, some small in the distance.

Through the grazing-lands moved the herds of cattle, and squat, broad riders with cylindrical helmets and curled blueblack beards, with bows in their hands. This was the shore of the lands of Shem, where there was no law save as each citystate could enforce its own. Far to the eastward, Conan knew, the meadowlands gave," ay to desert, where there were no cities and the nomadic tribes roamed unhindered.

Still as they plied southward, past the changeless panorama of city-dotted meadowland, at last the scenery again began to alter. Clumps of tamarind appeared, the palm groves grew denser. The shoreline became more broken, a marching rampart of green fronds and trees, and behind them rose bare, sandy hills. Streams poured into the sea, and along their moist banks vegetation grew thick and of vast variety.

So at last they passed the mouth of a broad river that mingled its flow with the ocean, and saw the great black walls and towers of Khemi rise against the southern horizon.

The river was the Styx, the real border of Stygia. Khemi was Stygia's greatest port, and at that time her most important city. The king dwelt at more ancient Luxur, but in Khemi reigned the priestcraft; though men said the center of their dark religion lay far inland, in a mysterious, deserted city near the bank of the Styx. This river, springing from some nameless source far in the unknown lands south of Stygia, ran northward for a thousand miles before it turned and flowed westward for some hundreds of miles, to empty at last into the ocean.

The Venturer, showing no lights, stole past the port in the night, and before dawn discovered her, anchored in a small bay a few miles south of the city. It was surrounded by marsh, a green tangle of mangroves, palms and lianas, swarming with crocodiles and serpents. Discovery was extremely unlikely. Conan knew the place of old; he had hidden there before, in his corsair days.

As they slid silently past the city whose great black bastions rose on the jutting prongs of land which locked the harbor, torches gleamed and smoldered luridly, and to their ears came the low thunder of drums. The port was not crowded with ships, as were the harbors of Argos. The Stygians did not base their glory and power upon ships and fleets. Trading-vessels and war-galleys, indeed, they had, but not in proportion to their inland strength. Many of their craft plied up and down the great river, rather than along the sea-coasts.

The Stygians were an ancient race, a dark, inscrutable people, powerful and merciless. Long ago their rule had stretched far north of the Styx, beyond the meadowlands of Shein, and into the fertile uplands now inhabited by the peoples of Koth and Ophir and Argos. Their borders had marched with those of ancient Acheron. But Acheron had fallen, and the barbaric ancestors of the Hyborians had swept southward in wolfskins and horned helmets, driving the ancient rulers of the land before them. The Stygians had not forgotten.

All day the Venturer lay at anchor in the tiny bay, walled in with green branches and tangled vines through which flitted gayplumed, harsh-voiced birds, and among which glided brightscaled, silent reptiles. Toward sundown a small boat crept out and down along the shore, seeking and finding that which Conan desired - a Stygian fisherman in his shallow, flat-prowed boat.

They brought him to the deck of the Venturer - a tall, dark, rangily built man, ashy with fear of his captors, who were ogres of that coast. He was naked except for his silken breeks, for, like the Hyrkanians, even the commoners and slaves of Stygia wore silk; and in his boat was a wide mantle such as these fishermen flung about their shoulders against the chill of the night.

He fell to his knees before Conan, expecting torture and death.

'Stand on your legs, man, and quit trembling,' said the Cimmerian impatiently, who found it difficult to understand abject terror. 'You won't be harmed. Tell me but this: has a galley, a black racing-galley returning from Argos, put into Khemi within the last few days?'

'Aye, my lord,' answered the fisherman. 'Only yesterday at dawn the priest Thutothmes returned from a voyage far to the north. Men say he has been to Messantia.'

'What did he bring from Messantia?'

'Alas, my lord, I know not.'

'Why did he go to Messantia?' demanded Conan.

'Nay, my lord, I am but a common man. Who am I to know the minds of the priests of Set? I can only speak what I have seen and what I have heard men whisper along the wharves. Men say that news of great import came southward, though of what none knows; and it is well known that the lord Thutothmes put off in his black galley in great haste. Now he is returned, but what he did in Argos, or what cargo he brought back, none knows, not even the seamen who manned his galley. Men say that he has opposed Thoth-Amon, who is the master of all priests of Set, and dwells in Luxur, and that Thutothmes seeks hidden power to overthrow the Great One. But who am I to say? When priests war with one another a common man can but lie on his belly and hope neither treads upon him.'

Conan snarled in nervous exasperation at this servile philosophy, and turned to his men. 'I'm going alone into Khemi to find this thief Thutothmes. Keep this man prisoner, but see that you do him no hurt. Crom's devils, stop your yowling! Do you think we can sail into the harbor and take the city by storm? I must go alone.'

Silencing the clamor of protests, he doffed his own garments and donned the prisoner's silk breeches and sandals, and the band from the man's hair, but scorned the short fisherman's knife. The common men of Stygia were not allowed to wear swords, and the mantle was not voluminous enough to hide the Cimmerian's long blade, but Conan buckled to his hip a Ghanata knife, a weapon borne by the fierce desert men who dwelt to the south of the Stygians, a broad, heavy, slightly curved blade of fine steel, edged like a razor and long enough to dismember a man.

Then, leaving the Stygian guarded by the corsairs, Conan climbed into the fisher's boat.

'Wait for me until dawn,' he said. 'If I haven't come then, I'll never come, so hasten southward to your own homes.'

As he clambered over the rail, they set up a doleful wail at his going, until he thrust his head back into sight to curse them into silence. Then, dropping into the boat, he grasped the oars and sent the tiny craft shooting over the waves more swiftly than its owner had ever propelled it.

17 'He Has Slain the Sacred Son of Set!'

The harbor of Khemi lay between two great jutting points of land that ran into the ocean. He rounded the southern point, where the great black castles rose like a man-made hill, and entered the harbor just at dusk, when there was still enough light for the watchers to recognize the fisherman's boat and mantle, but not enough to permit recognition of betraying details. Unchallenged he threaded his way among the great black war galleys lying silent and unlighted at anchor, and drew up to a flight of wide stone steps which mounted up from the water's edge. There he made his boat fast to an iron ring set in the stone, as numerous similar craft were tied. There was nothing strange in a fisherman leaving his boat there. None but a fisherman could find a use for such a craft, and they did not steal from one another.

No one cast him more than a casual glance as he mounted the long steps, unobtrusively avoiding the torches that flared at intervals above the lapping black water. He seemed but an ordinary, empty-handed fisherman, returning after a fruitless day along the coast. If one had observed him closely, it might have seemed that his step was somewhat too springy and sure, his carriage somewhat too erect and confident for a lowly fisherman. But he passed quickly, keeping in the shadows, and the commoners of Stygia were no more given to analysis than were the commoners of the less exotic races.

In build he was not unlike the warrior casts of the Stygians, who were a tall, muscular race. Bronzed by the sun, he was nearly as dark as many of them. His black hair, square-cut and confined by a copper band, increased the resemblance. The characteristics which set him apart from them were the subtle difference in his walk, and his alien features and blue eyes.

But the mantle was a good disguise, and he kept as much in the shadows as possible, turning away his head when a native passed him too closely.

But it was a desperate game, and he knew he could not long keep up the deception. Khemi was not like the seaports of the Hyborians, where types of every race swarmed. The only aliens here were negro and Shemite slaves; and he resembled neither even as much as he resembled the Stygians themselves. Strangers were not welcome in the cities of Stygia; tolerated only when they came as ambassadors or licensed traders. But even then the latter were not allowed ashore after dark. And now there were no Hyborian ships in the harbor at all. A strange restlessness ran through the city, a stirring of ancient ambitions, a whispering none could define except those who whispered. This Conan felt rather than knew, his whetted primitive instincts sensing unrest about him.

If he were discovered his fate would be ghastly. They would slay him merely for being a stranger; if he were recognized as Amra, the corsair chief who had swept their coasts with steel and flame - an involuntary shudder twitched Conan's broad shoulders. Human foes he did not fear, nor any death by steel or fire. But this was a black land of sorcery and nameless horror. Set the Old Serpent, men said, banished long ago from the Hyborian races, yet lurked in the shadows of the cryptic temples, and awful and mysterious were the deeds done in the nighted shrines.

He had drawn away from the waterfront streets with their broad steps leading down to the water, and was entering the long shadowy streets of the main part of the city. There was no such scene as was offered by any Hyborian city - no blaze of lamps and cressets, with gay-clad people laughing and strolling along the pavements, and shops and stalls wide open and displaying their wares.

Here the stalls were closed at dusk. The only lights along the streets were torches, flaring smokily at wide intervals. People walking the streets were comparatively few; they went hurriedly and unspeaking, and their numbers decreased with the lateness of the hour. Conan found the scene gloomy and unreal; the silence of the people, their furtive haste, the great black stone walls that rose on each side of the streets. There was a grim massiveness about Stygian architecture that was overpowering and oppressive.

Few lights showed anywhere except in the upper parts of the buildings. Conan knew that most of the people lay on the flat roofs, among the palms of artificial gardens under the stars. There was a murmur of weird music from somewhere. Occasionally a bronze chariot rumbled along the flags, and there was a brief glimpse of a tall, hawk-faced noble, with a silk cloak wrapped about him, and a gold band with a rearing serpent-head emblem confining his black mane; of the ebon, naked charioteer bracing his knotty legs against the straining of the fierce Stygian horses.

But the people who yet traversed the streets on foot were commoners, slaves, tradesmen, harlots, toilers, and they became fewer as he progressed. He was making toward the temple of Set, where he knew he would be likely to find the priest he sought. He believed he would know Thutothmes if he saw him, though his one glance had been in the semi-darkness of the Messantian alley. That the man he had seen there had been the priest he was certain. Only occultists high in the mazes of the hideous Black Ring possessed the power of the black hand that dealt death by its touch; and only such a man would dare defy Thoth-Amon, whom the western world knew only as a figure of terror and myth.

The street broadened, and Conan was aware that he was getting into the part of the city dedicated to the temples. The great structures reared their black bulks against the dim stars, grim, indescribably menacing in the flare of the few torches. And suddenly he heard a low scream from a woman on the other side of the street and somewhat ahead of him - a naked courtesan wearing the tall plumed headdress of her class. She was shrinking back against the wall, staring across at something he could not yet see. At her cry the few people on the street halted suddenly as if frozen. At the same instant Conan was aware of a sinister slithering ahead of him. Then about the dark corner of the building he was approaching poked a hideous, wedge-shaped head, and after it flowed coil after coil of rippling, darkly glistening trunk.

The Cimmerian recoiled, remembering tales he had heard -serpents were sacred to Set, god of Stygia, who men said was himself a serpent. Monsters such as this were kept in the temples of Set, and when they hungered, were allowed to crawl forth into the streets to take what prey they wished. Their ghastly feasts were considered a sacrifice to the scaly god.

The Stygians within Conan's sight fell to their knees, men and women, and passively awaited their fate. One the great serpent would select, would lap in scaly coils, crush to a red pulp and swallow as a rat-snake swallows a mouse. The others would live. That was the will of the gods.

But it was not Conan's will. The python glided toward him, its attention probably attracted by the fact that he was the only human in sight still standing erect. Gripping his great knife under his mantle, Conan hoped the slimy brute would pass him by. But it halted before him and reared up horrifically in the flickering torchlight, its forked tongue flickering in and out, its cold eyes glittering with the ancient cruelty of the serpent-folk. Its neck arched, but before it could dart, Conan whipped his knife from under his mantle and struck like a flicker of lightning. The broad blade split that wedge-shaped head and sheared deep into the thick neck.

Conan wrenched his knife free and sprang clear as the great body knotted and looped and whipped terrifically in its death throes. In the moment that he stood staring in morbid fascination, the only sound was the thud and swish of the snake's tail against the stones.

Then from the shocked votaries burst a terrible cry: 'Blasphemer! He has slain the sacred son of Set! Slay him! Slay! Slay!'

Stones whizzed about him and the crazed Stygians rushed at him, shrieking hysterically, while from all sides others emerged from their houses and took up the cry. With a curse Conan wheeled and darted into the black mouth of an alley. He heard the patter of bare feet on the flags behind him as he ran more by feel than by sight, and the walls resounded to the vengeful yells of the pursuers. Then his left hand found a break in the wall, and he turned sharply into another, narrower alley. On both sides rose sheer black stone walls. High above him he could see a thin line of stars. These giant walls, he knew, were the walls of temples. He heard, behind him, the pack sweep past the dark mouth in full cry. Their shouts grew distant, faded away. They had missed the smaller alley and run straight on in the blackness. He too kept straight ahead, though the thought of encountering another of Set's 'sons' in the darkness brought a shudder from him.

Then somewhere ahead of him he caught a moving glow, like that of a crawling glow-worm. He halted, flattened himself against the wall and gripped his knife. He knew what it was: a man approaching with a torch. Now it was so close he could make out the dark hand that gripped it, and the dim oval of a dark face. A few more steps and the man would certainly see him. He sank into a tigerish crouch - the torch halted. A door was briefly etched in the glow, while the torch-bearer fumbled with it. Then it opened, the tall figure vanished through it, and darkness closed again on the alley. There was a sinister suggestion of furtiveness about that slinking figure, entering the alleydoor in darkness; a priest, perhaps, returning from some dark errand.

But Conan groped toward the door. If one man came up that alley with a torch, others might come at any time. To retreat the way he had come might mean to run full into the mob from which he was fleeing. At any moment they might return, find the narrower alley and come howling down it. He felt hemmed in by those sheer, unscalable walls, desirous of escape, even if escape meant invading some unknown building.

The heavy bronze door was not locked. It opened under his fingers and he peered through the crack. He was looking into a great square chamber of massive black stone. A torch smoldered in a niche in the wall. The chamber was empty. He glided through the lacquered door and closed it behind him.

His sandaled feet made no sound as he crossed the black marble floor. A teak door stood partly open, and gliding through this, knife in hand, he came out into a great, dim, shadowy place whose lofty ceiling was only a hint of darkness high above him, toward which the black walls swept upward. On all sides black-arched doorways opened into the great still hall. It was lit by curious bronze lamps that gave a dim weird light. On the other side of the great hall a broad black marble stairway, without a railing, marched upward to lose itself in gloom, and above him on all sides dim galleries hung like black stone ledges.

Conan shivered; he was in a temple of some Stygian god, if not Set himself, then someone barely less grim. And the shrine did not lack an occupant. In the midst of the great hall stood a black stone altar, massive, somber, without carvings or ornament, and upon it coiled one of the great sacred serpents, its iridescent scales shimmering in the lamplight. It did not move, and Conan remembered stories that the priests kept these creatures drugged part of the time. The Cimmerian took an uncertain step out from the door, then shrank back suddenly, not into the room he had just quitted, but into a velvetcurtained recess. He had heard a soft step somewhere near by.

From one of the black arches emerged a tall, powerful figure in sandals and silken loincloth, with a wide mantle trailing from his shoulders. But face and head were hidden by a monstrous mask, a half-bestial, half-human countenance, from the crest of which floated a mass of ostrich plumes.

In certain ceremonies the Stygian priests went masked. Conan hoped the man would not discover him, but some instinct warned the Stygian. He turned abruptly from his destination, which apparently was the stair, and stepped straight to the recess. As he jerked aside the velvet hanging, a hand darted from the shadows, crushed the cry in his throat and jerked him headlong into the alcove, and the knife impaled him.

Conan's next move was the obvious one suggested by logic. He lifted off the grinning mask and drew it over his own head. The fisherman's mantle he flung over the body of the priest, which he concealed behind the hangings, and drew the priestly mantle about his own brawny shoulders. Fate had given him a disguise. All Khemi might well be searching now for the blasphemer who dared defend himself against a sacred snake; but who would dream of looking for him under the mask of a priest?

He strode boldly from the alcove and headed for one of the arched doorways at random; but he had not taken a dozen strides when he wheeled again, all his senses edged for peril.

A band of masked figures filed down the stair, appareled exactly as he was. He hesitated, caught in the open, and stood still, trusting to his disguise, though cold sweat gathered on his forehead and the backs of his hands. No word was spoken. Like phantoms they descended into the great hall and moved past him toward a black arch. The leader carried an ebon staff which supported a grinning white skull, and Conan knew it was one of the ritualistic processions so inexplicable to a foreigner, but which played a strong - and often sinister - part in the Stygian religion. The last figure turned his head slightly toward the motionless Cimmerian, as if expecting him to follow. Not to do what was obviously expected of him would rouse instant suspicion. Conan fell in behind the last man and suited his gait to their measured pace.

They traversed a long, dark, vaulted corridor in which, Conan noticed uneasily, the skull on the staff glowed phosphorescently. He felt a surge of unreasoning, wild animal panic that urged him to rip out his knife and slash right and left at these uncanny figures, to flee madly from the grim, dark temple. But he held himself in check, fighting down the dim monstrous intuitions that rose in the back of his mind and peopled the gloom with shadowy shapes of horror; and presently he barely stifled a sigh of relief as they filed through a great double-valved door which was three times higher than a man, and emerged into the starlight.

Conan wondered if he dared fade into some dark alley; but hesitated, uncertain, and down the long dark street they padded silently, while such folk as they met turned their heads away and fled from them. The procession kept far out from the walls; to turn and bolt into any of the alleys they passed would be too conspicuous. While he mentally fumed and cursed, they came to a low-arched gateway in the southern wall, and through this they filed. Ahead of them and about them lay clusters of low, flat-topped mud houses, and palm-groves, shadowy in the starlight. Now if ever, thought Conan, was his time to escape his silent companions.

But the moment the gate was left behind them those companions were no longer silent. They began to mutter excitedly among themselves. The measured, ritualistic gait was abandoned, the staff with its skull was tucked unceremoniously under the leader's arm, and the whole group broke ranks and hurried onward. And Conan hurried with them. For in the low murmur of speech he had caught a word that galvanized him. The word was: 'Thutothmes!'

18 'I Am the Woman Who Never Died'

Conan stared with burning interest at his masked companions. One of them was Thutothmes, or else the destination of the band was a rendezvous with the man he sought. And he knew what that destination was, when beyond the palms he glimpsed a black triangular bulk looming against the shadowy sky.

They passed through the belt of huts and groves, and if any man saw them he was careful not to show himself. The huts were dark. Behind them the black towers of Khemi rose gloomily against the stars that were mirrored in the waters of the harbor; ahead of them the desert stretched away in dim darkness; somewhere a jackal yapped. The quick-passing sandals of the silent neophytes made no noise in the sand. They might have been ghosts, moving toward that colossal pyramid that rose out of the murk of the desert. There was no sound over all the sleeping land.

Conan's heart beat quicker as he gazed at the grim black wedge that stood etched against the stars, and his impatience to close with Thutothmes in whatever conflict the meeting might mean was not unmixed with a fear of the unknown. No man could approach one of those somber piles of black stone without apprehension. The very name was a symbol of repellent horror among the northern nations, and legends hinted that the Stygians did not build them; that they were in the land at whatever immeasurably ancient date the dark-skinned people came into the land of the great river.

As they approached the pyramid he glimpsed a dim glow near the base which presently resolved itself into a doorway, on either side of which brooded stone lions with the heads of women, cryptic, inscrutable, nightmares crystalized in stone. The leader of the band made straight for the doorway, in the deep well of which Conan saw a shadowy figure.

The leader paused an instant beside this dim figure, and then vanished into the dark interior, and one by one the others followed. As each masked priest passed through the gloomy portal he was halted briefly by the mysterious guardian and something passed between them, some word or gesture Conan could not make out. Seeing this, the Cimmerian purposely lagged behind, and stooping, pretended to be fumbling with the fastening of his sandal. Not until the last of the masked figures had disappeared did he straighten and approach the portal.

He was uneasily wondering if the guardian of the temple were human, remembering some tales he had heard. But his doubts were set at rest. A dim bronze cresset glowing just within the door lighted a long narrow corridor that ran away into blackness, and a man standing silent in the mouth of it, wrapped in a wide black cloak. No one else was in sight. Obviously the masked priests had disappeared down the corridor.

Over the cloak that was drawn about his lower features, the Stygian's piercing eyes regarded Conan sharply. With his left hand he made a curious gesture. On a venture Conan imitated it. But evidently another gesture was expected; the Stygian's right hand came from under his cloak with a gleam of steel and his murderous stab would have pierced the heart of an ordinary man.

But he was dealing with one whose thews were nerved to the quickness of a jungle cat. Even as the dagger flashed in the dim light, Conan caught the dusky wrist and smashed his clenched right fist against the Stygian's jaw. The man's head went back against the stone wall with a dull crunch that told of a fractured skull.

Standing for an instant above him, Conan listened intently. The cresset burned low, casting vague shadows about the door. Nothing stirred in the blackness beyond, though far away and below him, as it seemed, he caught the faint, muffled note of a gong.

He stooped and dragged the body behind the great bronze door which stood wide, opened inward, and then the Cimmerian went warily but swiftly down the corridor, toward what doom he did not even try to guess.

He had not gone far when he halted, baffled. The corridor split in two branches, and he had no way of knowing which the masked priests had taken. At a venture he chose the left. The floor slanted slightly downward and was worn smooth as by many feet. Here and there a dim cresset cast a faint nightmarish twilight. Conan wondered uneasily for what purpose these colossal piles had been reared, in what forgotten age. This was an ancient, ancient land. No man knew how many ages the black temples of Stygia had looked against the stars.

Narrow black arches opened occasionally to right and left, but he kept to the main corridor, although a conviction that he had taken the wrong branch was growing in him. Even with their start on him, he should have overtaken the priests by this time. He was growing nervous. The silence was like a tangible thing, and yet he had a feeling that he was not alone. More than once, passing a nighted arch he seemed to feel the glare of unseen eyes fixed upon him. He paused, half minded to turn back to where the corridor had first branched. He wheeled abruptly, knife lifted, every nerve tingling.

A girl stood at the mouth of a smaller tunnel, staring fixedly at him. Her ivory skin showed her to be Stygian of some ancient noble family, and like all such women she was tall, lithe, voluptuously figured, her hair a great pile of black foam, among which gleamed a sparkling ruby. But for her velvet sandals and broad jewel-crusted girdle about her supple waist she was quite nude.

'What do you here?' she demanded.

To answer would betray his alien origin. He remained motionless, a grim, somber figure in the hideous mask with the plumes floating over him. His alert gaze sought the shadows behind her and found them empty. But there might be hordes of fighting-men within her call.

She advanced toward him, apparently without apprehension though with suspicion.

'You are not a priest,' she said. 'You are a fightingman. Even with that mask that is plain. There is as much difference between you and a priest as there is between a man and a woman. By Set!' she exclaimed, halting suddenly, her eyes flaring wide. 'I do not believe you are even a Stygian!'

With a movement too quick for the eye to follow, his hand closed about her round throat, lightly as a caress.

'Not a sound out of you!' he muttered.

Her smooth ivory flesh was cold as marble, yet there was no fear in the wide, dark, marvelous eyes which regarded him.

'Do not fear,' she answered calmly. 'I will not betray you. But are you mad to come, a stranger and a foreigner, to the forbidden temple of Set?'

'I'm looking for the priest Thutothmes,' he answered. 'Is he in this temple?'

'Why do you seek him?' she parried.

'He has something of mine which was stolen.'

'I will lead you to him,' she volunteered so promptly that his suspicions were instantly roused.

'Don't play with me, girl,' he growled.

'I do not play with you. I have no love for Thutothmes.'

He hesitated, then made up his mind; after all, he was as much in her power as she was in his.

'Walk beside me,' he commanded, shifting his grasp from her throat to her wrist. 'But walk with care. If you make a suspicious move-'

She led him down the slanting corridor, down and down, until there were no more cressets, and he groped his way in darkness, aware less by sight than by feel and sense of the woman at his side. Once when he spoke to her, she turned her head toward him and he was startled to see her eyes glowing like golden fire in the dark. Dim doubts and vague monstrous suspicions haunted his mind, but he followed her, through a labyrinthine maze of black corridors that confused even his primitive sense of direction. He mentally cursed himself for a fool, allowing himself to be led into that black abode of mystery; but it was too late to turn back now. Again he felt life and movement in the darkness about him, sensed peril and hunger burning impatiently in the blackness. Unless his ears deceived him he caught a faint sliding noise that ceased and receded at a muttered command from the girl.

She led him at last into a chamber lighted by a curious sevenbranched candelabrum in which black candles burned weirdly. He knew they were far below the earth. The chamber was square, with walls and ceiling of polished black marble and furnished after the manner of the ancient Stygians; there was a couch of ebony, covered with black velvet, and on a black stone dais lay a carven mummycase.

Conan stood waiting expectantly, staring at the various black arches which opened into the chamber. But the girl made no move to go farther. Stretching herself on the couch with feline suppleness, she intertwined her fingers behind her sleek head and regarded him from under long drooping lashes.

'Well?' he demanded impatiently. 'What are you doing? Where's Thutothmes?'

'There is no haste,' she answered lazily. 'What is an hour or a day, or a year, or a century, for that matter? Take off your mask. Let me see your features.'

With a grunt of annoyance Conan dragged off the bulky headpiece, and the girl nodded as if in approval as she scanned his dark scarred face and blazing eyes.

'There is strength in you - great strength; you could strangle a bullock.'

He moved restlessly, his suspicion growing. With his hand on his hilt he peered into the gloomy arches.

'If you've brought me into a trap,' he said, 'you won't live to enjoy your handiwork. Are you going to get off that couch and do as you promised, or do I have to-'

His voice trailed away. He was staring at the mummycase, on which the countenance of the occupant was carved in ivory with the startling vividness of a forgotten art. There was a disquieting familiarity about that carven mask, and with something of a shock he realized what it was; there was a startling resemblance between it and the face of the girl lolling on the ebon couch. She might have been the model from which it was carved, but he knew the portrait was at least centuries old. Archaic hieroglyphics were scrawled across the lacquered lid, and, seeking back into his mind for tag-ends of learning, picked up here and there as incidentals of an adventurous life, he spelled them out, and said aloud: 'Akivasha!'

'You have heard of Princess Akivasha?' inquired the girl on the couch.

'Who hasn't?' he grunted. The name of that ancient, evil, beautiful princess still lived the world over in song and legend, though ten thousand years had rolled their cycles since the daughter of Tuthamon had reveled in purple feasts amid the black halls of ancient Luxur.

'Her only sin was that she loved life and all the meanings of life,' said the Stygian girl. 'To win life she courted death. She could not bear to think of growing old and shriveled and worn, and dying at last as hags die. She wooed Darkness like a lover and his gift was life - life that, not being life as mortals know it, can never grow old and fade. She went into the shadows to cheat age and death-'

Conan glared at her with eyes that were suddenly burning slits. And he wheeled and tore the lid from the sarcophagus. It was empty. Behind him the girl was laughing and the sound froze the blood in his veins. He whirled back to her, the short hairs on his neck bristling.

'You are Akivasha!' he grated.

She laughed and shook back her burnished locks, spread her arms sensuously.

'I am Akivasha! I am the woman who never died, who never grew old! Who fools say was lifted from the earth by the gods, in the full bloom of her youth and beauty, to queen it for ever in some celestial clime! Nay, it is in the shadows that mortals find immortality! Ten thousand years ago I died to live for ever! Give me your lips, strong man!'

Rising lithely she came to him, rose on tiptoe and flung her arms about his massive neck. Scowling down into her upturned, beautiful countenance he was aware of a fearful fascination and an icy fear.

'Love me!' she whispered, her head thrown back, eyes closed and lips parted. 'Give me of your blood to renew my youth and perpetuate my everlasting life! I will make you, too, immortal! I will teach you the wisdom of all the ages, all the secrets that have lasted out the eons in the blackness beneath these dark temples. I will make you king of that shadowy horde which revels among the tombs of the ancients when night veils the desert and bats flit across -she moon. I am weary of priests and magicians, and captive girls dragged screaming through the portals of death. I desire a man. Love me, barbarian!'

She pressed her dark head down against his mighty breast, and he felt a sharp pang at the base of his throat. With a curse he tore her away and flung her sprawling across the couch.

'Damned vampire!' Blood was trickling from a tiny wound in his throat.

She reared up on the couch like a serpent poised to strike, all the golden fires of hell blazing in her wide eyes. Her lips drew back, revealing white pointed teeth.

'Fool!' she shrieked. 'Do you think to escape me? You will live and die in darkness! I have brought you far below the temple. You can never find your way out alone. You can never cut your way through those which guard the tunnels. But for my protection the sons of Set would long ago have taken you into their bellies. Fool, I shall yet drink your blood!'

'Keep away from me or I'll slash you asunder,' he grunted, his flesh crawling with revulsion. 'You may be immortal, but steel will dismember you.'

As he backed toward the arch through which he had entered, the light went out suddenly. All the candles were extinguished at once, though he did not know how; for Akivasha had not touched them. But the vampire's laugh rose mockingly behind him, poison-sweet as the viols of hell, and he sweated as he groped in the darkness for the arch in a near-panic. His fingers encountered an opening and he plunged through it. Whether it was the arch through which he had entered he did not know, nor did he very much care. His one thought was to get out of the haunted chamber which had housed that beautiful, hideous, undead fiend for so many centuries.

His wanderings through those black, winding tunnels were a sweating nightmare. Behind him and about him he heard faint slitherings and glidings, and once the echo of that sweet, hellish laughter he had heard in the chamber of Akivasha. He slashed ferociously at sounds and movements he heard or imagined he heard in the darkness near him, and once his sword cut through some yielding tenuous substance that might have been cobwebs. He had a desperate feeling that he was being played with, lured deeper and deeper into ultimate night, before being set upon by demoniac talon and fang.

And through his fear ran the sickening revulson of his discovery. The legend of Akivasha was so old, and among the evil tales told of her ran a thread of beauty and idealism, of everlasting youth. To so many dreamers and poets and lovers she was not alone the evil princess of Stygian legend, but the symbol of eternal youth and beauty, shining for ever in some far realm of the gods. And this was the hideous reality. This foul perversion was the truth of that everlasting life. Through his physical revulsion ran the sense of a shattered dream of man's idolatry, its glittering gold proved slime and cosmic filth. A wave of futility swept over him, a dim fear of the falseness of all men's dreams and idolatries.

And now he knew that his ears were not playing him tricks. He was being followed, and his pursuers were closing in on him. In the darkness sounded shufflings and slidings that were never made by human feet; no, nor by the feet of any normal animal. The underworld had its bestial life too, perhaps. They were behind him. He turned to face them, though he could see nothing, and slowly backed away. Then the sounds ceased, even before he turned his head and saw, somewhere down the long corridor, a glow of light.

19 In the Hall of the Dead

Conan moved cautiously in the direction of the light he had seen, his ear cocked over his shoulder, but there was no further sound of pursuit, though he felt the darkness pregnant with sentient life.

The glow was not stationary; it moved, bobbing grotesquely along. Then he saw the source. The tunnel he was traversing crossed another, wider corridor some distance ahead of him. And along this latter tunnel filed a bizarre procession - four tall, gaunt men in black, hooded robes, leaning on staffs. The leader held a torch above his head - a torch that burned with a curious steady glow. Like phantoms they passed across his limited range of vision and vanished, with only a fading glow to tell of their passing. Their appearance was indescribably eldritch. They were not Stygians, not like anything Conan had ever seen. He doubted if they were even humans. They were like black ghosts, stalking ghoulishly along the haunted tunnels.

But his position could be no more desperate than it was. Before the inhuman feet behind him could resume their slithering advance at the fading of the distant illumination, Conan was running down the corridor. He plunged into the other tunnel and saw, far down it, small in the distance, the weird procession moving in the glowing sphere. He stole noiselessly after them, then shrank suddenly back against the wall as he saw them halt and cluster together as if conferring on some matter. They turned as if to retrace their steps, and he slipped into the nearest archway. Groping in the darkness to which he had become so accustomed that he could all but see through it, he discovered that the tunnel did not run straight, but meandered, and he fell back beyond the first turn, so that the light of the strangers should not fall on him as they passed.

But as he stood there, he was aware of a low hum of sound from somewhere behind him, like the murmur of human voices. Moving down the corridor in that direction, he confirmed his first suspicion. Abandoning his original intention of following the ghoulish travelers to whatever destination might be theirs, he set out in the direction of the voices.

Presently he saw a glint of light ahead of him, and turning into the corridor from which it issued, saw a broad arch filled with a dim glow at the other end. On his left a narrow stone stair went upward, and instinctive caution prompted him to turn and mount the stair. The voices he heard were coming from beyond that flame-filled arch.

The sounds fell away beneath him as he climbed, and presently he came out through a low arched door into a vast open space glowing with a weird radiance.

He was standing on a shadowy gallery from which he looked down into a broad dim-lit hall of colossal proportions. It was a hall of the dead, which few ever see but the silent priests of Stygia. Along the black walls rose tier above tier of carven, painted sarcophagi. Each stood in a niche in the dusky stone, and the tiers mounted up and up to be lost in the gloom above. Thousands of carven masks stared impassively down upon the group in the midst of the hall, rendered futile and insignificant by that vast array of the dead.

Of this group ten were priests, and though they had discarded their masks Conan knew they were the priests he had accompanied to the pyramid. They stood before a tall, hawk-faced man beside a black altar on which lay a mummy in rotting swathings. And the altar seemed to stand in the heart of a living fire which pulsed and shimmered, dripping flakes of quivering golden flame on the black stones about it. This dazzling glow emanated from a great red jewel which lay upon the altar, and in the reflection of which the faces of the priests looked ashy and corpse-like. As he looked, Conan felt the pressure of all the weary leagues and the weary nights and days of his long quest, and he trembled with the mad urge to rush among those silent priests, clear his way with mighty blows of naked steel, and grasp the red gem with passion-taut fingers. But he gripped himself with iron control, and crouched down in the shadow of the stone balustrade. A glance showed him that a stair led down into the hall from the gallery, hugging the wall and half hidden in the shadows. He glared into the dimness of the vast place, seeking other priests or votaries, but saw only the group about the altar.

In that great emptiness the voice of the man beside the altar sounded hollow and ghostly: '... And so the word came southward. The night wind whispered it, the ravens croaked of it as they flew, and the grim bats told it to the owls and the serpents that lurk in hoary ruins. Werewolf and vampire knew, and the ebon-bodied demons that prowl by night. The sleeping Night of the World stirred and shook its heavy mane, and there began a throbbing of drums in deep darkness, and the echoes of far weird cries frightened men who walked by dusk. For the Heart of Ahriman had come again into the world to fulfill its cryptic destiny.

'Ask me not how I, Thutothmes of Khemi and the Night, heard the word before Thoth-Amon who calls himself prince of all wizards. There are secrets not meet for such ears even as yours, and Thoth-Amon is not the only lord of the Black Ring.

'I knew, and I went to meet the Heart which came southward. It was like a magnet which drew me, unerringly. From death to death it came, riding on a river of human blood. Blood feeds it, blood draws it. Its power is greatest when there is blood on the hands that grasp it, when it is wrested by slaughter from its holder. Wherever it gleams, blood is spilt and kingdoms totter, and the forces of nature are put in turmoil.

'And here I stand, the master of the Heart, and have summoned you to come secretly, who are faithful to me, to share in the black kingdom that shall be. Tonight you shall witness the breaking of Thoth-Amon's chains which enslave us, and the birth of empire.

'Who am I, even I, Thutothmes, to know what powers lurk and dream in those crimson deeps? It holds secrets forgotten for three thousand years. But I shall learn. These shall tell me!'

He waved his hand toward the silent shapes that lined the hall.

'See how they sleep, staring through their carven masks! Kings, queens, generals, priests, wizards, the dynasties and the nobility of Stygia for ten thousand years! The touch of the heart will awaken them from their long slumber. Long, long the Heart throbbed and pulsed in ancient Stygia. Here was its home in the centuries before it journeyed to Acheron. The ancients knew its full power, and they will tell me when by its magic I restore them to life to labor for me.

'I will rouse them, will waken them, will learn their forgotten wisdom, the knowledge locked in those withered skulls. By the lore of the dead we shall enslave the living! Aye, kings and generals and wizards of eld shall be our helpers and our slaves. Who shall stand before us?

'Look! This dried, shriveled thing on the altar was once Thothmekri, a high priest of Set, who died three thousand years ago. He was an adept of the Black Ring. He knew of the Heart. He will tell us of its powers.'

Lifting the great jewel, the speaker laid it on the withered breast of the mummy, and lifted his hand as he began an incantation. But the incantation was never finished. With his hand lifted and his lips parted he froze, glaring past his acolytes, and they wheeled to stare in the direction in which he was looking.

Through the black arch of a door four gaunt, black-robed shapes had filed into the great hall. Their faces were dim yellow ovals in the shadow of their hoods.

'Who are you?' ejaculated Thutothmes in a voice as pregnant with danger as the hiss of a cobra. 'Are you mad, to invade the holy shrine of Set?'

The tallest of the strangers spoke, and his voice was toneless as a Khitan temple bell.

'We follow Conan of Aquilonia.'

'He is not here,' answered Thutothmes, shaking back his mantle from his right hand with a curious menacing gesture, like a panther unsheathing his talons.

'You lie. He is in this temple. We tracked him from a corpse behind the bronze door of the outer portal through a maze of corridors. We were following his devious trail when we became aware of this conclave. We go now to take it up again. But first give us the Heart of Ahriman.'

'Death is the portion of madmen,' murmured Thutothmes, moving nearer the speaker. His priests closed in on cat-like feet, but the strangers did not appear to heed.

'Who can look upon it without desire?' said the Khitan. 'In Khitai we have heard of it. It will give us power over the people which cast us out. Glory and wonder dream in its crimson deeps. Give it to us, before we slay you.'

A fierce cry rang out as a priest leaped with a flicker of steel. Before he could strike, a scaly staff licked out and touched his breast, and he fell as a dead man falls. In an instant the mummies were staring down on a scene of blood and horror. Curved knives flashed and crimsoned, snaky staffs licked in and out, and whenever they touched a man, that man screamed and died.

At the first stroke Conan had bounded up and was racing down the stairs. He caught only glimpses of that brief, fiendish fight - saw men swaying, locked in battle and streaming blood; saw one Khitan, fairly hacked to pieces, yet still on his feet and dealing death, when Thutothmes smote him on the breast with his open empty hand, and he dropped dead, though naked steel had not been enough to destroy his uncanny vitality.

By the time Conan's hurtling feet left the stair, the fight was all but over. Three of the Khitans were down, slashed and cut to ribbons and disemboweled, but of the Stygians only Thutothmes remained on his feet.

He rushed at the remaining Khitan, his empty hand lifted like a weapon, and that hand was black as that of a negro. But before he could strike, the staff in the tall Khitan's hand licked out, seeming to elongate itself as the yellow man thrust. The point touched the bosom of Thutothmes and he staggered; again and yet again the staff licked out, and Thutothmes reeled and fell dead, his features blotted out in a rush of blackness that made the whole of him the same hue as his enchanted hand.

The Khitan turned toward the jewel that burned on the breast of the mummy, but Conan was before him.

In a tense stillness the two faced each other, amid that shambles, with the carven mummies staring down upon them.

'Far have I followed you, oh king of Aquilonia,' said the Khitan calmly. 'Down the long river, and over the mountains, across Poitain and Zingara and through the hills of Argos and down the coast. Not easily did we pick up your trail from Tarantia, for the priests of Asura are crafty. We lost it in Zingara, but we found your helmet in the forest below the border hills, where you had fought with the ghouls of the forests. Almost we lost the trail again tonight among these labyrinths.'

Conan reflected that he had been fortunate in returning from the vampire's chamber by another route than that by which he had been led to it. Otherwise he would have run full into these yellow fiends instead of sighting them from afar as they smelled out his spoor like human bloodhounds, with whatever uncanny gift was theirs.

The Khitan shook his head slightly, as if reading his mind.

'That is meaningless; the long trail ends here.'

'Why have you hounded me?' demanded Conan, poised to move in any direction with the celerity of a hair-trigger.

'It was a debt to pay,' answered the Khitan. 'To you who are about to die, I will not withhold knowledge. We were vassals of the king of Aquilonia, Valerius. Long we served him, but of that service we are free now - my brothers by death, and I by the fulfilment of obligation. I shall return to Aquilonia with two hearts; for myself the Heart of Ahriman; for Valerius the heart of Conan. A kiss of the staff that was cut from the living Tree of Death-'

The staff licked out like the dart of a viper, but the slash of Conan's knife was quicker. The staff fell in writhing halves, there was another flicker of the keen steel like a jet of lightning, and the head of the Khitan rolled to the floor.

Conan wheeled and extended his hand toward the jewel then he shrank back, his hair bristling, his blood congealing icily.

For no longer a withered brown thing lay on the altar. The jewel shimmered on the full, arching breast of a naked, living man who lay among the moldering bandges. Living? Conan could not decide. The eyes were like dark murky glass under which shone inhuman somber fires.

Slowly the man rose, taking the jewel in his hand. He towered beside the altar, dusky, naked, with a face like a carven image. Mutely he extended his hand toward Conan, with the jewel throbbing like a living heart within it. Conan took it, with an eery sensation of receiving gifts from the hand of the dead. He somehow realized that the proper incantations had not been made - the conjurement had not been completed - life had not been fully restored to his corpse.

'Who are you?' demanded the Cimmerian.

The answer came in a toneless monotone, like the dripping of water from stalactites in subterranean caverns. 'I was Thothmekri; I am dead.'

. 'Well, lead me out of this accursed temple, will you?' Conan requested, his flesh crawling.

With measured, mechanical steps the dead man moved toward a black arch. Conan followed him. A glance back showed him once again the vast, shadowy hall with its tiers of sarcophagi, the dead men sprawled about the altar; the head of the Khitan he had slain stared sightless up at the sweeping shadows.

The glow of the jewel illuminated the black tunnels like an ensorceled lamp, dripping golden fire. Once Conan caught a glimpse of ivory flesh in the shadows, believed he saw the vampire that was Akivasha shrinking back from the glow of the jewel; and with her, other less human shapes scuttled or shambled into the darkness.

The dead man strode straight on, looking neither to right nor left, his pace as changeless as the tramp of doom. Cold sweat gathered thick on Conan's flesh. Icy doubts assailed him. How could he know that this terrible figure out of the past was leading him to freedom? But he knew that, left to himself, he could never untangle this bewitched maze of corridors and tunnels. He followed his awful guide through blackness that loomed before and behind them and was filled with skulking shapes of horror and lunacy that cringed from the blinding glow of the Heart.

Then the bronze doorway was before him, and Conan felt the night wind blowing across the desert, and saw the stars, and the starlit desert across which streamed the great black shadow of the pyramid. Thothmekri pointed silently into the desert, and then turned and stalked soundlessly back in the darkness. Conan stared after that silent figure that receded into the blackness on soundless, inexorable feet as one that moves to a known and inevitable doom, or returns to everlasting sleep.

With a curse the Cimmerian leaped from the doorway and fled into the desert as if pursued by demons. He did not look back toward the pyramid, or toward the black towers of Khemi looming dimly across the sands. He headed southward toward the coast, and he ran as a man runs in ungovernable panic. The violent exertion shook his brain free of black cobwebs; the clean desert wind blew the nightmares from his soul and his revulsion changed to a wild tide of exultation before the desert gave way to a tangle of swampy growth through which he saw the black water lying before him, and the Venturer at anchor.

He plunged through the undergrowth, hip-deep in the marshes; dived headlong into the deep water, heedless of sharks or crocodiles, and swam to the galley and was clambering up the chain on to the deck, dripping and exultant, before the watch saw him.

'Awake, you dogs!' roared Conan, knocking aside the spear the startled lookout thrust at his breast. 'Heave up the anchor!

Lay to the doors! Give that fisherman a helmet full of gold and put him ashore! Dawn will soon be breaking, and before sunrise we must be racing for the nearest port of Zingara!'

He whirled about his head the great jewel, which threw off splashes of light that spotted the deck with golden fire.

20 Out of the Dust Shall Acheron Arise

Winter had passed from Aquilonia. Leaves sprang out on the limbs of trees, and the fresh grass smiled to the touch of the warm southern breezes. But many a field lay idle and empty, many a charred heap of ashes marked the spot where proud villas or prosperous towns had stood. Wolves prowled openly along the grass-grown highways, and bands of gaunt, masterless men slunk through the forests. Only in Tarantia was feasting and wealth and pageantry.

Valerius ruled like one touched with madness. Even many of the barons who had welcomed his return cried out at last against him. His tax-gatherers crushed rich and poor alike; the wealth of a looted kingdom poured into Tarantia, which became less like the capital of a realm than the garrison of conquerors in a conquered land. Its merchants waxed rich, but it was a precarious prosperity; for none knew when he might be accused of treason on a trumped-up charge, and his property confiscated, himself cast into prison or brought to the bloody block.

Valerius made no attempt to conciliate his subjects. He maintained himself by means of the Nemedian soldiery and by desperate mercenaries. He knew himself to be a puppet of Amalric. He knew that he ruled only on the sufferance of the Nemedian. He knew that he could never hope to unite Aquilonia under his rule and cast off the yoke of his masters, for the outland provinces would resist him to the last drop of blood. And for that matter the Nemedians would cast him from his throne if he made any attempt to consolidate his kingdom. He was caught in his own vise. The gall of defeated pride corroded his soul, and he threw himself into a reign of debauchery, as one who lives from day to day, without thought or care for tomorrow.

Yet there was subtlety in his madness, so deep that not even Amalric guessed it. Perhaps the wild, chaotic years of wandering as an exile had bred in him a bitterness beyond common conception. Perhaps his loathing of his present position increased this bitterness to a kind of madness. At any event he lived with one desire: to cause the ruin of all who associated with him.

He knew that his rule would be over the instant he had served Amalric's purpose; he knew, too, that so long as he continued to oppress his native kingdom the Nemedian would suffer him to reign, for Amalric wished to crush Aquilonia into ultimate submission, to destroy its last shred of independence, and then at last to seize it himself, rebuild it after his own fashion with his vast wealth, and use its men and natural resources to wrest the crown of Nemedia from Tarascus. For the throne of an emperor was Amalric's ultimate ambition, and Valerius knew it. Valerius did not know whether Tarascus suspected this, but he knew that the king of Nemedia approved of his ruthless course. Tarascus hated Aquilonia, with a hate born of old wars. He desired only the destruction of the western kingdom.

And Valerius intended to ruin the country so utterly that not even Amalric's wealth could ever rebuild it. He hated the baron quite as much as he hated the Aquilonians, and hoped only to live to see the day when Aquilonia lay in utter ruin, and Tarascus and Amalric were locked in hopeless civil war that would as completely destroy Nemedia.

He believed that the conquest of the still defiant provinces of Gunderland and Poitain and the Bossonian marches would mark his end as king. He would then have served Amalric's purpose, and could be discarded. So he delayed the conquest of these provinces, confining his activities to objectless raids and forays, meeting Amalric's urges for action with all sorts of plausible objections and postponements.

His life was a series of feasts and wild debauches. He filled his palace with the fairest girls of the kingdom, willing or unwilling. He blasphemed the gods and sprawled drunken on the floor of the banquet hall wearing the golden crown, and staining his royal purple robes with the wine he spilled. In gusts of blood-lust he festooned the gallows in the market square with dangling corpses, glutted the axes of the headsmen and sent his Nemedian horsemen thundering through the land pillaging and burning. Driven to madness, the land was in a constant upheaval of frantic revolt, savagely suppressed. Valerius plundered and raped and looted and destroyed until even Amalric protested, warning him that he would beggar the kingdom beyond repair, not knowing that such was his fixed determination.

But while in both Aquilonia and Nemedia men talked of the madness of the king, in Nemedia men talked much of Xaltotun, the masked one. Yet few saw him on the streets of Belverus. Men said he spent much time in the hills, in curious conclaves with surviving remnants of an old race: dark, silent folk who claimed descent from an ancient kingdom. Men whispered of drums beating far up in the dreaming hills, of fires glowing in the darkness, and strange chantings borne on the winds, chantings and rituals forgotten centuries ago except as meaningless formulas mumbled beside mountain hearths in villages whose inhabitants differed strangely from the people of the valleys.

The reason for these conclaves none knew, unless it was Orastes, who frequently accompanied the Pythonian, and on whose countenance a haggard shadow was growing.

But in the full flood of spring a sudden whisper passed over the sinking kingdom that woke the land to eager life. It came like a murmurous wind drifting up from the south, waking men sunk in the apathy of despair. Yet how it first came none could truly say. Some spoke of a strange, grim old woman who came down from the mountains with her hair flowing in the wind, and a great gray wolf following her like a dog. Others whispered of the priests of Asura who stole like furtive phantoms from Gunderland to the marches of Poitain, and to the forest villages of the Bossonians.

However the word came, revolt ran like a flame along the borders. Outlying Nemedian garrisons were stormed and put to the sword, foraging parties were cut to pieces; the west was up in arms, and there was a different air about the rising, a fierce resolution and inspired wrath rather than the frantic despair that had motivated the preceding revolts. It was not only the common people; barons were fortifying their castles and hurling defiance at the governors of the provinces. Bands of Bossonians were seen moving along the edges of the marches: stocky, resolute men in brigandines and steel caps, with longbows in their hands. From the inert stagnation of dissolution and ruin the realm was suddenly alive, vibrant and dangerous. So Amalric sent in haste for Tarascus, who came with an army.

In the royal palace in Tarantia the two kings and Amalric discussed the rising. They had not sent for Xaltotun, immersed in his cryptic studies in the Nemedian hills. Not since that bloody day in the valley of the Valkia had they called upon him for aid of his magic, and he had drawn apart, communing but little with them, apparently indifferent to their intrigues.

Nor had they sent for Orastes, but he came, and he was white as spume blown before the storm. He stood in the gold-domed chamber where the kings held conclave and they beheld in amazement his haggard stare, the fear they had never guessed the mind of Orastes could hold.

'You are weary, Orastes,' said Amalric. 'Sit upon this divan and I will have a slave fetch you wine. You have ridden hard-'

Orastes waved aside the invitation.

'I have killed three horses on the road from Belverus. I cannot drink wine, I cannot rest, until I have said what I have to say.'

He paced back and forth as if some inner fire would not let him stand motionless, and halting before his wondering companions: 'When we employed the Heart of Ahriman to bring a dead man back to life,' Orastes said abruptly, 'we did not weigh the consequences of tampering in the black dust of the past. The fault is mine, and the sin. We thought only of our ambitions, forgetting what ambitions this man might himself have. And we have loosed a demon upon the earth, a fiend inexplicable to common humanity. I have plumbed deep in evil, but there is a limit to which I, or any man of my race and age, can go. My ancestors were clean men, without any demoniacal taint; it is only I who have sunk into the pits, and I can sin only to the extent of my personal individuality. But behind Xaltotun lie a thousand centuries of black magic and diabolism, an ancient tradition of evil. He is beyond our conception not only because he is a wizard himself, but also because he is the son of a race of wizards.

'I have seen things that have blasted my soul. In the heart of the slumbering hills I have watched Xaltotun commune with the souls of the damned, and invoke the ancient demons of forgotten Acheron. I have seen the accursed descendants of that accursed empire worship him and hail him as their arch-priest. I have seen what he plots - and I tell you it is no less than the restoration of the ancient, black, grisly kingdom of Acheron!'

'What do you mean?' demanded Amalric. 'Acheron is dust. There are not enough survivals to make an empire. Not even Xaltotun can reshape the dust of three thousand years.'

'You know little of his black powers,' answered Orastes grimly. 'I have seen the very hills take on an alien and ancient aspect under the spell of his incantations. I have glimpsed, like shadows behind the realities, the dim shapes and outlines of valleys, forests, mountains and lakes that are not as they are today, but as they were in that dim yesterday - have even sensed, rather than glimpsed, the purple towers of forgotten Python shimmering like figures of mist in the dusk.

'And in the last conclave to which I accompanied him, understanding of his sorcery came to me at last, while the drums beat and the beast-like worshippers howled with their heads in the dust. I tell you he would restore Acheron by his magic, by the sorcery of a gigantic blood-sacrifice such as the world has never seen. He would enslave the world, and with a deluge of blood wash away the present and restore the past.'

'You are mad!' exclaimed Tarascus.

'Mad?' Orastes turned a haggard stare upon him.. 'Can any man see what I have seen and remain wholly sane? Yet I speak the truth. He plots the return of Acheron, with its towers and wizards and kings and horrors, as it was in the long ago. The descendants of Acheron will serve him as a nucleus upon which to build, but it is the blood and the bodies of the people of the world today that will furnish the mortar and the stones for the rebuilding. I cannot tell you how. My own brain reels when I try to understand. But I have seen! Acheron will be Acheron again, and even the hills, the forests and the rivers will resume their ancient aspect. Why not? If I, with my tiny store of knowledge, could bring to life a man dead three thousand years, why cannot the greatest wizard of the world bring back to life a kingdom dead three thousand years? Out of the dust shall Acheron arise at his bidding.'

'How can we thwart him?' asked Tarascus, impressed.

'There is but one way,' answered Orastes. 'We must steal the Heart of Ahriman!'

'But I-' began Tarascus involuntarily, then closed his mouth quickly.

None had noticed him, and Orastes was continuing.

'It is a power that can be used against him. With it in my hands I might defy him. But how shall we steal it? He has it hidden in some secret place, from which not even a Zamorian thief might filch it. I cannot learn its hiding-place. If he would only sleep again the sleep of the black lotus - but the last time he slept thus was after the battle of the Valkia, when he was weary because of the great magic he had performed, and-'

The door was locked and bolted, but it swung silently open and Xaltotun stood before them, calm, tranquil, stroking his patriarchal beard; but the lambent lights of hell flickered in his eyes.

'I have taught you too much,' he said calmly, pointing a finger like an index of doom at Orastes. And before any could move, he had cast a handful of dust on the floor near the feet of the priest, who stood like a man turned to marble. It flamed, smoldered; a blue serpentine of smoke rose and swayed upward about Orastes in a slender spiral. And when it had risen above his shoulders it curled about his neck with a whipping suddenness like the stroke of a snake. Orastes' scream was choked to a gurgle. His hands flew to his neck, his eyes were distended, his tongue protruded. The smoke was like a blue rope about his neck; then it faded and was gone, and Orastes slumped to the floor a dead man.

Xaltotun smote his hands together and two men entered, men often observed accompanying him - small, repulsively dark, with red, oblique eyes and pointed, rat-like teeth. They did not speak. Lifting the corpse, they bore it away.

Dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, Xaltotun seated himself at the ivory table about which sat the pale kings.

'Why are you in conclave?' he demanded.

'The Aquilonians have risen in the west,' answered Amalric, recovering from the grisly jolt the death of Orastes had given him. 'The fools believe that Conan is alive, and coming at the head of a Poitanian army to reclaim his kingdom. If he had reappeared immediately after Valkia, or if a rumor had been circulated that he lived, the central provinces would not have risen under him, they feared your powers so. But they have become so desperate under Valerius' misrule that they are ready to follow any man who can unite them against us, and prefer sudden death to torture and continual misery.

'Of course the tale has lingered stubbornly in the land that Conan was not really slain at Valkia, but not until recently have the masses accepted it. But Pallantides is back from exile in Ophir, swearing that the king was ill in his tent that day, and that a man-at-arms wore his harness, and a squire who but recently recovered from the stroke of a mace received at Valkia confirms his tale - or pretends to.

'An old woman with a pet wolf has wandered up and down the land, proclaiming that King Conan yet lives, and will return some day to reclaim the crown. And of late the cursed priests of Asura sing the same song. They claim that word has come to them by some mysterious means that Conan is returning to reconquer his domain. I cannot catch either her or them. This is, of course, a trick of Trocero's. My spies tell me there is indisputable evidence that the Poitanians are gathering to invade Aquilonia. I believe that Trocero will bring forward some pretender who he will claim is King Conan.'

Tarascus laughed, but there was no conviction in his laughter. He surreptitiously felt of a scar beneath his jupon, and remembered ravens that cawed on the trail of a fugitive; remembered the body of his squire, Arideus, brought back from the border mountains horribly mangled, by a great gray wolf, his terrified soldiers said. But he also remembered a red jewel stolen from a golden chest while a wizard slept, and he said nothing.

And Valerius remembered a dying nobleman who gasped out a tale of fear, and he remembered four Khitans who disappeared into the mazes of the south and never returned. But he held his tongue, for hatred and suspicion of his allies ate at him like a worm, and he desired nothing so much as to see both rebels and Nemedians go down locked in the death grip.

But Amalric exclaimed: 'It is absurd to dream that Conan lives!'

For answer Xaltotun cast a roll of parchment on the table.

Amalric caught it up, glared at it. From his lips burst a furious, incoherent cry. He read: To Xaltotun, grand fakir of Nemedia: Dog of Acheron, I am returning to my kingdom, and I mean to hang your hide on a bramble.

Conan

'A forgery!' exclaimed Amalric.

Xaltotun shook his head.

'It is genuine. I have compared it with the signature on the royal documents on record in the libraries of the court. None could imitate that bold scrawl.'

'Then if Conan lives,' muttered Amalric, 'this uprising will not be like the others, for he is the only man living who can unite the Aquilonians. But,' he protested, 'this is not like Conan. Why should he put us on our guard with his boasting? One would think that he would strike without warning, after the fashion of the barbarians.'

'We are already warned,' pointed out Xaltotun. 'Our spies have told us of preparations for war in Poitain. He could not cross the mountains without our knowledge; so he sends me his defiance in characteristic manner.'

'Why to you?' demanded Valerius. 'Why not to me, or to Tarascus?'

Xaltotun turned his inscrutable gaze upon the king.

'Conan is wiser than you,' he said at last. 'He already knows what you kings have yet to learn - that it is not Tarascus, nor Valerius, no, nor Amalric, but Xaltotun who is the real master of the western nations.'

They did not reply; they sat staring at him, assailed by a numbing realization of the truth of his assertion.

'There is no road for me but the imperial highway,' said Xaltotun. 'But first we must crush Conan. I do not know how he escaped me at Belverus, for knowledge of what happened while I lay in the slumber of the black lotus is denied me. But he is in the south, gathering an army. It is his last, desperate blow, made possible only by the desperation of the people who have suffered under Valerius. Let them rise; I hold them all in the palm of my hand. We will wait until he moves against us, and then we will crush him once and for all.

'Then we shall crush Poitain and Gunderland and the stupid Bossonians. After them Ophir, Argos, Zingara, Koth - all the nations of the world we shall weld into one vast empire. You shall rule as my satraps, and as my captains shall be greater than kings are now. I am unconquerable, for the Heart of Ahriman is hidden where no man can ever wield it against me again.'

Tarascus averted his gaze, lest Xaltotun read his thoughts. He knew the wizard had not looked into the golden chest with its carven serpents that had seemed to sleep, since he laid the Heart therein. Strange as it seemed, Xaltotun did not know that the heart had been stolen; the strange jewel was beyond or outside the ring of his dark wisdom; his uncanny talents did not warn him that the chest was empty. Tarascus did not believe that Xaltotun knew the full extent of Orastes' revelations, for the Pythonian had not mentioned the restoration of Acheron, but only the building of a new, earthly empire. Tarascus did not believe that Xaltotun was yet quite sure of his power; if they needed his aid in their ambitions, no less he needed theirs. Magic depended, to a certain extent after all, on sword strokes and lance thrusts. The king read meaning in Amalric's furtive glance; let the wizard use his arts to help them defeat their most dangerous enemy. Time enough then to turn against him. There might yet be a way to cheat this dark power they had raised.

21 Drums of Peril

Confirmation of the war came when the army of Poitain, ten thousand strong, marched through the southern passes with waving banners and shimmer of steel. And at their head, the spies swore, rode a giant figure in black armor, with the royal lion of Aquilonia worked in gold upon the breast of his rich silken surcoat. Conan lived! The king lived! There was no doubt of it in men's minds now, whether friend or foe.

With the news of the invasion from the south there also came word, brought by hard-riding couriers, that a host of Gundermen was moving southward, reinforced by the barons of the northwest and the northern Bossonians. Tarascus marched with thirty-one thousand men to Galparan, on the river Shirki, which the Gundermen must cross to strike at the towns still held by the Nemedians. The Shirki was a swift, turbulent river rushing southwestward through rocky gorges and canyons, and there were few places where an army could cross at that time of the year, when the stream was almost bank-full with the melting of the snows. All the country east of the Shirki was in the hands of the Nemedians, and it was logical to assume that the Gundermen would attempt to cross either at Galparan, or at Tanasul, which lay to the south of Galparan. Reinforcements were daily expected from Nemedia, until word came that the king of Ophir was making hostile demonstrations on Nemedia's southern border, and to spare any more troops would be to expose Nemedia to the risk of an invasion from the south.

Amalric and Valerius moved out from Tarantia with twentyfive thousand men, leaving as large a garrison as they dared to discourage revolts in the cities during their absence. They wished to meet and crush Conan before he could be joined by the rebellious forces of the kingdom.

The king and his Poitanians had crossed the mountains, but there had been no actual clash of arms, no attack on towns or fortresses. Conan had appeared and disappeared. Apparently he had turned westward through the wild, thinly settled hill country, and entered the Bossoman marches, gathering recruits as he went. Amalric and Valerius with their host, Nemedians, Aquilonian renegades, and ferocious mercenaries, moved through the land in baffled wrath, looking for a foe which did not appear.

Amalric found it impossible to obtain more than vague general tidings about Conan's movements. Scouting-parties had a way of riding out and never returning, and it was not uncommon to find a spy crucified to an oak. The countryside was up and striking as peasants and country-folk strike - savagely, murderously and secretly. All that Amalric knew certainly was that a large force of Gundermen and northern Bossonians was somewhere to the north of him, beyond the Shirki, and that Conan with a smaller force of Poitanians and southern Bossonians was somewhere to the southwest of him.

He began to grow fearful that if he and Valerius advanced further into the wild country, Conan might elude them entirely, march around them and invade the central provinces behind them. Amalric fell back from the Shirki valley and camped in a plain a day's ride from Tanasul. There he waited. Tarascus maintained his position at Galparan, for he feared that Conan's maneuvers were intended to draw him southward, and so let the Gundermen into the kingdom at the northern crossing.

To Amalric's camp came Xaltotun in his chariot drawn by the uncanny horses that never tired, and he entered Amalric's tent where the baron conferred with Valerius over a map spread on an ivory camp table.

This map Xaltotun crumpled and flung aside.

'What your scouts cannot learn for you,' quoth he, 'my spies tell me, though their information is strangely blurred and imperfect, as if unseen forces were working against me.

'Conan is advancing along the Shirki river with ten thousand Poitanians, three thousand southern Bossonians, and barons of the west and south with their retainers to the number of five thousand. An army of thirty thousand Gundermen and northern Bossonians is pushing southward to join him. They have established contact by means of secret communications used by the cursed priests of Asura, who seem to be opposing me, and whom I will feed to a serpent when the battle is over - I swear it by Set!

'Both armies are headed for the crossing at Tanasul, but I do not believe that the Gundermen will cross the river. I believe that Conan will cross, instead, and join them.'

'Why should Conan cross the river?'

'Because it is to his advantage to delay the battle. The longer he waits, the stronger he will become, the more precarious our position. The hills on the other side of the river swarm with people passionately loyal to his cause -broken men, refugees, fugitives from Valerius' cruelty. From all over the kingdom men are hurrying to join his army, singly and by companies. Daily, parties from our armies are ambushed and cut to pieces by the country-folk. Revolt grows in the central provinces, and will soon burst into open rebellion. The garrisons we left there are not sufficient, and we can hope for no reinforcements from Nemedia for the time being. I see the hand of Pallantides in this brawling on the Ophirean frontier. He has kin in Ophir.

'If we do not catch and crush Conan quickly the provinces will be in blaze of revolt behind us. We shall have to fall back to Tarantia to defend what we have taken; and we may have to fight our way through a country in rebellion, with Conan's whole force at our heels, and then stand siege in the city itself, with enemies within as well as without. No, we cannot wait. We must crush Conan before his army grows too great, before the central provinces rise. With his head hanging above the gate at Tarantia you will see how quickly the rebellion will fall apart.'

'Why do you not put a spell on his army to slay them all?' asked Valerius, half in mockery.

Xaltotun stared at the Aquilonian as if he read the full extent of the mocking madness that lurked in those wayward eyes.

'Do not worry,' he said at last. 'My arts shall crush Conan finally like a lizard under the heel. But even sorcery is aided by pikes and swords.'

'If he crosses the river and takes up his position in the Goralian hills he may be hard to dislodge,' said Amalric. 'But if we catch him in the valley on this side of the river we can wipe him out. How far is Conan from Tanasul?'

'At the rate he is marching he should reach the crossing sometime tomorrow night. His men are rugged and he is pushing them hard. He should arrive there at least a day before the Gundermen.'

'Good!' Amalric smote the table with his clenched fist. 'I can reach Tanasul before he can. I'll send a rider to Tarascus, bidding him follow me to Tanasul. By the time he arrives I will have cut Conan off from the crossing and destroyed him. Then our combined force can cross the river and deal with the Gundermen.'

Xaltotun shook his head impatiently.

'A good enough plan if you were dealing with anyone but Conan. But your twentyfive thousand men are not enough to destroy his eighteen thousand before the Gundermen come up. They will fight with the desperation of wounded panthers. And suppose the Gundermen come up while the hosts are locked in battle? You will be caught between two fires and destroyed before Tarascus can arrive. He will reach Tanasul too late to aid you.'

'What then?' demanded Amalric.

'Move with your whole strength against Conan,' answered the man from Acheron. 'Send a rider bidding Tarascus join us here. We will wait his coming. Then we will march together to Tanasul.'

'But while we wait,' protested Amalric, 'Conan will cross the river and join the Gundermen.'

'Conan will not cross the river,' answered Xaltotun

Amalric's head jerked up and he stared into the cryptic dark eyes.

'What do you mean?'

'Suppose there were torrential rains far to the north, at the head of the Shirki? Suppose the river came down in such flood as to render the crossing at Tanasul impassable? Could we not then bring up our entire force at our leisure, catch Conan on this side of the river and crush him, and then, when the flood subsided, which I think it would do the next day, could we not cross the river and destroy the Gundermen? Thus we could use our full strength against each of these smaller forces in turn.'

Valerius laughed as he always laughed at the prospect of the ruin of either friend or foe, and drew a restless hand jerkily through his unruly yellow locks. Amalric stared at the man from Acheron with mingled fear and admiration.

'If we caught Conan in Shirki valley with the hill ridges to his right and the river in flood to his left,' he admitted, 'with our whole force we could annihilate him. Do you think - are you sure - do you believe such rains will fall?'

'I go to my tent,' answered Xaltotun, rising. 'Necromancy is not accomplished by the waving of a wand. Send a rider to Tarascus. And let none approach my tent.'

That last command was unnecessary. No man in that host could have been bribed to approach that mysterious black silken pavilion, the doorflaps of which were always closely drawn. None but Xaltotun ever entered it, yet voices were often heard issuing from it; its walls billowed sometimes without a wind, and weird music came from it. Sometimes, deep in midnight, its silken walls were lit red by flames flickering within, limning misshapen silhouettes that passed to and fro.

Lying in his own tent that night, Amalric heard the steady rumble of a drum in Xaltotun's tent; through the darkness it boomed steadily, and occasionally the Nemedian could have sworn that a deep, croaking voice mingled with the pulse of the drum. And he shuddered, for he knew that voice was not the voice of Xaltotun. The drum rustled and muttered on like deep thunder, heard afar off, and before dawn Amalric glancing from his tent, caught the red flicker of lightning afar on the northern horizon. In all other parts of the sky the great stars blazed whitely. But the distant lightning flickered incessantly, like the crimson glint of firelight on a tiny, turning blade.

At sunset of the next day Tarascus came up with his host, dusty and weary from hard marching, the footmen straggling hours behind the horsemen. They camped in the plain near Amalric's camp, and at dawn the combined army moved westward.

Ahead of him roved a swarm of scouts, and Amalric waited impatiently for them to return and tell of the Poitanians trapped beside a furious flood. But when the scouts met the column it was with the news that Conan had crossed the river!

'What?' exclaimed Amalric. 'Did he cross before the flood?'

'There was no flood,' answered the scouts, puzzled. 'Late last night he came up to Tanasul and flung his army across.'

'No flood?' exclaimed Xaltotun, taken aback for the first time in Amalric's knowledge. 'Impossible! There were mighty rains upon the headwaters of the Shirki last night and the night before that!'

'That may be your lordship,' answered the scout. 'It is true the water was muddy, and the people of Tanasul said that the river rose perhaps a foot yesterday; but that was not enough to prevent Conan's crossing.'

Xaltotun's sorcery had failed! The thought hammered in Amalric's brain. His horror of this strange man out of the past had grown steadily since that night in Belverus when he had seen a brown, shriveled mummy swell and grow into a living man. And the death of Orastes had changed lurking horror into active fear. In his heart was a grisly conviction that the man -or devil - was invincible. Yet now he had undeniable proof of his failure.

Yet even the greatest of necromancers might fail occasionally, thought the baron. At any rate, he dared not oppose the man from Acheron - yet. Orastes was dead, writhing in Mitra only knew what nameless hell, and Amalric knew his sword would scarcely prevail where the black wisdom of the renegade priest had failed. What grisly abomination Xaltotun plotted lay in the unpredictable future. Conan and his host were a present menace against which Xaltotun's wizardry might well be needed before the play was all played.

They came to Tanasul, a small fortified village at the spot where a reef of rocks made a natural bridge across the river, passable always except in times of greatest flood. Scouts brought in the news that Conan had taken up his position in the Goralian hills, which began to rise a few miles beyond the river. And just before sundown the Gundermen had arrived in his camp.

Amalric looked at Xaltotun, inscrutable and alien in the light of the flaring torches. Night had fallen.

'What now? Your magic has failed. Conan confronts us with an army nearly as strong as our own, and he has the advantage of position. We have a choice of two evils: to camp here and await his attack, or to fall back toward Tarantia and await reinforcements.'

'We are ruined if we wait,' answered Xaltotun. 'Cross the river and camp on the plain. We will attack at dawn.'

'But his position is too strong!' exclaimed Amalric.

'Fool!' A gust of passion broke the veneer of the wizard's calm. 'Have you forgotten Valkia? Because some obscure elemental principle prevented the flood do you deem me helpless? I had intended that your spears should exterminate our enemies; but do not fear: it is my arts shall crush their host. Conan is in a trap. He will never see another sun set. Cross the river!'

They crossed by the flare of torches. The hoofs of the horses clinked on the rocky bridge, splashed through the shallows. The glint of the torches on shields and breastplates was reflected redly in the black water. The rock bridge was broad on which they crossed, but even so it was past midnight before the host was camped in the plain beyond. Above them they could see fires winking redly in the distance. Conan had turned at bay in the Goralian hills, which had more than once before served as the last stand of an Aquilonian king.

Amalric left his pavilion and strode restlessly through the camp. A weird glow flickered in Xaltotun's tent, and from time to time a demoniacal cry slashed the silence, and there was a low sinister muttering of a drum that rustled rather than rumbled.

Amalric, his instincts whetted by the night and the circumstances, felt that Xaltotun was opposed by more than physical force. Doubts of the wizard's power assailed him. He glanced at the fires high above him, and his face set in grim lines. He and his army were deep in the midst of a hostile country. Up there among those hills lurked thousands of wolfish figures out of whose hearts and souls all emotion and hope had been scourged except a frenzied hate for their conquerors, a mad lust for vengeance. Defeat meant annihilation, retreat through a land swarming with bloodmad enemies. And on the morrow he must hurl his host against the grimmest fighter in the western nations, and his desperate horde. If Xaltotun failed them now Half a dozen men-at-arms strode out of the shadows. The firelight glinted on their breastplates and helmet crests. Among them they half led, half dragged a gaunt figure in tattered rags.

Saluting, they spoke: 'My lord, this man came to the outposts and said he desired word with King Valerius. He is an Aquilonian.'

He looked more like a wolf - a wolf the traps had scarred. Old sores that only fetters make showed on his wrists and ankles. A great brand, the mark of hot iron, disfigured his face. His eyes glared through the tangle of his matted hair as he half crouched before the baron.

'Who are you, you filthy dog?' demanded the Nemedian.

'Call me Tiberias,' answered the man, and his teeth clicked in an involuntary spasm. 'I have come to tell you how to trap Conan.'

'A traitor, eh?' rumbled the baron.

'Men say you have gold,' mouthed the man, shivering under his rags. 'Give some to me! Give me gold and I will show you how to defeat the king!' His eyes glazed widely, his outstretched, upturned hands were spread like quivering claws.

Amalric shrugged his shoulder in distaste. But no tool was too base for his use.

'If you speak the truth you shall have more gold than you can carry,' he said. 'If you are a liar and a spy I will have you crucified head-down. Bring him along.'

In the tent of Valerius, the baron pointed to the man who crouched shivering before them, huddling his rags about him.

'He says he knows a way to aid us on the morrow. We will need aid, if Xaltotun's plan is no better than it has proved so far. Speak on, dog.'

The man's body writhed in strange convulsions. Words came in a stumbling rush: 'Conan camps at the head of the Valley of Lions. It is shaped like a fan, with steep hills on either side. If you attack him tomorrow you will have to march straight up the valley. You cannot climb the hills on either side. But if King Valerius will deign to accept my service, I will guide him through the hills and show him how he can come upon King Conan from behind. But if it is to be done at all, we must start soon. It is many hours' riding, for one must go miles to the west, then miles to the north, then turn eastward and so come into the Valley of Lions from behind, as the Gundermen came.'

Amalric hesitated, tugging his chin. In these chaotic times it was not rare to find men willing to sell their souls for a few gold pieces.

'If you lead me astray you will die,' said Valerius. 'You are aware of that, are you not?'

The man shivered, but his wide eyes did not waver.

'If I betray you, slay me!'

'Conan will not dare divide his force,' mused Amalric. 'He will need all his men to repel our attack. He cannot spare any to lay ambushes in the hills. Besides, this fellow knows his hide depends on his leading you as he promised. Would a dog like him sacrifice himself? Nonsense! No, Valerius, I believe the man is honest.'

'Or a greater thief than most, for he would sell his liberator,' laughed Valerius. 'Very well. I will follow the dog. How many men can you spare me?'

'Five thousand should be enough,' answered Amalric. 'A surprise attack on their rear will throw them into confusion, and that will be enough. I shall expect your attack about noon.'

'You will know when I strike,' answered Valerius.

As Amalric returned to his pavilion he noted with gratification that Xaltotun was still in his tent, to judge from the bloodfreezing cries that shuddered forth into the night air from time to time. When presently he heard the clink of steel and the jingle of bridles in the outer darkness, he smiled grimly. Valerius had about served his purpose. The baron knew that Conan was like a wounded lion that rends and tears even in his deaththroes. When Valerius struck from the rear, the desperate strokes of the Cimmerian might well wipe his rival out of existence before he himself succumbed. So much the better. Amalric felt he could well dispense with Valerius, once he had paved the way for a Nemedian victory.

The five thousand horsemen who accompanied Valerius were hardbitten Aquilonian renegades for the most part. In the still starlight they moved out of the sleeping camp, following the westward trend of the great black masses that rose against the stars ahead of them. Valerius rode at their head, and beside him rode Tiberias, a leather thong about his wrist gripped by a manat-arms who rode on the other side of him. Others kept close behind with drawn swords.

'Play us false and you die instantly,' Valerius pointed out. 'I do not know every sheep-path in these hills, but I know enough about the general configuration of the country to know the directions we must take to come in behind the Valley of Lions. See that you do not lead us astray.'

The man ducked his head and his teeth chattered as he volubly assured his captor of his loyalty, staring up stupidly at the banner that floated over him, the golden serpent of the old dynasty.

Skirting the extremities of the hills that locked the Valley of Lions, they swung wide to the west. An hour's ride and they turned north, forging through wild and rugged hills, following dim trails and tortuous paths. Sunrise found them some miles northwest of Conan's position, and here the guide turned eastward and led them through a maze of labyrinths and crags. Valerius nodded, judging their position by various peaks thrusting up above the others. He had kept his bearings in a general way, and he knew they were still headed in the right direction.

But now, without warning, a gray fleecy mass came billowing down from the north, veiling the slopes, spreading out through the valleys. It blotted out the sun; the world became a blind gray void in which visibility was limited to a matter of yards. Advance became a stumbling, groping muddle. Valerius cursed. He could no longer see the peaks that had served him as guideposts. He must depend wholly upon the traitorous guide. The golden serpent drooped in the windless air.

Presently Tiberias seemed himself confused; he halted, stared about uncertainly.

'Are you lost, dog?' demanded Valerius harshly.

'Listen!'

Somewhere ahead of them a faint vibration began, the rhythmic rumble of a drum.

'Conan's drum!' exclaimed the Aquilonian.

'If we are close enough to hear the drum,' said Valerius, 'why do we not hear the shouts and the clang of arms? Surely battle has joined.'

'The gorges and the winds play strange tricks,' answered Tiberias, his teeth chattering with the ague that is frequently the lot of men who have spent much time in damp underground dungeons. Listen!'

Faintly to their ears came a low muffled roar.

'They are fighting down in the valley!' cried Tiberias. 'The drum is beating on the heights. Let us hasten!'

He rode straight on toward the sound of the distant drum as one who knows his ground at last. Valerius followed, cursing the fog. Then it occurred to him that it would mask his advance. Conan could not see him coming. He would be at the Cimmerian's back before the noonday sun dispelled the mists.

Just now he could not tell what lay on either hand, whether cliffs, thickets or gorges. The drum throbbed unceasingly, growing louder as they advanced, but they heard no more of the battle. Valerius had no idea toward what point of the compass they were headed. He started as he saw gray rock walls looming through the smoky drifts on either hand, and realized that they were riding through a narrow defile. But the guide showed no sign of nervousness, and Valerius hove a sigh of relief when the walls widened out and became invisible in the fog. They were through the defile; if an ambush had been planned, it would have been made in that pass.

But now Tiberias halted again. The drum was rumbling louder, and Valerius could not determine from what direction the sound was coming. Now it seemed ahead of him, now behind, now on one hand or the other. Valerius glared about him impatiently, sitting on his warhorse with wisps of mist curling about him and the moisture gleaming on his armor. Behind him the long lines of steelclad riders faded away and away like phantoms into the mist.

'Why do you tarry, dog?' he demanded.

The man seemed to be listening to the ghostly drum. Slowly he straightened in his saddle, turned his head and faced Valerius, and the smile on his lips was terrible to see.

'The fog is thinning, Valerius,' he said in a new voice, pointing a bony finger. 'Look!'

The drum was silent. The fog was fading away. First the crests of cliffs came in sight above the gray clouds, tall and spectral. Lower and lower crawled the mists, shrinking, fading. Valerius started up in his stirrups with a cry that the horsemen echoed behind him. On all sides of them the cliffs towered. They were not in a wide, open valley as he had supposed. They were in a blind gorge walled by sheer cliffs hundreds of feet high. The only entrance or exit was that narrow defile through which they had ridden.

'Dog!' Valerius struck Tiberias full in the mouth with his clenched mailed hand. 'What devil's trick is this?'

Tiberias spat out a mouthful of blood and shook with fearful laughter.

'A trick that shall rid the world of a beast! Look, dog!'

Again Valerius cried out, more in fury than in fear.

The defile was blocked by a wild and terrible band of men who stood silent as images - ragged, shock-headed men with spears in their hands - hundreds of them. And up on the cliffs appeared other faces - thousands of faces - wild, gaunt, ferocious faces, marked by fire and steel and starvation.

'A trick of Conan's!' raged Valerius.

'Conan knows nothing of it,' laughed Tiberias. 'It was the plot of broken men, of men you ruined and turned to beasts. Amalric was right. Conan has not divided his army. We are the rabble who followed him, the wolves who skulked in these hills, the homeless men, the hopeless men. This was our plan, and the priests of Asura aided us with their mist. Look at them, Valerius! Each bears the mark of your hand, on his body or on his heart!

'Look at me! You do not know me, do you, what of this scar your hangman burned upon me? Once you knew me. Once I was lord of Amilius, the man whose sons you murdered, whose daughter your mercenaries ravished and slew. You said I would not sacrifice myself to trap you? Almighty gods, if I had a thousand lives I would give them all to buy your doom!

'And I have bought it! Look on the men you broke, dead men who once played the king! Their hour has come! This gorge is your tomb. Try to climb the cliffs: they are steep, they are high. Try to fight your way back through the defile: spears will block your path, boulders will crush you from above! Dog! I will be waiting for you in hell!'

Throwing back his head he laughed until the rocks rang. Valerius leaned from his saddle and slashed down with his great sword, severing shoulder-bone and breast. Tiberias sank to the earth, still laughing ghastlily through a gurgle of gushing blood.

The drums had begun again, encircling the gorge with guttural thunder; boulders came crashing down; above the screams of dying men shrilled the arrows in blinding clouds from the cliffs.

22 The Road to Acheron

Dawn was just whitening the east when Amalric drew up his hosts in the mouth of the Valley of Lions. This valley was flanked by low, rolling but steep hills, and the floor pitched upward in a series of irregular natural terraces. On the uppermost of these terraces Conan's army held its position, awaiting the attack. The host that had joined him, marching down from Gunderland, had not been composed exclusively of spearmen. With them had come seven thousand Bossonian archers, and four thousand barons and their retainers of the north and west, swelling the ranks of his cavalry.

The pikemen were drawn up in a compact wedge-shaped formation at the narrow head of the valley. There were nineteen thousand of them, mostly Gundermen, though some four thousand were Aquilonians of other provinces. They were flanked on either hand by five thousand Bossonian archers. Behind the ranks of the pikemen the knights sat their steeds motionless, lances raised: ten thousand knights of Poitain, nine thousand Aquilonians, barons and their retainers.

It was a strong positon. His flanks could not be turned, for that would mean climbing the steep, wooded hills in the teeth of the arrows and swords of the Bossonians. His camp lay directly behind him, in a narrow, steep-walled valley which was indeed merely a continuation of the Valley of Lions, pitching up at a higher level. He did not fear a surprise from the rear, because the hills behind him were full of refugees and broken men whose loyalty to him was beyond question.

But if his position was hard to shake, it was equally hard to escape from. It was a trap as well as a fortress for the defenders, a desperate last stand of men who did not expect to survive unless they were victorious. The only line of retreat possible was through the narrow valley at their rear.

Xaltotun mounted a hill on the left side of the valley, near the wide mouth. This hill rose higher than the others, and was known as the King's Altar, for a reason long forgotten. Only Xaltotun knew, and his memory dated back three thousand years.

He was not alone. His two familiars, silent, hairy, furtive and dark, were with him, and they bore a young Aquilonian girl, bound hand and foot. They laid her on an ancient stone, which was curiously like an altar, and which crowned the summit of the hill. For long centuries it had stood there, worn by the elements until many doubted that it was anything but a curiously shapen natural rock. But what it was, and why it stood there, Xaltotun remembered from of old. The familiars went away, with their bent backs like silent gnomes, and Xaltotun stood alone beside the altar, his dark beard blown in the wind, overlooking the valley.

He could see clear back to the winding Shirki, and up into the hills beyond the head of the valley. He could see the gleaming wedge of steel drawn up at the head of the terraces, the burganets of the archers glinting among the rocks and bushes, the silent knights motionless on their steeds, their pennons flowing above their helmets, their lances rising in a bristling thicket.

Looking in the other direction he could see the long serried lines of the Nemedians moving in ranks of shining steel into the mouth of the valley. Behind them the gay pavilions of the lords and knights and the drab tents of the common soldiers stretched back almost to the river.

Like a river of molten steel the Nemedian host flowed into the valley, the great scarlet dragon rippling over it. First marched the bowmen, in even ranks, arbalests half raised, bolts nocked, fingers on triggers. After them came the pikemen, and behind them the real strength of the army - the mounted knights, their banners unfurled to the wind, their lances lifted, walking their great steeds forward as if they rode to a banquet.

And higher up on the slopes the smaller Aquilonian host stood grimly silent.

There were thirty thousand Nemedian knights, and, as in most Hyborian nations, it was the chivalry which was the sword of the army. The footmen were used only to clear the way for a charge of the armored knights. There were twenty-one thousand of these, pikemen and archers.

The bowmen began loosing as they advanced, without breaking ranks, launching their quarrels with a whir and tang. But the bolts fell short or rattled harmlessly from the overlapping shields of the Gundermen. And before the arbalesters could come within killing range, the arching shafts of the Bossonians were wreaking havoc in their ranks.

A little of this, a futile attempt at exchanging fire, and the Nemedian bowmen began falling back in disorder. Their armor was light, their weapons no match for the Bossonian longbows. The western archers were sheltered by bushes and rocks. Moreover, the Nemedian footmen lacked something of the morale of the horsemen, knowing as they did that they were being used merely to clear the way for the knights.

The crossbowmen fell back, and between their opening lines the pikemen advanced. These were largely mercenaries, and their masters had no compunction about sacrificing them. They were intended to mask the advance of the knights until the latter were within smiting distance. So while the arbalesters plied their bolts from either flank at long range, the pikemen marched into the teeth of the blast from above, and behind them the knights came on.

When the pikemen began to falter beneath the savage hail of death that whistled down the slopes among them, a trumpet blew, their companies divided to right and left, and through them the mailed knights thundered.

They ran full into a cloud of stinging death. The clothyard shafts found every crevice in their armor and the housings of the steeds. Horses scrambling up the grassy terraces reared and plunged backward, bearing their riders with them. Steelclad forms littered the slopes. The charge wavered and ebbed back.

Back down in the valley Amalric reformed his ranks. Tarascus was fighting with drawn sword under the scarlet dragon, but it was the baron of Tor who commanded that day. Amalric swore as he glanced at the forest of lance-tips visible above and beyond the headpieces of the Gundermen. He had hoped his retirement would draw the knights out in a charge down the slopes after him, to be raked from either flank by his bowmen and swamped by the numbers of his horsemen. But they had not moved. Camp-servants brought skins of water from the river. Knights doffed their helmets and drenched their sweating heads. The wounded on the slopes screamed vainly for water. In the upper valley, springs supplied the defenders. They did not thirst that long, hot spring day.

On the King's Altar, beside the ancient, carven stone, Xaltotun watched the steel tide ebb and flow. On came the knights, with waving plumes and dipping lances. Through a whistling cloud of arrows they plowed to break like a thundering wave on the bristling wall of spears and shields. Axes rose and fell above the plumed helmets, spears thrust upward, bringing down horses and riders. The pride of the Gundermen was no less fierce than that of the knights. They were not spear-fodder, to be sacrificed for the glory of better men. They were the finest infantry in the world, with a tradition that made their morale unshakable. The kings of Aquilonia had long learned the worth of unbreakable infantry. They held their formation unshaken; over their gleaming ranks flowed the great lion banner, and at the tip of the wedge a giant figure in black armor roared and smote like a hurricane, with a dripping ax that split steel and bone alike.

The Nemedians fought as gallantly as their traditions of high courage demanded. But they could not break the iron wedge, and from the wooded knolls on either hand arrows raked their close-packed ranks mercilessly. Their own bowmen were useless, their pikemen unable to climb the heights and come to grips with the Bossonians. Slowly, stubbornly, sullenly, the grim knights fell back, counting their empty saddles. Above them the Gundermen made no outcry of triumph. They closed their ranks, locking up the gaps made by the fallen. Sweat ran into their eyes from under their steel caps. They gripped their spears and waited, their fierce hearts swelling with pride that a king should fight on foot with them. Behind them the Aquilonian knights had not moved. They sat their steeds, grimly immobile.

A knight spurred a sweating horse up the hill called the King's Altar, and glared at Xaltotun with bitter eyes.

'Amalric bids me say that it is time to use your magic, wizard,' he said. 'We are dying like flies down there in the valley. We cannot break their ranks.'

Xaltotun seemed to expand, to grow tall and awesome and terrible.

'Return to Amalric,' he said. 'Tell him to reform his ranks for a charge, but to await my signal. Before that signal is given he will see a sight that he will remember until he lies dying!'

The knight saluted as if compelled against his will, and thundered down the hill at breakneck pace.

Xaltotun stood beside the dark altarstone and stared across the valley, at the dead and wounded men on the terraces, at the grim, bloodstained band at the head of the slopes, at the dusty, steelclad ranks reforming in the vale below. He glanced up at the sky, and he glanced down at the slim white figure on the dark stone. And lifting a dagger inlaid with archaic hieroglyphs, he intoned an immemorial invocation: 'Set, god of darkness, scaly lord of the shadows, by the blood of a virgin and the sevenfold symbol I call to your sons below the black earth! Children of the deeps, below the red earth, under the black earth, awaken and shake your awful manes! Let the hills rock and the stones topple upon my enemies! Let the sky grow dark above them, the earth unstable beneath their feet! Let a wind from the deep black earth curl up beneath their feet, and blacken and shrivel them-'

He halted short, dagger lifted. In the tense silence the roar of the hosts rose beneath him, borne on the wind.

On the other side of the altar stood a man in a black hooded robe, whose coif shadowed pale delicate features and dark eyes calm and meditative.

'Dog of Asura!' whispered Xaltotun, his voice was like the hiss of an angered serpent. 'Are you mad, that you seek your doom? Ho, Baal! Chiron!'

'Call again, dog of Acheron!' said the other, and laughed. 'Summon them loudly. They will not hear, unless your shouts reverberate in hell.'

From a thicket on the edge of the crest came a somber old woman in peasant garb, her hair flowing over her shoulders, a great gray wolf following at her heels.

'Witch, priest and wolf,' muttered Xaltotun grimly, and laughed. 'Fools, to pit your charlatan's mummery against my arts! With a wave of my hand I brush you from my path!'

'Your arts are straws in the wind, dog of Python,' answered the Asurian. 'Have you wondered why the Shirki did not come down in flood and trap Conan on the other bank? When I saw the lightning in the night I guessed your plan, and my spells dispersed the clouds you had summoned before they could empty their torrents. You did not even know that your rainmaking wizardry had failed.'

'You lie!' cried Xaltotun, but the confidence in his voice was shaken. 'I have felt the impact of a powerful sorcery against mine - but no man on earth could undo the rain-magic, once made, unless he possessed the very heart of sorcery.'

'But the flood you plotted did not come to pass,' answered the priest. 'Look at your allies in the valley, Pythonian! You have led them to the slaughter! They are caught in the fangs of the trap, and you cannot aid them. Look!'

He pointed. Out of the narrow gorge of the upper valley, behind the Poitanians, a horseman came flying, whirling something about his head that flashed in the sun. Recklessly he hurtled down the slopes, through the ranks of the Gundermen, who sent up a deepthroated roar and clashed their spears and shields like thunder in the hills. On the terraces between the hosts the sweat-soaked horse reared and plunged, and his wild rider yelled and brandished the thing in his hands like one demented. It was the torn remnant of a scarlet banner, and the sun struck dazzlingly on the golden scales of a serpent that writhed thereon.

'Valerius is dead!' cried Hadrathus ringingly. 'A fog and a drum lured him to his doom! I gathered that fog, dog of Python, and I dispersed it! I, with my magic which is greater than your magic!'

'What matters it?' roared Xaltotun, a terrible sight, his eyes blazing, his features convulsed. 'Valerius was a fool. I do not need him. I can crush Conan without human aid!'

'Why have you delayed?' mocked Hadrathus. 'Why have you allowed so many of your allies to fall pierced by arrows and spitted on spears?'

'Because blood aids great sorcery!' thundered Xaltotun, in a voice that made the rocks quiver. A lurid nimbus played about his awful head. 'Because no wizard wastes his strength thoughtlessly. Because I would conserve my powers for the great days to be, rather than employ them in a hill-country brawl. But now, by Set, I shall loose them to the uttermost! Watch, dog of Asura, false priest of an outworn god, and see a sight that shall blast your reason for evermore!'

Hadrathus threw back his head and laughed, and hell was in his laughter.

'Look, black devil of Python!'

His hand came from under his robe holding something that flamed and burned in the sun, changing the light to a pulsing golden glow in which the flesh of Xaltotun looked like the flesh of a corpse.

Xaltotun cried out as if he had been stabbed.

'The Heart! The Heart of Ahriman!'

'Aye! The one power that is greater than your power!'

Xaltotun seemed to shrivel, to grow old. Suddenly his beard was shot with snow, his locks flecked with gray.

'The Heart!' he mumbled. 'You stole it! Dog! Thief?'

'Not I! It has been on a long journey far to the southward. But now it is in my hands, and your black arts cannot stand against it. As it resurrected you, so shall it hurl you back into the night whence it drew you. You shall go down the dark road to Acheron, which is the road of silence and the night. The dark empire, unreborn, shall remain a legend and a black memory. Conan shall reign again. And the Heart of Ahriman shall go back into the cavern below the temple of Mitra, to burn as a symbol of the power of Aquilonia for a thousand years!'

Xaltotun screamed inhumanly and rushed around the altar, dagger lifted; but from somewhere - out of the sky, perhaps, or the great jewel that blazed in the hand of Hadrathus - shot a jetting beam of blinding blue light. Full against the breast of Xaltotun it flashed, and the hills re-echoed the concussion. The wizard of Acheron went down as though struck by a thunderbolt, and before he touched the ground he was fearfully altered. Beside the altarstone lay no fresh-slain corpse, but a shriveled mummy, a brown, dry, unrecognizable carcass sprawling among moldering swathings.

Somberly old Zelata looked down.

'He was not a living man,' she said. 'The Heart lent him a false aspect of life, that deceived even himself. I never saw him as other than a mummy.'

Hadrathus bent to unbind the swooning girl on the altar, when from among the trees appeared a strange apparition -Xaltotun's chariot drawn by the weird horses. Silently they advanced to the altar and halted, with the chariot wheel almost touching the brown withered thing on the grass. Hadrathus lifted the body of the wizard and placed it in the chariot. And without hesitation the uncanny steeds turned and moved off southward, down the hill. And Hadrathus and Zelata and the gray wolf watched them go - down the long road to Acheron which is beyond the ken of men.

Down in the valley Amalric had stiffened in his saddle when he saw that wild horseman curvetting and caracoling on the slopes while he brandished that bloodstained serpent-banner. Then some instinct jerked his head about, toward the hill known as the King's Altar. And his lips parted. Every man in the valley saw it - an arching shaft of dazzling light that towered up from the summit of the hill, showering golden fire. High above the hosts it burst in a blinding blaze that momentarily paled the sun.

'That's not Xaltotun's signal!' roared the baron.

'No!' shouted Tarascus. 'It's a signal to the Aquilonians! Look!'

Above them the immobile ranks were moving at last, and a deepthroated roar thundered across the vale.

'Xaltotun has failed us:' bellowed Amalric furiously. 'Valerius has failed us! We have been led into a trap! Mitra's curse on Xaltotun who led us here! Sound the retreat!'

'Too late.' yelled Tarascus. 'Look.'

Up on the slopes the forest of lances dipped, leveled. The ranks of the Gundermen rolled back to right and left like a parting curtain. And with a thunder like the rising roar of a hurricane, the knights of Aquilonia crashed down the slopes.

The impetus of that charge was irresistible. Bolts driven by the demoralized arbalesters glanced from their shields, their bent helmets. Their plumes and pennons streaming out behind them, their lances lowered, they swept over the wavering lines of pikemen and roared down the slopes like a wave.

Amalric yelled an order to charge, and the Nemedians with desperate courage spurred their horses at the slopes. They still outnumbered the attackers.

But they were weary men on tired horses, charging uphill. The onrushing knights had not struck a blow that day. Their horses were fresh. They were coming downhill and they came like a thunderbolt. And like a thunderbolt they smote the struggling ranks of the Nemedians - smote them, split them apart, ripped them asunder and dashed the remnants headlong down the slopes.

After them on foot came the Gundermen, bloodmad, and the Bossonians were swarming down the hills, loosing as they ran at every foe that still moved.

Down the slopes washed the tide of battle, the dazed Nemedians swept on the crest of the wave. Their archers had thrown down their arbalests and were fleeing. Such pikemen as had survived the blasting charge of the knights were cut to pieces by the ruthless Gundermen.

In a wild confusion the battle swept through the wide mouth of the valley and into the plain beyond. All over the plain swarmed the warriors, fleeing and pursuing, broken into single combat and clumps of smiting, hacking knights on rearing, wheeling horses. But the Nemedians were smashed, broken, unable to re-form or make a stand. By the hundreds they broke away, spurring for the river. Many reached it, rushed across and rode eastward. The countryside was up behind them; the people hunted them like wolves. Few ever reached Tarantia.

The final break did not come until the fall of Amalric. The baron, striving in vain to rally his men, rode straight at the clump of knights that followed the giant in black armor whose surcoat bore the royal lion, and over whose head floated the golden lion banner with the scarlet leopard of Poitain beside it. A tall warrior in gleaming armor couched his lance and charged to meet the lord of Tor. They met like a thunderclap. The Nemedian's lance, striking his foe's helmet, snapped bolts and rivets and tore off the casque, revealing the features of Pallantides. But the Aquilonian's lance-head crashed through shield and breastplate to transfix the baron's heart.

A roar went up as Amalric was hurled from his saddle, snapping the lance that impaled him, and the Nemedians gave way as a barrier bursts under the surging impact of a tidal wave. They rode for the river in a blind stampede that swept the plain like a whirlwind. The hour of the Dragon had passed.

Tarascus did not flee. Amalric was dead, the color-bearer slain, and the royal Nemedian banner trampled in the blood and dust. Most of his knights were fleeing and the Aquilonians were riding them down; Tarascus knew the day was lost, but with a handful of faithful followers he raged through the melee, conscious of but one desire - to meet Conan, the Cimmerian. And at last he met him.

Formations had been destroyed utterly, close-knit bands broken asunder and swept apart. The crest of Trocero gleamed in one part of the plain, those of Prospero and Pallantides in others. Conan was alone. The house-troops of Tarascus had fallen one by one. The two kings met man to man.

Even as they rode at each other, the horse of Tarascus sobbed and sank under him. Conan leaped from his own steed and ran at him, as the king of Nemedia disengaged himself and rose. Steel flashed blindingly in the sun, clashed loudly, and blue sparks flew; then a clang of armor as Tarascus measured his full length on the earth beneath a thunderous stroke of Conan's broadsword.

The Cimmerian placed a mail-shod foot on his enemy's breast, and lifted his sword. His helmet was gone; he shook back his black mane and his blue eyes blazed with their old fire.

'Do you yield?'

'Will you give me quarter?' demanded the Nemedian.

'Aye. Better than you'd have given me, you dog. Life for you and all your men who throw down their arms. Though I ought to split your head for an infernal thief,' the Cimmerian added.

Tarascus twisted his neck and glared over the plain. The remnants of the Nemedian host were flying across the stone bridge with swarms of victorious Aquilonians at their heels, smiting with fury of glutted vengeance. Bossonians and Gundermen were swarming through the camp of their enemies, tearing the tents to pieces in search of plunder, seizing prisoners, ripping open the baggage and upsetting the wagons.

Tarascus cursed fervently, and then shrugged his shoulders, as well as he could, under the circumstances.

'Very well. I have no choice. What are your demands?'

'Surrender to me all your present holdings in Aquilonia. Order your garrisons to march out of the castles and towns they hold, without their arms, and get your infernal armies out of Aquilonia as quickly as possible. In addition you shall return all Aquilonians sold as slaves, and pay an indemnity to be designated later, when the damage your occupation of the country has caused has been properly estimated. You will remain as hostage until these terms have been carried out.'

'Very well,' surrendered Tarascus. 'I will surrender all the castles and towns now held by my garrisons without resistance, and all the other things shall be done. What ransom for my body?'

Conan laughed and removed his foot from his foe's steelclad breast, grasped his shoulder and heaved him to his feet. He started to speak, then turned to see Hadrathus approaching him. The priest was as calm and self-possessed as ever, picking his way between rows of dead men and horses.

Conan wiped the sweat-smeared dust from his face with a bloodstained hand. He had fought all through the day, first on foot with the pikemen, then in the saddle, leading the charge. His surcoat was gone, his armor splashed with blood and battered with strokes of sword, mace and ax. He loomed gigantically against a background of blood and slaughter, like some grim pagan hero of mythology.

'Well done, Hadrathus!' quoth he gustily. 'By Crom, I am glad to see your signal! My knights were almost mad with impatience and eating their hearts out to be at sword-strokes. I could not have held them much longer. What of the wizard?'

'He has gone down the dim road to Acheron,' answered Hadrathus. 'And I - I am for Tarantia. My work is done here, and I have a task to perform at the temple of Mitra. All our work is done here. On this field we have saved Aquilonia -and more than Aquilonia. Your ride to your capital will be a triumphal procession through a kingdom mad with joy. All Aquilonia will be cheering the return of their king. And so, until we meet again in the great royal hall - farewell!'

Conan stood silently watching the priest as he went. From various parts of the field knights were hurrying toward him. He saw Pallantides, Trocero, Prospero, Servius Galannus, their armor splashed with crimson. The thunder of battle was giving way to a roar of triumph and acclaim. All eyes, hot with strife and shining with exultation, were turned toward the great black figure of the king; mailed arms brandished red-stained swords. A confused torrent of sound rose, deep and thunderous as the sea-surf: 'Hail, Conan, king of Aquilonia!'

Tarascus spoke.

'You have not yet named my ransom.'

Conan laughed and slapped his sword home in its scabbard. He flexed his mighty arms, and ran his bloodstained fingers through his thick black locks, as if feeling there his re-won crown.

'There is a girl in your seraglio named Zenobia.'

'Why, yes, so there is.'

'Very well.' The king smiled as at an exceedingly pleasant memory. 'She shall be your ransom, and naught else. I will come to Belverus for her as I promised. She was a slave in Nemedia, but I will make her queen of Aquilonia!'

Conan The Avenger

Prologue

The chamber was murky. Long, flaming tapers, set in iron brackets in the walls of stone, dispelled the gloom but little. It was difficult to discern the robed and hooded figure at the unadorned table in the middle of the floor. It was even harder to see the outlines of another form, huddled in the darkness, seemingly engaged in muted speech with the first one.

There was a gust of wind through the room, like the sweep of giant wings. The tapers flickered madly, and the figure at the table was suddenly alone.

1. Wings of Darkness

The forbidding walls of the royal palace at Tarantia rose in jagged silhouette against the darkening sky. Watchmen strode along the battlements, halberd on shoulder and sword on hip, but their vigilance was relaxed. Their eyes strayed often toward the entrance of the palace. Over the lowered drawbridge and under the raised portcullis, gay-clad knights and nobles entered with their ladies.

The sharp eye could discern Prospero, the king's general and right-hand man, arrayed in crimson velvet with golden Poitainian leopards worked upon his jupon. His long legs measured his strides in high boots of the finest Kordavan leather. There went Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, in light armor later to be doffed; Trocero, hereditary count of Poitain, his slim waist and erect carriage belying the silver in his hair; the counts of Manara and Couthen, the barons of Lor and Imirus and many more. All went in with fair ladies in rich silks and satins, while their retainers removed the litters and gilded chariots in which their masters had been conveyed.

Peace reigned in Aquilonia. It had prevailed for more than a year since the last attempt of the king of Nemedia, aided by the revived Acheronian wizard Xaltotun, to wrest the kingdom from Conan. Years before, in his turn, Conan had torn the crown from the bloody head of the tyrant Numedides, whom he slew on the very throne.

But the Nemedian scheme had failed. Heavy damages were exacted, and the withered mummy of the dead Xaltotun was borne away on his mysterious chariot to haunts dark and unknown. King Conan's power waxed stronger and stronger, the more his people became aware of the wisdom and justice of his rule. The only disorders were the intermittent raids of the savage Picts on the western border. These, however, were held in check by seasoned troops on the Thunder River.

This was a night of feasting. Torches flared in rows about the gate; colorful carpets from Turan covered the coarse flagstones. Gaily-clad servants flitted about, guided and spurred by shouts from the major-domos. This was the night when King Conan gave a royal ball in honor of his queen, Zenobia, one-time slave girl in the Nemedian Icing's seraglio. She had aided Conan to escape when he lay a prisoner in the dungeons of Belverus and had been rewarded by the highest honor that could be conferred on a woman of the western lands. She became queen of Aquilonia, the mightiest kingdom west of Turan.

Well could the glittering throng of guests observe the ardent love that bound the royal sovereigns to each other. It was apparent in gestures, mannerisms, and speech, though Conan's barbarian blood probably urged him to do away with civilized dissimulation and crush his lovely queen in his strong arms. Instead, he stood at arm's length from her, answering bows and curtseys with an ease which seemed natural but was really newly acquired.

Ever and anon, though, the king's eyes strayed toward the far wall, where hung an array of splendid weaponsswords, spears, axes, maces, and javelins. Much as the king loved to see his people at pence, no less could he curb the urge of his barbarian heritage to see red blood flow and to feel the crunch of an enemy's armor and bones beneath the edge of his heavy broadsword. But now it was time for peaceful pursuits. Conan let his eyes wander back to linger briefly on the fair countess curtseying before him.

Fair were the ladies, and a judge would be sorely put to decide a contest for beautyat least, if he were choosing among the guests. For, in truth, the queen was more beautiful than anyone. The perfection of her form was outlined by the clinging, low-necked gown she wore, with only a silver circlet to confine the foamy mass of her wavy black hair.

Moreover, her perfectly-molded face radiated such innate nobility and kindliness as were seldom seen in those times.

However, if the king was counted fortunate by his fellow men, no less was Queen Zenobia envied by the ladies. Conan cut an imposing figure in his simple black tunic, with legs clothed in black hose and feet booted in soft, black leather. The golden lion of Aquilonia blazed upon his breast. Otherwise his sole ornament was the slender golden circle on his square-cut black mane. Looking at the great spread of his massive shoulders, his lean waist and hips, and his legs muscled with a tiger's deadly power, one could see that this was no man born to civilization.

But Conan's most arresting features were the smoldering blue eyes in the dark, scarred face, inscrutable, with depths no one could plumb.

Those same eyes had seen things undreamed of by this gay throng, had looked on battlefields strewn with mangled corpses, decks running red with blood, barbarous executions, and secret rites at the altars of monstrous deities. His powerful hands had swung the western broadsword, the Zuagir tulwar, the Zhaibar knife, the Turanian yataghan, and the forester's ax with the same devastating skill and power against men of all races and against inhuman beings from dark and nameless realms. The veneer of civilization lay thin over his barbaric soul.

The ball began. King Conan opened it with his queen in the first complicated steps of the Aquilonian minuet. Though he was no expert at the more intricate figures of the dance, the primordial instincts of the barbarian took to the rhythm of the melody with an ease and smoothness that enhanced the results of hurried lessons given during the past week by the court's sweating master of ceremonies. Everyone in the glittering throng followed suit. Soon couples milled colorfully on the mosaic floor.

Thick candles cast a warm, soft light over the hall. Nobody noticed the silent draft that began to waft through the air, causing the flames of one chandelier to tremble and flicker. Nobody noticed, either, the burning eyes that peered from a window niche, sweeping an avid glance over the crowd. Their glare fastened upon the slim, silver-sheathed figure in the king's arms. Only the burning eyes were to be seen, but a soft, gloating chuckle whispered through the darkness. Then the eyes disappeared and the casement closed.

The great bronze gong at the end of the hall boomed, announcing a pause. The guests, hot from dancing, sat down to refresh themselves with iced wine and Turanian sherbet.

"Conan! I want a nip of fresh air; all this dancing has made me hot."

The queen flung the words over her shoulder as she made her way toward the now open doors to the broad balcony.

The king started to follow but was detained by a score of ladies begging him to tell them of his early life. Was it true that he had been a chieftain of wild hordes in half-fabulous Ghulistan in the Himelian Mountains? Was it he who by a daring stroke had saved the kingdom of Khauran from the Shemite plunderers of the mercenary captain Constantius? Had he once been a pirate?

Questions like these flew like hailstones. Conan answered them curtly or evasively. His barbarian instincts made him restive. They had prompted him to accompany Zenobia out upon the balcony to guard her, even though no danger could threaten his beloved spouse here, in his capital, in his own castle, surrounded by friends and loyal soldiers.

Still he felt uneasy. There was a feeling in his blood of impending danger and doom. Trusting his animal instincts, he began to make his way toward the doors of the balcony despite the beseeching wails of his lovely audience.

Elbowing his way forward a bit more brusquely than became a king, Conan caught sight of the silver figure of Zenobia. Her back was toward him, her hair moving in the soft, cool breeze. He grunted with relief. For once, it seemed, his senses had deluded him. Nonetheless he continued forward.

Suddenly, the slim form of the queen was shrouded in night. A black pall fell over the company. Secret words were mumbled into handkerchiefs by painted lips and bearded mouths. An icy breath of doom swept through the hall. The ground trembled with thunder. The queen screamed.

When the darkness fell, Conan sprang like a panther for the balcony doors, upsetting noble guests and wine-laden tables. Another cry was heard. The sound dwindled, as if Zenobia were being carried away. The king reached the balcony to find it empty. Conan's glance sought the unscalable sides of the palace and saw nothing. Then he lifted his gaze. There, limned against the moonlit sky, he saw a fantastic shape, a horrible anthropomorphic nightmare, ' clasping the silvery glint that was his beloved wife. Carried along by powerful beats of its batlike wings, the monster shrank to a dot on the eastern horizon. Conan stood for a moment, a statue of black steel. Only his eyes seemed alive with icy rage and terrible despair. When he turned his gaze to the audience, they shrank back as if he had become the very monster that had carried off his queen. Without a word, he went out of the hall, scattering people, tables, and chairs heedlessly before him. At the exit he paused before the weapon-laden wall and tore down a plain but heavy broadsword, which had served him well in many campaigns. As he lifted the blade, he spoke words thick with emotion:

"From this hour, I am no longer your king until I have returned with my stolen queen. If I cannot defend my own mate, I am not fit to rule.

But, by Crom, I will seek out this robber and wreak vengeance upon him, be he protected by all the armed hosts in the world!"

Then the king opened his mouth to voice a weird and terrible call that echoed shudderingly through the hall. It rang like the cry of doomed souls. The eerie horror of its tones made many a face turn ashen.

The king was gone.

Prospero hurried after Conan. Trocero paused, surveying all, before he, too, followed.

A trembling Poitainian countess voiced the question that pressed the minds of many guests. "What was that terrible shout? It froze the blood in my veins. I felt as if a frightful doom were upon me. The avenging souls of the Dark Lands must scream like that when they roam the barren wastes for their prey."

The gray-haired count of Raman, veteran of border wars, answered: "Your guess is close enough, milady. It is the battle cry of the Cimmerian tribes. It is voiced only when they are about to fling themselves into battle with utter abandon and no concern other than to kill." He paused. "I have heard it once beforeat the bloody sack of Venarium, when the black-haired barbarians swarmed over the walls despite our arrow storm and put everybody to the sword."

Silence fell over the throng.

"No, Prospero, no!" Conan's heavy fist thundered down upon the table.

"I will travel alone. To draw armored legions from the realm might tempt attack by some scheming foe. Tarascus has not forgotten the beating we gave him, and Koth and Ophir are untrustworthy as always. I shall ride, not as King Conan of Aquilonia, with a shining retinue of lords and lancers, but as Conan of Cimmeria, the common adventurer."

"But Conan," said Prospero with the easy familiarity that obtained between him and the king, "we cannot let you risk your life on such an uncertain quest. In this manner you may never attain your goal, whereas with the lances of Poitainian knights at your back you can brave any foe. Let us ride with you!"

Conan's blue eyes glowed with fierce appreciation, but he shook his black-maned head. "No, my friend. I feel I am destined to free my queen alone. Even the help of my trusty knights will not assure success. You shall command the army in my absence, and Trocero shall rule the kingdom. If I am not back in two years ”choose a new king!"

Conan lifted the slender golden circlet from his black hair and put it on the oaken table. He stood for a moment, brooding.

Trocero and Prospero made no attempt to break the silence. They had long ago learned that Conan's ways were sometimes queer and unfathomable to civilized men. With his barbarian mind unsullied by civilized life, he was apt to let his thoughts run along paths other than the common ones. Here stood not only a king whose queen had been abducted. Here stood the primordial man, whose mate had been torn from him by forces dark and unknown, and who, without show or bluster, was silently storing terrible vengeance in his heart.

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Conan broke the silence. "A horse, Prospero, and the harness of a common mercenary! I ride at once."

"Whither?" asked the general.

"To the sorcerer Pelias of Koth, who dwells in Khanyria, in Khoraja. I smell black sorcery in tonight's happenings. That flying creature was no earthly bird. I care not for wizards and would rather manage without their help, but now I need Pelias' advice."

Outside the heavy oaken door, a man stood with his ear pressed to the panel. At these words, a smile spread over his features. With a furtive glance, he melted into one of the niches, overhung with heavy draperies, that lined the corridor. He heard the door open. Conan and his friends passed, their footfalls dwindling down the staircase.

The spy waited till the sounds had died. Then, looking right and left, he slunk out of hiding. Garbed in the dress of a retainer of the court, he crossed the courtyard without being challenged. He disappeared into the servants' quarters and soon emerged, donning a heavy woolen cloak against the chill of night. He gave the password to the guard and was let out. He set out for the western part of the city.

Nobody followed him. The smaller streets and lanes were black as the inside of a chimney. Few rays of the clouded moon pierced their murk.

Watchmen, bill on shoulder and peaked helmet on head, paced the streets in pairs, talking in low voices. Harlots leaned out of their windows and called to the wanderer. Some were beautiful, showing off the splendor of their white necks by low-cut gowns or sheer silken wraps.

Others had haggard and sleazy faces coated with power and Hyrkaoian rouge. But the man hurried on without swerving from his path.

At last he came to a large house in a parklike garden. A high wall surrounded it on all sides, but into a niche was recessed a small door.

He knocked four times. The door was opened by a giant, dusky Stygian clad in white. The two men whispered a few words. Then the palace servant hastened, toward the house, where all windows were dark but one.

Evidently this was not the house of a native Aquilonian. Heavy tapestries and rich paintings, adorned the walls, but the motifs depicted were not western. Domed marble temples, white zikkurats, and people with turbaned heads and flowing robes dominated the rich pageantry of gold and silver thread, of silk and satin and curved swords. Arabesqued oval tables, divans with spreads of red and green silks, golden vases with exotic flowers combined to lend an air of the opulent and exotic East.

Resting on a divan, a big, florid man sipped wine from a jeweled goblet. He returned the salaam of the palace servant with a careless nod.

"What brings you, Marinus?" There was asperity in the languid voice.

"Have you not enough work to do for me at the king's ball? It does not end until early morning, unless Conan has called it off in one of his barbaric moods. What has happened?" Taking another sip, he regarded Marinus with a piercing stare.

"Ghandar Chen, my lord, the queen of Aquilonia has been abducted by an unearthly monster, which flew away with her into the sky! The king rides alone tonight to search for her. First, however, to get some clue to the whereabouts of the reaver, he will visit the Kothian sorcerer Pelias in Khanyria."

"By Erlik, this is news indeed!" Ghandar Chen sprang up, eyes blazing.

"Five of my poisoners hang on the hill of execution, so much kite's meat. Those damned martinets of the Black Dragons are incorruptible.

But now Conan will be alone, in foreign lands!"

He clapped his hands. The Stygian entered silently and stood at attention, his dark visage somber and inscrutable. Ghandar Chen spoke:

"Conan of Aquilonia embarks tonight on a long journey. He rides alone, as a common mercenary. His first goal will be the city of Khanyria in Khoraja, where he will seek the assistance of the sorcerer Pelias. Ride swiftly to Baraccus, who camps on the Yivga River. Order him to take as many trustworthy men as he needs and slay Conan in Khanyria. The Cimmerian must not reach Pelias. If that cursed necromancer chooses to help him, he might blast all our men from the earth with a wave of his hand!"

The Stygian's somber eyes flashed, and his usually immobile features were split by a dreadful smile.

"Well do. I know Conan," he rumbled, "since he crushed the host of Prince Kutamun outside Khoraja. I was one of the few survivors, later to be captured by Kothic slavers and soldI, born a noble and bred to war and the hunt! Long have I waited for my revenge! If the gods permit, I will slay the Cimmerian myself." His hand sought the hilt of his long dagger. "I go at once, master." He salaamed deeply and left.

Ghandar Chen seated himself at a richly-inlaid rosewood table. From the drawer he took a golden pen and parchment. He wrote:

To King Yezdigerd, lord of Turan and the Eastern Empire. From your faithful servant Ghandar Chen, greetings. Conan the Cimmerian, the kozak and pirate, rides alone for Khanyria. I have sent word to slay him there. When it is done, I will send you his head. Should he by some magical feat escape, his road will probably run through Turanian territory. Written in the Year of the Horse, on the third day of the Golden Month.

He signed and sanded it. The Turanian then rose and gave the parchment to Marine?, who had been lolling in the background. He snapped:

"Ride swiftly eastward. Start at once. My servants will furnish you with arms and a horse. You shall take this to King Yezdigerd himself in Aghrapur. He will reward us both handsomely."

A satisfied smile was upon Ghandar Chen's face as he sank back upon the divan, his hand reaching for the goblet again.

2. The Ring of Rakhamon

The scorching afternoon sun cast searing rays across the desert like whiplashes of white fire. Distant groves of palm trees shimmered; flocks of vultures hung like clumps of ripe, black grapes in the foliage. Endless expanses of yellow sand stretched as far as the eye could see in undulating dunes and flats of ultimate aridity.

A solitary rider halted his horse in the shade of the palm fronds that fringed an oasis. Though he wore the snowy khalat of the desert-dwellers, his features belied any thought of Eastern origin. The hand that shaded his questing eyes was broad and powerful and ridged with scars. His skin was browned, not with the native duskiness of the Zuagir, but with the ruddy bronze of the sunbaked Westerner. The eyes were a volcanic blue, like twin pockets of unplumbable depth. A glint at his sleeve betrayed the fact that the traveler wore a coat of mail under his flowing dress. At his side hung a long, straight sword in a plain leather scabbard.

Conan had ridden far and fast. Plunging across country with reckless speed, he had broken four horses on his way to Koth. Having reached the expanses of desert that formed the eastern end of the Kothian kingdom, he had paused to buy a khalat and some bread and meat at a dingy, dirty-white border village. Nobody had barred his way, though many an unkempt head was thrust through a door in wonder at the speed of this lonely rider, and many an armored guardsman stroked his beard, pondering on this mercenary's haste.

There were, indeed, few in the Kothic realm who would have recognized lung Conan of Aquilonia, for between the mutually hostile Aquilonians and Kothians there was little intercourse.

Conan's sharp eyes swept the horizon. In the shimmering distance he detected the faint outlines of domed buildings and towering walls.

This, then, would be the town of Khanyria in the kingdom of Khoraja.

Here he would seek the help of Pelias the sorcerer in recovering his stolen queen. Five years before, he had met and befriended Pelias when the Kothian wizard lay imprisoned in the vaults of the scarlet citadel of his foe Tsotha-lanti.

Conan spurred the black stallion toward the distant towers. "Crom!" he muttered. "I hope Pelias is in his full senses. Like as not he's lying drunk on his golden divan, dead to the world. But, by Badb, I'll waken him!"

In the narrow streets and cobbled marketplace of Khanyria, a motley throng swirled and eddied. Zuagirs from the desert villages to the northeast, swaggering mercenaries with roving eyes and hands on hilts, hawkers crying their wares, harlots in red kirtles and painted faces milled together in a flamboyant tableau. Now and then the crowd was riven by the armored retainers of a wealthy noble, his perfumed sedan chair bobbing on the shoulders of ebon-skinned, ox-muscled Kushite slaves. Or a troop of guardsmen clattered out from the barracks, accoutrements clanking and horsehair plumes flowing.

Crassides, the burly captain of the guard at the Western Gate, stroked his graying beard and muttered. Strangers often passed into the city, but seldom such curious strangers as today's arrivals. Early this afternoon, in a cloud of dust stirred up from the desert sands, had come a troop of seven. The rider in the lead was a lean fellow of vulture look, his narrow mustache framing a thin line of mouth. He was armed like a Western knight, though his cuirass and helm were plain, without any device. By his side rode a huge Stygian on a black horse. A khalat enshrouded the Stygian's form, and his only visible weapon was a massive war bow.

The other five were all well armored, wearing serviceable swords and daggers at their sides and holding lances in their hands. They looked like hardy rogues, as ready to slit a throat as to bounce a wench.

It was not the custom of the Khanyrian city guard to stop strangers without good reason, for here East and West met to mingle, haggle, and trade tall tales. Nevertheless, Crassides cast a searching glance at the seven as they jingled away towards the northern quarter. They disappeared into the profusion of smoky taverns with mongrels yapping about their horse's hooves.

The rest of the day passed quietly, but now it seemed that the trickle of odd strangers must go on. As the sun flung its last rays across the darkening heavens, a tall, burnoosed foreigner reined in before the closed gate and demanded entrance.

Crassides, called to the gate by one of the guards on duty, arrived just as the remaining guard shouted down: "What seek you here, rogue?

We let no outlanders in at night to cut our threats and debauch our women! State your name and errand before I clap you in irons!"

The stranger's glowing eves, half hidden beneath his kaffia, regarded the trooper icily. "My friend," said the stranger in a barbarous accent, "for words less than those I have slit a hundred gullets. Let me in or, by Crom, I'll raise a horde to sack this bunch of hovels!"

"Not so fast!" said Crassides, thrusting the guard aside. "Get down, you young fool, and I'll teach you how to speak to strangers later.

Now, you, sir!" He spoke to the horseman. "We want no quarrels in Khanyria, and as you see the gate is closed for the night. Ere we open it, you must account for yourself."

"Call me Arus," growled the stranger. "I seek Pelias the sorcerer.''

"Let him in," said Crassides. The heavy bolts were drawn. Two watchmen strained at the bronze handles, and one of the door valves swung slowly open. The stranger cantered through, not even glancing at those around the gate. He headed for the northern district, and the click of his horse's hoofs dwindled in the distance.

The discomfited young guard spoke to his captain with restrained heat: "Why do we let this insolent lout ride in as if he were lord of the city? Why not put a shaft through his ribs?"

Crassides smiled through his beard. "Years may teach you wisdom, though I doubt it. Have you never heard how, years ago, a northern barbarian like this one was captured by the warlord of one of the little city-states of Shem to the south? And how he escaped, rounded up a band of outlaw Zuagirs, and came back for vengeance? And how the savage horde stormed the city, putting the people to the sword, flaying captives in the public square, and burning everything except the pole on which the warlord's head was stuck? This fellow might be one of that sort.

"But alone, he can do us little harm. And if he mean us ill, Pelias will know it by his arcane arts and take measures. Now do you begin to see?"

Conan knew that Pelias lurked in a tower of yellow stone at the northern end of the city. He planned to visit the wizard first and later to seek board and lodging. Anything would do. His body and tastes had not been softened by his years of civilized life. A loaf of bread, a hunk of meat, and a jack of foaming ale were all he wanted. For sleep, why, he could use the floor of a tavern if all else failed.

Conan had no wish to spend the night in Pelias' abode, for all its luxury. Too many dark and nameless things were apt to stalk the nighted corridors of the sorcerer's dwelling¦

There came a muffled oath and a cry of fear. A door to the right flew open, and a young girl flung herself into the street.

Conan reined in. The girl was shaped like one of the mekhrani that people the pleasure houses in the paradise of Erlik's true believers.

This Conan could readily see, for her simple dress was torn to tatters, leaving her but scantily covered. Brushing back the jet-black tangle of hair from her face, she cast a terrified glance towards the door, which had closed behind her. Then her large eyes turned to Conan, sitting his horse like a statue. Her hand flew to her mouth in terror.

"Now, lass, what's eating you?" spoke the Cimmerian roughly, bending forward. "Is your lover cross with you, or what?"

The girl rose with a lithe motion. "Two drunken soldiers tried to rape me. I came to buy wine for my father. They took my money, too.'"

Conan's eyes flashed as he jumped to the ground.

His barbaric code of chivalry made him hate a man's inflicting wanton brutality on a woman.

"Steady, lass. We'll pull their beards yet. Just open the door. Are they the only guests?"

Nodding in terrified confirmation, she led him to the tavern. After a moment's hesitation she opened the door. In two long strides Conan was inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

But no such scene as he had expected confronted him. Here were no drunken soldiers to be quieted by a couple of buffets. Seven alert armed men ranged the walls, swords and daggers gleaming in their hands.

The determination to kill was in their eyes as they instantly rushed upon Conan.

A civilized man would have been stunned by surprise one second and cut down in the next, but not the giant Cimmerian. His keen primitive instincts gave him a flash of warning as he crossed the threshold, and his lightning reflexes went instantly into action. No time now to draw the great sword, before he had it out, they would be upon him like a pack of wolves. His only chance lay in instant attack, surprising his attackers by its very boldness before they could ring him and close with him.

A mighty kick sent a bench whaling against the legs of three of his adversaries as they rushed forward. They fell in a clattering, cursing tangle. Conan ducked a whistling sword stroke of one of the other four and smashed his right fist into the man's face before the latter could recover his balance. Conan felt the man's bones crack under the blow, which cast him back against his advancing comrades.

Taking advantage of the confusion, the Cimmerian burst clean through the ring of foes, wheeled with the speed of a panther, grabbed a heavy oaken table and, with a muscle-wrenching heave, hurled it into the faces of his enemies. Weapons clattered to the floor, and oaths and cries of pain rent the air. The lull in the fight gave Conan time to rip the great sword from its sheath and snatch out his dagger with his left hand.

He did not wait for a renewed attack. His barbarian blood was roused by this treacherous ambush. A red mist swam before his eyes, and his mind was crazed with the lust of killing. Rushing in to attack, single-handed against the six who were still in action, Conan with a furious kick caved in the ribs of one rascal still on hands and knees.

As he parried a thrust with his dagger, a savage swipe of his heavy sword sheared off the sword arm of another. Arm and sword fell to the floor, and the man crumpled up, glassy-eyed and screaming, with blood spurting.

That left four, advancing warily in a half-circle. The tall, wolfish leader feinted at Conan's legs but almost lost his head to the Cimmerian's whistling countercut. He escaped by throwing himself to the floor. Just before he did so, Conan recognized the man as Baraccus, an Aquilonian noble he had exiled for plotting with the Ophireans.

At that instant, the other three rushed in. One desperate sword-stroke caught Conan on the helmet, denting it and dizzying him. Stars swam before his eyes, but he ripped viciously upward and was rewarded by a hoarse, gurgling scream. A dagger point broke on the stout links of mail covering his right side, but a sword gashed his left arm.

When he hastily wiped the blood from his face he saw that he faced but one enemy, as the Stygian, his dagger broken, had stepped back to pick up a weapon from the floor. The tall leader was rising from his fall.

Conan stepped forward to close with his foe, but his foot slipped in a pool of blood. He fell heavily.

The assassin confronting him shrieked in triumph and rushed forward, lifting his sword. Conan's foot lashed out and knocked the man's leg from under him, so that his blow went awry and he fell on top of the Cimmerian, impaling himself on the dagger that Conan thrust up to meet his falling form.

Conan flung the body aside and, with catlike speed, sprang again to his feet to meet the attack of the rearmed Stygian. The dusky giant rushed towards Conan, eyes blazing with dark fires and lips foaming with impassioned hatred. Ducking the swipe of the Cimmerian's sword, he whipped his white cloak around the blade, imprisoning it in the heavy folds. The knife that the Stygian had picked up was driven against Conan's side with such force that mail links snapped and the point pierced the Cimmerian's body. But Conan ripped into the brown torso with swift and murderous thrusts of his own dirk. The Stygian's mouth flew open in awful pain, his dagger clattered to the floor, and he doubled up and followed it.

Conan tore his sword free from the folds of the Stygian's dress and advanced upon the unwounded leader. "You've forgotten your knightly oaths since I kicked you off your estate, eh, Baraccus?" he snarled. "I should have had your head when I found out your treason, but this time will do as well as any!"

Conan presented a terrible aspect. From beneath his dented helmet, blood flowed down the side of his sweaty face. His right side was red with gore, and a bloody rent showed in his mailshirt. But the will to kill burned unquenched in his terrible glance. Baraccus, remembering the horrific legends of the Cimmerian's former deeds, lost his nerve and whirled to flee. With a grating laugh, Conan tossed up his sword, caught the hilt reversed, and hurled the weapon like a javelin.

The point smashed through the backplate of Baraccus' corselet. Baraccus pitched forward at full length, the sword standing upright in his back and a stream of blood running from his mouth.

Conan relaxed a little, surrounded by enemies dead or unconscious. Then a voice behind him aroused his barbarian senses. He wheeled in a flash, expecting another attack.

A fat man stood in the back door, wringing his pudgy hands. "Oh, mercy, what has happened to my fine house?" he wailed, his face creased by worry. "Blood all over! Furniture ruined!"

Two strides brought Conan to the taverner, under whose chin he poised the point of his dagger. "You had a hand in this, you yapping dog!" he roared. "They could not have set this ambush without your help."

"Mercy, lord! They threatened to cut my throat otherwise! That would have been almost better than this! They said it would be swift and silent¦"

Conan slapped the man's face with such force that the taverner was thrown against the door jamb. He reeled, and blood ran down his chin from a cut lip.

"Silence!" rumbled Conan, his anger appeased a little. "Be glad I don't flay you an inch at a time!"

"Yes-yes, lord!" The man wept, in abject terror.

"Now fetch a jack of wine, before I split your head! And of the best!

Also some clean cloths to bind up these scratches."

As the terrified taverner hurried off, Conan kicked a corpse out of the way and sank down wearily upon a bench. A thought struck him. Where was the handsome wench who had started all this? She was not in the room.

The host returned on trembling legs, holding a flask and a pewter goblet. With an impatient curse, Conan tore the bottle from him and upended it over his parched gullet. When the whole of the contents had poured down without interruption, to the wonder of the unwilling host, Conan set down the empty container with a crash, wiped his mouth on his bloody sleeve, and turned his blue eyes upon the man.

"Killing dries a man's throat," he said. "Now tell me: Where is the girl who was here with these men before I entered?"

The fat taverner, green with fear, shook his head. "Noble lord, I never saw her until she came here yesterday, dressed in outlandish garments.

She changed her garb in her room on the upper floor. I know not her name or aught else about her."

Conan heaved himself to his feet, only a little troubled by wounds that would have incapacitated an ordinary man for days. Tearing his sword out of Baraccus' body, he thundered: "Lead me to her room at once! And should this prove another trap, your soul will rot on the black floors of Hell within the instant!"

Knees knocking, the flabby Khanyrian led the way up the narrow stair.

The Cimmerian followed, his eyes scanning every cranny with wolfish wariness. On the upper floor, his guide paused before a door and chose a key from the great bunch at his girdle. He unlocked the door and opened it wide to reassure the edgy barbarian.

Conan decided that there was no chance of another ambush in that narrow room. The only furniture was a bed and a small table. On the bed lay green silks, a golden sash, a turban strip with an emerald pin, and a filmy veil. Conan stood silent with startled recognition. This was the garb of a Hyrkanian noblewoman, from the great and growing eastern empire of Turanfrom Akif, Shahpur, or Aghrapur itself.

Wheeling and retracing his steps, Conan pondered this new enigma with clouded brow.

With nostrils flaring and sword in hand, Conan stepped alertly from the tavern door. His limbs had become a little stiffened from his wounds and his side ached from the dagger thrust, but he still had vigor enough to spring into the saddle of his waiting horse.

He was mystified by the assault. He well knew that many men of different creeds, races, and stations thirsted for his blood and would have loved to roast his guts over a slow fire. On this mission, however, he had ridden swiftly, silently, and anonymously. Only Trocero and Prospero knew which way he was going, and their loyalty was beyond question. Yet armored foes had ambushed him with gleaming blades.

Something or someone had brought Baraccus from the West and the Hyrkanian woman from the East together to try to trap him.

Conan shrugged the puzzle from his mind with the fatalistic equanimity of the barbarian. As he could not now grasp the whole picture behind the recent incident, he was content to wait until further information came to light.

He cantered leisurely through the streets with eyes darting into the shadows. The only light came from an occasional flickering taper in a window. His thoughts came back to the beautiful woman who had nearly led him to his death. The sight of her well-molded form had fired his blood, and he had meant to take a kiss at the very least as a reward for helping her. But now she was gone as if by magic.

Emerging upon a wide, deserted square, Conan, aided by the dim light of the clouded moon, saw the outline of a spired edifice, pointing like a finger to the heavens. In the deepening darkness it gleamed dull yellow like the reflex of a dying sun. This was the tower where Pelias secreted himself from the undesired company of his fellow men.

A broad expanse of trimmed gardens and lawns surrounded the yellow tower. No walls, fences, or forbidding gates ringed it. They were not needed. Horrid legends, whispered in the dark of evening, had taught the Khanyrians to keep away from sorcerers' abodes, into which an intruder might enter but from which he would probably never return.

Conan's horse shied at the edge of the lawn, whinnying and stomping. It chewed its bit and blew foam from its lips.

"Crom!" muttered the Cimmerian. "It seems as if Pelias has unholy company. Well, I can walk."

He dismounted and strode up the narrow flagstone walk, his eyes roving and his hand on his hilt. Necromantic rites often drew nameless monstrosities in the night, as the smell of carrion attracts vultures.

Conan had met many kinds of beings spawned in other times and planes of existence. Many could be fought and slain only by magical weapons or by incantations read from dusty volumes or pieces of crumbling parchment.

But Conan's taste had never run to spells and counterspells. He trusted his keen-edged sword more than all the magical mummery.

However, no demon from the darker haunts barred his way. He reached the tower without seeing a single sign of life among the shrubs and flowers.

Just then the clouds slid away from the moon. By the bright moonlight, Conan saw that the yellowish color of the tower was caused by an abundance of small golden coins set in plaster. Conan peered at those on a level with his eyes. None was familiar, and he suspected that it was the same with the rest. All had the look of great age. On some, the golden ridges of letters and cryptic signs had been worn away until nothing but a polished disk remained.

Conan knew that gold was considered a valuable auxiliary in making magic, especially in the form of coins from the ancient kingdoms. Here, thought Conan, were tokens from the long-dead realms of forgotten legendry, when priests and wizards ruled with awful terror, dragging maidens screaming to dark caverns where ghastly rituals were performed, or beheading thousands of prisoners in the public squares until rivers of bubbling blood filled the gutters.

Conan shivered. Much evil was concentrated here. Nevertheless, he tried the iron door.

The heavy slab of metal swung silently inward. Sword in hand, the Cimmerian entered, senses fine-whetted like those of a prowling tiger.

By the faint light coming through the open door he could see two flights of stairs, one circling upward while the other lost itself in underground darkness.

Conan's keen nostrils picked up an alien smell from the stairs leading downwards. He suspected that this musky odor wafted up from a maze of caverns beneath the tower. The Cimmerian's eyes narrowed. Into his mind flitted the remembrance of similar odors in the haunted catacombs of the dead city of Pteion, in Stygia, where fearsome shapes wander by night. He shook his head as an angry lion shakes its mane.

Suddenly he was startled by words in a deep, resonant voice: "Welcome, Conan! Mount the stairs leading upward and follow the light!"

Glaring about, Conan could detect no clue to the origin of the voice.

It seemed to come from everywhere, reverberating like the tones of a temple gong.

A glowing ball sprang into view in front of Conan, so suddenly that he took an instinctive step backwards. It hung in the air without visible support, shining brightly. By its light, Conan saw that he stood in a hall adorned with tapestries of ancient and curious design. One wall was covered with shelves on which stood oddly-shaped containers of stone, silver, gold, and jade. Some were set with gems, others were plain, and all were mingled helter-skelter.

The glowing globe moved slowly toward the stairs. Conan followed it without hesitation. One never knew the mind of a wizard, but Pelias at any rate seemed well-disposed towards the Cimmerian.

Not a creak sounded from the steps as Conan glided upwards, sword still in hand, though a little more relaxed than before. The steps ended on a landing barred by a copper-sheathed door with esoteric signs engraved in fanciful and involved patterns on its ruddy surface. Some of these Conan recognized from his wanderings as powerful magical symbols from the secret knowledge of ancient races. He scowled distrustfully. Then the door opened silently and the shimmering light went out.

Now there was no need of it. The room Conan entered was large and well-lighted. It was furnished with a mixture of flamboyant wall decorations and expensive works of art from many lands. A multitude of wall brackets held flaming tapers; soft rugs covered the floor.

In the center of the room stood an enormous, pillow-strewn divan. On this lay Pelias, a tall, lean, gray-haired man in scholar's robes. His eyes were dark and meditative, his head narrow and well-formed, his hands and feet small and trim. He had been studying, for empty spaces gaped in the huge bookcase and several volumes were scattered about the floor. Close by the divan, a large table was littered with parchment scrolls. At least they locked like parchment, though Conan knew that wizards preferred their mightiest spells to be written on cured human skin.

On the wall hung a mirror in a simple iron frame, contrasting with the luxury of the other furnishings. Conan was not surprised by the sybaritic atmosphere. Unlike most sorcerers, Pelias had never looked askance upon the pleasures of the flesh.

"Welcome, Conan!" cried the magician. "It has been nearly four years"

Then Pelias sprang up with narrowed eyes as Conan walked heavily forward, sheathing his sword. "You are wounded! And lately! You need a stronger draught than this wine. Wait!"

Pelias turned to an ornately-carved cupboard and opened one of its many small doors. From a recess he took a crystal flask, half full of a liquid of smoky violet hue. Into a wine cup he poured a good measure of the liquid and preferred it, saying:

"Drink this, my friend. It is made from the secret herbs of the Misty Isles and the lands beyond Kush. It will heal your wounds and ease your tired muscles."

Conan downed the draught with one mighty gulp. For a moment he grimaced. His veins seemed afire and his brain whirled and reeled. Then these feelings were replaced by sensations of well-being and content. A vast weight of weariness seemed lifted from his shoulders; he had not realized how fatigued his wounds and exertions had left him.

Pulling off his dented helmet, Conan felt his tingling scalp under the bandage. His hair was still matted with dried blood, but no wound could he find, not even a scar. His side and other wounded parts had stopped aching.

"Truly this is a magical brew, Pelias!" he said.

"It is potent indeed. Apart from the rare ingredients, many potent incantations have been read over it to bring out the full powers of the recipe."

Conan grunted as he pulled off his mailshirt. "Would I had possessed it many a former time in my life!"

"Let us move on to the question of your errand. What brings you alone and in haste? I have not heard of any strife or great wars in the northwest, in which you might need my aid."

"Were it only straightforward war, I would never ask magical help,"

growled Conan. "But I find myself pitted against dark and unknown powers. I need clues to lead me to where I can smite my foe."

In swift, short sentences he told of the fateful night in Tarantia.

For a long time Pelias brooded with his chin in his hands. His eyes were closed, and some might have thought him asleep. Conan, however, knew that the wizard's brain was working with abnormal speed and keenness behind that deceptive mask. Slowly Pelias' eyes opened. He spoke.

"A demon of the darkest realms beyond the Mountains of the Night has stolen your spouse. I know how to summon one, but I thought I shared that knowledge with no one else in the West."

"Then fetch this fiend and we'll wring the truth out of him!"

"Not so fast, my hot-headed friend! Do not rush headlong into unknown dangers! It is clear that this demon has been summoned by a sorcerer with powers superior to those of ordinary magicians. Should we drag the fiend hither with spells and incantations, we should have both him and his master to cope with, and that might be too much for us. No; I know a better way. The Mirror of Lazbekri shall give us the answer!"

He rose. Again opening the cupboard, he brought out a dully gleaming cup whose rim was inscribed with curious symbols. Conan, who had gained a smattering of many written languages in his wanderings, did not recognize the script.

From a small jar the wizard poured a measure of red powder into the cup. Then he placed the cup on a low ebony table beneath the plain, iron-framed mirror. He threw back the folds of silk from his arm and made a cryptic gesture.

Blue smoke began to spiral up from the cup. It thickened until its billowing clouds filled the room. Conan could but dimly discern the motionless form of the wizard, petrified in trance during his concentration.

For an age, it seemed, nothing happened. Conan began to shift his weight with impatience when he heard Pelias' whisper:

"The sorcerer's defenses are strong, Conan. I cannot pierce them. Who is your tutelary deity?"

"It would be Crom, the grim god of the Cimmerians," muttered Conan, "though I have had naught to do with gods for many years. I leave them alone and they leave me alone."

"Well, pray to your Crom for help. We need it."

Conan closed his eyes and, for the first time in decades, prayed: "O

Father Crom, who breathes power to strive and slay into a man's soul at birth, help your son against the demon that has stolen his mate¦"

And into his brain he thought he heard the cold words come: "Long have you forsaken me, O Conan. But you are my true son for all that, in your striving and enduring and conquering. Look!"

Conan opened his eyes. The smoke had begun to thin. The Cimmerian saw that the mirror did not, as one might expect, show the reflection of Pelias; indeed, it showed no reflection at all. Its surface was a deep gray, as if this were a window to forbidden dimensions. In a low monotone, Pelias chanted an incantation in a tongue that Conan recognized as the secret language used by the priests of Stygia in their clandestine rituals in dark-walled Khemi.

Slowly, so slowly that it was not immediately noticeable, a picture took form in the mirror. At first it was blurred and uncertain; then swiftly it cleared and sharpened. In a bare, stone-walled room, a cowled and robed figure sat at a low table, a scroll in his hands.

The picture grew as if the point of vantage of the watchers moved nearer and nearer the hooded one. Suddenly the figure in the mirror threw up its head and looked full into their faces. The hood fell back from the yellow, hairless pate; the slitted, oblique eyes gazed coldly into theirs. The thin, colorless lips parted in a ghastly grin. The yellow one's right hand plunged into the folds of his robe and came out again holding a shining ball. The man made a motion as if to throw itand then Conan exploded into lightning action.

A whistling slash of his heavy sword, held in readiness against the unknown perils of the mirror, sheared the frame in two and shattered the reflecting surface into thousands of tinkling splinters.

Pelias gave a start and shook himself like a man awakening. He said:

"By Ishtar, Conan, you saved us both! That shining thing was as deadly as a nest of cobras. Had he managed to throw it into this room, we should have been torn to bits in a holocaust that might have destroyed half the city. I was spellbound by the necessary concentration and could do nothing."

"The devil with that," grunted Conan, who had never learned to accept praise graciously. "Now, what did all this mean? I saw the man was a Khittan. What has he to do with my quest?"

Pelias' somber eyes rested upon the huge Cimmerian as his answer came from stiff lips. "My friend, these matters are deeper than I thought.

The fate of the world may rest upon you."

The sorcerer paused, swilling a draught of wine. Leaning back on his cushions, he continued. Outside, the night was black and still.

"The magicians of the West have long been aware that the effects of certain spells have been weakened or nullified. This condition has been growing more marked in recent years. During the past few months I have buried myself in research, prying for the cause of this phenomenon. And I have found it.

"We are entering a new era. Enlightenment and reason are spreading among the peoples of the West. Aquilonia stands as a bulwark among the nations, strengthening its imperial powers by the naked, elemental force of the healthy barbarian mind. You have rejuvenated the nation, and similar forces are at work in other realms. The bonds of black magic are strained and broken by new factors brought in by the changed conditions. The far-flung web of intrigue and evil spun by the black forces is fraying.

"Some of the most evil spells would now hardly succeed at all in the Western realms. This resistance of civilization to the magic of darkness is concentrated in the barbarian king of Aquilonia. You have long' been the center of mighty happenings, and the gods look favorably upon you. And so things will continue to change until, with another turn of the cosmic wheel, enlightenment shall perish and magic shall rise again to power in a new cycle.

"I grow old, I who am already older than men reckon. Nowadays I use my vast knowledge only to furnish a life of ease and comfort and to pursue my scholarly researches. I do not live as an ascetic in ragged robes, summoning red-eyed beings with slavering jaws and ripping claws to wreak havoc among innocent human beings.

"But there is one who has long thirsted for absolute power over the world and all that dwell therein. He has become obsessed by the idea.

Years ago he began to lay the groundwork for the gigantic, cataclysmal acts of dark necromancy that should rock the earth to its core and enslave its inhabitants.

"This I learned through my unearthly spies: When, one night, he cut out the living heart of a maiden on an altar in a deserted temple by moonlight and mumbled a terrible incantation over it, he failed to get the results he sought. He was dumbfounded; this was his first attempt upon the western countries.

"His failure roused him to insensate rage. For days and nights without end he labored to find who opposed him, and at last he succeeded. You are his main obstacle.

"This dark plan, whose outlines I now grasp, is worthy of his twisted genius. By stealing your spouse, he forces you to go after her. He is sure you will be slain by foes along the way or slaughtered by the orange and unknown peoples that dwell east of the Himelian Mountains.

Should you by some feat of prowess or stroke of luck reach his haunts, he counts on slaying you himself by his diabolical powers.

"After that, the road to conquest will be open to him, for the resistance forged here in the West is too young yet to stand without its backboneConan, the king of Aquilonia!"

Dryness rasped Pelias' throat; he sipped the wine.

"As you know, I am accounted one of the mightiest magicians of the West, even though I nowadays seldom use my full powers. But should I be pitted against him of whom I speak, I should riot have the chance of a ewe in a pool of crocodiles. The sorcerers of the East are mightier than those of the West, and he is the mightiest of all. He is Yah Chieng of Paikang, in Khitai."

Conan pondered this information with somber eyes and immobile features.

At last the deep tones of his voice resounded.

"By Crom, Pelias, there rests more upon my shoulders than I could ever fathom, if what you've said is true. But I care not for the fate of the world, if I can only get my Zenobia back!"

"Ah, my friend, the fate of you, of your queen, and of the world are fast entwined. Mighty events are upon us; the destinies of uncounted ages to come will soon be decided. This is Yah Chieng's supreme bid for power. He is sure of success, or the crawling snake would not have dared attempt it. This kidnapping is but a trick to lure you from the West, which you are guarding against evil eastern sorcery. Think, man, and compare! Which is the more important: a single woman or the fate of millions?"

"The devil with that, Pelias!" roared Conan. "D'you think I would let my woman be torn from my side and then stay at home because I am some sort of wizard's jinx? May the demons of Shaggali eat the marrow of my bones if I care one copper's worth for kingship, power, lands, or riches! I want my woman back, and I'll have her if I must carve my way through a hundred thousand swordsmen to reach that bald-pated scoundrel!"

Pelias shrugged. He realized that the savage promptings that guided the barbarian's actions would not be affected by his disclosure of the deeper causes of the recent events. The only world Conan really cared about was the one that now surrounded him with red-blooded life. He had little concern for the future. Pelias said:

"Alas, the Fates have already spun their web, and I cannot change it.

Now listen. Paikang, in Khitai, is your goal. There Yah Chieng lives in his purple tower, guarded by two hundred giant Khitan saber-men, the most skilled in the East. He has usurped the power of the rightful rulers, and he governs with flail and whip. Beware his black arts. By a wave of his hand he can blot an army from the earth. I know not if I can help you, but I will try. Come with me."

The lean wizard rose and went to a small, gold-inlaid secretary-table made of some strange wood. There was an oddness about its looks, as if the craft that had fashioned it was not of human origin. Conan was a little mystified. In all his wanderings he had never seen furniture in this style.

Pelias pressed a projection hidden among the carvings of one leg of the table. A small drawer shot out, and the wizard picked an object from it. It was a ring. Strangely wrought, it did not shine with the fire of gold, nor with the icy gleam of silver, nor yet with the rich red of copper. Its dull-blue lustre was not like that of any known metal. All along its band were hieroglyphs of ancient origin. Bending to peer, Conan recognized forbidden symbols found only on the altar friezes of the secret temples of certain inhuman gods worshiped in Stygia.

The seal, also, was strangely fashioned. It was of rhombic shape, with the upper and lower points long and sharp. A careless man could easily prick himself with it.

Pelias gazed at the ring for a moment. Its strange blue gleam was like a sword of icy flame in the room. The Cimmerian, with his fine-whetted senses, could feel the power emanating from the thing. Then the wizard straightened and brushed back a grizzled lock from his forehead.

"Many moons have passed since I won this ring," he intoned. "For days and nights without cease I fought its owner, a powerful sorcerer of Luxur. The fury of the dark powers we unleashed might have devastated the land had not our spells and counterspells canceled each other.

With brain whirling and senses reeling, I strove with him through eons of black time. When I felt I could not continue much longer, he suddenly gave up. He changed his form to that of a hawk and tried to flee. My strength resurged within me: I transformed myself into an eagle, swooped upon him, and tore him to shreds. Ha! Those were the days when I was young and gloried in my powers!

"Now, my friend, I want you to wear this ring. It will be a powerful aid on your journey. Have you heard of Rakhamon?"

Conan nodded. The southern countries were rife with legends of the past, but still the name of that dread sorcerer was whispered with caution, though a full century and a half had passed since his end.

Hyrkanian invaders had sacked and burned his city while he lay helpless in the stupor induced by the black lotus.

Many adepts in magic had sought for his secret books, said to be written on the dried skins of maidens flayed alive, but none had found them. If this ring was a relic of Rakhamon's possessions, it must be powerful indeed.

"Aye, this is the ring of Rakhamon," said Pelias gravely. "Some of the unnatural beings summoned from the darker realms could not* once called, be controlled by the usual protective spells. Therefore he fashioned this ring of a metal he found in the stone of a fallen star during his travels in the icy North. He invested the ring with unimaginable powers by secret and nameless rituals, in which blood was spilled in profusion and screaming souls were condemned to the deepest and darkest hell. The wearer of this ring can stand against any beast summoned by magical arts, that much I know.

"As to its detailed use, there is no clue. Probably the knowledge perished with the secret manuscripts. Take it, Conan! This is all I can aid you with. No other spells I know can avail against the evil power of Yah Chieng."

Conan took the proffered ornament. At first it seemed too small for his massive ringers, but as he tried it on the middle finger of his left hand it slid lightly on. It seemed to have a life of its own; it fitted as if made to order. The Cimmerian shrugged. Decades of experience had made him casual about the pretensions of magical things. The bauble might work, and if not, no harm would come of it. At least, Pelias'

intentions were good.

"To the devil with all this talk," said the barbarian. "I have a long journey before me. A loaf, a joint of meat, and a skin of wine, and I am for bed. Could you spare me a cot for the night?"

"Any sort of bed you desire, my friend. My servants will fetch food and tend your horse." Pelias clapped his hands.

"That reminds me," said Conan, yawning. "I. must sacrifice a bullock to Crom ere I set forth tomorrow. Say nothing of it, for, if they knew, people would say: Conan grows old; he is getting religious in his dotage!"

3. Vengeance From the Desert

-

The sun glinted on spired helmets and whetted spearheads. Spurs jingled and bright silks flashed as three armored riders breasted the long slope of a great sand dune in the wide desert that formed the southwestern marches of Turan. Red turbans were wound about their helmets; sashes of the same color girdled their waists. White silken shirts, baggy trousers thrust into short black boots, and sleeveless, silvered mailshirts completed their apparel. Curved swords hung at their hips. Upright from the holders that hung from the saddles of two of them rose the ten-foot Turanian lances. The remaining one bore, slung from his saddle, a thick, double-curved bow in a bow case and a score and a half of arrows in a lacquered leathern quiver.

Accompanying them was a fourth figure, bound by both wrists to a rope held by the bowman. Deep gashes in the sand told of this prisoner's inability to keep up with his mounted captors. He wore the white khalat of the desert Zuagir, though the garment was dirty and torn to shreds.

His lean, dark visage was hollow-cheeked, but implacable hatred lurked in his red-rimmed eyes. He stumbled panting up the slope without a sound of pain or protest.

The Turanian soldiers, separated from the rest of their troop by a two-day sandstorm, were seeking their way back to Fort Wakla, a Turanian outpost deep in the Zuagir desert country. Yesterday they had met the Zuagir. His horse had tumbled under him with an arrow through its heart, and he had been laid senseless on the sand by a blow from a spear butt. The commander of Fort Wakla had lately begun an intense campaign against the desert tribes, who had harried Kuranian caravans overly much of late. Having taken the Zuagir prisoner, the horsemen were bringing him back to the fort to be bled of knowledge before being hanged.

At the top of the dune, the little troop paused to rest. Waterskins were lifted to parched mouths, while the ragged prisoner crawled up on all fours, almost done in. Sand dunes stretched as far as the eye could see. As practiced warriors, the Turanians used the pause to let their hawklike eyes sweep the horizon and the surface of the sands. Nothing could be seen save endless, rolling yellow plain.

The tallest of the three, the man with the bow and the prisoner's rope, suddenly stiffened. Shading his dark eyes, he bent forward to get a better view. On the top of a dune a mile away, he had sighted a lone horseman riding at a gallop. The dune had hidden him as they came to their point of vantage, but new the stranger was flying down the near side in a flurry of sand. The leader turned to his fellows.

"By the alabaster hips of Yenagra!" he said, "we have caught another desert rat! Be ready; we will kill this one and take his head on a lance tip back to the fort."

Knowing there would be no trouble to recover the Zuagir after the fight, he dropped the rope. He spurred his mount down the slope towards the point in the wide valley of sand, where he counted on intercepting the stranger, and in one smooth motion drew the powerful bow from its case and nocked an arrow. His fellow troopers followed with spears poised and slitted eyes agleam, yelping like hounds closing for the kill.

At three hundred paces, the bowman drew and loosed at full gallop with the effortless horsemanship of a Turanian cavalryman. But the shaft did not strike home. Like lightning his intended victim flung his horse aside with a mighty effort that almost threw the steed. With a swift gesture, the stranger shook off the folds of his khalat.

The Hyrkanians halted in consternation. There appeared before them not the half-starved form of a desert man, armed only with knife and javelin, but a powerful western warrior in sturdy mail and steel helmet, equipped with a long sword and a dagger. The sword flashed like a flame in the sunlight as the rider whipped it out. The Turanian leader's narrow eyes widened with astonishment.

"You dare return to Turan, barbarian scoundrel!" he cried. For the Turanian was Hamar Kur, who had been amir of a troop of horse that Conan, as a leader of the kozaki, had routed years before by an ambush on the Yelba River. Hamar Kur was demoted to common trooper in the frontier guards in consequence and ever since had burned for vengeance.

Drawing his saber, he shouted:

"At him, men! It is Conan the kozak! Slay him, and the king will fill your helmets with gold!"

The Turanian riders hesitated, awed by the memory of gory and terrible legends associated with that name. Tales told how this man, with two pirate galleys, had sacked and burned the fortified seaport of Khawarizm and then broken through six of the king's war galleys that had come to trap him, leaving three foundering and the others' decks awash with blood. They told how he, with a band of Zuagir tribesmen, had harried the outflung Imperial posts in the south until the border had to be drawn back. They told how the savage kozak hordes under his command had stormed the walled city of Khorosun, slaying and burning.

Conan made full use of his enemies' moment of indecision. Spurring his big horse, he thundered upon them like a one-man avalanche, his sword flashing in circles. Hamar Kur's mount reared wildly before this crashing charge and was cast to the ground. Its rider was spilled from the saddle.

The two other soldiers couched their lances and spurred fiercely, but lacked time to gain enough speed to make their charge effective. With the fury of a thunderstorm Conan was upon them, smiting right and left.

The head of one man leaped from its trunk on a fount of blood. The next instant, Conan's blade shattered the other's lance. The Turanian caught the following blow on his shield but was hurled from his saddle by sheer impact,

Hamar Kur had regained his feet. Skilled in combat against horsemen, he ran to where the slain trooper had dropped his lance. Then he ran swiftly up and thrust the shaft of the weapon between the legs of Conan's horse. He cast himself aside at the last moment to avoid the barbarian's terrible sword.

The desert sands clouded the sky as Conan and his mount crashed to the ground together. With the practiced ease of the hardened mercenary, the Cimmerian threw himself clear. He rose, sword still in hand. With cold blue eyes slitted he watched his two surviving enemies slink towards him, one from either side. Their tactics were obvious: to catch him between them &o that one could strike him down from the rear.

With tigerish swiftness, he charged the soldier to the right. He knew he risked a scimitar in the back from Hamar Kur, but it was never his way to await the foe's attack. The Turanian tried to parry the crashing blow, but to no avail. Splintering the curled blade with its terrible force, the Cimmerian's sword smashed helmet and skull like a ripe orange.

Conan wheeled like a panther in the nick of time. He just managed to catch Hamar Kur's whistling blow on his sword hilt. There was a momentary exchange of cuts and parries as the straight blade of the West and the curved blade of the East whirled about each other in a coruscating dance of death. Then a quick thrust from Conan pierced his enemy's breast. The point drove through the fine Turanian mail and on through the ex-amir's body. Hamar gave a ghastly scream and fell heavily. Conan braced his legs to tear his dripping blade free.

The Cimmerian wiped his sword on his enemy's sash and looked swiftly around. He had heard a sound from behind, and his senses and temper were on edge. He waited warily as a tattered figure half slid and half rolled down the slope almost to his feet. It was the Zuagir. Rising on shaky legs, he spat upon the prostrate form of Hamar Kur. Then he turned his burning eyes on Conan. As he took in the gigantic figure in worn mail, the rage and fury in his eyes gave way to recognition and joy. Lifting his bound hands, he cried:

"Praise be to Kemosh, for he has answered my prayers and sent these dogs to the floors of Hell! And more, he has brought back the great warlord who led us to plunder long ago! I greet you, Hawk of the Desert! There will be feasting and dancing in the villages! The Turanian dogs will cower in their towers as the cry goes forth from the desert: 'Yamad al-Aphta has returned!'"

Conan shrugged his broad shoulders and thrust his sword back into the scabbard His horse had risen front its fall, and Conan unslung his waterskin and pack from the saddle.

"Here, wolf," he grunted, "you look a little the worse for wear. Have a draught, but take care you are not overfilled." Conan brought out bread and dried meat and shared them with the Zuagir. "Now tell me: What is afoot in the desert? How did you fall into the hands of the Hyrkanians?"

The nomad answered between gulps and champings: "I am Yar Allal of the Duali tribe. I was riding in haste and alone for our camp when these dogs caught me. They shot my horse from under me and stunned me with a blow on the head. They were bringing me back to Fort Wakla for questioning and death."

"Whence your hurry?" asked Conan. "And why alone? These hills swarm with Turanian patrols."

The voice of the Zuagir took on a burning edge as he answered. "A terrible misfortune has struck our tribe. Listen, my lord. For days we lay in wait in the ruins of the Gharat temple, fifty miles to the south. Word had come that a rich caravan was approaching from the west, bringing the wealth and person of the lady Thanara."

"Who's that?"

"A yedka of Maypur, famed for her beauty and riches. Furthermore she is high in the favor of King Yezdigerd. Could we but capture her, a fabulous ransom would be ours as well as the spoils from the camel train.

"We lay there with knives whetted and bows newly strung until we thought the dogs of traders would never come. And then, one day, we heard the camels' bells in the distance. The long line of men, beasts, and wagons came into view.

"We waited until they were almost upon us. Uttering our war cry, we swept down upon them. We expected an easy conquest of the merchants and their retainers. Then, suddenly, the merchants and servants threw aside their khalats. Instead of timid civilians, mailed lancers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against us!

"There must have been a hundred of them hidden in the wains. They rode through our ranks like reapers mowing down a field of wheat. Half of us perished in the first attack. The rest were riven apart and scattered into small bands. We fought mightily against the odds, and many a Turanian plunged to earth with a Duali spear through his throat or a curved knife in his guts.

"But our courage was of no avail as the steel-clad ranks closed in upon us. I saw my brother felled by a stroke from the amir's scimitar. Then Yin Allal, my father, caught a blow on the head that knocked him stunned from the saddle. I spurred my horse; smiting and thrusting I won through and away. They pursued me for hours, but their horses were wearier than mine and they gave it up. I was on my way to raise the tribe as I was caught. By now the caravan is safely within the walls of Fort Wakla. There will be rejoicing among the Turanians tonight; not for decades have they captured a Zuagir chief alive!"

"How know you he is alive?"

"In the last moment ere I raced off, I looked back and saw two of them carrying him back toward the carts. He was moving, though feebly."

Conan digested this tale. He well remembered Yin Allal, one of his staunchest supporters of old, when he, as war chief of three united Zuagir tribes, had led them in daring raids against the Turanians.

Confronted by this new problem, he did not wish to leave an old friend unaided in the hands of his enemies. He sprang up, his blue eyes flashing with determination.

"Catch yourself a horse!" he snapped. "We ride for the Duali oasis at once. We shall be there by nightfall, and if my name is not forgotten I'll raise the tribes again. I will save my old friend. We'll pull those dogs' beards yet, by Crom!"

With a laugh he flung himself into the saddle. Gesturing to his companion to follow, he spurred his horse into a fierce gallop over the sands.

The oasis lay enfolded in the black arms of the desert night. Stars twinkled like gems on a dark mantle studded with diamonds; the fronds of the palms, now and then moving before the slight evening breeze, were silvered by the cold moonlight. In the shadow of the foliage were strewn a profusion of tentsa large Zuagir camp.

Earlier in the day, this had been a quiet place. The desert sun poured its golden rays upon the camel's-hair dwellings. Veiled women went about their primitive duties, fetching water from the well and broiling strips of meat over the campfires. Snores and snuffles sounded from the nomadic abodes as the tribesmen took their siesta.

Now the Duali oasis was a center of frantic activity. In the middle rose a tent whose size indicated its importance. From this tent, now and then, a lean desert hawk emerged. The Zuagir would hurry with flapping khalat to his horse, spring into the saddle, and urge the mount into a mad race out over the desert. Others returned from their missions, flinging themselves from foam-flecked steeds to hasten toward the big central tent. Zuagirs from the neighboring tribes of the Kharoya and Qirlata had been pouring in all day. Now the area covered by dun-colored tents was thrice as large as the day before.

Conversations were whispered behind the door flaps; men went to and fro on urgent errands. There was an orderly bustle such as is seldom seen in a desert camp.

The hearts of the robed and bearded chiefs in the central tent swelled with pride and affection. The huge figure in worn mail, seated in the place of honor, had become the center of legendry and hero worship since the day long ago when he had arrived among them. He united their bickering clans and led them in raids so daring, bloody, and rewarding that tales of them were still told around the campfires. Their superstitious minds regarded the return of the big Cimmerian as a good omen. This opinion was strengthened by having occurred at the same time that their raiding party had been nearly wiped out and one of their mightiest chiefs captured.

Petty inter-tribal quarrels were swept away by the return of the Hawk of the Desert. Savage expectation was mirrored in their dark eyes as Conan lectured them.

"The fort is impregnable to a straight assault," he said bluntly. "We have no ballistae or other siege engines to reduce it by force. It is well provisioned, like all these Turanian outposts, and might hold out for a year. Moreover, a determined sally by their seasoned squadrons would scatter bur irregular ranks. Our chance is to come to grips with them inside the walls, where cavalry tactics cannot be used and we have the advantage of numbers. Trickery must be used.

"Let us equip a caravan train from the loot stored here in this oasis.

Fifty of us, garbed as merchants, slaves, retainers, and camel drivers shall take the caravan to the fort, as if we were on the road to Kherdpur. At the twelfth hour we shall cut down the guards at the gate, open up, and let in the horde. Our main goals are the barracks, the officers' quarters, and the governor's palace. We shall pillage, burn sack, and slay until the streets run red with Turanian blood!"

The Cimmerian rose, hitching at his scabbard. "To work, desert dogs!

Before sunrise, I want such a camel train as would make any Zuagir's mouth water!"

Camel bells tinkled. The feet of men and beasts raised clouds of dust as the long line passed through the gate of Fort Wakla. At the gate, the lean merchant in the lead declared: "Lord, I am Zebah, a Shemite of Anakia. I have come up from Yukkub to barter my goods in Kherdpur."

"Who is this?" asked the gate captain, pointing to a huge man wrapped in a capacious khalat. His kaffia hid the lower part of his face, so that only his piercing blue eyes could be seen.

"This is my personal servant and bodyguard," declared the leader, "a Stygian. The others are hired guards, camel drivers, and slaves. By Ashtoreth, it is good to be safely within walls again! I had feared attacks from the Zuagir bands. My men are well armed, as the noble captain can see. But the gods protected us, so none of those stinking vermin of the desert assailed us."

The captain of the watch grinned. "Your precautions were wasted, my man. Just now a woman could ride alone and unmolested along the caravan trail. Yesterday a squadron of the Imperial Guards smashed a host of the desert rats and captured their chieftain. We think only one of the dogs got away."

"Ah!" said the Shemite. "That is indeed glorious news."

"All in the day's work. But at least this show of force should stop the raids for a while. Veziz Shah has ordered us to slay any Zuagir, man, woman, or child, caught by our patrols. By the time you return to Yukkub, you will be able to travel the length and breadth of the Zuagir desert without fear."

"I will burn an offering to Bel as a measure of my gratitude," said the merchant, as the last of the camels shambled through the gate. Four guardsmen closed the gate; its ironclad valves swung creakingly shut on hinges as thick as a man's leg. The massive bolt bars clanged into their cradles.

The fort was really a small city. A high, crenelated wall of stone girded the mass of buildings with parapets and battlements. Watchful bowmen ranged the breastworks. The space within was roomy, and merchants and thieves found their means of support in the profusion of buildings. Isolated as it was, Fort Wakla must contain within itself the means of civilized living, with drinking shops and gambling houses to keep the garrison happy.

At the spacious market place in the center, mailed soldiers in spired helmets and robed merchants with exotic wares and veiled women milled about. The space resounded with the cries of hawkers and auctioneers.

To one side rose the mighty citadel where the governor lived, a fortress in itself with gray stone walls, narrow windows, and heavy copper doors. Those who had been inside, however, averred that the interior belied the grimness of the outside. It was heaped with art treasures, fitted with comfortable furniture, and stocked with fine wines and viands.

Evening had come. The sky darkened swiftly, and here and there candles and lamps illuminated the windows. Sweating taverners bore wine casks from their cellars for the evening rush of customers. Gamblers rolled dice with practiced twists and turns. The colorful night life of a Hyrkanian city was beginning.

In the quarters by the western wall, reserved for visiting caravans, arguments raged around the campfires of Conan's band. Nearly all advocated staying there in safety, unsuspected, until the appointed hour had come. But Oman was of another mind. With a good two hours to spare, he meant to find out as much as he could about the disposition of the enemy. The quarters of the officers and common soldiers he had already located, close by the main gate, but he did not know the number of the troops quartered there.

"May the fiends cut off your tongues!" he rumbled. "I will do as I have said. In the tavern district there will be scores of drunken soldiers off duty. From one of them I shall get the information I want if I have to wring it from him like a sodden cloth!"

The iron determination of the Cimmerian swept aside the objections of his followers. He wrapped his khalat about him and strode away, hiding his face under the kaffia. There was no reason to upset their carefully laid plans by letting some Turanian with a good memory recognize him.

The fumes of sour wine, stale beer, and sweat struck Conan in the face as he entered the first drinking shop. The carousal was in full swing.

Wenches hurried to and fro with jacks of foaming ale and flagons of wine, while painted hussies dawdled on the knees of half-drunken soldiers who emptied their wine cups and yelled for more. The interior was much like that of a western tavern, though the garb was more colorful.

Seeking out a small, secluded table in a darker corner, the big barbarian sat down upon a creaking chair and ordered a tankard of beer.

Slaking his thirst in gulps, he looked around. A pair of drunken lancers were wrestling on the floor amid shrieks and titters from the women. Taut muscles rippled under their tawny, sweating skins. A game of dice was in progress at a neighboring table. Gleaming coins and flashing gems wandered from one side to the other across its rough-hewn and wine-spattered surface. The Cimmerian relaxed. Nervousness seldom assailed him, but his senses had been on edge as he entered the enemy's lair.

"What about a drink, you silent dullard?"

With a crash of overturned chairs, a giant man-at-arms pushed through the throng, leaving a train of furious curses in his wake. He flung himself down upon the unoccupied seat at Conan's table. His eyes were glassily belligerent, and his gilded mail and silken sash were splashed with wine from his cup.

Conan's eyes narrowed. The man wore the scarlet mantle and white turban of the Imperial Guards. The turban sported a peacock feather, the emblem of a captain of these elite troops. No doubt he belonged to that detachment that routed the Zuagirs and took Yin Allal prisoner. In fact he might have commanded that company. Here was an opportunity sent by the gods if Conan could but use it.

With a show of bluff intimacy, the big Cimmerian leaned forward, his face still hidden in the shadow of Ids kaffia. "Do not wonder that I find this place dull. I came in only to slake my thirst." He gave the soldier a friendly punch in the shoulder. "I'm on my way to a pleasure house where the women are so fair and skilled as to rival the courtesans of Shadizar!"

The captain hiccupped, shook his head, and focused his eyes with an effort. "Huh? Women? Good idea. Who are you, anyway?"

"Hotep of Khemi, bodyguard to the merchant Ze-bah. Come along with me, man! A visit to this place will surfeit you for a month."

Conan was not an expert dissembler. His performance would have aroused the suspicion of a shrewd and sober man. However, the drunken stupor of the Turanian left room for nothing but his most primitive instincts.

Breathing hard with aroused lust, he leaned forward with a loud belch.

"Lead me there, man! I have wandered too long over the cursed desert without a woman."

"Were you with the party that ambushed the Zuagirs?"

"With them? I commanded them!"

"Good for you!"

"Aye; that was a noble fight. But the only wench in the caravan was the yedka Thanara, may the gods smite her haughty body with boils!"

"She refused you?"

"Worse! She slapped me when I tried to kiss her in her tent!"

"The insolence of her!" said Conan.

"Nor was that all. Would you believe it, she threatened to have me flayed in the great square at Agra-pur if I did not behave? Me, Ardashir of Akif! Behave myself! As if any red-blooded man could control himself when casting his eyes upon her!"

"It is shameful, how women treat us."

"Enough of that. Lead me to your pleasure house, Stygian. I need forgetfulness and surcease."

Rising unsteadily, the Turanian pushed through the throng. Conan followed. In the street, the cool night air was like a slap in the face with a wet cloth. The captain sobered visibly as he walked. Suddenly curious, he peered at the half-hidden face of his companion, who hurried silently along at his side.

"Ho," he said, "Wait a moment, my fleet-footed friend! You have not described the whereabouts of this magical house of women, of which I have never heard though I know Wakla well. Let's have a look under your headsheet"

Ardashir's speech was cut short by a powerful hand on his throat.

Corded muscles of unimaginable strength held him as in a giant vice.

Normally accounted the strongest man in his company, he was, in his unsteady condition, helpless against the suddenness of the assault and the gorilla like power of the Cimmerian.

He was swiftly dragged into a dark lane, struggling for breath and clawing at the hands that throttled him. When he was almost unconscious, he was swiftly trussed with his own sash. Roughly turned over on his back, he felt the burning eyes of his captor upon him as the barbarian spoke heavily accented Hyrkanian in a sibilant whisper:

"You asked my name, eastern dog! Have you heard of Conan, called Yamad al-Aphta by the Zuagirs? Chief of the kozaki and the Vilayet pirates?"

The Turanian could do no more than make a choking sound in his bruised throat. Conan continued: "I have returned from the West, and now I will have information from you if I have to burn out your eyes or skin the soles of your feet to get it!"

Though a tough and courageous man, Ardashir was paralyzed with shock.

Normal enemies, such as Zaugir bands, Kshatriya legions, or the defending troops of invaded western nations he had faced with the fatalistic hardihood of the seasoned warrior. But this barbarian giant, kneeling over him with poised dagger, was regarded with superstitious dread by the Turanians. The saga of his daring exploits had invested him with magical powers in their eyes, until his name was spoken like that of a mythical ogre.

Ardashir knew that the barbarian's threats were not idle. Conan would carry out the most bestial acts of torture without compunction to gain his own ends. Yet it was not the fear of torture but rather the numbing realization of the identity of his captor that loosed Ardashir's tongue.

By prodding a little with his dagger now and then, Conan gathered his news. The regular garrison of twelve hundred horse was quartered in the barracks by the main gate, while the hundred men of the Imperial Guard were spread over the city in temporary quarters. The desert chieftain was chained in the dungeon beneath the governor's tower. The lady Thanara was also quartered in the tower. The strength of the guards at the gates the captain did not know.

Conan pondered the situation. He knew that the barracks formed a square with a single exit. He had over two thousand determined nomads at his disposal. But using his new-found knowledge effectively, he counted on gaining victory.

A glance at the moon told him the twelfth hour was near. It was time to hurry. He tested the bonds of his captive, gagged him with his own turban, dragged him farther into the lane, and left him there, glaring and straining.

"I must be growing soft," Conan said to himself. "Time was when I should have cut the cur's throat after questioning him. But the Zuagirs will no doubt take care of that when they find him."

Faint, rapid drum beats filled the luxurious apartment on the second floor of the governor's palace, where Thanara of Maypur lounged on a silken divan, nibbling fruit from a low table that stood on the thick rug in front of her couch. Her sheerly transparent gown revealed her seductive charms, but the man in the room paid scant attention to these.

This man was a small, bandy-legged, mud-colored fellow, clad in skins and furs. His flat, wrinkled, monkeylike face was painted with stripes and circles of red and black. His long black hair was gathered in greasy braids, and a necklace of human teeth encircled his neck. A powerful stench of sweat-soaked leather and unwashed human hide rose from him. He was a Wigur, one of those fierce and barbarous nomads from the far northeast beyond the Sea of Vilayet.

The little man sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the thin curl of smoke that rose from a brazier on a tripod in front of him. The wavering blue column soared up from its source for two feet, then rippled and curled up on itself in interwoven arabesques. All the while the man kept up a swift tapping of his finger tips against a small drum, less than a foot across, which he held in his other hand.

At last the staccato tapping stopped.

"What see you, Tatur?" asked the yedka.

"He comes," said the shaman in a high singsong voice. "He whom you seek is near."

"How can he be?" said the lady Thanara sharply. "Veziz Shah keeps a sharp watch, and no such conspicuous rogue could gain admittance."

"Nevertheless, he approaches," whined Tatur. "The spirits do not lie.

Unless you flee, he will soon confront you."

"He must have entered Wakla in disguise," mused Thanara. "If he comes upon me, what shall I do? Will your master, he who is not to be named, give me some means to cope with him?" There was a note of panic in her voice, and her hand sought her shapely throat.

"It is the will of him who shall not be named that you should succeed in your mission," intoned the Wigur. He fumbled inside his sheepskin coat and brought out a small purple phial.

"A drop of this in his wine," he said, "will render him like one dead for three days."

"That is good. But the barbarian is wary. His suspicions are aroused in the wink of an eye, as we learned at Khanyria. Suppose he detects the drug and refuses to drink?"

Tartur brought out another object: a small pouch of soft leather. "In that case, this will lay him low if he breathes it."

"What is it?"

"Pollen of the yellow lotus of Khitai. Use it only as a last resort.

For, should a breath of air blow it back upon you, you too will be cast into a swoon. And too deep a breath of it can kill."

"That is good, but not enough. If your master really expects me to confront the Cimmerian, he should furnish me with a last-minute means of escape if I am trapped. Others may underestimate the Cimmerian, but not I. And your master can do it, and he owes it to me for past services."

A faint smile creased Tatur's wrinkled features. "He who is not to be named said truly you are a sharp bargainer. Here." He brought out an object like a translucent egg. "Break this in your hour of need, and help will come to you from other dimensions."

Thanara examined the three objects. "Good," she said at last. "Ride to Aghrapur and tell the king I await Conan here. If all goes well, he shall have his enemy. If not, he will need a new agent. Haste and farewell!"

A few minutes later, Tatur the shaman, astride a small, shaggy Hyrkanian pony, jogged off into the night across the sands at a tireless canter.

The night was cool and quiet. The captain of the watch at the main gate stretched and yawned. From the small guardhouse in the square before the gate, he could see two bowmen patrolling the parapet over the big twin doors. The pair of spearmen at the pillars flanking the entrance stood erect and still, the moonlight reflected by their polished mail shirts and spired helmets. No need to fear anything; a stroke on the gong at his side would bring a company on the double from the barracks.

Nevertheless, the governor had ordered the guards doubled and their vigilance increased.

The officer wondered. Did Veziz Shah really fear an attack on the fort on account of the captured Zuagir chief? Let the desert rats come! They would smash their heads against the walls while the archers riddled them with arrows. The governor must be getting old and prone to nightmares. Let him rest. He, Akeb Man, was in charge!

The moon was obscured by clouds. Akeb Man blinked and peered. What had happened? It seemed as if the two archers on the wall had sat down for a moment. Now, however, they had risen again and resumed their measured pacing. Better investigate these lazy devils. He would give them three hours' drill in the desert sun if they had tried to shirk their duty.

Rising, he gazed out again before opening the door. At that instant the moonlight returned in full force. A shocking sight met his eyes.

Instead of spired helmets and mantles, the archers wore banded kaffias and khalats.

Zuagirs!

How they had gotten in, only the devils knew. Akeb Man snatched at the hammer that hung beside the gong to strike the alarm.

The door of the guardhouse burst in with a crash and fell in a cloud of splinters and dust. Akeb Man wheeled and snatched at his scimitar, but the sight of the man confronting him made him pause in astonishment. No white-clad desert raider was he, but a giant western warrior in black mesh-mail, naked sword in hand.

With a cry of fear and rage, the Turanian lashed out with a low disemboweling thrust. With the swiftness of lightning, the mailed giant avoided the blade and brought his own long straight sword down in a whistling blow. Blood spurted like a fountain as Akeb Man sank to the floor, cloven to the breastbone.

Conan wasted no time in gloating. Any moment now, an inquisitive guardsman might poke his head through a barracks window or a belated citizen might come wandering by. The big iron-sheathed doors were now opening, and through them poured a swift and silent-footed stream of white-robed nomads.

Swiftly, Conan issued his orders. His tones were low, but the words carried to the ears of all.

"Two men with torches, set the barracks afire. Three hundred archers with plenty of arrows place themselves to mow down the soldiers as they pour out. The rest of you hit the fort with torch and sword. Burn and slay, and take any spoils and captives you want. Keep together. Do not break up into bands smaller than twenty. Thabit, bring your fifty with me. I am for the governor's palace."

With an imperious gesture, Conan dismissed his subchiefs and beckoned his fifty, who followed his long strides at a dogtrot. Behind them, smoking torches lit the square as the arsonists slunk towards the guardsmens' lodgings. Other bands vanished in different directions.

With the armed defenders of the fort wiped out by Conan's stratagem, there would be little opposition. The lean reavers licked their lips in anticipation of plunder and vengeance as they stalked along the silent streets, arrows nocked and knives and spears gleaming in the moonlight.

Oman led his men straight toward their goal. He intended to save Yin Allal first. Moreoever, he was intrigued by the tale of the beautiful yedka. Here, he thought, he might find a prize precious enough to satisfy his own taste. Beautiful women had always been one of his weaknesses, and his imagination had been fired by Ardashir's account He increased his speed, watching the dimmed doorways and nighted lane mouths with smoldering eyes as he hurried past.

As they emerged upon the central square, Conan . mouthed a barbaric oath. Four sentries paced in pairs before the copper door of the residence. He had counted on taking the governor by surprise, but that was no longer possible. Swinging his great sword, he raced across the flagstones of the market place. Such was his speed that one of the spearmen was down with his side caved in before the others collected their shattered wits. Conan's followers were twenty yards behind, unable to match the Cimmerian's terrific speed.

Two spearmen thrust their weapons against his broad breast, while the third put a horn to his lips and sent forth a bellowing signal. This was cut short by a well-aimed Zuagir arrow, which pierced the trumpeter's brain. The horn fell to the ground with a clank.

Conan parried the spear thrusts with a fierce swipe of his sword that sheared off the heads of both weapons. With a vicious thrust he impaled one antagonist on his long blade. The Turanian fell sprawling against the other with a gurgle. The second man's sword stroke at the Cimmerian's head went awry and struck sparks from the flagstones. In the next instant, the man was pincushioned with arrows. With a groan and a clatter of mail he fell.

Roused to a vicious lust for killing, Conan sprang forward and tried the copper door. Time was short. In answer to the ringing note of the horn, people thrust their heads out of casements around the square.

Archers appeared on some of the roofs; he must get into the tower before the foe had time to organize a defense.

The door opened before his thrusting shoulder. Leaving ten of his men to guard against attack from the rear, Conan led the rest inside.

With a clink of mail and a flash of sword blades, ten soldiers in the white turbans of the Imperial Guard rushed against him out of a doorway. The Cimmerian's battle cry rang high as he and his followers closed with their enemies. Many a curved knife or shortened spear found its mark in Turanian vitals, but the flashing scimitars also took a heavy toll. However, the bloodiest havoc wreaked was that of Oman's cross-hiked sword. He leaped, cut, and thrust with a tigerish frenzy and speed that blurred the sight of his adversaries. In a couple of minutes, the ten Turanians lay in pools of blood, though eight silent figures in bloodstained khalats bore witness to the ferocity of the defense.

Conan swept up to the second floor, taking four steps at a stride. On this floor, he knew, the quarters of the governor were located.

Pausing, he flung swift orders at his followers.

"Ten of you, search for the keys to the dungeon and free Yin Allal. The rest, take all the plunder you can carry. I'll pay the governor a visit."

As the Zuagirs, howling and laughing, stormed up and down the stairs, Conan broke the sandalwood door before him into splinters with a mighty kick. He found himself in the anteroom of the governor's apartments.

Crossing the floor swiftly on sound-deadening mats, he halted in midstep. From the other side of the door before him he heard a woman's voice raised in angry expostulation.

Conan's brows drew together in a vast frown. He picked up a heavy table and heaved it against the new obstacle. With a crashing impact, the ungainly missile burst open the shattered door. He tossed the remains of the table aside and strode through.

At a table in the middle of the lamplit room stood a tall, powerful man of middle age. Conan knew him by description as Veziz Shah. Silken divans and tables laden with delicacies stood about on the rug-covered floor. On one table rested a flagon of wine with two filled goblets.

A woman rested on the divan. Her wide dark eyes held no trace of fear as she looked upon the invading barbarian. Conan gave a start. This was the girl who had accosted him in Khanyria and almost led him to his death!

No time now to mull over such matters. With a curse, the governor unsheathed his jeweled scimitar and advanced catlike upon the Cimmerian.

"You dare invade my chambers, you red-handed rogue!" he snarled. "I have heard you are on the rove again, and I hoped for the pleasure of having your limbs torn off by wild horses. But as it is"

He whipped forward in a swift arching stroke. Most men would have been so distracted by his words as to have their throats slit by that whistling edge, but the pantherish speed of barbarian muscles saved Conan. Parrying with his hilt, he lashed out in a vicious countercut.

In the exchange of blows and thrusts, he soon found he faced one of the most skilled swordsmen he had ever met.

But no civilized fencer could match the skill and speed of Conan, hardened in wars and battles since boyhood against foes from all over the world. The skill at arms he had won as a mercenary would by itself have made him master of any ordinary swordsman, for his learning had been pounded into his brain in endless, bloody strife on far battlefields. In addition he retained the flashing, lightning-quick speed of the primordial barbarian, unslowed by civilized comfort.

As the duel continued, Veziz Shah began to tire and his eyes filled with an awful fear. With a sudden cry he flung his scimitar into Conan's face and raced for the far wall. There his questing fingers probed the surface as if seeking the spring to open a hidden exit.

Conan avoided the missile with a jerk of his black-maned head. The next second his arm was around the neck and his knee in the back of the Turanian amir. His voice was a terrible whisper in Veziz Shah's ear.

"Dog, remember when you caught ten of my Afghulis when you commanded a squadron in Secunderam? And how you sent me their pickled heads in jars with wishes for a hearty repast? Your time has come. Rot in Hell!"

With a terrible heave, the blood-mad Cimmerian forced his enemy's body backwards against the thrust of his knee until the Turanian's spine snapped like a dry twig. A lifeless corpse flopped to the floor.

Sweating and panting, Conan turned to the woman on the divan.

Thanara had not moved during the fight. Now she rose, eyes shining, raised her arms and came fearlessly towards Conan, ignoring the bloody sword in his hand. The blood ran swiftly through his veins at the sight of her.

"You are a real man!" she whispered, pressing herself against his rough mail and twining her arms around his corded neck. "None other could have slain Veziz Shah. I am glad you did. He forced me by threats to come in here to do his bidding."

Conan felt the hot urge of his racing blood. In his younger days he would have swept the woman into his arms and damned the consequences.

But now the caution of long experience asserted itself. He growled warningly.

"You were clad otherwise when we met in Khanyria," he said, taking both her wrists in one big paw and drawing her firmly down to the couch beside him. "Tell me the tale behind that ambush, and your part in it.

No lies, now, if you know what's good for you!"

The dark eyes under the long lashes regarded him without fear. A well-formed hand gently drew itself from his grasp and took one of the goblets of wine from the table. She handed him this vessel and began sipping the other herself. The assurance of a beautiful and intelligent woman colored her actions.

"You must be thirsty after killing. Have a draught of this wine. It is the best from Veziz Shah's own cellar. Drink, and I will tell you the story you ask for."

Conan stared into the depths of the cup as Thanara's musical voice began: "I am Thanara, a yedka or high-born lady of Maypur. King Yezdigerd has graciously appointed me one of his personal agentsthe eyes and ears of the king, as we call them in Turan. When word came that you had embarked on your lonely journey, I was sent to supervise the work of the stupid mercenaries engaged by our agent in Tarantia. I suppose"

Conan hurled his cup to the floor and furiously turned upon the woman.

He had sniffed the wine and let a little touch his tongue, and his keen barbarian senses told him of the threat that lurked in the cup. One huge hand fastened itself in her long black hair.

"I'll supervise you, strumpet!" he snarled. "I thought"

Thanara's hand came up from behind her and flung into his face a pinch of the pollen of the yellow lotus. Conan jerked back, coughing and sneezing, and let go Thanara's hair. Holding her breath, she slipped out of his reach and stood up.

Snoring heavily, Conan sprawled upon the couch.

Thanara nodded in satisfaction. For the next two or three days he would be like a man stone dead. Swift action was now necessary.

A rising murmur from without attracted her attention. She stepped to a window overlooking the square and pulled back the curtains. At the sight she saw she jerked back. Houses flamed, fired by the ravaging Zuagir horde. Shrieks of captive women and curses of battling men echoed. White, ghostly shapes flitted here and there. No soldiery was to be seen. Evidently Conan had entered the fort, not alone as she had thought, but in the company of the desert wolves.

Swiftly she collected her wits. A seasoned spy, she was already hatching a plan to save herself and further the king's aims. She grabbed a white robe from one of the chests and donned it She armed herself with a long, gold-hiked dagger. Thrusting aside the broken and staring corpse of the late governor, she searched with swift hands for the spring activating the secret door.

With a grating sound, a section of the wall swung inward, disclosing a spiral staircase leading downwards. She went back to the couch where the unconscious form of Conan rested. Grasping him beneath the armpits, she dragged him inside the secret door, straining her muscles to the utmost to move his great weight. She worked the spring from inside to close the door and laid the Cimmerian to rest on the steps. He lay snoring like a hibernating bear.

Thanara hurried down the steps. Light came faintly from several narrow window slits. On the ground floor she found herself in a small circular chamber. The exit worked in the same way as the entrance to the hidden passage. She pressed the stud and slipped out, taking good note of the means of reentry.

The fort was a hell. The Zuagirs had broken out the contents of the wine cellars and gotten swiftly drunk, with the light-hearted irresponsibility of the primitive nomad unused to civilized drink.

Their laughing torchmen had set fire to every house. Bands of captive, half-naked women were rounded up and herded, with whiplashes and coarse jests, toward the main gate.

At the barracks the slaughter had been awful. The cornered soldiers, rushing out through the only exit, had run into a hail of arrows from the waiting Zuagir archers. None of them had a chance, blinded by smoke and confused by sleep. Hundreds of pincushioned bodies lay in heaps about the ruins of the barracks, while charred bodies in the debris showed that many had been caught by the flames before they could win out the door to face the arrows.

Among the inner buildings of the fort, bands of blood-mad nomads were still cutting down the remnants of the company of the Imperial Guard who, awakened by the noise, burst out of their scattered lodgings. Such a bloody stroke as tonight's sack had not been dealt a Turanian stronghold in decades.

Hardened to a life of raw experience, Thanara hurried through the dark streets. The way was lit only by the guttering flames of burning houses. Unfrightened by the corpses choking the gutters, she melted into dark doorways whenever a screaming Zuagir band shuffled by, swinging golden spoils and herding captive women. When passing the mouth of a small lane, she heard a gurgle. She peered swiftly into the gloom and discerned a prostrate figure. She also saw that it wore the spired helmet and fine-meshed mail coif of a Turanian Imperial Guard.

Hurrying into the narrow space, she bent and removed the gag from the man's mouth. She at once recognized Ardashir of Akif, half suffocated by the smoke of nearby fires but otherwise very much alive.

She cut his bonds and motioned him to rise and follow her, stifling the imprecations that he started to gasp out by a finger at her lips. With the habits of an old soldier, he accepted her leadership without argument.

The journey back to the governor's palace was uneventful. The drunken bands seemed satisfied with their spoils and were drawing back out of the fort. Once, however, the Turanians were confronted by a pair of leering, drunken desert raiders, but the Zuagirs could not match the swift strokes of Ardashir's scimitar by clumsy motions with their curved knives. Leaving their bloodied bodies behind, the couple won unscathed to the tower. They slipped into the secret entrance. Ardashir followed unwillingly as Thanara led the way up the stairs to where Conan lay.

Recognizing his foe, Ardashir snatched at his scimitar with an oath.

Thanara caught his arm. "Calm yourself! Know you not that the king will shower us with gold if we bring the barbarian to him alive?"

Ardashir made a pungent suggestion as to what King Yezdigerd could do with his gold. "The swine has smirched my honor!" he shouted. "I will"

"Hold your tongue, fool! What will happen to you when the king learns you have lost a whole company of his precious Imperials but escaped without a scratch yourself?"

"Hm," said Ardashir, his fury abating and giving way to calculation.

Thanara continued:

"The king's most skilled executioners will have to meet in conclave to invent sufferings hellish enough to atone for the trouble he has given Turan. Take hold of your senses! Will you forsake wealth and a generalship for a moment of personal vengeance?"

Growling but quieted, Ardashir sheathed his sword and helped the girl to tie the barbarian's hands and feet. Peering into the deserted quarters of the governor through a secret spyhole, she whispered:

"We shall wait until dawn. By then the Zuagir bands will have left, and we shall take horses from some stable. The drunken raiders must have overlooked some. If we spur hard, we can be out of danger in half a day. Provisions can be found in this house. We shall ride straight for the capital and drug our prisoner anew during the journey to keep him quiet. In five days he shall lie in the king's deepest dungeon in Aghrapur!"

Her dark eyes flashed triumphantly as she gazed on the prostrate form of the Cimmerian.

4. The Palace on the Cliff

With head whirling, stomach knotted with nausea, and throat parched, Conan the Cimmerian slowly regained his senses. His last memory was of sitting on the sumptuous couch of Veziz Shah, governor of Fort Wakla.

Now he found himself gazing at dank, dripping walls, with the squeak of scuttling rats in his ears as he turned heavily over to sit up on a bed of moldy straw. As he moved, there was a jingle of chains linking the fetters on his wrists and ankles with a massive stone staple set in the wall. He was naked but for a loincloth.

His head felt as if it were going to split. His tongue stuck to his palate with thirst, and intense pangs of hunger assailed him. In spite of the shooting pains in his skull, he raised his voice in a mighty bellow.

"Ho, guards! Would you let a man perish of hunger and thirst? Fetch food and drink! What cursed nook of Hell is this?"

With a patter of footsteps and a jingle of keys, a paunchy, bearded jailer appeared on the other side of the iron grille that barred the door of the cell. "So the western dog has awakened! Know that these are the dungeons of King Yezdigerd's palace at Aghrapur. Here are food and water. You will need to fill your belly to appreciate the cordial reception the king has prepared for you."

Thrusting a loaf and a small jug through the bars, the jailer went away, his cackling laughter resounding hollowly in the corridor. The famished Cimmerian flung himself on the food and drink. He munched great hunks of the stale loaf and washed them down with gulps of water.

At least he did not now have to fear poison, for if the king had wanted to kill him out of hand it would have been easy to do so while he lay unconscious.

He pondered his predicament. He was in the hands of his most implacable enemy. In the olden days King Yezdigerd had offered fabulous rewards for Conan's head. Many had been the attempts on Conan. Several would-be assassins had been killed by Conan himself. But the tenacious hatred in Yezdigerd's heart had not slackened even when his foe had won power as king of far Aquilonia. Now, by a woman's devious schemes, Conan was at last at the mercy of his merciless antagonist. Any ordinary man would have been daunted by the terrible prospect.

Not so Conan! Accepting things as they were with barbarian stolidity, his fertile mind was already trying and discarding plans of winning to freedom and turning the tables of his vengeful captor. His eyes narrowed as the clank of footsteps sounded in die corridor.

At a harsh word of command the steps halted. Through the grille Conan could discern a half-score of guardsmen, gilt-worked mail a-shimmer in the torchlight, curved swords in their hands. Two bore heavy bows at the ready. A tall, massive officer stood forward. Conan recognized Ardashir, who spoke in a sharp, cutting voice.

"Shapur and Vardan! Truss the barbarian securely and sling a noose about his neck! Archers! Stand by to prevent any trick!"

The two soldiers stepped forward to carry out the order. One bore a log of wood six feet long and several inches thick, while the other carried a stout rope. Ardashir addressed himself to the Cimmerian. His eyes glowed with malevolence and his fingers twitched with eagerness to attack Conan, but he held himself in check with the iron self-control of a well-trained officer. He hissed: "One false move, barbarian dog, and your heart shall know the marksmanship of my archers! I should dearly love to slay you myself, but you are the king's own meat."

Oman's chill blue eyes regarded the maddened officer without emotion as the soldiers placed the log across his shoulders and bound his arms to it. Without apparent effort, Conan tensed his huge arm muscles, so that the rope was stretched to its greatest tautness at the moment of tying.

The jailer than unlocked Oman's fetters. Conan rumbled:

"You Turanian dogs will get what you deserve sooner or later. You will see."

Ardashir's face twitched in fury as he spat back: "And you will get yours, you red-handed rogue! No torture devised by human brains will be too cruel when the royal executioners set to work upon you." He laughed a shrill uncontrolled laugh that betrayed his hysteric mood. "But enough of this gabble. Follow me, Your Majesty of maggoty Aquilonia!"

At a gesture to the guardsmen, the little company marched along the dank corridors. The bound barbarian walked in their midst, bearing the log across his shoulders. Conan was quite unruffled. He had been in many tight places before and won his way to freedom. He was like a trapped wolf, alert and constantly looking for a chance to reverse the situation. He did not waste thought on the terrible odds against him, or on futile recriminations against his foes, or on self-reproach for the moment's lapse in vigilance that resulted in his capture. His whole mind and nervous system were concentrated on what to do next.

Winding stone staircases led upward. As nobody had blindfolded Conan, his keen eyes took in every detail. The dungeons of the royal palace were far below ground level. There were several floors to pass, at each of which an armed guard stood ready with sword or pike.

Twice Conan glimpsed the outside world as they passed window slits. The darkling sky showed that the time was either dawn or dusk. Now he understood the mystifying murmur of surf which had reached his ears.

The palace was built on the outskirts of Aghrapur, on a crag overlooking the Sea of Vilayet. The dungeons were carved out of the heart of the rock whose sheer face ended in the lapping waves below.

That was why Conan could see the sky through the window slits, though they had not yet reached the lower floors of the palace itself. Conan stored the knowledge in his mind.

The size of the palace was amazing. The party passed through endless rooms with fountains and jeweled vases. Exotic blooms exuded heavy perfume. Now their steps echoed from arching walls; now they were muffled by rich rugs and hangings. Corseleted soldiers stood like statues everywhere with inscrutable faces and eyes alert. Here the splendor of the East bloomed in its full glory.

The party halted before two gigantic, gold-worked doors. Fully fifty feet high they towered, their upper parts disappearing in the gloom.

Mysterious arabesques curled their snaky course across the surfaces of the doors, on which the dragons, heroes, and wizards of Hyrkanian legend were depicted. Ardashir stepped forward and struck the golden plates a ringing blow with the hilt of his scimitar.

In response, the immense doors opened slowly. The low murmur of a great assembly of people reached Oman's ears.

The throne room was vaster than anything Conan had ever seen, from the sumptuous state chambers of Ophir and Nemedia to the smoky, timber-roofed halls of Asgard and Vanaheim. Giant pillars of marble reared lofty columns toward a roof that seemed as distant as the sky.

The profusion of cressets, lamps, and candelabra illuminated costly drapes, paintings, and hangings. Behind the throne rose windows of stained glass, closed against the fall of night.

A glittering host filled the hall. Fully a thousand must have assembled there. There were Nemedians in jupons, trunk hose, and leathern boots; Ophireans in billowing cloaks; stocky, black-bearded Shemites in silken robes; renegade Zuagirs from the desert; Vendhyans in bulging turbans and gauzy robes; barbarically-clad emissaries from the black kingdoms to the far southwest. Even a lone yellow-haired warrior from the Far North, clad in a somber black tunic, stared sullenly before him, his powerful hands gripping the hilt of a heavy longsword that rested before him with the chape of its scabbard on the floor.

Some had come here to escape the wrath of their own rulers, some as informers and traitors against the lands of their birth, and some as envoys. The gluttonous mind of King Yezdigerd was never satisfied with the size of his growing empire. Many and devious were the ways in which he sought to enlarge it.

The blare of golden trumpets rang across the huge hall. An avenue opened through the milling mass, and Conan's little group set itself again in motion. The distance to the dais was still too great to make out the individuals clustered there, but their brisk approach would soon bring them into range.

Conan was afire with curiosity. Though he had fought this eastern despot many years ago on several occasionsas war-chief of the Zuagirs, as admiral of the Vilayet pirates, as leader of the Himelian hillmen, and as hetman of the kozakhe had never yet seen his implacable foe in person. He kept his eyes full on the figure on the golden throne as he approached it.

So it came about that he did not notice the widening of the blond giant's gray eyes in sudden recognition. The powerful knuckles whitened as the enigmatic gaze intently followed the towering figure of the Cimmerian on his way toward the dais.

King Yezdigerd was a swarthy giant of a man with a short black beard and a thin, cruel mouth. Although the debauchery of the Turanian court had wrought pouches under his glittering eyes, and lines crisscrossed his stern and gloomy features ten years too early, his hard-muscled, powerful body bore witness that self-indulgence had not sapped his immense vitality.

A brilliant strategist and an insatiable plunderer, Yezdigerd had more than doubled the size of the kingdom inherited from his weak predecessor Yildiz. He had wrung tribute from the city-states of Brythunia and eastern Shem. His gleaming horsemen had beaten the armies of such distant nations as Stygia and Hyperborea. The crafty king of Zamora, Mithridates, had been shorn of border provinces and had kept his throne only at the price of groveling before his conqueror.

Arrayed in a splendor of silk and cloth-of-gold, the long lolled on the shining throne with the deceptive ease of a resting panther.

At his right sat a woman. Conan felt his blood run hot with recognition. Thanara! Her voluptuous body was draped in the seductive robes of a Turanian noblewoman. A diamond-studded diadem glittered in her lustrous black hair. Her eyes fastened triumphantly on the trussed and weaponless figure of her captive. She joined in the laughter of the courtiers round the throne at some grim jest uttered by the king.

The detail halted before the throne. Yezdigerd's eyes blazed with triumphant glee. At last he held in his power the man who had slaughtered his soldiers, burnt his cities, and scuttled his ships. The lust for vengeance churned up within him, but he held himself in check while the guardsmen knelt and touched their foreheads to the marble floor.

Conan made no obeisance. His blue eyes aflame with icy fire, he stood still and upright, clashing with the Turanian king in a battle of looks. Every inch of his body expressed defiance and contempt. Unclad as he was, he still commanded the attention of all by the aura of power that radiated from him. The rumor of his fabulous exploits was whispered back and forth among the members of the glittering throng.

Many knew him under other dreaded names in their own distant lands.

Sensing the strain upon the rope he held, Ardashir looked up from his kneeling posture. Black rage seethed in his face as he saw the disdain of the Cimmerian for court etiquette. He tugged viciously at the rope, tightening the noose about Conan's neck. A lesser man would have stumbled and fallen, but Conan stood steady as a rock. The massive muscles of his bull-neck swelled in ridges against the pressure of the rope. Then he suddenly bent forward and straightened up again, pulling the rope backwards. Ardashir was jerked off his knees and sprawled with a clatter of gear on the marble.

"I pay homage to no Hyrkanian dog!" Conan's roar was like a peal of thunder. "You wage your wars with the help of women. Can you handle a sword yourself? Til show you how a real man fights!"

During his short speech, Conan relaxed the taut muscles of his arms, so that the rope binding them went slack. By stretching, he got the tips of his left fingers around one end of the log on his back. With a quick jerk he slipped his right arm out of the loose coils of rope and brought the log around in front of him. Then he swiftly freed his left arm.

Ardashir scrambled up and lunged towards him, drawing his scimitar.

Conan whipped the end of the log around with a thud against the Turanian's helmet. The officer was hurled across the floor, his body spinning like that of a thrown doll.

For a split second, everybody stood unmoving, struck still by this seemingly magical feat. With the fighting instinct of the barbarian, Conan took instant advantage of this pause. One end of the log shot out and caught a guardsman in the face. The man flew over backwards, his face a mere smear of blood and broken bones. Then Conan whirled and threw the log into the nearest group of guards on the other side of him, even as they started to rise and draw their weapons. The men were bowled over in a clattering heap.

Lithe and quick as a leopard, Conan bounded forward, snatching up the scimitar that Ardashir had dropped when knocked unconscious. A couple of courtiers tried to bar the Cimmerian's way at the foot of King Yezdigerd's dais, but he easily cut his path through them, slashing and thrusting. He bounded up the steps of the dais.

As he came, the king rose to meet him, sweeping out his own scimitar.

The jewels in its hilt flashed as Yezdigerd brought the blade up to parry a terrific right cut that Conan aimed at his head. Such was the force of the blow that the king's sword snapped. Conan's blade cut through the many folds of the snow-white turban, cleaving the spray of bird-of-paradise feathers that rose from the front of it and denting the steel cap that Yezdigerd wore beneath.

Though the blow failed to split the king's skull as Conan intended, it threw the Turanian backwards, stunned. Yezdigerd fell back over the arm of his throne and overset the gleaming chair. King and throne rolled off the dais, down the steps on the other side, and into a knot of onrushing guardsmen, spoiling their charge.

Conan, beside himself with battle lust, would have bounded after the king to finish him off. But loyal arms dragged Yezdigerd out of the press, and from all sides sword blades and spear points pressed in upon the unprotected Cimmerian.

Conan's scimitar wove a lethal net of steel around him. He surpassed himself in brilliant swordsmanship. Despite his stay in the dungeon and the aftereffects of the drug he had inhaled, he was fired with vitality. If he must die, he would now die sword in hand, laughing and slaying, to carve a niche for himself in the Hall of Heroes.

He whirled in gleeful frenzy. A quick slash sent an antagonist tumbling backwards with his entrails spilling out; a lightning thrust burst through mail links into a Turanian heart. Stabbing, slicing, smiting, and thrusting, he wrought red havoc. For an instant, raging like a mad elephant about the dais, he cleared it of soldiers and courtiers except for those who lay in a tangle about his feet.

Only the lady Thanara remained, sitting petrified in her chair. With a grating laugh, Conan tore the glittering diadem from her hair and flung her into the throng that milled about the platform.

Soldiers now advanced grimly from all sides, their spearheads and sword blades forming a bristling hedge in front of an ordered line of shields. Behind them, archers nocked their shafts. Noncombatants stood in clumps in the farther parts of the throne room, watching fascinated.

Conan flexed his muscles, swung his scimitar, and gave a booming laugh.

Blood ran down his naked hide from superficial cuts in scalp, arm, chest, and leg. Surrounded and unarmored, not even his strength and speed could save him from the thrust of many keen blades all at once.

The prospect of death did not trouble him; he only hoped to take as many foes as he could into the darkness with him.

Suddenly there came the clash of steel, the spurt of blood, and the icy gleam of a northern longsword. A giant figure hewed its way through the armored lines, leaving three blood-spattered corpses on the floor. With a mighty bound, the fair-haired northerner leaped to the dais. In his left arm he cradled a couple of heavy, round objectsbucklers of bronze and leather picked up from the floor where the victims of Conan's first outburst had dropped them.

"Catch this!" cried the newcomer, tossing one of the shields to Conan.

Their glances met and locked. Conan cried:

"Rolf! What do you here, old polar bear?"

"I will tell you later," growled the northerner, grasping the handle of the other buckler. "If we live, that is. If not, I am prepared to fight and die with you."

The unexpected advent of this formidable ally raised Conan's spirits even higher.

"Rush in, jackals," he taunted, waving his bloodstained scimitar. "Who will be the next to consign his soul to Hell? Attack, damn you, or I'll carry the fight to you!"

The steel-sheathed ranks of the Turanian soldiery had halted, forming a square about the dais. The two giant barbarians stood back to back, one black-haired and almost naked, the other blond and clad in somber black. They seemed like two royal tigers surrounded by timorous hunters, none of whom dared to strike the first blow.

"Archers!" cried an officer directing the Turanian troopers. "Spread out, so the shafts shall strike from all sides."

"They have us," growled Rolf "Had we but stout coats of Asgardean mail¦

Ah, well, it was fun while it lasted."

"Not quite," said Conan. "See you that row of windows? Here is my plan¦"

He whispered a few quick words to his comrade, who nodded. The two giants sprang forward, their blades flickering with the speed of striking snakes. Two guardsmen sank to the floor in their blood, and the others shrank back momentarily from the fury of the onslaught.

"Follow me, Rolf! We'll fool these dogs yet!" barked the Cimmerian, striking right and left.

The swords of the barbarians cleared a bloody avenue. The big northerner wheeled, thrusting and cutting, his sword cutting down the Turanians like wheat stalks before the scythe as he guarded Conan's back. As Conan rushed forward, Rolf followed in his wake, his sword widening the bloody path opened by the Cimmerian. His booming bass was casting forth the ringing tones of old northern battle songs, and the gleam of the berserk was in his gaze.

None could stand before their terrible attack. Turanian swords and spears sought their blood, but glanced harmlessly from the shields as the pantherish speed of the barbarians blurred the eyes of their adversaries. Conan bled from a score of wounds and Rolf's garb was in tatters, but the bodies heaped upon the floor bespoke the violence of their attack.

They put their backs to one of the large windows. For a few seconds both barbarians exploded into maniacal fury, laying about them with blood-crusted blades and clearing a space of several feet around them.

The massed soldiers shrank back for a moment. It seemed to their superstitious minds as if these were not men but invincible ogres, hard as steel, risen from the darker realms to wreak terrible vengeance.

Conan utilized this moment with lightninglike speed. The stained glass of the window shattered into thousands of gleaming, many-colored shards under blows from his scimitar that tore a great gap in the leaded pane.

Hurling their swords and shields into the faces of their foes, the Cimmerian and the northerner sprang through in headlong dives toward the sea two hundred feet below. A taunting laugh lingered behind them in the air as the guardsmen closed in.

"Archers! An archer, quickly, to have at them!" The commanding officer's voice was shrill with desperation. Five men stood forward, each armed with the powerful, double-curved Hyrkanian war bow. The window niche was cleared, and soon the twang of cords was heard. Then one of the bowmen shrugged his shoulders and turned to the officer,

"The range is too great in this treacherous moonlight. We cannot even discern their heads, and probably they are swimming under water most of the time. The task is beyond us."

Glaring, the general swung about and hurried to the king's chamber.

Yezdigerd had recovered from his shock. The only sign of damage was a small bandage round his forehead, partly covered by his turban. The terse account of the incidents elapsed was interrupted by the crash of the king's fist on a table, spilling vases and wine jugs to the floor.

"You have dared to fail! The red-handed barbarians have escaped and mocked the majesty of Turan! Are my soldiers sucklings, that they cannot lay two men low? Every tenth man among the guards shall die in the morning, to bolster the courage of the rest!"

He continued in a lower voice: "See that two war galleys are outfitted at once. The barbarians will surely try to steal a boat and make their way across the sea. We shall overtake them. See that the ships are well-provisioned and manned by my best seamen and soldiers. Take the sturdiest slaves for rowers. When I have caught these dogs, they shall suffer the agonies of a thousand deaths in the torture chambers of Aghrapur!"

He laughed, animated by the grisly prospect, and gestured imperiously to his general. The latter hurried out, threading his way through the throng in the courtroom to carry out his lord's commands.

Khosru the fisherman sat patiently on the gunwale of his sloop, mending a net which had been broken by the thrashing of a giant sturgeon that afternoon. He cursed his misfortune, for this was a fine net. It had cost him two pieces of gold and the promise of fifty pounds of fish to the Shemite merchant from, whom he had bought it. But what could a poor, starving fisherman do? He must have nets to get his living from the sea.

Aye, if those were the only things necessary for him and his family!

But he must also strain and work to meet the taxes imposed by the king.

He looked up in venomous, furtive hatred at the palace, limned against the moonlit sky. It perched on the cliff like a giant vulture of gold and marble. The king's taxgatherers had supple whips and no compunction about using them. Welts and old scars on Khosru's back told of wrongs suffered when the shoals were empty of fish.

Suddenly the sloop heaved, almost unseating him. Khosru sprang up, his eyes starting from their sockets in terror. A huge, almost-naked man was climbing aboard, his black, square-cut hair disordered and dripping. He seemed to Khosru like some demon of the sea, an evil merman, come up from unknown deeps to blast his soul and devour his body.

For a moment the apparition simply sat on a thwart, breathing in deep gasps. Then it spoke in Hyrkanian, though with a barbarous accent.

Khosra took heart a little, for the tales depicted the demons as devoid of speech. Still he quavered before the smoldering eyes and ferocious mien of the giant. His terror increased as another figure, a huge, black-clad, golden-haired man with a broad-bladed dagger at his belt, followed the first over the gunwale.

"Fear not, sailor!" boomed the black-haired giant "We don't want your blood, only your ship." He drew a glittering diadem from die waistband of his loincloth and held it out. "Here is payment enough and more. You can buy ten such craft as this one with it. Agreedor?"

He flexed his thick fingers suggestively. Khosru, his head whirling, nodded and snatched the diadem. With the speed of a frightened mouse he scuttled into the dinghy moored to the stern of the sloop and rowed away at desperate speed.

His strange customers lost no time. The sail went swiftly up and billowed in the freshening breeze. The trim craft gathered speed as it steered out toward the east.

Khosru shrugged his shoulders, mystified. He paused to hold up the fabulous diadem, whose gems glittered in the moonlight like a cascade of splashing white fire.

5. The Sea of Blood

-

The wind blew hard. Salt spray was tossed from the waves by the howling gusts. Conan the Cimmerian expanded his mighty chest in deep, joyous breaths, relishing the feel of freedom. Many memories crowded his mind from the earlier days when he, as chief of the pirates of Vilayet, had swept the sea with dripping sword blades and laid the Turanian seaports in smoking ruins.

Vilayet was still a Hyrkanian sea, dominated by the Turanian navy's swift war galleys. Trade was carried on to some extent by daring merchants from the smaller countries on the northeastern shore, but a merchantman's way across the turbulent waves was fraught with peril. No state of war was needed for a Turanian captain to board, plunder, and scuttle a foreign vessel if it pleased him. The excuse was simply "infringement upon the interests of the lord of the Turanian Empire."

Besides the greedy Turanian navy, there lurked another danger as great: the pirates!

A motley horde of escaped slaves, criminals, freebooters, and wandering adventurers, all with a common lust for gold and a common disregard for human life, infested the waters of this huge inland sea, making even Turanian shipping a hazardous venture. In the mazes of islands to the south and east lay their secret harbors.

Internal strife often crippled their power, to the satisfaction of the king of Turan, until there came among them a strange barbarian from the West, with blue eyes and raven hair. Oman swept aside their quarreling captains and took the reins of leadership in his own hands. He united the pirates and forged them into a fearsome weapon aimed at the heart of Turan. Conan smiled in recollection of those days, when his name was a curse in Vilayet harbors, and prayers and incantations were chanted against him in die temples of the seaports.

The sloop was a trim and well-built craft. Her sharp bow cut the water like a scimitar, and her single sail billowed tautly before the wind.

Aghrapur had been astern for nearly twenty hours. Conan guessed their speed to be greater than that of Turanian warships. Should the breeze die, however, they would have a problem. They could never hope to equal the speed of a galley, propelled by hard-driven slave rowers, by means of their own puny sweeps. But the wind showed no sign of slackening, and Rolfs capable hand guided the small vessel before it so as to extract the last ounce of sailpower from it.

Rolf was telling the long tale of the wanderings and adventures that had led him to Aghrapur. "¦ so here I am, a fugitive from my native Asgard and from Turan both."

"Why did you join me?" asked Conan. "You were comfortably off at the Turanian court."

Rolf looked offended. "Did you think I had forgotten the time you saved my life, in that battle with the Hyperboreans in the Graaskal Mountains?"

Conan grinned. "So I did, didn't I? After so many battles, I had forgotten myself." He shaded his eyes and looked at the unbroken blue line of the horizon. "I doubt not that at least a couple of Yezdigerd's war galleys are on our heels," he said grimly. "The rascal must be hot for vengeance. I doubt he will soon forget how we pulled his beard."

"True," rumbled Rolf. "I hope this fine wind keeps up, or we shall soon be at grips with his galleys."

Conan's active mind was already dwelling on another topic. "In my days with the Red Brotherhood," he mused, "this area was the surest one for a sweep to catch a fat merchantman from Sultanapur or Khawarizm. Aye, but those traders fought well; sometimes the sea was red with our blood as well as theirs before we had the prize. Some of the pirate ships should be nearby." His eagle eyes continued to scan the endless blue vista.

He stiffened like a lion sighting its prey and thrust out an arm to starboard.

"Rolf, we have company? Those yellow sails can mean but one thing: a pirate. We might as well drop our sail and await them; they could overtake us in a half-hour if they wished!"

Eyes fixed on the oncoming vessel, he waited, outwardly stolid and unmoved.

Conan drank in the measured thump of oars in their locks, the creak of spars, the shouts of boatswains, and the smell of tar with gusto. Half a cable's length away a slim sailing galley, its yellow sail ablaze in the afternoon sun, hove to. The black flag of the Brotherhood fluttered from its masthead, Conan and Rolf rowed toward the pirate craft.

The gunwale was lined with faces. Many were swathed in colorful headcloths. Some favored the eastern turban; others wore helmets of steel or bronze. A few had pates shaven and bare except for a scalp-lock. The din and clamor lessened. Cold, cruel eyes scrutinized the two strangers in the sloop.

The small craft bumped against the side of the bigger vessel. A rope was lowered. Hand over hand, Conan and Rolf climbed with the agility of practiced seamen. Clearing the gunwale, they found themselves in the center of a half-circle of curious pirates, all shouting queries at once. Among them Conan recognized several who had followed him in former days. He snarled:

"Dogs, don't you know me? Is your memory so short that you must be reminded of my name, or have your eyes grown dim with age?"

Several men in the throng had drawn back, blanching from the shock of recognition. One, white-faced, rasped:

"A ghost, by Tarim! Erlik preserve us! It is our old admiral, come back from his grave to haunt us!" Veteran though he was, the grizzled pirate was obviously terrified as he pointed at Conan. "You perished many years ago, when the vampires of the Colchian Mountains assailed your crew as they fled from the Turanians after taking vengeance on Artaban of Shahpur. Begone, spirit, or we shall all be doomed!"

Conan gave a gusty laugh. He slapped his thigh with mirth, plucked Rolf's dagger from its sheath, and hurled it to the deck so that the point was driven inches deep into the planking and the hilt quivered upright. Then he pulled the weapon out.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Artus?" he roared. "Could a ghost make that nick in the deck? Come, man, I am as alive as the lot of you and, if you believe me not, I'll crack a few heads to prove it! I escaped both the vampires and the Turanians, and what befell me after that is no concern of yours. Do you know me now?"

Conan's old followers now joyfully milled about the towering Cimmerian to shake his hand and clap his back. Men who had never seen him before crowded with the others, fired with curiosity about a man whose name was legendary, and whose fantastic exploits were still told by the wine legs on still evenings.

Suddenly a sharp voice sheared through the clamor: "Avast, there!

What's going on? Who are they? I told you to fetch them to me as soon as they were picked up!"

A tall man, wearing a light mail shirt, stood on the bridge, one fist banging the rails. A blazing red cloth was wound around his head. A badly-healed scar from eye to chin disfigured his long, narrow face.

"It is Conan, Captain!" cried old Artus, the shipmaster. "Our old admiral has returned!"

The captain's close-set eyes narrowed as his own sight sought confirmation of the oldster's words. An evil light blazed in those eyes as he picked out the bronzed form of the Cimmerian. He opened his mouth to speak, but Conan beat him to it.

"Are you not glad to see me, Yanak? Remember how I kicked you out of the fleet for hoarding spoils that belonged to all? How have you managed to trick your way to a captaincy? Ill days must have dawned for the Brotherhood!"

With his mouth working, Yanak spat back: "For that, barbarian, I will have you hung by the heels and roasted over the ship's fire! I am captain and give the orders here!"

"That may be," retorted Conan. "But I am still a member of the Brotherhood." He looked challengingly around, and nobody chose to deny his assertion. "I claim a right according to the articles. The right of any member of the brotherhood to fight the captain of a ship for the captaincy in a captain's duel."

He tossed up the dagger he had borrowed from Rolf and caught it again.

It was a formidable weapon with a broad, eighteen,-inch blade, but still no sword. He and Rolf had cast aside their swords in order to swim to the sloop, so the dagger was the only weapon they had between them.

The crew murmured, for all knew that in such a duel Conan would have to fight with whatever weapon he had with him at the time, while Yanak could choose what weapons he pleased. Yanak's armor, too, would give him a further advantage.

"This is madness, Conan!" Arms plucked the Cimmerian's elbow. "Yanak will cut you to pieces. I have seen him fight three brawling drunkards at the time and lay them low. We'll depose him instead and choose you for captain. All your old followers are on your side."

Conan shook his head and rumbled: "Half the crew don't know me and would oppose such a move. The men would be split into factions and our strength would be weakened. No, it must be done the traditional way."

Several crewmen were already clearing a space around the mast. Yanak approached, a gleeful smile on his scarred face as his hands tested the supple strength of a keen, straight sword. It was a weapon forged by a master craftsman, as could be seen by its brightly gleaming blade and sharply honed edges, tapering to a needle point.

Conan gripped his dagger firmly and strode towards the mast. A wide circle six yards in diameter was already drawn in charcoal on the deck around the mast. The rules of the fight were simple. The antagonists were to fight inside the circle. Any trick was allowed. The fight would be to the death, or until one of the duelists was so badly hurt he could not go on. In that case he would simply be flung overboard anyway. If one of the fighters stepped out of the circle, the onlookers would at once thrust him back in.

The instant Conan entered the circle, Yanak bounded forward, cleaving the air with a whistling stroke. But the barbarian was too old a hand to be surprised. He leaped sideways, and Yanak was saved from a dagger thrust in his side only by twisting his body aside at the last moment.

After that, he moved more warily, although he was clearly at an advantage. The longer reach of his weapon almost matched him evenly with Oman's brawn and stature. Now and then he made a sudden attack, shouting and cursing, but the silent Cimmerian parried or evaded the blows with effortless ease and continued to circle around the mast.

Conan ignored the pirate captain's taunts and exhortations to stand and fight.

Then Yanak tried a trick. Conan and he were temporarily on the same side of the mast. With all the power of his knotted leg muscles, the captain sprang upward in a mighty leap, at the same time smiting downward at the Cimmerian's bare head.

But Conan's instinct triggered his lightning-fast responses. Instead of retreating, he sprang forward. Yanak's blade whistled harmlessly down behind the barbarian's back as Conan buried his knife to the hilt in his foe's abdomen, shearing through the light mail links with the immense force of his thrust. The pirate fell to the deck, cursing and gagging on blood. His sword fell with a clank. Conan stooped and lifted him up. With a mighty heave, he flung the corpse over the heads of the crew into the sea. Picking up the fallen sword, he swept their ranks with a cold gaze.

"Now who is captain, my lads?"

The shouts of "Conan!" would have satisfied any doubter. Conan drank in the heady satisfaction of his new-won power. Then his thunderous voice bellowed them to silence.

"To die sails and oars, lubbers! A man to the masthead as lookout! I have Yezdigerd himself hot on my trail. But we will lead him a merry chase, by Crom!"

Taken aback by the announcement that their archenemy was abroad, the crew's idolatrous confidence in Conan was yet so strong as to wash away all misgivings. Many remembered how the Cimmerian had fought and tricked his way out of seemingly impossible odds. Tales of these exploits were circulated among the rest of the crew.

Conan sprang to the bridge in one mighty leap, shouting: "Set sail!

Course southeast!"

Men hauled at lines, voicing lusty sea songs. Yellow canvas spread before the breeze. The pirate at the helm strained with knotted muscles at the steering oar, bringing the slim vessel about. She fled eastward before the wind, fleet as the deer of the moorlands.

"So you think I'm mad, Artus? By Crom, I hope Yezdigerd thinks so too!"

Conan's hearty laughter resounded in the well-appointed cabin as he sprawled in a chair, a tumbler of wine in his hand. Conan had casually possessed himself of the wardrobe of his predecessor and clad himself in the colorful garb of a Vilayet pirate: scarlet breeches, flaring sea boots, a yellow shirt of fine Vendhyan silk with wide sleeves, and a wide, varicolored sash around his waist. The costume was topped off by a red cloth around his head. Into the sash was thrust a long dirk with an ornately-carved ivory handle.

Together with Rolf, Artus the shipmaster lounged in Conan's company while the galley swiftly cleaved the waters of the inland sea. With clouded brow, he set his goblet on the table.

"No, Conan, I know you too well. But this seems a hare-brained scheme, dashing straight into the jaws of the Turanian. You could at least tell us what you are planning. The men are drunk with confidence and do not think of the fact that Yezdigerd will bring at least two large war galleys. I am old and sober enough to stop and ponder. What are your intentions?"

With sudden gravity, Conan rose and went to a gilded wooden cupboard.

Opening it, he brought out a roll of parchment. This he spread upon the table. It was a chart of the waters they were now sailing.

"Here is our position. Yezdigerd has been four days on his way from Aghrapur. The Turanian ships are running free. With their mean speed, I compute them to be somewhere in this area." (He pointed to a spot on the chart.) "With our present course and speed, we shall rendezvous with Yezdigerd somewhere off the Zhurazi Archipelago."

"The Zhurazi, eh?" muttered Artus. "Those are dangerous waters. The charts show no soundings. That cursed cluster is shunned by sane men.

Some say it is haunted by demons and monsters from the darker realms and that you are lost if you set foot on its shores."

"Lost, Hell!" rumbled Conan. "I once lived on the north main island for a fortnight after shipwreck. There was a tribe of yellow savages dwelling among die crags, and I had the devil of a time stopping them from sacrificing me to their lizard-god!"

Thus lightly he dismissed the hair-raising drama played out on these islands years before. The pantherish Cimmerian had not only stayed alive in a land of hostile people but also had slain the monster out of forgotten ages that terrorized the inhabitants. Conan was not wont to dwell upon the past; the violent and colorful present held all his attention.

He stood for a while in silence, regarding the chart. Then, with a sudden gesture, he swept it off the table and swung about to face his friends.

"Right you are, Arras. There are no soundings on this chart. Turanian, isn't it? Drawn by the king's own surveyors in Aghrapurthe very type of map our bloodthirsty pursuer will have. That is our advantage."

And however they pressed him, he would not explain further.

Muscles played on the sweating backs of the slaves at the oars. The blades rose and fell in steady rhythm, speeding the huge war vessel over the waves. The burly slavemaster strode the catwalk with his braided whip, his skin gleaming with sweat and oil. Now and then the whiplash uncurled like a striking cobra, to hiss out and mark the back of a faltering oarsman. The slaves of Turanian ships were cruelly driven, and none so cruelly as those in King Yezdigerd's own flagship, the Scimitar. . The king took his ease on a silken couch on the poop, shaded by an awning and sipping wine from a golden beaker. On a similar bed by his side lounged the lady Thanara.

The king was sunk in one of his spells of gloom. His gaze was brooding and somber, as he slowly swirled the pale-yellow liquid in the golden bowl. He said:

"Evil powers aid the Cimmerian devil! He must have stolen a boat immediately upon his escape. My cursed admirals need half a day to put my flagship to sea, and then the devils that ruin human patience have turned the wind against us. We move like snails."

"Better than he can do, though," said Thanara, looking lazily at the monarch from under long eyelashes. "His puny oars will avail him little in this wind. Every stroke of the club on the block lessens his head start. Be patient, my lord! Erlik will deliver the barbarian into our hands."

"My henchmen have often thought so, yet that scoundrel has tricked his way out of every trap. Now for once I am the hunter? I will personally see that he escapes not. By the beard of my father Yildiz, there will be a reckoning!" Yezdigerd's voice became eager and his eyes filled with new energy. He shaded his face and looked out over the glittering waters.

He made a quick gesture. The admiral hurried forward, the gilded scales of his mail winking in the sunlight.

"I see land, Uthghiz. Have we veered from our course?" said the king.

The admiral, knowing his sovereign's irascible temper, quickly unfolded a map and pointed.

"That, my lord, is the Zhurazi Archipelago. The Cimmerian has probably landed there for food and water. I intend to scan the coast for signs of his boat. Furthermore^ the straightest course for the eastern shores of Vilayet leads close to these islands."

"You may be right. But keep every man alert. How close can you sail?"

"These are unknown waters, my lord. The conditions of life on the islands are shrouded in superstition. Horrible tales are told of fiendish monsters haunting the crags. No surveying has been done in this area. We dare not go too close lest we strike unseeen rocks." but the yedka continued to scan the ragged coastline.

The king sank back on his gilded couch, muttering,

Had her eyes deceived her? Was that a sail she glimpsed before it disappeared behind a rocky islet on the fringe of the cluster? The Turanian ships drew closer with every oar stroke. She waited eagerly for another glimpse of the sail.

She stiffened and pointed. The sail had reappeared.

"Look, my lord!" she cried. "Yonder is a prize for your ships! A pirate! We have surprised them!"

The yedka was not the only one who spied the corsair. Swift orders were shouted. The crew prepared for battle, while signals were run up to warn the sister vessel to do likewise.

The overseers moved among the benches to check the fetters chaining the rowers. Stacks of arms were readied by the mast, and the ship's soldiery ran to their stations. Archers climbed into the rigging to suitable points of vantage, while groups of burly seamen, armed with grapnels, stood by the gunwales.

Though Conan's sharp eyes could not discern the details of these preparations, he knew that they began as soon as he let his ship be sighted. The pirate ship was long since ready for battle. Despite the heavy odds against the pirate crew, all trusted their barbaric captain implicitly. Men who had sailed with Conan years ago told fantastic tales about former sea fights and the ingenious ways the Cimmerian had turned the tables on his foes. Keen blades were shaken at the distant Turanian ships, while bearded mouths muttered oaths in many tongues.

"Prepare to go about." The sharp voice of their captain cut like steel through the din.

The order was a shock to the crew. Here they were, ready for the attack, with the greatest captain in the world to lead themand what did this captain do? Prepare to run like a rabbit! Bewildered, they went halfheartedly to their chores. Conan noticed their listlessness and snarled:

"Be swift, you mangy rascals, or I'll have your backs raw under the lash! Do you think I'm fool enough to fight two war galleys, each with twice my strength, on the open sea, when I have a better plan? Do not worry, lubbers, we shall have a feasting of swords, that songs will be written about. Now go to it!"

Fired with new enthusiasm, the men sprang into the rigging. Soon the ship was speeding toward the inner parts of the Zhurazi Archipelago.

Before putting his plan into operation, Conan conferred with the ship's carpenter. The information gleaned, together with his own knowledge of the waters, left him no doubts.

The Zhurazi Archipelago was made up of two large islands surrounded by a great number of smaller isles. The strait between the two main islands was a long, narrow channel, and for this Conan guided his ship.

There was grim expectation in his mien as he viewed the Turanian galleys following astern, their oars laboring with all the power that could be wrung from the slaves.

King Yezdigerd paced the poop, armed in silvered Turanian mail and a gold-spired helmet He bore a round, emblazoned shield on his left arm; a long scimitar hung by his side. The cruel and gloomy Turanian monarch was also a fierce and intrepid warrior, who loved to take part in a good fight in person.

"See how the yellow hyenas flee!" he cried. "Will they play games with us? They will lose the wind among the islands, and then our oars will make them easy prey. Faster!"

Meanwhile the admiral conferred in low tones with the shipmaster, who argued his point with many gestures and head shakings. The admiral, looking doubtful, went back up to the poop. He said:

"Your Majesty, these waters are unsounded. We have no charts we can.

trust, and the shipmaster fears we shall ground. I suggest we circle the islands and catch the corsair in open sea."

Yezdigerd's voice swept aside the misgivings of his admiral with a sweeping gesture. His voice was hot with exasperation.

"I told you the rascal will be an easy prey in the lee of the islands.

Let the whips be plied to bring us every ounce of speed. We shall snap our jaws about the pirate soon enough!"

The king seemed to have reason for his expectations. The slender corsair was now barely halfway through the strait, making laborious headway. The Turanians, seeing their victim as good as caught, shouted with glee.

Dismay reigned among the pirate crew. Their progress was slow, and the Hyrkanian ships were closing in with every stroke, like hawks plummeting down upon a dove. Rolf stood silent, with the taciturnity of the northern barbarian, but Arms pleaded with his captain:

"Captain, the Hyrkanians will reach us long before we emerge! We stand no chance. We cannot maneuver in this narrow way, and their rams will splinter us like an eggshell. Could we not warp her ashore with the boats? We might put up a fight in the jungle. Tarim! We must do something!"

Conan, his calm unruffled, pointed at the oncoming war galleys. They were indeed a formidable sight. In the lead came the Scimitar with white water boiling up around her bow and her ten-foot bronze ram. She seemed a very angel of doom, descending in swift anger upon the wrongdoer. Close behind followed her sister, only a little less imposing.

"A pretty sight, by Ishtar," said Conan calmly. "Good speed, too. The slave drivers must be plying their whips with vigor. A heavy ship, that foremost one. Three or four times our weight."

His voice changed its tone from light banter to stern efficiency. "What are your soundings now?"

"Five fathoms, captain, and slowly increasing. We have passed the throat of the shallows. A wonder we did not scrape our bottom off!"

"Good! I knew we should get through. Now look at our pursuers!"

The Scimitar, bearing down upon her prey at full speed, suddenly stopped dead. A cracking of timbers and snapping of cordage resounded between the islands. Cries of dismay rent the air as the mast snapped off at the base and toppled, shrouding the decks in folds of canvas.

The oars began backing to get her off, but her speed at the time of grounding had been too great. The unseen sandbank held her fast like a clutching octopus.

The other galley was a little more fortunate. Her captain was a man of decision and, when the leading vessel struck, he promptly ordered the oars to back water. But the oars were unevenly applied in the confusion and the galley veered to port toward the shore. She was saved from the cliffs only by another sandbank, into which she plowed deeply. Boats were launched and lines paid out to prepare for the arduous task of warping her afloat.

The throng on the deck of the corsair howled, shook their weapons, and made uncomplimentary gestures at the Turanians. They cheered Conan, and even the pessimistic shipmaster voiced his frank esteem.

"Those galleys will be days in getting afloat," said Artus. "I doubt the bigger one will ever sail again; her bottom must be half stove in.

"So, captain, whither do we sail? Khoraf, where the slavers put in with the fairest women of the South? Rhamdan, where the great caravan road ends?"

Conan's voice was tinged with scorn as he swept the throng with his ice-blue glance. "We have Turanian ships here, my friends. We have not escaped Yezdigerd; we have caught him in a trap! I promised you a feasting of swords. You shall have it." He paused, looking upward. "The wind freshens; we are coming out of lee. Set a course to round the larboard island!"

Eager hands sprang to the lines as all realized the full genius of Conan's planning.

King Yezdigerd paced the poop of his shattered flagship in blazing anger. Some of it he vented upon the seaman at the sounding post and the steersman, by having both beheaded forthwith. There was no immediate danger of sinking, for the hull had settled firmly upon the reef. But the hold had quickly filled with water from many sprung seams, indicating that the ship could probably never be saved. And the trick played upon the long by the escaping pirate infuriated his always irascible temper.

"I will hunt that dog to the ends of the earth!" he shouted. "The whole thing smacks of that devil Conan. I'll warrant he is aboard. Will Khogar never get his cursed tub afloat?"

Thus he raged while work progressed on the Khoralian Star. As the long day wore on, the crews slowly coaxed the ship off the sandbank by inches, by tugging and having with the ships' boats. The captain of the Star was deeply preoccupied with directing this work when his attention was drawn by the warning cry of the lookout. The man's voice was shrill with excitement, and his hands waved frantically.

Rounding the point, her yellow sail billowing majestically, came the ship they had expected to be in full flight. Sleek and beautiful she came. Her bulwarks and shrouds were lined with eager corsairs. Faintly, their mocking challenges reached the Turanians' ears, like the cries of faraway demons in Hell.

Straight for the helpless Khoralim Star she bore like a striking eagle.

She rammed a ship's boat, cutting it in two and sending splinters and bodies flying. Then she shortened her sail, made a quick turn, and in an instant lay board and board with her prey. Grappling hooks bit into Turanian wood, and a rain of arrows preceded the yelling, murderous host that surged over the gunwales.

The Turanians fought bravely. Surprised by their enemy, yet their captain got them into a semblance of order. The corsairs swept the lower deck, littering the planks with corpses. But they were checked by a blast of arrows from the poop, where the Turanian soldiery were drawn up behind a bristling hedge of spears. Only a moment they checked their attack. Then they swept on irresistibly, led by their mail-clad barbarian captain, who shattered helmets and severed limbs left and right with an ease that seemed magical.

The Turanians could not stand against these hardened fighters, led by the ferocious Cimmerian. A vicious swipe of Conan's broadsword opened a breach in the spear hedge. The bloodthirsty horde swarmed over the poop, scattering the Hyrkanians like chaff.

The captain, knowing that his only chance of saving his ship lay in slaying the pirate leader, sprang to meet Conan. Their blades clashed in a circular dance of steel. But the Turanian could not master the swordcraft of Conan, veteran from a thousand battlefields. The sharp edge of the Turanian's yataghan shaved a raven lock from the Cimmerian's ducking head; then the heavy broadsword smashed into the captain's mailed side. Khogar sank down dying, his rib cage caved in.

The fight went out of the Turanian soldiery as their captain fell.

Cries for quarter were heard. The men flung down their arms in clanking heaps.

Conan surveyed the scene with grim satisfaction. He had lost a score of men, but he had captured the only navigable ship at his enemy's disposal. Several of the pirate crew were already at work striking the fetters from the slaves' ankles. They shouted for joy as they found long-lost friends among them. Others herded the captive Turanians into custody below.

While a prize crew continued the labor of freeing the vessel, the pirate ship cast off. Her decks were jammed, for her own crew was augmented by scores of freed and hastily-armed galley slaves. She headed straight for the bigger prize.

In a tavern in Onagnu, a secret stronghold of the Vilayet pirates, loud voices called for more wine. The cool clear liquid poured into old Arms' cup as the ears of the throng itched for more of his tales. The grizzled shipmaster washed down the draught in thirsty gulps.

Satisfied, he wiped his lips upon the back of his hand and took in the crowd of listeners with a glance.

"Aye, lads, you should have been there! Great and glorious was the fighting as we took the first one. Then we swept down upon Yezdigerd's Scimitar. We must have seemed like very devils out of Hell to them, but they were ready for us. They severed the lines of our grapnels with swords and axes, until our archers blasted them back from the rail and we warped in to their side by mighty efforts. We laid her board and board, and every man among us was fired with killing lust.

"Conan was the first aboard her. The Turanians closed in about him in a circle of swords, but he slashed at them so savagely that they gave way. Then we all came in a rush, and the fighting was fast and furious.

The Turanians were all well-trained and hardened fighters, Yezdigerd's household troops, fighting under the eye of their king. For a moment the outcome was precarious, in spite of the ferocity of Conan, who smashed Turanian mail and arms like rotten wood. They stood in perfect unity, and our attacks recoiled from their massed ranks like bloody waves from a rock-bound shore.

"Then came a cry of triumph, for some of us had jumped down among the galley slaves, slain the overseers, and struck the chains from the rowers' ankles. The slaves surged up on the deck like a horde of lost souls. They snatched whatever weapons they could find from the corpses.

Their hatred of their masters must have run deep. Heedless of their own lives, they drove into the Turanian ranks, shouldering us aside. Some flung themselves forward to be spitted upon Hyrkanian swords and spears, while others climbed over their corpses to strangle Turanians with their bare hands. I saw a giant galley slave use a Hyrkanian's body as a club, knocking his foes to the deck, before sinking down with a dozen arrows in his body.

"Confusion reigned. The glittering ranks wavered. Conan yelled a weird battle cry and flung himself into the press. We followed, determined to win or die.

"After that, red hell reigned. In a bloody tidal wave we swept the ship from stem to stern with steel. We scattered the foe like chaff before the wind of our swords, and the scuppers were choked with blood.

"Conan was terrible as a tiger. His broadsword struck like a thunderbolt. Corpses were scattered about him like wheat stalks before the sickle. He plunged in where the fighting was thickest, and always his advent spelled doom for the Hyrkanians, With all his savage passion, he moved toward the poop where Yezdigerd himself stood bellowing orders, surrounded by his picked men.

"Conan smote their ranks like a charging elephant. Men went down beneath his sword like dolls. Then a cry of rage came from Yezdigerd, and the king himself rushed to meet him. I think Yezdigerd must have missed him before then, as his surprise was patent to all. Savage curses streamed from his lips as they engaged.

"'I saw your hand in this, Cimmerian cur!' he screamed. 'By Erlik, now you shall reap your deserts! Die, barbarian dog!'

"He aimed a terrific stroke at Conan's head. No ordinary man could have avoided or stopped that swift and powerful blow, but Conan is superior to a dozen ordinary men. With a jarring impact, he parried it in a flashing movement too quick for the eye to follow."

"'Die yourself, jackal of Turan!' he thundered. For an instant they struck and parried like lightning, while the rest of us stopped fighting to watch. Then a mighty blow shattered Yezdigerd's shield and made him drop his shield arm. In one lightning sweep, Conan smote the bearded head from the king's giant body, which crumpled to the deck."

"After that, the Turanians surrendered meekly enough. We did not get many prisoners, for the swords had taken too heavy a toll. A bare half of our original two hundred were left standing, but we had captured or slain three hundred of the Hyrkanian dogs."

He gulped down more wine and held out his cup for a refill. During the pause, a hearer asked: "What about the Turanian yedka? What became of her?"

Amis' brows clouded and he gave a visible shudder. "That was the strangest event of that memorable day. We were binding up wounds and herding prisoners, when the sun seemed to cloud over and a chill of doom fell upon us. The water swirled blackly about our ships. Wind moaned in the rigging like the lament of a lost soul, though we were under the lee of a cliff.

"Someone cried and pointed up. In the sky appeared a black dot, growing swiftly larger. At first it looked like a bird or bat. Then it grew to a fantastic, horrible shape, manlike but winged. With a rush of vast leathery wings it swooped to the poop deck, uttering a shrill cry that smote our hearts like death.

"At that cry, the woman of Maypur stepped from the poop cabin, which none of us had yet entered. In the wink of an eye, the monster snatched her up and bore her off, flapping heavily over the oily waters of the channel. In a few seconds both were out of sight, and the sun shone once again.

"We stared at one another, white-faced. Everybody asked his neighbor what had happened. Had the fiend stayed, I am sure we should have all leaped into the sea to escape it, though it was gone so quickly that we had no time for panic. Even Conan looked shaken and pale.

"I have seen that thing before," he muttered, but he would not explain.

Some of us surmised that the devil had come to drag Thanara off to the hell of Erlik's worshipers. But others, who had been standing close to her when the creature swooped upon us, said that she showed no fear of it, but rather eagerness, as if she had summoned it herself.

"At last Conan shook himself like one coming out of a daze and bellowed orders to strip the slain of valuables and pitch the corpses over the side, even the body of the king. All he would say of the abduction of Thanara was:

"'Let the damned hussy escape with her bogeyman. I do not war upon women, though I would have striped her hide for her treachery.'

"And that was the end of the matter. We burned the grounded galley and sailed the other one hither."

"And where is Conan? " cried another listener. "Why is he not here to tell us tales of his adventures himself? Will he return as our leader to sweep the Turanians from the sea?"

"Alas, no! The Cimmerian ordered the ships to make straight for the eastern shore. He said he was on a vital mission. He had paused here only to settle his old score with Yezdigerd. One of the slaves we freed was a Khitan. Conan remained with him for hours, squatting in conversation. They talked of far lands beyond the Himelias. If Khitai be his goal, he must seek some really fabulous treasure. Otherwise, who would be so mad as to try for those lands beyond the sunrise?"

"Why took he not a score of sea rovers with him?"

"That is another mystery. He swore he had taken an oath to journey alone, and that his goal would be unattainable otherwise.

"We landed him on the eastern shore, and the farewell between him and Rolf the northerner was short and manly. The crew in their sorrow began chanting a sea dirge, until he lifted his mighty voice to curse us to silence. We watched him disappear behind a sand dune on his way to unknown perils.

"Rolf is our captain now, and an abler one is not to be found barring Conan. For Conan will always remain the greatest captain of them all, even when Vilayet Sea has become a desert waste and the stars have fallen from the heavens. I drink his health, and may his quest be successful!"

The toast was drunk in a silence oddly out of place in a pirates'

tavern.

6. Treason in the East

-

"And how fares Her Royal Highness, the Devi?" Conan asked the fat taverner as he sat guzzling a goblet of the scented Shirakman wine of Vendhya. Trusting to the disguise of his Kshatriyan garb, he had ventured within its doors to slake his thirst not only for drink but also for knowledge of this alluring woman, whose empire he had saved.

Old memories rushed into his mind. There was a faraway look in his icy blue eyes as he listened.

Although the tavern was almost empty, the rasping voice of its owner took on a cautious note as he bent forward to whisper into the Cimmerian's ear.

"Ah, the Devi rules with a wise and firm hand, though she has no consort to stand by her side and uphold her. But the nobility say the throne needs a warlike spirit. It is even whispered that her cousin Chengir Khan has an eye for the supreme power and also for herself.

Hitherto she has repulsed his wooing, but public sentiment will soon force her to decide. The dynasty must be carried on, and Yasmina must do her duty to the realm."

The stout Vendhyan cast a swift glance through the, open door. Heavy steps and the clank of weapons were heard as a troop swung by, bucklers on their arms and spears on their mailed shoulders. With professional discipline; the soldiers halted at their officer's command. Their scarred old ghebra stepped into the tavern. His swift glance took in everybody, halting for an instant on Conan, then completing its circle back to the host.

Stepping up to the counter, the officer spoke in a whisper with the taverner. A couple of dusty bottles passed over the worn boards into the silken sack in his hand. His business concluded, he stepped out with long strides and barked a command. His detachment took up their measured step again.

Conan cast an indifferent glance after the troop as their steps receded. His head was full of Yasmina, alone in her palace, ruling the realm without the support of a consort. He shrugged. The internal affairs of Vendhya were not his present business.'

He had, rather, better look to his own problems. Tomorrow he would be on his way east, toward the farther reaches of the Himelians, and for that long trek he should be well rested. His colossal frame could endure hardships unimaginable to a civilized man, but on dangerous missions his instincts prompted him to rest when he could, like a carnivore on a long hunt.

"Taverner!" rumbled Conan. "Have you a room for the night? I am near done with fatigue. These desert trips take the sap out of a man."

The Eastern night lay like a hot, caressing, silken blanket over the city of Ayodhya. Stars glittered in diamond splendor against the black sky, and the sickle of the waning moon rode in the west. Torches and candles flared. From bright-lit palaces sounded laughter and music and the patter of dancing girls' feet, while out of dimly illuminated temples rang the austere tones of golden cymbals and the soft massed voices of worshipers' choirs.

Conan awoke suddenly, with muscles poised like springs for instant action. He had heard a fumbling at the door of his room. He had lain stretched full-length upon the bed, naked but for his silken breeks, spurning bedclothes in the sultry night. Now he rose noiselessly, sword in hand, alert as a wolf.

The latch was slowly and cautiously depressed. As the door began to open, Conan hid himself behind it. A veiled and robed figure of small stature, dim in the starlight, furtively entered. It halted uncertainly as if astonished to find the room empty.

Conan listened with sensitive ears. He could hear no sound outside.

Clearly, the mysterious visitor had come alone. His purpose was unknown to Conan. Any Vendhyan recognizing Conan would have brought the whole municipal guard with him. Many Kshatriyas had not forgotten the marauding hill chief of Ghor, though it had been year? since he had led his hairy hordes down from the hills to pillage. Conan did not intend this situation to remain enigmatic any longer than necessary. Swinging the door silently to with a push of his big hand, he took a stealthy step forward. Like a flash, his hand was over the mouth of the intruder, who was borne down upon the bed like a child despite desperate resistance. Two frightened eyes looked up into Conan's as he hissed:

"Why are you here in my room? Talk, you! But hush your voice!"

He removed his hand from the mouth of the captive and tore away the veil over the face. To his glance was revealed the full lips and straight, narrow nose of a Vendhyan woman. In a voice like the silver chimes of a temple gong, she spoke:

"I came to fetch you to my mistress. She has learned of your coming and is anxious to see you. Don your clothes and we will be on our way. Make haste!"

Oman's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why this cursed haste, girl!

Can't your lady let a man sleep in peace? Why not meet me tomorrow?"

"In the day, many people at my mistress' palace would know Conan of Ghor. She does not wish you torn in twain between wild elephants."

Conan was instantly on guard. "Conan of Ghor, eh? Who knows me here?

Who is she? What does she want."

"I cannot tell you. But this she said «re I left the palace: 'If he hesitates, tell him the Galzai girl of Mount Yimsha would repay him for the clothes he once gave her.'"

Yimsha! Oman's thoughts wandered back thirteen years, to the momentous days when he had assaulted the evil wizards of the Black Circle, and how he had once provided a girl with clothes bought (at sword's point, true, but still with coin) from a Galzai girl on her way to the well.

The girl he had outfitted was Yasmina herself! ~

"So your mistress is the Devi?" he growled. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"Aye, the Devi bids you come. Now hurry!"

With practiced speed, Conan dressed and armed himself. The girl silently opened the door and peered out. Then, with a gesture, she motioned to Conan. The twain slipped noiselessly down the stairs and out into the hot night.

Their route was devious and twisting. Evidently there was truth in the rumors of intrigue that Conan had heard in the tavern, for his guide often cast quick glances over her shoulder. Many times she turned into narrow, cobbled lanes, darker than night itself, as if to shake off pursuers.

Once, in such a lane, a huge dog with glowing eyes and slavering jaws sprang upon them from a doorway. The ripping thrust of the Cimmerian's dagger stretched him lifeless in the gutter. Another time, a knot of ragged men appeared at the end of the street, barring their exit.

Oman's white-toothed smile and slap at the hilt of his sword sent them scurrying. No other disturbance barred their way.

Soon their journey ended. They stood before the high, crenelated wall around the royal palace. Its lofty towers reared narrow pinnacles against the sky; the smell of exotic flowers and fruit from the gardens within reached their nostrils. The girl scanned the surface of the wall. At last she pressed two places on it at the same time. Without a sound, a section swung inward, revealing a dimly-lit corridor.

Enjoining Conan to silence with a finger upon her lips, she led the way. The secret door swung noiselessly to behind him, and he followed her swift step along the corridor, hand on hilt. He was sure that Yasmina meant him no harm, or she would not have chosen this mode of fetching him, but his barbarian instincts kept him on guard.

They went up a stone staircase, then along more dim corridors, until at last the girl stopped before a door and peered through a small hole set at eye's height. She pulled a lever, and the door opened. They entered.

"Wait here, my lord," she said, "and I will tell my mistress that you are here."

She hurried from the room, wispy garments fluttering. Conan shrugged and let his eyes wander round the chamber.

Replete with the riches of an Eastern ruler it was, with silken hangings, golden cups and ornaments, and rich embroidery strewn with precious stones, yet its luxury was tempered by the quality of exquisite taste. That it was a woman's boudoir was evident from the vanity table with its costly Turanian mirror. It was strewn with jars of Jade, gold, and silver, holding ointments and salves prepared by the most skilled cosmeticians of the East. Femininity also showed itself in the splendor of the great bed, with its opaque silken hangings and canopy of gold-worked Shemirish cloth.

Conan nodded in curt appreciation. Though he was a hardened warrior, yet his days as a king had taught him to find pleasure in beautiful surroundings. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound at his back.

Wheeling, he half drew his sword; then he checked himself.

It was Yasmina. When he had first met her, she had been in the first flower of womanhoodhardly twenty as he remembered. Now, thirteen years later, she was a mature woman. The sharp wit that had enabled her to hold the throne still shone from her eyes, but her clinging silken garments revealed that her girlish figure had bloomed into a woman's desirable body. And that body was of such beauty that poets grew famous by describing it; it would have fetched over a thousand talars on the auction block at Sultanapur. Yasmina's beautiful face was suffused with happiness as she stopped three steps from him, arms half opened, murmuring:

"My hill chieftain! You have come back!"

Oman's blood pounded in his temples as he covered the distance between them in one mighty stride and took her in his arms. As her supple body pressed warmly against his, she whispered:

"We shall be undisturbed, my chieftain. I have sent away the guards for the night. The entrance to this room is locked. Love me, my chieftain!

For thirteen years I have longed for the feel of your arms around me. I have not been happy since we parted after the battle in Femesh Valley.

Hold me in your arms, and let this be a night that neither of us shall ever forget!"

In another part of the palace, five men sat in ^ richly furnished room.

Ever and anon they sipped from golden goblets as they listened to the tall, swarthy man.

"Now is the time!" he said. "Tonight! I have just learned that Yasmina has sent away the score of soldiers who usually guard her chambers. A woman's whim, no doubt, but it will serve us well!"

"My lord Chengir," one of the others interrupted, "is it really necessary to slay the Devi? I have fought Turanian squadrons on the border and hewed my way out of hillmen's ambushes, but I like not the thought of striking down a woman in cold blood."

The tall man smiled. "Neither do I, Ghemur, but it is necessary for the kingdom of Vendhya. The blood of the realm needs renewal. There must be new conquests to augment our power. The Devi has weakened the fiber of the country by her peaceful rule. We, a race of conquering warriors, now waste our time building dams and roads for the filthy lower castes!

Nay, she must die. Then I, as successor to the throne, will lead the KshatriySs to new conquests. We will carve out a new empire in blood in Khitai, in Uttara Kuru, in Turan. We'll sweep the hillmen from the Himelias in a red flood. The East shall shake and totter to our thunder! Day and night, camel trains laden with spoil shall pour into Ayodhya. Are you with me?"

Four curved swords slid halfway out of their gold-worked sheaths, and the clamor of the generals' assent was a loud murmur.

The prince waved them to silence. "Not so loud, sirs.

Remember that nearly all are loyal to Yasmina. Few have our foresight.

Should we attempt an open revolt, the troops and the people would tear us to pieces. But should she die by secret assassination¦ Of course I, as her cousin and heir, would diligently search for the malefactors.

Perhaps we could execute a couple of scapegoatsafter cutting out their tongues. After a suitable time of mourning, I shall gather my army and strike to the north and to the east. My name will be lauded in history with our great conquerors of old!"

His voice rang high with excitement and his eyes shone. With an imperious gesture, he rose. "Arm yourselves, gentlemen. Don your masks.

We go to Yasmina's chambers by a secret passage. Our duty to the kingdom will be performed within the hour!"

Five black-masked nobles filed out of the room on their way to cut the throat of a defenseless woman.

The faint light of the stars sifted into the queen's bedchamber, as Conan awoke for the second time that night. His sharp ears caught a soft, almost inaudible sound. Any ordinary man would have muttered sleepily, attributed the disturbance to rats or bad dreams, turned over, and gone back to sleep.

Not so Conan! Instantly wide awake, he investigated. His animal instincts were on edge. As his right hand sought the hilt of his sword and drew it noiselessly from its shagreen scabbard, his left parted the hangings to get a view of the room. Yasmina lay sleeping, a faint smile on her beautiful lips.

It needed not the glint of steel in the hands of five dark figures, faintly outlined in the starlight, to tell Conan that here was deadly danger. Masked men did not nightly invade their queen's chamber with kindly intentions. Catlike, he crouched on the balls of his feet, sword in hand, rage in his heart.

The assassins stole closer, readying their daggers for the strokes that would seat a new ruler on the throne of Vendhya. One was already plucking at the hangings of the royal bed.

Conan went into action with blurring speed. Like a maddened tiger he sprang. The nearest man was down, disemboweled, before the others recovered from their shock. His sword flashed quick as a striking cobra. With a crash, the helmet and head of another were cloven to the chin. Conan kicked the corpse against the others, breaking their charge, while parrying a cut against his legs by one who had dodged the human missile. With a terrific backhanded swipe, he smote the sword arm from the man's body. The limb fell jerking to the floor, while the assassin sank down in a heap.

Conan stormed against the remaining two. With flashing sabers, they fought for their lives under the maddened onslaught of the naked Cimmerian. Red fury blazed in Oman's eyes as he rained mighty strokes upon their frantic parries, circling them to keep them from getting on opposite sides of him.

"Murder a woman sleeping in her bed, will you?" he snarled. "Cowards!

Jackals! Any treacherous Stygian is a fair fighter compared to you! But no blood shall be spilt tonight but yours, curs!"

Conan's blade flickered like a shaft of deadly light. A terrific slash shore off the head of one of his masked adversaries, with the ferocity of the Cimmerian's attack backed the single one remaining against the wall. Their swift blows and parries shaped a glittering, ever-changing pattern of steel in the starlight.

Yasmina, now fully awake, stood beside her bed, watching with bated breath. Suddenly she cried out in terror, as Conan slipped in the blood on the floor and fell across one of the corpses.

The Vendhyan assailant sprang forward, unholy glee in his black eyes.

He raised his sword. Conan struggled to rise. Suddenly, the mouth of his foe flew open. He teetered, dropping his sword, and fell with a choking gurgle. Behind was revealed the naked, supple form of Yasmina.

Between the shoulders of the dead Kshatriya protruded the hilt of the dagger she had driven home in the nick of time to save her lover.

Conan slashed himself free from the entangling folds of a mantle and rose. From head to foot he was covered with blood, but his blue eyes blazed with their old unquenchable fire.

"Lucky for me you were quick with your sticker, girl! But for you, I should have kept these gentlemen company in Hell by now. Crom, but it was a good fight!"

Her first reply was one of feminine anxiety. "You bleed, my chieftain!

Come with me to the bathroom, and we will dress your wounds."

"It's theirs, all but a couple of scratches," grunted Conan, wiping the blood off with the turban cloth of. one of the dead assassins. "Small price to pay to thwart these scoundrels."

"I praise the gods you were with me, or they would have succeeded." The Devi's voice was vibrant with emotion. "Never have I dreamed that assassination threatened me! The people deem my rule just, and I have the backing of the army and most of the nobility. Maybe Yezdigerd of Turan has sent emissaries as masked murderers to my chambers."

"Yezdigerd won't bother you again," muttered the Cimmerian. "He's dead.

I slew him on his own ship. Unmask them!"

The Devi tore the mask from the face of the man she had knifed, then recoiled in amazement and horror. "Chengir! My own cousin! Oh, treachery, black treachery and power madness! Heads shall roll for this tomorrow!"

She shook her raven tresses and turned her dark, liquid eyes on the inscrutable face of the Cimmerian. "I know now that I need a consort.

Rule Vendhya with me, Conan! Tomorrow we'll announce our betrothal; within a month there will be nuptial feasts and ceremonies such as have not taken place in Vendhya for a hundred years! I love you, my chieftain!"

She embraced him hotly, straining with her vigorous, slim young body against his, covering his lips with kisses, until his senses swam. But he shook his head and thrust her gently from him. He held her at arm's length.

"Crom knows, lass, that you make a tempting offer," he rumbled. "Few women have I seen so beautiful as you, nor so wise. Any man blessed with your hand in marriage would count himself the favorite of a hundred gods. Ten years ago, when I was a wandering soldier of fortune, I would perhaps have accepted. Now I cannot. I have my own kingdom now, Aquilonia in the West, the mightiest realm in the world. But my queen has been stolen from me by an evil magician in Khitai, and I have sworn an oath to get her back. I should not be a man if I did not keep my vow. Marry one of your own people. They would rather be ruled by a king of their own blood. Tomorrow I ride for the Himelians."

There was misty tenderness and vast love in the deep, brimming eyes of Yasmina as she regarded him. "The gods give happiness only to snatch it away. Mayhap that is as well, or life would be nothing but happiness, and we should lack the contrasts to know what real happiness means."

Her eyes cleared, and a queer, half-whimsical smile played upon her lips. "You will go tomorrow. But there are several hours left until dawn. Let us spend them in a more profitable way than talking!"

They locked again in a fierce embrace, while the stars shone coldly upon the dead, glassy-eyed faces of the foiled assassins.

7. The Demon of the Snows

-

The man slunk silently along the snow-covered trail. His body was bent forward; his eyes scanned the ground, and his nostrils widened like those of a hound on the scent. No man had ever before been where he now stalked; at least, none had been there and returned to tell about it.

Mist-veiled and mysterious were the icy upper wastes of the mighty Himelian mountains.

Zelvar Af had been hunting alone when he happened upon the odd tracks in the snow. Wide, splayed footprints were pressed deeply down at distances of at least four feet denoting the size of the creature that made them. Zelvar Af had never seen anything like them; but his memory stirred with the recollection of ghastly legends told in the thatched huts of the hill villages by white-bearded old men.

With primitive recklessness, Zelvar Af shrugged off the glimmerings of fear. True, he was alone and several days' journey from home. But was he not the foremost hunter of the Wamadzi? The double curve of his powerful Hyrkanian bow brought reassurance as he clutched it with his eyes searching. He moved cat-footed on the trail.

It was no manifestation of sound or sight that made him stop. The white slopes stretched upward before him in snowy magnificence. Other mighty ranges could be seen far off in jagged silhouette. No sign of life showed anywhere. But an icy, creeping feeling suddenly filled his mindthe feeling that something arisen from dreadful tales of horrible beings from dark borderlands. He wheeled in a flash, his brown hand whipping out his heavy Zhaibar knife.

His blood froze in his veins. His eyes opened in awful terror at the sight of the giant white shape that glided toward him over the snow. No features could be discerned in the white face of the horribly manlike figure, but its swift glide brought it straight to its petrified victim. With a scream of terror, Zelvar swung his blade. Then the icy embrace of the smothering white arms swept around him. Silence reigned again in the vast white reaches.

"By thunder, it is good to be among hillmen again!"

The words were stressed by a bang on the rough wooden table with a half-gnawed beef bone. A score of men were gathered in the big hut of the chief of the Khirgulis: chiefs from neighboring villages and the foremost men of the Khirguli tribe. Wild and fierce they were. Clothed in sturdy hillman's sheepskin tunics and boots, they had doffed the huge fur coats worn against the cold of the upper ranges, displaying the barbaric splendor of Bakhariot belts and ivory-and-gold tulwar hilts.

The commanding figure was, however, none of these fierce mountaineers.

Conan the Cimmerian, in the place of honor, was the center of their attention. Long and varied was the tale he had told, for it was over a decade since his feet had last trod the winding paths of the Himelian crags.

"Yes, I think you will be little bothered by Turanians henceforth."

Flashes coruscated in the blue depths of Conan's eyes as he told his recent experiences. "I slew Yezdigerd on the deck of his flagship, as the blood of his men gushed round my ankles. His vast empire will be sundered and split by the feuds of Shahs and Aghas, as there is no successor to the throne."

The gray-bearded chief sighed. "We have seen little of the Turanians since the day you with your Afghulis and the Devi Yasmina with her Kshatriyas defeated their host in Femesh Valley. Nor have the riders of Vendhya bothered us; we keep a silent agreement of truce since that day, even refraining from raiding their caverns and outposts. I almost long for the old days of battle, when we rained stones upon their spired helmets and ambushed their mailed lancers from every cranny."

Conan smiled in reminiscence. But his thoughts dwelt on his recent visit to Vendhya. It was hard to push the picture of a slim, black-haired, tear-eyed woman out of his mind, as he remembered her standing on the palace wall, waving her silken veil as he thundered away toward the hazy mountains.

A portly, bearded chief cleared his throat. "We understand that you are on a pressing errand, Conan," he said. "But take our advice and go around the Talakman region. Strange and terrible things happen there, and it is whispered that the snow demons of the old myths are abroad again."

"What are these snow demons, that they send fear into the stout hearts of the men of Ghulistan?"

The chief bent lower and answered with a quaver in his voice. "Devils out of the nighted gulfs of the black abyss haunt the snowy reaches of Talakma. Men have been found with their bodies broken and mangled by something of terrible strength and ferocity. But the most horrible thing of all is that every corpse, no matter how recent, was frozen stiff to the core! Fingers and limbs are so brittle that they break of like icicles!"

"I thank you for the warning." Conan's voice was somber. "But I cannot pass around the Talakmas. It would cost me two months, and I must travel by the straightest path. My time is short."

Clamoring, they tried to dissuade him, but in vain. His stentorian voice beat upwards to tones of command, whereupon they all fell silent.

He rose heavily and went into the inner room to a bed covered with thick furs, while his companions lingered, shaking their heads and muttering in fearful tones.

The wind howled sadly as Conan made his way across the snowy vastness.

Gusts flung biting snow into his weather-beaten face, and the icy blasts pierced his thick fur coat. Slung from his shoulders was his pack, crammed with supplies for the long trek over the cold wastes, dried meat and coarse bread. His breath stood out in a long plume from his nostrils.

For days he had been upon his way, traversing the snows with the easy, long-limbed hillman's stride that eats up the mountainous miles. At night he had slept in primitive snow caves, dug with the crude, broad-bladed shovel carried for the purpose, and at daybreak he hurried on again. Chasms gaped across his path. .Sometimes his muscular legs took them in a running broad jump. Sometimes he had to make a wide detour around the end of the chasm, or lower himself into the deeps with his climbing rope and scramble up the other side.

The snows were unbroken and almost deserted by living things. Once a hungry snow leopard charged him, but he broke the carnivore's attack with a ripping thrust of his Zhaibar knife. The animal tumbled to the ground, choking out its life in convulsions. He left it there to lie forever in the eternal cold.

As die snow-laden wind lessened, he wiped the icy particles from his brows, paused, and looked about him. Behind stretched the interminable plains of snow, broken by yawning abysses and jutting peaks, which lost themselves in the distance. Far in front, he dimly discerned the beginning of the downward slope of the mountains and the promise of an end to this grueling leg of his journey.

Then his sharp blue eyes espied something else. With sudden curiosity, Conan moved forward to investigate. He paused, looking down at the odd footprints that had caught his attention. Unlike any spoor he had ever seen, they looked a little like the tracks of a bear. But no bear ever left footprints so large, without claw marks and with those curiously splayed toes. They must have been made recently, for the drifting snow had only partly filled them. They led close by a towering, mountainous mass of ice. Conan followed the trail, alert as a stalking panther.

Even the Cimmerian's lightning quickness failed to avoid the monstrous white form that suddenly hurtled upon him from above. He had a glimpse of shapeless limbs and horribly featureless head. Then he was flung to the ground with such violence that the breath was knocked out of his lungs.

Because of his quick reaction, the snaky arms had not wholly enveloped him. His body had half-twisted out of their descending grip, though they grabbed him in a viselike clutch back and front.

He struggled madly to free his right hand and slash at his foe with the naked knife in his fist, but even his giant strength seemed like a babe's to the demoniac power of the monster. And then a horrible, featureless face bent forward, as if to stare straight into his eyes.

An abysmal chill began to envelop his body, and he felt a deadly tugging at the borders of his mind. In that amorphous terror he saw mirrored the abysmal evil of the darker gulfs where slavering things dwell, preying on human souls. Forces tore at the roots of his reason; icy drops of sweat sprang out on his forehead.

A weaker man would have succumbed to the evil of this unknown and overwhelming power, but the civilized layer was only a thin coating over Oman's barbarian reflexes. His animal instincts rushed to the fore of his mind. The urge to self-preservation made his muscles contract in one mighty effort. With a tearing of fur and clothing, he ripped his left hand free of the constraining whiteness and smashed into the blank visage facing him.

At the first blow, the monster uttered a shrill, ululating cry and slackened its grip.

The ring!

The ring of Rakhamon, the gift of Pelias, with unknown powers of magic and sorcery, that Conan carried! A deadly weapon against this waif of the icy darkness, that tore men's souls from their bodies to eternal damnation and left them broken and frozen on the snows!

Conan struck again, and now the ululation changed to a shrill shriek as the white horror flung itself backward to escape the terror of the ring. With savage glee, Conan lunged after it. Now he was the attacker!

Using the sharp rhomboid points of the ring as a weapon, he ripped savagely into the white form.

There was a shrill bellow from the facial region of the creature. It fled over the snow, white ichor dripping from its wounds, while Conan pursued it like an avenging spirit.

Its steps carried it to the brink of an icy chasm, where it paused, at bay, tottering and trembling. Mercilessly, Conan slashed with his ringed fist at its body. With a weird shriek it staggered backward. For a moment it fought for balance on the edge; then the icy crust gave way. With a long-drawn wail it hurtled downwards into the darkness of the abyss.

Conan shook himself like a wolf-dog after the hunt. "Pelias gave me a powerful bauble indeed," he mumbled. "A pox on these snow demons! That one has been cast back to its hellish haunts, anyway. Now I'd better hurry, if I am to reach the downward slopes tomorrow."

8. The Dragon of Khitai

It was the twenty-fifth day since he had crossed the Khitan border.

The arid, sandy lands bordering the vast Wuhuan Desert, unpeopled save for straggling bands of weather-beaten nomads, had been relieved by vast bogs and marshes. Waterfowl whirred up in clouds from pools of stagnant water. Red-eyed, ill-tempered marsh buffalo splashed and snorted in die tall reeds. Swarms of biting insects hummed; tigers on the hunt uttered coughing roars. Conan needed all his swamp-craft, acquired in the Kushite jungles and the marshes fringing the Sea of Vilayet, to cross these inhospitable reaches, with the help of handmade swamp shoes and improvised bamboo rafts.

When the fens ended, thick jungle began. This was not much easier to penetrate. Conan's heavy Zhaibar knife was at constant work cutting through dense undergrowth, but the iron muscles and dogged determination of the giant Cimmerian never flagged. These parts had once been rich and civilized, long ago when Western civilization was barely in its morning glow. In many places Conan found crumbling ruins of temples, palaces, and whole dries, dead and forgotten for thousands of years. Their empty window-holes stared blackly like the eye sockets of skulls in somber forgetfulness. Vines draped the worn and pitted statues of weird, pre-human gods. Chattering apes shrieked their displeasure at his intrusion into their green-mantled walls.

The jungle melted into rolling plains, where saffron-skinned herdsmen watched their flocks. Straight across this part of the land, across hills and valleys alike, ran the Great Wall of Khitai. Conan surveyed it grimly. With a thousand stout Aquilonian warriors, equipped with rams and catapults, he would soon breach this vast but static defense, by a lightning thrust ere help could come from other sections of the wall.

But he had no thousand soldiers with siege engines, and cross the Great Wall he must. One dark night, when the moon was veiled, he stole over by means of a rope, leaving a guardsman stunned by a blow on the helm.

The grassy fields were traversed in the tireless, mile-devouring barbarian jog-trot, which enabled him to cover vast distances between rests.

The jungle soon began anew. Here, however, were signs of the passing of man^ lacking in the other forests through which he had hewn a laborious way. Narrow paths were beaten through the undergrowth, though it massed as thickly as ever among the clustered bamboo stems on the sides. Vines festooned the trees; gay-feathered birds twittered. From far away came the snarl of a hunting leopard.

Conan slunk along the path like an animal born to jungle life. From the information he had gleaned from the Khitan slave freed after the sea fight on the Vilayet Sea, he deduced that he was now in the jungle bordering the city-state of Paikang. The Khitan had told him that it took eight days to cross this belt of forest. Conan counted on making it in four. Drawing upon his immense barbarian resources of vitality, he could undergo exertions unthinkable to other men.

Now his goal was to reach some settlement. The tale was that the forest folk lived in dread of Paikang's cruel ruler. Therefore Conan counted on finding friends who could furnish him with directions for reaching the city.

The eerie atmosphere of the bamboo jungle pressed down upon him with almost physical force. Unbroken and unexplored for thousands of years, save for narrow paths and small clearings, it seemed to hold the answers to the mysteries of aeons. An enigmatic aura of brooding enveloped the glossy, naked stems of the bamboo, which rose on every hand in jutting profusion. The esoteric traditions of this land reached back before the first fire was lit in the West. Vast and ancient was the knowledge hoarded by its philosophers, artisans, and sorcerers.

Conan shrugged off the depressing influence and gripped the hilt of his tulwar more firmly. His feet trod silently on the matting of moldering leaves. His faculties were sharpened and alert, like those of a wolf raiding into the lands of a foreign pack. There was a rustle among the half-rotten leaves. A great snake, slate-gray with a flaming red zigzag along its back, reared its head from its hiding place. It struck viciously, with bared and dripping fangs. At that instant, the steel in Conan's hand flashed. The tulwar's keen edge severed the head of the reptile, which writhed and twisted in its death throes. Conan grimly cleaned his blade and pressed on.

Then he halted. Stock-still he stood, ears sharpened to the utmost, nostrils widened to catch the faintest scent. He had heard the clank of metal and now could catch the sound of voices.

Swiftly but cautiously he advanced. The path made a sudden turn a hundred paces further on. At this corner his sharp eyes sought the cause of the disturbance.

In a small clearing, two powerful yellow-skinned Khitans were trussing a saffron-hued girl to a tree. Unlike most of the Far Eastern folk, these men were tall and powerful. Their lacquered, laminated armor and flaring helmets gave them a sinister, exotic look. At their sides hung broad, curved swords in lacquered wooden scabbards. Cruelty and brutality were stamped on their features.

The girl twisted in their grip, uttering frantic pleas in the singsong, liquid Khitan tongue. Having learned more than a smattering of it in his youth, when he had served the king of Turan as a mercenary, Conan found he could understand the words. The captive's slant-eyed face was of a startling oriental beauty.

Her pleading had no effect on her merciless captors, who continued their work. Conan felt his rage mounting. This was one of those cruel human sacrifices which he had tried to stamp out in the western world but which were still common in the East. His blood boiled at the sight of this manhandling of a defenseless girl. He broke from cover with a bull-like rush, sword out.

The crackling of the underbrush beneath the Cimmerian's feet reached the ears of the Khitan soldiers. They swung round towards the sound, and their eyes widened with unfeigned surprise. Both whipped out their swords and prepared to meet the barbarian's attack with arrogant confidence. They spoke no word, but the girl cried out:

"Flee! Do not try to save me! These are the best swordsmen in Khitai!

They belong to the bodyguard of Yah Chieng!"

The name of his foe brought a greater fury to Conan's heart. With slitted eyes, he struck the Khitans like a charging lion.

Unequalled as swordsmen in Khitai they may have been, but before the wrath of Conan they were like straws in the wind. The barbarian's blade whirled in a flashing dance of death before their astonished eyes. He feinted and struck, crushing armor and shoulder bone beneath the keen edge of his hard-driven tulwar. The first yellow man sank down, dying.

The other, hissing like a snake, exploded into a fierce attack. Neither fighter would give way. Their blades crashed ringingly together. Then the inferior steel of Khitai broke before the supple strength of the tulwar, forged from matchless Himelian ore by a Khirguli smith. Conan's blade ripped through the armor plate into the Khitan's heart.

With muted fear, the captive girl had followed the fight with widened eyes. When Conan broke from cover, she thought him one of her friends or relatives, bent upon a mad attempt to rescue her.

Now she saw that he was a cheng-li, a white-skinned foreigner from the legendary lands west of the Great Wall and the Wuhuan Desert. Would he devour her alive, as legends averred? Or would he drag her back to his homeland as slave, to work chained in a filthy dungeon the rest of her life?

Her fears were soon allayed by Conan's friendly grin as he swiftly cut her bonds. His appreciative glance ran over her limbs, not with the air of a captor sizing up the value of a captive, but with the glance of a free man looking upon a free woman. Her cheeks were suffused with blood before his frank admiration.

"By Macha" he said, "I did not know they bred women this beautiful in the yellow lands! It seems I should have visited these parts long ago!"

His accent was far from perfect, but she had no difficulty in following the words.

"Seldom do white strangers come to Khitai," she answered. "Your arrival and victory were timed by the gods. But for you, those two" (she indicated the corpses) "would have left me helpless prey to the terror Yah Chieng has let loose in the jungle."

"I have sworn to settle my debt with that scoundrel," growled Conan.

"It seems I have to settle yours at the same time. What is this jungle terror you speak of?"

"None has met it and lived to tell. Men say the arch wizard has conjured up a monster out of forgotten ages, when fire-breathing beasts walked the earth and the crust shook with earthquakes and eruptions. He holds the land in abject terror of it, and human sacrifices are often demanded. The fairest women and ablest men are taken by his soldiers to feed the maw of the beast of terror."

"Meseems this is no healthy neighborhood," said Conan. "Though I fear not this monster of yours, I'd as lief not be hindered by it on my way to Paikang. Is your village far?"

Before she could answer, there was a heavy crashing in the undergrowth.

The bamboo stems shook and swayed, and a hoarse bellow reached their startled ears. Conan gripped his hilt, a grim smile on his lips. The girl shrank behind his mighty frame. Tense as a tiger, the Cimmerian waited.

With a croaking growl, a giant, scaly form crashed through the undergrowth at the fringe of the clearing. Dimly seen in the darkness of the forest, the sunlight of the glade revealed its terrible form in full. Forty feet it measured from snout to spiked tail. Its short, bowed legs were armed with sharp, curved claws. Its jaws were gigantic, set with teeth beside which a sabertooth's fangs were puny. Mighty swellings at the sides of its head told of the great muscles that worked this awful engine of destruction. Its scaly hide was of a repellant leaden hue, and its fetid breath stank of moldering corpses.

It stopped for a moment in the sunlight, blinking. Conan used the time for swift action.

"Climb that tree! He can't reach you there!" he thundered to the terror-frozen girl.

Stung to action, the girl followed his command, while the Cimmerian's attention was again engaged by the giant lizard. This was one of the most formidable antagonists he had ever faced. Armored knights, sword-swinging warriors, blood thirsty carnivores, and skulking poisonersall were dwarfed by the menace of this giant engine of destruction rushing upon him.

But the foremost hunter of the Cimmerian hills, the jungles of Kush, and the Turanian steppes was not to be taken in one gulp. Conan stood his ground, lest, if he fled or climbed a tree, the dragon should turn its attention to the girl. Then, an instant before the mighty jaws would have closed about him, he sprang to one side. The impetus of the dragon's charge carried it crashing into the undergrowth, while Conan ran to a clump of bamboos.

More quickly than he expected, the monster, roaring and crashing, untangled itself from the thickets and returned to the attack. Conan saw that he could not hope to reach the tree in which the girl had taken refuge in time to escape those frightful jaws. The glossy tubes of the bamboo afforded no holds for climbing, and their stems would be snapped by a jerk of the monster's head. No safety lay that way.

Whipping out his Zhaibar knife, Conan chopped through the base of a slim stem of bamboo. Another cut, slantwise, sheared off its crown of leaves and left a glassy-sharp rounded point. With this improvised ten-foot lance, Conan charged his oncoming adversary.

He rammed the point between the gaping jaws and down the darkness of the gullet. With a mighty heave of his straining muscles, Conan drove the bamboo deeper and deeper into the soft internal tissues of the dragon. Then the jaws slammed shut, biting off the shaft a foot from Oman's hand, and a sidewise lunge of the head hurled Conan into a thicket twenty feet away.

The grisly reptile writhed in agony, uttering shrieks of pain. Conan dragged himself to his feet, feeling as if every muscle in his body had been torn loose from its moorings. His arm ached as he drew his tulwar, yet by sheer will power he forced his battered body into service. He stumbled forward, half-blinded by dust, but avoiding the thrashing tail and snapping jaws.

Grimly, he put his whole strength into one desperate lunge for the monster's eye. The blade went in like a knife through butter. The hilt was snatched from his grasp by the last convulsions of the dying beast.

Again he was thrown to the ground, but with a final tremor, the hulk of his terrible foe subsided.

Conan gasped the dust-laden air, picked himself up, and limped toward the tree where huddled the girl.

"I must be growing old," he muttered between gasps "A little fight like that wouldn't have bothered me at all in the old days."

This was but the barbarian's naive way of belittling his feat. He knew that no other man could have done what he had just accomplished; nor could he have succeeded but for luck and the ways of fate. He roared hoarsely:

"Come down, lass! The dragon ate more bamboo than was good for him. Now lead me to your village. I shall need help from you in return."

9. The Dance of the Lions

-

Smoke of the yellow lotus spiraled wispily upward in the dim-lit bamboo hut. Like clutching tentacles, it writhed in fragrant streamers toward the chimney-hole in the ceiling, curling from the mouthpiece of carven jade ending the silken hose of the elaborate, gold-bowled water-pipe on the floor and from the pursed and wrinkled lips of an old Khitan, sitting cross-legged on a reed mat.

His face was like yellowed parchment. Nearly fourscore years must have weighed upon his shoulders. Yet there was an air of youthful energy and command about him, coupled with calm and serenity of thought. He held the mouthpiece in his left hand, puffing slowly in sybaritic enjoyment of the narcotic fumes. Meanwhile, his sharp black eyes studied the big, black-haired, white-skinned man in front of him, who sat upon a low stool and wolfed down the shi-la rice stew placed before him by the girl he had saved.

She was now clad in a chastely high-necked jacket and embroidered trousers, which set off her golden complexion and large, deep, slanted eyes to advantage. With her lustrous hair combed into a complex coiffure, it was a startling transformation from the tousle-headed, half-naked, frightened girl whom he had rescued from men and monster.

But he recalled the clasp of her hot arms during an hour of rest in the jungle, when she had given him a woman's reward, freely and willingly, in a burst of Oriental passion that needed no torch to inflame his desires.

One day and one night they had journeyed, resting only when the girl needed it. When she was utterly spent, he flung her across his broad shoulders, while his untiring legs pounded along. At last the path widened into a clearing. A dozen bamboo huts with shingled roofs were grouped near a brook, where fish splashed in silvery abundance.

Wooden-featured, yellow-skinned men emerged with swords and bows at the intrusion, only to utter cries of Joy and shouts of welcome to this savior of a daughter of their village.

For it seemed that these people were outcasts of noble blood, who had fled from the tyranny of Yah Chieng the Terrible. Now they dwelt on the edge of life, fearing every moment to be wiped out by a cohort of the sorcerer's dreaded swordsmen.

Wiping his mouth with the appearance of surfeit and taking a last draft from the bowl of yellow rice wine, Conan listened to the words of his host.

"Aye, mighty was the clan of Kang, of which I, Kang Hsiu, am the head,"

he said. "And fairest of all the city-states of northern Khirai was purple-towered Paikang. Hosts of glittering warriors shielded us from the warlike ambitions of Shu-chen to the north and Ruo-gen to the south. The lands were rich and the crops always plentiful. I dwelt in the palace in Paikang surrounded by all the splendor and culture of our ancient civilization.

"Then came the Accursed One. On one dark night his hordes swept up from the southeast like a destroying blaze. Our armies were wiped out by his foul arts. They were engulfed by earthquakes, devoured by magical fire, or smitten with the dry plague. Our sword arm was withered, and his hellhounds made free with our beautiful city. Paikang was sacked in fury and blood, in thunderous fires and unnamable atrocities. I, my family, and some of my retainers fled on fast camels. Through many perils we found this refuge. I doubt if Yah Chieng knows of us, or he would surely have wiped us out by now. Kang Lou-dze, my daughter here, was captured by his swordsmen while visiting a village several miles from here. No hunters ever come to this hidden place.

"It would seem that our plight is hopeless. We are but a handful, to face magical might and thousands of well-armed soldiers. Still, the people, whom he is grinding to poverty by his taxes and extortions, long for the bygone days of serenity, freedom, and wealth. They would rise if given the chance. But the iron heels of Yah Chieng's generals press upon their necks. His swordsmen swagger the streets of the cities like conquerors, with whips in their hands.

"So it has been for a score of years, and our hope dwindles. It would die bat for the prophecy, in which we have put all our faith during these years of terror."

Conan had listened silently, but curiosity now prompted a question.

"The memories of many happenings lie crowded in my mind. But this prophecy? What of it?"

"My wife, the mother of Kang Lou-dze, was gifted with strange powers.

She knew the calls of birds, and I have often seen die wild beasts of the jungle nuzzling her hands. When disaster struck, one of Yah Chieng's marauders found his way to her chamber and struck her down while she prayed to our gods. I was too late to save her, but as I stood with dripping blade over the body of her murderer, she beckoned to me from the floor where she lay in her blood, and whispered into my grief-stricken ear:

" 'My days are ended. Flee swiftly to save our family. Hide yourselves and wait. Despair not. For there will come' from the west a conqueror such as you have never seen, with a great and noble heart. In his wrath he will crush the fiend like a snake under his heel. He will be a man of white skin and great strength, a king in his own land, and he will smite the usurper like a flaming thunderbolt. The gods are with him, and Paikang will once again'

"In that instant her mouth filled with a rush of blood, and she died.

Stricken as I was, I could not stay. I gathered my children, and my servants helped me to carry the younger ones through a secret passage.

"Through all these years we have waited for the white war lord. We have listened for rumors of his shining armies and hoped to see his pennon on the towers of Paikang. But only marauding nomads have come from the Great Desert, and our hope has dwindled with the years.

"Except for a troop of mercenaries that Yah Chieng captured last year, you are the first man with white skin and round eyes to come from the West during all this time, but the prophecy said our savior would be a king and a conqueror. You are alone, without armies or followers, and you wear the habit of the nomads.

"I am old, my days are numbered, and now I begin to despair for the fate of my people."

A broad smile split Conan's face. Thumping the floor, he boomed: "Who said I'm no king, old man? King I am, and king of the mightiest kingdom of the West, fair Aquilonia. Conquered it myself, I did, and strangled its tyrant on the throne with my own hands. White I am, and my strength has won me duels with professional stranglers. Do I not fit your prophecy?"

The old man looked up, eager and incredulous at the same time:. "Is this true, Conan? You are a king? Then the part I did not tell you is also truefor my beloved wife said that this would occur within twenty years of our defeat. The gods be praised! We shall have a feast of prayer and thanksgiving tonight. Tomorrow we are at your command! Will you lead us?"

Conan's laugh was gusty. "Not so hotly, my friend! Even I, who have had my share of follies, am not so rash as to rush into the maw of this scoundrel with only a score of men. The gods help those who use their wits. We must lay our plans carefully."

Then his voice was drowned by the joyful shouts of the crowd that had gathered outside the hut, summoned by Kang Lou-dze. With sudden sobriety he accepted the humble adoration of these folk, whose sole hope of salvation he represented.

The high council of the Khitan village of outcasts was in session. The atmosphere inside the bamboo hut was rife with tension. Conan lolled on the floor mats, a beaker of wine in his hand, while his sharp blue eyes scrutinized his new allies. The air was thick with the lotus-scented smoke of water pipes.

"It will be no easy task to win entrance to the fiend's castle," said one tall, slant-eyed man, whose face was disfigured by a scar across his brow. "His cursed swordsmen guard it day and night, and there are his own unearthly powers in the bargain. The people have no arms, and a straightforward attack on the heavily-fortified citadel is out of the question with our scant force."

"You are right, Leng Chi," said the aged Kang Hsiu. "Stealth and trickery pave the road to success. And I know of only one way that might carry us there. In a week, Yah Chieng will give his annual feast in celebration of the conquest of Pailcang. The climax of this feast is always the Dance of the Lions, performed with all the ancient ceremonies. Thus Yah Chieng caters to the people's taste for spectacle and tradition. It is the only time when the great gates are opened and the public is admitted into the large courtyard. But how this can avail us I cannot fathom, for we must bring King Conan with us, and he is pale of skin and round of eye. We cannot possibly disguise him effectively, for he stands out among all men. Of course, we could carry him in a box"

Conan's rough voice broke into the conversation. "None of that, my friend. To lie unmoving in a coffin, indeed! But this Lion Dance gives me an idea. I have heard of it from travelers. Do not the dancers carry great dresses made for two men, with a lion's head? At the end of the feast, I can slip into the castle. Then I shall be on my own. The only snag is the dancing dress. You have none here, and it would take too long to make one."

"Fate is indeed looking our way," replied the old man gravely. "In Shaulun, a day's journey hence, there is a team that goes to the dance every year with their lion dress. We will make it worth their while to let us borrow it. As for the rest, you speak true. You will have many chances to slip away during the latter part of the feast, for Yah Chieng often plies the rabble with wine, and there arises such confusion and shouting that his swordsmen have to chase everybody out with naked swords. Perhaps this time we can turn the riot to our advantage.

"The swordsmen of the usurper would be surprised to meet sober men with forbidden swords in their hands. Aye, I think we could promise Yah Chieng an unusually lively feast!"

"Not yet," said Leng Chi. "How many can we muster? Yah Chieng has his Two Hundred at instant call, besides his regular troops. Some of the latter might come over to us, did they know what was afoot. But-"

"And we have but a few bits of armor," said another headman. "The troops of the usurper will be scaled and plated like the crayfish of Lake Ho."

As the meager forces that the refugees could put in the field were summed up, faces and voices fell again. Then Conan spoke:

"The other day, Lord Kang, you said something about a troop of Western mercenaries captured by Yah Chieng last year. What is this?"

The old man said: "In the Month of the Hog, a company of fifty came marching out of the west. They said they had served the king ofwhat was the name of the kingdom? Turan, that is it. But, resenting the scornful way this king's generals treated them, they had deserted and struck out eastward to seek their fortunes in Khitai."

Leng Chi took up the tale. "They passed a few leagues north of here, through the village of Shaulun. They found favor with the villagers because they destroyed a band of robbers, and they did not loot or rape. Therefore the villagers warned them against Yah Chieng. But they would not listen, and marched on to Paikang.

"There, we heard, they offered their swords to Yah Chieng. He feigned acceptance but had other plans in mind. He gave them a feast, at the height of which he had their captain's head cut off and the rest cast into his dungeon."

"Why did he do this?" said Conan.

"It seems he wanted them for sacrifices in some great rite of devilish magic!"

"What became of them?"

"At last accounts, they still awaited their doom, though that is three months since."

"How did you hear of it?"

"A woman of Paikang, who had been having a love affair with one of the Two Hundred, fled to Shaulun, and thence the tale came to us."

"Lord Kang," said Conan, "tell me about our palace. I shall need top>
find my way about it."

Kang Hsiu began drawing lines on the earthen floor of the hut. "You know that the usurper may have changed things since I dwelt therein.

But this is how they were in my day. Here stands the main gate; here rises the great hall¦"

Hours later, plans were made down to the last detail. Kang Hsiu rose and swung his goblet high, the amber liquid swirling in the smoky lamplight. He cried in a ringing voice: "To the future and honor of great Paikang, and may the head of the Snake soon be crushed under the boot of the Avenger!"

An answering shout went up, and Conan made a gesture and drank. His brain whirled with the realization that he was at last within reach of his goal.

Dust rose in choking clouds on the road that ran west from Paikang.

Hundreds of Khitans in blue and brown shuffled along it towards the city.

The sun gleamed whitely on the massive marble wall of Paikang. The waters of the moat reflected the white walls, the brown hills, and the blue sky, save where the wakes of a flock of swimming ducks disturbed its surface. Over the walls rose the pagodas of Paikang, their multiple roofs gleaming with glazed tiles of green, blue, and purple and glittering with gilded ornaments at the corners. Golden dragons and lions snarled down from the angles of the battlements surmounting the great gate.

The dusty lines of countryfolk streamed into the gate, afoot and on donkeyback. For once Yah Chieng's soldiers stood back, leaning on their bills and tridents and watching the throng without stopping each one for questioning, search, and extortion. Now and then the drab column was lightened by the brilliant costumes of the dancers. The lion dancers of Shaulun made an especially brave show. The gilded lion mask flashed in the sun, turning its bulging eyes and curling tongue this way and that. The man in the forequarters must have been of unusual stature, for the headpiece of the lion costume towered far above the heads of the Khitans.

Inside the city, the countryfolk poured along a winding avenue toward the palace. Conan, peering through the holes below the lion mask, sniffed the pungent smells of a Khitan city and pricked his ears at its sounds. At first it sounded like a meaningless din, though each horn, bell, whistle, and rattle was used by tradesmen of a particular kind to make themselves known.

Following the crowd, he came to another wall with a great gate standing open in it. The folk poured in. The column divided to flow around a jade screen of carven dragons, ten feet high and thrice as long, and joined again on the other side. They were in the courtyard of Yah Chieng's palace, formerly the seat of the Kang clan.

Pushing, shouting masses pressed against the tables where Yah Chieng's servants ladled out rice stew and rice wine. Many of the guests were already in a stimulated condition; the singsong talk of the crowd rose to a roar. Here a juggler tossed balls and hatchets; there a musician plucked a one-stringed lute and sang plaintive songs, though only those within a few feet of him could hear him.

Conan heard Leng Chi's voice in his ear: "Over this way. The dancing will soon begin. Be not so proficient as to win the prize. It would not forward our plans to have the judge demand that you doff your headpiece to receive it¦"

The long stone corridor was dark. Deathly silence reigned in its murky depths. Conan slunk stealthily forward like a jungle cat, avoiding the slightest sound, carrying his sword unsheathed. He was clad in a Khitan jacket and silken trousers, bought from a merchant in a border village.

As he had planned, so had things befallen. During the rising turmoil in the courtyard, nobody had noticed by the flickering torchlight that one of the lion dresses was now borne by only one carrier. Shadows and nooks had aided Conan's swift entry. Now he was on his way into the heart of the enemy's stronghold.

His senses were sharpened to the utmost. It was not the first time he had entered the abode of a hostile wizard. Memories of the ghastly things he had met on similar occasions thrust themselves upon his consciousness like attacking demons. All his life, the supernatural had been the one thing that could send tendrils of fear probing into his brain. But with iron self-possession, he shrugged off his atavistic fears and continued his catlike stalk.

The corridor branched. One stairway led up, the other down, hardly discernible in the all-pervading darkness. Conan chose the one leading downward. The plan of the castle was well-learned and locked in his brain.

Yo La-gu, one of Yah Chieng's Two Hundred, lolled on his bench in the dungeon beneath the citadel of Paikang. His temper was ruffled. Why should he of all men sit here, guarding these milksop western prisoners, while outside the feast was in progress and wine and love were to be had for the asking? A stupid idea of the wizard to keep people prisoner for years, preparing to use them up in some magical stunt, when a single raid on the countryside would' fetch as many Khitans in a week! Grumbling, he eased himself off the creaking settle to fetch more wine from his secret hoard. His armor rustled and clanked.

He reached the niche in the wall where he had secreted his bottles and stretched his hand towards it ”and that was his last conscious act. Ten steely fingers fastened on his windpipe, crushing his throat, until black unconsciousness swamped his brain, and he sank down in a heap.

Conan surveyed his handiwork with a grim smile. It was good to slay foes again! The old barbarian instincts boiled in his blood, and his lips writhed in the snarl of the hunting beast.

His kill had been so swift and silent that none of the sleeping occupants of the cells had stirred. Conan stooped and tore the bunch of keys from the dead jailor's belt. He tried several of them in the lock of the nearest cell.

At the soft metallic sound, a prisoner turned, shook his head, and opened his eyes. The imprecation on his lips was stifled as he beheld the strange figure at the grille. His astonishment grew as the bars swung inward. In a bound, he was on his feet. He checked his rush, for the light from the wall cresset glinted faintly on die blade in the stranger's right hand. A gesture from the giant cautioned him to silence, and another beckoned him to follow.

In the clear light, the eyes of the prisoner widened in surprise. Conan frowned, searching his memory. At last he said: "Lyco of Khorshemish!

Is it you?"

"Aye." Their brawny hands met in a firm grip. The prisoner continued: "By the breasts of Ishtar, Conan, I am struck to the core with astonishment! Are you here with an Aquilonian host to deal with the evil sorcerer, or have you flown on the back of an eagle?"

"Neither, Lyco," came the rumbling reply. "I am here to mete out justice to the yellow cur, true, but I counted on finding my army here.

I think I have done so. When we fought as mercenaries, yours was always among the readiest blades."

"Most of the prisoners here are true men and fighters," said the other.

"We long only to flesh our steel in those Khitan bravos."

"You will have your chance. Here are the keys to the dungeons; take them and free your men. The armory lies down this corridor; equip your followers with blades and strike! Strike to avenge your own suffering and to free the queen of Aquilonia!" He smiled grimly at Lyco's astounded expression. "Now you know why I'm here. You will find Khitan allies among the throng in the courtyard. Go swiftly."

He was gone again like a haunting phantom. Lyco began to waken his comrades, sending some to open the armory while others busied themselves at the locks of other cell doors.

"By Mitra," murmured Lyco, "the barbarian is a mad one! Traveling across the world to rescue a woman!" But admiration glowed in his eyes as he looked into the dark mouth of the corridor.

10. The Lair of the Sorcerer

-

A vast, high-ceilinged hall opened at the end of the dank stone corridor. Its square flagstones were covered with dust undisturbed by human feet but its aura of silence brooded menacingly. Its upper part was lost in darkness. Conan stalked warily over the vast floor toward the opening of another corridor, as if he expected any one of the flagstones to drop out from under him.

A noise like a thunderclap rang with booming crashes between the echoing walls, and a shrill wailing cry made Oman's blood run cold.

With a swish of mighty wings, an unearthly being swooped from the upper darkness. Like a stooping hawk it plummeted down towards Conan.

The barbarian flung himself aside barely in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws in the monster's paws. Then his sword swept in a glittering arc. The winged horror flopped away, howling. One arm, severed at the elbow, gushed dark, ill-smelling blood. With a horrible scream it again sprang towards the Cimmerian.

Conan stood his ground. He knew that his only chance lay in a sure thrust through the creature's vitals. Even partly dismembered, it had the strength to tear him, to pieces. It was, he was sure, the same thing that had borne off Zenobia long months before.

The monster spread its wings to soar as it sprang. At the last moment, Conan ducked the claws of the remaining hand and put all his strength into a ripping thrust. His blade tore into the black body, as the searching talons ripped the shirt from his back.

With a choking gasp, the monster fell. Oman braced his feet to drag his blade free, dripping with the creature's dark juices.

His hair was sweaty and tangled and his back was bloody from the clawing he had received. But a terrible fire burned unquenched in his eyes as he reached the mouth of the other corridor. Behind him, on the floor of the hall, the monster lay in a pool of brown, staring with sightless yellow eyes toward the darkness from which it had come.

The corridor into which Conan stepped was short and straight. In the distance he saw a door of stone. Cryptic signs of Khitan origin covered its surface. This must be the Tunnel of Death that led to Yah Chieng's private chambers. Beyond that door he would find his foe. Conan's eyes glowed ferally in the darkness, and his hand gripped his hilt with vengeful force.

Suddenly the darkness changed to bright illumination. Red licking flames arose from the floor in a hellish wall. Their writhing tongues reached up to the ceiling, and they burst toward Conan in hungry spouts of burning death. He could feel their terrible heat on his face and arms, and his clothes began to smolder. Sweat ran down his face. As he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a piece of metal rasped his skin.

The ring of Rakhamon again! He had forgotten it in his single-minded determination. Would it prove potent against the strength of the yellow wizard?

He swept his hand through the licking flames. A crash, like the beating of a thousand cymbals, reverberated in the corridor. The flames fell tinkling to the floor, like shards of glass. The rest of the fire was turned to marble It flamed, smoldered; a blue serpentine of smoke rose and swayed upward about Orastes in a slender spiral. And when it had risen above his shoulders it curled about his neck with a whipping suddenness like the stroke of a snake. Orastes' scream was choked to a gurgle. His hands flew to his neck, his eyes were distended, his tongue protruded. The smoke was like a blue rope about his neck; then it faded and was gone, and Orastes slumped to the floor a dead man.

Xaltotun smote his hands together and two men entered, men often observed accompanying himsmall, repulsively dark, with red, oblique eyes and pointed, rat-like teeth. They did not speak. Lifting the corpse, they bore it away.

Dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, Xaltotun seated himself at the ivory table about which sat the pale kings.

"Why are you in conclave?" he demanded.

"The Aquilonians have risen in the west," answered Amulric, recovering from the grisly jolt the death of Orastes had given him. "The fools believe that Conan is alive, and coming at the head of a Poitainian army to reclaim his kingdom. If he had reappeared immediately after Val-kia, or if a rumor had been circulated that he lived, the central provinces would not have risen under him, they feared your powers so.

But they have become so desperate under Valerius's misrule that they are ready to follow any man who can unite them against us, and prefer sudden death to torture and continual misery.

"Of course the tale has lingered stubbornly in the land that Conan was not really slain at Valkia, but not until recently have the masses accepted it. But Pallantides is back from exile in Ophir, swearing that the king was ill in his tent that day, and that a man-at-arms wore his harness, and a squire who but recently recovered from the stroke of a mace received at Valkia confirms his tale or pretends to.

"An old woman with a pet wolf has wandered up and down the land, proclaiming that King Conan yet lives, and will return some day to reclaim the crown. And of late the cursed priests of Asura sing the same song. They claim that word has come to them by some mysterious means that Conan is returning to reconquer his domain. I cannot catch either her or them. This is, of course, a trick of Trocero's. My spies tell me there is indisputable evidence that the Poitanians are gathering to invade Aquilonia. I believe that Trocero will bring forward some pretender who he will claim is King Conan."

Tarascus laughed, but there was no conviction in his laughter. He surreptitiously felt of a scar beneath his jupon, and remembered ravens that cawed on the trail of a fugitive; remembered the body of his squire, Arideus, brought back from the border mountains horribly mangled, by a great gray wolf, his terrified soldiers said. But he also remembered a red jewel stolen from a golden chest while a wizard slept, and he said nothing.

And Valerius remembered a dying nobleman who gasped out a tale of fear, and he remembered four Khitans who disappeared into the mazes of the south and never returned. But he held his tongue, for hatred and suspicion of his allies ate at him like a worm, and he desired nothing so much as to see both rebels and Nemedians go down locked in the death grip.

But Amalric exclaimed: "It is absurd to dream that Conan lives!"

For answer Xaltotun cast a roll of parchment on the table.

Amalric caught it up, glared at it. From his lips burst a furious, incoherent cry. He read:

To Xaltotun, grand fakir of Nemedia: Dog of Acheron, I am returning to my kingdom, and I mean to hang your hide on a bramble.

Conan.

"A forgery!" exclaimed Amalric.

Xaltotun shook his head.

"It is genuine. I have compared it with the signature on the royal documents on record in the libraries of the court. None could imitate that bold scrawl."

"Then if Conan lives," muttered Amalric, "this uprising will not be like the others, for he is the only man living who can unite the Aquilonians. But," he protested, "this is not like Conan. Why should he put us on our guard with his boasting? One would think that he would strike without warning, after the fashion of the barbarians."

"We are already warned," pointed out Xaltotun. "Our spies have told us of preparations for war in Poitain. He could not cross the mountains without our knowledge; so he sends me his defiance in characteristic manner."

"Why to you?" demanded Valerius. "Why not to me, or to Tarascus?"

Xaltotun turned his inscrutable gaze upon the king.

"Conan in wiser than you," he said at last. "He already knows what you kings have yet to learnthat it is not Tarascus, nor Valerius, no, nor Amalric, but Xaltotun who is the real master of the western nations."

They did not reply; they sat staring at him, assailed by a numbing realization of the truth of his assertion.

"There is no road for me but the imperial highway," said Xaltotun. "But first we must crush Conan. I do not know how he escaped me at Belverus, for knowledge of what happened while I lay in the slumber of the black lotus is denied me. But he is in the south, gathering an army. It is his last, desperate blow, made possible only by the desperation of the people who have suffered under Valerius. Let them rise; I hold them all in the palm of my hand. We will wait until he moves against us, and then we will crush him once and for all.

"Then we shall crush Poitain and Gunderland and the stupid Bossonians.

After them Ophir, Argos, Zingara, Kothall the nations of the world we shall weld into one vast empire. You shall rule as my satraps, and as my captains shall be greater than kings are now. I am unconquerable, for the Heart of Ahriman is hidden where no man can ever wield it against me again."

Tarascus averted his gaze, lest Xaltotun read his thoughts. He knew the wizard had not looked into the golden chest with its carven serpents that had seemed to sleep, since he laid the Heart therein. Strange as it seemed, Xaltotun did not know that the Heart had been stolen; the strange jewel was beyond or outside the ring of his dark wisdom; his uncanny talents did not warn him that the chest was empty. Tarascus did not believe that Xaltotun knew the full extent of Orastes' revelations, for the Pythonian had not mentioned the restoration of Acheron, but only the building of a new, earthly empire. Tarascus did not believe that Xaltotun was yet quite sure of his power; if they needed his aid in their ambitions, no less he needed theirs. Magic depended, to a certain extent after all, on sword strokes and lance thrusts. The king read meaning in Amalric's furtive glance; let the wizard use his arts to help them defeat their most dangerous enemy. Time enough then to turn against him. There might yet be a way to cheat this dark power they had raised.

XXI Drums of Peril

Confirmation of the war came when the army of Poitain, ten thousand strong, marched through the southern passes with waving banners and shimmer of steel. And at their head, the spies swore, rode a giant figure in black armor, with the royal lion of Aquilonia worked in gold upon the breast of his rich silken surcoat Conan lived! The king lived!

There was no doubt of it in men's minds now, whether friend or foe.

With the news of the invasion from the south there also came word, brought by hard-riding couriers, that a host of Gundermen was moving southward, reinforced by the barons of the northwest and the northern Bossonians. Tarascus marched with thirty-one thousand men to Galparan, on the river Shirki, which the Gundermen must cross to strike at the towns still held by the Nemedians. The Shirki was a swift, turbulent river rushing southwestward through rocky gorges and canyons, and there were few places where an army could cross at that time of the year, when the stream was almost bank-full with the melting of the snows. All the country east of the Shirki was in the hands of the Nemedians, and it was logical to assume that the Gundermen would attempt to cross either at Galparan, or at Tanasul, which lay to the south of Galparan.

Reinforcements were daily expected from Nemedia, until word came that the king of Ophir was making hostile demonstrations on Nemedia's southern border, and to spare any more troops would be to expose Nemedia to the risk of an invasion from the south.

Amalric and Valerius moved out from Tarantia with twenty-five thousand men, leaving as large a garrison as they dared to discourage revolts in the cities during their absence. They wished to meet and crush Conan before he could be joined by the rebellious forces of the kingdom.

The king and his Poitanians had crossed the mountains, but there had been no actual clash of arms, no attack on towns or fortresses. Conan had appeared and disappeared. Apparently he had turned westward through the wild, thinly settled hill country, and entered tie Bossonian marches, gathering recruits as he went. Amalric and Valerius with their host, Nemedians, Aquilonian renegades, and ferocious mercenaries, moved through the land in baffled wrath, looking for a foe which did not appear.

Amalric found it impossible to obtain more than vague general tidings about Conan's movements. Scouting-parties had a way of riding out and never returning, and it was not uncommon to find a spy crucified to an oak. The countryside was up and striking as peasants and countryfolk strikesavagely, murderously, and secretly. All that Amalric knew certainly was that a large force of Gundermen and northern Bossonians was somewhere to the north of him, beyond the Shirki, and that Conan with a smaller force of Poitanians and southern Bossonians was somewhere to the southwest of him.

He began to grow fearful that if he and Valerius advanced farther into the wild country, Conan might elude them entirely, march around them and invade the central provinces behind them. Amalric fell back from the Shirki valley and camped in a plain a day's ride from Tanasul.

There he waited. Tarascus maintained his position at Calparan, for he feared that Conan's maneuvers were intended to draw him southward, and so let the Gundermen into the kingdom at the northern crossing.

To Amalric's camp came Xaltotun in his chariot drawn by the uncanny horses that never tired, and he entered Amalric's tent where the baron conferred with Valerius over a map spread on an ivory camp table.

This map Xaltotun crumpled and flung aside.

"What your scouts cannot learn for you," quoth he, "my spies tell me, though their information is strangely blurred and imperfect, as if unseen forces were working against me.

"Conan is advancing along the Shirki river with ten thousand Poitanians, three thousand southern Bossonians, and barons of the west and south with their retainers to the number of five thousand. An army of thirty thousand Gundermen and northern Bossonians is pushing southward to join him. They have established contact by means of secret communications used by the cursed priests of Asura, who seem to be opposing me, and whom I will feed to a serpent when the battle is overI swear it by Set!

"Both armies are headed for the crossing at Tanasul, but I do not believe that the Gundermen will cross the river. I believe that Conan will cross, instead, and join them."

"Why should Conan cross the river?" demanded Amalric.

"Because it is to his advantage to delay the battle. The longer he waits, the stronger he will become, the more precarious our position.

The hills on the other side of the river swarm with people passionately loyal to his cause-broken men, refugees, fugitives from Valerius's cruelty. From all over the kingdom men are hurrying to join his army, singly and by companies. Daily, parties from our armies are ambushed and cut to pieces by the countryfolk. Revolt grows in the central provinces, and will soon burst into open rebellion. The garrisons we left there are not sufficient, and we can hope for no reinforcements from Nemedia for the time being. I see the hand of Pallantides in this brawling on the Ophirean frontier. He has kin in Ophir.

"If we do not catch and crush Conan quickly the provinces will be in a blaze of revolt behind us. We shall have to fall back to Tarantia to defend what we have taken; and we may have to fight our way through a country in rebellion, with Conan's whole force at our heels, and then stand siege in the city itself, with enemies within as well as without.

No, we cannot wait. We must crush Conan before his army grows too great, before the central provinces rise. With his head hanging above the gate at Tarantia you will see how quickly the rebellion will fall apart."

"Why do you not put a spell on his army to slay them all?" asked Valerius, half in mockery.

Xaltotun stared at the Aquilonian as if he read the full extent of the mocking madness that lurked in those wayward eyes.

"Do not worry," he said at last "My arts shall crush Conan finally like a lizard under the heel. But even sorcery is aided by pikes and swords."

"If he crosses the river and takes up his position in the Goralian hills he may be hard to dislodge," said Amalric. "But if we catch him in the valley on this side of the river we can wipe him out How far is Conan from Tanasul?"

"At the rate he is marching he should reach the crossing sometime tomorrow night His men are rugged and he is pushing them hard. He should arrive there at least a day before the Gundermen."

"Good!" Amalric smote the table with his clenched fist "I can reach Tanasul before he can. I'll send a rider to Tarascus, bidding him follow me to Tanasul. By the time he arrives I will have cut Conan off from the crossing and destroyed him. Then our combined force can cross the river and deal with the Gundermen."

Xaltotun shook his head impatiently.

"A good enough plan if you were dealing with anyone but Conan. But your twenty-five thousand men are not enough to destroy his eighteen thousand before the Gundermen come up. They will fight with the desperation of wounded panthers. And suppose the Gundermen come up while the hosts are locked in battle? You will be caught between two fires and destroyed before Tarascus can arrive. He will reach Tanasul too late to aid you."

"What, then?" demanded Amalric. "Move with your whole strength against Conan," answered the man from Acheron. "Send a rider bidding Tarascus join us here. We will await his coming. Then we will march together to Tanasul."

"But while we wait," protested Amalric, "Conan will cross the river and join the Gundermen."

"Conan will not cross the river," answered Xaltotun.

Amalric's head jerked up and he stared into the cryptic dark eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Suppose there were torrential rains far to the north, at the head of the Shirki? Suppose the river came down in such flood as to render the crossing at Tanasul impassable? Could we not then bring up our entire force at our leisure, catch Conan on this side of the river and crush him, and then, when the flood subsided, which I think it would do the next day, could we not cross the river and destroy the Gundermen? Thus we could use our full strength against each of these smaller forces in turn."

Valerius laughed as he always laughed at the prospect of the ruin of either friend or foe, and drew a restless hand jerkily through his unruly yellow locks. Amalric stared at the man from Acheron with mingled fear and admiration.

"If we caught Conan in Shirlu valley with the hill ridges to his right and the river in flood to his left," he admitted, "with our whole force we could annihilate him. Do you thinkare you suredo you believe such rains will fall?"

"I go to my tent," answered Xaltotun, rising. "Necromancy is not accomplished by the waving of a wand. Send a rider to Tarascus. And let none approach my tent."

That last command was unnecessary. No man in that host could have been bribed to approach that mysterious black silken pavilion, the door-flaps of which were always closely drawn. None but Xaltotun ever entered it, yet voices were often heard issuing from it; its walls billowed sometimes without a wind, and weird music came from it.

Sometimes, deep in midnight, its silken walls were lit red by flames flickering within, limning misshapen silhouettes that passed to and fro.

Lying in his own tent that night, Amalric heard the steady rumble of a drum in Xaltotun's tent; through the darkness it boomed steadily, and occasionally the Nemedian could have sworn that a deep, croaking voice mingled with the pulse of the drum. And he shuddered, for he knew that voice was not the voice of Xaltotun. The drum rustled and muttered on like deep thunder, heard afar off, and before dawn Amalric, glancing from his tent, caught the red flicker of lightning afar on the northern horizon. In all other parts of the sky the great stars blazed, whitely.

But the distant lightning flickered incessantly, like the crimson glint of firelight on a tiny, turning blade.

At sunset of the next day Tarascus came up with his host, dusty and weary from hard marching, the footmen straggling hours behind the horsemen. They camped in the plain near Amalric's camp, and at dawn the combined army moved westward.

Ahead of him roved a swarm of scouts, and Amalric waited impatiently for them to return and tell of the Poitanians trapped beside a furious flood. But when the scouts met the column it was with the news that Conan had crossed the river!

"What?" exclaimed Amalric. "Did he cross before the flood?"

"There was no flood," answered the scouts, puzzled. "Late last night he came up to Tanasul and flung his army across."

"No flood?" exclaimed Xaltotun, taken aback for the first time in Amalric's knowledge. "Impossible! There were mighty rains upon the headwaters of the Shirki last night and the night before that!"

"That may be, your lordship," answered the scout. "It is true the water was muddy, and the people of Tanasul said that the river rose perhaps a foot yesterday; but that was not enough to prevent Conan's crossing."

Xaltotun's sorcery had failed! The thought hammered in Amalric's brain.

His horror of this strange man out of the past had grown steadily since that night in Belverus when he had seen a brown, shriveled mummy swell and grow into a living man. And the death of Orastes had changed lurking horror into active fear. In his heart was a grisly conviction that the manor devilwas invincible. Yet now he had undeniable proof of his failure.

Yet even the greatest of necromancers might fail occasionally, thought the baron. At any rate, he dared not oppose the man from Acheronyet.

Orastes was dead, writhing in Mitra only knew what nameless hell, and Amalric knew his sword would scarcely prevail where the black wisdom of the renegade priest had failed. What grisly abomination Xaltotun plotted lay in the unpredictable future. Conan and his host were a present menace against which Xaltotun's wizardry might well be needed before the play was all played.

They came to Tanasul, a small fortified village at the spot where a reef of rocks made a natural bridge across the river, passable always except in times of greatest flood. Scouts brought in the news that Conan had taken up his position in the Goralian hills, which began to rise a few miles beyond the river. And just before sundown the Gundermen had arrived in his camp.

Amalric looked at Xaltotun, inscrutable and alien in the light of the flaring torches. Night had fallen.

"What now? Your magic has failed. Conan confronts us with an army nearly as strong as our own, and he has the advantage of position. We have a choice of two evils: to camp here and await his attack, or to fall back toward Tarantia and await reinforcements."

"We are ruined if we wait," answered Xaltotun. "Cross the river and camp on the plain. We will attack at dawn."

"But his position is too strong!" exclaimed Amalric.

"Fool!" A gust of passion broke the veneer of the wizard's calm. "Have you forgotten Valkia? Because some obscure elemental principle prevented the flood do you deem me helpless? I had intended that your spears should exterminate our enemies; but do not fear: it is my arts shall crush their host. Conan is in a trap. He will never see another sun set. Cross the river!"

They crossed by the flare of torches. The hoofs of the horses clinked on the rocky bridge, splashed through the shallows. The glint of the torches on shields and breastplates was reflected redly in the black water. The rock bridge was broad on which they crossed, but even so it was past midnight before the host was camped in the plain beyond. Above them they could see fires winking redly in the distance. Conan had turned at bay in the Goralian hills, which had more than once before served as the last stand of an Aquilonian king.

Amalric left his pavilion and strode restlessly through the camp. A weird glow flickered in Xaltotun's tent, and from time to time a demoniacal cry slashed the silence, and there was a low sinister muttering of a drum that rustled rather than rumbled.

Amalric, his instincts whetted by the night and the circumstances, felt that Xaltotun was opposed by core than physical force. Doubts of the wizard's power assailed him. He glanced at the fires high above him, and his face set in grim lines. He and his army were deep in the midst of a hostile country. Up there among those hills lurked thousands of wolfish figures out of whose hearts and souls all emotion and hope had been scourged except a frenzied hate for their conquerors, a mad lust for vengeance. Defeat meant annihilation, retreat through a land swarming with blood-mad enemies. And on the morrow he must hurl his host against the grimmest fighter in the western nations, and his desperate horde. If Xaltotun failed them now-

Half a dozen men-at-arms strode out of the shadows. The firelight glinted on their breastplates and helmet crests. Among them they half led, half dragged a gaunt figure in tattered rags.

Saluting, they spoke: "My lord, this man came to the outposts and said he desired word with King Valerius. He is an Aquilonian."

He looked more like a wolfa wolf the traps had scarred. Old sores that only fetters make showed on his wrists and ankles. A great brand, the mark of hot iron, disfigured his face. His eyes glared through the tangle of his matted hair as he half crouched before the baron.

"Who are you, you filthy dog?" demanded the Nemedian.

"Call me Tiberias," answered the man, and his teeth clicked in an involuntary spasm. "I have come to tell you how to trap Conan."

"A traitor, eh?" rumbled the baron.

"Men say you have gold," mouthed the man, shivering under his rags.

"Give some to me! Give me gold and I will show you how to defeat the king!" His eyes glazed widely, his outstretched, upturned hands were spread like quivering claws.

Amalric shrugged his shoulders in distaste. But no tool was too base for his use.

"If you speak the truth you shall have more gold than you can carry,"

he said. "If you are a liar and a spy I will have you crucified head-down. Bring him along."

In the tent of Valerius, the baron pointed to the man who crouched shivering before them, huddling his rags about him.

"He says he knows a way to aid us on the morrow. We will need aid, if Xaltotun's plan is no better than it has proved so far. Speak on, dog."

The man's body writhed in his strange convulsions. Words came in a stumbling rush:

"Conan camps at the head of the Valley of Lions. It is shaped like a fan, with steep hills on either side. If you attack him tomorrow you will have to march straight up the valley. You cannot climb the hills on either side. But if King Valerius will deign to accept my service, I will guide him through the hills and show him how he can come upon King Conan from behind. But if it is to be done at all, we must start soon.

Il is many hours' riding, for one must go miles to the west, then miles to the north, then turn eastward and so come into the Valley of Lions from behind, as the Gundermen came."

Amalric hesitated, tugging his chin. In these chaotic times it was not rare to find men willing to sell their souls for a few gold pieces.

"If yon lead me astray you will die," said Valerius. "You are aware of that, are you not?"

The man shivered, but his wide eyes did not waver.

"If I betray you, slay me!"

"Conan will not dare divide his force," mused Amalric. "He will need all his men to repel our attack. He cannot spare any to lay ambushes in the hills. Besides, this fellow knows his hide depends on his leading you as he promised. Would a dog like him sacrifice himself? Nonsense!

No, Valerius, I believe the man is honest."

"Or a greater thief than most, for he would sell his liberator,"

laughed Valerius. "Very well. I will follow the dog. How many men can you spare me?"

"Five thousand should be enough," answered Amalric. "A surprise attack on their rear will throw them into confusion, and that will be enough.

I shall expect your attack about noon."

"You will know when I strike," answered Valerius.

As Amalric returned to his pavilion he noted with gratification that Xaltotun was still in his tent, to judge from the blood-freezing cries that shuddered forth into the night air from time to time. When presently he heard the clink of steel and the jingle of bridles in the outer darkness, he smiled grimly. Valerius had about served his purpose. The baron knew that Conan was like a wounded lion that rends and tears even in his death-throes. When Valerius struck from the rear, the desperate strokes of the Cimmerian might well wipe his rival out of existence before he himself succumbed. So much the better. Amalric felt he could well dispense with Valerius, once he had paved the way for a Nemedian victory.

The five thousand horsemen who accompanied Valerius were hard-bitten Aquilonian renegades for the most part. In the still starlight they moved out of the sleeping camp, following the westward trend of the great black masses that rose against the stars ahead of them. Valerius rode at their head, and beside him rode Tiberias, a leather thong about his wrist gripped by a man-at-arms who rode on the other side of him.

Others kept close behind with drawn swords.

"Play us false and you die instantly," Valerius pointed out "I do not know every sheep-path in these hills, but I know enough about the general configuration of the country to know the directions we must take to come in behind the Valley of Lions. See that you do not lead us astray."

The man ducked his head and his teeth chattered as he volubly assured his captor of his loyalty, staring up stupidly at the banner that floated over him, the golden serpent of the old dynasty.

Skirting the extremities of the hills that blocked the Valley of Lions, they swung wide to the west. An hour's ride and they turned north, forging through wild and rugged hills, following dim bails and tortuous paths. Sunrise found them some miles northwest of Conan's position, and here the guide turned eastward and led them through a maze of labyrinths and crags. Valerius nodded, judging their position by various peaks thrusting up above the others. He had kept his bearings in a general way, and he knew they were still headed in the right direction.

But now, without warning, a gray fleecy mass came billowing down from the north, veiling the slopes, spreading out through the valleys. It blotted out the sun; the world became a blind gray void in which visibility was limited to a matter of yards. Advance became a stumbling groping muddle. Valerius cursed. He could no longer see the peaks that had served him as guide-posts. He must depend wholly upon the traitorous guide. The golden serpent drooped in the windless air.

Presently Tiberias seemed himself confused; he halted, stared about uncertainly.

"Are you lost, dog?" demanded Valerius harshly.

"Listen!"

Somewhere ahead of them a faint vibration began, the rhythmic rumble of a drum.

"Conan's drums!" exclaimed the Aquilonian.

"If we are close enough to hear the drum," said Valerius, "why do we not hear the shouts and the clang of arms? Surely battle has joined."

"The gorges and the winds play strange tricks," answered Tiberias, his teeth chattering with the ague that is frequently the lot of men who have spent much time in damp underground dungeons. "Listen!"

Faintly to their ears came a low muffled roar.

"They are fighting down in the valley!" cried Tiberias. "The drum is beating on the heights. Let us hasten!"

He rode straight on toward the sound of the distant drum as one who knows his ground at last. Valerius followed, cursing the fog. Then it occurred to him that it would mask his advance. Conan could not see him coming. He would be at the Cimmerian's back before the noonday sun dispelled the mists.

Just now he could not tell what lay on either hand, whether cliffs, thickets or gorges. The drum throbbed unceasingly, growing louder as they advanced, but they heard no more of the battle. Valerius had no idea toward what point of the compass they were headed. He started as he saw gray rock walls looming through the smoky drifts on either hand, and realized that they were riding through a narrow defile. But the guide showed no sign of nervousness, and Valerius hove a sigh of relief when the walls widened out and became invisible in the fog. They were through the defile; if an ambush had been planned, it would have been made in that pass.

But now Tiberias halted again. The drum was rumbling louder, and Valerius could not determine from what direction the sound was coming.

Now it seemed ahead of him, now behind, now on one hand or the other.

Valerius glared about him impatiently, sitting on his warhorse with wisps of mist curling about him and the moisture gleaming on his armor.

Behind him the long lines of steel-clad riders faded away and away like phantoms into the mist.

"Why do you tarry, dog?" he demanded.

The man seemed to be listening to the ghostly drum. Slowly he straightened in his saddle, turned his head and faced Valerius, and the smile on his lips was terrible to see.

"The fog is thinning, Valerius," he said in a new voice, pointing a bony finger. "Look!"

The drum was silent. The fog was fading away. First the crests of cliffs came in sight above the gray clouds, tall and spectral. Lower and lower crawled the mists, shrinking, fading. Valerius started up in his stirrups with a cry that the horsemen echoed behind him. On all sides of them the cliffs towered. They were not in a wide, open valley as he had supposed. They were in a blind gorge walled by sheer cliffs hundreds of feet high. The only entrance or exit was that narrow defile through which they had ridden.

"Dog!" Valerius struck Tiberas full in the mouth with his clenched mailed hand. "What devil's trick is this?"

Tiberias spat out a mouthful of blood and shook with fearful laughter.

"A trick that shall rid the world of a beast! Look, dog!"

Again Valerius cried out, more in fury than in fear.

The defile was blocked by a wild and terrible band of men who stood silent as imagesragged, shock-headed men with spears in their handshundreds of them. And up on the cliffs appeared other facesthousands of faceswild, gaunt, ferocious faces, marked by fire and steel and starvation.

"A trick of Conan's!" raged Valerius.

"Conan knows nothing of it," laughed Tiberias. "It was the plot of broken men, of men you ruined and turned to beasts. Amalric was right.

Conan has not divided his army. We are the rabble who followed him, the wolves who skulked in these hills, the homeless men, the hopeless men.

This was our plan, and the priests of Asura aided us with the mist.

Look at them, Valerius! Each bears the mark of your hand, on his body or on his heart!

"Look at me! You do not know me, do you, what of this scar your hangman burned upon me? Once you knew me. Once I was lord of Amilius, the man whose sons you murdered, whose daughter your mercenaries ravished and slew. You said I would not sacrifice myself to trap you? Almighty gods, if I had a thousand lives I would give them all to buy your doom!

"And I have bought it! Look on the men you broke, dead men who once played the king! Their hour has come! This gorge is your tomb, try to climb the cliffs: they are steep, they are high. Try to fight your way back through the defile: spears will block your path, boulders will crush you from above! Dog! I will be waiting for you in Hell!"

Throwing back his head he laughed until the rocks rang. Valerius leaned from his saddle and slashed down with his great sword, severing shoulder-bone and breast. Tiberias sank to the earth, still laughing ghastlily through a gurgle of gushing blood.

The drums had begun again, encircling the gorge with guttural thunder; boulders came crashing down; above the screams of dying men shrilled the arrows in blinding clouds from the cliffs.

XXII The Road to Acheron

Dawn was just whitening the east when Amalric drew up his hosts in the mouth of the Valley of Lions. This valley was flanked by low, rolling, but steep hills, and the floor pitched upward in a series of irregular natural terraces. On the uppermost of these terraces Conan's army held its position, awaiting the attack. The host that had joined him, marching down from Gunderland, had not been composed exclusively of spearmen. With them had come seven thousand Bossonian archers, and four thousand barons and their retainers of the north and west; swelling the ranks of his cavalry.

The pikemen were drawn up in a compact wedge-shaped formation at the narrow head of the valley. There were nineteen thousand of them, mostly Gundermen, though some four thousand were Aquilonians of the other provinces. They were flanked on either hand by five thousand Bossonian archers. Behind the ranks of the pikemen the knights sat their steeds motionless, lances raised: ten thousand knights of Poitain, nine thousand Aquilonians, barons and their retainers.

It was a strong position. His flanks could not be turned, for that would mean climbing the steep, wooded hills in the teeth of arrows and swords of the Bossonians. His camp lay directly behind him, in a narrow, steep-walled valley which was indeed merely a continuation of the Valley of lions, pitching up at a higher level. He did not fear a surprise from the rear, because the hills behind him were full of refugees and broken men whose loyalty to him was beyond question.

But if his position was hard to shake, it was equally hard to escape from. It was a trap as well as a fortress for the defenders, a desperate last stand of men who did not expect to survive unless they were victorious. The only line of retreat possible was through the narrow valley at their rear.

Xaltotun mounted a hill on the left side of the valley, near the wide mouth. This hill rose higher than the others, and was known as the King's Altar, for a reason long forgotten. Only Xaltotun knew, and his memory dated back three thousand years.

He was not alone. His two familiars, silent, hairy, furtive and dark, were with him, and they bore a young Aquilonian girl, bound hand and foot. They laid her on an ancient stone, which was curiously like an altar, and which crowned the summit of the hill. For long centuries it had stood there, worn by the element until many doubted that it was anything but a curiously shapen natural rock. But what it was, and why it stood there, Xaltotun remembered from of old. The familiars went away, with their bent backs like silent gnomes, and Xaltotun stood alone beside the stone altar, his dark beard blown in the wind, overlooking the valley.

He could see clear back to the winding Shirki, and up into the hills beyond the head of the valley. He could see the gleaming wedge of steel drawn up at the head of the terraces, the burganets of the archers glinting among the rocks and bushes, the silent knights motionless on their steeds, their pennons flowing above their helmets, their lances rising in a bristling thicket.

Looking in the other direction he could see the long serried lines of the Nemedians moving in ranks of shining steel into the mouth of the valley. Behind them the gay pavilions of the lords and knights and the drab tents of the common soldiers stretched back almost to the river.

like a river of molten steel the Nemedian host flowed into the valley, the great scarlet dragon rippling over it. First marched the bowmen, in even ranks, arbalests half raised, bolts nocked, fingers on triggers.

After them came the pikemen, and behind them the real strength of the armythe mounted knights, their banners unfurled to the wind, their lances lifted, walking their great steeds forward as if they rode to a banquet.

And higher up on the slopes the smaller Aquilonian host stood grimly silent.

There were thirty thousand Nemedian knights, and, as in most Hyborian nations, it was the chivalry which was the sword of the army. The footmen were used only to clear the way for a charge of the armored knights. There were twenty-one thousand of these, pikemen and archers.

The bowmen began loosing as they advanced, without breaking ranks, launching their quarrels with a whir and tang. But the bolts fell short or rattled harmlessly from the overlapping shields of the Gundermen.

And before the arbalesters could come within killing range, the arching shafts of the Bossonians were wreaking havoc in their ranks.

A little of this, a futile attempt at exchanging fire, and the Nemedian bowmen began falling back in disorder. Their armor was light, their weapons no match for the Bossonian longbows. The western archers were sheltered by bushes and rocks. Moreover, the Nemedian footmen lacked something of the morale of the horsemen, knowing as they did that they were being used merely to clear the way for the knights.

The crossbowmen fell back, and between their opening lines the pikemen advanced. These were largely mercenaries, and their masters had no compunction about sacrificing them. They were intended to mask the advance of the knights until the latter were within smiting distance.

So while the arbalesters plied their bolts from either flank at long range, the pikemen marched into the teeth of the blast from above, and behind them the knights came on.

When the pikemen began to falter beneath the savage hail of death that whistled down the slopes among them, a trumpet blew, their companies divided to right and left, and through them the mailed knights thundered.

They ran full into a cloud of stinging death. The cloth-yard shafts found every crevice in their armor and the housings of the steeds.

Horses scrambling up the grassy terraces reared and plunged backward, bearing their riders with them. Steel-clad forms littered the slopes.

The charge wavered and ebbed back.

Back down in the valley Amalric re-formed his ranks. Tarascus was fighting with drawn sword under the scarlet dragon, but it was the baron of Tor who commanded that day. Amalric swore as he glanced at the forest of lance-tips visible above and beyond the headpieces of the Gundermen. He had hoped his retirement would draw the knights out in a charge down the slopes after him, to be raked from either flank by his bowmen and swamped by the numbers of his horsemen. But they had not moved. Campservants brought skins of water from the river. Knights doffed their helmets and drenched their sweating heads. The wounded on the slopes screamed vainly for water. In the upper valley, springs supplied the defenders. They did not thirst that long, hot spring day.

On the King's Altar, beside the ancient, carven stone, Xaltotun watched the steel tide ebb and flow. On came the knights, with waving plumes and dipping lances. Through a whistling cloud of arrows they plowed to break like a thundering wave on the bristling wall of spears and shields. Axes rose and fell above the plumed helmets, spears thrust upward, bringing down horses and riders. The pride of the Gundermen was no less fierce than that of the knights. They were not spear-fodder, to be sacrificed for the glory of better men. They were the finest infantry in the world, with a tradition that made their morale unshakable. The kings of Aquilonia had long learned the worth of unbreakable infantry. They held their formation unshaken; over their gleaming ranks flowed the great lion banner, and at the tip of the wedge a giant figure in black armor roared and smote Like a hurricane, with a dripping ax that split steel and bone alike.

The Nemedians fought as gallantly as their traditions of high courage demanded. But they could not break the iron wedge, and from the wooded knolls on either hand arrows raked their close-packed ranks mercilessly. Their own bowmen were useless, their pikemen unable to climb the heights and come to grips with the Bossonians. Slowly, stubbornly, sullenly, the grim knights fell back, counting their empty saddles. Above them the Gundermen made no outcry of triumph. They closed their ranks, locking up the gaps made by the fallen. Sweat ran into their eyes from under their steel caps. They gripped their spears and waited, their fierce hearts swelling with pride that a king should fight on foot with them. Behind them the Aquilonian knights had not moved. They sat their steeds, grimly immobile.

A knight spurred a sweating hone up the hill called the King's Altar, and glared at Xaltotun with bitter eyes.

"Amalric bids me say that it is time to use your magic, wizard," he said. "We are dying like flies down there in the valley. We cannot break their ranks."

Xaltotun seemed to expand, to grow tall and awesome and terrible.

"Return to Amalric," he said. "Tell him to re-form his ranks for a charge, but to await my signal. Before that signal is given he will see a sight that he will remember until he lies dying!"

The knight saluted as if compelled against his will, and thundered down the hill at breakneck pace.

Xaltotun stood beside the dark altar-stone and stared across the valley, at the dead and wounded men on the terraces, at the grim, bloodstained band at the head of the slopes, at the dusty, steel-clad ranks re-forming in the vale below. He glanced up at the sky, and he glanced down at the slim white figure on the dark stone. And lifting a dagger inlaid with archaic hieroglyphs, he intoned an immemorial invocation:

"Set, god of darkness, scaly lord of the shadows, by the blood of a virgin and the sevenfold symbol I call to your sons below the black earth 1 Children of the deeps, below the red earth, under the black earth, awaken and shake your awful manes! Let the hills rock and the stones topple upon my enemies! Let the sky grow dark above them, the earth unstable beneath their feet! Let a wind from the deep black earth curl up beneath their feet, and blacken and shrivel them”"

He halted short, dagger lifted. In the tense silence the roar of the hosts rose beneath him, borne on the wind.

On the other side of the altar stood a man in a black hooded robe, whose coif shadowed pale delicate features and dark eyes calm and meditative.

"Dog of Asura!" whispered Xaltotun, and his voice was like the hiss of an angered serpent. "Are you mad, that you seek your doom? Ho, Baal!

Chiron!"

"Call again, dog of Acheron!" said the other, and laughed. "Summon them loudly. They will not heal, unless your shouts reverberate in Hell."

From a thicket on the edge of the crest came a somber old woman in peasant garb, her hair flowing over her shoulders, a great gray wolf following at her heels.

"Witch, priest, and wolf," muttered Xaltotun grimly, and laughed.

"Fools, to pit your charlatan's mummery against my arts! With a wave of my hand I brush you from my path!"

"Your arts are straws in the wind, dog of Python," answered the Asurian. "Have you wondered why the Shirki did not come down in flood and trap Conan on the other bank? When I saw the lightning in the night I guessed your plan, and my spells dispersed the clouds you had summoned before they could empty their torrents. You did not even know that your rain-making wizardry had failed."

"You lie!" cried Xaltotun, but the confidence in his voice was shaken.

"I have felt the impact of a powerful sorcery against minebut no man on earth could undo the rain-magic, once made, unless he possessed the very heart of sorcery."

"But the flood you plotted did not come to pass," answered the priest "Look at your allies in the valley, Pythonian! You have led them to the slaughter! They are caught in the fangs of the trap, and you cannot aid them. Look!"

He pointed. Out of the narrow gorge of the upper valley, behind the Poitainians, a horseman came flying, whirling something about his head that flashed in the sun. Recklessly he hurtled down the slopes, through the ranks of the Gundermen, who sent up a deep-throated roar and clashed their spears and shields like thunder in the hills. On the terraces between the hosts the sweat-soaked horse reared and plunged, and his wild rider yelled and brandished the thing in his hands like one demented. It was the torn remnant of a scarlet banner, and the sun struck dazzlingly on the golden scales of a serpent that writhed thereon.

"Valerius is dead!" cried Hadrathus ringingly. "A fog and a drum lured him to his doom! I gathered that fog, dog of Python, and I dispersed it! I, with my magic which is greater than your magic!"

"What matters it?" roared Xaltotun, a terrible sight, his eyes blazing, his features convulsed. "Valerius was a fool. I do not need him. I can crush Conan without human aid!"

"Why have you delayed?" mocked Hadrathus. "Why have you allowed so many of your allies to fall pierced by arrows and spitted on spears?"

"Because blood aids great sorcery!" thundered Xaltotun, in a voice that made the rocks quiver. A lurid nimbus played about his awful head.

"Because no wizard wastes his strength thoughtlessly. Because I would conserve my powers for the great days to be, rather than employ them in a hill-country brawl. But now, by Set, I shall loose them to the uttermost! Watch, dog of Asura, false priest of an outworn god, and see a sight that shall blast your reason for evermore!"

Hadrathus threw back his head and laughed, and hell was in his laughter.

"Look, black devil of Python!"

His hand came from under his robe holding something that flamed and burned in the sun, changing the light to a pulsing golden glow in which the flesh of Xaltotun looked like the flesh of a corpse.

Xaltotun cried out as if he had been stabbed.

"The Heart! The Heart of Ahriman!"

"Aye! The one power that is greater than your power!"

Xaltotun seemed to shrivel, to grow old. Suddenly his beard was shot with snow, his locks flecked with gray.

"The Heart!" he mumbled. "You stole it! Dog! Thief!"

"Not I! It has been on a long journey far to the southward. But now it is in my hands, and your black arts cannot stand against it. As it resurrected you, so shall it hurl you back into the night whence it drew you. You shall go down the dark road to Acheron, which is the road of silence and the night The dark empire, unreborn, shall remain a legend and a black memory. Conan shall reign again. And the Heart of Ahriman shall go back into the cavern below the temple of Mitra, to bum as a symbol of the power of Aquilonia for a thousand years!"

Xaltotun screamed inhumanly and rushed around the altar, dagger lifted; but from somewhereout of the sky, perhaps, or the great jewel that blazed in the hand of Hadrathusshot a jetting beam of blinding blue light Full against the breast of Xaltotun it flashed, and the hills reechoed the concussion. The wizard of Acheron went down as though struck by a thunderbolt, and before he touched the ground he was fearfully altered. Beside the altar-stone lay no fresh-slain corpse, but a shriveled mummy, a brown, dry, unrecognizable carcass sprawling among moldering swathings.

Somberly old Zelata looked down.

"He was not a living man," she said. "The Heart lent him a false aspect of life, that deceived even himself. I never saw him as other than a mummy."

Hadrathus bent to unbind the swooning girl on the altar, when from among the trees appeared a strange apparitionXaltotun's chariot drawn by the weird horses. Gently they advanced to the altar and halted, with the chariot wheel almost touching the brown withered thing on the grass. Hadrathus lifted the body of the wizard and placed it in the chariot. And without hesitation the uncanny steeds turned and moved off southward, down the hill. And Hadrathus and Zelata and the gray wolf watched them godown the long road to Acheron which is beyond the ken of men.

Down in the valley, Amalric had stiffened in his saddle when he saw that wild horseman curvetting and caracoling on the slopes while he brandished that bloodstained serpent-banner. Then some instinct jerked his head about, toward the hill known as the King's Altar. And his lips parted. Every man in the valley saw itan arching shaft of dazzling light that towered up from the summit of the hill, showering golden fire. High above the hosts it burst in a blinding blaze that momentarily paled the sun.

"That's not Xaltotun's signal!" roared the baron.

"No!" shouted Tarascus. "It's a signal to the Aquilonians! Look!"

Above them the immobile ranks were moving at last, and a deep-throated roar thundered across the vale.

"Xaltotun has failed us!" bellowed Amalric furiously. "Valerius has failed us! We have been led into a trap! Mitra's curse on Xaltotun who led us here! Sound the retreat!"

"Too late! yelled Tarascus. "Look!"

Up on the slopes the forest of lances dipped, leveled. The ranks of the Gundermen rolled back to right and left like a parting curtain. And with a thunder like the rising roar of a hurricane, the knights of Aquilonia crashed down the slopes.

The impetus of that charge was irresistible. Bolts driven by the demoralized arbalesters glanced from their shields, their bent helmets.

Their plumes and pennons streaming out behind them, their lances lowered, they swept over the wavering lines of pikemen and roared down the slopes like a wave.

Amalric yelled an order to charge, and the Nemedians with desperate courage spurred their horses at the slopes. They still outnumbered the attackers.

But they were weary men on tired horses, charging uphill. The onrushing knights had not struck a blow that day. Their horses were fresh. They were coming downhill and they came like a thunderbolt. And like a thunderbolt they smote the struggling ranks of the Nemedians smote them, split them apart, ripped them asunder, and dashed the remnants headlong down the slopes.

After them on foot came the Gundermen, blood-mad, and the Bossonians were swarming down the hills, loosing as they ran at every foe that still moved.

Down the slopes washed the tide of battle, the dazed Nemedians swept on the crest of the wave. Their archers had thrown down their arbalests and were fleeing. Such pikemen as had survived the blasting charge of the knights were cut to pieces by the ruthless Gundermen.

In a wild confusion the battle swept through the wide mouth of the valley and into the plain beyond. All over the plain swarmed the warriors, fleeing and pursuing, broken into single combat and clumps of smiting, hacking knights on rearing, wheeling horses. But the Nemedians were smashed, broken, unable to re-form or make a stand. By the hundreds they broke away, spurring for the river. Many reached it, rushed across and rode eastward. The countryside was up behind them; the people hunted them like wolves. Few ever reached Tarantia.

The final break did not come until the fall of Amalric. The baron, striving in vain to rally his men, rode straight at the clump of knights that followed the giant in black armor whose surcoat bore the royal lion, and over whose head floated the golden lion banner with the scarlet leopard of Poitain beside it. A tall warrior in gleaming armor couched his lance and charged to meet the lord of Tor. They met like a thunderclap. The Nemedian's lance, striking his foe's helmet, snapped bolts and rivets and tore off the casque, revealing the features of Pallantides. But the Aquilonian's lance-head crashed through shield and breastplate to transfix the baron's heart.

A roar went up as Amalric was hurled from his saddle, snapping the lance that impaled him, and the Nemedians gave way as a barrier bursts under the surging impact of a tidal wave. They rode for the river in a blind stampede that swept the plain like a whirlwind. The hour of the Dragon had passed.

Tarascus did not flee. Amalric was dead, the color-bearer slain, and the royal Nemedian banner trampled in the blood and dust. Most of his knights were fleeing and the Aquilonians were riding them down; Tarascus knew the day was lost, but with a handful of faithful followers he raged through the melee, conscious of but one desire ”to meet Conan, the Cimmerian. And at last he met him.

Formations had been destroyed utterly, close-knit bands broken asunder and swept apart. The crest of Trocero gleamed in one part of the plain, those of Prospero and Pallantides in others. Conan was alone. The house-troops of Tarascus had fallen one by one. The two longs met man to man.

Even as they rode at each other, the horse of Tarascus sobbed and sank under him. Conan leaped from his own steed and ran at him, as the king of Nemedia disengaged himself and rose. Steel flashed blindingly in the sun, clashed loudly, and blue sparks flew; then a clang of armor as Tarascus measured his full length on the earth beneath a thunderous stroke of Conan's broadsword.

The Cimmerian placed a mail-shod foot on his enemy's breast, and lifted his sword. His helmet was gone; he shook back his black mane and his blue eyes blazed with their old fire.

"Do you yield?"

"Will you give me quarter?" demanded the Nemedian.

"Aye. Better than you'd have given me, you dog. Life for you and all your men who throw down their arms. Though I ought to split your head for an infernal thief," the Cimmerian added.

Tarascus twisted his neck and glared over the plain. The remnants of the Nemedian host were flying across the stone bridge with swarms of victorious Aquilonians at their heels, smiting with the fury of glutted vengeance. Bossonians and Gundermen were swarming through the camp of their enemies, tearing the tents to pieces in search of plunder, seizing prisoners, ripping open the baggage and upsetting the wagons.

Tarascus cursed fervently, and then shrugged his shoulders, as well as he could, under the circumstances.

"Very well. I have no choice. What are your demands?"

"Surrender to me all your present holdings in Aquilonia. Order your garrisons to march out of the castles and towns they hold, without their arms, and get your infernal armies out of Aquilonia as quickly as possible. In addition you shall return all Aquilonians sold as slaves, and pay an indemnity to be designated later, when the damage your occupation of the country has caused has been properly estimated. You will remain as hostage until these terms have been carried out."

"Very well," surrendered Tarascus. "I will surrender all the castles and towns now held by my garrisons without resistance, and all the other things shall be done. What ransom for my body?"

Conan laughed and removed his foot from his foe's steel-clad breast, grasped his shoulder and heaved him to his feet. He started to speak, then turned to see Hadrathus approaching him. The priest was as calm and self-possessed as ever, picking his way between rows of dead men and horses.

Conan wiped the sweat-smeared dust from his face with a bloodstained hand. He had fought all through the day, first on foot with the pikemen, then in the saddle, leading the charge. His surcoat was gone, his armor splashed with blood and battered with strokes of sword, mace and ax. He loomed gigantically against a background of blood and slaughter, like some grim pagan hero of mythology.

"Well done, Hadrathus!" quoth he gustily. "By Crom, I am glad to see your signal! My knights were almost mad with impatience and eating their hearts out to be at sword-strokes. I could not have held them much longer. What of the wizard?"

"He has gone down the dim road to Acheron," answered Hadrathus. "And I am for Tarantia. My work is done here, and I have a task to perform at the temple of Mitra. All our work is done here. On this field we have saved Aquiloniaand more than Aquilonia. Your ride to your capital will be a triumphal procession through a kingdom mad with joy. All Aquilonia will be cheering the return of their king. And so, until we meet again in the great royal hallfarewell!"

Conan stood silently watching the priest as he went. From various parts of the field knights were hurrying toward him. He saw Pallantides, Trocero, Prospero, Servius Galannus, their armor splashed with crimson.

The thunder of battle was giving way to a roar of triumph and acclaim.

All eyes, hot with strife and shining with exultation, were turned toward the great black figure of the king; mailed arms brandished red-stained swords. A confused torrent of sound rose, deep and thunderous as the sea-surf: "Hail, Conan, king of Aquilonia!"

Tarascus spoke.

"You have not yet named my ransom."

Conan laughed and slapped his sword home in its scabbard. He flexed his mighty arms, and ran his bloodstained fingers through his thick black locks, as if feeling there his re-won crown.

"There is a girl in your seraglio named Zenobia."

"Why, yes, so there is."

"Very well." The king smiled as at an exceedingly pleasant memory. "She shall be your ransom, and naught else. I will come to Belverus for her as I promised. She was a slave in Nemedia, but I will make her queen of Aquilonia!"

Conan of the Isles

CHAPTER ONE

RED SHADOWS

From gulfs profound wherein yet dwell age-old,
forgotten, nameless things, The Shadows came on silent wings as crimson as the heart of Hell.

-- The Visions of Epemitreus

King Conan sat on the judgment throne in the Hall of Justice in his palace at Tarantia, the royal capital of Aquilonia. Beyond windows of stained glass, blue skies curved over green gardens bright and fragrant with blossoms. And beyond the gardens, square towers of white stone thrust into the sky, and domes of green copper, and the shapes of houses, temples, and palaces roofed with red tiles. For this was the most princely city of the world's West in these ancient days of the Hyborian Age.

And beyond the gardens, too, the well-scrubbed streets of Tarantia swarmed with traffic; men and women afoot, on the backs of horses, mules, and asses, in litters and chariots and oxcarts and carriages. Along the waterfront, river boats plied the Khorotas like swarms of water insects. For two decades of the firm but tolerant rule of Conan the Great had made Aquilonia not only the most powerful but also the most prosperous land which that dawn world had ever seen.

Within the pillared hall richly clad nobles, silken courtiers, and. stout burghers in plain cloth, with the medallions of the guilds on silver chains about their necks, stood in clusters while the king dispensed justice. Since the docket carried some cases of exceptional importance, half the high-born of Aquilonia were here. They included young Gonzalvio, Viscount of Poitain, and his father, old Trocero, slim and elegant as ever in scarlet velvet, with the golden leopard of his province broidered in stiff, silver-gilt wire on the breast of his jupon. Here, too, were Count Monargo of Couthen, Baron Guilaime of Imirus. and -a lean, snowy-bearded ancient - the wise and learned Dexitheus, snowy-bearded ancient - the wise and learned Dexitheus, Archpriest of Mitra.

Grim-faced warriors of the king's black-mailed legions stood at arched door and portico, the sunlight flashing from their dragon-crested helms and glittering spear points. All eyes were fixed upon the central dais, where two thrones loomed above the throng; and upon the fat, bejeweled merchant who stood, fidgeting nervously, as his advocate in robes of dusty black glibly argued on his behalf before the taller of the two thrones.

On the throne, Conan glowered down upon the quivering litigant. From the depths of his soul he loathed these tiresome, wordy, labyrinthine tax cases, with their plausible lies and their mathematical calculations of skull-cracking complexity. How he would have liked to hurl his crown at the fat face of the greedy fool before him, stride from the hall, clamp his legs about a stallion's barrel, and ride off for a day's hunting in the forests of the North!

A pox upon this business of kinging it! he thought. It drained every last drop of juice from a man's tissues, leaving him a querulous old hairsplitter without enough red blood in his veins to swing a broadsword. Surely, after twenty weary years of wearing the crown, a man was entitled to throw over honors and titles and set out toward dim horizons for one last, gore-spattered adventure before Time's all-felling, implacable scythe cut him down ...

Conan stole a glance at the second throne, whereon sat his son, Prince Conn, the heir of Aquilonia. The lad was twenty - old enough, surely, to take the throne of the mightiest kingdom of the West. With a slight smile on his grim lips, the old king studied the bored, mutinous glower of dissatisfaction on the face of young Conn. Doubtless the lad was also dreaming of flinging off these stifling robes of state and riding off for a day's hunting, or perhaps a night of wenching in waterfront dives. Remembering his own hard-drinking, hot-blooded youth, Conan chuckled.

In truth, Prince Conn was the very image of his sire in his younger days: the same scowling black brows over deep-set eyes of volcanic blue; the same swart, square-jawed face, framed by a square-cut mane of straight, coarse black hair; the same burly blacksmith's body, sheathed in massive muscles that bulged the silks and velvets at tne broad shoulders and deep-arched chest; the same long, steel-thewed legs. Scarce out of his teens, the son of Conan towered head and shoulders over most of the men in the hall, save only his titanic sire, the greatest warrior the world had ever known.

As for King Conan, even that mightiest of champions, Time, had not yet broken him. True, sixty-odd years had strewn abundant silver in the thick, black mane and the stiff, grizzled beard, cut short and square, that now clothed his grim lips and iron jaw. Some flesh had fallen from his mighty frame, leaving him gaunt as a savage gray wolf of the northern steppes. And Time's cold hand had etched deep grooves in his somber brow and scarred cheeks.

But still unquenchable vitality surged within his titanic form. Hot flames of leashed fury smouldered in his eyes. And Time's palsying grip had sapped but little of the strength from his viselike hands - now wrinkled and corded - and his supple sinews and massive thews.

He sat on the silver throne is if he bestrode some deep-chested war stallion on the foughten field. One massive hand gripped the black-and-silver mace of justice as if it were an iron-spiked battle mace that he would heave up at any moment to strike down a foe. And the rich robes, crusted with gems and hung with golden medallions and chains, which clothed his lean but mighty form., bore somehow the look of battle harness. For wherever he went - in mirthful banquet hall, in quiet library of ancient, dusty tones, or in silken boudoir - this somber barbarian from the cloud-cloaked wastes of northern Cimmeria carried with him the grim, dangerous atmosphere of the battlefield.

It had been more than a score of years now since a trick of Fate, a whim of the gods, or perhaps his own indomitable will had lifted this black-browed outlander from the ranks of nameless adventurers to a glittering place among the great ones of the world as lord of the richest and most powerful kingdom of the West. Since that night, nearly half a century before, when as a ragged, wild-eyed youth, whirling a length of broken chain, he had fought his way out of a Hyborian slave pen and set forth barehanded on the road that leads but a chosen few to the ultimate heights of power and glory, Conan of Cimmeria had brawled and battled his way across half a world, cutting a red path through a dozen kingdoms from the thundering beaches of the Western Ocean to the misty vales of fabulous Khitai.

As thief, pirate, mercenary, adventurer, chief of barbarous tribes, and general in the armies of kings, he had ventured far and known all that the world afforded of adventure and marvel. With his irresistible sword, the mighty Cimmerian had fought demons, dragons, and shambling horrors of the Elder Dark. A thousand foes had felt the bitter kiss of his whirling blade - bronze-mailed warriors, malevolent wizards, fierce barbarian chieftains, and haughty kings. Even the eternal gods had sometimes fled the fury of his slashing brand.

But the adventure that started here, in the royal Hall of Justice in Tarantia, on this warm spring day, eight thousand years after the fall of Atlantis and seven thousand years before the rise of Egypt and Sumeria, was to be the strangest and most fantastic of all the many that thronged his far-famed and peril-filled career.

It began suddenly and unexpectedly.

One moment, Conan was frowning down upon the fat merchant and his glib, gesticulating advocate. The next, he raised a puzzled glance across the hall to where the elegant figure of his trusted old friend, Count Trocero of Poitain staggered across the polished floor.

'No, no! By all the scarlet fiends of Hell!'

The old nobleman's hoarse voices lifted in harsh tones of terror and despair, broke into the advocate's voluble pleadings. Startled eyes flashed to this stiff-legged, reeling figure. Eyebrows rose. Could it be that the old Count of Poitain had come into the Hall of Justice drunk'?

One look at the stark fear in Trocero's bloodless face banished that idea. Globules of cold sweat glistened on his white features, and his pallid lips worked as if in some inward agony. Black circles ringed his staring eyes.

'Trocero!' barked Conan. 'Are you unwell? What is it, man?'

The king half rose as his oldest friend and closest supporter reeled across the polished marble pave, arms thrust out as if to ward off some unseen attacker. The hall fell silent. Trocero's stalwart son started from the throng, one hand extended to support his sire. In the center of the hall, Trocero halted and stood on trembling limbs, crying: 'Nay, I say! I cannot - you dare not! Oh, Ishtar and Mitra! Mit--' His voice rose to a'screech of anguish.

And then Terror struck.

From the groined and vaulted ceiling above the corners of the spacious hall, shadows flew - shadows as pale and insubstantial as wisps of gauze, dimly red. Shadows of -Terror.

In the blink of an eye, they swarmed about the elderly Poitanian's tottering figure. Dimly through rubescent veils, the others in the hall could glimpse his white, frozen features, fixed in a grimace of torment. It was as if a horde of ghostly vampire bats had swooped to cling about the unwary traveler.

For a long, frozen moment, the red shadows enveloped their victim in rosy veils. Then they and he were gone.

The hall was a motionless tableau. Disbelief was stamped on every face. The old count of Poitain, who for a quarter-century had stood by Conan's throne and fought his wars, had vanished into thin air.

'Father! My Lord--' stammered young Gonzalvio into the ringing silence.

'By Crom's iron heart!' bellowed Conan. 'Black sorcery in my own court? I'll have the head of him who wrought this mischief! Ho, guard I Curse you for a gaping fool - sound the alarm!'

Conan's roar of rage shattered the fragile silence. Women shrieked and swooned. Men swore} rubbed their eyes, and stared blankly at the place where the greatest peer of Aquilonia had stood. Above the babble rose the brazen scream of the war horns. Drums thundered, and the grim-faced warriors of Conan's Black Dragons pushed through the milling confusion, swords in hand, to defend the Lion Banner of Aquilonia, which hung like a canopy over the dais, and the rulers beneath it. But there was no foe to smite: no sly assassin, no skulking spy - or at least none visible.

On the dais, surrounded by his mailed warriors, King Conan searched the hall with the fierce, unwinking gaze of some kingly lion of the veldt. Deep within him, pain lanced his secret heart and a poignant sense of loss assailed him. Trocero of Poitain had been the first to urge Conan's name as leader of the revolt against the degenerate King Numedides. He had led a voyage to the distant shores of Pictland to fetch back the former general of the armies of Aquilonia, then a fugitive from the murderous jealousy of Numedides.

Soon, Conan had ridden out of Zingara at the head of a handful of gallant warriors. Gathering partisans as he moved, he had cut like a red sword through the countryside of Aquilonia to the gates of tower-crowned Tarantia and then to the very steps of the throne. There he had throttled the depraved Numedides with his own hands and set the crown upon his own black head. Deep within him, Conan mourned the loss of his oldest and most trusted friend, the first victim of the Terror...

In the next halfmonth, the Terror struck again and again, until seven hundred citizens of Aquilonia - peer and porter, countess and courtezan, baron and beggar, priest and peasant - had vanished into the weird embrace of the red shadows.

CHAPTER TWO

THE BLACK HEART OF GOLAMIRA

Whilst age on age went rolling past beyond
my phoenix-guarded tomb,

In silent halls of somber gloom I slept,
but now I wake at last.

- The Visions of Epemitreus

Alone and closely guarded in the great, gold-domed chamber of his palace, Conan slept. It was a haunted, restless slumber, for all that he had not slept a single hour in the last three days and nights while he struggled to cope with the weird plague that gripped his kingdom. Through desperate days and nights of endless council, he had sought the advice of the wisest men of the kingdom - hoary sages and learned doctors. He had asked the prayers of the priests of Mitra and Ishtar and Asura. He had listened to the tales of spies and studied the reports of police agents. He had solicited the spells and divinations of wizards and occultists - all in vain.

Now exhaustion had sapped even his iron vigor. The gray, gaunt old wolf lay sprawled in chain mail upon the silken coverlets, his great broadsword near his hand, in a drugged but restless slumber.

And in this sleep, he dreamed.

It seemed to Conan that he heard a distant voice. The echoing call was loud enough to rouse him but so fogged and unclear that he could not understand the repeated phrase that whispered eerily through his chamber.

He came to his feet, saw that his mighty limbs were bare, and knew that it was but a dream. Looking back, he saw his own body lying deep in slumber. As the deep chest rose and fell, mail glinted like silver in the moonlight that shone through the tall, narrow windows.

Again came that distant, murmuring call, and the note of urgency rang within it. And in a fashion he could never quite remember afterwards, the old king went forward from the moonlit darkness of his chamber, through barriers of space and time, until swirling mists as gray as his own grizzled beard closed about him, blotting everything from sight. Yet still he advanced, in some form of progress unlike the ways of the material world he had left behind -forward, through grayness that obscured his vision like the clammy embrace of a night-born fog.

Out of the shifting mists came, again and again, that haunting call that had summoned his spirit forth from its mansion of flesh and into this world of eery darkness.and phantom mists. Gradually the call of the voice, repeated over and over, became clearer: 'Conan of Cimmeria -Conan of Aquilonia! - Conan of the Isles!'

Yes, he could hear it distinctly now. But he was puzzled: what meant the name 'Conan of the Isles'? Never had this term been linked with his name in all the wide-ranging years of his wanderings.

Now he came to where he could stand on a solid footing. And it seemed, in his dream, that the gray fog cleared away. A dim, unearthly light struck through the blur of vapor. Now he stood in a hall of titanic proportions, whose ebon walls and lofty, vaulted roof seemed carved from the dead-black stuff of Old Night itself. The faint, mystic radiance seemed to shine from the very walls themselves, whereon he could dimly discern colossal carvings., which stretched from the floor to the arched ceiling far above.

Every inch of the black walls was cut and worked into a stupendous pageant of tiny figures - a vast, sweeping panorama peopled with millions of struggling, warring men. Peering closer, he marveled vaguely at the strangeness of their raiment and weaponry, derived from distant realms and remote aeons.

It was like a titanic tapestry of cold stone, a bird's-eye view of the history of man himself, from the forgotten days before the Cataclysm, when Atlantis and Lemuria, Valusia and old Grondar strove for the mastery of the earth; and even earlier, when the stooped and hairy ancestors of men slouched through the jungle, and black-winged Ka, the Bird of Creation, first flew out of the unknown East to lay the foundations of Time.

Above this straggling pageant of ancient kings and heroes loomed other shapes as well - malformed, uncouth, and terrible. In his soul, Conan knew them for the Nameless Old Ones, who had ruled the star-thronged universe a billion aeons before the birth of Gayomar the First of All Men.

Then Conan knew that he walked through a timeless dream, wherein his spirit had been summoned by an ancient Force which guarded and watched over the race of man. With an inward queasiness natural to his blunt, barbaric soul, he knew that the foot of mortal man had not stirred the impalpable dust that filmed this ebon floor . for ages beyond reckoning. Aye, he knew all this and more, for once in earlier years he had stood upon this very spot and passed down the yawning black throat of this colossal hall in a strange, magical dream.

More than a score of years had passed since that distant day, but what are the ephemeral generations of mortal men to him who sleeps forever in the black halls of timeless Golamira, the Mount of Eternal Time?

Conan came upon a broad, curving stair, which rose in steep ramps of black stone to unguessable heights. Here, the clifflike walls were adorned with cryptic symbols in some esoteric script, so ancient and so suggestive that they woke within him vestigial memories inherited from ancestors scarce risen above the primal, shambling beast-men of Time's dawn. And at the stir of these racial memories of Elder Time, the skin seemed to crawl on his naked flanks. He hastily averted his eyes from these enigmatic glyphs.

As he went up the mighty stair, he saw that every step was carven with the writhing coils of that abhorrent form of nightmare, Set the Old Serpent, eternal and malignant Demon of Darkness, in such a manner that with every stride he set his heel upon the blunt, questing serpent-head that lifted from the fluid, scaly neck. This the unknown builders had meant the wayfarer to do, in symbolic refutation of the forces of blind, evil chaos. Step by step, Conan mounted the curving stair.

At last he saw the tomb itself, hewn from one massive, glittering crystal that he could not name. If it were diamond - as in truth it seemed - then the gem whence the tomb was wrought had been vast beyond calculation. The cold crystal glittered with a thousand points of restless light, like a multitude of captive stars.

To either side, in the silent gloom of the nighted crypt, rose the terrible forms of two stupendous phoenixes, clawed and beaked, with wings outspread as if to shelter beneath their stony pinions him who slept within the diamond sepulcher.

From the ebon gloom emerged a titanic figure, robed and haloed in purest light. Conan stared silently into the majestic, bearded face.

'Speak, O mortal!' the face commanded, in a deep voice as resonant as trumpets. 'Know you who I am?'

'Aye,' growled Conan. 'By Crom and Mitra and all the gods of light, you are the prophet Epemitreus, whose flesh has been moldering dust these fifteen hundred years!'

'True, O Conan. It has been many years since last I summoned your sleeping spirit to stand before me here in the black heart of Golamira. In the years gone by since that day, my undying sight has followed you through all your wandering ways and wars across the earth, and it is well. All has been done as the Eternal Ones who set me here as man's guardian would wish. But now a darkness hovers over all the lands of the West - a Shadow that you alone of all mortal men can dispel.'

Conan started at these unexpected words and would have spoken, but the bony hand of the ancient sage lifted, commanding silence.

'Harken well, O Conan! In olden time, the Lords of Life gave me powers and wisdom beyond those granted to other men that I might wage war against the infernal and malignant Serpent, Old Set, whom I strove against and slew, and in the slaughter gained my own death as well. These things you know.'

'So the old books and legends tell' Conan growled.

'And so it was.' The radiant figure nodded. 'You know, O child of man, that from the beginning the gods of eternity marked you for great deeds and undying fame, and many and perilous have been the grim dangers through which your path has led, and many dark and evil men and superhuman forces have gone down before your sword. And the gods are pleased.'

His grim face impassive, Conan made no reply to this praise. After a pause, the deep, ringing voice of Epemitreus spoke on.

'One last task awaits you, O Cimmerian, ere you may go to your well-earned rest. For this task, your spirit was destined from before the beginning of time itself. One last and Mightiest victory awaits you - but the price to be paid is a bitter one.'

'What is the task, and what the price?' bluntly demanded Conan.

'The task is to save the West of the world from the Terror that even now stalks your green land. A terrible doom hovers over the lands of men, a doom darker than your mind can grasp - a Terror that strikes down and enslaves the very souls of your people, whilst their poor bodies are rent asunder in hideous and bestial torment by hands that should have fallen into dust eight thousand years ago!'

The prophet fixed Conan's sullen face with the splendor of his blazing eyes.

'But, to accomplish this, you needs must render up your throne and kingly crown to your son and venture forth alone to the dim horizons of the uttermost reaches of the Western Ocean, where never mortal man of your race has ventured since doomed Atlantis sank beneath the glittering waves. This very night must you set forth alone from your kingdom, in stealth and secrecy, never more to gaze upon it in the flesh, leaving behind your crown and realm and a writ of abdication.

'The way into the unknown seas is long and hard, and many perils stand between you and your ultimate goal -perils whence not even the gods can shield you. But only you, of all men, can tread that path with a chance of victory. Yours alone are the perils and the glory; for it is given to few mortals to save their world!'

The sage smiled down at the king from the cloudy light. 'One gift alone I may give you. Bear it through every trial, for in your hour of greatest need it will be your salvation. Nay, I can tell you naught more. In time of need, your heart will instruct you how to use this talisman.'

A mist of glittering light, like the dust of stars, drifted from the prophet's outstretched palm. Something tinkled glassily at Conan's feet. Without looking, he bent to pick it up.

'One last word,' said Epemitreus. 'The sorcerer-kings of old Atlantis used the emblem of the Black Kraken. This emblem is still displayed. Beware of it!

'Go now, child of Crom,' continued the sage. 'It were not wise for mortals to stray too long into these shadowy realms whereinto I have called your spirit. Return, O Conan, to your fleshly abode, and the blessing of the eternal gods of light go with you, to lighten your dark and dreadful path! Never again shall you behold the face of Epemitreus - not in this world, nor yet in the many worlds to come, through which your soul, reborn, shall venture and struggle in lives beyond this one. Farewelll'

Gasping with shock, Conan came instantly awake. He found himself sprawled on the silken bed, clad in light mail and bathed in sweat. So it had been a dream! The drugged wine and his own troubled thoughts had combined to form a fearful vision ...

And then he looked at the thing clenched in his sweaty palm, the phoenix-shaped talisman hewn from the heart of a giant, glittering diamond, and knew that it had been more than a mere dream.

Three hours later, while a drenching summer storm flashed and rumbled about the towers of the palace, a giant, mail-clad form swathed in a vast black cloak and with its face half hidden by a wide-brimmed black slouch hat stole forth from the little used secret sally port in Tarantia's outer wall. After it came another tall, hulking figure, leading a mettlesome stallion. They halted while the second man tested the girth and checked the length of the stirrups, 'Curse it!' growled Prince Conn's young voice. ' Tis unfair! If any man has the right to go with you, it is I!'

Conan somberly shook his head, scattering drops of water from his hat brim. 'Crom knows, son, that if I might take any man with me, it would be you. But we are no mere pair of penniless adventurers, to do as the whim moves us. We cannot have the power and the glory without the responsibility. It took me years to learn this lesson, and a hard one at times I found it. I go, perchance to my death; you shall remain to rule this land as justly as you can. Thus the gods have willed.

'Trust no man fully, but give the most trust to those whom I have found worthy of trust. Discount all praise by nine-tenths, since a king draws flatterers as offal does flies. Pay closer heed to men's deeds than to their words. Never punish the bearer of bad tidings, or frown upon him who submits an unwelcome opinion, lest men think they dare not tell the king the truth. Farewell!'

Conan grasped his son's hand in a crushing grip, and the two exchanged a short, fierce hug. Then, while Conn held the stallion's rein and the high stirrup, Conan swung into the saddle. For a few heartbeats, the cloaked-figure looked back at the looming towers of golden Tarantia, starry gem of the West. Then, with a final wave, Conan spurred the horse southward and rode off through the pouring rain and the lightning-litten dark down the long road to Argos and the sea. And thus the world's mightiest warrior set forth upon the last and strangest of his adventures.

CHAPTER THREE

THE CUP AND TRIDENT

Tall thrones topple and kingdoms fall,

And the shuddering dark envelops all;

But one rides forth on a hopeless quest

To a nameless fate in the dim, red West.

- The Voyage of Amra

The storm broke about midnight. Lightning flickered and flared in the thick-piled clouds above the western horizon and ere long a wind rose like a pack of howling wolves, driving sheets of rain before it.

But within the Cup and Trident, a seaside inn near the harbor of Messantia in Argos, all was warmth and light and merriment. A mighty fire roared on the stone hearth, filling the long, low-ceilinged room with flickering orange light and steamy heat. Sailors, fishermen, and an occasional traveler caught by the cloudburst sprawled on log benches before long tables, swilling sour Argossean ale or, for those who could afford a finer liquor, rich Zingaran wine. A bull calf turned on the creaking spit above the roaring blaze, and the spicy smell of roasting meat filled the air.

Caught by the gusty wind, the oaken door crashed open. Men turned, startled, to see a gigantic figure looming in the door. From throat to heel he was wrapped in a black cloak. Streams of water trickled from him, forming puddles on the floor. Under the black, wide-brimmed, wayfarer's hat, the men in the tavern glimpsed dangerous blue eyes in a bronzed, weatherbeaten face and the silver of a hoary beard as the stranger stamped in, slamming the door shut behind him and doffing his voluminous cloak to wring the water from it in streams.

A fat, perspiring innkeeper with a round, red face framed in greasy black curls clumped over to ask the stranger's fancy. He made jerky little bows while rubbing his fat hands on the leathern apron about his paunch.

'Hot mulled ale,' the fierce-eyed oldster growled, as he sat down at the bench nearest to the fire. 'And a haunch of that calf I smell sizzling, if 'tis done. Quick, man! I'm wet to the bone, frozen to the marrow, and hungry as a famished wolf!'

As the innkeeper puffed away to serve the stranger, a burly, tawny-haired Argossean, much the worse for wine, nudged his comrades and rose to his feet to stand before the fire, rocking a little on his heels. He was big and beefy, with the thickly corded throat and broad, bulging shoulders of a wrestler. The piglike little blue eyes in his round, red face bore an expression of brute cunning and oafish stupidity. He stood looking down with an open, wet-mouthed grin at the old man, taking in the gray mane and the scarred cheeks. Conan, spreading his cloak to catch the heat of the fire, paid him no heed.

'What have we here, lads, eh?' said the red-faced one in a thick voice.

'Looks like a Zingaran buccaneer to me, Strabo,' said one of his cronies.

Strabo looked the stranger up and down. 'Long in the tooth for a buccaneer, lads' he sneered. 'And look at the old dog, sitting there, hogging the best seat in the Cup and Trident! Hey, graybeard! Drag your old bones to the back and let honest Argosseans soak up some heat!'

Conan raised blazing eyes. If Strabo had not been so deep in his cups and spoiling for a fight, the banked fires behind that gaze might have penetrated even his dull wits.

As it was, Conan's ominous warning glare only roused him to pettish fury. Childish rage flared in his bloodshot eyes, and his porcine face flushed.

'I'm talking to you, gaffer!' he snarled, and swung one leg to kick Conan's shin with a heavy thud - startlingly loud in the inn, which had become suddenly quiet. This was the local bully, the strong man, the braggart. The other locals chuckled and nudged one another, waiting for the fun when Strabo goaded the old fellow into a rage. At the other end of the room sat a silent, catlike figure in a shadowy corner, enveloped in a thick, black cloak with the hood drawn close about his face. He leaned forward with strange interest, eyes narrowing to observe the quarrel.

Conan moved like a striking tiger. One moment he sat folded under his steaming cloak; the next, he flashed into a blur of action. As he surged to his feet, one huge, bony., mottled hand clamped like a vise on Strabo's fleshy thigh; the other caught the bully's throat with throttling force. Then Conan, incredibly, swung the heavy Strabo off his feet and hurled him clear across the room. Strabo's body struck the wooden wall with an impact that shook the house and thudded to the plank floor, where he sprawled in a daze. For a moment he lay, gasping. A voice among the onlookers muttered: 'An old dotard like that? Imposs--' Then Strabo, his face an even brighter scarlet, lurched to his feet. Roaring an incoherent oath, he charged across the room with thick arms outspread.

Conan stepped forward to meet him. Like a ball of iron, his left fist sank into the other's bulging belly. The air whistled from Strabo's lips, and his face went mottled and gray as tallow. Then, as he doubled over, Conan's right fist caught him in the face with a smack that made men wince. The punch snapped the bully's head back and lifted him clear of the floor. As he came down in a heap, Conan booted him into the fire.

Coals flew and soot shot out in a black cloud. Squealing with alarm, Strabo's comrades rushed to drag the victim - blackened, singed, and grease-spattered - out of the fireplace. They slapped his pale cheeks, but his head merely swayed limply at each blow. Blood from his smashed nose and cut lips ran down over his chin and soaked his doublet. Conao paid no attention as, muttering curses, they bore their unconscious champion to another room for revival.

The tension broke with a chorus of guffaws, congratulations, and compliments on Conan's prowess, for many of those present had long hoped that somebody would some day take the overbearing bully's measure. Conan merely gave a grim little half-smile and addressed himself to the hot mulled ale being served him. Just as he was heartily quaffing the first steaming flagon, a thunderous bellow arrested his attention.

'By the Hammer of Thor and the Fires of Baal, there's only one mortal man in thirty kingdoms could heave yon fat blusterer across the room like that! Is it-can it be--?' The crowd parted like water before a ship's stem as a towering giant, with a beard of blazing red-gold shot with silver, pushed through. He swaggered up to Conan like a burly crimson bear, magnificent in gold-braided scarlet coat, with a plumed hat set rakishly on his bald head. Golden earrings dangled from his ear lobes. Around his massive belly, a triple length of gorgeous silk was wrapped to form a sash, and thrust into the glittering stuff were a brace of gemmed dirks and an iron-bound cudgel that could brain an ox, A heavy cutlass hung from a gold-worked baldric across his deep chest, and boots of fine Kordavan leather clad his fat bow-legs. Conan caught a glimpse of a sweaty red face with keen blue eyes twinkling under tufted, rust-colored brows, and the white crescent of a broad grin amidst the fiery bush of bristling beard. He lifted his voice in a bellow of joy.

'Sigurd of Vanaheim, you fat old walrus! By the scarlet bowels of Hell - Sigurd Redbeard!' he roared, rising to clasp the burly seaman in his arms. . 'Amra of the Red Lion!' cried Sigurd.

'Hush; hold your tongue, you old barrel of whale blubber! ' growled Conan. 'I've reasons to remain nameless for the while.'

'Oh,' said Sigurd. In a lower voice he continued: 'By the breasts of Badb and the claws of Nergal, broil my guts if it don't warm an old seaman's heart to clap eyes on you!'

They hugged each other like angry bears, then drew apart to pummel each other on the shoulders with buffets that would have sent lesser men staggering.

'Sigurd, by Crom! Sit and drink with me, you barnacled old whale!' Conan roared. The other collapsed, wheezing, on the bench across from the Cimmerian. He doffed his plumed hat and stretched fat legs with a gusty sigh.

'Taverner!' boomed Conan. 'Another cup, and where's that cursed roast?'

'By Mitra's golden sword and Wodun's league-long spear, ye haven't changed a mite in thirty years!' said the redbearded Vanr when they had toasted each other. He dragged one crimson cuff across bristling lips and emitted a mighty belch.

'Haven't I, you lying old rogue?' Conan chuckled. 'Why, thirty years ago, when I hit a man in the face like that, I broke his jaw and sometimes his neck as well.' He sighed. 'But old man Time hunts us all down at the last. You've changed, too, Sigurd; that fat gut was as slim as a topsail yard when last we met. Remember how we were becalmed off the Nameless Isle, with naught to eat but the rats in the hold and what few stinking fish we could dredge out of Manannan's wet lair?'

'Aye, aye,' the other chuckled, wiping sentimental tears from his eye. 'Oh, damn me guts, of course ye've changed, old Lion! They was no silver in your black mane then ... aye, aye, we were both young and full o' juice in those far days. But sink me! Didn't I hear from one of the Brotherhood that ye were kinging it over some inland realm or other? Corinthia or Brythunia? I misremember which. But by the jaws of Moloch and the green whiskers of Lir, it warms me to see you again, after all these years!'

Over hot beef and more mulled ale, the two comrades exchanged stories. Years before, when Conan had been a member of the Red Brotherhood of the Barachan Isles, the archipelago southwest of the Zingaran coast, he and the redbearded Vanr had been great friends. Their trails had long since parted, but it was like strong wine tq the Cimmerian's lonely soul to meet his old comrade again and swap jests and reminiscences once more before a roaring blaze, with plenty to eat and drink. Now, Conan was winding up his tale.

'So when I woke and saw it was no dream,' he growled in a low voice, `I scrawled a writ of abdication in favor of my son, who will rule as Conan the Second, by Crom! There was naught to hold me in Tarantia. Twenty years of ruling leave a sour taste of law-making and treaty-haggling in a man's mouth. I long ago threw down whatever neighboring kings were minded to pick a quarrel with me. Since the fall of the Black Adepts, there's been no real fighting; and a man can get sick of peace and plenty, after a lifetime of red war.'

For a moment, Conan brooded with glowering eyes as if he saw the past unreeled before him. 'Ah, true,' he sighed. 'Aquilonia is fair and green, and I've tried to be a good king to it. But my old friends are gone now: old Publius., the chancellor, who could make three gold pieces sprout where one was sown; Trocero, who helped me to my throne, Pallantides, the general, who always knew what the enemy was thinking even before the enemy himself did. All dead and gone. And since my lass, Zenobia, died giving me a daughter., the very air of Tarantia has grown stale.'

He snorted and tossed down a gulp of ale. 'It was all right while the lad was young; I took joy in teaching him the use of bow and sword and spear, and horse and chariot. But he's grown now and should be about his own life without the specter of a grumbling old graybeard hovering behind him. I didn't need Epemitreus to tell me. 'Twas time I cleared out for one last adventure. Crom, but I have always dreaded the thought of dying in bed, surrounded by whispering physicians and scurrying courtiers! One last battlefield whereon to fight and fall-that's all I ask of the gods.'

'Aye, aye,' the burly redbeard agreed with a wheezing sigh, wagging his head so that the firelight glinted from the golden hoops in his ears.' 'Twas much the same with me, Lion, though I never got a crown or a kingdom from the hands of Fate. Nay, I left the Trade years ago - ran a merchantman between Messantia and Kordava. Can ye imagine old Sigurd Redbeard, the terror of Baracha, a merchant?' His belly quivered with laughter.

'Ah, and that's not the worst of it, either. Like you, Lion, I settled down with a wench - a fine woman, too, even if she had more than a drop of Pictish blood in her veins. Well, we raised a crop of squalling brats, and now the boys are as big as I am. She's gone years ago, aye, Frigga bless her stout heart, and the younglings grown and thriving on their own. What to do with old men who will not die, eh?

'Ho! I sold everything when the last child wed. Now I'm on my way back to red, roaring Tortage for one last taste of the old life before the long night sets in. What about you, Lion? Come with me, man, back to the pirate deck, and Set take these ghostly prophecies and spectral dooms! Let's sack black-walled Khemi in Stygia! Sink me for a lubber, but either we shall get a spear in the guts and go out like heroes in the sagas, or we shall grab more golden loot than Tranicos, Zarono, and Strombanni rolled into one! Eh, what say ye, man?s A black shadow fell between them. Conan looked up, one hand going to his sword hilt as the black-cloaked stranger who had been watching them from across the room eased himself into a seat at their table.

'Do you seek a ship, gentlemen?' he said in a purring voice. The Northman rumbled-with suspicion, but the catlike stranger, whose face was still concealed in his hood, placed both gloved hands upon the table, clear of any weapons.

`I could not but help overhear some of your talk' the intruder said smoothly. 'Pray forgive this intrusion, but if you will spare me a few moments, I think we can discuss business to our mutual advantage.'

Sigurd eyed him dubiously but grunted with curiosity. Conan fixed the man with a level, noncommittal stare. 'Speak up, then,' he growled. 'Say your piece.'

The other nodded with a polite half-bow. 'Unless I misunderstood the little I overheard, I believe that both of you are old seamen, now thinking of taking ship and resuming a career out of the - ah - Pirate Isles? No, fear not.' He raised a placating hand. 'I am no spying informer, no police agent - but I may be able to finance you in the purchase of a suitable vessel.'

Swift as a striking serpent, the stranger's lean hand vanished into his cloak and reappeared to spill a handful of glittering stones on the wine-ringed wood between them. Winking up in the ruddy firelight lay a princeling's ransom in sapphires blue as the southern seas, emeralds like cat's eyes glowing in the dark, topazes and zircons as yellow as a Khitan's skin, and rubies as scarlet as fresh-spilt blood.

Conan, unimpressed, fixed the stranger with a suspicious glare. 'First,' he growled, 'I want to know who in Crom's name you are. Curse it, I take no gift from a man who hides his face even here in an Argossean inn, with King Ariostro's guardsmen on every street, making the city so safe a juicy wench can walk the length of the waterfront unmolested!'

With a smile in his purring voice, the stranger replied: `I thank you for the implied compliment, seaman! I hide my face here for good reason, as Argos-folk know my features all too well.'

'Well then, your name!' rumbled Conan. 'Or I'll pitch you across the room as I did that fat-arsed bully.'

'Gladly, to put you at your ease,' the other laughed. Drawing himself up a little, he said softly: 'Know, sailor, that I am Ariostro, king of Argos!'

Conan grunted with astonishment. The stranger drew off one of his gloves and extended the bare hand. The ancient royal seal ring of the Argossean monarchy blazed in the firelight with the brilliance of the huge diamond in which the royal sigil was cut.

CHAPTER FOUR

SCARLET TORTAGE

Black waves break on the wet, black shore

In a thunder of shattering spray -

But what care we if the storm gods roar,

And lash at the pane and claw at the door.,

And we sail at the break of day ?

A lone gull cries like a poor, damned soul

That the waves have washed away -

But what care we if the cold seas roll?

There's ale in the cup and wine in the bowl,

And the dawn is hours away!

- Barachan pirate chant

Tortage roared defiance to the stars. In a cup of rocky cliffs, the pirate port blazed with light and resounded with roaring song, for the Red Brotherhood was in. Tall caracks and slim caravels bobbed at their moorings along the stone quays and wooden piers or lay at anchor in the harbor. Every alehouse, wine shop, inn, and brothel did a roaring business, when half the freebooters of the Western Sea swaggered through the cobbled alleys of red Tortage with pouches bursting with gold, bellies bulging with beer and ale, and hearts inflamed by lust and truculence.

Wine-shop signs, blazoned with skulls, torches, crossed scimitars, dragons, gryphons, crowned heads, and other devices swung creakingly in the stiff sea wind. Surf boomed as it broke at the foot of the cliffs that loomed against the stars above the little town.

Salt spray exploded against the docks, and the whistling wind carried its warm, salt splatter through the crooked streets that wound past low, flat-roofed houses, walled with whitewashed stucco, with iron grilles over their windows. The wind made the fronds of the palm trees lash like fly whisks against the dancing stars above.

For two hundred years and more, the little town in the cliff-walled cove had been the capital of a pirate empire that scourged the seas between Pictland and Rush. Here no law ruled but the rude and simple pact of the Brotherhood. Beyond that,, the only law was the fist, the knife, the sword, and the skill of the battler.

Tonight the pirate city was ablaze with roaring mirth and song. Duels over some slight, real or fancied, exploded in the streets. Rings of shouting men gathered about the cursing duellists, who fought to the death over an accidental shove, a trivial insult, or the favors of some red-lipped, hip-swinging wench. This was a night to remember. The ships were in, their holds gorged with treasure - the loot of the merchant fleets of the southern seas. And Amra the Lion had returned!

Thirty years had not yet buried his portentous name in forgetfulness. On the contrary, the passage of time had only added fresh luster to the legends of his swashbuckling days, in the wild times of Belit, the Shemitish she-pirate, and Red Ortho, and grim Zaporavo of Zingara. In those distant days, when Vilerus and then Numedides had reigned in Aquilonia, Conan had come among them - first as Belit's partner in command of a bloodthirsty crew of black corsairs; then, years later, as a pirate of the Barachas and a leader of Zingaran buccaneers.

For several years off and on, his ships - the galley Tigress, the caravel Red Lion, and the carack Wastrel -had sailed the seas, returning heavy-laden with treasure.

For a time Amra, as some called him, or Conan, as he was known to others, had stood tall among the captains of the Red Brotherhood. But then he had vanished into the little-known lands of the interior and was heard of on the Main no more. Tales and legends spread from these inland realms of a wild, unconquerable warrior-king named Conan, but few of his old seafaring comrades -even those who had known Conan by that name - recognized, in the inland monarch, the Cimmerian pirate of former days. Thus Amra became a myth of that fading past.

But now he stood among them, towering up into the flaring orange light of torches, with the salt sea wind tugging at his gray mane and iron-hued beard. Torchlight winked and sparkled on the coat of chain mail that clothed his massive arms and torso. His great black cloak streamed behind him, billowing like the wings of some gigantic bird of prey.

Conan stood atop a stone bench in the midst of the' port city's main square, and his voice rose like a trumpet above the murmur of the throng. It filled their lawless hearts with echoes of splendid deeds and epic battles of long ago and the promise of stupendous enterprises yet to come. For Amra the Lion had swaggered out of the mists of legend to recruit a crew for some unknown venture into the Western Sea. Into that wind-lashed waste of waters, no ship had ventured in the memory of man. Who but Amra would dare to dream of so fantastic an adventure ?

They stood gaping as his words intoxicated them, for the wild and lawless magic of his own heroic sprint was as contagious as fire in tinder. Gold and gems he promised them, wealth and glory, and the fame of a great adventure into the Unknown, among new seas, forgotten isles, and strange peoples. They should venture into the deeps of nameless seas, whence they would emerge, not as lawless of legend would beguile soft wenches and win immortal fame in songs and epics for aeons to come.

And there at anchor rode Amra's ship - a stout, deep-bellied carack called the Red Lion, like Amra's caravel of former times.

Conan did not reveal all the story. He did not tell them of King Ariostro of Argos, whose gems had purchased the mighty vessel. And why frighten them away with tales of the Red Shadows and the weird apparition of Epemitreus, the long-dead prophet?

For, just as the Terror had carried away hundreds of Conan's subjects, so the mysterious curse had struck at the citizens of Argos. Ariostro's court magicians and seers had read the omens of the stars. They had opened certain long-undisturbed books of magical lore and told their king that the Red Shadows struck from some unknown realm beyond the mysterious Western Ocean.

Ship after ship had the shrewd and able king of Argos launched into the Western Sea, but none had ever returned with a clue to the mystery. At length, even his navy grew nervous at the hint of further ventures into the unknown West, But still the Red Shadows struck and slew, and the kingdom hovered on the edge of mutiny and rebellion.

So, venturing into the streets of Messantia in disguise, King Ariostro had searched for reckless master mariners whom he might persuade to undertake the adventure. For this last desperate gamble, he had found the men he sought in Conan the Cimmerian - whose identity he quickly divined, although he was too discreet to betray the fact - and Sigurd Redbeard, the bluff and hearty old sea rover from distant Vanaheim. With his gems,, they had bought the powerful carack and were now come into port to enlist a crew of lawless rogues from among the Barachan pirates.

Some of the faces among the throng were known to Conan from his pirate days of old, and to them he spoke out boldly. One gigantic, grinning black from the southern jungles caught his eye. He thrust out an arm toward the majestic Kushite, whose bare arms gleamed like oiled ebony in the orange light of the blown torches, and whose bulbous mass of kinky black hair was streaked with gray.

'You know me, Yasunga!' he thundered. 'You were but a lad when I roved the black coast, years and years ago by the side of your bold mistress, Belit. What of you ? Will you join my venture?'

Yasunga threw up his long, black arms with a shout of joy. `Ya Amra! Amra!' he roared, drunken with old memories.

'Back, you black dog!' snarled a voice in chill, deadly tones, as a sum, deadly form thrust itself in front of the black and pushed him back into the crowd. The man turned to fix Conan with coldly venomous eyes.

Conan looked down at the newcomer with narrowing eyes., taking in the lean, sallow face with inky brows and thin lips, the slim, sinewy body in a breastplate of polished, gold-inlaid steel over black velvet, the diamonds flashing at earlobe and wrist, where a lean, strong hand jutted from amidst foaming lace to fondle the wen-worn hilt of a long cut-and-thrust rapier.

In a soft voice, whose lisping accents marked him for a Zingaran, the black-clad, sallow man addressed the crowd: 'Back to your kennels, dogs! Do you listen to the wild dreams of this crazy old fool, who has come out of nowhere to lure you with wild promises on a harebrained quest into the unknown? Mayhap this be the same Amra of whose deeds we have heard - and mayhap not. What matters it? Amra or no, this deluded old wolf has come amongst us to disrupt the Brotherhood. What care we for adventures and glory? We are practical men, earning our living from the sea, and to the eleven scarlet Hells with dream-befuddled heroes!'

He glared contemptuously at Conan. 'And seek not to lure my navigator, Yasunga, into your mad schemes, gray dog. I taught him the lore of sun and stars - and by Mitra, he stays with me: Black Alvaro, of the Falcon of Zingara! So up anchor and take your rotten carack back to whatever port of dreams you hale from. We have no room for your sort here.'

Alvaro had half turned to stride away through the muttering throng, when Conan's deep bellow of laughter stiffened him. Conan spat loudly.

'Old gray-dog is it, you girl-faced, fancy-clad, soft-gutted whelp of a nameless Kordavan gutter slut? I was a captain of the Coast when you were still puking up your mother's thin, sour milk. I was pouring half the gold of a dozen cities into the alleys of Tortage when you were still fondling boys in the back of a Zingaran whorehouse. If you've not guts for an honest venture, then slink back to your fetid kennel - but there are others here with more manhood in one hand than you have in your yellow-bellied body. I speak to them, not you. And, yes, I'm old - but I still know a trick or two, which I shall be pleased to show you if you like!'

Black Alvaro whirled with a curse, his rapier rasping out and glittering in the glare of the torches like a needle of fire. Whooping, the crowd formed a ring.

Conan tossed aside his bellying black cloak and drew his heavy Aquilonian broadsword. But, even before the blade cleared the scabbard or he could step down from the bench on which he stood3 Alvaro lunged with a dancer's grace.

The steel needle flicked out at Conan's unarmored face, but with one booted foot he kicked the lancing blade aside and sprang down from the bench. His sword sang from its worn leather sheath and rang like a bell as it met the Zingaran blade. Steel music clashed in the windy silence as the two combatants circled, advanced, retreated, cut, parried, and thrust. The torches sent their billowing shadows crawling over the walls of the nearest houses.

Men sucked in their breaths, for Alvaro of the Falcon was accounted the deadliest blade among the Isles - and Amra, gray with years, was an unknown adversary. They measured his towering bulk and mighty limbs against the lean, silken grace of the Zingaran and cast bets at wildly fluctuating odds.

Alvaro soon found that his singing blade could never quite dodge past Conan's guard. The great broadsword, made for smashing armor, seemed-ill-chosen for a fencing match against the lighter blade; it should have been slow and unwieldy. But in Conan's leathery hand it danced as lightly as a willow wand. Nor did the fiercely grinning old Cimmerian seem to tire from the heft of it. His arm seemed as tireless and rigid as an iron bar.

Sweat glistened on Alvaro's brow beneath his flying black ringlets. Sweat beaded his thin lips and trickled down his hollow cheeks. He knew that if blade ever met blade with full impact, his rapier would be shattered into flying fragments.

But Conan was not even trying to bring the full weight of his longsword to bear. Instead, with incredible ease, he wove a glittering wall of flying steel before him, through which the flashing point of the Zingaran's light blade could not gain entry. From time to time, Conan's grin broadened into deep laughter. He was playing with the agile but wearying Zingaran, and the chilling thought went through Alvaro that at any time the Cimmerian could beat his rapier aside and cut him down.

The crowd hung breathlessly on the ringing play of shimmering steel. Gradually they came to sense the same fact. Yasunga, the giant Kushite who had known Amra long before, started a chant, which soon rose from hundreds of throats, until it seemed to the gasping, sweating Alvaro that the square shook with its throbbing thunder: 'Am-ral Am-ra, Am-ral'

The pulsing cry rose and rose until it boomed like the pounding of the waves. The driving rhythm shook the little Zingaran's normally icy nerve. With one hand, Alvaro fumbled behind him, beneath his short mantle of black velvet. There, thrust through his girdle, a slim, wavy-bladed Shemite dagger was thrust for use on such occasions as this. His fingers drew the blade from its slender scabbard and palmed the hilt, so that the wary blade lay against his forearm.

Then he disengaged and sprang back several paces. He stood panting and disheveled, while Conan's flashing blade slowed to a halt.

'Had enough, black swine of Zingara?' the old wolf growled.

The dirk flashed in the torchlight as it whirled through the dark air toward Conan's bare throat. Without appearance of haste, Conan's left hand reached up and caught the dagger by its hilt, snatching it out of the air as it flew.

This amazing feat brought a roar from the throng. They had heard that the hillmen of fabulous eastern lands played the deadly game of plucking flying knives from the air, but never had they seen it done. None knew of the long years Conan had spent on the bleak steppes of Hyrkania, and amidst the coasts and isles of the Vilayet Sea, and in the towering Himelian Mountains, as nomad chief, pirate on an inland sea, and mercenary warrior. In those years he had mastered the use of the deadly Hyrkanian bow, the keen Zuagir tulwar, the dismembering Zhaibar knife, and other Eastern weaponry.

The shock of the deed glazed Alvaro's eyes with horror. The air seemed to stifle him. He tore open the lace collar above his cuirass and stood uncertainly, as if he knew not what to do next. Tension grew taut as a bowstring.

Then - Conan gave him back his knife. It flashed through the air and sank to the hilt in Alvaro's bare throat. For a moment the Zingaran stood on wavering legs, with his face as pale as a dish of curds and blood trickling down over his gleaming cuirass. Then he fell with a clang to the cobbles.

Conan tossed his great sword up, caught it again, and sheathed it. The crowd went wild with a thunderous cry: 'Am-ra! Am-ra! Am-ra!'

CHAPTER FIVE

THE BLACK KRAKEN

The Kraken lives, that anciently arose
from seething primal slime,

In lands long since submerged by time,

Beneath the gray, endragoned sea.

-- The Visions of Epemitreus

The Red Lion was three days out from the Barachan Isles when her people sighted the green galley.

It was dawn of the third day. Naked to the waist, with his heavy broadsword hanging at his side, Conan stood on the poop deck drinking deep of the clean salt wind. Spray had stiffened his mane and beard with salt. A sunrise of golden flame drenched the east with light and set the long, thin clouds afire. The brisk northeasterly trade wind sang in the carack's rigging and bellied out the broad sails above.

'Ho, Amra! Up with the dawn, eh?' boomed a deep voice. Conan turned to see Sigurd standing spraddle-legged at the rail, roaring with good humor. The wind ruffled his naming bush of beard and stung his apple-red cheeks to an even ruddier hue. It spread the wings of his billowing crimson cloak, which had once adorned the back of a pompous Zingaran admiral.

Conan grinned at the spectacle the bluff old Northman made. The golden thread that covered his cloak with embroidered arabesques was worn and tarnished, and several of the big, ornate ivory buttons were missing. A sash of many dashing colors, which bristled with the usual half -dozen jeweled dirks, bludgeons, and a huge scimitar with a notched blade, girdled Sigurd's massive belly. Under the vast cloak, the old Vanr wore a patched, torn white blouse, spotted with wine stains and gravy. It was open to the navel, and through the opening bristled the silver-shot red fur that thatched the Northman's chest. A gaudy scarlet kerchief was wound about his bald head, and glittering hoops of gold wobbled from each ear.

'Hah! By HeimdaTs horn and Tanifs veil, 'tis a morning for the very gods, eh, Lion?' he said.' 'Tis like wine to me thirsty guts to be at sea again with a good deck under me heels and a crew of rascally cutthroats ready at call to fill the nine seas with blood!'

'Aye,' growled Conan. 'It is a stout ship the king of Argos' gems got us, and as staunch a crew of rogues as ever I shipped with in the old days.'

He peered down into the waist, where the crew scrubbed the deck and performed other sailorly chores. The legends that burned with lurid light around the name of Amra the Lion had brought a full complement of seasoned sea-thieves, eager to share the glory and loot of Amra's venture into the dim West. They were a motley lot, the throng of men that milled and toiled in the waist with half-naked brown bodies, smelling of tar and sour wine, but the very cream of the pirates of the Barachas.

The largest group was composed of Argosseans, men of medium height and sturdy build, with brown or tawny hair. Mixed with these were a number of olive-skinned, black-browed Zingaran renegades. There were men of Ophir and Koth. There were a few swarthy, hooknosed Shemites with blue-black hair and beards, and even a huge, brown-skinned, hawk-faced Stygian or two. There was a stocky, fair-haired Zaporoskan - Yakov, the bowmaster. There was a black giant from jungled Kush, with the sunlight gleaming on his glossy hide - Yasunga, the navigator. There was a powerful, brown-skinned man with a curly black beard - Goram Singh of Vendhya, a land so far to the east and so little known that many Westerners thought it a mere fable. But, white or brown or black, they were veteran seamen all.

Sigurd fixed Conan with a keen blue eye. 'Now, what's the plan, mate? Fine words and resounding promises of glittering loot, but what is it we look for in the Western Ocean, and whither are we bound? So far we've seen naught but a few whales.'

Conan shrugged. 'Crom knows, not I! But I've heard men talk of lost continents and fabulous isles beyond the sunset. And from the hints the shade of Epemitreus let fall, and the counsels of King Ariostro's pack of glib-tongued star-watchers, I gather we just keep on the westward and watch for anything unlikely and odd. Devil take me, Northman, I hope we find the source of the Terror soon! This taste of sea life makes me hungry for a trifle of action. Peace is beautiful, but . . .' Conan eased his broadsword out of its scabbard and cut the air with a swish that could be heard above the sough of the wind.

Redbeard laughed with a deep chuckle that shook his paunch. He cocked a tufted eyebrow at the glowering Cimmerian.

'Ho ho, mate!' he snorted. 'So that's the way the wind lies, is it? Ye're still the cunning, black-hearted rascal I knew of old. When we've fought this shadowy foe, as we promised, shall we turn about for a bit of honest roguery? There were fat merchantmen tied up in Messantia's harbor, and 'twould be a fine joke to loot Argos's ships with the very ship their king furnished, would it not?'

Conan smiled a grim, cynical smile and clapped Sigurd on the shoulder. 'Same thieving old walrus, you are! No, I like not the taste of that.'

'Don't tell me that, after all these years, ye've turned honest!'

Conan uttered a bark of laughter. 'Not I! But being a king does spoil a man's taste for the pettier forms of thievery. Besides., Ariostro has never given me trouble, so why should I trouble him? Conn will have enough problems, guarding his frontiers against the neighboring kingdoms, without my stirring them up.'

'Then - do ye mean to take a crack at the Stygians, as I was for doing when we met in Messantia? They're a fell and hardy lot; but with this crew we might just--'

Conan shook his head. 'Not that, even. After all, I've been a pirate captain, and a bloody successful one, several times over. Why should I climb that same ladder once more?'

'Well, then,' growled Sigurd impatiently, 'what in all the flaming hells is it ye mean? Out with it, man!'

Conan flung out a long arm, and a gnarled forefinger stabbed toward the bow. `Away to westward, mate, there's something we know naught about. The Red Shadows are pan of it, too.' A deep laugh rumbled in Oman's chest. 'You can't imagine me as a scholar, now can you?'

'It were easier to think of one of Ariostro's pretty little dancing girls as a bloody-handed pirate.'

'Well, I can read a few different scripts. And in the royal library at Tarantia I found tales of the Cataclysm, when the ocean gulped down Atlantis, eight thousand years ago. They tell, these tales, how thousands of Atlanteans fled to the Mainland - or Thuria, as they used to call it. And in the iron-bound Book of Skelos it said: "Others fled from sinking Atlantis to westward, and it is said that thither they came upon another continent, over against the Thurian continent and bounding the Western Ocean on the farther side. But what befell these refugees I know not, for with the destruction of Atlantis the trackless ocean became too wide for the ships of those days to maintain a regular commerce betwixt the lands we know and the unknown western land." That is all, but it may very well be connected with our present mission.' 'Well?' said Sigurd. 'I've heard tales like that, too.' 'Well, if there be a land of mighty sorcery ahead of us, it will also be a land of wealth and power, ripe for enterprising rascals like us to pluck. Why fool around with the loot of a few ships when, with some luck and some guts, we can take an empire!'

Sigurd sighed and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hairy hands. "Ah, Amra, I might have knowed ye'd have some scheme in your thick skull, madder and wilder than anything any ordinary man could think up! 'Tis a fine old wolf ye are, my word upon it! Though they feed us to dragons when we get there, I'll ship with you as far as the sunset itself, by all the gods!'

He broke off to peer suspiciously at the sun. With a snort of anger, he waddled to the nearer of the quarter rudders, where a one-eyed Shemitish ruffian stood to the watch.

'Avast, ye hooknosed dogl Be ye blind or stinking drunk?' he roared, cuffing the startled seaman aside and seizing the tiller in capable paws. 'We're riding half a point off the course ye set last night, Amra! Curse and rot these lazy pigs - the scum of the Barachas,, by the bowels of Ahriman and the breasts of Ishtar!' He squinted ferociously at the sun and thrust the tiller over with a practiced heave. The Red Lion heeled slightly, responding like a well-trained steed.

Then a cry came ringing down from above. 'Sail ho!' Conan sprang to the rail and raked the gray, misty seas with keen eyes. But he could see nothing.

'Whither away?' he boomed through cupped hands.

The reply floated down from the lookout at the foretop: 'Point and a half off the port bow!'

'I see her!' The old Northman was again at Conan's side, puffing like an asthmatic walrus having shoved the one-eyed sailor back to the tiller. There she be - and by all the gods, she looks like a galley!'

Conan shaded his eyes with one hand and followed Sigurd's pointing finger. There, looming out of the coiling morning haze, were two slender, bare masts. When the Red Lion rose on the long swell, those on her poop deck could glimpse the long, low hull of a galley beneath this rigging.

'Now what in the scarlet Hells of the Stygian Set-worshippers,' rumbled Conan, 'is a galley doing out here? We must be fairly close to land. No skipper with all his wits would sail far out into the Western Ocean in such a craft. If the long swells didn't swamp her, the crew would collapse from lack of food and water and from not having a place to lie down.'

The galley was now closer, so that they could see the sleek lines of her low, sea-green hull. White foam flashed along her sides, and Conan saw the twinkle of sunlight on dripping water from her double bank of oars - a bireme, with a high, curved prow carved of brass into the likeness of a dragon's head. Below this figurehead, level with the waterline, a long, viciously pointed bronze ram, green with verdigris and spotted with barnacles, cut through the waves.

'Hm, that's cursed odd, Amra!' grumbled Sigurd. 'She flies no banner. Well, you said we were to look for oddities.'

Conan shrugged. 'What's that painted on her bow?'

Sigurd peered. 'Looks like a black cloud with a red center, or is it a black starfish ?'

Conan glowered on the strange green galley. 'Well, she's no merchantman but a war galley, with that ram in her stem and double banks of oars. Let's let her pass; she'd give us hard knocks and no loot..,'

Still, he thought, it was strange to find such a ship hovering about these untraveled waters. Could it be that which they sought? Throwing back his gray mane, Conan called out to the watchman on the foretop.

'Ahoy there! Can you make out the marking on her prow?'

'Aye, Captain. Tis a black thing like a devilfish, with a fringe of tentacles around a burning eye--'

Conan's voice rose in a mighty bellow: 'Helmsman! Two points to port; head straight for that galley. All hands on deck! Swords, pikes, and defenses! Stand by to trim sail. Archers, to the forecastle deck, with your gear! Yasunga, make up a boarding party. Hop to it, swabs! Here's the fight you've been spoiling for.'

Sigurd peered at him, baffled. 'What in the name of Mitra?''

'The sign of the Black Kraken, you red dog of Vanaheim! Does that mean naught to you? Stir your befuddled wits!' growled Conan.

Sigurd followed Conan about the poop and halted when the Cimmerian did to let the cabin boy lace him into his coat of mail and settle the horned helmet on his head. The Northman's brow was knotted in thought. Then his frown relaxed, but his face paled.

'Do ye mean,' he said slowly, 'that old tale about the emblem of the Witch Kings of Atlantis ?'

'I do. Now get your cuirass on, before they spill those fat guts of yours all over the deck.'

'Gods of the sea!' said Sigurd, turning slowly away. 'The Kraken of the Atlanteans, that should all have been decently drowned eight thousand years agone . . . Crom, Badb,andlshtar! Canitbe?'

Although she was clearly no merchantman bearing loot, the green galley turned and fled before the Red Lion on the morning wind. On each of her two masts, a high-peaked, triangular sail bloomed and filled with the following breeze. The Red Lion followed close upon her foaming track.

Conan had clambered into the rigging and clung with one bronzed hand while the other shaded his eyes.

'Odd - cursed odd!' he muttered. 'All oars in motion, yet I'm damned for a Stygian if I can see a single oarsman on the benches. She seems bare of fighting men as well; none on her poop or forecastle deck, and not a hand aloft in her rigging.'

He lowered himself to the deck, where Sigurd and the giant black, Yasunga, stood, 'Cursed odd indeed, Amra,' said the old Northerner. 'And look at the cut of her hull! I've never seen such a ship in all me days.'

'Green ship of Hell,' muttered Yasunga in his deep, musical bass. 'Ship of ghosts, Amra!'

'Belay that!' barked Conan. 'Ship of Hell or ship of earth, she's running free as if she bore the Empress of Khitai and all her treasure! Look at that stem slice the swells!' He raised his voice. 'Milo! Hoist the raffee tops'l! And if you get the lines fouled I'll skin you.' He spoke to Sigurd and Yasunga again: 'She's fast, with both oars and sails; but with our greater spread of sail we may run her down yet. Wherever she's from, she's in a hurry to shake us off her tail!'

'But with no escort,' growled Sigurd. 'Damned suspicious! Whoever heard of a king's galley or treasure ship barging around the seas without extra protection?'

The crew had now mustered in their places. Archers were stringing their bows on the forecastle deck and looking over the arrows in their quivers to make sure that none had warped. In the waist, men stood to the ropes, while the deck fighters clustered at the rail, buckling the chin straps of helmets., tying the laces of cuirasses and leather jacks, and sharpening their cutlasses with whetstones.

'By Crom!' boomed Conan. 'We'll find out what she bears so precious that she flees like a frightened maid at the mere sight of us!'

The men, inflamed by the excitement of the chase, sent up a cheer. Sigurd, now covered from neck to crotch by a shirt of bronzen scales sewn to leather, puffed up the ladder to the poop deck. Conan clapped him on the shoulder.

cCrom and Mitra, old sea horse, but the taste of battle makes my heart swell like that of an old charger sniffing blood!'

The Northman grinned broadly and gave a bellow of joy that would have summoned a hippogriff in the mating season had one been within earshot.

'Hah! Well, Lion, old Sigurd said things would look up soon, and here they are! I have a feeling in me bones that this'll be a treasure the likes of which we never saw in all our days.'

'Aye?' laughed Conan. `Then let's at it!'

With every sail she possessed filled with wind, the carack plunged after her prey. The following swells boosted her along, slowly rising and falling as they foamed by underneath her. Her blunt bow threw up twin fans of green foam., and white foam bubbled in her wake. And ever ahead of her, pitching on the swells, the mysterious green galley rowed and sailed, her two triangular sails set wing-and-wing, like the leathery pinions of some flying reptile of old.

CHAPTER SIX

MAGIC FIRE

A long, green galley from the unknown West,

The dread Black Kraken on her bow impressed,

In full sail hastens from a land untold,

With Hell's foul secret in her deep, dark hold.

- The Voyage of Amra

The sun hung high in the clear, blue vault when the Red Lion at last caught up with the mysterious green galley with the symbol of the Black Kraken of Atlantis on her bow. All morning the galley fled before them, with her tall black triangular sails swollen with the wind and her oars rising and falling as if her oarsmen knew no human fatigue. But, foot by foot,, the big carack closed the distance between them.

Conan, in a horned steel helmet and a long shirt of link mail over a haqueton of soft leather, strode about the deck, inspecting the arm and armor of his boarding party. Then he climbed back to the poop, where Sigurd stood spraddle-legged, watching the galley's every move and barking commands to the steersmen who stood with muscular, brown arms gripping the twin tillers.

'She's giving up the chase at last and putting about,' grunted Sigurd.

As if owning the futility of flight, the galley was turning and slowing as the Red Lion neared. Now they were almost within bowshot. Conan glanced to the forecastle deck, where Yakov's archers stood behind the wicker mantlets hung along the rail, awaiting the command to shoot.

'Strange, Amra,' grumbled the Northman. 'Still no one on deck!'

'It is cursed strange,' agreed Conan. 'They should at least have a party gathered to repel boarders. Are they all hiding below like mice, or is there nobody aboard but the oarsmen and steersmen?'

'We're getting close,' said Sigurd.

Facing the bow where the archers stood, Conan raised his voice to a bellow: 'Shoot one!'

'Aye, aye, Captain,' Yakov called back. The bowmaster tapped an archer on the shoulder. The man drew his bow to the ear and released with a fiat twang. The arrow arched over the intervening gulf of water, to fall ten paces short, For a short while the crew stood silent as the wind sighed, the water hissed, and the ships wallowed.

'Shoot one!'

This time the shaft thudded home in the enamelled planking.

'In range!' boomed Sigurd.

'One volley, your command!' roared Conan.

`Aye, aye!' Yakov lined up his archers. Presently all the bows released at once. With a swish like the rush of wings, a flight of arrows swept across the narowing gulf and thudded home, mostly out of sight behind the mantlets that lined the rail of the galley.

Conan narrowly watched the action of the galley's oars. Ordinarily, such a volley of arrows should have struck at least a few of the rowers, disorganizing the beat of the oars until the men hit could be replaced or their oars shipped. But the oars of the galley, in two banks, continued to rise and fall at the same unvarying, mechanical beat.

'She must be full-decked,' grunted Conan.

'I think she's turning to ram us,' said Sigurd.

'Right. Keep our head toward her. If we hit her bow on, we'll drive her down and break her ram.'

The Vanr bellowed commands to the steersmen and to the sailors at the lines. The tillers were put up and the sails trimmed to take the wind abeam as the Red Lion swung to port to keep the galley dead ahead. Unseen hands brailed the galley's sails up against their yards.

The galley continued her swing, and for an instant the two ships rushed at each other head-on. From the poop, Conan got a good view of the galley's deck. Not a soul was to be seen.

Then the galley, as if losing courage at the sight of the tall, massive bow of the Red Lion foaming down upon her, turned again to port, heeling with the sharpness of her turn. A mere fifty paces away, Conan could plainly discern the strange black emblem blazoned on the bow. More like a circular cloud of dense, black vapor it seemed, with whorls of mist escaping in tentacular wisps, than a literal devilfish. But the crimson eye, glaring from the center of the black mass, blazed with lust and fury.

Still nobody was to be seen on deck. The green galley could have been a ghost ship, bare of mortal life.

'No watch in the rigging! Not a hand on deck! Not even a helmsman at the tiller!' rumbled Sigurd uneasily. 'By Badb and Mitra, I like it not, mate, not a bit of it!'

'Yakov!' called Conan. 'Have your lads shoot through the oar holes!'

Bowstrings snapped and arrows hissed. Many struck the wood alongside the oar slots, but many more - at that short range - whipped out of sight through the holes and vanished. But there were none of the expected yells of pain and clatter of oars striking one another that would normally be expected. A second volley produced no di-ferent result. Now the galley was running free again, and her triangular sails stood out to take the wind. The Red Lion swung downwind to follow.

`Fire arrows, Yakov!' roared Conan. 'By Crom, I'll rouse some life in that black-sailed bastard yet.'

There were a few moments of frantic activity on the forecastle deck as torches were fetched from the galley and rags were dipped in oil and wound about the shafts of arrows. Presently a shower of flaming arrows, trailing tails of black smoke, whistled into the mantlets and thudded into the bare, green decks. In an instant, plumes of dirty black smoke crawled up from a dozen spots about the ship, to be whipped away by the brisk breeze.

'Ha!' thundered Conan. 'That did it! Look, Sigurd!' On the green galley's ornate poop deck now stood a tall, gaunt figure. This, from his appearance, was no ordinary seaman. His bony form was wrapped in many-pleated cotton garments, while a fantastic cloak of gorgeous green feathers was thrown over his narrow shoulders. His sallow, swarthy pate was shaven; his stern, gaunt features might have been cast in brass for all their mobility. Looking more like a priest or a wizard than a seaman, he stood motionless on the gaudily decorated afterdeck, watching the Red Lion with a venomous glare in his sharp, black eyes.

As Conan and his crew watched, the man suddenly extended a bony arm in a curious gesture. As he did so, each fire smouldering on the deck went abruptly out. The spirals of smoke faded and vanished.

'Magic!' boomed Sigurd wrathfully, clutching Oman's shoulder with a grip like a steel trap.

'Yakov!' yelled Conan. 'Feather that dog!' But before the order could be carried out, the tall, feather-robed figure plucked a small flask from under his robe and cast it over the side, to splash in the surging green waters between the two ships.

As the flask struck the waves, the heaving water erupted into an explosion of dazzling flame. A wall of seething, crimson fire sprang up between the two ships. Conan's men shouted with astonishment, gesticulating with wonder. Consternation and superstitious fear was written on their features. They were brave enough to face sharp steel and whistling shafts for the chance of loot and rapine -but who could fight sorcery?

'Magic!' Sigurd repeated. 'By the heart of Ahriman and the loins of Tammuz, do ye see it, Amra? Yonder slant-eyed wizard builds a wall of fire in less time than it takes a man to spit!'

Staring with narrowed eyes, Conan noted that the unnatural flames did not spread, as they should have if caused by some inflammable oil. They remained in one position, forming a wall of flame that almost hid the alien galley and that leaped so high as to threaten the Red.-Lion's mainsail.

'Eight points to port! Trim sail for wind on the port beam!' bellowed Conan. 'We'll see if we can go around it,' he added to Sigurd.

'By the guts of Shaitan and Ymir's beard, the fire follows us!J said Sigurd, clutching the rail with whitened knuckles.

And so it was. As the Red Lion swung upwind to port, the wall of fire moved as if to keep itself between the carack and the fleeing galley. Conan shaded his eyes to look at his imperiled canvas overhead. As yet it had not caught fire - in fact, did not even look singed. Nor did the thick, oily smoke so much as smudge the white sails. Conan burst into laughter.

'Steersmen ho!' he thundered. 'Tillers down, and pay no mind to the fire! Trim sail to run free!'

'Amra?' said Sigurd, goggling. 'What in the name of all the devils--'

Conan grinned through his bristling gray beard. 'Watch, old walrus, and learn.'

The Red Lion clove through the burning wall as if it were not there. The ship's company felt no heat of its passage. Once on the other side, the magical barrier winked out of existence. The crew gaped with astonishment.

'Just a mirage, and illusion!' roared Conan. 'Now muster for boarding, dogs, and we'll see how yon feather-robed sorcerer likes cold steel!'

As the bow of the Red Lion came closer and closer to the stern of the galley, those on the carack could see the stern, masklike features of the shaven-skulled magician working with rage. Then he lifted both arms, so that his gorgeous cloak spread in the wind like the blazing pinions of some legendary phoenix.

'Hal, Xotli! Chahuatepak ya-xingothF he screamed. And the Red Shadows struck. From the four quarters of the sky they gathered, as they had on that deadly day when they first appeared in Conan's royal palace. They clung about a screaming Argossean helmsman, and he winked out of existence. The Red Lion lurched as the man at the other tiller strove to keep her on course by his unaided strength.

This was no illusion. As Conan watched, the feathered sorcerer laughed an ugly cackle, and spread his arms to summon the Terror again. This time, his eyes were full upon Conan.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE PHANTOM WARRIORS

Though manned by devils and walled with flame

From pits infernal., whence she came,

The Lion will break the galley's spell

And rape the treasure shipped from Hell!

- The Voyage of Amra

Old Sigurd saw, understood, and quick-wittedly roared a command to Yakov on the forecastle deck: 'Skewer that devil in the feathers!'

Bowstrings twanged, and swift shafts flashed over the green water toward the high., gilded poop where the magician stood, arms raised to summon the Terror again. As the arrows hissed toward him, he broke off his shadow-conjuring stance to gesture with the flat of his hand. The first shaft was somehow deflected from its target and thudded harmlessly into the deck. The second and third were likewise sent awry - but then several whistled at him at once, too many for him to ward off by his magicial powers. And one sank to the feathering in his right hand.

His swarthy features pale with shock, the sorcerer staggered back, nursing his injured hand to his bony chest. He swept the Barachans with a burning glance and vanished.

The pirates recoiled. Sigurd grunted and rubbed his stubby nose. 'What can we do against this cursed devilry, Amra? Shall we turn tail before the. Shadows scoop us all up?'

Conan glared. 'Have you lost your wits, old walrus?

This hell-ship is what we are looking for! Tis here the Red Shadows are spawned!'

'But cold steel is no defense against that kind of magic--'

'You saw Yakov's lad put an arrow through the hand of the head devil, didn't you?' growled Conan, cuffing Sigurd on the shoulder. 'He'll summon no more devils with that crippled hand, so now's the time to strike!' He strode to the forward end of the poop deck. 'Helmsmen, one point to port! Grapnels out! Stand by for collision! Prepare to board!'

The bow of the Red Lion slid up parallel with the stern of the galley, and then the massive stem of the carack crunched into the emerald flank of the galley, with a great snapping and shattering of broken oars. Grapnels soared through the air to catch in the alien ship's woodwork, and brawny arms hauled taut the ropes that trailed from them. Other sailors caught the galley's rail with boat hooks.

'Boarders away!' shouted Conan, leaping down the ladder to join the throng of armed men pouring over the rails of the two interlocked ships to the galley's deck, knives in teeth and swords, pikes, and axes in fists. Most of them wore a cuirass of some sort - here a shirt of rusty chain mail; there a leather jack sewn with brass plates or bronze rings. A few of the wilder spirits went naked to the waist. Helmets of a score of designs capped their touseled heads.

Conan's boots crashed through one of the thin wicker mantlets, and he fell heavily into one of the rowing spaces between the deck and the rail. The rowing benches, each wide enough for two men handling a single oar apiece, were sunken half a man's height below the narrow deck. If the benches had been occupied, the heads of the rowers would have risen just above the deck level. But now the benches were empty. Whatever hands had wielded the oars were gone; the oars trailed idly in their oarlocks.

His scalp bristling with the superstitious fears of the barbarian - which all his years in civilization had not wholly ousted - Conan scrambled up out of the rowing space to the main deck. As he did so, glaring about for some foe to fight, the giant black, Yasunga, clutched his arm and pointed to the ornate poop deck.

'Amra, look! The plumed devil!'

The skull-faced wizard had reappeared. Now, instead of his magnificent cloak of feathers, he wore a long coat of chain mail, made from some unknown, rosy metal that blazed in the sunlight. A fantastic helm, shaped like a bird's head, was upon his head. In his left hand he bore a long, straight sword with saw teeth of glittering crystal, such as Conan had never seen in all his wanderings. Strapped to his right arm was a jagged-edged shield of green-enameled metal, embossed-with a Kraken emblem like that on the galley's bow.

Conan turned to confront the sorcerer. As he did so, the other uttered a sentence in the same unknown tongue he had spoken in summoning the Red Shadows. A gasp burst from the pirates as astonishment froze them in their tracks.

Where one armed sorcerer had stood, there now stood dozens, all identical to the last detail of dress and features.

'Charge them!' roared Conan, springing up the ladder to the gold-scrolled poop deck and whirling his mighty broadsword. His blade met the swords and shields of the magical army with a metallic crash; Conan was obscurely relieved to find his foes flesh-and-blood men. Tall, gaunt, and lean-muscled, they fought well. But Conan raged like a rabid wolf among them, battering their weapons aside and crunching through their defenses. Behind him, the screaming horde of pirates swarmed up and fell to, so that steel clanged on steel like the beating of anvils in some infernal smithy.

Howling Cimmerian curses, Conan hacked and thrust at the eagle-nosed, cold-eyed faces that rose before him and then fell, slashed and crimsoned. One staggered back from a backhand slash with half his face shorn away. Another fell, clutching at his spilling intestines. A third stumbled back, pawing at the stump of an arm. A fourth fell with bird-helm and skull cloven to the teeth. Still they came on, and still Conan battled with the blind ferocity of the savage he remained at heart.

Eight or nine he must have slain, and now he found himself ringed about by hawk-faced warriors in bird-helms. His blade was notched like a saw and soaked in blood to the hilt. His mail sagged from a dozen rents where the saw-toothed blades had torn it, and his gaunt but mighty shoulders bled from several small, superficial cuts.

Wielding his sword in both hands, he struck at the ring of steel around him, snarling like a trapped wolf. A tenth warrior fell, thrust through the body. Conan knocked several threatening blades aside with a twist of his wrists, feeling the breath sear his lungs and hearing his heart pound like a Pictish war drum. Blood roared in his temples, and he tottered on unsteady legs, but still deadly steel flickered in his hands like lightning and men fell before him.

Now the vision was dimming before his eyes, and the grim ranks of the inexhaustible foe swam in a ruddy mist, and Conan felt the full weight of his sixty-odd years. With half a heart he cursed the gods and fate that he no longer had the iron endurance of his stalwart youth; with the other half, he thanked those same gods that he should fall as he had always wished, face to face with a foe and with steel in hand.

Then, somehow, he had crashed through the hostile ring and confronted a single warrior, who stood at the rear of the deck against the backdrop of sea and sky. In an instant, Conan was upon him. The long blade crunched through the mail links of rosy metal to the foeman's heart - and it was all over.

Gasping and staggering, the Cimmerian whirled to face the rest of the enemy, to find only an empty deck, whereon his own men stood staring. The phantom army had vanished. Every hawknosed warrior had puffed out of existence; even the bodies of the fallen were gone. Conan reeled against the rail. One body remained - that of the last man he had slain. The old Cimmerian hobbled over and, on sudden suspicion, tore away the man's shield. The right hand of the corpse was swathed in bandages.

Conan drew several deep breaths. Then his thunderous laughter stilled the bewildered babble of his pirates.

'They were copies of this dog here,' he said, slapping the remaining corpse with the flat of his blade. 'They were real, all right - but only so long as he was here to animate them. When he died, they went poof! Now take the wounded back to our own deck. Goram Singh, make up a party to search the forecastle. Hurry up; she's leaking and will soon be awash. If there's any treasure aboard, we had better get it quickly. Sigurd, Yasunga, come with me!'

Conan stumbled down the ladder and thrust open the door of the cabin beneath the p«op deck. There, he thought, the sorcerer-captain would probably have berthed. He was bone-weary from the fury of battle and more shaken and exhausted than he wished his men to see. His sixty-odd years weighed down his limbs like armor of lead, and a reviving draught of strong wine would put new strength into his old heart.

Within the shadowy cabin, all was mystic gloom. The walls were hung with strange purple tapestries, whereon horrible demon faces leered and grimaced. On a low tab oret of strange design stood a crystal carafe filled with a dark liquid. Conan stumbled across the cabin to drain the contents.

It tasted like wine, but a stronger wine than the Cimmerian had ever encountered. Conan felt its warmth spread through him and put new life into his aching muscles. And then the blood froze within him, for there, hovering near the silken curtains., was the man he had just slain!

It was the same man, for the rosy-hued chain mail was cloven over his heart where Conan had sent the fatal thrust, and blood rilled down from the gash. Paying no heed to the frozen Cimmerian, the spectral figure plucked aside the tapestries, revealing a hidden niche in which was set a silver casket. As Conan watched, the translucent figure of the sorcerer picked up the casket and stepped to the diamond-paned window on the after side of the cabin. The window opened, revealing the foaming blue sea and part of the hull of the Red Lion. The phantom was about to step out into the rushing waves, when Conan crashed across the cabin, clutching at the smoky figure and the mysterious chest he sought to bear with him into the deep, blue sea.

'What are you doing, Amra?' cried Sigurd behind him. The Vanr and the Kushite had just crowded into the cabin behind Conan.

Conan's bloody arm encircled the sorcerer's waist but passed through the lean body as easily as if it were made of mist. But the Cimmerian's clutching hand fastened upon a corner of the silver chest. This, at least, was solid, and Conan dragged it out of the feeble clutch of the specter. The ghostly sorcerer toppled out the window, and as he fell he turned upon Conan one ghastly glare of maniacal rage. Then the phantom vanished into the waves.

Conan swayed in the open window, clutching the box and striving to gather his wits to answer the questions that Sigurd and Yasunga showered upon him. To them, the wraith of the sorcerer had not been visible. They had seen the chest rise from its alcove and dart for the window, apparently without support, and they had seen Conan bound after it and seize it.

Before he could satisfy their yammerings, there was a rush of feet outside the cabin and Goram Singh bellowed: 'Captain! The forecastle and the hold are empty - not a trace of loot - and the ship is foundering. The deck is awash! We must get back to the Red Lion!'

Conan stared down at the small silver casket. This was the green galley's only loot. This was the prize that the magical ship had fled from pirates to keep. This was what the alien sorcerer had fought and died to guard ...

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE CASKET FROM ATLANTIS

Where slain suns sink in crimson gore,

Amidst the gloom of brooding skies,

Dim isles of ancient legend rise,
where cold seas lash the somber shore.

-- The Visions of Epemitreus

With the silver box clasped under one arm, Conan vaulted across the rails of the coupled ships, his sheathed broadsword clattering after him. With him came Sigurd and the brawny Vendhyan, Goram Singh. His men were prying grapnels loose from the galley's woodwork and coiling the ropes that trailed from them.

'Cast off!' roared Conan. `Yare! Back the mains'l! Brace the fores'l to starboard - all the way round!'

With a grinding of timbers, the two ships drew apart. Soon 3 javelin-cast of green, heaving water separated the two. The galley, which had filled from the damage she had received, had settled until her deck was awash and every wave broke and foamed over her. Only her masts and her raised poop and forecastle decks remained consistently above water, on which bits of wreckage danced. Having no dense, heavy cargo to drag her down, she might float thus submerged for months - a menace to other ships, if there were any in these waters - until she drifted ashore or broke up.

'Forward on the main!' commanded Conan. 'Furl tops'l and mizzen! Trim sail to run free! Two points to starboard of the wind!'

With a brisk wind filling the mainsail and foresail of the Red Lion, the carack responded like a mettlesome steed to the tillers. Away she plunged, over the trackless waves, leaving the wreck of the galley behind her.

At Conan's shoulder, Sigurd watched astern as the wreck sank out of sight. The hearty old Northman was pale and constrained, as were they all. Something about that graceful green hull had struck a note of supernatural terror, like an icy wind from some open tomb. Yasunga shuddered and muttered prayers in his Kushite dialect. Sigurd furtively signed himself, drawing upon his heart with his thumbnail the sign of Thor's hammer.

Soon, even the slender masts of the galley were no longer visible. The sky was clear - blue overhead, rose-red in the west, where a blood-red sun sank slowly into an ominous, inky mass of black vapors. Conan shivered, then clapped Sigurd on the shoulder, rousing the latter from his trance.

'Come to the cabin, Redbeard, where we can toast the fight. And we still have to examine the loot. Yasunga, take the deck!'

Within the cabin, a fire crackled on the hearth and hot water steamed. Conan splashed his naked torso, scrubbed away the dried blood and sweat of battle, and winced at the sting of his scratches and cuts. Then he dried himself with a hot towel, donned a fleecy robe, eased off his boots with a grunt of relief, and sprawled at the table by Sigurd, with his feet in a bucket of hot water. The Northman pushed a flagon of wine toward him. He drank heartily. As he basked in the heat of the fire and felt the inward warmth of the wine, he relaxed into a cheerful good humor.

'Pour me another,' he said. This foray has at least served to blood the men. But there was no real loot, aside from this damned silver box!'

He laid it on the table between them and ran a finger thoughtfully along it. The box was shaped like a brick and was not much bigger than one. It was wrought in silver - or was it silver? In the fire's uneven, ruddy glow, the metal glistened with a reddish hue, and to the touch it somehow lacked that cool, oily smoothness of silver.

Sigurd also puzzled over it, running his hairy hand across the raised lines of cryptic pictographs with which the casket was embossed. Then he opened his mouth to speak a word, just as Conan spoke the same word: 'Orichalcum!'

The legendary magical metal of lost Atlantis was said to be silver-like in density and weight but with a coppery tinge. Could this casket be a relic of the lost continent? All his days, Conan had relished tales of the old hero-kings of the Atlantean age - mighty Kull of Valusia, lord of the Purple Throne - the terrible Kaa-Yazoth and his Iron Legions - the White Emperor who had been driven from the City of the Golden Gates by the enmity of the black magicians, who had put the sorcerer-king Thevatata on the throne - such tales and sagas, intoned around the tribal fires in his old homeland, had whiled away the long, grim Cimmerian winter nights and planted the seeds of a yearning for travel and adventure that had led him halfway across the world. He stroked the strange box with gentle hands, his eyes softening in a vague dream of bygone glories.

Sigurd, with less room in his mercenary soul for romance, shook the chest. 'What do ye suppose is in it?'

'Something precious, by Crom!' laughed Conan. 'That's ail the galley held, and that's what it fled to keep from us. Let's crack it open.'

There was a keyhole, plainly visible, but the key was doubtless drowned in the smaragdine depths of the unknown sea. Still, a lid has hinges, and hinges can be forced. Conan rummaged in his sea chest. Then he placed the box on end and put the point of a big, bronze needle against the end of the linchpin of the upper hinge. He hammered gently on the needle with the leaden ball that formed the pommel of a massive dirk. He grinned at Sigurd.

'I learned this trick when I was a thief in Zamora - let's see - by Mitra, it's over forty years ago! But I haven't had occasion to use it since.'

Soon both linchpins had been forced out of their hinges, and the box lay open. Within lay a small scroll, tied up by a pair of ribbons of scarlet cloth.

'Treasure?' groaned Sigurd. 'By the horns of Shaitan and the belly of Moloch! Were ever two honest rogues so put upon? Board a vile galley with bloodshed and battling in the very teeth of half the imps of Hell, and for what? A damned piece of paper!'

He spat excessively. But Conan examined the scroll, grunting: 'Don't give up too soon, Redbeard! This is more than a scrap of paper. Aye, Crom blast me if I'm wrong, but it may be as precious as that devil-faced sorcerer thought! Look here.'

Sigurd bent to examine the scroll, which Conan had untied and spread out on the table. For one thing, it was not papyrus but some stiff, crackling parchment that might have been made from the tanned hide of flying dragons, such as - the sagas said - the ancient Atlanteans had used. For another, it was obviously a chart, mapping seas that stretched halfway across an unknown world to the west.

'This line here to the east is curved very like the coastline of our own continent,' said Conan thoughtfully. 'See? Here's Messantia harbor, and the bulge that curves east from Zingara to Shem...'

'Aye, man, and these irregular spots be the Barachas, by Lir and Mannanan!' Sigurd muttered, his brow furrowed. 'But gods, look at the expanse of sea to the west!' His stubby forefinger swept westward across the chart from the lines that depicted the coasts with which he was familiar.

'Look there!' said Conan, indicating the coast of an unknown continent along the westward edge of the chart and the chain of seven large islands that lay to the southeast of this land. Although the geography was strange to Conan, the chart had been drawn with a meticulous care for detail in those parts. It showed coasts, harbors, reefs, shoals, and directions of wind and current, proving the cartographer to have been well acquainted with the lands and seas of that region. Conan thumped the table with his fist.

'Crom! I see it now. Do you grasp the secret, Redbeard?'

Sigurd shrugged. Conan tapped the parchment with a long, gnarled finger. 'The green ship came from the isles, here, all the way to our coast. Crom knows why, unless 'twas to loose the Red Shadows upon our cities, for some reason we cannot even guess as yet. But what would be so precious to this ship that it would flee our carack like the plague ? A chart showing the way home!'

Sigurd blinked, 'I think ye've struck the truth, Amra. But then, what are these damned isles?'

'Antillia!'

Sigurd grunted and rubbed a hairy paw over his jowls, 'Well, fry me guts, I've heard the tale ere now but never quite believed it. D'ye mean the story that, when Atlantis sank beneath the briny, a band of wizard-priests fled to unknown lands to the west and built there a successor to the Golden Empire? I've heard tell of the walls of the Seven Cities of the Antilles made of bricks of gold, and streets paved with silver, and temple pyramids of orichalcum, with gems big enough to choke a whale lying on the beaches to be picked up ... gods and devils, d'ye suppose there's truth in it?'

Conan shrugged. 'Crom knows. I heard stories like that about Vendhya and Khitai, but when I went to those places I found that the tales had grown in the telling. The only way to find out is to sail there, and this chart shows our way!'

CHAPTER NINE

VOYAGE ON AN UNKNOWN SEA

Our sails are full and straining tight,

Our prow is riding high;

We're out in search of gold tonight

Beneath a starlit sky.

- Sea-Chanty of the Baracha Isles

And so it came to pass that the Red Lion set forth into the storm-tossed, monster-haunted wastes of the Western Ocean, on the strangest of quests. The only guideposts to show her people the way were the sun by day and the stars by night, for the compass was unknown to the mariners of the Hyborian Aage, between the foundering of Atlantis and the rise of Sumeria and Egypt. But, with the chart from the casket of orichalcum as their guide, they sailed deeper and deeper into the unknown.

Some balked at this fantastic venture, until Conan pointed out two good reasons for their consenting to this quest: first, that they sailed for adventure, glory, and loot, and would doubtless find all three in plenty in the Seven Isles of Antillia, amidst the age-old ruins of the last Atlantean cities; second, that he would personally pitch any grumblers over the side for the krakens to devour. Reasoning of this kind proved remarkably persuasive.

Still, the farther they got from the coasts they knew, the greater grew their superstitious terrors. They remembered old tales, wherein the world was said to end just beyond the horizon. There, the earth fell away in a mighty cliff., over which the oceans poured in an endless flood, down and down to thunder at last against the very foundations of Eternity. According to the tales, any ship that sailed beyond the visible horizon would soon find itself caught in an irresistible current, which would soon carry its helpless, screaming crew right over the world's edge.

Conan squelched this by cracking a few heads together and by pointing out, with unassailable logic, that, with every league west they sailed, the horizon visibly retreated to a corresponding distance.

They sailed on, with full sails straining in the steady blast of the northeast trades. Ahead lay an unknown world; all about was a mysterious waste of wind-torn waves, wherein might lurk fearful denizens of the deep. Conan had little fear of sea monsters. He had faced warriors, wizards, monsters, demons, and even gods. All had proved vulnerable to sharp steel in .the final test. But, just to be on the safe side, he had the ship's carpenter rig a.catapult and mold some gummy spheres of black tar into whose center he poured lamp oil, with pitchy wicks of old cloth.

As day followed day across the endless waste of waters, Conan came almost to long for some desperate action to break the eternal monotony. But alas, if sea monsters there were, they gave the Red Lion a wide berth. To keep his shipload of bloody-handed rogues from getting restless with the inactivity, he kept them busy swabbing the decks, fletching new arrows to replace those expended in the brief battle with the green galley, and toiling at a multitude of other make-work tasks. As an old Hyborian saying had it, Nergal finds work for idle hands.

From time to time, the old Cimmerian found himself wondering what was happening in far-off Aquilonia. He thought of his stalwart son and wondered how the young buck liked the weight of a crown-on his pate. He thought of his old friends at court, what few of them still lived. Conan thought, too, of the palace where he had spent so many happy years with his dead wife, Zenobia. She had been a slave in Nemedia, but he had made her sole queen over the green hills and golden fields of sunny Aquilonia. While she lived, he had - save for a few lapses while traveling afar - been faithful to her, no small feat for a rough, red-blooded warrior of Cimmerian lineage.

Since she had died in childbirth, he had resumed the habits of his days as a bachelor king, by keeping a harem of shapely concubines. The acquisition of these presented no difficulty. Conan's peculiar, highly individualistic sense of honor had kept him from ever in his life compelling a woman to submit to his embraces. On the other hand, there had always been plenty who were willing and eager to encounter this fate. But he had wedded no more wives; no woman had taken Zenobia's place.

Now that she was gone, he found himself often thinking of her, in moods of black depression that were unlike him. While she lived, he had taken her devotion as his due and thought little of it, as is the way of the barbarian. Now he regretted the words he had not said to her and the favors he had not done for her.

He found himself, too, thinking of old times and old friends. Faces out of the past thronged his mind: Belit, the pantherine, languorous pirate queen of the Black Coast, his first great love ... Taurus of Nemedia, the fat old thief with whom he had sought to plunder the fabulous Tower of the Elephant... the enigmatic Stygian sorcerer, Thoth-Amon, whose trail had crossed his so often before that final, fatal confrontation ... loyal, grinning Juba, the giant black from Kush with whom he had fought the men of the lost valley of Mem in the distant East. . . Count Trocero of Poitain, the shrewd banker Publius, the gallant soldiers Prospero and Pallantides - all friends who had come to his aid when the jealousy of King Numedides of Aquilonia had driven Conan into exile, and who had rallied to him when he led a revolt against the degenerate monarch ...

Thus the faces of friends, lovers, comrades, and foes of his long past, which he would never look upon in this life, crowded upon him. The memories came back to him with increasingly poignant intensity, now that the bold, bright days of his reckless youth were long since over and gone and the Long Night was fast approaching. Well, he mused, age comes to every man if he lives long enough. And, by Crom, Conan would see one last sunset go down on a field of bloody corpses before the final hour of his life came upon him!

'Land ho!'

Sunk deep in melancholy, Conan had been leaning moodily against the rail of the poop deck, watching the morning sun climb out of the ocean through the eastern cloud banks. This cry brought him about, with the blood leaping in his veins.

'Whither away?' he thundered.

Three points off the starboard bow, Captain! ` replied the lookout from the foretop.

Conan clambered the shrouds to the maintop and searched the horizon ahead of the Red Lion with a fierce hawk's gaze. The West was still dark; but beneath the bands of cloud, to the right of the bow, a strip of more solid darkness lay along the horizon. Land. Pirates crowded the forecastle rail below, pointing and exclaiming as the shadowy bulk of hills loomed out of the morning mist. As Conan returned to the poop deck, Sigurd stamped up to join him.

'What is it, mate?' said the Vanr. 'The Antilles at last? By the sun disc of Shamash and the silver crescent of Demetrial! Action at last! Gold and loot for all, and hot blood for sauce, by all the gods! `

Conan grinned. `Aye. Two moons aboard this craft, with naught but sea and sky around, seems like two centuries. But the voyage is over!'

Then came a wild cry from the lookout: 'Dragon off the starboard bow! Coming toward us!'

Dragon? Conan felt a chill at the word. Then he froze, staring ahead to starboard.

Out of the unknown West it came, its spread wings and lofty curve of neck glittering with golden flame in the ruddy morning light, its mighty breast cleaving the smooth, oily swells. Eyes blazing with white fire and black smoke boiling from its flaring nostrils, it came across the waves at them out of the dim foggy mass of the islands -a titanic winged serpent, mailed in gleaming scales, with eyes like globes of fire.

CHAPTER TEN

DRAGON FIRE

Submerged in red, tenebrous haze,
where suns in sanguine splendor set,

Forgotten empires linger yet,
like phantoms of forgotten days.

- The Visions of Epemitreus

'All hands on deck, with arms!' Conan's bellow, like the crack of doom, snapped his crew out of its wide-eyed trance, as the men watched the monster approach. 'Archers to the forecastle! Yakov, signal when it's in range! Milo, man the catapult, with your squad! Aim it four points off the starboard bow. Steersmen, two points to port! Sigurd, shake out the mizzen; we may have to dance this ship around like a drunken Kothian peasant. Marco, fetch my helm and corselet to the poop!'

Then men scurried to obey with a clatter of weapons, sometimes punctuated by the clang of a dropped sword or pike. Up forward, the burly boatswain and his squad grunted and sweated as they levered the ponderous throwing engine into position, and others brought the tarry missiles up from the hold.

The Red Lion heeled and swung to port to bring the monster in line with the catapult, since the engine was not pivoted and therefore had to be aimed by aiming the ship. The eyes of the monster, glaring like meteors, came closer and seemed to climb higher.

As soon as the thing came within bowshot, Yakov's squad sent a storm of arrows arching across the intervening water. Some stuck fast in the scaly hide; others glanced off the golden scales. But the monster seemed not to feel the hissing shafts. The clawed feet, on the ends of long, slender, birdlike forelegs, rising from the sides of its breast., did not twitch. The arched, swanlike neck did not writhe, nor did the snarling visage change expression. The golden mask came on, all glaring eyes and grimacing visage,, filled with bristling tusks.

Then the sun, which had been hidden behind the eastern clouds, climbed out and shone upon the scene in its full glory. And Conan gave a shout: 'That's not alive., men; 'tis a ship - a machine! Ready the catapult!'

For the sudden increase in illumination had shown Conan the truth. The 'dragon' was a galley, like that which they had overcome in mid-ocean, but with its bow built up to resemble the front of a monster. The 'wings' were two tall, narrow triangular sails, stiffened by bamboo battens like the sails of the ships of Khitai. These sails rose from a pair of masts in the waist, side by side instead of fore and aft as in most sailing vessels. Now the sails were trimmed to point straight aft, since the galley was rowing directly into the wind. Hence they contributed nothing to the ship's progress, albeit they did fortify the illusion of a winged sea monster.

A second volley of arrows rattled harmlessly against the bow of the dragonship. Conan saw that the 'forelegs' were a pair of grappling devices, held up by cables over the water in front of the bow. When the vessel got close enough, these twin booms would be allowed to fall, and the 'claws' would be driven into the woodwork of the Red Lion to hold her fast.

'Milo! Shoot one!'yelled Conan. The boatswain signaled to the steersmen to bring the bow a little to starboard, so that this engine would bear. With a loud thump, the catapult released. The first of the balls of tar, trailing black smoke from its wick, arched across the water, glanced from the monster's neck, and fell into the sea.

Now the galley was a mere javelin-throw away. The curved breast of the dragon opened. A pair of doors swung wide, and a boarding plank extended itself out over the water. Inside the vessel, mustered at the base of the boarding plank, stood a fantastically garbed boarding party, bristling with weapons.

The ratchet of the catapult rattled as the crew desperately heaved on the windlass to recock the weapon. Then, thump! A second smoke-trailing ball flew over the water -right into the opening where the boarding party was mustered.

There was a burst of smoke, and a lurid light illumined the interior of the vessel. The boarding party milled in confusion; a couple of men fell or were pushed off into.the sea, where the weight of their armor quickly dragged them under.

Smoke spurted from the hull of the dragon ship in a hundred places. The fire seemed to spread with preternatural speed. Faintly, Conan could hear the cries of trapped men. There was an impression of desperate efforts, half-seen through the breast-opening, to fight the fire. But soon flame spurted from the dragon's neck; then the wing-sails caught fire and blazed up...

'Amra!' screamed Sigurd. 'Another one, to port!'

Conan whirled with a sulphurous oath. A second dragonship was bearing down upon them from the opposite side. Since this one was travelling with the wind on her beam, her wing-sails helped the oars so that she moved much faster than the first ship had done.

'Milo!' roared Conan. 'Get that engine over to port!'

As the catapult crew struggled to lever their machine to the opposite side of the forecastle deck, the second dragonship quickly closed the distance. Conan swore at his own stupidity in letting the sight of the blazing first ship so rivet his attention that he had not been aware, until he heard Sigurd's bellow, of the approach of the second. 'Yakov!' he thundered. 'Hold your shot until the doors open!'

This time, however, the dragonship did not open the doors to its boarding party so soon. Instead, it gave out a hiss as of a thousand kettles. From its open mouth, a tongue of liquid flame shot out. It formed a blazing arch across the narrowing gulf. It struck the side and deck of the Red Lion. In an instant, drops of the burning liquid were running hither and yon about the deck. In a panic, the pirates ran back from the rail, some of them beating at smoldering spots in their clothing. The liquid gave off a dense, black smoke with an oily smell. Conan guessed at once that this was a natural oil, like that which seeped out of the ground in the deserts of Iranistan and southern Turan.

But he had no time to explain this to his men. A second hiss, and another jet of liquid flame struck the foresail, which in an instant blazed up like a torch. The catapult crew and the archers scattered, screaming, as the sail flamed over their heads and showered the deck with bits of burning sailcloth.

'Hard to starboard!' yelled Conan. 'Trim sail to run with the wind on the starboard beam!' For he saw that another flaming jet might destroy his mainsail and make the Red Lion a helpless hulk.

But it was too late. Again came the hiss and the jet, and the mainsail dissolved into a mass of leaping, thundering flame. The Red Lion, shorn of all motive power save the little triangular mizzen, slowed and wallowed. The grappling booms of the galley crashed down, driving their claws into the carack's deck. The doors opened, the plank extended, and the second boarding party rushed to the deck of the Red Lion.

These men had brown skins and slitted eyes, with knobby cheekbones and hawk noses. They wore bird-helms like those of the sorcerer on the green galley, and strange glassy armor over leathern jerkins. They carried curious weapons - swords with saw-toothed edges of crystal, hooked spears, and glassy globes held in slings. There were other weapons, which Conan could not, in the first moment, make out.

Yakov's archers should have met the boarding party with a deadly hail of arrows, but the archers had become as demoralized as the rest of the pirates. Conan roared and threatened from the poop, but still they milled and yammered witlessly in the waist. A few arrows whizzed into the boarders, but to little effect. The shafts splintered against and glanced off the fragile-looking armor of glass. A few of the crew mustered where the tongue of the boarding plank rested upon the Red Lion's rail.

Conan leaped down the ladder from the poop deck, his great broadsword in hand, to add his weight to the defenders. The men of the boarding party, he now saw, bore curious equipment: tubes that ran from their nostrils, inside the glass helmets, to containers on their backs. It must, he surmised, be breathing equipment of some sort. But why?

The answer came just as he reached the main deck. The foremost of the attackers paused to whirl slings and shower his men with glass globes, each about the size of an apple. The globes burst with a musical tinkle and shattered into thousands of shining shards. Where each globe struck, a billowing cloud of pale vapor arose.

More and more'of the globes smashed and tinkled; as fast as the wind blew away the vapor, more of the uncanny missiles renewed it. And Conan saw his men, milling about in the waist, sag and slump to the deck, unconscious. Down they went, man after man, until only a few still stood erect. The deck looked like a shambles, save that the fallen men lay peacefully and apparently unhurt, as if sleeping, Then the boarding party swarmed down from the plank to the smoke-obscured deck, on which fragments of burning sail and rope still showered. With a challenging roar, Conan drove in amongst them, his broadsword weaving a shimmering web of steel around him. The crystalline armor splintered as the heavy blade struck it, shearing through glass, leather, flesh, and bone. Limbs were lopped off; howling cries of pain came muffled through the glassy helmets.

Conan hacked his way through the loose ranks of the first boarders, leaving three foes recumbent on the deck behind him. But others dropped down from the boarding plank to ring him round and return to the attack. He hacked his way through to the rail where, with his back protected, he won a moment's respite.

On the far side of the deck he saw Sigurd trading mighty blows with two assailants. Two more had already fallen at his feet. Then, although he did not seem to have been struck, the Northman dropped his scimitar and folded up on the deck, as had all the rest of the crew.

There was a sweetish smell in Conan's nostrils, and the world swam before his eyes. The attackers had given back before him, to form a semicircle hemming him against the rail. For three heartbeats, the Cimmerian faced his assailants, his graybearded lips bared in a silent snarl. Then, over the heads of the foremost attackers, several of the glass globes flew through the air, to smash on the deck at his feet.

Conan did not wait for the vapor to rise and drag him down. With a hoarse, gasping roar, he hurled himself against the semicircle. His broadsword, wielded in both rough, scarred hands, whirled about his head like the vane of a windmill. Crash! Crash! Two of the Antillians fell before his blade with heads or ribs crushed in. And then Conan was through the press and out in the open again.

He knew he could not fight the entire hostile crew single-handed. Though he might account for a few more, sooner or later they would surround him and cut him down. Already the fatigue of his years was weighting his limbs and slowing his movements. His breath came in gasps. The smoke and the whiff of the pallid vapor he had inhaled made him cough. Every one of his crew was now down - a few slain by the enemy's weird weapons, but the great majority felled by the vapor.

Another man might have been paralyzed by the problem of what to do next. The ship was plainly lost. Her deck swarmed with the boarders from the dragon ship. Her sails and rigging had vanished in flame and smoke; at that instant her fore yard, its sail consumed, crashed to the forecastle deck as the ropes upholding it burned through. A score of minor fires smouldered here and there about the deck, where pieces of burning saii, rope, or spar had ignited them. The first dragonship, which had been set ablaze, had vanished except for a floating patch of wreckage.

Conan saw that he could do his men no good by letting himself be slain or captured. If, on the other hand, he could escape, perhaps a chance would offer itself later . ..

The decisiveness of Conan's barbarian heritage decided his next actions without his consciously having to think about them or to weigh alternatives. With a final burst of strength, he bounded up the ladder to the poop deck. Of the two steersmen at the quarter rudders, one had disappeared; the other lay dead, while over the body stood one of the boarders with a bloody saw-edged blade in his hand. Conan rushed him and shattered the crystal blade with a single chop. A mighty thrust with both long arms sent the point of the broadsword crunching through the other's glass-plated mail shirt and through the man's body. Down went the man.

Then Conan dropped his bloody broadsword, doffed his horned helmet, and hurled it far out into the water. No use leaving any arms for the foe to salvage! He bent and tore from the head of the dead boarder the bird-shaped glass helmet and the breathing apparatus that went with it. As more Antillians stamped up the ladder to the poop deck, Conan "settled the apparatus about his own head and shoulders.

The enemies rushed upon him with cries of rage. He caught up his sword just in time to parry the thrust of a wavy-headed spear, and a mighty slash smashed the helmet of the pikeman and the skull beneath it. Before any others could close with him, the Cimmerian sprang to the rail and dove into the heaving, blue waters. Carried down by the weight of his chain mail, he sank like a stone.

The morning sun, now high in the heavens, had burned off the last remains of the morning mist; the clouds dwindled and fled before its hot golden rays. Two by two, the boarders picked up the recumbent forms of the unconscious crewmen of the Red Lion and carried them over the boarding plank into the dragonship. Others busied themselves with putting out the many small fires, beating them with cloaks and dousing them with buckets of sea water drawn up by ropes.

At length, leaving a small prize crew aboard, the men of the dragonship returned to their own vessel. With a rattle of gear, the boarding plank withdrew; the grappling arms rose from the deck; the doors in the dragon's breast closed. The dragon ship backed water with oars and sails and maneuvered to bring her stern near the bow of the Red Lion. Presently, with a creaking of ropes to trim her sails to the following wind, the dragon ship forged ahead in the direction whence she had come, towing the Red Lion behind her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TERRORS OF THE SEA

Bedight with tentacle and fang,

The monsters on the Lion sprang .

. . - The Voyage of Amra

Conan struck the water with a mighty splash. Green waves closed over his head. Weighted by the chain mail that clothed his body to mid-thigh and by the massive broadsword in his fist, he sank like a stone.

The sea was cold; the morning sun had not been up long enough for its warmth to penetrate far below the surface. The bracing tang of cold salt water on Conan's limbs was not unwelcome. Salt stung his cuts and bruises, and the icy shock sent new vigor surging through his aching muscles.

He fell slowly through a world of pale jade green. As the hull of the Red Lion rose above him, he could discern the barnacles on her keel. Looking up, the old warrior saw two hulls above him - oval planets in a sky of shimmering, greenish silver. A weird sight...

His first impulse on hitting the water had been to strike out with his arms and swim. Then it came to him that the breathing apparatus in the crystal helm was designed, in some incomprehensible fashion, to enable him to breathe under water. Furthermore, he could see the sea bottom not far beneath his booted heels. At this point, close to the isles of Antillia, the ocean bottom sloped gently upward. Instead of falling into an ebony abyss of lightless gloom, he would descend only a few fathoms and then could walk to shore. So, controlling his instinct to swim, he permitted himself to sink to the bottom, treading water just enough to keep himself right side up.

Breathing was another matter. The helm came down to fit in saddle fashion over chest and back. Two glass tubes curved away over either shoulder to a tanldike affair on his back between his shoulders. The first tube entered the front of the helm on a level with his nostrils; the second, on a level with his mouth. A little experimenting showed that the wearer of the helmet was expected to wrap his lips around the lower tube, press his nostrils into the aperture of the upper, and then breathe in through the nostril tube and out through the other. When he exhaled, a column of silvery, shining bubbles rose from the apparatus with a gurgling sound. This unusual method of breathing took a little practice, but Conan got used to it by the time he landed softly, in a sprawling position, on the sea bottom. The bottom was covered with fine, soft sand, which rose in little clouds as he scrambled into an upright position. Around him, the water was clouded with puffs and swirls of slowly settling particles.

Conan found that his vision through the crystal helm was good, except that beyond a few yards the water clouded and confused his gaze. Although there was enough light clearly to make out his nearby surroundings, the more distant hillocks of sand were drowned in a deep emerald gloom.

He oriented himself easily enough, since to follow the rising slope of the sea bottom he knew would lead him to shore. So he set off in that direction, laboriously plodding through the soft sand, lurching from side to side because his armor and the breathing apparatus made him top-heavy. Despite the weight of his mail, boots, and sword, his body felt peculiarly light. It was gripped with an even pressure, which exerted itself against his entire body surface. This made breathing a wearying effort. But, disregarding the difficulties of moving, he forged along with grotesquely slow strides., which lifted him clear of the ocean floor with every step.

Curious growths flourished on the sea bottom. He pushed through an enchanted forest of weird plants, whose long, silky fronds undulated like glistening, multicolored ribbons. Small, brightly colored fish darted about him like fantastic birds, flashing golden and purple and emerald and crimson and azure. Towers of pink and white coral rose about him, cloven and branching like petrified trees.

Passing through the coral growths, Conan emerged into an area of tumbled, upward-sloping rocks, which lay this way and that and leaned against one another like the ruins of some primeval city of giants. Clusters of sea creatures clung to them. Some were flower-like or star-shaped or covered with spines. Some had jointed legs and eyes on stalks; others thrust out branching, feathery appendages.

Pulling himself up from level to level among the tumbled boulders, Conan silently cursed as something sharp gashed one of his fingers. In time, he emerged on a level plateau and stood for a moment, resting.

The sun must be higher now,, or else he had risen to a level quite near the surface, for the deep emerald of the depths had given way to a lucent chartreuse. By this clearer luminance he could make out another upward slope, which must extend almost to the surface. In this slope gaped the dark mouth of a sea cave.

Eyeing the cave warily, Conan decided to give it a wide berth. His experience with caves on dry land had often proved them to be tenanted - and tenanted by creatures formidable to man. He was sure that things other than the bright, harmless little fishes dwelt in these liquid depths. As he skirted the mouth of the cave, his eye caught a surge of motion in the darkness within. A spot of dim luminosity, as big as a serving platter, appeared, then another beside it. And something came sliding toward him across the sea bottom. It was like a ship's cable - or rather, like a tree trunk, covered with black, smooth, oily-looking bark, which had somehow been given flexibility and animation. The near end tapered to a slender whiplash, while toward the cave the tentacle thickened to the diameter of an old tree.

As the member writhed toward Conan, squirming and looping and rising from the sea bottom, he saw that its flat underside bore a double row of suckers, from little ones no bigger around than his thumb at the tapering end to others the size of horses's hooves further in. The thin end of the tentacle lifted from the sea bottom and tentatively touched Conan's boot, as if feeling this curious creature to see if it was edible.

'Crom!' gasped Conan, recognizing the tentacle as that of a creature of the kraken kind. He sprang backward, ripping his sword from the scabbard.

On dry land, such a leap would have taken him several feet back from where he stood, but things were different beneath the sea. Conan found himself floundering above the surface of the sand, turning end over end. Water leaked into his glassy helmet and gurgled in his ears as he revolved. With his free hand, he beat at the water to right himself.

The tentacle drew back. Then, like a striking serpent, it lunged up and out and coiled around his thigh.

Conan brought his sword down in a mighty slash. But the resistance of the water sent his stroke awry and robbed it of most of its force. The sword slightly gashed the rubbery tentacle and rebounded from it. *

The grip on Conan's thigh tightened., until his leg began to go numb. His lungs labored against the pressure of the water. He struck again at the tentacle, only to have the water again weaken the blow.

The grip on his leg grew crushing; Conan became terribly aware of the giant strength in that coil. With desperate certainty he knew that unless he broke the hold of the sea monster, the tentacle would pull him down into the cave. There, in the center of the spreading circle of arms, a sharp, parrot-like beak and a rasping tongue awaited their feast.

The giant kraken was not yet fully aroused. It toyed lazily with its victim, sluggishly curious but perhaps not yet hungry enough. But now Conan saw another tentacle lifting into view, and yet another behind it.

He reversed his blade and thrust the point of the broadsword into the thick hide of the tentacle, just above the coil that was clamped about his leg. The point slowly sank into the rubbery flesh, until the blade transfixed the tentacle and came out on the other side. Thanks be to all the gods, he was armed with a straight, sharp-pointed blade, and not with a curved, blunt-ended scimitar or cutlass! Had the latter been the case, the epic of Conan of Cimmeria might have ended right there.

The sluggish kraken seemed hardly to feel the pain of its pierced limb. Conan sawed the blade slowly up and down. Suddenly he seemed to strike a nerve, for the tentacle whipped loose and lashed back and forth, hurling him head over heels through the water.

As he again settled to the sandy surface, another tentacle came snaking toward him, blindly questing like the weaving, bobbing head of some huge black snake. As it writhed past him, Conan brought the point of his blade down upon the limb, trying to pin it against the ocean floor. As the writhing arm rippled to one side, the point gashed it, sending it slithering back toward the cave, like a wounded serpent.

Now the water about Conan surged as the titanic octopus, fully aroused by the pain of its wounds, heaved its bulk out of the cave mouth. Conan gaped in awe at the size of the thing.

Counting its eight writhing arms, it was as big as a house. First came the tentacles, as long as the Red Lion and as thick at their bases as the trunks of century-old trees. They swept writhing out, seized boulders in their sucker grip, and drew the rest of the monster after them. The mouth with its beak was hidden from view beneath the circle of arms.

After the tentacles came the head with its two platter-sized eyes, mounted side by side above the bases of the forward tenacles. These eyes had slit pupils, like those of a cat, but the slits were horizontal instead of vertical. Their cold, lidless stare was one of the most unnerving that Conan had ever faced.

Behind the head came the bloated, baglike,, limbless body, as big as one of the colossal wine vats in King Ariostro's cellars. Waves of changing color chased one another over the mottled mass: white, pink, russet., maroon, and black.

Conan stood motionless, debating what to do. He dared not flee down the broken incline at his back, because he would have to go slowly and would have his hands occupied and his back turned to the pursuing, angry monster. Conan guessed that it could not clearly discern him as long as he stood still. But if he moved, the motion would instantly draw the attention of the kraken. On the other hand, he could not remain where he was, for the monster's present course would carry it close to him. As the octopus hunched and edged its way forward, one or another of the lashing tentacles was soon bound to encounter Conan's body.

Choosing the simplest way of escape, Conan sprang upwards to get above the octopus. He hoped to circumvent it entirely and reach the upper slope beyond the cave before it sensed his location.

But Conan forgot that he was now clearly silhouetted as a black, moving object against the rippling, silvery plane of the sunlit surface above. Even as he swam above the brute, two questing tentacles reared up and closed crushingly about him - one about his waist and the other about his left foot. In that viselike grip he was helpless. In a few heartbeats, the tentacles would draw him down to the clashing beak...

Again Conan thrust the point of his blade against the thick, rubbery skin of a tentacle and pierced it. But the monster was not very sensitive to pain. Such was its vitality that he could have hacked through half its tentacles before seriously weakening it, and then it would have merely withdrawn to regrow its mutilated Umbs. Conan felt the surge of titanic muscles in the crushing grip that held him helpless as, with inexorable force, the kraken drew him down toward its beaked mouth ...

Then a bolt of black lightning struck and snapped through one of the tentacles holding him.

The dark shape had flashed out of dimness like a vast projectile. One snap of the triple rows of teeth had chopped a foot-long section out of one of the tentacles. The severed end uncoiled from Conan's midsection and drifted down to the ocean floor, flopping and writhing like a bisected worm.

The new arrival was a colossal shark, with a thick, tapering body over thirty feet in length. Dark slate-gray above, creamy white below, it banked and curved at the end of its lunge. For an instant it hung poised in the green waters. Then, with an arch of its supple spine, it curved about and came eeling back for another attack. Its small, yellow eyes, glassy with mindless hunger, glared into Conan's.

The Cimmerian was now held by a single tentacle, looped about his foot. Urgency lent extraordinary strength to his arms. Swung in both knobby hands, the broadsword sheared through the slender terminal portion of the tentacle., and Conan was free.

Not pausing to sheathe his blade, Conan swam furiously off at a tangent., striving to avoid the meteoric rush of the shark. The sword in his hand encumbered him and weighed him down on the right side, so that he slewed about in a wide half-circle. That was just enough to take him out of the path of the onrushing shark, whose triangular fins cut through the green-lit waters like plowshares.

It shot past him., its tooth-lined maw snapping shut on empty water. It missed him so narrowly that he could see the individual small, pebbly scales that crusted its rough, white underbelly as it raced by in front of his face. The displacement of the water tossed him about like a straw in the wind.

Then the shark turned and poised again at the end of its lunge. This time, Conan knew, he could not dodge. As the shark writhed toward him, three black tentacles flailed up past the Cimmerian and lashed about its bulky barrel, ensnaring the monster, The kraken's arms writhed like a nest of enraged serpents. The shark doubled, snapping furiously. Another tentacle was bitten in two, and the severed end sank writhing to the sand below.

But more tentacles whipped around the shark's body. Conan, holding his sword in his teeth to free both arms for swimming, saw what was happening as he stroked himself swiftly away from the combat. The octopus had thrown five of its eight arms - including even those that had had their tips severed - about the forward part of the shark's body and its head, covering its gills and its eyes.

No matter how the shark blindly writhed and snapped, it could not bring its terrible jaws to bear upon its rubbery antagonist.

Meanwhile, the octopus had anchored itself to the rocks below by means of the suckers on its remaining three tentacles, to keep from being carried away bodily by the struggles of the shark. Sand, stirred up in clouds by the combat, obscured the spectacle. And then the water around the battle was plunged into darkness as a vast cloud of ink, ejected by the octopus, billowed up and out in all directions.

Conan was happy at this outcome. Engaged in fighting each other, neither the kraken nor the giant shark had time for him. He seized the opportunity to sheathe his sword and swim away from the scene of conflict. Before long, it vanished behind him in the dimness of the deeps, a cloud of deeper darkness against the gloom of the watery world. He never learned whether the octopus succeeded in smothering and destroying the shark, or whether the cloud of ink meant that the shark was winning and the octopus was seeking to cover its flight.

As he settled to the ocean floor a few hundred yards further to continue his progress on foot, Conan was just as glad not to know the outcome of the battle behind him. Ahead, up the slope, the bottom brightened as it rose to meet the surface of the Western Ocean. Conan plodded steadily forward, resolutely ignoring the pressure on his chest and the ache in his legs that came from the effort of dragging them forward against the resistance of the water. He still had a good part of a mile to go - perhaps even more - and he was eager to get out into clean, fresh air again.

He plodded slowly on through the dim waters, a weird, fantastical shape crowned with a glistening crystal helm, like some eerie god of the deeps.

CHAPTER TWELVE

LOST CITY

Submerged in deep, red, mystic haze,
where suns in sanguine splendor set,

Forgotten empires linger yet,
like phantoms of primeval days.

- The Visions of Epemitreus

Conan heaved himself out of the waves and on to the lowest of the stone steps that led up to the sea gate, now closed for the night. From where he crouched, the setting sun had disappeared behind the crenelations of the towering sea wall.

Wearily, he pulled off the crystal helmet and its breathing tubes, whose supply of air was now exhausted, and laid the apparatus on the stone beside him. Then he tagged off his boots and poured the water out of them. For a while he sat hunched on the stone, glaring warily about him and breathing heavily. The task of hiking three miles over the bottom of the shallow, shark-infested sea, and then another mile along the shore to the city, had gravely sapped the old warrior's strength.

When he had reached the city in midafternoon, he had slipped back into the water. He waited, almost submerged, until all the small craft had tied up for the night, the sailors had gone in through the gate, and the gate had closed, before daring to come closer.

Up and down the long, stone quays, which stretched north and south from the gate, several larger vessels were moored. Others rode at anchor in the harbor, but no life appeared on their decks. The crews either were below at their evening repast or had gone ashore. These Antillians, thought Conan, must either be careless or confident in their own strength, to post no watches on their walls and their ships at all times. Among the Antillian ships, the fire-blackened hull of the Red Lion lay half-submerged in shallow water.

Conan was not only tired after his day-long exertions but also ravenously hungry. As he sat under the darkening sky, he thought out his next step. Whatever it was, he had better be about it before some watchman stumbled across him.

His best chance, he thought, would be to get into the city. This would place him in a fearfully dangerous position. Not only would he be alone and friendless; but also he could not hope to pass unnoticed, because his height, color, and features distinguished him at the slightest glance from the small, brown Antillians.

Added to this was the problem of language. Back in his own world, he had a rough-and-ready command of a dozen tongues, albeit he had never lost the barbarous Cimmerian accent with which he spoke them. But the Antillians would use some speech of remotely Atlantean origin, long forgotten in Conan's world and changed in the course of eight thousand years out of all resemblance to any languages Conan knew.

Nonetheless, he could not lie here by the water's edge forever. Perhaps this evening hour, when the people were at their meals, would offer the best chance he could look for.

He rose and ran a hand along the stone of the forty-foot sea wall. The wall was made of huge, well-shaped blocks, worn by the salt spray of centuries. Between the blocks, the mortar had softened and crumbled out, leaving gaps into which fingers and toes could be thrust between the courses of stone.

As a youth, Conan would have faced the climb of such a wall without trepidation. Scaling sheer cliffs was a normal accomplishment of a Cimmerian clansman. But he had not had occasion to make such a climb in many years, and his grasp was not so strong, nor his movements so sure as formerly.

He pulled himself together, kicked the helmet and its breathing apparatus into the water, and tucked his boots through his belt. He was tempted to leave his mailshirt but decided to keep it after all. Doffing one's armor in the face of peril, merely to rid oneself of its irksome weight, was the act of a rash and foolish youth - not of crafty old Conan.

Then, digging fingers and toes into the cracks between the courses, he began to climb. Slowly, like some great tail-less lizard, he crept up the wall. More than once he felt a finger or a toe slip and almost resigned himself to a bone-breaking fall. But his grip held, and presently he squeezed through one of the embrasures of the battlement and dropped to the broad, level top of the wall.

On the other side of the wall, towards the city, a low parapet without crenelations ran along the edge. Crouching, Conan slunk across the wall to the inner side and peered over the parapet. The city lay spread out before him.

Near the wall, fishermen's hovels and sheds stood in the red glow of the sunset. Smoke from cookfires rose from the huts, and here and there fishermen were stretching out their nets to dry. Now and then a naked brown child ran on an evening errand. Beyond lay cobbled streets and a vista of stone nouses, great and small.

The city was built on the sloping side of a hill. From where Conan crouched., he could see streets and squares, rising in tiers to the heights. The larger buildings were designed in a curious monolithic style, with thick, squat, tapering columns supporting heavy lintels and wedge-shaped corbelled arches. Walls of massive stone were dressed with stucco and plaster, either whitewashed or colored a violent crimson, a tawny cream, a bold canary, an emerald green, or a brilliant blue. The styling, although faintly reminiscent of nighted Khem or of the mysterious walled cities - some living, some ruined - that he had glimpsed years before in the deserts and jungles of the South, was strange to Conan's eye. It baffled him, as though built in accordance with an alien canon of aesthetics.

Higher on the slope rose stately edifices which were probably palaces, mansions, or temples. They had roofs of red tile or green copper and squat, five-sided towers with pyramidal tops. Conan saw imposing pylons, towering obelisks, and spacious gateways. Some avenues were lined with fantastic stone monsters.

Wall, cornice, doorway, architrave, and column capital were covered with leering, bug-eyed faces. Parrot-beaked, winged, or multilimbed beings of myth and legend sprawled in low, chiseled relief over gateways and walls. On some of the nearer walls, he could just make out rows of curious picture-writing. Composed of little squares containing weird faces and other elements, this form of writing was entirely new to him.

In the center of the city, amid a spacious square of level stone paving, rose a titanic pyramid with sloping sides, built of alternate blocks of block basalt and red sandstone. A lazy plume of smoke ascended from the topmost level, where Conan could faintly make out the outlines of a huge, flat altar. Flights of stone steps, guarded by stone monsters, rose up the side of the pyramid.

This structure exuded a sinister, disturbing aura of menace and terror, as if the mingled emotions of sacrificed thousands radiated from every stone. As he gazed at the accursed thing, Conan felt his skin roughen and suppressed a growl of hostility deep in his chest.

Few people moved in the darkening streets, increasingly drowned in purple night shadow. A few beggars slept in doorways. Here and there a yawning, sleepy-faced slave shuffled along on some errand for his master.

Conan waited until these few pedestrians were no longer to be seen. Then he took off his mail, made a bundle of it and his sword, and dropped the bundle to the ground below. The drop was considerably less than that on the seaward side of the wall. Then he swung himself over the parapet and began to descend, as he had ascended on the seaward side. Halfway down his grip slipped, and he kicked himself away from the wall as he fell, to land in a crouch on the turf fifteen feet below, jarred but unhurt.

A hasty glance revealed no sign that he had been 'seen, so he quickly donned boots, mail shirt, and sword. His only weapons were the broadsword and a broad-bladed dirk whose sheath was thrust through a slit in his girdle. These were not much with which to tackle a city full of implacable foes. But, with luck, daring, and the caution beaten into him by half a century of desperate adventure, he might have a fighting chance. And that was all he had ever asked of the gods.

Like a bronze shadow, he slipped between the hovels and across the first street into the shadows of an arcade. No eye marked his progress as he moved from column to gate, from doorway to pylon. In the daytime, the streets would be alive with a milling throng; now they were almost deserted.

In his shadowy progress through this silent city of gaudily-painted stucco over massive stone, Conan chose dark alleys and winding ways rather than the broad streets and wide ramps that climbed from level to level. He wondered where Sigurd and the pirates were - if they were still alive. Probably they would be immured near the Antillian equivalent of a slave market. In a strange city filled with enemies, where no man spoke a language he could understand,, he had little chance of finding and freeing them; but he meant to try. Even in the lawless days of his early career, he had been noted for his fierce loyalty to his comrades.

Besides, if one man had no hope of prevailing against a city of twenty or thirty thousand, with sixty hardened fighters behind him the mathematics became a little better - not much, true, but sixty-odd men still have a better chance of winning out of a tight spot than one, even if that one be Conan the Cimmerian.

Conan's first problem, however, was to find a safe haven, a place of concealment. Where, in a city full of unintelligible foes, could he find an ally ?

Then it would seem that he could count upon the favor of his barbaric gods, after all. He was slinking down a narrow street, lined with mean little one-room houses, when he heard a sharp hiss. As he looked around for the source, hand on hilt, the hiss was repeated from other directions. The faces of several women, dim in the dusk, had appeared in the doorways, and their hands beckoned to him.

In a flash, he realized that he had strayed into the Street of Harlots. He picked one door at random and strode to it. There was no time to examine the women closely in order to choose the most comely.

The harlot pulled Conan into her room. The cubicle was dimly lit by a bundle of rushes dipped in grease, set alight, and clamped in a wall bracket. She spoke to him in a stream of meaningless syllables, but the hand that she held out, palm up, was eloquent enough.

Conan pulled a small purse out of his girdle, took out a silver coin, and placed it on the outstretched palm. The woman held the coin to the rushlight, then squeaked with delight and threw herself upon Conan. She was plump, not unattractive, and clad in a simple cotton dress.

'Easy, lass!' he rumbled. 'That coin should be worth several days' board, now shouldn't it?!'

The woman fingered Conan's hair and beard and spoke again. This time her words bore a sound of disappointment. Conan guessed at her meaning.

'So you think I'm too old for such games, eh?' he said with a grin. 'We'll see about that later. Meanwhile, by Crom, get me somewhat to eat, ere I starve!' By sign language he finally put his meaning across.

An hour later, he sat down to the meal that the woman, whose name was Catlaxoc, had prepared. She had gone out and returned with a basketload of provender, which she had cooked on her little hearth. She had not stinted on the supplies, and Conan dug hungrily into the large, strangely flavored roast fowl. The woman stood back, deferentially waiting for him to finish before eating herself.

'Now what' growled Conan, 'is this thing?' He held up a cylindrical vegetable a foot long, on which grew rows of golden kernels. 'And how in hell do you eat it?'

He finally made her understand that he wanted the name of the object. 'MahizJ she said.

'Mahiz, eh? Well now, show me how to eat it. Come on, sit down and eat, or I'll devour everything in sight and leave naught for you!'

At last he made his desires understood. Imitating the harlot, he gnawed the rows of kernels from the ear of maize, meanwhile asking for the names of the other edibles. By the end of the repast, he and Catlaxoc could exchange a few simple sentences.

Conan washed down the last of the meal with a flagon of an unfamiliar fermented fruit juice. He belched and looked at Catlaxoc, who cast her eyes down demurely and smiled. Then she glanced significantly toward the alcove at the end of the room.

Conan grinned. 'Well, 'tis true I am not so young as once I was, and I'm a little weary from a day of walking the ocean bottom and battling men, sharks, and krakens. But we shall see.'

He rose, stretched, scooped Catlaxoc up in his arms, and bore her to the alcove.

It was several days later, in the evening, that Conan took leave of the harlot Catlaxoc. She clung to his arm, weeping, and he had to use gentle force to peel her off. He now wore the cotton cloak and kilt of a common Antil-Uan. Catlaxoc had obtained this raiment for him and had also taught him the rudiments of the Atillian language. He knew that he was in Ptahuacan, the last surviving city of the Atlanteans on earth. His old garments and accouter-ments he had tied up in a bundle, which he carried by a sling over one shoulder.

He still dared not show himself abroad by day, since his size and his alien coloring and features would have made him a marked man in any but the dimmest light. But he now had a fair idea of the layout of the city and of the sort of disguise he would need to carry out his designs.

As the evening passed, Conan despaired of finding that which he sought. At last, as he stalked down a dark alley toward an open square, a huge figure, wrapped in a weird cloak of feathers, turned into the opposite end of the alley and came directly toward him.

Conan froze, then sprang upon the stranger like a striking lion. Before the man could utter a sound, Conan clubbed him into unconsciousness with a fist to the temple. He dragged the limp figure into a dark doorway, sweating a little at the nearness of the thing. One squawk from the robed giant, and Conan's enterprise might have ended right there.

He looked his victim over. Assuming the glass-mailed warriors on the dragonships to have been normal Antillians, this fellow was an unusually large one. Then Conan saw that the man wore built-up boots with seven-inch stilts for soles. To impress the gullible, perhaps? The fellow had the look of a priest or warlock about him: shaven pate, hands covered with talismanic rings, and chains of seals, amulets, and tiny idols strung about his scrawny throat.

Conan examined the man's hands. Aye, he must be a priest. No other occupation left one's hands so soft and uncallused.

The man was curiously clad. Beneath the feather robe, his lean, brown body was nearly naked, save for a tight skirt of pleated cotton. Thick bracelets of gold, worked with complex cryptic glyphs, encircled his wrists, arms, and ankles. The feather robe, the like of which Conan had never seen before, included a plumed cowl. The robe was of coarsely-woven wool, covered with feathers whose bright hues could be discerned even in this faint light. The quills of the feathers were drawn through the coarse weave of the wool and fixed in place with small, individual knots. A lining of a thin, finely woven crimson stuff resembling silk kept this rough, prickly surface from scratching the wearer's body.

It struck Conan that if he donned the robe without the built-up boots, he would be only a little taller than the priest-magician. In fact, with his arms hidden and the cowl pulled up around his face, he might be able to walk abroad without attracting attention. But even the cowl would not be enough to hide his undipped gray mane and beard, which contrasted with the smooth face and shaven pate of the priest.

Conan solved this problem by tearing off a length of the silky red material and winding it about his hair and the lower part of his face, concealing all but his eyes. Then he struggled into his boots and mail shirt and hung his sword at his side. He donned the heavy, hot, prickly feather robe and pulled the cowl close about his face.

He had no way of judging the effect, but it seemed likely that he could pass casual scrutiny. His blue eyes and the red scarf about his chin might still attract attention, but he shrugged off this possibility. In his experience of city life, a priest or a magician was unlikely to be meddled with by common folk, who were usually only too glad to avoid men of these classes.

Gathering his courage, Conan strode boldly forth into a square lit by the moon and by torches set in brackets on the walls of the surrounding buildings. Almost at once, his disguise was put to the test. A potbellied shopkeeper, who was just putting away his display of goods for the night, confronted him first. The little brown man was placing his stock of ornaments of copper, jade, silver, and gold and his collection of feathered headdresses in a set of wooden caskets. As Conan strode into view, the feathered robe swirling about his booted ankles, the shopkeeper glanced sideways with black, frightened eyes at the towering, faceless figure. Then he bowed and, snatching up an amulet of jade that dangled against his breast, kissed it obsequiously and remained in this servile position until Conan had passed.

So Conan had survived his first test! Obviously, the little folk of Antilla went in great fear and awe of their priest-wizards. With reasonable care and luck, he stood in little danger of challenge.

For hours, Conan explored the broad ways and winding alleys of Ptahuacan without arousing any special interest. Priests in such feathered robes were evidently a common sight along the high-walled, cobblestoned streets of the lost Atlantean city. Later, when the streets became wholly deserted, he found an empty, tumbledown hut and slept until dawn. Then he set forth on his expeditions again.

In the morning's light, Conan saw dozens of other tall, feather-robed figures stalking about on stilt-soled shoes. They strode grandly through the crowds, never deigning to reply to the humble greetings of those they passed. It would seem that the priest-wizards.of old Atlantis were the rulers of this city, also.

It would also seem that the populace was entirely subordinated to them. To Conan the people seemed a listless, downtrodden lot, with glazed, indifferent eyes and frightened faces. With apprehension in their dark eyes, they scurried out of the path of the tall, feather-robed priests, whose arrogant authority Conan strove to imitate.

Ptahuacan, Conan found, was built on ascending levels, and the parallel streets that ran along these levels were connected by sloping ramps and stairways. The city was a remarkable technical achievement, denoting a sophisticated culture with ancient traditions and well-developed artistic canons. The stonework was equal to anything Conan had seen in his own world; even the modern cities of his realm could not match the massive proportions of the mighty temples or the meticulous precision of their masonry. The fantastic, temple-crowned ziggurat in the central square, as large as any of the pyyramids of Stygia and reminiscent in its style of the fanes of some of the sinister cults of Shem, must have taken centuries of labor by thousands of workers to erect. Around the margins of the square ran a set of stone benches, rising tier upon tier until they could have held thousands of spectators facing the pyramid.

Conan stayed out of the square of the pyramid, for it seemed to be a holy place. He might well encounter many priests garbed like himself, who would not be timid about accosting him. So far, he had been able to dodge the feather-robed ones he saw in the streets. They did not seem a very companionable caste anyway. Aloof, unapproachable, and busy on their own unguessable errands, they rarely stopped to speak even with one another.

Conan spent much time in loitering near groups in order to hear something of the language. It was guttural and sibilant, given to long word-units. He could now understand many isolated words and a few phrases, but a long sentence spoken rapidly baffled him. Although its grammar seemed utterly different from that of any of the languages he knew, a few of the words he had learned from Catlaxoc did bear a faint resemblance to the corresponding words in his native Cimmerian, It occurred to the old Cimmerian that the Atlanteans -who rose to civilization after the fall of Valusia, much of whose culture they adopted - were in part the ancestors of his own people. In the little-known era before the Cataclysm, the tribes and clans of an elder Cimmeria had warred and intermarried with the Atlantean colonists on the Thurian coasts. Many Cimmerian tribes, half-civilized through long contact with Atlantean colonists., had served Atlantis as mercenaries in the final centuries before the island continent sank beneath the sea. As the Cimmerian barbarians acquired the rudiments of civilization, they borrowed words to express more complex concepts from their ancient enemies. Hence, some faint resemblances lingered between a few words of similar meaning on both sides of the vast Western Ocean. Such resemblances, however, were not enough to give a stranger from across the sea a command of Antillian speech without much arduous practice.

From the occasional overheard word or phrase that he could understand, Conan grasped that the main topics of gossip in Ptahuacan that morning were two. One was the combat between the dragonships of the Sea Guard and the alien vessel from parts unknown. The other was the blasphemous assault upon one of the holy priests, who had been incredibly robbed of his sacred feather robe. Conan listened eagerly for news of the whereabouts and fortunes of his crew; but, if any speaker knew the answer to that question, he did not say.

While Conan was loitering near crowded market stalls in one of the larger bazaars, the chance that he had awaited presented itself. A sly-eyed little man in a tattered kilt lingered with elaborate casualness near the copper-bound box where a fat merchant kept his trade "metal: slugs of lead, rings of copper and silver, and quills of gold dust. Even as Conan glanced, he saw the little man dip one bare, scrawny arm into the box with the deft speed of a striking serpent. In the blink of an eye, the man had removed two quills of gold dust.

The merchant, engaged in a voluble exchange with an aristocratic customer, who leaned from a slave-borne palanquin to haggle over a fine pelt from some large, catlike beast, saw nothing. A grin of joy wrinkled Oman's hidden features as he watched the thief glide away, the precious quills vanishing into his kilt.

As the thief slunk from the bazaar, Conan quietly followed him into an empty alley. Then in one lithe bound he was upon the little Antillian, who squeaked like a frightened mouse when Conan's massive hand clamped on his bony shoulder. Conan fended off the stroke of the needle-like little obsidian dagger that had appeared from thin air.

He seized and squeezed the man's hand, and the glass-bladed knife tinkled to the slimed cobbles.

As the little thief raised fearful, curious eyes to the giant in the feathered cowl, Conan growled in broken Antillian: 'Take me to king of thieves, or I break your arm!'

At last the dice were rolling in his favor. Like all cities, great Ptahuacan must have a criminal underworld. And, if one is in trouble with the ruling class, one can always find a welcome amongst the worldwide guild of thieves!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THIEVES OF PTAHUACAN

Black evils essence hither comes from some
unknown dimension far,

And those who leave earth's gate ajar
shall die as earthly life succumbs.

- The Visions of Epemitreus

Conan's captive led him by winding ways into the more sordid sections of the ancient city. Here, homeless derelicts and filthy beggars lounged in crumbling doorways. Raddled whores leaned from windows to compete for the trade of an occasional passerby.

As he penetrated the slum area, Conan began to realize the unthinkable age of the city. Here the stone steps and ramps were worn into sloping saddles by the tread of countless generations. The very stone of the walls was worn slick by the brushing of millions of shoulders. Ages of wind and rain had eroded much of the stone into porous, crumbling ruin. Long abandoned and tenanted only by vermin, many structures had collapsed. Whole blocks of houses lay in mouldering ruins in this, the most ancient sector of the city. Grass grew between tilted paving stones, while weedy trees sprouted amidst the tangles of long-overgrown gardens and courtyards. If the sight of a feather-robed priest-wizard in these shabby streets was unusual, none of the inhabitants gave evidence of this fact. For, as Conan passed with the weasel-faced little thief in tow, hardly one raised curious eyes. It seemed to be the custom in these parts of Ptahuacan ostentatiously to ignore the doings of others, probably as a means of self-preservation. Doubtless this was the thieves' quarter, where lawlessness flourished.

Only when they neared the headquarters of the thieves did Conan realize that his progress had been under surveillance all the time. As they passed down a crooked alley between walls that leaned awry, two burly figures, armed with cudgels, appeared in front of them, while another pair closed in from behind. They were all big and stout for Antillians and naked except for soiled, apronlike garments of patched leather. Fixing Conan with cold, somber black eyes, they advanced from either end of the alley toward the place where he stood with his captive.

Conan let go the thief in order to put a hand on the sword hilt under his robe. The little thief moved away a pace, then turned to spew a volley of abuse, too fast for Conan to follow.

'He grabbed me after I lifted some gold dust from Hatupep's stall,' cried the thief. 'I know not what in Hell's name he wants, but--'

'Ease off, Itzra,' growled one of the bullies. 'We'll find out what he wants.' Advancing on swift feet, he lifted his copper-bound cudgel.

Conan laughed and threw back his feathered robe and cowl. His broadsword hissed from its scabbard, The bullies stopped as if they had run into an invisible wall - but not, it seemed, from simple fear.

'Lords of Hell - iron, or I'm a blind man!' gasped one of them.

Another muttered an expletive and peered more closely at Conan, observing with wonder his height, his unshorn mane and beard, and his smouldering blue eyes.

'Gods of death, what is he?' the fellow swore. 'No such man has ever been seen in all Antillia! `

With his back against the wall, Conan barked a laugh, swinging his blade from side to side to menace all five hoodlums.

'One who stole this robe from its owner, friend, and no spy for your rulers, if that is what you think!' he rumbled. 'Moreover, one who would see your chief on business, to profit of both. And I will see him, whether you like or not!'

He held his sword level so that the daylight flashed from its blade. The four guards and the cutpurse gave back, eyeing him with growing alarm. Strangely, his sword seemed to arouse more interest than he himself did. Conan guessed that for some reason - perhaps lack of ores in this island chain - ferrous metals were virtually unknown here, although legendary tales of the iron and steel of ancient Atlantis had been handed down through the generations.

'Now,' he grunted, 'will you take me to your leader, or would you rather fight?'

They were happy to oblige.

The local underworld lordling was an enormously fat man named Metemphoc. His face was a bulging mass of lardlike flesh in which a pair of cold black eyes glittered like fragments of polished obsidian. His mouth was a thin-lipped gash across his round, brown face; his nose, a mere blob between his swollen cheeks.

His headquarters was a series of abandoned cellars beneath the ruined houses at the end of a filthy alley. The walls of stained, crumbling plaster were hung with gorgeous tapestries of strange design, and on the cement floors were scattered elaborately woven mats and the tanned skins of beasts of many kinds. Silver thuribles filled the air with rich incense. The quiet luxury and gilded splendor of Metemphoc's apartment contrasted vividly with the squalor of the exterior.

Like a fat toad, Metemphoc lay wrapped in gorgeous brocade amidst a nest of cushions as he listened to Conan's tale. His face impassive and his black eyes coldly glittering, he uttered no word until Conan had finished his account. Then a long, suspenseful moment stretched on while Metemphoc examined Conan from head to foot, paying almost as much heed to the sword that lay across the Cimmerian's knees as to the man who held it.

With a sigh, Metemphoc rubbed fat jowls with pudgy fingers, whereon sparkled a king's ransom in gem-studded rings. He laughed throatily and called for wine and meat. The suspense broke.

'By the gods of stealth, big man!' he chuckled, 'old Metemphoc has never heard such a tale in all his poor, sick days; therefore it must be true! Aye, with that barbarous mane and uncouth face fur, and those uncanny sky-colored eyes - and, ahem, an accent such as these tired old ears can barely understand - this fat old man has no choice but to believe that you do, forsooth, hail from an unknown land to the east. Notwithstanding that our beloved masters, the holy priesthood - ha! - inform us that naught lies thither but a wild waste of waters, with never a speck of land.'

They amicably toasted each other. Conan gulped thirstily at a sweet, pungent wine such as he had never tasted. Doubtless, he thought, this drink was fermented, not from grapes, but from some unfamiliar local fruit.

He felt quite at home. By pure instinct, he and the toad-like master thief understood each other. Although born thousands of leagues apart and of alien cultures, they spoke the same lawless language in their hearts.

While they drank, food was brought and set out on the low table between them. Conan dug hungrily into the repast. Besides the Antillian foods with which he had already become familiar, there were nuts and berries of a dozen kinds. The repast ended with a curious, large,, prickly fruit with a spray of sword-shaped leaves growing from its top. Metemphoc cut it into ring-shaped, yellow-green slices. Conan found the taste startling at first but not bad after a few bites.

Meanwhile they carried on a desultory conversation between mouthfuls. Metemphoc said: 'Aye, I know of that strange ship, full of barbarous foreigners, which our Sea Guard captured a few days past. That is one reason I was willing to believe your tale.'

'Are my men still alive, and if so where?' grunted Conan.

'They live, or did last night. They are in a dungeon below the Anteroom of the Gods - that gay citadel that stands on the edge of the Square of the Great Pyramid.'

Conan reflected that the wily underworld princeling seemed willing to give him the information he sought, frankly enough; but almost visibly his cold, clever, mind was searching for a mode to make a profit from the stranger. He did not trouble to conceal this from Conan, who fully grasped the thoughts that raced behind the impassive fagade of the man's fat face.

'What will be their fate?'

'They are held for sacrifice, in the temple atop the Great Pyramid.'

`Eh?' Conan made a sudden movement, spilling some of his wine.

'Why, yes. They will be given to the demon-god Xotli, in accordance with the rituals that have come down from ancient Atlantis...'

Conan's nape hairs bristled as Metemphoc explained, with unruffled aplomb, the customs of the local priesthood. Before the fall of Atlantis, the priests of Xotli had been a powerful faction, who worshipped their demon-god with awful rites of blood and terror. When the High Gods had destroyed Atlantis for its sins, the priests of Xotli and their slaves had fled from the sinking land in a mighty fleet of flying ships powered by the mysterious force called vril.

Conan had heard vague rumors of these Atlantean sky ships. He understood that, with the passage of centuries, the ships had worn out, or their supply of power had failed; and the secret of their manufacture had been lost in the ages of barbarism and bloodshed that followed the Cataclysm. Therefore no such ships existed in Hyborian times.

The priests of Xotli, continued Metemphoc, had ventured southwest from the doomed continent. They made a landfall in the little-known island chain they called Antillia. This consisted of seven large islands in the Western Ocean between Atlantis and a much larger continent, sometimes called Mayapan, still farther west. When the Atlanteans landed, they found the islands in the possession of a race of small, brown, slant-eyed savages, similar to the people of Mayapan. They easily conquered these natives and reduced them to the same slavery as the servants they had brought with them. In the millennia since the Cataclysm, the blood of the Atlanteans and of the aboriginal Antillians had mingled, until today the islands were inhabited by a single, mixed race.

Since the original conquest of Antillia and the construction of great Ptahuacan, the Xotlian priesthood, under the hereditary Hierarch of the Sacred Mysteries of Xotli, had ruled with an iron hand, despite occasional outbursts of rebellion on the part of their subjects. The hierarchs had kept the masses under control by telling the people that all lands - even Mayapan - had sunk with Atlantis, and the world was naught but a waste of wind-tossed waters, stretching from Antillia in all directions to the rim of the world, where sea met sky and the stars rose out of the foam of the endless seas.

'Do you believe this?' said Conan.

Metemphoc chuckled. 'If a priest asked me, I should say yes. Most of the people believe, or at least lack the guts to question the teachings of their masters. But, between you and me, some of us know that Mayapan still stands; and now your coming has shown that land still exists on the other side of the waters, also.'

'Why do the priests proclaim this lie, when they know better?'

'It helps to keep their subjects under control. If they believe there is no other land they could flee to, they will despair of escaping from the iron rule of the priests of Xotli.'

'Tell me of this demon-god and his rites.!'

Metemphoc explained that Xotli, Lord of Terror, was a demon-god of the Elder Night. He appeared unto his worshippers as a rolling cloud of ebony darkness, a vortex of ultimate, boreal cold like that of the winds that blow between the stars. He drank the living souls of those slain upon his towering, pyramidal altars. To sustain the linkages between the Hierarch of the Mysteries in this world and the Demon of Darkness in the nighted depths of its unknown dimensions beyond the universe, the raw life-force of the victims was projected into the other worldly abyss.

Calmly, the fat master thief told how naked captives by the thousands were immolated atop the sky-reaching black-and-crimson ziggurat that Conan had glimpsed amidst the upper tiers of the ancient city. There, on the altars of Ultimate Night, the priest-wizards tore upen the breasts of the living victims, ripped out their hearts with knives of volcanic glass, and offered up the life-force thereof to the whirling cloud of vampyric darkness that formed above the pyramid and hung there for hours, feeding on the living force of human souls. The corpses they dropped down a shaft into some unknown pit or cavern.

Conan growled and his eyes flashed dangerous fires as he listened. The mere idea of human sacrifice did not especially shock him. He had seen too much bloodshed in the course of his long life, and such practices were not unknown among the nations of Conan's own world in the Hyborian Age. But that his own friends and followers should be offered up in such barbarous rites - that was something else!

He sloshed down a mouthful of the pungent wine. 'What then of the Red Shadows ?'

Then Conan learned that the population of Antillia had become so depleted by the constant sacrifices that the wizard-priests had been forced to travel far afield to secure an adequate supply of captives to slake the dark thirsts of Xotli. First they raided the shores of Mayapan; then, when the coastal natives of that barbarous^ sparsely peopled land scattered into their impenetrable forests, the priests had begun to reach out in other directions.

'The Red Shadows, as you call them,' said Metemphoc, 'are the spirit-servants of the Dark One. I had not known until now that the Hierarch (may his spirit be reborn in a tapeworm!) had been raiding the unknown lands to the east. Black Xotli must be hungry indeed! Our own sacrifices have grown so numerous of late that the city is half empty, as you have seen. Whole squares and streets are depleted of people. Thousands have fled to the hills or to the adjoining isles; but the rule of the priests extends thither, too, and they hunt them down. That is the reason for the Sea Guard, which seized your own vessel. It watches the harbors to intercept any who, doubting the word of the priests, essay to flee to some hoped-for land beyond the seas.'

Conan's gaunt, scarred hands opened and closed on emptiness, as if they clenched a human throat between them. 'Now I understand the Red Shadows,' he growled.

'From what I have seen of sorcery in my own world, I know that once a dark force from beyond has obtained a foothold in the world of men, it needs ever-growing numbers of sacrifices to sustain it. The demons of the Elder Dark are - I know not how to put it in your tongue - they are negative; not nothing, but less than nothing. Life-force streams in to fill the void of their false existence. But their vacuum can never be filled and needs ever more and more life-force to sustain their illusion of life. Do you understand me?'

'I do,' said Metemphoc. 'Go on.'

'Why, man, do you know that, unchecked, the servants of Black Xotli would ravage all the lands of this world until the very planet is empty of man ? Nay more, they would then seize upon all higher forms of animal life, to leave the world to the fishes and the worms. It was this whereof the shade of Epemitreus sought to warn me - this perverted form of worship that should have sunk with Atlantis, eight thousand years ago.'

'From what the ghost of your wise man said,' replied Metemphoc, 'it would seem that the gods have chosen you to stand between the world of living men and the Shadow of Evil. Only you can tip the balance between life for the world and death.'

`Aye' muttered Conan.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE BLACK LABYRINTH

Red eyes flamed as the blood-mad horde

From the ebon mouth of the tunnel poured.

White fangs gleamed in the cavern black,

As after him swarmed the chittering pack.

- The Voyage of Amra

Down the dark tunnel went Conan. Stalactites hung down like stone drapery from the arched ceiling far above; an occasional drop of limewater fell from their tapering ends. The cavern floor was scummed with mud and be-slimed with the calcareous drippings of the mineral growths above. Here and there, the growth rose from the floor in glassy humps and soaring pillars, where stalagmites had formed.

The cold, moist air reeked with strange, repellent odors. A faint, sour breeze blew in Conan's face. Guided by it, the old Cimmerian paced through the black labyrinth, which stretched for miles beneath the age-old city of Ptahuacan.

Old Metemphoc, the master thief of Ptahuacan, had flatly told Conan that by no conceivable route could a single armed man gain entry into the triple-guarded citadel where Conan's Barachans lay immured, awaiting the Day of Sacrifice two days thence. Countless guards, gates and doors, locks and bars lay between the open streets and the secret heart of the priestly fortress.

Conan's agile mind, however, was not so easily lulled into abandonment of his design. In response to his endless queries the Lord of Thieves bethought him of the ancient labyrinth of caverns and tunnels beneath the city. Whence they had come, no man could say. But the city was built upon a massive outcropping of limestone, and perhaps ages of erosion by underground streams had hollowed them out.

The thieves well knew the tunnels of the highest level and used them often. But the deeper tunnels were shunned even by them; for doubtful, hair-raising rumors circulated of strange cries from these noisome depths, of shambling forms half-glimpsed, and of men who, having dared the deep tunnels, cried out and then vanished forever.

Under Conan's implacable questioning, Metemphoc had reluctantly owned that the deep tunnels might well connect with the dungeons of the Vestibule of the Gods. Still, he had urged Conan to find some more wholesome way into the forbidden citadel. But Conan had proved obdurate to all his well-meant urgings.

At length, Metemphoc had seen that Conan was adamant in his determination to try to rescue his comrades by means of the deep tunnels. With a heartfelt sigh, the fat master thief then called his henchmen into conference. They began to riffle through the archives of the thieves' guild. Ancient maps of the labyrinth of tunnels were unearthed. Conan pored over these, memorizing the twists and turns of the caverns and the landmarks by which he could find his way.

So here was Conan, stalking through the darkness of the deep tunnels, scrambling and leaping over irregularities in the floor of the cavern. In one hand he bore a lantern furnished him by the master thief. This device - a fine example of Antillian technical skill - was a little bronze lamp with a cylindrical reservoir for oil, a spout from which projected a sputtering wick, a disk-shaped reflector of silvered bronze behind the flame, and a handle in back. From long polishing, some of the silver had been worn away from the face of the reflector, revealing the bronze beneath. But the little lamp was still useful for Oman's purposes. It would, Metemphoc had said, burn for several hours before its fuel was exhausted.

Here and there among the branching mouths of the tunnels, a white mark was blazoned against the wet stone. These were the thieves' blazes. Where none was visible, certain odd configurations of stone had been described to him as landmarks - for instance, a humped shape of limestone that looked like a gigantic spider.

Conan moved steadily ahead, though he little liked the cold, damp breeze that wafted upon him from the unseen depths. As he moved, his mind could not help conjuring up strange pictures from the odd sounds that wailed and echoed and whispered about him in the darkness. Now and then he heard a weird, sobbing cry, which rose to a piercing shriek of inhuman agony and died away again to a faint moan, like the wind through distant pines.

At other times, he thought he sensed the stealthy tread of unseen feet about him, in the unlighted mouths of side passages and in the main tunnel behind him. Sometimes whispered words or cold, mocking laughter roused atavistic fears of the supernatural in his barbaric soul - fears which he crushed with iron self-control.

Then, too, there came to his keyed-up senses a soft, slithering sound, as if some titanic worm or slug were crawling over the rough stone floor. Even so seasoned an old warrior as Conan could not help a shiver of revulsion as he thought of what creatures might dwell in these sunless depths, far beneath this forgotten city of Time's Dawn.

The moans and wails, he sternly told himself, were simply the sounds of wind blowing through the mock-forests of limestone formations. The laugh was the gurgle of underground waters, distorted by the conformation of the tunnels. The crawling sound might have been the slow, creaking subsidence of the very earth itself. But still the superstitious fears arose in his mind to plague him.

The skin of Conan's nape prickled. From somewhere, he was conscious of the gaze of unseen eyes. He had been winding his way through the subterranean caverns for - he thought - well over two hours. He had slipped and staggered on wet stones, stumbled over irregularities, leaped ditches and chasms athwart his path, bumped his head on low ceilings, squeezed through narrow places, and scrambled up and down steep slopes. He had disturbed colonies of bats, hanging upside down in clusters from the overhead. They squeaked angrily at him and whirred away into the darkness.

He wondered how much longer his lamp would continue to give light. It seemed to him that already its flame had weakened; it spluttered and wavered, as though its supply of oil were coming irregularly.

And now the barbarian's keen senses, but little blunted and dulled by years of urban life, told him that he was under the surveillance of hidden eyes.

He slowed his pace and went forward cautiously and silently. His keen eyes searched the dark mouths of the caverns about him for hidden agents of the Antillian priesthood, but he saw no sign of men. Nevertheless, his wilderness-trained senses told him that the pressure of an unseen gaze rested upon him. He wondered if the Antillian priesthood possessed crystal globes of magical powers, which they had inherited from their Atlantean forebears and the like of which he had seen in the Hyborian lands, whereby an initiate magician could observe events taking place afar. Were the cold eyes of an Antillian watching his every move, right now?

He froze and held his breath, listening. Far behind him sounded a metallic clang, as of a gate opening. Had he imagined it?

Now sounds grew behind him. Sweat started from his skin, for the sound was a muffled squeaking, pattering, and rustling. It was as if the unseen watcher had loosed behind him a horde of small but formidable animals, to hunt him through the cavern world and pull him down with thousands of claws and teeth.

Now the sounds grew louder and clearer. Conan muttered the name of Crom, half a curse and half a prayer. Now he believed, that, in truth, those tunnels had been barred by unseen grills, and that some watchful guard had perceived his stealthy approach and loosed the slithering horde to overwhelm him.

Conan swung his lantern to illumine the main tunnel behind him. The light was reflected redly from hundreds of pairs of small eyes close to the ground. As the living flood of pursuers came into the stronger light, Conan almost dropped his lantern in astonishment. The pursuers were rats - but what rats!

Conan had become familiar over the years with the little gray rat of the Hyborian lands, and the agile black rat of Vendhya, and the burly brown rat of Hyrkania. But these animals overtopped the rats of his world as normal rats overtopped mice. They were as big as large cats or small dogs, weighing several pounds apiece. They were not only huge, but gaunt as if half starved. Their white chisel-teeth snapped on empty air, hungry for his blood and flesh.

Conan whirled and ran, his thudding boots keeping time with his laboring pulse. Against such a bloodthirsty horde, his sword could do little; the greatest fighting man of his age would have gone down in seconds under the tide of squealing, snapping rodents.

So Conan ran as he had never run in all his life - even on that unforgotten day and night nearly fifty years before, when he had escaped from the Hyperborean slave pen, after battling his way to freedom with a length of broken chain, and had fled through rain and snow with a pack of famished wolves at his heels.

Now the breath seared his lungs with every gulp of air, as if he inhaled the breath of a furnace. His heart pounded against his ribs. His laboring legs seemed weighted with lead; his muscles ached as if devils were piercing them with fiery needles. But still he reeled and staggered on. The wind of his motion bent back the little flame of the lamp until it was in danger of being blown out altogether.

Behind him the rats scuttled and bounded and galloped, keeping pace with him. From time to time one of the foremost would jostle or tread upon another, and there would be a brief exchange of squeals and bites. But the rest of the horde flowed on, little delayed by these brief eddies in its course.

Then Conan's eyes caught a faint glimmer ahead; and the murmur of running water told him that he neared a river. As he approached, he saw that it was a rushing torrent of black water. For an instant he hoped that it would prove narrow enough to leap and thus form a barrier between himself and the pursuing horde. But then he saw that, at least right here, it was over twenty feet wide - too great a distance for him to leap. Long ago in his lusty youth, if not exhausted by running and not burdened by weapons and armor, he could easily have made such a jump. But now . ..

With widespread legs, Conan faced the furry onslaught. His chest heaved and his panting lungs drew in the cold, dank air, now fetid with the stench of the horde of rats. The headlong race through the black caverns had set his heart to pounding furiously and the blood to coursing madly through his veins. While the blood still roared in his ears, he drew his broadsword for one last, great fight. For nothing that lived could survive close combat with this horde of blood-mad, rustling rodents. All his life, Conan had only asked for a fighting chance, and now he did not have even that. But, if he had only moments left to live, he would live those moments to the full and go down fighting. For all his years, he was still in splendid condition and could have broken the backs of men half his age. And if no mortal eye should witness the last stand of Conan the Cimmerian, at least the gods would relish the spectacle - if indeed the gods looked down upon men and watched over them, as those lying priests maintained.

Conan stood on a roughly triangular ledge of rock that jutted out into the underground river, like a miniature cape or peninsula. Hence the rats could not come at him from the sides or rear, although they could still attack him on a broad front.

The giant rats poured out of the mouth of the tunnel like a river of black-and-gray fur, their eyes twinkling redly in the lamplight like the stars of some infernal dimension. Their squeaking chatter rose above the murmur of the river, and the rasp of their claws on the stone was like the hiss of dry, dead leaves whirled by an autumn gale.

Conan stooped to set down the little lantern behind his feet and gripped his sword in both hands. He raised his voice in a booming battle song of his barbarous people, and then the rats were upon him.

As the first one came within reach, a slash sent it flying in two halves over the heads of its comrades. Then, for long minutes, the heavy broadsword whirled like the vanes of a windmill as Conan struck right and left in a deadly figure-eight pattern, his point just clearing the ground with each stroke. And with each stroke, one or more rats went flying - sometimes whole, sometimes as separated heads, bodies, limbs, and entrails. Blood splashed Conan's arms and legs. Now and then he miscalculated so that his point touched the stone in its sweep, striking sparks.

But on pressed the horde, as those behind pushed those before them into the whirling blade. Now the press loosened somewhat, for some of the rats turned from the attack to feast upon the mutilated remains of their dead brethren. And still Conan swung and sent rat corpses flying by the score. His blade was now red halfway to the hilt, and the stone underfoot became sticky and slippery with blood. With each stroke, his sword threw off a spray of red droplets.

Now they pressed upon him again, and for all the slaughter he wrought upon them he could not hold them back. Some dug their chisel-teeth into the tough leather of his boots. Furiously, Conan kicked and stamped, crunching the life out of those that swarmed around his feet; but others quickly took their place.

A rat scrambled up to the top of Conan's boot and bit through the cloth of his breeches at the knee, inflicting a flesh wound. A quick slash sent the rat spinning away in two halves. Others gained his waist and breast, but their attempts to bite were foiled by the mail shirt. One made a great leap from the ground, landing on Conan's chest, and scrambled on up towards his throat. Conan snatched it away just as its whiskered muzzle touched his flesh. He grabbed at those swarming up his body, hurling them against the tunnel walls or into the river behind him.

But they were gaining upon him. Rat corpses lay in heaps about him, and he stood on an uncertain footing of mangled, furry bodies, spilt entrails, and rodent gore. Although his boots and mail had so far protected him from all but a few minor bites, both knees bled from nips, and the left hand with which he seized rats that climbed his body streamed blood from several gashes.

Then the rats gave back for an instant. Panting, Conan glared around. In his desperation, he saw something that he would have noted sooner, had he not been so closely pressed. A bowshot downstream from where he stood, a natural bridge of stone spanned the rushing black water. Instantly he realized that, if he could gain this arch, the rats could come at him only two or three at a time. On such a narrow way, he could hold out against the horde indefinitely.

To think was to act. With a surge of power, he rushed towards the bridge, wading through swirling masses of rats and crushing the life from one with every bound. Others leaped upon him to scramble and bite, until his knees streamed blood and his breeches hung about them in tatters. But such was his impetus that he reached the bridge before the rats could pull him down.

Gasping for breath, he staggered out upon the arch of stone and took his stand in the middle, where the footway narrowed. He regretted that in his haste he had not taken time to fetch the little lantern with him; but its fuel must be nearly exhausted anyway. From a distance it still shed a faint, pulsating light upon the scene.

It took the rats only a few heartbeats to perceive him, but the pause enabled him to catch his breath and clear his head. He felt his age in laboring lungs, aching thews, and pounding heart.

Now they came on again. As they flowed up the slope of the arch, Conan confronted them, crouching with his sword in both hands. As they came nearer, he began methodically slashing, right-left-right-left, each blow hurling rats off the narrow way. They died by scores and hundreds. Those that were merely knocked off fell splashing into the stream below, which swiftly bore them away into the darkness. Small, furry heads bobbed in the flood, circling to get their bearings and then striking out for the nearest shore until the darkness swallowed them up.

Never in all his years of war and slaughter had his sword taken so many lives. If the rats had been men, Conan's stand upon the underground river would have depopulated a whole nation. Like a tireless machine, he fought on ...

The end came quickly. A huge black rat with bristling whiskers - a grandfather of all rats, weighing over ten pounds - came bounding from the squealing pack to leap at Conan's gasping throat. Conan was long past feeling. His arms were numb and as heavy as lead, and the pillars of his spread legs seemed like cold columns of iron. With his left hand he snatched at the furry body as the rat dug its sharp claws into the links of his mail and lunged for his jugular vein. But strength was draining from Conan's limbs; he seemed unable to tear the creature loose, even when its sharp chisel-teeth gashed the skin beneath his beard.

As another rat attacked his boot, he kicked out at it, missed., and staggered back, followed by a worrying mass of rodents. As he brought his heels down heavily to keep him falling off the arch, the natural bridge broke beneath the weight and the pounding. With a loud crack, the whole center section on which Conan stood fell straight down into the flood with tremendous splash.

Conan found himself under water, carried down by the weight of his mail. The gigantic rat that had been worrying his throat was gone, but Conan now faced the prospect of ending his last stand by drowning.

With a thrust of his legs against the bottom, he fought his way up to the surface and gasped a lungful of air before the weight dragged him down again. The swift current bumped and banged him against the irregularities of the bottom, rolling him over and over. Once more he fought his way to the surface. He had always been a splendid swimmer; but now the mailshirt, which he had retained through such peril and which had protected his torso from scores of bites, was dragging him down to his doom.

Once more he fought up to the surface. Once more he took in a straining lungful of air. And once more the weight drew him inexorably under. His consciousness was slipping away, as though he were falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DUNGEON OF DESPAIR

In vain the Lion fought and fell -

His crew already gazed on Hell..

. -- The Voyage of Amra

Sigurd of Vanaheim was disgusted. When the stout old Vanr, like the rest of the Red Lion's crew, had succumbed to the narcotic vapor released by the men of the Antillian dragonship, he hardly expected ever to see daylight again. But Death had withdrawn its black claws from the fallen warrior. Not this time had Sigurd met his bane.

Instead, dazed and confused, the old pirate had awakened with sharp, aromatic fumes in his nostrils. He found himself in the capacious hold of the Antillian vessel, amid his Barachan shipmates^ who were also returning to consciousness. They were surrounded by small., brown, grinning warriors in weird glass armor.

As Sigurd slowly recovered his wits, he saw that the dragonship was not really built from gold or some other yellow metal, but was just thinly plated with it. The planking under his feet was of good, solid wood, seemingly as hard as oak and of a darker color. Wooden bulkheads and hull planking surrounded him. To his ears came the muffled thunder of waves breaking against the curved hull, and Sigurd knew what must have happened.

His eyes searched the faces of his crew. They were battered and bloody, and a couple bore bad wounds. But nearly all of them seemed to be present and alive, even if prisoners in the hands of the Antillians.

A pang went through the old freebooter's heart. Anxiously he searched the faces of his men again - but where was Conan? The familiar scarred, frowning face under the iron-gray mane was not to be seen.

Sigurd's heart sank as a doleful expression clouded his ruddy features. He well knew the iron courage of the old Cimmerian; few men during Conan's long life, could boast of having taken him alive. Fiercely attached to his freedom, the old gray wolf might well have preferred to go down fighting rather than to be taken prisoner by these doll-like little brown men. And, if Conan were indeed among the slain, then upon Sigurd's bowed head devolved the awesome responsibility of command.

'Courage, my hearties!' he rumbled. 'Belike we be free men no more, but we still live. And whilst we draw breath, sink me for a lubber, but there's always a chance of fighting our way to freedom!'

Goram Singh probed him with large, somber black eyes. 'Where is the lord Amra, O Sigurd? Why is he not amongst us?' the Vendhyan demanded.

Sigurd slowly wagged his graying red beard. 'By Shaitan's tail and the star of Ningal, comrade, I know not. Mayhap he is in another part of this cursed galley ...'

The Vendhyan silently nodded, but he bowed his turbaned head and avoided Sigurd's eye. He knew as well as the Vanr that Conan would probably not have been chained apart from the rest. More likely, the mighty Cimmerian had gone down to the cold halls of the restless dead with an Antillian glass sword in his vitals.

The voyage to the harbor of Ptahuacan took them nearly an hour, what with the extra weight of half a hundred burly pirates in the hold. Sigurd blinked in the sunlight as they were led out of the gold-sheathed dragonship in heavy glass chains. Curiously, he peered at the vista of the ancient city of weathered stone and gaudily painted stucco, rising tier upon tier up the slope of the mountain. Never in all his days had Sigurd of Vanaheim seen so strange a metropolis, whose every building was covered with sculptured friezes of monster-headed gods and animal-headed men, with monolithic gateways of solid stone and strange pylons climbing into the bright morning sky. Over all, the cryptic and ominous shadow of the vast, black-and-crimson pyramid shed a pall of gloom. Rising from the temple on its top, a perpetual plume of smoke streamed from the structure as from a man-made volcano.

The pirates, however, caught only a brief glimpse of the ancient Atlantean city. Their guards led them briskly through the city streets, up the stupendous ramps from tier to tier, and through the bronze gates of the gray citadel adjoining the square of the great pyramid. When those mighty gates clanged to behind their backs, the pirates saw their last of open air and blue skies for many a long day.

Guards herded them down endless stone stairs, which coiled deeply into the bowels of the mountain on .whose side Ptahuacan was built. When their knees, aching from the interminable descent, seemed ready to collapse under them, they came at length into a tremendous chamber cut from the solid stone. Here their shackles were unlocked while they stood, guarded by alert wardens with leveled., glass-headed pikes.

Next, their ankles were secured to a long chain of glass, which ran through looped rings set into the stone wall. Although they had a little slack - enough to move about and lie down - for practical purposes they were confined to an area extending a few feet from the wall.

Then the guards filed out, and the captives were left in solitude.

In this huge room, vast stone columns, like the trunks of gigantic trees, rose to support the roof. They seemed to be part of the natural rock and to have been left standing when the rest of the chamber was excavated, to provide support for the roof.

Far above their heads, plates of shiny metal were set in the ceiling. By some forgotten Atlantean science or wizardry, these plates glowed with a soft, ruddy light, shedding a wan illumination upon the chamber beneath. Sigurd wondered for an instant whether these plates were made of the rumored Atlantean metal, orichalcum, but he had too many other things of more urgency to spend much time with this surmise.

Once a day the captives were fed. Buckets of greasy, tepid stew were dumped into a long, foul, stone trough that ran along the wall behind them. The stuff was lumpy with cold grease and stretched out with some unpalatable meal. But hunger soon overcomes squeamishness, and Conan's crew came eagerly to await the feeding hour. It took all of Sigurd's authority to keep them from fighting over this unappetizing swill.

Immured in this dank place, far from a sight of the heavenly bodies^ the pirates lost all sense of time. Had they been here hours or days? They argued endlessly among themselves over this question, until Sigurd roared: 'Shut up, all of you! Ye'll drive me mad with your clack. We can be pretty sure they feed us at the same time every day, so each feeding marks one day. Yasunga, ye shall be our timekeeper. Find a place on the wall and make a scratch there for each serving of this slop.'

'But Sigurd,' complained a small Ophirean, 'we know not how many days have passed up to now. Some say four, some five, some six or seven. How shall we know---'

He broke off as the Vanr, shaking huge fists in his face until his chains rattled, roared: 'Shut up, Ahriman blast you, or I'll wind a chain around your scrawny neck and tighten it until your lousy little head comes off! Every man can add his own guess to the number of days shown on Yasunga's tally, and it matters not a dam anyway!

And the next man who raises this question, I'll smash his skull like an egg!'

`Ah, eggs!' said Artanes the Zamorian, a stout-bellied bull of a man renowned among the pirates for his appetite. 'What I could do with a couple of dozen fresh fowl's eggs...'

They grew matted with filth. Their untended wounds: either festered or scabbed and began to heal. Two died: a burly Shemite, who had taken a cracked skull in the battle, died screaming and fighting invisible foes. The other was a stolid black from the steaming jungles of southern Rush, whose tongue had been cut out by Stygian slavers before he had escaped to the Baracha Isles, and who perished from a fever. Both bodies were taken away by glass-mailed Antillian guards for some unknown disposal.

With the help of Yasunga the navigator, Milo the boatswain, and Yakov the bowmaster, Sigurd did his best to keep his men in order and their spirits up. This was not easy, for they were a motley lot, given to irrational grudges and hatreds, outbursts of violent passion, superstitious fears and crotchets, and sudden fits of gloom, despair, or quarrelsomeness. And Sigurd, while a mighty man whose name commanded respect among the Red Brotherhood, lacked the aura of invincible luck and supernatural power that accompanied Amra the Lion.

The best way to keep them interested and out of mischief, the Northman found, was to encourage them to talk about their exploits of the past. So they reminisced for hours, arguing point by point through battles, sieges, and forays in which they had taken part.

Again and again they recalled the deeds of Conan - or Amra the Lion, as most of them knew him. They told and retold how, at the sleek side of Belit, his first great love, he had plundered the Black Coast and ventured deeply into the unknown jungle rivers of the South, where the she-pirate had come to a grisly doom in a ruined city of stone. They told how, a decade later, he had reappeared out of nowhere to sail with the Barachan pirates, and how still later he had cut a swath as captain of a ship of Zingaran buccaneers. Again and again they recalled the fantastic career of their chief, the hero of a thousand perils and the victor of a thousand fights, from single duels to earthshaking battles.

At length, even Sigurd's spirit began to fail. The dark, dank dungeon with its silent stone walls, the pall of gloom that weighed down their spirits, and the threat of an unknown doom all spread a mood of sullen, hopeless depression heavy enough to bow down the brightest spirits.

Several times Sigurd, with the help of the strongest men in the company, tried to break the chains that bound them. The links were fashioned of what looked like fragile glass - but no glass he had ever seen was as tough as this transparent material. It was as strong and unyielding as bronze. No amount of pulling, pounding, stamping, twisting, or jerking did more than slightly mar its slick, iridescent surface.

No, escape appeared to be beyond their powers. They could only wait for doom to strike in its own good time. And, at last, strike it did.

The metallic clash of spears on shields aroused Sigurd from uneasy slumbers. He started up from the straw to see the room filled with small, flat-faced soldiers and to see his comrades being prodded into wakefulness and their hands being bound behind them.

'What is it, Captain?' muttered Goram Singh.

Sigurd shook his head, so that the unkempt, graying red beard wagged. 'Crom and Mitra know, shipmate!' he growled. Then he raised his voice: 'Look alive, lads! Straighten up and show these brown dogs we be men, even though kenneled here in our own filth like beasts. If it be the executioner's block, then by the green beard of Lir and the red heart of Nergal, we'll show these stinking pigs how men can die, eh lads? Be ye with old Sigurd to the last?'

His exhortations raised a ragged cheer from the pirates, who croaked: 'Ay, Redbeard!'

'Good lads, all! And mayhap 'twill be only the slave-dealer's mart, eh? With the luck of the Brotherhood, I think such lusty lads as we will be purchased by high-born ladies, for special service in their boudoirs!' He gave an exaggerated wink.

The men responded with a chorus of catcalls and obscene jests. Sigurd grinned and chuckled, but it was all pretense. For he thought he could guess the terrible end that awaited them, here among the black-hearted heathen of these cursed islands at the edge of the world.

Sigurd was right. Blinking blearily in the unaccustomed sunlight, the pirates gazed around them, awestruck at the spectacle. Above soared the blue vault of heaven, like a sapphire dome in some palace of the gods. The sun stood almost overhead, blazing down upon them with a furnace-like heat that was welcome after the cool darkness of the stinking dungeon. They drank in the fresh sea breeze from the harbor, knowing that it might be their last chance in this world to draw a lungful of salt air.

They had issued from the portals of the grim, gray citadel called the Vestibule of the Gods into the square of the great red-and-black pyramid. The pyramid towered up in front of them, over the heads of the thousands of Antillians who thronged the square.

At the head of the line, Sigurd looked back upon his comrades. They were a sorry-looking lot, ragged and filthy, with long hair and matted beards. Ribs showed through the holes in their tattered shirts from the meager, unwholesome diet.

Ranks of soldiers kept a lane open through the throng from the Vestibule to the base of the pyramid., and along this lane the pirates' guards prodded their captives until they came to the tail of a tine of naked AntiUians.

Priests in feathered robes and stilted shoes, towering over the throng, bustled officiously about, while others stood in ranks at the base of the pyramid, holding up curious standards and banners.

The pyramid loomed above them now. Whips sang and cracked over the bedraggled pirates' shoulders as the soldiers herded them into place at the end of the file of naked AntiUians. The latter toiled slowly, silently, and unresistingly up the steep stone stair that climbed the near face of tiie ziggurat.

Sigurd tipped back his head, gazing through slitted, watering eyes at the top of the pyramid and trying to see what was happening there against the glare of the noonday subtropical sky. He made out a great black stone altar and, next to it, a tall throne on which sat a feather-robed figure.

One by one, the silent Antillians were led with bowed heads to the temple at the top. Sigurd could see beast-masked, feather-robed priests seizing them by the arms, cutting their bonds, and stretching them on their backs on the stone. Then another figure stepped forward in an even more fantastic costume of plumes and jewels, although it was too far to make these out clearly. He extended a gaunt, brown arm to trace some cryptic symbol on the naked chest of the supine Antillian. Then . ..

Sigurd's eyes suddenly watered, and he lowered his head to wipe them. When he could look up again, it was to see the arm of the high priest raised with something in its fist - a knife that glittered Like glass. The knife descended in a sharp arc. The figure on the stone gave a convulsive jerk. For an instant the hierarch bent over his victim, sawing with his knife and groping with his free hand.

Then the lean, crimsoned brown arms rose again, lifting agains the bright sky a dripping, crimson mass - the heart of the victim, cut from his body while he was still alive.

The assembled thousands gasped. The priests set up a low-pitched chant, swaying in time to their slow, hypnotic song, which reminded Sigurd of the rhythmic murmur of the sea. The sacrificial fire next to the altar gushed dark smoke as the heart of the sacrifice was added to the many already heaped upon the glowing coals. The corpse was dragged away beyond Sigurd's vision by the crimson-splashed attendants, and the next silent victim was led forward. Numbly, Sigurd wondered how long this grisly rite had been going on.

The guards urged the line forward another step. The pirates behind Sigurd were as silent as he, struck dumb by the terror that lurked above them on the pyramid. The old freebooter felt nothing but a cold emptiness, as if time had stopped and the universe had shrunk to the dimensions of his own body. A few moments more and all would be over, the long voyage ended, the tale told. And what did it all matter? Was every human life as meaningless as his had proved to be ? And yet...

Within his bristling chest, Sigurd's stout old heart surged with abhorrence. His manhood revolted at this spineless submission to fate. Was he no better than these dwarfish islanders? By Thor's hammer, no! Death he did not fear. He and it were old shipmates. What, then, was the gust of revulsion that rose within him ? Pride! Aye, by Badb and Morrigan, that was it; sheer pride!

Sigurd gave a bark of laughter that brought looks of wonder and surprise to the faces of the pirates nearest to him in the slow-moving line. Aye, this was a Hell of a way for an old Vanr to die!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IN THE DRAGON'S LAIR

He hears the scrape of scales on stone

And Arnra learns he is not alone . . .

- The Voyage of Amra

At first he thought he was dead - that the sea of life had washed his waterlogged corpse up on the lightless shores of the afterworld. For a time he lay still, only blinking his eyes to clear them of the water that blurred his vision. Then, little by little., his senses awoke, and Conan knew he had somehow survived.

Incredibly, he still lived. By all odds he should.be a corpse, drowned by the weight of its mail shirt, rolling and bumping along the bottom of the swift stream.

He levered himself up on one elbow and stared around him. He lay in another vast cavern; and, curiously enough, it was not altogether dark. As his vision cleared, he made out thousands of little points of glowing green light on the distant walls and ceiling of the cave. For a fleeting instant he thought he was lying out of doors, and that the green glows were stars; but then he realized that no stars would be all of the same brightness or so uniformly dis-tributed.

He lay in wet, gritty sand on the shore of the subterranean river into which he had fallen. The river entered this cavern from a low, arched entrance, which he could dimly discern across the rushing water. The channel made a sharp bend, angling off to the left to vanish through yet another dark portal. The abrupt change of direction must have thrown his nearly lifeless body against the slope on the outer side of the curve, and some lingering spark of animation within him had forced him to haul himself the few feet further up the slope necessary to drag him out of reach of the torrent. Then he had collapsed into complete unconsciousness.

He heaved himself into a sitting position and examined himself as well as he could in the faint, green glow of the cavern walls. No bones seemed to be broken, but he was covered with minor cuts and bruises, where the teeth of the giant rats or the stones of the river bottom had marked him. His breeches were in shreds, and his boots had been slashed and gouged by the rodents' teeth until his gnarled toes and ankles showed through the rents. Luckily, the cold water of the underground river had washed his wounds clean.

A fine film of rust had already formed on the links of his mail shirt, so that the garment emitted a faint squeak as he moved. He still had his dirk, but his sword he had lost when he fell into the flood.

He tottered to his feet, staggered, and recovered. Every muscle in his mighty body ached. His battle with the rats had strained even his iron stamina almost beyond the limits of endurance. He had almost gone into a trancelike, berserker state of insensibility. Then, while he was still exhausted, he had come within a hairsbreadth of drowning. No doubt he had slept a whole day and a night, and perhaps longer.

As he gingerly flexed his stiff muscles, he became aware of the prickly pains of returning circulation. At the same time, renewed vigor surged back into his battered hulk. As he stalked back and forth on the crescent-shaped beach, his limbs Umbered up. He cast off the empty scabbard of his broadsword; too light to make an effective weapon, it would only encumber him.

He was, he realized,- hungry and thirsty. The thirst he quenched at the marge of the stream, but there was no way to satisfy his ravenous hunger. If only he had carried one of the giant rats down with him to devour ...

A pale blur of motion beneath the surface of the stream caught his attention. Then he saw another and perceived that there were fish in the river. He found an outcrop of rock that would serve as a convenient platform and settled himself upon it, watching the water with the patience of an old hunter.

Time passed. Then a sudden lunge of Conan's long arms, and his hands came out of the black water clutching a wriggling fish by the gills. He brained the fish against the rock, scraped off the scales with his dirk, and ate the firm, white flesh raw. When he had finished, he washed the blood and scales from his face and hands in the stream and set about exploring.

First he headed for the nearest wall of the cavern, moving cautiously and peering ahead of him warily, lest he step into some trench or pit, or fall down a shaft leading to a lower level of caves. Although the light was dim, many hours in darkness had made Conan's eyes sensitive to the faintest illumination.

Arriving at the place where the cavern floor curved up to join the wall, he looked at the nearest of the green glows that spangled the cavern walls. It seemed to come from some luminous object about the size and shape of a child's finger. Too cautious to touch unknown objects with his bare flesh, Conan drew his dirk and prodded the glow with the point. The green thing squirmed and fell from the wall, rolled past his feet, and set off at a brisk crawl across the floor of the cavern. A closer look showed Conan that the source of the light was a luminous grub or caterpillar of some sort. Hundreds of thousands of the creatures clung to walls and ceiling.

Conan gave a grunt of satisfaction. Instantly, hundreds of the glowworms nearest to him on the cavern wall went out, leaving a large patch of blackness. Conan remained quiet, staring, and presently the hundreds of little green glows returned, faintly at first and then brightening to their normal luminosity. Sudden sounds evidently frightened the worms into turning off their lamps.

The light was convenient, but Conan realized that by now he must be far off the track he had originally set himself. While fleeing from the rats, he had taken whatever path seemed to offer the fewest obstacles, heedless of the route he had so carefully memorized with the help of Metemphoc the master thief. There seemed to be no hope of retracing his steps and again picking up the thread of his original route. Even if he could somehow get back up the underground river, he might find the horde of giant rats still lingering where he had left them. And now he did not even have a sword to fight them off with.

He explored the vast cavern further. Titanic stalagmites rose here and there from the rocky floor to approach and sometimes to join with stalactites descending from above. These natural pillars reminded Conan of the columns of primitive temples to the gods of the underworld. Their immensity dwarfed even his giant form.

Now that his hunger was somewhat appeased, he gave thought to procuring a more effective weapon than the dirk. Although this was a stout and formidable dagger, he felt he needed something with more reach, for there was no telling what other nameless denizens of the underworld he might meet in his subterranean wanderings.

Stalagmites, he observed, were all rounded and blunt at the upper end. Wanting something he could use as a spear, he chose a slender stalactite instead. He picked up a loose lump of limestone, weighing perhaps twenty pounds, and swung it against the tapering shaft. The stalactite broke off; Conan dropped the piece of limestone and caught the falling stalactite. At the boom of the falling lump, half the glowworms went out and then slowly returned to their normal brightness.

He hefted his new weapon. It was a four-foot shaft of stone, as thick as his wrist at one end and tapering to a point at the other. While the point was not so sharp as that of a real spear, it would still pierce the body of a foe when backed by Conan's still-powerful muscles. It could also be grasped by the small end and swung as a club, although Conan entertained doubts of the strength of the material. It could even be thrown as a javelin for a short distance.

Thus armed, Conan felt fit to challenge even the nameless terrors of this dark realm. Cautiously, he began exploring again, in the direction in which the cave seemed to extend the farthest.

As he walked, the cavern narrowed and the ceiling became lower. The glowworms became fewer, so that in the increasing gloom Conan was forced to move warily, probing ahead of him with the stalactite lest he fall into some hole. His position was hazardous enough as it was, without the additional discomfiture of suddenly finding himself plunging down some well or shaft hundreds of feet deep.

As it was, he stumbled over an irregularity in the cavern floor and bumped into a stalagmite about his own height. The slender stone column broke off and toppled over with a loud boom, which reverberated in the confined space. Instantly every nearby glowworm winked out, leaving Conan in virtually complete darkness.

'Ahriman eat these accursed caves!' he growled. He continued in the direction in which he had been headed, feeling ahead with his feet and with the point of the stalactite.

Then his outstretched club touched something that moved. Conan froze motionless., straining his eyes and ears for some clue to the nature of the invisible being in his path.

A loud hiss came from the darkness before him, tike the hiss of a serpent but magnified many times over. A rank, reptilian odor filled his nostrils. He would have noticed it sooner but for the faint breeze that blew against his back and hence wafted the stench away from him until he was almost upon its source.

Sweat started on Conan's brow. Had he stumbled into a nest of snakes? Like most northern barbarians, he detested the snakes that swarmed the jungles of hot southern lands. Several times in his career he had experienced close calls with serpents far larger than any of the common species - monsters over fifty feet long, with heads as big as those of horses.

Thinking silently to withdraw, he took a step backwards. Then came a scraping sound, as if some heavy weight were being dragged across the stone before him. Conan halted and held his breath lest the slightest sound betray his presence.

Then the glowworms began to light up again. As their faint, greenish radiance suffused the tunnel, a well of cold, green light appeared in front of Conan, on a level with his own eyes. It was a huge eye. Then it swung to one side, and Conan saw that it was one of a pair.

As the glowworms again reached their normal level of illumination, Conan saw that he had encountered a dragon - a reptile similar in general outlines to one of the large, edible lizards he had seen on display in the butcher shops of Ptahuacan. But this was a fifty-footer. Its jaws opened slightly, revealing the gleaming sabers of its curved white fangs. From the tip of the tapering head, a forked, snake-like tongue flicked out, wavered in the air, and was withdrawn, testing for the scent of the being who had aroused it.

Conan whirled and ran headlong through the gloom, seeking a way around the giant reptile. The dragon raised its scaly body off the rock where it had been resting and started after Conan, its bowed legs swiveling outward in an awkward, mechanical-looking gait that nevertheless covered the ground with ominous speed.

In trying to circle around the dragon, Conan found himself headed down a side passage. The glowworms were fewer here, forcing the Cimmerian to proceed cautiously; but far ahead appeared a stronger light. Moreover, its color was not the emerald green of the glowworms but the neutral shades of ordinary daylight.

Behind him, the dragon's claws scraped loudly on the stone with each stride, while the scales on the lower side of its tail hissed as the member was dragged along over the rough stone floor. In the open, Conan thought he could outrun one of these reptiles; but here he had to watch his every step lest he take a tumble and be snapped up by his pursuer before he could rise again.

The tunnel he was traversing widened into another chamber, and the light from up ahead waxed a little stronger. It was strong enough for him to see, in plain sight, two more dragons, one on either side. One was asleep, while the other was finishing a meal. A quick glance showed Conan the nature of the meal: a pair of human legs dangled from the creature's jaws.

As Conan dashed between the two monsters, the sleeping one opened its eyes. The other made a gulping motion, whereupon the human legs slid a little further into its jaws and out of sight. Had both reptiles been alert and unencumbered, they could easily have caught the Cimmerian by a quick sideways lunge of their huge, scaly heads as he passed.

As it was, the pursuing dragon, uttering a deep, sonorous grunt or beUoWj clattered into the cavern between the two others. Soon all three were in pursuit of Conan. The one with the man in its jaws gulped frantically to down its morsel so as to have its gullet free for another one.

This cavern was a kind of anteroom to a still larger chamber, illuminated by a narrow shaft of daylight that came down from a hole in the ceiling. The chamber, which had apparently been enlarged by the hand of man, was roughly square. At one side rose a pair of huge bronze doors, like those which Conan had seen on the front of the great stepped pyramid in the main square.

On the other side, a set of spikes had been driven into the stone wall, forming a kind of ladder that extended up from the floor to a height of thirty feet. Here was a small platform, which opened into a tunnel. Conan had a fleeting impression of an armed Antillian lounging on the platform, but he had no time to observe the man more closely now.

His main attention was on the six slate-gray dragons, ranging from a mere pup ten feet long to a hoary old sixty-footer, in the middle of the cavern floor. They squatted in a circle, with their heads inward and directly under the shaft overhead. Their heads were raised, each scaly muzzle pointing upward toward the opening through which the daylight filtered, as if engaged in some mysterious reptilian worship of the ancestor of all dragons. Jagged crests of keeled scales ran down their backs from behind their heads to the ends of their scaly tails.

Now Conan's lungs were filled with the stifling musty reek of the reptiles' bodies. Amid the filth that covered the floor of the chamber, Conan glimpsed the leathery surfaces of half-buried reptilian eggs, bigger even than the eggs of the ostriches of Kush. There were also what appeared to be undigested human bones - here a skull., there a jawbone., elsewhere a pelvis.

As Conan dashed into the chamber, followed by the three pursuing dragons, the six in the wheel formation in the center broke off their vigil to lower their heads and stare with eyes like great, green jewels. As their sluggish reptilian brains registered the fact that here was more meat, they turned and started toward the Cimmerian, the claws on the ends of their long-toed, splayed feet scraping over the floor with each lurching stride, and their huge tails swishing from side to side.

To Conan's right gaped the mouth of another tunnel. He ran toward it, but as he reached it the sight of two pairs of great green eyes and the slither of scales on stone halted him. He perceived that two more dragons, aroused by the noise, were coming to investigate. And this tunnel was not wide enough for him to dodge past them.

Next, he made a dash for the bronze doors. But these proved to have no latch or handle on the inside, ,nor did they yield to his pushing.

The dragons were pouring down upon him, now. He found himself facing a semicircle of the brutes. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes.

This was worse than the rats. They at least were warmblooded mammals - his remote kin, according to some philosophers - but these titanic, sluggish saurians were at the opposite end of the scale from man. They were slithering monsters from the primal slime, leftovers from the youth of the world, when the earth had shaken to the tread of their even mightier forebears, millions of years before the first man thought to stand erect on his hindiegs and fight for a dominating place in Nature's world.

On they came^ like living nightmares from some hideous Hell.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A DAY OF BLOOD AND FIRE

The glassy knife bestrews a rain of blood
to slake the ghoulish thirst,

Yet still It hastens on the curst and gory
ministers of pain.

- The Visions of Ep&mitreus

Under the blazing noonday sun, the line of silent men shuffled slowly toward the mighty pyramid of black-and-scarlet stone. In the fierce heat, Sigurd felt the trickle of sweat down his face and torso.

He had never thought that his end would come in such a scene of barbaric grandeur. On some burning deck, slippery with the blood of the fallen, perhaps - or in the rubble-choked alleys of a seaport under sack, where the flames of burning temples painted the skies with crimson. Or perchance in a desperate duel with some swaggering freebooter in red, roaring Tortage - the cold kiss of a blade against his flesh, the steel sliding in between his ribs, a swart, bearded face grinning into his as red mists rose to drown his vision. But nothing like this!

He gazed about the sunbaked square. On all four sides of this forum rose tiers of stone benches, and on these benches sat thousands of the richer classes among the Antillians, brave in gold and jade and feathers. The common folk, mainly clad in simple loincloths, stood about the square between the benches and the base of the pyramid. The Antillians stood or sat in tense silence absorbed in the somber spectacle taking place on top of the pyramid.

At the base of the pyramid., the priesthood of Ptahuacan stood in swaying ranks. Their voices rose like distant waves in a slow, antiphonal song, punctuated by the rumble of huge drums bound in human hide, which thumped and throbbed like the beating of a gigantic heart. The drummers sat in a bay in the side of the pyramid. The vertical walls of this recess were covered with white plaster, on which were painted bright-colored likenesses of the gods and demons of this exotic land.

Sigurd looked up. High above the throng, silhouetted in black against the azure sky, the hierarch, wrapped in his robe of gleaming emerald feathers and gesticulating skywards with gaunt, bare brown arms, sat on a lofty throne to one side of the platform atop the pyramid. The throne glittered blindingly with gems and mother-of-pearl.

On the platform before the throne stood an altar of shiny black stone. The small temple on the pyramid faced the hierarch's throne across the altar. Around the altar, a sacrificial priest and several assistants were at work. Otherwise stripped to loincloth and sandals, the sacrificer wore a fantastically plumed headdress, whose golden bangles splintered the sunrays into dazzling wheels of light and which hid his head.

At this instant, a slave woman was undergoing the ancient Atlantean rite. While the assistants, gripping her bare brown limbs, held her supine upon the altar, the obsidian blade flashed in the sun as it descended. A moment later, the sacrificer's hand held aloft a dripping heart.

Sigurd's jaw dropped; for, even as he watched, the Feaster on the Pyramid came into view. It materialized out of empty air.

A shadow dimmed the sun. A cold gloom fell over the square. The air bit with the chill of interstellar space. Hovering over the ziggurat, the Demon of Darkness took shape.

Behind him, Sigurd heard a mutter of prayers from the pirates, who were not otherwise a notably pious crew.

Above the pyramid., the Thing solidified and thickened, like darkness with weight and shape, or like a shadow with substance and form. From it a cold, fetid wind blew unceasingly. It looked like a black cloud that had taken the shape of some amorphous sea creature. Its roiling center was fringed with lazily unfolding veils of shadow-stuff. It seethed and swirled like the legendary Maelstrom, supposed to gyrate somewhere off the Arctic coasts of Sigurd's Vanaheitn.

Rapt with fascination and dread, Sigurd watched the Thing. It held his gaze with hypnotic fixity, as the cold eye of the serpent was fabled to fascinate the passing bird.

With a chill of horror, the old seafarer realized that this thing of darkness fed upon the life-force released from the bodies of the sacrificial victims. Somehow it drank up and put to use the vitality released by the knives of the red-armed priests. He watched as the high priest fed it, lifting heart after heart toward the smoky cloud.

Then, too, Sigurd realized the meaning of the cryptic symbolism of the ancient Atlanteans. Their emblem of the Black Kraken, which the simple thought to represent a mere giant devilfish, actually depicted this pulsing, growing, black cloud of terror. He remembered the symbol of the Black Kraken that had adorned the prow of the green Antillian galley, which they had destroyed on their way to this accursed isle. The Black Kraken was Xotli, the Demon of Darkness, whereof the old myths whispered!

Sigurd grimly squared his jaw, but within him his courage withered. Had he but guessed the secret hidden behind that grim symbolism, never would he have come so blithely hither on this rash voyage, to end atop a bloodsoaked altar beneath a hovering, vampiric Thing from beyond.

One by one, the line of silent men dully shuffled forward. The steep stone stair that led up the side of the ziggurat grew nearer and nearer. Above, the hovering shape of darkness pulsed. It grew larger and larger, darker and darker.

Strangely, none of the sacrificial victims so much as tried to escape. They stood in line with heads bowed or thrown back to stare upwards, shuffling forward. A dull, drugged weariness hung over their spirits.

Not that a break for freedom would have accomplished anything. They were chained at neck and wrist with unbreakable glass bonds and guarded by lines of wary brown warriors with whips and glass-bladed pikes and swords. Lethargically, they moved like sheep to the slaughter.

Perhaps it was some psychic force exerted by the demon above, or some enchantment cast over them by the swaying chorus of priests, who stared up with glazed eyes and slack jaws at their demon-god. Whatever the reason, none sought to elude the bloody knife, which endlessly rose and fell beneath the shadow of the watchful cloud.

Body after body, its chest a gory hole and its limbs flopping, was dragged from the altar stone and dropped by acolytes into the dark mouth of a shaft, which opened to one side of the top of the pyramid. As this was done, a new sacrifice was siezed. Four priests took hold of his limbs. A fifth unlocked his bonds, while the sacrificer leaned over to dedicate the victim's life to Xotli. The knife-bearing arm rose and fell; the blood fountained; the heart was held up; another flopping corpse was dragged away to the mouth of the well.

At the head of the line of the pirates, Sigurd, as he slowly climbed the stair, did not regret being the first to go. Since Conan had gone, the responsibilities of command had fallen to him; and it behoved the chief to set an example of grim courage to his men.

At last came Sigurd's turn. The black vortex was terribly near. He could feel its cold radiance, and deep in his soul he sensed the probing gaze of its hidden eye, lusting for his life and manhood.

The masked priests confronted him. They were stripped to the waist; their lean, brown torsos were splashed with crimson. Their talon-like hands sank into his flesh as they dragged his ponderous bulk across the wet stone. Their eyes were glazed and dull, their look withdrawn.

Lying on his back and staring up at the hovering darkness, Sigurd heard the click as his manacles and neck-ring were unlocked. Hard claws clutched his wrists and ankles. Now the sacrificer came into view, his face masked by a carven devil's head, leering out of a mass of brilliant emerald feathers. The gaunt, bloodsoaked arm reached down to mark his hairy chest. Then the other hand rose into sight, clutching the haft of the glassy knife. The arm swung up against the ebon mass. It started down ...

Then it stopped. In a hissing puff, Sigurd expelled the breath he had unconsciously held.

The priest stood stiffly against the sky, his plumed head turned like that of a startled hawk. Strange sounds came up to Sigurd from below - sounds like the thunder of an enormous bell, tolling notes of doom. From his throne, the hierarch stopped his incantation to shout down a question. Then came a loud rustle, as if all the AntiUians had sucked in their breath at once. This was followed by an outburst of shrieks.

The sacrificial priest wavered, staring downward at something in the square below. Sigurd heard a deep, groaning, sonorous bellow - a sound like the grunt of a bull crocodile in one of the coastal rivers of Kush, but longer and louder.

The four priests holding Sigurd released his limbs to gawk at the spectacle below, snatching at one another's arms, pointing, and gabbling excitedly. As they did so, the pirates snapped out of their trancelike state. Whether this resulted from the sudden cessation of the hymns wafting up from below, or from the distraction of the archpriest's attention, or even from the wavering of the concentration of the black thing above, none could say. But, whatever the cause, the hypnotic spell that bound them was shattered.

Sigurd rolled off the sacrificial altar. Yasunga, white teeth flashing in his black face, swung his heavy manacles in a glittering curve, which caught the distracted sacrificer on the side of the head and hurled him, bleeding and unconscious., to the pavement.

Meanwhile Sigurd, thinking faster than he ever had in his life, hurled himself upon the priest who held the keys to the manacles. The northerner's hairy hands fastened upon the scrawny neck. As he bore the befeathered figure to the ground, his fingers dug into the priest's throat and shut off his windpipe.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GATES OF DOOM

They lift the gory, dripping fruit

Before the seething ebon cloud;

The silent and adoring crowd is numb,
bewildered, dazed, and mute.

- The Visions of Epemitreus

Springing forward, Conan swung his long stone club with the courage of desperation. With a thud, it caught the foremost of the giant reptiles on its scaly snout. The stalactite broke in half with a loud crack, and the thick end fell to the ground with a thump.

Hissing furiously, the dragon started back, baring its fangs and lashing its tail. In all the centuries that it had dwelt under Ptahuacan, never had one of its victims turned upon it, let alone given it a painful clout on the nose. The dragon was out of practice at overcoming live prey, and Oman's blow astonished and bewildered its small, reptilian mind as much as it angered it.

Conan's weapon was now reduced to a two-foot spike of limestone. Still, he thought, it was sharp enough to thrust into one of the great, green eyes that blinked at him from the semicircle of scaly heads. And if he could thrust it up to the end, it might reach the sluggish little brain behind the eye. Not, he knew, that this would save him; for such creatures took a long time to realize that they were dead.

But, at least, the dragons would know they had been in a fight. As a couple of the giant lizards hitched themselves closer - practically within snapping distance - Conan rose on the balls of his feet, holding the spike like a dagger. In an instant he would hurl himself at the head of the nearest dragon...

Then came an interruption. Down through the shaft in the ceiling, whence came the beam of light that shone down upon a spot of floor and illumined the entire chamber, something fell to land with a thud on the illuminated spot. It was a naked corpse, whose chest cavity gaped with a huge, ghastly wound.

Grunting, the dragon that Conan had struck wheeled around and waddled quickly over to the corpse. Such unresisting food was more to its taste than creatures that gave it a rap on the nose, merely because it tried to eat them. As the first dragon turned away, another and then another imitated its action, until they were all brainlessly streaming away across the cavern floor.

As the first dragon reached the corpse, it scooped the upper part of the dead man's body up into its vast jaws, turning its head sideways to do so. But, as it raised its head, a second dragon grabbed the dangling legs of the corpse. The two reptiles engaged in a grisly rug-of-war, grunting and wagging their massive heads from side to side, while others crowded round, trying to snatch a piece of the corpse.

Presently, the body tore in half with a rending sound. The two dragons that had first seized it backed away to gulp down their portions, while the others scrambled for the entrails that had spilled out on the ground.

In a flash of insight, Conan understood much that had puzzled him. For one thing, he had wondered what such huge flesh-eaters could find to live on in this maze of caverns. Bats and luminous grubs would surely not sustain them, but a steady supply of sacrificial victims would support them in draconian luxury. The girl Catlaxoc and the arch-thief Metemphoc had both described the mass sacrifices to Xotli, and the corpses had to be disposed of somehow. This arrangement explained the fact that, when he had first entered the cavern, Conan had found a half-dozen dragons crouched in a circle beneath the shafts with heads expectantly raised.

Then, too, Conan realized what must have happened to him. His travels through this underground realm had taken him round in a circle. He had originally planned to emerge from the subterranean labyrinth under the Vestibule of the Gods. This grim gray edifice rose on the square of the temple pyramid, and in it the slaves and captives destined for sacrifice, including his own crew, were held.

Instead, the battle with the rats had driven him off his course, and his fall into the underground river had resulted in his being carried still farther away from his memorized route. But some whim of fate or of the gods had brought him around in a loop, returning him at length to the place he first meant to reach, or at least very near it.

The falling body, Conan was sure, was part of the exhausted surplus of the sacrifice, in which hearts were torn from living victims. The shaft down which the corpse had fallen probably extended up through the pyramid to an opening near the top. Therefore, he reasoned, he must be directly beneath the pyramid - or at least under the square surrounding it.

All this flashed through Conan's mind in the space of three heartbeats. As the monsters turned away from him, he dashed around the perimeter of the chamber to the vertical ladder, made of pegs driven into holes in the wall, which led from the floor of the cave up to the platform on which the Antillian guard was stationed. This guard no longer lounged lethargically; he pointed at Conan with astonishment and shouted unintelligible questions.

Conan reached the foot of the ladder. The guard was armed, and it would not be easy to climb to the platform in the face of his weapons. But then a dragon, who had failed to get a piece in the scramble for the corpse, turned back toward Conan, its long, forked tongue flicking out. Conan decided to chance the guard rather than again face the horde of giant lizards.

With the speed of a monkey scrambling out of the way of a lion, Conan went up the ladder. By the time the first of the reptiles had reached its foot, he was twenty feet up3 well out of their reach.

Next, he had to cope with the guard. He drew the dirk from the sheath at his back and put the blade between his teeth. Then he resumed his climb.

Soon he found himself staring up into the astonished brown face of the guard, who squatted at the edge of his platform. The man jabbered at Conan and threateningly waved his glass-bladed sword.

Holding a rung just out of the guard's reach with his left hand, Conan hooked a knee around a rung to give himself purchase. Then he took the dirk from between his teeth. Closing one eye to sight on the guard's form, he brought his right arm slowly back - then sharply forward. The dirk flashed through the air, struck the guard in the hollow at the base of his throat, and buried itself halfway to the hilt.

With a choking gurgle, the guard staggered to his feet. He dropped his sword with a clatter to clutch at the blade buried in his throat. Then he teetered forward and plunged off the platform. Conan had to fend off his falling body to keep from being knocked off the ladder himself. The guard struck the floor of the chamber with a thud. A strangled shriek was cut off by the crunch of a pair of dragon's jaws. From below., sounds of another reptilian feast wafted up.

Breathing hard, Conan hauled himself up to the platform and sat down on the edge with his booted feet dangling. The last hour had seen him through some of the closest calls of an adventurous life.

Some dragons remained at the foot of the ladder, gazing hopefully up at him. Little by little they trailed away. Those that had failed to fill their bellies from the recent windfalls resumed their circle around the bright spot in the center of the floor. Presently, with a whistle and a thump., another mutilated corpse fell down the shaft, to be pounced upon and squabbled over by the scaly reception committee.

Having recovered from his exertions, Conan got up and explored. Behind the platform was a tunnel closed by a bronze grille. Beyond the grille, steps led up into the gloom. The grille opened at Conan's touch. Inside this gate was a large recess in the wall, and in this recess a gigantic bronze wheel was mounted. The spokes projected beyond the rim to form handles, so that it resembled, on a larger scale, one of the tiller wheels that Conan had seen on large Zingaran galleons. The wheel was thick with the green, waxy coating of verdigris. It must have stood there for ages since last being turned.

Conan frowned in thought. His gaze wandered to the huge bronze doors across the chamber, beyond the circle of ghoulishly waiting dragons. Why should those doors have been put there in the first place? They must have cost the folk of Ptahuacan a tremendous lot of labor to install. Presumably, a passage led from the other side of them to the world above. But all they were good for was to loose the horde of dragons upon the citizens. Why should the hierarch wish any such thing?

The answer came to Conan's mind with a snap. The dragons served a double purpose. Not only did they dispose of the remains of the sacrificial victims., but also they served as a last-ditch secret weapon, in case the downtrodden populace should rise in rebellion against the priesthood.

And how were they opened? Conan could not be sure, but his glance strayed back to the ancient bronze wheel.

Out in the square, the sacrifice to Xotli must be taking place. Perhaps it had been going on for hours. The square would be packed with people, with the place of honor, nearest to the dragon gates, reserved for the priestly hierarchy. A glorious plan took form in Conan's brain...

Conan stepped through the grille and confronted the wheel. He drew a deep breath, set his burly shoulders to it, and put a surge of strength behind it. Metal groaned under pressure. Conan's boots slid and grated on the stone floor.

He relaxed, took several deep breaths, and tried again. The sinews writhed across his back and shoulders. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, tortured metal squeaked and groaned. Dust and dislodged particles of dirt pattered down. The wheel moved a fingerbreadth, then a fingerbreadth more, with a shriek of metal forced into motion after aeons of inactivity.

Again Conan strained at the wheel., gripping the spokes so fiercely that it almost seemed as if his white-knuckled fingers would sink into the bronze. He heaved until the blood pounded in his temples and roared in his ears. The wheel lurched and revolved several inches. Within the wall somewhere, ponderous counterweights boomed into motion.

Across the chamber, a crack of light appeared between the valves of the great bronze door.

Another heave, and the motion of the wheel became suddenly easier. From beyond the wall came the growl and rumble of the ancient mechanism, forced into motion after so many quiet centuries.

The crack between the doors widened. With a clank of engaging machinery, the wheel began to spin of its own accord, faster and faster. The valves of the bronze door swung wide on screaming hinges. The dragons, which had been peering and shuffling about uneasily as these unaccustomed noises came to their ears, turned toward the opening doors.

Beyond the doors, a steep ramp led up, then turned sharply out of sight. Light came down from above - good, strong daylight. Conan inferred that another pair of doors at the top of the ramp had opened at the same time. These must be in the base of the pyramid or in one of the buildings surrounding the square.

As Conan, gasping for breath, collapsed over the wheel, the dragons, emitting excited bellows, waddled through the open doors. With claws scraping and slipping on the ramp, they poured up the slope and out of sight. From the dark mouths of the tunnels that opened into the chamber, more dragons appeared, roused from their long slumbers by the noise of the mechanism and the roars of their fellows. These joined the procession up the ramp, until forty-odd of the creatures had passed out of sight on their way to the upper world whence a sudden chorus of horrified shrieks wafted faintly down into the chamber.

Still panting, Conan lay against the bottom of the bronze wheel, waiting for his heart to slow down from its wild pounding and smiling grimly through his stiff, gray beard.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE CRYSTAL TALISMAN

The horror from the primal slime lived on
to slake its fiendish lust,

When bright Atlantis fell to dust
beneath the trampling hooves of time.

- The Visions of Epemitreus

As Conan heaved on the great bronze wheel in the passage below the square of the pyramid, a crack appeared in the painted plaster that covered the vertical wall of the bay in the side of the pyramid. The plaster broke into fragments which showered down on the pavement at the feet of the drumming, chanting priests. The bronze doors, which the plaster had masked, groaned and squealed as they swung slowly outwards, even as their mates, the similar doors in the chamber of the dragons below, were opening.

The chant died away to silence as the priests backed away from the opening door valves. They stared at one another; questions flew back and forth. Behind the priests, the thousands of Antillians, from the humble artisans standing in the square to the nobility on the tiers of benches, also shifted uneasily. They stood on tiptoe, peered, and questioned.

On top of the pyramid, the sacrificer paused in the midst of his sacrifices, just as he was about to decardiate the stout foreign ruffian with the graying reddish beard. He leaned over and shouted down a question, which was lost in the gathering hubbub.

A tremendous hiss came from the dark interior behind the opening doors. Out into the sunlight shambled the first of the dragons to reach the top of the ramp - fifty feet of slate-gray scales, waddling briskly on bowed, muscular legs and splayed., long-toed feet. Its raised head swiveled from side to side as its great, green eyes, their pupils contracted to slits by the glare, took in the scene around it. From the tip of its long, crocodilian snout, a yard of pink, forked tongue flicked out.

Screaming, the ranks of the chanting priests broke. The priests fought their way into the crowd of common Antillians, who in turn surged away from the doors. In the panic push, men and women were thrown down and the life was trampled out of them.

One priest tripped on his feathered robe and fell. Before he could recover, the jaws of the dragon slammed shut upon him. The reptile raised its head. Then it jerked its head back several times, while the elastic skin of its throat swelled and shrank with gulping motions. With each jerk, the priest slid further into its jaws, until only his feet, still wearing their gilded stilt shoes, were visible. A final jerk and gulp, and the dragon's throat bulged as its prey slid down its gullet.

Meanwhile other dragons, with tongues flickering and jaws opening to emit their groaning roars, crowded past the first. There seemed to be no end to the procession. They scrambled across the pavement and plunged into the screaming, clawing mass of Antillians. Some people were crushed beneath the monsters' clawed feet; others were knocked about like dolls by casual swings of huge, scaly tails. Blood lay in puddles and ran into the gutters in sticky scarlet streams. Everywhere., dragons paused to raise their heads and gulp down their prey before plunging on after another mouthful.

Meanwhile, high up od the side of the red-and-black pyramid, a small door opened. Conan stepped out, carrying the sword of black glass with which the guard had been armed. The salt wind from the sea whipped his shaggy gray mane. He expanded his huge chest to take in a lungful of clean, fresh air, welcome after the stenches of the charnel cavern world below.

After he had opened the gates that loosed the reptilian horde upon the people of Ptahuacan, he had mounted the stone stair that slanted up from the platform in the wall of the dragon chamber. Other passages branched off horizontally from this tunnel. But Conan, reasoning that the sacrifice should be taking place on top of the pyramid and that the steepest passageway would bring him out closest to that place, continued on up, until he had come to the door from which he just emerged.

For an instant he stood staring down, watching with grim satisfaction the scene of havoc and madness below. Some of the dragons had reached the tiers of stone benches where the nobles and higher priests had sat. They were lurching up and down these benches, pursuing and capturing screaming, befeathered fugitives.

From his height, Conan could see along the streets that let out of the square. Each of these streets now bore a stream of madly running fugitives. Some darted into the first open door they reached, to slam and bar it against later arrivals. Others kept running until they passed through the city gates and straggled out into the countryside.

Craning his neck in the other direction, Conan looked up to the top of the pyramid. Here, where rose the temple of Xotli, knots of men struggled. The colors of their skins told Conan that some of these were his own crew, battling with priests and guards.

Then Conan became aware of a figure standing near him on one of the stairways that led to the top of the pyramid. This was the gaunt old hierarch himself, recognizable by the splendor of his feathered robe - now torn -and his golden ornaments. His plumed headpiece was gone, and blood ran down one side of his head. Leaning forward, he gesticulated frantically with his skinny brown arms, screaming commands to the milling soldiers and priests below.

At the base of the pyramid directly below the hierarch, one of the dragons looked up, its pink tongue feeling the air. Then the monster began to claw its way up the stair.

A wicked grin wrinkled Oman's bearded face. Thrusting his glass sword through his belt, he vaulted to the next higher level of the yard-high steps that made up the pyramid. He stepped softly along the step until he came to the stair on which the hierarch stood, behind and above that personage. Without a word, he placed both hands on the small of the archpriest's back and gave a terrific shove.

The hierarch shot out from the surface of the pyramid in an arc and struck the steps lower down. He rolled over and over in a whirl of brown limbs and green feathers, until he reached the dragon coming up from below. A loud chomp, and the jaws dosed upon the age-old master of Antillia.

The high priest's skull-like head jerked frantically; his bony fists beat futilely against the scaly jaws. Then, as one of the saber-like fangs reached a vital organ, the body relaxed. The high priest's screams ceased; his head and limbs hung limply. Squatting at the base of the pyramid, the dragon settled down to the agreeable task of swallowing its catch whole.

Up on top of the pyramid, Yasunga still swung his chains like a flail, while sweat ran down his ebony hide. Another pirate and a priest rolled over and over on the pavement, hands locked on each other's throats. Milo the boatswain had tangled a soldier's halberd in his chains and strove to hold the weapon down, while the soldier struggled to wrench it loose. Artanes the Zamorian fought two Antillians at once with a captured pike, which he wielded like a quarterstaff. Sigurd struggled to unlock the manacles and neck-rings of some of the pirates, while others fended off the attempts of a few priests and soldiers to get to him and recover the keys. Many of the Antillians had fled from the top of the pyramid, but some still struggled with their former captives.

With a booming war cry, Conan bounded up the steps and hurled himself into the fray. In his mail shirt, he was easily a match for any three of the little brown men. An Aatillian head went flying from its body to bounce and roll down the steps of the pyramid. Another man of Ptahuacan collapsed in a mess of spilled entrails. Another clutched, screaming, at the stump of a hand.

Their eyes big with superstitious terror, the Antillians gave back before Conan, who lunged hither and thither like a razor-edged whirlwind, constantly shifting his position so that it was hard for an opponent to get a good cut or thrust at him. If he was not so agile as he had been decades before., his attack was still the most awesome thing the Antillians had ever seen.

'A demon! He is a demon!' they cried, backing away.

Soon nobody stood between Conan, bloody glass sword in hand, and the knot around Sigurd. The Northman looked up.

'Amral' roared Sigurd. 'By Crom and Mitra and all the gods, we thought you dead!'

'Not yet, Redbeard! I still have some killing to do.' Conan clapped the stout Vanr on one shoulder. 'What's here?'

'I'm trying to get these damned rings unlocked, but it takes an expert touch. Can you do it faster, ere they rush us again?'

'The key's too slow,' growled Conan. 'Let's see if glass will cut glass. Stretch that chain across the altar stone.'

The glass of the swords and that of the chains, he thought, were basically the same material. But, just as the steel of a sword is more finely tempered than the iron of an ordinary chain, so the glass of his sword might be superior to that of the glass chains. Whereas a chain must merely hold, a sword must cut. Well, he would put it to the test.

His sword flashed in the afternoon sun as he swung it above his iron-gray head. The blade whistled down, with all the power of his huge muscles behind it, to strike the altar surface with a crash. A link of the chain shattered beneath the blow, the flying shards sparkling like diamonds.

'Now the next!' cried Conan.

Chain after chain was severed, until all the pirates who were still chained were free. As they were released, they looked around for dropped weapons to snatch up before plunging back into the fray. The remaining priests and soldiers on the top of the pyramid fled with cries of despair, abandoning still more weapons to their attackers.

Conan looked below. The unleashed monsters had proved an effective diversion, engaging the attention of most of the Antillians and enabling Conan to free his shipmates while the number of enemies still on top of the pyramid was too small to interfere.

The square was now mostly clear. Here and there a dragon lumbered about the pavement, chasing a scampering fugitive. The soldiers who had not fled in the general exodus stood in solid clumps, forming hedgehogs of leveled spears to hold off the dragons. Priests moved among the soldiers, directing and exhorting them.

Most of the dragons, too, had fled the square. All had fed - some several times over - and their present desire was to find a quiet spot to sink into digestive torpor. Some lurched along the streets of the city after the fleeing multitudes, out through the gates and across the cornfields and vegetable gardens of the Antillians. Some plodded down to the harbor, slipped into the water, and swam with serpentine undulations along the cost. Even as Conan watched, the last pair of dragons waddled out of the square.

The priests now began directing the soldiers remaining in the square, and putting them into formation. Some priests pointed to the top of the pyramid and shouted to others, urging an attack on the pirates. Soon, several hundred littie brown warriors had been formed into ranks and files, facing the pyramid from all sides. Several soldiers trotted into the square, lugging baskets full of the Antillians' glass globes containing the soporific gas.

Conan's eyes narrowed in grim estimation. Now that the dragons were no longer fighting on the side of the pirates, he did not doubt that the well-drilled hosts of Ptahuacan would give a good account of themselves. Perhaps this square would see the end of him and his band. At least, the gods would be treated to one hell of a magnificent last stand.

'Can we break them, Lion?' rumbled Sigurd. He slapped his bare chest and hefted a crystal cutlass. 'Bowels of Nergal and breasts of Ishtar, but I be spoiling for a fight with those little brown bastards! After days in the stinking Jakes they call a dungeon, feeding on cold swill, 'twill delight me to smash a few heads and rip out a few guts ere I fall. Say the word, comrade; we all be ready!'

Conan nodded, his eyes smoldering. He was about to lift his sword and lead the corsairs in one last, glorious charge down the stairs of the pyramid, to burst through those glittering ranks or go down before the glass-bladed weapons...

But an ominous shadow fell upon him. He looked up into the hovering, swirling cloud of blackness that was the Demon from Beyond.

Crom! How could he have forgotten this evil thing from the spaces between the stars? The gory ritual that had summoned it into this world, from whatever unholy dimension it dwelt in, had given it shape and substance within this realm of matter. Even the disruption of the ceremony, while it may have weakened the being, had not dissolved its physical existence or broken the mighty spells that gave it life in the world of man.

It had clung, brooding, above the scenes of tumult and slaughter, viewing with cold malignancy the destruction of the Antillians and the freeing of the victims destined for its supernatural feast. Now its inhuman intelligence had moved it into action. As it hung, pulsing, above the pirate crew, it sent tentacles of mental force probing downward from its dark, turbulent center.

To Conan, it was as if icy, impalpable fingers pierced the secret places of his mind, pawing through his memories like a freebooter ransacking a temple in some conquered city. He felt the touch of alien thoughts, penetrating the roots of his inmost soul. All his vigorous manhood rebelled against this mental violation.

In the strangest battle of his life, he fought against the mind-probing tendrils of darkness. Here in this realm of thought., mind alone battled against mind. No plate armor of tempered steel or shield of iron-bound oak and tanned bull's hide could resist, no iron blade or muscular arm could repel the mental tentacles that insinuated themselves into his brain.

Conan felt these searching antennae fingering and deadening the power centers of his brain., so that an icy numbness spread over his body. Little by little, his limbs lost their strength until he could barely stand.

But he fought on, grimly clinging to life and consciousness with all the ferocious tenacity of his primitive background. Never had he thought of using his mind thus as a weapon. Yet he was conscious of his mind's lashing out in a mental struggle with the insidious, gliding tendrils of the alien intelligence that sought to destroy his life course. He felt his mind strike out at the slithering tentacles of the mind called Xotli, tearing them loose from his centers of mental energy.

With deadly swiftness, the otherworldly mind turned to a different kind of attack. Its tentacles attacked the centers of his physical consciousness and began draining vital energy from him. His sight dimmed; his consciousness blurred. The white plaster on the front of the little temple atop the pyramid turned yellow, and invisible bells rang in his ears. He felt himself slipping away, falling down a well into cold blackness ...

But still he fought on, striving to shield his mind from the thing that sucked the life force from him.

In the roaring whirlpool of his struggling mind, a dim wisp of memory rose to the turbulent surface of his consciousness. He recalled standing in spirit form in the black heart of Mount Golamira, while the splendid specter of the sage Epemitreus spoke to him. Once more he heard the voice of the ancient philisopher, whispering: And one gift alone I may give you. Bear it through every trial, for in your Hour of greatest need it will be your salvation. Nay, I can tell you naught more. In time of need, your heart will tell you how to use this talisman.

Dimly, Conan remembered the coldly glittering thing he had found in his hand upon awakening from the prophetic dream., in the silence of his royal bedchamber - the jeweled talisman he had worn on a silver chain about his neck ever since, through all his subsequent adventures.

The strength had drained from his huge limbs, but he still bore within him the unquenchable vitality that had brought him through so many deadly perils in the course of his long and action-filled life. Now, in this hour of his greatest peril on earth, he called upon his hidden resources.

One massive, scarred hand rose to his throat, pulled the crystal phoenix out from beneath his mail shirt, and broke the chain with a jerk.

As a black vise closed about his brain, he dropped the talisman. Dimly, he heard it tinkle on the stone.

With his last ounce of consciousness, as his mind spun into a whirling void, he brought his booted heel down upon the amulet and crushed it into powder. Then he pitched forward into blackness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

GODS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS

And when you face the Kraken's might,
that on the sacrifice has fed,

Stand fast, where other men have fled,
and let the crystal phoenix smite!

- The Visions of Epemitreus

From some vast distance, across nighted gulfs of cold and darkness, a far, faint voice was calling him . . .

As consciousness returned to Conan's brain, sensation filtered back into his body. He felt horny hands clutching him and rough stone scraping against his dragging legs. He gasped for air, choked, and opened bewildered eyes, to find himself supported between the wheezing hulk of Sigurd Redbeard on one side and the turbaned form of Goram Singh on the other.

'Set me down, in Crom's name,' he grunted. 'I can walk by myself.'

They stopped and helped him to stand. 'I think so, anyway' he grumbled, as his numb limbs folded under him. He would have pitched forward down the slope of the pyramid if his comrades had not caught him and propped him up again.

They sat him down on one of the steps of the stone stair that led up the face of the pyramid. Conan felt a million hot needles in his limbs as circulation returned. He looked around, gathering his faculties. .

A huge, strange silence reigned over the scene. His men had dragged him halfway down the stair to the base of the pyramid. At the base, ranks of guards were drawn up. But the small brown warriors in glittering glass armor paid no heed to the pirates. With staring eyes and expressions of awe and terror, they gaped upward.

Turning to look back and up over his shoulder, Oman felt his marrow freeze. High above them all, over the temple atop the black-and-scarlet pyramid., a strange force pulsed., flickered, and grew.

'It came from the jewel you crushed underfoot,' muttered Sigurd,, casting an uneasy glance upward. 'Mitra only knows what's happening up yonder, but we all seemed to hear an inward voice, warning us to get away, and that right speedily. Sink me for a lubber, but all this devilish magic and witchery gets a simple fighting man down!'

Conan chuckled. Far above, a diamond-like dust of sparkling, shimmering light rose in gusts and whorls from the pulverized remains of the crystal talisman. The black cloud of Xotli still hung above the altar stone, its tendrils of dark, smoky stuff stirring and questing uneasily, as if it sensed the approach of a deadly foe.

The spinning motes of light rose and brightened, becoming a whirling galaxy of blazing brilliance. Spiral arms scintillated against the dark mass of Xotli like millions of stars against the dark of night.

Conan shivered, as if his hair had been ruffled by the icy winds that blow between the stars. A shape of light took form, sprang erect., and folded Xotli into a many-tentacled embrace. Mitra - for somehow Conan knew that this was indeed the god - spoke. The thunder of a thousand tempests boomed and rolled about the square of the pyramid. The earth shook, and the pyramid itself moved under the pirates' feet, bringing down a mass of masonry. With a deafening roar, a large section of the square caved in and dropped out of sight, carrying hundreds of shrieking little brown soldiers with it and sending up a blinding, choking cloud of dust. Conan realized that this must be the collapse of the cavern of the dragons.

'Get out!' roared Conan.

He lurched to his feet and stumbled down the remaining steps to the bottom of the stair. After him poured the howling pirates, those already armed in front. But, at the bottom, they found no foe to face them. The ranks of the Antillian soldiery had dissolved in rout. Dropping their glass-bladed weapons, the brown warriors were racing for the gates of the city, throwing aside their crystal helms and mail shirts to run faster. Only their dwindling backs were to be seen, and those not for long.

'Grab these weapons!' yelled Conan. 'Then to the harbor!'

Far above, the gods of light and darkness were locked in battle. Fiery blasts of lightning crackled from the whirling, starry form of light, about which tentacles of dark smoke also writhed and clutched.

The earth quivered underfoot. Across the square, the huge gray Vestibule of the Gods came crashing down in a slow landslide of rubble, soon hidden from sight in a vast cloud of dust. Like a giant tree felled by a woodman, a tall, tapering tower leaned, buckled, and slammed to earth, making the ground beneath the pirates' feet jump.

Conan led his men on a jog-trot through the streets of Ptahuacan, paying no heed to the few Antillians they passed. The latter, in a frenzy of terror, likewise ignored the escaping captives in their own frantic efforts to save themselves.

'This way!' roared Conan. "To the harbor, before the whole damned city falls on us! `

Behind them, the shadows of afternoon lengthened in the pyramid square, now and then lit by a blaze of brilliance brighter than the noonday sun. The sounds of the supernatural combat crackled, boomed, roared, growled, and thundered. Before shafts of intolerable light, the black cloud seemed to fold in upon itself. It shrank, dissipated - and died.

The tension of supernatural forces that held it together was released. As these forces failed, the city shook like the head of a beaten drum, and more buildings crumbled. The square of the pyramid vanished. In its place, a ball of fire, many times brighter than the sun, blazed for an instant and was gone with a thunderclap that temporarily deafened every human being within the city.

A stupendous column of thick, black smoke arose over the broken city, mushrooming upward. The starry lightnings of the god of light played for an instant about its top like a supernal crown. Then these, too faded, and the smoky column began to disperse, mingling with the gray cloud of dust that hung over the city. Here and there> darker smoke rose from a burning house.

Little by little, Ptahuacan crept back to life. Its people trickled back from the countryside. But, on their return, they found a surprise.

Most of the priesthood had either been killed in the fall of the temples or had fled out of the city. Within Ptahuacan, during the night and day following the catastrophe, only one man remained at the head of any strong grouping. This was Metemphoc, the master thief.

While the city was nearly empty, his well-disciplined corps of thieves seized the remaining large buildings and the stores of arms. The few priests they found, they slew. The dungeons were thrown open, releasing not only convicted felons of Metemphoc's band but also hundreds of ordinary Antillians who, on one pretext or another, had been jailed to await sacrifice to Xotli. Many of these allied themselves with Metemphoc, although others refused for fear of the priests and their god, or preferred to wait to see which side would prove the stronger.

The priests who had fled the city gathered a small force of warriors still faithful to them and tried to fight their way back into the metropolis. But Conan's band, now fully armed, took them in the rear and sent then fleeing again.

So, under the leadership of fat, crafty old Metemphoc, Ptahuacan settled down to its huge task of repair and rebuilding. The master thief might not prove an ideal ruler; but he could hardly do worse than the priesthood that had held the land in its fearsome grip for so many centuries. And so to this last, lone outpost of the great civilization of old Atlantis, some little time of peace and quiet came.

And perhaps from some unknown realm beyond the stars, the ghosts of those old gods who had reigned in the skies above Atlantis in ages gone, and who had turned upon the island continent at last and plunged Her into the depths of the great, green sea when her children abandoned them to worship dark Xotli - perhaps those dead gods saw, and smiled, and - with what little power that remained to them - blessed.

Crom, but it felt good to have a solid deck underfoot again - even a cursed strange deck like this one! After the fall of Ptahuacan, a month and a half before, Conan had eaten and drunk deep. Worn to exhaustion by his struggles through the underworld of Ptahuacan and then in the city itself, he had slept a whole day and two nights through. But in the days that followed, as he loafed and lazed, swapping yarns with his men and eating and drinking enough for three, his old strength crept back.

Now, as dawn painted the East with strokes of crimson and gold, he strode the gilded planking of the dragon ship and drank deeply of the clear, cold, salt breeze, which lifted the gray fog from the green face of the Western Main. He felt a vast contentment. Ha! Old, was he? Time to creep beneath the covers and let mumbling physickers take over, to glide him painlessly into the afterworld?

He snorted. He could still give the woman Catlaxoc a night that left her limp but happy. The old urge to adventure, the old wanderlust, still filled his breast. Enough vitality lingered in his gaunt, towering form for another adventure or two, at least!

He slapped the gilded rail with a firm hand., as a man might clap the flank of a lusty stallion. One last adventure ...

He gazed about him. With the unerring eye of an old freebooter, Conan had seized the best ship in the harbor when he had burst into the waterfront with his gasping, staggering pack of dust-gray pirates at his heels and half the city falling in ruin behind him. He had herded them aboard this superb craft, the deadliest fighting ship he had ever seen. She had fought the Red Lion to a standstill when, months before, she had loomed out of the gray mists like some monster from earth's dawn. He chuckled at the thought of the consternation the weird Atlantean craft would cause back in the Barachas.

Not that his appropriation of this craft, which he named the Winged Dragon,, had been without difficulties. The pirates, conservative like all sailors, had disliked the strange rig. Why not, they said, pump out the beached hull of the Red Lion and put her back into service? But Conan discovered that the Red Lion had been too badly damaged to repair and refit without the aid of a shipyard of the lands across the ocean. Her hull had been burnt through in places; her masts and sails and rigging were gone and could be replaced only with enormous effort. It was more practical to salvage her stores of weapons and materials and transfer them to the Winged Dragon.

Then many days of practice were needed to familiarize his crew with the exotic rig and to make the changes in the ship that Conan decided upon. Morever, the Winged Dragon was a galley; therefore she required a larger crew than a sailing vessel of the same size. Luckily, there were plenty of adventurous youths among the Antillians who signed on as rowers, Sigurd Redbeard clumped up the ladder to the poop deck, hawking and spitting. 'Ha, Lion!' he grunted. 'Sleep well?'

'Like a dead man.'

Sigurd shrugged and glanced back to where the seven isles of Antillia were hidden by the morning mists. 'There be dead men back there a-plenty,' he sadi. 'By the green beard of Lir and Dagon's fish tail, I do admire the way ye stage a prison break!'

'What mean you ?' demanded Conan.

'Naught, naught! But a man must needs respect the way ye spring your comrades out of a tight spot - if ye have to lay half the city in ruins to do it.'

Conan laughed harshly. 'Aye! And I'd gladly lay the other half in ruins to have an old walrus like you beside me.'

Sigurd sighed. ' 'Tis good of ye to say so, Amra. Me, I'm no longer so limber as once I was.' He glanced at the peaks of Antillia, rising out of the mist. 'We might have done worse than take up Metemphoc's offer, to let him hire us as his mercenary army.'

Conan grinned and shook his head. 'We former kings get proud as the devil. We won't serve other men when we can be masters ourselves.'

The sun was up, filling the sky with brightness. White gulls circled, squealing, and blue waves slapped the newly tarred and painted hull of the Winged Dragon. Conan took another deep breath. Beside him, Sigurd squinted against the brightness of dawn and glanced at his scared, graybearded comrade.

'Whither now, Lion?' he queried. 'Back to the Barachas, or to harry the coasts of Stygia and Shem?'

Conan shook his head. 'This ship is not made to cross the great gap of ocean. With all these rowers to feed and water, we'd never make it.'

'That green galley we first met did.'

'Aye, but I'm no sorcerer, to summon up a crew of spirits to ply the oars.'

Conan pondered. Old Metemphoc had told him much. Even farther west, at the very rim of the world, the old thief had confided, lay a vast new continent. Mayapan, the Atlanteans and their Antillian descendants had called it. They raided its coasts for gold, emeralds, and virgin copper; for red-skinned slaves and curious birds with gorgeous plumage; for tiger-like cats whose pelts were marked with black rosettes on tawny gold. Here, too, were barbarian states founded by renegades from Atlantis and Antillia, where the cults of the Giant Serpent and of the Saber-toothed Tiger carried on their ferocious rivalry in a welter of human sacrifice and abominable worship.

A new world, he thought; a world of trackless jungles and spacious plains, of towering mountains and hidden lakes, where immense rivers writhed like serpents of molten silver through depths of emerald jungle, where unknown peoples worshiped strange and fearsome gods . ..

What sights and adventures might not await him in the remotenesses of Mayapan? Conan wondered. Metemphoc had called him 'Kukulcan,' but whether this was a sobriquet in the Antillian tongue, or a corruption of 'Conan Cimmerian' or some such phrase, Conan never knew. If he went to this new world, where people had never seen bearded men with weapons of steel and glass - why, he mieht conauer another vast empire, be worshiped as a god, bring bits of civilization of the old world to the new, and become the hero of legends that would endure ten thousand years...

'Crom knows!' he snorted. 'Let's break our fast and talk on this matter. Saving the world surely gives one an appetite! `

They went below. A few hours later, the great ship, which the folk of Mayapan were to call Quetzdcoatl -meaning 'winged (or feathered) serpent' in their uncouth tongue - lifted anchor. She sailed south and then, skirting the Antillian Isles, into the unknown West.

But whither, the ancient chronicle, which endeth here, sayeth not.